911 [Drabble/Fic]

A/N: I really miss writing stories. I miss writing fanfics. Being able to fuel out everything I'm feeling into a fluid story, or oneshot. I miss a lot of things about myself...

His gray eyes lock on her from where he is across the room. For some reason, when she spots them, it feels like the moon is watching her, heavy against the dark and drowning her in the light they give off, almost to the point of choking her. It's like his gaze is drawing out her oxygen, or maybe that's the guilt pushing her blood through her veins faster than usual.

Hell, it could be anger.

She rolls her shoulders and neck simultaneously and, when their gazes meet again, her eyes are glowing white. She hears a voice in the back of her head. She can't tell if it's saying be careful or to go for it. It doesn't matter though because it's not taking the driver's seat. She's made up her mind that she wants to end him. She wants to end the voices.

These voices that are forever screaming his name, regardless of whether he's there or not.

Her skin is fair but it'd be a lie to say that he can't see her veins glowing against the shadows in the room. The color matches her eyes and there aren't many things that scare him but he's always been kind of terrified of her. Could be because she's always been the one thing that he could never predict. Even as a boy, he was cold and calculated and, even then, she was unfaltering as something he could never spell out. Every single time he thought he was a step ahead of her, he'd always find out that he was about ten steps behind, or that he was just in a completely different game from her. Despite running in the same direction, they just always seemed to be running parallel. He would always reach for her but could never quite get hold of her and, in his eyes, she never reached back. His mistake. She was always reaching for him, a hand that would draw her out of her shadows and the voices that clouded her mind but it was as though it was a two-way mirror between them, where she could see him but he couldn't see her. She could see him reaching a hand out to her.

When did the hand that she thought could save her suddenly start to feel like a weapon? And the only one that could end her?

Was her demise the only way to save her? Or was that her just being melodramatic again?

"You're after me again," he finally spoke up and she tilted her head as though his voice was foreign.

She wasn’t sure about whether it was a question or a statement and she just ended up rolling her shoulders again, “Are you going to run again?”

“I’m going to stay right here.”

“Playing pacifist?”

“Hoping you’ll tire yourself out.”

Her laugh was usually warm. This was manic and cold, something that sent a chill down his spine. He couldn’t have lost her. Not already.

She clears the distance between them and her fingers are locked around his throat, white eyes still glowing as they look into his eyes, “It’s so easy to forget you’re still human until I have you in my grasp.”

He grips at her wrist as she chokes him and her eyes narrow as she feels the prick at her skin. She a brow at him and then sighs, clutching his throat a bit harder before dropping him. Her hand is a bit sore but it feels more like her hand just fell asleep and that the circulation is returning to proper flow as she gives it a few shakes.

“I want to watch you die slowly,” she speaks, curling her fingers to make a fist a few times as the feeling is finally normal again, “Let you slip through my fingers as I pull out your last breath.”

He’s gasping as he tries to speak and he realizes that she was holding a bit tighter than he’d initially thought and he has to make a choice for the moment of whether he wants to speak or return oxygen to his body.

“I haven’t been so bent on killing you for a long time or maybe it’s the voices in my head making me question that. I need to start taking my pills again. Miss a day and everything turns to , you know,” she laughs, that cold laugh again, “It wouldn’t make a difference though because they can’t even decide if they want you alive or not.”

“What have I done to hurt you?”

“Mm? What?”

“What,” he gasps, still working on catching his breath, “How did I hurt you?”

She tilts her head and shrugs her shoulders, “That’s another thing I can’t remember. I don’t know if it was the voices that started it or not.”

“The...When did you start hearing them?”

“Ah. That’s what you hero kids do, isn’t it,” she asks, kneeling down in front of him and watching him propping himself up against the wall behind him, “You like to stall by asking questions, pretending to listen. To make your opponent really feel like you care, or is that hostage technique? Talk down your suspect until you can come to reasonable terms with them and apprehend them… I forget. Your father did it a lot when he was in the suit, didn’t he? I bet he still does. I’ve only met him a couple of times but, for some reason, it’s not hard for me to see what you get from him.”

He eyes her suspiciously, also as though he’s daring her to clarify.

“Mm, don’t worry, pretty boy,” she smiles, curling a finger under his chin and tilting his head up, “It’s a good thing, mostly. They say ‘with age, comes wisdom,’ but they don’t say what happens when you gain most of your wisdom while you’re young. Maybe you’re bound to go crazy since no one else can join in on the conversation.”

He parts his lips to speak again and she slaps him quite hard, although it’s clear that she’s not using her full power.

“Try stabbing me with something again and I won’t give you the chance to save yourself. Not that it’s really any fun to do that but…”

“Then, just kill me.”

“I haven’t had my fun yet.”

“Why are you keeping me alive?”

She tilts her head and stands up, her expression already having made it clear to him that she doesn’t quite know the answer either.

“Do they want you to keep me alive?”

“They? Who?”

“...your voices.”

“Ah… They probably would actually drive me insane if I really did kill you.”

“Then, why are you so adamant on killing me if keeping me alive keeps you sane?”

“Because relying on you to save the day, to save me, makes me feel more insane.”

They’re both silent until she swears under her breath. For some reason, she expects him to smile but he doesn’t. The look in his eyes makes her feel pathetic and she looks away.

“You’re much easier to hate than to love.”

He gets up, finally having fully caught his breath, although leaning against the wall since he doesn’t trust his steps yet, “Come here.”

“You always say that and then stick me with something to knock me out.”

Raising his hands, he shows her that he does have another small needle but he drops it, causing the tube on it to shatter. She narrows her eyes and takes a step back from him, wondering if it’s something that would mess with her if she were to breathe it in.

“I’m not going to fight you,” he says, keeps his hands raised in surrender, “I don’t have any more tricks up my sleeve. If you really want to kill me, I’ll let you. I have no problem dying by your hands.”

She tilts her head and takes slow steps toward him as he drops to his knees in front of her. She’s still glowing, even to her fingertips as she slots her fingers in his thick, dark curls, locking into them and tugging them back so that he’s looking up at her. He’s still got his hands raised and now, up this close, she can see the surrender in his eyes.

“This is another game. Police pretend to surrender when they feel they’ve run out of options to come to terms with their suspect,” she keeps his head angled so that their gazes stay locked together, “So, tell me, Mr. Wayne, what exactly is your backup plan?”

When he finally lowers his arms, he’s wrapping them around her waist and hugging her, burying his face against her stomach, despite her hold on his hair. Her hold thankfully loosens though she doesn’t let go of the strands.

This is another thing she hates.

When he holds her like this, the voices finally go quiet. Her eyes return to normal and the white glow in her veins slowly fades. Her legs go weak and he catches her as she drops to her knees, keeping her in his arms. She’s fully conscious, which doesn’t surprise him. She’s not smacking him or hitting him or screaming at him, which does surprise him. What he does hear shocks him even more though. It’s not the muttered “I hate you” that she whispers into his chest.

It’s the broken sob that comes after it.

He holds her tighter and kisses the top of her head.

“I want to save myself. I don’t want you to save me.”

“I just want to help… I’m not a savior… I’m not your savior.”

“You don’t believe that statement and, as much as I want to, I know it isn’t true.”

She wants to leave his arms but whenever the venom kicks in because of her emotions, like it just had, it drains her energy. As if sensing she was about to do something, which she was, even if it was to herself, he takes her hands and guides them around his waist, holding her arms there.

“It’ll be okay. You don’t have to rely on me, but I need you to trust me…”

“I hate you,” she mutters, though her fingers clutch weakly at his shirt and her face is still buried against his chest.