Author's Note:

This takes place after Savant's incident at the dam, so it has to touch on issues of past torture and suicidal ideation.

The song Creote is humming may refer to a Russian peasant girl and/or BM-31 rocket launchers, you can listen to it here:
watch?v=7J_ZdvsZaE

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I startle awake not knowing where I am, knowing only the excruciating pain rushing over me and taking my breath. I can feel the teasing cold edge of the blades before they break my skin, drawing thin rivulets of blood, I can feel the blazing marks of cattle prods pressed against my ribs, I can feel the bones in my wrists crack in their shackles, I can feel my feet kick in vain for something solid to support my weight and I know that for the moment I can grit my teeth through the taste of blood and vomit and bite back the screams forcing their way up my throat, but my defiance is an act, and not a very good one at that. I know that eventually I will break and I will beg them for mercy, if not now then in an hour, or a day, or a week, or maybe I've already been broken, maybe I have been broken many times, maybe I was pleading for mercy a few seconds ago, or pleading with them to kill me, I'm not sure, but I'm sure that they have no mercy, they won't let me go and they won't kill me either, and I'll always be here, and I have always been here, and there is nothing I can do but take it moment by moment, spitting blood and trying not to scream.

But then – strong arms hold me close, someone is holding me close, pressing me against his chest, and we are both soaked to the bone, and I am shivering with cold and exhaustion, almost too weak to stand, yet so relieved I could cry, maybe I am crying, I cannot tell with the rain running down my face so I look up at Creote – and it's Creote holding me, of course it's him, who else could it be? Who else could make me feel this safe, this well? Who else would hold me like this, not letting me fall, not letting me go? He won't let me go because he loves me, and I love him because he didn't let me go, so I wrap my arms around him so tight it almost hurts, but not like the cattle prods hurt – the torture is still here, it is still happening, I can feel it under my skin and see it behind my eyelids, but now the taste of blood is drowned out by the taste of tears and rain, and I know this memory is stronger than that other one.

Memories. So that's what those things were. It must be a morning, or at least sometime right after sleep – waking up is always the hardest part of the day, because I have to pick the now to wake up in. It has been a little easier find my way back to linearity since Creote and I are together – not just together as bodyguard and boss, or as comrades-in-arms, but together in all the ways lovers normally are and a few I came up with since. I have been using him as an anchor quite shamelessly even before, I'm astonished I didn't realise what that meant. But now, everything is divided into 'before' and 'after', and 'after' means that even thinking of Creote clears my mind a little. That every single time he looks at me, the memory stays with me as a touchstone, as something that could keep me on the right trac. That his hand on me means not only 'I am here' but also 'you are here, and now, with me'. I am here, and now, and Creote is somewhere here too, and I will get up, and find him, and thank him, and then I will get to work on whatever the world and the Oracle demands from me. I hope they demand something really difficult, because today I am invincible.

Opening my eyes I find myself in a tastefully but sparsely furnished room. Utterly unfamiliar, although that may not mean I haven't been here before. The wall-to-ceiling windows look out over Gotham – very far above Gotham – and if the skycrapers in the smoggy late-morning skyline haven't moved, I can triangulate our location. That is, Kord Tower. Nice place, wonder how exactly we got here. There are discreet, state-of-the-art surveillance devices embedded into the window ledge and the doorframe – they are not my own, but they are clearly meant to protect the room from intrusion, not monitor those inside. There is nothing in the room but two beds, two chairs, and a table. I check the closets too, but they are empty, and I have no idea where the soft, grey pajama pants I'm wearing came from. At least I don't have to worry about my shirt, because I'm not wearing one. I realise that there is something missing, apart from my shirt - there are no weapons in sight, none of my batons or Creote's knives or our shared stash of guns are here – and if Creote didn't feel the need to unpack, this must be the safest of safe houses indeed.

I walk through the door, barefoot, and find myself in a small ensuite bathroom, with large amounts of mud all over the tiled floor. I try the other door, and the smell of frying eggs hits me. Creote is standing in a bright, airy kitchen, thoughtfully assembling our breakfast. He is wearing grey training clothes that are not his own and seem several sizes too small, his hair is tied back as usual but a few strands seemed to have escaped and fallen into his eyes, he is humming a few notes of what might be the Katyusha song, he has saved my life and I love him and he smells like scrambled eggs and he half-turns to me with a quiet 'Mr Savant' and I want to kiss him. So I do.

It is an excellent, albeit still slightly sleepy morning kiss up until the point where Creote pushes me away, both of his hands firm on my shoulders, and looks at me with a look of such pained shock as if I has slid a knife between his ribs.

'Mr Savant, it is 2010, you are in Gotham, and I am Aleksandr Creote.' He says, looking me right in the eyes like he always does when he has to reminds me of these sorts of things. I can tell he is trying to use his calm, reassuring voice, but the words come out sounding bitter.

'I know.' I tell him cheerfully. 'Well, I wasn't a hundred-percent on the date, but I managed to figure out we're in the Kord Tower, and I'm awake enough to recognise you.'

'Oh.' He says. 'But the…' and he makes an aborted handwave towards his lips.

'What?' I ask, stepping back. 'Can't I give you a good-morning kiss?'

'Well…' he says, clearly miserable. 'Usually you don't, sir.'

'Why not? Do you have some sort of hang-up about kissing in the morning? That's not the sort of thing I would forget.'

'Sir, we do not tend to kiss.' Says Creote, stiff and formal and already turning back to portion the scrambled eggs onto plates.

'Have we never?' I ask, taken aback.

'…no.' He says, in a small voice. With his back to me. There must be something very wrong here.

'There is something very wrong here!' I say. 'Why have we never done that if we have been together since that night on the dam?'

He turns to me, and despite his bulk, he suddenly seems fragile. He wants to say something, and yet he seems afraid to say it.

'That was yesterday.' He says finally. 'You tried to throw yourself off the dam yesterday.'

Well. That is surprising. The memory of it is vivid, but then again, I can see my fifth birthday just as vividly. (I know it's the fifth because there were five candles on my cake. It didn't feel like the fifth.) Does that mean that it was only last night that I decided to keep trying to stay alive, to forgive the Oracle and to be hopelessly in love with Creote? It seems counterintuitive that events this important have days right after, when they should always have taken place at the convenient distance of four months past.

'And what happened after?' I ask, wanting to piece it together fast before it falls apart again.

'You were exhausted.' Creote says colourlessly, occupied with making toast. 'You fell asleep in the car. Oracle told me we were allowed to use this room, so I took you up here, got most of the mud off you, then put you to bed.'

'Wait!' I interrupt, as a sudden thought strikes me. 'Does this mean that we never had sex either?'

'Yes.' Grunts Creote. 'No. I mean - we didn't.'

'Oh.' I reply, pensively. 'I must have imagined that then.'

Creote looks at me, then he looks at me, his eyes darkening as they linger on my bare chest for a second, then he turns away and throws the frying pan into the sink with a loud clang. He remains bent over the counter, unwilling to talk to me, and I don't understand it and I don't like it, so I walk over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. But apparently he doesn't like my hand on his shoulder as much as my hand likes being there, because he shrugs it off. I try to lean closer to him, I can't kiss him at this angle, but I could press my lips to his cheekbones. I like his cheekbones almost as much as I like his shoulders, and maybe that will get him to speak to me.

Instead, he pushes me away, gently but very definitely.

'Can you for god's sake tell me what is wrong?' I ask, and he cringes ever-so-slightly at my raised voice.

'This can't happen.' He says blankly. 'If this is meant to be a relationship, I am telling you it cannot happen.'

Hearing that feels like every single one of my memories reordering themselves all over again, to form a story in which I can't touch Creote – a story in which there is nothing to counterbalance the torture and the imprisonment and the despair. Could I be this wrong? Could I be wrong about this? Surely not.

'But you said – ' I stammer, trying to find a stable point in a world crumbling into isolated, disordered events. 'Didn't you say – '

'I remember what I said, and so do you.' He says, scrubbing a weary hand over his eyes. 'I would be grateful to you, sir, for not bringing it up again.'

'But if you did say you loved me, then why?' I forge on, hating his discomfort but needing the truth far too much to let it stop me. 'Was it a ploy to pacify me, to comfort the unstable, unhinged hostage-taker into cooperation?'

'No, never – 'he snaps, before he cuts himself short again. He takes a deep breath, sits down at the table, and starts talking as drily as if he was reading from a manual. 'I meant every word, sir. But your mental state is not conducive to maintaining a long-term relationship. You saw that right now – you couldn't accurately judge the time that elapsed between last night and this morning, and filled the gap with elaborate fictions. Even with your medications, you are not ready to take on such a commitment, and I would appreciate it if you stopped touching me, sir.'

The last sentence was a response to me trying to put a hand on his shoulder again. I step back from him, pull out a chair and sit down opposite him. He seems to be steeling himself to say one more thing.

'And if we had a relationship for three hours, and then you forgot about it, and we would go on as we had before, that would – that would kill me, sir.'

He looks so utterly miserable I know I have to do something about it, and I am already reaching out to hold his hand laying on the table when I remember he just told me not to. So I just put my hand down right next to his.

'What if you reminded me?' I ask, reasonably. 'I already keep forgetting really important things like eating and sleeping and meds and showers and appointments with the few people I can't just barge in on, so why shouldn't you periodically remind me that we are in a relationship, and that you want to kiss or fuck or hold hands or whatever you happen to want?'

For a brief second, Creote looks tempted, but then he shakes his head, briskly, like a dog trying to shake off water.

'That wouldn't be ethical, sir.' He says bleakly. 'You rely on me to tell you what is real. If I tell you we are in a relationship, do you have the choice to disbelieve that, when you are accustomed to believing everything I say?'

I am not used to arguing with Creote, and this reminds me how rarely he has ever disagreed with me. He is surprisingly good at it. But this isn't an argument I can afford to lose, nor is it one he can afford to win.

'I know I am fucked up.' I say. 'But I am not stupid. You can give me choices, but you cannot make me do things I don't want to do. If you tell me you would like to make out because we are together, and I am in the middle of a fascinating surveillance project at the time, be assured that I will turn you down.'

Creote's face lights up, and he as almost bursts out laughing, then he stops himself short and schools his features into a strict stoic mask again. I keep talking before he comes up with a counterargument.

'And even if we aren't together, and I know we aren't together, it's already like...' I pause for a second to find the words for what I'm trying to tell him. 'You held me, there on the dam, in the rain, and I was held, and you are still holding me, don't look at me like that, I know you're not, I'm not stupid and this time I can actually remember what is real and what is now, I know you held me last night, not two seconds ago, but that doesn't change the fact that I can feel your arms around me, and I can feel you shaking a little, I don't know if it's the cold or the adrenaline, and you are so warm, and you smell like wet earth and motor oil, and you feel so good, you wouldn't believe how good, good like being alive can be good if it is possible to be held like this, and I know it happened once and then it was over because that is how things happen, but some things are so important that they can keep happening forever and be outside of time like photographs are, and even if it never happens again, it will always keep having happened, and I will always keep feeling like this.'

'Sir-' says Creote, and can't meet my eyes.

'Please, Sasha.' I say, and the diminutive falls from my lips without thinking. 'Please.'

His hand tentatively covers mine, and I almost slump over the table in relief.

'Can we?' I ask, wanting to hear him actually say it.

'We can.' He says, finally looking up at me. 'But we are going to have to take it slow. And since part of the problem is with speed and timing, we are going to have to take it slow every day.'

'Fine with that.' I agree, most of my thoughts already occupied with how large and warm his hand is.

'Also, you are going to have to go to that specialist Miss Barbara recommended, and take it seriously.' He adds, in a voice of somebody who knows he is pushing his luck.

'Yes.' I say immediately. When he raises a sceptical eyebrow, I try to clarify. 'Sometimes I think things that make me want to not live. But I, me, who I am, I don't want to not live.'

He makes a strange sound somewhere between a mirthless chuckle and a very restrained sob. But then he nods: he understands.

'Any more criteria?' I ask.

'Eat your breakfast before starting in on Miss Barbara's projects.' He says without hesitation.

'Can we kiss first?' I ask him hopefully.

He smiles, leans forward, and lets me press my lips against his. His hand on the nape of my neck feels familiar, and the tickle of his hair on my face feels familiar, and the sound of his heartbeat feels familiar. Even the restrained little sound he makes when I deepen the kiss sounds like I have heard it a thousand times before. It doesn't feel like a first kiss, and actually it isn't, that was the one I gave him when I walked into the kitchen. It doesn't feel like a second kiss either. But maybe, I think as I immerse myself in the feel and taste and sound and smell of him, maybe there will be a kiss a few months down the line that will feel like it's the first.

THE END