#no.25

Now that they were inside the room, the wounds littering their body were visible in full detail against their pale skin. The angry red burn marks on their forearms varied between first and second degree. Deep slashes on their thighs were fresh because still oozing blood. The broken nose with dried blood trailing down to Villain’s lips, split and chapped. And the bruises, in different stages of healing, marred their skin. Hero’s stomach churned so hard at the sight that they had to stop themselves from heaving. A voice, so much like Villain’s, whispered in the back of their mind.

Look at what you caused.

They walked further into the room, crouching in front of the mangled form in the chair. Villain made no move, seemingly asleep, or rather unconscious. Hero put the first aid kit they carried next to them on the floor and further examined what they were to work with, trying so hard to remain focused and professional. They would be of no use to Villain if they started to have a meltdown in front of them. They were not the one entitled to fall apart.

Hero was disturbingly aware that Superhero’s interrogations had taken a violent turn, after Villain adamantly refused to talk. The wounds ranged from superficial to serious harm. Hero looked over and gasped as they noticed the horribly broken fingers of Villain’s left hand. Their dominant hand.

The sudden spark of memory was a cruel trick of their mind.

Hero threw the dagger, missing the narrow beam that was their target by a long shot.

“Fucking hell!” they cursed, carelessly throwing the second dagger. Ironically, they were closer to hitting the target than before. “You know what, I give up! It’s impossible!”

Villain smirked at them and turned around, looking over their shoulder at the target. They threw the dagger from behind and pierced the beam right in the middle.

“Show-off” grumbled Hero, crossing their arms like an annoyed toddler, “but seriously, how the hell do you do that? You’re sure you don’t just have some hidden telekinetic powers?”

Villain let out a hearty laugh. They walked over to Hero, their eyes gleeming in self-satisfaction. They grabbed Hero by their chin and pulled them in for a kiss. It was slow and affectionate, but not without a hint of teasing, as they gently bit Hero’s bottom lip.

“The trick, love,” Villain whispered as their lips parted, gazing intensely into Hero’s eyes, “is to have a perfectly steady hand. Yours is always trembling with stress. You must relax.”

They dipped their head into the Hero’s neck, kissing it gently.

“I could help you with that.”

It didn’t take a doctor to tell that Villain would never throw knives again; they would be lucky to even be able to hold up a knife. Their favourite skill, earned by years of intense training, stolen in mere seconds. That might have been the most painful blow Superhero had dealt them.

When they brought Villain in, Hero never imagined this. What a bliss was ignorance of the agency’s conduct, caring little for what happened to the criminals they brought in. And now it wasn’t them who was paying the price for their disregard.

It was Villain.

Their enemy, their lover.

How could they have been so stupid?

They shook their head, trying to break out of the tangle of thoughts and emotions. There were things to be done. They sentenced Villain to this anguish, so the least they could do was help them survive it.

They looked up at Villain’s face. Though sleeping, they looked tense. Their jaw was clenched and their skin was scrunched up in the corners of their eyes and on their forehead. It seemed that even in the oblivion they could not escape the pain.

They hold out a hand to brush the stray hairs that fell onto Villain’s face, just as they did so many times, staring at their sleeping face in their shared bed. They felt a sudden pang of nostalgia as they realised that they could never get these moments back. And immediately after, the emotion made them feel utterly disgusting. To think that after all they did they still had the audacity to miss villain was sick. They had no right to Villain’s heart anymore.

Maybe they never should have.

As they brushed away the stray hairs, their hand met the skin of their forehead and Villain awoken with a start, jerking away so violently that they fell backwards with the chair, their head hitting hard the concrete floor. They let out a pained scream as the fall rattled the broken bones in their hand. Their limbs flailed about to try to move away from the fallen chair, but in their dazed and injured state they could not get to their feet and only managed to scoot over to the wall. They looked around, trying to find what awoken them and their eyes landed on Hero.

Villain visibly tensed under Hero’s concerned gaze, but they held it with their own. Hero flinched at the raw hatred they saw in Villain’s eyes.

Hero was prepared for strings of profanities from Villain, for the most cruel and vile words to be flung at them, craved them even, but Villain uttered none. They just sat on the floor of their bare cell, impassive but for their stare, and, just as they so often did during their fights, waited for Hero to make the first move.

Hero did not know if they dared.

The tension between them pressed heavily on Hero, making them fidget under their lover’s glare. Ex-lover, a voice in their mind chided. Villain knew exactly what they were doing. They knew how and where to strike to elicit the most pain for them. And they knew that their silent treatment would hurt Hero way more than even the nastiest of insults. Hero was like a language the Villain had learned to speak fluently.

No doubt, they were also aware that Hero would not hold up long against the quiet.

And how right they were.

“Hi,” they began, tentatively, as if approaching a wild animal, “I came to dress up your wounds,” they dumbly pointed to the discarded first aid kit.

Villain stared at them for a few seconds longer, a certain curiosity in their eyes, before scoffing derisively, “How generous of you.”

Their voice was grated and raspy, a result of hours of screaming. Screaming that Hero heard very clearly, standing guard outside the cell. Each of the pained sounds was like a bullet piercing through their heart.

Hero felt their cheeks heating up in shame, the absurdity of the situation standing clear before them. They set fire to the house and now tried to put it out with a glass of water. It was laughable.

But it was the least they could do. So they picked up the kit and started towards Villain.

And Villain flinched.

“Don’t,” they spat, anger finally seeping through their cold exterior, “don’t you dare touch me.”

“Villain—“

“Just go.”

“You’re seriously wounded, I-“

“And who’s fault is that?” Villain cut in, venom lacing their words. With a sudden spark of strength they got to their feet, refusing to cower on the floor before the traitor. They still had to lean against the wall to keep their balance, though.

“What exactly are you playing at, Hero? You think you can worm your way back to my good graces with some wound care and kind touches?” asked Villain, instantly bursting out laughing, though the sound was hollow and humourless. As it died down, they added, “if you really want to do something for me, leave me alone.”

“Villain, please, listen—“ Hero tried desperately, walking closer to them.

“Go away, Hero.”

“I’m just trying to help you, love, I—“ Hero stuttered, realising their mistake too late. The word was like an alight match dropped into gasoline. Villain’s eyes flashed with rage as they started forward, slapping Hero hard across the face.

“Don’t you ever fucking call me that again.”

Holding their cheek, Hero looked at them, eyes glassy, a tang of iron now in their mouth. They knew they deserved it.

They wanted to cry for Villain, to fall to their knees and beg them for forgiveness. They wanted to feel every wound that littered Villain’s body, even let Villain carve up their flesh just to feel a shred of pain they caused.

They opened their mouth to speak but Villain didn’t let them, “Don’t come to see me, don’t talk to me, and most definitely don’t help me” they spat out the word as if it was poison.

“I didn’t want this!” screamed Hero in hopeless attempt to make them listen, “I’m so sorry Villain, I didn’t know!”

“And how exactly is that supposed to make it better?”

Hero stood speechless, tears brimming in their eyes as they let Villain punish them at least by words.

“Tell me, have you earned your stripes, Hero? Did you climb the ranks and finally became second in command to Superhero, like you always wanted? It was worth it, wasn’t it? Just a little betrayal to earn a place, nothing serious.” they snarked, sarcasm lacing every word in a vicious contempt.

And Hero’s tears finally fell, their heart shattered on the concrete floor.

“That wasn’t the point,” they whispered with their head down and eyes glued to the ground, “and I am so very sorry.”

“It’s no good.”

They could hear Villain shuffling back to their previous place on the concrete floor, the adrenaline finally wearing off and reminding them of how much pain they were in. Hero dared to look at their ex-lover, at how utterly defeated they looked, no matter their brave facade. After a while, Villain spoke again.

“I loved you,” they uttered quietly, shamefully, “and it made me weak.”

And Hero finally realised that whatever frayed string of hope they were trying to reach for snapped right there.

“Leave the kit and go. I’ll manage on my own.”

And Hero went without a word.

The forest was quiet again. A silent violence that came after he had been taken, snatched away from you.

When you found him, Daryl was barely conscious, crumpled in the leaves like a broken puppet. His face was bloodied, one eye swollen shut, and his knuckles shredded from the fight. His breathing was ragged and shallow—and when you touched his shoulder, he flinched so violently that it made your heart hurt.

“It’s me.” You whispered, falling to your knees beside him. “It’s me, Daryl. You’re safe now.”

He blinked, pupils blown wide beneath the bruising. For a long, agonizing moment, he just stared at you—like you were a stranger.

“Who’re you?” He rasped.

You froze. “Daryl, it’s me. Y/N.”

He looked away, grimacing as he tried to sit up. His movements were clumsy, his eyes unfocused. “Don’t—don’t know ya.” He mumbled, fingertips probing at the deep split on his brow. “Where the hell am I?”

You swallowed hard. “You’re home.” You said softly, though the final word felt fragile on your tongue.

They said it was a concussion. A bad one. Possibly more. He’d taken a brutal beating. The Whisperers hadn’t gone easy on him before leaving him for dead. For days he drifted in and out—restless and defensive, snapping at anyone who came near. Except you.

Even if he didn’t remember who you were, some part of him still trusted you. You caught it in the small things—the way he’d look for you first when he woke up or how his shoulders eased when he heard your voice.

But when you tried to remind him of what the two of you had—what you’d become together—the words caught in your throat.

You remembered it all too clearly. That night before he was taken. You had argued over something stupid—the risks he took, the way he shut you out. Then you had both gone quiet. The fight had bled into silence. Then that silence had turned into something else.

He had kissed you. Rough and hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to—like he’d been holding it back for years. And you had kissed him right back.

Now that memory felt like something precious and fragile that only you carried.

A week later, you were sitting with Rosita by the garden fence, talking low. Daryl was nearby, sharpening a knife, pretending not to listen.

“I don’t know how to help him.” You said quietly. “He looks at me like I’m someone he’s supposed to know but can’t place. Like a name on the edge of his tongue.”

Rosita’s gaze softened. “He’ll come back to you.” She said. “Give it time.”

You looked down, twisting a bit of fabric in your hands. “He kissed me before they took him.” You confessed. The words came out shaky. “And now—it’s like it never happened.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw Daryl’s hand still. The knife hovered mid-stroke, his brow furrowing slightly.

Rosita’s smile was small but warm. “Then remind him.” She said. “In your own way.”

You just nodded, trying to ignore the burn behind your eyes.

When you stood and walked past Daryl, he didn’t look up—not right away. But as you passed, his gaze followed you, lingering a moment too long.

That night, you caught him sitting on the porch, staring out into the trees.

“You were talkin’ ‘bout me.” He said without turning around. His voice was quiet, brimming with uncertainty.

Your breath caught. “You were listening?”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t tryin’ to. Just heard.”

A long silence stretched between you. The cicadas hummed. The wind stirred the leaves.

“Was it true?” He asked finally, turning his head toward you. His eyes were clearer tonight—searching. Hopeful? “Whatcha said. ’Bout the kiss.” You could see his throat working as he swallowed. “We had somethin’ special, didn’t we?”

You could have lied to him. Saved him the turmoil of a memory he just couldn’t summon. Still, you nodded, your heart thudding in your chest. “Yeah.” You whispered. “It was real.”

He looked down at his hands for a long moment, thumb tracing the edge of the knife sheath. Then he quietly said “m’sorry I don’t remember.”

“You don’t have to be.” You said softly. “You’ll get there again—if that’s what you want. I can wait.”

He glanced at you, eyes shadowed and unsure—but a faint flicker of something passed across his face. Maybe recognition? Or even something deeper.

“Maybe ya—” He said slowly. “Maybe ya could tell me how it happened.”

You smiled faintly, stepping closer. “Maybe I could show you instead.”

He watched as you moved, head tilted and brow furrowed. When he nodded, there was a weight lifted that you had already grown accustomed to carrying. 

“Yeah.” He murmured. “Yeah, I want that.”

And for the first time since he’d come back, Daryl didn’t flinch when you reached for him.

He didn’t remember everything—not yet. But when his fingers brushed yours and stayed there, it felt like the beginning of something coming back to life.

Hope.