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Chapter: 35
Tim and Darren's reunion, of a sort, was subdued as both boys were exhausted from their ordeals but also much appreciated finally seeing each other face to face for the first time in a while. They both muttered a few words to each other and Dick, who was still sitting with them—probably planning to wait out the entirety of visiting hours—but conversation was a bit muted.
All Darren wanted to do was sleep, he really did, but he just couldn't let that happen. He worried if he closed his eyes he'd find himself again trapped in the darkness of Blackout or wake up to discover that his rescue had been a dream. It felt unreal that he had finally escaped and he didn't want to test whether or not that was true by sleeping.
Darren also didn't know what to expect when he did fall asleep, what would he dream about if he couldn't remember the majority of his time captured by the Court? He didn't want to face what happened even though he desperately needed to know what happened. Darren knew it had been bad, he could feel that it had been bad…he couldn't see how it had been bad but the way Dick looked at him from time to time Darren knew it was terrible.
Darren understood there was some importance to his missing three days; what that was he couldn't decipher. Though the desire to know what happened did not outweigh Darren's apprehension at trying to remember or at what remembering might bring back emotionally, mentally…physically even. The pain of his body was real, but the memory of what caused it was not there. It was gone like it never existed although the evidence of it was scattered under his bandages. Would he remember where each of those wounds came from once the Cure healed him enough? The whip marks on Darren's back were pretty self-explanatory…but the moment it happened was a mystery. There was too much unknown to him…too much to take in at once, he knew the memories would come back, but there was a part of him that knew Dr. Leslie was right, sometimes not remembering—not knowing—was for the best.
But that didn't stop Darren from picking. That didn't stop him from trying to unravel the knot that was his memories. The part of his memories that were empty to him, blank and black, was still substantial. There was something still occupying that space. It wasn't something he could describe, but he knew his memories were there, just hidden. Darren clawed at them, grappled with them trying to create some form of a timeline. Trying to narrow down the exact moment his memories turned off, turned to blackness. It was frustrating, and Darren just wanted to scream and yell and throw stuff out of annoyance and fury, but he couldn't do that. It would hurt too much to try; he could barely hold a spoon let alone something substantial enough to throw.
The wounds on his arms stung with irritation whenever he tried to do anything. Whether it be just moving his arms or trying to hold something or even just making a loose fist there was a sharp throbbing ache. It was a familiar ache, from years long ago, and the fact that the pain was so accustomed to Darren sent a trill of panic down his spine every time he acknowledged his recognition of those wounds. Darren pushed that away whenever he could, he didn't want to wonder or deal with those wounds. What they might mean Darren didn't want to consider, it would be too much…way too much for him. His right hand was useless, put in a thick, uncomfortable cast. Darren was not ready to feel the bones shift and roll around as they settled back into their proper position once his healing ability kicked in. It would hurt, but he was used to pain by now—perhaps it wouldn't bother him so much this time around. Darren could sometimes see the flash of a hammer in the glare of light when he looked over at his right hand, and he flinched away from that flash of what he could only perceive as a memory. Darren couldn't focus on his injuries even if he believed they would reveal what happened. So he focused on his memories. Not so much the injuries themselves but the cause of them—William.
Darren tried to remember what was said in the only memory he had, the single piece of proof that he had been taken by the Court. That memory was of him first waking up in Blackout, in the darkness. Darren took a sharp breath at the memory of the cramped prison cell, practically forcing himself to focus on that memory—he needed to know what William had said. He remembered William standing before him, the light blinding…he remembered William saying something but couldn't hear what it was or at least he couldn't remember what he heard. Then he was being thrown into the wall, William hissing something at him, Darren could practically feel the stones pressing into his back and skull…the savagery at which William held him in place by the throat, the air being slowly cut off in his throat. Darren remembered this moment up to a point. He remembered uttering those damning words 'go to hell' before he was enclosed in darkness once more, William trapped in Blackout with Darren.
The rest of that memory faded into snapshots. Moments of a suffocating force pulling him back to the world of the living, instances of Williams harsh hands…holding Darren down as William slit his throat, slamming him into the wall and choking him to death, the feeling of his head slamming into the wall over and over and over again—bone cracking and the tangy smell of blood.
All the while William was growling things at him, words Darren couldn't hear, words Darren couldn't remember, he needed to know, he needed to dig deeper before the memory faded out at the image of his great-great grandfather's pocket watch—the last thing Darren remembered. Darren pushed himself to remember further, repeating the memory over and over and over again trying to focus on the words. Trying to ignore the deaths, the feeling of dying over and over and over again, trying to push away the panic and fear—the fucking fear he let himself feel…he hated that—trying to ignore the feeling of hands around his throat—,
"Darren," Dick's voice jarred Darren, pulled him from the snapshot memories. Darren jerked his head towards his cousin eyes wide and startled, finding concerned deep blue eyes trained on him,
"What?" He demanded, trying not to sound too annoyed that Dick thwarted his attempt at remembering. Darren swallowed thickly after speaking; it still hurt to talk…and there was this strange feeling, this small part of himself that urged him not to talk. Like a small voice in the back of his mind was screaming silently at him to be quiet. It made no sense to Darren, and he tried to ignore the noise. Perhaps it would make more sense to him later…when more memories returned,
"Are you okay?" Dick questioned carefully,
"I'm fine," Darren muttered. Dick raised an eyebrow at him, clearly unconvinced, before nodding at something in his hands. Darren looked down, at the tray in his lap, and the crumpled fork in his hand.
Darren slowly remembered that it was lunchtime—his internal clock was fucked up from being trapped in complete darkness for three entire days. Darren hadn't mentioned it to anyone, but it was clear they all knew to some degree that timing would be off for him. He then wondered if his strength had come back before realizing it was just a flimsy metal fork. The pain lancing down his left arm told him he was still clenching his hand into a fist, the prongs biting into his palm. Darren could see Tim out of the corner of his eye, observing the two cousins. Dick slowly reached over and uncurled Darren's hand and took the fork from him, tossing it lightly into the trashcan by the door. Darren let out a shaky breath he didn't realize he was holding.
Dick looked like he was about to say something but Tim's voice cut across the silence before he got the chance,
"Hey, Dare. I know you hate Jell-O, I'll trade you my pudding cup for it?" Eating was the one thing Darren had no problem with, for the first time since being captured by either the Court or Ra's. Though he still had to take it easy, not eating for three days was not easy to come back from so soon. Though much easier than going a week without eating anything substantial. Darren cracked a thin grin, nodding before tossing over the Jell-O container over to Tim. He caught it with a smile before throwing over the pudding; it landed down where Darren's legs were. Tim knew he probably wouldn't be able to catch the projectile pudding yet. Darren reached down to grab it, before opening it,
"I'm fine," he said to Dick. His cousin didn't argue, but Darren could see the doubt in Dick's eyes.
Though to be perfectly honest it felt like Darren was trying to convince himself of that fact.
Tim woke the startled gasp from the next bed over, a shuddering and sharp inhale of air piercing through the near silence of the room. He remained cautiously still as Darren shifted around on his bed, first glancing over to the empty chair where Dick had been for the day. The oldest of the bat brood had stepped out to take a call a few minutes beforehand, either to wheedle a few hours more of visitation or to convince Bruce that he didn't need to leave the hospital just yet. They were already pushing the limits by having Darren stay longer than probably needed, but they were mainly doing that, so he was in the public eye while not being physically seen. They couldn't broadcast his current injuries to the public; it would be best to show Darren to the City once he had time to heal. Dick probably won't win the argument to stay, but seeing as it was the first night with Darren free from the Court, it seemed best for him to stay.
Darren's hyperawareness was off the charts, at least it seemed so to Tim. The nurses had a habit of coming in while Darren rested to check monitors and IV bags and monitor Tim's heart rate, blood pressure, and temperature which was common for femur injuries and surgery. What the nurses knew was a mystery, and he was sure Dr. Leslie had kept them in the dark on a lot of what happened to Darren and what was being done to help him heal physically from his 'kidnapping.' Darren had started every time throughout the day when he had tried to nap—sleeping was a vital way to jumpstart the healing process for a Talon. Though it seemed he was now more accustomed to their presence, something else must have woken him up, or the issue was he realized he'd fallen asleep.
Tim was keeping an eye on Darren, and it seemed he was desperate not to sleep. Darren hadn't been sleeping, or at least he tried his hardest not to. Sometimes he managed to sleep under the thrall of pain medication drowsiness, something neither of them could typically fight off, but Darren tried his hardest. Darren seemed afraid even to try and sleep. Tim wanted to know why he wanted to know what had caused such fear for something so important to his wellbeing. Perhaps that had been William's intention; the thought didn't settle well with Tim. What William had said still echoed in Tim's ears. The sincerity in William's eyes, through the dead-eyed gaze filled with nothing but contempt, was a promise. That silent vow worried Tim. It meant the Court of Owls wouldn't stop coming after Darren until they got what they wanted from him.
The impact of Darren's return to the Court must have taken such a toll on his psyche. There were times when it seemed like Darren wasn't all there, like during lunch when he crushed the fork while staring off into the distance unaware at what was happening. Tim feared Darren was more affected by what happened to him than he let on, there was some underlying turmoil centered around his lost memories. And the impact of his injuries may run deeper than any of the others might realize. That consequence may be especially noticeable once—if—Darren's memories returned. Tim was concerned for his friend and about how this might affect Darren in the future.
The window by Tim's bed showed a darkening orange sky, only a glimpse of the sun visible in the horizon, and Darren set his gaze out the window his expression vulnerable and alarmed,
"Darren?" Tim muttered, his voice full of sleep, he'd just been nodding off when he heard Darren awake from a much-needed nap—not quite a restful sleep but Tim thought that any sleeping from Darren at the moment was a win. He shifted in his bed—his injured leg was propped up on pillows—until he was sitting up more and could see Darren better,
"What day is it?" The words tumbled from Darren's mouth, and Tim felt his chest clench at the fear in his voice, "What time is it?"
"It's eight pm," Tim stated, "It's still Tuesday."
Darren had lost a lot of time when captured with the Court…it made Tim wonder where he had been held. The fact that Darren had been deprived of vital senses for the entirety of his kidnapping was incredibly infuriating as well as dismaying. The psychological impact senses deprivation could have on someone was great. Tim wanted to say something, to ask…but he knew Darren didn't remember anything and couldn't tell him anything useful even if he wanted. Though it seemed something had unconsciously slipped through for Darren to react this way upon waking.
Silence reigned upon the hospital room as both boys stared up at the ceiling, both of them unable to turn entirely onto their side or stomach. The monitors beeped restlessly as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, coloring the room in darkness. Darren's breathing became slightly more uneven as the room became more shadowed and Tim wondered what was running through his head. What he did remember, but pushed his curiosity away. Darren didn't need the detective right now; he needed a friend. Tim needed to say something, but Darren beat him to it,
"I'm sorry," he said. Tim angled his head at the other bed, confusion in his features. Darren was still staring up at the ceiling, his face grim, "I didn't say it before…I'm sorry he hurt you." Tim blinked, understanding dawning,
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Tim muttered, "It was not your fault,"
"He hurt you because of me…I tried to keep his attention away from you. I really did but, it wasn't enough. In the end, it never seems to be enough," Tim heard the despair in Darren's voice. Emotion, let alone being emotional, wasn't something Darren experienced often and it was a rare insight on the inner-workings of his mind,
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Tim repeated, "If anything we should be apologizing to you. We should have found you sooner…we…we—,"
"—you guys didn't look for me first," Darren finished. Tim looked over at Darren startled, wondering who had told Darren that piece of information. Darren, glancing over at Tim before returning his gaze upward, let a dry smirk slide across his lips, "I may be dyslexic, but I can still read. The Scarecrow attack was all over the front page of the newspaper one of the nurses had under their arm when they came in here,"
"Darren—," Tim started, worried about what Darren would think…would feel, if anything, about that news. Darren knew he hadn't been their priority…and after years of not mattering to anyone that must have been a blow from the people he thought cared about him. Though he may be so numb from everything that happened that perhaps no real feeling on that matter would sink in, at least not yet. Tim dreaded the potential fallout once that realization really set in, but Darren only shook his head—a slightly pained expression flashing across his face at the motion,
"Don't do that. Don't give me pity. You made your choices; I'm out…that's all that matters. I'm free. I can breathe again. Besides, since when has being Batman's priority done anyone any good? Jason was his priority in Sarajevo and look what happened to him," Tim winced at that but figured dark humor was better than the alternative. Darren didn't actually seem upset, but Tim also knew that he was great at hiding his emotions and what he truly thought of things,
"We were furious about Batman's decision…we wanted to find you first. We did try. We were all searching even as we took on Scarecrow. Even Livia tried to help," Darren nodded slowly from his side of the room,
"I know…I'm not mad…I'm relieved,"
"Relieved?" Tim questioned, unsure at what Darren meant by that,
"I'm relieved that you found me before…before—," Darren stopped himself, frowning as if whatever had come to mind had just floated away. Irritation cut through his features at that point, and Tim knew it had something to do with his fractured memories,
"—Before what?" Tim prompted, knowing that perhaps questioning Darren directly on what happened was probably not the best thing to do, but there was mostly no harm in trying to ease him into remembering whatever memories he'd been about to stumble upon. Darren just shook his head, an unreadable expression crossing his face,
"Something terrible happened," was all he said. Darren looked lost as he said it, uncertain at where he'd been going and what he'd truly wanted to say.
Tim knew Darren didn't want any pity, but it wasn't so much pity that Tim felt for Darren but empathy. A shared understanding at the frustration of a setback, whether physical like Tim's broken leg or mental like Darren's hidden memories. The irritating notion that there was so much work to be done to return to normal and the feeling of helplessness at just sitting in a room waiting to heal…waiting to remember. And it seemed like Darren would remember, with the Cure slowly chasing the poison out of Darren's system and allowing the Electrum to start the healing process his body so desperately needed. Dick and Dr. Leslie didn't feel enthusiastic about Darren's potential memory recovery, and Tim had to agree but also acknowledge that it was something perhaps Darren needed. Not knowing what had happened to you, waking up with injuries from a known source but not a known way was disorienting and horrifying,
"I—I thought you were dead," Darren whispered, his voice cracking slightly, into the quiet darkness. Tim whipped his head over to look at Darren, eyes wide with surprise, "He didn't tell me what happened…I…I remember, I know, that for a fact," Tim gritted his teeth, feeling the fury rise within him at the mere thought of Darren's great-grandfather and at what he did to Darren. The damage he'd done to someone Tim considered his friend, his brother. It angered Tim to no end that despite everything William was still out there, still a threat to Darren mentally and physically and that even away from the madman he still haunted Darren,
"I thought, I believed, they weren't coming for me…because you were dead. I remember that." Darren continued quietly. Tim paused for a moment in his thoughts of hatred for William Cobb, letting what Darren said sink in,
"No," was all Tim said, "No matter what. Even if I had been killed by William…they would still find you. You're family…you're one of us. We never abandon our own. We would have found you no matter what."
It was the truth plain and simple, though Tim felt that perhaps waiting as long as they had to deal with Scarecrow properly had in a way been the same as abandonment. Whether or not Darren felt the same he didn't voice, he instead let out a breath of unsteady air as if this conversation had taken a lot out of him. With a start, Tim realized it probably had taken a lot out of the younger boy. Not only was Darren…expressing…himself to some degree, but he was actually talking to Tim. This…this conversation was actually progress. Tim didn't know whether to be concerned by Darren's openness or excited.
The fact that Darren had said anything meant the issue of whether Tim was alive or not and whether that was the reason for the Bats' delay was something that concerned Darren to the point he needed to talk about it with someone. In truth, it was probably an isolated step forward, and Darren would potentially return to his closed off ways once they left the hospital and returned—hopefully—to their everyday lives. But Tim couldn't help but feel hopeful. They had gotten Darren back, they were both alive, and they were both healing. Tim turned his head to face Darren as the quiet between the two of them lulled onwards, Darren's silence clear acceptance to what Tim had said about what was bothering him,
"Hey, Darren?" Tim asked finally, Darren looked over a question in his eyes, "Have you ever had a sleepover before?" A random question of course, but Tim wanted to stop the talk about the Court and Owls and William; he needed something normal. Something shared between friends. A shadow crossed Darren's face before he answered,
"Once. It didn't end well,"
"What happened?" Tim wondered out loud, expecting a fight between friends or a prank gone wrong,
"My mom died," Darren monotoned,
"O-oh," Tim warbled, grimacing,
"I guess that doesn't really count though," Darren muttered, oblivious to his callousness on the matter. Tim decided not to point that out or to try and bring the conversation back to his mother,
"You were rather young, not really that fun then I wager,"
"Not at all," Darren agreed. A pause, "Do you think this counts?" Tim let out a snort,
"Yeah sure," he sniggered, "Why the fuck not,"
"A hospital sleepover," Darren agreed, a humorous smirk on his face. It was as close to laughing as Darren seemed to get and Tim found his spirit rising at the fact that Darren could still joke in light of what happened to him,
"Yeah, a hospital sleepover," Tim agreed, settling down into the pillows, "I don't know about your sleepover, but at mine we—." Darren seemed to settle back against his pillows, a content expression as he and Tim conversed for a long while, letting their mumbled voices and eventual exhaustion ease them back to sleep as the night doused their room in darkness.
Maggots, maggots….maggots, worms, insects. They wriggled and writhed on Livia's plate. Topped with dirt and soil and mud as they pulsed and throbbed in the mass of insect terror. Livia's insides turned and pitched uncomfortably as she just stared at the pile of larvae shriveled and shook around one another. It wasn't real. Livia knew that for a fact, they weren't real. The maggots weren't there; it was her meal. She could eat this; she could do this…it wasn't real, it wasn't real, it wasn't real. Livia's hand shook as she reached for her fork, her gaze was locked on the plate before her, and the scooped up the undulating live insects off her plate. She held the utensil up, eyeing the maggots her insides rolling at the smell…the fact that they were alive didn't help anything.
A maggot slipped from her fork, a fat coiling one, landing with a thick wet sound on the hard wooden table. Livia's stomach fought for dominance over her determination to sit through this meal. She couldn't do it; she could not eat this pile of disgusting insects. This plate pile was an illusion; it wasn't real. This plate held her food; this was her meal. Her mind fought against itself. The human side afraid of what was before her, the wriggling mass of insects that was supposed to be her food. The witch side acknowledging the lie and truth of the matter…of the problem.
Livia could feel Klarion's stare on her, from across where she sat. He stood right over her father's shoulder, his heavy stare sure and filled with thrill at making her squirm. Klarion grin was wide as he caught sight of Livia staring. It angered her, she could feel her magic spark within her spiraling around her core begging to be released. Livia could not glare back; she couldn't do that not in front of her family. They didn't know Klarion existed and revealing anything, giving the demon any reaction would send her family on alert. Any response would allow his plan to make everyone think Livia was insane to take flight.
Livia gritted her teeth, her expression dark and her willpower wavering. All she had to do was sign away the Book of Shadows, that was all she needed to do…but she just couldn't do that. Not after everything she endured so far. Even if she was never left alone for the rest of her possibly short life, she couldn't give in to Klarion's demands. She needed to be strong; it was her duty as well as her choice. As the last of the Baudelaires she was the last line of defense against the full might of Klarion…and she couldn't be the one to let all that work and death and carnage mean nothing by giving in over a bit of illusion magic.
The fact that Klarion could mess with her head while she was awake just told Livia how exhausted she was, how tired and even more so how hungry. He'd continued this trick for the past two days. Klarion always madly grinning as she floundered and struggled with what to do about the illusions and how to go about her day without choking up whatever she ate. Livia was faltering and she honestly couldn't handle maggots as her meal for another second, but her father's attention was starting to drift toward her untouched plate, and with gritted teeth, Livia scooped up more maggot gruel onto her fork.
Klarion raised an eyebrow at her over the table, as if wondering whether she would actually eat the maggots just to keep up the illusion that everything was fine and ordinary. Livia bit the inside of her cheek as bile climbed up her throat and raised the fork as if toasting the demon. She moved to shove the twisting and slithering mess of maggots into her mouth when one jerked and touched her thumb. Livia let out a small shriek and dropped the fork. It clattered on the hard surface and maggots scattered over the tabletop. Both Alaric and Peter stopped eating their meals and stared at her, Livia stared at the maggots twitching on the table heat settling over her cheeks and the prickle of embarrassed tears stinging her eyes,
"Peter kicked my chair," Livia blurted, forcing herself to rein back her near shredded emotions. It was a childish thing to do, and a flat-out lie. Her brother threw her a furious glare,
"I did not!" Peter cried, outraged. Klarion chortled in the back of the room, wiping away imaginary tears. Livia wanted to rip that gleeful expression right off his face,
"Peter," Alaric started, his expression stern, "Apologize to your sister," Livia grimaced before shaking her head,
"No, don't worry about it. It's alright. It was just an accident. I overreacted," Peter still shot her a hateful look, but his anger was worth it, even if disbelief shown in her father's eyes. Silence carried over the table again, and Livia realized suddenly that their rare dinners together weren't as lively as before. Guilt inched over the feeling of disgust as she snuck a glance at Klarion, who had composed himself enough to smile back—showing teeth. Livia wondered if Klarion had something to do with the lack of conversation. Mortal minds were easy to mess with that probably didn't exclude emotion regulation and conversation patterns. This demon was tearing her family apart,
"Peter kicking your chair aside, you have sure been jumpy as of late Livy," Alaric mused, his expression careful as he looked over at her. Livia shrugged, eyeing the dirt-ridden mess on her plate. It wasn't a question, and it wasn't an accusation. There was no need to answer, "And you've hardly touched your food. Are you alright?"
Livia paused. That was a loaded question, a heavy question because Livia didn't even know the answer to that question. Instead of answering directly, she chose the path of least resistance. Picking up her fork and dragging it mournfully through the gross mess of maggots, ignoring the gross feeling of the fork getting caught on small and big maggots alike—how could someone even replicate that magically without experiencing the feeling beforehand? Livia tried not to look too squeamish; she didn't want any other questions asked,
"I guess I just don't feel that well," she mumbled, "And I'm worried about Darren."
It was the truth. All of it. Livia did not feel well, not after seeing maggots crawling around where her risotto was supposed to be, and she was worried about Darren. She hated using Darren as an excuse, but again she was not lying. It had been an entire day since he'd been rescued and she hadn't seen him yet. Not even Stephanie had seen Darren. Perhaps it was guilt that kept both of them away.
Guilt at not being able to rescue him until after Scarecrow was dealt with, even as they searched while trying to locate the horror-obsessed villain. Livia felt guilt even though all her time had been spent trying to find Darren. She'd worked herself to exhaustion, often nearly passing out, trying to locate him magically. Livia almost tore apart her Book of Shadows trying to find location spell after location spell. She wouldn't have stopped either, but it was eventually revealed that she couldn't utilize magic to locate or scry someone near moving water. That fact had crushed her, but provided them with a valuable clue which eventually led them to where Darren was held,
"From what I've heard he's awake and talking," Alaric said gently, and when that didn't lift Livia's spirits he sighed before continuing, "Perhaps you should go to bed, get some rest." Livia nodded in silent agreement, gathering her place setting and hurrying to the sink in the kitchen. Watching the maggot muck wash down the drain was the most satisfying thing in the world. She rushed back to her room without a single call of 'goodnight,' her nerves too frayed to trust herself fully.
As soon as Livia closed the door and felt the silencing spell lock into place, relief rushing through her very being. She whirled around to find Klarion standing before her, an almost innocent look on his face. Livia let out a vicious snarl and swiped her hand through his nonexistent form. He vanished into shadows, his laughter echoing around her room,
"I told you there are many different ways to drive someone insane," he cackled, right by her ear. Livia let out another shriek of anger, twisting away from Klarion and trying to claw at his invisible figure. There was nothing there, nothing left of Klarion but his laughter and refusal to leave her alone. The more she denied his demands for her book and power the more and more impatient he grew. Livia could tell she was nearing the end of his acceptance for her defiance; she was nearing dangerous territory. Both of them knew it, both of them saw the end of their game of cat and mouse on the horizon, and at the moment it was unclear who was the cat and who was the mouse.
Livia's frustration mounting, her helplessness unfaltering and her panicked nerves reaching their breaking point she lashed out blindly with her magic, sending it scattering in every direction. Her closet doors rattled before bursting open clothes showering her room; windows broke, mirrors and old art protects shattered. Slashing her hands through the air caused wind to whip throughout the small space and books flew off her bookshelves. As Livia threw her hands in the air a whirlwind of memorabilia from her time as a child all through her years living in Boston, before magic before Gotham, before everything changed swirled viciously around. Livia let out another savage yell watching as every light burst—glass and metal reigning everywhere.
Klarion stood in the center of the whirlwind, directly in front of Livia. Silent and observant, as if taking in her breakdown…studying it. He was looking for defeat in her eyes, desperation, and willingness to back down and give in to his demands. Klarion expected he'd broken her and as a grin slid across his pale face, she saw in his eyes satisfaction. Gulping in air Livia turned sharply away from him, letting go of the magic trapped in the room and teleported away. He would not get her power; he would never get her power. Livia left him to her mess of destruction in the bedroom.
Livia aimed for a building, somewhere up high—somewhere she could breathe. But her mind was a jumbled mess and her concentration nonexistent. She landed alright and stumbled, her foot slipping on the edge. Livia let out a scream as her view of sky turned into the sight of sidewalk below. Panic made her mind blank…a witch about to fall to her death with no way or will to stop it. What a pathetic witch.
A hand shot out of nowhere, grabbing her painfully by the arm and hoisting her up onto the rooftop with near ease. Livia scrambled to her feet, shaking and gasping for air as she surveyed the drop that would have been her death. Death will come, not in any way you'd expect. Not at any time, you'd expect. Klarion's words came back to her, and she shivered before she turned to thank her savior—only to find a fuming Red Hood. The thank you died on her tongue, and she bit back groan,
"What the hell are you doing on my rooftop?" She demanded,
"What the hell am I doing on your rooftop?" Red sputtered, "I was patrolling, and I see you appear out of nowhere only to pitch over the side…what the hell were your trying to do?" Livia was tired; she wasn't in the mood for Jason's anger,
"I needed some air," was all she said, looking down at her socked feet only just then realizing how impulsive her escape had been. For all, she knew her father was opening her door bringing her some soup only to find it empty and a mess,
"You're cracking," was all Jason said, his voice held no anger, "You can't keep going on like this,"
"I'm doing fine," Livia insisted—it was a habit, to answer that way. "I'm fine," Jason let out a snort, emitting a very disbelieving snort,
"There are many forms of abuse Liv. Emotional and mental being two of them. He's isolating you, controlling you and draining you of support. He's the abuser in this power dynamic, break the cycle and tell the others. Get help; you can't face this one on your own. Not anymore,"
"I can handle Klarion," Livia hissed,
"Doesn't seem that way from where I'm standing," Jason muttered. Livia looked away irritated. Though she knew he was right, but with everything that happened and just getting Darren back…she didn't want to throw all of this on them. Not just yet. Terrible timing all this shit was,
"I will. I promise, I just…need time. You guys need time—,"
"—and Darren needs time?" Jason finished for her. Livia nodded, her brow creasing in worry. She needed to see him, but after all, she saw through the sword when she touched it…when she witnessed what William was capable of, Livia didn't know what to expect when she went to see him. Would he be different? Would he want her comfort and support or would he reject her presence and the trust they built? Livia wanted desperately to see him, but she didn't know if that was what he wanted, for some reason she doubted herself and her place in his recovery,
"You should visit him," Jason finally said after a moment of quiet reflection, both of them gazing out at the city, "It might be something you both need."
Livia didn't give Red Hood a reply. Without a backward glance or a wave of farewell, she vanished into the night back to her room a hand already staunching the flow of black blood—a practiced administration.
A/N: Hope you guys liked that chapter! I have to say, the Livia part of this chapter came out of nowhere. I'm getting so many ideas for this story that I'm worried it's just going to go on forever even though I do have an ending already planned. Hope you guys don't mind a long story (I'm sure you don't mind).
As always PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! I will answer any comments, questions or concerns you may have. On top of that do not be afraid to comment on older chapters, I love hearing thoughts on old or new moments. Like honestly on Nobody's Weapon, someone commented about Darren's heel injury:
"Ah Achilles Heel I get it"
And it blew my mind because I NEVER EVEN THOUGHT OF THAT! So please review as much as you like. Also review in any LANGUAGE you like, I will translate any foriegn comments—to the best of my ability, goole translate only goes so far—and answer what you have to ask that way as well. Don't be afraid, I really honestly want to hear your opinions.
Next chapter on Thursday, as always!