#crossposting

It’s half past midnight when you sail past the usual string of billboards and neon signs to SDN for your early morning shift.

The air whizzing by you as you swerve through the usual sights is noticeably chillier than normal. You’re warm enough, with your light blue and orange windbreaker snugly fitted over your black uniform. …But you still miss the balmy heat of summer. Around this time last year was when you found Toad, your second cat (still then a stray), perched up on the ledge of a commercial posterboard. To this day you have no idea how he got up there, dusty black fur ruffled up with fear.

It’s this absentminded trail of thoughts that tugs your line of sight towards the giant signs whooshing along your periphery. The breeze carrying you slows, then falters when you do actually spot something along a sign. Someone. It’s a person waving at you from the bottom of a well-lit billboard: one with that top hero with the tongue twister name.

“Hi, yeah, sorry to stop you all of a sudden, but would you mind getting me off this thing?” The man calls out as you float closer. He has a nice voice. Tired, and a little rough-sounding, but not in an unpleasant way. Reminds you of… Something. You can’t place it.

“Sure.” Your boots lightly clunk against the metal grates as you land.

“Thanks. I owe you one.” He sighs, dragging a hand down his face, which you recognize with a start. “Was ten seconds away from saying ‘fuck it’ and just taking a leap of faith. Literally.”

You tear your eyes away from his cinnamon-brown hair and freckles to glance over at where he motions. The nearest ledge would take a long jump. You’re not exactly sure he would’ve made it to the other side, and your face inadvertently winces at the idea. The man shrugs at your look.

Yep. That’s him, alright.

Hot dog guy.

Correction: Hot, Dog Guy.

That’s the man you’ve spotted occasionally at the grocery store near your apartment. You don’t come across him every time, but when you do, it’s always in the pet food aisle. You’ve seen him grabbing dog food while you browse for cat kibble. Your eyes linger on him. You can’t help it—he’s just your type. If you even know what your type is, now.

You don’t really know the guy. You guess all you can really say is that the first time you saw him, you noticed he was cute. Then the other times you shopped for things, you spent a little longer in the pet section than strictly necessary. And then there was that one time you accidentally backed into him because you were distracted and didn’t notice him standing behind you… After which you practically swooned at hearing his voice and replayed his startled greeting in your head (more than a few times). ‘Woah, hey. You good?’ …Mortifying.

Now, you hesitate for just a second before walking closer to him. You haven’t seen him around in a long time—months, maybe. What’s he doing all the way out here? You try to think of a way to ask without sounding like a stalker.

“So… Do you get stuck in high places often, or…?” Is what makes its way out of your mouth as you offer a hand for him to grab. He takes it, and you’re distantly surprised at the rough callouses you feel when he does.

He exhales a short, amused huff. “No, I uh. Got recruited for a job, actually. But I got left here by accident.”

Out of the answers to give, you weren’t expecting that one. But, well, in this neighborhood? Stranger things have happened.

“Maybe it’s your first test,” you suggest, only half-joking. “Find your way down without dying, and you’ve got the job for sure.”

He shakes his head, a corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. “Extra lucky I found you, then. Not convinced I woulda landed well.”

It is extra lucky you found him, you think, as you gradually float the two of you down to the ground. Then the delight you feel at the surprise encounter is tampered by what you happen to catch a glimpse of underneath his tan jacket.

Holy crap. Even if you hadn’t been keeping up with the news, there’s no way you wouldn’t recognize that logo. The iconic M. You feel his hand tense in yours and know that he’s noticed you noticing. Your feet touch the ground at the same time he jerks his hand out of yours.

“Shit.” He mutters, zipping up the jacket in one quick motion.

“I’m with SDN!” You rush to assure him, slapping both hands over your eyes. “I’m not gonna use your identity against you, I promise.”

“I mean that I know how important keeping identities a secret is. I won’t tell.” You add when you don’t hear a response. You peek through your fingers. Did he leave?

He’s still there. His hands have paused halfway to his face, midway through pulling on his mask. What makes you nervous is the look he’s giving you. Your hands fall from your eyes and hover somewhere in front of your chest, fidgeting together under his scrutiny.

Hot dog guy—or, as you now have discovered, fucking Mecha Man—stares at you. His gaze bounces between your eyes first as if assessing your honesty, then it scans the rest of your face, lingering along your forehead. The sudden self-consciousness makes you remember that you forgot to tie your hair back like usual before leaving your apartment. It’s probably a mess right now, the way your hair can get when the air floats random strands any which way around your face. It’s an off day for you, for sure. You don’t even have your mask pulled over your nose and mouth—you figured it was overkill so early in the morning before work. It makes you feel somewhat vulnerable.

“…I know,” Mecha hot dog man eventually says, yanking his mask over his head.

You’re honestly still stuck on the fact that you’ve been semi-crushing on a famous generational hero for the past year or so, but you somehow manage to convey your confusion. “You… do?”

What were you talking about again?

“Well, I meant to say that I know you’re in SDN. But, ah…” He scratches his jaw. The stubble looks good on him. Is he okay? After everything that happened… No wonder you haven’t seen him in a while. He was—

“As it turns out, I do know who you are.”

You blanch.

He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, watching for your reaction. “...Breeze, right?”

“You had the whole.. A/C thing going, right? And the movies, and….?” He trails off. Must see the look on your face.

You’re not sure what’s worse. That he knows you exist, that he knows you as who you used to be, or that he doesn’t remember ever seeing you around.

“...That’s why you understand. About keeping identities a secret.”

You feel your head tilt forward in a very slow nod.

“I… Y-yes. That… Was me.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and will yourself to smile casually at him. “I actually go by Dart now. More of an undercover gig, at SDN…”

“Uh huh.”

There’s an awkward pause.

“I guess this makes us even.” He says this lightly, and you get the sense that it’s his attempt to smooth things over. “We both know of each other.”

“How’d you know I’m in SDN?” You latch onto the topic change, more than ready for a mood shift.

“I mean, you are sporting the merch,” he nods down at your clothes, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“S-D-N,” he reads along the windbreaker, beginning to walk off in the direction of brighter street lights. “Big bold orange letters. Can’t really miss it.”

Your metaphorical feathers ruffle at his quirked eyebrow, and you fall into step beside him. “If you’re wondering why I’m decked out in all black skin-tight stuff, just to throw a bright jacket on top, it’s ‘cause they figured without it, I’d look like a villain.”

You’re rambling now. “I didn’t even think I gave off villain vibes. Oh, and by they, I mean people up top. Managers, and… yeah.”

Mecha’s eyes drop briefly down your body then back up to your face. “Wasn’t.. gonna comment on the skin-tight thing, actually, but—”

“It’s all company issued,” you interrupt, your face feeling hot. “I don’t really have a say in it. Didn’t even get a hero suit until I started moving up the ranks for EB calls.”

“EB?” That gets his attention, and he glances briefly at you as you walk.

“Early bird calls. That’s why I’m heading out so early. I work part-time EB shifts,” you explain, sighing. “...Just a corporate slave.”

He gives you an amused look sideways. “Right.”

“Uh. Did I say slave? I meant… Doll,” you awkwardly settle on. Employee. Employee was the word you were looking for. “A hardworking, loyal doll.” As soon as the words come out you grimace at how morbid they sound.

At least you get to hear his laugh as he responds. “Is that much better?”

“Shut it.” You squint. He grins, and seeing that makes you smile. “At least dolls imply pretty. Or something.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

You blink when his eyes meet yours, before you decide his reply wasn’t meant even remotely as a compliment. Just a casual, neutral response.

After another moment of quiet walking, he clears his throat. “So, you gonna escort me all the way home, or…?”

“I was planning on leaving once you got to a place with more people,” you grumble. “But if you’re so against it—”

“Never said I was against that,” he snorts. “But you do already know what I look like under this.”

You whip your head to face him before you understand he means his mask. He raises an eyebrow at you, and you flush.

“Under the mask.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” you press a hand to your forehead in exasperated embarrassment.

He snickers. “Just saying. Finding out where I live seems overkill.”

“You use that word a bit generously.”

“What, overkill?” You nod. He shrugs.

“Pretty sure that goes against your job contract anyway,” he tosses out.

“Overkill…?” You get the joke right after you ask. Hero. Kill. “Oh. That was…”

You shake your head even as a tiny huff of laughter escapes you. “That was a really bad joke. Do better.”

“It’s more convincing if you don’t laugh before you say that?”

“Hot, famous, and a smartass. Just my luck.” The words are out before you can shut your stupid, impulsive mouth. You stiffly continue walking alongside him, refusing to look at him despite the glance you spot him give you in your periphery.

Mortifying.

His strides slow to a stop once you both hit the main street. It’s empty, save for the slow cruise of a car driving by. The rhythmic beats of pop music fades as it turns the corner. He gives you a slanted smile. You see the pink and blue neon sign-lights reflect off his tawny brown eyes like comets, and then…

Something inside you withers with unease. What are you doing? You should’ve left ten minutes ago, right after you helped him down. Stuff like this doesn’t end well. You should know better. You should know better.

Before he can say anything, you nod silently at him, sobering up from the residual warmth of having a nice talk. Bit by bit, your boots lift off the ground.

Mecha Man nods back, understanding passing over his face. You spot something like disappointment, too, but that’s definitely you projecting. “Thanks again for the lift. Or lower. Whatever you wanna call it.”

You smile a genuine smile at his words. “...Yeah. Thanks for the nice detour. I would give you a lift-lower back home, but my shift starts soon, and I think that’s technically overkill, so.” Your attempt to joke lands a little flat.

“See you around.”

He slowly bobs his head in another nod, scuffing the sole of one shoe against the sidewalk as he watches you rise. You float higher up, but not by much, your instincts going against your rationale to leave.

“...For the record, I strongly doubt you could ever look—uh, act like a villain. Dark suit or not.” He calls out.

“Yeah?” You pause, the comment tugging the corners of your mouth up.

“Yeah,” he smiles back up at you. “Helping strangers isn’t exactly the hallmark of an evil pro.”

Strangers. Right. No, it’s better to keep it that way. Safer. Your smile fades a little. You’re about one foot in the air now, and you continue to float slowly up and away from him.

“Y’know, if you’re at the Torrance branch…” He begins suddenly again. “Might see ya there. I start tomorrow—today, actually, if it’s as late as I think it is.”

You falter.

“No kidding?”

“Nope.”

Despite every worry in you, the news makes you beam. Is it because this is the most fun you’ve had talking to someone in an embarrassingly long time? Is it because you get to see him on a semi-regular basis now, or that your tiny crush is growing by the minute? You’re too pleasantly surprised to care.

You see him blink at you, then give you a small smile, and your chest warms.

“So, um, then. If you’re really grateful about earlier… Can I get your name?” You float back into closer range, hesitantly. His eyebrows twitch upwards.

“I’ve gotta know what to call you when I see you at work, right?”

He nods, looking a little lost in thought.

“So… what is it?”

“Uh, right. It’s Robert.” He pauses. “Robert Robertson.”

“! You’re kidding—”

“Very not kidding.”

“...”

You do your best to stifle the laugh that bursts out, and his eyes crinkle at you in grudging amusement at the attempt. You take a mental snapshot of the look.

Robert, Robert Robertson. Sounds like a droid name.

“You?” He prompts, and you decide to share your own name with him. Not Dart, like everyone calls you now, but the old one. The one you’ve tucked safely away for the real you, to feel like a real person again.

Robert tells you it’s a good name. “Not as roll-off-the-tongue as Robert Robertson,” he jokes, “But—”

“We can’t all be winners,” you finish, rolling your eyes, and he grins.

“It was nice meeting you,” he says, sincerely.

You smile, sincerely, back at him. “See you at work, Rob.”

You fly some distance away before looking back over your shoulder one last time, and spot his figure steadily receding into the distance, disappearing behind a building.

Day 10, Saturday

“Oh no.” You sigh as you place your head into your hands and bite your tongue. You knew the day would come; you simply weren’t expecting it to be so soon. Your period has finally arrived in all of its unwanted glory. It has soaked the grey underwear you had been wearing thoroughly. A thin stream pours of blood down your leg.

You bite your tongue in contemplation as your eyes flicker to the door and back to your underwear. You shuffle over to the toilet and sit down as you wipe away the blood, leaving behind thin streaky lines of your newfound problem. Your teeth grind as you place the toilet paper into the bowl and watch it as it dissolves in the perfectly pristine water.

You’re at a fork in the road. You can call Dick to please retrieve you a fresh pair of underwear and some of the products he had accumulated for you. Alternatively, you could stuff your knickers full of toilet paper and pray you can dispose of these blood soaked panties before he can catch onto your predicament. You chew on your lip and roll it between your teeth as you contemplate.

If you call him in he’d become further tangled in the workings of your web. Would he still trust you as you lurch above him maw agape to eat his head and leave his corpse behind in his spun coccoon? On the other hand, you simply don’t want to give this man the information that you’re on your period. You’re honestly quite surprised he doesn’t have your cycle down to a science at this point. You let out an exhale through your nose at the thought of him having logs and tables of when you are menstruating.

He might even have a stool chart in all honesty.

You hang your head low as you make your decision. He’s going to find out eventually. There’s no possible way you could be pregnant so that rules out that excuse. You fling the underwear off your feet, and it sits limply in front of you, “Dick.” You call out as a “yeah, what’s up?’ Echoes from the other room. The casualness of it all makes your skin creep and crawl around.

“Can you please come here?” You beckon and like a loyal soldier marching for his queen Dick pokes his head in not even fifteen seconds later. “What’s up?” He asks. You gesture down and point to your discarded panties. “I got my period… Can you please… help… me?” You ask through thinly veiled gritted teeth. “Yeah, of course. Are you having any pains yet? Do you want bedtime pads or day ones? Do you want me to go to the store to get you anything else?” ‘Are you having any pains yet?’ This bastard definitely has access to your medical records.

When you were 19, before you had left home you had gone to the hospital to get your uterus screened. You and your mother had suspected endometriosis ran in the family, your great grandmother, grandmother, mother and now you all suffered from debilitating pains when on the rag. It had caused you to vomit, black out and become an incapacitated heap on the floor many a time as it did your fore-sisters. The sonographer had found nothing, as what was to be expected and you continued to suffer in agonising pain for at least one day a month.

The only way Dick could have known about this was if he had been going through your medical records. You’d think it’d be a lot harder for Dick to access medical records. You’d be proven wrong in the same breath. “Night pads please, I just want to rest.” You also tried to ignore how he said ‘bedtime pads’ made you feel patronised beyond belief. “Can you please go to the shops and get me something sweet?” You simply wanted to be rid of him at this moment and thought that this would be a sure-fire quest to assign him to leave you to your own devices.

Dick nods and leaves before quickly coming back. Fresh underwear in one hand, the package of pads in the other and a bag of baby-wipes. He quietly deposits them as he swipes the grey ones up and off the floor before you can say anything. “I’m going to go clean these, okay?” You don’t say anything as he swipes them off the ground and scurries out. You tentatively clean the blood streaks with one of the baby-wipes. You discard them on the floor as you pull your new underwear up and over your ankles.

You tear open the pad bag and fish one out. You peel open the pink and black packaging until it reveals the long stripe of paper protective film. You notice in blue ink up and down the paper there’s fun facts inscribed upon it.

Fun Fact! A cloud weighs about a million pounds! Fun Fact! Italy has the most World Heritage Sites! Fun Fact! Pangolins can’t survive in captivity!

The last one makes you grimace. How morbid. Regardless, you unwrap it and place it into your underwear. You tuck the wings tightly into the sides of your underwear and pull them up until you’re sitting awkwardly on top of the toilet hunched over. With a grunt you pick up the discarded wrapping from the pad and baby-wipes and discard them in the sanitary bin next to the toilet.

You stand up and wash your hands. You pick up your pyjama pants, them too soaked through with your blood. Begrudgingly, you put them back on. You don’t want to even try and pretend you’re okay with the concept of prancing about in nothing more than your undergarments. You leave the bathroom quietly, not bothering to close the door after you.

You glance toward the door, your thoughts running for a moment before Dick’s voice echoes down the corridor. “I have breakfast if you’re hungry.” It’s like the damned man can read your mind. Regardless, you follow his call and sit down at the dining room table. He places a tall plate of golden pancakes with blackberries and maple syrup spooned on top. You eat them tepidly as he squirrels on about one thing or the other. Halfway through the meal you get the first twinge of agony.

“Dick, I can feel the cramps coming. Can I please have something to help?” He nods and walks off to the cabinet and pulls out a metal sheet of ibuprofen and paracetamol. You bite the tip of your tongue and contemplate for a moment, “Dick, can I have something stronger, please?” You ask as he shakes the first two pills into his hand. He looks up, whether bewildered or baffled at your request is lost on you.

“Well, I… yeah. Yeah. Of course you can. What do you think would help?” You don’t hesitate for a moment, “the oxycodone, Dick. Please. That will help.” He doesn’t waste a second as he places the paracetamol on the grey slate countertop. He rummages through the cabinet and pulls down a white pill box and shakes out a tray of individually wrapped tablets. He hurriedly walks over to you and fills up your glass with his carafe.

“Bottoms up.” He places them next to your plate, giving you an all too giddy double thumbs up. You give him an awkward lip smile in return. You down the tablets with a large swig of water and continue eating. Five minutes later you’re comfortably sitting at the table, beginning to feel tired despite it only being about 10:30 in the morning.

“You feeling sleepy?” Dick asks as he picks up your plate to wash it. “Mmm, a bit.” You slur in response, eyelids growing heavy. “You can go back to bed. I’ll go to the store and pick up what you asked for, okay?” You give him a tired grunt in response and stumble back to your room. You somehow manage to muster up enough energy to pull back the blankets and nestle between the soft cotton.

You drift off to a deep sleep in a matter of seconds. You dream about your old bathroom in your home. The gross brown and mustard vinyl that was from the 70s that lined your bathroom. You can still remember the pattern, and it brings a great, satisfying wave of comfort to you. The musty yellow bathtub with the white and floral curtains. The one you’ll probably never get to shower in again. The basin where you brushed your teeth for years. The shelves where your towels used to live. The cabinet where you kept your toiletries and hairbrush. The toothbrush jar where there was never a tube of tooth-paste by some miraculous force.

You wake up with a damp face. You had been crying in your sleep evidently you deduce as you feel the wetness from the tears upon your fingertips. You groggily rise from your slumber. Your room is enshrouded in darkness as it stretches from one wall to the other, your mouth fuzzy and cottony feeling. You scrub at your eyes with the backs of your hands and yawn, your breath making you scrunch up your nose in disgust. You roll your tongue out of your mouth and pull it back, scraping the residual film of sleep off of your tongue. You stretch and pop your back before shakily standing up. The oxycodone still makes your knees feel weak and your world still spins. You skulk to the door and open it without a creak, padding over to the kitchen sink. You walk with large tip-toed steps as though you were a petty thief in a sitcom about to steal a family heirloom of pearls or diamonds.

You scratch your neck up and down and turn on the tap. Cool water comes gushing out from the tap as you peer your head beneath it, dry and cracked lips aching for water. You feign for a glass as you’re not entirely sure where they are as Dick normally sets them out for you. Even if you did ask, you're fairly certain he would simply laugh and tell you to sit down while he pours you one.

You drink several large gulps, making sure to swill one around your mouth and spit it back out. You lick your tongue over your teeth and grimace at the fuzziness. Knowing your toothbrush resides in Dick’s room you relinquish a silent groan and contemplate again. Can you be bothered dealing with Dick’s droll nature at this moment? He’s more than likely asleep, it’s dark out and fairly quiet.

Occasionally you can hear the late-night murmurs of the city outside of your window but tonight is not one of them. You strain your ears to try and hear even the faintest of movement, yet nary a dormouse even bothered to sneeze. With a heaved sigh you decide to brave the ivory tower of Dick’s bedroom to retrieve your toothbrush so you may sleep with more soundness tonight.

You continue to slink around the apartment, making sure to avoid any and all floorboards that may or may not whine beneath your weight. As you get to within three steps of Dick’s bedroom you begin to hear a faint noise. It’s quiet, muffled and hurried in nature. You’re no fool, you know what he’s doing. For better or for worse you have heard these noises before.

Your face twists and writhes into a scowl so deep you fear it will leave permanent fixtures upon the features of your face. You step closer still and hear a salacious pant echo out into the silent hallway, you’re surprised given how quiet the apartment was you couldn’t hear the racy act. You hear a grunt, groan and a long whine. You almost have to stifle back a laugh; he truly does have no shame does he?

His door softly bounces on its frame, swaying ever so slightly between being ajar and being almost closed. You press your back up against the wall and wedge a fingertip between the door and the frame allowing you to peek inside.

The room is illuminated with a soft deep amber colour, it makes the shadows long and illuminates his back gently. He’s sitting with his back to the door which makes your tongue click in annoyance silently. You’re going to have to wait out Dick’s little venture until he wears himself out and you can dash in and dash back out again.

He grunts again, this time louder and more strained, both of his arms are lifted. One works himself at the front as the other covers his face. You can only assume to attempt and muffle his sexual wheezing and warbling. He hunches forward and you cast your eye down as he releases. He deeply gasps, his back muscles rippling and rolling as he stretches back and stretches forward again.

You watch him blindly reach for some tissues strewn out to his left. He mumbles something and discards something else to the ground as he begins to wipe himself off. He stands up and turns around and that’s when you see his face. His nose, lips, cupid bow and cheeks are smothered in blood. For but a moment your heart nearly falters- what happened to him? Did he over exert himself and cause a bloody nose?

You almost felt a twinge of sympathy for him, you almost wanted to go in and ask if he was okay.

He bends over to the ground to pick something up and then holds something up to the light as though he were a warlord presenting the decapitated head of his greatest enemy. Your soiled underwear from earlier in the day.

Your blood runs ghoulishly cold, your face blanching as all the colour drains from you. You remove your finger from the doorway and place both your hands to your face, interlocking your fingers together in a tight knot over your mouth. Whether to try and hold back a shriek of fear or a mouthful of bile is up for debate.

You gently lower yourself to the ground as you feel your skin begin to perspire, your scalp prickling uncomfortably. Your legs grow even more wobbly, they quiver and quake underneath your weight as everything else begins to feel heavy. You try to collect your thoughts but all you can feel is static. You can faintly hear Dick in the background moving throughout the ensuite. Brushing his teeth, washing himself. Washing his face-

The image of him post self relief; covered in your period blood… your eyes prickle but not with tears. He looked more akin to an animalistic humanoid creature with a stained maw after shredding a deer's belly open than he did a man- a human. His eyes had been dilated and blown, almost black. His face took on an almost nirvana, as though he had drunk water for the first time in a lifetime of drought. His tongue had begun swiping at his lips… as though he enjoyed… enjoyed the taste of your-

Vomit spurts from between the tight netting of your fingers and shoots straight back down your throat. You begin to sputter and unclench your fingers and hack up the vomit. You’re so fucking sick of vomiting, you think with nothing short of indignant rage. You begin to cough as the vomit you had accidentally swallowed gets caught in your wind pipe. You have about, if you’re lucky 20 seconds to formulate a plan of action for when Dick inevitably hears your coughing fit.

You swipe at the back of your mouth and look at the damage. Your hands rest in the centre of a large puddle of watery bile. Sweat begins to bullet down your temples. Your abdominal muscles clench. You can faintly hear Dick calling for you, it’s quiet over the sound of blood thrumming in your ears. He’s coming. Without a second thought you throw yourself onto your side, cringing as your face comes into contact with warm, smelly fluid.

You try your best to go limp and keep a neutral dazed look to your face. “Hello?” Dick’s voice echoes as your face rumples, “Oh my God!” Dick comes bursting from the room once he spots you lying down in your own mess. You look up at him, keeping your eyes half-closed and purposefully sleepy looking. “What happened, are you okay?” He asks as he kneels down in your puke. You try not to smile in sadistic enjoyment.

You fake a low groan and look up at him with half lidded eyes. “Mmmm, Dick?” You slur; blearily blinking as your mouth hangs open in a small gape. He brushes your hair away from your face frantically, his eyes startlingly blue and almost translucent in the dim lighting. “What happened? Why’d you throw up? God- do… Do we need to call Alfred?” Dick begins to mumble to himself; he’s clearly panicking now.

You languidly shake your head, “no… Dick ‘s okay…” the act is wanting to make you giggle. You’ve never been good at playing pretend, it’s testing your very flesh and blood to keep a straight face and the sickly mask on simultaneously. “I just wanted more medicine…” You drone out. Dick scrapes your hair away from your forehead and begins to nod erratically. ‘Yeah, okay let’s get you in the shower.” He says with too much care as he picks you up from your arm pits so you can stand.

He helps you dawdle into the bedroom, you make sure to semi grind your feet into the soft, plush carpet of his bedroom. You have to once again bite back a smile of sick satisfaction of causing him great inconvenience. He ushers you into the ensuite and rubs at your face with a damp face cloth. You finally take notice of how your right arm is now slick with bile and it’s begun to bleed into your grey night shirt too.

Awesome. You look to Dick again and still see a smudge of red above his lip, still damp and glistening in the low yellow light. You clamp a hand to your stomach and choke down another stinging mouthful of bile. “Dick.” He looks up for a second as he paws at your face with a towel, “yeah?” He responds as he returns to wiping before finishing with a satisfied smile.

“What’s that, on your lip? It’s a red smudge.” Even you’re astounded at your own idiotic boldness at times. Dick looks at you, his eyebrows intertwined for a second before his hand lifts numbly to his lip and he swipes at it, smearing it onto his fingertips. He looks at it for a second. Another moment passes as he looks down at the stain on his fingertips. He swallows so loudly you can hear it, the room so quiet and tension filled a pin could drop and it would rattle the walls. He swallows, thick and hard, his throat bobbing and his eyes enlarging; pupils dilating to the size of dinner plates.

The air goes chilly for a moment, frigidly cold. Goose flesh erupts in small bumps up and down your arms. Dick opens his mouth and sticks in the two fingertips the blood had been swabbed onto. Your mouth drops open in a gape and your stomach rolls once again. It tangles itself and disappears somewhere even deeper inside of you as you begin to feel your chest expand and condense all at the same time. He’s crazy.

You’ve known this since you first arrived- you had known since you first laid eyes upon him, he is crazy. But this solidifies it, there is something genuinely wrong with this man’s molecular makeup. You had grown up in awe at people loving their partners, how there was a photographer who was so deeply entrenched with love for his wife he had her wet footprints threaded into his carpet. The Taj Mahal was constructed by a grief stricken emperor for his fallen wife out of nothing short of agony at the loss of her. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon were a gift from husband to wife.

All these stories of profound love ended in miserable ways, divorce, death, everlasting mystery. But wasn’t it for the better that they did? Without heartbreak to balance it out, love would simply morph and twist into something far more sinister and sickly than something to aspire and crave.

Maybe this deranged behaviour is love. Love in a truly twisted, malignant form but still love? You shake the thought away.

Dick’s fingers slurp out of his mouth with a wet pop. Your face remains ghoulishly ashened. Your blood slows and begins to slush through you, like condensed hail melting into a storm drain.

You’re not stuck with a man who’d embroider your footprints into the carpet, nor a man who would build a grand temple in your honour, nor a man who would craft the most beautiful garden the world will never see. You’re stuck with a man who would eat you, flesh and all if it would sate his hunger. He already has begun eating at you.

“I had a late craving.” Dick says, smiling down at you, teeth and all. Teeth that look too sharp, teeth that look too wolfish. “Accidentally got some on my face, are you feeling hungry or do you want to shower?” Dick asks, tilting his head to the side, as though he were an innocently inquisitive child. “Shower.” You respond, looking down at your socks with far too much hostility. Dick nods and leaves.

You cover your mouth once again and try to calm your breathing. You just found the man who has stolen you off of the street inhaling- more to the point- eating your god forsaken period blood. How disgusting and low can this guy get? What’s he going to do next? Eat your faeces? You try to ignore how plausible the idea sounds at this point. Your chest stutters and you let out a long wheeze, your eyes too dry to weep at this point.

You always knew billionaires like Bruce Wayne were a strange and eccentric breed, it’s just disheartening to know they can corrupt working class born people like Dick too. If he was a normal joe-schmoe-nobody like you would he still have these strange inclinations? Maybe. Who’s to say? You knew of a dime a dozen working class serial killers, the rich ones are just far more eccentric in their endeavours.

A new scar has now been carved into the grey matter upon your brain. A new scar amongst many that men have inflicted.

Dick pokes his head back in a minute later, “some fresh clothes. I’ll go mop up the mess, clean up and I’ll make you something to eat.” You nod, not even feigning to look up at him. He leaves the clothes in a neat pile on the ensuite counter top. You undress making sure to keep an eye on the ensuite door. Your peeping-tom session has now made you all too aware of how easy it is to observe in silence.

You hurry into the shower and twist on the taps, the water cascading down your back in steaming waves. It still fails to warm you up. Your whole body feels stone-cold. As though you were thrown into an icy lake to drown and only just managed to escape by the skin of your teeth. You can still remember the cold winters back home where it would rain for days on end and you could see your breath at all hours of the day. This muscle imbued freeze is something far worse than whatever caused you chilblains as a child.

You don’t bother with washing yourself, you simply let the water run down your body in thin rivulets. You shiver and turn off the water. Dick had turned on the exhaust fans while you were inside the shower, but it still does nothing to help you. You use his obnoxiously thick and fluffy towel to dry off and stiffly brush your teeth. You grimace down at your brush. If only you didn’t want to brush your teeth, you think with a coil of hatred.

After you spit out the last glob of toothpaste you inelegantly change into the jumper and pants he had laid out for you. You run your hands up and down the front of the thick blue jumper and rub the material between your index finger and thumb. It’s too nice. You frown and shake your head, switching off the heat-exhaust and opening the frosted glass door of the ensuite.

“You feeling better now?” Dick asks as he crouches in front of one of your upchuck footprints, a red bucket filled with soapy water next to him as he scrubs at the spot. Worst of all he dons a gag apron with a large imposing photo of The Batman on it and bright yellow gloves. You vaguely point at the apron and Dick lets out an ‘ahh’ noise before standing up. “It’s from my brother, Tim. Got it for me last year for my birthday. We’re uh… big fans.” He gives you two thumbs up as you stare at him dumb founded.

How is he so good at pretending to be normal?

“I feel fine.” Is your curt response, any niceties you might have had in you have shriveled up and most certainly died tonight. He dips the sponge half of his handheld sponge and splatters more frothy soap onto the floor. “You didn’t sound it. Is your period feeling better now?” Normally the nonchalance of a man discussing a period would have been a green flag, what woman wouldn’t want a forward thinking man? But looking at him as he hurriedly scrubs away at the black fibres you can’t say you believe this anymore in full honesty.

“Yeah.” You shrug walking to move past him before he holds up his gloved hand to stop you from walking forwards. “Why’d you throw up then? You haven’t been sick since you first came over.” ‘Came over.’ Like you had a choice in the matter. “I had a really bad cramp. Before I could stop it, it came gushing out.” You don’t look at him, choosing to stare at the salt lamp on his most used side of the bed. He looks at you, eyebrows pinching and his lips pursed. He knows you’re lying. Anyone with two eyes and the ability to think could see through you.

“You didn’t make… yourself throw up, did you?” He asks, his face concerned and pointed towards you, like a needle pointing North. “No, I didn't Dick.” You reply, and he puts his arm down. “Go sit in the living room. I'll get you a ginger ale… settle your stomach.” You nod and walk past him, rolling your eyes so hard it’s surprising they don’t fall out from their sockets as you do so.

You sit down in the dimly lit lounge room sitting with your haunches raised. Your arms tightly wound around your chest, cutting into your soft flesh. Your face is pinched and eyebrows knitted thoroughly together in contemplation. If you were eighteen years old again lounging under a late, lazy autumn sun you’d laugh at the prospect of a man being so crazed for your flesh and blood he’d eat your secretions. Crazier things have happened to people, a small sadistic part of you is upset he didn’ appear ill at all during his depraved act.

A part of you feels craven about the ordeal. You would have thought that- liked to have thought that if you had borne witness to such a deplorable, debaucherous act you would have acted upon it. You would have snatched the underwear from his grasp with a vindicating shrill and sucker punched him in the eye. Relishing in the feeling of his smooth, supple skin giving way beneath your balled up fist. A shiver wracks up and down your spine in delight at remembering how you could feel his ribs, his vulnerable skin just the other night as you inflicted pain upon it. Maybe you're not higher above other sordid creatures as you had once hoped.

Your thoughts are cut short by the noises of gushing water down the drain as Dick empties out the soapy water into the sink. He places the bucket at his feet and grips the basin in both of his hands as he sighs, soul rattlingly so. He turns around, a smug pretty boy smile dimpling on his face.

“What medicine were you after?” You look at him for a second confused, “medicine?” You parrot, confusion painted all over your face as your nose scrunches. Dick’s eyes narrow, for a split second and nothing more, his face growing keen and studious. “You said you wanted more medicine, you were in pain.” You had to sit on your hands to prevent them from shaking beneath his scrutinising, heat inducing gaze. Your mouth goes dry and you shallowly shrug, lazily rolling your eyes.

“Yeah, sorry. Forgot. The shower helped, the heat can sometimes help with this kind of stuff, you know?” Dick looks at you, his face unreadable but his mouth faltered in its laid-back grin for a fraction of a moment. “Okay, well, do you still want to take another tablet? Just in case the pain flares up again?” You nod and he pushes himself up and off the basin of the sink as he reaches into the same above door cabinet from earlier and rustles through it finding the medication. He slaps the pack onto the bench, not paying the little tin foil tray any mind.

He spins around on his heel and opens the fridge, the blue light emanating from it makes his scarring glow a sickly pale silver. He rummages around in it, you can hear the clinking of tin cans and glass bottles against each other before he secures the dark brown bottle of ginger beer from the back of the fridge. He tosses it up into the air leisurely before he glances back at you and throws it into the air. He extends out an arm and the bottle falls onto its side, rolling over his shoulders and into his other hand. He winks at you as he pops it open, clearly trying to bait a positive reaction from you.

You look at your feet instead, the trick was suave and maybe in another time, another universe you would have found it quite enchanting. But now? In this apartment with this Dick? It just makes your skin crawl at his easygoing flirting. It honestly is quite mystifying to see how effortlessly it comes to him naturally. As though he was created to do this, genetically engineered to be handsome and enticing without a surface-level flaw in his disposition.

He cracks open the bottle with a hiss and pours it for you, bringing it over to your perch on the decadent leather couch. His fingers brush against yours as he passes you the chilled cup, your skin blossoming in goose flesh at the contact. The coldness from the glass spears up your arm, making the flesh ache. You sip at it gingerly as he watches you like an observer through thick glass enjoying the view of a pacing big-cat. You swallow and feel the lump in your throat swell.

An uncomfortable eternity passes in just a few moments before he shakes his head and coughs, “you still want that tablet?” He asks and you numbly nod, feeling relieved his eyes are no longer trained on your face and neck. He walks off into the kitchen and you hear the pinching of plastic and tin foil as he squeezes out another pill for you.

“I need to go out tomorrow night again. One of my younger brothers need me for some help on a, er, a project.” His voice feels awkward, timid and unsure of itself. A stark contrast in comparison to his normal sunny tone. “I’ll be gone Saturday night, won’t be home until quite late.” You keep your face stony, trying your absolute hardest to hide your utter elation at the news. Your mind flits to your poorly hidden hole in the wall that miraculously hasn’t been discovered yet and the small, clover shaped key hidden just behind it.

“I put a specialised sim in your phone that only allows you to call specialised numbers. So far mine’s the only one that’s loaded in there.” He laughs, but it’s quiet and insecure sounding. Maybe your chronic aloofness is wavering his self-assuredness. Your heart flutters at the thought. He brings you the tablet and you accept it, tossing it over in your palm. “So, if you, uh, you know… need to call me you can. I’ll also put a charger in your room.” You don’t respond verbally, continuing to nod as you feel like if you were to respond you’d break into a broad, gleeful grin.

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Tag list: @lilyalone @cassbass2000

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