Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By god, your school was an ugly building. Back in your youth, you could recall seeing the structure for the first time, and being utterly unimpressed by the four pillars outside, to curate a poorly made knock off Greek House.

Knock offs can be good. Sometimes even better than the original. But this, this was even more pathetic than your self esteem.

“It looks like a prep’s wet dream,” you had said out loud, right in front of your father, as you’d sat next to him in the seat of your car.

He’d frowned, and given you a harsh look, “Behave yourself. You’re no longer a child, and you need to act your age. I have worked very hard in order to get you into Gotham Academy, and I expect you not to bring shame to our family. Don’t bring any of this… ‘emo’ nonsense into your studies, do you understand?”

You’d rolled your head sideways, to fix him with a blank, irritated stare; he had looked right back, with a vicious look of discontent, expecting a polite, submissive ‘yes daddy’. Instead, your lips curled into a sickeningly smug smirk — “What’s my age again?”

Before your father could blow a fuse at your impudence, you’d hopped out of the car, and ran into the ugly hub of education, your red tie fluttering in the wind (against the dress code), and your shoes scuffed. Even as a twelve year old, your philosophy had always been to never take yourself that seriously, so you never did, and did whatever the damn fuck you wanted.

Immature impudence? Revenge against your neglectful parents? You decide.

In any case, you began your new life, having finally been released from the clutches of homeschooling, and quickly made yourself a menace. The age of tween is a precarious one, and at that point you wanted nothing more than to wreak havoc on everything and everyone, till the world bowed down at your feet, while you sat on a throne made from the discombobulated limbs of your enemies, and drank blood from a skull like Byron. You didn’t know what your end goal was, but one thing was for sure, right now you wanted anarchy, misery and destruction.

For now, though, you’d have to make do with just being the quiet kid at the back of the class, and make hissing noises whenever somebody approached you.

Needless to say, you didn’t make many friends. By the time you were fifteen, you were a lone wolf, who was (just about) known for standing in front of the glass cabinet of trophies at eight am, whilst putting on red eyeshadow, stolen from your mother’s dressing table.

Some people jeered at you; some people ignored you; some people were scared of you, and spread wild rumours about you being in a vampiric cult, and that was why you always looked tired. The truth was a little less extravagant, and these kids were but a few minority — to the rest of the students, you were nobody.

That wasn’t your objective anyway, you told yourself, as you sipped your juice, sitting on the front steps outside the building at lunch. You just insisted on getting out of the house so you wouldn’t have to hear them fucking arguing all the time.

What even is it with them? If they’re unhappy together, they should get a divorce. I wouldn’t care. They’ve never cared about me, they adopted me to look good, so I don’t care about them. They’re just my sugar parents at this point.

Heh, that’s actually funny. Maybe I should poison them and I’ll inherit all their money.

A shout pulled you unwillingly from your thoughts, and you reluctantly looked up to see where the noise was coming from; instantly, your mouth dropped, as you stared up in complete astonishment, at the boy who was standing in the window sill directly to your right, on the second floor. You took a brief moment to survey his features — a somewhat toughened, confident face, with curly black hair that sat atop his head as if he were a sheep.

Who was he? Wasn’t he that new guy from a month ago? You weren’t in any of his classes, and he was in the year below you, so you’d never bothered to find out. Something relating to Bruce Wayne, you believed, if your eavesdropping was accurate…

… off topic. For now, the question had to be why the everloving fuck was he two inches from belly flopping onto the courtyard?

Encouraging whoots came from behind him, and you could vaguely make out the words; “Do it, street scum! Show us how tough you really are!”

The boy glanced behind him, obviously riled up by the derogatory remarks thrown his way, but none to his credit, for it only made him further determined to do something stupid. “I will! I’ll fucking show all you rich pricks!” he yelled (you had to admire his grit).

Then, you watched, almost in slow motion, as he pushed himself off the ledge, and jumped; time seemed to come to a halt at that moment, as you gazed up at him, his blazer fluttering like a pair of wings, his scarlet socks becoming streaks, that wound through the air tracking his journey, like fluttering silk ribbons. His eyes were a fearless, shining bluish green, that reflected the autumn sun imperfectly, scattering little specks of light across his irises, and glancing off his shoes in tiny blows.

You could swear that he was flying, then.

But, as if somebody had clipped his wings, he fell, and landed hard on the ground with a hysterical crack!, right on his leg. The agonising scream he let out snapped you out of your stupor, and you stood up, quick to rush over to him, and kneel by his side — several other students ran over as well.

“Are you alright, Mr Wayne?!” one girl cried out, daintly pressing her hand to his chest, in a gesture so pathetic and obviously overexaggerated in order to gain approval that it made you sick to your stomach.

Your eyebrow twitched in irritation. “Of course he’s not,” you barked at her, with a scowl. “He just jumped out the second fucking floor. What he needs is a doctor, so go ring the nurse bell and get a damn teacher!”

She froze for a moment, before hastily getting up, and rushing off to do as you’d said. The boy below you was still breathing heavily, holding his ankle, and whining in intense pain, muttering curses; another guy looked up to the window he’d flown out of and shouted up, “Screw you guys!”

He received a deafening howl of laughter from the neanderthals upstairs — you stared up at them, in silent aggravation, your photographic memory switching on to capture each of their smug, idiotic faces — six in total. You couldn’t recall their names, them being utterly irrelevant to you, but you did manage to remember that they had a string of lockers together, right across the trophy cabinet where you did your makeup every morning. A thought occurred to you, and you pondered as to whether you should do it or not, and then promptly decided to, what the hell, you only live once.

You reverted your gaze back to the boy below you, who was still writhing. The student from beforehand tried to keep him focused, asking a simple question, “What’s your name?”

The curly haired young man choked on his own words, before sputtering out, “Jason Todd.”

You didn’t have time to do much else, for the nurses came in the next instant, as well as two teachers, each with panicked expressions. As Todd was loaded onto the stretcher, you could hear the two professors mumbling hurriedly amongst themselves about what ‘Mr Wayne’ would think, and whether the academy would get sued for having brought damage to his son.

(You hoped the school would get sued.)

In any case, now you understood more clearly. This was Bruce Wayne’s new ward. It made sense that people would either be picking on him (example a, the fuckers up there), or sucking on his toes (example b, the girl who was putting on a flattery show). You came to your feet, and looked on silently, as the nurses worked on him steadily, while another faculty staff called 911, whilst another fainted out of fear of losing his job. The scene was really quite fascinating, an insightful study into the mindset of the pathetically insecure, which to some level you could sadly relate to — so, unfortunately, you felt a shred of pity, and reluctant sympathy, towards the flailing adults, as they struggled to act like sane human beings, whilst a child was suffering right in front of them.

You stayed for a tad longer, to keep an eye on Jason Todd, before the ambulance showed up, and whisked him away, leaving the poor caregivers to attend to the wretched teacher who’d blacked out. Then, you twisted around, and headed back into the building; you still had around fifteen minutes till your next lesson began, so that gave you ample time to complete the task you’d wanted to do previously.

-

“Did you see him just fucking jump out like a twat? He’s so fucking stupid,” one of the bullies chortled, as the lot made their way down the corridor, after the lunch bell.

“Right? Must be the public schooling,” another sneered, earning a plethora of detestable laughter from the rest of them.

“I think he broke his foot. Isn’t that hilarious?—”

They all stopped dead, in the middle of the hallway, since there was a sizable crowd. Pushing their way through to discover what was going on, they were astonished to find the cause of the audience.

Scrawled along all six of their lockers, were the plain words ‘pathetic bastards’, with neat, large, black handwriting. That was all, nothing less, no more.

They turned around, to see who had been responsible for their humiliation, and their eyes settled on you; but you were applying your typical red eyeshadow, with your signature deadpan expression. When you met their gaze in acknowledgement of their staring, they couldn’t say a word, and only turned back to the ‘crime’, and started trying to rub off the inscripture, only succeeding in smudging their expensive jackets in the substance.

Ten metres or so away, you smiled, as you felt the black eyeliner in your trouser pocket.

-

That was the one and only time you ever interacted with Jason Todd. From then on, your thoughts never dwelled once on him — until, six years later, his death was announced to you all in an assembly.

And then he was all you could think about. The boy you’d met once, was now dead — gone, forever, stripped from the earth like a weed, carelessly yanked out by the fates, and laughed at by the gods. It felt wrong, and injustice was a familiar flavour that stung bitterly in your mouth, and made you grit your teeth in pure rage and regret.

Life was short; life is short, like the fleeting jump Jason Todd had taken out of the window, like the brief moment he’d been soaring through the sky like a bird. Even after his passing, he remained influential to you, reminding you that taking your existence for granted was something foolish, for if your time was cut short, you’ll wish you’d done more.

The ghost of Jason Todd took a small, unoccupied place in your frozen heart, and settled there cosily, a constant sad yet needed prompt of the spontaneity of everything around you.

And you kept him there, as if he’d never gone at all.

Chapter Text

“No, I told you,” you argued, phone pressed to your ear, as you typed frantically at the computer sat in front of you, “I’m not requesting extra money from the council because I want it, it’s because we need it. Have you ever worked in an orphanage before?”

Your best friend and coworker, Avneet, paused to watch you have a furious conversation with the Gotham committee treasurer’s secretary, as she put away a multitude of books that had just been worn down by the kids. She noticed how a few drops of nervous sweat dribbled down your forehead, splattering onto your desk, which made you even more tense. She wrinkled her nose at you, and lifted a warning finger, just as you were about to swear — you reluctantly held back on the cuss, and she returned to her duties, putting away the various stories for the next reading session. She rubbed her forehead, and let out a mild yawn as she kneeled down to stock up the lower shelves, wondering what to give the children for lunch.

Her thoughts were cut off from business as usual, when she heard you let out a defiant, “Fuck you! And your eyebrows!” before you hung up, and slammed your device on the table with an aggravated grunt.

Her frown deepened at your use of language, and she was quick to ask you dryly, “I’m guessing they didn’t raise our budget?”

“No,” you replied shortly, tapping your finger against your arm, letting out a long huff as you calmed yourself down. “I told you, it’s not worth it. The bitch puts me on hold, and then when he picks up, he wastes my time with six new reasons why they’re all immoral fucks.”

“Oh well. It was worth a shot,” Avneet assured you, as she got up, dusting down her trousers. “Thanks for trying anyway, even though you probably got us blocked with that last part.”

“Have you seen his eyebrows?” you defended, waving your hand around in a wild, unspecified gesture, “They look like giant, obese caterpillars!”

“Yes, but did you have to point it out?” she questioned with an exasperated smile.

You blinked, and then folded your arms over your chest in a silent motion of annoyance. Avneet couldn’t hold back a laugh at your face, and gave you a small, pitying pat on the shoulder as she passed, going back into the main hall; as the doors momentarily opened and closed, you heard the rambunctious screeching and giggling of the children inside, who were clearly entertaining themselves well with what you’d given them. For a second, you considered going inside, before simply standing up, and wandering over to the office window, letting your hand lilt over the chequebook, the spare laptop, and the meal planner.

Pressing your head against the glass, you stared out blankly at the street, darkened by the familiar clouds of Gotham above — you’d grown accustomed to the dreary weather by this point — there were a few cars on the road ahead, and across from you stood a block of poorly maintained council houses. You sighed miserably, a tense scowl occupying your otherwise neutral expression, and you could recall how Mrs Truham would’ve given you a reprimanding lecture on how a pretty face would make pretty acquaintances.

You had not only ignored her advice because you point blank detested the woman, but also because you’d thought with impunity that you didn’t need acquaintances; you’d mumbled, under your breath, after she’d returned to applying her blush, that friends were for preps, and then had snatched her mascara off the table to experiment with later. She’d grounded you after she’d found out, bursting into your room the moment you’d arrived home from school, screaming at you that it wasn’t ‘proper’, for somebody like you to wear makeup.

Fuckin’ stupid.

(You couldn’t be sure if you were referring to the idea she’d had of you, Mrs Truham, or yourself. In any case, the words played well with whatever scenario.)

A motorbike zoomed down the road, at a speed that you were certain isn’t legal, and you peeked over slightly to catch a better glimpse of the driver; you didn’t, they were long gone (like your parents—). You let out an unimpressed snort, though inwardly, you heard your fifteen year old self cry out with spittling slobber that it might’ve been Gerard Way on his way to film a music video. Oh, to be the young and carefree soul you’d once been — that was a wish that could never be fulfilled, and arguably, it’s what got you in this scrappy, scarring situation in the first place.

But you didn’t regret being a punk. Not one bit.

You’d rather you had that courage now; god knew that you needed it. Sure, you could tell people to fuck off, but it was more of out of fatigue and utter misery rather than rebellious spirit.

“You gonna help me out with the snacks?” Avneet called out to you, from the doorway to the main hall.

You shifted in your position, and looked over your shoulder at her — her long black, beautiful hair was certainly something to behold, and her glasses framed her face perfectly, matching her dark skin tone. Her Indian accent was slightly prevalent, (perhaps she’d been on the phone to her mother a minute ago), and she was holding a shaken cardboard box, marked bluntly as ‘food’; it was probably time to feed the little buggers, they got ancy without their dose of glucose.

With a small nod, you moved over, took the item from her grasp, and pushed the door open with your back, flexing slightly as you did. Avneet let out a small, “Wow,” with a playfully flirtatious smirk, “anything else you can do with those arms?”

“Snap your neck,” you supplied, though the remark was accompanied by a parched grin that crumbled like an old biscuit when you cracked it.

“That’s not funny,” she retorted, despite her amusement, “you’re built like a tank. Honestly, I don’t understand why you don’t join the Bat-gang.”

“Too tired.” T’was but half a joke.

A singular call from Avneet, after giving you a nudge, brought in thirty-or-so hungry minors, who were clambering over each other, half ripping their second hand clothes to shreds in their efforts to get the refreshments first. You snorted in a deadpan manner, recalling how you’d spent seven hours trekking from obscure store to obscure shop to find these little terrors something appropriate to wear aside from their shoddy street attire. But they’d been all each a very cheap price, so it wasn’t the biggest scandal of the century that they were getting messed up, and besides, kids liked to destroy things.

You knew you certainly had loved to ruin everything. Mr Truham had taken you into his office once, and once only, because as soon as you’d been alone, you’d thrown the printer to the floor, ripped the noticeboard off the wall and beat it like a drumstick against his computer; they hadn’t actually realised what was going on until they heard the desk being tipped over, and even then, you’d shoved it against the entrance so they couldn’t get inside. Then, you’d screamed loudly whilst overturning all the furniture, and ripping leaflets into snowflakes.

You’d screamed, and screamed, and screamed. You’d screamed that you wanted to go home, and that this was a dirty country full of liars and frauds.

When they’d got in, they’d found you half-crying, half-laughing on the ground. It didn’t stop you from getting a great big slap to the face when you arrived back at the house.

Oh well.

The sticky hands of the children ripped bags of snacks from the box, leaving it empty and mutilated; there was a brief chorus of ‘thank yous’, before they all hurried off to sit on the yellow benches, chattering about whatever internet meme had captured their little imaginations. Avneet smiled fondly at the lot of them, and you felt the smallest amount of comfort at their and her happiness.

She addressed you casually, “Could you take that out to the recycling? Oh, and we might need some extra food for tonight, could you get some instant food from the corner shop?”

“Uh huh,” you nodded absentmindedly, spinning on your heel, and wandering down the corridor, to the main entrance of the building.

Stepping out into the light, you squinted against the dull light of the clouds, and moved towards the bins at the edge of the pavement, before chucking the box unceremoniously into the green wheelie, before starting your trek towards the small convenience store at the end of the street. The lane was silent, mostly, apart from the occasional yowl of a catfight, or perhaps the cry of an unfed infant; the road was chipped and soggy with humidity and agony. Your hoodie felt oddly heavy against you, and you had to shake off the thought that somebody was watching you — though to be fair, this damned city always had something around every corner.

But you could dwell on the shortcomings of this hellhole another time. After a turn of a corner, you made your way down the sloped path, towards the lit up neon sign, run by a rather jovial woman by the name of Nicole; you remembered her vividly, because the night you ended up alone, you came here, and she gave you a bag of crisps for free.

Ah, such fond memories.

You were about to go inside, your thrifted shoes hitting the cement like the drums of Black Sabbath, when you felt a sudden sense of paranoia.

Slowly, you glanced over your shoulder, only to find nothing and looked forwards again — except that it seemed the shop was wavering. “That’s fuckin’ weird,” you murmured, starting to move to get a closer glimpse; but your system let out an inaudible shriek of protest, stopping you in your tracks, like you’d been shocked with a thousand volts.

The air around you became thick, and you coughed slightly. Must be the pollution… you put it down to. Gotta get inside, in that case—

As soon as you moved your foot, your knees buckled, with a pathetic crumple, and you felt your head spin in confusion, as you hit the ground with a resounding thump. At the mercy of gravity, your torso hit the melting tarmac, and fuck!— it hurt, it felt like a ruthless animal had torn open your lungs, and had bitten right into your spine! A shuddered gasp escaped you as your chest closed in and crunched, like the smashing of an old car.

You couldn’t even cry out; all you could fathom were colours, idiosyncratic patterns performing synchronised swimming in your vision, a pandering production to entertain your corpse. As your consciousness faded, and your breathing became weak, it left you nothing but pathetic.

Oh, god, you’re kidding me, your thoughts tried one last time to motivate you, I haven’t even handed in my fucking resignation for life yet. I wasn’t planning to do that yet — I wasn’t planning to go yet.

I wasn’t planning to meet Jason Todd yet. But maybe it’s about time I should.

If I end up in the same place as him.

Your body slumped, and nobody but Gotham City watched you corrode, alone.

Chapter Text

“Lung cancer,” the doctor told you emphatically — you sat opposite them, your head repeating those two words like a broken record, skipping over vowels. Somehow, their voice only became more distant with time, and you found yourself having an odd ringing in your ears, mixed with venomous, terrified thoughts of how this is it.

This is it.

“Usually I’d try and break this more gently, but…” they trailed off, and thinned their lips, noticing your lack of concentration, far off in the backyard of your broken skull.

You looked around you, still in your hospital gown, after a chest x-ray; the office was quite sparse, with not a speck of dirt to be found wherever you looked; there was no light coming from the window, as by now the sun had set, and you felt cold from the lack of warmth. “Is there any heating in here?” you asked quietly, craning your neck back around to the doctor.

They said your name in a concerned tone, your last name mispronounced on their tongue. “Do you understand what I’ve told you?”

You swallowed, and nodded briefly. “Yes. Uh, best case scenario, I live for another three years with chemotherapy. Giving my… insurance will cover it all.”

“That’s the problem,” the doctor replied, tapping something vaguely on his computer, before turning the screen around to show you; “the city council decided, a few months ago, to cut back health insurance for their public workers, so you can’t afford—”

“I know,” you cut them off, holding up a shaking hand, and dropping your head low. “I—I know.”

There was a brief silence. It marinated for a short while, as the medical advisor opposite you attempted to gauge your reaction to the news.

Then, “Are you sure there’s no heater in there? I’m freezing my tits off.”

You were standing outside the entrance to the hospital, ten minutes later, back in your clothes, your phone pressed to your ear, waiting for Avneet to pick up. It took around four rings, and before you could get a word out edgeways, she gave you hell; “Where the fuck have you been?! Do you have any clue how worried I was? It’s fucking ten! It’s been hours — hours —what happened? Did you get robbed? Are you hurt? Do you need me to call the police?”

“I’m—” (not) “—okay,” you spat out, staring at your shoes. “I’m at the hospital.”

“What? What the fuck happened?!”

“Look, I—” you struggled, the words were in your mouth, but stuck to the innards of your cheeks like disgusting bits of half digested food. “I fainted in the street. I was just dehydrated so… Nicole called the emergency services, and I basically got told to drink more water.”

“... fucking christ. Are you ok? Do you wanna just go home? I can take the night shift…”

“No,” you denied robotically. “I’ll be fine. I’ll—” corrode, “—be fine—” break apart, “—just need to drink some water—” blood, “ —and I’ll be okay. You just go home when I get there. I need something to keep me occupied.”

“You sure? You sound… weird.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” you replied, your lips twisting and smacking against each other, and just before you hung up, you added, “I mean this, I’m okay. Trust me.”

You were not. You were far from such. You felt like the smouldering location of where a humongous battle had just taken place, strewn with the corpses of your happiness, and the broken buildings that once housed your barely held together sanity. With a miserable step, you plodded over to the bus stop, that was just a few metres outside the hospital, before checking the route; in around fifteen minutes, there would be a link to the main street closest to the orphanage, so you sat down, and waited.

A few seconds passed by. You couldn’t bring yourself to think.

Then, someone sat down next to you.

Out of cautiousness, you peeked up to see their face, and saw that they’d seated themselves right at the corner of the bench, to your left, leaving a respectable amount of distance between you two. Before you could look away again, the person spoke, their voice gruff but nonchalant; “Rough night?”

You stiffened at the unlikely conversation starter. “Could say,” you responded, noting his neat brown locks, gathered in a quaffy ‘do, as he took off his hat.

“Understandable,” he chuckled lightly — it was neither a pleasant or unpleasant sound — “after all, I did see you come out of the hospital.”

“Why were you watching?” you asked shortly.

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, “Just an observation is all. Sometimes you can’t help but catch sight of something, and I noticed that you happened to look pretty down on yourself.” Interestingly, he did not turn to face you, keeping his gaze straight forwards.

You scrutinised him, before mumbling, “Everyone in Gotham is down on themselves.”

“You make a good point,” the man granted, with a shrug, “though, if…” he trailed off, and you waited in cautious curiosity for him to finish his sentence, “if you want to talk about what’s got you so mournful, I’m here. We should all help each other, since we all seem to be so sad.”

Toying with your fingers, you let out a grunt of acknowledgement, and leaned back against the bench, folding your arms. Seventeen seconds passed, as you tossed around the idea in your head, as the man next to you began to whistle — a gust of wind passed over, ruffling your hair, a few stray leaves dusted the ground, dancing gracefully across the tarmac like tiny ballerinas — a tall lamp down the road flickered, with a barely audible buzz.

“I’m going to die,” you blurted out.

The man hummed. “Aren’t we all?”

“No,” you denied, shaking your head. “I’m going to — I’m already on my way there. I’m dying.”

“So… you’ve got a set time left?” he questioned, tilting towards you in mild interest (funny how that had really caught his attention).

“Three years, if I’m lucky,” you didn’t know why you were talking. You just wanted to tell somebody — anybody at all. Someone had to know, someone had to know that you were death on two legs, just waiting for the day your system decided to give up and let you drop, you didn’t care who, it just had to be a person. “If I’m not lucky — which I usually am — then six months.”

The brown haired person watched your foot tapping fast against the pavement below, “That is quite unfortunate. I’m sorry to hear that.”

You laughed, burying your face in your hands, “You don’t even know who I am.”

“And you don’t know who I am either,” he returned smoothly, “but you still told me, didn’t you?”

Pause.

You swallowed and crunched into your shoulders.

“People…” he continued, almost in a dreamlike tone, made to put you to sleep, “people are creatures of habit. No matter if we’re kind, awful, or live in the middle ground, we do what we are familiar with because it makes us feel safe. But if we’re no longer safe, and we know that the habit cannot keep going for much longer… then why not exercise some free will? Do things you’ve always wanted to do?

“Life is fleeting, life is something that can’t be replaced that easily. You only get one of these, so you might as well spend it usefully, and let yourself have fun, rather than just wasting away the days counting. Math was never my best subject, in any case… I don’t know about you, but if I were to die in a few months, I’d throw myself around a bit. Not worry about expectations or what everyone thinks of you, because you’re going to be gone a bit; and then they’ll just feel bad.

Because who are we to judge a walking corpse? Everyone loves a human wreckage.”

You processed his words in silence, before trying to hold back a snort of awed disbelief, “Who are you?”

The man stood up, putting his fedora back on, before holding out a card; you took it with a frown, another question on the tip of your tongue, but he was already walking away, with a wave. “Crispin,” he informed you, “you might want to come to this address when you’re at death’s door.”

You inspected the slip, noting the street — then stuffed it in the pockets of your trousers, as the glaring headlights of the bus trickled down the road, alerting you to its presence.

Surprisingly, the journey back was rather uneventful, with you just staring out of the window with a dull countenance. It almost felt like a long awaited break, with nothing but the rumbling of the engine to comfort you, dull but recognisable, and god knew you wanted something stable right now.

Or… did you?

Fuck’s sake, don’t tell me that Crispin dude actually influenced my thinking, you thought, with a grimace, as you arrived at the entrance of the orphanage, your feet feeling heavy with exhaustion. That’s so pathetic…

Avneet met you at the doors, her brow furrowed in concern, as she took in your body language; “Hey, you ok?” she asked softly, touching your shoulder as you stumbled into your office.

“Yes,” you wanted to rip that query to shreds, bloody shreds, “you better get home. Your sisters are at home right?”

“Yeah, but—” she struggled for a moment, rubbing her forehead, “if you don’t feel up to it—”

“No,” you surprised both her and yourself with your interruption, “I feel up to it. I feel up to anything, really.”

She blinked, “Oh… sure. Alright then… just take it easy, ok? There’s some water and food in the fridge in my room.”

You nodded, dropping into the chair behind your table, and sinking into the leather, the sensation of the soft fabric so very welcome against your sore, bruised skin. “Get home,” you mumbled, leaning back so you could stare at the ceiling.

Avneet agreed, obviously not quite sure what was going on with you — her concern was sweet, but right now, you wanted nothing more than to have some time to yourself. “The kids are all in bed, and I told them they can come see you if they want to,” she informed you, grabbing her bag off the floor. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

“Oh, if I make it through the night,” you replied; she laughed, but you didn’t.

An odd sense of serenity engulfed you, as you were at last completely alone — you slowly leaned down, and rested your head against the wood, and rubbed the back of your neck, letting a long, overdue sigh escape you. God, it had been a day, that card in your back pocket was practically burning a hole through your jeans. Why the hell did you tell a stranger, a complete stranger, that you were going to die? Desperation? Emotional instability?

More to the fuckin’ point, why’d he give me a pep talk? What is this, Dr. Phil? If he wanted to give me therapy, he should’ve done it a decade ago, when I was having the time of my life at the Truhams.

Haha, she would’ve looked at me right now, taken me by the scruff of my neck, and then yanked me upright. Would’ve told me I looked like a wilting flower, and that I needed to eat my dinner before we went to the next function, and that I better not wear that ‘stupid ACAB shirt’... and that I need to stop looking like a homeless dog.

I am a dog though.

I am a fucking bitch.

Your eyes shut, mind filled with the distorted screams of David Truham, and raging hot flames that raced up curtains like burning horses.

Red eyeshadow, casting orange shapes on white, pristine floor tiles, shattered expensive vases in the dim hallways, the master bedroom upstairs that you tentatively walked towards, before witnessing the sight inside and screaming — the little pink stars you’d drawn for her birthday, on a card, which she’d stuck on the fridge with a melting smile. The poker in the fireplace, that always glistened and simmered during wintertime, the portrait at the end of the last corridor, with the Truhams and one face that had been ripped out with psychotic nails; the marks on the wall, black and ugly, with a wailing splatter of a bloodstain right at the bottom of the stairs.

They’d told you it was paint.

It had looked like paint, but you’d learned that nothing was ever really what it looked like; seeing was not believing, it seemed.

Then, there was the brief sound of a thump, right outside.

It made you shoot up straight away, instantly on guard; you were not about to play games tonight, if it was a bunch of drunken teenagers doing a prank, you would not hesitate to get the garden hose and blast them. Coming to your feet, you walked out of the room, and headed over to the main entrance, where the noise had come from, and paused at the sight of ambiguous grey boxes settled outside — with a wary step, you made your way over to them, letting the doors shut gently behind you, before kneeling down to inspect the crates.

... food?

The fuck? This is all food.

Your confusion came in flood waves, and you peered around for the mysterious benefactor — or wait, maybe it was just some delivery guy who got the address wrong? Unless that secretary had changed their mind that you’d talked to this afternoon… but that was highly unlikely, considering how far that stick up his ass was.

You shuffled out further, to check for any vans around, or any sign of life at all; nothing, nothing whatsoever. A quick glance to your watch informed you that it was nearly one in the morning, who the hell was responsible for this?

A blur of colours, and you got your answer.

Out of sheer thin air, a figure landed cleanly on the concrete pathway leading up to the entrance, causing you to yet out a yell of shock, and stumble back slightly. With your breath stuck in your throat like glue, you watched with complete astonishment, as Red fucking Hood set down the box he’d been carrying, identical to the others. He straightened up, brushing his gloved hands together, seemingly unaware of your awestruck-self, before cracking his neck with a mechanised grumble.

(Tough night? Maybe he needed to see a physiotherapist?

Oh my god, what the fuck?!)

You’d never been within two inches of a vigilante. Given, after the whole Arkham Knight debacle, they had chosen to keep a low profile, but you hadn’t even seen them much in the news — now here was this — this tank of a man, apparently just casually giving you food. Your brain seemed to splutter and cough like an old industrial machine, struggling to keep up with the changing trends, except you didn’t think that said trends would be standing a few metres away from one of those ‘dog-gone crazy bat-people’, as Mrs Truham would’ve put it.

He noticed you at last. There was a short moment of contact, white slits piercing like murderous daggers into your own, stupified, wide eyes, before he turned away, leather jacket rustling; “That’s for the kids,” he growled, his voice low, husky, threatening, and a whole catastrophe of adjectives that you were failing to recall — he grabbed one of those grapple guns of his, in order to make an overly dramatic exit.

At last, just before he left, you let out a choking wheeze. “Who do you think you are? The lone ranger?!” you sputtered indignantly.

Red Hood couldn’t give you a reaction, because he’d already flown away, disappearing over the rooftops opposite; you didn’t even know if he’d heard you. You were left there, with five boxes of food, an encounter, and the news that you were to die in a short bit.

The moon observed you, as you were left alone again, to stew your wrecked thoughts, that were being slow cooked over a fire of steady realisation.

Chapter Text

Avneet stared at the boxes; you stared at them as well; a mutual silence engulfed you both as you looked upon the fresh supplies brought to you by Red Hood at almost one in the morning. “Alright,” she finally spoke, breaking the pause, “what the actual fuck?”

“I don’t know,” you responded blankly.

“Wrong answer.”

“That’s not even a proper—”

“Just—” she pressed a hand to her forehead, in order to pinch her brow in concern. “Did he say anything?”

“He just did this weird pointing thing,” you imitated it mockingly, “and said,” before putting on a comically deep voice to yodel, “that’s for the kids. Which I think proves how stupid it is,” you returned to your original posture, “because that’s not even the correct grammar. It’s ‘those’, because it’s plural, not ‘that’s’.”

“Oh my god,” Avneet yanked at her hair, her face painted with deathly terror, “you can’t be serious — where did he get these from? What if the people he stole from come back and attack us? How do we explain to the city council that we have stolen food?!”

You tilted your head, watching her panic, before slowly, you articulated, “Who says… they have to know?”

She stared at you, watching as you bit your tongue that momentarily protruded from between your lips. “You’re joking,” your name left her mouth in a flabbergasted chuckle, “you can’t be serious, we can’t just — ignore this!”

“I’m not saying we should,” you replied, “I’m just saying that if the council won’t give us food, why not take it from him?” you picked up a crate, and unboxed it, raising an eyebrow at the stuff inside. “It’s good quality shit, I’ll give him that. Better than anything they’ve given us.”

“What if he’s stolen it?!”

“From who?” you glanced up at her, “From a crime boss? Red Hood isn’t exactly gentle on the criminals, you know that as well as I do. If he’s snatched it from some traffickers, or some drug dealers, or some filthy one percent-er, then who are we to complain?”

Avneet froze, before slumping down in the seat nearest to her; “You’re crazy,” she whispered, “you’re fucking crazy, you know that? What if they find us out, huh?”

“Then we tell them that Hood blackmailed us,” you answered smoothly — you were surprised at your own coolness, but the oddness of the situation had worn off pretty quickly for you.

(After all, it was far from the most shocking thing that had happened in the past few days.)

“Jesus, this is nuts,” she muttered. “You have certainly grown an extra backbone, to want to pull this off.”

You scoffed; it was an ugly noise; “Nah, I just found my old one in the attic after a decade or so.”

The children enjoyed the new food, snarfing it down like it was coke — they’d also asked excitedly who had provided them with such wonderful gifts, and Avneet and you had exchanged a glance, before telling them it was a secret. By the time the day was over, it was time for you to head home, with Avneet staying on duty this time, as the woman had declared that she was perfectly capable of taking care of the place, and that you should go home and ‘get some rest’.

Which is how you found yourself on the streets of Gotham, walking down the pavement at a slow, unbothered pace, kicking stones and stopping to stare in the windows of closed shops every so often. It was a dark and miserable night, not uncommon, but the added weight of your diagnosis made it feel even more oppressive, like the wind was whispering to you, sneering in your ear that you were going to die a long, horrible, painful, drawn-out death, with nobody by your side to care.

Six months.

Six months.

Look alive sunshine, you supposed. You might as well make the most of it.

But how? It wasn’t like there were many exciting things to do in this hellscape of a city, and your bank account was flat out crying at the prospect of you even trying to travel.

You would have to consider the thought later.

Up ahead, you could make out a few figures, standing in the shadows of the buildings, whispering amongst themselves suspiciously. As a local, you could presume it was just the drug dealers, on their usual grind of profiting off the desperate and needy, by making money off their suffering; you prepared to turn down an alleyway, and avoid them, before they saw you, and threatened you into you giving them money for your life.

However, something stopped you.

Why wait? Why hang around, doing nothing? Why just plod around this shittown, counting down the days? It was 1-0-9 in the sky, but the pigs wouldn’t quit.

“Hey, you!” the voices of one of the men caught your attention, and you slowly turned, to see him approaching you, leaving his other four cronies behind, “What do you think you’re doing? Why’re you here, fucker?”

Hold on, what were you on about? It wasn’t like you were Doctor Death-Defying. You weren’t a motor-baby, or a crash-queen, or a surgeon of the youth, a symbol of rebellion.

“Are you deaf?” the drug dealer now stood right in front of you, “Listen, bitch, you’ve been here for far too long. Cough up your wallet, and I won’t get my buddies over there to slit your throat.”

And yet — you had been once. A long time ago, you’d thought that the future was bulletproof. Maybe, if you thought about it, the aftermath was secondary.

“Hey!” he waved a hand in front of your eyes, bringing you back to earth, as he spat furiously, “Cough it up!”

Perhaps it was time to do it now, and do it loud.

Your hand moved of its own accord, and connected hard with his face, red instantly covering your knuckles, as you broke his nose, causing him to howl in pain before he dropped to the ground. A brief pause intervened, as you glanced down, processing what you’d just done, and saw a vial of green liquid roll from his jacket — well, that didn’t look anything like crack, what had he been dealing?

Curiously, you picked it up, only to notice that the four other men were staring in complete, ominous silence; you felt all coherent narrative leave your brain in a singular millisecond, replaced by pure adrenaline, as they all began to move towards you. Oh shit, now you’d done it, now you’d fucking done it. Well-done, with your existential crisis, and your musings on mortality, well-done.

You only had six months though. That worked as an excuse, right? It definitely did, right? It absolutely did, right? Right?

Fuck it. Killjoys, make some noise.

Your feet stumbled, and then you whipped around and ran for your fucking life back down the street, bag thumping on your back as you sprinted down the sidewalk. The shouts of the men telling you to stop barely registered, all that you knew was that you were going full throttle down the road like a broken train, honking and all. The original quietness of the city was replaced with your elongated ‘ahhhh!’ of terror, as you sped along the concrete, followed by the angered shouts of the men.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck, shit, up the staircase!

Up the staircase fucking where?!

Up the staircase on the side of that building, fucker! Where else?!

With a choke, you swung around, and started to clamber up the metal fire escape on the side of a small apartment complex. This establishment was in the first line of houses of the compact, downtrodden part of Gotham, where all the buildings were pressed up against each other in an urban nightmare.

But right now? That was good, that was very good for you.

The men followed, calling out to you to drop the vial and stop running; you considered the first option they’d given, but — you know what? If they wanted it, they could come get it themselves, you had six months to live.

Fuck it. Fuck it!

You spun around furiously, and threw your foot straight into the chest of a guy who’d caught up with you, sending him flying down the stairs, and landing in a heap at the bottom, with a crack that suggested a broken bone. Paying it no mind, you continued to rush up to the roof, where you arrived, and then sped across the top, before coming to the edge, where around two metres below and across, there was another house to jump onto.

Would you even be able to—?

Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it! You were going to die anyway!

With a loud scream, you jumped, coming down onto the brickwork of the next building heavily but safely. You breathed in sharply — holy shit, you just did that! — and then rushed forwards, tumbling towards the boiler room situated near the precariously placed satellite dishes.

Wait, why—

Stop asking fucking questions, you stupid bastard!

You threw the door open, and then clambered inside, and when you heard one of the men approaching, you shoved the door outwards again, causing it to collide with his frame with a loud ‘thwack’, and a screech of pain. Then you hopped out again, and went rushing towards the end of the building, and sprung off the ground again, this time to land on a more level roof, giving yourself time to stuff the neon vial into your pockets, before continuing your sprinting.

The two remaining men behind you were steadily catching up, but you were far beyond rational thought now. Just fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, you were going to fucking die, it did not matter, it didn’t matter at all! It didn’t matter if you blew an artery, if you broke your leg, you had lung cancer!

You had lung cancer!

“I’m gonna fucking die!” you screamed out loud, turning around, to face the man who’d caught up to you. Within an instant, you slapped the knife he was holding out of his grasp, before kicking him hard in the dick, with the cry of a deeply rage-infested soul. He dropped with a groan, holding his crotch, and you left again, heading towards the next building.

Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it!

You slowed down slightly, when you saw that the next route was more difficult; instead of a simple jump, there was a wooden plank acting as a crossing bridge, held in place by two large oil drums. Not hesitating for a moment, you climbed onto it, and began to walk fast along the creaking material, sweating bullets and panting like a dog — until a shot rang out through the air, causing you to freeze.

You looked over your shoulder, to see the final man standing walking over, holding a small handgun, and wearing an unbefitting scowl. “I’ll give you this, you’re a fast fucking piece of shit,” he snarled, as he stood on the edge of the plank, smart enough to stay away.

You didn’t move an inch, still breathing heavily from your marathon of activity.

The man moved forwards, still pointing his weapon at you, “Come here, and hand over the vial. Then, I’ll let you go, if you give me your wallet.”

Heart still beating rapidly in your chest (but not for long—), you wheeled around on your heels to look at him head on. Then, you removed the tiny glass container from your pocket, and dangled it in the air, with a gaze of apathetic arrogance, “Come and get it then.”

He raised his firearm threateningly. “Don’t try me, or I will—”

“What, kill me?” you finished tonelessly, “You shoot me, and my corpse will fall off, and then this thing,” you shook the vial carelessly, “will break. I don’t wanna move, so you’re just going to have to get it your-fuckin’-self.”

The man paused, before cursing angrily, and then shuffling onto the plank; you waited, as he moved towards you, before you lifted a foot in warning. He stopped immediately, eyes widening to the size of dinner plates, as he realised what you were about to do; “Are you fucking crazy?!” he shouted, as the surface beneath you groaned under the pressure — one wrong move, and it would snap.

Just like you.

Fuck it.

“You’ll kill us both, you psycho!” he screamed, as if it would do anything.

You just grinned, the rush still pumping through your veins, as you shoved the vial back into your pocket, and then shouted with a maniacal laugh, “I’d rather go to hell than be in purgatory, bitch!” — then you stepped down hard, and you broke that motherfucker clean in half.