Untitled

Alfred says something from the front of the car but you’re too blissed out to decode it. It’s like he’s behind a thick pane of glass. You can see him clearly, but his words aren’t there. There’s a sour pang of guilt boiling in your chest, because you know it’s rude to ignore him, but the headache and constant sweating overrides your conscience. 

In the passenger seat, Bruce steals glances at you through the rear view mirror. You look awful. Weak, small, wrung out. She fought to be here, rings in his head. You definitely look like you’ve been in a fight, and he’d hate to see the other guy. 

His palms sweat, when was the last time they did that? Trapped in the car with a tangible reminder of his personal failings. Although, he did think that if he tried to reach out and touch you, you’d melt into a puddle on the spot.

When the double doors to the manor fly open, the blink and you’ll miss it waft of cold, sterile air hugs the exposed skin on your arms and face with all the tenderness of a lover. Not that you’d know. 

Eyes. Too many eyes. The first thing you notice. On the paintings, the photos framed on the wall, the ones on yours expectantly watching your next move. Tim’s, Dick and Damian’s. Already overwhelmed by the onset of withdrawal symptoms (you had to google that in the car, but you couldn’t read any more than the first paragraph, eyes too dry to keep them open), you skulk up the stairs. 

Hands reach out to help but you shoo them off, saying you just need the Bathroom. Last thing you want is warm, clammy hands touching you and overheating you. 

Underfoot, the tile is luxuriously frozen. Impeccable white, thanks to Alfred, and it takes you back to making snowmen when you were a child. The snow wasn’t this brilliant white, but more a slurry of grey, marbled into the snow. Your snowmen always had a scarf and mittens, even though Mother would scold you for “getting perfectly good clothes wet and dirty.” 

It makes you wonder if you’ll ever stop feeling guilty. Not just about her. Just in general. 

Once you finish splashing some water on your face, you brave a glance at the mirror. In the hospital, you’d been avoiding them. In front of you was a living anti drug PSA. Hollow eyes, sunken skin, shaking, frazzled. You poke and prod at the stranger in the mirror, pulling at her face until it looks like yours again. 

You hate the person in front of you. Enraged by her presence, you decide to dive to where it's safe. The end of the bottle. 

When you slink out of the bathroom and drag yourself to your bedroom, you know it’s changed. It's something in the air. Broken and undisturbed, like a crime scene.

Preserved but ruined. First your instinct is to dart under the bed and check that the shrine to misery you spent years building is still intact, but then you know it'll be fruitless. Not surprisingly, it's all gone. Not a single bottle left. Or cigarettes. Anything that could’ve been helpful.

The underbelly of the bed is spotless, you could eat off the floor. Alfred must've been meticulous, to the point where you swear you can see your reflection in the polished wooden floorboards. Even your diary is gone. The one you kept hidden under the mattress. A signal broadcasting a plea for help, for no one's eyes but your own. 

Soggy anger clogs your throat and pricks your eyes. 

Desperate for something, you resort back to the bathroom and throw open the cabinet. Mouthwash. It’s sickeningly sharp, but the minty twang makes you feel a little less hot and bothered. 

When you finally shamble downstairs, they’re waiting for you. Alfred fluffs a cushion and pointedly directs you to sit. You feel like a prisoner being marched to death row. 

In front of you there's a pamphlet, overturned so you can’t see its title. Truthfully you have no desire to read it, you can already feel the headache growing just by looking at it. so instead you reach for the glass of water next to it. 

Sick of everyone looking at you like you’re about to combust, you crack a bad joke. 

“What, do I have something on my face?”

It’s forced. Trite. No one laughs. Spare from Dick, who does a theatrical, pseudo supportive half chuckle. You know he’s trying. 

“You smell… fresh.” Alfred remarks as he takes the empty glass away. Quickly, you shut your mouth. He gives Bruce a look on his way back to the kitchen. 

He’s always so annoyingly perceptive. It makes you feel so small under his watch. 

“How’re you doing? Was the trip back okay?” Dick catches the tension between Bruce and Alfred and resolves to mend it. 

“S’fine.” You mumble back, fidgeting with the corner of the seat. You hope they can tell how overheated you are. “Was warm in the car.” 

“If you told me I could’ve put the air conditioning on.” Bruce offers with hindsight. He’s not trying to sound condescending, but it does come off as a scold, like you misbehaved for not speaking up. 

“Didn’t want to bother you.” 

“How bout I get a window open?” Dick chirps with false bravado. He wants to be a hero so bad its hurting you.

There’s a brief moment where the voice in the back of your head bites “where was all this before?” but it takes too much energy to be angry and you realise it does you no good now anyway. 

It goes around in circles for a few minutes. They ask you smalltalky questions, you answer them as best you can without getting snappy or letting the mask slip. When you talk it’s like your voice is pre-recorded, it doesn’t feel like yours. 

The rhythm shatters when the door opens from the outside. No knock, just authority. Jason trudges in and looks surprised to see you there. “Thought you were back tomorrow.” he says gruffly. 

“Got discharged early.” You like that Jason doesn’t try to be someone else for you. He doesn’t infantalise you, he just treats you like a person. Not an obligation or baggage. 

“You look better.” He kicks his well worn boots off and chucks the weathered leather jacket onto the back of an armchair, which he promptly claims as his. 

“I feel it.” You lie. 

You back and forth for a little bit, your side of the conversation is weaker than his, burdened with fever and an insatiable itch to have something, anything, in your system. You’ve been scanning the room for something to drink. Normally, Bruce keeps expensive bottles of port in decanters and puts them on display. But now they've been evacuated.

Personally you thought it was tacky. To you, whenever rich people displayed their food instead of just eating it, it was like saying “I’m so comfortable I don’t even need to eat. In fact, I will hoard this resource, just for entertainment.” Bruce, Tim and Damian had never known hunger. As far as you knew. They had never had to put something back in the supermarket, to keep it under budget. 

Windows. You measured them through windows. One of your first talks with Tim was about his old house. You asked about the view from the windows, just as a conversation starter (albeit a lame one) and you were floored when he said there were just over a couple dozen. Your apartment had three windows. One in the front room, one in the bathroom, and one in your room.

Damian boasted having more windows than a palace, and the manor spoke for itself. 

They never understood what you meant. A window wasn’t supposed to be some kind of entertainment, it wasn’t supposed to be a mirror. It was a thin, brittle thing that reminded you who you were. It said, look outside, this is your life. Look at that overflowing trash can, look, and I mean look, at that long streaky pigeon shit strain right in the middle of me. Windows were a statement on who you were because they would always remind you where you are. 

The view from the window reflects your life. If you're surrounded by trash and grime, that is your life. If you open your window and see sprawling acres, then that's your life, that's your potential. That's what Mother used to say anyway.

So when you asked them about the windows, what you were trying to say, without really saying it, was “are you like me?” and you were shown that they weren’t. 

You aren’t sure how long you were in that inward spiral. It’s hard to gauge time at the moment. Sometimes a minute feels like a millennia, then an hour feels like ten minutes. The leather upholstery on the armchair you’ve been sinking into starts to feel sticky, dampened with your sweat. 

“Gotta shower.” you mumble, sitting up to leave, but Bruce clears his throat. Silent command to sit back down. You follow his order without a fight. 

“Y/N, the nurse told me about your habits.” he puts delicately. “I know it's not black and white, but I can’t let this continue.” During the ride home, he had been rehearsing this in his head.

Call it a habit, not an addiction, makes it seem less frightening- absolves some of the guilt, Don’t say “you can’t let it continue”, put all the blame on her. Would scare her.

So on and so forth. 

“You need help. You need someone to help you handle this, you can’t do it by yourself.” 

Too shattered to speak. You want to remind him that you’ve been handling yourself alone for years just fine, it was one slip up, it wasn’t even your fault, but it doesn’t come out. Your empty eyes stay on his. 

You look like a kicked dog. It breaks his heart. He doesn’t let it show.

He turns the pamphlet over with a slow motion, as if it would spook you and send you running. When your eyes lazily trace the text, you’re snapping awake. 

“No.” 

“Y/N please just-” 

“No I’m not going to fucking rehab! I’m fine! I’m not going- you- you just wanna get rid of me! Seriously, right now- right now you wanna get rid of me?” You don’t wait to hear what he’ll say. You grab your phone and storm out, not listening to anything else. 

“Cmon we can talk about this.” Tim catches up to you before you can get to the stairs. When you face him, you can tell he’s doing that thing again. Where he analyzes someone right in front of him, mentally noting their posture and anything else of interest. How he treats strangers. Does he even know he’s doing it?

“You’re supposed to be on my side.” it comes out pathetically. You return to the stairs and he lets you go. Once he’s collected himself, he marches to Bruce. 

“That was tactful.” sarcasm poisons his tone. “Really, right now? You thought this was a good time to send her away?” 

When Bruce doesn’t reply quick enough, he snaps. 

“It’s her birthday next week.” 

Y/N I'm sorry if I made it weird. Please Im sorry  I didn't mean to make it weird between us  please talk to me 

R. Harp I think it's best if we don't talk anymore. Take care. All the best. 

Y/N Please don't do this Please  Please 

The message doesn't go through. 

You feel the pressure in your throat, the visceral anger and grief biting at you from the inside. A parasite burrowing. It makes your fingers numb. The back of your head feels too heavy to hold. Without thinking, you throw the phone across the room. The delicate shatter rings out through the room, and when it echoes it hits how just how alone in this you are. 

You've always been lonely, but this feels like a new low. How does this keep happening? Every day feels like a new low. The thought makes you sick. How much worse can it get? And so the anxiety spiral begins. 

Great, fucking great, the person who normally gives you what you need to stop the anxiety just abandoned you. 

What the hell is wrong with you? What did you think was going to happen? You’re too much. You’re a bad person. You’re selfish and mean, you don’t care about anyone but yourself, you’ll hurt people to get what you want, you’re doing all this for attention. You’ll always be this way. 

You think you’re gonna be sick. Until someone knocks on the door. You don’t answer it and instead stay tucked into a ball on the floor. 

“You okay?” 

It’s Jason again. 

“No.” you sniffle without any backbone or self respect. Get up. 

“You want me in?” 

“No.”

The door opens anyway. 

“Bruce is an asshole.” He says it like law, like the sky is blue or grass is green. You peel your head up from the floor. You had pressed your forehead against the ground when spiralling thinking it would ground you but all it did was leave a big impression on the tender skin. 

“He’s not all bad.” you mope, pulling yourself together to sit up and face him like a human, not a discarded ragdoll. “He’s… I don’t know. He’s there. At least. He’s there.” 

Jason invites himself into the room and sits on the bed, not in front of you, behind you. 

“If he’s not all bad then what's got you like this?” 

“Something else.”

“Huh.” 

When the silence extends past five seconds, you speak again. 

“My… friend- friend-ish- I don’t know- doesn’t want to see me any more. I made it weird.”

“Some friend.” Jason muses. 

“It’s not like that. He was really good to me. He never asked for anything back. He was there. More than Bruce is.” 

Jason feels his jaw tightening and the sting in his fists burns a little hotter. “Trust me you’re better off without him.”

“How would you know?” there isn't a challenge or threat in your voice but a genuine curiosity. 

“Dunno. I can just tell.”

Roy’s back slammed against the wall with enough force to knock down the frame on his right. It hits the floor with a painful smash and leaves miniscule shards of glass all over the hard floor, an army of tiny daggers poised against anyone who dares tread on them. 

“The fuck is wrong with you?!” Jason spat in his face, fist clenched in the red head’s shirt collar, holding him against the wall. “You just left??”

Roy pushed Jason off him, tussling him off. When he caught the breath that was violently knocked out of his lungs, he started. “I didn’t just leave, I waited man. I waited half an hour. She just does that sometimes, she just wanders off and doesn’t tell me anything.” 

Jason couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Roy had just admitted to him that letting you meander around Gotham, off your face was completely normal to him. 

“She’s fine, she’s probably at home now. She goes weeks without texting, she’s fine-” 

He’s punched before he can finish. 

“She’s not fine, she's in the hospital you jackass.”

“What?”

“That kid you’ve been leading on got shot because you didn’t keep an eye on her.”

Roy was at a loss for words. What is there to say? 

“Is she… yknow-”

“No she’s not, I don’t know. I don’t know if she’s alive because you let a kid get coked out of her mind and gave her free reign. Y’know who fucking shot her? God damn trafficker. If she wasn’t shot in the back, she’d be god knows where with god knows who and we both know what would’ve happened to her.”

Jason looked down at his fists, the skin on his knuckles had scraped and eroded. 

“If I find out you ever do something like this again, ever, I will kill you. I will. I thought you were getting better. What the hell is wrong with you?"

For the rest of the night, no one bothered you. There’s a silent agreement that you need time to process being home. Too much too fast. They chalk the silence in your room up to you going straight to bed to sleep off the sweats. No one knows you’re currently on the other side of Gotham. 

The curb is forgivingly cold. Sitting on the street corner and looking into your old apartment. You didn’t realise how lame this would be when sober. Never gave much thought as to being sober in general. This plan was half baked at best. You had enough change in your pocket to get the bus out, but forgot to bring your wallet with you, so you couldn’t use cash to get. Couldn’t text Bruce and ask for money without getting caught. If he knew you were here he’d ship you out quicker. 

Dick- well Dick would just tell Bruce, Jason- don’t know him well enough to say ‘hey i know it’s midnight but i need a ride, don’t ask why i’m here or how i got here’ you’re a mess but you aren’t rude, Tim- simply, you don’t want to see him look disappointed in you. It would kill you. Damian- couldn’t reach the pedals and even if he could he would also report back to Bruce. 

You scroll through the contact list on your cracked phone screen. People from parties you barely remember, mostly. A sea of names without faces. It hits you then, that someone out there probably thinks of you the same way. 

Your finger hovers over Roy’s name and you feel yourself freeze up, as if you’ve been caught misbehaving. You scroll on. Nothing. 

An idea comes to mind, something desperate but its your last hail Mary. 

Y/N  Sorry I ran off, just tired. Can i ask u smth? Timbob Yeah of course is everything ok? Y/n Im fine i just need to ask- ur friend w the black hair Don? Perchance could u send me his number  Timbob No Y/N What why we’re friends why are you doing this to me? Timbob U aren’t in a good space right now I rlly dont think getting involved w a guy is gonna help. Do u want me to come up and talk?  Y/N Don’t come up  Timbob If i send u this you have to promise not to text him until we talk ok Y/N Ok Love u Timbob Yeah ik ily 2. And its Kon Y/n What kinda name is Kon Timbob Don’t ask me. Short for Conner or something. 

The number arrives shortly after and you’re anxious to message him. It’s a stupid stupid plan but this is all you can think of 

Y/N Hey idk if u remember me but I’m tim’s sister. Rlly sorry to bother u but i rlly need a favour and your literally the only person i could think of

You wait for a response and every second makes you regret this idea more and more. Then the phone buzzes 

Kon (delete when home) Yeah i remember u  Who could forget  What do u need?

You roll your eyes at his attempt at being charming. A tiny part of you thinks its a little bit sweet, despite the fact it's gauche as all hell. 

Y/N I need a ride. Ur in Gotham rn for work right? Could u give me a hand? I’ll pay u back  Kon Where are you?

You send him the address and hope for the best. 

Kon is currently going over his options. 

Option one- fly there and back, exposing himself, and blowing his cover. Tim skinning him, and dealing with Batman. Not preferable. 

Option two- call you a cab. Nice, normal. Pricey. Somewhat preferable 

Option three- fly there and get you back a normal human way. Cost effective. Preferable. 

Ten minutes later, he rounds the corner. With a god damn bike. Not a motorbike, a pedal bike. 

You stand up and look him up and down. This is your last resort. Maybe this is rock bottom. 

Once he starts pedalling, it’s not all bad. You’re clinging to his back like a koala, squeezing onto the rear of the seat with the tact and grace of a three legged bull. 

The night air brushes against your cheek and through your hair, cooling and welcome. All the lights of the city, from the corner store’s neon open sign to the lights spooling out from apartment windows blend and blur together. 

“So why’re out here anyway?” he asks over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“I needed to clear my head.” 

There’s a beat. And for some reason you decide to be honest. 

“I got shot a couple weeks ago.”

Kon nearly loses control of the handlebar at the news, so shocked he had to whip around over his shoulder as if to double check it was definitely you on his bike, not some new person. He regains control and narrowly avoids swerving into the road. 

The shock makes you yelp for a second, but when everything evens out again and his cycling enters its rhythm, you can’t help but laugh. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. 

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah- right in the back.”

“Pretty metal if you ask me.” 

Maybe it’s because he’s an objective third party, but hearing someone talk about your survival in a way that didn’t phrase you as something delicate, to be broken and repaired, lifted something in your spirit. When they talked about your pull through like it was a shock, it made you feel like no one believed in you. That you being resilient and strong was a juxtaposition to your character. 

But now you had a new lens to look through. You were metal. 

You ended up talking more as he rode and wove through the streets. About what the hospital was like, the food, the balcony. 

“Wait they let you go up there alone?”

“I mean yeah. No one else was in.”

“Kinda weird that the hospital let you do that. Cus what if something happened?”

“What if.”

There’s silence again for a spell. It's awkward and sharp at first but as Kon twists and turns through the street so does the silence, metamorphosing from a pair of hands at your throat into a warm blanket. 

You barely register how shit you feel. 

When you approach the Manor, you direct Kon to the left side of the wall, telling him about the blind spot. You’ll be able to slip in through the kitchen’s back door and act like nothing happened. Someone caught you in there? Just say you were grabbing some fresh air and a glass of water. Is that a crime now?

You clamber off the back of the bike and nearly fall over yourself. It's quiet again, but the good kind. Kon rubs the back of his neck. 

“I’ll pay you back for this.” You promise. Unsure of how best to say goodbye and show thanks, you opt for a handshake. When you hold your hand out he looks at you like you’ve accidentally flashed him, and for a moment you wonder if your shirt lifted itself up by mistake. He then leans down like he isn’t sure of himself, a strange image given his persona and studded jacket, and takes your hand to his lips. He kisses it. 

“Oh!” is all you can think to say. 

As if your surprise has pleased him, he grins with coy charm. “I told you I’d see you again.” 

You roll your eyes without even thinking about it. “Jesus you’re weird.” 

“Says you.” 

The moment is broken when your phone buzzes. “Shit I gotta go. Thanks. Again. Bye.” 

When you finally make it back to your room, careful enough to avoid any prying eyes, you flop down onto the bed and think about the day. You’re going to be sent away, Father’s finally had enough of you. Roy’s sick of you too. You’re disgusting and needy. 

But before another spiral can begin, your mind drifts back to that stupid boy with the studded jacket. How his body felt against yours. At the time, the presence of another body was something you could distract yourself with. He wasn’t a cure, you know that. You’re too far gone for that, but it was enough to get your mind off the whirlwind your life had become. 

You hadn’t put much thought into your birthday yet. When you start thinking about what kind of cake you want, you aren’t awake enough to realise you’re planning ahead. You’re thinking about a day past tomorrow. You’re looking forward to something. What a nice change.

chat how are we feeling?

this new job is a lot BUT today manager is very nice and I have a lovely coworker so I can't complain too much. Payday end of the week and methinks i'll treat myself to a new comic. could yall gimme some recommendations below? finished absolute flash recently and loved it.

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standing upon the balcony that oversees the gardens, it feels as though it was yesterday, even though you know, after all, that it was not. 

you have never much been fond of tourneys, either. the noise and crowd was one thing, but the bloodshed was another entirely.

perhaps you did not have the stomach for it. the one at your family’s keep had not nearly been so elaborate as the one his grace has planned. there had been a melee in the morning among the squires, and then the jousts in the evening. 

your cousin had won and crowned his betrothed, and before you could think of it, you had been seated inside the hall for the feast, surrounded by faces unknown to you.

that is why it all feels so familiar. 

the air is heavy with anticipation—the knights and lords on the tilts, the ladies waiting to hand over their prettily-made favors. tourneys are a thing of hope—prayers and wishes for a victory, for a betrothal, for a memory to hold onto.

you do not enjoy them, and yet, your mind sends you back into time, something in the wind reminding you of a memory you have held onto with both hands, fingers grasping tightly around it, refusing to let go even now.

the moments before you had first met your husband.

you open your eyes, breathing out the clean air and blinking slowly as you take in the view. green shrubs and vines along with flowers of all colors. large, grand trees that have been here since the time of the conqueror. 

you will miss it dearly, you know, until such a time that you return to the red keep. 

you have spent so many days in this garden, so many mornings wading through it, growing fond of the new feeling of having to do nothing at all but sit and break your fast. a number of evenings spent on this very balcony, waiting for baelor to return to you from his duties.

if you think of it for too long, that horrible feeling crawls its way back into you. wondering if you are making a mistake by leaving, wondering what sort of a princess, what sort of a wife, would run and hide in this manner.

and then naerys stirs gently inside of you and your mind calms itself. 

this is for her, you try to remind yourself, as much as it is for you and baelor. 

in summerhall, there will be no more tears. no more nights of crying or skipped meals because the castle is too large to notice when one plate remains full. and it will be quieter entirely—no ladies to entertain, no maids gossiping, no royal guests to tend to. 

you have only spoken to your future host briefly in the past days. when you had requested his servant to ask if he had a moment to speak with you, maekar had come and opened the door to his study himself. 

it all seems far away now. the last few days have quickly faded into each other. 

at the very least, maekar had agreed with his brother’s request that it would be best to depart after the tourney had ended, to avoid any conversations or gossip spreading amongst the guests. 

you have never cared so much as to what other people might think of you until you came to king’s landing. another burden that seems to lift itself entirely at summerhall. there is no court there, and therefore no one to watch your every move.

you do not even recall the entirety of the conversation now, with how your thoughts are all mixed together. you think maekar had mentioned something about a seamstress that might be brought on to the castle for your new gowns.

and you suppose he is right. it seems of no use to bring your old dresses with you when they will not fit anymore. 

you suppose you shall have no need of them until—

until quite some time. 

your mind wanders, staring down at the guests king daeron has invited. they walk through the gardens, laughing and talking with one another. 

your daughter might be crawling by the time you return to the red keep, to your old gowns and your husband. 

if he remembers you by then—

you shake your head slightly, as though you might be able to silence the thought with the motion. you have spent enough time thinking. now it is time to do something, something that you know will help you and baelor, even if he does not yet see it.

you should not feel this way, you tell yourself. this was your decision, your choice. 

and still, sullenly, your eyes gaze down towards the garden through a layer of unshed tears at the thought of leaving your home behind.

a young girl skips through the courtyard, not far from where you and baelor had broken your fast not so long ago. 

you keep your hand steady on your stomach, rubbing the skin softly. finally you sigh one last time, inhaling the sweet, fresh air of the gardens.

you turn around to return to your chambers. the tourney is set to begin tomorrow, and you suppose it is time to begin packing.

-

the morning light shines beautifully through the curtains of these chambers. 

your mind cannot help but compare it to the rays in baelor’s chambers, since that is the only comparison you have in your mind, but it is warm all the same.

(his chambers are warmer entirely, though not from the sun. the memories come forth even when you try your hardest to suppress them. how it would feel to wake up beside him, his hands and his touch heated as fire on your bare skin. your husband runs hot all the time, and he has never had any issue in warming you up as well. 

the air in those chambers is transfixing, and sometimes you could not tell if you are awake or dreaming. especially when baelor would press himself further against you, bringing his lips to your forehead or your cheek, urging you to continue sleeping, even if he had to rise. 

you can be entrancing too, you know, because he has never arrived late to quite so many appointments since the time of your marriage. baelor told you so himself, murmured the words against the sensitive skin of your neck, warned you that he cannot keep delaying whatever lord he was set to speak with. 

and still, he is tardy that day and the following, and the one after that as well. those mornings in bed, when it felt as though there was no one else in the entire world save for the two of you, trapped halfway between the drowsiness of sleep and the joy of waking. you like to imagine that naerys came into this world on one of those mornings.)

and then you put it aside entirely, sitting up suddenly. you push the quilts away, your skin feeling fervid even though you know very well that this bed is cold and unwarmed.

this is how it will be, and there is nothing to do besides becoming accustomed to it over time.

after all, there is no one to sleep besides you at summerhall.

the squire’s tourney is the first event of the morning. an opportunity for the young men to prove their prowess, each hoping to earn their knighthood along with the sweetness and pride of victory. 

you do not care to watch men fight like this, not after what you saw at ashford. even the thought of sitting through this all day feels jarring, but the day is warm and your company is sweet, at the very least. you sit besides lady kiera and maekar’s girls.

kiera looks tired, you can tell. in part, at least, tired in the way that you are—of these people, of the appearances that are required of her. but still, she smiles brightly at you when she takes her seat, valarr escorting her until he is certain she is comfortable. he greets you fondly and kisses his wife’s hand before departing, likely to ready himself for the midday tilts.

the girls chatter with each other after showing you and kiera the favors they had decorated themselves. rhae’s is a rainbow of colors and flowers, and she clutches to it as though it is more an accessory for herself than some strange squire. daella’s is decorated fittingly in the house colors—a comely, soft black velvet wrapped around a circlet with red roses. 

but ultimately, she loses interest in the conversation with you and kiera and sets her sights towards the fighters, as though to ascertain which of the young men is most deserving of her favor.

“how are you feeling?” you ask quietly, meeting kiera’s gentle eyes. she turns from the girls to look at you, and there is a wistfulness in her that you recognize.

“i should be asking you that,” she says, smiling softly. her eyes trace to the faint curve of your belly, almost fully concealed under your dress—a pale green, today.

“i am fine,” you say quickly, wanting to avoid the topic of your emotions entirely. “the maids are packing my gowns today. whatever will still fit me, at least.”

“how long do you imagine you will stay there?” 

you go silent, your hand tightening up against your own favor, a small circlet of light yellow flowers, the ones from the bouquet baelor had brought you. it begins to tremble under your touch while you attempt to think of an plausible answer.

you find that there is no answer to her question.

“i do not know, i suppose. perhaps as long as it takes.”

kiera surveys you for a moment, almost as if she is deciding what to say next. finally, she smiles, bringing her hand to your shaking one, steadying it under her touch.

“well, valarr and i will miss you dearly. and we shall come visit, as soon as we are able. perhaps we might bring matarys along. he will be eager to meet his new sibling.” 

you beam at the thought—valarr and matarys playing with naerys, lifting her up and making her laugh in the gardens of summerhall. you have never seen them, but surely they are just as splendid as the ones of the red keep.

after all, they will be the gardens in your daughter’s memories, at least. that alone makes them special to you.

“and i will be waiting eagerly,” you finally say. 

you want to smile. you know you should, that it should feel more natural, grace your expression more easily, even. this is what you wanted, after all. 

what you had asked for. but still, you have to force the corners of your lips to turn up. it is only for a moment before you relax your features, focusing instead on someone, anyone else.

for a moment, everyone grows distracted, and you do not have to keep up the appearance. 

just near where you are seated, you see the king and queen arrive, taking their places in the high chairs and waving to the audience that has gathered. they each take a moment to turn and smile kindly at you and kiera and their grandchildren.

still, your mind remains plagued.

even as the squires are announced, as the seats around you are slowly filled one by one. the royal family—and you among them, though it is still something you cannot believe—are all seated together. further from you, just besides his grace, are the many lords of his small council and his half-brother. 

you can even discern the golden blonde of lenore lannister’s hair for a moment, next to her brother, before you turn away quickly, focusing your attention on kiera again. you do not desire a repeat of the afternoon tea from the other day.

she is nothing if not observant.

“that is one good thing, i suppose,” kiera begins, while you furrow your brows at her. “summerhall will be quiet, at the very least. no ladies of the court to torment you. that is a victory all on its own.”

“you are right,” you agree quietly, though your heart is not behind the sentiment. 

you are not allowed another opportunity to dwell on the matter. instead you focus your attentions on a squire from house manwoody, who is advancing his mount towards the the royal box.

but it has never bothered me before, you think suddenly and sharply, the court and the ladies and all these people. but now, all of a sudden—

the boy, whose introduction you thoroughly missed while lost in your own thoughts, attempts to guide his horse towards your direction. he seems nervous, you think, the lifted visor of his helmet revealing his face. 

he cannot be more than five and ten. 

he looks at the two of you nervously, almost as if he was preparing to ask for your or kiera’s favor. you look at him with widened eyes for a moment, before attempting to direct his gaze to the young princesses sitting before him instead.

the boy blinks, refocusing his attention while holding onto his lance tightly.

daella is beaming. the boy looks more skittish than his horse.

“my fair princess,” he begins, clearing his throat. “would you do me the honor of granting me your favor?” 

the sight is sweet, though.

daella rushes to the edge of the box eagerly, her favor clasped in her fingers and her dark hair billowing behind her. she grins excitedly, dropping her circlet onto the lance. the manwoody boy returns a small, shaky smile. 

between the two of them, you are not sure which will swoon first.

he drops the visor, riding away with his newly adorned lance and shield, a well-painted crowned skull against a black sky. 

“i do hope he wins,” daella announces breathlessly, and you for a moment, you are distracted of all other thoughts, turning to kiera to conceal a hushed laugh.

“with a princess’s favor, how could he not?” kiera says, and daella turns again, still smiling brightly, watching her young knight position himself for the first tilt.

you cannot imagine maekar is too happy about the turn of events. you crane your neck to see if you can find him besides his father, but the seats near his grace, both of them, are empty.

that is odd, you think, as the trumpets roar behind you. they should be here. 

“where are they?” you ask, suddenly much too aware that both your husband and his brother are nowhere in sight. 

your heart races for a moment, feeling as though you are missing some vital piece of information. the idea of yet another tourney going as ashford had makes you feel ill. 

“perhaps with valarr? it is only the squire’s tourney, after all. i am certain they will join us soon,” kiera encourages, clasping her hand over yours. 

you calm down for a moment, the thoughts restraining themselves. kiera’s hand is warm on yours, and you nod slowly. 

you try to smile, but it does not feel as though you can summon it. why does your expression feels forced once again? you cannot name the feeling, and yet—

and then it begins, the stampede of hooves against the dirt, lances ready to clash. you are left with no choice but to watch the young boys charge into one another.

-

you have never seen daella look more radiant. 

she glows from the inside out, her expression glowing as the crown rests easily on her head. it is a pretty wreath too, made of red and pink flowers, matching her crimson gown finely. 

the manwoody boy, for all his nerves, had performed exceedingly well. he won the first match-up in only two tilts, three, you believe, in the second round, and finally was decreed the victor in the third after breaking five lances against a squire from the stormlands.

you could not quite distinguish which house his final opponent served, not when you mind was already occupied, consumed by your thoughts.

well, one thought in particular. most of the tourney was spent wondering where your husband was.

you try to reason with yourself, as though you need to justify thinking of him so relentlessly, as though it was not second nature to you. 

it is only that it was not like him to miss the entire event. to leave his seat empty, even to leave his parents searching for him every time their eyes wandered to the unoccupied space beside them.

and thus, you are left with no choice but to worry. 

you play with your hands and your skirts, fidgeting until you feel naerys stir slightly inside of you, almost as if she is telling you to stop. 

you switch then, to rub your stomach slightly, trying and failing to pay attention to the joust in front of you. when it was over, all of you stood to clap. you tried to search for baelor and maekar with your eyes, to no avail.

“well,” kiera begins, as if she can sense you are in need of a distraction. daella rushes to her grandparents to show them her new crown, with rhae running behind her excitedly, “at least she will give you no trouble on the journey, now. she will speak of it for at least half of the trip.”

her words make you smile before you even realize you have.

“it is a special thing. she will never forget it, either,” you say, unsure of where the words come from.

a tourney is meant to be a joyous affair, after all. just because you did not see them that way any longer did not mean it was not still a festivity for others.

at the very least, for daella. she will have no shortage of tournaments in her lifetime, and you know this is not the last time she will ever be crowned. 

but it must be unforgettable, you think, to be recognized in front of everyone for the first time.

even if she does speak of it for the entirety of the trip to summerhall, you do not think you could fault her. 

for a moment, you are not sure who else she might be able to tell about it, save for her younger sister. you decide then and there to listen intently and make sure she knows you are paying attention and that you care. 

that this is something worth being excited about. 

“indeed… i still remember when valarr crowned me at the tourney for our wedding.” kiera smiles fondly, recalling the memory. you can only imagine how sweet it must have been. “and, once she grows bored of it, rhae will speak of it for the latter half. either way, you will have no shortness of stories in the carriage.”

the two of you laugh, linking arms as you walk down the path to where everyone has gathered. 

the grounds are decorated finely for the day, tents for each of the house with their sigils displayed proudly. the servants work through the crowd with chalices of sweet wine and plates of food, everyone stopping for a moment’s break before the festivities continue in the afternoon.

lords and ladies converse, parting to bow and curtsy as the king and the queen lead the way to the royal tent. daella holds onto the queen’s hand while rhae has been scooped up by the king as they both eagerly talk, likely regarding daella’s recent coronation.

“you are so good with them,” you say suddenly, following as ser donnel leads the two of you away from the crowd. 

“as are you,” kiera replies. “and i know perhaps, this is not proper for me to say. but i will say it still. are you… certain this is what you would like to do?”

you turn, meeting her eyes. you had not expected it, but they are watery like yours. 

in kiera, you had found a true friend, even despite the origin of your relationship. you, her good-father’s new wife and her, your new good-son’s wife. 

even under these uncommon circumstances, you know the caliber of love you are leaving behind. it is bittersweet to imagine days without her and valarr, to think of how close you have gotten to them, only to part so suddenly.

and matarys—you feel your heart clench at the idea of telling him that you have decided to leave after all, that this time it is of your own choosing. you had not thought he or valarr would even like you, much less think of you during a time when their own grief was rampant.

your eyes flicker towards the sigil painted on the tent. a red dragon against black. your sigil, now. 

you had not thought you would truly be one of them, one of baelor’s family. and now with this departure looming over you, you wonder why leaving felt as though it was the correct decision.

a decision made in hurt and anger. would you come to regret it, after all? you suppose you will find out soon.

you push the thought aside with all your strength, focusing instead on kiera again.

“i do not know if i am certain about anything,” you admit, finally. your words are quiet. “but it is so painful to be here. for the both of us. this might make it easier until-”

“your grace,” a voice booms, and you turn suddenly to meet the source of it. “my lady. it is a pleasure,” he says.

you recognize him instantly, even though you have never met the man before. 

his helmet is elaborate and identifying all on its own, a stag’s antlers plated in iron, and his doublet matching the colors of his house—bright gold and onyx. 

you think for a moment that even if you were blind, you might be able to recognize him from voice alone, given what baelor has told you of him.

the laughing storm, they call him. 

“lord baratheon,” you say, and kiera follows, watching him with an almost confused expression. “i do not believe we have been introduced before.”

“that, your grace, i can confirm. what, with all that business at ashford. it did not leave us much time to be acquainted, did it?”

you blink, trying to compose yourself so that you do not begin frowning at the memory before him.

“no, my lord, it did not.” 

it feels almost silly—to spend the better part of an entire moon’s turn thinking about that day at ashford meadow, only to forget about it in a moment. the force it returns with is like a blow to your chest.

or my head, you think.

“and besides that,” he continues, waving his hand in the air. “i am certain that if we had met first, we would all be addressing you as my lady, instead of your grace.”

kiera’s eyes go wide from her position beside you, and you hold back from shifting your expression to gape at him. at the very least, his lordship has a flair for humor and flattery.

he is just as baelor described him. in an instant, you wish lord baratheon would return to his tent so that you might find your husband.

“that is kind of you, my lord. are you enjoying the tourney so far?”

“deeply. our good king does know how to entertain, after all.”

“indeed. lady kiera and i look forward to seeing you face your opponent in the lists today.”

“not only face, my lady,” lord lyonel says, his words serious and calm. the calm before a storm, perhaps. “destroy. i must live up to my house words, after all. fury, and whatnot.”

“that should be fun to witness,” kiera says under her breath. you bite your cheek to refrain from laughing.

“regardless, we wish you luck, my lord.”

“and i thank you, your grace, but i do not need luck,” lord lyonel says, smiling in a smug, confident manner. you are not surprised. “though perhaps, if i had a princess’s favor on my lance, i would be left with no choice but to win.”

you fluster for a moment. 

you had made your own favor yesterday. the supplies had been left out in kiera’s solar where the girls had been working on theirs with the septa. 

in truth, you had not planned to make one. why should you, after all, when you had no one to gift it to? perhaps if matarys was entering the tourney, you could have made one for him. maybe even purple and black, a mixture of colors to represent his father and his mother. 

but he was not partaking, you knew that already. 

it had not taken as much time as you thought it would. your cousin had spent days working on hers, only for aerion to ask some other lady that had been present that day. you had not even bothered to ask your aunt if you might make one as well, knowing what she would say and not giving her the chance.

perhaps that is why you had sat in kiera’s solar, staring at the circlets and fabric for far too long. finally, you selected a shimmery white fabric and brought it to your own chambers with you.

and now you move your hands, deftly hiding the small favor behind your skirts, smiling charmingly at lord lyonel to distract him for a moment while you conceal it.

“that is a generous claim, my lord, but you will have to forgive me. i have brought no favor with me today since his grace is not partaking.”

“ah,” he says, his blue eyes surveying you carefully. they are full of mirth, you think. if he can see through your lie, he does not show it for even a moment. “most commendable, your grace, but rather a shame. your favor deserves to be displayed. where is your husband, if i may ask?”

“right here,” you hear baelor’s voice cut through the noise of the guests that surround you. 

before, you could hear it so clearly—her grace speaking with daella, something about no, you may not marry the manwoody boy. his grace’s conversation with lord lannister, who has travelled from his tent and does not seem to leave, no matter how many times the king suggests they discuss business of the court at the next meeting of the small council.

even kiera—she has turned from you to speak with valarr, the two of them exchanging words quietly. she had not made a favor the way you and the girls had, instead selecting a fine pink ribbon that matches her hair. she ties it now around his arm, the color shining brightly against the metal of the armor.

it all melts away now. every time you see him, it feels as though it is the first encounter all over again.

the rest of the world finally becomes quiet and manageable. 

you stare, perhaps longer than you should. baelor comes and stands beside you. today he is wearing a green doublet, the color of dark emeralds. you know it is a favorite of his, and it matches your own gown well, and for a moment, it makes you smile. 

baelor is smiling too—quickly, only for a moment towards you, before his expression changes as he faces lord lyonel.

the two men speak for some time—you hear bits and pieces. it is as though someone has stuffed cotton into your ears, everything gone soft and making little sense. all you can think of baelor’s hand, which hovers over the small of your back and the warmth of his skin. 

you stare at baelor until he finally returns your gaze, meeting your eyes. 

“well, your grace,” lyonel says to baelor before turning to you. “your grace. it was a pleasure to finally meet you. keep a close eye on your husband this time, yes?” 

you blink at the man, attempting to form a sentence, but he is gone as swiftly as he arrived.

“ignore him,” baelor says, bringing your hand into his quickly. “that is what i have learned.”

your heart thrashes in your chest at the familiarity of his touch. he does it so easily, as though it is natural.

for a moment, you forget that there are dozens of people surrounding you. guests, his family, your family. as though no one else exists.

you look down to where baelor holds your hand, and then to his eyes. he is watching you carefully, concern shining clearly, you think. perhaps he is just attempting to maintain appearances.

after all, he cannot let it seem as though there is some disconnect between the two of you, not when this plan was close to working. you will be gone soon, and then—

baelor brings his hand to your shoulder, tracing the fabric of your dress against his fingers for a moment.

“this color is familiar to me.”

-

the silken fabric of your nightgown rests somewhere on the floor of the chambers. it was green today, resembling the color of sage, one that he has seen before. 

baelor still relishes the feeling of taking it off of you—of sliding the straps away from your shoulders, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses where you are now bared to him. you squirm as though it is the first time he has ever kissed you all over again.

something in the expression on your face—euphoric and unrestrained and nothing similar to what you are like outside of the privacy of these four walls—is maddening to him. 

baelor cannot help it. he is drunk off it, off of that feeling, that makes him so frenzied he thinks he is some sort of a lovestruck green boy again. when your shyness melts away in his presence, when you are truly yourself when it is just the two of you alone.

even two months into marriage, it is mind-addling. years more of this and he is sure they will denote him too with the so-called targaryen madness that runs in his blood. 

it would be well worth it, he decides finally, resting with his back against the bedframe, sitting up just slightly. you rest against his chest, your warm hand pressed to the skin just above where his heart beats.

your eyes are closed, but every few moments, he feels the lashes of your eyes against his skin. you blink, as though you are reminding yourself you are still awake, still here, that he is still here, before resting once again.

but there is nothing that could make him leave. 

your body is flush against his, the heat trapped between the two of you. you are covered now with the silks, and he traces his fingers against the expanse of your back, travelling down to your waist and working his way to your neck.

you sigh sweetly, and he feels that pleasant sensation work its way through his body, relaxing every muscle and bone.

you open your eyes again, no doubt to continue your examination of him.

where your skin is soft and unmarred, his is marked and rough. for the last moon, you have seemingly worked up the courage to ask about the origin of his scars. each night he explains a different one, and you listen to the lull of his voice until you have fallen into slumber.

tonight is no different.

you trace it with your fingerpad, a narrow, white scar that has left a small divot in his skin. it sits just below where your palm was resting, a notch below his heart.

“what about this one?” you whisper, as though the words should only be kept for the two of you. it is late enough that the entire keep has gone quiet, no interruptions, no noises.

just the two of you and the sound of the fireplace crackling.

“that one was painful,” he says quietly. “redgrass field. i was not as careful as i should have been. one of the rebels, well… any higher and you would not have a husband.”

you lift your head suddenly, away from his chest, his skin missing yours in an instant. but when he looks to your face, he feels regret bubbling quickly, hot and thick under his skin. 

your eyes are filled with tears. 

“oh, no, sweet girl, i did not-” he trails off, bringing you closer to him again, his hands wrapping around your skin tightly. he presses into you firmly, trying to remind you that he is, in fact, still here. “a poor choice of words. do not cry, please.”

“the thought is very frightening,” you admit quietly, the words buried with a sob. after a few moments, he listens to you breathe softly, wondering what he has done to earn so much of your affection is such little time.

he feels undeserving of it, of the intensity of your love, but only a fool would deny himself of it. of you. 

“let us discuss another one, then. you need to sleep. the hour grows late,” he finally says, allowing his hand to move to stroke your hair gently. he feels it again, that brush of your eyelashes against him. 

you move your hand again, selecting the target of your curiosity this time, further up, along where his shoulder meets his neck. a jagged scar there, almost completely faded. 

baelor turns his head to look at it, keeping his fingers between the soft strands of your hair. 

“that one is from a lance. the tourney for my aunt’s wedding. a knight of house ladybright struck too high.”

“is that when you won? against daemon?” you ask.

“indeed, in the final tilt. i was ten and seven, and-”

and you were not yet in this world. 

the thought is enough to bring him to reality for a moment. he tells you these stories, but he had almost allowed himself to forget that you would not know the parts that feel so familiar to him.

and what is worse is that you have suddenly gone very quiet and still in his arms. he knows why.

“-these are old tales, sweet girl. it is not my intention to upset you in the telling of them.”

“i am not upset,” you say, as though you are trying to convince yourself more than him. “i should like to hear of it. were you proud of your victory?”

“i was. it was my first one.”

“that is very nice,” you say, moving slightly until you are comfortable against him once more. your fingers wrap around his, intertwined as you play with them absentmindedly. “and that is when you crowned her?”

“yes,” baelor says quietly.

he is not a fool. he knows what he brought you into—the sort of life that has been given to you now that you are married to a prince. a widowed prince.

memories of jena live in different places in the keep. these chambers, where they used to sleep sometimes. jena would complain about the noises—his snoring and the rustle when he would wake early to start his day—and sometimes preferred her private bedchamber. he would laugh whenever she used to bring it up.

and it is almost impossible not to think of her every time he looks at his younger son. 

valarr is him, in every way that a boy can be his father, but matarys… he is jena, through and through. even in their smiles, the way the boys laugh sometimes, baelor can hear it, and the memory takes over him before he can stop it.

there is a portrait of her along with the others, next to the one of dyanna. it is in the corridor by the great hall, and though he does not make it there as often as he should, he knows you have seen it. he saw you standing before it once, staring deeply, not even noticing when he had stepped in and stood behind you.

he had not asked you what you were thinking, though perhaps he should have. it is only that—

“she must have been so pleased,” you say faintly. “it is such a romantic gesture.”

the expression on your face, the sweetness in your voice—he can only describe it as maddening. how you name his past with jena as romantic, how you think of how pleased she might have been. 

jena did not care for tourneys, but baelor can still remember the crown of purple flowers he had placed in her lap. oddly, he cannot remember what she had—

another thought takes over him hotly. 

“sweet girl, can i ask you… have you ever been crowned at a tourney?”

he already knows the answer. you say something quietly, your voice filled with sleep. something about how the tourney for your cousin, the one where you met him, was only the second one you’d ever attended.

he kisses your forehead, telling you to close your eyes and rest now, and you comply, your body going still against him. he can hear your quiet, even breaths as sleep escapes him.

if only he were ten years younger—he would host a tourney before the turn of the moon, invite every lord and landed knight he could name just to give you a proper audience when he fells them all.

all to crown you as his queen of love and beauty, just as you deserve.

if only.

-

“baelor,” maekar calls, and both you and he turn to face him. “father requires a word.”

baelor turns back to you, watching your wide-eyed expression carefully for a moment, if only to engrain it into his memory.

do you recall the moment he thought of? do the memories remain easily thought of, or do you try and bury them now, suppress them when you can?

he wants to ask, but he knows he cannot.

“baelor,” you say quietly, blinking fast, as though you are trying to make sense of what you have just felt. perhaps even what you have just recalled.

“stay with kiera,” he says. “matarys will come join you as well. he is eager to watch his brother compete.”

“will you be joining us?” you ask, taking a breath and holding it for far too long in anticipation. your hands tremble slightly, a trait he mislikes deeply. he brings his hands over yours again, squeezing for a moment.

“i will try. do not worry,” he begins, attempting to carefully choose his next words. “i may remain in the tent with valarr. but i desire for you to sit and enjoy it. will you do that for me, sweet girl?”

your lips part as though you are surprised by his words. you nod slowly, and he brings your hands up, pressing his mouth against the back of your hands before settling them down.

the tremor seems to have abandoned you, if only for a moment.

“i will be back shortly.”

he leaves you with kiera, turning and walking towards the tent, as painful as it is to deny you something you desire. 

this time, he prays, it will be well worth it.

“father was looking for you,” maekar repeats, settling into the tent. the armor is sprawled throughout, different sets and various pieces spread throughout the space. 

baelor eyes a rather plain suit, sitting in the corner of the tent. the metal seems tough and hardened, without any of the flairs he has seen in the others. this armor is not pretty, but rather durable.

“i spoke with him already,” baelor responds, not moving from the corner. he continues to stare at the suit carefully.

“about what?” maekar asks. “and what are you staring at so fucking hard? you’ll hurt yourself.”

“no, i won’t.” 

not in this armor, at least. it will be well-fitted, i know. 

maekar makes his way to him quickly, almost as though he can read his mind.

“what the fuck are you playing at?” maekar says, and baelor turns carefully to face him.

“what are you playing at, brother?”

“speak plainly. i do not know-”

“you know what i speak of. you are leaving… with my wife.”

maekar is silent for a moment.

“so that is what you are so angry about. baelor-”

“no. this is not a matter of anger. you are leaving with my wife. you should have-”

“baelor, she asked me-”

“and you should have said no!” baelor yells, the words hot and ragged as they leave.

and angry too—though mostly at himself. 

how could he have let this happen? how could he have been so foolish as to not learn his lesson? he already lost a wife to death, and now he loses one to his own foolishness. 

but he will not, cannot, allow himself to lose you without putting up a fight. it all blends together—the way his blood boils at the sight of baratheon asking for your favor, the way maekar intends to take you away, the very fact that his own wife is leaving, just as he is finally remembering those moments that show him why he had fallen in love with you to begin with.

“what am i to do?” maekar says, frustration seeping out of him. “i am trying to… i gave her little choice when you were unwell. i am attempting to correct my mistakes. i-i am trying to help the both of you-”

“if you want to help me… then aid me in convincing her to stay. her place is here, by my side.”

“she decided-”

“maekar. she is my wife. and i have made a great deal of missteps, i know. but i can attempt to fix what i have broken, now, before she leaves. are you going to help me or not?”

his brother sighs.

“how can i help?”

-

the scene is a grand one. 

you do not think you have ever seen anything quite like it—scores of guests cheering excitedly as the competitors come out, one by one, much louder and more packed than the morning.

they wave banners and flags, chattering amongst themselves on the outcomes. bets have been placed, you are sure, amongst families. each girl clutches onto her favor tightly, waiting for the moment when some dashing knight comes to claim it.

you watch it with kiera at one side and matarys at the other. aegon sits somewhere behind you, cheering as daeron covers his ears, no doubt.

and every time matarys catches the sun, his auburn hair gleams, and when he turns to greet you, his eyes sparkle just as his father’s do.

no matter the thoughts that run through your mind, you have made a decision, at last. you will enjoy this occasion as you are meant to, shutting away all thoughts of what will happen tomorrow until it has arrived.

if these are to be your final memories with your family, you will make the most of it.

“look!” matarys says, his gaze on his older brother. “there he is.”

valarr is stationed at the tilt furthest from where you all are seated. 

and yet, of course, lord baratheon is the closest. he raises his lance towards the crowd, gathering cheers and shouts. you could have recognized him from a league away, you think, giggling with the girls at the look of his antlered helmet. 

but still, you do not doubt that he is a formidable foe. it only seems silly for the talents of the warriors to be displayed in such a performance before a crowd. 

for glory, you suppose, though it seems an odd way to claim it.

you see valarr more clearly now, the pink ribbon making him shine brightly against the other men near him. it looks as though ser crakehall of the kingsguard is across from him, his white armor shining splendidly in the sun. 

ser donnel claps valiantly for his brother from his position near you and kiera. 

“the lists have made ser roland his first opponent,” matarys says, and you feel your shoulders sink with relief—at least you know the outcome of his first match.

it is not that you are worried about valarr. it seems as though it is a natural response, your body strung tightly despite how you try to convince it to relax and enjoy the games. 

you look around, searching for him by the tents. you recognize the squire serving valarr and two other men, but he is nowhere to be found.

“have you seen him?” you then ask kiera, who is attempting to point out something to the girls. 

“valarr? we only just-”

“no, no, baelor. i thought he said he would try to join us, but…” you trail off, unsure of what to say. 

the recollection of him calling you that name he always uses makes you feel flushed and warm despite the breeze blowing through the stands.

“no, i do not see him,” kiera says. matarys turns towards you. “ser donnel? do you see his grace?”

“no, my lady.” he leans down to say something else to kiera, but you do not hear the words, not until kiera repeats them close to your ear.

the noise has gotten louder, if possible. the crowd continues to cheer at the new knights as they are introduced and take their positions. you can hardly hear yourself think.

“ser donnel says his grace had an urgent matter to attend to in the castle. but he said father told us to enjoy the tourney and that he will return later.”

“an urgent matter? what urgent matter?”

“something with the council, no doubt,” matarys says, his voice reassuring. “now that all the lords are here, i am sure one evaded the tourney to request a private audience. father would not want us to remain inside bored and miss the first tilt.”

“oh,” you say quietly. he had said that he would try, but you suppose even he could not deny someone who approached him.

in fact, he would not deny someone. you know that very well. 

moreover, he wanted you to enjoy the tourney. you suppose it would have been more enjoyable by his side, but it is no matter now. 

(a memory rushes back to you as though you are the one who has been deprived of them—the tourney at ashford. aerion had been so cruel, targeting low to harm his opponent’s steed, and baelor had rushed to cover your eyes, but it had been to no avail. you had seen it before your husband brought his arm around you, but still, even the though of it is enough to—)

“my lady,” daella says to kiera, as you feel rhae tugging on your skirts. “who is that one?” 

your eyes scan the knights. you recognize colors and sigils. a darklyn and a rosby are set against each other, and you have a feeling the darklyn will win. lord baratheon is set against a knight of house caswell, you believe, when you look at the yellow centaur on his shield. there is a buckler further down, facing some house from the riverlands with a shield that you cannot quite make out.

and then you reach one that you cannot discern at all.

he dons an unpolished steel armor and a plain oaken shield banded with iron. there is nothing identifiable, and you are certain they did not announce a name, and yet—

“kiera? matarys? who is that?”

“ser donnel says a mystery knight has entered the lists,” matarys says, watching intently and sitting up straighter as though he might be able to see through the knight’s helmet.

“a mystery? how exciting,” daella adds.

“i think he calls himself evenstar, or evenfall. or perhaps evenhall. something like that, i did not quite catch it.”

“what?” you breathe, staring at the mystery knight yourself now. 

it is impossible to tell anything with his visor covering his face, with the crowd roaring in surprise, but, perhaps… it almost—

you almost think he is looking at you. 

“evenfall? he must be a stormlander, then,” you finally say quietly.

“one of lord baratheon’s men, no doubt,” kiera supplies.

who else would have the gall to enter as a mystery knight minutes before the tourney is set to begin? you are not well versed in your histories, but the word sounds familiar—the seat of house tarth or estermont. one of the two, though you are not sure which one.

it does not make much sense. 

the journey from tarth would not allow for a knight of the house to arrive in time for the tourney. and, if he was truly a knight of the house, he would wear its sigil proudly.

“why would a man enter as a mystery knight?” you question to matarys, since you and kiera do not have the answer.

“perhaps to defend one’s honor. one of the other knights may have insulted him. or perhaps to defend someone else. it may be a squire from the morrow’s lists, even.”

“i did not know that.”

“father has always said there is more honor in it. it is not for renown, like the others. take the dragonknight, for example. he competed as the knight of tears to crown queen naerys.”

you turn to look at matarys quickly, before your thoughts are interrupted by the trumpets as they burst into sound, as the competitors prepare themselves.

“let us see how our mystery knight fares, then,” kiera supplies with a smile.

you watch silently as it happens. valarr steadies himself, nodding to his grandparents and to kiera, showing off his ribbon as he takes his place. ser roland does the same, tipping his head as he passes his brothers in arms. 

lord lyonel meanders over to where of the crowd nearest to him. conveniently, where lady lannister is seated besides her niece. she rises, reaching over to tie her green ribbon around lord lyonel’s lance, before resuming her seat.

his opponent does not move from his position. 

your eyes search of their own accord, attempting to see if any of the other knights have shifted from their positions, watching with all the others to see which lady’s favor they will request.

“is that it? but some of these knights have no favor at all-” daella begins, turning to look at you with a combined expression of annoyance and disappointment, one she has mastered by copying her father. 

“do not speak so soon, daella,” kiera warns. 

your eyes are fixated on the tent—wondering if baelor might step out if his meeting ends. the only lord you can imagine would bother him while his son was set to compete is lord lannister, and you know the man can speak for ages—

your eyes move again, this time to lady lannister. 

she is beaming, no doubt planning a golden wedding with lord lyonel in her head. 

but she is speaking to her brother, seated beside her, meaning that he cannot be the one inside the keep with baelor now.

then who could it be, if not—

“princess,” matarys says. “princess.” 

“yes? i am sorry,” you say, feeling as kiera’s hand comes to yours.

“your grace, look.”

you hear daella gasp, and then whisper to rhae—it is the mystery knight! 

and for a moment, it seems as though the world stops spinning. 

the knight, in his plain armor, has positioned himself carefully near your seat. it seems as though the rest of the audience has gone quiet too, as he silently lifts his lance until it is resting against the barrier. 

“it would be an honor to wear the princess’s favor.” his voice is deep, and unfamiliar, no doubt deepened through the metal of his helmet. he still does not lift his visor, as all the others had done.

you suppose you cannot blame him—after all, he is a mystery knight.

and before your mind can dwell on it, before your fear and your nerves stop you, you feel your body rising. you move to the wooden balcony that separates the two of you. from here, you can look down at the knight clearly, at his chestnut brown steed and the shield that bares no sigil.

you release a shaky breath, bringing your small favor into your hands. they are not trembling, to your surprise. the petals of the flowers seem to glow in the sun, as you drop the circlet around the knight’s lance. it falls, resting midway. 

“i wish you luck, ser.”

the mystery knight does not say anything, bowing his head at you curtly before he rides away to claim his position. you catch carefully as he goes, not yet returned to your seat.

you can see it clearly now—his opponent’s sigil. he will be facing a dalt of house lemonwood. and without thinking about it, you hope the lemonwood knight is not impressive today. it is wrong to wish for any knight’s downfall, and yet—

“look, your grace,” daella says as you finally resume your seat. the noises of the crowd are still muffled, and you do not know what to think of it. you have never been asked for your favor before, but—

“it is a good thing father is not here to witness this,” kiera whispers to you.

you watch as the knight tilts his lance, capturing your favor in his hand. he tucks it safely into his armor, saving it from ending up in the dirt when he clashes with his rival.

After breakfast, the others come in intermittently throughout the day. Dick comes first and brings some stupid gift in, sometimes it’s a plush toy, other times it’s flowers. The generic kind. A collection of roses and peonies, the kind that fits any occasion. He talks your ear off and you offer small, non committal responses. Too afraid to give your real opinion, in fear that he’ll just get up and leave.

It’s easier to just nod. He seems happy at least. He seems to enjoy fussing, fiddling with the pillows or adjusting whatever he can reach. But then he has to go to work. You don’t take it personally. He ruffles your hair but you can tell he’s holding back, as if he’d rip your head off if he used too much force. 

In the hours between Dick’s departure and lunch, you occupy yourself waiting for the phone. No one’s called or texted you yet. You aren’t sure who you’re waiting to hear from, but anything would be nice. At first you blamed the signal, but when you got a spam call from a car insurance scam you threw that idea out. 

Jason comes with food around lunch time and you thank your lucky stars he did. The hospital food is bland, it’s like eating cardboard soup. He brings greasy fast food and your mouth waters at the smell. You’ve gotten to know him over the fortnight. Your old apartment, the one before the Manor, was two streets away from his old place. It’s easy to talk to him, because you don't need to dig into any of that deep stuff. 

You didn’t want to explain how you got here, and he didn’t ask. He didn’t want to explain how he ‘left’, so you didn’t poke the bear. The conversation isn’t alive, it isn’t a constant back and forth with quips and laughs, it’s just a slow stroll.

Alfred and Bruce would scold him for bringing food in, saying that your body needed real food, not just slop, and he’d bat them off. You wished you were confident enough to stand against Bruce. Instead, you’d just look at the floor while they talked. 

The book Tim bought from home for you became a topic of conversation. You quickly realised how seriously Jason took it, whereas you just liked having something else to talk about. You weren’t the most ‘literary’ person, but you didn’t mind. Eventually you worked up the courage to make a joke. You called him a ‘real nerd’ and he gave you a non patronising laugh and jab back. 

It was nice to be treated like a person and not a time-bomb. 

Tim and Damian always arrive at the same time. Just after four. The older had left work early and the younger had come straight from school. Tim couldn’t sit still, so you’d take a walk around the ward whenever he came.

On the first visit he bought some clothes from home, a welcome change from the thin hospital gown. Walking around the ward in bedazzled sweatpants, spelling ‘juicy’ on the rear wasn’t the most appropriate, but it felt like heaven compared to the previous outfit. The ward wasn’t loud or quiet, but rather a constant lull. 

You’d ask how work was and he’d ramble while you walked. 

Damian keeps sitting on the blue chair on the left side of the bed, and if anyone tries to take his spot he just walks behind them and tips them out of the chair, with a ‘tt’. The first time he did it, you laughed out of surprise. It was a welcome change from the droning beeping of the machines. It felt a little like normal, whatever normal was.

On the second day, you were able to get him alone for a couple of minutes. When Bruce had left to use the Men’s room, you asked Alfred if he could ask the nurse for a new blanket. Tim had left to get a snack from the vending machine. When you finally had the room cleared out, you addressed the elephant in the room.

“Damian, I’m, I’m really sorry for the other night. I wasn’t really thinking- and I know that isn’t an excuse at all and what I did was really fucked up, I should never have hurt you and I’m really sorry.” It was a generic apology because you couldn’t remember all of the details. You remember a fight but that’s about it. Although you couldn't recall the entire ordeal, the spectre of guilt clung like Mold to the memory.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, but then you heard a small “it’s fine” out of him.

“No, it’s not fine. I was horrible.”

The silence returns, then dissipates. 

He shuffles the chair a little closer to the bed, and the front legs batter the edge of the bed. You shuffle to the edge of the bed. Before he has the chance to squirm away, you reach out and pull him in for a hug. Bracing for a struggle, you tighten your grip, but to your surprise he doesn’t thrash or fight against you. Although he doesn’t embrace you back either. His arms stay by his side, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. 

In between dealing with the new, strange family dynamics, you were pestered by the Doctors and taken in and out of surgeries. Minor ones, not as bad as the one you needed on intake, but enough to leave you sore. They remind you to pace yourself, but truthfully you want to just speed-run recovery and get out of there. 

But the part that keeps you up, the invisible itch you can’t scratch, is the fact that no one’s talking about it. No one’s asking why you were there in the first place. You’re scared of scratching, in fear that you’ll scar yourself. 

The phone doesn’t ring all week. 

On the first night of the second week, you’re alone. Something about work kept them home. It makes you feel like you’re going mad. The week before last, you’d be begging for a situation like this. One where everyone acknowledges that you aren’t well. That the suffering you kept hidden would finally be seen and fussed over. 

Unable to sleep, you opt to take a walk around the ward. Under the fluorescent lights, the tiles underfoot are blindingly bright. It makes you feel nauseous. You’re used to obnoxiously bright lights, the strobe lights you’re normally basking in are way more flashy, but you aren’t used to how clean everything looks. 

When you were a kid, the doctors office was a small, shoebox size room, with tatty gray carpet. If you squinted you could see a rainbow of lint ingrained in the carpet. Here, it was so clean you could eat off the floor. The corridors never seemed to end, and there wasn’t a single thing wrong with the place.

It made you feel sick. Small, broken things were comforting. Familiar. This place was so alien. Your feet find their way to the stairs and you keep walking until you find a direction sign. Observatory balcony, toilets, fire exit. 

The observatory balcony overlooks Gotham from an untouchable vantage point. That grime and sleaze can’t touch you from up here. God you wish it could. You hate being so clean. Pressing yourself against the railing gives cold comfort, the metal bar freezing against your belly. 

You wonder what would happen if you held your arms out. Could you fly? Feel the wind beneath your wings. The breeze below peppers your wind battered face. A kiss, a promise. Freedom. For one moment, just one stolen moment, you could belong to no one, just a piece of litter thrown around in the wind. To become directionless by nature. 

No. You know better. Almost reluctantly, you step back. Like a child leaving the birthday party before the cake could be cut. The ground underfoot is cold and harsh. It bites. The tiles look like the ones from the corner store you'd visit as a kid. They should bring sweet nostalgia, but instead it just reminds you how much time has passed. It's been ten years. And you still feel like a little kid. When does that feeling end?

At the end of the week, you’re eager to get out. Back to your room. It’s still not over, all this new family stuff, but at least you can be in your own bed. 

On the morning you were set to be discharged, Bruce came into the room, same time as always. But this time, you were awake. Already packing up your bag and dressed for the day. He was relieved to see you with some energy. 

He came in with something behind his back. You didn’t see it at the time, but he was holding the leaflet. The one the nurse gave him just after intake. The one for rehab. 

While your back was turned to him, you spoke over your shoulder. “As soon as we get back, I need some tea. The earl grey one. The coffee machine tea tastes like rainwater.” He saw the way you angled your body while packing, careful not to put too much weight on the left. Clearly it hurt. You must’ve lied about the pain to get discharged quicker.

His eyes flickered to your open bag and he narrowed his gaze when he spotted the neon orange tube poking out. He’d have to confiscate those once he found out what they were. 

For a moment, he wondered if they were actually prescribed, or if you had… no, he couldn’t think like that. You’re a good kid, you wouldn’t steal, would you? Then again, he reminded himself, he doesn’t know you enough to promise himself anything. God, some man he was. 

He knew he should’ve said something. But at that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to. It felt like a punishment. It could be talked about at home. Something could be arranged. Without announcing it, he began to help you pack. When you turned to grab something on the bed, you let out a startled yelp.

“Oh my God I thought you were Alfred.” 

Your voice was half nervous-laugh and half breathless. He noted the way your posture shifted immediately, how you closed yourself up. Like a cornered street cat. Whether you know you’re doing it or not, your body keeps trying to make itself smaller. 

The two of you pack in silence. Bruce keeps thinking you’ll try and start a conversation, like you used to, but he’s just met with silence. You haven’t opened up about that night yet. There hasn’t been a moment where you broke down in front of him and confessed everything, all those horrible thoughts swirling in your head like scum circling a drain. 

It will happen, won’t it? When he held you, you had been so vulnerable, begging for him. Between the seizing and choking, you begged someone to call your Father. So why weren’t you talking to him?

“When we get back, we need to talk about something.” He hopes his voice comes out as gently as he means it. Bruce knows he can be harsh, he knows he’s rough and sharp, but he has to try. 

He lost one child once, he nearly lost another. Forever this time. 

It has to get better. 

“Can’t we just talk now?” You still don’t face him, back turned against him, a wall built to keep him out. He can’t blame you, he placed the first brick. Without seeing your face, he knows you’re afraid. Every muscle tensed up defensively. 

“I think it’d be better somewhere.. Private.” 

Bruce Wayne can smell paparazzi rats from miles away. Of course he noticed the way the staff whispered to one another, it was just a matter of time until it slipped that Bruce Wayne had been spending a strange amount of time in the private hospital with a mystery girl. Sooner or later there would be cameras, and cameras brought questions. 

“Okay.” Your protest dies before it can take flight. You’re tired, you’re hungry, you want everything to be over. To just go back to normal, for everyone to just back off and leave you alone. You can take care of yourself, you don’t need all these people suffocating you. 

Before you can register what's happening, a pair of arms reach around and hold you from behind. Feral, you push them away and spin round to face the body. Bruce looks at you with a mix of shock and pity, what you can’t tell is who he’s feeling sorry for. You, or himself.

“Don’t touch me.” Is all you can get out, before tears well up and embarrass you. 

“You can’t do that- you can’t avoid me like a plague and then act all close. You- you- you weren’t there! You don’t get to be here now.” The words tumble out and fall over each other on the way out.

“I’m here because you wanted me here.” His voice was deceptively calm. 

“I- what are you talking about? I never asked you to come, I would’ve been fine.” You don’t believe yourself for a second. 

“You asked him to call your Father.”

You have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from spitting ‘Not you!’ out at him. It wouldn’t do any good. Defeatedly, you turn your back to him again and resume packing. 

“That’s not fair. So when he wants you- when some guy in a costume says you have to be there, you come running. But when I wanted you, when a child wanted you, you were nowhere to be seen.” 

The folding turns into a rhythm, and you can’t stop yourself from talking. 

“You don’t think I asked for you before? I used to knock on your door every day. Every night. I didn’t ask for anything. I just wanted you to see me. Call me selfish but I wanted your attention. Maybe if I had Batman’s number you would’ve been there. Too bad he isn’t my dad huh?”

I'm back from the dead! had the craziest month of my life- the major updates: new job! yay! finished moving! yay! then i got so sick i couldn't move my hands AT ALL. I have this thing where I'm allergic to certain products/chemicals, and if i touch them at all my hands basically shut down- its hard to describe but TLDR my hands are in constant agony and immobile for a week, so, makes it kinda hard to write. BUT IM BETTER NOW!

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⭐︎ Bruce feels like he did a good job when you walk over to kiss him. He hasn’t had too much contact with you for a couple days since he was keeping his distance so he welcomes your touch like a man starved.

“What is this for?” You ask after pulling back from kissing him. “Did I miss something?”

Bruce blinks down at you in confusion, “You were upset with me about arriving home late, I am sorry for worrying you.”

A look of confusion crosses your face before you start laughing.

“The whole time you thought I was upset with you?” You stop laughing to give himself something a soft look. “I’m sorry Love, I was busy with work so you must have thought I was ignoring you.”

Bruce feels sheepish now that he got the situation wrong. “You don’t need to apologize for my misunderstanding-”

You kiss him mid sentence, cutting him off.

“The flowers are perfect don’t apologize.”

Dick Grayson

⭐︎ Dick would like to think that you don’t argue often and you agree except for the constant back and forth of him stretching himself too thin and putting everyone’s needs over his.

⭐︎ The fight happens when he misses a date because they needed his help in Gotham. He had left you a note and a text about it. There was a lot of apologies in both. But when he got back to his apartment all the lights were off and you were gone.

⭐︎ Your fights are usually conversations, there isn’t yelling involved unless it’s really bad. You always wanted to talk things out rather than just leaving them lie. So you leaving without talking about it made him scared.

⭐︎ Dick is a little desperate when he feels like he is being left. There’s an involuntary coil of dread that settles in his stomach every time. He always needs to make it right as soon as possible, he can’t wait because he is afraid of never seeing you again.

⭐︎ So he runs down to the 24 hour convince store a block down from his apartment to get, admittedly, a lot of your favorite candy. Then he breaks into the florist shop across the street to grab a premade bouquet of flowers, he makes sure to leave them money plus a little extra because he broke in.

⭐︎ He is stressing himself out the whole way to your apartment. The thought that you won’t have the window unlocked like usual crosses his mind. He imagines you locking him out and refusing to even see him.

⭐︎ When Dick knocks on your window at 2am you open it up with sleep still in your eyes. You look beautiful even half asleep, confused and in one of his old tee shirts. Your eyes eventually focus in on the bag and flowers.

“Dick? These are wonderful,” You take the flowers from his slightly trembling hands. “but why are you bringing me flowers at 2am?”

Dick pauses midway through climbing through your window, “You are mad at me for missing our date so I thought getting you flowers would help.”

Your expression softens as you take a deeper look at him, seeing the anxiety in his rigid posture and the desperation in his eyes as he takes off his domino mask.

“Oh baby.” You says softly and pull him into a hug. “I am so sorry my friend had to rush her pet to the vet and had no car so I drove her. In all the rush I forgot to text you that it was fine.”

Dick exhales, all the tension in his body leaving with the air. He slumps a little as the adrenaline from crime fighting and this whole debacle evaporates.

“Thank god.” He whispers as you guide him over to your bed and gently pull him down onto it.

“I will always tell you if I have an issue,” You press a kiss to his brow, “promise.”

Jason Todd

⭐︎ You and Jason try not to fight often. It reminds Jason of darker days and you just don’t enjoy the conflict.

⭐︎ But when it happens it’s loud. Jason doesn’t start out yelling, he doesn’t enjoy it. But that’s usually what it devolves into, the two of you yelling over each other over something you can’t even remember.

⭐︎ Jason always needs time to cool off after. He leaves the apartment so he can get some air, climbing up to the roof or going on patrol early depending on what time it is.

⭐︎ This time was a little different, there wasn’t yelling or raised voices, just a slow sigh and you leaving the apartment.

⭐︎ The fight started over a bookshelf. You were insistent that you could put it together yourself while Jason wanted to help. After a couple minutes of him trying to help you told him that you wanted to do it yourself. He left the room then a few seconds later you were grumbling, putting on your shoes and slamming the apartment door.

⭐︎ Jason knew that you enjoyed doing things yourself so him trying to help must have made you angry with him. He didn’t leave like usual, instead he began to clean. It was a nervous habit that stemmed from needing control over something. He left the book shelf alone because it was the source of the argument but everything thing else he could clean was.

⭐︎ You came home an hour later to a spotless apartment and dinner ready. Jason was moving around the kitchen silently when you set the bag you got from the hardware store on the counter.

“Thanks for making dinner Jay.” You walk over to wrap your arms around him.

He tenses a little and you pull back immediately.

“You are sending me mixed messages.” Jason says with a furrow between his brows.

You frown in confusion, “What do you mean?”

“You left earlier because you were angry and now you aren’t upset.” Jason points out to you.

Your eyes widen with realization then soften, “Jay, I didn’t have the right screw for the bookshelf.”

Jason feels the tension bleed out of him at your words. You hug him again and he won’t say it out loud but he holds you tighter than he has ever held anyone else.

“If I am angry at you believe me you would know.” You laugh.

“Good.” Jason breathes out in relief.

“Now,” You pull away and walk to the bag. “do you want to help me put this together? I am way past the point of having any pride to defend.”

He grins, “It would be my pleasure.”

What he doesn’t know, or perhaps, what he doesn’t realize, is the fact that you can very astutely tell how fast his heart is beating whenever the two of you engage in this.

You have eyes to take in the way that his pulse jumps in the caging of his throat, a staccato beat that indicates the adrenaline that wracks down the track of his veins, the excitement that spurs him to devoted attention upon you.

After so much time devoted to the blood, you can tell the measure of a person’s heart: and where it indicates they are on the emotional compass. He radiates a joyful thrill whereas others that you have slaked your thirst from have shied away in muted terror.

Of course, the other indicator of his enthusiasm is the way that his cock juts out fully erect from the fine hair curled in the junction of his legs. The muscles of his bare thighs twitch against the soft sheets that the two of you take occupation upon—he lying, you reclining further down his legs to prepare him.

He’s enthusiastic about the way that you prepare him, rolling your hand up the length of his cock, lingering at the curve of his head. Letting your thumb slink down the head of his cock where a bead of precum pearls in tantalizing, mouthwatering manner.

“Please—”—He groans, and it’s best described as a wanton, broken plea for catharsis, for gratification—“—I need you, honey.”

You let your eyes drag up from the view of your hand gliding down the shaft, just in time to catch the way that his mouth opens in perfect, blissful agony. His eyes remain fixated upon you, a silent plea of desire.

“I need you too,” You hum back against the full of your lips, a pleased chord. Always so willing, always so needy, always so lively. “Are you ready, Wally?”

In answer, his hips buck into you, the slick of his exertion making the glide easier up your hand. Another word finally breaks from the last modicum of propriety he has, a barely uttered whisper. “Please.”

You laugh, though it’s without malice—only endearment. “As you wish, Wally.”

There’s a degree of relief that makes foundation in his face, though it’s quickly replaced by lust as you clench your thighs to rise up. And it’s replaced by abject pleasure as you press your entrance against his cock.

“Fuck—”—He breathes, the entire meter of his body drawn rigid under you, his cock jerking against you in instinctive manner—“—You look so hot like that.”

“Yeah?” You ask, letting a sly smile make appearance as you sink down. As you deny him the chance to reply as his brows twist in euphoria, as you let his cock glide into you, filling you up.

“Oh, fuck—”—He shucks a ragged breath out of him as you sheath him to the hilt with marked ease, a perfect fit for you. You keep a hand on the toned plateau of his stomach.

Under the pads of your fingers, you can admire the way that his abs roll with the need to satiate himself with you. You may as well accommodate him; you let your legs pitch against his thighs and rise up in torturously slow ascent.

“God—”—His fingers twist into the sheets, the whites of his knuckles protruding through the tender flesh of his skin—“—Oh baby, please go faster.”

“World’s fastest man—”—Your grin is beatific, wicked as you sink back down, his eyes rolling back with overwhelming pleasure—“—Can’t handle going slow?”

“Not—”—He grits this confession through his teeth as you seat yourself fully on him again—“—Not with you.”

“Charmer,” You giggle, before you adjust your angle so that you may inch along the taut muscle of his torso, his pecs, his shoulders that are tacky with the sheen of effort. Until you have finally reached the zenith of your journey, where you may huff steamed breath over the pulse that hammers in delicious pace.

“Do you want me?” You ask, punctuating your inquiry with the wet lave of your tongue upon his lifesblood. All he gives you is a roll of his hips that has you sigh in delight at the shock of pleasure through your body, sweet and honeyed and perfect.

“Please,” He begs once more in dire evocation, “I need you.”

You pitch your hips so that you sink down on his cock once more—letting his breath catch in his throat—before you sink your fangs into the give of his skin. And when you take your first heady swallow of his blood, you’re rewarded with an oath muttered on his lips before he groans at the sheer ecstasy.

It’s here you have to take over—Wally’s busy on two fronts, after all. But you’ve grown good at multitasking, at working the breath through your nostrils as you take greedy swallow from his body, and ride the thick length of his cock as it pumps into you.

As the skin of his thighs slaps in lewd manner against you, the whimpers of his rapture taking sinful harmony with it. As you take what is his—and he happily gives it to you.

But you don’t need much—after all, you still have your ride to think of, as you rise back up to allow a moment to bounce on the curve of his length. To take in the way his eyes are glassy, glaze-over, at a satisfaction he only achieves with you; you wipe a droplet of blood away that skirts down from the corner of your mouth.

“Let me taste it,” Wally begs, his face flushed with desire only you can sate him with.

You smile, knowing that he can regard his blood that stains your teeth. As you close the distance back down to him, his thrusts into you jerky and disoriented but still eking out pleasure yet to be fulfilled.

And when he tastes himself on your tongue, you can savor the tang of his moan on yours.

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He’s just been floating a few feet above the roof of your apartment building, stock still ever since he zoomed over five minutes ago.  

He didn’t mean to, he really didn’t mean to, but when he first heard your groan he thought you were hurt. Then he picked up the quiet sucking and even the faint sound of your slick.  

You let out a sound that was far more lewd than the first and Jon’s hand shot up to cover his mouth, as if there was anyone around to hear the man’s sharp intake of breath.  

Sheets rustle and Jon imagines you clutching the fabric between your fingers. He hears a lewd slurp and imagines Damian right between your thighs, lapping and sucking at just the right places.  

Jon’s fists clench at his sides when he hears your moans grow louder and a little higher. Sheets shuffle and he pictures your back arching off the bed, grinding up into his best friend’s face. 

You groan his name so unabashedly, in a way Jon never dared to consider you could. You sound like you’ve been waiting for this all day and your boyfriend’s finally giving it to you and giving it well.  

Jon can almost see it, your fingers in his friend’s dark hair, your thighs squeezing around his head as you cum around his apparently deft fingers and skilled mouth.  

He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought of you two like this before. You were a hot couple and you were both such good friends to him.

You’d always ask him to tag along on what could’ve been dates between just the two of you; you invited him to sleep overs where you’d both squish him between you on the couch and you’d cook dinners with him at your apartment. You'd bring him along on vacations, to the park, the beach, the movies.

You've done an array of things with him that you could’ve just done as a couple but instead chose to invite him along because you’re both such good friends to him-- even if Damian can’t admit it outright most of the time.  

It’s only natural then, that he’d think about what other couple things you’d want him to participate in...right? 

How was he supposed to constantly see the way you look at Damian and not imagine you looking at him the same way? How was he not supposed to imagine Damian giving him gentle little touches like he did with you. Honestly, his restraint so far has been admirable.  

Now all that’s out the window. He just heard Damian make you cum on his tongue and as red as his face probably is, he’s not flying an inch further away from your apartment like he should.  

All he can hear are soft kissing sounds and you trying to even out your breathing, and suddenly, a new wave of guilt hits him.  

He doesn’t even want to think about what he’ll do with his hard-on but he has to leave. He runs his hands through his already wild hair, trying to will himself to move. The moment is so tender and quiet, he wants nothing more than to be in that room.  

Then he hears fabric shuffling and a belt buckle hit the floor.   

 “Look at me, Hayati.“ 

It’s such a simple, gentle command yet it has both you and Jon at attention. He hears the bed creak, a short silence. 

“Just keep your eyes on me.”  

You reply with a breathy, “'kay.“ 

There’s a pause before you let out a choked groan, and then a wet squelch. Jon has to squeeze his thighs together when he imagines his friend bottoming out in his other friend’s soaked heat, their eyes never straying from the other's.  

“So good to me, Beloved.”  

And now that his lips are free, Jon makes a new world-shattering discovery: Damian’s a talker.  

“Ya Rouhi, I’d be a happy man if all I ever lived for was to pleasure you.”  

His voice is thick, accompanied by your soft sounds of pleasure and the slow, slick plaps that make it to Jon’s red ears.  

“I’ll always give you everything, Hayati. You deserve more than I can give.“  

You both let out deep grunts in time with his steadily increasing pace. The sheets shuffle and Damian must have switched the position up because you curse and cry out. 

“I’m yours in every way and I know you’re mine.” 

It must be beautiful, Jon thinks, Damian’s lidded eyes matching yours, your hips matching his thrusts, bodies sticking together, shared breaths. Jon ignores the worsening wet spot in his underwear, his suit feeling tight on his growing hardness.  

He holds his breath so he can better hear the exact moment you and Damian cum together. Maybe you’re still locking eyes, maybe your foreheads are pressed together, but all he can hear is your mixed moans and the stalling of your hips as Damian fills you up.  

Once more, the only thing left to hear after the high is soft kissing and harsh breaths. Nothing but Damian’s husky,   

“I love you, Hayati.”  

Between kisses and your croaked hum in return, “Love you too, babe. S'good to me.” 

You mumble the sweetest praises in-between kisses and Jon can hear Damian’s heart beat a bit faster, can hear the sheets shuffle as he imagines the man shoving his face into his girlfriend’s neck at such sweet words being uttered to him. You always did say he was a secret sap, not that it was much of a secret between you three, but Jon only realises now just how true that really is.

As the moment grows quieter, Jon’s guilt only grows again. The sound of the city comes rushing back and his head spins around the various apartment buildings around him as if someone could’ve possibly known what he was doing.

Regardless, he can’t stay here, listening to your extremely private moment. There's no pretense of shock keeping him here anymore, he's just being a creep! No better than a criminal!

Unbeknownst to Jon, both you and Damian heard his distinct sonic boom when he flew off and you’re now staring at each other with matching wide eyes.  

You’re the first to break the silence with a laugh, shoving your face in your hands. “You don’t think he...?”   

Damian runs a hand through his hair with a groan that doesn't hide his embarrassment.

“I told him he should come over today.”  

“And you forgot?!” 

“I was distracted.”  

Then again, they were never really different. They all led back to the same thing—making his father proud. Proud to call him his son, his only heir.

So, he was a bit—no, more than that—confused when you slowly began climbing his list of priorities.

If anyone asked how the two of you met, you would say he came to your rescue like a knight in shining armor—and even fixed your camera.

If they asked him, it was a completely different story.

Harry looked into the tall mirror, letting his childlike mind wander. He wondered how he would soon outgrow this version of himself—and how he would become the boss of everything, just like his father said he would.

The boy imagined what he would do once he was older: eating candy whenever he wanted, going on random vacations, and being regarded as a genius for his future inventions.

He adjusted his bow tie—one of the maids had put it on him earlier—wanting to look picture-perfect, even though he already did.

It was his first charity gala, and his father had drilled into him that first impressions were everything—even if it meant enduring annoying questions from adults.

The door opened slowly, revealing his father in a suit tailored specifically for him.

“Harry, my boy,” Norman said, smiling down at his son.

Harry blinked, shifting his gaze from his reflection to his father. “Yes, Father?”

With an exaggerated, heavy sigh, Norman knelt down to his son’s height. He removed the bow tie and pulled a small necktie from his pocket.

As he tied it neatly under Harry’s collar, he began, “First impressions are ev—”

“First impressions are everything. I know, Father,” Harry interrupted, already tired of hearing it.

Norman paused, his hands stilling against the fabric. For a moment, Harry thought he had said something wrong. The maids had told him before that he had a careless mouth.

Then his father chuckled lightly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Harry let out a small sigh of relief, staring at his father’s gel-slicked hair and wondering if his own looked good enough.

“Good,” Norman said, smoothing down the tie. “That means you’ve been listening.”

He gave the knot one final adjustment before standing to his full height, immediately looking more imposing. Then his phone buzzed.

Norman glanced toward the door, then back at Harry. “We’ll be leaving in ten minutes.”

Harry straightened at once, nodding. “Yes, Father.”

“Make sure you’re presentable and polite,” Norman added, his tone sharpening slightly. “There will be important people tonight. I expect you to behave accordingly.”

“I will,” Harry replied quickly. A small thrill of anticipation slipped through him—the gala was being held at that massive manor everyone had been talking about.

Norman studied him for a moment, as though inspecting something Harry couldn’t see, before giving a small, satisfied nod and closing the door behind him.

Harry recited his introduction in his head (that was six words, mind you) while pacing around the room, checking his wristwatch every few seconds. Three more minutes.

He could feel the pressure settling in his chest, tight and familiar. He exited his room and headed for the stairs.

Father would kill him if he arrived late. Not literally, of course—but close enough.

Norman had always taught him that there were rules every man should follow, and punctuality ranked somewhere near the top.

Harry stopped mid-step, noticing his father by the door, still on the phone. He descended the stairs slowly; from the tension in his posture alone, it was clear his father was more irritated than usual.

He only caught a few words—“Parker” and “Don’t let them know”—before the older man hung up and turned to him, the scowl on his face vanishing as if it had never been there.

Harry remembered moments like this clearly. They meant his father could still soften—for him.

Even if the smile he wore was a little too perfect.

“You’re on time, son.”

Just like Harry expected, the party was boring. He’d imagined something like in the books—people laughing too loudly, splashing red wine on each other.

But this wasn’t that. The businessmen and women spoke in low voices, each word slipping out like it had a snake’s tongue.

When he and his father entered, the adults did swarm him with questions—Norman helping him here and there.

I mean, who wouldn’t have questions for the kid genius that Norman plastered on every front page of the newspaper?

The excitement around him died down, and he ended up on the sidelines, right by the food section.

The boy watched his father charm potential investors effortlessly. Honestly, he should have been right by his father’s side, learning the tricks of the trade—but he was hungry. (And didn’t feel like it.)

Harry reached out for a pastry when a small hand tugged at his ankle from underneath the table.

Goosebumps prickled across his skin. He’d thought the manor looked slightly haunted before, with all its Renaissance portraits and antique relics—

Oh gods.

The hand retreated beneath the table, the long tablecloth falling back into place as if a hand hadn’t just slipped through it.

Harry gulped—the phrase “curiosity killed the cat” repeating in his head like a mantra.

He looked around. Everyone was in their own bubble—and his father was still too busy conversing to notice.

The uneasy boy circled the table and dropped to one knee, reaching to lift the cloth. His heartbeat thrummed like sirens, his mind scolding him even as his body moved anyway.

Harry blinked. Underneath the table wasn’t an ogre. Nor a ghost-person.

It was an ordinary person. Wearing pajamas. Underneath a table at a gala.

His eyebrows raised, and after three disbelieving blinks, he opened his mouth—only to close it again.

You were curled up, knees pulled to your chest, a dopey smile on your face as you absentmindedly brought a finger to your lips, trying to find the right words—something that wouldn’t scare him off.

“I live here. Don’t worry.”

Harry found that hard to believe.

A crease formed between his brows. “You… live here?”

He paused thoughtfully. “Underneath the table, or in the manor?”

Harry was torn between the possibility that you might be a fae—or a Wayne, a name he had recently heard thrown around a lot.

“In the manor, silly. Can you get me one of the pastries?” you asked, pointing upward.

“What the—whatever, fine.” He stood, giving the room a quick once-over before swiping two pastries (might as well have one himself), then bent down again and lifted the cloth.

Is this what pillow forts feel like? he thought absently.

“Here.” Harry handed you the pastry, eyeing you suspiciously. A million questions raced through his head.

You gestured for him to come under the table, patting the space beside you.

Harry bit his bottom lip, hesitating. Was it really safe? What if you were dangerous?

But you didn’t seem like it.

He sighed, shifting upward just enough to peek out from beneath the table—only his eyes visible—as he made sure his father wasn’t looking.

Then he ducked back down and crawled into the space. You shifted to make room, and he settled cross-legged beside you, your shoulders lightly touching.

The boy cleared his throat. “I’m Harry. Harry Osborn.”

He took a small, half-hearted bite of his pastry, as if it might quiet his nerves. Part of his mind scolded him, but another clung stubbornly to his maid’s words—that it would do him good to make friends.

Even if it meant befriending a weirdo under a table.

You licked the frosting off your lips. “Cool, nice to meet you, Hare.”

“Hare? It’s Harry,” he scoffed. He wasn’t some dumb, scary-looking rabbit.

He was Harry Osborn. Son of Norman Osborn. Heir to Oscorp. For God’s sake.

You shrugged, that same dopey grin turning teasing.

He couldn’t help but stare at the apples of your cheeks and the crinkle of your eyes—your expression warm enough to make it hard to focus on anything else.

For a moment, he wondered when he’d last seen a smile so… real.

He snapped out of it, noticing the silence between you. “Right… so you’re under the table because…?”

“I’m not supposed to be here—” he raised an eyebrow at that, “but I wanted some pastries, so…”

Whatever. He could work with that.

“Okay, um. How’d you know that I, uh… that I was good?” His mind scrambled—gone was the perfect, composed Harry from an hour ago.

“Like, y’know… you could’ve tugged some weird old man’s ankle.” He shrugged, trying to play it cool.

You laughed, which tugged the corners of his lips upward too.

“There’s a small hole in the cloth, big enough for me to peek through. I thought you looked about my height. I don’t know any grown-ups that small.”

Harry huffed out a quiet breath, something between a scoff and a laugh. “I’m not that short.”

The two of you talked a while longer, until his cheeks ached from laughing and both your pastries were gone. He hadn’t expected to grow this comfortable with you so fast.

You went on about a book you’d read with your older brother—who, from the way you spoke about him, sounded annoyingly doting, even if he hid it behind crude remarks like older brothers tend to do.

Then again, maybe Harry shouldn’t judge. He didn’t have any siblings.

He found himself hanging onto every word, like there’d be a test afterward—and he really needed to pass.

“—and then he tried to explain the ending, but I think he just made it more confusing,” you finished.

Harry blinked, like he’d been pulled from somewhere else. “Wait—no, uh, go back,” he said quickly. “What do you mean he wasn’t actually the villain?”

You tilted your head, amused. “He was the villain. He just didn’t think he was.”

Harry frowned, trying to piece it together, brows furrowed in that serious way of his—like he was solving something important.

“…That’s stupid,” he decided.

After all, what kind of person doesn’t know they’re hurting people? An idiot, that's what.

You laughed softly, nudging his shoulder. “It’s layered, ’s all. Or at least that’s what Jay told me.”

“It sounds stupid,” he insisted, though there wasn’t much bite to it.

You narrowed your eyes at him, smiling. “You just don’t get it.”

“I do get it,” he said quickly—too quickly.

You gave him a look.

Harry faltered. “…Okay, maybe I don’t.”

That made you laugh again, softer this time.

He didn’t realize how quiet he’d gone until the sound of it filled the space. Talking to you was easy.

“So,” you said after a moment, tracing shapes into the carpet, “what about you?”

Harry blinked. “What about me?”

“You’ve just been listening,” you pointed out. “What do you like?”

He opened his mouth, reaching for something polished—something neat, something his father would approve of.

His gaze dropped to his hands instead.

“…I like building things,” he said quietly.

He fiddled with his cufflinks, unease settling in his chest—the kind that usually came with his father’s presence. But this time, it wasn’t as suffocating.

Harry hesitated. His fingers stilled for a moment before resuming their slow, absent movements against the cool metal.

What if you thought he was one of those rich know-it-alls—just bluffing his way through everything?

“…Just stuff,” he muttered. Then, “Things that work. Or don’t—and then I fix them.”

You hummed, like that made perfect sense. “That’s cool.”

He blinked. “…It is?”

He knew it was. His father had always praised him for it—always said it meant he was smart, useful, worth something.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “You make things better.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. His grip loosened, thumb tracing the edge of his cufflink.

“…I guess,” he said, softer now.

You smiled at him again—warm, easy, real—and Harry found himself looking away first this time, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the carpet beneath you.

Out of habit, he checked his wristwatch.

Harry straightened slightly, the small, quiet space under the table suddenly feeling a little tighter. “I—uh…” He glanced toward the edge of the tablecloth, “I think I’ve been gone too long.”

You tilted your head. “Trouble?”

He huffed softly. “Something like that.”

Harry hesitated. He wanted to say one last thing, but didn’t know what.

“…I should go.”

You nodded easily. “Okay. I have to go too. My brother’s probably looking for me.”

There was a hint of disappointment in your voice, which made it harder for him to leave.

Harry lingered a second longer before ducking out from under the table. The noise of the party rushed back all at once—voices, laughter, the sharp clink of glass.

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his suit, schooling his expression into something composed.

He hoped to see you again.

Past the cluster of guests, weaving through the crowd, past the glow of chandeliers—until the table became just another blur behind him.

By the time he reached his father’s side, there was no sign of where he’d been.

“There you are.”

Harry straightened immediately.

Norman didn’t look at him at first, still mid-conversation. When the other man left, his father's eyes settled on Harry.

“I was wondering where you’d gone,” Norman said smoothly.

“I was just… speaking with someone,” Harry replied carefully.

“Oh, I see. Stay close.”

His father didn’t question it. There were other boys at the gala—older by a year or two—and Norman assumed his son had been speaking with them.

Another man approached, smile too practiced. Their conversation went over Harry’s head as he stood stiffly beside his father—physically present, but with every thought circling one thing.

Harry hadn’t gotten your name.

—🐰

It was the first day of middle school when he saw you again.

He remembered his father suddenly joining him for dinner—which was a rare occurrence.

Norman sat at the head of the table, a slice of steak already cut into neat portions, with some greenery on his plate.

“You’ll be attending a private school this year.” His father stabbed a fork into the steak, the motion sharp and deliberate.

Harry’s heart sank, his earlier excitement at his father finally joining him fading just as quickly.

It returned slowly—a mix of nervousness, dread, and, if he was being honest, excitement.

Would he finally make new friends? Would he see you again?

You were at a gala—under a table, in pajamas, and uninvited, but nonetheless… at a gala.

Which meant there was a chance you’d be attending whatever prestigious school his father decided on.

He’d gladly take those odds.

“You’ll start next week. Is that clear?”

Harry’s body moved on autopilot while he was lost in thought, a piece of steak hovering in front of his lips.

“Yes, Father.”

In the past two years, you looked more content. Happier, even. Harry sat a few rows behind you, watching quietly.

He was glad he’d taken those odds—more glad to be seeing you again, this close.

One by one, the students introduced themselves.

Your introduction was brief, but everyone’s eyes widened slightly in surprise when they heard your last name.

He already had a suspicion, of course—but hearing it from you made it feel somehow different.

A quiet ripple moved through the room—whispers just low enough to pretend they weren’t happening.

Harry made a quiet mental note of your interests—the teacher had insisted everyone name at least four. The ones that stood out to him were photography and science.

When it came to his turn, he felt unexpectedly nervous.

He impressed people older than him—who’s to say people his age wouldn’t?

“Good morning. I’m Harry Osborn—” The boy immediately glanced your way, searching for your reaction, but you were busy drawing on a piece of paper already filled with doodles.

Whispers rippled through the room again, hushed voices buzzing about having two “hotshots” in the same class.

You didn’t remember him.

Harry swallowed the disappointment and carried on.

When he finished, he made his way to his seat, passing by you—still focused on your drawings.

He dropped into his chair with a quiet thud, folding his arms on the desk and resting his head on them, his cheek squishing slightly against his wrist.

How could you have forgotten him?

You were his first friend. But that didn’t mean he was yours.

Harry spent the rest of the class period sulking, only snapping out of his thoughts when the bell rang.

He’d make you remember then. Simple.

The boy was about to go stomping over to your desk, but a crowd of classmates surrounded you—and him—making the distance between you even greater.

“Excuse me—” he tried to weave through the crowd, but the barrage of questions and overexcited middle schoolers was too much.

Harry sighed, smoothly putting on a strained version of the Osborn smile (not like they’d notice the difference) and patiently socialized with his classmates.

His father would approve—the kids here were from the right kind of families.

He stared past the shoulder of some blonde boy, watching your face—one that clearly wasn’t used to this kind of attention.

Harry was confused. Weren’t you a Wayne?

Then again, you’d had to sneak into one of the galas… and you had no media presence whatsoever.

“So you’ll sit with me for lunch, right?”

Harry hummed in absent-minded agreement, still watching as you nervously adjusted your glasses.

He supposed he’d have to watch from afar for now.

— 🐰

“You should be more careful,” Harry said coolly.

It didn’t matter how put-together he looked—it didn’t change the fact that his ears were tinged red.

Either from irritation that Flash had the audacity to shove you to the ground, or because he was standing so close to you.

It had been six months and twelve days since the first day of school. Harry wasn’t counting. Definitely not.

Every time he tried to talk to you—actually talk to you, instead of just staring like some creep—he’d back out at the last second.

You were a stellar student, naturally. But you didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the school’s crowd. Not like he did. Not like he was expected to.

He’d heard the rumors about you, but he paid them no mind.

You were also the school photographer for the newspaper, and Harry found your photos charming.

He definitely did not sign up for the debate team just because he heard you’d be taking their picture.

Nope.

Of course not.

Harry felt his heartbeat thrumming in his ears—time to leave. Now.

But then you did something he didn’t expect.

You tugged on the sleeve of his blazer, pulling him back before he could take another step.

“Do you wanna, um… have lunch together?” you added hastily. “As a thank you. For standing up for me—and fixing my camera.”

Harry turned around slowly, watching your hand fall back to your side. He cleared his throat—he really didn’t want his voice to go all falsetto just from talking to you.

“Yes, of course.”

— 🐰

To say Harry was worried would be the understatement of the century.

You hadn’t gone to school for a week.

You also hadn’t answered his messages or calls.

It had only been a year since you two became friends, but you’d grown closer faster than he ever expected.

His brows creased as he bit the tip of his pen, staring at his math homework—which was the least of his concerns.

He hated how he couldn’t be by your side. Especially during a time like this.

Harry could never imagine losing a sibling so abruptly.

But he knew what it was like to watch someone slip away, piece by piece.

The boy swiped a hand across his face before standing up and grabbing a coat.

He slipped out of his room and hurried down the stairs. He passed a maid—then paused, turning back.

“Veronica, tell Father I’ll be out!”

Veronica stopped in her tracks, eyes widening as the twelve-year-old was already sprinting toward the door.

“Young master! At least bring a bodyguard!” she called, but it was to no avail—he was already through the door.

She hurried after him, stopping at the frame of the grand, heavy doors.

“I’m fine! I’ll be in the safe parts of town!” Harry shouted back as the gates opened automatically for him.

“Please—at least call!”

The middle-aged woman sighed. “That boy, really…” she muttered, shaking her head.

Harry raised a hand to hail a taxi, a yellow cab pulling over almost immediately. He slipped inside without a second thought.

“Mister, Gotham Heights, please.”

The driver, a man with a newsboy cap and a mustache, nodded. “Got it, lad.”

Harry hummed thoughtfully, looking out at the Gotham sky that never seemed to brighten—stuck in a dull monochrome.

He thought of a gift that might lift your spirits. Not a lavish one, surely. You were always against him using his money to buy you things, even something as simple as a snack.

The driver glanced at him through the mirror. “What’s a young lad like you doin’ out alone?”

The “young lad” scoffed. “What’s it to you, mister?”

The older man looked amused, keeping his eyes on the road. There was something haunting behind them, like he had seen things no one should.

“Jus’ askin’. Gotham ain’t exactly safe, but at least you’re headin’ to the better parts.”

Even then, Harry didn’t sense any malicious intent from him. Or maybe he was just being a trusting idiot.

“Say, mister, you don’t sound like you’re from around here?”

“Moved to Gotham not too long ago. Big difference, but it is what it is,” the man shrugged.

Harry found it odd that he already seemed to know every road like the back of his hand.

He shook his head. He was getting distracted.

A gift… music? No, you had enough of those.

“Mister,” Harry started, then hesitated.

The driver glanced at him through the mirror. “Yeah, lad?”

“…What do people usually get someone when…” He trailed off. “When they’re not doing so great?”

The man hummed, thoughtful this time. “Flowers are the usual. Food too. But that ain’t really it, is it?”

Harry frowned. “No.”

There was a pause, the quiet hum of the engine filling the cab as Gotham’s dim skyline slid past.

“Best thing I ever got,” the driver said slowly, “wasn’t expensive. Just someone lettin’ me know they weren’t goin’ anywhere.”

“That’s it.” He shrugged. “People remember who stayed. Not what they bought.”

Harry leaned back into the seat, staring out the window again. Your face crossed his mind—smiling, tired.

His fingers tapped against his knee as an idea formed.

— 🕷️

“Go away,” you sniffled, pulling your legs closer to your chest.

The butler outside the door sighed. “As you wish, young master.” You heard a soft thud against the floor. “I’ll leave the package your friend got you outside.”

You waited until his footsteps faded.

You stood up from your nest of blankets, opening the creaky door and taking the box into your hands.

It wasn’t very big.

Light, too.

You opened it.

Inside was a bracelet with a charm hanging from a small silver chain, and a tiny hand-sewn Superman plushie.

Your lips trembled slightly as you carefully took the letter tucked behind the trinkets.

Dearest [Name],

I tried my best. My hand got pricked numerous times making Superman (if you like, I’ll make Batman so we can match). I hope you liked the charm.

I’m not very good with words, like you said, I’m only good at bad jokes and senseless mumbling.

But I wanted to give you something anyway.

It’s not perfect. And the eyes look uneven if you stare at it too long, but I figured you wouldn’t mind that much.

You say things don’t have to be perfect to be good.

I think you’re right.

Anyway, you don’t have to wear it or anything. Just keep it, I guess. Or don’t. That’s fine too.

My days at school are boring. Come back soon. I miss you.

— Harry

You blinked away the tears, only for them to spill down the swell of your cheeks.

You picked up the bracelet and slipped it onto your wrist, turning it slightly to admire the beads and charm.

Then you leaned back into your pile of blankets, hugging the Superman plushie tightly to your chest.

— 🐰

“It’s okay. Flash is just an asshole.” Harry carefully swept away the strands of hair clinging to your forehead—something his mother used to do to comfort him.

You continued crying. “He—my hair!”

He sighed, leaning back against the wall as he kept an arm around you. You’d had to get your hair cut because Flash chucked gum at it during fifth period.

It was the last year of middle school, and Flash didn’t seem to be changing anytime soon.

“What do you say we get back at him?”

You rolled your tearful eyes. “We already got in trouble for getting into a tussle with him.”

“That we won?”

“It was two against one. What did you think was going to happen?”

Harry scoffed. “He’s training for the football team! I expected better—not getting beat up by two nerds."

“It was barely a win. We threw pens at him.”

“Whatever, schmatever. The point is—” His eyes gleamed, and you immediately knew he was thinking of trouble. “He needs to grow up. And this is around the time he’s in the showers after practice.”

You didn’t comment on how the two of you also needed to grow up—or how he knew Flash’s shower schedule.

“…So what do we do?” Your eyes were no longer glossy, now glinting with mischief.

You sat on Harry’s shoulders, his legs wobbling slightly under your weight.

“Eugh.. You could lose a few,” he whispered.

Good thing Flash was busy singing about the blue sky—the loud rush of the showers drowning out your hushed voices.

“Shut up, you said my legs would break if you sat on my shoulders!” you whisper-shouted, fumbling of trying to open the bottle of shampoo Harry got from God-knows-where.

“IT’S A BEAUTIFUL NEW DAY! HEY!”

Harry grimaced at Flash’s horrendous singing. “Hurry up!”

Your eyes squeezed shut as you clung to the top of the shower divider.

“How do I even know where to aim it?”

Harry scoffed, tightening his grip just above your knee. “His head, duh.”

You decided to let whatever higher power existed take the wheel and squeezed the bottle—shampoo spraying everywhere.

You did not want to know what a naked Flash looked like.

“MR. BLUE SKY—! ugh, wh—”

Looks like it worked.

Harry giggled from below, his shoulders shaking.

“WHY WON’T THIS SHAMPOO GET OFF?!”

The bottle was now empty, and you heard Flash’s frustrated groans echoing over the steady rush of water.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” you urged, about to slide off Harry’s shoulders and tossing the empty bottle at Flash’s head for good measure.

“AUGHH!”

The two of you bolted out of the boys’ showers, hands clamped over your mouths, trying not to burst into laughter.

— 🐰

Harry’s gaze lingered on your features, your brows slightly furrowed in concentration, your eyes fixed on the paper filled with scattered formulas.

“So here, you have to—” you started explaining again, probably using your pen to point at the numbers—Harry wouldn’t know. He was too busy staring at you.

At times like this, he didn’t know whether to be jealous or to admire you.

With his father constantly breathing down his neck about college applications and internships, he couldn’t help but feel… something.

You, who were always smarter than him.

You, who seemed better than him in almost every way.

You, who had people who cared about you.

You, who had always been genuine.

Harry could almost turn green with envy.

But it never twisted into something as distasteful as hate. That was an ugly, ugly word—one he would never place beside your name.

He was just stressed about his father and everything going on right now. That’s all.

That had to be why he felt this way.

He swallowed. “I think… I’ve got it,” he said, nodding at his notebook now filled with circled notes.

You smiled at him—a smile full of fondness.

There was a very thin line between being impressed and feeling like he was falling behind.

Harry wasn’t quite sure which side he stood on whenever you looked at him like that.

“Yeah, you learn fast.”

He looked away bashfully. “Nah, it’s because you’re a good teacher.”

It was true. Whenever he was confused about something or needed someone to bounce ideas off, his first choice was always you.

Not like there was anyone else.

You sweatdropped. “I wish people thought the same.”

“Huh—what are they saying—”

“Alright, take your pens out,” the teacher cut in.

While writing down his answers at an almost abnormal speed, his thoughts swirled.

Harry knew you were unpopular for some godforsaken reason—you were kind, you were pretty, and a little hotheaded sometimes, but still!

Worst of all, their words actually got to you sometimes.

But maybe it was better that they didn’t.

That way, he got to keep that part of you to himself.

— 🐰

“Osborn, I’d like to discuss one of the academic competitions coming up soon.” The teacher pushed their glasses back up the bridge of their nose.

Harry had been entered into far too many contests to count on his fingers this year, and he honestly just wanted to tone it down—especially with the year almost over.

And then there were the lessons his father insisted on—about how to run a company. (Seriously, how hard could it be? Apparently very, if his stoic mentor making him write reports every night was anything to go by.)

“Sorry, miss, but I—”

Then his father’s words rang in his head—“A good businessman never misses an opportunity.”

Harry sighed, scratching the back of his head. “Okay, miss. I’ll see to it when I get home.”

The teacher smiled at him, then looked past his shoulder. “Can you tell Wayne to come over? I’d like to see the photos for the paper.”

Harry was about to ask why she couldn’t do it herself, but the rasp in her voice answered the question for him. Teaching privileged high school kids all day would do that to anyone, he figured.

“[Name]! Teach wants to see the photos!”

He watched your form in slight curiosity fumble for a bit, a slight wobble in your step as you walked over.

—

The field trip ended a little early after the spider lab—something about an emergency. The class was disappointed, but it was nearing nightfall anyway, so they made their way back through the building toward the bus.

Harry, however, watched you—a dazed look lingering on your face. He frowned.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

You tossed the wrapper of the sandwich he’d given you earlier into the nearest trash can—the same one you’d initially refused.

“Fine. Just… hungry, I think,” you replied, your hands buried deep in your jacket pockets.

“You ate two of my sandwiches…” Harry grumbled.

You nearly bumped into the two girls walking ahead of you, but Harry caught your arm just in time, steadying you before you could knock into them.

“Uh, you’re really out of it,” he said, studying your face—cold sweat beading along your forehead, your lips drawn into a tight frown.

You shrugged off his hand. “I’m fine, I swear.”

—

You weren’t fine—judging by how you nearly fell stepping off the bus when they dropped you off at the stop.

Harry scoffed. It was ridiculous—dumping a bunch of high schoolers at a bus stop this late.

Though, judging by the number of sleek, expensive black cars already lined up nearby, most of them had rides waiting.

He pulled you closer, an arm around your shoulders. You were strangely cold despite the sheen of sweat on your skin, and this was the best idea he had to help.

“S’cold,” you murmured, your voice breathless, like even speaking hurt. Your eyes were squeezed shut, a crease forming between your brows.

“Yeah? Only just a bit more, and you’ll be home,” Harry reassured, gently brushing the hair stuck to your face aside.

His chauffeur, Jake, glanced at them through the rearview mirror. “Lad, wouldn’t it be better if we brought them to the hospital?”

You whined at the word hospital, shooting Jake a look that said, See?

The older man huffed. “Ya should message their family. Probably worried sick by now.”

Yeah, right.

Nevertheless, his other hand fished your phone out of your pocket. Harry punched in your password, then opened your messages app.

The only people pinned were your aunt and uncle, Alfred (with a monocle emoji), and him. In any other situation, he would’ve found it endearing—but you were sick. Horribly sick, even.

He pressed Alfred’s contact.

[You]

Good evening, sir. This is Harry Osborn, [Name]’s friend. They’re not feeling well, so I’ll be dropping them off at the front gates of their home.

The butler replied surprisingly fast.

[Alfred 🧐]

Good evening, Master Osborn. I’ll open the gates at once. Thank you for bringing [Name] home—rest assured, they’ll be alright.

- Sincerely, Alfred Pennyworth

He turned your phone off—it had been on the verge of dying—and slipped it back into your jacket pocket, pulling you a little closer to him in the process.

When the car pulled up to the front of your manor, Harry opened the door and helped you out.

“Good evening, sir,” Harry said, offering a polite smile to the elegantly dressed butler—his hand resting at the small of your back as he gently guided you toward Alfred.

“Allow me, Master Osborn,” Alfred said, draping a coat around your shoulders as you blinked a few times, still trying to process who he was.

“Please—just Harry,” he added.

Alfred smiled softly. “Thank you again, Master Harry. I’m sure your father will be worried—you should be on your way.”

Harry looked over at you, your eyes struggling to focus on any one thing.

“It’s really no problem, sir. Good night,” Harry said with a small nod, stealing one last glance at you before returning to the car.

Jake drove in silence, leaving the teenager alone with his thoughts. He was worried—obviously. But you’d been out of it even before the field trip.

You were more paranoid than usual-going as far as nearly screaming his ears off when he snuck up behind you.

Normally, you'd just shriek or something.

The dark circles under your eyes were becoming more noticeable.

Were you stressed about academics? Or something going on at home? Was it about him?

If it was about him… you would’ve said something, right? You were always understanding—especially when he couldn’t make it to—

“So are ya two, like—y’know?”

Harry flinched, only then realizing he’d been tapping against the car door for a while.

“What?” he asked, glancing up to meet his driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“In a relationship? You two are around that age—I wouldn’t be surprised—”

“N—No. Nope, just friends,” he stammered quickly.

Jake just shrugged, his gaze returning to the road.

Harry would be lying if he said the thought had never crossed his mind—not even once or twice.

— 🐰

Harry's forehead rested against the emergency door, his usually well-styled hair a mess, strands sticking out in every direction.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears. His pupils were blown wide as he tried to calm himself down, counting the seconds that crawled by.

His phone felt unusually heavy in his jacket pocket. He'd had to end the call with your aunt and uncle early, convinced he was going to throw up if he listened to their distorted voices over the line for even a second longer.

Had it not been five minutes yet? Why were you taking so long? Why were the police taking so long?

Fucking Gotham and its shitty criminals—

Thwack! and another loud Thump!

Was that you?

You could be dying in there while he stood outside like a worthless dumbass. Why did he even listen to you?

Leaving you to die alone—

He jerked his head away from the door, pounding his fist against it twice before reaching for the handle.

Bile climbed up his throat as his breathing grew more erratic.

Harry wouldn't know what to do if he ever found your lifeless body lying in a pool of blood.

The emergency door burst open and pure adrenaline made him instinctively step back to avoid getting hit.

The weight crushing his chest vanished in an instant.

Harry didn't think.

He closed the distance and threw himself at you before you had any chance to react.

The young man held you as close as he possibly could, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

His hands trembled where they rested on your waist, still unable to believe you were really there.

His eyes fluttered shut as he held you close, content just to have you in his arms.

He would've been crying by now if not for the words his father had drilled into him since he was young—

"Boys don't cry."

You patted his back.

“I'm sorry.”

You were sorry?

For saving him? For being a hero?

He'd save the gentle scolding for later.

For now, Harry only shook his head, his hand moving in slow, comforting circles across your back.

Eventually, he pulled away, though his hands remained on your arms—not ready to let you go just yet.

“So much for a quick errand run, huh?” you joked.

Harry was not in the mood.

You'd risked your life, and you were quipping?

Harry would've been lying if he said it didn't ease the knot in his chest, even if only a little.

“Don't ever do that again, moron—” Harry started, ready to lecture you about how reckless that had been—how he genuinely didn't know what he'd do if you died.

Before he could finish, a police officer approached, cutting him off.

— 🐰

“Ya weren't hurt, kid?” Uncle Ben asked, patting his shoulder.

Harry smiled softly. Even though he and Uncle Ben had gotten off to a rough start because of the old man's distrust, Ben had come to regard Harry as family.

“Luckily, just sore feet, sir.” He'd accidentally stepped on his own foot while running to the emergency door earlier. It was pure luck he hadn't tripped over himself.

Uncle Ben chuckled softly, though concern still lingered in his voice.

“Always so polite, huh? I told ya to call me Ben. How many times has it been now—a million? But ya seriously not hurt?”

Harry laughed. “Yes, sir. Don't worry.”

He cleared his throat, his gaze drifting toward you.

“Actually… I have your grandchild to thank for that.”

Coincidentally, you caught his gaze.

Harry felt his breath catch in his throat.

He quickly turned back to Uncle Ben, only to find the older man smiling at him—like he knew something Harry didn't.

The ride to your house was suffocating. For Harry, at least.

He couldn't stop thinking about what you'd done and your words from earlier—

"I know you would've done the same thing for me if you were the one in my situation."

Would he have?

Would he have had the courage to save your life the way you'd saved his?

His hands rested loosely in his lap, already itching to fidget.

He stole a quick glance while you were looking out the window, as if you hadn't just faced a group of men carrying guns bigger than you.

You're so amazing.

He wasn't.

“…Hey,” he said after a brief pause, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You turned your head slightly. “Yeah?”

“I just wanna thank you... for what you did for me back there. You were really brave, and...” He looked away for a moment, as if the words had suddenly become harder to say. “…I don't think I could've handled that the way you did.”

It was true.

He couldn't have done what you just did.

His fingers tightened together in his lap before he finally looked back at you, his expression more earnest than before.

“…You didn't have to put me first. But you did.”

All his life, he'd been taught to be selfish. To take, and take, and take—until there was nothing left to take.

Kindness, according to his father, was a weakness people exploited. Trust was a liability. Love was something to be earned through usefulness, not freely given.

So why...

Why had you chosen him?

He wasn't the smartest person you knew.

He sure wasn't the strongest.

He wasn't even particularly easy to be around these days.

Half the time, he was stressed, snappish, or too caught up trying to meet expectations that never seemed to end.

There had to be someone more deserving of your loyalty.

Someone kinder.

Someone easier to love.

Yet every time Harry looked over his shoulder—

It was always you.

And every time he stumbled, somehow—you were still there.

He didn't know what he'd done to deserve that.

Part of him wondered if one day you'd realize you deserved better.

You studied him for a moment before responding, your voice just as soft, “You're my best friend. I'd always choose you—no matter what.”

He went quiet.

Of course you would.

His gaze fell to his hands again, trying to stop the grin threatening to spread across his face.

Those words, they're so you.

You always believed there was something worth choosing in him.

That, that made him want to become someone who deserved it.

Someone better.

Better, for you.

“…Yeah,” he said softly after a beat.

— 🐰

Norman turned back his gaze to his son. “Harry, it amazes me that you haven’t invited your fiancée to dinner.”

The young man fell silent.

Ever since the phone call, it was clear his father had held some sort of interest toward you. Not the weird kind, obviously.

Norman joined him for dinner more often, asking how his day went. Asking what you did.

Harry sputtered, “Dad—what? How?”

It wasn't like he explicitly told his father, “Hey! Me and [Name] are engaged!”

So, how could he have come up with that? As a matter of fact, a lot of people had been assuming. Jake was just one of the first ones.

His father looked even more confused than before, a crease forming between his brows.

“Mr. Norman, Harry and I—we’re just friends, sir.”

Then, Norman laughed. Like, loudly. It sounded so real that Harry almost shivered in fear.

When was the last time he heard his father laugh like that? Maybe it was when Harry made a mess of his hair when he was five or something.

“Oh! I’m sorry for assuming then!” He still looked amused, wearing that picture-perfect smile.

Norman shook his head with a grin, looking younger. “I just assumed that if my son doesn’t call you his partner, then you must be his fiancée. He can be rather formal sometimes.”

Harry scoffed. In hindsight, all he'd ever done was tell his father stories about you—never once mentioning that the two of you were just friends.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Ugh, Dad. Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, embarrassed.

“But still. Come by for dinner sometime.” He gestured to the sleek black car. “Would you like us to drive you home?”

Dinner and being with you instead of being stuck with his dad? Sounds like a gold mine.

Harry still doesn't know what the hell his dad is doing at his school. Norman had never personally picked up his own son.

It raised some alarms in his head. Maybe he had done something stupid again.

“No thank you, Mr. Norman, sir,” you smiled. “I have my own ride—just got caught up in traffic.”

Ugh. Of course. Harry doesn't get why you can't just ditch your siblings.

The older man nodded. “I see. It was nice meeting you, but we have to get going now.”

“It was nice meeting you too, sir.”

The older man nodded again and finally retreated into the passenger seat.

Harry looked downcast as he heard your refusal. “I’ll see you next time, [Name].”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course you will. Don’t make your dad wait up.” You lightly pushed him toward the car door.

The next conversation that ensued was far too embarrassing for his liking. What the hell had gotten into his dad?

—

You were being weird again, but it went away quickly.

By weird, he meant staring off into the space next to him—being paranoid around him.

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, you became normal again.

Normal as in, the way you act after the field trip sickness incident. You've been out of it for a while now.

Things that never used to bother you before bothered you now. Like how loud everything was, the weather, and sometimes you'd point out something that couldn't even be seen from that far away.

Why was everybody so weird lately?

You had been ranting about your brother who used to have a bowl cut. Tam? Was it?

He had broken your project, and Harry was angry on your behalf. Who bumps into a person, ruins their project, and doesn't say sorry? An asshole.

Suddenly, you walked in a different direction. Harry was about to redirect you, pointing you toward the cafeteria. Maybe you'd gone crazy from your siblings.

Then, he heard loud cheering and noises.

You continued walking toward the loud cheers, while Harry wondered how you had heard it from so far away.

The thought was pushed to the back of his mind as he saw the situation in front of him, though.

“Flash! Cut it out!” Harry yelled, his brows furrowed.

That blond idiot just doesn't know when to stop. Seriously, what pleasure does he find in this?

Before he knew it, and before he could stop you—you were already face to face with Flash. The roughed-up kid took this chance to flee.

Harry's eyes widened. You're gonna do something stupid.

“Puny Wayne! Just what we needed!” He made a show of arrogantly spreading his arms.

“Came to play hero?” Flash tilted his head, stepping closer to you. Harry couldn't even imagine the diabolical stink.

Crap, you're gonna get beat. Two against one big, burly football player seems fair enough.

“Back off, Flash.” Harry barely made it a step forward before two of Flash’s goons slipped behind him, grabbing his arms and yanking him back.

Gods, he's gonna have to stand here and watch you get punted by Flash.

“Hey—what the hell? Let go!” Harry struggled, twisting against their grip, but they only tightened it, laughing under their breath.

“Stay out of it, rich boy,” one of them muttered.

Shit, shit, shit—

Without warning, he swung. A wide, cocky punch meant more to impress the crowd than land clean.

You dropped low, leaning your upper body downward as the punch cut through the space above you.

Harry looked down at your upside-down, surprised eyes. He could feel his jaw slacken.

What?

Flash tried to land another punch on you.

And you dodged every single one of them.

You were moving too fast for Harry's eyes to track, Flash getting more and more frustrated by the second.

Harry smiled, the concern he had felt earlier fading into pride and giddiness.

Then, you punched Flash. Square on the nose.

It was so hard that he could hear the bone crunch.

Harry's smile faded into a jaw drop. “[Name]!” His voice went unheard beneath the crowd's shouts.

What was that? The strength looked madly unnatural for someone like you to possess.

Flash's henchmen released Harry from their hold.

The young man's incredulous gaze remained fixed on you as you were dragged to the guidance counselor's office—completely desensitized to the chaos happening around him.

Something's going on with you.

And Harry plans on finding out what.

A/N: SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG OMGG.. Yay! Harry POV hope yu guys dont scream at me with pitchforks

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