This is a safe space for everyone

While the whole world obsessed over Superman, pins and his logo were plastered everywhere. Some wore it on their chest, and others had stickers on their phone case. You saw the hype; of course, he was a man who could do anything with big muscles. But you had your eye on someone in particular. 

A cubicle over was one of the best writers at the Daily Planet. Clark Kent. He wore thick glasses that he always pushed back up his nose, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbow, doing nothing to conceal his biceps. Of course, you appreciated muscles, but it was different for a little nerdy guy like Clark. They made you crazy. It wasn’t just his arms; his large 6’4” frame was packed with muscles despite being the softest guy you had ever met. You caught yourself admiring his pecs in his shirt that left little to the imagination from how fitted it was, along with his black dress pants that showed off his ass just right. You felt perverted, but you couldn’t help but take it in sometimes. 

He was like a greek myth, or an angel sent from heaven, you couldn’t decide.

At the coffee makers, he would ramble to Lois about his new article on Superman, before accidentally spilling coffee down his front. “What the hay!” he complained, patting himself with napkins. You tried to hold back a small smile, and he gave you a goofy one while shaking his head. He was clumsy, but you still loved it.

When he was nervous at his desk, he would play with his tie. He was always well put together, never a wrinkle on his clothes, you wondered how he did it sometimes. Sometimes, whenever he rounded a corner too hard, hitting the wall, he’d make a small apology, despite it not even having feelings. Too sweet for his own good. 

In the room of records, filled with sources, you bumped into him a lot. He always offered to grab stuff on the tall shelves for you, and you’d watch in awe as he stretched up, his shirt getting a little frumpy. “For you, m’lady…” he’d tease, looking down at you. His teasing always made your stomach jolt with the hot feelings of attraction. He made it very hard to ignore.

At Lois’s desk, you sat rambling, both of you talking about your love life. “So, what about you? Any movement with Clark?” she asks, her voice low. You shrugged. “He’s really cute, Lois. I can’t tell if he likes me, I mean, he’s nice to literally everyone…” You grumble, sipping from your mug. Lois gives a small shrug. “You’d be surprised, I think he likes you. He gives you big puppy eyes from his desk, hoping you’ll look at him!” she teases, grinning. You shook your head, leaving her desk. “Yeah, right.”

Little did you know—Clark had heard every word, making his heartbeat just a little quicker and his cheeks flush. Jimmy watched him haul off to the bathroom to collect himself, ‘Weird guy…” he mumbles. Normally, Clark would be a bit offended, but his mind was too preoccupied. Those small smiles you gave him made him feel like the only man in the world, and to think that you liked him back? It was earth-shattering. 

When he returned, he accidentally bumped into you, your coffee spilling down your front this time, staining the white of your shirt. “Oof…” you mumbled, looking down at the mess. Clark should’ve known; he had heard the click of your heels down the hall. “I’m so sorry…” he apologized quickly. He left and hurried back with a fistful of napkins, instinctively pressing the bundle against the coffee stain on your chest. His hands quickly jerked away, like he’d touched a hot stove. He froze, starting to stutter; you had noticed it was worse when he was nervous. “Golly—I’m sorry!” he apologized again.

You spotted her the way you spotted everything—out of the corner of your eye, halfway through a sip of something too strong, too sweet, and not nearly enough to quiet the ER echo in your head.

A petite blonde, heels wobbling, head lolling, being half-carried between two men toward the door.

Your stomach went cold so fast it cut through the buzz.

One guy was wiry, average height, all elbows and effort, his face screwed up in concentration as he tried to keep her from sliding out of his grip. His face was screwed up in concentration as he tried to keep her from sliding out of his grip, jaw clenched, fingers digging into the crook of her knee. The other— Well.

The other was tall.

Ridiculously tall. You guessed, six-four at least, easy to pick out even in the dim light. Broad shoulders under a soft-looking sweater, sleeves pushed up just enough to show forearms that were definitely not skipping gym day. Dark curly hair, mused like he’d been running his hands through it. His glasses caught the neon like a flash of light every time he turned his head. He had the blonde tucked against his chest, one big arm banded around her back like she weighed nothing at all.

Maybe it was the way her arms hung limp, fingers loose. Maybe it was the unfocused angle of her chin, how her head tipped against his shoulder, mouth slack, eyes barely open and unfocused.

Or maybe it was the four-day blur of ER shifts still buzzing under your skin, every scenario your brain had catalogued over the week snapping open all at once.

Whatever it was, your body reacted before your brain caught up.

You set your drink down carefully, fingers catching on the condensation. You slid off the barstool, whipping your wet fingertips against your jeans, and started moving.

"Hey!" the bartender called after you, confusion laced in his voice. You didn’t look back. 

The music thumped low and heavy in your chest. Colored lights strobed over a sea of faces turning everyone into moving shadows. The smell of spilled beer, fryer grease, and cheap perfume hit your nose. You dodged around a group of guys shouting about pool, ducked under someone’s careless arm, and beelined for the door. Someone bumped your shoulder, but your eyes stayed locked on the trio heading for the exit.

The tall guy spotted you a second before you reached them. 

His brows knit, confusion flickering behind his glasses as you planted yourself squarely in their path, feet shoulder-width apart.

"Hey! Put her down!" you ordered. It came out sharper than you meant, clipped, the same tone you used barking orders in a trauma bay. 

The tall guy blinked. The smaller guy—red hair, freckles, very nearly swallowed by an oversized jacket—froze mid-step and did a weird half-pivot like he’d just realized he was in the wrong room.

"Uh," the small one tried, eyes going wide "We were just—"

"Just what? She’s drunk!" you snapped, cutting him off, eyes focused on the blonde.  You swept over her quickly—skin pale and a little clammy, head bobbing, eyelids drooping. Her chest rose and fell, but slower than you liked. "She’s not walking on her own, her head’s not staying upright, and she probably couldn’t consent to a menu right now, let alone whatever you’re planning. Where are you taking her?"

Your nurse brain slotted everything into place with ruthless efficiency. The rest of you was riding a thin line between anger and sheer, exhausted panic.

The tall one adjusted his grip automatically, keeping her more secure against him so she didn’t slide further. Up close, he looked even more annoyingly… wholesome. Soft mouth. Strong jaw. A faint line between his brows from worry than defensiveness. His eyes, now that you were close enough to see them, were a bright blue behind his lenses.

"We’re taking her home," he replied, calm but clearly thrown. "She’s our friend. She’s had too much—"

"Everyone says that," you bit out with a pointed finger, stepping closer. You could smell him now—detergent and something warm and clean, cutting the faint smoke of the bar. "Then I see them in the ER the next morning with their blood alcohol through the roof and bruises they can’t explain!"

Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. Underneath the bass line, you could almost hear monitors instead—the steady beeps, and then the stretch of tone when a heartbeat slowed. The way families looked at you like you were supposed to be God and fix every damn thing, like you weren’t already stretched thin.

Four days of being called "sweetheart" and "nurse" and "hey you" while residents ghosted your calls and families took their fear out on your face—every ounce of that frustration funneled into this moment.

The wiry guy lifted both hands in a full surrender pose, nearly losing his grip on the blonde’s legs. "Whoa, okay, hold on," he blurted, voice a little too high. "We’re not—this isn’t—Clark, help me out here, man, she’s gonna murder us, and honestly I think she could."

You ignored him and reached for the blonde’s wrist, fingers seeking a pulse.

Your hand brushed the tall guy’s forearm.

It was warm. His skin was firm under the thin fabric of his sweater, minimal give even when you pressed. There was a steadiness there that didn’t match the situation at all.

He instinctively shifted back a step to keep from knocking you over and to keep the blonde from tipping, and your tipsy brain interpreted the motion as him pulling her away from you.

"Don’t go anywhere," you warned, snapping your gaze up. Your palm planted itself against his chest to keep him in place before you even thought about it.

His chest was just as solid as his arm. Not overinflated, mirror-flexing solid—just dense, like someone had built a support beam and then stuck it inside a guy in a sweater. You felt the steady thrum of his heart under your hand, strong and unhurried and wanted to trust him. You couldn’t.

"Miss," he tried again, and his voice did that thing—soft, a little deeper up close, careful. Why did it have to be soft? "I promise, we’re just trying to get her back safe. We’re—"

"If you say ‘we’re good guys,’ I’m calling 911," you shot back automatically. "Her pupils are blown, and she’s barely reacting. I’m not letting you walk out of here with her just because you’re tall and polite and your friend looks like a sad red-headed retriever"

"H-hey!" the smaller guy choked. "She’s not wrong about the tall and polite thing, but—"

He stopped when you snapped your glare to him too. 

He swallowed. "Okay, lemme try again! Hi. I’m Jimmy. That’s Cat. She’s our friend.  She works with us. We go out every other Friday. She just pregamed too hard, and Clark—"

"Good gosh, Jimmy, please stop talking," the tall one—Clark, apparently—groaned under his breath, like this was not the first time his friend had overshared in a crisis.

"Clark," you echoed, still glaring up at him. A name slotted him into place in your brain. A person, not just A Tall Guy. Somehow that made it worse. It made him real.

"Look," you pushed on, hand still firm against his chest. "I don’t care if you’re her brother, boyfriend, or the Tooth Fairy in glasses. Put her down."

You moved, trying to maneuver the blonde out of his arms the way you’d shift a patient between gurney and bed. It went… poorly.

You tugged on her elbow, misjudging her weight with your tequila math. Clark tried not to jostle her, compensating in the opposite direction. Jimmy, panicking, adjusted his hold at the wrong time. The blonde’s weight dipped, her head lolling forward, hair swinging.

"Careful!" Clark said quickly, raising his voice for the first time. He immediately shifted, re-anchoring her against his chest, muscles tightening under your palm as he pulled her up. The motion dragged you closer with her. His hand shot out, closing around your forearm for a second, just to steady you both and keep you from slipping on the sticky floor.

Heat flashed up your skin where he touched you, like your nerves had just remembered what it was to feel something that wasn’t stress.

"D-don’t grab me, Clark!" you yanked your arm back like it burned, accidentally seething his name and making him even more real. 

"I’m trying not to drop her!" he protested, exasperation finally edging into his tone, eyes wide and earnest behind his glasses as he stared down at you.

.

The three of you ended up in a ridiculous stalemate by the door.

You were braced in front of them, knees bent like you were about to take a hit in a scrimmage, one hand hovering near the blonde’s wrist ready to check her pulse again. Jimmy kept shifting his grip under her knees, adjusting a half inch this way, a half inch that way, panic written all over his face as he tried not to drop her. Clark stood caught in the middle, arms full of Cat, frozen in the world’s most awkward tug-of-war, moving like the slightest wrong angle might shatter her.

To anyone watching, it probably looked like you were trying to repossess a very drunk woman from two guys who’d attempted a kidnapping and were now failing spectacularly.

"Hey, hey!" a voice cut through the tension, low and carrying. "What the hell is going on over here!?"

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. That voice had called last round, last call, and last nerve on you for years.

You turned anyway.

The bar owner—broad shoulders, soft middle, hairline fighting a losing battle—stood with his brows raised. A dish towel hung over one shoulder like it had grown there. He glanced between you and the guys like he was trying to decide which one of you was more likely to start a brawl.

He greeted you, exasperated but fond."You starting fights in my doorway now?"

"Ugh! They’re trying to drag her out of here," you shot back, gesturing at the blonde. You heard your own voice wobble for the first time, the edges of your certainty fraying. "She can’t even keep her head up. She can’t consent to anything. Why am I the problem here?!"

Your words hung between all of you, heavier than the bass.

The owner’s gaze slid to Cat, took her in with one experienced sweep—the slump of her shoulders, the loose jaw, the steady rise and fall of her chest. His eyes moved to Jimmy, who looked like he might hyperventilate, then to Clark, who was still holding Cat like a very fragile, very drunk baby deer.

He exhaled, long and put-upon.

"They’re regulars," he sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Girl’s name is Cat. Comes in with them all the time. I’ve cut her off before. They always take her home. Never had a problem."

Your righteous anger snagged like your shoe on a sticky patch of floor, and then faltered.

"O-oh," you managed, your bravado collapsing in on itself rapidly you considered calling a code for yourself.

Heat crawled up your neck. The bar suddenly felt two sizes smaller, the air denser, like someone had cranked the thermostat up twenty degrees. You could feel the warmth of Clark’s body under your palm, the faint tremor in your own fingers.

You looked back at Cat, at the soft way her hand had curled into Clark’s sweater, as if she’d done it a hundred times. Jimmy’s face was pinched and anxious, his mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes flicking between you and the owner like he was waiting for a verdict.

"Oh shit," you repeated, quieter this time. "I just—I thought—"

"I know what you thought," the owner cut in, his tone easing. He dragged his dish towel across his hands, then aimed a look at Clark and Jimmy that was not subtle at all. "And she’s not wrong to think it."

He tipped his chin toward them. "You two make sure she drinks water and doesn’t choke on her own vomit, yeah?"

"Always, sir!" Jimmy blurted, nodding so hard his hair flopped. "Absolutely, yes, one hundred percent, sir, hydrated and on her side and supervised, we know the drill, this is like—like Cat Protocol—"

"Okay, okay," the owner interrupted, rubbing his forehead. "Stop talking before I card you again."

Jimmy clamped his mouth shut, cheeks going pink.

The owner clapped your shoulder, the weight of his hand familiar and steady. "You did the right thing," he reassured you. "Just… maybe don’t tackle the six-four guy next time without warning, huh? I need my doorways intact."

A weak laugh caught in your throat.

You realized belatedly that your hand was still more or less splayed across Clark’s chest, fingers curled slightly in the knit of his sweater like you were hanging on.

You snatched it back like it bit you.

"Sorry, sorry!" you blurted, mortification flooding your veins hot and fast. "I’m—I’m so sorry, guys! Occupational hazard. I’m a nurse. I see this go badly a lot, and I didn’t want— I couldn’t just stand by and watch— I didn’t mean to—"

Words tripped over each other coming out of your mouth, panic tumbling into apology.

"Hey, he, no," Clark cut in quickly, shaking his head. "No, you were just looking out for her. That’s—good. That’s… really good! I’m glad someone cares about people to do these things!"

His voice was earnest enough that it made you pause.

You met his eyes properly for the first time without adrenaline screaming in your ears.

They were—of freaking course—so stupidly kind.

Bright blue, as blue as a spring sky, soft at the edges, framed by lashes that were frankly unnecessary. Little lines creased at the corners from worry and from smiling, the kind of face that probably apologized when someone else bumped into him on the street.

He looked like the sort of person who would help old ladies with their groceries.

He also looked like the sort of person who could lift you with one arm without breaking a sweat, but that was a thought you absolutely did not need to be having while you were still technically accusing him of a felony.

"I, uh," you stammered, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of space between you and how close you’d just been. It wasn’t often your mouth didn’t know how to talk. "It’s been a hell of a week. So sorry. Again."

Jimmy shifted his grip on Cat’s legs, trying to subtly shake feeling back into his hands. "Rough shift?" he ventured, his tone cautious but sympathetic.

Rough week, you thought. Rough month. Rough… everything.

Then the bar tilted for a second under your feet when you turned just so, and your vision tightened at the edges for just a brief moment. Before you could stop it, your brain slid backwards.

.

Fluorescent lights humming overhead. The shrill, endless ding of call bells, each one a demand. The sharp chemical sting of antiseptic mixed with old coffee and too many bodies crammed into too small a space.

Four days. Four consecutive days of chaos.

You’d had a man’s daughter crying in your arms at ten a.m., mascara streaking down her cheeks, because no one could yet tell her if his CT showed a bleed or just an old scar. You’d had a son call you "heartless" at noon because you wouldn’t let him into a sterile procedure room, his words spitting venom over the surgical mask you wore.

You’d had a resident ignore three calls—three—until the attending rounded, glanced at the chart, and chewed you out for not having the orders already done.

"WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE EVEN DO BACK HERE?"

He’d been red-faced and jabbing a finger in the air like you were a punching bag instead of the person who’d taken his mother’s vitals four times in an hour, the person who’d caught her oxygen dropping before anyone else did.

You’d taken a breath, then another, and explained again about labs and imaging and wait times you didn’t control. You’d smiled when everything in you wanted to scream.

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes circled in your mind like a life raft: break, lunch, sixty seconds to yourself to sit down and chew.

You’d opened the fridge in the cramped little break room, already tasting the leftovers you’d packed last night.

Your labeled lunch container—the one with your name written on it twice in aggressive Sharpie, the one you’d carefully packed, your small act of kindness to your future self—was gone.

Vanished.

In its place: someone’s sad, wilted salad and an unlabeled yogurt squished against the back wall.

You’d stood there holding the fridge door, cold air spilling over your scrubs, looking at the empty shelf. For a second you just stared, the world narrowing to the stupid gap where your food should have been. The remaining light left your eyes.

Then you’d laughed, just three times, with a shake of your head. A hollow, broken little sound that felt alarmingly close to a sob and tasted like metal in the back of your throat.

That laugh still echoed now, underneath the bar’s music and the murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses.

Your stomach rolled.

.

The room tilted again, but this time it wasn’t a memory. The tequila, the adrenaline crash, the four days of running on fumes all decided to gang up at once.

"Hey," Clark prompted, his brows pinching as he watched your face. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah," you lied automatically, because that was muscle memory too. You’d said it to patients, to coworkers, to your own reflection in the hospital bathroom mirror on your worst days, which seemed to be every day. "I’m—"

Your stomach lurched in earnest.

"Oh fuck," you muttered, the words puffing out on a wavering breath as your hand flew to your mouth.

Clark moved faster than he had any right to for a guy that size.

"Bathroom?" he asked, already shifting his weight. You barely managed a nod before he was carefully transferring Cat’s weight into Jimmy’s arms.

"Got her, I got her!" Jimmy babbled, adjusting his stance as Cat sagged more heavily against him. "Go, go, please go, do not throw up on my shoes, those are new."

Clark didn’t laugh. His hand settled between your shoulder blades—steady, wide, warm through the fabric of your shirt, somehow not overwhelming despite how tall he was. He guided you through the crowd with practiced ease, the bar parting around the two of you as he murmured apologies.

"Excuse us," he called over the music, steering you around a table. "Sorry. Coming through. Sorry, she’s—watch your step—"

It was weirdly reassuring, the way he cleared a path without ever pushing, just existing in people’s space until they moved.

The bathroom door swung inward, and the smell of industrial cleaner and too many Friday nights hit you full force.

You dropped to your knees on instinct.

It was not your finest moment.

You clung to the toilet like it was a life raft and surrendered to gravity, tequila, and the accumulated weight of the week. Your body folded up on itself, shoulders jerking with each heave. Your eyes watered; your throat burned.

If you’d had enough dignity left to care, you might’ve told him to leave. You might’ve locked the stall and insisted you could handle it, because handling it was what you did.

He didn’t leave.

He crouched beside you in the narrow stall, one large palm gathering your hair and holding it back from your face without comment. His fingers were gentle, not tugging, just keeping it clear. His other hand hovered just above your shoulder, not touching unless you needed the support, there if you tipped too far forward.

"You’re okay, you’re okay," he murmured, voice pitched low and steady, like he was talking you through a procedure. "Just breathe. You’re alright."

You groaned between heaves, tears in your eyes slipping as you squeezed shut. "This is—oh God—this is so embarrassing."

"I’ve seen worse," he replied, and somehow managed to sound faintly amused without mocking you. It was a careful kind of humor, offering you a way to laugh at yourself if you wanted it.

You wouldn’t have been surprised if that was a lie, but you appreciated it anyway.

"I promise you’re still in the top ten least-disastrous situations I’ve been in on a Friday," he added.

"Top ten?" you rasped, sniffling between breaths. "So there’s… competition?"

"Unfortunately," he confessed. "You’re ranking pretty low on the catastrophe scale, I promise."

Eventually, the worst of it passed. You spat, reached blindly for the sad metal sink beside you, and turned the tap with shaky fingers. You swished water around your mouth, spat again, then leaned your forehead against the cool metal divider for a second, letting the chill bleed some of the leftover heat from your cheeks.

"Clark, I tried to fight you," you muttered, eyes still closed. "Then I threw up. I don’t even know your last name."

"Kent," he told you instantly. "Clark Kent."

Of-freaking-course, he had the kind of name that sounded charming and adorable.

You shut your eyes tighter for a heartbeat, letting the dizziness ebb before you pushed yourself upright.

"Hi, Clark Kent," you managed weakly with a grimace. "I’m so sorry I accused you of being a kidnapper and then vomited in your general vicinity. You seem like a really nice man."

"Honestly?" he replied with a chuckle. "I’ve had much worse introductions."

You huffed out a tired laugh, then reached for the paper towels. You splashed more water on your face, mascara and eyeliner definitely smeared without care, the icy tap stinging your skin awake, then patted yourself dry with the rough, too-thin brown squares.

When you finally stepped out into the hallway again, the bar’s noise washed over you all at once.

Jimmy was waiting against the wall by the bathroom sign, jeans scuffed, jacket rumpled, Cat’s arm slung over his shoulders as he half-supported, half-propped her up. She was now slumped in a corner booth a few feet away, head tilted back, mouth open, breathing even and loud enough you could hear a little snore over the music.

"Everything good?" Jimmy blurted as soon as he saw you, straightening like a kid caught doing something wrong.

"Define good," you muttered, moving toward Cat on autopilot. "At looks…ah, she’ll be fine."

Your hands found their way to Cat like they had muscle memory of their own. You checked her pulse again, feeling along her jaw, count steady. You watched her chest rise and fall. You nudged her chin slightly so her airway stayed open.

"She shouldn’t be alone tonight," you decided aloud. "She’s fine, but if she pukes in her sleep…"

"Yeah," Jimmy agreed immediately, rubbing the back of his neck. "Her place isn’t far, but I don’t love the idea of just dumping her on her couch and hoping for the best. She’ll yell at me tomorrow if I do, but like—alive yelling is better than the alternative."

You hesitated.

Your apartment flashed in your mind. Tiny but cozy. The fifth-floor walk-up with the humming radiators and the crooked windows. Lois was probably still hunched over her laptop at the kitchen table, half a dozen sticky notes on the surface, coffee with a full bag of sugar gone cold at her elbow. The couch in your living room, old but comfortable, close enough to your room that you’d hear if someone needed help.

"My place is actually closer," you heard yourself say, the words landing before you could talk yourself out of them. "My roommate’s sober. Cat can crash with us. We’ll keep an eye on her tonight, kick her out in the morning, hangover and all."

Jimmy’s shoulders sagged in visible relief. "Are you sure?" he asked, hopeful and horrified in equal measure. "Because that would be… that’d be really, really nice. Like my future-therapy-bills nice."

"Yeah," you replied, shrugging one shoulder. "I’d never leave someone that needs help like this."

"I can help carry her," Clark offered warmly, straightening a bit. "You shouldn’t have to haul her by yourself. Not after the week you’ve had."

You looked at him, then at Cat, then down at your own slightly unsteady feet.

Your pride tried to object. Your ankles, knees, and spine filed a collective complaint from your four-day limbo.

"…Yeah," you conceded. "That’s probably smart. Thank you."

Jimmy dug into his pocket for his keys, jangling them in his hand. "My car’s a block over. We can load her into the backseat, should be fine."

You, a drunk blonde who snored, a frantic redhead, and a six-four man in a sweater all filed out together like the weirdest little parade.

And despite everything you’ve felt, the nausea, the embarrassment, the exhaustion, you could feel something inside you loosen just a bit.

Because the guy you’d just tried to fight? Tall guy? The alleged kidnapper? Clark Kent?

He was still walking at your side, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours when the sidewalk narrowed, quietly making room for you on the inside of the street like it was the most natural thing in the world.

.

The night air hit your face and sharpened everything.

Cold slipped under your collar, clearing out some of the bar haze. The sidewalk was slick in patches from an earlier drizzle, reflecting neon signs in smeared streaks of blue and red. Somewhere down the block, someone laughed too loud. A siren wailed faintly in the distance, threads of sound weaving through honking horns and the rumble of traffic.

Friday night in Metropolis—the city humming like it didn’t care how many hours you’d spent under fluorescent lights. The world buzzed while your muscles finally, finally stopped buzzing with ER adrenaline and started buzzing with something… else.

"Backseat’s probably best," Jimmy muttered as he fumbled with his keys, breath puffing white in the cool air. "More room. Less chance of her falling out the door and suing me in the morning."

"Cat would absolutely sue you," Clark murmured, adjusting his grip as she sagged against him. "And then write a column about it."

Between the two of them and your half-competent directions, you managed to maneuver Cat into the back of Jimmy’s car. Her body went boneless the second she flopped onto the seat, limbs everywhere like a discarded marionette.

Her head rolled toward you as you slid in after her.

"Easy, easy," you coaxed, catching her before she smacked into the door. You guided her down carefully until her head settled in your lap. She made a vague noise that might’ve been your name or might’ve been a burp.

You braced her with one hand on her shoulder, the other hovering near her chin to keep her airway clear. Instinct. Habit. Training.

Clark slid in beside you a heartbeat later, ducking his head so he didn’t crack it on the roof. The car suddenly felt two sizes too small.

His shoulder pressed along yours, solid and warm even through both your layers.

Jimmy climbed behind the wheel and shut his door with more force than necessary. The car shuddered.

"Seatbelts," Jimmy called, a little frazzled. "Please. I don’t need Cat drunk and flying through the windshield."

You reached for yours, the belt slicing diagonally across your chest with a familiar tug. You heard Clark’s click beside you. Cat mumbled and drooled on your jeans.

The engine turned over with a reluctant groan, then caught. Jimmy pulled away from the curb like the entire city was a driving test.

Streetlights slid across Clark’s profile as you rolled through the intersection—strong nose, defined jaw. The glow from the dashboard painted his skin in a soft green wash. He kept one hand braced on the back of Jimmy’s seat, the other resting near his knee, fingers long and relaxed.

You realized you were staring and snapped your gaze toward the window, watching buildings smear by instead.

"So," he ventured after a moment, his voice threading through the low hum of the engine and the faint thump of whatever song Jimmy had on the radio. "Do you take on every six-four guy in a sweater you meet at bars, or was tonight a special occasion?"

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, short and sharp.

"Only the ones suspiciously attached to unconscious blondes," you replied. "Otherwise I try to limit myself to yelling at residents and people who steal my lunch."

"Lunch thieves," he repeated gravely. "The real villains of the hospital."

You huffed, the corner of your mouth twitching. "You joke, but I nearly committed homicide over a missing Tupperware this week."

"I’m on your side," he assured you. "They had it coming."

You glanced down as Cat shifted, her mouth opening. You angled her head, thumb under her jaw, making sure her airway stayed clear. She snored once, then settled.

"Is it always like that?" Clark asked quietly. "Your job, I mean. People yelling. You having to be the bad guy?"

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

"Not always," you admitted. "Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes people say thank you. Sometimes you get to send someone home and know you made it suck less."

You rubbed absent circles on Cat’s shoulder, more for you than for her. "But yeah. A lot of the time it’s… this." You gestured vaguely with your free hand. "Dragged-out, tired, being the only one in the room who can’t lose it."

He was quiet for a beat, absorbing that.

"I’m sorry," he said finally, and it didn’t sound like pity. It sounded like someone putting a hand on your shoulder.

"You’re not the one who stole my lunch," you muttered.

"I would never," he replied, mock-offended. "My Ma raised me to respect Sharpie labels."

That dragged a real smile out of you.

Every bump in the road nudged you a little closer together, fabric whispering against fabric

A pothole in the road jolted the car, bouncing all of you a few inches off the seat. Your hand shot out to brace on the door; Clark’s arm reacted at the same time, coming across instinctively like a seatbelt, his forearm solid across your midsection for a split second.

"Sorry," Jimmy yelped from the front. "Sorry! That came out of nowhere, I swear I didn’t see it, the city hates me, the roads hate me, god, let this night be over—"

"It’s okay, Jimmy," Clark called, amused.

You were still very aware of the weight of his arm across you, the heat of it, the way his fingers curled like he was ready to catch you if gravity suddenly failed.

He realized it at the same time you did and pulled back, clearing his throat.

"Sorry," he echoed, this time to you. "That was… reflex."

"It’s fine," you told him, trying to act like your pulse hadn’t just jumped. "I’m used to it getting worse. At work the bed moves and it’s usually because someone’s actively coding."

His face sobered again. "That sounds… terrifying."

"Sometimes," you acknowledged. "Sometimes it’s also kind of… I don’t know. Worth it."

The car fell into a quieter rhythm. Jimmy hummed tunelessly under his breath as he took a left. Outside, Metropolis rolled past in snapshots: late-night diners with fluorescent signs buzzing, people smoking outside doorways, a couple arguing on a corner, someone walking a dog that looked way too small for this hour.

Inside the car, it was just the engine, Cat’s soft snoring, and the sound of your own breathing slowly evening out.

"So," Clark tried again, a smile tucked into the corner of his voice, "do you always offer to take strangers home, or did we just luck out?"

You rolled your eyes, but the tension in your shoulders had eased a notch.

"You’re not strangers," you pointed out. "You’re… semi-cleared by the bartender. That counts for something."

"Ah, right. Background check by towel guy," he mused. "That’s reassuring."

"Hey, I trust him more than half the doctors I work with," you quipped.

"Why does it feel like that’s a low bar?" he murmured.

"Because it is," you confirmed.

He laughed quietly, the sound vibrating where your arms brushed.

"Still," he added, more earnest now. "Thank you. For offering. You really didn’t have to."

"You didn’t have to hold my hair while I made friends with the bar toilet," you shot back. "So I guess we’re both overachieving tonight."

"I’m just trying to keep my ‘alleged kidnapper’ record clean," he replied dryly.

You snorted. Cat stirred and mumbled something into your thigh; you automatically soothed her with your fingers through her hair, checking her breathing again without even looking.

"You’re good at that," Clark observed after a second. "The… checking. Making sure."

"Occupational hazard," you replied. "And, you know. I like people not dying on my watch. It’s a hobby."

He made a thoughtful noise. "That’s a good hobby."

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

"You?" you asked. "Hobbies besides rescuing drunk coworkers and attracting fights in doorways?"

A faint blush crept up the column of his throat, disappearing under his collar. "I, uh… read a lot," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Walk. Cook sometimes. Nothing very exciting."

"Reading and cooking are exciting," you argued. "Walking is… mildly suspicious, but I’ll allow it."

"What, I look like I don’t walk?" he teased.

"You look like you do something," you countered, flicking your gaze pointedly to his forearms. "I’d just assumed it was, I don’t know, flipping big tires in your spare time or something. Like what cross-fit people do."

His eyes widened a little like he wasn’t sure if you were joking.Then he laughed, head tipping  back against the seat.

"I promise I do all my tire-lifting in designated zones," he replied.

The banter eased something in your chest that the tequila and the cold air hadn’t touched. Your shoulders dropped a fraction, the knot between them loosening.

"Honestly," you muttered, thumb absently rubbing circles on Cat’s shoulder, "this is still better than what my night was supposed to be."

"Yeah?" he prompted, glancing over.

You huffed a small breath out your nose. "My roommate was trying to set me up on a blind date tonight," you admitted. "Kept going on about some ‘perfect guy.’ I turned it down. I’m too tired to make small talk with a stranger over appetizers."

His mouth curved. "You picked ‘fight a stranger in a bar doorway’ instead?"

"I’m versatile," you said dryly. "But yeah. After this week? I just wanted to sit alone with a drink and not be perceived."

He nodded like he understood that a little too well. "Funny," he said after a beat. "I was supposed to get shoved into a blind date too. Friend at work’s been trying to introduce me to ‘someone I’d really like.’"

You glanced at him, brows lifting. "And?"

He lifted one shoulder in a small shrug, eyes back on the window. "Fell through," he replied. "Timing didn’t work out, I guess

"Their loss," you heard yourself say before your brain could filter it.

His gaze flicked back to you, surprised and faintly pleased. "Yours too," he offered, a little shy, "if your roommate’s taste is anything like your judgment in doorways."

You snorted, but the warmth that curled low in your chest wasn’t from the tequila this time.

Jimmy’s car coasted to a stop at a light. The red glow washed over the interior, over Cat’s smudged mascara, over your hands resting lightly on her shoulder and over Clark’s thumb tapping absently against his knee.

You realized, somewhere between one street and the next, that you weren’t on edge around him anymore. You were… aware, yes. Hyper-aware. Of his size, his presence, the way he angled himself so he didn’t crowd you even though the backseat barely had room for the three of you.

But the alarm bell that had gone off the second you saw him carrying Cat had gone quiet.

He’d held your hair. He’d move when you moved, listened when you barked orders, let you poke at his friend without getting defensive. He’d taken being accused of kidnapping and turned it into a running joke without once making you feel small and stupid for it.

The light turned green. Jimmy eased forward.

"Okay," Jimmy announced a minute later, relief creeping into his tone as he recognized the block. "Almost there. One more turn and then you’re free of my terrible driving. I swear I’m better in the daylight."

"I believe you," you lied kindly.

He made an affronted noise. Clark bit back a smile.

They followed your directions through the quiet side street, tires crunching over a stray pile of leaves someone hadn’t swept up yet.

Finally, Jimmy rolled to a stop in front of your building—a five-story brick walk-up with ivy crawling up the side and a streetlamp flickering nearby. The familiar sight tugged at something soft in your chest.

Home. Messy, noisy, shoe-strewn home.

"Here we are," Jimmy exhaled, killing the engine. "Need help with her?"

You looked down at Cat, then at your own still-wobbly legs.

"Unless you want to watch me faceplant on the stairs," you muttered. "Yeah. I might need backup."

"On it," Clark replied immediately.

Between the three of you, you managed to maneuver Cat out of the car in stages. You slid out first, easing her head from your lap, then scooted aside as Clark leaned in, arms scooping under her knees and shoulders with an ease that made it look rehearsed.

She mumbled something incoherent into his chest and promptly faceplanted into his sweater again, fingers curling instinctively in the fabric.

"Hi, Cat," he murmured, shifting her weight. "You’re gonna hate us in the morning."

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, moved closer, and automatically took hold of her dangling hand so it didn’t swing.

Clark’s hands were there immediately, steadying both of you when you swayed a little on the curb.

"I’ve got her," he assured you, dipping his head so he could meet your eyes. "You just lead the way."

You were too tired to argue with that, and—annoyingly—you trusted him enough now that you didn’t feel the need to.

Your building’s front entry smelled like someone had burned toast every single day. The paint on the banister chipped under your fingers as you grabbed it, dragging yourself and your little parade up the stairs.

"Sorry, sorry," you winced automatically as Cat’s shoe scuffed the wall in narrow hallway, the rubber sole squeaking against the wood. "Sorry. Almost there. Sorry, Mrs. Kowalski," you added when a door cracked open on the second floor and an older woman peered out, frowning.

You pushed on, your thighs burning by the fourth floor, heart thudding in your ears again for a much more normal, exertion-related reason.

At least this time, when you reached for the railing and your step faltered, there was a big, warm hand hovering just behind your shoulder blade to steady you.

.

You dug your keys out of your bag and jabbed them at the lock, your fingers suddenly clumsy and not entirely obeying your brain. The metal scraped uselessly against the wood.

The door swung inward before you made contact.

"Finally," Lois mumbled around a mouthful of something, leaning against the frame like she’d been propping it open for hours. She wore an oversized Metropolis Meteors shirt and sleep shorts, hair yanked into a lopsided bun, pen tucked behind one ear. "You’re back late, I was about to—"

She stopped dead.

Her gaze ran over the scene in the hallway like a scanner: you, sweaty and winded, one hand still latched around Cat’s limp wrist; Jimmy hovering behind you, wide-eyed and breathing hard; Clark towering over all of you, arms full of Cat’s weight like it was nothing, shoulders blocking half the hallway.

Lois’s jaw dropped so fast you almost heard it.

"Jimmy?" she blurted, eyes ping-ponging. "Cat? Clark?"

You stared at her, brain trying to catch three different trains of thought at once and failing all of them.

"You… know them?" you managed, voice coming out a little higher than usual.

Lois dragged her gaze back to you. You could practically watch the emotions flicker across her face—horror, delight, confusion, oh, this is going in my mental notes, and the dawning realization that the universe had just handed her a front-page-worthy story.

"Oh my God, what are you guys doing here?" she breathed.

Your stomach sank and flipped at the same time.

"Wait, hold on," you said slowly, as if the words might rearrange into something less insane if you gave them time. "These are the coworkers you were talking about? From The Planet?"

Lois pointed straight at Clark like she was accusing him of murder.

"That’s him," she declared, shaking your arm. "That’s the guy! That’s the blind date you turned down tonight."

Silence dropped over the hallway like a weighted blanket.

You became acutely aware of every single life choice that had led you here: every "no thanks" to Lois when she described her very polite, dorky, Mid-western with a Capital M, tall coworker, every tequila shot, every step across that bar, every time your hand had been on Clark’s chest—or his arm—or his anything, really.

"I—" you started, then stalled.

You glanced at Clark.

He looked vaguely like someone had just informed him gravity was optional. His eyes were wide, mouth parted, Cat’s head still tucked against his shoulder like a very drunk, very inconvenient scarf.

"You’re the… mysterious coworker?" you croaked.

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. "Apparently?" he answered, sounding dazed.

Behind you, Jimmy made a strangled noise that might have been laughter escaping before his brain could tackle it.

Lois’s eyes narrowed. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing," you blurted. "I just—misunderstood, and there was a little… situation at the bar—"

"She almost tackled him in the doorway," Jimmy piped up, loyalty gone in an instant. "Like, full bouncer mode."

Lois stared at you, then at Clark, then back again, connecting the dots so fast it almost hurt to watch.

"You almost fought your blind date," Lois groaned, pressing her fist against her mouth like she was physically holding in a scream. "Of course this is how you meet. Of course."

You slapped your free hand over your face, heat slamming into your cheeks. "I’m going to jump out of the window," you muttered into your palm.

"Please don’t," Clark blurted, a little panicked. "I don’t think I can carry Cat and catch you out there at the same time."

That dragged a helpless little laugh out of you, embarrassingly bright considering you still smelled faintly like bar bathroom.

Lois stepped back, swinging the door open wider and shaking her head like she’d just been bumped up from orchestra seats to front row. "Okay, bring her in," she instructed, already shifting into crisis-manager mode. "We’ll put her on the couch. Then someone’s explaining this to me in excruciating detail."

You shuffled forward, guiding everyone inside.

Your apartment greeted you like it always did—small, a little cluttered, but warm. Earth-toned furniture that didn’t match but somehow worked together. A soft, sagging couch. Bookcases lined with fantasy novels, dog-eared paperbacks, and thick nursing textbooks with fluorescent sticky notes peeking out. A balcony door cracked just enough for a thin line of cool air to sneak in. A string of fairy lights along the ceiling, one bulb always a little dimmer than the rest, casting everything in a soft, lived-in glow.

Cat ended up sprawled on the couch in under a minute.

"Okay, easy—one, two, three," you coached, shifting to guide her down as Clark lowered her with more care than most people used on expensive glassware. Her head thunked against the pillow, but gently.

You and Lois moved in tandem without needing to talk, years of roommate triage kicking in. Lois grabbed pillows; you adjusted them under Cat’s head and shoulders. Lois snagged a blanket off the back of the couch; you shook it out and tucked it around Cat’s legs. You grabbed a glass from the coffee table, rinsed it quickly in the kitchen sink, and filled it with water. Lois dragged the trash bin closer and set it beside the couch like an ugly little guardian.

You watched Cat's ribcage rise and fall. You nudged her chin, making sure her head stayed angled right.

"Finally," you exhaled some of the tension that had been living in your shoulders all week, especially tonight. "She’ll hate herself in the morning, but she’s okay."

Jimmy let out a long, shaky breath, scrubbing both hands over his face. "Thank God," he muttered. "Thank you. Seriously. I owe you… I don’t know, my life? Her life? A lifetime supply of lunches that are not stolen?"

Lois bumped his arm with her elbow. "You owe her brunch and a two hour massage," she corrected. "At minimum."

"Done, booked," Jimmy agreed instantly, nodding. "I’ll buy out the whole menu if I have to."

You huffed a small laugh, the tension in your chest easing another notch. "I’m holding you to that, Jimmy," you mumbled.

You straightened, rolling your neck, and turned.

Clark stood a little off to the side, as if he didn’t quite trust himself not to knock something over. His hands had found their way into his pockets, shoulders hunched just enough to make himself smaller in your cramped space. His gaze moved over your apartment, absorbing details—plants on the windowsill, the throw blanket bunched in your usual spot, the stack of mail on the table—like he was trying to build a map.

The fairy lights reflected on the lenses of his glasses, turning them into soft gold squares. When he finally glanced at you, they caught you full on.

Something in your chest did a weird, weightless flip.

"Okay," Lois announced suddenly, clapping her hands once like she was calling a meeting to order. "I have a deadline, a headache, and a burning desire to eavesdrop, but sadly, I must finish my article."

She pointed between you and Clark in a dramatic little arc. "You two. Talk."

"Lois—" you started, already knowing it was useless.

She was already backing down the hallway toward her room, steps exaggeratedly light. "Later," she called, grinning. "I want every detail. Especially the part where you tried to fight him. Goodnight Smallville!"

Her bedroom door shut with suspicious speed.

You were left standing in the soft lamplight with Clark, the low buzz of the fridge in the kitchen, the faint ticking of the cheap clock on the wall, and Cat’s raspy little snore sawing through the quiet from the couch.

You cleared your throat, which did absolutely nothing to fix the sudden lump in it, and retreated to the kitchen mostly because it gave your hands an excuse to move.

You grabbed a glass from the rack, turned the tap on. Water rushed out. You immediately turned it off again. The faucet squeaked in protest.

Cool. Normal. Totally not flustered.

Clark drifted into the doorway and leaned against the opposite counter, like he was trying to respect the invisible boundary between "your kitchen" and "the rest of your apartment."

He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing more of his forearms.

His forearms were—damn. Defined without being showy, veins faint under his skin, sprinkled with dark hair. They belonged to someone who did actual things, not just typed all day.

"So," you managed finally, because someone had to break the weird, humming silence. "You’re the mysterious coworker."

He lifted one shoulder in a shy half-shrug, mouth tipping up like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to smile. "Guilty, sorry, I didn't think to clarify where I worked," he admitted. "I… Lois has mentioned you. A lot."

Your fingers curled tighter around the edge of the counter. "Hopefully the good parts?" you hoped, biting your lip.

"All good! Very good," he assured quickly. "She said you’re one of the best people she's ever met," His lips quirked. "And that you’re stubborn."

You winced. "I see she undersold that second part."

He chuckled under his breath. "I don’t know," he countered. "I think she might have been right on the money."

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. Just… packed. Charged. Like the air right before a storm, but not in a bad way.

You glanced toward the living room.

Jimmy had slumped into the armchair, head tipped back, mouth slightly open, one hand still vaguely extended in Cat’s direction as if he was standing guard even in sleep. Cat shifted, mumbling something about gossip and glitter, then settled again.

You dragged your gaze back to Clark.

"Look," you began, words dragging a little. "About earlier. I’m really sorry again. I came at you like that. I’ve just had a week, and when I saw her I—"

He shook his head immediately, cutting you off with a quick, emphatic move. "Please don’t apologize," he insisted. "You were trying to keep her safe."

He straightened slightly, searching your face. "You were willing to risk looking ridiculous, or making people mad at you, to step in anyway. That’s…" He paused, lips pressing together as he tried to land on the right word. Finally, he huffed a small laugh. "That’s kind of incredible. I admire that."

You blinked.

Your brain, which had been carefully preparing a self-deprecating speech, stalled out.

"You were also very ready to throw hands with a stranger twice your size," he added, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Which was a little terrifying, in a… impressive way."

"I wasn’t going to throw hands," you protested, heat climbing back into your face. "I was going to… strategically redirect the patient."

He laughed, soft and warm.

"That’s what you call it?" he teased.

"In my head, yeah," you muttered.

You exhaled slowly, feeling some of the residual adrenaline finally drain out of your shoulders. The tight band around your chest loosened another notch.

"What about you?" you asked, tilting your head. "Rough week?"

He hesitated, jaw working like he was debating how much to say. Then he nodded once. "Yeah," he admitted. "Different kind of rough, but… yeah."

He tipped his head back against the cabinet behind him, eyes drifting briefly to the ceiling as he searched for words.

"It’s hard sometimes," he continued, gaze dropping back to you. "Writing about things that go wrong and not being able to fix them. Or having to walk away when a story’s done even if people are still…"

He lifted one hand and made an aimless gesture in the air, fingers opening and closing like he was trying to catch the right word.

Bleeding. Grieving. Waiting.

You knew exactly what he meant.

"I get that," you replied quietly. "I patch people up, and sometimes they walk out and I never see them again. Sometimes I do see them again, and it’s… not for a good reason." You tapped your fingers lightly against the counter. "The part where you can’t control any of it—"

"Is the worst part," he finished.

You nodded.

Silence again. But this time it felt like standing at the same side of a bed, not across from each other.

He shifted his weight, the floor creaking under his heel, suddenly looking almost… nervous. It was strange seeing someone that big fidget. He rubbed his palm against the side of his thigh once, as if steadying himself.

"For what it’s worth," he said, clearing his throat, "if… if you’re still not interested in the blind date Lois had planned, that’s okay. This is probably not the meet-cute she envisioned."

The corner of your mouth curved up. "Oh, I don’t know," you countered. " ‘Girl tries to fight her future date in a bar, then vomits while he holds her hair’ has a certain charm."

His laugh burst out in a surprised huff, shoulders shaking.

"I was going to say," he went on, smile lingering, "if you are interested, I’d be happy to pretend tonight wasn't our first meeting. Something less…SVU adjacent. You know, if you’d rather have a version where you don’t immediately accuse me of a felony."

You thought about Lois at the kitchen table earlier, trying to sell you on some mystery guy while you yanked your hair into a clip and told yourself you were too tired to care.

You thought about her face at the door, caught between glee and horror.

You thought about this man, this Clark Kent, who had carried his unconscious friend across half the city without complaint, had held your hair while you emptied your stomach, had taken your anger without flinching, and then somehow still managed to make you feel like you’d done something brave instead of something stupid.

You thought about how your chest felt less like a clenched fist around your lungs and more like… space. Freedom.

"I don’t want to pretend tonight didn’t happen," you said finally, honest in a way that startled you. "I kind of like that I tried to tackle you for honorable reasons. It’d make a good story to tell at a wedding someday."

His smile bloomed, slow and bright. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you murmured, suddenly very aware you might actually mean it.

You shoved your hand into your pocket before you could second-guess yourself, pulled out your phone, and held it out to him. Your fingers trembled just enough that you hoped he didn’t notice. "Here. Put your number in. In case I need to send you a formal apology. Or, you know… schedule that date."

Clark’s fingers brushed yours as he took the phone. The touch was light—almost absurdly careful, like he handled everything as if it might break. His hands were big enough that your phone looked too small in them, and you almost laughed.

He typed for a second, thumbs moving quickly, then handed it back.

Your screen lit up with a new contact:

Clark Kent (Blind Date You Fought).

A cackle burst out of you, bright and immediate.

"You named yourself that?" you demanded, incredulous.

He looked modestly pleased with himself. "I thought it would help you remember who I am," he replied with a shrug.

"Oh, trust me," you told him, shaking your head. "I’m not gonna forget you, Clark."

From down the hall, Lois’s voice rang out, muffled by the closed door but still weaponized. "Say yes to the date already, you coward!"

You almost dropped your phone, startled. "I hate her sometimes," you coughed, entirely unconvincing.

"You love me all the time!" Lois shot back.

Clark was laughing now, eyes amused and his shoulders visibly more relaxed. "She’s very… subtle, isn’t she?" he observed.

"You get used to it," you sighed. "Or you don’t, and she steamrolls you anyway."

"Don’t I know it," he glanced toward the front door, then back at you, something softer settling into his features. The humor didn’t leave, but it made room for something else.

"I should get Jimmy home," he eventually said, voice low. "He’s going to wake up with a crick in his neck if he stays in that chair, and I'm not really in the mood to hear it."

You glanced at the living room; Jimmy snored lightly, chin tucked to his chest.

"Yeah, probably. You're a good friend," bumped your shoulder to his.

Clark welcomed the touch, then took a step toward the living room, nudging Jimmy awake. 

They both walked to the door, but Clark hesitated, looking back at you.

"Hey…" he started, walked back to you and clearing his throat again. "Can I text you tomorrow? About maybe grabbing dinner sometime when you’re not on your fourth shift of the week and I’m not babysitting a coworker’s blood alcohol content?"

Your smile came easily this time.

"Yeah," you said. "Text me tomorrow, Clark. Better yet, when you get home, okay?"

He nodded once, like he was locking that in.

At the door, he wrapped his hand around the knob, then glanced over his shoulder.

"Get some rest, Nurse Who Almost Took Me Down," he remarked, eyes warm and amused.

"Get home safe, Blind Date I Accidentally Assaulted," you shot back without missing a beat.

"Goodnight," he said your name softly, grinning.

"Goodnight, Clark," you replied, matching his smile. "A-and Jimmy. Good night Jimmy."

He stepped out into the hallway, Jimmy stumbling awake enough to follow him with a lazy wave. The door closed gently behind them with a soft click.

The apartment seemed to exhale.

The hum of the fridge suddenly felt louder. The clock on the wall ticked loud and steady. Somewhere, pipes clanged as a neighbor ran water. Cat snored on the couch.

You stood in the middle of your little kitchen, surrounded by the faint lingering smells of bar air, Lois’s reheated takeout, and your own coffee from that morning, and realized that—for the first time in days—your chest didn’t feel like it was being squeezed by an invisible fist.

You were exhausted. Your feet throbbed in your shoes. Your lower back ached. Your head buzzed with leftover tequila and adrenaline and the distant, horrible awareness that you had a week of upcoming shifts, back to the fray.

But under all of that, threaded through like a thin, steady line of something bright, was something new:

Curiosity. Spark. The dizzy feeling of maybe.

You dragged yourself to your room, peeled off your jeans in slow, clumsy motions, and flopped face-first onto your bed. The mattress dipped around you, familiar. You didn’t even bother with the blanket. Sleep grabbed you by the ankle and pulled you under fast.

Sometime in the fuzzy gray light of morning, your phone buzzed against your nightstand.

You cracked an eye open, groaned, blindly patted around until your fingers closed over it. You squinted at the screen.

A message blinked up at you from Clark Kent (Blind Date You Fought):

Made it home!

That was just a little after you fell asleep. A new message just under it:

Hope you’re feeling okay. And that you’re still willing to go out with the guy you tried to fight for honorable reasons. Dinner?

You stared at the text for a long second, vision a little blurred, brain still booting up.

Then you snorted into your pillow, a ridiculous grin spreading across your face until your cheeks hurt.

Your thumbs moved before your brain had the chance to spiral.

YOU: Only if you let me handle the CPR if you choke on your fries. Professional pride.

The little typing dots appeared almost immediately.

CLARK: Deal. I already trust you with my life.

You laughed out loud, alone in your cramped room, the sound bright and startled and so at odds with how you’d felt all week that it made your eyes prickle for a second.

Four days of hell. One very drunk blonde. One very tall, very kind Clark Kent.

You didn’t know where any of it was going yet, but as your heartbeat steadied you knew one thing:

     Dick’s eyes narrowed slightly, concern tightening in his chest before he even had time to name it. Tim had been down there for hours, maybe longer, time losing meaning in the artificial glow of monitors and fluorescent strips. He couldn’t even remember the last time his brother had stood up for anything other than necessity, let alone left the chair.

    The Cave made everyone look worse than they felt, but Tim didn’t look like someone merely tired. He looked like someone eroding in place. Shadows clung beneath his eyes like bruises that refused to fade. His shoulders slumped forward, posture folding inward as if even occupying space required effort he no longer wanted to spend. His hair, usually at least somewhat controlled, had given up entirely. It lay flattened on one side, as though he had dragged his hands through it so many times it had forgotten what shape it was supposed to be.

    And yet, despite all the movement of his hands, there was something disturbingly still about him. Like the body was operating on leftover instructions while the person inside had stepped back entirely.

    “You’ve been down here since this morning,” Dick tried again, softer this time, like volume alone might keep Tim from retreating further into himself.

     “I know.” His voice scraped out of him, rough in a way that didn’t belong to exhaustion alone. Not the usual vigilante weariness, not the kind that came from broken ribs or sleepless nights on rooftops. This was something else. Something disused. Like his voice had simply stopped being needed and had started forgetting how to function.

     Dick felt something twist unpleasantly in his stomach. But Before he could push further, the silence of the Cave fractured. A sharp buzz cut through the air. Tim’s phone.

     The reaction was immediate, almost violent in its speed. Tim’s head snapped toward the sound with a jolt that looked like it hurt, like his body had moved faster than whatever was left of his awareness could safely allow. For half a second there was something raw on his face - hope, sudden and unguarded, bright enough to be almost painful in how quickly it appeared.

     Then he was reaching. Too fast, too careless. His hand knocked lightly against scattered parts on the table as he fumbled for the device, nearly sending a component rolling off the edge. Dick watched it all in silence as Tim unlocked the screen. Watched the hope collapse before anything was even said.

     Tim stared at the display longer than necessary anyway, as though if he just looked hard enough it might change into something else. Something better. Something that mattered.

Then, carefully, he set it face-down on the table.

    “Spam email,” he said flatly. And immediately returned to the staff like nothing had happened at all.

      Yett Dick didn’t move. Because that expression, that flicker of expectation, the split-second belief that something had finally broken the silence, had become painfully familiar over the past weeks. Every notification, every vibration, every meaningless interruption of electronic noise… Tim reacted to all of it like it might be you.

      And every single time, it wasn’t.

      “You should sleep,” Dick said instead, trying to shift the weight of the moment, trying to find something, anything, that would stick.

       “I’m fine.” The screwdriver slipped slightly in Tim’s grip. Just a fraction. Just enough.

       His hand shook once before he forced it steady again, knuckles whitening as he tightened the same screw he had already adjusted twice before. On the surface it looked like work. Like focus. Like control. But Dick could see the pattern now. Tim wasn’t repairing anything, he was looping. Repeating. Breaking and reassembling the same section over and over again not because it needed fixing, but because stillness had become unbearable.

      “You know,” Dick started carefully, choosing each word like it might detonate, “there’s a place a few blocks from here. New spot. We could-”

      “No.” Still too fast. Still automatic.

     Tim finally leaned back in his chair, dragging both hands over his face with enough force to leave faint red impressions on his skin. For a moment, the exhaustion that surfaced there was unfiltered, unmasked by anything resembling discipline. It wasn’t just tiredness. It was something heavier, deeper, like fatigue had settled into bone and refused to leave.

       His eyes flicked, almost unconsciously, toward the phone again. And again nothing. Still waiting anyway. That was what hit Dick. Not the silence itself, but the way it had rearranged everything around it. The Cave wasn’t quieter because you were gone. It was quieter because Tim no longer filled the space you used to occupy.

      No muttered commentary under his breath when systems lagged. No distracted half-responses while multitasking five different streams of data. No sharp, irritated sarcasm when someone interrupted him at the wrong moment. Those pieces of him hadn’t vanished on their own, they had gone with you, so naturally that no one realized they were missing until the absence became too large to ignore.

      Tim had always been tired. But this wasn’t just tired. This was hollowing.

     “You could call them,” Dick said before he could stop himself.

     Tim froze, not dramatically, not visibly at first glance, but enough. Enough that even the smallest movement in his hands ceased for a fraction of a second too long. Enough that the air around him seemed to tighten.

     Then he resumed working, whispering a small, harsh, “I’m busy.”

     The excuse was almost laughable in its fragility. Because Tim Drake had solved impossible cases while concussed, stitched together disasters while bleeding, calculated outcomes that left entire teams scrambling to keep up with him. He could absolutely make a phone call. But instead, he reached for a tool he was already holding. And missed it.

      Dick watched him glance toward the silent phone again, watched him pretend he hadn’t, watched him rebuild the same thing for the third time like repetition might eventually become resolution.

      And somewhere between one breath and the next, Dick realized this wasn’t something Tim was going to simply “get over.” Whatever had existed between you and Tim hadn’t just faded, it had taken root. Deep enough that its removal left something exposed underneath, something raw and unprepared for absence.

       And now Gotham’s brightest mind was sitting in the dark, pretending that if he just kept his hands moving long enough, the silence wouldn’t win.

     Crime Alley had always felt different after midnight. Not quieter exactly, Gotham was never quiet, but emptier in the way abandoned churches felt empty. Hollow. Like the city itself had finally run out of excuses to keep pretending it could still be saved. Streetlights buzzed overhead with weak yellow light, illuminating puddles stained with oil and old rainwater while somewhere far off a siren screamed through the night before abruptly cutting itself short. Most people avoided the Alley entirely once the clock pushed past two in the morning. The desperate disappeared into their apartments. The dangerous came out to hunt. And vigilantes with any self-preservation left in them usually found somewhere else to patrol after a bad night. Which was exactly why Jason noticed the moment Tim volunteered to go back.

    It was nearly four by the time they stumbled into the cave, battered and exhausted from what should have been an easy operation at the Iceberg Lounge. Penguin’s men had turned a simple weapons bust into a disaster the second someone panicked and opened fire too early. Everything after that became the usual Gotham catastrophe. Cheap shots in cramped hallways, collapsing scaffolding, blood on concrete floors, bruises blooming beneath armor before the adrenaline could fully wear off. Dick looked one good shove away from falling asleep standing upright. Damian carried the stiff posture of someone actively replaying every tactical mistake in his head so he could stay angry instead of tired. Bruce had disappeared upstairs with Alfred without so much as removing the cowl completely. Normal. Predictable. The kind of exhaustion they all knew how to survive.

     Tim looked worse than all of them combined. Not dramatic worse. That would’ve been easier to deal with. Easier to justify concern over. Instead it was the kind of exhaustion that slipped quietly beneath the skin until suddenly someone looked less like a person and more like something held upright entirely by momentum. There was dried blood darkening the edge of his jaw beneath the domino mask. One side of his suit hung torn badly enough that every movement exposed the ugly purple bruise spreading across his ribs. His gloves were split across the knuckles from punching through someone’s face shield earlier in the night. Yet despite all of it, despite the way his shoulders dragged downward like gravity had doubled for him specifically, Tim still walked straight toward the Batcomputer the second he entered the cave.

      Jason dropped heavily into one of the chairs with a groan, every rib in his body protesting the movement. “I’m officially declaring tonight terrible.”

     Dick snorted tiredly from somewhere near the med table, already peeling off one glove with half-lidded eyes. Damian muttered something in Arabic under his breath that was probably either an insult or a death threat. Nobody bothered responding. The cave settled into familiar post-patrol silence, the hum of computers, the distant dripping of water through ancient stone, the soft metallic clink of discarded gear hitting tables.

    Then the police scanner crackled- “possible robbery in progress. Corner of Finger and Kane. Suspect armed-” Crime Alley.

     Jason barely processed the location before Tim spoke.

     “I’ll go.”

      Every head turned instantly. Tim was already reaching for his helmet again before anyone answered, fingers moving automatically toward the cracked buckle on his gauntlet like his body had made the decision before his brain could catch up.

     “Seriously?” Dick blinked at him slowly. 

     “It’s five minutes away.”

     “It’s also four in the morning,” Jason cut in.

     Tim shrugged one shoulder while adjusting his gear. The motion looked sluggish, wrong somehow, like every inch of movement required conscious effort instead of instinct. 

     “Then the guy probably assumes nobody’ll respond.” His voice sounded terrible. Thin. Raspy. Worn down at the edges from disuse and exhaustion. Like he hadn’t spoken enough lately to remember how.

     Jason frowned before he could stop himself. Because now that he was actually paying attention, really looking at him instead of glancing past him the way everyone accidentally had for weeks now, none of this felt normal anymore. Tim swayed slightly while reaching for his staff. Not enough that anyone else would necessarily notice. Barely noticeable at all. But Jason noticed because Tim Drake never swayed. Tim moved like sharpened instinct wrapped in caffeine and bad coping mechanisms. This looked different, was different..

     “You can barely stand,” Damian said bluntly.

     “I’m fine.”Complete bullshit.

     Jason’s irritation crawled higher beneath his skin the longer he watched him. Not anger at Tim exactly. Anger at the situation. At the way Tim had somehow become a ghost inside his own life over the last few weeks without anyone fully acknowledging it out loud. Because Tim had always been tired. God, all of them were tired. But there used to be something alive underneath it. Something sharp enough to cut through the exhaustion. Sarcasm. Obsession. Energy. Tim used to argue strategy until sunrise just to prove Bruce wrong. Used to make snide comments during patrol when Jason annoyed him. Used to vibrate with restless intelligence even while running on three hours of sleep.

     Now he just looked empty. Not broken. Not falling apart loudly enough for intervention. Just… hollow. And Jason finally noticed where Tim’s attention kept drifting every few seconds. Phone. Computer screen. Phone again. Waiting.

     The realization hit him slowly enough to make it worse. This wasn’t about the robbery. Tim didn’t care about the robbery. Tim just didn’t want Gotham to get quiet. Because quiet meant thinking. And apparently thinking about you was killing him.

     The scanner crackled again somewhere overhead while Tim straightened too quickly at the sound, almost desperate for the distraction. Jason suddenly remembered every night you used to interrupt patrols with a single text. The way Tim would vanish the second his phone lit up. The way he used to come back afterward less tense somehow. Less exhausted. Not fixed, Tim Drake would probably require divine intervention and several years of therapy to qualify as fixed, but human. Warmer around the edges. Alive enough to laugh occasionally.

     Now Jason was watching that disappear in real time.

     “Drake.” Tim looked over immediately.

   “You look like roadkill.”   Jason gestured vaguely toward him. 

     “Thanks.”

     “No, seriously. You got slammed through a wall like an hour ago.”

     “I’ve had worse.”

     Jason scoffed. “That’s not the point.”

      Tim slid the helmet over his head before answering this time, voice muffled beneath the distorted speaker. “Someone still has to go.”

      The cave went silent for half a second. Because that wasn’t really what he meant. Jason heard it anyway. Someone still has to move. Someone still has to stay busy.

     Someone still has to keep their mind occupied long enough not to think about the person who stopped answering their messages.

     Dick heard it too. Jason could tell by the sudden exhaustion on his face shifting into something softer. Something concerned.

     Tim reached for his bike keys.

      Jason sighed heavily before forcing himself upright again, joints protesting immediately. “Sit down.”

     “I said I’ll handle the robbery.” Tim stopped near the exit. “You don’t have to-”

     “Yeah,” Jason interrupted sharply, “I do, because you look two seconds away from passing out into the Batmobile.”

    Tim opened his mouth automatically, probably preparing some irritated argument out of pure instinct. Then he stopped.

     That unsettled Jason more than anything else had all night. No sarcasm. No defensive remark. No annoyed glare. Just exhaustion. Heavy enough to silence him completely.

     Tim stared down at the floor for a long moment before finally pulling the helmet back off slowly. Sweat had flattened his hair awkwardly against his forehead beneath it. Without the mask fully hiding his expression anymore, the exhaustion underneath became impossible to ignore. His eyes looked dull. Not emotionless exactly. Worse. Overused. Like someone who had spent too many nights staring at a phone screen waiting for a notification that never came.

    “Fine,” he muttered quietly.

    Defeated.

    Tim lowered himself into the nearest chair with slow, careful movements, elbows resting against his knees while both hands dragged down over his face. And suddenly, horribly, he looked young. Not Red Robin. Not the detective everyone relied on to keep functioning when Bruce spiraled too far into obsession. Just a twenty-something kid awake at four in the morning trying not to think too hard about someone he missed.

     The cave felt unbearably silent without you in it.

     Damian liked routines. Precision. Predictability. Patterns that repeated so consistently they became instinct rather than thought. The manor itself breathed through routine: Alfred’s footsteps before dawn, the distant hum of the Batcomputer somewhere beneath the house, Bruce vanishing for hours only to reappear exactly when needed, Dick’s laughter carrying through hallways before patrol. And Tim- insufferable, sleep-deprived, irritating Tim Drake- had always understood routine better than anyone. Wake up at impossible hours. Tea brewed first thing in the morning next to an energy drink. Patrol reports. Training. Casework. Annoy everyone in the cave. Repeat. Tim functioned through ritual like a machine held together by caffeine, stubbornness, and pure refusal to collapse. Which was exactly why Damian noticed when the patterns began to decay.

    At first, the changes were small enough to ignore. Missed breakfasts. Unread reports sitting untouched in the Batcomputer for hours before Tim finally answered them. Half-finished cans abandoned throughout the manor like evidence of some unfinished thought. Patrol schedules changed next. Later shifts. Longer routes. Tim returning to the manor after sunrise with bruises buried beneath his eyes and blood dried into the fabric of his gloves. Even his silences had changed. Before, Tim’s quiet had always been sharp, calculating, full of thoughts moving faster than his mouth could keep up with. Now his silence felt empty in a way Damian found himself noticing more than he cared to admit.

    And now this.

     The training room beneath the manor echoed with the violent rhythm of fists striking flesh. Sweat soaked into the mats beneath them, streaked with faint drops of blood that mostly belonged to Tim. Damian ducked beneath a lazy punch before driving his elbow sharply into Tim’s ribs. The hit landed cleanly enough to force air from his lungs, yet Tim barely reacted. That alone felt wrong. Three weeks ago Tim would have complained instantly. Rolled his eyes. Muttered something sarcastic while resetting his footing. Half their spars usually dissolved into arguments disguised as combat. Now there was only silence. Heavy breathing. The dull sound of gloves against skin.

    Tim came forward again. Slow.

     Damian blocked easily before striking him hard across the jaw. Another hit Tim should have avoided. The impact snapped his head sideways, dark hair falling into exhausted eyes. Damian waited for the inevitable glare. The irritated comment. The smug little “cheap shot.” Nothing came. Tim simply reset his stance mechanically and raised his fists again.

    Something unpleasant twisted in Damian’s chest. Because Tim always talked. The cave felt eerily still without it.

    Damian circled him carefully, watching every sluggish movement. Tim looked exhausted in a way that went beyond bruises or sleepless nights. Physically, yes, his movements dragged with fatigue, reactions delayed by fractions of seconds Damian would normally never catch, but mentally too. His focus flickered strangely. Sharp one second, vacant the next. His eyes kept drifting somewhere distant before snapping back to the present too late. Distracted fighters irritated Damian more than careless ones. Tim Drake had once been one of the most attentive people Damian knew. Now he looked like someone barely tethered to the room around him.

    Tim swung again. Too slow.

    Damian swept his legs out from beneath him, watching irritation crawl beneath his own skin when Tim stumbled clumsily instead of recovering cleanly. Another strike to the shoulder. Another missed counter. Every mistake reminded Damian of another fracture in Tim’s routine. Tim arriving late to training yesterday. Tim forgetting a case file in the cave for the first time in years. Tim staring at his phone during briefing while pretending not to. Tim leaving messages unanswered. Tim no longer disappearing midway through patrol because someone had texted him. Because you had texted.

    At first Damian had found your absence relieving. You had been disruptive. Tim softened around you in ways Damian once found nauseating. He left patrol early. Smiled at his phone like an idiot. Became quieter, though not in this terrible way. Softer around the edges. Human in a manner Damian preferred not to examine too closely. Yet now, watching Tim stagger through another failed dodge, Damian realized something he hated entirely.

     That version of Tim had at least looked alive.

    Damian lunged forward again, fist connecting sharply against Tim’s mouth. Blood split across his lip instantly, crimson dripping onto the mat beneath them. Tim hissed through his teeth but kept moving, breathing uneven now. His knuckles had split open nearly twenty minutes ago. His nose had started bleeding shortly after. Still he refused to stop.

    “Again,” Tim muttered.

    Damian frowned. “You failed to dodge.”

    “I know.”

    “Your footing is unstable.”

    “I know.”

    Another punch landed against his ribs hard enough to force him backward. Tim barely defended himself anymore. That was what unsettled Damian most. Losing did not matter. Tim had lost spars before. They all had. But Tim Drake never stopped protecting himself properly. Never stopped adapting. Never let himself become sloppy enough to simply absorb damage without purpose.

    “You are fighting poorly,” Damian snapped.

    Tim wiped blood beneath his nose with the back of his glove. “Then stop holding back.”

    “I am not holding back.”

    That earned a laugh from Tim. A Weak laugh, as if it was barely there. Damian hated the sound immediately.

    Tim’s laughter used to be unbearable. Sharp and smug and loud enough to start arguments from across the cave. This sounded worn down. Exhausted. Like something fraying apart strand by strand.

    Another memory surfaced before Damian could stop it. Three weeks ago, Tim had cut training short the second his phone buzzed. Damian had insulted him relentlessly for abandoning practice midway through sparring. Tim only rolled his eyes while shoving gear hastily into a bag.

    “I have somewhere to be.” He had to go to you. Always you.

     And somehow Damian had preferred that version more than this one standing before him now half-broken and bleeding beneath the cave lights. Because at least then Tim had looked eager to leave. Like the world still held something waiting for him outside patrols and missions and sleepless nights.

     Now he looked like there was nowhere he wanted to be at all.

     Damian struck him across the cheek again. Tim staggered sideways, catching himself too late. For the first time all night, he did not immediately recover. He simply stood there breathing heavily, head lowered while blood dripped steadily from his nose onto the floor beneath him.

      The silence stretched painfully. Then Damian understood. Not fully. Not enough to make sense of the ugly tightening in his chest. But enough.

     “You are waiting for them.”

    Tim froze. The stillness afterward swallowed the entire cave. Slowly, carefully, Tim reached for the phone resting near the edge of the training mat. The screen remained dark. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing. He set it back down with far too much care before finally speaking.

     “Drop it.” It was meant to sound sharp. It didn’t.

     Damian studied him quietly then. The bruises dark beneath sleepless eyes. The split knuckles. The exhaustion woven through every movement. The way he kept throwing himself into pain like maybe it would distract him long enough not to think.

     Pathetic. Human. Damian hated that he understood it.

     “You have become unbearable,” he said finally.

     Tim let out another humorless laugh, quieter this time. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

     No argument followed. No sarcasm. No defensive remark designed to irritate Damian into a fight. And somehow that unsettled Damian more than anything else had all night. Because Tim Drake always argued. Always. Even exhausted. Even injured. Even furious.

     But standing there now beneath the cave lights, Damian realized something horrifying.

     You had not disrupted Tim’s routines. You had become one of them. And without you, everything else in Tim’s life seemed to be collapsing alongside it.

     Barbara first heard your voice at two thirty-seven in the morning, soft laughter crackling through the cave speakers as she descended the elevator with a tablet tucked beneath her arm. The sound echoed strangely against the metal walls of the Batcave, too warm for a place built from stone and shadows. For one disoriented second she genuinely thought someone else was awake down there, another vigilante lingering after patrol, another exhausted body refusing sleep. Then Tim’s voice drifted through the speakers quietly, rough with fatigue yet softened by something she had not heard from him in weeks.

     “I know, I know. I was late.”

     Barbara slowed immediately.

     The cave sat half-asleep around him, dim overhead lights switched off except for the pale glow surrounding Tim’s workstation. Screens cast blue reflections across the sharp angles of his face while the rest of the cavern disappeared into darkness. He sat hunched in his chair, hood discarded somewhere nearby, exhaustion woven so deeply into his posture that it looked permanent now. His shoulders curved inward like he had spent too many nights trying to make himself smaller beneath the weight pressing against him. The monitor in front of him was dark. No case files. No surveillance footage. No endless spreadsheets tracking Gotham’s newest catastrophe.

     Just an audio file. Your voice spilling through the speakers again, distorted faintly from poor recording quality, yet still warm enough to shift the atmosphere around him.

    “Tim, normal people don’t answer texts three business days later.”

   A pause followed before Tim laughed quietly under his breath. Not current. Not live. Old. Barbara realized it instantly, and something unpleasant twisted sharply in her chest.

     Voice memos. He was listening to old voice memos.

      Tim leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand dragging across his mouth as your laughter filled the silence again. The sound seemed to settle over him carefully, easing the constant tension buried inside his expression for only a moment. Barbara watched his eyes close briefly, watched him breathe a little deeper like hearing your voice allowed his lungs to finally work properly again. It was not happiness exactly. Not relief either. Something softer. More dangerous. Like this was the closest he had come to peace in weeks.

     Then the recording ended. The cave immediately felt colder afterward.

     Tim replayed it.

     Barbara looked away before he could notice her sitting there because suddenly the entire scene felt painfully intimate, like witnessing someone bleed out quietly without realizing another person had entered the room. Guilt settled heavily in her stomach as understanding finally forced itself into place. She had spent weeks pretending this would pass eventually, convincing herself Tim simply needed time, needed distance, needed another case to throw himself into until the ache dulled naturally.

     But Tim was not moving on. He was not even trying to.

    Barbara wheeled forward deliberately this time, making enough noise against the cave floor for him to hear her approach. Tim startled immediately, scrambling to pause the recording so quickly he nearly dropped his phone in the process.

     “Sorry,” he muttered automatically, voice shredded from disuse. Again that rasp. Like he barely spoke anymore unless absolutely necessary.

      Barbara pretended not to notice what he had been listening to. Pretended not to notice the way his hand remained wrapped tightly around the phone afterward, thumb hovering protectively over the screen like someone afraid the memory might disappear if he loosened his grip.

     “Need help with something,” she said instead, lifting the tablet slightly.

     Tim blinked at her for a moment before forcing himself upright. “What is it?”

    “Possible weapons shipments moving through the Tricorner ports. The tracking keeps bouncing.”

     He nodded instantly. Of course he did. Anything to focus on. Anything sharp enough to drown out the thoughts chasing him tonight.

      Barbara watched him roll toward the main computer, exhaustion dripping from every movement. Thin cuts stretched across his knuckles, still healing badly from patrol earlier that week, pale skin split open every time his fingers flexed over the keyboard. Yet despite the exhaustion hollowing out his face, the moment the system loaded something inside him sharpened automatically. His attention narrowed. His posture straightened slightly. Tim Drake still worked with frightening efficiency no matter how badly he was unraveling everywhere else.

     That part of him would probably never break.

      Silence settled between them outside the rapid clacking of keys. Fast. Precise. Mechanical. Barbara pretended to review files on her tablet while watching him carefully instead, studying the quiet deterioration he kept trying so hard to hide from everyone around him.

     His phone rested beside the keyboard. Screen still unlocked. And there you were. A photograph glowed faintly beneath the cave lights, grainy from low brightness yet impossible to ignore. You sat beside Tim somewhere Barbara did not recognize, sunlight pouring across both of you while your head tilted toward him mid-laugh. Your expression looked open and bright enough to soften even the poor quality of the image. Tim was not looking at the camera. Of course he was not. His entire focus rested on you instead, eyes carrying that devastatingly unguarded expression Barbara had never seen directed at anyone else before.

      She had known Tim for years. She knew every version of his face: focused, annoyed, calculating, sarcastic, angry, exhausted. But this one felt entirely different. This one looked vulnerable.

      Like loving you had reached into him and pulled something painfully human out into the open, something he normally kept buried beneath strategy and sarcasm and careful control. Barbara’s throat tightened unexpectedly as she looked away from the picture, only for her gaze to catch on the half-open notebook resting near the edge of the desk.

    At first she assumed patrol notes filled the pages. Then she noticed the crossed-out lines: 

hope youre okay (A thick line carved through it.)

i saw something today that reminded me of you (Crossed out harder.)

i think i messed this up (The words nearly destroyed beneath angry black ink.)

can we talk? (Another line through it.)

      Page after page after page of Drafts. Things he wanted to say to you but never sent.

     Barbara suddenly felt like she had stepped into something far too private because Tim was not dramatic about pain. He never had been. Dick burned loudly. Jason exploded. Bruce buried himself alive in silence until it poisoned everyone around him. But Tim suffered methodically, quietly, organizing his grief into neat little boxes like if he catalogued the damage carefully enough no one would notice it consuming him whole.

     “You haven’t slept again, have you?” Barbara asked softly.

      Tim never looked up from the screen. “Probably.”

     Probably. Not even denial anymore.

     The keyboard continued clacking rapidly beneath his fingers, systems opening and collapsing across the monitors faster than Barbara could fully process. Shipping routes appeared highlighted in red. Fake manifests surfaced within seconds. Three shell companies flagged almost immediately afterward. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Six minutes passed before Tim leaned back slightly in his chair.

     “Done.”

    Barbara stared at the completed work on the monitor before slowly turning toward him instead. At the exhaustion hollowing out his features. At the untouched coffee beside him gone cold hours ago. At the notebook overflowing with words he could not bring himself to send. At the phone screen still glowing softly with your photograph. And suddenly heartbreak pressed painfully against her ribs because Tim did not look like someone avoiding you anymore. He looked like someone terrified. Someone hanging helplessly between missing you too much and fearing what would happen if he reached out only to discover you no longer wanted him there.

     “You can track international weapons shipments in six minutes,” Barbara said quietly. “But you can’t call one person?”

     Silence swallowed the cave immediately afterward, deep and endless beneath the hum of computers surrounding them. Tim stared at the monitor for a long moment without speaking. Barbara watched his expression tighten subtly, watched his fingers curl slightly against the edge of the desk like he needed something physical to ground himself.

      When he finally answered, his voice sounded small. “What if they don’t answer?”

      Barbara’s expression faltered instantly. Because there it was. Not pride, not stubbornness, not avoidance. Just fear. Simple and painfully honest.

      Tim lowered his gaze toward the notebook again before speaking softer this time, barely audible beneath the machinery humming around them.

      “I think that might be worse.”

     Gotham had a way of swallowing people whole. Not all at once. Never dramatically. The city preferred patience. Preferred sinking its teeth into someone slowly until exhaustion became routine and silence became easier than asking for help. Bruce had lived inside that silence for most of his life, had learned to recognize the different ways it manifested in the people he loved long before any of them realized he was watching closely enough to notice.

     Dick became reckless when he was hurting. Brighter smiles, louder laughs, faster movements across rooftops that bordered too closely on self-destruction for Bruce’s comfort. Jason became angry in the way Gotham itself became angry, sharp edged and explosive, fists first and apologies never. Damian became quieter than usual, every emotion locked so tightly behind clenched teeth that the entire manor seemed to tense around him.

     Tim, however, disappeared. Not physically. That would have been easier to confront.

     Tim still arrived for patrol exactly on time. Still solved cases before anyone else had fully pieced together the evidence. Still sat through briefings with that same analytical stare that made people forget he was far too young to carry the responsibilities constantly dropped onto his shoulders. The work itself remained flawless for the most part, every report neatly filed before dawn, every mission completed with near obsessive precision. To anyone standing far enough away, he looked fine.

      But Bruce had never learned how to love his children from a distance. So he noticed the absences anyway.

      The pauses where conversation used to be. The way Tim drifted through the manor like a ghost that remembered how to imitate routine but no longer understood the purpose behind it. The exhaustion hidden beneath coffee cups and computer screens. The subtle delay before responding whenever someone spoke to him, as though his thoughts remained somewhere else entirely and he had to force himself back into the room each time.

      And perhaps worst of all, The cave had become silent again.

      Bruce stood in the entrance late one evening watching the glow of the Batcomputer wash over Tim’s face in pale blue light. The cave itself hummed quietly around him, monitors flickering endlessly against dark stone walls while surveillance footage rolled across multiple screens untouched. Rainwater dripped somewhere deeper within the cavern, the sound echoing through the emptiness between them.

      Tim sat hunched over the main console pretending to work. Pretending being the important part. A case file remained open across three separate monitors, security footage looping repeatedly beside unfinished reports, yet Tim had not typed a single thing in nearly ten minutes. His attention remained elsewhere entirely. Not on the case. Not on the cave. On the phone sitting inches from his hand. Waiting.

       Bruce had noticed that too over the past several weeks. The constant checking. The immediate flashes of hope every single time the screen lit up. The disappointment that followed almost instantly afterward. Tim tried hiding it now, angling the screen away whenever someone entered the room, locking the device too quickly whenever messages appeared.

      He was terrible at hiding heartbreak.

     “You missed dinner.”

     Tim blinked at the sound of Bruce’s voice like he had forgotten other people existed down there with him. His shoulders stiffened briefly before relaxing again, exhaustion settling back into his posture almost immediately.

      “Sorry,” he murmured quietly, voice rough from disuse and too much coffee. “Lost track of time.”

      Another phrase Bruce had begun hearing far too often. Tim losing track of time. Tim forgetting things. Tim, who once scheduled every hour of his life so meticulously that Alfred used to joke he could predict the exact second sunrise would become inconvenient.

     Bruce stepped farther into the cave, boots heavy against the metal flooring as he studied him more carefully beneath the monitor light. The exhaustion had worsened. There was no denying it anymore. Dark circles carved themselves permanently beneath Tim’s eyes now, his frame thinner than before, clothes hanging looser around sharp shoulders from too many sleepless nights spent in front of glowing screens. Even the way he sat had changed somehow. Curled inward. Smaller. 

      But the worst part remained his expression. Not emotionless. Just tired in a way that reached deeper than physical exhaustion. Bruce recognized that look because he had once worn it so long he forgot his own face underneath it.

       Tim’s phone buzzed suddenly against the desk. Immediate reaction. Hope crossed his face before he could stop it. Small. Fragile. Painfully human.

      Bruce watched the exact moment it disappeared again. Tim locked the phone quickly afterward, setting it down harder than intended before dragging a hand across his face. The movement carried frustration beneath it now. Frustration with himself for caring this much. For waiting this much.

     Bruce said nothing because he already understood. The entire family did.

     You had not simply become important to Tim somewhere along the way. You had become stitched into the rhythm of his life so naturally that your absence now echoed through everything else. Every silence in the manor seemed louder because you were no longer filling it. Every patrol lasted longer because Tim no longer rushed through reports to answer your texts afterward. Even his laughter had disappeared quietly enough that Bruce had not realized how accustomed he’d become to hearing it until it stopped altogether.

     Bruce moved closer to the workstation, gaze drifting toward the corner of one monitor. That was when he noticed the photo. Small enough most people would have overlooked it entirely.

You and Tim standing close together somewhere under city lights, your smile bright enough to draw immediate attention despite the dimness of the screen. Yet Tim was not looking at the camera in the picture. His eyes rested entirely on you, expression softer than Bruce could ever remember seeing from him. No walls. No caution. No overthinking hidden behind calculated responses. Just love.

      Simple enough to be terrifying. Something ached unexpectedly in Bruce’s chest at the sight because he could not remember the last time he had seen Tim look at anything with that much openness.

       Tim noticed where his attention had landed and minimized the window immediately. Too late. Bruce had already seen it.

      Silence settled heavily between them afterward, broken only by the distant hum of machinery and rainfall echoing somewhere beyond the cave walls. Tim rubbed tiredly at his eyes before finally speaking again.

      “Was there something you needed?”

      Bruce almost answered automatically. A patrol adjustment. A case update. Something practical. Easier. Instead his gaze lingered on the exhaustion etched into Tim’s face and he heard himself ask quietly,

      “When was the last time you slept?”

      Tim let out a faint breath that might have been amusement once upon a time. “Define slept.” Deflection. Another routine.

      Bruce ignored it.

     “You’ve been making mistakes.”

     That finally got a reaction. Tim stiffened almost instantly in front of the computer, shoulders pulling tight beneath the worn fabric of his suit. “I fixed them.”

     “You shouldn’t be making them in the first place.” 

      The words came out harsher than intended. Bruce regretted them immediately. Because this was not a soldier failing orders. Not Robin standing before Batman awaiting criticism.

     This was his son quietly unraveling in front of him while pretending he was still holding himself together. Tim’s shoulders curled inward slightly at the reprimand, exhaustion suddenly making him look younger than Bruce liked to remember. Too young for this kind of grief. Too young to carry heartbreak like another piece of armor.

      Bruce’s eyes drifted again toward the cold coffee abandoned beside the keyboard. Toward the phone still resting face-up within immediate reach. Waiting. Always waiting.

      And suddenly Bruce understood what the others had been trying to do these past few weeks. Dick constantly inviting Tim out for late-night food runs and patrols that lasted longer than necessary. Jason taking over missions before Tim could volunteer for them himself. Barbara sending him extra tech work just to keep his mind occupied. Even Damian extending training sessions with sharp insults disguised as concern.

      Distractions.

      Every single one of them trying desperately to keep Tim moving long enough not to think about you. But none of it was helping.

      Because every time the manor quieted down, every time patrol ended and the cave emptied and no one remained nearby to occupy his attention, Tim drifted right back to the same place. Back to you.

      Bruce moved beside the desk slowly, leaning one hand against the console as he studied his son more carefully. Tim looked exhausted enough to fall asleep sitting upright. Bruised knuckles rested against the keyboard beside healing cuts scattered across trembling fingers, evidence of patrols growing rougher over recent weeks.

      Yet despite everything, despite how miserable he clearly was, Bruce noticed something else too. Tim still had not called you. Not because he didn’t want to. Because he was afraid.

     Bruce understood that fear more intimately than he cared to admit. The fear of reaching for  something important only to discover it no longer belonged to you. The fear of hearing silence where love used to exist.

      His gaze lowered briefly toward the untouched phone one final time before he made his decision.

      “Go.”

     Tim frowned slightly, clearly pulled from thoughts too far away to process the command immediately. “What?”

      “Go find them.”

     The cave fell completely still. Tim stared at Bruce like he had misheard him entirely.

Bruce rarely involved himself in emotional matters. He had failed too often in that department to pretend otherwise. Practicality had always come easier than comfort. Missions easier than conversations. Still, he continued quietly,

      “You haven’t been here in weeks.”

      Something flickered across Tim’s face then because they both understood Bruce did not mean physically. Tim looked down at his hands for a long moment. At the bruises. The cuts. The exhaustion trembling through his fingers from too many sleepless nights spent trying not to miss someone.

      “I don’t think they want to see me.”

     The admission sounded painfully young coming from him. Not Red Robin. Not the detective. Just Tim.

      Bruce watched grief settle visibly across his son’s face and felt something twist sharply in his chest at the sight. Tim had always been the one who kept moving no matter how badly he was hurt. The one who buried pain beneath productivity until even his family struggled to tell where exhaustion ended and heartbreak began.

      “You won’t know until you try,” Bruce answered softly.

     “What if I already ruined it?” Bruce looked at him carefully then. Really looked.

      At the fear hidden beneath the exhaustion. At the grief Tim kept trying to suffocate beneath case files and patrol routes and endless nights inside the cave. At the way he still checked his phone even now despite expecting disappointment every single time it buzzed.

      And for perhaps the first time in a very long while, Bruce answered honestly instead of strategically.

      “Then fix it.” Tim laughed quietly at that. Not amused. Just tired enough that hope itself sounded painful.

      “I don’t know how.”

      Bruce thought again of the photograph hidden on Tim’s monitor. The way his son looked at you like you were something precious enough to lose. Important enough to break him afterward.

      Then Bruce reached over and closed the untouched case file Tim had been pretending to read for the past hour.

      “Start by leaving the cave.”

     Tim stared at the darkened monitor for a long moment after that. The silence stretched long enough Bruce wondered if he would retreat back into routine again, bury himself beneath another report, another mission, another excuse not to confront the thing hurting him most.

      Instead, slowly, Tim reached for his keys instead of the keyboard. Bruce said nothing as he stood. Did not stop him when he headed toward the exit. Only watched as something shifted within the exhaustion weighing down his posture. Something sharper now. Brighter. Urgency. Hope. Fear. And maybe, finally-

     Enough determination to run back toward the person he should have chosen sooner.

      Tim had faced armed mercenaries with steadier hands than this. Men with rifles trained on his chest, blades flashing beneath alleyway lights, bombs counting down in abandoned warehouses somewhere beneath Gotham’s rotting streets. He had stood bloodied and half-conscious in front of enemies that wanted him dead and still managed to keep his breathing even. Gotham had carved survival instincts into his bones years ago. Fear was supposed to come later for people like him. After the mission. After the adrenaline wore off. After the bruises settled beneath skin already stained purple and yellow from older fights.

     Yet somehow your apartment door reduced him to this.

     The hallway stood silent around him, dim overhead lighting buzzing faintly as rain tapped somewhere against the apartment windows farther down the building. Nothing about this should have felt dangerous. No hidden threat waiting in the shadows. No gunfire. No masks. No blood. Just one door standing between him and the conversation he had spent weeks avoiding.

     And still his body refused to move.

     His hand lifted once toward the wood, fingers twitching like he meant to knock, before falling uselessly back to his side. Again a second later. Worse this time. Hesitation curling ugly in his stomach.

      Coward.

     The thought hit sharper than he expected. Tim swallowed hard, lowering his gaze to the stained carpet beneath his shoes as exhaustion dragged heavily at the back of his skull. He had rehearsed this entire walk over. Every possible version of how this could go. What he would say first. How he would apologize. Which truths he could survive speaking aloud and which ones needed to stay buried somewhere deep inside him where even Bruce couldn’t dig them back out.

      Now his mind sat horrifyingly empty. Because Barbara had been right. What if you didn’t answer?

      The silence of the past few weeks suddenly felt deafening again. Every unanswered text. Every missed call he never finished making. Tim had spent night after night staring at your contact until the screen dimmed in his hands. Some part of him had convinced itself that staying away was safer. Easier. Better for you. Gotham destroyed everything eventually and Tim had never learned how to exist around people without becoming another form of collateral damage.

But another part of him, the weaker, uglier, far more human part, had missed you so badly it physically hurt.

     And somehow that terrified him more than any rooftop fight ever had.

     His phone weighed heavily in his pocket. Silent. Unforgiving. Tim pressed his tongue briefly against the inside of his cheek before finally forcing himself forward. The motion stiff. Mechanical. Like walking into a gunfight he already knew he would lose.

     Three knocks echoed softly through the apartment. Too late to run now.

      Almost immediately he heard movement from inside. Quiet footsteps crossing the floor. The sound alone made something tight pull painfully in his chest. Tim suddenly became hyperaware of himself in the worst possible ways. The bruises still hidden beneath his jacket sleeves. The healing cut near his collarbone stretching uncomfortably every time he breathed. The exhaustion hanging off him so heavily he felt hollowed out by it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually slept without waking up reaching for weapons that weren’t there.

     Then the lock clicked. The door opened. And there you were.

     For one terrible second Tim forgot every sentence he had prepared.

     You looked tired too. Comfortable clothes hanging loosely against your frame, hair slightly messy like you had been trying to relax before he ruined your evening by showing up unannounced. Surprise flickered openly across your face the second you recognized him standing there beneath the dim hallway light. Not anger. Not resentment. Just surprise.

Somehow that made this harder.

      Neither of you spoke at first.

      Tim could only stare, caught somewhere between relief and disbelief because you were real and here and looking at him instead of turning him away. Weeks suddenly felt much longer standing in front of you now. Long enough for him to notice every tiny thing he had missed. The familiar softness in your expression. The warmth spilling from your apartment into the cold hallway. The way your eyes searched his face quietly, almost carefully, like you were trying to figure out how much of him Gotham had managed to wear away this time.

      Then you smiled. Small. Gentle. Tired around the edges maybe, but real. And something inside Tim cracked open so suddenly it nearly hurt.

     “Hi,” you said softly. The word wrapped around him warmer than the apartment ever could.

      Tim stared for half a second too long before forcing himself to answer. “Hi.”

     God. His voice sounded wrecked. Rough from disuse and exhaustion and too many nights spent speaking only through comms or not speaking at all. He watched your expression shift almost immediately at the sound of it. Concern slipping quietly into your features. Maybe sadness too.

     You noticed. Of course you noticed. But even then, you still stepped backward first, opening the door wider without hesitation.

     “You should come inside.”

     Relief hit him so fast it nearly made his knees give out beneath him.

     Tim nodded once because trusting himself with more words right now felt impossible. As he stepped past you into the warmth of your apartment, the door clicking softly shut behind him, something devastating settled quietly inside his chest.

“There’s all sorts of jobs— chefs, mechanics, cyber analysts, engineers, dont just have to be a soldier.” The army recruiter outside your local supermarket rambles, clearly trying to get at least one recruit today at the minimum. Otherwise he’d definitely get in big trouble. “And you’re a beta, so you can do both work with Omega and Alpha jobs! You’ll be fine!”

“What?” You look at him, that mention perking you up and he looks at you with glee. You were only listening in hopes he’d get you off his back, but that was certainly news to you.

“I bet you’re sick of fighting with even more people for jobs now, huh? In the military omega’s and alphas are kept very seperate, even so, they’re required to be on suppressants so everything’s very easy.” 

—————

So, that’s how you ended up here, bullied and forced into the shape of a soldier, something you still feel fake about even after countless deployments. It’s quickly forgotten though when you have the thrill of finally finding your place in society.

Your first team was mostly alphas, a beta here and there, but it felt great to have them treat you equally, slapping a hand on your back and grinning at a job well done. The omega team wouldnt even bat an eye when you were assigned to them, just as welcoming. Truly the best of both worlds, you could be anything you wanted in this system— it was like it was built for you to thrive.

Then the taskforce got established, and by a stroke of luck, you got transferred on. “You always run this early?” A hand lands on your shoulder, and you jump just to meet Sergeant Mactavish’ grin. After completing your demolitions course with flying colours, you soon got assigned under him. His hair is wet, mohawk flat for once, and you can only assume he just washed off. Still, his scent washes over you, easing your momentary shock and you nod, smiling. “Yeah, isn't the water too cold this early?”

“It’s alright. C’mon, let’s go meet the others for breakfast.” 

You follow him, the faintest happy scent trailing off of you as you do so, and spiking just the miniscule amount when you sit down at the table.

“Please please give me your bread roll, i love the jam they use for it.” Gaz pleads, clasping his hands together and you can't help but roll your eyes, letting him trade it for his fried egg. “I love you so much-“ He mumbles, already taking a bite out of it that Price rolls his eyes as he takes a seat. 

“Almost thirty years old...” He mutters and you giggle, eyes moving to where Ghost comes with his tray, sitting next to Price.

“I saw you on the track, you looked tired.” He says, giving you a pointed look, and making your cheeks flush. Oh, right. The night prior you’d been suddenly awaken to help deal with a feral omega, forced to give up hours of sleep to soothe them to submission.. 

“Just didn’t get the best sleep. I’ll feel alright after a coffee.” You give him a small shrug, eating more of your food. His eyes linger on you for a moment longer before nodding and carrying on.

 The sergeants were more than happy to include you in all their plans, barely batting an eye when your scent wasn't as strong as theirs or in combat training you couldn't hold as much of an intimidating presence. Nor did the Captain and the Lieutenant care either, always praising the fact you could slip by unnoticed, with no chance of wavering from the other two designations and such. 

It felt almost like a pack.. and it was perfect. So perfect.

“Johnny, just spill it!” Gaz groans as the Scot dances around the subject for the tenth time that morning, making you all roll your eyes at the breakfast table. 

“I got an omega!” The whole table falls silent, and then Gaz lets out a low whistle patting him on the back whilst the Captain nods approvingly. 

“And you wont show us a photo?” Ghost chimes in, making Soap stumble to get his phone out, excited as he passes the phone around. A sweet, soft omega. Round cheeks, a bright smile, hanging off his arm like it was the key to her heart. A perfect match to him.

“She looks perfect with you, good on you, son.” The Captain says, giving him a gruff smile and Gaz snickers at his father-like praise. Then they turn to you, as you sit in shock, fork gently clattering on the plate.

Your jaw hurts from how you physically have to force a wide enough smile, standing up and coming around to congratulate him properly. It’s even worse when Kyle insists he should show more pictures and so you stand there between them, making fake ooo’s and aaah’s in hopes it would hide the slightest change in your scent.

It changes everything.

“Soap, me and Gaz are going to the pub later—“

“Ah… cant, omega wants me to watch a movie with her. What about friday?”

“Oh— do you mind if we do some sparring today?”

“Uh.. okay, sure. Just gotta finish up this text to my omega. Ye know she’s getting stronger by the day! I’ve been helping her keep fit, yknow, to stay safe and all.”

“Do you want to go grab lunch?”

“Oh— sure. Feels like i havent seen you in forever.”

You smile wide when he finally agrees to hang out with you again— after all, it’s not like he was acting like this with Kyle. So you both enter the mess, going to grab your plate. 

“Ahh.. the ‘mega loves chicken like this, makes hers a bit more seasoned though. Bloody good.” You smile weakly, trying to start your own conversation about work, and the mission you’ll be going with him on. 

“Oh ye havent heard yet.” He falls quiet and you tilt your head in confusion, about to place the dish on your tray.

“Havent heard what? Was there a new brief?”

“You should talk to the Captain.”

Confused, you do stop by his office later that evening, gently tapping on the door with your knuckles and announcing yourself. With a weaker scent, he couldn’t tell you apart from the alpha’s across base with their scent blockers on, unlike the rest of the taskforce.

“Come in.”

“Soap said i havent heard something about the mission im going with him on soon? Did something change?”

“Ah, right. You dont need to go anymore.”

You blink in surprise, suddenly really confused by all of this and you step forward a bit more, scent souring. Not that he’d pick up on it.

“He’s a claimed alpha now, there’s no need for a beta to mediate.”

You stand there, the contents of your stomach in your throat as you process his words. Mediate. You werent there because of skills.. the CO who encouraged you to take a demolition course didn't even think you were good at it either. They just needed a beta to mediate in a field lacking them.

“Oh. Right.”

A month passes by of you watching Soap slip away from you, barely talking to you if not about his omega, never joining you on a morning run until you’re sure he’s forgotten about you altogether. At first you had chalked it up to him just being busier with mated life. After all, you’ve witnessed the pull of an omega first hand many times, how it makes them change. Though, his relationship with the alphas didn't change in the slightest.

With his protective instincts he was drawn to the alphas more now, always hanging around Gaz and and Ghost when they weren't busy, beelining straight past you unintentionally. You cant really blame him either, no one remembers the beta’s faint scent.

It was Gaz next. One evening you were leaning against him on the couch, unable to hide your despair and luckily he’d been nice enough to let you sit there without explanation. It was nice, you thought that if you had no Soap, at least you had your other best friend. He always made you smile, and he was the reason you even got a slice of attention from Soap these days.

And then it came. 

It started small, just hanging around Soap more often than not. Really you hadnt thought much of it, but it did feel rough when you sat also on the rec room couch just to watch them fully invested in something you could never join in on. You figured it was about Soap’s omega again, not something you particularly wanted to hear about.

Then it turned into turning down bar nights altogether. They would both cancel, Gaz excusing it with ‘plans’ whilst Soap was always honest. Sure you had the whole team, but being in the vicinity of four alphas in an alpha only bar was enough of a scent overload to give any beta a headache. 

Then you saw his lockscreen on accident, just wanted to check the time really. It was unmistakably obvious though, the smiles, calmer than Johnny’s one, but just as gorgeous and adorable. A real treat for the eyes.

“Congratulations.” You mumbled when he came back to the couch with his can, raising a brow at you. 

“What..?” He knew, of course he did. You knew his lying look.

“Got yourself an omega, when are you gonna tell the others?” 

He seems embarrassed, quickly grabbing the phone off of you, cheeks burning. “How did you see that?!” 

The next morning he announces it to the team and you join in with congratulating again, only too aware of the cycle that was soon to repeat. Only, it wasn't too bad with Gaz. You were grateful, so grateful when he still would spend a lunch or two with you, or even just talk to you.

“Hey, we going on our usual grocery run this week?” You two were put together on the rota for stocking the rec room and so you both head out, riding shotgun in Gaz’s car. 

You both had a copy of the list, walking around the store together, until you eventually got them all. “Oh! Just a second, need to grab some scent stuff.” In the small beta section they allowed, there were really good products to clear out scents from others that’d stick to betas and linger around. After all, you had a keener sense of smell, so being around the taskforce meant it racked up pretty fast on your clothes and on your room. 

Kyle was the first you confided in after you suddenly fainted once, at a bar, the scents too much for you to handle. Though you managed to quell it pretty quickly with these. Some you could just spray in your nose and go— perfect for getting rid of the oncoming dizziness.

“You know you dont have to get the fanciest things, just get the base ones. It’s at the back of the store and they’re expensive.”

You pause, he never questioned this before, not even the first time you had nervously told him— afraid to be undermined. 

“There’s no base ones..” You say with a raised brow, but you cant bring yourself to be too rude to him. Even if his tone was almost sharp, scolding, as if you were being selfish. Right now it feels like you’re reduced to your designations, and that’s it. Not humans, not friends, not even teammates. Alpha and beta. “There’s only one brand that ever does it.”

“Really? And what about the cheap scent clearers? The ones you used to use before.” He gives you a firm look, challenging, and you swallow, unsure where this hostility came from.

“..They got pulled off the shelf, Kyle. Thousands of beta’s got chemical burns— i couldnt smell properly for a week.” 

He pauses for a split second, like he’ll acknowledging the truth in your words and his wrongs, then just huffs, turning to scan where the empty checkout is. “Fine. Get what you want then, but I'm going to pay. I’ll meet you at the car.”

When you return with the small plastic bag, he puts his hand out for the receipt so it can be handed to you at a price for expenses on the card. “I paid for it myself.” You mutter back, your scent tinging sour and in the close proximity it might be noticeable this time. He pauses, and then puts his hands on the wheel, choosing not to comment further.

———————————

The sergeants are on a mission, one you were supposed to be on, but now you’ve been shoved into another with unclaimed alpha’s who need a bit of extra settling. Or rather someone lesser than them they can secretly believe they’re higher than. It doesn't feel much different to secondary school now, and you find yourself with less will to argue about it. 

Thankfully, Lieutenant Ghost is here with you. He’s always been alright— not exactly friendly but not rude either. You were quite intimidated by his rank at first, convinced he’d be strict and unforgiving but he’s content if you get the work done. 

“Handled that bomb in record time.” He comments beside you on the way back to base. There was another demolitions expert on the team but when news came up that there was another bomb they had not suspected, he immediately put his trust in you to disarm it. 

“Thanks for the chance, Lt.” You smile up at him and he nods, acknowledging your hard work. After all, you really did always put in more than your best. Even so, he cant help but notice you sink as soon as he shifts his attention to someone elsewhere, the conversation falling quiet. He’d be blind to notice the gap between you and the sergeants, even if you were a beta and them having omega’s shouldnt even bother you. Him and Price had to regularly reminds them to not walk around in clothes stinking of their partner.

“The sergeants are back from their mission, could hit the pub tonight. Whole team can come”

You feel too bad to decline now, so you just nod. “Okay. Yeah.”

—————

The Alpha only pub is bustling and you offer to grab the third round just so you can escape the thick scents building around you. It doesnt help that you’re basically rationing your scent-refresher as of right now.

“Omega’s doing good.” Soap responds to Price’s questions.. At least you’ll miss this mandatory conversation while you go. The bartender already knows you, greeting you with a welcoming smile as you start your order. It’s all going on Price’s card, so you take the opportunity to get a sundae instead of alcohol. He did owe you one after an explosive you caught right by his position. Besides, it was less than a tenner, and you’d savour it for life.

“Heat’s coming up though. It’s only three days long usually, but should go smoothly. The store almost ran out of supplies too.” Soap sighs loudly, shaking his head and Kyle nods along, also probably having similar issues. 

You’re not exactly listening, carefully holding the plate of drinks so you don't accidentally spill it with the countless bodies in this crowd.

“If they got rid of the beta section, they’d have more to spend stocking on the omega stuff.” A soldier hanging around elbows Soap, but he doesnt disagree. If anything the buzz of alcohol just makes him want to finally speak his truth now.

“Right? I mean really? Beta period products? Beta scent enhancers? Like those would actually even work to attract an alpha let alone an omega. Those scent refreshers cannot be real either, i mean, you’d think they’d want to smell us, ya know? Not like they get anything else— ”

The table goes silent, Gaz obviously kicking Soap in the leg until he looks up and meets eyes with you. The other soldier doesnt bat an eye, raising a brow at you. “Oh, your drinks are here. Can you order me two aswell?”

“I’m not a waiter” You snap back, and the Captain stands quickly, taking the tray from your hands and placing it down on the table.

“Think your team wants you back over there.” He motions for the soldier to go with his eyes, and he quickly leaves. “Thanks for grabbing them, i’ll get yours. Come, sit.” He turns to you but you freeze, shaking your head, and turning back into the crowd. “I’ll get it myself.”

“You idiot!” Gaz puts his head in his hands at the very obvious tension from Soap’s words. 

“I didn't know they was there!” He retorts, though also slumps into his seat a little more. “It’s true. What do you want me to say?”

“Enough.” Price sighs, pinching his brow, he should’ve stopped the sergeants earlier but he hadnt known he’d be stupid enough to say that. Even if it was something that they were all thinking.

They take their drinks from the tray you brought, Gaz and Soap downing theirs immediately as if that’ll get rid of the dread hanging on their head. Price begins to sip his light chatter starting up again until Ghost suddenly speaks up.

“They still haven't come back.”

It’s been five whole minutes, and there’s no sight of you to be seen anywhere. 

—

You’re sitting at the back entrance of the pub, empty at this time with the game roaring inside the pub. The alleyway it leads into is dirty, a few football decorations here and there, but mostly just black bin bags spilling out the large bins. There were two guys who had been staring you down for a while, like you were something that needed saving. The second one of them approached and caught your lack of omega scent, they immediately groaned and just turned away. 

You just stick your spoon back in your sundae, not even lifting your head the entire time, just letting the cold sweetness try and keep you together.

There’s a small noise as someone sits down beside you, a rustle of clothing, and then the soft click of a lighter. You turn your head, slightly surprised to find Ghost there instead of a random drunk bloke hoping to score a sweet thing.  He meets your eyes but neither of you say anything as you go back to eating your sundae. 

“Should’ve got the other one.”

“What?” 

“The bigger one.” He shrugs, the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. “Price told us to order whatever.”

“This is the only one that can come in a takeaway cup.” You mumble and he doesn't say anything further, not even when you lick the spoon clean.

“Why are you here?” You ask, unable to keep silent anymore. It’s not like he actually came to see how you were, and you’re suddenly glad he didn't come ten minutes earlier when you were on the verge of bawling your eyes out. 

“S’posed to be a team night.”

“Maybe for the Alphas.” You grumble and he cant help but hum alongside you, not arguing with you on that fact.

“Cant stand the smell, can ya? Got the takeaway cup cause you knew you’d need to go regardless.” Of course he figured it out immediately, though you’d think it’s impossible to read you given how some people treat you.

“You mad i’m not fawning over your scent?” You scoff and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, making sure no chocolate sauce lingers— especially with how he’s watching you right now.

“Johnny is a stupid drunk, ‘lright?.” He mutters, a bit of bitterness in his tone that always lingers, but it’s not directly at you. “Price’ll convince you it’s just his instincts and all, looking after the omega.”

You look over at him and give him a deadpan look, the most honest you’ve ever been with the man. Usually you’re pretty agreeable, in fact the only time you’ve had a conflicts was when they got injured. Turns out you’re the only voice of reason whenever that happened, as the smell of the blood sent the rest of them into a spiral of worry.

And well, after that, he can't really blame you for being like this.

“I’m going.” You mutter, standing up and throwing the plastic cup in the bin before wiping your hands on your jeans. 

To your surprise, he doesnt hesitate to follow you as you round to the front, heading to the little bus stop. It’s not the first time you’ve left early, but it is the first time someone’s made sure you’re alright by the end of the night. 

————————

Soap only makes a quick apology which you’re forced to just accept,, because what else can you really do? Mess up a whole team because of one thing he said which wasnt that far from the truth?

As predicted, Price did try and tell you it was due to protective instincts, wanting the best for his omega. Right, the same instincts that made him leave you like you were dirt on his shoe. 

Besides, life was getting busier for you as you now got passed between two teams. Either working with Ghost and Price or a different group of alphas. Passed around like a damn stress toy in your opinion. 

“So we’re going to the one in the highstreet?” Gaz and Soap are chatting on the couch, not that you’re listening, just getting your things out the cupboard to make yourself a hot drink. 

“My ‘mega loves it, craves the food there all the time. She’s gonna love meeting yours.”

Whatever, it wasnt the first time they’ve discussed plans in front of others. Wouldn't be the last.

“I’ll text the Captain and Ghost.” Soap adds, humming as he starts tapping away at his phone, opening their group chat you assume. One that you’re clearly not on, given that they dont invite you.

“You think he’ll even come?” 

“He’s not that antisocial.”

“Yeah but he’s only one without an omega dumbass.”

The container you're holding clatters against the table and they both back to stare at you with the exact same wide eyed look you’re giving them. If he’s the only one then Price..

You walk out like nothing happened, even if you can feel the tears start to burn your eyes. It was all going so well, you were all happy together— werent you? So why?

The cycle repeats for the third time. You’re taken off another team, not deemed useful enough anymore. You congratulate Price when you next see him, and he doesn't say more than a thank you. Somehow it hurts more that he didn't purposefully tell you— he just forgot, like everyone else did.

You stopped coming by the rec room the last time the sergeants had a movie night without you. The texts between them and you ran dry, and after skipping one breakfast, you just never came back again. That’s just how it was now, and they didn't even reach out once. In fact, all of the last messages were from you. An unanswered question, a conversation cut short, or a text that just never even got opened. 

Except for Ghost. He still spoke to you— well, as much as he’s known to anyway. A hello in passing, a chat between sets in the gym, maybe when you’re queuing for food. As much as you wanted to take the opening, you just couldnt, too terrified to. After all, it was only a matter of time until Ghost left you aswell. You should know that you should savour every last moment, cling onto it tight, but you just can't. It’s not like you two were ever the closest anyway.

——————-

You’ve been moved to an omega team this time. It’s not the first time you’ve worked with one, but usually they can balance each other out easier since they aren't as explosive as Alphas. It also means this is a mission you can't slip up on from the months of work they’ve put into this.

They welcome you immediately, and you grasp the ropes of it all fairly quickly, until it’s finally the day. The prisoners are right where you expected them, and just as told, the one in the middle has explosives strapped all over.

They evacuate the rest out whilst you kneel down before the explosives, watching the wires and where they turn and twist intently whilst the person tries their best not to squirm too hard. Even with your best efforts, nothing seems to match what you know but you frown as you notice the wire reaching towards the chair they’re bound to. Down to the floor.. a weak floorboard. The weight of the chair.. essentially a mine.

One hostage on that chair— you move her off and everyone dies. What do you even do? 

“Do not stand up at any point, okay? I’m going to get you out, but you have to trust me.” Shrugging all the gear off, you cut the straps that locks the person to the chair.

You hand her your gear carefully and step back, just enough to reach the doorway. There’s no telling how large this bomb is, but you can assume it cant be enough to seriously damage the ship you’re on. 

“Okay, you need to shuffle forward just slightly and place the gear behind you, okay? Then, when you’re ready, cover your head with your hands and run towards me.” The woman trembles, doing as you told and the weight of the gear seems to be a good enough trade off for the mine to not set off. 

After that, she bolts, and you pull her through the doorway and as far away as possible, shielding her as the shockwaves rattles through the ship.

———————

Ghost hadnt expected to see his phone buzz at this time, by the infirmary no less. But when they relayed what happened, he had made his way there immediately. You had just come out of surgery, a high enough dose of anaesthesia in you that you just werent acting right. He intended to wait outside until you stabilised, that is until the nurse rushes out suddenly.

“Would you mind coming in, sir? We need someone to restrain them.”

He steps inside to see you squirming against another nurse, slurring and trying to escape your bed, clearly panicked. 

“Stop that, you’re going to hurt yourself more.” He reaches for your flailing wrists, forcing the nurses out the way as they stand at the back and watch you get manhandled by the alpha. 

Something in his gut feels uncomfortable with the stains of red across the bandages across your body, burns peeking out of some. So he carefully restrains your wrists against each other, holding them firmly.

“L-lieutenant?” You stammer out, dazed eyes searching for him intently until you manage to focus on his mask. Finally you stop freaking out for a moment. He turns but the nurses are already gone, probably called to another patient— the operation you were on had quite a few injuries for different reasons.

“Yeah, it’s me. Y’just came out of surgery, you’re okay now, alright?” He carefully lets go of your hands, helping you reposition yourself after you had tried to squirm off the bed. “I’ll grab the nurse, then we can see when we can get y’outta here.”

The nurse?

You blink at him, looking around at your surroundings, the sterile smell of the place attacking your nose. Simon was an alpha.. and the nurses, well specifically in this wing.. your eyes glance to the sign outside the door, the familiar writing.

“No- no you cant!” You barely manage to grasp his arm as he pulls away and he looks at you in confusion. The beeping in the room starts getting even louder than before, almost incessant and you feel like your chest is going to explode.

“Your heart rate is rising, sarge. You need help—“

“Lieutenant— no, please-“ You whine pathetically as he pulls away from you, leaving him stunned until he reluctantly steps closer again before you throw yourself entirely out of the bed to reach him.

“I wont let ‘em hurt you, promise.” He can only assume you must be scared of needles or something, a fear of medical care surely. He never knew that about you, and it spikes something in his chest, a cog in his head. The fear radiating off of you is palpable, and he can smell the faintest change of your scent in the air. 

“No- no! The nurse— she’s an o-omega, you cant—“ You choke out, head getting dizzy from all the sudden movement as you desperately clutch his sleeve. It forces him to stay right there, not the grip on his sleeve but the desperation in your eyes.

“Sarge— i’m not gonna act like a wimp in rut from talking to an omega.” He huffs but he knows you’re out of it. It must be the anaesthetic getting to your head, making you say all these silly things.

“You’re going to leave me- you’re going to—“ A sob escapes you as grip loosens on him and he freezes, watching you curl into yourself. Your forehead gently hits his arm, tears wetting his sleeve.

“I’m right here.” He says, voice quieter and it makes him breathe relief when the beeping settles down to a steadier rate, even if it is still high and you look even worse like this— so lost and terrified.

“You are..”  You sniffle, pressing your nose further against his arm. “t-the omega nurse- she- she’ll come and you’ll leave with her. You’ll leave me- a-and never speak to me again, please- lieutenant please.” Your hands tighten and he swallows sharply, letting your words sink in.

It was never about envy, not even the way you stared at them whenever they spoke about omegas. It was pure fear. And this feeling in his chest, it was tightening with each soft sniffle from you, instincts flaring. He’s never felt like this in his life, infact he was convinced he never would. But he just cant stand the sight of you like this— the bloodstained clothes, the fear in every small movement, your vulnerability. 

He steps forward without thinking about it, his free arm gently prying you off of him until you fall back against the pillows. “Not leaving you for some random omega, you silly beta.” He scolds, picking you up off the bed until your head rests on his shoulder, sniffling into his shirt.

“Gonna take you where you belong. Gotta tell me if i hurt you, though.” Warmth spreads through him now that he has you against him like this. It clicks something in his brain he didn't know was waiting for a stimulant.

All that leaves your lips are the sobs that keep coming, staining his shirt, but finally settling now the dizziness has settled. “Dont go.. don’t, please, you cant..” 

You’re right, he cant keep you around these omegas and all of this. No, he needs you to be healing properly around things you like— you want. He needs to look after his beta.

He grabs your duffel off the chair where it’s left, checking the corridor twice before marching through the quiet corridors towards the barracks. 

“I’ve got you, i promise.”

———————-

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