Author'z Note: I think I will rename this fic A Hot Mess lmao
She can remember how her life was like minutes ago. Before her stomach caved in on itself and before she did not completely question her own sense of judgment and intelligence.
Moments of dread fall into an instant downpour of shame and regret. Fury coming up from deep inside her bones like no other. His actions are deliberate — with the way he smiles, it feels evil.
It does not take much for all to go down. It happens quickly.
The early morning sound of the alarm, the sky still darkened with twilight. The way her inside shook for a split second because who else would do such a thing?
And she was begging him to tell her what she already knows?
The thick smell of copper. Human blood always smelled worse to her, somehow. Its splatter across the dirty floor. Only the fading starlight illuminated the old building through its high windows. But still, she could see the lifeless bodies, clear as day.
What she did not see — not in time, was the blur of black. And as soon as she had registered what laid before them, the room went up in thick smoke around them. She covered her mouth and nose but still, it snuck into her lungs and left her struggling for clean air, searching for any one of her friends by her side, but she could only hear them distantly, as if they were separated. Was there an impact she had not felt?
And how her head bumped against something hard. The wall, it must have been, she knows it now because her legs dangled down. Whatever held her is still stuck on her like a second skin. She is yet to break free.
The sound of a spell being cast, an animal's screech, something loading. And then her name above it all. Choked.
Through eyes burning green, he lifts his mask and smiles.
Too fast. That is what it is. Wretched.
Her stomach lurches as he grabs the back of her neck.
And oh, she knows the truth all too well, but she knows it again.
She feels her name pierce her ear more than she hears it — it is drowned out by the blood rushing and pounding in her head. The strain as she tries to tear herself away. But it is done.
In seconds, he lets all crash down.
His lips press hard on hers.
Her body goes slack. Suddenly, she feels cold. Dead. Her blood turns to ice and it cuts her veins jagged and rough.
Who can she blame?
He's torn away from her with the sickening sound of a crack. She takes the chance to rip herself out of her confines, ready to hurl all her energy at him, but she only watches as Richard searches for a ghost, his voice a nauseating growl. She cannot hear whatever words come out, only sounds.
The fog is forced apart. She looks past Raven in the air and sees her opening.
Without thought, she shoots away, tears dripping silently down to the ground.
No, Eliza must really know something. Not that she's not smart, but… was he really underestimating her?
He got home with blood dripping down his face and all she did was look at him.
"You too?" he quips, trying to force his body still, but the tremors run through him as the adrenaline wears off, anyway.
He's stupid. And stupidly weak. Boy, did that bird brain do a number on him. His cheekbone is aching from hitting the floor and somehow splitting open. And his fucking ribs. He manages to get the suit off, but not without cursing his whole entire life out.
His head spins. Once he lays down, he goes out, and doesn't know it 'til he wakes up to a dark room and a dark sky.
It was the sickest impulse he's ever had.
He saw her, and he wanted it to be the last time. He wanted to say goodbye, but he also wanted to taint whatever hung between them — wanted to make her hate him so she could move on. But it makes less sense now than it did the last time he was awake.
Makes almost no sense at all.
Maybe it's just not in his nature to hurt people who don't deserve it — but she brought it out of him without even knowing it.
Blaming her now?
He could've ended it a long time ago. In a better way. Fuck, he could've just not started it in the first place, 'cause even then, he knew what would happen. He's not sustainable. Unreliable.
He can't be there for her. It's just the truth he needs her to realize.
He knows he embarrassed her. Exposed her. It was just the quiver of her lips he really felt before her shithead of a leader came up and threw everything into one blow. Stupid ass motherfucker who doesn't even know what he ha—
He grunts, the exertion of his thoughts making his body tense in ways it shouldn't. He bites down on the insides of his cheeks, inhales sharply through his nose. He hates everything about this.
And fuck, he's cold. Now that he's realized, he's shivering. But he also feels so dirty and there's no way he's going back to sleep, no matter how much he wants to. He's too awake, too restless, his mind flashing back to hours before. He slept through the worst of the damage, hasn't he? He wonders what she's doing.
What made him think she'd take it like it was nothing? She doesn't know enough, doesn't understand enough about him — and judging by all that she's been put through…
Why wouldn't she come?
The lump in his throat is too thick. He can't stifle the guilt that rises like an acid tide. His chest stings. He's done it wrong.
All of it, wrong.
He grazes the wound on his face and winces at the soreness. He feels how the blood's crusted over. And fuck, he bled all over his white sheets.
It doesn't help when he shifts and his side just… blegh. He heaves at the pain and discomfort, and the added weight of his hunger makes him feel fucking delirious for a hot second. Fuck, he's gotta clean himself up, gotta eat, gotta rest, gotta get his energy back…
And Eliza must finally be taking pity on him, 'cause she comes around again and places her paws on his thighs, reaching up to gently lick his face.
He wants to laugh but it comes out like choked air. "Thanks, girl," he whispers, wrapping his arms around himself carefully.
It takes him too long to get up, but he does. And he practically drags himself to the shower, Eliza right at his feet and sitting on the bathroom floor as he kicks off his underwear and starts the hot water. He sits in the tub, back facing the shower spray, and tries to let the water relax him.
His eyes slip shut, and he only peeks through his lashes to see the blood run clean. The water pounds soothingly on his back. He focuses on it so his mind doesn't slip.
But it does anyway. To the call he got. To Harper telling him the meeting, the weapons, the drugs, and he was right on it.
How he waited for the right moment to tell Harper to call the police to trigger the Titans alarm. How he meant for it to be just a bit less than what it became.
He never knew he could feel so fucking awful about a kiss.
Swallow it. He chokes it down. Breathe. He barely does that.
She won't forgive him. But that's what he wants, isn't it?
He scrubs his hair and body down when he manages to stand. He dries himself off and slips on clean underwear and a white t-shirt, careful not to look at his own reflection when he brushes his teeth. He gags, yet his stomach pangs painfully.
Eliza points her nose into his leg as he rinses his mouth and rubs some ointment on the nasty cut and bruise that's forming under his eye. It stings and he sucks in a sharp breath, but at least he's actually doing something to take care of himself.
Even if that includes the most depressing sandwich he's ever made. He pours Eliza's food in her bowl before sitting down and consuming more water than he has in days. If he weren't able to take things better and heal faster than regular human beings, he'd probably be on the verge of death right about now. He can barely stomach the food, because for some reason, his life haunts him and it makes him feel sick, but he forces it down and it makes him feel full. Grounded. Alive, human, a bunch of things that he probably shouldn't be, because he's bitter and can't accept things, not even the choice he's made so that things could be easier in the long run.
No, this can't be where he doubts himself. There's no time or space for it. He's been doing good. He doesn't need to stay in the city much longer, either. There's things more important than his dumbass fucking heart.
It skips a beat when his name sounds from his room.
Her voice. Except it's not coated with syrup or sugar or frosting.
It's hard. Unforgiving. Angry.
The sick part of him thrills at it. The pathetic part of him goes stock still.
Either way, he's drawn to her just like the night he first laid his fucking eyes on her. And every night after that. And every morning, however little they had of that. And it's so fucking ridiculous. So stupid.
Carefully, he goes into his room, the window open a crack. The cool breeze comes, breaking through the darkness, the only light coming from
the moon.
She must've heard him from the kitchen. Maybe seen the lights on. Or just guessed he was here. She left as soon as she came.
It was definitely less of an invitation and more of a demand.
He walks to the window and stares out ahead, just barely making out her figure on the sand. Even from here, he can see her hair, so vibrant even in the cloudy night.
He's not nervous. She's been the only one to even make him feel that slightly, but this time, he's not. The moment comes and the guilt chokes itself out the way he needs it to. He has reasons.
It doesn't matter whether she knows or understands them or not. No, it never did, 'cause he's never had to prove anything to her.
He sets his jaw, letting the tension and the quick jolt of pain in his body ground him. He throws on his jeans, his black hoodie and converse, and heads out.
It only takes a few minutes to get to her.
A second for her to turn her face to his.
His brows lowered while hers are furrowed together. Her red cheeks, hot from rage, while his is just wounded. His mouth pulled taut as she bares her teeth, and he swears her hair's lifting with her barely restrained rage.
Safe to say she's pissed.
He doesn't waver. And neither does she, even when the single tear falls thickly from the inner corner of her eye, and it seems to bright compared to everything else. A shard of ice picking up light. He waits for her to speak.
"You…" she says before letting out a harsh huff, turning back towards the ocean.
He doesn't need to see her face to know what's coming across it. He can read her thoughts with the way she's hunching her shoulders, how her back's rippling and she sits tighter, closing her arms around her knees. Her neck's so stiff it looks about ready to crack.
She's wondering if she should even be mad. When she knew.
Baby, if it were me, I wouldn't be as kind as you.
It's not a big surprise, really. Not a huge one, if she didn't keep deciding he was worth more than he actually is.
But his girl is smart. Smart in ways he can't afford to be. She made a choice. And he made one, too.
She stands like a doll getting its joints straightened out. When she looks at him again, she's haunted.
"How dare you?" she says, voice little but controlled.
He tries, he really does — his lips roll out into a smirk as he scrapes his gaze down her, sticking his fists in the pocket of his hoodie and shrugging. "What you expect?"
One of her eyebrows twitch and lift. Her eyes go wider, almost confused as she turns her body slow. "Excuse me?"
His laugh is short, mean, a heavy rush of air as he turns away, his tongue at his teeth and then the corner of his mouth. "What. Did. You. Expect?" he says slowly, deadpanned.
She gapes at him, shocked. Horrified, actually. Regretful.
He smiles down at the ground before taking exactly one step forward, eyes raking up her body. "There something I can help you with?" He shakes his head. "Baby, I'm a busy guy."
She grits her teeth and narrows her eyes, craning her neck to look at him, but he takes his gaze just slightly away. She lifts her finger, chest heaving, mouth parted like she's got something to say.
But nothing comes out.
He pulls his whole expression down, just the way he looked when he first got here. "We done here?" but he doesn't even give her a chance to respond. He's walking away, because all of this feels useless, but her voice cuts through him in a way he can't ever expect.
"You're a murderer."
Oh. Oh.
He didn't know it mattered what she thought like this.
Or maybe he just assumed she'd know better than to think so — 'cause no matter how little she's known about what he does, she always thought the best of him. Gave him the benefit of the doubt, or actually, something fucking more than that. Forgiveness before he could need it.
But it's the way she says it. Like it's all he lives for, like he's a fucking psychopath and she can't believe she didn't see it before. All the good he's done being compiled into such an ugly word — why is he surprised? Why is he surprised? There's a reason, more than a fucking reason he didn't tell her in the first place.
So many cruel things want to spew out of his mouth. That's not his chest caving in. That's not disappointment that's breaking the cavity.
It doesn't hurt. It doesn't fucking hurt.
He's in her face quicker than he can take his next breath, his forehead so close to touching hers. He sneers, something ugly filling his throat.
She shifts her lower jaw, squints up at him 'cause she knows she hit something. "Am I wrong? Are you not a murderer?" He laughs, but she only talks louder over it. "Did you not kill all those people? Hurt my friends?" She scoffs, shaking her head as her nostrils flare. "Shoot ME?"
"So why you still fuckin' coming back?" he seethes, towering over her.
"Because you want me to." She stretches her neck, trying her best to meet him in the middle, and he laughs in her face, watching her skin turn darker with the heat.
"Baby," and he's about to say more, but she's shoving him back so hard that he nearly falls flat on his ass.
"Do not CALL ME THAT!" she says, shoving again until the backs of his knees hit a huge rock.
Before she can hit him again, he grabs her wrists in a vice grip, fingers closing painfully tight around such tiny fucking hands. Fuck.
"Let me go, you murderer."
And he pulls at her roughly, the tip of his nose brushing hers as he stares down at her with something he can't name. He shakes her. "Sweetheart, you wanna talk to me about murderers, sweetheart?"
He's fully aware of how low a blow it is, but fuck if he cares right now. Not even the betrayal dragging her face around and down could pacify him. No, he's drunk and hot off the rage, picking at the same nerves she did.
Their breath is so wildly out of sync, so scattered and uneven that he can't catch it yet. Her wrists are so thin that he actually thinks he could break them, but he can't, won't let go, won't let her get away with what she said.
"Think a little fuckin' bit, yeah?"
She cranes her neck, pushing her nose into his. "Let go."
He drags her arms beside him, his lip lifting in a sneer.
"Let GO!" she yells, ripping an arm out of his grip and slamming her forearm against his face. He feels the skin rip open again, and she takes the chance to slip away. "How dare you hold that against me!"
All he does is press forward, never leaving more than a couple of inches of space between them. "Don't feel too good, does it?"
Every step back she takes, he follows. "But you know why I did what I did!" He has her going in a circle, until she bumps into the rock. She tries to slink away, but he doesn't let her.
He presses his finger hard to her temple. "But you already act like you know so much, why don't you think a little bit harder, then, hmm?"
She shakes her head rapidly, trying to make his touch go loose. "Do you truly think that I know why?"
"You wanna act like you know me so damn well, sweetheart, but you barely know nothing," he taps his finger again and again and again, taunting her. "You're trying to gather clues, trying to understand why I'm not gonna stick around for you, but you couldn't even accept what was right in front of your goddamn face."
"Because I thought you were BETTER than that!"
"So that changed?" he chuckles. "It changed that quick, huh?" He leans over her, so close, but not close enough to touch, arms caging around her. "Koriand'r, when're you gonna give it up?"
She grabs the front of his hoodie and drags him closer, foreheads and noses connecting. She bares her teeth, growling. "Give what up?"
"Didn't I embarrass you already?" and at that, her temper flares. He drives his face forward, skull pressed so hard to hers. "Didn't I make you cry enough already?" he says, swiping a rough finger down her cheek, pulling at the skin. "What the fuck goes through your head? What makes you think any of this is good? Stop acting like I still want you around, baby girl, I've got enough good fucks from yo—"
She cuts him off with a slap, and it almost sounds wet. He feels the blood trickle down again as she backs away a good distance.
"A liar and a murderer," she spits. "What a wonderful combination."
Fuck, his face stings. He grazes his cheek, his vision almost tunneling on her, his frown so deep it feels like it'll extend to his throat.
"Do not place the burden on me. Do not make it seem like I am the fool, following you blindly. Whatever I feel for you is what you feel for me. You do not need to tell me the truth, Jason, I only ask for you to stop lying!"
"Stop lying to yourself, doll," is all he says.
And it's all it takes for her anger to slam back in full-force.
There's something about having this much of an affect on someone, even when you're about to see red yourself. If looks could kill.
And maybe she's… actually…
She lifts the rock with both arms and holds it over her head, and in the moment, he realizes he might actually value his life.
With a cry, she flings it towards him, and he has enough sense to dodge it as it lands in the wet sand.
A jolt of fear runs through him, an electric shock that feels too familiar — he braces himself for more, for his life to flash before his eyes, something he can't remember itself but he knows it happened.
And that's the thing about her. She makes him come alive, even when it's ugly like this, even when he's dragging the worst out of her as he takes it out of himself and puts it on display. He feels his pulse hot and quick in his teeth, his tongue heavy as the panic runs its first wave through, and he tears himself from the sand before he can feel it again.
"Are you fucking INSANE?!" he yells, running to her before she can lift the next one over and is she actually trying to fucking kill him?
"STAY AWAY!" she cries when he catches up to her, instantly struggling as he takes her wrists again so she doesn't destroy him. "LET ME GO!"
Somehow, he's able to pin her against the rock, his hips pressing into her lower belly as she squirms. It almost hurts to keep her there, but he forces her to stay still and make her calm the hell down, even as she proceeds to curse his name in her native tongue.
"LIAR! You are nothing but a LIAR and a COWARD!"
He digs his hip bones even further into the flesh of her stomach as her writhing grows desperate, catching her wrists each time she breaks free. The tears are leaking like rivers down her face.
"Coward, absolutely nothing but a COWARD," she says through bared teeth and shut eyes, her voice cracking as it begins to lose its power. "How can you look me in the eye and say such things? H-how can… I believed, I… I expected better from you, Jason, how could you?"
There's a hole in his chest.
Eventually, her movement dies down to burning tears, so hot that smoke dances off them. They pour from her glowing eyes, so saturated with color and emotion. She breathes heavily and he does his damn best to steady himself. He can't waver for a second. It needs to end.
He didn't think it'd feel like he's losing a fucking limb, though.
Maybe that's why he says what he says.
Eventually, she stops writhing. Her eyes fade back and he barely even blinks as the world spins slow. He's staring so intently, so still that looking away would ruin it all.
Smoothly, firmly, he slides one hand to the base of her skull and grips it there, watching her eyes widen in anticipation and shock. Something about it makes him hungry. He leans in even further, pressing his weight into her as his other hand wraps around her hip.
"Course I'm lying," he rasps. "Don't you get it." It's not even a question.
She keeps breaking him down. Faster and faster. He can't take it for much longer.
This needs to be the last time.
'Cause he can't ever fuckin' help himself when it comes to her.
There's a thousand things flashing across her face, but it all comes down this look of pain and it can't just be for herself. It's what he's been running away from all this time. The same exact thing that he craves.
Someone who knows his pain.
With equal fervor, in the same second of time, he is nourished.
And he is ruined.
There's no space in him to hate her for making him feel real as she utters words that send chills down his spine and lights the fire in his heart.
"You died," she whispers.
And like it'll erase it, like it'll tell her the whole entire truth, he covers her mouth with his open one, teeth clinking together, so desperate as he sinks over her and melts deeply. His tongue sliding hotly against hers, taking each lip between both of his, kissing her for what needs to be the last time.
There's this urge to just never stop or to die on the spot. He drives his body slow over hers. Cups her neck fully and holds her closer. Tries to drown in her underwater. He lied to himself when he said he could live without her.
Her hands circle around his upper arms, gripping tight as his lips slow and stop on hers. Their breath is harsh on each other.
He doesn't want to say what he has to. He'll mumble it so she won't hear — but she cuts him off before he can start.
He feels her form the words. "I want to know what happened to you," she says in a quiet rush.
He tenses where he's got her and shakes his head.
Her nails dig into his arms. He wants it to hurt more. "Jason." He can't tell what it means when she says it, 'cause it means too many things.
He shuts his eyes. "I can't, Kori," and he does his damn best to make it sound final.
This must be so familiar to her. He hates it. Hates that it's necessary. Hates that he's here. That he has to let it go. But that's another thing he'll never say out loud. Another thing he can barely admit to himself.
He thinks she'll fight it again. Tell him he can. Throw it right back in his face, how his actions just don't add up to the shit that comes out of his mouth.
But there's none of that.
She goes limp. Like she's done, it's been too much. That's when he finally lets her go.
She doesn't even look his way before lifting to the sky. He stays long after she's out of sight.
He'll sleep when he's dead.
Or when he gets to the fucker who stole his fucking suit.
He only needed seconds to do what he did. To separate them, activate a smokescreen, stick her to the wall and—
He grinds his teeth together, eyes dry and unblinking as he stares at the screen. He hasn't been this pissed in awhile. He couldn't work it out, and he still can't shake it off, and his stomach keeps twisting and turning as he remembers her face when he— when he.
He hasn't seen her since then.
He didn't get good enough of a blow in.
So he fantasizes about it, imagines in vivid detail just what he would do it he ever gets the fucking chance again, God willing.
Another string of curses under his breath. Only to be stopped by footsteps out in the hall. He wouldn't think much of it if he wasn't so on edge, afraid of what she might've done. He doesn't want to be right.
Carefully, he opens his door and leans against the doorway, crossing his arms the second he spots her. She paces on the floor, her face splotchy and red and shining with tear marks, and absolutely pissed. She must've been on her way to the bathroom or kitchen or even the training room — wherever, just not to his room.
He waits for her to notice him.
As bad as he feels— as bad as he wants to comfort her, make her forget, the anger flares in his stomach and his chest and he can't keep it from showing on his face. He's maskless, eyes trained intently on her, and maybe he doesn't have the right to be but he's disappointed.
The last time she was this distressed in the middle of the night… who else could've done this? Wasn't him.
Not this time.
She's stunned to find him there, and it occurs to him that maybe this wasn't for him to see. The guilt eases his expression, but only slightly. But she must know what he does— she looks caught.
He nods his head towards his room. "Wanna come in?"
She swallows. Her eyes shoot from him to the ground to the wall, frantic.
"If you want," he adds softly.
He lets her take her time to decide, and eventually, she chooses to come. She hugs herself and hunches her back slightly as she comes in, standing awkwardly in the middle of his room like she's never been in it before. That's when the concern overrides everything else.
He furrows his brows and gently cups a hand around her shoulder. "Hey, what's the matter?" he says, voice low and as soothing as he can make it. He gestures to his bed. "Wanna sit?"
Without a sound, she does.
He doesn't expect her to speak. "Please, do not look at me like that," she rasps, so stressed, so defeated.
He frowns. He can't help it. "What the hell were you thinking?"
She scoffs, shaking her head. "I wish I could tell
you." It almost sounds sarcastic. That must mean many things.
He inches closer, inspecting her for any marks. She only stares straight ahead. "I wish you didn't go."
He finds nothing on her and it makes him breathe a little easier. But it doesn't matter much, because once he looks at her face again, her chin is quivering and the angry tears begin to trickle down. And he hates it.
He reaches out to touch her face, only for her to shake him off. He scoots closer and cups her jaw, turning her head and trying to keep her eyes on his, but she keeps them on the wall beside them.
"Starfire…" he says, wiping at a tear, only for a choked sob to sound from her throat and more pour down her cheeks.
His heart breaks as she gives into him. He wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her to his chest, rubbing her back slowly, hushing her.
"Look at me," he says after she quiets down, because his chest hurts and his shirt is soaked and he can't take it anymore. He lifts her head with his palm at her jaw, but her eyes are still squeezed shut.
Her arms are so weak around his torso. He brushes the pad of his thumb over her eyelid, her brow, and then her temple. Until his hand is at her hairline, until he can rake his fingers gently through her hair, pushing it back.
He kisses her forehead. "Ce s-a întâmplat?" he says, a rumble, barely above a whisper.
Her face twists in pain, mouth pulled into an open frown. "Nimic," she sobs, not even blinking her eyes open.
He holds her even tighter, jaw set just as tightly. Tries to give her a place to cry it all out and pry herself open.
He tortures himself with too many thoughts as she lays her head over his heartbeat.
Author's Note:
More Romanian because I am a sucker for it!
Ce s-a întâmplat? - What happened?
Nimic - Nothing
I realllyyy hope you enjoyed!
