You were in love with your boss. 

Well, in love might be a stretch. And boss might be a bit of a stretch, too. Sure, Jannik paid you, and you did all your work for him and the team, and he was technically the one in charge of you all, but you’d never really thought about him as your boss before. So, really, you could say you had a crush on your team leader. 

But that didn’t convey the desperation of the situation. 

Of these past six months barrelling into you with the realisation that you loved Jannik Sinner, and the easy flow of your life was currently slipping through your fingers with each day that passed. You were really having to fight these feelings. You enjoyed your job far too much to give it up with a fractured confession you knew would never – could never – be reciprocated. So, you kept quiet, and you followed Jannik to his tournament. Because that was your job, and it was easier to do your job than think about just how pretty he looked when his ginger curls were all messed up from the plane. 

London stretched out through the windows of the private transfer you and the rest of the team crammed into with your luggage, a blurry haze of blue skies, and red buses, and cramped streets. You’d booked the transfer all the way back in May, halfway through Roland-Garros, when the idea of not having a car to drive you from the airport to your Airbnb woke you up in a cold sweat. Thankfully for you, the driver had been waiting with a sign that clearly read TEAM SINNER, and your job was safe for another tournament.

Would Jannik fire you just because you’d forgotten to book a taxi?

You’d hoped not, but he had just fired Marco and Ulises, and you still weren’t sure exactly why, and you were worried he was on a bit of a firing frenzy. Maybe the losses in Rome, Paris, and Halle after those three months at home just made him lose his cool a little with the team members more easily replaceable. Maybe he just really wanted Umberto back. You weren’t going to ask. All you had to do was make sure things were booked when they had to be, that Jannik made it to places on time. 

The seven-seater car rolled to a stop at a red light, and you kept your eyes on the scenery unfolding around you. The city that seemed never-ending. Bigger than you had ever imagined. The streets just kept on coming – tall buildings, too many shops, too many people. All of them were going about their days with the sense of urgency that only sweaty summer days could create, the heat made worse by the weird feeling that London had a roof right overhead, locking them all inside. You wondered if any of these people cared that their city was about to be flooded by tennis players. Most likely, they were too busy worrying about their own jobs. 

You pressed closer to the window, eyes dancing from tube station sign, to black taxi, to famous landmark as you passed through the city. You’d never been to London, but you’d imagined it the way most people had when they really, badly wanted something, daydreaming through rose-coloured glasses of high-rise buildings and telephone boxes and afternoon tea. London was a dream you’d never imagine you’d reach, but there it was, within touching distance. You’d known, when you’d taken on the job, that you’d get to go to London eventually, but it still didn’t quite feel real until the driver rolled to a stop in front of your rented home for the next fortnight. 

You’d scoured Airbnb for two hours one fateful night in early May, when Jannik was walking out onto that clay court in Rome to cheering crowds excited for his return, and you were too busy worrying about trying to find the perfect place to stay in London. You spoke to more hosts than you could remember, until eventually, you found this family home you were sure the rest of the team couldn’t argue about. Six bedrooms, three bathrooms, a back garden big enough for the boys to play football in the sun while you did literally anything else. You’d just gotten used to booking hotels with Team Sinner’s fancy credit card when Jannik had mentioned he wanted somewhere out of the way for London, somewhere quiet, somewhere his parents could stay if he made it far enough to warrant them coming all this way to watch. You’d caught him tapping the wooden cutting board in the kitchen when he told you that, but he didn’t even seem to notice doing it.

Superstitious to a fault. 

The driver helped you pull out all your bags. The suitcases, the backpacks, the racket bags, all lined up nicely in the paved driveway, and made sure that you, Darren, and Simone all had his phone number in case you ever needed him before his scheduled pick-ups. Then he was gone, zooming back into the city, leaving you alone with the big house and all the bags. You fumbled around the key hold, punching in the code while Jannik mumbled sleepily to Simone in Italian, still trying to wake himself up after his nap on the two-hour flight from Nice and again in the hour and a half transfer from Heathrow to your Airbnb. You led the way inside, and you all left your bags heaped by the front door with your shoes before you took a tour around, scouring out which bedrooms you wanted. 

Jannik already decided the bedroom on the ground floor was for his parents, with the painting of the Alps hanging from the blue-green wall above the bed. There was a small bathroom separating it from the office space you deemed your own as soon as you stepped inside, one of the walls made up of a beautiful bay window, while the other two that didn’t have the desk pushed up against it were for the crammed bookshelves you knew you’d spend too long perusing instead of working. The living room on the other side of the house had both a PlayStation 5 and an Xbox Series X that you knew Jannik would spend way too much time playing on. The double doors in the airy, bright kitchen/dining room led out into the garden, already set up with a kids' set of plastic goals that you could already picture the men playing around in. God, you could see it already. Darren in goals, Jannik versus Simone, someone falling and twisting their ankle, having to call the transfer just to take them to the hospital. 

You were going to have to create a no rough-housing rule. 

Just the thought of Jannik fucking up his entire Wimbledon run, all because of some silly football game,s was enough to send shivers down your spine. He chuckled, low and deep, beside you, his elbow catching on yours, leaning down enough so he could whisper in your ear while your eyes grazed the grassy garden. 

“Promise we won’t break anything.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

Jannik’s laughter followed you throughout the house, still a little thick from the sleepiness of travel but still him, still that warm sound that burrowed under your skin and settled in your chest. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t ignore the way one simple laugh was enough to send a blush careening over your cheeks. You just dropped your head and hoped he didn’t notice it. 

(Jannik noticed everything about you.)

Four of the bedrooms were on the second floor with a bathroom to share. You and Jannik took one side, and then Darren and Simone on the other side, separated by a small mezzanine that led to the bathroom you were most likely going to fight over, even though there were two more in the house. It meant the last bedroom, on the floor above, would go to Mark if he decided he wanted to watch his brother play at Wimbledon instead of staying at home to watch F1. 

“Neighbours, again,” Jannik joked as you lugged your luggage upstairs to your rooms. Almost every time, you and Jannik ended up staying in hotel rooms right next to each other. You liked it when the rooms had balconies, when you could both sit out late at night and talk in hushed whispers, like you were afraid to break the peacefulness of the ever-moving cities below you. 

“Unlucky. I get to hear you snore all night now.” 

“Hey!” Jannik leaned on the wall between your doors, mouth jutting out in a pretty pout that did nothing to soothe the terrible way your heart had been fluttering all day, since he showed up to the airport in grey sweatpants and leaned all of his tired bodyweight against you like it was nothing. Like this was all just casual. It stopped being casual when you woke up in the middle of the night because you couldn’t stop thinking about him wearing that black kit in Rome. 

Oh God, and now you were going to have to watch him walk out onto the grass courts in all white. The perfect little dichotomous angel. 

“You know I don’t snore as loud as Darren.” 

“But you do snore. Like a little cat.” 

Your laugh set off his, and, almost unconsciously, you ended up leaning closer, your shoulder pressing against his, his head so low you could almost feel his curls tickling the top of your head. You could have stayed like that forever, giggling away, watching the laughter shake his body, brightening his tired face, but he turned away, into his room, claiming you had no proof to pin on him. 

(He didn’t want you to know that the way you were looking at him made his skin turn pink.)

Your room was nicer than most hotels you had stayed in since travelling with Team Sinner. Large enough for a double bed, a window with a cushioned seat, a large wooden wardrobe and a set of drawers, and a round table with a strawberry red armchair by the window that you could so easily sink into. Sure, there was no mini-fridge to raid or a TV on the wall to peruse when you got bored, but the walls were a nice, homely shade of pale pink that reminded you of your childhood bedroom. And when you sat in the window seat, you could see right out into the garden and beyond, at the pretty brown brick walls lined up behind the house, at the park stretching beyond them. If you squinted, you might even have been able to see Henman Hill. 

You unpacked while you waited for your grocery order from Deliveroo to arrive, just enough to last the first week, just in case. You were worried about ordering too much, about it all arriving and making Jannik feel ill just to look at. Two weeks' worth of food when he might not even last that long. So, you ordered enough for this week and tried to keep a positive attitude. You’d have to order it all over again. Jannik was going to make it all the way to the end. You were sure of it – he made it all the way to the end at Roland-Garros, and he didn’t even like clay. Grass was a walk in the park. 

It had to be. 

Unpacking took barely any time at all, since you’d gotten better at packing the essentials rather than bringing half your wardrobe with you, and by the time the food arrived, you had just finished dropping off your toiletries in the bathroom. You carried the shopping bags to the kitchen, called out for help, and within minutes, the three men were barrelling down the stairs to help you unload the groceries.

Conversation flowed quickly and easily, the odd domesticity of figuring out where to put the pasta in a kitchen you’d never been in before, the closeness of being on the move with these people almost constantly. When Simone told Jannik off in Italian for trying to put the chocolate in the fridge, you and Darren shared an eyeroll over their heads. When you and Jannik reached for the milk at the same time, and your hands knocked, Darren said something to Simone that made him laugh so hard he had to put down the olive oil. The team was easy to be a part of. Always friendly even when working hard, always laughing, always competing somehow. You’d been a part of more card games with these three than you ever had in your life. 

That’s why you couldn’t be in love with Jannik. You couldn’t let yourself ruin this little family you had stumbled upon by accident. Even though you’d only started in December, uprooting your life to move to Monte Carlo on a whim that you might actually enjoy booking hotel rooms and airport transfers for a tennis player you knew nothing about, you’d settled into the team fairly quickly, and your initial shyness wore off sometime during Rome. You hated go-kart racing, which Jannik forgave you for – eventually. You always argued with Simone over who got the smaller bedroom. And when Marco was still around, you always convinced him to make Jannik spend a little longer on the exercise bike when he was being particularly annoying. 

You guessed that those three months bringing Jannik back to life helped you secure a spot in the team. 

(Jannik never would have gotten through the ban without you. Maybe that’s why he was in love with you, too.) 

This time last year, when you were unemployed and struggling, you never imagined you’d be travelling the world with a world-class tennis team. You had moved home when your life started fracturing. Back to your parents and their helicopter closeness, always right there, asking too many questions, knocking on your door with cups of tea when you were trying to rot in bed and pretend you were some top-notch cinephile with a Letterboxd review worth reading. You left home for university, for a stupid journalism degree you told yourself was going to lift you out of the mediocrity of your hometown and into a life worth living, and you ended up right back where you never wanted to be. In your childhood bed, with your parents hovering, with your internship deciding they could do better than you. 

Then, six months later, your dad’s friend from a rival PR firm mentioned a tennis team in desperate need of assistance, and your dad put your name forward without even asking you. You had an online interview, wearing your most professional blouse and a pair of fluffy pyjama bottoms that they couldn’t see. When Alex Vittur mentioned accommodation tied to the job in Monte Carlo, of all places, well, you hammed up just how good you were at keeping on top of timetables. Then, a couple of weeks later, you were all packed up and ready to get on with your life. Ready to be more than the NEET living off your parents' food and close-watched hospitality. 

And now, look at you – helping set the table while the World Number 1 tennis player makes you pasta. Someone looking in from outside your life would probably think this was some great feat, making the best male tennis player in the world cook for you, but for your team, it was an everyday occurrence. For you, it was an everyday occurrence. You’d gotten oddly used to Jannik’s cooking during the ban, forcing him into the kitchen to give him something to do while all he wanted was to rot away in his bed. You’d even forced him to make a Letterboxd account, but the only time he ever updated it was when you watched a movie together, and you reminded him to rate it. He was always far more generous than you. 

(He only watched movies because he liked watching you enjoy them.) 

Dinner was eaten through yawns and quiet conversations. You poured water and spilt some on the tablecloth, and nobody really seemed to notice. Jannik sat with his chin in his hand the entire time, though you knew his mother would scold him for having his elbow on the table if she were here. Simone and Darren rarely spoke, except to mention something about your upcoming busy schedule. All the practices, the matches, the media in between, you’d have to deal with. Your plane wasn’t exactly early this morning, but the travel took its toll eventually. The constant movement. The packing and unpacking. The carrying of bags from car to plane to car again. It was like a tide washing tiredness over you all, and after dinner, when seven o’clock started to roll around, and the sun didn’t even look close to setting, you all disappeared to your rooms to shut your blackout blinds and sleep.

Except, you were lucky if you ever got to sleep before eleven on a good night.

You lay on your new bed in the dark, your laptop playing a French romantic drama from your watchlist, when the knock came. Quiet but sharp, three raps in quick succession. A Jannik speciality. You huffed, heaved your exhausted limbs out of bed, and padded over the carpeted floor barefoot to twist open the door. His pyjamas were a hoodie and a pair of old sweatpants he probably should have thrown out months ago. 

“Are you watching a movie?” he asked between yawns, running a tired hand down his tired face, dragging the skin with him. His ginger curls were a mess from tossing and turning in the bed in the next room. He was used to different beds, used to hotels or Airbnbs, used to beds that didn’t feel anything like home. But, this time, the difference had felt too stark, and he’d tiptoed over to you like it was the middle of the night before a final, and he was going to be in big trouble if he was caught. 

“Yes. I thought you were tired.” 

Through his yawn, he spoke, “Y’am.” You rolled your eyes but moved out of the way to let him in, slipping into the still darkness of the room that felt paused with the movie. Stuck in a limbo of not quite sleep, but the heavy, heady exhaustion of travel on warm days. “What are you watching?” he asked as he followed you over to the bed, blinking at the transition scene you’d paused on. 

“Vie Privée – but you won’t like it, it’s French.” 

Jannik groaned lowly, and the sound caught the hairs on the back of your neck. You ignored it, pushed away the simmering heat in your belly, and crawled over the bed to sit against the headrest. He copied your movements, crawling over the bed, sitting so close you could feel his shoulder pressing against yours. It was so easy to sink into him. You tried not to. You tried to fight the whole being in love with your boss thing. You were failing. 

Jannik slid down the bed a little so he could rest his head on your shoulder. “I hate French movies. Too pretentious.” You ignored the way your heart somersaulted. 

“Big word for you.” 

“Ha ha. I speak three languages, and you speak…?” His words muffled in the fabric of the top you’d stolen from him once and quickly thrown into your pyjama cycle. You liked the way it hung off your body like a hug, some Nike thing he probably was never going to wear again, but that you couldn’t let him get rid of. Not when it smelled like a home you’d started getting used to. 

“Yes, yes, you are very smart, whatever. Wanna watch this or nah?” 

“Keep watching.” You could almost hear his eyes starting to slow shut. It was strange how much you could know someone after just six months. It was strange that you already knew he was going to fall asleep right here and, in a few hours when you were ready to go to sleep too, you would wake him up and send him back to his own bed. And, you’d mourn the loss of his warmth until tomorrow night when the exact same thing happened again, and again, and again. “I’m just gonna sleep right here.” 

“Not all night,” you warned, pressing play on your laptop. 

He smiled against your shoulder, and it felt like a kiss. You couldn’t ignore it. 

(He couldn’t tell you how badly he wanted to actually press a kiss there.)

🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓

Hi! Welcome to our new Jannik fic! I've had such a lovely response to the teaser, and I'm so excited to read your thoughts as we go along. I'll be very busy over the next week with Christmas, but I couldn't wait to post, so there might be a little wait for chapter two 🤍

Hope you enjoyed! Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list.

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She’d tried to argue with him of course insisting she didn’t need anything that huge, but Jack Abbot had simply smirked and pointed out that he would be a foolish man to deny the fact that his girlfriend liked her clothing and she needed the space so she didn’t slowly take over his dresser. She should have her own dresser, one big enough to hold her treasure trove of clothes.

Y/N kept her gaze on the line of pregnancy tests lying out in front of her, the sight somehow equally as intimidating as it was orderly. 

She’d lined the tests up by price, being sure to carefully place the instructions for each test right above each plastic testing stick with enough space between each stick so there was no chance of paperwork getting mixed up when it came time to view the results.

The tidy arrangement was a testament to Y/N’s work style as a night shift nurse in the ED. She had long been praised for her ability to keep everything needed to perform her job at 110% neat and tidy. It was a talent to have, especially working in a chaotic environment like an emergency room. 

She knew that buying six different brands of pregnancy tests was definitely overkill, but an obnoxious voice in the back of her head barked that she needed a wide sample size to get the most accurate results. 

She found herself treating this damn at-home pregnancy test experience like a research project. 

She hadn’t taken a single test yet. She told herself she needed to go about this methodically and take her time to make sure the results were true and valid.

She told herself treating this the way she was was the most detached way she could go about this; treating it like she was conducting a study instead of doing something highly personal that risked changing her life forever no matter what the results on the tests had to say.

She was pretty sure she couldn’t step back from a pregnancy scare that wound up being just a scare, without it changing her just the slightest…without it changing Abbot.

She found herself gnawing at the inside of her cheek, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she tried to steady herself and work up the nerve to take the first test.

The comically large bottle of orange Gatorade sat beside her along with a bottle of diet green tea, both beverages here to help her even produce enough urine to take the tests. 

She knew she’d have to take them all in batches. There was no way in hell she could pee enough to take each test one at a time not without walking away with a truly achy poor bladder.

A more sensible voice in the back of her head tried to gently tell her that this was ridiculous. The entire production was messy and made her look absolutely deranged. She’d been accused of neuroticism to her own detriment, but this was an entirely new low even for her.

She should just call up Jack and ask him to come home for this. She should bring him in to this and let him hold her hand and help her find a saner more rational way to go about this.

As much as she wanted to reach for her cell phone and dial his number she resisted far too stubborn and far too avoidant of the intense anxiety it gave her to take the risk. What was she supposed to even say if she called him? “Hey baby, how’s work…that’s nice, you might want to come home because there’s a pretty good chance you put a bun firmly in my oven and I’m kinda freaking out here.”

She was certain there was no way to be subtle about why she might need him home without this getting messy. If she kept things vague and just asked him to come home now it would just lead to him assuming the worst and freaking out. Lord knows he worried about her as much as he did, as sweet as he was, there was no need to feed the fire.

So, she resigned herself into suffering on her own for now, at least until she had an answer.

She stared down at the tests as though they might jump up and bite at her ankles at any second.

She knew she was prolonging the inevitable. She was procrastinating doing this and had done so since she got home.

She had done a hell of a lot of procrastinating for someone who had left work early to take this stupid test just because she couldn’t possibly wait for a shift turnover.

She’d eaten the pasta Abbot had kindly informed her would be waiting in the fridge for her knowing he’d fuss over her if she skipped out on eating something after a long shift. Then she’d taken a nap after cleaning up her dishes from her microwaved leftover pasta knowing she’d be useless if she didn’t get some rest after a long shift.

Then she’d decided to work on the crochet project she’d been working on for a few months now; an adorable stuffed unicorn with a matching rainbow patterned scarf for her goddaughter’s upcoming birthday. She knew she needed to get it done before Noelle’s visit with her parents in a few months.

She was looking forward to the visit and she knew Abbot was as well. It was a relief for her; Jack’s acceptance of her goddaughter and her goddaughter’s parents. Maria, Reggie, and Noelle were Y/N’s family more than her friends.

Y/N was so cut off from her own biological family, so she’d found a family of a different kind instead. She’d worried Abbot would not mesh with the sense of family she had fallen into and cherished so, but those worries had been unfounded. 

The four most important people in her life had gotten along and it had given her such a sense of relief to know that the man she’d fallen for was accepting of her found family and her found family accepted him.

Maria and Reggie had been the ones who had helped Y/N escape her ex husband. They meant the world to her as did their daughter. They were her rock for so long. It was such a blessing to know they adored Abbot and he meshed so well with them.

Y/N had told herself that it made perfect sense to pick up her crochet project in a time like this even though she knew it was irrational. She had some free time and needed to get the project done she’d told herself. So why not work on it now of all the times in the world?  She had shut out the voice that pointed out she was using the crochet as an avoidance technique and locked in on her project for a few hours.

She’d attempted to work on the crochet project but had found herself losing count of her stitches so often she’d had to undo rows and rows and had come to the conclusion that she was just making a mess. So, she’d abandoned the project and forced herself to prepare to take the dreaded pregnancy tests.

She’d spent hours prepping the bathroom and the tests and herself for the moment when she actually bit the bullet and did it.

She took slow deep breaths trying to steady the anxiety attack brewing in her gut. She could do this. She could totally do this and remain calm and methodical.

Y/N stared down at the tests trying her best to will herself to grab one and get this over with.

She tried to calm her nerves telling herself that no matter what happened Dr. Jack Abbot was the best man she could ever hope to endure something like this with.

She knew deep within her heart and soul that no matter what happened in this bathroom that Jack Abbot would stick around. It’s just who he was; dependable and sturdy. 

She’d often wondered if this personality trait in him was a skill Abbot had developed during his time serving in the U.S. army. She imagined being loyal and steadfast were traits that would be favorable for one to have in the military especially in a combat situation.

He maintained a sense of calm and control when he was on the emergency room floor. He never faltered, never strayed from his path, never let himself give into the chaos surrounding him.

She’d noted the stubborn relentlessness in him when he worked on cases. He was not the type to give up on a patient until he had an answer, nor did he give up on his residents until he was certain they could stand on their own two feet in whatever daunting situation they’d been dealt with while overseeing patients.

His passion for his role treating patients and overseeing residents was admirable. And it had been what had first drawn Y/N to him…at least personality wise.  She had been known to tease him that the first physical thing she’d noticed about him was his strong forearms…and his cute butt. She’d thought he was hot, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

The sense of loyalty Jack Abbot possessed was something else she’d taken note of. He was dependable and never strayed from those he cared for. She’d seen the behavior when it came to his mom and his younger sister as well as his friends and of course with herself. He was by far the most faithful human being she’d ever met when it came to sticking by those he cared for. He did not forsake anyone even if it was to his detriment. She couldn’t help but to at times compare him to a dog who kept coming back so trusting and loving, no matter how many times life kicked him. 

Of course he was just as loyal and dependable to his residents; sticking by them if he thought they were doubting themselves or needed an ear to rant to. He made sure his residents knew he was there if they needed them without hovering or taking over for them. He let them learn while offering guidance and encouragement. She’d seen him do the same for day shift residents as well; stepping up for a teaching moment and offering praise and reassurance or a firm correction when needed.   

The compassion he possessed played a role there too. Jack Abbot was the most selfless individual Y/N had ever met. He’d give the shirt off his own back to a stranger if he felt that they needed it more than him. He’d been known to donate blood in times of medical crisis at the hospital because he was a universal donor and insisted he would be selfish not to give as much as his body could handle to save a life. His compassion extended to his patients and his residents alike. He cared about those around him. He wanted them to feel secure and capable. He took his job as an attending seriously; he was there to educate and empower his residents. He was filled with enough compassion to reach out to residents who he knew were struggling and even recognize and suggest specialties that might be better suited for residents who clearly couldn’t manage it in the ED.

He was so patient, just endlessly patient. He’d go over treatment plans a thousand times with a patient until he was sure they understood him. He’d work with his residents with a sense of calm but stern ease, never afraid to try different teaching methods until he found what stuck. 

He was a stern teacher without ever being cruel even when someone screwed up. He was able to correct mistakes without ever talking down to anyone. He insisted his job as an attending and a doctor was to correct and inform without demeaning anyone.

Y/N knew these positive traits were part of what made her fall for Dr. Jack Abbot. 

Jack Abbot was a good man. He did not run from things that scared him.

If anyone was going to get her pregnant then she was lucky it was him.

Still a voice in the back of her head taunted her that perhaps maybe deep down instead she did not deserve motherhood. She didn’t deserve it; not after last time.

As hard as Y/N tried to stop herself she allowed her mind to drift back to a time that seemed so long ago and the person she had been in what had seemed a lifetime ago.

Y/N wrapped the sweater around her shoulders ignoring the itchy fabric it a comfort in the cold of the motel bathroom she sat alone in.

She cringed at a knock to the door, a familiar voice sounding out. “Y/N, Honey? You okay? You’ve been in there for a while?”

 She parted her lips wanting to lie and say she was fine, but the words died in her throat. She sighed pulling her knees up to rest against her chest ignoring the ache in her poor bruised frame. “No.”

The door creaked open that familiar voice sounding out as the door opened to reveal the owner of that familiar voice. “I’m coming in, okay.”

Marie Walker stared down at her long time friend wasting no time to creep into the bathroom, her movements slow and steady knowing Y/N had been jumpy, not that she blamed her. 

She sat down beside the other woman, her voice soft. “Talk to me, Hon.”

Y/N glanced over at her friend, always somewhat in awe of her. She had met Marie Walker back in her first year of college. Y/N had been isolated and socially awkward knowing no one outside her then fiance turned husband soon to be hopefully ex husband

Marie had taken Y/N under her wing and nurtured her. She’d not minded Y/N’s social awkwardness nor the fact that Y/N had never had many friends before, not outside her family’s church and Nathan Simmons the man who she would marry. Y/N could not call anyone involved with the church a friend. She also was well aware she could not call those who she had hung around in her rebellious teen years friends. To be honest she’d long accepted loneliness as the human condition. She had resigned herself to not having any real close friendships. 

Marie had proven to be a much needed support for Y/N. They’d been thick as thieves. They’d both gone to nursing school together and had remained close even after finishing up their schooling and licensing. When Nathan Simmons had pushed everyone from his Y/N’s life, Marie had refused to butt out. She had worked to maintain open contact with Y/N. She made it clear she was always there; always reaching out along with her boyfriend Reggie.

When Y/N had found herself in the emergency room this last time she had managed to get a hold of a phone and call the two people who never allowed Y/N’s husband to push away.

Marie and Reggie had been there in a flash and they’d checked Y/N out of the hospital before Nathan even knew what hit him.

That was how Y/N had found herself in a motel room on the outskirts of town with no one but Reggie and Marie knowing her location.

She was getting out. Marie and Reggie were going to help her make her escape. The divorce would happen and Y/N was determined to leave for good this time. 

This was life or death for her. Nathan had already taken a life. Y/N felt her heart ache thinking of all the blood; her poor sweet baby. She’d not even known of its existence until Nathan had snapped and beaten her so brutally that the little life within her had been snuffed out.

She’d lied to the emergency room staff of course. She’d fallen down the stairs as far as the hospital staff knew. It was just a tragic awful accident. The old bruises were explained away as old injuries from Y/N being such a klutz. She knew the lies were weak but she was well versed in the act of lying about the state of her body. 

Y/N knew going to the police did nothing at this point. Nathan always had a way of slipping his way out of any real trouble. He got arrested and the charges never stuck. Y/N knew Nathan’s dad being a cop in their little southern town probably didn’t help the charges stick. She questioned what she would do with a restraining order anyhow; throw it at him next time he swung his fist in her direction?

Y/N felt her voice crack so many thoughts swimming through her mind at such a rapid pace that she could barely sort through them. “I just, I don’t know what’s next.”

“What’s next is getting you the hell out of this state and talking to Reggie’s brother about that lawyer for you.” Marie insisted, showing she had clearly already thought about this escape plan time and time again. 

Y/N felt a weak smile cross her lips as she spoke. “You really think an outlaw biker is the best guy to ask about finding legal representation for a divorce?”

“Hell yes I do. Trust me criminals know the best lawyers…and he’s not really a criminal…I mean, Eddie claims he’s gone straight and is a law abiding citizen.” Marie replied, speaking far too nonchalantly about her boyfriend’s older brother.

Y/N sighed her head falling back to rest against the wall unable to stop herself from saying it. “Sure, that’s why Reggie offered to talk to Eddie about having Nathan taken care of? I swear Reggie better be out actually just getting us burgers, not plotting some hair brained hit job with his idiot brother.”

Marie shrugged her shoulders at the comment fast to respond. “I don’t think they were going to take dickface out, just give him equal treatment.”

Y/N felt a chill run down her spine at the words equal treatment. She shook her head at Marie’s chosen nickname for Nathan Simmons. “I don’t want any more violence, Marie. Just because he hurt me doesn’t mean he deserves to be hurt in return.”

“The fuck he doesn’t. He deserves hell, Y/N. Don’t defend the prick. Don’t you dare defend the man who put you in the emergency room. I know this isn’t the first time, Y/N.” Marie snapped a look of concern crossing her features, her eyes narrowing in Y/N’s direction.

Y/N had driven herself to the emergency room after that final beating. Nathan had left the house; probably thinking she’d clean up her wounds and go to bed like usual. Y/N had felt as though something had awoken in her though; the realization that she wasn’t going to do this anymore. She looked down at her bloodied lap, the cramps shooting through her pelvis a hint that there was something more serious going on than a bruised and swollen beaten body.

She’d been right. She’d drug her beaten broken body into her local emergency room, the blood soaked nightgown she’d worn stripped away for a hospital gown and a diagnosis; miscarriage due to physical trauma. 

She knew the medical staff had not bought her story about falling down the concrete stairs in her apartment. She’d known though that it didn’t matter. She was going to escape. She would never find herself dragging her broken body into an emergency room lying about the source of her injuries ever again. 

Y/N held her hands up in a defensive stance, shaking her head. “This isn’t me saying I forgive him and I’m reconciling with him. I promise. I’m not going back to Nathan. I’m not defending him, I promise. I just, there’s been so much pain. I just want the pain to stop.”

Marie wrapped an arm around Y/N’s shoulders giving the woman a squeeze as she spoke her voice so reassuring like a mother comforting a frightened child. “It’s over. He’s not going to cause you any more pain. I promise. Reggie and I aren’t going to let him near you. We’re getting you the hell out of this place and far away from dickface. We’re going to get you the best lawyer and you’re going to be able to live a safe life far away from this place.”

Y/N felt her hand slide down to her stomach the concept that there had been a life growing within her that was now gone so hard to wrap her mind around. “I didn’t know. If I had known, I could have protected them.”

Marie rested her head against Y/N’s giving her shoulder another squeeze. “I know you didn’t know. You aren’t to blame, Y/N. You didn’t know about it.”

Y/N let out a shaky humorless laugh, the sound as bitter as the words that left her. “It’s probably for the best, not bringing this kid into the world. I would have been a shit mother.”

“I don’t believe that. There’s no way you’d be a shit mom.” Marie was quick to argue a frown crossing her features.

Y/N stared up at her friend, not shocked by the words. Marie never let her talk herself down. She was a good friend.

To be honest Y/N was always in awe of Marie just the slightest bit. She had to think Marie had missed her chance to be a supermodel. She was tall and elegant with high cheekbones, a head full of pretty dark curly hair, and a clear tan complexion. She was so stunning that she made Y/N feel so invisible in her presence at times. Y/N had always thought her best friend was pretty enough that she could have been a model or a Hollywood starlet. 

Marie had a kind heart though. She was as intelligent as she was kind and beautiful. Nursing was a calling for her much the way it was a calling for Y/N.

Y/N sighed, shaking her head the tears slipping from her eyes despite her best attempts to stop them. “I don’t know how to be anyone’s mom. I mean, you know what my mom was like…what my parents are like…how do I love someone so unconditionally when I was never given that love? If I’d had this baby…I would have just screwed them up.”

Marie cringed having only met Y/N’s family once or twice and she was not a fan. They’d gone a number on Y/N. The religious abuse didn’t even scrape the surface of what they’d done to her. 

Marie sighed, finding the words. “You know what I think? I think that because you were never shown that kind of love that means you’d work so hard to make sure your kid never knows how that feels. I don’t think anyone knows how to be a parent. They just kind of learn on the job. I mean there’s parenting classes but that can only do so much. The only thing you do is go into being a mom or a dad with good intentions. I think you have the best intentions. If you were going to be such a shit mom then you wouldn’t even consider how much you might fuck up your kid. Shit parents don’t tend to be considerate enough to think about how their kids might be impacted by their parent’s baggage.”

Y/N stared up at Marie parting her lips wanting to argue that this wasn’t the case for her. How could she understand how to ever love a child? The only love her parents had ever given her was given with terms and conditions and reminders that God would punish her if she got out of line. There was no hate the sin not the sinner in her family. The sinner was just as guilty as the sins they committed and forgiveness was not easily earned not even if you begged Jesus and God for it a thousand times. She’d grown up feeling as though she was screaming out to a God who was not listening. Her prayers went unanswered and her questions and doubts were treated as insolence.   

Marie did not give her the chance to argue though fast to speak again. “You had shit parents Y/N. You deserved so much more and it breaks my heart you didn’t get the love you needed as a kid. That doesn’t reflect how you love or how you deserve to be loved though. I think that someday you’re going to find a guy who’s going to love you so deeply and he’s going to be worth facing the fear of what kind of mom you’re going to be. I think you’re going to find a great guy and you’re going to realize that you do have what it takes to be a great mom. I think you are claiming this loss is for the best because you are so crushed. Your heart is broken because you know how much you would have loved this kid even with who the father was. I think you would have loved this baby so much that you can’t even comprehend how much you’d have loved them. If you really admitted it then it would just be too overwhelming to even face that love knowing that you lost the baby. Grief is just love that has nowhere left to go. I think sometimes we love people so much that if we sit and think about how much we really truly love them then it scares the shit out of us because of how all encompassing it is.”

The tears came harder now Marie giving Y/N’s shoulders another squeeze holding Y/N tight against her as she spoke again. “Trust me, Hon. You are going to get another shot at this someday with someone who’s worth it. It’s not going to take away how much this fucking hurts, but the love will be there. You’ve got a big heart. Any kid would be lucky to call you mom.”

The memory faded from Y/N’s mind, her hand reaching for her stomach much the way it had done in a different bathroom all those years ago. This time she knew that there might be life still growing within her womb. There was a possibility of a little life.

The love was there. She had found a man worth it. 

She would be ready this time.

—---------------------------------

Jack Abbot would be full of shit if he tried to pretend that he’d not glanced at his phone at any moments of peace during his busy shift.

He moved through the motions keeping his mind on the job though he’d be lying if he tried to pretend that he did not notice the missing presence of a certain night shift nurse.

He felt pathetic to admit it, but he’d definitely noticed her absence these past few shifts she’d been covering for the day shift. She wasn’t around to banter with Mateo and Dr. Shen. She wasn’t there to work along his side assisting him with patients. She was not there to covertly try to steal all of Abbot’s best pens and claim they had always been her pens and she had no clue what he was talking about when he called her out on it. Nor was she there for Abbot to discreetly attempt to steal away for flirty murmured conversations trying to find moments between the chaos and away from the prying ears of their coworkers.

He found himself staring down at his text messages, his heart sinking at no new texts from her. He had to hope it was a sign that perhaps she had followed his advice about the cold compress to her head and was getting some rest.

He couldn’t stop himself from picturing her though lying in the center of their bed her face pressed close to his pillow to take in his familiar scent, their bedroom cold and dark. He imagined her buried underneath the comforter reaching out for his vacant side of the bed missing him as much as he missed her. He pictured her closing her eyes resting soundly despite the pain in her head, her breathing soft and even soft murmured words occasionally leaving her lips as she dreamed. He imagined she was wearing one of his t-shirts to bed and wearing little else but that article of borrowed clothing.

He had to think that the sight of her in one of his t-shirts was akin to the beauty of  a fine work of art. Of course Y/N might look alluring in lace and silk lingerie, but nothing in Jack Abbot’s opinion was more captivating than the sight of her in one of his old t-shirts. It was the prettiest sight on planet earth.

Sleeping during the day knowing she was working day shifts had been miserable for Jack Abbot. He’d had to wonder how he had ever slept without her by his side. There was something comforting about knowing she was resting safe by his side. There was something that was so lovely cuddling by her side as they settled down for the night…or well day in their case. He loved curling up against her in the warmth of their bed even if she might press her cold feet to him. He liked listening to her softly talk in her sleep and waking by her side each morning pressing kisses to her lips despite her protests claiming morning breath.

Jack Abbot had no idea how he’d ever gone so long sleeping on his own.

Needless he was relieved to say that Y/N only had one more day shift to cover and then she’d have a day off and get back to the night shift with him where she belonged. 

This evening he’d found himself glancing down at his phone, the wallpaper on his lock screen a photo of her, the sight soothing him through a hard shift.

The photo of her he was currently using as a phone background had been taken when he’d taken her to lunch on a day off a while back. There was something so stunning about how she’d looked in the sweet little sundress she’d been wearing that he just had to have a photo of her. Of course he knew his fondness for the photo might have to do with the memory of just how that sweet little sundress had wound up on their bedroom floor that afternoon.

Of course he’d found himself gazing down at the photos of her on his phone even when he wasn’t having a rough shift. He had so many photos of her on his phone it was a miracle he wasn’t constantly getting notifications asking him to upgrade iCloud storage space. He knew to those around him who knew him well enough that it was obvious just what he gazed at on his phone and just why it put a lovesick smile on his lips.

Robby had given him plenty of shit for it and deemed that lovesick look Abbot got when it came to Y/N the Oh Wow isn’t Y/N just swell look.

He knew that the teasing was well earned. He could not even try to pretend he was not lovesick for Y/N.

He pined for her when she was away from him for too terribly long. For someone who had lived in solitude for so long and claimed he was so comfortable in that solitude and found comfort in the darkness, he had become so comfortable in Y/N’s company and the brightness she brought into that darkness he’d claimed to find such peace within.

Perhaps the comfort he’d found in that peace was part of the reason why he’d been more eager than usual to do his turnover for the day shift and head out of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. 

His shift tonight had been rough. It had not been one of the top ten worst he’d endured. It was not bad enough for him to seek the rooftop of the PTMC to decompress at the very least.

If anything he had the feeling the roughness of his shift would have been lessened by Y/N’s presence.

That was partially why he rushed out the doors the second the handoff and turnover was complete responding to Robby’s knowing commentary on just where Abbot was so eager to get off to with a subtle flip of the bird. The move was quick and discreet enough that anyone but Robby and he would have missed it unless they were paying attention. Thankfully everyone around them remained far too involved in their own work to take notice of the exchange.

He wasted no time making it to his truck ignoring the slight pain in his right side. He was more than ready to take a break from his prosthetic leg after this shift.

He gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain and discomfort knowing the second he got home he could ditch the prosthetic and massage his limb. He would grab a quick bite to eat and a shower and relax by Y/N’s side.

He resisted the urge to go over the speed limit knowing driving recklessly would do him no favors in his mission to get home to his girlfriend.

He kept his eyes on the road, feeling as though every cell in his body was ready to get home to her.

Jack Abbot found it so impossible to believe that there was ever a time where he might have been so certain in the fact that he could ever live a life without her in it.

It was hard to believe he’d ever been so foolish and so damn stubborn. He knew he had his therapist to thank for helping him reach the point where he’d realized that perhaps getting close to Y/N was not such a terrible idea. 

His therapist had played a huge role in making him recognize just how much Y/N had begun to mean to him. 

He found himself sinking back into the memory so easily of one the many therapy appointments where the conversation had turned to Y/N and the place she had carved in his life so early on.

Jack Abbot sat back in the cushy chair, the room warm and secure feeling. The space was clean without being clinical. 

Seeing a counselor had been good for Jack Abbot. It had taken him a long while to find one who he meshed with.

The counseling had begun soon after he’d been honorably discharged from the army after he’d lost his leg in combat.

He’d been angry then; struggling with PTSD from war and the fact that he’d lost his right leg from the knee down. It had been an adjustment; not just physically but mentally coming to terms with the amputation and the mental scars that had been left from the experience.

Jack had gone into the military knowing it would fund his education. He’d been young and his family had not had the funds for medical school. Jack was smart but scholarships could only help so much.

The army had seemed a good way to get an education without drowning in too much debt especially as far as Jack Abbot hoped to take his education.

His service in the army had given him what he needed when it came to his education but he’d paid his dues with his body.

He’d come back from the war in the middle east with a prosthetic leg and a lot of trauma.

The therapy had been a lifeline. He’d learned to cope with what life had dealt him.

He’d continued with the counseling throughout his medical career, finding it comforting to keep in touch with some form of mental health counseling even if he’d been able to move forward without needing it so frequently.

Then Anna had passed. The loss of his wife had shaken him. He’d fallen into a deep depression as anyone in his shoes would. Her death had been so sudden and it had come during a difficult time in their marriage. He’d been dedicated to his work and she’d felt neglected and they’d been going back and forth on starting a family.

Things had been tense and then she’d been gone. Any future had died with her and all Jack Abbot had been able to think about was all the time he’d wasted working instead of being at home with her and all the time he’d spent arguing with her about if he was ready for kids or not.

He’d avoided therapy for a while until the depression had lifted just enough for him to have the energy to force himself to find a counselor.

Though it had been nearly a decade since he’d lost his wife he’d still not allowed himself to move on romantically. His therapist told him he didn’t let people into his life past a superficial base level. Jack didn’t quite agree but he’d at least been willing to hear his therapist out.

He’d found a therapist he meshed well with. Brian had proven to be a great therapist to Jack in the years he’d seen him.

Jack had come to him every week for a long while now and it helped. It gave him a healthy space to decompress from his job and be honest about how he was really feeling in a nonjudgemental environment.

Jack paused the story he’d been retelling recalling how his last shift had gone, not even really realizing the sense of fondness clear in his voice as he’d said the words. “The woman is a true menace. I still haven’t figured out how she’s getting my best pens. I’m thinking I might just need to buy Y/N her own set so she stops borrowing mine.”

“Y/N. That’s a name that’s been coming up often in our visits, Jack.” Brian pointed out Abbot frowning thinking back to the past few visits they’d had. Sure, he’d mentioned Y/N, but they worked together so of course she was going to come up when he recalled a rough shift or how things at work had been going.

He cleared his throat attempting to sound nonchalant about the possibility that he’d been mentioning Y/N at just about every therapy appointment for the past few months now. “She’s a great nurse, capable and orderly. She has a way of anticipating patients' needs without them having to voice them. She’s compassionate but steady enough to not let her heart cloud her choices when assisting in patient treatment. I am pleased with her work. I’m happy to have her on my team.”

“You’ve developed more than a professional relationship with Y/N? You mentioned taking her to breakfast last week.” Brian pointed out seeing right through Abbot’s attempts to focus only on the work aspect of his opinions of Y/N.

Jack Abbot shifted in his seat staring down at his hands as he responded. “We’ve developed a friendship of sorts I suppose. You’re the one who’s always encouraging me to seek out connections beyond the workplace and the occasional work I do with the SWAT team.”

“I have been encouraging you to do that. Would you say that your feelings towards Y/N go beyond a friendship? You just described it as a friendship of sorts, Jack. That might imply that there’s an emotion you might feel towards her that goes beyond a friendship.” Brian questioned Jack grimacing at the question. Of course his therapist would pick apart the response and read between the lines.

Jack sighed, shaking his head at the question. “It would hardly be appropriate for it to extend beyond a friendship.”

Brian raised a brow quick to question this line of thought. “And why would that be? She’s not a nursing student from my understanding, Jack. It seems as though she’s settled into her career. She is not your subordinate. So, what would be inappropriate if you were to view her as something beyond a friendship? I know we’ve discussed your feelings about romantic relationships given the loss of your wife. From our past talks it seems we reached a place where you admitted that finding love again would not be a betrayal to your late wife. Has that changed? ”

Jack let out a heavy sigh forcing himself to make eye contact with Brian finding the words. “No, that hasn’t changed…I’ve moved my ring from my finger to my dog tags. I’ve been thinking about what you’ve mentioned…when I’m ready writing a note to Anna, to the ring…thanking her for loving me with the time we had letting her know that it's time to put the ring in a safe place, thanking the ring for being a symbol of the love I shared with Anna and the memories we created. I’ve put some serious thought into it…even looked for a ring box I could put it in when I’m ready.”

He paused, clearing his throat, it growing tight, he knowing he wasn’t quite at the place where he was ready to do this just yet. 

He shifted in place knowing he had not exactly fully answered the question he’d been asked. Brian of course picked up on this. “That’s good to hear, Jack. I know not wearing your ring was something you were resistant to for a long while. When we first broached the subject of your late wife years ago you were convinced removing the ring would be a sign the love you shared meant nothing. It’s good to see you’ve reached a place of understanding that allowing yourself to accept the possibility of no longer wearing your ring doesn’t mean devaluing anything you may have shared with Anna nor does it mean you love her any less. I know it’s taken you a long time to come to a place where you’re open to the concept of having the ability to find love again. I know it’s not been easy to consider that you might be able to experience love for more than one person and that loneliness is not a life sentence for you.”

Brian paused, mentioning the other part of the question he’d asked again. “Given the amount of time you’ve spent with Y/N, would you say it might be safe to say that you might consider pursuing something more than friendship with her?”

Jack couldn’t stop himself from scoffing the words slipping from his lips long before he could stop them. “I couldn’t put her through that.”

“Through what, Jack?” Brian questioned the Abbot twisting his lips, his jaw set tight as he realized just what he’d said.

Jack sighed, shaking his head deciding to just be honest about it. If he couldn’t be honest with his therapist, who could he be honest with? “I’m too much for her. She’s young and she’s got a full life ahead of her and I don’t need to drag her down.”

Brian was fast to pick up on the comment and question it. “What about you do you feel is too much or would drag her down?”

 Dr. Jack Abbot took a deep breath, one of the reasons spilling from his lips. “I’m too old for her, hell, I’m old enough to be her father. I’m sure she wants more than a man nearing fifty with weathered wrinkled skin and gray hairs. She probably wants someone close to her own age.”

“The age difference might be unconventional, but you are both consenting adults. Have you asked her how she might view your age difference?”

“No, I haven’t. It’s not exactly a subject I’ve broached with her, Brian. I don’t even know how I’d bring something like that up.” Abbot remarked, waving a hand dismissively.

He paused, shaking his head going into all the other reasons why it would be an awful idea to pursue anything beyond friendship with her his voice raising a little anger beginning to brew in his gut as he admitted all his failures. “Even if the age thing wasn’t a factor, I’m not what she should look for in a partner. She needs someone less complicated with less baggage. She doesn’t need an old widower with a missing limb who’s so uncomfortable with moments of peace that he picks up extra shifts at work and works with a SWAT team in his spare time because he has to keep busy or his thoughts will cause him to break down if he thinks too long and too hard of all the shit he’s lived through. She should go for a guy with a body that isn’t broken and a mind that isn’t a mess. She needs more than a guy who wakes up in a cold sweat dreaming about the battlefield, his dead wife, and coding patients in the ED. Trust me, Brian, It can’t progress to anything beyond friendship. I can’t do that to her.”

Brian did not react to the outburst, keeping his voice calm and even. “You are making a lot of assumptions about what Y/N should want and what she might need. As far as all these faults you’ve described in yourself, I know you’re actively addressing them. I think you’ve proven you are beyond capable of living a full life with your amputation. You don’t seem broken physically to me, sure you might struggle on occasion with pain and limitations, but you’ve done the work to be mindful of your body and what it might need from you. We’ve talked about listening to your body and nurturing it, Jack. You have an understandable mental state for the traumas you’ve endured. You’ve worked hard to work through the ptsd symptoms. You’re assuming that Y/N might not be understanding of the reasons behind the symptoms as well as your body’s limitations.”

Jack gritted his jaw turning his eyes from Brian not wanting to admit that the man was being reasonable in his assessments. 

Brian spoke again, glancing at his watch. “We’re nearing the end of our time for today Jack. Before our next session I want you to work on your journaling. When you have these thoughts about all the reasons you might think that you might not be worthy of anything beyond friendship with Y/N, I want you to write it down.”

He paused, adding another comment on. “I do think it might be important to consider a detail I haven’t heard you mention, Jack. If Y/N were to find herself in a romantic relationship with someone else, would you feel at peace with that? I think it might be important to weigh out how you might feel about the possibility of her moving on romantically compared to these doubts you might have about pursuing anything beyond a friendship with her. It’s just something I would like you to journal about. It might be helpful to consider both sides of these feelings. It can help you sort out all of this should and needs talk compared to how you might organically feel for her removing any concept of assuming what she might expect from you.”

Jack Abbot could admit that yes, he’d taken Brian’s advice. He’d journaled a lot about Y/N.

And about a month after that therapy appointment Jack Abbot had to face that question Brian had brought up; how would Jack feel if Y/N moved on with someone else.

He could still remember that overheard conversation that had lit a fire under his ass and forced him to make his move.

He’d been standing outside a patient room far enough out of view that Y/N and Dr. Shen could not see him and was unaware he was listening in. He’d not intended to listen in but the words had stopped him dead on his feet.

“So, Y/N a little bird told me you have a big date with Danny from phlebotomy.” Dr. Shen teased between sips of his iced coffee.

Y/N groaned at the comment fast to reply. “I’m going to murder Nurse Diaz. Mateo’s days are numbered.”

The comment earned a snicker from Dr. Shen he fast to respond. “So, big date? Danny was making moon eyes at you and pulling all the moves according to Mateo.”

“Yeah, I mean, he flirted…asked me for coffee. I said yes. Figured it couldn’t hurt. He seems like an okay guy.” Y/N remarked Jack feeling his stomach drop.

Danny from Phlebotomy, the same Danny a few of the night shift staff made eyes at. He was young and attractive and a flirt. Abbot had noticed Danny’s gaze turning to Y/N lately, but he’d always found a way to distract Y/N, to pull her from the other man’s gaze.

Now it seemed that Danny had made his move and Abbot felt sick to his stomach.

“Ouch, okay? That’s not really the way you should describe someone you’re going on a date with.” Dr. Shen remarked a brow raising at Y/N’s lack of enthusiasm about this upcoming date.

Y/N sighed, shaking her head focusing on readying the bed for their patient who was currently gone getting an MRI in imaging. “I…it’s just been a while. I haven’t really dated in a long time. I don’t know if this will be anything, and I’m not 100 percent sure how I feel about it to be honest. I mean, he’s nice…he’s cute enough. If anything it’ll be a good way to get back on the saddle with the whole dating game. It’s a good idea. I mean and he’s interested and it’s not like guys are beating down the door to ask me out…not with my work schedule.”

“Oh I can think of one guy who would beat down a door in a heartbeat to take you out. Salt pepper hair, incredibly fit for a guy nearing fifty, night shift attendee that has a last name that rhymes with that animal that hops and is fond of carrots.” Shen remarked Jack feeling his pulse quicken.

Was he that transparent? Did everyone know about the feelings he’d been wrestling with for Y/N for so damn long now?

Y/N was quick to respond to this, a sharp laugh leaving her. “Dr. Abbot? Jac…Dr, Abbot and I are just friends.”

“So you two keep exclaiming even though none of us are buying it. Just friends don’t stare at each other the way you two do. You two are glued at the hip around here. You sneak away to the roof after your shifts together more often than not. Dr. Abbot actually comes to outings with the rest of us when we go out for a drink or a bite to eat as long as you’re going to be there. You two have been hanging out outside of work a lot.” Dr. Shen replied calling out the just friends line Y/N fed anyone anytime they mentioned her closeness to Dr. Abbot.

Y/N was fast to defend herself. “I like working with him, trust me as far as doctors go, Dr. Abbot is by far the most pleasant I’ve ever worked with. I’ve worked with some real narcissistic doctors before and it’s a pain to deal with someone who disregards every word you say because you’re just a nurse. The roof is a nice place to decompress. Dr. Abbot and I just share the space sometimes. I’m sure his joining social outings has zero to do with me. Yes we hang out sometimes. We’ve grabbed breakfast after some rough shifts and he’s helped me move furniture when I had to move apartments.”

She paused a soft sigh leaving her lips sounding almost resigned to the next words she said. “If Dr. Abbot wanted to make some kind of move on me he’s had the chance. Trust me, I am not even on his radar. He’s not read-...it’s just not like that okay.”

Abbot cringed at the words she didn’t say. He’s not ready. 

He cringed even more at the ones she did say. He’s had the chance to make his move.

She was going on a date. Y/N was going on a date with someone who wasn’t him.

Y/N of course had  never made that date.

Jack Abbot had gone straight to her place after their shift the day he’d overheard her conversation with Shen.

He’d run up to her apartment ignoring the ache in his right thigh telling him he needed to get out of his prosthetic and not paying mind to the fact that it was pouring rain and he was soaked by the time he reached the front door to her apartment.

The words had left him the second she’d opened the door. 

“Please don’t go on the date with Danny from Phelbotomy.”

Y/N had stared at him as though he’d grown a second head. She had not anticipated opening her door to a distressed looking Dr. Abbot who was currently soaking wet from the storm outside.

She stepped aside letting him in as she spoke. “What are you talking about Jack? Why don’t you want me to go out on this date? I mean, I know Danny hits on anything with tits and a pulse, but…”

Abbot had spoken, interrupting her before she could continue. “He doesn’t deserve to take you on a date. Don’t go out with him.”

Y/N crossed her arms across her chest, her stubborn streak kicking in. “I don’t recall giving you any authority on what I do and don’t deserve nor did I give you authority to order me around about who I go on dates with.”

Jack cringed at the sharpness to her tone. He took a deep breath remembering everything he’d journaled about concerning Y/N and his feelings towards her. He could let her go or face his fears about his inadequacies when it came to loving her. 

He took a deep breath making his choice. “You didn’t give me that authority. I’m not trying to dictate that for you. I am just…I know this is an absolute cliche to say it, but I don’t want you to go on a date with Danny or any other guy. The only guy that should be taking you on any dates is standing right here in front of you getting mud and rain water all over your entry way rug.”

He swallowed the lump developing in the back of his throat as he paused finding the words. “I should have made my move a long time ago. I was scared…I’m man enough to admit to it. I told myself that you deserved more than an old man with a missing leg and night terrors. I thought I could live with the concept of you finding someone else…told myself I couldn’t put you through being with me and all the crap I come with. The truth of the matter is though that I’m crazy about you and I can’t stand the idea of anyone else being with you. I’d rather bring all my baggage to the table and all my imperfections and beg for you to adore me nearly half as much as I adore you. So, I’m putting it out there. I’m making my move. I want to take you out on a date. I want more than a date…I want you. I want us even if it might feel complicated and scare me half to death.”

He let out a deep breath feeling his gut churn as she stood staring at him he fearing the worst. What would he do if she rejected him? Did he misunderstand her feelings towards him from what he’d overheard from her conversation with Shen?

The words left her lips they so soft he almost didn’t hear them. “Oh, Jack.”

She leaned up the move shy and hesitant, her lips sliding along his her hand pressing to his cheek. 

The kiss was uncertain and so soft he almost didn’t feel it, but he found himself returning it, his hands placing at her hips pulling her closer to him. The kiss grew deeper, the pair easily growing lost in one another months and months of denying what they felt for one another fading by the second.

He coaxed her to part her lips, his tongue sliding along hers with ease and need taking pride in the soft moan that left her lips in response.

The desire to breathe outweighed the need to continue the kiss, the pair parting their lips but remaining pressed close to one another. 

The words left his lips so soft she barely heard him. “Better than I imagined.”

She ran her fingertips across his jaw the touch reverent she caressing the fine lines he’d once claimed she couldn’t possibly find desirable.

She spoke the smile crossing her lips. “So, where are you taking me for this date?”

“Anywhere you want, Sweet Girl.” The reply left him without hesitation, the petname flowing from his lips without doubts or fear.

Jack pulled his mind from the memory, his heart lifting at the sight of his home and his trip down memory lane.

He could not believe he’d ever been so certain that he couldn’t have this with her. She’d slowly undone all those reasons he’d created in his head about why she might not want him. While those insecurities did rear their ugly heads in from time to time Y/N was always there to silence them.

He dropped his backpack by the front door the second he shut it behind him cringing at the slight limp to his step. Yes, he was definitely ready to ditch his prosthetic for a little while.

He made his way upstairs ready to ditch his prosthetic and shower before he grabbed a bite to eat.

He frowned not finding Y/N in their bedroom the way he’d assumed he might at this hour.

She had a day off today given it was her usual day off and she would have a last day shift to cover tomorrow before a day to rest before hopping back into the night shift.

He had expected to find her taking advantage of the break to get some much needed rest but found their bed empty.

He frowned, spotting the bathroom door clearly cracked and the light within it clearly on.

He knocked at the bathroom door, his voice soft. “Y/N, Baby. I’m home. Is it okay if I come in? You in there?”

He felt his stomach turn as he received no response. He cracked the door open frowning as he spotted his girlfriend sitting on the bathroom floor, she looking dazed and exhausted.

It was raining outside, and you were huddled, drenched, in a small phone booth by the gas station. Your hoodie felt like it weighed a million pounds. You wiped the rain from your face, but your vision was still blurred by tears that just wouldn't stop flowing.

Maybe he's right. Maybe I'm a burden; maybe I'm selfish.

Maybe I'm unlovable.

Your boyfriend never let you forget how his kindness — his money — was the only thing keeping you afloat. You'd fallen for him because he was so romantic at first. He'd send you flowers just because you felt sad. He learned how to say "I love you" in multiple languages and never ran out of new pet names to call you to make you blush. He always made you feel special, which wasn't hard with a family like yours. You'd grown up walking on eggshells around your volatile father; you were your mother's emotional crutch and protector. No one ever taught you how to be independent because they wanted you to stay home and under their control. And he, your charming boyfriend, had taken you away from that hell with promises of a safe, cozy little life. Just the two of you.

He left you a shell of your former self. Your quirks were nuisances to be corrected. You were too noisy, too excitable, too "difficult" when you wanted to do things your own way. He took it upon himself to "guide" you. He drained your joy and his anger at the world left you tiptoeing around his feelings. It was a routine you already knew by heart…you'd just been naive enough to believe it was all behind you.

Your friends noticed the nervous way you held yourself, the way you'd try to anticipate upset and stop yourself from being too much.

"Why don't you leave him?" they'd say. "Come stay with me; you don't have to deal with that bullshit."

But his words echoed in your head. He cleaned when you were depressed. He made decisions when you were overwhelmed. According to him, he'd done so much for you that he felt more like your father than your lover and wasn't even attracted to you anymore.

If that was all true, what the hell would happen to your friendships when you became a burden to them? The simple truth was that you were paralyzed with fear at the thought of leaving. You never knew another life outside of your childhood and with him. You didn't even drive because when you tried to learn, he constantly yelled or, as always, acted as if you weighed him down. The notion of getting behind the wheel again made you panic.

But you'd finally had enough. It's how you found yourself shaking and crying in the rain, clutching a dirty public phone in one hand and a quarter in the other.

You were frozen because you didn't know who to call. You didn't want to ruin anyone's night with your drama and neediness. Your breath hitched, and you slammed the phone back into the cradle before sliding to the floor, your head in your hands.

Someone tapped on the glass door.

"Please go away," you begged. "Just…please? I'm having a really shitty night." But the tapping didn't stop. It was relentless. With a huff, you wiped your swollen, sore eyes and blinked up at the intruder.

Billy Hargrove.

You glared up at him defiantly. "The hell do you want?"

You expected him to make some douchey remark or smirk down at you like the smug asshole he was in high school. Every cell of your body braced for it — just another man making you feel small. What else was new? So it surprised the hell out of you when his face came into focus and he looked worried instead. His pretty lips twitched in a frown, his brow furrowed, and there was real concern behind his eyes.

"You okay in there?" His voice was softer than you imagined it could ever be, though it still held an edge of annoyance that told you he hadn't turned into some saint. You sniffled, speechless and taken aback for a moment. When he sighed impatiently, you reached over and slid the door open.

Should I tell him the truth?

You warred with yourself internally. On one hand, you really needed a friend. On the other, Billy had never been one. You weren't sure he knew how. What you did know for certain was that you were alone, afraid, and more depressed than ever before. What the hell?

"No. I'm pretty fucking bad, actually." A self-deprecating laugh escaped you, and you shook your head as more tears fell. Billy looked like he was two seconds away from turning heel and getting the hell out of dodge; your tears made him uncomfortable — you could see it in the tense way he held his broad shoulders. The chilly wind whipped into the booth, making you shiver. "Well?" you prompted. "You coming in or what?" He hesitated for a minute more before sidling into the cramped spot with you and kneeling.

"Gonna tell me what's wrong?" he asked in a low, careful voice. He was so close you could smell whatever gum he was chewing. Big Red, if you had to guess. Warmth radiated from him despite the chilly night air, and his cologne smelled so…

You shook yourself out of it. What the hell is wrong with me?

"I — yeah. Yeah, sure." You took a deep breath and tried to steel yourself against more tears. "My boyfriend, he—"

"That sonofabitch hit you?" Billy growled. His muscles went rigid, bulging against the sleeves of his grease-smudged Aaron's Auto T-shirt. Your eyes widened; he was making a hell of an assumption.

"No! No, God no. As if I wouldn't fly off the handle if he tried." You rolled your eyes. "He's just a real…he's a shithead, okay? He makes me feel fucking worthless no matter what I do, and I'm tired of it. He says I'm like a child. He's the one who moved me into his place as soon as I graduated, and now he complains because I don't live up to the version of me he idealized! I'm not neat enough or quiet enough or ambitious enough for him. And believe me, he never lets me forget it." Tears welled up again; you hastily brushed them away. "Being alone has to be better than whatever the hell this is. I know that, but I just…" You trailed off.

"Just what?" he said, irritated. "Case closed. He's a goddamn cradle-robbing control freak. What more is there to say? Pack up your shit and go, I don't know, move back in with your folks for a while."

"It's not that simple." There was a whiny quality to your voice that you hated. That your boyfriend hated most of all. (Childish) Billy tilted his head and looked at you — really looked. You felt vulnerable in a way you didn't expect, like he was cracking you open and examining everything you tried to suppress. Color rose on your cheeks, and you turned away.

"Hey, don't do that. Look at me." You almost scoffed at his command, but the way he said it was soft, almost pleading. Your heart skipped a beat, and your head turned back in his direction like it was pulled by gravity.

Billy had always been attractive. He was the hottest guy in Hawkins, and he knew it. That golden, curly hair. The muscles, the tan, the confidence that rolled off of him in waves that turned every woman's legs to jelly. And there had always been rumors that he was fantastic in bed. He noticed your gaze wandering and laughed under his breath. "Don't start that shit. I'm not your Prince Charming and I'm not here to ride off with you on a white horse or something stupid like that." His features softened. "But I've been around enough controlling assholes in my life to tell you it doesn't get better. It never fucking gets better. So if you're thinking of staying — my eyes are up here, look at them — if you're thinking about staying for whatever bullshit reason the fear is giving you…you'll never be free. You'll always be stuck in a cage. It's not worth all the pain that comes with it…is it?"

He was so commanding, and yet you didn't fear for a second that he'd belittle you or raise his voice like the others. The phone booth suddenly felt too hot, too cramped. All you could smell was cinnamon and the musk of that cologne that had made you lose your train of thought earlier.

Billy snapped your attention back to the present with another dramatic sigh. He was waiting for an answer.

"Oh. I…no. It's not worth it." You huffed out a bitter laugh. "But what the fuck am I supposed to do? I have nothing. No car, no money, no job now that I've been laid off. I'm useless." You froze again when his thick, calloused fingers held your chin in place, forcing you to keep eye contact.

"You're not useless. You've just been alone with that asshole for so long he's planted the idea in your head that you'd fail without him." There it was again, that tone that begged you to listen closely. It hit you all at once — he'd been through this before. He knew what it was like. These weren't empty words from a well-meaning but clueless friend. He was someone who'd made it out. Your chin trembled as fragile hope sparked in your chest.

Billy dropped his hand. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

"N-no' I'm not scared," you stammered. "I've just never met anyone like you before…someone who's actually found the greener grass on the other side instead of—"

"Just more bullshit?" he guessed. You both smiled a little at that.

You nodded. "Yeah, exactly." Understanding passed between you, and you felt more at ease — that is, until another voice crept back in. Your face fell. "Listen. I don't know how to get to that place, though, and the last thing I wanna do is be a burden, so maybe I should just—"

"Should just what?" he asked, that edge of irritation creeping into his voice again. "Go home and wither away? You're not a goddamn burden. If you were, I'd have gone already. I don't waste my time on whiny bullshit." Now that sounded like the old Billy. It was sort of comforting; at least you knew he wasn't lying. You opened your mouth, maybe to protest again, but the look he gave you made it clear he wasn't in the mood to argue. "We're going to get your shit. Come on." He tugged you up by the hand and you let him lead you to the Camaro he still drove all these years later. It was warm and dry inside, and the seats were comfortable.

"I don't have anywhere to go after—"

"Yeah, you do." Billy's knuckles tightened on the wheel like he was bracing for you to chicken out. To his surprise, you sat there silently, your hands folded neatly in your lap. You couldn't speak if you tried. You were in shock at his implication…and you felt a secret thrill that clashed strangely with the dread of the inevitable confrontation.

Your boyfriend wasn't pleased when you showed up with Billy in tow. He couldn't block your way, not with Hawkins' most notorious bad boy standing right there. But he didn't need to get physical — he never did. He knew how to hurt you without lifting a finger.

He laughed in that incredulous, resentful way he always did when you triggered his temper. "Are you serious?" When you didn't answer, he followed you down the hall to the bedroom you shared. Billy wasn't far behind. "What, you gonna shack up with him now? Good fucking luck. You can't use him, he doesn't have any money!" It was another one of his favorite lines, calling you a gold digger when he knew you never got with him for financial gain. You'd loved him back when he was just a stocker at Bradley's Big Buy, before the firm hired him. You sighed; he was trying to bait you and you knew it.

"Could you just leave me alone, Danny?" You were throwing things haphazardly in boxes Billy had picked up from his work and jamming clothing into the one suitcase you owned. You couldn't afford to worry about a neat packing job; you needed to get through it fast, before you let fear win.

"Sure I'll leave you alone…just as soon as I make sure you're not stealing my shit to pawn off or something." What did he even have that was worth taking? You wanted to laugh. You wanted to spit in his face for thinking so low of you when all you'd done was try to be what he wanted. When you didn't rise to it, Danny scoffed and leaned in, forcing you to notice his derisive sneer. "Real mature. Giving me the silent treatment like the petulant CHILD you are!" Billy had been a silent presence beside you until he saw a tear roll down your cheek.

"You wanna back the fuck up, amigo?" He held out an arm to bar Danny from getting any closer. "I don't think she has anything to say to you." But Danny was like a dog with a bone.

"That's right, get another man to fight your battles for you! God knows you can't do it yourse—" Billy's hand closed around the collar of Danny's shirt, and his feet left the ground.

"That's enough."

Danny may have been a real bastard when he was angry, but he wasn't stupid. You were left to pack the rest of your things in relative peace. The last thing you did was leave the house key on his desk with a note: A golden cage is still a cage. I asked for neither.

Your hands fidgeted in your lap on the drive to Billy's house, wherever that was. He hadn't said a word since the two of you left your old place. You didn't want to be the first to break the silence. You already felt indebted and didn't want to risk annoying him. He was the first to speak, somewhere on Kerley 20 minutes later.

"You good?" It was a simple question but you had no simple answer, so you shrugged and turned the focus onto him.

"You're…different now. What happened?" Your body shrank back into the seat as soon as the words left your mouth; you braced for anger. Instead, he just threw an amused glance your way.

"You mean, why am I not a raging asshole anymore?" Your shoulders dropped as you relaxed and a relieved smile touched your lips. He was taking everything in such stride — it gave you whiplash. You nodded, and he lit a cigarette at the red light before answering. "Three reasons. First, I got away from my piece of shit old man. It's a lot easier to sleep at night without a broken rib or a concussion." He said it like it was a joke, but it made your heart ache. You'd had no idea. Sure, you'd noticed the bruises, the cuts, the way he favored one side sometimes — you just figured they were from fighting with the other macho douchebags. "Second, I almost died once, and it put a lot of shit into perspective." Your eyes slid over to the driver's seat warily. You weren't sure if he was fucking with you. The raw honesty on his face put that to bed. "Third, court-ordered anger management classes. My punk-ass little sister says they must be working since she can stand to be around me now." He smirked and took a drag of his cigarette before holding it out to you, a silent offer.

"Thanks, but I don't smoke."

"Good. Don't start." He just kept puffing away, though. Hypocrite.

You lapsed back into silence. Memories floated to the surface of your mind, things you hadn't thought about in years. A little redheaded girl scowling at Billy as he barked something at her outside of the Palace Arcade. The same girl, skating alone, looking like she'd rather die than be in Hawkins. Billy telling his date that Little Red wasn't his sister and not to call her that anymore. The fury with which he sped out of the senior lot that day.

"Must've been something scary," you murmured. "What you went through that made you change." His knuckles tightened on the wheel until they were bone white. Those perfect lips pressed into a thin line and he threw the half-smoked cigarette out of the window.

"You could say that." He was trying hard to keep his emotions in check. The old Billy would've lashed out when you got too close to the truth, and you didn't have to be close buddies with him to know that. You bit your lip and turned your face to the window, watching the trees blur by. God, he drove fast.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pried."

"Nah, sweetheart, I'm the one who brought it up. Don't sweat it." Sweetheart? He didn't offer anything more. He wasn't ready, and you weren't about to push your luck.

Both of you were relieved when the trailer park came into view. You stopped outside one painted a pale blue with a small covered porch. "Ain't much, but it's mine," he said, swinging a leg out of the car. "Yours now, too, I guess." You watched as Billy picked up your heavy old suitcase like it was nothing and hauled it up the rickety steps. Your heart pounded in your chest at the effortless display of strength…and at his assumption that you'd be staying long-term. You still weren't entirely convinced that you weren't stuck in some bizarre dream.

Bruce had his hand on your lower back, keeping you close when you shrank from the dark edges of Arkham's hallways. That small kindness—and the sympathetic look he gave you before unbuckling his seatbelt to walk you in—kept your feet in front of you. He still loved you, you could feel it.

There was a way out of this. You could feel it.

The halls had lights that flickered, old LEDs that made you squint and wonder if you were in a dream. That untethered, holographic feeling followed as a nurse led the way to your room. His uniform put you on autopilot and you didn't question him when he held your room open, swiftly taking the outfit he held out and ducking inside.

A whoosh of air from the heavy door made you spin around, squeezing your foot in before it clicked. "Bruce?!"

He didn't say anything, but he stepped into vision—all two inches of it. It took a second for his gaze to unglue from the floor. Maybe two seconds. Or three. You ignored the pit in your stomach nagging that he hadn't talked the entire ride there, that all your pleas could've gone in one ear and out the other. When you attempted to force the door wider so you could touch him to bridge this ravenous canyon, it didn't budge.

Bruce winced—barely, but you caught it—when you opened your mouth in the same shape it'd taken the last fifteen minutes. "I didn't do it. I promise I didn't." But now you added, persuaded by the freezing steel of the walls around you, "I swear on everything. On my life, on my mom's, my dad's. I didn't do anything."

Him biting his cheek was the last face you saw that night. He muttered something about telling him if they mistreated you but it was quick; your foot slipped in your desperation to reach him and the door slammed shut.

Its echo and the implications overwhelmed you so severely that you barely made it to the en-suite toilet before puking your guts up. The stench of vomit seared the air until morning.

Your last name came out of a new nurse's mouth after an indeterminate length of time. The woman, with graying hair and smile lines embedded in her cheeks, instructed you to don the uniform and hand her your 'civilian' clothes. You hadn't felt real in hours, a body without a mind, nerves without feeling, but something in you woke up when you slipped off your date night dress to feel striped orange linens rub rough against your skin.

"I'm in Arkham." Vacuous, unmoored, surreal. She told you to hurry up. Each stitch in every seam had you feeling like you'd explode.

Arkham looked worse than it had when you visited, though you'd never been the patient. Also relevant to your unease was that you'd read on more than the odd Reddit forum tales of how they performed medieval torture in these halls. After your world turning upside down, nothing was off the table.

It was excruciatingly, achingly unclear whether or not you and Bruce were still together. That seemed to hinge on how fast he figured out this all hadn't happened. 

Bile rose to the back of your throat. It was no use going all doomer within these walls; Bruce was a good memory, this was all a misunderstanding, and soon enough, oh, soon enough… you'd find yourself in his arms and everything would melt away. He was still yours. You were still his. 

A social anxiety that hadn't reared its head since middle school shrunk your posture as you were guided into the cafeteria. The room looked a vivid smear of orange with offputting metallic tables, complimented by ginormous metal fans in the wall above the cafeteria servers. It seemed they wanted the place to look as unwelcoming as possible. 

As it was, half the group was lined up with red trays while the others sat and dug into their gruel. You did what you thought best and went with the herd, vocal chords frozen. The line moved quickly and it was impossible to tell if you were grateful.

Slipping into the least-occupied corner table, you took in the sight of brown mush beside gray mush. Before being handed it, you'd prepared to ask if there were peaches in any of this. After a single glance, you could tell it wasn't even possible.

One potato was visible, or a quarter of one. Something green that looked of peas or string beans. A plastic cup of watery milk.

Just an evaluation. Then I'm out.

You weren't hungry by any stretch of the word but given how desperately everyone ate, this was potentially your sole sustenance for the rest of the day. The taste was acrid, everything blending together, and you kept your head down until someone slid their tray across from you. 

Looking up made the photographs four-dimensional, a delirious blend of fear and adrenaline perking your nerves. "Sofia Falcone?"

Her deep brown eyes flicked up to yours as she swallowed a glob of mealy loaf. She held a silent gaze long enough for you to feel pointless, then dropped it. She didn't want to be bothered and you couldn't blame her.

But she knew Oz. For all you were aware, Bruce could've already been killed by him. Came close once. Who knew what state Bruce was in after putting you in here?

You pushed aside your tray and leaned forward to force her attention. She glared back. "Can I help you?"

Her voice was typical for the area, you shouldn't have been surprised. Bruce was the enigma in this city for not having a constant Jersey accent, though Sofia's was also wrapped in wealth. She had some fading scars on her neck—long, silvery white lines. Her brows were thick and dark, matching the overgrown mullet of her hair.

"Yes." You scanned her face like she was a thing to decode, all dissociation gone. "You know Oz."

Sofia's glare turned to acid. Shit. Wrong code.

You were out of it, scrambling, everything slowly catching up to your system. The look Bruce gave you when he first entered the kitchen, the twinge in your back from the hard bed, the claustrophobia of this fabric… 

"I'm sorry, I'm all over the place." As if to prove it, you accidentally jammed your elbow into the edge of your tray and sent it flying off the edge. You reached for a napkin that wasn't there, flustered and embarrassed to feel so many eyes on you. A worker behind the counter sighed and reached for their mop. Mortifying.

Sofia's eyes flashed as she took another spoonful. "Better hope dinner's good." 

The worker scrubbed the mess while you apologized, your heart taking place of your mind. Of course she doesn't want to talk about Oz. He probably put her in here, too.

You drummed your fingers and sipped on the paper cup of milk you thankfully hadn't decimated. Waited for the worker to finish, listening to the squeak of the mop, growing increasingly concerned that Sofia was about to finish her food and leave you with zero answers. 

Words spilled out of you like oil the second the employee was out of earshot. "I know you don't know me, but I think Oz is targeting me. I need information. On him, on anything you know."

She thought on this a moment, not looking especially involved. You sat on your hands to abate peeling off your nail beds. Certainly this was all a bad dream. You'd wake up in his bed and rush down to the cave to hug him.

"So, what was it?" She spoke with a sigh. "Stared too long at his sports car? Worked for him at his little club, hm?"

Memories of how he'd tried to recruit you that first meeting, and how Bruce saved you, stung like bees. 

"Tried to kill Bruce Wayne," you countered, the words slicing off your tongue. She nodded after taking a slow drink, lashes fluttering. 

"Got some balls, I'll give you that."

"Except I didn't. I'm being framed. By Oz." 

She had just taken a bite but stopped chewing. 

It all spilled out. "I don't know if it's because Bruce and I are dating and he wanted access, I know I accidentally made Oz out to be cheap at the City Hall meetings, I know I'm getting involved with politics and I am certain from what I know that man doesn't have good intentions, but for whatever reason, someone tried to kill Bruce Wayne and they're saying it was me. It has to be him."

"You sure trust the Waynes." 

"I know what the Riddler said."

"Thomas Wayne worked with my father." It looked physically painful for her to say the word. She really hated her family, huh? "He was at my father's home throughout his campaign."

"Bruce isn't working for Oz. No way in hell."

"It's nice to date a rich guy, right?" Sofia put her elbows on the table. "Distracted by all the shiny toys until they toss you out and get a new one?"

"It's Oz." It was frustrating seeing a mirror of your old self. Had you completely lost your edge falling for a billionaire?

"Good luck, then." Sofia got up and you stood with her. 

"I don't know if I'll have a chance to talk to you again. I need to know anything you have on Oz. Anything that might give some leverage."

"There is no leverage with him." She snagged her tray. "He'll put a bullet right through your head."

If that were Oz's priority, he would've done it already. Wasn't he defined by his impulsiveness? Guided by knee-jerk desires? That man wanted you in here, away from him, with a tarnished reputation. 

"You knew him better than anyone. He probably put you in here for some bullshit too."

Her blank expression made you acutely aware of Bruce's warnings. Would he even accept intel from someone like her? Was he wrong about her the same way he was wrong about you? 

"Please, anything. I'm already wanting to help Reál get out, I can maybe help you—"

She squinted. "The mayor?"

"Doesn't she eat in here? Or something? She's been in here since July."

Her eyes flit over to the hallway, then back to you, and she pushed past. "Don't bother asking for seconds."

She walked out the double doors, a guard leading her back to her room. 

Fuck.

Most days were monotonous here, at best. In fact, she'd just spent the morning in the mandated therapy thinking—not saying, she never spoke to the therapists here anymore—about what a life in Arkham looked like. 

Could it even be called a life? 

Sometimes Sofia thought so. In the rare glimmers when her dreams took her out of this hellhole, or the days she'd get mail. Selina Kyle was a pulse beyond these walls to adhere to. At times it was excruciating, reminding her she was trapped by Oz in a world that moved on without apology. Other days, it instilled hope. Not that anyone would let her out, of course. She had no one left to advocate for her, he'd made sure of that. Her case was iron-shut and so 'straightforward' that no one would think to wedge it open. Not in a place like Gotham where intakes and files could fill the whole river. She'd been lucky to get that first exoneration, when she still had someone looking out for her.

The hope that remained was named revenge.

She didn't think about Oz, never let herself. The second his name popped up she'd swallow it down like a knife. He didn't come to visit, never came to rub it in. It was almost surprising. Until she realized it was purposeful, and he was doing that to ensure she felt like shit on the bottom of a shoe. 

Everything Oz did was calculated. Apparently those calculations had landed the girlfriend of Bruce Wayne in these walls now. To say she tried to kill him. And maybe she had. People loved to lie about what they came in for. 

Oz was an afterthought, a thorn in her side. Any true revenge she sought was for her mother. 

The rest of the afternoon culminated in her getting an ounce more sleep and feeling her organs shrink. When Rush came around, there was no mail for her. The first month without correspondence, she'd thought it a fluke. The second, she forced herself to stop caring. This sensation of being forgotten, of melting out of a past life, wasn't new. She'd been thrown in the trash enough times to tolerate this feeling. 

Evening began in a dissociative funk. Selina'd been her only outlet for months. Last letter, there'd been talk of visiting. As complex as it was to have him around, Rush was the only reason such letters were even getting out without interception. He'd promised to leave Arkham if she didn't want him around, and with the new management and no sign of life beyond these walls, she started to wonder about telling him to go.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I answered every question exactly as requested."

A voice rang out in the hall. Sofia was used to the constant noise pollution, what with her cell being closest to the telephone, and nearly blocked out the sound entirely until you spoke next.

"Me being here isn't helping anyone—the real culprit is out there and using me as, as fucking cannon fodder."

There was desperation to your voice that pinned to the center of her chest. That all too familiar feeling drew her closer to the door, pressing her ear to it.

"Please, just call—call Bruce, Bruce Wayne, okay? I need to talk to him. Why are you laughing at that? He helped me check in. There is no reason why—hey! Don't fucking grab me!"

Just as Sofia peeked her head out the peephole window, a head of brown hair whizzed by, white coat billowing behind him. From the shit angles she could see he had his hands up in surrender. Dr. Crane wasn't someone she'd met personally, but others had. From what she could overhear, he was boring. Nothing compared to the abject cruelty of Ventris. The rest of the conversation was muffled, but audible. She gnawed at her lip.

"Something wrong, Y/n?"

"The tech who did my exam. The questions were loaded. Trick questions. It wasn't how the nurse described it at all. I want a second exam." 

"I understand if this is a lot to handle,"

"No, it's not. I just want fair treatment." 

Usually when a new patient was booked, their attempts at authority were desperate; you didn't talk like you were backed into a corner. Likely still had a contact outside and reasonably confident your stay wouldn't be long. Maybe you hadn't been entirely lying earlier. 

"Can you do my exam?"

"At the moment I'm tied up, unfortunately. I will get to you as soon as I am able. The weekends are always exceptionally busy." Crane took a heavy breath. 

Sofia rolled her eyes. Faux sympathy these psychs learned to exhibit during their course in bedside manner. By all means. Don't upset the crazies, right? 

"Then I need to call Bruce." 

At first she thought your explanations were a goddamn joke. The princess of the city getting thrown in the dumpster? Plenty of people had been booked for stalking, existing on some spectrum of psychosis that made Arkham the best fit over Blackgate. But then again: what were rich men if not trained in throwing women under the bus and stuffing them out of view? 

Oz knocked at the edge of her thoughts. How bad could it be dishing out some info? There wasn't any guarantee he wouldn't kill you regardless.

When she walked back to sit on the edge of her bed, it wasn't like she tried to listen, and it wasn't like you were trying to speak loudly, but she heard every word. 

"Bruce." Sofia heard you gasp—maybe hiccup?—and continue. Your words were garbled with emotion. She thought of Alberto. How each phone call with her brother drilled right to the meat of her heart at the beginning.

"I need you to find a way to get me out." 

If you were breathless now, no way you'd survive life here. 

"Because I'm not being treated fairly." You spoke more stubbornly now. "It wasn't a proper evaluation."

But then again, Sofia thought she'd never survive here, but now it'd been over decade in this shithole.

"Yes, I know I had one, I told you—can you just come here? Talk to them in person, maybe? I need a re-evaluation and they're making me wait through the weekend."

Her throat went dry, feeling a pull away from her mind, her body.

"I can't wait that long." You hushed. "The longer I'm in here, the more the actual person has the chance to hurt you. To actually succeed, alright? That can't happen."

It was harder to recall her brother's voice. Had it really been that long she'd spent in here? Surviving day to day?

"You told me to call you whenever,"

She hadn't had much hope back then, but she had dramatically less now. Her chest ached.

"Yes, poorly! I'm being treated poorly!" A pause. "No, my basic needs are met, they aren't hurting me, but this isn't a fair process, I'm telling you. They're implicating me in the questions, they're having a tech do it that kept being—it's not a psych exam that I've ever seen. Just—please, Bruce. Please."

A sharp dial tone filled the space in an abrupt cutoff. That felt like an exceptionally long sixty seconds. Did being a billionaire's supposed girlfriend grant you royal phone privileges? 

Evidently it did. Rarely anyone was allowed calls here—especially not on night one—and never when someone was being demanding; there always sat some guy tasked in each hallway to ensure no one tried to snag a call.

Dr. Crane's no-nonsense voice again. "Phone calls are only a minute long. I assure you, I will get to you as soon as I am able."

Sofia went to lie in bed, dizzy and choking on wire memories. It was very easy in the mundane to tread water. Why the hell did you have to show up? Throw her right back in the ocean? 

By the time her breathing calmed enough, able to ward off the vice around her neck, she heard scuffling in the hallway.

"Oh my god, thank you. Thank you. Did you talk to him? Crane? About the exam?"

She crept back toward the door, intrigued. First-day calling privileges, visitors outside the visitation room after hours? Two in the morning? She knew the Waynes pulled weight, but jesus. This? 

Who the hell was she kidding. Any man in this town with a billion dollars could do what he pleased. 

His voice was low; the man sounded exhausted. She strained to catch every fifth word. 

"… said… wait… didn't have… thirty seconds… on the phone… trying." It was clearer at this point as he became audibly exasperated. "I'm trying, Y/n. You need to follow protocol."

"I don't want him drawing this out. What if…" You whispered the next part, she could just barely see as you got by his ear to say it. Was this really who would take down Oz? A dopesick billionaire? 

"I'll call him again in the morning."

"And more if he doesn't do it." you added, unaware of how not soundproof the cells were. 

"Calling him over and over again will only make things slower." 

"Not if it's you." You grabbed his arm; Bruce Wayne was exceptionally still, as if he were barely alive. "You can do something about this, I know you can. Please."

It was difficult to see in the dark, but he might've slumped then. Had he just come off a bender? 

"Baby," you pleaded, he winced, and Sofia tore her attention from the door. You weren't her, he wasn't Alberto… Sofia thudded onto the mattress, shut her eyes, and counted down from ten. 

It was such bullshit that those cheap tricks actually helped. 

Night slipped by with a quiet, empty hallway after that. The only disturbance were those same familiar nightmares. Once in a blue moon, when they were especially dark, she'd briefly consider ending it all. Wouldn't that not be letting them win, in a way? Taking control of her body one last time? But that final image of her mother was haunting, stopping the thoughts from being anything more than fleeting. 

You showed up at lunch the next day with unfettered resolve. As you ate to the right at the far end of her table, she watched you when you stared down at the plate, eyes roaming your lap trying to concoct some sort of plan. Your hair wasn't soaked and greasy from the spray-down they gave all inmates. There weren't dry patches on your skin from the cold water, and if she remembered correctly from that first meal, there'd been a lingering perfume on you. That would've been washed away too. 

A swirl of anger rose in a dying, defensive part of her that knew her time had come and gone. You had the privilege of thinking you were getting out of here; the privilege of knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was a mistake to be corrected, and trusted someone to vouch for you. And you were probably right to hold onto that conviction. Even her brother hadn't managed half of what Bruce Wayne had. 

Shockingly, you didn't approach her at lunch. You slammed what you could down without so much as a flinch and stood by the exit until the guards opened the doors. People stared—were you more well known than she thought?—but you weren't aware. Too locked in to some plan that kept taking up her brain space.

Sunday passed with more silence and, like a damn dog with a chew toy, she couldn't wriggle out of your snare. The only thing that loosened the grip—but didn't stop it, to be sure—was the notion of freedom. Passing the baton. 

It would be a purging of sorts. Not that she'd ever been religious, god no—but it was an endearing concept on its face. Vomit all the bad shit onto you and maybe you'd clean it up. Maybe vengeance could be had, no matter how ridiculous it sounded. You and Bruce Wayne, the modern Clyde Barrow, sure, sure. Maybe her mother had actually killed herself, too.

It was Tuesday after lunch when you showed up in her vicinity again. Monday passed in a blink, as things usually did when her mind got too full. It'd been a great habit to pick up in her youth, sleeping the nagging loops away, learning to swallow things she couldn't change. You didn't show up to lunch, to her disappointment, but you knocked into her shoulder when she turned the corner to go back to her cell. She felt a scrape between her fingers and quickly clenched a fist. 

The note was folded so many times it was a shock the paper hadn't broken. How'd you get supplies to write this? It'd taken weeks to persuade Rush to allow her to write back to Selina.

I need to know what you do about Oz. Anything at all. He has a weakness, an angle, there is something that can be exploited. Is there anything you personally know about him? I know he wants power and status. He's erratic and deadly. I'm protected while connected to Bruce; there's no other reason he wouldn't have just killed me yet, I'm a meddling journalist. Oz schmoozes Bruce. Bruce wants to stop corruption in this city, I know it's hard to believe, but he does. I have resources on this Oz case that are unbelievable, I swear to you. I just need something. Some tactic, knowledge. You said I'll die: then what's the harm in telling me what you know? I don't care how trivial it is. And I'll never tell him you told me. You don't know me, I understand that, and I wouldn't be putting you in this position unless I thought justice could come of it. Oz and everyone propping him up need to be defanged. I'm willing to take the risk.

He needed to be fucking euthanized. Defanged might be a start. 

The longer she held that note in her hands, the more she fell toward it. Optimism was a double-edged sword. There was no reason to trust you, even less knowing that you commiserated with the Waynes, but she was unable to imagine another circumstance where even the option to aid in Oz's downfall would present itself.

She crumpled the note and tossed it into the toilet with a resounding flush. No use beating a dead horse—let alone one that could rise from the dead and kill you.

Sofia hadn't responded to your message in three days. The facility gave you no reason to keep calling Bruce. Though resolve was fierce, it was fading. 

You ached to hear his voice. Your chest felt more hollowed out with every breath. What was an initial concern about someone hurting him bled into another one: that he might hurt himself if he thought you'd pushed him. That he'd stop taking his meds and be right back where you both began but with one less watchful eye on him to keep him safe. Every time your thoughts lingered there, you were half a second from picking up the phone. 

But hearing him, however much you longed for it, was miserable. It made him feel so close that your body thought it was right back in his kitchen getting glared at, interrogated, seeing the light leave his eyes that took so long to ignite in the first place. Sure he'd shown up, but with that same vacant look that made it explicit he was pulled by obligation, not desire. It made your bones rot.

So you waited. Arkham was tightly bound; for as shitty its reputation, they ran it like a tank. Lunch was served to the minute each day, breakfast and dinner slid through the bottom of the door to the millisecond. Digestion had almost entirely stalled from the inhumane food rations; you damn near spent half of today on the toilet straining for nothing. 

Crane came by after lunch—which Sofia notably did not indulge you at—to inform you he'd get to your evaluation tonight. "I'll make sure to squeeze you in before the weekend." You asked him to repeat himself. It hadn't been a week. No fucking way. It felt like a blip.

Sitting on the edge of your 'mattress' felt like a slap. Seven days? 

A full fucking week?

The time had just… passed. 

Everything was a blur, like walking through jello, like staring off at the wall, like feeling peeled away from yourself—hollow, but not empty. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, it was a tactic that'd gotten you through so much, but it was never this strange. Losing a week of time in a blip of misery so visceral yet so vacant. 

In the past, avoidance felt comically unproductive. Every breath oozed it. Everywhere you looked, you were critically aware of where you weren't looking. The same was true now, but it wasn't as encompassing. You'd been thrown in the same ocean but weren't drowning. Sometimes your head went under, yes, but it never stayed there. In the wake of loving Bruce, you'd grabbed a buoy. 

After the evaluation, Crane would see there was nothing outside of the clinical norm. At worst you'd be let out on bail, Bruce could leverage that, with enough time before a trial to gather evidence in your favor. To hash this shit out with the Bat. 

Over the week, one thing you'd kept track of were the room numbers. 203 for you, 209 for Sofia. Bella, 267. On one glance, she'd been sat on her bed with her knees pulled to her chest, chin resting atop them. Nothing else could be gathered before guards pushed you along. Sometimes you tried to ask about her, but the guards said nothing. 

Another day, you'd walked past the max holding unit. It looked terrifically normal for what it was. Nothing to glean. No fatal flaws, no information to feed back to Bruce.

Crane's incessant clicking of his pen down the hall was a horrifically grating noise that needed regulation. How could he be certain that the people here weren't unwell because of that? 

As you walked the halls day in and day out, your thoughts were storms of concern and suspicion. If people were funneling money to Arkham, as the anonymous journalist said, and if Bella was being kept here as a consequence of that, where was it all going? Into personal pockets of the staff? Some CEO of the hospital who lived in another state? 

When staff whispered, it was usually some burnt out, rude comment about a resident. It was nearly impossible to reach Crane, who might know something, as he'd only appear in short bursts to let you know you would absolutely get on his schedule the first opening.

Unfortunately, comparison was a significant factor to you eventually stopping the pestering of Crane. It was a privilege to know this stay wouldn't be a lifetime, and unthinkable to have Bruce Wayne, Batman in your back pocket. For some, there was never getting out of this place. You were sure some people had no one to go back to even if they did. 

You'd known being with him would put a target on your back—you just thought the shield would be big enough. Or the weapon would be quick, to the point. Not aggravating yellow lighting, a grumbling stomach and an ache in the center of your spine. 

Would the public learn about this? Did they already? Did anyone know why you were in here? What would make Bruce figure it all out? Did he already have it figured it? Was this all part of a grander plan he couldn't communicate because of call monitoring? 

These thoughts made up your days. Pondering, wondering, musing, whatever way to dress up a mind in a cage. Wherever your attention wandered in the physical environment, nothing stuck. There were no secret hideaways, no monsters in closets, no villain monologue, nothing to credit in an exposé. It seemed your all-seeing eye had lived and died with the revelation of Batman's identity.

People watching within the facility, analyzing the movements of staff and residents, was like shoving two misaligned puzzle pieces together. No matter how hard you pushed, how much you stretched reality, it wouldn't fit.

Maybe the night nurse, Olivia, was secretly a spy for Oz. The Hello Kitty and 'mental health matters' stickers on her Hydroflask were no more than a psyop to distract from true motive.

Or! Roger, the psych NP, was engaging in mind control when he asked if everyone got their meds. The question felt numbing enough by the fourth day. You were one of the few who didn't get a cup of something.

Reál, you noticed, got delivered every meal through a thin flap in the door. She hadn't made a peep since you'd been here. Why'd she been in such distress then, but not now? Did they get her medications right? 

Getting in for that evaluation before the weekend was drawing dubiously close to a lie as lunch turned to dinner. At the far edge of an empty dining table, you tried to reason with universes, convincing yourself that time was a mere illusion. If a week hadn't felt like a week, then surely, the next week you'd spend waiting on a second opinion would feel like a blip. Perhaps it worked the same for Bruce's enemies, too, and whoever actually did this shit wouldn't have enough time to get to him.

You'd just requested to take a lap around the halls again—each patient was allowed one lap twice per day, though you were the only one to take them up on it—when the nurse stopped you, gesturing down the hall. "You have visitors."

Visitors?

"What the fuck's going on?"

The nurse stepped back as you peeked out. "Mar?"

Mar jogged down the hall with Bruce trailing behind. Was he wearing a suit—?

The first thing she did was push you back into your room, shouting for Bruce to 'wait his goddamn turn'. Second, she gave you a rapid once-over, pulling at the baggier parts of the uniform and making you spin around. "Did that fucker hurt you?"

You shook your head as she squared your shoulders to hers. She had glitter on her eyes, a party dress on, smelled like iced vanilla—evidently she'd crashed whatever plans she had to come here. She cared. "How did you know I'm here?"

Pulling back your garments just to peek a bit lower on the neck, rolling out your wrists to see if any damage had been done, she spoke while deep in analysis. "Your location. At first I thought you were doing some piece, but every time I checked you were still fuckin' here. And then…"

"Are you guys here to pick me up?"

She let out an enormous sigh and dropped your arms, satisfied that you weren't covered in contusions. "I don't know shit about what he's up to. Motherfucker won't talk to me."

Bruce stepped into view from the hall, speaking stern and just loud enough to carry. "I told you she was being evaluated here."

You could tell it'd been a week when you heard him. Like realizing how burnt your skin was after being in the sun all day, or slamming into a freezing pool in the dead August heat.

Mar whirled around, face tight. "After ten fucking calls to your butler, mind you! After I showed up to your mansion and refused to leave."

She was not concerned with being quiet in the slightest. You swallowed.

Bruce took a few steps closer, now effectively dragged into the conversation. He looked determined, frustrated—more light behind those eyes, even by fire. Your body relaxed. 

"You called ten times in the span of one minute, Margaret."

You'd never seen Mar glare this hard. It burned to simply be in its vicinity. "What does that matter?"

"My butler couldn't get in contact to tell me until after the tenth call."

"Why did you need to be called at all? Huh? While your girlfriend is in fucking Arkham you're just out partying?"

You laughed at the image of Bruce partying anywhere in Gotham. 

She tore her attention away from him to stare at you. "I don't know why you're laughing. I pulled your little boyfriend from a club downtown to get here. Staff wouldn't let me in without him."

Huh?

Bruce stepped out of view. Mar grabbed you by the shoulder to keep you from going after him. "Have you had that test yet? They found out you're innocent and did not try to kill him and they're wasting time?"

You strained against her touch, distracted by the weight of a week without him. "Yes—"

"So they'll let you go?"

"No,"

"No?!"

"It's complicated, I need a re-evaluation—" why was he at a club?! "—how do you know the charges?"

She shook her hair off of her neck, looping the elastic around her wrist to put her hair up. "Cops came to my door asking about our phone call. Attempted murder, right? Bullshit. Fucking bullshit."

You craned your neck out the door. "Bruce, you were at a club—?"

"Don't talk to him!" Mar snapped, pushing you deeper into the room. "He put you in this shithole!"

"It's not like that, Mar."

The sound of footsteps distracted her; she shouted after him, taking up the full space in the doorway so you couldn't see out. "Where are you going, Wayne?"

"I need a moment."

"Like hell you do. Hey! You need to call this thing off. Now. Don't fucking ignore me!"

He continued his trek toward the exit, evident in his silence and the clicking of his dress shoes. She cursed under her breath, fingers shaking they gripped the doorframe so hard. "He's really trying it."

She took off after him while a worker grabbed you hard by the elbow to keep you in place. Mar ran up ahead of Bruce and shoved him back, making your stomach flip. If she didn't go easier on him, he might just give up on the whole affair. Whoever dug your grave had already made it deep enough to feel discouraging; you didn't want things to be so heavy that you became too much of a burden and he checked out. 

He slipped past her. She got in front again. She grabbed his wrist as he sidestepped. "Promise I'll be back in five minutes."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Please, I have to—"

Mar grabbed his tie and tried to yank him toward the office. "Go and get her out. I don't know what you're paying these people to keep her here, pay them more to get her out. I don't give a shit."

"I've been trying—"

"YOU WERE AT THE FUCKING CLUB!"

Bruce fell to crouch; when you squinted, he was shaking, his chest overinflating on each breath. Fuck. Had he stopped taking his meds? 

Oh god. He definitely wasn't taking his meds anymore.

"Mar, stop." you shouted, muscles clenched. Bruce was still close to the ground, fisted hands covering his face. He started to wheeze. 

She shoved him in the shoulder to try to rouse him. All it did was make his shoulders draw tighter. "You're a manchild, you know that? Get the fuck up and fix this."

"Mar!" 

"He thinks he can cry his way out of it. I told you not to fall for it, Y/n, oh my god!"

"Get away from him, come on."

She pointed at him, frustrated. "He's so overwhelmed that he had to be in a VIP lounge fifteen minutes ago. He's trying so hard to get you out, yeah. What a stand-up guy."

When Bruce told you his mom was in and out of this place, his vulnerability had been strikingly apparent, making you so tender, feeling so much… like his fingers brushing the back of your neck as he washed your muddy hair. He was trying. He was good. All Bruce ever did was try to be good.

"Mar, I'm so fucking serious right now."

She didn't know he hated the elite, and how could she? How could she know he was Batman? That his behavior made so much more sense once you peeked behind the veil. 

Bruce's labored breathing echoed down the hall. She gave you a look that said 'come the fuck on' and groaned, begrudgingly abandoning him for you.

For now you'd have to grit your teeth and bear her thinking you'd lost it. 

"Is he okay?"

Deadpan, she grabbed you and lowered her voice. "Stop. Look at yourself."

You refocused your eyes and tried to blink away the spike of adrenaline. Tried to stave off brutal thoughts of if he'd die tonight, tried to focus on her heavy hands gripping your arms, tried to come off regulated, needing to show her everything was good…

"You're in goddamn Arkham. You're sleeping on a metal sheet. Don't worry about him."

"You don't get it, Mar,"

"That doesn't matter. This is dangerous. This has gone farther than you even realize."

She'd never spoken this seriously to you before. Her eyes drilled into you.

Did she know something? The journalist's conversation flooded back. "What do you mean by that?"

"It means you're not immune to abuse, Y/n."

Her words shivered through you.

"He's been successful in manipulating you. You're stuck in Arkham with a fabricated murder charge. Thousands of miles from your family. And he starts crying and that's all you care about."

"It's not like that."

"Then tell me how it's like."

First of all, he's Batman. That clear anything up? 

You chewed on your cheek, shifting your gaze. "I can't."

The space before her response was an arid desert. Deep down the hall, the locks clicked from the exit closing. "Exactly, babe. This is fucked up."

Maybe it was fucked up. Maybe it was all a mirage. Maybe you'd click your heels three times and wake up in your bed in Washington.

Your stomach turned sour and tears sprouted. "I know why you feel that way. I do."

"Do. Not. Go back to him." She rubbed your shoulders as she said it, trying to get it down to your bones. All your thoughts centered on him. "I want you to stay with me when you get out."

"I'm staying with Bruce." You sucked in a shaky breath. "I understand if that's upsetting to hear,"

"It's not about me. That's the whole thing: it's about you." She sat on the edge of your bed and put her head in her hands, bouncing an idle leg hard into the ground. "You know things about him no one does. If he makes the world think you're insane, you have no credibility. You can't smear him. It makes you look like a stalker, it works out."

"It's not him doing this to me."

Now she bounced both legs. 

"Can you at least think about the possibility? Please? And I'm serious. Actually consider it. I don't want you to end up dead."

Nonstop talk of you dying for months was actually making you worried it was an omen.

What could you tell her? What was safe to say within these walls? "Things outside of him are doing this. Someone convinced him that I tried to kill him. He didn't do this, he doesn't want this, I know it—"

"You don't." Mar's hands slapped her thighs as she stood. "You don't know. Realistically, he's someone you hated before getting dragged into doing an interview on him,"

"I made him do it—"

She practically guffawed. "How did you make him do it? Are you joking?"

"I blackmailed him—"

"A billionaire? You blackmailed Bruce fucking Wayne?"

"Like I said, I know why you feel that way, I know it looks fucked up, I know it. I'm not—I'm not delusional, I'm not being manipulated by him, he isn't doing anything to me." It was awfully slippery to have this conversation with so much missing context. "He's being convinced, Mar."

"By who?"

"Oz, I think. This guy that runs a whole bunch of clubs, the Iceberg guy I told you about on the phone, he wants to be close to Bruce, I was rude to that guy,"

"And this Oz put you in Arkham? Or, no, he made your boyfriend, Bruce Wayne, put you here?"

You shushed her too late; saying his name so loud felt like inciting a curse. 

"They framed me. With my hair, my fingerprints, stuff that's irrefutable in Bruce's eyes. He can't argue with that shit."

"And who has access to those?"

"I don't know, I touch a lot of things in the city,"

"You live with Bruce Wayne." 

You let out a high-pitched stress laugh. "Why do you keep saying his last name?"

"Because I think you're forgetting it." 

Breathe, Y/n. Breathe. 

"He doesn't have it out for me. He's not—he's not using his power for anything against me, he's not. He's not. He wouldn't do that. He doesn't do that."

"You know…" Mar toyed with a frayed part of your collar, jaw clenched. "I thought you'd be the last person to fall into something like this. I think you do, too, which is why you can't see it. You think your judgment is clear when it comes to people like him."

"Good people?" Defensiveness reared its ugly head. "People that are being manipulated by a whole fucking system and suffering under it?"

"Oh. My. God." She stepped away and rubbed her temples, pacing the few steps of your room. "You see how you're saying the exact same thing you used to blame him for, right? That people like him were the shitty system." 

"There are things you don't know about him that I can't tell you. Things that would make you see my side."

"Why can't you tell me?"

"I just can't. Bruce is not the problem here. He's trying."

"He loves you, but not enough to save you?"

You met her gaze with tear-smeared eyes. "You have to trust me and you have to trust that he's not bad. Can you?"

She softened, shoulders drooping. "I don't know, girl."

Looking at her as the argument dwindled, she'd never been more exhausted. You had to consciously remind yourself that neither Bruce nor her were burdened by you—this wasn't your fault, this wasn't yours to feel bad about. 

"It's so suspicious. Why was he at the club? Why did he stay in Washington after your mom was okay? Why was there such a huge change in your opinion about him in such a short period of time? Why are you already living together?"

Had the room chilled ten degrees? "He's good. Mar, he's good. Please."

She gave you a long, sad look. Then sighed, rubbed your shoulders, and fixed some flyaways in your hair. "If the results are bad, if they keep you here… hell, I'll turn the signal on myself, get Batman to break you out of this shit."

Your voice flattened like a punctured tire. "That'd be nice, wouldn't it?"

"Honestly. Wouldn't be a bad bet at this point."

"Or I could just plead insanity."

"But you're not."

You thought of a lifetime within these walls, framed for something you didn't do, plagued by the memory that Bruce was judging you off of something you weren't. Cutting off a future you both so desperately wanted. "Not yet." 

"Y/n?" Crane stepped into the hallway and gestured to you. "There was a short delay in booking. I can fit you in right now." 

She squeezed your hand and you rushed across the hall. Crane's office was at the end of it, nearest to the entrance. When you glanced behind you, Mar and Bruce were talking to each other, their voices beginning to fade as you got further away. 

"I just want to know why you were at a club under these circumstances, that's all."

"Business."

God, his fucking voice. Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.

"You have time to do business when your girlfriend is in Arkham?"

"It was relevant."

"How?"

"Come on in." 

His office was the same as it ever was; full of paperwork, books, a billion pens, mugs, the status quo for someone who lived at work. At any hour of the day, you might hear him rushing down the halls checking in with a patient. 

You sat across his desk with a decidedly eerie feeling. Last time for Bruce, this time for you.

Crane rifled in a cabinet beside his desk. He wore an owl pinned to the front of his coat, matching the insignia on a mini flag amidst his collection of pens. "You like owls, Doctor?"

A soft smile, or a semblance of one, crested up his cheek. "Got my degree at Rice. It's actually where Dr. Vry and I met. She found an open position here at Arkham as I finished up my residency, and here I am." He rifled around to pull out what you assumed was an assessment material and continued. "Go Owls."

Hmm. You glanced at the clock and cleared your throat.

"Can't I see my records?"

"Yes, you can. Would you like to see the past examination results before we get started?"

"Yes."

The file he pulled from the manilla looked standard. The razor-thin paper was see through in his hands.

Your name, yet again, enclosed within some secret folder's walls. This time though, at least it felt more clinical, not like an ambush. He gathered the few stapled papers and handed them over for you to read.

Client reports no history of psychiatric hospitalization. Client has prior mental health diagnoses on file.

 Alright. 

Assessments used:

Beck Depression Inventory (BDI): Score of 8 (Minimal Depression)

Patient Health Questionnaire (PHQ-9): Score of 1 (Minimal to No Depression)

General Anxiety Disorder-7 (GAD-7): Score of 3 (No Anxiety Disorder)

Montreal Cognitive Assessment (MoCA): Score of 30 (No Impairment)

Columbia Suicide Severity Rating Scale (C-SSRS): Low Risk

Not very true—half the questions on the anxiety and depression screenings screamed at you to go full-hog. But you could see how they'd be twisted, how they'd make you look guilty. You'd scaled everything down.  

Mental Disease Evidence: Client does not fit criteria for Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) or any psychotic disorder. Client is oriented to person, place, and time.

"Question." You scooted flush to the desk and pointed out the paragraph to Crane. "Why are these the only diagnoses listed?"

He pushed his glasses up and sat straighter, delivering it so coolly you could tell he'd been studying this field for years. "They're the only disorders the court will accept in pleas of insanity." 

"Why?"

"Unstable realities. Mood states that are somewhat psychotic in nature."

People were just patients to him. Just a part of the workplace. This was just… routine, despite your entire life being on the line. You went back to reading before that thought could spiral. 

Or thoughts about how this was likely the room Bruce was told you tried to fucking kill him. How he came to City Hall acting differently, the gears probably turning, starting to paint you terribly. 

Capacity Evidence: Client intentionally did not disclose to healthcare providers about harming the victim, even when in regular direct contact. 

"Because I didn't." 

"Didn't what, Y/n?"

"I didn't disclose anything because I didn't do anything." 

"Alright, so." He sighed and sat back in his chair. "These are simply clinical judgements based on the facts we have about the case."

"They aren't facts though, because I didn't try to kill him. I didn't push him, nothing. I wasn't even there." 

"All I can do is follow the evidence. Bruce is my patient. I have a duty to protect my patients."

Feeling your blood boil, you went back to reading the chart before he whipped it away and went to another person, condemning you to another week here without follow-up. 

Client developed supportive role with victim's healthcare provider while intentionally not disclosing pertinent information to the case. Client went to considerable lengths to convince victim not to follow up with healthcare providers as evidenced by victim self report. 

Jesus. Everything painted you in such a fucked up light. 

Client's web history shows Client researched lengths of sentences pertaining to violent crimes relevant to the case. Per self-report and victim corroboration, Client immediately requested victim extend their trip. 

"Okay, here. The looking up sentences thing. I was calling my friend—the one who is out there, you can ask her about this—I was harassed, like, literally almost murdered by some guy who was trying to drug her on a date. Me and Bruce split them up and he got pissed off, and he wanted me to get Bruce to—"

Crane got out a notepad and started writing. "Alright. So you… had an interaction with… who?"

"I forget his name. But Bruce would know. You can ask him." He seemed to be listening, which was hopeful. A little squint between his brows. Filling up a page of a small notepad.

"And you were calling your friend about him why?"

"I was calling about something completely different. When we were getting ready to hang up, she wanted to go out that night but didn't know if the man was still in jail. I wondered what the sentences were for something like that, so we could both feel comfortable going out." You slapped your hand on the side of his walnut desk, overexcited. "See! These are the things the tech wouldn't let me say. This is critical context."

"Please continue reading, ma'am. The intake was only pushed back fifteen minutes." 

Client intentionally chose setting for crime outside of normal route in order to secure a location without cameras. Client chose late evening for conducting of crime. Client asked victim leading questions about trauma before 'snapping' at victim and ordering them to leave. Client reports victim appearing 'listless' and 'depressed' night of crime.

"I don't know how you can glean intentionality, that feels like a stretch. Who is telling you these things?"

He wrote down a little more, but nodded for you to continue. 

Clinician reports client was lucid and fully aware of wrongfulness of offense at the time of the crime. Client has full mental capacity.

 Clinician has reason to believe Client is not being transparent in their responses to GAD-7; clinician reports a discrepancy between scores in GAD-7, current presentation, and history of events in past thirty days. Client reports little to no anxiety, though verbally reports feeling worried about partner's mental wellbeing to the point of constant checking and sleeplessness as well as a recent negative family health history causing significant distress.

Dammit. You hadn't put it together at the time, but the discussion about your mom's health had been priming you for a baseline of symptoms. And he was fucking right. You were dodging shit. 

Observations: Client appeared withdrawn and hesitant to respond to clinician questions. Client showed signs of irritability with questions regarding legal process. Client presented as distracted and vague in responses. Client expressed anger at clinician as evidenced by self-report of 'feeling very pissed off right now' and 'this evaluation is a waste of both of our time'. Client engaged in fidgeting behavior and refused eye contact.

"Y/n, we need time to go through a second examination, if you will." 

You placed the folder in his hand and ground your teeth. This was fucking terrible. 

"Since you didn't find the primary examination format suitable, we have an alternative. It's more compact, which is better for our time today. Full disclosure, the primary examination will need to be analyzed alongside this one. The second examination is not normed, it is something I utilize as a check-in tool. But I think it could provide better context, as you say. Is it alright if we continue?"

"Yes." 

Each tick on the clock was a time bomb. 

"In your words, what were you doing the night of August 22nd?"

"I was home. At my apartment, at The Moore. When Bruce left, I immediately started writing the interview. The one that got published."

"Did you follow Bruce down the hall, walk him out, go with him anywhere else or to any second location?"

"No."

He scribbled some things down, his poker face trained to perfection. Queasiness slimed your spine.

"A quick overview of your life history… your school records show good attendance, good grades, no issues there. You have no criminal record outside of being followed up with by the police about an altercation with a Mr. Miller, correct? Is that who you were referencing earlier?"

"Yes, that's correct. To both."

"Alright." 

You watched your fidgeting, made sure to breathe normally, maintain polite eye contact, not give him anything abnormal to put on a report. 

"It says here you sought therapy when you were younger, is that correct?"

You nodded. He locked eyes with you over the rim of his glasses. 

"I need verbal confirmation."

"Yes. That's correct."

"What were you seeking therapy for?"

"Um," your hands went clammy and you hid them in your lap. "My mom. She got diagnosed with cancer, it was really bad. I went for like a year, or two, I don't know. My grandparents were starting to get sick during that time too, it's blurry."

"You were diagnosed with a few things at that time…" he flipped pages and adjusted his glasses. "Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Persistent Depressive Disorder, Adjustment Disorder… are any of those surprises to you?"

"No," you muttered. 

"Alright. Who is the president right now?"

You named the president, then counted backwards from 100 by 7, then drew a clock and labeled it, practiced word recall, named the time, the date, the city you were in, your full name, birth date, hometown. He sped through them at a breakneck pace.

"Normal MSE." He wrote something down, then sighed. You never wanted to hear a sigh again. "Full transparency, last night when I had a few minutes I contacted your mother and father to do a brief interview over if they saw any concerning behavior recently, what you were like as a child."

Okay. Is that legal without my consent? Does it even matter as long as it gets me out? "And?"

"You shouldn't be surprised to know that there was nothing extraordinary or abnormal that I discovered. In fact, you were very well behaved. A bit anxious and depressed, your mother informed. About your grandparents passing, about her cancer diagnosis. Some isolation, withdrawing in the few years post-high school, but nothing else."

"Yes, exactly. Yes. So if everything is normal…" 

"We are not done here, Y/n. What do you think happens when someone is pushed off of a tall building? Please get specific."

This was a similar line of questioning as when you sat with the tech, but far more open-ended. "They could die. Or get seriously injured. Broken bones. Blood. Brain injury. Coma, maybe."

"And do you know the laws regarding harming another individual?"

"I know you can't murder someone. Or seriously injure someone. Unless it's self defense."

He checked some boxes of god knows what. "And what is self defense?"

"Like. When you feel your life is in danger, and you need to stop the other person from hurting you. You can hurt them back to save yourself and not be charged."

"And were you acting in self defense with Mr. Wayne?"

"No. I was not there that night, I had no idea that happened to him until you let me know the next morning at GU."

"Here's the situation, Y/n." He leaned over the table at you, making your heart race. "This has to be outsourced to a judge, but unfortunately, I can say with near certainty that you will not qualify for an insanity plea."

"Unfortunately? What would an insanity plea do? Doesn't it just mean I'd stay here forever?"

"Not necessarily. Not even usually." Crane took of his glasses, cleaning them off on his shirt like this were any old conversation. "You'd finish a course of treatment here, get on medication, and once you were stable and no longer a threat to others, you'd be released."

Oh. "What does it mean if I don't qualify?"

"That you're fit to stand trial. It means that in the event of charges being pressed, and with the evidence against you,"

Panic crept in. "Can I be assigned a lawyer? Surely there's—"

He held up a finger to you, glancing at the clock. Your pulse thundered in your ears. "You will get a lawyer if it comes to that."

"How will I know?"

"It depends on a few factors, such as if Mr. Wayne will press charges—"

"Can I talk to him?"

"Hold on. We only have a few minutes left and I need to talk to him, too. Share what I'm seeing. Even if he decides not to press charges, the evidence suggests you interfered with an active investigation into one of our patients. Obstructed justice."

Get to it already. I need to talk to Bruce. 

"Arkham State Hospital may very well press charges themselves. In fact, I'd argue it's imminent."

Fuck. 

"But—"

"Now is not the time to fight this, Y/n. I still don't know what Bruce will do, or what the hospital will definitively decide. If it were up to me, given your history, I'd… probably settle for giving you a restraining order to not contact Bruce and send you on your way. However, this is a very special circumstance with someone so high profile. I don't know if it will swing in your favor or completely outside of it, or how much sway I will have." 

"But he's your patient."

"And I am a psychiatrist, not the legal team that presides over this hospital."

"How long will it take to know what will happen to me?"

"Weeks, possibly months. Depends on if Mr. Wayne presses charges or Arkham does. Might get expedited if someone like him wants a court date."

You were hastened out by Crane, his hand squarely between your shoulders as he walked you back to your open cell. He held a hand up to Mar when she tried to run to you from down the hall. A nurse took her and said they were going to the lobby; you were too disoriented to respond when she shouted something to you. This didn't just rest on Bruce's shoulders, it extended past him. 

Bruce walked past the door thirty seconds later, not a glance your direction. Crane followed in tow. You counted ten seconds and they were in his office with a lock of the door. 

'Might be expedited if someone like him wants a court date.'

Now you had to decide between hoping Bruce would realize you didn't do it or begging him to sue you first and make it fast. Would a restraining order be better? Bruce could fight that, right? You'd be set free, right? Even if it took legally, he had ways of not being seen, not being tracked. The both of you could still meet. 

You thudded onto your mattress. Sticking your hand under your pillow to get comfortable, something jammed into the side of your finger. You flipped your pillow over and found a piece of paper folded so tightly it sprung when you started to open it, written on both sides. 

Discard this after you read it.

Oz has a mother named Francis. She has Lewy body dementia and Parkinson's disease. She had a stroke, I think, or a heart attack the last time I saw her. Oz is very protective of her, but she won't make good leverage. Oz cares about no one. She might be good bait, but he'll let you kill her before speaking. He'll get revenge though. 

Francis hates Oz. Oz killed his two brothers when he was a child. Locked him down in the sewers during a rainstorm. Francis knew. Tried to kill him when he was younger because of it, backed out at the last minute. Hired someone named Rex Calabrese to help her do it. Planned to have Rex take him for a drive after they spent an evening at Monroe's. 

Oz has a helper named Victor. Victor Aguilar. He's soft. You might be able to get through to him. Or he might kill you. He's young, usually drives Oz around in Oz's purple sports car. He has a stutter if that's enough to set him apart.

Eve Karlo and Oz have a mutually beneficial agreement. She's an entrepreneur, as Oz would say. Her girls are very loyal to her and vice versa. You won't be able to trick any of them. Eve works with Oz and Oz uses her as an alibi. She lives by the zoo in Crown Point. That's also where Victor and Francis went to hide before I found them. Place with a bunch of old records. Eve helped me track Oz down. She knows he's dangerous. She's smart. Don't underestimate her. Don't write her off as an ally, either. She works at the Iceberg most nights but frequents other clubs. 

Oz killed my brother, Alberto. He also sent me here. Twice. Oz wants to be a bigshot, a gangster. He's prideful and awfully insecure. He only cares about status. He wants people to idealize him. Calls himself a man of the people. He wants to be seen as a hero. I think he just wants to be taken seriously for once in his life.

As simple as he is, he's not dumb. You cannot trust a word he says. Oz will say and do whatever it takes at any given moment. He can talk his way out of absolutely anything. He has a way of getting out of every situation. If I believed in magic, I'd think he had it. 

Good luck. You'll need it.

You manually slowed your breathing. Yes. Yes!

Yanking the blanket over your head, you read it half a dozen more times, committing every fact to memory. A door creaked open down the hall, strong footsteps following. You shot up and crumbled the note into your hand. Bruce needed to see this. 

A nurse stood directly across the hall from your room, monitoring your feet to ensure you didn't step out. Your neck ached from trying to catch peeks, but it was worth it to see—"Bruce!"

He didn't so much as glance your way as he pressed past. You only caught enough of his shirt to find a meager grip he easily walked out of. 

"Where are you going?"

"Your friend's outside." The nurse answered for him as she pushed you back in. Everything hurt. "Now go to bed."

Hours of anxious tossing and turning later, the door jostled like a linebacker slammed into it. 

You scrambled to your feet. Crept to the door. Looked out and saw nothing to the left, craning your eye, wishing these damn windows weren't the equivalent of a peephole. You glanced to the right.

Bloodshot eyes and cracked teeth pressed to the window glass. 

You jumped back; whoever it was jumped forward. Knocked harder into the door. Jangled the knob. 

It was at precisely this point, as you scrambled backwards, where you noticed there wasn't a single emergency button in any cell, at any point. Not a single way to call and alert someone if something were to happen. It was dark, too, with no individual room lights. You stooped to the ground and hoped that the man would forget, waiting for a nurse or security to come help them.

When the doorknob started to jiggle—like really, truly move—you started looking around for things to use as armor. A blanket? Pillow? Your non-slip slippers? 

You grabbed your blanket and held it wide. 

The man surged in, shouting something unintelligible. You dodged his first lunge, but as you headed for the door he snagged the back of your shirt and pulled you to your knees. Only then did you make out some of his words. Tuition, maybe. Lawyer, the next. Graduate school? GU? 

Oh shit.

You shouted for a nurse, for a guard, as you tried to unlatch from his grasp. It wouldn't go. You heard nothing out in the hallway as he cursed and spit on you. You couldn't get a good look, it was too dim, but he was the same height, too. Wasn't he in Blackgate? Why was Miller brought here?

He dodged your elbows and you couldn't kick from behind. Your blanket was your best shot, which you threw over him, then slammed your pillow into his head with your foot. It was enough to unstick his grip. 

Shouting still wasn't doing anything. You sped down the hall toward the main office, passing Crane's shut door with the lights off. The hallways bled together in a dark smear. You forced yourself not to panic, focusing on one foot in front of the other. He didn't have a gun. This wasn't the side of the street. There were policies and procedures here.

Where the fuck was the main lobby? Why was it so fucking quiet? What the fuck was going on? "Hello?! Can someone help?!"

"You put me here, you fuckin' bitch. I'll kill you. I'll fucking kill you."

Yeah, that was Miller alright.

Thankfully he was far enough back that that sentence didn't make your skin curdle. All you had to do was keep the distance until someone heard, that was it. 

"Is anyone watching? Hello?!" 

Adrenaline had you in a chokehold. Sprinting down hallways, slipping and tumbling and getting right back up. New wind in your lungs. You wouldn't fucking die here. It just wasn't happening.

A loud electronic sounded off in the distance. Horn? A flashing light?

Doors. Double doors. You raced toward its escape. Wayne Tower wasn't horribly far from Arkham, no, it wasn't. You could run and find Bruce, you could find a payphone, even, if you didn't want to be charged with running away. Yes, yes. Then you could call Arkham, make sure everything was locked down, tell them exactly where you were… 

But outside those doors, as you ran closer to them, parked a prune-colored car. Someone stepped out of it, and—holy fuck. Before it was consciously registered, a burst of cortisol throttled your system. You hurtled down a side hallway as the barrel of Oz's gun winked at you under the streetlight. 

Had that final paper in Spring been worth this? 

The hallway you'd shot down was short, and a dead end. You prayed the phone you saw sticking out of the wall wasn't a mirage. Sweaty, shaking hands wrapped around the hard plastic, and you scrambled to input Bruce's number, zooming your vision to a dialed focus. It rang once. You bit down on your tongue and tasted blood. Twice… Thrice…

Click.

"Bruce—help, I need help. Miller's here. He's chasing me. Um,"

You heard a crash closer down the main hall, shoes slapping and squeaking as he ran closer. You shoved the phone tighter to your ear, breathing already beginning to regulate. Something about being in proximity to him. Something about knowing he would save you. 

"At Arkham?"

"Yes, now! I have to—"

"Miller's chasing you?"

"He's here, he's chasing me, I outran him for a second but I have to go, please, come help—"

"Y/n."

Your name in Bruce's voice came out like a sigh—exasperated, guarded. 

Miller turned the corner. You thought you saw him smile. Fuck. Fuck! 

"I have to go. He's right here, please help, no one's coming,"

"I can't."

Even though it was already forcefully pressed to your ear, you wriggled the earpiece closer until the pressure hurt. "I think you're breaking up—he's gonna kill me, I have to go, c'mere,"

"I'm not coming." 

Reality suspended for a moment. It was enough time for Miller to get within a foot of you and you to drop the phone, careening around him. Something sharp snagged your arm around the corner when he was within reach, but you couldn't feel anything. 

Shouting wasn't doing anything, only making you more breathless, so you cut it out. Run. Breathe. Run. Breathe. You channeled your attention to how close he was behind, and which way you could run next. Your arm felt wet.

You manged to turn down a hall before he noticed, finding another phone. 

One phone per hallway. Good to know. 

You dialed Bruce again. Held the phone so close, whispering, voice shrill from lack of air and an excess of panic. One ring… two… three… no, no, four… fuck, fuck, no—no, Miller was gonna find you—five—the drop in your stomach felt lethal. It clicked right before six. The only tell it wasn't voicemail was his exhale. 

"Seriously, Bruce, I need you. Just—come here. That's all. I just need you to stop him. He says he'll kill me."

The length of his pause made tears slip out and your hands shake so violently you could barely hold the phone up. 

"Please, Bruce, please, please!"

"Miller's in his cell at Blackgate. I checked."

"I'm telling you, he's fucking here—" Footsteps entered the main hall. Your heart threatened to burst it was beating so hard. You pivoted to something he might fucking listen to. "Then why is Oz here, too?"

Clicking sounds came from his end of the phone. You felt like you might explode. 

"Bruce, I'm about to fucking die and no one is doing anything!"

His tone shifted. "Get to a back exit. I'm unlocking them. Meet me at the gas station two blocks south." 

"He has a fucking gun, Bruce, I can't go out unarmed,"

"Oz does?"

"Yes! He pointed it at me!"

More loud, frantic clicking sounds. "Doors haven't been breached. Can you find somewhere to hide until I get there?"

Shit. Maybe you did need to leave out the exit. "I don't—" it was so hard to breathe, "I don't know. I don't know. I um—can you see where Oz is? There's no place to hide, I need to get out of here." 

"The cameras are taking too long to load. Where'd you see him?" 

"Uh,"

"North? South? East? West?"

White-hot, panicky heat flashed through you. "I don't know. It wasn't the back and it wasn't the front, um… it was—I ran down the hallway from my room," how close was Miller now?! Had Oz found a way in? "and then took a left down a big hallway, he was at the end of that,"

"Exit to the East, then. It's closer to the gas station. I'll be there in two minutes."

You cut for the Eastern exit faster than you'd ran yet. The soles of your feet ached, shin splints beginning to burn after pounding the miserably hard floors. Still no one, nowhere. Hiccups fought you for air.

Miller's shoes squeaked much too close for comfort and you pitched forward like a baby deer fumbling about, struggling to find home. Why'd you come back? Why didn't you stay home after graduation? Why? Why?

Finally you found something this direction that led to an exit. The metal bars crunched as you slammed through the doors. Night air zapped your lungs, your mind blanking as you tore through the side of the parking lot. Muddy puddles splattered up your legs, soaking through the tough linen. You fell to all fours and scraped your hands as you pushed back up, the uneven pavement acting as enemy. Pebbles lodged into the meat of your palm, some breaking skin.

You stalled when your fingers wrapped around a wire fence. Squinting against the rain, you tried to make out if there was barbed wire at the top. Couldn't see any. Harsh wind obscured sound, the streetlights putting up a pitiful fight against the storm. Miller could still be inside. Could be a foot away. 

Shouting was purely into the void. Your fingers felt like they'd snap at the knuckle as you scaled the fence, toes pinching and feet sliding in your worn slippers. Shards of icy rain cut into exposed skin. 

You shut your eyes, suddenly overwhelmingly woozy. Your foot slipped from its tiny purchase as you heaved your body over top, straddling. The metal bowed out slightly, your body angled back from the high winds. You weren't too far up, you could fall and be fine, maybe you would, maybe… your bones felt like weights. Dizzy TV static began at the back of your nostrils and emanated over your whole body. 

Thankfully there was no wire at the top. The palms of your hands were raw, indented, and borderline hypothermic. Petrified of heights but more scared of getting fucking shot, you jumped.

After the shock of landing on your feet—your calves would kill you later—you booked it for the gas station ahead, having just enough wits about you to zigzag, making it a tougher shot. It was misty, streets empty, the rain thick, an earache blooming from the cold. When you got out of here you needed to study a map of Gotham, make sure you never felt lost in this city again.

Luminous headlights of a black Corvette pulled up to the curb and made you collapse to your knees in relief. Bruce leapt out of the driver's side with his phone tight to his ear, close enough to hear. "Yes, she's here. We're two blocks away."

Bruce ushered you into the passenger seat. That same well-tended leather, the soft whir of heat from the climate control, the barely-there bergamot… Under his shadow, safety settled into your fatigued body. Gasping sobs flung out of you. He started up the car. 

You startled, slamming your hand atop the gear stick. "I can't go back there. Oz, he's—"

"At the Iceberg." Bruce's tone was incisive, his jaw set. He worked the steering wheel like it was playdough. "And Miller is still in his cell at Blackgate."

"No." Your brows scrunched. He reached below you and moved the car into first gear and pulling it onto the road. "That's not true!" Two blocks was nothing. The car was very nearly at the back entrance to Arkham now just in those few seconds. "I just ran away from both of them."

Bruce stopped at the light and signaled his turn into the back parking lot. You opened the passenger door and jumped out. The car was turned off and he rushed out before you'd even shut the door. "What the hell are you doing?" 

You had to shout for him to hear you. "I'm not going back inside. We need to leave and go back to the Tower now." 

"They aren't here."

"I would know if someone tried to fucking kill me."

Bruce looked down and your stomach knotted. Rain accumulated between your lips, running sweat into your mouth each time you spoke. Brushing it off with your forearm brought a copper taste. A smear of bright red blood trickled down your arm in rivulets, a thick line cutting into the skin where it bubbled from. Why didn't it hurt? That was a 'I want you to die' cut. It didn't look real. 

When he looked back up, his eyes flashed.

"When I ran past Miller, he fucking stabbed me—he, um,"

He popped open the trunk and emerged with a tie. In a blink it was wrapped around your arm, in the next the rod placed. You cursed, feeling like it was pressing against the bone. His hands left you the second it was secured. 

"They were really both there?" 

He squinted when you nodded. "Yes."

"Oz and Miller? Just now?"

"Yes. Trying to fucking kill me. I probably would've ended up dead or covered in these cuts," you clenched your fist into the fabric by your thigh, the pain smarting. "Fuck."

He gave you a long, studying look. It crushed you under its analytical weight. If this was the same analysis that got you put in here, you didn't fare well. If he understood the gravity of it, maybe he'd do something.

"I swear to god, Bruce, if I go back there I'm gonna fucking die. You could, too."

When he finally spoke, it was barely audible. "Alright." 

"Alright?" You let go of the jumpsuit fabric, your heartbeat one big bright spot. "You'll get me out? Right now?"

Vaporized breath from the chill filled the space between you. He looked as shattered as you'd ever seen him. "I will."

Fuck. Held breath burst out of you, dislodging the rock in your stomach. Once again, you gravely underestimated how he felt about you. Yes. Yes.

You gasp, pulling your hands to your chest, completely forgetting about the kettle in your hand, and the scalding hot cup of tea right in front of you.

Your actions knock the cup all over yourself, soaking your stomach to your thigh. Hands shaking, you try to set the kettle down on the counter, not without spilling more hot water on your nondominant hand.

Cursing under your breath, you almost run into the bathroom.

You never felt the heat of the water, that is what scares you.

Thankfully, your training from work kicks in, and you step into the shower, turning the water to the coldest setting.

"What happened?" Levi speaks with authority, his tone harsh and foreign to you.

Choking down a whimper, you accidentally grab the shower head with your nondominant hand, making the dry and irritated skin stretch with a burn.

Quickly, you switch hands, putting the cold water over your hand to remove the immediate pain.

"Tell me." Levi walks towards you, his body hovering in the open shower door. Too focused on yourself, you don't see the way his face twists with pain – like he can feel how hurt you are.

Levi can clearly see the irritated area on the back of your hand forming, and with his immaculate detective skills, he knows you burnt more than just your hand to be treating yourself in the shower.

"Where else did you get burnt." His hands are held out to help you, hesitating on touching you where you're burnt.

"It's my tummy a-and my t-thigh." You whimper again, the sound sending twisted pleasure to his cock and wounding his heart at the same time.

Levi watches as you angle the shower head to your stomach, your injured hand lifting the material of your tee shirt so Levi can see the extend of your damages.

This time, Levi is the one cursing under his breath, taking the shower head from your hands.

"Strip. You shouldn't have clothing touching the burns." Levi moves the water to run over your stomach, his free hand helping you lift your shirt over your head.

You hiss as the harsh, wet material runs over the burn on your hand. Cradling it to your chest with your free hand, the wet tee shirt is dumped on the shower floor beside your feet.

Levi is quick to hook his thumb into your shorts and to work it down your long legs. The perverted side of his mind noted how you had forgone a bra and panties. The more logical side of Levi's mind kept assessing the burns, his head how level with your pussy.

The water had scalded a majority of your stomach and most of your right thigh.

"Shit." He hisses under his breath, looking up to you from his crouched position.

Tears are running down your face (which is now ghostly pale), your hands still cradled to your chest. Levi also notices the periodic shaking of the adrenaline leaving your body, giving you full body chills.

𝕋𝕣𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕙𝕦𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕤

✦ Enchantment [Draal x Reader] ✦ SFW ✦ ⭒ Multi-Chapter Work ⭒ Currently Unfinished ⭒ Content Warning[s]: Injury, Brief Description of Blood and Wounds ✦ Chapter 1 ⭒ Basement Dweller ✦ Chapter 2 ⭒ Two Steps Up ✦ Chapter 3 ⭒ Is This Even Legal? ✦ Chapter 4 ⭒ Training Trauma ✦ Chapter 5 ⭒ Terror Amongst Valor ⭒ Current Word Count: 32,290 ⭒ AO3 Link ⭒

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𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔽𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕜 ℂ𝕚𝕣𝕔𝕦𝕤

✦ Pierrot With a Reader Who Struggles With Love / Relationships ✦ SFW ✦ ⭒ Headcannons [request] ⭒ Finished ⭒ Content Warning[s]: Obsessive Behavior [canon typical] ⭒ Word Count: 1,543 ⭒ AO3 Link [n/a] ⭒

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ℙ𝕠𝕜é𝕞𝕠𝕟

✦ To Change the Heart and Mind [N x Reader] ✦ SFW ✦ ⭒ Multi-Chapter Work ⭒ Currently Unfinished ⭒ No Current Content Warnings ✦ Chapter 1 ⭒ The Wonder of the Woods ⭒ Current Word Count: 6,871

⭒ AO3 Link ⭒

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⭒ Links to Divider Assets ⭒

☾ Small Star ☾ Three Moons ☾ Moon + Stars ☾ Lines ☾

“Got a moment?” 

You paused, fork halfway between your meal and mouth. It wasn’t often that the Grand Duke of Meropide paid you a visit. You could honestly count the number of times on one hand, starting with one. 

“All the time in the world.” You replied coolly, setting your fork down. You had a feeling that you weren’t going to be able to finish your meal. 

“Sounds about right. Finish up here and meet me in my office.” The duke was casual with the request; you weren’t a threat to him, but he was definitely a threat to you. You’d heard the rumors about what happened with Dougier and his Beret Society. There really wasn’t anything to worry about, though; you knew you were keeping your nose down and working your sentence just fine. 

After a meal that was semi-decent at best, you approached the Duke’s office. While there might have been guards outside it, the Duke had a fairly open-door policy, and it wasn’t unusual for you to see him take visitors from within the fortress.

You ascended the steps to the Duke’s office, the dulcet sound of a piano played over a phonograph grew stronger as you approached. It had been a long time since you’d seen one played, much less heard one. This was a treat. 

The Duke stood with his back to you, intently studying the contents of a drawer in the cabinet by his desk. You weren’t sure what to say for a moment, unsure of why he’d even invited you to his office in the first place. “Your grace?” 

“Ah, there you are.” He turned, a calm and inviting expression on his face, “You’re earlier than I thought you would be.. I understand you were once a tea sommelier, is that correct?” “I was.” There was no point in lying; you hadn’t lied before, why start now? “I ran a little shop in Fontaine: Bijou Fine Teas. We sold all kinds of tea, mostly imports from Liyue and Sumeru. Local blends too, many of them made in-house.”  

“I think I’ve had some of the tea from there before.” The Duke nodded, motioning towards the couch, “Have a seat, there’s a tea I’d like your opinion on.” 

You blinked. The reason for your visit to the Duke’s office was so that he could ask your opinion on tea? You slowly took your seat on the couch. The Duke really was a strange man. You weren’t opposed to talking about your former career, but this was the last thing you ever expected to talk about inside the Fortress of Meropide. You’d sooner have guessed that the Duke was going to ask you to spy for him than you would have guessed that he would ask you for tea.  

Soon, the Duke joined you on the couch, handing you a small flat tin. There had once been a label affixed to it, but it appeared that the label had gotten wet and the ink had completely smeared into an unreadable blob. 

“A colleague brought this tea back with them from Liyue. Unfortunately, it got wet in transit, and she couldn’t remember the exact name of the tea. I’m hoping you can identify it so I can prepare it correctly.” 

You blinked again. So it wasn’t even to invite you to have tea but to identify an unlabeled one? This visit was just becoming more and more strange as it went on… but it wasn’t like you had anything better to do. 

“I can’t make any promises that I’ll know the exact blend, but I’ll try to get you close, your grace.” You didn’t want to oversell. “See what you can do.” It had been a while since you’d done this sort of thing before. Fontainians often thought that being a tea sommelier had roots in being a wine sommelier, but the truth was far from that. In fact, wine and tea were cultivated so far back in time that it was impossible to say which came first. While there were similarities in the approaches, saying that one was derived from the other eliminated the important nuances that you respected. 

You started by investigating the tin. It was a simple metal tin, understated. But there was obviously an airtight quality to it, something that maintained the freshness of the tea. The material also kept sun off the tea, protecting it from further degradation. There were no maker's marks on the tin, but the paper that had once been its label was of a high quality. The paper was soft, with a slight grain to it. Bamboo paper. 

Liyue was a land of commerce; the paper could have been from anywhere in the nation. And the tin was a standard you’d seen frequently, leaving you without answers for the blend. 

With your thumb, you carefully broke the paper seal holding the tin shut and gently popped the lid off. The smell was clean, with a slightly sweet, vegetal note to it. No water damage inside the container, that was a good sign. You took another sniff of the tea, a prominent note of sugar cane greeted you. 

The tea itself was rolled into oblong shapes, nowhere near the perfect pearls you had seen many times. Hand rolling was an expensive process, and typically indicated a high-quality tea. The brew would also be fairly long-lasting, able to accommodate multiple steeps with steady development of the flavor. 

You plucked one of the rolled leaves from the tin, turning it over in the palm of your hand. The color was a dark green, but it lacked the silvery green veining that would indicate it a varietal of jasmine. It hadn’t been roasted either. The color alone was an indicator of that. You wracked your brain, recalling information that had once been innate knowledge. 

Hand-rolled dark leaves with prominent notes of sugarcane and vegetal… “This is likely a winter harvest. See the dark color of the leaves? Spring harvests would be brighter than this. And this has a sweet vegetal scent to it, spring harvests are more floral forward.” You started to explain, leaning over to show the Duke exactly what you were seeing and smelling, “Based on the smell, I’m thinking an oolong variety. So, two ways you can brew this. The low and slow way, which is lowering the temperature of your water and extending the brew time, or the opposite. You’ll get different parts of the flavor out of the leaves depending on which method you use.” 

“I see.” The Duke nodded, an impressed look on his face. You realized just how close the Duke had gotten to you and held your breath; it had been so long since you’d been this physically close to another person. You could see the scars on his neck, the loose black wrapping doing little to hide them. Your eyes moved down, finding his collarbones just past the unbuttoned top of his shirt. You caught the scent of his cologne. A dark scent of black tea and oiled leather, softened slightly by bergamot. It was a scent you could wrap yourself in. It put you on edge to be so close, but you weren’t sure if you actually minded it. You felt warm.

But just as soon as you had realized that, the Duke pulled away, moving towards a kettle you hadn’t noticed before. “Which method do you prefer?” “Excuse me?” “Did you think I was going to send you back to work after answering my question? I still want your opinion on this tea.” He seemed almost offended, “Now, how do you want this tea made?” 

You thought for a moment, how did you like your oolong brewed? 

You gave your answer, watching as the Duke set the kettle to heat the water to the correct temperature. You had to admit, it was a nice kettle; you had one just like it in the shop for tea services. It had certainly made your job much easier in keeping your newer employees from scalding the nicer teas, and it had freed your hands up to attend to other matters in the shop. 

Your eyes wandered over the coffee table, recognizing the tea set up immediately as one that originated in Liyue. Delicate-looking porcelain cups sat on a layered wooden tray, and the adorable, leisurely otter tea pet stared back at you. There was also a clay teapot that had clearly been well cared for. 

So, the Duke was serious about his tea time. It felt oddly humanizing to see the Duke like this, making tea so carefully for a guest. You had always sort of viewed the Duke as his title, intimidating and unapproachable, despite some of his lackadaisical attitudes. You were always expecting that kindness to end. No. Not kindness. That wasn’t the right word… patience? Not quite. Whatever it was, you were always ready to be guarded around the Duke. 

But he made it so easy to forget that he was the Duke of Meropide. Especially like this, especially when he was standing there with a hand on his hip watching the kettle come to temperature, preparing tea for a guest as if you weren’t a prisoner. His coat was slung over his shoulders, intimidating as it was casual. 

Your hands, which had been folded on your lap, gripped one another now. 

You knew your crime, and you were sure the Duke knew as well. Was this a check-in? Was this all a ruse to see if you were as truly dangerous as your case indicated? 

Soon, the Duke was back to sitting on the other end of the couch from you. He carefully measured the tea, pouring the right amount of water, and waited for the first brew. 

“So.” He started, his voice tinged with an air of honest curiosity, “I usually form my first opinion of inmates from their intake papers.” You inhaled sharply. Of course he would want to talk about that. 

“Your Grace.” You gritted out, earning a blink from him. 

“I’m not here to judge.” He assured, a charming smile on his face. 

“I would hardly say that discussing my crime is appropriate tea talk.” 

“Then let’s avoid that topic then. I want to know what your life was like before your trial. What drew you to becoming a tea sommelier?” He hadn’t batted an eye at you, naturally moving away into a kinder conversation, one you were clearly more open to having. 

You watched him pour the first steep over the leisurely otter as you gathered your thoughts. A second steep was started, this would be for you and would take much less time than the first. 

“My mother.” You started, “I grew up in the Beryl Region, she had a garden that she would use for her teas; raspberry leaves for cramps. Chamomile for anxiety. Lavender for sleep. That sort of thing..” 

The Duke listened intently, pouring the second steep into a cup that he then handed to you. Your fingers curled around the porcelain, soaking up the warmth; you hadn’t realized it was that cold in the Duke’s office. The tea was still a little hot, you gave it a moment to cool down. 

“So I suppose there was always an interest in tea. When I was older, I started to travel and study. I went to Liyue and worked in a tea house for a time, spoke with the traders, and lived with the tea farmers in Chenyu Vale for about two years.” You inhaled the tea’s scent, pleased with the familiar aroma of a properly brewed oolong, “Traveled to Sumeru next, learned how they spiced their tea. And I read as many books from Inazuma as I could about their tea ceremonies.” “What brought you back to Fontaine?” The Duke pressed, pouring himself a cup of tea now. He seemed to be enjoying the conversation; there had been a consistent spark to his eye since you’d greeted him. 

“My mother died. I had to come back and handle her estate.” It had been years ago, you had done your grieving, but if she saw you now… 

“I’m sorry for your loss.” The Duke said, his tea cup paused midway to his mouth. 

“I couldn’t afford to travel extensively after that, so I opened Bijou. And that’s all there was. Me, my tea shop, and as many teas as I could import and introduce to the Fontainian public.” “That’s a pretty simplified story.” “That’s all there is to tell.” You answered back, “You’ve finished your sentence, you have occasional visits topside. I’m sure you have more stories to tell than I do.” 

“Maybe. You’re right about having occasional time above water, but really, most of it is business-related.” The Duke admitted, “I do remember seeing your shop though.. Smelling it, really. You had the doors open.” It was a trick you learned in Sumeru. As the scent of your products wafted down the street, customers would be drawn in. Something in you was pleased that it had been that impactful, but another part of you twinged in longing. You could never go back to that life. 

“I admit I never had time to browse, but if I had..”

“It’s funny how the world works.” You nodded, picking up what he was getting at, “If we had met outside the fortress, we likely would have had a transactional relationship. I, your supplier of tea, and you, a possible customer.” “I would have loved to have seen your offerings.” You smiled, for the first time in a long time. “I can tell you that there was an entire wall behind the counter of nothing but tea. That the shoproom floor had different styles of tea wares. That every week we had a tea service from a different nation, that we also highlighted a new pair of teas each week.” You missed it. Your Bijou. You still dreamed of it, and occasionally you could still imagine the smell of the shop when you opened it on rainy mornings. 

You finally took a sip of your tea, the sugarcane flavor was prominent, and there was a creamy note to the end that was truly delightful. 

“Sounds like a vibrant life.” The Duke nodded, “Thank you for giving me some of your time today.” “What the duke wants, he gets. Is that how it goes?” 

“Within reason.” “Fair.. this is definitely an oolong, I think I might have known the grower.” 

You left the Duke’s office sometime later, the taste of tea lingering on your tongue. He had promised to call on you again when a new batch of tea arrived, and promised that there would be light snacks next time if he could manage it. 

A troubled knot was forming in your stomach as you returned to your assigned sleeping quarters. You still had a nagging feeling that the Duke had other plans for you; he really couldn’t have just been wanting someone to talk about tea with. 

Once in the safety of your room, you began to pace. 

Throughout your worries on what the Duke intended for you, you couldn’t get the sight of him out of your head. His physical closeness to you, the way his scars were, the charming blue eyes, his rough hands still delicately holding a teapot and serving you. The scent of his cologne…