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narnian-neverlander · 23 days ago

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The Haunting [Jason Todd x GN!Reader]

Preview: “You really never stopped searching… Never gave up…” It’s quiet, almost reverent - like he still can’t believe it, even though the proof is right there in front of him. And you can feel the sting of tears behind your eyes before you know it; no modulator to make him sound like a different man, a monster. No sobs racking his entire body, turning his voice hoarse and frantic. Just Jason. Exhausted and broken, but still Jason. Your Jason. Who sounds like he can’t fathom the idea of you caring enough, loving him enough, to dedicate your life to bringing him home.

Genre: hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending

Word Count: 7,9k

Warnings: mentions of canon typical violence & torture, erratic & unstable behavior and panic attack (Jason), mention of unintentional injuries and self harm (Reader)

A/N: One AK edit to this song back when the game came out and I’ve been obssessed since. Arkham Knight Jason, my broken, beautiful baby. Can y’all believe it’s been 10 years since this version of Jason became my favorite and I’m still not shutting up about him? Happy game release anniversary everybody where the fuck did the last decade go

If you use any of my works for AI I will hunt you down for sport 😬

You know something’s wrong the moment you unlock your apartment door and step inside. Nothing’s out of place, there are no lights on and you can’t hear anything either, but the chill crawling up your spine is enough of a warning that while you might not be consciously aware of any threats, your unconscious mind is most definitely screaming at you. So you drop your bag to the floor as gingerly and quietly as possible and immediately go for the gun taped under the couch table. Weapon held out in front of you, you creep around your dark apartment, mindful to make as little noise as possible. It’s a small place to begin with and there’s only so many spaces someone could truly hide if they wanted to - as it turns out though, the intruder isn’t trying to hide in the slightest: a dark figure, hunched over next to your bed, inspecting something on your bedside table.

“Just for the record, I wait tables at a greasy diner. Whatever big score you might be hoping for here, you’ll be sorely disappointed.” you quip as you cock the gun and aim. The figure turns around slowly, not cautiously, more so unbothered, standing to his full height and as the streetlights from outside filter through your blinds and glint off his armor you start to realize that you might be in way more trouble than you originally thought. He’s an absolute unit of a man, at least six foot with a broad frame to match, armored head to toe and two guns strapped to his thighs. Whoever he is, you’re definitely not looking at your run of the mill, Gothamite burglar and you feel your palms start to sweat as dread spikes. “Okay so I’m pretty sure I didn’t piss off anyone in power enough to warrant you,” you start, desperately trying to keep a cool demeanor and your voice from cracking, “so I think you might have the wrong apartment, buddy.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warped through the modulator in his helmet, as he crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side, glowing blue eyes fixed on you. “No, I’m exactly where I need to be, sweetheart.” You open your mouth to argue again, but he interrupts you with your full name, birthday, even your phone number.

Well, fuck.

“‘Kay, so you know an awful lot about me, but I know nothing about you or what you’re doing here. Kinda rude, don’t ya think?” You’re inching backwards as slowly as you can while you say it; you’re fairly certain there’s no way in hell you’ll be able to outrun him, but you’d rather take your chances running from him than having to fight him head on. “You realize I know where you live; how much good is running right now really gonna do you?” So much for that plan. You halt your steps, but keep your gun trained on him, forcing a wry smile. “Ah, you noticed. Good. Figured I’d assess how good you actually are before I take you down.” He spreads his arms out wide as an invitation. “Take your best shot. But just so we’re both on the same page, I’m not here to hurt you.” And you have no clue where you take the courage from, maybe just downright stupidity, but you actually have the guts to roll your eyes at that. “Well pardon me, your getup and the whole breaking and entering thing doesn’t exactly scream friendly neighborhood Nightwing.”

“Oh trust me, I’m nothing of the sort.” he states, taking a few heavy steps in your direction and you barely fight the urge to bolt. “But my fight’s not with you. I’m simply here to deliver a warning.” Furrowed brows are enough of an indication for him to keep going. “Get outta of Gotham before Halloween. Matter of fact, book it to the other side of the country and don’t come back.” The absolute shock actually makes you lower your gun just a fraction, staring at him in complete bewilderment. “I… what?”

Shrugging, he turns back towards your open window. “You’ve had your warning, take it or leave it. But when the storm hits, you’re not gonna be my responsibility.” And with that he moves to leave.

The fact that you grew up on Gotham’s streets and lived to tell the tale would not occur to anyone watching this unfold, since your sense of self preservation seems to have taken the day off.

Because you reach for him.

Grab a hold of his wrist and refuse to let go, your mouth working overtime before your brain can catch up. “Now hold on a second, you can’t just—“

He has you disarmed in two seconds flat, your body colliding with the wall next to the bed with a thud and a groan spilling from your lips; your weapon clatters to the ground as he pins your wrist next to your head, his other arm coming up across your throat and pressing down. A few long agonizing seconds of a standstill tick by; wide, scared eyes staring at the unflinching facade of his mask.

And then something shifts.

He lowers his arm letting you breathe again and while he doesn’t let go completely, his iron grip on your wrist lessens and he straightens up, putting some more distance between you both. Almost as if he hadn’t meant to hurt you. Almost like you’d simply startled him and he’d acted on instinct.

You take some trembling breaths to try and collect yourself before you speak again. “Alright, let’s say for a moment that I believe your Good Samaritan act. Why me? Out of all the people in Gotham, why do I get a warning? What makes me so special?” He doesn’t answer right away, like he’s considering if he should at all, but then, “Consider it a courtesy call for old time’s sake.”

You repeat that last part under breath, brain already kicking into overdrive to figure out what on earth he’s talking about. And it’s easy enough to miss, easy enough to write it off as trivial and innocent, the way his fingers shift and his thumb repeatedly brushes over the gold bracelet on your wrist almost fondly. No, you can’t possibly disregard that, not with they way your heart familiarly stutters like it always had when he’d done that. You glance over at the pictures on your nightstand - what you’d found him looking at when you first entered the apartment.

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

It can’t be.

After all the time you’d spent searching, all the sleepless nights, all the tears - he can’t just be standing in front you right now.

“Take off the mask…” it’s nothing more than a whisper, but in the quiet of the room it’s still too loud. Too poignant.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t react in any way you’d be able to see, so you repeat yourself, louder this time. No longer asking, but demanding.

“What difference would it make? You won’t know the man underneath anymore.”

“Bullshit,” you hiss, somewhere between utter disbelief and hysteria. “I never forgot about you.”

He scoffs as he lets you go and grabs the picture frame off your bedside table instead, mockingly waving it in front your face. “Clearly. You didn’t forget, but you gave up on me just like the rest of them.”

Tears burn in your eyes while the lump forming in your throat threatens to choke you. “That’s not true, I didn’t—“

“Don’t you dare lie to me!!” he shouts, chucking the frame he’s still holding across the room in a fit of rage and you flinch back from him right as it shatters into dozens of pieces against a wall. “How long did it take you, huh? To write me off as nothing more than a memory? Cherished in theory, because sure that’s easy, but actually trying to find me was just too much work in the long run, wasn’t it!? I just wasn’t worth the effort!”

You don’t answer, simply stare at him with big, hurt eyes, tears now flowing freely down your cheeks and he pretends he doesn’t care. He’s right after all and he knows it and there’s nothing you could possibly say that would—

“The abandoned wing under Arkham. That’s where that monster had you.”

And he just about feels his brain short circuit and his heart stop. He couldn’t have heard you right.

“What?”

He doesn’t even realize he said it out loud, not until you push past him and he just lets you, frozen to the spot, as you throw open the doors to your closet, pushing the clothes aside and pulling on the string that hangs from the ceiling, the single, dim lightbulb slowly flickering to life and giving him a full view of the back wall.

And it’s all right there. Connected with actual, literal red string stretched between case files and pictures.

The explosion at the warehouse where he’d been taken. Dozens of Joker’s old hideouts, all investigated and discarded. And upon closer inspection as he steps forward, photographs of his ‘room’ under Arkham, right beside lab reports proving that the blood found down there was his. There are blurry, staticky pics of a security cam, showing a man with dark hair in the classic orange jumpsuit prisoners received, encountering Deathstroke the night Joker had taken over the asylum. He rips a piece of paper off the wall, dated not more than a month ago, that clearly places the mercenary in Venezuela, heading some form of military operation - and underlined several times, encircled in bright red, the fact that he’s working for someone calling themselves the Arkham Knight.

“I never gave up on you.” he hears you reiterate somewhere behind him, voice shaky and choked up. “I was just… always one step behind.”

The version of you that Crane’s toxin had created wasn’t real; the version of you that had used him and his relationship to Bruce as a stepping stone into higher education and a better life for yourself, while leaving him behind, because he was beneath you now. But the version of you he’d created in his own mind while imprisoned wasn’t real either. The you that had always had the brightest, sharpest mind he’d ever seen, the you that must’ve figured it out even if Batman couldn’t. The you that would walk through those damn doors instead of the clown and come save him, surely. Eventually.

No, the real you he’d found working at the diner that was to be ground zero for Gotham’s downfall; dreams of becoming an architect clearly abandoned. He should’ve stayed away after seeing you there, you were a distraction, a dangerous one, and yet he’d kept going back, always in a corner booth, in the section of one of your coworkers, always with his hood up, making sure you wouldn’t recognize him. And he’d learned plenty about the person you’d become in his absence. Had learned that you still wear the bracelet he stole for you years ago cause he’d caught you longingly looking at it every time you’d passed that shop. Had learned that you still celebrate his birthday, taking his favorite muffins out of the display case at work, telling your coworker that you couldn’t go drinking tonight cause you had a birthday to attend - meanwhile he hadn’t even realized what day it was. He’d learned that the real you had gone little to no contact with Bruce and the rest of the family, if the aggravation and shouting matches whenever one of them showed up at the diner to check on you were anything to go by. The real you rarely went out anymore, always straight home after work, a few exceptions to the rule only to get drunk and hook up with guys that looked like him - at least that’s what Barbara had hurled at you when one of your arguments had gotten too heated, too personal. He’d seen the immediate regret on her face and the hurt on yours, but the damage had been done.

He’d felt a sick sense of satisfaction at the time; knowing that you were willingly letting his memory torture you. That you failed him and now you were stuck with his ghost forever haunting you. Yeah, that had felt good, like poetic justice.

But now?

Now he feels shame rising in the back of his throat like bile, burning and threatening to choke him.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

After all the time he’d spent convincing himself that you left him, that you just didn’t care enough… you’d given up on living your life trying to save his?

“Jason…” you start, quiet and gentle as not to spook him and he slightly turns his head over his shoulder in your general direction, indicating that he’s listening. “Whatever it is you’re planning to do, you don’t have to—“

“Don’t call me that.” he growls, but there’s no bite to it; his previous anger has dissipated and now, even with the modulator, he just sounds exhausted. Defeated.

“But it’s your name…” you insist and he barks out a laugh, bitter and broken, accompanied by a burst of static from his helmet.

“Jason Todd died in that hole under Arkham, along with Robin. There’s only the Arkham Knight, now.”

A sob forces itself out of your throat wether you like it or not and even though you know it’s a horrible idea, you reach for him again, only to have him recoil from you. Your heart’s been held together by nothing but sheer force of will and spite the past years, but seeing him like this, hearing him talk about himself like he did in fact die even though he’s right there and having to see him back away from your touch like a wounded, cornered animal is too much. Pulling yourself together as much as humanly possible, for his sake more than anything else, you try again.

“Jason, please. Just… stay, alright? Stay here with me and I promise we can fix this.”

“I can fix it!!” he roars, whirling around to face you again and you inadvertently take a step back. “I know now what to do and it doesn’t. Involve. You. Get out of the the city. Or don’t. Either way, I don’t care what happens to you.”

You manage to shake off some of the grief and fear weighing you down, wipe a sleeve over your eyes and stand up a little straighter to stare him down, defiance burning in your eyes. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here. And I’m not going anywhere without you.” He gazes back at you, unreadable and unflinching, before moving back over to the window. “Suit yourself.”

And then he’s gone. No trace left behind, no way of finding him - and it all feels so much like back then, you feel your knees give out beneath you. Your back makes contact with the wall, sliding down until you’re sat on the carpeted floor of your bedroom, knees pulled up to your chest and letting yourself sob and scream at the top of your lungs as your heart finally shatters in your chest.

You don’t get much sleep that night. Or the night after that. Or any night until Halloween finally rolls around some weeks later and Scarecrow unleashes hell upon the city. True to your word, you didn’t leave, but you’re not stupid enough to completely ignore a warning, either. You’d reinforced all entry points to your apartment as best as you could and had stocked up on supplies - none of which would do you any good if the fear gas managed to creep in somewhere. Granted, there’d been no reports of any major attacks in your general area, but you’d rather be safe than sorry. You’d only ever heard stories about the things Jonathan Crane’s toxin made people see and do and you have absolutely no interest in experiencing it first hand. So now there’s a flashlight tucked between your teeth, because of course the power in your building had gone out hours ago, focused on shoving towels and old shirts into any cracks you can find and simply consider yourself lucky that with all the riots and looters running amok, this is your only possible problem.

And then there’s a crash from your bedroom, clearly the sound of a window shattering, followed by a heavy thud of something - or someone - hitting the floor. Adrenaline kicks in and you immediately grab the gun from the back of your pants and sneak towards the noise. Whoever it is isn’t bothering to even try and be quiet or conceal their presence; you can hear shuffling, the crunch of glass under the person’s weight and—

Are… are those sobs?

With quiet steps, you creep around the last corner to peak into your bedroom and sure enough, there’s a person on the floor, back against the foot of your bed and crying loud enough for you to clearly hear. You’ve still got your gun raised when the neon sign on the store across the street flickers back to life, bathing your room in red and blue for only a moment, before it dies again like it has been doing all night, but it’s enough - enough for you to recognize the armor and at first you’re certain Crane’s toxin got to you after all.

One. Two. Three deep breaths is how long it takes for your feet to finally unstick from the floor and slowly, carefully, carry you forward, terrified that he’ll vanish into thin air again or turn into something worse if you get too close. A quiet call of his name, maybe too quiet, because he doesn’t react, simply continues to weep, head in his hands, only interrupted by his own incoherent mumbling. You try again, a little louder this time, but are met with the same result. You don’t want to risk touching him, not after what happened last time, but you have to do something.

“Breathe… I-I can’t… Can’t breathe…” he stutters out and next thing you know he yanks off his helmet to carelessly toss it aside and it comes to a rolling stop at the tip of your boot; cracked, broken static flickering up at you against a glowing, faceless red. “Didn’t… d-didn’t know where else to go…” It makes your head snap back up because that? Yeah, maybe you can work with that.

“Okay… you didn’t know where to go but here. Do you… do you know where here is? Do you know where you are? Jason?”

He doesn’t answer right away and you start to feel sweat beading at the back of your neck in anxiety and concern, because while you want to help, of course you do, you truly have no idea what you’re doing. If maybe you’re just making things worse. And against the backdrop of screams and gun shots and manic laughter that now filters in from the streets freely through your broken window his answer is so quiet, you almost miss it. “Your apartment…” You nod in encouragement, even though he’s not even looking at you; head hung low, hands fisted in his hair. “Yeah, that’s right. Do you know how you got here? Where you were, what you were doing before?”

He dissolves into quiet mumbling again, yet you can clearly make out the word ‘Failed…’ over and over again. When carefully questioned, he admits to having failed what he set out to do tonight: to kill the Bat. To kill Bruce. “He did this to me and I couldn’t even— I couldn’t—“ You watch him beat his fists against his skull in frustration and anger and only barely resist the urge to grab a hold of them and stop him from hurting himself, lest you accidentally, unintentionally cause more harm. Thankfully it doesn’t last, gloved fingers instead threading through his hair again, anxiously tugging at the dark strands and you recognize it as a nervous habit he’s always had. Despite the circumstances, it’s what makes you breathe a little easier, lessens the fears and feeling of helplessness, because this is still Jason. Your Jason, who you’ve calmed down and talked out of fits of rage and self deprecating rants a hundred times over - you can do this.

“You’re right, you did fail.” you start and watch him go completely still at your words, almost as if in shock and you’d hate for him to get the wrong idea of where you’re going with this, so you quickly continue speaking. “Failed to be what that monster tried to turn you into and god I hope his pasty faced ashes are rotating in his fucking grave. And I know it’s not fair, shit, it’s not fair that he ruined you just to spite the Bat, but in the end you didn’t let him make you his weapon, his final laugh. You gave him one last middle finger even though the asshole’s already dead and fuck if that isn’t the most Jason Todd thing to do, I dunno what is.” You chuckle quietly, sniffing as you wipe a sleeve over your eyes. “Proves to me that the boy I grew up with is still in there. A little different, a little bruised, a little bit broken, sure - but he’s still here and he’s certainly not beyond repair.”

Another sob racks his whole body and while you can’t pinpoint it as a good or bad sign, you decide to push this angle, distract from the events of tonight and focus on something else instead, so you go to grab something off your nightstand and carefully kneel down in front of him as close as you dare, broken glass shards everywhere be damned. “I don’t wanna talk about them, though, I don’t care about either of the two, I care about you. Could you take a look at this and tell me what you remember about it?”

The picture you slide over to him has seen better days for sure, wrinkles and slight tears at the edges, made worse when he’d smashed the frame it had been in not too long ago. And despite your doubts, despite the way he flinches when you slowly slide the paper over to him like it’s gonna eat him alive, he picks it up with shaky fingers.

Jason half expects the picture to be an exact copy of the last one that had been shoved in his face: Batman with his new Robin. Instead, he finds himself staring back him, younger, without all the scars, a spark in his eyes and an easy grin on his lips. The sight alone is enough to make the scar on his face burn like it had that first day and if not for the other person in the photograph, he probably would’ve torn it to pieces right here and now. All bright eyes and happy smile, you radiate joy - as someone should on their birthday. And you’d made the best of it, as good as two Gotham street rats could make a birthday: you’d stolen some six packs and cupcakes from a corner store, had gotten drunk on a rooftop somewhere. He remembers how he’d barely stopped you from toppling off the edge while making fun of Bruce Wayne and proclaiming that your name would be on the biggest building in this city one day. How kissing you for the first time had felt. He remembers it all, surprisingly clearly, too, but that’s all it is: a memory. The people in that picture no longer exist, after all. He had taken all the pain and the blackness the Joker instilled in him and had reforged himself, into something different. Something horrible. And unwittingly, he’d dragged you down into the abyss right along side him. You’ve become a broken shell, a shadow, of the quick-witted, ambitious person you used to be - and it’s all his fault. All your energy and time and resources, you’d wasted them on him in the last few years instead of building a better life for yourself, like you should’ve. Growing up on Gotham’s streets, never knowing where your next meal or shelter was gonna come from, being threatened, beaten and left on a street corner to bleed out - none of that had ever managed to break you. Out of all the hardships in your life, he’d been the one to to finally break you, make you lose yourself. You would’ve been better off if you’d never met him.

“Jason?”

It’s soft and careful and concerned and it makes him wanna throw up because he doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve you treating him kindly after what he put you through.

“I just… I just wanna help. Please let me help you.”

‘Jason, I can help you!’

‘There’s no helping me!’

He flinches at the memory, at the desperation and grief he’d seen even through the mask and curls into himself even further. He doesn’t wanna see the same look on your face. Doesn’t wanna see it morph into disappointment when you realize that there is no helping the boy you still have your heart set on saving - that Bruce had wanted to save - because he’s long dead.

“Jason, I… I know I failed you and you have every right to be angry, but please just… just gimme a chance.”

What a joke. He’s the only failure here. He’d worked towards one thing and one thing only for the past years and when it had come down to it, he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bring himself to kill the Bat. And that’s not even the worst of it, because he’d failed you, too. Had stolen years of your life without even knowing, with no way of ever giving them back to you. The best thing, the only thing, he could do for you now is to leave you be. To get out of your life for good and never look back. To finally set you free from the curse his existence had put on you. And maybe, just maybe, he could still do something for Bruce, too.

He staggers to his feet, reaching for his helmet with shaky hands while he does, refusing to lift his head to look at you until it’s securely back in place, the crack vanishing from its’ surface with a few practiced pushes of a button on the side. “I should go. I never should’ve come here in the first place.” It makes you push up from the floor so fast, you feel a glass shard slice your palm open in your hurry, yet it doesn’t truly register. Not when the cold dread that runs down your spine at his words stings so much worse. “Wait, wait, no, absolutely not. You’re not in any state to be going out there on your own, don’t—“

“Scarecrow isn’t done.” he interrupts, “This is all my fault, I’ve gotta— If I don’t do something, he’s going to— I have to go.” His voice is steady, calm, sure of himself and it gives you pause. His entire demeanor seems to have changed, compared to when you first found him. More present, put together. It lessens the horror of having to think about him just vanishing again, if only the slightest bit. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek anxiously, looking him up and down, trying to assess wether or not you can let him leave in good conscience. His helmet gives off a slight glow, red and ominous, and not for the first time you find yourself wishing you could see his face. To be able to read him easier - to be able to ensure yourself that this is real. Swallowing thickly around all the protests and fears rising in your throat, you cross your arms over your chest and dig your nails into your arms so hard it stings as you shrug. “It’s not like I’m going to keep you here against your will, Jason. If you want to leave, you’re free to.”

Right. Right, you couldn’t, even if you tried - not that you ever would. You’re not… him and Jason’s not a prisoner here, he has to remind himself. He came here of his own accord because… because some part of him, however small, still knows he’s safe here. Because he’s with you. It’s not something he’s had or felt in a long time and it makes leaving so much harder, because he knows he won’t be coming back. He already has one leg up on your windowsill, halfway out onto the fire escape when you call out to him again.

“Could you… can you please come back? When it’s over? You don’t have to stay, just so I’ll know you’re alright?” Your eyes keep flicking over to your closet, its’ doors wide open and your investigations on full display.

He takes a long, yearning glance at the picture he’s still holding onto.

He should. He owes you some form of peace of mind, if nothing else. But he’s not sure he’d be able to bring himself to leave you again if he does. So he’ll stay away, for your sake. Maybe, if he’s lucky, you’ll end up hating him for it. You should.

“Yeah, yeah, I… I’ll come back.”

And even with the helmets’ modulator, even with the time you’ve spent apart, even accounting for the fact that he’s definitely not quite the same person you grew up with, you know he’s lying.

For the sake of your sanity, you internally convince yourself he’s not.

But he’s not back by the time you can hear the sirens of the GCPD echo through the streets, rolling out to retake their city. He’s not back by the time the power in your building flickers back to life, just in time for you to watch Wayne Manor go up in flames on the news. And he’s not back by the time the sun slowly starts to creep up over the city’s skyline, blocked out by clouds and smoke and drenching everything in a dull, gray light. Fitting, after the night Gotham’s had, you suppose. After the night you’ve had. You busy yourself with haphazardly patching up the wound on your hand and then getting your apartment back to its’ original state; granted, maybe a tad too early considering the city’s still in a state of chaos, but you need something to keep you occupied, to keep your mind from wandering. You don’t want to think about having to keep up that god forsaken evidence board in your closet. About more weeks and months and years of searching. About lying awake night after night, not knowing wether he’s dead or alive - or worse. You’re oh so tired of the vicious cycle you’ve trapped yourself in, yet you’re not sure you have the strength to break it.

The sound of glass crunching underfoot coming from your bedroom rips you out of your thoughts and had you been thinking a bit more clearly, you would’ve grabbed your gun off the couch table before going to investigate. But your mind’s a jumbled, frantic mess and so you rush over immediately, loud and entirely unprepared should it be anyone else but who you’re hoping, praying, for.

No armor this time, but sneakers, jeans and a red hoodie. You recognize his frame anyways: the way his shoulders seem permanently hunched over, the way he still hides his face from view, this time under the brim of a baseball cap, peeking out from under the hood of his sweater. He’s standing in the mess of broken glass from last night, gaze fixed on your open closet. Your breathing’s shallow and quick as you approach slowly, terrified that he’ll bolt again if you startle him, meanwhile your heart hammers against your ribs painfully, like it’s trying to claw its’ way out of your chest to get to him. You stop by his side, keeping a mindful distance between you, and even though you want to see him more than anything else, you refrain from from trying to get a look at his face. He’s been doing nothing but hide since that first night he came to see you again weeks ago and you’re not about to force him out; you’d only be pushing him further away. Instead, you keep your gaze locked forward, distracting yourself with following the red string with your eyes, like you don’t know the pattern it creates by heart at this point.

“You really never stopped searching… Never gave up…”

It’s quiet, almost reverent - like he still can’t believe it, even though the proof is right there in front of him. And you can feel the sting of tears behind your eyes before you know it; no modulator to make him sound like a different man, a monster. No sobs racking his entire body, turning his voice hoarse and frantic. Just Jason. Exhausted and broken, but still Jason. Your Jason. Who sounds like he can’t fathom the idea of you caring enough, loving him enough, to dedicate your life to bringing him home. It’s that last thought that makes the tears fall and that forces a bitter, self deprecating scoff out of your throat.

“For all the good it did you…” you rasp, running a hand through your hair as you take a few steps forward to rest your forehead against the back wall of your closet. “I tried, but I was… always just one step behind. Never quite smart enough, never quite fast enough; no matter what I did it was just never enough!” Your voice rises in pitch and volume despite your best efforts to keep calm, a fist colliding with the wall hard enough to send some papers fluttering to the ground.

Even in the dim, sparse, natural light bleeding into the room through the blinds, Jason can see the dried blood on the wall now, the scratches in the wood clearly created by fingernails. He can almost see you now, standing right where you are now, literally clawing at the walls in desperation and defeat, nails a broken and bloody mess, like you’d find the answers right behind those old wooden boards if you just managed to dig deep enough. He feels his fingers twitch, like they’re itching to reach out and take yours, to make sure you can’t hurt yourself again. Especially not for his sake. The impulse is there, but he doesn’t follow through, instead opting to run a finger along the picture he took earlier that night, now safely tucked away in his hoodie pocket. Fuck, he shouldn’t even be here. He’d promised himself to let you have your life back, and yet here he stands, selfish bastard that he is. He could pretend he’s only here to let you know he’s alright; that he can look after himself, he’s no longer your responsibility, he never should’ve been in the first place, and that you can move on with your life with a clear conscience - but that would be a lie. Cause when the sun had come up, shedding first light on the carnage and chaos and despair he’d created, all he’d wanted to do was hide. Hide from what he’d done, from what he’d become and his first thought had been to go to you. Because with you he’s safe, even from himself and the demons constantly clawing at the edges of his mind and he can’t… he doesn’t want to lose that, not again.

“I know I wasn’t there when you would’ve needed me most and I’ll never forgive myself for that, but I’m still so, so sorry Jason. I know saying that isn’t gonna help fix anything, but I… I dunno. Still felt I had to say it.”

You receive no answer, not that you expect one, because what is he supposed to say? ‘It’s fine’? It’s not, you know it isn’t and no amount of apologizing is gonna make it alright. You half expect him to just leave, maybe he’ll already be gone when you turn back around. He’d come back to show you he’s still alive, that’s all you’d asked for - he doesn’t owe you anything else, after all.

“You’re here now.”

He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t say it - can’t or won’t, you’re not sure - but you understand anyways. Understand the unspoken words hanging between you.

I need you now.

You turn and approach him and slowly, carefully, as not to spook him and also to give you some more time to think about what to say. The second he hears you step closer, he pulls the brim of his hat down further and angles his face away from you and it sends a painful sting right to your heart. Coming to a halt about a foot in front of him, you gently and quietly ask if you can see his face. When he doesn’t react, you continue with how much you’ve missed him, that you’d like nothing more than to finally see him again, but that he doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to; it’s his choice and you won’t force him. You hesitate and ultimately decide against telling him that you know. That you’ve seen the tapes the clown had kept sending; watched them over and over until you’d thrown up, until you’d grown almost numb to the senseless torture and suffering. You’d had to; if you’d missed even the tiniest clue, the slimmest chance of finding him, just because you couldn’t stomach the blood and screams, you wouldn’t have been able to look him in the eye again once you’d found him. But all the horrible wounds that will undoubtedly have left nasty, ugly scars by now? You couldn’t care less, but he clearly believes you would.

The quiet between you isn’t awkward or oppressive, instead calm and welcome, and you’re being so patient and reassuring, he eventually caves. Pushes the hood back and takes off the cap with a sigh, carelessly dropping it to the ground, before anxiously running a hand through his black hair as he finally brings his eyes to yours. A whole range of emotions flashes across your face, all there and gone before he can identify any of them, but he most definitely didn’t expect for you to settle on simple relief and affection, a soft smile and eyes glossy with tears. “There you are, beautiful. Finally back home with me, finally mine again.”

‘He’s mine. Mine, mine, mine. To do with as I wish.’

He doesn’t mean to, but it’s pure instinct, the way he flinches away from you, from your words, because he expects another shotgun shell to the chest to follow. When he manages to will himself to look at you again, he almost bolts right out your broken window, because you look so lost. So hurt. And of course it’s his fault again.

“I-I’m sorry, Jay, I didn’t know— I didn’t mean to—“

“‘S not your fault…” he croaks, throat tight and mouth dry.

Meanwhile you feel like bashing your fists against a wall in frustration over and over and over again, until your knuckles are sore and bleeding like you’ve done so many times while searching for him, because maybe then you’ll be able to understand a fraction of the pain and suffering he’s had to endure. He’s right here; you finally have him back and yet you still have no clue what to do, how to help.

Pathetic.

Useless.

He’d be better off without you.

The same voices that have been taunting you for years rear their ugly heads again, but one look at the man in front of you is enough to ultimately find the strength to tell them to go shut the fuck up. This isn’t about you.

“Will you be okay if I touch you right now…?” you ask, deciding to throw caution to the wind.

He immediately shakes his head. “I… I dunno…”

So you rephrase your question. “Can I touch you?”

This time it takes him longer to answer, hesitation and uncertainty radiating off of him in waves, yet you can heave a sigh of relief when he slowly nods. Carefully, gently you reach up to cup his cheek and try as you might you can’t seem to get your fingers to stop shaking. The touch is feather light, barely even there and while he doesn’t back away, every muscle in his body goes tense and he screws his eyes shut, instinctively prepared for more pain and it forces you to harshly swallow around the lump that forms in your throat at the sight before you speak again.

“It’s just me, Jay. The same annoying, clingy little shit that latched on to you when we were kids that you haven’t been able to get rid off since. I’m not gonna hurt you and I’ll be damned if I ever let anyone lay a hand on you again.” Your voice is firm, steady, the shaking in your hands has ceased and while he hasn’t opened his eyes, he seems to have calmed down and it encourages you to be bolder; to bring your other hand to his face as well, gently thumbing over the ‘J’ branded into his skin. “You’re safe here. You’re home.”

Home.

Someplace warm. Someplace safe.

Someplace where he’s needed. Someplace where he’s loved.

It’s like something shifts, breaks; his entire body goes slack, all but lurching forward into your hold and you almost stumble backward from the sheer unexpected weight of him, but you manage to catch yourself, catch him, quickly adjusting your hold on him, one hand drawing soothing patterns into the small of his back, the other buried in his hair at the nape of his neck as his own arms wind around you and squeeze tight enough to hurt and steal the breath from your lungs, like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t cling to you like a lifeline, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You simply hold him tight, listening to his breaths go from shallow and trembling to deep and calm, feeling hot, wet tears soaking the fabric of your shirt over your collar bone.

“I can stay…?” he rasps, your heart cracking at his tone, quiet and uncertain, poised for rejection. “Of course, as long as you need - or want.”

He swallows thickly. “I’m gonna be nothing but work.” You choke out a sound somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, turning your face to nuzzle into his hair. “What, like you’ve ever been anything else? Please, I’m perfectly capable of handling you, my love.” Gently teasing, like you used to, yet you feel him tense up again at the nickname. “I’m… I’m not the same person you knew, the man you loved…” A deep inhale as you pull back to look at him again, one hand to his chest to feel for his steady, if slightly elevated, heartbeat, the other back to his scarred cheek and you feel your heart soar in happiness when you see him lean into your touch, eyes closed, because for once he doesn’t have to watch his back constantly, not with you right here. “I know that. All I’m asking for is the chance to get to know you again.” Long lashes flutter against his cheeks as he blinks his baby blues open, glossed over with unshed tears, accompanied by a barely there huff of a laugh, nothing more than an exhale through his nose. “I don’t even know who I am anymore…”

“We can figure it out together.” Voice firm and filled with resolve while you pull back to put some distance between you two; you could feel him start to tremble under your touch and you’re unsure if you’re grounding or overwhelming him. You simply don’t know what he needs right now, or at all, but you’d learn again. Until then, you’d leave the choice wether or not to reach out, to accept touch and support, up to him. With that in mind, you offer a hand to him, earning a confused gaze flicking between your eyes and your outstretched hand. “Ya know what? It’s been… a night. How about we talk about everything else over breakfast? You hungry?”

It’s such a normal, downright domestic question, and it feels so utterly surreal Jason almost laughs. He takes a few more very long seconds to mull it over, not that he’s in any state to make any truly rational, well thought out decisions currently. Not when you’re right here, smiling at him like you used to, eyes soft, but pleading. Then he drops the duffel bag with the Knights’ gear to the floor with a sigh and kicks it into your closet, reaching for your hand right after and you immediately weave your fingers through his happily. It’s stupid, downright ridiculous, he thinks, that despite his own fingers being scarred and permanently crooked and bent in odd ways from being broken one too many times, they still fit into yours perfectly.

“I don’t think you’re gonna find any place up and running to deliver breakfast right now; not even Gotham recovers that quick.” he states. The light and conversational tone is foreign and awkward to him, he feels like an imposter, a monster only playing house, but the smug smile that is so very you he’s rewarded with quiets the harsh voices in his mind to an annoying, but ignorable whisper. “I was gonna make us something, smartass.”

“I didn’t survive this long just for your cooking to be what does me in, you know.”

You blink at him owlishly, once, twice, three times.

He just cracked wise. Like he always had with you. And yeah, the smile on his face is barely even there, just the slightest upturn of the corners of his mouth, not to mention it doesn’t reach his eyes, but he’s trying. For you. It feels like the first glimpse at the real man behind all the pain and rage and arrogance he put up as a front to parade around with and it’s such a relief, a laugh bubbles out of your throat before you can stop it, which immediately puts you back on guard, your body winding like a spring in anticipation and worry - you’re certain he’s heard enough laughter to last him a lifetime. If he’s bothered by it though, he doesn’t show it, only squeezes your hand a little tighter in reassurance, for himself or you, you’ll never know.

Unbeknownst to you, it’s the first laugh in years that he in fact doesn’t mind. The urge to cower, to bolt, to hide is there at first yes, but it ebbs away, because your laugh is different. Soothing, not haunting. He still knows it, remembers it, and it was never accompanied by anything but joy - it wouldn’t be any different now. After all, he’s safe with you. He’s home.

“I’ll have you know that I got better at cooking, you asshole. I uh… I asked Alfred to teach me some things. Wasn’t particularly gifted, but I can whip up some mean scrambled eggs and a decent banana bread by now.” You feel your heart skip an actual beat when his smile grows just the tiniest bit at your defiant teasing. “Right. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Well, come on then.” you state with an eye roll, your own smile firmly in place as you slowly, gently tug him from the room, him following oh so willingly, the Arkham Knight along with your hunt for Robins’ ghost left forgotten in the back of your closet.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #arkham knight x reader #angst #hurt/comfort #jason todd #red hood #arkham knight #arkhamverse #dc #dc comics #batfamily

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narnian-neverlander · 25 days ago

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i did both versions hehhe

#autopsy scar AND top surgery scars???#my life is yours #jason todd #red hood #dc #dc comics #batfamily

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narnian-neverlander · 26 days ago

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Jason Todd with a significant other who is kind and patient with him, but is also the most blunt person he’s ever met - and not in the same defensive, snarky way that he is. No, blunt as in brutually honest and without a filter about everything, including your relationship.

And yeah, considering communication and sharing his own feelings aren’t exactly his strong suits, he’s glad for it, cause if there’s something not sitting right with you, at least he’ll know immediately and can work on it. He’s used to always having to fix things, after all.

But then there’s the other things you say like it’s no big deal. He’s not sure what to do with any of that, cause he’s just not used to someone being on his side, someone quite literally shouting his self loathing and doubts into submission for him when necessary. What he does know is you’re about to put him in an early second grave, cause he swears his heart just about gives out with the stuff that comes out of your mouth at times.

“This is your home now, too, why wouldn’t you have your own space in the closet?”

“Hm? Oh yeah, I asked Alfred to give me the recipes for your favorite dishes; I won’t have you be the only one who cooks around here.”

“Wait you actually think I’d be turned off by your scars? You’re normally such a smart, observant man, how the fuck are you this oblivious??”

“Of course I worry when I don’t hear from you for days!! I’m not telling you to call me every hour, but put a freaking note on the fridge next time you leave the country god damnit!!”

“So I know you just got back from patrol and are probably tired, but before you take off all your gear, how are we feeling about you bending me over the kitchen counter in full costume, yes or no?”

“Jason Peter Todd, you’re not setting another foot down those stairs until I’ve had my goodbye kiss!”

“Don’t you fucking dare pull the whole ‘I’m putting you in danger, you’d be better off without me’ crap; you’d have bled out two times in the last month alone if not for me, so get your dramatic ass in bed before I put it there myself.”

If all of that weren’t enough, Jason will most definitely never forget the time you’d stared down Batman, not Bruce Wayne, but the literal fucking Batman, cowl and all, the figure that strikes fear into the hearts of hardened criminals and super villains alike, and had told him to maybe spend some more time down on the streets instead of above them before he lectures him about morals again, otherwise you’d shove his stupid cape so far up his ass, he’d be tasting Kevlar for weeks.

And maybe, just maybe, ever since then, Jason is inconspicuously sneaking glances at rings any time you two walk past a jewelry store.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #jason todd #red hood #dc #dc comics #batfamily

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narnian-neverlander · 1 month ago

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Jason Todd who isn’t particularly big on using pet names.

He’ll call you a shortened version of your name or some silly nickname based on an inside joke you two came up with when you were kids, occasionally something classic and simple like ‘babe’ or ‘sweetheart’ or ‘beautiful’ and every once in a while he’ll resort to ‘pipsqueak’, but that’s only when he wants to get under your skin and annoy you, cause let’s be honest, you are smaller than him in every possible way. The fact that a pip-squeak was an instrument used by aircraft to find their way back home and you are his home is just coincidence of course

And you respect that he’s not into the whole pet name thing - just cause he isn’t constantly calling you some cutesy nickname doesn’t mean he loves you any less - and stick to just about the same pattern with him. With some exceptions, naturally.

Exceptions that have him physically startling the first time you say something along the lines of, ‘You know when you’re gonna be home tonight, my light?’ That have him doing a double take any time you call him ‘angel’.

At first he thinks you’re just messing with him, teasing him; it’s what you two do after all. But your eyes are always too soft, too gentle, affection written all over your pretty features, so in time he understands that you’re being perfectly serious. And it’s not like he actually minds - not if the flutter of his heart is anything to go by whenever he hears you call him either one. But he’s still trying to figure out what on earth possessed you to choose these terms of endearment for him. Him.

He never asks, doesnt dare to, isn’t sure he truly wants to hear what your answer would be - yet you can tell he’s curious. And if he ever does decide to question you, you’ll tell him he’s your guiding light when everything else in your world goes dark, that you consider him your very own guardian angel who will always be right there when you need him. It’s true enough.

He doesn’t have to know about the time Roy dropped him off at your doorstep, completely and utterly wasted; an unusually talkative Jason now your problem and most definitely too drunk to remember how, in the midst of rambling about how much he loves you, had casually revealed that his own little heaven, the one the Lazarus pit had ripped him right out of, hadn’t actually been perfect cause you weren’t there.

He’ll never know that you cried yourself to sleep that night, clutching onto his body for dear life, and absolutely hating yourself, cause this entire time you’d been too busy being happy that the universe had decided to give him back to you, too wrapped up in the sheer selfishness of being grateful to have him back by your side, you never stopped to consider that maybe… maybe he’d been happier dead. He’d been torn out of literal paradise, thrust back into a miserable existence he never asked for and all the people who were supposed to welcome him back with open arms decided to see was the failed, fallen, broken Robin; a monster come back from the grave to be a permanent, ugly, dark stain on the Bat’s legacy.

Well, not to you. Never to you. Not when being in his arms damn well feels like what you imagine an angels’ wings’ embrace would be like. So you’ll call him your angel, even if he looks at you like you’ve gone insane every time you do - he was one once, after all and he still is to you.

#randomly remembered that jason got torn outta heaven when he was resurrected so this happened #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #childhood friends to lovers #hurt/comfort #jason todd #red hood #dc #dc comics #batfamily

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narnian-neverlander · 2 months ago

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Batman: After everything you’ve done, how will you sleep at night?

Red Hood: Next to my wife.

#jason loves epic pry it outta my cold dead hands #also wyfilwma is such a jason and his s/o coded song IT HURTS IN ALL THE RIGHT WAYS #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #incorrect quotes #epic the musical #jason todd #red hood #dc #dc comics #batfamily

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narnian-neverlander · 2 months ago

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Jason Todd, in all his 6’ 1’’ and 220 lbs glory, who likes to throw his weight around - quite literally, to your absolute dismay.

Jason Todd, who will put things on shelves just outta your reach, simply so he can offer to get them down for you, gentleman that he is, with a smug grin on his face - but only if you ask nicely, of course.

Jason Todd, who, completely out of the blue, will decide to use you as a support, like he’s just casually leaning against a wall, and not his significant other who barely manages to stay upright; arms crossed over his broad chest as he asks if something’s the matter in a chipper tone, while you struggle not to go down.

Jason Todd, who will just flop himself down on top of you when you’re curled up on the bed or couch, big arms locking around you to keep you trapped, no matter how many times you complain that his dumb ass is squishing you. You swear he makes himself heavier on purpose when he does this, but of course you can’t prove that.

Jason Todd, who uses his height and weight to be a menace and pester you from time to time, cause he thinks you’re adorable when you’re annoyed.

And then there’s the times when it isn’t about the teasing.

The times when a mission went south and he couldn’t safe someone. When he got hurt beyond just the regular bruises and cuts you’ve come to expect after almost every patrol. When a spat with his family turned into something more bitter and vile. When the damn heater in your old apartment is out yet again and the cold from Gotham’s freezing winters comes creeping in through the cracks.

The times when he’s reminded of your childhood: curled up with you under newspapers in some back alley, old soggy cardboard beneath you both, trying to keep some semblance of warmth, knuckles raw and scabbed from his last fight and stomach so empty it stings almost as bad the cold.

During those times, there’s no snarky comments or mischievous glint in his green eyes, just slumped shoulders and a shadow over his handsome face and everything about him screams defeat and weariness. It’s in the way he doesn’t actually drop himself on purpose, but instead collapses on top of you more than anything else, an invisible weight weighing heavily on him. In the way his arms come around you, tighter than usual, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise as he hides his face in the crook of your neck.

Somehow, oddly, sadly enough, those moments are easier to handle than his teasing. Because some things never change: after everything you’ve both been through, after all the time that’s passed, he still needs you as much as you need him. And it’s oh so obvious in the way he clings to you in those moments, it makes your heart ache and swell all at once, and it’s like you barely feel his weight on top of you and his nails digging into your skin.

And it never takes much, never takes long; some whispered, hushed assurances and quiet declarations of love, coupled with lazy patterns drawn into his back, and then his grip loosens, calloused fingers gently smoothing over forming crescent indents in apology, shuffling about until he shifts most of his weight off you, but never fully letting go, mumbling thanks into your skin, interspersed by little kisses scattered everywhere he can reach without moving.

Jason Todd, who sometimes genuinely forgets he’s no longer that small, scrawny, malnourished boy struggling to survive and simply wants - needs - to be as close as possible to his favorite person, his safe haven, his home.

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd x you #childhood friends to lovers #fluff #angst #hurt/comfort #batfamily #jason todd #red hood #dc #dc comics #drabble #imagine

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narnian-neverlander · 2 months ago

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Y/N: If we get arrested, I’m going to kill you!

Jason: …with kisses?

Y/N: With my bare hands!!

Jason: My safe word is ‘eggplant’.

Y/N: Jason! This isn’t funny!

Jason: It kind of is. Also… you look cute when you’re mad.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #incorrect quotes #jason todd #red hood #batfamily #dc #dc comics #got this from a dating sim from a guy that even looks like jason #who steals a car first time you meet him

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narnian-neverlander · 3 months ago

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Jason Todd with eyes that have been different ever since he came back.

Jason Todd with eyes that are haunting. People have trouble keeping eye contact with him, cause it’s not just the color, a few shades too bright to still be considered a natural green, there’s something off about his eyes. An uncanny valley effect; the longer they look the more they realize that something’s not quite the way it’s supposed to be, that something’s wrong. Eyes that have seen things no human should, eyes that should no longer be walking the mortal plane.

Jason Todd with eyes that literally glow when he feels any emotion strongly enough; the stronger the emotion, the brighter his eyes. And the first time it happens, during an argument with his family that turns nasty and bitter, he doesn’t even know it. Doesn’t know why his siblings all of a sudden look at him like they just got confirmation that he is the monster they all think him to be. He rarely takes off the helmet around them after that.

And then there’s you.

You, who still looks at him the same way you did before the pit, because you don’t care if he came back different, if he came back slightly wrong, because he came back. He came back to you and that’s all that matters.

You, who consistently comes up with new things to compare his eyes to and he truly doesn’t know how the hell you haven’t run out yet. Last week, it was the way sunlight filters through a trees’ leaves in the summer. Yesterday, it was the little plants growing out of cracks in the concrete jungle that is Gotham, resilient and determined despite all odds. Today, you’d simply reminded him that green is the color of spring, of renewal, of hope - the same hope he brings to the little people of Gotham. Tomorrow? He’s sure you’ll come up with something.

You, who regularly stares at him with the most lovesick grin and the softest eyes, to the point where he has to tell you to cut it out, cause you can’t possibly like what you’re looking at that much, only to be told that ‘art should be appreciated.’ His eyes glow then, too, but he doesn’t feel the need to hide. Not when you look at him with nothing but awe and affection in moments like that.

You, who causes him a freaking heart attack when you start bawling the first time he tells you he loves you because, unbeknownst to him, his eyes have never glowed brighter.

#jason’s just a big cat but instead of his pupils being blown wide when looking at sth he likes his eyes glow #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #drabble #imagine #dc #dc comics #batfamily #jason todd #red hood #fluff #angst #hurt/comfort

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narnian-neverlander · 3 months ago

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One Night Stands Only [Jason Todd x GN!Reader]

Summary: It’s obvious Jason only has one night stands - right?

Genre: fluff, tiny bit of hurt/comfort

Word Count: 4,6k

Warnings: none

A/N: Came across the DC Valentine’s special again and… yeah. Decided to do sth about it 💁

If you use any of my works for AI I will hunt you down for sport 😬

“You were right, it’s a nice place.” Bernard nods appraisingly, glancing around the newly opened bookstore, little café situated right in the middle. It’s not a new concept by any means, but the high ceilings and big windows allow the little natural light Gotham has to brighten the entire place and the cozy couches and booths scattered between shelves make for a nice and different respite from what the city usually has to offer. Tim hums in approval as he glances over the menu again. “Yeah; quiet, comfy, good coffee selection. I should thank the person who recommended it.”

“And who was that?” Bernard asks over his shoulder before greeting the girl working the counter and placing their order. Tim’s brows immediately furrow. “It was… I heard about it from… Uhm…” The blonde chuckles as he steers his boyfriend towards a nearby table, eyes flicking towards a corner sofa. “You think it might’ve been your brother?” Tim snorts. “Which one?” He receives a gesture at something behind him as an answer and finds Jason sitting on one of the couches a little further back, book propped open in his lap and a few more stacked on the small, round table in front of him and Tim nods. “Okay, sure, that tracks.” Bernard watches over Tim’s shoulder a few moments longer, then a small smile forms on his face. “I mean, yeah, it is a nice place for a date.”

Tim’s head snaps back around so fast it’s comical, a disbelieving, almost scandalized ‘Date?!’ out of his mouth before he can stop it. Sure enough, someone else has joined his brother, just in the process of placing two cups on the table - or trying to anyways; an almost impossible task with the amount of books already occupying the small space. And while he might not be able to hear either of you, he wouldn’t be part of a family of world class detectives if he couldn’t read lips.

‘Okay, should I just get like, a whole teapot now? How long do you plan on being here?’

‘Eh, not long.’

‘Jay, even you can’t read five books at once.’

‘Watch me.’

A cocky grin and an eyebrow waggle, which earns him an eye roll from the mystery person, albeit attached to a fond smile, followed by a shooing motion to scoot further down the sofa and make space, to which he obliges immediately. Tucked into Jason’s side, his arm coming around your shoulders entirely too naturally as both of you go back to your books, seemingly all settled and content to simply be in the other’s presence like this.

Tim turns back to his boyfriend with brows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line and fingers tapping his chin in thought - and Bernard knows exactly what that look means. “Tim, switch outta detective mode. Your brother has a date, so what?” But the gears are clearly already turning and not stopping anytime soon. “It’s just… Jason only has one night stands.” It’s a look somewhere between surprise, disbelief and even offense before the blonde speaks up again. “Isn’t that a bit presumptuous? You don’t know if—“ Tim vehemently shakes his head to interrupt him. “No, no, I mean that’s literally what he told me; what he tells anyone from the family who asks, as far as I’m aware.”

Bernard’s eyes move over to the couch again, simply observing for a few seconds before he shrugs. “Well, one night stands don’t exclude a date. Or maybe he’s changed his mind. People are allowed to do that, you know.” he says with an easy grin right as the little round sensor on their table starts vibrating, indicating their order is ready. He snatches the device up and stands, placing a hand on Tim’s shoulder, effectively gaining his attention. “Either way, I don’t think it’s anything for you to lose sleep over. Or any of your business, to be honest. If he is in a relationship and you don’t know, I’m sure he has his reasons.” He grabs the hand Tim has been busy biting the cuticles off of and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Just let it go, detective.”

With that he’s gone to pick up their drinks, meanwhile Tim almost turns his head to look at the couple again, but ultimately decides against it, instead racking his brain for wether or not any of his other siblings ever mentioned Jason having a partner, but nothing comes to mind. Fingers drumming against the table, he’s one spiraling thought away from getting up and going over there to satisfy the annoying itch of curiosity, but then he watches Bernard walk back towards him, a coffee cup in each hand and a happy smile on his face, his own heart skipping a beat at the sight, and he realizes that his boyfriend’s right. It doesn’t matter right now, nor is it any of his business; if this is someone, important to Jason, he would tell them - in his own time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Okay I had my doubts, but that was pretty good.” Stephanie states as she stretches her arms over her head, following the crowds out of the theater into the big entrance hall. Cass grins and nods enthusiastically in agreement, while Babs only shrugs and hums in thought. “I mean, sure, it was good; solid storytelling, breathtaking visuals, but—“

“I still think the book’s better, though.”

They all know it’s exactly what the redhead was gonna say, but it doesn’t come from her. Even so, the voice is familiar and all three of their heads snap up almost in unison to look for the source.

A joyful laugh, from around the pillar a little ways in front of them, followed by, “That’s the most Jason thing you could’ve said, ya know.”

Now that voice isn’t familiar to any of them, neither is the person who appears in their field of view a second later, hands linked with someone still hidden by the pillar - not that it’s still much of a secret who it is.

“So? It’s still true.”

The soft grin on the stranger’s face morphs into something more mischievous. “Riiight. I’m sure you hated every second of this. That’s why I saw some tears during a scene or two.”

A squeak as the person gets yanked forward, disappearing from sight again; then laughs can be heard accompanied with, “It was dark, you didn’t see shit.”

The three girls exchange glances, all wide eyes and raised brows. Then they watch the couple walk out into the open of the entrance hall, towards the exit, one of Jason’s arm’s wrapped tightly around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

Cassandra is the first to shake off the stupor, a soft smile spreading across her face. “They’re cute together.” she signs. “Yeeeaaahhh…” Steph starts, staring at the doors the two had just left through. “Too cute. And definitely too familiar to just be a one night stand.” The wicked grin is a telltale sign of trouble and Barbara pinches the bridge of her nose because it doesn’t bode well for anybody.

“Just leave it alone, Steph.”

“Oh come on!” the blonde complains. “He’s the one who’s been telling us for ages that he doesn’t do relationships and now he’s out here all sweet and cozy and lovey dovey with someone? And you’re not the least bit curious? I say we investigate!”

Barbara levels her with a blank stare. “And you don’t think that might be the exact reason he doesn’t tell us anything?” Stephanie narrows her eyes at the redhead in suspicion. It’s unlike her, unlike Oracle, not to want all the details of a situation. “Did you already know?”

“Whatever gives you that idea?”

“Because you know everything. And wouldn’t you—“

Barbara doesn’t let her finish. “Would you want a date to be interrupted by your siblings just cause they feel like annoying you? Pestering you about your partner? Jason isn’t the most open, conversational person at the best of times; what do you think is gonna happen if he catches onto your little investigation?”

Steph is about to argue back that sure, while there’s some personal entertainment value involved, she just doesn’t like the idea of someone she cares about being with someone she doesn’t know. What if they’re not a good person? What if they end up hurting him? What if—

Her thoughts are interrupted by a hand on her shoulder and she turns to find herself looking straight into Cass’ dark eyes, her expression serious.

“They really like him, don’t meddle.” she signs.

That takes some of the wind out of Stephanie’s sails and she visibly deflates a bit. “You, uh… you could tell, huh?” The black haired girl nods eagerly and Steph runs a hand through her hair in contemplation. People are an open book to Cassandra, without her ever having to have exchanged a single word with them. If she says you’re fine, that you truly like Jason and have no bad intentions, then… then Steph could leave it alone with an easy conscience. For now, anyways.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Thank you for the assist, Master Richard, but I assure you, while welcome, it was not necessary.”

“It’s fine, Alfred.” Dick reassures while loading the last of the groceries into the back of the car. “I know you can handle the regular grocery shopping just fine, but it’s rare to have that many people at once at the manor; I’m glad to help out.”

The older man gives him a grateful smile in return, then plucks a piece of paper from inside his coat pocket and checks it over. “Oh dear, I do believe I’ve missed something.” he mumbles and hands the list over to Dick. “Master Richard, would you mind looking our current purchase over again, just in case? I’ll be right back.”

He watches Alfred hurry back towards the store, someone else exiting when he’s a few feet away from the entrance. A short exchange, quick thanks presumably, as the person holds the door open for him. Then you steer left, in his general direction and—

Hold on. He wasn’t here when him and Alfred got outta the store a few minutes ago.

The parking lot is situated lower than the actual store, some stairs to his right leading up to the higher level, so Dick takes a few steps backwards and cranes his neck back slightly, a leafless hedge partly blocking his view, but the tall, broad stature clad in a leather jacket and the black and white hair are a dead give away. He’s about to call out, surely his brother just didn’t spot him yet, but someone beats him to it.

“Okay, let’s go home.”

The person who’d just left the store. Most definitely talking to Jason. And you seem more than a little annoyed and exasperated.

Meanwhile his brother looks like he’s trying not to burst out laughing.

“What?” the mystery person barks, eyes narrowed at the tall man suspiciously.

“I know I did not just watch you whack an old lady over the head with a magazine cause she tried to take the steak from you.”

“It was the last one!” you complain and the tension bleeds from Dick’s shoulders as he realizes that this is in no way a serious altercation. “Besides, Constance had it coming, not the first time she tried to pull a stunt like that; she’s a fucking menace to everybody.”

Silence for a few long seconds. Then, “If you laugh right now, I swear to God I’m leaving you out on the street tonight, Todd.”

Jason snorts. “And then who’s gonna make the food you fought so hard to get? Sure as shit not you; last time I left you alone with the stove, I thought Firefly had broken into the apartment.”

Dick watches his brother’s conversation partner huff, arms crossed over your chest in defiance as you stare Jason down - until your shoulders sag in defeat and you break eye contact, because apparently, he’s right. “You’re lucky you’ve got other talents besides just being pretty, you know that?”

Jason takes the bags from you, met with only mild complaints, as he grins. “You think I’m pretty? Aw, thanks, babe.” You roll your eyes at that, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips either way. “Leave the corny flirting to Nightwing, it doesn’t suit you.” And Jason actually has the audacity to scrunch up his face in distaste. “Hey now. I was only teasing you; comparing me to him is a straight up insult, take it back.”

“Make me~” you taunt with a sing-song voice and a mirthful smirk, then take off full speed in the opposite direction, past the store, with Jason hot on your heels not a second later.

And Dick hasn’t seen his little brother wear a smile that big in such a long time, he almost forgets to be offended.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damian isn’t sure why he’s even here. It’s not like this has any actual academic value for him.

That’s Chrysaora fuscescens.

Over there, Hippocampus hippocampus.

And that one’s Anguilla dieffenbachii.

He’s studied all these creatures and more before and even if he wouldn’t learn anything new about aquatic dwellers, his father had insisted on him going on this field trip. Something about a chance to ‘improve his social skills’.

Tt.

If that’s the mission he’d been given, he’d succeed. Even if he thought it utterly unnecessary. At least he could do it in the presence of one of the most beautiful creatures on the planet, the mighty—

“Shark! Jason, look, there it is!”

With the level of excitement, one would think it’s coming from a child, but no, it’s very much an adult, standing in front of the big glass tank, in the company of Todd of all people. Damian slows his steps to a halt, coming from one of the smaller side entrances that lead to the huge room, and simply observes from a safe distance.

“Uh huh, I see it. And I feel like now would be a good time to remind you that you have plenty of shark memorabilia and that we’ll simply be walking past the gift shop later.”

An inelegant snort, as the person side eyes him with amusement. “Would now be a good time to remind you that we both know that’s not happening?”

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose as he heaves a sigh, but Damian detects no true malice in it. He’s seen him truly irritated, angry - this is nothing of the sort. Fond exasperation, if anything.

“I know they’re nowhere near as dangerous as the media likes to make them out to be,” Jason starts, “but I’m still not sure how you can look at something decidedly dangerous, built for killing, and think it’s… cute.”

The look he receives in return is one Damian can’t quite identify and apparently neither can his brother.

“What?”

“Really? You can’t figure that out?” You cross your arms over your chest and cock your head to the side in thought. “Well, I think you should meet my boyfriend, then. Cause ya know, he’s pretty dangerous and rough around the edges, too, and I still think he’s cute.”

Jason mimics your stance as he responds. “Oh, do you now?”

You nod eagerly, grinning ear to ear. “Of course. When he gets up all groggy with a bed head cause he works late? Cute. When he pretends to get annoyed at his best friend cause he called him a silly nickname? Cute. When—“ That’s as far you get, interrupted by your own squeal, as Jason brings one arm around your shoulders to pull you in and smoosh your face against his chest, the other around your waist so you can’t escape. “Yeah, yeah, got it; I think I’ve heard enough about that guy now.”

Meanwhile you’ve managed to gain enough wiggle room to loop your arms around his neck and pull back to look up at him, lopsided, lovesick smile plastered all over your face. “Sorry, I can’t help it sometimes; I love him very much.” And it’s embarrassing, Damian thinks, how fast Jason breaks, all affectionate grin and soft eyes, just because someone is batting their lashes at him. “Well, he’d be a fool not to love you back.”

Damian turns away in disgust right as the couple is about to share a kiss and retreats down the hallway he came from. He’d never taken Todd for a particularly… honorable man, but courting someone he knows to be in a relationship with someone else? That’s a vile breach of trust that he won’t stand for. And, if he bothered to be honest with himself, not something he could actually see Todd engaging in. Despite his many flaws, he’s proven himself a loyal man often enough. But Damian can’t ignore what he heard with his own ears, that would be disregarding incriminating evidence, so he’ll need to have a talk with his father as soon as he gets home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re curled up on the couch book in hand when the front door all but flies open, your boyfriend hurrying inside and immediately locking the door behind him again. Before you even get a chance to greet him, he’s speeding through the rest of the apartment, making sure all the windows are shut tight and locked, too. You’ve put the book away, instead staring at him over the back of the couch with raised, quizzical brows when he comes back down the hallway into the living room, finally kicking off his boots at the entrance and hanging up his jacket. Then he beelines for the sofa, lifting up your legs to make room and plop himself down, settling your legs in his lap before he tips his head back and scrubs his hands over his face with a groan.

“Okay, Jay? I need you to talk to me; what kind of apocalypse should I be preparing for here?”

He doesn’t answer for a few long seconds, simply drops his hands from his face, his fingers coming to draw anxious patterns into your thighs instead. “Yeah, we’re totally busted. They know about you now.” And as miserable as he looks, as much as you know that spending time with his family is often draining and challenging for him, you can’t help the relieved laugh that bubbles up out of your throat, because with they way he’d just put your apartment on complete lockdown, you’d been expecting something - or someone - way worse.

Still chuckling, you grab one of his hands and squeeze. “Sweetheart, your family literally consists of detectives. In my opinion, we’re damn lucky to have even made it this long without them knowing.” He sighs, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “I’m not convinced Babs didn’t know before tonight. That woman knows everything.” While you’ve only heard stories and seen some pictures of the redhead, you have absolutely no trouble believing that. “So what happened, anyways?”

He mulls it over for a moment. “Well, I think it started when Damian tried to have me disowned.” You almost choke on nothing but air, a sound somewhere between a snort, a cough and a laugh leaving you. “Okay, you’ve completely lost me, babe.”

“Honestly, I was mostly just surprised I’m even still in the will.” A not so gentle nudge of your foot, an annoyed whine of his name because sure, you’d play along for now. Let him get the jokes and sass out of his system and pretend that you don’t see that the lazy grin he gives you is forced. That you don’t feel one his feet tapping the floor anxiously. That you don’t notice the way his eyes keep flicking towards the window and the door, like he’s expecting them to be kicked down any second now. “Apparently Damian saw us at the aquarium together and somehow assumed I’m your, uh, your mistress? And thought it dishonorable enough to bring up disowning me because of it.” Admittedly, picturing that elicits a real laugh, one you try to hide, but the next part still comes out as more of a wheeze than anything else. “And he just… what? Brought that up casually over dinner?” Jason shrugs. “Basically. Tried to talk my way outta it, but turns out some of the others saw us together, too, and things just spiraled from there.” It’s quiet for only a moment, then you, very much still intent on helping him distract himself from whatever it is that’s truly eating at him, but mixed with just a tad of entertained curiosity now, hit him with, “Well, yeah, makes sense; you have been getting sloppy.” His head shoots up from the back of the couch so fast you’re afraid his neck might snap and he actually looks offended. “How exactly is this my fault?”

“Come on, Jay. First couple of months of this relationship you wouldn’t even leave the house with me. Now? Grocery shopping, the movies, café dates, the aquarium - we’re barely apart, so it really was only a matter of time till they figured it out.” Rolling his eyes, he slides further down his seat and pouts, fully aware that technically you are correct - doesn’t mean he has to like it. “Great, helpful as ever, darling. And what do you, in your infinite wisdom, suggest we do about this now?” You regard him in silence for a moment: how he fiddles with your fingers, the set of his jaw, the furrow in his brows, the way every muscle in his body seems tense.

“Hey…” you murmur gently, interlacing your fingers. “Why do we have to do anything about this? What are you so worried about? I promise not to bite them when I meet them. Unless you want me to.” Careful prodding, still interlaced with humor - to let him know he can talk to you about it, but only if he wants to. He huffs out a quiet laugh, giving your intertwined hands a squeeze. “You can be such a gremlin sometimes, do you know that?” Bringing a hand to your chest in mock offense, you grin at him. “Oh, you do not get to call me a gremlin when you’re the one who consistently feeds me after midnight and gets me plenty wet.” The following eye brow waggle from your side is what breaks him; a full blown, joyful laugh as he shifts, picking you up and depositing you on his lap sideways, his arms encircling your middle, some of the previous tension visibly leaving his face. “See, that’s the exact kinda shit I don’t need you saying around them, cause I’ll never live that down.” Humming in thought, you get comfortable in your new position, resting your head in the crook of his neck. “Sounds like a you problem, though.” It earns you a playful pinch to your sides that has you batting at his arms and hands to try and get him to stop; a fruitless effort of course, but he eventually settles his hands back on your hips. In turn, you place a hand on his chest, feeling for his heartbeat; most definitely too fast for simply fooling around with and teasing you. He’s not just worried, he’s scared, so you decide the time for games is over. “I’m being serious, though, what’s the matter? This isn’t anything you actually need to be concerned over, is it? It’s really not that big of a deal. So what if they know about me? So what if I eventually meet them now; not like it’s gonna change anything between us.” It’s small and if you didn’t know him as well you did, you probably would’ve missed it or written it off as irrelevant: the way he ever so slightly flinches at the last part.

Bingo.

But you don’t push, you know better. You let him get his thoughts in order, shifting restlessly beneath you while he does and let him answer in his own time.

“It’s stupid…”

“It’s not stupid if it’s bothering you.”

A sigh, then you feel him rest his cheek on the top of your head.

“I dunno. Being around you is always so… easy. Comforting. Being with them isn’t. It’s complicated and it’s messy and overall just exhausting, most of the time. It’s not all bad, just…” He shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to get rid of an onslaught of memories; good or bad, you’re not entirely sure. “I guess I just don’t want them rubbing off on you, is all.” Pulling back to look at him, you find his eyes elsewhere, anywhere but you, desperate to avoid your scrutiny. “In other words, you’re worried your relationship with them, their opinions of you, are gonna affect mine, right?” He still can’t bring himself to look at you when he mumbles, “Basically…”

You shuffle about until you get your legs back under you, straddling him and cupping his face in your palms, running your thumbs along his cheek bones until he willingly brings his unnaturally green eyes back to yours and you feel like your heart might crack at the uncertainty you find there. “You’re forgetting that, aside from you, I’m probably the most stubborn person in this city; once I’ve made up my mind, it’s hard to change it. If anything, you should be worried about me not shutting the fuck up about how amazing and wonderful you are around them.” He scoffs and tries to turn his head out of your hold, but you refuse to let go and press a quick kiss to the tip of his nose instead, effectively stunning him into obedience. “Uh uh, you’re not going anywhere, I’m not finished yet. I’m on your side, okay? Even if it feels like nobody else is. I’m judging you based on my experiences with you, not theirs. And sure, not everything’s been great; you’re not perfect and neither am I, but that’s human. We live and we learn and we fuck up and then we try again. And I know you try, Jason. Every day, I know you’re trying. Trying to navigate a second life you never asked for. Trying to live in a body that never feels right, no matter how much time passes. Trying to mend the bonds with a family that more often than not still sees the ghost of a boy looking back at them, instead of the man you’ve become. Trying to make things better in this city, so that no one has to go through the same things you did. And nothing your family could say or do or show me is ever gonna change what I see with my own eyes.” He’s been silent this entire time, letting you speak, but you watched his shoulders slump, the tension that’s kept him wound up like a spring finally dissipating, and his own hands are now gently holding onto your wrists.

“And what do you see?”

It’s barely above a whisper, so quiet, you almost miss it despite how close you are.

You don’t have all the answers. You don’t actually know what meeting his family is gonna be like, how it might affect your relationship, but this? Oh, this you can answer just fine.

“A man who’s scarred and deeply flawed, but is still trying to do better, to be better. A man who wants to make up for the mistakes he did make, but sometimes nobody cares to listen. A man who, for all his efforts to appear ruthless, is still the most caring person I know. I see a man who, despite life never having been kind to him, retained a kind soul.”

And with the way he’s looking at you right now? Nothing but wonder and admiration and affection written all over his face? How could you not be sure about what you’re gonna say next? Sure that no one, absolutely no one, would ever be able to change your mind about him.

“I see the love of my life.”

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #gender neutral reader #fluff #hurt/comfort #batfamily #jason todd imagine #red hood imagine #dc #dc comics #jason todd #red hood #tim x bernard

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narnian-neverlander · 5 months ago

Text

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again [Machine Herald Viktor x GN!Reader]

Preview: “You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 10,7k

Warnings: slight body horror/modifications, suicidal thoughts, canon typical violence (injuries and blood, mentions of torture, mentions of character death, alluded murder)

This is part of a series of stand alone One-Shots that all feature the same reader, you can find the masterlist here :3

A/N: Does a broken rib from too much coughing count as the AO3 curse yet cause wow this took way longer than expected. Anyways, Epic x Arcane has been bouncing around my head since Season 2 came out, but this was inspired by this post from @le-fruit-de-la-passion cause I saw that and I’ve been internally screaming over it ever since 💁

Happy Valentine’s everybody 💞

Nothing had been the same since you woke up.

It’s to be expected, it had been almost two years after all.

Two years since the explosion. Two years since half the council had died. Two years since any attempt at peace between the two cities had been shattered. Two years that you had spent blissfully unaware of all of this; a coma keeping you trapped within the confines of a hospital bed and your own mind.

You’d expected pain after coming back to your senses; it was the last thing you remembered before the world had went dark. But you’d slept through most of your recovery. Through your wounds turning into scars. Through your muscles growing weak from disuse. Your hands were a different story, though. They didn’t so much hurt, only at times, as they were simply numb. Shattered bones and nerve damage had made them mostly useless and that was not something any amount of time would simply fix.

Not everything had completely changed, though, you’d found. You’d been awake for not more than an hour when Jayce had burst through the doors of your hospital room. And sure, he’d looked different: his hair longer, a beard, the white and gold that had always dominated his outfits replaced with black and silver, a brace on one of his legs and a cane at his side. But the relief in his hazel eyes when he’d found his friend conscious was familiar. The way his hug had felt. And how he’d completely avoided your gaze when you’d asked about your lover.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

He’d expected you to cry, scream, anything. But you hadn’t. You’d merely nodded, as numb as your broken hands, and had thanked him for coming to see you. Had told him to go back to his work, he must certainly be busy after all. And it had torn him apart, to see you, someone he’d always known as energetic and joyful, so tired, so apathetic. The very least for him to do had been to offer his help in any way he could, including finding a doctor that would fix your hands. He’d been more than reluctant to leave you, but you’d asked for some time alone to rest and he could hardly deny you that - it had still taken him a good ten minutes more to actually take his leave, with promises of a soon return and to simply send for him if you needed anything.

You’d settled back into the bed, fully intent on going back to sleep and pretending you’d be able to wake up in a different world, but the sun had caught on something metallic on your bedside table, hidden behind flowers and cards. You’d reached for it with stiff, unsteady fingers, almost sending the small, scratched up, mechanical cat crashing to the ground; luckily it had just ended up bouncing off your leg and then settling in your lap.

You’d stared at the little robotic feline in astonishment for a long time, unblinking amber eyes staring right back, like it would tell you who had brought it here, when it should’ve been sitting on a shelf in your apartment. Like it would give you all the answers and solutions in the world. An answer to your pain. To the hopelessness creeping in. To the feeling of your heart slowly shattering.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

It had almost made you drop your precious possession all over again, breaths heavy and migraine pounding in the back of your skull. And your racing mind had very clearly told you that there’s no recollection of ever having heard him say anything like this, your aching heart replying that it had been an idle wish, nothing more.

This idle wish comes back to you know, lying bruised and bloody and dazed in a ditch somewhere in Zaun. The people you’d been sent to for help had turned out to be anything but the kind, generous researches they’d made themselves look like; only interested in their own profit, gained on the backs of the helpless and the beaten. And after months of more pain and suffering, once you’d no longer been of use, your body even more mutilated and damaged than before, you’d been discarded like the trash they viewed you as. Face in the dirt, body and mind exhausted and screaming for rest, just a small respite, you consider letting go. Consider closing your eyes and just letting eternal rest take you; you don’t have anything left, after all. No home to go back to. No loved ones waiting for you.

Your shattered psyche seems to welcome the idea more than anything; through blurry vision you swear you see your lost beloved right in front of you, like it’s just another lazy morning spent in bed together. A warm hand cupping your cheek, gentle amber eyes, voice still raspy and accent thick from sleep. Telling you to go back to sleep. That it’s okay to rest. You blink and he’s gone.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

A cry for help, created from a desperate mind and a broken heart. A fantasy. Wishful thinking. Nothing more. No one would be coming for you. Nobody would know or care if you just laid down to die right here. But there’s still a part of you, tiny as it may be, that wants to live. That under no circumstances wants to die on the same streets you once crawled your way out of, while your tormentors get rich on your suffering and are left with no consequences. Your blood’s starting to boil, powering you like a steam engine, getting you up on your hands and knees, groaning and whimpering in pain as you hopelessly try to get your feet back under you.

Peace is for the dead, revenge is for the living.

It’s what forces you towards the city limits on wobbly, clumsy legs, one stumbling step at a time. If revenge would be your only reason to live, then so be it. You’d take it over simply giving up and being forgotten; your body left to rot in the dirt.

So you live off scraps and garbage. Get your quick bouts of rest on dark, dirty street corners. Collect herbs from the riverbed, as scarce as they may be, to fight off the infections you incurred. It’s not pretty or elegant and you can barely call it living, but you’re alive. And eventually you catch rumors, whispers, only spoken in the same shadows you’ve now spent months living in: rumors of a healer. Well, some call him that. Others revere him as a god. Others fear him as a monster, more machine than man. But they all agree on two things: that he’s the one to go to if you’re in desperate need of help and have nothing left to lose. And where to find him.

The gate to the house on Emberflit Alley is old and bent and rusted. Not locked, but your stiff, useless fingers have enough trouble opening it anyways. The front door is a different story entirely, encrusted with interlocking gears to keep you and anyone else out unless invited in. So you knock and you wait. And then you repeat that process. Until it becomes clear that either no one is home or that a disturbance isn’t currently wanted. You’re not about to give up so easily though, so you step off the porch and start making your way around the house in search of any windows to knock on instead or maybe even break if necessary. It’s dusk by now and the ever present fog that always seems to cling to this area of the Lanes isn’t making your job much easier; your foot inevitably catches on something, a loose brick or a protruding pipe maybe, and sends you stumbling, falling and while you manage to catch yourself against the brick wall, your flailing palm ends up going straight through a window.

Perfect. You hadn’t actually been serious about breaking and entering. Not entirely, anyways. Trying to assess the damage to your hand in the dimly lit alley, you’re distracted enough to not pick up on the sound of a door opening and you only notice the heavy footsteps when they stop right behind you.

“You’re persistent if nothing else, I will give you that.”

The voice is deep, warped, with a mechanical echo to it, but it’s the accent that sends an unwelcome and unexpected twinge to your heart. You turn around very slowly and carefully, prey about to get caught by something terrible, and gulp when you actually need to crane your head back and look up cause fuck, he’s tall. At least a head taller than you, with a broad frame, all heavy armor and pieces of metal, a sharp, three pronged claw pulsing with energy pointed right at you from over his shoulder and a mask with only two hollow, glowing, yellow eyes staring back at you. He’s an imposing, unforgiving presence and you’re starting to understand why people only come to him as a last resort. But you’d come this far and he’s right, you’re persistent, stubborn, if nothing else, for better or for worse.

“I was— No one was opening the door and I was just trying to— Are you the Herald?” It’s a redundant question, really. “It’s what they insist on calling me.” Okay, you’re having a conversation. Sorta. That’s progress. “They also say that you… help people?” He crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side and while you might not be able to see his eyes, you can feel them taking you in from head to toe. “To the best of my abilities. What would you need help with?” You falter for a second. “It’s uhm… a lot, really, but mostly my hands?” Most people have always reacted with disgust or pity and you don’t expect him to be much different, so the way you bring your hands in front of you for him to see is slow and hesitant. He leans forward for a better look and you fight the urge to back away and flee. It’s quiet, too quiet, the way he’s so intensely studying you and your injuries unnerving and the metal claw that looks like it could tear you in half opening and closing and rotating as if in thought is most definitely not helping your anxiety. Finally, he straightens up and turns around. “Follow me.” He doesn’t wait for you, nor does he check to see if you actually do follow him, merely strides back inside the house, leaving you scrambling to catch up.

The halls that he leads you through have dozens of motionless automatons leaning against the walls, the room you eventually arrive in is lined with shelves of glass jars containing organic and metal organs floating in green fluid and in the far corner a leather gurney with a mechanized drill laid upon it and stains you don’t want to think too hard about. Fortunately, he doesn’t lead you over to that, but instead to a workbench cluttered with machinery and tools and blueprints. He sits in the old, rusty chair and then drags out a little stool from under the table, gesturing for you to copy him while he reaches above his head and fiddles with what is revealed to be a bright, neon lamp when it finally flickers to life, blinding you for a moment and leaving spots in your vision. You do as your told and finally place your hands in his when he holds out his own, one gloved and from what you can tell human, the other solid metal.

There’s a certain gentle diligence with which he conducts his examination, something you most definitely didn’t expect, but it puts your frayed nerves at ease. It also triggers a memory from long ago, an accident in the lab, that had ended with you curled up against your boyfriend’s shoulder while Jayce had carefully picked glass shards from your palms. A slight shake of your head brings you back to the present; a different life, it no longer matters. It’s silent between you two, except for the occasional question from his side that you answer truthfully. Eventually, he sits back and switches off the lamp above you. “Your hands can not be salvaged; the damage is too severe and was left insufficiently treated for too long. If you want full use of them back, they will need to be replaced.” He says it like it’s the most logical, natural thing in the world and to him it must be, but to you? It leaves you stunned, mouth going dry. “So I’d lose them entirely…?”

“You already have,” he states matter of factly. “Now it’s just a matter of wether you’re insisting on clinging on to broken, useless flesh and bone for the sake of sentimentality or if you’d rather exceed your human limitations and be able to return to a normal life.” It takes everything you have not to laugh bitterly; new hands or not, you weren’t going back to your old, normal life anytime soon. But he’s right nonetheless. “And you can do that? Replace them? Make them work like before?” You can’t be certain, with the mask’s filter and all but it almost sounds like he scoffs in offense. He waves his own hand in front of your face and flexes his fingers for show; dark, solid metal, expertly welded and crafted together to create a perfectly functioning hand. “Naturally.”

There’s nothing for you to think about anymore. “Okay. Yeah, I… that sounds good. Except…” Maybe there is one thing to think about. “I can’t… pay you for it. B-but I can work it off! Or I could—“ he decisively cuts you off with, “I do not take payment for my work.” And your jaw actually drops, because there is no way anyone in this world would offer services like this for free. There always has to be an angle, something to be gained. “Right. So you just do this out of the goodness of your fucking heart? Do you even have one? A heart, I mean.” He stands to his full height and it hits you like a ton of bricks that you just followed a complete stranger into the confines of his home. A stranger twice your size that would have no trouble turning you into parts for his future experiments. A stranger that has a reputation on Zaun’s streets as an unhinged monster. And it seems like you might’ve hit a nerve.

But he merely reaches past you, for something behind you on the table and comes back with a pair of tweezers and gauze and then proceeds to remove the parts of his window that are still stuck in one of your palms. Right. Since you can’t really feel them, you’d forgotten all about them. “Of course not. And to answer your question, no, I got rid of my heart a long time ago; it was of no use to me any longer. I only ask that you stay here during your recovery so I can oversee the adjustment process. Document it to further my research. You will be paying me in information, knowledge, progress. That is worth more than any gold or jewels you could throw at me.” Your own heart is going a mile a minute after that scare, but you’re slowly coaxing your body to calm back down. If he truly wanted to harm you, he would’ve done so by now. “And you’re sure that’s enough?” A sigh, as if he’s forced to explain something overly simplistic to a child over and over again. “You can bring any scrap metal you may find on the streets to me, if that will make you feel better.” You snort in amusement. “Okay, sure, you got yourself a deal. Sooooo… now what?”

He pauses wrapping your hand for a moment and turns his unblinking gaze to you again. “Malnourished, sick or overly exhausted people make for greater risks, both during surgery and recovery.” You flinch because you damn well know that you check all of those boxes. And you’re sure he knows it, too. “Yeah, well it’s not like I can snap my fingers and magically be healthy again. If I could, I wouldn’t be here. Besides, do you know where you live? You can’t tell me that every Zaunite who comes in here is of picture perfect health?”

“No, I just thought you should be made aware. We can perform the procedure tomorrow, at least get some sleep before that; surely that’s not too difficult?” It almost sounds patronizing and you realize you’ve gained back, or rather are rediscovering a part of yourself you haven’t used in a long time in the few minutes you’ve been talking to him: the defiant smartass. “Of course I can do that, I’m not an imbecile. There’s a brothel owner who owes me a favor, I’m sure I can get her to cough up a bed for the night.” He’s doesn’t look up from putting the finishing touches on your bandages, but apparently he still feels the need to state, “And leave with more diseases than you came with?” Had he just called you diseased? “I’ll have you know I don’t have anything contagious, thank you very much. I don’t think. And it’s that or sleep out on the streets again, so…”

“Or you could just stay here.”

You barely manage a very intelligent ‘Huh?!’ in return.

“You will return here tomorrow anyways. And stay here for your recovery. One night will not make a difference.”

Your eyes flit over to the leather couch in the corner; it’s clearly old and worn, missing an armrest and has obvious tears in the leather. Truly, you shouldn’t be this comfortable around him so quickly, but it’s still the closest thing to an actual bed you’d had in months so you’d take it.

“If it’s okay with you.” you shrug and quickly walk over to the sofa, dropping the bag that contains whatever little belongings you have left to the floor and then promptly collapse on it in an exhausted heap of limbs. That seems to break some of his composed facade as you catch him physically startling in your peripheral while you’re busy shrugging out of one of your coats and turning it into a makeshift pillow. “There is a room upstairs, with a bed, entirely unused. You can sleep there.” But you’re drowsy already, the worn leather surprisingly soft and pliant against your battered body. “So you don’t sleep, I assume; noted. And don’t worry, I don’t snore, so I won’t interrupt your… your work. You won’t… even know… I’m…” You’re out cold before you’ve finished your sentence and it takes all of half a minute before you’re lightly snoring. Liar. But he knew that already.

A heavy sigh and then he’s up, grabbing the blanket and pillow from the bed upstairs; replacing the bunched up coat under your head and pausing before he covers your body with the thick, warm fabric. Your skin has lost color, you’re underweight, he most definitely caught you limping earlier and those are just the things he could tell from a first glance. Your hands would be an easy enough matter to fix, but the rest would take time and care. He covers you with the blanket and you immediately snuggle up into it until only your hair is barely poking out. So you still hate the cold, then. Just like you’re still defiant and mouthy. It’s ridiculous how much you haven’t changed in direct contrast to him; changed so vastly and completely, of course you wouldn’t recognize him.

Carefully dragging down the blanket and the backs of your several layers of clothing, he indeed finds a series of numbers and letters branded into the skin at the back of your neck, as expected. He recognizes their shoddy handiwork by now; you weren’t the first Zaunite to come through his door after they’d fallen victim to that group. But you’d most definitely be the last. He gathers some things from around the lab and finally grabs his staff from where it’s leaning against the wall, gem at the top crackling with energy; one last look at your curled up form and then he’s out of the door, leaving you resting in his lab.

You’re warm, comfortable. It’s quiet and you actually feel well rested. All of that is so utterly foreign to you, it frightens you back to consciousness, makes you startle awake and fall off whatever you’d been asleep on in the process. Blind panic as you untangle yourself from a blanket you don’t remember having and stagger back to your feet, wild eyes searching for the closest threat.

Dim lighting breaking through murky windows, shelves stocked organs, a bloody gurney in the far corner and a hunched over figure at a workbench, their back currently turned to you as a clawed contraption over their shoulder emits a thin, precise ray of light.

“I do not appreciate getting lied to.”

There’s a part of your mind screaming at you that you know this voice, this person, this place, but the terrified haze you’re in yields little room for rationality as he shuts off the laser and turns around to face you, features covered by a mask with nothing but a set of glowing yellow eyes.

“You do, in fact, snore.”

It’s like a switch gets flipped, the haze lifts as you realize that you’re safe and you collapse back into the couch in a relieved heap, breaths still frenzied and heart still trying to jump out of your chest. “Right. Sorry.” He doesn’t comment any further, simply gets back to whatever it is he was working on before, leaving you to recover by yourself. It takes a few minutes, but once you consider yourself sufficiently calmed, you sit back up on the couch cross legged, blanket draped over your shoulders, wanting to apologize and thank him properly, but looking at him gives you pause.

He seems… smaller somehow than the night before. You find your answer in a heap of metal scattered around his workbench: big, cumbersome pieces of armor. Armor that you remember seeing on him yesterday, that you’d just assumed to be irremovable parts of his body. What you most definitely do not recall are the dents, scratches and the dried blood all over the metal. Nervously flitting your gaze back to him, you see what he’s working on is actually himself; laser directed at a part of his chest that he seems to be welding shut. And you’re taken aback at how much skin there is - human skin. The entirety of his chest and his right arm are sleek steel, interlocking gears and mechanisms, flawlessly shifting into each other as he moves, thin glowing panels pulsing with energy from hidden engines. And there’s definitely more metal at his right hip, disappearing into the waistband of his pants, but other than that…

His left arm is mostly pale skin, scarred flesh at his shoulder connecting to the dark steel; a wired glove slipped over his slender fingers seemingly controling the movements of the claw over this shoulder. His stomach and waist are still incredibly human too, if nothing else because of the dark purple bruise forming against his skin. He’s nowhere near as much machine as you’d expected, not to mention he looks… hurt. Had he been in a fight? Gotten attacked?

You open your mouth to ask, but think better of it before any sound can come out. It really has nothing to do with you; what he does in his own time is none of your business. It still feels off, to infringe on his time and help and not even ask if he’s alright when clearly, something that you’re not privy to has happened. Never one to leave well enough alone, you grab your bag from the floor and start sorting through the collection of herbs you’ve managed to acquire over time. Once you’ve found the ones you’re looking for, you package them into the most clean rag you have in your possession and tie it shut; uncrossing your legs you walk over to him and place the haphazardly made package on the table, careful not to disturb him. The movement still gets his attention and even with the mask’s filter, confusion is clear as day in his voice as he asks, “What is that and what is it doing on my workbench?”

“It’s an herbal remedy, for uhm… bruises and the like?” you explain, vaguely gesturing at his waist. “You soak it in boiling water and then put it on the effected area; it helps with swelling and pain.” It’s silent for a few long seconds, then, “I see. Thank you.” Not even remotely close to anything you were readying yourself for as a response, but it makes something within your chest beam with pride. You don’t even realize you’re still staring until he points it out and is met with, “You’re just… not exactly what I expected.”

“A monster?”

The laugh you let out is so shockingly soft, it almost startles him. “You’ve got a reputation, sure, and you’re… intimidating at first glance, I’ll give you that, but… I’ve met plenty of monsters in my life and none of them were anything like you. In fact, all of them looked and acted remarkably, ordinarily human at first.” There’s no further elaboration from your side and your gaze is distant, mind somewhere far away from here. He almost calls your name, but it occurs to him in the nick of time that you never actually introduced yourself. You’ve been here for less than twenty four hours and already he’s slipping, making mistakes; he can’t have that, so he drives the conversation in a direction he has control over. “I am almost finished with my repairs, I can get the general anesthetic started so we can proceed with your surgery as quickly as possible.”

Wild, hot panic takes over your gaze and he fully expects you to bolt out the front door with how you flinch and take a step away from him. “I need be under for the surgery? Can’t you do like, local anesthesia on my arms?” He hesitates; he’s never known you to be afraid of medical procedures, so what’s the problem? “First off, I will not be replacing both of your hands at the same time. Too risky and you’ll be completely incapacitated; we’re going to start with only one today. And no, in theory, you do not have to be under full anesthesia, however, we are talking about a delicate and unusual kind of surgery; I can not promise that it will be painless while you’re still conscious.”

“That’s fine, I don’t mind the pain, I just… I wanna have some agency in what gets done to my body from here on out.”

Ah. So that’s it. One glance at the dried blood still clinging to his armor on the floor and he feels the rage from last night raise it’s ugly head again. He shoves that right back down, cursing internally, before he answers you, voice level and betraying nothing. “All right. It will not be a pretty sight, though.” You shrug, as nonchalant as if he’d just told you about dinner plans. “I mean, I don’t have to watch directly. But I’m gonna admit, I am curious.”

The curiosity lasts for all of the first cut into your flesh, then you turn your head away and simply let him work in silence; wouldn’t want to distract the man currently flaying you open and re-wiring your nerve endings. Luckily, there’s only the occasional pinch and pull, but you stay pain free otherwise. Recovery after the procedure is a different story entirely though; painful and arduous and time consuming. And you’re more than a little surprised at how diligently the Herald takes care of you. Keeping a close eye on his newest test subject, that’s what you write it off as at first. But as the weeks go by there’s a certain familiar domesticity that sneaks into your routine and you find yourself talking with him more and more. Well, it’s mostly you talking, but he listens; you know because the day after you complained about the room you’d been staying in feeling too dark, you’d come back from an errand to find the windows cleaned, the curtains gone and some mismatched lamps placed around the room. It’s a sweet, quiet kind of constant reassurance and you can’t help the way your heart warms at it; so much like what you’d been used to from your lost love.

The day you pick up a glass of water all by yourself, without spilling anything and the glass noticeably cold against your fingers, you almost weep with joy and just barely hold yourself back from tackling him in a hug. Instead you busy yourself with touching as many things in his lab as you can get your one properly functioning hand on - which means you miss the way he so openly stares at you, obvious even with his mask hiding his features. He hasn’t seen you this happy and energized since you showed up on his doorstep. It makes some part in chest whir conspicuously and it almost feels like something is overheating, so he quickly turns away and grabs a random, discarded project from his workbench to fiddle with.

“Do you… ya know, eat?”

It’s a random question, even for you, but he answers nonetheless. He’s used to it by now.

“I no longer require it as a form of energy replenishment, no.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, that doesn’t answer my question, though. You don’t have to, but do you? Sometimes?”

“I fail to comprehend why we are having this conversation in the first place.” He doesn’t put down his tools, nor does he look at you.

Okay, fair point.

“Well, I uh… I used to be a chef, had my own restaurant and everything? And since one of my hands finally works again I figured I’d like to give cooking something a try? And if you have a favorite, I could make it for you? As thanks for… well, for giving me a hand?” It’s not one of your finer jokes, you will admit, so you’re not surprised he doesn’t laugh. Not that you’ve ever heard him laugh at anything, for that matter. He doesn’t react at all, except for, “I told you, I do not take payment for my work. Are we done with this fruitless conversation now?” It stings more than you’d like, to have him dismiss your tries at kindness like that, even though you know it’s not personal.

“Right, yeah, sorry. It’s just… cooking’s the only thing I’ve ever been good for and I like to be some sort of useful so… but you’re right, it’s stupid. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Because if I stopped being useful, then… maybe he wouldn’t want me anymore. Maybe he’d leave me behind for something better.

It was years ago, he shouldn’t remember you saying it as clearly as he does. Nor the way you’d looked then; all teary eyed and vulnerable, in front of him and only him. He shouldn’t remember and much less should he still care. He finds himself putting down his tools anyways.

“Sweetmilk.”

It doesn’t even register that he’s talking to you at first, considering you’re already halfway out the door to give him some peace and quiet. “P-pardon?”

“Sweetmilk.” he repeats. “It’s technically not food, but a weakness of mine and it’s still made on a stove. However, I am out of—“

“I got it! I’ll go get everything; I know how to make it!” The biggest grin on your face, you’re out of his lab in an instant and he hears the front door open and close not long after that.

There’s an actual skip in your step as you make your way down the street, there’s no other way to put it.

You are no fool. It’s in the way he hyperfocuses on his work. In the way his place is always a mess, right down to how his tools and notes clutter his desk. In the way what little sunlight manages to reach this part of the Lanes catches in his chestnut hair when it filters through the windows. In the little vocal mannerisms and gestures that you remember oh so well, that he apparently was unable to remove, no matter how much of a perfect machine he claims himself to be. It’s all right there, it had been from the start, this had just been the final push you’d needed. The final push to actually let yourself hope.

You are no fool. He knows this. He knows this and yet he let you have this. This tiny, obsolete, aggravating piece of information that has now turned him into the fool instead. He’s certain you’ve already figured it out, how could you not have? With the way you were immediately way too comfortable around him? With the way you sometimes talked about yourself, your past, just naturally assuming he’d be able to fill in the blanks, cause to him, they weren’t blanks at all? With the way it had been so easy to slip back into old, dangerously domestic habits with you? This had simply been the final nail in the coffin, yours or his, he isn’t sure; he is sure, however that you do not belong here in his oh so carefully crafted solitude.

Over two years. That’s how long it had taken him to put himself back together again. To rid himself of the parts the Hexcore had already infected, tainted, taken from his control. To replace his dying lungs. To make sure he didn’t fall apart again after every second step. To ensure he was no longer weak. And then he’d come for you, intending to save you, make you whole again, but you’d been gone. Disappeared from your hospital bed, from Piltover all together it had seemed. He’d crossed several lines in his search for you, even the ones he’d set for himself; namely never asking for help from his former best friend and partner again. In the end, the only thing he’d accomplished had been to widen the ever growing rift between them, no step closer to you. So he’d done the only thing he could still think of: rip his heart straight from his chest to maybe, hopefully, get rid of the agony right along with it; erase the joyful memories that held nothing but misery anymore. And it had worked; everything inside him dulled and numbed enough to simply drown himself in his work with no interferences. Until you’d stumbled back into his life. And things should be different, he shouldn’t care about you anymore outside of how you can further his research, but they’re not. The way the two of you still fit together so effortlessly is disgustingly, hauntingly familiar and he has to put a stop to it. He has chosen to live like this, in isolation and loneliness, he would not force it on you in the name of some long forgotten affection.

Perfect opportunity strikes some days later, while he’s in the process of replacing your second hand and you question him about his own augmentations. So he tells you about his weak leg and his collapsing lungs like you don’t already know. Watches the smile vanish from you lips and your face fall as he explains how he removed his connections to people from his past.

“So you… you don’t remember anyone who used to be a part of your life? Family, friends, lovers?”

“I remember them just fine, I simply got rid of any unnecessary emotional attachments associated with them. I remember my mother’s lullabies, I do not miss them any longer. I remember the discussions with my old partner, yet I no longer look at them fondly. I remember the lazy mornings spent with my lover, but I don’t yearn for them anymore.”

You visibly flinch at that last one and he merely warns you to stay still, like he doesn’t know what hearing all of this must do to you. It goes quiet between you two afterwards and any glance he steals at you confirms his theory, proves that his action had the desired reaction: the cogs are turning in your head and the longer they do, the more the despair and grief start to show on your face; realization that he is no longer the man you knew and that you no longer have a place by his side. It’s quick, simple work to finish your surgery and he decides to leave you be, give you time to let the new information he provided you with sink in and with some trivial errands used as a quick excuse, you’re left sitting alone on a rickety old stool in his lab.

And you stay seated for a long while, still and unmoving, blankly staring off into the distance as you hopelessly try to process what he just revealed to you. The love you hold for him hasn’t diminished in the slightest, no matter how much he might claim to have changed, but what’s it worth if you’re nothing but a stranger to him now? If the affections he’d had for you in return were lost to his quest of a perfect evolution?

You’re unsure what compels you to rise from your seat, to stroll across the room and absentmindedly trail your fingers across the books on one of his shelves. Maybe you’re simply trying to distract your mind from spiraling further down into the dark abyss of hoplessness it’s currently headed for. Maybe a part of you already knows that this is not meant to last and you’re trying to commit everything to memory through touch alone, now that he’s returned that sensation to you. The very last thing you expect is for one of the spines to catch your attention and for just a moment, you’re back in your old apartment, your old life. Hurriedly pulling the book from it’s spot you find that you are in fact correct, this used to belong to you. The corners of the dark blue cover are frayed and the golden lettering faded, but you recognize it anyways; you’d lent it to him years ago and he’d just never gotten around to giving it back. Which still doesn’t explain what it’s doing here, surely he doesn’t have any use for it anymore. You gingerly dust it off, careful not to over exert your new fingers, and crack it open only for a little slip of paper to immediately come fluttering out and land on the floor in front of you. Picking it up, you find only two words written in a handwriting you know all too well.

Lavender = devotion

The memories flood your mind wether you want them to or not; memories of your absolute mess of a first date. Of the meticulously crafted bouquet of flowers he’d gotten you, based on the book you’d lent him.

Putting the paper back with the page containing it’s corresponding flower, you quickly rifle through the rest of the book and find plenty more notes still left within the pages, all in his handwriting.

Iris = hope, trust

Alstroemeria = mutual support, fascination

Carnations = sincere love, respect, new beginnings

The last entry you come across doesn’t have a written note with it. Instead you find a picture: the two of you, slumped together on the sofa in the lab, all tangled limbs and sleepy intimacy, blissfully unaware of your friend sneaking this picture. It’s marking the pages for camellias and you don’t need a note or a proper look at the information in the book to know what they symbolize; not when you can clearly remember him telling you.

Eternal love. I’m yours for as long as you want. If you’ll have me.

The book slips from your fingers, landing open on the floor with a dull thump as you go right along with it, knees hitting the wood beneath you hard as you curl in on yourself and sob, photograph cradled close against your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve cried, some still coherent part of your mind realizes. Since waking up. Since being imprisoned and tortured. Since coming here. Since being forced to accept stroke after stroke of fate that had irreversibly changed your life entirely against your will or control. So you cry and you weep and you scream at the top of your lungs. For yourself and everything you’ve had to endure. For all you’ve lost. For the life you could’ve had.

You have to leave. You have to. Or you’d spend the the rest of your life desperately trying to rekindle a love that no longer exists. A final glance at the picture still held in your hands and you consider taking it; he wouldn’t miss it, he probably doesn’t even know it’s still here. But the people in that photograph are long gone and it would cause you nothing but more grief, so what’s the point? You drop it between the pages you’d found it in and shove the book back into its’ spot on the shelf before scrambling to your feet and beginning to gather your things strewn across his house. And you could’ve left then and there, things packed and mind made up. You probably should have. But it doesn’t feel quite right either, just disappearing without a trace. So you sit on the bed you’ve called your own for the past weeks and you wait. Until you hear him come home in the middle of the night and the urge to sprint downstairs, throw a quick goodbye and thank you over your shoulder and slam the door on this entire sad, miserable chapter of your life is there. But you don’t. You can’t. Because despite everything, you still want a proper goodbye - you didn’t get one last time, after all. Except you have no idea how you’d go about that, so you stay right where you are and rack your brain. Until dawn breaks and you’re no closer to a solution, so you drag your tired body off the bed and make your way downstairs; you’re just looking for more excuses to stay at this point.

Of course you find him at his workbench, where else, most of his heavier armor discarded and Hexclaw dimantled in front of him as he diligently solders wires to metal. Pausing in the doorway, you wait for him to acknowledge your presence, giving yourself some more time to think, but when several minutes pass and he doesn’t even look up you clear your throat, receiving a quick ‘Morning.’ in return and nothing else. No point beating around the bush, is there?

“When do you think I’ll be able to leave?”

Too busy fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of your shirt to distract yourself, you don’t notice the way he almost flinches, everything he’s doing coming to a halt. It’s quiet for only a moment before he says, “You are not a prisoner here. You may leave whenever you wish to.”

Not the answer you want, not the answer you long for, but an answer nonetheless

“I… now would be good for me, I think.”

“Very well.”

And that’s the end of it. The room is blanketed in silence once again, except for the scrapes and shuffles of his tools as he goes back to work. No grand, emotional request for you stay and why would he? You’re a stranger, an experiment and there’ll be others like you; others to further his research and learn from. He doesn’t need you anymore. He hasn’t for a very long time, you realize. Oh how you wish you could feel the same. You go to grab your bag from the hallway in apathetic, almost mechanical movements, nothing but muscle memory driving you at this point and you expect to walk out the front door without another word exchanged between the two of you, but surprisingly enough, he calls out to you again.

“Where will you go?”

Stopping in your tracks, you come to lean against the door frame, gaze falling anywhere but him. You’re not sure what he’s even asking for, it won’t have any impact on his life after all, but you answer honestly anyways. “As far away from this city as I can get, probably. There’s no one— there’s… nothing left for me here anymore.” A pause as the faces of your tormentors flash before your inner eye. “Not before making the bastards who used me pay for it, though.” He unscrews a panel at the base of the Hexclaw while posing another question. “And if that costs you your life?” You shrug even though he can’t see. “Just as well. I’m not sure I’ve got the will to build something new for myself anyways…”

Silence falls again and you interpret it as the natural end of the conversation and your cue to leave. Except there’s one last thing you need to get off your chest - quite literally, in fact. Slipping off the chain around your neck, ring still safely attached to it as always, you approach him and place it on the surface of his workbench. To your utter surprise, he actually interrupts his work and picks it up with careful fingers; his face might be hidden from you by his mask, but he radiates confusion so you explain before he has a chance to ask. “When I first came here, you told me I could pay you in scrap metal if it made me feel any better about encroaching on your space and time. You can melt this down, throw it out, I don’t care; I’ve carried it around with me long enough and it was always meant to be yours.” You truly don’t have the strength to wait for his reaction, or probable lack thereof; this means nothing to him now, you mean nothing, and that thought makes you hurry towards the exit, tears burning in your eyes.

Despite better judgment, you pause in the doorway, fingers tight around the strap of your bag and swallow around the growing lump in your throat. “Thank you…” It’s barely above a whisper and it’s not enough. You were the one who wanted a proper goodbye this time, weren’t you? So you turn to fully face him, met with the same blank, hollow eyed stare you’ve grown oh so used to and you smile, genuine and grief stricken. “Thank you for everything, Viktor.”

Part of you wonders when he last heard his own name. If he even still remembers it.

And then you’re gone, leaving him alone in his quiet lab, with only his research to keep him company, just as it should be.

The front door is as far your shaky legs get you, bag slipping from your shoulder as you slump against it, forehead pressed to the cool, worn wood as you press a hand against your mouth in a desperate attempt to to stifle the sobs. The man you’re leaving behind is the love of your life no matter what, you’ve known that for ages; there was a before him, but there was never supposed to be an after. And yet now you have to figure out exactly what that after is going to look like, because he’s gone and at the same time he’s still here and that, oh that aches something awful. It’s unfair and it’s cruel and it makes you want to claw your own chest open to strangle your heart with your bare hands just to make the pain stop. It makes you envy him for the first time, no heart left in his chest to ail him. And it makes you despise him, because how dare he leave you alone with the burden of this love you were supposed to share?

The heavy footfalls behind you should jumpstart you into action, make you wrench the door open and get out or at the very least compose yourself, but you can’t. You find that you simply don’t care anymore either. Let him see what he’s done to you, what he’s turned you into, even if he wouldn’t shed a single tear over it. A mechanical hand comes to rest next to your head, his presence right at your back, so close and so very much like the first night you came to this place and yet everything’s so incredibly different now.

“What? Did you forget some kind of last diagnostics test on the new hand or something?” The tears are obvious in your tone. “No. But you should know that the people you plan on taking revenge on are already dead. I made sure of it.” Breath catching in your throat, the memory of your first morning in this house comes back to you: the bruises, the blood on his armor, the way everything about him had screamed violence and death that day. “You… Why?” It makes no sense whatsoever and it’s making your head spin and he’s not answering, until, “That’s hardly a concern for you now. I simply thought it consequential for you to be made aware of the fact that if you wish to depart from this city you may do so. There is nothing—“ It’s the first time you’ve heard him falter and fumble in all your time here and when he speaks again there’s an edge to his voice that you can’t quite place, accompanied by the hand against the door clenching into a fist. “There is no one keeping you here anymore.”

The clock in the corner counts down the seconds, loud and echoing in comparison to the quiet that has befallen you both. A quiet you decide to break, tentative and scared.

“Isn’t there? My tormentors might be gone, but what of the man I love? Could he still find it in him to love me if I stayed?”

“I don’t believe that still matters, does it? You’ll leave either way.”

And something inside of you snaps.

You brace your forearms against the door and shove backwards, catching him so off guard he stumbles back a step or two, creating just enough distance for you to rear back your hand and punch him square in the jaw. His mask gets knocked clean off his face, loudly clattering to the floor; your freshly operated hand sparks and creaks ominously, fingers now bent at odd angles while searing pain shoots up your entire arm, but you don’t care. It’s nothing compared to the white, hot fury that’s boiling you alive from the inside out.

“How dare you? How fucking dare you?!”

He doesn’t even deem it necessary to look at you; completely frozen to the spot, head turned away from you and hair covering his eyes from your view. He will have to listen to you either way, wether he wants to or not. Wether he still cares or not.

“You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

You slump back against the door for support, chest heaving and unharmed hand coming up to cover your face; a desperate and all but pointless attempt to hide the tears and stifle the sobs.

He’s a scientist, an engineer. Solving problems, fixing things, improving lives; it’s what he does. What he thrives in. Yet he doesn’t know how to fix this. So he zeroes in on the one thing he can fix.

“Let me see your hand.”

But you don’t let him. Curl in on yourself and angle your body and injured hand away from him; it makes you seem so much smaller. So vulnerable. So defeated. Good. Maybe if he can drive you away even further then…

“You are… a distraction. A hindrance to my work that I can not tolerate. You do not belong here and it would be better for the both of us if you left and never returned.”

With the mask gone, the mechanical edge to his voice is missing as well, but every word still stings like the cut of a blade.

“So turn around and let me go. You’ll never have to see me again, I promise.”

He knows all too well how seriously you take that; every promise, no matter how small or menial, a solemn oath, never to be broken. He can not let you make this one; every part of himself rebels against the very thought of letting you walk out that damn door, even if it would be the logical thing to do. Drive you further away, he’s not capable of that any longer, who is he trying to fool? Himself, most likely.

Stepping closer he gauges your reaction and when you don’t recoil from him any further, he rests his hands on either side of you and drops his forehead against the old, worn wood above your shoulder.

“I can’t.”

It’s spat through grit teeth, like it physically pains him to admit it. But it’s the most emotion you’ve heard in his voice during all the time you’ve been here.

“I removed every function that wasn’t vital; every memory that was redundant to my work. Affection, jealousy, admiration, anger, joy, sorrow; any emotion that would’ve proven an aberration sooner rather than later. I clawed and prodded and scraped at my own insides until nothing remained and yet you refused to let go.”

Your sobs have reduced to sniffles, your body still beneath him; except for the hand you’ve dropped from your face that he now feels running up his back, titanium fingers gliding over the metal ridges that make up his spine until they settle at the nape of his neck.

“Your face, your laugh, your favorite color, the way you’d look cooking breakfast in the mornings, the way your body would feel against mine; every detail, no matter how minute stayed. Etched into the fissures of my brain, burned into the steel I used to rebuild myself, regardless of how many times I replaced it. Carved into my being, my very soul; I could not remove you any more than I could remove the engine beating as my heart. And I can not go back to how things were before you came here. Before you found me again.”

“Why not? You seemed perfectly happy in your solitude with your work.” Your voice is small, but genuine. And you almost squeak in shock, wind knocked out of you, when his arms come around your middle to hold you tight, almost too tight, flush against him as he buries his face into crook of your neck.

“Because you are in every fraction of skin, in every blood vein that still remains within me. In every bolt, every wire, every piece of metal I welded to myself. I do not… function properly unless I know of your whereabouts. Unless I know you’re safe and cared for. And it was maddening, to surpress it, to ignore it all these years; a clear error constantly rearing its’ ugly head, telling me that I will never get any further in my research, my work, my vision, unless it’s resolved. Constantly running on loop in the back of my head, reminding me that I am incomplete. I need you, you are an essential part of me, right down to my very atoms and it makes me, all of me, no matter what else I might become, yours.”

There’s fresh tears streaming down your face, because he sounds so tired. So desperate. So upset. So painfully human. You find yourself doing the same thing you’ve always done when you’ve had him in your arms, worried and anxious about something; gently thread your fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp and lean your head against his carefully. “Viktor, if you want me to stay, all you have to do is ask. You know that; if you want something all you ever had to do was ask it of me. But I need you to ask me, all right? I need to hear you say it.” He doesn’t answer right away, only draws patterns into the small of your back in thought; a habit of his you remember all too well. This close, you can feel the heat coming off him, generated from the several engines powering him and a barely there hum and whirr of machinery against your chest; a sound that comes in regular intervals, akin to a heartbeat. When he does speak, his voice is weary. Conflicted. Unsure. Scared.

“I am not the man you fell in love with, my heart. Not gentle, nor kind. There is no coming back from the lines I’ve crossed and I don’t— I can not love you the same way I used to. The way you’d deserve. And yet… I want to be selfish.” He pauses for a bitter, ridiculing bark of laughter and shifts in your hold and it’s only then that you realize the skin at the slope of your neck and your collarbone is wet. Shame threatens to choke you when it occurs to you that up until now you didn’t think he still could cry. “I shouldn’t want for anything. Machines do not want or desire or long for things. But… they need all their components to operate as they’re supposed to; to perform at their full potential.” He’s rationalizing it, you know and you’ll be fucking damned if you interrupt him. “And I need you to stay. Here, with me. Then maybe in time you’ll be able to love me as I am now.”

Your chuckle is weak; you’re exhausted physically and emotionally. “What a silly thing to say. That’s assuming I ever stopped loving you in the first place.” It should be impossible, for his embrace to become any tighter, but it does and it’s almost starting to hurt - good, because the pain makes it real.

It’s in the way he buries his face against you further, a noise oh so very similar to a sob escaping him, and how your gaze catches on his mask left discarded on the ground that it finally dawns on you: he’s hiding. From you or from himself, you’re not certain, but you’re not having it any longer. “My love, let me see you.” He doesn’t move; if anything he freezes up. “Please?” You try again and are met with the same result, except for, “You will not like what you find.” Irritation flares up in your chest, manifesting itself in a harsh tug on his hair and, “That’s for me to decide.” It takes him a few very long, agonizing seconds, but eventually, he sighs in defeat and pulls back enough for you to be able to get your first proper look at his face after all these years.

No wonder you managed to break your hand, his jaw and cheeks are all solid, dark, smooth metal, connecting to the column of his throat. Your fingers are moving before you can stop yourself, trailing along his cheek bones where hard steel meets soft, scarred flesh. Still as pale as always, almost deathly so, faint blue veins under his skin now in plain view and the contrast to the two moles you adore all the more prominent. The ever present dark circles under his eyes have evolved into lasting bruises. And oh his eyes. The same beautiful gold you remember, except now they’re rimmed with a thin ring of bright pink, courtesy of the Shimmer you’ve seen in his lab no doubt, bright against the deep, dark, purple-ish black that now makes up his sclera. But dissimilar from your memory as they may be, the look in them is one you recognize: careful, poised for rejection, but the remaining tears betray him. It’s strange, how he can look so utterly different yet so hauntingly the same.

He had imagined this moment plenty of times, but never in his wildest dreams could he have come up with this. Yes, there’s several emotions at once crossing your face when you finally see him, yet none of them negative. It’s genuine, innocent curiosity at first, reflected in the careful fingers that reach out to touch him. And before he has time to fully register your touch against his skin, your expression shifts and it’s nothing but pure, unadulterated admiration and affection. “Still so beautiful. Still all mine.”

Just like that, all the tumult and chaos and noise in the back of his head that hadn’t once stopped in the last few years finally seems to silence and he can actually fucking think in peace again for the first time - and the first thing he thinks to do, the most logical thing to do, really, is to curse under his breath before crashing his lips to yours. It’s needy and filthy and all tongues and teeth, your back making abrupt contact with the door again as he shoves you against it, hands coming up from your waist to cup your face. The gesture is tender and sweet and entirely contrasting to the way he’s kissing you; to what he claims to have become. It’s more than welcome nonetheless, giving you a sense of security you didn’t realize you needed as your intact hand moves away from his hair to cover his. It just so happens to be the one that’s still mostly flesh and blood, warm against your skin, except for a thin, cold sliver of metal you feel that you can’t place at first. You don’t remember seeing any augmentations that would feel like this on his hand before. Curious despite the adoring, addictive haze that’s starting to cloud your mind, fingertips try to make out more detail and you find it in tiny little ridges in the metal sitting specifically on his ringfinger that feel suspiciously like letters. Letters that spell out one word: Unconditional.

Your ring. He’s wearing your ring.

It makes you kiss him harder, wanting him so much closer even though it’s hardly possible. You could stay like this for the rest of your life and you wouldn’t ever need for anything else. How unfortunate it is then that one of you both still needs air to fill their lungs to live. How unfortunate that that someone is you; personally you gladly would’ve suffocated against his lips, but he seems to have other plans as he pulls back to let you take some much needed deep breaths, chest heaving while he settles for leaving chaste pecks against the skin of your face.

“Still all yours,” he confirms and you mirror the smile you can hear in his voice. “Now and always.”

#arcane viktor x reader #gender neutral reader #machine herald viktor x reader #epic the musical #would you fall in love with me again #hurt/comfort #angst #childhood friends #past established relationship #viktor arcane #machine herald viktor #machine herald #viktor the machine herald #league of legends #arcane #arcane x reader #arcane imagine #SoundCloud

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narnian-neverlander · 6 months ago

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BTW i see these posts all the time like "ohhh i dont know what to comment on fics.." and every response is "keysmashes! or hearts!! anything works :3" and thats GREAT!! thats helpful!!

but: consider. if u genuinely like analyzing writing.. do u know ur just allowed to go through and quote your favorite parts and ramble abt what they mean to u and the author will LOSE IT WITH HYPE?

genuinely. i felt SO WEIRD the first time i did it.. but like. holy shit authors love it. its crack for authors. the first time i did it, it was on a fic that hadnt updated in half a year, give or take, and the author made 3 updates that month BECAUSE OF MY COMMENT.

LIKE. as an author every comment is INCREDIBLE!!! but also, dont feel like your comment has to be short or otherwise ur invasive or smth!! authors ADORE long comments more than ANYTHING.

#THIS #fanfiction

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narnian-neverlander · 6 months ago

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Hiii! I just wanna say you're my favorite Viktor x Reader writer. I literally check your page everyday for a new one. 💕

Hope you have a beautiful day!

Oh my gosh, what??? That is so sweet, I’m honored 🥹💞

I’m already working on the next one and I’ve been super excited about that particular idea (read: I want it to be perfect), so it might be a while before I manage to post it, but I promise it’s a work in progress 🫡

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narnian-neverlander · 6 months ago

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WAIT!! IS THAT YOU!! IN YOUR PFP!! COSPLAYING AS DOUXIE FROM TROLL HUNTERS?! OMG I LOVE HIM AHHH

Yup, that’s me ⬇️⬇️⬇️

I absolutely adore Tales of Arcadia and Douxie is my favorite 🥰

#tales of arcadia #toa douxie #hisirdoux casperan #trollhunters #3below #wizards #toa

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narnian-neverlander · 6 months ago

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Meant to be Yours [Viktor x GN!Reader]

Preview: A sigh and then you watch his hand move to curl two fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his; you’re shocked to see how very vulnerable he looks at this moment. “Do you truly believe I would have reacted so intensely, so violently, at seeing you again if I didn’t care? If I hadn’t thought about you almost every day during the last decade? If you didn’t still matter to me today?”

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 4,2k

Warnings: mentions of injuries, character ‘death’ and canon typical violence

This is part of a series of stand alone One-Shots that all feature the same reader, you can find the masterlist here :3

It’s a miracle you haven’t gotten lost, even with directions. The sprawling, elaborate halls of Piltover Academy all look very much the same to you, and you thank Janna when you finally arrive at a door with a little plaque reading ‘Talis’ next to it. You knock, you wait. And you do it again. And again. Until you grow tired and crack open the door to peek inside. It’s a relatively small space; several desks cluttered with papers and blackboards utterly covered in equations and diagrams against the walls - and a man that most definitely isn’t Jayce sitting at one of the tables, head propped up with his fist against his cheek, other hand scribbling into a notebook and completely unaware of your presence.

“Uhm, pardon me?” you call out as you enter and he startles, head snapping up to look at you with wide eyes. And you’re actually taken aback for a moment, cause he’s probably the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen: lithe frame, messy chestnut hair, sharp jawline, high cheekbones, intense golden eyes and thick brows, currently furrowed in confusion. “You’re not Jayce.” It’s a statement, not a question; voice deep and smooth and accented. You blink once, twice, before you manage to stutter out, “N-neither are you.” You realize that this doesn’t exactly make you seem any more trustworthy or approachable, so you try to elaborate and hold up the notebook in your hands, the Talis family crest emblazoned on the cover. “He, uh, he left this at my place the last time he was there? I don’t understand any of what’s in it, but it seemed important, so I just wanted to return it.” A slender hand takes the offered book from you, quickly flipping through it as if to confirm that it indeed belongs to the man you claim. “And he still signs every page…”

It’s nothing more than a quiet, slightly exasperated mutter under his breath and if the room wasn’t as quiet as it is, you probably wouldn’t have heard him, but you do and can’t help but snort in amusement. “Yeah, he’s been doing that for years; I don’t think that’s a habit he’s about to break any time soon.” Amber eyes flick up from the pages he’s still thumbing through to focus on you instead and while the way he studies you might be slightly unnerving, there’s another part somewhere in the back of your mind telling you that you know him.

“You said he left this at your place the last time he was there; so that would make you his…?” The unfinished sentence hangs in the air between you, prompting you to complete it and there’s heat crawling up the back of your neck and into the apples of your cheeks as it dawns on you what you’ve accidentally insinuated so you vehemently shake your head. “Oh no, no, no, no, no! It’s not my place— Well, technically it is my place, but— It’s not a place for— I mean, it’s not like that, it’s—“

Dropping your head into your hands, you groan and take a breath to collect yourself before you face him again; bewilderment and slight amusement written all over his handsome features. “I own a restaurant not super far from the academy? Jayce has been a regular for years; he left that at his table last time he came in.” Something akin to recognition flashes in his eyes at that. “Ah, so you’re the chef he’s always rightfully raving about. He’s brought in some of your food a few times; it’s exceptional.” Some of the tension that’s been keeping you rooted to the spot and your entire body on edge starts to ebb away. “Oh, well, thank you; I’m glad you enjoyed it. And that Jayce actually managed to share.” It’s starting to make sense why he seems so familiar to you, now. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume you’re the new research partner he’s been yapping about for weeks?” The corner of his mouth twitches upwards at that, the mole above his upper lip going with it - cute. And you can’t help but feel like you’ve seen it before. “Has he now? Apologies, I’m sure I make for a terrible topic of conversation.” That actually gets a laugh out of you. “Not at all; he’s only had good things to say about you. Well, mostly. Besides, I’m glad he finally has someone who shares his dream.”

As if on cue, Jayce enters the room, carrying a box of what looks to be spare machine parts under one arm. He’s as surprised to see you here as his partner was and when questioned, the brunette still sat at the desk simply holds up the notebook and waves it in the taller man’s face. “Do try not to leave vital research lying about when you go out for lunch?” Jayce winces lightly. “Sorry. But maybe that wouldn’t happen if you just joined me for lunch every once in a while like I’ve asked, Viktor.”

All the times that you’ve had to listen to Jayce talk about this man and he’d never bothered to mention his name; so now it’s like a shock to your system. Like the final piece of a puzzle finally clicking into place and your brain kicks into overdrive, pulse picking up to an almost worrisome degree as you feel your palms get sweaty.

You take him in again and yes, his face was rounder, softer back then, his eyes bigger and more innocent, but there’s still the same mischievous spark in them as he good-naturedly bickers with Jayce, the same wit in every well calculated retort.

“I’m sorry, I’m sure this is gonna sound weird, but… are you from the Undercity?” The two men turn their attention to you; Viktor’s eyes narrowing, taking on a colder, harsher look and there’s a slight edge to his voice as he responds. “Yes. Is that a problem?” You quickly shake your head, wanting to dispel any notion of what he thinks you’re implying. “No, of course not! I’m from the Undercity; I grew up there and I… I had a best friend when I was younger? We always played together down by the river and he brought his inventions for us to test out and when they got stuck somewhere he couldn’t reach I’d get them for him and—“ You’re rambling, you know it, but it doesn’t have to be fully coherent for him to understand. For his eyes to grow wide in disbelief. For him to whisper your name under his breath, even though you’d never introduced yourself.

And oh, oh, you didn’t realize you’d missed hearing your own name in his voice. How much you’d truly missed your beloved childhood friend.

Jayce is looking between you both in wonder. “Wait, no way! Viktor is the childhood friend you told me about? The one you’ve been looking for?” Tearing your gaze away from Viktor, you turn to your friend, smiling ear to ear. “Yeah, I… I guess he is.”

Your beloved childhood friend, finally back in your life.

Jayce claps you on the back happily. “I’ll be damned. Life sure has a way of bringing people together, huh? We should celebrate! I know a good restaurant not far from here.” You giggle as he waggles his brows at you playfully, but it’s short-lived as your attention returns to your long lost friend, who doesn’t seem to be sharing in the current joy; face scrunched up in clear reluctance and displeasure and looking anywhere but you. His voice is bitter and harsh when he speaks.

“I do not think that necessary. There is nothing to celebrate.”

Your beloved childhood friend, who you used to spend every day with.

“What? Don’t you want to catch up? You two haven’t seen each other in… what? Ten years? Longer?”

Your beloved childhood friend, whom you’d made a promise to; to tell him all about Piltover after your parents took you there for the first time. To go there again together, once you were both older.

“Exactly. We were friends once, yes, but we are mere strangers now. I do not see the merit in interrupting my work to go have drinks with someone who no longer holds any value in my life.”

Your beloved childhood friend, who doesn’t know that you didn’t leave him willingly. Who must think you’d gotten a taste of Piltovian life and had simply forgotten about him; left him behind for a better future for yourself.

It’s far from the truth, but he can’t know that.

And if you’re being honest with yourself, even if it tears you apart from the inside out, “He’s right.” You interrupt Jayce as he opens his mouth, no doubt wanting to come to your aid again. “Whatever we had it… it was a long time ago. He doesn’t owe me anything and it’s clear that he doesn’t need me in his life anymore.” Patting Jayce’s arm, you turn towards the exit; if you stay here much longer you won’t be able to hide the strain in your voice and the quiver of your bottom lip anymore. “I’ll see you around; do try to keep your wits and your notes about you, ‘kay, pretty boy?” It’s obvious he is less than pleased with how the situation has turned out, lips pressed together in a thin line and brows furrowed in irritation. But he doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t try to stop you from leaving. You do end up pausing at the door, hand already on the handle, deciding to take another look at your old friend - possibly your last. He has his back turned to the both of you, attention back on his work, you seemingly already forgotten.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad I got to see you again, Viktor. I always knew you’d end up somewhere you’d change the world. And I can’t wait to see it.”

The next few hours keep you busy, thankfully; keep your mind off the heartbreak and grief, but now, all alone in the restaurant, wiping down the counter in preparation to close, it comes back full force, hanging over you like a dark cloud. So when the bell above the door chimes, signaling the entrance of a customer, you don’t bother looking up; you’re not in the mood. “Sorry, we’re already closed.”

“I’m not here for the food.” Your palm almost slips on the wet surface which would’ve sent you face first into the counter. Instead, your head snaps up in disbelief and sure enough, Viktor is right in front of you, still clad in his academy uniform, cane in hand. “W-what are you doing here?” A heavy sigh as he comes to stand across the counter from you. “Jayce thought it… prudent that we have another conversation.” A tiny laugh from your side, not more than a breath out of your nose. “He didn’t shut up about it after I left, did he?” The answer is deadpan and exasperated and it’s almost endearing in it’s own way. “No, he did not. He walked me all the way here and I would not be surprised if he’s still outside.” You make a quick mental note to make Jayce’s next order on the house, before your mind starts racing, trying to come up with a way of starting this conversation. As it turns out you don’t have to, as he beats you to it.

“I should… apologize to you. For how I spoke to you earlier.” That’s definitely not the opener you expected and you blink at him owlishly in surprise. “While my assessment of our situation might’ve been correct, there was no reason to be as cruel and stern to you as I was. I’m sorry.” Mulling over his words, you decide it’s now or never. “Well, thank you. But just for the record, for all your smarts and brilliance, your assessment of our situation is not in fact, correct.” He raises his brows in intrigue, a mocking ‘Oh?’ leaving his lips as he rests his elbows on the counter in a silent challenge. “So you are actually going to try and convince me that you didn’t forget all about me the moment you stepped foot in this city?” Your answer is immediate and certain and judging by the look on his face, he’s actually taken aback for a moment. “Yes. That’s exactly what I plan on doing.”

He ends up having the audacity to scoff and roll his eyes. “Please, don’t strain yourself. You do not need to make up lies to… spare my feelings? Or whatever it is you believe this will accomplish.” You don’t blame him for it, if your roles were reversed, you imagine you’d react similarly. It still hurts, to have him be so dismissive of your side of the story when he’d once valued your opinion and feelings above all else. “I understand that this might be too late and really, you’re right, it doesn’t hold any weight or merit in our current lives anymore, but… it’s still important to me that you know that I didn’t leave you behind willingly.”

“Right.” He spits the word like venom, accompanied by what you can only describe as a snarl. “So what was it then? You wanted to build a proper life here first and then come back for me? Or did your parents fall ill and you devoted all your time to taking care of them?” You wince at the mention of them. “They took care of themselves quite well by selling me and fucking off to who-knows-where to build a better life for themselves without me.” Any trace of malice immediately vanishes from his face, replaced by confusion and downright shock. Sighing, you rest your forearms on the counter and keep your gaze on your fidgeting fingers. “Yeah, they sold me to some rich household with… peculiar preferences. A gilded cage is still a cage though; as long as you adhered to their rules and demands, they kept you fed with only the best food Piltover had to offer and put the finest clothes on your back. And I would’ve traded all of the fancy things they threw at me just for a single day back down by the river with you.” You can’t bring yourself to look at him; you’re scared to find cold indifference written all over his features. Or even worse, the pity you’re oh so sick of. You’re not looking for sympathy or condolences for everything that went wrong in your life; you’re simply trying to make good on a promise from long ago. You’d once prided yourself on always keeping your word and you’d be damned if you let them take that from you, too.

Slender, pale fingers enter your field of vision, blurred by tears you didn’t realize were there, and gently come to rest on your arm, his skin warm against yours. “I did not mean to force you to recall any painful memories, please forgive me.” Not pity, a simple apology for a what he thinks to be a mistake on his part. You sniffle and shake your head. “You couldn’t have known, it’s fine.” It’s quiet between you for a while, his thumb drawing patterns against your skin in thought before he carefully speaks up again. “Out of all the scenarios I came up with to explain your disappearance, I will admit this was never one of them.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t have made this up if I’d wanted to.” Then you pause as his words fully sink in. “Wait, don’t tell me you actually gave me some thought during all these years?” And he truly sounds offended when he replies with, “Of course I did.” You snort. “Didn’t exactly sound like that earlier today.” A sigh and then you watch his hand move to curl two fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his; you’re shocked to see how very vulnerable he looks at this moment. “Do you truly believe I would have reacted so intensely, so violently, at seeing you again if I didn’t care? If I hadn’t thought about you almost every day during the last decade? If you didn’t still matter to me today?” You manage not much else but to stare at him wide eyed and slack jawed, so he drops his hand from you and digs into his waistcoat instead, producing what looks to be a tiny, halfheartedly put together bundle of cogs and bolts from an inside pocket. Placing it onto the counter between you both, he elaborates. “Do you remember the little cat I built you? After those bullies destroyed your favorite toy? I’d wanted the tail to be able to move, but I just couldn’t get the mechanism right. You’d been so sad though, so I just gave it you unfinished. I’d planned on fixing it up, with the toolset you’d been so excited about bringing me back from Piltover, but…” He falters at that and it takes him a moment to find the right words to continue with. “I still built that mechanism eventually. Kept it with me, in case you… in case you ever came back. And when I realized that wasn’t going to happen, I kept it as a reminder. A reminder of my roots. Of the kind of people I want to help with my work. Of the first person who ever believed in me.”

You pick up said mechanism and gingerly turn it over with careful fingers. The feeling in your chest can really only be described as warm and fuzzy as you quietly rasp out, “I still have it.” He cocks his head to the side in curiosity. “You still have what?” You bring your eyes from the metal in your hands back up to his questioning amber gaze and smile, soft and reminiscent. “The cat. I still have it. I went back to my old house after I… after I got out of that horrible place. Just to, I don’t even know, have some sort of closure, maybe? It was ransacked, nothing but ruins, but that was still there, under all the dirt and rubble. So I kept it. It’s been sitting on a shelf in my living room together with that toolset for you ever since.”

It’s quiet and disbelieving, but he actually laughs at that and you decide then and there that you want to hear it more often. “You… you still got me that toolset?” Heat shoots up all the way to your ears with how he’s looking at you, all affectionate and amused, so you scoff and throw up your hands in surrender. “Well, yeah, I promised you after all, and I’ve never broken a promise before. I went back to the river every once in a while, hoping I’d maybe run into you again. I even considered leaving it there with a note at some point, but I couldn’t bear the thought of someone else taking it. It was always meant to be yours, after all.”

The expression on his face shifts while you talk, the small, teasing grin slowly fading into something more tender. It makes your heart flutter so you simply keep talking in hopes of distracting yourself from it. “I know it’s silly, but—“

“It’s not.” he interrupts decidedly, so you clamp your mouth shut to listen instead. “How about you bring both of those to the lab tomorrow and I’ll see what I can do about finally fixing that cat?” You’re certain he must be able to hear your heart with how loud it’s beating, blood roaring in your ears, butterflies going crazy in your stomach. He… he still wants you in his life? Is that what he’s implying? He must mistake your silence for distaste at his proposal, as he quickly adds, “If that’s agreeable with you?” Shaking your head to force yourself out of your stupor, you nod vigorously. “Y-yeah, of course, I’d love to! I’ll bring some food, too; Jayce tells me you’re horrible at remembering to eat while you work.” He brings a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Pardon me? That is… how do you say? The pot calling the kettle black? He is not much better at it.” Grinning joyfully, you come around the counter to stand in front of him and poke him in the chest. “He has been coming in for lunch less and less in the past few weeks. I wonder whose bad influence that could be, hm?”

And just like that, it’s like no time at all has passed for the two of you. Like you’ve never been apart.

He grins right back at you as he slaps your hand away and glares at you playfully. “Eh, if you make it to the lab regularly I think you’ll see for yourself soon enough.” You lean forward and raise your brows at him teasingly. “Oh so this is a regular thing already now? You realize I have a business to run here; I do not have time to take care of you two nitwits every day.” Putting a finger on his chin, he hums in thought. “Then it looks like I’ll have to take Jayce up on his offer after all and tag along when he comes here.” You shake your head at his antics and smile at him fondly. “I’m sure we’ll be able to figure out some sort of arrangement. Now get outta here, it’s late; you need rest and I still need to lock up.”

A hand at the small of his back, you steer him towards the entrance, but he stops and turns to you right at the door. He hesitates before he speaks and when he does the joyful, teasing tone from before is gone, replaced with something more serious, accompanied by an almost desperate glint in his eyes. “I will see you tomorrow then?” Your heart isn’t sure wether it wants to break or melt, as you remember these exact same words from the very last time you saw him when you were children. And before you know it, you have him enveloped in a hug, arms around his middle and head nestled into the crook of his neck. He’s surprised, to say the least, if the way he completely freezes up is anything to go by. “Definitely…” you whisper and tighten your arms just the tiniest bit. But even with all the long lost familiarity slowly returning, you haven’t seen him in over a decade and you most definitely remember Jayce telling you about how he’s particular about his personal space, so it dawns on you that this is in no way appropriate and while you may not want to, you losen your grip and begin to pull back - just in time for the arm that isn’t used to support himself on his cane to loop around your waist and for his cheek to come rest against the top of your head. “Good.” It’s a quiet murmur and if you weren’t as close to him as you are you probably would have missed it, but as things are now, it only makes you more reluctant to let go. So you stay like this for a few moments more, safe and content in each other’s embrace, before you finally release him. He looks at you, opening and closing his mouth a few times; whatever he wanted to say forever remaining a mystery to you as he simply settles for a small, slightly awkward smile instead and then bids you goodbye.

You lock the door behind him, closing your eyes and resting your forehead against the old, worn wood with a shaky exhale; shoulders slumping as your entire body relaxes, screaming out in relief as literal years of anxiety and worry finally let you go, leaving you almost a little lightheaded. The small, joyful smile won’t leave your lips and it escalates into a full blown, slightly delirious laugh, not that you have it in yourself to particularly care at the moment; your beloved childhood friend is finally back in your life, after all.

When you blink your eyes back open, you’re looking at the same dull, white ceiling you have been staring at for the past weeks. The same scratchy hospital bed linens at your back. The same sterile, bleak smell in the air. Flipping over on your side still causes you more trouble than you care for, muscles weak from disuse. Your gaze drifts out the high windows, watching the stars shine against an otherwise dark sky as your mind wanders.

Another memory. Another dream. Another desperate, hopeless attempt of your broken psyche to try and hold together the pieces of your shattered heart. A reminder about simpler, happier times. But those times are long gone, just like he is. Lost to one senseless act of violence that had utterly destroyed any hope for peace that might’ve remained for these two cities. Numb, stiff, useless fingers fumble for the chain around your neck and tug, bringing forth the circular piece of metal from it’s hiding spot under your shirt. The room’s too dark to make out the engraving on the ring and the nerve damage to your hands makes it impossible to feel for it; yet you know exactly what’s written there, you’ll always know. Just like you know that you will always hang on to this piece of jewelry, even though it really doesn’t mean anything anymore. Because it never got the chance to stand for what you’d intended it for. Because you never got the chance to give it to him, even though it had always been meant to be his.

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