#this is the last of the thoughts on the first four chapters | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zerocoded · 16 hours ago

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summary: your estranged grandmother left you exactly one thing in her will: a sprawling luxury apartment in the heart of seoul — the kind of place that could singlehandedly cover your entire college tuition if you ever decided to sell it. now you had a penthouse all to yourself, a pink-tiled kitchen you weirdly adored, and a hopeless, slow-burning crush on the absurdly attractive neighbor who barely looked your way.

authors note: banner credits > rockwsesx on pinterest, thank you. here i am uploading this big ass story when i should be totally studying for my finals next week. well, i can't help but be obsessed with these vampire ahh cuties. stream desire unleashed everybody! it is a good ass album. this is the first chapter of the story!!! i uploaded the prologue last week, you should check that first before reading this one. let's enjoy ourselves, i hope this one is at least readable.

warnings and tags: sfw content but suggestive • niki is our bestie and i hope we're ok with that • dark themes such as depression, melancholy, killing • landlord!sunghoon x reader • vampire!sunghoon x collegestudent!reader • gore, mentions of violence and blood • description of violence• HEAVY ANGST • poor attempt at comedy • fluff if you squint • bad writing • reader's dad has cancer • complicated mom and daughter relationship • family drama.

word count: 10.2k (pls someone sedate me)

prologue — pink tiles┃chapter one — the seonghyeon building┃chapter two — hydrangeas & homicide┃chapter three — six-hundred-and-thirty-three┃chapter four — do not flirt with your food.

you should’ve known this was exactly how your mother would reach out for the first time in seven months — not a call, not a text, not even a passive-aggressive emoji reaction to your instagram story — but a forwarded email from a lawyer with the subject line "regarding the inheritance of han ok-ja's estate."

no context. no greeting. just a pdf attachment and the words: "at least your grandmother left you something useful. don’t waste it."

that was it.

your mother, ever the poet.

and by good thing, of course, she meant a multi-million won apartment unit in seoul’s most absurdly exclusive building — a place you’d only ever seen from a bus window once during a high school trip, the kind of place you thought only politicians and pop idols lived in.

you hadn’t even known your grandmother owned an apartment in the city. hell, you hadn’t known she was still alive until she wasn’t anymore.

but that was the han family legacy, wasn’t it? generational silence, weaponized inheritance, and the occasional real estate windfall.

you grew up in boseong — land of green tea fields, gossiping neighbors, and a high school with a graduation rate that would make your seoul classmates flinch. your entire life had unfolded in two rooms above a butcher shop, where the ceiling leaked every spring and the walls knew too much about your parents’ divorce.

turns out college plans were ruined when you were only 12 and discovered your father had cancer — stage 3 colon cancer, to be exact.

you remember the way your mom said it like she was announcing a sale at the grocery store. no softness, no warning. just facts over kimchi stew. your dad, on the other hand, had tried to smile through it, like he was the one who should be comforting you.

you kind of always thought you would forever be taking care of him in boseong. after your parents’ divorce — at thirteen —, you knew no one else would be on your father’s side to fight cancer, so you only imagined that would be your legacy forever. no big dreams, no neon skylines, no designer buildings with their own saunas and private libraries. just him, you, and the rice cooker that only half-worked in the winter.

he was your best friend. he let you paint his nails when you were five and cried with you when your hamster died. he showed you how to ride a bike, how to swear in three different dialects, and how to make the best damn doenjang jjigae in the province. you would’ve done anything for him. and you did. you sacrificed your future before it even had a chance to form. quietly, without question. like it was just part of being alive — giving up everything for someone you loved.

and for years, he let you. even when the chemo worked, even when he got stronger, even when the worst passed and the only thing left was exhaustion and silence and the scent of hand sanitizer still soaked into the kitchen tiles — he let you stay.

but then you graduated high school, and he started asking. don’t you want to go? aren’t you curious about life beyond the fields? you’re too smart to stay here forever.

and by “smart” he meant that you had great communication skills and were part of the very small chess community of boseong — it consisted only of you and two old ladies.

you pretended not to hear him sometimes. because the truth was, you didn’t want to leave. not him. not your routine. not the only person who made life feel even slightly manageable.

it wasn’t until your mother’s email — short, cold, weaponized — that everything shifted. she hadn’t even mentioned the death, just the logistics. how your grandma died three months ago. how your mother and her brothers were waiting for legally open her will, how some of them took advantage, how they fought. and still, she had left something for you. her only granddaughter.

and when you told your dad, expecting him to scoff or curse or at least roll his eyes, he’d only smiled. that soft, sad smile that meant he’d been waiting for this moment longer than you had.

“go,” he said. “your life isn’t here. it never was.”

at first, you fought. seoul was never your main goal, you never dreamed of getting out of boseong and going to college. you were content with your two part time jobs at the local bar and at the grocery store. you always had good grades in school, good relationship with your neighbors and a great money reserve.

so you told him that you would never leave him and that you were content with your ok life in boseong.

but one night you got weak and searched about college applications just right after your shift. you could say the curiosity got the best out of you, and there you were perching in your bed with your laptop in hands in your dirty waitress uniform and greasy hair. at first, you really didn’t found anything interesting, until you decided to search up the address of the building your mother sent you.

you were surprised, to say the least. and for someone who shared the same bathroom with your own father for 10 years and cleaned tables as a way of living, your temptation to got to seoul changed a bit after that.

on the same night, your father told you to go. to let him go. let boseong go and live a life.

your life.

you talked to him all night, telling him about how you felt about studying topics you never heard of and living in a too spacious environment when all you have ever wanted was to take care of his sickness. he cursed at you so many times that night about your stupidity that you felt obligated to go and get a life beyond the fields.

so you packed. and cried. and pretended you weren’t terrified of being alone for the first time in your life. you moved into a stranger’s home — one who just happened to share your blood — in a building that felt like a five-star hotel married a haunted mansion.

seonghyeon jaega.

a building that at first made you feel too small, too out of place — all clean marble floors and echoing hallways and neighbors who looked like they’d stepped out of a luxury catalog. the hundreds of pictures of the place on the internet couldn’t get close to how the building was terrifyingly aesthetic inside and out.

and when you said terrifying, you meant it.

the lobby alone had three chandeliers, a grand piano that no one touched and a concierge desk staffed by a man who looked like he hadn’t blinked since 2003. the elevator played classical music, but not in a comforting way — in a this-is-the-last-song-you-hear-before-disappearing kind of way. there was a koi pond in the library for no reason at all, a fully operational greenhouse on the rooftop that smelled like lavender and secrets. the gym was nicer than most hospitals. the sauna had eucalyptus-infused steam and, somehow, free chilled grapes. and you swore one of the mirrors in the hallway moved half an inch every time you looked away. luxurious, yes. but also deeply cursed. like a rich aunt who only gives you money if you promise not to ask what’s in the basement.

you were so scared your first night here that you called your dad before even unpacking, crouched on the pristine floor of the guest bathroom because it was the only place that didn’t echo like a murder documentary reenactment. he didn’t know how to work his phone most of the time — had once accidentally live-streamed himself peeling an orange for nine minutes — but somehow, that night, he figured it out. he stayed on the line with you until you fell asleep, whispering his arsenal of stupid dad jokes like it was a bedtime ritual.

“what’s a vampire’s favorite fruit?” he asked, barely holding in his own laughter. “a blood orange, obviously.”

you groaned. he continued. “why did the skeleton break up with the ghost? … because he could see right through her.”

“dad,” you warned.

“okay, okay, serious one. what’s dracula’s least favorite dentist?”

“dad—”

“you. because you’d stake him for his plaque.”

somewhere between his third and twelfth pun, you stopped noticing how unfamiliar the apartment smelled or how quiet the building had become after sunset. it was just his voice in your ear, warm and ridiculous, reminding you who you were when everything else felt too big, too expensive, too not-you.

he kept talking even after you stopped answering, just in case you were pretending to sleep but still needed to hear him. he told you a story about the time he got kicked out of a supermarket for trying to haggle over cabbages, then promised to teach you how to cook galbijjim in an electric pressure cooker “once you stop being a fancy city girl.”

he called you that — fancy city girl — like it was both an insult and a title you’d earned.

and eventually, in that bathroom that smelled like foreign air freshener and existential dread, you fell asleep to the sound of his voice calling you brave in between bad puns about ghosts with dental insurance.

you hated every second of your sleep that night until you started decorating the next morning. with unpacked bags, you left your clothes in a sad little pile of indecision and focused on the real priority: comfort. not survival comfort — emotional comfort. aesthetic comfort. petty, personal, i-will-make-this-haunted-barbie-dream-my-home kind of comfort.

you didn’t have much, but what you did have mattered. mismatched frames, old polaroids, that ugly rug your dad swore was a “family heirloom” (you were 90% sure it was from a garage sale in 2007), your chipped mug with the cartoon bear that looked perpetually anxious — each item slowly carved a space for you inside all the clean, terrifying luxury.

and then there was the kitchen. the pink-tiled kitchen.

you’d thought it was a visual hallucination at first. a fever dream from sleeping on marble and grief. but no — it was real. baby pink tiles from floor to ceiling, gold handles on every drawer, and a retro mint-green fridge that looked like it belonged in a movie about a rich housewife who poisons her husband with artisanal arsenic.

the oven was smarter than you. the faucet lit up in LED colors when you turned it. there was a built-in coffee machine you accidentally worshipped for three full minutes before realizing it also made espresso martinis.

you’d never had your own kitchen before. not really. in boseong, the stove had to be turned on with a butter knife and a prayer, and your dad’s idea of spice organization was “vaguely the same shelf.”

but here, in this edible-looking kitchen that screamed chaotic heiress with secrets, you felt something shift. you didn’t belong here — not even close — but you could pretend. you could make it yours.

starting with the bear mug. front and center. because if the ghosts were going to haunt you, they were going to have to look at his anxious little face first.

you didn’t know much about your grandmother — except that she hated your dad, apparently tolerated your mom, and once sent you a birthday card with your name spelled wrong and five thousand won tucked inside like a truce. growing up, she was more ghost story than family member. the kind of woman who existed only in bitter phone calls and family reunions no one ever enjoyed.

so the fact that this pink kitchen — this frosted, weaponized femininity — had belonged to her was confusing at best and mildly horrifying at worst. did she choose this aesthetic? were the gold swan-shaped drawer pulls intentional? did she wake up one day and think, “yes, i want my home to look like a macaron opened a credit line”? and if so — who the hell was han ok-ja, really?

you were still staring at the gold-rimmed stovetop on your second night here, trying to decide if it made you feel rich or nauseous, when you heard it.

you didn’t know much about your grandmother — except that she hated your mom, apparently tolerated your dad, and once sent you a birthday card with your name spelled wrong and five thousand won tucked inside like a truce. growing up, she was more ghost story than family member. the kind of woman who existed only in bitter phone calls and family reunions no one ever enjoyed.

you were still staring at the gold-rimmed stovetop, trying to decide if it made you feel rich or nauseous, when you heard it.

voices.

the first sound of life outside your apartment since moving in — and not the unsettling creak of old pipes or elevator music that sounded suspiciously like a dirge. actual human voices.

you froze, mug in hand, heart thudding like you were the one trespassing.

you crept toward the door and peeked through the peephole like a responsible citizen-slash-nosey neighbor. and there they were: two of them.

two men.

not delivery drivers. not maintenance workers. not the faceless ghosts you’d imagined floated through these halls at night. these guys looked like they’d walked off a K-drama set about billionaire assassins. tall, sharply dressed, effortlessly serious. one had that slicked-back hair that screamed “i own three nightclubs and a moral dilemma,” and the other looked like he could command a room without saying a word. they spoke low and fast — something about “containment” and “asking jake later” — before disappearing around the corner like this was all completely normal.

you didn’t breathe until the hallway was empty again. and even then, only because your bear mug was fogging up the peephole.

you didn’t know who they were. hell, you didn’t know anyone here. the one person who’d helped you move in was the doorman with serial killer energy and an unsettlingly strong grip — and even he disappeared the second your last box was through the door, like helping you was part of some cursed blood oath he had to fulfill.

your college classmates weren’t much better. your entire winter prep course so far had consisted of awkward breakout rooms, muted mics, and staring at floating letters in google classroom. no faces. just ominous little circles with initials like “K” and “Y,” as if you were being haunted by the world’s most boring ghost cult.

so yeah. no friends. no neighbors. no idea if anyone in this building was even real. and you were introduced to the concept of “other residents” in the most dramatic way possible — via hallway mafia cosplay and mysterious murmurs about something that definitely did not sound legal.

you did what any mentally stable person would do: took a shower. hot water. calm nerves. fake a sense of control.

four minutes in — conditioner still in your hair, face mid-existential crisis — the doorbell rang.

you stood there frozen, water dripping down your back, just staring at the tiled wall like maybe you’d imagined it. maybe the building was playing tricks. wouldn’t be the weirdest thing.

but it rang again. twice this time. like whoever it was had the audacity to be persistent.

so you grabbed a towel, cursed under your breath, and padded across the marble floor like the world's angriest wet ghost.

and when you opened the door —

sunghoon.

you didn’t know his name at the time. you only knew he looked like someone who didn’t need names. the kind of face that belonged on perfume billboards and moody vampire dramas. sharp jaw, colder eyes, all cheekbones and contempt. holding your mail like it had personally offended him.

“your delivery,” he’d said. two words. no emotion. no explanation. just a stack of envelopes addressed to han ok-ja and a stare that nearly short-circuited your brain.

you stammered. tried to say thank you. dropped your conditioner on the floor like a dramatic prop.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t blink. just placed the mail in your hands and turned around, disappearing down the hallway like a final boss retreating after a tutorial level.

you shut the door and immediately collapsed against it, half-naked, half-mortified, fully confused.

you told yourself it was just a fluke encounter. he probably didn’t even live on your floor. maybe he was visiting. maybe you hallucinated the whole thing and the envelopes were cursed.

but then you started hearing more voices. always calm, always composed — unnervingly so, like they were narrating a documentary or conducting a negotiation instead of, you know, talking like regular people. they were different voices, too. distinct. male. low. not loud enough to catch the words, just the rhythm. steady. practiced. like they knew someone might be listening.

they came from the only other apartment on your floor — the one directly across from yours, the only other unit tucked into this absurdly private corridor. at first, you thought it was just the acoustics messing with you, echoing from the floors above or below. but no. the timing was too perfect. the pauses too measured.

so you pieced it together: those voices, the ones that made your skin prickle and your heartbeat speed up for no logical reason, belonged to your neighbors.

whoever they were. whoever he was.

so, naturally, you started stalking him.

you called it “gathering intel,” but really it was just you loitering in the hallway and pretending to take out the trash three times a day. you even got fake-lost once, wandering to the rooftop and pretending to marvel at the view — only to find him elbow-deep in a planter box in the greenhouse.

you tried to play it cool. like you just happened to stumble upon this botanical mysteryland by accident. he didn’t buy it. you knew because he didn’t say a word. just looked at you, one eyebrow raised, dirt on his hands, like really?

and yes, really — you made yourself a fool. not even the endearing kind. the talks-to-flowers-to-fill-the-silence-while-your-hot-neighbor-ignores-you kind.

you replayed every second of that encounter at least seventy-two times on your walk back to the apartment. all five meters of it.

you, standing like a lost sims character in his private garden.

you, talking about hydrangeas like they personally offended you.

you, saying “are you deaf?” to a man who could probably hear a moth sneeze through a concrete wall.

he’d told you his name. sunghoon.

no last name. no polite small talk. just sunghoon — like it should’ve been obvious, like he assumed his name carried weight in ways you were too human to understand. and maybe it did. maybe that was why it stuck with you so easily.

after that, you told yourself you’d avoid him. let the awkwardness fade, let time cover the whole thing in dust like everything else in this building.

but curiosity’s a bitch.

and so were you, apparently, because you started noticing things.

all the other residents vanished during the day — ghost cars coming and going at strange hours, silent hallways, apartments that never flickered with light. seonghyeon was supposed to be the pinnacle of luxury, and yet sometimes it felt like a very expensive haunted house. a place for the rich and restless to disappear.

but his apartment — the penthouse — that one was never truly still.

the door was always closed, always locked, always giving you shall not pass energy. but something about it pulsed with life.

sometimes, if you stood still in the stairwell long enough (not that you did that on purpose), you could hear it — laughter. deep voices. music, faint and classical one day, low and thumping the next. the clink of glass against glass. sometimes even footsteps pacing, like someone arguing with the walls.

and they weren’t ghost sounds. they weren’t echoes. they were unmistakably human.

which confused the hell out of you. sunghoon didn’t seem like the hosting type. he didn’t seem like the talking type, honestly. and yet… those voices.

you tried to rationalize it. maybe he had roommates. maybe he had a large, weirdly formal family. maybe he was running a strangely attractive cult and no one had noticed because they were all too hot to question anything.

you figured those two men from your second day here — the ones who looked like they belonged in a noir film or an underworld fashion spread — lived there too. the timing made too much sense. the way they moved, too — like the building was theirs.

and that made everything worse.

because, really — why were hot men living together in a penthouse? not just hot. alarmingly hot. HD-ready, slow-motion-walk-through-the-smoke hot.

either they were in a boyband you’d never heard of, or something weird was going on. and the more you thought about it, the less it felt like a fantasy and the more it felt like the start of an expensive psychological thriller.

you’d moved here thinking the biggest threat was going to be loneliness.

now you weren’t so sure.

between the mysterious roommates, the suspiciously symmetrical garden, and the fact that your neighbor might be the living embodiment of a victorian fever dream — things had shifted. subtly. quietly. but still.

which brings you to the present.

two weeks in. january air pressing sharp against your windows. your heating system suspiciously temperamental. your prep course schedule eating your sanity one unread syllabus at a time.

it was friday — the day after the greenhouse incident. or, as you now lovingly referred to it in your mind: the day you decided to mortify yourself in front of a hot cryptid.

you were doing your absolute best to pretend like it never happened. which was hard, considering the mental reruns your brain insisted on playing every time you so much as walked past a plant.

also, the silence. the kind of silence that felt too big, even for a place this large.

you missed your dad.

you missed the way he knocked on your door every morning even when you weren’t home. you missed how the house always smelled like burnt rice or old coffee.

here, everything smelled like luxury cleaning products and echoes.

you still didn’t know how to use the guest room bathtub.

you still hadn’t figured out which switch turned on the weird chandelier in the hallway.

you were still trying to remember what it felt like to not be new all the time.

which meant: staying indoors, drinking your weight in instant coffee, and trying to finish your college assignment like a normal, functioning member of society.

outside, seoul was a frozen postcard — january at its peak, all gray skies and the kind of wind that made your building moan like it was haunted (which, honestly, wasn’t out of the question). inside, you were wrapped in a giant hoodie, sitting cross-legged on your overpriced sofa, staring at a half-finished document titled “attachment styles and their long-term impact on adult relationships.”

it was due in four days. you’d written seven words. two of them were your name.

“jesus,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face as your laptop fan whined like it too wanted to give up.

your textbook lay open beside you, unread. you kept glancing at the clock, at your phone, at the kitchen — literally anywhere that wasn’t your word doc.

you’d already cleaned the counters. twice. rearranged the spice rack. googled “can someone have both avoidant and anxious attachment or am i just doomed.”

now you were debating whether “take a nap” qualified as productive.

and yet, no matter how hard you tried to focus, your brain kept looping back to one very specific visual: sunghoon. crouched in the dirt. sleeves rolled. that voice. those hands.

you groaned, flopping backwards like gravity owed you a favor.

this was a nightmare. or a romcom. except instead of falling in love you were just… spiraling. academically. emotionally. thermally, because your heater was already acting up again.

it was the end of your second week in seoul.

your father had called that morning, asking how you were adapting to college.

you hadn’t had the heart to say that you missed his jokes the most, that you felt embarrassingly late starting college at twenty-three, and that you hadn’t made a single friend over winter break because you were too busy staying inside.

not studying. not exploring. just… existing.

you told him everything was fine. you laughed at his dumb pun about kimchi being your emotional support food. you pretended the loneliness didn’t cling to you like an oversized coat you couldn’t quite shake off.

you were about to post a photo of your aggressively pink mug sitting next to your aggressively pink kettle when the doorbell rang.

you froze.

not because doorbells were inherently threatening, but because in seonghyeon, they kind of were. no one visited you. no one should be visiting you.

your mail was dropped in a steel chute. food deliveries left on the concierge table. you didn’t even think your bell worked.

you tiptoed to the door, peeked through the peephole — and blinked.

hoodie. messy hair. the boy who fixed your heater.

niki.

leaning casually against your doorframe like this was his fifth reincarnation and he was bored of them all. black sweatshirt, slightly messy hair, and a lopsided grin that made your anxiety spike for no reason you were ready to admit.

“hey,” he said smoothly. “sorry for the weird drop-in, but… do you have a printer?”

you blinked. “what?”

“a printer.” he nodded toward your apartment like this was totally normal. “ours died. jake forgot to refill the toner and now it sounds like a dying cat every time we try to use it. i have to print something urgent for heeseung before he gets back from god-knows-where, or i’ll never hear the end of it.”

he gave you a sheepish smile, like he was just another poor man, a humble victim of modern technology. “you’d literally be saving a life. maybe mine.”

“you don’t have a backup printer?”

“we have centuries of accumulated knowledge,” he said, deadpan, “but apparently none of it covers basic office supplies.”

your brows lifted.

niki smiled like he was proud of himself — then added, “also, you kinda owe me. remember the tragic heater incident of last week? i saved your toes. seems only fair you save my social standing with heeseung.”

somehow, niki was the only neighbor who actually talked to you. he sometimes sounded oddly flirty, in that way that made you question if he was joking or just naturally like that, but still — he was the only constant you’d had all week.

like that night in the elevator.

you’d gone out to take the trash in your sad-girl uniform (read: mismatched socks, your dad’s hoodie, and the kind of messy bun that was less “carefree” and more “actively falling apart”).

the elevator doors opened and there he was. leaning against the mirrored wall like the ride was a runway.

he looked at you, at your tragic ensemble, and without missing a beat said,

“rough night or bold fashion statement?”

you almost dropped the trash bag.

then there was the gym.

which, in your defense, you thought would be empty at noon on a tuesday.

you walked in ready to attempt some kind of fake cardio — only to find niki mid-rep, shirtless, earbuds in, glistening with the kind of sweat that looked like it came with a lighting crew.

you stood frozen like you'd just walked in on a pagan ritual.

he noticed you instantly — of course he did — and pulled out one earbud with a grin.

“didn’t take you for a gym rat,” he said, not even out of breath. “what’s your workout plan? anxiety and instant noodles?”

you left seven minutes later, sweating from embarrassment.

another time, you tried to sneak out for a night walk — hoodie on, playlist blasting, full stealth mode — only for the lobby door to swing open and reveal niki… balancing a tray of banana milk, three convenience store bento boxes, and what appeared to be a single lemon.

he blinked at you.

you blinked back.

“don’t judge me,” he said, as if you were the one caught mid-snack run with a lemon like it owed him money.

you weren’t sure if he was teasing you or had the personality of a teen movie star.

but either way, he was a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve — half charming, half cryptic, entirely unpredictable.

and now he was standing at your door, asking for a printer, like that made perfect sense.

niki’s company wasn’t uninvited, just oddly strategic.

you raised an eyebrow as he leaned casually against your doorway, still holding the suspiciously printer cable he claimed had “glitched” on him. you stepped aside anyway, motioning him in with a sigh that was more performative than annoyed.

not that you two were friends, exactly. but he made you feel comfortable — or at the very least, not like you were one bad decision away from becoming a true crime podcast episode. he seemed decent. normal-ish. like someone who held doors open and actually texted back.

so maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to give him a chance. maybe he could be your friend in this giant, freezing city. maybe you wouldn’t have to do this whole alone-in-seoul thing completely alone.

so you let him in.

“you know, most people text before showing up,” you said, stepping aside.

of course, niki had asked for your number last week — for safety purposes, whatever that meant.

“most people don’t fix heaters for free,” he shot back without missing a beat.

“oh my god,” you muttered, closing the door behind him. “you’re gonna milk that forever, aren’t you?”

niki grinned like a fox. “absolutely. you gave me banana bread and now i’m emotionally invested.”

you gestured toward your sad little work desk in the corner, where your overpriced student printer sat in all its barely-functioning glory.

“knock yourself out. just don’t ask me for help if it starts blinking at you.”

“don’t worry, i know how to handle old tech.” he crouched down, already plugging things in like he’d done this a thousand times. probably had. you watched him for a second — black hoodie bunched at the elbows, dark hair falling into his eyes, expression a little too pleased with himself for someone who broke his own printer.

“so,” you said, arms crossed as you leaned against the kitchen counter. “what are you printing that’s so life or death?”

niki didn’t look up. “building schematics.”

“schematics,” you repeated. “for, like… a building?”

“yeah. stuff heeseung asked for.”

you blinked. “okay, wait. which one is heeseung again?”

niki whipped his head around like you’d just insulted his bloodline. “wow. wow. you’ve lived here two weeks and you still don’t know our names?”

you raised an eyebrow. “should i?”

he leaned back on his heels, hand over his heart like you’d wounded him. “unbelievable. and here i thought we had something special.”

you rolled your eyes. “you literally showed up at my door because your printer broke.”

“and you let me in,” he said, finger pointed dramatically. “which means something.”

“uh-huh.”

he turned back to the printer, smug and all too pleased with himself. “anyway. heeseung. red hair, tall, stares like he’s reading your thoughts. very expensive skincare routine. kind of terrifying if you don’t know he listens to city pop while painting model trains.”

you blinked again. “he dyed his hair red?”

niki snorted. “see? this is how i know you only remember my name. scandalous.”

you opened your mouth to argue — and promptly closed it, because… he wasn’t exactly wrong.

niki grinned wider. “it’s okay. i get it. i’m memorable.”

“you sound like we’re actually friends,” you said, eyeing him. “which we’re not, by the way. i barely know you. and i barely see your friends — they’re like never here. or they vanish when i’m around. which makes you suspicious, you know that? because the only one i always see is you.”

niki didn’t even flinch. just kept clicking through printer settings like you hadn’t just accused him of being a walking red flag.

“of course i’m the only one you see,” he said. “i’m the most charming. obviously.”

you opened your mouth, probably to insult him, but were cut off by the sudden whirr of your printer coming to life. he looked genuinely pleased, like he’d just hacked into nasa instead of hitting ctrl+P.

“and voilà,” he announced, as the first sheet fed out. “proof that i am both useful and handsome.”

you blinked. “wow. incredible. now take your stuff and go.”

but niki — who apparently had zero intention of leaving — wandered away from the desk like he owned the place.

“nice place,” he said, inspecting your sad plant in the corner. “what’s this one’s name? depression?”

“that’s literally a peace lily.”

“ironic.” he flopped onto your couch, limbs everywhere. “is this real leather or vegan sadness?”

“niki—”

“oh, are these cookies?” he reached for the half-eaten pack on your coffee table.

you lunged. “those are mine! you can’t just— you’re not even invited!”

“i was invited by destiny,” he said through a mouthful of cookie. “and also, by the universal law of ‘i fixed your heater.’”

“that is not— that’s not how anything works!”

he stretched out like a cat, one arm thrown dramatically over the back of the couch, like he was settling in for a netflix binge. “this is nice. i feel very welcomed.”

you stared at him. “you’re a menace.”

“a charming one.”

“i should start charging rent.”

“sure. just add it to the list of things you pretend you don’t want from me.”

you threw a pillow at his face.

niki smirked, returning to the printer like he hadn’t just gone through your entire life via interior design. “just doing my neighborly due diligence.”

you rolled your eyes. “do you talk like this with all of the other residents?”

“only the pretty ones who lend me banana bread and let me into their apartment without asking questions.”

you blinked at him. he didn’t flinch.

“you’re lucky my pepper spray’s buried in my tote bag.”

“you’re lucky i’m charming enough to take that risk.”

you shook your head, but your lips twitched despite yourself.

a few more pages printed.

“met any of the other neighbors yet?” he asked, still fully sprawled across your very recently cleaned sofa like he paid rent here.

you sighed. apparently, this was your night now — your other cute neighbor (not the one you preferably wished was in your home but still cute, unfortunately) lounging in your living room and asking you questions like this was some kind of casual interrogatory.

you dropped into the only other chair — the one beside the shelf where a TV should be, but you still hadn’t figured out how to afford one when you were barely making your ramen-to-days ratio work.

you glanced over at him and answered. “not unless you count the old woman on the third floor who yells at the mailman in jeolla dialect,” you said. “i think she has a shrine to her cat in the stairwell.”

niki laughed at that.

“ah, mrs. cho. the patron saint of passive aggression.”

you grinned. “and then there’s the guy with the black porsche. not korean. definitely not even asian. i swear to god i’ve seen him in a movie before.”

niki lifted a brow. “short, built like a villain, always wears sunglasses?”

“yes!”

“that’s theo.”

you blinked. “you know him?”

niki shrugged. “he owes me two shirts and a very expensive wine opener.”

“…you hang out with western celebrities and still have to print psych articles on your neighbor’s shitty printer?”

“i’m humble like that.”

you gave him a long look. “so what’s the deal? why is this building full of ghosts and runway models? i thought this was just gonna be me and a bunch of rich divorcees. picking from my late grandmother's profile, this place was supposed to be crawling with silver-haired women named eun-sook and their lapdogs.”

niki just grinned, the kind of grin that made it very clear he wasn’t going to give you a straightforward answer, but he was absolutely going to enjoy not giving it.

“maybe you’re just circulating in different areas,” he said, casual as ever. “there’s also mr. park on the 10th floor. passionate filmmaker. made millions in the '70s. he talks to plants and wears velvet robes. iconic, really.”

you blinked. “…he’s real?”

“very.”

you squinted at him. “and what are you, then? the building’s unofficial tour guide?”

“resident heartthrob,” he replied without missing a beat, smirking. “printer technician. heater fixer. emotional support neighbor.”

you gave him a dry look. “you’re impossible to age, you know that? your face screams ‘freshman orientation,’ but you talk like you’ve been through at least two divorces.”

niki leaned forward, propping his chin in his hand. “i’m twenty-two.”

the way he said it was too smooth. too clean. like it had been practiced.

you stared at him for a second too long. “…sure you are.”

“what, you don’t believe me?”

“i believe someone is twenty-two,” you muttered. “i’m just not sure it’s you.”

he laughed, and you sighed. god, you just wanted to finish your essay before your stomach started announcing its abandonment issues. you’d eaten nothing but cookies all day. even your blood sugar was judging you.

niki’s papers were finally done printing, but he made no move to leave. instead, he wandered back to your couch like this was a regular hangout — like you didn’t have academic deadlines and a deeply tragic pantry.

“do your roommates also pretend to live here,” you asked, “or is that just your thing?”

niki hummed, flopping onto the cushions again. “depends. jungwon’s usually busy running the world, sunoo only leaves for beauty products, jay’s emotionally allergic to sunlight, and heeseung…” he paused. “well, heeseung’s redecorating his room again. new hair, new furniture. guy’s going through his third identity arc this year.”

you blinked. “he really dyed it red?”

“like full villain arc. he stood in front of the mirror for two hours yesterday practicing his ‘you dare betray me’ face.”

you snorted. “i should’ve picked him to develop a weird crush on.”

niki looked at you slowly. then grinned. wide. evil.

you realized, too late.

did you just… fully expose your newly developing crush to a guy who lived with him? really?

sure, niki wasn’t a stranger exactly. but he was also someone who very clearly lived off blackmail energy and chaos. someone who probably kept a mental folder labeled “leverage” with a subsection titled dumb stuff neighbor girl says.

and worse — he was sunghoon’s roommate. as in: shared a home. a kitchen. probably towels. probably saw him shirtless. daily.

your soul briefly tried to evacuate your body.

“you are very unique, you know that, right?” niki said, and for once, his voice wasn’t just joking. it was low, like he meant it. or at least like he was thinking about meaning it.

you raised an eyebrow, trying to play it off. “so you were the girl sunghoon-hyung was muttering about all morning. i thought he was gonna spiral.”

you blinked.

“what?”

niki didn’t move. didn’t even try to soften the blow. just looked at you like you were the one being slow.

“he was relentless this morning,” he repeated. “a lot, actually. and he doesn’t do that. ever. not unless something’s bothering him.”

you sat up straighter, suddenly hyper-aware of every heartbeat in your body. “and you… came here to print. not to spy.”

niki gave you a flat look. “i came here to confirm a theory.” he waved one of the printed pages like a prop. “the printing was just an excuse. i don’t actually care about heeseung’s floor plans. the guy’s redecorating again — it’s like watching a pinterest board have a breakdown.”

you stared. “so you think… sunghoon’s spiraling? and you came here to see if i was the reason?”

niki tilted his head. “he didn’t go out with the rest of us today. jay’s out. jungwon too. even jake finally left the building. which means whatever got him all twisted up happened here.”

you opened your mouth, but your brain hadn’t caught up yet.

niki crossed his arms. “so i asked myself: what changed yesterday? and then i remembered our neighbor,” he said, gesturing around your apartment like it was a crime scene. “who decided to play dumb in his private greenhouse.”

you groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “i didn’t decide anything. i got lost.”

niki raised both brows.

“mostly.”

he smiled. “you really thought he wouldn’t notice you wandering into his favorite place in the entire building?”

“i thought he was going to throw a rake at me.”

“nope. just internalized it and started spiraling like a man in a period drama.” niki leaned in slightly, eyes twinkling. “which, honestly, is kind of flattering. he usually skips the spiraling and goes straight to brooding.”

you buried your face in your hands. “i’m going to die. i’m going to be haunted by this for the rest of my life. tell no one.”

“too late,” niki said. “i’m emotionally invested now. this is my entertainment.”

“i was such a weirdo,” you groaned, hands still covering your face. “and—how do you even know? don’t tell me he’s the type to talk shit about women around his guy friends. please.”

niki scoffed. “sunghoon? no. he doesn’t talk bad about women. he doesn’t talk about women. or people. or, like, at all most days. that’s why when he started pacing the kitchen and cleaning the cleaned counter like he was trying to hex himself, i paid attention.”

you peeked at him through your fingers.

“it wasn’t mean,” niki added. “just... restless. confused. like you short-circuited something in him and he couldn’t figure out why.”

you groaned again and let your head fall back against the chair. “great. amazing. so i’m haunting him.”

“you’re interesting,” niki corrected, sounding way too pleased about it.

you sat up, arms crossed. “okay. fine. i admit it. he got my attention on the first day. but i didn’t know anything about him, so i went up there to check. just... to see.”

niki raised an eyebrow. “and?”

“and i made a fool out of myself,” you muttered. “i insulted his hydrangeas. i accused him of spray-painting flowers. i basically loitered in his personal sanctuary like some floral cryptid. it was a disaster.”

niki was grinning. “a disaster he’s still thinking about, apparently.”

you glared at him.

“what?” he said innocently. “he spirals, you spiral. soulmates.”

“get out of my apartment.”

“rude. but fair.”

“i’m sure you’re wrong,” you said, waving a hand like that would physically shoo away the entire conversation. “he’s probably trying to figure out how to get me evicted. he looked very not thrilled to see someone new, now that i think about it.”

niki raised both brows but said nothing.

“actually,” you went on, like a woman possessed, “he’s so fine it’s probably safer for me to just move back to my city. honestly. for my health. for public safety. i might actually die if i see him again.”

niki blinked. once. slowly.

then: “you’re unwell.”

you pointed at him. “you started it.”

“and i regret nothing,” he said, positively beaming now. “this is the best entertainment i’ve had all week. please spiral more. i’ll bring popcorn next time.”

you dropped your head onto the arm of the chair and groaned into the fabric. “please let the floor open and take me. right now. just swallow me whole.”

niki reached for one of the last pages still sitting in the printer tray, casually flipping it over like you weren’t mid-self-destruction. “nah. sunghoon-hyung would probably just water your ghost like a houseplant.”

you didn’t even have the energy to respond.

“did you come here to see my suffering? okay, maybe i am crazy. i’m having a mental crisis over a neighbor i barely know and who doesn’t even know my name.”

niki didn’t blink. didn’t smirk. just looked at you, completely serious for once.

“oh, he does,” he said. “i told him.”

your brain short-circuited for a beat. “you what?”

he shrugged, standing to gather his pages like this was a totally normal development. “you were spiraling. he was spiraling. i connected the dots. you’re welcome.”

“you’re— you’re insane.”

“you say that like it’s news.”

he tucked the last paper under his arm, then glanced around your apartment like he was memorizing it — or maybe checking to see if he missed anything fun. “don’t overthink it too hard,” he added, turning toward the door. “it’s not like you’re the only human who’s ever made him spiral.”

you froze. “wait— the only what?”

niki paused with his hand on the doorknob. then smiled. slowly. too slowly.

“neighbor,” he said, completely deadpan. “human neighbor. obviously.”

he opened the door. “night, mystery girl.”

and then he left.

you stood there for a long moment, staring at the door, trying to decide if you were hallucinating or just missing something very obvious. your heart was still racing, though you weren’t sure if it was from embarrassment… or something else.

and maybe that was what made you do it. maybe that’s why, ten minutes later, you were zipping up your coat, stepping into your sneakers, and making your way back upstairs — toward the one place that still didn’t make sense.

the greenhouse.

you weren’t sure if you were looking for closure, dignity, or just proof that sunghoon wasn’t currently chanting your name into his camellias. you just knew you had to go.

because something was off. and maybe, just maybe, you were finally ready to find out what.

——

you didn’t really have a plan. just your coat half-zipped, your phone shoved into your pocket, and a fuzzy memory of the stairwell leading to the rooftop.

by the time you reached the greenhouse, the wind had started howling louder, curling around the marble like it had claws. the door creaked as you pushed it open, hesitant — not quite sure what you were hoping to find. not even sure you wanted to be seen.

but no one was there. not yet.

instead, there was… stillness. eerie, clean stillness. the kind that didn’t feel empty, just waiting.

the lights were dimmed to that soft, golden low — like the whole place was stuck between late evening and a dream. the air was warmer here than in the rest of the building, humid and filled with the scent of damp earth, jasmine, and something vaguely sweet you couldn’t place. like something had just bloomed, or was about to.

you stepped forward carefully, eyes flicking from one corner to another. there were plants you couldn’t name — some domestic, some probably illegal, some tall enough to have a personality. there were shelves of tools that looked antique, a misting system that hissed like a sleeping cat every few minutes, and in the far back — the camellias.

you didn’t know much about flowers, but those had been the ones sunghoon was tending the last time you embarrassed yourself in here. they looked too perfect to be real now. which somehow only made you more nervous.

you walked slowly, brushing your fingers over a leaf here, a petal there. something about the place made your heartbeat slow down — not relax, but drag, like time was thicker here.

you reached the camellias. stared at them. quiet. then:

“if you start talking, i swear to god i’ll scream.”

no response. which was good. you weren’t ready for enchanted flora just yet.

you leaned against the nearest wooden post and let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

“i’m not crazy,” you told the flowers. “i mean, maybe a little. but he’s just a guy. a really… visually jarring guy. with plants. and beautiful hands. and maybe cult energy. but still. a guy.”

actually, now that you thought about it, your father would be losing it if he saw you right now — probably wheezing from laughter, maybe texting you articles about urban hallucinations, and definitely threatening to drag you back to boseong before you joined a handsome, plant-worshipping cult.

and of course — because your life was a joke — that was exactly when the door creaked open behind you.

you turned. slowly.

sunghoon stood in the entrance, hoodie pulled over his head, face unreadable under the warm light.

he was dressed so casually compared to the last time you saw him — exactly here, probably twenty-four hours ago to the minute — when he looked like he’d stepped out of a noir film in that trench coat that probably cost more than your tuition and shoes you were too scared to breathe near.

now it was just a hoodie. black, like niki’s. sleeves pushed to the forearms. sneakers.

he looked… human. more human than yesterday.

still, hot as fuck.

but you controlled your thoughts. barely.

“sorry that i’m trespassing again,” was your first move — because, naturally, you led with self-incrimination.

great. amazing. full confession. this man was definitely going to start locking the place now. maybe even file a restraining order.

honestly, you wouldn’t blame him.

he didn’t answer right away. you could feel his gaze, though — heavy, unreadable, like he was trying to decide if you were a threat or just stupid.

your embarrassment arrived a second too late. you turned your back to him, pretending you weren’t mortified and that the night view just happened to be that interesting.

and to be fair, it kind of was. this part of the greenhouse stretched farther than you realized — glass walls curved outward, revealing the full sprawl of the city below. lights blinked like dying stars. rooftops dusted with frost. your own reflection faint in the glass, barely outlined by the soft yellow glow inside.

you exhaled.

“i hadn’t seen this part yesterday,” you said quietly. “was too busy making a fool of myself in the front.”

still no reply.

you didn’t turn around. just kept your eyes on the skyline. “it’s pretty,” you added. “i mean—i guess you know that. you live here. obviously.”

you heard movement behind you. quiet steps on stone. then his voice — calm, low.

“most people don’t notice this part. too bright during the day.”

you blinked. “well. i only trespass at night, apparently.”

there was a pause. not awkward — just… full.

“you can keep coming here, if you like,” he said finally, gaze fixed on the orchid. “it’s nice during winter.”

you blinked. “is this special treatment because i became friends with one of your roommates?”

he glanced at you. “are you talking about riki?”

“riki? i swear it was niki.”

he laughed. and you absolutely weren’t prepared.

it wasn’t loud — just a quiet, breathy sound, like something slipped out before he could stop it — but it lit across his face in this rare, startling way. his lips parted slightly. you caught the sharp glint of his canines.

and for one irrational second, you felt your blood run cold.

those were long ass canines, my lord.

“yes, niki,” he said, finally looking away. “he goes by that too, apparently. he’s… troublesome. don’t fall for his traps.”

you smiled before you could help it. “thanks for the concern, but i think it’s too late. he literally invaded my apartment earlier today.”

sunghoon raised a brow.

“printer emergency,” you added, like that somehow justified it.

his mouth twitched. “sounds like him.”

you nodded, trying not to feel weirdly proud that he didn’t seem annoyed. that he was still standing there. that he hadn’t told you to leave. did niki say anything to him? god, if he did…

until then, sunghoon had kept a good distance between you both — a few careful feet, a plant or two, like the space between you was intentional. personal. you let it slide, thinking maybe he still thought you were unstable. (which, fair. you had trespassed. twice.)

still, you figured you shouldn’t push your luck. shouldn’t linger long enough to ruin the first actually peaceful moment you’d shared with him.

so, with slow steps, you began walking further into the greenhouse, fingers brushing gently over the edge of a planter, letting the silence settle.

the warmth of the space, the smell of wet soil and night-blooming flowers — it all pressed around you like a soft blanket.

you let yourself breathe.

“do you all live here for how long?” you couldn’t help but ask, voice low, like the plants might tattle.

sunghoon didn’t answer right away. you glanced back at him — he hadn’t moved from his spot, still half-shadowed by a curtain of ivy, the soft yellow light outlining the curve of his jaw.

“a while,” he said finally. vague. noncommittal. ancient-sounding.

you waited for more. didn’t get it.

“like... years?”

he tilted his head. “give or take.”

you squinted. “that’s not an answer.”

“it’s the only one you’re getting.”

you exhaled, half amused, half suspicious. so mysterious. so nonchalant. so suspiciously good at evading direct human timelines.

“you’re worse than niki at evading questions, god. are you all like this?”

sunghoon almost smiled — almost. just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he was debating whether you were worth the truth or just another nosy neighbor with too much curiosity and too little survival instinct.

“maybe it’s a roommate requirement,” he said.

you narrowed your eyes. “what, like a quiz? ‘how mysterious are you on a scale from 1 to dramatic rooftop monologue’?”

this time, he actually smiled. just a little. but it was there.

“you’d fail,” he said simply.

you gasped. “rude.”

“you talk too much.”

you grinned. “and you brood too much. balance.”

“actually, you’re the one who should be asking questions,” you shot back, turning to face him fully. “i got here first.”

sunghoon blinked, like he was momentarily stunned by your logic.

“trespassing doesn’t count as arrival,” he said flatly.

“semantics.” you waved a hand. “i was emotionally distressed. that grants me squatters’ rights.”

he let out a quiet breath — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh.

“you’re unbelievable.”

“and yet, here you are,” you said, gesturing between you. “still talking to me. maybe you’re the crazy one.”

he didn’t deny it. just glanced away, like maybe you were onto something.

“do you always go out with your pink phone case?”

you froze. blinked. stared. how did he—

“wait, you noticed that?”

sunghoon didn’t even blink. “hard to miss.”

your mouth opened, then closed. “it’s for the aesthetics. i like pink.”

he hummed, like he was storing the information away for later. or judging you. or both.

you crossed your arms. “don’t make that face.”

“i didn’t make a face.”

“you did. it was very i-expected-black-but-of-course-it’s-pink.”

he looked at you, gaze steady. “i expected lavender, actually.”

“do i give off lavender vibes?” you asked, genuinely confused.

sunghoon didn’t answer right away — just tilted his head slightly, eyes trailing over you in that unreadable way of his, like he was assessing your soul for color palette accuracy.

“sometimes,” he said. “but mostly… chaotic rose gold.”

you squinted. “that’s not a real vibe.”

“it is now.”

“you just made that up.”

“it’s a pretty color,” sunghoon said.

you blinked at him. “are you calling me pretty?”

“no.”

“that’s rude.”

“you should be at your apartment.”

you narrowed your eyes. “are you saying i’m ugly, then?”

he didn’t flinch. “beauty is about preferences. you can think a flower is pretty, but someone else might think it’s not the best.”

you stared. “are you a walking inspirational monologue coach? is that your side hustle? why are you always showing up late at night like some poetic batman?”

sunghoon looked off toward the glass ceiling like he was considering whether to dignify that with an answer.

“plants prefer quiet,” he said finally. “and so do i.”

you crossed your arms. “you’re so weird.”

and cute, you wanted to add, but decided against giving him that satisfaction. instead, you walked further into the greenhouse, letting the soft hum of warmth and the faint scent of soil wrap around you like a blanket.

the camellias were everywhere — climbing the trellises, tucked into carefully sculpted beds, blooming in quiet defiance of winter. pale pink, deep red, soft ivory. some petals curled like folded silk, others stretched wide like they had something to prove. you could tell someone tended to them with care. the kind of care that didn’t just water plants but listened to them.

tiny ceramic pots lined the shelves, holding herbs you didn’t recognize, some with tags written in what you swore wasn’t korean. there was a cluster of hanging plants near the center — spider plants, trailing vines, a few that looked carnivorous — and nestled between them, a tea set. just… sitting there. like someone had once hosted a garden party and forgot to clean up.

you weren’t sure how long you wandered, fingertips grazing leaves and petals, occasionally pausing to mutter something dumb like you guys get more affection than i do. it felt sacred in a way. not holy, but intentional. lived-in. like it had memories.

eventually, you saw him again.

sunghoon.

he was standing by the far end of the greenhouse now — in the same spot you had been earlier, overlooking the city through the large arched window. the skyline shimmered under the frostbitten night, a painting of silver and cold light. he was still. too still. hands in the pockets of his black hoodie, shoulders drawn back, head tilted just slightly, as if listening to something only he could hear.

you didn’t think. just moved. quietly, carefully, like your slippers might betray you.

he didn’t turn.

he didn’t seem to notice you at all — until you got too close.

you were maybe two steps behind him when it happened.

his body stiffened. violently.

his shoulders tensed first, like he’d been punched in the spine, then his head turned just enough for you to see it: the way his eyes had gone wide, pupils blown open like ink on paper.

then the wince.

his nose twitched, and in the span of a single breath, he stumbled back.

three steps. four. too fast. like he’d touched fire.

his face wasn’t angry. it wasn’t surprised, either. it was… pained.

like something disgusted him. or worse — tempted him.

you stood frozen between the camellias and the windows, confused and small.

he was staring at you like you were the ghost.

you stepped back too, instinctively — as if your retreat might undo whatever invisible boundary you’d just crossed.

“are you okay?” you asked, voice soft, the question half-caught in your throat.

sunghoon didn’t answer right away. he was still staring. still breathing like he’d run here instead of just been standing still.

his jaw flexed once, then again. you could see it — the way he was trying to keep his composure, to collect himself into something human, but failing spectacularly.

his tongue darted out to wet his lips, slow, distracted, and for a second you could’ve sworn you saw it — the glint of a canine too long, too sharp.

his eyes, dark and wide, flashed. not red. not exactly. but something burned behind them, low and glowing.

he took another step back.

then another.

“you should go,” he said finally. voice low. hoarse. like the words scraped on the way out.

you blinked. “did i… do something wrong?”

he shut his eyes for a beat too long. shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

“no,” he said, forcing a breath through clenched teeth. “it’s not you.”

and then, quieter — barely audible, like a confession he didn’t mean for you to catch:

“it’s me.”

you hesitated, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.

“do you want me to call niki? or a medic? are you sure you’re alright?”

his eyes snapped shut again. his voice was rough when it came out — like it hurt.

“please. you can leave already.”

you took a cautious step forward anyway. “should i go find one of your roommates?”

that’s when he flinched — visibly, violently.

“fuck—just stay right there. don’t move.”

it wasn’t anger. it was something else. desperation. restraint.

you froze.

his pupils were blown wide now, his chest rising and falling too fast. his hands trembled where they hung by his sides, like he was holding himself back from something.

“please,” he said again. this time quieter. almost a whisper. almost a plea.

you didn’t say anything. just nodded, slowly, and backed toward the door — one careful step at a time.

and the moment you were out, you heard it.

not footsteps.

not words.

just the slam of a side door somewhere deeper in the greenhouse.

like he needed distance. fast.

like he needed saving from something only he understood.

you didn’t look back.

but you didn’t stop thinking about it, either.

not even once.

author's note: i swear the more vampiric side of this story WILL GET HERE, just wait a bit more. pls don't leave me alone here, leave a comment pls pls pls. also, why is flashover such a good song omg. we WILL have sexy vampire sunghoon in the next chapter, you heard it here first. send me a request • my masterpost

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 3 days ago

Text

Weaponized | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Part Eight

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

Words: ~2,100

Series Tags/Warnings: Violence, Trauma, No Hogwarts House, Post Hogwarts, Auror!Sebastian, Auror!MC, Modern AU, Female Reader Insert, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Forced Proximity, Ancient Magic, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Betrayal, Reconciliation, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Divergent

Beta: @dreamy-gal-30 💚

Ministry of Magic, Restricted Records – London

The reinforced door gave a low thunk as it sealed behind Sebastian, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the restricted record room. The air down here was always a little too still. It was kept cold by preservation charms, sterile by design, meant to keep the records intact and untouchable. Like a crypt, he thought grimly.

He didn’t like coming here.

The last time he had, it had been to sign off on a field casualty report—Evans’ predecessor. It had taken him the better part of a week to stop replaying the last few minutes of that mission in his head. Before that, a reprimand appeal that never should’ve gone through. And now? A late mission log Hale had asked him to file manually due to “sensitive phrasing.”

Sebastian didn’t ask what that meant anymore.

Lately, the Captain had started handing him these odd tasks more frequently. Manual logs. Redacted cross-reports. Requests that had to be “personally approved” by someone in the chain. And Sebastian, not one to refuse a direct order, kept doing them. But the nagging in his gut was getting harder to ignore.

Especially after Southwark. And now Norwood.

Another botched intercept. Another tip that led nowhere. He kept going over the briefings in his mind wondering how the hell the smugglers always seemed to be one step ahead.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to focus. He needed to get this log filed, get some coffee, finish work, then maybe get more than four hours of sleep for the first time in as many days.

But instead, his thoughts drifted, unhelpfully, to you.

To that ridiculous envelope delivery. To your startled expression when you’d opened the door in those threadbare pajamas that you clearly hadn’t expected anyone to see. To the way your collar slipped off one shoulder and the half-panicked, half-furious way you’d dragged him inside when Moon had strutted out from under the bed like she owned the place.

He shook his head like it might rattle the memory loose.

Get a grip.

He reached the corridor marked Tier II-D, the one reserved for high-clearance incident records. Finding the correct aisle, he slid the file into the logging tray and pressed his thumb to the charm-seal on the drawer’s rim.

But something made him pause.

A sound. Paper sliding against paper. A drawer closing. His shoulders tensed. He turned the corner slowly, every step suddenly heavier than the last.

As far as he knew, nobody else was authorized to be in here.

And then he saw you.

Back to him, posture rigid, one hand still resting lightly on the drawer marked RESTRICTED - MNSTR INT OPS. The light from the hovering lamp above bathed your figure in a faint glow. Your uniform jacket was missing. Sleeves rolled up. Not quite dressed for an op, but not relaxed either. You were somewhere in between—focused, prepared. Like you belonged there.

Except you didn’t. Not unless someone very high up had given you access.

You didn’t notice him at first, you were too focused on whatever intel you were combing through. But for Sebastian, suddenly all the quiet questions that had been simmering in his mind for weeks started rearranging themselves, locking into place.

You were the variable. The anomaly. The reason why the smugglers seemed to know his squad's next move every single time, and why they always managed to stay one step ahead.

That had to be it.

And yet he’d let himself forget all that because of what he read in your fucking file. Because you had a cat. Because you'd pretended to be his wife in Knockturn and because he’d seen your hair damp and your eyes tired and convinced himself—for a breath—that maybe he’d been wrong about you.

But he hadn’t been. Of course he hadn’t. You were a Warden with a file that read like a cautionary tale. No attachments. No tells. Just a weapon from another Ministry walking through his squad like you already knew how it all ended.

Probably because she does.

Sebastian stepped into the aisle fully now, his boots clicking against the tile in a deliberate rhythm.

You turned.

Your eyes met his, and to your credit, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t scramble to close the file, didn’t fumble for an excuse. All you did was straighten slightly.

You’d been caught.

"Looking for something?" Sebastian asked, his voice sharp.

You didn’t look away. “Patterns.”

He raised a brow. “That’s a funny name for classified Ministry intelligence.”

“What can I say? I’m thorough,” you replied.

The sheer neutrality in your tone made his blood burn.

“Tell me what you're doing in here." He demanded.

You exhaled slowly through your nose. “Sebastian—”

He clenched his jaw, pulling his wand from his pocket. “Answer the question, Warden.”

Your eyes flicked to the open drawer, then back to him. You didn’t reach for your wand or make any move to flee, which somehow only made him angrier.

“Do you have any idea what kind of clearance this room requires?” he demanded. “That file cabinet—that one specifically—has three levels of magical locks and a trace charm that reports unauthorized access straight to the fucking Auror General of Southern England.”

You didn’t blink. “I know.”

“You know?” His voice rose, incredulous.

You stepped back slightly. “I have clearance—”

“—From Canada.”

Your brows knit slightly. “And Canada is an allied agency under joint surveillance protocols—”

“Don’t quote treaty code at me,” he snapped, moving before he could stop himself.

He slammed the drawer shut with a metallic bang, the echo sharp in the cold, sterile air. You tensed as he stepped forward, closing the distance between you in a few brisk strides.

He wasn’t thinking like an Auror anymore. He was thinking like a man who’d just realized the ground beneath his feet had been shifting for weeks, and you might have been the one kicking the fault lines loose.

“One chance,” he said coldly, wand raised. “That’s all you’re getting. One chance to come clean. And if I don’t like the bloody answer I’m marching you up to the Minister’s office myself and watching with a smile while they lock you up for espionage.”

Your eyes flicked to his wand.

“Nothing to say?” he pushed. “No clever deflection? No regulation to hide behind?”

You didn’t speak.

“You’ve been digging through classified intel, accessing records you’re not even supposed to know exist—”

Your hand came up slowly. Not to draw your wand. Just… to reach.

It landed on his wrist, fingers wrapping around the fabric at the edge of his sleeve. And that’s when he realized you were shaking. Not dramatically, but he could feel the tension in your grip, the tremor where your thumb pressed against the bone just above his pulse.

The touch was jarring in its gentleness as though you were asking him, wordlessly, to stop. And suddenly, Sebastian saw past the adrenaline and the fury and betrayal and just saw you.

He lowered his wand slowly, suddenly conflicted.

“If this is some kind of trick—”

“It’s not, Sebastian, I promise,” you assured him, "I... I swear I can explain. But not here."

Sebastian’s mouth opened, closed. His voice, when it came, was quieter this time, still edged with mistrust, but less like a threat.

“Fine. But where?” he asked.

Auror Division Headquarters, Personal Quarters – London

Moon was curled up on Sebastian’s lap, purring like she belonged there—utterly content, utterly unaware of the tension crackling in the room. Sebastian hadn’t moved her. Not because he was comfortable, far from it, but because his entire body was taut with tension.

You stood in front of the door, more anxious than Sebastian had ever seen you. Not like before a mission, though. This was different. Restless. Uncertain. Your arms were folded like you were holding yourself together.

Finally, you spoke.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

Sebastian arched a brow. “You mean you didn’t want me to find out at all.”

You winced. “Not until I knew more.”

“About what?” he asked, voice sharp despite himself.

Your lips parted, then closed again. You glanced down at the floor. When you looked up, your expression had changed.

“...I think someone inside the British Ministry is green-lighting artifact flows.”

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

You swallowed hard and continued. “Tipping off smugglers. Authorizing them. Covering for them. I’ve got evidence. And the reason I didn't tell you earlier is because… I don’t know who the hell I could trust.”

Sebastian’s jaw worked silently, teeth clenched hard enough to hurt. You, a foreign operative, thought someone inside the Ministry was authorizing artifact flows? Smuggling, sanctioned from the inside? It was insane. Except—

Except it wasn’t.

Not when he thought about Southwark. Norwood. All the goddamn missions that had gone wrong. Not when he thought about Hale’s weird task assignments, the manual filings, the reports with redaction that never quite made sense.

Sebastian stared at you. “…You said you have evidence?”

You sat across from him on the edge of your bed, slowly, like you were afraid to make any sudden movements lest Sebastian hex you. Then, wordlessly, you reached into the drawer beside you and pulled something out.

Sebastian’s gaze tracked the movement, instinctively tense, but all you withdrew was a single piece of parchment, folded so many times it looked like you’d tried to make it disappear.

You smoothed the creases out carefully and laid it flat between you on the blanket. Sebastian leaned forward slightly, expecting… something. An old dispatch? A photograph? Some stamped Ministry form?

But it was blank. Utterly blank.

His brow furrowed. “Is this a joke?”

You didn’t even look at him. Just lifted your wand. Suddenly, ink bloomed across the surface like water over dry earth.

Immediately, Sebastian’s eyes reached for the page, mouth tightening as he read each line. The phrases were clipped, but he could still piece together the meaning.

"Two quiet discharges in Artifact Control." "One MIA."

It wasn’t just internal speculation. This was cross-border correspondence. Canadian correspondence.

"You looped them in,” he said quietly.

“I had to. I needed confirmation from outside."

Sebastian’s jaw flexed. “Because you thought I was part of it.”

“I thought I might have to be ready if you were,” you corrected, not unkindly. “I didn’t want to think it."

He looked away for a moment. He couldn't blame you for being cautious, and it really shouldn't have stung. But for some reason it did.

“...Is this the letter I dropped off?" He asked.

Softly, you said, “Yes.”

Sebastian sighed heavily and leaned back against the edge of your desk, Moon stretching slightly as he shifted.

“No wonder you didn’t open it right away,” he said at last.

You gave a small shrug. “Didn’t want you seeing my face if it said what I thought it might."

Sebastian exhaled through his nose as his hand drifted back to Moon, who immediately rewarded him with a contented purr, like none of this could possibly matter as long as someone kept petting her.

“...I turned on you,” he said at length. “Back there at the Ministry. The second I saw you in that room, I assumed the worst.”

You shrugged, the motion small. “You found me rifling through classified intelligence with no warning. It looked bad.”

“Still,” he said, “I should’ve—fuck, I don't know. I should’ve trusted what I’ve seen from you these past weeks, not just what I feared.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “But I didn’t. I went straight for the wand. Straight for the accusation. Like everything you’ve proven to me didn't mean a damn thing.”

You shifted where you sat, arms folding over your chest. “You weren’t the only one questioning things. I’ve been second-guessing everything. Every conversation. Every decision. I... I want to trust you, Sebastian. But trust isn’t something I can afford to hand out just because I want to."

You sighed, gaze dropping to your hands.

“I can’t even remember the last time I trusted someone that wasn’t Moon,” you said, voice dry. “And she only got a pass because she can’t talk.”

Sebastian let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh.

You didn’t smile.

“I’ve been reassigned more times than I can count. New teams. New countries. New protocols. I get dropped in, do the job, and leave." You shrugged. “Doesn’t exactly make friendship easy. Let alone trust.”

Sebastian was quiet for a long moment, watching you. You still sat like a soldier, spine straight, shoulders square, but the words coming out of your mouth weren’t standard issue, they were personal. Painfully so.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Well... you’re not alone anymore.”

Your gaze lifted at that, cautious but curious.

“I mean it,” he said. “This thing—whatever it is—it’s bigger than one Warden poking through filing cabinets. And it sure as hell isn’t something you should be handling alone.”

A beat passed, then he added, “And I know two people we can trust."

You raised an eyebrow.

“Garreth Weasley and Ominis Gaunt,” he said.

“Garreth,” you echoed skeptically. “The lieutenant that kept making me wipe up coffee off the floor? That Garreth?”

Sebastian snorted. “Yeah, that one.”

You gave him a flat look.

“I know, I know,” he said placatingly. “I’ll make sure he apologizes for letting the officers get away with their bullshit. And for his own. But Garreth’s a good guy, I’ve known him since we were 11. We can trust him.”

You hesitated, then nodded slowly. “And Gaunt?”

Sebastian’s expression softened. “He’s been defending your honor against Weasley and I since you showed up,” he admitted. “And he’s also my best friend.”

“And you think they’ll help?” you asked.

“I know they will,” Sebastian said. "We'll tell them everything we know, and then we can start figuring out how deep this goes.”

You nodded, solemn now. “...And if it goes all the way to the top?”

“Then we dig it out,” he said. “Root and fucking stem.”

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vampishnes · 2 days ago

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Sanguine Hunger: Caring About Ourselves

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five Pairings: Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader, Platonic!Thunderbolts & Fem!Reader, Summary: Waking up in the medbay Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’. Female reader. Slow burn! Found family, 'slice of life', Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Graphic Depiction of Medical Trauma, Blood & Injury, References to Past Trauma, Loss of Bodily Autonomy. Word count: 3.1k A/N: My little hiatus is now over; back to regularly scheduled posting!

You stirred before your eyes opened. You hardly registered the subtle weight of a blanket tucked around your body and the uncomfortable stinging at the inner edge of your arm.

The lights above you were dimmed to a low hue, probably on account of whoever dragged you in knowing the last thing you’d want to see was bright hospital lights. Your lashes fluttered open slowly; your vision adjusted in broken pieces: a blood bag suspended beside your head, the unmistakable silhouette of Bob in the corner.

His head slumped over to the side, arms crossed loosely over his chest in a way that said he’d been waiting for hours. There was a small pile-up of books on the floor beside him; how long had he been here?

Questions spun in your head, but all you heard was the primal scream to rip out the needle. Now. Common sense dissolved beneath the urge as your hand frantically clawed at your inner elbow, nails dug into the tape that secured the needle. The moment the adhesive gave, you yanked.

A hot jolt of pain surged, and blood welled instantly — you forced the blood back in before it could threaten to spill over the white hospital sheets. Your breath hitched as you tried to will the blood to clot with your powers, but you were too weak, barely able to coax even the smallest scab into forming.

Your throat rasped with every breath. Slipping your legs off the side of the bed, they didn’t feel like yours; sluggish and aching with every move. That didn’t stop you as you shoved off the mattress, bare feet hitting the cold floor like you could outwalk the bitter memories gnawing at the corners of your mind.

Your knees buckled on impact. Bob caught you before you could hit the ground, arms looped around your waist with your back flush against his front. “You’re not strong enough yet,” he said, voice low. “You need rest.”

“I can’t stay here, Bob. I can’t.” You instinctively curled away from him, arms scrambling for the bed to brace yourself. His hands lingered for a moment at your waist before slowly withdrawing; he lowered himself into the chair beside the bed.

You gritted your teeth, jaw clenched as your arms shook from the effort of holding yourself up. Your fingers pressed cold against the rough mattress. “What happened?” you asked. “How long was I out?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He stared down at his hands, his thumb brushing over a crease in his jeans. “Three days,” he said finally. “You’ve been in a coma for three days.”

You blinked, staring at the floor as if it could somehow make sense of the lost time. “Three days?” you repeated. “I was only… I thought—”

“You hardly made it into the Quinjet,” Bob cut in. “Your vitals were crashing, your powers were… all over the place. You were burning through blood faster than we could get it in you.”

Three days where your body had been a battlefield without your mind present to witness it. Three more days stolen, tacked onto the seventy-year coma you'd already endured. Your body convulsed in a sudden, involuntary shiver.

“I hate hospitals.” You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes for the first time. His eyes were rimmed in red, not from crying, no. Bob didn’t wear his grief so obviously, but from nights spent in a chair with no sleep and too much silence.

Bob leaned forward, slowly lifting a water bottle from the bedside stand. “Sip?” He offered gently. You hesitated, then nodded. He twisted the cap open and offered it to you, waiting patiently as you brought it to your lips. The water was lukewarm but soothing, washing the bitterness from your throat. You only managed a few gulps before your arms started shaking again. He took the bottle wordlessly, setting it down as if this was all perfectly normal.

“Have you even left?”

“I didn’t want you waking up alone.”

The words you needed to say felt out of reach. Thank you. I'm sorry. Anything that didn’t feel like blood in your mouth. Instead, the confession that came out was, “I kept dreaming I was back there, and suddenly I woke up, and I'm in another lab. I can’t stay here.”

Bob’s brows twitched, but he didn’t speak; he didn’t need to. You both knew what “there” meant: the cold marble, the needles, the white coats, the scalpels slicing every vein in your body.

“I couldn’t move,” you continued, voice thin. “Like my body wasn’t mine. Like I was just… feeling it happen all over again.”

Bob reached forward, his hand curling around yours where it lay limp on the bed. It wasn’t a squeeze, just a presence. A tether. “You’re not there,” he said. “I have you.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him. But rage clawed its way up your throat — the thought of being forced into a coma, of losing even more time, was unbearable. You knew it wasn’t anyone’s fault, least of all Bob’s, but that didn’t stop you from pulling your hand away from his gentle touch and running your fingers through your hair. Needing something to do with the tension humming under your skin.

A knock came shortly after, two short raps against the metal frame of the door before it creaked open. Bob straightened but didn’t rise. You turned your head toward the sound, heart kicking hard in your chest.

Yelena poked her head in first. “We are ok to come in, yes?” she said, already halfway inside before waiting for permission. “You are looking remarkably less dead than earlier.” She sat beside you, eyeing you up and down. A small sound escaped you, not quite a laugh. Still, Yelena’s mouth tilted into a satisfied smirk.

Alexei, vibrating with barely contained anticipation, produced a large black garment bag from behind his back. “We bring gift!” You tilted your head, genuinely bewildered. With a sharp tug, he ripped the zip down. The bag’s front panel fell away, revealing your tactical gear. Albeit, a slightly different version of it. “Your old one was destroyed!”

You closed your eyes and the memory surged: flames devouring the Kevlar fabric, stitch by agonizing stitch. Almost instinctively, your fingers drifted behind you, tracing the skin of your back. Only smoothness met your touch. No scars. The coma had erased even that.

A headache pulsed behind your eyes as you forced your gaze forward. Your gear was nearly identical to pre-incident, except for the bold 'New Avengers' emblem now embroidered on the side.

“Were you just waiting for me to die so you could make me officially part of the team?”

Ava’s voice cut from behind Bob’s shoulder. “You’ve been official for eighteen months.” She stood rigid, arms locked tight across her chest. The sterile, medical air seemed to press on her just as heavily as it did on you.

“Don’t remind me,” you muttered, offering Alexei a weary nod of thanks as he set the gear aside. “Someone kill me again.”

Yelena rolled her eyes beside you and tapped your thigh twice before standing up; her eyes fluttered to the hanging needle and the gash in your arm. “I have a strange feeling you’re not going to stay here once we leave.”

“Correct,” you responded.

John cut in, exasperated. “The doctor ordered bed rest. A week, minimum. You just woke up.”

“I can recover in my own room,” you countered, meeting his gaze head-on despite the persistent throb in your head.

“You needed help sitting up ten minutes ago,” Bob murmured, his voice unexpectedly joining the fray. Your head snapped toward him, a jolt of confusion tightening your chest. Now he chimed in?

“Fine,” you bit out. “Bob can stay with me. In my actual room.” Exhaustion made your head feel stuffed with cotton. “He can babysit. Make sure I don't crack my head open or whatever bullshit you all think I'm gonna do.”

Bob’s head snapped toward you. Yelena stared, her expression raw with genuine shock. Around the room, you could almost hear the suppressed jokes straining behind clenched teeth. Ava had raised her eyebrows sky-high, looking faintly amused.

Only Bucky remained motionless. He’d been a brooding silhouette against the door frame since the start, arms locked across his chest. His gaze was heavy and unyielding beneath fiercely knitted brows as he pinned you with a judgmental look.

Bob pushed himself up with a groan, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. “I’m going to shower then,” he announced, scrubbing a hand over his face. His gaze flickered over the group before settling on you. “I can help you upstairs when I'm done?”

“I've got her, Bob. Take a break,” Bucky said, stepping away from the door frame where he’d been leaning.

One by one, the others began to move out the door as well. Yelena gave a small nod, folding her arms tighter, the smirk fading into something softer. Alexei hoisted the garment bag over his shoulder; John lingered a moment longer, shooting a look at Bucky before turning to you. “Rest is non-negotiable. You hear me?”

You gave a tired nod. He was right, of course. But following orders, even sensible ones, had never exactly been your strong suit.

As the others footsteps faded, leaving only you and Bucky in the sterile quiet, the air thickened with everything he’d held back. Bucky crossed the small distance; the chair sighed softly as he took his place beside you.

“How are you?” His voice was low, rough gravel scraping against the quiet.

You stared at the ceiling, the fluorescent lights blurring in your vision. “Like shit, and if I spend one more minute trapped in this fucking room, I swear I’ll crawl out that window.” The words tasted bitter. “A coma? Really, Bucky? My body heals. It always has.”

He didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened. “You were dying. There wasn’t time for consent forms or debates. Your organs were shutting down.”

“And the only reason those doctors knew how to save me,” you shot back, turning your head to pin him with a sharp look, “was because you told them. You knew. You knew what it meant to me – to lose control like that. After everything. Again.”

“The choice wasn’t easy.”

“Well, isn’t that fucking rich?” A brittle, humourless laugh escaped you. “At least you got a choice.”

That finally broke something in him. He leaned forward, his metal hand clenching on his knee. His gaze, when it met yours, was stripped bare.

“You think I could stand it? Watching you die? I tried, God, I tried to turn away. Tried to tell myself it was what you’d want, that I should respect it. But I couldn’t.” His voice fractured. “I couldn’t stand the look on Bob’s face when they held him back – the sound he made when you stopped taking the blood. I couldn’t… I can’t lose you. Not after Wakanda. Not after Siberia. Not after every damn time you dragged me back from the edge. I had a chance. Just one chance to save you. How could I walk away from that?”

“You could’ve walked away,” you said, voice tight with accusation, “I wish you did.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, a flicker of regret in his eyes. “I wish I could say I’m sorry,” he admitted, voice low. “But I’m not. This team wouldn’t survive without you. Hell, I don’t even know what I’d do without you. And Jesus… Bob.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Bob would be fine without me.”

He shot you a look, half exasperated, half amused. “You must be an idiot or lying to yourself. You don’t think I see you two always together? The poor kid wouldn’t leave this room unless I promised to stay in his place.”

“We’re not together,” you muttered, eyes flickering away.

Bucky leaned closer, his voice softening. “Do you want to be?”

Your breath caught. “I—I don’t…”

You trailed off, eyes flickering away. Your fingers twitched, brushing against the edge of the bed, then curling into a loose fist. For a moment, your mind raced through every stolen glance, every quiet moment with Bob, the way your pulse quickened, the warmth that lingered long after he’d left the room. You bit your lip, swallowing the denial curling in your throat, unable to meet Bucky's steady gaze.

“Look, don’t be stupid like we were. Just tell him. He cares about you, even if you don’t see him the same way.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I never said that.”

“Enough with your relationship problems,” Bucky grumbled, standing and offering a hand. “Let’s get you to your room.”

You smirked despite yourself, “You sure you’re going to be able to help me up, gramps?”

“You do remember you’re only eight years younger than me, right?”

You stared at his hand hesitantly for a moment, not because you didn’t trust him but because you didn’t trust your legs. But you slid your fingers into his anyway. His grip was solid, the callouses on his palm felt familiar. He helped you ease to your feet with careful patience, his metal arm sliding under your waist.

It anchored you physically, but your thoughts drifted helplessly back to the encompassing warmth of Bob’s hold, the surprising gentleness of his hands. Bucky’s blunt question resurfaced, churning in the silence between steps: Do you want to be?

The ache in your limbs flared, sharp and immediate, but you gritted your teeth and nodded. One foot in front of the other. Your bare feet were ice against the cool tile, and you were suddenly hyper-aware of the too-thin hospital gown and the sharp draft that cut through the halls.

You made it to the elevator just as your knees threatened to fold again. Bucky reached forward and hit the call button. The doors opened with a mechanical ding, and he guided you in.

You glanced up at the mirrored panel above the buttons and caught your reflection: exhausted. “You’d think three days of sleep I’d look a little less terrible.”

The elevator hummed to life, and you leaned against the cool metal railing, letting it carry your weight, while Bucky watched you from the corner of his eye. The elevator dinged, your floor.

Bucky reached out again, hand gentle as he helped you through the hallway. The lights here were warmer, dim gold rather than sterile white. You hated how grateful you were for it. Your door slid open as you approached, and the familiar scent of your own space hit you.

Hobbling towards the end of the bed, you lowered yourself down with a wince. “Pyjamas,” you managed, the word clipped. Bucky crossed to the wardrobe in two strides, flung it open, and rifled through the contents. He emerged moments later, tossing a worn pair of shorts and an oversized top onto the mattress beside you.

“I'll leave you to it,” he said, already at the door. “Doubt Bob will be long.” His hand paused on the frame. “Call if you need me. And don't forget what I said.” The door clicked shut behind him.

Gritting your teeth, you pushed yourself upright again, the simple motion sending fresh waves of dull ache through your core and back. Every muscle protested. Getting the gown off was its own humiliating ordeal. Your fingers fumbled with the ties, clumsy and weak.

Finally free of your previous clothes, you reached for the shorts. Lifting your legs felt like moving through tar. You braced one hand heavily on the mattress, knuckles white, as you awkwardly manoeuvred one foot, then the other, through the leg holes. Pulling them up over your hips required a risky lean and a surge of effort that left you panting. Leaning back against the mattress, your eyes closed against a brief wave of dizziness.

Bob’s arms holding you… the warmth… the softness…

Shoving the thought down, you grabbed the oversized top. Slipping it over your head was easier, the soft, familiar cotton swallowing you whole.

Outside the door, muffled footsteps sounded in the hallway. Your breath hitched. Bob. A flutter of something entirely new – nervousness? Anticipation? Dread? — joined the exhaustion churning in your gut. The quiet room suddenly felt charged again, waiting.

“It’s open.”

The door slid open and Bob stood in the doorway, freshly showered. His damp hair was darker, pushed back from his forehead, and he wore clean, soft-looking grey sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt that stretched slightly across his shoulders.

He stepped inside, the door hissing shut behind him. His gaze swept the room, taking in the familiar clutter, the dimmer lighting you preferred, the view out the window at the city lights below, before finally landing on you. He hovered near the door for a moment, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “Made it up okay?”

“Yeah. Bucky's a pretty good crutch,” you replied, managing a weak shrug that hurt more than it should. He took a tentative step further into the room, stopping near the foot of the bed. His eyes darted to the empty space beside you, then back to your face.

He looked strangely uncertain, maybe even a little lost. The Bob who’d held you steady in the warehouse, whose voice had trembled with emotion. Bucky’s words echoed: He cares about you.

“Bob,” you started, your voice catching. You quickly cleared your throat before continuing. “About… about me asking you to stay…” He held up a hand, stopping you.

“You don't need to explain. Or apologize.” He met your eyes directly, the blue seeming clearer in the warm light of your room. “I get it. The medbay… it’s suffocating. Especially after…” He trailed off, not needing to name the nightmares. “If being here helps, then I'm here. Babysitting duty accepted.”

He finally moved closer to you, settling himself down on the empty space beside you instead of the chair further off.

“I slept for three days, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.”

“I know the feeling,” Bob murmured. “Sleep, if you can. I'll be right here.”

The warmth you’d remembered from his hold in the medbay seemed to emanate from him now, a quiet, steady heat. The nervous flutter settled, replaced by a different kind of ache, a longing for that warmth, for the safety it promised.

Bucky’s question wasn't just churning; it was pounding against the walls of your heart. Do you want to be? Looking at him, the lines of worry etched around his eyes, the quiet strength in his posture even as weariness pulled at him, the sheer, unwavering presence of him… the answer, terrifying and undeniable, rose within you.

Yes.

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fatherwound · 22 hours ago

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𝐈 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏 - 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏: first love/late spring • ao3

summary — running from something you can’t name, you return home for the first time in years. everything is the same. everyone too. except you. that is until the familiar face of joel miller, your dad’s best friend, comes back into your life. you thought you’d left your foolish childhood crush on him in the past thought it long buried. but your life has never been that easy. coming home was supposed to help you figure things out. not make them more complicated.

word count: 2k

psa — this is not your usual dbf!joel fic. i got tired of seeing the same thing over and over with joel as a lowkey predator, so when i say this is slow burn i mean it. but i promise it will be worth it. x

content warnings — age gap relationship (reader is late 20s/joel early 50s), father issues / eventual cws: mention of domestic violence (past), alcoholism (past).

author's note — for tumblr I am breaking up the first chapter into four parts, because it's 5k otherwise. the first chapter consists of 3 memories after this beginning, so it feels most natural to split it this way. please enjoy and like if you read! this is my first ever fanfic so any support is appreciated. x

You never thought you’d find yourself back here. When you left for Boston, almost ten years ago now, you never expected to come back. Not that you don’t love your home, it’ll always hold a special place in your heart.

But Boston was supposed to be your escape, the beginning of your new life. You had always told yourself you weren’t going to be one of those sad people who spent their whole lives in the same spot that they were born. You always wanted more than that.

And yet, here you stand, surrounded by the all too familiar sights and smells of home. The warm sun shining down on you. The sweet smell of honeysuckle on the wind. The dust already caked to your shoes from the driveway.

Spring in Texas was always your favorite, the hydrangeas your mother planted all those years ago, in full bloom by the front porch. They’ve always given you a tight squeeze on your heart, you’re glad your father has taken such good care of them while you’ve been gone. He never had a green thumb, so you honestly expected them to die without your loving hand.

You should go inside, you know you’ve been standing here just long enough to start to be strange, like you’re avoiding something. You know your dad probably hasn’t noticed you yet, so you reckon you have a few more moments of peace.

You tug the strap of your duffle back onto your shoulder where it’s starting to slip off, your skin already beginning to sweat. Too many years in that New England chill.

You really should go inside, you know your dad will have ice cold sweet tea in the fridge, and it’s been so long since you’ve enjoyed a glass. But that damn truck has you stuck in your tracks. You noticed it as soon as you broke past the tree line of your father’s long driveway.

You don’t know why it’s got you so rattled. It’s not like you didn’t think you’d see Joel. It was inevitable. You just thought you would have at least a little bit of say of when and where.

You had already spent the last two hours of your trip mentally preparing to see your dad again, which was a tiresome enough endeavor. You hadn’t expected to have to tackle them both in one go.

You can feel the all too familiar twist of anxiety in your gut, you ball your fist up, trying to hide the slight tremor there. You close your eyes, and try to picture how things will go down, like you always do.

You’ll walk inside, have the awkward hug with your dad, he’ll ask how you are, and you’ll give the same unspecific answer as always. It won’t really matter because he can talk enough for the both of you. Then Joel will probably walk out after him, and that’s where you mind goes blank.

God, you really thought you’d have more time to prepare to see him again. “Fuck” you swear under your breath, “Let’s just do this”.

You shake your head, grip your duffle bag probably a little too tight, and walk up the rest of the drive. When your feet hit the wood of the steps, you let out a short breath before putting your hand on the screen door and opening it up.

As expected, almost immediately your dad pops his head out of the den,

“There you are!” He walks up to you and there is the slightest pause before he puts an arm around you to pull you in for a hug. It’s clearly a little uncomfortable for both of you, but your dad has never been one for hugs. Always treating you more like a son than a daughter.

With a slight pat on the back, he pulls away, “So, how was the trip? Long drive huh? Hope you didn’t do it all in one go. Did you get your car looked at ‘fore coming all this way? Here, I’ll take a look at it in a minute, see if you need a top up on anything. I’ll check out the battery too, just make sure it’s all good to go.”

You nod, smiling, inserting the occasional noncommittal hum.

Eventually, your dad takes long enough of a break for you to get a word in, “Hey do you mind if I go set my stuff down? I was really hoping to get a shower…”

“Yeah, yeah sure thing, but first come say hi to Joel, he’s just out back, he was helping me set up this new grill I got. I’ve been wanting one for years, but I never could justify spendin’ that kinda money on something like that, but hell he finally convinced me, and-“

You have to interrupt his train of thought, as usual, “Yeah, sure thing Dad.” You drop your duffle on the ground beside the door, and watch as your dad walks towards the kitchen, “Here, I’ll pour you a glass a’ tea, and I’ll meet y’all out back” he yells over his shoulder.

You mumble a response, not really listening. You slowly walk towards the back door, opening it with a slight tremble to your hand.

God, why are you so nervous? It’s just Joel. Your Dad’s best friend.

You’ve known him forever; you grew up with Sarah always following close on your heel. You’ve seen him a few times on the rare Christmas you would come back home.

It’s just Joel. Typical, grumpy, quiet, nonchalant, handsome in his own rough way, Joel.

That’s what you keep telling yourself as you walk down the back steps, and you’re almost able to convince yourself until you see him.

Those broad shoulders, his muscled back visible through the dark navy shirt he’s wearing as he kneels next to the grill your dad was going on about.

He hears you walk up and brushes his hands off on his worn denim jeans before turning to face you, and god it’s like someone just punched you in the stomach with as much force as humanly possible. You’re honestly amazed that you don’t double over.

“Hey kiddo” he drawls in that rough Texas accent you swear sounds better on him than anyone you know.

You don’t know how, but he looks so different and yet the exact same. His hair is a bit longer than it was the last time you saw him. Curling a bit behind his ears. There’s a lot more grey in his patchy beard and streaks of it in his hair now. His face looks a bit more weathered than you remember, but it looks good on him.

His eyes though, are the same as always, brown and endless, and that’s when you realize you’ve been quiet for probably a moment too long.

“Hey Joel, long time no see” you smile, stepping closer.

“Yeah, well seems you’ve been too busy for me and your ol’ man, Miss Big City” he chuckles.

You laugh awkwardly, “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that”, you say as you nervously rub your neck.

You both stand there a moment longer before he closes the gap, wrapping his big arms around you. You melt into his embrace immediately, reciprocating in a way you didn’t with your dad.

He says softly into the top of your head, “It’s good to have you back, kiddo. With you and Sarah both gone it’s been too quiet ‘round here, even for my likin’” he chuckles.

Letting you go, he musses your hair a bit, which you both love and kind of hate. You're 27 and he’s acting like you’re still the kid he’s known all these years.

You suppose to him, you are.

“How is Sarah? She’s at A&M, yeah? I see her post a lot on Instagram, but it’s been a minute since we’ve talked.”

“Yep, just finished up her junior year. I asked if she was gonna come by this summer, especially with you back in town. But she’s got this good internship she’s working this summer, so I don’t know if she’ll have the time but, she said she’s gonna try.”

You nod along, but before you have a chance to say anything else, your dad pops up beside you two, handing you both a cold glass of tea.

“I see you too already did your reunitin’, hasn’t she grown up? I swear you’re taller than the last time we saw ya” your dad shakes his head and looks to Joel.

“Yeah, I guess she has, what are you now anyway? Probably pushing 30? Hell, what’s that make us?” He chuckles looking at your dad.

“I’m 27, thanks. Still got a few years ‘fore I’m old. Can’t say the same for you two. Bunch of senior citizens about to be walking around here. Gonna be retirin’ soon, yeah?” You joke, already falling back into old routine.

“Ha ha, very funny” your dad says, and puts a hand on both you and Joel’s back. “Well, hun why don’t you get ready, and we can all go grab some dinner, how’s that sound?”

You break eye contact with Joel, and nod to your dad, “Yeah sure, that sounds good.”

You turn to walk back inside, but you can’t resist turning around to steal one more glance at Joel.

What you aren’t expecting is to meet his gaze, and you immediately look back ahead, a flutter spurring in your gut.

You grab your duffle from its place in the hallway and walk up the stairs to your old room.

Everything is how you left it.

Band posters on the walls, string lights hung up, your old worn-out flannel comforter still probably needing to be thrown out. Pictures of people you haven’t spoken to in years lining your mirror. Even your old journal is still resting in it’s spot on your nightstand.

It all a bit surreal. You’re such a different person now, and yet everything else is still the same. It’s odd how life works like that.

You drop your duffle on your desk chair, and flop down on the bed.

It’s so strange being back here, in this room. Once again thinking about Joel, and how completely normal you feel about him.

You push into your eyes with your palms. God, maybe you really haven’t changed that much at all. Still pathetic.

You groan, and roll onto your side, staring out your bedroom window.

The trees outside rustle in the wind, and it’s almost enough to calm you for a second.

But your mind never is one to give you a break.

The familiar drawl of Joel and your dad float up through the window, and your drawn right back down into your spiral.

You can’t do this again.

You remember a time when he was just Joel, but it hasn’t been like that in a long, long time. And you hate it.

Maybe coming home wasn’t such a good idea.

Coming back was supposed to help, supposed to clear your head from the hell that’s become your life in Boston. The last thing you need is more complications.

You’ve had enough of complicated.

Leaving your apartment in the middle of the night, Andrew working late again; you can only imagine the shit storm that will be waiting for you when you go back.

If you ever do.

But you know you will, you’ve never been able to run away from anything.

This is just a hiatus. A break to gather your thoughts and try to figure out your next move.

And if you happen to spend time with Joel, would that really be so bad?

So you had a crush on him as a kid? You were a child, with childish whims, and childish feelings. And you’re not anymore, so it’s done.

Dead and buried.

And yet… there is the slightest bit of relief. An almost imperceptible shift in the unbearable weight that has taken root behind your ribcage. You might not even have noticed if you weren’t so used to the dull ache it leaves.

It’s just a coincidence surely, nothing to note. That you only noticed that slight relief, when you were looking into those deep brown eyes.

You roll over onto your stomach, letting out a frustrated sigh into your comforter.

Nothing has ever been that easy for you.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller tlou #tlou #the last of us #tlou fanfiction #tlou fanfic #joel miller fic #dbf!joel #joel miller fanfiction #tlou hbo #joel tlou #original fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #joel miller x y/n #joel miller angst #my writing #my fic

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wintrcaptn · 21 hours ago

Text

Apples and Butterflies Part 5

Joel Miller x Reader

Summary : You caught your bf in bed with another girl two months before winter break. Now with no where to go for the next few weeks, your roommate invites you to her hometown so you don't spend the holidays alone.

But you never expected her dad to be the guy who pretended to be your date so you didn't look pathetic in front of your ex. The same guy you can't stop thinking about...Joel miller.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

A/N: I already have 15 chapters for this. But idk if I’ll post it all. I just really love a slow burn with Joel so much!! 😭

The sky had faded into a soft indigo, the last hints of daylight caught in streaks of lavender and gold across the horizon.

If a postcard came to life, it'd be this place.

The Christmas tree farm was glowing under a blanket of string lights, each row of pine trees lit from beneath like they were part of some quiet fairytale. The air smelled like fresh-cut fir, spiced cider, and wood smoke. Every direction I looked, there were families bundled in scarves and beanies, holding hands, carrying trees, laughing. There was a merry-go-round, a tiny ice rink, reindeer rides, and even an old Ferris wheel turning slowly near the back, like something out of a vintage movie.

Sarah bumped my shoulder. "Told you. This place is like Stars Hollow threw up."

"It really is," I grinned, taking it all in.

Joel trailed behind us quietly, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, boots crunching along the gravel path.

We spent the first part of the evening looking for a tree, Sarah elbowing Joel every time he passed on a perfectly decent one.

"You're impossible," she said, laughing. "We are not building the Rockefeller tree in our living room, Dad."

"Just pick one that ain't got holes in it," he muttered.

Eventually, we did. A big Douglas Fir that smelled like Christmas itself.

"Atta girl," he said, tossing Sarah the saw. "Your turn this year."

She groaned dramatically but got on her knees and started sawing at the trunk, grunting, while I filmed her struggling, laughing and cursing the tree under her breath.

And Joel? He just held the trunk steady, one boot planted at the base, a quiet smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Watching him made my heart ache a little. Not in a sad way—more like the way you ache after a song that hits too close to home.

Later, Sarah and I hit the ice rink. I hadn't skated in years, and my legs wobbled beneath me like Bambi learning to walk, but I laughed so hard I didn't care. Joel stayed at the edge, leaning on the railing. His dark eyes following our every move like he was waiting to catch me if I fell, without ever stepping onto the ice.

He was always right there, but never too close. Close enough to feel, never enough to touch.

We grabbed some hot cocoa after that; warming my frozen hands against the paper cup, smiling at the marshmallows floating on top.

Sarah led me through the rest of the farm, pointing out people she knew; old neighbors, old teachers, even someone who'd once babysat her. She glowed like she belonged to this place. And maybe she did.

Then came the moment that shifted everything.

"Mason?" Sarah stopped mid-step, blinking at the tall guy in a flannel and Carhartt beanie standing near the Ferris wheel line.

"Holy shit. Sarah Miller?" He grinned. "I thought that was you."

"Mason!" she laughed, stepping in for a quick hug. "God, how long has it been?"

"Since our grad night," he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "You look great."

Joel, just behind them, visibly stiffened at the way the guy's eyes lingered a little too long on his daughter.

They caught up briefly, light banter, a few inside jokes. I noticed the way Sarah's eyes glistened, lighting up every time she looked at him. It was so obvious she liked him, but she kept her cool. Then Mason nodded toward the Ferris wheel. "You remember when we used to ride that thing like five times in a row? Just to get the top seat?"

Sarah laughed, a little awkward. "Yeah. I remember."

"Wanna go again? For old time's sake?"

She hesitated, then glanced over to me. "I probably shouldn't—"

"Go," I smiled.

Sarah raised a brow. "You sure?"

"I'll be fine," I said, waving her off. "Go relive your teenage glory."

Sarah rolled her eyes but grinned and gave Joel a quick look before heading off with Mason toward the line.

I stood there awkwardly for a moment, watching the lights of the Ferris wheel spin in slow circles. He stood beside me, quiet, still, like always.

"You havin' fun?" he asked, his voice low and rough.

I looked up at him. Surprised that he initiated the conversation first. "Yeah. It's beautiful here."

He nodded once. "Sarah lives for this. Always has. Christmas season... it's her favorite."

"She lights up when she talks about it," I said softly. "It's sweet."

Something shifted in his expression then. Just a flicker.

"You don't talk much about your folks."

My smile faded. I wasn't expecting that. Most people didn't ask. Or if they did, they didn't really care to know. But Joel wasn't like most people.

Talking about my mom hasn't been my strong suit since...

"There's not a whole lot to talk about."

He shifted just slightly, his gaze locked onto me as he crossed his arms over his chest. Usually I'd drop it here, change the subject. Anything then bringing up my family. But for some reason, I felt like I could talk to him about anything.

"It was just me and my mom," I said quietly, after a long beat. My breath clouded in front of me in the cool air, soft and slow. "Always. My whole life."

Joel's eyes stayed steady on mine as he gave a slow nod. "And... she okay with you skipping out on the holidays this year?"

I looked down at my cocoa. The whipped cream had already started to melt. "She passed away. Four years ago."

I said it flat, the way you rip off a bandage—fast and without looking. There's never a right time to say something like that. Never a comfortable way to bring it up. I hated how it always changed the air, how it always made people go quiet or look at me like I was breakable. But it was the truth. She was gone. And no amount of pretending otherwise would ever change that.

"Breast cancer," I added, barely above a whisper. My fingers tightened around the cup, chasing the fading warmth. I blinked down, fighting the familiar sting in the back of my eyes.

Joel leaned on the railing beside me, his shoulder close to mine, but he didn't say anything yet. Didn't rush to fill the silence or tell me he was sorry. I was grateful for that.

"Were you two close?" he finally asked, voice low and rough like gravel, but gentle.

I swallowed hard. My throat tightened before I managed to get the words out. "She was... everything."

The breath caught in my chest before I forced it down and kept going. "She was my best friend. My safe place. We did everything together. She taught me how to ride a bike, helped me study for every test, stayed up watching movies with me when I couldn't sleep. But her favorite thing—our favorite thing—was baking."

I felt a smile tug at the corners of my lips. Not a big one, just enough to warm the ache.

"Cookies, muffins... but her apple pie?" I let out a small laugh. "One bite and you'd swear it could solve world peace."

I didn't say how I still kept her recipe in a little stained index card tucked in my journal. I didn't say how I still made that pie every year, even if I didn't eat it.

Joel didn't speak right away. His gaze drifted toward the Ferris wheel, lights blinking in soft reds and golds against the darkening sky.

"You scared of heights?" he asked suddenly, nodding toward it.

The question pulled me back, sharp and unexpected. I followed his gaze, heart still aching, but a little lighter somehow.

I tilted my head. "Nope. Are you?"

He glanced down at me, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth; barely there but real. His expression was unreadable, as always, but something in his eyes flickered, amused. Or curious.

"Nope," he said again, echoing my tone, and held my gaze a second longer than necessary.

Then he reached out; rough, warm fingers curling around mine. The world stopped around us and we were the only ones alive. My breath caught in the back of my throat. His hand was calloused and firm, the kind of grip that made you feel anchored. I didn't even realize I'd gone still until he gave the tiniest tug.

"Come on."

He led the way, weaving us through the small crowd. And I let him. I couldn't stop the flutter in my chest, or the warmth crawling up my neck. I didn't want to.

He handed over two tickets without even looking at me, then motioned for me to go first.

I stepped onto the ride, heartbeat in my throat, and slid into the seat. Joel followed, slipping in beside me and suddenly we were shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressed against one another, the cold seat doing nothing to cool the heat between us.

The bar lowered. The ride jolted forward.

And I didn't know what scared me more. How high we were climbing...

Or how much I didn't want to pull away from him.

The cart rocked gently as we settled in, cold metal against my legs even through my jeans. The night air bit at my cheeks, but the cold was sharp in a way that made everything feel a little more alive.

The lights below shimmered like a sea of fireflies—twinkling booths, the blue glow of the ice rink, shadows skating in circles, kids darting through rows of trees with cups of cocoa in mittened hands. From up here, the whole farm looked unreal, like something you could fold up and tuck into your coat pocket.it was beautiful.

But all I could feel was the warmth of Joel beside me—solid, quiet, and taking up way too much space for someone trying not to be noticed.

I peeked at him out of the corner of my eye. He hadn't said much since we sat down, which honestly wasn't surprising.

"So..." I drew the word out, turning toward him. "What do you do when Sarah's away at school? Besides read newspapers and brood?"

His lips tugged just slightly at the corner—almost a smile. Almost. "I work."

"Clearly." I nodded, grinning. "But doing what?"

"Construction," he said simply. "I run a company with my younger brother. Tommy. We mostly do pretty much anything; custom builds, remodels, that sort of thing. It's not much, but it keeps the lights on."

Something about the way he said it made my heart tug a little. Like he didn't think it was worth much. But also... it felt steady.

I smirked. "Of course you do. I should've guessed."

Joel raised a brow, suspicious. "Should've guessed what?"

"You're such a grumpy old blue-collar type. I bet you drink your coffee black, fix things without ever reading instructions, and complain about 'kids these days' on a regular basis."

That earned me a look; but this time, the smile actually broke through. Small. Real.

"Shut up," he muttered.

I gasped. "Oh my God, was that a smile? Did I just witness an actual Joel Miller smile?"

"It was not a smile."

"Holy crap, you do have more emotions than just broody!" I said, eyes wide, hand to my heart in mock shock.

He huffed a small laugh under his breath, shaking his head. "You're real mouthy for someone stuck on a ride with no exit."

"You love it," I teased, shrugging my shoulders.

Joel didn't respond right away, but the corner of his mouth still curved up like he couldn't quite fight it.

"And what about you? I bet I can guess what you're majoring in." he said, turning the tables

I narrowed my eyes. "Oh, this'll be good."

"You like books. I saw a few books in your bag. You overthink everything. Noticed that at the cafe when you were hiding from—what was his name again?"

"Dylan." I said with a smirk.

"Yeah that asshat. You like to talk a lot. So... psych major?"

I laughed—like, really laughed. "That's... honestly not a bad guess."

"But wrong?"

"Wrong," I confirmed. "English literature."

He nodded slowly, like it made sense. "Should've known."

"What gave it away? My over thinking or my inability to shut up?"

His mouth twitched again. "Both."

I beamed. "You're not bad at this, Miller. If the whole construction thing goes under, you could be a therapist for emotionally repressed men who only communicate through silence and beer."

Joel gave a quiet chuckle. "I'll keep that in mind."

The conversation rolled so easily after that, like we'd somehow slipped into a rhythm that was just... ours. Laughter. Teasing. The kind of warmth that crept in slow but deep, settling under your skin before you even noticed.

But as we neared the end of the ride, I felt him pull back. Not physically, but the quiet returned. The tension. Like he'd suddenly remembered himself.

I glanced up at him, trying not to feel the cold where the warmth had been just moments ago.

When we stepped off, I looked at him one last time, heart thudding for reasons I didn't really want to name.

"I really like talking to you," I said softly, more vulnerable than I meant to be. "Even if you barely talk."

Joel opened his mouth, like he might say something back—but then—

"Y/N!" Sarah's voice rang out, cutting through the air.

She bounded toward us, grabbing my arm with a grin. "Sorry for ditching you."

And just like that, I was pulled away—leaving Joel standing there under the lights, silent again.

But I swore, just before I turned around...

He was still watching me.

Sarah looped her arm through mine and practically skipped us over to the reindeer ride. Everything was glowing now; twinkle lights draped along fences, lampposts wrapped like candy canes, the faint sound of sleigh bells in the distance. The scent of pine and cinnamon hung sweet and heavy in the air.

"I can't believe Mason was here," Sarah said, beaming. "That was so random. I haven't seen him since high school."

I raised a brow. "He looked happy to see you."

She blushed, eyes flicking to the ground like it might hide the grin she couldn't suppress. "Yeah... I always had the biggest crush on him back then. Like huge. But I was a total chicken. He dated older girls, and I was awkward and always had dirt on my face from softball."

I snorted. "You? Awkward? No way."

"Oh, I was a mess," she said with a dramatic sigh. "By the time I was brave enough to maybe say something, he graduated. I figured that was it. End of story."

I leaned into her a little. "But maybe not. He asked how long you were in town..."

Her smile softened. "Yeah. He said maybe we could hang out before I go back. Just catch up or whatever."

"Sarah," I said, tugging her to a stop. "You have to do it."

She blinked. "Do what?"

"Go. See him. Hang out. Flirt. Do whatever feels right. I mean, what are the odds? You run into him after years. Fate has a funny way of giving second chances when you least expect it."

She was quiet for a beat, then her voice came out soft. "I don't know..." she drawled out. "What if I make a fool out of myself or he doesn't feel the same way or—"

"Or what if he does?" I cut her off before she spiraled into her own negative thoughts. "You'll never know unless you try."

Sarah pondered her thoughts for just a moment. Her expression almost mirrored the way Joel's did whenever he thought to himself. It was uncanny.

"Fine. I'll do it if you promise to give this place a real shot. No Dylan. No school. Just be in this moment. With me."

I wasn't sure if being in the moment would be a good idea. Now that whatever I was feeling for Joel was now growing more and more...

No. I'm not having feelings for my best friends dad. I'm not.

I met her gaze and forced a smile. "Promise."

She let out a sigh and squeezed my arm just slightly as she continued to walk toward the truck. "Sorry for ditching you with my dad. That was a little shitty of me."

I waved her off, pretending my heart hadn't nearly beat out of my chest the entire ride. "It's fine. We talked. A little."

"I know he can come off kind of... cold," she said with a laugh. "And a little bit of a dick. But he's not. He's just quiet. Doesn't like small talk or people in general, but he's solid, ya know? Like once you're in with him, you're in."

I wanted to ask her so many questions. Questions like if he were seeing anyone? Has he seen anyone? What are his interests? Etc., but I didn't. I couldn't.

I need to push whatever I was feeling aside because nothing could ever come of this. Of us. I couldn't do that to Sarah. Or to Joel.

—————

By the time we got home, it was late. The moon was high, the night cold enough to bite through our coats. Joel hauled the tree from the back of his truck, thick gloves on his hands, flannel rolled up just enough to show strong forearms that made it very difficult not to stare.

Sarah and I headed into the garage to dig through the shelves for the bins marked Christmas.

"I swear," she muttered, yanking down a dusty red tub, "he keeps everything like it's a museum in here."

The minute we walked back in, Sarah lit the fireplace, throwing the whole room into a golden glow, and queued up a playlist on her phone. The first notes of Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree filled the living room, and something inside me fluttered like I was ten years old again, decorating with my mom. Something I haven't felt in a long time.

We opened bins and pulled out old ornaments, twinkling lights, garland, a crocheted stocking with Sarah's name stitched in red thread.

The scent of pine filled the house as he anchored the tree into its stand and stepped back, hands on his hips.

"Not crooked," he muttered.

"A Christmas miracle," Sarah teased.

He rolled his eyes but didn't argue.

The three of us moved in a quiet rhythm after that. Sarah humming along to the music, Joel sorting through the tangled lights, me fluffing branches. The tension between Joel and me was subtle but pulsing—charged. Every time I turned, I felt his eyes on me. Every time I laughed, he lingered a little closer.

We reached for the same branch at one point, hands brushing, fingertips grazing.

I froze.

He didn't move away.

It was just a second; a flicker, but something warm bloomed between us like heat from the fire.

"Hey!" Sarah said suddenly, pulling out a sad-looking ornament made of macaroni and glitter. "Remember this?"

Joel smirked. "You were six. Ate half the glue."

Sarah cracked up. "I did not!"

He raised a brow. "You cried when it didn't taste like marshmallow."

Their laughter bounced through the room and I watched him; really watched him. Joel Miller, the man who barely spoke above a grunt, was relaxed and smiling, eyes soft as he looked at his daughter.

God, he loved her. It radiated off of him.

"I'm gonna grab the star," Sarah said, darting toward the garage. "It's in the green bin we missed!"

And just like that, it was quiet again. Just Joel and me.

The only sound was the crackle of the fireplace and the rustle of pine branches as I adjusted an ornament near the top of the tree.

Joel stood across from me, winding a strand of gold garland in slow, thoughtful loops around the lower branches.

I hummed under my breath, a Christmas tune Sarah had been playing earlier that got stuck in my head. I didn't even realize I was doing it until I caught him watching me.

I turned slowly, raising a brow. "I can feel you staring."

He cleared his throat and looked away too quickly, like he'd been caught red-handed. "Just admiring the tree," he said, a little too casually. "It's not bad."

I stepped back to scan the tree myself, arms crossed, eyes flicking over the soft lights and scattered ornaments. "So," I said, "do you guys have any other Christmas traditions?"

Joel reached for the last of the garland and shrugged. "We do what most folks do, I guess. Cookies. Movie marathons. We used to try carolin' once, years ago, but Sarah was tone deaf at five and insisted on singing every verse of 'The Twelve Days of Christmas.'"

I laughed. "So that got retired quick, huh?"

"Let's just say the neighbors begged us to stop."

I grinned and leaned slightly against the couch arm. "Any other small-town traditions I should know about? Hidden secret snow rituals? Sacrifices to the Santa gods?"

He gave me a sideways look like I'd lost my mind but shook his head with a faint smile. "We ain't that kind of town."

I laughed, shaking my head. "Bummer."

"We do have a holiday ball. Two nights before Christmas every year. Local community center hosts it."

My eyebrows lifted. "A ball? Like, actual dancing and everything?"

He nodded. "Pretty big deal around here. Music, food, everyone shows up. Been goin' on since I was a kid."

"People dance?"

"Yeah."

I tilted my head, eyeing him playfully. "Do you dance?"

"No."

"Not even a little sway here and there?"

He didn't even blink. "No."

I let out a dramatic sigh and pressed a hand over my chest. "Damn. And here I was hoping you'd save a dance for me."

He looked at me then, really looked, and for a second, I couldn't breathe.

His eyes didn't hold any obvious answer, but they lingered a little longer than they should've. Just long enough to send that flutter through my stomach again.

Then the door flew open and Sarah reappeared, holding a large storage box in her arms. "Finally found the star," she huffed. "You really need to downsize on the crap you save, I swear. There's, like, five green bins in there labeled 'miscellaneous.'"

Joel glanced away from me, clearing his throat again, as if nothing had passed between us. As if my pulse hadn't just stuttered from a single look.

But I felt it.

#pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #the last of us #joel miller #joel miller imagine #tlou #tlou hbo #joel miller fanfiction #joel tlou #tlou2 #pedro pascal imagine

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roger-that-cap · 3 days ago

Text

running back to home base (you)

part four (4/4)

destiel au

Chapter Summary: Dean is falling back into step in his own life. Castiel is trying to figure out why the hell he cares so much. As they both come to realizations, they also both realize that a decision needs to be made- are they going to be together, or are they always going to be each other's "in another life"?

word count: 7.7k

okay i just wanna say that maybe my sadness is the key because i got a text last night saying that my man basically went on a date with another girl and we just ended things and within 24 hours i somehow finished this bad boy so thank you to him i guess??? 😭😭 love you guys, hope you enjoy!!!!

Castiel Novak was perfectly fine. He lived a privileged life, as far as he was concerned. He was a successful author, and an artist that just so happened to not be struggling. He had loved and lost, been held onto and let go of, and he had learned so many lessons since he left the nest. He was living the dream that he had always wanted for himself, and he knew that most people couldn’t say the same.

None of those lessons or experiences gave him a cheat code on how to cope with seeing Dean Winchester again after locking the memories of him far, far away.

He ran into him at the diner. It was unexpected, but it didn’t rock his world like he used to be afraid of– at first. Until the first few years after college, he was convinced that if he ever saw Dean again that he might curl up and die in his car after running away. He was pleased with his reaction this time, and it was strange to be the collected one after he used to see himself as being so weak when it came to Dean Winchester.

Dean was of course even more gorgeous than ever, because of course even time was kind to him, and Castiel had almost let those green eyes pin him into place like they did over and over again so many years ago, but he noticed how haunted they were. They were eyes that were haunted enough to pluck at Castiel’s heart strings, and send his train of thought chugging along with ideas of what could have happened to him. Was he upset about not being a baseball star? Was he recently heartbroken? Was he out of a job? Suddenly, it became a passion project of Castiel’s to determine what the hell was wrong with Dean.

He went home, he called Gabriel with slightly shaky hands, and Gabe got him to laugh about the whole situation instead of cry. And for a minute, it was funny, and that was all it was. It wasn’t extremely heavy or a dark cloud for just a moment. And then there was that sinking feeling back with a vengeance in Castiel’s gut, one that told him that he ran into Dean for a reason, and that they crossed paths because of something he had no idea of just yet. And he couldn’t shake that thought. Not even with the help of his typed fantasy worlds, or Gabe’s sweet yet striking words.

Weeks later when Dean called him, he wanted to say he was surprised. He was initially, but when he thought back to the look on Dean’s face, like he had come up and slapped him, he knew that they were both affecting each other. It wasn’t hard to guess that he got his number from Sam, and when they met again at the diner, Castiel realized that it was actually a nice reunion. It felt well with his soul.

Until Cas came to the conclusion after sitting with his thoughts that he definitely still had feelings for Dean.

It wasn’t a crush. He was positive that he wasn’t feeling a crush. Crushes were childish, and besides, he had already been with Dean before. He wasn’t wishing for something that was unknown to him or making up scenarios in his mind, writing love letters in a locked journal. He came to the conclusion the night after meeting Dean at the diner that he wasn’t having a crush, he simply just wasn’t as over Dean as he thought he was. And that irritated him.

It was a weird feeling, to be thinking of him again. In all honesty, Cas had left him completely behind as life churned on, and put his face and his voice in the back of his mind, in a shiny box of fond memories that he rarely opened, a collection of memories that made him who he was. He was perfectly fine with that as he fell in and out of love with others and deeper in love with himself, as he went to pride parades and traveled the world and wrote his books. Castiel was complete.

He had no fucking clue why all of a sudden, Dean was his newest fixation.

Well, pause. He knew how Dean became a fixation. Dean was his first love, and he felt the effects of Dean for years after he was gone. He knew exactly how alluring Dean and his charm could be.

But he should have been able to shake him.

Seeing Dean at the diner threw him off for a moment. Dean was handsome, he always had been, but he grew even more into his facial features and frankly, he was perfect. But they were older, and Cas shouldn’t have fallen into those green eyes so easily again. Maybe it was the sadness in them that drew Castiel in like they were each other’s magnets.

He kept telling himself he wanted better for Dean. That was all. They were best friends once upon a time, and it’s normal to want to see someone you know blossom into themselves. But what Castiel knew wasn’t normal was the fact that he definitely wanted to look at Dean’s eyes up close again, and feel his hands, his lips. That wasn’t nostalgia.

“I was over him,” Castiel said on the phone one night to Gabriel, days after he first ran into Dean. He was sure that Gabriel was already tired of having to walk him through the situation, but there wasn’t another person on earth that knew just how intertwined Castiel used to be with Dean. No one but Dean himself, and that surely wasn’t going to work. “I was. And then-”

“And then you saw him, just like in a fairy tale,” Gabe mocked. “I know. That’s not shocking.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You and Dean…” he heard his older brother sigh. “You could always live without Dean. You’re extremely self-sufficient, even when you’re in love. I’ve seen you travel the world and fall in love and break up just as easily, you’ve never needed anyone. Not even him. But I think you saw him, and now you remember that you miss him.”

Gabe was right. Castiel was fine without Dean. He was fine with staying inside, he was content under the light of lamps and with the fan on the ceiling. But there was nothing like walking outside and seeing natural sunlight, and feeling a cool breeze on your arms. There was nothing like the relief of breathing fresh air. And that was what Dean had always been to him. The outside sky. Whether it was sunny and the breeze was making flowers dance in a meadow, or if there were tornados spinning overhead, that was Dean.

“There’s no shame in missing him. You guys had some fun times together, and I really do think that in another timeline it could have worked out. And what did I say? I told you that one day he’d see you again and it would rock his world. And with the way he seems like he really wants to talk to you, I’m pretty sure I’m right. As always.”

Cas rolled his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Okay, but it sounds like he wants to be friends.”

“Well, are you cool with that?” Gabe asked, and there was a distinct sound that Cas recognized as Gabriel smacking on a lollipop. “The can of worms is already open. In fact, it’s been like, exploded, by now. Like a Pillsbury biscuit can. Now, you have three choices.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “Three?”

“Yes, three,” Gabriel said teasingly, as if Castiel’s sanity wasn’t on the line. “Option one, you block him right now and turn around every time you see him in public, Sam too,” Gabriel said, and instantly, Castiel recoiled as if he had smelled something awful. “And you never speak to him again. Let the past die. Rest, maybe that’s a better word. Either way, this is something you ignore and don’t revisit.”

He already hated the idea. He had done it successfully for years, and eventually it was all fine and dandy, but to do it again? To do it before he understood what Dean’s angle was? To cut it all off before he got to see Dean’s smile, or his green eyes light up again? To turn around before he knew whether or not dean was dying to relearn him, too? That didn’t sound like much of an option.

“Option two,” Gabe said, smacking again, and Castiel rolled his eyes. “You go for it. You listen to that hopeless romantic that we all know lives inside of you, and you take the blind leap of faith. And when Dean eventually tells you that he got your number from his bigsass little brother because he’s fucking miserable without you, you listen to his groveling and apologies all the way through, and you tell him at the very end of his blubbering that you’ll take him back. And by the end, I mean like, he needs to be close to tears thinking that your answer is still no. He should be at least a little afraid after what he did.”

Cas’s heart was already racing. It was a situation that he wasn’t even in yet, but his stomach was churning. These were exactly the kind of scenarios that he was fighting off, the childish ideations that a kid in middle school would have about their crush. He’s going to come back. He’ll love me. He’ll apologize. This is just a break. He left because he wasn’t sure, but now he is.

“Option three, you take the middle road, the easy way out, and become his friend. But I think you and I both know that the friendship stage won’t last long between you two, given your history. And, if you choose this one, going down this same painful road and choosing which part of the fork to choose will be one hundred percent inevitable.”

“What do you mean?”

“Cassie,” Gabriel said slowly, and it sounded serious. He wasn’t teasing, and that made Castiel sit up a little straighter. “You two are special. I’ve always thought that, even after the stupid bullshit he pulled. I’ve said it a million times, you two cannot be friends. This either crashes and burns and you two end up fucking hating each other, or you two get married.”

Castiel’s eyes went wide. “What?!” He sputtered. “That’s not- those aren’t the only two endings Gabriel, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Why do you think you ran into him? Anyone else can see an ex from over ten years ago and be normal about it, by the way. Anyone but you two. There’s too much still here for you two to let it die. Castiel, you write romance novels, you know it either festers into hate or it blossoms into eternal love, or whatever.”

“I write realistic fiction with romance infused elements,” Castiel corrected quickly, his mind still racing. “We can be friends, Gabriel.”

“You can?” He asked.

“I don’t see why not.” The lie went down as easily as a handful of dirt.

“That easy way out leads right back here, Castiel,” Gabriel said ominously. “Right here, every time. This choice will always be right here, lingering in the back of your mind until you decide to be a big boy.”

Part of him knew that Gabriel’s advice made sense. In fact, it made so much sense that it made him feel sick. Castiel was stuck in a hamster wheel of emotions, and so was Dean. They were in the same exact wheel with different perspectives, somehow. Or maybe they were in two different wheels that were positioned right in front of each other, staring at each other between the moving bars and watching helplessly to see who was finally brave enough to step off first. Castile was definitely stuck in a wheel, and he wasn’t sure what he was chasing. He was even less sure of what Dean was after despite the feeling in his gut, and that made him even more terrified.

“Thank you for your insight, Gabriel,” Castiel said, half sarcastic yet half extremely serious in a way that only Gabriel could pick up on.

“Remember your big brother gave you this wonderful advice, Cassie.”

“Alright, Gabe,” Castiel said, putting a hand over his forehead. “Thank you.” And then his brother smacked around candy again and gave some sort of half assed, dismissive goodbye, and then Castiel was all alone with his thoughts again, dwelling on things he thought had been buried years ago.

Like almost all of Castiel’s words, the advice about directing his energy toward something he used to love rattled around in Dean’s mind until one day, he went and called the number on the flyer that he picked up on a walk one day like he was in the glory days again, waiting for someone to pick up. It ended up being someone’s ecstatic mother who answered, and she wanted him to come to the very next practice.

At first, Dean hadn’t been sure that he even wanted to do it. There was a lot of commitment that came with being the coach of a team, and on top of that, the season had already begun. He wasn’t used to leading little kids, and he sure as hell wasn’t back in the swing of being on the field. But he showed up anyway, because that poor mom sounded so excited that someone actually wanted to help.

It was great. Dean instantly fell into the coaching role, and he immediately loved the game all over again. The kids were younger than he was when he started to realize the game could take him somewhere, so they were just playing for fun. They were friends just because they were, not because they had to be, and they showed up because they wanted to play, not because they were obligated by some stupid college contract. There was absolutely no reason for any of them to be out there other than to just play the game, and for some reason, that was the best part.

Within no time, Dean had improved the team by the time their first game with him as coach came and went. They didn’t win, but all the kids were excited. It was the closest they had been to getting a win, and some of the kids who had lost hope gained it back. They were happy, and Dean realized how much that mattered.

For a while, between coaching and work and the weekly meetings with Charlie and the gang, he felt busy enough to forget about everything else. His heart didn’t feel completely full, but he felt more occupied than he had been in a very long time, and he could settle for that. He could fill the void with that, and he was doing a good job of living off of a plate that was three quarters full until he saw Castiel on the bleachers one day at a game, sitting there, watching.

It was so reminiscent of the past that it made his stomach hurt for a few moments. He was older now, they both were, but Cas still had that expression on his face where he didn’t know a single thing about what was going on, but he was watching anyway. Supporting in silence, waiting until someone else from their school started clapping, or until Dean grinned wide or pumped his fist. Dean had seen him that way a thousand times. The only thing that was different was the fact that he wasn’t wearing blue or green, sporting their old high school colors.

Dean found it both easy and hard to ignore him. They had already locked eyes, so Castiel knew that he knew, but Dean had a team of kids to coach. The kids had no idea that the biggest regret of his life was sitting there watching, and it wasn’t even close to being their problem. So, he took a few deep breaths to calm his nerves when no one was watching and continued on, coaching through the whole game and jumping up and down with the kids when they won for the very first time.

“I told you guys!” Dean said, and his heart was pumping with that happy adrenaline he had missed so much. “I told you that you guys could do it.”

There was so much chatter around him as some of the kids hugged him and others ran right to their equally excited parents, and for a moment, Dean remembered that this was what life was about. And then he saw dark hair and a familiar frame flash from the side of his line of sight.

Dean was heavily aware of Castiel patiently waiting as he chatted with the parents. Dean was practically giving each parent highlight reels of their kids, reenacting and laughing with them, congratulating the whole team as they drank juice boxes and ate rice krispy treats. When the last parent took a few steps back, and the field was emptier by the second, Dean felt the air shift, and Cas came up beside him.

It was quiet between them for a moment as they smiled at each other, both of their smiles somewhat knowing. “I see you like coaching,” he said, and Dean nodded his head. “I had a feeling you would. You were always good with kids.”

“I think they had fun.” Dean said absentmindedly, squinting to look at Cas, and he noticed that with the way the sun looked behind him that it almost looked like he had a halo.

“They look really happy,” Castiel noted, nodding his head. “They always used to look so sad, and they carried themselves like they doubted themselves. You’ve changed that.”

“Eh, they changed it,” Dean said with a shrug. “It’s all about mindset. And these kids are great,” he said, looking out at the empty field. He could still hear the cheers of the parents and the excited shouts of all the kids, and it made him smile.

When he looked back at Castiel, he saw him still looking with those blue eyes, eyes that spoke three times as much as his lips did, even if the words translated as riddles. It was intense as they stood there, just looking at each other, and finally, Dean looked away.

“Thanks for uh, recommending it to me,” he managed to get out, still looking ahead at the cars speeding past. “I never would have thought of doing it.”

“You’re very welcome, Dean.” More silence, besides the filler sounds of traffic and far away voices. It wasn’t awkward, it was smothering, like both of them were choking on words that wouldn’t ever be said because they were both either too stubborn or too afraid. “Well, it was good to see you, Dean.”

There it was. The “good to see you” struck again, rigging loud in Dean’s ear. Dean rubbed the back of his head. “Uh, you’re welcome to come watch another, if you want.”

Dean saw Castiel’s chapped lips curl upwards, and the twinkle in his eyes, and he knew that he was about to say something smart. “It’s a public field, Dean.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I just mean it wouldn’t be weird if you came, Cas,” he said, letting his sight trail up from Castiel’s mouth and back to his eyes.

Dean was convinced that they exchanged more with their eyes than any other two people in the world did. They were somehow standing closer to each other than they were a few moments ago, or maybe Dean was just hallucinating. That seemed like something he was definitely capable of, especially when it came to Castiel.

“That’s good to know,” Castiel finally said, nodding his head. “Goodbye, Dean.”

“Bye, Cas,” he said, and he watched Castiel raise a hand and wave once, turning on his heel and walking off of the field without a glance back, and Dean wondered if he knew that he was watching him walk away.

Dean did the same in silence, and the second he got back in the car and on the highway, he turned the music up as loud as it could go.

Castiel coming to games became a regular thing. It was as regular as Dean’s weekly meetings with the Comic Club, which was smoothly transitioning into a gossip club between them all talking about Kevin and his new crush Chandler, and Charlie and the new girl, Meg. Dean thought Charlie was a little too sweet for Meg, who was charming yet somewhat intimidating, but she was nice nonetheless and it was funny to see Charlie be the one to sweat.

Dean was about to start coaching when a familiar, huge body came walking right up to him without hesitation. “You’re really in your element here.”

“What, are you gonna write mom about it, or something?” Dean asked, turning to Sam, who gave him a look.

“Is it that bad that I want to see you happy?” Sam asked, cracking a smile. “You’re lucky Jess had to work, she would have whipped out her phone and started sending pictures to the family group chat like you’re nine.”

“Thank god she’s not,” Dean muttered, looking at his kids warming up, and then he saw Sam tense up from next to him.

“Um,” Sam said with his eyes wide, “There’s- is that Cas?”

Dean looked over in the direction Sam was looking, even though he knew his brother was right. Castiel wasn’t even sitting down at his normal spot on the bleachers yet, he was still walking the path, but Sam’s eyes were observant.

“Yeah, he’s been coming,” Dean said, and Sam’s eyes went wide.

“He has? And you didn’t think to bring that up?”

“I told you that we were kinda friends.”

Sam’s entire face changed into a look of betrayal. “You said you two talked! Not that you two are friendly enough for him to be coming to watch your hobbies after work?”

“Hey, shh,” Dean urged. “Not here.”

Sam leaned in closer with a hushed tone, but all the excitement was still clearly there. “He comes all the time?”

Dean shrugged his shoulders, even though it wasn’t insignificant at all. “Relatively often.”

“Dean,” Sam said, lowering his head in disapproval. “Are you doing this in a healthy-”

“Did you have something important to say, Sam?”

“We’re having dinner with Mom and Dad this Wednesday,” Sam said, glancing at Castiel again. “She called me, and I told her that we’d make it.”

“Doesn’t Jess work on Wednesdays?”

“It’s the only day Dad’s free, so he says,” Sam said, and Dean rolled his eyes. “She’ll come to the next one.”

“Alright. I’ll be there.” Dean shrugged, and gestured. “Go sit down. And don’t- you don’t have to talk to him.”

“Why not?”

Dean knew that the more secretive he got, the more Sam would see it as some kind of code to crack, so he forced himself to loosen up. “You can if you want, just don’t make it weird.”

“I’d never make it weird, don’t worry about me,” Sam scoffed. “Good luck to you and the kids, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said, waving him off playfully, and then he felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, and he knew instantly who it was.

He forced himself to wait for a moment, to wait to turn around, but it didn’t take long at all for him to end up turning his head, looking right toward the one person on earth who he felt could see him from the inside out. He raised a hand as the whistle blew, and he waved to Castiel on the bleachers. Cas waved back, and Dean smiled, turning around and beaming at the little faces looking back up at him expectantly.

“Let’s play this game, guys.”

Dinner was never formal at their house, especially not now that they were all older. His mom still cooked, his father still sat and looked at everyone like he was judging, but it was mostly the same. Dean felt like he was fifteen again every time he sat down at the table to have dinner with his parents, and this time was no different.

It was a simple dinner, some chicken, rice, and broccoli. Dean was scarfing it down, and Sam was eating politely, but their mother was looking between each of them with amusement interchangeably, like watching them was some form of television.

“So boys,” Mary said, “is there anything new with you two?”

“Well,” Sam said, looking at Dean for a split second, and with the look in his eyes, Dean knew exactly what his brother was going to say. He almost opened his mouth to protest. “Dean’s been hanging out with Castiel.”

“Really?” His mom practically gasped, and Dean glared at Sam. “You reconnected with Cas?”

“Yeah, just a little,” Dean said nonchalantly, even though he could feel his heartbeat in his chest. “We’re back to being friends.” Dean cut a look at his dad, who was much more focused on his chicken than their chatter at the table.

“Friends?” His mom asked, and it almost sounded like she was disappointed to hear it. The spark in her eyes dimmed just the slightest, and Dean frowned a bit.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat, looking her up and down, trying to see if he was imagining the joy washing away from her face. “We’re friends again.”

“Yeah, if friends typically gaze longingly at each other from different sides of the baseball diamond,” Sam joked, and Dean’s heart dropped. If Sam had made that joke at a regular dinner between them and Jessica, Jess would have rolled her eyes lovingly at him, telling him off gently, and Dean would have only been mildly annoyed. But it wasn’t even close to being a regular weekly dinner. At all.

Mary gave him a knowing look, but Dean’s heart jumped in his chest when he saw his dad’s eyes drift over to him, blinking almost lazily. Like Sam hadn’t just said something that changed everything.

“What are you talking about, Sam?” John finally asked after a few moments of silence, and suddenly, it felt like they were all twenty years younger sitting at the kitchen table after one of them accidentally slipped up, blurting out something they were keeping secret out of fear of punishment. Dean locked eyes with his brother, who already looked apologetic, but there was nothing they could do.

“I’m friends with Castiel Novak from highschool again,” he said, “nothing special.”

“Castiel?” His dad repeated with his eyes just a little wider, and then, to Dean’s absolute surprise, he simply shrugged his shoulders. “I could have guessed that earlier.”

Dean forced himself to breathe through the adrenaline, and he pretended that the breath he managed tot take it wasn’t shaky. “Guessed what?”

“That ‘friend’ is the code word for boyfriend again,” John sighed gruffly, and a Castiel-sized lump sat in Dean's throat. “Could ya pass me more rice, Mary?”

Dean Winchester’s world was on standby. It was on complete hold as everyone else kept moving around cautiously, like they were all waiting for the other shoe with the patriarch of the table to drop. He could see Sam lag for a moment, and that brought him comfort only because he knew he hadn’t imagined the quick exchange. The shoe was hanging in the air, hanging by one lace as it threatened to crash into the bowl of rice, but it didn't as John spooned more food onto his plate.

John Winchester didn’t care.

It wasn’t that Dean had ever thought he would be disowned for liking men. That was never his impression. But he certainly didn’t expect for his father to react like they were talking about the weather. He was sure that he was in store for a few dirty looks, maybe even an unsavory comment or two before he got used to the idea, but there was nothing. Nothing at all even as Dean held his breath and waited for him to say something around his mouthful of chicken and rice.

Nothing ever came.

And then Dean was sent back into his own mind, his personal jail cell that had bars with gaps so wide he could have slipped out at any time, and apparently, no guards waiting outside of the walls of the prison.

There were no roadblocks left. Society didn’t care. His coworkers wouldn’t think twice. The people he would never see on the street again didn’t give a damn,and the parents at baseball wouldn’t question a thing. There was no team full of college boys who he was scared of being outcast from, and now, not even his father would give him any shit. There was absolutely nothing holding back Dean Winchester from being himself.

And that was as terrifying as it was freeing.

“Well, that was great mom, thank you,” he heard Sam say politely, and Dean was tossed out of his own thoughts just like that, and he blinked up from his half eaten dinner and nodded his head robotically, thanking his mom. Everyone had finished their dinner, and he wondered how long they had allowed him to just stare off into space.

“Really good,” he agreed, “um, I have an early morning. I have work,” he explained weakly, and his mother nodded at him sympathetically, but he knew the sympathy had nothing to do with the fact that he had to wake up early.

“I should head out too,” Sam said, and Dean could have clapped with joy. Maybe if they walked out together, he could hide behind Sam’s big ass body. “It was really good though, thanks for having us over.”

Fuck hiding. He wanted to run. Dean couldn’t get out of the chair fast enough. He practically scrambled up from the table as everyone else moved at a normal pace, hardly able to look at his dad. He hugged his mom and grabbed his car keys and phone off of the counter, and when he got to the front door, his father was already waiting for him.

“Castiel, huh?” John said, and Dean swallowed.

“Yep.”

“Hm.” And for a moment, that was all that there was. They were both standing by the front door, face to face, and Dean could feel his father’s gaze on him, like he was examining him from head to toe, looking for any cracks in his exterior.

“He was always good to you,” John said, sipping his beer. “Don’t be an asshole, Dean.”

Dean nodded his head twice, his head bobbing like a buoy in the ocean. “Of course not.”

“Hm,” John grunted again, and he opened the front door. “I’ll see ya, Dean.” There was a pause. “Love ya, son.”

The lump in his throat got ten times bigger, and Dean couldn’t do anything more than whisper the words back as he practically jogged out of the front door, his hand over his heart, trying to stop it from bursting in his chest.

Dean’s Tuesday was monotonous. It was the same as normal, crunching numbers and talking to clients. The only thing different was Arthur Ketch’s very brief presence. He was a fellow that could have easily been written off as stuck up, but after speaking to him a few times, Dean realized he wasn’t the worst.

“I saw you at the kid’s baseball diamond this weekend,” Ketch had said, standing over his desk. “You coach little league?”

“I do,” confirmed Dean, typing away. “It’s fun. Cute.”

“That’s nice,” Ketch said, “and who’s that dark haired fellow who was standing really close to you?”

That made Dean stop. “Huh?”

“There was a man in a long coat, a trench coat maybe? I assume you two were friends, but I didn’t recognize him.”

“Uh,” Dean said, blinking up at him. “He’s an old friend. You wouldn’t know him.”

Ketch narrowed his eyes. “Friend?”

“How long were you sitting at the light for?” Dean asked somewhat jokingly, but he also wondered how close they must have been standing for Ketch of all people to question what was going on.

“A while. It’s a lengthy light,” was all Ketch said before getting distracted by something else, walking away. “Until next time.”

And for a few minutes, all Dean could think about was the fact that someone had seen him and Cas, and looked at them for long enough to suspect something. And then, as he remembered his father’s shrugs and his mother’s sweet smile, he found that he truly didn’t care.

The rest of the day passed by quickly. He said goodbye to his boss and his coworkers like it was any other day, but instead of just walking down to his car, he shrugged his shoulders and started to walk down the semi-busy street.

The noises of the city were somewhat grounding to Dean. Honking horns, people laughing, high heels clicking, chimes above doors swinging in the wind. It all reminded Dean that there was so much more, and that nothing mattered. In a good way. For the first time in a long time, nothing mattered to Dean in a good way.

Dean was walking past a coffee shop when the door swung open, and he stepped back only to see a familiar, curly head of blond hair.

“Oh, hey, Dean,” Jessica said, and Dean smiled at her. “How are you?”

“I’m doing good, just heading home after this.” He saw Sam walk out of the coffee shop door, too, waving to him casually.

“Hey, I saw on Facebook that a familiar face is having a little art exhibit,” Jessica said, and Dean perked up. “It was actually really good. He’s talented.”

“I should go.” And then, Jessice beamed, like that had been her intention.

“Yeah, Dean,” she said, nodding her head. “You really should.”

“She still has game, even after all this time,” Sam said slyly, and Dean couldn’t help but smile at the two. They were so in love that it was damn near gross. “She’ll help you get him back.”

The smile slipped off of Dean’s face, and he nodded his head. “Thanks, guys. Jess,” he amended, and then he nodded back to the way he came, deciding it was time to get in the car and go home. “I’ll see you guys around.”

Dean got home quicker than usual, and he wasn’t sure if he was absentmindedly speeding or if he was off in his own mind during the drive. Either way, he went into his apartment and kicked off his shoes, intent on eating a quick smashburger and sitting on the couch. He made dinner with thoughts bouncing around in his head, and he found himself logging onto Facebook and looking up events in the area, and sure enough, there was a photo of Castiel’s smiling face and some of his art, and there was an exhibit on Saturday.

His heart raced as he thought about showing up. He knew he had to show up just like Cas did for him, but he wondered why he never mentioned it. Did Cas not want him there? Would his presence kill the mood? Or did he never bring it up because he thought Dean wouldn’t show anyway? Dean didn’t like any one of those answers, and he knew then and there that he absolutely had to be at the art show, and that the reaction was something to worry about later.

He was going to the damn art show.

Dean felt sick. He was all dressed, business casual, looking at himself in the mirror as the clock ticked down. He didn’t want to be too early. He wanted to slink into the crowd, walk through and look at the art, show his face a little, and leave Cas to be happy.

He drove to the exhibit hall in silence. Not even Metallica could calm him down as he sat in stop and go traffic, breathing shakily as he let his anxiety run wild. He ignored the call from Sam, and the text that came after, and when he parked in the lot, he rubbed his hands onto his pants. The lot was pretty full, which made him happy. He was glad Castiel was having a good turn out. His work deserved to be seen.

He got out of his car on his bowed legs, and forced himself to confidently walk up to the front door. He took a deep breath before he pulled it open, and he was met with small swarms of people walking everywhere, stopping to look at certain pieces. His eyes trailed all around as he looked for Castiel, hoping to spot him first. When he didn’t he walked further into the room, quietly bouncing from exhibit to exhibit.

It was all beautiful. It was all so effortlessly Cas, and Dean felt his heart pump harder as memories swirled. It was so nostalgic but so fresh all the same, and he was glad that he was alone as he looked at every single painting and sculpture there. It felt almost holy to look at after so long, and he resisted the urge to put his hand by his chest, as if that would help his soul from trying to burst out of his body.

He was busy looking at a painting of Castiel himself, a self portrait of him with beautiful angel wings, when the soft music playing changed, and instantly, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck perked up when he recognized the first note.

Every breath you take

He looked up slowly at hearing Sting’s voice, and he could feel his heart beat in his fucking fingers as he tried to seem relaxed, scanning the room for someone he knew was already there. He had been spotted, and this was Castiel’s response.

He found him easily. He was standing alone at a distance away, close enough so that Deancould see his expression. He looked surprised, but he didn’t look upset. He didn’t look like he was upset at all, and Dean knew that if he had changed the song to their song, he couldn’t have hated him for showing up. Still, he swallowed thickly, and like a scared kid on the first day of kindergarten, he raised his hand and waved.

Castiel smiled, and he waved back.

Like a boy with a crush, Dean turned back around with flushed cheeks and looked back at the painting, focused on the wings. He felt someone come up behind him, like a change in the energy, and he took a deep breath as he prepared himself.

Castiel slid into his line of sight, and Dean had no choice but to look at him. He was dressed like an artist, casual clothing and with stars in his eyes. “You came,” Castiel said, and Dean shrugged.

“Of course I did. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

“Do you, uh,” Cas said, gesturing toward the hall, “do you like any of it?”

“It’s all beautiful. I still think you should open up a museum with only your works-”

“You’re still the ultimate flatterer, aren’t you?”

The charmer. The flirt. The playboy. That was him, but it wasn’t anymore. He knew that Cas knew that, but it didn’t sit well with him, and that started to interact with every other negative thought in his head, and he suddenly couldn’t live with the feeling in his gut.

“Cas,” Dean said slowly, and his heart raced in his chest as he saw Castiel’s blue, all-knowing eyes looking back at him. Like he still knew Dean’s every tell, his every gesture, his every thought. As if there was no time between now and graduation, like they had missed only seconds instead of years. “I… you were right. All those years ago.”

“About what, Dean?”

Dean felt faint. Out of all times, of course Castiel chose then to play dumb, like he couldn’t read Dean easier than a book he had memorized. “A long time ago you told me that… I was only hurting myself. By not accepting myself.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, and for a moment, Dean wondered if that was all Cas had to say. That was all he had to say after Dean had mulled over those thoughts and forced himself to say the words? One syllable? “I was hoping that you would eventually come to that conclusion.”

Dean nodded his head once. “And this isn’t- this isn’t me begging for sympathy, or pity. I know what I did to you back then. I know, and I’m still sorry.”

“Sorry about the incident in the club with the girl?” A woman passed between the two of them, yapping about something unrelated as she reunited with the people she came with.

He was. God knew that he was, but he knew that Cas knew why he had been with her in the first place. Even when it first happened, Castiel knew. God, Castiel was always so fucking smart. He was more mature than most adults when they were just in school, and it seemed that his wisdom had only grown from then. Castiel knew that Dean leaving him and being an absolute horn dog wasn’t a fault on his part. He knew that Dean had something else going on, something internal that he couldn't fix for him. And even as a brand new adult, instead of getting mad, Castiel had felt sorry for him. Sorry for him, despite the fact that he was the one who was hurt.

The guilt was overwhelming. It was a tsunami and Dean’s legs were tied and bound to something he couldn’t see. The wave was coming, and Dean couldn’t do anything but brace himself and hold his breath. “I’m sorry that I killed what we had.”

Dean was trying not to breathe heavily as he watched Castiel look at him, hardly blinking his pretty, blue eyes. They were ripping the breath from him again, spinning his thoughts into sounds and forcing them right out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry that I let my own thoughts get between us. Paranoia, immaturity, denial, it was so many things. And I… I guess I’m finally saying sorry. Because you… you had it together. I didn’t. I dragged you down. I got you caught up in all of my shit, and you were a casualty in me hating myself and not understanding. And you didn’t deserve that, at all. So, I’m sorry.”

To his credit, Castiel didn’t look shocked. He didn’t look like he wanted to say “I told you so” either, and that was a win in Dean’s book, but it was still gnawing away at him. Maybe a little less, but his bones still felt like wood, and the exterminator hadn’t quite gotten rid of all the termites.

“The last time you saw me, I was macking on some girl in the club-”

“That’s not the last time I saw you, Dean.” Castiel said. “I went to your home game. The last game you played.”

Dean swallowed. He would have surely seen Castiel back then if he was there, right? He used to be able to feel those blue eyes on him like he was prey being hunted in the wild. He used to be able to feel his touch from miles away.

“No you weren’t,” he said, as if he could have scanned the entire stadium for him and counted him out.

“I was. I watched the whole thing. You hit a homerun in the last inning. You won the game for the team. You were so happy that day, and your team lifted you up just like you were in a movie-” Cas mused, “and that was the last time I saw you.”

“You went?”

“Of course I went, Dean,” Castiel said, and it almost sounded like a snap, “I knew you cared about it. Of course I showed up.”

Dean’s heart was racing, and his mind wasn’t doing much better. He knew that they were talking about something that wasn’t going to be brought up again. Their rights and wrongs of the past were going to be buried, and he knew that the moment where he could bare his soul and confess was about to leave, and he wasn’t sure when he was going to get another chance. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to wait for another chance.

“Can we just- get some ice cream or something?” Dean blurted, and for the first time, Cas looked like he had been thrown for a loop.

“Get ice cream?” Castiel echoed back, almost like he thought it was a prank, and Dean shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s either that or I tell you that I don’t think I ever stopped being in love with you, Cas,” Dean rushed out, and before he could even start to take it back, his mouth started running like Baby's motor. “I fucked up. I know it. You know it. Fuck, everyone who knows us knows it. I’m not trying to fix it because I feel bad or because I’m guilty, I’m trying to fix it because I know that you’re my person. You always have been, and I’m just an idiot.”

For a moment, Cas just stood there, and Dean was full of everything from regret to relief, and then he saw Cas’s face break out into a smile. A low chuckle filled the air between them, and then Cas’s blue eyes were looking up at him.

“How about you help me clean up when it’s time, and we’ll see about the ice cream?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s perfect.”

And for the first time in a long time, everything actually felt like it really was perfect.

#supernatural #destiel #destiel fic #destiel fanfic #dean winchester x castiel #deancas #deancas fanfic #dean x castiel #destiel fluff #destiel au #my fics #i wrote this one #castiel #dean winchester #fanfiction #spn

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fictionadventurer · 5 months ago

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Jane Eyre's really going all in on denouncing pretty privilege, huh?

The first on-screen instance of abuse is Mrs. Reed telling her, "You're being punished until you completely revamp your personality to become an extrovert." Multiple people straight-up say, "She'd be lovable if she were pretty." Telling her the family would accept her if she were pretty and sanguine, but because she's plain and melancholic, even perfect behavior isn't good enough.

It's interesting, but also seems like major overkill. I can believe it would be an issue, but not that everyone in her life would phrase it this way to her face. It's reaching Very Special Episode levels of hitting you over the head with the message.

Was this critiquing an actual problem in Victorian society? Or just the literary conventions of what a heroine should be like? Or is it Charlotte protesting too much on behalf of all "not like other girls"? I'm not sure what I think of it yet.

#jane-u-eyre-y #jane eyre #charlotte bronte #this is the last of the thoughts on the first four chapters #i'll try to hold off on more until the end of the lowood section

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lunavagans · 3 months ago

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Brain feels like a scraped out ice cream container and I‘m procrastinating on writing both what I need and want to write. Have a snippet from a WIP.

#lunavagans #four swords #shadow link #tw blood mention #its the rewrite ive been talking about for a few weeks…#ill post the first chapter once its done. so tomorrow or smth?#thought i could get it all done before posting but nah #the scene is prolly recognizable #i think its much better :)#hopefully i can keep up the quality #that was a huge problem last time

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nico-di-angelfish · 10 months ago

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i just finished reading the world according to garp and oh my god. what a book! so now i immediately have to read everything else john irving has ever written

#like genuinely that was one of the best most beautiful books i’ve ever read #i originally only bought it because i’d been looking for his book a prayer for owen meany #(which i wanted to read because the jimmy eat world song goodbye sky harbor is based on it)#and couldn’t find it ANYWHERE. but then i saw this and of course i’d heard of it before #so i decided to try it while i look for a copy of the other one. and actually i had to wait a little to read it #because i was already reading like four other books. but i read that first section and i was immediately hooked #and so i tortured myself waiting to read it for like two weeks #anyway i think it’s possibly changed my life. certainly my ideas about writing #and i did manage to find a copy of that other book i wanted in the meantime so yay!#as soon as i’ve recovered from garp (which honestly may take a while—i sobbed through the last like 200 pages) i’m going to start it!#it’s these kinds of books that always have such an impact on me i think: weird families full of eccentric people who love each other so much #books that are really bursting with life and with love like my family and other animals by gerald durrell #also books that make me cry that’s an easy one #but hooooly shit i didnt realise this book was SAD? i thought it was a comedy!#i was wholly unprepared to read THAT chapter on the train out of nowhere!#i already loved it before that happened and wouldve given it five stars but the rest of the book just made it an instant favourite

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wormwonder · 11 months ago

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playing with circles O●°○•°o.

#trypophobia #i want to draw again so bad #i feel like my brain is too full of gunk and the only way to clean it is by drawing and i just don't have the time #i did this at work when it was slow #i'm in the process of moving right now. it'll be my first time living alone #i'm finally getting my adhd medicated after getting diagnosed in january #my life is so different year to year it honestly is dizzying #at this time last year my current roommate and i were looking for an apartment #at this time two years ago i had been at my second job ever for three months and i didn't have a car #and my mom had to drive with me to and from work because the van had been totaled and we only had the one car for the four of us #at this time three years ago i had just graduated and was a month into my first ever job. didn't even know how to drive #i thought i was so behind in life and that i was gonna be stuck like that eternally #now... god i don't even know. i'm trying to be positive #this is gonna be my solo chapter. my zuko alone episode. my walden pond.#but really i'm just so scared all the time and i have no choice but to keep treading water forever #i feel like all through childhood everything stays the same. nothing prepared me for living through constant change #entering my mid twenties i'm learning that. yeah you can't predict everything you can't prepare for everything #you can't keep anything and you can't change anything #but you can hold it in your hands. you can choose to live it. you can choose to be there #i hope once i get settled at my new place i'll suddenly find time to do everything #i hope the meds help me with that. i just want to draw again. i just want to feel alive again

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soloavengers · 1 year ago

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red rising would be as good as people say it is if it wasn’t written by a guy who writes like an edgy teenage boy with a heart

#amier thoughts #it’s Very hard to overlook sometimes. but there are parts where. its very good #but it’s still overrated imo. i need to finish the 3rd book i’ve always been more excited about the last four #chapter unnecessarily titled something piss and blood #like be serious #it annoys me sb kfbdjfhd #i say maybe it’s bc of the first person pov but idk if it will change

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rubeerambles · 1 month ago

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What an opening chapter! I, myself, feel quite (re)enlightened to the arduous nature of the capitalist life that I, like the animals, am subjected to and I share their strong desire to rebel. It is really such a powerful speech from Old Major and while I know the novel is a critique of communism more broadly, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the way impassioned preachers speak about Christ’s second coming.

Specifically, phrases like “it might be in a week, or in a hundred years” echo biblical language about the unknown timing of Christ’s return. Similarly, Old Major urges the animals to “fix their eyes” on justice, just as Christians are told to fix their eyes on the promise of eternal life. And perhaps rebellion, for the animals, represents their version of salvation, a vision of eternal peace and deliverance from suffering.

What’s fascinating is how Old Major’s speech doesn’t just inspire; it also foreshadows. His final warnings to the animals about the dangers of becoming like their oppressors essentially summarise the arc of the entire story. But even beyond the speech, there are already subtle signs that the animals (especially the pigs) will eventually fall to human nature. One moment that stood out to me in this regard was Orwell’s description of Clover as “never having quite got her figure back.” It’s such a human way of speaking about someone that it felt like early, almost humorous foreshadowing of the animals’ slide into human-like behaviours.

#these thoughts have not been properly fleshed out #just some ponderings whilst enjoying the first chapter #animal farm #chapter 1 #it has been many many years since i last read this book and the only real plot point i remember is 'two legs good four legs better'#also is Old Major kind of giving John the Baptist or am I mad

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acid-ixx · 4 months ago

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ch.5 pt 2: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1, chapter five pt 2,

read under the end for an author's note.

tw: talks about death, prostitution, self-harm, trauma & ptsd, suicidal thoughts, and neglect.

the world was still spinning when you had awoken.

you didn't know if that was good or bad news alone. didn't even know what your current state could do now that you're in some room, subconsciously recalling between the gaps of memories that had caused you to be here.

lying down, with the painful throb of the holes within your body pinning you in place.

what happened?

breakdowns, booze, flirting, tears, comfort, gunshots, acceptance and death—

— lots of it.

all in the span of one night. one singular night which reigned in spilled blood and reopened wounds.

maybe you should've never made a stupid decision in the first place, the calculating, smarter, yet easily shut-down part of you scolds yourself. the events of the night were still fresh, enough to make both your heart and your head throb: were you finally sobering up, or does this ache come from a different type of pain, more painful, more heavily emotional than being met with death?

how long has it been since you were out? how long has it been since he saved you? since he...

the name tastes bitter in your tongue, it's been months, maybe even almost a year since you've last encountered him, let alone talked to him without being met with strained eye contact and cruel scoffs; a painful reminder of how your actions were what stuck the final nail in the coffin for your own neglect against the man, the brother you consider closest to you; despite it never being enough.

jason.

your last interaction was particularly unpleasant, an act of teenage hormones swelling in your very veins caused you to be spiteful towards him, ignoring his casual small talks in favor of refusing to offer your homemade treats and grabbing the jar of your favorite sweets - that you always meticulously and willingly give him whenever he'd make his rare visits - away from his prying hands.

you remember his offended tone, the sudden venom in his words as he asked, too mockingly for your own taste, "what's wrong with you, angel? what's gotten you snappy these days?"

these days?

most days, it was you succumbing to his wants and needs. considering the treats he liked, the books he read, the movies he watched. all an effort painfully done if it meant having his eyes on you for just more than a second.

these days? just what had you done these days that warranted his offense? all you have done, all you ever did, was tag along everyone's tail, watching from the shadows, biting back the poisonous words, the tears that clung at the edge of your throat; ready to uncoil, to pounce the moment your envy unfurls even further.

these days? yeah right, these days, you just wanted to fucking die—

'cause highschool is shit, your life is shit, and you can't- just can't afford to play nice these days. not when they've all been so cruel, not when the people you look up to treat you lesser than the worms they step on when they spend time around the garden- your garden that you've carefully cultivated, all for your efforts to go to waste.

— but Jason won't understand, nobody could. not even alfred could comprehend just how worse your mood has soured. nobody's aware of just how close you are to your breaking point.

you glare at him for a second, wanting to retort, to swear at the sight of his knotted brows and frustrated pose, but the flicker of fight within you has just as quickly extinguished. your shoulders slumped, yet jason remains as rigid as ever in his seat, no amount of softness could be found in his expression, not even the softness he directs at you.

'he doesn't feel the same right now but—'

'there's no point in even trying anymore.'

ignoring the pang of regret in your chest, the urge to apologize with widened eyes, to pretend this was all a dream; you simply turned away in spite of the brimming tears, biting at your raw lips, to escape to another room.

afraid to show anymore weakness, afraid of the consequences, your hurried footsteps had echoed across the hallways.

you left the tooth-achingly sweet treats he originally intended to take by the table.

'he can have it for all i care.'

but are you sure you don't care? are you truly sure, when your chest spiked with frazzled haste just from hearing a familiar scoff - the one he directs to the people he despises - behind you? is it indifference when your hearing began to wring just to block out whatever vile words he spewed that day?

you want to apologize, you truly do, even if you're aware you're not much at fault, but rather him for being inconsiderate to your feelings, your foreign actions, he calls you his angel, but when his angel shows obvious hurt, he doesn't care?—

hah. but you just can't deal with it, with him any longer.

so you let it be, let him think you're just having your rebellious teenager phase, that you being a piece of shit in his eyes would pass eventually.

he wouldn't know, didn't even notice the bandages plastered across the expanse of your aching arms, the bags dipping below your eyes, or your frizzy, thinning hair.

with your last encounter, there was no more after that.

and if there were, you couldn't even call it that, for he was raging fire, and you a blistering snowstorm.

those were never meant to clash, let alone part.

thinking about it now, recalling what's gotten his mind on a twist, in your little, foreign mattress, with your eyes still shut close, lower abdomen still aching; it makes you want to die a little more at how much you never considered your feelings in the past.

you still don't right now - couldn't even make past your crippling self-esteem - but compared to last time, you at least maintained a flicker of dignity.

jason, meanwhile.

he- maybe he had a terrible day that day, you recalled his argument with bruce fresh on your mind that fateful afternoon. how tense and resounding the tension was in the room they'd fought. something over morals, over his still-burning need for justice by unfairly taking the lives of most criminals, bruce stated.

how it never quite changed, even until now.

it's the norm for all their little spats, the usual dynamic with their bated breaths and venomous words, their pitiful angst. how could you not remember, when it's dick who had to physically rip jason off from plunging a weapon on bruce's chin, whilst alfred's disappointed scolding hung in the air — whilst it's you watching in the corner, witnessing the entire scene unfold, useless when it comes to intervening because your words hold no impact for their dynamic?

maybe, just maybe, you could've been more considerate of his feelings when he'd blown bruce off, throwing him the finger before bursting off to the kitchen's pantry - to stressfully feast on the treats you carefully stored in, for moments like these, because he loves to thrash around the kitchen eating your baked sweets - to ruminate on his raging thoughts.

but if you could recall all the moments of his rage, how could he not recall his promise to bring you home some of your favorite dishes the night before that, then?

how could he not consider his so-called angel's feelings, when you had to adjust to his whims?

yeah, maybe you were boiling with rage that time too, not only due to the pressure of highschool, but at yet another broken promise. maybe you just wanted to hide away the tears, the looming expectations to act normal ultimately failing, which translated to your snappy behavior— but you thought:

'maybe, just maybe, my favorite brother, my closest confidant, could understand.'

you were wrong, you always were.

and for that, when you'd run crying to your room, another fresh scar was soldered in both your skin and your memories.

— a painful reminder of losing the closest thing you had in the world, just because you finally felt brave enough to show an inch of your closeted yet forbidden emotions.

your rebellion caused a permanent rift between your already drifting relationship, you despised yourself for that seemingly small, yet highly impactful mistake.

thinking about it now, in your crippled, nearly paralyzed state, makes you just want to forget.

— and remember the even more painful present.

finally, you compiled the strength to blink away the weight in your eyes. remnants of dry, salty tears were still fresh in the corners of your lids, throat parched, mind thrumming with dull pain and aching limbs— it reminded you of your unbidden nightmare just moment's ago; a stark contrast from its pleasantness compared to the damming reality you're actually in.

it felt like a fading memory, that dream, a looming freckled dust of air you couldn't quite catch in your stretched out fingers. how her gentle touch was like a cure to all your ailments, yet her hurried good-byes an eternal scar to the broken pieces of your heart.

oh, my momma.

how you miss her and her angelic presence already.

it never truly occurred to you how much the heavy weight of missing her stumped you from actually maturing. it was always her you mourn in moments of painful respite. her fading advices, her airy voice, her silent hums and warm presence. it was a whiplash to have her in such a wicked environment, in gotham of a places.

seeing her, in that cottage, in all her glory, wrinkles and aged, sagging skin surrounding the expanse of her angelic appearance. she was so young when she had you, and it was all you ever dreamed of— watching her gracefully age before you like fine wine, rather than those... those flashbacks of those bloodied tiles and the ichor dripping down her lifeless, icy lips.

damn be her reputation, she was your momma first, and prostitute, money laundering scam, second. thinking about her just makes you want to shut your eyes once more, return to that restless dream, and stay there forever.

rather than...

— your eyes switch to shuttering quickly, faded imagery still present in the fog of your vision. everything felt suspended in air except for the mechanical churn of the hanging fan on the ceiling, yet the furniture still present itself in shaped globs rather than actual three-dimensional objects. it took you nearly a minute to regain your sight, to finally hone in on your surroundings. albeit the haze and the adrenaline slowly pumping in your veins, your mind telling you to run despite the lack of sensation in your lower half, you slowly take in this...

this unfamiliar room...

a place displaying artillery, heavy weapons on the four corners of the walls, surrounding the dainty, one person cushion you lay on. there's an array of both fresh and bloodied gauze on the tabletop on your right, it seems to be used just recently, on you, probably. they're tightly wrapped on your lower half, you can see through the dark of your blankets and the feel of its restrictions on your guts.

strange how you're here, recalling the events of the night, yet it's still night now.

have you been out for an entire day?

and your phone and other essentials is on the same tabletop, you can even make out the table napkin containing conner's number still carefully tuckered behind your phone case. the faint waft of your favorite takeout caressed your nostrils, if not for the pain of having to carefully churn around the weighted blanket splayed on top of you; you might've sat up to dig in the savory meal.

but you can't focus on your hunger, not just yet. not when the dread overpowers your bodily urges, not when this entire thing feels like it's imitating a sense of normalcy; a room, reflecting the danger of the inhabitant living within, despite your foggy vision still, trying it's best to placate you into feeling safe.

but worse yet, the most dreaded of them all—

a room with your brother in it.

a room with the person you'd least want to deal with, not with just how much you haven't calmed down, how your final resolve was to avoid the very same people who'd always avoided you.

you couldn't possibly face them now, not ever.

not even the man you once came to call your favorite.

the holes in your body, now wrapped tight with gauze, throbs noisily, as if it senses the resounding doom wrapping around your heart, until it spreads across your entire body, now cold with caution. through your careful inspection of your belongings, through the noise of your frazzled thoughts, you haven't felt the dip on the bed you lay on. dim lights surrounded your vision afterall, the same ones still clearing up after hours of restless slumber.

and everything around you was unlike the specks of sun you were greeted with when you'd awoken from that dream.

dark and heavy.

your fingertips, your head, your injuries, the dip of the bed just now, his breathless haste; as if he waited for this moment, for you to slowly awaken, to return to consciousness.

an overbearing sense of desperation: his manic trance, the tusled locks of black and white hair, the faint shiver in his breathing.

and it's not as if you needed to second-guess the man now seated on the bed, he's so easily recognizable with his toughened form and muscles churning beneath his ashy jacket.

no, no, you want to close your eyes, pretend you're still asleep.

— but you can't, it's too late now that he noticed.

"... mornin', angel. you alright?"

he asks, silent and unsure, the question drifting off his tongue so gently, so hesitatingly as if he couldn't believe witnessing you breathing in front of him. warm yet burning with need for answers. and for a second, for a measly, quintessential span of time, you might've thought his raspy words were an aftermath of some tears.

he sounded so...

broken.

like a man torn from the inside out. the last you've seen of him, he'd already sported eyebags— but not too sunken, too tired like the current one you're staring at. like a washed out ember amidst winter, everything about him felt vulnerable...

it just makes you want to die on the inside— that- that you feel a semblance of care for someone who's hurt you far more than loved you.

the gentleness in his question, the hesitant stumble of his hands that came to bury itself into your tangled hair. the warmth that emits from his raggedy fingers hovering over the scalp of your head; it just made you feel fuzzy yet awful. the image of a brother and a stranger in front of you just blurs into a singular mess.

your vision spins, his hands are still awkwardly patting your head, as if urging you to speak, yet no reply escaped from your parched throat, from your dry, cracked lips. you fear whatever words might come next will just be a product of your impulsiveness— like the last time you met, like- like how you always fucked everything up, and you just did so the other night, and you're afraid of everything that might come after—

"i tried fixin' my apartment up just before you woke up... got us some takeout for dinner, too. it's your favorite..."

a hesitant smile, teethering on near gentleness that seemed impossible for a cruel man like him. jason looked almost like the brother you once knew as he coughs to himself, a poor attempt to wash away the awkward tension between you two. you're still silent between it all, not a single word mustered from your gaping mouth.

no.

your breath hitches—

your cold hands drive away his fingers entangled with your hair, shaky breaths make up the silent space between you two. he's not- not going to go about this way, would he? how could he?

no, this was not a moment to pretend. he saw you cry out there, under the moonlit night when the world was out for your life— you begged him, implied you'd rather die than let your savior be him.

you're hurt, everything still isn't fine between you two. not a single thread of softness will make up for the broken remnants of love he left you with. he can't act like the last time you met was a warm memory; not when it was filled with icy words and barely disguised contempt.

for a moment, you swore you could see a flash of heartbreak filling his stare. for a moment, you want to take your actions back like last time and become the younger you, but it's just for a moment.

these feelings don't last for a lifeline, not anymore.

"look, angel. i'm- you're not fine, still. it's the doctor's orders that you you need to eat, especially since you just got discharged and got all drunk on an empty stomach."

since when did he care?

ignoring him, your eyes dart elsewhere, ears purposely blocking out the meaning of his words, senses entangled with anything but his vulnerable stare. you look at the rickety fan barely blowing air on your messy hair, buzzing on top of dusty ceilings and shadowing dimly lit walls, at the spare armory scattered actoss the room - he could kill you with them, could end you with just a snap of his fingers - at the spider webs housing the corners of the apartment boxing you in with a man you dread meeting, let alone facing in a space you're far too unfamiliar with.

trapped and vulnerable; like a doe locked in place in a vast forest, surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves, ready to devour the closest thing in sight.

there may only be one you're dealing with now, but they're out there. dick and the others are out there with intentions to face you too.

and you don't know which part of you triggered this sudden desperation, this sudden link between you and your estranged siblings, but you hate it.

you hate this unfamiliar care. you hate the concern laced in every sentiment of jason's. it's unlike them, it's not them in your eyes.

and you hate how this resentment is overpowered by the shadowed by something more sinister, the one thing that dictated the course of your life—

one word: fear.

it wraps around your throat tighter than the bandages adorning your body. traps you in its clawing grip and molds itself in the form of your family.

fear of how to deal with their foreign worry, their questions lingering in the air with patience in its virtue rather than disdain. jason's unmasked face, thumbs softly massaging your unfeeling, cold fingers.

where you show a hitch of a breath, the widening of eyes, and the slightest of shivers. a hint of vulnerability, the softest of hiccups, the deep intakes of air—

instead of being met with a scoff, an offensive remark about your weakness, or a flick of worry immediately wearing away as dismissiveness takes place.

you're met with unfamiliar worry, the heavier dip of the bed, the splaying of bedsheets as jason's body moves closer to yours, the quick succession of movement as he takes off his jacket to loom over your- your shivering form.

just a little more, then your teary eyes meet its gaze on his crumpled jacket with its stench of cigarettes clinging in the air. your tired eyes shakily gaze at the layers of gauze wrapping your ever-bleeding body, and feel the ache nesting in its abode.

panic, unyielding; so much fear which rattles your bones and turns your muscles into useless jelly; which worries the perpetrator of these complicated emotions—

jason.

how do you pretend you're fine? how can you act so carelessly vulnerable in the domain of unknown territory; in a room, alone, but not quite?

it takes you back to when you were at your apartment, takes you back to when you try your damned best to ignore the sensation of panic and bile rising up your throat when you saw dick's messages. all in the span of less than a week.

your life is so fucked.

yet you choose to be inactive in facing these struggles, you choose not to run, or fight, but to ignore.

it's the only common symptom you share with your... your family.

just like now: anywhere but him.

you can't expend anymore hope—

"why, angel?"

confused, pleading, perhaps struck with grief. so unlike the man who scoffed at your lack of reply months ago. maybe he'd truly change, or maybe he felt pity at watching you nearly die before he could redeem himself.

it was his voice that cuts through the tension in the air. this time, he sounds like he's begging. for a second, your tired eyes run to him: him and his stupid worry. the nonchalant buzz in his words were no more, replaced by... betrayal.

for a second, you're reminded of your last meeting. the contrast of the cold past and now this burning sensation within your chest. then suddenly, everything hurts just a little more.

suddenly, you're back at the start. just the little kid looking for answers in a world too big for them. just the little kid who wanted to be good enough for their newfound family.

"for-for wh— what?"

god, even now the past still haunts you, the present crueler too. you and your stupid stuttering, your exposed and vulnerable aching heart that yearns for answers. why is jason hurt over seeing you hurt? why does he... care?

it's just so incomprehensible for you.

his worry is just too foreign.

under the pressure of his boiling gaze, which renders you useless and pinned in damp bedsheets, you simply feel bile rise up your throat. feel anything but comfort when both your eyes met. your teeth nibbles on your sore lips, and you find jason's wince, his almost tense fingers about to stop you from drawing out blood.

"you know what i mean." you don't. or rather, you don't want to know what he means. "why were you..."

'why am i out of the manor, right? in an unknown place in the middle of the night, drunk and alone? almost killed by my own stupidity? why? you know why, jason?'

you bite your lips, its raw, peeling skin opens up old scars anyways, and it bleeds like your raging heart.

'—it's because of you and all the others.'

you don't want to explain how they're the reason for all your burdens. how his sudden presence in that fucking alleyway caused more distress than nearly dying. why you're out in public wasting away at your life, avoiding anything that you can associate with them because, just because you're always hurting.

you don't want to be reminded of the past anymore. you never expected to be in one of your sibling's damn apartment, being interrogated, almost scolded for your impulsive decisions and forced to listen to his sickly bitter worries over your health as if he actually cared for you.

sweat ran down your bobbed throat. your tongue, your lips and your skin felt damp yet dry. cold and crisp air was a commodity, everything felt blazing hot under jason's expectant stare.

an uncomfortable heat, almost burning you, turning your bones to ashes and organs to dust.

"just—" his presence almost felt ghastly, fingers hovering over your downturned chin to softly tilt it up. your eyes felt blurry, and the world felt so... just so cruel when his other hands made its way to wipe away your damp cheeks.

were you... crying?

"just answer me, please."

jason todd, no, the red hood doesn't beg. he doesn't plead. the infamous crime lord doesn't gently swipe your sweaty hair to the side so it doesn't disrupt your already blurry vision. he hurts others, cuts their skin and veins, shoots their bones, rips their limbs one by one, tortures them until all they could beg for is the sweet release of death—

but he doesn't just care for somebody easily, right? he shouldn't burden himself with your own personal issues. he never has done so, only coming to you for casual talk.

what changed?

"i—" you gulp, but the lump in your throat remains everlasting. do you tell him of your worries? do you even trust him? can you even trust him?

"i don't know..."

'i don't know, jason... i'd rather not let you know anymore than you should have.'

"i-it's fine... don't worry about it." you added to your pile of excusing, shrinking in on yourself when his eyes squint at your words.

small. you feel like an ant taking in everything that felt particularly enormous against you. jason's body blocking out the city's skyline and the moon's watchful glow made everything dimmer, made it feel like your only choice was to go through him.

it doesn't help that it feels like every word you mutter, every breath you take, feels like a daunting action devoured by the inner workings of his mind.

why should you worry? jason never— he never truly cared this much.

whether you lie or not wouldn't change the outcome. just a little slip up and he'll leave you alone once more. just a few more minutes and he'll eventually give up, right?

so why are you nervous? why are your fingers picking at the skin of your palms? why do the tears just keep leaking like a faulty pipe? why is he— why can't he just stop staring at you—?

"you're lying."

"h—huh?"

"you're lying and it's obvious, angel."

he reiterates, this time, the tremor in his voice reaches the depths of the ocean. and just like an ocean, you feel yourself drowning in the pressure of his answers. you feel the heaviness of his words, feel it pinning you in place and locking your joints, until all you could hear are his paced breathing and the subtle agitation in his voice.

"wh—"

"why? why were you out alone, huh? what were you doing all alone at night? alfred wasn't even with you— you're drunk out of your mind, you're not even old enough to drink, angel. you weren't with- with anybody by the time i reached you— so why... just why?" this time, he demands. even if his questions were mere whispers against the blaring sounds of traffic from below; it still reaches out and buries itself into your skin, tickles the inside of your ears and nips at delicate skin.

until all you could focus on were his questions.

why?

'isn't it obvious, brother? or do you still see me as a little child?'

"when's my birthday, jason?"

it doesn't take much to know when you've turned the course of the tides to side with you. it doesn't take much to watch jason stumble between befuddled thoughts until he crosses a hurdle he couldn't jump through.

'it shouldn't be a surprise to you, jay. i thought you truly changed.'

nobody... nobody except alfred knew when you were born. not even your closest brother, no. you almost genuinely convinced yourself he cared, but the delusion quickly breaks when you find him wide-eyed as the thoughts churn in his head.

"what...?"

if he truly cared, then he should've known, right?

"—you... i'll answer you if you answer me back. when's my birthday?"

you call him out in that sickly, sweet nickname. it was what that past you called him. it's the same verse you chirp over and over again just to gain a traction of his attention when you feel his eyes drift over the book he's read rather than on you. the name you oh-so carefully drawl out so that he doesn't drift to sleep just so you'll be given temporary respite from the loneliness, so he could rest his fingers on your scalp and promptly hug you from the side.

it feels so foreign on your tongue now, after all, you haven't spoken to him in months.

the last note you left each other with was pure bitterness.

it feels even more strange that you realized how you know all their birthdays, but they never knew yours.

never knew it passed by so quickly under their radar. how you're free from the shackles of their ownership over your name. he doesn't... doesn't even know you're not a wayne now, no?

"do you even know how old i am now?"

"it's... you know, shit—!" he mutters under his breath. it's like he just realized how much he doesn't... couldn't even remember a crucial detail of you when it's you who knows all his favorite books, his favorite author, how his comfort snacks are different for every feeling he feels; hell, even his preferred places to smoke.

yet he doesn't even remember your birthday? couldn't even recall a single moment where you blew out a candle? in all the moments he visited, spending nights with you under the moonlight or through the shine of the library's chandelier; he never even thought of giving you a present, let alone wonder why how within those years of knowing you— jason couldn't even remember the most important occasion of your life?

he bites his lips, and this time, it's him who buries the tips of his fingers on the hastily crumpled bedsheets.

if he calls himself your brother, who thinks he has the right to worry over you, then is a brother someone who couldn't remember your birthday?

now that his eyes aren't on you, you're spared a moment to take him in through the hastening of your heart and the neverending rivulets of tears escaping your blurry gaze.

'ignore the pain, (name). you shouldn't be hurt anymore. you shouldn't feel surprised that he doesn't even know when you were fucking born."

but you can't bear the thought of him stumbling through his words, formulating excuses he knows you know you could easily reject. it just makes everything hurt even more, makes the endless ache in your heart thrum at the implications that this person— his worries were nothing when he has nothing, no care in the past to bare to you now.

"i'm eighteen now, jay..." his eyes quickly flit up to stare at you, mouth agape at the newfound information. what's the use in being shocked now? when all your other birthdays were dismissed and breezed by like a normal day for them— for your family?

and yet you know the answers to your very own questions.

eighteen is a quintessential part of someone's life.

it marks the path of adolescence, the descent to maturity as you learn to grow, to make your own decisions. some children move out of their parent's home to build a nest of their own, they find jobs, maybe even a partner to make or break a life with. people in america who turn 18 are still restricted from drinking, but most still choose to break some laws, fuck up with their decision, get shit-faced and party off with some fraternities and friends who'll turn their backs on you; and then regret it all later.

they build their lives, they go through ups and downs, and slowly bring themself back up again. there's no more gentle approaches, no more excuses for a developing mind. they go through so much in just a year.

and the most important of it all, is that most graduate.

and they weren't there for you, nobody was, save for alfred.

bruce wasn't there when you graduated, so it's no surprise that jason, or even the others, wouldn't come.

jason's still a dead man in the public's eyes, after all.

and even if he wasn't, what would've guaranteed that he'll still come to watch you walk up that stage? what would've changed, when the weight of your graduation and the future to come was thwarted by their worries over damian's? it was always him they— bruce prioritized, when he'd first enter the manor, all eyes were on the brazen boy.

when you first entered the manor, it was a rainy, desolate day. bruce was busy, of course he was, why wouldn't he be when he drowns himself in paperwork to distract the horrid reminders that his second son had passed?

and you don't know what hurts even more, the heartbreak in his stare, or the thumps in your heart that felt like footsteps stepping on the beating organ until all its blood is drained?

"shit, angel. i never knew... i'm— you're eighteen now and i didn't even know? fuck, how could i have forgotten it—"

"just, please save your excuses, jason..."

it's like he couldn't even believe you were old enough now, mature enough to comprehend how his excuses don't mean shit if his lack of knowledge towards your birthday ran on for years.

your sniffles weren't as silent as your words, it hurts, everything felt like fire. the world wants you to burn as your body felt like betrayal, your vulnerabilities stripped bare in front of him.

"i... appreciate your concern, but," it hurts to lie under your breath, hurts to hesitate, let alone voice out what you truly feel. it hurts to wonder why you're unsure if what he felt for you was worry, or just mere guilt over the situation you're both in.

the lines between all your emotions were blurred, you don't even wait to see his expressions anymore. you fear you'll revert back to the younger you, who considers the others before yourself, even when you've disillusioned yourself countless of times that you've changed.

you did, didn't you?

"you don't— you have no excuse to patronize my health when... when i know my limits and..."

"—i have to go, jason..."

barely a whisper. your words were barely a whisper, like the haste of thunder striking through metal rods though without sound, without thought, without hesitation; before your hands suddenly push all your weight to straighten your slumped form. your legs, which felt like blazing jelly, made an attempt to stand despite the burning sensation. you don't offer jason a second to register what you were doing, don't even let him see how your stomach bent enough to nearly reopen wounds—

god, fuck—!

it hurts, it fucking hurts so much.

your heart, your head, your entire body.

one second, you stumble, the gravity of your body fighting against the blistering, aching pain which shoots through your veins. all in one second, seering in your abdomen, like fingers digging deep into your injuries, twisting and churning until all you could feel is pain so absolutely revolting, so mercilessly cripping in your lower abdomen, that it seizes you useless, so utterly unable to capture your balance in the midst of standing, that your legs quickly give out on you.

then another second passes like a beat, all too quickly, yet all too slow for you as the world spins in your darkening vision, all the blood from your head rushing to where the holes lay in haste. your heart thumps like a drum in a warfield, like boots splattering on wed mud, sporadic, in near panic.

another second, the third, and just as you're about to stumble down, the pain so much that your eyes shoot out salty, ignorant tears. just as your body is close to thumping, writhing on the floor, jason catches you in his arms, grip so tight it almost felt like he'd refuse to let go. like how it was back in that shitty alleyway, like how it was, you felt trapped, trapped and forced to feel his sweating muscles churning mechanically, taut and tense through his thin sweatshirt.

close enough to feel that same, raggedy panic — the hitch of a breath, the loud thrumming in your chest, adrenaline shooting into your senses, your mind registers jason as a token of danger— emerging as your elbows make way to hit him square in ribs, only for his quicker, stronger palms instinctively stop you, his larger body locking you up in place, stabilizing you as you feel like you're hovering, suspended in thin, nearly charged air.

he's— he's carrying you, left hand respectfully gripping below your thighs, the other palm resting on your backside. it still hurts, everything does, nothing about you screams okay, only the slight subsidizing of pain as your brother, no, jason carefully puts you back down to sit on the bed, like you're weightless and made of feathers and— and vulnerable with how much gentleness he placates on instinctively hushing you, like a brother would to their injured sibling after a rough hour of playing in a sandbox of a playground.

the tears still won't stop.

through your quivering hiccups, high-pitched whines escaping the back of your throat at every subtle movement, at the thoughts that drown you the more time passes by— it hurts, it hurts so much you'd rather die, you'd rather be anywhere than here. does he know that, does he know the pain of looking at him, feeling him so close like never before is why you're so desparate to leave? does he know your heart beats erratically because you can never forget the moment you last met—?

— you don't even see, let alone feel the anger brewing off his chest, at the sudden, venomous words which escape his mouth next, like chains rattling, acidic bile brewing in a hot cauldron, nearly combusting at the seams.

you don't know that you pain him, don't know that you're his weakness.

and it especially hurts him when you refuse to look him eye-to-eye, refuse to see the tears rooting at the edge of his eyelids, at his teeth grazing his teeth until blood draws out in a steady flow, the opposite of the panic resurfacing into his body as he watches your dazed, breathless form trying to recover from what happened.

wordless. he despises that. how it's like your body repels him, head dodging his lips that hint at kissing your forehead. how you hesitatingly allow him to massage and help straighten the taut muscles of your bent legs— how you remain silent all throughout like you didn't just- just fucking attempt to stand, almost killing yourself despite his warnings.

he despises your not-so subtle avoidance that he just couldn't control it, couldn't control the burning rage brewing inside his heart that he just— just screams at you before he could compose himself.

"— fuck angel, FUCK! just what the fuck were you thinking?!"

jason wasn't always known for anger, he wasn't always the spiteful man everyone makes him out to be. he was sweet towards you because he knew you were innocent in the midst of batman's schemes, so it's no joke, no fucking joke how much he scares you off right now.

it scares you watching him fight others off, scared you when he shot those bullets at the man pinning you down, but you had a semblance of reassurance that it was never directed at you.

until now.

and now that you remain the spectacle of his anger, the sight of his widened, blown out eyes, his furrowed brows and clenched fists — you're so afraid, so fucking afraid he'll end up hurting you like damian, yet conscious of his actions. he looks like a painted demon before you, with clenched teeth and frazzled hair, and you feel like a dear caught in headlights — you feel another surge of tears, another wave of nausea drowning out his voice as your throat closes in on itself.

'stop, jason, please stop. you're scaring me.'

but you couldn't say the words out loud, couldn't even compose your body from quivering, fingers clenching the bedsheets in sudden instinct so hard it crumples on itself; as if it could help ground you, as if it could control the next, hurtful and loud words surging from his mouth.

as if it could cease time just so you wouldn't bear witness to his scary, monstrous rage.

"can't you see what you just did?! don't you know how— how fucking stupid and dangerous that was of you to just stand when you're still obviously HURT!? if you wanted to, you should've told me first instead of just suddenly pushing me away. what's wrong with you, huh?! what possessed you to just— JUST STAND UP AND LEAVE?!"

it's like he couldn't believe you. couldn't even make reasons why you did what you've just done. not even a tinge of comedic effect, not even any comfort laced in any word. not the jason you knew and loved, but a stranger whom you learned to call a friend, a brother that never was.

that's all he ever is, a stranger. all of them, living under the same roof as you.

and he was the same stranger who nearly fought you if not for you leaving that kitchen.

— it was the same old scoff he gave you all those months ago after talking, the same old squinted eyes and generous rage. yet this time it's enhanced with something else, something more personal, something way scarier than just being a spectator.

you always wanted to revolve around his life, but never this way.

it hurts, doesn't he know that?

doesn't he know how much his words just hurt you more than the dull ache in your abdomen? can't he see it too? how you're backing away to the corner of the bed until your back hits the headboard, despite all the pain spreading throughout your body?

if- if he cares so much about you, shouldn't he have known that— that you're sensitive to everything he just said?

bile rises up from your empty stomach, and the tears that keep surging out your eyes refuse to stop; yet it's your words run faster than your thoughts. then suddenly, all too suddenly, everything just snaps.

suddenly, your consideration for him doesn't matter anymore.

not when you never mattered to him, right?

and it feels like a part of you broke tonight.

"... what's up with you, angel?! answer me! first you're drunk off your mind when i find you out in the alleyway, bleedin' to near death, and when i try to help you before it's too late, you come begging me to not take you to the manor. did somethin' happen, huh?! why in the name of lord are you rebelling all of a sudden?! why are you fucking—"

"BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT MY DAMN SIBLING ANYMORE, JASON!"

it just won't stop. the pain and the tears and all the words spilling from you won't stop and everything- shit, everything is spinning but you can't stop now.

it hurts. saying those eight words hurt, but it's the truth.

and the truth fucking hurts. what right should he have worrying over you? what right does he have to criticize your life now when he's only been there for you when he needs it?

"IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS ANYMORE JASON! STOP— STOP PRETENDING LIKE YOU CARE—!"

fists clench at the bedsheets bring itself up to tangle upon your matted hair, and you pull and tug and rip off the strands, biting your lips to quell the anger, the pain shooting across your scalp, your fingers stinging with every snap of the strands. shivering and trapped, and useless in fighting back; why are you like this? why does he keep watching?

you close your eyes. for what? so that all you could hear are your ragged breaths, the only thing you can hear every time you'd have reoccurring nightmares? so that you could return to that lonely child, to the lonely teenager you once were?

the lonely, scared child you still are?

'since when have you ever cared, jason? since when? since when has anybody ever cared?'

your voice trembles at the ends, you can't afford to look at him, burying yourself deeper into the mattress as if that alone can melt you until you were nothing, just so you wouldn't have to deal with this neverending heartbreak.

"stop... just please—" you bite your lips, but it does nothing to quell the overwhelming panic, the spiralling thoughts, the blazing emotions. your knees are pressed against your chest, fingers now scratching at your heated face.

until it bleeds, until it all bleeds.

you open your eyes, an array of tears come bursting off your sore eyelids, your cheeks feel considerably swollen, yet you just can't stop fucking crying. it worsens even more when your wobbly vision turn to look up at him, at his unbelievable stare, at his widened, ocean blue orbs, dull and almost unforgiving.

'this isn't the jason i knew.'

"just why, (name)? why?" hearing your name roll off his tongue, instead of your usual nickname hurts, hearing it with such rage, contempt, like he's directing his hatred at you for something you couldn't control— god, it hurts.

"what do you mean by all this? i'm- i'm still your damn brother—" he says, as if it's a matter of fact, as if nothing between you changed the last day you saw him, as if he didn't know the reason. if he was your brother, then why does he sound so diffident, then?

why does his voice tremble? why does his care taste foreign against your tongue? why does he stand there, as if hesitant to even approach you?

"and because i am your brother... i have every right to care for you now—"

"i was never important then... so why do i matter now?"

"— what?"

"why do i matter so much now than before? how come i never deserved your care before?"

"angel, please. what the hell are you talking about—"

"JUST FUCKING ANSWER MY QUESTION, GODDAMNIT!"

all that you were, all that you ever are, was just a distraction for jason to bide his time with, weren't you? all he knew about you was that you acted as his entertainment, a quiet little kid who listens more than they ever learned to speak, who purposely read all the archived books in the manor's library, waiting every month for their favorite brother to visit. even if it was just for minutes, even if he'd leave you right after, escaping your boring rambles, because of course he'd prefer the fucking batcave over your silent, expectant, always yearning eyes.

all you ever wanted, all you ever did, was just be.

do what you thought they wanted you to be, not what you wanted yourself to be. baking because you knew they loved to raid the fridge for snacks after missions, drawing because your mother always praised your messy sketches, even if it was nothing compared to damian's now, dancing, ballet, gymnastics— going as far as trying to learn how to fight, giving up halfway through because you'll never progress with just how much you're juggling other extracurricular activities.

all that, just to be what you wanted to be for them.

even if it was never enough, even if your rare a plus', the occasional gold medals, the praise and acknowledgement from your teachers, even alfred's suggestion for bruce to just, please, take his time of the day to talk to you— all those achievements shine dully compared to your other siblings.

and you've long since accepted that it was all that you ever were. just a mere tool, ever-so-useful, yet ever-so-forgotten by all the other convenient ones.

all that you are, all that you ever were. but all that you ever wished for, was to be his child, their sibling.

but that was never possible, you've accepted that. you branched off, left and never came to look back because you knew you'll just be trudging another path of pain.

...

so why, why does he care so much now?

why, for the first time in your entire life, does it pain you more than it comforts you that he finally called himself your brother?

why, just now, does he say it to your face, when he never once did so all those years ago?

why does he pretend to be so shocked in front of you, wide-eyed and frozen, relinquished in guilt? why does he stand there, breathing, trying to compose himself as if your words ever held any weight on his chest? why can't he just understand, why can't he just let you go as easily now?

why do you still cry after all these years?

why do you still pretend that none of these... these issues mattered anymore in your heart?

why do your fingers still forcefully pierce into the mattress, grounding yourself to reality? why can't you rip your eyes away from jason?

why does his care break your heart more than it does fixing it?

you've always wanted this, didn't you? you've always wanted to be finally acknowledged, yet it still hurts. your throat still closes in on itself, like fingers clawing and constricting your airways, your breathing like jet missiles vaporizing mid air.

and yet all the pain, all the yearning and destesting for a love so passionate were still overpowered by the senseless need for answers.

'jason, why do you still try?'

"angel, calm down you're—"

on the verge of a panic attack? hands suddenly beating at your chest, tears neverending still streaking your sore cheeks and bitten, bloodied lips?

his hands reach out to grab yours, yet you slap his palms away, ignore the stinging sensation that came after; and back away to a corner. like a reckless animal, like the same young child hiding behind closet doors, biting back tears yet desperately failing.

you're both at your breaking points, you both refuse to back down this stupid game of cat and mouse.

"just calm down, please—!"

"NO, I WON'T— you don't fucking understand it, jason!

— i don't need your help, or anyone else's anymore! you have never been there for me! never been there for all the times i suffered because of your death! so don't even try to make a difference now!"

before he could even refute, before he could shout and cause another wave of panic, before he could break you even further—

"... so why do you care now?"

you couldn't even face him, too afraid to see his reactions churning. he shakily breaths, fog encapsulates the air around his parched lips. and you're reminded that it's almost winter, that your heater in your apartment is broken, that you'll be freezing underneath your thin blankets, eating off cold meals— that it's another one of those months where you're reminded of the privilege you've both lost and gained after leaving the manor.

you've lost your last connection to jason, so you thought, yet he's here in front of you now. he's here, and rather than wanting him to be here, you'd wish it was a dream instead.

you wished he never cared, for his next words stabbed you more than it did made you feel cared.

"i care, (name). because you were drunk when i got you, you were impulsively provoking the same guys who nearly killed you. because what? it's easier to escape that way?. i care because you've done something stupid, you nearly died because of your recklessness! my younger sibling did something stupid and it's my responsibility to worry over you, worry over your overdramatics! you're still fucking eighteen and you're already wasting away your life—!"

"that's why i fucking care for you, because you're my burden alone and nothing changes that!"

what...?

overdramatic? impulsive and reckless? is he serious? is that all you ever were to him? he cares because he thinks you're still that stupid, innocent child chasing after him? is that what you are? is that all you ever amounted to him after all the times you spent sleepless nights reading the books he recommended you? all the hours burning your fingers just to perfect his favorite lunch?

just that?

just a burden?

and he just stands there, so cruelly imposing, hands crossed like he's right and you're not. tears equally streak his ragged face, dripping all the way down his sharp jaws and wobbly chin. but his brows are furrowed, eyes still squinted at your body, weaker than his.

like all he feels is rage towards you, like everything's your fault.

while you're just sitting in his bed, limp and utterly unable to stand without his guidance.

and you hate this, hate being reminded that just like last time, you used to depend on him alone.

"how dare you, jason? we... i've always been so good to you... i've always done what you always wanted, i—"

this time your heart aches differently. it's not the subtle panic stinging your beating organ, not even regret shrouding your thoughts. but a painful, stabbing pain; slow and cold. your nose is clogged, your teeth rigidly grinding, the ball of your joints feel like they're pressing deeply on each other— everything just hurts.

his words feel like a knife slowly twisting inside your guts. not even the salty, warm tears feel worth crying out anymore.

it's just silent understanding, a painful acceptance.

of your pain and all those wasted summers and lonely winters.

your hands grip the headboard as you shift your weight to the uninjured side of your abdomen. you glare at him when he almost hurriedly attempts to help you, but through silent puffs of effort under your breath, you're already standing, right hand gripping nothing on the wall as you lean on it.

it still hurts, god, the burning sensation won't boil down at all.

— but you want to face him, head-to-head. you want him to face his burden. if he wants to understand you, if you want to understand him— there's no use hiding behind a semblance of comfort.

because more than anything, you just wanted a family. you just wanted to be part of their family.

yet now you've come to realize that maybe you were just a burden all along.

"it's- it's so unfair..."

your voice cracks at the seams, but there's no use composing yourself anymore. no use in trying to look decent in his eyes when all you ever were was a problem to him, to everyone else, right?

"out of all the times i nearly got killed, jason... you decided to save me by the time i accepted my death...?"

maybe your mother would've sided with jason, only for the part that she wanted you safe and sound rather than dead. but she's dead now, you wanted to be dead because it meant you'll finally have her at your side.

and it feels so cruel to be stripped away from that honor, that merciful gift of life, from the very same brother whose death caused you more turmoil than anything.

"—this isn't the first fucking time this happened to me, jason, and it wouldn't be the last."

your voice was barely a whisper, barely a recognizable tremor, but it speaks volumes of your desperation, of what could've been if he didn't intervene. of what wouldn't change despite it all.

you'll still be dead afterall. this is gotham where you're living. and you're not a priority to the vigilantes, not anybody important to the family.

even if his expression shifted to shock, even if you find an ounce of softness throughout the exterior of his fragile agitation; is it not true?

he takes a step forward, but your hands shoot out to put distance between you two. even if it pains you to see the confused heartbreak in his eyes at your refusal, you don't want him any closer, you fear you'll submit to his whims if you do.

you can taste blood in your tongue, but you swallow it all like you're swallowing all the bitterness you feel, you drown this ache in your heart, replace it with temporary assurances that this will all end, that jason's stubborn attempts of placating you is just another attempt to draw you closer, only to push you away in the end.

... and yet he's still trying even after what felt like minutes, maybe hours, stretching between you two.

jason still keeps trying, while you're close to giving up.

"why are you like this, angel? what happened between you and bruce? did he hurt you—"

"nothing happened—" you're lying, but not quite so. you're lying but it's not a lie when you mean nothing, literally nothing, happened between you and your father. that's the worse of it all, you and bruce never had a moment together, never had any memories to cherish nor times where he comforted you through the trauma of it all.

that painful reminder just makes past emotions stir within you.

of those cold nights, the barren hallways and alfred's countless excuses for bruce's absences.

"i have my personal reasons, jason." you seethe through your teeth. it hurts to admit your feelings to him, hurts that your drying tears are still overlayed by a resurgence of new ones. "it involves you guys... you and the others; but it's nothing now. it doesn't matter now and you know it..."

"... no i don't, angel. and no, it's not nothing. because if it was, then what's all of this for? what do you want from him, from me? that caused you to act this way...? to act so selfishly, trying to rebel like us when you've always been a good kid, huh? god, (name), if you just wanted his attention, to be his favorite—"

"— then there's so much better ways, angel. than being like this... being someone that isn't you."

he truly never knew you well at all, huh?

considering everything that happened tonight, you thought he did, but fuck...

hearing all those assumptions come straight from him just destroys you inside out.

"jason... please listen to me."

cutting him off, it's both an act done to just stop him from rambling any further, stops you from just— just irrationally ripping your ears apart so you wouldn't have to hear it anymore; hear all those disillusioned excuses, those painful words ripping you apart at the seams.

he looks at you, at your weak hold against the edge of the bedframe, at the hushed, shivering breathing, at your downcast, almost resigned eyes. you don't reciprocate his worried gaze, you just... don't.

"i don't want to be his favorite... i never wanted to be— fuck!"

"why do you assume all this, jason?" you faintly glared at him, but that flicker of the fight blew off, and you returned, looking at your feet, speaking through your beating heart, your irrational thoughts of shutting down, if not for the faint stench of smoke grounding you, if just by a fraction.

"i never wanted to be an athlete like dick, or as academically talented like you, or some crazed detective like tim, or as skilled as an assassin like damian! i don't even have the determination steph has or barbara's perseverance to continue fighting alongside all of you! i can't even reach cassandra's level of fighting, and i certainly don't have powers like duke!"

there it is again: the envy, the spite, and the undertone of yearning in your words. maybe jason was right, maybe you're still the young, good kid afterall. but good kids still do bad things, good kids can still feel and fuck, you feel a plethora of negativity mentioning all their positive traits, while you have none.

you have nothing, not even a small merit to offer.

"— all of you guys are so fucking talented, and here i am, so pathetic for thinking i can reach the same level as you all when i can't!"

the medals are useless compared to damian's success in topping the entire gotham university. the certificates for placing indancing competition were none the more important than cassandra's ballet recitals. your research projects that you've spent nights crying on, was it all that relevant when tim always one-ups you within just a day of data-gathering?

so what makes you special, what makes jason think you'd even try to be bruce's favorite in the first place, when you're absolutely useless?

"—so i just can't, jason! how could i have the damn audacity to desire being bruce's priority when each and every one of you are beyond my level?!"

untouched breakfast, thrown away lunch, cold dinners. thrashed out backpack, unsharpened pencils, inkless pens, wornout diaries, bandaged arms and sleepless nights. your life was a cycle of constant wanting, of constant attempts to earn your place. even if there were moments some of them looked at you in pity, it was never enough to warrant their comforting words or even just a pat in the back.

the last time dick has ever looked at you was the first time you met.

and in those moments where you wish you were as forgettable to damian as you were to others, he'll remember to always remind you of your place.

maybe you were like them, in ways where you're always trying but never enough. in ways where their attention on you was never enough too. you need something from them, they needed something else from you too.

"angel..." you don't have to look up to know the air has changed. that wretched nicnkame plastered itself back into his mouth. this time, he said it softer, like he's come to a realization, like it was enough to draw you out of the caverns of isolation you've kept yourself in.

but before he could speak again, before you'd get lost in those memories of the past—

"i never wanted to be bruce's favorite, jason..."

"i just..."

your eyes soften, as tears begin to spring from your eyes, red and swollen, and you let them. you look down at your unclenched hands through blurry vision, and find indents of crescents present on raw, battered skin— and it's enough to make you remember your childhood, enough to deepen the heavy weight of conflict drowning your heart.

when you look up to jason again, you bite your quivering lips, just to silence the ugly wail brewing from your chest. he looks at you, as equally befuddled, as heartbroken.

"... i just wanted to be his child." the sentence comes out your lips, so silent, so broken and lightly pitched. it speaks volumes of wanting, of yearning, of years begging for even a sliver of love offered on your way. it felt like it was the younger you speaking to him, begging him to fucking understand how it was never about just wanting attention—

it was about wanting to just have a family. people who should've loved you, saw you through the veil of your reputation, yet chose to love you still.

because they're family, they're your family. and all that mattered to you was family.

how hard was it to understand that sentiment?

"i just want to be loved because i'm his child, not a charity case, or because he's doing this for my mother..."

you remembered those nosy paparazzi's stalking you even in elementary. they ask you how it's like being adopted by the bruce wayne, how it's like living a life most orphaned children dreamt of living; how lucky you must be, having a mother who's come to share a bed with him, that your life must be so full of luxury because bruce took pity on you and your poor, whore of a mother, right?

they didn't know it was alfred, the estate's butler, who'd suggested adopting you. and with a flick of bruce's wrist, a slight furrow of his brows and a dismissed thought of you, you were brought in the manor.

it was never bruce who considered you, maybe the paparazzi and journalists slowly came to realize that after discovering your father is nowhere to be seen beside your side. maybe that's why they slowly dissipated away from you year by year, leaving you as lonely as ever.

'and now,' you thought, 'bruce still doesn't care for me at all.'

that hurts.

"i just want to be selfish for once... i want to see him the same way he looks at you back then, every damn time he stares at your grave, while i watch by the fucking windows, wishing it was me he looked at."

despite never meeting jason from back when he was robin, you mourned for him too, you prayed for his soul the same way you prayed for your mother's. it helped you disillusion yourself to believe you mattered, sitting beside his grave by the gardens despite the rain pouring downcast and staining your clothes. it helped you think you were becoming closer to bruce.

"i wanted him to look at me jason! think of me as someone as important as you, even just a semblance of it...!"

you tried so hard to imitate them all. dick's athleticism, cass' elegance, tim and barbara's elite-level knowledge on the digital world, duke's cunningness when it comes to puzzles, damian's strategies and steph's awe-inspiring rebellion paired with sarcasm. you try to emulate it all, waking up early every day, schedule packed with activities in each corner of the manor just so you'd have a chance of finding bruce in the same room as you; but it just never was enough.

"god, i don't even want him to see me as a priority, i don't want him to see me and think that i'm the best damn thing in the world. i know i'm not, jay. i'm not perfect, not even half as good. but i just want him to stare and think, 'this is my child,' without any second thoughts, without any regards for my dirty fucking past."

there was one moment in your life where you almost despised your mother. almost. you blamed her for birthing you, for having you as her child, for bestowing you this curse of being unloved, as only being acknowledged as the woman who stole from others: a bitch, a prostitute who got pregnant too early, a lady with a sullen reputation bleeding into the present of her child.

you nearly hated her, you wish you never did. she was your only light, the memories of her was what kept you alive, and you dim that light off, purposely try to blow off the shining embers that gleam for you just because you wanted the love and attention from a family that was never yours.

and you nearly worked yourself to death because of it.

"jason, i just wanted to... to go through the normal things a father does with his child. i wanted him to love me, even just for the tiniest bit. is that hard enough to fulfill? am i just too high maintenance for him that he can't— can't even deal with me after you died? tell me, jason—

"—am i just the burden of an aftermath?!"

a small of you nearly excused bruce's neglect for his mourning of jason. but that mourning extended even after his resurrection. and slowly, the more the members of the family piled up, you figured it all out.

it was you that's unlovable.

and no matter what, you could never truly accept that fact.

not even as you cry out your woes to jason, not even as your voice cracks and breaks at every syllable, at every spilled word tinged with bitterness, with pain so deep it cuts through your already bleeding heart.

"i just- just wanted to be part of the family. i just wanted to eat takeout with you that day- wanted to forget you fought bruce— forget everythin' just to bond with you 'cause you never gave me enough time in your already busy day. so why can't i? why can't i have the things everyone else had? is it too entitled of me to say that i just wanted your love? am i too demanding if i just wanted a family?!"

"is it so hard to love me?"

"tell me, jason! just, fucking tell me, please..."

your fingers' grip on the edge of the headboard nearly slipped, your sniffles were unbearably loud, a reflection of the thrumming beats of your heart nearly escaping out your chest in the form of shrieking sobs.

he finally speaks, unsure. he still stands in his place, but you're crying too much to even care.

"no, no of course not. it's not... you're not..."

"i'm not what, jason? not your sibling, not bruce's child? 'cause that's what i've felt like this entire fucking decade! and now that i've left everything behind, you all suddenly want to pretend like i was never unnoticed back then? that all my damn efforts to be good enough was finally acknowledged just now—?"

"why can't you just answer me, jay? why does nobody want to give me answers?"

"... why can't anybody just love me?"

it felt like heartbreak on both your sides. like a thread snapping, jason was as quick to retort—

"we do love you, angel. i do...! i love you so fucking much that i can't handle seeing you in pain. so please let me take care of you, just... just let me handle all of this, please."

— but you can't believe him, not anymore. it hurts falling for his lies, for his words and false reassurances. he can't even promise you takeout back then, what more does his 'i love you's' do you now?

"no, no you can't care for me, jason. not anymore... you're not my brother anymore, you guys aren't family to me anymore..."

is it betrayal in his eyes, or something far deeper? is it unadulterated anger at what you'd said? why can't he just accept your words? why can't he just accept there's nothing in between you anymore other than those past memories long gone?

"... yes, yes we're family. i care for you. just let me show you i do, angel—"

"... we're not even siblings, we're not. we're just strangers to each other.—"

you whisper softly through your damp lashes, throat sore after all the screaming. it doesn't calm down the momentary adrenaline rushing through your body, though. it doesn't, all these reassurances are just a temporary distraction.

"that's not true, angel. don't even... don't even think of saying that—"

"take me back, please. just please take me back to where you last found me. i'll find a way—"

you want to go home, you want to sleep your way through this pain. but jason proves himself to be stubborn, just like his father. and you are, too; anymore of those similarities, anymore and you'll bash your head to the walls just so you could forget.

"no, angel..." he retorts just as quickly, suddenly imposing, suddenly back to square one where it's all him, all his words that matter with no regard for yours. "who the hell says i'm letting you go back there?! that's suicide!"

but you don't matter, don't you? so that automatically means he shouldn't pretend like your life matters, too.

"... i don't care, just please! jason, i'm begging you...! just do this one single favor for me. i can't..."

'i can't go back to the manor...'

just saying it in your thoughts alone makes you sick with nausea. because that means returning to yearning, returning to those sick nights filled with broken diary entries and dick's huff of dismissal, damian's weapons pointed at you, tim's click of the tongue and just... that inflicted, neverending pain.

"you're hurt, angel, you won't survive out in the dark like that. i'm sure as hell not taking you back there. we're going back to the manor—"

"NO! i don't want to be there! that's not where i live, not anymore, no take me back home...!

anywhere... anywhere but there. anywhere but that wretched cage.

"please, jay!"

you call him by his nickname, nearly yanking yourself to his side if it weren't for your legs keeping

"if you don't want me to... then let me go and i'll call a taxi or something—! whatever...! just not—"

"—not there..."

"and if i bring you back to that apartment, what now? you're gonna commit the same old mistakes, you're going to hurt yourself!? you're gonna get yourself killed, break another limb, use more than just crutches to support yourself and get yourself hurt all over again?!"

"NO! i won't, jay... i won't bother you anymore. just not there and... not with them—"

"... not with you, please."

it was a mistake on your part, to audibly whisper out those last words. and yet it was unfixable, you can't take back words once they're said, jason can't take back all the cruel statements he made your way that day, and yet it's him who's offended, who tears up, who heaves and nearly shrieks at you, uncaring for the neighbors living below.

"why are you trying so hard to push us away?! push me away right after you.. you opened up?!"

"because we're not family anymore, goddamnit—!"

"why are you so goddamn stubborn?! care for me, care for me like you care for all those strangers getting mugged in the street! not as my brother—!"

"i am your brother!"

it hurts, your chest hurts, your throat, your wobbly arms and your unfeeling legs. yet what hurts the most is that you just can't accept it, accept all the words he throws your ways. can't accept how you've both changed and it...

it just hurts...

"and i care for you, more than you can ever fucking imagine, so don't... don't fucking push me away! not especially right after i almost lost you!"

"god..." suddenly, he resigns through a sigh.

why, just why, is he calming down now?

"i'm such a fucking dick to you, aren't i? i know i don't deserve you. nobody deserves you and your forgiveness, angel. you've always been so good to me- to us...

"i'm so fucking sorry. for everything. for leaving you behind after that day, even being an asshole to you after. for ignoring you all those years, for breaking every damn promise i made like you were nothing, for realizing all of this just right after you nearly died, in my arms."

his voice breaks at the last words, as if the reminder of what transpired last night permanently left a broken fixture in his memories. as if thinking about it is enough to destroy any bite in his argument.

"you don't— you don't deserve any that—"

"i'm— i'm so sorry, angel."

that was all you wanted to hear, all you wanted to be said throughout the layers of defensive, reckless statements he threw your way.

heavy were the unspoken words that hung in the air. heavy were the unbidden promises he forged himself to ensure but ultimately failed to do so, that were all meant to repair his relationship with you. heavy were the tears that streaked both your cheeks, the unsung arguments, the fists that curl, fingers that bite at indented skin until it bleeds.

"— I should've noticed sooner, i should've known you felt that way."

"i know, jay. i know," your mind, your mouth, they both betray the words your heart wished to speak, but you lock that beating organ out before it forces you to mutter something else. you feel too faint, from the tiredness coursing through your body as an aftershock of your injury, the throbbing of the holes in your body, and the intensity of your emotions.

'i know you know that, and i wished you did something about it when you knew you had the power to change all this—'

'all that were are, all that we were.'

you wanted to tell him, but the sentiment tastes bitter on the expanse of your tongue, as if confessing it would scorch you and your aching brain even further. you just couldn't anymore, you couldn't break both your hearts.

heavy were the emotions uncurling beneath both you and jason's chest, boiling and spilling, until the only words you both could mutter were the ones that scald your aching hearts.

"jason, i'm- i'm still hurt."

"i know, angel. let me take care of it, of you. just let me do this, just once."

he takes a careful stride towards you, a knot forms in your brows and in your stomach. it curls inside your body when his both his hands grip your forearms, gently, like you're made of glass, to push you to softly sit on his mattress.

made carefully, cleaned neatly for you.

you never thought you were worthy enough to have a bed made for you.

— you don't even allow alfred to clean your own room because you don't think you deserve it.

silence ensues, only the squeak of his shoes sliding against the floor, his panting breaths, your unstable intakes of air, and the hinge of his bed were heard, drowning out the swears of the citizens from below his apartment complex and the thumping of car horns.

it's just the two of you, in this room. you and jason, just like the moments spent under the roof of the manor.

you don't fight against him, don't push him away like you did so earlier, in favor of relinquishing your control, your pain, to his squinting, wandering blue eyes that trap your body, at his calloused fingers running across the expanse of the lumps in your arms.

and in that moment, under the sheer glow of his apartment's flickering lights, under the watchful gaze of the restless city nights, of the lamp posts gleaming in the streets; you both looked a little more like each other for every passing second, every passing moment after you'd scream your woes, after he'd retort and retaliate with his excuses, his reasonings.

you had his vengeful glare, staring daggers at him as he took in your wrapped wounds. he had your silence, desperate and aching pleas. you stuttered like him when he chases after words tangling in his parched mouth. he bites his lips like you when he couldn't find the right words, bounding his hands to his delicate strands of hair to pull in agitation, just like you always do.

and both of you were- were good...

a good soldier and a good child, lost in the weave of dreams, expectations and broken, unfulfilled promises.

it reminds you of how he was the only brother you truly had a bond with, of how truly close you were to him, shared moments of brief laughter with, a respite, a paradise without the need to chase after his presence, all done in such short moments, moments that could never be enough to quench your aching thirst for love and familial attention.

he finally speaks after taking his seat beside you, muscled arms wrapping around your shoulders. he broke the intangible silence, with knotted brows and sorry, pleading eyes that look at yours. it made you feel trapped, in his arms and in his mindful apologies, it reminded you of the manor.

"i could've been better for you, angel. i should've known, i'm so fuckin' sorry, i—"

"i know, jay. i know, please..."

please stop. no more, you don't want to hear anymore,. you don't want to dream, to fantasize what could've been.

— because that meant drowning yourself in the past, that meant running back to chasing after empty promises.

and yet...

the more you think, the more the possibilities unfold in your thoughts.

a bitter part of you wished it was him who had welcomed you into your home, into the manor. you wished it was him, not alfred, dick or bruce you'd chase after, wished he was alive when your fleeting dreams were too. the child in you wished his assurances were what graced you in such an early time. just so that, maybe, just maybe, your throat wouldn't close in on itself every time you're reminded of your solitary past, a past lost and without a cause because of his passing.

running after dick, acting as his invisible silhouette, hearing the empty yes's on your invitation for him to come visit your room. tugging on bruce's sleeves whilst his eyes flit elsewhere. knuckles rupturing on the door of tim's room, only to be greeted with a silent hm, and a plea for you to come the next time. hands shakily holding a heavy tray of arabic food you learnt to cook for your younger brother, just for the same bowl to scald and prick stickily against your reddening skin

— you wouldn't have to do all that, if you had at least one ally, an ally who had to be dead when you were alone. someone as perfectly imperfect as you.

he's not like dick, the sun doesn't shine for him, the world doesn't give him grace— if it did, he wouldn't have died. he felt more charcoal than diamond, jagged and rough on the edges. yet charcoal was easier to obtain than diamonds, like the bright blue's of dick staring at you - such a precious, yet rare instance - or brazen emeralds like damian that could only look at you like you're mere pyrite; his attention was easier to obtain, because he knew you outside of your ghostly reputation. saw you as something else. jason was the only presence you were able to share your laughter with in the face of his brief visits.

as you look at him now, as he looks at you too, through his panting and the neverending tears streaking his cheeks. you look at each other in painful, understanding silence. his face, shoulders, chest, legs are painted with scars, incisions on skin, the first trait your eyes lay could on, as your gaze flitters to your equally scarred figure, too.

on the cuts that run deep into your wrists and palms, on the lighter scars, the deeper pigmentation that lay awake, like a chaotic portrait, that throbs with painful reminders that unlike jason, you chose to hurt yourself to replace that pain in your cold, beating chest. but like jason, you both wear these memories painfully on your sleeves.

imperfect, sullen and easily broken, like you.

you don't know whether to cry, or to laugh. that finally, fucking finally, you could share your similarities, your flaws with someone else too.

and at this very time, you knew neither of you could win your losing battles. if you argue even further, if your heart spills anymore words you know would only cut through the tension and break into even more back and forths— jason would only retort, would call you angel as be attempts to calm you down, as if you were an still an innocent bystander to his pain, as if you never told him you wish he'd stay dead.

if you wanted to survive this wretched night without anymore heartbreaks, you'd have to be the first to back down, to step away, be the bigger person.

like how you had to choose to give up on your family, to finally let go of your expectations on them. it was the only way, it was your way of adjusting to them, as you always do.

maybe it was fortunate for jason, that you'd already easily given up.

you'd give up when he wraps you in his arms, and unceremoniously perched you up his lap like how an owner cradles his injured cat, ensuring your injuries aren't pressed against the weapons stuck in his utility belt.

for a moment, you let time with him be. you allow the course of calmness to wash over, for your tears to dry until it feels like sickeningly dry salt rubbing against skin, for the lump resting in your throat to retreat to your throbbing heart, for the blood escaping your body from your injury to slowly seep into the gauze that wraps around it.

without the adrenaline coursing through your veins, without the haste of trying to escape from his hold, you've now access to the feel of his entire body. when the panic escapes from your heart, and all you're left with is resignation, his muscled arms wrapped around your torso; you're left reeling at the scent of motor oil and gunpowder, head buried at the crook of his neck whilst your tears are drying ever so slowly, effuse into his favorite jacket.

everything about jason felt foreign, uncharacteristically huge. his body felt too strong, too heavy, like a burden deeper than just vigilante duties of ridding the crime of gotham.

you never knew just how touch-starved you were, ignoring the specks of blood littering his clothes and the familiar scent of cigarettes reminding you of the bustling streets of gotham, even though the stench of ichor overpowers it— you feel like you're home. not at the manor which smells of fresh, flowery sheets, not at your empty apartment polluted with car smoke just wafting outside your windows; but a home you've once lived in, with just your mother and you.

it was just so fucked up, how he could easily subdue the anxiety eating you away. it was so ironic, how in an apartment filled with deadly weapons: guns, knives, bombs, and journals containing contingency plans against all his enemies; it is where you felt currently the safest, as you're reminded of your past; your humdrum life with your mother.

back when everything was normal, back when all your worries were about the chances of having dinner that night, or hoping that your new clothes wouldn't tear as much so your beloved mom wouldn't have to spend wretched hours stealing just to provide you with all your wants and needs.

it never occurred within your mind, just how similarly you lived like jason. and in jason's thoughts, he realized how much you could've ended like him if he hadn't protected you this very night. if he hadn't heard the family pitch of your scream, a scream engraved deep into his memories, a haunting record that plays nightly as he's reminded that he was the reason why you had terror shocks from the shadows in the corner of your eyes.

he hated that he made you scream as a child, that he was the stuff of your nightmares, but he despised it even more when it had to be the others tormenting his little sibling.

it was enough to make his blood curdle, the sight of those filthy men touching, pinning and kicking, shoving a gun against the head of the person most important to him, puncturing holes into their body. he takes in a shaky gulp, yet he hums - pretending like he isn't truly bothered. he can't let you worry anymore - when your fingers listlessly play with the hems of his jacket.

'they're dead, jason. don't even think of doing what you have to do.'

the palm that rests on the back of your torso digs deeper at the thought of you wriggling in pain, not enough to hurt, but enough to tell you that whatever jason is thinking right now isn't good, your ears taking notice hearing the hastening thrum of his heart, even when his body is slumped against yours, you could still feel the slight shivers trailing across his body.

yet you only bury yourself deeper into him, closed eyes dry with tears and nuzzling at warmth you knew you'll soon never be able to feel again, from a brother who was too late to take you back. his right palm, big against your head, nearly covering the expanse of your scalp, scratches and guides you to properly lean on the blades of his shoulder. you don't see his expressions, you don't know if all the comforting he's doing, all the love he's offering you right now is authentic, or just out of mere obligation as your older brother, but you're grateful either way...

entirely grateful that you'd at least be feeling what it's like to be cuddled by one of your ex-family members, before you ultimately make a quick escape from gotham. you're so grateful that despite everything, at least now, the tiny little part of you, the innocence long gone, would rejoice at their life-long dream at finally being able to coddle with just one family member.

past you would've ranted about this in your journal, would've jumped in joy, run across the manor, and thank the world for blessing you with such a miracle. you wouldn't even care if damian shoved a nasty glare in your way.

even if temporary, even if a small, unyielding part of you wishes that you could stay like this forever; the stronger version of you, the one that learned to mature, to forgive yet never forget— it is the voice of reason amongst a sea of conflicting emotions. it tells you that you've moved on a long time ago, that whatever this is right now, will have you force to let go.

and even if younger you begged that it is unfair, that this is what they've always wanted in their life, for someone to acknowledge them as much as they've loved the family even without reciprocation; you've long since given up at hoping. your heart is weary, and tired of constantly being led to believe, only to come back broken in pieces all the damn time. you're older now, old enough to learn that, well...

everything is temporary in life. the comfort your family offered you was always temporary. jason, who succumbs to burying his head in your scalp to hum foreign tunes— he'll soon be just a burning memory, yet at least you'll be left with something positive to say about him.

after all, their love for you happens in quick successions, it wasn't all the time you were ignored, but chasing after it when it had already become mere dust before you could catch it with your clawing hands.

dick had shown you a crumb of his love, back when he first introduced you to his room. hell, even bruce was decent enough to transfer you out of school, even if it was out of mere dismissiveness and to keep a reputation, he showed he cared for a child, even if it was never enough.

and now?

'now, jason will forget about me soon enough,' you tell yourself.

just like the times you stumbled upon steph and pushed yourself to be invited to watch a movie with her, only to be rejected and given her side of popcorn as compensation and an awkward grin promising that she'll find a time in her schedule to spend with you. waiting for months for an update proved fruitless, writing praises in your journal, all about her silky blonde hair, and her lighthearted smiles don't do anything to manifest time well-spent with someone you thought would at least put in effort to be with you. she was similar to you in so many ways, how she felt dismissed by the family, and never enough for them— but the sheer difference that places you both in different lanes is the fact that she was at least loved, that she still had people care for her outside her status of spoiler. people loved stephanie brown, because she was at least unique, she was noticeable with her ironic jokes and love for purple.

you still had nothing to offer.

it's like the silent moments you were able to cherish when you could last for more than five minutes in the room with damian, his emerald eyes petting titus and alfred the cat, as you sit in the far corner watching how softly, how precious like treasured gems, he treats them. he doesn't fight you, doesn't bat at eye, but witnessing the young assassin, your little brother, become a kid, watching him paint in your memories without his scowled growl directed at you, or a knife pointed on your body; it made you feel like they do have a semblance of love, of care, only for those who deserved.

you only deserve care when you prove yourself to be capable enough.

hell, despite you knowing the least about duke, watching him play with his powers against bruce's orders was what made your bleak life a bit more interesting. having to save him from nearly dying, from fainting due to the overuse of his metahuman abilities when he was still new to being signal. being the faint silhouette he sees throughout the white light in his vision, the quivering, desperate voice who assures him he'll be alive, he'll be fine; you don't know if he remembers it, if the young boy could even recall how your eyes lit up, how your chest felt lighter when his scarred palms came to cup your shivering ones to keep you from ripping at your hair—

your point proves, chasing after them amounts to nothing. you could only be a witness, a bystander if you want to relish in their shared memories, but never part of their small community. you'll never be able to know what's it like having inside jokes with them, to share your homemade meals with them, to show old albums of your life as a child before being adopted. you just can't.

even the prospect of being married, of having them help you arrange your marriage becomes mere fantasy.

everything you ever hoped to spend with them is fantasy, an unattainable desire. you should've known from the start.

to them, to you, to everybody you lived with under the same, gothic roof of a manor rich with history still unknown to an outsider like you— you are but a mere stranger. there at the wrong place, in all the wrong times.

maybe that is what jason felt after his untimely death, that he does not belong anymore. maybe he felt like an intruder instead, just like you, with how he felt replaced by tim, how the legacy of robin lives on even after his passing. how he felt like a cheap rebound of dick after years of searching for answers, or how he never truly mattered to bruce—

— but at least he still has a place in their heart. despite only knowing him after his resurrection, you've come to love him too, and learned to let go at the same time.

you hope jason understands why you're so unwilling for him to help return you to the manor. you hope he doesn't question why you chose to live in your apartment, you hope that if he does find out the reason, he'll shut up about it.

you wish that jason understands, even as you felt well-rested enough on his muscled shoulders, head slowly, eyes blinking away the drowsiness washing over you, rising even if the arms that hover over your scalp invites you to sleep instead.

you're stronger now, not physically, but you willed yourself to force your eyes to stare back at him. his lidded, dull blue oned unlike dick's, and it doesn't look like the ocean eyes you find yourself drowning in staring at bruce's whenever you watch him across the television during his interviews. it was a blue similar to the sea at night, tranquil shores that caresses the soles of your feet standing on sand. there was no shine in them, it was a symbolic retelling of his death, gazing into them, at the depths of emotions swimming in those orbs alone, you feel a sense of ease when they soften, when they give way for you to stare for as long as you want.

although you were sitting atop his lap, looking down at him, his gaze made you feel little. like you were a child all over again. both of his hands are now resting on your waist to stabilize you. you couldn't reason the sudden protectiveness, the unwillingness to let you go, but your mouth opens before you could think, yet jason beats you to it, spilling words you thought he was incapable of admitting — breaking the peaceful silence once more with the significant tremor, the apologies laced in his words— with all the years he spent looking at you in contempt before he resigned to casual, yet fleeting conversations with you back at the manor.

"you know, angel...? i'm so sorry for everything. i really mean it... for all the times i was blind to you wishing you could've spent time with me. and i was so stupid, rejecting you, hurtin' you all those years thinking bruce was out there favoring you when it's the opposite... I didn't know he didn't even care for you. i know you won't be able to forgive me, or them, i know it took me long enough to forgive bruce too. but it's different now, 'kay? i'll be different, angel. i'll protect you from now on, in your, what? your little apartment, right? i don't mind scouting the entire area for you even if it means you're on the other side of the city. all for you, i promise."

"all for you."

he speaks in a careful manner, choosing his words and flinching - the scar on his lip stretches, it reminds you of the one on your neck - when he feels it doesn't rightfully get the message across. you can feel it, feel how every sentence is wired with regret, heavy promises, and an unspoken desperation to keep you close to him, as if- as if he actually cares for you—

you blink, vision blurry as you catch sight of a stray tear running down your damp chest. your nose clogs once more, tongue licking at your chapped lips. jason, he- he takes your fingers before it ventures to tangle upon your hair, he hushes the tight wail escaping your throat as he cradles your body, other palm nuzzling into your sensitive scalp.

are you crying again? at what he'd said?

why are you so broken, that the prospect of somebody once full of disinterest towards you, now cares for you?

and for what is he doing this for, though? all for you? he apologized, exactly like dick, with the same foreboding assurance. is it to repair, to mend a broken relationship that was never there?

"y-you don't have to anymore, jay— i just- just wanted to—"

'i just want to make peace with you before i'll be gone from your life, before you could even fulfill your promises. you don't have to be chained with someone like me for the rest of your life anymore.'

thankfully, he hums at you, interrupting your growing stutters, at the thought that noisily seeps into your head. you hiccuped in reply, drowning out the shivers jolting across your body. if not for his hands still digging at your waist, you swore the dizziness of it all could've made you stumble across the floor.

but, you can't just stay silent about this. about all the shit that happened in your life. not when he's promising you something so burdening, not when he thinks he has a chance of making it up to you.

no, you can't just let them push at you anymore.

you whisper through your inconsolable stutters, eyes drifting down to your lap, at your hands that scratch at raw scars, "i don't blame you, jason. it never really came across to me to hate you for, you know- it's not- you're not the only reason that he neglected me—"

"shh, i know, angel. i know. but that doesn't change shit 'bout how he— we treated you, does it not?"

you shake your head, downcast gaze refusing to look at his troubled one. if you do, you might just surrender to the softness, to the child-like whispers at the back of your mind saying you wanted this.

"w-well you can't change anything about it now... and i hated you still back then, for different reasons. i hope, i hope that you know that, too..." your voice cracks at the seams, "i- i'm still hurt from everything, jason—" he shushes you again, fingers brushing away at your stray hairs sticking to your damp cheeks. his palms were huge as it cups your face, emitting a comforting warmth against the jagged surface, a heat that makes you slowly, but unsurely melt.

— you never had this brotherly love in your whole life before, never felt comforted in the hands of who was once your tormentor.

"i know you're hurt. i know you're in so much pain because of us— of me, so let me take care of it from now on, 'kay...?"

he whispers, hushed voice a gentle tremor lulling you to near sleep. but you can't just return to this uncharacteristic softness, not now. your eyes, almost squinting shut, snap open to look back at him hesitatingly.

"no, you don't have to do this, jason... i told you," you hesitate, gulping. "we're not– we're not siblings anymore. you don't have to do all this for me... you're not obligated to, unlike last time."

you can feel it, his shoulders squaring in on itself, the subtle tension returning in his muscles, as if his arms were ready to trap you in his gentle hold, restricting you for further escaping.

"... nonsense, angel. take that back— i am doing this all for you."

his voice was always tinged with gruffness, rarely any softness in the way his words were said with finality. sometimes mocking, sometimes spiteful. for a crime lord, it was imperative to always be the supreme voice, a voice of reason.

... but this time, it seems, there's a childish softness, a despondency, laced in his reply. like him, though, your resolve to leave his apartment was as solid as his promise to keep you to stay.

"no, jason, you're doing this all for your guilt... not- not out of pure hearted intentions, aren't you...? just to prove that you're right and- and you're better than the entire family. and then you'll forget about me afterwards—"

you crack at the seams.

"this will be just like all the other times..."

you ignore how his fingers dig deeper into the plush softness of your waist, how it feels like he's staring right past you, mind drifting to another plane of existence at what you'd said.

yet you continue.

"— so please, leave me alone after this...?

after all, what's the point in considering their emotions anymore, when they've never done so for yours?

a silence you couldn't swallow, strangling at the chords in your throat. it feels like a bucket of cold water had washed over the once comfortable silence he'd bask in.

"... please, jay?" your heartbeat spikes at calling him by his once beloved nickname. the one you used to lovingly mutter under your breath, shyly taking his attention from back when you were a child, a subconscious manipulative tactic.

you always called him out with that title, a wide-eyed plea, with what felt like butterflies spinning in your tongue inviting him to linger for just a few minutes with you, just so he could spare some time reading a paragraph of your favorite classic book—

— it was a nickname that fell astray, turned into a flickering memory, after your relationship with him slowly strained. after every month, little by little, you saw him less. until you were a teenager, until he felt his business were with your other siblings instead, his priority on his and their vigilante lives— like the unbidden promises he kept from you, the nickname fell short, turned stranger in your eyes like the man you're seated atop on.

your lips feel dry, your sweat clings to your dampened shirt, and jason.

god, jason's hands enclose itself on your waist, heavy head dropping to your shoulders. you can smell it, his conditioner and a heady scent of cigarettes. his hair tickles the underside of your chin, you don't know whether to laugh or to cry when he takes his space in the corner of your neck, inhaling and exhaling deeply— the heat of his breath hits your skin, it feels too warm, a stark contrast to the shivers overtaking your body.

he heaves in a breath, you can't see his face from below, can't make it out if he's laughing or groaning or what. you can't wrought his head out, he's stronger than you.

momentary panic ensues, you fear he might've disagreed, that he might end up locking you up but—

"huh..." his gruff voice returns, a deeper tremor laced with confusing you'd expect a frigid reply, a desperate plea, maybe even a familiar anger bursting right out of him

"with you calling me that," he whispers on the crook of your neck, head burying far deeper as if- as if he wants his skin to fuse with yours. the depth in his words felt utterly abysmal when he referred to his nickname.

a little more, and you swear you might feel his teeth grazing your flesh. at that, goosebumps start to trail your entire body, your teeth aches with unbidden agitation.

you can't, you can't fall into hopeless respite.

he continues with his little monologue. you're too breathless, shallow air fills your lungs at every word he punches your way, clinging, burrowing deep into your mind, with every touch pinning you in place—

"how could i argue against you now, angel...? not when you sound like the little kid i met back then."

a scoff, laced with amusement, erupted from him. you can feel the vibrations on his adam's apple, you witness the thoughts churning in his mind, the subtle reminiscing in the silence that clings onto both your memories.

a sense of nostalgia washes over you —at the night you both meet, of the gentle giant sneaking past gothic windows and his reaction to being caught, at your excitement to make a new companion— but bitter resentment claws its way faster into your thoughts.

how could he pretend like everything's fine? how could he act like he didn't break your heart when you first saw him?

"but still, i'm serious about the change, for you, just you. anythin' you want, angel, anything—"

a small part of you hates him still, despises the entire family for what they did; what they caused.

how could he have the audacity to think he has a chance at your life? to assume he deserves one? right after- after destroying all your hopes?

he's right, though,. he remembers those memories from when you were a kid. a kid, but not anymore. you're not the little child who looks up to him, to dick, to bruce— who kisses at the soles of their feet, who acts as their shadow chasing after them.

'how dare you, jason...'

you don't know what overcame you, what monstrous being possessed your soul to spitefully reply all of a sudden. maybe it was bitter anger, the past resentment, an urge— a subtle defiance that wishes to torment them like how they did you.

maybe it was the broken remnants of your child that just wants assurance, or the mature teenager in you that wants to move on, to have a new lease on life.

but, either way. it's the words that need to be said that matters, and not the reaction, the unneeded outcomes from the same people who hurt you.

you had to grow past everything, had to take the first steps if you truly wish to let go, rather than run away from the past with no final message.

they say indifference is the opposite of love, not hate. and if you want your tormentors to feel what they've done to you, to know what it's like to be met with spiritless replies, empty promises and hallways, broken hearts and cold dinners— you had to beat them with oppressive silence; a loveless nothingness.

"jay," you call out to him, interrupting his shameless rambles.

"please promise me..." at the sudden shift in your voice, your soft tone, he wretches himself away from you, albeit slowly; looking you straight in the eyes.

there was naught a sudden flicker of absolute firmness in your eyes, but a quiet resolve that demanded finality, a silent plea opposite to the screaming that ensued just an hour ago.

'be the bigger person, (name).'

'because you are not a wayne anymore—

you are your mother's child.'

and she's kind, but assertive. gracious, but cunning. you see an imagery of bruce in your reflection, your passions in dick, your trauma in jason— so many similarities, so many stark contrasts.

but ultimately, you came from her.

you can sense it, the intangible shift in the air, the curious, yet hesitant flicker in his eyes.

you lick your lips, the tinge of blood grounds you in spite of the hastening of your heartbeats.

"look, okay... promise me this—"

a deep inhale, a quivering exhale. and for once, you control the tears brimming in your eyelids.

he nods, urging you to continue.

the knot on your chest only tightens, strangling you until it feels no words could escape your mouth. yet they're mere paranoia, you can't afford fear no more.

"i... i want you to forget about me after this. promise me, jason, to treat this night like all the other nights you pretended i didn't exist. that you love your family but not me, because i am not family. treat me like you despised me because i was your terrible replacement, i could never amount to you and that's all fine with me... let's leave all this behind and- and return back to our normal lives, alright...? where i'm nobody to you, and you're just a stranger to me... "

even your resolve tasted foreign on your tongue, as your eyes suddenly dart everywhere but at his breathless reactions.

"you don't— don't have to dwell on the past anymore."

'come on, (name). don't hesitate anymore. this is your future speaking for you.'

your guts twists in on itself, everything's spinning, your heart feels like it's running a mile. but you force yourself to smile at him despite the energy draining from your body, despite how you had to watch the color wash away from his face, feel how his hands dig into your skin, watch the frustated furrow of his brow—

you smile a shaky smile, grin a final grin, clasp his vulnerable, and equally conflicted face in your scarred hands, and finally let another wave of tears erupt from your eyes.

"can you do that for me, jason?"

"..."

"— alright..."

let the cinema's curtains finally close, let there be no more acts, no more formalities to happen between you two.

let this all be a fleeting memory. just like those past thirteen years and a half: let it be buried in a treasure chest you'll never visit.

his silence acts as resignation, your hands letting go of his cupped face, to carefully bring you down from his loosening hold, as you wince at the pain still throbbing in your wrapped scar; it shall symbolize a final message of goodbye.

the unspoken agreement to move, the cushion of his red helmet brushing on his hair as he puts it on, the jingles of his motor keys in the pockets of his heavy pants, the creak of the door as he opens it, slow and unsure, the stench of your blood still lingering in the air, the uncomfortable solace as he props your hands up his shoulders to lean your body weight against him before he brings a crutch to your armpit. the gruff that came after as his hands stabilized you, for you to properly walk with the newly armed crutches beside his company—

it provides at least a grounding notion for the thoughts spiraling in your mind. the drowned thumps of the wood stumbling on the carpet, the moonlight spilling out the cracks of the hallway's windows, the faint rumbling of the city streets as passing cars honk at the traffic, the ding of the elevator, the anything of everything.

but him.

focusing on anything else, it at least helps distract you from his heavy gaze, from jason's prying arms ready to capture you, trap you in his apartment, the moment you show slight faintness, any hesitant stumble in your steps, any wincing sound at the pressure in your joints; his overprotectiveness still at an all-time high despite the promise you proposed that he had to pretended to upkeep for you.

when you were finally propped on to his huge motorcycle, a few mishaps being met in your way when he handled you too tight, so daintily as if you're made of fine porcelain, as if he were afraid to let go — crutches graciously placed in the space between his seat and yours — and when you hear the engine's gas revving up, but no jason making a brief quip, a comedic joke only he could understand which you laugh at still...

... only one thing was for certain despite the millions of ideas racing in your mind from his quiet reaction.

'let him bring me home, give him space, and let him forget about all this in the end.'

let the past be a dream.

and you shall only hope that everything that comes after this, will also be just another dream.

after all, he had only agreed to let you go home - for now, just now... - but hadn't truly promised to leave you alone, not at all, never.

and maybe, just maybe, you should've never trusted his words at all.

it was all that it is, all that it was.

a mere device for tactical missions.

the intercom linked directly to the batcave was just a device used to communicate with the family in the rare instances he chose to pair up with them in case jason learned his current tactics required more than a helping hand, but rather companionship in the midst of completing tasks.

its usefulness was only for practicality.

and it was just that, a tool for the greater good, yet easily discarded after he gained what he wanted.

when you left him, crutches in hand, back turned as your body fades in on the distance, he realizes that even thought it was his pride that he knew you the longest - now even bearing your deepest, most personal issues that just makes letting you (temporarily) go hurt his heart - he had only ever used you for his entertainment, not even an apology nor a confrontation was made to confess to you of his past sins towards you.

he's such a shitty brother, isn't he?

all that it is, all it ever was.

and yet as the polluted breeze of gotham flutters through his hair, the night sky still gleaming over the horizon of long standing, abandoned buildings camouflaged amongst shitty, barely functioning apartment complexes - where he knows are one of the current places you live in - he willed himself to comb them back, especially the stubborn strands sticking near his ears. in his hands, he holds an intangible device.

the same old, rickety intercoms.

just like old times.

so he presses the tiny button used to trigger direct calls, and shoves it deep into his ears, a perfect fit as every device was crafted to each individual working for the batman. you're the only member of the family to never adopt the vigilante life, he's glad you never did, but at the same time... it was what what you apart from everybody else.

everything just reminds him of how much you're worlds apart from the family. everything just pushes him to change that current position of yours; to make you know you matter more than you ever know.

"... ah, young master jason, you're back," alfred's contemplating voice buzzes through the call. no hint of surprise was evident in his tone, but rather a welcoming quip at his current rebellion towards jason. "i suppose you might require some assistance if you're calling then, right?"

'yes,' he might've said, stalling, but it's not as simple just as money heist problems or an issue regarding the resurgence of new kryptonite deposits— no.

jason doesn't want that. he doesn't want to waste anymore time, not with making jokes or pretending like the topic at hand was just a joke. not when the matter precedes mere missions or a tendency to prank bruce, not when it's his angel who he refuses to truly let go of.

not when your life is at stake living in a completely foreign part of gotham. not when you nearly died, and if he wasn't a lick away from saving you, you'd end up like him.

but with nobody to mourn you.

"we need to talk about (name)."

and then like a thread snapping, he hears gasps from a distance, beyond the device's speaker registering. he hears hushed whispers, stephanie's feminine voice cutting through the tension, but no sarcasticness, no quips from duke, not even cass' occasional question. despite only hearing a fraction of the batcave's echoes, he feels like a witness to the tension rising, even he feels his shoulders squaring up. like a spectacle to behold, like time frozen in the hands of fate itself.

gotham wasn't always this silent, but the space between jason and your world felt like mountains apart that it just destroys any caution jason feels at the current moment; all in the name of this... this urge to feel your head resting in his shoulders once more, your arms wrapped tightly around his, safe and sound.

"tell me what happened."

it wasn't alfred's voice this time that cuts off the ever-so confusing thread, the dangerous thoughts swimming in jason's head. a deep tremor, laced with an undertone of desperation, is heard through the silent murmers of the intercoms. he couldn't see it, but he could picture the haste, the emergence of the bat to be the very

and yet all was said in a tone so different, so completely foreign to jason.

it wasn't as commanding, as opposing as what he's used to. it wasn't his voice that he uses towards criminals, it wasn't the vibrato used to interrogate criminals, let alone scold his vigilante partners.

... something completely different, yet easy to catch on.

it was batman through the call, yes, yet not quite so.

no.

it was bruce wayne asking, it was a father who hides his worry through a veil of composure. yet jason knows him, knows him enough to know that he, bruce, knows of your disappearance all too suddenly. knows that that the entire family might've finally come through their senses like he did.

"jason... did you... did something happen?" dick's voice, laced with audible shivers. jason had to do a double take at the noticeable shift in his behavior, at how... wrecked his eldest brother asked. but despite it all, it seems like he catched on as easily, at the sudden convenience, of what might implied jason's impulsive decision to call them at such a dire moment.

— that's why his next question doesn't come off as shock.

"you didn't possibly... meet them, didn't you?" it's like the athlete couldn't believe the words escaping his mouth, yet jason could feel it, the charged air, the shift of movement, as dick's mouth presses uncomfortably close to the speakers.

"tell me, did you... find them?"

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 20,490+ words. no beta, we die like the reader's love for the family. anyways, wow, this was the hardest scene of all to write. so many dialogues compacted into one scene alone. because of all my hard work, revisions and even rewrites 😭 i demand you all to comment and interact with me because i am NOT wasting all this effort for only like a few comments. that's all i ever ask for actually <333 anyways, the jason and mc parallels are still prevalent, but i'd also like for all you guys to take note of the miscommunication trope that i did. like the reader who's so broken to the point they can't comprehent that people are capable of loving them, and jason who can't property communicate how much he cares for you, stumbling over all his words and saying all the wrong things wow. very much me and my siblings' dynamics to one another. we love doomed siblings trope!!!

yes, again, i am begging for you guys to interact with this post, and avoid on hate comments, please. i've already dealt w/ enough anons but oh well, that's unavoidable huh. happy late valentines day, btw! and please do remember to not directly steal parts of my work. now to check if you guys actually read the author's notes: what is your favorite line/quote/literally anything in this chapter? again, despite its shitty quality, i put a lot of time and effort into the creation of this. this is not just a fanfic for me, but something very personal. again, don't forget to interact and give inputs, thank you all for being so patient and waiting for this!

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