Archive of Our Own

April wasn't quite sure what compelled her to leave, at the start. Her mind swam somewhere between the venom on her father's tongue, repeating the words disgrace and mistake until blood clogged his throat, or maybe the tension blocking her airways like a shitty sewer pipe. Maybe she had grown sick of the putrid scent of betrayal she kept expecting to leave when she scrubbed every surface until it shone.

Maybe, she was just too scared to stay.

Or maybe, it was all of the above.

The winced at the creaking of her window sill as she leaned her weight against it. The wood was still swimming with termites, after her DIY remedy she'd stolen from a Pinterest post. It was damp too, from the morning's rainfall and the fungus that had settled into grain better than she had to society. The city above beckoned her closer, singing the song of freedom in a language she couldn't quite understand.

A cold breeze bit the apples of her rosy cheeks and numbed the tip of her running nose.

"Are you really doing this?" A voice behind her asked. It seemed almost disappointed, and at the same time, seemed completely confident.

"I'm not staying to get hit again," April murmured, tugging an oversized jacket closer to her torso. "Besides. I've read that book about the homeless guy enough to survive for long enough."

She heard the eye roll before she saw it. "And how long is long enough?"

"Until dad drinks himself into oblivion, or Mikey finds me."

She glanced back over her room one final time, sitting half-outside of the window. Posters peeled from the wallpaper that had seen better days. Books and clothes were opened and messily thrown into piles, scattered across her floor like the dead rats in the shed. There was a cupboard she didn't open anymore, full of stolen chemicals from the school science lab and some craft meth she'd sold for some extra cash. The extra cash that was sitting in her pocket, probably to go towards bail quicker than a good meal.

"You're not gonna miss this place," the voice told her. There was nobody there to say who it was coming from, but it felt so incredibly real. "Why are you hesitating?"

"Deciding whether it's worth takin' anything else," April admitted, swiping the Swiss Army Knife from the nightstand. She tested the sharpness on her thumb, nodding approvingly. "Till we meet again?"

The voice scoffed. "Yeah. Something like that."

April swung her other leg outside of the window, and with the grace of a sugar glider on crack, leapt into the tree of the neighbours yard. She glanced at the chained Rottweiler she'd only just made friends with, stirring by the front door, and winced a little.

Welp, she thought. At least I'm not dying in the house.

She managed to swing to a dead hang on one of the larger branches, dropping just on the other side of a rusty old picket fence. She looked down at the chalk drawings washing from the concrete path and into the drain nearby, a small puddle rippled with an entourage of droplets.

April's faded sneakers dragged against the concrete, every step met with a sickening squelch. Her head was hung low, gaze tracing every crack on the pavement illuminated by flickering street lamps. Rain pelted down heavier than the guilt beginning to settle in the pit of her gut. The wind tugged her damp hair off of her neck slightly; just enough to tickle the bruises beginning to throb after adrenaline finally faded.

Then she was tired.

Really tired.

Nothing I can't handle, she'd reassured herself over and over until she started to believe it. Just a little scratch. Nothing he hasn't given me before, right?

She forced her head to lift just enough for her to glance up at the road. She had half a mind to lay down in the middle of it and hope she was run over by sunrise. Something in her made her stick to watching the ripples in the surface of a flowing river within the gutter beside her.

"Hey! Kid!" a voice called from far too close.

Years of training caused her to identify it before she even turned around. A masculine one, that appeared to be in an unnaturally pitched tone. He was worried. Concerned. Scared.

April spun around fast enough to make her gaze tilt. Her bloody knuckles — already braced into tight fists once more — flew out of her pockets as the man came running towards her. She scanned what she could make out of his face as he rapidly approached, muttering a prayer for better eyesight as if it would do anything before this guy killed her. All she could truly see was the black hair pinned to his forehead with the downpour, eyes wide, blue and... something she hadn't quite seen before.

"Hey," he said once more, stopping just in front of her. He was too close, but not close enough for her to strike first. Not close enough for his heat to dull the shivering she hadn't noticed until right now. "Are you cold, kid? Why are you out here?"

April shrugged, as she always did. "I'm fine."

"C'mon. Let's get you out of the rain." He gestured towards the small shop on the corner. A diner, from April's best guess. "I'll get you something warm to drink. I can't stand to leave you out in this weather."

"No, thanks," April spoke, soft but sure. She felt her hands loosen a little. "I'm okay. Really."

The man turned to look over his shoulder, flashing a look of something close to offense. She hadn't even had the opportunity to use the "I don't want to go in some strange building with a strange man" excuse yet, so she wasn't sure why he was so pissed.

"I wasn't actually asking." He looked her up and down, as if reading everything about her with a single glance. "But I could always call the police to bring you home, if you'd prefer."

Mother fucker.

April knew he could see that she was a runaway, and she knew that the bruises would be stark against her pale skin. She knew that she would look in the mirror and have the urge to go home and finish the job of killing her father. She knew that he had a million questions that she wouldn't answer until years had passed.

So, she obliged.

Inside the diner, the warmth enveloped her almost immediately. It allowed the tension in her shoulders to thaw more than it ever had. It was mostly empty given the time of night, with a sparse litter of patrons sitting in their booths and minding their own business. One lady sat by the door, shifting as if waiting for a friend that would never arrive. An older man sat in another booth, reading Austen with grease-stained fingers and a mug of hot coffee. He gave the worker a brief glance at seeing the predicament, but went back to reading.

April took residence in the furthest booth she could spot, back against the far wall so nobody could approach from behind. She'd dropped her soaked back under the table, looping her leg through the strap to ensure it couldn't be taken. She really didn't have anything to do while she waited for sunrise, picking at her nails and hoping that this place meant it when it said 24/7 on the door.

The man who'd dragged her inside, having swapped his coat for an apron, walked over to her booth with the poise of a butler. The real uniform was his kind, patient expression that had likely been plastered on his skin for hours, not quite reaching the creases of his eyes. "Can I get you anything?" he asked.

"No thanks," April murmured. She didn't want to admit how she was too scared to accept anything consumable from a stranger, nor did she want to get angry about how he'd dragged her inside so he had another customer to serve. Her hands fiddled more insistently as she searched for a lie. "I didn't bring any money."

"Wasn't my question, kid." The man placed a menu on the table, deliberately in her field of view. "I'm not gonna charge you. But I'm also not gonna let you go hungry. You look malnourished and hypothermic enough for one night."

"Am not," April argued. "It's not even that cold outside. It's just wet."

"And you're definitely not shivering," the man retorted, walking back to the counter.

April's eyes wandered to the streets outside, counting the cars that drove passed and letting her mind run free. Anyone who didn't know Gotham, or had only seen it from outside, would probably still admire it in the way that a child still admires their parents. To them, it was an aesthetic; petty crime looked punk when you weren't the beggar or the victim ticked into an alley. One-bedroom apartments looked cool when you didn't have to huddle under every clothing item in your wardrobe when the heating went out.

Her conclusion: outsiders were fucking idiots.

While lost in thought, a mug was set on the table, causing her to heave her eyes from the street and back into the present. It was white, steaming, unusually clean by her standards, and on a little plate that only bore a spoon, rather than any food. She used the spoon to poke the little powdery thing on the plate, tilting her head a little as if to decide whether or not they were alive. She picked one up, ripping it into two and seeming more confused at the guts and the lack of screaming from the little creature.

"What the fuck?" she murmured, holding it by her hear. It didn't beg for mercy, or tell her to put it down. She'd killed it instantly.

The waiter walked back over, eyebrow raised in suspicion. "Why are you inspecting a marshmallow?"

April held up the critter, fingertips now coated in powder. She knew it would be its final defence coming into action, like when bugs let out the chemical to alert other bugs. "This fucker? The one coated in coke?" She sniffed it. "Shit coke, too."

"It's corn starch," he corrected. He slid into the booth across from her, giving her a moment to see the silver name tag reading Dick. A pretty unfortunate name, not that she would say that to his face. He looked at her with the same eyes that dragged her out of the rain before. "Have you... not had a hot chocolate before?"

April, ever confused, put her pinky in the liquid within the mug. She immediately recognised how it had earned it's name — it was definitely not a cold chocolate by any means. She ignored way the man gawked at her, and inspected the liquid's movement as she stirred it with a spoon. It was thicker than water, but she supposed water wasn't safe for consumption in this part of the city.

"Holy shit," the man muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. "You've never had a hot chocolate."

"I've never had a room-temperature chocolate either," April added. "Or a cold one. This just kinda looks like the shit that comes out of the taps at home." Home. The word rotted a hole in her stomach as she reimagined the sight of her father laying on the floor, mostly unconscious but dozing. He had been breathing, or at least how she remembered it.

Something in her didn't seem to care.

The waiter's eyes squinted. "That's not... whatever. I'm not gonna ask." He then took one of the marshmallows from her plate, and dropped it into the mug. It bobbed a couple times, and then seemed to drown in the sea of brown. "They make it taste sweeter."

April squinted. "I'm supposed to drink that?"

"Yeah, that's the idea," Dick confirmed.

"But it's hot."

"That it is."

"Won't it burn my mouth?"

"You can always wait for it to cool down a little, if you want."

"Then it defeats the purpose of a hot chocolate."

April picked up the mug with both hands, carefully looping her fingers through the handle but refusing to use it as intended. As she took a sip, the liquid burned any and all tastebuds from the tip of her tongue. The moment she swallowed, eyes watering from the pain that the drink had caused, the liquid sat heavy beneath her lungs, like it was rushing to patch a hole she'd dug.

For a sliver of a moment, her eyes weren't as wide, her shoulders weren't as square, and her fidgeting paused.

Dick offered a small, honest smile. "It's good, huh?"

April took another sip, and sunk deeper into the booth. Her eyes wandered up to meet his. "I will repay you for this."

When the rain cleared and the sun began to peak over the horizon, it was just Dick and April remaining in the diner. The woman had left some time in the night, muttering something about a taxi and being stood up. The man with the book had walked over to the counter, slid over a couple bills, and whispered something to the waiter that April hadn't been focussed enough to understand.

The moment the skies looked safer — by Gotham terms, at least — April stood and slid a bill onto the counter.

"You don't have to pay me," Dick told her, attempting to give her the money.

"I said I would repay you," April argued, crossing her arms defiantly. "Take the fuckin' money."

Dick snorted a laugh and shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. "Absolutely not, kid."

April was walking out the door by the time he looked up again. Her back was turned, and she could only hope the waiter wouldn't get all smug about the way she was smirking, and not as scared of the city she'd been forced to call home.

"Kid!" Dick called from the doorway, when she was half-way down the street.

Some random man stopped to look at him. "It's literally June, dude."

"Oh. Yeah." Dick rubbed the back of his neck. April saw the pink shade to his cheeks, and almost burst out laughing. She knew she looked ten times worse, but she didn't even think about that. "Happy pride, then?"

April had tried to tell herself all day that was the only time she would let anybody else help her.

She'd chosen to run. To leave that life and start a new one, if only by living with the rats in the alleys of Gotham, and getting strung up with drug deals and mob bosses to afford a motel room every couple months. She had come to terms with the fact that nobody was coming to save her, and that Dick was just a one-off.

The diner came into view regardless.

Most of the costumers were already beginning to file out by the time she walked in, leaving only herself, Dick, and a boy hunched over a laptop in the loneliness of a Gotham night. She'd settled into the same diner as the night before, and tried not to let herself be seen by the waiter or the other patron.

It didn't last long.

"You're back," Dick noted with a smile, wiping his hands on an old rag before coming over. The moment he got close, though, he paused. "Shit. That's one big bruise."

"It was there last night," April murmured, avoiding his gaze. "Not my fault you didn't see it."

"Are you okay, thought?" Dick knelt in front of her, trying to see past the hair she'd moved to shield herself, and the hood that was soaked through. "Can I see it?"

"Can I have a hot chocolate?" April blurted.

Dick paused. Then, with a sigh and a grunt that made him sound much older than he looked, he pushed himself back up. "Yeah, kid," he told her. "You can have a hot chocolate."

April got to thinking again once he left. There was something so normal — something oddly serene — about an empty diner at night, in the city notoriously known for the horrendous atrocities it buried beneath headlines about a billionaire's new kin. She completely expected her relaxation to bring on danger for everybody nearby, but enjoying the moment while it lasted wouldn't immediately kill someone, right?

Right?

The dinging of the bell above the door caught her attention, but she forced her eyes to stay lowered. Mind your own fucking business, April, her thoughts snapped like a disapproving parent.

Minding her business became extremely difficult when the figure stopped beside her table, lifting his coat to reveal the pistol tucked into his waistband.

There goes the moment.

"Give me everything you got, kid," he whispered, voice low and muffled under a grubby bandana. "Nobody's gotta get hurt here."

"Funny of you to assume I've got anything to offer you, champ." She noticed the way he seemed to grow irritated at her mockery, and spread her arms out so she was no longer shielding herself subconsciously. Her arms trembled, like for the first time, she wasn't sure she actually wanted to die in some nice stranger's diner. "Make sure to aim for centre mass. Harder to flinch away from."

The man leaned forward, pulling out the gun fully and seeming to follow her instructions, to her quiet amusement. "This ain't no time for jokes. You're gonna give me everything you own, or I'm gonna fill ya up with lead and splatter your brains over Mr. Grayson's clean floor. Understood?"

"First of all, that little rant sounded perverted as hell," she mentioned, leaning her chin on her fist. "Second of all, I do pity him having to clean it up." The barrel flicked up to her forehead, and she smirked. She could dodge away from the shot easy, if he was dumb enough to take it. "But I understand criminals like you are usually in a big hurry. Can we skip to the part where I'm dead and it doesn't look like suicide, or are you too much of a pussy to pull the trigger?"

"I ain't no pussy, kid." The gun's safety clicked off, the barrel still warm from his body heat as he waved it in front of her face. "And you're gon' learn that."

His fingers itched towards the trigger, and April though the final words she could no longer say.

Thanks for your kindness, Dick.

Fuck you for abusing me, dad.

Don't make some big speech about my death. Move on.

As time slowed, April released a breath of something close to a heavy, long-awaited relief. She was finally granted her one wish, that had been in place since she were a kid. On every letter to Santa Claus and every birthday list — an opportunity to see her mother again, no matter how it presented itself. She almost wanted to thank the man with her final breath, for letting her die without it being labelled as a tragedy, or her being the new face behind an anti-bullying fundraiser. This was a lot better than being the reason some random lady goes around to schools talking about how people "need to be kind" to each other.

But when the gun went off, there was no pain. No blood of her own.

Just the thud of two bodies hitting the floor. One of the assailant, and one of the waiter.

"Tim!" Dick called over his shoulders, digging his knee into the back of the mugger's back. "Call the GCPD. Tell them everything."

"On it!" Tim, the boy huddled by the laptop, called without hesitation. He didn't seem too phased by the fact that someone had nearly been killed in front of him.

People like that had lived in Gotham for a lot longer than April.

"Hey, kid," Dick said. "You're okay. You're gonna be okay."

"What the fuck?" she croaked gripping at her hair. "What the fuck?"

"Look at me," Dick told her. His voice was calm. It didn't match the war song screaming in her skull. "Look at me, kid."

She couldn't. April simply couldn't.

Dick reached over, placing a hand on the table nearby. He didn't touch her. He didn't move to attack, or to threaten, but his very presence seemed to constrict April's throat even more. "You're gonna be okay," he reassured her. "Can you look around? Name five things you can see for me."

"The gun," April spat, gripping her hair at the root. She pushed herself as far back in the booth as humanly possible, bringing her knees up to protect herself from the man approaching. "You. The... man. Mug. The gun. The gun."

"Okay, okay." He nodded a little. "Four things you can feel."

"I can still feel the fucking gun on my forehead." April tried to force herself to be angry. Angry meant she wasn't breaking apart in front of two strangers and her would-be-murderer. Angry meant she wasn't scared. Angry meant she was more than a little girl that had mirrored this same position when looking at her own father, every day for fourteen years.

"Anything else?" Dick asked.

She shook her head. "No."

Sirens grew closer, like they had that night her mother died. When a man with reddish-grey hair had hugged her while they draped a cloth over the woman. When they'd only taken her father in for the night for questioning, and someone bailed him out without question. When she'd cowered in the kitchen, watching the man wave a broken whiskey bottle at her until he collapsed, unconscious and barely breathing.

She shouldn't be breathing right now. April knew that.

That was why it hurt so much.