em

Nobody would have taken Damian as the type to form emotional attachments.

When he first arrived at Wayne Manor, the only person he tolerated was Alfred and he’s not even related to the British man. Then after a few months, he slowly warmed up to everyone else. He started tolerating his brothers and even started referring to Bruce as “father” rather than “Mr. Wayne”. But still, nobody assumed that the reserved eighteen year old would be interested in anything romantic given how he was opposed to even a decent family relationship.

Habibti,

I miss you dearly. Life in Gotham is not terrible, in fact, I quite enjoy it. The crime levels are very high and it gives me a chance to practice many of the maneuvers father is teaching me in training. I like being Robin, I like living in Wayne Manor, I like being with my father and my brothers, but it is nothing without you, Rohi. I beg of you to find a break from the league and come to see me. I miss you, beloved. You are my wife and I need you here. I’m sure my mother would let you visit Gotham if you told her you were coming to see your husband. I beg of you, beloved. I love you, come see me.

All my love, Damian

Nobody knew that Damian was married. He moved to Gotham a few months after his eighteenth birthday and given that he was so young, who would assume that he was married?

Your marriage with Damian had been an arranged one but the two of you had been best friends, raised together in the league. You’d trained together, gone on missions together, and when the time came for the two of you to be married, neither of you were upset. Who would you marry besides your best friend?

And then, only a month after the wedding, Talia had sent Damian to Gotham and required that you stay back with the league to continue training.

His goodbye had consisted of a chaste kiss and a gentle squeeze of your hands and then he was gone. You dare not cry in front of Talia and Ras Al Ghul, you would surely be considered weak. So you saved your tears for the pillows of the bed you shared with Damian. It was hard to be separated from your best friend of eighteen years for the first time ever. And you missed him dearly, but you both did what the league required of you, even if it required that you be several thousand miles apart from your husband.

My Darling,

I appreciate your prompt response and I once again beg that you make the flight to Gotham. I will pay, all you need is my mother’s permission. My bed is cold and I need someone to help me deal with Drake, he irritates me the most of all my siblings. I think Jason would like you and I think father would appreciate knowing that I at least had one friend who looked out for me in the league. There is a gala in two days time and I wish for you to accompany me if you can. I love you, Habibti. And I miss you, you have my heart in the palm of your hand five thousand miles away.

Yours always, Damian

You did not arrive in time for the gala, such to Damian’s despair.

My husband,

I love you more than I can express to you through words. I miss you every minute you are apart from me. I have asked your mother repeatedly and she brushes me off every time. I’m getting so desperate to see you again that I’m becoming tempted to offer her an heir in return for letting me see you. Are you opposed to having children out of bribery? Please return me an answer for this offer quickly so I am not making false promises to the woman that could easily kill us both. I love you, Damian. I am trying my best to return to your side.

Aching for you, your wife

Damian hated going to galas without you. He knew you would love them. The fancy dresses, high heels, jewelry, and booze. Plus an opportunity for Damian to show you off to all the rich people in Gotham and brag about his beautiful wife.

But you were still in Nanda Parbat so he stood awkwardly against a wall nursing a glass of champagne and missing the feel of you by his side. An endless line of women had been coming up to him all night, making poor attempts at flirting and then sulking when he shot them down with sharp words and a glare.

But by his sixth champagne, he was getting sloppy. The room was beginning to spin and the faces of the people around him were melting and doubling and shifting.

He’d let his eyes close for only a few seconds, the alcohol was making him sleepy and when he closed his eyes, he could perfectly picture your face.

Then all of a sudden, a cloying sweetness invaded his nose and something hot was against his mouth, arms around his shoulders. For a second, his brain told him that maybe it was you. Maybe you were here afterall. But no, his beloved did not smell like cheap perfume and bourbon, you smelled like the spices from his homeland and satin. You always let your fingers slide into his hair and you had this way of smiling against his lips when you kissed him after missing him for a long time. This was not you, this was an intruder.

His dark green eyes snapped open and the girl currently attached to his mouth was very much not his wife, just as he’d guessed. His arms shot out, shoving her back with the strength and practice of a trained vigilante, sending her stumbling back into several people which elicited shouts of concern and confusion.

“Hey!” he shouted, his voice thick with intoxication and panic. “I am a married man! Keep your hands off of me, woman! I love my wife!”

He wiped his mouth aggressively with his hand, looking disgusted with both himself and the woman. The back of his hand was stained pink from the woman’s lipstick and it made his stomach churn. “My wife is hot! And she’s not here but I’m hers! Married! Stay back!”

Within moments Jason and Dick had Damian by both his arms, carefully leading him out of the ballroom.

“Hey bud,” Dick started softly, helping Damian into a car. “You’re really hammered, huh?”

Damian scowled and tried to shrug his brother off as Jason started the car and headed out towards the manor.

“No, I am in a perfectly sane state. That woman tried to touch me, my beloved would be quite upset. Richard, my wife will be furious! I cheated! That evil woman kissed me! Oh no, what am I supposed to tell her?!”

Dick laughed and tried to keep Damian upright in the back seat. “Buddy, you’re not married. You’re just super drunk. It’s okay, that lady shouldn’t have kissed you if you didn’t want her to but you didn’t cheat on anyone.”

That seemed to really piss off Damian. “Nonesense. I have a wife back in the League of Assassins. She’s beautiful and stunning and she's deadly. I’m obsessed with her. She will be so angry with me, Richard. You’re really not comprehending the havoc she will wreak.” He gasped softly, equal parts nervous and excited. “She will kill that lady. She’s a very jealous woman. My queen.” He hummed, seeming to become a little smug at the thought of you being possessive over him.

Dick sighed and shook his head fondly, deciding that his brother was probably just inebriated and speaking nonsense “Okay buddy.”

Beloved,

I come to you with a serious crime I have committed against the sanctity of our marriage. I got quite drunk at the gala yesterday and a woman kissed me. I pushed her away obviously but I never should have put myself in a position to be in that situation in the first place. I apologize, my love. I am sorry, truly and deeply. I am battling the worst hangover I have ever experienced as punishment for my crimes. I miss you deeply. And no, I am not opposed to bribery children. Just come see me. I love you.

With undying devotion, Damian

Damian was unsure of how you would react to his most recent letter. Obviously you would be upset that another woman touched him but surely you would forgive him, no? After all, he had rejected her so violently that he had to be escorted out of the gala. He expected a letter back, maybe a phone call if you could get your hands on one in Nanda Parbat.

“Master Damian, you have a visitor,” Alfred called, knocking Damian out of his contemplation.

He half expected it would be a reporter there to interview him about his outburst at the gala, maybe the lady who had kissed him at the gala with a team of lawyers here to sue him for pushing her away.

But when Alfred opened the door and stepped out of the way, there stood… you.

And fuck, you looked gorgeous. You were dressed in a deep green and black dress, sporting the colors of the league per usual. Your hair was let down instead of pinned back like it usually was for training. You’d somehow only grown more incredibly gorgeous in the few months since he’d left for Gotham.

Damian sat there gaping at you like an idiot, shocked and happy and a little bit hard.

“Hello Damian, are you going to greet me or only stare?”

That broke Damian out of his stupor and he flung himself at you, for once losing his facade of cool control and hugging you to his chest as tight as he possibly could.

“Beloved, you’re here! I expected a letter warning me of your arrival.”

You hummed, looking a little smug. “I thought I should surprise you. After all, I heard that some people need reminding that you are a married man. And that your wife will absolutely murder anyone who attempts to touch you.” You slid his engagement ring from a hidden pocket from within the skirts of your dress and offered it to him. “I figured I should also bring this back with me to send the message more clearly.”

He laughed lightly before kissing you, his mouth sliding over yours, his tongue pushing past your lips in a way the both of you had desperately missed. Then he pulled back with a wet pop, a small string of saliva connecting your lips and then breaking when the distance between your mouths increased too far. 

“Thank you, beloved. I’ve been missing this.” He smiled, so uncharacteristic for him but he seemed to glow in your presence. He slid the gold band onto his ring finger on his left hand without hesitation, admiring it for just a moment. The gold of his ring matched yours; only yours was inset with several small colored stones, a larger diamond, and intricate metal bindings to hold them all in.

You giggled and pressed your lips to his ear, keeping your voice low so as to not let any of his gathering family members hear. “And we do owe your mother an heir, I promised. That’s the only reason she allowed me to come and interrupt my training back with the League.”

Damian’s cheeks turned pink and his fingers dug into your hips. “Ah yes, we will have to get on that so we don’t anger the dragon. She is quite strict about promises.”

You hummed softly and your nails dug into his bicep just slightly, possessive. “I think I may stay permanently. Clearly you need someone to bat away the women for you. A video of you shoving that lady off and having your little outburst has made its way onto the internet. I knew you were genetically perfect but I didn’t know they wanted you that bad.”

Damian laughed softly and opened his mouth to make some smart comment but was quickly cut off.

“What the fuck is this, Damian?” Jason interrupted, looking at Damian like he was looking at a stranger. “Who is that? And why are you wearing a ring?”

The rest of the family had gathered at this point, Dick, Tim, Bruce, Cass, Steph. They all looked equally as confused.

“Oh yes, this is my wife. Isn’t she perfect?” Damian said proudly, pulling you a little closer to his side.

Dick gaped. “This is the wife you were going on about the other night?! Holy fuck-”

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“Well, this is new.”

Remus hesitated at the portrait hole of the Gryffindor common room, cloak and hair still damp from the rain that had been drizzling persistently for the last few days, blanketing Hogwarts and the surrounding mountains in a fine layer of damp.

The common room was mostly abandoned, with only a few stragglers at the study tables and the loud and boisterous group he despaired to call friends loitering around the fire. Along with, he noted with a sudden warm jolt in his chest, you.

Well, not you exactly.

The small cat blinked up at him from Sirius’s shoulder, all wide eyes and unrurly fur, unfairly adorable as you dug your claws into the leather of Sirius’s jacket.

It wasn’t your animagus form that was the cause of such bewilderment – lord knew he had seen it often enough during full moon nights or evenings of general mischief that the sight was more than familiar.

What was strange, however, was the old brown jumper that was far too familiar, and far too small, considering it had been human sized when he had worn it the day before. 

Remus cleared his throat, catching the attention of the group. “... Is that my jumper?”

James, who had frozen like a deer in headlights – he gave himself a mental high five for that pun – lifted his hands placatingly. His round glasses slid down his nose as he shot Remus a bashful grin. 

“Ah. Moony.”

“Uh oh,” Peter mumbled as he hid behind the long scroll that was his Charms essay. Remus could see the bumps in the parchment where his friend had frantically scribbled out sentences – almost the entire essay, by the look of things.

“Sirius.” Remus crossed his arms over his chest, knowing damn well who to was blame, levelling him with his best unamused glare whilst trying to tamp down the amusement steadily rising inside of him. 

It wasn’t funny, not really – he didn’t have many jumpers, and that one happened to be one of his favourites – but something about how adorable you looked, blinking innocently up at him, swaddled in his (albeit miniature) jumper, illuminated by the golden glow of the flames slowly dying to embers in the fire, had his heart softening to the point where it was truly impossible to be mad. 

He could never be mad at you. It was practically impossible. He hated it. He adored it. 

Sirius and James, however? Oh, it was more than possible to be mad at them, and he was incredibly eager to demonstrate if they didn’t start talking soon.

“Explain.”

James winced. “Don’t be mad–”

“When a person starts a sentence with that phrase, it rarely means anything good.”

You meowed in agreement from atop Sirius’s shoulder, and he gently scooped you up to settle you on the arm of the sofa. 

“You were better off holding her,” Peter said, not looking up from his essay. “He won’t hit you if you’re holding her.”

Sirius hesitated and then slowly reached down to you again. You batted his hand away and hissed, and Remus was unfairly thrilled at the offended look on Sirius’s face as he cradled his hands against his chest, scowling.

“Oh, so now you won’t let me pick you up? That’s hardly fair.”

“You were trying to use her as a human shield.” James shrugged. “Or feline shield, rather.” 

“Says the one who bribed her to do this by promising her ten of your chocolate frog cards and a pack of cauldron cakes!”

You purred as you strided across the arm of the sofa and up to James, rubbing your head against his hand. 

Remus cleared his throat, thoroughly agitated. “Excuse me, but would you lot care to tell me why the bloody hell my shrunken jumper is on my girlfriend?”

At the sound of his voice, Sirius and James winced again simultaneously. 

“Right. That.” James said tightly. “Well, you see – Sirius can explain.”

“What?!” Sirius exclaimed incredulously. “This was your idea!”

“You’re the one who shrunk it!”

“It was an accident, you pillock!”

“Pete, care to chime in here?” Remus asked, thoroughly exasperated.

Peter shook his head, ears pink. “Not particularly.”

Remus sighed. “Yeah, didn’t think so. Alright,” he said loudly, cutting through the squabble. “If neither of you explains within the next twenty seconds, then James, I’m telling Lily you skirked off prefect duties last week.”

“What?!”

“Hah!” Sirius raised his fist in the air in victory.

“And Sirius,” Remus continued, “I’m telling Janice you were recently at the hospital wing for a horrific rash on your… unmentionables.”

Sirius’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

Remus’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Try me.”

There was a moment of tense silence, in which your head swivelled between each Marauder, eyes wide with excitement, before James threw a hand up and pointed at Sirius. “It was his fault!”

“Oi!”

“We were trying to help Pete out with his Charms essay, and we were showing him how to do a shrinking charm, and your girl had brought the jumper down earlier for when she got cold later and Sirius tried to shrink the plant pot and missed and now your jumper is tiny and–”

“We were gonna fix it though!” Sirius said quickly, noting Remus’s expression of pure bewilderment. 

“And how, pray tell, is putting the shrunken jumper on a cat fixing it?”

“Well,” James said proudly. “We had an absolutely brilliant idea to set things right.”

“Foolproof, really.” Sirius nodded.

“Yes, but is it you two proof? Because if not, I can’t see it working well.” Remus ran a tired hand over his eyes. Sometimes, more often than not, it felt like he was raising his friends and doing a spectacularly bad job at it. 

A gentle pressure against his palm caught his attention, and he glanced down to see that you had moved silently across the sofa, coming to rest at his side. You blinked up at him slowly, and his heart melted in his chest as he bent slightly to scoop you up. 

“Hey, dovey,” he said softly, nestling you against his chest. 

You purred in response, bumping your little nose against his chin. 

James scoffed. “Blatant favouritism. She bit me when I tried to pick her up earlier.”

“Deserved,” Remus said unapologetically, scratching lightly behind your ears. “And none of that explains why she is wearing my jumper.”

“Well, animagi don’t lose their clothes when they turn into animals, right? Like, we turn back with them on, don’t we?”

“Right,” Remus nodded, not even pretending to understand how that little bit of magic worked.

It was a blessing, considering how often his friends ran around the castle in animal form – at least this way they didn’t have to stash clothes everywhere on the off chance one of them would end up wandering around naked.

He felt his cheeks flush at the thought as he ran his fingers soothingly over your fur, trying to banish the idea of you naked from his head. Lord knew that was hardly the time. 

“Well, in theory, they shrink with us, correct?” James continued.

Remus squinted, having absolutely no idea where this was going. “Well, you hardly wander around wearing your leather jacket as a dog.”

Sirius was silent for a moment before he turned to James with a grin. “Can we try that? That would be fucking awesome.”

“No, you cannot try that,” Remus snapped before James could answer. “The smell of dog would never come out.”

“I do not smell like dog!”

Peter’s nose wrinkled. “Well…”

Sirius went white. “Oh my god… do I smell like dog?”

“Oi, idiots.” Remus rolled his eyes and gestured to the cat curled up in his arms. “Please?”

“Oh, right.” James looked bashful. “Well, we thought that if the clothes shrink with us then surely they’ll grow with us too, right?”

Remus had a sinking suspicion where this was going, and prayed that he was wrong.

“So, theoretically, if she was wearing your jumper as a cat, when she turned human again, the jumper would grow with her. You know, back to its normal size!”

There was a moment of stunned silence in which Remus questioned every single life decision he had ever made, namely letting the two idiots in front of him sit in his compartment that day in first year on the Hogwarts Express.

“You…” Remus felt his left eye twitch. “You’re joking.”

Sirius crossed his arms. “Give me one reason it wouldn’t work!”

“Hmm, I don’t know, how about I give you a dozen of them, namely the pieces of my favourite jumper that will be all over the floor when the damn thing rips!”

“It won’t rip!” James argued, looking thoroughly offended. “It’ll just grow back to its normal size, and then you would have been none the wiser, except you just had to come back from your walk early and stop us right before the magic happened.”

Remus looked at him incredulously. “Are you even hearing yourself, Prongs? Magic.”

Both James and Sirius stared at him blankly. You made a noise in his arms that sounded an awful lot like a disappointed sigh. Peter lowered his head into his hands.

“Idiots. You’re both idiots. You’re wizards, you twats! Just use Engorgio on it! Or have the last six years at this school been for absolutely nothing?”

More blank stares. 

Sirius bashfully rubbed his neck. “Didn’t think of that.”

“Mhm.” James ran a hand over his mouth. “Well. That’s a… perfectly reasonable, rational, sensible solution there, Moony.”

Remus rolled his eyes, feeling the beginnings of a migraine slowly tugging behind his eyes. With a loving scratch behind the ear, he deposited you down on the couch, where you waited patiently, blinking up at him dopily.

“So… we just take it off her? And use magic to regrow it?”

James looked at Sirius blankly. “How the hell did neither of us consider that?”

“You were too excited about putting a jumper on a cat,” Peter chimed in, finally deeming it safe enough to look up from his essay. 

“Right. Yes.” Sirius stared down at you and grinned. “Worth it.”

“Oh, for God’s sake–” Remus reached forwards to remove the jumper, but James leapt in front of you protectively, arms outstretched widely. 

“Wait!”

“For the love of Merlin, what?”

“You know what else is a great spell?” James asked, eyes bright. “Repairo. You know, the magic fixer of all things broken. Or, in this case, ripped.”

“... You want me to let you try it anyway, don’t you?”

Sirius nodded. “Very much so, yes.”

Remus looked blankly at Peter.

Peter shrugged bashfully. “In the name of science?”

He hated his group of friends. Really, truly he did. If he hadn’t spent six years growing awfully attached to them, he’d insist on finding new ones. As it were, he sighed wearily and stepped back, tucking his wand back into his pocket. 

“Fine, fucking hell. But I reserve the right to say I told you so.”

One ripped jumper, a laughing you, and several frantic repair spells later, Remus had his (thankfully intact and normal sized) jumper back, and was content to sit with the knowledge that as usual, he was right, and his friends were complete idiots. 

They were his idiots though, he supposed, and his life was better for it.

You laugh at his misery. "I love that you're so compassionate, but maybe this could be good for you. You should see what life is like for those of us who make fools of ourselves more regularly."

Remus scoffs. Only when the scene ends does he he uncover his eyes, taking a handful of popcorn from the bowl in your lap. "You're a masochist," he says, munching anxiously.

You lean your head on his shoulder. "You love me anyway."

You get a hum in return, and then Remus' body tenses as more on-screen embarrassment ensues. With little warning, your eyes begin to burn fiercely. You stand and mumble that you're going to the restroom. Remus reaches for the remote.

"No, don't pause it," you say. "I've already seen this part."

You lock the bathroom door behind you. Stare at your reflection in the mirror, like you can stop this before it starts if you're stern enough with yourself. It doesn't work.

An uncomfortable heat builds in your throat as tears form indistinct deltas on your cheeks. You take a piece of toilet paper from the roll to wipe beneath your nose when it starts to run. It was petty and cruel to test Remus, but you keep doing it anyway, and it never goes how you wish it will. You only wanted him to say that he loved you. Even if it was only in agreement.

You make yourself breathe slowly. No sounds escape the bathroom.

When your eyes look normal and you feel like you have a leash on your emotions, you unlock the door. Remus has paused the film. You're self-conscious of the squeak of the sofa as you sit down beside him.

"I told you you didn't have to pause it," you murmur.

"I know," he says, nudging the bowl of popcorn back into your lap, "but you like this film, and I didn't want to watch without you. Is everything okay?"

You're grateful to have the popcorn to avoid giving a full answer. You hum around a mouthful.

Remus pokes your leg, where you've curled up with your cold toes underneath you. Ordinarily you'd stuff them under Remus' thigh while sitting here like this, but you've kept away from him unconsciously. "Cold?"

"Guess so."

Remus hums knowingly, standing. He sets his hand briefly on the top of your head as he passes by, a small gesture of affection. Your heart wrings itself out like a wet rag.

He returns shortly with a pair of your winter socks. You can hardly look at him as he tugs them on for you, breathing out a soft, "Thanks."

"You alright?" he asks, with all the lightness of unsuspicion; he probably assumes you're only tired, or possibly suffering an upset stomach.

You reply that you are, thinking that it's you who should be asking him. Remus doesn't usually beat around the bush, but he has been for weeks with this. If he's going to end things with you, you don't understand why he hasn't done it yet. Why you're sitting here watching films and bantering when he can't bring himself to say that he loves you.

Remus reaches for you. "Come here, then."

It's the simplicity of it that does you in. To be asked for your closeness so casually, and to know that each night you have with him could be the last, and you won't know which it is. Heat floods your sinuses.

You press your lips together hard to keep them from trembling. Remus looks stricken.

"What?" he breathes.

You shake your head, cheeks wet again. "Sorry."

"Did something happen?" His tone is all soft concern. "Lovely, what's wrong?"

"I—"

Two things happen seemingly at once: your voice fractures, and Remus drags you into his lap.

"That's alright," he shushes you. "I'm sorry, take your time. You're alright."

It is easier to voice it into the curve of Remus' neck. Even now, his scent is lulling, like home. He holds you steady until you work up the guts.

"I don't think you love me anymore," you whisper.

Remus goes still.

His lack of a denial hollows you out. A rushing fills your ears, and you almost don't hear him when he asks, "Don't I get a say in that?"

You back off from him, confused. Uncaring of your swollen eyes and wet nose.

Remus doesn't look very different. Less of a mess, more hurt than heartbroken, but doubly as confused. His hands settle on your hips. "I think if I'd fallen out of love with you, I'd have noticed," he says.

"You never say it." You don't mean for it to sound as accusatory as it does; the wounded bent to Remus' brows deepens.

"I don't?"

"No," you murmur.

"Well, I…" His eyes flit over you, like he's looking for something. You'd give it to him if you knew what it was. "I suppose I didn't think I had to. I thought you knew."

Your voice thins, but you force it out. "Do you still love me?"

"Yes," he breathes. "I thought that was obvious. Do you, still?"

"Of course." It feels awful of him to ask you, as if you haven't spent the past month loving him so loudly, hoping it would echo back at you. "I tell you all the time."

"People can say things they don't mean, sweetheart," he murmurs gently. "Did you mean it?"

Whatever pain breaks across your expression is enough to make Remus flinch, his fingers tightening around your hips. "Of course," you say.

"Okay." Remus' forehead drops to yours. Tears drip from your chin into the space between your bodies. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding hoarse, "that I haven't made you feel loved."

"It's not about how I feel. It's that you never say it."

"I didn't think I had to," he says again, quietly. "I do love you, though. Very much." He finds your hand, rubbing his pinkie against yours. "I don't put on masochistic comedy films for just anyone."

A wet laugh bubbles out of you. It's a joke, but it's true. Remus bears a number of things he ordinarily wouldn't, even for James or Sirius, because you ask him to. He does things you don't ask him for, too. Putting on the kettle just before you get home on chilly evenings, and keeping track of your car's maintenance so he can take it to the mechanic for you. Bringing you a pair of warm socks when he notices your feet are cold.

Remus threads his fingers through yours. "I'm sorry. I can say it more often."

"I think," you hesitate, "I could probably listen better. To when you tell me in your way."

His eyes warm. "I could tell you more, too."

"Maybe just sometimes? So I don't forget."

You laugh. "Oh?" You lift your goblet to your lips. "I thought the southern kingdom had finally learned not to send their troublesome sons my way."

Some of the ladies laugh behind their hands. And you can feel Bruce's unease in every shift of his feet. 

"Troublesome?" another lady chimes in as she leans closer. "That is not what I've heard…they say he's charming, handsome too."

You roll your eyes. "They are entitled men," you say. "Besides, a prince arriving unannounced means one of two things," you add, taking another sip of wine. 

Your eyes flicker to Bruce. His cold eyes say he's entirely uninterested in your words, but the way his shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched, makes you think this is affecting him more than he's letting on.

You smother your giddy smile. 

"Well?" a lady asks. "What does it mean?"

Your eyes leave Bruce and settle on her instead. "Oh." You pause for a second, letting silence build. "It means war… or marriage," you finish dramatically. 

Bruce clears his throat. "It is the princesses…strolling time, is it not?" His voice is deep with an edge to it that no prince can ever steal your heart with. 

You raise a brow at him. "Strolling time?" you mouth to him.

He nods. "The gardens await," he says simply, less a reminder and more a demand. If it were anyone else, you'd have ignored them.

"Do they?" you draw out. "How fortunate that you remembered."

"It is my duty to remember such things, your highness."

Liar. His only duty is to serve you. 

The ladies exchange knowing looks. You bid them goodbye and stand, dusting off your dress. As you walk, your knight's heavy footsteps follow close behind. 

Instead of the gardens, you lead him into your chambers. Once you close the door, you lean against it with a teasing smile on your lips. 

Bruce stiffens like he's preparing for battle. 

"What will you do once I am wedded?" you ask. "Hmm?" 

"I will serve you, your highness," he mutters.

"There are many ways to serve a lady—

"Princess," he grits out. His composure is failing. Every word of yours is tearing it down and leaving him looking at you so desperately—you almost don't recognize him. 

"What?" you pout. "You were jealous at the thought of another man serving me—

You falter when you see him move. He crowds you until your back hits the wall. His hands go down to your hips, large and warm. You cursed the fabric of your clothes, keeping you from feeling his hands on your bare skin. 

You look up at him with wide eyes. You're the one who always makes the first move, not him. 

He leans down till his breath fans your neck. Your heart's racing and you feel as if your knees will give out at any moment.

"Your word is absolute," he mumbles. "If you want me. You have me," he says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. 

You swallow. "I care little for spoiled princes."

His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. 

"I find I have a fondness for knights," you add, your arms sliding around his neck. The cold press of his armour bites into your skin but you don't pull back. 

Instead, you let him lean down and press his lips to yours, sealing a much more important vow. 

if u see grammar mistakes in this. no you don’t 😋

Your phone buzzes on the countertop. You don't have to look to see who it is. Still, a smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you go pick it up. Sure enough, you're greeted with a wall of texts from Dick.

Your eyes skim through it.

There was an emergency.

He was sorry and felt terrible.

He’ll make it up to you.

Somewhere between the third paragraph, you find yourself chuckling. Not necessarily because it was funny, just because it was so him. You could practically hear his voice from the other end.

A few hours later, there's a knock on your door. You don't even bother checking who it is. Dangerous? Sure, but worth the risk—especially when it was his arms you're running into. “Dick!”

The two of you embrace, and only when you pull away do you look at him clearly. The bag of takeout in one of his hands, the bouquet of your favorite flowers in the other, and a bruise near his cheekbone that you almost miss from the sheer charm of his smile.

Your smile falters instantly. “Dick, what happened to your face?” You reach out and lightly brush your fingers over the blooming purple like he was bruised fruit. “Turns out gravity doesn't make exceptions.” He shrugged, still smiling as he gently led your hand away from the mark.

You laugh, and decide to brush it off. Accidents happen all the time, right? He slips his shoes off when you lead him inside, taking the takeout to set everything up.

As soon as everything is laid out on the table, Dick slides a container full of your favorite food towards you. He didn't need to be asked twice. Of course he remembered, whether you had mentioned it once or a million times.

“Eat up,” he says, carefully nudging it closer. “I bet you were surviving off of caffeine again.” Underneath the teasing comment, a hint of worry flickers in his eyes. With a hand on your chest, you gasp dramatically. “I'll have you know that I was also surviving out of spite.”

“Ah. A balanced diet.” He nods. “I only expect the best from my girlfriend after all.” You narrow your eyes before taking a bite of your food. The television hums quietly in the background, playing some sitcom you left on while the two of you eat.

You swat his hand away from your container for the third time this whole dinner because Dick claims your food apparently tastes better. (What can you say? You have great taste.)

“What about you?” you ask after a moment. “How was your day?” Dick pauses briefly. Not long enough for you to suspect anything, just long enough for him to think and swallow his food.

“Busy,” he answers with a shrug. “Nothing special.” You hummed in acknowledgement. “Busy doing what?”

“Just the usual.” And before you could press further, he's already looking back at you. “How about you?” he asks. “Is that coworker of yours still annoying?”

The conversation shifts effortlessly. So effortless that you don't even realize that you’ve stopped talking about him entirely.

Another thing about Dick Grayson was that he never failed to make it up to you.

Whether it was just a night over your place or an important dinner he missed, he’d always make it up to you.

Missed movie night? The first thing you see the next morning is breakfast—still hot, sitting prettily on the table. Late to a date? A handwritten apology note tucked into your purse when you weren't looking.

Somehow, Dick always knew how to smooth things over. And somehow, you always let him.

Dick had texted you that he wouldn't be able to do dinner tonight. Again. You laugh it off, because the three paragraphs were more than enough, yet he still sent you another bouquet of flowers. Roses, to apparently spice things up while he wasn't there.

The news played in the background, something about Nightwing or whatever. You picked up your phone to call your friend.

“Hey,” she answers, clearly glad to hear from you. “Wanna know what showed up at my apartment today.” There's a pause. “Let me guess,” You glance at the bouquet sitting nicely at your coffee table. “Flowers again?”

You don't laugh instantly this time. Not when you catch the indifference in your friend's voice, like she's seen and heard this countless times before. “Alright,” you chuckle. “In my defense, they're different flowers this time.”

“That does not help your case.” she sighs. “How many times has he even canceled this month?” You start counting jokingly just to play along.

Until everything starts adding up at least. You weren't laughing when you started noticing the patterns.

The flowers.

The paragraphs.

The promises.

The “I'll make it up to you.”

Over and over again.

“He's just busy.” The excuse slips out of your mouth automatically, because it was true. He was busy. “I know,” your friend says gently. “But does it make it hurt any less?”

You glance down at the bouquet, still on the coffee table like a promise. Then, at another bouquet resting in a vase on the kitchen counter. From when he had to miss date night with you.

They were beautiful. They always were.

You try not to dwell on it. You swear you do. Because your friend wasn't wrong, and neither were you. Dick was busy. You knew that. Everyone involved in his life knew that.

So, you push the conversation to the back of your mind.

The next week, your family gathers to celebrate your little brother’s birthday. The house filled with noise, decorations hung from the walls, relatives gossiping, and your little brother had spent the entire time vibrating from excitement.

Not just because it was his special day, but because Dick was coming too.

“Did you tell him about the cake?” That was the fourth time he had asked you that. Yes, you've been keeping count. “Yes.”

“And the new video game?” You nod again.

“And that I beat my high score?” You laugh. “Yes, I told him.” Your brother grins victoriously before running off to bother someone else.

The fondness in your chest hit instantly.

Your family adored Dick. Your parents thought he was a gentleman. Your relatives thought he was a nice and charming young man. And your little brother thought he was the coolest person to walk the planet.

You look down at your phone. No messages, no calls. You aren't worried. Dick promised that he’d be here, that he wouldn't miss it for the world. And Dick always kept his promises, right?

An hour passes, then another. Every so often, your little brother would run to peek out the front door.

“When’s Dick getting here?”

“Soon.”

The first few times, you believe it. The next few times, you're trying to.

By the time the cake is brought out, your stomach began twisting itself into uncomfortable knots. Then, your phone buzzes. An all too familiar sound.

Your heart sinks before you even open it, because you just know. A wall of text greets you. There was another emergency.

He was sorry.

He felt terrible.

He’ll make it up to you and your little brother.

He promises.

You stare at the screen for a moment before locking your phone. Your little brother, ever the observant one, notices immediately. “Is he here?” The excitement in his voice makes something in your chest twist harder.

“I'm sorry, kiddo.” You force a smile. “Something came up.” The anticipation in his grin slowly slips away. “Oh.” Just one word, just a syllable. Yet it conveyed disappointment more than anything else.

Your brother looks away first. “That's okay.” And maybe it was, it should've been. But as everyone gathered around the table to sing, you couldn't stop glancing towards the empty seat that was meant for him.

By the end of the night, people slowly start leaving and saying their goodbyes. Leftover cake and food gets packed away, decorations get taken down. The house slowly settles into silence.

You help clean up. You smile when you're supposed to. You tell your family that something came up and Dick was sorry, all of them were looking forward to seeing him after all.

You help your little brother bring his presents up to his room. You brush your hands together when you bring up the last of the gifts. “Do you think Dick forgot?”

“No.” Your answer was instant. Because you know he didn't. Dick remembers everything.

Birthdays.

Anniversaries.

A tiny detail you mentioned months ago.

Your brother nods before shrugging. Not angry, just disappointed.

Later that night, in your car after you've said your goodbyes. You stare at the message, rereading it for what felt like the fifth time tonight. Something in you tells you that you've read this before.

Not this exact message, but pieces of it.

Your thumb hovers over the screen, and before you know it—you're scrolling upwards.

Weeks, months before. Paragraph after paragraph. Different situations, different dates. But the apologies are starting to blur together.

And for the first time, you don't reply immediately.

The drive home was quietly peaceful. Until you step through your front door, and the first thing you see is yet another bouquet and an intricately wrapped present for your little brother.

You stare at it for a moment, absentmindedly kicking off your shoes. Beautiful flowers, because you always loved the effort and not the item itself. A thoughtful gift, probably something amazing that would make your little brother forget his absence.

A perfect apology. The kind that would've made you smile. Tonight, all it does is make your chest ache. And when you gaze down at the flowers again, you couldn't tell why looking at them only made you feel so tired.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

Dickie 💙

Did you get home safe? <3

Another buzz.

Dickie 💙

I know tonight wasn't what I promised. You don't have to tell me it's okay.

But at least talk to me, pretty girl

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, staring at the message. Then at the little blue heart next to his name, then back to the flowers. You type something out, then delete it. Too safe.

You

Yeah, just got home

You hit send, and almost immediately a typing bubble appears. Then disappears, appears, and disappears again.

Dick 💙

Good ❤️

You stare at the message and at the heart at the end of it. At the flowers and present sitting at your table again. Somehow, your apartment felt full and empty at the same time.

You carefully place your phone face down on the counter. The flowers remained exactly where they were. Not in a fancy vase, not even in a glass like where you would usually put them.

For the first time, you went to bed without smelling them.

The World Cup was on, and it was an exciting game tonight.

Well, for your friend group, it was an exciting game. Okay, so maybe it was just a particularly exciting game in your boyfriend's eyes, but everyone else was still invested.

Wales was playing against Morocco tonight, and the score was currently 1-0, which unfortunately worked out on Morocco's side. But the match had plenty of time left to go, which gave Remus hope.

You were all sat on a table in the corner of the pub, your glasses filled from a recent visit to the bar. You were sitting next to Remus who had the seat closest to the TV, completely engrossed in the match playing out as his leg bounced up and down.

You weren't a big sports person and neither was Remus usually, but there seemed to be something about the Wales team in football that held a special place in his heart. He was quite passionate when it came to them, and it was proven by his reaction every time Wales even touched the ball.

Some of you were invested in the game like Remus was, like James and Sirius who seemed to be in it just to tease Remus, trying to get a reaction out of him by talking about how Morocco was easily going to claim the victory. Remus shot them a few annoyed glares, and when he started to show signs of getting genuinely irritated, you just leaned on him and squeezed his hand, and it would calm him down. James and Sirius called you no fun for keeping him in a good mood, while you just didn't want your boyfriend to be grumpy tonight in bed with you.

You tuned into Lily, Mary, Marlene, and Peter's conversation about the previous matches. Lily bragged about the winning streak England had been on, Mary talked hopefully about Switzerland winning more matches, while Peter and Marlene sulked. Marlene refused to even watch the game as Morocco had recently beat Scotland, and Peter just simply got upset when Norway was mentioned.

While you weren't crazy about the World Cup unlike the certain person sitting next to you who was intently watching the Wales game, you still knew enough to support the team of the country you grew up in, and you were happy with where you were at as your team had only lost one game so far.

Wales had lost and won one game so far, so Remus was especially keen for Wales to win tonight. He had talked nonstop about it on the way to the pub, and you had loved every second of it even if you hadn't fully understood what he was saying. Remus was usually a quieter person, and you were one of the few people he was comfortable enough to ramble around.

You were listening to Mary talk about her favourite player on the Switzerland team when you suddenly felt Remus jump beside you, and a mixture of cheers and boo's coursed through the pub. You looked up at the screen, and watched the replay of Wales scoring a goal.

"I didn't think he was gonna get that one," said James in genuine surprise while Remus looked thrilled, turning to you with a wide smile.

"I told you that guy was gonna get a goal, didn't I?" Said Remus excitedly.

You chuckled. "You did. You should've placed a bet on it-"

You were cut off when Remus surged forward and smashed his lips on yours, startling you with a delightful kiss that only went on for a few seconds before he pulled away.

Everyone laughed at your shocked expression while Sirius wolf whistled, drawing a small laugh out of yourself.

Remus' face flushed. "I'm sorry. That was a bit much-"

"Are you kidding? I have nothing to complain about," you laughed, scooting closer to him even though it was pretty much impossible to get closer with the way your sides were pressed against each other. "Just caught me off guard, love."

Remus smiled and slid an arm around your waist, pecking your cheek before turning back to the TV.

Since the both of you were dating, it wasn't unusual at all to be kissed by Remus. However, your relationship was still fresh as you had only made it official a month ago after years of friendship and months of unresolved tension between you. You were more than familiar with kissing in private, but you were still getting used to actually showing that affection in public, especially since you were so used to being just friends.

So it had been a pleasant surprise when Remus kissed you boldly like that, and you couldn't deny the thrill it had sent rushing through you to be admired loudly in front of everyone to see like that. The thought made you smile, and lean further into Remus' side with his arm secure around you.

You started to watch the game properly now that the scores were even, providing a more suspenseful watch as the teams fought to score the next goal.

Twenty-five minutes passed until the next goal was scored. In those twenty-five minutes, the game had proved to be intense, and not only could you see it, but you could feel it with each time Remus' hand squeezed your waist whenever there was a particularly intense moment in the match. His body was tense with anticipation, and it would lean into yours for comfort. Or he would take a sip from his beer for comfort, either one worked for him. Your stomach exploded with butterflies each time he did so, and you weren't sure if the fluttery feeling would ever go away with him.

Luckily, Wales was the team who scored the third point of the game, and Remus cheered out loud this time, the alcohol in his system eradicating his usual bashfulness in being so vocal.

You thought the first thing Remus would do is boast to the others about how good Wales was playing, or even chug the rest of his beer, but instead, his first instinct seemed to be leaning forward to give you another searing kiss.

You leaned into it this time, smiling against his lips as you reached to caress his jaw. You broke apart when Peter complained, "Moony, please get a room!"

"You get a room," Remus shot back sassily, kicking Peter under the table. You snorted into Remus' chest, and it made him pull you into another kiss.

"You better hope Wales doesn't kick another goal, he might take your clothes off next," Marlene quipped, and the whole table, including yourself, burst into laughter at that. Remus, however, frowned.

"That's for private," said Remus, and it only made the group laugh harder as heat rushed to your cheeks. You buried your face into Remus' arm, your cheeks burning.

No more goals were scored for the rest of the match, but it had still been entertaining regardless as many goals were almost kicked, making it a close game. Either way, Wales won, which seemed to make Remus the happiest man on earth.

The night ended shortly after that, your friends either drunk or tired, ready to go home either way. In your case, you were tired, and Remus was on the fine line between tipsy and actually being drunk.

He was still cooperative as you nearly dragged him out of the pub with your hand linked through his, a warm smile on his face as he rambled on about the highlights of the match while staring solely at you.

“And I tell you what, if Danny Ward hadn’t blocked that goal, I think it would’ve been over for us. We’re going to win this year, I just know it,” said Remus confidently, his words slightly slurred. You hummed in agreement and nodded along as you pulled out your phone, ordering an uber to take you back to his apartment. After a minute of silence from him, he said dreamily, “this was an amazing night.”

"Because your favourite team won?" You said teasingly, still staring at your phone as you checked where your uber was.

"Yes, that, but also," Remus began, throwing his arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer to him, lifting your eyes off your screen to look at him, "because I had my favourite girl watching with me."

You blinked at his words, and became flustered immediately, looking away shyly as your cheeks warmed up.

"Yeah, yeah," you said.

"It's true!" Said Remus defensively. "Being with you was the cherry on top. Even if Wales didn't win, it would've been just fine, because I would still have you, and that's all that matters."

Your cheeks were burning once again, and you bit down your smile.

"Look at me, I wanna see you, pretty girl," Remus whined, tilting your face towards him, and you couldn't help but let out a flustered giggle. It felt as though you were still in the crushing stage of your relationship with how he made you feel when he looked at you like that, like you were the only thing that mattered.

Remus wrapped his other arm around you, enveloping you into a full side hug, and your laughs filled the air as he pressed a firm kiss to the corner of your lips.

You hoped Wales would never lose a game again.

All comments and reblogs appreciated!

The World Cup was on, and it was an exciting game tonight.

Well, for your friend group, it was an exciting game. Okay, so maybe it was just a particularly exciting game in your boyfriend's eyes, but everyone else was still invested.

Wales was playing against Morocco tonight, and the score was currently 1-0, which unfortunately worked out on Morocco's side. But the match had plenty of time left to go, which gave Remus hope.

You were all sat on a table in the corner of the pub, your glasses filled from a recent visit to the bar. You were sitting next to Remus who had the seat closest to the TV, completely engrossed in the match playing out as his leg bounced up and down.

You weren't a big sports person and neither was Remus usually, but there seemed to be something about the Wales team in football that held a special place in his heart. He was quite passionate when it came to them, and it was proven by his reaction every time Wales even touched the ball.

Some of you were invested in the game like Remus was, like James and Sirius who seemed to be in it just to tease Remus, trying to get a reaction out of him by talking about how Morocco was easily going to claim the victory. Remus shot them a few annoyed glares, and when he started to show signs of getting genuinely irritated, you just leaned on him and squeezed his hand, and it would calm him down. James and Sirius called you no fun for keeping him in a good mood, while you just didn't want your boyfriend to be grumpy tonight in bed with you.

You tuned into Lily, Mary, Marlene, and Peter's conversation about the previous matches. Lily bragged about the winning streak England had been on, Mary talked hopefully about Switzerland winning more matches, while Peter and Marlene sulked. Marlene refused to even watch the game as Morocco had recently beat Scotland, and Peter just simply got upset when Norway was mentioned.

While you weren't crazy about the World Cup unlike the certain person sitting next to you who was intently watching the Wales game, you still knew enough to support the team of the country you grew up in, and you were happy with where you were at as your team had only lost one game so far.

Wales had lost and won one game so far, so Remus was especially keen for Wales to win tonight. He had talked nonstop about it on the way to the pub, and you had loved every second of it even if you hadn't fully understood what he was saying. Remus was usually a quieter person, and you were one of the few people he was comfortable enough to ramble around.

You were listening to Mary talk about her favourite player on the Switzerland team when you suddenly felt Remus jump beside you, and a mixture of cheers and boo's coursed through the pub. You looked up at the screen, and watched the replay of Wales scoring a goal.

"I didn't think he was gonna get that one," said James in genuine surprise while Remus looked thrilled, turning to you with a wide smile.

"I told you that guy was gonna get a goal, didn't I?" Said Remus excitedly.

You chuckled. "You did. You should've placed a bet on it-"

You were cut off when Remus surged forward and smashed his lips on yours, startling you with a delightful kiss that only went on for a few seconds before he pulled away.

Everyone laughed at your shocked expression while Sirius wolf whistled, drawing a small laugh out of yourself.

Remus' face flushed. "I'm sorry. That was a bit much-"

"Are you kidding? I have nothing to complain about," you laughed, scooting closer to him even though it was pretty much impossible to get closer with the way your sides were pressed against each other. "Just caught me off guard, love."

Remus smiled and slid an arm around your waist, pecking your cheek before turning back to the TV.

Since the both of you were dating, it wasn't unusual at all to be kissed by Remus. However, your relationship was still fresh as you had only made it official a month ago after years of friendship and months of unresolved tension between you. You were more than familiar with kissing in private, but you were still getting used to actually showing that affection in public, especially since you were so used to being just friends.

So it had been a pleasant surprise when Remus kissed you boldly like that, and you couldn't deny the thrill it had sent rushing through you to be admired loudly in front of everyone to see like that. The thought made you smile, and lean further into Remus' side with his arm secure around you.

You started to watch the game properly now that the scores were even, providing a more suspenseful watch as the teams fought to score the next goal.

Twenty-five minutes passed until the next goal was scored. In those twenty-five minutes, the game had proved to be intense, and not only could you see it, but you could feel it with each time Remus' hand squeezed your waist whenever there was a particularly intense moment in the match. His body was tense with anticipation, and it would lean into yours for comfort. Or he would take a sip from his beer for comfort, either one worked for him. Your stomach exploded with butterflies each time he did so, and you weren't sure if the fluttery feeling would ever go away with him.

Luckily, Wales was the team who scored the third point of the game, and Remus cheered out loud this time, the alcohol in his system eradicating his usual bashfulness in being so vocal.

You thought the first thing Remus would do is boast to the others about how good Wales was playing, or even chug the rest of his beer, but instead, his first instinct seemed to be leaning forward to give you another searing kiss.

You leaned into it this time, smiling against his lips as you reached to caress his jaw. You broke apart when Peter complained, "Moony, please get a room!"

"You get a room," Remus shot back sassily, kicking Peter under the table. You snorted into Remus' chest, and it made him pull you into another kiss.

"You better hope Wales doesn't kick another goal, he might take your clothes off next," Marlene quipped, and the whole table, including yourself, burst into laughter at that. Remus, however, frowned.

"That's for private," said Remus, and it only made the group laugh harder as heat rushed to your cheeks. You buried your face into Remus' arm, your cheeks burning.

No more goals were scored for the rest of the match, but it had still been entertaining regardless as many goals were almost kicked, making it a close game. Either way, Wales won, which seemed to make Remus the happiest man on earth.

The night ended shortly after that, your friends either drunk or tired, ready to go home either way. In your case, you were tired, and Remus was on the fine line between tipsy and actually being drunk.

He was still cooperative as you nearly dragged him out of the pub with your hand linked through his, a warm smile on his face as he rambled on about the highlights of the match while staring solely at you.

“And I tell you what, if Danny Ward hadn’t blocked that goal, I think it would’ve been over for us. We’re going to win this year, I just know it,” said Remus confidently, his words slightly slurred. You hummed in agreement and nodded along as you pulled out your phone, ordering an uber to take you back to his apartment. After a minute of silence from him, he said dreamily, “this was an amazing night.”

"Because your favourite team won?" You said teasingly, still staring at your phone as you checked where your uber was.

"Yes, that, but also," Remus began, throwing his arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer to him, lifting your eyes off your screen to look at him, "because I had my favourite girl watching with me."

You blinked at his words, and became flustered immediately, looking away shyly as your cheeks warmed up.

"Yeah, yeah," you said.

"It's true!" Said Remus defensively. "Being with you was the cherry on top. Even if Wales didn't win, it would've been just fine, because I would still have you, and that's all that matters."

Your cheeks were burning once again, and you bit down your smile.

"Look at me, I wanna see you, pretty girl," Remus whined, tilting your face towards him, and you couldn't help but let out a flustered giggle. It felt as though you were still in the crushing stage of your relationship with how he made you feel when he looked at you like that, like you were the only thing that mattered.

Remus wrapped his other arm around you, enveloping you into a full side hug, and your laughs filled the air as he pressed a firm kiss to the corner of your lips.

You hoped Wales would never lose a game again.

All comments and reblogs appreciated!

﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒

I wrote it while waiting for a doctor's appointment lol. Also, no title because i can't think of anything 😭

────୨ৎ────

"Can you calm your baby down?" A thick, not so kind voice says behind your back. "My head is pounding from all this crying and screaming."

You tense, and so does your baby when she feels your arms tightening around her small body. You glance behind your shoulder, just to be met with an annoyed expression on an older's man face. He's holding onto his injured hand. The white bandage wrapped around it is already soaked with blood.

"I'm trying." You reply, trying your best to sound kind despite the frustration shimmering inside of you. "But she's sick. I can't just magically heal her."

"I don't care what you can and what you can't." The man snaps. Murmurs of other people follow, but no one tries to help you out or defend you. "Just shut her up. That's all I'm asking."

You close your eyes and start counting your breaths.

One, two, three, four...

Your baby is still fussing, her forehead hot and sweaty where it rests against your shoulder. Her small fists are clenched around your cardigan, her body practically limp in your arms, exhausted from the flu.

"For Christ's sake." The man curses.

You don't have time to react before he raises from his seat, droplets of blood staining the white floor, and stands right in front of you, with fists clenched and fuming with unreasonable anger.

"Shut your baby up. Right now."

You step back, but he only gets closer. His hand, the healthy one, raises and for a second you're scared he'll hit you or your baby.

But then, you feel a familiar weight of Remus' hand on your shoulder. "Not only your hand will bleed if you keep talking to my wife like that."

A look of uncertainty crosses older man's face. He steps back and lowers his arm.

"Sorry, mate. I didn't know she was here with you." He says.

Remus doesn't back down. "Even if she was here all alone, you have no right to threaten a woman, any woman, especially not when she is with a baby. Have some bloody respect."

"Chill, mate." The man smirks. "I wasn't threatening your wife."

Remus presses his lips together. "Sure you weren't. You were just casually invading her personal space, am i right?"

"Listen, you're exaggerating this whole situation. Nothing bad happened. We were just talking, right, sweetie?"

You grimace at the pet name that comes out of his mouth. You step back once again, wanting to create some distance between you and him. Remus' hand wraps protectively around your waist and he brings you closer to him. Luna, your baby, reaches for him and Remus kisses her forehead, which helps her settle down a little.

Then, his gaze moves back to the man.

"Go or God help me, i'll make you bleed more than you already do."

Suprisingly, the man complies. Or so you think he does.

He steps aside, huffing and muttering under his breath, but before he walks back to his seat, he decides to add his two cents.

"Cunt."

Wrong move. Safe to say, it's Remus' last straw.

Before you or anyone in the waiting room can react, Remus' hand lands on the man's face. The sound of a nose breaking resonates through the room and blood, hot and crimson, stars flowing down the man's front, staining both his shirt and trousers.

You gasp, and so does everyone else, including the rude man. Tense silence falls in the room. Everyone seem to hold their breath in anticipation. Luna wiggles in your arms, confused as to why is it so silent out of sudden, but you press her closer to your chest and back away from the source of commotion.

"Call my wife like this one more time, and you're dead." Remus spits out. There's furry in his eyes and you swear he doesn't look like himself. "I swear you are."

Then, Remus turns to you and grabs your hand. Gently, but firmly, he starts steering you out of the waiting room. Your daughter begins to cry in distress.

You protest. "But we need to see the doctor..."

Remus interrupts. "I'll find Luna another doctor, don't you worry."

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Alfred says something from the front of the car but you’re too blissed out to decode it. It’s like he’s behind a thick pane of glass. You can see him clearly, but his words aren’t there. There’s a sour pang of guilt boiling in your chest, because you know it’s rude to ignore him, but the headache and constant sweating overrides your conscience. 

In the passenger seat, Bruce steals glances at you through the rear view mirror. You look awful. Weak, small, wrung out. She fought to be here, rings in his head. You definitely look like you’ve been in a fight, and he’d hate to see the other guy. 

His palms sweat, when was the last time they did that? Trapped in the car with a tangible reminder of his personal failings. Although, he did think that if he tried to reach out and touch you, you’d melt into a puddle on the spot.

When the double doors to the manor fly open, the blink and you’ll miss it waft of cold, sterile air hugs the exposed skin on your arms and face with all the tenderness of a lover. Not that you’d know. 

Eyes. Too many eyes. The first thing you notice. On the paintings, the photos framed on the wall, the ones on yours expectantly watching your next move. Tim’s, Dick and Damian’s. Already overwhelmed by the onset of withdrawal symptoms (you had to google that in the car, but you couldn’t read any more than the first paragraph, eyes too dry to keep them open), you skulk up the stairs. 

Hands reach out to help but you shoo them off, saying you just need the Bathroom. Last thing you want is warm, clammy hands touching you and overheating you. 

Underfoot, the tile is luxuriously frozen. Impeccable white, thanks to Alfred, and it takes you back to making snowmen when you were a child. The snow wasn’t this brilliant white, but more a slurry of grey, marbled into the snow. Your snowmen always had a scarf and mittens, even though Mother would scold you for “getting perfectly good clothes wet and dirty.” 

It makes you wonder if you’ll ever stop feeling guilty. Not just about her. Just in general. 

Once you finish splashing some water on your face, you brave a glance at the mirror. In the hospital, you’d been avoiding them. In front of you was a living anti drug PSA. Hollow eyes, sunken skin, shaking, frazzled. You poke and prod at the stranger in the mirror, pulling at her face until it looks like yours again. 

You hate the person in front of you. Enraged by her presence, you decide to dive to where it's safe. The end of the bottle. 

When you slink out of the bathroom and drag yourself to your bedroom, you know it’s changed. It's something in the air. Broken and undisturbed, like a crime scene.

Preserved but ruined. First your instinct is to dart under the bed and check that the shrine to misery you spent years building is still intact, but then you know it'll be fruitless. Not surprisingly, it's all gone. Not a single bottle left. Or cigarettes. Anything that could’ve been helpful.

The underbelly of the bed is spotless, you could eat off the floor. Alfred must've been meticulous, to the point where you swear you can see your reflection in the polished wooden floorboards. Even your diary is gone. The one you kept hidden under the mattress. A signal broadcasting a plea for help, for no one's eyes but your own. 

Soggy anger clogs your throat and pricks your eyes. 

Desperate for something, you resort back to the bathroom and throw open the cabinet. Mouthwash. It’s sickeningly sharp, but the minty twang makes you feel a little less hot and bothered. 

When you finally shamble downstairs, they’re waiting for you. Alfred fluffs a cushion and pointedly directs you to sit. You feel like a prisoner being marched to death row. 

In front of you there's a pamphlet, overturned so you can’t see its title. Truthfully you have no desire to read it, you can already feel the headache growing just by looking at it. so instead you reach for the glass of water next to it. 

Sick of everyone looking at you like you’re about to combust, you crack a bad joke. 

“What, do I have something on my face?”

It’s forced. Trite. No one laughs. Spare from Dick, who does a theatrical, pseudo supportive half chuckle. You know he’s trying. 

“You smell… fresh.” Alfred remarks as he takes the empty glass away. Quickly, you shut your mouth. He gives Bruce a look on his way back to the kitchen. 

He’s always so annoyingly perceptive. It makes you feel so small under his watch. 

“How’re you doing? Was the trip back okay?” Dick catches the tension between Bruce and Alfred and resolves to mend it. 

“S’fine.” You mumble back, fidgeting with the corner of the seat. You hope they can tell how overheated you are. “Was warm in the car.” 

“If you told me I could’ve put the air conditioning on.” Bruce offers with hindsight. He’s not trying to sound condescending, but it does come off as a scold, like you misbehaved for not speaking up. 

“Didn’t want to bother you.” 

“How bout I get a window open?” Dick chirps with false bravado. He wants to be a hero so bad its hurting you.

There’s a brief moment where the voice in the back of your head bites “where was all this before?” but it takes too much energy to be angry and you realise it does you no good now anyway. 

It goes around in circles for a few minutes. They ask you smalltalky questions, you answer them as best you can without getting snappy or letting the mask slip. When you talk it’s like your voice is pre-recorded, it doesn’t feel like yours. 

The rhythm shatters when the door opens from the outside. No knock, just authority. Jason trudges in and looks surprised to see you there. “Thought you were back tomorrow.” he says gruffly. 

“Got discharged early.” You like that Jason doesn’t try to be someone else for you. He doesn’t infantalise you, he just treats you like a person. Not an obligation or baggage. 

“You look better.” He kicks his well worn boots off and chucks the weathered leather jacket onto the back of an armchair, which he promptly claims as his. 

“I feel it.” You lie. 

You back and forth for a little bit, your side of the conversation is weaker than his, burdened with fever and an insatiable itch to have something, anything, in your system. You’ve been scanning the room for something to drink. Normally, Bruce keeps expensive bottles of port in decanters and puts them on display. But now they've been evacuated.

Personally you thought it was tacky. To you, whenever rich people displayed their food instead of just eating it, it was like saying “I’m so comfortable I don’t even need to eat. In fact, I will hoard this resource, just for entertainment.” Bruce, Tim and Damian had never known hunger. As far as you knew. They had never had to put something back in the supermarket, to keep it under budget. 

Windows. You measured them through windows. One of your first talks with Tim was about his old house. You asked about the view from the windows, just as a conversation starter (albeit a lame one) and you were floored when he said there were just over a couple dozen. Your apartment had three windows. One in the front room, one in the bathroom, and one in your room.

Damian boasted having more windows than a palace, and the manor spoke for itself. 

They never understood what you meant. A window wasn’t supposed to be some kind of entertainment, it wasn’t supposed to be a mirror. It was a thin, brittle thing that reminded you who you were. It said, look outside, this is your life. Look at that overflowing trash can, look, and I mean look, at that long streaky pigeon shit strain right in the middle of me. Windows were a statement on who you were because they would always remind you where you are. 

The view from the window reflects your life. If you're surrounded by trash and grime, that is your life. If you open your window and see sprawling acres, then that's your life, that's your potential. That's what Mother used to say anyway.

So when you asked them about the windows, what you were trying to say, without really saying it, was “are you like me?” and you were shown that they weren’t. 

You aren’t sure how long you were in that inward spiral. It’s hard to gauge time at the moment. Sometimes a minute feels like a millennia, then an hour feels like ten minutes. The leather upholstery on the armchair you’ve been sinking into starts to feel sticky, dampened with your sweat. 

“Gotta shower.” you mumble, sitting up to leave, but Bruce clears his throat. Silent command to sit back down. You follow his order without a fight. 

“Y/N, the nurse told me about your habits.” he puts delicately. “I know it's not black and white, but I can’t let this continue.” During the ride home, he had been rehearsing this in his head.

Call it a habit, not an addiction, makes it seem less frightening- absolves some of the guilt, Don’t say “you can’t let it continue”, put all the blame on her. Would scare her.

So on and so forth. 

“You need help. You need someone to help you handle this, you can’t do it by yourself.” 

Too shattered to speak. You want to remind him that you’ve been handling yourself alone for years just fine, it was one slip up, it wasn’t even your fault, but it doesn’t come out. Your empty eyes stay on his. 

You look like a kicked dog. It breaks his heart. He doesn’t let it show.

He turns the pamphlet over with a slow motion, as if it would spook you and send you running. When your eyes lazily trace the text, you’re snapping awake. 

“No.” 

“Y/N please just-” 

“No I’m not going to fucking rehab! I’m fine! I’m not going- you- you just wanna get rid of me! Seriously, right now- right now you wanna get rid of me?” You don’t wait to hear what he’ll say. You grab your phone and storm out, not listening to anything else. 

“Cmon we can talk about this.” Tim catches up to you before you can get to the stairs. When you face him, you can tell he’s doing that thing again. Where he analyzes someone right in front of him, mentally noting their posture and anything else of interest. How he treats strangers. Does he even know he’s doing it?

“You’re supposed to be on my side.” it comes out pathetically. You return to the stairs and he lets you go. Once he’s collected himself, he marches to Bruce. 

“That was tactful.” sarcasm poisons his tone. “Really, right now? You thought this was a good time to send her away?” 

When Bruce doesn’t reply quick enough, he snaps. 

“It’s her birthday next week.” 

Y/N I'm sorry if I made it weird. Please Im sorry  I didn't mean to make it weird between us  please talk to me 

R. Harp I think it's best if we don't talk anymore. Take care. All the best. 

Y/N Please don't do this Please  Please 

The message doesn't go through. 

You feel the pressure in your throat, the visceral anger and grief biting at you from the inside. A parasite burrowing. It makes your fingers numb. The back of your head feels too heavy to hold. Without thinking, you throw the phone across the room. The delicate shatter rings out through the room, and when it echoes it hits how just how alone in this you are. 

You've always been lonely, but this feels like a new low. How does this keep happening? Every day feels like a new low. The thought makes you sick. How much worse can it get? And so the anxiety spiral begins. 

Great, fucking great, the person who normally gives you what you need to stop the anxiety just abandoned you. 

What the hell is wrong with you? What did you think was going to happen? You’re too much. You’re a bad person. You’re selfish and mean, you don’t care about anyone but yourself, you’ll hurt people to get what you want, you’re doing all this for attention. You’ll always be this way. 

You think you’re gonna be sick. Until someone knocks on the door. You don’t answer it and instead stay tucked into a ball on the floor. 

“You okay?” 

It’s Jason again. 

“No.” you sniffle without any backbone or self respect. Get up. 

“You want me in?” 

“No.”

The door opens anyway. 

“Bruce is an asshole.” He says it like law, like the sky is blue or grass is green. You peel your head up from the floor. You had pressed your forehead against the ground when spiralling thinking it would ground you but all it did was leave a big impression on the tender skin. 

“He’s not all bad.” you mope, pulling yourself together to sit up and face him like a human, not a discarded ragdoll. “He’s… I don’t know. He’s there. At least. He’s there.” 

Jason invites himself into the room and sits on the bed, not in front of you, behind you. 

“If he’s not all bad then what's got you like this?” 

“Something else.”

“Huh.” 

When the silence extends past five seconds, you speak again. 

“My… friend- friend-ish- I don’t know- doesn’t want to see me any more. I made it weird.”

“Some friend.” Jason muses. 

“It’s not like that. He was really good to me. He never asked for anything back. He was there. More than Bruce is.” 

Jason feels his jaw tightening and the sting in his fists burns a little hotter. “Trust me you’re better off without him.”

“How would you know?” there isn't a challenge or threat in your voice but a genuine curiosity. 

“Dunno. I can just tell.”

Roy’s back slammed against the wall with enough force to knock down the frame on his right. It hits the floor with a painful smash and leaves miniscule shards of glass all over the hard floor, an army of tiny daggers poised against anyone who dares tread on them. 

“The fuck is wrong with you?!” Jason spat in his face, fist clenched in the red head’s shirt collar, holding him against the wall. “You just left??”

Roy pushed Jason off him, tussling him off. When he caught the breath that was violently knocked out of his lungs, he started. “I didn’t just leave, I waited man. I waited half an hour. She just does that sometimes, she just wanders off and doesn’t tell me anything.” 

Jason couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Roy had just admitted to him that letting you meander around Gotham, off your face was completely normal to him. 

“She’s fine, she’s probably at home now. She goes weeks without texting, she’s fine-” 

He’s punched before he can finish. 

“She’s not fine, she's in the hospital you jackass.”

“What?”

“That kid you’ve been leading on got shot because you didn’t keep an eye on her.”

Roy was at a loss for words. What is there to say? 

“Is she… yknow-”

“No she’s not, I don’t know. I don’t know if she’s alive because you let a kid get coked out of her mind and gave her free reign. Y’know who fucking shot her? God damn trafficker. If she wasn’t shot in the back, she’d be god knows where with god knows who and we both know what would’ve happened to her.”

Jason looked down at his fists, the skin on his knuckles had scraped and eroded. 

“If I find out you ever do something like this again, ever, I will kill you. I will. I thought you were getting better. What the hell is wrong with you?"

For the rest of the night, no one bothered you. There’s a silent agreement that you need time to process being home. Too much too fast. They chalk the silence in your room up to you going straight to bed to sleep off the sweats. No one knows you’re currently on the other side of Gotham. 

The curb is forgivingly cold. Sitting on the street corner and looking into your old apartment. You didn’t realise how lame this would be when sober. Never gave much thought as to being sober in general. This plan was half baked at best. You had enough change in your pocket to get the bus out, but forgot to bring your wallet with you, so you couldn’t use cash to get. Couldn’t text Bruce and ask for money without getting caught. If he knew you were here he’d ship you out quicker. 

Dick- well Dick would just tell Bruce, Jason- don’t know him well enough to say ‘hey i know it’s midnight but i need a ride, don’t ask why i’m here or how i got here’ you’re a mess but you aren’t rude, Tim- simply, you don’t want to see him look disappointed in you. It would kill you. Damian- couldn’t reach the pedals and even if he could he would also report back to Bruce. 

You scroll through the contact list on your cracked phone screen. People from parties you barely remember, mostly. A sea of names without faces. It hits you then, that someone out there probably thinks of you the same way. 

Your finger hovers over Roy’s name and you feel yourself freeze up, as if you’ve been caught misbehaving. You scroll on. Nothing. 

An idea comes to mind, something desperate but its your last hail Mary. 

Y/N  Sorry I ran off, just tired. Can i ask u smth? Timbob Yeah of course is everything ok? Y/n Im fine i just need to ask- ur friend w the black hair Don? Perchance could u send me his number  Timbob No Y/N What why we’re friends why are you doing this to me? Timbob U aren’t in a good space right now I rlly dont think getting involved w a guy is gonna help. Do u want me to come up and talk?  Y/N Don’t come up  Timbob If i send u this you have to promise not to text him until we talk ok Y/N Ok Love u Timbob Yeah ik ily 2. And its Kon Y/n What kinda name is Kon Timbob Don’t ask me. Short for Conner or something. 

The number arrives shortly after and you’re anxious to message him. It’s a stupid stupid plan but this is all you can think of 

Y/N Hey idk if u remember me but I’m tim’s sister. Rlly sorry to bother u but i rlly need a favour and your literally the only person i could think of

You wait for a response and every second makes you regret this idea more and more. Then the phone buzzes 

Kon (delete when home) Yeah i remember u  Who could forget  What do u need?

You roll your eyes at his attempt at being charming. A tiny part of you thinks its a little bit sweet, despite the fact it's gauche as all hell. 

Y/N I need a ride. Ur in Gotham rn for work right? Could u give me a hand? I’ll pay u back  Kon Where are you?

You send him the address and hope for the best. 

Kon is currently going over his options. 

Option one- fly there and back, exposing himself, and blowing his cover. Tim skinning him, and dealing with Batman. Not preferable. 

Option two- call you a cab. Nice, normal. Pricey. Somewhat preferable 

Option three- fly there and get you back a normal human way. Cost effective. Preferable. 

Ten minutes later, he rounds the corner. With a god damn bike. Not a motorbike, a pedal bike. 

You stand up and look him up and down. This is your last resort. Maybe this is rock bottom. 

Once he starts pedalling, it’s not all bad. You’re clinging to his back like a koala, squeezing onto the rear of the seat with the tact and grace of a three legged bull. 

The night air brushes against your cheek and through your hair, cooling and welcome. All the lights of the city, from the corner store’s neon open sign to the lights spooling out from apartment windows blend and blur together. 

“So why’re out here anyway?” he asks over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“I needed to clear my head.” 

There’s a beat. And for some reason you decide to be honest. 

“I got shot a couple weeks ago.”

Kon nearly loses control of the handlebar at the news, so shocked he had to whip around over his shoulder as if to double check it was definitely you on his bike, not some new person. He regains control and narrowly avoids swerving into the road. 

The shock makes you yelp for a second, but when everything evens out again and his cycling enters its rhythm, you can’t help but laugh. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. 

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah- right in the back.”

“Pretty metal if you ask me.” 

Maybe it’s because he’s an objective third party, but hearing someone talk about your survival in a way that didn’t phrase you as something delicate, to be broken and repaired, lifted something in your spirit. When they talked about your pull through like it was a shock, it made you feel like no one believed in you. That you being resilient and strong was a juxtaposition to your character. 

But now you had a new lens to look through. You were metal. 

You ended up talking more as he rode and wove through the streets. About what the hospital was like, the food, the balcony. 

“Wait they let you go up there alone?”

“I mean yeah. No one else was in.”

“Kinda weird that the hospital let you do that. Cus what if something happened?”

“What if.”

There’s silence again for a spell. It's awkward and sharp at first but as Kon twists and turns through the street so does the silence, metamorphosing from a pair of hands at your throat into a warm blanket. 

You barely register how shit you feel. 

When you approach the Manor, you direct Kon to the left side of the wall, telling him about the blind spot. You’ll be able to slip in through the kitchen’s back door and act like nothing happened. Someone caught you in there? Just say you were grabbing some fresh air and a glass of water. Is that a crime now?

You clamber off the back of the bike and nearly fall over yourself. It's quiet again, but the good kind. Kon rubs the back of his neck. 

“I’ll pay you back for this.” You promise. Unsure of how best to say goodbye and show thanks, you opt for a handshake. When you hold your hand out he looks at you like you’ve accidentally flashed him, and for a moment you wonder if your shirt lifted itself up by mistake. He then leans down like he isn’t sure of himself, a strange image given his persona and studded jacket, and takes your hand to his lips. He kisses it. 

“Oh!” is all you can think to say. 

As if your surprise has pleased him, he grins with coy charm. “I told you I’d see you again.” 

You roll your eyes without even thinking about it. “Jesus you’re weird.” 

“Says you.” 

The moment is broken when your phone buzzes. “Shit I gotta go. Thanks. Again. Bye.” 

When you finally make it back to your room, careful enough to avoid any prying eyes, you flop down onto the bed and think about the day. You’re going to be sent away, Father’s finally had enough of you. Roy’s sick of you too. You’re disgusting and needy. 

But before another spiral can begin, your mind drifts back to that stupid boy with the studded jacket. How his body felt against yours. At the time, the presence of another body was something you could distract yourself with. He wasn’t a cure, you know that. You’re too far gone for that, but it was enough to get your mind off the whirlwind your life had become. 

You hadn’t put much thought into your birthday yet. When you start thinking about what kind of cake you want, you aren’t awake enough to realise you’re planning ahead. You’re thinking about a day past tomorrow. You’re looking forward to something. What a nice change.

chat how are we feeling?

this new job is a lot BUT today manager is very nice and I have a lovely coworker so I can't complain too much. Payday end of the week and methinks i'll treat myself to a new comic. could yall gimme some recommendations below? finished absolute flash recently and loved it.

Taglist:

you couldn't stay in your apartment, you were going to lose your mind if you did.

you needed to talk to the one person who truly understood. someone who understood him.

you grabbed your coat, slipped out into the wet metropolis streets, and hailed a cab and gave the driver lois lane’s address.

you and lois had become incredibly close over the past year. you had joined the planet as a features writer a couple of years after clark and lois had officially ended their relationship.

because they were long broken up, there was no awkwardness... lois had taken you under her wing, becoming your mentor, your loudest cheerleader in the bullpen, and your closest friend.

by the time the cab pulled up to lois’s apartment building, you were blinking back furious, hurt tears. you took the elevator up, practically throwing yourself at her front door and knocking aggressively.

you heard footsteps inside, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

lois stood there, dressed in a comfortable oversized sweater, a half empty glass of red wine in her hand. "y/n? what are you doing here? it's pouring-"

"i can't do it anymore, lois," you burst out, the words tumbling out of you in a sobbing rush before she could even invite you inside. you stepped past her into the entryway, too consumed by your own heartbreak to notice her sudden, tense posture.

"he canceled again," you cried, hugging your wet jacket tighter on you, shivering. "it’s always the same excuse. 'something came up at the office,' 'a late breaking lead.' i know he cares about his work, but i feel like a ghost in my own relationship! i'm sick of being the one who always gets left behind. i'm sick of competing with a job, and honestly... sometimes i feel like i'm competing with you."

you finally paused to catch your breath, wiping a tear from your cheek. "i just really needed a friend tonight. can i please just crash on your couch?"

usually by now lois would've said something, she would've made a joke or immediately handed you tissues or started calling clark an idiot, but there was nothing... no response.

"lois..?" your eyebrows pulled in.

"what?" she asked, her voice a little too high.

"why are you looking at me like that?"

"...like what?" lois muttered, she gripped the stem of her wine glass so tightly you thought the glass might shatter right in her hand.

"like..." you frowned harder. "like something's wrong."

"no, nothing's wrong."

but her eyes weren't on you, they were staring straight past your shoulder at the hall behind you.

"lois?" you whispered, stepping further into the hall. "is someone here? did i interrupt a date? i'm so sorry, i should have called-"

"no! no, wait.. " Lois reached out, her hand catching your wet sleeve, but she was a second too late.

you walked through the short hall and into the living room, the words of apology dying on your tongue.

a figure stepped into the dim light of the living room, drying his hair with a towel. he was wearing a gray t-shirt and sweatpants.. home clothes. comfort clothes.

he didn't have his glasses on. and as he looked up, his bright blue eyes met yours, freezing him entirely in his tracks.

it was Clark.

the towel slipped from his hand, hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud.

“something came up at the planet, sweetie. a breaking story. i'm so, so sorry.”

the words of his text message flashed in your mind, your eyes darted from clark’s damp hair, to his relaxed clothes, to the second glass of wine sitting on lois's coffee table, and finally back to lois, who was now looking down at the floor, unable to meet your gaze.

"baby," clark breathed, his voice entirely stripped of its usual warmth. he took a panicked step forward, his hands reaching out instinctively. "baby, wait. It’s... it’s not what you think."

the sheer cliché of the phrase made a hysterical, breathless laugh bubble up in your throat. "not what i think? clark, you texted me an hour ago saying you were stuck at your desk. you’ve canceled our last three dates because of 'deadlines.' and you’re here? in your sweats?"

"you canceled on me," you said, your voice barely a whisper, "for three weeks, you’ve been too busy. you were too busy tonight. to have dinner with me. in our apartment."

"we were talking," lois interjected quickly, her voice trembling. she stepped between you and clark, trying desperately to play defense, to be the fixer. "just talking. he was stressed, he came over to vent about a case, and he got caught in the storm. i told him to dry off. that's it. I swear to you, that's all this is."

"and you couldn't tell me that?" you looked at lois, the tears you had been fighting finally falling. " i came here crying because i felt invisible in my own relationship, and you let me walk through that door knowing he was in your bedroom?"

"sweetheart, no," Clark choked out, stepping closer. "please. i love you. i would never- "

"don't call me that," you snapped, anger finally bursting through the sadness. a single, hot tear spilled over your cheek. you looked at lois, the woman you had trusted with your insecurities, the mentor you practically worshiped.

"i thought you were my friend. i thought you were the one person who understood how hard it was to love him."

a terrible, suffocating realization washed over you. lois did understand. she understood perfectly. because she hadn't actually let him go. and he hadn't let go of her. you were just a temporary detour in their romance.

"please, let me explain," clark pleaded, taking another step forward, his hands raised in defense. "lois is right. it’s not a date. i didn't plan this. it’s just… things have been so heavy lately, and i didn't want to bring that stress home to you."

the words left his mouth, and a suffocating silence fell over the room.

you stared at him, your breath hitching as you inhaled. "you didn't want to bring it home to me?" you muttered. "so you brought it to your ex girlfriend instead?"

"no, that's not what I meant...."

"you lied to me," you said. "you told me you were working. you told there was a breaking story, but the truth is you just didn't want to be around me. you left me sitting alone at a table with dinner i spent hours cooking, because you'd rather vent to lois?"

"listen to me," clark rushed out, his voice cracking as he scrambled to fix the damage, only to dig the hole deeper. "you don't understand the pressure I'm under. lois just... she already knows everything about my life.... she knows how i think. with her, i don't have to explain myself or ease into things. it’s just easier."

it’s just easier.

you let out a laugh. "easier," you repeated, backing away from him until your spine hit the wall of the hallway. "right. because i'm work. i'm the person you have to try for, and she's the one you actually want to unwind with."

"no! sweetie, please, no," clark choked out, looking completely undone. he reached for your arm, his touch gentle, but you yanked yourself away.

"don't touch me," you snapped again.

you gripped the fabric of your wet coat, looking at clark one last time. "have a nice night at the office, clark." you scoffed, turning around.

"sweetheart, please," clark begged, his voice breaking, "let's go home. let's just go back to the apartment and talk about this. please." he said as he made a move to follow you.

"if you come near me, clark, i swear to god i will never speak to you again," you spat, your voice harsh, that actually made him freeze in his tracks.