#open ending

Duchess Frances and Duke William Monroe had always fought over toys and trinkets since they were young. These small squabbles never ended, even when they reached adulthood. Especially when they both had their sights set on you, the pretty little maid. Both siblings were incredibly competitive over you, their sweet, oblivious maid.

You had been with them since they were children since you were the daughter of a maid. And once you were a teen, you worked for the family too… and those two siblings made your life a living hell. You had no idea that they did such awful acts upon you for your utmost attention rather than sadistic pleasure, but how were you to know the truth? They merely learned love through what they observed between their cold parents.

Frances used to cut your hair without your permission and stuff the remnants into a tin under he bed, while William had a much stranger habit. He enjoyed keeping your dirty socks. They were both so strange to you as the years went on. What started at childish bullying turned into a strange dynamic they had with no other house servant.

When adulthood finally came, Frances Monroe became a diva. Unlike her war commander brother, who threw elaborate parties and had gaggles of women dancing on his arms, she’d flaunt her furs and jewelry amongst the party guests. And she made you, her maid, do her hair and makeup multiple times a day just so she could have your hands on her. Frances adored the attention she recieved from other women, but didn’t like the attention of men… the socialite didn’t quite understand why, but she gravitated towards you. You were the only one who indulged her every command and it made her feel special. Even though Frances failed to realize you didn’t quite have a choice.

Your hands were constantly making finger waves in her French bob. You swore your hands were in the permanent shape of the comb and your hands smelled constantly of sugar water. Yet Frances was never satisfied.

“Redo it. You can’t possibly think this hairstyle is acceptable for my party guests.” She’d tell you each time despite how good the hair looked. This was all to have your constant attention… and to keep you away from her older brother, William.

When you finally had free time, you’d be hounded by William who wanted you to fetch him all kinds of assortments. Whether it was drinks or snacks, he’d ask for them in bountiful amounts. Yet that wasn’t the worst part, the worst part was when William had you feed him and it was always a show.

William would beckon you over like a dog in front of so many people before he’d have you nearly straddling his lap to hand-feed him an appetizer or an olive from his martini. His blue eyes would be half lidded and dazed… like you were yet another woman he wanted as a conquest. It made you sick.

You hated those two spoiled brats. The hours you worked as a servant were so long and demanding and the pay? It was so low, you almost felt like a pet rather than a worker. You worked multiple jobs since the Monroes' cutback on servants in the manor. There were hardly any male servants due to the ongoing war… and you knew it was only a matter of time before one of the few men left in this house might try to put their hands on you. You had heard stories from other maids… and you had no interest in being a bed warmer and ultimately, known as a trollop it’s why you’ve been saving most of your checks. You needed enough for a ticket to sail across the Atlantic to America… maybe you’d find a better life in New York than working for this awful Duchy.

You sat up as you went to the hidden hole you had hidden under your mattress where you kept a metal tin full of shillings. You had about £14 that you’ve collected over three years. It’d be enough for a boat ticket… You only made about that much a year as a parlor maid. Which was more than what you made years ago. You were grateful for the meager pay rise because you were that much closer to freedom. You packed your tin back where it was before you made sure it was secure once more. The last thing you needed was for someone to discover this… you had been talking to a sailor for a few months now on getting on the hair and he promised you a spot if you ever truly needed it. You took great advantage of your looks to get what you wanted. And you were hopeful that he’d keep his word.

The days went on and you noticed William began to seek you out more and more. Whether it be to ask you to fetch him a beverage or to stand as close as possible beside you while you dusted. It unnerved you how he looked at you, yet the older maids could do nothing to help you.

“I’ll be going to war soon,” William told you softly. His blue eyes filled with longing. “…meet me in my room tonight.”

Frances angrily stormed into the room when one of the maids let it slip that William asked you that request. Her blue eyes were narrowed as her pin curls were still pinned to her head since she had waited all morning for you, specifically, to come to her room to take them out despite her having a personal maid.

“How dare you indulge my brother! You are to be at my beck and call, not his!” She huffed in annoyance, her pale cheeks flushed red. “I’m far better company than that sheik! Look at my hair! I need you to fix it.”

You obediently followed her to her room as she practically dragged you. Frances complained the entire time as you fixed her blonde bob for her. The socialite was leaning into your hands the whole time which made your job even more difficult. If only you looked up to see the dazed expression on her face, then you’d know how Frances really felt. Frances felt the feelings for you that a man would feel for a woman and that really upset her. Because Frances knew she could never truly have you. She’d have to marry a nobleman one day. Unless… She took you back with her.

It rained that night, but you quietly went to William’s room as he asked. You didn’t want to upset him since William had a worse temper than Frances, herself.

He was quick to wave you over to him as he sat in his chair. His blue eyes studied your form in an emotion you could only describe as reverence. Which was odd since he was a known ladies' man. Yet you never truly looked into whether or not he genuinely joined those ladies in his room. He was just a privileged elite in your eyes anyways.

“You’ve grown so beautiful.” William quietly told you, and his hand went to grab yours. His grip was as tight as the coils of a snake around its prey. “It’s not fair that my sister keeps you all to herself.”

The moment he went to try to pull you into his lap, you quickly tried to push away from him. His blue eyes widened before they became half-lidded. Did you enjoy teasing him? How naughty…

“I’m sorry, my lord. I hadn’t meant to offend you-“ William chuckled as he continued to let his hands roam your body. He had been holding back for so long but no other woman could get him quite as worked up as you did.

“Nonsense. I’m finally able to appreciate you and your beautiful body now that my father isn’t here. Do you know how hard it was to keep all the men away from you all these years? I didn’t want another man to ever touch you, sweetheart.” William smiled. “I’ve been carrying a torch for you for years and now I finally get to touch you.”

The moment he went to pull you in for a kiss, you shoved him before you fled. The Duke hardly had time to register what had just happened before he gave chase. If you glanced back, you would have see the expression of pure panic on his face. William had thought you liked him too… You had never lashed out like this before!

“Wait! Please-“

But you rushed into your room and took out that little tin full of money from under your mattress before you fled down the staircase. A few servants merely gave you a glance at first until they saw the young master chasing you. The room soon descended into pandemonium, which of course attracted Frances to exit her room in shock. Her blue eyes widened when she saw you rushing out the door in only your maid uniform and your little, metal tin.

“Wait! Where are you going?!” Frances soon descended the stairs as well, yet she wasn’t quick enough. You were out that door. Both siblings screamed for you over and over again, but you drowned them out.

He leapt out of the path of another stray attack. The fact that he was able to evade it at all, despite having witnessed other attacks move far faster, was just another piece of evidence supporting Batman's theory that the being was holding back.

They hadn't even been able to communicate with it. They had no motive, no known objective, no understanding of what it wanted, not even a clear description of what it looked like, since they only caught a shadow of an anthropomorphic figure between the onslaught of attacks.

The  relentless battle had now dragged on for nearly two hours.

“We need something else to try! Nothing we do is affecting him!” Batman heard Wonder Woman shout through the comms.

“Do we have any news from the Dark members? I may not know what this being is, but it clearly has magical properties,” Shazam exclaimed as he launched yet another attack at the being, only for the man to be thrown back. Starfire was quick to soften his landing.

The closest zeta-tube, positioned a thousand miles north, sent another activation notification to Batman's wrist computer, and he was already thinking about where the weakest points in their formation were before he even knew who the new arrival was.

He couldn’t stop the resigned sigh that escaped his lips when the zeta-tube announced B-25. It was Phantom. So far, other than Shazam, there hadn't been any other young heroes arriving, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he started seeing more of them soon. Phantom was most likely just the start.

Phantom, despite claiming to have lived for almost half a millenia, had also accepted that by his own species' standards he was quite young, and Bruce had estimated that mentally the boy wasn't older than sixteen in human developmental years.

Usually, Bruce tried to keep the younger heroes out of world-ending threats, but he had to make an exception when no alternative was working. Phantom had powerful abilities, and while Batman had no reason to believe his powers would have any more impact than those of the other heavy hitters so far, he also had no reason to stop the boy from acting.

He really wished they could have wrapped up this battle before he had to start positioning young teens on the front lines.

“Hey Bats, heard things are looking pretty bad here. Where do you need me?” Phantom’s voice came through his comm. They had never been able to completely get rid of the staticky effect the ghost inflicted on the device, but it was still worlds better than the first time the ghost used them.

“We haven’t been able to inflict any damage so far, but we’re trying different attacks. Most of our electricity-based heroes are working southwest, so position yourself northeast for the time being to avoid interfering with each other. Try some attacks, and we’ll adjust from there.” Batman tried to keep certain powers working in the same area for cases like these, where incompatibilities between allies could become an issue.

“So we really are at the 'throwing everything we have and hoping something works' phase, huh?” Phantom commented just as he appeared in Batman's right field of view, allowing him to see the exact moment the ghost froze in place.

He frowned. “Phantom, have you found an incompatibility with the being? If so, I request that you retire.” Batman spoke sharply.

Sure, they needed more heavy hitters, but it wouldn't really help if one of them had some fundamental weakness against the being. Superman was barely being any help with his weakness to magic, but other heroes trusted Superman’s experience enough to rely on the man in the field even when weakened.

It would not be the same with a young hero.

Heroes would get distracted trying to protect the kid. Young heroes might hate it and see it as demeaning, but in the end, adults couldn't ignore it when children appeared to be in danger, and Batman had to account for that bias when strategizing against threats.

“N-no, um, I know that guy.” Phantom stammered, but Batman didn't hear any fear in his voice. It sounded more like he had been caught off guard. He also noted that the being was a he. Not that knowing his gender really made any difference here, but after two hours of nothing, it was refreshing to have any information about him at all. “Hey, Batman? Could you get everyone to back away? I think I can get him to stop… at least for a moment.”

Batman turned his attention back to the battlefield. Nothing had changed since this whole thing started. Their attacks were serving more to deflect the being's assaults than to actually hurt him. To a certain extent, stopping wouldn't really change anything, but it could still place them all at a disadvantage if the being decided to stop holding back the moment they gave him space.

“Are you sure you can do that? It could put everyone in danger if you are unable to.”

“Yeah… as long as he doesn’t decide to be an asshole about it.” Phantom murmured the last phrase.

It didn’t give Batman much confidence. The being had been attacking for a long time, and sure, he was holding back, but any of Bruce’s sons would agree that this behavior firmly placed him in the asshole category. Then again, no one else even knew what he was, and nothing they had tried so far had worked. Whatever Phantom had planned here might be their only chance.

He sighed. “Okay, but you have to be quick. If the being doesn’t stop within ten minutes after we cease our attacks, we’re returning to the current positions. Understood?”

“As clear as day.” Phantom chirped.

“I need everyone to step back for ten minutes. We’re trying something else,” Batman announced through the comms.

The heroes reunited around the being hadn't even finished complying when Phantom darted closer and screamed, “Half-time! Half-time! I demand a review!” And to everyone's utter confusion, the being stopped.

“Phantom? What are you doing here?” a deep, raspy voice asked. Batman couldn't believe the being was capable of talking. They had tried to communicate with him multiple times.

Without the constant barrage of attacks, he slowly began to make out the man's actual appearance. His eyes were red, his frame was massive, and he shared a certain resemblance to Phantom that Batman did not like noticing.

“What else would I be doing here? This is my home, dipshit.” Phantom snarled exasperatedly, planting his hands on his hips. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, save us the unnecessary questions. You know I only go where the clock sends me,” the being snarled back.

“Right, because you never enjoy doing this. This place is mine, Poltergeist,” Phantom growled.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time.” The newly named Poltergeist scoffed. “Let's see.”

He reached into his own arm and pulled out a notebook, flipping through the pages. Batman could only add this action, the name, the resemblance to Phantom, and the fact that the teen knew him to his growing list of evidence that this man was a ghost.

He knew from Phantom that ghosts were powerful, but he hadn't thought they could be this powerful. He would need to prioritize contingencies against ghosts once this was dealt with. At least whatever conversation Phantom and this Poltergeist were having seemed to be going well.

That is, there hadn't been any new attacks, and he hoped it stayed that way. He could see some of his allies taking advantage of the possibly temporary ceasefire to collect themselves and get injured teammates treated as best as possible without fully immobilizing them, in case things went south and they had to resume the fight.

Poltergeist finally found the page he had been looking for. “So, is this not AU18DC86DP08062026?” he asked, reading aloud.

Phantom looked clearly displeased by the alphanumeric string that apparently described “here.” Batman still didn't know what level of magnitude “here” referred to. These exact coordinates? This city? This planet? This solar system? It could mean anything. He was going to have so many questions for Phantom later.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Phantom growled, now clearly annoyed. “Let me see that.” He swooped forward and snatched the notebook away.

“Hey! Careful, you jerk. Whisp made that for me!” Poltergeist protested.

“I'm not going to break it...” Phantom whipped his head around to stare at Poltergeist and exclaimed, all traces of anger vanishing and pure awe filling his voice, “Wait, she made it for you?”

“Yes. I told you we've gotten closer.” Poltergeist crossed his arms and looked positively smug.

“I'm glad,” Phantom said softly, a warmth entering his eyes that Batman had only seen when the ghost looked at people he had adopted as family.

Batman had... so many questions, and he could see many of the heroes observing the scene dumbfounded. Martian Manhunter, one of the first adults the teen had dubbed “his,” looked the most baffled, and Batman wondered if there was another psychic layer to this conversation that he was missing.

Anyhow, the strange domesticity the conversation had taken on had allowed the heroes to relax even further. Batman was starting to consider organizing an evacuation for those with the worst injuries.

Poltergeist cleared his throat, now looking away as though embarrassed. “Were you not about to check the code?”

“Ah, right.” Phantom looked back down at the notebook and pursed his lips. “I don't get where you get your terrible handwriting from. Both me and Vlad have decent enough handwriting.”

“Oh, spare me the lecture.” Poltergeist waved a hand dismissively.

“I'll spare it when it isn't affecting me! Can you really confidently tell me any of these are actually sixes, fives, or eights? They all look almost the same!” Phantom complained, waving the notebook accusingly.

“Of course I... well, I think so?” Poltergeist admitted with a grimace.

“Ancients. You need to find a more reliable way to do this.”

“Alright, alright, I get it. My numbers suck. Blame the clock. You know how many codes he has me writing in one sitting?” Poltergeist threw his hands up.

“Ugh, the bastard has all the time in the world and yet...” Phantom muttered.

“Right!? Like, use your time-outs for this supposedly incredibly important information!” Poltergeist huffed.

Phantom sighed. “So...”

“Yes, yes, I'll honor your review request and go confirm this with Clockwork.” Poltergeist rolled his eyes, though his tone lacked any real irritation. “I'll let you know how it goes.”

Phantom huffed and held out the notebook. “Here. And seriously, work on your numbers.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Poltergeist took the notebook back carefully, tucking it away into his arm again. “I'll think about it.”

“Hope it goes well,” Phantom said. Then, after a moment of silence, he added almost timidly, “Hey, and if it turns out null, could you stay and visit for a few days? Feels like it's been decades.”

Poltergeist looked at Phantom for a long moment, his expression softening. “Sure, lil me.” And then the man was engulfed in shadows and disappeared.

Phantom pouted as he floated back toward Batman. “I've told him not to call me that,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Phantom. If you don’t mind, I would like some explanations. Starting with who that man was, how you know him, and why he was attacking.” Batman demanded.

“Ugh, straight back to business as always.” Phantom groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shouldn’t we be looking after the injured or something?”

“I trust the rest of the team is able to do that now that there isn’t an imminent threat in the field,” Batman replied.

“... Right.” Phantom shifted nervously in the air. “Um, so that was Poltergeist.”

“I gathered.”

“And he’s my older brother.”

Fantastic. Phantom has an older brother with unlimited power. Batman massaged his temple. At least this confirmed that Poltergeist was a ghost.

“And why was your brother attacking us?”

“Right, so, that’s a pretty long explanation. A lot of context is needed...” Phantom said, hovering nervously in the air. “Can’t we, like, go back to the Watchtower and talk there?”

Batman raised an eyebrow and looked around. There weren’t any civilians left, and the only people able to hear them would be other Justice League allies, but Batman could understand not wanting to discuss personal matters in front of every hero present. Even if said personal matters had caused an all-hands-on-deck level threat. He sighed.

“All right.” He pressed his comm. “Nightwing, I’m going back to the Watchtower to discuss what has happened with Phantom. Could you...”

“Don’t worry, B, we have everything covered here,” Nightwing's voice came, sounding a little strained from the other side.

Batman pursed his lips. He hadn’t received any notice of his eldest getting hurt. He glanced around the battlefield. Nightwing was too far away for him to see clearly from his position, but hopefully his son was occupied with something and wasn’t actually hiding a major injury. He sighed. He would have to trust his son's judgment. Turning back toward Phantom, he nodded.

“All right, let’s get to the Watchtower.”

—

Phantom hovered around the room, searching for the right words, while Batman checked the logs that had been entered into the system during the attack. He was trying to be patient here. Phantom was a nervous young boy, and he didn’t want the teen to shut down.

“Alright,” Phantom finally began, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know how I mentioned once that I was a protective spirit?”

“Mm,” Batman acknowledged, not looking up from the screen.

“Right, so, my brother is also a protector but… in a different way.”

“Which means?” Batman asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Um, he gets rid of the universes that are a threat to the Infinite Realms? You know, the place that I told you is connected to all existing universes?” Phantom explained in a meek voice.

“He destroys universes,” Batman concluded, barely keeping the panic out of his voice. They had had a universe destroyer attacking them.

“Well, yes. But to protect all the other universes!” Phantom exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “You know, like when you cut off a leaf that shows signs of fungus so the rest of the plant won't die as well?”

“So he’s decided our universe is a threat.” Batman growled lowly, narrowing his eyes at Phantom.

“He hasn’t.” Phantom immediately raised his arms in a calming motion. “Um, the Ancient of Time told him, but Da... uh, Poltergeist may be mistaken. Like, the code was not clear at all. He could definitely be in the wrong universe!” Phantom hurried to explain. “Universes that have become a threat to the Infinite Realms rarely have sentient life. More often than not, they're a threat because of the way they sink ectoplasm, like a black hole pulls in light. The few that have had sentient life in them had that sentient life actively working to damage the Infinite Realms, and to my knowledge, that is not what is happening here!” Phantom rushed through his explanation in an effort to appease Batman.

“To your knowledge. There's still a chance.” Batman crossed his arms, thinking through what Phantom had said. From what Phantom had explained in the past, Ancient meant the personification of something, so the personification of time itself was sending Poltergeist to destroy universes. His jaw tensed. From what they had seen so far, if the ghost wasn’t mistaken, they would be in great trouble. “If he was here believing he was getting rid of a threatening universe, why was he... holding back against us?”

“Believe it or not, this is not the first time my brother has gone to the wrong universe.” Phantom rolled his eyes in fond annoyance. “So he usually fools around a little to see if Clockwork, or someone else, will intervene. Besides, there isn’t always a need for the universe to be completely destroyed. Sometimes it's enough to cause a scene for the universe to be redirected onto the right path. Not that Clockwork would specify which universes are which,” Phantom scoffed, “so Poltergeist just takes things slowly until there's no chance the sentence wasn't destruction.”

“What would a scene entail?” Batman asked, leaning forward slightly. “Would what he has done so far count as a scene?”

“Uh...” Phantom winced. “I’m not sure.”

Batman sighed, pulling up the battle logs once more. This conversation was doing nothing to calm his nerves. He had been grateful when Phantom was able to easily stop Poltergeist's attack, but everything he heard only made his worries grow.

They had no real way to defend themselves if the Ancient of Time confirmed that this universe had been sentenced to destruction. He understood the cosmic logic behind Poltergeist's work, but that didn’t mean he was willing to let his dimension be destroyed for the greater good.

His children lived here, his friends lived here, and there were billions of lives he had worked day and night to protect. He wouldn’t let it all end just because a higher being had decided they were too much of a threat to continue existing.

The “scene” option wasn’t a good alternative either, not when they didn’t even have a definition for what a “scene” was. What would they do if, for it to be effective, Poltergeist had to destroy the Earth? He needed to discuss this with the JLD and see if there was any chance they had a way to combat this.

He should have found a more reliable way to counter ghosts when Phantom first arrived. Sure, every attempt had ended in failure, but he had let himself get distracted by other matters too easily.

Batman slowly raised his eyes to Phantom again. The ghost was hovering nervously from side to side, biting his lip as though he were trying to find words that would reassure Batman. Batman doubted those words existed.

“Phantom. What is your plan if Poltergeist returns with the objective of destroying this universe?” he finally voiced the question he had been dreading.

Phantom was a close friend of Tim's. The boy had stayed over at the Manor more times than Bruce could count, he got along with all of the other teen heroes, and more than a few heroes had an unspoken agreement of shared custody over the kid.

Bruce was excluded only because of his children's efforts to keep Phantom firmly in the family friend category, but Bruce had always found the boy somewhat nephew-like. If Phantom sided with Poltergeist, if they had to fight against Phantom in their attempt to save their home dimension... Bruce didn’t know if they would be able to emotionally survive that.

Phantom furrowed his brows. “Batman, I’m a protector spirit. You heard what I told Poltergeist, didn’t you? This place is mine. I don’t care what Clockwork says about this universe, it is mine. Poltergeist will have to trap me in my core before he can put a real dent in it.” Phantom’s eyes grew brighter as he spoke, his voice taking on more of the ghostly reverberance they heard whenever the ghost got angry.

Batman kept his eyes on the ghost, relieved to hear they would not have to fight against him, but feeling bad for the position the kid would be put in if the worst outcome did come to pass. Phantom's warm look toward his brother when they had spoken about this Whisp person getting along with him came to mind.

“Would you really be able to fight against your brother?” he asked quietly. 

Phantom let out a humorless chuckle. “And win too. I have done it multiple times.” The ghost finally took a seat, or rather a table, as he perched beside Batman’s monitor, pulling his legs up to his chest and looking down. “The truth is, Batman, a universe under my protection would never be able to be destroyed. Even if I lose and am forced into my core, Poltergeist would be too injured or exhausted to finish the job. It doesn’t mean it would go unscathed from Poltergeist's attacks but... it’ll be fine.”

“Then if Poltergeist is asked to destroy this universe, this Ancient of Time is actually just asking for a 'scene'?” Batman asked, not liking the implications that Phantom had had to fight with his brother multiple times because of this Ancient's orders, but deciding not to touch that issue at the moment.

Phantom shook his head. “If Clockwork is sending Poltergeist here, it most likely means he wants us both to be out of commission for some time, out of the way of some other great event that will be happening soon and that we, as balance missionaries, won’t like, but that Time considers necessary.”

“Balance missionaries?” Batman repeated, his brows furrowing at the unfamiliar title.

It occurred to him that they were lacking a great deal of knowledge about the Infinite Realms. Phantom had adapted exceptionally well to human society. Everything from his "Danny's" disguise to his mannerisms fit in remarkably well, and the teen also spoke casually about ghosts and the Infinite Realms.

Batman had assumed, in the comfort of easy answers and because of the teen's protective personality, that aside from the paranormal factor, they shared similar social structures.

Or perhaps it had been his dislike for the paranormal that had allowed him to remain comfortable with how little he knew. After all, the JLD was there to handle that side of things. That assumption sat poorly with him now. He had accepted too many unknowns simply because they had been convenient, and the realization left an unpleasant weight in his chest.

Phantom groaned and flopped backward dramatically onto the table. “That one is actually too long, and I refuse to explain it. Long story short, it’s a title me, Poltergeist, and our little sister Whisp got around our hundredth death year. It just so happens that Balance and Time don’t always agree.”

Bruce frowned. “If you’re aware this is only a way for him to get you both out of the way, why don’t you refuse from the start?”

Phantom grimaced. “It isn’t that simple...” He sat back up from where he had flopped onto the table and rubbed his arms uneasily. “I’m sure Constantine has told you before that paranormal beings tend not to have all the same liberties as mortals do. Poltergeists have a need to destroy what has been classified as a danger, and I have to protect what’s mine to protect. We can't not do it. Besides, it doesn’t always work in Clocky's favor even when we go along with it.” Phantom sighed and hugged his knees tighter. “Look, even if Poltergeist does return with a destruction sentence, I’ll ask him to take it to an uninhabited place. That much we can afford to do. So it’ll be fine.”

Batman frowns. “I don’t think anyone would like for you to go fight far away on your own in a battle that, from what you’ve told me, will leave you terribly injured.”

Phantom made a wet laugh. “Then let’s hope Poltergeist returns for a brother's hang out instead, because I can’t stay here if we do have to fight” Phantom hides his face in his knees. “Fuck, I really liked my existance here, I don’t want to leave yet.”

Bruce's brow knit with concern, somewhat confused by Phantom's assumption that he would have to leave after the attack. Did the ghost believe he would be blamed for the possible destruction of their surroundings?

“You don’t have to leave, Phantom. Regardless of how things develop, no one would blame you or want you gone. This is not a decision you are taking.”

Phantom shook his head, his voice muffled by his knees. “I can’t stay in a universe where we’ve fought.” He raised his head slightly, his wet eyes peeking up from where they had been hidden behind his knees. “Beings like us emit a lot of energy. After a fight like that? There’s no way this universe will have the structural strength to put up with me.”

“Are you certain there’s no other option?”

Phantom nodded. “Not one we’ve found in the last five hundred years.”

Batman placed a hand on Phantom's shoulder, gently rubbing his thumb in circles against it. “You haven’t searched in this universe yet. Let’s not give up until we have at the very least tried.”

Phantom’s resulting laugh was so resigned that it was heartbreaking to hear. “I’m sorry, Batsy, but I’d rather spend my possible last moments in this universe doing something other than falling into a research spiral.” He sniffed, a hand coming up to rub at his eye, and after looking away, he started speaking again, his words almost a mumble. “I know there’s a huge cleanup going on, but do you think J'onn will be free soon? I want to stay with him for a while.”

Batman thinned his lips for a moment. It wasn’t surprising that Phantom would resign himself if he had gone through this multiple times before, but he still hated seeing such hopelessness in young eyes. He hated magic and the supernatural.

He knew some of the hero community saw him as a man who looked for children to turn into heroes, but giving those kids capes and training had always been the result of trying to keep extremely capable children with a hunger for violence and justice alive.

He would be delighted if any of his children decided to quit one morning, though at this point he was convinced it was more likely for Alfred the cat to learn to fly than for any of them to do so. But magic never seemed to give anyone an option. Not Billy with the wisdom of Solomon, and not Phantom now.

“We have more than enough people helping down there.” Batman gave the teen's shoulder a final squeeze before withdrawing his hand. “I can call him up if you want.”

Phantom only nodded, not looking at Batman again.

“Before that,” Batman continued, “do you perhaps know how long it’ll take for Poltergeist to get his answer?”

Phantom shrugged and pushed himself off the table. “You never know with Clockwork. It could be an hour, it could be a couple months.” He floated toward the door before pausing. “Could you tell J’onn I’ll be in my Watchtower bedroom?”

“Of course.” Batman hesitated for a moment. “And Phantom, if we have a question...”

“Sure, I’ll answer what I can.” Phantom offered him a small, tired smile. “Still don’t think you’ll find anything, but well, you are one of Hope's favorites after all.” With that, Phantom left the room.

Batman blinked. One of Hope's favorites? He looked at his own reflection on the monitor's screen. Something like that didn’t fit him. He shook his head, pushing the strange comment out of his mind. He needed to get the JLD to the Watchtower yesterday.

The smell hit first. Real stir-fry heat. Garlic blooming in oil. Vinegar sharp and clean. Chili that actually meant something.

And then—

"Welcome."

He froze.

Mandarin. Soft. Natural. Not forced.

He stepped fully inside, letting the door close behind him.

It felt smaller than it looked from outside. Four tables. Laminated menus. Old fan in the corner. A wall calendar from Guangzhou.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed that.

"Just one?" you asked again.

He looked up.

And that was when he saw you.

Behind the counter. Hair loosely tied back. No heavy makeup. Just you. Comfortable in your own space. Like you belonged here.

“Yes,” he answered automatically. Then corrected himself in Mandarin. "Yes. Just one."

Your eyes lifted properly then. Noticing him.

There was a flicker of recognition. Not idol recognition. Not yet.

Just curiosity.

You handed him a menu. "First time here?"

He nodded. "Just found this place."

You smiled a little. "Most people don’t."

That felt important.

He chose a seat by the window. The laminated menu felt familiar under his fingers. Mapo tofu. Liangpi. Tomato egg stir fry.

Not fusion. Not toned down.

When you brought his tea, you set it down gently.

"Our food is kind of spicy," you warned.

He almost laughed. "I can handle spice."

You raised a brow. "Really?"

He met your eyes. "Really."

It was such a small exchange. But something about it settled into his chest.

The food came out quickly.

He took one bite.

And he had to stop himself from closing his eyes.

It tasted like somewhere he hadn’t been in too long.

When he went up to pay, he tried to keep his expression neutral.

"It was really good," he said quietly.

You looked pleased. "Thank you."

There was a pause.

You glanced at him more carefully this time.

"Are you a celebrity?"

He blinked.

Of course.

He gave a small smile. "Kind of."

You nodded slowly. No squealing. No phone. No sudden shift in behavior.

"That must be tiring," you said simply, handing him his receipt.

That was it.

He stepped back outside into the Seoul evening and felt something strange in his chest.

Relief.

===

He came back three days later.

Not on purpose.

He just ended up there.

The bell chimed again.

You looked up and this time your eyes warmed immediately.

"You’re back?"

He shrugged lightly. "Wanted something spicy."

"Excuse," you said without missing a beat.

He almost choked on air.

The restaurant wasn’t busy that afternoon. Just one older couple in the corner. The owner cooking behind the half wall.

When you brought his food, you lingered.

"Where in China are you from?" you asked.

"Liaoning," he answered.

Your eyes widened slightly. "Oh, a northerner."

"And you?" he asked.

You tilted your head. "Guess."

He studied you, amused. "Guangdong?"

You shook your head.

"Shanghai?"

Another shake.

"Then I give up."

You leaned closer slightly. "Wrong."

You still didn’t tell him.

He realized you liked holding onto little secrets.

He liked that.

===

After that, it became a habit.

Not every day. Not enough to draw attention. Just when he needed it.

When schedules were too loud.

When fansigns felt like smiling through glass.

When the dorm felt crowded.

The bell would chime. You would look up.

"Long day?" you’d ask.

"A little," he’d admit.

You’d refill his tea without asking.

Sometimes you’d sit across from him if the shop was empty.

"There are really seventeen of you?" you asked once.

"Thirteen."

You blinked. "That’s a lot."

"It is."

"How do you sneak out?"

He smirked faintly. "I say I’m getting coffee."

You laughed properly that time. Bright and quick.

He found himself waiting for it every visit.

===

It didn’t take long before the others noticed.

Joshua leaned against the fridge one night. “You’ve been disappearing.”

Minghao didn’t look up from his tea, swirling it just enough to not splash on Jun's kitchen table. “I go out.”

Jun added from the couch, eyes bright. “But you come back smiling.”

Minghao paused. “Do I?”

Seungkwan narrowed his eyes dramatically from his perch on the counter. “Who is she?”

He didn’t answer.

Wonwoo looked up from his book. “So it is a she.”

Minghao clicked his tongue. “You’re all bored.”

“Is she pretty?” Hoshi demanded.

He hesitated.

Yes.

But not in a way he wanted to share.

He shrugged instead. “She works hard.”

Jun switched to Mandarin suddenly. "Do you like her?"

Minghao met his gaze.

"I don’t know."

That wasn’t entirely true.

He just didn’t want to define it yet.

Because once he did, it would become real. Public. Shared.

And that little restaurant, those small conversations, would stop being just his.

He wasn’t ready for that.

===

One evening, it was raining.

Hard.

He almost didn’t go.

But his feet carried him there anyway.

The restaurant was nearly empty. The windows fogged. The air warm.

You looked up when he entered, hair slightly damp.

"It’s raining," you said unnecessarily.

"I noticed," he replied.

You poured his tea before he even sat down.

He watched you for a long moment.

"Why did you open this place?" he asked suddenly.

You paused.

"It’s not mine. It’s my family’s. I just help."

He nodded.

"Are you happy?" you asked.

The question caught him off guard.

He considered lying.

Instead, he answered honestly.

"Sometimes."

You nodded like that made sense.

Rain tapped softly against the glass.

"Will you go back to China one day?" you asked quietly.

"Maybe."

"And here?"

He didn’t answer immediately.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

You studied him for a moment.

Then you smiled gently. "Then for now, just eat."

He laughed under his breath.

===

Weeks passed.

The others kept asking.

He kept deflecting.

He didn’t bring anyone there.

Not Jun. Not Joshua.

It felt selfish.

But he needed one place that wasn’t shared.

One place where he wasn’t Seventeen’s Minghao.

Just Xu Minghao ordering too much chili oil.

One afternoon, when the shop was closing early, he stayed longer than usual.

You were wiping down tables.

"Are you coming tomorrow?" you asked casually.

He hesitated.

“We have a schedule.”

You nodded, not pushing.

He stood slowly.

"Will you always be here?" he asked instead.

You met his eyes.

"For now."

There it was again. That careful vagueness.

He realized something then.

You never asked for his number.

Never asked for pictures.

Never asked for promises.

You let him come and go like he was just another customer.

And somehow that meant more than if you hadn’t.

He stepped closer to the counter.

"What if one day I stop coming?"

You tilted your head.

"Then it means you don’t need this place anymore."

It wasn’t bitter.

It wasn’t sad.

It was just true.

He swallowed.

"And what if I still need it?"

You held his gaze.

"Then the door will stay open."

The bell above the door chimed softly as someone stepped in behind him.

The moment thinned.

He stepped back.

“I’ll see you,” he said instead of goodbye.

You smiled faintly.

"Mm."

===

That night, at practice, Dino squinted at him.

“You went to your mystery place again.”

Minghao didn’t deny it.

Vernon grinned. “Are you ever going to tell us?”

He thought about the chipped red sign.

The foggy windows.

Your soft "Welcome" every time the bell chimed.

He shook his head.

“Not yet.”

Jun smirked knowingly but didn’t press.

Minghao lay in bed later, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe one day he would bring the others.

Maybe one day he would ask where you were really from.

Maybe one day he would stop pretending this was temporary.

But not yet.

For now, that little hole in the wall was still his small piece of China.

And inside it—

You were waiting behind the counter.

Door bell ready to chime.

Happy ending?

Maybe.

Or maybe just another day where he walks in, and you say—

"You’re back?"

Masterlist Taglist

❝ People disappear for their own reasons—don't take it like it's about you. ❞

Those words left Steve Harrington's mouth that she repeated more than times she could count felt like a slap more than a word of advice, Steve is (Y/n)'s cousin and the reason she met Will; The Will who left her emotionally drained and made her view love as some sort of game rather than a sacred practice.

She didn't know why this was affecting her this much when she's already talking to someone new—someone sweet—someone kind—someone who is sure of her not like Will who had left her alongside everything else in Hawkins.

A thought suddenly came to her mind; maybe the Will she knew—his smell of warm vanilla and cedarwood—the boy that used to give her drawings and flowers crafted from papers—was the version that he wanted her to know and not who he really was. But damn! She made it clear that she didn't gave a f*ck about his reputation.

The cheerleader sighed deeply that seems like she's trying to escape the thoughts that was consuming her mind so she stood up going to her white wooden closet painted with flowers she started rummaging inside to find a white shoe box, after a few minutes, she found it: the box was labeled "summer of '85" containing a few film camera videos, letters, and drawings that Will left her.

She almost burned this before in her backyard after she found out that Will left without a single goodbye but she couldn't when that stupid-cute smile-sweater loving-curly teen boy still occupied her heart.

(Y/n) got a single video tape with the label ❛ The rocking boat and his anchor ❜ a memory slipped in her mind again that almost made her eyes roll, of course! This was named by him, but she had no choice but to play it; she wanted to grieve whatever they were especially during this time when she felt like a passing air to him rather than his solace

She almost burned this before in her backyard after she found out that Will left without a single goodbye but she couldn't when that stupid—cute smile—sweater loving—curly teen boy still occupied her heart.

Ironically, after she pushed the play button the song ❛ Every Breath You Take ❜ by The Police, the song he sang to her when he thought she was asleep in his arms, played in her small rose colored radio that sat ontop of her vanity that further intensified the longing she felt—it felt like a punch in the gut and she accepted it.

The video was filmed by them when they went to indianapolis, the first half of summer where they felt like regular teenagers: A girl not clouded with responsibilities and a guy not clouded with uncertainties.

She couldn't help but smile that betrayed the tears streaming down her face as she watches the video through their living room television, a smile not because of joy but a smile caused by reminiscing-reminiscing a love lost to confusion.

It'd break my heart but I'd understand if you'd leave me for another man with a little less on his mind—less on his plate—less in his brain.

Unbeknownst to her, on the other side of town the 16 year old boy also had a cardboard box on top of his bed, taped shut and labeled with a shaky, borrowed Sharpie: 'Unsorted.' He knew exactly what was inside: a handful of things he couldn't throw away, mostly the detritus of a life he'd been forced to abandon. And in every fiber of those contents-a dried paper flower she didn't give to her, a ticket stub for a film he wanted to watch with her, a faint rose colored shirt with a smear of makeup—everything that was about her.

He traced the label with a thumb, his heart thudding a slow, miserable rhythm against his ribs. He felt like he, too, was unsorted.

The irony wasn't lost on him. She viewed him as her solace. She once wrote him a note along with snacks in order to comfort him after a particularly bad panic attack he'd suffered because of his nightmares of the Upside down; ❝ I will always be here for you no matter how messy you can be or no matter how confusing you can be, nerd. xx lowe ❞

He remembered reading it. He remembered the fierce, hot surge of love—and the immediate, crushing terror that followed.

Will also remember that he's a half-formed person asking a fully realized girl to wait, to pause her life, to accept a love that might disappear every time he faced a difficult truth about himself. He couldn't—he wouldn't—be that selfish.

The easiest, cruelest solution had been to vanish. To rip off the bandage in one quick, painful motion. No farewell meant no witnessing the moment her face realized the boy who smelled like vanilla and cedarwood was a scared kid who couldn't handle the weight of her trust.

❝

To my Dearest, lowe,

I saw you the other day. You were wearing the cheer uniform, and you looked incredible—you know you always do. My feet moved before my head did; I almost walked right up to you, ready to say something, anything. Then I froze. I stopped myself. I guess I'm just scared to face you, scared of the hurt I know is still there because of me.

I owe you so much more than the silent treatment I gave you at the end. I wasn't acting distant to hurt you; I was trying to make my leaving easier on me, which was the cruelest, most selfish thing I've ever done to you.

But right now I have to be honest: I felt some sort of happiness when I saw you with Marcus you two seem so happy because you need someone steady now, someone who isn't always fighting shadows and that someone is him—It would break my heart to see you with someone else but you don't deserve a mess—someone like me.

Still Longing afar,

Will

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❞

Of course, everything that was stated will forever be embedded in his mind, he was a coward—a coward that chose to ignore the girl who might be the love of his life.

He stopped writing, reading it again then folding it like it was sacred, he put it in a small blue box along with other letters and the pictures they took of eachother and of each other.

Flashhback

❝ Remember Will Byers? The boy who left town for some reason, they're back. ❞

Maddy, her co-cheer captain, told her over the telephone, her voice laced with cheerfulness and gossipy in nature. (Y/n) stiffened in her bed—her breath hitched as every memory she and Will had was now swarming her mind, drowning out Maddy's voice.

Now, he was back, and (Y/n) had no choice but to act like she's fine. "He's going to go to attend Hawkins next week again, Madeleine, Dustin Henderson's friend, told me " Maddy confirmed over the phone, her voice now a cautious murmur rather than a cheerful gossip. Maddy was referring to the new boy, the sweet, kind, sure guy (Y/n) had been seeing casually for the past two months. Hawkins was the big mall twenty minutes away.

She saw them suddenly: summer light pouring through the window of the cabin they'd rented in Indianapolis, Will tracing the lines of her palm with a charcoal pencil before kissing her there, whispering that her hand felt like the future. She remembered his frantic, cute laughter when they tried to ride a tandem bike and immediately crashed into a pile of brightly colored leaves. Then there was the specific warmth of his sweater, the way he smelled of warm vanilla and cedarwood, as he sang ❛ Every Breath You Take ❜ poorly but sweetly into her hair, convinced she was asleep.

"Okay," (Y/n) replied, her voice unnaturally even. "Good for him." She added before hanging up, she couldn't carry on talking about him, the cheerleader sighed deeply gathering herself to be ready for what she would do.

Her telephone dropped onto her comforter as she pressed the heel of her hands to her eyes. Cheer practice was in three hours. She’d have to put on the uniform, pull her hair into a perfect high ponytail, shout counts, throw girls into the air, and pretend that her chest wasn’t cracking open.

A week later, (Y/n) had thrown on an elaborate outfit: cropped, deep crimson sweatshirt, worn deliberately pulled off one shoulder to reveal the clean, stark white of the halter tank top beneath and a wide leg dark-wash denim paired with platform boots and the cheer varsity jacket tied around her bag. She looked at the mirror one last time smiling at herself, she knew this would turn heads especially his.

The moment she reached Hawkins' High, she was bracing herself to see him, she walked through the hallway alongside her cheer members and then She saw him and he's taller, face more defined, and gone was the cute bowl cut hair he once had during the summer, ❝ He changed ❞ The cheerleader said to herself admiring the boy she once and still is madly in love with but suddenly a hand was suddenly slid on her waist.

Then she saw him smiling down at her, Marcus Craige, Star Basketball player and Point Guard—Hawkin's Golden boy and the guy who had covered, but now resurfaced, bruise that Will had left in her heart.

She exchanged a force smile at Marcus, hoping that the boy wouldn't notice that her eyes told a different story, as she walked past Will Byers and The Party alongside Marcus who was kissing her temple, she couldn't but offer a smile to him but in exchange she got a blank stare from Will then walked right past her.

The Cheerleader frowned subtly, wondering why he would act like that.

Please do not lean on me, I'm unstable, You're all you need, I've seen it, you're able.

A few weeks later, The park was a skeletal portrait of autumn: trees stripped bare, the air smelling of wet leaves and the distant, metallic promise of snow. The swing set, once a site of frantic, joyful momentum, stood perfectly still, the chains frosted with morning dew. Will sat on one of the wooden benches, his sweater sleeves pulled to the end of his hands, the cold seeping through the denim of his jeans. He hadn't meant to come here, but his walk had been less a stroll and more an escape from the Wheeler house, where the silence of Karen’s disappointment was louder than Mike’s frantic, oblivious chatter about Dungeons and Dragons.

He hadn't been here five minutes when he saw her.

(Y/n) emerged from the row of bare oaks, hands tucked deep into the pockets of a thick, brown leather jacket, her shoulders hunched against the chill. She wasn't wearing her cheerleader bravado tonight. She looked small, contemplative, the kind of honest vulnerability he hadn't allowed himself to witness since the summer of '85.

She stopped abruptly when she saw him. Not with the sudden stiffness of their high school encounter, but with a slow, heavy recognition. It was as if two people, long separated by a great distance, had finally realized they were standing on opposite banks of the same narrow, frozen river.

She walked towards the bench, the crunch of dead leaves under her boots the only sound that dared to break the profound quiet.

❛❛ I guess… this is where the people who are avoiding home end up ❜❜ (Y/n) finally broke the deafening silence as she sat beside him

Will nodded, watching a shard of light catch the sadness in her eyes. It was a sadness he had caused, a damage he had inflicted, and seeing it was far worse than the blank stare he had received at the school.

❛❛ I didn’t think you came here anymore. ❜❜ Will said to her suprised

❛❛ I don’t. Not since… I started trying to find places that didn’t feel like I was talking to a ghost. ❜❜ He flinched. The word ghost resonated with the way he felt—a faded impression of the boy she’d loved, haunted by the demons he couldn't share.

The cheerleader finally turned her attention to him, her voice low, steady, and utterly drained of pretense.

❛❛ Why here, Will? Why now? You didn’t even look at me the other day. Now we’re sitting in the one place where we used to talk about… everything. ❜❜

❛❛ I know. I know how it looked. ❜❜ He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them, though the cold was internal. ❛❛ I didn’t leave you a note. I didn’t call. I just… vanished. And I know what Steve said to you, about it not being personal. But I need you to know. ❜❜

He paused, searching for the right words, the words that could be honest without being selfish.

The more that we both try to fight it the harder it's gon' be, I wish that we could stand united, instead we're crumblin'.

❛❛ The more that we both try to fight it, the harder it’s gonna be for us. I wasn’t fighting you, (Y/n). I was fighting the fact that I was scared to death of what being with me would do to you. ❜❜

She finally moved, pushing off the tree to sit at the far end of the bench, leaving a chasm of splintered wood between them.

❛❛ You could have told me you know? I loved you so much—even now—I have a choice too you know? when it about us ❜❜ the cheerleader wiped the tears forming in her eyes

Will felt the familiar, crushing weight of guilt settle onto his shoulders. Her tears, quickly wiped away, were a devastating testament to the injury he had inflicted. He watched her pull the sleeves of her brown leather jacket down over her hands, mimicking his own habit, and the small, mirrored action was a fresh stab of pain.

❛❛ I know you had a choice. That’s exactly why I had to leave. I saw your choice, (Y/n), and it was me. And you didn’t deserve the version of me I was going to give you. ❜❜ He shifted on the bench, pulling his gaze from the frosted swing set to look directly at her.

❛❛ That whole summer, I felt like I was on borrowed time. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop—the next gate, the next shadow, the next time I wouldn’t be myself. You made me feel whole, like the messiness didn’t matter. But it does. You’re like a sun, (Y/n). You shine bright. I was afraid that if I stayed, if I let you keep choosing me, you’d end up losing that. That your future would get tangled up in my uncertainty. ❜❜ He said as he looked away from her, voice shaky, encompassing the quiet park, the empty swings.

❛❛ I needed to give you the chance to choose a future that was certain. Someone who wouldn't disappear, whose mind wasn't half-occupied by what lurked beneath this town. I needed you to realize that you are all you need, I’ve seen it, you're capable. And I couldn't let my love, which I knew was strong enough to keep you tethered to me, stop you from realizing that. ❜❜ the younger byers continued

❛❛ Did you ever ask yourself that maybe being lost in you was what I wanted? ❜❜ (Y/n) said to him, her voice laced with seriousness and sincerity.

❛❛ But I know you would choose what you thought was right for you rather than thinking of what could be the better thing for us. ❜❜ the cheerleader left after she said that not wanting to hear another mindless explanation from him anymore.

I know that you gon' always love me in spite of things you've seen — in spite of things you've heard me say no matter how obscene.

❛❛ You have got to stop running from her, you're only fooling yourself that you're over her. ❜❜

Jonathan Byers told his younger brother who's spacing out sitting in the stained sofa at the Wheeler's basement, The room was bathed in the warm, yellow glow of a single lamp, a small beacon against the early evening chill.

Jonathan didn't look up from the vintage 35mm camera he was meticulously cleaning, but his voice was heavy with the weariness of an older brother who had been watching the same self-inflicted damage loop for months.

Will flinched, the words were like a punch in the gut where he was left fatal. He tried to muster the blank apathy he’d practiced, the same one he’d used so flawlessly in the school hallway, but after the encounter in the park, it felt like it wasn't working anymore.

❛❛ I’m not running, ❜❜ Will mumbled, his voice tight. ❛❛ I just—I just need to find mike. We were supposed to sketch out the crawl plan tonight. ❜❜

❛❛ You need to stop lying, ❜❜ Jonathan countered, placing his mug down with a soft thud. ❛❛ I saw your face after you came back from the park. You were terrified, Will. Not because of a monster or a gate, but because she cried. Because she told you that you were broken and she was doing it with you. ❜❜

Will’s shoulders slumped. He felt hollowed out, as if the entire weight of his love and cowardice was weighing out . He remembered her face—the genuine hurt, the terrible understanding—and the potential finality of her decision to walk back to her ‘stable world.’

❛❛ She’s with Marcus, ❜❜ Will said, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. ❛❛ She deserves Marcus. He’s everything I told her she needed. He’s certain. She’s the Golden Girl, the perfect answer. She needs that steady hand. ❜❜

❛❛ And you’re certain of her, ❜❜ Jonathan pointed out, leaning back against the sofa. ❛❛ That’s the difference. You know, without a doubt, that she still loves you. She practically screamed at you, didn't she? That she was only choosing Marcus because you made her choice for her. You left her because you thought you were protecting her, but you were really protecting yourself from the fear of being loved fully, chaos and all. ❜❜

❛❛ I'm just saying don't let your uncertainty make you lose the girl of your dreams. ❜❜ The older brother continued as he smiled that simply told his younger brother to "Get your shit together"

"All of us?" Diana asked as she fell in step with them.

"I think just us three will do."

"Sorry, but you're stuck with me until we get the little chicky well on his way back to his egg," Constantine grumbled, though he stayed several paces behind their group.

Batman didn't acknowledge him, mostly he was unsure how Danny would react now that he (or was it Phantom?) was awake.

It was a short trip to the hangar, Batman and Constantine spent it completely silent while Clark and Diana were discussing whether Phantom was intentionally taking a back seat or was simply pretending to be Danny. Batman didn't see the point, none of them were familiar with Danny and had no way of knowing if he were acting strangely.

When they arrived they found Marvel looking nervous while Signal was nodding along next to him. Signal turned and waved with a smile.

Jasmine Fenton turned her attention to their group, her face growing dark. She pointed her ominously toxic green bat at them, "You!"

Clark held his hands up, keeping his body language as open and non-threatening as he could.

"Of all the irresponsible things! Not calling our parents was bad enough, but you had me on the phone, you jerk!" Jasmine started stomping in their direction, waving the bat for emphasis. Those near her quickly stepped out of the way.

"As I said, if you might recall, you're not one of Danny's leg- ow!" Clark nearly toppled over, whether from surprise or the actual impact was unclear.

"And as you may recall," Jasmine said while waving her bat menacingly, "you should've called our parents!"

Jasmine swung the bat again, but it simply wiffed as a streak of red and blue whizzed past everyone, a short lived breeze in Clark's wake.

Jasmine huffed angrily, "Coward."

"It's clear his presence was upsetting you, he simply removed himself from a spiraling situation," Batman stated logically.

"Oh now don't you even start," Jasmine snarled, turning her attention on Batman.

"There is no need for further violence, sister," Diana said, stepping between Jasmine and Batman. "You're right, we should have called and informed you. Please allow us to explain the situation now and escort you safely home."

"I think we'd all like an explanation," Jasmine said, though the bat fell to her side.

It was time for Diana to give the edited version of the truth. "Last night we interrupted a cult attempting to summon the Ghost King."

There were several gasps of shock from the Fentons (and friends), and an angry hiss from Constantine.

"We know now we managed to disrupt the summoning," Diana continued. "At the time we believed we had not made it in time and Danny was used as his anchor and host."

Danny squeaked in shock, eyes wide.

"Fortunately it looks like that's not the case." Diana smiled at Danny. "We're sorry about deceiving you, at the time we believed it was the only way to protect your mind from being ripped asunder by the tyrant waking from his eternal slumber."

"Yeah," Danny croaked, "that would've sucked."

Diana turned to the doctors Fenton. "On behalf of the Justice League I'd like to apologize for not contacting you sooner. When your daughter reached out we should have used the opportunity to explain the situation. We're sorry for this gross oversight."

"Yes, well," Dr. Fenton pulled off her goggles and hood, "see that it doesn't happen again. To any child or parents. Or anyone looking for a missing family member."

"Of course, we will take steps to ensure this never happens again."

"Come here, Danny! We were worried about you!" Dr. Fenton pulled Danny into a hug, which quickly became a group hug.

"So hey, what's this?" The young man of African decent asked Danny.

"My new weighted blanket."

"It looks like a bat themed cape," the young woman who would fit right into Gotham commented.

"It used to be, now it's my emotional support blanket, we've been through some… stuff together." Danny glanced sidelong as his mother.

"You know, it probably has trackers in it," Duke said with a grin.

Danny made a face and moved to take it off, then shrugged and settled the cape back into place. "It's not like you don't already know my home address."

Batman sighed internally, he would've preferred to have the cape back.

J'onn stepped forward then, having been hidden behind the group until that moment. Danny's eyes lit up the moment he saw the Martian. The boy squeaked.

"Hello, Danny," J'onn said calmly.

"Omigosh! Martian Manhunter knows my name!"

"And I would like you to know mine as well, I am J'onn." He held a hand out.

Danny darted forward, a thin, pale arm sticking out of the cape to eagerly shake J'onn's hands.

"I'd also like to apologize for the headache I intentionally caused you earlier."

"Oh, that was you?"

"Yes, I was attempting to communicate that your family had arrived."

"Oh… well… it's okay. You didn't do it on purpose."

"No, not at all." J'onn reached up and touched his own head with a grimace. "I was also informed you may appreciate an autograph." He held up a piece of card stock with a short message written in the Martian script.

Danny started to glow, literally glow, in delight as he accepted the autograph. Everyone pretended they couldn't see the boy's incandescence.

"Worth it," Danny whispered as he hugged the autograph to himself.

"Aren't you lucky, Danno!" Dr. Fenton slapped his son enthusiastically on the back. The boy tottered, but managed to stay upright.

"Well, if that's all over with, I think it's time we get you home," Dr. Fenton announced as she reached out to guide her son towards their unusual craft.

"Did you eat?" Jasmine asked.

"Hey man, what was it like being held by the Justice League?" Danny's friend asked.

"What was the cult like?" Danny's other friend asked.

"I have no idea, I don't remember," Danny grumbled as the group filed into their craft.

The Justice League members present all stayed to watch, waving as the craft powered up and turned around to face the hanger doors.

"You know," Constantine commented as they watched the Ghost King and entourage leave, "eventually the egg is going to break open. Whether it's smashed open or the boy hatching, it's going to happen."

—

the first night was the worst.

you were sitting on your bed silently, pale pink sheets pooled around you as you stared at your hands, trying to process everything that had just happened, when suddenly a ragged, wet cough tore through you. it felt as if something was clawing up your throat. then you coughed again; the sound was loud, repulsively watery. you barely had time to get up and sprint to your small bathroom before your body doubled forward and something warm and red came out.

blood.

it bloomed in the water, tinting it a light shade of scarlet. you stared down, eyes teary and droopy, tired. a metallic taste settled on your tongue and, before you even had time to wonder why you had just coughed up blood of all things, another coughing fit took over you. this time it was harsher, and it had your hands clutching anything they could to keep you balanced on the cold tiled floor of your bathroom.

your eyes squeezed shut as up you coughed up a lump of something, gagging as you did, hearing the small splash it made as it fell into the toilet. a strong grassy (and slightly vanilla) scent overtook the room, mingling with the previous iron miasma the blood you’d coughed up had brought. a wave of nausea washed over you, and you found yourself heaving and hacking up even more of whatever you had previously.

as the pain in your chest finally calmed down, you opened your eyes, your breathing quick and shallow and strained. a light sweet, nutty, and vanilla flavor mixed with the irony taste of blood lingering on your tongue. you glanced down at what you had coughed up.

flowers.

dainty, small, and shaped like stars. they were the color of chalk, pure white aside from the small splatters of blood on the petals.

why had you just coughed up flowers?

you hoisted yourself up, staggering slightly in the process. you rushed to your bedroom dizzily, grabbing your phone from the tangle of sheets on your bed and unlocking it with trembling fingers.

the first thing you saw was your search history: how to make bam yang gang, 4nemo playlist, what does bam yang gang tasye like, can i substitute chestnuts with sweet woodruff…

ignoring the rest, you quickly typed up hwy am i cougjfkn up flowers and pressed search.

a moment passed, and then the screen lit up.

hanahaki disease.

an illness where one coughs up flower petals due to unrequited love. left untreated, it may lead to suffocation and death. current cures include surgery to remove the flowers or the reciprocation of feelings. the surgery will remove all memories of the love interest, and is not 100% guaranteed to work. if gone wrong, the surgery can lead to death.

you stared at the screen with a blank expression, trying to process the words on it. your hands trembled slightly, phone shifting slightly in your grip. 

unrequited love.

when had scaramouche stopped loving you?

—

the second night, you visited the doctor.

the small examination room smelled sterile, like antiseptic. you sat on the edge of the cold table, legs swinging slightly, clammy hands clutching each other tightly in your lap.

the doctor typed something on her computer, back turned to you.

“hanahaki disease,” she said simply. “it’s… a little rare, but not unheard of. it used to be much more common in the past, but less so now. it is caused by unrequited love, of which causes flowers to grow in the victim’s lungs. sometimes the victim’s love may be requited, but their belief of it being unrequited may be so strong that it causes the flowers to still grow.“

she told you the three options. you already knew them, but hearing it aloud made your stomach twist: suffocation, surgery, or requited love. and the surgery wasn’t a guarantee; it had a 50% pass rate and, even if it worked, it would erase everything regarding your now unrequited love from your memory.

it would erase his voice, his face, his favorite animal, his eyes, even the fact that he preferred bitter things over sweet but still loved bam yang gang with all his heart.

“is there a way to slow it down?” you asked, voice cracking slightly. if death was practically inevitable you wanted to slow it down as much as possible. your fingers clswed at your sleeves, pulling the fabric over your knuckles and fidgeting with it.

she looked at you with something close to pity. “avoiding emotional stimulation might help, or avoiding the person who caused it,” she offered. “but there’s no reversing it once it’s started. you need to think seriously about your next steps.”

you left the clinic, lungs feeling heavier than before.

—

the third night, you saw him again.

it wasn’t on purpose, obviously.

you had found yourself wandering the streets past sunset, wrapped in a scarf you hadn’t worn in years and a jacket too thin given the weather. wool itched at your neck and frost nipped at your skin, but it was something to do.

you turned a corner. the convenience store near your home was still open, warm golden lights casting long shadows through the frosted glass of the doors. you decided to go inside, body quivering slightly from the cold clawing at you.

you stepped in, a sudden rush of warmth blowing at your face. you smoothed out your hair, frizzy from the wind blowing at it outside. you glanced around, and then you saw him.

he was seated at one of the corner tables used for eating, head tilted back just slightly, one thin hand resting loosely beside a styrofoam cup. the tips of his fingers tapped against the side with a careless rhythm. his other hand held something brown, small, and square between his fingers, near his mouth.

bam yang gang.

his lips curled just faintly around the first bite, his sharp eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as if even sweetness was something he fought against. 

that was always the way he ate it, like it hurt him to savor something so sweet.

your feet didn’t move, frozen at the entrance, watching as he chewed slowly. he didn’t look up, didn’t see you. you didn’t know whether to feel relief or grief.

the only reason you took a step forward was because the cashier shot you an odd look.

you wished you could taste the same sweetness he did at the moment. you could only taste the bile rising in your throat.

you pressed your hand to your chest, as if that could keep the petals down.

—

the fourth night, you ran into kazuha.

you hadn’t meant to — then again, you hadn’t meant to do much of anything lately. you had stepped outside once again, trying to escape  the cloying scent of grass and vanilla and metal your room was filled with.  the heavy ache in your chest had dulled into something quieter but always present. even the petals had stopped being surprising.

you’d stepped into the same convenience store again, not because you wanted to see him but because you craved familiarity. or maybe it was just cold outside and the convenience store was the closest place by your house which was warm.

you were halfway down the snack aisle, staring blankly at a row filled with chestnut-flavored jelly when a familiar voice startled you, their words lilted, a smile evident in their voice.

“hey.”

you turned, startled, and suddenly you were looking at… kazuha?

his face lit up when he recognized you, though there was something sheepish behind it. his platinum hair, normally neat and tied in a small ponytail, was let down and partially covered by a hood. his cheeks were tinged slightly pink from the cold outside, a plastic bag swinging from one of his hands, filled with boxes upon boxes of instant ramen.

“long time no see,” he said softly, voice almost drifting like a whisper.

you both stood in awkward silence, the hum from the refrigerators nearby the only thing breaking it.

“how’ve you been doing?” he asked gently, voice lower now. there was something cautious in the way he looked at you.

you swallowed. “not great.”

“figured,” he said. “you look like shit.”

 then he winced, a hand lifting as if to catch his own words. “sorry. that came out wrong.”

you forced a slight smile.

you followed him to a small table in the corner of the store. it was the same one scaramouche had sat at the night before.

you sat across from kazuha as he pulled out one of the boxes of ramen he had. he offered you one, and you shook your head. you couldn’t eat anything these days.

“he’s… not handling it well, you know,” kazuha said after a moment, standing near the convenience store’s little hot water dispenser, grabbing it  and filling the cup to the line.

you stared at him blankly. “…what?”

“he won’t admit it,” kazuha murmured, eyes distant as if he were recalling something far away. “acts like nothing’s wrong, but he’s been picking fights with everyone lately. xiao said he almost broke a mirror in the dorms over nothing.” he shook his head with a soft, rueful smile, strands of hair brushing his temple. steam curled around his face in lazy tendrils.

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. you were afraid that if you did, you’d start crying.

kazuha glanced at you, smile instantly dropping. “you’re sick, aren’t you?”

you froze.

“…it’s that obvious?”

“no,” he said quietly. “but i’ve seen it before. long time ago, back in inazuma. it doesn’t always look the same, but… there’s a certain look people get when they have it. yeah. i know.”

you looked down at your hands.

they sat limply in your lap, knuckles pale and fingers trembling. you squeezed them tighter. 

“how long?” he asked after a pause, voice so gentle it made want to start tearing up just by hearing it.

“a few nights.”

kazuha exhaled slowly, eyes flicking across your face. “and it’s already this bad?”

you nodded, gaze glued to the floor. “i thought it was just a cold at first. but then i started coughing up petals the same night.”

it was how something so terrifying, so painful, so fucking horrible, could still be beautiful.

“scaramouche… he’s always liked flowers,” kazuha mumbled, mostly to himself.

silence lingered between you both after that.

outside, wind howled past the windows of the store, tugging at the weather-worn plastic signs taped to the glass. you glanced at them absently, watching them flutter. things fell apart so easily.

“you need to talk to him,” kazuha said quietly.

you turned back to him silently.

“what?”

kazuha hesitated, poking at his noodles. “i’m not saying he’ll say what you want him to say. but… you have to tell him.”

“he left.”

“he’s scared.”

“so am i,” you said, louder than intended.

your voice cracked a bit at the edges, and you startled yourself with the sheer rawness of it.

“i’m scared all the time, kazuha,” you said, voice shaking. you blinked, eyes glassy and eyelashes sticking together, wet. “i wake up with blood on my sheets and flowers literally surrounding me every single day. i can barely breathe half the time. i can barely eat. i’ve been coughing so hard i see stars. what’s he fucking scared of? what does he have that he has to fear?”

tears started spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them, nose reddening. your gaze flitted to the ground.

kazuha didn’t say anything. he just reached over the table and gently placed his hand over yours.

you stared blankly at your shoes. your chest felt much too tight again. you pressed a hand to your sternum, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, nails digging in. it didn’t help. the pressure was still there, hot and insistent, like something writhing underneath your ribs and in your lungs.

you doubled forward suddenly, the bitter taste of bile rising sharply in your throat. a harsh cough tore through you, wet and ragged, shaking your entire body. the pressure in your chest intensified, as if something was twisting and clawing at your lungs, refusing to be held back any longer. your hands flew instinctively to your mouth, trying to stifle the cough, but it was no use. you gagged, the taste of something metallic and distinctly nutty flooding your senses.

kazuha’s eyes instantly widened with alarm. without hesitation, he dropped his ramen box onto the counter and ran to your side, hand firm on your back as you bent forward, gasping for air. the warmth of his touch contrasted sharply with the cold chill settling in your bones. tears pricked at your eyes, your body trembling. star-shaped petals spilled out of your mouth and onto your hands, smearing blood and spit onto them.

your coughs subsided into shaky gasps, but the ache remained — deep and relentless. when your breathing steadied, you leaned weakly against kazuha’s side, eyes dull with exhaustion. his hand remained on your back, gentle but unwavering, and he looked down at you with a gaze full of nothing but pure concern.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered around your hands, voice barely audible. you choked on a sob this time instead of flowers.

—

the fifth night, you could barely get out of bed.

the ache in your lungs had settled into something near-constant now. every breath you took felt shallow. pale-pink sheets stuck to your skin with sweat, and your mouth still tasted like iron and nuts and that awful sweetness you once loved but now couldn't stomach. a petal clung wetly to your chin.

you didn’t remember falling asleep, but you must have. when you had opened your eyes, the sky outside your window had dimmed into something bruised and purple. the sun was basically gone and the stars were still nowhere to be seen.

and then you found yourself outside again.

you left the house wearing only your nightshirt and slippers. no coat, nothing to protect you from the wind.

you walked aimlessly for a while.

and then you saw him.

he was standing by a streetlamp near the corner convenience store, head tilted to the side, a steaming styrofoam cup in one of his hands. his hood was pulled up, casting a shadow over his sharp features. even in the dim light, you could see the familiar violet of his eyes.

he looked up before you could turn around and disappear.

his expression shifted the moment he saw you. he blinked slowly, lips parting. not quite surprise, something much more akin to dread.

“…you look like shit,” he said.

his voice was detached, but there was a hesitation behind the words that gave him away.

you didn’t reply.

you stared at him, throat raw and hot with unshed tears. the wind bit into you, and you regretted not mustering up the energy to wear something warmer.

he looked at you, then away, then back again.

“kazuha told me,” he muttered. “about the flowers.”

your heart stopped.

“didn’t believe him at first,” he said. “thought he was lying or being poetic or some shit like always.”

you stayed silent.

his gaze dropped to the ground between you. he took a sip from the cup idly, eyes narrowing slightly as if lost in thought. 

“then i saw you just now. and… yeah.” he looked back at you, a flicker of guilt in his eyes, quickly masked by his usual nonchalant expression. “you look pretty fucking sick to me.”

“i-” you tried to say something, but your voice cracked. you pressed a hand to your throat, the ache pulsing like a heartbeat.

he sighed, tugging his hood back a bit. “i came all this way because kazuha wouldn’t leave me alone,” he admitted, voice low. “he’s been on my ass. ‘go see her,’ he said. didn’t expect to run into ya out here, though. was g’nna wait a bit til i went to your house.”

you started to speak, but a cough spewed out inside of words. you doubled over, the world narrowing to the rasp in your lungs and the way his eyes darted with concern.

his cup hit the ground before you even realized he’d moved. dark liquid splattered onto the ground, and the faint aroma of roasted beans lingered in the air. steam curled lazily from the remnants in the cup, twisting upward like smoke caught in a breeze.

“hey-” his voice cracked mid-word as he caught you by the shoulders, steadying you. his hands were cold, trembling just a little. “breathe. shit, just- just breathe, okay?”

you nodded, but the motion only made the dizziness worse. the cold dug deeper, threading through your veins, and you felt impossibly small under the streetlight’s harsh glow.

he exhaled, the sound sharp. “you shouldn’t even be outside,” he muttered. “you’re gonna…” he stopped himself. swallowed the word.

die.

you knew that’s what he’d meant. you almost wanted him to say it.

the silence stretched, thin and fragile as glass.

he shifted, jaw clenching. “you should probably get that checked out,” he muttered, as if the words could make up for the silence between you.

you tried to laugh. it came out cracked and ugly.

“yeah,” you rasped. “not like i already have! i would’ve never thought to get it checked out! do you think i’m fucking stupid?” despite your harsh tone, your eyes were glassy.

scaramouche flinched.

for a moment, neither of you said anything. the world felt painfully still, save for the soft hum of the streetlight and the dull rustling of trees due to the wind. you could feel him watching you, even when he looked away.

“you shouldn’t be out here,” he said again. his tone was flat again, that same detached indifference he’d perfected ever since he stopped caring.

“you shouldn’t have come,” you whispered back.

his head snapped toward you at that. something flickered across his face — hurt? anger? regret? you couldn’t tell anymore.

“yeah,” he said after a beat, voice tight. “guess i shouldn’t have.”

you looked down at your shoes, the cracked pavement blurring. you wanted to say you missed him. that it still hurt. that you were sorry for whatever you did that made him pull away. but the words wouldn’t come. only another cough, wet and weak.

he moved then, instinctively, one step forward, then froze again. you saw the hesitation in his eyes before he pulled back.

“take care of yourself,” he said quietly.

and then he turned.

the space where he stood felt colder once he left, like he’d taken the last bit of warmth with him.

you pressed a trembling hand against your ribs, trying to steady your breath.

you wanted to call out his name, just once more, but the sound died in your throat, swallowed by the night.

—

the last night, you wandered into your kitchen.

mustering all your remaining strength, stepping over piles and piles of dirtied flowers, you walked to your kitchen, bare feet padding gently across cold tile. the lights stayed off. you didn’t have enough energy to to turn them on.

you weren’t hungry, not really. just tired. you’d barely slept; every time your eyes closed, you dreamt of him leaving and the silence that came after.

you leaned against the counter, arms limp at your sides, breathing slow. your gaze flicked to the small glass jar sitting on the highest shelf. empty. it had been for weeks now. you didn’t even need to check.

you remembered when you would sit in the kitchen in the tired hours of dawn, the whole world hushed around you. scaramouche would be sleeping quietly in your bed, face squished against one of the fluffy pillows. you would pray that he wouldn’t notice you were gone. you would go to your kitchen. you would go to your kitchen and just simply stare at the empty jar where you had once kept bam yang gang, the jelly scaramouche brought home every so often. it was one of the only sweets he liked, and, before you could even try it, you’d find out he had scarfed down all the jelly. you could only imagine the taste. you still didn’t know. the only reason you had wanted to try it was for him, to understand what exactly he liked. but, if you had to guess, maybe it was similar to the flowers that were slowly killing you. the slightly nutty taste, the lightness of it.

You sigh heavily when you see Dazai wobbling and trudging his way up to you, a crooked smile on his bust lip, and his glasses dangling from his fingers. He tosses a hand up at you in a wave, and as he gets closer, you see his eye is beginning to bruise. “Hey, there’s my favorite flower.” His voice is a bit scratched and groggy; you cock a brow.

“Osamu,” you drag his name out in a warning, arms folded as you stand in front of your off-campus apartment door. “What have you done now?”

“What? I can’t go around defending your honor?” He coolly lets out, but it’s a bit of a whine. You roll your eyes, practically in defeat, and shake your head.

“We’re adults now. Why are you entertaining high school shit?” You murmur, ushering him inside and leading him to the kitchen where he plops down, his opened hoodie splaying out at his sides, and he winces as his arm comes around his stomach. In the light, he looks way worse than you expected, and some blood is trickling down his chin. He sees the way you’re inspecting him, and he offers another cheeky grin.

“I know, I look hot. You can say it,” he breathes, but he’s wrecked. Your fingers carefully push back his mop of hair, then set his glasses off to the side as you go in search of an ice pack.

“I told you before, you don’t need to go fighting my battles for me anymore,” you sigh inward, grabbing a bag of frozen corn you have no intention of actually using, wrapping it in a towel, then offering it to him.

“Yeah, well, it’s what I’m supposed to do,” he grimaces and grunts under his breath when he resituates himself, pressing the bag carefully to his gradually swelling mouth. “It’s part of being a boyfriend.” He mumbles then, eyes downcast when his hand slips under his shirt to gingerly massage his stomach. You shake your head again, not necessarily disappointed but some other thing close to it; he’s been getting in between you and bullies for as long as you’ve known him, feeling the need to protect you since he wasn’t afraid – he should have been though, since it always ended with him being injured in some way, shape, or form. You have felt the guilt follow you your entire life, nursing him back to health, having to tell his parents the wounds are because he was protecting you, and while they never yelled at either of you, you had it in the back of your mind they didn’t really want him talking to you any longer.

However, no matter how much they quietly protested behind your back, it was the only time he defied them, because he loved being your friend more than worrying about being in pain.

“Where else did they get you?” You’re already grasping the hem of his shirt, lifting up to see some bruising under his hand that he tries to hide. “Dammit Dazai!” You scold, brows downturned as you shove his hand to the side to get a better look: the color appears normal, but it’s big. “You antagonized them, didn’t you?!” You’re storming back to the freezer, jerking it open and aggressively rummaging around in for another bag of frozen vegetables, and he just has to sigh, to brush you off, since you often react this way after he comes stumbling home in this condition.

“I didn’t,” he weakly defends, a sharp inhaling causing the pain to sting worse in his side. “They were running their mouths, one v three.” He tells you, eyeing how you’re shaking your head with disappointment and irritation, wrapping another towel around the bag then stomping back over to hold it on his bruise to at least prevent swelling. “Why are you so upset?” He asks, dumbly, his free hand reaching to brush his fingers through your hair.

“Because you’re an idiot,” you mutter, kneeling down to sit on the floor, and allow your head to cautiously rest on his chest.

“You used to call me your hero,” he jokes, struggling less to speak, but it’s hidden in his tone he’s bothered you aren’t calling him that right now – or much less anymore. “Would you prefer the Kumo to be coming to your rescue?” He goes on, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, and your eyes roll at that comment. He’s been frequently mentioning the hero that has run rampant in the different districts of Tokyo, dubbed “Kumo” since they have spider-like powers, leaving behind webs in their wake, anonymously helping police arrest criminals, prevent murders and gang wars, help kids find their parents, and the occasional cat stuck in a tree or dog in a fire get safely to their owners. Journalists, gossip rags, and the head of the police force have been trying to find out the identity of Tokyo’s Kumo, given they wear a mask and full-body suit to hide every aspect of themselves; the media bounty for any information on this superhero is rising higher with each passing day. The last you had heard, it was over eighty million yen. And you want in on it – that kind of money is life changing.

The thing is, “the Kumo” can’t exactly come to your rescue, and you can’t exactly turn them in for cash since you are Tokyo’s Kumo. You haven’t gotten around to telling Dazai about this, a secret you’ve been keeping to yourself since freshman year of college. Somehow, while at a bio-engineering laboratory for a random zoology course you took merely for the credit, you got bit by a spider during the tour and haven’t been the same since. Your eyesight wasn’t necessarily terrible before, but you had woken the next morning with beyond perfect vision, seeing clearly near and far; your hearing was heightened, able to pick up on many different voices and sounds within the city; your reflexes were beyond compare, sensing things before they happen; and you were… sticking to stuff. Your hands clung to anything they touched – walls, doorknobs, posters, leaves, buildings, clothes, hair – and that made for some rather interesting scenarios that you had to try explaining away to your boyfriend, who for once found your behavior strange, but couldn’t nail any solid evidence to use to confront you on it. There’s also the matter of a new, completely random spider infestation going on at your shared place – unsure if that is related.

At first, you didn’t really know what to do with your abilities, learning at the worst time that you can shoot spider webs from your body, which added to the constant sticking, and you were stuck in one for about twenty minutes – because this might as well happen. You had gotten out eventually, after essentially sitting in a forced time-out to think about this absolutely insane situation you have gotten pulled into, just before Dazai came home, and had the mess conveniently cleaned up without a single trace of excess webs – however, spiders were still lurking in the corners. It was when you had bumped into a simple thief, someone that had taken what looked like a standard gym bag, and all it took to get it back was a flick of your wrist to shoot a string of web to yank it backward. Much to both yours and the robber’s surprise, it was stronger than you expected, and the guy wasn’t willing to stick around to ask you questions, especially considering who they stole from was approaching. They definitely didn’t ask you anything, just grateful to have their belongings back, and you were left standing there utterly confused by the reflexes you exhibited in the moment – as if it was second nature.

The webs being sturdy gave you a bright idea, and you learned had to web sling through the city for faster transportation. Not without a little trial and error, of course, littered with bruises and busted or scraped skin, but it is so much more fun than walking.

Thus began your newfound purpose of helping others, tinkering with a costume until it was perfect to conceal your identity while giving you flexibility to move, learning and training to better understand these powers, and coming to the realization that people actually enjoyed having you around in their time of need. However, it was difficult to keep up with the monumental task you had set for yourself, considering underneath your mask, you’re still a college student trying to make it to graduation, working at your part-time job, and maintaining your relationship. There are days you want to give up, disappear, and hope for the best that you can get by in life having these extra abilities that annoyingly but rather conveniently help you with your day-to-day.

Then there are other days, when everyday civilians are thanking you for your services, kids looking up to you, and ensuring safety of the place you live that pushes you to keep going. Those people don’t care who is hiding under the mask, marveling at your powers and selflessness, your capabilities and willingness to help, your strong will, and all around the nicest person most of them will ever interact with in their lifetime.

Alas, you’ve been doing this for about four years now, and you’ve been able so far to keep your identity a secret from Dazai. You don’t like that you’ve kept something this serious from him, but you have convinced yourself it’s for the greater good, as well as for his own safety. You have had a few run-ins with menial villains, as any superhero would, and yeah they weren’t all that terrible, but it’s better if you keep them separated from your private life. He’s suspicious, though, and you’ve almost slipped up in front of him on numerous occasions, but for now, at least to your current knowledge, he has no clue. This isn’t to say there have been strains on your relationship, given crime and trouble isn’t ever on pause, and you would be out all different hours of the night before you come trudging back into your place, exhausted, a bit battered and bruised, and plopping down on the couch to sleep for the evening. You’re also a horrible liar.

There had been a small handful of nights you shuffled in, wearing your normal clothes and suit stuffed in your bag, that the light flipped on to reveal Dazai standing there in his pajamas, a confused but disappointed expression etched into his features, and he’d have questions you weren’t sure you had appropriate answers to.

“Where were you?” He asked one particular evening after you had a run-in with a low-level gang that was rampaging Shibuya, causing trouble and starting to get violent, a special request from the police that if the Kumo was listening on the report to get to the scene immediately. You made it out primarily unscathed, at least in the face, and you stared at him wide-eyed for a moment too long while you conjured up an excuse. “It’s almost two in the morning.” He added, brows knitting together, eyes distraught behind his glasses, and you hadn’t been checking on the time.

“Uhm…” You started, swallowing, adjusting your grip on the bag strap, and your gaze started darting around to come up with any reason at all that he would believe that you were out until almost two o’clock in the morning without checking in with him. “I-I decided to pick up a late-night shift at the store. You know, stocking during close and stuff.” You rushed out, but that isn’t something your location does – they stock off-hours in the morning before open, and Dazai knew that because you always complained if you were asked to come in at five in the morning and would rather stay later at night. “We received a big shipment that we had to get stocked quickly, couldn’t wait until morning.” You cleared your throat, beginning to step forward when you noticed the change in his demeanor. An eyebrow raised as you stared at him, watching, and his jaw flexed.

“Are you cheating on me?” He forced the question out, not one he would ever have thought he’d need to ask, but it had been weighing heavy on both his mind and heart, no other explanation as to why you would be running around all hours of the night, making up half-assed excuses for why you’re tumbling in that late, and you unintentionally had been distant with him. You were stock-still in place, blinking rapidly, and at a loss for words at such an accusation. A labored breath escaped, and you weren’t sure if you could keep this up any longer. “If you don’t want to be with me–”

“What?” You interrupted, voice hoarse, and bag shrugging down to the floor with a thud at your feet. “No! No, Osamu, no, I’d never cheat on you!” You stepped closer, but his hands were in his pockets instead of reaching for you or wrapping you up in a hug. “No, it was work, I’m serious.” You continued with the lie, desperate to claw and cling to any old thing your tired brain could think up, and so many ‘I’m sorry’s were already following. He wanted to believe you, everything telling him he should, but he knew you weren’t at work – he called, and no one was there.

“Okay, okay!” He had to pump the brakes on your mouth running a mile a minute, but he still didn’t make any moves to seek physical touch or comfort from you. “Just… Go take a shower or something.” He gestured up the stairs, vaguely in the direction of the bathroom, and you merely nodded, grabbing your bag to sling back over your shoulder, and climbed each step as if it was its own individual mountain.

After that day, he was more suspicious than ever, beginning to get increasingly more nosy, and you’ve caught him a few times too many rooting around in your stuff. You try not to be angry with him for it, considering you are keeping a ginormous secret from him, but you also are nervous he might start figuring things out by putting two and two together. He’s been asking to share locations – the both of you – and you are running out of reasons why you are against that, and he keeps every terrible lie in the back of his mind, noting you haven’t given the same reason twice. He’s been wanting to spend even more time with you once classes are done and if neither of you have work to do – he’s been closely monitoring your work schedule, making it harder for you to say ‘I’ve picked up an extra shift’, considering you’re supposed to be part-time. He’s been visiting you more frequently at work for lunch breaks, and picking you up after your shift, since he had noticed you are always running off elsewhere when your shift ends.

On the outside, Dazai is an overbearing and borderline controlling boyfriend. On the inside, you’re panicking because Tokyo needs their Kumo but your already clingy boyfriend suddenly needs all of your undivided attention. You are just so grateful he wasn’t accusing you of cheating, considering you’d never, but also didn’t know how to prove you weren’t. On top of that, he ended up coming up to you a few days later and said: “I’m not sure why I even thought of that. We’re both total losers, there’s no way you’d be able to find someone else to date.” You hit him upside the head. And then your hand stuck to his hair that you had to pretend was on purpose until you could figure out how to release it. He just thought you were really mad at him and taking it out on him hardcore.

Needless to say, you’re just glad he hasn’t kicked you to the curb, and he’s getting one step closer to figuring you out. 

You sigh, readjusting the frozen bag better on Dazai’s stomach, and shake your head against his rumpled shirt. “The Kumo’s too busy with more important things to help me with bullies that peaked in high school.”

“That’s what I’m here for, then,” he reiterates, combing his fingers through your hair before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “We don’t need to bother a superhero with something I’m perfectly capable of handling.”

“I really wish you’d quit engaging with them,” you sit back up, getting to your feet, and walk off in the direction of the bathroom to get the first aid kit. He watches after you, sucking in a breath then carefully exhaling, shifting in his seat to be as comfortable as possible, and wondering what your deal was with this spider person running around. Anytime he mentions them, you seem to be disinterested, or feigning interest, acting as if you don’t really know too much about them, sometimes implying he was a mere “fanboy” on the hero. To prevent eyebrow raising, you engage in enough conversation about it until you can segue the conversation elsewhere.

He never used to question you, your actions, your terrible lies, having known you for so long he figured he knew you inside and out. He did notice, after freshman year, you were different, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. Before, albeit more on the passive end, you always looked to him to solve your bullying problems, no matter that you two were in college now, since it seemed people are mean no matter their age; after the odd and mysterious change, you didn’t seem to ask him for help anymore on your issues. He truly can’t do too much for you, but he is more than willing to fight your battles if it means ensuring your safety; if he has to take a few blows to the face and stomach, he will – he always has, and he always will.

You have just been so strange.

Though, while you are under the impression your identity as Tokyo’s anonymous superhuman has been well-hidden up to this point, since he had calmed down on the helicopter tendencies, Dazai actually has plenty of evidence that he is gearing up to present to you on why he is confident in pinning you down for all of this. He just… doesn’t know how to address it. For the past year, he had dropped asking you too many questions, which was a relief, but it was primarily because he had decided to follow around the Kumo. Clearly asking you directly wasn’t getting him anywhere, so he figured he’d have a better chance at watching the superhero in action firsthand.

He and every other civilian believes the hero doesn’t have a set schedule, available around the clock, always on time whenever they need them to show up and save the day. However, he has noted that the Kumo is most active in the afternoons, coincidentally when classes are done – more specifically, your classes. He knows that isn’t sufficient, as there are plenty of people available in the afternoons, so it doesn’t rule anyone out completely, other than night class attenders or people with late-night jobs. Your shifts can vary, since you work at a convenience store nearby campus, meaning you may be available in the afternoon or you may not be, it depends; Kumo happens to be available when you are and are not working, but he can’t bring himself to rule the hunch out completely. That has made his eyebrow arch at the thought when he was jotting it down in his notes, since that implied you were either lying about working or taking off mid-shift to go handle business – both things typically uncharacteristic.

Sometimes he’ll sneak around town when he sees the Kumo swinging by on their string of web, momentarily captivated by the ability, seeing them zoom by, flicking their wrist effortlessly to shoot another string to swing from one building to the next. He’ll forget about his personal mission to uncover the identity when he continues watching their body fly and flip around, envious of the gymnastics, and has almost counted you out completely from the stunts alone – you cannot do any sort of flip to save your life, barely a somersault. That’s when he has to remind himself that this person has powers, enhancing their usual capabilities, possibly making someone who previously was an athletically inept loser become an Olympic contender.

Caution is not his forte, just as he interferes with your personal fights, he will try to get involved with fights from strangers and gangs, his thoughts consumed with being right that it’s you under that mask, the sheer idea of you being in potential danger kicking in his instincts to protect you as he is running into the middle of a gang war – only to be swept up by Kumo and swung off to a safer location and scolded by them that ‘this isn’t a job for a civilian’ and to ‘head home’. He watched closely to the demeanor of the masked hero, watching their hands fly and move around as they spoke, how a fist would place on their hip, and the voice was obviously changed in pitch and tone in a lousy attempt to disguise it, to be undetectable. He noted how similar it was to getting scolded by you, especially when he was at home with you the next day, he purposefully knocked something off the counter, an extremely cheap and ugly mug he purchased strictly for destruction, and paid close attention to your demeanor at how you berated him for knocking the cup over, hands flying and moving around, a fist on your hip, but your voice was normal. Recognizable.

He’d be lying if he wasn’t thinking about trying to hitch another ride on that swinging web.

The two of you only had two classes together, early mornings on Mondays and Thursdays, back-to-back, and Dazai would have the news quietly playing in his earbud in those classes, listening for anything life threatening that would call for the need of a superhero. So far, nothing has come up, and you are always in perfect attendance for both classes, unless you have told him otherwise due to being sick at home – definitely not faking since he can see the sniffles and redness on your nose and in your eyes, and you’re too weak to even get out of bed to send him off. He has, weirdly enough, on those days still seen Kumo swinging around without a care in the world, preventing bank robberies and armed theft at the corner store, and even being held at gunpoint by someone trying to run away from the scene. He may or may not have heard a nasty sneeze coming from underneath that mask shortly after disarming and wrapping the perpetrator to a streetlamp to await the police’s arrival for a proper arrest, a stuffed and clogged voice speaking into the phone.

Dazai has tried researching until his heart gave out on such a phenomenon. It took him countless days and meaningless hours scouring the internet for anything that would point toward spider-like superpowers that could infect a human being, the idea so illogical. However, he has no choice but to believe it, since someone is literally flying and swinging around on spider webs, he is fairly certain emit from their body, just like the arachnid.

It took quite a bit of that wasted time for him to find a possible connection, coming across an article deep within Google’s archive of searches, past new articles and fanfiction and apparent interviews, was a report on findings for genetically modifying living creatures to enhance their senses and lengthen their life span, and if they were successful, it could be considered ‘the most revolutionary discovery in scientific history’. Starting with a little spider. The document was hundreds of pages long, and Dazai spent hours diligently reading every single word on the pages, pounding back can after can of coffee with his glasses pressed up high on his nose, and his tired eyes couldn’t stop taking in everything he was finding out.

“‘O.M. Industries?’” He murmured as he read the company over and over again, his weary brain doing everything it can to connect the dots. It isn’t until his gaze veered off, eyes crossing from exhaustion, to a picture of you in a lab coat and laboratory, that he saw the bio-engineering’s name stitched faintly on the front of your white coat, and his heart dropped. There were plenty of other students in your class that went, the zoology enrollment huge, it seriously couldn’t be you. He decided the next morning to call in for an appointment to meet with the lead scientist of the lab and project to find out more, which is coming up here soon.

Meanwhile, you are seriously just trying to survive. You have done this for four years now, you’d think it would all be easier by now, but it isn’t. If anything, it feels harder. You want to tell Dazai, but with him running up on the sidewalk trying to interfere with your superhero business when you’re the Kumo is stressing you out beyond belief and is exactly why you haven’t gotten around to it yet. Being out in the general public, being counted on for things primarily handled by the police, made you come to the realization you had been blind completely to the way people are. They’re dangerous and violent if they feel like that’s all there’s left for them to do, and pulling your boyfriend into it makes your heart twist and clench, sick to your stomach, and incredibly irritated that he thinks he’s "big and bad" enough to jump in the midst of gang wars or robberies.

The first time he stepped on the scene, running up as if he alone could stop a bullet, your jaw fell to the concrete. You faltered, almost getting yourself hurt in the process, a pocket knife zooming through the air past your head.

“You need to go!” You commanded with your altered voice, panic settling in while you held him back, being a human shield, and he had the audacity to argue.

“No way! You can’t do this on your own!” He scoffed, and a small part of you then thought that maybe he already knew, since he was speaking as if he was aware that was you under there. You had sensed it before you heard it, the world seeming to move in slow motion compared to you, the slow pull of someone’s finger on the trigger, the sonic boom of the gun going off, and having scoop him up in your arms to quickly evacuate the scene. He clung to you, shaking some in your hold, eyes squeezed shut as he hid his face in your covered neck, and you rolled your eyes while moving between buildings with your webs. This is the guy who insists on solving all of my problems.

You dropped down to the ground, him not letting you go, unaware he was also standing upright without fear of gravity pulling him down, and you lightly patted his back. “Look, you can’t run around doing things like that.” You lectured, finally peeling him off of your body, and he actually pouted. “While it is always appreciated to receive assistance from a citizen, this is a dangerous job dealing with dangerous people. You aren’t equipped with taking on the duties I do.” This was not a new speech you have had to give, mostly to teenagers and children, which I guess is the same difference when it comes to Dazai.

“How are you better capable to take on such danger?” He challenged, arms folded, and he glared down at you – that didn’t help your anxious mind in thinking he already knew. You’ve seen that look before, one he gives when you’ve been out-of-character or letting people torment you.

“I shoot webs,” you countered, swiftly lifting your wrist to shoot a web at his mouth, and he stared at you with big, accusatory and angry eyes. His fingers came up to try clawing away at it, but it was thick, and if he could speak, he’d be interrogating you and asking how you became the Kumo in the first place – because that is such a “you” thing to do. “Go home. Stay out of danger, I’m sure you have someone worried sick about you.” And you left him with that, leaping up into the air and firing off another string, latching to the nearest building to swing back to where you once were. Your mind was preoccupied as you tackled the group of gang members, unsure if you handled that correctly, if you had given yourself away somehow; why he felt the need to come to your aid. Even if there was the possibility he still didn’t know, that would mean he was trying to help a random, masked stranger with the yakuza merely because they were outnumbered. And that was certainly not the last time he did that, either, somehow at your side to help with fists up and determination in his expression.

That sounds exactly like my Osamu, and how can I be mad at him for that?

Dazai had a difficult time that night working to get the web mouthguard removed, astonished by how sticky it was. When you walked in, you found him in the bathroom, frozen, a pair of sharp, pointed scissors near his face, and you had to pretend to be shocked at the state. Your eyes locked in the mirror, his narrowing briefly before correcting, then turned to hand the scissors to help get him free.

“Oh, I dunno, ‘Samu,” you giggled, taking the sheers regardless. “I kinda like you being this quiet.” His brows had downturned in a cartoonish manner, and muffled sounds tumbled out but it only made you laugh more. “I guess the Kumo’s got a sense of humor!” He rolled his eyes and plopped down on the toilet seat, folding his arms, and pouted.

Why, yes, yes you do.

You have been avoiding the police radio all day, needing a break, falling behind on your studies, needing to ease up on superhero duties since you have caught Dazai on a handful of occasions following around the Kumo with a notebook, pen, and sometimes even a camera like a little undercover investigator. You’ve been wanting to make a joke to him about capturing some pictures to turn into the tabloids for a bit of extra cash, but you knew there’d be no way to explain away your knowledge of him sneaking around since he hasn’t mentioned to you directly, his partner, that he’s stalking the hero. You have made attempts to rummage around for said notebook, but he keeps it at his hip at all times and hides it with diligence because you have yet to come across it. I just wanna know what you think of me.

In your rooting around, mutual nosiness, you did find a note off to the side where he has an appointment with “OMI” in a couple days, it flying over your head completely. You couldn’t even be bothered to wonder if it was a doctor’s appointment.

While you can avoid listening in on the police radio all you’d like to, crime and villains never cease, and your senses are going haywire, every nerve in your system sending signal after signal for your feet to move. You’re hardly over the threshold of the bathroom before the movie theater crashing sound of a car barges through the side of your apartment, where the kitchen is, and your eyes are trembling in their sockets so badly, you can barely make out Dazai’s figure stumbling along the hallway while he holds onto the wall. His eyes are bugging, whipping over his shoulder to look at the damage, and sees a standard four-door sedan lodged in a giant hole, knocking out the table he was previously sitting at.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, arm moving slowly as it scrambles for you when you rush to his side, hands all over his body to make sure he’s in one piece, completely ignoring the fact that a vehicle is just… there. His arm wraps around your shoulders, hand pressing your head to his chest, amazed and terrified gaze trained on the catastrophic mess, and you’re not even sure what this could have caused it. Suddenly, this may be out of your wheelhouse, considering you live on the third floor. “I didn’t think that happens in real life.” He swallows, holding you tight, forgetting about his pain in an instant.

“It usually doesn’t,” you whisper, daring to break away from him, inching your way to the ginormous opening that the car is half-hanging from, and there is more noise, yelling, screaming, and a roar of an unknown beast sounding in the middle of the street. You peer down, heart catching in your throat at the height, your suit not on to placebo you out of the fear, and your brows twitch together at the sight of a somewhat familiar body rampaging the street. He’s large, as big as the Hulk, but less green, and his fists are the size of wrecking balls, slamming them down into the asphalt to create craters. People are running left and right, screams for help, asking what’s happening, who that is. Where the Kumo is. Your hand fumbles to rest on the metal door, to steady yourself, and you feel a chest behind your arm with shuffling perking your ears.

“He grew,” Dazai murmurs, astonished, audible bafflement in his tone. Your head whips in his direction, distraught and puzzled, looking up at his pale face.

“What are you talking about?”

“Reks,” he nods in the direction of the hulking giant of a human, those absurd fists continuously coming down and knocking around, picking up more cars to toss in the air, and the billowing of his deep voice tells you this can’t possibly be real. And yet, you got bit by a radioactive spider that gave you superpowers, but this. This is what’s unbelievable. “He wasn’t that size when I last saw him.” You dart your line of sight back to the scene, watching equally large feet stomp around, and you whirl your entire body around to face Dazai.

“You fought that?!” You scream, pointing backward at him.

“In my defense, he wasn’t that big when I did!” He argues, gesturing in the same direction, and you scoff. “He was maybe only a little taller! And… And his clothes fit!” He adds, indicating this is an incredibly sudden change to see in your usual antagonizer.

“Dammit Dazai!” You stomp your foot. “No wonder you look so busted up!”

“How was I to know he was Reks on ‘roids?!” He counters, pointing back at him so your attention is on that and not your boyfriend. “He is demolishing the city! What are we gonna do?” Your head shakes in bewilderment, holding a hand up and blinking rapidly as you collect your thoughts.

“We?!” You exclaim. “We are leaving! Go, get a move on!” I demand, starting to shove him in the direction of the front door, but he’s fighting with you, trying to push your hands away.

“You can’t run away from this!” He emphasizes, stopping you both in your tracks, trying to essentially let you know he knows. “They need you!” Just as he tells this to you, an inhale that feels too heavy and weighing down on your lungs freezing in your chest, another guttural bellow comes from the enlarged Reks outside, faint, but clear.

“Bring out the Kumo!” Another car horn blares, getting quieter and quieter with the assumption it is flying in the opposite direction to a different building. You’re stopped cold, staring up at Dazai, feigning cluelessness because you don’t know when to quit, and you have to ignore everything happening outside until you are sure he is safe. “Come out, little spider! I wanna squash ya!” Reks continues antagonizing, trying to draw you out, and the helplessness and hopelessness of the city is coming crashing down on your shoulders while they are in terror, and you’re nowhere to be found.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you shake your head again, lowering your gaze and beginning to shove him again toward the door, leaning down to snatch his shoes so he can get them on to run as far away as he can. “I can’t help people. I’m not a hero. I mean, shit, look at you, you’re in that condition because I can’t defend myself.” You ramble, avoiding looking at him, forcing your own shoes on and grasping the knob. However, his hand comes out over yours, and your heart is hammering in your ears. Your nerves are lighting up once more, making your teeth chatter with anxious anticipation, and fingers tighten around it against his protest. “I can’t save anyone from this. I’m just a person like you. There’s nothing we can do other than save ourselves–”

“You keep saying I can’t fight your battles for you. Now’s the time to take him on yourself,” he says, gentle but firm, and the sentence hits your heart like a ton of bricks – similar to the car hitting the building. “You’ve always been stronger than you think, and I knew it in the back of my mind, but I just wanted to be the one to protect you. Prove it then that you don’t need me.”

“I always need you.”

“I can’t fight that,” he tells you, honest for once that this far exceeds his match. You keep avoiding him, letting his words sink in, not surprised in the slightest such an inspirational speech is coming from him at a time like this, somehow knowing when it’s best to take things seriously, and letting you know he has full faith in you.

You nod slowly, letting out that breath you had been holding onto, and twist the knob to hurriedly push him out of the door. He is already protesting, asking you what you think you’re doing, and simply slam the door in his face to lock before he can try getting back in. “Run as far as you can! Get to safety! Kumo should hopefully be here soon!” You tell him from the other side as he is kicking and banging on his end, rattling the doorknob, and repeatedly calling out your name, demanding to be let back in. You have to ignore him, racing off to your room to find your suit, feeling silly that you have to change before going to fight off an overpowered version of your high school – and now college – bully that’s been trying to lure your superhero persona out this entire time.

You have to discreetly get yourself up to the roof of your building, tugging your mask on as you climb up the wall out of the bedroom window that is facing away from the villain, but kind of near where you last left your boyfriend. Careful steps get you there, nervous you have to face this guy on your own, unsure how he could even get to be this ginormous, and realize the wreckage is getting far more worse that you cannot buy yourself enough time to calm down. You stagger to your feet, stepping up on the ledge, and bite down on the inside of your cheek when you kneel down in position, staring over at the mess he’s made. The city is gonna have a hell of a time cleaning this up.

A quick, shrill whistle catches Reks’ attention, his head whipping around, but due to his large size, it comes off more as slow motion, until he ultimately thinks to look up and notices the Kumo he has been calling out to has finally arrived. You offer a two-finger salute, and he is mildly annoyed you’re so high up off the ground level. “There you are, Kumo!” He shouts, pointing an extra meaty finger in your direction. “Come down here and fight me so I can take you back where you belong!” His feet stomp down again, more craters emerging, while objects and people around him bounce into the air from impact. Cars bigger than the one in your kitchen lift off the road, and you have to fight against your fears – while ignoring that incredibly strange comment.

“Man, Reks, I know they said you needed to strengthen up to stay on the wrestling squad, but don’t you think you’ve gone a little overboard?!” You shout in return, maintaining a nonchalant composure with such a great distance between you two.

“The name is ‘Rex’ now!” He corrects with a smash of his hand into a streetlight pole, and you blink at him from behind your mask.

“Yeah, that’s what I said, ‘Reks’!”

“No! ‘Rex’!” He repeats, and you stare at him.

“Yeah, ‘Reks’!” You call back, and the civilians are now scrambling to run away while the two of you continue to shout “Rex” and “Reks” to one another, enough of a diversion for everyone to escape, knowing that underneath that engorged skull is still the dimwitted lowlife that only got into the same university as you because his parents are the largest donors. Not because of his brains.

He lets out a roar, something like an ogre that has been hidden away in a cave for hundreds of years, grabbing someone’s abandoned vehicle as if it’s a Hot Wheel, then ripping the thing clean in half. “Stupid spider!” He chucks them backward, colliding into more buildings behind him, and a few people start spilling out of them in the opposite direction. “It’s ‘Rex’! R-E-X!”

“Oh!” You drag out, snapping your fingers. “Sorry, I don’t speak English.” Every nerve in your body sparks, your feet kicking you up in the air on instinct and just miss getting hit by a dulled traffic light, the wires sticking out grazing our heels. You sling a string of web out across to the other building, swinging down and closing your legs tightly together with your feet upward, and knock into his nose on the way down, before flying to the rooftop; his head falls backward, but he remains upright, not that you were expecting to actually get him down. He yells out in pain, the attack more an inconvenience than an actual blow, and you crouch down with your elbow propped on your knee. “Oops, sorry there! Didn’t see you. They really should consider installing web crossings for me.”

“I’ll crush you!” He shouts, visibly enraged, face bright red and teeth bared. An extremely large vein is protruding in his forehead, and he kind of looks like a military reject.

“How cliche!” You gasp, feigning fear, and your hands come up to your mashed cheeks. “A giant human being threatening to crush a tiny spider? Whatever will I possibly do?” You antagonize, your hand now placed on your forehead, trying to keep him distracted with eyes on you so that there aren’t any more innocent bystanders getting stuck in the crosshairs. You think for a moment, him standing there seething, not used to having people make fun of him, until you hold your finger up. “Oh! I know!” Quickly, in rapid succession, you start swinging from different rooftop buildings, circling him, arms coming out with every cross of his path, masses of webs sticking his feet to the concrete, and he’s too busy trying to grasp you to notice.

You can’t help laughing, getting a bit of a satisfactory enjoyment out of it all, taking on someone who has been a jerk to you for years finally getting what he deserves without actually, physically, hurting him back. While your webs are strong against the average human being, they aren’t much to this monstrous thing; it slows him down enough to make him have to free his feet, then get stuck with every fwip in his direction, leaving you to wonder how much of this will it take to tire him out.

As you’re having your good fun with attempts of tuckering out Rex, stomping and stumbling around like a giant man-baby, spider webs everywhere, a voice that brings everything to a halt – including your heart – rings out in the empty street, garnering his attention and causing you to lose your grip, falling down to the ground in a rolling heap. “Hey, Reks! Come finish that fight we started!” Dazai provokes, the other whirling around to look at him, and squints, his molecularly rearranged brain trying to remember who he is. “You know who I am.” He puts his glasses on, and Rex points at him when the realization hits, a vein in his neck now popping out.

“Freak!” He roars, the newfound, boiling anger fuel for his inhuman strength to worsen, his trapped feet tearing themselves away to start a slow tromp toward your unbelievably moronic boyfriend. “It’s ‘Rex’!” You are rushing to your feet, pushing yourself off the ground, and coming up behind Rex to reach Dazai.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” You scream, tackling him mid-run, not stopping – even when he yelps and grunts in agony from the impact on the giant bruise on his stomach that now makes more sense – him clinging to your body in a frantic mess as you shoot a string up to a nearby building to soar through the sky to avoid the oversized mits reaching for both of you. “I told you to run away!” You scold while you two swing deeper into the city, trying to get him closer to a medic or hospital, and he heaves, wrapping his arms tight around you. Your nervous system is wrecked, senses firing off at different intervals, not able to tell what is what, and you can’t hear him at first – despite being right by your ear.

“…–ar! Car, car, car!” He’s screaming, eyes popping out of his skull at the sight of another sedan coming your guys’ way. You gasp when your senses come back to you, tossing him effortlessly in the air as high as you can, swinging yourself up toward a higher building just to twist and flip back in its direction to push off of, sending it back to the ground and you to Dazai. Who is screaming and flailing as gravity tries bringing him to the street.

“I got you!” You both collide with one another, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, breathing heavily, and never have been happier to see you in his life. His heart is hammering into yours, his body trembling, and he’s muttering to himself incoherently while you start looking for a closed off alley, absolutely certain Rex isn’t following that Dazai will be safe tucked away here so you can handle this issue without worrying he’ll interfere again. “It’s alright, you’re okay.” You reassure when you hear his teeth chattering in your ear canal and feel his nails trying to claw through your suit.

You swing into the nearest alleyway you spot, no one else around, and Rex so far behind it’ll take him twenty years at his pace to catch up and find you guys. A web sticks to a streetlamp, allowing for you to lower your bodies slowly, him not daring to release you even when his feet connect with the asphalt. “It’s okay, you’re safe now.” You soothe, rubbing his back, but he shakes his head that is hidden away in your neck. “You won’t be bothered here, I promise. I have to get back to stop him.” You make the attempt to break away, but he’s scrambling for you, the distress evident on his features, and part of you wants to rip the mask off to properly comfort him. Then you remember: you’re the Kumo right now. In the intensity of the moment, you completely forgot you needed to conceal your identity, but instead you practically gave yourself away.

You clear your throat, putting on your fake voice, and toss a thumb over your shoulder as you place a hand on his chest to keep some distance. “I-I need to go. Will you be alright here?” It takes him a moment, but he is suddenly looking at you as if you’re absolutely deranged – his eyebrows are deeply furrowed, lightly shaking his head, and small, confused sounds are coming from his shuddering lips.

“Wh-Wha…” His hands grip your arms, bringing you close, then begins shaking you. “I know! I know it’s you under there! Quit acting like I don't!” He pleads, helpless, shaken. His eyes are glassy behind the lenses, red, and his face is paling. Your hands carefully come up to gingerly grab at his, to make him stop, and you have to hush him like a startled animal. “I know. I know it’s you. I know you anywhere.” He whispers, fingers reaching for the edge of your mask, and you have to snatch them, pushing them away, and maintaining your composure is harder than you thought it’d be.

“How? How did you know?” You ask, defeated. You can feel his freezing, frigid skin through the suit, and you’re worried he’s going to send himself into shock.

“You’re not subtle,” he steps closer, and you can hear his heart still pounding in his chest. “Plus, your voice. I’ve known you since we were seven, I hear it everyday. It’s my favorite sound, how could I not recognize it?” Your lips part, getting ready to say something in return, but there’s faint crashing in the distance, back where you left Rex, and you hate that this is happening right now.

“Look, I need to go, I need to stop him,” you have to force his trembling hands away, ignoring the expression etched into his features, him begging you not to leave him there alone. The sight is heartbreaking, your strong and brave boyfriend who fights every single one of your battles is now weak while you have to go save the day. “Stay here, please. I will be right back here to get you, I swear to you.” You’re already slinging webs to the streetlamp, feet off the ground, and he’s still clamoring for you.

“W-Wait! Wait!” He breathes, fingers brushing your ankle, and you sigh, knowing prolonging leaving Rex to his own devices will cause more destruction than necessary. You flip yourself over, hanging upside down like an actual spider, and you stare at him expectantly through your mask, holding onto the webbing tight.

“What is it?”

“I-I wanna give you good luck,” he says, a bit childish, and your brows come together. At a time like this? His fingers come back toward the hem of your mask, gradually pulling it down, but only just under your nose.

“Osamu–” His large hands are holding the sides of your face, cracked and bust lips pressing to yours, and somehow the tension in your body melts away. You don’t mean to, but you sigh with relief, this enough to remind you he is okay, and so are you, and you have your nerves back in check to take on the villain.

When he pulls away, not without landing one more lingering peck, he struggles but manages to get your mask back in place, and he still looks distraught. “Go on, my spider lily, my favorite flower.” He swallows, not wanting to send you off, but he knows he doesn’t have a choice. “I know this whole damn city thinks it needs you, but not as much as I do.”

“I’ll come back in one piece,” you promise, taking a deep inhale before shortening the web so you can better flip upright and swing through the city, to get yourself back to Rex, and Dazai just has to watch you leave.

He stands there, sucking in a big breath, then shouts as loud as he possibly can, so not only can Tokyo but the entire world hear him: “You’re my hero, Kumo!”

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