#bthb

“Negative. The Quinjet stays airborne. This is a solo recon mission. Do not engage.”

Fury’s voice crackled through Natasha’s comm, firm and cold as always.

She stared at the monitor, where your vitals had just vanished.

One second, steady heart rate and biometric data, and the next second, gone. Black screen. Silence.

Her heart stopped.

“I’m going in,” she snapped, hands already working the controls.

“Romanoff, stand down! We have assets en route. Extraction team-”

“I’m not waiting,” she growled, already plunging the Quinjet down through the clouds. “You can lecture me later.”

And with that, she cut the line.

The Hydra base loomed beneath her. Half-collapsed and flanked by jagged cliffs, quiet in the way that danger always is before it explodes.

She landed the jet hard and left it idling as her boots slammed against the ground one after the other. She sprinted through the rotting corridors, your last coordinates burned into her brain. The metallic scent of blood hit her before she found you.

You were crumpled against a rusted support beam, unconscious, your gear shredded, wounds soaked through with blood. The floor beneath you was dark and sticky. Your skin was so pale and dread seeped into her veins like ice.

“Y/N!” Her voice broke as she dropped to her knees, pressing fingers to your throat. “No, no, no… come on.”

Your faint, thready pulse fluttered against the pads of her fingers, barely there.

She touched your face, her gloves now slick with your blood. “Baby, can you hear me?”

You groaned faintly, your eyes trying to open.

“I got ambushed,” you rasped, barely audible. “There were more...trap…”

“Shh,” she breathed, tearing open your vest to check the wound on your side. It was deep, too deep. “Save your energy. I’ve got you now.”

She opened her field kit with trembling hands, applying a coagulant to slow the bleeding, tying another wound on your upper thigh with pressure bandages, whispering reassurances through gritted teeth.

And then, your breathing faltered. Your chest stilled.

“No.” Her voice cracked. “No, no, no, please…”

Your eyes slowly shut and then...nothing.

She stared in frozen horror for one heartbeat, then launched into action. The heel of her right hand pressed repeatedly against your chest, counting compressions, desperate breaths between each cycle. “Don’t you do this to me. Don’t you dare leave me.”

“Come back to me,” she whispered again and again. “I can’t...I can't do this without you.”

You didn’t respond.

But she didn’t stop.

Until finally...finally, you gasped, choking on air, eyes flying open in panic before collapsing back.

“Oh god,” she sobbed, her forehead pressed against yours, her tears mixing with your blood. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

A familiar voice sounded in her comm as her earpiece crackled back to life.

“Romanoff, it's Rogers. Fury said you went off-script. We’re two minutes out. Bucky’s with me. Where are you?”

Natasha exhaled a shaky breath, cradling your head in her lap. “Sublevel three. She's hurt...badly. I need evac.”

“Sit tight. We’ve got your back,” Steve replied.

A moment later, she heard the distant echo of boots. Gunfire. Metal groaning. Hydra was still crawling in the dark like rats.

She tightened her grip around your body.

“You stay awake, okay?” she whispered. “Help’s coming.”

Steve and Bucky crashed into the hallway moments later, Steve’s shield reflecting light like a beacon of hope. Bucky panted as his eyes darted around to stay vigilant.

“Nat-” Steve’s eyes locked on the two of you. “Oh my god.”

“She’s lost too much blood,” Natasha said quickly, her voice steel even though her hands were shaking. “I lost her briefly...I got her back...barely.”

“I'll take her,” Bucky said, moving to scoop you into his arms.

“No,” Natasha snapped. “You cover us. I’m not letting go.”

Bucky nodded silently, stepping forward to clear the corridor ahead with his rifle. Steve took the rear, shield raised as Hydra agents began pouring in behind them.

Natasha carried you in her arms, blood soaking through her suit, her face set in grim determination.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered again and again. “I’m right here.”

They made it to the Quinjet under fire. Steve held the ramp, deflecting bullets. Bucky mowed down the last squad as Natasha brought you in and laid you down gently on the floor.

You were unconscious again. Breathing shallow. But alive.

“Get us out of here!” Steve shouted, jumping aboard as the hatch slammed shut.

The Quinjet roared into the sky.

Natasha sank to her knees beside you, gripping your hand like it was the only thing anchoring her to this earth.

“She stopped breathing,” she whispered to Steve, barely able to get the words out. “I had to bring her back. I-”

“You did,” Steve said gently, crouching beside her. “You saved her.”

Hours later, you lay in the med bay, patched and stabilized, heart monitor beeping softly in the background.

Natasha hadn’t left your side once.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, her head was resting against your chest, her hand gripping yours.

“…Nat?”

She jerked up. “Hey...hey, I’m here. You’re okay.”

You gave her a faint smile. “You cried.”

She laughed through the tears, pressing her forehead to yours. “Yeah. I did.”

“Guess I’m special.”

“The most special,” she whispered, cupping your face. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“I’ll try not to.”

She leaned in, kissing you softly, like she was afraid you’d break. Her lips trembled against yours.

“I love you,” you murmured.

“I love you more,” she said, voice thick. “You have no idea how close I came to losing you.”

“But you didn’t,” you whispered. “You came for me.”

“Always.”

Sionis’ lip curls, he pulls the trigger. 

Click.

Jason tries to smile around the gag at Sionis. He wonders distantly if he even can die. If the universe would even let him go back to sleep. 

“You’re fuckin’ nuts, kid.” 

Roman withdraws, half-smiling, and stalks around Jason slowly. The room behind him is dark, dirty, a garage.  A couple fluorescents dimly flicker above them, making the tools on workbenches, covered in rust, or blood, gleam. 

Roman’s dress shoes halt behind him, as if he’s done thinking. 

Fingers wind into his hair slowly, deliberately. Sionis likes to gloat, especially over the Red Hood, especially since Jason’s pretty sure the last time they met he made Roman piss himself. Or was it the time before? The memory makes him chuckle, or what passes for a chuckle around the gag. 

Roman yanks his head back sharply, bending his neck at an uncomfortable angle, and before Jason can get his bearings the pistol is jammed under his chin. 

“Somethin’ funny, asshole?” 

Jason can’t control the way he grunts in surprise, or the ragged inhales through his nose caused by the awkward angle of his neck. Roman talks close to his ear, 

“Remember, kid, I don’t need anything from you.” He yanks Jason’s head back harder, presses the gun further into the soft flesh beneath his chin, “You’re here because I wanna see you squirm before I drop you in the fuckin’ river.” 

Jason swallows hard, trying to will his composure back. He’s not someone who squirms. 

“You feelin’ brave?” Roman pulls the hammer back on the pistol, “Feelin’ lucky?” 

Jason holds his breath. 

Click.

“Ha!” Roman releases his hair, patting him firmly on the shoulder, “Look at that—look at that.” 

He takes slow steps back into Jason’s view,  and sits heavily on the stool facing Jason. Roman takes a long swig from a beer bottle, draining it, and then lets it clatter to the floor. 

“Let’s try again, huh?” 

Roman lunges forward, shoving the gun into Jason’s ribs. 

“This is your last dance, Hood.” 

Click. The gun moves to his kneecap. Ice slides down Jason’s spine—how many duds have they gone through? Three? He’d almost rather take a bullet to the head than his––

Click. 

Sionis sucks on his teeth, “I’m almost sad to see you go, honest.” The gun comes down on the back of his hand, the one they broke earlier, pinning it to the arm of the chair with the barrel. Jason can’t stifle his pained yelp behind the gag, 

“Almost.” 

Not his hand, not his fucking—

Click. He lets out a breath, twinging his broken ribs. Four? That was four, he thinks? How the fuck did he lose count? Did Roman say six or eigh—?

CRACK. Jason sees stars, his head thrown into his shoulder when gunmetal hits his cheekbone. Rough fingers latch onto his chin, forcing him to look right at Roman as he holds the gun against Jason’s shoulder. 

“Fifty–fifty shot.” Jason hears the hammer pull back, “It’s this, or the next one goes in your head-–” 

BANG.

Jason screams behind the gag, head lolling forward, body trying to curl inward as Sionis howls with laughter. Blood pours down his chest, his ears ring, his eyes water at the burning, clawing agony of a point blank gunshot. 

While Jason struggles to draw down a breath, Roman reloads the pistol, saying something Jason doesn’t quite catch. Not that he thinks he misses much, when the gun barrel presses into his other shoulder. 

Fuck. He protests behind his gag, he can’t help it, but at the same time he forces his eyes up. Forces malice into his expression as Roman leans in again, digging the still hot gunmetal into his collarbone,

“You gonna sing for me again?” 

Jason swallows around the cotton in his mouth. He won’t. Not if he can help it. Roman grins. 

Click. 

This time, Jason’s breathing stays even, his mind focused on his bleeding shoulder. He thinks the gun clicks again, but things start to go fuzzy around the edges.

 Shutting down would really piss Sionis off, but it would be a resignation. Giving up on not dying this way. 

But Jason can’t always help it. Sionis’ words start to melt together, his mind no longer tracking how many times the gun clicks against his wrist, his temple, his sternum. 

Fuck, Jason, focus. 

Maybe it’s the blood loss, his shoulder steadily draining his awareness away. He slips, and slips, and–

Reality snaps back into sharp, agonizing focus. Jason can’t make sense of it though, there’s shouting, and his shoulder hurts, it hurts so fucking bad and…

Someone has their fingers in his shoulder. 

He yells through clenched teeth, jerking against his restraints in a vain attempt to get Roman off of him. 

“--It’s me, Red Hood, breathe.” 

Who?

Jason can’t seem to get his eyes to focus properly, but he finds the fingers driven into his shoulder. Blue and back fingers smeared with red. 

Dick?

“Don’t look at it.” A hand—a much gentler hand than Roman’s—turns his jaw away from the sight, “Backup is coming.”

Jason finds Dick’s face. Nightwing’s mask. He looks serious, and Jason finds he has to focus hard to follow what he’s saying, 

“--Hey, Can you hear me? You’re losing a lot of blood, I need you to stay awake.” 

Jason hears himself agree. When did he lose the gag? Dick’s free hand snaps in front of his eyes, 

“Focus.” It sounds like Bruce. Before Jason knows it his head is lolling forward again, 

“Red Hood.”

  Jason blinks hard, trying to clear the black dots spotting his vision. 

How did Dick find him? What happened to Black Mask? 

He thinks he hears other voices, and Dick shouting. He tries to stay awake, he really and truly does. 

“Red Hood.” 

A car engine, the smell of blood and leather, 

“Jason!”

Someone digs into his shoulder. He tries to stay awake…he tries…it’s fucking cold. 

He didn’t bother trying to turn back over and go back to sleep; even if the other creatures around him miraculously settled down enough to allow it, the harsh noise of the lighting system was at just the right irritating pitch to keep him awake whether he liked it or not.

It probably wasn’t intentional— from what he’d heard and observed thus far, this facility wasn’t anything close to the first one he’d been kept in. There weren’t any training sessions or punishments for bad behavior, nor was he constantly eyed by speculative buyers.

During the first few weeks he’d been here, he’d frequently observed his neighbors through the thin window that ran along the front of the cell, and most of them didn’t show any signs of discomfort or even irritation at the noise, meaning that it likely wasn’t intended as a deterrent.

He felt fairly confident in his assessment. Early on, he’d gleaned that this was the intergalactic version of an animal shelter, and one that seemed to value proper care for its unwilling residents. He didn’t expect that the aliens running it were intentionally trying to agitate the fauna they were trying to adopt out or rehabilitate.

His daily headache arrived regardless, but it soothed what little remained of his temper to know that this particular suffering wasn’t inflicted purposefully, just to be cruel. Ignorance was hardly an excuse, but he’d found it was far preferable to intentional cruelty.

The thought made him snort as he slowly, painstakingly pushed himself up to a sitting position. The Logan of five years ago would never have been placated by knowing his captors were simply ignorant. If anything, it would have only made him more furious; how could anyone pretend to be fulfilling an animal’s needs without doing sufficient research to understand the animal?

Then again, the person he’d been five years ago wouldn’t have accepted the idea of being trapped in an alien animal shelter, seen as little more than a mindless beast. He would find his present self unrecognizable, unable to reconcile with the very idea of sitting sedately in the alien equivalent of a kennel, silently waiting for the start of a day that was virtually indistinguishable from yesterday or tomorrow.

Sometimes, Logan missed being that person. He’d been overwhelmingly naive back then, but even when things had been at their most painful, there had been a sort of thrilling vindication in seeing his handlers grow furious, a heady satisfaction in his own stubborn refusal to give in.

It had been pointless, of course, just as his nostalgia for that vivacious attitude was pointless. His pride had only earned him more pain.

He began his usual morning routine of simple stretches, keeping one ear on the ruckus around him. There likely hadn’t been any notable new arrivals overnight, but trying to guess which creatures were nearby by sound alone was one of the few sources of entertainment left to him.

Most of the closest noises were dog-like, growls or barks or heavy rumbling. Further away, the cacophony took a much higher pitch, full of the whining, squeaking, and whistling of smaller, less aggressive beasts. As always, Logan was glad for the distance. There may have been more daily variety— the more harmless creatures got adopted out much more frequently— but it wouldn’t have been worth upgrading his daily headache to a daily migraine.

He paused mid-stretch, finally picking out the source of his unease. There was a sound missing, no sign of the familiar rattle of the food and water dish being pulled through the bars and refilled. It was almost always the first thing the employees here did after the lights came on, and while inherently degrading, he had found the routine reassuring.

If they weren’t yet offering the morning meal, there were two prevalent possibilities as to why. Logan didn’t think any of the animals had injured itself or passed away overnight, since there was no urgent calling or somber conversation. That meant an alien had come in to adopt as soon as the facility had opened, a rare but not outstanding occurrence.

If he strained to hear past the growing noise levels, he could make out the mechanical chatter of a translator, confirming his suspicions.

To his surprise, the voices seemed to be coming closer. He shifted out of his stretch, drawing his knees up under him and adjusting the makeshift toga he’d created for himself from one of the provided linens. After being actively dehumanized for years, Logan had long since lost any sense of humiliation or modesty, but he still found some small comfort in clothing, and most aliens didn’t think much of it. There were apparently plenty of animals out there that created simple coverings or incorporated materials around them into fur or feathers.

(At one point, Logan had mistakenly believed that one of his neighbors had been another sapient creature after watching it meticulously tie shredded fabric into little strips and tuck it between feathers in a decorative display. He’d wasted a week attempting to communicate in various ways before realizing the futility, and had accidentally unnerved the poor creature enough to get his cell moved to a different part of the holding room.)

It was unusual that he saw a client approach this section of the shelter so quickly. He was well aware that this was the area designated for undesirables, higher-risk fauna that was more aggressive or feral, similar to how humans would take care to isolate dogs that had been rescued from fighting rings or cats that hadn’t ever been socialized. They didn’t often get visitors, and adoptions were even less frequent.

On his end, Logan hadn’t lashed out too severely at the staff or scared potential clients away like most of the others, but he’d still been relegated to this section. He knew why, of course. Suffice to say, his previous “adoption” had ended poorly.

His mood soured at the memories, and by the time footsteps reached his aisle, he’d shuffled to one corner of the cell and seated himself solidly on the floor, leaning his shoulder against the wall. It would be easier to focus on translating what he could of the conversation if he didn’t have to worry about a sudden headrush or the fatigue that occasionally swept over him after standing for too long.

“—great to hear!” The voice of a staff member trailed into proper hearing range, chirping a phrase used so frequently that Logan had no trouble parsing it out in accented Common.

They launched into a well-worn recitation of what Logan was assuming was standard information about the facility and its available fauna. He still didn’t know enough Common to keep up with the more complicated terms, and could only guess at the general meaning.

Frankly, his attention was diverted by the number of overlapping steps he could make out as they approached. Entire family units came in to look around occasionally, sure, but not to this section. Some of the creatures here were vicious enough to give children nightmares.

There was the clicking sound of a button, and Logan watched dully as the front wall of his cell slowly shifted from opaque to transparent, gradually revealing the muted colors of the narrow hallway outside the cell. Most of the staff used the small viewing windows to check in on them during meals, but when a prospective client came to look, they made sure everything was fully visible.

Two figures came into view as the wall turned almost entirely see-through, with only a faint grey tinge to the material. One was a staff member he’d seen often enough before: a small, feathery alien with big eyes, fluffy antennae, and a poncho that draped over most of its dust-colored form. The other was no species that he’d ever seen before.

It was built vaguely like a centaur, with four stubby legs, two upper limbs, and a long, prehensile tail. Nearly every inch of it was encased in a shining, thick layer of what Logan could only describe as goo. It was as though the alien was covered in an outer shell of vibrant radioactive green gelatin, with only indistinct shadowy shapes visible to indicate that there was any sort of underlying structure at all.

It had no mouth or nose, only two flat black eyes that didn’t blink, and a discolored gray spot below them that was uncannily reminiscent of a handlebar mustache. There were two large, shell-like protrusions on either side of its head, extending past the gelatin layer. From the crown of its head to the base of its spine, there was a stretch of brown plantlike tendrils that writhed subtly in place, looking like a horse’s mane if a horse’s mane was also made of rotting seaweed.

Logan’s interest sharpened despite himself. Most of the shine of being in space had worn off somewhere in the first two years of methodical torture, but occasionally he still felt a glint of that familiar curiosity.

The unknown alien watched him right back, taking in every detail of the small room. A thin pad with blankets piled on it in one corner, and Logan sitting slumped in the other. A few simple toys scattered on the floor, largely untouched.

It asked a question, and Logan noted the way it seemed to hum in different tones before the translator echoed its words. Vibrations produced by an internal organ? Unlike humans, it had no mouth to shape the noise with, so the language must have been composed of variations in the tonal humming itself.

The employee chirped back an affirmative, keeping their gaze averted from meeting Logan’s dull stare directly in the automatic way that he’d noticed in most aliens. The staff especially were careful about eye contact, presumably they received some sort of training to reduce agitation in the fauna they were looking after.

It was somehow refreshing, the way the new alien unabashedly locked eyes with him. He hadn’t realized how much one could miss simple things like eye contact until he was suddenly entirely deprived of it.

It couldn’t last, of course. Logan hadn’t followed most of the conversation thus far, mostly out of general disinterest, but he knew more than enough to recognize the phrase that always came up when he was spoken about.

“There are recorded violent incidents with multiple previous fosters,” the employee recited, the cadence of the phrase so familiar that Logan could have imitated it perfectly, if he was feeling masochistic.

Instead, he kept his mouth firmly closed and idly waited for the duo to move on to the next cage.

The new alien shifted slightly, the reflections of the overhead lights warping along its glossy body.

“What are its—,” it asked, the translator adding a questioning tone indicator. Logan didn’t recognize the last word, but the employee’s response cleared things up within a few sentences.

“Not good,” they answered, antennae angling back in a display of upset. “It’s already been here for a while. If we can’t find the source planet and nobody takes it in, we’ll have to put it down.”

Those weren’t the words exactly, of course. The employee was using a strange euphemism, but unlike most of the creatures here, Logan had more than enough memory retention and cognitive processing to notice just what inevitably happened to the creatures that were referred to as such.

He waited for the spike of panic, the natural response of his body to the threat of death, but it didn’t come. His heart rate may have jumped by a beat or three, but he mostly felt a strange sense of distance from it all.

What difference did it make? Could what he was doing now really be called ‘living’ by any stretch of the imagination?

Logan met the alien’s eyes plainly, still oddly numb to it all.

The alien hummed a long, toneless note, one that didn’t translate into any specific words, and then stepped forward and tapped on the clear material with one of its thick fingers. As though everything up to this point hadn’t been dehumanizing enough.

If things were different, maybe Logan would have tried to snap out a demand or insult to cover for his wounded pride. As it was, he only turned his head further into the wall and closed his eyes.

This didn’t remotely deter the alien. The resulting thunking noises continued to be loud and repetitive, and Logan gained a sudden and unhappy empathy for every fish he’d ever witnessed being pestered by a child in a pet store. Even the employee looked uncomfortable, feathers fluffing out slightly, though surprisingly enough they didn’t try to stop the stranger’s irritating behavior.

Finally, Logan turned back to it with a glare, letting his lips curl back to bare his teeth in an odd configuration, half-sneer and half-snarl. There, he’d confirmed it. He was scary and aggressive, nothing more than a beast waiting to be executed. Now, move along already.

The tail behind the stranger began to wag slightly, a rapid back-and-forth movement that was so reminiscent of a happy dog, it genuinely startled Logan for a moment. Not many species would react to a threat display with playful excitement. Surely, the matching body language was just a coincidence?

Without hesitation, the stranger turned and asked something that Logan heard almost daily, though never before about his own person.