Angst And Hurt/comfort - Tumblr Posts

He was fine. He would be fine, truly, if only he weren't so damned…  H u n g r y. . .

White Walls and Dead Air

They were dying. They were dying and there was nothing Aziraphale could do to stop it. He had his orders, and he couldn’t interfere. He was the protector of humanity, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and all he could do was watch as they dropped like flies. He was touching them, mostly. No one else would. No one else could. He was smoothing his bare hands over their fevered and blackened skin. They would wheeze and cough and stretch out for him as he walked away to the next body, pride crushed long ago by hours of agony, but it was somehow even harder to leave the thousands of people he had yet to reach than it was to walk away.

He thinks this must be what starving feels like. To call out for something so desperately with every fiber of your being, something to end the pain. He hasn’t stopped praying in days. Begging. He thinks he’s dying with them--he feels it in his chest, seeping into his lungs with every breath of the rancid air. Flies buzz over the bodies, like vultures, and rats hold back in the corners of rooms and alleys, and Aziraphale can’t interfere. He can’t.

He doesn’t understand. No one told him why and he doesn’t understand.

It’s after the fourth day that he decides he hates God. He’s too tired to hold it back. Too miserable. Too busy dying. He knows he’ll go back on it later. He knows that he’ll repent later, and he’ll mean it, he thinks, once he gains some perspective, but there is nothing that could stop this bone-deep agony from churning and rising into something ugly. He’s not supposed to feel this way. He’s an angel, he really shouldn’t be thinking these things. Blind obedience is what they were created for. It’s in this moment that he can admit to a flaw in the Almighty’s design. If she wanted soldiers, she shouldn’t have given them the capacity to love.

It’s on the seventh day, and isn’t that ironic, that his saving grace appears. Crowley. Through the haze of sick and death and flies, Crowley emerges--Aziraphale can do nothing but watch after his eyes catch on Crowley’s form, purposeful and sure--walks to him through the maze of bodies, takes his arm and tugs him away. “Crowley, stop, please, let me go,” he’s protesting, but it’s weak. He’s not even trying, just letting himself go. He’s the protector of humanity. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate. He could destroy Crowley if he wanted. As much as they bicker about who will win in the end they both know hell will lose. God doesn’t say much, not anymore, but She did say this. Hell will lose. Aziraphale was built for that inevitable battle. He could tear Crowley apart. He doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything. In the end, even his protests die out in favor of silence and he just lets himself be pulled.

A part of him, a part of him that he hates, is glad to leave. He wishes he continued to argue. Wishes he didn’t want to leave with Crowley. Wishes he was a better angel, or maybe a worse one, depending on your perspective. He’s never thought in terms of perspective before. He doesn’t think he likes it.

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been walking. It feels endless. Crowley is walking quickly, or he wants to, but every once in a while he’ll glance at Aziraphale and adjust his pace to the dragging of his feet. Aziraphale is so tired, and so, so full of hate. He’s starting to understand why Crowley sleeps so much. Is this what it’s like to be a demon? To be so full of bitterness?

It’s slow going. The streets are cramped and filthy, and weaving in and out takes time, despite the lack of people. They’re all inside. Hiding. Every once in a while they pass a cart stacked with bodies and Aziraphale doesn’t even have it in him to be horrified, doesn’t feel anything at all anymore. The sky is a beautiful blue, and there’s crying coming from an alley to their left, a woman, and Aziraphale isn’t going to check on her. He doesn’t even think he’s dying anymore. He thinks that maybe he’s finished, a wandering wraith, and Crowley has come to take him to hell for his sins. Except that heaven and hell are only for humans, and nothing is supposed to happen to angels and demons when they die. Maybe this is all he gets. This nothing. He wouldn’t be surprised if God didn’t want him anymore after this; if she just let him go, let him slip between the cracks.

It’s only after the streets have started to open up, only after the dirt turns to grass and things have stopped dying that Crowley lets them slow. He pulls Aziraphale up a grassy hill and sits him down under an apple tree. Aziraphale can’t help but laugh when he sees the apples. The laughter is rattling around his insides, bouncing off of his walls and coming out hollow, the way a voice sounds when it has nothing to echo off of. He’s changed his mind. This must be what a proper angel is supposed to feel like. He’s always hated the emptiness of heaven--the pristine white walls and the dead air--and he knows he’s never been quite right to think so, but now. Now look at him.

He’s still laughing the nothing laugh of an empty chapel and Crowley is looking at him like he’s the most terrifying thing he could have imagined, but the horrible irony of the Original Tempter taking him to an apple tree in this moment is cracking him open to reveal all of his cobwebs and there’s no stopping it. His wings burst out of the aether without his permission, powerful white sails that envelop his quaking corporation. His feathers are messy and dry, he didn’t think to groom them until it didn’t seem to matter anymore, and are so unkept that some feathers are starting to come loose in protest.

It’s like this, hunched over in sprawling laughter, that he feels the first touch. It’s tentative, shy, but undeniable. A hand on one of his primaries, straightening and smoothing it. His laughter dies at the touch, slowly sliding away to remind him of the exhaustion that’s been hounding him for days. His wings droop and open to reveal Crowley sitting parallel to Aziraphale, kneeling on the ground in front of him as if he would have waited patiently for Aziraphale to pull back the protective cover of his white feathers for centuries. His crimson hair is long, cascading down his back and over his shoulders in gentle waves, and his sharp features are softened by something flickering in his eyes, lending him a tenderness that Aziraphale hasn’t seen since Mesopotamia.

Crowley gets like this, sometimes. Lets his sharp edges fall away. Lets his defenses down for Aziraphale. He’s usually drunk. If he’s not drunk, he’s hurt. Or Aziraphale is. He’s… sweet like this. Peaceful. Aziraphale has caught him with children before, playing. The mothers would let him, smile at him, and slip children into his arms with ease and trust. It would make a throbbing pain go off in Aziraphale’s chest to see him like that and he’d have to look away. He’d then spend however long he could spare pretending he wasn’t stealing glances.

Crowley reaches forward, slowly, like Aziraphale is something wild that might run at the snap of a twig underfoot. His fingers are soft as he cards his them gently through Aziraphale’s hair, and his hands are warm, and there is something so knowing in this action that Aziraphale feels like he might shed his skin and slip into Crowley’s to get closer to it. He leans into the touch, a cat in the sun, and his eyes fall closed for a long moment before blinking open heavily. He doesn’t look up again--doesn’t need to when he has the touch to ground him in whatever this warmth is--instead his tired gaze stays on the grass and he lets himself feel: the rough texture of the thick blades beneath his fingers, the cool night air, so sweet after the miasmic haze of rot, Crowley’s hand on his cheek. Aziraphale lets his wings spread out around him, open and vulnerable and impossible to lift, he wonders how he ever managed to lift them at all, and he’s slumping forward into Crowley before he can stop himself.

Crowley moves forward to catch him with natural fluidity, like it’s easy, like he doesn’t even have to think, pushing up with his knees so that Aziraphale’s head is resting against his chest. Crowley’s arms wrap around him, one around his shoulders, another holding the back of his head carefully. Aziraphale wonders if anyone has ever been so very careful with him. He doesn’t know how long they stay there, but at some point he’s closed his eyes again and by the time he opens them the blue of the sky is streaked through with oranges and pinks and Crowley has wrapped his own sable wings around them both loosely in a protective shelter to block out the breeze, chilled by the sun’s impending disappearance over the horizon.

Aziraphale shifts against him, and when Crowley speaks Aziraphale can feel the soft rumble in his chest, “What can I do? What do you want from me?”

Aziraphale pulls himself up to press his eyes into Crowley’s neck, “Nothing.” There’s a long pause as neither of them move, “Stay.” His next word is a whisper, tentative and reaching, “Please.”

Crowley moves backwards, and for an awful second Aziraphale thinks he’s pulling back so that he can leave, but the catch in his breath is soothed by Crowley’s hand running down the length of his back, stopping to hold over the small of it, “Okay. Okay, angel. I’ll stay.”

Aziraphale lets out his breath in a gust of relief, and when Crowley continues to move he lets himself be maneuvered until he’s lying flat, cheek to the earth. He’s stretched out and pliant in the slightly damp grass and the soft sensations of the night are lulling the aching in his bones to a quiet hum. He thinks he should be surprised when he feels Crowley's fingers sink into his feathers but he’s really, really not. It makes sense that he’s there, that he saw the grime and the disorder to his feathers and he decided to make it right. He’s always been caring in a way Aziraphale has never managed. In an easy way, like giving these things to Aziraphale is nothing more than an extension of himself, like breathing.

Aziraphale can’t help but wonder what he did to deserve this from him. It feels like all he does is take from Crowley. He’s worried that there isn’t enough left of him to give after he’s exhausted so much of himself on heaven, on humanity, on all of the ways he’s tried to help and has come up wanting.

Crowley is working on his feathers properly now. He’s miracled up a damp cloth and is wiping each one clean of grime meticulously, pulling out any loose feathers and down he comes across along the way and dropping them into a forming pile at Aziraphale’s hip. It’s silent as he works. There are crickets, and frogs somewhere, but no one is crying, and no one is choking on their own life force, eyes wide and begging wordlessly for him to help. He’s so tired of helping. No. He’s not tired of helping. He’s tired of comforting. He knows he could stomach it all if he was helping, but he’s not, and he hasn’t in so very long, and what is even the point of him anymore?

Silent tears are slipping from his eyes and dripping into the grass and he’s shaking with grief and when did this happen? When did his emptiness start to feel like knives to his insides? Crowley makes a broken sound when he sees Aziraphale’s tears. Moves one of his steady hands to the center of his back and presses him down with it, just slightly, lending him comfort through the weight of it, tethering him. Crowley must decide this isn’t enough because he leans over his prone form and rests along his back, sliding the hand between his shoulder blades up to brush away the tears he can reach. Aziraphale can feel his breath on the back of his neck, cool and dry, and lets himself get lost in the sensation of the warm blanket of Crowley’s body. It’s sealing him up, whatever this is, patching his cracks and stoppering the holes that have been letting in water to drown him, and Aziraphale holds himself back from letting a low whine escape his throat before he can seem even more desperate than he already is.

After some time Crowley levers himself up again to continue, eventually tugging at Aziraphale’s shoulder, signaling for him to flip over and give him access to the underside of his wings. Aziraphale obeys ponderously, and it’s strange to feel the cold night air on his damp clothes, his skin still itching with indentations from the coarse grass. Crowley sets to work on the other side, and Aziraphale watches the pile of his discarded feathers grow.

His wings had been a constant discomfort, although he wasn’t aware of it, and having them groomed is akin to how he imagines Crowley feels after taking his hair down after a long day and shaking it out. Aziraphale hasn't seen this end-of-the-day routine often, but when he has the chance he always watches with fondness as Crowley runs his fingernails over his scalp and closes his eyes in pleasure at the freedom. It’s such a simple comfort. A loose relief.

Crowley touches his shoulder again, his fingers are cold now after being exposed to the chill of the air for so long, and Aziraphale rolls over onto his stomach, bringing his arms up to cushion his head. Crowley works the oil from the gland at the base of his wings, coating his palms, and sets to work on the second round.

He takes his time, laying each feather flat as he coats it with fresh oil. It’s another hour before he finishes, the sunset has brightened and faded, leaving new stars in its wake, but he never wavers. Crowley has taken care of him like this twice before, after both the flood and the crucifixion. Actually, they took care of each other after the flood: curled together in the corner of one of the few unoccupied roofs left to stand on. They were soaked by then, and it took a steady stream of miracles from them both to keep from being swept away by the current, but neither of them could leave. They didn’t discuss it, simply sat together in the perpetually rising rapids and listened. They took turns mourning, falling apart and putting each other back together as they watched the world die. It took days. The animals went first, then the humans. The last to go were the birds, but the two didn’t stick around to watch them drop from the sky in exhaustion. They didn’t mention it, would never mention it, would never let the horror of those days rise up from the secret places they buried them in.

The crucifixion was three days of agony. The Son of God gave up his spirit, taking his light, the light of the Almighty, with him into death, and for three long days and nights there was nothing but a devastation so complete the humans were left groping their way across the earth, helpless and lost. It pressed in and ate at them, a despair so profound children didn’t stop crying until the sun finally rose on that third day. Aziraphale was shaking with it, anguished and breaking apart. He was created to serve, to be in the presence of God, and her absence… he had never felt anything so horrible in all of his existence. Crowley held him through it, whispered to him, touched him, reminded him again and again, “I’m here, angel, I’ve got you. You’re not alone.” And he wasn’t. He clung to Crowley like a life raft in a storm, and for the first time comprehended what it would be like to fall. He couldn’t… he wouldn’t.

Never again.

By the time Crowley finishes Aziraphale hasn’t been able to focus on anything but his touch for a long while and his wings are sleek and perfectly ordered in the moonlight. When his touch finally leaves Aziraphale misses him, but he makes no sound, simply flips back onto his stomach and raises his wing in invitation. They’d done this before. Crowley knows what he is asking. Aziraphale is breathless with anticipation, with longing, with hope, his heart beating double time at his small offering.

Crowley doesn’t hesitate, but crawls forward and wedges himself against Aziraphale’s side. He’s freezing, Aziraphale feels horrible that he didn’t notice before and shifts so that he’s lying on his side. He should have known, should have realized. Demons run cold--so deep under the earth, so far from the light--and Crowley has nothing to replace that glow, nothing but skin and bones. He pulls Crowley closer against him and wraps him up in his warm arms. If nothing else he can provide Crowley with this comfort.

Crowley reaches out slowly in return. He attaches himself to Aziraphale in increments: first coiling his arm around Aziraphale’s side, keeping the other furled tightly between their chests, then sliding a leg between Aziraphale’s knees. Aziraphale hugs him tight. No one has ever been so very aware of him. Of his corners and cracks. Aziraphale tries not to think this way, tries not to think about Crowley at all when he can help it. About the reverent way Crowley treats him. The way he steals glances and touches. The way his eyelashes cast shadows on his sharp cheeks and he leans towards Aziraphale like a plant in the sun.

The more he thinks about it the more he aches with the loss of him, and if Aziraphale lets himself feel the way his insides tear to pieces whenever Crowley leaves without saying goodbye he’ll never stop. So he doesn’t, even though the warm glow of being close is stealing his breath away and setting off a minefield’s worth of explosions in his head, he doesn’t think about it. He screws his face up tight and pulls Crowley’s shivering body closer and lets his wings thrum with the memory of his touch and he does not think about it.

He just doesn’t know what goodness is supposed to look like if it isn’t white walls and dead air. He hates it, he hates it with everything in him, and he thinks it makes him horrible, but the reality of his twisted existence is that he doesn’t know if he could stand without the crutch of heaven’s vague orders. So he pulls Crowley closer and tucks his head under his chin, letting his lips hover over the crown of Crowley’s head, don’t touch, careful not to touch, and he doesn’t think about any of it.

Crowley will be gone in the morning. He always is. Aziraphale can’t bear to think about that either. He thinks that if he feels Crowley slip out of his arms he might give himself up to it with wild abandon. Drag him back down. Beg him to stay, stay next to him forever, they’ll never have to untangle their limbs and no one will ever have to go, but he can't. He can’t make himself. Not after all this time. Instead, he lets himself drift off to the soft whir of the tender warmth in his chest, and he pretends that tomorrow he’ll wake with the sunrise, and everything will sparkle in the new light, and it will all be okay. Like this, Crowley curled close to his chest under a blanket of constellations, letting himself believe is as easy as falling asleep.

Fateful Beginnings

XXXIII. “night light”

parts: previous / next

plot: not a week after the publishing of your interview, Bruce’s vulnerability is exploited when someone enacts revenge.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, physical assault (threats/guns (in mouth/pointed at head)), description of injury (blood/mild gore), hurt/comfort, angst, fluff (<3)

words: 8.1k

a/n: hi lovelies !! i’m so excited to hear what you think about this chapter 🤭 we got the angst, we got some FLUFF finally !! AGHHH i love them

Why did he say that?

It took a few turns and back alleys for Bruce to lose the paparazzi, but soon enough he was driving on the road of the fight. The thighs of his pants were damp from rubbing his hands on them to dry; he needed to check the side-effect list of his meds. His body felt alight with tension and activation, and all he could think about on a haunting loop was: from the bottom of my heart. He didn’t say things like that. Why did he say that?

Now that he was further from the trigger, and not yet at the scene, he tried to dehaze the memory of what it felt like to sit across from you. If he could pin himself to that moment, investigate those feelings… he was drawing a blank. He focused in on the apprehension, the hesitation that stopped him from saying goodbye, or even good riddance. It wasn’t often he couldn’t drudge up any possibilities. He shoved his foot on the gas, frustrated.

The sun had fully abandoned the sky, and the moon was shrouded in clouds. The dim street lamps didn’t do much, so he double-clicked the headlights, thankful for the apparent lack of other drivers to render sightless with his ultra-brights. Seemed like no one had been to the complex yet; at the entryway, a small pile of decaying vomit engraved itself below the side railing. Some specks of blood could be seen on the steps—his eyes narrowed. He hadn’t felt a cut on your head. Maybe Miller’s?

His nagging thoughts fell by the wayside as he noted no one around the apartment complex. He slid the car down an alleyway across the street, cutting the lights as he turned off the motor and unbuckled his seatbelt. That familiar tingle came back into him like a breath of life. The feeling of adventure, the feeling of duty, of purpose. It wasn’t the longest he’d kept from this, and he took a forceful inhale as he recalled the period after the flooding. All the blood that had been in the street, the bodies, the animals, the glass scattered everywhere… he’d drifted around in the weeks following, and he always heard someone scream from a cut. Every walk. The sound of the city’s sobs hadn’t left his mind for months.

A car drove past, then backed up. Bruce sat forward in his seat, his jaw locking tight as he soaked in the environment. Black Chevy truck, 832KZY license. Dent in the left flank by the brake light. Dusty. Faded paint. The driver was a petite woman with olive skin and mid-length dark hair. Bangs. She looked down at something to her right with annoyance. After some lurching, she grinned, and the car sped off. He relaxed. Stick shift issues. That year’s model was notoriously difficult.

As he reclined in his seat just so, the weight of speaking in front of the crowd thudded into him. His insides felt hollow, scooped out; his eyes stung like staring straight at the sun on a blazing summer day. He’d have to watch back the footage, even though the thought skinned him alive. It was necessary to study how he came off, find areas to tweak, improve. He slumped further into the seat. He would’ve much rather had a gun to his head. At least then he’d feel less lost. Less drained. Might even jolt some rage-fueled energy into him.

He was disappointed there wasn’t more to sink his teeth into; he longed to investigate. The cut-and-dry never did much for him. He lived to find the detail everyone else overlooked; to forge a bond between two things no one thought could be connected. God, even imagining doing that brought a rush… the pulsing throb of electrum whispered behind the past week’s curtains.

He redirected himself, pulling out a small journal from the glovebox. He clicked the pen.

Electrum. John Doe. Gordon. Investigate.

More thoughts came to him. Every other word he paused, flitting his eyes up to check for changes.

Hady, Grange, March. Research.

Bella Reál. Investigate.

He put it back in the glovebox and readjusted in his seat. Early on he’d tried to carry everything all at once, following the natural direction of his thoughts as if it were logical to rely on intuition alone. It was distracting. Inefficient. One thing at a time.

After a paltry fifteen minute stakeout, Alfred lit up his phone. Bruce hated how worrying he was lately, but what he hated more was he had good reason to. As severe the desire to ignore the man’s calls was, he knew he couldn’t keep him waiting… he grit his teeth. Under the present circumstances. While it wasn’t rare for him to daydream about time machines, he’d never before wanted to jump forward in time. He kept his eyes trained to the building, but there was no movement. “Yeah?”

“Did you see Y/N leave the meeting?”

You’d done precisely what Bruce had instructed, save your addition of turning off the lamp. Even after minutes spent gasping air into your lungs, waiting for an Uber to arrive, pretending that conversation with him had just been a figment of your imagination, you still struggled to catch your breath walking through the foyer.

Half of it was nerves about him going out again so soon, and the other was a sensation you couldn’t pin down, but it had you sweating and shaking. Fear? Anxiety? Sadness? Tension! More than anything, you’d felt tense. Bruce was intimidating, especially so when he held a metaphorical pair of scissors. And when they were aimed at you.

Mar had answered your third phone call as you walked down the city hall steps, berating you for interrupting their ‘jam session’. Faint guitar chords were heard in the background, the acoustics isolated and muffled. It sounded like a house party. She dismissed your concern about staying away, finally conceding and telling you she’d avoid it for a few weeks. “And to think I was practicing all my trivia skills for nothing.”

You should’ve realized by the beanie pulled nearly covering his eyes, but your usual vigilance had been halved as you came down from your interaction with Bruce. Sliding into the seat had you wincing at the pain in your thigh; you berated yourself for not bringing Tylenol with you. It’d been shockingly effective; you’d barely felt your injury on the walk here.

The drive was normal for the first half, so much so that you relaxed against the window and stared blankly at the people milling the main street, speed blurring them like ants. As the streets wound toward your apartment complex, you thought about how you could’ve feigned innocence, inputting the destination as the area of the fight. “Get a ride?” You’d tell him, when he glared at you and questioned your arrival. “I thought you meant here!” It was embarrassing roleplaying conversations with him, so you rid yourself of the thought. You’d feel it all in the morning and think about what to do next when your head was less scrambled.

The driver took a sharp left, cutting the lights as he pulled into an alley. You realized a second too late to reach for the door, ready to drop, roll and run. He’d child-locked it, and by the time you manually unclicked the lock, he pointed a gun at your head. The beanie slipped higher, and you could see clearly it was Miller. No other thoughts formed as the reality of having death pointed at your skull set in.

“Try to leave and I’ll blow your brains out.” He had two black eyes and a smushed nose. His lip was busted open and you swore he was missing a tooth. The rest of him was covered in thick industrial clothing. Bruce had effective punches. He hadn’t been on the guy more than a few seconds. Even Bruce began to slip away as you felt the cold metal jam into your temple. He pressed it harder and harder with every word he spoke. “Who the fuck was that guy?”

The dizzying adrenaline made the blood leave your body and rush into your head; he pressed right on a nerve that coaxed out every last bit of sting and throb from your concussion. You could barely focus on what he was saying. Breathe. Breathe. Your body stilled outside of your heartbeat and wincing eyelids.

“I’m not gonna ask again, bitch. Who the fuck was the guy last night?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know,”

“Bullshit. Call him.”

You stared back at him, unable to move. He stuck the barrel of the gun into your mouth, slacked open with debilitating fear. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. You slapped around for your phone that had fallen at your side, unable to look down or move your face even an inch.

“Show me your call log.”

You strained your eyes to look down, fumbling with your apps, accidentally opening the likes of Old Navy and Target, tears threatening to slip with each passing second. You held it up to him, hands almost too shaky for the screen to be legible. ‘Alfred’ was listed for an eleven minute call at 11:49pm Wednesday. “It’s my, my stepdad,”

“Call him.” He pressed it and held it out to you, clacking the tip of the gun against your front teeth. You swallowed, thinking death only seconds or minutes in the horizon. He picked up on the third ring. Not long enough for you to plan much. Or at all. The man was deadly serious, his eyes a frenzied mess of bleary red as he jostled the gun against the roof of your mouth.

“What’s going on, Miss?”

The man withdrew the barrel just enough for you to speak unencumbered. You rushed the words to refuse him time to say something that would give him away. “Hey Dad.” You let out a small sigh. “I just wanted to call to see how the cats were doing.” You paused, then hurried more out with a hollow laugh. The man narrowed his eyes, cocking the gun. “Probably lost on the upper floors of the house. Or stealing some soup, you know how they love it.”

You were saying too much. If the roles were reversed, you’d think you were speaking in code. A predetermined plan. A keyword to let people know things were not alright.

Alfred chuckled on the other end. “I think Camelot is nestled on my bed. Everything go well at the meeting? After your call last night, I’ve been worried.” His tone was conversational, but concerned. You wanted to fucking bawl, reach out to him and wrap him in a tight, tight hug, mutter a thousand thanks. It felt like there was an ocean between the both of you. He’d fucking caught on.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You stuttered forward. “And just more boring election stuff. Not much to go off of.” It was fucking incredible you could speak. You were starting to regain some more of your breathing. The clouds were beginning to lift. The environment slowly moving back into focus. Even with him however many miles away, you knew he’d be looking out for you, and do his best to help.

Alfred sighed, a light but impatient one. He rustled something in the background that sounded like metal on metal. “Well, hurry back. I’ll bring over some lasagna later. I have your locale, but… the streets are dangerous at night. I worry. Your screams were terrible.”

Maybe not as subtle as you would have liked, but you knew what he was trying to do, and you trusted him more than yourself in this moment. He muttered something. “The ricotta… Jane, I told you we needed the automated mixer.” He let out another sigh. “Call me when you get back, sweets. I’ve got to put some muscle into this.”

Alfred ended the call. You tried not to have it feel like the beginning of the end. If it took Bruce, or Batman, or the police longer than it took for him to shoot you in the head…

He drew closer to you, hucking spit onto you before he spoke. It slid down the sides of your nose. “Who was the guy?”

It was difficult to speak. “I don’t know,”

“YOU KNOW!” He jammed the gun further into your mouth, and you kept your mouth wide as you felt a small chipping.

The words were swallowed against the thickness of the gun. “I don’t, I just screamed and then he came and, then the, police,” He pressed the gun to your uvula and you gagged. It was humiliating, and your blood boiled when you saw him grin at it.

He spit in your face again, this time just below your eye, and pressed the gun until it scraped the back of your throat. Tears sprung to your eyes and poured down your cheeks in reflex. He ripped the gun out of your mouth, keeping it focused at your sternum. He cursed and slammed a fist against his seat. He began muttering, his eyes ablaze. “No one has ever fought me like that, no one but...” He punched the center console, sending a part of the plastic flying in front of the passenger seat. “Immediately booked, too. Only happens with him.”

Oh. You opened your mouth to speak but he shouted at you instead. “You’re gonna help me, or you’re fucking dead.”

He taunted you by shoving the gun toward you. You considered making a break for it, but figured you wouldn’t get far before all you saw was black. How the fuck did Bruce face this every night? Even if his suit was bulletproof? You stared back at him while he laid out his plan, starting to wonder if Bruce was actually a masochist.

“I know you got that Wayne guy in your pocket.”

It was whiplash having them mentioned so close to each other, and made you paranoid the man was reading your mind. You began to shake your head but he cocked the gun again, grazing the trigger. “You’re gonna leave, and you’re gonna get him on our side.”

“I don’t—”

“If you alert anyone to this shit, I’ll hunt you down and kill you with my bare fucking hands.”

“I only did an interv—”

“That’s more than anyone else fucking gets.” He bared his teeth in a snarl. “You’re gonna get him to give me his best fuckin lawyers. And get me back in school, full fucking ride.”

You didn’t have a response queued, which seemed to escalate him. He lunged, grabbing you by the throat with his left hand. He smelled like cigarettes, booze, and Drops. That familiar citrus scent; the type that made you afraid to put it in your eyes. The type of acidic smell that made you wonder how every Drophead hadn’t yet lost their vision. Some did. His hands were rough and dirty as his fingers closed on your larynx.

“That’s the only money I fucking get; I’ll get life before going back to Pointe.” He sniffed, adjusting his posture. His arm strength was faltering. You wondered if you could disarm him yourself… knock his left arm into his right before he pulled the trigger... “If he gets wind of this little deal, I’m ending you.”

Crown Pointe. A neighborhood absolutely decimated by the flood, and more or less abandoned by the local government. It was entirely written off, as the highest percentage of the houseless and impoverished population lived there. You didn’t know too much about Gotham’s ecosystem, but you did know that they didn’t give a fuck about Pointe. You nodded. “Okay.” It came out in a croak. “I won’t tell.” It was surreal feeling a wash of relaxation pour over you, but you understood it was either being held like this, or looking down the barrel of something that could kill you before you’d even realize what was happening.

He released his grip and you sputtered. “You have until the thirteenth to kill it. I’ll kill you and your friend.” His gun was lowered, but still pointed to you, like he’d forgotten he was holding a powerful, terrifying weapon. His gaze focused above you and his glare set. He spun in his seat and floored it before you even realized what was happening; the alley was long and straight, but thin. As the bricks around you blurred, you thought about what had the highest survival rate—staying in the car, or jumping?

The speed of the car made you stay inside; you even thought about buckling your seatbelt as you noticed the end creep closer and closer; a giant brick wall with a hard ninety-degree turn. Miller kept looking in his rearview mirror, each time nearly slamming the car into the side of the tight alley.

The wall was a football field away. Your hand shot for the seatbelt as Miller realized he needed to brake, squealing tires skidding, slipping on the concrete. Pure instinct, nothing more, made your call; you jammed open the door as far as it could, sparks flying off of it as it slammed against the brick, and tossed yourself out ass-first.

The first part of your body to hit was your left thigh, leaving you screeching on the impact. The second was your back, knocking the wind entirely out of you. You had the good sense to tuck your hands behind your head, and you felt the knuckles skid against the rough, chunky street. Almost in unison, you heard a petrifying, deafening crash of metal crunching. You laid there gasping at the sky, your vision swirling, heart racing, leg throbbing, hands numb.

The dark sky above only made you more dizzy, giving you nothing to concentrate on and cling to. You heard footsteps further back from whence you came, and the sound of a car door wrenching open. You sat up on your elbows, forcing yourself back up. Your body felt battered and bruised, your left leg now bordering on unusable, but you managed to get up to your knees. You panted at the ground until you caught Bruce’s cologne run past. He wasn’t in the suit. No!

You reached out and grabbed his ankle, shouting weakly for him to stop. He shook you off but you yelled louder, lunging forward, scraping your elbows as you barely caught his calf with both hands. You heard more creaking, and suddenly Bruce’s face was inches from yours, dropped to a squat. His cheeks were flushed and his breath was hard and full against your sweaty, spit-sodden cheeks. His brow furrowed, his mouth curled down into an exasperated scowl. “What are you doing?!”

You glanced above him to the left, noticing Miller jump face-first out of the car, bolting down the turn in the alley. Bruce turned to look with you, but felt the tightening of your hands around him when he tried to move forward. Your fingernails dug into his skin, even through his pant leg. “Stop, don’t.”

“He’s gonna get away—”

“STAY!”

This was the first time you’d yelled at him, and it was like scolding a dog. You didn’t have time to feel bad yet, letting your arms limp and lying flat on your stomach. Disgusting, wet, smelly ground. You caught the rest of your breath, staring intently at his feet. You could hear him scowling, groaning and mumbling.

You took a few beats to catch your breath and orient to your surroundings. It took a few minutes to catch yourself, bring your chest back to a normal percussion. Took half as long for your eyes to unblur, but they kept darting across the ground, and the first few bricks along the sides of the alley.

“Let’s go,” Bruce grabbed your wrist and tried to help you up, but you weren’t ready yet. Your head swirled, the pain was just beginning to surpass the adrenaline…

“Let’s go.” He pulled harder, his voice cracking. You yelped, your knee skidding on the upheaval. You slammed back down on all fours, tears springing to your eyes. You couldn’t see him, but you could see his feet pacing. Tight, muffled sounds came from above you. You dry-heaved against the cement, nothing spurring but hot bile that soured you, furthering more pitiful attempts at retching. Your arms shook and fingers scraped the jagged ground as you tried to sit up on your own again.

Every time he saw you in an alleyway, he wanted to jump off a cliff; seeing you unable to stand, gasping, sputtering against the ground in one threatened to kill him. His cheeks got hot, the world got wobbly, and his legs felt like jello. He probably looked like an asshole, but the flashbacks were ripping at him, his feet unable to be stilled. If you were anyone else he might’ve just ran. Phoned Gordon. Maybe if it were anyone else he wouldn’t have panicked, though, and he didn’t want to interrogate that.

You held out your arms for him to help you up. He took a deep breath and knelt down, focusing on the mechanics of the moment. He held the brunt of your weight, and you stumbled like that to his car on the street, your left leg a mess of pain, your head rapidly catching up. You gasped into the back seat as your thigh scraped against the leather. He shut the door gently, but quickly.

He drove you around until you were on the outskirts of town, and pulled over beside a throng of trees, the gravel loud under the tires as he parked. He turned to look at you from the driver’s seat and you flinched, glancing down at where the gun had been. Without fanfare, he got out and sidled in beside you in the backseat. It hurt to turn your head, but you did enough to at least see some of his body in your vision.

“What happened?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but he pummeled more questions your way. “Why’d you get in the car with him?” “Couldn’t you tell it was him?” “What was he doing?” “What did he want?”

You held a feeble hand out to him before moving it to your temple. Gently, you set your head against the leather seat, needing a moment to gather yourself. Your blood was still pumping like you were sprinting fifty miles, everything, everything wildly unstable. By some miracle Bruce obliged and stopped talking.

You didn’t know if it had been ten seconds or ten minutes by the time you opened your eyes again and started to speak, and you kept an arm outstretched to keep his interrogations at bay. “He wants the charges dropped.” You swallowed hard, trying to think of anything else besides the pain in your head and leg—or how bad the chip might be. Your voice was dry and scratchy. “Wanted me to use your connection. For lawyers. Retract our statements.” You took another breather, heard him draw in a breath to speak, and shoved the rest out before he could. “I stopped you going after him.” Another gulp, a wince. You’d never been more desperate for sweet, sweet Tylenol… “Because he also.” It was impossible to speak. You let your head fall back in failure. He needs to know this. “He knows whoever fought him last night was Batman. Felt it. Same fighting. Feeling. Booking.” Your lashes fluttered open with a rush of pain in a circle around your skull.

Bruce didn’t know how to respond; he didn’t want you to have to speak more without medication, so he instead faced the back seat, head spinning. You spoke anyway, confirming a fear he’d had since the day his parents died in that alley, a fear that had been poked, prodded, and split entirely open seeing Alfred in the hospital. “Said if you got wind of it, he’d kill me. And Mar.”

You bolted up, startling him. “Mar!”

He sat up and shook his head at you. “I’ll watch her. I’m taking you back to my place.”

You did not want to go there, but your brain was slow to think of anything, slow to form words, and by the time he shut the driver’s door and started for Wayne Tower, you realized he was right. His house was a fortress of safety. Wasn’t like he could be in two places at once.

As the trees thinned out and gravel turned to road, he told you to lay back as flat as you could. He’d be going through the front entry, which had ramped up security now. He muttered something about reporters lingering on the grounds after the interview, and you struggled to focus on it. Being horizontal in a moving car was nauseating when you weren’t in body-buzzing misery, but it was excruciating now. If you had the strength to sit up again, you would’ve. Fuck the paparazzi.

Bruce’s mind was a mess.

Not even one week since the interview’s release and you’d been held at gunpoint over him.

It was hellish attempting to concentrate on the road. It would be hard to convince you to leave Gotham, but it had to be done. Another conversation with you, and one he would ensure didn’t go awry. He swore he felt his teeth splitting against each other as he mulled over how to bring it up, and when. Not now. Tomorrow. You needed to recuperate, and he needed to find Miller.

Once in his garage, you scooted yourself up by fumes of sheer will so Bruce didn’t have to help you out. Forcing each foot in front of the other as he pushed the door open to the foyer, where Alfred stood, holding his glasses in his hands. Bruce walked ahead of you and gestured for Alfred to step into the kitchen for a minute. You supported yourself against the doorframe, taking out your phone to message Mar.

The screen assaulted you, peppering your vision with black spots and squiggly lines.

The guy from last night got released on bail, and he held me at gunpoint trying to get information out of me. I was able to escape, but I’m worried he’ll come after you. Stay inside, officers will be watching the area to see if he tries to come after you.

Her location showed she was at home; apparently, the ‘jam session’ was being held at her place; you looked up to remind Bruce to leave, but he was already gone, Alfred walking toward you with a lukewarm smile. He handed over a glass of water and the same little white pill, both of which you took with a desperate gulp. “Miss. So glad you’re alright. Bruce informed me about what happened. Do you know the address of your friend?”

You told him, and he texted it to him. A strange, temporary thrill flit through you thinking that he was just a few levels below, suiting up. So fucking weird. So fucking wild. Alfred helped you up the stairs, escorting you to the same room as last Spring. “Our housekeeper keeps things tidy, so you shouldn’t be left wanting. I’ll grab fresh clothing.”

Standing in the room again was one of the most disorienting experiences of your life. Everything was the same, as if you had left it yesterday. Almost as if he hadn’t left, Alfred reappeared in the doorway, holding a pair of black sweatpants and matching tee. Before he left, he asked if you wanted anything to eat, or any company. “These events can be traumatizing.”

You declined it all, wanting desperately to both be alone and be smothered by someone else, but confused enough by it you chose solitude. You thanked him, grabbed the clothes, and exchanged a solemn look. After an encouraging nod, he left, letting you know the same standards were in place; if you wanted anything from the kitchen, or to visit in his study, you were free to.

You slunk out of your dress and threw it into the corner, hastily pulling on the outfit you were desperate to forget was likely Bruce’s. The feat was easily won, though it was tight in some places, loose in others, and entirely too tall—because your nose was too blocked with snot you couldn’t smell anything.

The next two hours passed in a montage. Sitting on the side of the bed in a blurry haze. Every time you looked at your phone was like a knife to the chest recalling your dad’s text in June, which led to the room with the doctor, which led to the wheelchair, which led to the trial, which, which… your brain was numb to pain at this point.

Your limbs moved in slow-motion when they did adjust to laying. Mar had texted you that she was okay, and she’d heeded your warning. She’d asked if you were okay, and you’d said you were safe. She didn’t comment past that, only giving occasional check-ins to let you know she hadn’t been captured. At one point you’d texted Alfred through a mess of tears, asking him if he’d heard any updates from Bruce. He responded immediately, explaining that his suit was active and on Mar’s street. You let your head hit the pillow hard after that, which reminded you of the clack of the gun against your teeth and its pressure against your head.

Your head ached. Jabbed. Punctured. Shouted to be witnessed. You chose not to do anything about it. You took a selfie on your phone to check on your tooth, and noticed a noticeable tick on an incisor. Your cheeks were crunchy with dried spit, and you bolted to the bathroom as fast as your hobbling leg would allow. You scrubbed your face in the sink, taking the soap bar and shredding it against your skin to erase the attack.

In the mirror you noticed the bleeding crusties along your knuckles and the rippled shreds of skin hanging off your elbows. You plucked the shreds off carefully, giving your arms and hands a thorough wash. The skinning was artificial. No gravel lodged anywhere. You felt the wear on your body and slumped back to the room, landing hard against the pillow.

You woke up with a scream.

The gun’s muzzle had penetrated your skin, digging deep into your flesh, making hot, wet blood stream down your face in a thick river. You’d tried to scream, but blood had erupted from your esophagus, mixing with the vomit curdling your stomach. It felt like you sat there like that forever, screaming and gurgling and writhing before he’d pulled the trigger.

Apparently it’d been a dream.

A knock on your door made you jump, another yelp escaping.

“Can I come in?”

Bruce. You shouted a yes, or at least something similar, as you tried to catch your breath. It felt so impossibly real, every sensation filling you still, like your head was still dripping, your mouth was still full…

He opened the door, fiddling with the button on his pants. He was shirtless, his torso and hair dripping wet from what appeared to be him fresh out of the shower. His eyes were wide, searching around the room before landing on you trembling in bed. He noticed Alfred brought you the outfit he’d set out for himself—no wonder he couldn’t find it. The sight of you in it made him anxious.

“What happened?”

You thought you mumbled “Nightmare” but you weren’t sure. Sniffled, soft cries filled the space between the both of you. You were staring down at your hands fiddling with the top sheet, rubbing along the seam.

“Are you okay?”

You nodded, then shook your head, his question propelling barely-quelled sobs out of you.

Bruce didn’t know what to do. At all. He figured all he could do was offer logistical support. “Need more Tylenol?”

The vulnerable peculiarity of the situation spurred a laugh as you sniffed up more tears, your voice muffled from your stuffed nose. “It’s like I’m a toddler.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He had no idea what a toddler acted like. He waited, awkwardly, for your sniffing to pause, and spoke. “Miller’s been booked.” You looked up to him, interest piqued.

“Found him walking around your friend’s neighborhood. Watched Gordon take him in. He had an unregistered weapon on him too. He’ll be in there a while.” He hoped it would be some consolation, because you looked like you needed it. He forced himself not to think about what else you might need; thinking about you was starting to feel like holding his breath.

You sighed, your shoulders dropping a few inches. He looked away, too much relief filling him seeing it. “Thanks.”

He nodded, then turned to leave. “If you need anything, just shout.”

You nodded in response, and the door had almost shut when you spoke, tentative. The question not only gnawed at you now, it had been one of the first things you’d thought about with a fucking gun to your skull. “How do you do it?”

He did not want to go back in… He propped the door open and sidled halfway. “Do what?”

“Get shot at every night, it’s fucking horrifying.” More heat sprung to your face, and you pressed your palms to your eyes to force them back.

Admittedly, he’d forgotten how affecting those experiences could be. Even two decades later he couldn’t think too specifically back to Crime Alley or he’d succumb to panic. He stepped the rest of the way in, ashamed that he’d been subtly trying to slip away and ignore you.

You peered at him with a tear-streaked face and he averted his eyes, goosebumps prickling his skin. He swallowed back a lump that’d found its way to his throat. “Already happened, so. Not much to lose I guess.”

He wasn’t looking at you, but you couldn’t stop looking at him. Why did he think so low of himself? Why didn’t he think his life was worth protecting? That night he’d talked about feeling like he’d died with his parents, and suddenly his ghostlike demeanor made a lot of sense. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” You’d caught your breath by this point, the haunting images falling back the longer he hung around. “I know you probably hate to hear it, but I am.”

You weren’t surprised when he deflected it. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

You wiped the pool of tears in the troughs of your cheeks. “It’s not even close.”

That struck a nerve. Few things had been more exasperating to him growing up than having every person’s problems minimized while he was around. “Sorry, Bruce, I mean, it’s nothing compared to what you went through.” “I shouldn’t be talking.” “What do I have to complain about?” Somehow, his words blurted out harsher and gentler than intended. “You’re allowed to be hurt by it.”

His face was contorted into a grimace. You didn’t know what else to do, the vibe entirely shifted, so you just sat, and nodded. When he turned to leave again, anxiety barreled into you like a truck. “Can you turn on the light?”

Tick. You squinted to adjust, the monsters creeping back into the closet.

“If you want anything, don’t hesitate.” He shut the door.

Your dreams had been shitty, but they hadn’t been horrifying.

It was four in the morning when you woke up next, officially well past needing another dose. Forgetting Bruce had essentially offered on-call service, you padded your way out to the stairwell, and jumped with his shadow already at the foot of the stairs. “I told you to shout if you need anything.”

He had a shirt on now, something you were grateful for. “I wanted more meds, thought I might want a walk.”

“How’s your leg?” His voice echoed in the foyer as he walked to the kitchen. He returned in a similar fashion as Alfred, but faster. You’d only made it down a few steps. As he walked to hand you them, you saw the bags under his eyes, creeping in under the moonlight. How every blink looked intentional and forced, designed to keep him standing and conscious. His shoulders were pulled forward, ragged with exhaustion.

You didn’t want to trouble him, scooping the pill out of his hand and grabbing the glass. “Hurts.” You drank it, popped it, and walked slowly back to your sleeping quarters. “Thanks.”

Except… standing in the doorway made you pathetically sad. Gazing at the big, empty room that wasn’t yours in the big, empty tower. Every anxious, miserable thought crowded closer. Your body ached, your spirit was absolutely obliterated. You’d almost died today. I almost DIED today.

More than anything, you wanted to be held. And you didn’t hear his footsteps leaving.

You squeezed your eyes shut until you saw stars, as if it would make it easier. “Can I have a hug?” The request was needy, breathy, feeble. You couldn’t muster a shit to give as the abyss circled you. It was silent.

Bruce froze. He wanted to deny you; after all, what good was a hug if it was hollow? If he was to force you out in the morning, planning ways to convince you to never, ever come back?

You looked over your shoulder, a slow, shakey glance dripping with sorrow. His lashes fluttered as his lips pressed into a thin line. He set the glass on the ground, and his body finished walking up the steps before he nodded. “Sure.” Your eyes focused on the floor as you stepped toward each other, as if looking him in the eye would scare you both off.

When you fell into him it didn’t feel hollow. He felt so full of empathy he could burst, his arms moving instinctually around your back like he’d hugged you a thousand times. His face naturally settled into concern, his chest caving in ever so slightly to welcome yours. You whimpered at the collision of your bodies. In dissent to his earlier apprehension, he pulled you closer, deepening the hug he realized you both so desperately needed.

Falling into his arms was easy. Wrapping your arms around his back was easier. Wailing into his shirt while you clumped fists of it around his back felt as simple as breathing; without beckoning, instinctual, like hot sand lapping up its first wave. The release fell out of you, and you didn’t even register you could be too loud, too much, or too rough. He was as sturdy as the oak tree in his backyard, and just as unyielding—except for now, as his strong hands wrapped around your back and squeezed.

Time paused and the world stopped turning as you were gifted a portal for your pain to fall into. A river to erode the rocks piled in your stomach. You clutched him, your chin tucked into your chest, soaking his shirt until it clung to your cheeks. You bawled until you were coughing, until you felt rugburn on your palm from fisting the cotton so tightly. When you started to shake, he hugged you tighter.

You finally managed to croak out a word, but your mind was undecided between ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’. “Th-orry.”

You shriek-laughed and cried some more, feeling a gentle rumble from his chest. The humor was quickly lost as you sunk into the sadness again, beginning to hiccup as your cries intensified. Time evaded you as you stood there sniffing, hiccuping, and crying, with your eyes squeezed shut, for what simultaneously felt like five seconds and twenty years.

As your sobs quieted, and your hiccups intensified, you were forced to right yourself, unlatching your hands from around him and wiping your eyes, peeling your skin off his soaked clothes. Your head throbbed. You needed more water, a shower, to sleep, you needed to do anything besides what you were currently doing. He didn’t want this.

You cleared your gummy throat and moved further back to fully wipe your cheeks, tucking your chin under the collar of your shirt—his shirt—to soak up the water. You felt how hot and puffy your face was, the tired sting of your strained eyes. Bruce must not have slept for two days at this rate; what the hell were you doing? I’m just making things worse on him again.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

No conscious thought brought your eyes up to his, only shock at hearing him sound so gentle. His tone was soothing. His face matched it, which sent a jolt through your system remembering, seeing this was BRUCE. You stepped back, embarrassed tears threatening to overwhelm you. “I’m sorry.” You shook your head, realization sinking in staring at his wrinkled, soaked shirt that you’d just bawled—

“I don’t mind.” He gestured toward the kitchen down the steps, turning his body with it like he’d already made up his mind. You didn’t know it, but the embrace had temporarily quelled his inhibitions, replacing them with a profound desire to help. At least for tonight, he wanted to sit with you as long as you’d let him. Hear every bit of the pain that kept you from turning off the light. “Let’s talk.”

Your cheeks heated, intimidated by his new tenderness. “You’ve been awake so long,”

“Is that a no?”

You sighed, your shoulders rising high and dropping low in a huff. “You need to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

You wanted to cry again. He’d been so obviously weary. “Yes, you are.”

“I can wait.”

“I can wait. My problems will still be here in the morning.”

He hesitated, but obliged. He asked if you wanted more water before he went up, and you let him. He handed it off to you without fanfare, like this was your nightly routine. “Shout if you want anything.”

You walked up the stairway above his floor, and walked into the barren bedroom. You took a sip of the chilled water, feeling the weightiness of the glass, and turned off the light.

After a few minutes of stirring, you couldn’t ignore going to the bathroom. Padding out of your room turned into sneaking to check on Bruce’s door, which was half open. It hadn’t been that way in Spring. Your heart caught on the thought he’d done it so he wouldn’t miss if you yelled.

You’d been correct in your estimation of his fatigue; that, or he was the fastest sleeper you’d ever known. He was fully conked on his bed, facing the door, his mouth slacked ever so slightly open, the deep rise and fall of his—bare—chest matching his gentle snores. He was on his right side, his left arm half slung over. Your eyes followed down to his shirt abandoned on the ground beside the bed. Even in the low light you could see darker patches from where you’d filled the fibers with your tears.

You forced your feet toward the bathroom, struck with self-consciousness at having spied on him. The marble was cool on the soles of your feet, still not used to walking barefoot on floors with no give. You sat in the small hallway bathroom, the toilet seat frigid against your flushed skin.

You stared absently at the wooden door. The shiny golden handle. The unmoving glint of the static overhead lighting against it. The total silence was unsettling. Both of your apartments in Gotham had ample noise pollution being downtown. Back at home, there was a small littering of the occasional car passing through, a coyote, or Walter licking himself.

This silence was empty. Your mind didn’t waste a second filling it.

You wanted another hug from him. Your heartbeat quickened thinking about it. You moved your focus to the floor, the downward movement bringing Bruce to your nose. You lifted your shirt to bury your nose in it, bringing more depth to the smell. It was ambery and warm. In addition to whatever fragrant detergent he used, he used some sort of masculine body wash.

For a minute you sat there basking in it. Feeling held, wanted, and seen, without shying away. Letting your body relax into its intuitive trust in him. Taking a full, lung-satisfying breath into his comfort. The comfort of being held by him. The comfort of him being alive. The space he’d made for you. Even venturing into the what-if of what he might have said, how he might have looked at you, if you’d poured your grief in front of him.

But it was short-lived. With greater force than your appreciation swept in a current of shame. He didn’t want your tears. He probably thought he had to take them. Had to humor you. Had to make sure you were okay after the lie.

You walked back to your room still in a slurry of painful, self-flagellating emotion. You’d have to clarify in the morning. Tell him it was because of your mom, and the stuff online, and your ex-friends, and the gun shoved in your mouth. The attack. The threats. But you couldn’t very well leave out his attempt, could you? Would it make it seem like you didn’t care about him?

A thought dawned on you before you went to sleep, spurred by the flashback sensation of the gun on your temples. I could’ve just done my paper on the club shooting. Then none of this pain would’ve happened. To either of us. You wanted to curl up and die.

Distracted by the mystery of Batman and the reclusiveness of Bruce Wayne. Forcing his hand. Denting the doors of his life breaking in. Shattering all the glass inside, stealing the valuables. It was pathetic. You were pathetic. A pathetic, annoying, disgusting liar sitting in this room for the second time, of your own doing, of your own mistakes, your own fucked priorities and selfish interests.

But it was a lie that was keeping him alive.

After an hour of tossing and turning, fighting the harassment you flung at yourself with reckless abandon, you forced yourself to get up. You remembered something you learned in therapy when you were younger, something to stop these anxious, ruminating thoughts, to help the room feel less like you were drowning in it. Get an orange. Pay attention to it. Peel it slowly. Focus on the texture in your mouth. The zing. The juiciness in its crunch.

Opening up his fridge, you realized they didn’t have much outside of veggies, protein shakes, and meat. Absolutely not wanting to cook, and being put off by the grainy texture of past protein supplements, you opted for a stray apple in the back of the fridge. It was a bit bruised. You didn’t mind.

When you shut the fridge, the freezer popped slightly open. Instead of just shutting it, you peeked inside—more meat, and a tub of Breyer’s. The apple fell out of your hand and you felt wobbly. More memories flooded your veins already primed to panic. Just one week ago. Hospital. Lingering. On autopilot you shut the freezer, swooped the apple and brought it to the sink to rinse. The water was freezing on your hands. You hoped Bruce wasn’t a light sleeper. You didn’t want to subject him to you again.

The apple was surprisingly crisp, save a few spongy parts. You ate it as you walked up the stairs—one bite per step. You shut your eyes and let your senses guide you, zooming in and slowing down. The tang of the apple. The crunch on the first bite. The coolness of the marble steps. The height and slickness of the railing as it skimmed your palm. Crunch. Step.

You made it back to your room calmer than you left it. The apple was nearly eaten to the core, and you discarded it in the trashcan by the side table. You slipped into bed methodically—left leg, slowly, carefully, then the right. First cover, then comforter, then head to pillow. Eyes closed. Slow, deep, gentle breathing. The only thing you had to do right now was sleep. The only task you had to do was let your body relax. Everything else could wait until morning.

Bruce Wayne could wait until the morning.

What Happened Last Night Pt.1 - Jack Russell x Reader

Summary: You wake up in an unfamiliar campsite with your leg caught in a bear trap. What the fuck happened last night?

Warnings: female reader, being nakey lol, bit of blood, broken bones, Jack being the fluffiest person ever, slow burn bc reader is going to have to deal with some shit 

Word Count: ~1.5k

A/N: Ok so this is really only the first part of this story, but I wanted to get it out there and get some feedback before I get into a more plot driven second part. Depending on demand this might turn into a little series idk.

Also we only got 50 mins with Jack so be gentle if my characterizations a little wonky. Also Also for reference this does NOT take place right after the events of WBN. More like a random amount of time after that and there will be very little connection to the events of WBN.

Cross-posted on AO3 as always

Part 2 now posted!

Part 1-

You woke up groggy, disorientated, naked, and in more pain than you’ve ever felt in your life. All things considered, you had a pretty mild reaction to the elephant-tree-swamp-man… thing gingerly making coffee in a french press.

You screamed, scrambling to get up, then immediately collapsing in pain. The thing huffed as if he was frustrated with you for your reaction. Someone more human sounding groaned behind you, but barely heard them over the ringing in your ears. There was an honest-to-god old timey steel bear trap clamped around your very swollen, very broken ankle.

Shaking, you surveyed the rest of your body, finding various bruises and gashes littering your body. Your left ear felt hot and sticky, and when you brought your hand up to touch it, you found that the top third or so of your ear was only still attached to your head by a dangling bit of skin. You thought you were going to throw up. The irony smell of your own blood was almost all-consuming.

“Ted?”

The monster grumbled in acknowledgement, and you quickly shuffled to face your… captors? Rescuers? You made eye contact with an incredibly disheveled man wrapped in a quilt. His eyes widened, quickly scanning over your unclothed body and his entire face reddened. He swiveled clumsily to face away from you as you did your best to cover yourself with your arms. The man took a deep breath.

“Ted,” he said slowly, “who’s this?” 

The monster grunts a response.

“What do you mean you found her like that?”

Another long series of grumbles.

“Like me? Like me… before?” The monster nodded, “Oh.” The man glanced back at you again, but very briefly. As soon as his eyes met yours he jolted a little and turned back to the monster, seemingly having forgotten your unfortunate lack of clothes. 

“And you couldn’t have… given her something to cover up with?” 

The monster responded in an indignant monster-tone. 

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. You did good buddy. Really,” the man said, patting the man-thing’s large hand as it huffed, apparently happy its efforts had been acknowledged.

The man cleared his throat, and hobbled over to one of the many suitcases surrounding the three of you. He made a point to keep his back to you and your nakedness. 

You took the opportunity to look around at where the fuck you were. You were in a small campsite, complete with a firepit, a tee-pee made of sticks that the man had emerged from, and various pieces of luggage and other trinkets strewn about. 

The man had grabbed some plaid pajama pants and a white t-shirt and disappeared behind the monster’s back, groaning anytime he had to bend over. When he shuffled back into view, he was approaching you with the quilt, but once again keeping his head obviously turned to the side, not looking at you at all. You snatched the quilt from him and wrapped yourself up with it. When you stopped shifting around, the man finally looked at you, and smiled.

“Apologies. Coffee?” he asked, gesturing to the cup the monster was currently pouring the contents of the french press into. You shook your head. You didn’t trust yourself to open your mouth without throwing up everywhere, as the reality and enormity of the situation hit you. You were severely injured and trapped in the forest with a monster and a random man. 

The man nodded, and stumbled closer to you. You shifted away from him the best you could, given your mangled leg and ever-churning stomach. He held his hands up in a placating gesture, and slowly knelt down next to you. He examined your wounds carefully.

“Ted, can you get the first aid kit?”

The monster obliged, gently handing a box to the man. The man smiled again at you, before digging through the contents. 

You were at a complete loss for words. This random-ass woodsman and his pet monster– who apparently had the same name as your racist uncle– had barely addressed you, after presumably kidnapping you to their camp. You couldn’t remember most of the night before, but you knew you did not start out the night in the middle of the woods. Despite all that, you didn’t have much of an alternative to letting the man treat your wounds, so you didn’t put up much of a fight as he bandaged any gashes that weren’t covered by the blanket. It wasn’t until he was trying to tape your ear back together that he spoke.

“So, how long?” You furrowed your eyebrows and shot him a sideways glance, not wanting to mess up whatever he was doing to your ear. He met your eye and continued talking.

“Because for me, I’ve always been like this. It’s been in my family for generations. But judging by what you did to yourself in one night, I’m guessing you’re new to all this.” He sat back on his feet, still kneeling, and gave you a sympathetic yet expectant smile. He had shared so now it was your turn. 

“I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know where I am or who you are or what he is,” you gestured at Ted. “I just woke up in the woods all… beat up. With you guys. I don’t know what you want or who you think I am, but I’m not her.” You finished your rant with a shaky deep breath, willing yourself not to break down crying.

The man’s eyes searched your face, his expression now one of deep sympathy.

“How about we get you all patched up and then we’ll talk. Hmm? Is that okay, cariño?” You nodded, and he smiled once again. “My name is Jack, that’s Ted. He’s a friend of mine. He won’t hurt you.”

“Uh, okay. I’m y/n.”

Jack smiled widely. “Nice to meet you, y/n,” he said, dipping his head as he said your name. As he focused his attention on your leg, his smile faded into something more serious.

“I need to get this off of you. This is probably going to hurt. But I have to. I need to make sure these cuts don’t get infected and that your bone heals properly. You ready?” You gave him a curt nod and Jack took a deep breath and began to work.

You felt like your ankle collapsed when he wrestled the jaws of the trap open. You felt woozy watching fresh blood pour out of the many jagged marks on your skin where the trap’s teeth had dug into your flesh. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes, hoping you wouldn’t pass out. You winced at every gentle touch of your ankle, from the stinging of the alcohol to clean your cuts to the bandaids laid delicately upon them. A constant stream of apologies came from Jack with his every movement.

“Ok. Now the worst part. Then it’ll be over,” he mumbled, applying more pressure to your ankle as he felt for the snapped bone. You involuntarily whined in pain.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. So sorry. Almost done.” 

Jack’s hands halted their necessary assault on your ankle, then he firmly grabbed it, coaxing your bone into the proper spot. Even with closed eyes your vision became spotty and your head spun with pain. You felt Jack place a splint on your foot, and as soon as it was tightened and stabilized, your ankle felt much better. It still hurt like a bitch, but at least it was hurting in a proper, reinforced position.

When you finally opened your eyes, Jack was sitting down beside you, looking about as exhausted as you felt. His eyes fluttered sleepily and he had a dumb satisfied smirk on his face. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and reached an arm out to Ted with the other. Ted handed him a coffee cup. He took a large swig of it and offered it to you. You obliged now that you no longer had steel encasing an appendage. 

“Thank you. For all of this,” you said, but Jack just took the coffee cup back from you, shaking his head and waving your gratitude away. The two of you sat quietly together, passing the mug back and forth. You felt oddly safe here. 

At some point, Ted made a noise that made Jack snort and chuckle hardily. You looked between the two of them, smirking along despite not understanding Ted. They were… kind of sweet in the way they interacted. They truly were friends, despite the obvious species difference. Or maybe the post-panic wave of exhaustion that had hit you was so intense you were delirious. Either way, you leaned back, lying down and allowed the quiet conversation and crackling of the fire to lull you to sleep.

.

.

.

Will reader be as comfortable around Jack and Ted when she’s not exhausted and coming off of an adrenaline rush? How is Jack going to explain lycanthropy without sounding insane?? Will Jack melt my heart with his cuteness??? All this and more in the next part!

Feedback, criticism, comments, reblogs, and likes are all always appreciated. Keeps me motivated!

Tagging everyone who commented on my concept post. If you don’t want to be tagged in the next part just let me know! Literally no pressure I just wanted to make sure the people who encouraged by idea got to read it.

Let me know if you would liked to be tagged in the future!

Tags: @starfirette, @nicolewithanee, @fangurldayandnight, @zakizigekwe, @for-bebbanburg, @missdragon-1, @howlingco, @arvalee-knight

What Happened Last Night Pt.2 - Jack Russell x Reader

Summary: You wake up feeling less content than you had falling asleep. Then Jack drops the bombshell of a lifetime on you. You don't take it well.

Warnings: fluff (savior it, this chapter is rough), learning you're a werewolf, mentions of an animal attack, a bit more info on reader, no ted :(, and hmm what am I forgetting? oh yeah. Angst. Like a lot. I’m so sorry for all of you that were just here for the fluff. I promise there will be more in the future.

Word Count: ~1.5k

A/N: I was trying to get this out by Halloween, then by Día de Muertos, but this chapter took about two hours longer than the last one because I needed it to be juuuust right. I hope I did it justice.

Cross-posted on AO3 as always

Part 1, Part 3

Part 2-

When you woke up, Jack had fallen asleep beside you. He sat crisscrossed, his head propped up on his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. He swayed a little, his unconscious body trying to maintain balance. It made you smile.

Ted was nowhere to be found, although you did find some clothes laid neatly beside you. Nothing fancy, simply some old, baggy t-shirt and some sweatpants, but it was definitely better than staying naked in the forest. You threw the shirt over your head and, with some difficulty, managed to shimmy the sweatpants on without agitating your broken ankle too much. You leaned back with a huff, which apparently was enough to wake Jack.

He startled slightly, his head slipping from his hands. As soon as he got his bearings, his focus snapped to you. He grinned widely.

“You’re awake!” You nodded, a little taken aback by his enthusiasm. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m alright,” you said slowly, still groggy and a little weirded out by how much attention was focused on you. When you were actively bleeding, that was one thing, but this man was looking at you like he had to commit every detail he saw to memory, as if you were going to suddenly disappear before him.

His smile fell slightly and he focused his gaze on the ground, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. I wanted to watch over you and make sure you were alright but… I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Ok, so when you weren’t delirious with pain, this guy was super weird.

“That’s okay. I didn’t expect you to stay by my side at all times,” you shrugged. 

Jack murmured his assent.

“Where’s Ted?” you asked, more to make conversation than anything else.

“He’s probably just going for a walk. Or gathering firewood. Or doing something stupid that’ll mean I have to rescue him again.” Jack’s tone was light as he spoke of his friend.

“You,” you said, eyeing Jack up and down, “rescue Ted?”

Jack gave a single nod with a smirk.

“What’s brave enough to go after Ted?” you said, puffing out a snort of incredulity.

“Monster hunters,” Jack said frankly.

“Monster… hunters? As in multiple. Multiple monsters and multiple hunters?”

Jack nodded again. “Is that so crazy to believe? I mean how many times have aliens and superhumans and sentient robots destroyed New York City? Nowadays, fantasy turns into reality all the time.”

He had a point. But everyone knew about the aliens. You’d never heard or seen a credible source of monsters running around. Until Ted, that is. You were questioning this possible new development when Jack cleared his throat. 

He muttered “no hay razón de andarse por las ramas,” to himself, then turned to face you more squarely, his posture straighter than it had been in the meager time you had spent together.

“Speaking of monsters and hunters, what do you remember about last night?”

You really had no idea what had happened. You went to bed in your little one-story house, and woke up in the woods with half an ear and your ankle in pieces. You told Jack as much.

“Well, based on what Ted told me, you… transformed last night,” Jack said, never once breaking eye contact.

“What the fuck does that mean. Are you saying I, like, hulked out and what? Tore myself apart?” Jack’s serious expression broke into a little smile.

“‘Hulked out’ isn’t the terminology I would use, but more or less, yes. Y/n, I think- no I know- that last night, the moon came up and you-”

“I’m sorry are you trying to insinuate that I turned into a fucking werewolf? Seriously, Jack? Do you really think I’m going to believe that I went to bed as me, saw the moon, and turned into some… some beast? Do I look like fucking Lon Chaney to you?” Admittedly, you had begun to yell a little bit, but Jack seemed to have been expecting this. With a stupid smirk on his face he replied quietly, “Well, I mean you did get caught in a bear trap so The Wolf Man is probably the most apt analogy…”

You glared at him and he chuckled, albeit a bit nervously. You glared harder.

“But yes, y/n, I was trying to tell you that Ted didn’t bring you into our camp this morning. Ted brought a werewolf. When the sun came up, you turned back into you.”

He had to be messing with you. This was all some fucked up joke. He probably was some deranged lunatic who kidnapped you and hurt you to fit whatever fantasy you were fulfilling.

“But, don’t freak out, okay? It’s not so bad. I manage pretty well most months,” Jack was obviously trying to comfort you, but the more he talked the worse you felt.

“Oh, so you’re a werewolf now too?” you said tacking a humorless laugh on the end of your statement.

“Well, I’m me. But, yes, a part of me is a wolf,” Jack said, his tone a little less sure as he spoke of the difference between himself and the wolf.

“You're insane.”

“Y/n, I know you can feel it. You feel the ache in your bones from twisting into something else last night. Everything is brighter and louder. You can hear my heartbeat if you listen for it. No normal human can do that,” he was pleading with you to understand now.

And you knew he was right. From the moment you woke up this morning, you’ve been disoriented. Not just because of the unfamiliar location, but the intensity of it all. The way the smell of your own blood had threatened to drown you, the noise of the fire, hell, even the coffee tasted richer. Everything is so much more than it used to be. And it was freaking you out.

Not to mention the fact that you had gotten attacked by… that thing in the woods a month ago. You had been biking home from a later shift at the pub you worked at. It wasn’t too far of a trip from the little secluded cottage you called your own. But it was dark and it was raining, so you didn’t even notice the creature growling by the trees until it pounced on you, knocking you off your bike. It hadn’t had time to do much damage before grizzled old Mr. Kessler had intervened. His truck’s horn and lights had scared it off, and he gave you a ride back to your house. You had been fine to go to work the next day, simply wrapping up the bite mark on your arm.

Honestly, you hadn’t thought much of it. You lived in a farming town, and wildlife was not unfamiliar to you. You had just started carrying bear mace and continued with life as usual. The wound didn’t even get infected. It just went away on its own after a week or two.

“I’m so sorry, y/n. I know this is confusing and it’s going to make everything more complicated. But I can help you. Ted and I can stick around for a while, we can figure out what this means for you together,” Jack reached to put a comforting hand on your arm. The arm that had been bitten. The arm that he had probably bitten.

You yanked your arm away from him. You didn’t care how hurt he looked. You were angry. And scared. And you let that cloud your judgment. You let that anger and fear lead you to conclusions you had no basis for, let it push you to lash out like the cornered animal you now were.

“Don’t fucking touch me. I don’t want someone like you even near me. You may have turned me into this, but I won’t be like you. I won’t be some sick freak that kidnaps girls to patch them up after you maul them. I won’t be like you,” you snarled, ignoring the way Jack’s eyes widened, the desperate devastation dawning on his face as you spoke.

“Y/n, no. I didn’t-” you ignored his pleas, instead resolving yourself to getting the fuck away from him. You awkwardly clambered to your feet, the rage you felt numbing you to the pain of your ankle.

“No, no, no, no, no. Y/n, you shouldn’t be walking on that, you’re going to hurt yourself. Just, let me help you-”

“No! Jack, you are not some type of good samaritan savior. You don’t get to help me, or anyone. You’re just some… beast. A fucking animal. A monster,” you spat. You began to walk away, and you knew Jack was about to call out to you. Maybe you heard his mouth open with your newly heightened hearing. Maybe you just needed to get one last dig in. So as you walked away from Jack Russell, you snarled your last words to the man.

“And you deserve to be hunted like one.”

.

.

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I'm sorry. But I needed some drama. And I mean are you seriously going to tell me you wouldn't be a little bit weirded out by Jack? He's very intense and then he just gives you some life altering news and insists on being apart of this transition. We, as viewers and readers who know Jack, know he means well, but our poor reader character does not have that same context.

Also I've set up a dangerous prescient of having at least one werewolf movie reference in these parts and idk if I can keep that up. Brownie points to you if you can sus out my obscure werewolf homages.

Feedback, criticism, comments, reblogs, and likes are all always appreciated. Please tell me what you think! I really gave this one my all and I hope you guys enjoy it. <3

Let me know if you would liked to be tagged in the future!

Tags: @starfirette, @nicolewithanee, @fangurldayandnight, @zakizigekwe, @for-bebbanburg, @missdragon-1, @howlingco, @arvalee-knight, @emiemiemiii, @spicydonut25, @sparkythefallen1, @girlymusiclover09, @pxl8ed, @littlenosoul, @lemmons1998

What Happened Last Night Pt.3 - Jack Russell x Reader

Summary: Lycanthropy, much like periods, turn out to be a multi-day monthly annoyance.

Warnings: Some injury, being grumpy, retail jobs (the horror!), and only a little bit of Jack. :( Sorry. You both need space after you called him a monster. You did, not me, don’t blame me.

Word Count: ~1.7k

A/N: lol hi. its been months and idk if anyone cares about this anymore other than the sweet souls who pushed me to publish another chapter. I would like to write more. I’m fairly certain this is going to be less than ten parts total, and that seems like something I can finish.

In other news im fucking obsessed with Red Dead Redemption II so lowkey might write something for that once this is over.

Oh also I changed my url from @ / ABitGryffindorky to @galactigoos. I wanted to make my AO3 and tumblr match, make them different than my other socials so fanfic doesn’t come up when a job searches me, and JKRowling is a terf bitch. Oh and I had a stalker so thats really what prompted the change lol.

Cross-posted on AO3, as always.

Part 1, Part 2

Perhaps you hadn’t really thought through this whole running away thing. It only took about two minutes for your broken ankle to really catch up to you. Pain radiated through your ankle, spiking with every step, no matter how light it was.

But you wouldn’t go back. Not to him. So you soldiered on, picking up a large stick to serve as a cane along the way. By sheer luck, you successfully wandered back to your house.

Your poor house. The one-story little shack had its back door ripped off the hinges. A few of your dining chairs had given their lives in service of your moon-induced freakout last night. Your bedroom door had slammed against the wall so forcefully the knob was stuck in the drywall.

Leaving most of the carnage for a better day, you placed the back door into its rightful place so no animals would get in. Well, no other animal besides yourself. The thought brought a humorless laugh forward. The absurdity of the situation, the sheer isolation you now faced, piled onto you, forcing you to the floor in a fit of delirious laughter.

You kept laughing. Past when your lungs tired, past when your laugh became more of a shaking wheeze, past the tears that had accompanied your anguish. You couldn’t stop. You laughed until your tired, broken body could no longer handle the strain, and you succumbed to the gentle relief of unconsciousness.

…

At least this time when you woke up naked in the forest, you weren’t caught in any traps. You were alone and relatively unharmed aside from a long gash ripping up your torso.

You groaned as you hauled yourself to your feet. When you stood, your ankle made its presence known. But it was not the scream for attention you faced yesterday, but more of a soft yell. It felt much, much better, but still carried enough pain to force you to limp.

Was this going to happen every fucking night?

… 

After calling into work and once again resetting your back door (thankfully your only damage this time), you decided you needed a plan. If this was going to keep happening, you could not keep running into the woods stark naked. You were out of sick days at work and were already well past your skill level in home repairs. 

So you spent the day modifying the leaky, cold cellar beneath your house. It couldn’t be called a basement. The cottage you had inherited was old. Like so old, the best way to deal with flooding was to build a cobblestone wall under your house with a space for water to run through. The cellar had now been reinforced with concrete, but the drain structure remained the same. The space was unused by you, given the room was designed to flood. So you didn’t have to clear anything out; what you did have to do was secure it. 

The cellar was entered through a door in your kitchen. Down a short flight of stairs, there was another door, this one metal, to keep out a draft. You dug through junk drawers and your shed to find every lock you could, and set to work securing them all to the door from the stairs. You even hauled your mattress to be propped up against the door for some added weight. After triple checking the locks, you grabbed a bottle of NyQuil and went outside.

There, you were able to remove the mesh that normally protected your cellar from debris, and squeezed yourself through the drain opening. Thank god the old motherfuckers that built this shack left a big enough hole. 

By now, it was the middle of the afternoon. You did everything you could to stay awake, despite the exhaustion of the previous two days threatening to pull you under. You talked to yourself, you sang, you worked out. Anything.

And when it started to get darker, you paced anxiously. You removed your clothes (no point in destroying another outfit) and prayed that the werewolf would not be able to fit through the gap to the outside world. At the last second you could bear to wait, you chugged the NyQuil. Hopefully, a tired werewolf was a less destructive one. And hopefully you didn’t just overdose on NyQuil.

…

You’ve never been so happy to wake up on a cold slab of concrete. Apparently, a tired werewolf was unable to claw through your defenses. There were scratches along the cellar walls and the doorknob had been bitten into a shape resembling a crumbled wad of paper, but you were still in your house. You redressed and crawled out of your night’s sanctuary.

You had sustained a rather ugly cut across your face, going over the bridge of your nose, narrowly missing your eyes. You pictured the wolf trying to rub the sleep from its tired, drugged eyes, which was… slightly endearing? As you were otherwise unharmed, you went about your normal morning routine, with about ten times your regularly required caffeine.

It wasn’t until you were stumbling off your bike in the parking lot of the tavern that you realized your ankle didn’t hurt. You were limping still, but there was no pain. And addressing the rest of your body quickly, you noticed that most of your wounds had healed. The gash on your stomach was still tender, but even your ear had repaired itself, leaving just an angry scar and a knick on the outside edge of your cartilage where you must’ve taken a chunk clean off. All things considered, you weren’t doing too bad.

Your boss ignored your haggard state, not that you had expected him to give a shit. Mr. Glendon was always too caught up in tending to the lush garden beside the pub to notice much about his employees. As long as you did your job well enough that he didn’t have to do his, he was happy.

In a zombified state you went through the motions of customer service, serving coffee, pancakes, and toast with a smile. Internally, you were cursing this stupid fucking establishment for being open from 6AM-2AM and requiring you to drag yourself to a goddamn pub for a breakfast shift. You were so tired you hadn’t read the name on the DoorDash order you packaged. You could not as easily ignore the man who walked in to pick it up.

When the bell above the door rang, you smiled and automatically started a welcoming comment, but froze mid-sentence when your eyes met Jack’s. He froze too, halfway through the door, glancing behind him like he was ready to forget the mediocre waffles sitting behind the counter. 

“Come on,” you grumbled, gesturing him inside.

“Lo siento. I was just grabbing us breakfast before we leave town. You won’t have to see me again. I had no clue you work-”

“Waffles, Jack,” you said, cutting him off and shoving the bag at him.

“Right, waffles,” he replied, grabbing the bag and getting out his wallet, and shoving five dollars into the tip jar before you could stop him. “Okay. I’m sorry. Goodbye, y/n.”

He spun to leave. You wanted to let him. He was dangerous and had likely gotten you into this mess. But at the same time, he was the only one who could help you through it. So you had to stop him. He was almost out the door when you called his name. Well, more accurately you whispered it, as part of you was hoping he wouldn’t hear you and you wouldn’t have to keep him in your life. His werewolf senses threw a wrench in your plan, and he spun on his heel and came back to you. He didn’t say anything, just looked at you. His eyebrows were knit with worry, and he tilted his head slightly like the stupid fucking dog he was.

“How much longer? I can’t keep,” you looked around and lowered your voice, “transforming every night.”

Jack let out a breath he was holding, apparently relieved you weren’t about to continue your name-calling of your previous encounter.

“You’re done for this month, cariño. Three days a month. It’s manageable,” he said with a reassuring smile. He looked tired, even more so than you did. You wondered what he had been doing while you were having a meltdown and playing Doomsday Preppers: Werewolf Edition. 

You nodded, relieved in the knowledge that you would have a reprieve now.

Jack cleared his throat. “I know you do not want me around, but perhaps I could put you in contact with some others like us? It’s tough to figure out all on your own.”

“You want me to tell more people? Absolutely not!”

He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Alright, I wanted to offer. Best of luck, y/n. I won’t bother you again. If you need anything,”  he said, ripping the receipt from his bag and snatching a pen from a cup on the hostess station, “Here’s my number.”

You stared at the scrap of paper offered to you, and hesitated before taking it.

“I’m not trying to impose on your life. I just want you to have help if you need it. No strings attached,” Jack said, filling the silence. You took the paper and shoved it into your back pocket. Jack gave you a tight smile and a nod, and left.

You weren’t given much time to ponder the interaction as the demands of your job quickly stole your focus away from Jack.

…

After work, after your commute home, and after your door fell out of its frame when you tried to enter your own home (you had forgotten it was no longer on its hinges), you were staring dumbly at your mattress-less bed frame. It took you a full minute to remember that your mattress was shoved against your basement door. You huffed, making your way to your couch, as there was no way you were going to bother with lugging your mattress up a flight of stairs after an 8 hour shift.

This was unsustainable. Your house was in shambles, your body scarred, and you were alone and ill equipped to handle any of this. You texted Jack before you could think better of it.

.

.

.

*Cue werewolf training montage*

Also cue Jack jumping up in down at excitement at getting a text.

“See, Ted? I knew she would text! I’m glad we stayed an extra night :D”

Feedback, criticism, comments, reblogs, and likes are all always appreciated. Please tell me what you think! I apparently forget about fics unless you guys hound (pun intended) me about them.

Tags: @starfirette, @nicolewithanee, @fangurldayandnight, @zakizigekwe, @for-bebbanburg, @missdragon-1, @howlingco, @arvalee-knight, @emiemiemiii, @spicydonut25, @sparkythefallen1, @girlymusiclover09, @pxl8ed, @littlenosoul, @lemmons1998, @may4ri, @i-am-iron-man-3000, @maxppt

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