Chapter Text
Kobra had had tics his whole life. Whilst in Bat City he was drugged to hell to suppress them, though that succeeded in making them go away that also made him basically a zombie. As a result of this he didn’t remember most of his childhood, and the memories he could recall were extremely fuzzy. He couldn’t remember his parent’s faces, only tall figures with blurry circles for heads, he could kind of remember their voices, not specific words but just a kind tone of voice, the voices sounded similar to Party and sometimes he wondered if he actually was just remembering them not their parents.
It didn’t matter though, and Party had told him as much when he admitted to them that he didn’t remember the stories they told about their childhood in the city. Party had paused and looked at him with a strange expression for a moment, akin to pity but too surprised to be called that, before ruffling his hair and saying, “There’s nothing good to remember anyway.” And that was that. Party had stopped talking about the city as much after that, almost like they were trying not to make Kobra feel bad for not remembering, he didn’t know how to tell them that he didn’t care because in all honesty it didn’t matter.
One thing he did remember was every time his tics did flare up his sibling was there. From when they had first started and he was a scared little kid, Witch knows how old, to when they first happened in the Zones. Sitting in an old laundromat on the outskirts of the city trying to hide from Dracs. Kobra bit his hand on purpose during that, trying to keep himself as quiet as possible. Party had held him close even as his neck had snapped back, his head knocking into their jaw and shoulder, whispering reassurances into his ear. They always tried their best and though they weren’t always confident in their actions just their presence helped.
Kobra hadn’t realized how much it had helped until today. The other three of the Fab Four were on a supply run Kobra had stayed behind because he was tired and wanted to get some cleaning done around the diner, it had gotten really bad in the past few weeks and Kobra had decided he had had enough. Those chores were not getting done though, because 30 minutes after the others had sped away in the Trans am his neck started snapping backwards.
He was able to get the dishes done, he had started cleaning most of the kitchen before moving into their makeshift living room. At first he just tried his best to ignore them trying to put away the miscellaneous objects strewn about the room. To distract himself he started an internal monologue about every item he picked up. Party’s sketchbook goes in their room, add it to the Party pile, Ghoul’s work gloves goes to the workshop outside, add it to the workshop pile, someone's bandana goes in the other pile, a wrench goes to the worksho- pain radiated from the back of his head as his hand holding the wrench came full force up to the back of his head hitting him with it.
After that he dropped the wrench and resigned himself to sitting on the floor trying to distract himself and breathe normally. He didn’t have control over his limbs anymore which was terrifying in its own right and he knew that soon his jaw would join the party. He tried to think about where he wanted to clean next once he was done with this room, maybe he could wipe off the diner tables and probably the booths too. They most likely needed it who knows the last time anyone even attempted to wipe them down with just a wet rag. Despite these thoughts the tics were not going away, they seemed to be steadily getting worse.
About 10 minutes in he realized this was the first time he could recall that he was going through this alone and that sent a spike of panic through his body. There was no one in the diner to ground him, to keep him in this reality. Normally Party was that person but even when they weren’t there Jet or Ghoul helped calm him down.
With that realization his thoughts started to spiral, what if he bit himself in a vital spot and lost too much blood? What if he accidentally snapped his own neck? What if he gave himself a concussion from hitting himself? What if he hyperventilated so much he passed out? Then he realized he was hyperventilating, and he couldn’t make his limbs listen to him at all, so he couldn’t get up and get bandages for his hands which were now bleeding from the harsh bites he had inflicted on himself, he couldn’t go get the heat pack for his neck to relax those muscles, he couldn’t do anything.
After a moment of sitting in his own helplessness he started to think, if Party were here what would they do? Party would reassure him that everything was going to be okay, that he would get through this, that he was doing so good and other things of that nature, in a tone that made him believe them. Keeping his mind on Party he attempted to try to whisper his own encouragement.
“It- It- It’s- s- o- ok- k- kay.” He slowly stuttered out, “You- ou- ou’re- do- do- do- doing s- s- s- so g- g- goo- oo- d.” Though the words he was saying were supposed to be reassuring and helpful the stuttering just made him upset. He should be able to do this, it shouldn’t be this difficult. He talked everyday and though it wasn’t his favorite activity, saying simple words like this was not a difficult task. He didn’t ask for this, he just wants to have control over himself and to be trusted to be alone. He just wanted to be ok.
A sharp whistle cut through his thoughts and it took him way too long to figure out that noise came out of his mouth. It had given him a moment of hope that the others were back. It sounded like Ghoul and that’s probably where his brain had picked it up from. He usually whistled like that when he got back from a good supply run to let whoever was still in the diner know that everyone was back safe and he needed help bringing everything in, or when he finished a project in the workshop and wanted someone to come out and see his newest creation. His neck snapped back more aggressively, almost as if it was trying to bring him back to the terribleness of the here and now, because Ghoul wasn’t here. He was alone.
He started to feel bad for the others because even when they did come back they would find that Kobra couldn’t even complete the simple task of straightening up around the diner. He was useless to them, just a burden that got in their way, because even when he wasn’t like this what did he really contribute? Party was the leader, Jet patched the team up when they got injured, and Ghoul made explosives and fixed the vehicles. The more he thought about it the more he couldn’t think of what he truly gave to the group other than problems. He ate the food and avoided going on supply runs, just like today, he used up the bandages on self inflicted injuries, just like today, he couldn’t even be left alone without causing himself harm, just like today. Why did the others keep him around? Was it just because he was Party’s little brother? Was that the only reason they cared about him?
As his neck snapped back more and it eventually found purchase on the wall behind him the contact sent a sharp pain through his head. He tried his best to push away from the wall but his limbs were still not listening to him and he couldn’t move. He couldn’t talk. He couldn’t even distract himself. He was truly alone. He hadn’t realized he was crying until his head lulled down, once his muscles relaxed for a moment, and he saw the tear stains on his shirt. Everything was outside of his control and no matter what he did he couldn’t get it back into his control.