Synopsis: Darryl is forced to reckon with the fact that the figure still haunting his nightmares now haunts your reality.
Contains: gn!reader, angst with no comfort, implied abuse
Upon meeting you, Darryl had initially found you to be quite the curiosity. A young adult, equipped with wisdom beyond your years and carrying yourself with practiced composure and poise. The patrons adored you, which came as little surprise to them: effortlessly charming and playful, yet unafraid to bite back. Not even Darryl was spared from the fever.
Of course, they would never act upon this growing infatuation—as your employer, he owed it to you to keep his thoughts to himself; the power imbalance and age difference were unprofessional at best and downright sinister at worst. No, Darryl was nothing like him.
Suddenly though, your visits to the club dwindled, eyes sunken with exhaustion when you did make an appearance. The smile he’d grown so fond of tightened, only genuinely reaching your eyes when you found his face in the crowd. That confident stride through the club doors at the start of your shift slowly turned into an anxious shuffle. Jumping erratically, eyes shifting constantly as if expecting danger—as if you were worried somebody was going to hurt you. Though you may fool others, he saw right through that shamble of a facade. He could see the fear and anxiety weighing heavy upon your shoulders. Yet, all he could do was watch as you broke down and morphed into somebody unrecognizable. You kept your troubles close to your chest, so Darryl didn’t pry.
Walking along Harvest Street on a cool evening, he wasn’t quite sure why his feet carried him there. Perhaps lost in thought of you. There was a reason he avoided this part of town. Anxiety reared its ugly head; he needed to leave before he had a panic attack.
He turned to leave, but his eyes caught your figure. What were you doing in this part of town? Didn’t you know it wasn’t safe here, especially at this time of night? You were capable, certainly, but the folks here were far different than the customers he hosted. Darryl perhaps knew better than most just how insistent the people who walked these streets could be.
He’d be beside himself if anything happened to you, so he mustered the courage and began towards you, intent to walk you home, or at least as far as you’d allow.
As he neared, nausea sprang upon him. No, that couldn’t be who he thought it was standing next to you. It couldn’t be those hands, which could only take and take, gripping your waist and keeping you pressed against his side. No, he didn’t want to believe it was the headmaster guiding you into a seedy hotel.
Darryl could only watch from across the street, stricken with terror, as you both entered the building, noting the tenseness of your shoulders and the way you tried to put as much space between you both as you could. Everything about your form screamed reluctance and fear—everything shouted for help.
Suddenly, your abrupt change in demeanor was making sense. Suddenly, Darryl is as helpless as he was all those years ago. Suddenly, you and he share far more in common than he could ever wish.
Malicious guilt digs its gnarly claws into his stomach, hunching to spill his guts over the pavement, copious tears spilling over his cheeks. He couldn’t help himself then, and he can’t help you now, willfully complacent to your agony as others were to his all those years ago. No, he is nothing like Leighton, but as he recalls that resigned expression he’s seen in the mirror so many times before settled on your own face, he knows he is no better.
