#i filtered her url a few days before blocking her but i could still feel her presence

[maddy-ferguson]

actually get why people blocked me it really makes it all more peaceful🙏

[angrylizardjacket]

runs in the family // charlotte&lola (penny&jupiter)

Summary: Jupiter and Penny somehow find themselves in 1981. What else is there to do but meet their moms at Motley Crue's first gig?

A/N: as always, for @misscharlottelee and eva ill edit this and tag u when I find ur new url. @compositionnotebook 💖 why did I write this? Because I love to suffer. Also as always, unedited.

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Of course, waking up in a hotel room they don’t remember, with their cousin asleep in the other bed, only to realise that they’re back in LA when they’re meant to be on the other side of the country in the middle of their tour, Jupiter was understandably panicked. They hadn’t been drinking last night, and they’re pretty sure there was no way of them getting across the country without realising, and the idea that something is up is solidified when Penny wakes up and starts panicking too. 

The front desk says they’re paid up for the month; the woman’s hair is sand blonde, feathered and sprayed up to the high heavens, while the uniform she wears is the ugliest shade of green Jupiter’s ever laid eyes on, but the woman has the gall to give Jupiter’s outfit an unimpressed look. They’re all for the current resurgence in 80s fashion trends, but it feels like this woman may have committed too hard to the bit. Jupiter, nonetheless, asks the woman if she remembers how they and Penny had arrived, and the woman actually rolls her eyes and says that she’s not paid to ask nosy questions. 

It takes the cousins a full hour to find out that somehow they’ve landed themselves in 1981, a full day to believe it, and a full week to fully understand what that means. 

“I hate this, I want to do something, go somewhere,” Friday night and Jupiter’s sick to death of no TV and only the radio for entertainment. Whoever had been staying here, whoever’s place they and Penny had taken, had left a wallet with no ID, but an exorbitant amount of cash, and a closet full of clothes in their sizes. It’s eerie as fuck, but the only person who’s come knocking was the housekeeping staff, and Jupiter tells them to go away every time. 

“We are near The Strip in the eighties,” Penny suggests, flicking through a newspaper idly, lounging on the bed, “what if we saw young Guns ‘n’ Roses live, or, oh God, what about Motley, could you imagine?” Penny snorted, and Jupiter’s whole expression wrinkles to something horrified.

“They weren’t around yet, were they? What’s the date?”

“April twenty-fourth,” Penny’s expression sobers considerably from it’s delight, adding, “nineteen eighty-one,” much quieter, “fuck.”

They agree to go out, if only to get out of the room they’d been hiding from the world in, rather terrified to face their reality. There’s hesitation; do they get dressed up? Do they use the makeup sitting neatly on the bathroom counter? It felt safer to try and blend in, but blending in with the 80s nightlife wasn’t exactly the easiest thing in the world. 

Both have the distinct, horrifying thought of ‘I look like my mother’ when they’re finished, looking in the mirror, all dark makeup and patterned jeans and leather jackets; there’s a leather miniskirt that neither of them touch, not wanting to go too hard on their first night in the apparent real world. There’s a half empty bottle of hairspray on the counter that they both eye dubiously.

“It would be weirder if we didn’t spray up our hair, right?” Penny says, and Jupiter feels distinctly like a teenager, uncertain, awkward, not quite sure of their style, rather than the early-30s successful musician they were. 

It doesn’t end up looking good, at least not to their 2020 sensibilities, but as they make their way down to the street, a woman in leopard print gushes over how good they both look. 

It’s sunset, with people looking just as out there are the out-of-time cousins, band posters and flyers plastered to every wall, every telephone pole, every surface available as they walked the six blocks to The Strip. It takes only the ten minute walk from their shitty little hotel, to the Whiskey-A-Go-Go, for the reality it of it all to settle in Jupiter’s stomach like they’d swallowed ice. More specifically, it takes right up until they’re standing on the corner by the Whiskey, Penelope’s eye caught by one of the flyers on the nearby telephone pole, for Jupiter to think to look across the street at the rundown apartment complex that they realise they already know of. 

They gaze upon the window of one of the apartments on the second floor, with, even at this distance, a visibly fist-sized hole, gaff-taped up through the window. Jupiter knows that window, even as Penelope’s calling their name insistently. 

“It’s April Twenty-Fourth, right?” Penny calls, dubiously, and Jupiter says something about how that’s what she’d said back at the hotel, not paying attention.

“First ever rehearsal we had for the band, I didn’t even see your mom, she was out somewhere, the gym I think, but before she’d gone, she and Nikki had a fight and she put her whole fist through the window; I thought they were the coolest people I’d ever met.”

Tommy’s voice floats through Jupiter’s mind as they finally turn to Penny, to her insistent tone, only to step back, as if burned by the very sight of the Motley Crue poster. Penny was holding one corner in a fist, eyes wide. Tonight. The Starwood. 

“No.” Jupiter didn’t even let her get an word in edgewise, but Penny shook the poster more intently. 

“We have to,” she implored, though Jupiter was now adamantly shaking their head.

“We have to do no such thing,” Jupiter crossed their arms, cocking a hip. Turning their nose in the air at the poster, they accidently catch a glimpse of what they’re pretty sure is their mom’s apartment, and their expression reflexively wrinkles.

“What if my mom’s there?” Penny says quietly, and oh God damn it, there’s no way Jupiter could say no to that. The walk from the Whiskey to the Starwood is a good half an hour, and they’re both just glad to have opted for the flat shoes they’d brought from the future, rather than risked any of the platforms or heels that were lined up neatly at the bottom of the closet they’d raided. There’s a Motley poster ever few feet, and while dread had settled in Jupiter’s stomach, Penny was buzzing beside them nervously.

The Starwood had closed only months after Motley’s first performance, but both Jupiter and Penny had heard their family lovingly reminisce about it, with photos from the night, from nights before and after, so it strangely felt like they’d been there before, looking at the club’s name up in shining lights, Motley Crue headlining the night just below. 

“Isn’t that the guy from Rock Candy?” There’s two dudes a few feet away, squinting at another poster for the band, then looking up to the sign, both of them in leather jackets and flared jeans. 

“Dude, fuck, that’s the guy from London, last gig he played, he broke the singer’s jaw!” The second dude, delights, already tugging his friend towards the club where people were already filtering in.

“No man, their roadie broke the singer’s nose after he knocked out two of the bass player’s teeth on stage -”

It was so strange to hear misinformation spread so casually about people both Jupiter and Penny knew so well; they’d both heard the story of the night Tommy and Charlotte had met Nikki and Lola, how London had a small fight on stage that ended up giving Nikki a bloody nose, and how Lola had knocked out two of the singer’s teeth the in alley behind the bar after the gig. But here, now, it was like it’s own kind of folklore. 

They follow the men inside. 

No-one check their IDs, thank God, their own wallets hadn’t travelled back in time with them. The bouncer lets them pass without issue, and Jupiter is strangely reminded of their age as they see the people around them, a majority in their early to mid-20s, all looking right at home in leather and black denim. It’s still fairly quiet, the stage looking only half set up with a few clusters of people milling around the bar. There’s two people on the stage, setting it up, but with their backs turned, but they’re not exactly recognisable, long blonde hair and dark hair respectively, though the dark-haired one is in a distinctively spiked jacket. Closer to them, however is, a pretty red-head sat at the end, all tight clothes and effortless elegance, one leg crossed over the other where she was lounging against the bar on her barstool, a beer in one hand. Something about her is so familiar.

Jupiter and Penny carefully sit themselves by the bar too, a few seats away from the red-head, looking around but not quite processing it all. They’re at Motley Crue’s first show. 

Jupiter’s squinting at the row of drinks behind the bar, trying to decide what to order, when Penny grabs their hand so hard it hurts. Before they can turn back, however, they hear a voice they’ve only ever heard recordings of.

“Aw, Eileen, so nice of you to get me a drink,” Charlotte Lee’s tone was all teasing and light as she took the bottle out of the redhead - Eileen’s - hand, taking a sip as Eileen herself rolled her eyes.

“Lola is a terrible influence on you,” Eileen said flatly. Penny’s nails were digging into Jupiter’s forearm. Charlotte hands the drink back with a fond twinkle in her eyes.

“Lola hasn’t paid for a drink in her life, so I happen to think she’s a great influence-”

“She only drinks for free because she’s blackmailing half the bartenders in town,” the bartender himself piped up, cracking open a beer and handing it over to Charlotte without her even having to ask, flashing a grin that’s all teeth, “you ladies drink for free because I like making pretty girls smile.”

“Ricky, you’re the one who keeps hitting on her,” Charlotte points out, and his expression falls almost comically fast; “you keep taking her back to your place.”

“Only ‘cos she lives with Nikki and I don’t feel like being fucking stabbed in my sleep,” Ricky counters, pouting and flustered, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“That’s definitely fair, but it’s not Lola’s fault you’re embarrassed about having a nun fetish,” Eileen’s tone is unbothered in the fact of Ricky’s embarrassment, though her lips twitch in the barest amuse smile as she adds, “Father Richard,” and Ricky turns scarlet as Charlotte spits half her mouthful of beer as a laugh escapes her. 

Jupiter can feel their heart beat in their throw. This is so real, what the fuck. 

“Can we help you?” And then Eileen’s looking directly at Penny and Jupiter, who realise that they’re staring at the women by the bar, eyes wide like they’d seen a ghost. Ha. She’s got a single, perfect eyebrow raised, shifting in a way that’s barely noticible, but so clearly confrontational, like a cat’s fur raising even when a cat doesn’t move. 

“Charlotte Lee,” there’s a wobble in Penny’s voice when she finally speaks, and Jupiter can feel the way her hand’s trembling, “that makes... that makes you Eileen -” and she swallows hard, editing the last name she knows so well for the one that Eileen would have had in 1981, “Austen.” 

Charlotte and Eileen share a look, and then look back to Penelope. 

“Wait right here,” Charlotte sounds delighted, actually addressing Penny with a hand out.

“How do you guys know who we are?” Eileen asks, as Charlotte takes off towards the stage. Penny moves instinctively to follow her, but Jupiter holds her in place. There’s something in the evaluative look she gives them, lip curling just a little, on edge at being stared at by two strangers who must be roughly a decade older than them, who seem to already know them. “Are you friends of Lola’s?” She asks dubiously, and Jupiter is fighting the urge to run.

“Our little brother went to high school with you both,” Penny blurts out, “he was in the year above you,” but something seems to ease about Eileen’s posture as Penny tells her the exact school, and the year she and Charlotte would have graduated. It’s too specific for Eileen to think they’re lying, and for that both Jupiter and Penny are glad.

For all that Penny is Charlotte and Razzle's daughter, she was still raised, at least in part, by Lola, arguably the best liar of her generation. All the various Lee-Dingley-Sixx children had some innate ability to convincingly lie through their teeth, and though it didn't come in handy for Penny nearly as much as it seemingly did Jupiter, she was never more grateful for that skill than she was now.

“False alarm, Charlie, their brother went to school with us,” Eileen calls out, just as Charlotte is returning, dragging a dark haired woman both Jupiter and Penny knew far too well.

Seeing Charlotte at first had been so overwhelming that they hadn’t really processed what she’d looked like, but now, standing next to who could only be Lola, in 1981, it hit Jupiter just how young they both were. 

Lola’s still shorter than her own child, but taller than Jupiter remembers her ever being, curtesy of her intimidating platform boots, leather and buckles and spikes, a good match for her spiked leather jacket and studded bralette. She’s all sprayed up hair, larger than life, dark eyeshadow, and fishnets, somehow wearing so much and not at all at the same time. 

Beside her, Charlotte is only a few inches shorter, hair just as high, still with dark makeup, looking like a beautiful middle ground between Lola’s intimidating intensity and Eileen’s high glamour. In flashy denim pants and an artfully ripped, hand painted Motley Crue shirt, Charlotte’s the picture of the eighties, as beautiful and bright as any photo or recording Penny and Jupiter had ever seen. 

Charlotte’s expression falls with disappointment, but before she can speak -

“You’re twenty-two!” Jupiter hears themselves say, and Lola looks directly at them, lip curling. Jupiter’s blood runs ice cold. 

“What?” The single word is so derisive in a voice that Jupiter has never known to be cold, and before anyone else can speak, Lola looks to Charlotte, eyebrow raised. When she crosses her arms over her chest, even the leather jacket can’t completely hide how well muscled her arms are, “Charlie, I love you but I don’t give a shit about two old broads whose brother you knew, we gotta finish setting up.” It hurt like a physical ache, somewhere behind Jupiter’s sternum, each word somehow hurting more than the last.

“Don’t be rude,” Charlotte told her, elbowing her in the ribs, smiling even so.

“I don’t even know my fucking age - who are you?” Lola’s undeterred, on hand holding a roll of gaff tape in a white-knuckled grip, while the other had curled into a fist, weight shifting from one foot to the other in agitation. Okay, that’s very fair, Jupiter regrets ever opening their mouth. Fuck. 

“You don’t know how old you are?” Charlotte asks, disbelieving, breaking the tension, and Lola looks back at her, face scrunching up as the tension drops from her shoulders.

“Why would I know my age?”

“Because that’s a very weird thing not to know!” Charlotte exclaimed in disbelief, eyes wide. Jupiter, on the other hand, wracked their brains for any scrap of knowledge they’d heard about their mother’s past and actually retained.

“Sorry, we know we’re being weird,” eyes closed, they took a deep breath, trying to sort out their thoughts, “our brother Leo went to school with Charlotte and Eileen, but we... talked to a band you roadied for, and they told us roughly how old you were, but you look,” Jupiter pauses, cracking open their eyes, only to see the way Lola's expression had softened upon hearing the name Leo - oh fuck, she doesn't even know the truth about her own dad yet! -“younger than I expected.”

“I’m used to Lola being recognised around here, just got my hopes up that it was my turn,” Charlotte admits with the faintest embarrassment, picking her drink up from the bar and taking a sip. 

“One day soon, Charlie, if the boys take off, we’ll be right beside ‘em; everyone in LA will know your name,” the way Lola says it is strangely wry, like she’s self aware of the fact that her own name is out there for some less than reputable reasons, or like she isn’t fully convinced that Motley Crue would be the runaway success they all hoped.

Jupiter and Penny share a look, pained by the dramatic irony the three women across from them couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

It takes a moment, and Lola is definitely still a bit wary, but then it passes, and Lola looks to the stage again, still clearly addressing Charlotte.

"If you wanna help me with the last bit, I just need to do a sound check.” And with that, she was off, and Jupiter lets out a breath that hadn’t realised they’d been holding. Penny is still staring at Charlotte, who's rocking back on her heel as she has another drink, contemplating going after Lola, but also intrigued but the two interlopers enough to stay.

Eileen asks their names.

Penny and Jupiter share a panicked look, because they can't just tell the truth, it would make things weird in the future! What if they end up in the present named something entirely new!? They hadn't even begun to consider the butterfly effect of their being here.

"Lisa?" Jupiter says finally, picking a name they'd used in the past, but not for long, a nickname derived from their birth name in honour of their grandmother. Eileen looks wildly unconvinced, but Charlotte, bright and kind and perfect and alive, tells them its pretty. Penny is struggling to come up with an alternative, before conceding that her nickname is probably common enough that it wouldn't really matter.

"Penny's such a pretty name," Charlotte beams, and tells them its lovely to meet them, and Jupiter rests a gentle hand on their cousin's back, a silent reminder to keep breathing, as Charlotte trots off to help Lola with the last of the sound check.

Jupiter orders them both several drinks.

They end up sitting at the other end of the bar, away from the spot Eileen has clearly claimed for herself and Motley Crue's glorified roadies. Penny is quietly trying not to hyperventilate every time she thinks too hard about what's happening, and made a muffled scream upon hearing Charlotte laugh at one of Lola's jokes.

"I've died, Jup, we've died and this is the afterlife because that is my fucking mother, and she's alive, and she's twenty-one goddamn years old. She is a child. Our mothers are children. What the fuck?!" Penny hissed, and took another sip of her drink. Jup was watching Lola, so young and confident and mean as all hell, a defensive mechanism that's only made apparent to be such because Jupiter's known her longer than this version of Lola's been alive. But she smiles around Charlotte and Eileen in a way Jupiter's never seen her smile before, something grateful and adoring at the corners of her lips, an unfamiliar kind of softness in her eyes for just the barest moment.

Lola smiles like she feels lucky to be here, to be around these women, to call them friends. Here and now it hits Jupiter hard, that even decades later, their mother never fully recovered from losing Charlotte.

"We're not dead," Jupiter tells their cousin softly, and they both watch Lola and Charlotte head back to the green room before the band begins.

"But I- how, explain then, how can I go over there and touch her? She's real, Jup, really real, my mother, Charlotte Lee."

"I can't explain it, it just is," Jupiter muses, and finishes of their next drink as Lola and Charlotte reappear, followed by the band, all looking far too young and overeager, and Jupiter's heart is beating in their throat as Tommy Lee beams and waves to the crowd. They're going to be sick. Or maybe cry. Or maybe have a full panic attack right here by the bar. Fucking hell he's even more of a child than Charlotte, only twenty, and just as bright and excitable as they've known him to be, possibly moreso.

The audience seems underwhelmed, not sure what to make of these boys with their leather and hairspray and nervous excitement; Vince introduces them to the quiet bar with a yell, and Jupiter kind of hates that their future step-dad is giving them gender envy.

And then Tommy knocks over his cymbal after showing off with his drumsticks, and Jupiter bursts into tears.

They're furious at themselves for crying, hand pressed to their mouth for fear of anyone hearing if they would sob, brow furrowed into a scowl, other hand messily wiping at their eyes as they mouth defiant swears against their palm. People are jeering and booing, and out of the corner of their eye, Jupiter sees Charlotte actively holding Lola back, and something deep inside their heart knows that if there wasn't stupid fucking tears in their eyes, they'd be just as ready to defend the band's honour as their mom is.

"Oh, he's always been like this-" Penny's voice is softly adoring as she watches the man who will one day be her uncle and adopted father, before she looks to Jupiter, sees them overwhelmed with it all, and mad at themselves for feeling that, and she laughs, gentle and kind and understanding, and wraps Jupiter up in a hug. Its grounding. Even as Jupiter sulkily tells her to fuck off, they wrap an arm around Penny's shoulders and press their face into her hair.

"He looks like you," Penny murmurs as the first song starts, despite the negativity still pouring from the crowd. Jupiter wrinkles their nose, but can't help but smile. Tommy looks incredibly cool tonight, and it's true that Jupiter had inherited a lot of physical characteristics from their father.

Everyone in the bar hears the jeering way a dude in the audience asks about the 'chick singer', and for a moment, the children unwittingly mirror their mothers as Penny's grip on Jupiter tightens, anticipating when they go to lunge for the stage in outrage, but the moment the guy spits on Vince, across the bar Charlotte let's go of Lola, setting her loose on the vitriolic patrons.

Penny and Jupiter knew Motley's first gig started with a fight, but it was another thing to witness it.

Tommy leaps into the crowd, delighted by the carnage that Nikki and Vince are already taking part in, and Lola’s already knocked a guy flat on his ass. Surprisingly, Charlotte lobs her half-empty bottle at the guy who had spat at Vince, not taking direct part, but not abstaining either, cackling when it shatters against him and he's looking around, angry and confused, and Eileen says her name with a tone thats both scandalised and impressed.

In the end, by the time the bouncers step in, all that's left is Tommy absolutely wailing on a dude, and much to everyone's surprise, most of all her child's, little Lola Gone wraps her arms around Tommy's chest, cops a full elbow to the face, and still hauls him up and off his victim like he weighs nothing, even as he's thrashing and swearing and telling her to go fuck herself before realising who it is. When she puts him down, she snarls something at him, and shoves him towards the stage.

By the bar, Jupiter's mouth is agape, while Penny is trying to hold in her laughter, both of them realising just how terrifyingly similar to their father Jupiter actually is. And that at Twenty-Two, Lola is built like a tank.

The things you never truly understand about your parents because you always think of them as your parents is wild.

But above all, in the wake of the small riot, Jupiter and Penny can only feel a strange and overwhelming pride, seeing how eagerly they'd all defended each other.

"Fuck yeah, Motley Crue!" Leaves Penny's lips, delighted, at the top of her lungs, and suddenly the eyes of everyone in the bar, and more importantly, the people these two time travelling cousins will call family, forty years from now, fall on them. Grateful. Beaming. Then, laughter; Charlotte’s.

"Fuck yeah!" She echoes her daughter, and a cheer rises around the bar as the band begins playing again, energy revitalised. Charlotte beams at them, sharing in the moment, waving them both over eagerly as the bartender begrudgingly hands over a stack of napkins, while Lola's got her head tipped back, arguing with Eileen as to whether or not her nose is broken as it bleeds profusely.

Even at their first gig, Take Me To The Top sounds good, sounds like it should, all rough and energetic, and Jupiter knows how strange it would be to sing along at the band's first fucking gig, but the song, even now, feels like home.

"Lola, you're a danger to yourself and others," Eileen smirked, "and you're a terrible influence on Charlie."

"Thank you," Lola grins, right as Charlotte tries to deny it, which devolves into Eileen pointing out that Charlotte had lobbed her bottle at one of the offenders, which delighted Lola to no end.

"Don't know if you would know this, not sure how much your brother would have said," Charlotte says, grinning at Jupiter and Penny, "but my cousin, Tommy, he's the one on drums," she says, oozing pride. Jupiter and Penny both bite back on their instinctual responses, but still the surprise reads on their face.

"The one who did this to me," Lola's beaming despite looking a little like a horror movie, sounding only proud.

"He's certainly energetic," Penny says, finally, before letting herself breathe, watching the band for the moment, "they're really good," like she can't quite believe this is all real, still, "they have no idea how huge they're gonna be," the words slip out quite by accident, and both Jup and Penny share a panicked look, but the words don't get the reaction they expected.

"I knew I liked you," Charlotte's grin is sharp and pleased, and before Penny can protest, Charlotte's thrown an arm around her shoulders, "you've got taste." And that's enough incentive for Charlotte to shout both Jup and Penny a drink, oblivious to the way Penny freezes, like a deer in the headlights. Her mother's arm is around her without her mom even knowing how much this means. She looks like she's about to cry.

"Its really good to meet you, Charlie," Penny's voice is strangely hoarse, strangely honest in ways Charlotte can't even begin to understand, and Charlotte gives Penny's shoulder a squeeze.

"You too, Penny, and you, Lisa," she adds, grinning up at Jupiter for a moment, "anyone who thinks good things about my reckless dumbass of a cousin and his band is good in my books." She's so effortlessly earnest and endearing, exactly as everyone had described her, able to make friends wherever she went. Penny tentatively thanks Charlotte when she hands her a drink, and wraps an arm around Charlotte's waist when the younger blonde seemed content with an arm around Penny's shoulders.

"I can't believe you two are the only other assholes with taste," Lola smirks, holding a napkin to her nose.

"Get bent," Jupiter fires off automatically at the vaguely derisive tone, and Lola flips them off while Charlotte shoves her in the ribs. This moment, in its own weird little way, makes sense.

[maandags]

love me quietly (Diego Hargreeves x reader)

i should maybe change my url yeet

-- -- --

Summary: You and Diego Hargreeves had once been together--but that feels like ages ago. And then you were forced to move away, and all contact with him was broken off. Ten years later, Reginald Hargreeves is dead, and you have old demons to face.

Word count: 12.1K

Genre: angst

Notes: CW: graphic violence, blood, injuries, mentions of abuse - masterlist - listen while you read!! - knife boiiii i loove youuuuu mlah

-- -- --

Your nose was broken, you were pretty sure.

You hit the mat with a grunt, and the crowd around you roared. Before your opponent had time to do anything more than sneer and raise his arms, making a full turn as if his victory was already settled, you were back on your feet already and you slammed a foot into his ribs. He doubled over, coughing, and you took the opportunity to plant your elbow in between his shoulder blades, ramming down hard. He went down.

You were on his back in seconds, grabbing his leg and twisting it at the knee, holding down his shoulders at the same time. You felt the strain in his knee’s tendons and grit your teeth when he didn’t tap out. Come on, idiot, you thought, putting even more pressure on his knee. Something snapped and the man below you cried out. He balled a fist, trying for a swing behind him. You dodged easily. “Tap out,” you hissed in his ear.

His reply was nothing more than a grunt. His muscles went slack, and he dropped to the floor. You released your hold on his knee, if only slightly. A mistake.

Quick as a rattlesnake he twisted out from beneath you, wincing as his injured knee hit the mat. With his good leg, he kicked you in the stomach and sent you stumbling back. Black spots swam in front of your eyes, but you shook them off almost immediately–Focus, focus, focus, Y/N, you repeated in your head. You needed to win this fight.

Your opponent was injured. Every time he had to put any weight on his right knee his face contorted in pain, so you decided to concentrate on that knee. You were going to have to break it.

But though he was injured in more places than one–his blond hair matted to his face and dark with blood, nicks and scrapes across his face and arms–he still stood his ground. He landed two more punches, dodging your moves more swiftly than you’d expected. You set your jaw, drawing the back of your hand across your upper lip. It came away wet with blood.

He limped. His knee was starting to take its toll on him. His dark eyes flicked from you to the people watching and back to you, not daring to let his attention waver for more than a split second. For a second, you only circled each other in a perfectly coordinated dance. You light on your feet, your left shoulder throbbing. You gave it a slight roll.

Then, in a last desperate attempt, he lurched for you. Your eyes widened, and you stumbled out of the way, using his momentum to throw him back onto the ground. His chin hit the floor with a sickening thunk. Your elbow dug into the back of his neck, and your feet were locked around his bad knee, slowly pushing. “Tap out!” you shouted. Spit and blood mixed in your mouth. He didn’t. Waited just a little too long.

Crack.

He howled in pain, hand shooting out and rapping on the floor. You released him, scrambling upright. Around you, the crowd screamed; a mix of cheers and boos. You didn’t pay any mind to it, You’d learnt not to over the last few months. You kept your eyes down and grabbed your bag, checking everything was still inside–mobile phone, car keys, straps, sweatshirt, sweatpants. You pushed your way to the table where everyone placed their bets: a neatly bound stack of bills was already waiting for you and you swept it up without hesitating. The man behind the table–Joel–gave you a nod. “Pleasure to have you here, as always. You did good, Y/N.” You nodded back.

What you were doing might have been immoral–and also illegal–but it made you money, you were good at it, and the people running the place weren’t absolute dicks. A win-win in your opinion.

Your phone rang and you picked up without looking at the ID. You didn’t need to. “Hey.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I won. It was a good night.”

“I hate that you’re doing this, you know.”

You sighed, jamming your keys into the car door. “I know, Charlie. You tell me every time.”

“I’m still hoping I can change your mind about this,” muttered your brother. You slid behind the wheel, smiling into the receiver. “You’re going to get caught one day. You’re going to get arrested and I won’t be able to help because you know perfectly well what you’re doing is against the law.”

“Hey, I’m not the one running the place. If anything, Joel and Mitch and Davina should be worried about getting caught, but guess what: it’s been years and they’re still kicking.” You flipped the mirror down and fumbled for some wet wipes, dabbing at the blood on your face and neck and hands–you’d take a proper shower when you got home. A particularly deep cut on your forehead stung when you ran the wipe across it and you hissed.

“You know what, I don’t even care about that–you’re going to get yourself seriously hurt someday,” Charlie said. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, Y/N.”

You rolled your eyes, turning your head and checking in the mirror if you’d missed a spot. There was a big patch of blood in your hair, but you covered that up with a beanie. Your nose was swelling and slowly turning purple: you’d have to get that checked out soon. You gingerly touched the skin around your left eye, where a bruise was starting to form and pouted. You had work the next day. Concealer would have to do the job.

“I’m fine, Charlie,” you said curtly. You’d had this conversation before. You were getting tired of it. “I’ll see you when I get home. I’m gonna stop by the store. Do you need anything?” You shut the mirror resolutely.

Charlie sighed audibly. “We’re almost out of milk,” he said, deflated. “And shampoo. And matches.” The stuff he asked for was so random.

You smiled. “All right. See you in a bit.”

You whistled in between your teeth as you pulled up in the little store’s parking lot, unable to stop yourself from feeling giddy, despite everything.

It had been a good night. It had been a great night. You’d quickly counted how much money you’d brought up when you’d got in the car. It was more than you’d ever made in one night; clearly there had been a lot of new betters around the table, or they’d just lost faith in you after seeing your opponent. You grinned to yourself. This was enough to last you and Charlie over two months.

Though it was around one in the morning, the store was still open. You stepped inside and out of the chill, waving briefly at your co-worker Savannah who sat behind the counter. She smiled back, ignoring your slowly-blackening eye and obviously broken nose. She was pretty used to seeing you like this by now.

You only grabbed what you had come for: a carton of milk, a bottle of shampoo, a few boxes of matches, a couple of bars of chocolate (a spontaneous decision–you felt like you’d deserved some chocolate), and a six-pack of beers. Savannah barely looked up when you plopped your strange assortment of items on the counter. You paid and exited the store, swinging the paper bag from hand to hand.

Then all the lights popped, and Savannah let out a piercing scream.

You whipped around, dropping the groceries at your feet, and instinctively sprinted back into the store. Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea, yelled the little Charlie in your head. Shut the fuck up, you shouted back at it.

“Sav?” you called as you reached the door. Another scream, then a glass panel at the back of the store shattered. It was still dark, and only the light from outside lampposts filtered in through the cracks. You squinted. “Savannah!”

A figure dressed in black raced through the aisles. He seemed to be running from something–or someone–but before you could do anything but yell “Hey!” they slammed into you and shove you to the side. You screamed and tumbled backwards into the condiments rack. You never knew bottles of ketchup and mustard could hurt this much.

It was pitch black. You were buried beneath ketchup and mayonnaise and barbecue sauce and completely disoriented, and the person–from their build, you went out on a limb and assumed it was a man–had hit your already injured shoulders, and there were corners and edges of bottles dug into your eyes and nose and it hurt. You shoved the bottles off of you with a grunt. “Savannah!”

She still wasn’t answering. It was driving you nuts, to not know where she was. Savannah had to be okay. She had to be. Breathing hard, you managed to scramble up and do a turn. The man in black was weaving his way through the store, knocking over shelves and boxes behind him.

It was stupid. It was a stupid thought and it was a stupid idea and yet: you’d learned to be reckless over the last years.

You ran after him, jumping over the items he’d scattered to make him harder to follow, but you liked challenges, and this was a challenge if you’d ever encountered one. Adrenaline burst through your veins, blood rushing in your ears. Out of the corner of your eyes you saw Savannah hiding beneath the counter, her eyes squeezed shut and her hands clasped in front of her face. She looked shaken, but fine, and relief rushed through you. Now all your focus turned on catching the man in black.

While you were quick, he was quicker, and you had the additional challenge to jump over boxes of tampons and blocks of cheese and though you were gaining on him, he was almost at the door already and you weren’t going to make it he was going to get away–

Something whizzed past your ear and slammed itself into the doorframe with a thunk, pinning the man’s arm to the wall. He screamed in pain and you recalled how the dude you’d fought earlier that evening had screamed when you’d dislocated his knee. Is a dislocated knee as painful as getting your arm pinned to a wall by a knife? You supposed you’d never know.

A shadowed and masked (you laughed at this one; masked? Seriously?) figure sprinted through the store, whizzing past you–though not as aggressively as the first man had done–and as he ran, he threw a couple of more knives to really secure the man’s spot against the wall. You squinted. It was still dark, and there wasn’t a lot you could make out in all the commotion, but something about this second guy just felt so… familiar.

Maybe it was the way he moved, running and fighting and throwing knives like he’d been trained to do it his whole life, body nothing but lean muscle. The mask also had something familiar about it, but he was moving too fast for you to make out anything more than a black mess.

Your fingers curled into a fist and unfurled by your sides indecisively. On one side, you wanted desperately to join the fight and beat the shit out of the guy who’d thrashed your store and gave Savannah the fright of her life–but on the other hand, the second guy looked like he had it under control. And you were also pretty bruised and sore over your entire body, and when you took a step a bolt of white-hot pain seared up your right leg. You hissed, grabbing onto the nearest still-attached shelf for balance. Ankle.

You’d just gotten out of an illegal fight club with nothing more than a broken nose, a few cuts here and a couple of bruises there and the first thing you do is twist your ankle.

Great. You hopped over to the counter on the other side of the store and crouched next to Savannah, who was still curled up in a corner and shaking. “Sav,” you said, reaching out cautiously to touch her knees.

She sucked in a breath, her head snapping up. Mascara streaked down her face, her eyeliner smudged. Her pink lipstick was smeared over her right cheek. Tears rimmed her eyes. A bit of the fear disappeared when she recognised you, making place for slight relief. Her hand fumbled for yours and you let her take it. “Y/N. You’re okay.” Her eyes flicked over your face. “Mostly, anyway.” She giggled nervously.

You smiled softly. “You too? He didn’t hurt you?” In the background, you could hear the masked man’s furious hisses as he started tying the other up. It was strangely comforting to know he was being taken care of, even if the parson doing it was an annoyingly familiar masked dude with a hero complex.

Savannah sniffed, wiping at the tears around her eyes. “I’m fine. Just startled me, is all.” She frowned, eyes distant. “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know,” you mused, the nagging feeling that you somehow should know him getting stronger by the minute. “Sav.” She looked up. “What happened?”

She sighed, muscles relaxing a bit. “You know, it’s actually really weird. Like, this dude came in, and he wanted to buy some really sketchy stuff. Like vodka and lighters and knives and zip-ties, and he looked young enough to be suspicious of so I asked for his ID, right? And he gave it to me, and I checked and he was fine, and he paid, and he left. through the staff door.”

Now it was your turn to frown. “Wait, what?”

Her eyes widened and she squeezed your hand as if to prove a point. “I know! So I told him he wasn’t allowed to go through there and he didn’t listen, so I started coming after him, and then the lights went out and he bolted.”

You sat back, ignoring the pain shooting up your leg, and processed Savannah’s words. “Huh.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” she muttered. “And the weirdest thing is that he didn’t just, like, run off, because he broke the back window and came back through there.”

That was weird, you had to admit. You stuck a thumb in your mouth, nibbling on the nail absent-mindedly–an old nervous habit you never really seemed to be able to get out of your system, no matter what you tried. Your brain worked at a million miles per hour. You came up with nothing.

“Y/N? You there?”

You snapped back to reality. “What?”

Savannah had stood up, and she was holding a hand out for you to grab. “They’re gone. I looked through the store–nothing. I’ve texted Aya already, but she’s probably asleep.” Aya was the store’s manager, and even though the woman was ruthless, she wasn’t completely merciless. “I’ll call her tomorrow to tell her what happened.” She hesitated. There was something else she wanted to say, and she wasn’t saying it.

You took her hand and hoisted yourself up, careful not to rest too much weight on your ankle. “What is it, Sav?”

“All the electricity cut,” she said slowly, tucking a lock of her dark hair behind her ear. “When it happened.”

You nodded cautiously. “And?”

“That means the cameras were down too.”

“Get to the point.”

“You won’t be on the security footage, Y/N.” She paused. “I’m gonna go to the police. They’re going to look at all the footage and stuff, and take my statement–you don’t have to be brought into this. They’re gonna ask questions. It’s their job to ask questions.”

You pursed your lips. You hated it, yet you had to grudgingly admit that she was right: while Savannah didn’t know exactly what you did in your free time, you’d got to work with a badly covered bruise on your face, a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans on more than one occasion. She had to have her suspicions. “So you’re just going to lie to the police?” you said weakly, a feeble and half-hearted attempt to make her reconsider–not really because you wanted to, but because it seemed like the right thing to do.

“They probably won’t catch the guy anyway, and even if they catch him, I can say he’s lying. If he decides to talk at all.” She touched your upper arm. “I’ll be fine. Go home.”

“And if they catch the other guy? The masked one?” you said, still hesitant to leave her on her own–not because she couldn’t handle herself, but because someone might come back. “He’s seen me. He could ruin everything.”

Savannah rubbed her eyes. Her mascara smudged even further. She didn’t seem to care. “But he probably hasn’t seen me. I was too busy cowering in a corner, remember? And he left without saying anything. So he probably thinks you were the only one here.”

You were still unsure, but you could feel your resistance waning by the minute. “Fine,” you ended up muttering. Your car keys were still in your pocket, and one glance outside told you your groceries were still lying where you’d dropped them. “Fine.”

“Okay. I’ll keep you updated.”

“All right. Be careful, Sav.”

She smiled one last time, gathering her hair up and twisting it into a bun. “You too.”

It was close to three A.M. when you finally pushed the door open to your apartment. You barely had time to put down the bag of groceries in the kitchen when Charlie’s voice hissed, “Y/N!”

You turned, preparing yourself for a lecture, but instead staggered backwards when your brother crashed into you, wrapping his arms around your neck. “Oh, god. I was so worried. What took you so fucking long? It’s been two hours!”

You winced–both because of Charlie’s concern and the fact that he was squeezing you very hard and you were kind of bruised all over. “I’m okay. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t answer my texts. Didn’t pick up my calls. I was worried out of my mind. I have an eight A.M, you asshole.”

You gently untangled yourself from his embrace. “I’m okay,” you repeated. Charlie’s eyes were bloodshot behind his glasses, and you couldn’t tell if it was just from the fatigue and the unholy amount of coffee he must have consumed to still be this awake after a whole day of studying or if he had been crying. “I promise. I’m okay.”

He breathed out a small sigh of relief, squeezing you one last time before letting go. “What happened? Are you limping?” He squinted, rubbing his finger across a spot in your hair. “Is that mustard?”

You swatted his hands away. “Stop it. The store got robbed just after I left, so I went back and made sure Sav was okay and everything. Helped her go to the police, you know.” It was an embellished version of the truth, and you knew it was vague enough to raise suspicions, and Charlie was smart and immediately must have known you were lying. If he did, he didn’t show it. Only narrowed his eyes a bit. But he didn’t press further, and you were grateful for it.

“Is Sav okay?” he asked cautiously. “What did the robber take?”

“Well,” you said, grabbing a beer from out of the bag and popping the can open (Charlie scrunched his nose. He didn’t drink and thought you shouldn’t, too), “he didn’t actually grab, like, money or anything. He freaked out when Sav asked for his ID because he was buying vodka and started thrashing the place. He had a knife.”

Charlie sighed, short and sharp. “You’re not making sense. You know you’re not making sense. I’m going to blame this on the fact that you look like you just crawled out of a dumpster fire,” he said, rubbing his temples, “but don’t think for a moment this conversation is over. Tomorrow you’re staying home, understand? If the store is really as destroyed as you say, you won’t have to go tomorrow anyway.”

“I wasn’t planning on going.”

“Good. I’ll be home around two. Make sure you’re here and don’t go off looking for a fight.” He sounded so tired and disappointed. You hated it when he sounded disappointed. “Don’t stay up too late.” He turned on his heel and made his way to his room.

“Charlie,” you called after him, half rising from your chair. “Charlie!” He didn’t turn back.

You would be fine in the morning, you knew. Charlie and you never had managed to stay angry at one another for long–and Charlie wasn’t angry, per sé. Scared. Confused. Pissed off, sure, but not actually angry. You’d seen him angry plenty of times before, and this wasn’t that. You swirled the beer in its can. You weren’t thirsty anymore.

A quick shower to clean off all the blood and dirt and–strangely–mustard was all you could manage before collapsing into bed. Though you were too tired to really think about anything, you did hope at the back of your mind that Sav had gotten home okay, and the guilt crossed through your chest again. You wondered what she’d told the police, and if they’d figured out she was lying. It would be a restless night.

Maybe everything would turn out okay. Maybe everything would be fine. You’d have to call Aya yourself to see when and if you’d be picking up the job again… But for now, you needed to sleep and heal fast so you could be ready to fight again when you needed to.

Everyone had to fight to survive–you just took it a little more literally.

“Y/N? Y/N. Wake up. Now.” Charlie slapped a rolled-up paper thing on your chest and you groaned, and then you winced, because your nose was positively throbbing. Yeah, that was broken, for sure.

“What?” you said hoarsely, rolling to face the wall so Charlie didn’t have to see your beat-up face–you were pretty sure your eye was nice and purple by now, too, as it felt swollen and sore as well–but Charlie only yanked your covers from your body and you yelped. “Charlie!”

He held up something in front of your eyes wordlessly, and you recoiled, squinting to be able to make out the words. It was the local newspaper, and the first thing that caught your eye was a picture of Savannah. Your blood ran cold and you snatched it out of Charlie’s hands. Your eyes scanned the page quickly.

“Armed robber attacked local grocery store… destroyed half the store… damage repairable but expensive… cashier shaken but unharmed…” You sighed, throwing the paper onto your bed. For a moment, you’d been afraid something had happened to Savannah, but she was okay. Then what was Charlie so worked up about? “I know all this already, Charlie.”

“Fourth paragraph,” was all he responded.

You snatched the paper back up, glaring. Fourth paragraph. The first sentence had all the nerves in your body stand on edge. By the time you’d read the second sentence, you were shaking and had to sit down again. You flexed your fingers to keep them from trembling.

“You didn’t mention Diego Hargreeves came to your rescue yesterday night,” Charlie said quietly, voice thin and icy.

You took a shaky breath. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know it was him–and it was hardly a rescue,” you said, a little bit of your usual snark slipping back into your voice. You’d lost your composure only for a second, but slowly it was coming back to you. You took another breath. “Besides, he didn’t see me either, I think. It was dark, and everything happened so fast, and I really just wanted to know if Sav was okay.”

You pushed yourself up from the bed and slid past him, grabbing some clothes from the chair sitting next to the door and gingerly touching your nose. “I’m gonna go to the ER. I’m pretty sure my nose’s broken. See you later.”

“Have breakfast first,” Charlie called after you. You ignored him, yanking your coat from its hanger and slipping out of the door.

Diego Hargreeves. Diego Hargreeves. The man you hadn’t thought about–had forced yourself not to think about–for years and years. It was raining. You tugged your hood over your head and kept your eyes to the road, speeding up as you went.

Diego fucking Hargreeves.

The memories were still there, you knew. You didn’t think anything could possibly truly get rid of those. They were still there, but they had been safely locked away in a chest with a heavy enough padlock to hold years of memories, good and bad alike, and you had chucked the key into the deepest trench there was, and then you’d dug a grave a thousand feet beneath the earth and dropped the chest inside, and then you’d covered it up again and erased the location from your mind.

Thinking about him wasn’t an option. It just wasn’t.

Someone almost bumped into you, and you threw him a cold glare, even though you knew it was your fault because you hadn’t been paying attention to the people walking along you. You had only been thinking of Diego fucking Hargreeves. The man you knew you should absolutely not be thinking about, but were thinking about anyway. Because that’s what he did, wasn’t it? The little shit just couldn’t stay out of your goddamn head.

People started letting up their umbrellas, and you flinched every time you passed one. Ridiculous. Ridiculous and then some. But that was maybe the only thing that changed after the time you’d spent with Diego and his family: you refused to use umbrellas. Even when it was pouring and hailstones hammered down from the sky, leaving bruises all over your body. Even when you wound up with a cold the next day and a fever. No. Fucking. Umbrellas.

Your last stubborn act against Reginald Hargreeves, you thought wryly as you opened the doors to the ER and approached the desk.

“Hi. My nose is broken.”

“All right. If you could just take a seat…”

The doctor who set your nose only shook her head at the sight of you. It wasn’t the first time you’d shown up here, even though you doubted that she’d actually remember you, she tutted and told you to be more careful next time. You nodded; an empty promise.

You could scarcely believe your own stupidity. How had you not realised who the knife-thrower was the previous night? How had you not recognised that ridiculous suit of armour of his? You helped him make it, for fuck’s sake. At this point, you weren’t even mad at him–only at yourself for being as blind as you were.

“The nose should be healed in a week or two. Go see your doctor, all right? And don’t do anything to make it worse.”

You nodded again. You filled in and signed the forms they handed you. Charlie would be livid, you thought; he’d been friends with Diego too before you moved away. Before you’d made him swear not to contact him or his family in any way, shape or form ever again. He’d tried, of course–he’d been a thirteen-year-old boy, of course he would try–and you’d caught him, time and time again, playing the role of mean older sibling forbidding him from seeing his friend.

“He’s your boyfriend, Y/N!” Charlie had shouted at you from across the room.

You had clenched the phone you’d confiscated from him tighter, giving him a vicious stare. “Not anymore. Don’t mention him again, Charleston.” Full name. All three syllables.

Charlie had clamped his mouth shut, knowing it best not to argue. “But you won’t even tell me why.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Your voice had been icy. No room for discussion.

It did matter. It had thwarted your whole world. You were pretty sure Charlie had never fully forgiven you, and he had every right to. But you’d had to. You hadn’t had a choice.

You took a deep breath. Your hands were shaking, so you stuffed them in your pockets and kept walking. When you reached your door, your fingers were trembling so badly you had to take a second to steady your hands before you could insert the key in its lock. You stumbled inside your apartment and slammed the door shut, not bothering to lock it again.

Sleep. You needed to sleep. It was barely ten A.M, and you’d been out for multiple hours. Charlie had class. You had another few hours to sleep. Your brain was mush; thoughts raged in a hurricane. Nothing was making sense. Sleep.

You didn’t even undress when you crashed down onto your bed for the second time that day.

You woke up and it was half past four P.M. You jolted, flinching at the pain flashing through your arm. The curtains had been drawn closed; your shoes had been removed from your feet; the comforter had been wrapped around you and a glass of fresh water sat on your nightstand. You dropped onto the pillow again and sighed.

You only changed into a new shirt before you made your way to the living room, raking your fingers through your hair to at least make it seem like less of a bird’s nest. Charlie sat on the sofa, feet drawn up beneath him, a steaming cup of tea in his hand and a stack of papers in his lap. He barely looked up when you gingerly sat down next to him.

“Thanks,” you muttered, fingers rubbing on the sofa’s fabric.

He kept his gaze firm on the papers. “Don’t worry about it.” His eyes were bleary behind his glasses. But his voice was stiff and cold and you winced at the sound.

“I’m sorry for not telling you,” you said. “I promise you I didn’t know it was–”

“We’re both adults, Y/N,” said Charlie. “You don’t have to tell me everything.”

You pursed your lips. “I know. But if I’d known, I would have.” You sighed. “Just–just wanted you to know.”

He was silent for a moment. “Well. Thanks, I guess.”

“Right.” You nodded, standing up somewhat awkwardly. “I–uh–I think I’m gonna call Sav. See how she’s doing.”

“All right.”

“Yeah. Okay. Bye.” You snatched your phone up and slipped out the door.

Savannah turned out to be doing fine. She’d called Aya, and while their manager had been livid at the news, she’d mostly been livid at the robber for destroying her store, not at Savannah, and she’d apologised profusely. The making of a statement at the police station had gone surprisingly smoothly and she was already able to laugh about what happened–thin and shrill, but it was a laugh nevertheless–and you were beyond relieved to hear her voice.

“But you do realise we’re both jobless until the store re-opens, right?”

Savannah heaved a deep sigh. “I know. Aya said it would take two months, maybe more. A bitch has bills to pay, damn it.”

You bit your lip. While you had enough money to hold you and Charlie up those two months, Savannah would actually need to get another job. You couldn’t help but feel bad. “I’ll help you find a job,” you offered weakly.

“Oh, I’ll be fine, Y/N. I’ll find a job as, like, a waitress somewhere. I have a bit of money in a separate bank account for exactly this type of situation. I’ll manage just fine.” She actually sounded sure of herself. “You’ll be okay too, right?”

“Of course,” you mumbled. You sank down onto a bench, watching kids play in the park around you and dogs chase squirrels until they fled up in their trees. “I’ll be fine.”

You hadn’t had lunch, so you nibbled on a taco from the nearest takeout, just taking in the peacefulness of the park. The soft noises chirping from all around you. The sun shone, as opposed to earlier that morning. The bench you sat on was still wet, but covered in plastic and you managed to keep your butt dry.

It was a nice change from the evenings you ran on nothing but adrenaline and determination as you fought opponent after opponent–and winning more often than not. Or the days you spent holed up in the small and dusty grocery store with only a stuffed rat to keep you company (his name was George). Savannah usually did the night shifts, and you only worked together on Saturdays.

A little girl rushed past you, a smaller boy waggling after her and screeching in delight, stumpy arms outstretched. You followed them with your eyes, a smile creeping up to your face. The girl spun around and spotted you; her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open. She skipped up to you. “What happened to your face?”

You laughed bitterly. “I broke my nose.”

The little girl’s dark eyes widened even more. “How’d you do that? Did you get in a fight?”

You could have said yes. It was true, after all. But this was a child. she couldn’t have been more than seven years old. You shook your head. “No. I got whacked in the face with a ladder.”

She clapped her hands over her mouth. “Really? Did it hurt?”

“Well, it didn’t feel great, no.”

She pouted, hands clasped in front of her. Then her little round face lit up again and she grinned widely. She was missing a tooth. “I could magic it better for you!” Out of her pocket she drew a small blue and green jar, the lid decorated with those plastic gems you find in arts and crafts stores and a sparkly blue ribbon. She ceremoniously untied the ribbon, unscrewed the lid and dipped a finger in the jar’s unknown contents. She felt around for a bit, then triumphantly held her finger up, now covered in purple glitter. “Can I put this on your nose?”

You sat there, stunned, because this tiny child was being absolutely serious and was asking you permission to slather your broken nose in purple glitter. You stared at her for a moment, and she stared back at you, and then you said, “All right.”

She grinned. “I’m Anika, by the way,” she chirped as she gently dabbed some of the glitter on your bandaged nose. “But everyone calls me Annie, so you can too.” She also sprinkled some glitter over your bruised eye, then decided it still wasn’t enough and spread some more on your cheeks and in your hair.

You bit back a grin and let her work, her little nose scrunched up and her eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Little flyaway hairs tickled your cheeks. She finally cocked her head, nodded in satisfaction and screwed the glitter back on her glitter-pot. “There. Now close your eyes and count to ten, and when you open them again you’ll be feeling much better already.”

You decided to humour her and shut your eyes. “One, two, three…” Annika started. You counted along in your head. Six, seven. “... Nine, ten!” You peeked out of one eye. Annie was looking at you expectantly, hands clasped in front of her chest. “Well?”

Nothing had happened, of course; if broken noses could heal with a sprinkle of glitter you’d break it more often. But you had grown fond of little Annie and her magic jar. “I’m feeling great. Thank you, Anika.”

“Annie.”

You chuckled. “Right. Annie. Thank you.”

“Well, you’re very welcome. I want to be a doctor when I grow up. Then I can do all sorts of cool stuff and make lots of people better!”

The sun was starting to set. You’d been in the park long enough for you to lose track of time. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see a distressed-looking woman holding onto a little boy’s hand and stalking towards your bench. It took you a few seconds to realise Annie was probably her daughter and that she was looking for her, and not because she was particularly interested in you or your bench. You turned back to Annie. “You’re on the right path. I’m sure you’ll be one of the best doctors out there.”

She grinned, showing off a gap in her teeth.

“Anika!” The woman jogged the last few steps, grabbing her by the arm and crouching down to look her in the eye. “I’ve been looking for you for ages! Don’t run off like that again, okay?”

“I was helping them out!” Annie pouted, pointing at you.

The woman’s head turned, and she flushed at the sight of your glitter-covered face. She sighed, eyes drooping closed for only a moment. “I’m sorry if she was any trouble,” she started, but you cut her off with a wave.

“No, don’t worry. She’s lovely.” Over her mother’s shoulder, Annie smiled her gap-toothed grin at you and flashed you a thumbs-up. “I have a broken nose, you see,” you added, trying to keep as straight a face as possible when you knew your entire head was covered in purple glitter.

“I see,” said Annie’s mum. The sides of her mouth were twitching, her eyes glittering now that she wasn’t worried about her daughter’s safety anymore. She stood, a kid on either side of her. “Well. I hope your nose gets better soon. And thank you for looking after Anika.”

You nodded, saluting, and winked at Annie, who tried to stifle her giggles behind her hand. “No problem at all.”

You sat on the bench, looking after the little family until they were out of sight and smiling to yourself. Then you stretched out your own legs and started back to your apartment, pitching the empty taco wrapper in the nearest bin. Rain started to fall again and when you rubbed a drop out of your eye, your fingers came away covered in purple glitter. You laughed under your breath.

The kiosk near your apartment was still open, and out of habit you strolled up to it, letting your eyes roam the newspapers and magazines stalled out. The dude behind the counter looked you up and down, gave no reaction that anything was out of the ordinary and went back to scrolling through his phone. Nothing weird about someone with a broken nose, a black eye, and whose face is covered in glitter, apparently. You appreciated the neutrality.

In the news window, a huge portrait picture immediately grabbed your attention, and you flinched back out of reflex–if only because the man depicted was none other than Reginald Hargreeves. You had the urge to straighten your back and look at your feet as you used to do–and you immediately scolded yourself over it because Reginald Hargreeves wasn’t there. He didn’t have that kind of control over you anymore.

You read the headline. Then read it again. Then again. Finally you knocked on the window, gesturing that you wanted a copy. You paid, the still-unimpressed kiosk guy handed you your change, and you stuck the newspaper inside your coat with trembling fingers as to not get it wet.

Reginald Hargreeves was dead.

It was strange how shocked you were. Not even shocked in a bad way–hell, you were so glad he was gone you could have shouted it from the rooftops–but shocked in a “Holy shit what the fuck” way. Reginald Hargreeves had always just… been there, for as long as you could remember. To have him gone was so strange. He seemed like the person who’d been around when you were born and who still would be around when you died, and no one would question it.

As soon as you entered your apartment building you yanked the newspaper out of your coat and thumbed the pages until you found the right one. Billionaire Sir Reginald Hargreeves dead. You scanned the short article, frowning at how little information was given. They didn’t say how he died; they only stated the date, and a whole bunch of bullshit about how He will be dearly missed and His children grieve for him deeply. You scoffed, pushing your door open and rolling your eyes.

None of Reginald Hargreeve’s children would grieve for him.

They’d be thrilled he was dead. (except for Luther, maybe–but Luther was on the moon. So.) They were finally free from him, the man who’d put each of them through so much pain and suffering. You wondered if Allison would even show up at the funeral–she was a worldwide known actress now–but then you shook your head. Of course she’d show up. They’d all show up.

Charlie sat in front of the TV, eyes wide and a cup of instant noodles forgotten in his lap. He didn’t even look up when you sank onto the sofa beside him–he’d usually scold you to at least take off your filthy boots and your coat (“It’s dripping wet!”), but this time he merely said in a tight voice, “Did you hear?”

Sure enough, from the TV screen, Reginald Hargreeves’ face stared back at you. A tremor ran down your back and you avoided the picture’s eyes. He was dead, you reminded yourself. He was gone and he wasn’t coming back. You looking at his picture wasn’t going to spawn him back into the land of the living. So you forced your eyes to meet his and held them for as long as you could.

Of course, since it was a picture, he didn’t blink or move at all. He was just… there. A lifeless depiction of the person you had hated most throughout your entire life. And he was gone. With every passing second, you grew more confident and let your eyes roam over the man’s face, not so much in interest as much as to see what it would do to you. What you’d remember. You felt like someone observing a rather ugly statue, trying to figure out if it reminded them of someone they knew.

Your eyes rested on his monocle for just a beat longer than usual. That stupid monocle he wouldn’t take off no matter what. But you were slightly surprised at how well you remembered his face, considering you never had the courage to look at him directly when he spoke to you. Not until the last time you ever saw him–which was also the last time you ever saw any of the Hargreeves.

“I heard,” you finally said. Your hands were trembling still.

Charlie slowly leaned back and you studied his face, how his jaw was clenched and his eyes had grown cold and angry and stormy. “Good riddance.”

Hearing him say the words that had been cautiously forming in your own mind made you startle. Charlie folded his arms. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said quietly, not able to keep the shimmer of hope out of your voice. Maybe it wasn’t over after all, a voice you’d beaten down for years whispered softly. Maybe you could still make it right. “Good riddance indeed.”

You didn’t know what you’d expected, but it was too late to turn back now. The doorbell had rung, you could hear the melody faintly from where you stood on the streets. In the rain. Once again. Only a week and a half after you’d heard about Reginald’s death.

You had wanted to come sooner, you really had, but every time you came close to the house you ended up in the coffee shop across the street, or the arts and crafts shop at the end of the block (though you hadn’t touched your pencils in years). And now you were here. After ten years.

Your breathing went shallow as you went through all the worst-case scenarios in your head. He’d slam the door in your face. He’d start shouting at you and then he’d slam the door in your face. He wouldn’t let you explain, telling you how much you’d hurt him. Telling you to never come back. And then he’d slam the door in your face.

But the door opened, and it wasn’t him.

“Hello, Y/N,” said Grace. The robotic mother. Who had been more of a mother to you than your own, actual mother. “You’re here for Diego, aren’t you?” She smiled, completely ignoring your still-healing nose, though your black eye had faded. As if nothing happened. As if you were just stopping by for tea and a chat. As if everything was fine. “I’ll go get him right away.”

“Wait!” you blurted.

She turned, her smile flickering for only a second. “Is something wrong?”

You swallowed back the lump in your throat. “No, Grace. Nothing. But I’d rather go look for him myself.” You tried for a grin of your own, though you suspected it was watery and rather unconvincing. “As a–as a surprise.”

She stepped aside, only now seeming to realise you were still standing in the pouring rain and progressively getting soaked. “Of course, dear. Come inside, I’ll make you tea.”

And then you were inside the house you’d sworn never to step foot in again after ten. Whole. Years.

And you still remembered everything from the umbrella holder to the coat hanger in the hall to the right way to slide the slidey doors open without breaking everything, to the stairs and the living room sofa and the kitchen window and how it still creaked. Your throat closed up, both from panic and the sheer emotion of being back.

A small figure slid into the hall, right behind you. “Grace, who was–”

You turned and he abruptly quieted. You cleared your throat. “Hi, Pogo.”

He very carefully nodded, and you pretended not to notice how his shoulders tensed. “Y/N. It’s… been quite the while.”

You winced. Pogo had been the closest thing Reginald Hargreeves had ever had to a friend. You wondered how much he’d told him. “It has,” you said in a small voice. “I’m sorry for never contacting you.”

A flash of pity crossed his eyes, and that was when you were sure he knew–or knew at least the gist of it. He merely smiled. “Master Diego would be up in his room, I think. Maybe the kitchen.”

You didn’t pretend that he wasn’t the major reason you were there. Mumbling your thanks, you started up the stairs, your legs getting heavier with every step. It would have been easier had everything not been exactly as it had been when you’d left, you thought. It would have made it feel less real.

But his door was right there, and you could only drag out a two-minute walk so much. You raised your hand. Pulled it back. It’s not too late to just leave, said a voice in your head. But you’d already done that once, you frowned, and it had been the biggest mistake of your life. The rapping of your knuckles against the polished hardwood door echoed through the entire hallway.

“What?” came his irritated voice, and your breath hitched, because it was his voice. It had been ten years since you’d heard that voice.

You took a shaky breath. “Hey, Diego.”

It was silent on the other side of the door–so silent that there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that he’d recognised the sound of your own voice, too. Your breathing suddenly seemed a lot louder.

And then he quietly said: “Go away,” and your heart shattered into a million pieces.

You didn’t move at first, too stunned to do anything besides sheepishly blink at the doorknob. No thoughts in your head bar a confused, What?

You opened your mouth to try again, wondering if you’d made the words up. “Diego, I–”

“Go away.” His voice was raw, as if he’d been crying too.

You clenched your jaw shut, your hands balling to fists at your sides. Tears welled up in your eyes and you willed them away again, a deep breath to steady yourself. Okay, you thought. If that’s what he wants. It’s okay. It’s cool. You spun on your heel and left the way you came, slipping out into the hall when Grace called your name.

“Y/N? Your tea’s ready. I’ve got biscuits as well.” She smiled, eyes expectant.

It took you a while to process the words. Tea. Yes. She’d said she’d make you tea. “I’m–I won’t be staying for tea, Grace,” you mumbled, a hand coming up to tug at the cord of your sweater. “Sorry.” And you ducked out of the front door. You managed to keep it together for exactly two blocks, and then the tears started falling and there was absolutely nothing you could do to stop them.

You tried not to run. To keep your head down. To stay unnoticed. But the last few streets were almost deserted anyway, and it was still raining, and the tears on your face mixed with the drops falling from the sky until you didn’t know anymore which was which. By the time you reached your front door, you were soaked once more.

“Boots,” said Charlie sharply when you entered. You ignored him, slamming the door shut behind you and stomping through your room. “Y/N!”

You were sad. Of course you were. But alongside that through your veins coursed anger. He wouldn’t even let you explain.

It wasn’t your fault. You had been offered a choice ten years ago, both options shit; you’d just chosen the less shittier one. And still it had caused you sleepless nights for years. And still your chest clenched whenever you thought back to it. And still your body instinctively went into panic mode whenever Reginald Hargreeves was even mentioned.

And he hadn’t even let you explain.

You threw your coat onto your desk chair, kicking off your boots and flinging them against the door. Mud and dirt splattered onto the wood. Those would become stains, you were sure. At the moment you didn’t care.

You flopped down onto your bed, and the moment your back hit the soft mattress and comforter all the anger swept out of your body. It left with the breath you exhaled as you stared at the ceiling, replaced by a stale emptiness. No tears ran down your face this time.

I fucked up, you mused. It’s over.

“Y/N?” Charlie’s voice came from the other side of your door. He sounded like he didn’t quite know what to do, and you couldn’t blame him. It had been years since you’d lost control over your emotions like that.

You cleared your throat. “I’m okay.” A pause. “You can come in if you want.”

The door creaked open. Charlie stood there, eyes cautious behind his glasses. You reached an arm out. “C’mere.”

“Y/N,” he said slowly, approaching like you were on your deathbed. You rolled your eyes and grabbed onto his trouser leg, yanking him onto your bed. He let out an oomph, bracing himself so he wouldn’t crush you, but then lay down next to you. You closed your eyes, feeling for his hand. You squeezed. After a moment, he squeezed back.

“I should never have gone back,” you mumbled after a while, eyes still closed, a bitter laugh rolling past your lips.

“Gone back where?” He was playing dumb. Or maybe he just wanted you to deny it–after all, you’d been the one to drag him from his bed that night, ignoring his confused questions and snarling at him to shut up and stop being difficult when he tried to wriggle his arm out of your grip.

“You know where,” you sniffed, turning and curling up and into his side. It had been a long time ago, and yet something in the bond you shared with Charlie had broken that night. Both of you pretended nothing was amiss, but it was there and you felt it, like a once-fractured bone that hadn’t set right.

Charlie slowly breathed out through his nose. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” you said, voice muffled. “I thought–I thought I could make it right. If he’d just let me explain–if he’d just–he didn’t even let me talk–he just told me to go away–” Your voice broke and you took a breath, blinking away tears of frustration that had popped up in your eyes.

Charlie wisely kept quiet, and you knew what he was thinking. You never explained to me, either.

And he was absolutely right. It was time to right that wrong–baby steps.

“He told me he’d kill you if I kept seeing him,” you muttered, and Charlie went still beside you. For a moment it was as if he wasn’t even breathing.

“What?” His voice was so quiet–had there been a single other sound in the room, you would have missed it. You could almost feel his heartbeat pick up from where your head was pressed against his shoulder.

“Reginald Hargreeves,” you stated simply, the syllables rising their familiar bitter taste like bile in your throat. “He’d been dropping hints to both me and Diego that we ‘weren’t supposed to be friends’ and stuff like that, let alone a couple. And of course we ignored him, because we were seventeen and idiots and stupid for each other.”

A dam had broke, and now that the words were spilling out of you like you were an overflowing basin you found that nothing could stop them. “So one day he pulled me aside, and he said that if I didn’t pack my shit and move to the other side of town he’d find a way to off you and make it look like an accident. I’m pretty sure he said something about making sure Diego wouldn’t even want to remember my name, but I’d already stopped listening.”

You turned away from him, pulling your hand out of his gone-limp fingers and folding your hands over your stomach. “So, there you have it. I was not to tell you or Diego anything, I was not to try and contact any of the Hargreeves, and I was not to mention their names to anyone ever again.” You cast him a glance. His eyes were wide with shock, and his lips were slightly parted. “I thought, you know, he won’t be doing much killing now that he’s dead. But I guess he managed to make Diego not even want to remember my name.”

It was the most honest you’d been in a long time, and now that the truth was out there, right in the open, it felt like a huge weight had been lifted off your shoulders. At least he knew now, you thought. You were past hoping for his complete forgiveness–you’d known the consequences of what you were doing when you were doing it–but maybe he could try to understand.

Charlie, the law student. Charlie, whom you would move heaven and earth for. Charlie, who could have died a hundred times over had you not made the choice you had.

“I told myself every night over and over that I’d made the right choice. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner,” you whispered.

He was silent for a long while, and you started to think he would just get up and leave, but then he gave an awkward cough. “Can I sleep here tonight?”

You smiled when you felt his hand slip into yours again, and for a minute you were fourteen and ten years old again, little Charlie crawling beneath the covers next to you. Nightmare, he’d say, and you’d nod and pull him close, the sound of your parents fighting shaking the house’s foundations. “Yeah.”

– – –

“Huh. This place is nice.” You made a full turn, your hand loosely gripping at the strap of your black duffel and taking in the cleanliness and order of this month’s den. That’s what you called it to yourself, at least. A place where people went voluntarily to take a beating could not be called anything other than a den.

“I know,” said Joel smugly. He squeezed past you and strode to the desk already set up for him, stretching out his long legs in front of him and lacing his fingers together on the back of his head. His black hair flopped in front of his eyes. “The owner owes me a favour. He didn’t like this at all, by the way. I had to promise him fifteen per cent of the profits of every night we host in here. Fifteen per cent! Asshole.”

“None of the others want you?”

“I thought it would be cool to have, like, an actual proper ring to fight in. To at least look like we’re doing legal stuff.”

You snorted, plopping your bag down and pulling up a chair next to him. Joel had called you up about two hours ago and asked if you wanted to help him with preparations, though it hadn’t sounded like much of a question and more of a thinly-veiled threat. But on the other hand that was just who Joel was, and you’d said yes out of sheer boredom because you knew from experience it was pretty much impossible to be bored with Joel around.

It looked like your average boxing ring, in your opinion, but the walls were made out of red brick and the floors of concrete and there were actual lockers you could use to put your stuff in without the worry of some asshat taking off with them. The whole place had a vibe to it and you liked it. The air hummed with adrenaline.

You and Joel got to work, preparing everything for the night, making sure there were enough chairs for people to sit down on, stalling out bottles of water, towels, bandages, exchanging banter whilst you did it. Sure, it was an illegal fighting club, but you were still decent human beings.

It was getting pretty late–it would be getting close to 11PM now, and the first betters and fighters were starting to show up. Soon a small crowd had formed, and Joel sidled up to you, hands wringing and that wicked grin of his curling his lips. His eyes scanned the crowd hungrily, and you knew he was gauging from which man or woman he could pull the most cash.

“Are you going into the ring tonight?” he asked. You always managed to win him a fair amount of money–you were inconspicuous. Didn’t look like you could put up much of a fight. Yet the number of times you’d actually lost one could be counted on one hand.

“Maybe,” you said vaguely. “I still have a fair bit of cash left from last time.” Your left shoulder was still stiff and sore sometimes, and your nose had only just healed from the last time and was still delicate.

A brown-haired man about a foot taller than you found your gaze and grinned, showing off a chipped tooth. His nose was crooked–an old break, you reckoned–and he raised an eyebrow slightly, as if to say, Really? You narrowed your eyes, the now-familiar thump of adrenaline beginning to course through your veins. You flexed your fingers. They itched. You could almost hear the crack his jaw would make when you’d plant your heel on his chin. Maybe knock a few teeth out in the process, too.

“Actually,” you heard yourself say in the voice that only seemed to come out whenever you were about to punch the living daylights out of someone–rough, tinged with something dark and frightening, “put me on the list.”

Joel’s grin deepened, amusement flashing in his icy blue eyes. “There we go.”

He hit the mat with a grunt and coughed. Drops of red speckled across his lips and cheeks. A bruise the size of your palm was starting to blossom on his cheek, and you knew it’d swell up and hurt like hell in a matter of hours. He let his eyes flit closed and breathed out through his nose. He didn’t get back up until the bell rang and his friends came to peel him off the floor and then he hobbled off like an ashamed dog, clutching their arms for dear life.

You wiped at your nose. It had started bleeding again. It wasn’t broken, you were pretty sure, so you shrugged the pain off and wiped your hand on your shirt. One more bloodstain to wash out–it didn’t make a difference.

Bag, money. The usual calculating, impressed, and downright frightened looks. Joel shot you a wink.

And then you turned and looked right into the face of Diego Hargreeves.

He was standing at the room’s entrance, frozen, arms limp at his sides, his lips pursed in a thin line. Your heart skipped a beat. Your eyes met, and you could feel he’d recognised you. Your bloodied knuckles went white around your bag strap.

“Y/N? You okay?” Joel frowned, then reached out and grabbed your wrist when you took a step towards the door. “Hey. It’s still early. You could go for another round.”

You shook your head, pulling your arm free. “No. I’ve–I have to go.” By the time you reached the door you broke into a run, and you had just enough time to see him round a corner. You followed, ignoring the pain shooting through your right leg whenever you put weight on it.

He picked up his pace and rushed through a door, slamming it shut behind him. You skidded to a halt, trying to catch your breath.

For a moment, you didn’t say anything, just listened to the rustling on the other side of the door. When you closed your eyes you were back at the Umbrella Academy, tears pouring down your cheeks when Diego hadn’t even wanted to talk to you. You took a deep breath and knocked, wincing at the streaks of red appearing on the polished wood. A sharp sigh sounded from inside.

You decided to take a risk. “Diego, you can’t keep avoiding me.”

“I can and I will. You can spend the night in front of my fucking door for all I care. I could leave through the window right now.”

Despite the harshness of his voice, you smiled, because this was the Diego you knew. This was the Diego you could handle. “You won’t, though.”

“Oh yeah? How do you know that?”

“Because I know you, Diego.” Your heart was thumping in your chest, the pain you’d felt moments before dulled to an echo of what it was. He went silent. You imagined the scowl he would be wearing without a doubt by now. “Open the door.” You picked at your lip, wincing when that hurt, too. “Please.”

And he didn’t answer. You waited, and waited, and just as you were starting to think that maybe he had taken the window route the bolt clicked and the door opened. Your breath hitched.

He looked the same as he had the last time you’d seen him. Older, obviously, and sadder–bitterness etched in harsh lines across his features, bags under his eyes, a new scar on the side of his head you hadn’t seen before, but beneath all that you still saw the boy you’d spent so many hours with, curled up together in every dark corner you could find and whispering to each other into the early hours of the morning.

“You look like shit,” were the first words out of your mouth.

Diego’s eyes narrowed to slits and he looked like he was about ready to slam the door in your face, and your hands flew up to your mouth. “Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean that–fuck. I’m just–I’m nervous. Sorry.”

He still looked suspicious but released his hold on the doorknob. You tucked your hands in your pockets. They were trembling.

“Well?” he said harshly, avoiding your eyes. “You wanted to talk. Then talk.”

You nodded, chewing on the inside of your cheeks, racking your brain for the best way to say Your dad threatened to kill my baby brother unless I broke up with you. Surprisingly, you came up with nothing.

“What did he say to you?” you blurted.

Confusion painted itself across his face.

“You know,” you grumbled, “when I left. Did he say anything to you?”

Diego sucked in a breath. “He said you’d moved away. That you hadn’t given a reason.” He paused, and an old but strong hurt flashed in his eyes. “That you didn’t want me to contact you in any way.”

You clenched your jaw, anger coursing through you. Of course he would have said that, you thought. Of course he would have put everything on you. Reginald Hargreeves had been a manipulative son of a bitch, and you and Diego both fell victim to his scheming. “Right. I suppose that’s all he mentioned of me ever again?”

“Actually, no.” He kept his gaze on something behind you, still refusing to meet your eyes. “He’d ask about you for weeks after you left. Encouraging me to write letters. Saying you’d come around eventually.” He laughed, a bitter sound that made you recoil slightly.

“I never received any letters,” you said weakly.

Diego looked into your eyes now, and he was fire. “Well, I didn’t know your new address, did I?”

“Diego–”

“I thought about you every single day after you left. I had no idea what I’d done to make you go that abruptly. I’d toss and turn at night, trying to figure out how to get you back.” His voice was steely, his fists clenched. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”

You were shaking your head as if in a daze, trying to find your voice, but it seemed to have given up on you and you could do nothing but listen as every word hit you like a punch to the gut. No, you thought, you’d gotten punched in the gut plenty of times. This was worse.

“I was doing fine, Y/N. I could go weeks without thinking of you. Why did you show up now? Ten years later?” Punch. Punch. Punch.

“He threatened to kill Charlie,” you choked out.

Diego faltered. “What?”

“Your dad said he’d kill Charlie if I didn’t leave. He said I was a distraction to you that he couldn’t afford. No contact whatsoever. Diego, I never had a choice.” You were pleading with him by now, your eyes wide and your hands balled to fists at your sides. “He said he’d hurt you, too, if I ever did try to contact you. He said–he said he’d make you want to forget my very existence.”

He looked like he just got hit by a truck, expression a mix of confusion and shock and anger and sadness.

“I couldn’t tell you, Diego. I couldn’t. He said–” Your words were cut short when Diego slowly reached out and touched your forehead, frowning when his fingers came away wet with blood.

“You’re bleeding.”

You exhaled, shrugging. “It’s fine. I’ve had worse.”

His eyes flicked back on yours. The hurt and confusion weren’t quite gone, but it had dulled down. He looked more tired now than anything else. He sighed, letting his head drop, then he pulled the door open and gestured for you to come inside. “Get in.” He rolled his eyes when you shot him a suspicious look. “I’m not going to abduct you. Get in, I have bandages.”

Diego carefully dabbed at your forehead and nose and arms with a wet towel, brows furrowed and bottom lip pulled between his teeth. Sat on his sofa in his apartment, you couldn’t keep your eyes from raking across his face, letting them drink in every detail you might have forgotten over the last ten years.

You remembered one time when you’d woken up one day and just for a second, you couldn’t recall what he looked like, and white-hot panic had burst in your chest and you’d had to squeeze your eyes shut to carefully reconstruct his face in your mind. Only then your breathing had eased. Now you were in front of him again–and the reality of things crashed into you like a tank.

You didn’t even feel the sting of the towel on your wounds. Like you’d said before, you’d had worse, and your attention was focused on one thing and one thing only.

You touched his cheek; the barest brush of your fingers on his skin. He tensed beneath your touch, eyes flicking up briefly to meet yours, but didn’t pull away. “Ten years,” you said quietly, letting your hand fall away. “Ten lost years.”

His jaw set. “I thought it was my fault. I blamed myself for ten years.” He paused. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it.” He dropped the bloody towel, turning it over in his hands. “Maybe I just didn’t want to see it.”

You hated the way he talked like that, the hurt and strain to his voice as if every word he spoke was pure pain. You shook your head. “It’s okay. He’s gone now. We can…”

Your voice trailed off, words you were still unsure about dying in your throat. We can what? It was stupid. You both had lives now–your paths would have crossed eventually if they were meant to, right? But then you realised with a start that they already had. You were sitting in his living room. You didn’t know how much you believed in fate, but maybe this was the universe’s way of giving you a nudge in the right direction.

He gently picked up your hand, picking up the towel again and carefully wiping off the dried blood on your knuckles. His expression was pained. You nudged his shin with your foot. “What?”

“Why would you do this to yourself?” He pursed his lips in a tight line. “How often do you go to these fight nights?”

You shrugged awkwardly. “A few times a month, usually.” He looked up in horror, and you scoffed. “The worst I’ve gotten from it is a few bruised ribs, Diego, and I make more in one night there than I do in a month’s work.” He went back to your knuckles, pointedly avoiding your eyes. “Besides,” you muttered, “you’re one to talk. You’re a fucking vigilante, running around in your superhero costume and chucking those knives of yours all round the city.”

He scowled. “But I–”

“–Have superpowers? Got trained at the Umbrella Academy? I know. These fights? They’re what those who aren’t special do to feel powerful. To feel good. It’s an adrenaline rush, it’s a test of limits. Some regret it later. Some don’t. And when you leave with nothing but a black eye, a few shallow cuts and a bruise here and there but with your pockets full of cash?” You sighed. “You feel invincible.”

He was silent for a couple of minutes, thoughtful. Then, “You are special.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ve always thought you were special, Y/N,” he said, switching to your other hand, rubbing the knuckles almost tenderly. You reached up, blood-stained fingers coming to rest on his cheek. He let you cup his jaw, your thumb ghosting over his lips. His eyes flitted closed. You wanted to kiss him. It was a knife to the heart; a burning feeling in the pit of your stomach. A heat you hadn’t felt in ten years.

But you’d only just made peace, you reminded yourself, and an awkward peace at that. There was still so much to sort through. So much to talk about. Reluctantly, you let your hand drop. Diego caught it before it could hit the table, entwining your fingers with his and pressing your knuckles to his lips, one by one. You let out a shaky breath. “Diego…”

He met your eyes, and before you knew it you were rushing forward and crashing your lips on his.

He responded just as eagerly, wrapping his arm around your waist and pushing your hair away from your face with his free hand. Your fingers came to wind themselves in his hair, and he sighed against your mouth, the tension in his limbs melting away beneath your touch. It was only when you tasted your own tears that you realised you were crying.

You pulled away, bunching your fingers in the back of his shirt. “I’m sorry,” you whispered through sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

Diego pressed his forehead against yours, pulling you closer to him and pressing a quick peck to your cheek. “Don’t be. Don’t. We’re okay, see? We’re fine.”

You nodded, burying your face in his shoulder. He’d been working out, you noticed, thoughts still jumbled. Nice shoulder. You giggled to yourself.

“Come on,” Diego muttered, not able to keep the grin out of his own voice. “We have ten years of catching up to do.”

[thebarkingraccoon]

Curative AU

I have been working on it for a bit now. I realize it’s taken a lot longer than I had hoped. I got stuck behind some walls, but don’t worry. It’s not writer’s block, I just had to figure some stuff out.

Now that it’s solved I am working on the rest. This is like a short teaser for the AU! I’m sorry for making y’all wait so long. I’m working on getting a lot more out there! ... still working on a title tho

Hope you enjoy the snippet!

Quick summary: Laura manages to get her junk alarm clock to work and heads out to a movie with a friend.

She tortured herself over her computer for hours, threatening to spend another full night just staring at the monitor. She procrastinated from sunrise to sunset.

The choice was her own and it tore her inside out. A life-changing, life-ending decision. Truly an event that would change her life forever, overshadowing her future self in its enormity. Scouring for days, upon days, filtering through informational articles from reputable sources, Reddit boards, and sites with too many dots in the URL.

The decision... to take a semester or two off.

She cried, she complained, she wrapped herself up in a blanket burrito while wallowing in self-pity. Weeks spent agonizing over the repercussions and benefits. Some said it's healthy to take a break, explore the world a bit before diving back in. Others say it can interrupt work ethic and self-discipline.

But the deadline was rapidly approaching. In only a few days she would have to choose and she couldn't imagine what would happen.

The bags under her eyes and heavy eyelids told her it was too late to keep beating herself over the head with this. She needed to sleep so she could wake on time for her plans the next day.

Dragging herself from her cocoon of thick blankets in her living room she managed to make it into her bed. A bed is a generous term as it appeared to be no more than a giant pile of pillows, blankets, comforters, and fluffy things that she disappeared into.

As she melted off to sleep she became aware of the uncomfortable poking on her nose. Swimming through the sea of fluff and feathers she reached out to her nightstand. Only instead of finding her glasses case her hand slapped the nightstand so hard her alarm clock fell over.

With a sharp ringing, she jolted upright, the shrill sound agitating her restful state. "Fracking busted thing." She grabbed the alarm clock, glaring at it with a personal hatred for the device.

Her longstanding spite for the simple bedside tool came from its inability to ring on time. It was a cute stylized twin bell alarm clock that's small hammer came loose rendering it unable to ring. Not knowing this being the issue led her to many mornings sleeping in late.

As easy as it was for her to set the alarm on her phone, it was simply not loud enough to wake her. The poor girl slept like a log, nothing but the loudest most annoying sounds could shake her awake.

Tilting the alarm clock, she patted it on the side which managed to dislodge the small metal hook that connected to the hammer. She tested the clock and it rang, a deep sigh of relief escaped her. So she set it for tomorrow, took off her glasses, then fell right back into the avalanche of comfort.

She was unceremoniously woken from her sleep by that alarm clock ringing in her ear. All she could think is how badly she wanted to throw it out the window but settled for pouting as she woke up.

She slept up to her neck in giant comforters and pillows, lavishing in their luxurious fluff. A bed full of pastels and faux furs piled on the already puffed up bed. There wasn't a single thing spared of color in her room, including the canopy that enclosed her bed.

Braving the day, she lifted herself from her abyss of endless pillows. Shifting through her taste in bedspreads, she dipped her feet off the edge of her bed and onto the fluffy sheep wool rug. Her toes curling into the softness as she stretched her arms out languidly.

Pulling back the canopy, she reached for the nightstand patting the surface until she found her glasses. Her eyes adjusted to the light and clarity of the day.

Slumping over, she picked up her phone only to see a calendar alert for her showtime. She had time to prepare for the day despite her reluctance to do so.

Ideas of how to avoid going popped into her head. Excuses along the lines of 'I'm not feeling well' all the way to 'Something terrible came up!' She kept wanting to find an escape through her preparation.

She left the door cracked open, steam slowly rising from the heat of the shower. Sounds of a few bottles hitting the floor of her shower followed by a line of nonsense words in place of expletives.

She leaned over the sink to apply her make up. She knew it was more procrastination but she had a difficult time deciding what to put on and what clothing to wear. Each mix and match outfit was reasoned away as she continued trying to find a way out.

Doing her best to ignore her social anxiety she dressed, pulled her hair back, and headed to the door. As she was about to shut the door she patted her pockets only to find things missing. "Oh shoot!" She groaned, returning to her bedroom to find her phone buried in her abyss of pillows.

Clicking on the screen, she rolled her eyes. "I didn't plug it in. Are you fracking kidding me?" She glared at the thirty-eight percent battery life. It would be dead before she got home, but she didn't have the time to charge it.

Heading out of her apartment she ensured the door was locked, hopped into the elevator, and went into the garage to retrieve her car. Her phone would not survive the whole day out, but it would survive to give her directions to her friend's place.

As she pulled up to the apartment complex, she texted him she was outside waiting. The phone's battery on twenty-nine percent and she turned it off to conserve it.

The car door clicked and swung open, a rather tall man managed to squeeze himself into the passenger seat. He gave her the widest smile he could manage, "Laura! You actually came and you're on time! I had no idea you had it in you."

She returned with a slight shrug and a lopsided grin. "Hey, Jason. My alarm clock decided to work this morning. It's like the first time it actually rang on time in the last month." She knew he was only teasing her, he was a good-natured man. Yet she felt guilty accepting even a modicum of praise knowing she just spent most of her morning scheming of a way to stay home... and she often didn't show or was very late to hangouts.

"Well, I'm glad we get to see the sequel together. That opening night for the first Hellboy was such fun." He beamed, smiling as bright as ever. "Hard to believe that was four years ago..." A wistful sigh for the old days before they began their college life.

"I did get the tickets for the Dark Knight next month, opening night like you wanted, right?" She drove out of the lot, heading towards the theater.

"Yes! I'm so excited! I'm worried too though, the only Joker I think of is the cartoon one. You know, Mark Hamill's Joker." He squealed in delight, his love of superhero movies shining through. "The movie looks amazing though. That trailer, ugh! I can't wait!"

She laughed about it with him, thankfully relieving some of the tension she felt. He was positively giddy with excitement and his smile was infectious.

Until they went over a bump in the road. The streets in Atlanta were all riddled with potholes and cracks. She winced as she drove over a few, scared of damaging a car that was bought for her. Having to go back and ask for repairs so soon would be a whole ordeal she would much rather avoid.

The wincing didn't go passed him, he felt every bump too. "And this is why I try not to drive here." He uttered as they rolled over another large crack.

Silence filled the cabin and it was not a comfortable one. Laura's head was screaming at her to talk, hold a normal conversation; do anything except sit there the entire time. The theater wasn't far so they wouldn't have enough time for a full discussion, but she hadn't seen him in so long it felt awkward just sitting here.

But what would she talk about? She was intensely private and rarely discussed anything outside of the ordinary small talk between strangers. This wasn't a stranger, he invited her out and bought the tickets. They'd known each other for years and still, she struggled to speak with him.

"Your hair!" Laura almost barked it out, mentally smacking herself. Trying to calm her nerves she focused on using her inside voice. "It's gotten really long, I like it."

Unimpressed, he held up a long dreadlock and sent her a lame look. "Laura, my hair has been this long since I was like twenty."

"O-oh." Feeling more awkward and embarrassed than ever, she clammed up. She talked and made a fool of herself. Of course, she knew this, she was just so desperate to find anything to say that seemed normal.

She meant to say is she liked the length and wanted to know if he was planning on letting it grow longer. Which she immediately botched and instead made it sound like she never noticed. The awkward silence was better to her mind than whatever this was.

Regardless of her social weaknesses, he knew she meant well. After years of being around Laura, he knew she was very careful with the people around her. Unfortunately, she was not gifted at talking to people even if she knew them well.

No matter the social awkwardness, he never actually pressured her. He didn't coddle her when she was overly nervous, but he was never mean about it either. Whether she knew it or not he gave her the healthy adult friendship she needed.

"I like what you did with your hair." He reached over to her, lifting a lock-up to look at the color. She flinched away at the glimpse of his hand nearing her. He knew this about her and drew no attention to it; he put it together years ago.

Laura blinked, glancing quickly down to the long strands in his fingers. "Right! I had the ends dyed." She let out a deep breath. It had been so long since they saw each other he hadn't seen the recent change. "I just wanted to try something new out."

Nodding his approval. "So you had a blue ombre done?" As he questioned her he saw a flash of uncertainty on Laura's face. "Don't worry, I like it. It's soft, not so in your face bright as some do. It's a good choice." His reassurance went a long way. Her shoulders visibly relaxed knowing she was not in fear of being judged.

"Thanks, I got it done last-" Laura paused as she realized once more she was accentuating their time apart. "... September."

He just made an Ahh sound and dropped it. They didn't need to go into why they spent so long without seeing each other. They both knew it was because Laura always fell out of contact, a fact which she felt constantly guilty for.

When she pulled into the parking lot, she was relieved to get out of the car. A movie theater where she could sit in silence and watch Hellboy 2. No worrying about tripping over her words to making herself look like an idiot. She could just kick back and enjoy the movie.

After the movie they headed home, Laura and Jason both talking like old friends again. The prior awkwardness had slowly melted away as they caught up on recent events, the frustration of their last classes together, and the next time they hang out.

When she dropped him off at his place and left for her own she was aware of how relaxed she felt. A few hours spent hanging with a friend not worrying about her studies or what comes next. Just being in the moment having a laugh.

It was a refresher she didn't know she was waiting for. She had such a nice time with him she really didn't want to stop so soon. This was a nice feeling, something she chose to believe was good.

When she headed back inside her apartment she went for her computer. Once the monitor lit up she exited the window with her registration information on it.

This time around she would take time off and make the most of it. She had more than earned a break.

Jason was highly supportive, having chosen to take off as well. Talk of some classic summer fun was quickly becoming a reality and for the first time in a long time, she was actually excited to hang out with a friend.