Reblogs Of Fanfictions

(1984)

“You’re staring again”

Ben didn’t look away from where he sat sprawled across the bed, one arm lazily slung behind his head. “Can you blame me?”

You rolled your eyes, finishing brushing your messed up hair back into place in front of the mirror. “You say that to every girl?”

“Nah” A smirk pulled at his mouth. “Just the pretty ones that put up with me”

“Jesus Christ” He laughed softly as you grabbed a pillow off the chair and threw it at him. He caught it easily, still grinning– that rare kind of grin nobody else ever seemed to get from him– boyish, unguarded and real. Not the cameras, not the public, not Payback– just you. Outside the room, music from the afterparty thumped faintly through the walls. Someone shouted drunkenly down the hallway. (Probably the twins) You moved toward the door. “We should go before someone notices we disappeared”

Ben caught your wrist before you could pass the bed, moving to sit on the edge of the mattress. The movement was automatic, familiar. Gentle. Your breath hitched slightly as he tugged you between his knees, hands settling on your hips. “Five more minutes” He murmured, voice low and gravelly.

“You said that twenty minutes ago” You say, letting out a soft breath of amusement while brushing the hair away from his face.

“Yeah, well” His thumbs brushed slowly against your waist. “Changed my mind”

For a second, you just looked at him– no cameras, no crowds screaming his name, no Vought workers breathing down his neck– just Ben. And maybe that was why the fear creeping into your chest felt so wrong. Because something had been off all week. The team’s whispered conversations stopping the moment you entered rooms. Crimson Countess avoiding your eyes. Noir watching Ben like he was already gone.

You gently held his face between your hands. “We need to be careful” You spoke softly.

Ben frowned. “Bout what?”

You hesitated. It sounded stupid saying it out loud now– paranoid. But the feeling had been sitting heavy in your chest for days. “Don’t know…” You admitted quietly. “Something’s weird lately” Your hands were still cradling his face, one resting on his bearded cheek while the other continued brushing softly through his hair. His hands rubbed absentmindedly along your waist as he watched you carefully now, the amusement fading slightly from his face. “The team’s been acting off. Noir barely speaks to me anymore, Countess won’t even look at me and–” You shook your head lightly. “Just… got a bad feeling”

The man stared at you for a moment before letting out a soft scoff. “Doll” His thumbs pressed gently into your hips. “Y’think too much”

“Ben–”

“No, c’mere” One of his hands slid up your arm, warm and steady. “Nobody’s gonna do shit”

You wanted to believe him. Maybe that was the problem. He’d spent years being treated like something untouchable– America’s greatest hero, Vought’s golden boy, the strongest man in every room. And Ben carried that confidence like second nature– like betrayal wasn’t even a possibility.

“You trust them too much” You murmured.

That made him grin again, crooked and easy. “Nah, sweetheart” He shook his head simply, pulling you even closer to him by your hips. “They too scared to try anything”

The feeling only got worse the next morning. Normally, mission prep with Payback was loud, chaotic even. The twins arguing, Gunpowder trying too hard to impress Ben, Crimson complaining about anything and everything before they’d even left the States. But that morning felt tense– too quiet. You stepped into the briefing room just as the conversation abruptly died. Even Noir, usually the stoic one– was blanking staring at you. “What?” You asked slowly– the same, creeping, awful feeling blooming inside your chest.

“Nothing” Mindstorm answered too quickly.

One of the Vought assistants stood near the projector screen, perfectly composed as always. “Small change of plans, you’ll remain behind for this operation”

You blinked. “What?”

“It’s a simple retrieval mission–” The worker continued smoothly. “ –a couple members of Payback are more than sufficient. We’ll also need you here for other duties” It felt wrong, too staged– too perfect.

“That’s not what yesterday’s briefing said”

Beside you, Ben let out an annoyed sigh. “Relax, ‘preciate the day off”

Your eyes snapped toward him, something almost pleading in your expression, hoping that he’d see it too and agree. “Ben–”

“We’ll be back in a couple days” He leaned down just enough to press a quick kiss against your temple, careless about who saw this time. He was Soldier Boy after all, who the Hell was gonna call him out on it?  "You'll live” He scoffs, breath brushing your hair before he pulled back.

God you were gonna regret letting him leave.

You knew something had gone wrong when nobody answered the radios– not even Ben. By the time you got clearance to join them, Nicaragua was already burning. Smoke choked the air thick enough to sting your lungs, gunfire echoed somewhere deeper in the jungle, bodies littered the camp in pieces– soldiers and civilians alike. Your boots hit the dirt hard as you ran, dust kicking up behind you. “Ben?” You called out, more raw than you’d liked it to be. Nothing– just screaming in the distance. Then, you looked down– his shield. Half-buried beneath rubble and smeared with blood. Your stomach dropped violently. Around you, the remains of the camp looked less like a mission gone wrong and more like a massacre.

Like a setup.

You barely registered Noir standing several feet away, burned and motionless against one of the car’s engines. Or the twins avoiding your eyes. Or Countess already half-hidden back by their vehicle. All you saw was the group of Russian soldiers dragging something across the ground. No, not something– someone.

Ben.

Even drugged, practically unconscious he was still fighting them. A soldier hit him across the face with the butt of a rifle, another jammed a mask tighter over his mouth while three more struggled to force him down. Your heartbeat thundered so loudly it drowned out everything else.

No.

No, no, no–

You lurched forward before someone grabbed you hard from behind. Hands tightly wrapping around your limbs to hold you down. “Let go!” You screamed with all you had, struggling violently against his grip. They didn’t release you– they couldn’t risk you reaching Soldier Boy. Across the clearing, Ben lifted his head. For one brief, horrible second, his eyes found yours. Dazed Confusion, then realization– then something that looked dangerously close to heartbreak. The gas finally took effect a second later, his body going limp. The Russians dragged him toward the helicopter and nobody stopped them.

Nobody.

The last thing you saw was Ben’s lifeless form as they loaded him inside. Then the helicopter doors shut. And he was gone. He was gone– you tried to warn him, you knew something was wrong. He’d just brushed it off, kissing you and waving it away and now he was gone. You hadn’t even been there to try and save him.

They told the world Soldier Boy died a hero. But heroes weren’t drugged and dragged across battlefields while their teammates watched. The first few weeks after Nicaragua became a blur of bloodshot eyes, stolen files and red-string theories spread across motel room walls. Every rumor, every whisper, every classified document mentioning Russian activity– you chased all of it. Nothing. You tracked down old military contacts, bribed informants, broke into places a Vought front-pager definitely shouldn’t have– still nothing– just fragments.

'Transported east'

'American asset'

'Experimentation'

Enough to keep hope alive, enough to ruin you. Payback avoided you after that– too afraid of what a heartbroken (supe)  woman could do to them if she found out the truth. But their avoidance only confirmed what you already knew– they’d all let it happen.

Vought slowly started trying to tie you down, slow your advances without revealing too much from their involvement. They started reassigning missions, monitoring calls, searching your apartments the moment you were gone, asking questions with picture perfect smiles. You stopped staying anywhere longer than a few weeks after someone tried to put a bullet through your window in Chicago. After that, you understood– you weren’t supposed to keep looking. So? You disappeared before Vought could make you disappear first. New identities, cheap apartments. Your life packed into bags small enough to abandon at a moment’s notice, mostly weapons and whatever memory you could salvage of Ben.

(Present Day)

The deal was simple– Soldier Boy helped them kill Homelander and in return, they helped him hunt down the people who betrayed him. He’d barely been defrosting for a couple days and all he could think about was tracking those assholes and pounding them into the ground. He was being difficult– he knew that– but Soldier Boy was always kind of an ass. (Except when it came to you) He plays it cool, still chewing on his burger as he points at a picture on the table, one of your headshots from back in the day when Payback first debuted.

Then, in that gravelly, gruff voice of his: “Find her”

Butcher frowned, arms still crossed as he glances down at him. “Who?” Ben simply held up the photograph, taking a sip from his beer to play it cool.

“The hell for?” MM asked immediately. “Thought your whole team sold you out, what matters when we find who?”

Soldier Boy’s expression didn’t change, simply doubling down and harshly tapping two fingers into your photo like some kind of stubborn toddler with a beard. Annie exchanged a glance with Hughie. “Look–” Hughie started carefully. “ –if she’s been off-grid this long she’s probably either dead or hiding from Vought…”

“Ain’t dead” He mutters gruffly, not bothered to explain the whole V1 deal and its complexities to a bunch of randoms. “Find her”

Butcher leaned back against the table, studying him carefully. “N’ if we don’t care to find the lovely lady?”

Soldier Boy finally looked up, the motel suddenly felt much smaller under his sharp green eyes. “Just find the fuckin’ broad” His tone left no room for argument. And the boys, being left with no other option– started their fucking search.

The first stop was a burned-out Vought storage office three towns over.

“Officially” Hughie started, nervously pacing the empty space. “This place doesn’t even exist anymore…”

“Oui” Frenchie replied, sauntering in behind him while already looking for anything that might be of use. “That is usually where the good things are” Inside, it was exactly what you’d expect– dust, shredded files, and the faint chemical smell mixing with something coppery and deep. Annie rifled through a collapsed filing cabinet while MM booted up a half-dead terminal.

“This isn’t just a missing person case” MM said, holding up a thin file fragment. “This is a Vought cleanup, through and through” Butcher looked over in a silent ‘ya think?’ like the judgy bastard he was. “They didn’t forget her– suckers lost her after Nicaragua”

Soldier Boy’s jaw tightened, not anger, in recognition. He could almost feel the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips– proud at you for getting the Hell outta there after what they did to him– for surviving. Though he quickly schooled it back to his stoic frustration.

Hughie frowned at the screen MM was working on. “Okay, so… if Vought scrubbed her, where do we even start?”

Butcher pointed at MM’s terminal without looking away from Soldier Boy. “Y’said Nicaragua”

MM hesitated. “That was like– what, 1980 something?”

“84” Soldier Boy said flatly.

“Right,” Hughie muttered. “So we’re looking for a forty-year-old coverup in a system designed to erase itself. Great”

Frenchie hummed, crouched near a cracked server rack. “Vought does not erase people unless they are inconvenient and our lady friend here seemed to be plenty inconvenient"

“That one word for it” Butcher scoffed.

Annie straightened slightly. “No. Look– this isn’t random. If she was involved in Payback and Nicaragua, she wouldn’t just disappear. She’d be classified, archived, locked under something deeper than all of this” She points vaguely at the files on screen.

MM looked up. “Like what?”

Starlight hesitated, then tapped the broken terminal screen. “Military subcontract records?”

The room went still for half a second. Soldier Boy finally moved– just a step forward. But enough to show his interest was piqued. “Then get in” He spoke in his usual gruffness.

Hughie blinked. “Into what exactly?”

“Whatever the fuck you need to” Ben replied. “Just get me the fuckin’ file”

Butcher exhaled through his nose. “You’re one helpful cunt, aren’t ya?”

Frenchie, meanwhile, was already plugging in a battered drive from his pocket. “There is a secondary archive route,” He spoke lightly, mainly towards Kimiko who was always half a step beside him. “Old Vought-Russian joint records. Very ugly interface, very secret”

MM stared at him. “You just carry that shit around?”

The French smiled. “I am a man of preparation” The screen flickered– once, twice– then a directory opened– glitching, half-corrupted, but alive.

PROJECT INDEX: NICARAGUA / 1984

Hughie leaned in. “That’s– that’s it, right?”

Soldier Boy was already behind them– watching, waiting. MM clicked the folder, the system lagged but finally loaded a single redacted line of text:

SUBJECT TRANSFER: CONFIRMED STATUS: MOVED EAST CLEARANCE: OBLITERATED

No one reacted, too busy trying to understand what the Hell all those cryptic words even meant. Then– the terminal flickered violently. An error screen flashed up.

ACCESS REVOKED

The entire system wiped itself in real time. Hughie swore nervously. “It’s deleting itself–”

“Yeah no shit!” MM instantly retorted, smashing buttons to try and stop the machine from eliminating all the evidence they had.

“Vought response protocol” Annie said quickly. “They know someone’s in the system– must be a security measure”

MM slammed the keyboard. “We just got flagged”

Butcher straightened. “Right then, that’s our cue to leave”

Frenchie already yanked the drive out. “We have approximately ninety seconds to get out of here, mon amis”

Hughie looked up. “Ninety seconds? Why ninety seconds–” Nobody bothered to answer his stupidly nervous questions, all of them already bolting out of the building and toward the van they’d left outside. At least they had a lead– East. The subject had moved East. The van doors slammed shut behind them as MM threw it into gear, tires screeching as they pulled away from the building like it was trying to swallow them whole. (It kinda was)

“Okay” Hughie said breathlessly, glancing back through the rear window. “Okay, so we’ve got East, we’ve got Queens, we’ve got– whatever that was– now what?” But Soldier Boy wasn’t listening, he sat forward slightly, elbows on knees and eyes fixed. Not at them– at the road ahead like it was narrowing into something only he could see. Hughie noticed it again. “You’re doing that thing where you get all quiet and honestly kind of terrifying”

No response. 

Butcher exhaled through his nose. “Right, so we’re just followin’ magic instinct now, ain’t that bloody lovely”

“Works better than whatever the fuck you cumguzzlers were doin’ ” Soldier Boy muttered. Hughie opened his mouth– then simply closed it again. Because there wasn’t really anything to argue with and he wasn’t about to piss off the same asshole that had been driving them crazy for almost a month. He’d seen what he did to those Payback members– and they were supes– he wasn’t about to test his luck.

The safe house wasn’t on any official map. Of course it wasn’t– wouldn’t be safe if it were. It sat tucked between older buildings, half-forgotten street, the kind of place people only noticed when really looking for it. The van rolled to a stop a block away. Hughie swallowed. “Okay… so this is it?” No answer. Soldier Boy was already out of the van before anyone else spoke again. “Hey! Wait–” Hughie scrambled after him. “We don’t even know if she’s–”

But he stopped mid-sentence. Because the door was already open. Not forced, not broken. Just… not locked the way it should’ve been.

Frenchie frowned. “That is not a good sign”

MM stepped in behind him slowly. “Yeah. That’s a ‘someone knows we’re coming’ kind of sign” Inside was too quiet. Not empty– quiet in the wrong way, like someone was holding their breath and waiting. A chair was slightly turned, a blanket half-folded, a mug still warm enough to feel wrong.

Annie’s voice dropped. “She was here recently”

Hughie looked around, uneasy. “Like… recently recently?”

Before anyone could answer– the back door slammed open– hard and violent. “Now you motherfuckers better stay the Hell still before I blow your brains off” Your voice came from behind them, the unmistakable sound of a gun’s safety clicking off echoing through the room.

MM went rigid, hands already raised in surrender. “Okay– okay, nobody move” Butcher muttered some unintelligible curse under his breath while Annie opted for the usual: “We’re not here to hurt you” As if these half-wits could even nick your V1 powered skin.

You didn’t answer– not yet. Because your eyes had already locked onto something, the center of the group– the one person who wasn’t reacting like the rest. The one who didn’t turn fast. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for anything. Just… stood there. Broad shoulders, familiar posture, that suit– Your stomach dropped before your brain caught up. No. No, that’s not–

Hughie finally twisted enough to see you. “Okay– hi– we can explain–”

“Don’t” You snapped instantly, eyes never leaving Soldier Boy even while speaking to the rest of the group. The gun didn’t move off them, but your attention wasn’t really on them anymore– it was on him. “…Got to be kidding me” You spoke slowly. The words weren’t loud, yet they still cut through everything.

Soldier Boy didn’t react immediately– didn't speak– just turned his head slightly. Enough for you to see him fully.

“You’re not him” You spoke, jaw tight. The words lack conviction even to your own ears. But you weren’t about to risk it– Vought had already tried to catch you with some Shapeshifter asshole posing as the man you loved.

Soldier Boy finally spoke. Flat and controlled– unhurried in that way he always used with you, even back then while telling you not to worry about Payback’s intentions. “Put the gun down” That only made your expression sharpen. Because that voice, that tone? It’d been years since you heard it.

“No” You repeated, quieter now. “No, Vought does not get to pull this shit again– I killed the first motherfucker I ain’t scared to do it twice”

Butcher let out a low whistle. “Oh, this is personal”

Annie glanced between you and him, tension rising. “Wait– what is she talking about?” You didn’t answer– couldn’t. Because Soldier Boy took one step forward. Just one and the room shifted instantly. Your finger tightened over the trigger. (Even if a bullet wouldn’t do shit to him he still stopped you)

“Easy on the artillery, Rambo” That teasing– that shameless taunt, even in the face of danger– that couldn’t possibly be another sick trick. That was Ben, your Ben.

You let out a shaky exhale, gun finally lowering and completely forgotten by your side. “...No shit” A step closer to him. “Ben?”

The name sat in the air like it didn’t fully belong there yet. Soldier Boy didn’t answer right away, just looked at you, like he was trying to decide if reacting too quickly would make you disappear as if reaching into smoke. “Yeah” He replied, voice gruff but softer than before. Something in your posture finally cracked– not dramatically, not all at once– just enough that your shoulders dropped like you’d been holding them up for the last forty years.

You stepped closer to him, when you were close enough– your voice dropped. “…I thought I’d lost you” Something flickered in his eyes at that, not quite vulnerability yet but understanding.

“Yeah” He repeated, quieter this time. “You and me both, doll”

Suddenly you stepped forward and hit his chest with your free hand. Not hard enough to hurt him, but definitely hard enough to mean it. “You fucking idiot” You blurted out. The Boys all stiffened like they’d just watched you spit in his face. Soldier Boy didn’t even react defensively, just looked down at you with the quiet endearment one might look at a puppy trying to misbehave– adorable even when biting his ankles. “Fucking told you something was weird– that those assholes were doing something”

“Didn’t shut up about it” He scoffs, a hint of fondness to his words despite the asshole-ish essence that always seemed to accompany his words.

That almost pulled a laugh out of you– almost. Instead, your expression twisted somewhere between relief and frustration. “Could’ve listened…” You muttered.

He huffed once– barely a laugh, rough around the edges. “Didn’t exactly feel like feeding into your worries, sweetheart” Your expression tightened again– less anger this time, more like reluctantly amused disbelief.

“Oh, so you just decided being blown up n’ dragged to Russia was a better plan?”

One corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough to feel dangerous.

“Yeah well, you’re welcome, by the way” That finally dragged something out of you– a short, breathy laugh that sounded half offended, half relieved you could still make that sound at all. At that sound, Ben finally pulls you into him, strong arms holding you against his chest. You should fight it– go off at him a bit longer– instead, you melt into it, hands clasping into the fabric of his back. Too many years waiting for this moment.

“You’re heavier” You muttered into him in an attempt to ease some of the vulnerability and emotional tension. (You were not going to cry in front of a bunch of strangers)

“Thank the fuckin’ reds for that” That almost made you laugh again. Almost. God you’d missed him.

Behind you, someone cleared their throat again. Hughie– very small, very careful. “So…” He started awkwardly. “Is this… like a reunion thing? Or are we still in danger? Because I can do either, I just need to know where I’m at”

MM muttered, “We are always in danger”

But Ben didn’t let go. Not even slightly– completely ignoring the people behind him and fully focusing on you in his arms again. His hand shifted once at the small of your back. Subtle and grounding– like checking you were still real under his fingers. “You good?” He asked quietly.

That alone made your chest tighten again. “…Yeah” You admitted after a moment. Then, more honestly. “Not really– but better now”

That earned a faint huff from him. Approval, almost. “Y’always were dramatic”

“You died” You shot back immediately.

“Didn’t stick”

You nodded once against his chest.

“…Don’t do that again” You muttered, only for him to hear.

“No promises”

You lifted your head slightly just enough to glare at him. That got a real smirk this time.

And then, finally, you let out a breath that sounded like you’d been holding it since 1984. “Asshole” You scoffed, pressing your face back into his broad chest.

The first thing Soldier Boy learned about you was that you talked too damn much. The second was that you had absolutely no sense of self-preservation. “Y’know” You said, arms crossed as he stood in front of the motel vending machine he’d just punched open. “Most people just use money”

He scoffed, not even looking up from the mountain of spilled food and drinks. “Well sweetheart, most people aren’t me” His voice was gruff, dismissive and sarcastic.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You raised an eyebrow, eyeing the crushed metal hanging from the vending machine. He finally looked at you then– really looked. Young, mouthy, absolutely zero fear in your eyes despite the fact he’d just punched through solid metal like it was cardboard. Most people backed off. Instead? You crossed your arms harder.

“Y’know” You repeated. “Usually when giant, random men get caught destroying private property they at least pretend to feel bad”

“Giant?” He echoed in a scoff, almost offended.

“Okay, normal-sized”

His jaw ticked. “Y’always this annoyin’?”

“Only around criminals” You retort, though it lacked any real heat.

He let out a humorless laugh, grabbing a bag of chips from the mess at his feet. “Lady, if I was a criminal, trust me” He pointed at the shattered machine with the chip bag. “You’d know”

“Pretty sure I can already for my assumptions” You huff, pointedly looking at the shattered machine. For a second, neither of you moved– then he tossed a candy bar at your chest, which you caught instinctively.

“Congratulations” He muttered through a mouthful of food. “Now you’re ‘n accomplice”

You stared at it. “…Did you just bribe me with chocolate?”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

Three months later, Soldier Boy learned one final thing about you– you were his fucking favorite person in this whole weird, shitty, modern world.

“You forgot eggs”

“Sweetheart, I didn’t forget to buy the goddamn eggs”

“You absolutely forgot eggs”

He dropped the grocery bag onto the tiny motel counter with a heavy thud, already looking annoyed despite slowly realizing he most definitely did forget the eggs. Even after you’d told him around three hundred times, plus left him a little note by the fridge. “There are eggs” He doubles down with a gruff grumble.

You reached into the bag– silence. Then slowly pulled out a six-pack of beer. “…Benjamin” It’s almost funny the way you call his name like a disappointed mother despite him being a man-sized war machine.

His jaw tightened instantly. “Don’t start”

“You said you were going to the store for groceries”

“That’s groceries” He huffs defensively, grabbing one of the beers and using it to gesture vaguely at the bags.

“That is begging for cirrhosis”

“S’called dinner”

You stared at him, to which he simply stared back. Somehow, despite being one of the most terrifying men alive, Soldier Boy had developed the unfortunate habit of looking vaguely guilty whenever you gave him that look. The one with your arms crossed– the one that said ‘you’re being an idiot’ without the need for any words to actually leave your mouth.

“You forgot actual food” You deadpanned, a reluctant hint of amusement stubbornly tugging at the corners of your mouth.

He huffed, already digging through the bags again. “Relax, sweetheart” A loaf of bread hit the counter, then peanut butter, cereal, takeout containers. (Huh, so that’s what you smelled when he stepped in) And–after a second of suspicious hesitation– your favorite snacks.

You blinked. “…You got these for me?”

Ben shrugged too quickly. “Were there” He replies gruffly, taking a sip of the beer on his hand to try and busy himself with anything other than making eye contact with you.

“Ben”

“What?” The smile tugging at your mouth only made his eyes narrow further. “Don’t make a thing outta it” You walked over anyway, slipping your arms around his middle before he could complain. At first, he went stiff– not because he disliked it. But because three months later, getting your honest affection for these small, simple things still caught him off-guard.

“You’re secretly sweet” You mumbled into his shirt.

“Watch your mouth” He scoffs as if you’d just personally insulted him instead of calling your boyfriend sweet.

“You love me”

He scoffed automatically once more. “Debatable”

“Grumpy old man” You chuckle softly into his chest– already knowing him and the fact that despite his gruff words, he really did care deeply for you. His rough hands settled on the small of your back, pulling you even closer to him and placing a kiss to the top of your head.

The thing about loving Soldier Boy was that trouble had a habit of finding him. Sometimes it looked small– a busted nose, blood on his knuckles that didn’t belong to him, the occasional bruised rib he’d wave off with a muttered. “M’fine”  Which you only accepted as an answer because he’d heal in a couple hours. Though sometimes it looked bigger– long nights spent staring too hard out the window, phone calls he wouldn’t/couldn’t explain (those were especially weird given his relationship with technology) that familiar tension in his shoulders– the kind that made him look like he was waiting for something ugly to happen.

You noticed, of course you noticed, Ben wasn’t exactly subtle after all. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

Your boyfriend barely looked up from where he sat at the edge of the bed, cleaning dried blood from his hands. “Nothin’ ” He replied in a low grunt.

“Benjamin”

His jaw tightened. God, he hated when you used that tone– the one that said ‘I know you’re lying’ and you weren’t willing to play along right now.

“Just business”

You stared at his broad back, shoulders taught and fabric stretching over his muscles. “Your business usually involves property damage ‘n at least a couple deaths”

“Yeah?” He finally looked over at you. “And?”

“And I live here too, asshole” Sure, the words were harsh– but he knew it came from your love and care for him. So it made something in him soften, just for a second. Because somehow– despite all the reasons you shouldn’t– you still said we when talking about y’all’s future. Like this shitty little motel room was home. Like he was a part of it. Ben stood with a quiet sigh, moving toward you until his hands settled on the sides of your face automatically.

“Sweetheart–” He muttered, rough thumb brushing the apple of your cheek with far too much tenderness from a man like him. “ –just gotta handle somethin’ ”

Your stomach sank instantly. “How long?” He hesitated. He hesitated and that was enough of an answer– too long. “Ben…”

“I’ll be back” Quiet, quick, rehearsed. The same tone that showed he’d been practicing the speech, just as much to convince himself as to reassure you. And for the first time in months, something heavy squeezed your chest.

“You promise?”

His expression shifted. Tiny, almost unreadable– but enough. Enough to make your chest tighten even more, because Soldier Boy wasn’t a liar but he wasn’t good at promises either.

Still: “Yeah” He said finally, voice rough. “Promise” Then, softer– smaller. “C’mon, doll” A kiss to your forehead. His warm hands still cradling your face. “Really think m’gon let some bullshit keep me from comin’ back to you?”

Ben never came back.

At first, that didn’t mean much– not really. Because Soldier Boy disappeared sometimes, a couple hours here, a few days there. Coming back with bruised knuckles, blood on his clothes and some gruff excuse about business before collapsing into bed beside you like nothing happened. So the first week? You waited– kept the motel lamp on, ignored the knot in your stomach every time headlights passed outside, half expected the door to swing open and for him to walk in smelling like smoke and beer, muttering something about traffic before stealing half your dinner like he owned the place. The second week hurt more. The third made you angry, because if there was one thing Ben had never done, one thing– was break a promise to you of all people.

By the time a month struck, the people from your motel started giving you pity-looks. It almost drove you crazy, frustration and hurt mixing inside your chest. Because they didn’t know him. They didn’t know the way he’d started sleeping in bed instead of the couch just to be closer to you, they didn’t know he remembered your coffee order despite saying it was ‘modern bullshit, coffee's coffee’ under his breath, they didn’t know the stupid habit he had of picking you up at random times. They didn’t know the way he’d looked at you before he left– like he meant it. Like he fully intended to come home.

So you waited.

Until waiting started feeling stupid. Then embarrassing. Then downright painful.

Eventually, life moved anyway– bills still had to be paid, groceries still had to be bought and things still had to be done. The shitty motel still smelled vaguely like cigarette smoke and something distinctly Ben no matter how much time passed.

Time kept passing. But forgetting him? That never happened. You still bought his stupid brand of booze without thinking, kept it in the fridge ‘just in case’, still caught yourself reaching for his side of the bed during bad nights, still paused whenever someone on the street laughed too loud or walked too heavy. Still looked up. Just in case, even when you knew better, that it’d been almost two years.

What you never learned– could have never learned– was that Ben had tried to keep his promise until the last moment. Right up until they put him back in that fucking box.

The first thing Soldier Boy thought about after getting out– after the smoke, after the blood, after the betrayal, after waking up to another version of a world that somehow looked even uglier than before– was you.

Not revenge or Butcher, not even the fucked-up mess of family drama they’d suddenly dumped onto him.

You.

Because somewhere between motel vending machines, shitty takeout dinners, somewhere between your smart mouth and your habit of stealing his shirts– you’d become his home. And if there was one thing Ben had learned in his unfairly long life? It was that home didn’t come around twice. So the second he had enough breathing room, he left. Didn’t tell anyone– couldn’t be bothered to explain himself. He remembered the motel by mere muscle memory. Three left turns off the highway and he could already see that shitty flickering sign, the vending machine out front they’d replaced after the first one was ‘mysteriously wrecked’.

You were gonna be pissed. Probably yell at him, call him an asshole. Maybe throw something at him. Nah, you wouldn’t go that far. Though honestly? It would’ve been fair because you’d waited. He knew you waited. And yeah, the whole promise thing sat ugly in his chest. But he was here now– that counted for something, didn’t it?

A stranger stood behind the front desk, younger than the last guy who used to work there. “Lookin’ for somebody” The kid barely glanced up, clearly bored from this awful job.

“Room number?”

His jaw ticked instantly before replying a gruff: “31”

The teenager looked up, finally facing him. “What’s the name?” Ben hesitated, but when he said it, the kid behind the counter went quiet. Too quiet. “Oh…” Ben stilled at his tone. The kid shifted awkwardly. “You knew her?”

Ben’s stomach turned, weak enough to annoy him. “Yeah” He replied slowly, jaw tight. “Knew her”

The kid hesitated. “Like… recently?”

“What kinda stupid fuckin’ question is that?”

The teenager shifted awkwardly. “No, I just–” He stopped and glanced toward the front windows like someone might be listening. Huh, weird kid. “She used to stay in room 31–” The kid said carefully. “ –she was there for a long time”

“Still does” He corrects him gruffly.

Something uncomfortable flickered across the clerk’s face. “No” He replied quietly. “I mean, not anymore”

Ben frowned. “Listen kid, I ain’t got time for all this cryptic bullshit– what the Hell’s that supposed to mean?”

The worker shifts awkwardly under Soldier Boy’s scrutiny. (To be fair, it was a pretty intimidating presence…)

“She was waiting for somebody” The kid pauses, searching for the right words. “She talked about him sometimes–” He continued awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “ –big guy, an asshole apparently” A beat. “But like…” He hesitated. “Kind of in a fond way?” Ben almost scoffed. Almost. “She stayed here a long time, wouldn’t leave just in case the guy came back”

Something ugly twisted in Ben’s chest. “How long?” The kid named all the months you’d been there– too many, way too fucking many. Long enough to make his stomach drop, long enough to make the guilt hit all at once. Because you waited. Christ on a cross– you actually waited. His jaw tightened hard enough to ache. “Where’s she now?”

The kid went quiet again. Once again, too quiet. “She…” He started carefully– another glance toward the windows, toward the cameras. “You probably shouldn’t ask too many questions”

That got Ben’s attention instantly. “The Hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“She said some stuff”

“What fuckin’ stuff?” He insisted, the gruffness of his voice only increasing by the second. This conversation was quickly burning through whatever little patience he had.

The clerk swallowed. “Y’know… About him” Pause. “Homelander” Something cold settled beneath Ben’s ribs at the name– of course it got something to do with that pathetic excuse of a human being. “She got angry one day–” The kid said quietly. “ –some rally thing on the news, people cheering and all” He shifted again. “Guess she just… snapped” Ben didn’t move, his jaw was hurting by now– he always knew you talked too damn much and it would eventually get you in trouble. “She said everybody needed to stop pretending he was a God” The kid laughed nervously, humorless. “Said people were stupid for cheering while everything kept getting worse right in front of our faces” Another pause. “She got loud” Ben already hated where this was going. “Somebody reported it, they were probably scared, y’know?”

The room felt drastically smaller. “What happened?”

The kid hesitated, before whispering a nervous: “They took her”

Ben blinked once, slow– completely and utterly confused. “Took her where?”

The clerk looked visibly uncomfortable now. “You really don’t know?” No answer, just that terrifying stillness, the kind that came before a storm. “There are camps…?” He pauses to check if Ben’s following the conversation. “For people who…” He trailed off. “People who say the wrong thing”

Ben always used to say your mouth would get you into trouble– usually after you’d mouthed off to somebody twice your size, started an argument you absolutely didn’t need to be having, or corrected him when he was being particularly insufferable. “One day, sweetheart” He’d mutter, cigarette hanging lazily from his lips. “That smart mouth’s gonna get ya killed” To which you’d always replied: “Worth it” Turns out he’d been half right.

The camp had taught you many things. How to sleep through shouting, how to eat food without tasting it, how to keep your head down, how to stay quiet. That one still felt cruel, because if there was one thing you’d always been– it was loud. Loud opinions, loud laughter. Loud enough to annoy Soldier Boy into rolling his eyes while secretly smiling into his beer. Now? Barely spoke unless necessary. Funny what survival could beat out of a person. You hated that the most– how easy it had become. Eyes down “Yes, sir” or  “No, ma’am” Move when told, stand where instructed, don’t complain about the Homelander mandatory merch-uniform, eat what they gave you, ignore the screaming when somebody disappears, ignore the whispers, ignore the fear– just survive. That was the rule, survival over dignity. Even if some days you weren’t entirely sure there was much of a difference anymore.

The kitchen was quieter than usual, nobody wanted to draw attention over to them. You scrubbed absentmindedly at a pan, mind somewhere else. (Again) It happened more often lately– thinking too much. Mostly thinking about him. Stupid. Almost two years of no explanation, no proper goodbye, no nothing. And somehow– you still caught yourself going back to those memories more often than not, out of habit– like he’d walk through the door any second and scoff something about how ‘you’re gettin’ all sappy n’me now?’ in that gravelly voice of his.

God that still stung. Because grief would’ve been easier, grief meant certainty, it meant closure. This? This was just waiting with no ending in sight.

“You” The sharp voice cut through your thoughts like a bucket of ice water– guard. You straightened automatically.

“Sorry” The apology left before you could stop it. Fuck everything– you used to hate apologizing.

“You’re late”

You glanced at the clock– thirty seconds. They were calling you out for a mere thirty fucking seconds. “Won’t happen again” Somewhere deep down, you swore you could hear Ben’s voice in your head– low, gruff and fond– mock offended per usual: Jesus Christ, doll. Since when d’you let people talk to ya like that?

The address came from the kid behind the counter, secret like saying it too loud might get him in trouble too. Ben barely remembered leaving the motel, barely remembered the drive, didn’t even remember half the roads– just the sound of that teenager’s stupid sentence looping in his head: ‘People who say the wrong thing’ 

Christ. He always told you that mouth of yours was gonna get you in trouble. But he never thought the trouble would look like this– miles outside the city. Middle of bumfuck nowhere, fences too tall, barbed wire, watchtowers– the whole shabang. The kind of place meant to make people feel small before they even stepped a foot inside. The place looked wrong– wrong in a way he couldn’t immediately explain. And for Soldier Boy to give a fuck? It had to be one awful shitshow. Places packed with this many people weren’t supposed to be quiet, even prison yards made noise for God’s sake. Fights, arguments, people bitching just to hear themselves talk. But here? Nothing. Just silence, heavy silence, the kind that sat ugly in your chest.

Everybody moved the same. Eyes down, quick, stay small. Like taking up space was synonymous to signing a death sentence. Ben hated it instantly because fear smelled familiar. And this place? Reeked of it. He walked closer. Nobody stopped him. (Probably because no one in their right mind stopped Soldier Boy) Much less when he looked like this, all broad shoulders and expression carved from stone– that particular look in his eyes that screamed 'bad idea’ without the need for words.

A whistle sounded somewhere across the compound, sharp and immediate. People moved fast– lines forming with the kind of speed that only came from familiar punishment. Christ on a cross. Even soldiers bitched more than this, Ben’s jaw ticked.

One guy stumbled near the mess hall– couldn’t have been older than twenty. Guard shoved him hard enough to send him crashing into a wall without a single glance. “Move” He barked.

The kid apologized instantly. Instantly for God’s sake. “Sorry, sir” Didn’t even sound angry, just tired. Ben felt something unpleasant crawl up his spine, because apologies like that? Didn’t happen naturally– they got taught– beaten in. Nearby, somebody coughed. Bad, wet, concerning and still nobody looked over nor reacted. Like helping people wasn’t worth the risk and they already weighed out their options– surviving mattered more. The realization pissed him off more than it should’ve. What kind of place taught people to stop caring?

He hadn’t noticed the uniforms. Gray and Homelanders ugly mug plastered across the front, the American flag on the back. (That last part he could get behind– the whole ego stroking merchandise? No fucking way) Everyone was dressed the same, stripped down until individuality barely existed.

He was snapped out of it when another guard near the kitchen barked something– making a worker freeze, their head dropping instantly. “Sorry” They’d replied– quiet, automatic. Ben barely looked at first, thinking it was just another exhausted person in a line of exhausted people.

Then something in him stopped– hard and dramatic in his ridiculously large frame. No. No fucking way. Because you… You weren’t supposed to look like that. Not quiet, not small, not– The guard said something else, too fast to hear. You just nodded. “Won’t happen again” Soft, careful, obedient.

Ben went completely still– because somewhere in the back of his mind, he could still hear your laugh, could still see your arms crossed, mouth running.

“Most people use money”

“Grumpy old man”

“Worth it”

And now? Now you looked down when people talked to you. His chest rumbled and squeezed with guilt, frustration and hurt. It wasn’t one of his full blown chest-blasts, but it was pretty goddamn close. Nobody should have you looking like that– not even him for fuck’s sake. For a second– a terrifying, unfamiliar second– Ben couldn’t move. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he genuinely didn’t know what the fuck to do.

You looked thinner.

Christ.

Not dramatically– not enough for somebody who didn’t know you to notice. But he knew you. Knew the softness that used to sit in your cheeks, knew the way your face scrunched when you laughed too hard, knew the stubborn set of your shoulders whenever you were about to argue over something stupid. This version of you looked tired– like the world had been chewing on you for too damn long. And the worst fucking part? You looked alone. Not the normal kind either– not the kind fixed by a hug or an evening of bad television. No. It was the kind that settled into your bones. The kind people were forced to learn to live with. Something ugly shifted in his chest because this? This wasn’t the girl who used to steal cigarettes from his pack just to hide them around his stuff, wasn’t the girl who’d laughed loud enough to make motel neighbors write noise complaints– wasn’t the girl who’d stood in front of a six-foot-plus superhuman and called him a criminal to his face the first time they met. This version of you apologized, that alone was enough to me his jaw clench so hard it hurt.

The guard stepped closer. “You deaf?” He snapped. “Move faster”

You nodded, gaze still lost on the task you were busy with. “Sorry”

Sorry? Again? Ben felt something hot crawl up his spine.

But then the guard grabbed your arm– not hard enough to leave damage, but rough enough. Possessive enough. Like he could, like he thought nobody would stop him. “C’mon” The man barked. “Quit standing around looking stupid”

Something inside Soldier Boy went violently still. Because there aren’t many things Ben tolerates just from principle alone. Assholes? Thin line. Power trips? Try to ignore them. People being cruel because deep down they were weak and pathetic? Seen it before. But touching what was his? After two years? After you waited for him? After somebody turned you into– no. Absolutely fucking not.

The guard barely had time to blink before a hand wrapped around the back of his collar and yanked up into the air, pulling him away from you and crowding him into the opposite wall instead. “What the–”

Ben looked down at him, jaw tight and gaze sharp enough to make grown, adult men piss themselves. “Lemme ask you somethin’ ” His voice came low, dangerously calm. “The fuck makes you think y’get to put your lanky fuckin’ hands’n her?” The guard sputtered uselessly in the supe’s grip, boots kicking helplessly in an attempt to touch the floor. “You deaf or stupid?” Ben asked flatly, echoing the guard’s earlier words to you while crowding him harder into the wall. “Wasn’t a rhetorical question”

You froze too– not because of the yelling– that was more than normal inside these cursed fucking walls. Because… No. No fucking way– that voice. Low, gravelly, rough around the edges like cigarettes, bad decisions and wrapped in something heavy, deep. Your stomach dropped so fast it hurt.

The guard finally found his words, choking out a pathetic: “Let go–”

“Think m’good right here” The man’s feet barely touched the floor.

You still hadn’t looked up. Correction, couldn’t. Because grief did ugly things to people. Sometimes it made you hear familiar voices in crowds, made strangers laugh like somebody you missed, made hope feel cruel. And you learned– painfully, not to trust cruel things.

“Please” The guard snapped, trying to regain whatever pathetic authority he thought he had despite the pathetic little kicks of his legs, dangling in the air.

Ben laughed once– humorless and mean. “Kid, I can do whatever the fuck I want”

Now that definitely wasn’t grief. That wasn’t just a ‘kinda similar voice’ that was actually, one hundred percent your man. Only he could be this smug and full of himself while inside a literal, violence ridden camp.

“Ben?”

The sound of your voice was enough for him to let the guard fall back to the ground, the man stumbling to regain his composure before scurrying off. Ben’s muscle memory already responding to your presence, even after all this time. “Doll” He muttered, voice rough but somehow still impossibly soft in that way he always saved just for talking to you. “M’sorry m’late”  You don’t even listen to his apology, simply crashing into him– your face finding its place in his broad chest, arms wrapping around him as if to anchor yourself into this moment. Solid, warm, real. Your fingers curled harder into the fabric of his suit, tight enough to wrinkle it like if you loosened your hold even a little? He’d disappear again.

Ben barely got his arms around you before something in his chest caved clean in.

Christ.

You were shaking.

Not dramatic movie scene sobbing– worse, small, quiet– the kind of shaking that came from holding themselves together for too damn long. “Hey” His voice dropped automatically, rough hands cradling your face, pulling you back just enough to look at your eyes. “Easy, doll…”

That almost did it all over again.

Because easy?

Easy used to mean motel beds and stolen shirts. Grocery store arguments over eggs and ‘real food’ comments. Him chomping down on whatever food you didn’t finish.

Easy used to mean him.

And suddenly your throat hurt with two years worth of unshed tears and unsaid words. “You said–” The words came out broken, embarrassingly small. “ –you said you were coming back”

Ben went still. Fuck. Out of all the things he expected– yelling, crying, maybe hitting him if you felt particularly brave. This? This had never been an option in his mind– not your voice sounding like it physically hurt to say it. “I know, sweetheart, I know” Three stupid words were too small to make up for the past two years. “Tried” His words were quiet and honest, rough around the edges in that way he sounded when trying to be vulnerable. “Sweetheart, swear t’God I tried”

When your eyes finally cleared out enough to look at him– he was still broad, still impossible, still looked like he belonged in old war posters– still Ben. But then your gaze dropped instinctively when shouting came from nearby. A guard. Shit. You stepped back automatically, months of this living Hell already woven into your reactions. “Sorry” You blurted before you could stop yourself.

Ben frowned instantly. “What the Hell’re y’apologizing for?”

Silence.

Your shoulders shrugged inward without thinking– not even sure of the answer yourself. Something dark crossed his face.

Because there it was again– that thing this place had done to you– the way you folded into yourself, the way your eyes had dropped, the way sorry kept coming out of your mouth as natural as breathing. Someone had taught you that, beaten it into you. Ben’s hand moved back to your jaw before he even thought about it– thumb tilting your face up, gentle despite the rage already simmering beneath his ribs. “Nah” His voice came quieter now, careful not to spook you now that he’d seen just how deep the wounds went. “We ain’t doin’ that anymore”

“Sweetie I don’t know what you mean?” His voice filled with confusion. His hands were running through your hair rougher now.

You signed deeply. “A wormmmm…..like from the ground.” Your eyes rolling like you couldn’t believe he didn’t understand you. You pushed up from his lap to turn around and face him head on.

His eyes were shimmery and the usual smirk that was spread across his face was gone and instead replaced by one of worry. He moved toward you grabbing your hand. “My love that’s not going to happen.” He patted your hand as he enunciated each word.

“But would you still love me.” You whined at him pulling your hand from his as you turned away trying to hide your smile. The couch inched across the floor at how fast he moved toward you.

“Hey, hey don’t think like that. Don’t ever think like that. I’ll always love you. You’re mine.” His words stumbling while wrapping his big arms around your chest holding you in place. You could hear his heart beating rapidly. “Don’t ever think that I won’t love you.” His voice shaking as he spoke.

You could hear the tears that were forming in his eyes as he thought of loosing you. The shakiness in his voice only happen when something involved you. His love. His one and only. but you still carried on with your little game.

“But I want you to love me as a worm too.” You pulled at his bicep trying to get him to unhand you. He let up only to turn you around and hold you to his chest tightly your breath knocked from you lungs at the force.

“I’d love you no matter what, even if you were a worm.” He hugged you tightly like he wouldn’t be able to ever do so again.

You settled against him tucking your head under his chin. “Would you keep me in your pocket? So I could like go with you places?” It was beginning to get harder to hide the sarcasm in your voice but you held strong.

Dex’s body started to lightly shake. “Baby I can’t keep you in my pocket. You’ll need to have soil and plant life and water and food.” He stumbled through the words like he was serious about this all.

“But I wanna be in your pocket!” You whined attempting to turn back away from him but you only made it halfway. Your head kept at an odd angle looking up at him. “I wanna go with you! Everywhere…”. You said pouting.

“Baby please…please your scaring me.” Dexs eyes pooling with tears daring to spill over. “It will be okay but you couldn’t live in my pocket. You would get brain damage from all the movement. Besides I will do my best to provide you the perfect house for a worm.” He smiled at the last sentence like he truly believed you were going to become a worm.

“Brain dead!” You yelled trying to push away from him.

Dex reached for your hands pulling them down onto his lap, his calloused thumbs rubbing fast circles into your palms.

“Baby I’ll take care of you. Please don’t think I’d ever put you in danger. Even if…even if you were a worm.” He stuttered over the last line. “I’ll keep you safe like always. I’ll always love you. You are my mine forever.” His beautiful tears he was holding back finally spilled over. Sliding down his chiseled cheeks and across the scars.

A smile spread over your face and you stretched your fingers out to wipe away the tears that were now flowing freely. “Okay! That’s all I wanted to know!” You exclaimed throwing your arms around him into a tight hug. His body was tight and it took him a moment to lean into your embrace. You could feel he was still slightly crying. The tremor in his body still rocking through him and now yours.

“What just happened?” Dex asked with shaky breath letting his arms wrap around you.

You sighed and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

She narrows her eyes, looking contemplative. “I highly doubt the CIA is having a sniper offing little kids in some random village. You said he was crazy good at his job. Hey, maybe he had something to do with that senator who got stabbed a couple weeks ago—the one who got caught at a club full of underaged girls.”

Well, certainly no one would mourn him.

Your friend wraps her lips carefully around her thin, black straw, finishing off her cocktail before turning to look at the bartender a few feet away. Like a natural gossip, she adds, “I heard it was a playing card that did it—Excuse me!” She tilts her head and lifts up her empty glass. “I want another one of these.”

Despite only having a view of the back of her black-haired head, you can picture the sweet, girlish smile playing on her lips—playing him, pupils expanding across her eyes like a full black moon in a hazel sky.

The handsome ginger bartender blinks at her, cracking a whipped smile, and stops in the middle of making the cocktail currently in his hands to start working on hers. The guy whose drink gets abandoned huffs, swearing under his breath. Bitch.

“Are you gonna pay for it this time?” you whisper, looking at the back of her head very pointedly.

Without turning her head, she says, “Oh, and another Malibu Bay Breeze for my friend!”

You haven’t even finished the drink you’ve been nursing for the better part of the hour, too wrapped up in concern over your seven-week-old relationship and moving around imaginary sticky notes on the pros and cons list in your head. Unafraid of danger has been moving between pro and con like a child of divorce and ongoing custody battles for the last week.

“Don’t worry.” Stacey finally turns around, lowering her voice to a whisper with that grin you’d imagined. “The owner is a dickhead who cheated on his husband. We’re doing his husband a service by not handing them our hard-earned cash.”

“Other people do work here, y’know.”

“And they’re also all dickheads.” She pouts prettily, cherry red nails thrumming songs against her new glass. “They fired my favorite bartender after he punched the guy that I told you was harassing me a few weeks ago.”

“Well, then why are even we here?”

“The drinks are good.”

“But I thought they fired your favorite bartender?”

Her smile turns wicked. “He’s not my favorite because he makes good drinks.”

You chuckle, joking, “Well, is he big?”

Stacey blows a low whistle, eyes shining. “The biggest.”

“Text me when you head out tomorrow, ‘kay?” Stacey calls from the bottom of the steps leading up to the entrance of your brownstone. Her hands are shoved into the pockets of her trench coat to shield off the biting night. “Those bottomless mimosas better be bottomless.”

You snort, hand stuffed into your bag to blindly fish out your house keys. “Getting plastered by two o’clock is one way to spend a Sunday. How’d you even get a table? That place is so fancy, I thought it was booked for the next two months.”

Ugh, they’ve gotta be somewhere, maybe wedged between your wallet and your phone. You bring your bag closer to your face, staring down into the miserable abyss rather than the bottom of a purse.

Stacey shrugs. “I made a quick call and asked.”

You peer over the bag’s top zipper, eyes saying, Fat chance.

“Okay, so I did ask!” She holds up her pale hands defensively. “But they said they were full, so I told her to add a table for us.”

“You told a poor, probably underpaid hostess to add extra seats to the restaurant? Don’t tell me you got her fired.”

“No, I asked the owner,” she corrects you. Like it’s obvious. “She happened to be there when I was calling. Hey, at least I didn’t take anyone’s reservation.”

You sigh, trying to figure out whether you’re more exasperated by her antics or your inability to find your damn house keys that are definitely in your bag. Somewhere. You had double, triple-checked before you even stepped foot out of your bedroom this morning.

“Aha!”

You feel the familiar ridges of metal, but before you can even pull them out, Dex swings open the door to your apartment building.

“Dex?” You stare up at him, wide-eyed, mouth gaping dumbly like a drunken fish. “What are you doing here?”

He holds up a set of keys, identical to the one you were about to pull from your bag like a rabbit out of a magic hat like you were Mary Poppins.

“You asked me to fix your A/C,” he reminds you, left arm still crossed against his chest. “I was just waiting for you to come home.”

“Oh, I forgot.”

He smiles, making his crow’s feet more noticeable, to which your unbeating heart betrays you and performs a somersault like a professional gymnast. “Who’s your friend?”

Stacey appears next to you in an instant, and you can feel the excitement oozing from her pores at the chance to finally meet your elusive, assassin (Alleged assassin!) boyfriend.

“Hi, I don’t believe we’ve met.” For a vampire, she grins awfully like a fox. “I’m Stacey, this one’s best friend.”

“Dex, this one’s boyfriend.” He shakes the eager, freezing hand she offers him. “Nice to finally meet you.”

She grins, appreciating him matching her abnormally firm handshake. Unafraid of strong women, she notes pleasantly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Not that much,” you mumble under your cold breath.

“Likewise,” Dex lies.

You’re private, extremely private. Boyfriends don’t tend to stick around when they find out their partner’s heart atrophied around the time they were in diapers. And drinks blood like it’s water. For some reason, the latter tends to be more of a dealbreaker among the New York City dating pool. But so what? It’s not a crime to be a private person. Maybe to Stacey, it is. You’ve been attached at the hip for nearly thirty years, so she’d expect to be more than Nameless Friend in your dating life. You’re grateful for the save anyway.

“Okay, it’s freezing, and I have twelve drinks in me. We can do the whole best friend-hazing-boyfriend talk another day.” You lean into Dex almost like an instinct, your body already preparing to fall into his comforting embrace before your brain can catch up. You bid her goodbye, a quick Text me when you get home!

“Text me when you get some—Ow!” Stacey yelps, scurrying off, stilettos clacking against the concrete.

Together, you step into the warmth of your building with the kind of familiarity that makes you wonder when Dex began to feel so natural in your rather lonely life. He places his hand on the small of your back while you make the short trek to the elevator, and your body betrays you again by shivering. You glance at him in your peripheral, taking in his strong profile. He’s so handsome, it makes your head hurt sometimes. Or maybe that’s the alcohol squeezing your lungs, cutting the already small amount of oxygen that circulates to your brain.

You don’t know how you didn’t smell his musky scent earlier while you looked for your keys for half a century. It’s so strong that you should’ve gotten a whiff five blocks down the street. Maybe your senses are more clouded by the alcohol than you realize.

“Did you just work out?” You fail to keep the words in. That had been an inside thought!

“Yeah, I went on a late run. I was just about to use your shower when I saw you from the window. How’d you know?”

“I can smell it. I have a really strong sense of smell.” You wince, quickly adding, “But you smell good!”

God, what a loser you are.

He half-chuckles, thankfully not seeming offended by your comment. “I do? Don’t worry about lying. I can take it.”

“No, no, you really do smell nice. I like it,” you admit sheepishly while he presses the button to your floor. “It smells like you.”

“What do I smell like, then?”

“Good, just really good.”

You think you’re going to have to call Stacey in the morning and tell her you’re quitting alcohol for the rest of your undead life because why can’t you flirt for shit when you’re intoxicated? Shouldn’t it be easier with a loose tongue? You facepalm internally, Dex totally oblivious to your inner turmoil working like it’s a job that pays well.

Say goodbye to bottomless mimosa brunches.

You finally make it inside your apartment after Dex unlocks your door, stuffing your borrowed spare keys into his night bag while you toe off your shoes a mile from the shoe rack.

“You hungry?” he asks, coming up behind you to slink his arms around your waist.

You shake your head. You never are. At least not technically. Sometimes you crave things that don’t involve human blood, like meals you enjoyed in your mortal life. Consuming human food makes vampires a little sick with indigestion, but the body in death finds the comfort to be worth the ache of your digestive system.

“Tired?”

You shake your head again, more gently this time, mindful of the head he rests on your shoulder.

“Well, I still have to take that shower… If you want, we could maybe save the planet and your water bill. Two birds, one stone.” He noses your cheek playfully.

“I like the way you think, Poindexter.”

Dex shrugs. “You keep me around for a reason.”

The world’s deadliest assassin has a partner, the life kind. The kind that he talks to about his day and holds him when he’s thinking too hard and the world is screaming at him. It’s a nice thing, to be wanted by you, cared for by you, loved by you. He’s never had anything like that before. So naturally, Dex likes to watch over you, see how you spend your days when he’s not with you—But most importantly, keep you out of harm’s way.

Not only because he’s the world’s deadliest assassin and with a title like that, you tend to make a few enemies, but also because he knows intimately that the world is a dangerous and despicable place that does not deserve to know you the way he does. The way you step with a heavier heel when you’re tired of work, or lighter when people drain you and your body automatically prepares itself to flee. The way your breaths change when the seasons do; shallow during the dead of winter and into a blood red scarf that calls your neck home for half the year, deeper in the spring to savor the smell of the rain and the flowers even though you inevitably end up in a sneezing fit.

You sneeze three times without fail, like your nose has taken third time’s a charm a little to close to the heart and wants to summon a genie. What would you wish for? He knows what he would say.

Dex has already spent two seasons of his life with you.

He doesn’t hope because hope isn’t for men like him, who do bad things to piss off good people for no better reason than the thrill and to wedge himself under their skin like shrapnel. But Dex hopes to make it four. He’s rather excited for when summer hits and you suddenly decide clothing is optional around the house. Maybe he’ll even break your air conditioner to persuade you to stay over at his. The air flow is better at his place anyway.

Right now, he’s perched on a cold rooftop, watching you walk through the empty streets of Hell’s Kitchen through the scope of his rifle. A soft, toothy smile aching his jaw. Just seeing you makes him breathe a little easier, knowing you’re okay. Knowing he’s there in case some asshole tries something. Dex likes being there for you.

But then, one blink and you’re gone from his sight. And he’s left to view a dark alleyway that looks more like a portal to a different dimension. Bullseye is already on his feet before he can even register what’s happening, sprinting to the end of the rooftop where he can hopefully get an eye on you somewhere in that distant abyss. Blood rushes to his ears. His heart pounds, loud and low like a church bell in the morning.

When he finally gets you in his line of sight, the tiniest bit of relief washes over him—except, you’re soaked head-to-toe in a deep ichor shade you weren’t wearing before. His blood runs cold, finger hovering the trigger of his weapon like a good soldier waiting for a command from you. But there’s nobody to shoot, he realizes.

You should’ve been unconscious or dead with the amount of blood on you. Why weren’t you? He watches the rise and fall of your chest, pounding away just like his had been. His eyes tilt a hair down to discover the body at your feet, neck torn wide open like it had been fed to a starving lion. He couldn’t even make out its flesh, only a bloodbath.

You lick your hands, looking as unbothered as Mrs. Smithers’s cat Mr. Meowgi does when he cleans off his tiny paws. He watches your tongue swipe over your red lips the same way you do when you eat ice cream. Dex thinks about his old neighbor again in an attempt to will away the blood that starts to rush down south. Nice old lady. Not hot, possibly vampire lover.

He determines a better question to ask you would be What the hell were you?

You’re annoyed.

By your standards, it had been a pretty good day. Work was fun, you got to eat at your favorite lunch spot in Flushing that usually sports a mile-long line (because transplants are unemployed masochists who love waiting in a line), and you have a date with your TV tonight because your boyfriend is out of town. (It’s technically not cheating, and you’ve slept well so far knowing that your TV stays even when your boyfriends don’t.) You had an unusual pep in your step today. You almost felt like you could be on one of those Life is Good(R) stickers with the smiling stick figures that have like three lines on their head to resemble hair.

Famous last words.

Terrible last words, you amend.

That’s how you get staked in the heart, so stop saying stupid shit as often as you do. But maybe it’s also because you haven’t faced a vampire hunter in nearly a decade. It’s made you comfortable, soft even, forget what it feels like to rip a soul out of its shell with your bare hands. The sheer strength it takes, which you carry in your fingers. It’s a horrible sensation. You love it. You hate that you love it. You blame vampire biology and still know it’s a lie. You blame having the heart of a monster. Maybe if the organ still tremored, you’d feel more. Enough—

—Whole.

Yeah, you kissed that chance goodbye thirty years ago when you died.

“Asshole,” you grumble, sucking your fingers clean. “At least you taste good.”

The thing is, when you choose to be a pacifist with the biology of a Bloodsucker, it’s like going cold-turkey vegan when you’re a carnivore. Diet wise, you still drink human blood because animal blood can only carry you over for so long.

But all the blood you drink is ethically sourced. There are plenty of online forums and other places on the web where humans sell their blood to vampires. It’s a whole thing. It’s convenient. It’s like DoorDash. All regulated and vetted, of course. With the insane fees too. Vampires don’t want bad blood. Smart vampires take extra care to not touch it. Other than it being as revolting as the odor of a carcass that’s been sitting under the desert sun for a fortnight, it’s also bad for the body. Can cause illness, or worse, zombify you. But you don’t really wanna think about that right now. Too horrifying. And you’ve got a body to dispose of before someone sees you.

“God, what’s wrong with you?” you mutter, slinging the corpse over your shoulder like it’s a feather. “He’s away for two days, and now you think you can smell him everywhere.”

You let out a huff of annoyance, finding a smelly dumpster to leave the body in and wonder morbidly if he told anyone where he was going, so they could at least recover his body. Did vampire hunters tell trusted adults where they were going before a hunt? Maybe they should start trying the buddy system. For their sake, not yours.

“Nobody’s watching you, you self-centered idiot—Fuck, vampire hunter head, please do not fall off. You’ve already ruined my clothes. Don’t ruin my night too.”

That’s when you hear it. Your head whips at the crunch of footsteps against the gravel. To the assassin Bullseye staring you down with not horror but curiosity.

You groan, short and loud. “Fuck me. You can’t be serious.”

This is perhaps a new low for vampire hunters across the board. Hiring an assassin to come kill a vampire? Cowards. Shit, maybe he’s the trusted adult. You have a half a mind to ask him if you were holding his buddy now.

Well, maybe he’s not here to kill you. You’re still alive, and he’s known as the deadliest assassin in the world. Kind of overkill for a vampire, you think. But if he wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be thinking this right now.

You drop the vampire hunter on the ground, making a wet splat against the gravel, and stare at him pointedly. “Are you going to be ruining my night?”

Everything but his eyes are covered. Strong, intense eyes, they are. Thick, arched eyebrows too. You aren’t scared at all, you realize. He feels familiar. Intimately. Wholly.

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.

Two and two make assassin.

“I thought you were out of town,” you say, shoulders relaxing before your mind nags at you to stay alert. This is new territory, after all.

Bullseye glances at the body you plopped at your feet and then back at your face. His dark eyes smile for him.

“I lied.”

“And why’d you do that?”

“I did have a job.” He shrugs, answering around your question. “Just didn’t say where.”

You click your tongue, eyes never leaving his. “Can I finish dumping this body, Bullseye?”

He extends a casual palm out to you. “Be my guest.”

“Thanks.”

Bullseye even lifts up the lid of the green dumpster for you before you haul the corpse in with the rest of the garbage because he’s still your boyfriend and a gentleman. The hunter’s dead weight ruffles the plastic trash bags filling the container, squelching obscenely. It’ll manage to be even more rank-smelling by tomorrow. He shuts the lid quietly, brushing imaginary dirt off his gloves.

Naturally, an awkward silence is called for in this kind of situation, and it shows up on time.

You can’t help but stare at him in his dark blue, tight-fitting costume—With crossed arms, his biceps strain against the fabric like they’re planning a prison break.—for a few lingering moments before your eyes dart away. But then you remember it’s not against the law to ogle your own boyfriend.

Your tongue kisses your teeth. “So…”

“So?” By the raise of his arched brows, you can tell he finds this humorous.

“Have you been… following me?”

“Yeah.”

Well, at least he’s honest now that the jig is up.

“Cool.” You nod, pursing your lips together. You’re taking this better than you thought you’d be. “Why?”

“To protect you.”

You stare at him again. It’s kind of sweet, if not a bit creepy—pretty creepy.

Dex quickly adds, even a bit sheepishly you might say, “Though it doesn’t seem like you need much… protecting.”

“The thought counts?”

“You aren’t weirded out?”

You tuck your lower lip between your teeth, tilting your head thoughtfully. “I feel like my thing is weirder than yours, so I don’t think I’m of any authority to judge. Are you weirded out?”

“I’ve seen weirder.”

“Really?”

“No,” he answers with a slight grimace that you can even see through the dark blue balaclava he’s wearing. “But there’s a green giant running around the city, so this… isn’t that crazy.” He pauses then, gives you a once-over, and goes, “Vampire…?”

“Yeah,” you admit. “World’s deadliest assassin?”

“Guilty.”

“You off the clock now?” You know the answer is yes, considering you’re the clock, but you ask anyway.

“Yeah.”

Maybe it’s a mistake, but—“Wanna head to my place?”

“Yeah,” he says, softer this time, and the syllable hits you square in the chest, probably right where he aimed it.

Maybe it’s not a mistake, but even if it was, you don’t really think you care. Not when Dex helps you out of your ruined, blood-soaked jacket and wipes your face clean with it.

“So the man’s been to prison.” Stacey gives you a little shrug, popping a cherry into her mouth. She plucks the stem, tossing it into a small dish that’s been turned into a graveyard for cherries. “I’ve dated a few felons in my lifetime.”

You scoff, deadpanning, “Any mass murderers or domestic terrorists on that list?”

Her hazel eyes narrow at the ceiling as she’s pulled into a thought. “Terrorizing a Chanel store to get me a bag counts, right?”

Your head tilts down, eyes looking very pointed. “Stace, he dropped the fake gun onto his foot and cried.”

“It was a sweet gesture.” She tucks a loose strand of black hair behind her ear and spits the clean seed into the dish. She pops another cherry into her mouth. “I just can’t believe you didn’t Google him.”

“I think it’s an invasion of privacy!” you argue indignantly, clutching her fuzzy pink throw pillow to your chest.

“He literally stalks you.”

“Well, I didn’t know that!”

“Well, we wouldn’t be having this conversation if you just Googled him.”

You did end up Googling him. After your little encounter the other week. And a list of blue links populated on your laptop screen that mostly echoed the same sentiment the top search did, a New York Bulletin article that read:

FBI INVESTIGATES ONE OF THEIR OWN

ANONYMOUS TIP TRIGGERS PROBE INTO SHOOTOUT DURING WILSON FISK TRANSER

Followed by various articles detailing his very public trial and prison sentence, a list of innocent and not-so-innocent victims, and spats with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

Have you been living under a fucking rock?

You knew about Wilson Fisk and most of the atrocious crimes he’s committed. Everyone in the tristate area did. But you never caught the name of the FBI agent who had aided him in this circus. The one who’s trying to convince you he’s turning a new leaf. You smush your face into the throw. The groan you precede to let out is muffled by the fluff and the pink.

“Okay, stop freaking out.” She then starts listing out on each polished finger, “He told you he’s back on his meds and that he’s trying to right his wrongs.”—“Balance the scales” had been his exact words.—“He thinks it’s hot that you’re a vampire and not even in a creepy, fetishy way. That’s honestly more than most men can say.”

“How do you know he thinks it’s hot?”

Stacey gives you a look when you peer at her over the pillow. “Honey, I could smell his arousal from thirty blocks down the street when he came to brunch. And he offered to drain his kills for you like a meal subscription service! Which you pay for by sucking off a beefy hot man! Don’t be stupid.”

Well, when she puts it like that… But Dex has been gone for almost a week now to go to some frozen tundra, which also means a week without his dick in your mouth.

She makes another observation, “And you wouldn’t be so on the fence about breaking up with a stalker assassin if you didn’t care about him enough to try it out.”

Unfortunately, she has a point.

You huff, grabbing a cherry for yourself. “Who told you you could be this sensible?”

“I have some decent qualities,” she says proudly. “And he seemed genuine when he said he wanted to do good deeds now. If not, you could always kill him.”

“I’m not killing my boyfriend!”

“What? He’d be your ex.”

Stacey has the audacity to shrug like you’re the weird one.

“I don’t kill,” you tell Dex in the middle of patching him up one night, slicing open the comfortable silence that filled the space of your bathroom.

He arches an eyebrow at you, staring incredulously from where he’s perched on your toilet cover, knees encasing your legs.

You sigh into your hand, amending, “I don’t—normally.”

“So when do you?” he asks curiously, fingers teasing the hem of your shirt—or rather, his shirt. He’s made a habit of this, of touching you, of playing with things: coins, trinkets, knives. Always itching to do something with his hands, but if you had the world’s deadliest hands, you’d be too.

“Um, well, when I’m being hunted—like that night.” You finish disinfecting the wound near his hairline, wiping away the rusted red off of some sandy strands between your fingers before it stains them. “If I don’t, they’ll just find another target. Or keep looking for me, and I’d rather sleep soundly at night, you know? Don’t feel like waking up to a stake in my heart.”

You try to keep your voice light, but it falters across syllables. He can tell that it bothers you more than you’d like to admit. He squeezes your hip with one hand, the other slipping under the back of your shirt to get his warm skin onto yours. You’re always running cold. His hands are like furnaces to you. Your eyes fall shut for a second before opening them again.

“And when it’s necessary,” you continue, just as quietly.

Dex doesn’t ask what you mean. He knows.

You bite your tongue, but tell him anyway because the way he’s looking at you right now—with all the intensity in the world—leaves your defenses utterly weak, “I like it. I like the violence, and every time I kill, I like it more. That scares the shit out of me. That’s why I avoid it. I want to keep my humanity, or what’s left of it, if anything.”

“Humans can lose their humanity too. There are ones who’ve done much worse things than you.” Dex looks you right in the eye, piercing you with his honest gaze. It frustrates you sometimes, the selectivity of his truth. It frustrates you more how his honesty still affects you. “I know I have.”

“You lost yourself,” you reason, perhaps attempting to be comforting. You peel the butterfly closures open, the wrappers crinkling under your touch. One-by-one, you place them onto the open gash on his forehead, right above a set of wrinkles. You barely had the chance to form wrinkles before you’d been turned. You drive the thought away before it tears open one of your own wounds, an old one you thought had already scarred over. “You just had to find him again.”

“I don’t think I ever found him,” he admits, fingertips still dancing against your warming skin. “Not before I met you.”

“Well, I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve based your entire identity off of me.” It’s a bit of a tease laid over a truth.

“No, it doesn’t. It means I didn’t know who I wanted to be before you. Everyone else in my life have just been paintings, only for me to see but never touch. Nothing real. You listen to me without expecting anything out of it. I’m not another patient to you, or a colleague you make small talk with. You know the worst things about me and still believe that I can be good, even when I sometimes don’t.”

You swallow thickly, stunned by the rawness of Dex’s words. He’s never been so open to you before. Maybe you’re finally getting somewhere.

“Do you want to be good?”

“I want to be good, and I want to deserve you. I’m trying to make things right for myself, but I’m selfish and greedy.” He clutches you tighter then, but never hard enough to hurt you. He never would. “And I want you all to myself.”

Dex squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling deeply the warm, dizzying scent of you. He exhales in a count of four. “I know it’s unrealistic. I won’t ask that of you.”

“I’m my own person,” you begin slowly, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t be all yours either. You consume me, Dex. It’s terrifying. Sometimes, you’re all I can think about. It’s bothersome. It’s exhilarating.”

His eyes grow wide in awe, pinning you down with the heavy weight of his astonishment.

Dex knows then, that whatever your souls are made of, his and yours are the same.

Mornings with Dex are quiet.

Quiet with the low hum of the A/C, with the murmurs of people on the sidewalk, with the steady thrum of his beating heart. You like to press your ear above where it lays and listen to the faint ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. You haven’t heard the sound of your own heartbeat for nearly his entire lifetime. You’ve forgotten what it felt like when it followed you everywhere—where it pulsed inside your chest, raged when you got angry, missed a beat when you grew flustered.

You do this every morning you wake up in the same bed together. You like feeling how alive he is. You think it might be because it makes you feel alive again too.

You don’t need to sleep as much as Dex, which really isn’t saying a lot since he can do with about five or six hours, but you’ve been staying in bed longer these days anyway. Just to watch him, admire his face and the way it scrunches when he’s dreaming. The way his dusty pink lips slightly part when he snores, which he vehemently denies doing. Like he’d know.

He looks younger when he sleeps, much more boyish than he does when he’s alert and worried. Always worried, thinking too much, trying hard not to spiral and lose control. To punish himself. You like seeing his softness now, the kind he doesn’t believe he’s capable of.

But listening to his lifeline is also a sorry reminder that he is still as human as anybody else, capable of growing old and dying—unlike you. Forming new worry lines that you think you might even be responsible for. The wrinkles you do sport soften out with every drop of ichor you taste.

Years don’t feel as long anymore either. They slip away in seconds for you, while you’re left behind to watch the world continue spinning around you. You’re fortunate enough to have Stacey by your side, a dear friend who knows all the same aches and pains of your life and faces them with strength and determination. It’s not so lonely.

But maybe it is when Dex could be it for you.

Your very own reckoning.

He stirs then, neck rolling and with a heavy inhale. Green eyes blinking blearily at the cream-colored ceiling, short fingernails scratching away the crust at the corners of his eyes. He finally looks down at you to find you already staring up at him, and smiles crookedly. Fondly.

You weren’t just another dream too good to be true.

“You’re distracted again.” Stacey sighs, quickly fixing her blunt, black bangs across her forehead. She arches a thin eyebrow. “Does it have something to do with lover boy?”

You apologize, willing your antsy fingers away from your deadly silent cellphone. “Sorry, sorry. He’s away again. For two whole weeks this time. I’m a bit nervous, is all. He usually texts me by now.”

You’ve been watching her try on new dresses for the last two hours, and this was still only your first department store. You tried on a few items earlier, too, but each time you stared at yourself in the mirror, you wondered if Dex would like how it looks on you. What he’d say if he were here. If he’d grow flustered or smirk lopsidedly.

“Don’t worry. You’re happy, and I’m happy that you’re happy. You deserve it, y’know. I’m sure he’ll text soon. But pay attention. This is important.” She holds up a dress beside her figure. “Red or black?”

“Whichever one is shorter.”

“And this is why you’re my best friend.” She flashes you one of her signature smiles—the kind that makes her eyes light up—before disappearing back into the tiny room once more.

You chuckle, leaning back on the plush, rose ottoman you’ve been sitting on, eyes darting around the slightly tacky looking dressing room. The doors are all lined with hot pink fur, and you’ve been hoping that it’s synthetic. Not a legacy you’d prefer if you were a fury animal.

Ding.

Benjamin Poin(Dex)ter sent you a message:

Sorry, got caught up with work. Text me when you get home.

“Sometimes, I think I was made to be prey. Why, otherwise, would I have been born to be a monster?”

Your quiet confession to Dex arises on a dark and stormy summer night by your living room window, with whiskey-coated lips and eyes that hang far away from him and the rest of the world. The soft-spoken utterance you trust him with resonates deeply, more than he’d like to admit, reverberating inside his chest where a heart might go. But it’s a display of vulnerability, one you seldom offer to anyone. He can appreciate that.

It’d only been a few months since he found out you what you were: a vampire—a label you didn’t particularly find very kind, but nonetheless true.

You had grown up with a normal life over fifty years ago. Loving parents and a grassy backyard in a cozy, working-class neighborhood. A tuxedo cat that never scratched, only purred. You had friends that would come over for sleepovers, where you’d stay up way past bedtime and play pretend like you were untouchable in a dangerous world that could be tamed.

For Halloween one year, you had even dressed up as a blood-sucking, candy-loving vampire, terrorizing the street in a flowy midnight cape. Maybe it had been a sign; your destiny in a cotton-polyester blend.

“I missed out on getting married, buying a house, and having kids like everyone else my age,” you whisper, resting the side of your head against your window frame. You huff, tracing with your finger the raindrops that slide down the glass, merging together like a sad meteor shower. “They’re grandparents now—I could’ve been someone’s grandparent now.”

“Would you have wanted that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. The thought of a normal life is nice. And so is not being hunted down like a deer because I’m a monster.”

“You’re not a monster,” Dex tells you with utmost confidence, head shaking like it’s an instinct, words as steady as his perfect aim. “You couldn’t be. You’re too beautiful.”

“Some monsters are beautiful.”

“Monsters don’t care about killing either,” he points out, before his hand strains. “You wouldn’t even let me take out that douchebag who harassed you at that bar last week. He deserved it for talking to you like that. For looking at you like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like he’s undressing you in his mind,” he grumbles, jaw ticking and tensing at the memory. “Like he can just take what’s not his.”

“So you were just jealous,” you comment with thinly veiled amusement, trying to smooth the tension in his cheek.

His broad chest expands, sturdy lungs filling with a quick, agitated breath. “Of course, I was jealous. You know how special you are to me.”

Your eyes fall shut to savor the tender sound of your name on his confident tongue, spoken like it’s the only word in his dictionary.

“You keep me hooked around your finger,” Dex continues, reaching for your free hand. There’s a bit of blood on the first knuckle of your index, splattered drops dried from when you’d fed on some dumb European socialite he’d been assigned to dispose of by the CIA. A real cunt who did the books for a trafficking ring in East Asia.

“You keep me from going too far.” He then wraps his lips around the finger, gently sucking it clean. “That should make you a saint. I already worship you.”

“Saints have to perform miracles when they’re dead, Dex.”

He glances up at you then, looking like sin. “You are dead.”

“Resurrected.”

“Would you leave my metaphor alone,”—he huffs—“or do you want me to call you Jesus?”

You let out snort, shaking your head quickly. “I’m far from being Jesus.”

The assassin stretches his arm out, reaching for the half-empty bottle of whiskey left standing on your windowsill like a guard on duty. He lifts it up to his lips, slipping slow to enjoy the burn, before guiding it to yours.

Dex’s other hand takes your jaw between his fingers, coaxing your mouth open like he does when he’s pulling his cock out for you. He pours the amber onto your tongue and watches with keen eyes as it travels down your throat. He smirks like he just can’t help himself from baring teeth, wet lips brushing against yours.

“Let me remind my saint what true devotion feels like.”

Usually, he’s not so fidgety before plane rides, but Dex’s fingers twitch with the hopes that you’ll call or text before he departs like you typically do. His discman sits on his lap, ears tucked under his headset, where the drums of “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out” by The Smiths kick familiarly.

Last night, when he was packing his things and you watched him from the foot of his bed, you coyly gifted him a new CD player with a new set of discs you had spent the entire day burning. All his favorites with the addition of some of yours and songs you thought he’d enjoy. Lots of 80s music, naturally. He’s glad he likes your taste in music.

You seem to like a bit of everything though, and you prefer physical media over digital—CDs, vinyl records, VHS tapes—talking about their invention as intimately as you would a lover and with the kind of crystal clarity most people had for important life events like weddings or funerals.

He wondered if vampires remember their whole lives, or if they even had the capacity to. Humans certainly didn’t. Of course, Dex remembered more things than most, often to do with you or previous fixations he’d had. Limerence, his new therapist had called it.

But it wasn’t with you. Dex loves you. He knows that for a fact, the way he knows water is necessary for sustaining life. And he thinks you love him too, even if you wouldn’t admit that it was that yet. But he knows.

But Dex hadn’t known what to say when you pulled the new discman and CD case from behind your back like a cute magician who likes to perform magic and miracles with a shy smile. Just if you lose it, you’re not losing the one from your childhood. I couldn’t bear to lose something valuable to me like that. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given him such a thoughtful gift before, much less a gift at all. The strings of his heart whirled then, knotting around his lungs like hair and choking a glottal stop in his throat.

So he instead spoke one of the only languages you were both fluent in, pleasure, and made you forget what you even did in the first place to earn it.

You call minutes before the plane is set to take off, and his thumb is already hovering over the button to answer. And when you say “hi” to him in that sweet, quiet voice of yours, he can hear the fond smile resting on your face because he didn’t even let the phone ring once. Loyal as a dog waiting for their owner by a front door.

Missions start to feel increasingly longer each time he leaves, whether they last two weeks or just even a day, he grows to dread it. You seem to dread it too. But he tries to make up for it by returning with fresh blood, enough to sustain you for a couple weeks.

Once, you complained to him about all the popular blood donation services in the vampire community.

Inflation is insane, you grumbled like an old person whose catchphrase was “Back in my day”, I used to be able to get ten gallons worth of blood for just fifteen bucks. So what does he decide to do because he’s a great boyfriend? He decides to cut the middleman altogether and become your supplier. You joke that he’s your dealer now.

But you’re grateful. With all the money you save on blood, you can spend on dates with him. Not that he’d let you pay anyway, but he finds it’s cute you think that. But you’ve resorted to buying him gifts now. You’re a menace, really.

You were worried about drinking from Dex’s kills when he first suggested it. He tried to soothe your guilt by telling you the kind of people they were. Bad, bad people who didn’t really deserve to see another day, unlike you.

Murderers and corrupted politicians.

A bad thing for a good person. He called it balance.

It seems to work, and he thinks that you might even like hearing about the kinds of awful, despicable people he gets to rid the world off. Every act of violence they’ve committed, the people they’ve hurt, all the pain and suffering at their hands. It’s a good thing they’re gone, you said then. That they can no longer do any harm.

He does, however, leave out some of the more unsavory bits. Things he’s done that even you would be unable to reckon with.

But you get this look in your eye when he recounts his own violence to you—every bullet and blade, perfectly fired and aimed. The way they slice through the air with perfect accuracy, the squelch of them separating blood from flesh and bone. He can see you imagining every movement in your mind, the acts of gore he’s capable of with hands that know you intimately. And something in your irises dances like wildfire, the rings of color flashing dark and bright all at once. It’s like looking into a mirror.

I love you, Dex thinks each time without fail.

“What are you?” the Devil asks you one night, appearing on your firescape.

Dex had just left your apartment not ten minutes ago, and his (former?) archnemesis has decided to show up at your doorstep. Well, your window, the one you specifically left unlocked for Dex when he comes home from a fight, a little worse for wear.

You blink dumbly at him. “What?”

He couldn’t have known what you were, could he?

“I can’t hear your heartbeat,” he says, like that’s a normal thing to say. “Are you a member of the Hand?”

“The Hand?” you repeat, confused, and because you couldn’t help yourself—“That a rock band or something?”

Daredevil exhales exasperation through his nostrils. “Okay, never mind. But why can’t I hear your heartbeat?”

“Probably because it’s dead,” you deadpan.

He frowns. You’ve made the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen frown. The dark red costume looks stupid up close, you observe. Though technically you’re a biased party, you like your boyfriend’s suit much more. The mask Dex wears isn’t so… creepy. But you also liked when he stares into your soul, not so much when it’s the Devil himself. Not when it feels like he’s looking right through you.

“Vampire,” you explain like one word is enough and not a fat can of worms that warrant full-length novels.

“Seriously…?”

“Seriously.” You flash your fangs at him, which you hate doing because it feels like a cheap party trick, but you feel like if the Devil calls for it, so be it.

He looks rather unimpressed, however. You’re starting to get why your boyfriend doesn’t like this guy so much. You’re never showing your fangs to anyone ever again unless it’s for Dex. At least he likes them.

“What are you doing with Poindexter?”

Now, the Devil has made you frown.

“What do you think couples do?” You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. “I know. And he knows. It’s a thing. We’re still a thing. It’s nice.”

Daredevil looks like he’s trying to imagine what Dex in a relationship would look like, his masked face turning into the embodiment of the loading screen of doom. To be completely fair, if you weren’t literally dating the guy, you’d probably be confused as well. You think he must’ve timed out because now he’s saying:

“Just be careful,” he warns. “Know who you’re dealing with.”

“Appreciate the concern, Daredevil, but he’s my boyfriend, not my loan shark.”

He disappears into the warm night without another word.

“Okay, so, don’t get mad but—“

Dex furrows his brows at the way you’ve chosen to start your sentence.

“—Daredevil visited me last night.”

“What.”

“Yeah, so like right after you left,”—you chuckle awkwardly, eyes darting around like the barista over there is suddenly of more interest, with palms out and a mild shrug—“he just showed up at my window.”

The one Dex uses to get into your apartment when he’s bleeding as Bullseye.

His voice grows unusually tight in his throat. “What did he want?”

You wince at his reaction like he’s mad. He’s not.

“Well, he figured it out. Kinda.”

“How?”

Your hand pats the spot above your heart twice, the place where it no longer beats. “Apparently, he could hear it—or not hear it. Isn’t that freaky?”

“You also have superhearing,” Dex deadpans.

Licking your lips, you reach for your iced fruit tea and take a long sip. “Yeah, but I’m a—” You lean in across the table and flash your fangs at him with a flirty smile, tongue running seductively under the pointed edges of bone.

He unzips his fitted windbreaker and sits back in his seat, arms crossed with an adorable little pout, his ears and neck suddenly hot and not from this morning’s run. He clears his throat, pointing out in a voice that’s strained in a different way than before, “You’re gonna get sick if you keep drinking that.”

“Eh, I’ll live.” You shrug, tipping the mouth of the lid up to yours again.

You love vampire humor. Dex hates it. Or pretends to.

“He asked about you, too,” you drop casually.

His whole body stiffens.

“Asked what I was doing with you,” you clarify before Dex gets the chance to have meltdown. “Told me to be careful.” And because you can’t help yourself—“He your boyfriend or something? Sounded jealous. Should I be jealous?”

“No! Obviously not.” He huffs, his pout deepening. “I’m your boyfriend.”

You giggle at his embarrassment, leaning over the table again to cup his cheek and press a sweet, lingering kiss to his pouty mouth. “Sorry, babe, you just make it so easy.”

From the way Dex relaxes immediately at the feeling of your sweet, fruity lips, he probably isn’t too mad anymore.

Dex’s bloodied mouth is ravenous, affixing itself to yours with a craving you were innately familiar with. Despite the sweet taste of his crimson on your tongue, and through better judgement, you place your hands on his chest and push just hard enough to free your lips from each other. You have one knee on the edge of the couch and beside his hip, the other bent with the familiar ache of spending so long fixing him up after a fight.

“Are you sure you don’t want to clean up first?” you inquire with a soft hesitance in your cooing voice, the kind of concern that’s reserved only for him. “I just stitched you up. And baby, there’s blood all over you.”

And there is. A thick streak of it stains his pretty face from his thick, left eyebrow all the way down to his jaw in the shape of a hook. A smaller smatter alongside his nose bridge. And most pressingly, ringing his mouth like lipstick in a shade that would be called something like Bullseye Blood.

He grunts, annoyed that his mouth has left yours. “I don’t care—lick it off me.”

It’s like your reward for taking care of him so well.

Your tongue darts out right when the permission leaves his lips, the hot muscle kissing the blood clean on his stubbly skin. The blond hairs have started growing in darker, even going a little gray, and you just can’t help that you find it so damn attractive. You make a note to yourself to help him shave tonight, or in the morning if you’re both too tired to do anything but fall asleep after this.

Dex sucks at the supple skin along your neck until bruises form and begin littering your throat, drawing the most saccharine of whines out of it. He pulls you right onto his lap, where his hardening cock twitches at the desperate, pulsing heat of your core. You grind yourself against his growing erection, hungrily licking into his mouth like a bitch in heat. Your hands fly to above his crotch, where his belt rests, and quickly make work of his black-blue tactical pants.

“Off,” you demandingly gasp, lifting your weight off of him.

Right away, his hips peel off the leather couch just enough for you to hurriedly pull his stiff cock out of his white boxer briefs. Dex groans needily, watching as your mouth falls open and a long stretch of saliva drips down onto the flushed head like honey. You wrap your dominant hand around him in a strong grip, slicking up his warm, aching dick with your runny spit. Eagerly, you slink down the length of your couch and wet your lips, wrapping them around the leaking tip of his twitching dick.

“Need to be inside you,” he finally breathes, hazel-brown eyes hazy in that way he knows you can’t say no to.

You thumb his sensitive tip one more time before nodding and pulling yourself back onto his strong thighs. A gasp rips out of your mouth when you hear the sound of your underwear’s waistband being sliced open on both sides, eyes falling down to see Dex already dropping a small knife onto the coffee table. Where did that come from? You thought you’d collected all of his weapons after he dropped on the sofa like a dead body.

His other hand, with bruised knuckles that remind you of his earlier escapades tonight, pulls the front of the ripped fabric towards him with ease, forcing a delicious whimper out of you when the damp gusset slides through the shiny lips of your cunt before landing on the floor somewhere.

Another ruined pair of your panties for his collection, to be fucked and soak up his cum when another mission inevitably sends him to some shithole halfway across the world and away from you.

Dex then wraps his hand around his hard cock, slipping it through your arousal. The weeping head catches on your clit, making you inhale as you dip your nose into the crook of his neck, sniffing his blood and sweat like a meal. He tries not to shudder when he feels your sharp fangs gently scratch his pulse point. One bite, and you could end him.

His dick gets even harder at the thought. His life in your hands, at the restraint of your awaiting mouth. But you’re his. He’s got as much control over you as you do him. Two deadly monsters intertwined in an endless dance with the ability to ruin the other if they so pleased. He’d love to ruin you. He’d love to ruin you the same way you have him.

But maybe he already has because here you are—you’re whining, pleading for him to stuff you full of his fat cock.

And who is he to deny you that?

Simultaneous sighs slip out of your mouths when Dex’s dick begins to stretch out the first ring of your tight muscles. The lack of prep makes it sting more than usual, but it’s almost nice. And you’re more than wet enough just from tasting his blood to compensate.

When he finally reaches the bottom of your little cunt, the hot skin of your hips meeting, only then does he remember to take a breath.

Impatient hands paw at your tight tank top, tugging the dark blue fabric under your breasts. Long, calloused fingers tweak one of your nipples while his tongue laves at the other. Your head falls back, moaning blissfully at the wet warmth of his mouth and the thick cock bullying itself into your velvety insides.

You tilt his face up, pulling his mouth off of you to lick his cheek clean. The metallic taste of his blood and the salt of his sweat excite you, makes you embarrassingly more wet around him. Your lips find the other side of his face, where his cheek scar laid, a wound cut so deep it would never heal right. It angered you whenever you thought about someone hurting him like that, but even you could admit it was also insanely hot. You almost wanted to thank the asshole who did it.

“Fuck, this cunt is tight.” He taunts, staring at your bouncing figure appreciatively, “You really like my cock, don’t you?”

“Love it.” You sigh out, hips rutting faster. “Love this cock so much, Dex.”

You whine, movements still quick but slowly growing sloppy from exhaustion. You’ve practically licked his whole face clean, greedy mouth already on its way to his suck on his bloody glove. But he’s a good boyfriend. He already knows what your body needs.

“You need to feed, baby? Want to drink up my blood? You can have it.” Dex’s head tilts up, stretching his neck and baring to you his pulse point. His large hand guides yours to his collar, where you give his throat a light squeeze. Dark, lust-glossed eyes stare up at you, fluttering like he’s drunk just off the sight of you on top of him, half-naked and wanton. Ironic, considering you’re the one who’s about to drink him. Literally speaking. “As much as my sweetheart needs—I won’t even be mad if I pass out again.”

The hand you have on him slips to the nape of his neck, nails gently scratching the hairs there, forcing a shiver to rush down his spine. You wet your lips, bringing your head down to sniff him, quickly finding the vein. Dex’s heart races, the sound of his blood circulating with great intensity is music to your ears.

Your fangs protrude, slicing open a small cut into his skin in a hurried but precise manner that speaks of practice. Not enough to bleed him dry, but enough to replenish your energy. You suck at the fresh wound, drawing out his heady dark ichor down your throat. Dex’s blood is unnaturally sugary, probably due to all the sweet treats he indulges in. But you don’t mind it the way you would anyone else. It’s almost endearing.

“I taste good, don’t I? Better than anyone else, right? Than all those shitheads I kill to drain for you.”

You hum, careful not to drink up too much this time. You use your renewed stamina to ride him faster, slamming down onto his cock. “So good, baby.”

You’re so slick that it slips out, but Dex is already guiding it back inside you before you can pout about the loss.

“Maybe you should only drink from me from now on,” he muses, groping your breast. His calloused thumb lazily flicks over the nipple, still glossy with his spit. “I’ll keep my blood on standby, just for you. I’ve got money. Could just stay home all day to fuck and feed you. Wouldn’t that be nice, sweetheart?”

It would be nice, you think, coming home to Dex every day at your disposal. Where you stay in bed together for the whole day, everyday. You ignore the practicality of it for a moment, reveling in the fantasy. You’ll never go a day hungry or unsatisfied or unloved. It’d be perfect.

The sensation of his dick driving into you has your poor pussy clenching harder. How his movements don’t falter at all, seemingly staving off his climax and in spite of his fresh stitches and purple bruises, amazes you.

But Dex is nothing if not disciplined.

“You want me to fuck my load down your throat later, too? Wouldn’t my cum taste good with my blood?” He lets out a guttural moan when you squeeze around his dick and suck more of his blood. Hand leaving your hip to press against your bulging tummy to feel himself in there. “Oh, this fuckin’ cunt loves the sound of that. You gonna come, baby? Gonna come on this fat cock?”

You’ve got a hand in his sweaty hair and another on his firm chest for support when you begin to nod frantically, blabbering helplessly, “Make me come, please, Dex!”

“I’ve got you,” he says with his usual smirk, wetting his thumb with his saliva to slick up your throbbing clit. “You’ve already been taking me so well, even though it’s been a week since this perfect pussy has taken me. You’re just so good for me, huh? Don’t even need me to stretch you out anymore.”

“Uh-huh!”

You’ve lost all ability to speak, forgotten all language except the hard, unrelenting thrust of his hips, working his cock so deep into you you cry. The meaning of it all too clear even through the dense fog that’s become of your brain—you’re his.

And you’re even more his when you finally tip over the precipice of your orgasm at the onslaught of his precise thumb on your puffy clit, triggering his own climax. Dex works you both through the height, maintaining the eager snap of his hips into yours. His hot cum spilling into you in ropes and waves as you cry out at the overstimulation.

Dex doesn’t give you any time to rest before he’s dragging you onto his face, suffocating himself between your thighs. His large hands wrap around them, holding you down, so that you can’t move. You might be physically stronger than him, but your mind is still hazy from your release.

A raspy gasp escapes the bottom of your throat in surprise, scrambling to grab the back of the couch for support when his hot tongue dives straight into your messy hole. He’s licking up your shared cum the way you lick up blood—needily, greedily, like you’re eating for the first time in your life. His strong nose stimulates your abused clit, making you whimper with each brush.

Your thighs tremble when you begin to feel the familiar bloom of pleasure seep through your bones, this time faint but warm. It’s nothing like the quick and dirty feeling that had squeezed you from the inside just now. Dex worships your cunt, lazily making out with it until he coaxes another slow climax out of you, slurping up your second release the same way he does a good soup.

Benjamin Poindexter has certainly got a mouth on him, alright. And it seems to only ever shut up for your pussy.

Gentle hands pull you back, laying you on top of him. The combined huffs of your heavy breaths spread through the quiet silence in your living room, only disrupted by the soft hums of passing cars outside.

A few minutes later, you murmur into his neck, “Probably should shower and get ready for bed before we fall asleep here.”

“I want to stay here for a little longer.” Dex’s smooth voice stretches honestly as he runs a loving hand down the length of your spine like it’s fragile porcelain.

It’s the deadliest hand in the world.

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

— Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

dex falls in love with you one night when he enters his bedroom to see you wearing only his old fbi t-shirt and no pants, blow drying your hair, sitting on the bed. you aren't supposed to be here, and neither is he—his current thing isn't supposed to end until next week, which you know. you do, however, have a spare key to his place for emergencies. have you done this before? come into his apartment when he's away? have you seen anything—found anything? you startle when you notice him standing there silently, read his microexpressions faster than he can hide them. you're instantly embarrassed.

"i'm sorry." you swallow, not looking him in the eye. "i just missed you. i promise it won't happen again."

but instead of the paranoia and confusion he's been experiencing, a new sensation surges over his being. metaphorically. it's a mix of pride and possessiveness that he'd never admit to feeling, a twisted satisfaction because he's managed to affect you this much. he tilts his head, gives you that (smug) lopsided smirk that you love. "yeah? my baby get lonely without me?"

he knows he's being condescending, more so than you deserve. he also knows you won't protest, not this time.

"yeah," you murmur, low, self-conscious.

he crosses over to you in quick, self-assured strides, cradles your face in one large palm. you put the blow dryer down and nuzzle into it like it's something you do often, even though you don't, and he feels the warmth of your shame soak into his skin from yours. you're not looking at him, and he grins wider. "missed me so much you just had to come over and pretend i was home, now that's sweet. it's okay, i won't leave you like this again, alright? i'll only take assignments closer to home, shorter ones. and you can come over whenever you want. bet you'd like that, hmm?"

he's rambling, drunk off his thoughts and off you. you nod, or try to, even as his hand cups your face, and repeat the word again, yeah, still so shy, and you wrap your arms around his middle while he smoothes over your back with a hand, smiling into your hair like he's just won the biggest prize at the fairground. which, to be fair, he kind of has—you couldn't be more precious, more perfect.

dex falls in love with you when you enter his apartment late one night and find him falling apart on the floor, in every definition of the word. he's sitting against the wall of his bedroom, right under his window, pieces of the fake daredevil suit scattered around. there's blood, so much of it, bruises blooming everywhere you can see. he's hyperventilating, but he freezes like a deer in headlights when you step into his room.

you've heard of them, seen news of the daredevil attacks. you know how the word on the street is that there's two of them now, a good one and the impersonator. you immediately know which one he is. he expects you to scream or run out or call the police, so he scrabbles beside him blindly for his gun. "don't move."

you ignore him completely, eyes widening as the blood drains from your face. instead of running away from disaster, you approach it head on like you always have. before he knows it, you're kneeling beside him, bloodying up your clothes as you feel him for broken bones. "shit, fuck, dex, what'd you do?"

you already know the answer, so he doesn't bother with it, just clicks the safety back on and puts the gun down.

he flinches hard when you accidentally press down on a bruise as you wipe him clean, and you apologise by pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. you don't think much of it, but holy shit.

he'd thought you were doing this out of some sort of sick responsibility, like you'd seen him here so now you couldn't leave him to die. but you're acting as if you haven't just found out he's a mass murderer, like he's just your boyfriend who got beat up in a bar fight or something.

you look like you're suffering just as much as him, if not more, purely from watching him in pain like this, wincing every time he makes a sound as you stitch him up. he closes his eyes as you press kisses along his hairline, collapses in your arms like he'd burrow under your skin if he could. and you hold him tighter, closer to your chest until he can feel the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat, as if you already know what his next words are going to be.

even as exhaustion overtakes him, he forces out, "you should stay away. just 'til this ends, 'kay?"

"okay." you bury your face in his shoulder. "stay safe, dex."

it doesn't end. you don't see him again for years and years.

dex falls in love with you at his sentencing after he kills foggy nelson. he doesn't expect you to be there, even as his heart yearns for it desperately. but when he enters the courtroom, he finds you immediately; you're a magnet that draws his eyes to you. your mouth is set in a thin line, and he's kind of the same, all cold indifference. he knows what's coming, and so do you. and you know he's presenting himself as someone untouchable, uncaring of what happens, but for that fraction of a second, when your eyes meet, his dark brown ones are all joy and mirth, only for you to see. to most people, your face doesn't change in the slightest. but he's known how to read you since the day you met. his mouth quirks up, lopsided, before he's pushed into his seat. the scar on his cheek is longer and deeper. it makes him more handsome, and you hate yourself for feeling that way.

you're wearing his favourite sweater—not his favourite of yours, or vice versa, but his favourite, the one you'd grabbed on your way out of his apartment for the very last time. it'd been an impulsive decision, but one you don't quite regret.

even though your ex?-boyfriend's going to be sentenced to prison (probably for life) for multiple counts of murder, having it close to you still brings you some semblance of comfort. to be fair, you hadn't even known he was alive until he killed that lawyer, and you want to be mad at him, you really do. and you have every right to hate him for hiding this animalistic side of him from you and making you love him anyway, for that killing spree he'd gone on as daredevil, for holding you at gunpoint, even for a couple of seconds. but all you seem to being doing these days is wish to see him alive again, one last time.

he doesn't notice what you're wearing the first time, too focused on his face. but after the sentencing—eleven life sentences, consecutive—when he stands up again, he twists around, fighting against the people holding him. he could be looking at anyone. the people in front of you think it's them; they gasp and sneer and break into disgusted conversation. he's looking at you.

his eyes drop down; he sees the sweater on you. his gaze goes from searching to predatory, a look you know better than you'd like. his tongue slips out to wet his lips before he's pulled away. that last image of him burns into your brain.

dex falls in love with you a couple of months after he breaks out of rikers. he's bullseye now, wholly and completely. he looks you up as he gets his life back together, except you're gone. it's like you'd never existed in the first place. no records of your employment or the apartment you'd rented, or anything like that at all. he might as well have been looking for a ghost.

he's not the type to give up, but other matters do demand his attention too. so he looks for you in his free time, spends the rest of it killing avtf or taking paid hits. it's on one of these excursions that he realises he's not quite alone in this crusade. when he gets to the group of task force members, most of them are dead already. the shadowy, masked figure that's fighting them moves fast, sending two bullets into one while kicking at the other, ruthlessly shoving hitting the third guy with the back of the gun they're using. he sends a couple of knives into the two that weren't killed, only injured, and then it's just him and them.

he knows it's you when you look back at him, all but fully soaked in blood. you're wearing a mask and tactical gear like he is, but he knows your eyes. he'd know them anywhere. he moves slowly, like you're an injured animal that might lash out. you turn around, square your shoulders like you're going to fight him, too. he raises his hands, pulls off his own mask.

"hey." he's using the same tone you'd use if you were talking to an agitated horse. "hey, baby, it's just me. you're safe."

you take a step back, dropping the gun. it doesn't make a difference whether you have it or not—with it, you wouldn't have been able to do anything to him, even if you'd wanted to, even if he didn't fight back. you tug off your own mask and clip it to your belt.

there's blood on your mouth, smeared on your teeth, too. you don't play fair in these fights. you look like heaven. if such a thing exists, he knows he won't be making it there. but seeing you here, like this, is enough for a lifetime, he thinks.

"dex," you say. flat. monotonous. forced. you're not sure if you're dreaming; you don't know what he thinks of you now. "i heard you got out."

he smiles. "you could say that."

you raise a brow.

"only two people died."

"you mean you killed two people."

"you killed-" he pauses to count, eyes flickering over the mess around you. your mess. you in the middle, beautiful and wretched and fragile and unbreakable. "twelve of these guys. since when do you even do this?"

"they were all gonna end up dead anyway, don't lie." you ignore the question.

"i never said they weren't." he steps forward. this time, you don't move. "baby, when did this start?"

"a while." you don't like how he still calls you baby, and you hate that the thought of him not calling you that is almost worse.

"i didn't know that." stupid, stupid, stupid. he should've known you well enough to have predicted this outcome.

"i'm good at staying hidden," you say.

"i bet."

silence. he clears his throat, hating the way the air is thick with tension, the way you stand like the entire world is weighing you down. "you look tired."

the corners of your lips curve downwards. "i am tired."

when he comes closer and pulls you into his arms, you don't resist, even though you feel like you should, enveloping yourself in as much of him as you can. "can i take you home?"

you don't respond, too busy breathing him in. he uses the same cologne as before, but there's an edge of iron to it, now, one you're all too familiar with. a little to your surprise, you don't hate it. feeling him again is intoxicating; the weight of him, the hand on the back of your neck. he's bigger, so much more than you remember. you sigh against his chest, and he reluctantly takes a step back from you, holding you in place by your shoulders so you don't follow. you let out an embarrassing, petulant sound and try to, anyway; you can't believe you actually convinced yourself that you disliked him even a little, let alone hated him. or that he felt the same about you. he taps the side of your head with a finger, focus. "baby, come home?"

"my apartment," you say. you're not sure where you were going with this. you want him to know you have one. you want to be independent. you want to be rough and hard and mean. you want to kiss him. "i have one."

"okay," he replies, a question.

a shame that you're always picking the worst options.

his tongue drags across your teeth and he tastes blood and moans. you, of course, echo it back. your split lip is bleeding again, too, and it makes him kiss you harder. you're desperate enough to let him do this to you in a back alley near your apartment—you don't even make it inside. he has your suit zipped open from the top, just a little; one leg stays slotted perfectly between your thighs, he's ravenous. tilting your head up, he mouths at your neck before sinking his teeth into the skin; you throw your head back with a gasp before he swipes his tongue over the tender spot and moves onto the next. he smiles at your pain every time, and he gives you a dopey grin when you finally get mad enough to push him away, only to pull him back and kiss him again.

He needed to see you like this. Needed to know you were still here, still taking it for him, still crying and dripping because of him.

“Fuck…” Dex breathed, shifting in his chair as his dick strained against his slacks. You clenched hard around the machine on screen, sobbing his name like a prayer. The sound went straight to his dick. He couldn’t wait.

Muttering something about needing the bathroom, Dex slipped away from his desk, phone clutched tightly in his hand. He locked himself in the far stall of the men’s room on the quietest floor, heart hammering like a loser who couldn’t even make it through a workday without jerking off to his own girlfriend.

Leaning back against the stall door, he yanked his dick out—already leaking, flushed dark, embarrassingly hard. He angled the phone so he had the perfect view: your tear-stained face, tits bouncing with every thrust of the machine, pussy glistening and stretched around the relentless toy.

“Shit… look at you,” he whispered, voice cracking slightly. His hand moved fast, almost frantic. “Crying on it like that… You’re mine. You’re fucking mine, right?”

He was pathetic, and he knew it, hiding in a bathroom stall at Quantico, pants around his thighs, jerking himself raw while watching you fall apart on a machine he’d left you on. But the insecurity only made him stroke faster. He needed this. Needed to own every second of your overstimulation, every broken moan, every tear.

On the screen you came again—hard—body seizing up as fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. You whimpered his name like it was the only word you knew. Dex’s hips stuttered. “That’s it, baby… keep crying for me. Don’t stop. I’m the only one who can make you feel like this.”

He came with a choked groan, spilling over his fist in messy pulses, eyes never leaving the feed. Even after he finished, he stayed there a moment longer, breathing hard, thumb gently tracing the image of your exhausted, flushed face on the screen.

He prided himself on being a smart guy, always had. Near perfect SAT scores in school and he graduated suma kum laudi from Syracuse University. Ray always noticed little details like how his wife had always brushed her hair behind her ear when she felt bashful and how Sami would always sort his M&M’s before eating them. His reports at work were thorough, he always came up with the best interrogation strategies, he could parallel park really well. 

Ray had worked in the NYC bureau for nearly ten years and making friends had never come easy. FBI agents were cocky, especially field ones, and that sort of personality was never something Ray could align with. He was a family guy, the protector, the one who shouldered the burden even if no one asked him to. He wasn’t a show off and he certainly wasn’t full of himself. His first partner was Carter, fresh out of Quantico just like Ray and unlike the other guys Carter was sweet. He grew up in Nebraska and was the first person in his family to go to college. Two years into their partnership Carter was killed on duty when he was scouting a building that was rigged to explode.

After Carter, Ray stayed a little distant from everyone else. Still friendly, still polite, but he didn’t let himself get overly attached and decided to focus his attention on family rather than work. 

Six years ago Benjamin Poindexter was promoted to Special Agent and moved off the swat team and instead used as a sniper for the Criminal Investigative Unit, Ray’s department, and at first glance Ray thought Dex was like most guys in the office. Dex was a little cocky, always bragged about winning in darts when they went to the bars and seemed to get a little but of pleasure when he was able to cuff someone. Special Agents thrived off of holding power over people, or at least that’s what Ray had learned over the years. 

But Dex was a lot more quiet than the others. He came into work at the exact same time every day and moved around the office like every step, every adjustment of the hand was pre-planned. Dex had a way of speaking that sounded a little rehearsed. He hated leaving work late and sometimes Ray overheard him mumble something about ‘being behind schedule’ when the coffee maker took longer than usual.

Ray had never considered Dex to be quirky, if anything he would say intimidating. 

Dex was the team sniper for god sake. He spent most of his time at the gun range if he didn’t have to be at his desk and had the highest kill count of anyone on the team. Ray had read through his record in the army, Dex was highly regarded by his commanding officers and had taken part in some pretty gruesome operations. Dex was skilled at hand to hand combat, he could throw knives with scary accuracy, one time Ray witnessed Dex beat a man nearly to death during a sting operation. 

Maybe that intimidation made Ray overlook some quirks. Or maybe it was because despite Dex’s impressive but also horrifying skill set he was the closest thing Ray had to a work friend. 

Sure Dex could be on edge most of the time but Ray would prefer being around that rather than Grant’s constant misogynistic comments or Thurman’s bad jokes. Dex was good at his job to a point it seemed like he was almost scared of fucking it up and to a degree Ray could relate to that. It also helped that Dex never left a mess in any of the squad cars and always paid Ray back for coffee or lunch, even if Ray insisted he didn’t have to. He wasn’t the type to open up about his personal life but neither was Ray. It was a functional and pleasant work relationship and certainly the easiest in Ray’s mind. 

Dex seemed normal enough but Ray wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t shocked when he learned Dex had started seeing someone. 

In all fairness it just seemed like Dex was a little too rigid  to be the type of guy who dates. He seemed to have sort of a strict schedule to some capacity and had an obsession with sniper rifles that Ray found intense. Some agents were players, some were family oriented, and some were so devoted to work that either they didn’t have a partner or would focus all their attention to the job that they’d end up divorced. Maybe it was because Ray was so used to other colleagues being so open with their attraction to a woman, even if they were married, that Dex’s lack of opinion on the matter made Ray subconsciously think that Dex fit into the third category.

Around spring last year Dex had been acting a little less stressed out and a little more chipper. He didn’t zone out during briefings and wasn’t so edgy when a coworker made a stupid comment. Ray thought he had Dex all figured out when he correctly guessed that Dex had started seeing someone, patting himself on the back for keeping such good tabs on his coworker.

“She keeps me sane.” Dex had said during that stakeout. 

Good for Dex, he deserves it. Ray had thought to himself, still riding the high of how insightful he thought he was. 

At the holiday party he had the pleasure of meeting the girlfriend even though it was brief. Parties of that size had never been Ray’s thing and it always felt embarrassing seeing his bosses drunk. Everyone had been especially rowdy since it had been such a successful year, Ray had even gotten a promotion due to his involvement in leading the major Albanian Mob case. He was shocked that Dex had even gone to the party since he had been known to skip it in the past but Ray assumed he wanted to show off his girlfriend and prove she was real since some of the guys doubted it. 

Ray thought you seemed sweet. You had a pretty smile and it was sweet that you talked with Seema for the majority of the time while he and Dex made polite talk about work and holiday plans. Dex always let Ray gush about Sami with no complaint when most of the other guys didn’t want to hear it or weren’t really listening, but Dex always gave him his full attention. Before heading out he told you that Dex had been a lot less grumpy ever since you entered the picture, which was true, and it all seemed so normal. 

“Poor Dex having to prove himself.” Ray mused on the drive home, one hand on the wheel while the other held Seema’s warm hand. “Some of the guys thought he was lying about having a girlfriend when he canceled on plans to get drinks after a case.” Seema laughed and squeezed his fingers. 

“Yeah she seemed really sweet, kind of odd but that makes sense for him.” Seema said off handedly. The comment wasn’t out of a place of malice, Seema would never, but it did give Ray pause. 

“Makes sense?” He asked, keeping his eyes on the road. It had begun to snow again and while it did make the evening romantic it also made people drive like idiots. 

“Yeah, y’know, because Dex is kind of awkward too.” She says with a smile. “They fit well together. Makes you realise there really is someone for everyone.”

Never in all six years of knowing him Ray had ever pegged Dex as ‘awkward’. Not that there was anything wrong with awkward, everyone had potential to be awkward, but that was never a defining trait of Dex. Dex was intense, all sharp, pointed edges framed by a cheek dimple and a smile that could only be described as eerie. Awkward felt blunt. Awkward meant weird. 

Come to think of it though Dex was kind of weird. 

Dex knew way too much about assault rifles. Dex remembered what shirt Ray wore on a specific day three months ago. Dex was never afraid to get violent on a case. The joke in the office was that Dex never missed a shot but in all truth, Dex never missed. Anything. Not the trashcan on the street, not at cornhole, not the paper targets at the range. His aim wasn’t just impressive, it was uncanny in a way that felt uneasy.

Upon further reflection Ray realized that Dex sounded scripted most of the time and when he was caught off guard he’d flush all the way up to his cheeks and wouldn’t make eye contact. Dex was always scowling and if he wasn’t scowling he was staring with a kind of a wide-eyed expression that made you shift your stance. Sometimes it felt like Dex was on the verge of falling apart especially when things weren’t going along to whatever plan he created in his head that no one was privy to. He never stayed late to get togethers and often declined social events. Intensity wasn’t why Ray filed Dex away as someone who wasn’t romantic, awkwardness was. 

Seema’s observation didn’t necessarily shock Ray but it did make him look at Dex just a little differently. Dex was no longer this unreachable, mysterious figure in Ray’s work life and instead was little more human. When Dex made an impossible shot with his rifle Ray could only think about how Dex stuttered when talking to the barista the morning prior. Nobody was perfect, and if Dex was able to get a girlfriend as nice as you then the awkwardness didn’t really matter. 

Six months later you were at Ray’s house. 

After almost a year the pool was finally installed in the backyard. Not only was it an in-ground pool but there was also a hot tub and Ray’s brother helped him refinish the deck. Sami and his friends had broken in the new addition to the backyard the weekend prior but this time it was the adult’s turn complete with family and friends as well as a select few of Ray’s work colleagues. Ray and Seema prided themselves on throwing a good party and a gorgeous backyard complete with an in-ground pool was practically the American dream. 

Asking Dex was a no brainer despite the fact that Ray assumed he would say no. But instead he was pleasantly surprised when Dex asked, “Could my girlfriend come?” 

“Yeah man, of course.” Ray smiled, and Dex said he would ask you when he got home but the answer was probably yes. Apparently you enjoyed swimming but didn’t have a ‘pool connection’ which made Ray laugh. The next day Dex said the two of you would be there and three weeks later you were sharing a pool lounger with Dex in Ray’s backyard. 

You had brought a tray of the most fudgy brownies Ray had ever tasted and kept to yourself for the majority of the party, speaking with Seema for a little while before lounging with Dex on a chair. While the crowded backyard hummed around you Ray watched as the two of you sat ramrod straight next to one another, talking in quiet conversation all while watching the party-goers. After an hour of sitting the both of you got up and slid into the pool which of course was barren because most adults were lounging in the hot tub rather than actually swimming. 

In between conversations with friends Ray watched as the two of you swam laps silently then treaded water in the deep end. He tried reading Dex’s lips to figure out what you were discussing. After a minute Ray saw Ben mouth the distinct words ‘designated marksman rifle’ and it occurred to him that Dex was reciting facts about weapons to you while you nodded along intently. 

When Ray came back outside he saw that you were doing a handstand in the pool and Dex was counting. When you resurfaced Dex then started doing a handstand while you counted the seconds he was able to hold the position. The back and forth went on for almost fifteen minutes until both of you were flushed and a little giggly from it all.

Later you were out of the pool and Ray found himself embroiled in a conversation with you about cats. He mentioned that he grew up with them which made your face light up when you got the chance to speak about your own cat, Penny, a small tabby cat that you had since she was a kitten. Ray had to lean in close to listen to the low murmur of your voice as you flicked through various pictures on your phone, mostly of Penny lounging by a window and a few of her sitting on Dex’s lap. Ray never would’ve pegged Dex as a cat guy, he figured he didn’t like pets in general, but he seemed smitten with your cat as a picture of him holding her was your lock screen.

“I just like how independent they are.” You said as you picked at the tab of your soda can that was sweating into your hand. Unlike Dex who was known to make intense eye contact during conversation you were apparently the type who avoided it, directing your attention to literally anything else besides Ray’s face. “Litterboxes also aren’t gross as long as you take care of them, it’s better than having to take her outside to poop when it rains. Plus she keeps herself so clean and doesn’t smell like yeast unlike dogs.”

“Growing up we always had a cat in the house, at one point we even had four.” Ray said, sipping his own beer as you awed at the statement. “Sami has been begging for a dog but Seema is worried about one wrecking the house and I don’t know if I can deal with the maintenance.”

“It’s nice that most cats are lower energy. Just don’t get a kitten, get an adult one and the shelters have tons that need homes. If our apartment allowed for more pets I would certainly get another.”

“I never would’ve guessed that Dex hangs out with a cat so much. He never has hair on him.” Ray muses, you pause then let out a breathy laugh along with him, like you were waiting for permission to laugh because you were unsure if he was joking or not. After you start bending the soda tab so much it eventually pops off, Ray pretends not to notice. 

“Yeah he lint rolls his clothes twice before going to work. But apparently he started doing that before we even started dating.” You comment, smiling fondly at the idea of your boyfriend obsessively getting cat hair off his work clothes.

That evening Ray is sitting by the new fire pit with the remaining members of the party. Most people who were either too drunk or had to go back with their kids had left a few hours prior leaving Ray’s closest friends behind. Springsteen was playing over the bluetooth speaker and Seema was resting in Ray’s lap while someone fed the fire another log. Another successful Ray and Seema party for the books.

“I’m still shocked that she’s real.” Ray overhears Grant say before taking a sip of his beer. FOr a second Ray can’t figure out what he’s talking about until he recalls the way Thurman and Grant stared at you and Dex practically all afternoon. Like you were some sort of puzzle they couldn’t wrap their heads around. 

“I’m not. At least not anymore.” Thurman comments. “They match each other’s freak.” This makes Grant laugh and Ray grimace. He wouldn’t call what the two of you had ‘matching each other’s freak’ as it sounded too cruel but in all honesty he couldn’t come up with a better way to describe it.

The two of you had left the party several hours prior, citing something about how you had to get home in time to feed the birds. You departed with a completely empty pyrex dish as everyone enjoyed your desert as well as a completely full tupperware of leftovers that Seema insisted you take. 

“Did anyone else notice the two of them reorganizing the cooler at one point?” Thurman asked. 

“Yes.” Seema piped up, “They rearranged it so perfectly they were able to fit another case of Coors into it. I’ve never seen such a tightly packed cooler.” She joked. The guys laughed again, somehow Ray was too busy to notice that ordeal.

“She seems sweet.” Ray muttered, trying to mention something nice so the conversation doesn’t get too pessimistic. The guys nodded in agreement at the statement which was true, you did seem sweet. Obviously you had a big passion for animals and Dex seemed a lot calmer when he was around you. 

“A little standoffish but then again, so is Dex.” Thurman concluded. “Killer brownies though, I think I had three of them.”

By midnight everyone is gone and Ray is taking out the trash while Seema is getting ready for bed. The backyard has been cleaned up for the most part but both Ray and Seema are both too tipsy and too tired to finish tidying up and decide to finish the task in the morning before Sami comes home from his sleepover. When he gets upstairs to the bedroom he finds his lovely wife curled up in bed already drifting off and it reminds him how lucky he is that he found his someone, making him all the more happy that Dex was able to find you.

+++

I miss my dead wife Ray Nadeem. Come back to me Ray the kids miss you. 

Thank you for all the likes and comments the past few weeks! This idea was given to me by @softyuujis so hopefully I did it justice. I wanted to play around with perspective in this oneshot so we could see what the relationship looked like from an outsider perspective. Weird girl reader my beloved. 

+++

Lets stand awkwardly at the function together. 

The morning had started completely normal.

Well-

Normal for the Gaang.

Which meant Sokka was loudly raiding the kitchen for food while Toph complained about him chewing too loud, Katara was trying to organize everyone, and Appa was snoring somewhere outside loud enough to shake the windows.

You were barely awake yourself.

Still tired.

Still sore.

And completely unaware of the bruises visible along your hips where your shirt had ridden up slightly. Honestly, you hadn’t even thought about them.

Not after last night.

Not after Aang had practically refused to stop making love to you for hours, kissing all over your skin while holding you tightly against him like he could never get enough. A blush threatened your face just thinking about it.

You walked into the kitchen quietly, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Morning,” you mumbled.

Katara smiled softly.

“Morning.”

Sokka looked up from his food immediately.

Then paused. His expression changed instantly. “…Uh.”

You blinked sleepily. “What?”

The kitchen suddenly went weirdly quiet. Even Toph tilted her head slightly. Katara’s eyes widened subtly. Sokka slowly pointed toward your waist. “…Should we be concerned?”

Your stomach dropped immediately.

“What?”

You looked down. And immediately saw them. Dark bruises wrapped around your hips. Finger-shaped. Very obvious finger-shaped.

Oh no.

Your face went hot instantly. “Oh my gosh.”

Katara stood immediately. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No!”

Too fast. Which somehow made it worse. Sokka looked horrified now. “Wait seriously, are those handprints?!”

You immediately tugged your shirt downward in embarrassment. “It’s not what it looks like!”

Toph snorted loudly from the table. “Oh, I can sense exactly what it looks like.”

“TOPH.”

“What? I’m blind, not stupid.”

Katara still looked worried though.

Genuinely worried. And honestly? You understood why. The bruises looked bad. Especially because Aang was incredibly strong now, even outside bending.

Years of training and fighting had changed him physically.

He was taller.

Broad-shouldered.

Muscular in ways he definitely hadn’t been as a teenager.

And sometimes-

Especially when emotional or passionate, he genuinely didn’t realize his own strength. Still, before you could explain properly The kitchen door slid open.

And Aang walked in. Immediately smiling the second he saw you. “There you are.”

His voice was still soft and sleepy. His head tattoos slightly glowing from just finishing morning meditation. He looked comfortable and relaxed. Completely unaware he’d just walked into a disaster. Then he noticed the silence.

And everyone staring at him.

His smile slowly faded.

“…Why is everyone looking at me like that?”

Nobody answered immediately. Sokka looked between you and Aang awkwardly. Katara looked deeply conflicted. Toph looked entertained. And you wanted to disappear into the floor.

Aang frowned slightly. “What happened?”

Then Katara spoke carefully.

“Aang…”

The second he heard her tone, concern crossed his face instantly.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Katara glanced at you briefly before looking back at him. “She has bruises.”

Aang blinked.

“…Okay?”

Sokka nearly choked.

“OKAY?!”

Aang looked even more confused now but then looked at your face. Then your waist where you were still unsuccessfully trying to cover the marks.

And suddenly-

Realization hit him like a truck.

“Oh.”

Silence. Aang’s ears immediately turned bright red. “Oh no.”

Toph burst out laughing instantly. “I KNEW IT.”

“ WHAT?!” Sokka yelled.

“SOKKA,” Katara hissed.

“What?! They look terrible!”

Aang looked mortified now. “Wait wait wait- ”

He immediately walked toward you, panic and embarrassment all over his face. “Baby, I didn’t hurt you, right?”

The fact he asked so genuinely somehow made your face even hotter.

“No!”

“You’d tell me if I did?”

“Yes, Aang.”

He visibly relaxed slightly.

Then immediately looked horrified again. “…Did I really leave those?”

You covered your face instantly. “Oh my gosh.”

Sokka looked traumatized.

“I’m never eating in this kitchen again.”

Toph was still cackling. Katara pinched the bridge of her nose. “A warning would’ve been nice.”

“We didn’t know they were there!” you defended weakly. Aang still looked guilty somehow. His eyes stayed fixed on the bruises. “…I grabbed you that hard?”

Your face somehow got hotter.

“You were emotional.”

Toph made a choking noise laughing.

“Oh this is GOLD.”

Aang immediately rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to bruise you…”

You softened instantly seeing how upset he suddenly looked. Because despite the embarrassment, Aang genuinely hated the idea of hurting you.

Even accidentally.

You reached for his hand gently.

“Aang.”

His eyes immediately lifted to yours.

“I’m okay.”

“…Promise?”

“Yes.”

He still looked uncertain. “I should’ve been more careful.”

Your chest softened painfully. “Aang, they don’t even hurt.”

Sokka stood abruptly. “Actually I’m leaving forever.”

“Nobody asked you to be here,” Toph replied.

Katara finally sighed. “Okay, now that we’ve established nobody is being abused- ”

“THANK YOU,” you muttered.

“- can we please never discuss this again?”

Toph immediately grinned. “Oh no, I’m discussing this for months.”

Aang groaned quietly before stepping closer to you again. Still embarrassed. Still pink-faced. But his hand automatically settled gently on your waist anyway. This time very obviously careful. You looked up at him teasingly. “Scared to touch me now?”

“Yes.”

You laughed softly.

“Aang.”

“I’m serious.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your hip where the bruises sat hidden again beneath your shirt. “I don’t like seeing marks on you from me.”

Your expression softened instantly.

“You know I liked them.”

Aang’s face immediately went red again.

“Baby.”

Toph gagged dramatically.

“Ew.”

Sokka pointed accusingly while backing toward the door.

“See?! This is why I’m leaving!”

Katara was fully covering her face now. “I miss when we were children.”

“We literally fought in a war,” Toph said.

“Somehow this feels worse.”

You started laughing helplessly while Aang buried his face briefly against your shoulder in embarrassment.

“I can’t believe this happened.”

“You walked into it.”

“I hate all of you.”

“No you don’t,” you murmured softly. Aang sighed dramatically before lifting his head again. Then quietly enough just for you- “…Still sorry though.”

Your heart melted instantly, because even now, after years together. After knowing you trusted him completely He still cared so deeply about your comfort and safety. You kissed his cheek softly.

“I know.”

And immediately

Some of the tension left his shoulders again.

Even while Sokka continued loudly announcing from another room that he’d been emotionally scarred for life.

♡♡♡

His grip is tight, as if you might float away, and that feels stupid because you’ve never felt so heavy. Every bone in your body is an anchor tethering you to the bed. Even though it hurts a little, you don’t want him to let go. He hasn’t held you like this before, like you meant something. 

You think about saying something smart like ‘well I’m already sat down’ or, ‘it’s not like i can go anywhere else’ but your throat is too sore. It’s a strange feeling, not scratchy like a cough, more like graze. It feels like a scrapped knee. Inside you. 

Tim’s eyes dart from Jason, to you, to Bruce. He’s searching for something. You know his tells. The same way he knows yours. Sometimes better than you do. Does Tim know this guy too?

Dick shatters the silence. 

“This is Jason-”

“She knows his name.” Damian is the second to break it. His posture is similar to a cat moments before jumping off a ledge. Poised but hesitant. “She just said it, Grayson.” He’s never defended you like this before, if that's what you could call this.

“Both of you shut up.” Jason groans. He exhales, his shoulders tightening up, and then he begins. “I’m Jason.” He says it like it’s supposed to mean something. When you don’t get the hint, he continues. “Todd.” It rings a bell but it doesn’t connect any dots yet. Trying to remember anything feels like flying a kite. You’ll get a running start, and it’ll take off, but then the wind disappears and the kite falls. 

All eyes are on you. Again. This whole thing starts to feel like a monkey's paw. You used to be afraid of that story when you read it in the Manor’s library. It went something like this- A married couple are gifted a mummified monkey’s paw. They are told that each finger of the Monkey’s paw can grant a wish, but it will have disastrous consequences. The husband wishes for money. The next day, his son dies at work, but he gets bereavement pay from his son’s employer. 

When you think about the story, you remember the tiny note written at the bottom of the first blank page. Property of Jason Todd. Return if found. No. That doesn’t make any sense. 

“What?” That's all you can say. You don’t have time to think of a smarter question. 

“Just listen to him.” Tim urges with a tone that borders on patronising. 

“I used to- shit this is hard to explain. Okay. My name is Jason. When I was a kid I lived ‘round Crime alley. Bruce took me in. But I… I ran away, and didn’t come home. But I’m back now.” 

Even under the influence of the medicine, you can smell that bullshit from a mile away. “But you died. Right?” You turn to Alfred in hopes he would back you up, but instead he just gives Bruce a look, a silent message, and says nothing. 

“Jason died. You told me he died. And that doesn’t-” You cut yourself off with a violent cough, one that rattles through you like sharp wind in tunnel. It reverberates loudly thanks to the oxygen mask on your face, making it sound worse than it was. Everyone lurches at once. Like that would do anything. You want to swat them away, but a tiny part of you tells you that if you push them away now, they’ll never come back. You wanted this right? 

You rip the mask off your face and let it dangle around your neck. The first hit of fresh air is magical. Not perfectly fresh, it tastes stale, but it’s a welcome change.

“That doesn’t explain Damian.” you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand when your coughing fit stops. You feel gross. This isn’t the first time you’ve woken up and felt disgusting. Some days you wake up with smeared makeup and new bruises. Sometimes it's in someone else’s bed. But there’s always a cloud of shame. Over time it’s become something akin to a friend in the sense that it’s familiar, and you know it will always be there.

“Why did you tell me he died?” This time your eyes are on Bruce. Something shifts behind his eyes. Not pity or disappointment. Something else you can’t point. “At the time, we thought he did.” He moves his hand from your shoulder and adjusts the neck of the hospital gown. When you took it off, the cord of the oxygen mask had caught on the edge of the neckline. 

He noticed. His movements are slow and tactile, painfully comforting. You could’ve had this before. There could’ve been a world where he held you with that same gentleness, but you weren’t in that world. 

“We didn’t know how to explain it to you.” He concludes. “I thought that, given your past, you’d find it overwhelming.” You want to cry. Or scream. Or hit someone, maybe even yourself. Why does everyone treat you like you’re stupid? 

“How does Damian know him then? Didn’t you think he’d find it ‘overwhelming’?” 

Damian’s posture straightens like he was anticipating a move. “I asked.” He says simply. 

“Oh so it’s my fault for not knowing? Sorry, let me understand this- I was supposed to go up to Bruce and ask ‘hey is Jason still dead or did he crawl out of the grave and come home?’ Is that what you’re telling me?” The room goes uncomfortably quiet. 

Oh no. No no no. It’s going to happen. They’re going to leave you. You pissed them off. That’s why they’ve shut up. The Monkey’s paw. Behind you, the heart monitor starts to escalate. Your chest feels breathless. But you can’t move. 

Alfred clears his throat. He breaks from the crowd around you and ushers Bruce out of his spot without a word. Bruce complies. When Alfred sits, he picks the mask you tore off and holds it to you. Not an order. But you both know it’s not a question. Your fingers shake when you try and put it back on so he has to help. 

“I think it would be best if everyone gave you some space. For a minute” 

The men, and Damian, take the hint. One by one, they slowly filter out. Dick offers a small smile before he goes. Damian straightens out your blanket but doesn’t look at you. Tim delivers an awkward side hug, careful not to touch the equipment around you. Jason does a slight nod, the kind you give a stranger when you hold the door open for them. Bruce is the last to go. He squeezes your hand and stands up. Hesitates. Then his hand holds the side of your face and he plants the smallest kiss on the top of your head. 

You freeze. This has never happened before. Not with him. Ever. Burning tears start to bloom in the corners of your eyes. He leaves before they grow. 

Alfred starts to stand but your hand darts out and holds onto his sleeve. “Don’t go.” He sits back down and gives Bruce a nod. Then the door closes. 

“Good save.” Dick’s sarcasm is laced with anxiety. No one could’ve planned what just happened. Unfortunately for you, you live with detectives who live double lives 24/7. They created that story on the spot. This wasn’t the first time they’d run with a fake story. Undercover work wasn’t anything new, but this was different. “Ran away? Really Jason?”

“What else was I supposed to say?” Jason chides. He tries not to let his face show it, but he’s scrambling. He’d only ever seen you under the influence, so he hadn’t expected you to be so sharp when sober. This was the first time he’s seen you string together coherent sentences without slurring or stammering. 

A lot of things were clicking into place. You had told him about your brothers, now he could put a face, or faces, to the names. The Oolder brother who doesn’t really like you’ was Dick. He pins Tim as the ‘Only nice one’, and all signs for ‘The one who is embarrassed of you’ point to Damian. You never named them, he reasoned you didn’t want to give all your personal life to the big bad Red Hood. Maybe if he pressed you would’ve spilled, but then what good would that have done? 

“You think she’d be completely fine with the pit? That wouldn’t raise any questions at all.” He mirrors Dick’s sarcasm but the nervous edge Dick flavoured it with is gone, instead Jason peppers his bite with venom. 

Bruce clears his throat and all eyes go to him. Jason feels his shoulders rising, squaring up against a potential threat from Bruce. Like a junkyard dog moments before being thrown into a fighting ring. Bite or get bit. Though they were mostly cordial now, not like how it used to be, there was always a part of him that told him he had to always be ready for anything. To get ready to kick and bite. Sometimes that part felt so big that he wondered if it was a part of him, or if this was him. 

“We’re going with Jason’s story.” He decides. And then it’s law. “Jason left, and now he’s back.” It isn’t a perfect story, but he thinks it will pacify you for now. 

He did love you, he does love you even, but in a broken way. When hasn’t Bruce loved someone in a broken way? Instead of holding you and telling you every day that you were enough, he left you to your own devices. He wants to lie and say it was out of nobility, that he believed it was the most ethical choice, but it wasn’t. Every time he smelt the alcohol on your breath, or saw the bruises on your legs and arms, when he caught your eye and saw how spaced out your pupils were, it reminded him of everything he was. 

Self destruction. Trying to escape yourself. Filling an endless void with material goods, with drinks and drugs, just for the hole to deepen. Being surrounded by people but feeling like you're alone in a lifeboat in a cold and uncaring sea. The eyes that dissect your every move. Chasing pleasure from people you won’t remember thinking that’ll change something, and when it doesn’t, you just find someone else and try again. 

You were both in that lifeboat. In the vast unfeeling ocean, and you were clinging to him, begging him to pull you up. There’s a boat in the distance, a ship, salvation. He flags it over. When the boat comes, he climbs the rope ladder. You reach to be pulled up. If he takes your hand, you could lose your balance and fall in. So he leaves you. From the deck, he looks down on your lifeboat. You’re alone. If he lowers the rope back down, it means he’ll have to get back into the boat. He leaves the ladder dangling from the side, an open invitation to a party, but there is no one to escort you there. 

Every time he took someone under his wing, they broke. But, at least they could break together. He left you to fall apart all by yourself. If you were going to drown in that sea, he should’ve held your hand and sunken with you. 

But you were sinking. Every night you were drowning yourself in a bottle. You had called for help, leaving your proverbial SOS in the sky. Leaving empty bottles in plain sight. Cigarette butts on your windowsill. Eating breakfast in front of him with dark eyebags. 

You were shot in front of him. 

Even though you cried and begged not to die, he knew that look. Relief. Maybe your conscious brain couldn’t register it, but he’s certain that subconsciously you knew you’d die if you ran down that alley.

He’ll drop the ship’s anchor. He’ll climb down the rope ladder and pull you up, out of that darkness. He’ll pull you onto the ship’s deck and hoist the ladder back up, so you’ll never go down again. The storm will calm, and the waters will still. 

Bruce exhales, freeing himself from the image. Today, it will change. 

Alfred keeps fretting with the cord of the mask, adjusting it over and over again so it fits snugly without digging into your skin. You want to enjoy the attention, but you can’t focus on anything. Since you woke up, there’s been this… itch. If you can call it that. Like fingernails scratching at your chest from the inside. Everytime you think about the alley, it comes back. When you think about anything but the present, the scratching starts. You’ve felt anxiety before, you’ve had a handful of acid induced panic attacks before, but this feels so much worse. Like the breath in your lungs is slowly being siphoned off by invisible claws. 

Neither of you speak, just enjoying the silence. Well, you aren’t enjoying it, but it’s easier than talking. Everything takes effort, breathing, blinking, thinking. You wonder if you’ve actually woken up, or if you’re still dreaming. 

“You know you’re lucky, don’t you?” Alfred cracks the silence. There’s a tone in his voice. It makes you want to cry immediately. Normally you’re better at hiding that. But when doing literally anything takes effort, it’s easier for the dam to burst. The tears roll down and trickle around the mask, not breaking the seal. Alfred looks taken aback, instead of continuing his lecture, he just thumbs away the tears. 

The anger you felt at your family, for hiding such a big lie, is still hot, but not like fire, like boiling water. It bubbles and rages inside you, but it isn’t quick hot anger, it's a slow, wet kind. The kind that makes you upset for feeling angry. Like a child regretting their temper tantrum after they’ve been put in timeout. 

You lift your head when the door opens again, thinking it’ll be the gaggle of men and boys, but instead a single doctor comes in. His clipboard is snug against his chest and he walks like he’s being watched. That’s when you see a shorter doctor behind him, she carries herself with grace and controlled confidence. 

They greet you but it feels stiff. Something’s wrong. The scratching gets worse. “Good morning Miss Wayne.” the taller one greets, his voice a little shaky. He looks like he’s five minutes from imploding under stress. “How’re you feeling?” 

It takes you a moment to find the words. “Fine. My throat hurts.” You’ve never liked going to the doctors. “My stomach hurts too. But I mean I was shot, so.” Trying to find the humour in the situation backfires because Alfred tuts. That signature, ‘you’re better than this’ tut. 

“Considering..?” Alfred pries. 

The doctor seems to find it funny at least. The taller one gives a small smile and checks the clipboard again before looking back up to meet your eyes. “Well your charts look… surprisingly good. Considering everything else.” 

“Her, uh, condition on intake. Although we can’t trust these charts 100%, there could still be some floating in her system. But all things considered, you’re looking well. But uh, we’ve- uh”’

“I’ll say it.” The short one pipes up, clearly irritated by his stuttering. She takes the board from it and clasps her hands together in front of her. “Miss Wayne, we want to keep you under observation for another seventy-two hours after you’ve healed from your surgery."

“What? You said I was fine-” Alfred takes your hand in his, a silent grounder. The scratching ramps up. “I’m not sick, I didn’t break anything. You already did surgery on me, right? Look, I just want to go home.” 

“This isn’t about the surgery.” Her voice is clipped but there’s a softer ring to it. She’s exercising restraint. “We’re concerned about your substance intake. If you drink, or take recreational substances while on the medication we’ve prescribed for you, I’m not going to beat around the bush, it could turn lethal. Do you understand that? If you continue to abuse your body, you’ll die. We want to keep you under observation to make sure you put yourself in danger.”

Humiliation burns through your core. This is rock bottom. You feel like you’re back in school, getting told off for not doing your homework in front of the whole class. You wish you didn’t ask Alfred to stay. Having him hear this makes everything feel so much worse. 

You really are the worst daughter ever. No wonder they don’t want you. God if Mother could see you now she wouldn’t recognise you. She’d leave you too. If she wasn’t dead, she’d have left you. 

“How long do I have to stay?” Your voice is shaky and embarrassing. 

“Depends on how quick your stitches take to heal up. After that, we’ll keep you on some antibiotics, and once you’ve finished the course, you’ll be okay to go home.” The taller one pipes up. 

When you don’t reply, but instead just nod, they take their leave. “Someone will come by later and ask you some questions. Don’t think too deeply, just answer them honestly.” The shorter one finishes. “I hope you’ll feel better soon.” And you believe she means it. 

The group is divided. Jason and Damian come in just after the Doctors leave. Jason still looks uncomfortable. You wish you could’ve met under different circumstances. It would be nice to be alone. Or make a better first impression. He stands in the back of the room, not making any first moves, so you end up being the first to try and break the ice. 

“I’m not normally like this.” You broach weakly. “I mean, I don’t dress like this normally.” Sheepishly gesturing to the hospital gown and mask. “I’m Y/N.” 

Jason bites back a quick ‘I know’ and instead just dips his head. “Yeah, well, weird circumstances.” he summarises. You notice the scuff marks on his jacket. His clothes don’t look new and pristine like everyone else’s. They’re clearly lived in. The leather is old and worn, with discoloured patches on the elbows. He must work with his hands. 

“I like your jacket.” You try. A tiny, almost invisible, smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

“Nah, this thing? It’s ancient. Bet it’s older than Damian.”

Damian’s always envied how easily you connect with people. Something so simple as a trivial compliment, and you’ve already started hacking away at Jason’s icy walls. You had a charm that he lacked, and that drove him mad. How are you able to be so likable, even now when you’re practically strapped down to a bed, unwashed and dressed in thin, flatout ugly attire? 

“How come you two know each other? I know I asked but you didn’t really answer.” You try again. 

“His Mom knew mine. I left home to find her but, well it’s done now.” He puts his hands in his pockets. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be, you didn’t do anything.” He scoffs. 

“Where are the others?” Alfred asks, finally standing up and stretching his legs. You wonder how long he waited for you to wake up. How many hours had he been by your side?

“Outside getting air.” Damian clips. He’s sat back on the same chair he was before he left, right by the bed. 

“Tim’s vaping, isn’t he?” You muse, a tiny laugh fighting it’s way out. God you’d kill for a vape right now. You normally hate it, and tease Tim for 'not committing to real tobacco', but you’d do anything for a hit. Something to damp down the scratching anxiety. 

“Yeah.” Jason makes a noise, something like a laugh but more subtle, like he’s surprised you can still joke in this situation. 

“I’m going to join Master Bruce. Some fresh air will do me good.” Alfred lets go of your hand and you miss the warmth when it slips away. You feel so cold. “I’ll be back soon.” he promises, then closes the door behind him. 

Great. Now you’re stuck with Jason and Damian. You had turned Jason, or rather the vague concept of Jason, into an imaginary friend for years and vented to the fictitious friend about anything and everything. Now he was real, and old, and breathing. Old was a stretch, older is the right word. Part of you felt guilty for warping him into something he wasn’t. He wasn’t yours, it was wrong to impose an identity onto him when he wasn’t there. But it was nice to have a friend that couldn’t leave, or hurt you. 

When the door closes, the shift in the air causes the book peeking out of Tim’s backpack to fall out and hit the ground. You didn’t realise he left it there. Then you recognise the cover, it was the same book you were struggling to get through the other day. The one you were trying to read to pass the time before you went to Roy’s. 

Jason bent down to put it back, but when he saw the cover he paused. He turned it over in his hands, checking the back, then looked up at you. “This yours?” 

“Yeah.” you admitted with a twinge of embarrassment. It was below your reading level. You found it in the library one day and held on to it. It was a little older than what you were used to, to the prose and language was harder to understand. 

“No way. I used to love this one.” He handed it to you with care, like the pages would fly out. During your walks with Red Hood, you never mentioned reading. 

“Really?” He swore he could see something in your posture shift, like you were getting less afraid of him by the minute. “I haven’t gotten super into it yet. Is it good?” 

He starts a small rant about it. Jason doesn’t get to talk about his interests much. There’s a light in his voice, strong but not overpowering and loud, just passionate in a confident way. He knows what he’s talking about, he doesn’t overexplain anything.

To be honest, you aren’t really listening. A lot of it goes over your head. He talks about the themes and the character dynamics, how the time period influences their choices and actions, but a lot of it gets drowned out. You’re just grateful to have something else to focus on. Something other than the beeping of the monitors, the cords rubbing against you, the way the gown feels against your skin. 

Damian doesn’t interject, but you can tell he wants to say something. You won’t force him to. If he feels like it, he’ll talk. It’s still painful to be around him. Everytime you see him in your peripheral vision, you see yourself pushing him. You feel like a monster. A beast. 

Before he can finish, the door knocks. It’s a different doctor this time, one you haven’t seen before. She isn’t dressed like the other ones. She’s not in a lab coat, but instead just wearing a simple button up and a cardigan. She looks more like a teacher than a doctor. 

“Sorry to interrupt, I’m Dr Wyatt, I’m here to ask you some questions.” Her voice is soft and direct. Jason and Damian exchange a look and reluctantly leave the room. 

“You guys are coming back right?” Your hand grips the edge of the thin blanket tightly. 

Damian nods. Then they leave. And it’s just you and the Doctor alone. You haven’t had a single minute to yourself yet and it’s starting to drive you crazy. 

You sit up in the bed when Dr Wyatt sits down in the chair Damian was in. You’re assuming the questions will just be ‘how are your stitches’ or asking if you want anything to eat, but instead she pulls out a thick stack of papers from her bag. They’re stapled together and frighteningly official looking. You decide to take the oxygen mask off if you're going to be talking for a while.

“Now Y/N, I’m going to ask you some questions, and there is no right or wrong answer, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay, good. Now, when I ask you a question, you can answer it with ‘Never’, ‘Sometimes’, ‘Most of the time’, or ‘Everyday’. You understand? And again, there are no right or wrong answers. Or judgement. This is only for me and the Doctors to see.”

“Okay.” your voice quivers a little. 

“Alright, I’m going to start now. Over the last two weeks, how often would you say you’ve been feeling anxious, or on edge?” 

Oh. It’s those questions. When Mother died, you remember a lady at the social services building asking you similar stuff. You don’t think it went anywhere though. Maybe it’s the near death experience talking, but you don’t feel shame when you say “Sometimes.” Normally, you placate yourself, you water down your feelings, you make them smaller to avoid bothering anyone. But now you don’t want to be small. You want to be seen.

“Okay, and do you have any trouble relaxing?”

The question makes you snort. That catches her attention. You can already see her scribbling something down. “Something funny?” her tone isn’t accusatory. 

“No,no, it’s just- I’m really good at relaxing. I don’t do anything. I’m not in school. I don’t have a job. Or hobbies, or friends, or anything a normal person does. So I don’t do anything. I lie in bed. Or on the floor. I sleep through the day. I doomscroll. I drink.”

You’ve never said that part outloud. 

“Or I smoke. To pass the time. Then I go out, and I party. It relaxes me I guess. Then I go home and sleep for ages. That’s pretty relaxing.”

She writes something down quickly and looks back up at you. “And do you find yourself becoming easily irritable or annoyed?”

“Back off!” You fight back your growing frustration. It burns in your throat with a flaming chokehold. Your lip quivers under the heat. It’s wet and raw, warm like blood. “I’ve had a shit day and I don’t want to spend another minute here.”

“Sometimes. Yes.” It’s clipped and avoidant. 

“Have you felt little interest or pleasure in things you normally enjoy?”

You have to think for a moment on how to word your answer. “Sometimes. I used to really enjoy partying. But, I uh, I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like I have to do it. Like, if I want to drink, I have to go to a party. I don’t just want to drink at home. If I’m outside, and I’m with people, then it feels less… weird.” 

“And can I ask who these people are? In your own words you ‘don’t have friends.’ So who are you partying with?” 

“I don’t know. Just people. I meet them randomly. I don’t know them. I just talk to them and then we drink.”

“Do you feel down or hopeless?”

“.. Yes. Most of the time”

“Do you feel that you’ve let someone down? That you’ve failed.” 

You think about your college friends' graduation pictures. Of the life you could’ve lived. You think about school. How your grades were only ever fine. Average, bordering on underachieving. “Yes. All the time.”

“Do you have trouble connecting with something, like reading a newspaper or watching TV?

“When I try to read I can’t think about the words. It’s like autopilot. Most of the time. I watch TV but I'm not really taking it in, it just passes over me”

Doctor Wyatt pauses before asking the next question. “Do you have thoughts about dying? That you’d be better off dead, or hurt?” Her eyes are soft as the press. 

“Yes.” it shocks you to admit it. “When… When I got shot, I think I didn’t want to wake up. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to wake up. Does that make sense? It’s stupid. And pathetic. But I just, I don’t know anymore. I think I’m tired of trying, but then I haven’t done anything. I’ve never really tried to be anything. So what's there to be tired of? It’s disgusting.”

“You aren’t disgusting Y/N.” 

You needed that more than you knew. You break into tears immediately. Again. Wyatt hands out a tissue for you and you wipe away the rolling tear drops. One strays against your lip and you taste the salty sweet residue. 

“Do you have repeating memories of a traumatic event? Recent or Old.” 

“Sometimes I see my Mother. And I see her yelling at me. And I see her body at the morgue. I was the only one that could identify her. She didn’t have friends. Or family. She died- killed- when I was thirteen. I used to get nightmares. But, when I drink, or get high, or whatever to distract myself, she’s not there anymore. And then I get sad that she isn’t there. So I go home.” 

“Where’s home?”

“I live with my Father, but my Mother’s home was on Birch street. So I just wait outside the apartment building for her to come out. But she doesn’t.”

“Do you find yourself bothered by strong negative beliefs?”

“What does that mean?”

“Thoughts like, ‘something’s wrong with me’, or ‘the world is out to get me’.”

“Yeah, sometimes. I mean, I know there’s something wrong with me, I know I’m bad, but I think the world is just the world. I think life just sucks for everyone, I think some people are just better at managing it.”

“How many times a week do you consume alcohol?”

“Pretty much every day.”

“When you start drinking do you find yourself unable to stop?”

“Yeah. I just, I don’t want to be sober. I want to stay drunk. Everything feels easier. I feel normal.”

You don’t have an answer. Dr Wyatt continues. “Has a Doctor or a relative expressed concerns, or asked you to cut down?”

“How can you tell when you’re drunk if you’re never sober?”

“Sort of. I mean, my brother does sometimes. But he doesn’t stop me.”

She writes on her notepad and you watch her face twitch. Her eyebrows knit together and droop at the end. When she stops, she gathers the papers together and looks back up at you as she stands up. “Thank you for your time Y/N.”

“It was nice to meet you.” You try a smile but you doubt she bought it. You’ve never been that open with anyone. Not even imaginary Jason. There was something freeing about deciding not to care anymore. “Do you think I can take these things off? I need the bathroom?” 

At Dr Wyatt’s request, someone comes in to take off the mask and the monitor attachments, freeing you from the bed. Your feet feel like mud when you put weight on them. For a second you nearly stumble, but you catch yourself. There’s a tall window in the room, so you prop it open to get some air in. Then you head to the bathroom. 

One day, those feelings will end, right? They have to, because there must be more to life than this. Chasing something that’ll never come. When you look in the mirror, you see her. The thirteen year old you whose life stopped because one man couldn’t take no for an answer. She’s afraid of you. Of course she is. You look awful. Her eyes are still bright. When did that light go out? 

You want to hold her close and never let go. To melt into her and try again. Go back and make better choices. Beg Mother to stay. You’d never fight with her again, you’d be her good girl. You’d let her shout and belittle you without protest if it meant she’d stay. Try school again, make friends that wouldn’t leave you. Become a better person. Be kinder. Less selfish. Choose a normal, uninspiring life. Work a job you feel ambivalent toward. Take home a paycheck that keeps the lights and fridge on. Live in an apartment that feels like it’s actually yours, not just a guest room in a hotel. 

In the blink of an eye, she’s gone, and it’s just you and staring at yourself. The last person you want to see right now. 

WE’RE HERE TEAM WE DID IT. 

GOD LIFE GOT WEIRD AFTER CHP 10. Okay so- I got my apartment keys, only for my landlord to give me the wrong ones, so I had to sort that out. And then when I started to finish packing, i got a tooth abscess which WAS THE MOST PAINFUL THING EVER OMFGG. I literally couldn’t do anything but lie in bed, even sitting up hurt. I was on strong painkillers so I couldn’t focus on anything- ended up just watching Malcolm in the Middle while trying not to move too much. 

I finished my assignments and the universe immediately struck me down. We ball. The sun is shining and I’m moving soon. Life will be good.

LMK what u think, inbox is always open <3

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But it never happens. Each step back towards the car drives that point home. Every step he takes puts more distance between the two of you. No one opens the door. It’s admitting defeat. Instead, it opens from the inside. Jason sits in the driver’s seat. 

It’s not the batmobile, but instead it’s one of Bruce’s personal cars. His eyes have a quiet fury in them. That's new. Normally Jason’s rage is loud and evident. Somehow this is scarier. 

“We’re going to talk. You’re going to tell me everything. Who is she?” he wastes no time in asking. Tim hasn’t even clipped his seatbelt in yet. He sits in the back with Dick, and Bruce sits next to Jason in the front. 

Bruce’s eyes look hollow. Defeated. 

“When we get back-”

“No. Now.” Jason pushes back, starting the car and driving at a leisurely pace. “We have time. Visiting hours won’t be open for, what, another three and a half hours? Should be plenty of time.” His snark makes no effort to go undetected. “Who is she?”

Bruce clears his throat. 

“Her name is Y/N. She’s Nineteen.” He notes that Jason’s shoulders tense when he hears your real age. “Her mother was… we had a thing. Once. It wasn’t supposed to be serious. I was young and stupid. I didn’t hear anything from her after we stopped. I didn’t know she- we had a child. Thirteen years later she comes to the door.” 

Bruce has to pause. “Her mother was attacked by a stranger and thrown into oncoming traffic.”

“Jesus.” Dick mutters. He’s heard the story before but it doesn’t change how bleak it is. 

“She refused to go into the system and I… it didn’t feel right to send her away. I thought that I could do something good. She grew up living hand to mouth. The apartment was a mess. I thought she could have a better life. That's what I told myself. I thought she should have the chance to be a normal kid.” 

‘She fought to be here, Mr Wayne’

“So I kept her away. I wouldn’t let her get close. I thought about you. I wanted to give her the life you should’ve had”

Jason looks like he’s going to explode. He tries to keep it in but his face betrays him. He’s got that look in his eye. The one that always sees through Bruce.

“I thought it was for the best.”

“No you didn’t.” Jason cuts him off as he turns a corner. “You just didn’t want to look at her. I know how you think Bruce. If something reminds you that you’re a fraud, you turn it away.” His knuckles tighten on the wheel. They turn white and his nails carve little crescents into the leather steering wheel.

“I know.” Bruce’s voice is uncharacteristically empty. 

“Why didn’t I know about her? Who else knows?” 

“I’ve kept her out of the public eye-”

“Let me guess, you thought if the Gotham Gazette snapped a picture of her at the clubs you’d get it in the neck?” Jason huffs. 

The car goes silent. 

“Yes.” He admits. “And I know how the paparazzi treats women like her. Young, vulnerable women. She wouldn’t be able to cope with it. So I didn’t take her to the galas. I didn’t drive her to school. I wouldn’t let us be seen in the same room.” he takes a breath in. “I didn’t tell you about her because I didn’t know how you’d react. I didn’t know how to explain you. She knows that you died. How do you explain that to someone?”

“How I’d react?” Jason parrots with a scoff. 

“Cmon Jason, you know it’s not completely unreasonable.” Tim interjects. “When you came back you were hellbent on destroying everything. He didn’t put it past you to use Y/N as leverage. Or a punching bag.”

The car jerks to a halt with a violent screech. Jason whips his head around to the back of the car. “You think I’d hurt her? Look who the fuck’s talking! I haven’t set foot in her home life and she’s in a hospital bed- that’s all you!” he spits to the three. 

“Don’t act like you know how this happened.” Dick defends himself. “You weren’t there.”

“Ha.” Jason’s voice is dry. “No, you’re right I wasn’t there. And who’s fault is that?” he snaps back to Bruce. “I wasn’t there, so I wouldn’t know anything about her. I wouldn’t know that she’s a drunk. Or that she only smokes Marlboro golds. Guess I wouldn’t know that her first home was on Birch street, would I? No, I’d never know that she wanted to be a vet, but dropped out.  Bet you guys know all about that, right? Bet you know her dealer too. Ah, no, you wouldn’t. What did she say again… oh yeah, ‘my Father can’t stand me’, ‘my oldest brother hates me’, ‘they all think i’m a screw up’.”

The tension in the car grows. “You guys let this happen to her.”

That does it. Bruce slams his hand against the dashboard. “ENOUGH Jason.”

“What are you talking about?” Of course Tim knew about the drinking and the dropping out, but what was that last bit, and how did Jason of all people know? “Did you stalk her?” The accusation chills the room. 

“God no.” Jason starts driving again. The tension dissipates a little when they start moving. “I met her last year. I was patrolling around the area, round Park Row. She was just a stranger. She was absolutely wasted and alone, so I walked her back.” 

“Walked her back where?”

“She wouldn’t let me walk her the whole way. Thought she was afraid of me, she said she didn’t wanna bother me more than she already had. I walked her to the bridge on Queen’s river and she made her own way back from there. Then next week she was there again. And the week after. You get the point. She just kept talking the whole time.”

Jason narrows his eyes, “She talked about you guys a lot.” 

Dick swallows a lump in his throat. “What kinda stuff?”

“You know she thinks you all hate her right? That's all she’d talk about.”

Bruce feels like his throat is getting tighter. Something’s choking him. 

Before he continues, he bites the inside of his lip, deliberating on how to word his next statement. “One time she asked me to walk her to the train station. She said she was gonna get the first train out of Gotham and never come back. Thought she was joking, but she was dead serious. God she couldn’t walk in a straight line but she just kept saying she was gonna do it. After that I didn’t see her for a week. Assumed she made it out. Turns out, it was just having a rough comedown- according to her.”

Before they know it, the car approaches the Manor. The sun begins to crest over the horizon. Five AM. No one speaks when they get out of the car. When he opens the door, Bruce is greeted with Alfred. He looks more tired than usual.

“Master Damian told me everything. Is she…” his voice drifts off when he can’t see you. For a moment he assumes the worst. His perfect posture falters. 

“She’s alive.” Dick promises. “There was a surgery- they got the bullet out, that’s all that matters right now.” His promise does little to soothe Alfred. “We’re gonna go back as soon as visiting hours are open-”

“She’s alone?” Alfred isn’t one to interrupt. He’s too good at his job for that. But when he heard that you were on death’s door, and now that you’re all by yourself, it cracks him. 

Bruce could have Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian, but you were always Alfred’s. When you came home for the first time, you followed him around like a lost puppy. Always afraid of setting a foot wrong, so eager to make a good impression. If you weren’t at school you’d be helping wherever you could. You’d handwash the dishes, even though they had a dishwasher, or insist on giving him a hand with dinner. When you got a little more comfortable, you’d joke with him. Or ask for help with homework. He remembers the day you asked him to come to your parent teacher conference. Then there was the school play. You were so excited when you got a good part, not the lead, but you still had a good handful of lines and stage time. You reserved a seat for Bruce as well, but that was a bust. 

On that ride home you asked him why Bruce didn’t show. Alfred made up some kind of lie about a board meeting over running. Well, not a total lie, it wasn’t a board meeting, but instead it was a meeting with the justice league. How could he explain that to you without exposing everything?

So the image of you, the girl he failed, lying in an unfamiliar bed all by yourself instantly sends him into a spiral. You’ll be afraid when you wake up. He knows you hate being alone. 

“Visiting hours open at Eight.” Bruce’s voice is steady. “We’re going to rest and go back at half seven. Where’s Damian?”

“He’s asleep.” Alfred replies curtly. Bruce can tell he’s pissed. He has every right to be. 

Dick yawns. An attempt to settle the air. That's normally his forte. The peacekeeper. But nothing can calm the room. “I’m gonna get a couple hours of shut-eye too. Nothing we can do until they open.” he heads upstairs but turns his head around when he’s half way up. “Jason, you coming?”

Jason doesn’t say anything when he passes Bruce and takes to the stairs. When he gets to the right floor, he calls to Dick with a lowered voice. “I’m gonna take a guest room. See ya.” Before he can depart, Dick grabs his arm and drags him into the nearest guest room. 

“What the hell Dickhea-”

“You said she had a dealer. It’s Roy isn’t it?” Dick’s eyes are cold. They’ve lost the playful spark they normally hold and instead they’ve frosted over. 

“I don’t know wha-”

Before he can lie, Dick pulls out your phone. He has the messages open. When they were driving, he had taken the liberty of going through your phone. Some would call it an invasion of privacy. He would say it’s research. The messages go back further than he could’ve guessed. They’re consistent though. That's not even the worst part. He’s the only person who regularly texts you back. 

“Are you going to let me talk or are you going to just keep cutting me off?”

Dick says nothing. 

“Okay, yes. It’s Roy. Listen, I have nothing to do with that alright? I barely see him.”

“Barely?”

“I let him stay at my apartment. Trust me I don’t want him there, but if I know where he is at least I can keep an eye on him.”

“Thats how you knew about the acid, right? Did Roy tell you?” Dick pressed. 

Jason pokes his head around the corner of the door to check if anyone could hear. When he doesn’t see anyone, he reels back in. “I was there. Look before you blow up, listen. I thought- shit i don’t know- I thought she was grown. I didn’t know she’s nineteen, okay? I thought she was twenty something. I figured she was old enough to make her own decisions.”

“And you didn’t stop her?? You preached about us not being there for her and you let her get high right in front of you?!” his voice is ripping itself apart. It’s trying to be quiet but the weight of the words make that hard. 

“Oh yeah Dick, you’re so right. I should’ve just slapped it right out of her hands, because that's what a normal person would do. Are you stupid? If I intervened she’d know something’s up. Yeah, I was there, but so was Roy. He was keeping an eye on her.”

“Where was he when she got shot in the stomach?” Dick snaps back. 

Neither speak. The elder bat takes a moment to think. He has to plan. Dick knows he hasn’t been a good brother. But as the oldest, it’s his job to make the plans, to get everyone together. 

It’s Jason who speaks first. “I would’ve been there if you guys let me.” There's a thick layer of malice and venom but underneath the spite there’s a sliver of vulnerability.  

He leaves the room before Dick can stop him. His feet lead him to an empty guest room, the one furthest away from anyone else’s room and he crashes onto the bed. The bed swallows him whole and he sinks into a dreamless sleep, anything to pass the time. It’s going to be a long, painful day when he wakes up.

Bruce cracks his son’s door open with delicate care, not wanting to wake him. It is in vain however, because Damian hasn’t slept a wink since he got home. Instead, he finds Damian training with the dummy in the corner of his room. Each hit is precise and quick, leaving no room for error. The door creaks and gives Bruce away. Damian’s head swivels, his eyes wide with anticipation until he sees who it is. Then, his arms fall to his side. 

“Why are you still up?” Bruce lets himself into the room and sits on the edge of the bed. He taps the spot next to him. Damian takes the hint but doesn’t comply. 

“Can’t sleep.” he shuffles uncomfortably. “I don’t see the point of sitting around and doing nothing.” He speaks like it's obvious. 

“Damian, are you okay?” it comes out slowly, like the words themselves could bite. 

“I’m fine.” It's too quick to be real. “Why are you asking me? I’m not the one who got shot.” his voice cracks on the last word and it tells Bruce all he needs to know. He opens one arm out, a ‘come here’ and Damian finally complies. The smallest Wayne slots next to his father and keeps his eyes forward, unable to look at him. 

“Is she okay?”

Bruce inhales. “She’s alive.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Unconsciously Damian worms a little closer to his father. “I asked if she was okay.” 

“We’ll visit her soon, you’ll see for yourself. She’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.” A dark voice nags him in the back of his mind. ‘You never sat like this with her.’ Would things be different if he did? He wonders which moment set you down the path you were on now, and if he had even been there for it. Could he have steered you away if he was there? 

“You did good tonight. You stayed calm.” 

Damian bites his tongue. He wants to admit that he wasn’t calm. He was terrified. But he doesn’t want to know why. He’s seen blood before, more than anyone his age has or should. People die all the time, so why did your near death experience rattle him so much? Why can he still see the gunman when he closes his eyes? The sound of your body slamming against the ground keeps playing whenever it gets quiet, then it gets followed up by your agonised screams. 

He knows the real answer. Guilt isn’t a new feeling. Neither is shame. He’s well versed in these emotions. He can recognise them within himself and he’s got practised pushing them down enough times to make it muscle memory. But he’s drowning in it now. If luck hadn’t been on your side, for once, your last action would’ve been cursing at him and pushing him. He knows that's not you, but it could’ve been your legacy. 

Before last night, he found your insistence on leaving with a ‘love you’ annoying. The way you would pester him by knocking until he let you in. You wouldn’t let him go to school without saying it on the way out. If he wasn’t around you’d text him instead. It used to get on his nerves. But he missed it last night. It could’ve been lost forever. 

So you have to be okay. You must. That can’t be the last time he saw you. 

The hours drag on until Seven AM finally arrives. Bruce is awake. He didn’t sleep. That's nothing new. Instead, he spent the remaining hours in your room. After getting Damian into bed, he went to your room. It certainly looks lived in. The bed is made, Alfred’s doing, and the walls are littered with posters and knick knacks. Photos of you with people he doesn’t recognise, movie posters- he didn’t know you liked that genre, bands he’s never heard of. There’s a shelf lined with books and trinkets. 

Bruce came in with the intention of packing a care bag. To pack up a few things that might bring you some comfort or pass the time, but when he looks around he feels utterly defeated. He doesn’t know which books you’ve already read, or which pyjama shirt you’d prefer. 

“She likes that one.” Tim’s voice brings him out of his trance. He stood in the doorway, with a backpack in hand. Guilty minds think alike. “She’s halfway done.” he’s pointing to a book on your nightstand. Bruce picks it up and feels the weight of it. It’s not thick, but instead it's thin. Should be a quick read. It makes him wonder when you started it. There’s no bookmark, but instead the top corner of the page has been dog-earred. 

“Did you get any sleep?”

Tim doesn’t need to say anything. The answer is obvious. “I was busy. I saw the pamphlet in your pocket when you sat down earlier. I wanted to do some research.”

“So. What do you think?”

Tim fiddles with his fingers while trying to find the words. A quirk he’s always had. He didn’t notice himself doing it until you pointed it out once. “I think she needs help,” he started, “but I don’t think sending her away is a good idea. Last time she left she got worse, remember?”

When Bruce doesn’t reply, Tim assumes he forgot. Of course he did. “College. Remember now? When she dropped out and came back she just… I don’t know, deflated I guess. It was like all her energy just disappeared. Took her a month to get out of that slump. Do you really think sending her away again is gonna make her any better?”

“We’ll look at our options.” Bruce sighs non comitally. Another reminder of how he failed you.

“Bruce, you know I respect you. But if I have to fight you in this I will. We nearly lost her last night, do you really want to lose her again?” his words cut deeper than Bruce thought they could. He was glad for it. 

The drive to the hospital was rough. The road itself was smooth, but the atmosphere inside the car was rocky. Damian was weirdly quiet, Dick was fidgeting in his seat-unable to keep still, Jason was a timebomb waiting to explode, Tim was tapping his feet against the floor, Alfred kept his eyes on the road as he drove and Bruce was… well the brooding wasn’t new. That was comfortably familiar. 

Gotham wakes slowly. Men and women walking to work, cars honking and gulls squawking. Tim watches them all moving. He likes people watching, but it’s only fun when you’re there. You had this game, you’d both pick a person and make up a story for them. It’s not fun alone. It just makes him realise that the game itself isn’t fun, you’re the one who makes it playable. 

Inside it's clean and for once the ER room is quiet. The sounds of rubber soles squeaking against the tiled floor and the gentle hum of the overhead lights all float around the room. Bruce checks them all in, filling out the guest log with a sea of names. 

Your room is a couple floors above the ER. Severe trauma. Instead of sharing a room, like most patients would, you’d been given your own small space. Given the severity of the injury. Bruce knows that it isn’t so you could have peace and quiet. It was so if you got worse, they could close off the room and not disturb anyone else. 

The man in charge of the floor isn’t the same person he saw yesterday. It isn’t the surgeon who warned him about your liver damage. He leads the group to your room, tucked away at the end of the corridor. The floor smells of antiseptic cleaner and bleach. A good sign. 

He's about to leave the group when they get to the door. “You can go in when you feel ready. She’s not awake yet but she’s in better shape than she was when you last saw her.” He consults his charts and grimaces. “Although we did have to intubate-”

“You said you’d call if something happened.” Bruce’s voice is sharp and accusatory, weathered by his exhaustion. 

“It was an hour ago.” He states bluntly. “We didn’t have any other choice. She stopped breathing for two minutes. Her lungs just needed a kick start. Once she’s breathing on her own, we’ll take it out. She’s uh… Mr Wayne, a word.” 

He peels Bruce away from the rest and he motions for them to wait. It’s the second time he’s been pulled aside by a surgeon and he knows it’s going to be bad news. 

“Were you aware that your daughter is a smoker, Mr Wayne?” His voice doesn’t hold any fear, even against the billionaire. He almost respects it. “Her lungs couldn’t keep up with her body. When we intubated it was because the tissue on her lungs was thinner than it should be. If she hadn’t been brought in, we wouldn’t have known. We checked her records, she hasn’t had a medical checkup in three years. This could’ve been caught earlier. It's not cancerous, thank god, but a nineteen year old shouldn’t have that kind of damage. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“How long will she need the tube?”

He hears the surgeon mutter ‘unbelievable’ under his breath before saying “It’s only temporary. Just till she’s awake enough to breathe by herself. Then we’re going to start her on Nintedanib. It’s risky but the alternative is off the table.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“Pirfenidone, normally. It’s more effective but there’s a risk it could cause liver damage. And given the current state of her liver- it’s not compatible.” He looks disgusted. Not at you, but at the man who let you get to this point. “Mr Wayne, your daughter is going to be very sick for a long time. The recovery is going to be hell. Are you prepared for this, or are we going to be seeing her back here again? She’s going to be in a lot of pain. Don’t make it any worse.” The surgeon takes his leave. 

Bruce can’t find the words. He drifts back to his group. When his hand reaches the door handle, he can’t open it. If he does, he’ll have to look at you again, and he’s not sure he can handle the sight. Dick’s hand is on top of his without a word, and he pushes the door open. They filter in one by one and try not to cringe at the sight of you.

You’re definitely looking better. The colour has returned to your cheeks, your blood is pumping like normal. But the tube in your mouth takes away from that small victory. The IV drip attached to your arm and the heart monitor’s steady rhythm draws all their attention. 

At first no one knows what to do. They hadn’t really thought this far.

Tim does what he always does when he’s afraid. He tries to problem solve. The chart at the end of your bed is supposed to be for the doctor's eyes only but he can’t help himself. It hasn’t changed much from last night, but there's a new note about the intubation. It details what happened an hour ago. 

From what he can read, you were fine throughout the night- or rather early morning- but there was a brief spasm, and then you stopped breathing. They caught it quickly and managed to prevent anything worse from happening, but Tim can’t find a reason. That's all he needs, he needs something to show that this makes sense. Randomness is his worst enemy. It makes him powerless. 

Dick pokes around the room. There’s a TV in the corner, cushy, an empty flower pot and the window looks over the west side of Gotham. He opens the window and the sound of the city floods in. It drowns out the beeping monitor. There’s a chair in the corner and he makes himself comfy on it. 

Alfred stands at the foot of the bed, reading over Tim’s shoulder. After giving the file a quick glance, he gets to work. He does what he can to make the room feel more comfortable, like Dick did last time.

Damian picks up the TV remote and tries to summon life from the screen. When nothing happens he tries the old reliable- taking out the batteries, swapping them round, and then putting them back in. Still nothing. Misplaced anger bubbles up inside him. He leaves the room without telling anyone where he’s going. 

Bruce and Jason stand together by the door, their voices hushed. They’re trying to work out how to break the news that your ‘brother’ was actually alive the whole time. They go back and forth for a few minutes before they realise Damian left. Jason sighs gruffly. “I’ll get him.”

He finds him at the desk on the other side of the floor. Damian is on his tip-toes, his head just a little over the desk. He’s still a kid afterall. He’s battling the woman behind the desk, tapping his finger against the wooden desk over and over again. When Jason gets closer, he listens in. 

“You gave her a faulty room on purpose! Out of every room in this building you gave her the one room with no TV.”

“I’ve already told you, I can’t control the room assignment kid. It’s just bad luck. I can get someone to look at it-”

“That's not good enough! Do you know who we are? We could buy and sell this hospital! If you do not get my sister a bigger room with a working TV, I will make you wish you were never-”

Jason grabs him by the scruff of the beck- the back of his shirt- and hauls him away, throwing an apologetic hand to the worker behind the desk. Damian squirms and kicks but it’s futile. When they round the corner Jason drops him. 

“What’s gotten into you? You think you can just bully your way into what you want?”

“It’s not bullying.” Damian huffs. “And it’s not what I want, it’s what she needs. You saw the size of the room. How dare they cram her into a tiny square and expect her to get better?! It’s asinine!”

“The room’s fine. The machines just make it look small.”

Being reminded of the machines hooked up to your body seems to make Damian uncomfortable. 

“Stop being a nuisance and go wait in the room.” 

Damian’s brow furrows but he relents and storms back to the room, muttering out a string of curses as he goes. As soon as he’s gone, Jason goes back to the desk. 

“So, about that TV…”

Something’s wrong. It all feels off. Your senses come back slowly, all but one. Sight. Your eyes remain shut. It’s like you aren’t strong enough to lift them, emotionally and physically. First you hear people around you shuffling. Who are they? You can’t make out every word, it’s like they’re behind a waterfall. You know they are talking, you just can’t put what they’re saying together. Then your touch comes back. There’s something in you. In your throat. The surprise chokes you. 

Tim snaps his head up when he hears noise. You're choking on the intubator. He runs to the side of the bed and presses the call button over and over again. He doesn’t know what to do. If he does nothing, you’ll- no, he doesn’t want to think of that, but if he tries to remove it himself he knows he’d mess it up and hurt you more. Dick’s already racing down the hallway- but there’s no need. 

Two nurses are already half way down the corridor. They enter the room and move to your bed, muscling everyone else out of the way. They work together to get the bed into the upright position, then they unhook the ventilator. The first nurse removes the tube like it’s a deadly snake, holding it with a gentle but firm hand. It slithers out of your throat and Tim feels like he’s the one struggling to breathe. 

“She’s breathing by herself. That's a good sign.” The second one promises the family. “Means she’ll wake up soon.” She offers them a smile but everyone is too perturbed by what they’ve just seen to return it. They didn’t think the tube would be that deep. “We’re going to give her an oxygen mask. Think of it like a helping hand. Her lungs are stable now, but they just need something to lean on.” She talks gently, like they’re kids. 

The first nurse leaves and comes back quickly. The mask in her hand slides over your face smoothly and she hooks the elastic up behind your ears. It’s a lot less invasive than the tube. 

Once you’ve been sorted, they leave but promise they’ll be close if you need them.

That's better, but now there’s something on your face that feels like a face-hugger. That alien monster from the movie Tim made you watch once. Your consciousness starts to come back like the tide of the sea. It pulls in and out, but each time it pulls in you feel a little stronger than the last. 

You can taste something on your tongue. It’s bitter and dry. Like morning breath without the dampness. Despite the taste in your mouth, everything smells clean. 

Where are you? You know this isn’t your bed. It’s too small. 

Shit. The woman with the coat. The gun. The party. Batman. 

It all comes back with a bang. The images flash one at a time in rapid succession. 

Damian. The tabs. The music. 

Shit. Are you dead?

Damian comes back into the room and notices the change. “What happened?”

“They said it's a good sign.” Dick’s looking out the window, watching the traffic below. Trying to distract himself from the reality in front of him. 

“Where’s Jason?” Bruce looks toward the door like he’s about to walk in at any moment. 

“Bathroom I suppose.” Damian glides towards Dick and shoos him out of the chair. He takes the blue seat and moves it toward the other side of your bed. It scrapes against the ground while he makes himself comfy. “Did they say when she’s going to wake?”

No, you aren’t dead. You’re alive. So what is this feeling? Wait. Are you… disappointed?

Finally, you muster the strength to open your eyes. Everything is white. It’s painfully bright when you do, but when you move to shield your eyes with your right hand you feel something tugging at your wrist. 

“She’s waking up!” Tim sounds like he’s in delighted shock. Hysterical relief hits him like ice water. 

Once your eyes take a moment to adjust, you take in the sight. Oh. The hospital. Shit, it must’ve been bad. You want to move, but when you try there’s a sharp, stabbing pain in your lower chest. Like boiling thunder. You can’t help but gasp and grit your teeth. 

Without warning there’s a pair of hands on you. In terror you whip your head around to see who it is. You take in his face like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him. Bruce is here. He softly pushes your body back to where it was. It must’ve been really bad. 

“What’re you…” the words die on your tongue when you take in the scene around you. Everyone is here. Everyone. All eyes are on you. 

“It’s okay.” Bruce rubs small circles onto your shoulder. It’s supposed to relax you but it does the opposite. This doesn’t happen. You’re never seen. So why are they all staring at you? What did you do?

“There was an accident,” his voice is strangely soft. He’s never talked to you like this before. Not that you can remember. “You got hurt. There was a gun, but it’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay.” you can’t tell if he’s trying to convince you or himself. 

“I got shot?!” it rips out of your throat and it scratches from the inside. Your voice is slightly muffled by the oxygen mask. You want to rip it off and throw it out the window. You instantly look down and see that you’re wearing a hospital gown- when you look down the neck of the gown to your bare skin, you see a line of stitches across your stomach. It’s fresh and tender. 

“Don’t freak out.” Tim is about to elaborate but Damian cuts him off. 

“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one in the bed.” 

This is a first. Damian’s defending you- or rather he thinks he is. 

Bruce silences both of them with a look. “You had surgery. We came as soon as we could-”

“How?” your voice is groggy and dry. 

“We got a call from the hospital.” Dick is quick to lie. “They said you wanted your dad, so we all came by.”

“Oh.” The pieces start to click together. You know you have to take this to the grave. When you were begging Batman to call your dad, you didn’t mean Bruce. You wanted Alfred. You’re relieved to see him there but the guilt is enormous. “You actually came?”

“Of course we did.” Damian cuts in.

You don’t know how to feel. Is this what it took to get their attention? Did you have to bleed to get them to see you? Before the thought can marinate, the door opens. It’s the guy from Roy’s apartment. 

Jason walks in, pushing the door with his back. He has a new TV in his hands and a smug grin. His back is to the room when he enters, so he is blind to everyone’s dread. “See Damian, if you ask nicely, you get things.” 

When he puts the new TV down and faces the room, the grin drops. You meet his eye. Your eyes go from his, to Damian’s, and then the rest of the room. “Wait… Damian, how do you know Jason?”

Bruce feels like the world around him is collapsing. There’s no way you just said that. His grip on your arm subconsciously gets tighter. 

“Is Roy here?” there’s a hint of dread in your question. 

Jason runs his hand through his hair with a long face. He grits his teeth and sucks a mouthful of air through the cage in his mouth. “Alright, sit down. It’s a long story.”

Chapter 10 bb!!!!

This is the longest chapter to date and god does it feel like it. 

This is the end of part one! Part one is the downfall, and part two is the recovery. I decided I didn’t want the story to just be doom and gloom, I didn’t just want it to be about a main character who does nothing but suffer. So, we’re going to be on the road to recovery. There will be ups and downs but it’s going to be a story.

Taglist:

“GET THE CAR!” Bruce’s voice loses its composure and becomes scratchy and raw. Right now, he isn’t Batman, he’s a father watching his child die in his arms. Again. At first no one moves, until Dick snaps out of his shock fueled trance and darts out from the alley. 

The car was parked two streets over. Ten minutes away. He knows he can make it in five. Adrenaline and terror spur him on until he’s only a corner away. Out of instinct, he nearly sucker punches her when a woman in a white coat jumps out in front of him. Dick is able to stop himself before anyone gets hurt tonight. 

“Is she okay?!” Her voice is hoarse and her eyes are wide, bloodshot. Under her coat she’s trembling. If he didn’t have a onetrack mind right now he would’ve spotted the drying blood clumped in her hair. “That girl, is she okay?! She saved my life and I- I didn’t know what to do- I left her there! I heard the gun but I didn’t- it’s my fault- just please tell me if she’s okay-”

“It’s not your fault.” Dick promises. Survivors' guilt. He knows the signs. “Everything’s gonna be fine.” Is he lying to her, or himself? He keeps running. And running. 

The car door opens with manic urgency and Dick throws himself in. He doesn't bother with a seatbelt. There’s no time. The engine screeches to life as the car races to the alley. He’s sure he’s broken three different traffic laws within a two minute drive but there’s bigger things to worry about right now. 

Oh, you’re moving. Your body comes alive again and you regain feeling. You wish you didn’t. All you can do is scream in pain when a pair of large hands scoop you up from the ground and lift you up. Every nerve is on fire. The torture eats you from the inside. You can feel everything, but you can’t move. 

Bruce thinks he’s going to be sick when he watches your face twist as you scream. You were supposed to be proof that he could love someone without destroying them. Yet here you were, broken in front of him. No, not broken, breaking. He’s being forced to confront what he’s done. He stupidly thought that if he kept you away, you’d go. You’d leave Gotham and find a life for yourself. He could support you from a distance. 

But his child, his firstborn, is shaking in his arms. Bleeding and screaming. 

When the car arrives he wastes no time getting you in the back seat. “You two stay here.” he looks at Jason and Tim. “Keep him down. Wait for the commissioner to come-”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Tim spits. His normal, dependable, put together mask has shattered, revealing the terrified boy underneath. “I’m going with her. She needs me.” He’s already striding toward the car. 

“That wasn’t a suggestion Red Robin, it was an order.” Bruce shoots down the protest without even looking at him. He’s too busy loading you into the back and tying his cape around your torso- a makeshift tourniquet. 

“Fuck you mean ‘she needs me’?” Jason interjects, squaring up to Tim. His broader frame casts a shadow over Tim, swallowing him whole but Tim doesn’t stand down. 

“Enough Red.” It comes from Bruce, surprisingly. He turns back to them. “You are going to take Robin back to the Manor and wait for further instruction.” he points to Jason. “And you are going to call the commissioner to take care of him.” This time his finger lands on Tim, and then drifts to the unconscious gun man.

“Nightwing and I will take her to the hospital-” 

“YOU AREN’T TAKING MY SISTER TO THE HOSPITAL WITHOUT ME.” Tim’s voice cracks under its own weight. It’s furious and feral. Desperate. All the weight in the air vanishes. Silence. 

Why is it silent? Shit, why aren’t you screaming anymore?!

Before Jason can open his mouth, shock evident even behind the helm, Bruce relents. “Get in the car now. Red take Robin back.” When he looks back into the car his heart stops. You’re seizing. 

“NOW.” he bellows. 

The team disperse. Bruce, Dick and Tim leap into the car. Dick sits in the passenger side and Tim crams himself into the back of the car, lifting your head and keeping it on his lap. If you choke on your tongue, its over. 

Before they can drive, Jason slams his fist against the passenger window. Dick rolls the window down. “We’ll explain everything later-”

“She’s on acid and ecstasy.” 

“What-”

“You gotta tell the hospital. If they give her downers while she’s got that shit in her system she’ll get worse. GO.”

Bruce doesn’t need to hear it twice. Hearing once is bad enough. He tears through the streets like the flash. Everything around him blurs until there’s just him and the road. You’re making noise again, that's a good sign at least, but every sound feels like nails on a chalkboard. 

You aren’t speaking, you’re just screaming and wailing. Every now and then something intelligible comes out but it’s washed away by groans and another quick seizure. My. phone. It’s all he can make out. 

Tim finds it in your pocket. The screen is cracked but it still turns on. Your lockscreen isn’t a picture he recognises. It’s a party, that much is clear, but he doesn’t recognise the location, or anyone in it. Your passcode, your birthday, is typed in and the phone bursts to life. Your homescreen is the same picture. 

The pained groans continue. But then he hears something. Between the screaming and seizing, you’re still trying to speak. My. Dad. Call. him. Dick looks over his shoulder and meets Tim’s eyes. It’s both crestfallen and guilt ridden. They both know they can’t do it. 

They reach the hospital after a fifteen minute drive. Normally it would’ve been half an hour, but when death is chasing you, you move quickly. Bruce slams on the breaks and it jerks Dick forward. “You have to take her in.”

“Without you? Bruce you can’t avoid this-”

“She wants someone to call her father. I have to get out of this costume. I can’t go in like this, it'll blow everything up. Take her in now, I’ll be out in ten.” Tim wants to protest but he knows Bruce is right. He hates it. He hates all of this. Seeing you so powerless, feeling powerless himself. Tim knew you had these… moments, where you got in over your head. He remembers the time you fell down the stairs, too drunk to walk in a straight line, or the time you had a depressive slump after a party and wouldn’t leave your room for a week. (He researched it. Turns out the comedown from acid causes a temporary depressive mood- and it can last up to seven days.)

But he can’t say he didn’t see it coming. 

Dick carries you into the hospital, sprinting through the doors. “We need help!” a sea of heads turn when they burst through the door. The room smells of disinfectant and fear. Four nurses rush towards the three of you. They take one look at your face and start organising themselves. Codes and orders are shouted to one another, some of them are familiar to Dick, but others are lost on him. 

When a nurse tries to take you from him, he flinches and reels back. 

“Please.” The nurse’s voice is gentle. Dick wordlessly nods but his eyes don’t leave you. 

Tim can only watch as you're placed on a bed and rushed away. “S-she’s on acid!” The nurses pushing the bed look back at him. “And ecstasy.” They nod and continue taking you away. It hits Tim like a hammer to the chest, that this could be the last time he ever sees you. 

The two leave once you vanish behind the double doors. Their walk is slow and unsure. It’s like walking on ice. Feeling as if the ground could give way at any moment. Dick breaks the silence. “I didn’t mean this,” he promises. “I didn’t know she would- I thought it was just drinking- what was she doing there anyway? Why did she do that?” 

Tim doesn’t like not knowing. He needs structure. Not knowing leaves him vulnerable. So, he finds the answers. He works and works and works himself to the bone to find the answers. But what’s he supposed to do when he doesn’t have any?

Your phone springs to life and knocks him out of his trance. When he looks at the screen he says a name he wishes he didn’t.

R. Harp Hey where you at? If u went home that's cool but u should’ve told me. 

Dick leans over and peers down at the screen. “What the hell- HOW THE FUCK DOES SHE HAVE HIS NUMBER?”

When the car is finally empty, Bruce breaks down. He can’t unsee the bullet going right through you, or the image of you instantly collapsing like you were already dead. That sound is going to haunt him. He feels like he can’t breathe. When you left you must’ve taken all the air with you. 

How did it get this bad? He knew you had a drinking problem, it wasn’t hidden, but he thought it ended there. It was still bad, but he thought it was a better alternative to you being in harm's way. Look how that ended. His child was doing class A drugs right under his nose. 

If he had been a better person this wouldn’t have happened. If he was a better father, you wouldn’t have gone down that path. If he was better at being Batman he would’ve stopped the ring already.

“Alfred, I need you to come to these co-ordinates and pick up the batmobile. Red Hood and Robin should be on their way back to the cave. I need you-”

“Master Bruce what on earth is happening-”

“Red Hood will explain. There isn’t time. I need to go to the hospital.”

“Sir if you’ve been hurt we can treat it in the cave.”

“It’s not me Alfred. It’s her.”

Dead air fills the line. 

“I’ll come now sir.”

After changing into the spare civilian clothes he stashed under the driver seat, for times like this, Bruce walks to the hospital’s door. The walk turns into a sprint. He doesn’t care if anyone sees Bruce Wayne running, or if anyone gets a pic and leaks it to the paparazzi, right now you need him. 

“My daughter’s here, she came in twelve minutes ago, I need to know where she is.” His tone is sporadic and the sweat beads dripping down his forehead makes his state of mind obvious to the nurse behind the desk. She puts her paperwork to the side and shifts to the computer and keyboard. 

“Name?”

“Y/N Wayne.”

He watches her fingers as they glide across the keyboard, finding you in the system. “Says here she’s waiting for an OR room, you’re welcome to wait here unti-”

“No, no, she can’t wait. She needs a room.”

The nurse looks up like he’s stupid. “Sir, we have thousands of patients waiting for a room. Trust me she’s one of our top priorities right now. The second the room opens she’s going in. The surgeons need time to prepare for her given her…” the nurse’s eyes shift from looking fed up with him to housing sympathy, “conditions.” 

She lowers her voice to keep it private. “They had to sedate her to stop her from seizing, and it took them a while to find a sedative that wouldn’t mix with the stuff in her system. She’s on Phenobarbital. There’s nothing more I can do for you. You’ll have to just sit and wait until we hear something from the surgeons.”

The pleather chair creeks under his weight. Every second drags. He can’t peel his eyes away from the clock. Whispers drift from patient to patient, amazed that the Bruce Wayne is in the same waiting room as them. 

After a lifetime, there’s news. The nurse calls him over with a manicured nail. “She’s in surgery now. If there aren’t any complications she should be out in forty five minutes.”

“What kind of complications?” his voice is deceptively calm.

“In surgery there's always the risk of something going wrong but I promise you she’s in good hands.” Her eyes return to the computer and she grimaces. “I’ve been asked to direct you to the pamphlets next to the water cooler.”

He dips his head, a silent thanks, and heads to the rack of pamphlets by the cooler. His heart sinks when he reads the tagline on the front. In bold text it reads: Addiction and recovery. Underneath, in smaller text: Helping yourself or a loved one to recover. 

Bruce looks over his shoulder, scanning for anyone with a camera, before taking one and tucking it into his pocket swiftly.

Tim and Dick arrive, in civilian clothes, and take a seat next to Bruce. One on either side. He knows their tells. Dick keeps fidgeting with the lowest button on his shirt, rolling it back and forth between his pointer and his thumb. Tim’s foot taps against the floor with no rhythm. Bruce puts his arm around Tim and rests his hand on his shoulder, bringing him a little closer. 

“You’re gonna tell me everything.” Jason’s voice echoes around the cave and surrounds Damian from all angles. “Who is she? From the top.” He leans against the console with his arms crossed and shoulders squared. 

Damian takes a deep breath. “Her name is Y/N. She’s Father’s first born.” When Jason doesn’t interrupt, he keeps going. “She doesn’t know about what we do. Her Mother got hit by a truck and she refused to go into the system. She moved in two months after you, well, you know.”

Jason doesn’t blink. “Okay.” Once he digests that information, he presses further. “So if she's been here the whole time, why am I only hearing about her now?” there’s a growl lying underneath his voice.

Domain doesn’t mince words. “Because Father thought you’d go berserk.” 

Jason isn’t proud of who he was when he came out of the pit. The rage and hate warped him, and since his rampaging days he’s been trying to become better. To be human again. He thought that they understood that, he thought he understood. But now he finds out that Bruce didn’t trust him.  

A familiar anger bubbled. “Oh yeah? Is that right?” he wants to shout about your late night walks with him, but he chooses to wait. He’ll confront Bruce. He’ll play his cards close to his chest. Jason is angry, but he’s smart. 

“She’s out of surgery. The bullet went through but there was some residual shrapnel lodged just under her rib. The shrapnel was cutting into her small intestine but we were able to get every piece out.” The surgeon reads from her clipboard. 

The weight on Bruce’s shoulders begins to melt. “So she’s in the clear?”

The surgeon pauses. “Not quite. Mr Wayne, if I may pull you aside." She gestures towards Dick and Tim. Bruce obliges and steps out into an empty corridor. “She… well there’s no easy way to say this, she nearly died. Her body was under a lot of strain, it's a miracle she survived. She fought to be here, Mr Wayne. But during surgery we were operating near the liver. I’m going to be blunt sir, her liver is severely damaged. We only see that kind of damage with alcoholics.”

Bruce has to act surprised. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that your daughter has been drinking underage, not just recently. Given her age, for the damage to be as bad as it was, she would have to have been drinking for at least five years. Heavily.”

“Can I see her?”

The surgeon nods. “Grab your sons and I’ll lead the way.”

“She’s not up yet, we can’t say when she will be, but you’re welcome to sit until visiting hours are over.” She closes the door behind them to give the three some privacy. 

Tim thinks he’s going to be sick. Your face has lost all colour and emotion. That smile you always had when you teased him is gone. Your eyes are shut. Dead to the world. If it weren’t for the steady rhythm of the heart monitor next to you, he’d assume you were no longer among the living. 

His eyes trail to the folder at the foot of your bed. He can’t help himself. It details your surgery and the steps the hospital will need to take for you to recover. Pabrinex and Diazepam. He grimaces. Those are prescribed for people with alcohol withdrawal. Morphine and Dabigatran. Pain killers and an Anticoagulant. 

Dick starts fussing with the room. He draws the curtain and draws the blanket a little closer to your chin. Anything to make the room feel less like a hospital room. When he’s done all he can he sits by the window and takes in the sight with defeat. 

Bruce sits next to you. Up close, he notices something he didn’t realise he never saw. The shape of your nose, and how it looks more like your mother’s at the base but the bridge looks more similar to his own. Not identical, but similar. It's something so, so small but it forces him to admit to himself that this is the closest he’s been to you in a long time.

When he holds your hand and rubs his thumb over your knuckles he can’t remember the last time he held your hand. He must’ve held it before. Surely. But the memory doesn’t come.

Dick checks his phone when it vibrates. 

Jaybird Alfred is home. Damian is with him. I’m on my way. We need to talk. 

A knock comes from the door. It's a different person this time, a doctor. "Visiting hours are over." His voice is soft but firm. "You can come back tomorrow morning. They open at Eight."

When no one moves, he clears his throat. "If something happens to her, we'll let you know."

The promise works, and the group shuffle out. Bruce is the last to leave. He takes one last look at you and its like he's trying to commit you to memory. Something has to change. He promises he'll be better. You just have to wake up first.

Chapter 9 baby!!!

I rlly deliberated on this one bcs i wanted to make it jason centric but in the end i decided to make chapter 10 the jason focused one. Theres a lot to do so I think he needs his own chapter. Hope u guys enjoy!

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The way you were so painfully desperate for company. How you trailed after Drake of all people like a dog. Your softness. Eager to please. Desperate for approval. All things he despised about you. You were a Wayne, by some miracle, so you should act like it. 

What irked him most was your obsession with family. You would insist that he could come to you if you needed anything.

“I know it’s kinda scary moving homes.” What did you want with him? Clearly you were trying to lower his guard. “Especially to a place like this. My first week here I got lost three times,” of course you did, “so if you need anyone to show you around, you’re in good hands-”

“My old home was far greater than this… hovel. I do not need anything from you.” he snapped. “I can manage myself.”

He remembered the way you fidgeted with your fingers. “Yeah, mine too, but listen-”

“Don’t compare your home to mine. You lived in a shoebox. I lived in a palace! I had dozens of servants and maids, you had nothing.” You two are not equals. You can’t be. If you’re both on the same page, why didn’t you have to endure what he had? 

“You aren’t my sister.” he hissed. “We aren’t family. Just because your whore mother opened her legs and pushed you out nine months later, that doesn’t make us family.” Damian looked disgusted by the very notion of sharing DNA with you. “We are not kin.” 

The sting of rejection was one thing, but the disdain towards your mother was where you apparently drew the line. The image of you standing to full height with a straightened back, without breaking eye contact, never left him. 

“I can take a lot of shit Damian. But don’t ever talk about my mother like that again. If you wanna be mean, fine, but leave her out of this. It’s rude to talk bad about people who aren’t here.”

A sly smile crawled across his face. “Then why don’t you walk down to the homeless shelter and get her?”

“She’s dead Damian.” You said it like it was obvious. 

Father had told Damian your story, or so he thought. He knew that you were his half sister, that you were in highschool, you couldn’t know anything about their nightlife, but he hadn’t mentioned that. 

He stood there, unable to respond. Not out of shame or guilt, but because this was the first time you’d said something to him without coddling him. You left after that, and he assumed you were going to go to your room. Instead you went to the cellar. 

The next few weeks were strange. You weren’t trying to include him in whatever you and Drake were talking about, or offering to take him out to the city. It was as if you were strangers. If you ended up in the same room you would just act like he wasn’t there. 

But after another week, you returned to somewhat normal. He could tell you were keeping him at an arms length, but you still tried with him. Damian would rather die than ever tell you this, but he was relieved that your cold shoulder came to an end. Pennyworth and Drake weren’t like the servants at home. When he was snide or cocky around them, they would ice him out. Father cared for him, but Damian still didn’t feel emotionally fulfilled. 

School wasn’t any better. His classmates should’ve treated him as their superior, because he was, but instead they would just talk amongst themselves. He knew they were laughing at him. When he tried to talk to his classmates, they would look uninterested in whatever he had to say. 

So when he came home and heard you talking about making plans with your friends outside of school, he couldn’t understand it. What did you have that he didn’t?

Over time the resentment faded. He accepted that you were just an unlucky accident. There was no comparing the two of you. And yes, maybe he didn’t mind it when you were the one to pick him up from school. Maybe he liked it when you asked about his day. 

Tim’s fist meets Kon’s cheek with an untriumphant hit that ends up hurting him more than it does his opponent. “What the fuck is this?” he whisper-hisses. He doesn’t want Bruce to see your face on the monitor. The video is paused, leaving your flirtatious smile- the one you used to squeeze into the line- suspended in time. Tim rips the cord from the cameras and the monitor’s feed dies. The other side of the cave is none the wiser. 

“You asked me to blend in!” Kon throws his hands up and rolls his eyes. “Look dude you don’t get it, you aren’t in the scene. When a girl like that hits on you, you’d have to be a freak to turn it down.” 

Tim can feel his blood boiling. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Y’know, like, hot.” Kon shrugs like it's obvious. “Don’t freak out man, I was just doing my job. You needed visuals, I got them. Just skip to the end. That's where the important stuff is. And by the way, she was a total asshole to me, if that makes you feel any better.”

He wouldn’t give Kon the satisfaction of hearing it, but it did in-fact help. He tries to clear his head by plugging the camera’s cord into his laptop as opposed to the monitor. This way he can keep it from Bruce.

Unprompted, Kon continues. “She got pissed off about something and flipped out on me. Couple hours later she starts making out with me again. Weird.” He doesn’t notice the smile he’s making until Tim looks back at him. 

“Again?”

“What?”

“You said again.”

Kon kisses his teeth. Instead of answering like a normal person, he leans over Tim’s shoulder and skips head. Before Tim can protest, he shuts him up with “I told you to skip ahead”. 

The footage shows the night playing out. He sees the sped up version of you turning on Kon and cussing him out. For some reason, Kon’s eyes- and therefore the camera- lingered on you after you stormed away from him. Tim watches you, through his friend’s eyes, melt into the crowd. 

The night goes on. Every now and then he catches a glimpse of you. Each time you look worse. The light inside you gets dimmer. There’s a chunk of time where you seemed to have vanished. In the footage, Kon is now at the bar. Tim gives him a pissed off look. Kon scoffs. “Relax, Kryptonian. My metabolism works differently, trust me I was barely drunk.” 

You’re there again; you’ve been crying. The inky black tear stains under your eye make it obvious. There’s something behind your eyes. Tim can tell. You’re calculating something. He’s seen the same look whenever you two play a strategy game. You’ve never been good at keeping your emotions to yourself. 

Kon clears his throat. “Yeah, just skip this bit.” Before Tim can react, the screen goes black. He presses the spacebar on his laptop, thinking that the screen just fell asleep, but instead it pauses the video. Odd. The footage must've been cut out.

“I turned them off.” Kon admits. “Felt weird y’know. I’m a lot of things but I’m not a freak. Not that kind.” 

Tim nearly respected that. But this Kon, and you’re his sister. Those two worlds aren’t supposed to collide. That was the rule. Bruce told him that over and over again when he was Robin. Bruce’s logic was that if you knew about them, you would be putting yourself in danger. If someone wanted to lure Batman out, they could use you. Or if someone wanted to lure Bruce out, they could take you hostage and use your identity for ransom. Tim understood the theory, but not the ethics. Your life as a civilian and their lives as heroes were to run parallel. 

When the screen comes back to life the footage shows the crowd dispersing. The last song just played and everyone’s leaving. Kon’s following the crowd. And you. You’re at the curb and a car pulls up. He can’t see the driver. You slip in like you own it. Tim watches Kon’s attempt at flirting and feels relieved when you pay him no mind. The car drives off with you in it and Kon watches it go.

The footage continues. Kon meanders along the street until he finds the back alley. Down the alley Kon arrives where he was supposed to. The basement gig had been hosted under the record store. Behind the store, Kon finally does his job. There’s two vans, one black and one white. Four men, two from each van. 

“How many?” asks one from the black van. 

“Four tonight. He wants three tomorrow.” responses one from the white van.

“Getting greedy.” the other man from the black van comments with a groan. 

“Whatever. We’re still getting paid. How many you got?”

“We got three tonight. You two are slacking.” The first man from the black van groans. 

“So what? We met the quota. Head back before he gets mad. You ever seen that little bastard when he’s pissed? Starts hitting anyone near him with that stupid cane.” 

The men disperse into their respective vans and hit the road, both in different directions. Kon got their number plates on camera. Tim hates that Kon actually did his job. 

“The white one went towards the Queen’s river docks and the black one went to the East river,” he added. “I think they’re shipping them. The people I mean. Like sending them overseas.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Tim sighs. “If they’re selling the people then they’d want them in good condition, right? But they’re beating these people black and blue. They’d bleed out or get an infection in those shipping containers.” he runs his thin fingers through his hair, to self soothe. “It’s gotta be something else.” 

He looks up at Kon. “I’m not gonna say anything, okay?”

Kon tilts his head, like a dog.

“About that video. I’ll cut out the start. I’m not doing this for you.” He feels like he’s betraying himself when he cuts the footage, but he would feel worse if he let you down. He’ll talk to you later, he decides. 

Bruce watches the doctored footage with a scowl. He knows they're close. He adds another dot to the map, the spot you were at. The map is a sea of red. Each spot represents bloodshed and fear. The only spots free from the red epidemic are on the east side docks. Near the iceberg lounge. One spot in the west side stands brave like the last soldier in enemy lands- on the east side. A small nightclub. 

Before he can make a plan, there’s a light at the top of the stairs. 

“She left.” Damian’s posture is rigid. He’s afraid. 

Roy’s apartment is weird. Well, it's not technically his, but still. It’s painfully minimalist. Feels more like a hotel room than an apartment. He says his friend has to travel a lot for work. You guess that explains it. Kinda. 

The couch isn’t very comfy but you’ve gotten used to it. You hate that. Being used to it. You never meant for this to become a thing. It should’ve just been one night. You were gonna get the trip out of your system and never see him again. 

But it felt so good to be taken care of. To have someone ask ‘how’s it feeling?’. Not out of obligation. You came back to him a month later. Just to be held again. You didn’t intend on tripping that night, but you didn’t want him to think you were weird. What kind of freak hits up a dealer just to hang out?

That's how you ended up here, a couple years later. Everytime you come you promise it’ll be the last but you both know it's not true. You see each other every couple months. On purpose that is. But there are some nights when you run into him at a party. 

Guilt nibbles at your chest as you lay next to him. You feel like you’re using him. Sure, it's mutually beneficial- you get to escape yourself and he gets to feel like a good person, but you know that doesn’t make it right. But it’s hard to think that way when you’re with him. His chest is so warm and the sound of his heart is constant. Reassuring you that he’s here and not going anywhere. 

You can’t help but snake a hand up from your side and put it on his chest, just above his heart. The steady thumping feels so smooth under your palm. He doesn’t mind. Roy adjusts himself to get more comfy. The TV plays an old sitcom, probably one you’ve seen before, but you aren’t paying attention. 

“You ready?” there's almost a purr in his voice, and you feel the way it vibrates through him under your hand. 

“Not yet. Can we wait a little?” 

“Course.” he goes back to watching the TV and you fiddle with his shirt, pinching at the fabric and running it between your fingers. It’s cool to the touch and the material feels like that of a sports jersey. 

The sound of the live studio audience pulls you from your trance. They coo at the family in the sitcom as the group stand together in a group hug. 

“Nevermind. I’m ready.”

The tab dissolves on your tongue like a snowflake. It melts away until it's a miniscule multicoloured pulp on the tip of your tongue. There’s no flavour, but you imagine if there was it would be akin to an overly artificial cherry taste, the kind that never tastes quite like the fruit; overly chemical and sickly. You rest your head on his chest once you’ve let it fully melt in your mouth. Again, the rhythmic beating of his heart tethers you to the moment. 

His arms become anchors when they hold you in place. You don’t know why he does it. Every time you do this with him, he has a hand on you. He doesn’t ask, but you don’t tell him not to. So it works itself out. The TV is still playing, but you flip through the channels to find something else. You don’t want to look at that perfect family for another minute. 

After half an hour it starts to kick in. Colours spring from the mundane walls, trickling through the air like fairies. The TV sounds louder than it did before and you can feel every hair on your head. Through it all, Roy’s heartbeat is there. Your lighthouse. 

“Thank you.” You mumble as you play with his shirt again. He nudges your finger away, and for a moment you’re lost, but he puts his finger in front of yours, an offering. So you start fidgeting with his finger. Then you get greedy and take his hand. “I needed this.” 

“Getting bad again?” It's curious but not condescending. 

“My brother said I should go to rehab.” your voice isn’t as strong as you wished it was. “You know the one who moved? He comes in thinking he owns the place and says that behind my back.” 

“Thats rough.” 

You note that he doesn’t dispute it, but you won’t let that bother you right now. “I don’t wanna think about it, I just wanted to come here and get away from them all.” you fiddle with the ring on his pointer finger and trace the lines on his palm. The shapes come alive and wave around like ribbons in the wind. 

You lay in silence for a few more minutes, content to just be present with one another until he stirs and sits up. “I think I know what’ll cheer you up.” He leaves the couch and heads to the bedroom. When he’s gone you feel cold. The texture of the couch is coarse against your skin and the cushions feel too stiff. 

He comes back in less than a minute with a small plastic baggie. It’s the size of a dollar bill folded in half. Roy squeezes back into his spot and you take yours, head back on his chest, the heartbeat back right where you can hear it. 

“I picked these up earlier cus you sounded miserable over text.” 

You feel a little guilty for hamming up your emotions on the phone, but it leaves you quickly. “What is it?”

Roy has a cat-like smile, teasing. “You know what these are. You loved it last time”

In your haze you can’t focus on the bag. Everything else keeps distracting you. The colours have been turned up to their maximum contrast and they swim through the room with such grace that it's hard to look away from them. When your eyes finally obey you and find the bag through the maze of drifting colour, you see what it is.

In the bag there are three circular tablets. The smallest one is a mustard yellow colour, about the size of an earring back. The other two are the same size, although one is toothpaste green with a star symbol etched in its surface, and the other is a purply-whiteish colour with a smiley face. 

The Ecstasy takes another half an hour to hit. You and Roy split one of the bigger tablets between you, not wanting to go overboard. It feels like stepping off a rollercoaster, when your body is still adjusting to solid ground, and there's that window of residual joy and adrenaline before your body returns to normal. Except, the window doesn’t close, instead it flies wide open. 

You get easily bored on ecstasy. Your brain wants stimulation. It craves it like a starving mutt. “Royyy,” you drawl, shifting and sitting up, “I wanna go out.” 

Roy knows what that really means. ‘I’m going out, you can either come with me or stay here’. He keeps his hand on your back as you move. “Where to?”

Before you can answer, the door opens. For a moment Roy looks just as scared as you, until you feel his body relax. A man you don’t recognise walks in. He’s big, bigger than Roy, large broad shoulders and a wide stance. The stranger exhales through his nose, clearly annoyed at the sight of the two of you. You’re trying to stay calm, if you get anxious it’ll trigger a bad trip, and that's the last thing you want tonight.

“What the fuck Roy?” His voice is rough and gravely. He doesn’t sound mad, which is a plus for you, but he’s clearly irritated. 

“I didn’t know you’d be back today.” Roy huffs, tightening his grip on you. He tries to subtly pull you back down, but you don’t get the hint. 

“Sorry.” Your voice sounds unsure of itself. Testing the waters if it were. 

The stranger looks surprised that you’re actually speaking to him. His stance doesn’t change, he still looks defensive but something in his face softened- in a way that's weirdly familiar. The weight lifted from his eyebrows. 

Jason didn’t like leaving Gotham, because it was never permanent. He’d always come back to it. The way he saw it, if he didn’t leave then it meant he wasn’t coming back either. Schrodinger’s Gothamite. Coming back meant accepting that this was home. So when he comes back to his apartment after a three day mission tracking down a peddler who tried to escape his justice, he wants to decompress. Instead, he finds his friend lounging on a couch he didn’t pay for, with a girl he’s definitely seen before. The one he finds outside the apartment complex on Birch street. 

“We can leave.” You offer. Jason thinks his luck might finally be turning. The sooner you leave, the sooner he can get his gear and go to the cave. The sooner he can talk to Dick about the plans for tonight’s operation. 

Roy groans and tips his head back. ‘Yeah sure bud, you’re the one suffering here.’ As soon as you’re out, he’s gonna kick that redhead’s ass. 

“No it’s fine,” Roy palms his eye, “Look, Jason this is Y/N, Y/N this is, well you know. See, we’re all good here now.”

Jason might just peel you off Roy and pummel him now. It takes everything in him not to throw himself at his friend. 

“Jason?” you echo with a far off look in your eyes. 

Shit.

He’s praying to whatever’s out there that you don’t recognise him from your night time therapy walks. Although, it's not like anyone’s ever answered his prayers before. When you don’t say anything else, he counts himself lucky. 

“You guys gotta leave.” he says bluntly as he crosses the room to head to the bedroom. His helm rustles in his backpack, he feels the smooth dome of the helmet against his back. “I need the apartment.” he gives Roy the look and doesn’t say anything else before shutting the bedroom door behind him. 

“Is he mad?” You ask while you stand up, adjusting your clothes and accessories. You’re trying not to let this ruin your high but the embarrassment is hard to ignore.

“He’ll get over it. Not the first time.”

You know that the two of you aren’t exclusive. You’re not a thing. You’re just two people who can’t be alone without doing something you’ll definitely regret the next day. That’s it. You know that every time you make out with a guy at a party, or wake up from a club night in someone else’s bed. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. You wonder if anyone else needs his heartbeat as much as you do. 

“Let's go to that place on the East side. You know the one that plays music from the 90s?”

When Roy finishes getting ready, he knocks on the bedroom door to let Jason know he’s heading out. “Say hi to B for me. We’re gonna go to Destiny’s. Catch you later.”

“Who’s B?” You ask while putting your boots back on. 

“Just his boss, he’s working the nightshift.”

You motion for Roy to move over. Taking his place, you talk through the door. “Sorry again. I hope your shift is okay.” 

When Jason hears the door close after you, he waits twenty minutes before leaving. Small world. You’ve never mentioned knowing Roy before on your walks, but then again Roy’s never mentioned you either. Before, he thought you were just a drunk, but now he knows it goes deeper than that. He shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Did she say where?” Bruce doesn’t want his fear to bleed into his voice. He has to stay level headed. Damian races down the stairs, two steps at a time until he reaches the group. 

“If she did, don't you think I would’ve led with that?” the youngest retorted bitterly. “She said she was going to a friend’s.” 

“Which one?” Dick questioned, only to be cut off by Tim.

“She’s not.” He says it like he’s saying ‘the sky is blue’, or ‘grass is green.’ Although, living in gotham, it should be ‘the sky is grey’ and ‘the grass is grey’

“How do you know?” Dick questioned with his arms crossed. His worry is evident through his eyes. 

“Because she doesn’t have any friends.” 

An uncomfortable silence floats throughout the cave, chilling everyone to the bone. It’s an uncomfortable truth. 

“She left without saying goodbye. I tried to stop her but she just…” Damian pauses, looking for the right words, “she got weird.” he concludes. 

“Weird how?” Bruce pressed. “What did she say?”

“It wasn’t what she said, she pushed me. Then she left.” 

The same silence invades the space again. Tim doesn’t want to believe it. You wouldn’t do that, right? There’s no way. Not over a party. Unless… . He wishes his brain didn’t go there, but it does. It’s the logical next step. 

“We can work this out.” Tim swears, and all eyes turn to him. “We’ll sort something out. Look, we'll get her back, keep her home, there’s still time, we can still do the plan tonight, it’ll be fine. She’ll probably bring herself home. She always does.” he can’t tell if he’s trying to convince them, or himself. 

“I could look for her.” Kon offers, and then shuts up when Tim casts a glare on him.

All heads turn to Bruce. He clears his throat. “We’re doing this tonight.” His decree is absolute. “The chances of her being there, out of every place in Gotham she could possibly be, is a million to one. Suit up. Once Jason gets here we’ll debrief and head out.” 

Tim has a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he swallowed a stone of ice. 

Jason drives his motorcycle to the cave. It purrs and roars through the evening as it turns into night. He hates how long the drive is, but at least it's scenic. As scenic as you can get in Gotham at least. 

He pulls in and notes the tension in the room. When he comes in, the group are huddled around a map. It highlights the alleyways and backstreets surrounding the one blank spot in the red sea. Anywhere that someone could be taken without anyone knowing. Blindspots. 

“The footage Kon gave us shows them talking about the abduction after the set ended. It ended just before One, so it must’ve happened during the set. I’m willing to bet they’re banking on the people inside being too distracted to notice a friend going missing, and the security being too busy dealing with the line and the people inside.” Tim recaps to the group, and now Jason. 

“So we need to be there before them. We should leave now.” his voice quivers at the end.

The music inside is made better with your high. It’s like you can feel it in your soul. Every note. It’s been about an hour. Roy gets you a drink. You can’t remember what you asked for but it tastes sweet and fruity on your tongue. He gets something bitter. You taste it when your tongues collide. Not the first time this has happened. You always regret it after. This won’t be any different. 

On the rooftops opposite the club, the wind chills Tim to the bone. Something about this is wrong. The same image comes back to him, the one where you’re bloodied and beaten. A lifeless husk on the streets. He won’t let that happen. He can’t. His binoculars focus on the alley behind the club. It’s got a stupid name. Destiny’s. Jason stands next to him. “God I hate this place.” he checks his pistol again. For the tenth time. He’s antsy about something. Must take something big to rattle the big bad Red Hood. 

Tim doesn’t look up from his binoculars. They’ve been here for half an hour and Jason hasn’t stopped complaining about his one sided beef with the club. Before Jason can answer, they have visuals. The same white van pulls up behind the club. It nestles itself in the alleyway. 

Tim doesn’t like using his phone on patrol, but that same terrible feeling rises in his throat when he sees the van. His first thought is you. “I’m gonna send a text, take over for me.”

Timbo Y/N, I’m not mad I promise but please stay safe tonight. I know today was weird but we can talk about it. All of us. Dick didn’t mean it like that. 

You feel the vibration in your pocket while you dance. Fumbling around until you fish it out under the lights feels like being a baby deer on ice. You can see Tim’s name at the top of the screen, but the lack of signal keeps you from reading the message. You grab Roy by the shoulder and hold your phone out, “I’M. GONNA. CHECK. THIS. OUTSIDE. NO SIGNAL.”

“DO. YOU. WANT. ME. TO. COME?”

“NO. IT’LL. BE FINE.”

On the roof, Jason watches a woman in a fur coat walk past the alley. The street is deserted. In the blink of an eye, two rough hands reach out and grab her. To his absolute horror, the club door opens at the same time, and a mockingly familiar face walks out. You. 

You only left to check your phone. That was it. You didn’t know that this would change your life.

You see the hands pull her away. You hear the screaming. For some reason, your body runs after her. You’re not a hero. You’ve always avoided hard work- always shied away from a challenge, so why now? It’s like you’ve been possessed. 

Stop. Stop running. Stop. 

Your legs have a mind of their own, sprinting towards the woman- she’s at the end of the alley now. The ground is uneven and you fall flat on your face. Good. stay down. No, stop, stop getting up. Why are you getting up? You beg yourself to stop but you won’t listen. Everything hurts and your run is uneven but that doesn’t matter right now. Everything feels too slow. You’re not going to make it in time. 

When you see her more clearly, you think you know why you’re running. 

If someone else was there, Mother would’ve been alive. Had someone intervened and made that drunk to leave her alone, she’d be alive. If someone, anyone, stepped in, your life wouldn’t be the mess that it is. She’d come home with your favourite dinner, and she’d hold you close until you stopped crying- the way she used to. You’d come home from school and wait for her to get back from work. She’d be tired, but she’d be there. She’d make you work hard at school and you’d probably resent her for it, but then you’d graduate and get a job. You’d make friends at work. You would have a normal life. 

You wouldn’t be alone. You wouldn’t search for a saviour at the bottom of a bottle. You would be more than… this. 

So you have to do this. No one else will. This woman is someone’s world. Everyone is someone’s person. You were, once. You were Mother’s world. If this woman is lost, her person will become you. 

You grab a piece of trash, a glass bottle, and hurl it as hard as you can at the man pulling her into the van. It ricochets off his shoulder and lands on the floor with an acute crash, sending broken glass everywhere. Under the streetlight, it’s almost beautiful. If you weren’t petrified. He staggers back, clutching his arm. His grip is gone. The woman weasels out of his clutch and darts towards you, toward the street. She doesn’t say anything to you, but when she passes you, you see her eyes. There’s a silent understanding. 

You’re too transfixed on watching her run. You don’t see the man regain his composure. When the shock passes, you start to run as well.  

There’s sharp noise from behind you. Like a plastic toy breaking in two. It splits the air. 

It takes you a second to realise what’s just happened. When you hit the floor, it clicks. 

You’ve been shot. 

“Batman- shit- shit- get down here now!” That's all Tim can say. His worst nightmare is playing out in front of his very eyes. He descends from the rooftop like thunder. ‘Not her- not her- please not her’. He knows it’s futile. They both heard the gunshot. 

Bruce was already moving the second he heard the bottle smash. Just like that night. In the blink of an eye, he was back in Crime alley. He was ten years old again. He should’ve been quicker. Your face paralysed him at that moment. Why were you here? Of all places. Why was this happening to him?

You’re face down on the ground. At first you don’t feel it at all. Then it comes like burning lightning down your spine. You scream in agony. Your brain goes haywire. It keeps pulling up things you tried to bury. It shows you Mother, in the morgue, when you were asked to identify her body.

The bullet entered just below your ribs from behind. You feel yourself spilling onto the floor. 

Footsteps come up behind you. A gun cocks. 

Then there’s an almighty crash. A human meteor. You hear roaring, the primal kind, and hate. Raw violent hate. It beats the gunned man to the ground with fury. 

“B..ba..batma..an?”

Your voice fights against the shock. When the frenzy of hate stops, silence. Heavy steps make their way to you and crouch. To your surprise, you’re being cradled. By Batman. You feel like you’re going to melt into a puddle any second now, so you grip his arm to steady yourself. It’s sturdy but uncomfortable. 

“Please… I’m not… I don’t want to die.”

Your voice shatters him. 

“I didn’t say goodbye… I always say goodbye… why- why didn’t I say it? I wanted to.” your grip on his arm gets weaker. “I know I’m a bad person… but I don’t... don’t want to die” it gets harder and harder to breathe, “I haven’t done anything with my life. I thought I had time-” pain like you’ve never known shoots up and down your body. You convulse in his arms. Unintelligible sobs fight their way out of your mouth. You nearly choke on them. “I don’t wanna die alone…” your throat tightens up. There is nothing you can do. Your begging doesn’t change anything. 

The ground feels like it's melting. So do the walls. Nothing feels solid anymore. The arms holding you feel like mud. You feel that you could slip through them. So you do. Trying to hold onto solid ground is so, so hard, and you’re so tired. Slipping away just feels easier. And you’ve always taken the easy way out. 

Not again. This can’t be happening again. He can’t be losing another child. Not like this. Bruce can feel your energy slipping away more and more as each second goes by. Your eyes start to close. No. No. No. He shakes you as hard as he can. Nothing happens. 

Red Robin and Red Hood are there first, with Nightwing and Robin tailing them. They take in the scene in front of them with horror. 

“GET THE BATMOBILE!” Bruce shouts, clutching you closer to him. 

“What happene-”

“NOW!” He cuts Dick off with an even louder yell. “GO!”

CHAPTER 8 IS DONE- wooo. This is the chapter I've been looking forward to/ dreading. A rollercoaster!

I hope you guys enjoyed this one and I can't wait to talk to u when you've finished!

as always inbox is open

There will be taglist 1 and taglist 2- taglist 2 will be a reblog bcs tumblr says i hit the tag limit last time :(

taglist (1):