she sees him before—before the fight, before the blood and pain and death that have become his life, when he still looks like a man instead of a monster. (never a hero. he never asked to be anyone's hero, anyone's idol, anyone's goddamn symbol.)
he feels her gaze on him.
come back to me. maybe she says it out loud, maybe he imagines it, but it's true regardless. come back to me.
and he does. he spits blood and staggers to his feet again and again until he's the only one left standing.
and then he finds her—or maybe she finds him. he doesn't know, doesn't remember. all he can see is her.
and then he's on his knees before her, a knight swearing fealty to his lady, a devotee pledging himself to the divine. he suspects she could call his soul out of hell and he would still find a way to heed her summons.
and then she's down on her knees too, just a woman, not a god, down in the blood and muck with him—and he's selfishly grateful because gods are untouchable and he needs to hold her more than he has needed anything in a long, long time.
"karen," he rasps. it's an apology, a plea. let this be real. let her be real. he can't bring himself to reach out only to find she isn't there.
she's braver than him; she presses her forehead to his, cradles the back of his head and wraps the other arm around him until her palm presses flat against his shoulder blade. she's real.
he should protest. he is filthy and she is bright and clean and deserves better than kneeling here with him, blood-soaked pavement staining the hem of her pencil skirt. a better man would protest, would send her away. he finds he is not strong enough to be that man tonight. (he never claimed to be a hero.)
he doesn't protest. he wraps his arms around her—when was the last time he touched, was touched, without the intent to harm?—and sinks into the serenity of her embrace. he can hear her shaky breaths, feel her pounding heart. she's so thoroughly human in his arms.
it lasts only seconds, of course; they cannot stay here, she cannot be seen with him. he stands, brings her to her feet with him.
when steps back, there's a smear of blood on her forehead—his, possibly, but more likely someone else's—and her pristine outfit is grimy, gravel clinging to her bloodied knees. his sins sullying her, always, always sullying her, and yet she looks at him like there's no one else she'd rather be looking at.
red is a fool, he thinks, and definitely doesn't say out loud, or maybe he does because suddenly she's smiling at him and shaking her head like she thinks he's funny, or perhaps like she thinks he's the fool.
her fingers trail down his arms, her hands find his. there's blood between their palms, tacky, and he suspects at least one of his fingers is broken, and he should really let go. should send her on her way, should maybe tell her to find someone with more common sense than either him or red.
he doesn't let go.
he doesn't say anything except, come with me. it's a whisper, a prayer, a fantasy. come with me.
there is no happily ever after, not for him. not anymore. but he is not a hero, and she is not a god, and maybe for now it is enough to be human together.
