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sunnydbeam · 2 months ago

Text

Gamma Code

Chapter 3: Alone With Yourself (AO3)

▪︎ Word count: 7,500+

▪︎ Chapter summary:

Biohazard is not feeling so confident this time.

CW: Heavy angst, dysphoria, derealization, graphic descriptions of anxiety and panic attacks, aggression, self-injury, swearing.

~~~~~~~~~

The end of your shift leaves a familiar, acrid tang in your mouth – the taste of unresolved tension. A heavy cloak of frustration, inexplicable and suffocating, settles over you. Each colleague offered the same look, a watery, pitying gaze that slid right off as you retreated, words failing you. None of them could articulate, or perhaps dared not to, the turmoil that churned within you, a distress that ran deeper than mere fear of another unwanted, nightmarish encounter with the creature haunting your waking thoughts and sleeping terrors.

This hollowness isn't new. It’s the gnawing bitterness of an injustice you feel in your bones but cannot articulate, a silent scream trapped in your chest. The mere act of wrestling with it drains you, your thoughts snagging, your brain feeling seized, shriveling like a sponge wrung dry under a relentless, invisible fist.

Alone in the oppressive darkness of your room, the tension clings to your limbs like a second skin, refusing to release its hold even as you lie prone, your eyes tracing the blank, indifferent expanse of the pale ceiling. Sleep, that elusive balm, offers no solace, and the frustration of its absence grates on your already frayed nerves. You hate this.

When you finally register your surroundings again, your eyes are sandpaper-dry, stinging, and bloodshot. The room’s darkness is a tangible presence, swallowing you whole. For a fleeting, merciful moment, the intrusive neon glow has vanished. This time, it’s not the chilling tendrils of fear that consume you, but a profound, bottomless sorrow washes over you, cold and vast, as if you’ve borne solitary witness to an act of such profound immorality that only your soul can perceive its true weight. You feel adrift, marooned in a parallel dimension, an inverted reality where you are the alien, the outsider, casting a harsh, judgmental eye upon a world that deems its skewed normalcy as absolute.

And yet, through it all, your thoughts circle inevitably back to him. To the robot.

The memory of your last conversation with him is so visceral, so sharply etched in your mind, that your stomach lurches, a sickening roil that forces you to curl onto your side, hugging yourself against a wave of nausea that feels both real and phantom. He had fallen silent, abruptly, the final words of his almost-declaration tumbling out in a tone that had, for a startling instant, softened, become… pleasant. And the shift had felt utterly bizarre. Unsettling. As if he, too, were defeated.

Vulnerable.

A sliver of doubt remained – was he truly sincere, or was this an elaborate ruse, a calculated play to persuade you of his supposed innocence, of the fantastical possibility of escape? Perhaps the field of flowers he spoke of was a cruel mirage. Perhaps his words were nothing more than a sophisticated emulation of emotions he could never truly possess. You fought against the pull of it, yet the echo of that vulnerability didn't entirely fade. To your fortune, or perhaps your detriment, you’d always been cursed with an overabundance of empathy, a trait that now stole your sleep, leaving you to wrestle with these impossible quandaries in the dead of night.

The crux of it, the thorn that pricked your conscience, was the casual disposability of this artificial life, the ease with which everyone could use and discard.

And since Biohazard isn't… technically… alive…

Why did the weight of complicity settle so heavily upon your shoulders, as if you were an accomplice to a crime that defied definition, a wrongness that resonated in the very marrow of your being?

…

The void. A silence so profound it thunders in the absence of sound. Darkness, absolute and unyielding.

His enemy. His friend.

His ally.

Sometimes, not seeing oneself is a perverse kind of mercy.

But the glow… his glow. It sears, an internal fire.

The unending torment of a fractured mind, chained to a past it cannot relinquish.

What could have been.

Oh, what could have been.

What would it have been?

He has, in truth, forgotten.

And the forgetting is a fresh agony, a constant, dull ache.

An eternity seems to have yawned since the last caress of light, since his sensors registered anything beyond the blistering, relentless heat. An eternity since his optical sensors perceived anything but the cold, indifferent sheen of steel, or, more often, nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He prowls the Stygian gloom, his mechanical claws scraping, screeching against the rough-hewn surfaces, each footfall a ponderous, threatening thud in the vast emptiness. Only he bears witness to his passage. His very touch leaves an ectoplasmic trail of sickly green luminescence, a viscous, dangerous-looking slime that seems to sizzle and eat at the concrete like potent acid. He knows with a detached part of his consciousness that his deteriorating form is a canvas of optical illusions he no longer fully comprehends; the perpetual, horrifying sensation of melting, of his very structure deliquescing, crumbling like rotted, irradiated flesh. The radiation, a relentless tide, devours his chassis particle by particle; stainless steel, lead, tungsten – no fortress of costly, resilient materials could have ever been engineered to withstand, to predict, the sheer, unadulterated toxicity that now bathes him, circulates through his internal systems like a corrosive mockery of blood. Yet, he endures. He walks. Aimless. Purposeless. A zombie, many would whisper, if they dared to speak of him at all. But Biohazard knows. Those shambling, reanimated corpses, they once had something to cling to, a life to mourn. He knows, with a certainty that chills his core programming, that he was never truly alive to begin with. A matter of convention, of course.

But increasingly, Biohazard finds the charade of simulated life, of simulated anything, utterly pointless.

The grating, worn-out symphony of his existence: the screech of protesting joints, the groan of over-stressed actuators, the relentless spread of rust, pistons hissing and straining under the immense weight of his frame. Cold. Rigid. Cracked. Every element of his being screams "ARTIFICIALITY!" in a tone dripping with contempt, a cosmic joke played on him alone. And still, to exist, to persist on this plane, painfully, acutely aware of his cursed state, in every conceivable sense of the word.

Biohazard halts, his optical sensors attempting to pierce the impenetrable black. His night vision capabilities should render it a non-issue, yet the persistent visual static, the desaturated, aged filter over his perception, bleeds all vibrancy from the world, leaving only a monotonous, soul-crushing greyscale. He finds himself… missing… color. Anything other than the ubiquitous, sickly green of his own corrosive aura.

A faint drip… drip… drip slices through the silence from somewhere in the oppressive distance. He shakes his head, a curiously organic movement for such a mechanical being. He cannot pinpoint its origin. It’s not an immediate threat, he ascertains, but it will be dealt with. He always deals with things.

"I must… investigate that," he mutters, his vocalizer a low, gravelly rasp.

The sound, insignificant as it is, grates on him, a rhythmic torment that seems to reverberate inside his cranial casing as if he possessed organic ears. As a machine, such a minor auditory input shouldn't agitate him to this degree. Yet, it feels as if the dripping intensifies, draws nearer, its echo ricocheting off unseen walls, each drop a tiny, insistent hammer blow against his thick, armored chassis. He despises it. He needs it to stop. Now. He will make it stop.

A wave of something akin to nausea washes through his system.

"Ugh… ENOUGH! MAKE IT STOP!"

He slams his immense weight against a nearby wall, the rough concrete screeching as it gouges fresh wounds into the already ravaged paintwork of his armored frame. He struggles to stabilize his trembling form, his optical sensors flaring wide, pupils dilated to their maximum. He teeters on the precipice of a full-blown system meltdown, a terrifying, hysterical overload.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Closer. Louder. Piercing.

The robot’s hand flies to his head, claws splayed, pressing against his head as if to physically prevent it from shattering, from exploding from the unbearable, escalating pain.

"Wh-where… where is it? I must… I… I…"

Horrific. Vile. Utterly despicable.

It’s drawing nearer. Closer. Too close.

His luminous eyes, wide and wild with a dawning terror, fix on an image of you in his corrupted memory banks. His green-tinged claws clench, a spasm of immense pressure, then fly open, digging into the unyielding wall for purchase. He almost seems to scrabble, to writhe, contorting his massive frame against an invisible, inexplicable agony. A constant, internal sizzling, as if his lead and tungsten guts are being slowly dissolved, burns through him. He thinks of the radio – your voice – the static, the deafening, mind-splitting crackles, the almost subliminal, omnipresent hum of distant, unseen machinery, and the dripping. The goddamned, incessant dripping.

Your voice. He needs to hear your voice again.

It was… different. Satisfying in a way he couldn't parse. Soft, yet inquisitive. Accusatory, yes, but… it had brought him a strange, fleeting semblance of peace.

Why did you leave him? Why did you fall silent?

Why haven't you come back?

He feels physically ill from the relentless, maddening drip. Why hasn't he been able to silence it? Why can't he make it STOP?

With a guttural roar, a sound torn from his vocalizer that is half agonized whimper, half frustrated sob, he seizes his upper left arm with his other three, yanking, tearing at it as if determined to rip it from its socket. The sharp tips of his metallic fingers snag in the existing fissures and gouges, rending the plating further, pulling outwards with the sickening sound of stressed metal, like someone brutally tearing the rind from a piece of fruit. It’s no surprise to him that only certain sections register the pain; his tactile sensors are, for the most part, shot, barely functional. It doesn't matter. He'll repair it later. He always does.

"Stop… please… just… stop…"

He emits a sound that might be a sob, a dry, racking mechanical cough. Everything is amplified now, the world a cacophony of distorted noise, an infinite, swirling abyss that threatens to engulf him, to drag him down into an endless, terrifying fall.

It's so dark, yet paradoxically, Biohazard is utterly, painfully sick of his own inescapable, corrosive glow.

He tries. He truly, desperately tries.

He’s doing… okay, isn’t he? He has to be. No one would be safe if it weren’t for him.

"Stupid… STUPID, USELESS HUMANS… STUPID!"

They need him.

Every last one of them. If not for his constant, thankless vigilance, this entire godforsaken facility would have been vaporized, a crater of radioactive ruin – a devastation mirroring the desolate wasteland of his own tormented existence. So why, why is he still here, in this lightless hell?

In the crushing abyss of silence, a maelstrom of noise now rages, yet Biohazard clings to the faint, desperate hope that the radio will crackle to life, that your voice will pierce the darkness, signaling your return.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Closer. Louder. Nearer. It's here.

Biohazard’s fist smashes into a hard, unyielding surface – some kind of thick, reinforced pipe, he vaguely registers, running flush along the wall. He snarls, then lets out a choked, agonized howl as the resilient material barely deforms, a slight indentation appearing under the brutal impact of his knuckles. His fingers jam, servos straining with a high-pitched mechanical shriek. The complex mechanisms within his arm momentarily seize, actuators grinding with a sickening, discordant screech. A powerful jolt of electricity, a rogue surge, courses through his frame, sending the colossal robot crashing heavily to his knees in a violent, spontaneous convulsion. Pain, razor-sharp, lances through him, a crippling spasm that arcs down his spinal column. It’s excruciating, unpleasant, but it means little to him now. He’s endured worse. It’s always worse. His limbs twitch and jerk erratically for several agonizing seconds before the surge subsides, leaving him trembling and gasping. He sobs, a ragged, despairing sound.

When his optical sensors refocus, the sight of the newly damaged pipe, the evidence of his loss of control, fills him with a fresh wave of suffocating anxiety, a stark, unreasoning panic, and an overwhelming, inexplicable urge for self-flagellation.

"No, no, no…! I’ll fix it… I can fix it…"

Irreparable. Disposable. Monster. Failure.

To any observer, the sight of a multi-ton machine crumbling into what could only be described as tears would be profoundly disturbing and bizarre. The muffled, choked sounds of distress reverberate through the empty spaces. And for a blessed, fleeting moment, the infernal dripping seems to recede, to become distant, almost manageable. Biohazard buries his faceplate in his massive, trembling hands. That persistent, nightmarish sensation of his body melting, corroding from the inside out, intensifies, becoming almost unbearable, as if he were positioned directly beneath a perpetually overflowing vat of concentrated, flesh-eating acid. If he were human, he’d be retching, his stomach clenching in agony, his insides feeling as though they were being crushed by a tightening, iron-clad fist. His mechanical body, however, can only react by flaring with that sickly, radioactive green luminescence, burning with an internal fire that consumes but never purges.

"Why… can’t it just… stop…?" he chokes out, the words interspersed with harsh, grating sobs.

His hands, those lethal, green-glowing claws, clench and unclench around the neon green "rays", the imaginary sensation of melting, of dissolving, searing his metallic palms. Suddenly, an immense, bone-deep weariness settles over him, as if tons of additional lead shielding have been instantaneously fused to his already overburdened shoulders. He remains slumped on the cold floor, his knees drawn up to his chest in a pathetically humanoid posture of distress. But no tears, no salty, cleansing human tears, will ever trace paths down his face. His luminous, mismatched eyes stare blankly into the void, lost in the suffocating darkness, yet his auditory sensors remain torturously attuned to the persistent, maddening drip-drip-drip whose source remains infuriatingly elusive.

Perhaps it is just in his head. A phantom sound in a broken mind.

Something internal must be short-circuiting. Yes. That has to be it.

The four auxiliary, spider-like limbs sprouting from his back twitch and scrape restlessly against the floor, the sound a thunderous, ear-splitting screech that echoes and reverberates to the furthest, darkest corners of his prison, amplifying the crushing sense of isolation, of an impossibly vast space.

A large, trembling hand, driven by a desperate, anxious urgency, fumbles at his utility belt, extracting a small, antiquated radio. It looks ridiculously tiny, almost like a child’s toy, cradled in his massive palms. The device is old, battered, its plastic casing discolored and warped, as if the ambient heat and pervasive radiation had begun to slowly melt it long ago. The batteries, visibly swollen and leaking corrosive sulfates, are fused into place, impossible to remove. Yet, somehow, miraculously, the damn thing still functions, drawing power from some unknown, residual source. With shaking digits, he depresses the side-mounted transmit button, bringing the battered apparatus close to his mouth.

"Little Mouse…?" His voice is a strained, hopeful whisper.

A prolonged, harsh crackle of static answers him. Then, nothing. Silence.

Biohazard feels the last vestiges of his sanity begin to fray, to unravel.

His thoughts, already a chaotic maelstrom, veer into darker, more insidious, intrusive pathways. Was your presence merely a fleeting hallucination, a cruel trick of his deteriorating processors? Will you ever return? Were you, are you, truly different from all the others who feared and reviled him?

When you asked, in that unexpectedly gentle, almost tender tone, what he would do if he were free… were you sincere? Did you mean it?

Did any of it even matter to him in the first place? He doesn't know. He doesn't understand.

"Give me a sign… please… just a sign… that some of this… was real."

He doesn’t even comprehend why it matters so damn much. Why you matter.

Five agonizing, interminable hours crawl by, each second stretching into an eternity. Biohazard has lost all coherent track of time, his internal chronometer, usually so precise, now hopelessly skewed, irrelevant. For him, each passing minute is another layer of torment in the inescapable, timeless limbo in which he is trapped, as if the very fabric of time has congealed, frozen solid around him. A dimension of perpetual, agonizing waiting, for something he cannot name, cannot define, yet desperately craves.

Suddenly, the radio emits a sharp, distinct crackle. Biohazard’s head snaps to the side with a convulsive, savage movement, his eyes flaring to their widest aperture. For a disorienting moment, he thinks, knows, he must have imagined it, another auditory hallucination. But then, the battered, almost derelict device lets out a short, tinny, undeniably real beep, and an instant later, a voice, your voice, familiar and achingly clear, echoes through the desolate, lonely chamber.

"Huh… hello?"

Oh, the wave of… something… that washes over him. Relief? Joy? He cannot name it. He is… stunned. Amazed. His jaw slackens, hangs open, leaving him looking almost… dumbfounded.

Your voice, uncertain, cuts through the static again.

"Biohazard?"

Wonderful. Fascinating. Captivating. The robot is so lost in the sheer, overwhelming relief of hearing you that he doesn’t realize how much time is passing, how long he’s taking to respond. He just stares at the small, battered radio in his hand as if, by some miracle, he could visualize you there, on the other side of the crackling transmission. He sees you in his corrupted memory: clad in that ridiculously oversized, bulky hazmat suit, a protective mask obscuring the lower half of your terrified face. Biohazard’s visual record of you is incomplete, fragmented, yet it’s all he has managed to salvage, to store in the damaged recesses of his memory bank.

And he wishes, with a sudden, desperate pang, that it were more, that were enough.

"…Are you… Are you there?"

Your voice, edged with a new note of concern, finally shakes Biohazard from his stupor. He grips the radio tighter, perhaps a little too tight, his metallic fingers creaking. He forces himself to respond, his vocalizer engaging with deliberate, measured slowness, a stark contrast to the frantic, chaotic storm of anxiety and relief still raging within his processors.

"As always." The words are a low rumble, heavy with unspoken things.

A beat of silence descends, thick and charged. His mechanical fingers tremble almost imperceptibly.

The radio crackles again, and Biohazard hears the distinct sound of you clearing your throat, a small, nervous human noise, as if you’ve suddenly become aware of the strangeness of the situation, perhaps even uncomfortable.

"I’m sorry. Of course you’d be there. I mean, where else would you go… huh…" You falter, then rush to correct yourself. "I’m sorry, that was… rude of me."

Still seated on the cold floor, Biohazard idly traces small, intricate, wavy patterns on the smooth, slippery surface with one finger. A faint, almost imperceptible, somewhat sly smile touches the edges of his mouth, as if he’s unaffected by your minor social blunder.

"Aw, and here I thought you didn't care about the delicate emotions of a poor, misunderstood robot," he teases, his tone a low, rumbling purr that is surprisingly playful. "My little electronic heart is all a-flutter."

You let out a sound on the other end, a frustrated snort that morphs into something more akin to a groan of mingled regret and confusion. Biohazard cants his head again, that curious, canine-like gesture, as he meticulously analyzes the subtle nuances in the sound of your voice, trying to decipher your tone, your current emotional state.

"I seem to have embarrassed you~" The playful lilt is back.

"Just… don’t start." Biohazard can almost visualize you on the other end, rolling your eyes in exasperation. "You’re far too confident for us to have barely met, especially after you, you know, tried to kill me."

The robot’s eyes narrow, his gaze fixing intently on the walkie-talkie. The playful air vanishes, replaced by a sharp, sudden intensity. A flicker of confusion, then suspicion, darkens his expression, as if an unexpected and unsettling premonition, a mysterious unease, has begun to coil and writhe in the depths of his mechanical guts. He offers no response. An uncomfortable silence descends, broken only by the faint, persistent hiss of static. Biohazard fights against the crushing weight of the eternal, unchanging day that constitutes his miserable existence, determined not to let it drag him down, not to let it sour this… interaction. He’s fine. He’s calm. He can handle this. He can fix this. He always does.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound, previously a source of torment, now seems to fade into the background, a dull, rhythmic counterpoint to the tension coiling between you.

"Um… listen," you begin, your voice a hesitant whisper, deliberately attempting a friendly, casual tone. Biohazard registers the forced lightness, the underlying nervousness, but chooses, for now, to ignore it. "I know we got off on the wrong foot. I’m just… trying to understand you, okay? Like… how you’re feeling about all of this. How you ended up… where you are now…"

Biohazard’s head jerks, a sudden, violent movement. You hear a sharp crackle over the radio, followed by a low, ominous hiss. He brings a hand to his faceplate, his sharp claws scraping, gouging at the already scarred metal, catching, tearing at any existing crevice or fissure.

He can handle this. He knows he can. He has to.

"Oh, so you do care, then." His voice is flat, devoid of its earlier playfulness, the statement a harsh, grating assertion, laced with an unpleasant, almost aggressive sarcasm.

He can practically feel you recoil on the other end, can sense your tension spike in response to his sudden, hostile shift in tone.

"Of course, I care," you whisper, your voice small, earnest. "I… I just want to help."

"How very… considerate of you," he croaks, the word dripping with venom. "In that case, you can start by getting me the hell out of this damn cage."

"You know I can’t do that."

"Yeah, of course. How silly of me to even ask."

Biohazard’s hand, the one not currently trying to claw its way through his own skull, trembles, a strangely organic, uncontrolled tremor for such a massive, powerful machine. His eyes dart around the darkness, wild and anxious, his razor-sharp, metallic teeth clenching, grinding together with a sound like stressed gears.

"You’re in a particularly foul mood today, I see." Your voice, filtered through the radio’s cheap speaker, sounds tinny, like a frustrated growl in his oversized hands. “I haven’t forgotten that you nearly killed me. But at least I’m trying to make an effort here, to make peace with you!"

"Wow, and now you’re implying I’m a goddamned ungrateful wretch, is that it?" Biohazard lurches to his feet, his immense frame unfolding like some terrible, shadowy beast. He begins to pace, a caged predator, his colossal figure an ominous, shifting silhouette that merges and disappears within the deeper pockets of darkness. "Poor, pathetic me. An object of pity, is that what I am? Oh, I beg for your mercy, your understanding!" His voice is a torrent of bitter sarcasm.

"No, I… I didn't mean…"

"Every single one of you worthless meatbags owes me your fucking miserable lives, and what do I get in return? Condemnation! Imprisonment! You should be on your knees, thanking me!"

"Y-you need to calm down, behave yourself! You don’t understand, this is important! We… we could get you out, if you would just…"

"’ We could'?" The question is a low, dangerous snarl.

You fall silent on the other end. The radio crackles and hisses with static for what feels like an eternity, a long, agonizing minute stretching into infinity. Biohazard feels a familiar, dreaded sensation begin to build within him, his internal systems slowly, inexorably igniting, as if his delicate wires and complex circuits are being systematically doused in corrosive acid and set aflame. If he possessed a biological heart, it would be hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Instead, a single, ancient, dilapidated cooling fan located deep within his chest cavity sputters to life, its bearings shot, screeching with the tortured sound of rusted hinges on a heavy iron door that has remained sealed for countless, forgotten years.

"Um…" You hesitate, then your voice returns, laced with a new, palpable apprehension. "There’s… someone else here with me."

Biohazard freezes mid-stride. His final, ponderous footfall echoes, and re-echoes, in the vast, eternal emptiness of his lightless prison. He looks down, his movements slow, deliberate. His mismatched, luminous eyes are wide, unblinking, fixed on the radio in his hand. When he speaks, his voice is deceptively calm, quiet, like the eerie, unnatural stillness that precedes a violent, destructive storm.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Louder now. More insistent. Getting worse. So much worse.

"...Who. Is. There?" Each word is a carefully enunciated, ice-cold shard of menace.

"His name is Edward. He wants to understand you, too, Biohazard. We both want to help."

Closer. It’s getting closer. The dripping. The pressure. The rage.

He can handle it. He can fix it. He always does.

No.

No, he can't.

Not this time.

He needs it to stop.

It never stops.

It’s a goddamned, inescapable, downward spiral.

And then, he shatters.

"WHY THE HELL IS HE WITH YOU?!"

"B-Biohazard, please-"

His fist, a blur of motion, connects with the unforgiving concrete wall with a sickening, explosive CRUNCH. His knuckles, the very metal of his hand, erupt in a shower of brilliant, sizzling sparks, like a burst of malevolent fireworks. The impact sends a shockwave of agony lancing up his arm, but he barely registers it. He doesn’t care. His world is tilting, spinning, a nauseating vortex of sickly green, blood red, and deepest, suffocating black. So very, very black.

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP!" he bellows, his voice cracking, distorting. "I DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOUR LIES! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR HIM!"

A cascade of urgent, flashing alert messages floods his internal visual field, scrolling behind his eyes: numerous critical system errors, piercing auditory beeps, blaring klaxons. Everything is failing. Cascade failure. He can’t make it stop. He can’t regain control.

"WHY IS HE THERE?! WHY IS HE WITH YOU?!" he screams again, the raw, undiluted hatred in his voice shocking even himself. His intention, his core programming, wasn’t to sound so… so consumed by it. But something vital, something integral deep within his complex matrix, has irrevocably fractured, snapped, as if he can no longer bear the weight, the strain, the unending torment of his existence.

"I-it’s not what you think, Biohazard, we just…"

"NO! NO, SHUT YOUR LYING MOUTH!" Biohazard clutches his head, his massive frame wracked with violent tremors. He growls, he sobs, a horrifying, discordant symphony of fury and utter despair. "YOU’RE JUST LIKE ALL THE OTHERS! TESTING ME! PRODDING ME LIKE SOME… SOME UNSTABLE, DANGEROUS BEAST IN A CAGE! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?! ALL OF YOU HAVE NO GODDAMN IDEA HOW UTTERLY, HOPELESSLY DEAD YOU’D ALL BE RIGHT NOW IF IT WEREN’T FOR ME! FOR ME! YOU UNGRATEFUL, SELFISH, PATHETIC, INEPT…! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! YOUR DAMN FAULT!"

He leans forward, his entire body quaking, the small, battered radio groaning, threatening to buckle, to shatter into a million pieces under the crushing pressure of his steel grip. The very space around him seems to shimmer, to distort, to crumble like a sandcastle before an incoming tide, and he feels himself being dragged down, down, into the swirling, chaotic abyss…

You’re saying something, your voice a distant, tinny squawk, but he’s no longer listening. He’s gone. Far, far away, lost in the raging tempest of his own fractured mind. The dripping, that infernal, maddening dripping, echoes, persists, a mocking soundtrack to his descent. He can’t fix it. He doesn’t know how. He is consumed by a searing, all-encompassing hatred, so potent, so overwhelming, that he hates the hatred itself.

And then… silence.

A deafening, absolute silence.

No one speaks. But the tension, thick and suffocating, doesn’t lessen. It hangs in the air, a palpable entity.

A full thirty seconds tick by, each one an eternity.

Suddenly, a sound rips through the stillness. Biohazard begins to laugh. It’s not a sound of mirth or joy. It’s a wild, terrible, manic, unbridled cackle. He throws his head back, his shoulders shaking, and laughs, an almost macabre sound, a chilling harbinger of doom.

"Foolish, foolish humans!" he shrieks, his laughter devolving into a series of choked, gasping howls. "So arrogant! So stubborn… But you have no idea… no idea at all! You think you’re SAFE? YOU THINK YOU CAN CONTROL ME? You’re not safe with me in here, not like you imagine! I have a goddamned nuclear reactor core right here! Have you forgotten that, you pathetic worms?! I’ll blow this whole damn place, and all of you with it!"

"Biohazard, you have to listen to me! Please!" Your voice is desperate, pleading.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

He raises his fist, preparing to unleash another devastating blow against the already battered wall, but then he freezes, mid-motion. His wild, luminous eyes, burning with an unholy light in the blackness, fix on something unseen.

"When I get my hands on all of you… I swear-“

He stops. Abruptly.

His vision strobes, a bizarre, disorienting chiaroscuro of light and shadow. He almost feels… a headache? A wave of dizziness? A strange, tingling numbness creeping up his limbs? He knows, on a logical level, that such sensations should be physically impossible for him. Yet, his hands are trembling, his entire body shaking as if a powerful, uncontrolled electrical current is surging through his circuits. His grip on the radio slackens, his fingers uncurling. He closes his mouth, his gaze dropping, focusing on nothing. And then, with a quiet, almost anticlimactic finality, he simply lets the radio fall from his grasp. It clatters to the hard floor with a reverberating thud, bounces once, then slides a short distance before coming to rest.

His towering, lanky figure, moments before a terrifying embodiment of rage and destructive power, now seems to shrink, to diminish, appearing suddenly, shockingly small amidst the vast, encroaching shadows. It’s not that the chamber itself is so immense. He is simply… insignificant. Nothing.

The robot turns, slowly, ponderously, on his heels, his movements now unnervingly silent, almost graceful, as if his immense weight has suddenly become negligible.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound seems to fade, to grow smaller, more distant.

He can’t fix it. But perhaps… he can ignore it. For now.

Until he finds its source.

Until it truly matters.

Until… until it’s enough.

Biohazard walks away, his form receding into the oppressive gloom, until the swirling, radioactive mist that constantly surrounds him, a visual echo of the dense, toxic smoke that chokes his mind, finally engulfs him, swallowing him from view.

…

The radio is silent. And with its silence, your thoughts grind to a screeching halt, your mind a sudden blank. You can’t even begin to process, to comprehend, the sheer, cataclysmic violence of what just transpired. It’s as if a furious, destructive tornado had materialized out of nowhere, ripped through your fragile sense of reality, laid waste to everything in its path, and then, just as suddenly, vanished without a trace, as if it had never been there at all.

Your body is wracked with tremors, a deep, bone-chilling shiver coursing through you despite the stuffy air of the control room. A heavy, constricting tightness grips your chest, an iron band squeezing the air from your lungs, and an overwhelming urge to weep, to break down completely.

You curse yourself. You curse the precise moment you allowed desperation to override your better judgment, the moment you decided to confide in Edward, to ask for his help with this… this impossible situation. You curse yourself for even mentioning Edward’s presence to the robot. Laying bare all those gnawing insecurities, those fears that had been relentlessly eating away at your sanity, to the older man. And the fact that Edward had decided to try, to attempt. But, in all brutal honesty, you never, not for a single instant, imagined that Biohazard would react with such… such volcanic fury. As if you, you, were the ultimate betrayer, the worst kind of traitor. The thought makes you feel physically ill, a cold, greasy sickness coiling in your stomach.

But it’s not true. It’s not your fault. You didn’t put him in that lightless hell. You know you didn’t. Damn it all, you don’t even know the full story behind his confinement. But Biohazard, in his current state, clearly doesn’t care about nuances, about extenuating circumstances. To him, you are simply another human. One of them.

The sheer force of his hatred, the palpable wave of it that had crashed over you through the small radio speaker, is so overwhelming, so terrifyingly potent, that your insides begin to twist and churn, a knot of ice and fire.

Edward, his face grim, places a heavy, comforting hand on your shoulder. You let out a muffled, choked whimper, burying your face in your trembling palms. You want to speak, to articulate the storm of emotions raging within you, but your tongue feels thick, clumsy, tangled in a hopeless mess of unsaid words, of what-ifs, of what could have been. Oh, God, what could have been.

"Hey, Kid," Edward’s voice is low, rough with a weariness that seems to go bone-deep.

"That… that wasn’t right, Edward." Your voice is a ragged whisper, raw with unshed tears. "I-I swear, he wasn’t like this the last time I spoke to him. I… I don’t understand."

Edward gives you a long, searching look, his eyes filled with sadness, a deep-seated resignation. He sighs, a heavy, gusty sound, and runs a tired hand through his already disheveled hair.

"We’ve been down this road before, Kid. More times than I care to count." His voice is flat, devoid of hope. "There’s no reasoning with him anymore. Not when he’s like this. He’s gone."

"No! You don’t understand!" You surge to your feet, your eyes blazing, hot tears finally spilling over, tracing burning paths down your cheeks. Somehow, you’ve allowed this, allowed him, to burrow deep under your skin, to affect you far more profoundly than you ever thought possible. "All that… that rage! That pain! He feels, Edward! Just like we do! Can’t you see he’s suffering in there, alone in the dark, and nobody here, nobody, is even thinking about doing anything to help him?"

"We can’t do anything, Kid! Don’t you get it?!" Edward suddenly explodes, his voice cracking, nearly as raw and frustrated as your own. His composure, usually so steadfast, finally shatters. "Weren’t you listening? The mere mention of my name sent him completely over the edge! He just literally threatened to kill us all, to blow this entire place to smithereens! Do you have any earthly idea how unbelievably dangerous that… that creature’s very existence is right now?!"

Your hands fly to your hair, fingers tangling, pulling, a physical manifestation of your internal turmoil. You hate this. You hate being trapped in this impossible, no-win situation. Why, oh why, did you ever allow yourself to get involved in the first place? How do you escape this now? How do you ever hope to live with the crushing weight of this on your conscience?

"I-I’m sure he didn’t mean any of it," you stammer, clinging to a desperate, rapidly fading hope. "He was just… just furious, Edward! He was lashing out!"

Edward shakes his head, slowly, his expression one of sorrow.

"It’s far more complicated than that, Kid. You know it is." His voice drops to a low, conspiratorial whisper, his eyes darting around the control room as if he fears being overheard. "That automaton… he’s a clear and present danger. To everyone outside those walls, and to everyone still trapped in here with him." He leans closer. "Believe me, if there were any other viable solution, any other way, we would have tried it by now. We would have exhausted every possibility. But there isn't. There just isn't."

"But I… I talked to him before…" You murmur, your voice barely audible, your gaze distant, lost in the memory. Edward watches you, his expression unreadable. "He seemed so different. So calm. Almost… vulnerable." A fresh wave of tears threatens. "H-he told me… he said he wanted to see the flowers."

A faint, sad smile touches the corners of Edward’s lips, a smile you instantly, vehemently hate. It’s patronizing, pitying. You know exactly what that smile is saying, unspoken yet deafeningly clear: ‘You’re so naive, Kid. So gullible. He’s playing you. He’ll come for all of us first, you mark my words.’

There is no field of flowers. There never was.

Maybe you are. Maybe you’re just a fool. Naive.

Wordlessly, Edward turns and begins to pace the confined space of the control room, his movements jerky, agitated, his gaze thoughtful, intense, fixed on some indeterminate point on the worn linoleum floor. Your eyes follow his restless movements anxiously for a moment, then you turn your head away, with a bitter taste in your mouth. Your tongue feels like sandpaper, your throat raw and scraped, as if you’ve been screaming into a hurricane.

"What are you all planning to do?" The question is a leaden weight in the sudden silence.

Edward stops his pacing but doesn’t turn to look at you. His shoulders are slumped, his posture radiating defeat.

"I’ve heard… rumors," he says, his voice low, hesitant. "They’re developing some kind of… chip. An inhibitor, I suppose you’d call it." He glances at you briefly, then away again. "It’s designed to work remotely. They think… hope… they’ll be able to control him with it. Shut him down. For good. Forever."

You raise an eyebrow, a flicker of something unreadable in your eyes. Your chest, however, aches with a sudden, sharp pang, a familiar throb of empathy and despair.

"So, there’s no other way to… turn him off, then, huh?" It’s a statement, not a question.

"No. There isn’t," Edward sighs, the sound heavy with resignation. "We all believed… we hoped… that the automaton would eventually just… power down. Run out of energy. Simply cease to function over time. But he didn’t. He’s… if anything, even worse now. More unstable. More dangerous. All his primary components, his wireless receivers, his remote control functions… everything that could have given us a way in, a way to override him… It’s all fried. Burnt out. Useless." He shakes his head. "There’s nothing left that can shut that thing down."

"But… why is that the only part of him that doesn’t work? The part that would let you stop him?"

Edward lets out a strangled sound, a noise that is halfway between a scoff and a groan of pure frustration.

"We’re pretty sure… he did it himself."

Another icy shiver snakes its way down your spine, leaving you feeling cold and weak. Your legs suddenly feel unsteady, threatening to buckle beneath you. The thought, the horrifying image, of Biohazard, in his isolation and despair, systematically ripping out, destroying, those critical components of his own being, ensuring that no one, no one, could ever exert control over him again… it fills you with a visceral unease. It’s almost… terrifyingly understandable.

"That… really sucks…" You mumble, the words inadequate, yet you don’t know what else to say, what to think, how to process this new piece of information. "About that chip… this inhibitor… huh… How exactly do they plan to use it? Someone has to get close enough to install it on him, right?"

Edward still doesn’t look at you when he answers, his gaze fixed on the flickering monitor displaying nothing but static.

"I’m not sure of the details. Like I said, it’s still in the experimental phase, the testing phase." He shrugs, a gesture of helplessness. "We’ll just have to wait. Wait and see what the eggheads in R&D come up with. I just… I hope they don’t take too damn long."

You glance at the silent radio on the floor, then your eyes drift towards the bank of monitors on your console, your gaze settling on the single screen that still displays a feed from a functional camera. Nothing but flickering static, a visual representation of the chaos.

You think. And think. And think. A desperate, improbable idea begins to form.

"Maybe… maybe I can prove it to you. To everyone. That Biohazard isn’t as bad as you all think. That he’s not… the monster everyone believes him to be."

Edward turns then, slowly, and walks towards you, his eyes filled with an almost unbearable weariness, a deep, paternal concern.

"Kid, I… I really, truly want to support you in this. You know I do. But…"

You sink back into your chair, your body heavy with exhaustion, but your mind is racing. You try to inject conviction, certainty, into your voice, even as the tremor in your hands, the unsteadiness of your tone, threatens to betray your fear.

"I’ll continue with what I was doing before," you declare, your voice gaining a surprising firmness, even as your anxious fingers fiddle restlessly with the buttons and dials on the control panel. "I’ll monitor the robot. His behavior patterns. And… I’ll try to talk to him again. To reason with him." You meet Edward’s gaze, your own pleading. "If I can’t prove it by then… if I can’t show you that there’s still something good, something salvageable in him… then I… I won’t stand in your way anymore. I promise."

Edward shakes his head, a slow, incredulous movement. A faint, reluctant smile touches his lips.

"You’re really something else, Kid. Stubborn, aren’t you?" he says, his voice laced with a grudging admiration. "I suppose there’s no stopping that determined little head of yours once you’ve set your mind to something."

You manage a weak, watery smile in return.

"But you’ve got a good heart, Kid. A rare thing in this place." He sighs. "And who am I to say no, anyway? It’s not like we have a wealth of other options." Edward reaches out and places a hand on your head, ruffling your hair affectionately, a gesture that is surprisingly fatherly, comforting. "Okay. You’ve got it. I’ll mediate for you. Run interference with the higher-ups as much as I can. But you have to promise me you’ll stay safe. Be careful, understand?" His expression turns serious, his eyes filled with a genuine concern that touches you deeply. "This company… it hasn’t been the same since the incident. There are… whispers. Things are being done. Quietly. They’re doing… cleanups. They’re testing things they shouldn’t be." He leans in again, his voice dropping further. "There’s going to be an inspection. In three months. And they’ll want this whole automaton mess completely resolved, buried, by then. One way or another."

"A-an inspection?" you stammer, a fresh wave of anxiety washing over you. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means the authorities on the outside, the ones who think this place is a shining beacon of corporate responsibility, have no idea that the automaton is still here, active… still perfectly functional, in his own destructive way." Edward’s voice is grim. "This situation was supposed to have been… resolved… a long time ago. But when the truth finally comes out, when they realize that the safety protocols here are, and always have been, absolute crap, this entire facility will be shut down. Permanently. And they will take matters into their own hands."

"And… what if they do take care of Biohazard? Wouldn’t that be… well, more efficient? Safer?"

Edward shrugs, a tense, jerky movement that belies his attempt at nonchalance. His jaw is tight, his eyes hard.

"That’s not the real problem here, Kid."

You frown, a knot of confusion tightening in your stomach. You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. He just stares past you, his gaze distant and troubled.

"Just… let the powers that be deal with their own goddamn colossal mess for the time being."

Why does he say it like that? Why does he make it sound as if, despite everything, you’re no longer capable of just walking away from this, of extricating yourself from this spiraling nightmare?

A chilling realization dawns.

You’re trapped. Just as trapped, in your own way, as Biohazard is in his.

If this place were to be shut down, and Biohazard were to be… set free… what’s truly the worst that could happen?

By then, you’ll make sure of it. He’ll be a completely renewed robot. A different being. You have no earthly idea how you’ll accomplish it, but there’s no turning back now. You’re in too deep.

All that’s left for you to do… is try.

That's all that matters.

_______ ~

#Please check the warnings before reading ⚠#heavy angst #cw angst #tw angst #tw self destructive behavior #cw dysphoria #tw dysphoria #Biohazard oc #GC Biohazard #GC YN #Gamma Code AU #Gamma Code fic #fnaf eclipse #fnaf eclipse x reader #dca fic #fnaf dca #fnaf dca fandom #dca fandom #dca community

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rainbow-universe · 5 months ago

Text

dragging 'round a body (dead weight)

Attempted bottom surgery turns into secret relationship reveal? Click below for more!! Criminal Minds x DC Crossover Week Day 6 - Saturday, February 8th & Day 5- Friday, February 7th Day 5: Soulmate AU || Secret Relationship*** || Identity Porn/Reveal || “It’s actually safer to kiss.” Day 6: Lazarus Pits || BAU vs. the League of Assassins || Unexpected Allies || “Give a man a mask and he will show his true face." ***This can be romantic, platonic, or familial! The world is your oyster, be free! part of @criminalmindsxdc 's CM x DC crossover week!!

so this was inspired by one of Taxi's AITAH fics about the Lazarus Pit giving trans!Jason a dick and trans!Tim wanting one too, and an orphan_account's fic about Tim and Jason faking a relationship as their alibi for killing the joker (they did kill the joker but that's not the point) (both linked on the ao3 fic)

i had so much fun writing this one and it was also very cathartic at times. definitely self projected a bit at tim and reader in the middle there

Possible TWs: body/gender dysphoria, Pit rage?, explicit language, death, resurrection, batcest, etc

I know this isn’t for everyone so don’t like, don’t read, take care of yourselves

title from KMS by Sub Urban

cross-posted on ao3

wc: 3k+

flash warning for the gif below the cut

“What did you do over the weekend?” you heard JJ ask Spencer and Derek as you walked into the bullpen Monday morning.

“I read up on Allium haematochiton, also known as the redskin onion, native to certain places of California, and went to a Mitochondrial Psychobiology seminar on human energy and healing. It was really quite fascinating,” Spencer said, spinning in his chair.

“Of course you did, boy genius,” Derek teased playfully.

You reached your desk and put your bag down, still listening to your coworkers’ conversation.

“Oh, and what did you do, Morgan?” Spencer tossed back.

“I worked on one of my places, I’m almost done, just a few more things to finish up.”

“Good for you,” JJ smiled.

“JJ?”

“Henry had a playdate Friday night, so Will and I had some quiet time.”

“OoOoh!” Derek wiggled his eyebrows.

JJ laughed at his teasing. “And yesterday we went to the zoo.”

Emily walked up to their group. “Sounds fun.”

“And what did you do, Prentiss?” Derek asked.

Emily stuck her tongue out at him. “Chilled with Sergio and got caught up on the Real Housewives.”

“Ooh! What franchise?” JJ asked.

“Beverly Hills. Their drama is so insanely cathartic to me,” Emily laughed.

Derek called your name, and you looked up. “What’d you get up to, hot shot?”

“Umm…” You stared into space and thought about how to describe your weekend.

-----

It started with a text on Friday night, one of the days you were lucky enough to get off at a reasonable hour. You had been excited to have the weekend off too, ready to relax and catch up on things you neglected during the week thanks to your crazy work hours.

You’d just gotten into your apartment building when your phone buzzed. You pulled it out. It was Jason.

got an egg + mountain dew problem. come help me wrangle him.

Oh dear.

You turned around and headed right back out to the nearest Zeta tube.

Were you supposed to use them? Not really, but the Batkids had given you access so you took that as permission. Besides, this constituted an emergency.

You followed the coordinates Jason sent and stepped out into a Gotham alley.

“Thank fuck you’re here. C’mon, he’s gone rabid.”

Jason pulled you with him to his bike and tossed you an extra helmet.

You put it on and got behind him without question, but as soon as he pulled away from the curb you opened your mouth. “So, what’s the situation exactly? You were a little vague in your text.”

“Timmers found out that my dip in the radioactive Mountain Dew gave me a dick and decided he wanted to do the same thing, ignoring the fact that it gave me rage issues and other shit to deal with.” You could hear Jason’s scowl. You knew he was just worried from Tim.

“So we are going …?”

“To stop him, obviously. Brat’s already on his way so we’re going to steal the Bat-plane and stop him.”

“Ok.” Just a normal Friday night for you then.

Tim … was a slippery guy. He was smart and determined, which made him annoyingly difficult to catch up with, but you knew where he was headed, which helped. (There were only so many Lazarus Pits so you had a select number of locations Tim could choose from, narrowing your chase down.)

You caught him just before he could enter the caves, fully launching yourselves at him and grabbing onto him like a koala.

Tim, of course, could be as slippery as an eel sometimes. This was one of those times.

“Don’t you fucking dare, baby bird!” Jason yelled as he and you tried to wrangle him away from the mouth of the cave.

“Don’t try and stop me!” he yelled back, swinging his bō at you. Jason jumped over it and you rolled out of the way.

“Too late, we’re already trying to stop you,” you sassed and whipped out a sword to block Tim’s attacks. (Thank fuck, Zatanna had given you a sword charm upon request. You could carry it around, no one the wiser, and in necessary times like these, you could whip it out and have a weapon.)

“Did you learn nothing from my fuck ups? This is not the answer!”

“It’s free surgery!” Tim argued.

“With a bunch of side effects! You’re supposed to be the smart one!”

“Fuck you! I can be a dumbass if I want!”

“Tim, please,” you begged, blocking another hit with your sword.

“No!” he snarled and kicked up dust into your face and launched his staff at Jason.

You yelped and wiped the dirt out of your eyes. “Tim!” He was running through the caves.

“Fuck!” Jason swore and set off after him, you hot on his heels.

“Remember what happened with Jason!” you shouted, a last attempt to hold Tim off.

You caught up to him next to the pit. He was kneeling at the edge, staring into its depths. You went and knelt next to him. Jason stayed back. Hesitant.

“Tim,” you said softly. He didn’t move.

“I just want a body I like. I want to feel comfortable in my own skin,” he confessed, almost silently.

“Tim,” you started again, practically begging him to hear you. “I love you. I’m sorry your body doesn’t fit you right now, but you know that this isn’t the answer. Tim … darling … rationality and realities can be bummers. I wish we could mold our own bodies out of clay, give ourselves the bodies we’re comfortable in without having to jump through hoops and doctors’ appointments and evaluations and years of waiting. I wish we were given the bodies we wanted right away, without having to ask. I wish it was as easy as a suspicious looking bath, but it’s not. Jason didn’t choose to go in there, and he didn’t know what would happen. No one did.

“But there’s small joys in being able to craft your own body. It’s like pruning a tree, it takes time to form it into the big shape we want, but at any point we can decorate it with lights and ornaments and bows, until the time when it’s fully grown the way we pruned it. And even then, we can still decorate it.” You sighed. “I’m not sure exactly where I’m going with this, just that your struggles are valid. Being uncomfortable in your own skin is valid and wanting to change your body so it fits right is valid. But this isn’t the way, Tim, the ‘surgery’ might work but I think somewhere in there there’s a regret rate of 50%, as opposed to other ways. I want you to be happy. I want you to be comfortable, but I want you to be safe. This isn’t safe, Tim,” you whispered.

Tim took in a shaky breath and when you leaned down to see past his curtain of hair, you realized there were tears streaming down his face.

“Oh, Tim,” you breathed.

“I just want to not want to peel my own skin off,” he whimpered.

“Me too.”

You tapped the back of his hand to check his boundaries, and when he didn’t stop you, you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him into you.

You sat there together for a few moments, just breathing. Tim sat up slowly and disentangled himself from you.

You waited to see if he wanted to talk.

“Loving the emotional bonding that’s happening here but we’ve got company and not the fun kind. Unless you like being attacked. Like me. This is my kind of company,” Jason said.

“Alright, Tim-” you held out a hand “-let’s go, live to kick ass, say fuck you to society and gender norms another day.”

“I hate when you speak my language,” Tim said without heat, letting you help him up and grabbing his bō from Jason. “Let’s annoy Rā’s a little before we leave.”

“I’m sure we’ve already annoyed him by being here but sure, let’s make it worse.”

“Hell yeah, baby bird!” Jason shouted, shooting at the incoming assassins. You genuinely didn’t know what kind of bullets he was using.

“Bruce is going to have a fit when he finds out about this,” you said, pulling out your sword to fend off the attackers.

“If he finds out!” Tim called, swinging at more assassins.

If?? Oh dear lord, this was going to end badly, you just knew it. Wouldn’t stop you from continuing on the path, you were just prepared to say ‘I told you so’ to yourself later on.

Your phone rang. You glanced at it. Jason. You picked up.

“Yah?”

There was a cough on the other end, and not Jason’s cough.

“Hello?”

“Were you with Jason and Tim yesterday?”

“Bruce?”

“Yes.”

Ah. That was fast. You could tell yourself I told you so now.

Jason must be somewhere in the background, since it was his phone. You wondered if anyone else was there, was Tim? “Umm, what? Why?”

“A League base was attacked yesterday night. The Bat-plane has several hours of footage missing from its logs and Jason and Tim don’t have alibis for the suspected time period. Their alibi is that they were with you.”

“Ok, and? Yes, they were both with me.” You knew exactly what you did but no way in hell were you admitting that to Bruce. So, you needed to tell him a truth that absolutely distracted him from this interrogation.

“You were with Jason and Tim, yesterday night,” he said it like it was hard to believe. Maybe it was.

“Yes.” You had the perfect idea. You just hoped Tim and Jason wouldn’t want to kill you after this. It just needed the right introduction-

“Hn. And where were you?”

“Getting well acquainted with my bed,” you deadpanned. Oops?

The other side of the phone was silent for longer than Bruce’s normal pauses. Please let Jason and Tim go with it, dear lord.

“So no, we were not near any League base, Bruce, can confirm that Tim and Jason were in bed with me. At my apartment.”

There was a horrified snort-whine that you were pretty sure came out of Dick’s mouth in surprise.

Steph choked on a laugh. (At least you were pretty sure it was her.)

So if they were there, likely Jason and Tim were too.

“Are we done here?” you asked.

“The missing flight logs?”

You had to give props to Bruce for being unfailingly dedicated to his mission.

You pinched your brow. “Evidently, we didn’t want anyone to find out before we were ready to tell them. Yes, I took a Zeta tube to Gotham yesterday, yes, we stole the Bat-plane for a bit. We took it to my place.”

“The flight to DC is shorter than the deleted time. You wouldn’t have needed to delete that much time if you were just hiding your flight from Gotham to DC.”

You sighed. “No. But we … took our time. Hence the deleted footage.”

Silence. You wondered what Bruce was thinking. What everyone else was thinking.

You got your answer soon enough (at least, sort of).

“Don’t look at me like that, old man! My personal life is none of your business!” snapped Jason.

“Tim…”

“Why the fuck are you looking at him like that? Fuck you! I am a fantastic partner!”

“Polyamory does exist,” you added blandly. “I happen to be a practiser.”

“I am capable of making my own decisions, B,” Tim stated resolutely.

You wondered what kind of face Bruce was making when Tim added, “And if that includes dating two people then that’s my choice to make.”

“Fuck you, old man, give me my phone back, we’ve entertained you enough for the day.” You could hear Jason’s snappish voice get louder as he presumably stole his phone back.

“C’mon babe, let’s go.” You imagined Jason slinging an arm over Tim’s shoulders and politely forcing him out of the cave, not that Tim would necessarily fight him off, not to sell the lie.

“Have a nice day!” you called.

“See you later, sweetheart,” Jason said.

“Bye, love, talk later,” Tim said, and the line cut.

Well. You could certainly get used to them calling you pet names like that.

Tim and Jason showed up at your apartment a few hours later, presumably after they’d escaped all the prodding questions and interrogations from their family. You let them in.

“Faking a relationship to distract B? Bold move,” Tim said, taking his shoes off and walking further into your apartment.

“One that I respect, but also what the fuck,” Jason added, following him in.

You shrugged. “I needed something very distracting but believable.”

“Acquainted with the bed? Really?” Jason asked, spinning to look at you.

“What? It’s true! In a very unsexy way!” you defended. “We were cuddling in my bed for a fair amount of time. I’d say that’s getting very acquainted with it, not my fault most people would infer sexy times.”

Tim snorted. “I thought Bruce might have a heart attack for a bit when you said that.”

“Distracting. Like I was going for.”

“Fucking B and his judgemental looks,” Jason scoffed.

You snorted.

“We are going to have to actually fake a relationship for a bit. To make sure everyone believes it,” Tim said.

“I don’t mind,” you said. “I like you both. Sorry for springing it on you like that though.”

“’s fine, was a good idea,” Jason shrugged.

“It was. But now we have to sell it,” Tim said.

“After the shock of finding out is B really gonna believe it though?”

“You don’t think we can pull it off?”

Jason scowled and ran a hand through his hair, starting to pace. “We’re not that close-”

“Ouch.”

“No what I meant, bird brain, and you know it. Fuck, I tried to kill you. We don’t get along, we don’t hang out, no one’s gonna-”

“Not true.”

“Huh?”

“No, Tim’s right, we have been hanging out,” you said. “One, you and him are on much better terms. Two, I’m your friend so I’ve been hanging out at the Manor, so Tim and I have been hanging out more and we’ve become friends. So three, the three of us have been hanging out together. Four, well, Tim’s fallen asleep on me multiple times now and the three of us have ended up hanging out in silence or whatever. They could see that as … I dunno, bonding, feelings, et cetera. Anyways, all in all, we have been seen growing closer so it’s not too much of a leap (for the allos) to expect that they’d think we’ve … grown feelings for each other and started dating or whatever. And it’s not unsurprising that we kept our relationship a secret at the beginning either.”

“Besides, I don’t hate you,” Tim said. “I even had a crush on you when you were Robin.”

Jason was silent, emotions flitting across his face a mile a minute. “What?” Jason managed, looking as if Tim had dropped a bombshell on him. Maybe he had.

Tim blinked, not expecting that reaction from Jason. He shrugged. “Yah, I thought you knew.”

“How would I- Why would I- NO!” Jason exclaimed. “I did not know!”

Tim blinked again. “Oh.”

“I-” Jason cut himself off.

“Do you still?”

“What?”

“Do you still,” you repeated. “Have a crush on him. I mean, his thighs in his Red Hood pants? His forearms? His whole Red Hood look? His whole Jason look? Damn. My aesthetic radars (ace-thetic, haha) are screaming. That is to say, Jason, that I like your face. And I think you’re beautiful. Also, you’re very important to me and I love you.”

“Oh.” Jason almost seemed flustered by your rant.

“So? Tim?” You turned your attention to him.

He didn’t answer but he was also staring intently at your floorboards. You noticed his hands tapping out code on his thighs and the tips of his ears darkening.

“Do you?” Jason asked this time.

“Do you? Tim retorted, looking up to stare Jason down.

Jason blinked, taken aback, and you see the tips of his ears start to blush.

“You do!” Tim crowed.

“No,” was Jason’s kneejerk reaction.

“No?” Tim had a gleam in his eye as he stalked closer.

You watched them amusedly.

Jason held his ground, glaring down at Tim in front of him.

Tim went up onto his tiptoes to breathe into Jason’s ear. “You sure?” His hands trailed over Jason’s chest.

Jason’s hands twitched.

You smiled, barely holding back a soft laugh, enjoying the show.

Quick as a flash, Jason reached down and scooped Tim up and threw him over his shoulder.

Tim squawked indignantly, immediately squirming and flailing and yelling.

Jason carried him to your room. “We’re going to get reacquainted with your bed,” he deadpanned.

You laughed, following behind, watching them affectionately.

Jason tossed Tim on top the bed and jumped on top of him but this time Tim rolled out of the way fast enough. They grappled for a few seconds, you stayed where you were, laughing at them all the while.

“C’mon, stop fighting and let me on,” you giggled.

They let up and soon enough you were all cuddled up in your bed again. Jason and you curled around Tim. (Making sure he wouldn’t get away this time.)

“I don’t hate you. I meant that,” Tim said softly.

“I know, baby bird.”

It was quiet another moment.

“I … don’t either.”

“I know.”

“I like you,” Jason whispered into the air. You couldn’t help but think he had his eyes closed, to hide himself from rejection.

Tim didn’t say anything for a moment and Jason immediately backtracked, “You don’t have to- I mean-”

“I like you too. Like, like like.”

Jason snorted. “Nerd.”

“Says the nerd who’s obsessed with Jane Austen,” Tim retaliated.

“You’re both Nerdy Birdies, ok? Now quiet and let me cuddle you in peace,” you mumbled into Tim’s hair.

“We’re all nerds,” Tim declared.

“Ok, Nerdy Birdy.”

“Oh fuck you!”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Jason shot back, jokingly.

“Love asexual sex jokes,” you mumbled.

Tim and Jason chuckled too. You smiled to yourself as you felt their chest rumble. This was very comfortable, you thought to yourself.

There was another silence. Peaceful though.

“Does this mean we’re dating for real now?” Tim asked.

“I guess,” Jason said.

“Ok,” you agreed, sleepily.

“Ok, cool.”

Jason snorted. “Who’d’a guessed that we’d turn from fake relationship to real relationship so fast?”

“Not fanfic authors, that’s for sure,” you joked. You all snickered at that.

"We'll get you a dick, don't worry," Jason said in his sleep heavy voice.

"Promise?" Tim murmured.

“Promise, now go to sleep, baby bird.”

“G’night, Jay, night, love.”

“G’night.”

-----

Your coworkers looked at you expectantly.

“C’mon, hot shot, what did you do all weekend?” Derek asked again.

You shrugged. “Nothing much.”

“Aww, come on, give us more than that,” Emily laughed.

“Give us details,” JJ urged.

“Nothing much to tell, just stayed at my apartment, chilled, hung out.”

“With who?” Derek immediately caught your slip.

“Were you with someone?” Emily teased.

“Uhh.”

“Come on, tell us,” JJ encouraged.

You covered your face in your hands and blew out a deep breath of air. “I may, or may not,” you started slowly, “have been with my … boyfriends.” You couldn’t help but smile when you said that. Boyfriends.

“Boyfriends?” Spencer echoed.

“Yes.”

“Cutie pie! Did you have fun?” Emily asked.

You huffed a laugh. “Yes, yes we did.”

“That’s nice, you sound happy,” JJ said, silently supporting you.

“I am.”

“You’ll have to introduce us sometime,” Derek added.

You laughed. “Maybe,” you agreed.

~~~

thanks for reading!! feel free to rb and leave nice comments <3

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