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Going from street rat -- sometimes literally -- to lap dog -- also sometimes literally -- kind of threw Nimona for a loop. When she’d seen the picture-perfect villain come up on the billboards, they knew there was danger and adventure afoot, but they never imagined forming such a…bond with the guy. She loved it, don’t get her wrong, and they’d even grown to tolerate his traitorous, arm-chopping boyfriend. Seriously. Nimona loved the tiny family that the fire had forged, even if she still wished that the ‘fire’ had never happened.
But old habits die hard, and these were old, old habits.
Nimona still found herself sleeping lightly, waking up at every little rustle or murmur. They kept an eye and an ear out while walking in town, waiting for someone to realize who she was. Bal and Ambrosius didn’t notice right away -- Nimona had long since perfected acting like they weren’t afraid of anything while keeping tabs on absolutely everything going on around her at all times. They had hundreds of years to work on it, anyway. But the sinking feeling of being seen as a monster by everyone she’d ever tried to bond with -- that didn’t ever get easy, even if it got old.
Despite Bal making several promises not to up and abandon her, not to turn on her, Nimona couldn’t quite shake the little voice in the back of their head screaming that he would, to leave him before he leaves her. To shift into a little rat and just scurry away to safety.
But then she’d be laying on the couch one night, curled up in cat form, and Bal would come and sit next to them, stroke her soft, pink fur with one hand, and Nimona wouldn’t think anything of it. It’d feel natural, familiar and like home. And the back-and-forth was disorienting -- why can’t they just feel one way or the other? Why must she wonder if she was safe here, while feeling the safest they’d been in a thousand years? It wasn’t fair. Nimona had lived a life of uncertainty; if it didn’t end here, where did it?
Sometimes it felt like their past was scribbled on her face with permanent marker. That one look at her and everyone would see just what they kept locked away from the world, from herself. Some nights it sent her spiraling, left her sleepless and disheveled. Those nights, she’d shift into some smaller form, whether it be an animal, a tiny human, or some other mass of pink and nervous energy they could muster up. She’d sneak over to where Bal was sleeping, crawl up into his bed, and ease into the space between his one crooked-up leg and his chest, curling up and soaking in his warmth.
Those nights, Nimona indulged in violent thoughts centering around that dumb little voice in their head.
Those nights, Nimona told herself that Bal wasn’t Gloreth, and he wouldn’t ever hurt her.
And Nimona would fall back asleep, forgetting for a moment that she ever was a monster.