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I didn’t regret leaving the Rogues. That is to say: I didn’t miss being a Rogue. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the Rogues themselves. Sure, they were a bunch of assholes, but so were the capes when you got down to it. They were just the kind of asshole the civilian population loved.
I still saw a therapist regularly, but didn’t need as much help as I did when I first left Breedmore. I finally felt in control of my life. I mean… I also felt in control when I was a criminal, but to be fair anything would have looked empowered compared to the constant power struggle with my parents the first two decades of my life had been. Now I had an occupation I could happily wake up to, a boyfriend I could happily wake up with and a healthy (see: distant, but friendly) relationship with my parents. Which meant I could also have a healthy (see: existent) relationship with Jerrie.
Honestly, I didn’t even notice David and I were living together until I turned over in bed one day to see him getting dressed for work, and realised that I was home. It was a shock because the last person I’d shared a home with (not including Breedmore or the Pipeline) was Earl and that was eons ago. I’d only just joined up with the Rogues when we broke up. After three years on the other side of the law, it was hard to imagine that version of my life.
I also had friends who didn’t drag me down the rabbit hole of supervillainy. Not that I could really blame the Rogues. I’d jumped down that rabbit hole pretty willingly. And some of them were so far lost they didn’t even know there was a rabbit hole. Still, the more distance I got the easier it was to see how poisonous his life had been. I often found myself staring at the ceiling, juggling nostalgia for my (second) dysfunctional family and pain reliving experiences that I could now feel the cracks in.
That was tonight. Staring up at that ceiling, playing out memories like a murky pantomime. Drowning in brutal reflection. My eyes were sore and my legs twitching. I rolled out from beneath the covers as unobtrusively as I could and stumbled in the direction of the couch where my laptop still sat on standby. I was desperate to clear my head and find some sense of equilibrium.
I opened a word document and made two lists: Good and Bad . I began typing…
Good: James was usually surprisingly supportive during my low episodes.
Bad: He was also a pretty awful influence during my manic ones (even if he hadn’t meant to be).
Good: Back when the team still thought I was straight, Mark would often go out of his way to wingman me at bars. Awkward, but kind of touching.
Bad: Because of my hearing I was usually the first to know about Mark’s bitter arguments with his girlfriend. And, even worse, their make-ups.
Good: Len didn’t ask any uncomfortable questions when he found out about the bipolar disorder.
Bad: Len also didn’t exactly help with all the other Rogues’ raging homophobia. Not that I couldn’t handle myself.
I paused at the keyboard, then continued…
Good: Even when we got our asses handed to us, I still felt like I belonged. There was always a seat for me at the poker table or a cold beer waiting at Al’s Bar.
Bad: Being a supervillain meant being known. A wanted man. Which meant staying hidden and cut off from anyone outside the Rogues’ sphere of safety. There were days I couldn’t draw the line between reasonable precaution and suffocating paranoia. Days disappearing into myself in bed, in the dark, curtains pulled tight, wondering when they would come for me.
Good: Hours spent in James’ workshop tinkering with new tech and playfully ribbing each other’s work.
Bad: Knowing that the breath-catching, heart-racing, chest-aching crush I had on him would only ever exist within me. And knowing it was based at least partly on him being the only person who seemed to care about my wellbeing.
Good: Lisa’s hilariously hard-ass refusal to buy anything Digger was selling. Up to and including his especially vexing brand of homophobia.
Bad: After Roscoe died and Lisa took up drinking and bitterness as a day job, she could often be found getting blackout drunk and casually sharing tales of abuse at the hands of her father. Her laughter only made the bitterness feel more raw.
Good: Watching Len attempt to teach Lashawn how to drive in his ice-cream truck (after a hilariously botched vehicular heist) and realising that he had a fatherly streak in him somewhere.
Bad: Looking Len in the eye when they tried to break him out of Breedmore and telling him that I was better off staying there than going home.
“Hart?” I jolted up. David leaned over the edge of the couch. His face just visible in the creeping morning light.
“Hey,” I hurried to respond.
“Can’t sleep?” He moved closer as he spoke and placed a hand on my shoulder, causing me to shiver.
“No, it’s fine. I just…” I searched for the words. “There’s a lot...too much in my head right now.”
That was Hartley-speak for ‘My head’s in a bad place today and there’s nothing to do but power through it’. David understood.
“Of course there is,” He smiled, rubbing circles into my back. “That’s the danger of being as smart as you.”
That was David-speak for ‘I appreciate you need some space, but I’m here for support whenever you need it’.
I felt the warmth of his lips pressed to my head for a moment, before he wondered back to bed. He worked late shifts. Always in need of more sleep and I didn’t need him losing out on it for me.
I sat on the couch in silence a while after his footsteps disappeared, waiting for the the golden sunlight to spread across the room and bleed into clear blue. I shut my laptop without saving the document. There was no way to balance the good with the bad. No equilibrium to be found. The past definitely hurt. But if it dragged me to where I was today.
I looked over my shoulder towards the bedroom, where David slept.
It might just have been worth it.