Bruce made his way through the endless corridors of the Batcave, his every step confident, calculated. He pulled back the cowl of his suit, leaving his hair disheveled slightly.
Being Gotham’s most loved vigilante came with its perks, it really did, but was it too much to ask for a single day of calm and quiet?
Absolutely, it was.
The worst part? He knew his night wasn’t over just yet, that he couldn’t fall asleep in the comfort of his own bed. No, he’d have to deal with her.
They had met a couple of years back,working on the same project. Then, Batman rarely ever had partners, but he was willing to make exceptions.
Surprisingly, he found her especially good at her job : fighting crime, spying on Gotham’s most wanted criminals, not for her own benefit, nor for vengeance.
Now, that was all it took for him to hire her.
They worked together for a while, their team strong, precise, though he’d never admit it out loud.
Until that night.
They had been fighting a particularly resilient group, their efforts in vain. He was about to call it off, to turn around and run away with her in tow.
But she had decided otherwise.
Under the pressure, the rage, the anger, the absolute need to make it out alive, she had caved. It had happened in the blink of an eye, easy to miss—Bruce himself almost didn’t catch what happened.
But it happened.
She had killed, not just one, but three of their targets. Three human beings. Of course, they had been criminals, you might think they’d deserved it.
But it was their one rule : ‘No killing.’
And she broke it.
The rest of that night was a blur, the only thing she remembered was Bruce having to carry her back to the cave, her legs having completely given out.
They had never talked about it again, but it was clear, she couldn’t work with him again, not out there at least. Something they both agreed on.
So, he let her work in the cave, fixing the many technical issues that came with his gear. She was good with technology—something he wasn’t. She’d spend her days and nights there, working and working again. When was the last time she had a good night of sleep? That’s a very good question.
Now, he was suddenly hit by the sound of her welding gun’s sparks, slightly illuminating the ceiling around the Batwing. Then he saw her, leaned over one of the wings, fixing a part that had been severed during a mission earlier this week.
Her hair was tied back, keeping the strands away from her face, which was covered by a welding mask, protecting it from the sparks. He called her name, but to no avail, it was like she ignored him, or maybe she was just completely unaware of her surroundings.
Truth be told, she had lost part of her sanity being locked in this place.
He picked up one of her hammers, which were discarded in a box on the ground, close to his feet and threw it in her direction.
She never saw the hammer fly towards her, her peripheral vision obstructed by the welding mask, but she heard the hard thump it made as soon as it landed by her side.
She dropped her tools immediately, her soul jumping out of her body. Pushing the mask up and away from her face, she shot him a look that could kill.
“Are you insane? You could’ve killed me!” She yelled, anger in her usually soft voice.
"Then maybe you should start listening." Bruce said sternly, his jaw tight. He hated it, how easily she could just ignore him. He was used to give others orders, which they almost always followed, yet here in his own cave, this woman was ignoring him like he was the sidekick, instead of the one in charge.
She completely stopped what she was doing, wiping a bead of sweat that was dripping down her forehead with the back of her hand and stood up from her low stool. She removed her gloves and made her way down to him.
“What were you doing?” He asked her, voice calmer now, watching her pick up her mess piece by piece. He couldn’t help but pinch the bridge of his nose in disappointment.
He took a step forward, carefully avoiding his look. Her hands were full of tools, gadgets and things he couldn’t even recognize.
“What did it look like, I was fixing your mess, just like always.” She teased slightly, knowing putting the blame on him only would make him pissed off.
But instead of his usual frown, his brows shot up slightly, eyes worried. “About that…My comms stopped working.” He said, voice almost weak. Almost…
She shot him a cold glance, her eyes meeting his for the first time tonight. That look meant a thousand words, mostly curse words.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She muttered, dropping her things in a pile, pushing them with her foot under a table deciding to take care of it later, maybe…
He sighed, not in the mood to argue with her. She could be childish at times—no, most of the time. He wished he could say it was annoying, really, but he found himself enjoying messing with her. “Just do your job…” He shoved the dysfunctional comms into her hands.
"Alright, settle down, Bats, I've got it figured." She gave him a side eye, slowly walking away from him and rummaging through her toolbox to find what she needed to fix the problem.
"You don’t get to tell me to settle down.” Bruce said through his teeth, his glare fixed on her. He watched as she kept rummaging through her tools, the sound incredibly annoying, his frustration only growing.
“How can anyone possibly work in this mess? No wonder you’ve lost your sanity, it’s probably just in one of your piles of garbage." He snapped, his anger taking over.
But then again, she only ignored him and started walking over to her work place, an old wooden table, scratched with years of work.
“So when will I have them back?” He asked, hoping this time he’ll get an answer.
She looked at him over her shoulder, though barely listening to him. She muttered to herself, like she usually does. ‘She’s totally lost it’, he thought.
Bruce crossed his arms, jaw tight as he watched her toss aside a piece of his comms like it was nothing. "You know, most people would kill to work for me, yet you seem incredibly unappreciative.” His voice was stern.
He stepped forward, looking over her shoulder to watch her work. She was good, her fingers working neatly, precisely on every piece of the puzzle. He wondered how she worked so well despite how sleep deprived she was.
“Fine, give me the silent treatment, but don’t come running to me when you need money for your equipment.” He tried to reason with her, thinking that it would finally work.
A beat. She paused her movements.
“You’ll get them tomorrow.” She said, just above a whisper. A part of her wanted to mock his words, be immature about it. But she was more than that.
At least she used to be.
They had known each other for years, though this annoying back and forth only had been lasting for around a month.
She was hard to work with, her reckless mind always ruining his nights. She started having a mind of her own, always contradicting his words, almost like a child with oppositional disorder. He knew she was brilliant, excellent even, that's why he kept her around. But god, was she insufferable at times.
Like now.
"So what were you fighting? A tiger?" Her eyes were still on the work at hand, though she had noticed how his suit was scratched, like someone—something had attacked him. He always found a way to tangle himself in some tricky situations. And who repaired the damage?
That's right, it was her.
Bruce rolled his eyes at her rhetorical question. "Very funny." He said, though his voice showed no amusement.
Yet, she found herself smirking, her attempt to annoy him successful. To her, it was the best achievement.
"I'm the one out there doing the heavy lifting, while sit here, making a mess." His voice picked up, tinted with just a bit of annoyance.
She scoffed, her arms coming up to cross in front of her chest. Now, her eyes were in him, cold, empty of any emotion.
"Sure, but I’m the one fixing up your mistakes…You should start learning how to take responsibility for them." She spits, her voice sharp. They had a lot of ups and downs, most of the time agreeing to disagree. Their back and forth banter was something out of a movie—not a good one.
Bruce's expression darkened, his jaw tightening at her words. He took a step closer, looming over her just enough to be intimidating—though he knew it wouldn't faze her. It never did.
"I take responsibility every damn night when I walk out that cave and put my life on the line so people like you can survive, so you can skip happily in this damned place without worrying about a bullet to the head."
A beat of silence.
She saw how his eyes searched hers—how they were trying to intimidate her. Nice try, but it would take a lot more than that.
She didn't move an inch—not even when he approached her with a stern look on his face.
"Wow, ain't you the hero." She spits back, voice full of venom. She hates how he was so full of himself, how he thought he was the only one to risk his ass everyday.
She used to do the same, saving lives, helping others, but that was all in her past now.
Now, she was hiding in the cave, slowly losing her mind, fixing stuff, pointless stuff, thinking, remembering what her life used to be. It was becoming too much, she could feel herself slowly lose her mind. It was sickening.
But she had no choice.
He saw it, the flicker behind her eyes. The way her fingers tensed at her sides, like she was holding herself together piece by piece, but ready to crumble at any moment.
His eyes softened, not only because he saw how her own had done just the same, but because he felt bad.
They both remembered exactly what happened, even if they both refused to talk about it.
He stepped back slightly, shoulders relaxing slightly. His gaze held hers. “You know you can’t go out there.” He said, voice low.
A pause.
“I hope you know I’m not trying to lock you down here, but it’s too dangerous.” He added, even if his mind begged him not to. His heart took over.
She flinched slightly, her eyes closing as if someone had slapped her in the face. They had never spoken of it and she didn’t want it to change.
“What happened, happened, Bruce. It’s too late, I know.” She said, only above a whisper.
Silence fell again, longer this time, broken only by the soft drip of water from one of the pipes.
Then Bruce sighed and rubbed his temple like a man who knew exactly how hard it was to argue with someone who felt as trapped as he once did.
“But if you think I’m happy down here, then you’re wrong.” She added, voice showing just a bit of emotion, something rare.
Bruce saw it. Not the anger, not the rage. But the flicker behind her eyes, the one that belonged to someone haunted, someone hurt.
He hesitated. For just a breath too long.
“You’re rebuilding your life, piece by piece.” He tried to explain, to reason with her. “It might take some time, but you’ll get there eventually.”
She scoffed, her eyes still burning with rage. “Who are you trying to convince, cause it’s certainly not me…I can’t believe I used to follow you like a dog.” She said, her voice tainted with resentment.
A beat passed in silence except for the faint hum of machinery and distant echoing below the manor.
“Then what do you want me to do?” He asked, voice rising slightly. He couldn’t believe that after all this time, she still wasn’t grateful that he had given her a second chance, a chance at redemption. “You want to leave? Then leave!” He motioned to the elevator, the only exit.
Still a frown on her face, her eyebrows furrowed, she stayed there. Not a single move. Her arms crossed in front of her chest, she barely blinked, barely took a breath.
"It's not like you ever gave me a choice, Bruce. You asked me to hide in this horrendous place, so I did. Because at that time, that’s the only thing I was able to do…After what happened. I'm slowly losing my mind.” She says, voice full of emotion and something more, something deeper. “And you know damn well that if I go out there alone I’ll do something stupid.”
“Then what is it? Because you’re making me angrier with every passing day. You are infuriating. So whatever it is, just…do it, because I’m starting to lose my mind too.” He said angrily, pinching the bridge of his nose yet again, a migraine making its way to his head.
She wanted to go back to her old life, the one that was taken away from her for a stupid mistake. She wanted to get out of the cave, for at least a day.
Was that too much to ask?
She didn't flinch at his tone. She let it hit her like a punch to the chest.
“I don't want to leave." She said, voice weak. "I want to go out there." She took a step towards him. "That's what I used to do and I did fine, totally fine...What happened, it was a mistake." She looks down now, remembering the last time she was out there.
Since then, she was locked here—not…locked but he had asked her to do this instead, fix tech, mope around all day, slowly lose her mind.
But it was not her. Not the hero she used to be.
Bruce saw it—the crack in her voice, the weight behind her eyes. Not defiance now. Grief.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Just breathed slowly, the same way Alfred taught him when rage threatened to swallow reason whole.
"You weren't just a hero out there." His voice was low, steady. "You were good, one of the best damn partners I've ever had.”
"But that night? That wasn't just mistake. He held her gaze. "It was trauma. And you don't walk back into war zones like Gotham with wounds like that and pretend they're healed. I didn't pull you down here to punish you."
His hand rose, not to touch her, but almost.
"I pulled you here because I knew if I didn't give you a purpose...if I didn't keep your mind working on something, one night, grief would win and…" He took a breath, "...You wouldn't come back at all."
Silence fell again.
She looked at him now, her eyes empty, or at least she thought. He could see the longing, the sadness behind her walls.
"So no, I’m not sending you out there...Not unless we do it together."
Something shifted in her stance, like a weight was slowly lifted from her shoulders. She straightened up, as if her soul finally came back into her body. There was a glint of something behind her eyes. Hope.
"Then we do it together." She said, voice weak but softer than before. She had wanted this for months, to finally find her old life back, to peruse her dreams, which were not in this damned cave.
They were out there—with him.
"You bring me out there, and I promise, you won't be disappointed.” She says, her usual cheery tone slowly coming back.
He heard the promise for what it was, not just loyalty, but a lifeline. Hers to him. His to her. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Bruce Wayne felt something shift deep in his chest, not hope, but something similar.
He stepped forward — slow, deliberate — and reached out, this time making contact, just two fingers gently lifting her chin so she had to meet his eyes.
"Then you don't get to hide down here anymore.” he said quietly. “No more muttering through sleepless nights like a ghost."
Then, finally, he gave the smallest nod. "Gear up properly tomorrow night." A ghost of something almost like a smile touched his lips. "...Partner."
A soft grin made its way onto her face. Relief. She had wanted this for so long, now it was true. She got to find her old self back, the hero.
"Thank you." She whispered, her smile reaching her eyes now. "Partner..."
He nodded once, firm, almost military, as if he needed that final reminder himself:
The very next day, her mind couldn't stop running. Waiting. Waiting for the night, her first outing in months. How exciting. She rummaged through her closet, finding her old suit. Something that had meant so much to her, still did, but this time this was different. As she put it on, a sense of melancholy hit her like a wave.
She couldn’t forget.
The last time she wore that suit, she had committed a crime, she had broken her partners trust, she had killed.
She tried to push the thoughts away as she looked at herself in the mirror, her heart skipping a beat, it was almost as if she last wore this suit yesterday. It still fit her, it felt like home.
Finally, it was her time to shine.
Night fell like an exhale, slow and welcoming. Bruce, dressed in his usual, slipped quietly through the shadows of Gotham's skyline. He'd found his usual perch, the gargoyle on City Hall. It gave him a view of most of the city's rooftops.
His gaze scanned every building, every street and alleyway, every flicker of movement, waiting.
She approached him silently, her old habits coming back like a routine. She was slow, quiet, barely there.
Yet, he saw her, the real her, for the first time in a while.
"Howdy, partner!" She said joyfully, her cheerful personality coming back like it had never truly left. Her voice echoed in the night wind.
The shadows curled up around her like old friends returning home. Her hair, neatly pulled away from her face. Her grin, wide, bright, charming.
"Howdy?" Bruce repeated, a skeptical look on his face, meaning ‘Don’t make me regret this’. "You're late." A lie, she wasn't late at all.
He'd been watching since she landed on the next rooftop silent as smoke, the exact moment she stepped into Gotham's breath again and claimed it back as hers.
But discipline kept people alive, so he crossed his arms and lowered his voice. "You remember protocol? No solo runs unless cleared. No killing.” A beat. “And if I say move…We move. No sarcastic comment, no witty comeback, understood?”
Her smile only widened at that one, he could practically hear the retort coming.
The wind howled between them for a second too long, until she gave him a slow nod.
"Wouldn't dream of it... Bats." She smiled brightly, loving the annoyed look on his face.
She followed him with ease, her body moving like a shadow following him—dark, quiet, swift.
She didn't know where they were going, he didn't tell her. All she knew is that they were skipping from rooftop to rooftop with ease.
"Keep up," Bruce muttered — but not seriously. He didn't have to look back to know she was there, matching him step for step. The rhythm was different tonight, lighter, somehow.
His cowl caught the glint of moonlight off wet rooftops as he leapt across a narrow alley, landing in a smooth crouch. Behind him, she followed like she'd never left hair in the wind before settling over her shoulders.
"East District," he said finally, voice low through the comms—now fixed. "Report : armed robbery at a bank a week ago, they’re the targets.” They both jumped down into the alley, landing softly, silently. He turned the corner with her in tow.
And there they were, a group of men, obviously armed. He turned just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye, her focused eyes, how her mouth was slightly parted, deep in thought.
"This is your first night back," Bruce added quietly. “So you follow my lead, understood?” He stood tall against the wall. Far away, sirens wailed in the distance. The silence was heavy, he was waiting for her signal.
She nodded slightly, and so he fell into action.
She scanned his movements, searching for any kind of signal. He needs help? She'll be there in half a second. He needs her to run away and don't look back? She can't promise she won't worry for him, but she'll try her best.
And so they worked, quietly, with precision.
And it worked.
Bruce fought like a well learnt dance, efficient, brutal, unyielding. He didn't pull punches, didn't make room for mercy. They fought side by side, working in perfect sync, like they always had.
She pulled them down, he took them out with a well-placed kick. She kicked another in the chest, Bruce slammed his fist into a third and the thugs went down like sacks of potatoes.
It was almost effortless.
Their duo was efficient to say the least. It was like they had always worked together.
When they were done, she turned to look at him, waiting for his signal.
Bruce straightened slowly, the city's pale glow reflecting off his cowl as he scanned the defeated criminals, all knocked out.
Then, he turned to her, taking in the rise and fall of her chest, the fire still burning behind those eyes. Not reckless. Not broken.
Alive.
A beat passed, long enough for Gotham's silence to settle back in, before he gave a single nod. There, surrounded by the shadows of Gotham, she was a warrior once more. That alone made him proud.
She looked up at him, still catching her breath. Their eyes met. There they were, a million words said in this single look.
'I'm proud of you', that's what he thought.
And she understood.
A soft smile on her face, they both worked quickly to bring the targets down to the police, who took them to the Arkham.
Their work was done...and done well at that.
They made their way back to the rooftops, climbing high above the city. The cool, crisp air was heavy with Gotham's shadows, familiar and comforting. There they were, watching the city below.
There was a long beat of silence.
"You did well," Bruce said, his voice low, almost a whisper in the darkness. "Better than I expected."
She smiled softly, her eyebrows shooting up. "You were expecting less of me? How insulting!" She put a hand to her chest, pretending to be hurt.
They both sat on the ridge of the rooftop, feet dangling in the wind. They were close, their shoulders brushing slightly, sending shivers down her spine.
"Insulting?" Bruce shot back, eyes still on the city. "I expected you'd go full wrath and anger. You didn't."
He finally turned his head just slightly, catching her teasing grin in the dim glow of the moons neon glow.
Then, quietly, like he didn't want to admit it, "I was wrong...about a lot." The wind tugged at his cape as he pulled back his cowl. Somewhere below, a siren faded into silence.
"I thought you were broken, unable to work like this again." His voice dropped, filled with sincerity. “You were just waiting to be seen again."
And this time... when their shoulders brushed, he didn't pull away.
She didn't say anything—at least not immediately. Her eyes staring into his, she felt her heart skip a beat. She had waited for so long to finally be seen. Not only as the hero, but as the simple girl, the one that had passions, qualities and defects.
Slowly, she leaned up towards him and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, her lips lingering for a second. "Thank you." She whispered, a soft smile on her face.
Bruce stiffened under her touch, just for a moment, before relaxing again. His eyes, usually a calculated cool, were now uncertain, weak.
How long had it been since he'd been cared for, truly, like this? He couldn’t remember.
For a moment, he seemed almost lost, then he pulled back just a little to watch the smug grin on her face. "Don't get cocky." He scolded her.
She laughed now, softly, the sound like music to his ears. She bit her lip slightly, keeping herself from giggling further.
She enjoyed seeing his fake annoyance, even more how he tried to hide it. She saw how his cheeks had flushed slightly when she had kissed him.
"Sorry, Bats, didn't mean to break your dark and brooding walls there, I know kisses and soft words aren't your speciality." She teased him, a smile on her face.
She stayed close, almost too close.
"Soft words?" Bruce repeated, finally turning to face her fully, his voice filled with something almost like warmth. “Don't push it."
He shifted, just slightly, but didn't move away. The space between them hummed with something unspoken, the kind of quiet that only happens when two people who pushed their feelings back behind closed gates, locked with three padlocks.
Still, he couldn't help it.
"You're insufferable," he muttered. But then, without thinking, he reached over and brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear.
A beat passed.
Then he stood up, cape flaring, to hide whatever flicker had just crossed his face. To hide the fact that he was finally letting her in. He shouldn’t—couldn’t.
"Come on. Patrol's not over." He motioned her over with his hand. And with that, he vanished into the dark again...leaving her exactly where she belonged : chasing after him.
She laughed softly while getting up from the ledge, immediately following him in the shadows.
"You know, one day I'll find a way to break your hard exterior, believe me." She teases him, following his every step.
Where they were going? She had no idea, not that it mattered much to her, she was ready to follow him anywhere.
He didn't look back, but he could almost sense the smug smirk on her face as she kept up. There it was again, that easy rhythm they shared earlier on the rooftops. Step, leap, land, repeat.
It was almost enough to distract him from her words. Almost.
"Try to keep up," he called over his shoulder, the slightest edge to his voice. He glanced back just in time to see her hair flow with the wind. "I won't slow down for you."
She sighed, slightly annoyed that he tried his best to make her fall behind. Her legs were shorter compared to his, meaning she had to take two steps when he took one.
"Where are we going, exactly?" She asked curiously, her usual joyful tone still there, even as she tried to keep up with him.
Bruce didn't answer right away, instead choosing to keep moving silently over rooftops, his mind clearly elsewhere. Finally, after a moment, "Crime Alley," he said, still not looking back. "Reports of a new gang.” He added.
He was keeping it short and to the point. All business. Almost as if he were trying to distract himself. "You wanted to do some good," he added after another beat. "Here's your chance."
She frowned slightly, biting her lip in thought. He was pushing her away, not that she was expecting anything else.
He usually let his guard down for a moment, letting her in, opening up. Then, he'd immediately shut her down, turning his back and never looking at her for the rest of the night. She understood, a hero like him didn't have the time for distractions, calm moments of joy.
"Right..." She said, voice flat, stripped from all the joy she previously had. If he wanted to be stoic and mean, then so could she.
Her flat tone didn't go unnoticed by Bruce, but he pretended it did. He focused on the skyline, the wind whipping against skin. The silence felt heavy, off.
Finally, he sighed, almost reluctantly, and without looking back, offered a question, "What, no more witty comebacks?" He meant it to be a jab. Typical Bruce Wayne.
But there was something unguarded in the way he asked it.
She shot him a side glance, noticing how he slowed down his step just slightly, so that he could watch her just over his shoulder.
"There's no point for me to argue with your back, is there?" She said, voice stern. She enjoyed their back and forth banter, but what she hated the most was how he always pretended he didn't. How he'd turn his back, how he'd scold her for trying to have a playful moment, how he looked at her like she was just an immature woman.
The words stung more than they should have, cutting through his usual cool demeanor. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to turn around and argue with her.
But he didn't.
Instead, he kept his eyes on the Gotham skyline, the neon glow catching on the sharp lines of his face.
"And here I thought I was the hardass," he muttered, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
She scoffed and made a face—a mocking face in his back. Luckily he didn't see her. A frown was now stained on her face, her heart clenching at his cold demeanour. She was angry. She wanted to turn him around and slap his face with all her might.
But what was the point?
He would never change, hell, even worse, he'd only get even more angry.
No she didn't say anything as they kept walking. From time to time, she'd mutter witty comments or curse him out under her breath, barely audible.
Despite his best efforts, Bruce heard those muttered comments, the curses under her breath. The words stung, like needles under his skin.
He told himself he deserved it, that he'd dug his own grave, but the more she muttered, the more his temper flared, his hands clenching into fists.
Finally, he couldn't take it anymore.
"You got something to say? Say it." He stopped in his tracks, turning to face her with a gaze as cold as winter.
She looked up at him, eyes empty, but still glowing in the night sky, almost as if all her emotions were there. Her mouth is slightly opened as if she wanted to say something—everything, but couldn't get the words out.
"You're a real asshole when you want to be, you know that?" She chokes out, voice flat, void of any emotion. Then, she keeps walking, keeping her head down, hiding the fact that tears wanted to slide down her cheeks. She brushed past him, shoulder almost bumping his.
Bruce froze, the words cutting through the silence like a knife. He didn't expect that, anger, yes. But the tears? The hurt he saw in her eyes? That made something in his chest tighten.
And the almost desperate way she pushed past him, like she was trying to escape…made him move.
He grabbed her wrist, his grip firm, forcing her to turn and face him. “Wait.”
As she looks back to him over her shoulder, her expression is a mix of sadness and hurt. Tears are streaming down her cheeks silently, like a pattern. Her lips are pressed tighter, as if trying to keep a sob from falling out. She's trying to stay strong—trying. "What?" She says weakly, voice filled with tears.
His grip on her wrist tightened, as if trying to keep her close, keep her from running away. His breath caught, just for a second. He hadn't seen her like this in months. Not since the accident.
Not since he'd told her she couldn't fight anymore.
Her tears weren't just anger. They were every suppressed word, every missed sunrise, every time she wished she could go outside, wondering if she'd ever matter again.
"I'm not blind," he said, voice steady, he was trying. "I see what I do. I know how it looks." His thumb brushed the back of her wrist, just once, a rare touch that held more meaning than words ever could.
"But this?" He gestured between them with his free hand—l, the city below them holding its breath, “This isn't about me pushing you away because you're annoying." He stepped closer, the moon casting deep shadows over his face, but not enough to hide the truth in his eyes when he looked at her now.
"I do it... because I care too much." A beat passed where only the wind dared to speak. "If think I don't see you, the real you, that means I failed." A breath. “Usually, I lose the people I care for, tragically. I thought if I pushed you away that meant I was protecting you.”
"...So forgive me for trying not to lose another person I…” He stopped himself before saying it aloud. Someone he cared about. He didn't let go of her wrist.
Her breath hitches just for a moment. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. The lighting of the moon enhances her features, glowing in the night. Her eyebrows are furrowed and there’s a slight downturn to her lips, still kept tight.
But there's a glint in her eyes—a slight spark. As soon as she hears him say it, 'Forgive me for trying to not lose someone that I...'.
That he what?
Was it so hard to admit it—admit that he cared, that he felt something.
He'd said the wrong thing again. At least that’s what he thought. His jaw clenched tight as he looked at her, at her eyes, her mouth, her damned hair that framed her face perfectly, as if trying to find the right words to say, to make her understand.
He should have let her go, let her walk away, because that's all he was good for. Instead, his fingers tightened again on her wrist.
"I can't lose you," he rasped. "You're...important to me." He took a sharp breath, almost like it hurt to admit he cared about her.
She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. The height difference between the two of them was almost ridiculous. She smiled softly, barely there, though tears are still running down her cheeks. Her expression is bittersweet.
She sniffles softly, letting out a breath through her lips. It was like something has shifted, he had changed. She never thought he'd admit that he cared, ever. But now, he looked at her like she was one of the most precious things he had ever seen.
Be cause she was.
His other hand came up to touch her face, his gloved thumb wiping away the tears.He hated the way his heart tightened at the sight.
This was why he didn't get close.
Not just the risk of losing her, no, it was the vulnerability. The way she made him feel like he hadn't in years.
Alive.
He leaned in as if to say something, but the words caught in his throat again.
Her eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and anticipation. She saw the way he leaned in, the way his eyes looked down at her lips just slightly—a fraction of a second. And she found herself pulled in too, as if an invisible force pushed the two of them together. Her eyes fluttered shut, trying to calm her nerves and her racing thoughts.
In her head, she counted up to three, the same way you would before ripping off a band aid.
Then, she kissed him.
Softly, barely a brush of lips against lips, afraid that she'd step too far.
He stopped breathing. Completely.
A voice screamed in his head. He should pull back, keep pushing her away…
But he didn't. Couldn’t.
Instead, he just...stilled, as her lips touched his. His hand slid from her cheek into her hair, tangling gently in the waves. The other stayed on her wrist, holding here there, with him. Then, slowly, cautiously, he deepened the kiss.
She felt the way he relaxed, the way he finally let her in—only for a moment. And that was enough.
She sighed softly, the sound sweet, as she let herself be lead by his lips, his hand in her hair. She found her own hands on his chest, keeping herself grounded—there, with him.
His heart pounded so wildly he wondered if she could hear it.
This was wrong, that same voice in his head said, but he ignored it again. He didn’t care. Not one bit. He kissed her back with a kind of need that almost frightened him. Since when was he able to care—let alone feel?
This was new. A good kind of new.
She pulled away slightly, her eyes still closed, but a bright smile on her face. The both of them let out a breath they had been holding. Relief. As they kept their close proximity, forehead leaned against one another, the wind picked up, sending shivers down her spine.
Right..She blamed the wind.
Her eyes fluttered open, still shining, but now with something new. Want. Need. Her breath hitched as she saw the soft smile that had made its way onto his face, a rare sight, and how he looked down at her like she was the sweetest thing ever, his hand still on her wrist.
It made her heart skip a beat.
“About that mission…” She trailed off, her usual cocky smile plastered on her face, hinting that maybe they could go back home instead of patrolling for the rest of the night.
He laughed softly, still a glimmer in his eye. His thumb brushed the skin on her wrist, a gesture that meant so much. “Don’t even think about it.” He shut her off, finally stepping back and pulling her in the direction of their next targets, a slight smile on his face.
Warnings : Strong words, mentions of blood, suggestive at the end (but no smut, sorry;). xoxo, Mara ・❥・
Masterlist | Requests are open!
The car was dead silent, except from the sound of the engine roaring. The streets of Gotham were quiet tonight—a contrast from the liveliness during the day.
Tonight, they only went on a simple recon mission, something easy, something that was not supposed to turn out the way it did. Before they could set foot in the warehouses parking lot, they were both attacked, forced to fight for their lives.
Usually, they never left each other's side, ready to help one another if things got ugly. Tonight, they had been separated. Him, fighting off two men who seemed only focused on his back. Her, forced to climb to the roof of the warehouse, escaping from a man with a gun. She had been focused on Bruce, making sure that he was okay—all she wanted was for him to be okay.
And then, she fell.
Now, there they were, on their way to the Batcave, the events of tonight haunting their minds. She had been quiet, real quiet, holding her side the whole time.
Something was wrong.
"You've been quiet." He said, stating the obvious. He shot her a glance, a worried one, not that she could see much of his face behind his cowl.
"Thank you captain obvious." She bit back, the pain in her side making her temper short. She heard him scoff, probably insulted by her sarcastic comment.
"Are you okay?" He pushed again. He hadn't seen her fall, but he noticed the pained way she walked up to him after the fight, how her breath was short, how she was holding her side.
She was hiding something.
She sighed, at least as best as she could without hurting herself. She hadn't looked at her injuries, choosing to hide them instead of saying so. She knew Bruce would worry, he always does. He already had so much in his mind.
"I'm okay, Bruce, please just drive..." She says through gritted teeth, hiding her pain as best as she could. She could feel a bit of blood soak through her suit under her hand, but not enough to be concerning. A couple of stitches could fix that.
Bruce's concern deepened at the sound she made trying to mask her discomfort. It was a familiar dance between them, one he'd seen many times before. He knew she was downplaying the severity of whatever happened.
But at the hint of pain he caught in her voice, his grip on the steering wheel tightened. He wanted to ask for more details, to make sure that her injures weren't life-threatening, but he knew arguing would be useless. She was as stubborn as he was.
"You're a terrible liar, you know that?" he muttered under his breath.
"Mhm" She muttered, acknowledging his words. That was all she could muster up, her side hurting every time she took a breath. Broken rib?
She closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing. His presence beside her was distracting more than anything else—not that it was his fault. He was worried, which didn't help her spinning mind.
And after what felt like ages, they finally arrived to the Batcave.
The Batmobile finally stopped, its systems powering down as the cave's lights flickered to life, casting shadows across the walls. Bruce was out of the car in an instant, circling around to her side before she could even unbuckle her belt.
He didn't say a word—just held out his hand with that unreadable look in his eyes. The kind that said 'I know you're hurt and I won't let you pretend otherwise'.
She swallowed hard, avoiding his gaze. "Bruce... I can walk."
"I'm sure," he replied skeptically.
And without another breath wasted on argument, he carefully slid one arm behind her back and the other under her legs, lifting her from the seat like she weighed nothing at all.
She let out a sharp gasp as pressure shifted on her ribs. He froze immediately.
"Broken rib?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.
"Maybe two," she admitted through clenched teeth. "...but I'm okay...Nothing too serious."
His jaw tightened—the smallest crack in Batman's armor—as he carried her toward the medical bay.
"It will be if I don't fix it."
Each step he took sent a jolt of pain through her ribcage. She bit her lip, trying not to scream in pain.
"I'm also bleeding, I don't know how much yet, but I think it happened when I broke my ribs..." She explained, trying to point to her side where there was a small stain of blood on her suit.
He finally set her down on a small stool, the movement sending an intense pain through her body. As she sat, she tried to catch her breath, which was hard given the fact that two of her ribs poked her lungs.
Before she could look up at him, Bruce was already gloved up and reaching for a trauma scanner. His voice stayed low, controlled—but there was something beneath it.
"Don't move."
She tried to nod, but even that tiny motion sent a pain through her side. Her blood flowed slower now, dark and steady, staining the fabric just below her ribs.
Bruce's jaw clenched as the scanner beeped—two cracked rib puncturing her lungs—just like she had predicted. He glanced at the vitals monitor syncing up: elevated heart rate, shallow respiration.
"You should've said something," he murmured, voice tight—not angry at her, never that—but angry at himself for not seeing it sooner.
He gently peeled back the edge of her suit to examine the wound while keeping pressure light with sterile gauze. "You're losing more than 'a couple of stitches' worth."
She let out a shaky breath through gritted teeth as his touch found sensitive skin. "Didn't wanna be your problem tonight..."
His eyes snapped to hers, a frown settling in his face. She took a moment to remove his cowl, letting her see his eyes—his real eyes, filled with concern.
"You're never my problem." He said quietly, firmly.
And before she could argue further—he reached for the sutures and anesthetic.
"Now hold still... this'll hurt."
She grabbed his shoulder to steady herself, preparing for what's to come. She didn't want him to worry, to give up their mission just because she was injured. That was why she didn't tell him sooner.
She was pulled out of her thoughts when she felt the needle stab her skin, once, then again and again. She but her lip to the point where it started bleeding slightly, trying not to sob in pain.
Her breath was shallow, making her panic slightly. It was hard to breathe, she felt like she was asphyxiating.
Bruce's expression remained unreadable as he stitched the wound shut, his focus razor-sharp. But beneath the surface, he was boiling. She had concealed a potentially life-threatening injury just to protect him? That made his heart ache more than any bullet ever had.
As his fingers threaded the last suture into place, he studied her face. Her grip on his shoulders had tightened to a painful point, knuckles white.
She was breathing raggedly, eyes squeezed shut.
He touched his fingertips to her chin.
"Open your eyes, it's over."
She slowly opened her eyes, tears filling them unconsciously. She swallowed hard, the drop of blood on her lower lip tasting like metal. Her breath was still short, making her panic more and more.
"I can't...breathe." She said, her voice trembling. She looked distressed, she needed air, something. The ribs poking her lungs hurt like nothing she had ever felt before.
The raw terror in her voice was like a gut punch. Suddenly, they weren't just coworkers, but two people deeply connected beyond simple teammates.
He gripped her hands firmly, steadying her gaze.
"I know. You're panicking." He kept his voice low, steady. "It's the pain, making it hard to take deep breaths. But you have to."
He guided her hands to his abdomen, placing them just below his rib cage. "Breathe with me."
She swallowed hard again closing her eyes. She tried her best to focus on his breathing, the gears in her brain turning endlessly. She tried to take a deep breath, but it hurt even more than before.
She shook her head, panicking. "I can't." She sobbed.
She heard him shush, trying to soothe her. His thumb rubbed circles on her palm, bringing her attention back to his breathing.
She tried again, this time successfully taking one slow, deep breath, then another.
"That's it," Bruce murmured, his voice just above a whisper. "Again. Just like that."
He didn't let go of her hand, his thumb still moving in slow circles, grounding her even as the monitor behind him beeped with gradually stabilizing vitals.
One breath. Then another.
Her shoulders finally eased forward slightly, no longer tense in panic. Her breathing was still shallow—still pained—but she was no longer fighting for her breath.
Bruce exhaled quietly through his nose—the closest he'd come to showing relief—and reached for the bandages on the tray beside him. His movements were precise but gentle as he carefully taped it around her middle.
"You're okay," he said softly—not a command this time, but an assurance. One she needed to hear.
Once secured, he grabbed a damp cloth and gently wiped the blood from her lip with surprising tenderness.
"Next time you feel ribs poking your lungs..." He paused, raising an eyebrow just slightly, "...you speak up immediately."
A weak smirk tugged at her lips despite everything.
"Yes...Dad..."
She mustered up all the energy she had left to mock his scolding tone. She felt better now, her ribcage immobilized by the bandages around her middle. She looked down to look at his good work.
That's when she realized she was almost topless in front of him.
They had known each other for multiple years, but he had never seen her so vulnerable. Her brain started working again, gears turning. "Sorry, I...Uhm." She trailed off, not knowing what to say but pointing to her bare middle, feeling exposed.
Bruce froze for half a heartbeat—just long enough to realize what she meant—before reaching for the hem of her suit's top and bringing it back down, careful not to graze her side.
"It's not your body I'm worried about." he said quietly, voice rough but gentle. "It's your wounds healing properly."
He draped a soft material over her shoulders—a blanket. With surprising care, he secured it just enough to give her a sense of comfort, a small frown on his face.
Then, because he knew exactly how vulnerable she felt, he met her eyes. No frown could hide the warmth in his gaze.
"You've seen me half-dead on this table more times than I can count," he murmured, almost smirking. "We're past modesty at this point."
A beat passed.
Then, softly, "...But I'll try not to make a habit of it."
She tried to laugh, but as soon as the air left her lungs she felt the pain again. It was true, she had seen him in distress multiple times and she always worked with precision to patch him up. Now it was his turn.
"I can't believe this is happening to me..." She whispers, her voice shaky. She didn't want to stay locked inside for weeks, waiting for her injuries to heal, yet there she was. It was already too late.
"That's part of the job." Bruce said quietly, throwing away the blood soaked gauzes he had used, "Just...Stay strong."
He leaned back slightly, arms crossed—but his eyes were softer now. Not quite smiling, but close.
"You've spent how many months patching me up after I do something stupid? Take a leap off a building? Get thrown through a wall?" He arched an eyebrow. "You're the one who always says healing is an opportunity to come back stronger.'"
She gave him a weak smile. "I didn't think I'd have to follow my own advice."
"Then it's about time you did." His voice dropped—low, warm, final. "No running missions for two weeks. Light training only after that—with me watching."
She groaned dramatically—then winced instantly as pain shot through her side.
Bruce almost smiled.
"And if you try to leap out of here before you're cleared?" He turned toward the console, pulling up her file with a tap. "I'll assign Alfred to babysit."
Her eyes widened in fake horror, mocking him.
"Not...Alfred."
"Begging won't help." He glanced back at her over his shoulder, dark cape shifting like smoke. "You're stuck here...Where someone can take care of you 24/7, there's nothing to worry about."
And this time—the faintest hint of a smile touched his lips.
"Let someone take care of you, for once."
She thought the words over and over, it was true, she was always the one that took care of others. It was now her turn.
"I won't flee out of here, don't worry. I don't think I have the energy to find my way in that labyrinth manor of yours..." she admits, the thought of using her running around helpless funny.
She looked at him for a moment. She was glad she had met him. Before that, she worked on her own, tending to her own injuries.
She couldn't have survived this one without him.
Bruce started typing something into the computer as his shoulders relaxed fractionally. He didn't like seeing her like this...But he'd rather she was hurt here than somewhere he couldn't help her.
As he typed, his eyes slid to the monitor showing her vitals. Stable, but still shaky.
"I've got one question." He glanced at her over his shoulder once more, playfulness in his tone.
"Care to explain how two broken ribs happen during a simple recon mission?"
She scoffed, wincing as she tried to stand up from the stool. "That's none of your business, sir." She teased him, but changed her mind when she saw his disapproving frown.
"I was on the roof and I watched you to make sure you were okay, those guys weren't leaving you alone. Next thing I know I'm falling down two stories, I didn't have the time to think...It just happened." She mutters, ashamed that she got hurt only because she was focused on him instead of where she was going.
His expression darkened somewhat, a muscle working in his jaw.
"You were watching me?" He repeated, his hands curled into fists involuntarily, the disappointment in his voice clear as day.
He forced himself to loosen his grip, to relax, focus on the task at hand : Saving her ass. Even if she was an idiot.
"So you fell because you weren't paying attention...Because you were worried about me?" He repeated, the were idea of her getting hurt because of him almost unbelievable.
His voice was neutral, carefully blank. But there was an edge to his question.
She looked down, her hand grabbing her side to make sure she wouldn't feel any pain. "Yeah..." She admitted. "I worry about you. You know, despite all your cool gadgets, you're still just a guy in a suit...No offense. When we get caught up in a fight with powerful forces, it can get bad quickly." She adds, her voice trailing off.
"I guess I'm scared one day I won't be able to save you." She admits.
The confession hit him like a punch to the gut. He turned around fully, staring at her in silent disbelief for several seconds.
Of all the reasons he'd expected, the idea that she worried about him was the furthest from his mind.
He'd been used to Alfred's motherly concern for most of his life and even that usually came with exasperated nagging and more than a few withering looks.
But seeing her like this, with her ribs—and ego bruised, her shoulders slumped... it twisted his soul in knots.
"I'm sorry, I know you don't want me to care or get attached...But I think it's too late for that now. Whether you like it or not, if I lose you I'll be devastated..." She admits, still not gathering the courage to look at him in the eye.
She just stood there, grabbing her side admitting that she does care, that she feels something unexplainable for her coworker.
He stared at her for a long moment, his usually unreadable expression betraying him completely. Her words had shaken him to the core and he didn't know how to process them.
He wanted to say don't get attached, that he wasn't worth it.
He wanted to say I can take care of myself.
He wanted to say you care way too damn much.
But the only word that came out was: "...Don't."
His voice was barely audible in the silent med-bay.
Her head shot up at that single word. She looked at him in disbelief, then in panic. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what took over me." She turned around avoiding his gaze at all costs.
Had she admitted too much? Maybe?
Definitely.
She started breathing heavily again, the thought of losing him over some stupid confession making her mind go blank. She felt the pain come back, her breaths shallow. "Shit." She whispered, not wanting him to hear her panicked voice.
The sound of her pained swearing brought him out of his own thoughts. In seconds he was by her side again, his hands on her shoulders—gently but firmly.
"Listen to me, you need to breathe."
His voice was calmer—almost tender—as his fingers gently turned her face to his. "Look at me."
She closed her eyes, not wanting to meet his. She shook her head. "I can't." She whispered, too scared to face the consequences of her actions.
Her breaths were shallow, her heartbeat increasing. Tears started gathering in her closed eyes, threatening to fall down any moment.
"Then don't," he said softly. His hands remained on her shoulders, steadying her thoughts, her breathing.
"You don't have to look, you don't have to speak. Just breathe..." He inhaled slowly and exhaled, giving her a rhythm only someone who'd trained their body and mind for decades could maintain.
One beat.
Two.
Her breath hitched—but she tried to match it.
"Again."
And again they breathed together, silent except for the soft hum of the Batcave systems and the fast beep of the monitor slowing steadily with each moment passing.
After a few long moments, Bruce finally spoke low, rough with something deeper than words could say. "I didn't mean don't care about me. We've known each other for years, I know it's...Difficult." He said, admitting that caring for their friends wasn't a weakness.
He paused, thumb brushing lightly over her shoulder where tension coiled tight beneath skin and fabric. "I meant don't get hurt because of me. Don't fall out of the sky watching my back when I should be watching yours."
His voice dropped lower now, almost vulnerable. "Because if I lose you...That's not an option."
Her eyes fluttered open at that, a single tear slipping free despite her efforts to hold it back.
And this time... he didn't let go.
She stared at him dumbfounded, his words catching her off guard. They had known each other for a long time, it was understood that they both cared for each other—but this was the first time she'd heard him say it.
She smiled slightly, finally breathing normally again. "How 'bout we both watch our own ass from now on?" She says, a frown spreading across her face as she realizes the double meaning.
"I didn't mean literally..." She trails off.
Bruce actually laughed, a rare, unguarded sound that barely lasted a second before he turned toward the medical console.
But she saw it.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Just once.
Truth is, she had checked him out a couple of times before, it was hard not to. He's a very good looking man, she can't deny that. Keeping her eyes off him was a difficult task.
He kept his back to her as he started inputting recovery protocols, voice neutral almost too much so.
"Agreed. No more falling out of buildings. No more reckless distractions."
A beat.
Then, dryly: "And for the record... I've seen you check me out during stealth drills." He glanced at her over his shoulder—blue eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement. "And I thought stealth was supposed to be your specialty."
She froze. "I—what? I never—I didn't—"
Pain or not, she tried to sit up straighter in protest, but only to wince again and earn an eyebrow raise from him.
Bruce turned fully now, arms crossed over his chest but warmth still lingering in his expression like embers under ash.
"Just don't make a habit of it," he said quietly, a small smile on his lips.
She couldn't help but blush at his words. Part of her loved their playful back and forth banter.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Bats." She faked innocence.
She realized she was still wearing her suit, now stained with blood on her right side. She took off her mask, which was basically just goggles, and threw them on the ground.
"Getting out of these clothes is going to be a real nightmare..." She trails off, trying to lean down to unlace her boots, but wincing in pain as her ribcage protests.
Her discomfort brought his serious demeanor back in a heartbeat. In seconds he was kneeling in front of her again, gently batting her hand away.
"Don't even think about it." He warned.
He started unfastening the boots himself carefully, his eyes catching hers for a moment. It was the same intensity, the same focus, as when he stitched her wound. Only now, it made her breath catch for slightly different reasons.
"You can barely move. You won't even get them off without hurting yourself more." His voice was stern.
Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him, on one knee in front of her, his eyes focused on unlacing her boots. He was truly ethereal. She tried to chase the thoughts away, knowing those were very unprofessional. He was just trying to help.
"Thanks..." Her voice was weak, her breath short.
He paused, just for a fraction of a second, the sound of her soft 'thanks' hitting him differently than it should have. His fingers stilled on the second bootlace.
For someone trained to read micro-expressions, body language, every hidden truth beneath a mask, Bruce Wayne wasn't prepared for the sudden weight in his chest at the way she looked at him : vulnerable, breathless and still trying so hard not to show how much she felt.
He finished untying the boot with one smooth tug and set it aside, his voice lower now. "You don't have to thank me."
Then he stood slowly, deliberately turning toward the wardrobe where he kept spare suits and recovery gear.
"I've got something better for you to wear."
A pause.
"And before you ask—yes. It's black. No pink."
Her quiet laugh was weak but real and that...That was worth more than any victory.
Of course the spare clothes were black. At that point, she was convinced he was allergic to colours. She watched him move, searching the clothes that would fit her best.
"Are you capable of wearing any other colour than black? Genuinely? I've never seen you wear anything else." She asked, a teasing smile on her face. "I think blue would suit you, it matches your eyes." She trails off.
He scoffed, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he thumbed through tactical shirts and cargo pants.
He finally grabbed what looked like an old workout tank and pants set and turned back, only to catch the last part of her comment. His expression softened ever-so-slightly.
"Blue, huh? That's your expert opinion, is it?" He tossed the clothes next to her. "You have no room to talk. Your closet is basically black, pink, and leopard print.”
She scoffed as best as she could without hurting her ribs. His comment was very amusing to her. She bit her lip in thought.
"Are you insinuating that you know exactly what's in my closet?" She teases, the thought of him remember such precise details very funny to her.
She reaches pulls her coat off her shoulders, then pulls her shirt over her head, wincing again in pain. He helped her out of her clothes, not worrying about modesty or comfort now. He was only helping out an old friend.
"And for the record—you're wrong. Pink and leopard print wouldn't work much to hide in the shadows..." She smiles.
But she saw it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He discarded her blood stained clothes, deciding it would be better to wash them later today. It was already the middle of the night.
Then, before he could let his eyes linger on her figure, now in his clothes, he turned back to the computer, completing her file.
"Anyway. Alfred packed extra medical supplies in your guest quarters. You're staying there tonight." He tapped at keys that didn't need tapping—anything to avoid looking at her now.
"And for the record..." He glanced over his shoulder, just once, "I know what's in your closet because you stole my sweatshirt about a month ago. I was looking for it."
Silence fell between them—warm, charged with something unspoken.
Then quietly, he added, "...Still have it?"
She did remember how she stole his sweatshirt. It was cold outside and she didn't pack enough clothes to bring in the city. She had roamed around his walk in closet, admiring every expensive piece he owned before finally stealing one of his sweatshirts.
She laughed at the memory. "I do still have it, I'll bring it back next time I promise." Her voice was soft.
He huffed softly, almost like a laugh, running a hand back through his hair, a rare gesture that made her heart beat a little faster than it had any right to.
He turned toward her again, eyes steady.
"Keep it. It's just a shirt." His eyes flickered to the monitor, still focused on her vitals, still showing every time her heart rate picked up. It made his own heart skip a beat.
Bruce Wayne could deny a lot.
But not that.
She could see his eyes looking at the monitor, the ECG beeping at every heartbeat. The sound was comforting, proving she was human—that she was alive. But couldn't hide how her heartbeat picked up every time he looked at her, talked to her, smiled. She thought she was a fool for having such feelings, but it was part of being human.
"Thank you for taking care of me, that means a lot." She said softly, her gaze trailing down to the ground.
Bruce stepped away from the computer, slow and deliberate, until he stood right in front of her. He didn't reach for the monitor. Didn't check vitals.
Instead, he gently lifted her chin with two fingers, just enough so she had to look at him.
His voice was lower than before.
"You don't have to thank me," he said quietly. "I'm not doing this because I have to."
A pause.
"I'm doing it because I want to."
And then—he did something very out of character.
He brushed a loose curl from her face and tucked it behind her ear, his fingertips lingering just a second too long against her skin.
"I guess I should head up to get some rest now..." She trailed off, not truly feeling like she needed rest. Truth is, she felt more awake than she had felt all day. His voice, his words, his touches was what kept her awake, fighting back the pain in her chest.
He kept his eyes on hers, searching her face.
His hands fell at his side, a muscle twitching involuntarily in his jaw.
Her soft voice, the quiet pain she tried to hide—it all hit him with a force he wasn't expecting.
"You need the rest," he said gruffly, his eyes leaving hers, afraid that if he'd look too long, he'd get lost in her eyes.
She couldn't help but feel her heart clenching when he didn't look back at her.
What was he running away from?
She placed her hand on his shoulder, silently asking him to turn his attention back to her, just for a moment. She leaned up in her tip toes, shortening the height difference between the two of them and placed a small kiss on his cheek as a thank you.
He felt every nerve in his body go on high alert. And time stopped.
She leaned back, those gorgeous eyes watching him with something he couldn't—wouldn't let himself name.
He said her name, his voice was nothing more than a rough whisper.
Her name on his lips was something she would never get tired of hearing. He made her name sound so special, so unique. As she watched a spark light up in his eyes, her mind went blank.
Before she could think twice, she had leaned up again, this time kissing his lips chastely.
For a heartbeat—hell, an eternity, he was lost.
The feel of her soft, cautious mouth against his, the sweet taste, the warmth of her...He wanted to pull her closer. To hold her and forget the rest of the world, forget who he was, forget everything for just a few stolen moments.
But he couldn't.
Bruce didn't deserve her. Not now, not ever.
His hands tightened at his sides, wanting to reach out and hold her in his arms.
She pulled back a bit, still staying close. Her eyes were closed, but when she realized what had happened, they shot open.
Her hand came up to her mouth, shocked by her boldness. "I'm so sorry...I should've asked...I didn't—" She trailed off, her eyes wandering in panic, her mind spinning.
Truth was, she had wanted to do this for ages. She blamed the blood loss for playing with her mind, she acted recklessly.
A bright, rosy flush spread across her cheeks, making his heart skip a beat. His hands shook with the need to keep her close because she was so damn perfect.
He knew he should push her away, keep distance, keep control, keep her safe...So he did the only thing that made sense.
He leaned even closer, so they were a breath apart. He growled her name like a soft curse. "Stop it..."
Her breath caught in her throat, her mouth slightly opened, dumbfounded. His proximity made her heart beat faster. She got lost in his blue eyes, seeing them darken.
Her eyes then searched his face, silently asking 'Stop what?', but her thoughts were cut short.
He cupped her chin in his callused hand, tilting her face up just enough so she could feel his breath ghost across her skin.
"Stop apologizing," he rasped, the words low and rough.
His thumb brushed her jaw, soft, before he finally let go.
He stepped back. Not because he wanted to. But because if he didn't, he wouldn't stop at one kiss.
And she deserved more than a stolen moment.
"You're healing," he said, voice steady. "Rest. That's an order."
Then, before she could argue, he turned around, disappearing in the dark corridors of the cave.
He kept his head low, his shoulders slumped. He had wanted to kiss her again, to finally let her in—to finally stop pushing her away. But he couldn't .
She stayed there for a moment in disbelief. He had almost kissed her back, almost closed the distance between them to finally give in.
Then he just...left.
Her eyes opened slowly, just in time to see him put distance between the two of them, going god knows where.
"You mother fucker..." She muttered. She felt her blood boil, not only because he had given her hope, but because he dared walk away, barely saying anything.
The cave was silent—except for the distant drip of water and the faint hum of machinery.
And then, from the shadows near the training platform, Bruce stopped. His back went rigid. He didn't turn around. But she knew heard her.
A beat passed.
Then another.
Finally, he turned slowly and walked back toward her with deliberate steps, his cape whispering behind him like a shadow. His expression was unreadable. Dangerous.
He closed the distance in seconds until he was right in front of her again—close enough that she could feel his body heat cutting through the cave's chill.
"What did you just call me?" His voice was low—a growl laced with something dangerously close to anger.
Her face fell into a frown, her demeanour strong. He didn't scare her. Or at least that what she was trying to tell herself.
"I said : You mother...fucker." She mouthed the words with confidence, making sure he heard her loud and clear this time. She was angry, he didn't have the right to play with her feelings like this.
He was annoyed—no, he was fuming. He had never been disrespected like that, let alone by someone he trusted so much. "You better watch your next words or-" His words were cut short by her hand slapping across his cheek. The force had stunned him, not expecting her to hit him with this much strength.
He looked back at her again, this time ignoring the frown that was still plastered on her face. He crashed his lips against hers in a kiss that was long due—that meant everything.
He didn't hold back. Not one bit.
One hand threaded into her hair, the other slipping around her waist, pulling her tight against him. She was so goddamn beautiful and fierce and wild and...Perfect. The way she looked at him made him lose his damn mind.
He kissed her harder than he was probably supposed to, not caring about her pain anymore.
If she was hurt, it was worth it. Because this—her in his arms—was all that mattered.
This is what she had been wanting for so long. She circled her arms around his neck slowly, making sure she wouldn't hurt her ribs or rupture the stitches at her side. She treaded her fingers through his hair, pulling softly.
His mind darkened as she pulled at his hair, sending tingles down his spine. He felt her whimper into the kiss and his grip on her waist tightened in response.
God, she made him insane.
She moaned when she felt his hands on her, roaming her skin like it was a treasure he didn't want to let go. Suddenly she was hit by a wave of boldness. She handled him with firm hands, pushing him to sit down at the chair in front of the computer. She then joined him, straddling his hips.
He whispered a curse the second she sat on his lap, closing the distance again. He reached on pure instinct, grabbing her hips and pulling her up onto him.
Her fingers tightened in his hair, his hands slipping under her shirt, and all thoughts of pushing her away disappeared.
"Fuck..." She whispered, her breath short from all the kissing. She stayed there, still keeping a small distance between them, catching her breath.
"I need to hear you say it." She whispered. 'I need to hear you say that you care'.
He looked up at her, immediately reading her mind. With his hands still holding her softly, his eyes roamed her face.
"You have been on my mind ever since I met you, you haunt my every thought. I tried to push you away, to forget about you but you make it impossible to move on. You are...everything." He said, eyes looking up at her like a lion staring at its prey.
And he meant it.
She forgot about her worries, about her injuries. Right now. It was only him and her and that was all she needed.
She was pulled out of her thoughts by his voice, filled with worry. "But you're injured...I can't." His thumb brushed the skin on her right side, where he had stitched her wound earlier.
She smiled, her breath short again. She loved his caring eyes, his concerned expression.
"I guess you'll just have to be gentle with me...Can you do that?" She asks, fingers on his chin, bringing his face back up to meet her eyes.
"Gentle…" He echoed, voice hoarse. This was probably the only word he caught from what she said.
His hands still trembled against her skin, fighting against the urge to grip her tighter.
The air is chilly, the December wind reminding me a new year is bound to start. I can't say I'm sad to let the past year go, considering how difficult it was for me. Being locked up for months for a crime I didn't commit really made me realize just how unfair life can be.
Recently, I've been busy, which isn't surprising based on the fact that I seem to accept every job that is given to me. I've assisted Cripps in setting up our revolutionary trading company, a task that has taken up much of my time and energy. One of my jobs involves skinning animals. Their pelts are particularly popular this time of year because of the chilly weather, folk use it for coats and boots. Hence, I've been deliberately avoiding Harriet, the animal protector, knowing she would lecture me about how I "brutally kill" animals.
I've also formed a good friendship with Maggie. We share similar personalities and, of course, a mutual love for moonshine that has drawn us closer together. Recently, I helped her find a new cook since our operations rely heavily on having someone skilled in the kitchen, especially after Danny-Lee decided to betray her and steal her customers. That's when I met a French fellow named Marcel. We get along pretty well, especially since we speak the same language—though his tendency to talk a bit too much can be overwhelming at times. Nonetheless, he's been doing a great job so far.
Speaking of chatterboxes, I also assisted Maggie in breaking her nephew, Lem, out of jail. To be honest, I don't think he's stopped talking since that day, though I must admit I found myself chuckling softly at some of his jokes. It's interesting how quickly these new friendships are beginning to grow on me.
As I enter the shack where we prepare our alcohol, a small cabin partially hidden in the woods north of Emerald Ranch. Keeping a low profile is crucial—making moonshine is illegal after all. I fix my hat while making my way down the stairs towards the area where we prepare the moonshine.
"Bonjour! (Hello!)" I hear Marcel exclaim cheerfully. "Qu'est-ce que je peux faire pour toi? (What can I do for you?)" he asks me, his enthusiasm unmistakable. I'm about to respond when I'm abruptly interrupted by Lem, the other professional yapper in our group.
"Good day, Marcel! Oh, hello Ms. Watson. How's it going?" It's clear he's busy, as he's holding a stack of papers in his hands, likely indicating a busy day ahead.
"I'm doing fine, thank you." I reply and smile at my friend before turning back to Marcel. "J'ai reçu une commande; une recette à la pomme rose, tu veux bien la préparer pour moi? (I received a Wild Cider moonshine order, mind preparing it for me?)" I ask the cook politely.
"Avec plaisir! (Of course!)" He turns back to the preparation counter, making sure we have all the necessary ingredients.
"You know, when you talk together like that, I can't help but feel like you're plotting something behind my back," Lem chimes in, sounding a bit left out.
"It doesn't count as back talk if you're in the room, Lem," I tease, laughing at the scoff he lets out.
"De toute façon, I got better things to do than talk about you, Lem Fike," Marcel retorts, his focus still on preparing the order.
"Thanks, you guys, you really make me feel appreciated, you know," Lem manages to say with a hint of sarcasm, though his expression shows he's half-heartedly annoyed as he glances at the pile of papers he's still holding."Anyways, I got this letter for you. Well at least Cripps said it was for you, apparently it's from one of your friends." He hands it to me and I waste no time opening it.
The letter is from Horley, instructing me to meet him and Jones in Blackwater as soon as possible. I recall meeting Jones a couple of weeks ago; the old man is certainly a funny character. He reminds me of Cripps in a way—both of them are distinctly quirky old men.
"Thanks, I gotta go. I'll see you both later," I say, waving goodbye before heading back up the stairs and exiting the dim light of the shack.
Stepping into the crisp air, I make my way back to my camp located in Great Plains. Scrawny Nag's whining serves as a gentle reminder that I sometimes ask too much of him. Poor horse.
As I arrive at camp, I don't bother dismounting; instead, I call out for my most loyal friend. "Sam! Sam, we've gotta go meet Horley in Blackwater!" I shout, my voice echoing through the vast landscape of the plains.
"Why?" I hear the tired voice of my friend drifting from his tent across camp. "I wanted to sleep, for once!" He sounds grumpy, and I can picture him rolling over, trying to ignore the call.
"We both know that's not true, Sam; you're always sleeping. Now c'mon, cowboy, we've got business to attend to!" I hear him mumble a few swear words under his breath as he reluctantly gets up and makes his way toward his horse, a sleek black Turkoman.
"We better get paid for this, let's go," he warns me before spurring his horse into a lope. I follow suit.
When we finally arrive in Blackwater, the bustling atmosphere hits us immediately. We spot Horley, who is patiently waiting for us, his face lined with anticipation.
"There you are. How did you get on?" he asks us, his tone professional yet friendly. I'm about to respond when I'm interrupted for the second time today.
"She got on just fine, you know she did," Jones jumps in, making his presence known. Sam and I exchange an annoyed glance, accustomed to his interjections. "Well, I know she did. You see it in the sky, you smell it in the air. She ain't a saint, but she's a good one. A fine gal in a nasty world! An American, I guess!" His nice words make me chuckle despite my irritation.
"What's with the praise, Mr. Jones?" I ask, genuinely curious about his sudden enthusiasm.
"Oh, the madam picked you well!" he replies, referring to Mrs. LeClerk. "Horley, this gal will do more than avenge her; with any luck, she'll save us all!" He adds excitedly, his eyes shining with hope.
"Oh, there ain't no luck, Mr. Jones. It's just a woman's heart and not much else," Horley explains, his tone turning more serious.
"Well, she's got a fine one. Send her to help the marshal! The whole damn place is going to shit, and we need more good souls to let us loons rant in peace and howl at the moon in safety," Jones insists, pointing at me. I stand quietly, listening to them, confused by their fervor.
"Maybe..." Horley seems lost in thought for a moment.
"But, don't you and the madam kill the girl with vengeance—nor kill her inside with grief," I hear Sam sigh beside me. I turn to look at him, and he appears unimpressed with the conversation.
"I thought we had business to do, not listening to Jones talk our ears off," he says playfully, trying to lighten the mood.
"Like you said, she's no saint. But like I always say; if you need to earn some money and stay somewhat out of trouble, go see Marshal Davies. He's supposed to stop every bastard killing innocent folk," Horley instructs me, his expression serious.
"And where can I find him?" I ask, eager for direction.
"Up in Tall Trees, I'll show you, c'mon!" Jones struts up to his horse, happy to help.
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Jones." I get back on my horse, so does Sam.
"Of course, follow me!" He trots away, so we have no choice but to follow him.
-
"Marshal! Marshal Davies, this is the people I wanted you to meet!" Jones calls out as we arrive at the small camp nestled in Tall Trees. The area is serene, with towering trees surrounding us and the faint sound of a nearby creek adding to the atmosphere of the place.
"So you're Horley's protégés, huh? He did say you was decent. I hope so," the Marshal says as he looks forward. He appears serious and somewhat intimidating, with a sturdy posture and a keen gaze that suggests he means business. He's the kind of guy you wouldn't want to mess with.
"And he said to me that you stop bastards from killing innocent folk, so I guess that's one thing we got in common," I reply with a smile, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders as I engage conversation with him.
"This land is full of scum," he sighs, the gravity of his words evident. "I spend most of my time wishing they're better off left to it." Before he can continue, he's interrupted by Jones, who has come closer to the small campfire, wanting to soak in the warmth.
"Oh, they're good ones, real good ones! Heart of pure gold," Jones insists, rubbing his hands together as he tries to warm up.
"Go away, old man. I told you to go away," the Marshal snaps, clearly losing his patience.
"I'll go away, Mr. Marshal... I'll go," Jones mumbles in response, turning away and trudging back to his horse, a resigned look on his face.
"Tom Davies, US Marshal," he introduces himself formally, cutting through the tension.
"I'm Elizabeth, and this is Sam," I say, motioning to myself and then to my friend, who stands quietly, probably daydreaming about sleeping.
"I've been sent on the trail of a band of killers. This one, Alfredo Montez, killed a family up near Thieves Landing and did some unspeakable things. He's wanted in four states and two countries, and I think he's holed up near Manzanita Post. You take a ride with me to take a look?" the Marshal offers, and Sam and I exchange a glance before agreeing.
Each of us mounts our horses, the sound of hooves stirring up dust as we prepare to head to Manzanita Post.
"Follow me!" the Marshal directs. "I got a man been tracking him. When I left him, it looked promising, but we all know a trail can go cold in a heartbeat—particularly if the one you're tracking doesn't want to be found," he explains, his tone serious.
"That makes sense," I reply, trying to keep pace with his insights.
"Fortunately for us, signs point to Alfredo Montez not caring one fart for who's on his trail," he adds with a laugh. "You got bows? Something like that? You'll need them," he informs us as we continue our ride. "Coming up on the post."
In the distance, we spot our destination to the right: a small house and a shack, both enclosed by a fence.
"Now, I can't be seen to get too close to any of this. I'd be causing a crime or... whatever the damn law is. Ah, anyway, there's Lee, the feller we're supposed to meet," he says, gesturing toward a figure sitting on the porch of the house.
"Hello, friends!" Lee greets us with a wave.
"How's it going, Lee?" the Marshal responds, his demeanor shifting slightly.
"Montez is tricky, you know it and I know it. He knows we're coming, Tom. He's holed up in there waiting for us. The place is crawling with guards, patrols, everything. It's gonna be tough, you know?" Lee's voice betrays his nerves, a hint of nervousness creeping in.
"Well, that's what I pay you all for," the Marshal replies, and I glance back at Sam, who smiles slightly, clearly pleased about the prospect of payment for our effort.
"Yeah, paying us to do your job!" Lee bites back, his tone half-joking, half-serious.
"I can't go and kill a man in cold blood, Lee. Not while I don't have the evidence I need. But, I can turn an old-fashioned blind eye to an unfortunate dispute that I did not see, resulting in the death of some undesirables," the Marshal explains with a serious tone, his eyes flicking between Sam and me to ensure we agree with this morally ambiguous plan.
"Good thing I don't have a problem with an 'unfortunate dispute'," I say with a shrug, trying to keep the mood light despite the tension.
"Then that's perfect. Good luck in there!" the Marshal replies, offering a hint of encouragement.
"Let's go..." Lee instructs, leading us forward into the dense underbrush.
"Montez knows we're coming; it's best if we don't make too much noise," Lee advises as we set off. "There are going to be some guards, for sure. Make sure to take them out quietly, with a bow if you got one." He glances at my bow before looking over at Sam, who readies his throwing knives.
"There's a patrol up ahead; hide!" Lee drops down low, his urgency evident. Sam and I quickly find cover behind a large rock, the rough surface cool against my back. We exchange a look, silently communicating our shared goal.
"I take the one in the front, you take the one in the back?" I suggest, nodding towards the guards.
"You read my mind," Sam replies, slipping out of our hiding spot to find better positioning. Once I see he's settled, we share a final glance, then take our aim. My arrow flies straight for the front guard's eye, piercing through and killing him instantly. Sam's knife finds its target in the back guard's throat, the blade slicing through seamlessly.
"Okay, let's move on," Lee says, emerging from his own hiding spot with a smirk. "Cold-blooded killers, I see."
"Only when we need to," Sam and I respond in unison, a hint of camaraderie in our voices.
As we continue toward the criminals' camp, we cross paths with other guards. We make quick decisions, letting some pass while taking out others without hesitation. Arriving near the camp, Lee motions for us to split up, ensuring we cover as much ground as possible. We find hiding spots while surveying the area, preparing for what's to come. The guards seem aware of our presence, their movements tense and intentional.
I shoot first, mine using my pistols, a bullet finding its mark in one guard's chest. The sudden noise sends the camp into chaos; shouts and gunfire erupt in every direction. Lee, Sam and I keep to our positions, carefully avoiding unnecessary movements as we await our next targets. Each of us takes down a few more guards, strategic and efficient.
Finally, the moment arrives: we spot Alfredo Montez, our primary target. I shoot him straight in the head, without hesitation, his dead body stumbles from his hiding place.
"There he is; he's dead alright," Lee confirms as we gather around Montez's lifeless body. "Let me get him. You know what? All we need is the bastard's head." With a grim determination, he pulls out his hunting knife and decapitates the dead criminal. The sight is horrifying. Lee places the head in a bag and swings it over his shoulder. "Okay, let's go. Take one of their horses to get back to Manzanita Post."
Without hesitation, we gather the gang's mounts, leaving the scene behind us as we ride away. The rush of adrenaline surges through me, while some other gang members spot us and take shots in our direction.
We steer our horses skillfully, dodging bullets and navigating the path to make it back to the Marshal in one piece. There's an urgency to our escape, each second feeling more critical as we charge forward, determined to return successfully after the deadly mission.
After a couple of minutes, we find ourselves back at Manzanita Post, the dusty road crunching beneath our horses' hooves. The Marshal is waiting for us on the porch, his silhouette framed against the fading light of the day, casting an imposing figure.
"How did you get on?" he asks as we dismount, his expression unreadable but focused.
"Pretty well, I would say," I respond, wiping the sweat off my brow with the back of my hand.
"Here's his head," Lee announces with eagerness, pulling out the gruesome head from the bag. The sight is chilling; the head is harshly disfigured.
"Oh... That's very civilized," Marshal Davies replies with a note of sarcasm dripping from his voice. He inspects the head with a mix of curiosity and disgust. "Well, this should show folks that we're willing to bring law and order any way we can. But this ain't Montez. At least it ain't Alfredo Montez."
"You're kidding me? Who is it then?" Sam asks, surprise evident in his tone as he stands beside me, trying to understand.
"That's his brother," the Marshal sighs, his disappointment clearly taking over. The weight of the situation settles heavily, overshadowing our earlier excitement. "Anyway, here's your money. It's better than nothing, given that you killed the wrong brother. Now let's be clear; Jorge Montez was a no-good son of a bitch with a price on his head. Only in that family was he considered a saint. Alright, friends, I'll see ya up in Van Horn, if you get the chance. My next lead is that maybe Alfredo Montez will be there..." The Marshal waves us goodbye, his demeanor shifting back toward the professionalism we had first encountered.
"Killed the wrong bastard, well I'll be damned!" Lee scoffs, a wry smile on his face, before throwing the severed head away with all his might. It lands somewhere in the dense underbrush of the forest, a disgusting sight.
Sam and I exchange looks of amusement, the tension of the moment slowly fading away.
"Well, this was fun!" I laugh, reaching for my satchel. I pull out a cigarette and light it with a match, the flame flickering momentarily before catching.
"The only thing that matters is that we got paid. I can't believe you woke me up for that!" Sam giggles as he makes his way back to his horse, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "I'll see you at camp?" he asks, looking back at me while adjusting his gear.
"Yeah, see you later!" I wave him off, taking a final drag of my cigarette before stepping on it with my boot, extinguishing the flame.
Killing the wrong folk... I let the thought linger in my mind. Why does this kind of stuff always happen to me?
-
Sam belongs to @sam-vdl , all RDR characters belong to rockstar games.
I am finally done with my tarot card collection. I need to make sure to meet Madam Nazar as soon as I can to get paid for this exhausting job.
Recently, I've taken on several roles, including that of a collector. Along my travels across the states, I've unearthed many fascinating artifacts, and a lovely woman named Madam Nazar compensates well for these treasures. I'm also juggling a job as a naturalist, which entails studying animals to understand their behaviors and lifestyles better. This role can sometimes be dangerous, especially when it comes to interacting with fierce creatures.
Currently, I'm on my way to meet Cripps, who sent me a letter a couple of days ago inviting me to meet near the general store in Valentine. He emphasized the importance of this meeting, hinting that he has a "new idea" to discuss.
As I approach the general store, I spot the old man stepping out, accompanied by a young man carrying a heavy bag of supplies. "Oh, you made it! Follow me," Cripps exclaims upon noticing me. "Now, as I mentioned in my letter, we are going into business! I've been breaking down animals since I was knee-high to a splinter, and I worked as a tanner up in Wisconsin back in the sixties. It's a very long story," he adds, as I glance back at the young man, who seems to be losing patience.
"So, I've got three words for you: Cripps Trading Company." He exclaims with enthusiasm. "Pristine pelts and animal parts, for bulk sale. Now, I know there's a market out there. All I need is a partner. So, I'm thinking you could source the materials: skins, plumes, horns, and the like..." His proposal hangs in the air, and my uncomfortable thoughts drift to the implications of his suggestion. "So I'm supposed to kill the animals? Great, Harriet's going to hate me," I mutter under my breath, recalling the passionate animal rights advocate I know.
"Exactly! I'll process them and prepare them for sale, and then you can head out and make the sales yourself. Heck, we might even enjoy some good meals out of this venture!" Cripps continues, his excitement showing. Just then, the young man behind him drops the heavy bag with a huff, clearly wanting to redirect our conversation. "Why are you still here, Willis?" Cripps asks, almost oblivious to the young man's discomfort.
"Your provisions, Mr. Cripps," Willis replies, gesturing at the bag, clearly stating why he's still waiting. "Oh right!" Cripps responds, dismissing the concern. "Pack the rest on there, will you?" He gestures towards his horse before turning back to me.
"Now, with every opportunity comes a risk. Competitors, thieves, and me potentially losing interest in this whole idea... but if we combine our talents, we'll be unstoppable." He hands Willis a penny for his trouble, to which the young man sighs in disappointment, clearly dissatisfied with his pay. I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation, feeling a mixture of apprehension and intrigue as we potentially embark on this new adventure. "And when we're rich, you'll thank me, saying, 'Cripps, you handsome genius!'" The excitement in Cripps's voice is evident as he mounts his horse, a gleam of ambition in his eye. He seems ready to charge off at any moment, fresh plans swirling in his mind. "I highly doubt that," I mutter under my breath, skepticism clouding my thoughts.
"So, are you in?" he asks, his enthusiasm unabated. 'Eh, what the hell?' I think, weighing the prospects. "Sure, I'll do it," I reply, deciding to take the plunge. "Good! You won't regret this. I already own a small wagon and most of what we'll need in terms of initial supplies. If you can grab that and bring it back to camp, we'll get everything set up. This is gonna be fun!" he says, urging his horse into a trot as he sets off from town. "See you later!" I call after him.
Feeling a mix of anticipation and fatigue, I head over to the saloon, craving a well-deserved drink. The establishment is fairly empty at this hour, casting a subdued atmosphere over the place. To my surprise, my friend Sam is behind the bar today. "Hey!" I call out, trying to catch his attention. "I'll take a whiskey, please." I slide a penny onto the bar, watching as he finishes cleaning a plate.
"I'll give you your usual, then?" he asks lightly, glancing up at me.
"Sure," I reply with a sigh, taking a seat at the wooden bar.
"Tough day? You look like shit," he remarks, his tone edged with concern.
"Yeah, I feel like shit too," I chuckle, resting my head on my hand as I try to shake off the weariness. Sam moves around, preparing a plate of fried chicken, the scent wafting through the air, making my stomach flutter but not with hunger. He sets the plate in front of me, the aroma usually inviting, now making me feel nauseous.
"You know what? Actually, I'm not hungry," I say, gently pushing the plate away.
"I made you a meal, and you don't want it? How ungrateful! I'll eat it myself then," he declares, not wasting a moment in grabbing the plate back and devouring the crispy pieces of chicken. "I fucking love fried chicken, man..." he mutters contentedly, clearly lost in his own enjoyment.
I can't help but chuckle at his antics.
Lately, we've teamed up to help Mrs. LeClerk avenge her husband's death. While Sam has been working as a bartender in Valentine, I've been busy collecting valuables, studying animals, hunting bounties, and now apparently starting a trading company.
"I've got another meeting in Emerald Ranch, and I don't think I can do it, it's too much," I sigh, feeling the weight of my various tasks. Sam raises an eyebrow at me, amusement written across his face. "You know, no one is forcing you to juggle all those jobs," he says, speaking with his mouth full.
I rise from my stool, adjusting my hat as I prepare to leave. "I know, but I need the money, and it feels good when people appreciate the work I do," I shrug. "I'll catch you later, partner." I wave at Sam, who nods in response.
As I make my way to Emerald Ranch, Scrawny Nag plods alongside me, his gait unsteady. Yes, I decided to name my horse Scrawny Nag; it just fits him. A letter had arrived recently, asking me to meet a certain Maggie Fike at Emerald Ranch, without offering much detail, except that it involves moonshine. I briefly wavered on whether to ignore the request, but the lure of making some money—and alcohol, was too tempting to resist.
When I arrive at the abandoned, rundown house at Emerald Ranch, I dismount and take a moment to gather myself before heading toward it. The wooden structure looks weathered, its paint peeling, hinting at years of neglect but still standing firm against the elements. With a deep breath, I approach, ready to see what awaits inside.
I slowly push the door open, scanning my surroundings; this could end very badly. As I step inside the dimly lit house, the air feels still, carrying a slight mustiness that hints at abandonment. The interior is sparsely furnished, with worn-out chairs and a table covered in a thin layer of dust, giving the place an eerie atmosphere. A few faded pictures hang on the walls, their subjects unrecognizable behind the grime. I cautiously take a few steps further when a voice cuts through the silence: "You must be Cripps' friend?"
I turn to see a woman standing there, her presence striking yet unsettling. Half of her face is scarred by burns, giving her a fierce appearance that commands attention. I nod in acknowledgment, slightly taken aback by her directness. "I'll try not to hold that against you. The name's Maggie. Thanks for coming!" she says, stepping closer, her voice strong despite the scars.
Just then, the same door I entered swings open abruptly, and I turn to see Cripps walking in, his jovial energy filling the room. "She's back!" he exclaims excitedly, grinning widely.
"Cripps? Did you know I was coming here?" I ask, recognizing the same man I encountered earlier that day.
"Maybe—" His words are abruptly cut off when Maggie pulls up her cane, which actually seems to be a riffle, and fires a shot at Cripps' feet. He jumps back, eyes wide with surprise.
"What the hell?" he screams, his cheerful demeanor vanishing in an instant.
"Damn, I missed it, didn't I?" Maggie replies, annoyance creeping into her voice. "Don't come in like a bull through the fence next time, you old fool! Your friend here managed to get it right," she points at me, her expression softening slightly.
"'Lightning' Maggie Fike! We all thought you were dead!" Cripps approaches her, the tone turning nostalgic.
"Yeah? Well, so did I!" she snaps back, her frustration evident.
"I guess you'll be wanting a drink?" she adds, a hint of humor returning.
"I know I will," I respond, eager for a break from the tension.
"Come on, give me a hand," Maggie urges Cripps, who turns to me with an amused smirk. "Biggest mistake of my life was not marrying this woman when I had the chance," he admits, his tone playful. I chuckle at that, enjoying their banter.
"Yeah, you always had a colorful memory of things," Maggie scoffs, handing us each empty glasses. "As you can see, I've hit my prime."
"Well, I heard what happened with Hixon, that evil son of a bitch. Where you been all this time?" Cripps pours us drinks, which I quickly grab, feeling the warmth of the moonshine already.
"Recovering, lying low. Could hardly get out of bed for six months," Maggie sighs, the weight of her past evident in her eyes.
"And your nephew?" Cripps asks, genuine concern in his voice. I lean in, eager to catch up on their shared history.
"Lem? Still in jail, as far as I know," she responds, her expression a mix of resignation and irritation.
"Eh... seen Danny-Lee yet?" I zone out slightly, the details of their conversation blending together in my mind, but I catch snippets of their connection and concern.
"Oh yeah, I've seen him. He's cooking for the Braithwaites now. Guess me and him are done," she says, taking a sip of her drink as if washing away memories.
"Well, there's always Marcel. Heard he's not working for LeClerk anymore. The feller's a windbag, but he knows his way around a still," Cripps adds, his tone shifting back to familiarity.
"Yeah... maybe. Feels like it would be easier for everyone if I just stayed gone. But life ain't about being easy; I'm taking back what's mine. I just need legs and muscles," Maggie replies, her voice rising in intensity, anger simmering beneath the surface.
"Well, you'll get that with this one. I promise you," Cripps says, pointing at me, suddenly making me feel self-conscious under their strong gazes.
"The two of us have a nice little business going," he exaggerates.
"Cripps, you're pushing it a little too far..." I warn him, trying to deflect the attention as the weight of their expectations begins to settle heavily on my shoulders.
"Well, as long as you know it won't be pretty. I don't do pretty anymore," Maggie states firmly, her expression serious. She leans forward slightly, her scarred face lit by the dim light in the room. "First things first, I need a cookhouse with a good basement. I reckon I could get one of my old spots up and running. The bastards seized them all after the raid... You buy me one of those back, and you'll have a fair investment. I'll teach you everything I know, so what do you say?" She slides a worn map of her former cookhouses across the table, the creases and smudges telling stories of past ventures.
I decide it's best if I choose a cookhouse near Emerald Ranch, "Sure, I'll do it," I reply, shaking her hand with a firm grip, a sense of determination settling in.
"Alright, partners it is," she confirms, her tone confident . "Meet me back there when you can, and we'll figure out what else we need once we're set up." With that, Maggie stands up and strides purposefully toward the door, her movements confident despite the scars that mark her path.
"Can I offer you a ride, Miss Fike?" Cripps asks, his attempt to convince her seeming genuine as he gestures to his horse.
"I suppose so!" she sighs, her tone lightening a bit as she relents. I finish my drink and follow them outside, the cool air greeting me as I step into the fading sunlight. I bid them farewell, watching as they head off, chattering away.
As I turn to make my way back to my camp, I can't help but reflect on the multitude of roles I've taken on. Bounty hunter, moonshiner, trader, naturalist, collector, hitman, outlaw... That's quite a few titles if you ask me. Each one carries its own weight and set of expectations, and I wonder how long I can juggle them all before something slips through the cracks. The anticipation of my new partnership with Maggie stirs a sense of excitement, mingled with the anxiety of the challenges that lie ahead.
-
Sam belongs to @sam-vdl , all RDR characters belong to rockstar games.
It's been a couple of weeks since my meeting with Mrs. LeClerk and Horley. Since then, I've met some new people and completed various jobs for them, earning a decent amount of money in return. Right now, I'm on my way to meet another newcomer—a stranger—up in Tall Trees.
I step out of the bustling general store after stocking up on ammunition, always ensuring I have enough before heading out on any jobs. The small town is alive with activity today; merchants are calling out to customers, children are playing, and the smell of food wafts through the air. Navigating this lively scene proves a bit challenging as I make my way back to my horse. I've opted to keep that scrawny nag Horley gave me; surprisingly, I've grown quite fond of the animal despite its appearance. After packing the ammo into my saddlebag, I climb onto my horse and set off toward Tall Trees, where I hope to make a good impression.
The air is crisper this time of year—not cold, but refreshing. After the sweltering humidity of West Elizabeth's summers, the autumn breeze feels just right against my skin. As I ride into the woods, I light a cigarette, sensing my energy running low. I nudge my horse's sides to urge him into a lope, taking note of the sun beginning to dip behind the treetops—it's late afternoon, and I need to stay alert.
Upon arriving at the small cabin nestled deep in the woods, I dismount and grab my bolt action rifle, prepared for whatever may come next. Cautiously, I approach the cabin, scanning the surroundings for any signs that I might be followed. I knock softly on the door, awaiting an answer that never comes. Curiosity piqued, I decide to step inside, finding the place deserted. I begin to look around for anything of value I might be able to take, the eerie silence weighing on me.
Suddenly, a distant whistling breaks the stillness, growing steadily closer. Through the window, I glimpse a man passing by too quickly to discern his features. He circles around the cabin, heading toward the very door I just entered. I freeze, holding my breath, bracing myself for the worst.
When the man opens the door with his back, hands weighed down by a crate filled with liquor, a moment of chaos ensues. The second he sees me, his face drains of color. "What the fuck, buddy?" he exclaims, dropping the crate. Bottles shatter on the floor, and he quickly unholsters his gun, leveling it at me. I instinctively draw my Navy revolver, both of us locked in an intense stare, fully aware of the precarious situation.
"What the fuck do you want, eh?" he shouts, pulling back the hammer of his gun, ready to fire. "Settle down," I reply, echoing his action. "What is it? You want to get yourself killed or something, huh?" he continues, his voice a mix of fear and bravado. I do my best to take him seriously; he certainly doesn't seem afraid to shoot. Yet, his thick Irish accent makes it hard not to chuckle. "No," I answer, suppressing a smile in response to the absurdity of it all. "I don't like getting surprised. Shit," he sighs, his tension somewhat easing. I keep my gaze fixed on him, determined to mask my impatience—it could cost me my life. "I understand," I reply.
"You looking for work, is that it?" I nod and decide to holster my gun, hoping this will defuse the tension effectively. The man chuckles, mirroring my actions, a slight smile creeping onto his face. "I know the type—strong, silent, real frightening. Still waters run deep. That type of shite, is it?" he muses, bending down to retrieve the crate he dropped and sweeping away the broken bottles, marking the start of an unanticipated partnership. "You could say that..." I chuckle under my breath.
"Names' Sean MacGuire," he introduces himself, his thick Irish accent punctuating his words. His stature relaxed yet confident. "I've temporarily lost me friends. It's a fucking disaster." He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, clearly agitated. "I had them, then went away for a couple of days to take care of a bastard I owed a killing to—good man, eh? Then I lost the folk I ride with. Big bunch, not like you lot. Nah, we lived like sultans in our fucking tents," he explains, his gaze looking at the distance, as if picturing his past. I hand him a couple of discarded bottles I took from the ground, remnants of his waste. "What makes you think I don't live like a 'fucking sultan'? Do not assume things about me, Mr. MacGuire," I tease, raising an eyebrow.
"Apologies," he replies, a hint of sheepishness in his tone. "I'm sure I'll find them again, you know? I've lost 'em before. Once for three months, it was. That's how it goes, I guess." He shrugs nonchalantly, as if the loss were a mere inconvenience rather than a significant setback. "Anyway, where was I?" He strolls over to the rocking chair in the far corner of the cabin, its creaky wood reminding me of the age of the place, and takes a seat, settling in comfortably.
"Ah, yeah, yeah—murder and mayhem," he chuckles, his mood lightening. "Now, I don't like to kill innocent folk myself; it gives me a real nasty feel inside." He grimaces slightly. "But these bastards? Well, I don't know how innocent they are. There's a stage that runs out of Aurora Basin. Now, I heard a fella say it's laden with silver. I can't rob it...and I can't guarantee someone else won't try...but it'd be a rotten shame to let it pass by."
I pause to think, the gears turning in my mind. I've done this kind of job multiple times before. Robbing people comes easily to me; it's almost like second nature. I usually just play the part of the damsel in distress, watching as they underestimate me and then shoot them all in the head. Quick and painless, so I can get the hell out of there. "Alright, I'll do it," I finally say, a sense of resolve settling within me.
"Good, now on with ya's," Sean says, shooing me away with a wave of his hand, which brings a smile to my face. He's a funny feller, and his humor is a nice change of pace.
I mount my horse, feeling the familiar weight of the saddle shift beneath me as I set off to get the job done before nightfall.
---
The robbery of the stagecoach was effortless. There were four guards plus the driver, but I moved swiftly and silently, ensuring that I left no evidence behind and looted everyone clean. Among the treasures, I discovered a pocket watch with intricate engravings on its surface, which I decided to keep for myself; it felt like a tangible reward for my efforts. After stashing the loot, I returned to the cabin to give Sean his share of the deal.
Now, here I am, making my way to the bar in Blackwater's saloon to celebrate yet another successful job. It seems like I'm 'celebrating' every little achievement since I got back from Sisika. I keep telling myself that I'm not an alcoholic—I'm just going through some tough times, trying to drown out the memories that haunt me.
I order a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the glass as I take a seat at the poker table. Three men are already deep into a game, their faces serious, the tension visible in their clenched jaws. When they spot me, one of them snarls, "This game is for men." He tosses down his cards in an exaggerated show of disdain, and the guy to his right follows suit, clearly eager to join the mocking.
"Women are brainless; they can't play poker!" he laughs obnoxiously, his voice echoing off the wooden walls of the saloon. Both I and the man on his left exchange grimaces, caught in the small bubble of awkwardness he's created.
"Excuse me?" I reply, taking a sip of my whiskey, letting the warmth spread through me as I hold his gaze.
"You're excused," he retorts dismissively. "Ya ain't got the money anyway. So get!" He gestures for me to leave, a smug grin plastered across his face, clearly pleased with himself.
I let out a brief laugh, feeling a rush of defiance. I pull out one of the coin bags I snagged during my previous heist, letting it hit the table with a solid thud. The sound draws the attention of the playing men, their expressions shifting from mockery to surprise as the weight of the bag settles into the reality of the moment. The two disgusting men snarl some unimportant remarks while the third one gives me a slight smile.
When they finish their game, it's my turn to deal the cards. The old wooden table, worn from countless games, feels steady beneath my hands as I shuffle the deck. I hand each player two cards, their faces flickering with anticipation, then place five cards face down in front of me, forming the communal pot. That's when I start scanning the faces around the table.
The man directly in front of me—the same one who had the nerve to shoo me away—has a classic poker face, maintaining an air of stoic indifference enveloping him like a cloak. He sits with his elbows on the table, hands relaxed, but I catch a slight twitch in his eye. He's out of aces—an important detail that gives me an edge. The next guy over, the second jerk, appears more nonchalant, his posture slumping slightly as if he's unsure about his cards. He might be bluffing, something worth keeping an eye on. The last man, who seems genuinely decent, is staring intently at his cards, his brow furrowing as if trying to will the hand into something better.
I briefly glance at my own cards—a king and a ten—solid but not unbeatable. I tighten my grip, feeling the familiar adrenaline course through me as the stakes begin to rise. The nice guy eventually folds, as does the second jerk, leaving it a tense showdown between the dumbass and me. Three of the five community cards are face up—two aces and a king. My heart races; there's no way I'm losing this game with two pairs.
"All in," the man declares, his voice steady but tinged with uncertainty. Damn it. "Call," I respond, feeling sweat trickle down my brow as I push every gold coin I have into the middle of the table. The coins clink together as they land, a clear testament to my resolve. With a shudder, I flip over the two remaining community cards—two tens. That's it; I've got a full house. The man chuckles lightly, a mirthless sound. "Two pairs," he says dismissively, gesturing to his own cards and the ones on the table. That fucking asshole. I knew I wasn't losing this. "Full house," I respond, revealing my three tens and two kings, a smile breaking on my face. The shock registers on the faces of the other players, and the second jerk storms off in a huff, throwing a fit as he leaves.
But the first one, furious and defeated, rises from his chair and points his gun at me. "You fucking cheat!" he screams, the anger boiling over. I decide to stay still; any movement could turn this into a deadly situation. While I want to tell him to get out of here, the words die on my lips. Suddenly, I hear the decent man echo my unspoken thoughts, now aiming his own gun at the bastard's temple. "Leave the lady alone," he adds, standing resolute, a defender against the bully. He's risking his life for little old me? What a brave soul.
The asshole, noticing the seriousness of the threat, grumbles and holsters his gun before stomping out of the saloon, the door swinging shut behind him with a bang. The young man turns back to me, concern etched across his face. "Are you alright? That damned bastard—I wanted to put a bullet through his head since early evening." He strides over to another table, clearing the poker area for new players, his movements purposeful and efficient.
"Yes, I'm alright, thank you. Uhm..." I stall, my silence prompting him to share his name.
"I'm Sam," he says, extending a hand for me to shake, his grip firm yet warm.
"Elizabeth, thank you," I reply, accepting his hand and feeling a sense of camaraderie beginning to bloom between us.
We engage in small talk for a while, discussing everything from the saloon's atmosphere to the various characters we've encountered. After three glasses of whiskey, my mouth starts running before my brain can catch up. "Did you actually cheat earlier? I thought poker was a game of luck," Sam asks, a hint of curiosity in his tone.
I chuckle softly—while poker does involve luck, I've learned a few tricks to turn the odds in my favor. Every hand's a winner, and every hand's a loser. "I did, with a bit of fake shuffling. I watched the game you all played before I joined, picked out the cards I wanted, and tried my luck," I say with pride, knowing it's a gamble that has served me well.
"Well, I'll be damned!" he exclaims, his eyes widening in surprise.
In many ways, we seem quite alike—though not in appearance. His blonde hair contrasts sharply with my dark locks, the vibrant hue drawing attention in the dim, smoky light of the saloon. He carries a softness about him—his features are rounded, with a gentle jawline that stands in stark comparison to my sharper, more angular ones. Despite our differing appearances, I quickly learn that we share a commonality in our lifestyles. He reveals himself to be a lonely soul, much like me, traveling around the country and taking various jobs just to scrape by.
When I mention my occasional killings, he doesn't flinch or recoil, an unexpected reaction that adds a layer of depth to the conversation. There's no judgment reflected in his eyes, just an understanding that takes root between us. I'm not ashamed of my job; it's simply a part of the harsh reality we live in. Yet, I feel a simmering resentment toward those who disown me for it. We exist in an era where stealing and killing often blur the lines of morality, becoming necessary for survival. The weight of survival hangs heavy on both of us, uniting us in a world that seems increasingly unforgiving.
Lonely souls or not, I feel like Sam and I are going to become good friends.
-
Sam belongs to @sam-vdl , all RDR characters belong to rockstar games.
-Sisika Penitentiary, Female wing, September 1898-
It's a scorching day, though it feels no different from any other. The Lemoyne heat is just as insufferable as I remember, my skin burning red as it all reminds me of the painful past I endured under this relentless sun. The air hangs heavy with humidity, accentuating the oppressive atmosphere that seems to cling to every corner of this damned place. I can hear the guards shouting at the other inmates, their voices echoing off the prison walls like a sinister chorus, but I have no desire to listen to their words. For six months now, I've been sweeping floors and shoveling shit, the stench making my insides burn each day. It's a pathetic assault on my senses, a rough reminder of my circumstances. I barely get a break, pushing myself to the brink of exhaustion just to avoid the guards' wrath for taking a much-needed pause.
When I finally return to my cell at night, sleep escapes me; instead, I sit and reflect on my miserable life. As I toss the pebbles that litter my cell floor, I feel their rough edges digging into my frazzled mind, a gentle torment that echoes my despair. I feel myself going insane.
This place truly is hell on earth, stripped of any semblance of humanity. It's fair to keep bloodthirsty criminals or petty little thugs just like my parents locked up here. After all, the grueling labor under the unforgiving sun, combined with the guards' cruel words, is what they deserve. Yet I must remind you—I'm locked up here for a crime I didn't commit. Sure, I may not be the most innocent inmate; I did kill folks after all, but don't we all?
No? Oh well... I suppose getting locked up is the price I pay for wanting to be free. Ironic, isn't it?
The oppressive silence of my thoughts is broken by the approaching footsteps of two officers, but I don't bother to look their way. God forbid I make eye contact, so I continue sweeping the floor, the same monotonous task they assigned me this morning. How delightful! The repetitive motion of the broom feels almost meditative, numbing the sharp edges of my reality, even if just for a moment.
The footsteps halt near our group, and I dare to glance up at the officers. "You, you, you with the hammer, and you, you'll do," one of them barks, pointing at me and a few others whose names I don't know—or care to know. "We need to perform a work detail out near Tumbleweed. Come on, get in." The officer strides towards a prison stagecoach as the other leads us to the back, where we'll be locked up again. The stagecoach lurches roughly, tossing the other inmates and me around like potatoes in a sack as we're driven away from the penitentiary, each jolt echoing the chaos in my mind.
As we near Saint-Denis, my thoughts drift to my family, my broken family, and the pain they caused me. "I tell you what... Old Jameson is a wretched sour old bastard, no mistake..." I catch one of the officers saying, though I pay little attention to it. The other officer briefly casts a glance in our direction before barking, "You lot stay calm in there." It's almost absurd how he treats us like animals, herded into a cage, yet I can't muster the energy to protest.
"We weren't saying nothing!" I reply, my voice dripping with bitterness, an act of defiance amidst the suffocating atmosphere.
"Well, you are now, so shut up," the guard snaps, turning his back. That sack of shit.
Later that day, we make our way down to the Heartlands, near Valentine, if I recall correctly. The officer keeps rambling while the other listens out of politeness, the mix of their banter a cruel soundtrack to my exhaustion. "Personally, I'm against education. For women, I mean... and men too, I guess. Unnecessary." 'Oh lord...' I think to myself, the absurdity of it all swirling in my mind as I try to block out their words and focus on the horizon beyond the dusty trail.
Finally, what feels like days later, we arrive at Gaptooth Ridge. I sense the stagecoach slowing down, and anticipation thickens in the air. I glance around, thinking we've reached our destination, only to find another stagecoach blocking the path directly in front of us. "Good day, gentlemen," I hear a voice say, dripping with authority. What is happening? The tension escalates. "Don't do anything stupid; nobody gets shot. Act like a fool, and you'll both be dead in a minute. Now, what are your names?" the man asks, slowly advancing toward us, his eyes fixed with a threatening glare. My heart sinks; is this it? Have I reached the end of my short life?
"Jenkins, and Milliken," the officers reply, their voices steady despite the unfolding chaos. At least they're cooperating...
"Well, Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Milliken, throw your guns to the ground and get down here." The officers comply, their movements swift but cautious. I glance at the other inmates locked in the wagon with me—are we about to be robbed? The thought strikes me as absurd and makes me chuckle under my breath. "It's not worth being rash. You boys get paid a salary, and you get that salary whether these people escape or not... So let them out. Now!" The man aims his gun at the guard. The guard's hands shoot up in fear, his expression betraying panic. He hurriedly rushes back to the stagecoach to unlock our cell. Am I finally free?
"Everyone else can run. Except for you." He points directly at me, singling me out. What trouble am I in now? I remain seated in the wagon as the man continues speaking, his tone now slightly calmer but still tense. "Now, Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Milliken, be so kind and run away... before someone gets shot." The guards sprint away, as fast as scared deer, leaving me in an uncertain trance. Taking a deep breath, I decide to exit the wagon, jumping down onto the parched ground, the dust kicking up around my boots.
The man pivots back to me, maintaining an intimidating presence. "Now ma'am, how 'bout you pick up these guns, and we move out." He gestures toward the guard's weapon that was tossed aside, its metal gleaming in the sunlight.
"Where? Who are you?" I ask, gathering the guns as instructed, my mind racing with questions. "Keep the questions for later... Now come on, you best get on this horse." He points to a rather rough-looking animal, its ribs visible beneath its skin and its mane knotted and unkempt. The poor thing looks like it has seen better days.
"Okay," I sigh, feeling the weight of the moment settle on my shoulders. I ensure the girth is tight enough so the saddle won't slip, then mount that scrawny horse, its movements hesitant beneath me.
As we begin making our way to god knows where, he speaks up, breaking the uneasy silence. "Now, about your questions, my name is Mr. Horley. I hope you'll forgive the secrecy; my employer values discretion." I chuckle a bit at that, responding, "That's alright, my name's—" but I don't get to finish before he cuts me off.
"Elizabeth, I know. We've been trying to get you out for some time now. Six months locked up in that penitentiary, awaiting a hanging for a murder you did not commit. It must've felt a whole lot longer, my friend." Hearing my name brings a rush of emotions, and the pressure finally lifts from my shoulders, allowing a smile to break through. "That it did," I nod, the weight of my fate momentarily forgotten as a glimmer of hope sparks within me.
We engage in small talk, and I can't help but express my relief that the law was wrong for having locked me up. Horley listens patiently as I voice my frustrations, nodding in agreement. He informs me that I am now free to decide my fate, though a sinking feeling tells me it won't be much different from what it was before all this trouble began. As we approach a camp that exceeds my expectations in size, he adds, "Now, you will listen to my mistress; she spent a good sum trying to get you out." A wave of nervousness washes over me at that revelation.
I dismount the weary nag, feeling the fatigue coursing through the horse's body, and tie it to a hitching post. The wood feels rough against my fingers. "Come this way; she's anxious to meet you," Horley instructs, leading me toward the largest tent in the camp, its fabric taut and providing ample shelter from the midday sun. As we step closer, I catch sight of a woman inside, dressed in fine clothing that hints at wealth and status. For a brief moment, I'm reminded of my mother—her elegance, her poise.
Horley clears his throat, breaking my moment of nostalgia. "Madam, we're back," he announces, his voice serious. The lady turns her attention to us, her warm smile instantly softening her features. "Hello, Elizabeth, I'm Jessica LeClerk. How do you do?" she says before returning to her writing, her quill scratching against the paper. That's when the shocking reality crashes down on me; she's the wife of the man I was accused of killing.
"I'm fine, thank you," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper, struggling to mask the tumult of emotions surging through me.
"What did you tell her?" Mrs. LeClerk asks Horley, her tone inquisitive and steady.
"Nothing, as we discussed," he replies, maintaining a composed exterior.
"Thank you. I do hope we didn't inconvenience you dreadfully." She stands and approaches me with an air of authority, her poise unshakeable. As she gets closer, I can't help but notice her posh accent, which echoes the one I had as a child, a stark reminder of bitter times. "But seeing as you were due to be hanged in a week... I'm sure you don't object too strongly." I exhale a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Can't complain," I say, my voice steadier now, yet still tinged with disbelief.
"I know you're innocent," she tells me, her tone unexpectedly sincere. "Well, not perhaps entirely innocent, but not guilty of what you were accused of," she corrects herself, her gaze intense. "I know you and those who died with you were little more than patsies... and that you were set up." Her words leave me momentarily confused, the meaning tangled in my thoughts. "Set up? By who?" I ask, my voice shaking ever so slightly with uncertainty.
"By the same people who made Mrs. LeClerk a widow," Horley interjects, his voice firm, as if punctuating the seriousness of our situation. "And I will avenge my husband's death, so help me God," Mrs. LeClerk continues, her voice rising, infused with indignation and sorrow. "But I will not take my vengeance on those who did not cause it... or who did so unwillingly." I stare at her, grappling with the weight of her story and feeling foolish for not fully grasping it sooner.
"Anyway, I'm sure this is all a bit confusing and melodramatic. Where are my manners? Horley, would you show our guest to their tent and provide them with some fresh clothes? Then serve us both a little refreshment." Relief washes over me; I can't wait to shed these godforsaken clothes, evidence of my unpleasant past.
"Certainly, madam," Horley replies, leading me through the camp, my heart pounding as I anticipate the reprieve to come. My stomach growls in protest; I haven't had a proper meal in months, and the thought of food stirs a deep yearning within me.
I find a change of clothes and take a moment to freshen up in my tent. The interior is sparse but functional, with a few personal items strewn about, and there's a mirror in the corner that seems to beckon me to confront my reflection. Taking a breath, I step closer and gaze at my sorry self. Dark bags hang under my eyes, a testament to sleepless nights, and my complexion appears rough and worn. My dark brown hair is so matted it resembles a bird's nest, tangled and unkempt. I can't suppress a sigh as a thought crosses my mind: 'What happened to you?'
After a brief moment of self-reflection, I head back to Mrs. LeClerk's tent, taking care to smooth my new outfit as I walk. "That looks more comfortable!" she remarks playfully as I enter, a hint of warmth in her voice. Shortly after, Horley joins us, skillfully balancing a plate with two glasses and a bottle of white wine in his hands. "Thank you, Horley," Mrs. LeClerk says, reaching out to pick up the glasses. "To your good health! I suppose it beats dying, hm?" She smiles at me, warmth radiating from her. I return the gesture, lifting my glass for a sip of the wine, and I'm taken aback.
"Damn, that tastes expensive," I blurt out, unable to hold my thoughts back. Both Horley and Mrs. LeClerk give me curious looks, surprise flickering in their eyes.
"I'm sorry, I'm used to moonshine; I..." I begin to explain, my voice trailing off, but Mrs. LeClerk finds my bluntness amusing, a slight chuckle escaping her lips.
"Mrs. LeClerk's husband was murdered by one of his business partners," Horley clarifies, his tone shifting to one of gravity. "And I intend to find out which one. Or rather, I intend for you to find out which one and kill them." She states it so matter-of-factly that I blink at her, dumbfounded.
"Me?" I ask, the word sounding foreign in my mouth.
"Yes, you. I know what you were up to before that mess. Some could even call you a mercenary. You're the only person I could possibly trust to do whatever it takes because you're the only other victim of their lies that's still alive." I nod slowly, absorbing the implications of her words. "You see, you walked into town at the exact same time my husband was shot in the back by another gun. The bullets fired were different from those you possessed when you were arrested." She holds out three bullets in her hand, displaying them like precious artifacts.
"These bullets—this was their mistake. You were rounded up and sentenced to death all because you happened to come to town, didn't talk too much, and seemed like the kind of person who would commit such a crime. No offense." She delivers the last line lightly, and I can't help but chuckle.
"None taken." I raise my hands, signaling that her comment doesn't offend me. In truth, I've always been the kind of person who had no trouble committing murder—when the price was right.
"Anyway... here they are: the people who run Blackwater." She hands me pictures of the suspects. "This is Jeremiah Shaw, a banker. Here is Amos Lancing, a ranch owner. And Mrs. Grace Lancing, his wife and my former best friend. Finally, this is Teddy Brown, her disgraced brother—an outlaw. All I need is your help in finding out what happened." Her eyes are earnest, almost desperate.
"Mrs. LeClerk would like to help you get back on your feet, back to work." Horley takes my now-empty wine glass, his earlier composure unwavering. "Whatever your 'work' may be. I don't judge. You want to rob? Rob. You want to save innocent folk? Do that as well. But you need me...just as much as I need you. I think we both understand each other." Mrs. LeClerk gestures toward a table, inviting me to sit with her.
"I think we do, ma'am," I reply with a light smile, feeling the gravity of our alliance.
"Good, I look forward to rewarding you for killing those who made me a widow. Goodbye, for now."
With that, she turns away, returning to her previous task of writing letters, her expression focused and determined. Horley introduces me to a funny old whose name is Cripps. He's rugged, and has a hat pulled low over his brow. Despite his age, there's a spark of resilience in him as he extends a rough hand for a handshake. "I'll help you settle your camp," he says, chuckling softly. Apparently, I am now his 'new boss,' which elicits a sympathetic smile from him, as if he knows the challenges that lie ahead.
I decide to establish my camp in West Elizabeth, strategically positioned between the sprawling Great Plains and the dense cover of Tall Trees. The landscape is inviting yet daunting, with wide-open spaces on one side and thick woods on the other. Cripps nods in understanding, stating he'll meet me there while I make my way back to my horse. "Good luck!" Horley calls to me, his voice carrying a hint of encouragement as I set off toward my new camp.
As I walk away, a swirl of thoughts fills my mind. I'm uncertain about how I'll accomplish what Mrs. LeClerk has requested of me. It's clear that this task is incredibly important to her, making it feel almost like a mandate. I recognize that I can't fail her; doing so would reflect not just on her but also on me. Those people—the ones behind the terrible injustices I've faced—are the reason I suffered for months, and I would gladly eliminate them if given the chance. Yet, I realize I won't be able to do it alone. I need to assemble a capable team, individuals I can rely on, but I have no idea where to find them or how to navigate the chaotic world ahead. I let the uncertainty wash over me for a moment, but there's also a flicker of resolve.
I decided to hitch a ride with the wind, and let him decide where I'll go from now on.
My name is Elizabeth Watson and I was born in America in 1879, into a world glowing with possibility. My parents owned an impressive mansion in Saint-Denis, Lemoyne, a stunning house that stood proudly above the streets below, a proof of their social status and fortune. My father, a distinguished Englishman, was blessed with a fortune inherited from his family, which allowed him to live his life wrapped in the comforts of privilege. He often said he searched for "new adventures", which was the reason behind his decision to cross the Atlantic and make America his home, accepting the sacrifices and struggles that accompanied such a change.
My mother, a woman of elegance, came from an important French family. Her life took an unexpected turn during the 1860s when, on a family trip to America, she found herself forced to marry my father. While their marriage was not without any affection, it was far from the love stories I lost myself in within the pages of my books. There were no romantic gestures or poetic words in our household, rather, there was a sense of commitment, a partnership forged more out of circumstance than truthful desire.
After their hurried engagement, they settled into that beautiful mansion, captivated by the city's nighttime life, the flickering lamps casting a warm light over the streets filled with high-class folk. Comforted by their safe surrounding, they kept their distance from the chaotic whispers of the Wild West, which they dismissed as hot, dry, and dangerous. "Stay clear of those outlaws," they would warn me, their voices laced with fear. In my youthful naivety, I often wondered how my parents failed to see the fire that burned in the hearts of those they feared—how that passion fueled their battles and sacrifices. For those outlaws, every fight and struggle was motivated by an unconditional love for their people, and I couldn't help but wonder if my parents possessed that kind of devotion. Deep down, I knew they would never fight for me in the same way.
So, I grew up wrapped in comfort, enveloped fine clothes and satisfied with delicious meals. My days unfolded in a steady rhythm, leaving little reason to complain—though I often felt a soft ache in my chest, a voice that wanted a different life. I learned to read and write in both French and English, effortlessly navigating between the two languages while learning how to sit properly, perfecting the image of a distinguished young lady. On the surface, my life appeared perfect, yet I hid one secret wish that stayed close to my heart, a desire that seemed ever out of reach.
I craved a life in the wild. The thought of galloping atop a wild horse across the open plains, feeling the wind whip through my dark hair and the sun warm on my skin, filled me with excitement. I was convinced that if I voiced this desire, my parents would immediately disapprove. Freedom, I believed, was my right, however, the outlaw life was far from what I thought. The very thought of handling a gun sent shivers down my spine—I knew I'd surely shoot myself in the foot rather than land a target.
-1890-
"Whatcha readin'?" came a voice from my bedroom doorway, pulling me momentarily from my thoughts. It was Margo, though I knew her real name was Marguerite. She was one of our beloved servants, someone who had entered our lives and immediately took me under her wing. In our secretive exchanges, I found a friendship that exceeded the bond I shared with my own mother.
I sat up excitedly, patting the space next to me, eager to tell her about the book I was reading. "It's a romance novel, but don't tell my parents! They'd have a fit if they knew I believed in this crap." I laughed, a sound that felt liberating, yet filled with the fear of being caught. The laughter shared between us was infectious, and she playfully gasped, "Watch your mouth, Lizzie! Such words should not escape a lady's mouth!" In that moment, we laughed together in a rebellion against the high expectations society set upon us.
As we read, I soon succumbed to the embrace of sleep, my head resting against her shoulder, wrapped in a warm blanket of happiness and peace. Those days, gentle and unbothered, were a mask hiding the storms that were approaching on the horizon. Little did I know that only a year later, my world would be turned upside down.
-1891-
On the edge of turning twelve, I enjoyed my childhood while attempting to wear the mask of a woman for the sake of my family. My mother had always insisted that I should be married by the time I turned sixteen—a thought that filled me with dread. "No, thank you. I'd rather die," I thought, the idea of an arranged marriage felt like being locked away in a cage, away from the freedom my heart longed for.
It was an ordinary day as I returned from my afternoon walk along the Lannahechee River, pronounced Lana-Hassee, where the water shined under the warm Lemoyne sun, casting sparkling reflections that seemed to dance on the surface. The gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze and the soft chant of distant birds flying through the trees comforted me, creating an illusion of serenity. Margo kept me company.
However, nothing could have prepared me for the scene I would encounter as I approached our home. The sight of lawmen swarming around the mansion struck me like a thunderbolt during a summer storm. Their broad shoulders and stern expressions made them appear dangerous, like angry bees buzzing around a hive. Panic clawed at my insides as I saw them leading my parents away in handcuffs, their expressions a mix of confusion and anger. My mind went blank, drowning in disbelief as I instinctively stepped back behind Margo, seeking comfort in the only person who felt safe amidst the chaos.
My parents shouted, their voices rising above my thoughts, mingling with the rising fear in my stomach. "Stay close to me, darling," Margo whispered, her own voice trembling with a panic she couldn't hide. I could feel the tension rising, putting my whole body into a numbness I couldn't shake. I felt as if I was floating outside my body, unable to understand the chaotic reality unfolding before me. At just twelve years old, I was unprepared to comprehend the depth of the misery that awaited me.
It wasn't long before the truth was clear. My parents' fortune, I learned, was nothing more than a façade built upon mountains of debt they had stubbornly refused to pay. The state had given them multiple chances to settle their obligations, but they had remained dismissive, living in a bubble of self-importance. Ironically, I thought, "Worse than outlaws..."
For years, I had been told that we were the virtuous ones, the examples of society's elite, while those wild and free souls were criminals. Yet that day, I stood frozen in place, watching the lawmen take my parents away to the Sisika Penitentiary. In that moment, a realization settled heavy on my shoulders, revealing the bitter truth: it was the wealthy who were truly disgraceful. The lawmen spoke of custody and relocation, their voices hard and serious, though I couldn't grasp where that would lead my parents. When asked if I had siblings, I could only shake my head, feeling the loneliness wrap around me.
The state wasted no time moving on. Without hesitation, they put our house up for sale, selling everything I held dear—my clothes, my cherished books, my childhood teddy bear and every small object that had once kept my life together. The familiar surroundings of home disappeared, our servants scattered away in different families, poor Margo among them, her eyes brimming with helplessness as she was walking away. In an instant, I found myself completely alone, at the young age of twelve, robbed of my possessions, of my family. Until that moment, I had never understood how cruel life could be.
In the following two years, desperation became my companion. I survived by stealing food, rifling through trash cans just so that I could eat. The city, once a place of comfort, changed into an unbearable reminder of all I had lost. The haunted dark alleys, the chill of loneliness settling in my bones reminded me this world has danger lurking behind every shadow. Finally, I reached a tipping point—I stole a horse, took my dreams and I took to the road, chasing the freedom I had long yearned for.
By the time I was fourteen, I found myself in Armadillo, far from the sheltered life of wealth I once knew. To survive, I engaged in the darkest form of work, selling my body to drunken patrons in the local bar, my heart aching with despise for every moment lost to this awful job. I endured the degradation, each encounter stripping me further of my dignity, yet survival demanded sacrifice, and shockingly, men were willing to pay handsomely for my youth and naivety. Most of them fell asleep in their drunken stance before they had the chance to finish, leaving me with only the haunting echo of my lost dreams to keep me company.
I endured harsh words, bruises across my skin like an awful canevas and choking hands gripping me in moments of desperation—each mark a painful reminder that I should endure this, as long as I had a roof over my head.
During this dark period of my life, I found myself learning the art of self-defense with determination. I learned to wield a lot of weapons—guns, bows, knives—you name it, I became used at handling them all. Underneath the warm sun of the west, I perfected my skills, often retreating into quiet woods where the reality of life felt distant. I embraced the challenge of mastering firearms, the cool metal feeling oddly comforting in my hands, transforming from something that once scared me to a tool of survival. Surprisingly, I became quite good at it, each pull of the trigger a reminder of what my life had become.
I began to hunt for food, the adrenaline coursing through my veins as I tracked deer or small animals. The thrill of the chase excited me, allowing me to momentarily forget the haunting memories that stayed in the back of my mind. I took an interest in bounty hunting, the idea of tracking down criminals offered a sense of purpose to my boring life.
I also mastered the art of poker, learning not just the rules of the game, but also the subtle act of cheating, mastering the sly maneuvers to do so—skills that built me a reputation amongst the gamblers.
By the time I turned seventeen, after hundreds of hard-earned nights and daring risks, I had managed to save enough money to finally walk away from my godforsaken job. I could feel the weight of despair lifting off my shoulders as I prepared to turn the page on my past. But even in my escape, I was left with scars that ran deeper than any knife wound—an inevitable fear of men that I couldn't shake. It wasn't that I believed all men were dangerous; I understood that not all of them had ill intentions. Yet, the mere presence of unfamiliar male figures repulsed me, each encounter bringing forth haunting memories of the pain I endured and the horrific things I had witnessed them capable of.
Not to brag, but I had become a skilled gunslinger and a reputation that made me stand out in this world. I learnt how to read my opponents—the way they held their weapons, the tension coiling in their muscles, all gave me clues about when they'd need to reload. That split-second often allowed me to take my shot before they even realized they were out of ammo, a maneuver that made me feel in control. While I might not have been the fastest draw in the West, my precision was uncanny; I always hit my target, and I rarely missed a shot.
Bounty hunting naturally became my primary occupation, blending my skills with my desperate need for money. I tracked down the good, the bad, and everyone in between. Some might consider me a hitman—or a hitwoman—and there is some truth to that. Folk not only sought me out for my good tracking skills but also trusted me to get the job done when they didn't want to dirty their own hands. I wasn't the purest soul, I accepted every job that was handed to me, no matter how it would affect my reputation.
However, by the time I was nineteen, fate took a turn, throwing itself at me like a well-aimed shot. I found myself caught in an unfortunate misunderstanding that led me into being falsely accused of murdering a wealthy businessman named Philip LeClerk. The whispers of the townsfolk wrapped around me like a snake, the weight of their accusations suffocating. Ironically, I was taken to Sisika—the very same penitentiary my parents had entered all those years ago. Ironic, isn't it?
Here I am today, trapped in a cell for a crime I didn't commit, the quiet darkness suffocating me. Each passing hour blends into the next as I reflect on my damned fate, the irony sharp enough to cut flesh. My former life, full of adventures and heartache, now seems like a dream. The walls close in around me, a reminder that the choices I made in a desperate need for freedom have led me into another imprisonment.
Description: Elizabeth Watson grew up as a spoiled child. Her wealthy parents indulged her every wish, purchasing all the clothes she desired and providing for her every need, yet deep down, she always felt a yearning for freedom.
When she turns 12, she discovers the truth behind her parents' fortune, forcing her to flee in search of her own path.
-
Eventual F!oc x Javier Escuella, M!oc x Lenny Summers.
Hello! I have juicy angsty request for you! It's angel dust x !male reader and it goes like this:
Reader and angel lived in the same period and used to work in the mafia where they met eachother and eventually fell in love with eachother (in a secret relationship), after some time both reader and angel die in shootouts with other gangs and the cops.
They both assume that their partner went to heaven and go many years in hell alone. Until by pure luck Reader finds angel wasted behind a bar and decides to help this random twink he found (they don't recognize eachother because angel is a spider demon dude now and thus pretty different visuallg compared to his living self, same goes for reader), after angel becomes sober and understands that reader isn't someone who will take advantage of him the 2 start having some small talk which eventually leads to them both thinking "HOLY SHIT ARE YOU ANGEL/READER?!!?", after which they cry tears of joy after finally finding their soulmate after decades spent alone
Angst prompts are 17, 22, 30 and 40
Also it's the first time that i write a request with a prompt system so sorry if i messed it up and of course feel free to modify my request however you like if you need to.
Thanks for reading!
Memories
Pairing: AngelDust X M!Reader
Word count: 2k words
Warnings: Swearing, Angst with a happy ending.
Masterlist
I’ll be using angst prompts:
#17, “I lost myself the day I lost you.”
#22, “I’d take our relationship back in a heartbeat.”
#30, “You don’t have to hide your tears from me.”
#40, “You know I still love you, right?”
It had been a cold night. A bad feeling was in the air, as if everyone knew we’d never make it out alive. It was one of those days, working for the mafia, fulfilling your destiny, as they say. If I had the choice, I wouldn’t have done any of this—the killing, the fighting, the running away. I would have had a beautiful life and a better family. I would’ve been happy. Unfortunately, I had to work with my family, kill for them, fight for them, and be unhappy for them.
It was a cold night indeed. We could hear the bugs singing and fireflies lighting up the dark night. There was fog, if I remember correctly. Yes, there was. I was surrounded by my family and the rest of our mafia members. The ten of us stood around our enemies shelter, their house, hidden in the middle of the woods. We had found them a couple of days prior, deciding we needed to attack them first.
I remember walking slowly towards the house, crouching behind tall herbs. It was quiet; the only sound we could hear was our steps in the wet grass. I looked to my right, and I remember seeing him.
Oh, my dear Anthony, the light of my life. His blonde hair stood out in the dark, and his blue eyes looked right back at me. We had met a couple of years ago, when he joined my family’s team. Just like me, he was following his relatives orders, not liking the line of work we were bound to. I remember the first time I saw him and how mesmerized I was. His fluffy blonde hair, his deep blue eyes, his rosy cheeks—everything about him made me immediately fall in love. He was a bit taller than I was, making me look up at him like he was a god. He was beautiful.
Over the next few years, we got to know each other better. He spent our days together, followed our families together, comforted each other through hard times, and we were attached at the hip. I would lie if I said I didn’t fall madly in love with him. Unfortunately, the 40s weren’t swell enough to accept us, two men, being in love with each other. So we never said so. It was obvious, though; he cared for me as much as I cared for him.
So that night, that damned night, when our oh-so genius plan failed, when the enemies attacked us before we even had the time to draw our weapons, I knew I had to say something to him. I remember trying to make my way up to him through the bullet rain. That is when it hit me. Right through the spine and the stomach. Fuck.
I saw Anthony’s eyes widening as I fell into the tall grass. It all happened in slow motion. He threw himself down and made his way up to me, cradling me in his arms, tears threatening to fall on his cheeks. He was afraid.
“It’s okay.” I tried to lift my hand to his cheek. I think I did. “You don’t have to hide your tears from me, it’s alright.” I gave him a weak smile, and so did he, his tears staining his cheeks.
And everything went black, as black as the night sky.
That’s what happened; well, that’s how I remember it happening. My death. It was a lifetime ago, but sometimes it still felt like yesterday. I remember his thumb rubbing soothing circles on my arm, trying to make my death as painless as possible. I am forever glad the last thing I saw was his beautiful face.
I hope he lived a beautiful life after my passing. Or, well, at least I hope he lived. I have no idea when, how, or where he died. I don’t know if he’s in hell or in heaven. I hope he is in heaven, living his afterlife in peace, but a part of me wished he’d be down here in hell.
I got used to living alone in this shithole; I had to anyway. I spent most of my days working, trying my best to earn money to survive. I often spent that money on drinks, trying to solve all my problems by forgetting them for a short while. Tonight was no different; I was sitting at the bar of a shitty club. The music was awful, I cursed whoever chose to play some of these tasteless tracks. I stared at the bottom of my drink, silently hoping the creepy bartender, who has been giving me weird looks since I arrived, didn’t spike my drink.
I had very few friends down here in hell. Most of them have families and important duties to take care of. None of them knew just how much I was struggling to live here, to be happy, and to have a good afterlife. I was desperate, I needed a good friend, or at least someone who would understand me.
I was pulled out of my thoughts by a loud, crashing noise right beside me. I turned my head just in time to see a pink figure jump across the bar to tackle the bartender.
“Did you fucking spike my drink?” I heard the pink figure shout about two inches from the bartender’s face, holding his collar with his right hand, or more like one of his four hands. “You fucking…drugged me!” His speech was slurred. He definitely was not sober, and if he told the truth, he was drugged too.
The bartender pushed him away, making him stumble back. “I did not!” The bartender gestured, almost knocking on my drink in the process. I grabbed the glass, finishing its contents in one swift sip.
“There’s no need to fight, gentlemen.” I spoke up, trying to break the tension between the two. I put my hand on the pink man’s shoulder; he was much taller than me. “Come on, I’ll get you some help.” I tried to reason with him, obviously, he was scared. He glared at me, his eyes staring at mine, one white, one black. I took one of his arms and led him through the front door. “Where do you live? I’ll help you home.” I asked.
“You’re the one who…asked him to spike my drink, huh? If you wanted to take advantage of me, you could’ve just asked.” He brushed his fluffy bangs out of his face. I looked back at him with a soothing smile on my face. “I’m not trying to take advantage of you…uh” I hesitated; I didn’t know his name. “My name is Angel.” His speech was slurred. “Alright then, Angel, if you want me to, I’ll help you home.” I offered him my hand, to which he clung, to steady his sloppy steps. We walked for a bit to where I assumed was his home, all the while exchanging small talk.
I noticed Angel had been leading me to the famous Hazin Hotel. Oh Lord, please don’t tell me he lives there. “You’re staying at the hotel?” I asked, a bit hesitant. “Yeah, yeah, I was forced to; my friend, Charlie, thinks I can rehabilitate my soul. Ha!” He laughed at the thought. “You don’t think you can redeem your soul?” I laughed with him. “Absolutely not!” He crossed all four arms. “This body was made for sex, Toots! There is no way I’ll ever be a sweet angel!” He stumbled a bit due to the alcohol in his system. “Steady, we’re almost there!” I encouraged him by giving him my hand for him to grab again. He was definitely a funny guy.
We made our way up to the hotel, the path seeming endless. He waddled in, keeping the door open for me, but when I didn’t enter, he turned around, giving me a puzzled look. “You’re sure you want me to come in? I don’t want to bother you.” I fidget with my hands. I definitely wanted to help him, but I did not want to deal with everyone else who might stay at this hotel. “Oh, come on, you’re no bother! Everyone else is probably asleep by now.” He let go of the door when I stepped in. I noticed his Italian accent, and I loved that…
He walked up the stairs, holding the railing with both his right hands to steady himself. I stayed behind him in case he stumbled down. When we arrived in front of his room, he opened the door, and I hesitated again, not wanting to overstep. His room was decent, even nice. I barely had the time to process my surroundings when I heard the tap water in the bathroom sink. Angel leaned over the sink to try and drink. “Don’t you have a glass somewhere you can use?” I giggled a bit at the funny situation. “Nope!” He replied, sending water down his face. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Mh! That was good!” He mumbled a bit under his breath.
“I like your accent! Is it Italian?” My mouth asked before my brain even had the time to approve. He gave me a funny look before answering. “Yeah, my family was Italian. My real family, I mean.” He sat down on his bed, resting his arms on his thighs. “I miss my life, y’know. Wait, no, actually, I don’t. I used to work for my family, which sucked.” ‘Same…’ I wanted to answer, but I didn’t. “I wish I had lived longer, but when I really think about it, I had no reason to live…” He continued. ‘Oh, this was going to be a deep conversation’, I thought. “You know, my life was pretty much like yours; I’m afraid I used to work for my family too.” I tried to reassure him. He laughed softly. “Yeah, well, I guess you weren’t working for the fucking Mafia…” He sighed.
What? I had been looking away, but when I heard him, I turned slowly back to him. This couldn’t be right…I had to be dreaming, or maybe I misunderstood him. “When did you die?” I asked under my breath, fearing the answer. “1947, why?” He looked at me as if I were crazy.
My breath got caught in my throat. I wanted to cry, to laugh, and to jump into his arms. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him. “Anthony?!” I barely let out, wishing my eyes weren’t deceiving me. I saw his face become numb, all emotion leaving his face in the span of a second. “Y/N?” He returned.
I let out a breathy sob, tuning into his arms. He had gotten up, ready to cradle me in his arms, just like he did the day I died. I had finally found him—my love, my light, my everything. We cried for what felt like hours. I finally pulled back to look at his face. He did look different, but after all, he was still my Anthony.
“Oh, Y/N, you don’t know how I missed you; I lost myself when I lost you.” He smiled through his tears. Oh, how I love him. “I still love you, you know? All these years in hell, I tried to find myself, but I was never able to, not without you by my side. It turns out I died only a couple of weeks after you.” I didn’t hesitate this time; not afraid to cross any boundaries, I pressed my lips to his, stepping on my tiptoes. He returned my kiss eagerly, which sent butterflies through my stomach. I loved him. I pulled back a bit, leaning my forehead against his. “I’d take our relationship back in a heartbeat, if you’d let me.” I wiped the tears that fell down on my cheeks, to which he laughed. “You don’t have to ask me twice.” He said.
At last, I had found my home.
///
Heya readers! Again, thank you for the request, @4ndr3ax10 , I hope you like it!
Just a reminder, I can write for multiple characters from multiple fandoms, you can find that info on my prompt list! Thank you!
Warnings: Swearing, Angel being his normal flirty self (we love him for it).
Masterlist
I’ll be using fluff prompts:
#8, “I haven’t laughed like this in a long time.”
#9, “Hold still, this might hurt a little.”
#10, “I just wanted to thank you, for saving me.”
Life itself in Pentagram City was usually out of the ordinary. In other words, sinners did a lot of weird shit, which could make oneself feel uneasy. Today was just like the days before: shitty. You worked from 9 to 5, felt exhausted, went grocery shopping for the weekend and as the cherry on top, being harassed on the street by a random sinner. Lovely!
As you were on your way back to your place, an annoying ringing snapped you out of your thoughts: your cellphone. Slowly, you pulled it out of your back pocket to see who the hell dared to call you now.
Angel<3
Your frown immediately disappeared when you realized it was Angel Dust, one of your best friends, your party buddy. You answered the call:
“Hey!” You joyfully said.
“Ow, ow. Too much joy! What is up with you?” The voice on the other line answered. “I thought you were supposed to work all day?” He added.
“I did! I feel like shit right now!” You kept your joyous tone, “But now that I hear your beautiful voice, my day is actually better!”
“I don’t know what is up with you Toots, but I really want to get drunk tonight. ‘You in?” Angel said.
“You just read my mind! I’ll meet you there at 10!”
“Alright, you better lose some of that cheerfulness before then, you’re starting to sound like Charlie, shit.” He nonchalantly said. You knew that act was making him uncomfortable, you lived to tease him.
“Fuck you! Goodbye!” You hung the line and practically skipped all the way to your place.
Tonight was going to be fun! Right?
///
When you arrived at the club, you immediately realized the place was packed tonight. You almost changed your mind and went back home when you spotted Angel in the crowd, slightly taller and most sinners.
You made your way to him, “Hey, party buddy! Are you ready to have the night of your life?” You extended your arms for a hug, which he returned.
“Absolutely, and I personally think it’d be even better if it ended with you and me in my bed.” He winked playfully, which made you blush, “I’m just kidding, but by the look on your face you wouldn’t be opposed to that!” He laughed while making his way to the bar.
You stood there, a bit shocked, trying to hide the blush that rose on your cheeks due to his comment, and decided to follow him.
“What can we serve you tonight, fellows?” The bartender asked.
Angel and you both looked at each other and said in unison:
“Something strong.”
///
Almost an hour later, or maybe more than that, who knows, you stopped tracking the time after your fourth drink, you still stood at the bar with Angel. You were telling him a story that happened earlier at work.
“-And then the lady left and I said ‘don’t let the door hit you on the way out’ and guess what happened! It actually did! She opened it the wrong way and crashed into it!” You wheezed at your own story, almost spilling your drink.
Angel’s reaction matched yours, he leaned across the bar while he held his stomach with one hand, trying to keep breathing but failing miserably.
“Damn,” He wiped the tears from his eyes due to laughter. “I gotta tell you Toots, I haven’t laughed like this in a long time!”
You knew Angel was going through tough times, mostly because of his deal with Valentino. Knowing you made his day better and seeing him genuinely laugh made your heart flutter.
“Fuck yeah! I laughed so hard then, the lady became red with anger! She must’ve been ashamed!” You added.
Then, your stomach started revolting itself and made you stop dead in your tracks. “I need some fresh air.”
You pushed your way through the crowd, trying your best to not hurt anyone on your way out. As soon as the outside air hit you, your stomach basically thanked you and settled down.
You walked a bit, making sure you were feeling better, before you saw an ugly sinner make his way up to you. ‘Ugh, no!’.
“What’s a lovely thing like you doing outside all alone?” He stood close to you, making you insanely uncomfortable.
“Okay firstly, I’m a dude, second, I’m not alone.” There it is, your stomach felt sick again, and you knew it wasn’t from the alcohol.
“It’s alright sugar, I’m into those things.” He tried to hold you but you pushed him away.
“Leave me alone, I don’t have the time for this.” You leaned over, getting ready if your stomach decided to finally get rid of the poison you’ve been drinking.
“Listen you little cunt.” He grabbed the collar of your shirt. You could feel his disgusting breath on your face. “You gonna get on your knees and do what I ask of you, understand?”
“Fuck no!” You resisted, there was no way this was happening to you.
That’s when you felt it. The sharp pain on your side, just below your ribs. You suddenly felt hot, burning hot.
‘The fucker stabbed me?’
Then, the sinner was lifted off the ground by something, someone taller than him.
Angel.
“That was a very bad choice, shortie. I suggest you leave this gentleman alone and fuck off!” Angel practically screamed at the sinner, trying his best to not murder him.
All the while this happened, your vision started to get blurry, and your ears ringed. And then,
Nothing.
//
You woke up from your slumber, totally disoriented. As you looked around the room you were in, you could see the old tapestry that covered the walls. Old wooden furniture, a light that dimly lit the run down room.
As you put all the pieces together, the door opened slowly, making a creaking sound that made shivers run up your spine. ‘Did I fucking get kidnapped?’
“Heya sleeping beauty, did you sleep well?” ‘Oh thank heavens’, it’s Angel. That means we’re in-
“No, nuh uh,” you tried to get up from the bed you took your little rest in. “No way you took me to your tacky Hotel Angel, I’m getting out.”
He put a hand on your chest, keeping you from getting any further. “Sit the fuck back down,” He pushed me back on the bed. “First, this isn’t my Hotel, and second, this is where I live now, whether you like it or not.”
You whined a bit, part of it because he was right, and the other part was because your side hurt like, a lot.
“We better get you stitched up, before it gets infected.” He settled down a first aid kit on the side table and pulled out of it a needle and some thread. “You’re gonna have to pull your shirt up, Toots.” He looked at you up and down.
You shook your head no. There was no way he was stitching your skin back together, ew!
“Don’t be a baby, I have done things multiple times, I know what I’m doing! ‘Cmon.”
You slowly lifted your shirt, making sure you didn’t touch your wound in the process. You tried to not look at it, but curiosity took the best of you. That was fucking disgusting.
“Hold still, this might hurt a little.” With that, Angel began his work, closing your wound stitch by stitch. You bit your lip, hiding the fact that it hurt like a bitch. When the work was done, you released a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
“There you go! As good as new!” He closed the first aid kit and gave you a smile. “You can stay here for the night, while you get some rest.”
“Thank you, Angel.” You sighed, the entirety of the night finally pushing down on you. “I just want to thank you, for saving me.” You smiled up at him.
“Don’t mention it! And hey, I told you the night would end up with you in my bed!” He playfully smirked and left the room.
‘Oh this is the start of something good.’
\\\
Heya readers! This is my first HH one shot and the first one I’ve written in a while. I know I’m a bit rusty but bear with me! Thank you for reading and if you have any requests, feel free to ask me!
When I read a fanfic I like, the author becomes a mini celebrity to me. So when an author with a work I like kudos’ or comments on my own fanfic I just-
amandla
pixelskylines
prguitarman
