Chapter Text
In stories, there always seemed to be one moment that tipped the main character over the edge. If they were standing on a bridge or drinking to drown, five minutes earlier something had broken them. Old black and white films especially had strange romantic ideas about a person’s self-destruction. It seemed organized, appropriately tragic, desperately cathartic—all of them Ophelias drowning off-stage because the love of their life killed their father.
In your experience, you didn’t need a reason.
Your life was fine. Could be better, but who were you to complain? Lots of people had it much worse. In Gotham especially you had seen just how much worse it could get. You had a job, you had friends, you weren’t addicted, hadn’t been tortured by a masked lunatic—and yet.
You were sitting alone in your apartment, the caustic orange glow from the streetlight bashing through the window onto the floor, shattering the darkness. A pair of scissors lay in your hand; you hadn’t felt brave enough to reach for the knives and you’d wisely cut your nails short the day before.
The hollow space in your head was a riot of pain, like droning static playing in the background. You didn’t want to touch the scissors, you didn’t want to go near them. You wanted to open the window and hurl them out into the street, but you couldn’t. It took everything you had just fighting the urge to rake them across your wrists.
It wasn’t enough. You opened the blades.
***
A knock sounded on the window and you jumped in your skin. Red Hood stood outside on your balcony, his signature helmet in one hand, only his domino mask to protect him—that and the double sidearms. He waved then knocked again, pointing towards the latch.
Relief and shame fought together in your stomach. You snapped the scissors shut and threw them on the table, then stumbled over to the window. Maybe you should have thought twice before letting a vigilante into your apartment, especially one with a body count, but you figured that he couldn’t be more dangerous than being alone right now.
You shoved the window open.
“You know, you really shouldn’t do that to yourself,” he said, voice soft without the modulator.
“No shit.” You didn’t mean to lash out; you weren’t angry at him. Thoughts boiled in your head. Why couldn’t you just suck it up and make the urge go away?
“No, I know. I know. But it’s hard to stop, isn’t it? And deep down you feel like you deserve it. You never tell anyone because you’re afraid they won’t see the real you anymore, just the bad things. You’re not alone, okay?”
He’d been through it too. You were certain of it.
“You wanna come inside?”
He nodded and you stepped back as he climbed in, closing the window behind him. His attention stuck on the scissors still lying there. You noticed the white streak in his hair, a deep scar on his jaw. You’d seen him on the news before and blurry videos online, but it couldn’t prepare you for standing next to him in your living room. He radiated heat like a furnace and you had to tilt your head back just to look at him properly.
“Those are dangerous,” he said.
“That’s the idea.”
“No, I mean those blades are blunt. You wouldn’t heal as well from that cut.”
Your voice dropped to a mumble. “I wasn’t exactly worried about that.”
“I know,” he said again, then he shook his head and pulled a hand through his hair. “Shit. I’m making a mess of this.”
You shrugged and wrapped your arms around yourself. “You stopped me. That’s what matters.”
He hummed, not agreeing but conceding the point. “Do you, uh… do you want to talk about it?”
You considered the grimace on his face, how he tapped his fingers absently on the grip of his gun. “Something tells me you’re a lot better at dealing with problems you can punch out of.”
He snorted. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Besides,” you huffed, flopping down onto the couch to put some space between you. “It’s not as if there’s anything to talk about.”
He didn’t move, only watched you carefully, as if he could figure it out just by staring at you long enough. You wondered what color his eyes were behind that mask.
“You’re a decent liar, but you’re not that good.”
“Who's lying? What is there to say? The world is ending, people are terrible, and I’m a selfish bastard who can’t do a single thing about it.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t try to fight your pessimism. Somehow that filled you with relief again, although you winced a little at how absolute you were being. Maybe deep down you didn’t actually believe that; maybe you were still just lashing out.
You tried again. “It just—gets really hard, you know? There’s so much wrong out there and you wish you could just punch a dent in it, but you can’t and I hate it.”
Now he smiled. “Take it from a guy who tries to punch the wrong out of the world professionally, okay? You’re doing just fine. You don’t have to be a hero, just… just try to do better today than you did yesterday.”
“I think I’ve seen that bumper sticker.”
You could’ve sworn he rolled his eyes under that mask. “I’m serious. The real bad guys? They don’t worry about whether they’re bad people or not. They don’t care that they hurt people.”
“You think so?”
“I’ve seen it. Every day.”
Something shifted incrementally in your head. The urge was gone. Your thoughts still snarled and fought with you, but now at least you had a half-decent weapon to fight with.
“Thanks,” you said.
He tilted his head, surprised. “What? Why?”
The genuine confusion in his voice made you laugh. Your chest felt lighter when you did. “Being here. Talking with me. It helps.”
“Oh. Well.” He shifted around looking for something to say. “I… I’m still taking these from you.” Then he snatched up the scissors.
You laughed again, mostly because it felt easier and easier each time. Then a wave of exhaustion nearly bowled you over, as if you’d just run a long way. You yawned wide.
“That’s a good sign,” he said. “You’re calmer. Think you’ll be okay?”
You looked up at him, trying to read his expression through the mask. He looked perfectly willing to stand there all night, like nothing could move him. Even without his helmet, he seemed indestructible. A pang of envy pulsed through you. Everyone had their fight, maybe this was yours.
“For tonight? I’ll be just fine.”