all my longing

“Oh, always,” he grinned. He had told Geralt he was going straight to bed, alone, tonight, but technically they weren’t even going to a bed, and it was still early enough.

They went round the inn, past the stables, then she pushed him up against the back wall. Suddenly her tongue had slipped past his lips, swiping away the remains of the ale he’d drank to wet his tongue while performing. His hands slid down her sides, settling on her waist. One of hers grasped his jaw, the other dragged down his front before pushing into his drawers. He groaned, his head falling back against the wall, grinding up into her. It had been too many days on the path with only his hand for company, sleeping next to a Witcher who could hear a mouse fart way off in the forest. He hoped he didn’t finish embarrassingly quickly, but if he did he was sure he could make it up to her.

His companion’s other hand roamed his body and he couldn’t get enough: stroking his front, grabbing his arse, jingling his coin purse… hold on. He grunted, begrudgingly separating his lips from hers. “Hold up, what are you—”

Suddenly a sharp dagger glinted in the faint light, much too close to his throat for comfort. She flashed him a wicked grin. “I’ll be lightening your load for you.” Jaskier slowly raised his hands in the air as she took possession of his coin. He could already hear Geralt chastising him for being such a fool. Yes, yes, he knew better… “I’ll be taking the instrument as well,” she added.

Jaskier spluttered. “You can’t have my lute! I need her!” Not only could he not really afford to replace his lute right now, but he was quite fond of Sally.

The thieve’s eyebrows lowered. “It wasn’t a question.” She started tugging at the strap.

“I’ve made plenty of coin, you can go buy yourself a new one,” Jaskier protested.

“I don’t—” she started lowly, only to be interrupted by a shout from the stables.

“Oi! Who’s down there?”

She cursed under her breath, fighting Jaskier in earnest for the lute. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen and fell back against the wall. His lute was pulled from him and then he was alone, stripped of goods and in pain, his hands clutched to his middle. His fingers trembled as he looked down slowly. Blood trickled out between his fingers. “Fuck.” That’s where the dagger had gone. This was bad. And Geralt was going to be so angry.

—

Geralt scanned the room again. Jaskier had expounded at length about how nothing would come between him and a proper bed tonight, not even a gorgeous body. And yet his set had been finished for at least ten minutes, and he had disappeared. Geralt wondered if he should bother waiting much longer, or just head up to the room. Typical bard. He was surely chasing tail. Geralt wasn’t jealous, he was just annoyed at the lie. He lifted his tankard to take another sip of ale when he heard the man in question behind him.

“Ge-ralt.” The witcher turned, and as he caught sight of his friend, the tankard slipped from his hand. “I’m s-sorry,” the bard said. The tankard crashed to the floor. Jaskier’s brow was sweaty, his hands clasped over his abdomen where blood was quickly seeping out, colouring his light tunic.

“What happened?!” Geralt demanded. Jaskier was shaking. Geralt quickly shucked off his own shirt, ignoring the gasps and complaints from those around them, and pried Jaskier’s hands away. He sucked in a breath when he saw the bloody wound underneath, quickly covering it with his shirt, which he wrapped and tied round the other man as a temporary bandage. His companion couldn’t seem to get his dick wet without courting disaster.

Geralt turned to a woman at the table closest to them. “I need you to take us to your healer, now.”

“What? B-but—” the woman stuttered.

“I’ll pay,” he said tersely.

She eyed him warily, then Jaskier. “Alright then, follow me.”

“Astrid, what are you doing?” her companion demanded, brow furrowed.

“I need the coin,” Astrid shrugged before leading the way out of the inn.

They only got a few steps before Geralt easily scooped Jaskier into his arms.

“Geralt, what—”

“The more you move, the more you’ll bleed,” Geralt replied in a low voice.

“Right. Alright,” Jaskier said shakily.

Geralt prayed that the healer was close by. If they had to go very far he was terrified the bard would bleed out before they got there. Humans were so damn fragile. It’s exactly why they didn’t belong on the path, but he’d never been able to convince the bard not to follow him. Now the thought of not being besieged by the nitwit was making it difficult to breath.

“Geralt, I’m s-sorry. Know I should’ve— shouldn’t have—stupid…”

“Save it, Jask.” Geralt tried not to think about how weak Jaskier’s voice sounded.

“Just round this corner here,” Astrid tossed over her shoulder.

Witchers didn’t hyperventilate, their hearts weren’t prone to racing, so Geralt was perfectly fine. He was fine, Jaskier would be fine, everything was fine. Astrid was knocking at the healer’s door, and soon a man around Jaskier’s age was opening it, peering past Astrid with narrowed eyes, taking in Geralt and his cargo.

“And what have we got here?” he asked.

“Please, my friend’s been injured, I can pay,” Geralt said.

The healer sighed, opening his door wider and ushering them in. He showed them into a room to the side of the door, gesturing for Geralt to put Jaskier down on the bed. As he did so, Jaskier reached out, grasping at Geralt with a weak grip. “Don’t—don’t leave me, Geralt. I promise I won’t—”

“I’m not leaving, you fool, only putting you down so the healer can work.”

“But you won’t—”

“I’ll be right here,” Geralt assured him.

“Alright.”

The healer grabbed Geralt’s hand, pushing it down over the bleeding, then started gathering supplies. Astrid hovered nearby. Geralt grabbed a handful of coin with his free hand and offered it to her. “Thank you.”

She nodded. “You’re welcome. I hope your friend’s alright. Goodnight, Rowan.”

“Good night Astrid,” the healer replied, and Astrid headed for the door. “Was it the wyvern?” Rowan asked, nodding at Jaskier, referring to the contract that had brought them to the town in the first place.

“No,” Geralt growled out, then looked at Jaskier.

“Dagger,” Jaskier whispered. The healer hummed in response. Geralt tamped down the burning urge to rush out and find whomever had been on the other end of the dagger, and introduce them to its working end. Jaskier needed him here.

Once he had his supplies ready, Rowan brushed Geralt’s hand away, removing the wet, bloody shirt tied around Jaskier, then ripping Jaskier’s own shirt open to access the wound. As Rowan began to stitch the wound, Geralt felt ill. The bard made a great fuss over a papercut, and yet now he was disturbingly silent. Geralt had sewn numerous wounds, both his own and his brothers’, and yet this he found he couldn’t stomach. He closed his eyes, squeezing Jaskier’s lax hand in his own. How was he so quiet? He never let an ache or pain go without making a great fuss to Geralt, and anyone around with ears. Geralt opened his eyes to look at Jaskier’s slack face.

“Jask? Jaskier??”

Rowan looked up from where he was finishing off his stitches. “I remember you from some years ago, when I was an apprentice. Your guts were ripped open and you were limping, and yet you were as cool as a cucumber. Now you look about to panic. Didn’t know witchers did that.”

“He—!”

“He’s passed out from the blood loss and pain,” Rowan supplied. “He seems to have lost a lot, but I’ve a tonic. Gods-willing, he’ll be alright.”

Geralt let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He’d been quite used to silence and solitude before Jaskier had crossed his path, but he couldn’t bear to think of going back to that now.

Rowan shook Jaskier gently, rousing him enough to get the tonic down his throat. Once Rowan had bandaged Jaskier and finished up, Geralt tried to meditate beside the bed. Except he found he couldn’t, too distracted by trying to listen to Jaskier’s breathing. Instead he resorted to stretching, counting and recounting his coin, and wishing Jaskier were awake to tell him to quit fussing. Call him a finicky old man and smack at his hands. Give him that filthy smile and say that he had other things that Geralt could put his attention to. Maybe the next time, Geralt could give in and accept. Gods knew he’d dreamt of it enough times.

“In your head again,” Jaskier croaked.

Geralt’s head shot up. “Jaskier, you’re—”

“Alive, apparently.”

“How do you feel?” Geralt asked.

“Absolutely wretched.”

“Getting stabbed will do that.”

“I hate you,” Jaskier said without any heat.

“What happened?” Geralt demanded.

Jaskier flapped a hand at him. “Later. I really do feel dreadful.”

“Yes, well, you nearly died,” Geralt said. Jaskier scowled, and Geralt scowled back. “You’re to drink this.” Geralt brought a cup close to Jaskier’s face, and the bard spluttered, turning his head away.

“Trying to kill me! That’s putrid!”

“Trying to keep you alive, you idiot. Now drink it.”

“No.”

“Drink it or I’ll make you.”

“You can’t,” Jaskier replied petulantly.

Geralt reached over and pinched Jaskier’s nose, pouring the tonic down his throat when he opened his mouth for air. Jaskier wouldn’t like it, but Geralt wasn’t taking the healer’s instructions as optional. Jaskier had to be ok, so Geralt would be doing everything to that end.

Jaskier choked, swallowed, then gasped. “You are trying to kill me!”

“Again, no.”

“If you wanted to get rid of me, you could have just said so!”

“Enough dramatics, you should try to rest.” Though Geralt was somewhat glad for the dramatics: it meant Jaskier was feeling a bit more himself.

“How can I? You might try to poison me again.”

“I won’t,” Geralt sighed. “Sleep, Jask.”

Jaskier grumbled. “Fine. Only because I’d really prefer to not be conscious right now.” He closed his eyes, and was soon snoring softly. After watching him for a few minutes, Geralt settled into position to try to meditate again, this time with more success. He was brought back some time later by Jaskier’s voice.

“Geralt?”

“Mm.”

“I love you, Geralt.”

What the fuck. “Shut up, Jask.”

“I—”

“You love everyone,” Geralt interrupted.

“But I—”

“No.”

“Let me speak, Geralt!” Jaskier started struggling to sit up, and Geralt gently but firmly pushed him back down.

“You’ll burst your stitches! Lay down.”

“I’m in love with you, you great oaf.”

“No you’re not, you’re just glad to be alive,” Geralt countered.

“I can be both! Listen, you stubborn ox. I think I’ve loved you a little since I first laid eyes on you, but I’ve definitely been quite in love with you for an unfortunate amount of time. Stop arguing with me.”

Geralt wasn’t sure what to say to that. “But…” Jaskier raised an eyebrow at him. “I… I’m a mutant.”

“You mean gorgeous,” Jaskier replied.

Geralt snorted. “You’ve your pick of human lovers. What on the continent could make you want me?” It didn’t make any sense, so he couldn’t really accept it.

Jaskier closed his eyes. “I don’t know. I suppose I was born with a penchant for thick-headed, gorgeous, stubborn, ox-strong buffoons.”

Geralt guffawed. They sat in silence a few moments. Geralt tried to make sense of what the bard was saying.

“Well??” Jaskier demanded. Geralt grunted. “Do you have anything to say in response?! I just made a grand confession!”

“But you’re always sleeping around,” Geralt protested.

“A man has needs, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

“Well?!”

“Well. I’m quite fond of you too,” Geralt admitted.

“Fond?” Jaskier wrinkled his nose. “You’re fond of your horse, Geralt.”

“Love Roach,” Geralt protested.

“You love Roach but you’re only fond of me?!”

“Calm down, you’re in recovery.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down.” Jaskier was working himself up into a lather. Geralt really was quite fond of the fool. The corner of his lips twitched upwards. It had crept up on him, really. Nothing like what he’d had with Yenn. But he couldn’t imagine his life without this ridiculous, obnoxious man, and he didn’t want to. But Jaskier loved him? That would take some time to process.

“Fine. I suppose I… I love you, too.”

Jaskier harrumphed. “You suppose.”

“Hmm. If I say more you’ll get excited and ruin Rowan’s hard work.” And maybe he was fun to tease.

“Who is Rowan? And never mind. I take it back. I hate you. Emotionally constipated lummox.”

“No, you don’t,” Geralt said fondly.

“Do.” Jaskier crossed his arms.

“Here.” Geralt leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier whined. “I love you,” Geralt said softly. “Never scare me like that again.”

“I’ll take it under consideration,” Jaskier replied. “Now give me more.”

“More what?” Geralt asked with a small grin.

“Kisses now, you bastard!”

Geralt complied.

---

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A while later there was a knock at the door. Geralt would have missed it under the noise of the people, but Roach heard it and barked to alert him. Everyone was accounted for, other than… he told himself not to get his hopes up. He wove his way through the crowd to the front door. Pulling it open, he froze: Jaskier stood in front of him. Hair longer, figure looking like he could use a few good meals; older, a few lines around the corners of his eyes. 

He’d come. He was really here. He’d come home. No, Geralt told himself. Don’t get ahead of yourself. 

Jaskier cleared his throat, then gave a nervous laugh. “You going to invite me in, or…?”

“Yes, of course, please, come in! Let me take that,” he took Jaskier’s coat and hung it on the rack, then ushered him forward after he’d removed his shoes. “There’s food in the living room, and orange juice in the kitchen, always have some for Ciri these days, yours if you want it, I’m so glad to see you—“ Geralt clamped his jaw shut. He was rambling. 

Jaskier just nodded. Geralt made his way to the kitchen at the back of the house, glad for the distraction of getting Jaskier a drink. But as he poured the juice, words also came pouring out unbidden, with his back turned to the man who’d left him.

“Feels like I've been ready for you to come home for so long. Where did you go, Jask? Why did you go?”

“Mmm,” Jaskier replied. “My heart has changed, and my soul has changed, and my face has changed, and now I haven't drank in six months, on the dot.”

“I—” Geralt didn’t know what to do all of that. “I’m proud of you. That’s great.” He turned around and passed the glass to Jaskier. “You look— it’s good to see you.” Jaskier nodded, a tightness around his eyes. “You see the graves as you passed through?” Gods why was he still talking, why did he say that? It was like everything he’d wanted to say but couldn’t while Jaskier was gone was just tumbling out of him. 

Years, he’d waited. He didn’t think he’d slept properly for the first 6 months Jaskier was gone.  Checking news reports, scanning social media, asking friends and acquaintances if they’d heard anything. Having nightmares of accidents, car crashes, both new and old. 

“From the crash. Not one nick on your finger, you just asked me to hold you. But it—it made you a stranger, and you got so angry, and now I’m the last to even know you’re back.”

“My life has changed, and this town has changed, and yet you haven’t. The world has changed, don't you find it strange that you just went ahead and carried on?” Jaskier demanded, his eyes getting red. “Did you even look for me?”

“You packed up and left without a word! What should I have done??” Geralt asked.

“You’re still here, carrying on, with a happy little family,” Jaskier said bitterly.

“What was I supposed to do, Jask?! You left.” Geralt felt anger bubbling up inside of him. “Changed your number. Disappeared. Yeah, I’m still here, but I’m not who you left behind, either. I haven’t drank since the night I passed out on your lawn, our last fight just before you left. And I’m—I’m a father now, Jask.”

“Yes, you and Yenna and your perfect little—”

“Pavetta and Duny named us Ciri’s godparents, Jaskier! After Calanthe passed, we stepped up. She’s our daughter now. But that’s all that’s changed between Yenn and I. We share parenting time and duties, and she’s one of my best friends, but we aren’t— that’s it.” They stood in silence a moment. “Is that all we are to you now? Just crows, pulling you down? We’re your family, Jask, your friends…” Geralt paused, gathering himself, then added softly, “Pavetta and Duny, the crash… it wasn’t your fault.”

Tears started to slip down Jaskier’s face, which always undid Geralt. Geralt went to take a step forwards, then stopped himself. He opened his arms in offering instead. Jaskier hesitated, rocking on his feet, before stepping forwards into Geralt’s embrace. It was awkward a moment, but then Jaskier tightened his arms around Geralt, and Geralt did the same. A minute passed in silence, only uneven breathes in each-others’ ears. 

“Three years, Jask,” Geralt said.

Jaskier sobbed, tucking his face into Geralt’s shoulder. “I missed you so fucking much.”

“Then why??” Geralt demanded. The question that had kept him up on too many nights to count since Jaskier had disappeared from town without a word. Leaving him alone to face the future, his life irrevocably changed, with no partner by his side, an empty space where Jaskier had been for so long.

“I couldn’t—I couldn’t cope. You saw it. I had all this rage, and guilt, and I couldn’t handle it. All I was doing was hurting everyone around me. So I left.”

“Three years of having no idea where you were, if you were alright, if you were even—”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, muffled by Geralt’s shirt. “I’m so sorry, Geralt.”

Geralt gripped him tighter. “Are you… How long are you…”

Jaskier sniffed, then slowly pulled back to look at Geralt, reluctant to let go.

“I was, well, that is I’d like to… I was thinking of staying?”

Geralt’s eyes abruptly filled, and he pulled Jaskier back in. Too many thoughts and feelings were filling his head, and this time nothing came out of his mouth. 

“I know it isn’t my place anymore, after, well, everything, but I— Geralt, I love you. I never stopped.”

“Fuck,” Geralt choked.

“Right.” Jaskier tried to pull back, but Geralt held him tighter.

“Thought you said you were staying,” Geralt said gruffly.

“Yes, well, I was thinking of staying in town, but—”

“I love you too, you bastard, gods save me.”

Jaskier relaxed in his grip. “Oh, good. Rather thought I’d fucked that right up when I left. Or before, really.”

“I’m still mad at you.”

“Fair.” 

“Come on,” Geralt said, finally pulling back. He felt centred in a way he hadn’t in a very long time. “They’ll all be wondering where we are.” He let go of Jaskier, taking his hand instead. “Everyone will be glad to see you.”

Things might not be ok, but they would be. Jaskier was back where he belonged. The rest would fall into place, in time. 

---

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Bond had never had an issue with going on longer missions. Sometimes they could be intense, tiring, but he never felt that ache of homesickness that others sometimes felt. But lately, that had been changing. Longer missions had started to wear on him. He started to look forward to going back to London. Back to Q. The familiarity and warmth of him and his home.

He’d been in Qatar for two months, and it had felt like the longest two months he had spent in the field. It had been a lot of work, but it was also the longest mission he’d done in a while, and it hit differently than it ever had before. Everywhere felt cold, and impersonal, and Bond felt just step to the left of everything. He had been counting down the days, near the end, until he would be back: in London, in Q’s house, in Q’s arms.

He got into London on an evening flight, heading straight to MI6 to drop off his kit and promising to send in his report to Mallory ASAP, before rushing out to meet Q at his house, as promised.

He let himself in, kicking his shoes off at the door and making a beeline for the kitchen at the back of the house, where he could hear Q humming quietly as he cooked dinner. The cats chirped and followed, twining around his legs. The house was cosy, and smelled of home cooking, and was everything that travelling was not. Bond came up behind Q, wrapping his arms tightly around his middle, burying his nose in Q’s curls.

“Hello,” Q greeted him warmly, “welcome home.”

Bond responded with a grunt, tightening his grip. Q couldn’t turn in the tight embrace, so he reached a hand up to stroke at the back of Bond’s neck. When Bond still didn’t move or say anything, Q asked, “Are you alright?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Did something go wrong on the mission?” Q asked, sounding somewhat concerned. Things were getting tied up smoothly when he had left MI6, but the situation could always change in an instant.

“Mm-mm,” Bond negated.

Q pushed to turn in his arms, making Bond begrudgingly loosen his grip.

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but what’s going on, love?” Q asked gently.

“Missed you,” Bond murmured, tucking his face into the crook of Q’s neck and shoulder.

“I missed you, too,” Q said, smiling softly.

“Got homesick.”

“Aww.”

“I don’t get homesick,” Bond stated more firmly.

“Mm?” Q was stroking Bond's hair, then down his arms, comforting him but also relishing in being able to touch him again.

“You’re home, now,” Bond said, his voice rough with emotion.

“I—Oh. Oh.” Q pressed a firm kiss to Bond’s temple. “It isn’t the same when you’re gone. We’re glad to have you back.”

They stayed that way a bit longer, pressed to one-another, leaning against the range.

“I need to tend to dinner, or it’s going to burn…” Q said reluctantly.

“I’ll put out the fire,” Bond assured him, unmoving.

Q huffed a quiet laugh. “I put effort into this, for your first meal back home, and I’d like for it not to go to waste.”

Bond groaned. “Fine,” he relented, starting to pull back and straighten.

“Could you pour us some wine? It’s on the table.”

“Alright.”

“After dinner, you can hold me all night, if you like.”

“I will,” Bond replied decidedly.

“Good. I love you.”

“Love you,” Bond said, nipping at his bottom lip.

“It’s good to have you home,” Q said, full of feeling, his eyes looking suddenly wet.

“Good to be home,” Bond answered.

Q darted forward and pressed a suddenly desperate kiss to Bond’s lips, his fingers digging into Bond’s sides. The kiss was voracious, as if they were both tasting all they had missed while being apart. When Q pulled back again, somewhat reluctantly, he spoke.

“I’m not sure I’m keen on you going on any more long missions. But I really do have to address dinner now, I put in too much effort to let it burn.”

Bond acquiesced. He was where he most wanted to be, and knew he would get all he was promised, and more. 

-

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She sputtered. “I can walk!”

“But you’re exhausted,” he countered, “and you don’t have to.” She didn’t argue, just nuzzled back into him. He carried her into the building, punching in the code he still knew, and up to her apartment. He set her down on her couch, pulling a blanket around her shoulders, before heading to the bathroom.

He found the basket of medical supplies in the under sink cabinet, just where they’d been before, and his heart gave a pang. There would be time for feelings later, he told himself, giving himself a shake and returning to the living room.

Skye sat silently as he started carefully and gently cleaning her face and throat. She spoke when he started on her shins. “You said you love me,” she said quietly.

"Of course I love you,” he replied, as if any other option was ridiculous. It was. He put the cotton pad he’d been using to the side and picked up the antibiotic ointment.

“Then why?” she asked. He looked down as he unscrewed the cap and took in a deep breath through his nose, blowing it out through his mouth. He started gently dabbing the ointment on the gash above her eyebrow, then on her scraped cheek, trying not to wince as he did so. He should have done a better job protecting her. It killed him to see her banged up like this. And over him. She was hurt because of him. He almost startled when she cleared her throat, realizing he’d stopped moving after putting ointment on her shins. He gently took her hand in his and started on her wrist.

He remembered she had asked him something as he started on bandaging. “I thought I was doing what I had to do,” he said as he gently taped gauze over the wound on her throat. “I thought I was doing the right thing. And I thought that was the best thing for you. But I was wrong.” He was bandaging her shins now. “Well, at least about most of it. I still think you’re probably better off without me, but if you really still want me… there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” He finished his work and looked up to her from his place on the floor. “I’ll do my best to deserve to be by your side. I won’t leave again.” His voice broke. “I promise. I—I love you, so much, Skye. I’m so fucking sorry.”

She started crying and he rose up on his knees to pull her into a hug. As she grasped at him tightly he nosed in her hair, sniffling as well.

“You’re so smart, Jay, but you’re also a dumbass and an asshole.”

“I know.”

“I love you so much. I couldn’t hate you. I hated myself for it.” Skye’s nails dug into Jason’s shoulders, and he squeezed her tighter. They stayed like that until Skye’s stomach gurgled audibly.

Leaning back, Jason set his hands on Skye’s shoulders. “It’s late, we should get some food.”

“I’m not really hungry.”

The side of Jason’s lips crooked up. “You should still eat something. I’ll make us some ramen?” Skye sniffled. Jason tucked the blanket around her more securely, then handed her the remote. “I want you to find the fluffiest thing you can to watch, ok? I can hear the TV from the kitchen, so I’ll know.” She sniffled again and nodded.

Jason set about putting water on to boil, finding noodles in the cupboard, and kimchi in the fridge like usual. It was strange, being back, everything much as it had been when he left. The sauces he used for meat were gone from the fridge, but his favourite mug was still in the cupboard, the appliances in their usual spots, his favourite burner on the stove still took two tries to light. It was odd, yet comforting. So much had happened in the past year: the past rotten, godsforsaken year. And yet this kitchen remained the same. And he was allowed back in it.

---

“I got you, you’re safe, I’ve got you, Skye.” She could barely hear it, couldn’t breathe, terrified out of her mind. 

Suddenly the air had stilled, as had the scenery. She was carefully set down on asphalt, the hands that had just been holding her still hovering close by.

“There, you’re safe, you’re on the ground.”

She fell forward over her knees, hands still stuck behind her back. The zap-strap around her wrists was cut loose, and her arms fell to her sides. She was still hyperventilating, completely out of her body. A blurred blue and black figure crouched in front of her, gently gripping her hand and placing it on their chest. 

“Here, breathe with me - in, 2, 3, out, 2, 3, in…”

Slowly her surrounding started to come back into focus: the reassuring voice, the synthetic fabric under her fingertips, the steady heart beneath it. Her breathing started to slow a little, she felt the ache in her shoulders, elbows and wrists, the sting on her throat.

“Dick?” she asked shakily.

“I’m here. You’re safe,” Nightwing answered. 

She sobbed, and he pulled her into a gentle hug. She wrapped her arms around him, her tears soaking into his costume, mingling with his sweat. “I missed you.” It had probably been close to two years since she’d seen him, but he still felt like family.

“Me too,” he said quietly, his hand stroking over her hair in comfort.

A moment later the man that had abducted her hit the ground a dozen feet away from them with a sickening wet thud. She sucked in a shocked breath, and Dick gripped her tighter. Jason landed nearby a moment later, loose gravel crunching under his boots, and he rushed over to them and kneeled down. Dick drew back and Jason moved in, gripping Skye’s shoulders and looking her over frantically. She drew in a shaky breath. 

“Jay?” she said, unable to keep her voice steady. Her fingers itched to remove his helmet, to look him in the face properly.

“Are you alright? Did he hurt you?” Jason demanded, voice rough.

“I-I’m ok.”

He abruptly pulled her into his arms and held her tight. All of her conflicting feelings overwhelmed her for a moment, and she felt frozen. But Jason’s arms around her felt like home, and safety, and those feelings quickly won. She clung to him like she’d never ever let him go, her fingers digging into his jacket. He breathed into her hair, and she buried her face in his chest and sobbed. Her panic from all that had just happened, her grief and pain and loneliness of the past year, all came crashing down on her.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually. “I’m sorry I put you through that. I’m sorry for all of it. The past year… I had a reason, but— that doesn’t excuse it. I know.” He pulled back to look at her again, and she immediately felt cold. He thumbed at the dried blood on her forehead and grimaced, then seemed to come back to himself and moved back. “I’m sorry. Nothing’s changed, I know. Dick will take you to the hospital to get you checked out.” He straightened back to standing and moved towards the body nearby. Skye’s heart fell like a stone into her stomach.

"Don’t you dare walk away from me!” she shouted, her voice wrecked and anguished.

“I—”

“I haven’t forgiven you! You’re gonna have to earn that. By staying, and working at it. Don’t—” she sobbed, “don’t leave me again.”

He strode back instantly, dropping to his knees and wrapping his arms around her. “Ok. Ok. I won’t, I promise.” His voice was rough and raw as well. “I’m sorry. I love you. I’ve got you.” He rocked her gently as she sobbed into his shoulder. “I’ve got you.” 

When her sobs quieted again he scooped her up in his arms and stood. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tucked her face into his neck, breathing in his familiar scent: his body wash, sweat, metal and exhaust. If she had her way she wouldn’t leave his arms for at least the next twenty-four hours. Possibly ever.

“I don’t need to go to the hospital, I just want to go home,” she murmured.

“Are you sure? I—”

She shivered and interrupted him. “I’m sure. Just take me home. Please.” The last thing she wanted to do was go into a busy hospital and be touched and examined by strangers. 

“Ok sweetheart. You still live in the same place?”

“From what I hear, you know I do.”

“I’m glad you’re alright, Skye,” Dick interjected. “I’ll deal with things here,” he said to Jason. “One of you check in with me later, ok?”

Jason nodded. “Thanks, Dickhead.”

“Anytime, asshole.”

“Thank you, Dick,” Skye said quietly.

“My pleasure, Skye. I promise if he hurts you again, they won’t find the body, brother or not,” he said with a sunshiny grin. She smiled tremulously in response.

“And people think I’m the scary one,” Jason grumbled. He strode around the building to where he’d left his motorcycle. “Think you’re ok to hold on for the ride to your place?” he asked. Skye nodded, and he gently set her on her feet beside the bike, then pulled out his spare helmet and helped secure it on her head. Skye climbed on behind Jason and wrapped herself around him, resting her head against his shoulder. She zoned out on the ride home, only cognizant of Jason’s body against hers, his steady breathing, his scent in her nose, vaguely aware of the air rushing past them. 

---

The line died. Jason growled in fury and quickly called Dick as he jumped on his bike and headed to the other side of town. Dick promised to rush over to meet him, assuring him that they wouldn’t let anything happen to Skye. They may not see eye to eye, and they may not have forgiven each-other, but Jason trusted him, especially with this. He knew his brother would do everything he could to keep Skye safe.

Reaching the aforementioned building, Jason ditched his bike, taking the stairs up three at a time. As he neared the top he heard the voice from the phone.

“Stop shaking or I’m going to slit your throat by accident!”

Jason was afraid, and enraged, and fairly certain that his body count would be rising today. As he cleared the last steps and made it onto the roof, they came into view. A man Jason had never seen before stood just behind Skye, a knife to her throat. The stranger was a little taller than her, shorter than Jason, bulky and unshaven, with an intense scowl on his face.

Skye’s face was tear-streaked and bloody. A gash above her right eyebrow had dripped blood down across her eye and cheek, over a scrape and the shadow of a bruise forming on her cheekbone. Her white blouse, which had been crisp and pristine when he watched her get to work this morning, was dirty and rumpled, her shins were bloody below her black skirt, and she looked petrified and miserable. Her hands appeared to be secured behind her back, and she was visibly shaking as well as gasping for breath. Jason knew of her fear of heights, of course. He’d found it a bit ironic when they were together. He jumped from the tops of buildings, and she was uncomfortable on a third-floor balcony with a sturdy railing. As if being kidnapped and held at knife-point wasn’t enough. Jason flexed his fingers, trying to keep his rage at bay until Skye was safe.

“The fuck do you want?” Jason demanded, his eyes on the stranger. If he looked Skye in the eyes he felt like he might fall apart.

“The name Grounder ring any bells?” the man asked.

“No.”

The man twitched, his knife pressing further into Skye’s skin, and she let out a whimper. Jason’s hand inched towards his gun.

“He was my brother. You captured him and handed him over to the Magistrate, you slimy two-faced bastard, and he died in the Blackgate prison break that happened when you were there. You cost me my brother. So, I found the one person you seem to be soft for. Beg me to let her go.”

Jason scoffed, and the man dragged Skye closer to the edge of the roof. Jason took an aborted step forward: the man pressed his knife in further when Jason moved. Skye was crying and looking at Jason, eyes wide with fear and heartbreak. A bright line of blood had appeared on her throat, seeping from under the knife. Jason struggled to hear the man’s voice over the sound of his pulse thundering in his ears.

Dick’s voice suddenly sounded through the comms. “I’m almost there, I have them in my sights. If she drops, I’ve got her, Little Wing. Don’t worry.”

Jason dragged a breath in through his nose. “You know you can’t win,” he called out. “Anything happens to her, you aren’t walking out of here.”

“You know you can’t, either,” the man sneered. “Your little blonde psycho is gone, and the masks all hate you. You’re on your own.” He grinned and gave Skye a rough jerk. “Go on, beg me!!”

"Let her go.”

“You can do better than that,” the man growled.

“Please,” Jason ground out. “You want me, she has nothing to do with this. You want revenge on me: I’m here now. Let her go.”

“Tell me what she means to you.”

Jason clenched his jaw and a muscle jumped in his cheek. “She’s my ex.”

“Try. Again.” The man pulled Skye’s heels right to the edge of the roof, holding her to his side. She choked out a sob, her face pure misery. Jason’s heart was pulverized. He’d never been one to dream of a future: he never really felt he would have one. But with her, it had started to seem possible. He had started to dream. And now, after he’d had to leave it behind, that dream had been dragged, bleeding and crying, to the edge of a roof. Fear had eaten a pit in the bottom of his stomach.

“I love her. I’ll do whatever you want, alright? Just let her go.” He clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling helpless and furious.

The man grinned viciously. “There you go, was that so hard? Now I’ll do as you asked.” He removed his knife and arm from around Skye’s neck, then quickly pushed her back with his other hand. She let out a startled scream as she fell back into the open air.

“Skye!!!” Jason shouted, running the last steps towards them.

---

Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she struggled harder. Skye tried to throw her weight into elbowing back into her assailant, but they swung her around, smashing her face into the concrete wall. Pain exploded through her skull, and while she was stunned from the blow they zap-strapped her wrists together behind her back, the sharp plastic biting into her skin. They pulled her back and continued to drag her down the alley, blood dripping from her eyebrow, down across her eyelid, onto her cheek. She tried to shout, the noise muffled against the callused hand still clamped over her face. They shoved her into a recessed doorway, out of view, their knee grinding into her back to pin her against the cold metal door as they tied a handkerchief around her face, gagging her as she struggled and tried again to scream. That accomplished, they yanked her back by her wrists, then pushed her down the alley. She got a glance at them, and found a man she didn’t recognize, looking like he hadn’t slept in the better part of a week, stubbled and unkempt.

Her pounding heart felt like it was crawling up her throat to choke her. She should have been carrying her phone in her hand, rather than her purse. Maybe she could have got a call out before this stranger had incapacitated her. Maybe a vigilante would spot them, she hoped, though it didn’t seem likely. They were usually busy with bigger, flashier crimes, but it could happen. Really, she should have been carrying her mace. Jason’s voice entered her mind, unbidden, clear even though she hadn’t heard it in a year. ‘Keep your head up. Always have a weapon to hand once dusk hits: the mace I gave you, your keys between your fingers. If anyone tries anything, use your sharp, hard spots on their soft ones. Knee to the balls, elbow to the throat. Be ruthless, alright? And use voice commands to call me, I’ll be there in an instant. I promise.’

She choked back a sob. He had insisted that they do weight and self-defence training together twice a week. After he’d left, she couldn’t face training alone, it was too painful, and she’d gradually forgotten what he’d drilled into her head. She was usually more wary when she was out at night, but it hadn’t been late when she left work, and her mind had been elsewhere. It usually was these days. She often felt that she was a step to the left of reality. Now it was too late.

She wasn’t sure how many blocks they made it down, fighting and pushing, before the man wrenched a door open on a dilapidated building and shoved her through. He grabbed her ponytail roughly, dragging her by the hair up the concrete stairs. Whatever he wanted with her, she really didn’t want to find out. Now that they were out of sight, she was losing any hope that anyone would help her. No-one would be missing her. No-one knew where she was. She hoped whatever happened, it was over quickly. Her thoughts pulled back to Jason. She would never see him again. He wouldn’t know what happened to her, if he still cared. Despite everything, she couldn’t stop caring. She’d tried.

Her thoughts spiralling, she stumbled, her legs crashing into the biting edge of the stairs, unable to stop herself with her hands bound behind her, leaving her shins bloody. She gasped, then started choking around the gag. The stranger made a noise of disgust, then pulled at the knot on the gag, sawing through it with a pocket knife and pulling it from her head. She gulped in air, willing the contents of her stomach to stay put, then spat on the ground. The man grabbed hold of her ponytail once again and started back up the stairs.

"You’re gonna bring me Red Hood,” he growled over his shoulder.

She made a noise that amounted to ‘what the fuck.’ The brutal reminder of her loss cut like a knife. She’d tried to bring him back already. She’d failed.

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Wh- I don’t- I’m not on friendly terms with masks or mercenaries! How would I—”

“Don’t waste my fucking time. I pulled some favours, asked around. Rumour has it you were live-in lovers.”

She sucked in a shocked breath. After a few more stairs she spoke up. “I haven’t heard from him in a year. He won’t speak to me. You’re wasting your time.”

“Not what I hear.”

“Well you heard wrong,” she spat out bitterly.

“Or you don’t know. What I hear, he keeps an eye on you, makes sure you make it home safe at night. Maybe you don’t know as much as you think. Too bad he’s a bit tied up this evening.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She stumbled again, trying to process this new information, and he sneered and jerked her up. They made their way up onto the roof. It was old and crumbling, with no wall or railing around the edge, just a small ledge that was broken and missing chunks here and there. Her panic ramped up into overdrive: she was terrified of heights, and especially in situations like this, where it seemed you were just a trip away from falling into open air. Everything in her body was screaming for her to run back downstairs. As she was dragged to the centre of the roof, she spoke up, her voice wavering.

"Being up high doesn’t give you an advantage, it doesn’t— it isn’t—”

“This is my stage! What, are you afraid of heights?” he asked snidely. “With a name like—”

“Real original,” she gasped, starting to hyperventilate. “No-one has ever - made that joke before.”

He snorted, then made a call on his cellphone, putting it on speaker.

“Who is this, I’m busy,” Red Hood demanded, followed by grunts and a crash in the background.

“I’ve got someone you might want to hear from,” the stranger drawled. “Speak up, sweetheart.”

Skye continued to gasp for air. Suddenly the tip of a knife pressed into her throat.

“Speak up or I’ll make you sing, get me?” the man said.

Skye gulped for air. “H-Hood…”

---

She opened her mouth then shut it again, taking a deep breath to calm her frantic nerves. “Jay, I know you. I know how much planning you do, I know you have strong morals, I—I’m trying to understand! What am I missing? What are you not telling me?”

“I thought we’d left this behind,” he growled out.

“You’ve never answered me!” Exasperation dripped from her voice. “I thought things were getting better with your family, and then…”

“It was never going to last,” he said bitterly.

“They were becoming my family, too, and now I don’t know how to face them. Jay, please! I hate feeling this way. I want to understand. Help me understand! They love you, Jason. I love you. Why can’t you talk to me? Please,” she added, coming up behind him and setting a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off, and she took a step back, huffing out a breath. “If you’re going to continue working for The Magistrate, and you won’t talk to me, I can’t… I can’t keep doing this, Jason.” Once the words were out, she wanted to stuff them back in, but she knew they couldn’t continue this way.

His hands were gripping the counter, white-knuckled. After a moment he pushed away from it and brushed past her.

“I’ll come back to pack my stuff later,” he said gruffly, heading for the door.

“Jay!” She called after him, but he didn’t slow. “Jason!”

She was answered only by the front door opening and shutting harshly, then a key turning in the lock. Her breathing went shaky as she fought back tears. This wasn’t how they ended, she told herself. She knew Jason loved her. They’d get through this. He’d be headed out on patrol shortly: he’d have time to think things over, cool off, and they would talk tomorrow and work things out. They had to: she couldn’t bear to think otherwise.

She put on the TV but couldn’t focus, unable to stop herself from checking her phone and staring out the window. There were no new messages. The view out the window was the usual. Dark, rainy, intermittent flashing lights and sirens, the occasional crashing or thumping sound. Gotham.

She didn’t want to keep living the way they had been recently, all that tension between them, but she also didn’t want to be without Jason. He was her comfort, her safety net. The one person in her life she could always rely on, lean on. They’d been together seriously for three years now, and while they still had their own apartments, Jason spent a lot of his “home” time at hers. He slept in her bed more often than not, and they usually ate dinner together, and often breakfast. They passed books back and forth, and watched movies based on them only to critique them and throw popcorn at the screen when they were offended by the changes in the adaptation. They got each other in a way she hadn’t found with anyone else. He’d come round, she told herself. He’d come back tomorrow; he’d have something to say, even if it wasn’t everything.

She spent a restless night tossing and turning in bed, waking from dreams where Jason never came back, where his death was announced on the news, dreams of falling. By early morning she’d given up, getting out of bed before her alarm went off and making herself a coffee in her biggest mug. She wasn’t surprised that Jason hadn’t come back after patrol, he often didn’t if they’d had a fight, but she had a harder time sleeping without him these days. Her phone still showed no new messages. After chewing her lip, she sent Jason a text: < I love you <3 >. She showered, dressed and finished her coffee. Finding she had no appetite, she decided to go into the office early. Even work was better than sitting there alone with her own thoughts.

She threw herself into work, helping coworkers with minor projects once she’d finished her own, determined to keep busy. Anything to keep her mind occupied and hands from obsessively checking her phone. The day still seemed to drag on. She didn’t know if she wanted it to go faster or slower. She was anxious about reaching the end of her workday, which would mean the end of her distraction. Afraid to go home and find it still empty.

After stopping for groceries on her way home, she stepped inside her apartment. Instead of Jason’s boots and jacket being by the door, she immediately noticed that while those were still gone, so was his hoodie that had been on a hook. Anxiety squeezed her chest like a fist. She took a steadying breath.

“Jay, are you home?” she called out, despite the evidence that said otherwise. She was met by silence. She toed off her heels and hung her coat, then moved towards the kitchen. She set the groceries on the counter, then texted Jason. < Are you coming for dinner tonight? > Her hands were trembling and she willed them to stop. She set to putting the groceries away, then poured herself a glass of wine. She took a large gulp, then let herself check her phone again. No new messages. She tried calling him, but hung up when his voicemail was about to start. She texted him again. < Please say something >. She took another sip of wine, then went to her bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes.

Once she was in soft pants and a sweatshirt, she hesitated, staring at the drawers that housed spare clothes for Jason, and other odds and ends he liked to have handy. She stepped towards them slowly, like they might pop open and bite. She slowly reached out and opened one, sucking in a breath when she found it empty. She quickly closed it and checked the other one: also empty. She ran into the living room, and the side table beside the couch that had held a small stack of Jason’s books was cleared. Her vision went blurry with tears. She pulled out her phone and called again. It rang until voicemail kicked in. Jason’s gruff recorded voice announced “If you know, you know,” followed by an electronic beep. Her hand fell to her side and a sob ripped out of her. She dropped to the couch. He was gone. He’d really left, packed up his things with no sign he would ever be coming back. The tears fell and were uncontrollable. She felt like there was a gaping hole in her chest.

Once she’d drained a second glass of wine, she dragged herself off to bed, crying herself to sleep. She woke up in the middle of the night, disoriented. Alone. She was used to going to bed alone, but would always rouse in the early hours of the morning when Jason got back from patrol. She never slept soundly until he was beside her, until she knew he was safe. He would crawl into bed, exhausted, wrapping himself around her, burying his nose in the back of her neck, her hair. Finally letting out a deep sigh, his limbs releasing their tension, he would relax around her as he tumbled into sleep. She would snuggle back into his embrace before falling back asleep, content that he was safe and well.

Where was he, she wondered. Still on patrol? Was he back in his own apartment? Was he alone? Could he sleep? Or was he lying in an alley somewhere, bleeding out. She had no way of knowing, with him refusing to answer his phone and no-one else to contact. He often worked with someone else, Ravager, but she had never spoken to the other vigilante. If Jason really was breaking things off, then she supposed she wasn’t in a position to be asking after him. She felt unmoored.

She dreamt of Jason crawling in behind her, humming contentedly as he nuzzled her hair. She woke up alone.

---

TAGS/WARNINGS: canon what canon, established relationship, breaking up and getting back together, original female character, angst with happy ending, original low levels rogues, mild injuries, good brother Dick Grayson, mentioned Rose/Ravager, mentioned Jason/Rose, heights/fear of heights

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I've just realized when getting ready to post that there is already a character named Skye (because OFC there is, sigh). This is not she! This is an original character.

If you are a fan of Rose, or ship Jason with her, this may not be the fic for you, though she’s only briefly mentioned.

I haven’t read the rest of the Future State series, so please excuse any inconsistencies.