#depressed!reader

He has done versions of it himself. Bruce Wayne, public billionaire, is polished to a mirror shine. Bruce Wayne, alone in the Manor after patrol, has absolutely gone too long without eating, slept in the chair beside the Batcomputer, forgotten basic bodily needs until Alfred all but threatened him with a tray. So when he sees your bedroom floor swallowed by clothes, books, wrappers, whatever your depression has let fall and never given you the energy to pick up, he doesn’t look disgusted.

He looks… pained. Because he understands the shape of it, even if he does not understand how to talk about it.

Bruce is not naturally good at comfort. His first instinct is always logistics. Identify the problem. Build a system. Reduce harm. Prevent escalation. So the first time he realises how bad it’s gotten, he goes very still and asks, carefully, “How long has it been like this?”

And if you snap, or shut down, or say, “I don’t know,” he doesn’t push. He just nods once, like he’s filing that information somewhere deep and private.

Bruce struggles with the fact that he relates to your self-neglect but not always to the emotional language around it. He knows what it is to treat his body like a tool that can be used until it breaks. He knows what it is to ignore hunger, exhaustion, pain, hygiene, sleep. But he has spent years calling that discipline. Seeing it in you forces him to confront that maybe, sometimes, what he calls discipline is just another form of damage wearing a very expensive suit. That realisation does not sit comfortably with him. Bruce Wayne and self-awareness have a situationship at best.

Still, he tries.

If you haven’t showered, he doesn’t say, “You need to shower.” He knows commands can curdle into shame. Instead, he says, “Would it help if I sat outside the door?” Or, “You don’t have to do everything. Just rinse off. Five minutes.” Or, very softly, “You’ll feel less trapped in your skin afterwards.”

That last one is how you know he gets it.

Bruce is painfully aware that hygiene can become impossible when depression gets severe. Not “hard.” Not “annoying.” Impossible. Like your body has become a locked room and the key is buried somewhere under the bed. So he never treats a shower like a small thing.

If you manage one after days of not being able to, he doesn’t overpraise you like you’re a child. He simply notices.

“You look more comfortable,” he says. Which, from Bruce, means: I know that cost you something. I’m proud of you. I won’t embarrass you by making a spectacle of it.

Medication is where Bruce becomes very Bruce. He is deeply serious about your antidepressants. Not controlling, not patronising, but quietly immovable. If your medication is what keeps you showering, eating, sleeping, and functioning even slightly, then in Bruce’s mind, it is not optional in the same way oxygen is not optional.

He helps create backups. Refill reminders. Pharmacy coordination. A pill organiser if you’ll use one. Water on your nightstand. A tiny dish beside it so you can tell whether you've taken them already.

He does not call it “fixing you.” He calls it “removing friction.” Because Bruce understands that when you’re severely depressed, every extra step becomes a locked gate. Find the bottle. Open it. Get water. Remember the time. Call the pharmacy. Pick up the refill. Eat enough beforehand.

Too many gates. So he quietly starts unlocking them.

If you miss doses, he does not get angry. He gets worried in a way that makes his jaw tighten. “I’m not disappointed,” he tells you, because he knows that’s where your mind goes first. “I need you to hear that.” And then, after a pause: “We adjust the system. That’s all.”

The bedroom is harder for him. Not because of the mess itself. Bruce has seen crime scenes, collapsed buildings, Arkham cells, Jason’s safehouses, Tim’s caffeine graveyards. Your room does not scare him.

What scares him is what the mess means. It means you’ve been alone with it. It means things have been heavy for longer than you admitted. It means every object on the floor is a small surrender your brain forced out of you.

Bruce does not clean your room without asking. Control matters to him, and he knows it matters to you too. He stands at the doorway and says, “Do you want help, or do you want me to pretend I didn’t see it?” If you choose the second option, he respects it. Mostly.

He will still have Alfred send up food. He will still make sure there are clean towels nearby. He will still quietly remove anything genuinely unsafe if he can do it without making you feel exposed. But he won’t barge in and turn your suffering into a project.

If you do let him help, Bruce is methodical. He does not say, “Let’s clean your room.” He says, “Trash first.” Then, “Laundry.” Then, “Clear a path from the bed to the door.”

He breaks it down like a mission because that is the language he knows best, and somehow it helps. Not because your depression is a villain he can punch, tragic for him honestly, but because he can make the battlefield smaller.

The first goal is never “clean.” The first goal is “safe.” You need to be able to walk without tripping. You need water. You need medication within reach. You need clean clothes somewhere accessible. You need a bed that feels like a bed and not an evidence locker for your worst month.

Bruce does not expect your room to stay clean afterwards. That might be the most important part. He knows relapse. He knows cycles. He knows what it means to drag yourself upright and then fall apart again three days later. So when the floor disappears again, he does not sigh. He does not say, “But we just cleaned this.”

He says, “Bad week?”

That’s it. Two words. No accusation. No disappointment. Just recognition.

Your insomnia is the part of your depression that Bruce relates to most directly and least healthily. He knows the strange cruelty of being exhausted and still unable to sleep. The body begging. The mind pacing. The dark becoming too loud. But Bruce is also terrible at modelling healthy sleep. He’ll tell you that you need rest while standing in the kitchen at 4:12 a.m. in yesterday’s shirt with a split lip and a coffee he should not be drinking.

You stare at him. He stares back. “This is different,” he says. It is not different. It is, in fact, the same clown car wearing a cape.

Eventually, Alfred calls him out. Then Dick. Then you. And Bruce has to sit with the uncomfortable truth that he cannot ask you to value your body while treating his own like rented equipment. So he tries to do better with you. Not perfectly. Never perfectly. This is Bruce. Growth comes to him like a cat approaching a bath.

But he starts sitting with you at night without opening case files. He makes tea instead of coffee. He reads in the armchair near your bed because silence feels safer when shared. Sometimes he talks. Low voice, careful words. Stories about his parents, about Gotham before it became a wound, about Dick’s first week at the Manor, about Jason stealing tyres, about Tim showing up with too many questions, about Damian pretending not to like being tucked in.

He doesn’t always know what helps. But he learns that he does not have to say the perfect thing. He just has to stay.

If you apologise for being “too much,” Bruce almost visibly flinches. Because he has thought that about himself. Because he has believed his grief, his rage, his damage made him poisonous to the people he loved. So when you say it, he answers with unusual sharpness.

“No.” Just one word at first. Then, quieter, rougher: “You are not too much. You are in pain.”

He may struggle to relate to depression exactly as you experience it, but he understands pain becoming routine. He understands neglect becoming normal. He understands surviving so long in emergency mode that care feels unnatural.

Loving you forces him to become gentler. Not just with you, though that comes first. With himself too, slowly, stubbornly, like dawn dragging itself over Gotham.

Bruce’s love is not loud. It is a prescription refilled before you panic. A hallway light left on because he knows the dark gets bad. A clean towel folded without comment. A hand resting near yours, not grabbing, just offering. A voice outside the bathroom door saying, “Take your time.”

A cleared path through the mess. A cup of water beside your meds. A billionaire detective sitting awake beside you at 3 a.m., not solving, not commanding, not disappearing into the Cave.

Just staying. Because Bruce Wayne may not always know how to say, I understand. But he knows how to say, You will not go through this alone. And for him, that is practically a vow carved into stone.

dick grayson

Dick’s first instinct is to try to be your sunshine. Not in a fake, toxic positivity way. Not exactly. It’s more that Dick has spent most of his life surviving by becoming the bright thing in the room before anyone notices how dark things are getting. So when he sees you slipping, he smiles a little softer. Talks a little warmer. Shows up with food, jokes, stupid stories, voice notes, memes, anything that might get even half a laugh out of you.

At first, he thinks maybe if he can just make the room feel lighter, you’ll be able to breathe again. And sometimes it helps. Sometimes his warmth gets through the fog. Sometimes he makes you laugh when you haven’t laughed in days. Sometimes he sits on the edge of your bed and tells you some ridiculous story about Wally or Jason or Damian, and for a minute, the world feels less like wet cement.

But sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes you just stare past him, exhausted and hollow-eyed, unable to shower, unable to clean, unable to sleep even though your whole body aches for rest. And Dick has to learn, painfully, that being loved by him does not automatically make depression loosen its grip.

That is hard for him. Because Dick is used to being useful. He is used to catching people before they hit the ground. He is used to being the hand extended over the ledge. But this isn’t a ledge he can swing down from. This is your own brain turning the lights off from inside the house.

At the start, he probably pushes too hard. Not cruelly. Never cruelly. But he worries, and worry makes him move.

“Have you talked to your therapist?” “Are you still taking your meds?” “Maybe we should call someone.” “Maybe you need a different dosage.” “Maybe—”

And if you finally snap and tell him to stop, he does. Immediately. He might look hurt for half a second, not because he’s angry at you, but because he realises he made you feel cornered when he was trying to make you feel safe.

Then he takes a breath and says, “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” And he means it.

He still cares about therapy. He still believes medication can matter. He still wants you to have support bigger than just him, because Dick knows love is not a substitute for treatment. But he respects your boundary.

After that, he becomes much more careful with his words. He stops asking questions that sound like checklists unless you invite them. He learns to ask, “Do you want help, distraction, or just company?” He learns that sometimes “Did you take your meds?” can feel like an accusation, even when it is said with love.

So instead, he might say, “I’m getting water. Want yours with your usual stuff?”

Gentle. Casual. An open door instead of a spotlight.

Dick does not pity you. That matters so much. He does not look at your room, with the floor swallowed by laundry and wrappers and old cups, like you are tragic or broken or disgusting. He looks at it like, Okay. This is where the fight has been happening.

And then he looks at you like you are still you. Not a project. Not a burden. Not a sad little bird with a cracked wing.

You.

If you haven’t showered, he notices, but he does not wrinkle his nose or make a face or say anything that will haunt you later. Dick Grayson knows how words can stick under the skin. So he chooses them carefully.

“Want me to grab you some clean clothes?” “Do you want the bathroom warmer before you go in?” “Hair wash day or just rinse day?” “No pressure. We can also just change the sheets and call that a win.”

He makes everything feel like an option, not a failure. He tries to get you outside more, but not in an annoying “fresh air cures mental illness” way. More like: “Come sit on the fire escape with me for five minutes.” Or: “Walk with me to the corner store. You don’t have to talk.” Or: “Balcony picnic. Technically outside.”

Sometimes he brings your blanket with him and wraps it around your shoulders before opening the window.

“Outdoor enrichment,” he says solemnly, like you are a very sad zoo animal.

If you laugh, he looks so relieved that he has to glance away. But if you say no, he does not drag you. He may push gently once. Then he stops. Because he learns that helping you cannot mean turning every day into a battle where he is on one side and your exhaustion is on the other. Sometimes helping means accepting that today, the bed wins.

So he climbs into the room carefully, stepping over clothes and books and whatever else the depression has scattered around like emotional confetti from hell, and he sits with you. Not above you. With you. On the floor, back against the bed, knees pulled up, talking softly about nothing important.

He tells you about patrol. About Haley. About some kid in Blüdhaven who tried to convince Nightwing that Batman is obviously a vampire. About how Damian once insulted a barista so specifically that Dick still thinks about it when ordering coffee.

He lets the conversation be light if light is what you need. But if you want to talk about the ugly stuff, he lets that happen too.

Dick offers himself as your personal notebook. He literally says it one night, sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor while you stare at the ceiling, sleepless and raw.

“Use me as a notebook,” he says. “Say whatever. Messy, mean, sad, irrational, all of it. I won’t grade it.” And because he sees you tense, he adds, softer, “I won’t judge you.”

He means that, too. You can tell him you feel disgusting. You can tell him you hate your room. You can tell him you skipped your meds and you’re scared he’ll be disappointed. You can tell him showering feels like trying to climb a mountain with wet cement in your lungs. You can tell him you are tired of being tired.

He listens. Not with that shiny hero face he wears for civilians. Not with the automatic “we can fix this” voice. He listens like someone kneeling beside a locked door, willing to wait as long as it takes.

If you want advice, he gives it gently. If you do not want advice, he bites it back. Which is honestly heroic because Dick Grayson has eldest daughter energy in eldest son packaging and advice lives in his bloodstream.

But he tries.

“Do you want solutions,” he asks, “or do you want me to say that sucks?”

And if you say you just want to vent, he nods.

“Then yeah,” he says. “That sucks. It really, really sucks.”

No fixing. No silver lining. No “but at least.”

Just him, staying with you inside the bad feeling instead of trying to decorate it.

When your insomnia gets bad, Dick worries himself nearly sick. He knows what tired looks like on a vigilante. He knows the glassy eyes, the delayed reactions, the way the whole body starts moving like it is underwater.

But seeing it on you is different. Seeing you exhausted even after trying to sleep makes him go quiet. 

He does not understand exactly how you feel. He will admit that.

“I don’t know what it’s like in your head,” he says one night, voice low in the dark. “I won’t pretend I do.” Then he shifts closer, careful not to crowd you. “But I know you shouldn’t have to be alone in there.”

So he stays awake with you sometimes. Not every time, because eventually Alfred, Bruce, and basic common sense bully him into remembering that he also needs sleep. But when he can, he keeps you company through the awful hours. He puts on quiet movies. Reads out loud. Lets you rant. Lets you go silent. Sends you stupid videos from two feet away because sometimes speaking is too much but memes are still legally allowed.

When your room gets bad, Dick offers help without making it a whole dramatic rescue mission.

“Five-minute reset?” he asks.

That is his favourite phrase. Five minutes of trash. Five minutes of laundry. Five minutes of clearing the bed. Five minutes of opening a window and letting the room remember air exists.

Then he stops when the timer stops. No “since we’ve started, we might as well keep going.” No guilt. He promised five minutes. Dick keeps promises. If all you can do is sit there while he cleans, he lets that count as participation.

“You’re supervising,” he says. “Very important role. You can be my manager.”

He gives you tasks that are almost insultingly small, but somehow not insulting when he says them.

“Can you hold this bag open?” “Can you toss me the cups?” “Can you point to what’s trash and what’s not?” “Can you pick the music?”

He knows momentum can be impossible, so he does not demand momentum. He just offers rhythm.

Dick is also very affectionate, but he checks in more when you are depressed. Normally, he is touchy by nature. Hugs, shoulder bumps, forehead kisses, casual contact like punctuation.

But when you are this low, he asks. 

“Hug or no hug?” “Can I sit beside you?” “Do you want contact, or would that make it worse?”

He does not make your need for space about him. And if you do want touch, he is so gentle it almost hurts. He holds you like you are not fragile, exactly, but precious. Like something still alive under snow.

His sunshine changes over time. At first, he tries to shine hard enough to chase the depression out. Later, he learns to become softer. Less noon sun, more night-light. He stops trying to make every moment better. Starts trying to make every moment less lonely.

That is where Dick is strongest. He cannot always understand the depth of what you are feeling. He cannot always joke you into a smile. He cannot therapy-speak your way into functioning.

But he can sit on your messy floor with you. He can listen without flinching. He can remind you that needing help does not make you pathetic. He can say, “I’m here,” and then actually be there.

And when you apologise for being difficult to love, Dick looks genuinely confused. Like the idea does not compute.

“You’re not difficult to love,” he says. “You’re having a difficult time being alive.” Then, because he is Dick, because his heart is a bright reckless thing that keeps throwing itself against the dark, he nudges your knee gently with his. “Big difference, babe.”

His love does not cure you. But it keeps a chair beside you in the dark. It brings water. It opens a window. It listens. It learns when to speak and when to shut up. It stays warm, even when it cannot be bright.

jason todd

Jason understands more than he says. Not perfectly. Not in a neat, one-to-one way. He doesn’t pretend your depression is exactly like his trauma, or his rage, or the dark stretches where being alive felt less like a gift and more like something he had to drag behind him by the ankle. 

But he knows what it feels like when your own mind stops being a safe place. He knows what it is to look at basic human maintenance — showering, eating, sleeping, laundry, brushing your teeth — and feel like someone handed you a list of impossible tasks written in another language.

So when he sees your room, he doesn’t flinch. The floor buried under clothes. Cups on the nightstand. Trash you meant to throw away three days ago. Clean laundry mixed with dirty laundry until both have become Schrödinger’s Hoodie. Jason just stands there for a second, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, jaw working like he’s chewing on every wrong thing he could say.

Then he mutters, “Alright.” Not disgusted. Not disappointed. Just: Okay. This is what we’re dealing with.

Jason is not great with soft words at first. He wants to be. God, he wants to be. But the sentences get stuck somewhere behind his ribs. So he speaks with his body instead. He sits on the floor beside your bed instead of looming over you. He keeps his movements slow when you’re overwhelmed. He doesn’t stare at the mess too long. He places food within reach and pretends not to notice if your hands shake when you take it. He nudges a bottle of water closer with two fingers and says, “Hydrate, gremlin,” because saying I’m scared for you feels like standing naked in traffic.

His care is mostly acts of service. Quiet, stubborn, relentless acts of service. He takes out the trash without making a speech. He washes the cups collecting beside your bed. He changes your sheets while you sit wrapped in a blanket, exhausted and embarrassed. He puts clean clothes in one pile and dirty clothes in another because decision-making has become a boss fight and he’s not about to let laundry win. He fixes the broken drawer you’ve been ignoring for months. He plugs in your phone. He brings soup, bread, fruit, protein bars, anything easy enough that eating doesn’t require you to become a fully functioning citizen first.

If you apologise, he gets gruff, “Don’t.”

That’s all at first. Then, softer, without looking directly at you: “You don’t gotta apologise for being sick.”

He hates pity. Hates receiving it. Hates giving it. So he never looks at you like you’re pathetic. He looks at you like you’re wounded. There’s a difference. Wounded means you’re still fighting, even if the fight looks like lying in bed for fourteen hours and taking one bite of toast. Wounded means you need care, not judgment. Wounded means Jason knows where to stand: between you and anything trying to finish the job.

When you haven’t showered in days, Jason notices. Of course he notices. He was trained by Batman and raised by Gotham; the man clocks details like it’s a competitive sport. But he doesn’t wrinkle his nose. Doesn’t comment on smell. Doesn’t make your shame bigger. He just knocks his knuckles lightly against the doorframe and says, “Want a reset?”

That becomes his phrase for hygiene when hygiene feels too heavy. A reset can mean a shower. A reset can mean sitting in the bathroom with the hot water running until the steam makes breathing feel less awful. A reset can mean wet wipes, deodorant, clean socks, and one of his shirts. A reset can mean washing your face and calling it a day.

Jason is very big on “good enough.” Not because he thinks you don’t deserve better. Because he knows “perfect” can become another weapon your brain uses against you.

“You don’t gotta do the whole thing,” he says, leaning against the sink with his arms crossed. “Just do one thing.”

You tell him one thing won’t matter. His mouth tightens.

“Yeah,” he says. “It does.”

And there’s something in his voice that makes you believe he’s not just talking about the shower.

Medication is tricky for him. Jason believes in anything that helps keep you alive and functioning. He’s not anti-meds, not even a little. If antidepressants help you shower, help you eat, help you get through the day without drowning in your own head, then he treats them like they matter.

But he also knows what it’s like to have people treat you like a problem to be managed. So he tries not to hover. He tries not to ask in that voice people use when they’re already disappointed.

Instead, he just builds reminders into the room. Water bottle on the nightstand. Your meds placed somewhere visible, but not aggressively so. A snack beside them if you need food first. A text at the same time most days: “You take care of business yet?” If you say no, he doesn’t lecture. “Alright,” he says. “Do it now. I’ll wait.”

And he does. He stays on the phone, breathing quietly on the other end, letting you grumble and shuffle and open the bottle.

When you say, “Done,” he just says, “Good.” But his voice goes warm around the edges.

Jason is careful about pushing you toward help because he knows pushing can feel like being cornered. Still, he does want you to want help. He wants it badly. He wants you to have a therapist who gets it. A doctor who listens. Medication that actually works. Systems that don’t fall apart the second you have a bad week. He wants you to have more than him, because some terrified part of him does not trust himself to be enough.

But he doesn’t know how to say that cleanly. So sometimes it comes out rough.

“You can’t keep white-knuckling this.”  Or, “This ain’t sustainable.” Or, “I’m not saying you’re broken. I’m saying you deserve backup.” If you shut down, he stops. He swallows the rest of the sentence. Looks away. Nods once. “Okay,” he says, quieter. “Not now.”

And because it’s Jason, because he respects boundaries more than people expect him to, he drops it. He may bring it up again later, but never like an ambush. More like leaving a door unlocked.

“Been thinking,” he says one night while folding your laundry badly but with intense concentration. “If you ever wanna look for someone to talk to. Professional someone. I can sit with you while you make the call.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Gives you the dignity of not being watched. “Or I can shut up,” he adds. A beat. “I’m real good at shutting up.”

He is not, historically, real good at shutting up. But for you, he tries.

Your insomnia is something Jason understands in his bones, even if the cause is different. He knows the cruelty of night. The way everything gets louder after midnight. The way your thoughts turn feral. The way exhaustion can sit heavy in your body while sleep still refuses to come near you.

So when you text him at 3:06 a.m., ashamed and barely coherent, he answers fast. “Yeah. I’m up.”

He usually is.

Sometimes he comes over without making it a big production. Window opens. Boots hit the floor. Leather jacket, wind-chilled hands, helmet tucked under one arm.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. You give him a look. He nods. “Stupid question.”

He doesn’t force conversation. Jason is good at silence, when he lets himself be. He sits with you in the dark, shoulder close enough to touch but not touching unless you lean first. Sometimes he reads aloud. Old novels. Poetry. Whatever book he was carrying around like a secret soft spot. His voice is low and rough, not polished, not theatrical, but steady. A rope across black water.

If you do fall asleep, he stays. He won’t admit he was worried you’d wake up alone. His body language gives him away constantly. The way he angles himself between you and the door. The way his hand hovers near your shoulder before he touches you, waiting for permission. The way his expression goes murderous when you call yourself lazy. The way he freezes when you say, “I’m sorry I’m like this.”

That one gets him. He looks at you for a long second, eyes sharp and hurt. Then he sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch. His voice comes out low. “You don’t gotta earn being cared about.”

He says it like the words physically hurt to form. Like maybe someone should have told him that once.

Jason does not always know what to do when you cry. His first instinct is violence, which is deeply unhelpful unless your depression can be lured into an alley and punched. Since it cannot, he improvises. He brings tissues. Sits beside you. Lets you lean into him if you want. If you don’t, he stays close anyway, a warm wall of presence. His hand might settle on the back of your neck, heavy and grounding. Or he might press his shoulder against yours. Not a dramatic embrace.

Just contact. Just: I’m here. I’m real. Stay with me.

If you vent, he listens. He doesn’t always have perfect responses. Sometimes his jaw clenches. Sometimes he looks like he wants to argue with every cruel thing your brain says about you. But he learns not to turn your venting into a debate.

If you say, “I know it’s stupid,” he says, “It’s not stupid.” If you say, “I don’t need advice,” he nods. “Wasn’t gonna give any.”

He absolutely was. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lets you talk. Lets the ugly feelings spill out without trying to sanitise them. Jason can handle ugly. He has never needed you to be soft and shiny to love you.

On bad days, when you cannot get out of bed, Jason changes tactics. He brings the world to you in pieces small enough to survive. Opens the curtains halfway, not all the way. Puts a cool cloth on your forehead if you feel overheated from lying under blankets too long. Makes your room smell like soup instead of stale air. Puts on a show you’ve seen a hundred times because new plots require too much brain. Places a trash bag by the bed and says, “No pressure. Just if something’s within reach.”

If you throw away one wrapper, he notices.

He doesn’t cheer. He just says, “Nice.”

Like it matters. Like he knows it did.

Jason’s love is not delicate, but it is deeply attentive. He remembers which foods you can tolerate when everything tastes like cardboard. He knows which hoodie makes you feel least perceived. He knows whether touch helps or makes your skin crawl. He knows not to turn on the big light when your head is already screaming. He knows that if your room gets too clean too fast, you might feel exposed, so he asks before moving personal things. He knows that sometimes you don’t want someone to fix the mess. You just want someone to sit in it with you and not leave.

And Jason can do that. Better than most. Because Jason has sat in wreckage before. He has been wreckage before. He does not need pretty surroundings to prove something is worth saving. He just stays, solid and warm and stubborn as a locked door.

One night, when you are too tired to sleep and too sad to speak, Jason sits beside you on the floor. The room is still messy. Your hair is still unwashed. Your meds are still something you have to fight yourself to take. Nothing is magically better.

Jason reaches over, slow enough for you to pull away if you want, and gently hooks his pinky around yours. Barely a touch. Barely anything. But his body says what his mouth cannot. I see you. I’m not scared of this. I’m not leaving because your pain is inconvenient.

Out loud, all he says is, “We’ll do tomorrow when it gets here.” Then he squeezes your pinky once. “Tonight, you just gotta stay.”

And because it is Jason, because he does not promise things lightly, it lands heavier than hope. Not a cure. Not a rescue. Just a hand in the dark. Just someone who understands enough to stay, and loves you enough to keep trying.

tim drake

Tim’s first response is research. So much research. Tabs on tabs on tabs. Medical journals. Patient forums. Therapy resources. Medication side effects. Sleep hygiene. Depression room cleaning methods. Executive dysfunction. Body doubling. Antidepressant withdrawal. How to support a partner with severe depression without becoming overbearing. His laptop looks like WebMD got into a knife fight with a psychology database.

Tim doesn’t do it because he thinks you’re a problem to solve. He does it because he loves you, and Tim Drake’s first language has always been information. He doesn’t know how to make the weight in your chest lighter. He doesn’t know how to make sleep come when your body is exhausted and your mind is chewing through barbed wire. He doesn’t know how to make showering feel possible when depression has turned your limbs into wet cement.

But he can learn. So he learns obsessively. At first, though, he overcorrects. Not in a cold way. In a scared way. He starts offering solutions too quickly.

“Maybe we could try a checklist.” “There’s this app for medication reminders.” “I read that morning light can help regulate sleep cycles.” “Some people find it easier to clean in categories instead of sections.” “Have you thought about talking to your doctor about—”

And then he sees your face. The way your shoulders tighten. The way your eyes go flat. The way you look less helped and more handled. It hits him like a physical blow.

“Oh,” he says softly. Then, immediately, “I’m sorry.”

Tim is distraught if he upsets you. He tries not to show it too dramatically because the last thing he wants is to make you comfort him when you’re already drowning, but you can see it. The panic under his skin. The way his fingers twitch like he wants to pull every word back and delete the whole interaction from existence.

“I wasn’t trying to—” he starts, then stops himself. Because he realises explaining his intent does not erase the impact. He takes a breath and says, “I’m sorry. I jumped into fixing mode. That wasn’t fair.”

And then, because he means it, he changes. Not instantly. Tim’s brain is basically a caffeinated detective corkboard with legs. But he puts in the work.He starts asking first.

“Do you want comfort or solutions?” “Do you want me to help, or do you want me to just sit here?” “Do you want advice, distraction, silence, or a witness?”

That last one becomes important.

A witness. Someone who doesn’t look away. Someone who sees the depression room, the unwashed hair, the exhaustion carved under your eyes, the meds you’re trying to keep taking, the insomnia that makes every morning feel like crawling out of a grave with homework due. And still sees you.

Tim is careful with your room. He understands clutter on a spiritual level, honestly. His own bedroom has absolutely looked like a conspiracy theorist’s evidence locker crossed with a coffee shop crime scene. But your mess feels different to him. Not because it’s worse. Because it’s sadder.

His mess is usually momentum. Yours is gravity. So he doesn’t joke too carelessly about it.

He doesn’t say, “Wow, you live like this?” He doesn’t make faces. He stands in the doorway, takes everything in, and asks, “What’s the least invasive way I can help?”

If you don’t know, he nods like that is a valid answer. “Okay. Then I’ll start with trash within arm’s reach. You can veto anything.”

Tim loves a system, but he learns your system has to be compassionate, not perfect.

He used to make lists like:  Clean room. Shower. Eat. Sleep. Take meds. Now he makes lists like:  Put cups by door. Sit up for two minutes. Take meds with water. Change shirt if shower is too much. Clear one pillow. Survive Tuesday.

The bar gets lower, but not in a hopeless way. In a humane way.

Tim starts realising that he has spent most of his life treating his own body like an inconvenient side quest. He tells you to sleep while he has been awake for thirty-six hours. He reminds you to eat while his own lunch is three coffees and half a granola bar he found in a drawer. He worries about your meds while forgetting his own basic needs because a case got interesting. And one day, you look at him — exhausted, fond, and maybe a little annoyed — and say, “Tim.”

He freezes. Because he knows that tone. You glance at the untouched food beside his laptop. He looks at it too. Betrayed by a sandwich. 

“This is different,” he tries.

It is not different. It is clown behaviour in a different font. That realisation shakes him more than he expects. Because Tim wants to help you take care of yourself, but he slowly understands he cannot ask you to believe you’re worth care while proving, daily, that he does not believe the same thing about himself.

So he starts trying. For you, at first. Then with you. He makes it mutual. Not in a way that puts responsibility on you. Not “I’ll only take care of myself if you do too.” Never that. Tim would rather throw himself into Gotham Harbour than weaponise your recovery.

It’s softer.

“I’ll eat if you eat?” “I’ll go to bed if you try to rest?” “Medication and water break. For both of us.” “Ten-minute reset? Your room or my desk. Dealer’s choice.”

It becomes less like he is managing you and more like the two of you are learning how to be alive in parallel. Tiny habits. Tiny victories. Tiny bridges over very deep water.

Tim is painfully gentle about your antidepressants. He knows they matter. He knows they may be part of why you can shower at all, why you can get through a day, why the floor sometimes becomes visible again. But he also knows medication can come with shame, frustration, side effects, missed doses, refill issues, and that awful feeling of being dependent on something just to function.

He never treats meds like proof you’re broken. He treats them like a tool.

“You deserve tools,” he says one night, voice quiet. “You don’t have to claw through everything barehanded.”

He sets up reminders only if you want them. If you say no, he respects it, even if his anxiety climbs the walls like a raccoon in a server room. If you say yes, he makes the system stupidly efficient. Refill calendar. Backup pharmacy info. Pill organiser. Water bottles where you usually collapse. A little note on your nightstand that just says: you already decided to keep going today. take the help.

He does not sign it. As if you would not recognise his handwriting. Menace.

Your insomnia worries him the most because it is the part he relates to too much. Tim knows being tired but unable to sleep. He knows lying in the dark while your brain becomes a hostile PowerPoint presentation. He knows the weird floaty feeling after too many nights awake, when reality starts getting soft around the edges and every emotion feels either too far away or much too close.

But with you, suddenly, he sees it clearly. It isn’t quirky. It isn’t productive. It isn’t “just how things are.” It’s suffering.

And then he has to look at himself.

He starts trying to build better nights for both of you. Not perfect nights. Better ones. Phones face down after a certain hour, unless one of you needs distraction more than discipline. Low lights. No case files in bed. Tea instead of coffee, though he mourns this like a Victorian widow. Audiobooks when silence gets too loud. Soft background noise when thoughts start sharpening their little knives.

He doesn’t say, “You need to sleep.” He says, “Want to make the room easier to rest in?”

Because sometimes sleep is too much pressure. Rest is gentler. Rest can mean lying down with your eyes closed. Rest can mean letting him read beside you. Rest can mean not fighting your body for twenty minutes.

If you still can’t sleep, Tim doesn’t make you feel like you failed. He just shifts closer and says, “Okay. Then we’ll make being awake less lonely.”

Tim becomes very good at body doubling. He will sit on your floor with his laptop while you sort one pile of clothes. He will brush his teeth beside you so brushing yours feels less weirdly impossible. He will take his own shower while you take yours, turning it into parallel maintenance instead of a spotlight on you. He will set a timer for five minutes and clean his desk while you clear your nightstand.

“Team objective,” he says.

“This is laundry,” you mumble.

“Laundry is a formidable enemy.”

“You need better enemies.”

“I live in Gotham. I have variety.”

He loves when you banter, even weakly. You can see it in the way his face lights up for half a second before he schools it back into something less obvious. 

Tim is careful not to celebrate too loudly. If you shower after days of not being able to, he doesn’t make a huge deal and accidentally drown you in attention. He just leaves clean clothes nearby and says, “I’m glad you feel a little more comfortable.” If you take your meds, he doesn’t clap like you’re a child. He says, “Good. I’m proud of you,” so softly it almost disappears. If you clear a patch of floor, he notices. “Hey,” he says, pointing with his mug. “Floor sighting.”

“Endangered species.”

“We should call National Geographic.”

It’s stupid. It helps.

When he messes up, because he does, he owns it. Sometimes he still slips into solution mode when he’s scared. Sometimes he gives you three options when your brain can barely handle one. Sometimes he asks too many questions.

And if you go quiet, Tim catches himself faster now.

“Sorry,” he says. “Too much?”

If you nod, he closes his laptop. Fully closes it. That’s basically Tim Drake kneeling in surrender.

“Okay,” he says. “No fixing. I’m here.”

And then he proves it. He sits beside you in the mess. No tabs. No notes. No plan. Just Tim, learning that love is not always research. Sometimes love is shutting up.

He offers himself as a quiet place to be honest, but in a different way than Dick. Dick is a notebook. Tim is a shared document with comments turned off. You can say the ugliest things your depression whispers. You can say you feel gross. You can say the room makes you hate yourself. You can say you’re scared your meds will stop working. You can say you’re tired of trying to sleep and tired of waking up and tired of people telling you to “just” do things.

Tim listens. His face hurts sometimes, because he wants to argue with every cruel thought. But he learns that not every thought needs to be debated in the moment. Sometimes it needs to be heard, named, and allowed to pass through without becoming another fight.

“That sounds exhausting,” he says. Or, “I’m sorry it’s that loud today.” Or, “I believe you.”

That one lands. Because Tim does believe you. Even when he doesn’t completely understand. Especially then.

Tim’s love becomes less frantic over time. Still intense. Obviously. This is Tim Drake. He has never had a casual emotion in his life. But less frantic. He stops trying to build a perfect rescue plan. Starts building a life with you where needing help is normal. Where the room can get bad and still be recoverable. Where missed sleep is serious but not shameful. Where meds are part of care, not proof of failure. Where showers can be mountains and still be climbed one tile at a time. Where both of you are allowed to be works in progress.

One night, after a hard day, Tim finds you sitting on the bed, staring at the floor you still can’t see. He stands in the doorway with two glasses of water and his own hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes like bruised moons.

For once, he doesn’t offer a plan. He just sits beside you and hands you a glass. You both take your first sips at the same time. Then he leans his shoulder against yours.

“I’m trying to get better at this,” he says.

You ask, “At helping me?”

Tim is quiet for a moment. “At being kind to us,” he says.

And there it is. The heart of him. Not perfect. Not magically wise. Not always smooth. But trying. Researching, yes.  Adjusting. Apologising. Learning when to solve and when to stay. Loving you hard enough that he starts wondering whether maybe care was never supposed to be something either of you had to earn.

Tim does not cure your depression. But he learns your rhythms. He lowers the lights. He closes the laptop. He takes the meds reminder off “task” mode and turns it into “care” mode. He sits with you through the long, sleepless blue hours. He lets tomorrow be tomorrow.

And when things are bad, when the room is a wreck and your body feels impossible and your mind is being cruel, Tim reaches for your hand like it is the most logical thing in the world.

“We don’t have to fix everything tonight,” he says. Then, softer, like he’s saying it to both of you, “We just have to make it to morning.”

damian wayne

Damian is not good with words. He is not Dick, who can soften a room with his voice. He is not Tim, who can research his way into emotional fluency. He is not Jason, who can make silence feel like armour. Damian’s comfort is… precise. Awkward. Devoted in a way that almost feels formal until you realise he is pouring his whole heart into it with both hands.

He does not always know what to say when your depression gets bad. When you cannot shower. When your room is so messy you cannot see the floor. When you are exhausted from insomnia, even though you tried to sleep, even though you wanted to sleep, even though your body feels like it has been wrung out and left somewhere cold.

At first, he may stand in the doorway, very still, taking in the clothes, the cups, the blankets twisted on the bed, the dimness of the room. His face does that sharp little Damian thing where he looks annoyed. But he is not annoyed at you. He is angry that something is hurting you and he cannot stab it. Depression, tragically, refuses to have a physical form. 

Damian does not pity you. Ever. Pity feels too much like looking down on someone, and Damian would rather cut off his own hand than make you feel small. He sees you struggling, yes. He sees the self-neglect. He sees the way your meds make the difference between barely functioning and collapsing completely. He sees how even when you are taking them, everything can still be too much. But he never sees you as weak.

If you call yourself lazy, his eyes narrow immediately. “That is inaccurate.” His voice is sharp enough to slice paper. “You are unwell. There is a difference.”

It is not exactly cuddly comfort, but it lands. Because Damian says it like a fact, not reassurance. Like he would argue it in court. Like he would bring evidence.

He will never give you any real doubt that he loves you. He may not always say it smoothly. He may not always say it when you expect him to. But he shows it so consistently that the words become almost unnecessary. A clean towel folded outside the bathroom. A fresh glass of water on your nightstand. Your medication placed where you can reach it, never shoved in your face. Curtains opened halfway because full sunlight is too aggressive but darkness has started lying to you. A blanket tucked around your shoulders with almost military precision. A quiet, “I am here,” when he sits beside you.

Damian’s affection is in the details. He learns which lights make your head hurt. He learns which foods you can tolerate when eating feels impossible. He learns whether you prefer silence, distraction, or contact. He learns where not to touch you when your skin feels wrong. He learns the difference between “I want to be alone” and “I am scared to ask someone to stay.”

And once Damian learns something important about someone he loves, he does not forget.

When your room gets bad, Damian does not insult it. He also does not pretend not to see it, because Damian Wayne has never pretended anything in his life unless espionage was involved. He simply says, “We will make a path.”

Not, “We will clean the room.” Not, “This is unacceptable.”

A path. From the bed to the door. From the bed to your meds. From the bed to water. From the bed to the bathroom. Safety first. Dignity always.

He does not touch your personal things without permission. Damian understands invasion. He understands people deciding what is “best” for your body, your space, your mind. So he asks, stiffly but sincerely, “May I move this?”

If you say no, he nods and leaves it. No argument. No lecture. Just respect, sharp-edged and real.

When hygiene feels impossible, Damian gets very quiet. He does not say, “You need to shower.” He knows, eventually, that this only makes your shame bare its teeth. Instead, he creates conditions. Fresh clothes placed near the sink. Towel warmed in the dryer. Your favourite soap opened and ready. Water temperature checked. A chair in the bathroom in case standing is too much.

If all you can manage is washing your face, he treats that as valid. If all you can manage is changing clothes, he treats that as valid. If all you can manage is letting him brush your hair, he does it gently, slowly, with a concentration usually reserved for sword maintenance and sketching. He does not say much while he does it. His hands say enough. Careful. Patient. Reverent, almost.

Damian is not naturally comfortable with emotional chaos. He was raised to control feelings, bury them, sharpen them into weapons. But with you, he starts to understand that emotions do not disappear just because you command them to. They rot if trapped too long. They need somewhere to go. So he tries to help you channel them. Not fix them. Channel them.

If you like art, he brings you sketchbooks. Good ones. Expensive paper. Proper pencils. Paints if you want them. Charcoal. Ink. Whatever he thinks will make your hands remember they can create something besides damage. He does not demand beauty.

“It does not need to be good,” he tells you, which is hilarious coming from Damian “perfection is the bare minimum” Wayne. You raise an eyebrow. He flushes slightly and looks away. “Art is permitted to be ugly.” Then, after a beat: “Sometimes it is more honest that way.”

If you cannot draw, he draws for you. When things get bad, Damian sketches you constantly. Not in a creepy way. In a devotional way. You asleep under three blankets. Your hand resting beside an untouched cup of tea. Your profile lit by the dim blue of early morning. You curled up with a book you have been too tired to read.

He draws you softer than you feel. Not idealised. Not fake. Just seen.

When he shows you, it almost hurts. Because in his drawings, you do not look disgusting. You do not look lazy. You do not look like a burden. You look tired, yes. Sad, sometimes. But also human. Loved. Worth the time it took to study every line.

Damian does not know how to say, I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. So he hands you the sketch instead.

“You may keep it,” he says, like he is granting a royal document. His ears go pink. “If you want.”

If you like writing, Damian encourages that too. Not in a “journal your way out of depression” way. More like: “Your thoughts are consuming you. Put them somewhere they cannot bite as deeply.” He buys you notebooks. Plain ones if fancy ones feel like pressure. Little ones if full pages are too intimidating. He will sit beside you and write in his own notebook while you write in yours. If you cannot write full sentences, he tells you to write fragments. Single words. Lists. Bad metaphors. Angry letters you never send. Anything.

“The page does not judge,” he says. Then, with a tiny scowl: “And if it did, I would destroy it.”

When you cannot write, he writes you notes. Small ones. Folded carefully. Left on your pillow, your desk, beside your meds, tucked into the book you have been meaning to read. They are not always traditionally cute because this is Damian, and his version of cute sometimes sounds like a motivational speech from a tiny general.

You have endured today. That is sufficient.

Drink water. I am not asking.

Your room is not evidence against you.

I found this flower. It reminded me of your stubbornness.

You are not a burden. Do not argue with me on this.

I love you. Obviously.

That last one makes your chest ache. Because he writes it like it is the most irrefutable thing in the world.

If you like reading, Damian becomes almost unbearably sweet. He will read aloud to you when your insomnia is bad. He sits near your bed or on the floor beside you, spine straight, book in hand, voice low and careful.

At first, he reads like he is presenting evidence in a trial. Very formal. Very serious. Dramatic pauses in odd places. If you tease him, he scowls. “Would you prefer Drake’s sleep-deprived mumbling?”

No, actually. So he continues. And over time, his voice softens. He starts learning which books calm you. Which ones are too heavy. Which ones make you smile. Which ones you loved before depression made it hard to love things.

If your eyes are too tired to focus, he reads until your breathing slows. If you do not sleep, he keeps reading anyway.

“You are resting,” he says when you apologise for staying awake. “Rest is not failure.”

Again, he says it like a fact. Like he had to learn it too.

If you have another passion, Damian treats it with fierce seriousness. Music, crafts, games, plants, photography, cooking, collecting tiny stupid trinkets, whatever little spark depression has not completely smothered. He protects that spark like it is sacred. He will not let you mock it.

If you say, “It’s dumb,” he immediately replies, “It brings you comfort. Therefore, it has value.”

He will sit with you while you do it badly. He will make space for you to have no energy and still be a person with interests. He understands, slowly, that passion does not always look like excitement. Sometimes it looks like staring at art supplies for twenty minutes and touching one pencil. Sometimes it looks like opening a book and reading one paragraph. Sometimes it looks like saving an idea for later because today your brain is soup. Damian counts all of it.

He is intense about your medication, but not in a smothering way. He knows the antidepressants help. He knows they do not cure everything. He knows you can be taking them and still be drowning. So he does not act like the pill is magic. He treats it like part of your armour.

“Armour requires maintenance,” he says one day, placing water beside you.

You stare at him. “Did you just compare my meds to armour?”

“Yes.”

“That’s actually kind of cool.”

He looks smug for the rest of the hour.

If you miss a dose, Damian does not shame you. He may tense, because worry comes out of him as control before he catches it. But he catches it. He breathes once, visibly. Then says, “Take it now, if it is safe to do so. If not, we will follow the instructions. There is no need for panic.”

We. Always we.

That is one of the ways he loves you. Your problems do not become his to command, but he refuses to let you face them as if you are alone.

With insomnia, Damian becomes very protective. He knows sleeplessness makes everything worse. He has seen what exhaustion does to fighters, to animals, to himself. When you cannot sleep, he does not tell you to “just try.” He knows better than to say something that useless. He may be emotionally constipated, but he is not stupid.

Instead, he asks, “Would you like silence, reading, or distraction?”

If you choose silence, he stays. If you choose reading, he reads. If you choose distraction, he brings Titus, Alfred the Cat, or a sketchbook, because animals and art are Damian’s emotional support starter pack.

Titus will absolutely climb onto the bed like a weighted blanket with legs. Damian pretends this is tactical. “His body heat may assist your nervous system.” Titus licks your hand. “Also, he likes you.” Damian looks away. “As do I.”

He says it stiffly, but his hand finds yours under the blanket.

He goes to the internet for research, to Tim and Leslie, and Damian eventually gets you a therapy animal. He acts extremely formal about it, obviously, like he is presenting a royal gift instead of trying not to look nervous. He does more research first. Breeds, temperaments, training requirements, emotional support versus psychiatric service animals, allergies, housing needs, sleep routines, how animals can help with depression and grounding. Damian Wayne does not simply “wing it.” He prepares like the animal is joining the Justice League.

He does not force it on you, though. He sits beside you one evening, a little stiff, and says, “I believe an animal companion may be beneficial. Only if you want one.”

If you look overwhelmed, he immediately adds, “I would assist with care. You would not be responsible alone.”

And he means it. Damian knows depression can make even feeding yourself feel impossible, so he would never hand you another living thing and expect you to magically become functional. He builds a care plan before the animal ever comes home. He helps with food, vet appointments, litter, walks, grooming, training — all of it. He makes charts. Tim is weirdly impressed. Jason says, “Kid made a custody agreement for a cat.” Damian tells him to be silent.

If it’s a dog, he trains them with frightening precision but melts every time they curl up beside you. If it’s a cat, he insists they are “an emotionally intelligent creature with excellent judgment” while the cat sits directly on his sketchbook and ruins his work. If it’s a rabbit, bird, or other small animal, Damian becomes a tiny professor about their care needs and quietly watches your face soften when you hold them.

He teaches the animal gentle grounding cues: sitting with you during panic spirals, nudging your hand when you dissociate, lying near you during insomnia nights, waking you gently when you’ve slept through alarms.

When you have bad hygiene days, he doesn’t use the animal to guilt you. No “they need you, so get up.” He knows that would make everything worse. Instead, he uses the animal as company.

“They wish to sit with you,” he says, placing them beside you carefully. “I believe they find your presence calming.”

Which is Damian-code for: I find your presence calming too.

On nights when you cannot sleep, the animal curls against you while Damian sits nearby reading aloud. His voice, the soft breathing of the animal, the warmth beside you — it makes the room feel less like a trap and more like a den. He pretends not to notice when you start talking to the animal before you can talk to him. Actually, he prefers it at first. Less pressure on you. Less chance of him saying something emotionally constipated and weird. A win for everyone.

And if the animal helps you get outside, even briefly, Damian treats it like a sacred victory.

“They require fresh air,” he says. They do not. Damian is lying again. Badly again. But he walks beside you anyway, matching your pace, letting the animal be the reason you both step into the world for five minutes.

His favourite part, though, is when the animal chooses you. Curls into your lap. Sleeps against your side. Follows you from room to room. Looks at you like you are safe.

Damian watches quietly, his expression soft in a way he would deny under oath. Later, he leaves a note beside your meds. They trust you. So do I. Then, underneath, in smaller handwriting: You are easier to love than you think.

When you are at your lowest, Damian becomes less sharp. Not less himself. Just softer in the places he usually keeps armored. He stops correcting every irrational thing you say. Sometimes. He still has limits. If you insult yourself too harshly, he cannot help it.

“No,” he says. Not loud. Just final. “You may feel that. It does not make it true.”

Then he sits beside you, shoulder against yours, and lets the quiet settle.

Damian learns that love does not always require perfect speech. Sometimes it is a pencil moving across paper while you lie in bed. Sometimes it is a note that says, I am proud of you for remaining. Sometimes it is reading your favourite book aloud until his voice goes hoarse. Sometimes it is silently picking up three pieces of trash and not mentioning the rest. Sometimes it is bringing you your meds and water and sitting with you until you take them. Sometimes it is not asking you to be better that day. Just asking you to be there.

He struggles when he cannot fix it. Damian is used to training harder, fighting better, mastering the weakness, defeating the opponent. Depression does not play by rules he respects. It does not duel honourably. It creeps. It lingers. It returns after victories. He hates that. But he learns not to treat you like a mission. You are not his mission. You are his person. So he stops trying to defeat your depression in one dramatic act of devotion and starts showing up in small ways, over and over.

A note. A drawing. A book. A glass of water. A walk in the garden when outside feels possible. A seat beside you when it does not.

If he does get you outside, it is usually through something gentle. “The dog requires a walk.” Titus absolutely does not require a walk at that exact moment. Damian is lying. Badly. But you go anyway, wrapped in a hoodie, moving slowly through the grounds or down a quiet street, and Damian keeps pace beside you. He does not rush. He does not make it a lesson.

He just points out birds. Their species. Their calls. Whether they are nesting. Whether they are, in his opinion, behaving foolishly. It is weirdly calming.

If you cannot go far, he accepts one minute outside as success.

“Adequate,” he says. Then, because he has learned, he adds, “I am glad you came with me.”

Damian’s compliments are rare enough to be emotionally devastating. When you feel ashamed, Damian becomes fiercely clear. “Your suffering does not make you repulsive.” He says it one night after you apologise for not showering, for the room, for being tired, for being “too much.” His voice shakes slightly. Not much. But enough.

“I do not love a cleaner version of you. I do not love a hypothetical version of you. I love you.” He looks almost angry after saying it, like vulnerability has personally insulted his bloodline. But he does not take it back. He reaches for your hand. His grip is warm and certain. “That remains true even when you cannot believe it.”

And that is Damian at his best. Not smooth. Not easy. Not effortlessly comforting. But unwavering. He may not always have the words. But he will draw you until you can see yourself. He will write notes until your room has little paper lanterns of proof. He will read aloud until the night becomes less cruel. He will help you pour the unbearable feelings into art, into words, into pages, into anything that lets them leave your body without destroying you on the way out. He will love you with discipline, loyalty, awkward tenderness, and a devotion so steady it becomes part of the furniture of your life.

When the floor is hidden again, he will make a path. When your hair is unwashed, he will bring a brush. When you cannot sleep, he will open a book. When your brain says you are unloved, he will leave another note. 

You are wanted here.

You are not alone.

I will return tomorrow.

"If you don't open the door, I'm coming in." Xavier commanded. He had your spare key, and even if he hadn't you knew he would break the door down.

"Go away," you call out, your voice weak and rough from not having been used. You heard the lock click softly and the door push open. "Please, just leave me alone," you begged as you buried yourself deeper in the blankets.

Xavier didn't listen as you heard his footsteps padding softly towards you. You didn't look up, but you could feel his presence in your bedroom, almost as if he were glowing.

You don't know how long you hid in the blankets, how long he stood leaning in the doorway watching you. It could have been minutes, hours even, before you finally pull your head out from the covers and dare a look at him. He was watching you carefully, in his eyes there was no judgment or disgust, only concern and love. And this was too much for you, you looked away rapidly, ashamed of the grease in your hair, ashamed of the mess in your room, ashamed that you couldn't even pull yourself out of bed.

Once again, you heard his foot steps coming even closer, and you felt the familiar dip his weight caused in your bed. You rolled as far as you could away from him and he didn't try to pull you in.

"Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "please, let me help." His voice almost broke.

Finally you turned to face him and took a hesitant breath, trying to find the words to say.

"Sometimes..." you start, twirling your hair, unable to make eye contact. "Sometimes it feels like everything, anything is too much. That my arms can't hold me together, that I can't do anything..." your voice shakes as tears form in your eyes. You wrap your arms around yourself, holding on, desperately trying to keep yourself whole. "That if I can't hold myself together, then I just shouldn't.." your voice breaks and silent, violent sobs take over your body.

Xavier watches you for a moment before asking, "Can I touch you?" His voice is gently and you give a slight nod. He reached over slowly, as if testing your reaction, before pulling you into his arms.

“If your arms can’t hold you, use mine,” he murmured, voice steady. “I’ll be here. When everything is too much, I’ll keep you together.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ🖤ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Zayne:

Zayne had heard you were sick and as soon as his shift at Akso ended, he made sure to get everything you might need. Warm jasmine tea with honey, his favorite egg drop soup, tablets for runny nose and cough, a cozy blanket to wrap you in, and a new thermometer to check your temperature. He was prepared for whatever illness plagued you, prepared to get you right back into tiptop shape. He was not prepared for the version of you that opened the door when he knocked.

You had barely cracked the door open enough for him to see you. Your hair was tied in a messy bun, your oversized hoodie was stained and the cuffs frayed. You didn't say a word as your stepped away from the door letting Zayne inside. You slumped back onto the sofa, and stared at the wall, staring at nothing.

"I heard you weren't feeling well, that you called out of work today," Zayne started as he entered your apartment and set his bags on the kitchen counter. "I brought some things to help you feel better." Zayne flitted about the kitchen, pouring soup into a bowl, preparing a cup of tea and came to set everything on the coffee table in front of you.

Zayne pulled out the thermometer, holding it up as if expecting you to argue. You just shrugged, not even lifting your eyes. That was when it hit him, the pale of your skin wasn't from fever, your sluggishness wasn't from being ill. This was something more, something heavier.

He set the thermometer down without a word, his jaw tight as he reevaluated you. He offered you the mug of tea. "Just sip. You don’t have to talk, don't have to acknowledge me, but please, just do this one thing"

You took it, hands trembling faintly, and the warmth seeped into your palms. He watched you for a long moment, then kneeled beside the couch, level with your eyes. You looked away immediately, a faint blush coloring your cheeks as you felt the warmth of his breath so close to your face. You raised the mug to your face as if you could hide behind it.

"I know I can't heal this." He started slowly, "I know I can't just give you some medication and have you be cured." He watched you as you slowly took a sip of the tea and turned your gaze in his direction. "But I know I can be here, for however long it takes, for whatever you need, I can be here with you."

He didn’t push for conversation after that. He just sat with you in the silence, steady, his presence like a shield against the weight pressing down on you.

Finishing the cup didn’t fix everything, but it made the rest feel a little less impossible.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ🖤ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Rafayel:

You were at the beach with Rafayel, and if you were being honest with yourself, it was the last place you wanted to be. The sun was too bright, the air too warm, the sand uncomfortable under your feet. You hadn't wanted to do anything today but Rafayel all but dragged you out of your home, rambling about fun, fish, and going home.

So, here you stood at the edge of the water, feeling the cold wake washing over your feet, wondering what it would be like to be swept away. Rafayel had gone to get ice cream on the boardwalk, and you had been left with your own thoughts.

You had spent the last couple days locked in your room; at first everything had felt too heavy, too much to deal with, but now, now you felt nothing. The sea looked endless and cold, and the idea of melting into the nothingness you saw seemed easier than trying to hold yourself together.

Without thinking, you stepped forward. Then another step. The water climbed from your ankles to your knees, as the sun reflected on the water, warmth in contrast to the frigid sea. The next wave came harder than the rest, crashing against your chest, and a cold, strange relief fluttered through you. With a few more steps, you wouldn't have to be anymore, with just a few more steps you could be free.

Another wave crashed into you, even hard this time, knocking you over. As the water overtook you, you could hear a shout, "Cutie, look out!"

As the waves continued to pull you under, you closed your eyes, embracing the chill of the water. But suddenly there was a warmth in contrast, and you felt arms circling around you, pulling you to the surface.

The ocean pulled at your legs again, and you stumbled, salt stinging in your mouth. For a heartbeat you thought he might let go, let the tide have you, but his grip only tightened. He carried you toward the shore with a strength that you didn't know he possessed, placing you down onto the wet sand where you coughed and spat and tried to breathe.

He was on his knees in front of you then, soaked and frantic, his typical smile gone from his face. “What the hell were you thinking?” His voice was rough, a sound that was more hurt than angry. When you didn’t answer, he buried his face in his hands for a moment like he couldn’t quite believe it. He looked up, eyes wide and terrified. “Please, please don’t do that to me. Don’t make me pull you out of the water wondering if you meant to come back up.” His hand hovered over your shoulder like he wanted to touch you but was afraid of breaking whatever was still holding you together.

You wanted to say it was an accident, that you’d slipped, that the tide had surprised you but you also didn't want to lie. Instead the words you couldn’t keep inside came spilling out of you in quiet, rushed whispers. He drew a slow breath, grabbed his towel from nearby, and wrapped it around your shoulders without hesitation. “Listen to me,” he said, softer now. “You are not a weight you must drown. I will not let you do this all alone. If you’re hurting like this, if it ever gets that bad again, you tell me. I’ll stay with you. I'll do whatever you need until it’s less heavy.”

He stayed there, holding you close until you stopped shivering and your clothes started to dry. When you pressed your face to his chest against his towel, he held you close. “You’re stuck with me,” he muttered his lips pressed into your hair. “Whether you like it or not, I am not leaving. Ever.” It wasn’t a promise to fix everything, but it was a promise that he would not let the tide take you without him throwing his arms into the water after you.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ🖤ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Sylus:

You knew Sylus was going to be gone for a few weeks, something about a weapons deal abroad, so you took this time to hide in Onychinus's base. Away from running into Xavier in your apartment lobby, away from seeing Tara at the Hunter's Association. Away from everything.

At first, the silence was comforting. The walls here were thick, the shadows familiar. But days passed, and you found yourself sinking into them, like you were becoming part of the shadows themselves. You stopped turning on lights. You stopped counting down the days till he returned. Eventually you stopped wandering the halls, instead you lay still in the dark, not sleeping, not waking, barely holding onto a thread of existence.

Mephisto was the one who noticed. Sylus had sent him to check in on you when you had missed a video call from him. He found you sitting on the floor of Sylus’s bedroom, knees drawn up, eyes glassy. Without another word, he vanished.

You didn’t know how long it was before you heard the heavy footsteps echoing down the hall, but your heart sank as Sylus appeared in the doorway. He wasn’t supposed to be back yet. His expression unreadable as he took in the sight of you crumpled on the floor.

He stood there, silently. Then he crouched down in front of you. His hand reaching out uncertain before pulling back. "Kitten," he muttered, "what happened to you?" His voice was low, and laced with concern.

You wanted to turn away from him, but his ruby eyes held you in place. “Why didn’t you call me?” he asked. "I would have been here in a heartbeat sweetie."

You opened your mouth but no sound came out. It was easier to stay silent, safer. You wanted nothing more than for the darkness to swallow you whole.

Sylus leaned in closer “Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t fade away.” He exhaled, there was clear frustration cutting through the softness. “If you can’t fight it right now, then let me do it for you. You know I've always been ready to fight for you.”

And then, he finally sat beside you, his presence anchoring you in the dark. He didn’t touch you, not yet, but he stayed. A steady weight against the emptiness.

For the first time in days, you felt something again, you felt seen.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ🖤ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Caleb:

You had grown up with Caleb, spent every minute of your childhood with him, and as you grew up and saw each other less, you were still always texting, always calling, always together. So the moment you didn't text back, he knew something was wrong.

At first he gave you space. A few hours, maybe your phone had died while out on a mission, then a day, maybe you hadn't brought a charger. But when your silence stretched into next night, he was at your door without hesitation. He knocked once, twice, and when you didn’t answer, he used the key he knew you kept under the mat.

The apartment was dark. The air stagnant. He found you curled up on the couch, staring at the TV that wasn't on, clothes rumpled. He didn’t tease like he normally would, instead he let out a soft “Hey, Pips,” and moved quietly toward the kitchen.

The smell hit him first when he opened the fridge, milk soured, vegetables wilted, containers of food starting to mold over. His heart ached. You hadn’t been eating. The sink was spotless too, not from cleaning, but because there weren’t any dishes used in days.

Caleb exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright,” he muttered under his breath, “That's enough.”

Before you could protest not that you had the energy to try, he was already pulling out a pan, setting ingredients he had brought from his own place onto the counter. Braised pork. Your favorite. The smell of garlic began to fill the apartment, and you lifted your head, towards the sound of the oil sizzling in the pan.

When he finally set the steaming bowl down in front of you, he crouched to meet your eyes. “Just try a bite,” he urged gently. “Not for me, for you.”

Your hands shook as you picked up the chopsticks. The first bite made your throat tighten, unfamiliar with motions of swallowing. When the flavor hit, warm and familiar, something inside you cracked.

Tears pricked your eyes as you whispered, “I don’t deserve this.”

Caleb frowned, sliding into the seat beside you. “Don’t start with that, Pipsqueak. You deserve to eat. You deserve to be here. You deserve every damn thing in this world, even when you don’t feel it.” He nudged the bowl closer to you. “So eat. And let me be here with you.”

Caleb stayed right there, steady and unshakable, making sure you ate every bite. Making sure you remembered you weren’t alone.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ🖤ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You turned your hairbrush over in your hands and felt yourself indulge in the doubt seeping into your brain. You stood frozen by your bedroom door, body waiting for instruction on what to do. You'd managed to think this was a good idea long enough to get out of bed, now you weren't so sure.

Your eyes trailed down to the brush, and then looked up at the sound of Spencer sneezing. The sound had an odd effect on you. Odd, in the sense that it was as mundane as a sound could get, and yet it started to unravel the knot of doubt in your posture.

He continued flipping the pages of his book. You took one step further, followed by another, and eventually enough for Spencer to come into view, sitting on the couch, tucked into one side of it as if people were sitting next to him.

By the wide-eyed look on your face and your uncertain walking, you would think you were approaching a feral animal. Something to be scared of, something to fear. Everything Spencer couldn't be more antonymous with.

He didn't hear you enter, he felt it. The slight shift of energy, the feeling of you staring at him. Almost as tangible to him then as the book in his hands.

His face softened into a smile when he looked at you. "Hi. What's up?"

"Can…" You swallowed dryly, the lump in your throat wouldn't go away.

Spencer followed your gaze to the item in your hand and then he understood. "Do you want me to help you with your hair?"

Without meeting his too-gentle eyes, you nodded, not moving until he gave any indication that he didn't want to you to go right back to your room and leave him alone.

He discarded his book onto the floor and turned his body to face where he hoped you'd sit. "Come here."

Your legs dragged you there and made you sit down harder than you should have. Your dad paid no attention to it and held his palm out to take the brush from you. He placed it to the side and twirled his finger as a gesture for you to turn your back to him.

You did as instructed, with a shaky breath and even shakier hands, but you did.

"Are you cold, honey?"

"A little," you admitted.

Spencer reached over your shoulder and grabbed the throw blanket draped over the couch. He wrapped it around your shoulders, making sure to remove your hair from under it.

His fingers started fighting the tangles that had grown in your hair, working slowly to avoid pulling it. To fill the silence, he told you about the book he'd put aside. Where he got it, the history behind that specific edition, how he'd disliked the author as a child but grew to appreciate their work.

Every time you flinched from an accidental tug, his hands stopped moving and waited for their guilt to subside.

He pulled apart the final knot, picked up your hair brush, and started brushing your hair. He started with the brittler ends and worked his way up until his fingers could smoothly comb through the length of it.

"Can I braid your hair for you?" he asked.

You nodded and turned your head to the side so he could hear your voice through its hoarseness, not raising your eyes higher than his knee. "I didn't bring a hair tie."

"That's okay, I'll just use mine."

Your brain wanted you to protest against him using something of his for nothing more than your comfort, as if that wasn't one of the most important things to him. As if he wouldn't remove it from his own hair to tie yours if you asked.

"I don't have to braid your hair if you don't want me to," he reminded you, in case that hesitation in your parted lips was discomfort.

But he recognized the look in your eyes. It was one of guilt, not preferential reluctance.

"Can you turn your head forward, please?"

You obliged and Spencer's hands went back to your hair, weaving it together, not leaving a hair out of place. His tongue poked out of his mouth while he concentrated on getting it just right. He removed the hair tie from his wrist and swiftly tied your braid to keep it in place.

"Done." He made no mention of the burn in his arms from holding them up for so long.

You turned to face him and finally mustered up the courage make eye contact with him. His irises were more full of love than hazel, you racked your brain trying to figure out why. It felt misplaced, like there had to be something better for him to look at like that, something that deserved it.

He hooked his hands under your shoulders and pulled you closer, you practically melted into his arms. The warmth of his chest was a harsh contrast to your coldness. It thawed your cheeks but also your mind. His arms were tight around your waist, tight enough to make the thoughts go quiet without making it harder to breathe.

Your arms stayed around your torso, they didn't touch him any further than your shoulders. He didn't mind. His head bent down to press a soft kiss into your hair and then rested there. Holding his whole world, in his own two arms, never failed to breathe life into his lungs.

divider creds: @saradika-graphics <3

He could listen to you yap for hours. He also noticed you not only weren’t as talkative, but much more reserved. It took Caleb an absurd amount of time to try and get you out of the house.

“Come on, pips. Look, I’ll even pay..” and you wouldn’t give him a definite answer. A grimace and looking away. But he could tell you didn’t want to go. That was also another thing. You didn’t tell him what you were thinking. When he asked you a question, you’d say yes, when your body language said no. It got more difficult for him to actually read you.

You had a blank expression on your face, occasionally giving small smiles or slightly raised eyebrows to show emotion.

You didn’t get nails colourful and vibrant as they used to be. You wore hoodies and baggy clothes instead of your bold outfits or shorts. Your ideal date with him was staying at home.

You didn’t put up fights anymore. If someone was being rude to you, you just accepted it rather than defending yourself.

If someone invited you out, you made excuses.

Caleb was hurt.

Not because directly at you, but the fact that his lover wouldn’t tell him what’s going on. Any attempt of trying to make you open up, you’d brush it off. Not even an argument of him pestering you. You’d just give him a quick peck on the cheek.

“Don’t worry about me Caleb. M’fine.” But you weren’t. Was it depression? Agoraphobia? Anxiety? Caleb found himself endlessly researching about why you were acting like this. It wasn’t even a subtle change, it was like you were a whole different person. He then stumbled upon something.

An artist that had left music that was making a comeback again. Specifically your favourite artist that also became his favourite. Something that bonded you two together even more back then, if that was possible. He scored tickets, and had a huge smile on his face. Was this finally the way to break out of this endless spiral you were in? “Pips, guess what I just got?” And he pulled out tickets and handed them to you, impatiently waiting for your excitement. But it didn’t come.

You plastered a smile. “Oh! Oh my gosh, this is crazy.” “You don’t seem excited.” Caleb smiled, confused. You looked down, kicking you feet and twiddling your thumbs. “Well, I’m not really a huge fan anymore, and honestly, you should go with Gideon or someone..” Caleb could feel his heart breaking by the second.

“Oh, alright sweetheart.” He responded. And he walked away. It wasn’t about the damn concert tickets. It was about that he didn’t even know you anymore. The one thing that bonded the two of you was broken. You drifted away further.

Conversations with Caleb were forced. And short.

Sleeping with him didn’t feel as comforting as it should’ve been. And fights broke out more. Caleb was running out of patience.

Of false hope that you’d tell him every single time.

“You just shut me out!” He once had outburst, after you told him once again, that you were fine. You don’t look at him. “Stop asking me the same question. You’ll get the same answer.” You said, tersely. “It feels like I’m dating a fucking wall sometimes.” He muttered. And you tense up. Eyes unreadable but looking slightly hurt. He looks up.

“Sweetheart, I didn’t-“

“you did.” And you walk away, back to your room as he’s left in your apartment living room, sitting on the couch and sighing heavily. He slept on the couch that night. Giving space, and seeming like he was giving up trying to fight his losing battle.

He couldn’t give up on you. But he was giving up in bringing, you back. His pipsqueak, his lover. When caleb leaves for work again, having to go back to Skyhaven, he doesn’t make a large deal. He learnt not to, because you would just make it seem like a small inconvenience he was leaving.

He gave you a hug and kissed your forehead. “Make sure to eat. I prepared some leftovers for ya’. I’ll be back in three weeks, alright? I’ll text you. I love you.” You hug him back. Resting your head on his chest. “I love you too.” In those three weeks however, you don’t text him.

He spam texts you, and you leave him on delivered. Every call is silenced from Do Not Disturb that was on your phone. He worried by the second. No news update from you. Until he got a call. From the hospital. Your friend had found you on the floor, pills, tablets and medicine all scattered all over the floor.

You had overdosed. Caleb immediately turned back from his mission, regardless if it was important or not. He sped over to Linkon’s Akso Hospital, and demanded your room number. You rested on a hospital’s bed, alive - luckily you were found fairly quick, and asleep.

Caleb couldn’t make out anything the nurse was explaining to him about, instead, a large ringing accompanied with his heartbeat in his head sounded, blaring all over. When the nurse closed the door after her, giving him some space, he walked over to you, reached out to your face, your soft skin and his leathered gloves making contact.

Caleb fell to his knees, and buried his head in the crook of your neck, sobbing.

Sobbing because he didn’t know what to do anymore.

Sobbing because he couldn’t even help the person that mattered the most to him, and was now lying in a hospital room.

Sobbing because he couldn’t live without you, even if it was slowly killing him either way.

“Please baby. Just tell me what’s going on. Your Gege won’t judge you, won’t resent you. Come on, I’ll make it all right again.”

He rambled on, voice breaking and his words trembling.

It all started when Bucky got back from a particularly rough mission. Something had made him internally angry, and you were just there, taking the brunt of it. That was several weeks ago, and it hadn't gotten better.

"Will you just stop fucking nagging me?!" Bucky screamed, slamming his metal arm down on the countertop, making the corner of it split and crack.

You felt like your heart had cracked a small bit, just like the marble.

You stood there in silence, genuinely shocked at your boyfriend's outburst. You and Bucky had been either arguing or not speaking for weeks. Sleeping in the same bed, yet backs were turned toward each other.

You didn't know why. He wouldn't talk to you. But this, this was the final strike. Your mental wellbeing couldn't take any more. So you nodded, walking down the hall and slamming the door to your bedroom as you crawled into the safety of your bed. You smelled his sandalwood scent on your sheets, letting the tears fall freely. Hearing the door to your shared apartment in the tower slam, you let out a sob, crying yourself to sleep.

TWO WEEKS LATER

"Has anyone seen Y/n?" Natasha walked into the Avengers' shared kitchen, grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, and went to sit by Steve, who was filling out mission reports.

"She hasn't been out of our room yet?" Bucky questioned back, chopping up some vegetables for the stew he was helping Wanda make. He knew you loved her food and hadn't been feeling too well lately, so he knew her homemade beef stew would cheer you up...He hoped.

Steve glanced up, still filling out a report as he spoke, "What's going on with you guys, Buck? The energy is off between you two."

"The energy?" Natasha smirked, turning her head to Steve.

He rolled his eyes, looking back down at what he was doing, "Something the spidey kid taught me, I don't know."

Natasha laughed but looked back up at Bucky, "Seriously, what is going on? She hasn't been going on missions, I barely see her at team dinners, and Friday said she hasn't seen her pick up her prescription from Med Bay in weeks."

Bucky stopped chopping the celery, setting his knife down and looking at the redhead. "She hasn't been taking her meds?"

Natasha shook her head, "Have you seen her go to therapy lately?"

Now that Bucky was thinking about it, he hadn't. He hadn't paid attention to whether you were taking your meds or eating. He really hadn't noticed if you even came to bed most nights.

"I..." Bucky looked back down, continuing to chop the food, "We're just going through something right now, I'm sure it'll pass."

It didn't.

A week later and Natasha had had enough. You had stopped coming to the kitchen, opting to stay in bed all day. You had even started calling in for every mission Steve threw you on. Something was wrong.

"Y/n?" Natasha knocked on the door, not hearing anything from the other side. A couple more knocks later, and she was fed up. Sliding a bobby pin from out of her braided hair, she slipped it into the lock and moved it around until she heard the gears unlock the door.

Walking into your shared apartment, she was shocked. The curtains were all shut, blacking out the living room. Dishes were untouched in the sink, and it looked like Bucky had made a permanent bed on the couch, his dog tags still lying beside the pillow.

Moving down the hall, she squinted in the darkness as she stopped in front of your door.

"Y/n?" Natasha knocked, making your head snap up in response. Pulling your weak body from the bed, your raspy voice called out, "One sec."

Natasha silently let out a breath, thank god you were awake and she didn't have to unlock another door without your consent.

You slipped your feet into some house slippers and wrapped your robe around your body, tying it in the front so Natasha couldn't see how much weight you had lost.

Opening the door, you tried to smile as best you could. Nat could see through it, of course. "Hey, Nat, is everything okay?"

Natasha looked at you, like really looked at you. Your eyes were dull compared to the light that was usually there. Your cheekbones had sunken in a little, and the bags under your eyes were as dark as your room. The redhead gulped, "Why don't we come in here and talk for a minute?" You wanted to decline, opting to go back to bed, but it was Natasha; you knew she was only being nice and not giving you tough love for your benefit.

"Y-yeah, okay." Closing the bedroom door behind you, you both made your way down the hall and into the kitchen. Natasha flipped on the light, making your eyes water as you hadn't been around anything compared to daylight in more than a few days.

"How about I make you something to eat? A sandwich? Or even some pasta?" Natasha kept talking over your mumbling protests, knowing she was making you food whether you wanted it or not.

You sighed, sitting silently as you watched her pull out some sandwich meat and a loaf of bread; surprisingly not molded out by now.

"Nat?" She stopped, looking at you with worried eyes. "What's going on?"

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and handed it to you, "We're worried, Y/n."

She was about to continue when Bucky opened the door, making you drop your head and stare at your lap as you played with your nails. You hadn't really talked to him, let alone see how far gone you were. He didn't seem to care, so you thought.

"Doll?" Bucky walked over, making Natasha move from her seat and continue working on the food she was preparing for you. "Honey, can you look at me?" You did, bringing your eyes to his ocean blue ones.

His heart dropped seeing the dark circles under your eyes, paired with the way you looked like you had lost half of your body weight. Tears came to your eyes as you saw the way he looked at you.

"You hate me."

"W-what? Why would you ever say that, doll? I don't hate you." Bucky cupped your slender cheek with his hand, his heart cracking even more from those three words you spoke.

"You won't talk to me, I-I realize i'm not physically attractive to you anymore and I nag you and-" "Shh, doll, stop." Bucky quietly calmed you down, "What are you talking about?"

Natasha quietly stepped out after putting the plate of food up on the kitchen island next to you, wanting to give you and Bucky some privacy.

"I don't know, I've just been...not myself lately, and I don't know what to do anymore, Buck." You nuzzled your hand into his palm, feeling the tears seep down your cheeks as he held your head up.

"Have you been taking your meds?" You shook your head.

He sighed, "When was the last time you ate something or even slept a full night?" You stared blankly at his chest, genuinely trying to think. "I don't remember."

Bucky silently moved forward, kissing the crown of your head. "I should've paid more attention sweetheart, I'm sorry."

You started to protest before he shook his head. "No, there's no excuse. I should've seen what was going on, and I didn't. I'm so sorry, doll."

You let your body melt into his as you cried, listening as he apologized over and over. His hand rubbed up and down your back as your tears soaked his shirt. He could feel the bones of your spine as he comforted you, hurting his heart even more.

He knew he could fix this. He would bring you out of this hole you had fallen into, even if it's the last thing he did.

-

"So what do we do?" Natasha spoke up. Everyone on the team was sitting in the lounge as Bucky walked in, having just tucked you into bed after holding you for hours. It was in the middle of the night, but with your mental wellbeing on the line, no one cared if their sleep schedule was a little messed up.

"Do we take her somewhere to get help? Like an in-patient situation?" Sam asked, making Bucky shake his head. "I'm not sending her away. She's depressed, she doesn't need to think we don't want her here." The team nodded, making Tony suggest, "What about getting her back into therapy and making sure she's taking her medication?" "I thought she was already in therapy." Wanda looked up at Bucky.

"She is, well, is supposed to be. I got an email from her therapist saying she hasn't come in for the last fifteen sessions."

"What about someone new?" Steve offered, "Sam, don't you know some people you used to work with over at the Veterans Center?"

"I might know a couple, but she's not a Veteran Steve, they only take people who've been victims of war."

"We have some contacts in different offices for Shield Agents who might take her even though she's on the team." Tony took a swig of his drink, feeling hurt over the whole situation. You were like a daughter to him, and he had been so caught up in his work lately, he never noticed.

"A female therapist." Bucky spoke up, "She'd only talk to a woman."

Tony nodded, pulling out his phone, "I'll see who I can find. Just make sure she goes."

A WEEK LATER

"It's gonna be okay, doll." Bucky sat in the waiting room with you, holding your hand as you shook your knee up and down anxiously.

You nodded, looking around as the entire team had come to support you. Natasha, Steve, Sam, Tony, and Wanda were all sitting with you, taking up almost the entire waiting room as other clients sat in awe of the Avengers next to them.

The past week had been hard but good. Sam got you out of the house and took you on a drive upstate.

Natasha got you back into the gym and helped you regain some strength.

You helped Tony out in the lab, holding a flashlight as he worked, even though he had robots that could easily have helped.

Wanda talked to you as you sat in the kitchen, watching her cook meals for the team.

And Bucky. Bucky was the one who made you start to feel like yourself again. He took you on picnics near the newly made compound. He made sure you were taking your meds and would help you wash your hair when you didn't have the energy.

Bucky held you at night like you would suddenly slip away. He kissed you with such gentleness that you believed you didn't deserve.

As the therapist called your name, you stood up on shaky legs, turning towards Bucky. "I promise I'm fine, I don't need to go, Bucky please."

"Doll," Bucky shushed you and placed a hand on your jaw, "I just want you to feel better, and this is a part of that." He kissed you softly on the lips, "We're all here for you. Every single one of us will be here when you get finished, and we'll be here to support you."

You wanted to object, but you knew you needed the help. Sighing reluctantly, you kissed Bucky once more before he wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug.

"I'll always be here, doll. I'll always take care of you." -

"Y-yes, he did" I mumble trying not to cry, feeling like I was ten again. "He-he slept with Stacy, he cheated on me, Dad"

"He what? I told you something like this would happen. Where are you? Where is he?" I can hear the anger in his voice.

"H-He's still at her house, I have my things packed. Can I stay at your house for a bit? I promise I-"

"Of course you can." Relief loosened something in my chest, but it didn’t last. At the thought of that house, a deep pit opened in my stomach.

"You don't mind if I have one of my mates over, do you, sweetheart?" He asked It was nice to know Dad wasn't alone in that house all the time, that he had a life, unlike me. But right now I wished he didn't because the last thing I wanted was for a random man to see me in this state.

"Yeah, dad. That's okay, I don't mind." I sniffle quietly, dread pooling in my gut.

I drove over to his house in silence, the kind of silence that forces every thought to the surface, leaving no room to escape my own mind. After about forty-five minutes of driving I pull into the familiar driveway, the tall white house looming over me like a ghost. The meadowsweet growing in front of the porch was still as fragrant as it used to be, and the oxeye daisies stood tall, so simple yet so beautiful. I remember planting those with Mom. My eyes slowly traveled up to the set of windows above the roof of the porch, the windows that belonged to my old room. It has been nine years since I've stepped foot in that house, the house that my mother killed herself in all those years ago.

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

My Mother was “troubled.” That’s what my dad had said when I got home from school that day. 'Your mother was very troubled, Honey' nothing else. I found out exactly what happened from one of the cops that seemed to infect our house like insects that day. Everywhere I looked, someone was staring at me with pity. But the man that sat me down and told me what happened was nice. I recognized him from the football parties my dad would host during the World cup, he was laughing then. Now he was trying not to cry as he told me about what happened. I hadn’t realized but I had been crying too. I never saw her body, it had been wheeled out before I got home. I'm glad it was because I might have vomited at the sight of her in a black body bag. The moment he told me it had felt like everything had come crashing down on me, the weight of her death is something I can still feel on my shoulders. Because we knew, we knew she had issues, that she had depression, that she once sliced her wrist with a kitchen knife while making dinner. We ended up in the ER that night and my dad had picked a fight with her. For months I had wondered why she always wore long-sleeved shirts until her passing, mostly because I missed tracing her tattoos with my eyes, always lingering on the one that sat on the inside of her wrist. The one that was my name. But now I shudder at the thought of what was under those long sleeves.

But my dad didn't wonder I guess. He pretended nothing was wrong while my Mom suffered. And me, I didn't know what to do. I was ten, What was I supposed to have done? I still didn’t know. Some part of me had never forgiven myself for that. I never hated him though, he was all I had left now. No uncles, aunts, grandparents, nothing. But I would be lying if I said there wasn't a part of me that blamed him, that held that festering knot of sadness, guilt, and blame. At the time I had blamed him for not helping her, for not being there for her. He was a cop, he still is actually. 10 year old me thought that meant he was a saint, I guess. Now I blamed him for not helping me, for not coming into my room when I was crying myself sick because I missed my mom. For not asking how I was doing when I was clearly depressed. For acting like I was okay.

We never talked about it, ever. After the funeral it was as if we forgot about it, or we didn’t dare speak about it. But the weight of her death hung over that house like a rain cloud. I knew when it happened it always would. That was what we did, though. Me and my dad. Orbited around each other until we eventually collided, then we kept on in our orbiting. Because that was easier than fighting. There had always been a distance between me and my father, like a gigantic ravine that both of us were too scared to breach. It was when she died that I realized she had been the glue to hold me and my dad together, and without her we drifted like two lone astronauts without our space station.

We spent time together and watched TV. For a while, it felt like that was all we did. At some point we started to make dinner together and play board games. But some days we didn't see each other at all. We only orbited. Saw each other in passing, like two ships in the night. Then at 18 I got a boyfriend who was older, 6 years older. My dad and I had a huge fight about it. He was adamant that I was too young for a 23 year old boyfriend, I thought otherwise. As we argued and bitched at each other we said things we didn't mean, but neither of us brought her up. Because if we had, there would be no coming back from that. Maybe we did mean what we said though, I still haven't figured it out. And I guess I've been trying to figure him out for a while. Trying to figure out what he was thinking all those years ago, what made him not do anything. That argument ended in me moving out with Spencer. We made up eventually, we still had dinner together sometimes, still talked over the phone. To any outside person it might seem like we had a healthy relationship. But I knew, I knew. Nine years had passed. I had grown up, moved out, fallen in love, gotten my heart broken. But some part of me was still ten years old, stuck in this house, waiting for someone to tell me what happened to my Mom.

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

Simon's POV

After that day, Simon was honorably discharged. Or as he liked to call it, spit back out into the world. Left with less than he’d had when he’d joined. And sure he had a pretty decent amount of money saved up from his service. It was more money than he’d ever dreamed of having at eighteen. It still meant fuck all compared to what he’d lost.

When Simon got back to his flat in London he spent a total of four days there before he sold it and got a house in a nice neighborhood. He had a few neighbors. One was an old lady, Gladace. She was, as Simon had come to find out, a very unique lady. She spent most of her day gardening, tending to flowers Simon couldn’t name. She also swore at them. Frequently.

His other neighbor he had met the day he moved in. The man had been standing on his porch drinking something from a mug when Simon pulled into his new car park. He introduced himself as Mike, and Simon gave him his full name automatically, the habit ingrained too deeply to think about. For the first few weeks Simon kept to himself, rarely leaving the house for anything other than groceries, take-away, and the daily run he went on in the mornings. But one day Mike had invited Simon over to watch a rugby match with some of Mike's mates. The interaction had been curt, there was a knock on the door when Simon was walking by it on his way to grab a book to pass his time. He answered it reluctantly, human interaction being the last thing he needed. Mike stood on the other side with a small awkward smile.

"Simon" He nodded

"Mike" Simon nodded back

"Got plans this weekend?"

"...No"

"Would you care to come over for the match on Saturday?" Mike asked, hands finding his pockets.

"Sure"

"Alright. Some of my mates are gonna be there too, is that okay?"

"Aye, s'fine"

"Great, see you at 5 on Saturday" He said starting to turn around

"See you" Simon closed the door.

The truth is that Simon didn't want to go to Mike's house that Saturday, but he couldn't think of any excuse to not go. And in the back of his mind he could hear Price repeating those words, “Find something to enjoy, Simon.” They had become somewhat of friends. He was probably the first friend Simon had who didn't share some kind of trauma with him. He couldn't get over the normalcy of it, of a friendship between neighbors. It was easy, it was calm, it was...fine. Perfectly fine. Simon's friendship with Mike wasn't like the one with Price, or Gaz, or even...Johnny. That name still stopped him cold. That Saturday he went to Mike's house. He was mostly silent unless someone else started the conversation. After, he went home feeling drained by the social outing but decided he liked Mike.

They were neighbors and so they had grown closer through trashcan ventures and small talk by the mailbox, about football, or music or the rugby matches they sometimes watched together. It was a friendship that Simon was careful about. Mike didn't know of Simon's military background, the torture, the killing, the death...the guilt. The guilt that clung to him like a leech as he silently trudged through what was “the rest of his life” as Price had put it. "go live the rest of your life, Simon. You've got so much left". Well it doesn't feel like it, John.

Mike had no reason to know any of that. That's why Simon liked him. He could sit and pretend to be normal with an actually normal bloke. But then again he didn't know much of anything about Mike. He knew some things. He lived alone, no evidence of a second person in the house. But there were a lot of photos of him holding a little girl. Could’ve been a daughter. Probably was. Whether she still came around, Simon didn’t know. Simon had come to observe that Mike was a really nice guy, he volunteered at the homeless shelter on his days off from being a police officer. He mowed his lawn every Saturday morning like clockwork. Then one day he stood watching out the window when he saw an old woman fall in the road. Simon watched Mike help the old woman back to her feet.

Easy.

Mike was good at that sort of thing. Simon wasn’t. Simon would volunteer. Donate. Pick up litter along the side of the road. Anything, if it might make the guilt shut up for five fuckin’ minutes. That ache felt older than he was. It had followed him since childhood, a black dog at his heels, teeth sunk into his leg.

Simon had thought about telling Mike about his service. Almost did once. He’d interrupted Mike halfway through a story, then told him he needed to take a piss instead. He didn’t want Mike to idolize him. Didn’t want to hear that he’d fought for his country, that he’d done something noble. He didn’t feel noble. He was tired.

Tonight they sat on Mike's couch, having a few jars while watching the rugby match on the tele. They were engrossed in the match when Mike's phone went off. He picked it up and immediately answered. Simon reached forward to turn down the match, the announcers' voices fading to a slight murmur that buzzed in his damaged ears. A muffled voice came through the phone, some bird on the other end.

"Honey, what's wrong?" Mike said, concern etched on his features, an emotion he had never seen on the man.

Right after he said that he could hear what sounded like crying. Simon sat up slightly, watching Mike. Who was this person? Was it his daughter? Simon didn’t know or care that much. So he looked back to the tele to watch the now quiet match and tuned the conversation out. Next thing he knew Mike was telling him his daughter was coming over.

"You have a daughter?" Simon asked, as if he hadn't seen the photos.

"Yeah, she's a bit...different" He said before looking back to the match, reaching for the remote to turn the volume back up.

The sounds of rugby filled his ears as that word stuck in his head.

Different.