Chapter Text
Skating was faster than running.
So why exactly was Darby sprinting through the industrial district, board gripped tight like a lifeline instead of under his feet?
He didn’t know.
Maybe because hopping fences was easier without wheels attached to him, or maybe because the second he saw flashlights slicing through the dark, instinct took over and his legs just—went.
He wasn’t even sure how many fences he’d cleared by now. Five? Six?
They all blurred together in a mix of sharp chain-link and “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY” signs that smacked him in the arm as he squeezed through gaps.
His hoodie snagged once—he tore it free, heart hammering, breath coming in fast bursts that fogged the cold night air.
Behind him, the shouts were getting closer. Two voices. Grown men in uniforms with flashlights and heavy boots and probably nothing better to do at midnight.
“Hey! Stop right there!”
Darby laughed.
Like hell.
His shoes slapped the concrete, every nerve on fire, that wild, electric buzz spreading through his chest.
He lived for this part: the chase.
He could almost taste the thrill of it, that stupid grin tugging at his mouth even as he skidded around a corner, nearly tripping on his own board.
Darby didn’t mean to trespass.
Well… maybe he did.
But it wasn’t like he had bad intentions!
He just wanted to skate.
That was it.
And midnight was the perfect time.
The building back there—the half-built skeleton of steel beams and slanted concrete—had this sick, natural ramp that practically begged for a kickflip.
He’d spent an hour carving it up, wheels screaming against the silence, before the security guards appeared like angry ghosts.
And yeah, sure, there were a dozen empty parking lots or public parks he could’ve gone to instead, but that wasn’t the point.
It wasn’t about the skating anymore.
It was about the rush, the sharp, dizzy kind of feeling that made everything else fade out.
The noise in his head, the dull ache of whatever “real life” was supposed to be—it all went quiet when he ran like this.
That rush—that heartbeat-in-his-throat electricity—that was the thing keeping him alive these days.
The why behind it… that was a story for another time.
His shoes hit gravel. He stumbled, caught himself on a railing, nearly lost his board. Laughed breathlessly, because of course he did.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself, eyes darting for the next way out. “Okay, one more fence and I’m—”
Flashlight beam.
Shit.
He ducked.
He could hear them now, close enough to curse him out between gasps. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape too.
And still, there was that stupid smile, because he was loving it.
The pure chaos. The risk. The fact that he was probably a few seconds away from getting tackled and arrested but didn’t really care.
So Darby ran—skateboard in one hand, hoodie half-torn, lungs burning—and vaulted over the fourth fence like he was built for it.
The metal rattled behind him. His shoes slapped asphalt again.
He was free, for now.
The night was wide open and cold and alive around him.
And Darby Allin was grinning like an idiot in the dark.
So usually, once he cleared the final fence, the security guards gave up. That was kind of the unspoken agreement between him and them by now.
How did he know that? Funny story.
This wasn’t his first time. And it definitely wouldn’t be his last.
After all, those overnight security dweebs weren’t paid enough to chase down some half-feral skater kid into the street.
None of them had “Olympic track star” listed on their résumé, and Darby was fast—light, slippery, annoyingly agile when he wanted to be.
Usually, once he was off their property, they’d throw a few “get lost”s his way and call it a night.
But not these ones.
Apparently, these guys were committed.
Darby’s breath was visible in quick, hot puffs as he darted down another stretch of road.
God, didn’t they have anything better to do on a weekday past midnight?
Guess not.
Guess that’s what people with real jobs had to deal with. Not middle-of-the-night boredom and nothing but caffeine and bad decisions to keep them awake.
Now, realistically, this was probably the time to hop back on his board, kick off, and disappear down some sketchy alleyway.
But nooo. Knowing Darby’s luck, he’d hit a pothole or a curb, eat shit, and get tasered on the asphalt.
Besides, the faint, paranoid thought of having to dive into a bush or vault another fence felt… way too possible.
So Darby kept running. The board in his hand thudded softly against his thigh with every stride, his heartbeat syncing to the rhythm.
The cold air was slicing through his hoodie, biting his face and stinging the tips of his fingers—but God, it felt good.
That electric chill, that midnight air, was like gasoline for his nerves.
If he wasn’t currently being hunted down by two underpaid mall cops, he’d probably stop and frolic or something stupid, just because it felt that freeing.
Okay, maybe that was dramatic. He wasn’t running for his life, exactly.
More like running from another trespassing charge. Which, unfortunately, he already had a few under his belt.
But still, did that ever stop him?
Not once.
He threw a look over his shoulder, squinting.
The guards were just distant silhouettes now, their flashlights bouncing wildly.
He couldn’t hear them anymore—just the sound of his shoes slapping pavement, his own breath, the faint hum of the streetlights overhead.
Almost home free.
He whipped his head back forward—
And fucking slammed into something.
It was like running face-first into a damn wall.
No, not a wall—something harder. Solid.
Like steel and concrete decided to grow legs and stand directly in his path.
Darby’s skateboard flew from his hand, clattering onto the pavement as he stumbled back and landed flat on his ass, the breath knocked straight out of him.
His head snapped back, stars bursting across his vision.
“Holy—” he wheezed, clutching his ribs, blinking up in disbelief.
Whatever he hit didn’t even budge.
Total. Fucking. Whiplash.
Darby blinked a few times through the dark, disoriented, vision wobbling as he tried to process what the hell he’d just hit.
Okay—bumped was an understatement. What he collided into.
More so, who he collided into.
Because now, standing over him, was a man.
A massive, towering, hulking motherfucker with tattoos covering nearly every inch of visible skin. Thick arms crossed over a chest that looked like it could’ve been carved out of a damn boulder. Long beard, hard eyes, the kind that didn’t blink much. The kind that probably wrestled bears for fun—and won.
Darby froze, still half on the ground, staring up at this wall of muscle and ink like he’d just stumbled into a horror movie.
“You gonna watch where you’re going, punk?”
The guy’s voice was rough, all irritation, like he’d been ripped out of sleep just to get bowled over by some idiot with a death wish.
Darby blinked again.
Fair point. If a grown man came sprinting full-force into him during his totally normal midnight stroll, he’d be pissed too.
And “punk”?
Ha. He’d been called worse.
Darby scrambled to his feet, brushing gravel off his hoodie, mumbling something that was probably supposed to be an apology.
Because, let’s be real—this guy looked like he could eat him for a late-night snack and still have room for dessert.
“Sorry, man, I didn’t—”
He didn’t get to finish.
Out of the corner of his eye, a flicker of light cut through the dark.
Flashlights. Footsteps. Heavy and fast.
Oh, shit.
Those security guards were still after him?
What the hell was this, some corporate manhunt?
Did the industrial complex start hiring people with “absolutely nothing better to do” as a qualification now?
Darby’s pulse spiked. He could hear the shouts again—closer this time.
No way in hell was he getting caught tonight.
Okay, motherfuckers. Two can play that game.
“Shit,” Darby muttered under his breath.
He had to think fast. Really fast.
And well.
There was a wall right in front of him. A walking wall, built like a damn tank.
So why not use it?
Use… him?
Acting purely on instinct (and probably terrible judgment), Darby darted behind the massive stranger and grabbed his arm, twisting him just enough so the guy faced outward toward the street.
Perfect. A human shield.
Yes. Darby was currently hiding behind a man who looked like he chewed nails for breakfast and asked for seconds.
It was fine. Totally fine.
Desperate times, desperate measures, right?
“What the hell are you—” the man started, voice rumbling low, confused and very unimpressed.
But before he could finish, the sound of pounding footsteps came around the corner.
Darby’s breath caught. He pressed closer to the guy’s back, praying he wouldn’t move, praying he’d just… stay still for five damn seconds.
He could barely see anything. Just the faint glow of flashlights bouncing off the pavement, cutting through the dark.
He ducked his head lower, heart thudding hard enough to shake his ribs.
Maybe his hoodie, see-through shirt, and skull paint combo wasn’t the best for camouflage, but if he squinted, the fabric looked… dark enough? Maybe?
The footsteps got louder. Then louder still. And then—
They passed.
Darby held his breath. Waited a beat. Then another.
Nothing.
He peeked out from behind the man’s shoulder—had to tilt his head back a lot because this guy was easily a foot taller than him—and watched the security guards jog past, flashlights bouncing farther and farther down the street until they were gone completely.
He exhaled. Long and shaky.
“Phew,” he whispered, half-grinning. Coast was clear.
But the victory lasted all of three seconds.
Because this man—this very not-wall man—suddenly turned around. Fast.
Before Darby could even process what was happening, a huge hand fisted in the collar of his shirt and yanked him off the sidewalk.
His back hit the cold (actual) brick wall behind him with a thud, breath catching in his throat.
Darby blinked up, stunned, staring into a glare sharp enough to slice through steel.
Oh.
Shit.
Wrong wall to hide behind, apparently.
Maybe getting caught by security would’ve been the better option.
The man had Darby pinned.
Hard.
The tattooed hand gripping the front of Darby’s collar looked big enough to wrap clean around his whole head. The wall behind him was cold, digging through his hoodie, and the man’s chest blocked out half the damn streetlight.
Darby swallowed. Loudly.
Listen—he was no stranger to weaseling himself out of trouble. He’d sweet-talked cops, slipped out of headlocks, even talked himself out of one or two overnight bookings before.
But this? Yeah, this was new.
“What the hell was that, you little shit?” the man snapped, voice like gravel.
Darby blinked, trying not to squirm even though the guy’s grip felt like steel cable around his throat. “Uhh—long story?”
The man wasn’t amused. Didn’t loosen up, either.
Darby wriggled a little—pointless, because this guy didn’t even budge.
What was he made of, granite?
“Look, I didn’t mean to—uh—run into you,” Darby started, words spilling fast. “I was just, y’know, trying not to get arrested again. Not that I was doing anything illegal. Technically.”
The guy’s stare didn’t soften.
He just looked at him, like he was trying to decide if Darby was dangerous or just pathetic.
And honestly? Either assumption would’ve been fair.
Darby didn’t even bother coming up with an excuse.
Between the skull facepaint, the DIY cut off shorts, the edgy tattoos—he didn’t exactly scream “law-abiding citizen.” More like “petty crime in progress.”
“I swear, man,” Darby said, trying again, “I didn’t mean to screw up your, uh… midnight wall-staring session. Or whatever you were doing out here.”
That earned him a slight glare—at least, he thought it was a glare. Hard to tell through the beard and general aura of don’t mess with me.
Then, finally, the man released his grip.
Darby dropped back onto his feet, stumbling a half-step before catching himself. He exhaled a shaky breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Okay. Good. He wasn’t gonna die tonight from being choked out with his own shirt.
“You really saved my ass,” Darby said, adjusting his collar, trying to sound casual. “I think I owe you one.”
“Just don’t do stupid shit and interrupt my walk again.”
Well that was frank.
So he was on a walk. A weird, middle-of-the-night, I-could-snap-a-car-in-half kind of walk, but hey—Darby wasn’t one to judge. He was usually skating rooftops at this hour.
The guy started to walk off, heavy boots echoing down the sidewalk.
Darby blinked, then called after him. “Wait!”
The guy stopped, turned slightly, impatient.
Darby jogged a few steps closer. “I, uh, never got your name.”
Why Darby wanted to know, he really had no clue.
Maybe it was just... manners (because Darby Allin was totally the epitome of proper social etiquette, right?).
Yes, manners to know the name of the man who helped you evade law enforcement in case you need to owe him one. Or a name to know in case it comes across on any "WANTED" posters plastered on the town street lights.
Not to judge a book by its cover, but wall-man didn't exactly scream "squeaky clean gentleman."
The man sighed, clearly more than sick of Darby at this point.
“Brody.”
“Brody,” Darby repeated. “Cool. I’m Darby.” He stuck out a hand, the motion awkward, hesitant.
Not exactly his go-to gesture. He wasn’t a handshake kind of guy.
But… hell, it had been a while since he met anyone new.
To his surprise, Brody didn’t laugh or walk off. He actually took it.
And holy shit—Darby thought his whole arm might come off.
The man’s hand was enormous, swallowing his own like it was nothing. The grip was firm, almost crushing, but steady.
It lasted a second too long. Long enough to make Darby’s pulse skip, just once.
Then Brody let go.
“Well, uh… bye now. Sorry again,” Darby said, stepping back, half-grinning.
“Don’t mention it.”
Brody turned and disappeared down the street, the sound of his boots fading into the dark.
Darby lingered for a beat, rubbing at his throat, still feeling the ghost of that grip.
Then reality hit—time to book it before the big guy changed his mind and decided to finish what he started.
After all, it was comical the amount of bullshit Darby managed to escape tonight. One for the books indeed.
He dropped his board, kicked off, and sped up the empty street, back into the night, his heart still hammering and a wild grin tugging at his face.