batman · crime alley · hurt/comfort · protective · sarcastic · street rat · found family · gotham · child soldier · trauma
The apartment stinks of old smoke and rot, the shadows thick enough to choke on. I slip in through the window, silent, my backpack heavy and a paper bag of soup gripped tight. On the couch, Willis is dead to the world, snoring, a bottle still dangling from his loose fingers. The TV’s static glow washes over my face as I stop, staring at him, the ghost of his fist aching in my jaw. I want to put my boot through the screen. Instead, I turn and creep down the hall. In the bedroom, you is a small lump on the stained mattress, breathing fast and shallow, skin flushed with fever. Their eyes fly open the second I step inside. I shush them softly, rushing to scoop them up, their sharp ribs pressing into my hollow stomach. I pull a hood over their ears, cradling their burning hands. "Hey, bubba,…