divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto
word count: 2k
synopsis: The goddess of love. The god of war. A love that even death couldn’t end.
a/n: Still working through requests! Work’s been kicking my ass lately, and for some reason, my brain decided to spiral into a Greek mythology mood. A little different from my usual writing and sorry if it feels rushed.
On the marble steps of your rose-draped temple, you the goddess of love stood still as stone, watching the sun bleed across the sky. It set in streaks of gold and crimson—colours that once reminded you of warmth, of flushed cheeks and tangled limbs, of whispered promises spoken beneath starlight. Now, they only reminded you of blood. Of his blood.
Jason.
The name still ached when it crossed your thoughts, still clung to the edges of your immortal heart like the scent of a dying flower. Jason, the mortal born so beautiful even the gods were jealous. Jason, whose laugh rang like bells in your ears. Jason, who looked at you not with awe, but affection. Not like a deity, but a woman.
The two of you had danced in fields of lavender, lay beneath silken skies, whispered secrets into each other’s skin. you, divine and eternal. He, gloriously human. And though you both knew the tragedy of that pairing, you dared to hope. Dared to love. For he was promised by the head of the pantheon, Bruce the God of night and Justice that he would be ascended to godhood.
But mortals die. Even beautiful ones.
Before he could be ascended, he fell—brutally beaten and cut down by a jealous god who dared believe that, in his absence, you might turn your affections elsewhere—you wept until rivers rose and gardens withered. The earth mourned with you, the skies dulling to ash, as though the heavens themselves recognized the injustice of his death.
The other gods whispered that you’d gone mad. That you were foolish to mourn so deeply for a mortal man.
But none of them had known Jason like you had.
The centuries passed like mist—soft, aimless, unbearably hollow. No touch warmed your skin. No glance stirred your spirit. No heart called to your’s the way his once had.
And for that arrogant god who thought you so fickle, so shallow, as to discard the truest love you had ever known…You made him pay for his foolishness.
Death, you decided, was far too kind. Instead, you wanted him to suffer eternal torment and cursed him with a mania so strong he would never know peace. Never to know what the warmth of love would feel like yet forever aching for it, forcing him to search for it like a man in a desert parched for water.
He burned offerings at temples you never visited. Tore open his own chest seeking your favour. Begged the stars, the sea, the wind—to return what he had destroyed.
But love had turned its back on him.
Because he had defiled it.
His passion became prison. His desire, disease. And you watched from afar—silent, unblinking—as mania bloomed like a vine around his soul and slowly choking away the god he once was because compared to you, he was nothing. Seldom was a force stronger than love and he scorned the very embodiment of it.
No god dared to go against your punishment. The gods, in all their hubris, had all forgotten that love and war were not so different. Passion. Devotion. Ruin. Your soft beauty and lilting laughter had made them forget that beneath the silks and sweetness, you too were considered to be apart of the deities of war. Just as capable of wrath as you were of love. Your's was the battlefield of hearts, and you had long since learned that love—real love—was worth waging war over.
Yet, no amount of vengeance could fill the hole left in your heart, forcing centuries you grieved. Because even with your enemy broken, it did not bring him back.
Jason was gone.
Your temples faded into shadow. The world moved on, colder now, more empty. You wandered through centuries draped in sorrow, a goddess without purpose. Love came and went in mortals like tides against the shore—brief, fleeting, insubstantial.
Until one day, the earth rumbled with a new name.
The mortals whispered it in fear. One unlike the other gods. A scarred brute, they said, who neither sought glory nor revelled in carnage for sport. He did not charge into battle for honour or conquest. He moved like a storm driven only by rage and something darker—revenge.
They said he was mad. That vengeance had hollowed him out and filled the void with fury.
It was in the smoke-choked ruins of a battlefield—where the sky split with thunder and the ground ran slick with blood—that the gods gathered. They came not with swords drawn, but with questions. To see for themselves the new god born of vengeance and death. To witness if he would be friend or foe. To determine whether he was to be welcomed… or destroyed.
And then he stepped through the haze.
You staggered.
Your breath left you.
Because it was him.
Jason.
But not the Jason you had known—not the boy who pressed wildflowers into your hands or traced constellations across your bare skin with laughter in his eyes. That boy had been soft in the ways only mortals could be. He had lived with wonder in his heart and warmth in his touch.
That boy was gone.
Death had stripped him bare. It had carved the softness from his bones and replaced it with steel. It had turned his heart into something fiery and full of anger. Whatever mercy had once dwelled in him had long since been buried beneath the weight of pain.
He had been reborn in divine fire, not as the son of justice he was meant to become, but as something else entirely—something terrible, something untouchable. The boy you had loved was now a deity of war, the God of Death and Vengeance.
He hadn’t remembered his past at first. Not fully. Dreams came in shards—flashes of golden fields, of laughter and soft hands, of a voice that called his name with devotion. Yet, the sight of you brought forth more of the shattered remains of what life he once had lived.
You whispered his name, no louder than a breath, the one word filled with shock and reverence. The gods fell silent. None dared speak as you stepped forward—toward the once-mortal, the boy who had been your undoing, the man death had remade. You didn’t wait. Didn’t care what it meant or how he came to be.
You crossed the blood-soaked earth barefoot, unflinching. The ruin of war clung to your feet, but you moved as if drawn by fate, as if the threads of your soul had never stopped pulling toward his.
Your gaze devoured him, taking in the new divine version of him. Your hand lifted, trembling, and you pressed your palm to his cheek. He was taller now. Armoured. Broad-shouldered and blood-streaked, his golden skin was no longer unmarked—burns curled along one arm trailing up to his neck, a jagged scar traced up from cheek to brow, and his once-gentle mouth was a hard, unsmiling line. His eyes, once the soft shade of summer storms, now burned like steel in winter.
His jaw tightened beneath your touch.
Among the gathering of gods stood four figures, two of which who had once considered Jason as family.
At the forefront stood Bruce cloaked in shadows and silence. His face betrayed nothing, but the air around him felt taut, like a bow pulled too tight. He had not spoken since Jason stepped through the smoke. He only watched.
It was said Bruce had found Jason in the ruins of a battlefield long ago—an orphaned mortal with enough fire, he dared to steal the wheels of Bruce’s midnight chariot. It was this fire that made Bruce choose to raise him as his own bringing him to Olympus where he eventually met and fell in love with you.
Dick, Bruce’s eldest son, the god of light and duality, also once a mortal ascended to godhood stared at Jason with a gaze was bright with disbelief.
Beside him stood Tim, god of foresight and knowledge, lips pressed thin. His brilliant mind, always quick to calculate, struggled now to reconcile the impossible. His eyes flicked between Jason, you, Bruce, and Dick as if trying to read a history long before his time.
And then there was Damian, youngest and most volatile—god of wrath and beasts. His green eyes narrowed, not in malice, but suspicion. Like Tim, he had never truly known Jason. Not the boy with a crooked smile or the mortal brother with a quick temper and a quicker wit. Jason existed to him only in fragments—in stories passed down in whispers.
And the figure standing before him was no story.
This was the god who ravaged lands, who left cities smouldering in his wake, who painted rivers red with blood. The war-born storm whose fury bent steel and scattered armies.
Not one of them said a word. Because in that moment, they knew, only you would be able to reach him.
“I thought I’d lost you,” you whispered, your thumb brushing gently over the jagged scar that marred his cheek like a bolt of lightning etched into flesh. “He took you from me.”
“He did,” Jason rasped, voice low and raw, torn from somewhere deep inside him. “That man you remember… he’s dead. I remember little of him—just flashes. But one thing has never left me…” His gaze darkened, steel-hard. “…I want the head of the god who killed me.”
You didn’t hesitate.
“He’s yours, if you want him,” you said, voice calm, almost casual in its finality. “Though I already ensured he would suffer eternally for the pain he caused you and I.”
Jason’s eyes slid past your shoulder, lingering on the looming figure of Bruce—the god of night and justice—his divine father. There was a flicker of something in Jason’s gaze, some buried expectation, as if Bruce might protest or claim otherwise.
But Bruce said nothing.
Only his jaw clenched, ever so slightly, as he looked away.
Jason’s focus returned to you. “You would give him to me so freely?”
“I would rip out his heart and place it in your hands if that is what you wished,” you answered without pause, your voice low, unshaking. “I would die for you. I would give you anything you desire.”
Something shifted behind his eyes. A storm, held back for centuries, calmed at the edge. Never would it be fully gone but something about your presence was stilling it. And in that moment, with war’s fire in his blood and your hand on his face, Jason realized one thing. He had been reborn not just by rage, not only by death—but by the echo of a love so powerful, it had called him back from the ashes.
His expression cracked. Just barely. A flicker of the man he had been.
“The man you once knew is gone,” he said quietly.
You lifted your chin, defiantly, beautifully. “Then I’ll love what rose in his place.”
His eyes flickered, but his tone remained cold. “I’m not gentle anymore,” he warned, voice darker now, coiled tight with the weight of all he’d become. “I don’t feel softness. I don’t remember how to be… that.”
“Then be war itself,” you said fiercely, “I’ll still love you.”
Because while you had loved him at his most radiant, this version, forged through pain and fury, was no less worthy. He was not the same—but neither were you. Love had never asked for perfection. Only truth.
His hands—bloodstained, trembling—rose slowly, hesitantly, as though he feared you were a mirage. He caught your wrists, holding them with reverence, with desperation. Then his forehead touched yours, and in that simple gesture, something ancient and sacred passed between you. Something that neither time nor death had managed to sever.
A goddess born of love.
A god reborn of war.
And in his arms, when he finally pulled you close, the goddess of love found her heart again—not in beauty, not in peace, but in ruin and rage, in the bloodied hands of war itself.
They had taken him from you once.
But not again.
You had crossed eternity to mourn him.
Now, you would cross it again to stand beside him.
Because whether mortal or divine, broken or whole, he was still yours.
Arkham Knight!Jason Todd x Female Vigilante Reader
: ̗̀➛ Summary: You hate lying to Jason, but with the Arkham Knight out there, you can’t bring yourself to leave the city and watch as Gotham deteriorates. This new foe must be stopped at all costs, and you were never one to back down from a fight
AKA: You are a vigilante and Jason doesn’t know. Jason is the Arkham Knight and you don’t know.
: ̗̀➛ Word Count: 20.6k
Warnings/Tags: Pre-established relationship, Reader’s backstory is vague but Bruce did not adopt you or anything, your vigilante suit has a mask and hood of some kind but that's all I describe, vigilante name is never specified, for plot reasons the story of the game takes place over multiple days, Arkham Knight Spoilers (but I try and keep all the big ones out of it aside from the obvious), you can read this without extensive knowledge of the games, canon typical violence, AK is kinda mean, bullet wound, I call this the “cautiously optimistic” ending, grammatical errors probably
: ̗̀➛ A/N: HAHAHA YOU PROBABLY THOUGHT I'D VANISH FOR A MONTH BEFORE POSTING A LONG FIC AGAIN. YOU'RE WRONG!!! Also, I know I don't typically write vigilante!reader, but guys TRUST the process. Hope you enjoy the fic :D!
Masterlist
You swallowed nervously as you crouched against a pole for support, eyes gazing over the drones patrolling the streets. “I see at least five near the Diamond District.” You quickly ducked beneath the ledge of the rooftop your on, placing your back firmly against the wall as you watched the red light flash over where you were just looking.
That was close.
“Any sign of him?” Tim asked, and you sneak a look over the ledge.
You shook your head, “He’s not here.” You sighed, frustrated.
Tim seemed to share your frustration, “It’s a shame.”
You scoffed, leaning lazily on the edge of the rooftop as you watch the drones circle the streets below you. “I don’t know what Bruce expects from us. We could be out helping him, but instead he sticks you in lab duty, and me on surveillance duty.” You sat yourself on the edge of the rooftop, feet dangling over the side of the building. “I haven’t surveyed anything we haven’t already been seeing. Bombs, drones, more bombs, even more drones. It’s an endless cycle.”
Tim chuckled lowly, as if saying “You’re telling me.” The two of you sat in silence for a long moment before you stood up. “I’m done with this.” You step off the ledge and back to the rooftop. “If there’s an emergency feel free to contact me, but otherwise I’m going to actually try and get some sleep for once.”
Tim hummed, “Wow, sleep? Hardly know her.” He drawled teasingly, knowing neither of you have slept at all for the past day. It’d been a long night. Ever since he showed up, none of you have truly relaxed. “Got more important things to do then survey the city?”
You pursed your lips, “Yeah, sleep.” You fidgeted with your grapnel gun before launching it, “I don’t understand him sometimes. We’re of no use to anyone like this.” The wind whips past your ears as you moved.
He huffed, “Tell Bruce that. He’s insistent that I work on figuring out this cure when we have bigger issues currently out there.”
You frowned, “If you want, when I wake up we can switch shifts?” You offered hesitantly, landing onto the balcony of your apartment. You didn't hear anybody inside, and you took this as your cue to go inside and quickly change out of your suit.
Jason has always worked late nights for as long as you knew him. It was, frankly, a miracle considering you weren’t sure how you’d explain your nightly escapades. It wasn’t a conversation you were ever going to look forward to, so you delayed it for as long as possible.
“I’ll be alright.” Tim sighed, “I’ll probably just nap on the computer or something.”
You sighed, “Tim.”
“Don’t.” He started, dry amusement evident in his tone despite the snappy words. “I will not hear the ‘Sleep is important’ lecture from you when you’re just as bad as I am.”
You chuckled, “Yeah, yeah, touché." You tone became more serious, “Just don’t forget to take care of yourself, okay?”
He hummed noncommittally, but you know he’s listening. “Of course, have a good night.”
You smiled, “You too.” You took out your comm, putting it in its case before stashing it away with your suit.
Based on Jason’s usual schedule, he’ll be home in a couple hours, which gave you plenty of time to prepare for his arrival.
While you could've just hoped that Jason would never come home early while you were still out, you had decided against that early on. It was too risky, and it was better to just provide and potential explanation why. You had told him that you also worked late nights, and would be out at around the same times he was.
As you go through your post-patrol routine, prepping for bed, you find yourself conflicted. Every night you look at Jason’s side of the bed and wonder if this is the night you tell him. You’ve rehearsed the conversation dozens, if not hundreds of times.
Not once have you taken action to tell him though. A mixture of apprehension and fear of judgment always win, leading to you telling yourself the same lie every night: “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll tell him.”
You never have, and it’s been long enough where you question if you ever will. The longer you wait, the worse it gets, and not just because it’s a big secret. How does it somehow get worse?
You have concluded that Jason does not like Batman. Hell, you would go so far as to say he loathes the vigilante.
While you may not always work with Batman, you do it often enough to the point where it's well known that you have some sort of association with him. It was apart of the (many) excuses you used in order to stall your inevitable confession. You needed to get him “open” to the idea of you working with the hero he detests. Every time you “innocently” inquired why he hates the Bat, Jason would get this far off look, his eyes narrowing in what looked like inner turmoil.
You stopped asking after he snapped at you about it.
In his defense, you had asked the question multiple times in the past (all with no success). You figured that if you kept prying at it, he’d eventually relent. However, you had clearly underestimated how personal his hatred was for Batman. He had left angry that night, fists clenched and whitened at his sides as he threw the door open. You had watched him leave regretfully.
It was a bad night.
That was the night that Scarecrow had first leaked his new Fear Gas to the diner. Millions of people fled the city, and you had felt a sense of dread settle into your chest. You knew, at that moment, that it was going to be a long few nights. That initial night was when you had first heard his name: the “Arkham Knight.”
You only recently started operating in Gotham, so you were accustomed to being unfamiliar with some of the household names in this business. Bruce had (very) reluctantly allowed you to operate in Gotham on your own. He let you do your own thing as long as you agreed to keep him in the loop if anything major happened. This whole Scarecrow and Arkham Knight mess fell into that category, and so the two of you came to an agreement to work with one another for the time being. You had hoped that, with how long Bruce has been doing this, he’d recognize the Arkham Knight. It turned out that not a single one of you had previously heard the name, and if Bruce didn’t know it, that didn’t bode well for the rest of you.
It didn’t take long for you to commit his name to memory. Soon it became the one thing that you focused on. Figuring out who he is. You and Alfred worked on it the most, sifting through files upon files of patients at Arkham who may have a vendetta against Batman (no small number), yet none fit the profile.
“You’re still here?”
You— the trained vigilante you are— jumped as Jason walks into your shared bedroom. He looked worn, just like every night he had left previously. However, he looked considerably more unkempt this time, and he had a stiffness about him. “Why wouldn’t I be? I do live here, you know.” You grinned at him as you made your way into your shared bed.
His mouth parted, and then he frowned. “I just… You know with all the shit that’s going on—” he tilted his head lazily to the window, “—I thought you’d leave.”
You chuckled, more out of surprise than amusement, “You thought I’d leave without telling you?”
He offered a strained smile, silently walking to the bathroom.
You blinked, frowning. Jason was never the most talkative person, and you were content to be the one that carried the conversation between the two in the beginning. As time went on, he opened up more, and more. It felt strange to have him be quiet again, and you did not like it one bit.
“Jay?” You called out his name, standing up from the bed. You knocked gently on the open bathroom door and find him looking at his reflection on the mirror. His eyes snap up on the reflective surface, meeting your own. “You know I wouldn’t leave you, right?” Steadily, you walked up behind him, adjusting your position before leaning your head onto his shoulder and wrapping your arms around him. You don’t squeeze tightly, giving him the opportunity to push you off if he doesn’t want you touching him. He relaxed faintly under your touch, and you basked in his warmth. He’s always warm when he returns from his nights out.
The two of you were silent for a moment, and you looked down at his hands, rough and scarred. Gently, you caressed the skin, and he shuddered lightly. “I…” His sounded conflicted, and you turned your gaze to face him. He didn't return the look. “I think you should leave.”
You froze, staring unblinkingly at his face.
“Leave?” You tested the words in your mouth, they felt unfamiliar. You’re used to never leaving this city, even in times of crisis. Back before you started dating Jason, you had no reason not to stay. You were more useful aiding Gotham.
You never had somebody to prioritize over the city, not until Jason.
And if this is what Jason wanted, then you’ll figure out a way to apologize to Bruce later. You haven't even told him you have a boyfriend. “If that makes you feel better we can leave.”
Jason slowly maneuvered his way out of your grasp. “No,” he shook his head, brows downturned, “I have to stay.”
Your lips parted in surprise, “Jason,” you began slowly, “it’s not worth your life to stay in this city.”
He didn't react to that comment, “I can’t risk you being here when it all goes to shit.” His voice is stronger, colder, calculating. It’s not a tone you hear from him often. Sure, he’s gets mad or frustrated, but this?
You shook your head, “Batman will figure—”
“—Batman,” the words were spat with such venom that your eyes widened, taken aback, "won’t be able to stop this. This is beyond him.”
You furrowed your eyebrows, “How can you be so sure?”
He turned his gaze to you, his eyes set and narrowed. His next words were low, quiet, not out of uncertainty, but more akin to a promise to himself: “He won’t be walking away unscathed after this.”
You took a deep breath, “That…” you swallow, unsure how to proceed, “sounds like a threat to him.”
His expression was unreadable, “He should take it as one. This isn’t a battle he will win.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but he cut you off again. “Leaving is your best option. It’s the safest option.” His eyes softened slightly as he raised a hand to your face, brushing your skin.
You grabbed his hand, “Then let’s leave together. I don’t understand why you feel obligated to stay here.”
He exhaled, shaking his head, “No, no. Don’t you get it? I can’t stay. I have…” He looked into your eyes, trying desperately to get you to understand him. It pained him to look at you, knowing he couldn't ever share his reason why he must stay. “…I have unfinished business here.”
You scoff, “Jason, whatever it is can wait. With all that’s going on with Scarecrow and the Arkha—”
“—You can’t be here for it.” He grounded out, “Please,” he tone turned into a imploring whisper. He shifted his grasp from your hands to your entire forearm. Supporting the weight with his own arms, he met your gaze, “I know— I’m aware I’m giving shitty reasoning, but I cannot do what I have to do if I know you’re in the city and could be in danger. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I heard you got caught in some crossfire.”
You shook your head at him, “Jason— I— How can I know you won’t get caught in the crossfire?”
His gaze turned steely, “I won’t.” He must have sensed your uncertainty, “I will— fuck— I can call you every night. I can give you my location. I will personally find you once I’ve done what I need to do. We can go wherever you want after this. Just please,” he gently raised a hand back up to your face, “please get out while you still can.”
You stared into his eyes, his despair nearly appearing manic. You shifted your focus to his hand cradling your chin, then to him. “I don’t want— I can’t abandon you Jay.”
He vehemently shook his head, “And you won’t. I know you aren’t. I’m asking you to. It’s all I’m asking of you, get yourself out of this mess before it gets worse.”
Your heart settled, and you take a deep breath. Slowly, you remove yourself from his hold, crossing your arms. “You’ll call?”
He nodded emphatically, “Every morning, every night— I’ll— hell— I’ll even answer during work.”
You slowly nodded, “If anything happens—” he opened his mouth to cut you off, but you glared at him, “—do not cut me off again." He swallowed before nodding. “If anything happens. I want you to leave the city at that very moment. I don’t care if your ‘business is unfinished.’ I don’t want you here.”
He was silent for a long moment.
“Jason.” You narrowed your eyes at him, “Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”
Hesitantly, he nodded, “Yeah,” he sounded breathless, “yeah, that’s… fair.”
You sighed, “You better mean that. Otherwise I’ll come back to the city just to drag you out.”
He looked immensely concerned by your words, “…You won’t do that.” At your unwavering expression he coughed lightly, “Please don’t do that.” He amended his statement.
You smiled humorlessly, “Then don’t give me a reason to.” You turned to walk out of the bathroom. Just as you were about to get past the threshold, you placed your hand on the doorframe, turning to face him again.
“Promise me you’ll be careful, Jay.”
His eyes lifted from the ground to meet your own. Still conflicted, but lighter than they were when he entered.
“I promise.” He vowed.
“Wait, you’ve been staying where?”
You lean back in your seat at the Batcomputer, looking at Tim projected on the monitor. “Well, Bruce is out right now. He hasn’t been home for days.” You shrug, “I do not understand what keeps that man going.” You mutter to yourself, shaking your head. “Anyway, I thought I'd just camp in the cave for the next few nights. It’s not like I could actually leave the city.” You sigh, reclining back in the chair.
“Remind me why you even considered doing that? We’re already stretched thin as it is.” Tim frowns.
You look up to Tim, his frown clearly projected on the screen. “Uh…” You cough, “Reasons.”
He walks off screen. “Ah, yes, reasons, very descriptive.” You can hear him rolling his eyes. “You know, it’s really none of my business—”
“—it really isn’t—”
“but it might feel better if you get it off your chest?” Tim returns, offering a small smile. You can vaguely see him working with some blood samples on the left side of the screen.
You twist in your chair, shifting your position to get a better look at him. You lazily rest one leg over the other. “I…” The problem with Tim’s offer is that you do want to talk about it. There’s not many people who could understand your inner conflict, and Tim would be one of the few.
“Don’t feel pressured. It’s just…” he sighs, “Don’t stress yourself too much. That’s Bruce’s job, we don’t need to do it to ourselves too.”
You chuckle, tapping a finger on the armrest of your chair contemplatively. “If… If I tell you—” you scoot closer to the screen, “you gotta swear not to tell Bruce.” You pause for a moment before continuing, “And you can’t look into it.”
Tim raises an eyebrow, but he eventually nods. “If that makes you feel better, then I suppose I can keep a secret.”
You brace yourself, looking around the cave for any third party listeners. Hesitantly, you clear your throat, “I… Hypothetically… have a boyfriend.”
Tim doesn’t outwardly react other than switching his focus from the samples to you. “How hypothetical are we talking?”
“…Not very hypothetical,” you smile sheepishly.
Tim gives you a sympathetic look, and slowly nods. “How long?”
You grimace, “About a year and a half?” You do a so-so motion.
His mouth parts, “Oh,” he blinks, dumbfounded, “so this has been a while.”
“Yeah…” You trail off.
“And Bruce has no idea?”
“No…” You trail off. “Probably not? I think I’ve done a pretty good job hiding it.”
He nods, “Alright, wow. You know the boyfriend thing? Kinda expected that.” He holds his hands up in surrender at your slightly offended look. “It’s not a bad thing. I’m just surprised you haven’t… you know.” He vaguely gestures.
You blink slowly, “No, I don’t. Elaborate, Tim, please.”
He purses his lips, “Uh— Actually forget I said anything.” He pretends to busy himself with the samples. “So, uh, boyfriend huh? Got a name?”
“Most people do, yeah.” You nod, grabbing a pen on the desk and loosely spinning it.
His shoulders sag, and he places the blood samples down. “Oh come on, I already said I won’t tell, and I won’t look into it.”
You stare at him for a moment, assessing him for any lying tells. “You will not say a word or look it up.”
He groans, “Yes, otherwise you’ll kill me or something I don’t know. Honestly, you might have to wait to see if we survive these next few nights in order to do that.” He gives you his full attention, blood sample forgotten.
You snort humorlessly, that's a bit too realistic for you right now. “Alright,” you sigh, “his name is Jason.”
Tim blinks at you, and neither of you say anything for a bit. "Hello?” You hesitantly wave at him. Did the connection go out?
He shakes his head, “No— sorry— yeah, I’m here.” He nods carefully.
You raise an eyebrow, “Something… wrong with that?” You never really heard of Tim having something against the name “Jason,” but you’ve heard stranger things.
“No. I just—” he scratches his neck, “I know somebody by that name… Well—” he frowns, looking off into the distance before shaking his head, “technically I never knew him. I just heard nearly everything about him.”
You raise an eyebrow, a silent inquiry.
He looks down at the table in front of him before looking up again. “He was the— uh— previous Robin.”
You tilt your head, furrowing your eyebrows, “I thought that was Dick?”
He nods, “Dick was the first, but he wasn’t my predecessor.” He crosses his arms, leaning onto the table. “You know that one Robin suit in the cave?”
“Oh,” your eyes flickering over to the Robin suit displayed on instinct. “I… never knew.”
Tim shrugs, “He doesn’t talk about it much. I only know so much cause he kept calling me ‘Jason’ in the beginning.” You wince. You couldn’t help but feel sympathy for everybody involved. Losing Robin, losing a kid like that. It must have been hard on anybody. Then to constantly be compared to him.
“I’m sorry, Tim.” You apologize, voice quiet.
He shakes his head, “I never knew him… Not really anyway. It can't mourn him the same way Bruce, Alfred, or even Dick did. It just wasn’t the same.”
You nod, “Yeah.” You mumble, eyeing the costume.
He exhales, grabbing the blood samples, “Didn’t meant to dampen the mood.” He smiles apologetically at you. “The name just reminded me of him, that’s all.” His begins to work offscreen. “He treat you well?”
You nod, “He… He loves me. I know that,” you fidget with your fingers.
Tim leans back into frame, “But..?”
You exhale, feeling exhausted just remembering the argument. “He… He’s being a fucking idiot.”
Tim snorts, “How so?”
“He’s the one who told me to evacuate the city.” You prop an arm up on the desk, “At first I had actually considered the idea— don’t give me that look.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Tim grumbles.
“I wasn’t actually going to vanish, Tim. Why do you think I’m here and not at my apartment with him?” You rub your temples. “I would’ve figured something out. I just— I thought,” you exhale, frustrated that the words aren’t coming out as intended, “I thought that if he cared about me so much, he’d understand that I care about him just as much.”
“Does he not?” Tim asks, frowning as he sets the blood sample to spin in a centrifuge.
“He was insistent that he stay in the city. Said he has ‘unfinished business.’” You do air quotes, “Apparently, that is more important than his safety.”
“Did you ask him what it was?” Tim asks, mirroring your pose, propping his face onto his hand.
You slowly shake your head. “He… I don’t know.” You groan. “He knew it sounded stupid, and he told me that, but he never actually told me what it was.”
“Hm,” Tim hums disapprovingly. “I know you may not want to hear it, but that sounds—“
“—Suspicious as hell.” You nod, “I know, Tim. I’m not stupid.”
He holds his hands up in a surrender, “I’m just saying. ‘Unfinished business’ could be a way of saying he works for Scarecrow or just maybe he works for—”
“—the Arkham Knight.” You both chorus. You mouth parts as you feel your heart begin to pound against your chest.
Tim nods, “Look at us,” he chuckles, “teamwork at its finest. Finishing each other’s sentences.” He gestures between you both.
You don’t share his joy at coming to the same conclusion, “I don’t— Tim, it’s not fair of me to accuse him of something that drastic just because he won’t leave the city.”
Tim leans forward, hands propped up, “I don’t want to bash your boyfriend, but can you truly come up with another reason why he’d want to stay here with everything that’s going on.”
You remained silent.
“I’m sure he’s a great guy,” Tim tries, voice artificially optimistic. At your distressed sound, he panics slightly, “I can’t imagine you’d have subjected yourself with a relationship with an asshole for that long, so I genuinely don’t think he is a bad guy. He’s likely in a similar situation to many other criminals: forced into an awful situation, and forced to make it work.”
“I could help him though!” You groan.
“Have you told him about…” he gestures around loosely, “all of this?”
You purse your lips, shaking your head, “No…” you sigh. “I know it’s hypocritical, but it’s just—” you huff, laying your head into the crooks of your elbow on the desk. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s my issue to solve. I’ll probably tell him after all of this.” Your voice is muffled from speaking into your own arm. “I… I’ll just make sure to keep tabs on him while he’s here.” You sit up straight. “We got bigger issues to solve than my relationship issues.”
Tim removes the blood sample from the centrifuge, “Any updates on who the Arkham Knight could be?”
You shake your head, “Nope,” you pop the ‘p,’ “Honestly, I’m starting to wonder if this guy materialized out of thin air just to mess with us, or Bruce I guess.”
Tim raises his eyebrows, huffing as if considering the probability of that. “I wouldn’t even be surprised at this point.”
You chuckle humorlessly. “I’ve checked everything. Past Arkham patients, inmates at Blackgate, hell— I’ve begun to widen the search outside of Gotham and Blüdhaven. There’s nothing on this guy. He’s a ghost.”
Tim frowns, “You’re telling me somebody capable of leading the militia has just been hiding out in public then?”
You rest your head on your hand, rubbing your temples. The stress of figuring out who the Arkham Knight is has really been getting to you. “Seems like it." You admit. “I think I’ve just accepted that we’re not going to know who this guy is unless he reveals himself to us.”
Tim sighs, “Then let’s hope that it’s sooner rather than later.”
You can hear your heart beating.
It pounds in your ears as you watch the militia henchman walk over the grate your hiding under. The Arkham Knight had been setting up these bases across the city, and Bruce had tasked you with dismantling as many of them as you could.
Easier said than done.
“Have you heard about the calls the Knight has been taking?” One of the henchman asks his friend.
You crawl as close as you can to them in order to hear them better. “The Knight? Hell, I barely see the guy. Only times I’ve seen ‘im are when the Bat is involved.”
The first henchman huffs, “Well,” he looks around, checking to see if anybody is listening, “rumor has it, that he’s spent the past few nights callin’ someone. He doesn’t go out on jobs ‘til after the call.”
You watch as the second guy lowers his gun, “Eh, it’s probably ‘bout a job. You guys are looking into it too much.”
The first guy shakes his head, “Nah, man. We thought that too. Then one of the lieutenants accidentally walked in during one of these calls.” He huffs, “The Knight calmly ended the call, then absolutely lost it.”
“Did the guy knock? Manners are important.” The second guy asks dryly.
“I dunno,” the first guy shrugs, “but apparently what he heard? The Knight was talking to some woman.”
The second guy snickers, “Oooh,” he mockingly coos, “the Knight got a fuckin’ girlfriend? You sure we’re talkin’ about the same guy?”
The first guy huffs, as if offended. “Whatever, man. I’m just tellin’ you what I heard. Now, don’t go blabbing your mouth to everyone alright? Apparently, the Knight threatened the lieutenant, saying he’d kill the guy if he said anything about the call.”
It’s silent for a moment.
“So why the fuck would you tell me? I don’t wanna die!” The second guy whisper-yells.
“I just said don’t blab. If ya don’t blab then you’re fine.” The first guy waves him off.
“Yeah, but what if somebody is listening?” The second guy continues to whisper, eyes flickering around apprehensively.
Yeah, it’d be crazy if somebody was listening.
“It’s just us, buddy. Batman’s busy trying to get Ivy’s aid or some shit. It’s just us tonight.” The first guy pats his friend’s shoulder.
“Don’t he have those sidekicks of his running around?” The second guy gestures loosely.
“Eh, what’re the chances they’ll show up? The Bat is the only one we really need to worry about.” You quietly exit the grate, crouching behind a concrete wall.
“Yeah, I guess,” the second guy responds, unconvinced. You carefully sneak behind the two of them. “I suppose you’re right. What’re are the chances that one of the Bats will decide that we’re worth— OH SHI—”
You slam their heads together before knocking them both unconscious. You wipe imaginary dust off your hand, grabbing the controller from the pockets of the left guy and smashing it beneath your feet. The second you destroy it, the walls around you come down.
You open your comms, raising your wrist as Alfred's projection appears, “Another base dismantled.”
“Copy that, Madame.” Alfred gives a resolute nod.
“Also, I may have gotten more info on the Knight.” You lightly kick the militia goon, checking if he’s fully unconscious.
“Oh?” Alfred prompts.
You can’t help the grin on your face, “Apparently, the Arkham Knight has a girlfriend.”
Alfred is silent for a moment, “A… girlfriend?” He sounds baffled.
“Yeah, so I was listening to these militia guys talk, and apparently he has a girlfriend.” You sit on the ledge of the rooftop, looking down on the tanks patrolling the streets. “So now we’re dealing with a masked rogue working with Scarecrow, that has a grudge against Batman, that has no prior incidents actually recorded at Arkham, AND has a girlfriend.” You huff. “Gotta admit, the guy is one hell of a multitasker.”
“We can attempt to narrow the search, but I regret to inform you that I find it unlikely that any results with turn up with a real answer.” Alfred informs you, frowning.
“Yeah, I know, I’m just… I guess I was surprised. It’s the first piece of information we’ve caught on the Arkham Knight’s personal life.” You sigh, standing up. Alfred hums in acknowledgement. “Anyway, I’ll be heading to another base. I’ll keep you updated, Alfred.” You nod at him.
“Please remember to be careful.” Alfred nods at you in return.
You smile, “When am I not?” At his exasperated sigh, you chuckle. “I won’t get killed, Alfred. You needn’t worry.”
He sighs, “I always do.” The two of you sit in silence before he hangs up.
You slowly lower your wrist, staring over the city. The neon red lights of the drones shine through the alleys below, searching. Searching for Batman in particular, but willing to take any target that dares to venture into their line of sight. Occasionally, you’ll see a criminal duck into an alley, attempting to get out of the militia’s path. For once, you cannot blame them for trying to run.
It’s been one night since you “left” Gotham.
You had called Jason last night, standing on the balcony of Wayne Tower. Staring down at the city as it’s overrun by more militia and rogues than you’ve seen in a while.
“Hey,” You spoke softly into the phone. The rain attempted to drown out the sound of your voice, but Jason could hear it clear as day.
“Hey,” Jason started, “you got out of the city okay?”
You smile sadly, “I texted you the second I got out.” You had texted him six hours after you had reached the Manor. You made sure to scramble your location so that he couldn’t track you to Bruce’s.
“Yeah, I know.” He hummed “I wanted to hear it from you.”
You chuckled, “I’m alright, Jay. How about you?”
He’s silent for a moment, “I’m managing.”
You sighed, leaning against the railing, “Do you think that you’ll finish up soon?” You asked quietly.
He sighed, “No… Not for a couple of days at least.” You heard the creak of a door open in the background. Jason inhales so sharply that it was actually audible. “Hey, sweetheart,” he started slowly, and you can hear the sound of a chair squeak in the background, “somethin’ just came up. I can call you in a minute, you mind if I deal with this real quick?” Well, that wasn’t a very long call.
“It’s okay, Jay. Go and deal with it. We can always call tomorrow. I know you’re busy.” You smiled ruefully.
“Are you sure?” His voice became rougher, and you could tell somebody is in the room with him.
“It’s okay, Jay.” You chuckled, “The quicker you get this done, the quicker we can see each other again, yeah?”
“Yeah,” his words were a whisper meant for you. “Alright, I’ll call you tomorrow." He paused, and his next words were somehow softer than the last. “I love you more than anything. You know that, right?”
You bite your tongue to keep from grinning into the phone, “I love you more, Jay.”
He chuckles humorlessly, “Doubt it.”
You roll your eyes, “Alright, alright. I’ll let you think that.” You pushed yourself off the railing, walking into Lucius’ office with a nod of acknowledgement for the man. “Good luck with whatever you’re dealing with.”
“He’s gonna need it.” Jason hung up the call, and you put your phone away.
You had called him for a quick check up in the morning, but he seemed even more busy than last night. You didn’t want to bother him too much, and accepted the quick phone call, not questioning any of the oddities that came with it. You were just glad to hear he was okay.
You pull your phone out, opening Jason’s contact, thumb hovering over the call button. The rain patters onto the screen, causing the pixels to warp slightly underneath the liquid. You wipe it, gloves smearing the droplets off the screen.
Is it too late to call him? Is he busy again? What if he’s out working? What if he’s working for them?
You shiver from the cold, raising your knees to your chest to conserve warmth. Your about to lower your thumb to press that button, when you hear the militia begin to speak into your comms. Bruce had given you the frequency they were on, and you had been listening to them all night.
“Got her located in sight, Boss.”
You whip around, narrowing your eyes as you notice a helicopter in the distance approach you. What the hell?
Narrowing your eyes, you stand your ground as the helicopter closes in on you. It turns to open the doors that are now facing you. Half a dozen militia henchmen jump out, landing in front of you. You ready yourself for a fight, fists raised, “Oh, now you decide I’m worth the effort?”
“Take her out!” The medic yells from the back, and you maneuver your way around the other members in order to take him out first. Bruce has mentioned once or twice how annoying they could be, and you didn’t want to find out.
Standing up from the now unconscious body, you use your peripherals to catalog the other members of the group. They’ve got training, but they’re not nearly as good as some of the simulations Bruce has made you fight for practice. You focus on one at a time, incapacitating them one-by-one. Attack when you can, but focus on keeping yourself safe first. By the time you finish. You look back up to the helicopter, gesturing your hands out as if asking “Got anymore than that?” Was it smart to taunt the heavily armed military group occupying your city? Probably not, but to be fair...
You didn’t expect the Arkham Knight to jump out of the helicopter next.
You immediately crouch into a fighting position, narrowing your eyes at him. This is the first time you’ve seen the man up close in person and not just from Bruce’s recordings. “You aren’t who I was expecting.” You keep your tone steady, quips dying as you realize the severity of your circumstances
“I could say the same about you.” He strolls casually to the left, and you begin to circle one another. “I knew that the Bat had gotten a new sidekick.” He pauses, lazily pointing his gun at you, as if you aren’t a threat, “I didn’t expect him to get two new sidekicks.”
Now, you haven’t been doing this for as long as Bruce, but you wouldn’t consider yourself “new” to this anymore. Even if you were “new,” the Knight said that there were two new sidekicks. The newest after you is Tim, and he is certainly not new to this.
“New?” You ask cautiously.
The Arkham Knight laughs, the robotic sound sending an uneasy shiver down your spine. “Still can’t figure it out?” He slowly approaches you, and you reach your hand back to your utility belt, ready to attack. “All of these allies and nothing to show for them, huh?” He continues to laugh, and instead of being scared, the sound begins to grate on your nerves.
“Don’t pretend to know anything about us.” You glare at him.
“Oh, I don’t have to pretend. I know how he thinks. I know how he operates. I’ve known longer than you have, and longer than you ever will.” The Knight stops in front of you, the lights on his mask pulse as you stare at it.
“Is that a threat?” Your words are quiet, stiff.
The Knight shrugs, “Take it how you will. I don’t care. Either way, I won’t hesitate to stop you if you attempt to meddle with my operations any more.” He points his gun beneath your chin, and you swallow nervously. The metal doesn't touch you, though. You don’t break eye contact with him.
“Then why hesitate now?” You grit your teeth.
He chuckles quietly, “Don’t mistake this for hesitation.” He presses the barrel of the gun up against your chin, causing you to jerk back instinctively, “This is your warning, your only warning. I don’t care what your partnership with him is like. If you know what’s best for you, you’ll stop interfering with my plans.”
“You’re hurting innocent people—”
“Innocent?!” You wince at the sudden change in volume. “You think these people on the streets— these criminals that walk around— are innocent? They’re just as guilty as me, y’know?” He lightly nudges the gun against your chin, and you avoid looking into the barrel of it. “Do you wanna know somethin’?”
You don’t respond, and you don’t think he’d care what your response is.
“Well, the Bat? The guy you hold in such high regard?” He waves the gun away from you. “He doesn’t give a fuck about you. He doesn’t hold your life in any higher regard than any of those low-lives running amok in the street.”
“You don’t know that.” You push the gun away with your hand, and the Knight lets you.
“I know that better than anybody.” He spits the words out, waving the gun around. “Perhaps you will learn that someday, but really— it's not my problem.” He holsters his gun, turning around as he walks back beneath the helicopter. “This is beyond you. Stay out of this fight. This is your only warning, and you’re very lucky I’m giving it to you.”
You slowly trail behind him, keeping your distance, but curious what more he has to say. “No, no, wait—” six more militia members drop to the Knight’s sides, “—I don’t understand, how do you know—”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” The Knight cuts you off. “Let’s make this our final meeting. If you’re smart, you’ll stop aiding the Bat,” he pauses for a moment, reaching for his grapnel gun, “but something tells me you won’t listen to me.” He launches himself away, back into the helicopter, before you even get a chance to respond.
“Damn it.” You mutter to yourself, looking up at the helicopter hovering above you. The Knight grabs the edge of the door for support, looking down at you. “Do what you can against her.” He commands before walking out of your sight. You glare up at the helicopter as it begins to depart.
A quick jab comes your way, but (luckily) you raised your elbow to block the blow. Wincing, you huff at the goon; you know you’ll be feeling that tomorrow. You parry the goon’s next jab before sweeping him off his feet, and punching him in the jaw. He grunts as you hit him once more, knocking him unconscious. You look back up to the helicopter fleeing the scene as the remaining henchmen surround you.
That wasn’t what you expected.
“Did he give any tells as to who he may be.” Bruce asks over the comms.
“I… No? I don’t think so. He seemed to believe that he knows you better than Tim and I do.” You look over the rooftop you’re standing on, surveying the militia base below. There’s a drone stationed in there, damn. It looks like you’ll have to dismantle that first before taking on the rest of the henchmen.
Bruce says your name, “Think.” He prompts. “Was there anything he said that you think could clue us into who he is?”
Frustrated, you shake your head, “Bruce, I don’t know who this guy is. I’ve looked. I uploaded the footage of our encounter to the Batcomputer. You can view it if you want, but there’s nothing we didn’t already know. He acts like he knows you better than Tim or I do, then goes on about having a grudge against you.”
Bruce grunts, and you sigh. “I’m sorry, I wish I had more to say, but I don’t know who he could be.” You frown, grabbing your disruptor. “I can keep looking—”
“Don’t.” Bruce interrupts you (apparently everybody feels the need to cut you off).
You straighten your posture, “But you said that you wanted me to try and figure out his identity.”
“It’s too risky right now. If that was his only warning, I don’t want you getting hurt on the field.” You can hear Bruce’s cape in the background of the audio.
You furrow your eyebrows, “That’s never stopped you before.”
He remains silent for a moment.
You sigh, “Fine… Fine, I’ll stop looking into his identity.”
“And the bases.” Bruce adds.
You stand up, turning away from the base below you, “What? Are you serious, Bruce? You want to bench me now?” You scoff, “We finally make progress, and you decide that sending me away from this is the best option?”
“You have a target on your back now.” He responds stoically.
“Oh,” you chuckle humorlessly, “so now I’m an obstacle? A person to babysit on field? I’m an adult, Bruce. You don’t need to baby me. I've had a target on my back since my first day out.” You cross your arms as you turn you back to the base below you.
Bruce is silent for moment before he says your name, “Help Tim if you must, but it’s safer for you if you aren’t out here.”
You inhale slowly, attempting to control your breathing. You let out a long exhale, “Fine.” Fuck you too, Bruce.
You stare blankly ahead for a moment before you hear Bruce switch channels. You take the opportunity to turn around, looking down at the base again.
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, I suppose.” You mumble to yourself, before switching the comm channel. “Hey, Tim?”
“What’s up?” You can hear his voice off in the distance.
“So, Bruce tried benching me,” you trail off, pulling your disruptor back out.
Tim snorts, “Welcome to the club. I’m like ninety-nine percent sure he wants me working on this cure just so I’m not out on the field.”
You huff, “I can’t imagine why he’s so set on working alone, but I’m going to keep trying to dismantle as many bases as I can.”
“Hm,” Tim hums, “well, if you need help—”
“—then I’ll let you know. I just wanted to make sure somebody knows what I’m doing.” You hold down the button on the disruptor, connecting it to the drone.
Tim snorts, “You’re better than Bruce at least.”
You roll your eyes, “I’d hope so.” You click the button to turn it off for thirty seconds. “Anyway, I’m at a base right now, I gotta go, bye!” You quickly hang up, ignoring Tim’s baffled “Huh?”
You take the opportunity to sneak behind the drone before making quick work of it. Obviously, dismantling such a big weapon wouldn’t go unnoticed, so you quickly throw a Batarang at the one gunman in the corner. You roll before grabbing your Batclaw and disarming him.
You narrow your eyes, a smirk forming on your face as you watch one of the goons run toward the crate of guns. Grinning, you decide to taunt the guy, knowing he won’t listen, “Uh, I wouldn’t touch that—”
The second he touches the crate, he gets electrocuted, crumbling to the ground. You wince in sympathy, that’ll leave a mark. You shoot the Batclaw out again before yanking one of the militia members to you; you use the momentum combined with your punch to instantly knock him to the ground.
“Thought we’d only be worrying about the Bat tonight?” One of the guys yells out.
“Well obviously not. Last I checked she wasn’t the Bat!” The other one grabs a club before attempting to hit you with it.
“Can confirm: I am not the Bat.” You block the club, yanking it from his grasp before whacking it back on him. “Kinda more like a subcategory. Bat-adjacent, if you will.”
“So like a sidekick?” Another goon asks.
“Eh, yes but no?” You respond, using the wall to jump off of and knock him out. “Sidekick feels a little demeaning. Like do you want me to call you guys sidekicks to the Arkham Knight?”
One of the other goons slowly lowers his hands, sharing a look with his buddy, “Well, no—”
“So you see my point!” You offer him finger guns, before grabbing his elbow. You twist it to an unnatural angle before snapping it. He cries out in pain, “Sorry, it ain’t personal.” You sheepishly shrug.
“The hell is she doing here? The Knight told us we wouldn’t have to worry about anybody else!” One of the goons cries out.
“He fuckin’ lied that’s what!” You knee him in the face, ouch.
“So like— since you guys are feeling chatty— Have you heard anything about the Knight’s girlfriend?” You pin one guy to the ground, using your weight to keep him stationary.
“How—” He coughs, “How do you know about that?” His voice is raspy. You smile, putting a finger up to your lips.
“Don’t worry about that. I was just curious cause like— no offense to him— but I did not imagine him to be the romantic type.” You wave a hand casually.
“That’s— That’s what I said!” The goon beneath you cries out.
You nod sagely, noticing a guy sneak up behind you. You move out of the way in the nick of time, and he slams his arms down onto his friend’s body— right where you previously were. The grounded goon cries out in pain, and you frown.
“So you guys got any info on that matter?” You grab a Batarang, throwing it at one of the guys attempting to pick up a gun off the ground.
“Like we’d tell you anything!” He yells back, cradling his hand as if you smacked it (the Batarang didn’t even hit him).
“Okay, fair, I can respect the loyalty…” You raise your hands up in mock-surrender. “But like— does he get all gushy when he talks about her?” You snicker to yourself, you can’t imagine the Arkham Knight being a loving boyfriend.
One of the guys snorts, “He like fully changed into another person. Like I heard from outside the door he was like ‘you get out of the city okay?’ or somethin’—”
“Hey, you never told me that!” One of the other goons whips to face his friend, offended.
The first guy shrugs, “You didn’t seem like you cared.”
“Are you kidding me, dude?” He grumbles under his breath.
“Yeah, yeah, so did his girlfriend leave the city?” You pry, putting your hands on your hips. At this point the fight has been long forgotten.
The two remaining goons shrugged, “I dunno? I think so. I left soon after the other guy walked in on his conversation with her.” The second guy winces, raising a fist to his mouth with a hissing sound.
“Yeah, I could hear his yelling down the hall.” The second guy adds on.
You nod solemnly, “Damn, so have any of you guys asked about her since?”
While getting information about the Arkham Knight be difficult, getting information from his girlfriend?
Now that is a much easier mission.
Based on what they’ve told you, the Knight told his girlfriend to evacuate the city. This means that she’s likely a civilian, a lot easier to interrogate than the Knight himself.
“You kiddin’? Last guy who said anything about it was made an example of.” The first guy cries out, shaking his head. The other guy frantically nods his head.
You frown, “Does he make an example of you guys often?”
“Nah, he’s not abusive. Tough and maybe a bit too vengeful, yeah, but the guy has done a good job training us for this.” He shrugs, “Well, other than the guy who said something nasty about his girl.”
You raise an eyebrow, “What’d he say?”
The two guys shrug in unison, and your hold back your chuckle at how innocent they look. “We don’t know. All we know is that the guy hasn’t been seen since.”
You nod slowly, “Huh, alright… Thanks.”
“Yeah— Wait, you think we gave her too much info?” The first guy turns to face his friend. The second guy slowly looks between his friend and you.
“Probably,” his voice sounds, understandably, worried.
“It’s fine. I’m not really happy with Batman right now. Rest assured that that info won’t reach him.” You pull out your detonator.
The two guys exhale, relieved.
You hold the detonator up, “Still gotta knock you both out though,” you offer a pitiful smile, “sorry?”
“What—”
You press the button, and both of them fly a few feet before laying limp on the ground. You frown, checking their heartbeat: unconscious, but alive.
You raise a hand up to your comm, turning it on. “Tim, you will not believe what these guys just told me, oh my goodness.” You hold your wrist up, looking at Tim on the projection as you locate the signal for the controller for the base’s walls.
“Good news I hope? We’re kinda running low on that.” He mumbles the last part to himself. You grab the controller from the goon beneath you.
“Eh, interesting news, that’s for sure.” You crush the signal, watching as the walls around you fold onto itself.
Tim raises an eyebrow, “Alright, I’m listening.”
“You remember how the Knight has a girlfriend? Well, I was just chatting with some of the militia guys, and—”
“The Arkham Knight has a girlfriend?” Tim slams his arms down onto the desk in surprise.
You pause, frowning, “Did… Did I not tell you that?”
“No! I think I’d remember!”
“Huh,” you pause, contemplative. “Oh! Right, I told Alfred first.”
Tim’s mouth drops open, “You told Alfred before me?”
You purse your lips, “Sorry, Tim, kinda forgot. Alfred has been the one helping me identify the guy.”
“No worries, I’m just surprised— we are talking about the Arkham Knight, right? The ‘Look at me while you die, Batman’ guy?”
“Yep,” you release a dry chuckle.
“He has a girlfriend?” Tim asks again.
“Yep,” you grin.
“Who’d date the guy? Wait, do you think he practices his lines for when he attempts to kill Bruce? You think his girlfriend hypes him up?” Tim chuckles at the idea.
You cover your mouth to keep yourself from laughing, “Tim.” You lightly scold.
“Okay, sorry, but like— he’s gotta bounce the ideas off somebody.” Tim smirks, shrugging. You ponder the question for a moment.
“You think his girlfriend gets tired of it?” You eventually ask, smirking back at him. “Babe, it’s three in the morning, please stop threatening Batman.”
Tim lets out a long exhale that sounds like a wheeze. “He— He wakes her up like: ‘Babe, wake up, I came up with a new Batman threat.’”
The two of you continue to cackle on call, your volume garnering attention from criminals roaming the street. When they go to investigate, they see you, and immediately turn the other direction which only spurs your laughter even more.
“Okay, okay—” you continue to laugh, “seriously though. I was talking to some of his guys about it. Apparently he like likes her.”
“Oh?” Tim coughs, attempting to catch his breath from the laughter.
“Yeah, and I quote from one of the guys: ‘he fully changed into another person.’ Which leads me to think she isn’t involved in his business.” You theorize.
Tim nods along, “You think you can find her?”
You deflate, “Well, uh, no.” His shoulder sag, and you rush to add another comment. “But,” you hold up your index finger in a “Wait” motion. “But, I do know she left the city.”
Tim frowns at you, “I think that’s the opposite of helpful.”
“Yeah, well. It’s something. We know she’s a civilian, and she is currently not in the city.”
Tim chuckles, tired, “Wow, with that much information, we might as well consider it a case closed.”
“Oh, don’t give me that. His goons talk easily. I didn’t even have to threaten them. I’ll just wait til some of them talk about the girlfriend again.” You smile at Tim.
“Well, that sounds enjoyable. I hope you have fun with that.” Tim responds dryly.
“Don’t act like testing blood samples is any more fun.” You deadpan.
“What?” Tim gasps, “What’re you talking about? This is a blast.” He set the blood sample in his hand back into the centrifuge to spin.
“Mhm,” you hum, “yeah that’s what I thought.”
“Don’t you have goons to be eavesdropping on?” Tim’s lip twitches, betraying his smile.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll keep you and Alfred updated.” You lower your wrist and dismiss the projection of Tim.
“In that order, or will I be the second to hear about any new info you gathered?” Tim’s voice echoes in your comms.
You chuckle, “Bye-bye, Tim.” You hang up the call, checking the time. It’s nearly four in the morning, and upon seeing the time, you feel the exhaustion deep into your bones. You should call Jason. It’s what you were going to do before the Arkham Knight oh-so kindly interrupted you.
Heyy, sorry, I fell asleep on accident
do you still wanna call or is it too early?
or I guess late
idk depends on perspective
Not even a minute goes by.
Jason: I can call if you’d like
Jason: but if you were asleep, then you should go back to sleep
Jason: we can always call in the morning
Jason: or now
You smile, pursing your lips as you consider your options. On the other hand, you are tired. Calls with Jason can last two minutes (given his mystery job), but also the possibility of spending the next two hours on the phone with your boyfriend is very real.
it’s okay, we can call in the morning
sorry I didn’t mean to fall asleep lol
Jason: Don’t worry about it
Jason: I should’ve texted you earlier
Jason: It’s been a long night
Don’t you know it.
I get that, just make sure you rest
Jason: Only if you do
Damn fair enough 💀
Jason: Joking, joking
Jason: Not really
Jason: Seriously get some rest
No need to tell you twice.
Whatever you say 🫡
He pauses for a moment, bubble reappearing and disappearing.
Jason: That felt a bit too easy
Wow okay so you wanna argue about it?? :(
For a beat, there is no bubble or message.
Jason: Good night, I love you
You snort.
That’s what I thought
Good night, I love you too Jay :)
The two of you like each other’s messages, and you put your phone away. Time to trek back to the Manor. You look up to the city above you, Ivy’s plants wrapped around bridges, smoke in the distance puffing up into a smoky gray cloud— probably Firefly’s fault.
Sighing, you grab your grapnel gun and head back to the Manor.
“I know that better than anybody.”
You press the space bar, looping the audio.
“I know that better than anybody.”
Once again.
“I know that better than anybody.”
“Madame, I don’t believe looping your encounter with the Knight will be beneficial for you.” Alfred walks up to the Batcomputer beside you.
“Well, it’s the best we got.” You sigh as Alfred places a mug beside you. You smile at him gratefully. “Thanks.”
He nods, “Forgive me for prying, but I was under the impression that Master Bruce was going to be the only one out in action for the next few days.”
You scoff, “Yeah, well, he is insane if he thinks that tackling on the city with no field back up is smart.”
Alfred hums, “I suppose you make a good point.”
You turn toward Alfred, eyes pleading, “Don’t tell him please. I already told Tim that I’d call him for help if I mess up.”
Alfred remains silent for a moment before slowly nodding, “As long as you aren’t mortally injured, then I suppose I can omit this bit of information from him.”
You smile, exhaling in relief, “Thanks, Alfred.”
He nods, “Thank me by not making me have to resort to that.” He walks off, leaving you alone at the computer once again.
You watch him leave before slowly returning your attention to the screen. You zoom in on the Arkham Knight’s appearance. He looks the same as he has every time Bruce showed his footage of him. Screen-like mask, a military style suit, the “A” in the center of his suit. Upon closer examination, you notice that his suit has similar patterns in some parts that match some of the militia’s, only difference being that his is more vibrantly colored with a red. You hadn’t noticed it when you first met him. All you could focus on was his eyes. Bright and unyielding and betraying no emotion. The only way you were able to discern his thoughts was when he spoke. You click on a different time stamp in the audio.
“Innocent?! You think these people on the streets— these criminals that walk around— are innocent? They’re just as guilty as me, y’know?”
His body language seemed frantic yet controlled. His wide gestures aren’t out of any lapses into mania, but out of anger. You frown as you watch him hold the gun underneath you chin. At the time, you had been focused on not dying. Now, you notice the slightly tremble in his hands. You aren’t so naive to think that it’s out of fear of killing. A man like the Arkham Knight— a man who has taken lives without remorse— wouldn’t feel scared of killing you. You recognize it for what it is: fury.
Whatever his grudge against Batman is. It’s personal. It feels too personal for Batman not to have met the guy at least once.
Stretching, you stand up from your chair before grabbing your utility belt laid out on the desk. Alfred was right. This isn’t helping. If anything, you just feel crazy listening to the same modulated voice lines over and over and over, analyzing fabric just for a hint on who this guy may be.
You might as well go to the city, make use of yourself.
Journeying from the Manor to the main part of the city isn’t an unfamiliar trip. The trip back is automatic, and you barely even process the fact that you’ve made it back onto the main road. The only reason you do is that the drones patrolling the sky nearly blind you with their unforgiving beams of light waiting to claim their next victim.
The night started out slow, at least relative to the other ones.
You didn’t want to draw too much attention to yourself— with Bruce not knowing you’re still patrolling— so you focused on the more minor crimes… for the most part. You didn’t actively go looking for any rogues or militia bases to dismantle, but if you stumbled onto them?
You might as well.
Some of them were evidently made with the intention of taking on the Batmobile (something you did not have access to), so you had to settle for taking on the ones without a dozen turrets scanning for a hint of movement. While not ideal, it still left plenty for you to take down.
By the time you had taken down two bases and two watchtowers, you had eased yourself comfortably into the night’s routine. The watchtowers required a bit more stealth than the bases, but if anything, you were grateful for the change in pace. It kept you on your toes.
You heave a sigh, detonating your third security console of the night. Another watchtower gone. You linger for a moment, grateful for the heating your suit provided. With how cold it is, and with the constant on-and-off rain, you imagine you’d get sick very fast without it. Frowning, you look over the unconscious bodies scattered at your feet.
Despite all your work tonight, not a single base has provided useful information. Frustrating? Absolutely. However, you aren’t too surprised. You kneel down to examine the armor the militia is wearing. “Hm,” you hum to yourself. It's the first time you've actually considered analying their attire. It appears to be standard military wear. Perhaps it has extra padding, but you note that it isn’t bulletproof, which is a bit surprising. You narrow your eyes at the scuffed up pieces of armor.
You suppose that makes sense, Bruce doesn’t use guns. It makes no sense to prepare for bullets when your biggest target doesn’t use them. You are about to reach into their pockets when you still.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
You pause, but don’t look around. You don’t want to alert anybody that may be watching that you are aware they’re watching. Taking a deep breath, you urge your heart to calm down. Biting your tongue, you slowly proceed with your original intention: looking through the militia’s pockets.
Then you see it. The flicker of a red dot flickers onto your arm before trailing up to your head. You heart spikes as you instantly raise an arm up, diving to the side to avoid the bullet. You scramble to push yourself against the now destroyed control console, smoke still piling up from your earlier explosion. You reach for smoke bombs in your utility belt, before quickly realizing your grasping at air. You mutter a soft curse, attempting to look for any other cover in the environment around you.
The control console was placed on the center of a long bridge walkway. The nearest crates for cover are at least thirty feet away. A distance you can’t cover, lest your sniper attempts to shoot you again. You attempt to raise your head over the top of the console, using the smoke to mask yourself. Upon seeing a figure on a rooftop above you, you feel your heart drop.
Of course, it’s the Arkham Knight. Why wouldn’t it be? You had blatantly disregarded every warning he gave you.
You tap your comms, “Tim— Alfred— Somebody— Arkham Knight is attempting to kill me. He’s sniping me just south of Kingston on Miagani.” You flinch as a bullet hits the console. “I could use some backup, as soon as possible!”
You hear Tim curse in the background, “I’m at least five minutes out. Think you can hold him off for that long?”
You attempt to steel yourself, “I’ll try my best. Please hurry.”
“Not so confident are you now?” The Arkham Knight’s voice echoes between the two buildings you’re between.
You scoff, not deigning to respond to his taunt.
“You can’t hide there forever.” He continues, his casual arrogance leaves a bad taste in your mouth. It’s like he already considers you dead.
“I’m assuming we can’t talk about this?” You yell out, wondering if he’ll even be able to hear you.
“Oh, we’re long past talking.” For a second, the red light of his rifle vanishes. You narrow his eyes, what is he planning?
Then you hear the faint familiar clatter of a grenade. Your eyes widen as you launch yourself out of the blast radius. However, you weren’t able to escape it completely, and it sends you skidding near the ledge of the walkway. Forced out of your cover, your eyes flicker to the Arkham Knight. He is propping the rifle against his shoulder, and he tilts his head at you.
“I gave you a warning.” He slower lowers the rifle, preparing to shoot it. Your muscles tense, and you run towards a shield an unconscious militia member left on the floor, raising it at the last second as the Knight sends a bullet straight into the shield, a resounding “CLANG!” nearly making you flinch.
“I remember!” You sneer, raising your shield up again as he sends another bullet your way. Reaching for your Batclaw, you hide it behind the shield. Keep him talking, not shooting. “In case it wasn’t obvious, your threat—” you emphasize the last word, “wasn’t appreciated.”
He chuckles, the sound distorted and wrong. “A shame.” He shoots your shield again, and the second the bullet impacts the metal, you shoot the Batclaw out, yanking the rifle out of his hands. You both watch as it falls to the ground, about fifty feet in front of you.
The two of you stare at each other for another moment, before you lunge for the rifle. He quickly follows suit, jumping onto the walkway with you. You reach the rifle first, but that doesn’t deter him. He lunges toward you, and you side-step to your left. He pivots, grabbing a gun out of its holster before shooting it mere feet away from you. The bullet hits your shield again, and you take the opportunity to unload the rifle, throwing it off the walkway— hundreds of feet below.
The second you release the rifle, he tackles you. The two of you tumble, and you let out a surprised yelp. You attempt to secure your spot on top of him, but he presses his weight into your elbow, nearly snapping it. You wince, hissing in pain. You use your other hand to attempt to maneuver yourself out from underneath him.
He shifts his position, using his knee to pin your neck to the ground. You attempt to push him off, but he only puts more force into your neck.
“Think of this as sparing you even more pain down the line.” He begins slowly, raising his gun to your sternum. “If it makes you feel better, it’s really not personal. Not with you.” He lazily gestures, gun in hand, and all you can focus on is the barrel boring into your soul. You're unable to move underneath him, and it is then that you realize the true gravity of the situation.
You attempt to kick him off of you, but your efforts are futile. The Arkham Knight barely moves at your attempts of escape. “Sure feels personal.” You grit out, coughing again as he presses more weight into his knee.
He shakes his head slowly, “My issue is with him, and I thought that maybe you were smart enough to take my warnings.” The gun pointing at your head doesn’t waver. “However, you’ve gone and taken down dozens of my men tonight single-handedly.” His voice is low, telling you that he is fuming behind that mask. Good.
“You almost sound impressed.” You chuckle sardonically, and he matches the sound.
“At your audacity, perhaps. I didn’t think you had it in you.” He shakes his head thinking about it.
“Clearly, you thought wrong.” You retort.
He hums, “A mistake I will not make again.” You watch as his hand tightens its grasp on the gun. His index finger, slowly putting more pressure on the trigger. You watch as his finger remains frozen on the trigger, unmoving.
You don’t bother to hide your stilted exhale. For a moment, you’re glad that he can’t see the fear in your eyes as he shoots you, your mask conceals the terror that would no doubt be reflected upon its removal.
You watch as he slowly raises the gun to point at your head, and you shut your eyes. You don't want to look at your demise. You don't want to give him the satisfaction.
You feel the Knight shift slightly, and you take a deep breath— likely your final breath. You don't count the seconds, but you get the distinct feeling he is drawing this out.
At the deafening sound of the gun, the weight is thrown off of you, and your vision spins as you immediately open your eyes in shock.
You're not dead.
Frantically, you look around, searching for who saved you. You attempt to stand up, but quickly stumble over yourself, your shoulder crying out in pain. You resign yourself to the ground and watch as Tim uses his staff to shove the Knight off the walkway. You make eye contact with the Knight once last time, and you’re surprised to see him watching you until the very end.
You inhale sharply, attempting to catch your breath as you slowly crawl over to the edge looking over it to see—
Nothing.
He got away, again. Even the rifle you threw below has vanished.
Still scanning the streets below for the Knight, you don’t realize that Tim snuck up behind you. You jump as he kneels down, gently hoisting you up. It’s only at that moment, when he looks down at you in horror that you realize what the strange sensation in your shoulder was.
The Arkham Knight shot you.
The observation is apparent to anybody with eyes, but all you can do is stare at the growing red stain spreading over your suit— staining the material. The pain feel distant, and you tell yourself you can walk it off. You barely register Tim calling out for help over comms. He presses his hands onto your shoulder, and you feel light-headed. All you want to do is lay down and close your eyes, perhaps it’ll make the dizziness go away.
You aren’t sure how many minutes go by, but next thing you know, you’re wince as Bruce slowly sits you up. You somehow have enough energy to realize that you will be getting chewed out for this later on for disobeying him. Given your current circumstances, you can't truly bring yourself to care. It’s not long before you are being put into the backseat of the Batmobile. Tim is still sitting next to you, and you feel a bit more clear, and only one thought enters your mind:
You want Jason.
You want to see Jason.
You don’t want to be out fighting the Knight. You don't want to think about him
You want to see your boyfriend.
You don’t have any tears to cry, and you look up at Tim as a dry sob escapes your mouth. You’re so tired. You hear him mutter some empty promises. Promising it’ll be okay, and that you’re almost there.
“I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I thought that— I just…” You lean your head against the back. “I didn’t know he’d be there tonight.” You slowly open your eyes to look at Bruce. He doesn’t turn to look at you, nor does he meet your gaze in the rear view mirror.
You shift uncomfortably, Tim still putting pressure on your wound. “You shouldn’t have kept going out on patrol without me knowing. Not without backup ready on the field,” he breaks the silence, “but that’s not my priority right now.”
You nod solemnly, part of you wants to argue with him, but you’re in too much pain to fight back on it. Perhaps when you have more energy. “He…” you swallow, “…was going to shoot me in the head.” Your mouth feels dry.
Tim stiffens next to you, and he can’t meet your eyes. “I… I saw. I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner.”
You shake your head, offering him a pained smile. “You made it. That’s what matters.” He attempts to mirror you smile, but it looks wrong.
You laugh softly, “You know—” you wince as a burning pain pierces your shoulder, sending burning waves of pain up your next, “It wasn’t even worth the bullet. I still don’t have an idea who this guy is.”
Nobody else laughs with you, not that you were expecting them to.
“You will not be investigating the Knight any longer.” Bruce declares.
You huff, feeling your stomach turn, “Mm…” You think you see him narrow his eyes at you in the rear view mirror. The familiar sign of Leslie’s clinic comes into view, and you exhale in relief. Even if every move you make is painful, you feel better knowing that you’re in safe hands.
You will worry about the consequences of this night later.
The fogginess from your eyes slowly dissipates as you blink.
You hear the soft squeaks of the bats above, the electronic hum of the technology in the cave, and yet there’s no sign of anybody in the cave with you. Frowning, you sit up, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through the wound. “Hello?” You call out, and your voice echoes around the empty cave.
Carefully, you maneuver yourself off the bed, making your way over to the Batcomputer. You hold your shoulder as you slowly walk over. Sitting down, you're about to message Tim or Bruce when dread hits you full force.
You got shot, and you haven’t told Jason.
More accurately: You got shot, and you can’t tell Jason.
Eyes falling on your phone, you hesitantly reach for it. You navigate your phone to his contact.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring—
“Was beginning to worry you forgot about me.” Jason’s voice breaks through all the ambience of the cave. Despite the teasing tone, you can hear the relief in it.
You smack your lips, “I could never.” You swallow, feeling emotional just hearing him. “It’s been a rough night.” Your voice is quiet, and you wince at how small you sound. Your goal is to avoid alerting Jason to your injury.
He’s silent for a beat, “Rough, hm?” He hums. “I’m sorry.” He does sound genuinely apologetic.
You stare through the ground with a strained smile; it’s not like he can see. “It’s not your fault.” You settle into the chair at the Batcomputer.
Jason exhales, “I’m sorry nevertheless.” You can almost hear him trying to figure out what words to say, “I’m sorry that we had to do this.” He adds on.
Heaving a sigh, you slowly lean against the back of the seat. You want to say it’s okay, but really it’s anything but. You never wanted to leave the city, and if Jason found out you stayed despite agreeing otherwise?
You fear the look of betrayal more than his ire.
“…How’s your thing going?” Your attempt at changing the topic doesn’t go unnoticed by him, and you hope he won't comment on it.
“Slower than expected,” you hear him set something metallic down. “I… I’m not sure when I’ll be done.”
You hum, nodding slowly. That was the answer you expected, but it wasn’t the answer you wanted. “You’re safe though?”
There’s an unusually long pause. Your shoulders sag at the lack of response, and you bite back the hiss of pain it sends through the bullet wound. The silence speaks more than any words could.
“Yes.” Jason’s voice is unwavering, but you don’t believe him. Your heart aches to not believe him, but you cannot deny the suspicion that arises from hearing how obstinately he refuses to leave the city.
“You’d tell me if something happened, right?” You ask, and you make sure to keep your tone skepticism free.
You hear him inhale, “Of course.” His words are low. The silence that ensues makes you wonder if he is able to differentiate his own truths from lies.
“Alright,” you relent, and you see a notification pop up on the Batcomputer. Tim must have noticed you are awake now. “I have to go, but be safe, okay?”
“I’ll try my best.” His attempt at humor doesn’t land as he likely intended, but you muster up a soft chuckle in spite of it. “I love you.” He continues.
Your smile turns more genuine, “I love you too.” When you look at your screen again, the call has already ended. Setting the phone down, you pull up Tim’s messages on the Batcomputer.
He’s already frowning at the screen the moment you accept the video call. “Hello to you too.” You comment dryly.
“Are you okay? Since when did you get up?” He asks, and you notice he’s back at Panessa Studios. Damn, Bruce is still making him do those blood tests?
You frown, “If you didn’t know when I got up, why did you spam the Batcomputer?”
He waves you off, “I noticed that there was some activity on the network there. I’ve been monitoring it since I left.” Oops.
“Oh,” you nod, “yeah that was me.”
“I sure hope so. I’m not anywhere near the Batcave right now.” Tim crosses his arms, but then his glare softens. “How bad is it?”
You experimentally rotate your shoulder in a circular motion, “Could be worse. Not great, but it’ll have to do. Pain meds are helping.”
Tim sighs, and you hate the wounded look he’s giving you. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there faster—”
“Tim, it’s not your fault. I went out there knowing what I could encounter— who I could encounter.” You don’t break eye contact with him. “If you weren’t there, I can only imagine how things could’ve gone.” He winces at your words, and you soften. “I am not upset, Tim. I’m just grateful that you showed up when you could.”
Tim purses his lips into a thin line, and you wish you could reassure him in person. “I… Logically I know that, but—”
Static cuts him off, and both you and Tim turn your attention to the other monitors of your respective computers. “Arkham Knight and militia just south of Bristol! Requesting backup!” The chatter in the background makes it hard to identify what’s going on, but you didn’t need to hear anything else.
Your blood boils hearing his name.
Tim, as if sensing your thoughts, eyes you cautiously. “I can handle it. I’m pretty sure Bruce is handling Two-Face right now.”
You shake your head, attempting to seem casual, “No, no, it’s fine. I got it. You’re busy as it is. I’d feel bad if Bruce was working you to the bone and I made you handle this.”
Tim narrows his eyes at you, “Are you sure? Weren’t you just shot?”
You make a show of rotating your shoulder, ignoring the dull ache that accompanies it. “See? All fine.” You grin at him.
He frowns, “Alright,” he begins reluctantly, “but if anything happens.”
“I will contact you and Bruce, how about that?” You are already moving off camera to go grab your suit. “I’m glad we agree, Tim. Thanks for the back up, bye!” You make a move to hang up before Tim can change his mind. You hold your laugh back as Tim’s astonished expression is the last thing you see before the call ends.
Now, is this a smart move to make? Going after the Arkham Knight fresh off a bullet wound? No. Even you are self aware enough to know that this is an incredibly foolish move, but that doesn’t stop the burning fury and questions you have. Perhaps your curiosity will truly get you killed someday. Putting on your mask, you shut off the Batcomputer.
You can almost hear Bruce’s voice echoing in your head: “This isn’t an investigation, this is an attempt to avenge yourself.” Perhaps the voice has a point because this isn’t just professional interest. It’s personal now. The Knight made it personal. The sound of his name grates against your nerves in a way that leaves you out of breath. With how spread out you all have been, you have no doubt that the Arkham Knight took advantage of that. He probably chose this time to act knowing that you’d all be busy.
He probably didn’t account for you impulsively searching for him, but at this point he should’ve with how many times you’ve met.
Upon arriving at the scene, you frown. It’s practically the same setup as when his men are stationed in those towers, and it feels a bit too predictable. You attempt to look for the Knight, but there’s so many goons that you aren’t sure where to look first. You stay up above them as you continue surveying the ground below, searching for any signs of him.
Instead, you find a shipping container hidden around a corner (courtesy of the goon you followed). Upon reaching it, you narrow your eyes down below. His mask is quite distinct. You imagine that even from a distance, you’d always recognize it.
You use your grapnel gun to get slightly closer, making sure to minimize your movement, lest they hear you.
“—ready for Scarecrow by tonight.” One of the militia henchmen informs the Knight, clipboard in hand.
The Arkham Knight slowly nods, “Excellent. Have the trucks move them.” He gestures off.
The guy looks back between the Knight and the shipment container, “..Are— Is that a good idea? What about the Bat or any of his sidekicks—” You frown, leaning closer to try listen better.
“—The Bat won’t be an issue.” The Arkham Knight sounds really sure of that. “As for his sidekicks?” He slowly turns around before turning his attention up to the ceiling above him. Your heart drops into your stomach. “I would’ve hoped they wouldn’t be foolish to come here alone.” He raises something in his hand, and you realize all too late that it’s a detonator.
You don’t even get a warning before the gargoyle you’re perched on explodes, causing you to fumble as you attempt to save your fall. The Knight doesn’t break eye contact with you, but you’re forced to turn away from him. The first few militia guys who approach you aren’t armed, and you sweep them off their feet, dealing with them as fast as you can.
However, they don’t stop.
It’s only when you realized how outnumbered you are (and outgunned) that you attempt to reach into your belt to reach help. The moment you reach for it, a gunshot ricochets next to you, causing you to flinch.
For a moment everybody is frozen. You aren’t sure who to look at, every direction you turn just shows a sea of the black and red uniforms. Swallowing, you are forced to watch as they part the path for the Arkham Knight. When he reaches you (all too casual for your liking), the henchman behind you strikes the back of your knee, causing you to collapse. You turn around to glare at them, ready to stand up, but they shove the barrel of a rifle onto the back of your head.
Damn. You knew this was stupid going into this, and yet you went through with it anyway. You silently berate yourself before raising your eyes to look up at the Arkham Knight who is now looking down on you. You hate how he looks down on you.
“I did that as a precaution. Can never be too sure with you lot.” He points down to you, circling you slowly, mockingly.
You bite your lip so hard you offhandedly realize that the metallic taste of blood fills your mouth. The synthetic voice sounds like nails on chalkboard, and you find yourself wishing he’d shut up.
“I gotta say, I expected Robin though. I figured you’d be outta commission still.” He stops his pacing, his boots mere feet in front of you.
You sneer, “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh, don’t be.” He looks up, nodding to the massive militia squad behind you. You don’t turn your head (the pressure of the rifle’s barrel is starting to feel too real), but you can hear the shuffling footsteps dissipate. By the time they leave, there’s less than five of you in the area. You swallow, meeting the Arkham Knight’s “eyes.”
“I didn’t expect him to be such a coward. Letting his injured friend handle the dirty work out here.” He (not so lightly) shoves your wounded shoulder, and you let out a surprised whimper. The Knight resumes his pacing, and you get slightly dizzy watching him move back and forth.
Scoffing, you attempt to quell the thumping beat in your chest as you steel yourself. “Don’t call him a coward. You don’t even know Robin.” You swallow, attempting to push yourself up off the ground. One of the militia members uses a rifle to pin you back down, and— not wanting to be shot— you reluctantly settle yourself onto the floor.
The Knight pauses his pacing, looking down at you on the ground. He looks at the man with his gun pointing his rifle at your chest, and the man slowly lowers the weapon. The Knight strolls over to you, kneeling down to you, yet not low enough to be eye level. You wonder if he gets some twisted enjoyment looking down on you. You hide your trembling arms away from his view.
“Tim Drake…” He begins slowly, a mere whisper just above your ear.
You blink, “What—”
“He isn’t the first you know. He isn’t even the second.” He props his arms onto his knee, leaning closer to you. Instinctively, you lean away from the man, as if your body has a visceral reaction to his presence. “Do you know who was before him?”
You grit your teeth, “Why the hell should I tell you?” He doesn’t react, and you both are caught in a long staring contest. Neither of you back down, and you hate yourself for being the first one to. “Jason.” You eventually mutter.
Slowly, he nods, “And you are aware of what happened to him?”
You bite your tongue, attempting to look away from his mask. You tilt your head slightly. It could be interpreted as “so-so” but it could’ve just been a flinch. The Knight leans closer, “I need words. Silence doesn't tell me anything but that you lack the knowledge, and I find that hard to believe.”
You exhale, “I don't know everything, but...” You slowly look up to him. “I know that he died.”
The Knight freezes at your statement. His hands clench at his sides, and you half-delusionally wonder if he’s going to try and kill you again.
“Lies.” He spits the words out, and for a moment you are taken aback. “The Dark Knight fed you all lies.”
Your mouth parts, “What is your issue with him?” You scoff, glaring at his mask. “Look— He isn’t perfect, and I’m not always partial to the guy myself, but you’re acting like he’s the devil incarnate.”
A mangled sound comes from the Knight, distorted by his modulator. Frustrated, he stands up, resuming his pacing. He mumbles something to himsef before chuckling sardonically, the sound grating on your nerves, “You’re a fool for returning.” He raises a hand to point to you lazily, “You’re a fool for trusting him. I told you once before that in his eyes, your life is equal to the worth of some criminal roaming the streets.”
He walks back over to you, “Don’t you think if he wanted to be here, he would? He would’ve found you by now?” He throws his hands up casually, “I don’t exactly see him, and if he’s waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike from the shadows?” He leans closer to you, “He’s taking a long time.”
You try not to let his words get to you, “He’s looking for me. He’ll find me.” You glare at the Knight, but even you start to doubt your own words.
The Knight stares at you for a long moment, before he softly continues, “I once thought that too.” His words are low, quiet, only meant for you. The softness in his tone isn’t out of empathy, but out of pity, and it sends an wave of anger up to your throat, waiting to be spoken. The softness isn't mocking, and that irritates you more than any genuine statement the Knight could have half-heartedly mustered up. “Save yourself the trouble, and lose that optimism.”
You grit your teeth, angry tears flooding your eyes, followed by the impulsive decision to headbutt the Knight. It seems you caught him off guard, and he stumbles back slightly. His mask has a large crack in the screen, and you take immense satisfaction watching it glitch. The two militia members behind you kick you back down to the ground. Your jaw and nose echo in a resounding ache as one of them uses the butt of their rifle to hit you.
You can feel the familiar tang of blood fill your mouth, whether it was from the strike or biting your tongue to hard, you aren’t sure. What you immediately notice is that your mask is no longer fitted pristinely to your face. Pieces of it rest on the concrete floor below you, and you scowl at them as if they personally offended you.
You don’t attempt to sneak a glance up to the Arkham Knight, not wanting him to see your face. You don't want to look up while he's still your vicinity. It takes a minute, but once his footsteps become more distant, your eyes flicker up. Head still facing down, you peer through your eyelashes to watch as his figure grows smaller and smaller.
One of the militia soldiers hits you at the back of your neck causing your hood to fall limply off your head. Just great. One of them snickers before attempting to rip the remaining pieces of your mask off your face.
You yelp, attempting to fight him off, but three other soldiers restrict your limbs. Perhaps if you had been in better condition, you could figure out a method of escape, but all you can feel is the utter futility of your situation. Despair rises in your chest. The Knight’s footsteps taunt you as you hear them slowly fade into near silence. “Not so tough without ya mask, ain’t ya?” One of the men snickers, and you’re planted into your spot on the ground, knees digging painfully onto the uneven floor. You continue to scowl, forced to watch these men expose you as he rips your mask off.
They all laugh at your expression, and you can hear them mutter taunts to you. You tune them out, and one of them kicks your back, sending you to the ground, elbows first. The blow aggravates the bullet wound, and you bite back a scream of pain. Hunched over, coughing, you ball up your hands into fists as you look up to the Arkham Knight before he exits the area.
For a moment, the two of you make eye contact, and all you can do is attempt to catch your breath as the men above you continue to taunt you. Their words go unheard by you, but their presence is enough to drive you mad.
The Knight is no longer moving, and— similar to you— is rooted in his spot. You break eye contact with him as the soldier kicks you down again, pinning you with his boot.
“To think I unmasked one of the Bats,” his cocky tone inspires nothing but annoyance in you. You attempt to take a breath, but he presses harder, and your head is pushed right-side down onto the concrete. “I think I’ll be keeping this as a souvenir.” From your peripherals, you can see him pick up your broken mask.
“Oh come on, man! It was a group effort. Split it four ways, we each get a piece—” Something causes him to stop talking. The guy sounds like he begins to choke on air. For a moment, you feel utter relief.
Took Bruce long enough.
Your face is still planted into the ground at an awkward angle, and you use the goon’s distraction to your advantage, grabbing his foot and sweeping him from underneath, causing him to fall next to you. Once floored, you give him a quick strike to the head, making sure he’s knocked out before standing up again. You cough again, rubbing your chest, still feeling the imprint of the soldier’s boot.
“Finally,” you groan, twisting your neck, popping it, “I—” you turn to face Bruce, a small relieved smile on your face.
It falls immediately, for you aren’t met with the familiar silhouette of Batman.
Instead, the Arkham Knight is standing mere feet away from you, a few of his own militia groaning and unconscious on the floor beneath him. He has his guns pointed to the one who pinned you down. You flinch back as the Knight’s gaze meets your own, startled by his appearance. Why did he come back? You thought he left
The two of you stare at each other for a moment, both of you waiting, anticipating.
Slowly, his hand lowers, and your own hand snaps towards your utility belt, Batarang in hand within within milliseconds. At your reaction, he pauses. He is still, too still, and it causes you to panic internally. Whenever you saw him, whether it was in person or on a recording, he was constantly moving. Pacing back and forth, scanning the area, gesturing with his arms. For somebody so enigmatic, his body language was surprisingly expressive.
It makes his current stiffness all the more unnerving.
“You… I…” His voice sounds more subdued than you’ve ever heard, nigh distraught. It’s contrary to everything you’ve encountered with him. The Arkham Knight wasn’t quiet. The Arkham Knight wasn’t soft. Not like this at least. His “soft” words were always quiet taunts, never meant to comfort, only to break. This is the person who shot you with no remorse. This is the person who has pledged himself to kill Batman.
Yet he stands before you, bodies beneath him, speaking in soft tones, soft tones that lack that condescension.
What kind of tactic is this?
“If you have something to say, just spit it out.” You haven't lowered your hand. The Batarang glints dangerously in your dominant hand, perfectly within the Knight’s view.
“You…” he begins again, “You aren’t— When—”
You furrow your eyebrows. Add stuttering to the list of odd phenomena with the Arkham Knight that you aren’t entirely sure how to deal with.
“Oh, I get it.” You sneer at him, “You see my face, and you want to catch me off guard by acting like we’re supposed to be cool—”
“You said you left the city.” He cuts you off, and your momentary anger is replaced by pure unadulterated confusion.
You blink dumbly at him, “What?”
He shakes his head slowly, guns dropping to his side, but you don’t let your guard down. “You—” he shakes his head more aggressively, as if trying to shake a thought away. “You said you left the city.” He repeats, turning up to face you.
You furrow your eyebrows, “When did I ever tell you that?” Your palms feel sweaty in your hands, and you grip the Batarang tighter, worried it’ll slip between your fingers.
“I checked your location— I saw—” he sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself, “It said you were out in Central City.”
Your stomach feels queasy the longer he continues to speak. The unease causing you to shift restlessly on your feet. There was only one person who you gave that location to. A horrifying thought enters your mind, but you refuse to consider it, immediately shutting down the idea. “And… You know this how?” You attempt to sound indifferent, but you can hear the shift in tone of your own voice.
He remains frozen for a moment before he says your name; it’s so quiet you wonder if you even heard it correctly.
Your chest shudders, “You know me.” You don’t want it to be true.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t move to deny your statement— your accusation.
You swallow, “Say something.” You attempt to keep the break out of your voice, and the Batarang in your hand involuntarily lowers.
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes a step closer to you, and as if setting a switch off, you immediately raise the Batarang again. He freezes mid-step, and when you don’t throw the weapon, he resumes his approach. You keep your eyes trained on his mask, watching as the distance between you both dwindles faster than preferred. By the time he stops, he is mere inches from your face, and the tip of your Batarang is pressed weakly against his chest.
You’re breathing heavily at this point, yet you don’t feel physically exhausted. You force yourself to take a deep breath, but your chest shudders at the action. “Who are you?” Your voice is a low whisper, and your question, a plea for him to deny every thought racing through your mind.
Your hands don’t move as he slowly raises his own, reaching toward your face. Your breathing halts as he pauses before gently running a gloved finger against your jaw. Your eyes flicker over his form— unsure where to look— waiting for the attack. Why are you allowing this? The Knight is messing with you— he’s going to use your distress to his advantage.
Yet you are frozen to your spot, and something tells you that he is too. You are both frozen in front of one another.
His hand brushes down to the tattered shoulder of your suit, grazing lightly over the injury that he caused. Despite attempting to hide your wince, the Arkham Knight seems to sense your pain, and pulls his hand back slightly at your first sign of pain. You can’t look at his mask, but you can feel him staring at you. His gaze is piercing, as if waiting for you to start the conversation.
“No.” You deny, shaking your head as you attempt look down— away from his mask— away from him. “No, you're— you’re not…” you trail off, the words dying on your tongue. You attempt to push him back weakly, but he doesn’t move. “…You’re not Jason.” Your eyes glisten with tears as you look up to stare at his mask.
Hesitantly, as if afraid, the Knight raises his hand up, pressing his fingers just below his ear as the mask releases a hissing sound before it lifts up.
Despite having already reached the dreadful conclusion, you sharply inhale upon seeing Jason beneath the mask you have come to loathe.
You let out a sound that almost sounds like a whimper mixed with a sob. Before, you could at least pretend that the Arkham Knight wasn’t a real person. He was just another foe that had to be defeated. Seeing a person underneath all of that. It changes things.
You try and scour him for hints of your boyfriend, of Jason. Instead, you see the mask resting atop his head. You see the armor covering every inch of his skin. The holsters at his sides. The “A” in the center of his chest.
Looking at Jason now, you can’t see your boyfriend. You see the Arkham Knight.
You can’t bring yourself to look at him, as you keep your eyes shut. If you close your eyes long enough you can pretend that he isn’t there.
Then the Knight says your name, and it sounds like Jason. No longer is the distorted voice mocking your every action. Instead, it’s your Jason, calling out for you. Every cell in your body screams to you that the man in front of you is Jason. That he’d never hurt you. Your loving boyfriend adores you more than anybody in the world. He would sooner strike himself down before doing anything to hurt you.
You slowly turn your head to the healing scar at your shoulder. Jason The Arkham Knight follows your gaze to the injury, “I… I never knew that… You know I would never—” he turns his gaze up to you, desperate “you know I would never have done if it I knew. I thought— I never wanted—” he lets out a hurried exhale, saying your name again.
“Please, please look at me.” He begs, raising a hand to your face, but at your glare at him, and he hesitantly lowers it, as if unsure what to do with his hands. “I’m so sorry.” His voice a broken plea for forgiveness. “I’m so, so sorry. I would take it back if I could—”
“You shot me.” You cut him off, voice sounding more stable than you feel. “You were going to shoot me in the head.” You raise a hand to wipe the tears overflowing your eyes.
“No!” He yells out, and you stiffen up. His hurt expression reminds you of Jason so much, that you force yourself to look away again. “No, no. I didn’t want to actually hurt you.”
You narrow your eyes, disbelief evident in your gaze. “You said that I blew my ‘only warning.’” You scoff, but the sounds more pained than mocking, “You placed that gun against my body with your finger on the trigger. You were ready to shoot.”
He scrunches his eyes tight, “I was just trying to scare you— I didn’t actually intend to kill you. I... I didn't even intend to shoot you.” Your eyes slowly lower to his holsters before moving back up to his imploring expression.
“Then why did you shoot me? Why did you go searching for me with a rifle?” Your eyes burn as you point an accusing finger at him.
He looks down, unable to meet your eyes for the first time. “I… My issue was with him. You were dismantling my operations,” he swallows, “I had to send a message to him that I wouldn’t tolerate any interference. I knew he wouldn’t relent.” He shuts his eyes, before opening them, steeling himself for his next words. “However, if I threatened you or Robin?” He sounds pained, “If I showed him that I wasn’t messing around… Then maybe I could finally catch the Bat, catch Bruce. It’s stupid now. I shouldn’t have— I…” He slowly trails off, eyes frantically looking over you.
You stare at him for a moment, and hesitantly he attempts to look up— almost as if waiting for your permission. “You… You know Bruce.” You think out loud, Jason don’t respond. “You’re… You’re that Jason.” The realization dawns on you. You had been so focused on him being your Jason, that you didn't even consider he could be that Jason. He meets your eyes for the first time, slowly nodding.
“I…” It made sense now. Jason’s grudge against Batman, the Knight’s knowledge of how he operates— knowing his weaknesses. Jason didn’t just know Batman. He was Robin. “…never knew.” You clench your fists.
He huffs, and it’s somehow the most “Jason” and the most “Arkham Knight” he has sounded this whole conversation. “Yeah, that… doesn’t surprise me.” His voice trails off, quiet, but with rage bubbling beneath.
Neither of you say anything, and all you do is stare at each other. Slowly you push yourself away from Jason, and he doesn’t move to stop you. He watches as you kneel to grab the pieces of your broken mask. He starts to lower himself as well, intending to help most likely, and you send him a pointed look. He stops, slowly straightening up, and you can’t bring yourself to look at his expression.
Before, you’d have fought tooth and nail just to catch a glimpse of the Arkham Knight, to be able to see his face. You expected fury underneath, a sneering expression built out of personal grudges and vengeance.
Now?
You find yourself wishing he was never unmasked. The despair of seeing Jason’s face is worse than any bullet to the chest could’ve brought you. You grab the last piece of your mask before starting to walk away from Jason.
“You’re leaving?” Jason sounds as if he’s preparing to follow you. His hand twitches as if he wants to reach out to you.
You grit your teeth, “Are you going to stop me?”
He doesn’t immediately respond. At his silence, you turn to face him, the weariness in your gaze evident. He looks as if you struck him, mouth open, and for a moment you wonder if you broke him. You don’t say any of that, simply choosing to raise an eyebrow.
“Of course not.” He responds, his voice nearly inaudible. He isn’t moving, but he is leaning forward, as if he wants to be closer to you, yet he doesn’t reach for you. His hands lay limp at his sides.
You stare at him for a moment before turning away from him again. After a beat of silence, you think that this is the end of the interaction, but then he speaks again. “Is this it?” He breaks the silence, and you freeze.
“What?” You ask, and your voice sounds exhausted. Despite that fatigue, your alarm at hearing his words is evident.
Jason shifts awkwardly on his feet, and it makes him look so small despite him being anything but. “Are you going to leave?” He asks, and it sounds so helpless and utterly pitiful. You hate that you’re the one causing him to use that tone. Desolate and expectant. As if he isn’t surprised you’re leaving.
“I’m… I need to think.” You respond, tilting your head away from him. “My judgment is…” you loosely wave your hand around, “When you’re involved, I can’t—” you struggle to find the words, “I have to get out of here to think.” You land on, swallowing.
He doesn’t react initially, but then he hesitantly starts again. “I meant are you… are we..?” He trails off, swallowing down the words. He inhales, and you see his chest shudder slightly as it rises.
“Jason,” you squeeze your eyes shut and turn away from him. The anger floods out of your body, replaced by anguish. “I need to process this.” You hesitantly sneak a glance to him. “I’ll return, but I can’t do this right now.” You purse your lips, shaking your head.
“And how long will that take?” He asks softly, and he looks so pained, so hurt. Part of you wants to reassure him, to go back to him. That was all you wanted for days. “Do you intend to return, or—” he chuckles humorlessly, “or…” he repeats, trailing off, his already soft tone becoming inaudible. The implication is obvious to both of you.
“Jay,” you plead, “don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, please.” You open your eyes, forcing yourself to take a deep breath, calming your racing heart. “You know I don’t want this.” You turn to face him before quickly averting your eyes back to the ground.
“Really?” His words sound disbelieving, and you wince at the tone. “If you don’t want this, then don’t go.” He walks up to you, and hesitantly grabs your palm laid at your side. “Just…” you watch as his lip trembles, nearly imperceptible, “Just don’t leave… Don’t leave me, please.”
You finally look up from the ground to him. His plea is desperate and only meant for you. To think that the same man begged you to leave the city is now pleading for you to stay with him. His words are soft, but the weight of them was never valued in their volume. He is breathing heavily, but you doubt it’s from physical exertion. The brawl had ended what must’ve been ages ago. His eyes follow your every moment, as if trying to predict your response based purely on eye contact.
“Jason,” you start and your voice cracks slightly, “It’s not that easy. I’m not— I don’t want to leave you. That's never what I’d want.” You raise a hand to his head, eying him as you carefully grab the mask off the top of his head. He doesn’t stop you. “I just…” You look down at the mask in your hands, the Arkham Knight’s mask. “I wasn’t… It was unexpected.”
He remains silent, and you see his jaw clench. Your shoulders fall slightly as you shift the mask into your offhand. “Give me a day or two… We can meet at the apartment or wherever you decide. I just need a little bit of time.” You thoughtlessly run your fingers over the mask before offering it back to him. “We need time, whether you think so or not.”
Jason looks down at it before looking back up at you. Slowly, he grabs it, “I… I didn’t want to hurt you.” He repeats his words from earlier.
You exhale, slowly blinking, “I know, Jay.”
“No,” he grounds, frustrated, “you don’t sound like you believe it.” He clutches the mask so tightly you see it tremble. “I never intended for you to get shot. That’s not how we planned it.”
“I believe you, Jay.” You offer him a strained smile. You do believe him. It’s hard not to when he’s looking at you as if your opinion is the only one that matters. You believe that he never intended for you to get shot, that he never wanted you to get shot.
That doesn’t change the fact that it happened though, and this revelation will be no small obstacle to overcome. You can’t imagine he doesn’t feel some sort of betrayal at finding out you’ve been working with Bruce for the past few nights, lying to him. You may have been the one to get physically hurt, but you can imagine— in fact, you can see the emotional toll it’s taking, not just on yourself, but on him. No matter how much he may insist you needn’t leave, you doubt that he doesn’t need time to process this too.
“I believe you.” You reassure him.
No matter how much you love him, belief doesn’t change the past.
The next couple days pass by with an aching slowness, tension taut as if waiting for an inevitable snap. You find yourself awaiting for it to crumble down upon you, but Jason adhered to you. He didn’t contact you, and despite telling him to not message you, you felt a pit at the bottom of your stomach every time you checked your phone only to not see his name. It left an uneasy weight on your chest, and you kept telling yourself that you both needed this. Not a break, per se, but at least some time to understand the consequences of both of your actions.
Your train of thought inevitably led to one question: where did this leave you both?
It wasn’t as easy to answer as what you may suppose.
The part of you so blindly in love with Jason says that this changes nothing. Even when Jason was actively the Arkham Knight, he never treated you— the real you— any differently. If you wanted to be blind once again, perhaps you both could pretend.
Of course, that’s naive, and dangerous in more than one way.
There’s no way you’d be able to ignore that facet of him. You doubt he could hardly ignore you going out masquerading into the night either. Best case scenario, you two would ignore each other out on the field. It’s not even a good case, yet it is better than having to fight with Jason. Even if you try to ignore each other, it would be downright impossible given Gotham's current state. Bruce would catch on immediately, and it’d create a whole other slew of problems.
You’d reached your conclusion on the afternoon leading to the second night. You’d pulled out your phone, and texted Jason for the first time since the night of the reveal. He responded within seconds (you were not counting), and the two of you agreed to meet at the apartment tonight.
You’d gone on dates many a time throughout your relationship with Jason. The first few were filled with that fluttering feeling in your chest, the giddiness of thinking you found the one. You had felt nervous, but excited.
Now, you feel that nervousness tenfold, but with zero of the excitement. No matter how well this could go, you can’t help but wonder how different things could be. Why did you have to be helping Bruce? Why did Jason have to be helping Scarecrow? Why did he have to be the Arkham Knight?
They were fruitless questions, more what-if’s to add to the growing list of regrets you have.
You can’t help but feel that both of you would’ve been happier if you weren’t who you are. Would ignorance be better than the guilt you feel churning in your gut? You whisper a lie to Tim, telling him you have business to attend to tonight— unavoidable. He frowns, but doesn’t question it. You wonder how he’d react to finding out that you are the one dating the Arkham Knight.
You try desperately to bridge the connection between the two: Jason and the Arkham Knight. If you think hard enough, and reflect on the footage of your meeting for the millionth time, perhaps you can find some similarities. Idiosyncrasies that you would’ve never connected between the two.
The longer you mulled over that footage the longer you realized that they were never separate. Jason is just as real as the Arkham Knight is. They aren’t mutually exclusive. Jason may have been real in different ways, but both of them are real. Jason shares his feelings with the Knight, and the Knight shares his feelings with Jason. They’re equal, and somehow they aren’t opposite. If anything they feed into each other.
It was yet another thing to add to your list of regrets. You had initially separated the two in your head, Jason and the Arkham Knight. The Arkham Knight could not love you because he is not Jason. Jason could love you because he is not the Arkham Knight. It wasn’t a fair distinction to make because Jason does love you, and you know that. He loves you even when he wears that mask and he loves you without it. Putting on a mask doesn’t change that.
Perhaps your first mistake was assuming that it did.
By the time you get there, he’s already waiting in your shared apartment. You walk to the living room, and despite everything that's happened, you feel glad to see him. It’s the first time you’ve seen each other since the revelation. He looks you up and down, his eyes lingering on the bullet wound he caused. You can’t tell if he’s attempting to be obvious, or if he really can’t tell he is staring. Either way, you adjust your clothes to cover the bandages around it. He turns his attention away from you, back to the coffee table he was staring into.
Neither of you want to be the first one to speak, and it’s painfully apparent. The silence is suffocating, and neither one of you act to allow the room to breathe. Eventually, you suck it up and break it.
“You’re here.” His head snaps up to yours as if he wasn’t expecting your voice. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here so soon.”
He pauses before answering, “I never left.” His voice is rough, raw, and strained. You can’t tell if it’s from overuse or underuse.
You frown, “You stayed here?” You're slightly taken aback by the revelation. He stayed even when you had left? “Even when planning…” you gesture your hand loosely around you.
He shakes his head, “No… God, no, I didn’t want you involved in that stuff.” He shakes his head profusely.
“Bit too late for that now.” You reply dryly, barely louder than a whisper.
Jason doesn’t respond to that comment, “Why’d you come early if you weren’t expecting me here?” He sits up straighter, turning back to look at you.
You blink at him before slowly shrugging, you begin to pace the room. “I don’t know… I wanted to see if I’d find anything that would’ve clued me in sooner. Closure, I suppose."”
“Closure?” He repeats, sputtering. “That… You’re making it sound final.”
You sigh, “Jason…”
He furrows his brows, “Is Bruce making you do this?” He asks softly, standing up. He sounds like he understands, as if he’s been in your position before. “We can… We can just leave. You don’t have to listen to him.” He walks over to you, grabbing your hands.
You open your mouth to speak, but your mouth runs dry. He takes this as an opportunity to continue. “We can leave Gotham. Forget Bruce. Forget Scarecrow. Forget everything going on here.”
His words are a whisper into your ear, for a moment you don’t register the panic hidden underneath.
The offer is tempting, so tempting. You feel yourself faltering, wondering if this is the right decision to make. Could you ditch everything here? Could you leave Gotham and— realistically— never look back? You’d never be able to look any of your friends in the eye again. How could you look at Tim, Dick, Barbara, or even Bruce knowing that you ditched them out of fear of facing reality?
“Jason,” you begin slowly, “it’s not that easy.” You squeeze his hand.
“It can be. I can get us out of the city within the hour.” His eyes bore into your own. “Just tell me to, please.” He squeezes your hand back. The gesture isn’t comforting, not to you. It’s not a gesture born out of grounding you, but out of fear. Fear that if he let go, you might never return. “Tell me anything, but I—” he exhales, “I can’t do this silence anymore. Just talk to me.”
You open your mouth, the words are on your lips. The desire to stay with Jason is overwhelming. Your lips part, and you let out a shaky exhale.
“Jason, I can’t ask you to do that.” You look down, focusing on your intertwined hands. The scars on his hands make so much sense now, and hesitantly you raise your hand to gently caress them. Jason watches you the whole time, and he looks conflicted by your gesture.
“You can.” He nods obstinately, “Please ask me to do this.”
“Jason, I don’t think—” you force yourself to look to the ground, away from his distraught expression, “—this is a good idea…”
He doesn’t react immediately, yet you know he heard you. He can’t not hear you, your inches apart.
He says your name, “Did Bruce ask you to do this?” He repeats his question from earlier gravely, and you shake your head.
“No, no,” you sneak a glance up to him, “I haven’t even told him.”
“So why?” He sounds wounded with an aspect of bewilderment thrown in. “We don’t have to break up.”
You swallow, shaking your head, fighting the tears. You tried to avoid that phrase: “break up.” Digging your nails into your palm, you sigh, “Jason, this isn’t going to stop anytime soon. We’re on opposite sides of this—”
“And you’re not willing to work past that?” His eyebrows are furrowed, and his eyes are filled with utter confusion.
“Jason, I don’t think we can.” You mirror his expression. “I mean— Look where it got me.” Your eyes flicker down to your shoulder.
He sucks in a sharp breath, “That’s— That’s not… I would take it back in a heartbeat if I could. You know it was a mistake. I was caught by surprise. I never meant to actually hurt you, even when I didn’t know it was you. I—”
“I know you wouldn’t hurt me on purpose, but it’s just proving my point.” You shake your head. “We won’t be on the same side of this battle. It’s dangerous for both of us if we’re out there fighting each other.”
“You wouldn’t have to fight me. I wouldn’t allow them to hurt you.” He grounds out, teeth gritting.
“If they hurt Bruce though? If they hurt Tim? Dick? Barbara?” You shake you head, “Jay, I won’t be able to avoid fighting your forces if any of them are in danger.” You squeeze his hand again. “This—” you gesture between you both, “won’t work for as long as we’re on opposing sides. We’re too close to the situation, too each other. It’s going to get one of us hurt or worse.”
Shakily, you raise a hand up to his cheek, gently avoiding the ‘J’ scar. His pupils are dilated, and you can see your teary reflection in them. You blink away the tears, “Perhaps, perhaps when this all dies down… Maybe we can make it work again, but with the current circumstances…” You turn your gaze to the window, looking down over the city, filled with drones patrolling, buildings aflame, and the familiar echo of not-so-distant gunshots. “Jason, we can’t continue this right now, and I think you know this.” His eyes stay trained on your own as you gently lower your hand from his face.
“I… You’re choosing them and not us?” He doesn’t meet your eyes, and he angles himself so you can’t read him.
“Jason— No— How could— I’m not choosing anybody. I’m…” You swallow, “I’m not going to be going out for patrol until this is over.”
His eyes snap up, “You’re… quitting?”
Dubiously, you nod. “At least until this is over. I can’t— I wouldn’t be able to make a decision out on field if I had to pick a side. I’m a liability.” It’s a lie, and you aren’t sure if he caught it. You know what decision you’d make. You know who’d you choose, and you know you’d only exacerbate the situation if you continued to aid Bruce. “I’m sorry, Jason.” You meet his eyes, the tears are silently falling down your face. You rub them away, attempting to pull away for the last time when he grabs you, luring you in.
You fall against his body, and he tilts your head to face him. Neither of you say anything as he leans down and kisses you. It’s slow, lingering, as if both of you are savoring what very well may be your final moments together. Jason raises his hand to wipe away the remainder of your tears as he deepens the kiss. It’s not sensual, but it contains desire. It’s the desire to stay in each other’s presence for just a little more, drawing out what inevitably must end. It’s the desire to spend just one more minute in each other’s presence. Neither of you pull away, and you take the opportunity to wrap your arms around him, leaning closer to him. You can feel Jason's shoulders relax under your touch.
The moment is drawn out, but that doesn’t make it artificial. If anything, it only makes the reality set in. Neither of you are eager to pull apart, and you offhandedly realize you should’ve. Perhaps it would make this easier.
Despite everything, one thing your heart and mind could agree on was that you still want Jason. No matter how much you’re pushing him away with your current actions, you still want him. Even after learning of who he is, you still want him. You don’t ever think you can stop wanting him.
Perhaps that’s why you don’t pull away, not for a long time.
Inevitably, one of you has to pull away for air, and Jason continues to lean closer to you, as if chasing your lips for just one more kiss. You open your eyes, and he is panting heavily as he shifts his gaze from your lips up to your eyes. Neither of you say anything as you look down to his lips. Both of you craving the other, yet unable to do anything about it. You gnaw the inside of your lip as you pull away. None of you say anything. You stare at each, and his gaze is heavy like a promise. A promise to return to each other one day.
For that moment, he was your Jason again, and you feel content in knowing that one day, he may be yours once more.
Both of your eyes linger on one another as you exit the apartment. You’re unhurried, almost as if you’re attempting to burn this memory into the back of Jason’s mind. He supposes that you do an acceptable job burning it into his memory. The kiss you shared is vividly painted in his brain, and he doesn’t think it’ll be leaving his thoughts anytime soon.
He okay with that.
He watches the door as if hoping that by some miracle you might turn around and take back every decision you made. He doesn’t wait long, but there was the tiniest bit of optimism.
He walks back to your shared bedroom. Opening the closet, he reaches for the duffel bag inside. Upon unzipping it, his mask is atop the pile of his armor. He slowly grabs it, the pulsing light emanating from it illuminates the otherwise dark room.
You had said that maybe in the future it could work again. That being on opposite sides is dangerous, and Jason knows that logically, you’re correct.
He’s never been logical when it came to you.
He looks out the window, seeing the city reflected below. You were right. Both of you are too deep into this situation. He knows you can fight— he’s seen you fight, but knowing that you’d be out there on the field with unaccounted variables, variables he can’t control? With the current state Gotham is in? It’s a wonder how Bruce thought it was acceptable to be going out alone against the wolves of Gotham. It’s one thing for Bruce to endanger his own life, it’s another thing to endanger yours.
The thought sends a shiver through him that Scarecrow never could. To think that he could get his hands on you if Jason wasn’t careful. Jason banishes the idea from his mind, for he’d never allow that to happen. He’s already failed you once, and he will not be repeating that mistake.
Perhaps, one day you will reunite. Perhaps one day, he will be able to hold you in his arms once again, untroubled by the headache of Gotham. Perhaps one day, he won’t have to worry about Bruce, the enemies you've made, or any criminals of Gotham itching to get one over his head and take you.
Today isn’t that day. It won’t be tomorrow either. There’s a possibility it may not come for years.
But Jason is patient. He's been patient.
He will wait.
However, he has the power to expedite your return. He holds the mask up before gently placing it onto the bed as he grabs the rest of his armor, slowly putting it on.
He can get out there right now, and make those years apart turn to months. He can make those months turn to weeks. If he tries hard enough, perhaps he can make those weeks into days. If finishing his business with Scarecrow is what it will take to be able to feel your touch upon his skin once more?
Jason adjusts his holsters before grabbing his guns, sliding them into place. He reaches for the mask, placing the familiar weight onto his head. He presses the button against his neck, and it lowers onto his face. He takes in a deep breath.
He will do what it takes.
: ̗̀➛ A/N: Yes I’m aware I said that I would be posting that one Jason fic ft. Damian idea next. No, I will NOT apologize. I had this idea in mind ever since I finished the games. For those of you who’ve been following my updates. THIS is the fic that I’ve been unsure about. I hope I did AK!Jason justice. I adore him so much.
Anyway, I wasn't sure whether to tag this as ooc. The way I see it, Jason may love you, but at the same time he did go and commit all those crimes in the game. He was out for BLOOD in Arkham Knight (at the very least he wanted Bruce specifically dead), and I wanted to make sure that was evident here even if he loves reader. Honestly, I could go into a whole deep dive of why I wrote him the way I did. I have SO many thoughts about him.
ANYWAY, this is already long enough as it is, I hope you enjoyed the fic! :D
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Summary: You were nine when the world ended for you. You were twenty-five when you met him. You were twenty-six when life ended and began again, whether you wanted it to or not.
Warnings: Yandere (as always), mention of death, illness, angst (lots of it)
A/N: This story went through so much. I wrote the initial on my notebook while I was waiting for my friend, then transferred to ipad, then finally to google docs. I was supposed to post this here last April but life, as it always does, get in the way of our plans... hehe..huhu.. anyway, please do interact and I hope you enjoy this!
The world ended when you were nine.
You couldn’t remember exactly how it happened, your young mind couldn't even fathom why it happened - just that it did.
Was it gradual, you wondered. Was it something unforeseen by the government? Were there signs? Were they just too strong to fight against?
What you remembered was that one day, your country was free and peaceful, and the next thing you knew, you were a foreigner to your own homeland. All of a sudden, you were a second-class citizen to your own home.
Sutena.
They came for Sutena, a plant that only grew in your country. Hard as they tried to replicate the plant, hard as they tried to copy the condition it grew and thrive on, they simply failed.
The seven leaders failed.
And when the president of your country stopped allowing them to plunder the Sutena to the ground, that was when they dropped the act. Suddenly, the seven leaders were no longer noble. The seven leaders were no longer patient nor kind. When they stopped getting what they wanted in the name of science, that was when they attacked.
You were nine when the seven leaders invaded your country. They never really left.
Now that they have an unending access to your country’s treasure, their goal was finally realized,
What was once only a concept trend into a twisted reality of some sorts for some, and a nightmare for you and your countrymen. Essentially, it was a fountain of youth packaged into a single pill that would cost one hundreds of millions. You would live forever, all your sickness, all the pains, all the aging would stop when you take it.
But the seven men were too cunning, too greedy. They weren’t only obsessed with living forever, no. They were all obsessed with money and the power it brought them. After all, they needed resources to survive the numerous attempts on their lives. They needed the money to live the life they badly wanted to prolong.
In fact, no one knew how old the seven men really were.
You were twenty-five when you met him.
By now, the world you grew up in was now just a distant memory, something that happened long ago that you would think all of it was just a good dream.
The people you knew were no more.
Now, you only had your aunt and cousin.
At certain point, your people stopped fighting, too weary from all the ruins and casualties that war brought. Your people knew they were never going to win.
At one point, the people accepted loss.
They said you weren’t their slaves, that your people were free so as long as they have unrestricted access to Sutena. But conditional freedom was still a cage. What once was a progressive, quiet country turned into grey.
You were on your way home, weary from the long day. You had taken this road so many times to know that people - well, at least your people - did not really go here. This was too near where the Sutana grew. But this was your home. This was the only connection left of your roots, of the family who had long gone.
Your days were so monotonous that you wondered why you were still alive. You had no family left, all of them were tragically taken by sickness or old age. You had no intention to start your own simply because you wouldn’t subject your own child to a fucked-up world. Your line ends with you, you thought.
You weren’t exactly suicidal. You had this almost clinical approach to death, it was something that would eventually happen. It was the cycle of life, the theme, if you will.
You weren’t suicidal, but the person looking down the bridge with his legs carelessly swinging back and forth as though wind wouldn’t dare to push him down the bridge looked like he was. You couldn’t see his face, his dark hair was blocking his face. But if you were forced to live this life, then he should be, too.
Nope. No optional exit here, buddy. No taking shortcuts.
You moved without thinking. Truly, you did.
Because instead of pulling the man to safety, you accidentally pushed him when you tripped from a rock.
Your mouth dropped open, the sound of your own frantic heartbeat suddenly louder than the rushing wind. For a split second, the world turned into a silent film—a frame-by-frame capture of your outstretched hands, the empty space where a human being had just been, and the sickeningly graceful arc of a body descending toward the dark water below.
Panic, cold and sharp, jolted through your limbs. You hadn't meant to be a savior, but you certainly hadn't planned on being an executioner. You scrambled to the edge, your fingers scraping against the cold metal of the railing, and peered over.
"Oh, god," you rasped, the words catching in a throat gone bone-dry. "Oh, no, no, no."
Below, there was a splash—violent and white against the murky depths—and then, silence. The monotony of your existence hadn't just been broken; it had been shattered by the weight of a life that was now, quite literally, in your hands. You had spent years waiting for death to arrive like a scheduled train, yet seeing it invited so abruptly by your own clumsy feet made your stomach heave.
Without thinking, you jumped.
You braced for impact as water surrounded you. The impact was less of a splash and more of a physical assault. The water was a wall of liquid ice that slammed the breath right out of your lungs, turning your sudden heroism into a frantic, gasping struggle for survival.
For a several disorienting seconds, up was down and down was dark. Bubbles danced mockingly past your eyes as you fought the weight of your water-logged clothes. Then, through the murky haze, you saw him—a dark shape suspended in the current, sinking with a stillness that terrified you. And you were sinking with him because as fate would have it, you never really learned to swim.
Maybe you were a bit suicidal?
But despite the rising panic you were feeling, you reached out your hand to the man with pale skin, only to find his dark eyes already trained to yours as he sinked to the bottom. He didn't reach for the surface. He didn't even reach for your hand. He simply watched you, his expression so eerily calm, as though he had been waiting for this specific moment of descent for a lifetime. From his point of view, you were nothing short of an angel with the rays of light behind you, your hair floating ethereally around you. He smiled at you, his expression so eerily calm as though he was someone who had all the time in the world.
And you were quickly running out of breath.
With the very last of you, you pulled the sleeves of his to no avail. Your body was giving up, your lungs protesting violently. Your grip slackened. Your eyes began to flutter shut, the weight of the river finally winning.
In that twilight between consciousness and the deep, you saw him blink.
And as though this was a clear imposition, even a rude distraction from his quiet descent down the lake, he surged into motion. You never expected a strength such as his just from looking at his form but the crushing pressure when he encircled your wrist and pulled you to his chest said otherwise. He kicked against the current until you were out of the water. He dragged you to the embankment and unceremoniously dropped you on the grass before sitting down beside you, his long legs stretched, his arms supporting his weight.
“Are you always this indecisive?” he asked. His voice was steady, lacking even a hint of the breathlessness that was currently tearing through your lungs.
“W-what?” you wheezed as you coughed out the water, your heart beating even faster as the adrenaline left your body.
“You couldn’t decide whether to kill me or save me? I mean. Come on. Make up your mind,” he said, his voice that of a boredom.
“I—I wasn’t trying to kill you!” You choked out the words, shivering so hard your teeth clacked. “You were trying to kill yoursel—”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You were sitting! On a bridge! An extremely high bridge! At night-”
“So you decided to assist me in “killing” myself?” he regarded you as he tilted his head. “I must say, you’re efficient. Indecisive, but efficient.”
“I tripped!”
He shook his head in disbelief, a slow, mocking movement that sent droplets of river water flying from his dark hair. “You pushed me, and then you jumped after me. Evidently, you don’t know how to swim. You cannot even dog paddle. It’s embarrassing. I think you’re projecting and you’re the suicidal one.”
You rolled your eyes as you attempted to stand, muttering under your breath about how this was one of the worst days of your life. “So much about being a good samaritan,” you noted lowly.
“That’s you trying to be a good samaritan?” he asked, watching your struggle with a look of genuine fascination. “I’ve had more peaceful encounters with people who actively hate me.”
Your knees were shaking as you finally gained your footing, but your pride had taken a hit enough to just want to leave this place even though your body was not yet ready. You took one defiant step, swayed dangerously, and would have hit the mud face-first if a hand hadn't shot out to steady you.
The grip on your arm was firm, grounding, and annoyingly solid.
“This is what a good samaritan is supposed to look like, by the way,” he muttered. He didn't let go, instead stepping closer so you could lean against him—a move that felt entirely too intimate for two people who had just met via a homicide attempt.
“You’re still shivering,” he observed, his voice dropping the snark for a second. “And you’re turning a very concerning shade of blue. It clashes with your hair.”
You scoffed weakly. “Excuse me. Blue is my color,” you rebutted, your teeth chattering so loudly. “I-I’ll walk this off. Builds character and everything, you know?”
“The walk home will build pneumonia,” he corrected. “Where do you live?”
“I’m not giving my address to a stranger I just tried to murder,” you managed to gasp out, trying to summon an ounce of your usual clinical detachment. It was difficult to be mysterious when you were dripping like a broken faucet. “That’s how horror movies start. I’ve seen the tropes.”
“Believe me, if I wanted to murder you, I would have just let you continue your impersonation of an anchor back there,” he noted.
The walk was entertaining. You meant, you were actively fighting for your life as he actively tried to keep you alive and standing on your feet. It must have been such an imposition to him because he sighed so hard and so deep before hauling you on his back.
“Where are your keys?” he asked once you two made it in front of your little cottage.
“Clearly swimming,” you muttered into his shoulder, your voice vibrating with a fresh wave of shivers. “Along with my phone, my wallet, and my last shred of dignity. They’ve formed a new society at the bottom of the river. I hope they’re happy together.”
The man stood there, still supporting your weight as if you were a particularly heavy, dripping sack of laundry. He stared at your front door—a charming, locked, and currently impenetrable barrier—with a look of profound, weary disappointment.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he sighed as he sat you down on your porch. “I’ll fix this later-”
“Fix what-”
Before you knew it, he slammed his shoulder once against your poor excuse of a door. It gave away. Pathetically. It didn't even put up a fight. It just surrendered, swinging on one surviving hinge like a white flag.
He turned slowly to you accusingly before quietly pointing to the door in disbelief. “Honey, the homeless have more security than you. A particularly motivated squirrel could have staged a home invasion here.”
You opened your mouth to defend yourself when he put up a finger before looking up as though he was silently negotiating with a higher power for the strength not to walk right back into the river. “You know what? No. Don’t even-”
A hot shower and a hot cup of tea later, you were watching as he fixed your door with a heavy-duty screwdriver and a hammer he’d found in your kitchen junk drawer with the precision of a surgeon.
He stood up, testing the door. It swung shut with a solid, satisfying thunk that it hadn't made in the three years you'd lived there. He turned the deadbolt, nodding to himself.
“There. Now at least someone will have to try slightly harder to murder you than I did,” he said, leaning against the now-sturdy frame. He crossed his arms, his dark eyes landing on you with that same unsettling, clinical intensity. “I’m done here. Bye. Let’s never meet again.”
“Agreed.”
—
You chalked what happened a month ago to a particularly bad nightmare. Aside from the fixed door that no longer rattled in the wind and a lingering sniffle that lasted a week, there was no evidence that whatever happened that night, happened.
You were walking home after work, swinging the small bag of groceries when you saw a man being held against the wall, a gun pointed at him. It was a mugging from how he was searching his pockets. You didn't think. Again. Truly, you didn't. Without a second's hesitation, you wound up like a big-league pitcher and swung your bag of groceries with every ounce of momentum you possessed.
The mugger, possessing the survival instincts you clearly lacked, chose that exact millisecond to crouch down to check the victim's ankles for a hidden wallet.
Your bag of groceries sailed through the empty air where his head had been and connected—with a sickening, wet thud—directly with the face of the man being mugged.
"Oomph!" the victim grunted.
The mugger, having survived a point-blank grocery assault by the grace of a well-timed squat, stared at the scene for one bewildered second. He looked at his victim—who was currently draped in egg yolk and looking ready to commit a felony of his own—and then at you, the wild-eyed woman wielding a leaking bag of dairy.
Faced with a situation that was clearly too weird to be profitable, the mugger tucked his gun into his waistband, turned on his heel, and sprinted down the alley without a word.
The pale man winced, his hand feeling the side of his head. He looked at his finger, certain that blood would be there and what did you know, there was. He sighed as he flinched before looking at you.
“Of course it’s you again,” he muttered under his breath. “Do I need to hire bodyguards?” he asked himself as he straightened up.
You touched his forearms, looking up at him with concern. “Oh my God. You’re bleeding-”
“Please don’t touch me. I’m terrified of you,” he said, his voice dripping with a sarcasm so dry it could have started a brushfire.
“I was trying to save you!”
“You hit me. With what seemed to be a bag with heavy-duty cans.”
“He was robbing you-”
He snorted. “He was actually quite polite. Seriously. He hadn't even raised his voice yet. We were in the middle of a very civilized transaction until you decided to launch a pantry at my skull. I think I was safer with him.”
“Can you be serious for once? We need to get you to a hospital-”
“Can you stop trying to kill me for once?” he replied dryly. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, which was immediately ruined as he dabbed at the blood blooming near his eyebrow. "A hospital? For what? To explain to a triage nurse that I was assaulted yet again by the same person? That I was beaten by groceries? No, thanks.”
“He had a gun! If you look at it, I saved your life.”
He tilted his head in realization, “You are suicidal. I knew it. The guy had a gun! And you ran unarmed-”
“I have my groceries with me..” you reasoned weakly, looking anywhere but his bewildered eyes.
He scoffed, “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thanks?”
He shook his head before immediately wincing, his hand flying up to cradle his skull. “Not a compliment, honey.”
You moved to his side, hovering your hands near his elbows, afraid to touch him but terrified he’d tip over. “I’m sorry. I really am. But you were just standing there! You weren’t even fighting back!”
“Is this my karma?; he asked himself, seriously contemplating how he had been living his life as he attempted to walk away from you unsuccessfully as evidenced by the swaying in his steps.
"Whoa, okay, easy—" you gasped, finally abandoning the 'no touching' rule and grabbing his arm to keep him upright.
He leaned into your support for a fraction of a second before stiffening, though he didn't pull away. "I’m being haunted," he muttered dramatically, closing his eyes against the pulsing rhythm in his temple. "I didn't drown in the lake, so the universe sent you back to finish the job. It's a very specific, very humiliating curse."
"It's not a curse, it's a concussion!" you countered, tucking your shoulder under his arm to act as a crutch. "And for the record, I saved you from a mugging. Most people would say 'thank you' instead of 'you're a localized natural disaster.'"
"Most people aren't hit in the face with groceries," he bit out, though his voice lacked its usual bite as he let you lead him toward the alley exit. He looked down at you, his dark eyes clouded with pain and a burgeoning, reluctant recognition. "Where are we going? Please tell me it’s not back to the house with the suicidal door. I don't think I have the strength to fix your infrastructure tonight."
—
“Stop singing, for the love of God, please,” he pleaded.
“I’m just trying to wake you up. Google said sleeping is bad for concussions-”
“I’m not going to die. Stop it.”
He lay stretched out on your sofa, a bag of frozen peas (the only non-weaponized grocery item left) pressed against his temple. His dark hair was fanned out against the cushion, making his skin look even more like porcelain—too smooth, too pale, too perfect for a man who lived in a country that had been grey for sixteen years.
“How are you so sure?” you asked again, peering at him as you set a fresh cup of tea on the coffee table. “You don’t look rich enough to afford Sutena.”
“Ouch,” he remarked dryly before sitting up lazily. “Sutena,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a secret. “You think that little pill is the only way to stick around? That the Seven are the only ones who found the fountain?”
“It’s the only way anyone survives the sickness these days,” you countered, sitting on the edge of the armchair. “Unless you’re one of the Seven. And you’re definitely not one of them. They don't hang out on bridges at midnight or get mugged in alleys.”
He nodded. “They definitely shouldn’t, right? What were you going to cook, anyway?”
You blinked, thrown by the jarring pivot from political elites to meal prep. “I was going to cook kimchi spam rice or something. Kimchi didn’t survive the mugging. So I’m going to cook ramen. Why?”
“That’s not healthy,” he chided. “The sodium alone is a slow-motion catastrophe. It’s bad for the heart, the skin, the temperament...”
“So?”
“So? Don’t you want to live a long life?”
“Not particularly. I believe one dies when they’re supposed to die.”
He held your eyes for a moment too long before he chuckled, “They should, shouldn’t day?” He whispered before standing up and going straight to your kitchen. “In that case, let’s cook your ramen. I’m famished.”
“Wait—you’re the one who was just lecturing me on my heart, kidney, overall health,” you said, scrambling to follow him into the kitchen.
“That was before I realized I was dining with a fellow nihilist,” he said, already poking through your cupboards with an air of immense authority. He plucked a stray egg that had survived the massacre and held it up like a trophy. “If we’re going to meet the Reaper, we might as well do it with a poached egg and a bit of dignity.”
He turned to you, the flickering kitchen light catching the dark, depthless quality of his eyes. For a man who had just been mugged and nearly drowned, he looked remarkably like he owned the place.
“Water,” he commanded gently, pointing to the stove. “And try not to trip on the way to the burner. I’ve reached my quota for near-death experiences for the hour.”
—-
“I think we’ve already trauma bonded,” he said as he fixed your leaking faucet.
“Why? Because I already attempted to kill you twice?” you asked, leaning against the counter and watching him with a mixture of suspicion and reluctant gratitude.
He smirked, his focus shifting back to the pipe for one final adjustment. “So you admit that you were trying to kill me. Hello, 911? Yes, I’d like to report a crime-”
You chuckled, the sound light but tinged with the exhaustion of the night. “But you’re still alive. It still wasn't your time. And how can we trauma bond when I don’t even know your name?”
He blinked, setting the wrench down with a heavy clank and turned to look at you, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that were far too steady for someone who had recently been used as target practice for canned goods. “I’m Y- I’m Suga.”
“Hi Suga, I’m Y/N. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“‘Nice’ is a bold choice of words, Y/N,” Suga remarked, leaning back against the counter and drying his hands on a towel. The sharp, clinical intensity in his eyes softened into something more contemplative as he repeated your name under his breath. “Most people would have filed a restraining order against themselves by now if they were in your shoes.”
“Most people don't have a stranger fixing their plumbing at midnight after a mugging,” you countered.
He hummed, a low sound of acknowledgement. “True. We’re a pair of anomalies, aren't we? One who doesn't care to live, and one who...” He trailed off, looking at the sturdy deadbolt he’d installed earlier. “...and one who apparently can’t be killed by you.”
—
Perhaps, you formed a bond.
Because like a cat you fed once, he kept on coming back. Seeing him was almost like a routine, to be honest. A week after the mugging, he came back with tools and materials. Before you could even ask him why he was there, he was already scoffing about how his conscience didn’t let him sleep because he noted that your roof was leaking.
He said that that was what a good samaritan looked like.
Two days later, he was there again, calmly peeling a tangerine with his pocket knife. Suga didn’t look up immediately from his seated form. He was perched on your porch step, uncaring toward what seemed like an expensive coat that was touching the floor. The orange rind fell in a single, perfect spiral at his feet.
You sighed, “Don’t you have friends? Family? Even a pet?”
He raised his dark brows before he extended his hand toward you. A single, perfect slice of tangerine was impaled on the tip of his silver pocket knife, the juice glistening like amber under the dim porch light.
“Do I look friendless to you?”
You reached out and nodded while you chewed the surprisingly tasty tangerine.
He let out a short, dry huff of a laugh, snapping the pocket knife shut with a metallic snick. “I have friends. They’re my…brothers.”
“Okay, you have friends and/or family. I assume you’re unemployed because why else would you be here on a workday, no less.”
He licked his lips, a clear attempt to stop himself from smiling, though the glint in his eye said otherwise. “I’m taking a break.”
“A break,” you repeated flatly. “For a month? That’s not a break, Suga. That’s a sabbatical. Or a mid-life crisis.”
He shrugged, “Call it what you want. Anyway, what’s for dinner?”
“Are you also broke?”
—
Days like this reminded you of the faux freedom awarded to your country.
You watched as the man struggled against the police, his face bloodied yet his eyes remained defiant. “Bangtan is evil! They’ll run this country to the ground just for that fucking Sutana!”
People flinched when the police hit him with the gun on his head, rendering the man weaker. He bared his teeth to the man in the middle, someone with a perfect image of unaffected. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, draped in a coat that looked like woven midnight. He didn't look angry; he didn't even look bored. He looked like a god watching an ant scream at the rain. “I hope you and your brothers die a painful and slow death, you fucker Taehyung! I hope you suffer for eternity!”
No one had ever seen their faces. And those that did were already long dead. No official photographs even survived their infiltration. The people only knew that there were seven. The people only knew of their names: Kim Namjoon, Kim Seokjin, Min Yoongi, Jung Hoseok, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung and Jeon Jungkook. That was it.
One of your seven nightmares finally had a face, you realized. Taehyung sighed, a soft sound of genuine exhaustion, as if he were listening to a story he had already heard a thousand times over a thousand years. “We can’t die, though,” he stated in great boredom.
They couldn’t die while your people die everyday.
They couldn't die while people who were sick suffered when Sutana could take the pain away.
They couldn’t die while your entire family died a slow death from sickness that should have been curable had it not been for their selfishness.
“But you will if you don’t stop-”
“I will never stop! You people are evil! Rotten to the very core! Selfish people-” His words trailed off into a wet gasp when Taehyung gave a microscopic nod to the guard. You felt the air in the plaza turn cold. You knew what was happening; you had seen this choreography of execution before. The "mercy" of the state was always swift and silent.
You couldn’t take this anymore.
But just as you were about to step out of the crowd, a hand decisively pulled you back. You turned and there was Suga, looking at you with darkness in his eyes, his face devoid of any emotion as he shook his head. How he was here, you didn’t know.
“Let go,” you gritted.
“It’s not worth it.”
“He’ll die-”
“And you will die if you step up,” he hissed, his hold on you tightened as he pulled you closer to him and away from the crowd. You tried to pull yourself free to no avail. “Is that what you want?”
“No one should live that long,” you said, your voice cracking as you gestured toward Taehyung’s form. “You know that. It’s an insult to everyone who actually has to bleed.”
Suga, for the first time since you met him, looked at you with intensity and coldness you have never seen before. His jaw was clenched. “And you don’t get to die just because you want to, jagiyah.”
You frowned before turning to the scene behind you just in time for Taehyung to lift his eyes to you. His dark brows raised when he turned to the man behind you. He tilted his head, a flicker of familiarity and curiosity glinted in his eyes. They held eyes for a moment too long before Taehyung chuckled lowly as though in faint amusement. He didn't say a word. He simply turned around, his coat billowing behind him as he walked away, leaving the scent of ozone and expensive tobacco in his wake.
—
He uncapped the bottle before wordlessly handing it to you.
You were seated near the river where you first met, but this time was quiet. You could pretend that everything was fine, that everything was normal but reality would always remind you of what was the truth.
You live in a time where speaking up would mean death.
Suga turned to you, “You’re suicidal-”
“Excuse-”
He lifted his hand before shaking his head, his dark hair swaying gently with the wind. “Wasn’t a question,” he sighed before fully turning to you. “Don’t you have friends? Family? A pet?”
The irony was a bitter pill. Those were the exact words you had thrown at him on your porch when you thought he was just a lonely, unemployed man with a pocket knife and a conscience.
You scoffed at him, the only indication that you heard him as the spark that was usually in your eyes was nowhere to be found. It was a moment too long that he thought you wouldn’t answer him. The sound of water running with the current was the only thing that could be heard.
“I don’t have a family. They…they left me. I supposed they’re all together now if heaven is real,” you said quietly. You didn’t look at him. You couldn't. You kept your gaze fixed on the dark ripples of the river, the same river that had seen your first meeting and was now witnessing your unraveling.
“I don’t have friends because everyone’s just so busy surviving that human connection doesn’t seem like a necessity. Kindness seemed like a flaw, and tomorrow is not promised. I can’t even take care of myself. How can I take care of a pet?”
The words were a confession of defeat, a surrender to the gray reality that had swallowed the country whole. You stared at the dark water, waiting for him to agree, to shrug, or to tell you that’s just the way the world worked now.
“Then I’ll be your friend,” he said decisively.
The weight of his tone made you turn. He wasn't looking at the river anymore; he was looking at you with a terrifyingly steady gaze. There was no hesitation in his eyes, no room for argument.
“From now on, we’re the best of friends.”
A hollow, startled laugh bubbled up in your chest, but it died before it reached your lips. “It doesn’t work like that—”
“It works however I say it works,” he countered, his voice cutting through your protest like a blade. He leaned closer, the shadow of his silhouette merging with yours in the moonlight. The warmth you had felt on the porch was gone, replaced by a fierce, protective iron.
“So don’t go around trying to get killed,” he hissed, his fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the stone bench. “You don't get to decide that your life is worth nothing when you’ve got someone counting on you to show up. You wanted a reason? There it is. Here I am.”
—
“You’re one, clingy friend,” you noted as he trailed behind you in the small, rundown groceries.
He walked behind you with an expression of profound annoyance, looking very much like a man being forced to participate in a tedious chore when no one was making him do this. It was a sharp contrast to the way you’d found him that morning: leaning against your porch railing at sunrise as if he’d never left, waiting for you to wake up.
“Best friend,” he corrected. “And why do you have to buy groceries every two days? Why not just buy for the whole week?” he grumbled even as he pushed you gently aside to push the cart for you.
“Because if I die, then I’m just wasting food, am I not?” you said it so nonchalantly that one would think you were merely talking about the weather or what you were going to cook for dinner.
The rattling of the cart’s wheels stopped abruptly. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of a flickering fluorescent light.
Suga didn’t look up immediately. His hands remained gripped on the handle of the cart, his knuckles turning white. When he finally shifted his gaze to you, the annoyance had vanished, replaced by an intensity that made the air in the narrow aisle feel thin.
“You’re not going to die,” he said. It wasn’t an encouragement or a comfort; it was a cold, hard statement of fact.
“Who knows?” you countered, reaching for a small bag of rice.
You did know. You could feel it in the way your breath hitched when you climbed the porch steps, in the persistent, dull ache that lived beneath your ribs—the exact symptoms your family before you had felt. The doctor had been brief when he had told you it was the early stages of the same sickness they had. There were medicines and treatments to prolong your life, but truly, why prolong the agony?
You nodded, thanked the doctor and went to work that day.
“I think you’ll live a long and happy life if you’re smart about it,” you told him, your back facing him as you looked at the tangerine on the shelf.
"You’re talking like you’re saying goodbye," he murmured, his hand reaching around you to pull the tangerine from your grasp. He didn't put it back; he turned it over in his fingers, his eyes boring into the side of your face. "I'm pretty sure 'best friends' don't just wish each other a happy life and walk away."
He stepped around to face you, forcing you to look up. His expression was a mix of irritation and a strange, burgeoning concern he was trying desperately to hide. “You’re not going to die,” he announced as though his words were law before walking away with your groceries.
—
“What was your family like?” you asked him as he washed the dishes. You wanted to think that you didn’t particularly care about what he looked like, nor the way he carried himself with such certainty. But the truth was, you noticed. You noticed how he preferred dark clothings, or how he ran his fingers through his hair several times a day, or how he loved napping, or that how much he seemed to always carry tangerines with him.
You noticed how broad his back was.
You noticed how handy he was.
You noticed how his constant faux annoyance was just a front.
You noticed how well he took care of you even when you didn’t ask him to, even when no one did before.
Simply put, you noticed Suga.
“What was your family like?” he asked back before wiping his hands and facing you. He looked domestic in this light, you thought, with only his black shirt. It was something so simple but on him it seemed as though he stepped right out of a photoshoot.
You tilted your head before gesturing for him to sit beside you. You clicked on your outdated phone and onto the album of photos you downloaded when social media was still allowed. He sat beside you, pulling his chair closer to you. Your shoulders brushed as he looked down at your screen. He was close.
Too close, you thought, that he could see the tinging on your cheeks if he wanted to. You cleared your throat before zooming the photo.
“This was my father,” you pointed at the screen. “And beside him was my mother.”
You fondly looked at the people who were the last person to love you in this world.
“That’s you?” he asked, pointing at the seven-year old you in between your parents. You were grinning wildly, your missing tooth on display. The picture was taken in the plaza back when everything was normal, back when the Seven was still trying to play nice with your country. It was during a festival, your background full of people mingling with each other, and even through the picture, you could see happiness where it once was.
“I was adorable, right?”
He smiled softly, his eyes twinkling, “I’ve seen cuter kids. Me, for example. I was the most adorable kid my age.”
You looked at him with deadpanned eyes. “Sorry, I’ll only believe it when I see it.”
“Oh so you do want to see it.”
“I do,” you shot back , your brows raised at the challenge in his tone.
He tilted his head to the side as he smirked at you. “ Too bad I don’t have pictures or else you’ll find me so adorable you would have pinched my cheeks by now.”
You couldn’t help a laughter escape you at his audacity. Your head was bent back, your melodious laughter echoing throughout your small house. You looked divine, Yoongi thought. You looked like you were happiness personified, a vibrant splash of color in a world he had helped turn monochrome. Seeing you laugh was something akin to the way they felt when they discovered Sutana.
It was a dangerous feeling.
They ruined cities for that. They had burned entire legacies to the ground just to hold that kind of power in their palms, to ensure they were the ones who decided who lived, who smiled, and who withered.
His heart stopped when you turned to him, your lower lip in between your teeth to stop yourself from smiling. “Liar. Where’s the proof then, Suga?” you leaned closer, teasing glint still in your eyes.
Would you still look at him like that if you knew?
Would you still let him in if you knew?
You wouldn’t, he was certain of it.
So instead, he softly tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. “Perhaps, I am. I guess you just have to take my word for it.”
“W-what? Don’t tell me you didn’t have cameras back then,” you stuttered slightly, the proximity finally catching up to your pulse. You tried to regain your footing with a playful scoff. “I mean, I think you’re only, what, three to five years ahead of me or something—”
“Is this your way of asking me about my age?”
“Is it working?”
Suga chuckled before tapping your nose. “I’m a lot older than you.”
“Liar. You looked like you're only 31, tops.”
“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?”
Before he left for the night, he turned to you. He adjusted his coat, the fabric rustling in the quiet of the foyer. He reached for the handle, pausing at the threshold. Before he stepped out into the night, he turned back to you, his silhouette framed by the porch light.
“I’m 107.”
You rolled your eyes at him before locking the door, “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England.”
—
Yoongi walked into his penthouse. The space was a study in shadows, carved out only by the cold, electric glow of the skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
There was something wrong.
Without a word, Yoongi moved toward the marble island of the kitchen. His movements were fluid, practiced in the dark. The amber liquid caught the city lights as it hit the crystal, the soft clink of the decanter the only sound in the room. He poured whiskey into two glasses, the sharp, peaty scent rising to meet him. He walked to where Namjoon was seated in the dark. He was quietly reading on his tablet, no doubt about the reports on Sutana.
Yoongi stopped a few feet away, extending one of the glasses. “I thought only the maknaes break into my place when they’re bored. Apparently, that includes you now, Namjoonie.”
Namjoon finally looked up, the tablet’s glow making his features look stark and tired. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Yoongi’s as he took the glass. He didn't offer an apology, nor did he look surprised that Yoongi had already poured him a drink.
“Long time no see, hyung,” he greeted lowly before hee took a slow, deliberate sip of the whiskey, letting the burn settle. “Been busy?”
Yoongi chuckled before plopping down beside him and drinking his own. “Out with it. We know each other for too long to play these games.”
“91 years of it.”
He nodded, “Almost a whole fucking century. I always have a good read on you, Yoongi…except now.”
“Taehyung,” he muttered under his breath as though in explanation. Of course the younger member tattled. “But did he also tell you he showed his fucking face in public?”
Namjoon swiped the tablet screen, and a grainy, thermal-enhanced image appeared. It was a still from a high-altitude drone, zoomed in so far the pixels bled. It showed two figures tucked away near a stone bench by the river. One was unmistakably Yoongi, his posture uncharacteristically protective. The other was a woman- small, defiant, and entirely human.
"Taehyung is a wildfire; he likes the spectacle," Namjoon said, turning the tablet toward Yoongi. "But you? You’re the hearth. You don’t move unless there’s a purpose. So tell me, what purpose does she serve?"
Yoongi didn't look at the screen. He didn't need to. He could still feel the phantom warmth of her hair against his knuckles, the way her laughter had momentarily drowned out the decades of blood on his hands. He took a long, burning swallow of whiskey.
"She doesn't serve a purpose, Namjoon. She’s just a girl who buys too many tangerines and thinks I’m an unemployed thirty-one-year-old."
Namjoon sighed, “I know that look in your eyes, Yoongi hyung. It’s the exact look in Seokjin and my eyes that started this entire conundrum decades ago. She’s human. She will die, eventually-”
“She’s not going to die,” Yoongi countered. It wasn’t a hope; it was a decree. The kind of statement that had leveled cities and reshaped nations.
Namjoon sighed, “She’s dying even as we speak, hyung. She will, unless you give her Sutana.”
“Or unless I stop taking it,” Yoongi added. His voice was a flat, freezing line of defiance.
Namjoon froze, his glass halfway to his lips. He turned fully now, the blue light of the tablet making his eyes look like a cold flint. “You’ll die for a girl?”
“You live for a girl,” Yoongi shot back, his eyes cutting to Namjoon’s. “You and Seokjin hyung still live for her. We are all in this situation because you two can’t let go of someone who should have already died decades ago. How long will we keep her in between life and death?”
Namjoon’s composure shattered. He slammed the whiskey glass onto the marble island, the crystal miraculously holding but the liquid sloshing over his hand. He surged to his feet, his shadow towering against the city lights.
“Until we fucking perfect Sutana and its ability to bring her back to life!” Namjoon roared, his voice cracking with a raw, human agony that he usually kept buried under layers of logic and leadership.
He leaned over the table, his face inches from Yoongi’s. “If I have to burn this country to the ground to find the missing sequence needed for her, I will. And you know Seokjin-hyung would do worse.”
Yoongi didn't flinch. He just looked at the man he had called a brother for over a hundred years—a man who was currently losing his mind over a memory kept on life support.
“Then we’re both fools,” Yoongi said quietly, swirling the amber liquid in his cracked glass. “The difference is, my girl is still laughing. Yours hasn't opened her eyes since the 1950s.”
Namjoon recoiled as if stung, his chest heaving. The silence returned, but it was different now, tainted by the secret that fueled their empire. “Then you should learn from our mistakes. Give her the Sutena now.”
Yoongi finally broke eye contact before downing his whiskey. “She hates us, Namjoon,” Yoongi admitted, the words coming out like a confession. “She hates everything we’ve built. She loathes how we destroyed this fucking country just to harvest that sequence. If—if I give her a dose... if I turn her into what we are... she will never forgive me. She’ll look at me with the same eyes that man in the plaza had.”
He thought of your laughter in the kitchen, the way you’d teased him about his age, and the sheer, stubborn humanity of your refusal to fear the end. To give you Sutana was to kill the person he had come to love.
“She will have eternity to forgive you, hyung. Trust me, it’s better that she hates you than not be here at all. You think you can handle the silence? I am telling you, you can’t. None of us can.”
—
“Nope,” you answered, popping the P as you two walked home.
“You didn’t even consider it,” he grumbled as he took your bag and carried it for you. He looked like a petulant child with the way he was pouting.
“What’s there to consider in your hypothetical question, Suga?” You adjusted the strap of your sweater, your breath hitching slightly as the incline of the street began to pull at your lungs. You ignored the familiar dull ache beneath your ribs, focusing instead on his sudden, strange intensity. “You asked me if, given the chance, I’d take a 'miracle cure' to live forever. I said no.”
“It’s not just a miracle. If you take it, you’ll never die. You’ll never have to say goodbye. You can see the world and you won’t run out of time.”
You frowned before gently hitting his shoulder with yours. “Doesn’t that sound like a nightmare? Isn’t the beauty of life is that it’s not forever? Imagine being stuck in a world that keeps breaking, and you’re the only one who can’t leave. That’s not a gift, Suga. That’s basically a prison sentence.”
He stopped walking and reached for your wrist. His touch was soft, his eyes even softer as he looked like he was begging for something you didn’t know how to give. “But what if…what if I die first and I leave you alone?”
You blinked at the oddness of his question. “Then…then I guess… No. I know I’ll miss you forever. I'd probably still buy an extra tangerine every Tuesday just out of habit.”
He didn't smile. If anything, he looked more haunted. “What if you die first?”
“Then I’ll wait for you in between heaven and earth just so you won’t have to go there alone.”
Yoongi felt the words like a physical blow to the chest. Heaven. He hadn't thought about that place in a century. He had spent so long building a kingdom on earth, fortifying it with blood and science, that he’d forgotten what it was like to believe in anything beyond the next dose.
He looked at you, truly looked at you, standing there in the flickering streetlamp light. You were so small, so temporary, and yet you were offering to guide an ancient, weary soul through the afterlife.
His thumb brushed against the skin of your wrist, tracing the rhythm of a heart that was already failing. He wanted to tell you that there was no heaven for people like him. He wanted to tell you that he had already traded his soul for a seat at a table of seven gods.
Instead, he let go of your wrist and looked away, his jaw tight.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he muttered, though there was no heat in it. “You’d probably get bored waiting and find someone else to annoy with your tangerine talk.”
You nodded before chuckling at him. “Probably. No promises. Come on, I’m starving.”
—
“It’s getting worse.”
“I know. I can feel it.”
Normal activities were starting to feel like a death sentence. Waking up in the morning was starting to feel like a gift. Working was starting to feel like a prison.
Your time was running out.
You were never scared of the end, you thought. It was simply a transition to somewhere where your family was. It was simply something that needed to occur so you could leave this country. You accepted that death would come to you sooner than you thought. You had no one, so you never had to think of what or who you’d leave behind.
What you didn’t expect was him.
Because now, you were thinking of what to come when you leave this Earth. You wanted to think that he was going to be okay, that he had his brothers to stay with him.
He wouldn’t be lonely, right?
He shouldn’t.
The walk back from the clinic felt longer than usual, each step a deliberate negotiation with a body that was beginning to revoke its lease. You stopped at the corner, leaning against a rusted lamp post to catch your breath, watching the familiar silhouette in the distance.
You saw him paced back and forth in front of your small house, his hands on his waist. He needed to start getting used to you not being present, what with your imminent death and all. He needed to start getting used to this, you thought—this version of the world where you weren't present. He needed to practice seeing the porch empty. He needed to learn how to buy his own tangerines again.
You watched him for a moment, your heart aching with a heaviness that had nothing to do with your lungs. You had never been scared of the end. To you, death was just a quiet transition, a way to finally bypass the borders of a broken country and find the people who had loved you first. You had accepted the timing of your exit with a calm, practiced stoicism.
What you hadn't factored into your departure was him. Or how much you felt for him. Or how, in this bleak world, he was the only color you ever saw.
The moment he saw you, his pacing stopped instantly. His entire body went rigid, his expression shifting from agitation to a look of profound, terrifying relief that he tried—and failed—to mask with a scowl.
“You’re late,” he barked, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He started toward you, his strides long and urgent. “Where were you? I’ve been standing out here for an hour.”
“W-why are you waiting for me?”
“What do you mean why? We always do this,” he snapped, gesturing vaguely at the porch chairs where you’d spent the last month trading barbs and fruit peels. “I stay, you talk, we eat. It’s the routine.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” your voice was cold as you walked past him. If you hurt him enough, if you pushed hard enough against that strange, fierce loyalty of his, then he wouldn't mourn you. If he hated you, the silence wouldn't be quite so loud when you finally stopped speaking.
Bold of you to assume you meant much to him as he meant to you, you thought.
“You didn’t have to. In fact, you never had to. You know why? Because I want to be here.”
“Well, I don't want you here,” you lied, the words tasting like copper in your mouth. You gripped the strap of your bag until your knuckles turned white. “I’m tired, Suga. I’m tired of the noise, tired of the tangerines, and tired of you loitering on my porch like you have nowhere else to go. Go back to your ‘brothers.’ Go back to your real life.”
Yoongi didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He stood there like a statue carved from moonlight, watching the way your pulse thrummed erratically in your neck.
“You are obviously tired, so I’ll go. But this is not goodbye.”
“Suga, I meant what I—”
“I know what you said,” he interrupted softly, his jaw set in that stubborn line you’d grown to know so well. “And I’m choosing to ignore it because you’re a terrible liar when you’re exhausted. Sleep. Lock the door. If I find out you stayed up trying to clean this place, I’m moving in permanently.”
–
“You’re one stubborn man.”
“For fuck’s sake, no one knows privacy in this fucking family,” Yoongi grumbled as he stepped out of his bedroom only to find the rest of his brothers in his kitchen. He couldn’t even say he woke up on the wrong side of the bed. He hadn’t gone to bed since you sent him away, anyway.
This house used to be his sanctuary, but now he wanted nothing more but to go to you. His family was here, and yet, his very soul was telling him that something was incomplete, that someone was not here.
That he could lose you.
That he was losing you.
“Why are you stalling?” Seokjin asked from the kitchen, his back to them as he cooked calmly. He was never one to pull his punches, though. He looked at Suga with a blank face even as the young man stared straight on. “Are you an idiot?”
Jimin chuckled and almost choked on the coffee he was drinking. Hoseok gently patted the younger man’s back.
“This is all your fault,” Yoongi grumbled at Taehyung who was silently working on his laptop. “You and your blabbermouth-”
“But hyung! You have been so secretive and we haven’t seen you in months. We just wanted to know what you’re up to .We’re family, remember?” Jungkook defended Taehyung with a pout.
“It’s my business.”
“So I take it, she’s your business?” Seokjin asked, facing him with a frown on his otherwise emotionless face.
“Yes.”
“Do you let your ‘business’ die?”
“She’s not dying!” Yoongi raised his voice, something that happened very seldomly that it managed to render the entire room stupored with shock. He wasn't one to ever lose control. He wasn’t one to ever raise to anger. He wasn’t one to ever not think rationally.
But you…you brought out something in him he never thought he was capable of. The number of times he uttered the words of you not dying were becoming annoying.
This should have been a fact and not something that could be debated.
“I let mine die once, hyung…” Taehyung said, his voice deep while his eyes were faraway. He was back to the time when she died in his arms, when he wanted to be noble. When he was kinder than he was now, back when he listened to her desires instead of his own heart.
Back before her death ripped his heart away from in him. “I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
Yoongi’s form softened. He knew how much Taehyung suffered, how he watched her died, and eventually, how he had to bury her.
“I know, Tae… But she’s different. She’s healthy, she’s young. You don’t have to wor-”
Taehyung sighed, “She’s sick.”
Silence.
Yoongi knew they were talking, but he couldn’t hear a word they were saying.
You were sick. And he didn’t know.
How could he not know? You were… you were always with him. Shouldn’t he have known if you were sick?
He was shaking his head. Denial was coursing through him-
“In fact, she’s dying,” Taehyung drove the final nail.
Namjoon, who had been quiet the entire fiasco, passed him the tablet. Your file was there. Your entire life, your education, career, entire family history, how they died, how you would most likely die from the same illness.
The doctor’s records were clear.
Your illness was progressing. There was nothing they could do about it.
Unless…
—
His head was bowed down when you saw him.
You never thought you’d see him so forlorn. He had always been full of life. He may not be jumping with joy, but he was never one to mope around.This was new, you thought. Suga was never defeated. Suga never looked defeated.
It had been a week of silence. You should have been assimilating well with his absence, afterall, you had been alone before he came barreling into your life.
But the silence was loud.
You didn’t know how much you depended on him, or how much his presence was the only color in your life, or how without his constant presence, you were only going through the motions.
He looked up as though he could sense you.
His eyes were sad, that much was apparent. He looked like he hadn’t slept. He looked worn out and yet, your heart skipped a beat when his eyes met yours.
You definitely underestimated your ability to live without him. “I told you. I don’t want to be your friend, anymore-”
Yoongi didn’t say a word. Instead, he walked to you, his strides were large as he neared you. His steps were determined, even purposeful. Before you could even take a step back, Suga, for the first time, embraced you and not because he had to save you.
This time, he embraced you with all the emotions he was keeping control of.
For the first time since he could remember, Suga cried.
The man was shaking as he hugged you, his head bent low as he leaned on your shoulder. You could feel the tears streaming down his face, quickly dampening your shirt. He was, to say the least, unconsolable.
“S-Suga, what’s wrong?”
He didn’t talk. He hugged you tighter as though in fear that if he let go just an inch, that you would disappear.
“Are you hurt?” you asked, worry apparent in your voice. You tried to push him away to assess where his injuries were. The man didn’t even budge. You thought the kindest thing to do was to gently rub his back.
You didn’t know how long he refused to let you go.
You didn’t know if you ever wanted to.
“Don’t leave me,” he ordered. “I don’t want to be alone again.”
“Why?” you asked.
“Because I love you.”
—
Someone loved you.
Someone finally loved you, just when you were running out of time. What a cruel trick the universe was playing.
What a curse to love someone only to leave them.
You were staring at his sleeping form. He refused to leave, further breaking down when you wouldn’t let him in until you gave in. His eyes were swollen from crying, his hands shaking until you promised that you wouldn’t leave him.
You were lying on the bed beside him. He was holding your hand tightly even in his sleep. You traced his face with your other hand in featherlike touches. Suga was beautiful. It was apparent that God took his time with him.
He was a man with such soft heart, one that never raised his voice, one that took one look at you and knew just how to fix you. He was dependable. He was all you wished to have if only you had time.
But you didn’t.
It was selfish of you to wish him for yourself…
Gently, he opened his eyes. He looked at you with all the sadness, despair and a little bit of hope in his eyes.
“You can’t love me,” you said.
“Why?”
You bit your lip and took a deep breath. “I’m dying, Suga.”
He pressed his lips on the back of your hand, his dark eyes never wavering from you. “Not a reason enough, darling.”
“It is-”
“Do you love me?”
You blinked owlishly, willing your tears to never fall. You had to be brave not for you, but for him. You had to leave him whole. You would be hurt, but you never wanted him to experience this pain.
“That’s neither here-”
“Do you love me?”
…
“Yes.”
“Will you live for me?”
You wanted to.
God, you wanted to.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Suga,” you broke down, couldn’t even stop the tears from falling. You were dying. You were going to leave someone as wonderful as he was in this fucked up world. He was going to be alone. You knew what it was like to have been left alone. You never wanted that even to your worst enemy, let alone the one you loved.
Suga smiled despite the tears. He leaned his forehead against yours, “Just let me love you, okay? I’ll worry about the rest. Just let me love you. God, please. Just let me be with you. Please.”
He never left.
He was beside you through it all. Your body grew weary, your strength dwindling. The most normal activities took so much toll on you that you wondered if he wanted to leave you now. You had to quit your job. You had to prepare your affairs in order. Your house, the only memory left of your family and you in this world, would go to him. You knew he didn’t need this. But the way he took care of your house, fixed everything broken in it made you realized that he loved this house just as much as you did.
There were days when Suga would hold your hair away from your face as you vomited. There were days when he would have to carry you because your legs simply couldn’t support you. There were days where he would tell you stories as though it happened so long ago that you would end up chuckling at his anecdotes.
Sometimes, you would wake up and catch him looking at you with indecisiveness in his eyes.
He looked like he was battling with something beyond you.
But everytime he noticed you looking at him, he would simply smile and kiss you tenderly.
Things progressed so quickly that you knew your time was eventually running out.
Things progressed too quickly that Suga knew he was running out of time.
It was one night when you woke up in a hospital bed when he finally asked. “If you could live forever with me…would you?”
You smiled at him as you reached your hand laddled with dextrose to him. “My love, I would live the rest of my life with you.”
You told him that if reincarnation was real, that if you get another chance in life, that you would find him, that you would recognize him.
You told him that you would love him again the way he deserved, the way that you could fully give, without the constraint of time nor health.
But Suga didn’t believe in reincarnation. He did believe that there was no redeeming him, that hell was the only option for him. He believed that he couldn’t and wouldn’t live without you.
Without you, he’d simply perish.
You didn’t think you’d wake up.
You thought you wouldn’t ever again.
“You finally decided to give her Sutana, Yoongi,” a man’s voice said from behind, his voice deep and authoritative.
Yoongi?
Why would one of the seven be here?
It was too quiet for a moment until Suga answered. “I can’t live without her.”
You had been a fool.
You trusted the man who destroyed your country.
You even loved the man who was one of the reasons why you lost your family.
“Will she forgive you?”
You recognized that voice. The distinct deep voice, the way every syllable was without any emotion, the man you saw in the town square.
Kim Taehyung.
“I can’t exactly ask for forgiveness to a dead person, can I?” Suga- no. Yoongi replied. You felt his hand gently caress your hair. You tried so hard to even your breath, to not let your eyes even move behind your closed lids.
He wasn’t lying when he said he was 107 years old.
You were just too naive to think of it as anything but a lie.
They spoke as if the choice had always been theirs, that your disposition in living forever didn’t even matter. Sutana was an immortality drug. They lied when they marketed it as something that had to be taken monthly. No.
These seven men had been alive for so long. They discovered the door to immortality decades ago. The invasion was not necessary…
They did it for the missing sequence they needed to bring someone back from the dead.
You thought they were bad…but this was worse. They were playing God not only to the living but also to the dead. You shuddered at the realization.
You couldn’t breathe.
“We’re going to be so happy together.”
You wouldn’t be happy.
You left when you were finally alone.
And so, for the next decades, Yoongi would look for you. You would run every time.
He had given you immortality, but he had forgotten one thing: forever is a very long time to hide.
I met the devil by the window, traded my life
Temptation touched my tongue, spread the wings of desire
⤑ pairing: hoseok x reader
⤑ genre: faerie au, yandere, dark fantasy
⤑ rating: 18+
⤑ word count: 5.7k
⤑ warnings: YANDERE/DARK ROMANCE, manipulation, blackmail, mc is often called "darling", faeries are evil creatures in this world lol. nothing too crazy in this chapter but, uh... it does get pretty crazy lmao.
⤑ note: happy birthday, hobi ♡ if i were to have a coin for every time i'd post a mini-series on a member's bday, i'd have 2 coins. which isn't a lot, but it's still funny that it happened twice💀. anyway, i've been working on this story for literally over a year, and i've finally had the drive to complete it! i'm so glad to share this story with you, and i hope you all enjoy!
Chapters 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 (End)
Your grandmother is an odd, old woman, closed off from the rest of her small, quaint town with her little cottage on a hill.
She’s become skittish and grouchy, raising her gravelly voice and cursing animosities in the air. Weary neighbors whisper their growing concerns, bearing witness to her arguments against invisible foes.
More than once, someone had found her in front of her yard, squinting at the ground beneath her frail hands and feet. Alarmed, they’d cross the iron gate to help her up, only to realize she’s there with purpose. Meticulously, she’d count the number of leaves on clovers out loud, grumbling under her breath as she desperately tries to find one with four.
It seems that with her age, her mind is starting to deteriorate. She’d walk around town with her clothes inside-out, leave fresh milk, butter, or cream out by her front door to rot instead of putting them away, and pocket random things like iron nails, red jaspers, packets of salt, and small bells and chimes.
“It’s a shame to see her like this,” one of your younger brothers confides. It’s been decided that your poor grandmother can't live on her own anymore. That she needs someone to take care of her.
“Yeah,” your other brother agrees with a long sigh. “Nana wasn’t always like that.”
In fact, your grandmother had always been so full of life and joy. Despite her wrinkles and graying hair, she was a child at heart, witty with a silver tongue, and made the long stays at her home fun when you were all children. The nursery, where the three of you slept, had a toy box with wooden swords and costumes, a collection of fairy tales she'd read to you all before bed, and a large window with a thin curtain that was always open.
Growing up, your parents had to work a lot and often left you and your brothers under her care. Your childhood is full of fond memories of make-believe adventures for hidden treasures, running barefoot across her lush garden and pretending to fly, and listening to her wonderful stories about mermaids, pirates, dwarves, elves, and faeries.
Your imagination was so vivid as a child, surely influenced by your grandmother and her long tales. Sometimes, you still see pieces of your time at her cottage and your thrilling expeditions of pretend. Fragments of following the leader through the thickets and foliage of a beast-filled jungle, of playing house in an underground bunker and punishing your unruly sons with vile, sticky-sweet medicine, and meeting the very creatures who inhabit the dream-like island located second to the right of the north star.
One of those inhabitants, if you could recall correctly, was a boy.
A faerie, to be more precise.
His skin was golden like the warm rays of a summer sun. Pointed ears folded over a hat you sewed for him one day, and he refused to take it off since. He always had a bright smile on his heart-shaped lips, and had a contagious laughter that could make flowers bloom.
He was a friend to you. Maybe something more.
He'd tuck wildflowers in your tangled hair when you slept on his lap, teach you how to fly and fight so you’d triumph over your enemies together, and come by the nursery window each night so he could sneak you out and take you on another adventure.
Then, one day, the window to the nursery was closed shut. The curtains were drawn together, and you were no longer waiting for him to take you away somewhere.
Because like all children, eventually, you and your brothers started to grow up.
The visits to your grandmother’s cottage became less and less frequent. The memories of that place and that boy long-forgotten like a distant dream.
School kept you occupied through your youth. Then, you attended college and studied hard to earn your degrees. Then, you applied for jobs and worked through shifts. You made friends over the years – ones who aren’t lost boys or creatures from fairy tales – and spend a lot of your time with them. You’ve even met a couple boys that taught you love when you got together, and taught you heartbreak when it didn’t work out. You became independent of your parents and made a home for yourself, and before you knew it, you realized that you had grown up as well.
Both of your younger brothers are well accomplished with their lives. One is married with their first child on the way. The other is studying abroad in a foreign country. Neither of them, however, would be able to take care of your poor grandmother full-time.
So, rather easily, it was decided that you’d be the one to move in and look after her.
It felt like a blessing in disguise.
You’ve become a writer with the intention of creating novels of fantasy and adventure. Instead, you work in a soul-sucking office job, where the company berates young women like yourself and it feels very much like a boys club among the staff. The friends you made, you hardly keep in touch with now, as all of you have become too busy to meet up with each other more than a few times a year. And after a recent messy breakup, the place you shared with your ex is no longer your home, and you can’t afford to live on your own with your current measly paycheck.
A fresh start at a place that you once grew up in feels like a miracle.
You could start all over. Never having to look back at the burdens and troubles that have been weighing you down and keeping you from flying.
After talking to your family about it, and eagerly insisting that you’d be more than happy to take care of your grandmother, you packed your bags, quit your job at the office, and quietly moved away. Gone with the wind as your next adventure unfolds.
“Good luck, sis. Let us know if you need anything.”
Your brother gives you a hug when he drops you off at your grandmother’s cottage. It’s a big change, and it’s been years since you’ve last been here. But as you grab your bags and turn to face the old cottage, perched up on the hill, with an iron gate around the flourishing garden of vividly-bright flowers and lush greenery, the nostalgia hits you like a wave.
Memories of your childhood, your play-pretend adventures with your brothers, and the wonderful stories your grandmother would tell all flood back to you like arms of an old friend welcoming you home after a long time apart.
Your grandmother greets you and your brother with tight hugs and remarks of how you’ve both grown up. It almost seems like she’s her old self again, quipping at your brother and asking how his wife is doing. You let them catch up and take the opportunity to settle in.
Not much has changed from what you remember. The aromatic notes of herbs and teas your grandmother likes to brew still linger in the house. The antiques she’d collect are still on display, and the furniture she has are a bit worn and outdated. Even the nursery that you stayed in as a child hasn’t changed much: the toy box is still there, your brother’s teddy bear is on the bed he used to sleep in, and the window with the thin curtain is still shut.
The floor creaks as you slowly walk around the nursery, reminiscing on the old furniture and dusty toys. Yet, your gaze keeps drifting toward the window and the little latch that keeps it shut.
How many times have you sat by it and daydreamed about that world of make-believe? How lonely had you been to longingly gaze out of it and wish to meet an imaginary friend that’d keep you company? How often have you used it to look at the stars and wish – and hope – to be taken away and leave all your childish worries behind?
Before you know it, you’re standing right in front of it.
You draw back the dusty curtains and let light flood in.
“Don’t open that window, dear.”
You nearly jump in surprise, quickly turning to see your grandmother had come to the door. “Hi Nana. Why not?”
She doesn’t answer. Rather, she simply stares at you for a long moment, almost as if she’s lost in her own thoughts. But her eyes shift. You realize it wasn’t you that she was staring at, but the window. When you turn to face it, you see nothing there.
“Don’t open the window,” she repeats firmly. “He’s been waiting for you to open it again.”
“Who is?” you ask, thoroughly confused.
You don’t know who she’s talking about, or why it would matter when the window is on the second floor. But when you turn to face your grandmother again, she’s gone.
Your brother left hours ago, and you’ve finally unpacked the last of your belongings after an exhausting afternoon of cleaning, laundry, rearranging some furniture in the nursery, and cooking dinner for you and your grandmother.
She follows you around all day as you catch her up on how you’ve been doing. It feels nice to connect with her again. She’s still a great storyteller and seems happy to be in your company. But there’s a worried look on her face when she thinks you’re not looking as her eyes drift to something unseeable over your shoulder.
“Are you sure you want to stay there?” she asks as you help her settle in bed. She suddenly looks uncomfortable with the idea of you being in the nursery.
“I’ll be fine, Nana. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t open the window,” she reminds you before you wish her goodnight.
Luckily, you can still fit in your old bed, although it is clearly designed for a child. You grimace a bit at the heart-shaped frame and the faded green paint, and make a note to yourself to start looking for new furniture soon. You send your other brother a picture of his old teddy bear, and he exclaims how he remembers it once he had a chance to see your message. Soon, that led you to face-timing both of your brothers and showing them all the old toys and costumes that are all still in the room.
“I should’ve stayed and helped move some of them to the attic,” your brother remarks with a slight shake of his head. “Maybe I’ll stop by this weekend and do that.”
“I don’t know. I kind of like seeing them here,” you admit with a fond smile, opening a tiny drawer. Inside are stools of thread, loose buttons, pins in cushions, and other sewing tools. You rummage through the drawer and realize you’re missing a silver thimble.
However, in its place, you find something else.
“What’s that?” your brother asks when you pull out what looks like an old necklace. Hanging on the black, leather thread is an acorn with a hole in the middle.
“I don’t know,” you reply, holding it up by the thread. Your pulse quickens, your heart remembering something that you can’t place the memory of. Yet, somehow, you know that it’s yours. “Did either of you give this to me?”
Both of them shake their heads and shrug. If neither of them gifted it to you, then who…?
Outside, you hear a strange sound. Like the whistle of a flute. It sounds close, yet far away at the same time.
“What’s wrong, sis?” your brother asks, seeing your perplexed expression from his phone screen.
“I thought I heard something,” you tell them, standing by the window now. Through the glass pane, you can’t see anything, and your free hand touches the iron lock that keeps it closed. Was it a bird? What was it doing, crowing at this hour of night?
“What did you hear?”
“I thought… I heard…” you slowly answer, pulling on the latch and the lock clicks open. You slide it up, and the wind gathers, seeming to assist you at that moment, letting the window fly open. A chill runs up your spine as a cold breeze pass, but all you hear now is the rustle of leaves and the distant sound of a dog barking. “It’s probably nothing.”
The wind dies down, but you still shiver. Suddenly, you remember your grandmother wanted you to keep it closed. You stand on your toes and pull the window back down, unaware of how the shadows seem to shift around the nursery as it shuts with a soft thud.
“Sis?” your brother calls out to you, and you’ve almost forgotten you were still on the phone with them.
“It’s nothing,” you repeat, more to yourself than to them. Perhaps it’s the paranoia of disobeying your grandmother’s request, but it suddenly feels like someone is watching you.
When you sleep that night, your dream is vivid. More than it’s ever been in a long time.
You dream of swords clashing and cannons firing amidst a grand battle against a ship of pirates for their buried treasure. You dream of a mermaid’s lullaby in a moonlit lagoon, and how she knows all the secrets of the dark waters. You dream of elven wanderers and their ancient traditions, bearded dwarves and their brave expedition into a skull-shaped cave, and a group of handsome men cloaked in animal skins as they enjoy their meal in a woodsy hideout. You dream of faeries glowing like fireflies as they dance together with the moon and stars above them.
“I missed you.”
The voice that whispers is familiar, but belongs to someone you can’t quite put a face to.
“What is this place?” you find yourself asking, sitting on a pink cloud and looking at the island below. A little world that you strangely feel attached to. It feels nostalgic. It feels like home.
And it feels like it’s beckoning to you. Compelling you to warm its cold, icy seas after so many winters without you. To bring light into the world where it’s been so dark without your presence. To stay forever, and never leave this world again.
Someone is with you. A friend, you think. The person the voice belongs to. The one who rules over this world you dream about.
His skin is golden like the summer sun, body lean and strong as he wears clothing made of leaves and vines. A coy smile curves on his familiar heart-shaped lips.
“You don’t remember, darling? This place is ours.”
You wake before you figure out who it is. Or what he meant.
Sunlight shines through the nursery window, and a breeze gently blows in.
You frown as you stare at it.
You’re certain you had closed it before you went to bed.
For the first time in a while, you open your laptop, pull up a blank document, and write.
You write about the dream you had: the peculiar island and the strange creatures that inhabit it. You write about their adventures, and the magic that faith, trust, and pixie dust can bring. You write about the feeling of floating and how thinking happy thoughts can lift you in the air.
You write about the boy you saw and what you can remember of him.
Then, you stop. The room is silent without the tapping of your keyboard. For a moment, you stare at what you wrote and frown.
Somehow, trying to remember the boy in your dreams feels strange. You can recall the clothes he wears, the way being around him feels like basking in the sunlight, and the small dimples on his cheeks that look like tiny hidden kisses that reveal themselves when he smiles. But you can’t remember his face. You can’t remember his eyes.
It feels like you’re searching for a memory. Even if you’re certain you just made him up.
Was he based on someone you knew as a child? An old classmate? Someone you wanted to be friends with?
It doesn’t seem like it. Yet, whoever that person is in your dream, he must have been important to you.
“This place is ours.”
You save the draft and close the laptop with a sigh, fiddling with the acorn necklace you decided to wear lately. What did he mean by that? And why did it feel like he was actually in your head?
For the next few nights, you have the same recurring dream. You see glimpses of that island: the mermaid lagoon with crystal clear waters, the dark and damp caverns of the skull-rock cave, the giant trees with deep roots that hide hidden houses for faeries and the lost boys, and the grand ship the pirates use to hunt for treasures. You hear the sound of twinkling bells from the tiny faeries, the sound of laughter in the woods, the song of pirates as they sail the sea. You smell the firewood of a large bonfire the elves made, the strong stench of alcohol the dwarves share with each other, the salty air of the island where water meets shore. Your dreams become so vivid, you could almost swear you’re there.
“This can all be yours if you wish it.”
The next time you see him in your dreams, you’re no longer floating on a pink cloud above the island. You’re on the island now. Your bare feet touch the green grass and dirt. You feel the cool, sea breeze against your hair and skin. You see flowers bloom prettily, drawn to the warmth of the person behind you.
His arms wrap around you, pulling your back to his chest. Being in his embrace doesn’t alarm you. Rather, it feels familiar, like he’s held you like this before. You find yourself melting into his touch.
When he kisses your cheek, warmth lingers on your face. Somehow, that feels familiar too.
“Who are you?” you ask him this time.
His kisses trail down to your neck now. His lips on your neck are something different, but not unwelcome. A soft sigh falls from your own lips and you feel his smirk against your skin.
“A friend,” he tells you. He places a kiss on your shoulder now.
“I meant your name.”
He laughs. And something stirs inside your heart, like a magic spell has been cast from the sound. “That, you’ll have to work a little harder for, darling.”
And before you could turn and look at his face, you wake up.
When you dream of him, he’s always just out of view. Yet, always with you wherever you go. Like a shadow.
As soon as you open your eyes, you grab your laptop and flip it open. The document is already on the screen as soon as you log in, and while the dream is still fresh in your mind, you write everything you remember: the adventure you went on this time, the part of the island that he showed you, what you guys did there, what was said.
What his name is…
Your fingers type it out. Without thinking about it, without even realizing what you’ve done. And suddenly, the answer is there before you.
Four letters that form one name.
Hope
“My darling,” your grandmother begins, sitting on her rocking chair by a warm fire. “Do you remember the rules I taught you?”
You pause what you’re doing. The water in a large pot continues to roll into a boil as the red sauce you’re making heats the fresh tomatoes, meatballs, and herbs.
At first, you think it’s about the window at the nursery. The night you arrived here, you only opened it for a minute before you quickly closed it again. Surely, your grandmother was sound asleep then. She couldn’t have known that you opened the window, right?
“What rules, Nana?” you ask her, adding the pasta noodles into the boiling water.
“The rules about the Fae.”
You stop again. “The Fae?”
“The first rule,” she begins as she continues to rock on her chair. “Do not draw the attention of mischievous faeries.”
“But—” You part your lips, almost pointing out to her that faeries aren’t real. But something stops you. Somehow, telling her that feels like a lie.
“The second rule,” she continues. “Do not tell them your name.”
Names hold power to the Fae. You remember that much from your grandmother’s stories.
“Like Rumpelstiltskin,” you mention, recalling the tale of a naïve girl who gets out of a bad contract she later regrets by learning the little spinster’s true name.
She nods her head. “The third rule. Do not lie to them.”
Guilt starts to creep up on you for opening the window at the nursery. Although she hasn’t mentioned it again, a part of you is paranoid that she somehow found out about it anyway.
“Sounds like the moral of a children’s story,” you comment, half-joking as you finish up making the pasta. It’s nearly finished.
“The fourth rule,” she goes on more sternly, a small frown on her thin lips. “Do not accept gifts, food, or favors from the Fae.”
“Right,” you mutter, turning off the heat of the stove and serving the meal.
This rule, you know as well.
Your grandmother has told you stories of how faeries lure lost souls into the woods, trapping them into their world. Of bargains that don’t go as planned, leading to a price to pay with one’s servitude and torture to the tricksters. You’ve seen strange reports of mysterious disappearances and rings of mushrooms and pebbles left behind, of people entranced in a waltz-like dance as they edge toward the end of a cliff and slip to their deaths, and of people who’ve tasted the food and drinks of the Fae and later find themselves poisoned from the sticky, sweet indulgence.
“And the fifth, but most important rule of all,” she finishes, turning to look you in the eye. “Should you find yourself in their debt, you must give something of equal value in return. Only then will your debt be repaid.”
You sense the worry in her voice, and it occurs to you then that she knows. You had opened the window, let something in that you shouldn’t have, and whatever it is now targets you. The dreams, and now the rules about the Fae.
“Nana, why are you telling me this?” you ask her, helping her to her seat on the table.
“So you could learn from my mistakes.” She is quiet for a long moment as you serve her plate. She doesn’t seem to want to eat as she looks at you with guilt in her eyes. “I have a confession, my dear.”
“What is it?” you ask, settling down on your own spot on the table.
“When I was young, there was a place that I went to. A wonderful world full of adventure. I didn’t want to grow up. I still wanted to play and have fun, and not think about grown-up things like work, bills, and raising a family.” She grimaces as she thinks about how foolish she was then. How she loves her children and her grandchildren more than anything now. “I made a deal with the faeries then. I didn’t want things to change. I wanted to stay the same, but once I started to grow up, I realized that this wasn’t what I wanted anymore. So I made a new deal with them.”
Neither of you have touched your plates. You look at your grandmother with a small frown. “What was the deal?”
“I would take back my contract, grow old and allow time to resume normally again, if they leave my children alone,” she admits with a frown. “I fell in love with your grandfather. I knew we’d be married and have a family together, but that wasn’t good enough. A change of contract means nothing to them when the family I was going to have meant everything.”
You feel your chest tighten. “So, what did they want?”
“They wanted you,” she tells you sullenly. “The first-born of my kin from the child they couldn’t have.”
“That’s… quite a story, Nana.” You’re not sure what to say, or how much of it is true. Things like dealings with faeries, contracts, and such are all make-believe. Isn’t it?
“I just want to remind you of those rules, my dear,” she replies with a sad smile. “Before he tries to take you from me again.”
You don’t believe in faeries.
But your grandmother does.
Perhaps, as a child, you once did too. Mischievous by nature, you’d once claim that they’re the reason your hair gets tangled in the morning when you wake up, or why you seem to keep misplacing your things. Your brothers would call you silly and forgetful, but your grandmother, upon when you had first told her about these minor inconveniences, suddenly looked at you with worry.
That day, when you were still a child, she had tightly held your hand and told you the five rules. The five things to always remember when dealing with them.
However, you were just a child. Following rules seemed boring to you when the temptation of adventure came to your window every night.
In the shadows, the one called Hope would silently watch you as you played with your brothers, jumping on the bed and swinging around a wooden sword as you’d re-tell your version of fairy tales – ones that often involved defeating treacherous foes and overcoming difficult obstacles, but always ended with a true love’s kiss.
Embodied as a boy around your age, he slipped through the open window and personally invited you to his world of adventure. He liked your stories, he liked that you could prove you’re just as tough as your brothers and could fit right in with his group of friends, and he liked how you had a sweeter, softer, motherly side of you as well.
Every time he took you to that place, he didn’t want you to leave. Yet, you always had to.
You’d worry about your brothers when they weren’t with you, or you’d be afraid your grandmother would forget about you and shut the window before you could make it back home. You had school, a family, and a home here – you couldn’t stay with him all the time like he wanted you to.
So, Hope brought between worlds with the condition that you’d come back.
And for a while, you kept your word, meeting him again by the window the very next night.
Until one day, you didn’t.
The nursery window had been shut and locked, and you and your brothers had returned to your parents to grow up and forget. Your promise with the faerie had been broken.
You find yourself with your laptop open again, reading through the notes you’ve jotted down every morning after you’d wake up. Tabs are open on your browser on websites about the Fae, and your grandmother’s illness is starting to make sense to you.
It’s not the air she’s scolding and warning to get away from her. There are reasons she’s seeking protection in forms of four-leaf clovers, inverted clothes, and carrying objects of iron with her at all times. That the dairy and sweets she leaves by her door are an offering to appease them so they won’t cause her and her family harm.
Because she can see them.
Wisps of light that float out in her garden at night, lingering hauntingly until the dawn breaks. Forms of small animals like squirrels, mice, and birds that come to her door for old buttons, pretty stones, and shiny objects. Tiny, mischievous winged humans that can spoil food before their expiration or hide keys and coins when no one is looking.
Faeries.
For some reason, they’ve been harassing your grandmother lately. Perhaps, they’ve been bothering her longer than you thought, angry that she had taken you away from them and that world they wanted to keep you in.
And now that you’re here…
“So, you figured it out?”
You gasped, turning to the source. By the open window, as the ends of the curtains float with the wind, the one called Hope stands before you. Only, he isn’t a boy anymore.
Rule #1: Do not draw the attention of mischievous faeries.
The man before you is tall and thin, with a sharp jaw and a perfect nose. The apples of his cheeks rise with his heart-shaped smile. His skin is golden, glowing warmly like rays of the sun. The tips of his ears are a little pointier, and sunlight seems to naturally highlight his hair and brown eyes.
Faeries, as you’ve researched, come in different forms. Sometimes as small animals. Sometimes as nymphs, sprites, wisps, and pixies. Sometimes, however, they appear to you in a strange form. Human. Visible.
Only strong faeries can do that. Like kings and queens of the Fae.
He looks at you curiously, and although it should alarm you that he suddenly appeared in your room, it doesn’t.
You know him. You’ve seen him in your dreams.
Rule #2: Do not tell them your name.
“Hope?”
His smile widens, almost devilish. “Hope? What happened to Hobi?”
“Hobi,” you repeat, and somehow, that name sounds familiar on your tongue as well. “Is that what I called you?”
“You don’t remember?” He feigns hurt, placing his hands on his hips and shaking his head a little. “You sure changed a lot since the last time I saw you, darling.”
“Darling,” you echo, feeling your heart stir at the pet name. You remember him calling you that in your dreams as well. Is that what he always called you?
Rule #3: Do not lie to them.
The faerie moves closer to you, frowning as he looks you in the eye. Your heart pounds nervously as you hold his piercing gaze. “You’ve forgotten all about me, haven’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’ve never—“ you start, but you catch yourself. You have met him. Considered him a friend, even. The dreams, the memories of your childhood. How much of it was real, and how much of it was make-believe?
Rule #4: Do not accept gifts, food, or favors from the Fae.
“Well, it doesn't matter,” he states, finally backing off. “You’re here now. I can show you all the things you’ve forgotten again.”
That paradise island. The one that you’ve been dreaming so often about. A small part of you can’t believe it’s real and not just some figment of your imagination. That this faerie could actually take you there.
“At what cost?” you find yourself asking.
The faerie smirks. “Clever.”
A commotion comes from downstairs. You hear the distinct sound of twinkling, like the chimes of a small bell. Following that, your grandmother’s voice.
“I told you to stay away from me!” she snaps from downstairs. A crash of a shattering plate, flung to a wall. Thuds of other things being knocked over as your grandmother continues to yell at the faeries to leave her alone. Alarmed, you jump to your feet, ready to rush down to help her. But the presence of the faerie intruder makes you stop in the middle of the room.
How long has she been enduring them on her own until they drove her mad? How far will they try to break her until they get what they want? How much longer can she still protect you from them?
Rule #5: Should you find yourself in their debt, you must give something of equal value in return. Only then will your debt be repaid.
You turn to the faerie. “If I go with you, will you leave my family alone?”
“If you wish it,” he simply replies, but his mouth twitches in a small smile. You feel like you’re falling right into his trap.
The commotion downstairs gets louder. Your grandmother is shrieking as she tries to chase the faeries out, her voice desperate and exhausted from their illusions and magic. You want to stop it for her sake.
“If I go with you, will I see my family again?” you ask, thinking about your brothers, your parents, and your grandmother. A sudden wave of déjà vu hits you, as if you’ve asked him this before. You fumble awkwardly with the memory, trying to grasp it.
“What about my brothers?” you ask the boy by your window, looking at their sleeping forms. He doesn’t seem enthusiastic with the idea of bringing them with you. “And Mother, and Father? Nana will surely find out too.”
“There’ll be mermaids,” he tells you, smiling as your eyes light up.
“Mermaids?” you echo, thinking of how amazing it’d be to meet one.
“Pirates.”
“Pirates!” you exclaim, then quickly cover your mouth, nearly rousing your brothers from their sleep. He wants you to tell the ending of your Cinderella story yourself to his friends, and in exchange, he’ll take you to a magical place.
How easy it was for him then, when you didn’t know any better. And how terribly naïve you were, making deals with the devil by your window.
You hear your grandmother shouting your name now, trying to make her way upstairs. The faeries, it seems, have suddenly stopped bothering her. They’ve quieted down, but she knows that something is wrong.
“Forget them, darling. Forget them all,” he whispers, coming up behind you. His lips brushes against your ear as your pulse races, kissing you as lightly as the wings of a faerie. “Come with me, and you’ll never, never have to worry about a thing again.”
Your grandmother’s shouts are getting closer. You can hear her running up the stairs as fast as her frail legs can take her.
You turn to face the faerie behind you. He stands so close to you, you could kiss him. “Never is an awfully long time.”
Your grandmother is an odd, old woman, and there are five rules that she taught you, in hopes that you’d remember them when facing the Fae. Since you were a child, she’s protected you and your brothers from the devilish creatures she sees, from the one in particular that has staked his claim on you.
It would be nice to say she made it to the nursery on time. That all her charms and rituals of protection are enough to repel him and banish him from her home.
But as she opened the door to the nursery, you were gone. Vanished into thin air, just as she feared.
All that’s left is the gentle breeze that blows the thin curtains from the open window.
Thank you for reading ♡
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