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birdie-bits-and-bobbles

Jun 14

froggibus

— Kissing Wounds

Pairing: Garth x gn! reader

Summary: after a rough mission, Garth helps clean you up

Word Count: ~900

Content/CW -> gn! reader, established relationship, canon typical injury, mentions of blood + pain, guilt, reader is a titan

— requested as part of my neglect week event

froggi yaps -> sooo sorry for the delay on these, like i said the other day im packing up and moving 12hrs away and its just been a Lot to process mentally ++ lots of packing and organization to do. also yes this was the culprit with the 45 word sentence lol

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” Garth stresses, chasing after you down the hallway.

“Okay, so I’m fine and I’m bleeding.”

He catches your wrist in his, fingertips a pleading touch on your skin, begging you to slow down. Your name rolls off his tongue.

You slow, shoulders slumping, and turn to face him, “what?”

Your chest is heavy with the weight of your mission failure today, a thousand pounds added to the thousand you already carry around. You blink, Dick’s voice ringing in your ears. It’s not your fault, he said. Bullshit, you’d spat back.

You blink and suddenly you can see the glowing screen in front of him and the shadow it cast over his face, the number that popped up on the screen. Civilian casualties, countless injuries, extensive property damage.

“Talk to me,” Garth frowns, his voice soft when he says, “please.”

“I fucked up. What else is there to talk about?”

His brows crease the way they always do when he’s confused. He’d been there for the mission evaluation, had watched with tensed shoulders and tight knuckles from the sidelines while you, Donna and Kory fought your asses off to save the city.

He should’ve been there. They all should’ve. But a last minute threat on the coast had drawn their attention away, dividing the team and cutting him off from you.

There’s a million things Garth wants to say right now. It’s not your fault, you didn’t fuck up, it’s okay. But he knows none of that will soothe your hackles, and will coax you out of this guilt-ridden corner you’ve backed yourself into.

“At least let me clean you up,” he finally says.

You consider it, consider him. From the defiant set of his jaw to the unyielding look in his eyes. Finally, you sigh and nod, letting him drag you to the bathroom.

Garth ushers you into the tiny bathroom of your shared apartment, the width of his shoulders perfectly blocking your view of the door. He kicks the door closed behind him, hand dropping from your wrist to your hip.

You hop up onto the counter, the cold counter beneath you as familiar as Garth’s touch. You lost count of how many nights you’ve spent here with him, one of you patching the other up between soft kisses and professions of worry.

His hand tugs at the seam of your shirt, fingers slipping just below the blood-stained fabric. He lifts it up slowly, careful not to catch it on any of your wounds.

The corners of his lips tug further downward when he sees the wounds on your abdomen, three big long scratches that you hardly remember getting. Garth’s fingers hover just above it and you wonder if he’s trying to conjure up some sort of magic to stitch them back together.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you say quietly.

He hums lowly. “You’re lying.”

Despite the burning coming from your freshly exposed cuts, you force a guilty smile. Nothing gets past Garth.

He ducks under the counter, dark head of hair disappearing as he rifles for the fully stocked first aid kit you keep under there. He pulls it out, holding it up triumphantly before zipping it open and digging through it to pull out supplies.

You watch as he washes his hands, scrubbing them for a good minute before patting them dry on one of the plush towels he keeps in the bathroom. Wetting a cloth with warm water, Garth resumes his place between your legs.

“You already know, but this is gonna hurt.”

You only nod, teeth clenched as you brace yourself. He gently pats at the wound with a cloth, removing as much of the blood—both fresh and crusted over—as he can.

It’s when he pulls out the alcohol wipes, small but mighty, that the pain really kicks in. You brace yourself for what’s to come, fingers tightening around your knee cap and digging in to distract yourself from the pain.

Garth notices, resting the pad on its packaging. He reaches for your hand, “here, squeeze mine.”

You lace your fingers through his, squeezing until you can feel the bones of his fingers digging into the sides of yours. Garth doesn’t react, doesn’t even wince from how tightly you’re holding him. Instead, he grabs the pad and resumes cleaning at your wound with one hand.

“Almost there,” he hums after a long period of silence. “Doing so well for me.”

You’re not sure that’s entirely true from the way you’re squeezing your eyes closed, gritting your teeth and damn near breaking his fingers with how tight you’re holding him. Still, Garth doesn’t seem to mind, only smiling carefully and nodding along.

“There.” He pulls away, discarding the pad in your garbage can. “All done.”

The rest of the process is quick. He wraps up the wound in gauze, tapes it up and places a soft kiss against the thick, cottony coating over your wound. Heat rests in your cheeks.

You drop his hand from yours, unfurling your fingers despite the pain that sparks when you do. “Thank you.”

He rests a hand on either thigh. “Anytime. I mean it.”

And he does. Garth knows better than anyone that he might not be able to ease all your pain—might not be able to stop you from blaming yourself for how the mission went today—but at the very least, he can take care of you.

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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡

birdie-bits-and-bobbles

Mar 25

kitkatscabinet

A CYCLE OF SACRIFICES II

déjà vu: /ˌdeɪʒɑː ˈvuː/

noun

1. a feeling of having already experienced the present situation.

cw | batsis! (fem!), character death, grief, depression. read part 1 here

wc | 6.8k

It takes a week for you to conclude that whatever’s happening isn’t a hallucination, and another few on top of that to convince yourself this isn’t some personal pocket of hell.

It can’t be heaven, because your mother’s not here. She’s still dead in the ground and rotting, whilst you’re somehow alive. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not—

A knock on the wooden doorframe, like clockwork, Bruce emerges from the shadows. Another night, another nightmare, and like clockwork, you lift the covers, waiting for him to slide in next to you. “Bad dreams?” Your voice is raspy, indicative of your own lack of sleep, as you brush your fingers through his sweaty hair.

“D’you wanna talk about it? Might help.” Even though he rarely does, you always offer, hoping that maybe this is the time he opens up and shares the load.

“You died.” You startle a little at his declaration, pulse quickening at the accusation despite yourself. Blood in your mouth, in your lungs, you’re drowning, you’re— “In my dream. You died, just like mother and father. You died and left me all alone.”

Right, that’s what he’d meant. The nightmare, of course.

“I didn’t. I’m right here, see?” You tighten your grip on him, pressing a kiss on his forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” He sounds so small, terrified in a way he’d soon refuse to let you see.

“Promise.”

Despite your words, the declaration tastes of rust, hot and viscous, sliding down your throat and pooling on the pristine floor beneath your cooling corpse. Because you had left him all alone. You had died, hadn’t you?

Phantom hands pressing down on your delicate neck as your eyes flicker closed, and a vision of Bruce’s tears etched on the backs of your eyelids, concludes that yes, whatever you were now, you had been exceedingly dead before.

Time travel? A divine boon? Some fucked up mechanism of a dying brain that felt like eternity but was in actuality a few seconds?

Whatever it is, you’re unsure whether to be grateful or spiteful that you’ve been spat out on the tail end of your parents' murders. Maybe if it had been a few weeks earlier, you could have—

Could have what? The sardonic voice in your head chimes. Saved them? Not likely. You might have come from a family of heroes, but you weren’t one of them. Sure, you’d been drilled in the basics for your own safety, fat lot of good that did you, but you weren’t like Bruce or any of the horde of children you’d welcomed into your home.

You weren’t a hero. You weren’t the kind of person who deserved the cosmic do-over you’d seemingly been granted. You weren’t anything special, so why you?

The insistent call of your name pulls you from your self-imposed trance. Looking up, you fight the urge to sneer at the sight of a boy you’ve said maybe two sentences to in your entire life, perched on the edge of your desk.

“So, Wayne.” He starts, like his very presence is doing you a favour, “doing anything for Valentine’s day?”

Valentines? You startle a little. January had only just started, what did—unless, had you really lost that much time?

Taking your stunned silence as flustered shock, the boy, whose name you could not for the life of you recall, leaned in close even as you scooted your chair back to avoid the assault of your personal space. “Lucky for you, neither am I, so what do you say we—”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Rude, yes, the past you would undoubtedly be horrified at the breach in social decorum, but these days you find yourself running short of the seemingly endless patience you must have previously possessed.

Distantly, you realise that all surrounding chatter has died down, a few people outright bursting into snickers at the free schadenfreude suddenly on offer for their viewing pleasure. The boy, because that’s what he is, a little boy who’ll spend his entire life in daddy’s shadow, colours red at an impressive rate, genial mask dropping to reveal the true form beneath.

“Excuse me, you uppity bitch? I was doing you a favour since you have no friends—”

“A favour? I doubt that.” You drawl, too tired to deal with little boys and their fragile egos. You’ve already done this song and dance more times than you could ever possibly count; it’s not particularly new or original material.

“You—You bitch! My dad’s going to hear all about this!”

That’s enough to elicit a snicker of your own. Now that you think about it, the boy did bear a remarkable resemblance to a certain character from a once-beloved childhood series. Not that the reference would mean much to this crowd, had the books even been written yet?

And there’s a thought, what if you wrote it first? What then, Joanne? What popularity would she use to stand on her shitty soapbox to spread her shitter opinions? What then indeed?

Unfortunately, the ethical quandaries of plagiarism via intimate future knowledge are placed on hold when Not-Malfoy (future nickname pending) opens his mouth to squeak some more, and your fist rears back, and you sock him in the nose without conscious decision.

Ah hell.

Then again, staring at the boy’s sprawled form on the linoleum floor as he cupped his impressively bleeding nose with a shriek that was nearly high enough in pitch to be undetectable to human ears, a tendril of satisfaction unfurls in your chest.

Perhaps there was something to this whole punching people thing after all.

Predictably, you are swiftly dealt a detention. It would have been worse, but pulling the ‘recently murdered parents’ card apparently does wonders for one's prospective punishment options.

You’ve never had a detention in your life, and your knuckles sting unpleasantly where you’d cracked the skin unexpectedly, but suddenly you suspect it won’t be your last.

Despite the record of infractions, detentions and that one minor stint behind bars (really, it was only a few minutes, Bruce, calm down), college is a lot easier the second time around. Gone is the studious, conscientious media darling this world would never know, but your grades are exceptional, and your family’s wealth guarantees a spot in whichever course your heart desires.

Medicine is different to law, but you’ve danced the college freshmen steps before, and you’ve got experience most of your cohort will never come close to experiencing.

The warmth of Bruce’s blood lingers on your fingertips, nitrile gloves cling as if they perpetually belong on your hands, and stitches could practically be done with your eyes closed.

The board members of Wayne Enterprises respect you a lot less because of your lack of accredited business acumen, but you’ve got insider information, cheat codes, and it leaves you confident enough in your position to pursue the medical degree you’ll need to aid Bruce’s future crusade instead.

Though try as you might to steer him away from the inevitable nightlife of capes and bat gadgets, you fear your near “delinquency” this time around has only encouraged him, if anything.

And sure enough, Bruce leaves Gotham, just as previously scheduled, and though you’ve done this before, you still clutch him tightly, tears lining your lashline as you struggle to let him go. He lets you, ever indulgent of your affection, as he promises to write.

You know he won’t, but you wave him off with a strained smile regardless, ever the indulgent big sister.

Perhaps you should have put more thought into it, what would happen if (when) you ever encountered Harvey Dent again, but like many things from your first life, you’d refused to think about it. About him. About the love you’d shared, the pain he’d caused.

Not the healthiest approach, but what could you tell a therapist? So you’d simply subscribed to the time-honoured Wayne family tradition: intense repression, and called it a day.

Standing next to him now, however, you abruptly realise you really should have given it more thought. Because it’s Harvey, the man you’d fallen in love with, the man who still held your heart despite it all, the man who wasn’t the monster yet, and you can’t help but wonder, could you save him? Call him yours again? Hold him in your arms just one more time?

Different roommate, different social circle, different party and yet, somehow, someway, you end up on the same damn beer pong team. As if fate herself had intervened, inevitably pushing you toward the man you’d once called husband, and when you’d tripped on the carpet, into his arms.

You wonder what he must think of you, the Wayne heiress, awkward and unable to tear your gaze away from him, as if you’d never seen a boy before. How your breath hitches a little when his arm brushes yours, and your heart clenches painfully when he throws you that boyish grin you’d always been doomed to fall for.

Somehow, you pull it together enough to win the game, but there’s no elated victory hug this time. You don’t dare to jump into his arms for the fear you’ll never let go, or worse, break down in front of the massive audience you’ve accrued. Instead, you simply shoot him what you hope is a dazzling smile, thanking him for the game before promptly turning tail and all but running away.

Like the coward you always have been.

Greedily, you drink in the cool night air that hits your skin as you stumble outside, stepping over discarded plastic cups as you walk down a few steps before taking a seat. The thrum of the bass rattles the door frame, the music muffled but still legible as you close your eyes, resting your forehead on your knees as you fight to stave off the impending panic attack.

It takes a few minutes, but you manage to calm your breathing just as the door creaks open. Assuming it’s someone leaving, you shuffle sideways to create space but don’t otherwise look up. That is, until a warm body sits beside you, and it’s Harvey’s voice that greets you.

Jolting upward, you're unsure exactly what your face is doing, but you hope you’re not gaping like a wide-eyed idiot. Whatever your expression, your response is a very inelegant, “huh?”

He blinks, concern in his furrowed brows, and you want nothing more than for the Earth to swallow you whole, “Are you okay? You ran off pretty quickly, didn’t even get your name.”

“What? Oh—No, I’m—I’m good, just needed some air. It’s crowded, is all.” You lamely answer, hardly close to convincing.

It takes a few beats before you realise he’s waiting patiently, and you jolt, introducing yourself and hoping he doesn’t further worry about your mental capacity.

Harvey’s smile is blinding, and it takes biting the inside of your cheek bloody to distract from the tears threatening to form.

You feel untethered, off balance, nothing of the previously composed ice queen who’d headed Wayne industries for over a decade.

It’s pathetic—you’re pathetic—and yet, Harvey’s still smiling like the sun, and suddenly nothing else matters.

“Something on my face?”

“Not at all.” You shake your head, chin resting on your palm as you stare softly, desperately trying to immortalise this moment in your memory, “It’s just—you have a beautiful smile.”

It’s Harvey’s turn to flush, pink rushing to his cheeks as a hand reaches to cup the back of his neck, a nervous tick he’d grow out of.

“Pretty sure I’m the one who should be saying that.”

“Wha? That you’re beautiful?” You tease, nudging his knee with yours and easily falling into an old rhythm long thought lost.

“Yeah—Wait, no, I mean, you’re beautiful—Gorgeous even. When you disappeared like that I knew I’d regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t find you again.”

“You—charmer.” You huff, heart pounding in your throat as you try to remember how to breathe, “bet you say that to all the pretty girls.”

“Never.” His skin pinkens again, “I’m not usually this forward, especially not with women clearly so far out of my league, but—”

“Coffee.” You interrupt, even though you know it’s a terrible idea, but by dictating the terms, you’re allowing yourself the illusion of control: “Buy me a coffee, and we’ll go from there.”

“Really? I mean—coffee, absolutely!” Harvey grins like he’s won the lottery, and you think you never stood a chance.

You shouldn’t entertain it. Shouldn’t give him the time of day, should protect your pathetic, weak heart from the inevitable.

But if you’re being truthful with yourself, you were doomed the moment you laid eyes on Harvey Dent.

Because deep down, you’re a coward, but more than that, you’re selfish.

Coffee comes and goes, and you know you should nip this in the bud, but coffee turns to lunch, turns to dinners, turns to half a year of dating, and you know as surely as you breathe that Harvey Dent is a part of you.

He’s burrowed beneath your skin and taken up residence in your heart to rest there forever. You lie awake in his arms, torn between cursing gods you refuse to put your faith in and deluding yourself into believing that it’s meant to be.

Why else would you be granted this opportunity? This gift? If not to right past wrongs and miserable failures.

And if sometimes Harvey comes home in a foul mood from work, just a twinge of something darker lining his gaze before it disappears at your touch? Well, denial’s a hell of a drug.

You take all the necessary precautions, spending nights trawling through your memories and cursing yourself for being so forgetful.

You convince Harvey to move into the manor with you, warn Alfred of potential surprises in the mail, leave anonymous tips for Gordon and if some scumbag or gang member ends up on your table under the knife? Well, nobody’s going to accuse you of being the reason they never wake up.

It scares you a little at first, the sudden and unexpected lengths you’ll go for your now fiancé, but then Harvey will smile at you, lavish you in the love you’ve been so starved for, and you find you’ll do whatever it takes to keep him.

Bruce Wayne returns to Gotham in the early twilight hours of a random Thursday morning, hoping to avoid the bother of the paparazzi. Alfred’s not there to greet him at the door, but it’s only the sudden thought of waiting to see his sister that has him slightly regretting his decision.

The manor is quiet. Both you and Alfred are no doubt asleep, so Bruce thinks he can be forgiven for not expecting to see anyone else in his kitchen at the ripe hour of 3 am, let alone a shirtless man he’s never clapped eyes on in his life.

His eyes trail over the litany of bruises and bite marks decorating the man’s neck as the two silently size each other up, and he’s overcome with the urge to break this fucker’s nose.

“Bruce. You’re back.” The man raises his brows, glass of water forgotten on the kitchen island as Bruce fights to maintain a genial mask. Then he spots the golden band on the man’s ring finger, and all sense of decorum is lost.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” He channels all rich boy snobbery as he stares down the interloper, trying not to frown as the man chuckles because that look is all you.

“Harvey Dent, your sister's fiancé. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Charmed.” Bruce wrinkles his nose; he hates this guy already.

To Bruce’s dismay, you and Harvey are married within the month, as you’ve no further reason to delay. He tries not to frown during your vows and can’t help but wonder if he should have stayed away longer or never left in the first place.

Bruce’s return starts the countdown, and you desperately try not to let the tension lining your being show, because it all comes down to these upcoming months.

Ultimately, nothing you do will matter if Sal Maroni throws that acid.

Briefly, you contemplate taking him out of the equation altogether, tabling the idea only when you realise it would leave the future open, too unpredictable.

The first night you contemplate outright murder, you don’t sleep, staring at the ceiling in horror as Harvey nuzzles into your neck, wondering just when you’d become so callous.

The bodies pile up as Holiday remains at large, and you can feel Harvey slipping away from you. His frustration is slowly morphing into something darker you’ve been trying to deny.

You don’t sleep, dark circles beneath your eyes barely hidden with even the best makeup, it’s a testament to how far you’ve strayed from Harvey and Bruce that neither comments.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, hideous resentment burning beneath your ribcage, and sometimes you think you hate them both.

Tears always follow such thoughts, accompanied by a bottle of wine, as you wonder what you’ve done to deserve this. Even then, you know you’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

Months pass by in an anxious fog until the moment Harvey comes home early, the first time you can recall since Holiday, with a huge grin and your favourite flowers.

Sal Maroni’s going to testify.

You swallow back the bile and return Harvey’s smile, allowing yourself to relish in his sudden affection; you’ve always been a good actor.

The day of the trial arrives after a sleepless night, and though Harvey’s a little surprised at your insistence on accompanying him to the courthouse, he doesn’t question it.

Excusing yourself to the bathroom with a kiss on Harvey’s cheek, you hurriedly make your way to the courthouse basement, heart hammering rapidly.

It’s not until you arrive and realise Maroni’s already been moved, likely already has the acid, that you realise you’ve gravely miscalculated. There’s no plan, just sheer panic flowing through your veins as you run, heels echoing off the stone floors as you ignore the odd looks thrown your way.

You don’t recall things happening this quickly the first time. How long had it taken you to get to the cells? How much time had you wasted already? Bursting through the closed courtroom doors, all eyes turn to you, but yours are on Maroni.

The judge scowls, opening his mouth, but you don’t hear the reprimand, feet already moving as you sprint down the aisle. A security guard attempts to catch you, but you easily duck beneath his arms, Harvey’s staring at you in bewilderment, stepping closer as Maroni’s hand slides out of his jacket, flask in hand as Harvey remains painfully unaware.

Your hand latches around his wrist, tugging him forward and making him stumble. The momentum you’ve gathered carries you forward, straight into the path of Sal’s moving arm. It’s all you can do to turn your face to the side, throwing your arm up as a measly manner of protection.

A horrid, blood-curdling screech pierces the air, and it’s not until you look up to see Harvey’s terrified face that you realise you're on the floor. The pain is agonising, an all-encompassing burn that lights your nerves on fire. Harvey’s hands cup your face, trying to keep you still as his mouth moves, forming words you can’t hope to hear over the high-pitched ringing in your ears. Your vision blurs, a mess of tears and black spots dancing across your eyes until, blessedly, you pass out.

You come to in a hospital bed, pink-tinged bandages hugging your torso, jaw, and left arm. Harvey is absent from your bedside, a silent, damning message that feels like mockery.

You’ve failed.

You don’t want to ask Bruce where he is; the tightness in the corner of his eyes is evidence enough, and yet your mouth moves without your permission, asking the placid question anyway. If this life has taught you anything, it’s that you’re a glutton for punishment.

Bruce’s already weak smile dims, fingers flexing and clenching, and you can already tell he’s going to try to dissuade you, but you’re just as stubborn as he is. And Bruce has always struggled to deny you.

“Harvey, he—when you passed out—in the chaos, he somehow got hold of one of the officer's guns.” Bruce sighs, running a hand down his face, barely managing to meet your gaze, “Sal Maroni’s dead.”

“So he’s in jail then?” Even as you say it, you know it’s a futile hope. How many times had he broken out of Arkham again?

Bruce throws you an odd glance, and belatedly, you realise maybe you should have freaked out a little more, cried, thrown out steadfast denials that Harvey would never do such a thing, but you’re not sure you have the energy to pretend anymore.

“...no.”

It’s just a single word, and yet you hadn’t realised how much power ot held, not until you’re throwing your head back in hysterical laughter. Truly, your existence is nothing more than a cruel joke.

Your fingers and toes have long since lost sensation, you're not dressed appropriately for the frigid Gotham Winter, and yet you barely notice, barely remember how you even got to the park.

It’s nothing short of a miracle. Ever since you’d been discharged from the hospital, you couldn’t move an inch without Bruce fussing over you. It’s a testament to how exhausted he must be, that you’ve slipped out of the manor unnoticed.

You’re not sure how long you sit, withering in the cold, nor do you recall your reasoning for stopping in the first place, when a jacket is suddenly dropped around your shoulders.

Absent-mindedly, your fingers reach up to clutch the lapels, only to freeze at the familiar scent you somehow manage to pick up through the frigid cold. Gazing at the ground, you see his shoes first, a pair you remember buying for him.

“Harvey.” It’s a croaked whisper, an unintended acknowledgment.

A gloved pair of hands cup your face, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Darling, it’s freezing, what are you doing out here?”

It’s absurd, the genuine love and concern shining through his gaze, that for the first time since that night in hospital, you can’t help but laugh.

“I’ve not seen you in months, and that’s the first thing you say?”

He has the decency to wince at least, thumbs still tracing gentle circles on your cheekbones. “I deserve that, but can you blame me for being concerned, love? you’re still my wife.”

Harvey drops to his knees before you, a manic sort of desperation colouring his features as he hips your hands tightly, “can’t you see, this is all for you!”

“I didn’t ask for this.” You murmur weakly, trying not to cry.

“What would you have had me do? Let Maroni get away with it?” He snarls, jaw clenched as his eyes trail down your scarred jaw and neck.

“I would’ve had my husband by my side, not on the run and wanted for murder.” You hiss, trying to pull your hands free, only for Harvey to tighten his grip.

“You’ll still have me.” He insists. “I’ll finish my work here and then we can go anywhere you want, just us.”

You stare disbelievingly, wondering how he’d spiralled so rapidly. At your lack of response, his fingers twitch in your grip, face turned to the side as he starts to mumble to himself, and just like that, the last vestiges of hope you hadn’t realised you’d still been holding onto, shatter.

“Dent!” You startle at the angry address, throwing a look behind you to find Batman barreling toward you.

Cursing, Harvey presses a quick kiss to your forehead, murmuring that you’d be together soon before taking off into the night.

Predictably, your brother lets him escape in favour of fretting over you, failing miserably in his attempt to act simply as a concerned citizen.

“Bruce.” If it weren’t for the situation, you may have laughed at the way he stills.

“Miss, I—”

“Don’t.” And then in an echo of the words you’d once spoken, “I know you, Bruce. You stopped being able to hide things from me long ago.”

Despite this, you feel no conviction in the words. You feel like an impostor, because what once was true was no longer. How could it be? Your hardly spoken to Bruce since his return to Gotham, too wrapped up in your own anxieties and Harvey.

“You should have gone after him.”

“We’ll find him. You’re more important.” Bruce refutes, and you have to bite back the remark that no, he won’t, not until it’s far too late. You were suspicious enough after the acid incident; it was just your luck that nobody wanted to question you too much after the tragic outcome.

(You’d thought the acid was the punchline, but no, that comes months later when Batman pulls Harvey Dent free from the fire, that consumes the remaining Falcone family members, half his body ravaged by the flames.)

You’d not gone to see Haly’s circus the first time. You don’t even remember the significance of the event Bruce’s dragged you to in a desperate bid to cheer you up. It’s not until you’re staring down at the bodies of Mary and John Grayson as an inconsolable Richard wails into the night air that you realise you’ve failed yet another person.

It’s easy enough to slip through the screaming crowd, ignoring Bruce’s quiet order to stay put as you locate a hysterical Dick Grayson. He sits in the back of an open ambulance, legs dangling and shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders and hiccuping through unrelenting sobs—alone.

Silently, you slide in next to him, an open palm facing upward on your thigh in quiet invitation. He hesitates briefly, staring at you with wide untrusting eyes, before ultimately clutching your fingers in an unrelenting grip.

“They weren’t—They didn’t just fall. They were murdered, I swear!” You’re a little startled when he manages to speak through the sobs, glancing down at him for the first time since you’d sat, only to find him staring up at you pleadingly.

Slowly, you wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him to rest against your chest, “I believe you.”

He’s tiny, smaller than you can ever recall him being and your heart clenches painfully at the thought of the boy who’d brought so much joy into your life suffering.

Suffering because you’d known. You’d known his parents were going to fall. You’d known and you’d let it happen anyway.

Bile burns in your esophagus, hand trembling as you gently stroke Dick’s hair, as if you had the right to offer such comfort.

It’s not Bruce who brings home a tiny, traumtised ward this time and it’s not Bruce who’ll have the final say when it comes to his vigilante life.

It it were up to you, then none of the kids would ever don bright colours and take to throwing themselves head first into danger.

Alas, on his fourteenth birthday, Bruce takes an excited Dick on his first patrol of many.

(You insist on the pants, though)

Though it’s not as a result of an explosive argument between Bruce and Dick, the boy still moves out, taking up the Nightwing mantle and a large part of your heart with him.

Perhaps it’s this loneliness, perhaps it’s simply fate that sees you stumbling across a young Jason Todd mid tyre theft.

You weren’t supposed to be out, not with Harvey’s recent Arkham escape, and seeing the Batmobile should’ve had you fleeing in the opposite direction lest Bruce find you and have a conniption.

But then you see him, hood drawn up and face not visible but you know in your bones it’s Jason.

You approach slowly, footsteps audible and what you hope is an easy going smile plastered across your face, “hey kid, you hungry?”

He startles, gripping the tyre iron with white knuckles and you have to fight the tears that threaten to drown your vision at the sight of his young, unmarried face.

“Who’re you?” He eyes you warily and you force yourself to stay open and relaxed despite the heartache.

“The lady who’ll get you dinner, if you let me.”

“Why?” He scoffs, “what’s in it for you?”

“Nothing.” You lie easily with a shrug. Jason clearly doesn’t believe you, waiting and watching warily for the other shoe to drop even as the two of you step into the nearest open fast food chain.

Emboldened by the presence of witnesses in the form of disgruntled employees, Jason orders an obscene amount of food, waiting for you to get annoyed or show your true colours, but you simply indulge him with a smile.

Jason is skittish, distrustful and wary of adults in a way that makes you want to hunt down every person responsible, and you’re no Batman, don’t have that automatic trust inspiring authority. He won’t come home with a stranger after a single meeting, and though you worry relentlessly for him, you’re willing to take things at Jason’s pace, to build that trust.

You spend many nights in the Bowery, bringing with you food and clothes for the heartbreakingly high population of unhoused children. (Coincidentally, Batman is now a near constant presence, much to the children’s delight.)

It’s nearing the end of your third week earning Jason’s trust when the sleek black car with tinted windows rolls up beside you, the passenger door flings open, blocking your path as you turn and push Jason behind you. “Mrs Dent,” a well dressed man in a two toned suit steps out, opening the car’s back door and gesturing for you to get in, “the boss would like a word.”

Though his expression is genial enough, you know it’s not a request you can deny, not when you spot the gun resting casually in his waistband. You doubt he’d harm you, Harvey would kill him for it, but it’s your doubt for Jason’s same immunity that has you agreeing easily enough.

A small hand fists in the back of your shirt, halting your movement. Turning, your hands cup his cheeks, the touch far more familiar than anything you’d previously dared to dry, “Jay, you’ve got to let me go, sweetheart.”

A trembling hand latches onto your coat again as he shakes his head, and you swallow back the panic at the thought of the man with the gun becoming too impatient.

“You can’t.” Then softer, whispered with urgency, “those are Two Face’s goons!”

“I know, honey, but everything’s fine, I’ll be all right. H—he won’t hurt me.”

This shouldn’t be happening. It hadn’t happened before, but even completely blind as you are, Harvey had never hurt you.

“You don’t know that, Two Face is—”

“My husband.” The words taste sour but it makes them no less true. Despite Bruce’s insistence you should file for divorce, let yourself move on, you could never bring yourself to do so. Not when you knew it would send Harvey into a spiral he’d never come back from. “I’ll be ok.”

Leaning down, you press a kiss to his forehead, forcing yourself to avoid looking at him again before you slide into the leather backseat. Just before your escort can close the door on you, Jason’s jumping in beside you, glaring at the driver who simply shrugs.

“Jay, please—” Evidently, your escorts have had enough waiting, as the door slams closed and the car’s taking off before the man’s even settled back into his seat. You could throttle him for being so reckless, instead, you pull him close, clutching him like you can shield him from everything.

The ride is completed in tense silence, your skin prickling with anxiety as you try to put on a brave face for Jason, who’s trying to put on a brave face for you. Too soon, the car is stopping, the driver siding out from his seat to open the door for you as you and Jason are ushered inside what you quickly realise is some sort of speakeasy.

It’s devoid of patrons, and you’re a little surprised at the lack of armed guards, though you’re not so naive to think they don’t exist. Besides, the two men with guns behind you marching you forward into the establishment are enough to ensure you won’t even try anything, not with Jason glued to your side.

Not when Harvey, seated at the bar, looks up at the noise of your entrance, drink halfway brought to his mouth forgotten in an instant as he stands, swiftly closing the distance. There’s a wild look in his mismatched eyes as he studies you head to toe, as if trying to fing a single hair out of place.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him in person since he’s been burned, and Harvey, noticing your staring must mistake it for something else, “they’re unseemly, I know.”

Before you can think better of it, your own scarred hand lightly brushes against his cheek, throat tight and eyes stinging as you softly shake your head, “Not at all.” Realising what you’ve unintentionally done, you quickly try to pull your hand back, only for Harvey to grab your wrist, leaning into your touch for a few moments before he pulls you close, trapping you in an almost bruising hug.

You yelp a little at the unexpected movement, causing Jason to bristle, and before he can open his mouth and potentially trigger the nasty temper you know Harvey’s capable of, you reach back and squeeze his hand as best you can. Desperately hoping to convey that you’re ok, and for Jason to keep quiet.

“Missed you. Dreamed of this, dreamed of touching you again every night. Was the only thing that kept me going in that hellhole.” He murmurs fervently, pulling back just enough so he can cup your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him, “Tell me you missed me too, darlin.”

“I—I’ve missed you too, Harvey. More than anything.” You croak, guilt and shame burning heavy in your chest at the realisation your easy confession isn’t a lie.

“Please don’t cry, my love, you know I hate it when you do.” His thumbs brush away the tears that had started to slide down your cheeks, but to your horror, they just won’t stop. “There’s no need to cry, we’re together again, just like I always said we’d be.”

If anything, his words make you want to cry harder. “You can’t be serious Harvey—”

“Why not? I’ll even let the boy stay, I know you’re fond of him.” At the acknowledgement of Jason you freeze, tugging him closer into your back like it’ll hide his presence. “You won’t go to the Bowery anymore.”

“Harvey—”

“No.” He hisses, a hysterical gleam in his eyes that fades just as quickly when he notices you tense. “What were you thinking? You know how dangerous it is, especially at night. What if someone had gotten to you before I did? Do you have any idea what that would have done to me? If anything happened to you, I’d burn this city, and everyone in it, to the ground.”

You blink, heart pounding rapidly in your chest as his thumbs still rub soothing circles across your cheekbones. The tender gesture in direct opposition to the terrifying certainty of his words.

There’s a lump in your throat that won’t disappear, no matter how hard you swallow. Your tongue darts out, wetting suddenly dry lips as you try to formulate a response, missing the way Harvey’s eyes follow the movement, and suddenly, he’s swallowing your noise of surprise when he closes the distance, kissing you fervently.

You’re frozen, knowing you shouldn’t give in, but so desperately wanting to. Your fingers clutch his suit jacket, neither pulling him closer nor pushing him away even as your brain screams at you to do so.

The distinct sound of glass shattering forces Harvey to pull away, a furious sneer covering his face at the interruption as you try to turn and locate the source. Before you could even blink, the two men who’d practically kidnapped you were on the floor, unconscious, and a hulking form of muscle and shadow was pushing you and Jason behind him.

“Batman, this doesn’t concern you.” Harvey snarls, gun already in hand, as the two men size each other up.

Taking the opportunity, you hurriedly rush Jason to the exit, pulling out your phone and pulling up Gordon’s contact number as you press the device into his hand. “Jay, listen carefully to me ok. I need you to call this man, tell him what’s happening, he’s the police commissioner, but I trust him with my life.”

Slowly, he nods, clearly wary of the GCPD, but willing to trust your word. Exhaling a breath of relief, you press another kiss to his forehead, “and I need you to run, get somewhere safe, okay?”

Immediately, he frowns, shaking his head, “What about you?” and you want to curse his stubborn nature.

“I’ll be fine. If I go with you, then H—Two Face will try to come after us. Everything will be alright, don’t you trust me?”

Jason stares at you searchingly, lips turned downward, and brows furrowed as he seemingly tries to come up with some reason to get you to come with him. “Please, Jay.”

Hesitantly, he nods, and before you can react, he’s thrown his arms around you in a quick hug, pulling away far too quickly for your taste, phone raised to his ear as he takes off down the street.

Sighing a breath of relief, you turn back to the fight, only to nearly scream at the sight of Harvey, nearly motionless on the ground as Bruce continues to lay into him. Closing the distance in record time, you latch onto his arm with a scream before he can bring his fist down again, “Batman! Batman stop! You'll kill him!”

Bruce is breathing heavily, muscles straining, and a nauseating amount of blood staining the knuckles of his suit. You can’t see his eyes through the white lenses, but you’re sure they’re wild and unfocused as you try not to sob for what feels like the tenth time in less than an hour, “I’m fine! I’m okay, he didn’t hurt me, please just stop.”

You watch as he fights to compose himself, no doubt studying your frame just as Harvey had done not so long ago in an attempt to find even an ounce of a lie.

Harvey grunts, still somehow clinging to consciousness, and you turn in time to witness his fingers close around the handle of the gun Batman had knocked out of his grasp seconds ago.

It’s like your body’s on autopilot, there’s no conscious thought as you step in front of your brother for what you distantly realise is the third time. Harvey’s eyes widen, a scream of denial on his lips as he tries to stop the sequence of events he’s unintentionally started, but it’s too late. His finger’s already curled around the trigger, and you’ve already shoved your little brother out of the way.

Standing as close as you are, it happens in a fraction of a second, the bullet piercing your skin before either man can properly register what’s happened.

Your knees buckle, hitting the lacquered floor as a hand instinctively clutches your chest, like it might somehow prevent the spreading bloom of red across your clothes.

Between one blink and the next, you’re on the floor, head resting on Harvey’s lap as he hysterically screams at a frozen Batman to do something. You choke, ears ringing so fiercely you can’t hope to hear Harvey’s frantic pleas as he tries to stop the bleeding.

Weakly you reach up, placing your bloody hands atop his, lips parting as you manage to wheeze out that it’s not his fault.

His face drops, an eerie emptiness taking hold that you can’t bear to see. You still can’t hope to hear the commotion around you, even as Bruce’s hands tug at you, but somehow, through the blood swiftly filling your lung you manage to speak one last time, “Harv—Harvey. S’ok. Love you.”

Your eyes flicker closed before you can see his expression shatter, tears flooding down his cheeks and dropping onto your face. Distantly, you feel him lift you into his arms, ragged sobs wet against the cool skin of your neck.

Harvey’s always been so warm, yet now with his body curled around yours, all you feel is unrelenting cold.

The last coherent thought you manage to string together before the darkness pulls you under again is that, oh, you’ve lied to Jason.

Your heavy eyelids flicker open, and though it’s dark, you can still make out the ceiling of your childhood bedroom, staring mockingly down at you.

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