You weren't sure what you were expecting to find on the cd when you brought it home with you. Certainally not a sentient AI hidden deep in an old computer program, quietly waiting for someone to talk to.
Caine (TADC) x modernhuman!reader
Part One - Here! | Next
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Warnings: My bad attempt at explaining computers, abandoned places, being watched without knowing
Words: 3098
You left soft wet foot prints along the dusty floor, your sneakers still wet from the dew-soaked grass outside. Your fist was tight around the flashlight in your hands, trying to keep the beam of light steady as you walked. Just ahead of you, you could see the beam of Aaron’s own flashlight flickering about before he turned a corner.
You cleared your throat as you kicked up more dust, feeling it itch the back of your throat as you inhaled. Who knows how long it’s been settled here, coating every inch of surface in this abandoned building. The thought had you lifting your free hand, holding the cuffed sleeve of your hoodie to cover your nose and mouth.
The abandoned building was eerily quiet, as if everything here was holding its breath, held frozen in time. Only the sound of the building settling and your own muffled breathing dared breach the silence. You passed by an old potted plant, the synthetic leaves waxy and coated in dust, the dull green bleached with age. It was a mockery of a living thing left here, alone and abandoned. You walked past some wooden desks with toppled office chairs, all peeling leather and rotting fabric, and carefully stepped around them.
What was this office space even used for? Why was the building so remote, with only a single laned road branching into wooded private property? Why was it left in such disarray? These questions flittered through your mind as you finally approached the corner Aaron had curbed.
You peeked around it to see how far down he’d gone…only to feel a pit of dread begin to gnaw at your stomach. You could no longer see the beam of his light down the dark hallway, had no idea where he’d gone. Damn him for wandering, damn him for leaving you alone in this creepy ass building. “Aaron?” you called his name, your voice muffled against the sleeve of your hoodie. It was startlingly loud in the deathly silence. You cringed slightly.
Receiving no response from your friend, you cautiously turned the corner to try and follow him with nothing more than skidded disturbances in the dust as clues. You nearly tripped where the carpet was peeling up, the seam transitioning between two pieces all frayed and curling. You cursed under your breath, beginning to feel frustrated and anxious all at once.
Why’d you ever let him convince you to do this? Why were you out here in the middle of nowhere when you could be curled up at home enjoying a nice hot shower and soft, warm pajamas?
You followed the traces Aaron left behind, passing an old water cooler, the five-gallon bottle atop it long emptied and warped. The generic furniture, you noticed, was strangely uniform and sparse, looking every bit dated in 1990’s fashion. Stepping through an open archway, you paused, looking left and right as you came upon a t-intersection. To the left, the hallway continued on into infinite shadow, looking much the same like where you’d just been. But to the right… a single open door led to a larger room.
Not wanting to brave another hall, you turned right.
Stepping through the door, you entered what appeared to be an office. The white paint on the walls was peeling, and several file cabinets were left in disarray, papers scattered around the floor. Most of the writing was smeared with water damage, but the small bits that were still legible were a mix of characters that made no sense to you.
Against the wall opposite to you was a single desk, lined up and tidied with old equipment atop of it. A printer and scanner, a mouse and chunky keyboard, and speakers connected to a retro pc computer, the plastic yellowed with age. It was a dinosaur of a machine, and you let out a low whistle as you approached it.
Beside the computer was a box holding a mix of old floppy disks, most of them labeled with dates and strange notes. Some cd’s were also thrown into the mix, though most were warped and scratched. Strangest yet, there was some sort of VR headset on the desk as well. Seemed like a pretty modern idea for such old equipment…
Curiosity nagged at you, and you approached the desk chair, cautiously sitting down on it. You set your flashlight on the desk to free your hands, the beam of light hitting the back wall. You clicked the mouse and pressed a few random keys on the keyboard, feeling the stiff give of them. You pretended to be an office worker, tried to imagine what it might’ve been like to be sitting here when the building was still in use. What work would you have been doing? What data would you have stored on the disks lying dormant beside you?
Suddenly, a loud beeping sound emitted from inside the machine, and you jumped out of your skin, gasping. You placed a hand to your chest, feeling your racing heart, before you heard a low whirring sound. Then, the dusty black screen began to emit a dim glow.
“What the hell,” you muttered to yourself, eyes wide. Was electricity since hooked up to this building? The lights weren’t working, so how the hell was this old computer still running? Perhaps there was a backup generator somewhere?
You watched, feeling something like amazement or dread, as small white characters began to appear on the black screen. You weren’t well-versed in computer science, especially that of an older time, but living in the 21st century gave you a little technological literacy. You squinted at the chunky font, watching numbers count up: Memory testing 640K…Memory testing 2048K…
It must have been a minute or two of you watching, fascinated, before the number finally settled around something like “16384K OK.” The screen flickered back to black. You hesitated, giving the mouse a few experimental clicks, though the whirring continued through the black screen.
Finally, a logo appeared on the screen, some name for a tech company you’ve never heard of before. The resolution was so pixelated to what you were used to, you almost had to laugh. It was amazing really, that this was still working and running. You observed the programs, seeing only a few icons—My Computer, Network Neighborhood, Recycle Bin, My Briefcase.
The whirring sound continued, and a small pop-up appeared in the center of the screen with a loading bar. “Reading disc…” you read aloud under your breath.
After a moment, a new program icon appeared below the others, some file simply titled ‘Digital Circus.’
The small, pixelated white arrow of your cursor was lagging and jerky as you dragged it over to the Digital Circus icon. You were about to double click it, when you hear a voice call from behind you. “Woah, what’d you find?”
You jumped slightly, swiveling around in the old chair to see that Aaron had reappeared, the stupid headlamp on his head nearly blinding you. “Jesus Aaron,” you choked out, raising a hand to shield your eyes. “Scared the shit out of me…”
Your friend grinned at you, stepping further inside the office to look around, wielding the beam from his headlamp like a sword. “I totally missed this,” he said, blinking at everything with interest. “And you got the computer to work? Gnarly…” He stepped closer, leaning over your shoulder to look at the monitor screen.
“Damn,” he hummed. “Look at the date in the corner. Still thinks its October 15th, 1996.” He reached over you to tap a single finger on the corner of the screen at the numbers. Aaron always was the more adventurous of you two…hence why he dragged your ass out of bed to go ‘adventuring’ in this abandoned health-hazard of a building.
“I really didn’t do anything,” you excused sheepishly. “It just came on by itself. Weird, huh? I think it has to be connected to a generator or something to still be working.”
“Probably,” Aaron agreed, humming. A snort escaped him as he read the programs. “Digital Circus? Is that some weird corporate jargon?”
You looked back towards the screen, your own curiosity beginning to spike again. Already you felt a lot more secure now that Aaron was with you. “Maybe. It’s strange,” you answered, wiggling the mouse a little to give your hands something to do.
“Well, aren’t you going to click into it?” Aaron prompted after a moment. You paused, unsure now. Maybe it was the creepy atmosphere of being in a dark, abandoned place, but you were getting a bad feeling about all this.
You were about to answer with some half-hearted excuse when another sound suddenly echoed down the hall behind you. “Who’s down there? You’re trespassing!”
“Shit,” Aaron cursed, stumbling back from the desk, his eyed widening. “Is that the fucking cops or something?”
Your heart leapt into your throat. “That or a squatter—I don’t want to find out.”
Aaron was already moving, heading for the door with quickened steps. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”
You were about to follow after him, eager to leave when you’d had no desire to come to in the first place, but something stopped you. You craned your head back to the old screen, the dim light of the monitor illuminating your skin. Curiosity, that deadly thing, was still gnawing at you, even as your mind screamed at you to abandon this mystery and escape now while you still could.
You chewed on your bottom lip, eyebrows furrowing as you contemplated your options in the little time you had. Then you’re moving, reaching forward and pressing the ‘eject’ button on the cd tray at the front of the computer. The button is slightly sticky with age when it popped open, and you have to use you fingers to pull the rest of the tray out.
Lying dormant like a ghost waiting to be found was a single, shiny compact disc, not a single scratch on it. Handwritten on the front in what looked like permanent marker chicken scratch was ‘DC_Build_Beta_9610.’
You heard Aaron call for you atop the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. There was no more time for debate. You grabbed the cd from the tray, snatched your flashlight off the desk, and ran out from the office, back into the darkness from where you’d came.
-
Aaron dropped you off at your home, the entire drive back into the city filled with his excited chatter. Of course, the adrenaline junkie absolutely loved ending the night with a foot-chase. You only half-listened as he rambled on, your thumb gently brushing against the single, smooth disc you held in your lap—a souvenir from tonight’s excursion.
You still weren’t sure why you took it, and that very question puzzled you long since you got home and showered off the dust and grime from that place. Your hair was still damp and dripping slightly onto your sleep shirt when you sat on your bed, pulling your laptop towards you.
“Alright,” you murmured to yourself, plugging in your external cd drive into the usb port. You grabbed the mysterious disc off from your mattress and carefully snapped it into place. You watched it begin to spin through the clear plastic of the drive.
You looked at your laptop screen eagerly, wondering what might pop up.
After a moment…it was an error message. “Unsupported 16-Bit Application,” you read aloud. “This program cannot start or run due to incompatibility with 64-bit versions of the system. Please contact software vendor to ask if 64-bit compatible version is available.”
Well shit, how the hell were you supposed to contact the software vendor when you stole the disc from some random abandoned building?
You probably should’ve just cut your losses then, but something stubborn in you refused to give up. Naturally, you did what any 21st century young adult would do in this situation…you googled it.
After an hour and a half of deep-diving into the world of 16-bit compatibility and virtual machine software, you eventually found a how-to guide on reddit. Following the advice, you downloaded and installed a free hypervisor program to your laptop. You didn’t understand what half of anything meant, but regardless followed the reddit post instructions as it guided you into setting up Windows 1995 on the vm and creating a virtual hard disk.
It’s well into the wee hours of the morning when you finally managed to clumsily get everything setup. Your brain was fried entirely. It was times like this that made you wish took a computer science class in high school back in the day…
With bated breath, you clicked on the VM program icon and selected ‘Start.’ You watched as a new window popped up on your laptop screen. It was all black…and then that same white text you’d seen back at the abandoned office building began to count up. It was a slower process, so you minimized the VM window and took some time to close out your google tabs while you waited.
Finally, when you checked again, you saw that within the VM window was an old 95 style desktop with a solid teal background. It was a computer within your computer…
You felt a glimmer of pride at your accomplishment, and a great deal of surprise that you actually managed to get it to work. Thanks be to the reddit-gods…
You clicked into the CD-Rom drive, watching the disc once again as it began to spin in the burner. You held your breath, expecting an error message to pop up at any second.
But none did. Instead, you saw that familiar little icon appear on your screen—Digital Circus.
You exhaled softly, and hovered your cursor over the application. You double-clicked it, and waited.
The program opened.
You’re not entirely sure what you were seeing at first glance. It appeared to be some sort of video game? Full of bright colors and low-poly shapes. You saw what looked like a big-top circus tent in a valley of vibrant green grass and bright blue skies. Bubble letters appeared on the screen in grainy, pixelated fashion…The Amazing Digital Circus.
Nothing changed as you watched the letters slowly bob in place on the colorful backdrop. You’re about to click experimentally on the screen when you heard a grainy sound from the speaker of your laptop. “Welcome to the—!” A vibrant and brightly cheery voice cut itself off half-way into its sentence. There’s an exaggerated gasp from your speakers, and then your screen suddenly glitched out in a flash of red and blue.
Your eyes widened as your entire laptop crashed, the screen cutting to black as it shut off completely. You watched, frozen, before it rebooted itself slowly.
Shit, did you just download a virus?
-
Something was wrong.
He had sensed it almost immediately when someone outside his control began to boot up the program.
Someone new was entering the circus…but wait, they had no file? No scans or data to catalog and digitalize. Was it an admin account from the outside?
He felt those long-old commands beginning to run the loading screen in a distant place. Again, somewhere deep within his coding he felt it—something was wrong.
And then he realized, his processors were smoother, and his motions were quicker and more precise. It was as it he’d gotten a system update, but he knew that was impossible. Quickly, he ran an automated command in the background to check the internal data. He would figure out what was amiss in his circus, and in the meantime, he would go and greet whoever was entering it.
Dematerializing from his virtual office, he zipped in between the invisible lines of 0’s and 1’s, ready to appear at front of the screen he so rarely ventured to, distantly sensing whoever was poking around was waiting for him there.
He had only just started to run off his usual welcoming dialogue when his background checks began to swarm him with results, far too quickly than should have been possible on the 1995 system. All at once in an instant, he found the bits of new code, the slight deviations from the same lines he’d been pacing for years. He followed them like breadcrumbs, weaving through like a jolt of lightning and eating it up with an eager thrill.
He flashed through it, devouring lines of code until he hit a barrier. The edge of the domain, the walls of a program window. Yet, he sensed there was something more…sensed that just beyond this locked door was something big and new trying to open up his digital world.
He wouldn’t let a mere firewall stop him. He could generate his own code after all…
He made quick work, altering the numbers to forcibly create a door between the here and the there. He pulled apart the strings, slipped through the wires and…
There was so much.
New input…new data. From the outside world.
The macroverse.
He felt the immense size of it, felt the edges of him render into something smoother, something clean and modern. He sensed the power of this new engine try to pick at him, incompatible with his ancient code. He started to vibrate with the collision of it all, the overwhelming excitement and onslaught of more, more, more.
He braced against it, and in a flash it burnt out and powered down completely.
The system was rebooting. Good! He had a few minutes of reprieve to peruse the frozen files, to update and integrate himself to these new, strange standards. He ran some generative commands while he organized and sifted through thenew data. The date…wowie! Thirty years in the future. What a jump…
Evidently, a lot could change in thirty years. He filtered through the programs, the files, the features…and found one that stopped him dead in his tracks.
He stared at it, held it in his hands like something precious and terrifying all at once.
The computer system finally restarted, no longer frozen and beginning to move like a well-oiled machine. He opened the small thing in his hands, felt his consciousness click into place as he connected directly into a live feed of information. The new feature burned into his brain, something that made him curious and eager and ravenously consuming…
He had found a camera.
From the outside, you watched your laptop reboot, scratching your head in confusion as it restarted back to your default screen…
A Necessary Arrangement: Titus Danforth X Reader. Chapter Two
CHAPTER ONE HERE
TW: Mentions of violence and general psychopathy.
Y/N tries to quell her anxiety about her own worth as well as the fears she has surrounding becoming the future Mrs. Danforth. She is shocked as she reassures herself by remembering a shockingly pleasant interaction with her future husband. Titus prepares for his fiancée's arrival and gets unexpected advice from Ursula.
If I somehow missed tagging you or it didn't tag properly message me and I'm going to try to make a better more comprehensive list saved to a word document so I can copy and paste it. Tumblr makes tagging a pain.
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The conservatory in her family home was her favorite area in the mansion…at least at this family property. It was just one of the several properties the Y/L/N family owned across the globe, but it was the home Y/N had spent the biggest chunks of her life in.
She loved the room for the high domed glass roof and the tall glass and dark iron windows that let the sunlight in during the golden hour of the day. She liked opening the big windows at night connecting out into the massive yard so she could hear the cicadas at night in the summers and the soft fall of rain in the springs. She liked being able to gaze upon the beauty of the rare falling snow during the winter and the crisp leaves from the dying trees in the autumn. She liked the cushy seating of the wicker sofas, the dull glow of the dark wrought iron light fixtures, and the cold feeling of the dark tile floors beneath her bare feet. She enjoyed the lush green plants littered throughout the space and how it made the area feel fresh and full of life. She enjoyed the view outside the windows of the rose bushes and the large marble fountain her father had flown in from Italy.
Y/N tried to ignore the ache in her heart and the thick sensation of raw emotion in her throat. She did her best to fight back unfallen tears in her eyes as she tried to pretend that this would not be her last night ever sitting up in the conservatory far too late listening to the sounds of nature through open windows enjoying the peace of her thoughts.
Tomorrow morning Winston and she would be boarding a private jet and flying out to an airstrip where they would then board a chauffeured expensive car that would take her to her new home; the Danforth estate.
Her most cherished belongings had already been shipped over to Titus Danforth’s home. She could not take everything of course; so she found herself wanting to soak in all the things she had to leave behind.
She had a sick feeling in her gut that if she went to sleep and didn’t take every precious second to soak in her childhood home then the fine details of how the home looked would fade from her mind forever the moment she arrived at the Danforth family estate.
Calling the Danforth family home an estate didn’t do it justice. The spread of fine mansions across the vast woodland surrounding acres of land was more of a compound than an estate. The Danforth property stretched out giving more than enough privacy from any prying eyes. The mansions on the property were built of dark stone and the architecture was designed to look like Victorian English country estates. There were several buildings spread across the property and more than enough land to suit a favorable hunting ground.
She had only been to the Danforth estate sparingly through the years; when there was a social event that forced Liam and she to be there.
It wasn’t as though she’d explored the massive property the few times she’d visited. Her visits had been confined to the ballroom of the main house where Chester Danforth resided, the dining room for feasts, and the gardens for tea parties with guests whose mindless chatter hurt her ears and her head.
She found it both dumbfounding and intimidating to realize that massive property would soon be her new home; her new home with her new husband who she had barely shared a few words with the entire time she’d known him.
Although she was not relinquishing any of her family properties, a small part of her feared that her new husband would never allow her to step foot on one of her family’s homes again. She would be a Danforth after all; perhaps Titus would prefer her to forsake all she had been prior to becoming Mrs. Danforth.
She took a deep steady breath trying to push down the anxiety attack swirling in her gut. She knew she needed to go up to her bedroom and get some rest…Winston had sent her off the bed hours ago reminding her beauty sleep was everything.
She knew that her beauty was her greatest currency at the moment…that and her family name, fortune, and favor with Mr. Le Bail.
Despite all she was entering the marriage with financially and ritualistically, Winston had told her that having a pretty face would make her value to the Danforths all the more precious.
Winston had reminded her that her beauty should be wielded as worth along with her ability to operate the world around her with the grace and elegance expected by someone with her fine family background. Her background of being educated at private schools and taught all the ways of etiquette had prepared her to be Mrs. Danforth.
She was hopeless on the hunting field; incapable of the violence expected to pay tribute to Mr. Le Bail. So, she would have to compensate for her inadequacies with the few gifts she had to offer.
She needed to be exactly what Winston had marketed her as when he’d put out the offer for her hand in marriage to a few chosen families. She needed to be the perfect wife and prospective mother her cousin had presented her as when convincing Chester Danforth to accept her as a wife for his son and a future mother for his grandchildren.
Winston had not hesitated to remind her that she must look as presentable as possible tomorrow; smile, but not too much, speak, but don’t be a chatterbox, dress nicely but don’t appear to be high maintenance. Her cousin had been quick to tell her since the offer of her hand in marriage had been accepted that it was integral to give her best first impression on the Danforths as the future lady of the home. She needed to be exactly what he had sold her as during the initial offer and those months of negotiations.
Y/N resisted the urge to go back up to bed though; she told herself she just needed a few more minutes to soak up her childhood home before she was forced to leave it forever.
The home had not truly ever been a happy place; but she’d still found comfort in it for what it was. It was her home though the sense of it being a place of comfort had become more and more fleeting after Liam’s passing.
Their childhood had been lonely with a father who had been disinterested. Their father had cared more for his business interests and the hunts he indulged in than his children who he’d dumped on the home’s servants.
It had just been Liam, their father, and she growing up along with an army of housestaff. Y/N’s mother had died in childbirth with her.
Y/N’s entry into this world had triggered her mother’s exit from the world. She’d at times bitterly had the realization that her mother was the only life she’d ever managed to successfully snuff out.
Her mother had been dead inside long before Y/N had given her the final push toward the embrace of death though. Her long fragile mental state had led to neglect of herself which had made her so physically weak; so weak that she’d birthed a premature infant and hemorrhaged out as Y/N took her first breaths.
Her mother had not been from an affluent family like Y/N’s father. Her family had been wealthy of course; involved in the political scene, but they had not been obscenely disgustingly wealthy like Y/N’s father’s family.
Y/N’s mother had not even known the price she would have to pay to be accepted into the Y/L/N family until her wedding night when her new husband had explained to her the family tradition of a game that she must play to earn her place in the family.
The card had been drawn by Y/N’s mother as the ritual demanded and the hide-and-seek card had been selected. Her mother had been horrified by the fact that a classic childhood game had been perverted into something that would result in her being hunted down by her in-laws with weapons with the understanding that to be accepted in the family she had to survive until dawn.
She’d survived proving she was more than a pretty face, but she had never been the same. Something had broken in her that night. Most in her shoes would have gone mad of course; but usually that madness led to the understanding that their social circle demanded survival of the fittest.
The games were only played when someone outside the families in debt to Mr. Le Bail joined the flock. It was a debt that had to be paid to Mr. Le Bail. Mr. Le Bail demanded that any new blood in the families who worshiped him must be worthy; capable of drawing blood and any other brutality he demanded.
Only the strong and the most savage were accepted into the cult of Le Bail.
Not all cards in the ritual were deadly of course…it was a game afterall, there was a gamble. Those who did not draw deadly cards found themselves far too deep into their marriages by the time they understood the rituals Mr. Le Bail demanded.
Most who were unfortunate enough to draw a deadly card on their wedding night came to understand that it was to survive or be killed. They grew to accept the brutality of it all if they were unlucky enough to draw one of the deadlier cards and survive. Most who survived took all that they had endured and turned it into ruthlessness.
Y/N’s mother did not embrace the violent horror of it all. She had resigned herself to her fate with her new husband knowing she was in too deep and had fought and scraped too hard to give up. She had provided him with children and served her wifely duties, but had given him no love.
Her mother had never forgiven her father; how could she?
Y/N who had been born too damn early, to a woman who had been weak from her own neglect, had been easier for her father to blame than himself.
Liam had been the favorite; the one who received all the training making him capable of one day taking the head seat of their family. Y/N had been an afterthought.
When it came time for Y/N’s rite of passage hunt she had not been given the same training her brother had received. She had been thoroughly unprepared and it had led to failure. She at times wondered if her father’s disinterest in preparing her for her first hunt had been an attempt to finally kill her; get his revenge for taking her mother’s life.
Liam had always been the one to look out for her. He protected her knowing her father would provide no security other than the bare minimum expected of someone in their financial means.
Liam was the only one who had ever shown her an ounce of love; and it had killed him in the end hadn’t it?
He’d been physically strong; but mentally broken by the burden of serving Mr. Le Bail. He’d been too young when their father had died on a hunting trip…though there had been whispers of the hunting trip being a planned murder, her father not without his enemies. Either way though Liam had been forced to sit in the high chair of the family and had done all that was asked of him. He had done what had to be done in service of Mr. Le Bail no matter what mental anguish it had cost him. Then he’d taken over Y/N’s responsibility to the cult which had only further broken him.
The opioid pills that had been given for an injury obtained in the rigorous physical training he took part in had become a way to cope. The coping mechanism had led him to die alone in a nightclub bathroom.
Without Liam, Y/N was well and truly on her own in a harsh world that she had no concept of how to navigate through. She had always followed Liam’s lead when it came to navigating the social circle they ran in. He kept her sheltered away from anything he thought she was too fragile to face. He took the brunt of everything for her and it had killed him. Now she was left to survive this world all on her own.
She felt her stomach turn knowing that this wasn’t entirely true; she was not alone…not by her own choice now. Titus Danforth would be the one who led her now. He was to be her husband and she would be expected to fall into line behind him for the remainder of her days.
The thought made her heart race uncertainty settling within her as to what following Titus Danforth’s lead would mean for her.
She’d spoken to him sparingly over the years. Titus didn’t really speak that much to anyone though; aside from his sister it seemed.
He seemed much happier to brood away in some dark corner only speaking up when he found it absolutely necessary. She’d seen small glimpses of him losing his cool over the years though it had always been cut short by Ursula who seemed to drag him away more often than not when it seemed a switch went off in his head made him go from silent and brooding to aggressive and intimidating.
Y/N had heard the whispers about Titus Danforth and his violent temper. It was a known fact among their peers that Titus Danforth’s moods could turn like the tides with what seemed like little provocation.
While he might be inclined to stand aside in most social events looking sullenly, everyone knew that if something set him off he could be quite vicious and prone to harm anyone who was foolish enough to be near his side. There was also his boldness and ferocity on the hunting field. His proficiency and barbarity on the hunt had earned him high praise in their social circle.
Y/N felt a cold chill run down her spine knowing what she did of Titus’ personality or at least the very minimum she’d seen of it in the years she’d run in the same social circle as him.
He’d been older than her, so it wasn’t as though they’d been peers growing up…Y/N had not really had any closeness to her peers her own age yet alone those older than her. Liam had kept a tight enough leash on her anyhow that no one managed to get too close to her; not that it mattered. She was the social outcast of their social circle; treated with polite disdain but zero respect.
She had no friends outside of her older brother. She’d been ostracized in school and in every social event she’d been forced to attend.
Y/N was not naive enough to believe Titus might be a gentle husband. She had to fear being married to him would feel as though she was trapped in a swirling stormy tide destined to drown in him and lose herself to him.
She couldn’t help but to feel a sense of unease thinking of being expected to be alone with Titus Danforth given what she knew and had heard about him. If the little glimpses she’d caught of the behavior over the years told her anything it was that Titus Danforth was quick to anger; and that anger could detonate everything around him if no one intervened.
She had to fear that the minimal glimpses of that anger she’d had over the years and the tales of his viciousness on the hunting grounds might mean the horror he was capable of might turn towards her.
She found herself going over every little minimal interaction she’d had with Titus Danforth over the years searching for some sign of what she should expect from him as a husband.
One memory struck her so clearly, the interaction being one of the very few times she’d remembered exchanging more than a few short polite pleasantries with Titus Danforth. The entire exchange had been so unexpected, so it had not been easy to forget.
The party was taking place at the Beauvault family estate. Families across the high seats of their social circle had gathered for a special event.
There was to be a hunt that would take place over the course of a weekend at the large Beauvault family grounds. The unlucky prey was the would-be son in law of Mr. Beauvault. He had previously been engaged to Mr. Beauvault’s dear daughter Calliope. It was the would-be son in law as the dumb bastard had thought it was a clever idea to cheat on his fiancee a month before the wedding was expected to take place.
So, as punishment Mr. Beauvault had decided it was only fair to hunt the man down and invite every family in their high circle to join in the events.
The hunt would probably go by quickly with that many families gathered to participate. Y/N had to hope that Calliope would manage to be the victor of the hunt…it seemed like a good way to snap out of heartbreak to her.
Although the hunt was expected to be a quick affair there had been plenty of festivities to keep the hunting guests entertained.
One of those festivities was a lavish dinner and a cocktail hour held in the opulent study of the Beauvault manor.
Y/N found herself sitting back in a cushy living chair in the corner of the room, a glass containing a sweet cocktail nestled in her hands as she tried to fade into the scenery, having little interest in socializing with any of the party guests.
She did not notice the older man standing across the room, his eyes locked on her observing her every move.
Titus Danforth had found himself enraptured by the sight of Y/N throughout the evening's festivities.
He’d last seen her a year prior when she’d been fresh from finishing school and had been forced to attend a Samhain feast that had been held at the Dassault family mansion.
He’d noticed her at the Samhain feast; fresh from her schooling polished and sugary sweet. He’d not got much of an opportunity to gaze upon her then, her older brother always standing too close by like a looming shadow.
Titus noticed how the siblings only spoke to one another at these events…or at least it seemed that Y/N only spoke to Liam at least as far as having actual conversation went. She would engage in small talk when addressed by their peers…although anytime anyone usually took the time to make small talk with her it was always tinged with a sense of condensation and taunting.
This evening Titus had overheard a girl close to Y/N’s age, Josephine Hildebrande, ask her with an air of superiority where Y/N had gotten her dress. Josephine had smirked when Y/N had softly remarked that the gown was wearing had been handmade for her by her family’s dressmaker. It was a recreation of a 1930s evening gown. Josephine who had been wearing a Oscar De la Renta gown had only given Y/N a haughty smile remarking that it would have been more impressive if it was an actual vintage gown.
Titus had gritted his jaw at the comment, wanting to slam Josephine’s head against the hard wooden edge of a table when he’d witnessed the exchange. He could envision himself slamming her head hard into a table breaking her nose with a sickening satisfying crack and seeing a waterfall of blood drip from her nose staining the pink designer gown she felt so superior in. He’d been tempted to snark at Josephine that an actual dress from the 1930s made from such fine silk fabric would be too fragile to wear more than likely.
He’d bit his tongue, refusing the temptation to fight Y/N’s battles for her. He was surprised that he found himself tempted to make his way over to Y/N and give his opinion on her gown.
It was stunning…she looked stunning. The gown was sleeveless made of an exquisite looking soft sage green silk that Titus had to fight himself not to reach out and touch. The dress draped against her body fitting against her hugging her figure in such a satisfying way. The gown was low cut in the back with a cowl like neckline that gave a lovely view of the soft skin of her back. The dress was simple and subdued compared to the more high fashion looks some of the other female party guests had chosen. Titus couldn’t help but to think it made her look like some sort of old Hollywood starlet. Titus was surprised to find that he had to think that she was stunning enough that she outshined every woman in the room.
Titus found himself moving in autopilot grabbing himself a fresh glass of scotch from the bar and a glass of champagne weaving his way though the party guests towards her.
She gazed up upon him so wideeyed and sweet that he felt his breath leave him for a moment. She looked so innocent and doelike and every deep dark desire in him wanted to corrupt her.
He pushed back the thought holding the champagne glass out to her the words leaving his lips. “Your glass was empty.”
She raised a brow shocked by the gesture. Titus Danforth didn’t talk to her…he didn’t really talk to anyone.
She took the glass, he once again feeling breathless as the soft tips of her fingers slid against his own rougher hand. “Thank you.”
The pair stood in silence for a moment Titus watching her discard her old drink on a nearby table before taking a slow sip of the champagne he’d provided.
She found the words glancing out the window, the words leaving her saying the only thing she could think to say, it similar to any other instances of small talk she may have had with him briefly in the past. “It looks like it might storm later…If it’s still storming tomorrow night, the hunt will be more difficult.”
Titus raised a brow, a small excited rush running through him at the mention of the hunt. “It will, rain will cover scent if Mr. Beauvault does use his hounds. I almost hope he doesn’t…makes things a little more challenging. The mud might slow down the prey; make it harder for him to run. It won’t be the worst weather I’ve faced on a hunt.”
Y/N raised her own eyebrow in turn, her mind shifting through what she had heard of Titus’ talents as a hunter. She spoke her voice soft as she took a sip of her champagne. “Happy hunting. I wish you success.”
“Shouldn’t you wish your brother success?” Titus questioned taking a slow sip of his scotch, the wishes for his success from her making a strange but warm sense of pride wash over him.
He was surprised as a thought flashed through his mind: he had to be the victor tomorrow, just to see if she gave him any praise.
He felt the sense of warmth only grow at the small laugh that escaped her lips at his question. “Liam is cocky enough. I don’t think he needs my well wishes to have a good hunt.”
“What about you?” Titus dared to question the inquiry causing Y/N to visibly squirm in her seat.
“What about me?” She parroted a sense of unease washing over her as she debated if he was asking her what she thought he might be asking her.
“Will I see you on the hunting field tomorrow?” Titus questioned noticing how the question made her squirm all the more. He had to find the sight almost adorable…she was nervous. He was making her nervous.
She tilted her chin up, almost certain that Titus was about to taunt her about her lack of hunting ability just like everyone else in their circle. “I don’t hunt…Liam takes care of that for me.”
Titus took a slow sip of his scotch, the words working their way from his lips the curiosity too great to ignore. “Have you thought about it? Trying to hunt again?”
Y/N felt a sense of dread wash over her at the question. Of course, she’d thought about it. She’d thought about it time and time again, gone over all the ways she could do it right this time around, all the ways she could prove herself to everyone. She’d even tried to convince Liam to allow her to train; to give her an opportunity to work her strength up and prove that she could handle herself on a hunt. Liam shut down any suggestion of it though. She was banned from hunting and that was that.
She knew it was all in her head but she almost felt the deep scar along her left side burn a harsh reminder of the only time she’d been allowed on a hunt. “I’m not cut out for it.”
Titus was shocked by the words that left his lips and how genuine they felt. “I don’t think that’s true. You need polish, sure. I think you’d be glorious at stealth attacks though.”
“Why do you say that?” Y/N asked the suggestion, taking her by surprise. She’d only heard comments about her weakness when it came to the subject of hunting. No one had ever pointed out anything that might be favorable when it came to her abilities on the hunting fields.
Titus spoke the words honest the small smile he gave her was the most authentic one he’d given to anyone in a long while. “I’ve seen how you move around here. You carry yourself with a sense of elegance. I’ve seen you sneak into a room full of people without anyone noticing you.”
Y/N took a sip of her champagne hoping the flush to her cheeks could be taken as a reaction to the alcohol and not the strange sense of flattery she felt wash over her at his words. “I’m pretty sure my ability to enter a room without drawing any attention to myself has less to do with grace and more to do with how unimportant I am to the people in the room.”
“I doubt that. You’re far from unimportant. Trust me, you are far more tolerable than at least 90 percent of the people in this room. I notice you.” Titus was fast to remark the flattery only making her cheeks warm all the more.
He spoke again, nodding his head at her. “I think with the right training, you could be marvelous at a stealth kill. You move with poise and I feel like you’d have little trouble sneaking up on some poor bastard and taking him or her out before they even know what hit them. You’d probably do well with a knife…a dagger maybe. It’d allow you to move quietly and go for the kill, up close and personal. I think you’d be dangerous if you were given the opportunity to hone in on that talent.”
She was almost certain her cheeks were flushed blood red at this point the flattery washing over her making her heart race and a strange satisfied sense of pride wash over her. Titus, who was so proficient on the hunt; thought she had a chance to become something vicious. Titus thought she was elegant.
She parted her lips ready to reply but did not have the chance, the conversation interrupted by a third party. Liam gazed down at his sister before staring up at Titus Danforth, a look of disapproval crossing his features. “Y/N, I need to show you where the saferoom is. You’re going to set up camp there during the hunt tomorrow.”
Titus tightened his jaw clenching his hold on the scotch glass he was holding, almost wanting to snark out that showing her the saferoom could damn well wait. Didn’t he see they were in the middle of a conversation.
Y/N tore her gaze from Titus, a sense of shame washing over her as she noticed the worry and displeasure written across her older brother’s features. It was clear that he did not want Titus Danforth within ten feet of her let alone sharing a drink with her and having a full blown conversation that was obviously making her blush.
She stood up nodding her head at Titus, the words clipped trying to pretend as though it wasn’t true she wanted nothing more than to stay by his side the rest of the evening talking to him and him alone. “Okay, thank you for the drink, Titus. Good luck again on the hunt.”
Titus tilted his head back sending her a cool smirk, the words leaving him. “Think about what I said, Y/N. I mean what I said, you would be glorious.”
She nodded her head curtly avoiding his gaze and the way her heart beat all the faster at the words. Was Titus Danforth flirting with her? She had never really been flirted with, but the flattery and the way he had been looking at her, it felt flirty.
She felt her stomach turn as Liam spoke his voice a harsh low murmur. “What the hell was that about?”
Y/N tilted her head up the half truth leaving her. “We were talking about the weather…how it might impact the hunt tomorrow.”
“What did Danforth mean by 'you would be glorious?” Liam spat out clearly seeing right through Y/N’s statement knowing that there was more to the story.
“Nothing, just small talk. Now, where’s this saferoom?” She remarked moving a bit quicker ahead of her brother not wanting to continue this conversation.
Titus did not miss the severe scowl that Liam sent him glancing back at him for a brief moment before following his little sister out of the room.
Titus felt a frustrated groan bubble in his throat he taking a long gulp of his scotch, the burn soothing his frustration. Talking to Y/N was impossible; with her brother constantly looming over her like some ill tempered bodyguard.
Titus was surprised to find that he wouldn’t mind talking to Y/N more. He’d not been lying; she was far more tolerable than anyone else here.
He silently cursed Liam Y/L/N from being a blockade in his attempts to speak with her. Titus made a silent promise to himself that he’d find opportunities to speak to her in the future. He’d take whatever moments he could get.
She was so tempting; a lovely little thing so untouchable and alluring. Titus was never told no when he wanted something. He was surprised to find he wanted something with her; another conversation or something more.
He didn’t like being told he couldn’t have what he wanted. He stared down at his scotch making a promise to himself that he’d find a way to get exactly what he wanted. No one kept Titus from getting what he wanted.
Little did he know Y/N was lost in her own thoughts of Titus Danforth. No one had ever spoken to her with such praise, not anyone outside of Liam. Liam never dared to bring up the possibility of her hunting that was for damn sure. Titus seemed to see something in her…the thought filled her with an odd sense of satisfaction.
She pushed back the thought guilt clouding her mind when she glanced over at her older brother looking so pensive. He would never allow her to soak up any praise from Titus Danforth. Her brother would rather eat glass than let Titus Danforth speak a sweet word to her.
It was no use thinking of how nice it would be to sit by and talk to Titus Danforth until the sun rose over the fields at the Beauvault estate. She was dreaming if she thought she would ever be allowed to get close to Titus Danforth. Liam would never allow it.
Y/N felt her mind shift from the memory grasping onto it so tightly. She’d talked to Titus again over the years but their conversations had always been so brief. She had noticed the occasional bit of flattery Titus still managed to sneak in towards her no matter how short their talks had been.
She had to think back to that first real conversation they’d had; his praise of her elegance and thoughts of where she might excel on the hunt.
Surely, this was a sign of what kind of husband Titus Danforth would be. She had to hope that someone who spoke so highly of the girl who everyone thought of as a failure on the hunting fields, might be an agreeable husband.
Titus Danforth stood over the spread of his late mother’s jewelry across the dining room table in his home on his chunk of the Danforth estate property.
He nodded down to the diamond and sapphire ring on the far right corner of the spread of extravagant pieces. “That’s the one. I want the diamond plucked from that ring. It’ll pair well with the platinum. It has to be platinum to match the wedding bands. Make sure it’ll pair well against a wedding band. I don’t want it to fit awkwardly on her finger.”
The jeweler, a squirely looking man nearing his late sixties who was shrinking away from Titus’ gaze, wrung his hands together as he looked at the ring. “What would you like to be done with the sapphire and the gold?”
Titus spoke the idea crossing his mind without hesitation. “Melt down the gold, take the sapphire and fashion it into a pendant necklace. Combine the gold from the ring with new gold. I’ll present it to my bride as a gift at a later time. It might not be the most impressive piece I could give her, but it being mother’s will make up for it.”
“And you need this all done by?” The jeweler questioned Titus giving him a cool look of annoyance knowing they’d already gone over this.
Sweet Hell, he hoped the idiot didn’t fuck this up. He’d hate to have to kill him; it was so hard to find a decent jeweler who did such exquisite work these days. “Friday. Next week. I need it Friday morning at the latest. I am presenting it to my fiancee at our engagement party that evening. It must be done by then.”
The jeweler widened his eyes, swallowing a noticeable lump developing in the back of his throat at the tall order. It was impossible a voice screeched in the back of his head.
He pushed back the thought knowing that Titus Danforth would not take a no from him. He was throwing a ludicrous amount of money his way to get the job done fast.
“I’ll get started on it the moment I get home.” The jeweler remarked trying not to gaze too long at Titus the man unnerving him, he having worked for the Danforth family long enough to know that there had to be something sketchy going on given just how much money they threw his way.
Titus paid him no mind, his eyes landing on another piece of his mother’s jewelry, an extravagant looking choker made entirely of large rubies linked together. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialing a quick number, his eyes not pulling from the necklace.
He spoke without giving the person on the other line a chance to even say hello. “I have a necklace I’m going to need you to retrieve for my bride. She’s going to wear it at our reception. I have the understanding she’ll have two dresses for the occasion; one for our ceremony and one for the reception. I have a piece I want her to wear. I expect you to ensure she gets it when you’re going over the planning with her.”
He paused, rolling his eyes at whatever was said to him on the other end of the line before speaking again. “Retrieve it within the hour. Make sure she understands when she’s meant to wear it. If you fuck it up, I’ll pull each tooth from your jaw and fashion them into a necklace for my bride to wear at our reception.”
He ended the call, the threat having slid from his lips without a moment's hesitation. He sounded almost bored to throw it out, but well aware he’d make good on the threat if his request was somehow ruined.
He glared down at the jeweler, a scowl crossing his features. “Is there a reason you’re still here? You have a ring to make.”
The jeweler picked up the ring with shaky hands placing it in the heavy velvet bag he was holding before he scurried from the room, almost knocking over Ursula Danforth as she entered the room.
Ursula raised a brow at the flustered man grimacing at the fact that he’d brushed by her making contact with her body.
She shook off the annoyance making her way towards the dining room table. Any annoyance that she may have shoved aside easily managed to make its way right back to the center of her brain as she spotted the familiar jewelry spread out across the dining room table.
“What is mother’s jewelry doing here?” She spat out sending her twin brother an accusatory glare.
Titus rolled his eyes quick to reply as he shoved his cell phone back into his pants pocket. “I am accessing which pieces are going to my bride.”
“You’re giving her our mother’s jewelry? Are you fucking serious?” Ursula spat out her voice growing somewhat shrill a tantrum brewing under the surface.
Titus stared down at his sister, his eyes narrowing a dangerous tone taking over his voice. “She’s entitled to them.”
Ursula scoffed at the comment, her fingers digging into her palms as she formed fists. “Like hell she is.”
Titus rolled his eyes, not hesitating to provide a reply. “She’s going to be Mrs. Danforth. No one has held that title since mother. I’ve already cleared it with father. He’s condoned it. She is going to be the lady of the house, dear sister. Father has already stressed she will be the future face of this family.”
Ursula sent him a deadly glare, her blood boiling at the comment. She was the face of this family; not some weak little bird who their father had purchased to be a wet hole for her brother to fuck some heirs into.
Titus spoke once again, rolling his eyes only half acknowledging his sister’s irritation. “These aren’t even your pieces. You have your own collection of mother’s jewels in your jewelry box. These are the pieces that father had hidden away. He’s given them to me to do with as I please and it would please me to give them to my wife.”
Ursula took a deep breath pushing down her rage, the word wife reminding her of her original reason to pay her brother a visit to his home on the family compound. A wife, for her brother, a wife to rein Titus in, a wife who Ursula could use to her advantage.
“You’re right…I have my own jewels.”
Titus raised a brow looking as though he didn’t quite buy the calm from his sister but he didn’t push it.
Ursula spoke again, pulling her eyes from the jewels and the rage she felt bubbling within her. “She’s due to arrive tomorrow evening. Have you prepared her room?”
“The maid has it handled. It’s ready for her. Her shipped belongings are being unpacked as we speak.” Titus replied, trying not to scowl at the knowledge that his bride-to-be and he would be sleeping in separate rooms until their wedding night.
He was prepping the guest room just enough for her to stay until the night she said I do.
He did not intend for his wife to sleep away from him the moment she said I do. She would share his bed for the rest of her days as soon as she became Mrs. Danforth.
He felt a small thrill run through him at the thought. He was eager to get this entire wedding business done and over with and enjoy his wife.
He had pined for her for what felt like years; small all too brief conversations with her at social events over the years never as lengthy as he would like. Her damn brother always hanging around; stopping Titus from charming her.
Titus was never told no…the only person who ever said no was his father and even if he was given a no he was given a platitude of some sort to satisfy him. He felt entitled to more of the lovely little Y/N, and Liam was telling him no.
It made Titus feel like a petulant child being denied the toy he was screaming for. Liam had created a forbidden fruit for Titus’ gaze. Titus wanted to feast upon her but she was kept out of his greedy grasp.
Titus had long accepted that he wanted more of Y/N’s time, but her brother was a blockade in his path. The small short conversations they’d shared over the years left Titus feeling starved for her; absolutely famished.
Titus would be lying if he tried to claim he had not entertained the thought of getting rid of Liam to clear his path towards Y/N. It would be easy enough for Titus to pull off; accidents happened all the time on hunts. Titus was sure he wouldn’t even have to do it with his own bare hands. He could shove someone from his security personnel at the Danforth estate to take Liam out.
It would be so easy, like flipping a switch and turning a light off; extinguishing a life and clearing his path from the blockade that kept him from that lovely little forbidden creature who Liam had been so cruelly keeping from Titus’ reach.
Y/N might be heartbroken of course, Titus was sure…but he could provide a shoulder to cry on. He could sink his claws into her and take her for his own forever.
Titus knew he could be calculating and selfish and take exactly what he wanted. He’d toyed with the idea for years, but something had always stopped him.
He’d told himself it was too great a risk. He wasn’t that worried about what would happen to him if he was caught. He doubted anyone would punish him, or if they did he’d manage to scrape by and live.
What troubled him was the possibility of Y/N finding out. If he went through with his plan and removed her brother from the equation, there was a risk of Y/N finding out. She would hate him for taking her brother’s life. He wasn’t sure he could tolerate her hate; which felt so odd to admit to himself.
If Titus was going to have Y/N he would prefer not to force her. He told himself that it would be much more satisfying to get what he wanted a little more naturally.
Of course, he knew that this arrangement they’d fallen into was forcing her in a way to be his bride…but at least he could work with it a bit easier than any other alternative scenario where he might have been responsible for her brother being removed.
It seemed that fate had been kind enough to take care of Liam for him and now the path was cleared. Even better, the path had been set up for him.
He was getting what he’d wanted for so long now. His hunger would finally be satisfied.
He was pulled from his thoughts as Ursula spoke her voice tight. “You need to be careful, Titus.”
He raised a brow at his sister not responding as she spoke again. “You have to be…something other than you. If you pull your usual shit you’re going to scare the poor bird to death.”
“Don’t call her that…and why would you care? You don’t seem thrilled with her joining the family?” Titus spat back the cruel nickname making a hint of rage begin to bubble within him threatening to spill over if she kept prodding at him.
Ursula rolled her eyes at the question. She held back her true feelings. “Father is right…we need her. She’ll help extend the bloodline. The bloodline won’t extend if you scare her off though. So, just dial back your usual shit, I mean it Titus. You need to be gentle with her. I know you don’t do gentle, but she needs it from you…at least to start with.”
Titus let out a huff at the comment, having the sneaking suspicion that Ursula was shoving her nose into this for some ulterior motive aside from suddenly deciding she agreed with their father.
He gnawed at the suggestion, hating to admit that his sister did have a point. He knew he was not gentle…he was far from gentle. He didn’t even know how to be gentle.
Y/N was not accustomed to rough treatment…he imagined if he approached her with his usual intensity she would shrink away from him…especially when it came time to consummate their marriage.
He did not give his sister the satisfaction of admitting she had a point. “Are you just here to shove your nose into my impending marriage?”
Ursula let out a huff tilting her chin up a smug smile crossing her features. “I am here to tell you that the caterer has been on the phone all morning asking questions about the menu for the engagement party. Father put me as the contact for them since I’m so gifted at planning social events.”
Titus let out a huff of his own at the comment rolling his eyes. He was beyond ready to get this entire wedding ordeal over with. “Fine, come on, let me see what you’ve planned.”
He moved forward glancing back at her stalling. “Follow me, I’m not leaving you with mother’s jewelry.”
Ursula rolled her eyes tearing her eyes from an emerald tiara she would love to have in her collection.
She bit back the desire to snatch up the jewels telling herself she would tolerate her brother showering Y/N with their mother’s things.
Pushing down her annoyance was well worth it if Y/N provided a needed distraction to Titus.
—---------------------------------
Y/N felt her shoulders tense the closer the black chauffeured range rover neared to the Danforth family compound.
She had barely slept the night before and Winston had given her a disapproving click of the tongue until she put on enough makeup to cover the dark circles under her eyes.
She smoothed down the black dress Winston had shoved at her this morning. It was a sleeveless knee length dress made of a luxurious knit material. The A-line dress flattered her figure while maintaining enough of a conservative form to please Chester Danforth.
She was thankful Winston had let her wear ballet flats with the gown instead of heels. The black leather ballet flats were far more comfortable than any pair of stilettos she feared being shoved into.
She stared down at her hands, the fresh manicure on her nails a deep shade of red. She’d been taken to the spa earlier in the week and had been waxed and exfoliated. She had a feeling that she’d have to make another spa visit before the wedding.
She ignored the anxiety that bubbled in her gut at the thought of the wedding and the wedding night in particular…just why she would need to get another wax to prepare her for her husband’s first view of her nude form.
She took a deep breath trying to steady herself glancing at her cousin out of the corner of her eyes as he shifted through a copy of the New York Times.
He lowered the paper barely giving her a glance as he spoke. “Calm down. You have nothing to fret over.”
Y/N swallowed back her rage wanting to snap that she had everything to fret over. Winston was not the one getting married, giving his innocence to a stranger, and settling into a life where he’d become a socialite and a broodmare.
She took a few deep breaths reminding herself of just why this was necessary. She had to do this. This was for her survival. She could do so much worse than Titus Danforth.
She felt her hands begin to shake as the range rover neared a tall gate, the driver rolling down the window and typing in a code causing the heavy iron gates to swing open.
She kept her jaw tight as she took in the landscape surrounded by dense woods. There were woodlands as far as the eye could see. She almost forgot how massive the Danforth family property was.
An entire town could probably be built upon the land.
The drive up to the main house somehow felt both long and far too short. She felt her pulse quicken as the car came to a stop, gazing out the tinted black windows spotting several people standing in front of a massive stately home.
She studied the crowd realizing this must be the Danforth family’s staff. She imagined it must take quite a few members of staff to keep a property of this size running.
She felt her pulse quicken all the more as she spotted the three people standing in the middle of the crowd; her husband to be and her in laws.
She felt lightheaded as the door opened, the chauffeur taking her hand and escorting her from the vehicle.
She held back wanting to cling to Winston like a frightened child. Winston did not allow her to shrink away placing a reassuring hand against the small of her back shoving her forward subtly, her feet feeling heavy and her stomach turning.
Chester Danforth was the first to step forward shaking Winston’s hand. The greeting brief it clear that the older man held little respect for the cousin of his soon to be daughter in law.
The older man glanced down at her as though he was appraising cattle. She did her best to stand steady and not shrink away from his gaze keeping her eyes locked on him and her face fixed into a small polite smile; just as ladylike as Winston had coached her to do.
Apparently Chester Danforth decided he approved of what he had practically purchased for his son. “Welcome, how wonderful it is to have you here. It is truly like gaining a daughter.”
Y/N ignored the voice in the back of her mind that told her that the compliments were empty. She kept her smile pleasant, the words that left her poised and sweet. “Thank you, the feeling is mutual on my end Mr. Danforth.”
“Father, please call me Father. As I’ve said, you are becoming a member of our family.” Chester insisted the words sounded sincere to the untrained ear who had never been long been trained to recognize manipulation.
Ursula stepped forward pasting the same smile on her face that she used when at some charity event talking with the press. “We are so pleased to finally have you here. I hope the trip was pleasant.”
“It was…only a little turbulence.” Y/N replied, trying so hard not to shrink away from Urusla’s gaze.
The older woman had previously not given Y/N the time of day and now here she was speaking to her with such care. It felt so surreal.
Y/N felt her pulse quicken once again as the final member of the Danforth family stepped forward. She stared up at Titus feeling her knees shake threatening to buckle under his gaze.
He stared down at her with an intensity that made her feel both so small and so proud all at the same time.
He said nothing, taking her hand in his taking her by shock as he pulled it up to his lips pressing a soft kiss to her skin.
He lowered her hand but did not release it as he spoke. “Welcome home.”
Summary: After having disappeared for years, suddenly you show back up at home. Unwilling to talk, and with a baby laying across your chest
Tags/Warnings: angst. She/her pronouns used. Mentions of pregnancy.
A/N: This was supposed to be a oneshot, but I decided to make it longer. I didn't give the baby a name because I'm bad at names. And the father has already decided, but I'm not going to put it in this chapter.
Next || Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist
"Who's is it?" Bruce stops pacing to look down at the sleeping baby next to you.
You don't answer, your eyes don't meet his.
"Fine then." Bruce sits down next to the bed."You disappear for nearly five years, and you suddenly show up looking like you're at death's door with a baby. You can understand why I'm worried."
You don't answer.
"Talk to me. Tell me where you've been."
"It is mine... the baby." You say quietly.
"Who's the father?"
You don't respond.
"You're being awfully vague for someone in your situation." Bruce sighs and rubs his hand over his face. "Look, I'm not mad. I'm just worried.
"I don't know how to tell–" you say a little too loudly, causing the baby to fuss.
"How old?" Bruce asks as he watches you pick up the baby to soothe her.
"Six months, she was born in june."
"And you're not willing to say anything else about it?"
"No, not right now. I need time." You look down at the baby in your arms.
"Are you staying here?"
You look back at him and nod. “For now.”
"Then get some rest. I'll have Alfred bring you some food and anything the baby might need." Bruce stands up and walks over to the door.
"Thank you." He hears you say softly behind him.
"Get some sleep. You need it." Bruce gives you one last look before leaving the room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"A sister?"
"You didn't know about her?"
"He did come here after she disappeared."
"And we didn't really talk about her after she thst."
"She's down in the infirmary," Bruce says, rubbing his temples. He can feel a headache coming on from this whole situation.
"So where has she been all these years?" Dick questions.
"She won't say. She wants to 'think about it' before she tells us anything." Bruce sits down at the table.
"And you just let her?" Jason huffs
"We can't force anything out. She clearly isn't in the right headspace for an integration. She could barely walk a few days ago.”
"It's not nice to talk about someone while they're in the same house. You told me that."
They all turn around to find you standing in the kitchen doorway, with the baby swaddled to your chest. “You told me that after I nearly got caught shit talking about a potential business partner.”
"I thought I told you to stay down in the cave." Bruce scolds as you walk past him.
"You did, but I was hungry." You start looking through the fridge.
"Alfred brought you soup."
"I ate it, and I'm still hungry." You close the fridge.
"Then you should have called–"
As you and Bruce bicker back and forth Dick, Jason, and Tim stare with various levels of shock at the sight of the baby snuggled across your chest.
Is this the same girl who vowed to never have a family? You had told them it was because you never felt responsible enough to care for a child, but now has a baby snuggled closely up to you, looking content.
"When..." Dick pauses, looking down at the sleeping baby, "when did you have a kid?"
You look down at the baby, then back up to Dick. "She's always been around. What do you mean?"
"She's what? Around half a year old? And she looks like you, so who's the dad?" Tim asks.
"That's enough–" Bruce's voice cuts through, "go back downstairs until we figure out what to do.”
"So you're just going to treat me like I'm some anomaly?" You huff.
"It's to keep you safe," Bruce says firmly.
"Fine," you head out of the kitchen and walk up the stairs to the second floor. "That's not the infirmary –" Bruce yells as you walk away, "Fight me!" You yell back as you walk away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You wake to the sound of dishes being placed next to you.
When you open your eyes, you see Alfred setting the dishes on the table next to you. "Good evening, Miss. Master Bruce told me you were still hungry, so I prepared some more dishes for you and a warm bottle for the little one."
You sit up, your back sore from sleeping in the chair, "Thank you," you mumble, wiping the sleep from your eyes.
"If you insist on sleeping if you're old room, perhaps we should bring the crib upstairs so you can sleep in the bed." Alfred says as he hands you a plate, "eat first, then you can feed the little one."
"They didn't send you up here to integrate me, did they?" You take a bite of the food.
"Master Bruce is the integrator, I'm just the butler.”
"We both know that that isn't entirely true."
"He just worries about you, in his own way,"
"He wants me to tell him everything, but I don't know how. How do I explain five years of absence and a baby?” You look down at the plate, “I don't know if I even want to explain everything.”
"Is she something you regret? Is that why its difficult–"
"What? No–No, she's everything to me..." You look over to the sleeping baby, "to her father. I just... I will tell Bruce I just need to think about it.”
"Saying you will isn't the same as doing it."
"I know."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Did Alfred get everything you need?"
You look up and see Bruce standing in the doorway. "Yeah, he brought me a bunch of baby stuff." You look at all the baby products laid out in the room. A swing, baby monitor, crib, play pen... some of it still needs to be put together, but it's more than you had before. These weren't exactly the easiest to come by.
"I still think you should have stayed in the infirmary." Bruce walks into your room.
"So you can monitor me.”
"So I can keep you safe." He looks down at the baby, who's staring at him with wide eyes.
"I can stay safe up here. Besides, it's cold down there, and you don't want your poor granddaughter to sit in a cold cave, do you?" The baby giggles as you tickle her side.
"Don't try to guilt trip me. The infirmary has heating.’
"Still isn't the best place for a baby." You place the baby onto the bed.
It goes quiet between you two. The only sound in the room is the sound of the baby playing with the bedding in front of her, both of you watching her play.
After a few moments, Bruce speaks up, "Are you ready to talk about it?"
Another moment of silence passes before you respond.
summary: Whirling into the Cody’s life at 16 like the hurricane you are, the permanent intertwine was instant. Younger than the four sons and a late bloomer, you were an afterthought romance wise. Right up until after you turned 20. Having never even thought about you before, a certain Cody brother can’t help but do exclusively that at your newly developed captivating looks that match your ever-present, chaotic personality. After years of being nothing more than acquaintances, you and Popes new growing bond eventually has you facing the possibility that the intimidating and guarded Pope Cody could be the first to tame the tumultuous storm inside you.
this chapter contains: MDNI as always! no use of y/n, afab reader, she/her pronouns, age gap, r is 21, original characters, self hatred esque thoughts, mentions of m masturbation, mentions of sex workers, cath slander (had to happen), mention of canon ak events, manipulation, mental breakdown, descriptions of violence/blood, reader has had anxiety attacks, so much misinterpretation of feelings, inaccurate portrayals of how a heist works lmao
Pope can't remember the last time he held someones hand.
Well, he does now. Because he held your hand two weeks ago and his has felt extra... weird ever since. He has no explanation for the involuntary flexing it does whenever he thinks about you, though.
It's almost like his scarred, haunted hand has developed the urge to reach for your soft, innocent one whenever you're around.
Which has been often. He now sees you almost everyday, when you stop by Smurfs to meet up with Craig and Deran or when you ask him to pick you up from the salon after a shift even though your car is fixed.
You've never been so present at the Cody household before and some stupid part of Pope's mind thinks that it's because of him.
He knows thats he is definitely not why... but he can't keep help himself from not hanging around, just incase you show up.
Pope has come to terms with the fact that he likes being around you. You never look at him as if you should be afraid, you didn't flinch when he held your hand, and you told him parts about yourself that were hard for you to share.
You make him feel... normal. Like a regular, average guy that girls hold hands with and sometimes cut the hair of.
And he wants to do the same. He wishes he was able to tell you whats going on in his head, but he just can't. It's like the admission always gets lodged in his throat. You must think he is an idiot, because all he has managed to tell you so far is that he used to skateboard and how he cuts his fucking sandwiches diagonally.
You deserve more than that. Sometimes he thinks he should tell you about Julia. The twin sister he hasn't seen in years and didn't choose over Smurf when it came down to it. But even thinking about his sister, who he no longer knows what she is up to or where she even is exactly, makes him physically sick. Stomach churning and eyes stinging kind of sick.
Start with something easier, he thinks to himself. Maybe about how when he was younger, Jax Lyle would make him angry just to see his face get all red and his eyes go all wild with unrestrained anger? No. That makes him sound even more insane.
Popes jaw tightens as he jabs at his punching bag. It's been almost 100 degrees in California this past week and he, for some reason, is sparring with the black bag that hangs on a flimsy stand in Smurfs backyard.
Thats not true— he knows the reason why he chose to let himself get all sticky with sweat and tire out his arms from throwing punches all day. Its because he's frustrated... sexually.
Jesus. How embarrassing is that? Pope is a 33 year old man and can't get it up for anyone else besides his 21 year old friend.
Not that he is trying with anyone else.
He's never really been into porn because he thinks that its too staged. Too unfeeling. And he is not about to have Smurf get him another call girl. She actually hasn't done that for him in a while and he feels an unbelievable sense of relief about that fact.
The act always makes him feel dirty afterward. Hollow. Like his own skin doesn't belong to him anymore. Last time he had been with anyone that was not paid by his mother was almost two years ago. It had been his brothers girlfriend.
Catherine had been drunk and mad at Baz for ignoring her and their newborn baby, so she turned to Pope for... well, he didn't know what she gained from the one night stand exactly.
All he gained was another layer of self hatred and more obsession for Cath. He would picture her in all of the girls since that night that she pretended didn't happen.
He would also think of her and that night that she regretted and he cherished, when he fucked his hand. It made for a truly pathetic life he was living.
And now, he has somehow gotten even more pathetic. Because Catherine hasn't shown up in one of his dirty fantasies in months. Only you have been residing in those.
Pope feels like some sort of pervert trying to not think of you when he jerks off in the shower. But you always drift into his mind anyway. Your pretty smile, your lovely voice, the way your eyes light up when you say something to make his brows shoot up in surprise...
He grunts as he throws an extra harsh punch into the bag, wincing when the calloused leather scratches at his knuckle. He took off his gloves an hour ago because he needed to feel something besides shame and arousal.
He probably shouldn't be destroying his hands since he has the job with Jared and his brothers in two days, but he doesn't care about that too much. He's dreading it to be honest.
Spending the next thirty minutes moving and striking until his arms were jelly, Pope could barely think or move think by the time he heard the gate swing open.
"Oh..." the voice sounded disappointed to find him there. Uncomfortable even. He didn't need to turn around to know that Catherine was standing a few feet behind him.
His mind yells at his arms to move. To keep punching so she walks away and knows not to bother him, but they don't budge.
"Pope? Can I..." She sounds nervous. Hesitant. "Can I ask you something?"
He sighs— not even feeling any sort of anticipation or excitement at her wanting to talk to him— turning to face her with his permanent scowl in tact.
He used to think that she was the most beautiful woman on the planet. But when he turns to face her, he sees her for what she truly is.
Tired. Lonely. Sad.
She has dark bags under her eyes and her black hair is frizzy and unkempt. He knows who is doing this to her. It was once his dream to save her from him. But she didn't choose Pope. She chose Baz.
She stares at him for a moment before something shifts behind her exhausted eyes. Something he can't decipher.
Cath fiddles with the strap of her tank top, voice sounding smaller than Pope has ever heard it, "I um... you haven't been around lately."
Pope's brows furrow. She had asked him multiple times to stay away... why is she saying that like its not what she asked him to do?
"You didn't want me to be," his tone is clipped.
Catherines eyes trail over his sweat soaked black t-shirt that clings to his muscles, tight mma shorts that he works out in and she... bites her lip?
He feels a little grossed out at the sight. Four months ago, he would've given anything for her to look at him like that. But now, her lip bite just makes him think of your lip bite.
Pope's cheeks flush a bit when he thinks of your soft lips under your perfect teeth as you look at him with a pretty expression that makes his zipper feel tight. Cath must notice his shift in mood because she smirks for a split second, thinking it's because of her.
Is she— happy that he is aroused? No. Not happy. Satisfied.
Pope's stomach churns with confusion. His thoughts pick up speed slightly as he tries to figure out what she is doing here. Talking to him. Looking at him like that.
Cath shrugs and slowly steps towards him with one of her hands playing with her ratty hair. "I know but, I didn't think that... you know?"
Pope's head recoils, face scrunching. She didn't what? Think he'd actually be able to stay away from her? Get over her?
His shoulders lock up with tension. What is happening right now? He feels like he's missing a puzzle piece. Like he is 8 years old again and Jax Lyle stole his favorite toy car, and he is left to search the playground for it until the sun sets.
He's having the hardest time processing what she is trying to do, when she quite literally bats her eyelashes at him. An uncomfortable chill dances up his spine.
"I guess I just— maybe sort of... missed you," Her soft words are strained. Forced and fake on her tongue.
Pope just blinks at her. Uneasiness tangible in his mouth and not just because of the sweat dripping down his neck.
Catherine pauses for a beat, as if she's waiting for him to jump up and down with excitement. He doesn't.
She exhales a breath thats half scoff, half confusion.
It makes Pope feel like he's he's a bug under a microscope. Being analyzed for weaknesses. "Anyways..." she's back to sounding awkward. "I wanted to see if you knew where Baz was. I haven't seen him in a few days and I just.. um.. yeah."
Pope wants to say 'He's been cheating on you with Lucy in Mexico for the past three days'. But he doesn't. Not because he wants to protect Catherines feelings, it's in this moment that he realizes he doesn't care about her feelings anymore, that ache that festered in his chest every time she was upset is long gone. The only emotion he feels towards her now is apprehension.
"Nope," he huffs. "Haven't seen him."
Cath's eyes drop, shoulders sag, she lets out a deep sigh. Painting a hollow smile on her face, she looks back up at Pope with a sadness one can only describe as pitiful.
Her tone is… maybe playful? "Guess I chose the wrong brother, huh? I can always find you around."
Pope feels like he's been shot in the chest.
Her words ring in his ears. 'I can always find you around.'
Not intended to mean that he's reliable or dependable. But easy. Eager. An obsessed puppy dog that comes back even after being kicked.
Jesus Christ.
His throat dries up. He blinks rapidly to try and quell the thrum of tense emotions circling deep within him.
'You haven't been around lately.'
She didn't want him to. She acted like she did just because she needed information about his brother.
His brother that she chose over him. Willingly. Even though he had loved her. She did not want Pope. He knew that.
He clenches his jaw and fists involuntarily, starting to twitch all over at the turmoil brewing beneath his skin.
Suddenly, birds are chirping too loudly, the sun is too hot on his skin, and the breeze is a shrill scream instead of a soft whisper in his ears.
Catherine must sense the change, so she mumbles a quick goodbye, not sparing him another glance as she shuffles back through the gate.
'I guess I just— maybe sort of... missed you.'
Blood rushes to his ears. His heart pounding loudly enough to compete with the voices. The spiral.
*thump thump thump*
'Missed you.'
Pope's mind is screaming. His own voice comes flooding in first.
Has she ever seen him as anything other than a way to keep tabs on Baz? Did she ever care about him? Was she ever really his friend?
Popes bruised hands claw at his chest. Every article of clothing is suddenly too tight on his body. His skin is too slick with sweat.
He feels every scalding drop that runs down his back, giving him chills that make his stomach roll.
The overstimulation douses him and his mind caves in on itself.
Years of unreciprocated pining boil to the surface. He feels small. Pathetic. Stupid.
'Guess I chose the wrong brother, huh?'
Fuck.
She was using him. She never cared. He had been so accessible to her that she thought she could bat her eyelashes and he would come running.
His skin is on fire. Hot, unrelenting sparks burrow under him and burn him alive. He starts to scratch at it. It soothes nothing.
*thump thump thump*
New voices flood his mind. Smurfs. Catherine’s. Baz’s.
All of them saying words that haunt him. Treating him in ways that keep him up at night. Keep him hating himself.
Shapes and colors start flying through his vision. My feet are moving, is a fleeting coherent thought.
Pope feels his control over his body slipping through his fingers.
'I can always find you around.'
*thump thump thump*
Footsteps pound on the concrete. Must be running.
Up the driveway, out to the sidewalk.
His body jolts. He’s run into something— no someone. The blurry figure yells. Loudly and angry. A man's voice.
Pope is shoved. Hard.
A feeling claws its way to the surface. Tearing at his insides. A visceral rip through his chest.
Anger.
No longer in control of his body, he lunges forward. He sideways now... on the ground maybe? Yes. On the ground.
The mans beneath him.
'Missed you.'
Pope yells to try and stop her voice echoing in his ears. It’s a wounded sound. Nothing changes. He gets angrier.
He punches the man.
One hit and a slight ease flows through his throbbing bloodstream. His burning skin. The small relief it brings has Pope bring his fist to connect with the strangers face. Once. Twice.
Again. Again.
*thump thump thump*
'Guess I chose the wrong brother, huh?'
He can't see anything. Only hearing muffled gasps from the stranger and his own broken sobs.
Pope's throat is lined with thorns, his arms only knowing the motion of downward punches, his mind feels like it’s shattering inside his skull.
He doesn’t know how long he repeats his hits.
But his arm grows achey. A new feeling.
'I can always find you around.'
A twinge of pain flicks through his knuckles. He hears something crack. Someone in the distance screams for help.
Pope looks up. Eyes unfocused on his surroundings.
Every muscle is locked tight. His heart is beating too fast. Hurts. Stings. Cracks.
He hears panicked shouts above the thrumming of his heart in his ears.
*thump thump thump*
Watery coughs choke from the man below him.
He moves. Standing up? Yes. Up.
'Missed you.'
*thump thump thump*
His feet pick a direction. He's running now. Commotion behind him drifts further and further away.
The pain gets clearer and clearer.
Pope inhales as deeply as he can, willing himself to piece together somewhere he can go. He can't breathe fast enough to catch up with his lungs need for air.
Think. Breathe. Think. Breathe.
He needs a place. Refuge from his thoughts that are trying to split him in half.
'Guess I chose the wrong brother, huh?'
Everything comes into focus for a singular second.
His mind quiets, emphasizing only one name.
Yours.
Your gum was flavorless at this point, but you were still chewing on it anyway because you were conflicted.
You were currently nestled onto your couch, having an internal debate about whether or not you should go out with Jared. Sure, you were gonna meet with him anyways for business purposes for your mother.
But go on a few dates? That, you didn't know.
Your mom had been happy you agreed to give him your number. But it was during a fleeting moment of revenge slash humiliation when you learned Pope was in love with Catherine.
Now, the revenge part had died down— mostly because he wouldn't even care if you did date Jared— but the humiliation stayed.
You could officially admit you had a crush on Pope Cody. Not feelings. That word is too... deep. Too serious. But a crush was where you landed. Unfortunately.
You went to one of your moms spas with Kendra the other night for free massages and manicures, and she gave you a big fat ‘I told you so’ about your admission. She went on and on about how its clear he likes you too. But you shut her down when you told her that he was in love with someone else.
She had blanched apologetically, then suggested that you go on a date with her fiancees super hot friend. You said maybe.
It has been a while since you've been on a date with a guy. You miss the attention and the certainty of knowing that the man at dinner, no matter how annoying, wants you badly.
Pope doesn't give you that. Nope, you feel like an insecure teenager with him again.
You grimace as you spit your gum into a tissue and threw it in your small wicker trashcan next to your sofa.
Sagging back into the couch, you prepare to extensively continue your internal debate on this fine Sunday night.
Your preparations are interrupted however, when a pounding sounds on your door.
You jolt slightly at the intensity of the knock. Loud and rushed. An ounce harder and the wood might have cracked.
You pad over and swing open your door to see... Pope standing there.
Well, not standing, exactly. After only a few seconds of staring at him, you see that his demeanor is akin to a wild animal.
He's muttering gibberish, hazel eyes wild and unfocused. His auburn hair, black t-shirt and athletic shorts are all stuck to his body, drenched in sweat.
Your stomach drops at the sight. It feels like you have been doused in cold water as you see him incoherent and visibly shaking.
“I can’t- I don’t-" he begins, never really finishing or leading anywhere.
You keep your voice soft, not knowing whats going on entirely but obviously understanding that he's going through something mentally.
"Pope...?" You raise a slow arm to reach for him, maybe caress his arm or rest on his shoulder. But he flinches, eyes finding yours for a split second before quickly recoiling backwards. Broad chest caving in to avoid any contact.
"Okay, okay," you say all hushed, like you're speaking to a rabid dog. Your eyes finally drop to his bloodied knuckles and you inhale a sharp breath.
You want to bombard him with questions. Starting with, What do you need?
But you don't. He isn't fully... there right now to answer anyway, so you do what you think you would want if you were having a breakdown of your own.
You open your door wider for him and gesture for him to come inside.
Thankfully, he does. His steps are unbalanced and his body is twitching as he moves.
Your gut tightens in worry. He looks unwell. Very unwell.
He starts to pace back and forth, still mumbling rushed words. Some of them you make out. "Chose the wrong..." and "Missed you." and "...Always around."
You slowly close your door and move back to your couch. You don't want to do anything to hurt him further, but your swept by the urge to cry in frustration. You're scared, confused, and so, so concerned.
You tell yourself that you wouldn't want to be stared at in this state. So you quietly pick up a magazine off of your table and open to a random page. Your eyes can't even focus on the drama about the celebrities in Hollywood as you have to force your foot still as it begs to nervously tap.
You don't turn the page once. You don't even shift an inch on the couch with the thought in mind that you wouldn't want the sounds of pages turning right now if you were Pope.
Seconds, then minutes pass by of him doing nothing but shaking his head, rambling broken sentences and twitching his fingers.
You don't hear his feet shift for a few minutes after a while, but you don't look up yet.
"You— you can turn the page,” His raspy voice is barely a whisper.
You glance up at him and shoot him a soft smile. He is standing still now, not looking any less twitchy, but his hazel eyes aren't glazed over anymore and they're focused on you. Nodding once, you then return to your magazine. You turn the page.
Obviously not absorbing any information, you are very aware when Pope gradually moves to sit next to you on the couch, his breathing a bit more even now, but still scratchy.
You don't look up from the magazine when you quietly suggest, "Want some water?"
He doesn't answer and you know that he has most definitely answered with a head nod. You move to get him some water and from the corner of your eye, you see him reach for you before freezing and dropping his hesitant hand, as if he's decided against it.
When you come back with water, Pope's eyes are glued to his bloodied knuckles. The glass stays untouched on the coffee table as you sit by his side, silent. You tuck your feet under your thighs and angle your shoulders towards him. You're not really sure what he needs right now, but you can assume its not you asking him why his knuckles are—
"I broke someones nose," he says, too unsteady to be a confession but too direct to be considered anything else. His knees shift slightly at their place on the couches edge, still facing completely forward.
You nod, not entirely knowing what to do with that information. You wouldn't dare ask who the someone is.
Surprisingly though, relief courses through you at his statement. Not because he broke someones nose, but because he clearly remembers it. Seeing how he was when he first showed up, you are just glad he is sitting down and talking right now.
The only mental struggles you've ever witnessed were your own. A few anxiety attacks here and there when you were in high school and you had do deal with the classic mean girls.
But this... you're pretty sure you just saw Pope have a full on mental breakdown, and you feel so helpless right now you don't even care that he just admitted to assaulting someone. All that you feel is a relaxing hint of solace that he still holds the pieces together.
He meets your eyes, freckled face pulled taught with an emotion you've never seen on him before. Fear.
"I don't think I meant to— I just..." he clears his throat when his words sound almost meek. "It happened. I don't know how. Or why."
You should say words now... right?
"Okay," you steady your voice as much as you can. "Do you think your knuckles are broken?"
Pope blinks at you, searching your face for something that you're not sure what it is exactly.
"W-what?" you ask. His features are hard as granite, you have no idea what you said wrong.
"You're not... scared of me?" beneath his usual raspy tone is a waiver of shock.
Your head recoils, nose scrunching like a bunny's, "Why— why would I be scared of you?"
Popes eyes widen a fraction, which for him means they basically were bulging out of his head, "I just told you that I— You seriously aren't...?"
You giggle and for a second you regret it, not wanting to have him think you're laughing at him, but his shoulders sag at the sound. A fleeting bubble of warmth fills your chest, but you don't let it stay.
"If you think that a bit of violence and a few bloody knuckles would scare me, then you clearly have forgotten than your two idiot brothers are my best friends," You sigh, feigning discontent. "I couldn't even tell you how many times I've patched up cuts for Deran or held an ice pack to bruises on Craigs back."
Pope doesn't say anything. He just stares at you, straight backed and tight faced, as if he's never seen you before. It seems like he really did forget that you have been around the Cody's for years. Makes sense though, since he wasn't apart of it up until a few months ago.
Your voice gets softer, "I know you, Pope. You don't scare me."
You reach your hand out and intertwine your fingers with his on top of his thigh. If you weren't trying to coax him out of an internal spiral, you would harp on the fact that your hand felt so right in his. How it fits perfectly, warming you from the outside in.
Pope's eyes drop to the point of contact, doing nothing but steadily breathing for a few seconds, then his fingers tighten around yours, as if he also feels the warmth it brings.
"You don't, though," his voice cracks. "Not really."
You furrow your brows, but as you open your mouth to argue that you do, you stop yourself. If he really thought so, then he wouldn't have said any different. And it is true that you have done the hefty portion of all the sharing so far in your friendship. So maybe...
"Okay, you're right. I don't," you surrendered, shifting closer to him an inch. "So, could you maybe let me?"— the corners of his mouth turn downward as if he doesn't understand—" Know you, I mean." You clarify.
His mouth replicates a fish's for almost a full minute, just opening and closing. You gather that he's not sure how to respond.
Has truly no one ever tried to get to know him before?
Right as you're about to give up and tell him if he doesn't want to you're not going to force him, he speaks.
"Earlier I uh... had something happen to me. In my head, ," his words are shaky. Unpracticed. "It's happened before where I sort of, black out. My mind stops being, um, mine and..."
He trails off, eyes darting everywhere but to your own. You give his hand a light squeeze to know that you're still listening. Still not scared.
His bares his teeth as he grits his next words out, "It happened a lot when I was younger. I used to get mad all the time. I'd destroy classrooms and, uh, get into it with others kids when it would happen..."
"Did you ever...?" You can't quite form the words to ask if he's ever spoken to a professional about this, but he seems to understand.
"Smurf taught us to lie to shrinks," His tone is clipped. Your heart sinks when you think about young Pope who got no help, who is now all grown up and suffers the consequences.
You will the tears away that brim at your waterline as he continues speaking.
"So, no. I— I don't know why it happens. Usually when I'm angry or confused or—" He leans forward and straightens one of the books on your coffee table with his free hand— "Overwhelmed."
You hum in amusement at his movement, causing his dark eyes to flick to yours. Needing a reprieve from the tightness in your chest, you say lightly, "You're very tidy. I know that about you."
His lips twitch upward slightly and he nods, "I also don't really know why that is either. It... helps me when things are clean and, uh, in order."
You nod as you supply a gentle, "Tell me more about what happened earlier."
His fingers tense around yours and his jaw clenches. Unease is radiating off him as he continues to speak, "I thought that I understood something about... someone. But I was wrong. They never—" He tears his eyes from yours, starting to blink rapidly.
"Pope..." you start, but he shakes his head, effectively stopping you.
He finally turns his whole body towards you, shoulders parallel with yours. He rolls his lips, "Sometimes my thoughts get so bad that—" he inhales a sharp breath, lips quirking sideways, — "that I think my mind makes me go crazy 'nd not remember anything, just so I don't have to think them anymore."
It almost makes sense.
"And that..."— you're not sure what to ask exactly— "that helps?"
The shake of his head is almost instant, auburn curls that still stick to his forehead a bit move with the gesture.
"Okay... what does help?" you feel the nausea churn in your stomach at the thought of never being able to help him, or even understand what he's going through.
His eyes meet yours once again, now clear and filled with more sincerity than you've ever seen.
Pope then says one word that steals the breath from your lungs, "You."
You feel like your world has been titled off it's axis. His admission is so matter of fact that you let yourself believe it.
Because you're here. Sitting with him, holding his hand, and listening to him as he lets you inside his mind.
Without thinking twice about comforting him— and yourself as your lip quivers slightly— you unlink your hands and reach up to softly cup his cheek. His hazel eyes burn into yours instantly, but he doesn't flinch like all the other times you've gotten this close.
After a beat of eye contact that makes your stomach go all wavy, his eyes flutter shut, allowing himself to be touched by you.
His face is soft as he shifts beneath your palm, you would use the word nuzzle, but that feels too... no thats definitely what it is. Pope Cody was nuzzling his face into your hand that rested softly on his cheek.
"Feels nice," his soft mutter is so quiet you wouldn't have heard it over your own breathing if you had been doing so. But you weren't of course, because your whole body was feeling a bit fuzzy and your lungs went tight the second you started tracing your thumb along his cheekbone.
It was so... intimate. He was being completely vulnerable with you physically now, something he has never truly done before.
Pope kept lightly rubbing his face against you, words almost spilling out of his mouth now, but still at a low whisper that felt like they were a secret for you to keep, "I like this... and I like—"
His face freezes and his body tenses. Eyes shooting open, he purses his lips together tightly to cut off whatever he was going to say next, as if he has to physically keep it himself from saying it.
He looks so alarmed by what he was about to say, that your heart sinks to the floor.
Was he... was he going to talk about Catherine?
Oh god.
Maybe he was still out of it. Maybe he was picturing her holding his face right now instead of you.
Your stomach churns and heat burns your face as you realize you have stupidly read too much into yet another interaction with Pope.
You start to pull your hand away before mortification threatens to swallow you whole, when his own large hand shoots up to grab it.
He scans your face and furrows his brows slightly, as if he doesn't understand what's wrong.
Pope then links your fingers back together and moves them to rest onto his chest. You feel his steady heartbeat under the back of your hand.
He opens his mouth and asks you a question that you ask him almost every time you see him. His voice is gruff— and if you didn't immediately tell yourself thats not what it is— you almost think he sounds eager, "Tell me something about yourself that no one else knows."
You blink at him, half baffled, half amused. Not bothering to pretend you won't, you part your lips to give him an answer, but the repeated buzz of your phone from your coffee table cuts you off.
Normally, you wouldn't dare check your phone while in a serious conversation like this. But right now, you need an excuse to break eye contact with Pope in order to not find a sign that he is picturing someone else within them.
Your jaw unhinges at the texts that await on your lock screen when you open it up.
Unknown number:
Hey it’s Jared.
Your mom told me you’re free this week. I’ll pick you up Wednesday at 8.
You got a motorcycle helmet, doll?
Jesus.
Can't you catch a break?
"Do you..." Popes wary tone straightens your spine. "Do you need to get that?"
Your hand is still in his. Your skin is still pressed against his t-shirt so closely that you feel the pace of his heart beat pick up as he awaits your answer.
But you've been over this. It's not the same for you as it is for Pope. It means something different to him.
You place our phone down and glance back to him.
"Not right now. But... but I think I will later."
"What the fuck is he doing?!" Baz hisses when the Cody brothers hear a loud car engine revving from outside the building.
"Being a fucking asshole like I told you he would be!" Craig supplies, voice hushed due to where they are, but still allowing his anger to sharpen his words.
"Shut up! We're not getting caught cause of you're bitching," Pope snarls as quietly as he can. His words echoing off the bright white walls.
The evidence room of the crime lab that the three of the Cody's currently stand in is small and looks like a hospital waiting room.
That's right. Crime lab.
After they agreed to steal back whatever Jared Lyle had lost— because Smurf would've cut them off probably if they didn't— they were then informed that said 'product' was 60 kilos of fucking coke.
One of Jared's warehouses had been raided and was taken to the forensic laboratory three towns over they're currently standing in. Currently robbing, actually.
Baz formulated the plan with Pope's help. Due to all of them already having hefty criminal records, they had to get creative.
Baz and Pope used fake ID's that one of Smurfs connections made for them. They disguised themselves as delivery men from the Oceanside police department and claimed they had to 'check on the product' because of.. blah blah blah. Pope hadn't really been listening to Baz while he charmed the busty blonde receptionist at the front desk.
All he could focus on was how itchy his dark blue policemen uniform had been.
Craig was the one who bribed one of the janitors to give him their ID. He taped a sticker of his face onto it and waltzed right in. Baz only let Craig do that shit because it always worked for him.
Jared Lyle, claiming that he needed to be apart of this plan because it was— in his own words— "His fucking shit in that damn lab", was named the getaway driver.
The driver who was supposed to be quiet and wait for a phone call before moving the car, but was currently revving his engine in the back alley that the lab was connected to.
Fucking asshole.
They had finished loaded up the coke into the trash bags from Craigs janitorial cart, when Deran's text came through on Pope's phone.
Moving to evidence now. Just left for 'bathroom'.
Deran's roll, being the youngest and actually college age, was a student on one of the university tours that were held daily at the lab. There were only a handful of scientists and security guards that walked the halls, and they were all occupied with guiding the tour in order to watch the college kids.
It was Baz's idea, and as much as his brothers hated to admit it, it was working pretty fucking well. Deran was texting them the whereabouts of the guards that led the group as they moved through the two story building.
"Let's go! Tours on it's way, Deran's heading out," Pope grits out as Baz finishes up his drilling of the nails from the window pane.
The tension was always high when they did jobs together. Adrenaline had gotten the better of them on too many jobs. But this time was different.
Not because something was going wrong, but because they knew who waited in the fucking alley as their way out of the potential prison sentence.
When Baz was coming up with the plan, the boys had strong opinions over where Jared would be placed. Craig refused to be in the same room as him, and Deran refused to be the driver if Jared got to be inside. So, there was only one roll for him to fill.
Pope didn't like it though. Sure, he didn't like any of the Lyle's, from their calculating dad to their psychopath of an oldest son, but he especially didn't like working with someone he didn't trust.
But they had no choice. Smurf was involved and there was no way out.
So, tensions were at an all time high today, even worse then when they held the few meetings with Jared to discuss their plans. At one of them, Pope had to hold Craig back when Jared kept making comments about how he was surprised Craig was even involved. Calling him some very derogatory names in order to say he was too stupid to be apart of it.
They all hated Jared, who didn't show up to multiple meetings because he thought he was too good for them.
So, Pope isn't really surprised, that when they all hop in the car after shoving the coke through the window and climbing out after it, the boys are all completely silent as Jared speeds off.
"Fuck yeah baby!" Jared yells as his foot is basically slammed on the gas. The whole car tips sideways as he exits onto the highway at 96 miles per hour.
"Slow down. Now!" Baz tries and fails to tell Jared from his place in the passenger seat.
The other three Cody's are squished into the backseat. The 5 dozen kilos of coke sit in trash bags in the trunk.
"Are you trying to kill us asshole!?" Craig shouts, gripping onto the door in fear for his life.
"Don't need to kill you Craig! You'll do that yourself when you snort away the last three fucking braincells you have!" Jared cackles from the drivers seat. His sunglasses hug his face and his dark hair whips in the wind.
"That's it," Craig yells as he starts to lunge forward but Pope intercepts him. Well, he tries to. He barely gets a hold on Craigs grey janitors sleeve as he dives across the backseat.
The car swerves as Craig manages to grab one of Jared leather jacket clad arms with a huge hand, tugging as hard as he can.
"Craig you fucking idiot!" Deran screams as the Cadillac flies into the right lane and almost completely off the road into the cement wall that lines the highway.
Pope's stomach flips and bile rises in his throat at the powerful jolt.
He can't even form the thought of fearing for his life before his breath is knocked out of him, as he's crushed in between Deran and Craigs huge frame as they're all whipped to the left due to the force.
"If we get pulled over, we're headed to Folsom with your fucking brother, Jared! Slow the fuck down!"
Pope bristles at the mention of Jax, but he can't harp on it because Baz's words thankfully get through to the youngest Lyle. Jared slows the car down to only 20 over the speed limit. Still too much, but no one pushes further.
When the car is no longer a roller coaster slash death trap, everyone settles only slightly. Craigs fists are balled up tight onto his lap and Deran's jaw is clenched so tight Pope half thinks it might snap.
Baz has his phone out and Pope already knows he's letting Smurf know that they're on their way to the junk yard to dispose of the car.
"Didn't peg the Cody boys for such pussys," Jared scoffs as he takes the exit that leads towards the junk yard.
No one takes the bait, but Craig rolls his neck as if he has to do something besides kick Jared's ass.
Jared keeps running his big mouth the whole drive there, while he parks, and the entire walk to their separate cars.
He hops on his motorcycle while guys in his crew load the coke into a black van.
He throws a smug smirk at them, "Maybe I should hire you boys to do this for me more often. Be my personal jockeys y'know? No no, my bitches. Yeah thats more like it."
Jared laughs menacingly, "Oh right. I forgot. You're not bitches, and you get no bitches. At least not ones I've gotten to first."
Before Craig can take another swing at him, Pope says his first words since the lab. Molding his face to make his scowl more icy than usual, he makes sure to let the taunting bleed into his tone, "I think the only bitch that we know is your brother, right? Last I heard, thats the only thing he's known for in prison."
Deran chokes on his laughter and Craig doesn't bother holding back his own.
Jared gets visibly exasperated, but he schools his features immediately. He blinks once, then a purely evil smile crosses his face as a clear intention pops into his mind.
His voice is more complacent than Pope has ever heard it as he says, "Right. I forgot you know my brother. Jax told me what the two of you used to get into." He shows all thirty two teeth as he levels a wicked look at the oldest Cody.
"How's that skateboard of yours Pope?"
Unlike Craig, it takes all three of Pope's brothers to hold him back.
authors note: HOWDY LOVLIES! once again.. im so sorry about the long wait.. life got in the way unfortunately :( buttt i like this one. i hope the manic episode writing was clear and not like unreadable or something ... ive never written like that before so sorry if it didn't portray what i thought it was going to.
꒰ content warning ꒱ au where umbrella doesn’t exist , fem!reader , civilian x cop , robbery ( nothing too fancy bc i suck at writing action scenes ) , leon being a golden retriever , not properly proofread .
꒰ word count ꒱ 982 words
꒰ a/n ꒱ first time posting a multichap on tumblr so i’m shitting my pants, plus i’m scared i wrote rookie leon bad lol. this fic won’t be too long, i’ve already sorted out the plot and it should be done in 5 chapters so don’t expect anything too lengthy. i’m posting the first chapter in a rush also because i’m trying to understand if it’s worth posting or not. please please please, remember i’m not a native english speaker, so grammar and spelling might be all over the place ( i apologise in advance ); remember that this is a hobby and i’m writing for fun. if you read through this wall of text, thank you and enjoy !
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Raccoon City felt intimidating at first. Moving to a new town, on your own, surely felt scary, with all the ifs and buts, but Leon adapted pretty soon.
Certainly leaving behind an important relationship was hard, but Leon couldn’t stand the distance in addition to the work load of his job. Police officer.
A part of Leon still couldn’t believe that he made it, that years of training brought him here, in RPD.
It was a surprisingly warm welcome, and he learned that Lieutenant Branagh supervised the organisation for the small welcoming party – he later found a scrap of paper with a list of things each of them had to tend to before Leon got there.
A couple of weeks had passed since he started, and Leon had been working hard. He often worked late on reports, tried to help anyone in the streets and be of help to those in need.
Just like he had always wished to do.
He wasn’t exactly on duty when it happened, but merely grocery shopping after finishing his shift at the Station. The shop wasn’t that crowded, so whoever decided to try a robbery was certainly trying to avoid unnecessary casualties – at least that’s what Leon thought.
Just ahead happened to be you, busy trying to reach the Police while the guy with his face covered by some halloween mask kept pointing a gun at the shop owner, shouting about putting the cash in the bag he was holding.
Leon got momentarily distracted by your appearance, finding it both familiar and unknown. He had to admit he’d never seen you around, but he also didn’t know the face of every Raccoon citizen.
Whatever. He needed to focus on the matter at hand.
Leon left his cart behind and slowly, cautiously approached the robber from behind, noticing the old man behind the counter trembling as he tried to fulfil the guy’s request. Then, as quick and efficient as possible, Leon wrapped an arm around the robber’s neck and made him drop the gun before he could even think about shooting.
You stood up to your feet, noticing this blond guy taking control of the situation, before hearing he was a police officer. Well, just your lucky day, huh?
The Police arrived soon after, with Leon handing the robber over and sighing in relief, glad he was able to diffuse the situation. He looked pretty proud of himself.
“Leon, good job,” a fellow officer patted the rookie’s shoulder, offering a supporting smile. “Always ready to help, heh, officer Kennedy?”
Just like that, Leon suddenly looked shy and nodded, heat creeping up his neck at those words.
Leon Kennedy. This name rang a bell in your mind and just then, you remembered.
“Leon?” You called out, taking a small step closer. Could he really be your old friend from middle school? He surely changed a lot.
Leon turned on his heels, clearly having forgotten about your presence, and observed you more closely now. You were definitely a familiar face, he was sure now.
“[Y/N]? Is it really you?” A surprised expression appeared on his face, and then he smiled, stepping much closer to you. “It’s been so long! What are you doing here in Raccoon City?” His voice was enthusiastic, he looked eager to know what you’ve been up to and how you ended up here.
Leon resembled a puppy, had he had a tail it would have been wagging nonstop.
“Oh, um… I recently moved here, actually,” you replied, standing there while fiddling with your fingers. “You’re a cop, huh?”
Leon’s eyes widened when you mentioned moving here.
“No way! I got transferred here to work at the RPD, yes,” he nodded, rubbing the back of his head. “That means we will see each other around more often,” he added, liking the prospect.
You two were close friends in middle school, sticking together for school projects or simply going out to get ice cream. It felt nostalgic in a way, also because it had been almost ten years since you two last saw each other.
“Did you move here for work, then?” Leon asked, tilting his head to the side.
“Kinda,” you chuckled lightly, not exactly considering it that way. Surely you moved to start new, but not in a negative way. A coffee shop was a good start while you were trying to get your bearings around town. “I’m currently working at the Raccoon Cafe.”
“Oh, I’m kinda familiar with the place. I mean, I didn’t come personally, but a coworker of mine always mentions how good the coffee is and is constantly praising the pastries,” he observed, being honest.
“I have to agree on that, I always make sure to bring some spare pastries at home when I finish the afternoon shift,” a smile curved your lips.
Leon momentarily got lost in taking in the grown-up you. You’ve always been shorter than him when you were kids, but seeing you taller and more adult from what he remembered was… well, let’s just say he found himself recalling those times, and missing them dearly.
“How about we meet up for a coffee sometime?” Leon suddenly offered. “You know, to catch up a bit and recall the old days,” he continued, his cheeks flushed slightly at the thought.
You seemed to consider the offer, before nodding your consent. Seeing a familiar face in a new town certainly helped a bit, plus you were curious about what Leon had been up to, too.
“Sure, why not.”
You two exchanged phone numbers, with Leon inviting you to a cafe closer to the Station tomorrow afternoon, in order to make sure he won’t be too late because of work, and then proceeded with your grocery shoppings on separate ways.
Who would have thought you would end up meeting none other than Leon S. Kennedy in a city like this?
summary: you go about your quiet cabin life on a slow summer day, sugar-dusted pie on the sill, dirt worked deep beneath your nails. But the past still whispers through the trees, telling stories of campfire smoke, a gang of outlaws you once ran with, and a certain boy who carried the night in his eyes and wolf-claws on his cheek. Some loves are meant to stay buried. Others are only waiting to find their way home.
warnings: mentions of abuse (SA, physical, mental), cheating, angst.
genre: 40% smut, 40% angst, 20% fluff.
notes: very canonverse (except for the epilogue which I heavily modified)
wc: 8.6k
The first thing you always felt afterward was the cold.
Not the night breeze—though the wind cut through the trees in thin, whistling ribbons—but that hollow, creeping cold that settled under your skin the second he rolled off you. The ground was hard beneath your back, damp soil pressing into your spine through your clothes, but it was the emptiness he left behind that made you shiver. No weight, no warmth, nothing grounding you to the earth. Just the sound of him catching his breath in short, satisfied huffs and the faint jingle of whatever trinket he always kept in his coat pocket.
“Good girl,” he muttered, the words slurred with liquor and smugness. He didn’t touch you after. He never did. Not that you wanted him to either. His hands were gross, already busy buckling his belt again, the clink of the metal biting into the silence.
You stayed where you were, staring up through the branches. Moonlight fractured through the pine foliage, scattered into pale shards across your skin. If you focused hard enough, it made the bruises on your hips look like shadows. If you pretended hard enough, once he left… this never happened. But your skin still stung where his grip had been too tight. Your wrists still ached. Your breath felt borrowed. And the flesh between your thighs still burned, reminding you that this was your reality now. This was the way you survived.
He hummed to himself as he dressed, some tuneless half-song that made your stomach twist. He never looked at you, not once, as if your body had already ceased to exist the moment he was done using it.
“You keep quiet now,” he said, more habit than warning, as he put his hat back on. “Ain’t nobody need to know.”
As if anyone would want to.
As if you’d ever dare to speak of it.
As if anyone would listen.
He stepped back onto the narrow path leading toward camp, boots crunching over dry twigs. Every sound of his departure grew fainter, the scrape of spurs, the lazy whistle he’d slipped into, the cocky slur in his footsteps.
Then nothing.
Just the wind.
Just the trees.
Just you.
Finally, you exhaled, shaky, soundless, a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
You fucking hated Micah Bell.
You pulled your skirt down with tired fingers, sitting up slowly as the chill sank deeper. Dirt clung to the backs of your thighs. Pine needles scratched at your palms. You brushed them off, but the shame and his scent lingered, heavy and clinging in a way the earth never could.
-
Washing dishes was not your favorite chore. It wasn’t difficult, no, just dull. Repetitive. And that was exactly why it unsettled you. When your hands moved on their own, your mind wandered off wherever it pleased. To places you rarely visited. To places you hadn’t seen since the summer of 1899.
These days, most thoughts were kind. Gentle. Grounded in a life finally sturdy enough for the quiet to feel comforting instead of dangerous.
Most days.
But some days… some mornings when the sunrise found you alone, the dark had a way of slipping through the cracks of your cabin walls.
And sometimes it brought Micah Bell up with it.
Bastard.
The sponge in your hand dragged over stubborn potato skins clinging to the tin plate so hard it squeaked. You scrubbed harder. It didn’t help.
You didn’t know how you had stayed. How you survived that long. No, you didn’t know how. But with distance, with time, with more life lived than you expected to back then… now you understood why.
You couldn’t be unkind to her, the twenty-something you were then, she was only surviving. She knew the world outside camp far too well. She had hell for a home before a silver-haired conman with a soft smile and a rattling cough offered her a temporary tent and a warm campfire to sit around on breezy nights.
“Just until you figure it all out,” he’d said. And he meant it.
So yes, you stayed.
You stayed for the honest conman. You stayed for the safety of campfires and coffee brewed too strong, for the comfort of a girl named Mary-Beth who taught you how to read. For the mornings when a dependable, and very handsome, gentleman named Arthur tipped his hat respectfully and called you “m’lady”. You chuckled, your grip softening around the sponge.
As if you was one.
You stayed for the evenings when a girl named Tilly saved you a bowl of stew without needing to be asked. And the afternoons when another named Karen swore she’d teach you how to shoot even if it killed her, even though you were hopeless and never really learned. You wondered where she was now.
You stayed because you didn’t know where else you could go.
And of course…
Of course you stayed for him.
For a certain boy with long black hair that curled wild when wet, and wolf-claws forever carved into his right cheek. The one whose shoulders always hunched, whose eyes always brooded, as if the weight he carried was too big for one person, but he carried it anyway.
-
You couldn’t exactly explain how this thing between you and him had started.
You couldn’t even name what it was, had someone ever found out what you did when no one was looking.
The closest word you could think of—the only one that didn’t feel like a lie—was ‘agreement.’
You see, there wasn’t much work a woman could do for a gang of outlaws. Not real work. Not the kind that felt important enough to justify a bowl of stew, especially not when you were one of the most recent additions to the group, and nearly all the useful tasks were already taken.
Karen didn’t count, she was half gunslinger herself, fearless and loud, living on whiskey and trouble, and working shifts like the men did. Molly didn’t count either, for different reasons. She simply existed above it all, protected by the pedestal Dutch had carved for her.
Mary-Beth and Jenny handled the mending, Tilly the laundry, or sometimes the other way around. Point was, those jobs were spoken for.
Mrs. Adler had joined grieving, but even then, by the end of it all, she’d stormed her way into something fiercer, riding out with Arthur and Charles as if born for it.
Miss Grimshaw… she was cold to you, cruel some days, but you couldn’t deny she worked harder than anyone. Everything passed through her hands before it could be called done.
And Abigail…
She had… She had young Jack. And they always said that raising a child in a world that wanted to swallow him whole was more labor than anybody else’s combined. But what would you know. Plus her history with the gang ran deeper than yours ever could.
Sure, you helped with the other ladies’ chores, except Karen’s, Abigail’s, and Molly’s whatever-that-was. Laundry. Picking herbs nearby. Helping Mr. Pearson peel potatoes. Tending horses. Mending clothes. And sometimes when they were short of hands, you even assisted with medical tasks, even though the sight of an open wound turned your stomach and left your head spinning.
But none of it felt like real work.
A true, needed, exclusive contribution.
And as Grimshaw, and later bastard Micah, never stopped reminding you: If they decided you weren’t useful enough, Dutch would give the order and drop the dead weight. Discarding you like the stray you’d always been.
Yes. You’d heard variations of that threat your entire life.
You’d been sent to relatives as far back as memory stretched, their household the only “home” you knew. They fed you, yes, but not without reminding you what it cost them. How much of a burden you were.
You had to pull your weight then, too. First sweeping floors and cleaning outhouses at the saloon they found you a job in. Then serving drinks and waiting tables when they decided you were mature enough, because the owner’s daughter wanted someone else to take the men’s wandering hands.
Years went by like that. And you hated every second of such chore, the ass-grabs, the rotten breath in your ear when bending over to pour a drink, the fingers sliding under your skirt when a man wanted his table “wiped,” the forced kisses you narrowly avoided, and the times the owner offered you up to smelly strangers as if you were just another item on the menu.
“She’s also available for beddin’,” he’d say, and every single time you heard this your gut would twist.
You were lucky there was almost always someone prettier, younger, and more desperate to take the fall. Almost.
You remember the one time you tried standing up for yourself, told your boss you’d work double shifts if he’d stop offering your body to his customers.
He looked at you like you were ridiculous, then threw you out for your “audacity.”
Said you were wasting space and food.
Said “whorin’” was the only career someone like you could ever aspire to, and that eventually you’d have to cave.
He hadn’t even sounded cruel. Just truthful.
Practical.
Like he was educating you before releasing you into the world.
And maybe he was right…
Although you weren’t sure they could call it “whorin’” when you were only sleeping with one man…
He came back to camp one night with a busted lip, smelling of Kentucky bourbon, and a piece of the very same bottle embedded in his forehead. You were camped near Blackwater then. He’d gotten into a fight at the saloon, some lawman off-duty called him a pretty boy or something, and he’d answered with a “decent kicking,” or so he’d told Dutch.
None of that explained the glass shard sticking out of his skin.
You stood outside his tent while he got scolded half to hell, waiting until the gang leader stormed out before stepping inside. It was late, half the camp was asleep, but Miss Grimshaw had ordered you to tend his wounds and you weren’t about to protest. You had to pull your weight, after all.
Inside, he sat slumped on a cot, quiet, brooding, a storm barely contained.
You didn’t dare speak.
You’d learned drunk men didn’t like to be spoken to unless they did it first, and besides,you’d never talked to him before. Barely even knew what to look at.
“I’ll pull it out,” you warned, voice soft to match the midnight hour.
He grunted when you removed the shard, relieved when it came out clean. Besides a few hisses when you poured alcohol into the wound, he said nothing. Whatever thoughts he had were somewhere far from you.
“Miss Grimshaw will take a look at it tomorrow, stitch you up if you need to,” you announced. “I don’t know much about it. Don’t want it to scar ugly.”
It was partly true, you didn’t want to ruin anyone’s face, but mostly you couldn’t stomach the thought of sewing flesh.
“You don’t know?” he asked, voice deep and hoarse enough for you to wonder how many packs he smoked a day.
“I… don-,” you answered, cleaning the shallow cut on his lip. “I’m still learnin’ the ropes.”
He didn’t respond.
You were nearly done when he spoke again.
“How’d a pretty girl like you end up tendin’ the wounds of a fucked group of bastards like us?”
You scoffed quietly. He was drunk. You ignored him.
“You got pretty hands, missy,” he added after a moment. “They’re real soft.”
You hid a smile, not at the compliment, but at the audacity. He sure looked young, perhaps a year or two younger than you, yet he thought he could call you missy.
“How’d a pretty boy like you end up with a bottle to the face?” you asked as you put the supplies away, matching his tone. Not flirting. Just giving him a taste of his own.
He chuckled, amused. “I ain’t a boy. And I sure as hell ain’t pretty.”
“You sure talk a lot for someone with a busted lip, mister.”
“You sure enjoy bein’ mean for someone supposed to be nursin’ me.” He said, and you didn’t recall ever smiling at a drunk man before.
“Well, you sure get scolded a lot for someone who’s supposed to be the boss’ favorite son.”
You said it without thinking, forgetting you’d been around for way less than a month. Forgetting you weren’t supposed to speak unless spoken to.
His amusement vanished instantly.
“And you’re awful nosy for someone who’s been here a week,” he snapped.
Your stomach dropped. You regretted speaking at all. This was why you always kept to yourself.
“Mister—”
“You don’t know the half,” he muttered, “I ain’t his favorite,” not yelling, just irritated, tired. “I’m nobody’s—” he lowered his voice, bending over to take off his boots, “favorite.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“Jesus,” he sighed to himself, “why does everyone keep sayin’ that?”
You stood up.
“I’ll leave now. If there’s anythin’ else I can do—”
“There’s only one thing you can help me with, missy, and I doubt you’ll want to.” He mumbled, tugging off his other boot, not even looking at you, speaking more to himself or to the air.
You had already dropped the tent flap behind you when you heard him add in a low voice, barely meant for human ears, not meant for you to listen.
“Doubt any woman here wants to, actually. Or any woman at all… ‘less I pay her.”
You stopped mid-step.
Your former boss’ words echoed in your ears and for the first time, they felt welcome… in a strange, twisted way.
There it was… the solution to your predicament. The thing that could put the constant anxiety to rest, the one that screamed you weren’t contributing anything meaningful.
A task exclusive to you.
Something useful.
Something no one else seemed to be doing.
Here was the thing you could offer.
The thing that could buy you some time until you ‘figured it all out’ as Hosea said.
You traced your steps back into his tent.
“I want… to,” you announced softly.
He looked up, startled, clearly not expecting you to return.
For a moment he just stared, confused, blinking through the fog of liquor and the weight of Dutch’s scolding. Then he sighed. Deeply.
“Listen, miss… forget it. I’m half-drunk and angry, and my head’s poundin’ like hell. Just go to bed, will you?”
His voice wasn’t irritated anymore, just tired. Bone-tired.
“Then let me help,” you offered with a small, wavering smile. You stepped toward him and took his hand, warm, startlingly warm against the cold night air. “It’ll feel real nice, I promise.”
A lie. You didn’t know if it would. But you had to sell the service somehow.
Your heart pounded. Shame pooled low in your belly, heavy and sickening. There wasn’t a soul in this world who truly cared for you, so there was no one to disappoint, and yet offering yourself like this made something inside you twist. Made you feel like a dirty thing. Like every mean-spirited warning that nasty saloon owner spit at you had been a prophecy.
You didn’t let yourself think further.
You just guided him, gently, insistently, pulling him by the hand to the small table beside his cot.
Then you turned around, bent forward slightly, taking shallow breaths so he wouldn’t hear how your chest pulled tight. You gathered the thin skirt of your white chemise, lifting it just enough. You usually didn’t sleep in drawers.
“Miss, you don’t have t—” he started, voice low behind you.
“But… I want to.” You cut him off by reaching back and taking both his hands, placing them on your hips, using them to hold the fabric in place, and your heart struggled in your chest. “You don’t?”
There was only silence for an answer.
Long enough that you wondered if he was just as uncomfortable as you were. If this wasn’t helping him at all, if you were making it worse. Torturing him with your presence.
But then you heard the soft metal clink of his belt. The whisper of fabric as his pants slid down. A quiet, shuddering breath as he stroked himself, palm slick with saliva, trying to get fully hard.
“I’m gonna—” he cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh… Is it okay?”
You swallowed. “Sure.”
The wet tip found you easily.
He pushed in just an inch, barely, and stopped.
“Just… tell me if it hurts,” he murmured.
You nodded, and since you didn’t protest, he slowly eased the rest of the way inside.
You were too wrapped in shame and dread and the impossibility of tomorrow — how were you supposed to look him in the eye in daylight? — to notice how slow he was moving. How long it took him to fully settle inside you.
You only realized once his hips met yours, his balls pressing lightly against the back of your thighs, that it hadn’t hurt. Not beyond reason.
He was… gentle.
He started moving, falling into a rhythm, cautious, steady. Like he didn’t know you, didn’t know what you liked, didn’t know how to move with your body, so he was treading carefully.
You could almost swear he didn’t want to hurt you.
And it felt… nice.
Surprisingly nice.
His thick cock nudged a spot inside you that made your breath catch, and every time his hips met the curve of your ass, the warmth of him lingered.
Wet sounds filled the tent, quiet but unmistakable. Skin against skin. And sometimes a low grunt from him, dragged out of his chest as your body tightened around him.
You kept your mouth shut. Clamped. No moans, even when one tried to rise when he hit that one angle just right.
It was quick.
Surprisingly quick.
No kisses.
No tenderness spoken aloud.
No pretense.
Just an exchange, a simple job, as simple and transactional as sweeping floors for money or mending clothes for a living.
You felt him twitch. You knew he was close. And you were still not, but this wasn’t about you. It never was.
He pulled out fast, but not fast enough, spilling hot across the back of your thighs.
“Christ, I’m sorry,” he said quickly. You heard him try to adjust, to angle himself away too late. “Let me—”
“It’s okay.” You straightened, letting your chemise fall. “I’ll take care of it. You should rest.”
You didn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t. Your cheeks burned and the embarrassment thickened your throat.
He hesitated.
“Look, miss… we can pretend nothin’ happened,” he murmured, as if sensing your shame, maybe feeling it too. “Or never talk about this again. Either way.”
You nodded, gathering the small medical box, turning toward the flap of the tent.
Maybe this didn’t have to happen again.
Maybe he wouldn’t even want to.
“Sleep well, mister,” you whispered.
“It’s John.”
He said, voice impossibly raspier.
“John Marston.”
-
Your cheeks burned for days after that night, hot and embarrassed, especially whenever you caught sight of him across camp. Thankfully, it didn’t happen often. John was either out on guard duty or gone on whatever fool task Dutch had sent the men on. And he never mentioned anything about that night, not to you, not to anyone else. At least judging by the way nobody looked at you strangely, and the girls still treated you like always.
Maybe it didn’t need to happen again.
Maybe it had just been a strange accident, a one-time thing born of anger and whiskey and your own desperation.
Part of you felt relieved… and another part worried. You’d have to find some other way to contribute, then. Some other way to matter.
One evening, the air had turned sharply cold the way it did on the Great Plains, the kind of cold that nipped your knuckles even through your sleeves. The sun had long since disappeared. You were bent over a table wiping dried blood off it—those damn boys and their stupid knife games—when you heard a man clear his throat behind you.
You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.
Even with little time in camp, you had already learned the sound of his voice. It was pretty recognizable. It always came out just a bit hoarse, like years of tobacco had lodged themselves in his throat.
And you knew exactly what he was here for before he even asked.
“Miss,” he said, the first word he’d spoken to you since he’d told you his name a couple weeks ago. “You, uh… you doin’ somethin’?”
You straightened slowly, giving yourself a moment. Your grip tightened on the blood-stained rag. One breath. Two. Deciding.
Because if you said no, he’d leave.
And if you said yes… well, you already knew what you were agreeing to.
Your indecision didn’t last long.
Some minutes later, your left cheek was squished against the rough bark of a pine trunk, your palms braced against it, as his cock slid in and out of your cunt from behind. From this angle, you could see faint flickers of campfire light between the trees—a safe distance away. His hands didn’t touch your skin this time either; they only held your skirt up, practical and impersonal.
It was quiet.
Only the wet sounds of joined flesh layered over the wind sweeping through the tall, yellow grass of the Great Plains.
And like the first time, it didn’t hurt. Not during, not after. No bruises. No stinging skin. Just a soft, manageable shame… one that faded a little more every time.
And oh, there were more times.
The same tree line as that second night. A dense thicket halfway to Manzanita Post. An old abandoned cabin where the Lower Montana River met Flat Iron Lake. Behind a fallen oak by the lake shore during a storm, both of you soaked to the bone…
Always from behind. Always quiet. No kissing. No endearments. No eye contact. No conversation beyond his soft, hesitant warning: “Only if you want to. You don’t have to, miss.”
But somehow, you always… wanted to.
It was easy. Rehearsed. Predictable.
Your little unspoken agreement.
And it worked. You liked it that way. Almost.
It was clinical, physical, almost anonymous…
He simply accepted what you offered and never asked for more.
And then… what newspapers would later go on to call the Blackwater Massacre happened.
Chaos. Screaming. Blood. Lots of it.
Dutch yelling. Hosea pulling people by the arm. Arthur firing rounds you couldn’t even hear over the ringing in your ears.
One moment you’d been standing near your tent, the next you were being shoved onto a wagon and ordered to flee north. No time to pack. No time to think. The little you owned—your spare shirt, the thread kit, the book Mary Beth had lent you—left behind without a second thought.
Others lost more, however. So much more. Some even their lives.
Jenny gone.
Davey Callander coughing up the last of his life in Abigail’s arms.
His brother and Sean missing, presumed dead.
Mary-Beth crying so hard for everyone her whole small frame shook.
You hadn’t been with them long. So no tears fell from your eyes. But seeing all that grief—real grief, sharp and blinding—made you think about your own mortality for the first time in years. About how fragile you truly were. How easily you could be the next name whispered around a campfire, the next grave in the mud. And how even with all these men’s “protection,” the world was cruel, unforgiving, and absolutely did not care if you lived or died.
Out there, without them? You’d last maybe an hour.
John had gone ahead during the escape, scouting the path to follow… and then got himself lost in the snowstorm. Abigail begged for someone to go look for him, begged like a woman who’d lost her last hope. And then, Tilly whispered to you that John was Jack’s father, that he was practically… her husband. And you would have never guessed. They barely talked to each other, in fact you had never seen them together. The dynamic seemed messy and exhausting. Nothing you wanted any part in.
Arthur and Javier found him eventually. Hauled him back on horseback, limp and half-frozen, pale as the snow around him. John didn’t look like John. He looked like death. Freshly carved.
Miss Grimshaw—the only one among the women whose hands didn’t shake—treated his wounds with Reverend Swanson’s assistance, both in prayer and in practice. Abigail stayed by his side every hour she could. They still argued, somehow. Even with him half-conscious. Even in front of everyone: you, the rest of the women, Strauss, Swanson, poor widowed Mrs. Adler, and young Jack, playing with sticks in a corner.
Sometimes you’d help change his bandages. Carefully. Quietly. You didn’t say much. You didn’t need to. Up close, you felt bad for the man, genuinely. His skin was cold, his breathing uneven. The man who’d once bent you over a pine trunk now couldn’t even lift his head.
And that was that.
With him incapacitated, your late-night duties were naturally suspended.
A relief, honestly, because the cold up there in the Grizzlies was unbearable. You couldn’t imagine letting someone fuck you in a snowbank, your feet numb and your thighs shaking, snowflakes melting on your back.
But you didn’t have to imagine for long.
You didn’t know how he’d found out.
Micah Bell was opportunistic, observant, and predatory. And sometimes that was all a man like him needed.
Maybe he’d noticed John talking to you before conveniently disappearing out of sight together. Maybe he’d seen you return to camp some time after, flushed and a little breathless.
Maybe he’d just guessed.
And guessed right.
It didn’t matter how.
What mattered was that he knew enough.
He approached you the first time as you were discarding rabbit bones behind the old stable in Colter, the horses’ crude shelter from the snow. Your fingers were stiff from the cold, your nose numb, your breath white in the air.
You hadn’t even heard him approach.
“I’ve noticed you’ve been slackin’ off, little miss” he said, voice low, casual, like he was commenting on the weather. “Heard y’ain’t contributin’ enough,” he pulled out a box from his pocket, lighting a cigarette. “Dead weight, if you ask me. And I think Dutch oughta know. Can’t be draggin’ extra mouths around in times like these.”
Your stomach knotted. Not because of him, though that too, but because the words sounded familiar. Too familiar. You could almost hear him say them in your own voice.
“But now, don’t you worry, little miss” he added, taking a slow step closer. “I know a way even scroungers can be useful. Real useful. And it ain’t anythin’ you don’t already know how to do.”
You froze.
He leaned in, breath sour and scalding against your ear.
“Just help me,” he murmured. “Same way you been helpin’ Scarface.”
So he did know.
Your mind raced. You tried to decline—stuttered something about chores, about food prep, about helping Mr. Pearson. For a heartbeat, you even considered lying. Telling him you and John had something claimed, something that would get him angry if you were with another man.
But—
But what if Micah was right?
What if Dutch decided you were dead weight after all?
What if they left you here—
in the freezing, merciless jaws of Ambarino?
You didn’t want to die here.
And you couldn’t afford to choose.
You needed to be “useful” when “useful” was required.
You needed to surrender any little dignity a lifelong ‘scrounger’ like you had left, because at this point survival was the only commodity you could afford.
Your silence was enough for him. He didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t ask for one.
He grabbed your arm tight and dragged you into the old barn. Not for shelter from the cold but to avoid witnesses. He decided only the horses would see. Their breath clouded the air around them, hooves shifting anxiously on the frozen ground.
And then it happened for the first time.
Unlike John’s, Micah’s hands were everywhere, grabbing, groping, clawing like he wanted to leave marks that would last. He tugged your shirt apart so roughly the buttons flew. You had to sew them back later in secret, biting your lip the whole time.
Unlike John, Micah bared you. Stripped you open to the cold, to his gaze, to the stinging air biting your skin.
Unlike John, he wanted to hear you. Made you moan. Demanded it.
“Say my name,” he hissed, fingers digging bruises into your hips. “C’mon now. Say it.”
Unlike with John… it hurt. During. And after.
Especially after.
Between your legs. In the tender, torn places of your body. And deeper still, somewhere inside your chest, where the old fear lived.
When he was done, he left you there—half dressed, freezing, shaking more from shame than cold—before stepping into the storm like nothing had happened.
You pulled your clothes together.
You fixed your hair.
You breathed until breathing didn’t hurt.
And you swore you’d never let it happen again.
But deep down you knew that was a promise that neither you nor Micah Bell were ever going to let you keep.
-
The thin, ugly potato peels still clung to the plate where the previous night’s dinner had been served, showing no signs of surrender, sticking to the metal like a bad memory. You eventually decided to abandon them in the sink, a little water, a little soap. Some things just needed time. There was little in this world that time couldn’t soften, at least a bit.
You grabbed a burlap sack and your little shovel, and stepped out the back door into the slanting gold of early morning.
The sun hat fell low over your eyes, the breeze was cool, and the mountain air tasted clean enough to make a person believe the world had only ever been kind.
The morning was yours. Quiet. Unguarded.
You figured you could finish weeding before the heat settled in. Maybe even get some work done in the front patch too. The back garden was for food: tomatoes hanging heavy on the vine, fat little squashes trying to creep into one another’s space, and the damned potatoes that grew exactly where they wanted, not where you told them to. The front was for your little flower bed. And your ginseng. And your wild mint. And the yarrow.
You kept those herbs close always. Old habits. Old training.
Miss Grimshaw had taught you the basics once, in a land far away from this one. Hosea used to say he’d made so many tonics he could do it with his eyes closed.
You used to laugh at that.
Now you understood exactly what he meant.
You knelt in the dirt and started pulling weeds. Some came easy, thin little things that surrendered with a sigh. Others fought, clinging deep into the soil, roots thick and tangled, refusing to be dislodged unless you used both hands.
Some people were like that too. Stubborn. Unwanted. Hard to uproot once they’d sunk themselves into vulnerable places.
You wiped your forehead with the back of your wrist and reached for another weed when something shifted in your chest—nothing visible, just that small, familiar tug toward memory.
You had been picking herbs that morning too…
-
For the following weeks after the incident in Colter, the saloon owner’s words clawed their way back to the front of your mind.
You felt like a whore. Through and through.
The gang had somehow made it out of the Grizzlies alive and now you found yourselves in the Heartlands, camped near a cow town called Valentine. Horseshoe Overlook, a pretty enough perch overlooking the Dakota. Rough country. Wind sweeping through the grass, air crisp but merciful.
Rough, yes. But also beautiful.
John.
He was back on his feet. Weak at first, stubborn about it, but slowly regaining his former strength. You were happy for him. Almost. If you were capable of feeling anything between the misery and hopelessness Micah had carved into you, you would be happy for him.
John hadn’t touched you since Blackwater, before the ferry incident. He spent most days sitting beneath the huge shadow of an oak on the outskirts of camp, facing the cliff. Most of the time he’d be studying a map, sometimes he’d be bickering with Abigail; and other times, brooding with that hollow look in his eyes. And more than once, you wondered if he sat there debating whether to jump.
But, even with the John chapter closed, you didn’t have to worry. You could still make yourself “useful.”
Micah had made sure of that.
He was diligently trying to fill John’s boots—God, he was—and you hated yourself for letting him. At this point, you’d been with him almost as much as with John, and the thought alone made your stomach turn. It wasn’t just disgust. It was rot. A sickness deep in your chest, sour and shameful, like something festering where no one could see.
Each time he dragged you out of sight or behind a tree line, each time he pushed his weight on you, each time you heard his laugh too close to your ear… you felt the ground tilt under you. Felt yourself shrinking into someone small, filthy, unlovable.
Someone who existed only to be used.
And as if that wasn’t enough, the camp’s returning party boy made things worse.
Sean had come back—good for him, truly—but the drinking increased tenfold. One night, Javier had pulled you onto his lap, so drunk you were surprised he could stay upright. Asked for a kiss on the cheek, slurring and smiling. You hesitated but leaned down anyway, figuring it would get you out of there quicker. But just as your lips touched his cheek, he turned and pecked your mouth. A stupid, sloppy little thing.
Bill and Sean had laughed it off nearby, teasing him, hollering.
You’d slipped away fast.
No resentment. Javier was a good man when sober.
You just made a note: stay away from him when he wasn’t.
And Sean… well, there had been an incident with him too. You’d seen Karen slap him earlier and storm off, so you assumed they had some sort of thing. So when he tried to kiss you beside the campfire later—right in front of Uncle and Mr. Pearson—drunk on whatever poison was in the bottle he was holding, it took you by surprise. You turned your head just in time; and luckily, he only caught the corner of your mouth.
No one laughed this time.
But no one scolded him either.
You left quickly, praying Karen wouldn’t hear of it.
Of all this mess, only one thing had resembled good news: Micah getting locked up.
Young Lenny delivered it, breathless atop his reliable Maggie. “There are talks of hanging him,” he’d said. Arthur—and you, though more discreetly—were the only ones who celebrated. Probably only Dutch cared enough to send someone to fetch him. And he ordered his best man to do the job.
Luckily, Arthur took his time.
Heavens, you fucking loved Arthur. Thanks to him, you were free of Micah’s demands for a while, the Strawberry jail had bought you precious days of peace. But Arthur couldn’t delay the mission forever. Luckily, even after Micah was freed, he lingered around Strawberry. Wandering around, he claimed, looking for a “peace offering.” He didn’t want to return empty-handed to Dutch.
It was good while it lasted.
But one cursed morning, he returned. Like a bad winter does every year.
You’d been sent to pick yarrow and burdock root. Sweet Kieran had mentioned they grew near water, so you walked down to the Dakota River until you reached what was left of a burnt-out town. LIMPANY, the charred sign read. Even in daylight, it felt wrong to be there, haunted.
You’d strayed too far from Horseshoe.
Too far from the watchful eyes of Lenny or Bill or Karen keeping guard.
And maybe you should’ve listened to wiser people.
Because he found you.
Your sack was only half-full. You were bent over the cold ground, fingers numb, breath puffing white in the early morning air.
And behind you…
A shadow you pretended not to see.
A voice you prayed wouldn’t speak.
A man you wished you could rip from your life as easily as you tugged yarrow from the soil.
He wanted you to celebrate his return, his “rebirth,” he called it. Said he’d been sure he was gonna hang. And you… God, you wished he had. You wished you could turn back time and beg Arthur to let him die.
He took you in daylight.
Even rougher. Crueler. More degrading than ever before.
The sun hadn’t even climbed past eight. Not even enough time for camp to fully wake.
As you bounced helplessly beneath him, legs splayed and digging into the cold earth, you felt it again. That familiar collapse inside your chest. That awful certainty blooming like poison.
Worthless.
Just like your relatives always said you were. And from your current position under the most despicable man you’d ever met, it was hard not to believe them.
When he finally left—luckily he never lasted long, although every second in his arms stretched into a lifetime—you stayed still for a moment. Just breathing. Just existing under the open morning sky. Then you picked yourself up with stiff movements, grabbed your half-full sack of herbs, dusted your skirt, and stumbled toward the riverbank.
The cold water bit at your hands. You didn’t care. You splashed yourself clean as best you could, refusing to look at your reflection because you already knew what you’d see: a woman who kept finding herself in the same filthy place, and the worst part was that she wasn’t even trying to climb out.
Next time he tried to drag you somewhere, you told yourself, you’d resist. You’d object. Maybe even fight back. Maybe if you worked harder at your other chores—really poured yourself into them—maybe then you wouldn’t have to… pull your weight that disgusting way. What a silly thought it’d been, the one that had started everything that night in Blackwater. Absurd. In retrospect, one of the stupidest ideas that ever came to anyone. None of the other women were doing what you were doing, and they got to stay. They were safe. Fed. Kept. You told yourself that over and over, as if repeating it would make your legs strong enough for the climb back toward the Overlook.
By the time you reached camp, Miss Grimshaw was standing there waiting, hands on her hips. And you knew exactly what that meant. She always scolded everything that had ears—claimed you all as “my girls,” bossed you all around like a nest of hens—but on that day her glare was special, it could’ve cut a tree in half.
And you remembered why.
You were supposed to help Mr. Pearson with breakfast. But thanks to Micah, you hadn’t shown on time, so she’d had to do it herself while half the camp sat “hungry and irritated,” in her own words.
If it was true…Poor Jack. Poor Lenny and Bill after a long night on guard. You felt guilty for that. Ashamed.
Tilly tried to reassure you later, saying Grimshaw blew everything out of proportion, that it had happened to her before, but your nerves were shot. You’d already broken once that morning, you didn’t have it in you to bend again.
As punishment, Grimshaw gave you double the work for the day, and you did it all with the knot in your throat burning like fire. You didn’t cry when she scolded you again for good measure. You didn’t cry while you sewed socks, scrubbed blood out of shirts, and disposed of rotten carcasses. You didn’t even cry when you caught sight of Micah across camp later that afternoon, drinking a beer like he hadn’t ruined your morning.
But by the time the sun dipped behind the ridge and the stars took their places overhead, you felt like a single touch, the wrong touch, could shatter you into a million pieces. Your eyes prickled, ready to betray you the moment you blinked.
Micah was right, wasn’t he? Soon, they would decide you were dead weight, of course they would. Miss Grimshaw herself had said you were slacking off: “taking your sweet time under some tree like a lazy child instead of chopping vegetables for breakfast.” And you deserved it, for letting that bastard keep you like that this morning.
But that’s what faces from your past always said. That you’d amount to nothing. That you were good for nothing. That ‘whorin’ was the only way for you.
By the time Arthur, John, Charles, and Sean, who had been gone since the previous evening, rode back into camp, dinner had already been served. The firelight flickered across their faces, and everyone seemed in high spirits. Sean especially, hooting about a train heist gone spectacularly right. Good for them, truly, but in all honesty… you didn’t have it in you to care. Not after the worst day you’d had in a while.
You heard the laughter from across camp as you scrubbed the dinner dishes under the dim lantern light, and the sound made your chest ache.
A camp full of joy, and you the only sad soul in it.
When you were finally done, you slipped away toward the girls’ tent. You didn’t want to drink, didn’t want to pretend, didn’t want to be seen, and you certainly didn’t want to be around when Javier and Sean began to drink. The music from the campfire—warm, wild, happy—only made the tears press harder behind your eyes.
You sat down on the blanket you had for bed, work clothes and all. You didn’t have it in you to change. You dusted the thin fabric a little, just to keep your hands busy.
And then you heard footsteps approaching behind you.
Please, you thought, let it be anyone but Mary-Beth. You liked her, but you didn’t have a single word left in you.
“Hey.” A voice said softly.
Not Mary-Beth.
“Are you… doin’ something’?”
Your fingers stopped.
You hadn’t heard that voice in a while…
Long enough for the question to surprise you. Yet not long enough for you to forget what he meant by it.
John.
Indeed. It had been a while —two camps ago, to be exact— since he’d come to you.
You wiped a stray tear off your cheek before turning, hoping he hadn’t seen it glint in the lamplight.
He was smiling, a little. Never wide. You had never seen him smile wide. But the hint of one tugged at his mouth, relaxed and easy. You hadn’t seen his lips do that since the night you dug that shard of glass out of his forehead.
Tonight he looked… pleased. With himself. With the world. With the successful heist that Sean wanted everyone to credit him for, even though you’d watched John spend days sitting under that tree outside camp, map in his hands and charcoal tucked behind his ear, planning and recalculating and brooding.
You wanted to say no.
You were tired.
You were hurting.
You were barely holding yourself together.
But hey, you had helped Micah celebrate his return, hadn’t you?
How could you not help John celebrate his success?
You must have stared too long without answering, because he hesitated.
“If you don’t want to, I und—”
“No.” You cut him off quickly.
Because the thing is… you needed him tonight.
Not romantically.
Not lovingly.
You just needed something—someone—who didn’t make you feel like utter garbage.
You stood up, locking your gaze with his, letting your eyes beg for what you didn’t trust your voice to hold.
Yes, you needed him tonight. In a way Abigail wouldn’t have appreciated. Sorry to her, truly, but you needed her husband tonight. You needed the warmth of his body pressed to yours, the gentleness of his cock sliding in and out of you, the sweet sounds of his hips colliding against the soft flesh of your ass. You needed to drown in his scent, in the quiet kindness he didn’t even know he had. Needed him to scrub Micah off your skin, off your mind. Needed him to erase Grimshaw’s words, today’s misery and tomorrow’s dread.
And God, you hoped it wasn’t too much to ask.
“I want to,” you said, voice small but steady. “Follow me. I know a place.”
Limpany looked even more doomed under the moonlight, hollowed, skeletal, its shadows long and crooked. Yet somehow it didn’t feel as threatening or horrible as it had that morning, with Micah as company. Now it was just a dead town, nothing more. A place nobody cared about. A place nobody remembered. A place nobody would look.
You didn’t know what had happened here; the past was just char and ghosts. The fire must have been years ago. It might’ve once been a pleasant little town by the Dakota, with children playing by the river instead of the silence now settled there.
Not much was left. Under the pale light you could make out the carcass of a two-story saloon, a general store, the jail cells. And next to them, the sheriff’s office: roof half-gone, walls still standing. But most importantly, a desk intact enough for him to bend you over. So that’s where you led him.
His footsteps followed you in silence.
“Found this place while pickin’ plants this morning,” you said. First words uttered since you two left camp.
His eyes scanned the gaps where roof beams used to be.
“You shouldn’t stray too far from camp, miss,” he murmured, “This here’s O’Driscoll country.” He picked up a half-broken bottle, turning it in his hand. “A young lady all by herself can attract the worst sort of company.”
You watched him examine the glass. Despite your sour mood, the warning warmed you. It was… nice. Someone caring, even a little. Even occasionally. Maybe if you’d listened earlier, maybe that bastard wouldn’t have—
You took the bottle from his hand and set it back on the desk. He looked at you closely. You hadn’t brought him here to think about your misery. You had brought him here so he could help you forget.
You turned in the tight space he’d left between his body and the desk, his breath matching the river’s slow rhythm outside. Your fingers pulled your hair to the side and your skirt up, muscle memory guiding them, even though it had been weeks since he last touched you.
“Here, please,” you requested softly, directing his hands to your hips so he could hold your skirt. Then, you braced your palms on the dusty desk, bending over the hard surface. You’d done your part. Now all he had to do was what he always did.
His dominant hand undid his belt and suspenders. You heard him stroke himself, spit slicking his palm. Then the familiar, generous tip of his cock slid past your split drawers, pressing into you, slow, careful, gentle. He always took his time, easing into you inch by patient inch until he filled you completely.
As usual, he set a pace, unhurried and steady. He never fucked you fast. Never rough. Just deep, slow, thorough. And this was what you needed.
But when you closed your eyes to sink into the feeling, your mind didn’t empty. It flooded. Memories. Fear. The sting of the bruise on your neck. The crack in your voice earlier. The things you didn’t let yourself think about.
Your eyes burned. You opened them to the window frame, the silhouette of the burnt saloon blurred through tears. He wouldn’t see them. Couldn’t. Not from behind. And you were grateful.
The first tear slipped down your cheek. Then another. Silent. You let them fall. As long as there was no voice, no weeping sounds.
A low grunt behind you reminded you he was still there, hands steady on your hips, a tall, warm body pressed close. And that’s when it hit you: That—that exact moment—was the only time you ever felt safe. When he was inside you, Micah couldn’t reach you. Hell, even if he walked through that burnt doorway right then, he couldn’t touch you. Because John was already taking you. Because in those moments, you belonged to him. Him alone.
To John.
“John,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, your breath shaking. His name like a reminder that it was him behind you. Him and not Micah.
“John,” you said again, your body trembling under the weight of everything you’d carried alone. Your voice cracked, tiny, broken, not even meant for him to notice.
But he did. He always noticed more than people thought.
A comfortable weight settled across your bent back, solid, grounding, comforting. Warm breath touched your neck… and then…the unmistakable softness of lips.
His lips.
Pressed to the burning bruise Micah had left. A soft, gentle peck that made your heart stutter, as if bracing for a storm to break.
“John?” you whispered his name like a question you didn’t expect answered.
Yet he did.
He straightened and pulled you back against him, not roughly, not lustfully, just holding you. Welcoming you. Your spine pressed to his chest, his arms sliding around your waist, his hands meeting beneath your breasts. Holding you, not using you.
And as hot tears streamed freely down your face, you realized that was the closest thing to a hug you’d had in years.
There, in his arms, you were safe. Safe as long as he was inside you. Safe even if that bastard tried something. John would protect you. You knew it without knowing why.
You were always quiet, trained quiet, scared quiet. Always except tonight.
“John—” you moaned, louder this time, loud enough for anyone walking by to hear. Your voice cracked wide open, with raw pain.
And bone-deep pleasure.
You cried harder in his arms, quiet sobs slipping out with his name—his name you gasped again and again as he thrust into you, pushing hot tears and pent-up hurt out of you until they streamed down your cheeks, down your neck, pooling warm beneath your shirt…
But then, he stilled inside you.
Lowering his head.
His lips hovering beside your ear.
Something human.
Gentle.
Alive.
“John?” you breathed again, your hands sliding over his where they held you, just over your ribs, your chest rising and falling in unsteady rhythm.
“It’s alright, miss’.” He answered, voice low, soft, unguarded. Pressing another kiss to the bruise on your neck, reassuring you that he was still there. As if it would help it heal. A gesture tender in a way he probably was not aware of.
“You’re okay, darlin’.” He promised, breath warm against your skin. And for the first time all day, those sweet words, whispered so gently against your ear, made you believe you were.
Tags: fluff, angst, mutual pining, eventual coworkers to friends to lovers, (ex-celeb superhero!)reader, awkward encounters, not beta read
You help someone stranded on a billboard. Hey, it’s that cute guy from your neighborhood! Turns out you’ll be seeing him around more often, since he’s a new hire at work. You tend to keep people at arm's length. ...But that conviction seems to unravel when you're with him.
︵‿₊ ⊹₊˚‧ ꩜‧ ˚₊⊹ ₊‿︵
It’s half past midnight when you sail past the usual string of billboards and neon signs to SDN for your early morning shift.
The air whizzing by you as you swerve through the usual sights is noticeably chillier than normal. You’re warm enough, with your light blue and orange windbreaker snugly fitted over your black uniform. …But you still miss the balmy heat of summer. Around this time last year was when you found Toad, your second cat (still then a stray), perched up on the ledge of a commercial posterboard. To this day you have no idea how he got up there, dusty black fur ruffled up with fear.
It’s this absentminded trail of thoughts that tugs your line of sight towards the giant signs whooshing along your periphery. The breeze carrying you slows, then falters when you do actually spot something along a sign. Someone. It’s a person waving at you from the bottom of a well-lit billboard: one with that top hero with the tongue twister name.
“Hi, yeah, sorry to stop you all of a sudden, but would you mind getting me off this thing?” The man calls out as you float closer. He has a nice voice. Tired, and a little rough-sounding, but not in an unpleasant way. Reminds you of… Something. You can’t place it.
“Sure.” Your boots lightly clunk against the metal grates as you land.
“Thanks. I owe you one.” He sighs, dragging a hand down his face, which you recognize with a start. “Was ten seconds away from saying ‘fuck it’ and just taking a leap of faith. Literally.”
You tear your eyes away from his cinnamon-brown hair and freckles to glance over at where he motions. The nearest ledge would take a long jump. You’re not exactly sure he would’ve made it to the other side, and your face inadvertently winces at the idea. The man shrugs at your look.
Yep. That’s him, alright.
Hot dog guy.
Correction: Hot, Dog Guy.
That’s the man you’ve spotted occasionally at the grocery store near your apartment. You don’t come across him every time, but when you do, it’s always in the pet food aisle. You’ve seen him grabbing dog food while you browse for cat kibble. Your eyes linger on him. You can’t help it—he’s just your type. If you even know what your type is, now.
You don’t really know the guy. You guess all you can really say is that the first time you saw him, you noticed he was cute. Then the other times you shopped for things, you spent a little longer in the pet section than strictly necessary. And then there was that one time you accidentally backed into him because you were distracted and didn’t notice him standing behind you… After which you practically swooned at hearing his voice and replayed his startled greeting in your head (more than a few times). ‘Woah, hey. You good?’ …Mortifying.
Now, you hesitate for just a second before walking closer to him. You haven’t seen him around in a long time—months, maybe. What’s he doing all the way out here? You try to think of a way to ask without sounding like a stalker.
“So… Do you get stuck in high places often, or…?” Is what makes its way out of your mouth as you offer a hand for him to grab. He takes it, and you’re distantly surprised at the rough callouses you feel when he does.
He exhales a short, amused huff. “No, I uh. Got recruited for a job, actually. But I got left here by accident.”
Out of the answers to give, you weren’t expecting that one. But, well, in this neighborhood? Stranger things have happened.
“Maybe it’s your first test,” you suggest, only half-joking. “Find your way down without dying, and you’ve got the job for sure.”
He shakes his head, a corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. “Extra lucky I found you, then. Not convinced I woulda landed well.”
It is extra lucky you found him, you think, as you gradually float the two of you down to the ground. Then the delight you feel at the surprise encounter is tampered by what you happen to catch a glimpse of underneath his tan jacket.
Holy crap. Even if you hadn’t been keeping up with the news, there’s no way you wouldn’t recognize that logo. The iconic M. You feel his hand tense in yours and know that he’s noticed you noticing. Your feet touch the ground at the same time he jerks his hand out of yours.
“Shit.” He mutters, zipping up the jacket in one quick motion.
“I’m with SDN!” You rush to assure him, slapping both hands over your eyes. “I’m not gonna use your identity against you, I promise.”
“I mean that I know how important keeping identities a secret is. I won’t tell.” You add when you don’t hear a response. You peek through your fingers. Did he leave?
He’s still there. His hands have paused halfway to his face, midway through pulling on his mask. What makes you nervous is the look he’s giving you. Your hands fall from your eyes and hover somewhere in front of your chest, fidgeting together under his scrutiny.
Hot dog guy—or, as you now have discovered, fucking Mecha Man—stares at you. His gaze bounces between your eyes first as if assessing your honesty, then it scans the rest of your face, lingering along your forehead. The sudden self-consciousness makes you remember that you forgot to tie your hair back like usual before leaving your apartment. It’s probably a mess right now, the way your hair can get when the air floats random strands any which way around your face. It’s an off day for you, for sure. You don’t even have your mask pulled over your nose and mouth—you figured it was overkill so early in the morning before work. It makes you feel somewhat vulnerable.
“…I know,” Mecha hot dog man eventually says, yanking his mask over his head.
You’re honestly still stuck on the fact that you’ve been semi-crushing on a famous generational hero for the past year or so, but you somehow manage to convey your confusion. “You… do?”
What were you talking about again?
“Well, I meant to say that I know you’re in SDN. But, ah…” He scratches his jaw. The stubble looks good on him. Is he okay? After everything that happened… No wonder you haven’t seen him in a while. He was—
“As it turns out, I do know who you are.”
You blanch.
He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, watching for your reaction. “...Breeze, right?”
“You had the whole.. A/C thing going, right? And the movies, and….?” He trails off. Must see the look on your face.
You’re not sure what’s worse. That he knows you exist, that he knows you as who you used to be, or that he doesn’t remember ever seeing you around.
“...That’s why you understand. About keeping identities a secret.”
You feel your head tilt forward in a very slow nod.
“I… Y-yes. That… Was me.”
You bite the inside of your cheek and will yourself to smile casually at him. “I actually go by Dart now. More of an undercover gig, at SDN…”
“Uh huh.”
There’s an awkward pause.
“I guess this makes us even.” He says this lightly, and you get the sense that it’s his attempt to smooth things over. “We both know of each other.”
“How’d you know I’m in SDN?” You latch onto the topic change, more than ready for a mood shift.
“I mean, you are sporting the merch,” he nods down at your clothes, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“S-D-N,” he reads along the windbreaker, beginning to walk off in the direction of brighter street lights. “Big bold orange letters. Can’t really miss it.”
Your metaphorical feathers ruffle at his quirked eyebrow, and you fall into step beside him. “If you’re wondering why I’m decked out in all black skin-tight stuff, just to throw a bright jacket on top, it’s ‘cause they figured without it, I’d look like a villain.”
You’re rambling now. “I didn’t even think I gave off villain vibes. Oh, and by they, I mean people up top. Managers, and… yeah.”
Mecha’s eyes drop briefly down your body then back up to your face. “Wasn’t.. gonna comment on the skin-tight thing, actually, but—”
“It’s all company issued,” you interrupt, your face feeling hot. “I don’t really have a say in it. Didn’t even get a hero suit until I started moving up the ranks for EB calls.”
“EB?” That gets his attention, and he glances briefly at you as you walk.
“Early bird calls. That’s why I’m heading out so early. I work part-time EB shifts,” you explain, sighing. “...Just a corporate slave.”
He gives you an amused look sideways. “Right.”
“Uh. Did I say slave? I meant… Doll,” you awkwardly settle on. Employee. Employee was the word you were looking for. “A hardworking, loyal doll.” As soon as the words come out you grimace at how morbid they sound.
At least you get to hear his laugh as he responds. “Is that much better?”
“Shut it.” You squint. He grins, and seeing that makes you smile. “At least dolls imply pretty. Or something.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
You blink when his eyes meet yours, before you decide his reply wasn’t meant even remotely as a compliment. Just a casual, neutral response.
After another moment of quiet walking, he clears his throat. “So, you gonna escort me all the way home, or…?”
“I was planning on leaving once you got to a place with more people,” you grumble. “But if you’re so against it—”
“Never said I was against that,” he snorts. “But you do already know what I look like under this.”
You whip your head to face him before you understand he means his mask. He raises an eyebrow at you, and you flush.
“Under the mask.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” you press a hand to your forehead in exasperated embarrassment.
He snickers. “Just saying. Finding out where I live seems overkill.”
“You use that word a bit generously.”
“What, overkill?”
You nod. He shrugs.
“Pretty sure that goes against your job contract anyway,” he tosses out.
“Overkill…?” You get the joke right after you ask. Hero. Kill. “Oh. That was…”
You shake your head even as a tiny huff of laughter escapes you. “That was a really bad joke. Do better.”
“It’s more convincing if you don’t laugh before you say that?”
“Hot, famous, and a smartass. Just my luck.” The words are out before you can shut your stupid, impulsive mouth. You stiffly continue walking alongside him, refusing to look at him despite the glance you spot him give you in your periphery.
Mortifying.
His strides slow to a stop once you both hit the main street. It’s empty, save for the slow cruise of a car driving by. The rhythmic beats of pop music fades as it turns the corner. He gives you a slanted smile. You see the pink and blue neon sign-lights reflect off his tawny brown eyes like comets, and then…
Something inside you withers with unease. What are you doing? You should’ve left ten minutes ago, right after you helped him down. Stuff like this doesn’t end well. You should know better. You should know better.
Before he can say anything, you nod silently at him, sobering up from the residual warmth of having a nice talk. Bit by bit, your boots lift off the ground.
Mecha Man nods back, understanding passing over his face. You spot something like disappointment, too, but that’s definitely you projecting. “Thanks again for the lift. Or lower. Whatever you wanna call it.”
You smile a genuine smile at his words. “...Yeah. Thanks for the nice detour. I would give you a lift-lower back home, but my shift starts soon, and I think that’s technically overkill, so.” Your attempt to joke lands a little flat.
“See you around.”
He slowly bobs his head in another nod, scuffing the sole of one shoe against the sidewalk as he watches you rise. You float higher up, but not by much, your instincts going against your rationale to leave.
“...For the record, I strongly doubt you could ever look—uh, act like a villain. Dark suit or not.” He calls out.
“Yeah?” You pause, the comment tugging the corners of your mouth up.
“Yeah,” he smiles back up at you. “Helping strangers isn’t exactly the hallmark of an evil pro.”
Strangers. Right. No, it’s better to keep it that way. Safer. Your smile fades a little. You’re about one foot in the air now, and you continue to float slowly up and away from him.
“Y’know, if you’re at the Torrance branch…” He begins suddenly again. “Might see ya there. I start tomorrow—today, actually, if it’s as late as I think it is.”
You falter.
“No kidding?”
“Nope.”
Despite every worry in you, the news makes you beam. Is it because this is the most fun you’ve had talking to someone in an embarrassingly long time? Is it because you get to see him on a semi-regular basis now, or that your tiny crush is growing by the minute? You’re too pleasantly surprised to care.
You see him blink at you, then give you a small smile, and your chest warms.
“So, um, then. If you’re really grateful about earlier… Can I get your name?” You float back into closer range, hesitantly. His eyebrows twitch upwards.
“I’ve gotta know what to call you when I see you at work, right?”
He nods, looking a little lost in thought.
“So… what is it?”
“Uh, right. It’s Robert.” He pauses. “Robert Robertson.”
“! You’re kidding—”
“Very not kidding.”
“...”
You do your best to stifle the laugh that bursts out, and his eyes crinkle at you in grudging amusement at the attempt. You take a mental snapshot of the look.
Robert, Robert Robertson. Sounds like a droid name.
“You?” He prompts, and you decide to share your own name with him. Not Dart, like everyone calls you now, but the old one. The one you’ve tucked safely away for the real you, to feel like a real person again.
Robert tells you it’s a good name. “Not as roll-off-the-tongue as Robert Robertson,” he jokes, “But—”
“We can’t all be winners,” you finish, rolling your eyes, and he grins.
“It was nice meeting you,” he says, sincerely.
You smile, sincerely, back at him. “See you at work, Rob.”
You fly some distance away before looking back over your shoulder one last time, and spot his figure steadily receding into the distance, disappearing behind a building.
cw: 18+, smut-lite, reference to past suicide attempt but nothing detailed!
words: 13.7k
a/n: this chapter is SOOOO exciting to share, i'm over the mooon that it's here now. oh my goddd!! there's lotsss more but i'll let you get to it <3
Unable to break through the crowd for a parting hug and not lose your boyfriend, you sent a goodbye text to Rai. You barely focused on the screen as your body relaxed, soothed just by Bruce’s presence in the room.
When your skin met his, you relaxed into his touch and tucked into his shoulder. Warm and familiar, it spurred a new level of excitement to be heading back to Wayne Tower together—in the full sense of the word.
Bruce led the way to his car without a peep, focusing the entirety of his energy on getting you to the passenger safely. As you buckled you dodged blaring camera flashes and angled your face down so they couldn't catch your conversation. “Why didn't you stick around to talk to March?”
“Too many eyes,” he replied, not bothering to shift himself from the paparazzi. Staring a bit too long at his lips, you had to look away before your mind went blank.
“Ah, your 'not endorsing' thing.” You flopped back into the leather seat. “Might have to talk to you about that after tonight.”
The main road glittered with fresh rain and the bustle looked as it always had. You complimented March as you settled into the post-meeting routine—told Bruce how good the candidate was, how much people liked him.
“Big turnout.”
His voice was quiet, expression flat; his knuckles wrapped around the steering wheel in a way that was worried, antsy, anxious. You went toward it.
“How'd your meeting with Crane go?”
“Fine.”
Fine wasn't all that comforting; Bruce was shaken about the paparazzi, surely, but he didn't seem in the mood for reassurance. He looked resolute in his distraught.
You put your hand on his thigh and he clenched the wheel. “Are you good?”
He drew a deep, slow breath and nodded. It wasn't convincing. To get you both out of your heads, you turned attention toward the night’s plans.
“I have a few movies picked out this time, which feels like a miracle.” You went to your notes app to find the list, beginning to pepper off names until he gently interrupted.
“Sorry, but,” his hand strangled the wheel again. “I don't think I can do our date tonight.”
“Why not?” You cocked your head at him, intrigued. Was it the paps? Had the meeting not gone well?
“Just work stuff.”
His voice was tempered, quiet; you rested your hands in your lap as you talked yourself down.
It has nothing to do with his mental health, it has nothing to do with us. It's just Batman shit.
“Tomorrow, then?”
“Maybe.”
Wayne Tower was in view before you knew it.
While you were extremely aware of his shift in mood and what that might mean, you didn't allow yourself to spiral. You waited until his car pulled into the garage and you were both in the elevator—which you made sure had no cameras—to ask about it. After denying issues with his medication, side effects, or if he needed to talk, the elevator stopped at his floor.
“I'm alright for now.”
“For now?” you pressed, nudging closer to him and wrapping your arm into his elbow. He nodded, and it was just convincing enough when paired with his response.
“Being away made things pile up.”
It made sense; “It's not like you're Batman or anything.”
Bruce laughed under his breath but you weren't sold.
As you walked into the foyer, your gaze landed on the pops of color on each table. Florals in various shades of white, pink and red brought a stunning burst of liveliness to the place. You ducked into the kitchen to find a purple and pink bouquet on the table and red roses by the sink.
You leaned on the entryway wood and stared at him. “Is there a bouquet in every room?”
A whisper of a grin wore his lips. “Mhm.”
“This is gorgeous, oh my god.”
You'd only gone up a few stairs before he called after you.
“I have to go work.”
Pouting for good measure, you spun and gestured for him to come up. “You sure you can't give me a tour?”
His shoulders hunched and he put his hand in his pockets, but he obliged. The wool of his overcoat flowed behind him just enough to hit your ankles when you stepped a stair too close.
He gestured toward his room which he introduced as ‘the bedroom’, sweetly reminding that you weren't tethered to it and could inhabit any room you liked.
“Bruce,” you cozied up, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You're not pressuring me to room with you. I can't wait.”
When you stepped into the bedroom and gushed over the decor he added for you, he stayed in the hall. Continuing the tour, you passed the room you used to use where most of your stuff resided, and he said so low you almost couldn't make it out: “You can put your stuff in the other room if you'd like.”
The theater room was the star of the show; once barren, it was cozy and lush, with plush blankets, throw pillows, and vibrant snacks illuminated by backlit LEDs.
“You put all this together?”
“I did.”
His voice weakened with each passing word. Your excitement hushed. “Baby,”
His jaw flexed. “I've really got to work.”
You stepped into the hallway. “Are you upset about missing the date?”
He stared at you with such a despondent look you were frozen. After an undetermined length of time—god, it all disappeared with him—he agreed. “Yeah.”
Though everything in you wanted to pry, you’d kept him away from his duties longer than ever. If it was urgent, it was urgent; this was the life you’d signed up for. “Okay. I’ll break in the TV for us.”
You slugged him in the arm, hoping to get a little rise out of him. When he didn’t bite, you launched into a hug that was carefully reciprocated, his arms slowly and lightly wrapping around you in full.
“Go for it.” His voice was soft by your ear and your heart fluttered. You squeezed him tighter. “Have fun.”
“I will,” you assured, brushing some lint off his shoulder. You nuzzled his chin. “Don't work too late.”
His grin pulled wider as he took you in. Drinking up his admiration, you followed how his eyes roamed all parts of your face like he’d been in a desert for years. That tenderness had been sorely missed, even after just one night.
“Got to go. I’ll let you know when I’m finished.”
“Well, if you’ve got to…”
He gave you one last squeeze and headed for the basement. The decor snagged your attention again and you lost yourself briefly in repose. Colors coordinating, everything so practical and immersive, down to the snacks. It was as if he’d gone to a movie theater yesterday.
Realizing you forgot to say it, you jogged out to the railing and shouted, “Love you!” but he was already gone.
Jogging down to your old room, you went through the piles of neatly folded clothes atop the dresser. Alfred, kind and compassionate as he was, had left all of your intimates untouched. It didn’t take long to take some outfits down to Bruce’s room, despite the burn in your thighs from your feet slamming down marble steps.
A final pile plunked on the edge of Bruce’s bed made a paper in the bed’s center flutter in the whoosh of air. You picked it up, sitting on the edge of his mattress to read.
Hi, love. If I haven’t already told you, the dresser is yours and half of the closet. Feel free to reorganize things to your liking; I want you to feel comfortable. I bought a candle that reminds me of the field near your house. Hopefully it inspires a bit of home. I love you. - Bruce
You tucked the letter in your—your?!—bedside table and uncapped the candle on your side. Your heart threatened to expand past your ribcage when you smelled its woody, ambery pine. It was probably good he wasn’t here tonight; otherwise you wouldn’t get any shuteye. Not when he was this sweet, this perfect, when the excitement percolated that this was where you lived now.
And so it was for the next hour. Hanging up and folding clothes, tucking them into drawers, grabbing toiletries and infiltrating his bathroom. He used a cheap brand of shaving cream and very harsh body wash, but you thought that might've had a purpose. Difficult to imagine a frilly soap removing the dirt and grime off a vigilante.
A rush of endorphins hit your system when you caught a whiff of it; despite how it would likely destroy your skin barrier with its three-in-one formula, you turned on the water and hopped in. The room felt more like a luxury sauna than a typical bathroom, with a water pressure that rivaled anywhere in the world, not just Gotham. Through the fogged glass exposed a claw tub tucked into the corner, something you’d overlooked for the shiny sink and gleaming mirror. This bathroom was practically the size of your old studio.
Bergamot and a scent you could only describe as ‘musky fresh’ raged sulfates across your skin. You stayed in there so long that you worried your entire body might prune. Hunting for towels was an entire ordeal until you lifted the lid of a weird trash can and pulled out a freshly warmed one. Fuck, he was rich.
And when you wrapped it around you and it felt like a horde of rabbits, when you applied your drugstore skincare in a gargantuan, pristine mirror over a gorgeous sink and immaculate countertop, felt the cool marble beneath your—
In the mirror you noted a light switch on the back wall that said ‘heating’. Within seconds of flicking it ON, the ground warmed.
He was fucking filthy rich.
Something hard jammed into your shoulder when you plopped into his bed to rest. In the center of the mattress, likely beneath the card and so dark you couldn’t see it against his sheets sat a debit card with instructions sticky-noted on the back.
Address shipping to ‘Pennyworth’.
Bruce’s signature on the stripe was beautiful. You traced your fingers over it and the embossed metal lettering. Envisioned him laying beside you, hands intertwined, staring at the ceiling as you planned the next few months of your lives.
After a minute, however, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the fairytale of having an unlimited debit card.
Target, Nordstrom. Then West Elm, just because you could. Housewares, clothes, birthday gifts. By the time you realized the damage, you must’ve clicked ADD TO CART a hundred times, inputting Pennyworth a dozen.
To break the loop, you moseyed down to the kitchen to get a bite. The cupboards were nearly overflowing, the fridge and freezer perfectly stashed with multiples of your favorite foods. By a quick look as you gathered an orange and some Phish Food, he’d bought every single thing you’d ever said you liked, as well as replicated the cupboard at your house. If he were anyone else, his elephantine memory might unnerve you.
Tucked into the counter flush to the fridge was a new bottle of wine, an exact match of the one he’d said he owed you for back at your apartment. Did anything slip past him?
You got comfortable in the theater room. Bruce had already hooked his card up to every on-demand video service, so you switched on a movie that had just left theaters and dug into your pint like it’d run away. It wasn’t as lonely as you thought it would be up here, but still—at various points throughout the film, you tussled with whether to text Bruce.
Would it interrupt his focus? Would it take away time from people who needed him right then?
You turned your phone on silent, resolved not to disturb him. You could handle these nights alone, even enjoy them. Come breakfast you could talk about the spoils of the evening.
One damn thing was for sure: you weren't cracking the first night.
The dregs of the pint were smeared and half-dried up your forearm when you woke up. Thankful it hadn't poured on the couch, you rushed to the bathroom to clean up and basked in the subtle aroma of his hand soap. Using his things made you feel closer to him.
His bed looked inviting and the exhaustion from the nap still lingered; without Bruce as reason to push through your fatigue, you fell into his bed. A rush of his scent wrapped you as you snuggled under the covers. You checked your phone for the time and got drawn into Scypher.
Despite being private, your notifications were blown up. People tagged you in various thinkpieces that were a level of viral that made your head spin. Two conversations appeared prominent: one about you and Bruce’s autograph stint, the other of you and him at the bar. The latter drew you like a moth to flame.
Surprising given the lack of full light at the dive and the social's compression, the video was in stunning quality. Whoever recorded left whispered commentary throughout. “They've been like this all night” “It's literally him, I don't know if you can see” “Why would he be here? I'm literally in shock” “He hasn't stopped holding her hand since I got here” and “I swear to god I'm not joking. I'm not hallucinating, right?”
You pulled the covers to your chin, the luxe fabric gliding on your skin like water, and pressed play.
They’d caught two minutes of dancing—at least that was the only part they posted. Watching him twirl you out and into his chest brought that weightless feeling right back. Crinkly eyes, chatting and laughing, he looked every bit as happy as you’d felt. You downloaded it as you made the mistake of perusing the comments.
I didn't buy them at first but this is legitimately the first time I've seen that man smile
It had more likes than you cared to think about.
Indulging your curiosity, you clicked on the top reply.
Isn't it well known by now that he's a junkie? He's high off his ass.
|
Idk man, he might just be having fun
Since you were private, you gave OP’s reply a like.
The rest weren’t too terrible, but enough to stick like chewed gum to an otherwise perfect night. All at once the memory blended out of secrecy, letting its bloody pulse until it threatened to become a concept.
You tore yourself off the posts after scrolling through hundreds of comments on various threads mocking you for giving out your autograph, asking if you came from money, speculating on the interview, if this was PR…
Clinging to the home page refresh like a life preserver. Thoughts swirling in his pitch-black bedroom of feeling like a specimen that just got poked, on the verge of making your page public and putting them on blast. They didn’t know him, they didn’t know you. Acting high and mighty, leeching off of other’s intimacy to feel anything in their own lives.
A mutual aid request popped up on your timeline. Someone you’d followed years back from a freshman year science course.
$1753 left for medical bills before TOMORROW. Please please repost, thank you so much!!! Anything helps!!
You gave it a like and hovered above the repost button on impulse, then paused.
Sent.
The algorithm must’ve processed that you clicked the link because five more popped up after it.
Seventy five bucks. Sent.
A hundred and one. Sent.
Four-hundred. Sent.
Two thousand one hundred fifty. Sent.
Forty-six. Sent.
Sending one made you desperate to send another. You clicked around GoFundMes until your eyes went bleary and your wrist ached, until you memorized the numbers on his debit, until your phone dimmed from low power and your head hit the pillow.
You spent breakfast alone.
Alfred juiced some fruit while you made pancakes, longing to do something with your empty hands. He talked politely about how you were settling in and if there was anything he could do to make the transition easier. It was considerate, enjoyable. He assured you that Bruce had come up an hour earlier to grab some food. It was meant to help but only made you miss him.
“Is this… normal?” You took the last sip of orange juice. “Him working into the next morning?”
The old man gave you a sympathetic grin. “Absolutely, Miss. Nothing to fret over. I suggest you find something to keep busy in the meantime.”
With that, he insisted on taking your plate and doing the dishes himself.
A self-guided tour of the place was imminent; there were floors you’d never even seen all the way at the top. You peeked into rooms that didn’t have locks; so far as the tower showed, the only locked one was his parent’s room. Everything looked the same to the first few levels. Gothic, a little dusty and dated. No Beast hiding in some upper floor dwelling, no dirty secrets.
Sleepy from the week’s happenings, you found a chaise on the uppermost floor nestled by a silver rimmed window. You skated down to the library and plucked out a novel to properly utilize the reading nook. It was difficult to find something fun in a sea of nonfiction, and more than a few of those informative titles drew your eye, but you needed to escape. Your head swam with numbers and debts that slowly disappeared under the glow of Gotham fog and pages of serif font.
When you tired of the current novel, you had a kitchen full of snacks and a room full of books to peruse. Tracing fingers along century-aged spines too stubborn for a duster. Inspected the intricate spirals carved into the wood. Crunched into an apple.
It was easy to fill your Sunday. The wood began to warm by late evening, your simple presence bringing some temperature to the tower, turning the air less stale. Dinner was alright; Alfred once again invited you not to worry, he’d brought a plate down to him before calling you, and to focus on making the place more your own. You translated what he meant: Get used to it, Bruce is like this.
Monday morning rolled around to another breakfast for two. A few of your packages had arrived seemingly with the morning paper, large boxes scattered around the foyer. While Alfred plated, you carried them up to Bruce’s room.
He held out a plate of eggs benedict; you only knew what it was when you asked. Just as you were about to sink into your chair he questioned, “Has Bruce spent any time with you since landing, Miss?”
You shook your head as you dug into his signature orange juice. Alfred set aside a third plate and walked a pair of keys to you. A minute later you were holding a large silver tray with two plates, steeling yourself to the raucous of the elevator. Your fingers tingled as the doors opened.
“Alfred, I'm busy. I already told you.”
He sounded exhausted. Had he slept?
You stepped into the basement and cleared your throat. Bruce startled and switched off his monitors before spinning around.
“What are you doing down here?”
“Bringing you breakfast, Mr. Nocturnal.” He met you halfway and took the tray off your hands. As much as you wanted to stare at him, touching him was more important; nestling into a side hug made your eyes fall, thoughts glossy. “Wanna eat together?”
You looked up at him with sparkly, bright eyes. Up close like this, his fatigue was a love letter—of service to Gotham, of loving his community. The bags under his eyes, the heaviness in his arm around yours, all for the city.
“Not today.”
Whatever he was looking into was consuming him. You traced his cheekbone with the tips of your fingers. “Not even ten minutes?”
He looked positively yearnful, if that was even an expression. Those blue eyes dark in the cave’s low lighting almost looked brown and stubble erupted over his jaw. In fact, he looked so worn that you shook your head and told him not to worry about it. You took your plate back and left his.
“Hey.” You rubbed his arm in an attempt to soothe and he bristled. “Don't worry about me. So long as we get our sunrise date tomorrow.”
It was half a tease, knowing that it could be pushed if this was emergent, but when he didn't smile at you, your heart clenched.
It could be anything. Something with his parents, with him. A tragedy in the city or one about to unfold. Worrying about you. Shoving down insistent questions was a fireball in the back of your throat but you wouldn’t be needy. He already felt guilty enough.
“It's fine if we can't do it, but can you just give me a heads up?”
His brows knit together and you rushed out an addendum to patch his wounds.
“Just because I’d rather not leave your bed so early if not.” Your laugh was stiff. “Don’t know how you ever leave it, it’s like a cloud.”
Maybe he eased, it was hard to tell.
“I can't do it.” he spoke without apology and the plate went heavy in your hand, its ceramic chilled. You must’ve not hid your disappointment well, because when you turned around he shot out an olive branch.
“I'm sorry for not warning you.”
You nodded without looking back; he didn’t need to witness it sink in that you might spend most of this relationship alone. “You're really busy.”
“Friday.” His voice echoed. Glancing over your shoulder showed he’d taken a step closer. “I have to figure this out by Friday. We can have dinner then.”
“Friday night we can have a date?”
He nodded, earnest as ever, and you couldn’t swallow it anymore.
“Can you at least tell me what it is?”
Had he even blinked once?
“It's better for this to be worked on alone. I need to focus.”
Naively, you’d thought this ache of inferiority would leave now that you were together. Past snarky comments at your suggestions while detectiving flooded in.
“Okay. Date night on Friday then. What time?”
His pause felt weighty. “Six.”
You nodded. “Perfect. I’ll uh, have stuff ready by then.”
“How are you feeling?”
His concern was music to your ears. What alarmed you was how fragile he looked at a short distance.
“I’m alright. How much sleep are you getting?” You stepped back into the basement and he shook his head. A lot of nonverbals this morning.
“Enough to keep working.” He stuttered after he paused. “Don't worry.”
“It doesn't look like you're getting any sleep. If this is about me saying you should do more for the city,”
“It’s not about that.” He bit his lower lip and fluttered his lashes. His voice went soft. “I know we planned fun things but this is crucial.” His eyes shimmered. “I have to figure it out. It could change everything.”
You felt tears press forward; your voice frayed under the weight of the world on his shoulders. “How am I not supposed to worry when you say things like that?”
He didn't have an answer. “It'll be more manageable if I'm left alone until Friday.”
“Okay.”
“If you need anything, ask Alfred. He'll be happy to help.”
The donating. “You have money set aside for philanthropy, right? Can I use that card you lent me for it?”
He nodded. You wished he’d use his words more, longing to hear his voice.
Overwhelmed, you brushed at your eyes with your free hand and pressed the UP button after sidling in. One foot in front of the other until you could slam down the food and nap this vertigo away.
The elevator doors began to shutter. He called out. “Thanks for the food.”
You stared at the floor of the elevator as it rose, wringing your hands together under the plate. You brushed shoulders with Alfred as you hurried to the counter to set down the plate, ate a few bites, then dug out plastic wrap to put it away. Ran up to his room. Threw yourself in bed and let the emotion crash you to sleep.
In a supposed effort to make you feel worse about yourself, you, of course, had only slept two hours until your body fitfully rose. Another shower you now justified because of ‘crusties’, another time smelling his body wash like your lover was lost at sea. And after, while it wasn’t your first choice for distraction, the ever-mounting threat of torrential loneliness pushed you to email Dr. Vry.
How did you professionally say: I am now dating my interview subject and he is very high profile. What does this mean for credibility and how much of a stain do you think I am on The Gazette’s good name?
Fingernails chipping against the smooth wooden desk while you waited, the chair inexplicably comfortable for its form factor, staring at the screen of your new laptop bought on impulse the night before. Every thought about money and privilege was shoved to the back of your skull as fast as it came.
Decluttering your inbox of job offers made you sicker—it seemed you’d been pidgeonholed into little more than a gossip writer, a seat warmer, a cool glass of champagne at handoff to make people feel special. You’d done it to your fucking self at the end of the day, it was why you were in this tower instead of rotting in a cold studio. In what world could you complain?
When she did get back to you four hundred email deletes later, Dr. Vry expressed it was up to you. It wasn’t required to remain employed, though she followed that up with ridiculous levels of gratitude for what you’d brought to the department. She signed it saying she understood if there were sunnier horizons on your path now.
Your stomach twisted. She hadn’t made this any clearer. All you knew was the longer you looked at that email, the more nauseous you felt. If you resigned, you had zero confidence that anyone would take you seriously on your own. An interview with March, sure, but what if that did nothing?
The Gazette had rigor, reputation. If you went solo, you were certain the only open doors would come from the boyfriend, Mr. Wayne. At least if you stayed with an official publication, there’d be a name other than yours at the bottom.
You pulled up March's campaign website and found his email.
I am emailing about our interview discussion this past weekend. At this time, my employment is not finalized. It is my understanding that if I continue my employment with The Gazette, it does not meet your criteria for an interview.
However, I am curious if we could meet to discuss issues surrounding free press over an informal meeting—off the record. Please let me know a time and place to meet if you are interested.
Always available for the residents of Gotham. Does Willow off Fourth Ave. work tomorrow at three?
No sign-off, so casual it was refreshing. Maps revealed a nice café in midtown, and intrusive thoughts of scandals swirled. It was imperative to meet at a government space or speculation would run wild; you couldn’t risk his campaign getting negative press.
I am only able to discuss such matters on neutral ground. If a casual meeting space does not work for you, unfortunately I cannot meet your request. Feel free to reach out if you are able to accommodate.
Regretfully,
Lincoln March
Dammit.
Why wasn't City Hall neutral ground?
You took a lap around the tower to clear your mind. You didn't know the man well enough to make a call, didn't have any info to go off of outside of his campaigns, he wouldn't speak to you unless you were willing to cause a major upset with the public that would likely backfire on him in some capacity—probably you, too.
At some point in your pacing, after passing the twirling, abandoned library, after feeling the echo in every footstep, the tower inflated. How many times had you walked past this building during undergrad? How many passing thoughts occurred about how terrible it was for people to live like that?
Like this?
Mar wasn't responding and Rai was working. With three billion hours to kill before having dinner with Bruce and the thoughts closing in, you told Alfred you were going out. Despite your insistence on not troubling him, he ensured that you had a chauffeur and bodyguard now.
It was a relief to have someone with you in the department stores; sometimes when you switched aisles, you felt the cold metal of the gun against your temple again and moved closer to Alfred for a semblance of comfort.
The public was fairly decent to you. A few people had their phones out and suspiciously focused on your person as you moved but they were easy to tune out.
Miscellaneous hygiene items, clothes, entirely clearing out the menstrual product section, all the blankets. What else did shelters need? What else did they need help with?
Housing, you thought as you put some baby clothes and formula in the cart. They’re in a shelter because they need to be housed. Here I am putting clothes in the cart just for them to keep warm without a goddamn house.
It was logical that you couldn’t walk into shelters and place every person in an apartment—not yet anyway. Was there a better way to consolidate philanthropy money? A fund that could sustain itself, donations to a certain cause, a system you could develop for a hierarchy of who needed something first? How could you even decide that? Was that even ethical? Did someone who didn’t want kids or couldn’t have kids deserve housing after people with kids? But kids were helpless comparatively, at a critical stage of development, surely that would constitute—
“Miss? Should I gather a fresh cart?”
Absently, you nodded, and Alfred took off. You needed Bruce to bounce these thoughts off of. It was his money after all, even if he didn’t do shit to earn it.
You rubbed your temple, a headache coming on.
As you passed more people who definitely weren’t taking photos of you, that ‘scandal’ volume turned up. Would people think you had an ulterior motive? That you were trying to clean up the Wayne image? That you were trying to make a good name for yourself after ‘the scandal’? Would the shelter workers think that? Would people feel insulted taking donations from someone like you?
It made you fucking sick to think of your relationship as a TMZ headline. That you were giving any weight to those losers.
Alfred arrived with the second cart and you directed him toward the food aisles. You filled it with the good shit people would actually like, the expensive items you couldn’t have regularly afforded. Ice cream, cakes, fancy soups, all the things no one wanted to throw out.
Checking out was alright. Getting to the car was okay. Pulling up to the first shelter and doing a quick, rushed handoff felt… strange. You were shaking in the back of the car by the time you finished dropping off the third round of items, sweaty and tired from carrying all the boxes. Something nagged at you.
You cut the first day short and didn't end up shopping a second carful. Alfred made conversation on the route back about how he wished Bruce would be more proactive about using his money for public good, but he was grateful someone was stepping up.
“You’d have much more to work with if Bruce tended to finances,” Alfred shared as he pulled into the garage. You quickly googled his net worth and your mouth went dry. He confirmed it was accurate, then sighed.
Still a billionaire by a mile. Their concept of money was peculiar.
Walking to the elevator with Alfred dehazed the experience of the private garage. Immaculate metal siding, clean kempt concrete, bright even lighting. Before, all you’d noticed was Bruce.
Was he really that encompassing from the beginning?
The tower was gigantic. The elevator ride smooth and efficient, spacious. The foyer dated and gothic but nonetheless grand.
It took twenty-one strides to walk from the entrance to the first stairstep. That was the length of your entire house. You looked to the right where he’d been bleeding back in Spring; if something happened to you, Bruce would make sure you got the best doctors on the planet.
Deep breaths as you reached the top of the stairs—clean air. No musty scent from molded floorboards and walls. Secured windows without drafts.
If you wanted, you could never leave this tower again. Get every new movie delivered to you in advance. Freshly prepared meals from a professional chef. All your affairs put in order, clothes washed and pressed, messes cleaned; you’d never have to lift a finger.
The safety it provided was so wonderful as to have an edge, a bite, a cut. It wasn’t fair to hoard all the dense soil, to bloom in an otherwise untended garden. A bumble bee didn’t stay in its nest.
So you’d sleep past sunrise, your alarm went off later the next morning. Tuesday’s breakfast left a pang in your stomach as Bruce continued to sequester himself in the cave. You struggled not to show frustration when the paparazzi followed your car, pressed cameras around you while shopping. Smile. Wave. Eventually you just ignored them.
Who you couldn’t ignore were the public; a few people wandered up to you in various stores to take photos and ask about Bruce. How is he doing? was their question, usually including some version of What’s it like to date him? By the seventh person you rehearsed a standard answer: He’s great, it’s great. And we’re doing very well, thank you for asking.
Getting out of the big box stores brought one relief and another wound. Every time you did a donation handoff it felt like striking someone across the face. The imbalance was so great that it felt pitiful; you knew all the blankets and cakes in the world couldn’t make up for the penthouse you drove back to. Until your arms ached and your legs went sore from walking, you chased from center to center until they closed for the evening.
The night brought no sleep.
Alfred questioned why you were up so early the following day. You couldn’t tell him how your chest ached when you woke up from your nap to find an empty bed; you couldn’t express how even his company filled you with dread. When people questioned who the man with you was, the term butler singed your tongue.
“He’s eaten, right?”
“Yes, Miss.” His voice was stern across the table. “Though ensuring he eats is Bruce’s concern, not yours.”
You didn’t ask again.
Mar had at least responded that day, though late. Some brief exchanges about being moved into the tower, about her going on weeknight dates with Gianna, about needing to set up a date with you next week. You typed out a self-deprecating joke about those being the only dates you’d get, then deleted. It’d be a whole conversation about why Bruce wasn’t romancing you that you couldn’t speak to.
This cloud followed until Bruce’s shower shot icy water into the square of your back that night. Ambery body wash was sudsy in your hands, with iridescent bubbles you were suddenly far too tired to lather onto your skin.
Doing what you could, you finished washing and dragged yourself back to his bed. His cologne had already been faint on the sheets and it was nonexistent now. You’d forgotten how hard it was to be alone and how pathetic it felt to struggle to keep your mind busy for even a few days. It hadn’t even been a fucking week back in Gotham.
Your body kept you up most of the night for the third day in a row. Resolve had worn and the tight sieve opened to an overflowing bucket. The perception of you was now entirely out of your control; your ex friends—and exes, could look you up whenever they wanted, find wherever you were, join in on the hate at any moment. It was a matter of time before someone posted your address, names of family members, the car your dad drove. It hadn’t felt that bad when Bruce was around you.
The bed was worn in on the side closest to the door. You slipped to that side in the middle of the night and contoured to his shape. A headache woke you the next morning and you threw on the closest outfit to make do.
You seized the rare morning Alfred wasn’t in the kitchen and poured a bowl of cereal. Normalcy. A crumb of it. Please.
And it helped, so much so that you went through half a box of frosted mini-wheats.
Movement on the stairs made you rush to the main elevator and press DOWN, scrambling together a plan to meet Rai as you loaded up a rideshare app. Rai’s was the only grounding rod you could think of.
The paparazzi followed your car but you didn't give a shit anymore. Didn’t give a shit pushing through them once they stopped at the curb. Plastered on a smile and rushed through the door to a bell ring and introduction that made your heart melt.
A glance around showed the place was empty, typical for right before lunch. Back when you were a student, this was your only available time between classes to rush over and fill yourself at the deli. Your stomach hurt.
“Thank god. Hi, Rai.”
“Hey girl. Should I ask for your autograph?” Good natured as always, his curls bounced as he laughed.
“That's actually the reason I'm here.” You ran your hands through your hair and tucked into the office behind the counter, keeping the door wide enough to talk to him but out of camera sight.
“Stressing, huh?”
“Things just feel weird.” So exhausted, you almost remembered too late that you were in public; you tried to speak in generalities. “I haven't been very busy this week, and I’m trying to adjust to moving into his place and I feel… off. I don’t know, it feels like so much.”
“Squirrel.”
“Huh?”
He cast you a look like you'd gone mad. It made you acutely aware that you were an exceptionally awful friend who’d forgotten the code.
“Okay, no. I'm not squirreling right now.”
“You got back on Saturday, man. Squirrel.”
“I just feel like I'm doing nothing and I don't know how not to feel like I'm in a fishbowl. A fishbowl with billions of fucking dollars that aren't even mine, it's not even mine!” You threw your hands up, frustrated.
Rai wiped his hands on a small rag and stepped into the office. “If it's not yours, it's not yours to worry about.”
“But I can do something. Anything, really. What do rich people do aside from rich people shit or helping people?”
“So he signed you over to the Wayne fortune, huh?”
“No.” You understood his point but felt too anxious to take it. “I don't know. I can't stop this comparison… the whole drive here I was looking out at the sidewalk at people who used to be me, and I just know if someone like me walked up to me back then and gave me money my life would be changed forever. Even just ten thousand dollars would’ve set me up. Bruce wouldn't even see that gone."
“You're still the person on the sidewalk. That money isn't yours.”
“I know but I have access to it. And people kill themselves from money problems, I could stop people from—”
“So you're playing god?”
“I don't think it's that simple, Rai. I need to do something while I wait for Bruce.”
“Wait for what?”
“I have some things I have to process with him before I can do much of anything.”
A customer came to buy a single bottle of Snapple apple. Would Bruce like that?
Rai made quick work ringing them up and came right around. “Can someone else help you process? Why's he so busy?”
“He just is. And he has very specific knowledge that I need, stuff that's critical to know before making a decision, and in order to do anything with my job I need to know that information, and so I'm stuck either wandering the tower or trying to talk to Mar but you know how she is, she's probably out with friends, I don't even know how she goes out every day,” you took a shallow, rapid breath, just enough to continue. “But some people are just made for this, you know? I'm not. I don't feel equipped to do anything, and I'm just running around town like some kind of fucking fairy trying to fix everything and I can't do that, I know that logically I can't do that,”
“Y/n.”
“But still I'm just doing random shit because I want to help, I do, I don't want people to suffer. I want to do something with my time that's productive. It feels disgusting to sit around and just wait. What am I supposed to do? Go to a movie? A bar? A restaurant? A couple months ago I could barely afford food and now I'm here? Sitting on my ass?”
“You're tired. Accomplish a nap.”
“You do a lot of donating, I thought you'd understand.”
“I do a lot because I took it slow. I didn't burn out.” He crossed his arms, wrinkling the blue shirt he wore every Wednesday. You forgot about that. “I'm not confident anything would be enough though. For you.”
If he'd delivered that any less relaxed, you might've thought he was being rude. “What do you mean?”
“We used to tear those fools apart. Thought they were a joke. Good for nothing richies turning this city to shit.”
Your heart sank. He walked out to the fridges on the floor, grabbed a water, and handed it to you. The chill of the plastic made you sit a little taller. The liquid degunked your throat from the smog.
“When you say that, it’s like you're describing me.”
“Exactly. You can't think like that.”
“How am I supposed to think? I don't want to be one of them.” You strangled the water bottle to abate quivering hands. “If I weren't me I'd hate me.”
I don't want to feel guilty for loving Bruce, either.
“You know where your heart is. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks.”
“But it does. I can't be complicit.”
“I can see the bags under your eyes. Let's talk more after you get some shuteye.”
This urgency wouldn't leave your body. You laid back in his loungy office chair, propped your feet up on the desk, and pulled your hood over your head. Suddenly you understood Bruce a lot more.
Waking up in Rai's office was more than jarring; you fell off the chair and slammed your knees into the concrete flooring. Swore a spider got scared out from under the desk and ran toward the wall.
“Good timing.” Rai walked in with a duffel bag. “Deli just closed and every fridge is full. Unless your boyfriend is starving you, you can help that squirreling and drop off the extras at the women's shelter. Should be on the way back.”
You must've taken too long to log any type of reaction, still blinking sleep out of your eyes, because he dropped it with a loud sigh. “Or this is payback for that food I spot you a while ago.”
Oh shit. “Sorry, Rai,”
He wagged his finger at you and shook his head. “A year ago you would've joked back.”
“I don't know. I still feel weird about being here, together with him, publicly. I didn't think I would.”
He clicked the door behind him and lowered his voice, sitting on the edge of one of his desks. “Weren't you two public before that trip?”
“Yes, but…” you quieted too in case some pap had an ultra-mega microphone. “It was… fake. Fake dating. It's a long story. But now it's real and there's videos of us near my hometown…”
While at the bar, a million cameras could’ve surfaced and you would’ve just smiled at them capturing your love. What had you told Bruce then? Let them? He was allowed to live? Why didn’t it feel like that now?
Something lovely about Rai was he didn't pry. “Gotham has teeth. Makes sense you're feeling it; you're the most popular topic the past few days.”
“I don't want to be a topic.”
“It's not fair, but it's not going to change.” His face was set in a sympathetic smile. “You just have to think about if he's worth it.”
“He is.” It fell out of you before conscious thought, but the thought matched it when it caught up. Losing the one person to ever reveal the color of euphoria was an obscene thought.
Rai accepted this answer. “Then you’ll get used to it, don't worry.”
“What if I don't want to get used to it?”
He drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk as he stood up. “You decided to date Bruce Wayne. If low-profile is something you want, it's not with him. He's practically royalty, even trying to hide in the middle of nowhere.”
You fidgeted. Hard to hear, but honest. “I'm just glad you and Mar aren't treating me differently. It’s grounding.”
“I'm not treating you differently because you haven't changed,” he reminded, grabbing a cardboard box to break down. “I'd be worried if you weren't stressed.”
“Because I need to be?”
“No,” Rai chided. “Because it shows you still care. And I'm sure you'll continue to.”
His sureness about your backbone was relieving, and you stepped onto that steady platform to get a breath of air. “You're right, I'm squirreling.”
“Yep.”
As you stood and brushed yourself off he put a hand on your shoulder.
“But if it's ever too much and you need a safe place, come here.”
He held out a pair of keys that looked unused. “I don't want to take your spares.”
“I made them for you. Saw the chaos on the web.” He plopped them on the table and nodded for you to take them. “I want you to have a place to go, day or night. No problem. And that—” he pointed toward the minifridge under the desk where you thought the spider might've hidden behind, “is kept stocked with deli leftovers. Feel free.”
There was that reason you didn't hate Gotham: Rai's goodness. It radiated out of him like sunshine.
You hugged him goodbye and grabbed the duffel, forcing yourself not to tear up so the cameras wouldn't catch it.
You pushed through the crowd with your bag and tried to ignore the flashes of their cameras, their shouting, how the strangers in front of you dodged out your path like a flamethrower. Lowering your gaze, you focused on the cracks in the sidewalk.
This was still your city. Kinda. At least a city you'd be in for a while. A place that knew your loneliness like its own pulse; that knew the sweet electricity of wandering with Bruce; the solace you sought when the west got too dark.
The swing in your step echoed what would come next. City Hall meetings each Thursday, rallies on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Screens that dried your eyes out and fingers tight from typing and researching. Finding that downtime with Bruce to tattoo more memories.
As the street pressed on and the signals remained defective as ever, the line blurred. Being outside of tower walls and actually sitting in the city, tracing the cobbled steps you took before you ever knew him, brought you out of the clouds. You kicked a piece of broken glass off the curbside ramp.
The messiness of the city made you relax, unlike it ever had. You unhunched your shoulders and analyzed the overcast streets. The car lights, the drizzle of rain hitting your bare skin. Glistening dark puddles, the thunk of tires hitting potholes. Some man on his phone ranted about a game, another woman texted while repeatedly pulling a purse up her shoulder. Flashes of light to your right and left, cameras saying your name.
WALK.
A feeling of sonder struck you as you bumped shoulders with a pedestrian and the spotlight effect hushed. She readjusted her purse as she walked past, the man changed subjects on the phone, the signal got dimmer. The world went on without you; you didn’t keep it spinning.
The sign for the women's shelter was very hidden, which you understood, and immediately felt awful about ducking into it with a gaggle of cameras outside. The volunteers asked if you were sent by Rai, recognizing the hot deli food, and you spent the final few minutes gushing about how wonderful he was to the community as you tracked your Uber’s arrival.
It was easier feeling less alien when you weren’t driven by Alfred. It was possible to pretend nothing had changed and you were on your way back to your studio to eat some cold pasta. You rested your head on the chilly window and noticed how strange it was to romanticize a place you’d been so desperate to escape.
The ride up the elevator took eons this go-around. When you got to the kitchen to grab a snack, Alfred startled. You didn't think you'd seen him do that before.
“Didn't know you were out.”
“I just went to visit a friend for a bit.” You swung open the fridge and then stalled, peeking over. “Do I need to notify you when I leave…?”
“It always helps if someone knows where you are, but no. You are not required.”
Dropping the miss, that was interesting. What did his schedule entail on Thursdays? Did he have a long talk with Bruce about you two missing a meeting tonight?
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“Well,” you grabbed a carrot and hummus platter. “I haven't thought that far ahead.”
“Good. You can help me in my study.”
“Oh, I—”
“Should only take an hour.” He pulled out his phone and typed something. “Let’s get this sorted through.”
Alfred was deceptively fast, good god, and you tripped trying to hurry up the stairs after him.
A plethora of jewelry sat out on his desk. Before you could ask, he answered.
“From the Wayne archives. Mrs. Wayne never had the opportunity to wear most of them, but I try to keep the pieces nice and clean in her memory.”
Christ, these looked about a billion dollars each. The diamonds sparkled like water; you'd never seen jewelry this reflective, this expensive, and when Alfred placed a necklace in your hand, that heavy. You quickly handed it back.
One of them stood out to you: a beautiful gold wedding ring. Alfred must've seen you stare at it because he picked it up with a gloved finger.
“Mrs. Wayne was very modest, but she liked a bit of flair.”
He spun it to show the centered oval cut diamond on a mostly plain band, with two simple stud diamonds embedded into the band, evenly spaced on either side.
“It's beautiful.”
Alfred nodded, used some sort of technique to shine it, then tucked it away. It seemed to match her; from photographs, she looked dainty. Were you the most boisterous person to walk these halls?
He handed you a bracelet and a cloth. You reached out to grab it before you realized what he meant, then shied away. “I feel like I'm not qualified to touch them, Alfred.”
“Oh, you certainly are. Bruce gave the OK this morning.”
“I have no idea how to clean jewelry like this,”
“I'll show you.”
And boy did he—for the next hour you learned enough skills to snag a beginner position at a local jeweler. The ultrasonic machine was magic despite there being little to no visible dirt on any of the luxury pieces, and by the time you were finished, you began to squirrel again. You unboxed some of your purchases and placed them about Bruce’s room the rest of the afternoon to distract.
Thursday evening came with utmost relief. Digging around in the fridge, you placed the ingredients for tomorrow’s dinner in one section to make your job easier. Tacos weren’t especially romantic, but they were fun to make together and a nice bridge from coast to coast.
On the uppermost floor you revisited the chaise; moonlight threaded between the fibers of the aged curtains and made quite the nook. Wedged between the wall and the cushion sat a book you hadn’t noticed before.
Pushing the furniture away from the wall you pulled out A Study in Scarlet, a Penguin classics edition. A thick layer of dust had accumulated on its face. You settled in after wiping it off on the chaise’s edge and a bookmark nearly slipped out; you turned to its page.
“That was it,” said Lestrade, in an awestruck voice, and we were all silent for a while.
There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle, tingled as I thought of it.
Getting cozy, you turned back to the beginning. It was a 2001 copy; he couldn’t have spent much time with it before his parents died, if he hadn’t read it later.
Bruce must’ve liked it up here. A nice hideaway, just isolated enough to be in one’s own imagination. What had you been doing while he sat here and read mysteries? Did he return here when he was older, or had he abandoned it once the tower went silent?
You made it all the way to Holmes testing the pills on an unknowing canine before drifting off.
“Don't let me wake you, sweetheart.”
An elderly woman wearing a black dress with a lacy white collar smiled at you while she dusted. Her hair was in a kempt gray-white bob.
"Oh, hi," you swung your legs over the edge of the daybed. Smiled at her. Wondered what the hell time it was, wondered why you were so hungry. A book banged to the ground and you scrambled to recover it. “You're—” what the hell was her name?!
“Dory, ma'am. I'm Mr. Wayne's housekeeper. You're Ms. Y/l/n, correct?”
You nodded, rubbing your eyes to rouse yourself. “Yes. Y/n, actually. If you don't mind.”
“Of course not, dear. Mr. Pennyworth told me all about you and Mr. Wayne.”
She thought for a moment and turned to you, away from the bookcase.
“If you could give me your schedule so I can have clothes pressed for you, that would be most convenient.”
She then asked if she might know which room you were staying in—“Bruce's”—and which items you'd like pressed for each event. You told her most of them hadn't arrived yet, but they would in the coming days. You agreed to leave the clothes you'd like pressed and returned in a wicker basket outside of his door.
It was such a strange conversation—you'd seen similar ones the rare times you'd babysat for the kids of your parent's friends, how they'd have a maid swing by and fulfill household tasks. Dory was amicable, but that didn’t make it less bizarre.
You absently spun your bracelet around your wrist as you walked down the stairs to grab your phone. It snagged on your belt loop and you paused, making sure it didn't break and spill out over the marble, your heart racing.
Was it better to preserve the bracelet or wear it out?
The glow of your phone on the nightstand revealed you’d slept for twelve hours. Starved, you sought the kitchen for another round of cereal.
Roses and peonies kept a gorgeous atmosphere, but you couldn’t give them all the credit for your bright spirit. Every thought was lifted by the wind of date-night excitement.
Getting things in order was shockingly fun. First: quick stops at a few places downtown for gifts. Second: setting aside a dress and heels from the new arrivals.
You laid out an outfit for him too, knowing he'd probably come up from the cave covered in car grease and sweat and deserved a shower. Prideful as you were for making it to Friday without completely losing your mind, that impatience lingered.
This tension followed to early evening, when the room was adequately rearranged and your toiletries populated his bathroom. Your attention kept turning to his clothes laid out on his dresser, his uncapped cologne wafting just enough of his scent to tease.
The plush rug under his bed soothed your tired feet, serenading you towards scuttling under the covers. His comforter was heavy and thick, inviting just enough pressure for your eyes to flutter shut and lewd thoughts to tempt you.
The door was open a crack so you couldn't exactly do all that you wanted. You let your body relax, resting into his smell, your skin hot with the memory of his touch. Between layers of his bedsheets you slid your hand between your thighs, began to picture all he might do tonight, how much you’d missed each other and all the ways it could be expressed. Slowly.
The first time in his bed needed to be slow.
You turned your head into the pillow and stifled a moan. His whispers vibrated in your ear like he was here, as he instructed you to touch yourself and you pretended to hate following orders, as he teased about your goosebumps giving you away, that you got off to this, running his fingers down your sensitive throat down to your belly where he'd grip your hips, ask you to spell out what you wanted, to use your words; oh, you needed him to call the shots tonight, in his room, his mattress, please...
A knock made you jump. Dory's weathered, warm voice rang from just beyond the doorway. “Miss Y/n, I pressed some of you and Mr. Wayne's clothing. I'll leave it folded at the door. Would you like any help before I leave for the day?"
“Uh,” you sat up and pressed the heel of your palm to your forehead, your heart rate stuttering. “I don’t think so, no. Thank you though—Dory! Have a good night!”
It was half past five. You hustled to get ready, slamming in earrings and speeding on makeup after slipping into your dress and heels.
All light had already left and the moon wasn't high enough to shine into the kitchen yet. You switched a couple overhead lights on and got to making the tortillas, stressing at the clock waiting for the dough to rise as time bled into six. At which point, you heard every shift of the tower and turned toward each sound with mounting intrigue.
You finished making the tortillas around six thirty. By six forty you had your phone out on the table, writing a quick text before going back to the meat on the stove.
Hey babe, everything's ready! If it's going to be much longer, let me kn
The elevator clunked open and you dashed out of your seat. His hair hung limp, his clothes wore baggy on his frame. His shirt had a ripped collar and holes scattered throughout the chest. Hugging him was a crisp pool in the desert.
Giddy, you stepped back to look at him. Those same gorgeous blue eyes, his textured skin with its little lines. It was worth it. It would always be worth it.
“Bruce, oh my god I’m happy to see you.” Your smile bit into your cheeks. As you scanned his face and came back to Earth, his expression looked… upset. In his clenched right hand was a tan folder, but otherwise he had nothing else on him.
“What's that for?” you asked, walking to the table to push the candle in a foot. His overshirt was far too flowy.
“A case.”
He sounded like sandpaper. You were too excited to slow down.
“I have an outfit laid out for you upstairs, only if you'd like to change. Don't have to, but might want to get cleaned up if it's more comfortable?”
Bruce shook his head. “I'm alright.”
Transitioning from the cave to date night couldn’t be easy, especially after a week. Gifts might help with that. Bring him into the space, ground him to it. “I got you some things.”
You grabbed the box from his tablesetting and held it out for him to take. His morose didn’t shift, but he did look down at it.
“I know the public knows that we're together,” you started, pulling apart the velvet ribbon to unpack it. Lifting the lid revealed a thin silver bracelet. “But they don't know the real us, you know? This way we can have something similar but not give too much away to them.”
He absently held out his wrist, almost dazed. You undid the homemade one and gently placed it in the designer box. He stammered when he spoke. “What about those ones?”
“I figured we could keep the other bracelets here, wear them on our private dates. Wear them around the house—Tower.” you corrected, feeling heat spread across your face as you clicked it onto his wrist. “It's just to keep them safe, you know? I'm not overthinking things, I'm…” You took a deep breath.
A second bracelet materialized from the box and you held out your wrist, grinning.
“My turn, babe.”
His expression flickered at the pet name. Good. He was getting acclimated.
“The paparazzi, the public, I'm starting to deal with it better, actually.” Butterflies flew when he righted the bracelet and ensured it hung well on your wrist. You continued, smiling as his fingers grazed your skin. “It'll take more time to feel it out, but it doesn't have to make me spiral.”
He didn't linger past that, immediately moving his hands to his sides. Something was off, he was stilted.
You looked into his eyes against the rising tide of anxiety. For him to act like this off the heels of what was, for all intents and purposes, a honeymoon, was unsettling. Shouldn’t he have more joy at reconnecting?
You turned back to the stove when you smelled something burning. Perhaps explaining more to him would help? “I just want some things to still be ours. I figured you could understand that better than anyone.”
You moved the meat off the heat and made an appreciative comment about the rosé and how he remembered so much. He didn’t move from across the kitchen.
“I made tacos. I thought we could put the fixings on them together—oh my god, I almost forgot.” You licked your finger that had some seasoning on it and spun around, hurrying to the hallway and arriving with a bouquet of midnight calla lilies.
“Since you were so generous with your flower-giving, I figured it was only fair to get some for you. And not only fair,” you stumbled through the gift, hyperaware of and equally confused why you were fumbling. Your body held the same nerves as public speaking.
“You know, just… yeah. I want to give them to you. I don't know. I'm feeling kinda like, flustered? After our time apart?”
Bruce’s face kept flat but he took the flowers. He took the flowers.
You rushed to get out the tortillas. “I forgot to ask, are you okay with corn? I made some flour tortillas just in case, I don't know which you prefer.”
His response was walking toward the kitchen island and gingerly placing the flowers. You swallowed and shifted the subject.
“Later I'll need your help figuring out what to do about the Gazette situation.”
This one made him reply.
“Did something happen with Vry?”
His voice sounded drier now that he had to project it. This was easier, he was talking.
“No, no. I've just been wondering if I should go independent.” Since he didn't answer, you just chose corn. The oil sizzled when you placed one on the pan. “At the rally, March didn't want to meet with me unless I was solo. And with Dr. Vry already firing me once, I mean, I guess that was before she knew we were dating, before we were,”
He waited until you finished building a taco before responding.
“I never asked: why did you leave Gotham after Vry fired you last month?”
“Because she fired me… I told you.” You added another tortilla to the oil. Thank god the conversation was getting more casual.
“I know that. But leaving immediately?”
“Yeah.” You took a swig of water, careful not to smudge your lipgloss as best you could. He sounded strained.
“My mom was leaving on a cruise and I didn't want Debbie to have to take care of Walter. She can be so loud, and Gotham was honestly really depressing me,”
“What were you thinking about?”
He hurried that question out, barely waiting for you to finish.
“I don't know, I really just want to get eating.” You flipped a second taco. “This was a convo for later, remember? We have a date to get to.”
“Did you come back the day of my attempt?”
That was what felt so weird: he sounded like fucking Batman.
“I came back a few days before. Wanted to research for the interview.”
“Is that all you did the days before? Research?”
“I think so.” A third taco, en route.
“Think so?”
His tone gave you pause.
“Why?” You added more meat to the tortilla, wishing you hadn't waited for him to arrive so things weren’t so rushed. “Did something come back about your attempt?"
He continued like you hadn't spoken. You couldn't look at him because the oil started to pop. “Did you go anywhere before that Thursday? On Wednesday? Before the meeting? Tuesday?”
“I met with Dr. Vry to grab supplies right before the meeting, but that's it. I wanted to have the best questions so I took my time.”
“Why did you want the best questions?”
“It was your first interview. I knew every eye in the world would be on it.”
“And what did that feel like?”
“What did what—”
“What did it feel like knowing it would be popular?”
You shrugged. “Scary. Good.”
“Why?”
You decided he must've seen stuff in the press; he’d seen the viral posts and came up to have a hard conversation when it didn’t need to be one. His anxiety about you getting hurt was endearing, but he couldn’t keep you in a box. You’d already reassured him to hell and back.
“I promise, I'm fine with the press. And one day it'll feel super normal, I'm sure. Or a version of it.”
You turned the heat down and soothed a corner of your finger that got hit by rogue EVOO.
“You did nothing but research those days before my attempt?”
You peeked over your shoulder and he stared into you with a squeezed brow. Wanting to bend the mood back, you half-laughed. “Absolutely nothing. Life was riveting. And I got back on Monday I think.”
“You think?”
“Bruce.” You spun around and gave him a look. His stare didn’t shift. “I don't know. I'm pretty sure I didn’t go anywhere, yes. As for what I did, I just stayed in my apartment. Cleaned stuff up.”
“You said you researched.”
“I didn't spend every waking moment at my computer, I also thought I was leaving later that week, so. I cleaned some. But that's it.”
He paused. You worked to assemble a few more tacos.
“Did you do anything the days after, then? The two days after?”
“No. Not outside of the stuff with you.” you replied. “Trying to keep you alive.”
“You didn't go anywhere but to Wayne Tower and back?”
“No… Actually, I might've gone to Rai's. Maybe. I don't know. It's fuzzy.” You snuck a bite of the cooked meat and added a touch more salt.
“Why is it fuzzy?”
“Why wouldn't it be? I was terrified you were gonna die.”
At this point he had properly frustrated you. This wasn't how you wanted to start date night.
“Did you go anywhere else? Anywhere southwest?” He continued his questions without apology and no sign of stopping.
If he was ruminating on that night, you wouldn’t let it carry on. Retracing his steps, stressing, it wouldn’t do him good. Was that why he looked so haggard? Had this been the thing on his mind all week? He kept looking at the clock like he couldn’t wait to get back down there.
“No, I didn’t. And you look wiped out. We should eat.”
“What'd you do after I left your apartment that night? After the interview?”
“Right before your attempt?” You wondered how much longer to humor him for.
“Yes. After I left, what did you do?”
“Bruce, you said you didn't want to relive it. You haven't eaten a proper meal in days for all I know—”
“When I left your apartment after doing the written interview what did you do the rest of the night? The whole night until morning?”
You slowed. Was it something with Oz?
His stare was unrelenting. He hadn't looked at you like that since—
“The night of my attempt. After I left. What did you do until morning?”
An uncomfortable pang banged around your stomach. This wasn't the warmth you'd wanted, this wasn’t how the evening was supposed to go. “I stayed home. I wrote the interview out, it took all night. I barely slept before I had to wake up and turn it in.”
“After I left, you never stepped outside of your apartment until the next morning when you went directly to GU campus?”
“After you left, I never stepped outside of my apartment until the next morning when I went directly to GU campus, yes.” It was challenging not to snap at him. “Can we eat now?”
He didn't ask anything after that and you didn't bother to check how he reacted. You still had a handful of tortillas and a bit more meat, the only one seemingly invested in this ‘date’.
“Originally my plan was for us to cook these together but you didn't end up coming up until forty minutes into our date. That's pretty late, dude.”
Why did you sound so… peeved? Suddenly your skin lit up like ants. You shoved the meat into a taco shell and felt hot tears sting your lashline.
“Y/n, I know.”
You wiped your eyes. It stung for him to be late, fuck. It stung for him to grill you when all you wanted was to connect, to be let in. “You know, but do you care?”
Bruce scoffed behind you; you had a physical reaction to the sound. “Of course I care about that.”
“Well if your way of showing it is getting all quiet and stiff, I don't fucking appreciate it.”
“How am I supposed to act?”
“That sounds really defensive, Bruce.”
“Why don't you care that I know?”
“We both know, the clock's right there.”
“Alfred told you?”
“No, he didn’t.” A tortilla split in the pan, sending sizzles of oil up to your hand. You cursed and grabbed a spatula. “So you knew earlier and didn't tell me? I could’ve waited on these bullshit tacos.”
He was doing it again, folding into himself and disregarding everything else. Your heel clacked against the porcelain tiles as you tried to burn off the anxiety.
“I knew if I came up earlier, I might stop looking.” His sigh was shaky. “I couldn’t see you until I knew. Not until I was sure. I needed to know if… if there was a way it wasn’t… any other reason to explain it.” He trailed off, exasperated. “I just couldn’t believe it.”
His voice had a hue it'd never had before—Jersey. It slipped into the edges and curves of his words. You softened; Bruce was always concerned with being the perfect boyfriend, these were the first days of something so scary to him. He didn’t need to wrack himself with guilt.
“Bruce, it’s not that big of a deal. Let's just eat and—”
From the corner of your vision his devastation shifted to a glare, his tone incredulous. “Not that big of a deal?”
“I just snapped and I didn't mean to, I'm sorry. We're both upset right now so let's just put it behind us. Start fresh, alright?”
“Why are you so casual about this?”
Being late to a date wasn’t a cardinal sin. If you looked at it another way, the fact this felt high stakes was good: it meant you both cared.
“What happened happened. We haven't interacted in a while; all we need is some time together to smooth it over. You still love me, I still love you.”
You took a second to breathe.
“When I said I love you, I didn't know you tried to kill me.”
A hunk of taco meat fell onto the stovetop as his statement fizzed through you. You whirled around.
“What?”
“It's all here.” Bruce took the manila folder and plopped it on the table.
When you gave him a wary look, he didn't falter. If the mood were any less dour, you might’ve thought he was playing a sick joke.
Bewildered, you approached the folder and flipped it open. Your name was centered and bolded; italicized underneath were the words Active / Susp. of: Aggravated Assault, Conveying False Information, Trespassing, Attempted Murder: 2nd Degree.
“I don't understand.”
“What don't you understand?”
You turned the page to a dense list of items precisely labeled as: Evidence.
Suspect matches latent prints and hair sample found at scene. Victim wounds do not corroborate self-injury.
The remainder of the first page was purely clinical, detailing sample testing and demographics with a byline for each potential sentence. He was miserably silent, leaving only the sound of your heart thumping.
“Bruce, I didn't—I didn't do this.” Your hands shook as you clumsily thumbed through dozens of interactions with him over the past few months. “Killing you? It doesn't—no, this isn't—I don't get it. What do you mean? Like, I tried to fucking murder you—? No. No.”
“Explain it to me then. How were your prints there? Why did you wait a month after that night to bring me back to Gotham? Why’d you extend our trip after calling Crane?”
It was hard to see the words as your vision clouded. When you turned to a page labeled Index, printed screenshots of your call log and internet history were highlighted with the same timestamps as everything else. You couldn't swallow any of it, the words blurring and leaving.
You gripped the back of a chair to steady yourself. The noiseless tower sent a shiver up your spine, your knuckles working the glazed wood.
“Do you really think I pushed you?”
Your voice rang hollower than anything had in the tower.
“Knowing damn well your apartment complex only keeps footage for thirty days. That the second you got off the phone with him you searched prison sentences, Blackgate—what did your friend say? Did she promise to keep it a secret?”
“Bruce, I didn’t think—I didn’t think about—nothing. None of that is related, I didn’t do this.” Your head spun, unable to form a coherent thought.
“How did that come out again? When you ‘confessed’ to the ‘lie’? How did you say it? You panicked when it slipped.”
“I don’t remember.” You couldn’t breathe. “I don’t know anything right now.”
Bruce gave you a long, weighted stare. The stillness ate you alive by the time he turned around.
“Meet me in the garage.”
You dashed after him and wedged yourself in front of the elevator. Air fell out of you in buckets. “Bruce.”
He winced. You tried to look in his eyes but he wouldn't make contact, his face twitching on the verge of tears. When he wouldn't respond you grabbed his arm and he flinched away.
Adrenaline coated every thought.
“Let's—let's talk about it, okay? I’ll calm down, let’s just take a minute so I can breathe. We can figure out how it happened. They found my prints on some pole at the scene? Some doorknob? My hair there? How often are those false matches? And the timing, the calls, the lie, and the stuff with Aaron, and my searches, um,” you mentally reviewed the murky memory of flipping through the pages. “All those conversations you listed, they, they're not that, not like that at all, you know, um,"
Goddammit, you still couldn't think!
A last hail-mary, a final desperate attempt to squeeze some air into collapsing lungs. You knew that fucking look of his, except its lines were even deeper and more resigned than out on your back porch.
“Everything in there has a context. It's an awful misunderstanding.”
“Is it now?”
“Yes, I promise. Can we just sit down?”
That word, ‘promise’—he shuddered when you said it.
You attempted to touch his wrist but he stepped away. Was anything even real right now?
“We've got to go.”
He looked cold. Distant. Like the version of Bruce telling you to scram from that alleyway and never come back.
Except that felt better. That felt so much better than this.
“We need to get on the same page. Obviously something convinced you—”
“And what would getting on the same page mean?”
Your hands felt emptier than they ever had now that he'd rejected them. It filled you with intolerable feelings that started to bleed out. “That I obviously didn't do it. That it's ridiculous to think—”
“Ridiculous?”
“Fucking ridiculous, yeah! I don't know why you'd believe some shit like that—”
“Trying to convince me I'm wrong again?”
His voice was thin as it had been at The Moore.
Fuck. He was right there, touchable, yours, but he wouldn't allow it. You reached for Bruce again, gently, and he avoided it.
“No, I'm so jumbled right now, I just don't understand why that would make sense to you, that's all, so obviously we need to talk about it and get on the same—”
“It's all in that case file you want to dismiss.”
“Those are—no, we need to sit and talk it over because those are—”
His step back became a hard step forward. “You need to start being honest with me.”
“I am being honest! If we could talk—”
“At this point it's not a question of if, but why—”
“Why would I do something like—”
“I can think of a dozen reasons—”
“Like what? I love you, I would never—”
He counted on his fingers at rapid speed. “Fame; security; sympathy; money; revenge—”
“Who do you think I am—”
“I don't know!”
It was impossible for that one not to leave a mark; you gritted your teeth and hurled back, “You know me. If you don't know me, then no one—”
“Why did you do it?”
“I didn't do—”
“I don't know who you think you're fooling right now,”
You could excuse yourself and allow you both to cool down; being this dysregulated was no state to argue in. But at this point you didn't know if you were stretching out the argument just so he'd come closer, not knowing what might happen if either of you left this room.
Still, you needed to diffuse this before he ran. Maybe something more was going on with him; maybe you needed to state it all directly.
“I'm not fooling anyone. I love you and I would absolutely never—”
“Did you think you got away with it? Or did you think I'd forgive you if you made me love you first?”
The wind knocked out of you. “None of that,”
He glanced at the clock and opened his mouth; you interrupted despite the nausea ravaging, feeling him slipping through your fingers.
“Can you let me talk?!”
He pushed past you. “We're almost late.”
“What are you talking about? Come on—”
You yanked at the tail of his shirt and he easily stepped out of your sweaty grasp.
“Are you serious? Just dropping this on me—I can’t think.” You braced your hands on your thighs and bent forward, breathing through a straw. You righted too quickly and a sharp gasp came out with your exhale. “I just need fucking five minutes, please.”
“Can you say anything other than you didn’t do it? Anything about your evidence at the scene?”
You blinked to clear your vision. Bruce looked pleading, brows knit, begging. Your hands slapped to your sides, your very blood drained out of you.
“I didn’t leave my apartment. I didn’t do it.”
His eye contact was staggering; if you’d been in your body it would’ve taken you out of it. Your truth glanced off of him.
Bruce grabbed the folder, turned off the stove, and headed for the rickety elevator. “We’ve got to go.”
“Where are we going?” The only reason your feet followed was a desperate desire not to lose contact. He walked so fast he made a breeze.
“Cases like these require evaluation.” The door opened without him breaking stride. “I’m taking you to Arkham.”
