Work Text:
Waylon Jones enjoys classic French literature. It's a secret he holds close to his chest — easily, given the fact that most people don't start guessing what his taste in books might be when they encounter him. What is not a secret, however, is that Waylon Jones is lonely. There aren't many people around him willing to strike up friendly conversations about Dumas or Camus. Not in the parts of Gotham that he finds himself lingering in.
How you uncovered the secret of Killer Croc's love for literature? An inadvisable combination: a startling lack of survival instincts and an openness to strangers in strange places.
Building rapport with him takes time and patience, but slowly and surely, you manage. Waylon, who knows a heart is not safe when worn on a sleeve, tries to hide the fact that he's happy about the simple fact that he has someone to talk to. As you get closer, it evolves into a weird, informal sort of book club.
He remembers the way your eyes lit up when you caught him, book in hand. How could he forget?
Most of these chats would take place in the sewers, unfortunately — but he really does appreciate the company. More often than not, he finds himself in periods of waiting, quietly wondering what commentary and books you'd bring along next. You manage light up the bleakness with your presence alone.
Though he's tried, storing books safely in the Gotham sewers is a futile quest. There's no escaping the inevitable of pages ruined by unidentifiable sources of moisture. Waylon's personal collection doesn't stay in good condition long term and is therefore, always rotating. Damaged copies get discarded and new ones — he's always managing to get his claws on something one way or another — are held onto until the unavoidable.
Because of this, Waylon is cautious when you offer your own copies of of books for him to read.
"Y' sure 'bout this?" Waylon asks, staring down at the novel you've extended to him. His fingers flex at his side, not quite reaching for your sudden offering.
"What?" You laugh softly, "You're not judging a book by it's cover, are you? It's a good read, I promise."
Waylon grunts."'s'not that."
He has to tear his eyes from you and your sunny smile, like he's convinced he could hide himself from it. There's something about you and your laughter that warms him from the inside out. He hadn't even known he was cold all this time.
After a moment of reluctance, he speaks up again, his voice quiet, as if the prospect of you hearing his admission terrifies him. "I... don't wanna ruin it."
Your smile drops for a moment. But then, with a look of determination, you press the book against his chest. Stubborn thing that you are, you are 100% resolute in your decision that he has to take it, stating simply, "books are meant to be read."
There's no fighting you, is there? His hand reaches to take hold of it, your soft skin brushing against his scales. You don't pull away at the feeling.Once he's got the book in his grasp, you grin up at him once more, satisfied with his cooperation.
"Read it and tell me all about it, okay?"
The act of sharing your favourite stories with him makes Waylon sentimental in a way he forgot he could be.
He becomes overly apologetic when he returns one of your books in less than stellar condition. The guilt practically eats him alive when he holds it — what's left of it — for you to see. Waylon vows get you another almost immediately.
"I'll getcha another — shit, I'll getcha two—"
Yes, he's already done the mental gymnastics of berating himself relentlessly for the incident. It might seem foolish, but to him, it's material evidence of people's preconceived notions of him: Waylon Jones can't leave a good thing alone. He only knows how to ruin and tear things apart. He knew this would happen.
"Did you… um… manage to finish it at least?"
Waylon nods sheepishly."Couldn't put it down," he admits, staring at what used to be your beloved book in his hands. You take it and set it aside before grasping his hands in yours.
"Then it's fine, Waylon," you reply, "….why don't you tell me about your favourite parts?"
There's a beat of silence when you forgive him without much complication. You grant him kindness and patience as easily as your novels. How could he not fall for you?
Waylon adores hearing your thoughts on what you've read. When he reads your books, he finds himself tracing the annotations and words with his claw, trying to gauge not only the significance of the text itself, but the significance it holds in your eyes. He follows the words you've jotted down in the margins and the spaces you've managed fit them in, hanging on to each one of them, even if it's just silly commentary. Might even catch himself grinning down at the pages like an idiot — one of the few times he is grateful to be alone.
Your thoughts and perspective are precious to him — every passage you highlight and every note your scrawl down he reads over and over again, trying to commit it to memory, as if the words let him hold onto you a little longer.
Waylon feels the most understood when someone actually listens to what he has to say. He's got a lot of thoughts on his own favourites, little things he notices and loves about the classics he's revisited countless times — but he's never had anyone to share it with until you came along.
Being able to tell you these things feels like being seen for the first time. Not as Killer Croc, but as Waylon Jones.
It's surprising, really, how you seem genuinely happy with what you found in him. Your gaze glitters with so much kindness that it's almost too good to be true — he loses track of his thoughts once or twice when you listen so intently. The feeling that you ignite in him settles in his chest, unfamiliar and somehow not unwelcome at the same time. It almost scares him, how willing he is to let you close and see this side of him. You might not even realize how much of his soul he's bearing, or how he can't stand anyone else seeing the things you do. God forbid he show a sign of weakness.
Yet, he wouldn't trade those moments for the world. His deep rooted insecurities stop gnawing at him, the scars of his past stop stinging — just a chapter longer.