Chapter Text
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"You will find him even when he is not there."
[. . .]
Chapter 1
An Ongoing Restlessness
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There's a saying that says if you're raised with an angry man in your house, there will always be an angry man in your house.
You are much too familiar with it. Throughout the entirety of your childhood up until your unfortunate demise after your uncelebrated quince, you were cursed to cohabitate with your father, who more than once lifted his hands to color you red and purple. Since before you could remember, you were decorated with the kisses of your father's fists and left with the dread of knowing it would happen again no matter how many times you changed yourself to be perfect.
Your mother and siblings received the same treatment, and as the eldest, it fell to you to keep the household from falling apart—serving as a therapist for your mother who refused to stand up for herself, let alone others, a punching bag for the man who was meant to raise you, and a third parent to the siblings that never asked to be born.
So, hence, you think it was inevitable for your life to come to a devastating, bloody end.
You weren't born angry. You, as any other child, were born hoping and vulnerable. It was your father who planted that hateful seed deep in your core, a seed that flourished in the confines of insecurity, vitriol, and emotional detachment. Your precious mother whom you loved more than life itself was of little help—feeding into it every time, begging you to keep quiet so that she too, wouldn't suffer at the expense of your father's wrath.
She cried day and night, dismissed you under intense moments of stress, and urged you to protect her when she couldn't after snapping back into reality during her dissociative episodes.
What else was there for you to do other than follow the parent you are born loving?
The older you grew, the further that sickened rose wrapped its thorny coils around your bruised heart. It squeezed and squeezed until your blood built upon years of family wounds suffocated you.
You remember the day clearly.
You stepped into the small kitchen of your home to find your mother being thrown about by the angry man in the house on the day you were getting ready for another treacherous school day, bleeding profusely from her head. Hints of purple hand-marks streaked around her skeletal neck, and specks of blood decorated the disheveled blue-collared shirt of your drunk father, who continued to yell at her with the intensity of a man depraved of all childhood wonders.
It didn't take much for your early morning to seep into its confines of fear and desperation. As every other time since that anger spoiled over, you barged into the fray to fight off your father from hurting your mother more. You knew it was because of you—your frail heart racing, recalling when you told your mother that the dress on display was lovely during your annual trip to the store—and today was your fifteenth birthday, so what else would your mother have done but ask your father for money he didn't have?
Tears slopped from your eyes—from wrath or grief, you don't know, but you vividly remember the drastic abhorrence in its suddenness that encapsulated your trembling being, a feeling ferocious enough to fuel you and amass a profound strength you didn't know you had, to pull away the man and send him toppling to the other side of the kitchen with drops of silverware and glass.
Just as they shattered against the aging floorboards, so did your heart. Time and time again.
You stood between him and your mother, screaming with rage, again, because when has this house ever remained quiet?
Your only lament was waking your siblings, knowing they were scared and standing far against the entrance of your shared room, watching helplessly as you became your father's daughter all over again.
Your father was inconsolable. He stood with slurring steps, advanced on you, and you stood your ground, hoping against all odds that you would desist the strength of a man from hurting you. But that's just it. The universe cursed you as a woman, cursed and spat on you, because as angry as you were, it wasn't enough to prevent your father from slugging your head so hard that everything went black.
Your biggest regret is not getting back up again.
The entering quiet was peaceful. Beautiful.
And then you were gazing down at your body, unsure of who it was and why a puddle of red was steadily growing and squelching under it because the man on top kept hitting and hitting and hitting and hitting and—
And then you woke up.
Somewhere new, somewhere cold.
You woke up, stopped playing with toys you have never seen before, and took a look around from a height far smaller than that of your memories. It smelled of iron, similar to blood, but also of dust and worn wood. You found crates of sizes big and small, heard clicks and cackling, and you were numb, just for a second while roaches and rats scurried in the safety of shadows.
An entire life processed before your very eyes. You placed your chipped toys on the cold asphalt, looked down at your hands, and pondered.
They're small.
You hardly remember having hands so small.
And you felt—
Not quite free. Stifled, a bit.
Scared?
So you stood, ignoring the warning of your legs and your heavy heart, desperately wondering why the world looked and felt so different as you paced past what felt like your hiding spot, just to bump into the tall legs slacked in purple at the third turn of your wandering.
"Ah, sweetheart! You done hiding, hm?"
The voice was... intense. Knowing and unhinged.
It prompted you to look up and freeze under the crazed stare of a man draped in purple, face splotched with a sickly white pallor, a murderous red-lipped grin, and hair the shade of an awful, toxic green.
A Clown.
"Dada?" Your unprompted word wasn't your own, but that's what you called this man. You know you did. Even if you never saw him before until now.
A muscle memory?
"That's right, my little cupcake! Your dada's back!" He gleamed, before pointing a gun at your face. Your breath left your lungs and a seizing, cruel fear gripped at your pumping organ stuttering its beats. "Now, explain to me why you thought it was a good idea to hide from me!? When all I wanted to do was play," A mocking, despondent look to his face twisted before your very eyes, voice pitching low in a stupid attempt to trick you into thinking he's heartbroken over your supposed refusal to play.
Alarm bells ring your ears deaf in your head.
The barrel of the gun clicks against your forehead, and you can't say anything.
No, you're far too pissed off to do so.
That was twenty years ago, now.
You're twenty-four, harboring in the safety of books in one of Gotham's libraries, away from that madman. It seems that your suffering is not just for one life but for the next, and likely what follows after this one. At least now you've managed to escape that fucking psychopath thanks to your new father's best friend 'Batsy'. Or more aptly named, The Batman. It took years of psychological torture and physical endorsement before a preteen boy daubed in red, yellow, and green saved you from your succumbing sanity delving deep into the depths of hell.
You were just on the brink too, exhausted with hysteria by Joker's mocking cackle and his insidious way of telling you he loved you.
(Electrical-infused chairs and uncontrollable laughing gas you were somehow immune to were not effective. Quite possibly worse than the father before you.
Not to mention the ugly, jagged letter 'J' he knifed on your back that took about two years to fucking heal from because it kept getting reopened due to the erratic training schedule he had for you. For your protection, apparently.
"Against the bats!" He'd hum, throwing a fat stack of ten thousand dollars to spoil yourself on.)
His name was Robin, you remember. The same one who died just three years later.
A tragedy, of Gotham. Possibly the greatest one after the death of Martha and Thomas Wayne, before you were ever born here.
You've been indebted to him ever since, somewhat. Not. Unrealistically, of course. He's fucking dead.
But if he were alive, and if you'd ever had the chance of meeting him again, you would express your thankfulness for taking you away from the man that made your life a living fucking hell.
Maybe the money is something you miss. You have clothes from years ago that no longer fit you, but you keep to sell, just in case your savings get stolen because the shit-infested criminal city does something to them. It's happened to others before.
You've never gone to school, so your day-by-day is spent suffering on cups of noodles and cold showers, but you're doing alright without the dread of having the so-called 'Clown Prince of Gotham' scurrying around your every damn corner. Getting a job at the local library is more than enough, for now. Even if you'll never escape the reaches of poverty.
You never fail to remember your previous life and how you came to understand it in the years of this life whenever you succumb to the quiet of everyday hopelessness. You've lived longer than before, and part of you isn't sure how to feel about it. Pride that you did this all on your own, or sad because you had to?
Well.
It doesn't matter, anymore.
You're as free as you can be. No therapy, no outside help, just simply raw dogging of your mental illnesses and the like.
That, and enjoying the nice view you've been granted.
A tall, hot guy walks into the library. You're busy checking the late books of folks who can't manage their time in the system when you hear the jingle above the glass door ring, which compels you to cease your ministration of coding to lock eyes with a man who looks like God made him just for you.
You stare for a shameless minute, inspecting his attire and features. His leather jacket, his de-threaded jeans, his heavy combat boots that go well with the single piercing in his left ear, and the tattoos exposed on his forearms, where his jacket sleeve is rolled up. His tan complexion has several scars, and you find that the white tuft of hair adorned on the front of his head is very cute—like a nice, finishing touch that goes against the somewhat rockstar/gothic fashion he has going on.
Actually.
You squint a little.
You're pretty sure you've seen him various times in your youth, whenever the Joker was gone and you had the opportunity to wander about. He was a street Gotham kid, right? From... Willis Todd, you think? Your new, no-less horrible father had talked about him once with that annoying bastard Carmine Falcone. Very, very, briefly, might you add. (Your memory is both a blessing and a curse.) The Penguin was also there, the day after, attempting to claim the opposite territory.
Dumbass name.
"What?"
The guy's voice is rough and low enough to send a shiver down your spine. His inquiry is rather snappish, and for a second, you scowl even though those glowing green eyes (that shouldn't be fucking glowing but are because fuck Gotham and its weirdass cryptids) of his seem like they're stabbing into you. Why the hell is he showing you attitude?
Probably because I was staring hard, you think.
Oh.
Yeah.
You relax your face, slightly guilty. Hypocritical of you to get angry when you also respond the same way when some dumbass is looking at you. "Nothing. Just admiring your style," You admit openly since it's true. He looks nice in his tough-guy getup. With how intimidating he comes off to be, the look compliments him. It doesn't scare you because you know your way around too many guns to count and a few hijinks thanks to Harley, but also because he doesn't seem the type to scare just because.
And you know this because being forced by the Joker to psycho-analyze pays off. His tense shoulders sag as his heavy steps falter, softening his angry face into something blank.
You wait.
Then, he walks away wordlessly, like he can't quite believe you, so he opts to leave so that he doesn't seem rude. Even if it was. You understand.
Don't assume shit, you scold yourself.
You go back to your manual task without issue.
Three hours later, when you've long forgotten the interaction (more like rethought it over and over and imagined different scenarios that made you look cool), you glance up after putting the last of the books in the cart to put away for later.
The same hot guy from earlier is standing on the other side of the register.
He places six books by Jane Austen on the counter.
You grab the first, carefully keeping your face composed from the burst of intrigued delight that a man is picking something out like this. You've never seen a man do that before. "Amazing choice," You can't help but murmur to yourself. It's insane. The bar has been in hell for men since the beginning of time, but credit has to be given where credit is due. Or maybe you're just desperate because this might be the first man you've encountered in this life that hasn't given off disgusting red flags.
His girlfriend is lucky as hell, you mope internally.
Wait. He might not have one. But then again, who wouldn't want to date this hunk? Holy shit, you're overthinking.
Are your hands shaking? Okay. No. You need to stop.
A tense minute follows. When you finish scanning the books to put into the system, you hand them over in the Library's bookbag. "Name?" You ask.
He halts. Thinks while judging if it's a good idea to tell you his name, maybe, because his eyes narrow on you. "Peter," He says.
What a weird name. It sure as hell doesn't suit him. But who are you to judge? Plus, he might be lying. Just this funny feeling you have. Whatever. That's not your business.
You type it in and nod. "Thanks for checking out at Gotham's Gargantuan Blues Library," You drone, cringing at the name. Dios mio. Why hasn't anyone ever changed that horrible ass fucking name before?
"Thanks," He says blandly, before pausing and adding, "I know."
You stare at him like he's stupid.
His expression is devoid of emotion. "What you said. About Jane Austen," He elaborates.
Oh.
"Yeah," You say lamely. "That's why I said that."
An awkward silence follows.
Before you can say anything to break it because it's fucking unbearable, he leaves.
The bell jingles and you're left back to your job, questioning if you should cut your vocal cords out and never speak again.
You hope he comes back.