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storyscribeforthesentiment · 1 month ago

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the detective & the dark knight | chapter 12

Summary: Detective Marie Manning, investigating a series of brutal murders in Gotham, crosses paths with the mysterious Batman. As they work together, their mutual respect turns into a deep, passionate bond. Amidst danger and corruption, their unlikely partnership evolves into a profound love, forever changing their lives in Gotham’s dark corners.

Pairing: Batman/Bruce Wayne x f!main character

Word count: 7.5k

Warnings/tags: mentions of gun violence, blood

Chapter List

Marie stood at the stove in Wayne Manor’s vast, quiet kitchen, the stillness of early morning wrapping around her like a blanket. She stifled a yawn, absently stirring the eggs as the weariness from last night’s stakeout clung to her, making her eyelids feel heavy.

She should’ve been exhausted enough to sleep through the dawn, but something in her wouldn’t let her rest, not while Bruce was still out there.

Her mind wandered to the waterfront from the night before, to the adrenaline that had burned through her as she’d crouched in the shadows beside Batman.

They’d scanned every corner of a local shipyard, waiting for any sign of Sal Maroni’s men, certain they were close to a breakthrough in the Red Lotus case.

But after hours of tense waiting, damp and hidden, they'd come up empty yet again. Maroni had slipped away, like he always did, leaving them grasping at air.

At around 1 a.m., Bruce finally told her to go home. The stakeout was done, and he insisted she should try to get some sleep. Even as she made her way back to the manor through Gotham’s empty streets, she knew Batman wasn’t finished yet. He’d be diving back into the city’s shadows, chasing down loose ends, as he always did.

She couldn’t say the stakeout was entirely awful—after all, she got to spend the evening with Bruce, even if it was in a rundown shipyard. Since that night on the yacht several weeks ago, they’d fallen into a rhythm—working cases and stealing whatever time together they could.

The smell of coffee joined the eggs, warm and grounding, and she poured herself a cup, wrapping her hands around the mug. Sleep wouldn’t come—not until she knew he was home, safe. And so, she found herself here at 5 a.m., in the soft light of the kitchen, cooking breakfast and waiting.

“Looks like I have a fellow early bird in my midst,” Alfred’s warm voice sounded behind her, bringing a smile to her lips. He moved into the kitchen with his usual grace.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, offering him a fresh mug of coffee, steam swirling between them. “Hard to settle in when he’s still out there.”

Alfred took the coffee with a small nod, his gaze kind. “Ah, yes. I remember those first sleepless nights, when he started going out.” He took a sip, his tone warm and reassuring. “He may not always come home in one piece, but he always comes home. I hope that’s some comfort.”

Marie’s smile softened as she nodded. “He’s lucky he’s always had you to come home to.”

“Oh, me?” Alfred scoffed, a glint of fondness in his eye. “I’m just some old, stuffy butler. Now you��he’s truly lucky to have.”

Marie felt a blush creeping up as she opened her mouth to respond, but a subtle beep sounded from a monitor across the kitchen, catching both of their attention.

“Oh, looks like he’s just pulled into the cave,” Alfred said, glancing at her with a raised eyebrow.

Marie’s face lit up, and she was already halfway to the door. “Thanks, Alfred! Don’t eat all the eggs without me,” she called over her shoulder, hurrying toward the Batcave.

Alfred chuckled, calling after her, “Of course, Miss Marie.”

As she slipped down the familiar path to the Batcave, the excitement in her chest grew as her mind raced with a dozen questions about the case.

Marie stepped into the cold, steel-lined elevator, feeling the hum as it lowered her into the depths of the Batcave. As the doors slid open, she took in the sprawling shadows and the soft glow from the computers. Her pulse quickened, and she stepped forward, her eyes searching for him among the dark, familiar shapes.

The Batmobile’s sleek black silhouette came into view, parked and hummed faintly as it powered down. Bruce stepped out, his face half-shadowed by the cowl, exhaustion tugging at his features. He looked up, surprised to see her. His mouth tilted into a smirk as he pulled off the cowl, letting it dangle at his side.

“Look who couldn’t stay away.” he teased, his voice laced with a husky weariness.

Marie crossed her arms as she leaned against the railing. “I thought I’d come down to get the scoop on what went down last night,” she replied casually, though her grin betrayed her excitement.

Bruce arched an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Not at all concerned about my safety, I see.”

Marie laughed as she stepped forward with playful indifference. “Oh, right. That. I guess I’m glad you’re home safe.”

Then, her expression softened, her eyes meeting his with a quiet sincerity. “But really... this city is lucky to have you, Bruce.”

“Just doing my civic duty,” he murmured, his voice softening as she came closer. But as Marie stepped into the light, she could see the exhaustion etched into his face—the faint bruising under his eyes, the slump in his shoulders. He was trying to mask it, standing tall, but the night had clearly worn on him.

She reached for his hand, her fingers lacing through his, and his grip tightened. Without a word, he pulled her into him, his other hand resting at the small of her back, drawing her closer. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the weight of the night pressing on him, but he didn’t pull away.

Marie looked up at him, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw, her gaze searching. “Are you okay?” Her voice was gentle, yet the concern was clear in her eyes.

Bruce hesitated, his brow furrowing just slightly as he pulled her in tighter, as if grounding himself with her touch. “You know I can handle it,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, but there was a softness there, a crack in the armor. “But it’s a hell of a lot easier when I know you’re here waiting for me.”

Before she could respond, his lips met hers—soft, almost reverent—as if the world could disappear for just a moment while they held onto each other.

When they finally pulled back, she brushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead, smiling as she saw him look a little less tired, a little more alive.

“Not too tired to spill some case details, are you?” she whispered playfully, her hand resting on his chest.

He chuckled, rolling his eyes. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

His hands lingered on her waist as he led her over to the massive desk at the center of the Batcave. Monitors filled every inch of the surface, each one displaying different feeds, crime reports, and city surveillance footage.

The soft hum of the machines blended with the low, rhythmic sound of Gotham’s heartbeat—chaotic, relentless, but strangely comforting.

Bruce sank into the worn leather chair, his posture still stiff. Without missing a beat, he reached out and pulled Marie into his lap, her back against his chest. As she settled there, she could feel the tension in his body—every muscle tight and coiled. But as she settled against him, her presence seemed to ease some of that weight.

His shoulders relaxed, his grip on her waist gentler than it had been moments before. Despite everything, there was a softness in the way he held her, the calm of her touch slowly unwinding the tension he’d been holding on to.

Bruce’s gaze swept over the screens in front of him, eyes narrowing as he analyzed the data. “Maroni’s getting reckless,” he muttered, his fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard to pull up reports from the latest crime scenes. “This morning, he had one of his guys take out an entire group—probably former mob members. They were murdered in cold blood. I didn’t get there in time.” His jaw tightened, and his voice dropped. “The bodies were... messy. He’s not even trying to cover it up. It’s like he’s completely gone off the rails.”

Marie gently rested her hand on the armor of his forearm, a shiver running down her spine at the thought. She’d seen the horrors in Gotham, but hearing the raw emotion in Bruce’s voice, the frustration and failure, made her chest ache.

“Seems like he’s trying to send a message,” Bruce continued, his tone hardening. “He’s trying to take control of everything, wipe out anyone who gets in his way. I don’t know if it’s power or paranoia anymore, but it’s getting worse. The city’s falling apart, and he’s at the center of it.”

Marie’s eyes met his, and for a moment, the weight of it all seemed to hang in the air, pressing them both into silence. Then, after a moment, she turned and cupped his face, her fingers brushing over the tense line of his jaw.

“We’ll stop him,” she said softly, but with certainty.

Bruce didn’t respond right away. Instead, he just leaned into her touch for a moment, as if taking some comfort in her belief.

“We need to get some rest,” he muttered, his voice strained. “Then we’ll figure out the next move.”

They got up and Bruce pulled at the buckles of his armor, each strap heavier than it should’ve been, his movements slow and deliberate. The night had taken its toll, and even shedding the suit felt like a chore.

As he peeled back the thick plates, Marie caught sight of fresh bruises blooming across his side, deep purples and reds spreading over his skin. She reached out instinctively, her fingers tracing lightly over the dark marks. He winced, breathing out a low hiss.

“Double-barrel shotgun,” he muttered, half in a growl. “Didn’t go through the armor, but the impact…” He shook his head, grimacing as her hands continued their gentle inspection. “Hurts like fuckin' hell.”

Marie’s touch softened even more, her fingertips brushing over the bruised skin with care. “You’re lucky it didn’t do worse,” she said, her voice a mix of worry and relief. She lingered there for a moment, her hand on his shoulder, grounding him as he exhaled and leaned into her, letting the weight of the night finally fall away.

Together, they headed up to the house, and the morning light filtering through the windows seemed almost foreign after the time spent in the Batcave. They moved through the house in silence, as if simply existing next to each other was enough for now.

Upstairs in the kitchen, Alfred had added pancakes and fresh fruit to Marie’s eggs, setting out a hearty spread. But after the long night, neither she nor Bruce had the energy for conversation. They sat together without speaking, heads down as they dug in, the food disappearing quickly. The quiet was comforting, each of them lost in their thoughts, the stillness of the early morning wrapping around them.

Later, after breakfast, they found themselves in the shower together. The warm water cascaded over them, steam rising as they rinsed off the remnants of the night’s work. Bruce’s hand rested gently on the small of her back, his fingers brushing her skin.

The silence between them was comfortable, but not empty—each touch, each brush of lips, spoke volumes. Marie leaned into him, her fingers tracing the lines of his chest as he slowly washed the soap from her hair.

He kissed her temple softly, a small, lingering peck, and she responded by placing a tender kiss on his jaw, her hands gliding over his back. The world outside the bathroom felt a little farther away as they stayed in the warmth of each other’s embrace.

When they finally emerged, the world still waiting for them, there was a fleeting sense of peace in the air, as if for a moment, they didn’t have to be Batman and Marie, but just two people, together. And that, for a few moments, felt like enough.

—-------------------------------

The squad room at the Gotham City Police Department buzzed with the low hum of voices and the occasional clatter of filing cabinets. It was early morning, and the air was already heavy with the mix of stale coffee and stress that seemed permanently etched into the precinct’s walls.

Detectives and patrol officers filed into the conference room, their conversations trailing off as Commissioner Gordon took his usual spot at the head of the room.

“Alright, listen up,” Gordon began, his voice cutting through the noise like the sharp edge of a blade. It was his usual speech, a rundown of Gotham’s current crime wave that reminded everyone just how thin the line between order and chaos really was. “This new string of robberies on the East Side isn’t anything we haven’t seen before. But that doesn’t mean we get complacent. Detective Bullock, Detective Flask—you’re both on it. Let’s keep this city safe, team.”

Marie stood near the back, sipping her coffee and quietly observing the room. The worn wooden chairs, the flickering overhead light, and the distant sound of a phone ringing somewhere in the building were as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.

She leaned against the wall, letting the voices of her colleagues blend into the background as her mind wandered. In a city like Gotham, trust was a rare commodity, and as she scanned the room, she couldn’t help but wonder how many of the faces she saw were secretly on Falcone or Maroni’s payroll.

When the meeting adjourned, the room emptied in a shuffle of papers and tired footsteps. Marie lingered, gathering her thoughts as she let the usual precinct chaos wash over her. Phones rang, officers bantered, and the distant hum of the city outside seeped in through the cracks of the old building. She eventually made her way back to her desk, her mind already shifting to the grind ahead.

The morning passed in a blur of paperwork. Marie sat at her desk, the hum of the precinct around her fading as her mind wandered back to the morning.

She thought about the warm shower she’d shared with Bruce, the way they’d tangled together under the steamy water, not wanting to break the quiet comfort of it.

They’d stayed in bed longer than they should’ve, wrapped in each other’s arms, her head resting against his chest as the first light of dawn crept through the blinds.

When the alarm had blared at 7 a.m., she’d had half a mind to turn it off, curl back up with him, and forget about everything else. But she knew she had work to do, even if it was hard to leave the peace they’d found in those quiet moments.

Marie smiled to herself, a soft warmth spreading through her chest as she thought about how it felt to be back with Bruce. Despite the chaos of Gotham and their complicated lives, being with him made everything feel right, like all the pieces were falling into place.

With a sigh, she straightened in her chair and tried to refocus. The morning ahead was already full, and the crime in Gotham didn’t care about stolen moments or tired hearts.

By mid-morning, Marie found herself face-to-face with a supposed victim of a robbery—a wiry brunette with sunken cheeks and a jittery demeanor that screamed trouble.

The woman sat across from her desk, arms crossed tightly, one leg bouncing incessantly. Her eyes flitted around the precinct, never settling on one spot for too long.

“Yeah, it shook me up pretty fuckin’ badly,” the woman began, “The masked guy—he held a gun to me, wanted my purse. Little did he know there wasn’t more than twenty bucks and a coupon for a free slice at Lorenzo’s.”

Marie kept her tone professional, though she already felt the headache brewing behind her eyes. “Did you get a good look at him? Anything distinguishing?”

“No,” the woman snapped, her fingers tapping against her arm. “He had one of those dumb ski masks, okay? But then… then he showed up.”

Marie’s fingers paused on her keyboard as she looked up. “Who’s ‘he’?”

“You know,” the woman said, waving her hand like it was obvious. “Him.”

Marie arched an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

The woman rolled her eyes dramatically, her thin frame practically vibrating with irritation. “Oh, come on. Don’t make me say that goddamn silly nickname this city calls him. That bat freak. Batman.”

Marie nodded, suppressing the urge to smile.

“Yeah, he swooped in all high and mighty,” the woman continued, her tone sharp with sarcasm. “I figured he’d help, but, I don’t know, maybe he was busy or something. Took his damn time getting there. The fucker had already poured my purse out by by the time the bat flew in.”

Marie tilted her head, caught off guard by the complaint. “Pretty lucky he showed up at all,” she said evenly. “Otherwise, you might not be sitting here right now.”

The woman’s lips curled into a sneer, her eyes narrowing. “Lucky, huh? Real lucky that some guy in a leather costume decided to save me from losing a wallet with twenty bucks in it. If you ask me, the whole thing was sketchy.”

Marie let out a slow breath, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something she’d regret. “ Any other details you want to add?”

The woman leaned back in her chair, her leg still bouncing. “Nope. That’s all I got, Detective. Can I go now?”

Marie nodded stiffly. “You’re free to go. Thanks for coming in.”

The woman rose with a jerky movement, shooting a last suspicious glance around the precinct before sauntering toward the exit.

Marie leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly as she rubbed her temples. The interaction left her somewhere between amused and exasperated. Her fingers hovered over her keyboard before she gave up, pulling out her phone instead.

Scrolling to a familiar name, she tapped the call button. As the phone rang, she realized just how much she needed to hear his voice.

Bruce picked up almost immediately, his voice warm and soothing. “Hey, everything okay?”

Marie smiled despite herself, keeping her voice low. “Yeah, all good. Why do you always assume something’s wrong?” she teased lightly.

“You never call me when you’re working,” he replied, a faint chuckle coloring his tone. After a beat, he added playfully, “Well, you never call Bruce, that is…” The rich sound of his laugh traveled through the phone, easing the tension that had built in her shoulders.

She leaned forward on her desk, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “It’s not urgent. Just… I’ve been thinking about how ungrateful Gotham’s citizens are for Batman.”

“Oh?” He sounded amused. “Care to elaborate?”

Marie rolled her eyes, though there was a hint of affection in her tone. “I just spent twenty minutes listening to a woman complain about how you ‘took too long’ to save her from getting mugged. Apparently, you’re some weirdo in leather with too much time on his hands. Her words, not mine.”

There was a beat of silence before Bruce’s laugh filled the line—a rare, genuine sound that made her grin.

“Too much time on my hands?” he said, his voice rich with humor. “Maybe I should take up knitting. Think Gotham would appreciate that more?”

Marie snorted, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, I don’t know. They’d probably complain that your scarves aren’t long enough or that the yarn’s too scratchy.”

Bruce chuckled again, the sound low and warm. “It’s a thankless job,” he admitted after a pause, his tone softening. “But that’s not why I do it.”

Marie felt her chest tighten at his sincerity. “You’re a better person than most, Bruce.”

There was a brief pause before he replied, his voice warm with quiet affection. “Takes one to know one.”

Her heart softened at the words, her admiration for him deepening.

After a moment, his tone shifted, tinged with concern. “You sound tired. Did you get any sleep last night?”

She hesitated, her mind flickering back to the hours she’d spent waiting for him to come home. “Enough,” she said lightly, though she knew it wasn’t convincing.

“Marie,” he said, his voice dipping into that low, intimate tone that always undid her. “I told you, you don’t have to stay up for me.”

“Why should I get to sleep if you’re out there fighting crime?” she countered, her tone teasing but not quite masking the truth.

Bruce chuckled, the sound sincere. “Because my day job involves sleeping until noon as a billionaire playboy. Yours involves, you know, real work. Important work. The kind that requires sleep.”

When she didn’t immediately reply, he continued gently, guilt threading through his words. “You’ve got enough on your plate without losing sleep over me. I mean it.”

“I don’t mind,” she said softly, and she meant it. “I just like knowing you made it back in one piece.”

Bruce let out a quiet sigh, one that carried both affection and exasperation. “Hey, you know I always will.”

Her heart softened at his words. Leaning back in her chair, she exhaled, the weight of the day lifting just a little. “You don’t need to worry about me, Bruce. I’m tougher than I look.”

“I know,” he replied, his voice gentle. “But I’ll worry anyway.”

For a moment, the silence between them felt warm, grounding her in a way only he could.

“Tell you what,” he said finally, his tone lightening. “When you’re off duty, we’ll catch up on some much-needed rest. Together.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Wayne.”

“Good,” he said, a touch of humor returning to his voice. “Now, get back to work before Gordon starts thinking I’m distracting his best detective.”

Marie ended the call, her heart lighter and her mind steadier. Whatever the day had in store, she felt ready to face it.

—-------------------------------

The afternoon stretched on, the quiet lull of the precinct giving way to the late hours of Marie’s shift. She glanced at the clock, her body already anticipating the end of the day. With most of the department winding down, she grabbed her coat and made her way to the breakroom.

The fluorescent lights hummed softly above her as she poured herself a cup of coffee, the rich aroma filling the empty space. She leaned against the counter for a moment, the weight of the day finally starting to hit her. All she could think about was the warm bed waiting for her and the familiar comfort of Bruce by her side.

Marie’s phone buzzed in her pocket, the unknown number flashing across the screen.

“Detective Manning,” she said, her tone firm, bracing for another generic lead or dead-end tip.

The silence on the other end stretched on, then a shaky breath, and in a voice barely more than a whisper: “I can’t keep fuckin’ doing this.”

Her chest tightened. She recognized that voice immediately, even though he hadn’t said his name. There was no mistaking the fear under the familiar tone—Tony Zucco.

Marie looked around the room to make sure no one could hear the conversation, confusion flickering across her face. “Why are you calling me?” she asked, struggling to hide the surprise and the faint trace of concern in her voice.

There was a long pause before he exhaled, his voice barely holding together. “I don’t have anyone else to call,” he murmured, raw and vulnerable, like he was on the verge of breaking.

“Look, just—listen,” he stammered, his voice trembling with fear. “I’m in deep shit here, okay? Maroni… he’s gone insane. He’s threatening families. Not just his enemies—anyone who crosses him or looks at him the wrong way. I’ve got people to protect. I don’t have a choice.”

The desperation in his voice was palpable, a stark contrast to the cocky, untouchable Zucco she’d met before.

Marie’s expression hardened. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you signed up with a psychopath,” she said coldly.

“Damn it, don’t you think I know that?” His voice cracked, and she could hear the strain. “Look, I don’t give a damn what you think of me, alright? Just—Maroni’s setting up another drop tonight. East side docks. He’s moving product, but it’s different this time. He’s avoiding the usual route because he thinks Batman’s gonna be waiting for him there.”

Marie’s pulse quickened. Maroni knew about their stakeouts. That’s why he was avoiding his regular shipment routes.

Zucco’s voice lowered, fear thickening his words. “I’m telling you this because he’s not just coming for me. He’ll go after my family next. Please, you gotta understand, I’m—” His words trailed off.

Marie’s heart raced as she processed the information. “Thank you for the heads up,” she said, trying to keep her tone steady. When Zucco didn’t respond, she pressed, “Are you going to be safe?”

Zucco let out a harsh laugh, almost bitter. “Am I going to be safe? I’m a dead man walking, especially after talking to you. Maroni’s never going to stop. And if he finds me, I’m gonna fuckin’ wish I was dead.”

Marie softened her tone, hoping to reassure him. “I get it, Zucco. I really do. But you have to listen to me—GCPD can provide protection. We can get you into witness protection, change your name, anything you need. We’ll put units outside your house, keep an eye on your family—”

Zucco cut her off with a scoff, bitterness in his laugh. “Yeah? You really think your department is gonna protect me? Maroni’s got most of your cops in his pocket. They’re all paid off to look the other way. You don’t think I know that?” His voice was cracking now, the fear overwhelming his usual bravado.

“I’m not asking you to trust everyone at the GCPD,” Marie said, her voice steady and firm. “I’m asking you to trust me. I’ll make sure Maroni doesn’t get to you or your family. You have my word.” She thought about Bruce, and how she would tell him about this, and knew he would do everything in his power to keep Zucco’s family safe.

There was a long, heavy silence. For a moment, Marie thought he might hang up, but then his voice came through again, softer, almost regretful. “I want to believe you, Manning. I really do. You’re one of the few good cops left, but…” He hesitated, “I can’t. I’ll tell you this though—Maroni’s losing his grip. He’s taking down his own guys. The East Side docks will be your best shot. He’ll be there tonight, with more security. He’s scared. He knows that Batman’s after him.”

Marie’s heart skipped a beat. “I’ll be there,” she replied, her voice firm. “And Zucco… thank you.”

The line fell quiet for a moment, before Zucco’s voice cracked through again, quieter this time. “I hope you can pull this off, Manning. I really do.”

Then the line went dead.

—-------------------------------

Marie’s nerves were on edge as she made her way up the winding drive toward Wayne Manor. The weight of the phone call from Zucco felt like a lead weight in her chest, pressing harder with every step.

Her fingers were trembling as she dialed the code for the gates to open. Once they slid open, she drove the familiar path toward the garage, her thoughts scattered.

Her mind kept replaying Zucco’s voice—broken, afraid, and desperate. He didn’t sound like the same man who punched her in the face months ago, or the cocky, overconfident mobster she had once dealt with. Now, he was just another terrified man trying to save his family.

But there was so much risk. She wasn’t sure if she could trust him, or if Maroni was setting a trap. The possibility that it could all go horribly wrong gnawed at her.

When she pulled into the garage, the doors slid shut behind her. She took a shaky breath before stepping out of the car. She didn’t even take her coat off before she was walking into the house, her heart pounding in her chest. She needed to talk to Bruce.

Marie found Bruce in the study, hunched over his computer, his eyes scanning the screen as he likely sifted through case files or crime reports. He looked both serious and relaxed, the usual intensity in his gaze softened by the casualness of his attire—a plain t-shirt and well-worn jeans.

His hand ran through his hair absentmindedly, a telltale sign that he was deep in thought. When he heard the door click open, his head snapped up, and his face instantly brightened.

“Hey, you’re home,” he said with a warm smile, his voice full of quiet excitement as he stood up, eager to approach her. But as soon as he took in her expression, the smile faltered. His brow furrowed in concern, and his posture shifted, tense. “Marie, what’s wrong?”

Marie felt her heart race, her hands trembling as she made her way toward him. The words were stuck in her throat, and no matter how hard she tried to focus, everything around her felt distant. She couldn’t find the words.

“I know where Maroni’s going to be tonight,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes locked on Bruce, and she could see how he was watching her carefully, noting her unease.

She felt the knot in her chest grow tighter. “Zucco called me. He said Maroni’s going to be at the East Side docks for a drug drop. He’s been avoiding his usual routes, trying to outsmart Batman, but tonight he’s making a move.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly as he processed the information. “That’s a good lead, Marie,” he said, his voice soft but firm, trying to keep things calm. “If we know where he is, we can take him down.”

But Marie shook her head, her hands clenched into fists by her sides. She could feel her nerves rising, her heart racing in her chest. “That’s the thing,” she said, her voice cracking a little. She had to take a deep breath to steady herself. “The last time we came this close to Maroni, Bruce...you almost died. I can’t—”

“Hey,” he interrupted, stepping closer, his hand gently resting on her shoulders, grounding her. His touch was warm, and she could feel the steadiness of him seep into her. “I’m not dead, baby. I’m right here. It’s okay.”

She met his gaze, but the racing thoughts in her mind only made her anxiety worse. “But what if Zucco’s lying? What if it’s another trap? What if we’re walking straight into it, just like last time?” Her voice cracked, trembling with fear as she spoke. Every worst-case scenario played out in her head, and the weight of it all felt suffocating.

Bruce’s expression softened, the ever-present intensity in his eyes taking on a gentler edge. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he said, voice low but resolute. “You know that, right?”

Marie closed her eyes briefly, her chest tightening further as she took in his words. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to feel the certainty that he seemed to have, but the doubt clung to her, stubborn and persistent.

Marie opened her eyes, her gaze meeting his with an intensity that matched his own. “I’m not worried about that,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’m worried about something happening to you.”

The words hit Bruce like a wave, and for a moment, he felt deeply emotional in a way he hadn’t anticipated. She cared, truly cared, about him.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, a tear slipping from the corner of her eye despite herself. “I’m scared. What if I lead you into something even worse than last time? What if I fail again?” She bit her lip, trying to suppress the wave of emotion that was threatening to overwhelm her.

Bruce exhaled slowly, taking a step closer to her, his hands moving to her arms as he gently held her. “Hey, you’re not failing anyone,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “I know it’s terrifying. I know the stakes are high. But I trust you, Marie. I trust your instincts, and I trust that you wouldn’t put me in harm’s way if you didn’t think we could take him down.”

“I don’t want to see you get hurt again,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She pressed her hands to her face for a moment, taking another shaky breath. “I just—what if I’m wrong?”

“You’re not wrong,” Bruce reassured her, his voice soft but unwavering. He tilted her chin up so their eyes met. “You’ve already done more than most people ever would. And you’ll keep doing what you do best—fighting for what’s right. If there’s a chance to stop Maroni, we take it. Together.”

Her breath caught, her chest tightening as she gazed up at him. She wanted so badly to believe him, to trust that everything would be okay. She was scared, terrified even, of what might happen next. But Bruce wasn’t backing down. His confidence in her was unwavering, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself lean into it.

“Alright,” she said, her voice a little steadier now. “I’ll do it. I’ll go to the docks.”

Bruce’s hand touched her cheek, his thumb brushing gently over her skin. “I’ll be with you,” he promised. “You’re not doing this alone.”

Bruce wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. “Let’s take this fucker down.” he said quietly with a smirk. Marie chuckled and felt the nerves fade.

—-------------------------------

The East Side docks stretched out like a massive, industrial labyrinth, filled with towering shipping containers. The cold air smelled of salt and rust, and the distant groan of the bay mingled with the occasional clang of metal. Dim security lights cast eerie, flickering glows over the maze, giving the entire area an unsettling vibe.

Marie and Gordon moved carefully through the narrow alleys formed by stacked containers, their boots crunching on gravel and grit. The tension was palpable, each creak or echo sending Marie’s hand instinctively to the butt of her gun.

“This place is massive,” she whispered to Gordon, her voice barely carrying over the ambient noise.

Marie’s eyes darted from container to container, her senses on high alert. She knew they weren’t alone. Even though they couldn’t see him, she could feel it—the constant, oppressive awareness that Batman was trailing them from the shadows, ensuring their safety. She wasn’t sure how he did it, but it was impossible to ignore the quiet reassurance his presence brought.

Gordon nodded, his hand hovering near his flashlight. “We’ll have to split up to cover more ground.”

Marie hesitated, glancing over her shoulder, as if to look for Batman in the shadows.

“Stay sharp,” Gordon added before moving off to investigate a rusted tugboat docked nearby.

Marie continued alone, scanning her surroundings. The containers loomed around her, the shadows between them deep and foreboding. She tightened her grip on her weapon, every sense heightened.

Suddenly, a faint rush of air stirred above her, followed by a soft thud.

“Anything yet?” Batman’s low, gravelly voice came from the shadows to her left.

Marie startled but didn’t jump, masking her surprise. She glanced at him as he emerged from the darkness, his towering frame blending seamlessly with the night.

“Nothing yet,” she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. “Gordon’s checking by the docked boats.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed, scanning the containers ahead. “Stay close to cover. Maroni’s security is everywhere.”

They moved together, their footsteps eerily silent on the gravel. The weight of the case hung between them, unspoken but heavy. In moments like these, Marie tried to focus on Batman as her partner, pushing aside thoughts of the man beneath the mask. She tried to keep her emotions in check, though it wasn’t easy.

The moment shattered when Batman suddenly stopped, his hand shooting out to halt her.

“What—” she began, but he cut her off, “Don’t look.” he said curtly.

His gaze was fixed ahead, just around the corner of a container. The grim set of his jaw made her stomach knot. Ignoring his warning, she stepped forward.

“Detective stop—” Batman began, putting his arm up to keep Marie away, though she peeked around him.

Zucco’s body lay crumpled against the metal wall, his face frozen in a rictus of terror. Blood pooled beneath him, the sharp metallic tang of it cutting through the salty air. His lifeless eyes stared out into the void, his chest adorned with the unmistakable mark of the red lotus tattoo.

Marie’s breath hitched. She felt an overwhelming wave of guilt crash over her, her legs trembling. She gripped the container wall for support, her mind reeling.

“Shit… that’s Zucco,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

She blinked hard, forcing herself to steady. “I should’ve protected him,” she said, her voice breaking. “I promised him I would…”

Batman turned to her, his expression serious beneath the cowl. “This isn’t on you,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “Zucco knew the risks that came with ratting on Maroni. You couldn’t have stopped this.”

Marie swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing. She nodded, but the guilt remained like a weight on her chest.

Before she could respond, a voice echoed through the maze of containers.

“Well, look who’s here,” came Maroni’s mocking tone.

Both Marie and Batman turned, spotting the mob boss stepping into view, flanked by several heavily armed men. Maroni’s expensive suit was immaculate despite the grittiness of the docks, and his smug grin was enough to set Marie’s teeth on edge.

“Batman. Detective Manning. Quite the dynamic duo you’ve become,” he sneered, gesturing to his men. They fanned out, weapons raised but not yet firing. “You’re both loose ends I need to tie up.”

“Stay behind me,” Batman growled to Marie, his voice low and dangerous.

Maroni’s attention briefly flickered to Zucco’s lifeless body. “Poor Tony. Guess he couldn’t keep his mouth shut after all. Shame.” He sighed theatrically.

“What’s your game here, Maroni?” Marie demanded, her voice sharp despite her frayed nerves.

Maroni smirked. “Game? No game, Detective. This is strategy. I’m about to wipe the board clean. When I’m done, Falcone will be dead. His men will be dead. Hell, there won’t be much of anyone left in Gotham’s underworld. Just me.”

The tension in the air was thick, charged with the weight of everything that had led them here. Batman and Maroni stood a few feet apart, their words sharp as knives, each weighing the other's next move.

"You’re planning a war," Batman said, his voice cold and hard, like gravel scraping against stone.

Maroni’s lips curled into a smirk as he spread his arms wide, feigning innocence. "Why dirty my hands? I’ll let both sides kill each other off. Falcone’s been getting soft anyway. It's time for someone with vision to take control."

Before Batman could retort, the sound of a gunshot sliced through the air. Maroni pulled a sleek pistol from his coat, his movement swift, but not swift enough for Batman.

The air was thick with the sounds of grunts and fists colliding with flesh. Batman moved like a storm, his body a blur of precision and power as he tore through Maroni’s men.

One attacker rushed him with a wild swing, but Batman ducked low, fluidly spinning and driving a fist into the man’s ribs. The blow sent the man stumbling back, gasping for air. Another thug lunged, but Batman was already on him, his elbow crashing into the man’s face with a sickening crack.

The fight became a swirling mess of chaos—punches, kicks, and bones snapping under the weight of Batman’s relentless strikes. He moved like he was part of the shadows, effortlessly dodging attacks and dishing out punishing blows in return. His fists hit with the speed of a freight train, each strike landing with calculated force, taking down attacker after attacker.

Marie, just a few paces away, was in her element. Her gun never faltered as she picked off Maroni’s men one by one. The first man came at her with a wild swing, but she fired, the bullet sinking into his arm. He dropped like a stone. Another rushed her from the side, but she was faster—her second shot rang out, catching him in the shoulder, and he fell to the ground.

She fired with precision, each shot deliberate and controlled, aiming to incapacitate rather than kill. Her movements were fluid, her focus unwavering as one by one, the thugs dropped to the ground, clutching arms or legs where her bullets had struck.

She was in sync with Batman—two sides of the same coin, taking down anyone who tried to challenge them.

But then, the chaos hit a brief lull. The few remaining men, realizing the fight was slipping away from them, hesitated for a moment. They looked between each other, trying to regroup, but it was already too late.

Batman took the moment to unleash a flurry of kicks—each one landing with brutal efficiency. He landed one to a man’s jaw that sent him flying, another to the side of an attacker’s head, knocking him out cold.

Marie stood at the edge of the brawl, her breathing steady, her gun raised and ready. But the rest of Maroni’s men had either been incapacitated or were retreating, leaving only the mob boss himself standing amidst the fallen.

As the last of Maroni’s men crumpled to the ground, there was a brief, eerie silence. Batman, chest heaving, surveyed the scene. His eyes were cold, scanning for any more threats.

But as he stepped toward Maroni, ready for the next move, a voice rang out—low, dangerous, and mocking.

"Enough."

Maroni’s gun was now pointed directly at Marie. She froze, her eyes widening.

Batman’s fists were clenched, ready to fight, but his attention snapped to Marie, his body tensing as the cold barrel of Maroni’s gun aimed at her.

Maroni chuckled softly, enjoying the control he held over the situation. "You know, Batman," he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy, "it’s not about the bloodshed. It’s about compassion." He paused, pacing slightly, gun still pointed at Marie.

"The Red Lotus? It’s a symbol of compassion, of rebirth. I’m giving Gotham a second chance. I’m doing what the old guard couldn’t." He raised his hand as if to emphasize the weight of his words. "What I’m doing is necessary. I’m bringing order to the chaos. I’m saving this city from itself."

Batman didn’t move, his body tensed, every muscle coiled in restraint.

He knew any shift, any movement, could leave Marie exposed to Maroni’s gun. The weight of the situation hung in the air, but Batman remained still, calculating the risk with every breath.

Maroni smirked, his voice dripping with mockery as he aimed the gun, making eye contact with Marie. “I’m sorry to do this, Detective. Really, I am. It’s been fun, you chasing me around like a little bloodhound. I’ve enjoyed it. But all good things must come to an end. Goodbye.”

Maroni’s smile twisted into something cruel. With a swift motion, he pulled the trigger, and shot Marie in cold blood.

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dawn-moths · 10 months ago

Text

"Till Death, What's Left"

CHAPTER 1

Tomura & Dabi x Female Reader

word count: 23,000+

part 1 * part 2 * part 3 * ...

(A quirkless AU where after fleeing a treacherous incident, you find yourself caught up in the company of two strangers who also seem to have just narrowly escaped their own horrors. Unexpected events keep the three of you crossing paths. Maybe it’s twisted coincidence. Maybe it’s fate. And maybe, just maybe, the three of you could make the perfect trio to perform a string of robberies with payouts high enough to change your lives forever.)

disclaimer/content warning: 18+ content! minors dni! concept inspired by the music video for “365 Fresh” by triple h, title taken from the lyrics, drug mention, drinking, sexual harassment/assault, violence, blood/gore, suicidal thoughts/actions, angst and trauma, jealousy, love triangle, the songs mentioned in this fic are "Audi A4" by MISSIO and "Johnny Wants To Fight" by badflower.

*i'm reposting this fic in hopes that it reaches a wider audience this time given it originally went up back when i was sh*dowb*nned. also because chapter two will be coming out soon and i'll be putting in a lot more consistent work into it throughout this year.

*ao3 mirror*

***

The alleyway was narrow, cluttered with stray trash cans and empty produce crates and abandoned pieces of furniture that were littered with holes, serving as a metropolis for the vermin that scampered through the dirty, downtown streets.

The clouds covered the moon, another storm likely on its way based on the warnings grumbling from the distant, low rumble of thunder, the air thick with the humidity of the summer season. Suffocating, almost. Each breath taken was labored, the acrid tastes emanating from the city laying heavy on one’s tongue.

And, as painful as it was to draw in air under normal circumstances amidst this kind of weather, Dabi was running, his lungs burning every time he forced them to suck down more oxygen. His spiky black hair stuck to his forehead and back of his neck with a layer of building sweat, his old black boots nearly falling apart at the soles, brittle laces threatening to snap every time he got lucky enough to tie them up again.

He moved quickly through the obstacles of the alley, swiftly— like the stray cats that were spooked back into hiding with the sound of his fast falling footsteps coming near— but not nearly quick enough.

From behind him, the shouts were always right on his tail.

At the most, their angry voices were only ever the turn of a single corner away, at the least, close enough to grab his beat up old black denim jacket and yank him to the ground by the tattered collar.

If he could get to the abandoned apartment complexes further into the slums, he could lose his pursuers, weave his way through the crumbling buildings, his long, thin limbs slithering smoothly like snakes through the maze of gaps and holes that he knew so well— almost as if they were merely the halls of his childhood home.

Dabi wasn’t accustomed to getting caught. In fact, he’d only ever been sighted twice before, back when he’d first taken to this life after running away at the age of sixteen from the city that now loomed in the foggy distance. The beatings he’d sustained from the rival gangs back then, the near death experience of having his head kicked in by men twice his size and strength paired with the metallic taste of blood running down his throat had taught him to abide by one simple rule.

Don’t steal from someone you can’t outrun.

And Dabi was fast. Always had been, whether it be by wit or physical speed. But tonight, after enduring the beginnings of withdrawal from his beloved painkillers, his vision starting to sway, setting his balance off just enough, he wasn’t on his usual game.

The real kicker of it all is that he could see them come into view— the silhouette of the rundown, deserted apartments only a block or two away— just before his next step found a deep puddle and his feet slid out from under him, body slamming into the brick wall of the connecting alley before the back of his head smacked down on the grimy, cracked asphalt with a sickening thud.

It took his chasers four more strides to catch up, jumping on him immediately and snatching back the cash he’d swiped before beginning the third— and possibly final— beating that Dabi had ever experienced on these harsh streets.

His pale, tattoo covered skin was split with streaks of red, bruises blossoming in deep blue and violet shades across his face and body with every punch, every kick, every deadly impact from the gang as they told him— promised him— that they were going to kill him for this. The blood mixed with the sweat and ran in rivulets down his face, his teeth grit so hard with the pain that he feared they might crack.

But Dabi didn’t beg for mercy, didn’t even ask them to stop once.

He hadn’t the first time he’d been in this situation, or the second time, and now, he almost couldn’t help but laugh after his enemies left him to die lying in that alley.

They should’ve killed me, he thought through his sinister hysteria. They should’ve fucking killed me.

Because pain wasn’t something that Dabi feared.

Pain was like an old friend.

When he knew it was coming— and even when the visit was unexpected— Dabi welcomed the pain.

Because the pain meant he was still alive, even if just out of spite.

But he needed to get more of his pills.

The pills weren’t the farewell to his old friend, pain.

The pills were an “I’ll see you soon.”

He liked the painkillers at night, when he was trying to sleep. Couldn’t sleep without them these days. But after a big break a few weeks back, Dabi had found himself with some extra time on his hands. More time to kill. More time to sleep.

So his nighttime hobby bled into the day, accompanied him through his afternoons and mingled with his lonely evenings.

Before he knew it, he’d found himself in a full blown love affair with the little white pills. His cruel, addictive mistress.

And he needed more.

He desperately needed more.

He’d do anything— had risked his life once already that night— and showed no signs of stopping.

After a while, he sat up with a groan of suffering, clutching his side where he was sure at least two of his ribs were broken, and braced himself against the cold brick wall of the alley to get back on his own two feet.

He had a bloody nose, a split lip, several other cuts and bruises marking his person, one of the more notable ones being a black welt under one of his eyes, the sclera dyed with red where a blood vessel had burst, contrasting starkly against his cobalt blue irises.

Dabi had already looked like hell on a good day and now…

Well, at least he still had his boots, even if they were falling apart.

So he kept moving, preparing to chase the next opportunity for cash.

Because he needed this tonight.

He’d lose his goodman mind if he saw the sun come up and his limbs were still shaking and his blood felt icy hot in his veins.

He was only a few blocks away from the nightlife district. Could practically see the red neon and blinking lights from where he staggered in the darkness.

So he started walking— limping, more accurately— trying not to scrape one aching foot on the pavement behind him where one of the bastards had tried to snap his ankle, and slipped into a shitty looking bar where the light was low enough that the other patrons hopefully couldn’t see his severe state of appearance.

“Hello, ladies,” Dabi began smoothly after clearing some thick, blood infused salvia from his throat, slinking towards the main bar where he saw two lone women drinking with one empty seat between them. He slipped onto the vacant stool and draped his arms over both their shoulders, limbs heavy with fatigue and radiating heat from the fading adrenaline.

They gave him varying glares of disinterest and disgust, but Dabi didn’t mind that.

It wasn’t the girls he was after tonight, anyway.

It was the set of shiny car keys that were placed oh so naively on the counter next to one of the women, the black and silver of the key fob taunting him, begging to be swung around his long, boney, tattoo covered fingers, tossed up into the air, caught, and pocketed as he strolled out of the bar and towards his new ride.

That oughta sell for enough cash to fund his drugs.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you both seem to be alone tonight…” Dabi’s lithe grasp inched closer towards the keys, slow and steady so as to not raise suspicions, yet it was killing him inside not to just snatch them and run. If not for the recent beating, he would’ve. “Might I interest you in my company?”

“We’re good, thanks,” one of the women shot back as she aggressively shrugged Dabi’s arm off her shoulders.

“Awww, c’moooon…” Dabi cooed condescendingly, eyebrows pulled together and lifted with faked disappointment. “Don’t be like that.” His fingers were nearly at the keys now. Just a few more inches and then…

“Dude, are you deaf?” the other asked rhetorically, also irritated at the unwelcome advances. “We’re not interested. Now get lost.”

And…

Just a little closer…

A liiiiiiittle closer…

Bingo.

“Alright, alright…” Dabi stood from the barstool, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets and beginning to step away. “Just tryna be a gentleman, jeez…” And then, just as he’d played out in his fantasy, as he exited the bar and stepped back into the city streets, he twirled the keys around one finger, tossed them into the air, caught them, and headed towards the car whose headlights blinked from down the block as the unlock button from the keys was sensed.

“Dumb bitch,” he chuckled under his breath as he turned the keys in the ignition, hearing the engine start up as the radio turned on, pulling out of the poor excuse for a parallel parking job and speeding off back towards his part of town.

As the high of his success coursed through his veins, he caught onto what song was playing and cranked up the volume, the windows shaking with the bass as “Audi A4” by MISSIO blared through his stolen car.

“I know you’re watchin’!” he called out with the loud song, approaching an intersection where the light had just turned yellow, pressing down harder on the gas pedal. “My A-Team’s rockin’!” There was another vehicle approaching from the adjacent lane, their light soon to turn green. “And I’m not stoppin’!” He ran the red light as he sung along, laughing to himself when the other car slammed on their brakes and held down their horn at him. “One! Two! Three! Four!”

And with that, Dabi had officially crossed back into his part of town.

***

You were just closing up for the night, working the late shift at the privately owned salon and barber shop that you’d gotten a job at by a friend of a friend.

You fucking hated this place.

It always smelled like mold, especially after it rained, and the owner always gave you the jobs no one else wanted to do on top of the job you’d been hired to do, which had originally been to cut hair.

No, your misogynistic, ugly bastard of a boss didn’t even try to hide it. He made it plain as day what his real intentions were in hiring you.

You gotta get into all the cracks and crevices, he’d remind you with a sleazy smirk, watching you with hungry eyes as you got down on your hands and knees to scrub the floor. If you don’t do it this way, it’ll never get clean.

He complained about having to come in to “check on you” all the time, yet always found it in his “busy schedule” to watch you do something as degrading as scrubbing in between the mildew ridden linoleum with a toothbrush. Always had something to say about what you wore to work, no matter what it was, and had even slapped you on the ass a few times before as a “joke”.

Too bad you needed this job. Wouldn’t survive without it. Not unless you wanted to go work at the cheapest strip club in the red light district just to pay for some microwavable meals and barely scrape by on rent.

Yeah, you fucking hated this place. You often spent your time daydreaming about burning it down as you snipped the dead ends off of people’s hair, fantasizing about slitting your boss’s throat with a pair of scissors or straight razor as he hovered nearby and watched you blow dry and style your clients’ new looks.

But tonight, just about ready to walk out of this shithole that you still couldn’t believe anyone came back to, let alone could find in its hole in the wall location, you let out an exasperated sigh when you heard the cheap, rust-rotted bells— one of which was broken— jingle above the front door.

“We’re closed!” you called as you folded the last cloth poncho up and tossed it over one of the chairs. Then just to yourself you mumbled, “God, can’t anyone read the sign…”

But then you sucked in a gasp at the sight of the large, lumpy silhouette that belonged to your boss standing in the entrance to the salon, clutching your heart as he startled you.

“I’m just closing up,” you began as you caught your breath, wanting to get out of here even more now. “What? You forget something?”

“No,” your boss stated sternly as he stepped further into the salon and closer to you, you instinctively taking a step back towards the sinks. “You have one final customer.” He sat down in one of the three chairs and you felt your stomach sink.

This motherfucker.

“Well, are you gonna do your job or are you only good for sweeping and scrubbing floors?!” he snapped, shaking you from your creeping dread.

You grabbed your scissors and comb, trying to steady your shaking hands as you draped the poncho over him.

He was watching you from the mirror, beady eyes glued to the little bit of cleavage that showed from your button up shirt, only ever drifting to find your thighs that were exposed below your jean skirt.

Fucking pervert, you cursed him with distain, snipping away at his greasy, thinning hair as your rage began to boil.

“Oh, and I want a shave too, alright, sweetheart?” he added, mocking tone proving that he knew he was getting under your skin and enjoying every second of it.

Once you were done with his hair you grabbed the straight razor and shaving cream, trying to remain expressionless as you slathered his face with the white foam, refusing to meet the predatory gaze that he kept trained on you while you worked.

“You better not cut me,” he threatened with a leer, flashing the gaps in between his crooked, discolored teeth, some of which were missing entirely. You opened the straight razor, the metal gleaming sinisterly under the fluorescent lights. “If you do…” His hand found your thigh, sliding up to squeeze your ass over your skirt, making you flinch and grit your teeth, jaw flexing in venomous vexation. “You’re not gonna like the consequences.”

Yeah, well you’re not the one with a razor to my neck, motherfucker, you thought with burning malice.

You could see it so clearly, practically feel it as you sliced the blade across his fat neck, skin parting like a hot knife through butter as dark, dangerous red spilled out and drenched his pit-stained polo with gore.

You were sure that no one would miss him.

In the very least, you and your co-workers— the few of them that you had— would be free from his fucked up definition of flirting.

But what would you do with the body?

Surely you couldn’t lift him on your own and you’d probably expend more energy than you currently had available to drag him into the alley out back.

And what about the blood?

You could try to mop it up but…

“What’s the problem, hon?” he asked in that patronizing way you fucking hated when he noticed you hesitating. His hand began to worm its way up under your skirt, a few of his rough, thick fingers sliding under the waistband of your panties at your hip. “I hope you don’t take this long with regular customers.”

Your grip tightened around the straight razor, face scrunching up in disgust and discomfort.

“Hey!” he snapped when you didn’t give a reply, his grip tightening on you as well, making you hiss through clenched teeth and finally shoot your gaze down to meet his. His sharpness softened then, as if he’d won something, another revolting smirk spreading across his thin lips. “Do a good job and I’ll make sure and give you an extra good tip, ok?”

You let out a slow, only slightly shaky exhale, and then, with the blade pressed to his neck, you began to drag the razor along his stubbly skin, careful not to nick him.

He took his hand off you— for now, at least— but that did nothing to ease the fury that was expanding in your chest.

It’d be so easy, the idea whispered ominously. He’s in no position to run, no position to fight back. You have him exactly where you want him. Exactly where you need him.

Like a hot knife through butter.

Once you were done, using a warm towel to dab off the remaining shaving cream, your boss rolled himself from the chair with a grunt and went to inspect your work up close in one of the many mirrors.

“Not baaaaaad…” he praised in a rough, sing-songy tone, again making a lump of anxiety settle in your throat. You tried to swallow it down before you’d have to speak to him again, if he found a way to get another response out of you.

He turned to face you as you refolded the poncho and tossed it back over the chair, huffing out a breath of annoyance.

But just before you could turn around to hurry past him down the short hallway and exit the shop, one of his big hands found your shoulder, startling you yet again. “Now…” Your eyes went wide with terror as his expression morphed into something violent, something that spelled more than just unwarranted touching or sexist remarks. “How about I give you that tip I promised, hm?”

He was pressing you against the sink counter before you got the first syllable of your protest out, your hips digging painfully into the edge while his growing erection rubbed up against the back of you.

“Stop!” you shouted, fighting to break free. “Stop! Let go!”

The straight razor sat open next to the sink.

“C’mon now…” he growled, pushing into you harder as he tried to hold you still, pressing your chest flat to the counter as you twisted and writhed under his grip. “Don’t be difficult. That’ll just make things harder for the both of us.”

Your blood ran cold, causing you to struggle harder, screaming out loud and shrill.

He slapped a hand over your mouth and you bit into his skin, making him curse and then rake his fingers roughly through your hair, grabbing at the roots and forcefully slamming your head down onto the sink counter, making you body shudder with the pain and then still momentarily from the daze of the impact.

The straight razor still sat open next to the sink, the glint of light off the blade blurring in and out of your spinning vision.

“You think I keep you around here ‘cause you’re actually good at cutting hair?” your boss taunted through a short, curt chuckle, undoing his belt as he kept you pinned against the counter. “Yeah, guess you’re as dumb as you are pretty, hon.”

You reached out, movements sluggish at first, and grabbed the razor, sliding it towards you.

“Maybe you should work late more often,” he had the audacity to say next, tugging your panties down, the sounds of threads tearing making your heart hammer in your chest with panic and your stomach turn with nausea. “Maybe, if you’re good, I’ll give you a raise…”

You began to push up from the counter, spine trying to straighten, the razor gripped tight in your trembling first.

But it wasn’t fear that was making you shake right now.

No.

Now it was nothing but pure, white hot, blinding rage.

“Little slut. Always coming to work dressed like a whore. You can’t exactly blame me for—” But the next insult was cut short as the deadly end of the straight razor buried itself into the disgusting man’s throat, his sputtering gags filling the space where his words used to be as liquid red ribbons spurted from his jugular.

You yanked the blade from his neck, a spray of red speckling your face and front of your button up shirt as you winced and closed your eyes, more of the gore spilling from his neck from between his fingers as he stumbled back and tried to apply pressure to the wound.

You watched as he tripped over his own feet and almost fell back into the chair he’d just had you shave him in, but missed by a couple feet and instead smacked the back of his head against the metal arm rest before dropping like a bag of rocks to the linoleum floor.

The razor was still in your hand, blood dripping off the end of the blade that reflected the bastard’s final dying breaths.

He gaped at you with wide eyes, reaching out with his free hand and seeming to be attempting to plead, to beg for help or mercy or any of the other things he would never have shown you.

But you weren’t a monster like him.

You weren’t going to leave your prey to writhe and squirm in agony.

Because you weren’t a coward either.

No.

For better or for worse, you were going to finish the job.

Like a hot knife through butter, huh?

Let’s find out.

You approached him slowly, careful to stay out of reach from his grabbing hands that would likely pull you down to the floor by your ankle and try to get the one up on you again in his final moments. When you realized just how weak he was growing from the bloodloss, you straddled his fat body, probably giving him one last hard on before it all came to an end. Because the next thing you did was drive the razor into the base of his neck, right where there would’ve been a dip in his collar bones if they’d been visible, repeating the vicious motion until his struggling had finally stilled and he lay there unmoving, his blood covering you both, the light having left his squinting, rodent-like stare.

You stepped off of him then, watching the blood pool around him for a minute or two before the weight of it all came crashing down on you. The straight razor slipped out of your hands, which were trembling in fear now, all prior rage-fueled vengeance gone. And it was the metallic clang of the weapon hitting the floor that finally pulled you back down to earth.

“Fuck…” you exhaled through a shaky breath, looking down at the blood that covered your hands, hasilty wiping them on your jean skirt with splotches of red before rushing over to grab all the ponchos you’d just folded, throwing them down and trying to soak up all the blood that was continuing to pour from his person.

“Fuck… Fuck… Fuck!”

Thank god it was closing, but still. The night would only last so many hours. Would you have enough of them to get rid of the body and hide the evidence before tomorrow morning’s clients came knocking?

***

There was so much blood. Way more than you thought there’d be, that was for sure. All the ponchos were ruined with a dark, rusty red. Discarded thoughtlessly in the dumpster out back where you’d painstakingly dragged the body to slump alongside all the trash it belonged with.

Someone would find him. There was no doubt about that.

But by then, you’d be gone. The shop would be clean. Or clean enough to buy you a little more time, at the very least. And you’d most likely have packed the few belongings you had back at your dingy, cramped apartment and skipped town.

You didn’t know where you were going but the one thing you did know was that you couldn’t stay here.

It had to be nearly two in the morning when you finally stumbled out of the shop, not remembering if you locked up behind you but not giving a shit at this point, hurrying down the short span of alley that would lead you back out onto the hopefully abandoned main streets, when the blinding glare of oncoming headlights stopped you in your tracks, causing you to freeze in the middle of the narrow road where a car was barreling towards you.

If it killed you, at least you wouldn’t have to deal with the cops hunting you down.

But it stopped with a jolt and a screech only a few feet before colliding with you, the driver inside slamming back against the headrest with the force before you both just stared at each other through the windshield with wide-eyed, surprised and terrified expressions.

Dabi noticed the blotches of red that were freckled across your white shirt, the smudges of rust on the faded denim of your skirt, saw the bits of blood that had dried in your hair and on your face where you thought you’d wiped the evidence away.

He turned down the blaring music and opened the driver’s side door, stepping out and looking at you for a moment as the headlights continued to cause you to squint and shield your vision with one hand, only able to see the stranger’s silhouette— a tall, lanky shadow with spiky, wild hair.

What he’d meant to say was get out of the road, but instead what came out was, “Need a ride?”

You nodded, trying to gulp down the remnants of the trauma you’d just been through over the past couple of hours.

“Then get in.”

So you did, having no problem listening to this man without hesitation— well, you had minor hesitation, but still— though you supposed that this man hadn’t tried to assault and rape you.

If he did, you wouldn’t have your straight razor, but now that you’d done it once, you supposed you wouldn’t be afraid to kill again.

But he didn’t try to put his pale, tattoo covered hands on you. Just glanced down at the blood that stained your hands and asked with a sarcastically curious, “What happened?”

“Nothing…” you shook your head, trying to hide your hands by sitting on them, feeling the still drying blood sticking to the underside of your thighs, staring out the window and hoping that he would become more distracted by the road than your crime. “You can just drop me off near the train station.”

The man, who you now noticed had tattoos not just on his hands but pretty much everywhere— the ink trailing up his wrists and arms, his neck, even some migrating under his eyes— along with cuts and bruises of his own, and bright, clear, damn near entrancing blue eyes simply put the car into drive and continued down the narrow side street towards where you’d directed him.

***

Tomura Shigaraki had tried to kill himself numerous times before.

He’d tried suffocation, drowning, pills, leaning off the edge of a bridge and peering down at the drop that was sure to end him the moment his body hit the concrete.

He’d tried— and succeeded— at taking his own life numerous times before in the safety of his own mind. Took comfort in imagining his lifeless body lying still, undisturbed on a sidewalk somewhere or, better yet, in the comfort and familiarity of his own home.

And, a few times, he’d tied a plastic bag tight around his head and breathed until all the air was sucked out only to then panic and then tear it open, taking in big gulps of air and coughing out his impulsive stupidity.

He’d gotten into an overflowing bathtub completely clothed and submerged himself beneath the surface, tried to hold himself at the bottom until his body began to convulse and his chest tightened in pain, only to then break through the surface and yield the same result as when he’d failed previously.

But tonight, Tomura had found a fool proof plan.

There was always traffic downtown, especially on the weekend when the bars and clubs and general nightlife scene was at its most concentrated.

So as he walked along the sidewalk in his beat up old red converse, one of the laces untied and threatening to trip him with every step, he tried to imagine which one would take his life.

Would it be a standard yellow taxi cab? A family SUV?

Or maybe it would be a nice, expensive, spotless sports car.

Maybe it would be red or black or— better yet— white. That way his blood would show up bright against the hood.

Yeah, a white ferrari might be nice, Tomura thought with morbid glee.

But as he stood at the crosswalk, the glowing street sign above his head blinking with the WALK symbol of the little minimalistic figure taking a step forward, he found the one that he really wanted.

It wasn’t a ferrari, but it was white. A Mercedes-Maybach S Class with silver detailing.

And it was going fast.

Even after the light turned to yellow, the speeding car showed no signs of slowing.

Perfect, Tomura thought, bracing himself to step out in front of it at just the right moment.

The street was empty, aside from him and the car, the late hours of the night proving to be a little less optimal for his death than he would’ve originally liked, but if this was it then so be it. Tomura was ready to die.

He was ready to not have anything around to stop him this time.

So he did it.

He jumped in front of the speeding car, his body slamming into the hood just as Dabi slammed on the brakes and skid to a halt for the second time that night— the second time that hour— nearly killing another complete stranger.

Tomura’s body flung back and rolled out into the middle of the street, laying motionless under the glow of the red light.

“What the fuck?!” Dabi shouted as he stepped out of the car, trying to assess the damage but not stray too far as he was still seriously considering just driving off. But he’d already stolen a car. He didn’t exactly want to add hit and run to his list of crimes for the night, though it’s not like it would’ve been the first time. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“Should we help him?!” You were getting out of the car now, unsure of whether you should approach, seeming to be pulled towards the body and the car back and forth by an invisible line as you nervously shuffled on your feet. “God, what do we do?!”

“He threw himself in front of me!” Dabi snapped defensively, as if you hadn’t been sitting right next to him and seen the whole thing. “Fucking idiot! God…”

“Well, is he dead or…?” You now started towards the body as Dabi scanned the area, pulling on his hair with stress and frustration. No one was around but that didn’t mean the accident hadn’t been seen.

The scrawny stranger who lay in a heap of black clothing and shaggy, silvery hair wasn’t moving, but still, you couldn’t help but hold out hope.

“H-hello?” you asked once you were close enough that, if he was alive, he might be able to hear you. You knelt down to his level, leaning over him now, trembling hands hovering above his body like you were afraid even the gentlest of touches would shatter him, cause him to disintegrate to dust.

But then the young man groaned and flopped over onto his back, blinking bleary, scarlet eyes up at you. He had tired eyes, dark circles etched in deep, and a scar that ran over one side of his chapped lips.

“Oh my god!” you exclaimed as the silver-haired stranger mumbled quiet, incoherent things under his breath. “Hey! Hey, he’s alive!” you called back towards the tattooed man who’d nearly killed you not long ago. “He’s alive!”

Dabi remained by the car, his body leaning against the inside of the open driver’s door with one foot perched on the floor mat, halfway to just abandoning the both of you here and saving his own ass. “Are you fucking kidding me…?” he asked again, though this time mainly to himself.

“Hey, can you hear me?” you asked the person laying on the road in front of you. “Are you ok?”

As Tomura’s vision began to refocus, his voice began to return to him too. As far as he could tell, he was mostly uninjured. His entire body felt like it was just run over by a truck— or, well, actually, it was a Mercedes-Mayback S Class— but other than the constant aching soreness that made it hard for him to move, he was otherwise alive.

Unless…

“Are you…” Tomura began. You leaned in closer to hear him better, his voice a raspy ghost of a whisper. “Are you an angel?”

When you smiled at him then, just a tiny, slightly amused yet relieved grin, Tomura’s eyes rolled back into his head and he let out an exhausted sigh. Or, well, perhaps he too should be holding out hope. Because if you really were an angel that meant that he’d finally succeeded in killing himself.

“Can you stand?” you asked him next. In response, Tomura tried to roll back over onto his side and push himself off the ground. Your hands tried to guide him, to steady his body until he was on his own two feet and had an arm slung over your shoulders while you helped him limp towards the car.

“Hey!” Dabi shouted angrily as the two of you approached. “No! Leave him on the fucking curb! I ain’t chauffeuring another person around!”

“He’s hurt!” you called back in protest, staring up at Dabi with a plea for mercy. “We can’t just leave him!”

“Listen. I said I’d drop you off,” Dabi sneered, glancing at the staggering stranger with revulsion. “Not you and some random guy who was dumb enough to step out into oncoming traffic!”

“Hey, where do you live?” you asked Tomura, who still seemed to be caught in a daze, his weight becoming a little heavier on you as his body began to slump. When he didn’t respond, you just looked back to Dabi and said, “Just drop him off with me. I’ll figure the rest out.”

Dabi stared at you both then, battling with himself on whether you were worth the trouble or not— as if you’d ever been worth the trouble— then gave a begrudging sigh, telling you to hurry up and get back in the car.

You opened the door to the backseat and helped Tomura slide in before running around and reclaiming your seat on the passenger’s side, Dabi taking off before you’d even finished closing your door and speeding recklessly down the darkened night streets once again, clearly not having learned his lesson the first time— or the second, for that matter.

You kept watch on the man in the backseat from the rearview mirror, who just had his head lazily rested against the seat, slouching down and not bothering to put a seatbelt on as he stared out the window with utter defeat. If it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of his chest, there were a few times you would’ve thought him to be dead with how still he was sitting.

“Hey…” you addressed him. He just shifted his crimson gaze to meet yours in the mirror. “What’s your name?”

He averted his eyes again, staring back out the window at the ghost town rushing by outside. “It’s Tomura…” he finally answered after a long, labored breath.

You introduced yourself in return, only getting a simple, barely detectable nod in response.

“And what about you?” you then asked the driver whose jaw was still clenched, back teeth grinding in agitation from the recent events.

“Who gives a shit…” he answered rudely, narrowing his gaze at the road before him, running another red light.

“Whatever,” you rolled your eyes. You didn’t particularly care either, you supposed.

“Ah, shit…” Dabi then said as he noticed the gas meter running empty. You were about to ask him what was wrong, but then he continued with, “Who the fuck goes out with their tank this low?”

While he was throwing a fit over the dwindling fuel, you were starting to recognize the area, only a few more blocks till your apartment complex, but you didn’t say anything as you could feel the driver’s stress filling the atmosphere of the car. And, with this guy, you felt like a simple statement of “hey, my turn is coming up” would be more than enough to set him off right now.

Dabi cut down another side street where he knew a gas station wasn’t far. It was just outside the city, which you’d already been on the outskirts of, but Dabi wouldn’t be able to pawn the thing off if it stopped rolling the moment he parked it in the shady, underground garage of the illegal stolen car salesman he knew, so he had no choice.

And god he needed his pills.

He needed the cash first though, and to get the cash he needed the car.

Fucking million step process just to get some fucking painkillers, he thought bitterly.

But he could complain and grumble all he wanted.

In the end, he’d do whatever it took, just like always.

“Stay in the car,” he’d said in a way that sounded nonchalant, but you knew was an order, slamming the door shut before you could answer and going over to fill the tank.

You looked back at Tomura, who was still gazing out the window in a daze. You couldn’t help but stare at him, tracing the lines of his scars with your eyes, following the way his wavy hair framed his face and the cool light of the street lamps illuminated his pale skin, making his scarlette eyes glow even brighter. A vibrant contrast against all the monochromatic shades that otherwise painted his person.

“Hey…” you began, speaking softer that time, as if trying to soothe him. “Why did you do that?”

He didn’t respond at first, the only indication that he’d heard you being the slight widening of his eyes, the expression reading as if something dire had just occurred to him before dissipating back to exhaustion.

“Do what?” he asked with a bored, tired drone.

“Try to kill yourself?”

Tomura looked at you now, only his eyes moving as if the rest of his body couldn’t be bothered. But he couldn’t hold your gaze for very long, the intensity of your sincerity killing him in a way he’d never considered.

“Dunno…” he lied, giving an awkward half shrug, wincing in pain halfway through and gripping his shoulder with one hand.

“Well it was a stupid thing to do,” you scolded him lightly, causing him to shoot you another one of those feral, wide-eyed glares, head turning a little more this time.

“Yeah, and what would you know about it?” he challenged with a scowl, raspy voice a little more sharp now. A little more dangerous.

“I know that if it were me, I wouldn’t try to drag someone else into it. Especially not complete strangers,” you answered, now wearing a scowl of your own.

But you weren’t actually mad at him, per se.

The way you saw it, even though you hadn’t been the one driving, you still would’ve felt responsible if you’d just left him there alone in the street.

Besides, you’d already taken a life that night and one was more than enough for you.

So you weren’t mad at him. Just concerned.

Because, maybe, at one point or another you’d been just like Tomura. And, possibly sometime in the very near future, you’d be more than willing to throw yourself into oncoming traffic or off a building or bridge or, in the very least, swallow a bunch of pills just to make it all stop.

Because the sight of all that blood— the smell of it, acidic copper mixed with the chemical burning of the bleach stinging your nose— and the sheer fact that, despite the circumstances, you were indeed a murderer as of a few hours ago, well…

The full weight of that was sure to settle over you eventually and, when it did, it just might be too much to bear.

“Whatever…” Tomura puffed out through an exhale of annoyance, looking away from you and back out the window.

Only, Tomura actually did want to answer you. He just didn’t have the right words at the moment to explain it all— that sinking, empty emotion that comes with feeling like you’re completely alone in the world, of having nothing and no one.

Though, a few seconds later, he perked up in the backseat, noticing something amiss as his skittish crimson gaze scanned the scene outside the window.

“Hey…” he said, causing you to glance over your shoulder. “Where’d that guy go?”

***

Dabi walked into the gas station’s convenience store with his hood up, his head down, and his hands shoved into his pockets.

First, he pretended to browse the chip aisle, strolling slowly as he read over all the brand names. Out of the corner of his gaze, he noticed a security camera. He wondered if it was actually on.

The cashier leaned over the counter and scrolled mindlessly on his phone, used to only a few sporadic customers coming in during the graveyard shift. He hadn’t even glanced towards Dabi when he’d entered, probably wouldn’t have cared even if he’d seen all the tattoos that covered his pale skin, that ran down his arms and up his chest and neck and face.

Maybe he wouldn’t care if Dabi tried to rob the place, if he took all the cash in the register and ran off either.

Because Dabi was even more shit out of luck than he had been at the start of the night.

He’d lost that bundle of cash he’d stolen when those guys had caught and beaten him in the alley and the gas station console wouldn’t let him fill his car until he had proof of payment first.

Well, here goes nothing, Dabi thought as he sighed and marched up to the register.

The kid was still scrolling through his phone and it was only when Dabi aggressively cleared his throat did he glance up, face going white when he registered the man standing before him.

“Uh… Can I—” the kid began, but was cut off as Dabi began one of his most ambitious bluffs in a long time.

“Open the register,” he ordered with a growl, voice quiet but stern, pushing one of the fists that were shoved in his pocket closer to the kid, pretending to conceal a gun. “And hurry it up.”

The cashier didn’t hesitate. He fumbled with the drawer and laid its entire contents out on the counter for Dabi to take, backing up and knocking down some of the cigarettes from where they were placed behind the counter while the tattooed thief stuffed the cash into his pockets.

When Dabi was done, he just nodded at the kid and said, “Oh, and gimme one a those,” eying one of the packs of marlboros that now lay scattered behind the counter. The cashier tossed him a pack with a shaky hand and then Dabi left, rushing towards the gas console, feeding in the bills, filling the tank, and then yanking the pump out the moment he heard it click, not bothering to place it back in its holder before jumping in the car and speeding away with a screech, both you and Tomura staring at him with wide-eyes, hands gripping the safety bars above the window as your bodies were jostled around with every veering turn.

“Uh… What ha—” you tried to ask.

“Don’t…” Dabi snapped, making both you and Tomura flinch. “Ask.”

So you didn’t. You remained silent for the rest of the drive aside from directing Dabi where to turn once you reentered the part of town you recognized. When you told him here was fine, he pulled over to the curb. “Um… Thank y—”

“Get out.” Dabi cut you off. He wouldn’t even look at you. You hesitated for a moment, once again wishing that you at least knew this mysterious man’s name despite how he’d treated you, then opened the door to exit. “And you,” Dabi glared at Tomura from the backseat, the silver-haired suicidal a little more alert now. “I ain’t drivin’ you around anymore either. Get out.”

Once Tomura was standing beside you on the sidewalk, Dabi just turned the music back up until it was so loud you could hear “Johnny Wants To Fight” by Badflower in a muffled blast from inside of the car and sped off again, feeling more on edge by the minute and needing to get the stolen car to his contact before the police had a chance to find him first.

And then it was just you and Tomura left in a perplexed daze in the middle of the night a few blocks from your apartment, everything that had happened up until this point feeling like some strange fever dream that you still hadn’t fully woken up from.

“So… uh…” you began, awkwardly eyeing Tomura who was staring at you like an inquisitive animal. “Do you live around here too or…?”

“I don’t live anywhere,” Tomura replied. “Not anymore, at least.”

It had to be three, maybe even close to four AM by now. Tomura looked tired. You were exhausted. You’d both had the same strange experience and just letting him walk away felt wrong, like you really would wake up tomorrow and forget everything, all the blood and black ink and silver-hair mixing together before fading away entirely.

“Do you… want to come in?” you hesitantly invited.

Tomura then seemed to snap out of his dead stare, blinking a few times before answering, “Sure.”

***

“This is it…” you said as you flipped up the switch by the door, the lights flickering a few times before illuminating the cramped studio. Tomura just stood in the doorway for a moment, eyes scanning what little there was to look at before stepping inside. Neither of you really knew what to say now. What to do. When an awkward silence began to fill the space, you asked, “So, um… Can I get you a glass of water or…?”

Tomura then seemed to snap out of whatever daze he was currently in, flinching as he registered that someone was speaking to him and responding with, “Oh, yeah, sure.”

As you took a hastily washed glass out of the sink where you’d left it this morning and filled it from the lukewarm tap, you kept an eye on your guest out of the corner of your vision and rinsed the dried blood from your hands.

He was standing in the middle of the room, honing in on specific details like what books you had scattered across the tiny, uneven coffee table you’d picked up for free from the curbside when you’d first moved here. He studied the dying houseplants that drooped by the fingerprint smudged windows, their leaves and vines having given up on reaching towards the sun long ago. But, one thing he noticed above all else was the single photo you kept on your scuffed up bedside table.

“Who are they?” he asked when you came over to hand him his drink. He took the glass carefully in his hands, as if he feared he might break it.

You took a seat on the end of your bed with your own glass of water, sipping at it as you glanced at the photo. “My family,” you admitted, though wore a sad expression where he would’ve expected one that was a little more, well…

Actually, he didn’t exactly have the fondest memories of his family either.

You thought he might ask you what happened to them, if they lived nearby or if you guys were close, but he didn’t. Instead, he just nodded like he understood and then sipped at his drink while standing a few feet across from you, both of you looking at each other and waiting for the other person to say something else.

You wondered just how long he’d been alone. How long he’d had to endure silence before almost getting killed— then saved, if you could call it that— by you and that tattooed guy in the middle of the street tonight. You almost asked. Would’ve, if not for him speaking first.

“Why did you let me in?” he asked, intentions unreadable in both his face and tone.

“Should I not have?” you inquired. Instinctively you reminded yourself where you’d hidden weapons throughout your apartment— a letter opener in the nightstand drawer, pocket knife underneath one of the couch cushions, multi-tool behind the vase near the front door— just in case things took a turn. Tomura just continued to stare at you, his gaze curious, as if he found you just as odd yet enticing as you found him. “I mean…” you then recovered, “You said you had nowhere to go, right?”

He nodded, bringing the glass to his lips but pausing before taking the next sip, saying, “Did you know the guy in the car?”

“Not until just before we ran into you,” you admitted.

Then Tomura asked “Did he do that to you?” nodding at all the blood on your clothes. You realized that maybe it wasn’t necessarily you he kept staring at with wild eyes, but all the evidence instead.

You’d already nearly forgotten about it.

“Oh…” you exhaled, plucking at your button up shirt and noticing that the bright red had gone rusty now. There was no way those stains were coming out. You’d have to throw your clothes away or, probably a better idea, burn them. “No, he didn’t. That was…”

But you couldn’t finish the sentence. Not even with an insult at your former boss. You just wanted to forget any of it had ever happened.

Tomura then sat on the end of your bed next to you, staring at where the beat up old sofa was pushed up against the wall and gulping down the rest of his water. It was then your turn to study him, decode his appearance as if that would answer all your unasked questions. But, unlike you, his situation was a lot harder to read. He kept it carefully concealed under long black sleeves and faded black jeans, shaggy tufts of hair falling in front of his eyes and hiding parts of his face from you.

Though, there was one thing you hadn’t noticed before, when the only light you’d had to view him by was the dim glow of passing streetlamps or traffic lights. His skin wasn’t just scarred, it was scratched, dry and patchy around his eyes and forehead, eyebrows sparse and chunks of his eyelashes missing as if he’d rubbed them off.

Instinctively, you raised a hand to touch him, wanting to care for whatever condition he had— wanting to understand it better so you could help— but when he saw it coming towards him in his peripheral vision he flinched back, grabbing your wrist to stop you.

You both stared at each other with gaping expressions, scared for different reasons.

“I’m sorry—” you went to say, the words caught in a gasp. But Tomura didn’t look angry. He didn’t look like he was going to hurt you. Instead, he looked at you as if he thought he’d just narrowly protected you from something horrible, like touching him was some kind of curse you might catch. “I didn’t mean—”

But then he let you go, giving you back your wrist, which you cradled in your other hand, and looked away from you. “Sorry…” he mumbled, vermillion stare stuck to the multicolored shag rug hiding the partially rotting hardwood floors. “It’s just… I’m not used to being touched and I…”

Similar to you, Tomura also had a hard time speaking the things he’d much rather forget.

Then, without thinking you blurted out, as if you had just suddenly decided it needed to be freed from the cage of your body, “I killed someone tonight.” Tomura didn’t flinch at that. Just looked back at you with a gaze that either said, “I’m sorry” or “I understand”. Maybe both.

And suddenly you had this fear of rejection, like you expected him to lash out and call you crazy, deride you for committing such a heinous act. But instead he just asked you, “Did they deserve it?”

You cracked a nervous smirk, the fever dream you felt like you were floating in becoming all that more unbelievable. “Yeah…” you said, a stifled, choking sound that was perhaps the dying embers of a sob catching in your throat. “Yeah, he did.”

“What are you gonna do?” he asked next. You felt like the scenery around you was beginning to blur, the walls closing in tighter and tighter until they’d press flat against you and trap you in a cube of claustrophobia.

Your eyes began to tear up. “I don’t know…” The heat that was building in the room was beginning to feel suffocating. You buried your face in one of your hands, the other one holding the half empty glass of water starting to tremble. “I don’t know…” The air conditioner had never worked and even your cheap convenience store fan had broken recently. “I really don’t know…”

Tomura was unsure what to say to you, but he was trying to find the words. Any words. Any words at all to convey to you that you’d figure it out. That you’d be alright but—

But why did he care?

Why did Tomura— someone who’d tried time and time again to end his own life because he was so convinced that nothing was ever going to be alright for him ever again— care whether you sorted out your problems or dug your own grave?

Because she doesn’t deserve that, he figured. She has far more to live for than someone like me.

You were just crying now, your glass of water sitting abandoned on the floor by your feet as you hid your sorrows in both of your palms, body shaking even more as another wave of tremors wracked through your bones, sharp inhales peppered throughout your otherwise silent sadness.

Tomura wished he hadn’t stopped you from touching him earlier. He wished he’d allowed you to reach over and run your careful fingertips over his skin, the scars and the dry patches that cracked and split in thin slashes across his face.

Though, maybe, perhaps, if he could reach out and touch you, you’d allow him to try and care for you the way you’d wanted to care for him. As much as one hollow stranger could care for another, that is.

“They’re gonna find me,” you muttered, words garbled by the thick coating of saliva clogging the back of your throat. “They’re gonna find me and then they’re gonna—”

You froze when you felt a hand— Tomura’s hand— resting on the small of your back, peeking out from your palms as if to confirm that it was actually him that was touching you and you weren’t just imagining it. And he was tense at first. Not gentle and comforting like he had a feeling you could be.

But he was trying.

You were making him want to try.

“What…?” you eventually asked, Tomura’s startled stare becoming too intense for you to hold.

He then mumbled something, his voice so quiet you didn’t catch it at first. So again, you asked him, “What?” and when he repeated himself you realized he’d said, “I want to kiss you.”

You blinked a few times, trying to clear the thin film of tears that still glossed over your eyes, lashes spiked and cheeks streaked with drying salt. Your ears were ringing, and suddenly all you could hear was the buzzing in your head. But you felt your mouth moving, felt the gentle vibration of your vocal chords when you said, “So kiss me then.”

Tomura leaned in halfway, the hand on your back clutching your shirt in his fist, trying to conceal just how terrified he was of his own desire— for you and this newfound realization that maybe he did actually want to live, even if only just a little bit. It was overwhelming.

And it was kind of nice, the fact that he wasn’t trying to feel you up right from the get go and pin you underneath him like most of your previous one night stands tended to do. So you kissed him, and he kissed you back, but it wasn’t romantic or sweet. It was rough and desperate, both of you trying to leave proof on each other that the other person existed, that you’d met, that you’d both almost died that night yet had somehow ended up alive at the end of it all, even if one of you hadn’t wanted to.

Tomura had shaky hands. And they were cold, like they had no blood in them, like he really had died back there on the street and was just a walking corpse. They sent a shiver through your body as his fingers brushed against your ribs under your shirt, pushing up until they found the clasp of your bra, fumbling with it absentmindedly as if he wasn’t aware of what his fingers were tangled up in.

You reached behind you and undid it for him, both of you breaking the kiss and pausing for a moment, lips still almost touching as you panted into each other’s mouths and wondered if this was really happening. If you wanted it to happen.

I killed someone, you remembered again. And then I almost watched him get killed.

It was fucked up.

All of it.

Your life.

His.

And definitely the guy who’d driven you two and then sped off without a word.

All of it was just so fucked up.

Has been for a long time, you thought, going back to kiss Tomura again, this time trying to be a little softer, letting him know that you needed things to slow down a bit. But when your tongues met this time, you realized something odd.

Tomura tasted like nothing.

Now that you thought about it, he didn’t smell like anything either.

Maybe he really is a ghost, you thought to yourself with much less concern than you probably should’ve. Either way, you wanted to feel his lips on yours again, kissing him over and over until you felt like some of his rigidness had melted away.

“Wait… Do you really wanna do this?” Tomura asked then, seeming to be second guessing himself now that his thoughts had actually caught up to his actions.

“Do you?” was all you answered in return. You think you wanted to, though, you weren’t exactly sure why.

Does there need to be a reason, you asked yourself. Does there need to be a reason when nothing makes any fucking sense anyway?

When Tomura’s hands started trailing up your body again, you took that as a maybe. When he kissed you again, also being a little softer this time, you took that as a yes.

So you let him have you, taking no issue when he squeezed at your ass or pulled your panties down. Because you could see it in his eyes— this void, empty space where maybe, at one point, his true self had been.

You had also lost your true self.

You couldn’t remember exactly when or how, but you often felt like you were nothing more than an empty vessel, just a body wandering aimlessly without a soul to occupy it.

And at one point, you too had wished for it all to end, having run out of options for escape, tired of scraping at the bottom of the barrel just to earn another day in the pathetic game of survival you supposed you called your life.

But here, now, with this silver-haired stranger who’s name you’d barely learned, you felt like the embers of your dwindling soul were being reignited in its hearth, the flames that maybe would grow into a steady fire coursing warm through your blood.

Tomura didn’t bother with much foreplay. Didn’t need to. You were wet enough already just from some simple touching and kissing. Maybe it was because you hadn’t been like this in a long time— lying underneath someone who you actually wanted to give yourself to, not just shutting out the sensations as you went through the motions when you were late on paying your rent. But Tomura still prepped you the best he could, slipping two of his slender fingers into your fluttering hole and pumping them in and out a few times, scissoring them inside to stretch you.

When you told him you were ready— that you wanted him now— Tomura sunk into you slowly, feeling you clench around him right away and letting out a groan as his crimson eyes rolled back in his head. As he rocked his hips rhythmically, your neck craned and your back arched, breathy little moans escaping your lips.

“Tomura…” you whined as he brought his chapped lips down to suck at your neck, leaving behind his own personal constellation of bruises, biting in sometimes and pulling a gasp or another moan from you.

His hips picked up the pace soon, thrusting into you and making your whimpers come out louder, sounds of pain and pleasure filling the formerly silent, small space of the apartment. You didn’t care if your neighbours heard you. It’s not like you knew your neighbours anyway. Besides, you were still planning on skipping town soon anyway.

“T-Tomura!” you were begging, but for what?

For more?

For him to slow down? To speed up?

Even you weren’t sure anymore.

You just let yourself get lost in the touch of the man you’d only known for a couple of hours yet felt you understood better than some people you’d known your entire life.

It was almost like you needed to prove to yourself that this was still ok after what had happened with your boss. You needed to know that you weren’t broken, that any scars you’d gained from that incident would heal and fade away. Maybe he could be the bandaid on the bullet hole that was the amalgamation of every horrible thing that had ever happened to you. With how good he felt inside you, it sure seemed that way.

And Tomura, well, he’d almost forgotten the last time he’d felt anything, let alone this much of a will to live.

Because every time his hips snapped against the inside of your thighs and your silky, pulsing walls clenched around his cock, or he pulled another one of those sweet little sounds from you, whenever your lips met his or his lips nipped at your neck, the strangest thought occurred to him.

Maybe I don’t want to die.

He wouldn’t trust that statement in the long run but for now, even if just one very strange, very ominous night, he’d allow himself to believe it.

And as the two of you curled up under the covers, soaking in each other’s body heat, Tomura’s long, thin arms wrapped around you like you were the only thing he’d ever had worth holding onto, he thought to himself…

Maybe with someone like her, life is worth living.

***

“Why do you want to die so bad?” you’d asked Tomura after you’d both woken up that morning, both your hair tousled with sex and sleep.

The two of you stayed in bed until nearly noon, the summer sunlight that poured in through the spotted windows giving you both a warm glow, sun dust visibly floating through the beams.

“I don’t know,” Tomura had answered, though that time he hadn’t just used the excuse as a filler for a question he didn’t feel like explaining. “I just… It’s been like that for a long time.”

You’d kissed him— a tender, soft kiss that made Tomura feel loved for the first time in, well, in forever— and he’d tried to kiss you back in the same way, hoping that you could understand through the gesture that you’d saved him— were still saving him— from the black abyss of his death wish one touch at a time.

“I was like you once,” you admitted then, wearing a sadness that Tomura was used to seeing in his own reflection, one that lived deep in someone’s eyes. And then it was his turn to ask you why. “Because,” you gave a short shrug. “I’m never getting out of here— out of this…” You then looked around your apartment as if that summed up the entire history of your life’s problems. You didn’t necessarily believe in heaven, though, if there really was an afterlife of some sort, you just hoped it really was a better place like people always said. Even if it were merely a plane of existence where you wouldn’t have to feel any more pain.

Tomura wanted to tell you that you were wrong, that someone as beautiful and kind and caring as you deserved so much more than this, deserved to live more than most people. Definitely more than someone like him and definitely more than someone like that guy who’d driven you both around so recklessly last night.

“I’m sorry,” was all Tomura could think to say as he held you closer to him, afraid to let you go, like if he did you’d turn to sun dust and disappear on the breeze that was seeping through the cracked window overhead.

“Don’t be,” you replied evenly, sounding tired. “Besides, I’m still alive.” You looked up at him, admiring the way the light hit his scarlet gaze. “That’s gotta count for something, right?”

Before either of you could say anything else, your phone began to buzz from the nightstand. You wriggled from Tomura’s grasp to see who it was, your blood freezing in your veins when you read one of your co-workers name’s pop up on the caller ID.

“What is it?” Tomura asked when he felt you tense.

A million different possibilities rushed through your brain at once.

Did they find the body?

Of course they did.

Do they know I did it?

Are the police already on their way?

No, they would’ve already gotten here.

Shit, where did I leave my shirt? It’s still got blood on it.

“Uh…” Your voice shook and you cleared your throat. “One second.”

You threw your legs over the side of the bed, reached down to pick up the nearest article of clothing, which just so happened to be Tomura’s black crewneck, and slipped it over your head, the oversized garment covering enough of you to feel decent as you picked up the phone and retreated to the bathroom, closing the door behind you, as if the walls were thick enough to keep even your low muttering from being overheard.

Just play dumb, you reminded yourself before accepting the call. You went home last, but not too late. Only a little bit after the hairdresser who finished up before you. You didn’t see your boss. Just went home.

“H-hello—?”

“Oh my god!” your co-worker boomed from the other side of the call, making you wince and pull the phone back from your ear for a moment. “Are you ok?! Did you hear?! I can’t believe this—!”

Yep. They’d definitely found the body. But, luckily for you, it didn’t sound like you were a suspect yet.

You tried to swallow down any evidence of your so-called “crime”, attempting to sound surprised and confused, but not so much so as to expose that it was all an act.

“Someone stabbed him and left him in the alley behind the shop!” your co-worked continued in disbelief after you asked what happened. “Thank god you got home before running into whoever it was. I can’t imagine!”

There would be a more thorough investigation soon enough, you knew. The police would search the shop and find traces of his blood and probably the straight razor with your fingerprints on it. You could just argue that you’d had a customer earlier that day who’d booked a shave, or better yet, someone else at the salon would use it and mark it with their touch too.

But you would become a suspect. It wasn’t a matter of if, only of when.

“Are you on the schedule for today?” she then asked, and you could hear the flipping of pages in the background, your co-worker already working on answering her own question.

You knew you were, but there was no way in hell you were planning on going in. Cops were probably crawling all over the alley. If they stopped you for questioning, you weren’t sure how well you could hide the dread that was sure to show on your face and shake in your voice.

“I’m not feeling well today,” you lied. “Can you do me a huge favor? Take me off the schedule, cancel my appointments. I didn’t have many…”

Your co-worker said she would. She was a good friend, if you’d considered her as such before. She was always willing to check in on you, help you out when you needed it, but you knew she definitely wouldn’t be willing to sink with you on the whole killing your horrible, misogynistic, rapist of a boss situation, even if she hated him too.

“I wonder if this means our next paychecks will be late…” she sighed after agreeing to help you, wishing for you to feel better.

You both told each other to stay safe, keep in touch, and as soon as you hung up you let out a quivering exhale, a weight of getting through that conversation free of suspicion lifting from your shoulders momentarily.

You’d almost forgotten about Tomura until you exited the bathroom and saw him sitting on the edge of your bed, half dressed— aside from his shirt that you were wearing, of course— and beginning to lace up one of his beat up red converse.

“Hey…” You blinked at him as you stopped in the doorway of the tiny bathroom. “Feel like breakfast?”

***

“That’s why I was covered in blood last night…” You recounted drearily as you picked at a stack of pancakes, twirling your fork and watching the spongy food tear apart easily. Then one of your thoughts from the previous night returned to you.

Like a hot knife through butter.

You were losing your appetite.

“Well, sounds like the fucker deserved it,” Tomura commented with a lazy shrug, taking a bite of his own stack of pancakes, his loaded with blueberries and chocolate chips. For a guy who’d tried to kill himself so often, he sure seemed to enjoy the simple things in life.

You glared down at your plate, silverware clenched in your fists. “Yeah, well, it won’t matter what he deserved once the cops find out…”

“Hey…” Tomura’s hand cautiously found yours, fingertips barely brushing against you and causing your gaze to snap back to him. “They won’t find out.” But you assured him that they would, sooner or later, if you stayed here. “Then let’s leave. Run away from here.”

Let’s leave?

Run away?

As in together?

You didn’t think strangers who were this easily willing to skip town with someone they’d just met existed outside of fables and fairy tales. And you were still working on figuring out if last night was fact or fiction.

“I don’t know…” You sighed. “I just—” But as you looked back to the front windows of the diner, you caught a face you recognized slinking by, the tall, lanky, tattooed figure pulling the door open and entering the establishment.

Dabi stopped as he looked up and saw you and Tomura sitting in the furthest corner, huddled close together in the otherwise empty restaurant.

He pulled the hood of the sweatshirt he wore under his black denim jacket down to expose his spiky black hair. “No shit,” he scoffed, heading straight towards you then, sitting in one of the empty chairs and laying both elbows on the table comfortably like he’d been invited and was simply running late.

“What are you two doing here?” he questioned in a bored drone, then glanced at your torn up, soggy pancakes with that cerulean half-lidded stare and asked, “You gonna eat that?” You slid your plate towards him without a word and he began to dig in, ravenous, silverware trembling slightly in his hands.

Neither you nor Tomura really knew what to say. After everything that had happened last night between the three of you, what more was there to say?

“Why the fuck did you put so much syrup on this?” Dabi complained through his next bite, though he didn’t seem to mind too much with the rate he was shoveling the food into his mouth. His bright, azure gaze hopped back and forth between you and Tomura, waiting for one of you to answer his first question.

“What?” Dabi then snapped, a scowl forming on his brow.

“Nothing,” Tomura answered then, trying to act natural as he took another bite of his own breakfast.

“What are you doing here?” you inquired next, a bad mood beginning to creep over you.

“Uh-uh,” Dabi shook his head as he pointed his fork— your fork— towards you accusingly. “I asked you first. And what are you still doing with him?” He shot a quick glare at Tomura, seeming to harbor some ill will towards the man who’d thrown himself in front of a speeding car.

Or perhaps it was more the jealousy that the scrawny, silver-haired, scarlet-eyed stranger had gotten to go home with you and, even more, that he’d made a good enough impression to be invited out for breakfast the next morning.

“Well we were having breakfast before you showed up,” you replied with disdain, crossing your arms and leaning back in your chair.

“Oh, were you now?” Dabi said with another sarcastic chuckle and a roll of his eyes. “Tell me, do you always prefer to dissect your food into a million pieces before you consume it, or is that just for special occasions?”

“What’s your problem, man?” Tomura then jumped in with a sneer, causing both you and Dabi to look at him with varying degrees of surprise. Dabi almost looked intrigued, like there was a challenge he knew he could win somewhere in Tomura’s question. And you, well…

You just weren’t used to people sticking up for you.

“Was I talking to you?” Dabi shot back through a low growl, his hand tightening into a white knuckled fist around the fork to try and hide his growing withdrawal symptoms, feeling his body temperature rise even higher, and not just from rage.

“Stop it!” you scolded, not wanting a scene to unfold. Now it was your turn to be on the receiving end of Dabi’s glare. “Just stop. What do you want anyway? If I’m remembering correctly, you told us to get out and then sped off. If you want money I’m not giving it to you.”

“Cute,” Dabi flashed his teeth at you in a mocking smile, shoving the plate, now nearly devoid of all its previous contents, into the center of the table. “But I don’t want your money.” He pushed his chair back and stood aggressively, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. “But it’s your loss,” he baited with calculated indifference. “I was actually about to invite you both to make some with me.”

Dabi began to stalk off then, but just before he could exit the diner, he spotted some faces that he recognized through the building’s front windows.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit…” he swore under his breath, whipping back around and pulling his hood up, returning to his seat at your table hastily, back facing the window. You and Tomura both just continued to watch him with an uncomfortable perplexity. “Tell me when they’re gone,” Dabi ordered in a hushed voice, but neither you nor Tomura knew what he was talking about.

That was, until two cops entered the diner, eyes scanning the empty room, sticking on the trio of you three for a moment and causing a dagger of panic to spike in your chest, before they moved on to take a seat at the main counter, calling to the waitress who was just coming out from the back and ordering two coffees.

“Of fucking course…” Dabi sighed, raising his eyebrows in lazy defeat as if to say, “this might as well happen to me today.”

“What did you do now?” you accused with a scowl, eyes darting from the cops back to the tattooed stranger. Though, again, after last night, it was sort of odd to think of him in those terms.

“Shut up!” Dabi ordered with a hiss, lowering his head a little more and trying to angle his face away from the cops. “Just shut up.”

“Whatever,” you murmured with irritation, now taking your fork back up and going to pick at what little remained of Tomura’s pancakes, your annoyance making some of your appetite return to you.

But the cops didn’t stay long. Just ordered their coffees, drank them while talking about bullshit, paid, and left. You and Dabi both let out a breath of relief once you found yourself alone in the diner again. Tomura had just watched the whole thing unfold with wide eyes and wavering interest.

“What did you do?” you pressed harder once it was just the three of again.

“Look, I’m in some trouble with the cops and some of the local gangs, alright!” Dabi shot back with simmering fury, though still kept his voice hushed to a hissed whisper. “And I need money fast or else, the next time they see me, I’m dead!”

“The next time who sees you?” Tomura asked, not sounding the least bit worried as he sipped at the orange juice you’d ordered and barely touched.

“Either of ‘em, dumbass,” Dabi retorted with a roll of his eyes, causing you to kick him in the shin from under the table which earned you the most feral look he’d flashed either of you yet. His hand was curling into a fist again and, for a moment, you really thought he was going to swing at you, but he just heaved out another exasperated sigh and said, “Y’know what, forget it,” before standing from the table, the metal legs of the chair scraping harshly against the splotchy floors. He grumbled to himself as he shoved his hands back in his pockets and prepared to turn and leave, “Should’a never stopped for you anyway…”

“Why don’t you just sell that stupid car?” you called to him when he was halfway to the door. He stopped and glanced at you over his shoulder, staring at you as if he was giving you a chance to continue. “If you need money that bad,” you clarified, nervously taking Tomura’s hand under the table. “Just sell your car.”

Dabi marched right back up to you, perching himself to lean forward with both hands lying flat on the tabletop. “You think I haven’t thought of that already?”

“Well?” you raised, squeezing Tomura’s hand a little harder and making him give you a slightly anxious side glance. “Why don’t you then?”

You and Dabi just stared at each other, searching each other’s eyes with matching scowls as if hoping to fish out some kind of weakness, see who would break first.

Finally, Dabi slumped back down in his seat again and sighed, tapping his foot relentlessly on the floor. “Because…” he admitted, partially with defeat. “I stole it. And my normal guy skipped town so now I’m shit outta luck with finding someone I can sell it to without alerting the cops.”

You were just about to say something like, “Well that sounds like a you problem then,” when all of a sudden Tomura cut in with, “I know someone who will buy it.”

Both you and Dabi gave him incredulous looks.

“It’s kinda far away…” he elaborated, leaning in a little closer to the huddle, “But I’ve done deals with the guy before and…” his words drifted off as if he was forgetting his sentence at the same time he was speaking it.

“And?” Dabi snapped.

“And he’s good with that kind of stuff,” Tomura continued. “Like, buying and selling illegal shit.”

You blinked twice, your hand still clutched in Tomura’s, who was holding onto you now more than you were to him.

Just who was this guy?

“If you’re bullshitting me,” Dabi warned, pointing a long, bony finger at Tomura, who’s crimson gaze widened even more, “then you’re gonna be the one who’s dead at the end of all this? Got it?”

Dabi should’ve known better. Should’ve known that, at least before coming home with you last night, Tomura would’ve wanted nothing more than for the tattooed criminal to follow through with that threat.

But Tomura was telling the truth.

Sure, he’d never bought or sold a stolen car to his contact, but he had obtained all kinds of drugs in the past, experimenting with what would bring him the closest to death without actually killing him before he’d made his mind up about actually wanting to die.

So Dabi agreed, all three of you leaving the diner— without paying, mind you— and piling back into the white and silver Mercedes-Maybach S Class, Dabi speeding outside of town towards the direction Tomura pointed him in, windows rolled down and music blasting all the way on account of him not wanting to have to hear either of you talk.

***

“Over there,” Tomura pointed out once a graffitied billboard of a crying woman warning against the dangers of drug addiction came into view. “Turn left at the next intersection.”

Dabi grumbled something under his breath before veering left and causing both you and Tomura to lean in the same direction with the sudden force. He then drove down a long, abandoned stretch of empty road for what felt like a long time. His agitation was growing, fingers tapping relentlessly on the wheel until finally he demanded, “Where the hell is this place?”

“Right up ahead,” Tomura kept promising. Your hand had inched closer to his in the backseat every time Dabi voiced one of his annoyances, feeling safer than before when you’d been in the passenger seat beside Dabi but still nervous since you were never sure what was gonna set the guy off. Finally, your hand found Tomura’s, his fingers intertwining with yours as he came to seek safety in your touch just the same. You gave his hand a little squeeze, the gesture becoming your unspoken sign for rising anxiety. To try and ease the tension that was building in the car, as he lightly stroked his thumb over the top of your hand, Tomura added, “Next turn that comes up. You can’t miss it.”

The next turn wasn’t for twenty more minutes, so you rested your head against Tomura’s shoulder in the meantime, his rigidness melting away after a little while, even allowing himself to rest his head against yours, his fluffy silvery hair tickling your cheek.

But finally, once the turn came up, you were able to calm down a little bit. Mostly because Dabi started to calm down a little bit. Though, as he pulled up to the place, it looked more like an old gas station than a place where someone would trade a stolen car.

“This really the place?” Dabi asked, glancing at you nuzzling up to Tomura in the backseat with…

What?

Jealousy?

He forced himself to glare back out the windshield as his grip on the wheel tightened.

“Yeah, pull in here. There’s a warehouse in the back,” Tomura instructed, lifting his head from yours and becoming more alert. “I’ll go and see if he’s here.”

“Right… you’ll see if he’s here…” Dabi rolled his eyes, veering off to the side and putting the car in park. “For how far we just fuckin’ drove, he better be here.”

“I’m coming with you,” you announced as you exited the car after Tomura, not wanting to be left alone with Dabi any longer than you had to. Tomura tried to tell you that it would be better if he went alone, that his contact could be a little skittish when it came to meeting unfamiliar faces, but you promised you’d be good. That you’d stay quiet and close to his side. You took his hand in yours again and then he agreed, informing you that it would be best if you didn’t touch anything, no matter how tempting.

“I mean, what does this guy deal?” you asked with a playful raise of your eyebrows and lilt in your tone. “Like, rare gems or something?”

Tomura hesitated, his eyes widening a fraction as he stared down at you. Then he looked away, giving a lazy half shrug and lightly scratching at his neck as he replied, “Sometimes. Depends…”

Before you could even think of a response, you were being pulled along by Tomura, who stepped up to the entrance of the warehouse and knocked on the metal door. “Hey! It’s me!” he called, waiting a moment before going to knock again, shouting louder that time, “Spinner! It’s Tomura! Got somethin’ for ya! Open up!”

Seconds later, a shady looking man answered the door with a disgruntled, “Jesus, Shigaraki, keep it down! You’ll upset the new arrivals… Already bad enough that all the semi-trucks come down these roads all the time.” The man, who you assumed was Spinner, looked you up and down and then back to Tomura with a slightly skeptical, “Uh… This isn’t what you brought me… is it?”

Tomura pulled you closer to him protectively before replying, “The car,” pointing a thumb behind him at where Dabi still sat behind the wheel.

Spinner glanced at you— well, the two of you, really— a little surprised to see Tomura so protective over anything, let alone a person, and one that he was touching so easily at that. Then he stared out at the Mercedes and nodded once, saying, “Tell ‘im to drive it ‘round back. I’ll open the garage and he can park it there. In the meantime…” He hesitated, then sighed to himself, the faintest smile detectable as he told his old friend, “I guess you guys can come in.”

“Thanks…” Tomura nodded, guiding you further into the warehouse which was…

Well…

The place was like a rat maze, each turn beholding another narrow hallway with an exhibit of luxury furs or designer handbags or power tools, all kinds of multi-colored pills stored in old gumball machines or clear plastic storage containers. There was one wall covered in vintage gameboys, playstations, old arcade units, some electronics that you couldn’t even place. But the part of the warehouse that you found the most strange yet intriguing was the room that Spinner led you to.

It was lit mostly in red on account of the many heat lamps placed in each of the several glass tanks which contained different exotic reptiles— snakes and geckos, poisonous frogs and iguanas. You were even pretty sure one of the animals was a baby crocodile.

“Still selling exotic animals, huh?” Tomura teased with an odd kind of fondness as he scanned the room, noting to himself the newest additions to Spinner’s collection from the last time he’d paid him a visit. “What? Tigers and Lions take up too much space?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Spinner shot back, as if offended. “I wouldn’t trade these no matter what the price. They were all lab animals. Test subjects for this and that. But recently another friend of mine caught wind that they were gonna be confiscated by some kind of animal control, so I took ‘em instead.” Spinner reached in and grabbed up one of the lizards, which rested calmly along his wrist as he gently stroked the top of its head. “Poor little guys have been through a lot…”

“Right, so, the car?” Tomura redirected. “Will you buy it?”

The dealer’s affection for his reptiles faded back into an attitude of business as he placed his hand back into the tank, allowing the lizard to crawl down and scurry back into its little cave as he said, “Gotta check a few things and then I’ll let you know. Your friend should be around back by now. Guess I should go meet ��im.”

“He’s not my friend,” Tomura finally admitted, pulling you a little closer to his side as you continued to gaze around the reptile room in awe.

“Who is ‘e then? Someone we can trust at least, right?”

Tomura bit his tongue to try and suppress a nervous smirk, one of his hands clenching into a fist as it threatened to dig into his skin as he lied, “Somethin’ like that…”

“It’s complicated,” you chimed in, both Tomura and Spinner’s gazes snapping towards you. Neither of them said anything so you went on a little more nervously with, “W-well… The three of us sort of just… ran into each other the other night and—”

“Ah, c’mon, Shigaraki…” Spinner sighed with irritation. “How many times have I told you to only bring people you know here. Need I remind you what happened that one time with that guy who ended up being an undercover cop?”

“Trust me, this guy’s definitely not a cop,” Tomura assured his friend, removing his touch from you and migrating closer to Spinner, pleading his case. “If anything, he’s a first rate asshole, but other than that…” Tomura shrugged. “Guy has his own reasons for needing the cash.”

“So you’re splitting it?” Spinner asked, seeming to warn Tomura with the raise of his eyebrows that that was a bad idea. Tomura gave a hand gesture that said something along the lines of sort of, not really, who knows and a wincing expression. “Does he know that?”

The two of them began to leave the room, and you were staring at Tomura as if he’d look back and tell you to sit tight until he returned, that everything was ok, but he just kept on walking, chatting away with his friend while you sought refuge on the tiny sofa in the center of the room and basked in the red glow and many slithering silhouettes of the snakes in the tanks.

It felt like a long time until you finally heard footsteps approaching down the way that Tomura and Spinner had gone off in. Though, instead of silvery tufts and crimson eyes rounding the corner, you were met with inky black and smoldering sapphire.

Dabi was smoking a cigarette. Must’ve just lit it with how he was fidgeting with the silver lighter, a soft metallic clang tapping out irregularly. “Well, it’s just one fuckin’ surprise after another in this place, ain’t it?” he remarked with a sarcastic scoff, plopping down on the couch next to you, stretching his arms out over the back and looking around at all the scaled creatures with carefully concealed awe. He blew out a cloud of thick smoke, the smell making your nose wrinkle as you scooted away a few inches. You wanted to tell him he probably shouldn’t smoke in here on account of all the animals but, who were you kidding, it’s not like he would’ve cared.

“Where’s Tomura?” you asked, a slight twinge of worry laced into your voice.

“Your Romeo’s out with that other guy inspecting the car,” he replied dismissively through a yawn. “They better hurry it up. I want my money…”

“I think you mean our money.” You’d meant it to come out sounding much stronger than it really had— more of a declaration than a timid reminder— and your confidence dwindled even more when Dabi shot you a narrowing glare.

“What are you talking about? I’m the one who stole it. Hell, I drove you two around in it all night. You guys owe me.” He scoffed to himself again, wearing a cold smirk and slightly adjusting his position on the couch. Under his breath he muttered, “Our money… Please.”

Perhaps it was the fact that you’d killed someone or just that you were getting really fed up with this guy, but something had suddenly possessed you to argue back, “Yeah, and without Tomura you never would’ve had somewhere to sell the car. Remember that?”

Dabi shifted his position to face you better now, rage lighting up being his eyes while his tone remained low and even, a volcano always on the verge of erupting. “And tell me, how do you come into all this? ‘Cause as far as I’m concerned, you’re just some bitch I found covered in blood wandering the streets in the middle of the night. What’d you do? Slash some guy who got a little too rough with you? Or, wait, maybe your story is that he tried to attack you first and somehow you got the upper hand.”

You felt an unpleasant burning in the back of your nose. The tightening of your throat. Tears prickling at the edges of your vision. But you weren’t about to cry because you were offended. You were about to cry because you were furious.

Because this guy didn’t know a goddamn thing.

And, even if he did— even if you told him the truth— he still wouldn’t care.

As long as he got his drugs at the end of all of this, why should he?

“You don’t know anything,” you growled, rage cutting through your trembling fear that yes, you were a indeed a murderer. And one soon to be at large once the cops did a little more investigating.

Dabi leaned in, pupils mere pinpricks as all that bright cerulean threatened to swallow you whole. “Then just fuckin’ tell me already.”

But you were leaning in too, you now realized, your shared trait of living hard, unfortunate lives pulling you together like two mistreated magnets, however resistant you tried to be.

And as Dabi stared you down that time, you realized that something had changed— or rather, was changing— behind that piercing cobalt stare of his. It made you reconsider that maybe, if you just filled in the gaps, he would understand. He would care.

Or maybe he’d just turn you over to the authorities for ransom and call it a day.

“My boss…” you swallowed, mouth coated in thick, sticky spit. “He tried to— He almost…” You let out a frustrated sigh, a shiver skittering through your bones as you replayed the events of less than twenty-four hours ago in your head. If you focused hard enough, you could still smell that pungent metallic tang of all the blood, feel his thick fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs. “I didn’t have a choice. If I didn’t kill him, he would’ve killed me, sooner or later.”

Dabi was slowly nodding his head. And, for a moment, you thought maybe he did understand. But when he opened his mouth and asked, “So, you are a whore or…?” you rolled your eyes and let out a frustrated groan.

“I’m a hairdresser!” You snapped, wiping more tears away as you sniffled, scowl deepening. “Or at least…” your gaze became far off, staring into the tank of a komodo dragon in a daze as you concluded, “I used to be.”

And then Dabi actually laughed.

He was trying to stifle a series of cruel, amused chuckles as you shot him a look of fiery resentment, about to say something horrible to him before he piped up with a teasing, “And to think, you had the worst crime out of all of us the entire time!”

“It’s not funny!” you scolded, both your raised voice and Dabi’s incessant cackling stirring the reptiles. “I was just defending myself! But now I’m probably going to jail! How do you think that feels, huh? How do you think it feels to not have anywhere to go or anyone to rely on right now?”

Dabi’s laughter suddenly ceased, as fast as a flame blown out by a quick, strong breath. His face became blanker than you’d ever seen it, completely serious as he replied, “Probably pretty fuckin’ shitty. But y’know what. That’s life, ain’t it? No one’s ever really there to save you.” He leaned in closer, looming over you, his shadow casting across your form and making you disappear into the darkness that filled the red room. “All you ever really have is yourself,” he went on, his simmering anger boiling hotter and hotter with each new sentence. “And that’s what happens to the weak ones. They can’t protect themselves when worse comes to worst. Because there’s never gonna be any grand hero to swoop in to your rescue. And the sooner we all realize that, the better. So quit your fuckin’ crying—” He was pointing a finger at you now, tears having started streaming down your face again without you even realizing it. “Grow the fuck up, and figure out what you’re gonna do about it. ‘Cause you’re all you got. Understand?”

Your entire body was shaking and, staring up at him in the eerie red light, a dangerous glint shining in his eyes, Dabi really looked like a monster. But you’d slayed one of those before. If you had a straight razor, you could do it again. Though, you didn’t really want to be a killer. Or rather, you didn’t want to get used to killing. Because you still believed that you were a good person, that you maybe even deserved good things.

You’d crossed a line, sure. One that, in the eyes of society, would spell irreversible damage.

But wasn’t that always the way these kinds of things played out? By showing you one atrocity only to prepare you for another, much more traumatizing one? Constantly reminding you, it could all be much worse?

“But don’t worry…” Dabi side eyed you as he said, “I won’t rat you out. People like you and me, we gotta do what we need to in order to survive.” He leaned forward to place his silver lighter on the coffee table, taking another long drag to calm his nerves.

“Thanks…” but there is no you and me, you wanted to say. Instead, you just scooted a few inches away from him, hoping Tomura would come back soon.

Until he and Spinner returned, however, you and Dabi opted for awkward silence. You were just trying not to think about the blood on your hands, even if the bastard had deserved it. Dabi though…

Dabi’s mind was in a much different place.

Because as he’d peered down at you in the redlight, the dim patch of fluorescent illumination directly above the couch that the room allowed shimmering in your big, terrified eyes…

He’d realized that what he’d felt spike in his chest when he’d glanced at you and Tomura cuddling in the backseat was indeed jealousy, the emotion slowly seething into his skin only to inevitably radiate from him if he didn’t find a way to cure it soon.

And the other night when he’d kicked you and Tomura out of the car and sped off. That had been a mistake, hadn’t it? What he should’ve done was dumped that silver-haired suicidal off on the curb and insisted on driving you home. Maybe then it could’ve been him sharing pancakes with you at the diner instead. Maybe then it would’ve just been the two of you splitting the money and not this useless third party who was going to spend it on who knows what useless shit.

Dabi clenched his jaw, trying to keep himself from sneaking another glance at you but, just like when it came to his addiction, he didn’t have much self control.

Whatever, he tried to convince himself. Once this deal is done, we’ll all go our separate ways and never have to see each other again.

Only, what if that wasn’t true. What if that was only true for him, and you and Tomura went back to your apartment or some motel or, fuck it, you’d have money, you could get a room somewhere nice, and fucked again.

Just the thought of that grungy loser’s hands all over you was making Dabi start to lose his cool. And you’d let Tomura kiss you too? Let him run his tongue all over the inside of your mouth and down your neck and inside your tight little pussy? Disgusting.

Bet I could make you feel better than he did, Dabi thought to himself as his leg began to bounce anxiously. Bet I could fuck you so good you’d forget you’d ever met him.

But then, before Dabi could start to really spin out of control from the jealousy and withdrawal, Spinner and Tomura reenerted the reptile room, both you and Dabi looking over and awaiting that fateful number.

“So, I took a look and…” Spinner began, pretending to hold you and Dabi in suspense while the smirk on Tomura’s face said he already knew the price you’d be splitting three ways. “It’s in pretty good condition. Whoever you stole it from must’ve just bought it and, based on the paper plates, it had to have been within the last thirty days. I’ll give you twenty thousand. Three ways that’s—”

“Over six thousand each…” you breathed out in sheer disbelief. That was more cash than you’d ever had in your bank account, let alone all at once.

You couldn’t fathom it. The thought of what you could do with that much money. The thought of getting out of that shitty apartment and moving to a better part of the city, one where you could get hired at a salon that was much more high end than the back alley one you’d been previously employed at…

If you hadn’t killed someone, that is.

If you weren’t soon to be a wanted criminal.

“That’s right,” Spinner confirmed, taking out a thick envelope and handing it off to Tomura who looked pretty proud of himself.

Dabi, however, was not as pleased…

“Twenty thousand?” he asked, standing and tossing his half finished cigarette down onto the concrete floor of the warehouse, stomping it out with his first stride towards the dealer. “Nah. No way. Things worth at least one hundred thousand new. Maybe even more than that.”

“Sorry,” Spinner shrugged. “That’s as high as I can go.”

Dabi’s hands clenched into fists by his sides and you were sure he was finally going to throw that punch he’d been holding back all this time. So you intervened again, saying, “That’s more than enough to get your drugs.” Dabi looked over his shoulder lightning fast, that vengeful and violent shine back in his eyes and honed in right on you. Meanwhile, Tomura was ready to jump between you two if Dabi really did lose his temper.

“Cute,” Dabi spit, whirling back towards Tomura and his friend before eying the envelope containing the cash. He could just steal it. Yeah. Once the three of you were out of here, Dabi could take it and run. “And you,” he nodded aggressively at Tomura. “What the hell do you need it for, huh?”

Tomura’s eyes widened a bit, his jaw clenched as he gripped the envelope tighter, Dabi taking a step towards him. He then opened his mouth to throw a hostile reply right back, but no words came.

In truth, he didn’t know.

Before meeting you, Tomura probably would’ve blown it all on one hell of a self-destructive night before finally pulling the trigger and ending it all. But now…

Well, he’d have to figure that out once he discovered what you were planning to do.

“What?” Dabi smirked, cruelty seeping back into his voice. “You gonna pay someone off to perform a hit on you or somethin’?”

Tomura warned with a growl, “Don’t test me…” his eyes going wide, though this time in a much more feral, dangerous way than before. Then, ever so slowly, he placed the cash in his back pocket. He could take it and run too, if he wanted. He just had to get past Dabi to grab you first.

“Guys…?” you spoke, sensing the growing tension and hoping to calm things before they really spiraled out of control. “C’mon. We got the money. Now let’s just go…”

Dabi ignored you, clearly occupied on setting Tomura off before calling it quits with the little ragtag trio the team of you had formed. And part of him, whether he realized it or not, wanted you to see that, just because Tomura had remained relatively calm during all the recent chaos, that didn’t mean that he wasn’t capable of flying off the hinges too.

Because what was that saying again?

Always watch out for the quiet ones?

“Y’know, I’m not really convinced that someone like you even deserves that kind of money,” Dabi went on. Spinner was getting fed up with this quarrel too, though his concern was more for the fact that all this bad energy swirling in the room was bound to upset his replies than if one of the boys left here with a black eye. “So why don’t you just do the right thing and give it to me and the girl so we can get on with our lives while you keep trying to end yours.”

“Just stop it!” you’d tried to shout out, but it was too late.

Tomura moved fast.

Too fast.

Just a blur of black and silver and crimson, a snarl echoing off the concrete and eyes flashing with ill intent as he lunged at Dabi, the force sending both of them falling to the ground.

It was clear to everyone in the room that Tomura had never been in a real fight before, the way he wildly and clumsily threw punches that Dabi blocked with mocking ease. It wasn’t long until Dabi gained the upper hand and flipped the scrawny, scraggly boy on his back, jumping on top of him and showing him what a real punch looked and felt like.

Spinner was shouting. You were crying, screaming at the two of them to “Please stop! Knock it off already!” and Tomura and Dabi were rolling and clawing and cursing at each other while fighting for possession of that damn envelope.

The three of you were once again plunged into connected chaos, though this time none of you seemed to know how to rescue each other.

Eventually, the envelope slid from both their gasps and landed right in front of you. In a moment of panic and impulse, you grabbed it up and then snatched the lighter Dabi had left on the coffee table, flicking it open and producing a flame, holding it dangerously close to the cash and bellowing out, “BOTH OF YOU STOP OR I— I’M BURNING IT!”

All of the oxygen in the room felt like it had been sucked out at once.

Even Spinner was holding his breath, as if he had something to lose.

“Are you fucking crazy?!” Dabi shouted, voice cracking with a shriek upturning at the end.

“Get off him or I swear I’ll do it!” And you weren’t bluffing, the flame kissing the edge of the envelope and beginning to toast the crinkled paper, causing Dabi to obey instantly, holding his hands up in surrender and stepping off Tomura, who was coughing from when Dabi had closed his hands around his throat.

And Dabi only hated Tomura more now.

He’d hated him from the very first moment his stolen car had nearly run the suicidal maniac over in the street. He’d hated him when he’d dropped you two off near your apartment and sped off with the music blaring, just knowing that the two of you were going to fuck. He’d hated him when he’d seen you sharing pancakes at the diner just earlier that morning. And he’d hated him when he’d seen him rest his head on top of yours in the rear view mirror like two lovesick puppies leeching warmth off each other.

He hated that you were willing to throw away life changing amounts of cash just to save Tomura from a black eye and some broken ribs. Hated that you cared more about the silver-haired freak than the bigger picture here— the picture that he was soon to be painted out of.

Because time after time, Dabi had lost in life. He’d lost, most times, because he fell in with bad company or couldn’t run fast enough when a job went south. He’d lost because he’d become a slave to his addiction and couldn’t give two shits about correcting it. And he’d had the perfect opportunity to be the one you’d invited back to your apartment, the one you’d shared shitty diner food with, and the one you’d curl up in the car with, but he’d blown it because he just couldn’t let himself have anything good without thinking there was going to be a catch.

“Just give me the lighter…” Dabi spoke softly to you now, as if talking you off a ledge, one hand extending for you to toss the zippo into, or, in another world, take hold of.

You hesitated, slowly but surely lowering the flame, dropping the lighter to the floor as you drew in frantic, uneven breaths. With one hand clutching his ribs, which were likely bruised after that altercation, Tomura pushed himself to his feet and came over to stand before you, saying something to you quiet enough that Dabi couldn’t hear. But you handed Tomura back the envelope and that’s all that really mattered in the end, right?

“Let’s just get out of here,” Tomura spoke louder now, turning to address Dabi as well. “It’s a long walk back into the city.”

And with that, the three of you left the odd maze of Spinner’s contraband castle and headed back down the long stretch of abandoned highway that you’d come, the sun already beginning to sink towards the horizon before you were halfway home.

***

All three of you were exhausted, mentally and physically, and exchanged minimal conversation throughout your trek back towards civilization before Dabi just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Does he know?” he asked, nodding his head from you to Tomura.

“Know what?” you asked, though you already had a pretty good idea about what he was alluding to.

“Oh, so he doesn’t know…”

“He does know,” you sighed, exasperated. Meanwhile, Tomura just made sure the envelope of cash was kept out of Dabi’s reach.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Dabi then asked Tomura directly, nudging him a little and causing him to flinch away.

“Cut it out, man,” Tomura rasped, a slight grimace flashing across his features before fatigue reclaimed them.

“Whatever…” Dabi rolled his eyes, a certain mischievous lilt to his tone, edging Tomura on and grasping at straws to find any reason to cause a rift between you two. “I just know that if I was gonna fuck some random girl, I’d wanna know whether I was stickin’ my dick in a murderer or n—”

Again, Tomura moved unexpectedly fast, a cloud of dust kicked up from under his beat up red converse as he whirled on Dabi, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, spit flecked through gritted teeth as he puffed out a vicious breath.

Dabi raised his hands as if surrendering, yet still had the gall to say, “Hey, I’m just lookin’ out for ya. Your funeral, buddy. Though, maybe you’d like that.”

“Tomura, he’s not worth it…” you nearly whispered, too tired to burst out in fury like you had before. You placed a hand on Tomura’s back and pulled him from his blinding rage, slowly retracting to melt back into your gentle, understanding touch. “Please… Let’s just go home.”

You and Tomura each had an arm wrapped around one other, walking with slightly staggering steps as you guided him away and further down the road.

“Yeah…” Dabi scoffed to himself, clenching his fists at the sight of you two huddled together again. “Let’s go home.”

***

It took another two hours until the skyline of the city that had damned all three of you came into sight, another sixty painful minutes ticking by before you actually set foot back in the territory. And you should’ve known by now, especially in Dabi’s company, that you were never really home free.

Because the moment you thought you could breathe easy and part ways, enjoy the remainder of the stroll back to your apartment with Tomura to count your cash and make a plan, Dabi ran into an old friend.

Or rather, an old friend ran into Dabi.

“Pretty fuckin’ brave of you to show your face around here again!” a rough voice called from behind, causing all three of you to turn in unison, six eyes gone wide and bearing different breeds of fear.

“Shit,” Dabi hissed under his breath, pushing you two along and tacking on an urgent, “We gotta go. Now.”

“Not so fast, hot shot,” another big, burly, tattoo-covered man chuckled as he stepped out of the nearest alley, blocking your path with a crowbar in hand. “It’s time to pay up, Dabi.”

You and Tomura braced yourselves, scanning the group of men that were circling around you for any gaps big enough to slip through and make an escape. But the pack only tightened, more and more criminals emerging from the shadows armed with flashes of sharp silver or rusted iron.

“Hey, boys…” Dabi replied, trying to hide the quiver in his tone with an uncharacteristically friendly lilt. “Been a while, huh?” He was backing up towards you and Tomura, possibly trying to make a run for it himself, but there was no escape now. Not for any of you. Especially not for you, what with the hungry way the pack of men stared you down, nearly salivating at all their own disgusting thoughts.

“I sure hope you have our money,” the one who was presumably the leader of the gang went on, a smug grin plastered across his scarred face, tapping the weight of the crowbar in his palm with a steady beat. “‘Cause if ya don’t…” He swung the crowbar forward, causing all three of you to jolt as it pointed directly at Dabi. “Well, then we’re gonna have a biiiiiig problem, ain’t we?”

And he knew that Dabi didn’t have the money.

Or, at least, he normally wouldn’t have, if not for the cash he’d collected from selling the stolen car.

But still, even that wasn’t enough to pay off the entire debt and Dabi was too hell bent on securing more of his drugs before he’d even consider handing this man a single dollar.

And you and Tomura, well…

You still needed your cut.

None of you were too keen on going down without some kind of fight.

Not when you’d come this far through hell to finally catch a glimpse of the twisted heaven on the horizon.

“Yeah, well, about that…” Dabi chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head and trying to stay calm. Meanwhile, you and Tomura noticed some of the rough and tumble facade melt away, leaving only a guy who had been way in over his head from the start.

And it happened so fast. The flash of metal. A silver streak appearing and disappearing before anyone could really see what it was. But left in its wake was a slash of red and a guttural howling, the scene growing smaller and smaller behind you until you realized that someone was dragging you along by your wrist, you nearly tripping over your own feet as you glanced over your shoulder with horror, blood turning to ice.

Maybe Dabi had shouted, “Run!”

Maybe he hadn’t.

But now all three of you were high tailing it down a series of narrow alleys, Tomura’s grip on you like a vice, desperate and unrelenting. At some point, you think you were telling him he was hurting you, trying to pull away when you felt the pressure growing over your bones, thorny pangs of pain peppered over your skin. But he didn’t hear you over the surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. And even if he did, he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to let you go. Not until you were somewhere safe and warm with him and no one else.

“Fuck! Fuck!” Dabi shouted when he rounded the next corner and halted, you and Tomura nearly barreling into him as you skid to a stop and were faced with a dead end. “Uh… New plan!” He backed up, peering down the remaining stretch of straight path and seeing the silhouettes of even more enemies pop up to cage you in, a big dumpster wedged in the middle of the narrow alley slowing them down, but not for long.

Panicked, he started back down the dead end, spotting a fire escape ladder just out of reach, rushing over to jump up to try and grab hold and pull it down, but every attempt was met with no more than his fingers barely brushing against the first bar.

“What are we doing, guys?!” you shouted, your panic catching up with you as you stared down the alley and watched as your pursuers became dangerously closer by the second. Your heart was pounding, pulse beating so fast and hard that it hurt. Though, meanwhile, unbeknownst to you amongst the dread, Tomura had gone over to assist, Dabi lifting him to pull down the ladder.

You froze. Paralyzed with terror as a group of silhouettes were mere yards away. So close you could see the whites of their eyes. You’d meant to yell, to scream, anything to inform the boys that they were coming. But then that rough, scarred hand grabbed yours again and pulled you towards the ladder, practically pushing you up it even as you scrambled as fast as you could to climb.

Dabi was already at the top, extending a hand to you to pull you up to the landing.

And the only reason Tomura dared let go of you was because he thought that Dabi would just pull you up and then keep running on his own. So when the inky haired bastard locked his fist around your wrist and took off with you. Well…

Tomura saw red.

“Wait! Ow— Stop!” You tried to protest, fighting harder against his grip than you had on Tomura’s, digging your heels into the ground only to be yanked forward to nearly stumble over the next flight of stairs. You looked behind you for Tomura, not even having time to make sure he’d made it up the ladder before you’d been taken hostage again. You called his name, hoping— praying— that he’d call back. Let you know he was ok. That he’d made it—

But there was only silence.

“STOP!” you shrieked, reaching forward with your free hand to dig your nails into Dabi’s arm, clawing viciously at his inked skin until he had no choice but to let go, a few thin rivulets of blood welling up from the pale surface.

“Jesus— What the fuck is wrong with you?!” He scolded, sapphire eyes smoldering with white hot fury beneath a deep scowl.

“Tomura—!”

“Who fucking cares?!” Dabi shouted over your cries, which were quickly turning to sobs— fat, glistening tears welling in your eyes and streaking shimmering lines down your cheeks in pairs. Your chest was heaving with shallow breaths, suffocating yourself every time you tried to draw in more air, feeling like you were going to throw up. Like you were going to pass out. Like you were going to die.

“But he—!”

“Better him than us!” Dabi cut in with a snarl, approaching you with fists clenched. You winced when he came close enough that his shadow cast over you, shielding your face with your arms as if you expected a strike. “Now, unless you want those guys to rip you apart, then I suggest you stop your fucking crying and fucking run.”

His voice was icy hot. Searing into your heart like millions of barbed fish hooks, each one connected to a line that pulled in a different direction, intending to unravel you. To massacre you.

You felt your world sway and caught yourself on the railing of the staircase, peering down over the edge at the vast drop below.

And the thought did cross your mind. To jump. To end it all. But then from the landing below came, “Keep going!”

Both you and Dabi looked at each other with varying degrees of relief and confusion before you turned to see Tomura sprinting up the staircase, out of breath but still refusing to slow down. Immediately all your dread was replaced with a vibrant joy, a beaming, yet crooked smile lighting up your face and contrasting eerily with the tears that still spilled from your eyes.

“Tomura! You—”

“The ladder!” He huffed, coming to a stop and nearly doubling over once he joined you and Dabi on the next landing. An awful wheezing sound rattled in his chest with every inhale he took, bracing his hands on his knees for a moment before finding the will to stand and finishing his sentence with, “Tried to pull it up but it got stuck halfway… They’re probably… On their way…”

“Like I said—!” Dabi snapped, getting ready to run again. “We gotta go. Now.”

So the three of you took off— together this time— the top of the building but a landing away now, though you could hear the frantic clattering of heavy footsteps not far below.

“What happens once we get to the roof?” You called to Dabi, who was already on the final ladder.

“Just trust me!” he shouted back, extending a hand once again to pull you up, though you were careful not to hold on too tightly after what had just happened moments ago.

As Tomura climbed the ladder, he muttered to himself, “I don’t like those odds…”

But once you were on the roof, Dabi seemed to know the terrain better than he did on the ground. Because, up here, you could see the entire city laid out before you. All the narrow, intertwining streets appeared like an elaborate maze with the heart of the district shimmering like a mirage in the summer heat far, far in the distance.

“We’ll head towards the shopping district and lose ‘em there,” Dabi explained as you and Tomura followed behind him in a line, treading much more carefully than your surefooted, tattooed friend so as to avoid a deadly fall. “My place isn’t far. We’ll hide out there for a while till we can make sure the streets are clear.”

“Won’t they know where to find you?” you asked, nearly rolling your eyes as such an obvious flaw in his plan. “I mean, you can’t be telling me that these guys don’t know where you live.”

Dabi smirked to himself, eyes trained on where his next step would land upon the roof to avoid any loose shingles as he replied with an overconfident, “Well, that’s just one of the perks of this lifestyle, sweetheart. Anywhere can be your home when you don’t really have one of your own.”

You scoffed at his arrogance, not exactly finding it very funny to be making jokes at a time like this, but ultimately you let it go. It was a bridge you’d cross when you came to it, so long as you could get to the other end of the slanted path you were currently on.

But Dabi wasn’t joking.

He had a place. Several, in fact. A hideout in every corner of the outskirts. And every time one of them was discovered or raided, he’d just count his losses, retrieve what little he could, and forge a new hole to call home until the process inevitably repeated.

It was how he’d survived this long. How he’d evaded his enemies just long enough to extend his deadline or wrack up an even bigger debt.

Lucky for you, though, he was taking you back to his favorite hideout. It could almost pass for an actual place someone might be able to call home. Almost.

“Hey, I think we lost ‘em…” Tomura eventually remarked as you’d changed to your third rooftop, standing still and staring over the scenery behind you. Lo and behold, your pursuers were nowhere to be seen.

Dabi stopped to listen in, the whistling from a strong gust of wind the only sound to be heard up here other than the muffled traffic drifting over from a few streets down. “Yeah…” Dabi muttered, then clearing his throat to speak loud enough for you both to hear, “Yeah, I think we lost ‘em. C’mon. Let’s go.”

A few more unstable rooftops and several flights of rusted fire escape staircases later and the three of you were back on solid ground. And it was sort of strange, unexpectedly, being back among the maze of buildings and alleys after experiencing the view of the city from so high up. You felt so much smaller than you had before, gazing up through the gaps in the architecture at the sliver of sky which had just expanded all around you, painting over the muted greys and browns of your world with a serene shade of blue.

“Hey, c’mon…” Tomura urged quietly, taking your hand in his once more, though much more gently this time, and guiding you to follow after him, careful not to press into the bruises that were already beginning to blossom on your wrist from the abuse between him and Dabi forcing you along. “We gotta go.”

But you just wanted to stay and stare up at the sky, unable to shake the feeling that perhaps that was the first time you’d ever truly seen it— a sprawling revelation expanding around you after you’d just been fearing for your life, the city never that quiet, never that still, the heat of summer not so stifling when there was so much fresh air swirling around you.

But your feet carried you after Tomura, drifting closer to where Dabi was checking to make sure the coast was clear from the opening in the alley that would merge back onto the main streets, waving you two forward in a wordless announcement that it was safe.

“Just a few more blocks,” Dabi sighed, careful cerulean gaze scanning the narrow horizon like prey expecting to find a predator lurking among the telephone poles and parked cars. But then he looked at you, noticed the tranquil daze that had overtaken your features, and asked with a skeptical squint, “You holdin’ up ok?”

It took a second for you to realize he was talking to you, snapping out of your daydream and becoming more alert as you looked up at him and replied with a shaky, “Y-yeah… I’m fine,” as you melted back into Tomura’s side.

And Dabi wished that Tomura wouldn’t have made it past the first ladder. That he’d been caught by those thugs and pulled down, beaten to death and left to suffer on the grimey concrete. Because then maybe he could be the one whose hand you were holding. Whose chest you were starting to lean against. He could take you the rest of the way to his little hole in the wall apartment and get you something to drink, sling an arm around you and pull you close until you stopped trembling and he’d convinced you that no one— not the cops or any backstreet criminals— was going to take you from him.

But the bastard who’d tried to kill himself by stepping in front of the car was the one who currently protected your heart, the one who was allowed to touch you and whisper how it isn’t much further, we’ll be there soon.

Dabi cursed himself for the man he’d been twenty-four hours ago. The man who was so hardened from this life that he’d fallen into that he was no longer able to recognize something that was good before he scorned it, scorched it, ruined it with harsh words and biting remarks.

Deep down, though…

Deep down he stoked the embers of hope in the hearth of his heart. Hope that maybe, if you could just get through this, he could convince you to be his.

“It’s right this way,” Dabi informed the two of you as you rounded the next corner, this street wider than most of the others you’d traveled down yet entirely abandoned. Only some littered newspaper scraps or empty cardboard boxes blown astray from overflowing dumpsters scuttling along the street when a breeze blew by.

“Where even are we?” you asked as you continued to survey the place, surprised not to find even a single parked car, taxi, moped, anything in sight.

“It’s better if you don’t know, actually,” Dabi mumbled, fishing a set of keys out of one of his pockets and flipping through them until he found the correct one.

It was only then, just as he swung open a heavy metal door and held it as if wanting you to enter first that it occurred to you. Such a chilling, stomach turning realization.

You stopped short halfway through your next step, giving Tomura’s hand a slight squeeze in warning like you had in the car on the way to Spinner’s.

What if this was a trap?

What if Dabi was planning on killing the two of you and claiming your shares of the cash for himself?

It wouldn’t be hard to do. Not once he shut that door behind you— one that might only open one way, for all you knew— and guided you further into an unfamiliar building. He’d been so quick with that switchblade before. Only, this time, instead of slashing an eye it would be you and Tomura’s throats.

“What’s the matter?” Tomura inquired with a concerned mutter, leaning down a little to keep the conversation private.

But then Dabi called over with an impatient, “Hurry it up! Can’t be out in the open for too long!”

You just shook your head, shuffling back a half step while your eyes remained stuck on Dabi holding open the door.

“C’mon, it’s ok. We’re fine now,” Tomura tried to urge you, gently tugging you along until you caved and your feet stumbled forward, heartbeat hammering as you squeezed Tomura’s hand even tighter. He could feel your entire body shaking, but he figured that was more from the trauma of the recent events than the possible fear of being murdered by the third member of your unlikely trio.

Once you were inside, the door shutting behind you with a high pitched creak whining from its rusted hinges, you were engulfed in complete darkness for longer than you were comfortable with, paranoia lacing through your veins with a jittery shiver until Dabi flicked on a light switch and the place was set ablaze with vivid blue— graffied flames painted along the floors and walls that glowed under the blacklight.

“It’s not much but…” Dabi shrugged. “They won’t find us here.”

And just like that, your mood flipped. You were in awe for the second time that day, unable to believe the sight before you was one that belonged to your usually bleak reality.

“Did you…” you breathed out with a sigh, a fresh wave of calm overtaking you as you and Tomura followed Dabi down the long hallway. “Did you do all this?”

Dabi hummed out a short chuckle. “Yeah, well, sometimes I find myself having to hide out for a little longer than usual, so…”

Beyond the tunnel of blue flames, behind the only door located in the expansive corridor, was a single floor, several makeshift walls and barriers constructed from cardboard boxes or mismatched, patchwork pieces of plastic creating little rooms among the warehouse-like expanse. The walls of this place were also decorated with the glowing blue flames, the inferno that ignited along the hall growing into a raging wildfire with some red accents for contrast.

Dabi flipped on the main lights and the art disappeared, plain concrete walls swallowing the fiery blaze and bathing the hideout in bright fluorescence, some of the lamps flickering every once in a while to remind you that this place was not a magical fantasyland, but a dilapidated, definitely not up to safety code concrete box that you could very well be calling home for the foreseeable future.

“You can take your shoes off,” Dabi began, already heading towards one of the little sectioned off rooms, “Or don’t. I don’t care. Sit wherever. Whatever.” Then, from the room that was most likely his makeshift kitchen, he called out, “Hey, either of you want a drink?!”

For a moment, you’d forgotten Tomura was even there, his hand locked with yours just feeling like second nature at this point. So when he called back, “Some water might be nice!” you nearly jolted at the sudden voice. He then guided you over to the tiny, scuffed up couch and sat beside you, searching your face— your eyes— for something.

“Hey…” he muttered, brushing some of your disheveled hair away from your sweat streaked face, eyes still a little puffy from crying on the fire escape. “You ok…?”

You started crying again, slowly at first, then sobbing uncontrollably as you buried your face into his shoulder, your wailing muffled by the flimsy fabric of his shirt. He pulled you in closer, protectively, as Dabi re-entered the main area carrying two bottles of water and one can of beer, stride only stuttering a fraction when he witnessed your current state, the way you were clinging to Tomura for dear life again, as if he was the only thing in this world holding you together.

His grip around the beer can tightened, pressing a few small dents into the aluminum.

“What’s wrong with ‘er now?” he asked, words coated in thick— yet forced— derision, rolling his eyes and tossing Tomura one of the water bottles before jumping over the back of the couch and landing on the thin cushions next to you, keeping a bit of a distance even if that wasn’t necessarily what he wanted to do right now.

Tomura unscrewed the cap of the water bottle, trying to coax you to catch your breath and take a sip as he rubbed a hand up and down your back. But you wouldn’t lift your head from his shoulder, only nuzzling into his body deeper.

Both Tomura and Dabi exchanged unsure glances, neither exactly sure what to do right now, that is, until they heard your sobs turn into laughter— a cold, cruel chuckle that hiccuped in your chest every time a lingering sob pried its way past your lungs.

When you finally pulled your face from its hiding place among Tomura’s person, your head flopped back and you slumped into the couch. You looked sort of terrifying— teeth bared in a too wide smile as your body shook from soundless amusement, tears continuing to stream down your face and collect under your chin before dripping down onto your shirt.

“Bitch is fuckin’ crazy…” Dabi mumbled under his breath as he raised the beer can to his lips, though he jumped when a particularly loud burst of laughter tore through your throat. Then he couldn’t take his eyes off you, usually half-lidded and unbothered stare going wide enough to rival Tomura’s as he sat there frozen and unblinking, beer can still lifted to his lips yet he didn’t dare take a single sip.

And Tomura, well…

Tomura knew the feeling.

“I just can’t believe…” you barely were able to get the words out, battling between the incessant urge to cry and laugh at the same time, chest beginning to burn from the lack of oxygen in your delirious and hysterical state. “I just can’t believe that we’re alive… We’re alive…”

Tomura swallowed hard, gulped down the past few hours and hoped the monster drowned in his stomach acid before it gained enough strength to crawl back up his throat. He uttered your name— a nervous, unsure set of syllables that felt wrong in his mouth, sounded wrong to your ears. But then Dabi started laughing, his sounding low and rough and downright sinful at the realization that, yes, you’d all made it back alive.

And there was still twenty thousand dollars to split between you. Six thousand each.

“Y’know what,” Dabi said, leaning forward and setting his beer down on the busted and scratched coffee table in front of the couch. “I think the three of us make a pretty alright team.” Both you and Tomura’s gazes snapped his way, your laughter slowly fading until even the smile was wiped from your face.

Finally, Tomura said, “We almost died back there.”

“Well then maybe you should be thanking me,” Dabi responded with a hint of cruelty mixed into his tone, still holding on tight to the grudge against the silver-haired boy for stepping in front of his stolen car. Though, at this point, it really wasn’t even about that anymore, was it?

“What do you mean team?” you then cut in, feeling the tension between the two of them growing and hoping to defuse the situation before it erupted again. Even so, some sarcasm couldn’t help but shine through your words, one of your eyebrows quirked up in some kind of dramatic confusion. “The way I remember it, you wanted to leave us for dead on more than one occasion.”

“Look, I’m not used to workin’ with other people, alright?” Dabi shot back, clearly feeling cornered now, both you and Tomura setting distrusting stares upon his inked skin and sapphire eyes. “So, sorry if things didn’t always go off without a hitch—” He leaned forward, tightening the huddle between you three. “But what I’m tryna say is…”

Dabi took a moment to search your eyes, studying them, memorizing their color and the way they looked in the light versus the dark. Then he shifted his gaze to Tomura, who’s bright scarlet was far less alluring. Dabi didn’t know what you saw in him— saw in his dry, cracked, scarred skin and all that shaggy silver hair that fell into his eyes. Because all Dabi saw was someone not worth the trouble. Someone who would bury him— bury the both of you— along with himself if he got the right chance.

Perhaps Tomura was a risk in all of this.

Perhaps Dabi would live to regret trusting him.

But Dabi knew that if he wanted you— and he most certainly did want you— then Tomura was going to have to be the stray that tagged along. At least, until he could think of a better way to get rid of him…

“What I’m tryna say is that I think the three of us could pull off some pretty decent jobs,” Dabi finally concluded.

You narrowed your eyes at him, thinking if you traced over the lines of his tattoos or dared to submerge yourself into the blue of his stare for long enough you’d figure out what angle he was working, what catch would be tacked on to the end of such an offer. Though, in your hesitation, Tomura seemed to have put some of the scattered pieces to this puzzle he could gather together in his own head. He held his stare with Dabi and asked, that raspy, dangerous darkness overtaking his tone as he lowered his voice and asked, “Like what?”

And that was it.

From that moment on, you were in, all three of you leaning in closer and closer to each other as Dabi detailed some robberies he’d been trying to plan— robberies that required more than one person who knew the streets like he did and would have each other’s backs if things took a turn— elaborating on the fact that they were mostly on his enemies, guys who’d either wronged him in the past or would in the very near future if someone didn’t remind them they weren’t untouchable.

“But that’s just the warm up,” Dabi smirked, wearing that arrogant grin as he gave a half shrug, rolling his eyes a bit as if to say, child’s play. “I say we test out just how well we work together on these guys, then move onto something a little less pedestrian and more, say… Corporate.”

You thought of your view standing upon those rooftops, the heart of the city that you’d been cast out of so long ago shimmering in the distant summer heat. Close enough to dream of but still too far away to touch.

Dabi chuckled to himself then, posing the question, “I mean, what do we really have to lose?”

You’d wondered that for a while now.

Maybe it was about time you found out.

For the remainder of the night, the three of you tunneled deeper and deeper into Dabi’s plans, exploring every nook and cranny of the scheme until you felt like enough of the holes had been filled and openings in the fences patched up. By the time the hands on the clock were beginning to run into the early hours of the next morning, your eyelids were growing too heavy for you to fight against anymore.

You were exhausted and both the boys saw it.

So Tomura took the envelope out of his pocket, counted out each of your shares, Dabi counting his twice just to make sure, and thus the alliance was set. After that, you guys called it quits for the day, got some rest and allowed yourselves to recharge before the first act of your ambitious new activities would commence. And as you fell asleep curled up close to Tomura on that narrow couch, half of your body draped over him and finding comfort in the slow rise and fall of his chest, Dabi’s words kept repeating in your head over and over, an endless, overlapping echo of, “What do we really have to lose?”

You found the answer just before slipping unconscious, you think, though by the time you’d wake up tomorrow you’d forget it.

What do we have to lose? Well, the only thing that’s really ever been ours to begin with.

Our lives.

***

(Hello and thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! Please do check out the MV this fic is based on if you get the chance, it’s one I’ve loved since it came out all the way back in 2017, though perhaps you ought to wait until the fic is finished since it’s likely you’ll be able to predict some spoilers haha.

Anyway, future chapters will feature more of the Dabi x Reader side of things so for those of you who prefer Dabi please be patient with me! There’s actually a scene that’s been in my head for a while that I’m really looking forward to writing when the time comes.

I originally planned to write this fic in three parts but given how much more involved it became the more I developed it, now it's likely going to end up being somewhere between five and ten depending. I'll probably end up breaking up the original "three parts" into slightly shorter (though still lengthy) chapters so I'm able to post updates more consistently throughout this year rather than only be able to put out one huge chapter every few years.

Anyway, I really appreciate everyone’s patience and hope that you look forward to the next chapter. With that being said, I’ll see you soon!

Byyyyye~)

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sunflowerharrington · 7 months ago

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@steddiebang2024 project reveal!! This is not a drill!

I’m so so excited for this year’s Steddie Bang! I’ll be collabing with the amazing @mvnsvn6 for this project! Forget everything you know about Stranger Things and Saltburn and dive into this adventure with us. You can find the summary and a little excerpt will be under the cut.

Looking forward to posting this Fall :)

Summary:

Eddie Munson knows he won’t make any friends at Hawkins University. He knows it. He knows it… Until he crosses paths with Steve Harrington; a hunk who’s got it all: the looks, the ladies, the money, and a mansion way too big for an eccentric family of five and a butler. He’s got a mansion.

He’s got a mansion.

or, Eddie Munson is twenty years old and enrols at Hawkins University. He falls in love with a guy from university, falls out of love with the same guy, grows to resent him — even though some feelings still lie at the bottom of his heart — and the aftermath of it all.

Excerpt:

The sun shines bright, the grass is greener than ever and the skies are pure, perfect blue, with no clouds in sight. Shadows follow Eddie as he cycles along the road by the crystal-clear river, and he breathes in the fresh air. Today’s going to be a good day.

A buzzing atmosphere flutters around him like butterflies, but it’s pretty bittersweet. Why? Because some god-awful racket is disrupting the peace. It’s Steve, sitting on the verge up ahead, cursing under his breath as he kicks his bicycle. What ever could be the matter? Did he wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?

Eddie smirks as he passes, but stopping to help might get him on a page in Steve’s good book. He breaks to a halt in front of Steve.

“Hey, what happened?” Eddie asks, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. It’s a flat tire and the chain is looser than it should be. Steve has the bike upside down, trying to fix it by staring at it, hoping it’ll do something. Spoiler alert: it won’t.

“I’ve got a flat tire.” Bingo. “Chain’s loose too.” Double bingo.

“That’s bad luck,” Eddie says, and for once, something truthful comes out of his mouth— Eddie stops. For once, uh… he says something useful? Maybe? Eddie rolls his eyes. He has to stop changing his story! He was doing so well.

“I’ve just been trying to fix it,” Steve says, looking down at his feet. “Of course it’s when I’m already ten minutes late for my tutorial.”

Ooh, a tutorial. Eddie rolls his eyes. So posh. Jesus H Christ.

“Where is it?” Eddie asks.

“Just off Cherry Lane.”

“Oh shit.” That is pretty far away. Poor boy’s gonna have to walk all the way there on his own like half the people in college, probably. Eddie scoffs, it’s nothing. A walk is nothing. A run? That’s hard sometimes. Walking’s easy, and a good time to have a cigarette. And it’s less dangerous, and a lot easier, to smoke while walking than riding a bike. The scar on Eddie’s right arm is proof of that.

“Yeah…” Steve trails off, pouting like a kicked puppy. Jesus Christ, and Eddie thought he himself was dramatic.

They both look at the bike at the same time. It’s pretty much a goner. There’s no way to fix it in time for Steve to get to his stupid fucking tutorial before it’s over.

“I skipped last week to go- don’t tell anyone- but I went on a date with uh… Can't remember her name, sorry. Heather, or something. And I’m already in trouble with my parents for scratching some of the paint off it, so…”

Oh, poor, poor baby. Eddie internally rolls his eyes. Is Steve seriously trying to make Eddie feel sorry for him? Eddie’s pretty sure Steve’s parents could buy him a thousand bikes if he asked. But… He wants to get on Steve’s good side. He’s definitely popular around campus, and having that under his own belt could be good. Might get Eddie laid by a pretty girl if he’s lucky.

“Look, I’m not really going anywhere,” Eddie says, smiling at him. “Just taking these back to the library. So you can take my bike if you want?”

“No, no, no, I couldn’t. I mean, it looks like rain, I wouldn’t want to—”

Eddie can’t help but melt under Steve’s gaze, and that smile. Jesus H. Christ. “I’m not really going anywhere anyway. I can just get it back from you later. You’re in my college, so…” Perfect. He’ll get to see Steve again. One point for Munson.

“Am I?” Steve asks, keeping his gaze trained on Eddie.

Eddie sighs, his eyes downcast. “Yep.”

It’s a big college, sure, but how has Steve not seen him around before? Has he forgotten about their exchanged looks and smiles around campus whenever they cross paths? Does anything even really matter to him?

“That’s so kind, are you serious?” He asks, getting up from his spot by the tree. “That’s so kind, man. Are you sure? I mean, it’s a long walk back to college and I don’t want you to feel like you have to wheel it back.”

“You want me to take yours back?” Eddie asks. Oh what, so this douche thinks he can tell Eddie what to do now? He doesn’t even know Eddie’s name and he’s already giving him orders. Maybe it’s because Eddie looks easy to manipulate into doing whatever he wants.

But that’s what he wants Steve to think.

Eddie likes to think of himself as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. That’s the strategy in life that gets people everything they want. And what is it Eddie wants? More. More. And even more. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to get that, and so far it’s taken him right to Steve Harrington by a tree just outside of Hawkins University.

It didn’t exactly take much for him to get accepted; a carefully curated persona full of smiles and the story about his upbringing. That, and all the little extras: no criminal record—that the police know of, he knows how to make people take the fall for him. Bless Gareth, Frankie and Jeff—no drugs in his system, and a willingness to go down on anyone in any room to keep up his good GPA score.

Bedroom eyes go a long way, and the lack of a gag reflex goes even further. He’s willing to become the local slut to get what he wants. He doesn’t even have to try hard. Eddie is a slut and he’s damn proud of it.

“Oh, no, no, no!” Steve starts. “I’m sorry, I just thought that since I have your bike, you’ll take mine?” Eddie’s works, Steve’s does not, it makes little to no sense.

“I mean, I can wheel it back to college for you, it’s not that far away,” Eddie proposes… to get on Steve’s good side, of course.

“Thank you.” Steve takes Eddie’s bike from him.

He must be so used to people bending over backwards to help him.

Steve grins. “Oh, thank you. Thank you… I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. I’m Steve,” he says with an apologetic look. Oh, but is it fake? Who knows? Everything is fake around here. And posh, rich boys like Steven Otis Harrington are no exception.

I already know your name. And you have no idea just how much I already know about you, Steve.

“Eddie. It’s Eddie.”

“Eddie. Eddie, I love you.” Eddie’s eyes widen as Steve grabs him by the shoulders, planting a kiss on the top of his helmet. Even though he doesn’t want to play it safe in college, he also doesn’t want to get a concussion. So the stupid helmet will have to stay on. “I love you, I love you. Seriously.”

“Like I said, no big deal.”

“Thank you so much, Eddie,” he says with a wide smile, hopping onto the bike, swinging his leg over to put one of his feet on the pedals. “So kind. You’re a fucking lifesaver, really. Thank you.”

Eddie scoffs. Yeah, sure. He’s so thankful for it. Sure. Eddie rolls his eyes when Steve isn’t looking, too focused on pedalling to look back.

“I’ll just leave yours in the bike shed, yeah?”

“Yeah, fine.” If Steve even so much as scratches the bike, it’s over for him. No more talking, no more looking… Eddie will just have to find a new friend, or else pretend to forgive him to stay on his good side.

“Thanks, Eddie!” He calls over his shoulder. “I love you!”

Wow. Does love even have any meaning to him? Does Steve even know what love is? Surely not if he’s telling a fucking stranger that he loves them.

Eddie watches Steve disappear around the corner, leaving him standing alone, holding the broken bike. This is so stupid. He’s gonna look like a fucking idiot walking a bike all the way back to campus. But who cares? It’s not like anyone’s even going to pay attention to some small-town boy anyway…

But Steve might.

He just might. Because that’s all Eddie’s ever wanted.

Attention.

And he’ll do pretty much anything to get it.

#stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #steddie big bang #steddiebang24 #saltburn au #i regret nothing

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talltalesandbedtimestories · 1 year ago

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“You Have The Right To Remain Silent” - Beau Arlen x Reader

Part 2 of the “Guardian of the Gulch” Series (Read Part 1 Here)

Rating Teen

Beau Arlen x Reader (eventually)

Tags: Fluff and Flirting

Word Count: 2200

There's a new sheriff in town. And he just so happens to have parked his RV in your campgrounds. What's a park ranger to do with all that Texas charm strutting around on a fine pair of bow legs?

I'm participating in @jacklesversebingo and this part will fill my "Fire and Firelight" square.

Image created in Canva (credit for photo used: “Big Sky”, ABC)

You were patrolling on foot. It was the third of July. The sun had set. The sky was a watercolor swirl of pinks, purples and blues. The temperature dropped maybe ten degrees from the afternoon. You guessed in about half an hour your jacket would need zipping.

You shouldn’t have made eye contact with Linda. To be fair, she had marched right up to you in the path so there wasn’t any way you could ignore her.

Corey had asked you, Marie, and Elwood to stagger your shifts for extra coverage around the campsites over the rest of the week. In case anybody got a little extra randy with their Independence Day festivities.

Corey had been surprised you’d agreed to some late-night hours without that much of a fuss. The holiday pay was enticing enough. He didn’t need to know the chance to see Beau Arlen at campsite 15 was a personal bonus.

Unfortunately, you had to pass by campsite 14 and the Devonshires to do that.

You shake your head, sure you hadn’t heard Linda Devonshire correctly.

“I’m sorry, what is it you think Sh-” you halt, remembering not to mention Beau’s law enforcement title “-Mr. Arlen is doing?”

“You know, pot,” she whispers and raises two pinched fingers to her mouth and mock inhales.

You stifle a grin. There’s a ten percent chance Linda has dabbled. Donning what you hope is a serious looking stare, you nod slowly for added effect. “Mary Jane?” you ask.

“Yes. I’ve been smelling it since he’s been back.” She crosses her arms. “Can you arrest him?”

The laugh can’t be held back this time. “I don’t have the ability to arrest someone. But, we can give the authorities a call, if we have our suspicions.”

“I’ve read up on it. It may be legal to use in Montana, but not outdoors and in public spaces where impressionable children are only a stone’s throw away.” She sweeps a hand over toward her family plot.

“You’re correct about the legalization law.” You smile. “Thanks for keeping an eye out for the well being of our visitors.”

“Happy to help.” She smiles back, all accomplished and proud, then trots off to her RV.

Linda was right. There’s a smell as soon as you round the back of the Devonshire’s camp site and tread closer to Arlen’s.

But you know the odor. And it isn’t marijuana.

He’s not outside. There’s a small part of your brain that thinks maybe you round the site and head back to report on your findings to Linda. It might shut her up for a while. But, you realize that’s a ridiculous leap. Instead, you decide to pay the sheriff a house call.

You tap on the door with a friendly knock. In no time it opens outward and a wide smile greets you.

“Ranger.” Beau is in jeans and a pale blue button up. The shirt is untucked and a bit creased. His hair is a little mussed.

He looks yummy.

“Beau.” You nod. “How are you this evening?”

“Not in trouble again, am I?” he asks, looking hopeful with a tilt of his head. You can’t quite tell if he wants to be reprimanded. And that gets all sorts of untoward thoughts in your head. You blink in quick succession to try and wipe them from your mind.

“Not unless you’ve been smokin’ skunk.” You deadpan.

He shakes his head and grins. “Not lucky enough to have any of that lying around. No, I ran over some fresh roadkill that I ID’d of the black and white striped variety a little too late. Lucky me, that smell followed me home.” A finger waves about the outdoor chairs. “Don’t want to be outside tonight.”

Your nose crinkles. “I don’t blame you.”

“Still working?” He frowns along with his question.

“Some overtime. Celebration shenanigans and all.”

He nods in understanding. “Yeah, we’ve had to stack the station too this week.” His brows raise. “You want to come in and do a thorough search?” Leaning down, he whispers, “In case Linda’s watchin’?”

“That’s mighty nice of you to let me take a peek without a warrant.”

“An amenable criminal. That’s me.” He waves you in.

You step inside. The trailer isn’t stuffed as much as it is lined with the life of the Sheriff. The sliding door of a closet is open. Inside, his array of jackets hang along shirts with some filing boxes filling up space beneath it all on the floor. There’s a strong temptation to slide the door to the other side and find what you suspect is rows of cowboy boots. His cowboy hat rests on a hook by the entrance. The airstream contains all the basics one person needs. Food prep area with a bit of cabinet storage and a tiny counter, sink and cooktop. At the other end past the closet, and another door that is most likely the bathroom, you spot a bunk bed. The top bunk is being used for clothes stacking and storing other odds and ends.

When you’d stopped at Dewell & Hoyt Private Investigations the other day, Cassie hadn’t been there. But, Denise, receptionist and knower of all the things, greeted you with a smile and a cup of coffee. You’d caught up with her and got your fill about “Bobo” - Denise’s nickname for Sheriff Beau Arlen.

There was an ex-wife who had a new husband. Beau had a teenage daughter with the ex. Ex-wife, new hubs, and Beau’s daughter had all moved to Montana about a year ago. They weren’t that far from Helena but far enough from Houston, Texas. The city in which Beau Arlen lived and worked. Taking over the sheriff duty for Tubbs wasn’t appearing to be an entirely altruistic favor.

You realize how much stock you're taking of the man’s state of living and attempt a friendly nosiness. “Are you ready to plant some roots and find a place in town?” Your gaze trails back to his face at the end of your questions. He’s been staring at you with the kind of intensity you think he saves for witnesses to a crime.

He shakes his head. “Nah, not yet. Haven’t been lookin’ to be honest.”

You squint. “You know, you’ve only got a few more days in the campgrounds.”

“At this campsite.” He emphasizes. “If I coincidentally happen to move to a new site while Corey happens to forget the fourteen day max stay every thirty days…” He shrugs. “Accidents happen.”

You chuckle. “Negotiating any discounts in the process during all this happenstance?”

Beau laughs at the insinuation. “Hey, I’m payin’ for my stay fair and square.”

“Of course, Sheriff.” The playful tone in your voice has Beau raise an eyebrow, which then makes you clear your throat.

Those green eyes rivet you in place as his expression softens. “Actually, I’m hoping my daughter might be staying with me in a couple weeks. We’ve camped in this tin can a bunch of times.”

“Oh?”

He smiles. “Emily. The one Denise mentioned to you.”

Crap.

“She said you stopped by the office earlier in the week.” He walks and talks his way to the kitchenette, which only takes about two steps along those bow legs capped with pointy leather boots. How much more Texas cowboy billboard can he be? He’s a lite Marlboro Man without the cigarette odor. And there’s nothing unpleasant about the way he smells. Whatever cologne he wears lingers in the RV. The small space amplifies his inviting scent and nature.

You are crushing way too hard and way too fast for the Sheriff. You know this because you’ve obviously lost a few seconds staring at him. And he’s apparently asked you a question and is waiting for the answer. “Sorry?” you stammer.

He pops a little smirk as he’s haloed by fluorescent lighting. There’s only a couple inches of headroom between him and the ceiling. His freckles are on full display. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

Your head shakes. “No.”

He grumbles more to himself. “Damn. Would have been a perfect night for it then.”

You know you didn’t miss that much of the conversation. “Huh?”

He beckons you with a hand. Following his direction and closing the distance, you see a small tray with two cedar planks soaking in water. Out of a mini fridge disguised as a cabinet he pulls two neatly wrapped brown parchment packages. The distinct smell of seafood wafts out along with them.

“Is that…” you stop yourself from daring to assume.

“Salmon,” he finishes, sighing with obvious disappointment. “I was gonna fire up the grill and see if I could tempt you over with a taste test. See if it measures up to back home. But the smell won’t make for a pleasant cooking or dining experience out there. And I don’t have anywhere to eat in here.”

You swallow down wanting to ask why he would be thinking about your food conversation from a few nights back. Why he’d go to all this thought and trouble? But you don’t. Because you’re extremely grateful he hasn’t asked why you’ve been getting details on him through the locals without coming to the source.

“Maybe it’ll keep until tomorrow. If you’re available for dinner, that is?” Beau asks.

You smile. “I’ll do you one better.”

Elwood owed you. You reminded him of that when you requested the favor. He was a good ranger. But the kid was chronically late for his shifts at least once a week. You’d been covering his ass since he began working at Black Sandy six months ago.

So, Elwood was now adding your corner of the park to his security sweep. You were taking an extra long break at one of the unreserved campsites. Far enough away from the watchful gaze of Linda Devonshire and the stink of skunk.

You’d given Beau instructions to meet you at a certain time and damn if the man wasn’t punctual. He strolled up, illuminated by the flames from the fire you’d stoked in the designated area.

The cooler he holds bops a bit with each step. Boot heels settle in the dirt with a swish as he shuffles.

You try your best pensive and serious stare. “Were you followed?”

“Don’t think I’ve got a tail.” Beau grins and places the cooler on the ground. “I could hear Linda on the phone in her trailer when I tiptoed past.”

“Good.” You smile.

He stands tall and takes in the scene. “You weren’t kidding about handling everything and me just bringing the food.” He gestures at the small portable grill.

“I’ve always got camping stuff in my car. Ranger brain.” You state and point to the empty camp chair next to the one you’re sitting in. “You can settle in after you get the salmon started.”

He chuckles. “Yes, ma’am.”

Your heart stutters at the way he teases you with the formal address. You don’t know this man well enough for it to feel this easy and familiar. But you trust your gut and relax.

“Sure you aren’t gonna get in trouble?”

You shrug. “I’ve got the sheriff to vouch for me if I do.”

He rubs his hands together. “Alright then.”

Beau Arlen looks even prettier in the firelight. It complements his demeanor. He’s as warm as the flickering fire you both sit around, feasting on the grilled salmon he’s prepared. The orange-yellow glow from the flames dance over his frame. It adds to that little dash of mystery about him that’s so enticing.

Yeah, you are the moth in this scenario. You take a sip from the bottle of pop. Beau offered a beer but considering you’ve got a few more hours on the clock, it’s probably best to steer clear of alcohol.

“Sorry I couldn’t manage the asparagus and mashed potatoes.” Beau chews, thoughtful, his gaze darting from your face to your plate and back again.

“Do you seriously feel there’s any need for an apology?” You swallow the mouthful. “The salmon is moist and flaky and so tasty.” After the compliment, you dare and prod him. “I’m wondering what I did to deserve such special treatment.”

He gulps a bit of beer and leans back. His long legs stretch out by the edge of the firepit. The plate balances precariously atop thighs, tucked into the space created by his bow legs. “You do a great job taking care of this park. Hard work deserves special treatment now and again.”

The blanket of night and the warm glow of the fire hides the blush coloring your cheeks. You’re extremely grateful.

“And, well,” he clears his throat, “I’ve enjoyed your company. Figured offering a favorite meal would ensure another opportunity.” Firelight sparkles in his eyes along with a heated, serious stare at you. “I also thought you wouldn’t be averse to seeing more of me” –he lifts a shoulder– “considerin’ you had a lot of questions for Denise.”

Your tongue trips over itself. “Beau… I… you…”

He raises a hand. “Darlin’,” he murmurs, “just remember you have the right to remain silent. Or I may end up holdin’ a lot of things against you.” He grins.

You are without a shadow of a doubt being hit on by Sheriff Beau Arlen.

“Way I see it,” he continues, “we should spend some more time together. When neither of us are workin’. So I don’t feel like you're being hospitable just out of duty and you don’t think I’m interrogating you like a suspect.”

You smile. “That sounds an awful lot like a date.”

He nods. “I accept.”

Read Part 3 (Final) Here

#jacklesversebingo23 #beau arlen x reader #fanfic #fluff #flirting #beau arlen x you #beau arlen x female reader #beau arlen #beau arlen fanfiction

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twilightwrites · 4 months ago

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cardigan

ao3 mirror

But I’d knew you’d linger like a tattoo kiss

I knew you’d haunt all of my what-ifs

—

Erik couldn’t sleep.

Though, if he was being honest, sleep never came easy for him. Nightmares plagued him in both his waking hours and dreams for far too many years that it was hard to find solace in rest anymore. He thought he had gotten better at pushing the nightmares away, but it seemed the only time he ever knew true peace in his rest were the days he spent with Charles.

Charles.

The name leaves a bitter taste in the back of his throat that is hard to swallow down. The piece of metal, a broken belt buckle he thinks, misses his hand as he ceases his idly fidgeting with it. He barely registers it hitting the floor with a distinct clink before he’s sitting up far too fast. That bitter taste nearly finds its way out of his mouth and he takes a moment to push it down. Charles. The memory of that man was a ghost. The memory of what they had haunted him with his nightmares.

And yet, the memory remained fresh in his mind no matter how hard he tried. There had been so much he wanted to say, but never found the chance nor the words. Even as their paths crossed again and again in this twisting, tangling elaborate dance weaving in and out of the red threads of “fate” that threatened to strangle them both, Erik always let Charles go with what he always hoped was a final goodbye. Charles always let him go with that final goodbye.

Only for them to come right back, clashing heads and ideologies once more.

The helmet lay nearby. It never strayed far from his side when he attempted to rest. The moment he laid down to the moment he got up, it was on his head, blocking out the world. Blocking out any attempt at Charles trying to reach out to him. He had gotten lucky so far that he’s never attempted to reach out in his sleeping hours. Maybe his assumption that Charles slept at the same time he did worked out in his favor for once.

Erik closes his eyes. Even if he couldn’t drift off to sleep, he could, at the very least, rest his eyes. With his eyes closed, body sinking into the mattress ever so slightly, he extends his senses far beyond sight and feel in the room. He hears the walls shift and creak. He smells the clean, fresh linen he slept on. It’s soothing enough to give him some form of peace, he thinks. Erik? Of course. Charles Xavier had to ruin this peace as well. A low growl is involuntary ripped from his throat as his eyes open. He could feel him in his mind, the gentle caress of his presence. But aside from saying his name, Charles is quiet. Waiting for a response, he assumes. What?

Having trouble sleeping, old friend?

You’re in my mind, Charles. Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?

Charles chuckles in his mind. Something twists and squeezes in Erik’s chest, but whether it’s rage or something else entirely is still unclear to him. He sits up, hearing and feeling the mattress creak underneath him

Funny, am I?

No, not at all.

He doesn’t have to be there in person to envision the grin he was no doubt trying to hide. His fingers twist into the linen underneath, resisting the urge to pull them off the edges of the bed. What do you want, Charles? He finally gets out, his internal dialogue just as snappy as his voice would have been if had spoken out loud. He falls quiet, but he lingers. He was certain that if he was able to, Erik could push himself into the telepath’s mind to see he was thinking of his response.

But he didn’t need telepathy to know what Charles Xavier was thinking. He never did.

I want to offer you peace, Erik.

The snort that leaves him is audible. You and your peace and your hope. How many times must we—

You misunderstand me. I wasn’t talking about our ideologies.

That gives him pause. The silence on his end hangs long enough for the other man in his head to continue.

I want to offer you a peaceful night. Let me block out those nightmares.

Once again, Erik is at a loss for words. He knows Charles can feel and hear as he tries to make sense of what he’s said but thankfully, he keeps his comments to himself.

Are you even capable of doing such a thing this far apart?

Oh, my friend. When will you stop being surprised at what I am capable of?

The smile that comes to his face is met with little resistance. He knows it’s dangerous to allow him in when he would be at his most vulnerable and yet… A promise of comfort he hasn’t had in many months was far too tempting to deal with the repercussions of what tomorrow would bring if he allowed him to stay in his mind for a night. It doesn’t take long for Erik to find his answer, one he barely has to respond with before a wave of sleep washes over him and leads him laying his head back down into the pillows.

Sleep, Erik. I am here.

And he does, falling into peaceful darkness with a smile on his face.

#xmen #x men #cherik #twilight writes #series: taylor swift drabbles

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dujour13 · 3 months ago

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Thanks for the tag @kaleido-scope-lady! 💕 This was highly appreciated for procrastination purposes.

Tag game: Give your KC’s first impression and final opinion of each of their companions!

Siavash's (not spoiler-free) hot takes:

First impressions

Seelah – A paladin with a party spirit. Now this is someone I can really get behind. (wink)

Camellia – Not even a smile? How about a little half-elf solidarity? ...Not that either? Give it time. I’ll find her angle. She can’t be as bad as she seems.

Lann – Weird combination, and not just the body parts. Pessimism and determination. Seems like a reliable guy and since that’s one thing I’m not, he’ll be good to have around. Also – perfect straight man for my routines.

Wenduag – Tough as Hell. I wish she didn’t beat Lann up about his idealism because that’s the one thing that might save him. I wonder if she has any idealism left to save herself.

Woljif – Dreamboat. I do look like the kinda guy that would work on, don’t I? He’s got my number already. …and he can have it.

Ember – Dreamer, this poor child. The things she says are so crazy they’re almost inspired.

Daeran – The folly of feudalism: exhibit one. Surprised nobody’s slapped him yet.

Nenio – Curious, for someone who knows so much trivia I don’t think she knows how funny she is.

Ulbrig – This towering barbarian calling me warchief is excellent for the bit

Galfrey – Exhibit two. No, that’s uncharitable. She’s had a lot on her plate, and for longer than most people could stomach. She needs to lighten up. Maybe I can show her running a crusade doesn’t have to be soul-crushing. It can be fun!

Sosiel – I think this kid is tougher than he seems, coming all the way here from Carpenden. I sure hope so, because I’d hate to see that freshness turn sour.

Regill – Who invited this guy?

Trever – This is what happens. Dreamer, don’t let it happen to me.

Arueshalae – This is one of those times when Desna tests you – gives your heart the choice of Cynosure or cynicism. I’m going to believe in her if it kills me.

Greybor – You know what, I’m just gonna prove him wrong. “Professional” doesn’t have to dress sober.

Aivu – Best. Friend. Forever.

Final opinion

Seelah – Biggest heart in the world. And after everything - party spirit intact. Dreamer I’m lucky I crossed paths with this woman. Wouldn’t have made it without her hugs. Well, also without her as body shield.

Camellia – How could I have been quite that blind? Only saw what I wanted to see. It’s hard to admit but I’m not sure there was anything that could have been done for her. For all his faults Horgus did try. Even setting her free to find her own way would have ended badly for her, because it wouldn’t have been freedom.

Lann – Love this guy. I’ll never forget that moment, seeing him look up at the starry sky and see possibility for the first time.

Wenduag – Ironic how trying to claw her way up is what brought her down. Probably because she never looked up far enough to see the stars.

Woljif – My love, forgive me if I ever doubted that your heart was stronger than your shadow.

Ember – What was it Lann said? A saint or insane, or maybe both? Both. She doesn’t believe mortals can save ourselves, so all we can do is be kind to each other. I have so much to learn from her.

Daeran – You know what I admire most? This man knows what he wants out of life – and fiercely, unapologetically pursues it. I count myself lucky that true friendship is one of those things because it turns out he's great fun and I'm surprised how fond of him I am now.

Nenio – I think she cited me in her entry on “Friendship.” By name. Sometimes I regret taking my pants off that one time. But actually no.

Ulbrig – I can really relate to having two more-or-less incompatible halves pulling opposite directions. I’m glad he let his guard down with me eventually because behind all the stubborn bluster the poor guy really felt lost, and commiserating with someone helped us both. Second only to Seelah for great hugs.

Galfrey – The best thing about her is her humanness. I wouldn’t like her nearly as much I do now if she hadn’t had indulged in a little spite. Just kinda wish it hadn’t been directed at me. No no, we're good. It's fine. Would you guess she can be surprisingly funny?

Sosiel – He did turn out to be tough. Strong enough to face terrible things, temper his idealism and still keep his heart. That portrait… (he starts to tear up) …if that’s how he sees me there’s no greater compliment.

Regill – The thing is, I trust him with my life. Because even if there’s a perfectly logical reason why he ought to kill me he’ll be three chess moves ahead with an even better reason not to. One thing I resent about the lawful types is the arrogance in thinking they’re following some universal order when it’s really just their heart all along. Yeah, you can tell him I said that.

Trever – When I visited the Vaenics in Carpenden after the war I saw him with his lathe, and as he worked there was such peace in his face and hands. Scarred as they are. He made me the most beautiful rosewood writing desk, a true work of art. There’s so much hope in that.

Arueshalae – One of the strongest people I’ve ever met. I have an idea what it’s like to try to keep your eyes fixed on an impossible star even with the claws of the Abyss pulling you under. Where we connect is that we both want to be better people, and to do that you sometimes have to look back and face what you’ve done wrong.

Greybor – Is he happier now? I like to think so. Being an assassin was easy for him. Being a father, not so much. He needed a new challenge.

Aivu – Best. Friend. Forever.

Tagging no pressure: @the-raging-tempest, @dragonologist-phd, @arendaes, @yunessa, @bite-the-bloody-hand

Everyone please take a free tag if you want one!

#pathfinder: wrath of the righteous #pwotr spoilers #pwotr pals #tag game #siavash

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seenoversundown · 11 months ago

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Sparrow Of the Dawn : Chapter 4

Sam Kiszka x Willa (Female OC) Warnings: Teasing (in the making fun of each other way), dark humor, subtle pining, cursing, mentions of drinking/alcohol, and a lot of clumsy girl behavior.

Word Count: 7.6k

Summary : Sam unfortunately finds himself in not so meet cute with Willa. Hopeful that he doesn't cross her path again; the world works in mysterious ways and not always in your favor.

Author's Note: Just wanted to take a second to leave some resources in regards to learning about and assisting those affected by the genocide in Palestine. There aren’t words strong enough to convey how devastating the loss is. I will leave a few resources I have found linked and always remember that we’re not free until Palestine is free. #Ceasefire #FreePalestine 🇵🇸

• Six Ways To Help

• Carrd Full of helpful Links and Resources

• Daily Click!

Gives You Hell - All American Rejects “When you see my face, hope it gives you hell, gives you hell.”

I feel like I could fight God when my alarm clock goes off in the morning and my first thought is that I'll have to see Sam all day. Oh, great ruler of the Cosmos, please grant me the strength to get through this day. So mote it be.

I slither out of bed like the morning gremlin I am, pull on my robe, and head out to the kitchen, where I know Quinn is already waiting.

Quinn and I developed this cute morning routine back in college, where we met. We attended SCAD together and were lucky enough that we got along so well, both being art majors. Them in Art History and me in Photography. We used to cross the campus early enough to beat the lines, almost regretfully. We’re not exactly the greatest of morning people. I’d get the drinks, though, and they get the food. Only back then, it was just them assembling the breakfast sandwiches in the cafeteria while I tried to make the instant coffee drinkable. These days, it’s homemade lattes and skillfully grilled sandwiches. A vast improvement from our younger days.

“Good morning, Willard,” They beam at me through heavily hooded eyes, already pulling out a pan.

“Morning,” comes out of my mouth in a choppy groan.

“Breakfast sammies?” They wiggle the pan a little.

“Don’t!” I hold up my finger, “That is a banned word in this house.” I sit down on one of the stools at our island and place my head in my hands.

“Breakfast?” they inquire.

“No, Sammy.”

“Okayyyy.. Do you want a breakfast ‘he-who-shall-not-be-named?” they let out a chuckle.

“HA HA, very funny,” I roll my eyes, “- but yes, please.”

I make my way to the espresso machine, grabbing the portafilter and grinding up some fresh beans. I tamp down the grinds and place them back in their rightful spot before pressing the button to queue up the process. Repeating for Quinn’s second shot. Quinn is the complete opposite of basic in every aspect except their coffee order. A Vanilla Oat Milk latte, every time. I make it with extra love because that’s how it should be made. I quickly move on to my latte, only slightly adjacent to basic with toasted marshmallow flavoring instead.

Finishing at roughly the same time we trade specialties and they say “Okay, all wrapped and ready to go when you are.”

“No, I have the time to sit and eat with you Quinny the Pooh, so that’s what I’m going to do.” I smile and make my way to the island in our kitchen. I prop up on my same stool and unwrap my sandwich. God, this looks good. If they weren’t an art teacher, they could hack it as a chef.

Taking the first bite and rolling my eyes in the back of my head, “Good GOD, Quinn, you have outdone yourself again.”

“Thank you, Thank you. So tell me, how prepared are you to see Childish Sambino today?”

The glare I send them over my sandwich is deadly. “Do you have to talk about him?”

“We could talk about his mouth instead,” sending me a sideways glance.

“Oh, would you look at that,” I glance down at my bare wrist as if it contained the most interesting watch. “I’m actually running late. I need to get ready for work.” I set my sandwich back down on the paper and rewrap it to take it to go.

“Have a good day. Make good choices because we just paid rent and I don’t have bail money,” They laugh maniacally. I send them a snarky glare back before shutting my bedroom door behind me.

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When I make it to the Portland Press Herald office, I open the door, and I’m greeted with the sweet face of an older woman working the desk. Thank god it’s not another Daisy. I’d rather jump off the building than have to watch Sam flirt with another girl all day.

She leads me through the hallways until we reach a set of cubicles in the back corner.

“Alright, this one is yours,” She points to the closest cubicle. “And this one,” she points to the cubicle diagonally across from it. “Is Samuel’s. I’ll send him over when he gets here and you can point it out to him if he gets lost.” Well, at least I won’t have to look directly at him.

I start unloading my belongings onto my new desk and trying to arrange them perfectly. When Sam makes his appearance, he rounds the corner looking so good it's painful. The slim, dark blue slacks on his legs just hit the tops of his black Chelsea boots. A mixed red and blue sweater makes home on his chest, don’t think about his chest, with a navy linen winter jacket over top. God, he looks good. Annoying. No man my age looks like that let alone knows how to actually dress themselves.

When I come to my senses, he’s standing expectantly next to my desk. Looking at me like he’s waiting for my reply to a question I haven’t heard him ask. Not willing to give in and appear like I’ve just been thinking about how hot this man I hate is, I dodge.

I point to the clock reading 7:58 am, “Cutting it a little close, huh, Sammy boy.”

“It might not have been so close if you were sitting here staring at me like I’m a piece of meat.” He chides. Internally, I cringe. Yep, I was definitely not subtle. “I had car troubles,” He mumbles in a low tone, “Can you just show me which desk I’m supposed to sit at.” I wave my arm over toward his desk, and he walks away to get settled in his own space. Far away from me.. Well, okay, it's not that far, but it's far enough for me.

He’s in a monumentally bad mood this morning, and after a while the sighs of frustration he's letting out start to tick me off. Who breathes that loudly on a normal day? We’re stuck inside the building researching things until we have an event or idea to even photograph, which is bad enough without the sound of his mouth. I just hope we can get it together sooner rather than later. The faster we find a subject matter, the more time we have to capture it. I hear another loud sigh.

“Could you be any louder, Sam? All I can hear is your huffing?” I stand to get him in my eyeline over the divider. Big mistake. He’s wearing glasses now? I didn’t know he wore glasses. It should be illegal, to be honest, for him to look that good.

“I’m just existing, Willa. Sorry that my existence annoys you.” He pauses, “Actually, I’m not sorry at all. I take great pleasure in the fact that my mere presence sends you into a fit of rage.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms with a cocky smile.

Oh dear god, I definitely didn't prepare for this, this morning.

“This is not a fit of rage.” I sit back down calmly. Nope, not entertaining this today.

After a few minutes, it’s Sam’s turn to stand. If I lift my head, then I have to talk to him, so I stare at my computer screen where I’m currently researching different parks in the area. He clears his throat, and I don’t move. I will not be beckoned by his antics. He clears his throat louder this time.

“Yes, Samuel.” I finally stop and clasp my hands together, annoyed.

“When did that cafe open up? The new down the road?”

“A couple months ago. Why? Are you going to buy me a coffee to make up for annoying me this morning?” A pleasantly sarcastic smile makes its way to my lips.

“HAH, you wish. No, I thought it could be something to check out for the project.”

“I would hardly call that cafe something that is notable about Maine. It just opened.”

Clearly offended, he states, “Alright, let’s hear your big idea then?”

Sighing heavily, “I know I opened the dialogue here with you Sam, but I’ve suddenly realized that I am far too under-caffeinated to continue to be annoyed by you.”

“Well,” he laughs a little, adding fuel to the fire that is my irritation, “Aren’t you just a breath of vile air this morning.” he snarks.

“I might be more pleasant if your voice wasn’t so grating.” I shoot back. If tension were a physical entity in this moment, someone would be slicing it like a block of cheese being prepped for a charcuterie board. My stomach grumbles slightly. Oh, I am not going to let this man ruin charcuterie boards for me just because I am hangry.

“Shhhh,” someone a few isles extends their distaste for our conversation.

“See, look at what you’ve done.”

“Oh, what I’ve done. I didn’t realize I was talking to myself here.” He defends.

I sit back down in a huff. I cannot believe I have to spend the next few days with this man. A fact that makes it very hard not to get increasingly frustrated by the task at hand. It's March, there’s not a whole lot going on in the city and instead of a partner who is easy to collaborate with, I'm stuck with him.

Just as I get ready to do more digging, I get an email.

Samuel F. Kiszka shared a document with you.

I wonder what the F stands for. I click the link. Compelled by my own nonsense, I sing in my head ‘Wheezy F baby and the F is for front door.’

The document is titled ‘Ideas’ and a singular sentence is typed.

Since you can’t stand the sound of my voice and we can’t talk without getting heavily shushed by Susan B. NoseyPants, does this work?

Why is this simultaneously endearing and aggravating? Because yes, yes, it does work.

We take the time over what feels like a few hours bouncing ideas back and forth, and nothing seems to land with either of us.

Sam: Museums, theaters, ect, ect we even have Funtown for the kids?

Me: You want to lead with Funtown? Palace Playland is better AND by the beach even? If you don’t believe in it, neither will the people at the newspaper.

Sam: I’m not even going to entertain that argument because Palace Playland is definitely NOT better. Have you ever been on the Excalibur?

We both stare at the document, watching the line blink on the screen when the banter is no longer fun. He stands suddenly. “I’m hungry.” He states plainly. “It's almost lunchtime.”

“Astute observation, Samuel. Should we promote you to Captain Obvious?”

“You’re actually the funniest person I’ve ever met, you know. No. I know a place, you and I are going to go get lunch.” He puts on his coat and grabs his bag walking over to my side of the desks.

“We are? When did I agree to that?” skepticism heavy in my tone.

“Just now.” The manner in which he speaks matter-of-factly almost has me giving in instantly. Almost. “We need to get out of these little satanic cubes of torture and do some brainstorming. But we need brain food. I’m hungry. You’re hungry. We’re going, but you have to drive.”

“How do you know I’m hungry?”

“I’ve heard your stomach growling for over an hour.”

“Fine.” I concede. “But you’re paying.” I grab my heavy cardigan, slipping it on, and then grabbing my purse.

“That’s the spirit.” He says jovially, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. I try not to think too hard about the grip he has on me as we make our way downstairs.

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The atmosphere of the restaurant he picked, “La Fromage”, is almost a bit uppity. How stuck up can you really be if you name your restaurant literally just ‘the cheese’. The lighting is low, even for the daytime, despite the two main windows in the front. The antique sconces create a nice, warm ambiance. It's a small room with bar seating and a few booths, which is where we take up residence right next to one of the windows. We’re tucked away in the corner but not too close to the front door. I slide into the booth against the wall while Sam takes the chair nearest to the walkway.

“This place looks nice. I’ve never heard of it before. How’d you find it?” I’d be a fool to think he hasn't taken a girl here on a date before. He's young and attractive. A fact I would never admit out loud because it would just inflate his already massive ego. I’m sure he doesn’t have a problem dating, something I clearly can’t relate to. He did seem to hit it off with Daisy. I imagine this place in the evening; with the street lights coming in through the windows mixing with the amber lighting, it definitely sets a romantic tone. Much different than the tone of an afternoon in the middle of a work week. It would be lovely to come here on a date instead of a bar.

“They have a location in Boston, not far from where I went to school. I heard they opened a location up here not too long ago, but I haven’t come by yet. This seemed like the perfect opportunity.” He picks up the menu, giving it a once over before settling on the alcoholic portion. So he hasn’t been here on a date.. Yet. Ugh. Stop it. “You should get a glass of wine or something.” Not bothering to glance up at me.

“I’m driving, Sam,” I state plainly.

“If one glass of wine gets you drunk enough to not be able to drive you have other things to worry about,” he looks almost concerned for a moment before his face completely shifts. “Is that why you spilled your drink all over your date the other night?”

God, must I relive this? Why is he bringing it up? As if he has no idea it was his fault. “Sam, you snuck up behind me and scared me half to death. I jumped, it tipped. That’s it.”

“If that’s your story.” The Cheshire cat smile painted on his lips looks almost good enough to smack. With my hand. Definitely my hand.

I’m about to make a case for myself when the waiter approaches.

“Afternoon, I’m Hunter. I'll be taking care of you today.” He looks over at me and winks. .. okay??? “Can I start you off with something to drink?”

Sam answers before my mouth even opens. “We’ll have two glasses of the 19 crimes red, please.” Why is he ordering for me? Hunter glances over at me like he’s trying to get a read on me. I realize then that my mouth is hung open slightly in disbelief.

“Is that okay with you?” Hunter asks me. Sam scoffs.

“Uh yes, yes, that’s fine.” I gain my composure and continue. “I’ll just also have a glass of water with no lemon, please. Thank you.” And with that, he turns and walks away. I don’t say anything. I just stare at Sam. He’s still gazing at his menu, brow furrowed a bit like he's mulling through his choices and can’t figure out what sounds good.

“19 crimes.” I chime. “Sounds devious. Did you commit all 19 by yourself? Or are you trying to drag me with you now?”

He laughs. “You know you have to look at the menu in order to find something to eat, Willa.” The sound of my name on his tongue is jarring. Again, he’s not looking at me. I take his advice hastily grabbing my menu, peering at him over the top. There’s a smirk on his face. What is his deal?

Hunter appears with our wine and my water with a lemon. Not wanting to create a fuss over a lemon I can very easily remove, I just say thank you when he sets it down on the oakwood table.

“She asked for water without a lemon,” Sam’s face is serious; I sit there, horrified at the inconvenience to the waiter.

“Oh, it's fine, really. Don’t-” he cuts my protest short, and I fidget, tucking my hair behind my ears.

“You asked for water with no lemon, Willa. This isn’t what you asked for.” Hunter takes the glass from his hand. When he turns and heads toward the kitchen, I whisper, “You didn’t have to do that, Sam. It’s not a big deal. Plus, that was kind of rude.”

“It’s not rude to expect to get what you asked for. You wanted water with no lemon, so you’ll get water with no lemon.” He says with finality. Why is that… attractive? I think he mistakes my stare as distaste for his commentary and quickly follows it up with, “If it makes you feel better, I’ll make sure to tip him well.” He shrugs a little.

I exhale heavily through my nose and change the subject, “What are you gonna get to eat?”

“The Gnocchi alla Sorrentini. What about you?”

“I was thinking of the Saffron Risotto aux Champignons. Have you tried it?” My mind drifts back to how many times he’s probably been to the other location and with whom. Wondering how many of these dishes he’s tried or if the menu is different there. How many glasses of wine he’s had or shared.

“I have. It’s my favorite dish here. It’s very good,” When he flashes me a small, slightly lopsided smile, my heart squeezes in my chest. “I think you’ll like it.”

We place our orders when Hunter comes back with my corrected water. He doesn’t make eye contact with Sam, but Sam looks directly at him when he tells him what he wants. There’s an obvious confidence about him that I like and something under the surface that feels almost like a challenge. Daring Hunter to look at him to know he has the upper hand on.. what, I can't figure out. Is this just some weird macho alpha male thing? I feel like one of them might start peeing on the floor to mark their territory in a minute.

I tell Hunter my order and then switch my gaze to the window. Something I’ve always loved about Maine is the water. Across the street, back behind the sidewalk, is a relatively short dock. You can walk down it and see some of the boats lined up. There aren’t many since the area is narrow, but you can see out toward the river. Sometimes, you can see people in smaller fast boats; other times, it's the larger fishing boats. I once took a walk down that dock with an out-of-town friend of mine, and there was a lone man on his fishing boat throwing some lobsters back into the river. He offered to let us hold one for a photo which absolutely tickled my friend pink.

Hunter brings our food out and disappears without any other commentary. I’m not sure I could handle another moment of ‘big men puff out chest be intimidating’ behavior. I take a bite of the risotto, which tastes as good as it looks. God, I’m going to have to take Quinn here. They'd absolutely love it.

My thoughts are interrupted when a bird perched on the ledge just at the edge of the window catches my eye. And suddenly..

“Sam.” My eyes were fixated on the bird. He hums. “Do you .. hike?” Unsure if he’s an outdoorsy kind of guy, given how well he dresses himself.

“Yeah, all the time, why?”

“Maine is the pine tree state.” He sends me another mhm, not fully following my thought, “You know what one of my favorite things to shoot on hikes is?” I point toward the bird in the window, not giving him a chance to respond.

“Nature. Literally, Maine is full of it. Like Acadia National Park? ‘Bah habah’” I say, mocking the more northern pronunciation of Bar Harbor.

Finally, he reaches me at the mental finish line, “Nature! Birds, Trees, Parks, Woods.. No, you’re right? That’s what makes Maine, Maine.”

“Okay, but also beyond this little bird in the window, there’s the dock. Maine is incredibly coastal, lobsters and allathat. We could do both. Like the duality of the State. Woods and Water.”

“Woods and water.” He repeats, taking a bite of his gnocchi. “Actually, you know what else could be a good idea? Old and New.”

“Old and new? What do you mean?”

“Digital and Print. I have a bunch of old film cameras. I kind of collect them,” a slight rosy tint covers his cheeks. “We could take an assortment of both digital and film photos and present both to the editors.”

“Sam, that's brilliant!” It takes us approximately three seconds to realize in my excitement, I’ve grabbed his hand that was laid on the table. We both pull away at the same time.

He clears his throat, “If you wanted, when we’re done, we could drive to my apartment, and we can take a look at the cameras I have and then figure out a plan.”

“Yeah, that sounds great,” my meal suddenly becoming the most interesting thing to look at.

After a small bit of silence, Hunter comes back with our checks. Yep, checks. Plural. Sam noticeably shifts in his seat. He is apparently incredibly put off by this, and he bites out, “Just one check will do, Heath.”

“It’s Hunter.” He corrects, unamused, as he grabs the checks.

“Sure.” is all Sam says.

I laugh. I giggle, actually. Profusely. The situation at hand is far too entertaining to hold it in any longer.

“What?” Sam grills me.

“Heath! You know his name is Hunter.” I try to cover my giggle with my hand.

“I do, but I had to knock him down a peg. Assuming that I’d make you pay for your food?” he scoffs.

“I am not breaking up a fight, so reel it in, buddy.” I shake my head.

Hunter arrives with a corrected, singular check, sending us off with a ‘have a very pleasant day.’ Probably trying to play up a last-ditch effort of hospitality to ensure a decent tip still. Sam’s brow furrows as he looks over the check, he sets it down and runs his hand through his hair. No man should have hair that beautiful. My hair isn't even that beautiful. He starts to furiously pat himself down.

“I.. think I left my wallet in the office.” Oh great. Wonderful. Annoys me all morning, cons me into driving, and now I have to pay.

He winks at me, “Just kidding.” Tucking a few bills into the check holder and standing. What’s with everyone winking at me?

“Asshole.” I roll my eyes, grab my jacket, and slide out of the booth. As I stand, my foot catches on the leg of the table, and I slip. Sam rushes over to steady me upright back on my feet.

“Wow, you really are a cheap date, huh?” he jests. I try not to think about that too hard. “You sure you’re okay to drive?”

“I’m fine. My foot got caught, okay? I am not drunk. It was one glass.”

“Sounds like something a drunk person would say.” His laugh is infectious, and I hate it. It's very hard to stay annoyed at someone who laughs like they’re high on edibles all the time. But not in a Beavis and Butthead kind of way, in a carefree kind of way.

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The drive to Sam’s apartment is short; he lives closer than he made it seem which makes it easy. What is not easy, however, is the fact that there's off-street parking. I end up parking my Silver Honda CRV down the road a little by a very creepy looking ally, and we make the short walk back to his apartment. He lives on the second floor, so we at least avoid being locked in an elevator again and just take the stairs.

“Soo, I wasn’t expecting company, so don’t expect it to be too clean. And I should also warn you…”

“Warn me about what,” I say nervously. He opens the door in lieu of a response, and one of the largest dogs I’ve ever seen comes skidding across the floor. The dog jumps on Sam as he gently coos, “Woah down girl, down.” He scratches her behind the ears and continues his adoration. “How’s my girl today, huh? Did you miss me? Daddy missed you so much while he was gone.” Oh.

I step into the apartment and close the door behind me, coming into her view. She switches gears and suddenly jumps at me with full force. Given her size, and me being the least graceful person on the planet. I almost fall on my ass.

“Op,” I blow a puff of air toward my nose, trying to get some of her hair out of the way. When I steady myself on two solid feet, thank you very much, I ask, “And what’s your name, pretty girl? I didn’t know you had a dog.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me. It’s Penelope, by the way.” Sam replies. “Or Duchess, or Penny, Penny girl. Whichever you prefer.”

“Penelope is a pretty name. You hear that? Pretty name for a pretty girl huh?” I coo in a slight baby voice. She is a gorgeous dog even if she is large. Her coat is incredibly soft. It's covered in black and brown with white all down her belly and just a bit on her nose.

“You know you can come in, right? You don’t have to stand by the door?” He waves me in.

“Uhm, actually. I have to use the bathroom, do you mind?” I hate this part. The awkward, I don't know you that well, and now we're talking about bodily functions, part of getting to know someone.

“Yeah, but it's actually through my bedroom.” He points to the doorway behind me. “First door is my closet, the second door is the bathroom.”

I walk through the doorway and take in my surroundings. Sam’s room is different than I expected and somehow exactly like I expected it to be. Not that I’ve pictured it, because I definitely have not. He has a king-sized bed with boring gray sheets. Typical. His deep wood nightstand sits just below one of 2 windows in his room, both without curtains. It’s pretty bare just an alarm clock, a lamp, and a charging pad for his phone. He has a few small plants in the window, which I should have expected given there’s a handful of plants in his kitchen. The walls are bare, apart from the few prints above his bed that’s sat on a frame with no headboard. I wonder if they’re his photos? He has a dresser that matches his nightstand and a TV on top with a gaming console. A very standard boy room apart from the few totes of his film strips that hang around. I suddenly realize I’ve been lingering too long in a space that isn’t mine, and I make my way to the bathroom, but not before I accidentally open his closet. Wow, he has a lot of clothes? I start to finger my way through the various fabrics. A man with a sense of style, so uncommon for this area. I close the closet door and choose the right door this time.

I rinse my hands under the warm faucet, letting my eyes close, and the water start to warm me. This is going to be fine. I look at myself in the mirror. It's going to be fine. The project will be fine. You and Sam will get along… eventually. You’ll get the job and you’ll never have to talk to him again. It’ll be fine. If I say the words enough, maybe I’ll start to believe them. I dry my hands off and exit the bathroom with a silent wish that I took less time than it feels like I did.

I pop my head back into the kitchen area where I first walked in, but I don’t see him.. Or Penelope. I take small, cautious steps toward what I assume is the living room. Just as I’m about to enter, I run full-bodied into Sam, causing my forehead to bounce right off his collarbone. A mixture of frustrated sounds escapes the two of us before he plants both his large hands on my shoulders and steps an arm’s length away from me. I rub at the pain between my eyes. Ouch.

“I thought you got lost for a minute.”

“No I just.. Didn’t know where you were. I wasn’t trying to invade your space.”

“Little late for that, isn’t it,” he gestures a hand between us, referring to our closeness. “Plus, there are only so many rooms, Willa. You would have found me eventually.” I hate it when he says my name. He turns and walks farther into the room calling after me, “You comin?”

I enter the room and it’s actually fairly large for it being in the city. Good, decent-sized apartments are hard to find here. There’s a half-brick wall behind the orange couch. The large windows set above it let in a ton of light but somehow don’t reflect off the TV screen sitting opposite it. He has records stored in a few different places and an old-style record player. A Fender Bass guitar and a small amp sit in the corner. I didn't know he could play an instrument. A small standing desk in the corner where his laptop sits among various other papers and notebooks. And to the left, there's a beautiful wall of shelves set up with a handful of film cameras. All old, each serving a unique purpose. It’s heaven for a person like me. I don't know why I've never thought to collect film cameras before.

“Wow.” It comes out of my mouth barely above a whisper.

“I know. It's my favorite part of my house.” He’s proud. And he should be. I can feel the weight of his eyes on me, studying my reaction.

“Where did you get them all?” I question, reaching to touch one before I pull my hand back. It would be rude to just touch something so delicate and important, but the desire in me is burning.

“Flea markets and vintage shops. Ebay. I even bought one off Etsy, oddly enough.”

The anticipation is killing me, and I start to shift anxiously on my feet. I feel like a child at a candy store waiting for permission to let loose and stock my bag full. I’m sure from the outside I look like a child at a candy store, but I don’t care. If Sam didn’t annoy me so much, I might try to con my way into being friends with him just so I can test each one out. Every old camera has its own quirks it has developed over the years. Like it curated its own personality, stealing bits from each person that has held it. It’s a fun experience to learn a camera.

“Go ahead.” he stifles his chuckle.

I run my fingers over the few cameras on the bottom shelf. He has a few different cameras from a few different decades, definitely older than both of us combined. I settle on a ‘1981 vintage Kiev camera Jupiter’; it doesn't shoot in 35mm like most standard film cameras. It shoots in 8m, creating a wider shot, not quite like today's panorama views.

“I love that one. She creates these really beautiful wide shots. You gotta make sure you press quick and hard, though, or you won’t actually capture the photo.” He steps behind me and places his hand on mine, tilting the camera upwards before pointing at the button he’s referencing. His hands are so warm. When I inhale to disrupt my own thoughts, my back touches his chest. His chest is warm, too. Oh God. It's too warm in here. I step forward and turn around, facing him again.

“She’s beautiful. I think I’ll go with this one. Thank you, Sam.” I dare to look at his coffee-colored eyes. “I know lending out something this special is a big deal. So thank you.”

“Just be careful. Josephine was a hard find." He grabs the camera from my hand and walks over to the couch where his camera bag is, slipping it inside.

“Josephine?” I question, “Do you.. name all your cameras?”

“Don’t judge me, okay. You’re telling me you don’t name yours? What about your car huh?” Oh, he’s got me there.

“I.. have named every car I’ve ever had.” I raise my hands in defeat and bow my head in amusement.

“Alright then. Take your judgy pants off and leave 'em at home.”

“Hey, aren’t you going to grab one?” avoiding the previous comment entirely.

“Nah, I always have my Olympus on me. I shoot on film any chance I can get.” He picks up his bag and slides it back on his shoulder.

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Back in my car and buckling our seat belts, he says, “So I was thinking about the woods and water idea, and maybe we can shoot in town to save time and then, uhm, tomorrow.. uhh, if you’re free, we could do the woods stuff.” He seems nervous, and I can’t quite place my finger on why. I agree, placing my car in reverse and backing onto the main road.

“I know of a nice place we can go… For tomorrow, I mean.”

“Should I be concerned you’re going to murder me in the woods?”

“I would never do that.”

“Sounds like something a murderer would say to a potential victim.” I side-eye him before returning my gaze to the road. “Don’t try anything, I most definitely will be bringing pepper spray tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m on sabbatical. Even serial killers need a break.” He flashes me a cocky smile and winks at me once again. The next person who winks at me is going to end up with their eyeball on a skewer. I SWEAR.

“Okay, now we're taking separate cars. That is, if you can even make it.”

“How dare you talk about Edith like that.” Raising his eyebrows in offense. “She is a gem and has been through a lot. She just needs TLC is all.”

“Edith? Josephine? What is this, the 1940s?”

“Hey! Edith and Josephine are great names. They’re vintage– my truck is older than I am, so it makes sense.” He shrugs. “What’s your car's name, huh?”

“Jon Bon Silver Fox.” I try not to smile at the ridiculousness of it, but it’s sentimental, sort of. And it makes me laugh.

“Jon Bon… Silver Fox..” repeating my words slowly. “Like Jon Bon Jovi?”

“Like Jon Bon Jovi. My mom loved him when I was growing up so she always had his music playing, I grew up loving him too. Nowadays he's a silver fox, my car is silver, therefore: Jon Bon Silver Fox.”

“You would like mom-rock,” we both laugh, and I send him a small eye-roll to follow.

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After finding another off-street parking spot, god, I hate Portland. We have a small huddle before deciding to split up and see what we can find. Our version of splitting up is just heading the same way down the road and shooting on opposite sides of the sidewalk, but it works.

As annoying as the parking situation is in this city, it's absolutely beautiful here. Every building is made up of tattered red bricks because everything in this city is old. Old, but beautiful. There’s a history here, every spot has a story. Every small restaurant is owned by someone's grandfather or great-grandfather and passed down through generations. Sidewalks with initials carved into them, we even have our own version of the ‘love locks’.

The evening breathes a different light, though. It’s painted with character right down to the cobblestone streets the drunk girls wobble down during the summer nights. The “cobble wobble” will never not be funny to me, especially since I’ve been that girl a time or two.

I spot a Song Sparrow; at least I think that’s the correct bird. It's a small little thing with a tan body and dark brown spots, and it's absolutely beautiful. I crouch down, trying to make myself small so he doesn’t get scared and fly away. Aiming for a shot on the vintage camera I’ve borrowed from Sam, I realize the view is far too wide for what I need.

“Sam!” I whisper-shout, looking around for him. When I don’t see him I call his name again a little louder. He pops his head up from behind a bush and I frantically wave him over pressing a finger to my lips to quiet him. He kneels down behind me.

“I need this,” I say, grabbing his camera, still attached to his neck by his camera strap. He leans into me further as I pull the viewfinder close to my eye. I adjust the settings as quickly as I can so I don’t miss it.

He's far too close to my ear when he whispers to me, “I can take it off, you know?” A shiver runs down my back from the heat of his breath. Focus, Willa.

“There’s no time. I don’t want him to fly away,” I click a couple times, and he shifts on his feet, crinkling whatever wrapper is trapped between his shoe and the pavement.

“Shhhh,” I reach my hand across my body and grab his face blindly, my eye still glued to the camera. “Don't. Move.” I release him. One more click, and I’m certain I’ve got a good shot.

“Did you get it?” He whispers in my ear again. I turn to face him, and he is so close to me. I follow his eyes as they meet mine and drop down to my lips. Oh, no.

I clear my throat, “Yeah, I think I did. Uhm,” I squeeze my lids shut and pause, trying to center myself. We both rush to stand at the same time. In the flurry of limbs, I seem to trip over my own foot, losing my balance completely. Sam lunges toward me but isn’t quick enough. I have no idea how I am the least graceful person alive. I grab the antique camera around my neck and on my way to the ground and try my best to hold it in the air. My ass takes all the damage in the fall but the camera remains perfectly intact. I breathe a sigh of relief, if Josephine was hard to find once, she'd be hard to find twice.

“Jesus christ, Willa,” he hurries to my side. His next words don’t match the concern on his face. “You have to be more careful. You could have broken something!” He scolds me. His camera? That’s what he's worried about? I look down at the palm on my left hand, it's scuffed and bleeding slightly. Small rocks embedded in my skin. My ass is definitely going to have a bruise.

“Don’t worry, Sunshine. Your camera is fine,” I roll my eyes and brush myself off before standing. I hiss as my hand starts to throb. “Ah fuck” I mutter under my breath, waving my hand, trying to shake off the pain.

“No..” a prolonged deep sigh escapes his lips. “Never mind, just be more careful,” reiterating his initial point.

“Yeah, Got it.” I snap. Annoyance settles through me to my core once again. A constant state of being when I’m around him. Does he really think I’d be the type of person to let his shit break? “No, you know what. You always have some slick comments to say. Like you might just spontaneously combust if the world doesn’t hear your shitty commentary. Why are you always a jerk?”

“Telling you to be careful, is me being a jerk?” He defends.

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to your camera, Sam. So, please, can you not think I’m an idiot for five seconds?” I huff out.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot? I think you’re a klutz and definitely way too cranky for your own good, but I definitely don’t think you’re stupid.” Sounding slightly confused. For the love of god, why is he confused?

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Can we go? I got what I needed, and I definitely don’t want to look at you anymore.” I start to head back toward my car.

“I hope it gives you hell when you do, Birdie.” he follows in my footsteps. Birdie? What the hell is that?

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I somehow have found myself back at the Caravel Tavern. I say somehow but what I really mean is Quinn forced me, and I really can never say no to them. They know that and pull the ‘I’m your best friend’ card constantly. They’re lucky I love them so much.

“I cannot believe you made me come back here.” I shrink in my seat, trying to appear as small as possible. We’re sitting toward the back but not entirely in the corner. I face the door so I can see most of the bar to try and prevent someone from sneaking up on me. A thing that I learned does not actually work when it comes to this place.

“Please, you act like I'm not at all nosy and don’t want to see the face of the man who keeps you lying awake at night.” Quinn teases.

“I do not lie awake at night. He just annoys me every waking moment of every waking day that I have to interact with him. Did I tell you he wore glasses today? It’s bad enough that he knows how to dress himself, but then to wear glasses? It made his face extra punchable.”

“Babes, that’s called cuteness aggression.”

“No, Absolutely not. He’s annoying, not cute. He also started calling me Birdie today. No idea why. Birdie??” In the middle of my defense, I notice Quinn’s eyes go wide and then the bartender I haven’t met yet appears from behind me, effectively scaring me. What is it with this place?

“Welcome, Welcome!” he says, as cheerful as if sunshine itself had manifested in our presence.

“Is it written in the manual as a requirement that you sneak up behind your guests and scare them?” I inquire.

“Ahh yes, actually. It's in the section of the manual right next to ‘How to deal with cheeky customers’,” He throws me an equally cheeky side eye and a smile.

“Ya know, I like you. At least one of you can grow a mustache around here.”

“I’m not Employee of the Month for nothing. Be on the lookout for a framed photo of yours truly on the wall over there.” He makes a small gesture toward the bathrooms.

“So what, can I get you started with today?” At least one person who works here is funny. He’s charming in a way that Sam wishes he was. Effortlessly so. He’s not cocky or arrogant, he’s just funny and warm. Warm in a way that if all the people of the world were like that, it would be a better place. He takes our orders, making us laugh through the whole interaction, which is a nice change of pace from the last few days. He pauses a moment before he leaves and his gaze lingers on Quinn a bit. Interesting.

“I think he thinks you’re cute, Q,” I whisper to them like a gossiping old bitty.

“He’s related to the owner.” They tell me, whispering back.

“Jesus Christ, there’s three of them?”

“Three of them?”

“Yeah, the one who can’t grow a mustache owns the bar, and Sam is his brother. If this one is related to the owner too, then they’re all brothers.” I pause.

“Wait, how do you know he’s related to the owner?” I look over toward the bar and accidentally make eye contact with Sam. “Oh god.” I whisper, “That’s him. Quinn, don’t look, he's coming over here.”

“What happened to not wanting to look at me? Change your mind and come to gaze at my devilish handsomeness?” Sam exudes cockiness from every orifice. What a tool.

“Devilish, yes. Handsome, debatable. I came for a drink. Had to unwind after dealing with the world's worst coworker today.” I flutter my eyelashes and throw him a sarcastic smile.

“Yeah, that Susan is an uptight bitch, huh?” He takes notice of Quinn, looking them up and down in their striped, earth-toned sweater and mocha-colored overalls. Their hair in their signature pixie cut curls.

“And who is this?” He asks while maintaining his gaze on Quinn.

“Uh, Sam, this is my roommate, Quinn. Quinn, this is my project partner, Sam.” He reaches out to shake their hand, which they return apprehensively.

“Birdie, you didn’t tell me your roommate was hot.” I would pay money to have had someone record this interaction because Quinn’s face is priceless. Maybe now they understand the hell I go through.

The third brother appears from out behind Sam, then in the sneaky way they all seem to have perfected.

“OKAY.” He says loudly, clamping his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Don’t you have some shit to take care of? Like your job.” Sam starts to try, and pull his shoulder away. By the grimace he’s making, he has a tight grip on his brother. Sam breaks free and rubs at his shoulder.

“Ow, Josh,” He says, not low enough to escape my ears. What a baby. I wonder if he’ll complain about that, too. Probably.

“So, sorry about him. He doesn’t get out much. He acts a bit rabid when he sees real people.” Josh pads off to return to his other duties.

“Do you see what I mean? He’s intolerable.”

“Absolutely, completely intolerable.”

“Thank you.”

“No, you’re right, Wilson. Sam IS cute.” They say a bit too loud for my taste. “Shhhhh. I never said that!” I look around frantically to see if any of the brothers are within earshot and regretfully notice a smirk on Sam’s lips. Curse Quinn and their antics.

<- Chapter Three Chapter Five

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