Your Friendly Neighborhood Gremlin

“It is good to see you, cousin,” you replied, clutching him tighter for a moment, before releasing him.

As you stepped away, you noticed his eyes were raised to the staircase behind you, and as you turned to follow his line of sight, found Jacaerys standing at the very top of it. He was dressed in different clothes than you had seen on him so far. When he usually wore black these days, save for the lining of his cape, he now wore a crimson cloak draped over one shoulder, the crown of Jaehaerys sitting neatly atop his curls.

“Lord Hightower,” he called, making his way down slowly, content to make his guest wait at the bottom of the stairs. Two kingsguards were escorting him, right wrists resting loosely on the pommel of their swords. Lyonel said nothing in return, but you felt him tense beside you.

As Jacaerys came to face the new lord of the Hightower, he was stricken with how youthful of appearance he was—he was still very much a boy, barely two years younger than himself and yet appearing more juvenile. He looked very much like a Hightower, with bright red hair and light eyes, and the arrogant attitude that came with his father’s reputation. 

“It is good of you to answer my call,” Jacaerys added when it became apparent he was not going to receive a formal greeting.

“I admit my surprise when on the way to the capital, we learned that my cousin had been crowned as queen,” Lyonel then said, crossing his arms. “I will be blunt, I am only here to see her.”

“The war is lost and over, Lyonel, let us keep the peace,” you placated, a hand on his arm, and he relented, following without a word when Jacaerys led him to the Council Room, and took the seat he was pointed to, across from the Hand’s chair where you sat.

Jacaerys saw Lyonel’s eyebrows raise when he then spoke, no doubt surprised at the subject he chose to address first. “It is my understanding that you’ve petitioned the High Septon to authorize you to marry your father’s widow,” Jacaerys said.

“Indeed,” Lyonel said, frowning. 

“It is an unusual request,” he commented, and it was obvious Lyonel wanted to laugh in his face.

“I doubt a Targaryen would find it so strange as to notice it,” he said with an unpleasant sneer, and it took Jacaerys a second to understand there was a second meaning to his answer, which he chose to ignore. It had been his understanding that Lord Ormund had been a pious man, deeply motivated by his faith, and he did not know what to make of such a proclivity in the son. 

“I was also told it was refused,” Jace continued, and Lyonel’s mood soured visibly.

“Which is disappointing, as the union has already been consummated,” Lyonel replied, crossing his legs at the knee and leaning back into his chair. “Lady Sam is with child.”

Your eyes widened at the news and you swallowed uncomfortably, but Jacaerys remained impassible, his face smooth as marble, his eyes fixed on Lyonel. “I might be able to convince the Septon,” he said calmly, as though none of the situation troubled him.

“And if you were not?” Lyonel pressed back.

“I would legitimize any child you would have with her,” he answered without a second thought.

Lyonel seemed to consider the proposal for a while. “Lady Sam advised me to come, she thought you might be sympathetic to our cause,” Lyonel admitted. “What would you ask of me in return?”

Jacaerys glanced at you then, a silent assent. “We ask that you disband your banners,” you requested, crossing your hands atop the table. “Some of your garrisons are still stationed along the Roseroad and the Mander, causing tension.”

Lyonel had a strange look in his eyes as he looked upon you, then glanced at Jacaerys suspiciously before he turned his gaze back to you again. “They have been waiting on my orders, no more,” he defended, uncrossing his legs so he could lean forward.

“We ask that you send your men home, and make a declaration of peace,” Jacaerys intervened.

Lyonel’s face darkened then, and Jacaerys thought he saw something familiar in the set of his jaw and the line of his brow—an authoritarian look he had seen many times on the face of his grandsire’s Hand.

“While your husband plays a pleasant tune, and my wife encourages me to fall into rank, I need to know, can I trust his word, my queen?” he asked, and Jace noticed something unspoken passing between the two of you, an understanding stemming from years as children together, raised under the same roof.

You swallowed but nodded. “The king has not broken any of the promises he’s made me so far.”

Lyonel stood then, sharply, forcing Jacaerys to mirror him. “Consider it done,” he said, but before Jace could reply, laid out his terms. “On the condition that my cousin is safe and treated properly. Let one thing be clear, Jacaerys, is that House Hightower is not loyal to you, but to our queen. One word from her, and we shall declare against you.”

Jacaerys extended his hand despite the threat. “I expected no less,” he said, gritting his teeth when Lyonel reciprocated, his grip unnecessarily tight on his wrist as they sealed their words—for the time being.

Jeyne Arryn made it to the capital a mere few days following Lord Lyonel’s arrival, and she immediately regretted that Jacaerys received him personally, without waiting for her counsel.

She faced the same slight displeasure from the men of the Small Council, no doubt slighted that none of them were chosen as Hand, and instead would have to take orders from a woman. Jacaerys supposed that endorsing the rightful queen was one thing, but obeying a woman chosen among other candidates was another entirely.

Still, Lady Jeyne took it in stride, and did not wait to be settled in the Hand’s Tower to take over the Small Council meetings and surveying what had been done so far. “Do you believe Lord Hightower to be trustworthy?” she inquired at supper the first night, after Jacaerys had recounted the meeting to her. 

Jacaerys had chosen to host her in one of the dining halls instead of his own quarters, wary of allowing anyone in his quarters these days. He had started to wonder if he might also requisition one of the empty royal bedchambers to move his desk into, loathing the sight of it as he laid in bed, reminded at every second of the sheer scale of the work that awaited him. 

“No, but he needs something from me and his wife apparently endorsed my mother,” he replied, to which Jeyne gave a surprised hum, spearing a braised plum on her fork. “Furthermore, he will not go against the queen’s direct order.”

“His loyalty is with her, then,” Jeyne concluded, then seemed to think on the issue for a moment. Across from her at the table, Cregan Stark was observing her with interest, seemingly pleased in what he was seeing in her. After a while of silent contemplating, she spoke again. “The Hightowers are vassals of House Tyrell, and while their lord is a babe, I heard the regent Lady Margaery is a sensible woman.” 

“Do you mean to order the Tyrells to settle their banners?” Jacaerys inquired.

Cregan set his knife down at the suggestion. “She was not impressed by dragons in her lands, she refused to declare all throughout the war, I doubt forcing her hand is the way to treat with her.”

Jeyne did not smile nor frown, simply continued to cut into the sweet, caramelized fruit being served with the braised meat. “I shall write to her, woman to woman, and to Lady Sam as well,” she said, her voice as even as always. “We cannot trust Lord Lyonel’s word alone.”

Jacaerys was slightly reassured by the prospect, but his worries resurfaced when Cregan cleared his throat and addressed him. “Your grace, I could not help but notice that you gave leeway to the queen to socialize with her cousin, unsupervised,” he said carefully, and Jeyne tilted her head at the comment.

“I would not trust the queen to that extent,” she immediately replied. 

A bright flare of irritation burst behind Jace’s breastbone, and he pushed his plate aside, his appetite soured. “It was the council’s idea that I wed her and now you tell me to be wary of my own wife?”

Cregan frowned at the display of temper, but Jacaerys supposed he was used to it by now. “She is a Hightower. She was raised by Lord Hobert and then Lord Ormund,” he replied, keeping his voice calm but firm. “Lyonel is more of a brother to her than Aegon or Aemond ever were.”

Jacaerys rose from the table then, startling the young page that had been waiting on him with a pitcher of fresh, dark wine ready to be served. “Out,” he snapped to the boy, who obeyed and scurried out, closing the door behind him. Pacing the room under the attentive eyes of his councillors, Jacaerys struggled to keep his temper at bay. “Do you think she would so easily betray me? Why encourage me to take a queen you know you cannot trust?” 

Cregan rose as well then, while Jeyne kept to her seat, swirling her cup of wine slowly. At her feet, one of her lanky dogs crossed its paws and huffed as though it could understand the topic being discussed. 

As he had done many times over, Cregan came to him and soothed his frustrated pacing with a hand to the shoulder, and Jace nearly regretted how disagreeable he had been then. “Trust is to be earned, your grace, and she will earn it by doing her duty,” he explained. “The sooner she bears you a child, the better.”

Jacaerys looked aside then, removing his hand with a sharp shrug of his shoulder. “I am aware of that,” he said in a tone that suggested no further comment would be tolerated, and Cregan took a step back in subtle deference. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Lady Jeyne, I shall see to my brothers,” he said before making his way towards the door, leaving his new Hand and his most trusted sword alone.

Alicent was already dressed for the night when you came to visit her that night, sharing a cup of tea as had become your ritual when you did, sharing wisdom in the quiet hours of the evening, when the troubles of the day kept you from settling. 

“I have not been allowed to meet with Lyonel,” Alicent lamented as she tightened the belt of her night robe before sitting down across from you, the steaming tea between you on the small table. “He was a babe the last time I saw him and now he rules our house.”

You replied nothing to her lament, instead asked the question that had plagued you since Lyonel’s arrival and your discussions in the garden, reminiscing of your childhood, and in which memory your cousin had promised to raise his army if you so wished, uncaring for the pact he had made with Jacaerys.

“Why did you send me to ward with the Hightowers?” you inquired, and your mother looked sad then. 

“I bore the king three Targaryen children,” she explained, and in those words you could feel the weight of decades of selfless service to the crown. “I wanted you, my last, to be a Hightower.”

“Well I am not. Lord Hobert was kind and I bless his memory, but Ormund never let me forget that my blood was tainted, that I would only be worthy of the Hightower name if I dedicated myself to the faith,” you replied, feeling now familiar frustration rise in you. It was your constant companion these days, and you could not determine the root of it so you might tear it from the ground and burn it. 

Alicent seemed remorseful then, but you had no use of cold regrets. “I spent a decade praying for forgiveness, forced to reject my own blood until I was called to make use of it again,” you continued, remembering the letter Lyonel had received, ordering him to send you back to your king. “I am not a Targaryen but I am not a Hightower either. I don’t know that I belong anywhere.”

Alicent reached across the table to take your hands into hers. “You are a Hightower, by temperament and by upbringing, but also by blood. You are my daughter,” she assured you. “And now you are the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Am I?” you murmured, looking down at your knees. You hesitated to confess the truth of your position, but in the end, you allowed the truth to escape you.  “The marriage is unconsummated.”

The cooling tea was definitely forgotten then, Alicent now more awake and incensed than she had been a minute ago. She shook her head, sighing in despair. “You cannot allow it to remain as such. As long as you are not married to the king, our position remains fragile,” she explained, even though she did not need to. “As long as he has not bedded you, he can replace you in an instant.”

“I am aware of that, mother,” you protested.

“Then you must go to him now,” Alicent urged you, rising and pulling you along, leading you towards the door. You looked aside when your mother reached for your robe, undoing the first few clasps and pulling the collar of your nightgown further down on your chest. “The sooner you give him a boy, the sooner you will obtain what it is you seek.”

You wanted to protest that what you sought did not rest in the hands of a husband you had not chosen, but you knew your laments would fall into deaf ears. Instead you nodded, compliant as you had been taught, and walked out into the cold hallway, following your memory without conscious thought until you came upon the king’s quarters.

However, your endeavor was stopped by the kingsguard that stood at attention in front of the heavy doors. “The king is not in his quarters, my queen,” the man said. 

“Where is he, then?” you asked. So preoccupied by the matter at hand, you instantly thought of him in the arms of another—you had heard the rumors regarding his affection for his cousin Lady Baela—betraying you as you had feared the first night of your marriage. 

While he had assured you of his intent to keep you as his queen, you wondered if perhaps it was a facade to appease the Hightowers for the time being, and now that he had their allegiance, although fragile, he would cast you away. 

The guard was quick to soothe your sudden worries. “The king is in the nursery, your grace,” he said, pointing to the room across the hallway.

Slightly curious, you thanked him and made your way to the children’s quarters, from which a bright light was coming, spilling into the hallway. For a morbid second you wondered whether it was the room your nephew had lost his life in, but the question was chased away from your mind when you entered and took in the sight that awaited. 

Jacaerys was sitting at the foot of a large bed where two boys were huddled together, their little heads resting side by side on the pillow, their white hair sticking into odd spikes, still wet from a bath. The king held a closed book on his lap, and while you could not see his face, you could see in the downturn line of his shoulders that he was not in a cheerful mood. 

“I know that I am not your father, and that I will never replace him,” he was telling the children, his voice thick with emotion. “As I will never replace our mother, but I will do my best by you.”

The older-looking boy glanced over his brother’s shoulder then, and Jacaerys turned, catching you before you could step back into the hallway. “Forgive me, I did not mean to interrupt,” you defended yourself immediately, but instead of anger, it was exhaustion that spread over his face.

“Stay,” he said, twisting to glance at the other side of the room. Across from the boys’ bed, Jaehaera slept in her own crib. The nurse that sat with her rose when you approached, and you took her place, sitting in the rocking chair. The little girl was deep into slumber, clutching a doll made of cloth and an embroidered blanket—at first glance you thought they were flowers, but upon closer inspection, you noticed they were butterflies.

“She’s my niece and yet I am a stranger to her,” you commented, unsure why you were saying this out loud, to Jacaerys of all people. 

Nonetheless, he seemed touched by your confession, and in the soft light of the nursery, you found he looked quite different than you had ever seen him—gone was the arrogant, self-assured young king who had met with your cousin. Instead he looked years older than his years, and weary beyond them.

“Would you like to raise her?” he offered. “There has been talk of sending her to ward with Lord Lyonel, but I would keep her here, with you, if that is what you wished.”

“Perhaps I should,” you answered, aware that it was not an answer. 

For a while the both of you remained silent, looking upon the children the war had spared, and the utter devastation of it seemed to dawn on you. Orphans, they were, their respective parents dead in the pursuit of the throne, and once again you thought there was no justice to the whims of the Gods, leaving babes without mother nor father, left to carry a legacy of bloodshed and kinslaying.

When Jacaerys spoke again, it was as though the words came straight from your heart. “I am aware that our marriage is based on hatred, but the children are innocent in all this. May we leave the quarrels of the past behind, when it comes to them?” he asked. “They need serenity after what they’ve been witness to.”

There was only one thing you could answer then. “Of course.”

After that Jacaerys spoke to you no more, instead turning back to his Aegon and Viserys, and the book he was holding, opening it on his lap and letting the large pages fall on either side of his legs. You nearly started when he started to read what you supposed to be High Valyrian, and you suffered that you could not understand a word of it.

Author's Note ✢ Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Chapter four will be posted in two weeks, on August 1st.

Series taglist ✢ @chaotichereticcavern @galactict3a @qtmoonies @multyfangirl @obsidian-gold1239

@thegirlwithoutaname87 @harryssattelitestomper @rtyuy1346 @kplatzman @neenieweenie

@cinnamoonfairy @g0oshtt @orchidsinthesun @darling-darling3 @pookynknowntranger

@cloudyzip @softlittlevigil @at-a-rax-ia @noneedtosearch @darkrion

@tappyj @tojisprincess @strangersunghoon @devil-on-acid @minaridior

@mimrntgx @chimmysoftpaws @soleil-lei @dreamybarbarianprophecy @fa0nz6ain

SET AFTER:

Sassy - Dana's world is turned upside down when a face from her past appears at PTMC.

Choir Girl/Wild Girl - Dana's world is turned upside down when a face from her past appears at PTMC.

The Ghostwriter - The past collides with the present when a ghostwriter turns up, hell bent on learning what happened in New York all those years ago.

The Knock At The Door (NSFW) - Dana's dreams of her time in New York are interrupted by an unexpected knock on the door at three in the morning.

Darts have always been Dana’s game, even before New York.

She likes the rhythmic thunk as they sink into the board, the force and dexterity it takes to land your shot. Playing darts, it makes her feel in control, something she very much craves after the events of last night.

“I didn’t know you still played.” You say, setting a glass of Malibu and lemonade down on the table beside her.

Dana hasn’t drunk it in years, but when that sweet coconut scent hits her nostrils, it takes her back to simpler times, ones when it was just the two of you in the green room after a gig, your lips on hers as she licked the taste from the inside of your mouth.

The chemistry between the two of you still simmers underneath the surface of her skin, a mixture of old feelings and new wants. You’re looking hot tonight in that Camp Funtime white crop top that Debbie Harry used to wear. Your leather jacket hangs over the back of the chair, flat metal studs imprinted into the collar and cuffs. And those jeans… they’re the original Levis you wore back on stage in New York, she can tell from the rips. The Doc Martins are new, a rich cherry red she covets.

“Yeah.” She sighs, answering your question as she picks up the Malibu, taking a sip from it. The crisp, refreshing bite erupts on her tongue, and she remembers how she used to roll one of the ice cubes from her drink around her tongue before she went down on you. “It helps me get out of my own head.”

“I get that.” You say, leaning back on both palms against the table, watching her launch the next dart. It hits the bullseye head on. The E.R and the Burns Unit have similar burnout rates, the shit you both see, it’s enough to send a sane person running away screaming. “That something you need right now? To get out of your own head?”

She could lie to you, tell you everything was hunky-dory in her world but truthfully she’s sick of putting on a façade.  

“I have a disgraced priest currently living in my spare bedroom, and a husband that would rather sleep with him than me so… you tell me.” The truth spills out her, and she takes a gulp of Malibu to chase away the bitterness on her tongue.

You pause, crossing your arms over your chest as you process this new information. “So Benji’s…”

“Gay.” Dana submits, walking up to the board to retrieve her darts. “You know the reason I came back to Pittsburgh was because my mom was dying. What you didn’t know was her final wish was to see me married off.” Dana plucks each dart, wrenching them out as she thinks back over her mother’s manipulation. She’d been twenty when she’d received that news, and at the time it had been unfathomable. “Benji was from a nice church family who didn’t want to send him to one of those camps. They thought we could straighten each other out and it worked for a while… we had three beautiful daughters but… he was never in love with me, and I was never in love with him.”

Her eyes flicker up to meet yours, outlined with smoky eyeshadow that accentuates them. They’ve always been expressive, but right now she can’t tell what you’re thinking so she continues as she resets for her next shot, lining up her stance.

“Benji and the associate pastor have been having an affair for the last couple of years. He told me I should too when it started, that he wanted me to be happy...” The first dart sails through the air, thunking into the board. “Father Neal turned up on my doorstep at three in the morning last night because the parish priest had seen them together. He’s been issued an ultimatum by the church. He either leaves Benji and goes on a mission to Kenya to repent, or he’s excommunicated.”

“That’s terrible.” You say picking up the next dart off the table and handing it to her. Your fingertips brush and electricity sparks through Dana’s nerve endings like the Fourth of July. “Do you know which way he’s leaning?”

“Benji and him are waiting for me at home to ‘talk things through’ but I can see the writing on the wall.” She throws the dart and it sails through the air, striking just the right spot to score the points she needs for the 501 game she’s playing. “We had a good run but… life’s too short not to love who you want to. What kind of example would we be setting for our daughters if we stayed together because it’s what we’re used to, because it’s what feels safe.”

“Things have come along way since forty years ago.” You acknowledge, running your hand through your hair.

It falls across your features like a waterfall and for a second Dana chides herself for wanting to reach out, tuck it behind your ear but then she remembers, she can do whatever the fuck she wants now that her marriage is on fire so she follows through with the action, her thumb smoothing over your cheek. Being this close to you again, it’s like no time has passed at all, you both have a few more wrinkles, and you certainly have a few more tattoos but those feelings they still flow like a current between you, daring her to make the next move.

So, she does.

She does what she’s been dreaming of doing for almost forty years.

That kiss… it’s everything she’s been missing in her life. It’s hope, its fire, it’s a passion that burns so bright it threatens to consume everything in its wake. She can tell you feel it too from the way you moan against her mouth, your tongue dipping into hers, exploring her in a way she hasn’t been tasted in years.

A flash goes off, startling you both. You pull away to find Giselle the Ghostwriter standing there, phone in hand as she snaps another picture.

“It appears you were lying.” She says, lowering the device. “You knew where Sassy was all along.”

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SET AFTER:

The Neurologist - Robby doesn’t think much of Jack’s friend The Neurologist…

Cuffs - Robby makes a discovery when a pair of handcuffs malfunctions at a crucial time.

Bed Rotting - Robby starts to blow up his life after you return to Seattle.

The Voicemail - Robby puts the final nail in the coffin of your marriage when he leaves THAT voice mail.

Divorce Papers - Jack gives a couple of home truths to Robby after he finds out he signed your divorce papers.

A Fucking Nightmare - Robby’s worst nightmare comes true when his ex-wife shows up as a guest at Dana’s vow renewal ceremony.

Regrets - Robby can’t help but think about his regrets after seeing his ex-wife for the first time since he signed the divorce papers.

Unread - Robby turns to Jack when you don’t respond to his message

The Call - Robby takes the plunge and decides to call you, leading to a surprising revelation.

Shepherd - Robby’s world is turned upside down when he receives a call from Derek Shepherd.

Husband Number Two - Robby gets into it with the man vying for the role of Husband Number Two in your life.

You’re upset.

Robby can hear it in your voice as he pauses outside your hospital room, his phone in one hand, typing out an update message for Jack, and a wholewheat egg wrap in the other, great brainfood for a concussion.

He’d left you dressing this morning to go in search of breakfast and now you’re apparently reaming folks out. Over what he can’t tell, he can only hear the frustration in your heart, the anger. Both things that are absolutely terrible for you in your current condition.

He pushes open the door to find you standing across from Shepherd and Owen. Your hip is cocked, one hand resting upon it. Two fingers of the other are rubbing at the space between your brows as if trying to ward off a headache, something very common with your type of head injury.

“What’s going on?” He says as he steps inside the room, slipping his phone into his back pocket. It vibrates once, Jack asking for more details, no doubt.

Owen huffs, his arms crossed over this chest, the left side of his mouth twisting up in distaste at Robby’s presence. “I thought you would have disappeared by now.”

It’s a dig, a kidney blow that’s meant to disarm him because yeah, Robby did disappear from his marriage, he owns that. The point is he’s here now, and he’s the one standing in your corner, not these two fuckwits you’ve been working with for the past few years.

“I don’t do that anymore.” He states, handing you the breakfast wrap. You take it gratefully, biting into it with an aggression he’s only witnessed on those nature shows he puts on at night to fall asleep to.

Owen scoffs, rolling his eyes and it takes everything in Robby not to react, because this isn’t about him and the ‘feud’ him and Owen seem to have. It’s about you, the woman who is so pissed off she’s practically vibrating.

“I was just telling Viv she won’t be taking her road trip.” Shepherd palm scrubs over his jaw as he shakes his head. “I’m sorry Viv, I just don’t feel comfortable clearing you to drive or flying just yet.”

You look like you want to throw the wrap at him. But instead, you stay silent, chewing with the quiet intensity of someone who is clearly plotting a murder.

Robby gets it. You’re a Type A personality, highly organised, very time orientated. This move to Pittsburgh has a lot of deadlines, including your employment date, picking up the keys to your new apartment, being there when your shipped items turn up. And then there’s the road trip.

The two of you always talked about taking one but then the study had come up and the marriage had collapsed…

This time around it was meant to be a break, something that you were finally doing for yourself after being in the service of others for so long. And now that’s crumbling around you too.

“Look Viv.” Owen steps forward, his voice softer now as if approaching a skittish animal. You look at him with similar eyes, like you don’t know whether to scratch him the fuck up or run. “I know you have to be out of your place by the end of the day. I’ve got plenty of space at my condo, why don’t you stay a couple of days…”

Your shoulders sag, the mental exhaustion of this whole situation physically weighing you down. You tilt your head away, blinking quickly and Robby realises there’s a very real possibility that you’re about to cry.

And he fucking hates it.

“I’ll drive.” Robby says softly. His hand skates along your upper back, palm rubbing gently between your shoulder blades to sooth away the stiffness that grips your entire body like a taut guitar string ready to snap. “I need to head back to Pittsburgh anyway. You can still make the road trip, do all the things you want to, and…” He casts a glance at Shepherd who watches the exchange passively. “They’ll be a doctor on call to keep an eye on you every step of the way.”

“That’s acceptable to me.” Shepherd says, his lips pursing together into a grim line as he steps towards you. “I know how much you want to get out of here after what happened with the study. I’ll get your discharge papers sorted out and then you can be on your way.”

The weight of those words hangs in the air between the two of you, an undercurrent of tension that Robby’s been picking up on ever since he received that phone call.

“It’s been a pleasure working with you Dr Robinavitch.” Shepherd holds out his hand for you to shake.

You don’t take it, instead you tuck your own hands into the pockets of your own jacket, the ultimate snub to his gesture. “I don’t think I can say the same Dr Shepherd.”

It’s Shepherd’s turn to look away. “I really wish-”

“Wishes won’t help the people that were on that trial Derek.” Your voice is harsh, cold. A tone Robby’s never heard from you, not even at the lowest points of your marriage. “If you could get those discharge papers…

He nods before pulling away, heading towards the door. Light floods in as he opens it, stepping out into the corridor as Owen follows after. The redhead pauses in the doorway momentarily, his shoulders tightening before he glances at you over his shoulder. “I really can’t change your mind?”

“No.” You say resolutely. His shoulders slump as he closes the door behind him, leaving you and Robby caged in together.

“I know you must have questions-”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Robby holds up his hand to cut you off. He gets the feeling you’ve been forced to have a lot of conversations you don’t want to over the past few weeks. Right now, he can tell you’re tired, overwhelmed, that there are a million things running through your head, each one bumping against each other to take priority. “Not until you’re ready.”

You swallow hard, nodding your head.

“I just want to go home.” You tell him, and he knows you’re not talking about your Seattle apartment. He can see your desperation to leave this city, it’s in the way you wring your hands as you look up at him. “I fucked up my entire life for this job Michael…”

You use the back of your wrist to wipe away the salt from your cheeks and Robby can’t help but reach for you. His arms wrap around you, drawing you into the shelter of his body. You fit against him the way you always have, like this is the one place you belong in this world. You cling to him, your fists curling into his t-shirt as his lips brush over your hair.

“We both fucked up.” He whispers, closing his eyes and savouring the press of you against him. “What happened between us… it’s not all on you.”

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“I,” you begin as you lean back to dodge a punch.

“Have,” you continue, twisting into a roundhouse kick that catches Hyena’s jaw.

“A… date!” you conclude.

Panting for air, you look down at the unconscious foe, tapping your toes against the bipedal killer. Sirens are approaching quickly, so you have to leave behind the villain you thought was from a time when you were lacking both common sense and spider sense. Now you have one of those. Most days.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” you murmur, aiming your extended fingers toward the looming roof of the New York skyline. “Or bothering Firestorm?”

Swinging high above the crowded city streets, you shoot a web with your left hand as you unlock your phone with your right. Someone once told you texting and swinging was a bad idea, but you assured him you’d never crash into a building (like some people have). You’re very late, you find, as expected.

“Please don’t hate me,” you whisper as the dial tone trills in your ear.

“Hey,” Tim greets. He yawns, then asks, “What’s up?”

“I’m so sorry,” you begin, pulling yourself up to sit on a rooftop. “I got caught up at work and traffic heading out of the city is awful. I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

“No worries,” Tim replies. “Reschedule for, uh, Saturday?”

Dropping your head back, you close your eyes against the setting sun and think. There’s a fight in Hell’s Kitchen late Friday night, and a new ride is opening at Coney Island Sunday.

“Saturday works,” you answer. “I’m really sorry, Tim.”

“Hey, I get it,” he assures you. “I love you.”

You pinch your eyes closed tighter, guilt weighing down your chest. “I love you.”

“Oh, I found something cool to show you. I’ll come to you Saturday?”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Timmy.”

Tim pulls his phone from his ear and squints at the video that resumes playing. The spider vigilante stealing the hearts of New Yorkers has gained a lot of popularity on social media. Jason even stumbled upon a fanfiction someone wrote about the Spider beating Batman in a fight — he’ll never admit he read it, but if he did, Tim might have found it entertaining. He saves the video to show you the comments your neighbors are making, then turns his comms back on.

“Yo, Replacement!” Jason barks. “Stop flirting and give B some backup!”

“What makes you think I was flirting?” Tim questions as he stows his phone in his belt.

“Because we warned you against a long-distance relationship,” Dick answers. “And now every free moment you have is spent on your phone.”

“Your girlfriend is from a different planet,” Tim deadpans. “Hypocrite.”

“New York City is not long distance, Grayson,” Damian scoffs. “One can hire a civilian driver, pay a meager fee, and be in the city in less than two hours.”

“How do you know that?” Batman rasps.

“Uh… Raven informed me of the details,” Damian mutters. “Perhaps I should give my attention to Killer Croc.”

“Perhaps,” Bruce agrees. “And if you choose to take a trip to New York, don’t Uber.”

“Steal a car,” Jason agrees.

Bruce’s sigh seems to shake the very foundation of Gotham before he utters, “No.”

“I’m going to New York Saturday,” Tim offers. “We were supposed to meet tonight, but she got stuck in the city.”

“Again?” Dick, Jason, and Barbara, safe in the watchtower, ask.

“I’m not going to fault her for cancelling dates at the last minute when I’ve missed just as many because of this,” Tim counters.

“No, just…” Jason exhales heavily, then asks, “Don’t you wonder if there’s something she isn’t telling you?”

“I love her,” Tim defends.

“That’s not an answer, Tim,” Barbara points out softly. “It’s okay to want answers.”

“I always tell her it’s fine,” Tim replies. After a breath, he admits, “But, yeah, I’m getting suspicious.”

“She’s not the type to cheat on you,” Dick adds. “And as someone who has had my fair share of relationships while hiding part of my own life from them, I’d suggest you have a mature conversation before it’s too late.”

“Suspicious how?” Barbara inquires.

“I can’t justify asking her questions when she doesn’t know I’m Red Robin,” Tim decides, putting an end to the conversation. “When there’s something to talk about, we’ll talk about it.”

“Well, if you’re back on the clock, maybe you could come help me get out of Pammy’s vines,” Jason suggests.

“Call Harley,” Barbara jokes.

Jason’s voice is so soft it’s nearly inaudible when he says, “She sent me to voicemail.”

Surprisingly, the Friday night fight didn’t end in the bloodshed you expected. When the former mayor’s Fisk Shipping company was announced as one of the event’s sponsors, you expected the worse. But Hell’s Kitchen was quiet… as quiet as it gets, at least.

So, you stumble into your apartment just after 1 a.m., eager to get some sleep but excited to see Tim tomorrow. It’s been nearly three weeks since your last date. You had several scheduled in that time, but you were late to the first and he’d already left for a family emergency, then you cancelled the next two. The simple fact of living in a different city than Tim does complicates things, but the suit you don, and the powers and responsibilities you have make it even more difficult to maintain a secure relationship. Yet Tim has never been anything but understanding. That doesn’t make it any easier to sneak around and lie when you love him.

You’ve just pulled your mask off when a blue light flashes in the bedroom entry behind you.

“Shock it!” a familiar voice exclaims before the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor thuds.

“Hi, Miggy,” you greet without turning.

“It’s Miguel, kid,” he grumbles, pushing up to his feet. “Year?”

“Same as last time.”

“Any reason I should be here?”

Shaking your head, you move to face him. His mask is off, the gloves of his suit torn. The left side reveals a simple gold band on his ring finger.

“Actually,” you decide, putting on your best friendly smile.

“No,” he interrupts. “I don’t like when you do that.”

“You don’t like anything,” you argue. “It’s not going to put anyone in danger.”

“You saying that scares me.”

“I need some advice,” you confess. “I… I’ve been seeing someone, and I love him. I do. But I also really love helping people.”

Miguel drags a hand down his face, then asks, “This guy seem bothered by the constant excuses?”

“How do you know I give him excuses?”

Miguel simply looks at you, because he knows exactly what you’re dealing with. Even when he’s been around other spiders, there have been things he couldn’t — or simply wouldn’t — share.

“He’s really busy too, so I think he understands and it works out. So far, he hasn’t acted suspicious… not to my face at least.”

“There’s this novel idea where you meet in the middle,” Miguel says. “You tell him what he needs to know and ask the same in return.”

“What if… What if he doesn’t like what I tell him?” you whisper.

“Then you dodged a bullet.” Miguel shrugs and counters, “Maybe you won’t like what he tells you. But you won’t know until you stop letting your situation control you.”

“Right. Well, he’s coming here later today, so I guess I could consider your advice. Wait, why are you here?”

“No clue.” He points over his shoulder but doesn’t have to ask.

“Couch is all yours,” you answer. “There’s leftover pizza in the fridge or the Thai place around the corner is still open. Thank you, Miggy.”

“Whatever, kid,” he grumbles, rolling his shoulders as he walks out of your room.

You decide to take Miguel’s advice under consideration for a while longer. When you open your door to see Tim holding a bag of food and a box from your favourite store, you decide you would rather have the mature conversation in Gotham. That way, Tim doesn’t have to find his way home knowing that you have been lying to him for the entirety of your relationship.

“Are you free Friday?” you check after the door is closed and everything he was carrying is stowed on your counter.

Tim checks his phone quickly, then nods.

“Can I come to Gotham? I’ve been wanting to go to that diner again.”

“Sure,” Tim agrees. “They just added a new dessert menu.”

“I should move,” you sigh dreamily.

“Then who would give me excuses to buy overpriced chocolate on 7th Avenue?”

Wrapping your arms around his waist, you kiss his shoulder and whisper, “You could still do that for me.”

“How kind of you.”

Nearly a week after Tim had to cut your evening in New York short because his brother called, you make your way to Gotham. You’re three hours early, but it seems like a nice buffer to actually ensure you make your date this time. It’s getting late, but the heavy clouds above you blot out the sun, making it seem closer to dusk than it is.

Walking through Newtown, which separates one of the most crime-ridden areas of Gotham from the bridges, you look at the businesses lining the streets. It seems as if someone is trying to make this side of the city more welcoming than it once was. You pass by a glass blowing shop, then stop and incline your head toward the alley on the other side of the street. A familiar tingle buzzes at the base of your skull as your heart rate increases.

Carefully, you cross the street, as if you’re interested in the seasonal menu of a mom-and-pop ice cream parlor.

“No, no, please,” someone pleads in the alley.

“Just hand it over!” another voice demands.

A single glance around the corner confirms that you sensed something. Three large men have a defenseless girl who looks to be several years your junior pinned in the alley. She’s clutching her bag to her chest as tears streak down her cheek.

“Let’s do this one more time,” you murmur to yourself before slipping into the shadows.

When you emerge in the alley, you’re in your suit and looking to make this fight as short as possible. Without making yourself known, you shoot a web toward the man who appears the be the leader. It wraps around his ankles and allows you to pull his legs out from under his. His face collides with the damp asphalt, which muffles his pained groan.

“Who is that?!” the other man demands, turning and revealing a knife in his grasp.

The third man inches forward then, becoming visible to you. Riddler, you recognize from all the posters around Gotham. He narrows his eyes at you and spins the small cane by his side.

“I spin a silky web so neat, to catch the bugs I like to eat, with eight long legs I creep with pride, in dark corners I like to hide,” he calls. “What am I?”

The man you knocked down clambers to his feet and pulls a heavy crowbar from the wall behind him. Maybe, you realize, this isn’t a fight I shouldn’t have picked on my own.

“You are a crazed lunatic,” you answer. “I am a spider.”

The next web you shoot connects Riddler’s co-conspirators by the shoulders, temporarily rendering them incapable of fighting.

“Get out of here!” you tell the girl as you move toward Riddler.

She obeys your command and runs out of the alley. The odds of her sending someone to help you seem slim.

“You should go too,” you tell Riddler. “While you still can.”

“It is worldwide, but once only a spider could weave one,” he says. “Gotham is no place for spiders.”

The others separate themselves, and you rock your weight back onto your heels. Of all the times for Miguel to not show up unannounced.

The sun set hours ago, and Tim needs to get ready to meet you at the diner for your date. But Jason needed ‘a minute,’ so Tim is covering Newtown briefly. He leaps from one rooftop to another, slowing when he sees something in the alley beneath him. Tim drops to one knee and realizes that the lump he saw is a person.

He lands soundlessly in the alley and approaches the individual cautiously. When he’s close enough to make out details, he stops.

“What are you doing in Gotham?” Red Robin mutters, lifting New York’s spider vigilante’s arm, which falls uselessly back to her side.

He’s seen enough videos and read enough stories about the spider to know that, by all accounts, she’s good. But that doesn’t explain why someone who can carry their own against New York’s biggest and baddest is lying unconscious in a Gotham alley.

“That’s not good,” Tim muses softly when he sees blood darkening a sleeve of Spidey’s suit. “B, I’ve got a situation in Newtown.”

“I left for five minutes!” Jason groans.

“The spider from New York?” Tim begins. “She’s here.”

“Doing?” Bruce inquires.

“Nothing. She’s hurt, unconscious.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Me too,” Jason offers. “You need someone who doesn’t trust anyone about anything if this girl wakes up.”

“She needs to get patched up, not be interrogated,” Tim argues, pressing his thumb to the side of Spidey’s neck to check her pulse.

“If I’m lucky, there’ll be time for both.”

Your mask is firmly in place when you wake, but someone is prodding at your arm and the damp concrete that you landed on has been replaced by a dry sheet beneath you. You jerk upright, ready to fight Riddler and the two goons he had with him. They won’t get the jump on you again, and you know to protect yourself from whatever it was Riddler used against you. Though you remain unsure why he had a weapon that powerful and chose to mug an unarmed girl.

“Oh,” you mutter when you realize you are face-to-face with Batman and Red Robin. Glancing toward your now-bandaged arm, you see that Red Hood is lurking in the corner with his arms crossed.

“What are you doing in Gotham?” Batman demands.

Red Robin steps forward and lays one hand on your shoulder while the other circles your wrist. He directs your arm up, then toward your chest.

“Who are you?” Red Robin inquires.

You look at your wrist where he’d touched you, convinced you’ve felt his touch before.

“Um, most people call me Spider,” you offer, dropping your voice. “It was supposed to be Spider-Girl or something, but the whole thing never stuck.”

“What are you doing in Gotham?” Batman asks again. “Who brought you here?”

Red Robin moves behind you, rubbing the blade of his palm down your neck and to the base of your spine. You had no idea the bats had medical training. The idea of Batman sitting in a lecture hall makes you smile beneath your mask, but then Red Robin spreads his hand against your shoulder.

Suddenly, you’re no longer in Gotham being interrogated. You’re in New York, looking up at billboards in Times Square with Tim Drake lingering at your side and whispering comments in your ear. Red Robin’s touch seemed familiar because it is.

You glance at Red Robin, searching his face. What’s visible certainly looks like Tim Drake.

“You come into our city announced, pick a fight, and find yourself unprotected and vulnerable,” Batman says. “Justify that.”

“I didn’t pick a fight,” you defend. “I saved someone. It’s what I do.”

“It’s what you do in New York,” Red Hood interjects. “Why are you here?”

Glancing up, you realize that you’re in a real cave. There’s got to be a way out because there’s a way in.

Pretending to stretch your shoulder, you aim your hand toward the rafters and murmur, “Maybe I was never here.”

Just as a spider disappears from its web in a breath, you leave Batman, Red Robin, and Red Hood alone, with no idea as to where you are. They search the expanse of the cave, shine a spotlight along the rafters, but find no trace of you.

“Well, I doubt she’ll be back,” Jason decides. “Now that she knows we’re here and we want answers.”

“But why was she here at all?” Bruce wonders, removing his cowl. “Who took her down in that alley?”

“It’s suspicious,” Tim agrees. “Gotham isn’t exactly a destination, so I doubt it was a convenience thing.”

“She said she saved someone,” Jason remembers. “Any reports of crimes in that alley tonight?”

Bruce falls into his chair at the Batcomputer to check, leaving Jason and Tim behind him to speculate.

Tim’s phone chimes, and he reads the text from you quickly, then locks his phone. Then, when he truly realizes what you said, he opens it again.

“What?” Jason asks.

“My girlfriend cancelled our date,” Tim mumbles.

“The date that’s supposed to start in… seven minutes?” Jason sighs, then checks, “You suspicious enough to talk about it yet?”

“She’s been acting weird,” Tim says, moreso to himself than to Jason. “She’s been late or cancelling dates the whole time we’ve been dating. I never really thought about it, because I’d call them off last-minute too when Batman stuff came up.”

“Okay,” Jason drawls. “And?”

“But I’m pretty sure someone had slept on her couch before I visited her in New York last weekend and she didn’t say anything. And… and there’s something about the Spider.”

“Found it,” Bruce announces. “Store at the end of the alley has surveillance.”

He presses play on the video, showing Riddler and two unfamiliar men cornering a young girl.

“When did Riddler get a team?” Jason wonders.

“After Joker taunted him for working alone,” Bruce answers flatly.

The video shows the moment Spider steps out into the dim light in the alley and pulls the first man off his feet.

“Ooh,” Jason murmurs. “That hurt.”

“She saved the girl,” Tim muses when she runs out of the alley. “So, she wasn’t lying about that.”

They quiet as the video continues. When Riddler lunges toward Spider, she reaches both hands out and grasps his upper arm, flipping him over her shoulder. He pulls something out of his blazer pocket, slams it against her arm, and then Spider collapses. Riddler ushers the men out of the alley, though they clearly want to take advantage of her unconscious state.

“Wait, whoa,” Tim interrupts, slapping the back of Bruce’s chair lightly. “Go back?”

“Wondering when Riddler took up purse snatching?” Jason jokes.

Bruce drags the mouse until Tim tells him to stop. In slow-motion, they watch Spider grasp Riddler’s arm, then how she staggers back as she tries to fight off whatever he did to her.

“It’s a variant of the Joker toxin with traces of Scarecrow gas,” Oracle says through the comms system. “Other than that, her bloodwork looks fine.”

“He injected it?” Jason questions.

“He’s prepping for something big,” Oracle suggests.

“I know who Spider is,” Tim admits, staring at the paused video. Spider’s hands are on Riddler’s arm, one hooked beneath his tricep and the other manipulating his forearm. Tim has been in the same hold on more than one occasion, but he’s never actually been tossed like Riddler was. He had no idea before now that it was a possibility.

“What?” Jason exclaims. “Who?”

“I have to go,” Tim murmurs, moving toward the staircase that leads to the manor.

“Where?” Jason calls. “To do what?”

“Watch videos of Spider fighting that green guy in New York!”

Bruce turns and watches Tim go, then asks Jason, “Do you know who she is?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps you should consider updating his world’s okay-est detective trophy.”

“Sure,” Jason deadpans, “I’ll get right on that. Maybe I’ll be the demon spawn a new sword, too.”

Tim spends the next twenty hours watching every video of Spider he can find online. Running on adrenaline and caffeine, he’s more convinced that he’s right about her true identity. So, he travels to New York and stakes out on the roof of a building that Spider seems to frequent.

Less than an hour later, you lands on the edge of a roof and straightens when you see you aren’t alone.

“Uh, hello,” you greet, waving awkwardly at Red Robin, who you’re pretty sure is also your boyfriend. “Look, if this is about last night—"

Red Robin interrupts you and says your name. Not Spidey. Your actual name. Tonight, he’s speaking like himself, not using that raspy tone you assume he learned from Batman. He sounds like Tim Drake, and your stomach twists at the idea this will be the last time you hear him say your name.

With a heavy sigh, you pull your mask off. “Tim, I’m sorry,” you begin.

“Don’t bother,” he interrupts, causing your heart to drop to your stomach. He pushes his cowl back and smiles, calming the building storm inside you. “Call it even?”

“You’re not breaking up with me?” you check, clutching your mask in your hands.

“Are you kidding!? The Spider and Red Robin are unbreakable.”

“The Spider and Red Robin just met.”

“I’m not breaking up with you,” Tim promises, taking your hand. “And I have an idea for how you can beat that Goblin guy.”

You open your mouth to ask how he knows about the villain and your fights but then remember you’re talking to Tim Drake. What little he doesn’t know he can find quickly.

“It’d be nice to have someone in my corner,” you reply. “Teach me how to fight Gotham rogues, too?”

“Sure. Then we can switch cities and freak everybody out,” Tim suggests.

You laugh, then lean forward and kiss Tim’s cheek before you put your mask back in place.

“Who are we fighting tonight?” Tim inquires.

“It’s been pretty quiet so far,” you say. “Oh, if you could figure out how to keep Miggy from spawning in my bedroom when he time travels, that’d be great.”

Tim nods, following you toward a fire escape, then catches your wrist to stop you and yells, “Time travel?!?”

“Hey.”

You keep your eyes closed, pretending not to hear the whispered greeting.

“Psst.”

This time, it’s accompanied by a poke to your side that causes you to roll over.

“Baby,” the bother — ahem, boy — beside you groans softly. “I know you’re awake. I have a question.”

You grunt into your pillow, then sigh when he wraps an arm around your waist and kisses the back of your neck.

“Can you run faster than Wally?” he inquires.

“Dick,” you respond, smiling in the darkness. “You know what I can and can’t do.”

“I know that I fell in love with you the moment we met,” he flirts.

“And it took me a few weeks of being around you,” you hum. “Yes, you remind me often.”

“My point is, we’ve been sneaking around like this for years, but you’ve never put on a display of your powers just for me.”

“What are you asking?” you check, rolling over to face Dick. “You want me to… what? Jump over your car? Carry you in a race with Wally?”

“I want you to do whatever you want,” Dick murmurs, interrupting himself by kissing you. “And jumping over my car sounds kinda hot.”

“I’m going back to sleep now,” you decide.

“No,” Dick sighs, patting your cheek until you open your eyes again. “This is, like, the only time we get together. You have to stay awake with me all night!”

“So, depriving me of sleep is your way of saying you like me and want to spend time with me?”

“Exactly! You’re so smart.”

“Thanks. I’m going to sleep now.”

“It would hurt less if you used your laser vision on me,” Dick murmurs, pressing his forehead to your chest.

“I don’t have laser vision,” you remind him.

“Yet you’ve lacerated my heart.”

“So dramatic,” you muse before kissing his head. “We can go to breakfast tomorrow.”

Dick nods, wrapping his arms and legs around you like he thinks you’ll slip out of the bed without him. As if you couldn’t pry him off. Just because you didn’t inherit all of your dad’s powers doesn’t mean you’re outmatched by Nightwing. A fact that, for some reason, tends to make Dick very happy.

“Hey,” Dick whispers again. “So that car thing—”

“Shh,” you instruct. “We’ll try it if you stay quiet and go to sleep.”

“Do you need me to do anything?” you ask your mom and dad when you find them talking about something happening halfway around the globe. “I was going to go visit Steph and Cass, but I can stay if you want.”

Clark looks at Lois, then they both look at you.

“Bruce sent the League,” Clark responds. “I’m not sure he even needs me.”

“Oh, this was a journalist conversation,” you realize. “Sorry.”

“What are you doing with the girls?” your mom wonders.

“I think we were just going to hang out today,” you lie. “And then shop tomorrow.” Only half a lie. You did text Stephanie five minutes ago to ask her if she wanted to go shopping with you. You’ll have to get Cass something beforehand to convince her to accompany you to the mall. “I wanted to look for some new clothes before the weather starts changing. You want to come with?”

“You should,” Clark encourages. “The last time you went shopping together I believe Jon insisted he go too.”

“What makes you think he won’t try again?” you joke.

“I’ll text you tonight and let you know,” Lois tells you. “Be careful.”

You hug them both, grunting when your dad squeezes you. “Love you both,” you call as you walk toward the door.

When you first met Dick Grayson, you thought sneaking around with him was a temporary thing. Part of you assumed that when you became adults, you’d be able to tell your families what you have together. But, years later, you’re still sneaking around together to avoid the drama that would arise if either your family or Dick’s found out.

Dick has come to Metropolis a few times, but it’s easier for you to tell your parents you’re going to Gotham and detour to Blüdhaven. Dick tells his brothers he’s working and hopes they don’t break in. It’s a system that works, but you know it won’t work forever.

More recently, Dick has started asking for your help as Nightwing. So, in your suits on so-called ‘stakeouts,’ you steal kisses on dark roofs and enjoy as much time as you can without interruptions from the Kents or the Waynes.

“How is your father?” Bruce asks.

“He’s fine,” you reply. “Isn’t convinced you made the best decision sending the League in.”

“Nor am I,” he admits. “And?”

You sigh, smiling as you assure, “He treats me well.”

Bruce nods decidedly, then excuses himself. Stephanie, Jason, and Tim are in the next room over, so you join them. Bruce has never tried to hide his concern for you — when you realized that your powers were different than Superman’s, he told you to come to the manor if your dad ever treated you differently because of that. You’ve both become convinced that your powers are different because of the hereditary nature of humans. Namely, your mother. Your homo sapien and Kryptonian genes meshed, altering the powers that Clark, and now Jon, have. Part of you has always loved that you aren’t your dad’s carbon copy, that you can be your own hero. Now that Jon has started begging you to teach him what you know, you enjoy it even more. And Bruce’s concern has never gone unappreciated, even if it is unnecessary.

“Hey,” you greet when Jason waves. “I’m just passing through. Steph, did you get my text?”

“Yeah,” she replies, focused on the game controller in her hand. “I’m in, and I’ll bring Cass and Babs.”

“In for what?” Tim inquires.

“None of your business,” Jason interrupts. “Unless they say your name, it doesn’t concern you.”

“We’re going shopping,” you tell Tim. “My mom might tag along, if that’s okay.”

“That’s great!” Steph answers. “I love Lois. She tells me stuff I can use against Bruce.”

You chuckle, then say goodbye to them. Blüdhaven isn’t far, and you could use a long afternoon with Dick Grayson where you can exist without masks or villains.

“We’re so smart,” Dick brags.

“Weren’t you just mad that you couldn’t go shopping with me?” you check.

“I still am. You’re depriving me, but at least I can do this.”

This is a kiss that threatens to make you forget about his complaints, too. You move together expertly, years of being alone when no one else knew about it leading to an ease between you.

“You’re so pretty,” Dick hums against your lips.

You pull away from Dick, pushing his chest back when he tries to follow you. The soft click of a window closing draws your attention, and you nearly fall of his bed trying to stand.

“How long have the two of you been involved?” Damian inquires, stepping into Dick’s room.

Dick jumps off the bed in one fluid move, landing on his feet beside you. “What will it take to keep you quiet?” he asks without hesitation.

“You’re bribing him?!” you question, extending an arm toward Damian.

“I kinda figured if anyone found us out, it’d be him or Tim,” Dick tells you. “I have contingencies.”

“Your contingency is bribing him?” you repeat incredulously.

“Perhaps we can make an arrangement,” Damian muses.

You press your palm to your forehead and sit on the edge of Dick’s bed while they negotiate. Somewhere between a game pass for Damian’s favourite veterinary simulator and a signed copy of his favourite manga, you realize that Damian was already in the hall when you heard the window closed.

“You’ll keep our relationship a secret?” you ask Damian as you stand.

“As soon as this deal is complete,” he agrees, nodding.

You grab Dick’s hand before he can sign the paper Damian offers him. Looking out into the hallway, you call, “Jonathan Kent!”

Jon steps forward with his hands clasped and his chin dropped. “Hi,” he greets softly, looking at Dick rather than you.

“He can’t keep a secret,” you grumble, staring at your little brother.

“I can too!” Jon argues. You meet his eyes, and he drops his voice and admits, “I can’t.”

Shaking your head, you look at Dick. “It was fun while it lasted, Dickie,” you sigh.

“So, no game pass?” Damian checks.

“Apparently it’s no longer necessary,” Dick replies. “But do you think you could try to not rat us out? At least for a week?”

“I can try. I make no guarantees as to the farm boy’s ability to remain secretive.”

You look at Jon again and offer, “If you stay quiet for at least a week, I’ll convince Dad to take you wherever you want to go.”

“Ooh, okay!” he agrees, bouncing in place. “Wait, what am I keeping quiet? That you were kissing Nightwing?”

You sigh, then demand, “Go home.”

“We are having a sleepover,” Damian informs you.

“Then go home,” Dick repeats.

When you’re sure they’re out of the apartment, you rub your eyes and look at Dick. “Well…”

He steps forward and wraps his arms around your waist, then buries his face in your neck, trailing kissing along your collarbone and up to your jaw.

“What now?” you wonder, tracing shapes along his spine.

“What makes you think this is changing anything?” he asks against your neck. “You have a car to jump over and I need cuddles. We’re staying right here.”

“Okay,” you sigh. “But when my dad visits you with shining red eyes and demands to know your intentions, I warned you.”

“Your dad loves me,” Dick reminds you. He pulls back and meets your eyes to request, “Kiss me?”

You look at the window, which is somehow unlocked again. “Eh, whatever,” you grumble before pressing your lips to his.

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However you knew it was necessary, and you would bear it for Jaehaera’s safety, and your own as well. As long as the union was not consummated, the marriage could easily be annulled, and you would be back in the clutches of men who considered you a pawn in their own games of ambition. Among them, surely laid the man that had murdered your brother, and that thought was unbearable. 

While you still feared he would prove to be different in private, Cregan Stark had seemingly acted without personal gain beyond acquiring a mother and a sister for his child, and you admired it.

As you were brought to him, the heavy doors closing behind you, he seemed dismayed, his brow pinched into a frown you had more often seen him with than without. “It will not be necessary, you may return to your chambers,” he offered, but you refused.

“They will know if you don’t, the walls have eyes and ears,” you replied, suddenly worried. The men who had petitioned for your niece to be married to Aegon were still waiting for an opportunity, and you would rather surrender your dignity for a minute than suffer their plans. While you had never lain with a man, you knew enough of the act from your mother and sister to fear the pain and the indignity of it.

Cregan sighed. “No matter your allegiances, you are a product of royal blood, I will not take you without your consent,” he said bluntly.

“You must stake your claim,” you replied then, with the same fire you had displayed when making your offer, pleading for your niece’s safety. “There are vipers in this castle and they would use me for their own ends. As long as we are not properly married, our union is invalid. We will not be safe.”

He visibly hesitated then, dropping his chin for a second, then nodded. “Very well,” he said, yet he remained where he stood on the carpet in the middle of the room, and allowed you to come to him.

Even though you would not come to his bed by choice, you were his wife of your own volition, and for the first time in months, if not in years, you felt as though you were the mistress of your own fate. He did not move as you stepped up to him, instead waited patiently for your touch, and your heart ached when you realized he was giving you agency. 

For a moment you did little else but look into his eyes, and he gazed back, honest and intent as he had always been, and you almost wanted to tell him you were glad that it was him out of all the men you had ever met, but you could not. You suspected it would be long, perhaps years, before you could bare your mind to him, but in the meantime you conveyed your thoughts the only way you could.

Hands coming up on his chest for balance, you pressed a grateful kiss to his lips, hoping you could express your relief without words, tears pearling at the corner of your eyes as he pressed back. He made a small noise of want against you, gently prying your lips open, deepening the kiss, and you let yourself be guided once more.

Cregan felt you melt into him, leaning back into his hands when he wrapped his arms around your waist, your own hands tightening at the front of his linen undershirt. His blood roared to life with dizzying force, his skin calling for the touch of a woman, but he forced himself to swallow down his hunger. He loathed the moment you pulled away, every instinct in him yearning for your touch, but tonight was not to be indulged. Its purpose was not his selfish pleasure but your safety.

“I will try to make it quick,” he murmured, guiding you with a firm but gentle hand at your lower back.

As careful as a man of his size could be, he tipped you atop the sheets. You looked aside as he nestled himself between your parted thighs, but he did not let you—instead he guided your face towards him again. “Eyes on me,” he said gently, with the same careful strength he had always addressed you, and despite it all, your instinct was to trust him.

No matter the circumstances, he would not have his wife fear him or his touch, and so for a while he did nothing but smooth his hands up and down your thighs. The weight of his body atop yours was not as uncomfortable as you had feared, and you found yourself leaning into his touch, your hands clinging to his back, your knees bracketing his waist. There were no tears in your eyes, even though you were trembling with apprehension.

To Cregan’s dismay, but also his relief, his breathing deepened and desire simmered in his core, his length swelling as he guided it to your core. It had been far too long since he had felt the touch of a woman, and he regretted that it had to occur under those circumstances. “Breathe, princess,” he murmured, his dark eyes on yours, and pushed inside slowly.

Despite his best efforts, you cried out as a sharp pinch was followed by a burning stretch. Cregan knew then that you had not lied—you indeed were a maid. You clung to him as he took you in careful thrusts, the firm kisses he pressed to your mouth carrying words he did not say, words of apology and the promise that it would indeed be over soon. 

“Am I hurting you?” he asked in a rough whisper.

Despite the stretch of his body into yours and the weight of his hips holding yours down, you could not honestly say he was—pain was loss and fear and grief, but this was something completely else, honest and raw. 

“No,” you replied, welcoming the way he curled into you, burying his face into the softness of your neck.

For a while the world outside of this room faded ; gone were the red walls, the prying eyes and their schemes, instead all that existed were Cregan’s harsh breaths in your ear and the smell of his sweat, lulling you into a dream-like state. Gradually, the pain settled and a strange, breathless feeling took hold of you, a gentle heat that bloomed at the base of your spine and made you cling to him harder, however it was over before you could name it. 

Cregan stilled in the cradle of your body and you were glad to hold him as he shook, an unfamiliar pride burning behind your breastbone. “It is done,” he murmured against your cheek, almost tender. “We are now husband and wife.”

The voyage north was long and uncomfortable, the wind growing significantly colder and sharper once you had crossed the Twins. Leaving the Red Keep behind was done without any regret, with the bitter knowledge that the castle that had been your cradle and the grave of so many of the people you had loved would likely never see you again. It had become a graveyard you were now walking away from, the halls and walls haunted by words that echoed and whispers you heard in the night ; the absolute certainty that your blood itself was a danger to your person.

In the North you would be a stranger, an outsider, and it was a comfort rather. Northerners would not hold your parentage against you, merely judge your actions, Cregan had assured you, and even though you feared they would be harsh, you at least knew they would be just.

Thus you endured the weeks of travelling, discomfort that edged on pain as the road grew colder and time took its toll on your nerves. Arriving at Winterfell after near a month on the road ought to have been a relief, and yet you felt oddly numb upon crossing its gates. Cregan had sent word ahead that he was not only bringing victory but also a new Lady of Winterfell. His sister and Warden in his absence had replied dutifully, and acted as such.

Sara Stark was a woman of strong disposition and dark hair, much as her brother. “Lady Stark,” she greeted as was appropriate when you stepped out of the carriage and into the courtyard, carrying your niece at your hip. 

It took you a long moment to realize she was addressing you, and you were tempted to reject such a name, even though you knew it was now yours. For some reason you could not bring yourself to acknowledge the title, caught between the one you had just left behind, and this new name you had not earned. It was a stranger’s cloak wrapped around your shoulders, an unfamiliar bed you now had to rest in, the crown and scepter of a kingdom you had never set foot in.

Cregan, who had dismounted his horse and knelt in the frost, rose and turned, carrying a boy with raven black hair in his arms—the child carried the same stern brow as his father, but the slope of his nose and the dimple in his chin spoke of another, no doubt his mother. 

“This is my son, Rickon,” Cregan said, and you thought, staring into a stranger’s eyes, that you had never considered the name you would now bear was that of a woman long dead, a woman loved by all that had gathered into this courtyard to welcome their lord back. 

In that instant you felt as a bird lost in the snow, an owl far away from her berth, fully knowing her nest had burned and it could never welcome her back. “This is Jaehaera,” you said to the boy.

Cregan and you were now standing a few feet apart, each holding your child, each in this position because their mother had perished. You looked at each other, and for the first time an understanding seemed to pass between the two of you, a silent promise, an agreement that whatever might come, the essence of your common duties would be these two babes.

Cregan turned to his sister then, addressing her with the sort of gentleness you had only gotten glimpses of. “Sara, would you show the princess to her chambers and to the nursery? I am sure the travel has exhausted them both.”

The rooms were smaller than the ones you were used to, the ceilings lower, but strangely enough, they did not make you feel enclosed. They bore centuries of history carved into the stones, rendered smooth by the passage of time and people, and upon entering your chambers, you felt as though whole lives had been lived within these walls.

Days went by as you settled into the castle, and while Cregan wanted to respect your grief, it dismayed him to see you still dressed in black. It felt as though he had brought back a ghost to haunt grounds, and some people of the castle were not grateful to see an outsider among them. A severe glance from him and a clear instruction to treat the princesses with the utmost respect had been enough to silence their protests.

As the first week came to a close, Cregan took an evening to sit in the Great Hall with Cley, side by side with him in front of the hearth. Their knees knocking into each other, brothers as always, brought comfort to Cregan. He had always known he was not made to live alone, but to be in a pack, amongst friends and kin alike, and now there would be two dragons among them, no matter how eclectic it seemed.

Cley sighed, setting his cup of ale down. “Speak your mind,” Cregan grunted, and he seemed glad of the permission. 

“I supported you because you are my brother and I love you,” he started by saying, and while such a reminder was unnecessary, Cregan appreciated it. “But are you certain the choice you’ve made was wise?”

Cregan did not need to ask what choice he was referring to. “Yes, I am certain,” he replied, the words coming naturally to him. “I could not leave them to these vipers, to be sacrificed in the name of peace. A victory is not one if it is achieved upon the suffering of women and babes.”

“A dragon in the North is quite an unusual affair, is all,” Cley argued, leaning back into his chair and kicking up his feet on the edge of the hearth. “Even less so as the Lady of Winterfell.”

“She will find her place,” Cregan said, and he was not sure where this instinct came from. Was it experience or instinct? Was there something inside of her that called to him, something that could not be perceived by others? Or was it the other way around, something inside of him that called to her?

“I am not quite certain,” he replied gravely. “She seems caught in her own grief and—”

Cley was interrupted then, not by the sharp look Cregan gave him, but by the sudden arrival of a kitchen maid, carrying a bucket under her arm and looking rather perturbed. “Pardon me, m’lord,” she said with a quick curtsy, a worried frown upon her brow. “Lady Stark is outside.”

“Outside?” Cregan asked, taken aback.

“In her sleeping gown,” the woman added.

Without further ado, Cregan rushed the way she had come, down the corridor and out in the courtyard, where a thin night snow was falling, the sort that preceded heavy morning falls. The air was crisp, nearly painful to him without his leathers and furs who had been forgotten over the back of his chair, and there you stood with your feet bare and nothing on your skin more than a linen nightgown. 

“Princess?” he asked, but no answer came. The ground was frozen, the soles of your feet leaving smudges in the frost, but you didn’t seem to feel any of it. “Let me bring you inside.”

When he came to you, ready to lead you back to warmth, he was struck by how your eyes were open, however without any shine to them, nearly glossed over. He called your name then, the first time he had ever said it aloud, but you looked right through him. 

He then turned to Cley who had followed him. “Get the Maester! Bring a coat!” he shouted, and the young man bolted. 

“My niece,” you whispered, voice so low it was almost lost to the wind.

“She is abed,” Cregan said, momentarily relieved that you had regained consciousness, but your attitude brought his worries back in an instant.

“I need to find my niece,” you said again, turning and walking towards the Godswoods as though you had not heard his answer. In the dark, your graceful face illuminated by a nearby sconce, you seemed like a ghost, a dragon with clipped wings, trudging across the snow to find its kin.

“Lord Stark?” the Maester called, hurrying down with an oil lamp in hand. Cley followed closely, carrying a pelt. 

“It is as though she cannot hear me,” Cregan explained as the old man stepped in front of you, taking in the odd look in your eyes. 

“She is in slumber, still,” he said after a moment of observation. “It appears she suffers from sleepwalking. Do not wake her, it would only disrupt her mind further.”

Cregan carefully draped the coat over your shoulders—you had started to shiver, and he feared your feet were being bitten by the frost. “Jaehaera,” you moaned, your eyes filled with tears, and Cregan caved.

Dismissing the Maester’s recommendation, he cradled your face into his hands, his hands much warmer than your skin, but it did not seem to wake you. “She is safe,” he assured you. “Come out of this cold, I beseech you.”

“My darling girl,” you whined, and Cregan stood his ground, gently nudging you back inside, until you relented, still muttering about Jaehaera. Both men escorted you back to your chambers while Cley went to the kitchen for hot bricks to put in your bed, the same frown of worry upon their brows.

“She will likely have lost all memory of this event,” the Maester warned as he took his leave once you had been tucked back under your sheets and furs.

All through the darkness he sat at the foot of the bed, watching you sleep, although fitfully. More words were spoken from time to time, some he could not understand and believed to be High Valyrian, and he thought he would ask the Maester for a tea to calm your dreams in the future. Hour after hour until dawn creeped over the edge of the window, Cregan sat and waited, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest.

As he had promised, Cregan made sure little Jaehaera was treated as any ward under his responsibility ought to be. He had been raised and trained alongside several boys his father had taken in, Cley among them, and it was the pride of his kin to uphold strong family ties and values. While Jaehaera did not have any blood from the North, she was still as any child was, carrying a natural innocence that Cregan longed to protect. 

War had taken from this girl more than it had taken from most, and it was now his duty to ensure she was shielded from any more horrors. He was bound in marriage to you, her aunt, by the laws of men and Gods alike, and while the little girl might never come to attach herself to him, he would not deprive a child of fatherly guidance if he was able to give it.

“She is the child of your enemy, and yet you’ve instructed all to treat her as your own,” Sara said one gray afternoon as he was watching the children in the yard.

“Her father was my enemy, and the cause of much suffering in the kingdom, that is true,” he admitted, crossing his arms over his chest. “But she is an innocent, and young enough to be taught well.”

“Do you not fear she will grow to resent you?” Sara asked, genuine even in her bluntness. 

Watching as Rickon took Jaehaera by the hand, the girl still skittish, and attempted to lead her, Cregan’s chest ached. “She will grow up learning the truth, and do with it what she will. It is a heavy burden, one I hope to give her the strength to carry.” he replied, walking to them and delivering the girl from his son’s spiritedness.

“Come, Rickon,” Sara said, nudging the boy along towards the swordsmaster, and Jaehaera seemed glad to be left to her own devices. She was a small child for her age, a sweet girl with a curious disposition, she had taken to pointing at everything in the castle, silent questions for Cregan to answer. 

This time, she pointed towards heavy wooden doors in a corner of the yard. “Those are the kennels where the direwolves are kept,” he explained.

“Wolves?” she asked, and Cregan found the curious lilt to her question endearing.

“Would you like to see them?” he asked, holding out his hand, and Jaehaera took it. 

The feeling of her small fingers closing around his, and the weight of her hands in his, so light and fragile, reminded him of a longing for more children he had buried years ago. Rickon was still young, but Cregan missed the days he was a babe curling into his chest, and the precious moments he had spent at night soothing him while the castle slept around them.

He took Jaehaera inside the kennel, where the wolves had their own den, safe from the cold and the wind even though most of them had no trouble sleeping in piles of snow. “We will not go further. This is Nymeria, my sister Sara’s wolf, and she is near her deliverance,” he said, stopping in front of one of the dens, which was closed and housed a sleeping beast. “There will be pups soon.”

“Jaehaera?” came a call from outside, and Cregan pulled the girl along. 

“Come, your aunt is calling for you,” he said, and indeed you were pacing the courtyard when they found you, anxious to set eyes on your niece again. Relief spread across your face as you saw them, rushing to meet them on the other side of the yard.

“Where were you?” you inquired.

“In the kennels,” Cregan replied calmly, letting go of the girl. “The little one wanted to see the wolves.”

With a gasp, you reached for Jaehaera and she hid her face in your skirts. “I would rather not,” you said.

“They are caged at the moment, and trained nonetheless,” Cregan placated. “They are as hounds. Far less lethal than dragons, if I may,” he added, but seeing your reaction, instantly knew it had been the wrong thing to say.

Still, you held your tongue for the sake of the child. “Be it as it may, I would rather not.”

“As you wish,” he said sternly, but before he could take his leave, you spoke again.

“I apologize, my lord, I know they are the sigil of your house, and a source of pride, I am sure,” you said in the way a woman said those words to a man when she had learned it would save her from his wrath, and Cregan loathed to hear them.

“Do not call me that,” he said with a sigh, perhaps the first command he had even given you, but it sounded soft and sad instead of assertive. “Even if the duties of a wife are not expected of you, I am still your husband, and you do not need to defer to me.”

When your only answer was an unconvinced, silent nod, he walked away, the line of shoulders high and tense. Since you had arrived several weeks prior, he had made no demand nor given you any order, leaving you much to your own company, and you wondered when he would finally grow tired of it and impose his will upon you. 

While he had been nothing but benevolent and generous since the first day you had met him, a victor standing in front of his prisoner, you wondered what the price to pay for it would be, in the end, and what you would have to sacrifice for your peace. If there was one thing you had learned in this cruel life, it was that no good deed came without a cost.

Time went on as winter deepened, and more often than Cregan found it comfortable, you rose in the night to wander the grounds. As the Maester had instructed, he never attempted to rouse you from your walking dreams, and during the day, you did not show any inclination that you knew where your feet were taking you as you slept, or what words you were speaking. 

Most of your nightmares spoke of your niece, and more rarely of your nephew, and Cregan wished there was something he could do, but no words or deeds could even soothe the atrocious death of a child.

One night your demeanor changed however, your usual aimless wandering was instead an agitated one, as though you were waiting for someone. Meandering near the back of the courtyard, you suddenly gasped and turned towards the Godswoods, no doubt hearing a call that came from your own mind.

“Helaena?” you cried out, and there were only the howling winds to answer you. “Helaena!”

Cregan followed you as you bolted towards the woods, plunged in darkness and heavy with snow. As you made your way through the thick trees, he wondered how you could see where you were setting foot, and feared it would finally be the night you injured yourself. Coming upon a clearing, he watched helplessly as you spinned on yourself as a cornered animal searching for an escape.

“She’s lost,” you lamented. 

Since that first night, he had refused to form the habit of speaking to you, but this time he could not restrain him. “She is with the Gods,” Cregan said, frustration bursting in him at his own helplessness. “She is with her son.”

“The butterflies—” you gasped, as though you were suddenly remembering an old truth you used to know, and Cregan wished he could make sense of it. 

Unexpectedly, that dream was the turning point in your walking dreams. After that, you came back to the Godswoods night after night, threading through the snow, frantically searching for butterflies as though they held the answers to the questions that plagued you, and Cregan desperately wanted to follow you on this path of the mind, but only you could reach this place. 

Night after night when you rose to pursue invisible endeavors, Cregan followed you as sentinel, a silent guard that protected your nightmares and guarded your torments, holding onto the hope that your grief would relent and allow you rest.

The Godswoods were quiet most of the time, but dawn brought a special kind of silence—the morning breeze had barely picked up, and the cold of the night was still lingering in the air, over the frozen ground, leaves trapped in frost and ice. There was a sense of peace to it that Cregan hardly found anywhere else in the world. He often came to tend to his sword in contemplation, to ground himself to the earth and seek solutions to problems he could not find a way out of without the counsel of the Gods.

He was not used to being so full of thoughts and questions. He usually knew his course of action, as most of his decisions were guided by the values his father had raised him in. Honor. Duty. Fairness. Justice. 

However none of these would help with his predicament when it came to you. Honor and justice had compelled him to rescue you and your niece. He now wondered if Cley was not right, if he had not acted out of loneliness instead of a true sense of honor. 

Therefore he prayed under his breath for only the Gods and the trees to hear him, until the sound of soft, careful footsteps broke the morning cold. Branches cracked and snapped, and you appeared on the small path leading to the Weirwood tree, burrowed in the furs he had his sister prepare for you.

“Princess,” he said as he rose, setting his sword aside, propping it against the root he had been sitting on.

“The Northerners pray to the Old Gods, don’t they?” you asked in lieu of greeting as you came up to him, and he was surprised by the softness of your voice. Sleep was still clinging to the lines around your eyes.

“Yes,” he replied.

“What do you pray for?” you inquired, taking a seat further down on the root, and he mirrored you, sitting back where he had been. He rested the sword against his own knee, following your gaze to the handle.

“Guidance,” he said after a while, his hand coming to loosely curl around the thick wood of the hilt. It made his palm look small when you knew it to be broad and rough, and you could not reconcile the knowledge that he had wielded it, taken lives with it, and the private kindness you had seen from him.

Looking up at his profile, you observed him for a moment, stricken with how very young he looked in the white light of the dawn. He had lowered his eyes as you had approached and was keeping them down, a firm gesture that sat heavy in your chest—it was not mindless reverence towards your royal lineage, but deep-seated respect, and you hardly knew how to respond to it.

“Do you think they will guide you, to do the right thing?” you asked, and he did not seem to mind your intimate prodding. 

He nodded slowly, awfully serious, then asked, “What do you pray for?”

“Peace and purpose,” came the instant answer. “Relief for my niece and for myself.”

Cregan nodded again, then finally his dark eyes rose to yours. They were not merely brown as you had thought at first, but a warm gray where darker swirls swam. They could be hard and serious as he often was, but underneath it there was a softness to them, and a sense of sorrow you could not understand.

“For what it is worth, I am sorry for the bloodshed that has destroyed your family,” he said without an ounce of pity. “I wish it could have been otherwise.”

Tears clouded your eyes then, blurring your vision until all you could see were the shadows of the leaves dancing in the breeze. He averted his eyes again, and you appreciated the gesture, as much as you did the fact that he never took back his words nor apologized for them—what he said, he meant and stood by, and you leaned into this utter certainty for a moment.

“It was inevitable,” you said after a long moment of heavy silence. “I grew up knowing that in order to claim her throne, Rhaenyra would have to put my brothers to the sword, and my father never changed his mind that she was to come after him.”

“It sounds like a heavy burden to grow up with,” Cregan said, which was gracious, but not as much as his next words. “You stood with your blood to the very end, and honored them even in death, I can admire that.”

This place was haunted with the same ghosts you had seen in King’s Landing, and you were plagued with the same thoughts and regrets, day and night. They would not let you sleep, nor find peace—you had come to understand these last few weeks that the ghosts hadn’t inhabited the castle but rather lived within your own spirit, clinging to your soul to remain alive, and your grief was feeding them despite yourself. 

Some days you were afraid they would drag you under, and you suddenly felt desperate for your husband to reach out and pull you back to the land of the living. “Why did you bring me here?” you whispered.

“I thought I could save you from this place,” he replied, as close to an admission of failure he could possibly say. “Why did you agree?”

“I thought I could flee from my grief,” you said, and his eyes were awfully kind when you looked at him again, the frown gone from his brow and replaced with a softness that made you breathless.

“Let us get you out of the cold, princess,” he said, rising and sheathing his sword, hoisting the strap over his shoulder before holding out his hand for you to take. 

“Why do you still call me that?” you inquired, curling your hand around his forearm, his own fingers closing around your wrist delicately. It was far too cold to be without gloves and yet, his touch felt warm even through the leather.

“Because you are a princess of the blood,” he explained, then looked down at the satchel he had brought with him to the woods, sitting at his feet. He thought it seemed the right moment, from the contemplative air around you to the way you leaned into his arm. “There is something I had made for you.”

He let go of you only to retrieve the satchel and pull its lapel open, taking a piece of fabric out and handing it to you. It unfolded under its own weight, revealing the embroideries on one of its sides—in threads of forest green and indigo, countless butterflies were flying over a canvas of midnight blue. Sown and threaded into what seemed to be fleece, the creatures you spent your tortured nights looking for stood out, and the sight iced you down to your very veins, the sort of cold that burned with its intensity. 

“How did you—” you choked, but no other words would come.

“Have I made a mistake?” Cregan asked, the very first time you had seen doubt from him.

To his utter relief, you shook your head, instead burying your face into the fabric, your hands trembling where they clutched the shawl. Soon a muffled wail rose in the air, the like of a wounded animal, and it struck Cregan down to his very core. 

Knowing no word from him could ever soothe your sorrow, he instead stepped as close as he could without touching you, guarding you from the growing winds that danced in the trees, shielding you from the world as you howled, the sort of rage that only despair could bring.

“I know of grief as well,” he finally said, the words tearing the soft insides of his chest as they came out. “For months after Arra died I looked for her, only ever finding cold sheets and empty rooms.”

When you lowered the shawl, looking up at him again, your eyes were rimmed with red but clearer than they had previously been. “Where did you find solace?” you asked—this was the first time he had openly talked of the woman that had come before you and whose steps you were now walking.

“In my son,” he replied. “In my duty to my people.”

Before you could answer, a sort of gasp rocked your body and you fell forward into his chest. Deep within your core, a sensation unlike any you had ever felt rose, a bursting that caused no pain, the fluttering of wings against your womb. Cregan cradled the back of your head softly, his palm barely grazing your hair, and held you through what he thought might be another fit of grief.

Absolute certainty fell over you in gentle waves, settling into you as sure as the tide came. Cradled in the gentle song of the wind and the smell of Cregan’s leathers, life itself became known to you, and for the first time in months, you finally felt your chest ease. 

Without a word you stepped away from Cregan’s arms, your hand coming to rest low on your belly, and you prayed that your instincts were right, but your body could not lie the way your mind could.

“We were wed three moons ago, and I have not bled since,” you murmured, and in that moment you thought that perhaps, this was why fate had brought you North.

Author's Note ✢ Dividers by @/arcielee. Thank you so much for your patience while I worked on this chapter. Feedback is always deeply appreciated ♡

Series taglist ✢ @earlgraey111 @asteria33 @scarletraine @queenofthedarkforest @jamesiie @heartysworld @stell404 @lanadelray1989 @alinnashay @alicetoti27 @cosmosnkaz @dinahslefttoe @msismsis @swagangelllamawolf @piastri-pages @theprophaecy @winter-solstice24 @escape-your-nightmare @kootenaiwoman @isansstuff

@princesstiti14 @venicemistress @winkymar @avacadoissour @apocalypticmess-lin

Beth cackles hysterically as you spray her toes. 

“I tried to water your flowers and I just fudged it up so bad.” 

“He fudged it up,” Dove says. 

You spray her next. She sputters and laughs, water trickling down her bare legs to wet the mud sticking to her knees. 

Wren’s whining turns to real, loud crying. You offer your hands and Steve swaps you; you get the baby, he gets the hose, and you both get a kiss over Wren’s head. 

“Hey,” he says. 

“Hi.”

You head inside through the open door to the kitchen to find Wren a bottle. You’re screwing the cap back on when Avery walks into the kitchen, her wet feet leaving tracks. Her hair is longer than ever. She got Steve’s lot, his nose and his hair and his sense of humour, and when she looks at you like this, all nervous and trying to hide it, she’s exactly her fathers daughter. 

“What’s the matter?” you ask, holding out a hand. 

She rushes forward to hug you by the hip. You rest your hand on her head, and rake it through her hair. Her bangs are ruffled around her face with sticky sunscreen, but the ends are clean and soft. You scratch back up toward her neck and scalp. Avery can’t help shivering, her sad pout perking quick into a nice smile. 

“I’m sorry, honey. I totally walked past you, didn’t I?” you ask. 

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, Avery.” You tip her head back. “Are you having a good day?” 

“No.”

You take a deep breath. “Come on, come sit at the table with me. Let’s crack this thing wide open.”

She sits, and you get her a juice box and a cookie and kiss the top of her head before sitting beside her. 

“What happened?” you ask. 

“Every time I go in the pool, Dove splashed me in the face, and I hate it so I haven’t been in the pool. Daddy told me I was being mean because I didn’t help Beth when she hurt her foot but I didn’t even know! And I waited all day for you to come home because– because daddy was mad at me, and you didn’t even care.”

“I do care, Avery.” You reach for her hand. It is difficult, having the baby in your arm and holding her bottle up, but you’ll manage. “I do. I promise. I’m sorry daddy told you that you were being mean when Beth got hurt. I’ll tell him the truth about it, because it’s not nice thinking you got misunderstood, is it?” You shake her hand. “Don’t worry, my girl. It was just a misunderstanding. I’ll get dad to say sorry. He won’t need me to, he’ll feel bad when he knows, yeah? But I’ll get him for you. We will punish him.”

She laughs. “Yeah? He won’t have cake and ice cream after dinner?” she asks. 

“Exactly.”

She takes a bite of her cookie. “I am hungry, too. We only had banana and kiwi and stuff for lunch.”

“How hungry, baby?” You rub her knuckles with your thumb. She’s getting so tall, putting on weight,  growing out and up! But her hands have stayed quite small. “I can make you a sandwich, or a bowl of cereal, or some noodles and sauce?”

She slinks off of her seat to hug you again. You lean down, kissing her forehead. She’s all minky soft at the eyebrows with tiny white hairs still, like a baby. 

“Yes, please,” she says. 

The sound of the hose spraying and Beth’s shrieking laughter echoes down the hall. You make Avery a ham sandwich with cheese and tip a pack of chips onto her plate. She looks much happier, then, munching through her sandwich, kicking her feet under her chair. 

You head to the door and crook your finger at Steve. 

“What have I done now?” he asks. 

“You said Avery was being mean? Apparently, she didn’t even know Beth hurt her foot.”

Steve winces. “Yeah, my bad. I thought she was ignoring her when she was crying, but it was my fault anyways. They were in the yard and I came in here to get Dove a drink real quick.” 

“Now she’s sad.”

“I’m a monster.”

Steve hugs you. He smells like sunscreen from the kids and that carrot-oil tanning lotion he pretends he doesn’t use, and his skin is more than warm where he folds into you. 

“You’re a meanie,” you murmur, laughing when he squeezes you too tightly. “Ouch. Meanie, see? You’re hurting me and my baby.”

“Don’t say that!” He slips his hands under Wren and takes her back. “Come on, angel, let’s get you tired out for your nap later!”

When you head back in, Avery noticeably perks up. 

“You’re back,” she says. 

“I’m back. Can I have a chip? Pick me one with the most flavour, honey, please.”

She gives you a big one crusted with the flavouring powder. You sit as close to her as your chairs can get and wrap an arm behind her shoulders.

“If you want to go in the pool, I will come in with you and make sure Dove behaves,” you promise. 

“Can I ask you something?”

You squeeze her a little. “Yeah, course you can.”

“You remember when we went for dinner?”

“When?”

“Just me and you. We dressed all nice and got fancy dinner?” She lifts her head, eyes widened in pleading and her mouth set, like she’s suspecting a bad answer. “Can we go again soon?”

“Yeah, we can go. Would that make you happy?”

“I miss you sometimes,” she says. 

“Yeah?” You rest your face in her hair, encouraging her under your neck. “I miss you too, sweet girl. We can go get dinner soon, really soon. I just gotta figure out when is best. We had a good time last time, huh?”

“I like being with you with no one else,” she murmurs. 

You can’t help smiling. “You are such a sweetheart…” You rub her arm. 

Being her mom is the most special thing in the world, as cliche as it sounds. She’s your first baby, the one who taught you how to love someone like an extension of your body. There were months after she was born where you’d have her with you and look for her, that’s how used to holding her you’d become. You do it now with your other babies, but with Avery, it was all the time. She’d be sleeping on your chest as you ransacked the house looking for her. 

You might even feel grateful for your husband and how he’s helped love her, if he weren’t currently hosing the kids off like muddy dogs and getting water up the front step and over the threshold. Maybe you and Avery need that dinner sooner, rather than later. 

Avery finishes her sandwich, but she doesn’t want the chips, so you gather them in your hand and let her lead you by the other back to the front yard. Steve is now submerged in the kiddie pool despite his t-shirt with Wren dangling from his hands, her chubby feet kicking waves through the water. Beth is sitting in the grass now, wrapped in a towel and eating a slice of apple, and she brightens when you and Avery return. 

“Ave, you missed all the fun!” she says. 

“Where’s Dove?”

Steve twists a bit to show Dove laying across his back, dripping water all over him. 

“Want some apple?” Beth asks. 

Avery takes a slice. 

“You didn’t play!” Dove cries to Avery. “We got dad all wet!” 

“Mommy made me a sandwich.”

“We missed you, you could’ve had dinner later,” Dove says, wrinkling her nose.

“You did?” Avery asks. 

“The bride survived,” you said in lieu of your normal morning greeting.

He paused his motions for a beat before sliding forward to lay along the side of you, body half on top of you as you always preferred his weight on you. “The nobody bride outlasted the entire Le Domas family?” His voice still held its early morning rasp.

You made a sound of agreement as his fingers continued to trail along the line of your spine. “Indeed. I told you they were weak. It was time for a purge.”

His lips traced the curve of your shoulder, making you smile again. He was constantly touching you, kissing you, teasing you. “And if they had survived?”

“Then they would have proven themselves, but they didn’t, so here we are.”

“So, we hunt.” He rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling.

You immediately followed, curling into his side as you laid your head on his chest. “Your father will call for you soon. You know what he’ll want. There’s a way around it if you wish. The choice is yours.”

He kissed your head. “Thank you, love.” His fingers found yours, playing with your ring. “And is today the day you become Mrs. Danforth?” he asked as he did every morning.

“Perhaps,” you answered as you always did. You had yet to set a date for the wedding, simply telling Titus that you’d know when the time was right. He’d accepted the answer as much as he hated it. You knew if it were up to him, you would have been wed the day he asked.

It wasn’t long before Chester Danforth summoned his son. He dressed in the clothes you’d chosen the night before. His fingers gripped your chin as he kissed you slow and sweet. “And what will you be doing while we prepare for the hunt?” he asked when he pulled away.

“I will be accompanying Sol to collect the bride.”

His features sharpened with worry for just a moment. “Do be careful, princess. I rather prefer it when you aren’t bleeding.”

You rolled your eyes. “As if I don’t heal instantly, Titus. Really.”

“All the same.” After one more kiss to your lips he pulled away and you moved to prepare yourself for the day.

Titus found Ursula in the hall outside of their father’s rooms. He greeted her with a nod. Their relationship had shifted since he’d pledged himself to you. Ursula may not know exactly who or what you were, but she was smart enough to know not to cross you. Therefore, she won’t cross Titus, either. He wished he’d met you years ago. For so many reasons.

“What do you suppose father wants?” she asked as he reached for the door. He shrugged and she narrowed her eyes at him. “You already know.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up into a smirk. “Perhaps.”

Their father motioned them forward when they entered as he dismissed Pernilla. They stood to either side of the bed. He cleared his throat. “The bride lives. The ring is in play.” His eyes moved between them. “You know what you have to do.”

Titus hesitated, remembering your earlier words. “We don’t have to do this, father. There is another—”

Chester’s hand snapped out to slap Titus across the face for the first time in years. “Be a man,” his father hissed and Titus just…shut down.

Fine.

He’d do exactly as he was told then. After all, Father did so like when he was obedient. He pressed the pillow to his father’s face, holding it until he was certain the man had stopped breathing. Fucking prick.

“Titus.”

He didn’t respond, still shoving the pillow against his father’s face.

“Titus!” Ursula snapped.

His gaze darted to her. “It’s done. He’s gone.” He hummed and pulled the pillow away, setting it aside. “We can’t lose this seat, Titus.”

“Thank you for clarifying, Ursula. I really had no idea.”

With that, he swept past her and out of the room to begin issuing orders to prepare the resort.

You rode in the elevator with Sol and two hired guns. Not that you needed them. He stood beside you, hands clasped in front of him. “How have things been?”

You arched a brow as you glanced at him. “We literally talked yesterday. I saw you three days ago. What could have possibly happened?”

“With you? A great multitude of things.”

The elevator door slid open to show Wilkinson standing over the bride, knife raised in the air. You’d arrived just in time to watch him explode. You smiled. It was a shame really. Someone somewhere was sure to miss him. Maybe.

You and Sol tugged your gasmasks into place before he pulled the pin on a gas cannister and tossed it into the hall. “Must you look so pleased that Wilkinson violated the rules?” he asked, sounding bored.

“It was rather satisfying to watch him die. He grabbed my ass the first time we met.”

He turned to look at you, not having heard this particular tale. “And he lived this long? Your restraint is impressive.”

“Titus broke his wrist. It was very romantic.”

Sol huffed a laugh as the two of you removed your masks. “That’s practically courting. No wonder you picked him.”

The two of you walked forward, finding not only the bride but another woman as well. You nudged them both with the toe of your boot.

“And just who is she?” Sol asked.

“I guess we’ll find out. Bring them both,” you instructed the men behind you.

When the helicopter arrived at the resort, Titus and Ursula stood outside as they greeted the Rajan brothers. Your lips curved at the sight of your man.

Sol glanced out the window. “When are you going to put him out of his misery and actually marry him?”

You shot him a narrow-eyed look. “You know why I hesitate.”

He shrugged as if your concerns were unimportant. “He won’t refuse you. But if he does, if he’s going to disappoint you, wouldn’t you rather get it out of the way?”

You followed The Lawyer when he entered the room where Grace and her sister were awaiting their fate. Titus’ gaze trailed you as you made your way to a seat at the back of the room. He clenched his teeth and a muscle twitched in his jaw. He didn’t like being separated from you, particularly when you were in a room filled with so many people he didn’t trust. He’d grown used to being right by your side, to being a barrier between you and the rest of the world.

“Hello,” The Lawyer greeted the women tied up in front of him. “I am the sole attorney and representative of Le Bail Enterprises. Because you—”

Francesca El Caido stormed into the room, interrupting him. She leaned into Grace’s face. “I’m Francesca El Caido, bitch.”

“…okay,” Grace said with a small shake of her head, obviously at a loss.

Titus tuned out the rest of Francesca’s taunting as his eyes found you again to see you already smiling at him. He returned the gesture. Ursula nudged his side to draw his attention back to the proceedings. “What?” he snapped, voice low.

“Pay attention,” she hissed.

“As I was saying,” The Lawyer continued as Francesca took a seat beside her father, “I am the sole attorney and representative for Le Bail Enterprises. Because you survived until dawn, Mrs. Le Domas, you have triggered a seldom used clause in our bylaws.”

As the other man continued to explain the rules of the game to the prey, Titus focused on the two women. They obviously didn’t get along but now was hardly the time for them to bickering. There were more important things at stake here. But then again, perhaps they’d distract each other enough for this to be over quickly. Maybe he’d even have time to take you dinner.

“Should anyone kill a member of another family, even by mistake, Mr. Le Bail will not be pleased and will destroy your entire bloodline,” The Lawyer said, voice even and calm as ever.

“If you’re the only representative of Le Bail Enterprises, who is she?” Francesca interrupted and Titus turned to find her pointing at you.

He lifted one brow, gaze finding yours full of amusement. The Lawyer glanced at the El Caido daughter and continued speaking as Ignatio snapped at her to be quiet.

Then she interrupted again. “She’s not from one of the families.”

The Lawyer sighed in obvious irritation and gave her his signature flat smile. “She is not.”

“And she’s not an official representative of Mr. Le Bail?” She leaned forward in her chair as she waited for an answer, shoving her father’s hand away as he tried to stop her.

 “Not exactly.”

Francesca bounced in her seat. “So, she’s fair game then. She can be hunted.”

Titus gripped the arms of his chair, fighting the urge to put the girl in her place. You didn’t need him to intercede on your behalf. That didn’t mean he didn’t want to do it anyway.

The Lawyer’s smile was the most genuine one Titus had seen all day. “Well…you can certainly try.”

“Idiota,” Ignatio snapped. He turned to you. “She didn’t mean anything by it. She’s impulsive that’s all. Young. Her heart was broken when she couldn’t marry Alex. You understand.”

You said nothing, only letting a smirk twist your lips as you looked at him. The Lawyer cleared his throat to bring the attention back to him. He held up the pen everyone would use to sign the book. “If we could continue.”

Once he’d signed the book, Titus found his place by your side as the others prepared for the hunt. You ran your hands over his vest, smoothing the fabric. As you kissed him, your hand cradled the side of his head and something slipped into his ear. He pulled back with a frown at the sensation. “What was that?” He reached for it and you grabbed his hand to pull it down.

“That was a compromise,” The Lawyer said. “You can hear and talk to one another. She will not aid you in the hunt, it’s merely for her peace of mind.”

Titus’ gaze narrowed as it darted from you to your friend and back.

“Approved by Mr. Le Bail. I assure you that you are in no danger of violating the rules,” The Lawyer said before walking away.

“A compromise?” Titus asked.

You made a sound of agreement. “As I am not allowed to accompany you on the hunt, I needed a way to keep tabs. To know you were safe.”

He kissed you one last time before his sister pulled him away to head to the field.

You had every faith in Titus to win the seat. He was more than capable. More than ready. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be injured. You started in the viewing room with the others, but between Francesca’s continuing glares and Kip’s multiple attempts to flirt with you, you soon left.

Sol followed you from the room and stopped you with a hand on your arm. “You cannot aid him,” he reminded you.

“He doesn’t need my help to find a blonde bitch, Sol. That crowd is driving me insane. I’m going to walk the grounds.”

When he hesitated to release you, you added, “I’ll behave. Satan’s honor.”

He nodded once and headed back into the room to babysit the others.

“Be careful,” Titus said, having heard your side of the conversation.

“Honey, I’m indestructible,” you said with a laugh. “You, however, are not. Do try not to die. Bringing someone back from the dead is a pain in the ass.”

Your lips curled into a smile at his stunned silence. You so did love making him speechless.

You listened to Titus hunt, his low rasp filling you in on what you couldn’t see. Grace and Faith were proving to be more resilient than they appeared. Le Bail would be pleased. Any chance his followers had to prove themselves was a win for him.

It took less time than you’d thought for the girls to make their first kill. Viraj cooked in an industrial washing machine was not on the list of ends you’d considered for him. Madhu passing position of head of the family off to his wife didn’t surprise you in the least, however.

Ignatio fell next along with Chen Xing and her son. Three in one shot. You were almost impressed. You were walking along the path in front of the resort when the crack of a shot sounded, followed closely by another. Pain flared through your back, sudden and sharp. Francesca yelled in happiness behind you. Fucking hell.

“Were those gunshots?” Titus asked in your ear.

You didn’t answer as you turned to face your assailant. “That was incredibly rude.”

Francesca screamed in frustration before shooting you again and again. Titus yelled your name in your ear, panic threading the word.

“You’re the reason I didn’t marry Alex. He was mine. And if he’d married me there would have been no game and he’d still be alive.” Makeup ran in black streaks down her face.

You held up a hand and Francesca’s weapon sailed through the air to you. Le Bail would undoubtedly excuse you if you retaliated for this slight but you respected the sanctity of his hunt. You aimed for the girl’s knee and pulled the trigger. She fell with a howl.

You turned and walked away, poking at one of the holes in your shirt with a frown. “I liked this shirt.”

Titus sighed in relief. “I’ll buy you a new one. I’ll buy you a dozen. Just please refrain from getting shot again. It’s bad for my blood pressure.”

Eventually, you gathered in front of the freezer after Grace locked herself inside. Titus dragged Faith front and center and shoved her face first against the glass of the door, pointing a gun at the back of her head. Your gaze traced over him, taking in the blood and bruises.

“Come out, Grace, or I’m going to spray your sister’s brains all over this window,” Titus said with a tilt of his head.

Grace tried to bargain, tried to make him believe she would never come out if he hurt Faith.

“One. Two,” Titus counted, cocking the gun.

“No, no,” Grace screamed. “Don’t kill her. I’ll come out.” There was a pause before she added, “If you marry me.”

Your brows lifted, not expecting that particular play.

“What?” Titus asked after a glance at you.

“That lady told me. She said if you marry me, you get the seat and I get to live. Faith and I live,” she explained.

Titus looked at Sol who nodded in confirmation. Grace was correct. “Huh,” Titus said before turning back to the window of the freezer with a little smirk.

You sucked in an anxious breath waiting to see what he’d do. What decision he would make. The entire world or you.

“Sorry,” Titus said with a mocking frown. “I’m already spoken for. How unfortunate for you.”

“Are you insane?” Ursula hissed. “This is the seat. If you don’t do this, father will have died for nothing. What the fuck are you thinking?”

You resisted the urge to say Chester had died for being a prick.

“I’ll marry you,” Felipe shouted out and everyone turned to look at him.

“You are thirteen,” Sol said.

“So?”

You kept your eyes on Titus as you said, “Prepare for the wedding.”

Titus’ head snapped around to face you. “Absolutely the fuck not. I am not marrying her.”

“Not her. Me,” you clarified.

His smile was a thing of beauty.

“Fantastic. Happy for you,” Ursula said. “What about the hunt?”

You glanced at Sol who shrugged before gesturing toward your fiancé. Closing the distance between you and the man in question, you pulled him into a kiss. One arm wrapped around you, the other keeping the weapon pointed at his prey. When you separated, he chased your lips and you laughed. “You should finish this, baby. It’s a snap,” you said with a wink.

His eyes studied you for a long moment before he lifted his free hand and snapped his fingers. Two seconds passed before Grace exploded in a shower of blood. Faith was stunned for one blessed moment, then the screaming began. Titus kept his gaze on you as he pulled the trigger to silence her.

Quiet filled the room until Felipe broke it. “I feel like that’s cheating.”

“Surprisingly, it’s not.” The Lawyer rocked on his feet, a warm smile curving his lips. “I’ve been waiting to perform this wedding for ages. How exciting.” He glanced between the two of you. “We should have a talk before we separate to prepare for the ceremony.”

Titus gave a nod as he slid an arm around your waist, keeping you at his side as you followed Sol to Titus’ study. Your soon-to-be groom poured everyone a drink before taking the seat beside you. Sol sat in the chair behind the desk.

“What is this about?” Titus asked.

“There is a…stipulation that you must agree to before the two of you marry,” Sol answered.

You bit the inside of your lip. Titus glanced at you before putting his attention back on the other man.

“You must relinquishp your position in the Danforth family. You may keep the name, of course, but your sister will take over all ranks and responsibilities in the Danforth interests.”

He blinked once. Twice. “That’s all?”

“You don’t mind?” you asked, voice far more hesitant than you liked.

His gaze snapped to yours. “Did you think I would?”

“I dare say that’s why she waited so long to set the date,” The Lawyer offered with a smirk as he stood. “As that’s settled, I’ll make certain everything is in order for the ceremony. Don’t dawdle.”

Your eyes trailed him as he left. He was such a dick sometimes.

“You honestly thought I’d refuse? That I would lose you over my position in the family?” Titus’ raspy voice pulled your attention back to him.

For a long time you had. Titus was proud of his family, of the work he did. You had feared if faced with the choice, it wouldn’t be you. “Well, not once you gave up the world for me,” you said honestly. “Your family seems inconsequential compared to that.”

He grasped your hand in his and lifted it to his lips. “I would choose you over and over again in every lifetime.”

Titus and you went your separate ways shortly after that conversation, you insisting he not see you until you arrived at the ceremony. He shifted his weight, hands clasped in front of him as he awaited your arrival.

Finally, the door to the dark chapel opened revealing you in all your glory. His gaze ran over you from head to toe. You wore black lace in exactly your style. You’d foregone a veil and a delicate onyx and ruby tiara rested on your head. You were stunning. Devastating.

And, most importantly, his.

You stood across from him in front of the altar, your eyes staying locked on each other as you ignored what was going on around you.

The Lawyer dressed in his ceremonial garb began the service. “Shem ham pharash. Nomine satani Lucifer excelsis. In the name of our great and eternal benefactor, come forth and bestow your blessing upon these, upon your chosen. In the names of Satan, Lucifer, Baliel, Leviathan, come forth and bear witness. Hail Satan.”

“Hail Satan,” the room echoed.

The Lawyer raised his hands, an actual smile on his face. “Welcome, everyone. I'm pleased so many of you could make it. Not only do we have our coronation this fine morning, we also have a wedding. Our cup runneth over.”

Your lips twitched, obviously finding the formality amusing.

Sol turned to you. “Your hand please.” You rested your hand in his and he ran the blood pen across your palm. You didn’t flinch. “Your vows being made by intent. By the power of Satan, I now confer the possession of each other upon you. Do you, princess, take Titus Chester Danforth as your chosen mate in this world and the next, unto the fires of hell?”

Titus’ head snapped up at the use of princess, as if it was a title that could be used in place of your name. It was also the term of endearment used most frequently by Titus. One suggested by your best friend who had called it fitting.

“I do,” you answered and signed the book.

The Lawyer smiled and turned to Titus, slicing his hand as he had yours. “And do you, Titus Chester Danforth, accept her claim, taking her to be yours in return in flesh and spirit, in this world and the next, unto the fires of hell?”

“I do.” Of course he did.

He took the pen in hand to sign the book and froze, nib hovering over parchment. There, beneath your signature, laid your name. Your full name. A name that proclaimed you a Le Bail. He blinked to center himself and huffed out a breath. Fucking hell.

He stretched his neck then scrawled his signature next to yours.

The Lawyer’s smile grew impossibly wider. “Welcome to the family, Mr. Danforth.” His voice was low so only the two of you could hear him. “You are now hers for as long as she’ll have you.”

Titus glanced at you and back to the other man. “And if that’s forever?”

“Then welcome to eternity, Mr. Danforth.”

Titus turned to you with wide eyes as The Lawyer finished the formalities. Titus had considered the fact that you wouldn’t age as he grew elderly and infirm. It had never occurred to him that marrying you would grant him your immortality so his lifespan could match yours.

“What he hath forged in hell, let no mortal tear asunder. We ask this in thy name, O Lord. I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.” Titus ignored the smirk on The Lawyer’s face.

He stepped forward, hands cradling your face as his eyes traced over every feature. “I love you, wife,” he whispered against your lips.

“And I love you, husband.”

He pressed his lips to yours, sighing into you as his tongue traced your lips. You opened your mouth, allowing him entrance and he all but melted into you. He could spend forever just like this. Hands on your skin, lips on yours, as you breathed each other in.

The Lawyer cleared his throat, smiling when the two of you turned to face him. “We do have one matter of business left to see to.” He lifted what was once Chester Danforth’s ring, the mark of the head of the High Council. “Titus Danforth is hereby granted the high seat of the Council of Le Bail.”

Titus slid the ring on and lifted his hand into the air. “Hail Satan.”

Those gathered repeated the words. He held a hand out toward you. You intertwined your fingers with his and he lifted both of your hands this time. “Hail Satan.”

Again, the room echoed. He knew most of those gathered were resentful, furious it wasn’t them who won the ring, who would rule the world. They were fools to think they stood a chance against him when he had you at his back. They didn’t have to like him or even respect him. They needed simply to obey. To follow.

As much as Titus had dreamed of wearing the ring, desired it, yearned for it, it paled in comparison to the pure elation that flooded him at the thought that he would be by your side for an eternity. Forever with you ironically sounded a lot like heaven to him.

The lab is quiet when you enter, two lone lamps alight on the desks tucked in the far corner of the room. Shifting the tray of cups to your other hand, you turn on the dim overhead lights that circle the room so you can see to navigate past the devices and examination tables.

“Barry?” you call when you reach your desk.

Silence. Sighing, you set the drink you got him on his desk, then walk out of the lab again to find your favourite coworker. Since you started working as a forensic lab tech for the Central City Police Department, you’ve become a part of Barry’s family. In fact, you had dinner with his family just last weekend and received no less than fifteen memes from Wally over the weekend. Rather than a career, you found a life in Central City.

“Looking for Allen?” one of the officers in the bullpen asks when you rise to your tiptoes to look around. “He’s on his way back from a scene.”

“Thanks,” you reply.

Back in the lab, you work on some reports you didn’t finish last week and clean the microscope Barry prefers. Within ten minutes, you’re squinting against the bright overhead lights when Barry returns.

“Why is Wally asking me what time you get off work on Friday?” Barry asks.

“Because of you,” you reply, blinking to adjust your vision. “You introduced us and we got close, so we hang out now. I have this weird thing where I don’t stay on my phone while I’m at work and he gets impatient waiting for me to answer.”

Barry sighs as he slides an evidence box onto a sterile metal table. “I told him 6.”

“I get off at 4,” you remind him.

“Yeah, but we have that… that thing,” he murmurs.

“Oh!” you exclaim, nodding. Barry asked you to stay late to look at something he found during a fight with Captain Cold and Fridays tend to be the least busy day for the lab. “Right. Thank you.”

“Allen, we need you,” a detective says, standing in the doorway. He glances at you, seems to weigh his options, then points and adds, “You too.”

“She has a name,” Barry points out.

“I know her name,” the detective snaps. “But we just got a call from Blüdhaven PD asking for help with a case, so I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“BPD asked for assistance?” you clarify. “I thought they were pretty shut off and didn’t like collaborating.”

“They usually don’t,” the detective agrees, leading you through the station. “Apparently they caught a scene this morning nearly identical to that museum robbery here last month.”

“The unsolved one?” Barry checks.

“Yeah. We never recovered the stolen items, and no one came close to identifying a suspect. It was — pardon the pun — colder than Captain Cold.”

“Not exactly a pun,” you murmur to Barry. “What do you need us to do, Detective?”

“I’m hoping they’ll have evidence the two of you can use to finally figure out what’s going on.”

“BPD is willing to let us dig in their scene?” Barry wonders. “This must be worse than you’re letting on.”

The detective slows at the door, frighteningly somber as he admits, “It isn’t good.”

Wally whistles as he walks, reading the message from Barry before he notices you haven’t even viewed everything he sent you yet. He’ll have to ask you why you’re ignoring him the next time you see each other. He knows you aren’t really ignoring him, but it’s more fun this way. If Barry didn’t warn you what you were getting into by becoming Wally’s friend, it’s clearly Barry’s fault.

Wally slows when he turns onto a side street, his whistles dying as no fewer than fifteen cop cars come into view. The Blüdhaven Museum of Art is taped off, and patrol officers won’t let the press within a hundred feet of the sidewalk. More interesting, Wally finds, is the presence of a CCPD car. It’s not a terribly long way from Blüdhaven, but police collaboration between the departments hasn’t occurred ever that Wally can remember.

“Interesting,” Wally muses to himself.

He continues down the sidewalk, watching the officers and the suit-clad men he presumes are detectives mill about. Only when he sees two familiar figures wearing paper suits exiting the building does he pause again. He should have known that if the CCPD got involved in this, they’d send their best. You and Barry are talking to each other as you carry your field tool kits to the large white van at the curb.

“Barry!” Wally calls, waving excitedly.

You smile and take Barry’s case so he can duck below the yellow tape and meet Wally on the other side of the street. After stowing your things in the van, you follow Barry’s path and join them.

“Hi,” you greet.

“Oh, now you pay attention to me?” Wally demands. “I thought you were too good for me.”

“I was at work, Wally,” you remind him. “And I don’t have the same infallibility as Barry. You don’t want me to get fired for looking at a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle saying ‘cowabummer’ in the Backrooms, do you?”

“So, you did look at it!” Wally exclaims, pointing at you.

“Dude, that was a guess,” you mutter. “Did you actually send me that? Where did you find something like that?”

“Don’t hate my reaction meme game, I’m just a humble playa,” Wally responds, lifting his hands in surrender.

“I… I’m so tired,” Barry utters.

“Wait,” Wally demands. “I just had an idea.”

“You’re about to be more tired,” you warn Barry.

“I age fifteen years every time he has an idea,” Barry groans, looking up at the clouds above you.

“No, this is my best idea yet,” Wally defends.

“That’s what you said when you encouraged me to hunt someone for sport,” you remind him.

“I’m going to set you up on a date,” Wally announces, completely ignoring your previous comment.

“Pass,” you and Barry say together.

“What? Why do you care?” Wally asks Barry.

“Kid,” Barry sighs, and, somehow, that says it all.

“Okay, so the guy I have in mind is great. He’s a cop here in Blüd, and he’s genuinely a great guy. His name’s Dick Grayson,” Wally continues. “He’s from Gotham and—”

“Stop,” you interrupt, raising a hand. Softly, you explain, “I know Dick.”

“Oh!” Wally bounces in place, clapping his hands together. “So, you’re already together?”

“Uh, no,” you mutter, rubbing your opposite arm. “We… We don’t exactly get along.”

“What? How is that possible?”

“Wally,” Barry says. He shakes his head, then taps your arm to encourage you to get back to work. Alone with Wally, he offers, “Sometimes a statement is reason enough. Don’t push your friends away by trying to do something they don’t want.”

“Right,” Wally agrees.

He watches Barry return to the van and whisper something to you. You smile and nod, then get back to work. How can you be so close with Barry and Wally, and their Flash and Kid Flash counterparts, but not get along with Dick Grayson?

“Dick,” Wally says when the call connects. “Can I come back over? … Yes, I know I just left, but we need to talk.”

“We only realized it mirrored your museum case because of the VICAP report,” the head detective for the Blüdhaven Police informs you. “Was yours just the one?”

“Just the museum,” the CCPD detective answers. “Our lab techs know more about the methods and actual process of the crime.”

“This isn’t our first case with this MO.”

“There have been others?” Barry asks, glancing toward you to confirm that he didn’t know. Wally was here last night when the museum was broken into but didn’t find anything. He hadn’t mentioned any other similar break-ins, even after the museum job in Central City last month.

“We didn’t really piece it together right away,” the detective explains. “The other burglaries were in residential areas or small businesses, but the way he gets in, the pattern inside, it matches.”

“So, it’s a true serial offender,” you add. “Not just someone targeting museums.”

“If they started with homes and small businesses and have graduated to museums, this may not be the end,” Barry realizes. “What are the odds he’s gearing up for a bigger job?”

“Which is why we need to apprehend this criminal,” the Blüdhaven detective replies.

Your supervisory detective looks at you to ask, “Did you put the case info in VICAP?”

“I did,” Barry interjects. “A museum theft of that magnitude with no evidence left behind felt practiced, so I wanted to see if there were similar cases. They didn’t have anything for us at the time.”

“I’m sorry, I should have brushed up on the reports.”

You look at Barry, silently communicating that this is the first time a detective has ever apologized to you. “Is there evidence from the other break-ins?” you inquire.

“There is,” the detective affirms. “I can call the detective who worked the first couple and have him walk you through what we found.”

“That would be great,” Barry responds. He takes you back to the van and mutters, “I thought this would be a quick yep, it’s the same guy and we’d be back home.”

“It’s weird,” you hum. “No heroes know anything about this?”

“I’ll ask around, but nothing I know of. Wally texted me last night about the museum but it’s the first I’ve heard.”

“Can you help me look for something?” you request. “It’s just a hunch.”

“Most great discoveries start with a hunch.”

Wally barges into Dick’s apartment without knocking, slams the door behind him, and simply says your name as he stares at Dick.

“What about her?” Dick questions, brushing his fingers through his hair.

“So, you do know her,” Wally confirms. “Tell me everything, Robbie.”

“Not much to tell.” Dick stands and walks toward the kitchen as he lists, “We met on the job; she was a cop, a really good one. Then she left to work at CCPD, and we haven’t spoken again since.”

“She was BPD?” Wally clarifies. “And she just left? You don’t know why?”

Dick slows, staring at a line in the countertop. He tells Wally a lot — he is his best friend, after all — but Dick hasn’t told anyone what happened between you and him. Not that he doesn’t care or hasn’t thought about it. The memory of your face when you left the final time, the way you looked like you wanted to say more but knew Dick wouldn’t listen, has haunted him nightly since then.

“Because of me,” Dick admits quietly. “She left and locked herself in a lab because of me.”

Wally sighs and falls backward over Dick’s couch. Dragging his hands down his face, he requests, “Elaborate, pretty boy?”

“Okay, one, stop listening to Jason,” Dick calls from the kitchen. “And two, why does it matter? You trying to get with her?”

“Nope.”

“You only answered half the question, Walls.”

“And you didn’t answer mine at all.”

Wally pushes himself up to glare at Dick. They look at each other for several breaths, waiting for the other to give up. It’s a no-win game because they’re both stubborn. Yet Dick drops his shoulders and sighs.

“I said something I shouldn’t have,” Dick remembers, looking out the window rather than watching Wally’s reaction to his confession. “I… I made her doubt herself and her abilities. She went from being an incredible cop to second-guessing everything she knew because of me. The next morning, I found out she’d quit the force here and went to CCPD to work with Barry.”

“And you haven’t spoken to her since you said whatever it is you said?” Wally checks.

“No. I wanted to reach out. I should have.”

“Yeah,” Wally agrees flatly. “But you’re stupid.”

Dick doesn’t argue. He’s beat himself up for that night so many times that there is very little Wally could say now to make him feel worse.

“But,” Wally begins slowly, “if you still believe in her and what she can do, maybe you could show her that now.”

“How?” Dick wonders.

“Oh, you don’t know? She and Barry are here in town working a case with your pals at BPD.”

“Which case?”

“The museum robbery.”

Dick’s phone buzzes in his pocket, a text from the head of the detectives distracting him from Wally. Wally’s idea that you could help and Dick could apologize might not be so far-fetched.

“I have to go,” Dick murmurs, reaching for his coat.

“If you get married and have babies, you gotta name one Wally!” Wally calls after him. Alone in Dick’s apartment, he wonders, “What snacks does the Boy Wonder keep stocked?”

Dick arrives at the Blüdhaven Museum of Art in record time. He scans the crowd outside until he spots you. You’re smiling at Barry as you compare something on your matching clipboards, and Dick suddenly realizes the extent of what he did. He didn’t just lose the joy of seeing you every day; he missed seeing how you’ve grown, all you’ve learned, and how excited you get when you figure something out. You were on track to be a better detective than Batman, and you trusted Dick — he ruined both aspects of your relationship in a single night.

You look up while Dick lingers by his car, your smile falling as you wave at him. Grumbling to himself, Dick approaches you, Barry, and the team from CCPD.

“I’m Detective Dick Grayson,” he greets. “I worked the first three burglaries in what we think is the same case.”

“Residential and small business burglaries?” a detective checks.

“Yes, sir. We were able to confidently decide that the crimes were connected and very likely perpetrated by the same suspect but never identified him or her.”

“This museum robbery looks just like the one in Central City,” you offer. “Any idea why your guy left Blüdhaven for a night?”

Dick blows out a breath and admits, “No clue. If you want, I can take you to the first scene and show you the physical evidence we collected.”

You look at Barry, hoping that he’ll agree to go so you don’t have to be alone with Dick Grayson. It’s been a while, but the hurt of what he said to you back then is still there, burrowed just beneath the surface so that every time you think you’re better, it pricks you again.

“You should go,” Barry encourages. “If there’s anything to find, you can find it. I’d like to look into the cameras and how they were deactivated.”

“I… Okay,” you answer, your shoulders slumping as you step toward Dick. “I’ll let you know what I see.”

Dick smiles at you again, then follows you toward his car. He silently hopes that you’ll start some sort of meaningless conversation, but you look out the window and remain silent. When he parks outside an inconspicuous home in a nice neighborhood several miles from the museum, you exit the car and pull a fresh pair of gloves on.

“I can wait outside, if you want,” Dick offers after he explains the situation to the homeowners.

“Whatever you want,” you respond with a shrug.

Dick slumps further, if that’s possible, and follows you into the house. You accept the tablet he offers you, comparing the CSI report to what you see before you now.

“How many homes?” you ask.

“Uh, five total,” Dick answers. “I worked the first three, then another detective took over and worked the other two, as well as the three businesses that were targeted.”

“All identical to this one?”

“Essentially. The other reports are in that folder if you want to check. Good chance I missed something.”

You look at the next report, then return his tablet and squat to look at a vent on the wall.

“I’m sorry,” Dick says suddenly.

“For what?” you ask as you jostle the side of the vent cover.

“I never should have said that about you. It wasn’t true.”

You still, forcing yourself not to turn and look at him. Rather than responding, you shrug and try to focus on determining if this was tampered with.

“Maybe… maybe I was threatened by what you could do and lashed out. Or I was trying to protect you and said it all wrong. Whatever the reason was, it doesn’t really matter because I said it and I knew it would hurt you. I truly didn’t mean it.”

“Detective Grayson,” you interrupt as you stand. “It’s fine. I’m happy in the CCPD lab. I’m happy in Central City. I’m happy with Barry and Wally and the other friends I’ve made.”

Dick nods, swallowing so hard it hurts his neck. “So… you and Wally?” he questions.

“No. Just me. And just Wally.” You finally look at him, your expression flat as you ask, “Remember how you said I wasn’t great at playing with others? Turns out, you were right.”

“No, no, I wasn’t,” Dick insists, stepping forward and trapping you in the corner between the wall and the upholstered chair beside you. “I was selfish and angry and upset that you didn’t see me and everything I couldn't say!”

You try to move backward but collide with the wall. “What is that supposed to mean?” you question quietly as something shifts in your eyes.

“Excuse me?” the homeowner calls from the kitchen. “Could I get you anything, detectives? Water, a snack?”

“Uh, no thank you, ma’am,” Dick answers, backing away from you. “I think we have what we need.”

“We do,” you agree. “I’m sorry for the intrusion but thank you for letting me look around. I actually have one question if you don’t mind?”

“Of course,” she replies.

You point to the vent and ask, “Has that been loose in the past? Or was it worked on prior to the break-in?”

“No, it’s never been loose that I or my husband have noticed. He does work around the house quite often, and we actually painted in here recently, and it was secure when we taped it off.”

“Okay, that’s helpful. Thank you again.”

She nods and waves as you slide into Dick’s car, the silence settling between you heavier than it was before.

“I’ll run the tests on this,” Barry assures the lead detectives, holding up the small metal scrap you collected from the air vent cover. “Shouldn’t take too long, if you have a lab I can use.”

An officer exits the conference room to show Barry to the lab, leaving you and Dick alone against the back wall. Within a few minutes, the day’s briefing is over, and you are free to go to the hotel room CCPD paid for in case anything in the case broke during the night.

“Wait,” Dick requests when you’re dismissed.

You hesitate, but listen, lingering a few feet away from him until you’re the only people in the room.

“Please come over,” he says. “I want to apologize, to tell you more. Please.”

“You already apologized,” you remind him.

Dick steps forward and reaches for your hand, then drags his palm along his pants instead. “Please,” he begs softly, something broken beneath the single word. “Please come over. We can- we can just talk.”

“Fine,” you agree.

Dick rushes around his living room, fluffing pillows and gathering the empty cans and snack wrappers Wally left strewn across the coffee table. He’s being incredibly awkward; your heart betrays you by finding it endearing and your face betrays you further by showing it with a smile. You lift your hand to hide it and wait until Dick disappears into the kitchen to speak.

“How are your brothers?” you inquire, tapping a blanket on the back of his couch.

“Annoying,” Dick grumbles. “But fine.”

“Gotham still standing?”

Dick chuckles as he returns, wringing his fingers together. “Mostly.” He nods, watching you closely. He’d forgotten how well you know him. Despite him pushing you away and keeping him from learning anything more about you, you remember.

“And the night shift?” you check. “Staying safe?”

Dick sighs, nodding as he leans on the back of the couch, mere feet from you.

“Can I tell you something?” you murmur.

“Anything,” Dick encourages, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I regretted not becoming part of your life when I had the opportunity,” you confess. “I spent a lot of time wondering if things would have been different if I’d become your friend after I found out you were Nightwing instead of just promising not to tell anyone.”

“Why… why didn’t you?”

You shrug, pinching the soft blanket between your fingers. “I think that I was scared I’d end up losing you.”

“And I pushed you away,” Dick sighs. “I was wrong, I need you to know that. And I don’t know what made me say it, but I don’t think that. You were never anything but kind to me, and you clearly have a way of making friends with everyone you meet. I mean, Wally and Barry are surprisingly picky about who they let close and you’re part of the family, so you do play well with others.”

“Thank you,” you murmur. “But you aren’t the only one that pushed. I was scared of what being around you made me feel so I kept you at arms’ length. I do think we could have been friends if I wasn’t so immature about it all.”

“You weren’t immature. I'm the one that resorted to bullying because I was scared of my own feelings.”

“You know Wally tried to set me up with you?” you ask, smiling when your eyes meet. “He told me all about this friend of his that would change my world and show me what it was like to fall in love.”

Dick chuckles, suddenly closer to you when he says, “He sells me well.”

There’s a press conference in progress on the front steps of the precinct while you’re bent over a microscope searching for signs of arsenic poisoning in a hair sample. You and Barry found the proverbial smoking gun that cracked the arduous case of the serial burglar in a metal scrap that not only hinted at the age of the suspect but ultimately identified him as a member of an armed ‘anti-history’ group. You weren’t even aware that ‘anti-history’ was a thing, but working in a police department teaches you weird things about people and the lengths they’ll go to.

Barry is chronicling the evidentiary findings for the press, and you were more than happy to let him be the one to go out there while you remain in your dim haven.

“You’re still too good at what you do,” someone says from the doorway.

Straightening, you move away from the microscope and blink twice before you can make out Dick Grayson’s features.

“Well, when my beauty and talent are hidden from the public and my adoring fans can’t distract me, it’s easier,” you play along.

Dick chuckles as he walks into the lab, focused entirely on you and not the array of devices or evidence bags organized on the tables.

“As one of those fans, I’ve gotta ask,” he hums, “who’s that easier for?”

You smile at Dick when he stops at your side. He brushes his fingers over your temple, then along your jaw.

“How’d you find me?” you whisper.

“I’d say I followed my heart, but someone told me where the lab was,” he replies.

You’re still smiling when you push yourself against him and kiss him. He responds immediately, as if he expected this to happen when he left Blüdhaven this morning. The soft texture of his sweater and the way his hands effortlessly find your waist make you think maybe he did.

“FINALLY!” Wally screams, scaring you and Dick apart.

You raise a hand to your chest as you take a deep breath, staring at Wally as he rushes forward to hug both you and Dick.

“I take full credit, by the way,” Wally cheers.

“But we already—” Dick begins.

“Mm-mm, no. You’re welcome.”

Dick looks past Wally, holding your gaze as he says, “Thank you.”

Wally steps back, talking about how Barry has a female journalist eating from his palm as you step forward and lean against Dick’s side.

“I’m really sorry,” Dick whispers.

“Stop apologizing,” you murmur, tipping your chin toward him. “Show me how good I am at playing with others?”

Dick smiles and meets you halfway, finding an easy rhythm with you as you kiss. When Wally realizes that you aren’t listening to you, he yells, “You’re welcome!” once more and then groans when Dick waves for him to leave.

Dick Grayson Taglist🏷️ @peachescastles @stilestotherescue @ilocuras24 @coastalcowgirlie @waltermis @itzpixiebabe @marywantsttobattle @seriousaliysa @freeforalways @lortheswiftie

SET AFTER:

Sassy - Dana's world is turned upside down when a face from her past appears at PTMC.

Choir Girl/Wild Girl - Dana's world is turned upside down when a face from her past appears at PTMC.

The Ghostwriter - The past collides with the present when a ghostwriter turns up, hell bent on learning what happened in New York all those years ago.

That night Dana dreams of you.

She lies beside her husband, who tosses and turns in their sheets, and she disappears back to an apartment in Brooklyn, one with gauzy drapes flittering over the open windows, the breeze chasing over her bare skin as she lays underneath you on a second-hand couch. Your face buried between her thighs for the first time, those musician’s fingers pumping a slow, steady rhythm, strumming at the notes of her pleasure.

Song pages are scattered across the coffee table, half scribbled out lyrics in her writing, notes and chords in yours. She grips one of them in her fist, the paper crumpling as the most exquisite pleasure coils in her muscles, winding tighter and tighter until it’s stretched taut like one of your guitar strings ready to snap.

“Don’t stop.” She chants, her voice drowned out by Joan Jett’s I Hate Myself for Loving You, skipping on the record player. “Don’t stop, don’t stop-”

She comes with a curse, that sweet honey gushing all over your fingers before you withdraw them, replacing them with your tongue. The sensation is new, even filthier as you pin her thighs open, eating her out like a woman possessed. She grips your hair, forcing you deeper and within seconds is coming again, soaking  the lower half of your face.

You grin as you pull away and she looks at you like she’s seen God as you kiss your way up her body, steadying her as that overwhelmed feeling starts to kick in. “First time you’ve come on a woman’s tongue?” You ask, already knowing the answer. She nods shyly and your thumb ghosts over her flushed cheek as your nose chases over hers. “I know it’s a lot but I’m right here, ok? I meant what I said, this isn’t just about sex for me.”

“I know.” She mumbles against your mouth, tasting herself on you. Her fingers tangle in your hair, and you moan into her mouth as her own hands delves in between you, fingertips skimming along the elastic waistband. “I want to try.”

“Oh baby, we aren’t in a rush.” You whisper but that doesn’t stop her from peeling off your panties, from kissing a heated trail down along your stomach, from exploring you with her tongue and discovering that her suspicions were indeed correct, that she loves the taste of pussy far more than she’s ever loved the taste of dick.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

She jerked from the dream by the sound of knocking from the front door downstairs. Her heart thuds against her chest, the space between her thighs sticky and damp. She picks up her phone, her eyes blurring as she struggles to process the time against the backlight.

3.15am.

She rolls over to wake Benji, but his side of the bed is vacant, the sheets cold as he runs her palm across them. He’s been having trouble sleeping lately, he says it’s work but she knows it’s more. She’s been waiting for the inevitable axe to drop for a while, and now she suspects it’s here.

She slips from the sheets, changing her underwear before she pulls on the hand printed robe that her husband got her for Christmas. The material feels cool against her heated skin, a soothing balm against what’s to come. She can hear voices as she opens the bedroom door and descends the stairs, the hushed whispers of Benji and another man, one she recognises from church.

They fall silent as she reaches the final step, both heads swivelling to face her. One guilty, one tortured.

“Father Neal.” She addresses her husband’s boyfriend and the associate pastor at their church. “You better come in.”

Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here! Or be a sweetheart and drop me comment or reblog.

Carmy might suspect your dampening mood. His tone drops into a softer key. "You're always saying we should take a night off. Just enjoy the break, okay?"

You think the weight of your stare must change, because after a few moments he glances over his shoulder. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Okay…you good?"

"Not really." Your voice quiets and thins. A headache forms behind your eyes.

"Whoa, hey." Carmy moves the pan off the burner, crossing to you in a few quick steps. With your arms folded on the back of the couch, your face is level with his stomach. He takes it in his hands to tilt you up. "Hey. I'm sorry."

"I just don't think you'd like this, either," you mumble.

"I know. You're right, I wouldn't." His thumb smears wetness across your cheek. You didn't mean to cry.

"You wouldn't want to take a night off."

It's going to be more than one night, too, you're fairly sure. Even with the opaque and mysterious nature of a concussion, feeling the way you do now you don't see yourself recovered by tomorrow. Carmy's understating things.

"I'm sorry," he says again. Palms cupped warmly around your cheeks. "I was trying to make a joke. A bad joke." Carmy's mouth does a minute pinch. "I don't really think you're enjoying it."

You sigh. "Good guess."

The pinch does something funny, almost like a tick. "Thanks." He hesitates. "Do you want a kiss?"

Carmy almost never asks you. It's always you asking, coaxing, flirting, but you suppose in the absence of you being able to do much of anything he's trying to take up the mantle.

You nod, and he comes to you so that you don't have to sit up. It's a soft press, the echo of something even more tender, just what you need to calm the rocky waves of your head for a minute.

Carmy rests his brow against yours. "Do you think you're gonna throw up if you try to eat?"

"Probably. If you talk about throwing up."

"Sorry."

"It's okay." You press your cheek into his palm and pretend he's holding you up. "Maybe we'll get lucky, and I'll forget all about it by then."

A huffed sound you suspect might be a chuckle. "Yeah? You think you can do that?"

"Do what?"

Kat went missing the night after you. He doesn’t know where either of you are. But you’re together, and that would comfort him if he wasn’t so terrified by the agonising, inhuman screeching he’d heard in the background of your last message. How could you pretend everything was okay when he could hear that it wasn’t? He could still feel your last words echoing through the marrow of the apartment, seeping and staining the last evidence that you’d been here. 

The mugs on the counter, the coffee you never finished drinking, your clothes left scattered on the bathroom floor. It was all here; in this liminal space between where you’d once existed and the absence you’d left behind. 

Bobby gets to his feet; he grabs his keys and walks out the door. He doesn’t have a real plan in place. He’s been walking in a fog ever since the morning he’d realized you were missing. When you failed to come back from your night shift and the hours dragged on too long for you to just be out running errands. 

He’d been forced to wait the full forty-eight hours before he filed the missing persons report. And then he’d had to file one for Kat, too. It wasn’t enough that you were gone; now your best friend was gone with you. 

The police looked at him first. Poked holes in his alibi and watched him with mistrusting eyes. It didn’t take long for the accusations to melt away and turn into something more pitying. They’d asked about your relationship with Kat. How close the two of you were? Had you seemed unhappy before you left?

As if you’d run away with her. Like you couldn’t stand being with him a moment longer in your cramped apartment and listless life, he’d almost believed them, until he got that message. Until he’d heard the fear, the screaming, his name on your tongue. It was soft in the way you used to say it, but that softness was ruined by the jagged edge of your own panic as you rushed out one last message to him. 

Bobby didn’t know what his plan was until he found himself standing in front of Clark’s store. The last place he could honestly say you were. The lights flicker behind the glass doors, so dim they might as well not be on, but it catches his attention. 

He knows the police picked this place apart with a fine-toothed comb. When they couldn’t point the blame to Bobby, they’d turned to Clark instead. And then they couldn’t find him, either. It all circles and drains back to this one shitty, dying furniture store. 

Bobby swipes away the police tape and pushes at the door. It shouldn’t be unlocked, but it falls open nonetheless. The lights brighten as he steps inside and chills break out along his skin. It feels like there are eyes in the corner of the room, watching him as he slowly makes his way through. 

With each step closer to the back of the store, the lights burn brighter, the hum of the fluorescents buzzing incessantly at his back. He struggles to shrug off the feeling. Rather, he chases it, follows it until he’s standing at the top of the basement stairs. 

There are muddy footprints on the stairs, from where the police investigated or from you… He doesn’t know. But he’s going to find out. 

He rushes down the stairs, and it feels like there’s a touch on his back. Something just there, just out of sight, guiding him down the same path you’d taken the night you went missing. It leads him down to where you used to do inventory. 

Sometimes you’d invite him to keep you company. You had that night, but he just… decided not to. He was tired and didn’t want to spend the night at Clark’s stupid fucking furniture store. And now you’re gone. 

He finds himself standing in front of a wall. Just a wall. Nothing special, nothing important, nothing… Except the perfect square outlined in blue tape. The size and relative space a door would take up. Bobby’s head tilts, brows furrowing as he observes it. Something about the way the light of the basement catches it: it almost seems to shimmer, to shift right before his eyes into something that is… definitely not a wall. 

Bobby reaches out, expecting to find nothing but solid cement beneath his hands. And then… he’s falling through. 

“Don’t fucking move,” you hiss, trembling as you take Kat’s hand in your own. You’re tucked into one of the holes in the wall with Kat. It’s one of the few places the thing seems to look over. 

It calls your name again, in his voice. Kat’s wide eyes shoot to you. “Are you sure it’s not–”

“It’s just another trick,” you choke out, tears burning across your cheeks as you peer out into the hallway. You see his back, the cutoff denim shorts, cropped tee, messy blonde hair. But the spine protrudes too much at the neck. The arms are too long. His gait is stilted like he’s still getting used to his body. 

He’d almost gotten you when you’d first gotten here. And then Kat. He doesn’t care which one of you he gets; he just wants someone new. Someone else to consume. 

You’d found his lair a few– days? Has it been days? Or months?

It doesn’t matter. Time has no meaning here. 

The point is, you found his lair. Found the skeletons and shredded clothes of pets he’s taken and devoured. The bodies of wanderers he’s found himself enchanted by and then bored with. Now, he’s taken Bobby from your memories, made a clone of him, and wears the skin suit like that’ll be enough to convince you it's the man you love. 

The fluorescent lights flicker before they burst. Kat lets out a sharp gasp, clapping her hand over her mouth. You shoot her a crazed look, eyes rimmed red from too many nights without sleep. 

“There you are,” you screech as a skeletal hand reaches inside the hole. The skin it wears stretched taut around the arm until you hear it begin to rip. It claps its hand around Kat, dragging her. You scramble forward, reaching desperately for something to grab hold of. 

But she’s screaming, being dragged from safety into the dark. You crawl out after her and find some of the lights beginning to turn back on. Like emergency backups, they barely make anything visible, but you can see enough. 

You can see the face of your lover, crooked and painted on wrong, back bowed, and form largely monstrous as he holds Kat in his hand. His jaw opens inhumanly wide, and there’s nothing you can do but watch as his sharp teeth clamp around her neck. Blood spurts out from his maw as he rips her head clean from her body. 

“Wake up!” Hands wrap too tight around your shoulders, shaking you until your eyes are shooting open and you're surging up with a gasp. Kat kneels beside you, head tilted and hair messy as she regards you warily. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, hands trembling as she hovers over you. Her eyes are bloodshot, head constantly on a swivel, too afraid to take her gaze off the shadows. 

You shake your head, wipe sweat from your brow, and force yourself to forget the nightmare. It’s another warning from it. Another threat of what will happen if you continue to deny it. “I’m fine. We need to get out of here, though.”

Kat frowns as you stand, wiping your sweaty palms off on your jeans. “But the door–”

“I know, Kat!” You hiss, glaring down at her. “Just… trust me, okay? We can’t stay here, right now.” It’s not safe. Not with those hungry eyes watching you from the dark alcoves. 

“Where should we go, then? Nowhere is safe,” she snaps back at you, getting to her feet. It’s hard, maintaining your composure down here. Those fluorescents flicker; there’s a constant, droning buzz that settles in the back of your skull that never lets you completely relax. It’s a never-ending reminder that you don’t belong here. You’re an outlier in a place where everything wants a taste of you. 

 Nerves have been fraying ever since your first encounter with it. Him. That thing that lurks in the liminal space between one breath and the next. For you, he wears Bobby’s face. But for Kat, he had worn your face. Had beckoned her from the basement and down here with you, using your voice. 

It’s hard to rebuild that trust when yours had been the first face she’d seen. And your face had nearly ripped hers off. 

“Party rooms,” you tell her, taking her hand in your own. “It’s risky, but it's the closest place.” Kat shudders, but she follows you without protest. You can’t blame her; you don’t like the party rooms. You don’t like the children’s birthday decorations. Or those fleshy monstrosities that look like hazmats chemically bonded to human skin. Their drawn-on, twisted smiles make your stomach churn. But it’s easy enough to manage if you stay quiet and hidden. 

His presence is weaker there, anyway. He seems more powerful, more potent, on this first level. With its yellow walls, musty smell, and never-ending flickering lights. That is his domain. And he can find you anywhere, but you’re not going to make it easier for him. 

Kat’s grip is tight around yours, fingers lacing together as you walk side-by-side. It had been Clark who had dragged you down here, tricked you into thinking this was something grand. Something miraculous. 

It was miraculous in the most twisted sense of the word. That a different pocket of reality full of eldritch horrors and a labyrinth of never-ending rooms could exist beside a furniture store was miraculous. But he had been crazed, talked to you about staying down here forever. 

He had tried to drag you into this hell with him, and when you’d refused, he’d attacked. Knocked you out and left you stranded without a way back to the door. When you’d found Kat, after she’d come looking for you, you’d both learned how important it was not to let go of one another. How easy it would be for an entity to rip you apart. 

Having an actual human beside you is the only reason you’re still sane; you’re sure of it. 

“This way,” you mutter, leading her down the hall and to the third door on the right. It’s concerning, but you’ve been here long enough to start learning some of the curves to this place. Kat opens the door, but it’s not confetti walls and stiff carpet you’re greeted by. There are no balloons or party decorations. 

This…

This is a poorly reassembled copy of Clark’s store. The store you’ve worked the past year. It’s the display floor, the couches and tables arranged almost exactly how it had been when you’d left. 

“What the fuck?” Kat mutters, stepping into the room, leaving you no choice but to follow. 

“This isn’t right,” you whisper, turning slowly. You haven’t found this room yet. You shouldn’t have found it. This should have been the party rooms. “Is he changing things?”

“Clark?” Kat’s hand rips from your grasp and you whip around. She’s running from you, toward one of the couches. Frowning, you follow behind her. Then you see it, the back of Clark’s head, the collar of the purple shirt he’d been wearing when he’d disappeared and left you for dead. 

Kat rushes toward him, and you try to stop her, but she’s already leaning on the armrest of the chair. “Clark–” she swallows, eyes widening with horror and whatever she sees. She doesn’t have time to scream as two gnarled hands shoot out, wrapping tight around her throat. 

Bobby falls to the floor, nose slamming to musty carpet. He lets out a low groan, slowly crawling to his hands and knees. He looks up and around, eyes widening as he takes in his surroundings. This is all wrong. 

This can’t be real. 

Walls with fraying and stained wallpaper stand freely in the large room he’s in. There’s tape that goes down a few of the hallways. Fluorescents flicker above him. He can’t make out much more beyond that. There’s a shadowed abyss beyond the walls that swallows whatever light tries to breach it. 

He stands on unsteady legs, breath shortening as he tries to take everything in. He looks over his shoulder and sees nothing but a wall. There’s no marker for where he’d fallen through. Frowning, he walks forward and presses his hand to the surface. But it doesn’t sink or give way, not this time. 

The doorway he’d used to get through has sealed. 

With no other choice, he turns back around, trying to tamp down his rising panic. It’s hard, though, when all he can think about is you. He doesn’t even know if you’re here or if he just got himself trapped in some hellish purgatory with no way out. 

Maybe this isn’t even real. 

Maybe he’s at home, on the couch, tripping on something. You’ll walk through and roll your eyes at him, make him take a cold shower while you cook dinner. It’s all just been one bad acid trip. 

There’s a scream somewhere in the distance. Bobby jumps back, heart racing as his back falls against the wall. It’s not human– not right. This is something else. Just like the noise he’d heard in the last message you’d left him. 

Something runs past in the dark, a flash of color that has his heart leaping to his throat. Beneath the buzz of the lights, beneath his blood rushing, he hears what sounds like his name. Whispered in your voice, panic edging your tone as you call out to him. 

Something runs past again, and Bobby surges forward. He calls out your name. “Bobby!” He hears in return: you’re screaming now. Bobby runs forth without a second thought, shouting your name as he follows the figure in the shadows. 

“Bobby, this way!” You scream; something lurks beneath your voice. A low growl that doesn’t sound right. But he doesn’t have time to think about that as he follows after you. 

He finally sees it, a flash of your hair, the tilt of your face over your shoulder as you race ahead of him. Bobby screams your name, trying to catch your attention as you race through the darkness. He’s not paying attention, doesn’t notice as the walls begin to close in. You turn a corner, and he follows… barreling right into a wall. 

His head bounces off it as he drops to the floor. 

There’s low laughter, familiar and distant all at once. A cold touch against his arm and he jerks up, eyes shooting wide. You jerk back, surprise painting your face as you hold up your hands. 

Bobby scrambles to his feet, glancing around with a sick sort of shock. He’s back home. Back at the apartment. You’re still kneeling on the ground, in your favorite pair of pajamas with brows raised. You look relaxed, comfortable, more at peace than he’s seen you in weeks. 

“Hit your head too hard?” You tease, getting to your feet. You brush past him, cold touch lingering on his arm as you turn back toward the food you’d been cooking. Bobby’s still standing there, still just staring. 

Everything looks right. The sun is setting in the background, golden light filtering through the living room. The radio is on, soft music playing that you’re humming along to. This is his apartment. His home. You… you’re just like you always are. Cooking on the weekend because you don’t feel like eating his shitty attempts at cooking right now. 

But this doesn’t make sense. He had just been in that– that–

Where had he been?

His head is fuzzy. You said he’d hit it. Did he? He doesn’t remember. 

He knows that he’d been doing something. But what? What had been so important that he’d been chasing you, calling out your name? Just to end up right back where he started. Did he start here?

“Bobby,” you call, finally giving him your full attention. Your head tilts in concern, but your jaw tips too far, chin slants strangely as you watch him. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

Had he been looking for you?

He looks over at you, and there’s relief, but he doesn’t know why. He reaches for you, and you fall into his arms easily. It should feel good, familiar like it always does. Your softness pressed up against him, head tucked into his neck. But your arms are too tight, the bones press against him in a way that bruises. 

“I don’t–” he can’t finish the thought. It slips through his hands like water, dribbles down to the floor. His eyes drop, lingering on the stove, on the “food” you’re cooking. It’s just a white hunk of something in the pan, melting down like butter. It bubbles and creates the nauseating smell of burnt flesh. 

“No,” he shakes his head and looks down at you again. Your hair is ragged, different than he remembers. You smell not right. “No,” he shoves back, and you stumble. Or the thing wearing your face does. 

Your eyes narrow, the color being swallowed by a void of darkness as you scoff. But it’s not your voice anymore; it’s something darker, older. “Almost,” you mutter, clicking your tongue in annoyance. 

He hears it now… the sound the music was trying to cover. Your voice, your real voice, screaming. But it’s not his name you’re screaming; it’s Kat’s. “Kat! Watch out!” over and over, echoing until it’s all he can hear. 

Beside him, the thing wearing your face begins to let out a long croaking noise. Your mouth drops open inhumanly wide, and he stumbles back a step, watching as your shoulders bow. Your spine snaps in two as you contort in ways no human should. Your form grows taller until the skin begins to rip at the edges. 

Bobby turns, running before it can sink its hungry teeth into him. He runs through the apartment door and finds himself back in the room with the yellow walls and winding paths. It’s welcome compared to what he’d just seen. 

He follows the sound of your voice until he’s worried it was just another trick of this place. Then, he comes upon a hallway filled with doors. Decaying doors with stains, steel doors with rusted locks, all kinds. And behind the one on his right, you’re the loudest. 

He barrels through and finds himself standing on the display floor of Clark’s store. It’s not quite right; something about this place feeds into that off feeling he’s had since he dropped into this hell. 

But there you are, waving around a floor lamp like a weapon as you beat on something that’s crawling over Kat. You let out another scream, cocking the lamp back and hitting it as hard as you can. 

The body goes flying off, and he realizes you’d been beating another failed copy of someone. Clark, he thinks. You drop the lamp and reach for Kat’s hand, tugging her into you. Bobby hesitates at the door. Is this you? Is he dreaming? Is it just another trick?

Kat sees him first; her eyes go wide, lips parting in silent shock. You frown, turning to follow her gaze. He waits for it, the recognition, the relief, the way you say his name when you’re happiest to see him. 

But it doesn’t come. Instead, your stare hardens as you stumble back from him. “I told you not to use that face!”

He shakes his head, holding his hands out hopelessly. “Baby,” he breathes out. “It’s me. I swear it’s me,” he’ll get on his knees and beg if that's what it takes for you to believe him. You stalk forward, ripping your arm from Kat’s grip. He almost smiles, but then you’re reaching out, hands wrapping tight around his throat as you slam him into the wall. 

“Fuck you,” you hiss, tears lining your eyes. “You’re not him, don’t call me that!” Your teeth are bared, like a wild animal lashing out. He wants to stop you, to fight back. But he doesn’t want to risk hurting you. He tries pleading with you again, swearing it’s him, not some entity wearing his face. 

But your thumbs are digging into the hollow of his throat, and his eyes are rolling back as you let him fall to the floor. 

You stand over that thing's body, brows drawing in as you stare down at it. It should have disappeared, sunk through the floor, and started hunting you once more. You shouldn’t have gotten close enough to choke it before it snatched you up. 

Kat comes up behind you and takes your hand tentatively in her own. “He’s not getting up,” she whispers, just as confused as you. 

You glance over at her before kneeling. Reaching out, you press your fingers to the pulse point of its neck. There should be nothing. No pulse, no warmth, nothing to give away life. But it’s there, faint after your attack, a heart beating beneath flesh that’s been warmed by real, pumping blood. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, tears lining your eyes as you stare down at the body of your boyfriend. “I think he’s real.”

Kat frowns, dropping beside you. She reaches out, same as you, and sees for herself. Her hands come up to her mouth, gasping as she looks over at you. “Oh, my god. Did you kill Bobby?”

“No!” you hiss, whipping around to glare at her. “I can feel his damn pulse. I just… knocked him out. Shit.”

This place doesn’t give you time to linger or rest. Not once since you’ve gotten here have you been able to catch your breath. Even now, just behind you, you can hear creaking. A body pulling itself back together. Flesh reknitting from where you’d busted it open with the heavy end of a lamp. 

“We need to get him up, help me.” Kat doesn’t waste time; she throws one of Bobby’s arms over her shoulder while you grab the other. Neither of you spare the entity wearing Clark’s face a second look. You can’t. They only get more horrifying when they come back. You can’t afford to let terror freeze you. 

You drag him back through the door you’d come from and slam it shut behind you. Clark’s copy slams against the door, pounds his fists, and lets out inhuman, croaking noises that make your entire body shudder. 

You’re back within the yellow walls. And nothing about this place is safe. But, at the very least, you’re more comfortable here. Because here, you know what lurks in the shadows; you know what to expect. 

“Over here,” you tell Kat, nodding toward one of the larger holes that have been beaten into the wall. You don’t know who put it there. If it was someone else who got trapped here like you. Or those people who you occasionally see in hazmat suits. But these little alcoves in the wall are one of the few places the entity seems to pass by. 

You crawl in first, grabbing Bobby’s wrist as you help Kat drag him in. You pull him up into your chest, folding his legs so there’s room for her to squeeze in on the other end. “What do we do now?” she asks, voice trembling as she wraps her arms around her legs. 

You shake your head and glance down at your boyfriend. Tears line your eyes as you squeeze him, his arms, his hands. Feel the warmth that you’ve missed for so long. Your head falls forward, tears leaking into his t-shirt as you wrap your arms tighter around him. 

“Please be real,” you whisper, and the lights flicker in response. 

The lights are out now, just a dim humming that it can’t completely extinguish. It’s passed by your wall three times now, calling out your name, wearing Bobby’s face. Bobby stirs in your arms, and Kat’s eyes shoot up in alarm. 

You curl around him tighter and see his lashes flutter as he begins to wake up. Quickly, you clamp your hand around his mouth. He seizes in your grip, panic beginning to take over. “It’s me, it’s me,” you whisper. “Don’t say anything, Bobby, please. It’s right there.”

Kat’s across from him, frantically shaking her head as she keeps her own hands wrapped around her mouth. She can’t trust herself not to make a noise either. The thing outside the wall goes still, and you duck down, watching as it turns on too long legs. 

Bobby goes lax in your grip, head tilting up to get a better look at you. His eyes widen as he takes you in. The sharper angles of your face, the deep circles beneath your eyes that almost make you look corpse-like. 

You’re not perfect, not a flawless uncanny representation of yourself. He turns in your grip, arms thrown around your waist as he buries his face in your neck. You cradle the back of his head, forehead pressed to his shoulder as the thing walks past you once more. 

The lights flicker back on, and its form disappears before you can blink. “Okay,” Kat mutters, motioning outside with her head. You nod, and she begins to crawl out. Her head swivels around, checking your surroundings, before she turns around and waves you forward. 

“Come on,” you nudge Bobby. “We gotta go.” He slinks back, but his grip doesn’t leave you. He holds onto your hand as you both crawl out from the wall. The second you’re standing, he jerks you forward, dragging you into his arms. 

He lets out a shuddering breath against your hair, shoulders shaking as he holds you. Kat cares little for the reunion. Her hand finds yours on instinct, too afraid to let go for so long. 

“I thought– I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he whispers, pulling back. His hands go to your face, cupping your cheeks as he looks you over. “You’re here,” he can’t quite seem to believe it. 

You reach up and take his wrist in your hold. “What the hell were you thinking coming in here?” you scoff with a wet laugh, tears spilling down your cheeks. It’s him, it’s really him. He’s alive and here and warm and…

This fucking idiot never should have followed you. 

He should have been safe, mourned you and Kat, and moved on. But you can’t find it in yourself to scold him. The lights flicker and Kat gasps, hand tightening around your own. You don’t have time for a reunion, either. That thing will be circling back soon. 

“We need to leave,” you tell him, lacing your fingers through his. Bobby trails behind you and Kat, gaze roaming across the vastness of the strange backrooms. 

“Where are we?” 

You suck in a shaky breath, coming to a stop at a dead-end. For however long you’ve been here, you’ve been looking for the door that brought you here. At every turn, you’ve been kept at bay by something you can’t see. 

“I don’t know,” Kat answers.

“Clark brought me here,” you tell him, turning to face them both. “He called it the backrooms. Said he wanted to stay here. I haven’t seen him since he left me.”

Bobby’s face screws up, “Left you?”

The lights begin flickering behind him, popping off in the distance one by one. Something creeps ever closer in the darkness. Not the thing that wears your face. This is something different. Something new that follows behind you with thudding footsteps that shake the floor. 

“We have to move,” you hiss, tugging their arms. “Now!” you shout, dragging them both behind you. 

There’s no time to find a hole to crawl into. No time to do anything but race through the endless darkness and yellow halls, hoping for something new. Another door. Another path. Anything to put space between you and the footsteps following slowly behind you. 

“Watch it!” Kat shouts, tugging you back before you slip into a shadowed abyss. Before you is a sharp dip in the floor. It slides down into nothing but darkness. You haven’t seen this before. Haven’t found it while you explored. 

The footsteps stop suddenly behind you, and you whip around. Bobby tugs on your hand, and you frown. He lets out a yelp as something grabs him in the darkness. His fingers slip through yours as he’s dragged to the floor. 

“Bobby!” He screams your name as his legs descend into the darkness. You throw yourself onto your stomach, desperately grasping at his flailing hands. You manage to grab one of his arms as Kat drops, hands grappling at the collar of his shirt. 

“Come on,” you grunt, glancing over your shoulder and watching as a form splits from the darkness. You tug on Bobby, not giving up until he’s dragged from the darkness and lying beside you. Your eyes drift over him, down to his ankles, and you see angry red welts going up his legs. 

Kat moves to help him to stand just as that touch snatches up your leg. Their eyes widen as they turn toward you. But you don’t even get to scream before you're dragged down.

There are no fluorescents down here. Just the dull buzzing that usually comes along with them. You lay curled up in the shadows, knees tucked to your chest as you weep. You want to be strong. You want to face the monsters in the dark with some form of bravery. But you’re a coward. You always have been. 

It’s easy to pretend, when you have someone to pretend for. When you have Kat or Bobby beside you to take care of. You can live in a world where you have to be the strong one. 

But in this dark hole, with wide eyes staring at you from the shadows, you’re not strong enough for anything except crying. 

You can hear them, above you, screaming your name. Feet beating against the floor as they search for you. 

“They won’t find you,” that voice – his voice – whispers in your ear. The creature that wears Bobby’s skin and wants you trapped here with it. 

“Leave me alone,” you cry. It chuckles, inhuman and unnatural as its form curls around you. Hands, too many hands, grapple at your body, tug on your clothes. Testing your mortal form as it keeps you locked away here in the dark. 

“Why should I? I finally have you right where I want you.” You’re ripped from your spot, forced to your feet as you’re pinned to the wall. There’s a little light– just enough for you to see the twisted visage of your lover’s face on the wrong body. 

Fingers that are too long drag along your skin. Like a snake’s tongue learning the air around it, the environment, through taste and touch, he licks at your skin tentatively. His nose pushes up against your neck, taking in a deep inhale of your scent. 

You can’t help but whimper, eyes clenched shut as his body contorts around your own. His lips trail up your skin, rough tongue scraping at your flesh as he goes. It reminds you of a cat’s, too barbed and too demanding to be human. 

His face hovers over your own, skin warping like a stone that’s just been tossed into a puddle. You can’t stare into those black eyes too long. Did he even know his mask had begun to slip?

“If you stay here,” it’s Bobby’s voice, but something is lurking beneath it. Something very old, something lonely and unused to the company of mortals. “I’ll let them go.”

Your heart races, eyes shooting up to the voids where irises should be. “You’re lying.”

He shakes his head, lips curling into a too-long smirk. “I don’t need to,” he whispers, jagged finger tilting your chin up toward him. 

He doesn’t need to because you’re desperate. Because you’ve been running through the seven layers of hell and now you’re stuck in an endless, looping purgatory faced with all your worst fears. You’ve been here so long that you’re losing parts of yourself, and these rooms are filling in the holes left behind. 

You can’t let that happen to Bobby. 

Slowly, you nod, his face goes slack, as if he hadn’t actually thought you would accept. His eyes narrow, head tilting at an inhuman angle, and you just nod again. “If you swear you’ll let them leave.”

“A deal struck,” he whispers, and that ancient voice reminds you of mythological tales of fairies. Of eldritch horrors that trapped humans in bargains and deals they hadn’t realized the enormity of. 

His head dips, lips slotting hesitantly over your own. He doesn’t understand this mortal shape. He knows that he craves this; the taste and touch of you. But he doesn’t understand how to retrieve it. He’s pilfered through your memories, stolen your favorites and replicated them poorly. 

Now, he can’t even give you this. 

There’s a violent tremble in your hands as you reach up to grasp his shoulder. You almost push him away when the distinct lack of his taste fills your mouth, when his rough tongue scrapes against your own. You have to remind yourself who this is for. 

This face that it wears is the man you’re trying to save. The one you love enough to sacrifice yourself for. 

Your heart races, breath stalling as you feel his tongue begin to explore the wet caverns of your mouth. Two hands settle around your waist, but there’s still a touch pushing up your chin. You can’t open your eyes. If you do, you’ll see too many arms, too many eyes and teeth. 

You clench your eyes tightly shut, chest heaving as that tongue steadily expands. It strokes against your own as he pushes you further up the wall, thigh slotting between your own. Rough barbs tickle the back of your throat before probing deeper. It wants to explore every inch of you, map out the workings of your frail, human body through touch. 

Your stomach seizes with panic; tears slip from your eyes as your nails dig into shoulders that are too broad and bony. Pleasure spikes in your core against your will. Another hand, dragging up and up until it’s wrapping around your throat and feeling your pulse beneath cold flesh. 

Wrong. Wrong. WRONG–

Something inside you– your hindbrain– pieces of yourself from the eons where humans were the prey and these creatures were worshiped– Whatever it is, it screams at you that this is inhumane and heartless.

 It will hurt you. It will split you open and lap your blood up from the floor like a starved mutt. 

In the distance, you hear him, screaming as something thunders just behind him. He’s not screaming for himself, though. It’s you, your name that he’s calling out. 

Through sheer force of will, you make your eyes open. Make yourself look at the twisted visage and poor attempt at humanity. And just beyond its shoulders, you see it, a light. Like a flashlight, desperately searching through the darkness for you. 

Your teeth clamp down around the tongue. Thick, viscous blood pools in your mouth and the thing backs up with a hiss. The tongue slithers from your throat, dragging along the flesh of your mouth until you’re gagging, gasping for breath as you slump to the floor. 

“We had a deal,” it hisses. 

Bobby screams your name in the distance, and you spit out the blood pooling in your mouth. It splatters black against the carpet. “Deal’s off,” you hiss, ducking under its too many arms and running toward his voice. 

“Bobby!” You scream, and you hear it roar behind you. Anger and misery that’s too complicated to formulate into something your human ears can understand echo throughout the entire level. You follow that waving beam of light until you’re crashing into your boyfriend. 

“Bobby,” you gasp out, trying not to sob. There’s no time; that monster is still behind you both. 

His arm wraps around you, his other hand stuck in Kat’s vice grip. And just behind him, the flashlight– it belongs to a group of people in hazmat suits. “This way,” one of them orders. And then they’re all running, barely giving you time to follow. 

You chase after them, hold tight to Bobby, and force yourself not to turn around. Not to face the hunger and lust of something that wants to chew through you until it hits marrow, until it's licking at your soul and consuming you entirely. 

The people in the suits weave through the narrow passageways with ease, following black tape on the floor. Your eyes try to follow the path, but you only feel yourself grow dizzy with panic. “Hurry!” they shout, the booming footsteps growing closer behind you all. 

They come to a stop near what looks like a research post. Cameras, computers, all sorts of technical equipment stacked haphazardly on desks that have been abandoned. Beside it, there’s a shimmer on the wall, the type that Clark had first dragged you through. 

They run through, and Kat doesn’t hesitate to follow, dragging Bobby and you behind her. There’s a loud screech, a sting down your back as you fall through. Bobby trips on Kat and you both hurtle to the floor. 

You land on his chest, the air rushing from you as pain screams down your back. “Ah,” you croak, reaching behind you. Your hands come back bloody. 

“Shit, it got you,” one of the researchers hiss. You look up and realize you’re in what looks like a warehouse. More people in hazmats, more equipment you don’t understand. “I’ll go get a medic,” they tell you before rushing off. 

Bobby still sits below you. His eyes rake over your face before he’s tugging you into his chest, arms wrapping around you, uncaring for the blood that stains them. You wind yourself around him like a serpent, grip damn near choking as you grasp onto these last strands of reality. 

“You found me,” you whisper, too afraid to start crying again. 

“Always,” he swears, burying his face in your neck. 

Something clicks in your head. Something you haven’t had time to think of while you’re running for your life. “Bobby…” you pull back, catching Kat’s eyes over his shoulder. She’s still shaken, still catching her breath. “How did you know how to find me?”

His brows furrow as he shakes his head. “You called me.”

Your heart stops, chills raise along your skin, and you would swear you could feel eyes from the wall behind you. “No, I didn't.”