#Cross is alone in his Manor besides Nightmare and Night's souls that are bound to him (Horror/Dust/Killer) and occasionally Lust | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

caszino-blog · 5 years

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hostage

words: 3816

inspired by billie eilish - hostage

read it on ffn

i wanna be alone

alone with you, does that make sense?

i wanna steal your soul

and hide you in my treasure chest

Draco doesn't know what he's doing when he sits down next to a distraught Hermione Granger, her painful sobs echoing through the hallway and tugging at his heart. She's surrounded by a pile of canary-yellow feathers and Draco only has a moment to wonder why, before she whips around to look at him.

It's always so fascinating to watch Granger process situations. It's like he can hear the wheels turning in her brain and the thousand different expressions that cross her face are more attractive than Draco cares to admit. She always thinks before she acts—unlike the other two idiots who tag along with her. Sometimes, he wonders how Granger didn't end up in Ravenclaw, but then he remembers her penchant for plunging headfirst into dangerous situations and her weird need to help the downtrodden, and he doesn't doubt the Sorting Hat's decision at all.

A few minutes pass in silence before she speaks. "What are you doing here?" Her voice quavers a bit and he can tell that she's trying to sound strong. It isn't working, but Draco does not comment about it.

He shrugs because he actually doesn't know what he's doing there. He was heading back to the dungeons after an unsuccessful attempt to fix the cabinet and he'd taken a winding route downstairs, not particularly eager to face Pansy and her simpering attentions. He needed time, to clear his head of the bitter resentment and anger which had defined the past few months of his life.

He was ambling down the hidden staircase near the Gryffindor tower when he'd heard her crying. His feet dragged him to her and something about the way she sat, defeated and broken, had convinced him to sit next to her, against his better judgement.

"Spit it out, Malfoy. I know you're dying to make a comment about the poor little Mudblood," She says venomously and Draco flinches at the way she calls herself a Mudblood—the fact that she thinks that he considers her a Mudblood.

Don't you, though? A voice asks in his head and he pushes it away.

"Not really, Granger. I'm far too tired to come up with anything remotely insulting right now." Besides, I don't want to see you cry because of me.

"Huh, that's a first," she snorts and Draco silently agrees, wondering what's wrong with him. The last time he remembers interacting with her, he'd taunted her mercilessly. Why should it be any different now?

They sit, side by side, studying the night sky from the arched windows. The silence is not stifling or dreadful, like the chill of Malfoy Manor. It's almost comforting. It's like fragile glass and Draco feels like anything he says will shatter it.

Granger, of course, feels the need to talk. "You're disappearing every night, apparently. Harry noticed you know. He's convinced you're up to… something, I guess. Merlin, he's almost obsessed with you at this point," she rolls her eyes and he suppresses a snicker. "Where do you go?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, Granger," Draco smirks and she huffs. Then, abruptly, "Why were you crying?"

She glares at him and he cocks an eyebrow. "You can't expect me to answer your questions when you don't answer mine." Her voice is snooty and he's reminded of the self-righteous eleven-year-old she was and how her demeanour used to annoy him.

They lapse into silence again, both of them unwilling to cross the impasse they've reached. It's almost childish, really, but Draco will not give her the satisfaction of being answered.

Finally, after what seems like hours, Granger sighs and pushes an unruly curl away from her eyes. "Ron. He… he snogged Lavender Brown in the common room today. Everyone was watching. And pitying me, I'm sure." She sniffles a bit, and a frisson of panic shoots through him—what is he supposed to do if she cries again? "It's just… I always thought we'd end up together, you know? I do everything for him—hell, I Confunded bloody McLaggen so that he could be on the team… and he doesn't see me, waiting for him. He never sees me." Her voice is watery and he knows she's trying hard to keep it together. Draco wants to reach a hand out to her but no, he can't because they're different, they're supposed to be on opposite sides and touching her will only start a shitstorm Draco does not want to be a part of.

Draco sneers a bit and says, "Personally, I don't really know what you see in Weasel. He has so little to brag about himself that he goes around blustering about Potter's achievements—pathetic, really. I'm shocked that you think he's worth crying over. But then again, you did have a fucked up sense of pity." His words are not really a comfort, he knows, but it's not poison, either.

She snorts and repeats fucked up sense of pity, shaking her head. He smirks a little, watching her as she carefully runs her hands over the denim of her pants as if she's contemplating something.

Her eyes are deep pools of brown as she looks at him and asks, " D-did you take the Mark from him? Are you a Death Eater?"

Her words trickle down his back like a drop of cold water and Draco stiffens. He stands up and snarls, like a cornered animal, "N-no! Where did you get that idea? Potter? You can tell him to mind his own fucking business." He immediately regrets his words, knowing that his defensive tone will confirm Granger's suspicions.

"You are, aren't you?" Her voice is coloured with horror and he wants to look away as her face morphs to pity, but he can't. "Malfoy…"

"Don't, Granger… just…" his voice breaks and he clenches his fists. He carefully schools his features into a familiar mask of disdain and says, "Don't make assumptions about something you have no idea about, Mudblood. Don't assume anything about me."

And with that he stalks down the stairs towards the dungeons, feeling oddly lonely as his hands shake and the tears threaten to blur his vision.

i don't know what to do

do with your kiss on my neck

i don't know what feels true

but this feels right, so stay a sec

you feel right, so stay a sec

She drops her bag across from him, and he barely looks up from his book on Vanishing principles as she huffs. Her curly hair is wilder than usual and her eyes are burning with fury as she slams her potions book down on the table. Realisation hits Draco and suddenly, he knows why she's all worked up.

"Still peeved about Potter's little bezoar stunt?" He questions, a slight smirk on his face. He looks up from the book—he's so fucking done, trying to fix that cabinet—and his smirk widens as he looks at her slight frown transform into a full scowl.

Teasing her feels familiar now. He knows exactly how to push her buttons without going too far and she's too gullible to his taunts which makes it all the more enjoyable.

He wonders when it became familiar, when she became familiar. That one night on the stairs went on to become a chance encounter in the library, to an unspoken agreement to meet every day in the little Astronomy corner, full of old leather-bound books. It became their little haven of escape—from the reality of his task and the horrors of his nightmares, from her heartbreak and constant worrying.

He wonders how she can stand him, knowing that he's a monster and he asked her about it, one day, in a moment of absolute self-loathing. She simply replied that she doesn't want to make the mistake of judging him for what he has been forced to become and bile rose in his throat because he knew he didn't deserve her kindness.

"I don't understand how he does it! I mean, it's a stupid book—how can it be right all the fucking time? I spent so much time on that antidote and he just shows that stupid little goat stone and Slughorn's all over him! I-it's not fucking fair," she seethes. Draco raises an eyebrow at her words—he's never heard her swear.

"Now you know how I feel," Draco says, shrugging. Hermione looks up, comprehension dawning on her face. He knows she understands—Potter's had it all so easy. He's broken more school rules than all of the Slytherins combined and he's still favoured over everyone else. He should've died, several times over, but he always made it out unscathed.

It must be nice, he thinks bitterly, to be lucky.

"Yeah, well," she sighs. "I need to find a way to get him away from that book before he learns something much worse than the uses of a bezoar from that horrid book. I-it has dark spells, Malfoy. Horrible curses—I've seen it. I don't want him to get into trouble—he has so much on his plate already."

Draco almost snorts at that. So much on his plate, his arse. Like avoiding Slughorn's fawning and getting cosy in the Headmaster's office every other day is so taxing. How about plotting the murder of said Headmaster when your mother's life is at stake?

He is snapped out of his thoughts by Hermione pulling his book from his hands. He holds his book firmly, not willing to let her see it, to allow her an opportunity to ask questions he certainly does not want to answer. "What are you reading?" She asks curiously and he's about to make up an excuse for why he's reading about Vanishing, of all things, when his left arm starts burning with the intensity of an inferno.

He bends over in agony, clutching his arm and he can vaguely hear Hermione's voice asking him if everything is alright. The pain is decapacitating, terrifying. The Mark burns his nerves and he feels like tearing it off his skin—he just wants out, to escape from the pain and guilt, to escape his dreadful task. But there is no going back. There is no going back from the Dark Lord's ranks or he will suffer a fate worse than death.

His mother will suffer a fate worse than death. And she does not deserve it.

That is the only thing keeping him from running away.

He will fight. If only to keep Narcissa Malfoy safe, he will fight.

He feels cold fingers pushing up his sleeve and he protests weakly, scrambling to keep his jumper in place. She does not listen to him and the dark ink of the serpent and skull burns more as she touches it. He hisses and she recoils, hesitantly cradling his arm.

"What have they done to you, Draco?" She whispers and suddenly it's all too much.

He does not deserve her strength, her compassion, but he basks in it. He cannot be redeemed, he knows that much. But the warmth of her eyes as she looks at him, the single tear on her cheek for his pain makes him believe that he can be forgiven and he gives in to his overwhelming urge to lean in and kiss her.

The pain fades as she gasps and responds to him, her soft lips matching the fervour of his own. His thumb grazes her left cheek, wiping the tear away and her hands slip through his hair and the world narrows down to her and there's nothing left of him but her. He cannot string together a coherent thought as the scent of cinnamon and smoke fills his nose and his fingers get entangled in the labyrinth of her hair. She pulls him closer until there's no space between them and Draco thinks that he can forget everything right there in her arms.

He regains his sanity a moment later, when she pulls away to rest her forehead against his, a defeated sigh escaping her swollen lips—like she is accepting the fact that there is no going back from… this, whatever it is. Draco knows the feeling.

She buries her face in the crook of his neck, pressing a warm kiss to his skin as his hands gently trail down her back. He feels like crying again, for her, for them, for whatever they've gotten themselves into now, because it can only end in tragedy.

He does not know what to do.

But everything in the world feels right again, with her warm body curled up in his arms, his back against the stone wall of the library and so, Draco stays.

gold on your fingertips

fingertips against my cheek

gold leaf across your lips

kiss me until i can't speak

His back slams against the door of the Room of Requirement and Draco growls, kissing Hermione with bruising passion as she pulls him towards the couch in the middle of the room. Their hands are desperate, pulling robes off shoulders and unbuttoning shirts. He knows he doesn't have much time left with her, that being with her after these stolen moments is almost impossible. She must know too, because her hands possess the same urgency as his own.

They fall into a graceless pile on the couch and Draco shivers as Hermione presses her perpetually cold fingers to his cheek, tracing a path to his newly acquired scar, courtesy of Potter himself. He runs his fingers over her curves, watching as her eyes flutter with pleasure and her lips part. He feels a sense of affection bubble within his chest and wonders whether he should voice his feelings. Whether she'll reciprocate his words or throw them away with disdain.

"I knew I should've taken that book away from him," she mumbles, her eyes on the angry red surrounding the pale white of the scarred flesh and Draco kisses her softly, trying to tell her it isn't her fault—she is blameless for everything that's happened, even if she insists otherwise. "Look at what he did to you. I-I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Draco whispers, twining a curl of her dark hair in his pale fingers. Sometimes, he's fascinated by the poetry of it all—they are complete opposites in every way. Hermione is a painting of rich colour, deep brown and olive tones against gold and red, while he is a pale sketch of silvers and greys and greens. She is everything good and pure while he's stuck in the greys, unable to escape the clutches of the dark.

"No, Draco—" she begins, but Draco pulls her closer. He bites her lower lip, muttering, "Shut up and kiss me."

And she does.

When they return from their high, his fingers map a constellation between the freckles on her collarbone and he says, "I just want you to know that I'm… sorry. For everything. I was terrible to you and I understand if you don't forgive me—" he holds up a hand when she begins to speak. He has to get this out. He needs to get this out. "—But I was acting on years of prejudice and unreasonable hatred that my father had taught me, but I was wrong. Merlin, I was so wrong—everything's so fucked up. And… and I feel so sorry that I made you cry, that day I called you a… a Mudblood." She kisses him and he sighs, "I wish things were different but I hope you know that I won't… I haven't thought of you—"

"I know, Draco. Trust me, I do. And I forgive you." She wraps her arms around him and he relaxes. "You deserve forgiveness. You're not evil, Draco—I know you think that. You're not. You're good and brave and I love you." Her last words are a whisper and she stiffens.

But Draco does not let her dwell on her insecurity, as he embraces her tightly, whispering that he loves her over and over again. She forgave him. She loves him.

And perhaps, she will save him, too.

gold's fake and real love hurts

and nothing hurts when i'm alone

when you're with me and we're alone

The last time he sees her is before he goes to the Room of Requirement to open the Vanishing Cabinet for Bellatrix and the other Death Eaters. His hands shake and his heart thunders, but as he approaches her in their little library corner, he feels at peace.

Her eyes are sad, understanding and he sometimes hates how compassionate she can be. If she wasn't, then perhaps he wouldn't be so in love with her that he can't bear the thought of leaving her after tonight.

But he knows, in his heart, that he would not have it any other way.

"Don't cry, my love," he says, quietly, brushing a few tears with the tips of his fingers. He hates seeing her cry—perhaps it's because the first time he saw her cry was when he was the cause.

She laughs a little, rubbing her tears away furiously. "You've never called me that before, you know. I kind of like it."

He smiles a little, holding her hand. "If we both make it out of this war alive… I'll call you my love, every minute of every day." If you even want me around, that is.

They haven't discussed the future, mostly because it's so uncertain and painful, and Draco curses himself for blurting out those words. He's almost about to apologise, but her smile suddenly brightens as she says, "I'll hold you to that, you know."

He smirks at her, stealing a kiss from her lips. "I know."

And then, he kisses her for the last time, buries his nose in her cinnamon-scented hair and walks away without a second glance, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists as her quiet sobs reach his ears.

it's not like me to be so mean

you're all i wanted

just let me hold you

hold you, like a hostage

When she finally wakes up, relief comes crashing down like a flood and he almost buckles under the feeling. Her eyes are disoriented and bloodshot, her voice cracked but it's his Hermione, who says, in a questioning tone, "Draco?"

"How the fuck did you get caught, Granger?" His anger wells up, and suddenly, all he wants to do is scream at her because she told him that she would be safe. Told him that she'd be careful, but here she was, half-dead, and tortured by his crazy aunt, of all people. His heart burns with fear and fury and he's almost blinded by it until he sees her flinch at his expression.

"I-I.." she trails off into sobs and his heart breaks. He approaches her cautiously, hatred for himself replacing the fury. She nestles into his arms, and she feels so light and weak against him that he's afraid she'll shatter if he touches her. Her tears soak through the dress shirt that he hasn't bothered to change out of, and he rocks back and forth, his own tears hidden in her mahogany curls.

They stay like that, his arms trapping her within their safety and her head against his heart, until Fleur comes up to inform him that dinner will be ready soon and her face lights up with joy when she sees that Hermione is awake. "I shall tell 'Arry and Ron zat you are awake, yes? Zey will be pleased to see you."

Hermione just nods and Fleur offers the both of them a parting smile before shutting the door again.

Suddenly, Hermione stiffens and asks, "Did you tell Harry and Ron… about us?"

"I thought you did," Draco says, confusion etched in his gaunt features. "Harry wasn't too surprised when I Apparated here with you."

"Oh, no, he figured it out, last year, he had the Marauder's Map you see—it shows the location of every person in Hogwarts," she says, by way of explanation. Draco rolls his eyes—just what Potter had needed, more help to break the rules. "He told me he knew, when we were on the run. But Ron didn't know. He took it well, I suppose, considering that you're still in one piece."

"Oh, if you mean 'tried to hex me six ways to Sunday' by 'well enough', then yes, he did take it well. But… he was okay with it after a while, I think. Because I took a Cruciatus for you—Harry told him. He hasn't bothered me since we came here, so I don't know." Draco shrugs, running his thumb over the bandage on Hermione's left arm, where Bellatrix sliced a deep, straight line with her cursed knife. Draco is thankful that he'd fought back before she could proceed—he has a feeling that Bellatrix wanted to do much worse than carve a single line in Hermione's skin.

"You took a Crucio for me?" Hermione asks, her eyes looking larger than usual in her thin face. In the moonlight, she almost looks like a child, innocent and sweet.

"I had to. I-I couldn't just stand by and watch that madwoman torture you, Hermione. I'd had enough. The things I saw there…" Draco shudders at the haunting memories, remembering the Muggles he tortured, the sick pleasure on Voldemort's face as he watched countless people die on one of his pointless revels. He remembers the pain of suffering from the Cruciatus at the Carrows' hand, because he'd refused to torture a first-year—a child. He remembers the fear on his mother's face as the Snatchers dragged the three disfigured prisoners and Bellatrix smiled maliciously at the defeated girl in front of her—and he somehow knew that it might be the last time he ever saw her, because he would die to protect Hermione from his aunt's wand.

"It's alright, you know, it's alright," she whispers, a bloodless hand coming to rest against his cheek and he shudders, holding her tight as she soothes him by repeating her words, over and over again. He does not cry—he doesn't think he can, he is too broken for it—but he can feel himself healing as her sweet whispers ghost against his skin.

They whisper their love against each other's lips as they desperately try to forget the last few days—last few months, really. He remembers a conversation they once had in the darkness of a secluded Hogwarts hallway, when he told her that she held him prisoner in her heart because he didn't see any way he could escape from her, from them, without hurting himself.

Her eyes flutter with sleep and she yawns. He kisses her forehead. "Sleep, my love."

He watches as her lips stretch into a drowsy smile and Draco thinks that if he really is her prisoner, he is glad because he's never felt freer than he has in her arms.

#dramione #draco malfoy #draco imagine #draco x hermione #hermione granger #hermione #draco #draco malfoy x hermione granger #hp #hp imagine #harry potter #harry potter fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #fic

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ambiengrey · 6 years

Text

Loitering Ch 8

Here: summary.

<-previous

attempting bravery

“A DEFINITION NOT FOUND IN THE DICTIONARY

Not leaving: an act of trust and love, often deciphered by children”

― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

Jason focused on walking. Just walking, and walking – he could do that. He could walk.

He followed in Alfred and Tim’s wake, the younger boy giving Jason the shyest, most apologetic smile he’d ever seen on the kid’s face when Jason climbed the first few steps. Tim had turned around and led the way up before Jason could think to make a face of some kind – a what the hell, kid?-kind of face was the only kind that came to mind though and, with Alfred’s eyes still on him before the butler turned as well, not making it had probably been best.

Vaguely he was aware of Cass climbing the stairs after him, always a step behind.

Jason had kept his eyes on Alfred, but it reminded him too much of the first time he’d ascended the staircase – watching the unfamiliar butler’s back as he was led to the room he’d be occupying. Opposite Dick’s, he discovered later.

Unbidden, he wondered – perhaps not for the first time – what Bruce had ended up doing with all his stuff, after he’d…died.

Given his school books back, probably – he thought he might have been in the middle of an assignment…writing a short story or something? He couldn’t remember.

Kept his storybooks, Jason thought, recalling Cass clutching his makeshift copy of Beauty and the Beast (though that wasn’t the only little fairy tale in there) in her arms the last time he’d been here. Jason had been too shy to ask for books when he’d first moved in, not used to people buying him things anymore besides, but, he suddenly had all the paper he could ever want, and means for retyping and printing the stories he liked – so he could return the library books he’d, well, stolen.

Where had Alfred put Jason’s—“collection,” the butler had called it—?

In addition to the fairy tales, there had been a bunch of classics he’d brought along from his – and, technically, his mom’s – old apartment, rewritten in his own hand, bound between cardboard covers filled front to back with doodles – Huckleberry Finn, Tom Sawyer, Oliver Twist, The Prince and the Pauper…

Bruce had bought him every one of those and then some, but he’d kept his own makeshift books. As a reminder, maybe. Of where he’d come from? Or, how things had been before?

Of the comfort those stories had brought him when he’d been alone, and waiting—

For his father to sober up.

For his mother to wake up.

For Bruce—

Not even reading, just holding onto something he knew, inside and out, seated on the staircase – before he’d been recruited as Robin, before he’d started training, when all he’d been offered was a home and safety, and some sort of family—

But he knew whose family he was a part of. Batman’s. And the Dark Knight’s duty kept him out at night, and Jason, too used to waiting up for people to come home, and too wary to sleep in unfamiliar surroundings, had spent many a night on the steps of this staircase, in the dark; waiting.

…

Jason didn’t know he’d stopped walking until Cassandra moved in his peripheral vision, her hand resting lightly at the crook of his elbow. Jason shifted his arm and her hand fell away – he looked up, away from the view of the step—

Alfred, and Tim beyond him, had stopped walking as well, a mere handful of stairs from the top.

Alfred placed a hand on his shoulder, and Jason swallowed reflexively, ducked his head, feeling silly for getting so caught up in the past again—

“…Alright, Jason?” Alfred asked, quietly, and the absence of “Master” meant more than its presence would have, now.

Jason breathed, quick and hard, nodded and looked up – too fast, so he had to look away again—

He shook his head.

“Al…” he all but whispered, feeling incredibly small and guilty for his hesitation. “Do I…” he glanced back up, Alfred looking impossibly tall somehow. “Do I have to, I mean, does he even, really—” Jason cut off, ducked his head again and buried his face in his hands with a groan. What was he doing? What the hell was he doing? There was no getting out of this – there was no making up excuses, or hesitating—

He’d come this far. He—

He needed to do this. He would.

Alfred squeezed his shoulder, but it was Tim who spoke.

“He wants to see you, Jason. Honest, he does.”

Jason peered up at the kid, every inch a determined Red Robin by the firm set of his jaw, his tightly clenched fists at his side—

What had the Joker done to you, Tim…?

“So, come on. Please?”

“Perhaps I’d been too callous, sir,” Alfred said, almost solemnly – or about as close as the proper butler would ever show, Jason thought. “Somewhat…selfish of me. I cannot force you any further if you’d rather not.”

Jason barked a laugh, some of the tension squeezing at his soul slipping with the shake of his shoulders, “Are you kidding, Al? If anyone can force me, it’s you…”

Jason didn’t miss the mildly satisfied smile ghosting across Alfred’s lips for the quickest of seconds, before the butler’s expression turned softer, “Indeed, sir,” he allowed. “But in my haste to…reconcile the situation, shall we say? I fear I may not have considered the consequences…to you, as closely as I should have, sir.”

Jason half-smiled, half-laughed, and shook his head, “No, Al, I…” he glanced back, at Cass, her lips quirked. “I want to,” he mumbled. “I’m…being an ass, don’t—mind me. …Sorry,” he added belatedly, for the swear as much as anything else.

Alfred smiled. “Very well, sir,” and Jason’s shoulder received another gentle squeeze before Alfred’s hand was gone. Jason thought that would be it, but the butler’s forefinger briefly tapped at his chest, “Good?” he asked, very quietly. Jason nodded, and Alfred returned the gesture, satisfied, before continuing his trek upwards.

Jason met eyes with Tim, and the kid smiled at him, gave him a plainly satisfied nod, and followed Alfred’s lead without a word.

Jason made an effort not to bristle, the ever-familiar annoyance Tim invoked creeping slowly to the surface – now wasn’t the time. Besides, Tim was a kid, and for all that he had replaced Jason, he didn’t deserve anything that had happened recently. The Joker was not a curse Jason had ever wished upon his replacement no matter how much he’d hated him—or, the thought of him, really. Robin should have ended with Jason, and the Bat should’ve kept his shit together better. Or spilled the Joker’s guts very literally.

Absently, Jason shook his head, trudged up the staircase with Cass still at his back, into a hauntingly familiar corridor.

Years, and nothing had changed.

Jason crossed his arms tight over his chest and tried not to stare too long at anything – doors or windows, or paintings, or the carpet under his feet.

Deeper into the house Alfred led them, the silence of the place hanging thick in the air, obnoxiously reminding Jason of the silence he’d abruptly woken up to upon his resurrection.

There had been no scream, no gasp, no sudden inhale of life-giving breath—he’d been asleep, and then, simply, awake, as if he had gone to bed in his coffin of his own accord.

It had been dark, at first, the same way it always was when he woke in the middle of the night, for whatever reason.

Aware he hadn’t been woken by a nightmare, Jason may have rolled over and gone back to sleep, content, if his Bat-training hadn’t alerted him to several things – this wasn’t his bed, for one. He was dressed in a suit, for another, and, it was too quiet.

The manor was never that quiet at night. It was old, and it groaned and sighed and creaked and settled, and even when it seemed to quiet down there was still noise – a breeze brushing around the corners outside, trees rustling in the wind, and the bats, of course. They squeaked and screeched and flapped their wings in a chorus Jason could recognise easily if he just stopped to listen.

He had, and hadn’t heard anything.

It had been quiet then as it was now, none of them breathing loudly, their footsteps like feathers ghosting over the carpet. Perfectly trained.

When Jason’s vision had become accustomed to the dark, he’d already run his hands across the wooden surface of the box – the coffin, he realised – and then he could practically see the inside of the thing, holding him hostage. A flood of memory had crashed into him – Joker with a crowbar, laughing as he worked Jason’s flesh into a collage of black and red, and blue; the painfully slow tick-tick of the bomb counting down what he’d believed at the time were the last seconds of his life, coming up too quickly on zero, Jason counting along in his head involuntarily after he’d looked away—

Had it all been a trick, he’d wondered – had the bomb been a dud? Had Jason only been blacked out instead? Did Joker throw him in a coffin to scare him, for laughs?

The silence had ticked on, another countdown in Jason’s head, before he’d really taken it in – the lack of noise; he was buried alive.

He’d started screaming then, panic taking hold before he could think to stop it, and—

—

—Jason swept his fingers through his hair, nails hard against his scalp, tugged before letting go. He shouldn’t be thinking of that—

He was aware, dimly, that he’d stopped walking.

If only it wasn’t so quiet. Jason was scared he’d abruptly start screaming just to drown out the silence—

“Snowing, again,” Jason started at Cassandra’s voice right next to him; she’d stopped as well.

“What?” he said lamely, and followed her gaze to a window in the room on their left, where white flakes of snow were visible, descending in a whimsical flurry. “Oh. Yeah…” his voice sounded hoarse, as if he had been screaming after all.

“Alfred’s, getting away from us,” Cass said, nudging his arm with her elbow and pointing ahead, to where Alfred and Tim had paused at the corner.

“Yeah…” Jason mumbled, giving them a quick glance, but his gaze turned back to the room with the window – Dickie’s room, he realised abruptly, even though nothing of what he could see inside looked like Dick’s anymore, but—

—that meant—

Cass pushed gently at his arm and Jason started down the hallway again, looking round at the door on their right even as he went—

His door.

Or, what had been his door.

Always open just the tiniest bit so he could listen – to Bruce and Dick, when the latter came over and their current argument either started or somehow ended outside the Batcave. Jason would shut the door as quick and quietly as he could before they appeared in the hallway outside, not wanting either of them to know he’d been eavesdropping. Sometimes, he’d gotten the feeling they knew anyway – almost especially whenever Dick would come knocking, grinning in a reassuring way and talking like he hadn’t just been yelling at Jason’s father.

He’d try to be nice, Jason remembered, but…Jason would glare and wish him away, and then feel bad about it when Dick did leave and Bruce turned quiet and sulked over case-files and work – no time for Jason, suddenly, and then he’d just feel angry at Dick all over again.

Jason’s door was closed, now, even as he could almost see himself peeking out, as if in a dream.

Sometimes, moments few and far between, he’d let Dick talk him into things – cartwheels down the hall, flipping contests he could never manage to win, swinging from the chandelier, jumping on Bruce’s bed until the springs creaked when he was being difficult over something Jason had done, or hadn’t done, on patrol—

Sometimes, moments with Dick were happy. Not happy enough for them to have ever been close. Not happy enough that Jason had ever wanted to share Dick with Bruce, either. Jason been at his happiest when it had been only he and Bruce, working together in the field, or outside of their uniforms post-patrol, getting stitched-up and sipping at hot chocolate—

He’d been Jason’s father. Bruce had proven it, treated him differently – better – than his real father ever had; always had his back, gave him advice, and trusted him, and—

Even as Jason could lose his temper, and Bruce never quite condoned Jason’s fervent belief that Gotham’s worst bastards got what they deserved when he let his anger get the better of him in a fight. Bruce still treated him better, even if his behaviour earned him a scolding, or a disapproving look and the silent-treatment, or saddling Jason with monitor duty so he could calm down and get his act together again. Which was why he’d been in the cave the night he’d found out about his biological mother and was able to subsequently take the fatal trip to see her without Batman’s permission.

Benched. It wouldn’t have been permanent. He’d been benched before. Only, on that particular occasion, it had seemed like a heavier weight.

And, if he hadn’t been, he never would’ve died—

Their procession came to a stop just then, Jason behind Alfred, aware of Tim on his one side and Cass just behind him. He’d been eyeing the all too familiar wooden door with apprehension since they’d rounded the corner. Bruce was just beyond it.

Jason hadn’t seen him for months – Batman had become scarcer the last while and Jason could only assume he wasn’t fit for patrol anymore. Probably, the next time the Dark Knight appeared in Gotham it would be Dickiebird underneath the cowl. Or—

—Cassandra?

Was that what she’d meant…?

Alfred stepped aside, “Here we are, sir,” he announced, curling his old, calloused fingers around the doorknob, and Jason—

Just breathed.

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#jason todd #alfred pennyworth #tim drake #cassandra cain #monday's fic is fair of face #insert writing tag here

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