Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bad days were supposed to come and go, she knew, show up for 12 hours and fuck up your life for the next week and then move on. She knew that they were normal and that they didn't mean the end of the world, but she swore that today was an exception. First, she had dropped her phone that morning and the screen had shattered, and then she was late getting to the appointment she had at the spa to get her nails done for the opening of her father's new building next week and they wouldn't let her in unless she made another appointment, and then someone on the street just had to trip and spill all of their chocolate shake down the back of her favorite purple pencil skirt, and on top of it all she barely squeezed in lunch. Today had been hectic, to say the least, and she had just barely gotten out of the spa, looking at her watch to see that it was already eight thirty in the evening. She hadn't even had dinner yet. This day was getting worse and worse.

She set off down the road, shaking her head, trying to decide if she should just give up on today and go home or run inside the Dunkin’ Donuts a block from her place to grab a small bite. Thank God she had had enough time to run home and change her dress so she could show herself in public and look presentable again.

Her phone rang, and she stopped, angrily digging around in her purse for the dumb thing that had broken the first time she had ever dropped it. Her mother’s picture appeared on the screen, and she mentally groaned and slid her thumb across to answer it. She lifted it to her ear and squared her shoulders as if she was standing in front of her.

“Hello?”

“Gwendolyn,” her mother sounded exasperated. “Why haven’t you been answering my calls? You better not be off with some boy. Did you get your nails done? Have you had dinner?”

She lifted a hand, rubbing at her temple frustratedly. “I’ve been at the spa, and no, I haven’t had dinner. I’m on my way to get some now.”

“Oh, nonsense. Come home. Your father’s waiting to talk to you. We’re having salmon.”

There was no room for argument in her tone.

“Alright, Mother. I’ll be home soon.”

“Good. And your nails had better be oval with the blue I chose,” she quipped matter-of-factly, practically daring Gwen to defy her. Gwen just sighed out of her nose.

“They are, Mother.”

“Good. I will see you when you get home.” Her mother hung up before she had a chance to say anymore. She slid her phone back in her purse and pulled her small cardigan around herself as she set off down the road again.

Personally, she hated the nails her mother had chosen for her. Long oval acrylics with a navy blue polish that looked more matte than it did shiny. If she could, she would pry them off and throw them at her mother's feet, but she didn’t want to get her ear chewed off by her mother.

Lucinda Bartholme was a bitch, but of course, Gwen couldn’t say that out loud to anyone. Order was her mom's thing, and she was strict about it. Her earliest memory of Lucinda consisted of her yelling at her babysitter for thirty minutes straight about allowing her to bring her favorite doll into the living room when all toys were supposed to stay in the playroom.

Gwen never saw her favorite nanny again after that.

Her father, Leopold Bartholme, had an ego to match his name. He was a billionaire. Any business out there, he most likely had a hand in selling the supplies that built the walls, that were used daily in the shops, or were even available to the public on the shelves. He was always away on business trips, and when he wasn’t, he sat at the dinner table reading his stock reports, letting Lucinda chew her, or one of the maids, out until she was satisfied that her point had gotten through. He didn’t care much about Gwen, it seemed. She was the second and last child and had yet to move out, that and she was never planned.

Gwendolyn was practically a celebrity because of him and her mother, only twenty-one years old, and she wanted nothing to do with being judged by other people in their stupid magazines when she had enough trouble judging herself.

She ran a hand through her hair and took a few deep breaths, securing her purse over her shoulder as she continued down the road. Then she heard the ‘snap!’ and watched as her favorite Gucci purse landed in the gutter, the strap having broken.

Tears stung her eyes, and she stomped her foot angrily, wanting to scream loudly. Her hand ran through her hair again, nails scratching against her scalp until she brought her hands down, the backs of them slapping her thighs as she gestured to the purse, like it was going to apologize, or gesture back for deciding to break.

She stomped her foot again and covered her face with her hands. She felt like sitting down against the building behind her and crying. She didn’t want to go and see her mother, or her father. She wanted to go to her room and not get out of bed for the rest of her life.

Faintly aware of police sirens in the distance, she tried to sort her thoughts out, keeping her hands on her face. Should she leave the ruined purse and take the necessities, or should she just take the whole thing and run home, while possibly being able to avoid her parents? Yes, she decided, the latter might be the best way to go about it. Then maybe she could salvage the purse.

Making up her mind, she crouched down to grab it, when someone’s hand gripped the back of her neck, yanking up before tangling into her hair. She screamed, hands reaching up to claw at whoever’s was in her hair while her feet kicked and her body contorted.

“Knock it off!” A man, obviously a foreigner with his Australian accent, hissed into her ear. Her hair was pulled back, exposing her neck and she felt something cool press against her neck. A blade, her mind supplied, and she screamed again. The blade pressed harder into her neck, and her head was jostled as he shook her. She was pressed back into what she assumed was his chest, impossibly large and intimidating.

Her hands stopped trying to claw away skin when she realized what she was scratching at was tough leather. “Make one move,” he growled. “I dare yah.”

She was breathing hard, still straining, her body screaming at her to move. She looked around, trying to see his face out of the corner of her eyes, but she saw nothing of the man, only the eight police squadron cars were coming tearing up the road, straight towards them.

They came to screeching halts, and she was surprised there wasn’t a pile up as doors flung open, and men and women in uniform lifted their guns up over the doors, all trained on her and the man behind her.

Everything became deafeningly silent, and then the man behind her laughed. His hands never moved, but she could feel his chest press forward like he was throwing his head back.

“Ah yah’ll are gonna shoot me an’ this pretty lady now, aren’t yah?”

Gwendolyn closed her eyes, still fighting the urge to resist kicking again. These officers had to know who she was. She was everywhere, and it was highly likely the man behind her did, too.

“Put her down, sir.”

“Or what?” The man leered. “Yah’d shoot me? Please, not with her in my hands.”

The man pulled harder at her hair, lifting her slightly, and she struggled to remain on her toes. The blade pressed harder into her neck, and she felt his breath on the shell of her ear as he leaned down. She struggled not to shudder.

“Yah’ve a pretty neck, don’t make me cut it,” he growled lowly and looked up. “Officers! Here’s how this is gonna work, I’d like it to move quickly, so if yah’d stay outta me way, we’ll be just fine. I’m gonna take her, an’ I’m gonna run with her, an’ yah’ll are gonna stay here, or I’ll kill her. Pretty simple.”

He chuckled softly, turning his lips against her ear completely. Whatever facial hair he had scratched against her cheek, and she fought the urge to recoil completely. Gwendolyn’s face scrunched up in disgust, and he gave her hair a sharp yank. “Beg.”

She hesitated, only for a moment, but it was long enough for the man to get impatient, and start to tighten his grip in preparation for another pull. She swallowed thickly, and she could barely find any voice to speak with.

“Please don’t shoot.”

His face pulled away from her head, and she could practically hear the snarky grin in his tone. “You heard the girl! Now, if yah’ll excuse us, we’ll just be leavin’.”

The brunette’s hair yanked harder as he began walking backward, and she couldn’t find her footing, her toes trying to touch the ground to push back with him. The blade he was holding to her throat never left, and she felt like the pressure only got worse, digging right into her jugular and it stung.

He didn’t turn her around as he backed down the alley that she assumed he had come out of. The buildings seemed to get larger as he pulled her back into the darkness, completely surrounding her until she could barely even see the cop cars, and she felt tears start stinging her eyes. This couldn’t be happening, not to her. What was he going to do, now, torture her, or rape her, or kill her, or all three?

“What are you going to do to me?” She asked, trying to keep in the sob that wanted to tear out of her mouth. The man only grunted and spun her around, steering her forward quickly, still barely allowing her to try and gain her footing.

The sirens began going again, and he forced her to go left down a narrow backway. “We got ten tah get out of the district as fast as possible, got it? So better walk fast, darl'.”

She wanted to struggle, and she was almost tempted just to stop and stomp on his toes, but she also knew that though she had yet to see him, this man had to be large. His hand, which was still tangled in her hair, had to be as big as the back of her skull, and that terrified her.

Her head stung, too, from being wrenched this way and that, and being used to steer her along. Gwen didn’t even know where she was anymore, and she knew the streets of Gotham well; but then again, they weren’t on the streets. The man seemed to prefer to avoid them, forcing her along, keeping her in front of him at all times, confident—she assumed—that she wasn’t going to try and pull anything. She was ashamed to admit he was right.

He pushed her ahead, and her knees began to ache with every step from the pressure he was exerting on her with his hand, until he finally forced her through a back entrance of one of the largest skyscrapers in Gotham, or at least, it looked like that when she was on the ground looking up at it.

The stairwell was dark, and he turned her, going through another door across from the stairs before they emerged in a dimly lit hall with several doors lining either wall. He directed her away to the right, and she whimpered when he yanked her to a stop in front of the farthest plain door from the one he forced her through. There was what looked like a hotel lock on the handle, a large box, waiting for a key card to be slipped in to unlock it.

He grunted behind her, his body shifting before he leaned forward, putting in the white card until it beeped and the lock clicked. He pushed open the door, shoving her in ahead of him, before finally releasing her hair.

Her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor, managing to catch herself before her nose connected with the hardwood. Her eyes stung, and she felt tears flow onto her cheeks before she could even consider stopping them. Her throat ached to let out a sob, and she heard the man let out a sigh, his boots clunking as he strode past her.

“Get up,” he growled before muttering something under his breath.

Gwendolyn looked up, her vision blurred as her head pounded. She was in what she assumed to be a very large hotel room, or an apartment, in the middle of a living room, with a single, rather new-looking, green couch backed into the wall, a small kitchen across from it, and a spiral staircase up to a loft. She would’ve said it was clean and pristine, and that no one lived there, if not for the various weapons scattered on the coffee table and the counter, even on the walls on hooks.

Metal boomerangs glinted at her, along with several knives, and fear shot down her spine. What the hell kind of a man had she been trapped with? She scrambled up, falling back onto her butt as she scooted backward to the door, eyes finally looking upon her captor.

He was large, as she had predicted, and he made the space look tiny. He had an eyebrow raised, staring at her like she was the stupid one. His facial hair wasn’t neatly trimmed, but she could see where it was thicker on his cheeks and over his lip; the scruff that she could actually see his pale skin through on his chin. His hair was curly and brown, and tousled on his head, the sides shaved close to his head. He was dirty, too, bruises on his right eye socket and temple, and it gave a lot to the ruggedness of his appearance. There were bags under his eyes, but he didn’t look tired, he looked alert and dangerous .

She knew if she stood beside him, she would only come up to the center of his chest—being as small as she was—and that only made her cower more.

His arms folded across his chest, and she took in the rest of his look. He wore a large coat with a shearling collar that went down to his chest, a dark blue jacket underneath it, and a thick, light-colored, leather glove over his left hand, almost like a gauntlet. His pants were dark, and his boots were duct taped with a knife handle sticking out of the makeshift pocket created by the adhesive material. She could see a ring glint on his right hand, and saw the diamond earring in his left ear. He looked ramshackle, and out of control.

The brunette watched him roll his eyes and scoff at her before he began moving around the apartment. He grabbed his weapons off the wall, before opening a side of his large coat and slipping them inside and patting the outside of his coat to ensure they were stable. She shook as she watched him.

It was an apartment, she decided, and she was sitting in the middle of it while he collected potential torture devices off the walls. What was he going to do? The thought hadn’t left her mind since he had dragged her into the darkness.

Her parents would’ve been notified by now, or at least, her mother would notice her absence at the table; likely staring at the door, waiting for Gwen to walk in, ready to attack her for being late and wasting her and her husband’s oh-so- precious time. Suddenly she paled, even more, looking like she was going to be sick.

What if her parents didn’t care?

Was Gwen to be left alone, tossed aside and uncared for? Maybe this mysterious man had done her family a favor in wiping her from them; it wasn’t like they ever really considered her anymore. She had learned she was nothing more than expendable; someone who could be thrown out without a second thought. She had learned that lesson from her brother, and she knew her parents were going to follow him, especially now that she would be gone. Out of sight and out of mind.  This man would likely treat her the same. Use her to his disgusting purposes until she ran dry, and then he’d move on. She wasn’t worth it.

All the more reason to pretend to be concerned, and then forget about her forever.

She promptly burst into more tears and clambered up, grabbing the door handle. She turned it, ready to yank and run as fast as she could, but then he was there, over her shoulder, his hand on the door to slam it closed.

“I don’t think so,” he hissed.

She whirled around, regretting the decision as he leaned down over her, his face inches from her, his lip raised in a snarl.

“Don’t—” His eyebrow raised again like she was an idiot, and she fought to keep her lip from wobbling. “Don’t you know who I am?” She sounded weak, and his snarl turned into a snarky grin.

“Nah,” his breath blew over her face and she winced. “Am I supposed tah? Are yah a pornstar or some shit I shoulda seen somewhere?”

“No, I’m—”

He waved his free hand. “Ah well, doesn’t mattah. I don’t care. Yah can call me Captain Boomerang.”

Gwen was cold. Even her small cardigan couldn’t fend off the chill in the air as night set in. Her legs were freezing, and she wished she had worn her nylons today. Maybe that would’ve made everything, at least, a little better; maybe then she wouldn’t be afraid of an appendage falling off.

She wrapped one arm around herself, as the other was being held in Captain Boomerang’s iron-like grip, as he charged through the underground parking garage. She was surprised when she made more sound than he did, her heels clicking on the cement, but she knew he’d most likely done this before, and knew how to move like a ghost, and she struggled to keep up with his long stride.

He didn’t look at her once, only frowned as he towed her along, his eyes darting around every few seconds, like another squadron of police officers was going to jump out at them. She secretly wished that would be the case.

Why were they following him in the first place? Gwen wanted to know, and she would’ve asked, had she not been afraid of him doing something to shut her up. He had to have been wanted, especially now that he had kidnapped her, but for what originally? Maybe he robbed a bank? No, he would’ve had money on him, and from the looks of it, he had nothing but weapons inside that coat. Maybe he had killed someone? She bit her lip and tried to push the thought out of her head.

He pulled her to a stop in front of what she assumed was a bike of some kind, covered with a canvas, and he rounded on her.

“Now,” he said. “This doesn’t have tah be hard, sah listen good. Yuh’re not gonna make a sound when someone stops us. Yuh’re not gonna look up, an’ yuh’re not gonna let go of me. If yah do, yah’ll regret it.”

He grabbed the cover with his other hand and let go of her, sticking an arm inside of his coat before producing keys. Gwen was right when she had assumed it was a bike. It was large, compared to her anyway, black, and polished. The seats were leather and sleek, and she feared there would hardly be enough room on it with him.

Boomerang swung his leg over it, putting in the keys before starting it, all while looking at her expectantly as the engine roared. “Get on.”

She swallowed thickly, and tentatively took a step forward. The man let out an exasperated sigh. “Now, before I grab yah.”

Gwen gently placed her hands on his shoulders, lifting herself up—while trying to be as modest as possible with her dress, even if no one else was in the garage with them—and plopped herself on the seat behind him.

He looked back at her. “Remember, hang on, an' don’t say a word.”

She nodded once and he backed out, and they were off, the engine echoing through the garage before they got off onto the street, and that’s when he got faster. She couldn’t help it when her arms went around his waist, fingers scrunching into the material of his jacket.

Gwen couldn’t see over his shoulder, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to. She had never been in a vehicle that wasn’t a car, let alone something with no seatbelts, and no doors to keep her from falling off and scraping her face against the paved road. She pressed her cheek into his back, shutting her eyes tight as the image ran rampant through her mind, her flying through the air and skidding to a stop, her face practically gone. If it were quick, she might’ve preferred it, next to hanging onto her captor because her life did, in fact, depend on it.

Whenever Captain Boomerang stopped, she didn’t look up. She assumed he was stopping at things like stop signs, or traffic lights, likely to try and avoid more attention from any lurking cops. Only when they lurched to a stop, and she heard voices, did she manage to pry her eyes open.

They were on the Vincefinkle Bridge, she knew that well enough from the large stone work that adorned the bridge, and kept it standing. There were police lights, flashing red and blue over them, and a large police officer holding out his gun, coming straight towards them.

The Australian put both feet firmly on the ground and moved quicker than she ever thought possible with his size, twisting around to grab her and pull her forward so her neck was left completely vulnerable, and she felt a blade touch the cold skin again like it had earlier.

“Officer,” he said casually. “I’d like tah get through, if yah don’t mind.”

He stopped several feet from them, right in front of the bike to keep Boomerang from speeding off. Gwen didn’t have any doubt in her mind that if he wanted to, he’d mow him down without a second thought and go.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” he replied, and Gwen felt the blade of his boomerang dig deeper into her neck.

“Oh, yah can’t? I highly doubt that. I want tah get outta here. So I suggest yah move, or I’ll cut her pretty neck an' kill yah’ll an' move on, anyway.”

The cop didn’t lower his gun when he glanced at her, he paled. He backed up slowly, grabbing the walkie-talkie on his shoulder before mumbling a few quick words. Boomerang’s foot tapped impatiently on the road, and she could just imagine the disdained look he was most likely giving the cop, the one he’d given her twice.

She couldn’t hear the words that came back, only garbled static, but the answer was clear as he lowered his gun, and the pressure on her neck released. The cop lifted his hand, signaling back to the other police cars that had created a barricade to stand down.

She felt his body shake, and she realized he was laughing. “Works every time,” he said quietly. Her hands clutched tighter at him as one of the squadron cars moved, creating a gap large enough for them to get through, and she hid her face as he shot off again, and reality came crashing down on her. She was gone, out of her home city, with a strange man who terrified her, and no one coming after her.

Gwendolyn didn’t know why she was crying, but she was. She didn’t really know her grandfather. She’d only seen him three times in her entire life. However, there she was, five years old, in the bathroom of the fancy funeral home, crying quietly, for fear that if someone were to come in, they would hear her.

Her face was covered with her hands. She knew if she let one tear, or one drop of mucus, touch her frilly black dress, her mother would ground her, and lock her in her room until she thought that Gwen had learned her lesson, and wouldn’t do such a foolish thing again.

The door opened, and she froze, pulling her knees up so if someone looked under the sides of the stall, they wouldn’t see her.

“Gwen?” It was her brother, Jason. She bit down on her lip, not wanting to reply as he asked again, “Gwen, are you in here?”

“Yeah,” she whispered, and heard his footsteps coming to the stall door.

“Unlock the door, Gwennie.”

She slowly worked her way off of the toilet seat, clopping to the door before she reached up and slid the lock back. Jason pushed the door open and smiled his boyish smile to try and cheer her up. He was only nine, his hair combed back in his little tux, looking like the son of a billionaire should.

He locked the door again behind him and helped her sit back up on the toilet seat so she didn’t have to look up at him.

“Why are you crying, Gwennie?”

She shrugged and looked at the floor, kicking her feet as she hiccupped.

“You shouldn’t be crying, he was mean.”

Gwen couldn’t help but giggle a little bit as she reached up and shoved his chest gently. “That’s mean, Jay-Jay.”

He grinned and said, “What, are you gonna tell on me?”

His sister shook her head. “No. That would be even more mean.”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “It would.”

Jason gently put a hand under her chin, lifting her face so he could see her before he used his knuckles to brush her tears away. “You don’t gotta cry, Sis. He isn’t worth it.”

“I know,” she mumbled and reached up to rub her eyes. “I don’t wanna be here, Jay-Jay.”

He scrunched up his face comically. “I don’t want to be, either, Gwennie, but I did find something I think you’ll like.”

“What did you find?”

“The kitchen! There’s so much chocolate!” He exclaimed, and threw his hands up. “I was gonna start stuffing my face, but then I thought you’d like that, too. So maybe we could go on an adventure?”

“I like adventures,” Gwennie said and sniffled.

He turned around on his heel, unlocking the stall door and holding out his hands like he was holding a sword. “Well let’s go, Princess Gwennie! On our mission to get all of the chocolate from the kitchen!”

Grabbing his other hand, she let out a watery giggle, and they charged out of the bathroom and down the hall. Jason looking determined as he wound around corners in the massive home—only the best for the Bartholme family—before he came to a stop in front of a dark, oak, swinging door.

“Alright, we gotta be fast or the dragons will get us, okay, Gwen?”

She bounced on the balls of her feet, nodding as her curls fluffed around her. Her brother gripped her hand tighter and pushed the door open, ducking down as he peeked around the corner before pulling her in.

Walking on her tippy-toes, she ducked down, even though the top of her head didn’t even come close to the countertops, following her brother with a hand over her mouth as they both tried to stop their infectious laughter.

Jason led her carefully through the heated kitchen until they rounded a corner and saw piles of chocolate desert. He turned to her, a huge grin on his face. “You ready?”

Gwen nodded so hard her neck hurt, and her brother released her hand, charging towards the cupcakes while she went for the only thing she could reach: the chocolate doughnuts sitting closest to the edge of the counter. She lifted out her dress, quickly snagging them to put them in before pulling them hem to her chest, grinning has her brother stuffed his pockets full of cupcakes and chocolate bars.

“Come on, I know the way out,” he whispered, still holding a white frosted pastry in his hand as he gestured behind her. There was the door to freedom.

She giggled, she couldn’t help it, as she ran out the door, awkward and stumbly as she tried to keep all of her delicious treats inside her makeshift pocket. With her brother behind her, they ran off into the garden, behind the bushes on the stone path before plopping down on a patch of nice and soft grass, where no one would be able to see them.

They laid out their treats on their laps, grabbing piece after piece to eat. Jason grinned as he handed her a chocolate bar.

“Good job, Gwennie,” he said. “I knew you had it in you.”

She gave him a broad, chocolate-filled grin. “You did good, too, Jay-Jay.”

He nudged her playfully with his elbow. “Think we should do this again?” Gwennie nodded, kicking her feet slightly at the prospect of even more sugary treats.

“Thank you,” she said, passing him a long doughnut.

He took it and nodded. “Yup. Plus, Mother can’t find us out here.”

“She can’t?”

“Nope,” he replied. “She too afraid of bugs.” He wiggled his fingers and she let out a piercing laugh.

“Too bad, she doesn’t get chocolate.”

Jason laughed loudly along with her. “It’s all ours, Gwennie,” he told her. “We’re never gonna be apart, you and me. We’re brother and sister, and I’m gonna protect you.”

Gwen scrunched up her face. “I don’t need it! I’m big and strong!” She lifted her arm and flexed. “See?”

“Then maybe you’ll protect me,” he said. “But it doesn’t work like that.”

“That’s dumb.”

“Yeah, but that’s okay,” Jason looked up, watching the white clouds slowly move by. “Because that means that you and me are gonna be together forever.”

She sat up again, holding out her pinky with a determined look on her face. “You promise?”

He held out his pinky, too, curling it around her little one. “Yup! I promise, Gwennie.” He pulled his pinky back.

“Forever and ever,” she said and grabbed her last chocolate bar. She flashed another smile at her brother, and in she felt in her heart that everything was going to be okay.

Chapter Text

Her hair was soft against his fingers; thick and curly with a shine to it that he would've envied, had he cared much about hair at all. It was still a shame, though, when he took his boomerang and began hacking, watching her beautiful soft hair fall to the floor with a smirk on his lips.

The moment he had seen her from that alleyway, that purse she got so emotional about in the gutter, he knew she was his pick. She was weak, obviously, and Boomerang knew he could exploit that easily if he needed to. He probably would, anyway, whether he truly needed to or not. Plus, she looked rich enough. He knew an expensive dress and purse when he saw one, and that would only work to his advantage.

To be honest, Boomer didn’t want to take her, or anyone else. Traveling in a group on the run was difficult, and really more of a pain in the ass than anything else. In fact, a group was what put him in Arkham his second, and most recent time; but he knew if he didn’t, he’d be trapped in Gotham, and he simply couldn’t have that. The authorities were on high alert since he’d broken out of Arkham a week ago, and he was not ready to go back. He’d have no hope of escaping the city without leverage, and if he had a hostage, well... That would work out nicely. In the end, if he really had to, he’d toss her aside once he needed to, but not without having some fun first.

So they got out, Boomer grinning widely as the authorities had no choice but to let him through and across the bridge on his bike, the tiny woman clinging for dear life for fear she’d fly off if she didn’t.

There was a small town, and granted it wasn’t far from Gotham, it would be enough to hide in for an hour or two while he decided what exactly he wanted to do next. That’s where he was now, in a closed warehouse that he had broken the window of, with her seated in front of him, a boomerang in his hand and a bottle of hair bleach on the table beside them. He hummed rather innocently, pulling at the long hair on the side of her head before taking his weapon to it like a razor.

He wasn’t very careful, and to be honest, he didn’t care if he gave her scalp and ears a few nicks, as he went along. He even chopped an inch or two off the hair he kept longer in a long curly mohawk that went down to the back of her neck, falling to the right side of her head as he finished cutting the left side down to the skin. He ran a hand through her hair, ruffling it with a devious grin as he looked at his handiwork, hardly glancing at the tears that ran down her cheeks as she stared ahead with a blank face.

Snatching up the bleach, he pulled a plastic glove that came with it in the box over his bare hand; and set to covering her hair in the blue thick liquid. He worked it through her hair quickly, still yanking and pulling slightly as he went along. He needed her to look as unrecognizable as possible, and those clothes had to go, especially the heels. The man couldn’t even understand how she managed to walk stably in them.

When he was satisfied he had gotten every strand of hair covered in bleach, he walked around in front of her, squatting down so he was eye-level with her. She wouldn’t look at him, and his eyebrow ticked.

“Look at me,” he growled, and she still didn’t move. “I said, look at me, sweetheart.” When her eyes didn’t even blink, Boomer raised his hand, leather-covered knuckles cracking against her cheek.

She whined pathetically, her lower lip wobbling as her head sagged. She finally looked to him, and he gave her a hard look. “Yah’d better learn quick, darl’. I don't like bein’ ignored.”

The woman gave a nod and Boomer’s lips kicked up in an arrogant smirk as he grabbed her chin, finger and thumb preventing her head from moving. “Now lemme have a look at yah.”

He tilted her head, and had to admit, she did have some looks about her. Her face was heart-shaped, her nose small and rounded at the end, right in the center of her face—obviously had never had it broken—and her eyes were round, and light blue, like the color of a summer sky back home. Her eyebrows were arched delicately, succeeding in giving her a willowy type frame. Her lips were full, even as she pursed them. Mascara and smeared eyeliner ran down her cheeks, and as he looked closer, he noticed a large amount of freckles spattered across her cheeks and nose.

She was comically tiny compared to him and the top of her head only came up to the middle of his chest with her heels on—he could only imagine how she’d compare without them—and she was on the skinny side, he thought, and she didn’t weigh much. He could throw her over his shoulder anytime he would need to, and that was definitely a plus.

The side of her face he had hit was already turning red, and he realized that part of her cheek had split, right across the bone. He shrugged and released her, watching as she jerked her head back in a recoil of fear.

He set his elbows on his thighs, balancing on the balls of his feet, and continued to watch her squirm uncomfortably under his gaze.

“Those clothes need tah go,” he said. She looked at him in shock.

“Excuse me?”

The Captain raised a brow. “Yuh’re excused,” he replied. “I’ll getcha somethin’ more… fittin’.”

Her hands were on her lap, fingers twisting into the fabric of her dark blue dress. “Now. This is how it’s gonna work. I’m gonna leave ya here, an’ yah’ll stay here, an’ I’ll go get yah some new clothes while yah bleach up.” He was already looking around at the ground for something to tie her with as he peeled off his bleach-covered glove. “An’ if yuh’re good, I might let yah wash yuh hair completely.”

His eyes zeroed in on several coils of black paracord rope, sitting conveniently four feet away on a large wooden crate. He stood up, taking his time as he walked over, continuing to look around the large warehouse. Boomerang zeroed in on the bathroom sign. Bingo.

Snatching up the cord, he stepped back to her, grabbing ahold of her arm before lifting her up out of the chair and starting towards the bathroom. She stumbled behind him, and he could care less, as long as she moved quickly. He needed to be quick and precise with the time he was given.

The Aussie kicked the door closed behind them, hauling her over to the sink before pulling down on her until her ass hit the ground with an audible ‘thud’. He began to pull the cord tight, unraveling it before squatting and grabbing her wrists, binding her to the rusted pipe under the sink in complex knots before pulling it around her mouth, tying it at the back of her head to keep from making any noise.

He double checked over his handiwork as she stared at him vacantly, like she was too afraid to glare, but she wanted to. He nodded once. “I’ll be back. Don’t move.”

The Captain was up and out the door quickly, setting out of the warehouse with a confident and quick stride. He knew the town fairly well, after all, he had spent some time here when he had broken out in the past. It was small and quiet, and people didn’t talk, and that’s exactly what Boomerang preferred.

Walking through the local thrift shop, which was open until eleven at night, much to his convenience, of course, he knew exactly what he wanted to get her. With that hair gone, she needed to fit the part. Those soft clothes that screamed out the fact that she had enough money to afford them would sound sirens anywhere they went, and god those heels had to go. He couldn’t have her breaking her ankle, which would only lead to whining, which would simply not do.

He looked out of place, browsing quickly through the women's section, grabbing tacky and baggy shirts, ripped jeans, even a belly shirt, and strappy tank top. After very little debate, he snatched up a pair of combat boots, as they would be easier to get around in, and he still had his, even if they were falling apart.

Knowing he wasn’t going to get her much, he snagged a simple, rugged backpack and some small bottles of shampoo and conditioner, before doing another once over in the clothes aisle. He stumbled across a dress, nothing special or frilly, but he smirked.

It would likely look good on her, and as he looked at the pile of clothes in his hands, his mind jumped. He was taking her life away from her, and he didn’t even know her name. He shrugged to himself; he couldn’t care less as he thought about it.

In fact, he needed her to break, and judging by her willingness to go with him and listen to him so easily, he’d say he’d already managed it. His arrogant smile suddenly fell and his eyebrows furrowed.

“Don’t you know who I am?”

Being in Arkham for three years didn’t help his temper at all, but he also had no idea who anyone was anymore.Was he supposed to know who she was? His hands dropped as it dawned on him. The clothes, the purse, the pristine looks and the heels . She was someone important, she had to be. Come to think of it, it could’ve been why the cops didn’t shoot after he’d grabbed her. They might’ve known who the hell she was.

Anger pulsed inside of him, his frustrations showing on his face as his eyes narrowed at nothing. The fool he had been. He was missing an opportunity, a very big and very possible opportunity. If he allowed himself to drop the ball with her, he’d go back to where he was, and if he used her further to his advantage, he might be able to run and never be seen again; but it also made it even more dangerous. Depending on just how important she was, he could have SWAT after him. Or worse.

But first, before he jumped to conclusions, he had to know who she was.

If she didn’t have any connections, even though he knew those upper-class snobs always did, he wouldn’t promise her protection, and to be honest, once he got far enough away, he wouldn’t mind dropping her on the side of the road never to see her again. If she wasn't connected, that is.

He nodded to himself, letting the clothes in front of the light colored dress fall back into place. The man strode to the front, slamming the items on the counter in front of him, tapping his foot and his finger in time as possibilities ran rampant through his mind.

The clerk was a woman, and she was older. He’d seen her before. Her hair was short and white, just like her, only she was plumper, and he was positively bored with her. She was slow, even when he bowed his head and continued to look at her, gesturing with his hands for her to hurry it up.

Realizing that thrift stores didn’t carry cigarettes, he ran his hand through his hair. His mouth watered desperately at the thought of a quick puff. He’d been without them for three years, and he had smoked at two packs in the last week, and he remembered just then that he was out. Combine that with his mind telling him he needed beer, or whiskey, or anything alcoholic, he began to grimace, his chest tightening with need.

She glared right back at him when he did, and Boomerang’s rage only grew. He slammed his hand down, tempted to grip her neck as she jumped.

“I’ve had a very hard day, lady,” he growled lowly. “So if yah don’t hurry the fuck up, I might just take out some anger uhn yah. Got it?”

The woman rolled her eyes, mumbling about kids these days and shoved the clothes into a bag before slamming it, and the boots, down in front of him. “Better, sir?” she said mockingly, and Boomerang’s face ticked.

“Much,” he snarled, snatching up his new items before whirling around, marching out and kicking the door hard behind him. He was surprised when the glass didn’t break. The Aussie made a mental note to remember her face and the store in case he ever had any future contact with either of them.

Moving quickly with a new air of irritation and frustration about him, he stormed back down the road in the night, his free hand balled into a fist. By the time he got to the broken window of the warehouse, he was muttering to himself.

“Who the fuck does she think she is? Thinkin’ she can sass me. Well she can fuck off, the fuckin’ bitch,” he said, heaving himself through the window. “God, if I see her again…”

Boomerang moved towards the bathroom door, hand gripping the handle harder than necessary before pushing it open, only the door wouldn’t move. He dropped the bag and boots, staring at his hand before trying again.

“Darl’,” he snapped, his ear pressed to the wood. “Yah open this door right now!”

Could she have gotten out? He shook his head and threw it back with a sigh. There was no way that she could’ve gotten the damn cord undone, or broken it. He knew she wasn’t strong enough.

There was no reply from inside the bathroom, and the Captain felt his anger peak. He stepped back. “I warned yah,” he mumbled, before lifting his leg and slamming his boot into the handle. Part of the door splintered, the handle falling and rolling to the floor as the door came off one of its hinges, swinging powerfully enough to bang into the wall.

He rushed in, expecting her to be standing in there, or one of the stall doors to be closed where she might be hiding, but he didn’t see any of those things, and when he looked down to the sink, she was curled in a ball, her head lolled to the side, her eyes shut. She was sleeping, and how she slept through him breaking through the door, he couldn’t figure out as he stared on for a moment.

His anger was still there, white and hot in his veins, but she hadn’t left. She was still tied up, she hadn’t tried to run, and that was a plus, at least. The door, he figured, had to have been jammed. He crouched down and reached out, his large hand gripping her shoulder before shaking her.

She jumped, her head nearly hitting the ceramic bowl above her, before trying her best to press into the wall away from him. The woman stared at him, and he could hear her swallow as he undid the knot behind her head and pulled the cord from her mouth.

“Seems yah fell asleep,” he said, and she just nodded, her teeth biting her bottom lip. He leaned back, sitting down himself with a knee up to rest his forearm on. “I’ve got questions for yah, an’ I want answers.”

She hesitated, looking down at the tiled floor before nodding. “Good. Might let yah wash yuh hair after then.” Boomerang waved it off. “What’s your name?”

Squirming under his gaze, she said in a meek voice, “Gwendolyn.”

“Yah got a last name?” she nodded again. “Then tell me.”

“Bartholme.”

His blood ran cold. Bartholme. He knew that name. Leo Bartholme, the billionaire. Fuck, he thought to himself. This isn’t fuckin’ good.

A billionaire had power, and Leo certainly did. If this ‘Gwendolyn’ was related to him, then the fugitive could be in serious shit. It all made sense, why she was wearing the expensive clothes, why her hands were perfectly manicured, why her looks seemed so pristine. She had to be in the family.

“Who ah yah?” His face was guarded now. He could’ve signed his death certificate when he decided to grab her from behind.

“I’m Gwendolyn Bartholme,” her voice was shaky. “My father is Leopold Bartholme, and my mother is Lucinda Bartholme.”

The man cursed aloud. putting a hand to his face before dragging it down. He stared at her, his teeth starting to gnaw on his bottom lip.

He couldn’t go back now. It was too late, and he was too close to the city to leave her as he previously considered. He refused to go back now, and chance being put away again, or put on death row. He wouldn’t risk it, even though he began to realize the gravity of taking her away from one of the most formidable men on the planet. It would require a new strategy, and thank God he had already altered her looks enough that no one would see her at first glance.

Leaving her behind, then, was out of the question. The risk of her telling what he’d already done to her, and pointing anyone in the direction he went, would not end well for him, and he’d likely go down swinging. He’d have to watch her, and himself, even more than he thought he would, and he despised that idea.

Captain Boomerang had six bank accounts under six different names, all with surpluses of money, but in the end, they could all be traced back in his name if someone dug far enough down, and if that were the case, he needed to limit his money usage. Hell, the shit clothes he bought at the thrift store might’ve been too much. He likely wouldn’t be using that card again, and needed to spend as little money as possible with the others. Perhaps pull out of some of them to have cash, instead.

Then it hit him, and a cruel grin curled at his lips.

“Bartholme, yah say,” he rubbed his chin. “Yuh parents, then. They’ve still got money?”

Gwendolyn nodded her head, and Boomer stood up, clapping his hands together while looking all too pleased with himself.

“Yah’ve a brother, tah, don’t yah?”

The tied woman took a moment, but again nodded her head, and Boomerang laughed, cold and loud.

“Well then, Gwennie, ” he said. “Yah’ll have to tell me all about them, won’t yah?” He flipped back around, crouching again before undoing the knots keeping her tethered to the pipe. “Over an early breakfast, yeah? It’ll be the last yah have in awhile.”

Pulling the cord away completely, he walked to the door, grabbing the bag and boots before setting them inside the bathroom. “When I come an’ get yah, I want yuh hair washed an’ I want yah in those,” he pointed to the bag and boots. “Got it? Everythin’ else’ll be in the bag, an’ that’s all yah get.”

He shrugged and grabbed a hold of the door that was still on one hinge before walking away, a new plan of possible blackmail hatching in his head as he headed towards the broken window to start his bike.

He glared out the car window, his arms folded over his chest as he pouted.

His mother was quiet, and the boy knew it was the kind of quiet that meant she was very angry, and that didn’t help him stop fidgeting in his seat. Her gaze turned on him for what felt like an eternity at every stop, and he didn’t look back once, only kicked his legs and squirmed harder like it would send her a message telling her to quit looking at him; but she didn’t, and the boy knew he deserved it.

She pulled into their small driveway, and he had his seatbelt undone and was running up to the house as quickly as possible, wanting to possibly escape the wrath that was coming. Only there was a problem; the door was locked, and that meant that when it was open, he wouldn’t be able to hide.

So he pouted harder and pressed his folded arms tighter against his chest, kicking the door gently.

“Don’t do that, Owen,” his mum said as she walked up the steps, her keys jingling as she moved to unlock the door.

Owen didn’t respond, other than making a “Hmph!” sound.

The door opened, and to his credit he did try to run, but his mother grabbed his arm, keeping him from going anywhere as she closed the door. He kicked at her, ready to throw a tantrum until she let go as she marched up through to the sofa.

She lifted him and sat him down, her hands moving to her hips and she cocked an eyebrow at him as he rubbed his arm.

“Would yah like to tell me why I had to go and get yah?” She asked, and Owen shook his head. “Why not?” Owen shrugged and his mother ran her hands through her hair before sitting on the ottoman behind her. She sighed softly before rubbing her eyes.

“Owen, just tell me. I don’t want to have to go through this.”

The child, only five years old, and onto his third month of kindergarten, hesitated. He was well aware she already knew what he did, and if he just came clean with her, it’d be easier. So he did.

“I told my teacher to fuck off…”

“Why? An’ why would yah use such language?”

He looked down at his feet and kicked them slightly. “I don’t know,” he said and meant it. Miss Tulipan hadn’t even done anything to set the kid off, aside from telling him that it was almost time to clean up, to which Owen had promptly decided to say the phrase he had heard thrown around on the streets, and even from his mother when she didn’t think he was listening.

He hadn’t meant any real harm though he did completely mean the words he was saying, as he didn’t really want to be bothered. He hadn’t expected a call to his mum to be made, or to be put in timeout until they were released for the day, but he was, and when he saw the look his mother was giving him as he ran to the car, he knew he was in trouble.

“Yah don’t know?”

“I wanted tah keep playing,” he said, his feet bouncing. “But she said we had tah clean up soon.”

“That was very rude, Owen. Miss Tulipan didn’t appreciate it at all.”

Owen nodded his head before he hung it in shame. He hated it when his mother was mad at him.

She patted the seat next to her. “Come here, love.”

He got off the couch sluggishly before toddling over to get up onto the ottoman beside her. Her arm wrapped around him, hugging him to her side. “I want to tell yah somethin’, okay?” He nodded and she cleared her throat. “You’re a boy, an’ when you’re a boy, you treat women with respect.”

“What-” he stopped himself and furrowed his brows. “What’s respect?”

His mum stopped herself for a moment, thinking of how to answer, before looking down at him. “Respect is when yah treat someone how you want to be treated. It’s when you show kindness to other people because they’re people, like holding the door open, or helping someone, or just being nice. It’s being respectful.”

“Do I show respect to guys, too?”

“Yes,” his mother said. “You show respect to everyone.”

“Well, why did you say just to girls?”

“Because one day, when yuh’re big an’ strong,” she tickled his sides and he shrieked with laughter. “You’ll be bigger than a lot of women, an’ when that happens, you’ve gotta be good to the women who aren’t as big as you, because when yah hurt them, yah can hurt them bad.”

“What if it’s an accident?” He asked when he stopped laughing and took a few deep breaths.

“Well accidents happen,” she shrugged. “An’ sometimes yah can’t do anything about it, but you can always decide what you do after.”

Owen nodded and looked at her for a moment before blurting out, “Did Dad respect yah?”

He could tell she was shocked by the question, and the tips of his ears turned red when her mouth dropped open. The child began to shrink back away from her hands, ready to run to his room, but she tightened his hold on him and shook her head.

“No,” she murmured. “Your daddy didn’t, an’ he didn’t respect you either.”

“Is that why he hurt yah?”

“Sometimes, but for you, it was worth it.”

Owen was baffled. His mother was telling him that he was supposed to respect women, and other people, but if he was supposed to, weren’t other people supposed to, too? “Why did he hurt yah?”

“Because sometimes people think that when they’re big an’ strong, they can hurt yah, like how sometimes big men hurt small women because they can, but they aren’t supposed to, an’ when they do it on purpose, it makes them think bad thoughts, and become a bad person.”

“Will I be a bad person?” Owen asked, “Like Dad?”

She gave him a tight-lipped smile, and he could see tears in her eyes. “Only if you choose to be, Owen.”

He frowned and said, “Yah shouldn’t cry, Mum.”

“It’s okay,” she replied and kissed his head. She patted his back and stood up. “Go wash up, I’ll let you help me with dinner.”

Owen nodded, and ran off to the bathroom, with his mother’s words following him. They stayed in his head when he laid down to go to sleep, and when he woke up, he remembered them and decided he was going to apologize to Miss Tulipan for what he said.

He waved goodbye to his mum as she walked out to go to work, and the first thing he did was walk up to his teacher and tug on her long dress to get her attention. As she turned, she smiled softly, and Owen found it hard to speak.

“I’m sorry for bein’ mean yesterday, Miss Tulipan.”

The woman simply patted his head and forgave him, and he beamed up at her before starting into the day.

It was when they were drawing together that it happened. Owen was drawing a snake—which was one of his favorite animals—when he heard the boy being mean to Miss Tulipan.

He was bigger than Owen was, but that didn’t matter. He was starting to yell, telling their teacher about how much he didn’t want to draw, and about how he didn’t want to sit with other kids, and about how he wanted to go home.

“Yuh’re stupid,” he shouted at the teacher. Owen didn’t know his name, but he stood up. “I wanna go home, but yuh’re dumb! I don’t wanna be here! My dad says it’s dumb!”

He was already moving towards the two, his small fists clenched. “Hey!” He shouted, and Miss Tulipan turned to him, reaching out to grab him, but it was too late. His arm was already swinging, and his knuckles connected with the kid’s nose.

The woman behind him gasped and shouted, “Owen!” She gripped his arm as he pulled his leg back, watching as the bigger child’s hand shot to his face while he fell back onto his arse. Owen strained, wanting to hit him again for being so rude.

“Don’t be mean,” he snapped, and gave up fighting, going limp and pouting while Miss Tulipan tried to get him onto his feet as she dragged him to the door of the room, telling the other kids to be good.

She sat him down in one of the chairs beside the door, a look of disapproval on her face before she disappeared through the door, returning seconds later with three other adults hot on her tail. She and one of the other women went to the boy he punched, and Owen couldn’t understand why, for the life of him; after all, he had insulted her. Why would she be nice to him?

One of the two men crouched in front of him, looking skeptical, before asking for his name, to which Owen replied, “Owen Mercer,” and the man nodded before standing up and leaving, and a low sinking feeling began to tighten in his gut.

They carried the boy out, who now had tears and blood streaming down his face and chin, dripping onto the floor, and Owen just looked down, kicking his feet as the classroom became eerily silent.

The eyes of his classmates were on him as they sat at their tables, their drawings abandoned. He squirmed uncomfortably for a good ten minutes, and when Miss Tulipan returned, looking flushed and angry, she wasn’t alone.

His mother came in behind her, and Owen immediately shrunk. She grabbed his bicep, not saying a word before turning and taking him out of the class, and out to the car. His mum opened the back door, and he scrambled in quickly, doing up the seat belt while looking out the window.

The man from before, the one who asked his name, was outside of the car, talking to his mother with his arms folded over his chest, and as he watched his mother stand ramrod straight, nodding her head and conversing with him, Owen was well aware that he was going to be in trouble for touching the other boy, even if he had done it because he wasn’t respecting their teacher.

She sighed when she closed the car door, and he watched the man walk back into the main school building. He looked back to see her with her head on the steering wheel, and he frowned.

“Mum,” he asked, his voice small, “What’s wrong?”

The auburn-haired woman hesitated before replying with, “Why did yah punch Gregory, Owen?”

“Because he was bein’ not respectful.”

“Remember how I said that bein’ respectful means that yah gotta treat people how yah want to treated, sweetheart?” She asked him, and Owen’s eyebrows furrowed.

“But if he was bein’ mean, why do I have to be nice?”

She turned around, looking at him with a small smile. “Because sometimes yah have to be nice tah people you don’t like.”

“Well that’s dumb,” he said and kicked his feet. his mother’s smile turned into a frown.

“When yuh’re mean to one person,” she responded. “Yuh’re mean tah everyone because you use their time. Owen when yah hurt someone, or when you decide that violence is the answer, you’re not respecting or being kind to anyone, especially the person yuh’re hurting.”

He scrunched up his face, pressing his lips together. “But what should I do when someone is being mean?”

“Yah don’t have to be mean to fight back, Owen.”

Nodding his head, he looked down. “I’m sorry, Mummy.”

She reached her hand back to him, and his small hand grabbed it gently. “It’s okay, love. It happens, but from now on, I want you to be respectful to everyone, okay?”

He nodded again and she squeezed his hand. “Promise me?”

“I promise,” he replied and she turned back around, setting off towards home in silence.

Chapter Text

Gwendolyn absolutely hated what she looked at in the mirror. That woman wasn’t her. Her hair was bleach-blonde, and her curls had been shaved down to the skin on the sides of her head, the side of her face was bruised, her cheek was split, and her eyes were red. The clothes didn’t help either. All of the ones he had gotten for her made her want to throw up all of the contents of her stomach.

The shirt she wore was the baggiest one she could find, and it still clung to her small breasts, with a faded ACDC written across the front of the black material. The jeans were tight, but she had to admit they were comfortable, but she didn’t like how different the cling was from her tight and soft dresses.

The boots were different. She had worn boots before, but never ones without heels. They made her short again, and they seemed large and clunky on her feet, and, of course, they were black. Her captor seemed to be a fan of dark colors.

She touched her hair slowly, the sides of her head, the shirt, and finally the cut across her cheek. Gwen did look different, and she knew that Boomerang would be pleased with the fact that she was less recognizable. There was a knock at the door and she took a deep breath. She reached down, grabbing the backpack he had gotten her, which was rather old with a some small holes in it, before shoving everything inside of it, unwilling to leave anything, because at least the clothes and hair products were something.

He was waiting outside the door, his back against the wall as he scratched at his bearded jaw. “Draggin’ yah around is exhaustin’,” he said with a casual shrug as he looked her over. “Sah I’ll trust yah tah follow me, understand, Gwennie?”

She shuddered when he said that name and hated how he used it with a tone of such mockery. Her eyes darted to the floor and nodded. He had no right to use that name, but then again he had no right to do any of things he had already done to her, and he didn’t seem to mind one bit.

He grunted before turning. “The bike’s ready. We’ve gotta stop at two places before we get outta here.”

Gwen slung the backpack over her shoulders and followed him as he walked towards the window he broke getting in. He stopped beside it, gesturing for her to come closer. His hands gripped her hips roughly, lifting her up before practically tossing her through when she obeyed, and she landed on the ground with a thump.

He came jumping out after her, landing much more gracefully than she did, and she had to wonder about what would’ve happened if she had been fast enough to get up and run, but looking at him again, she all too quickly realized she wouldn’t get that far if she did try. He didn’t look at her as he walked around to the back of the warehouse, where she heard the bike’s engine purring.

Boomerang began straddling the bike as Gwen came around the corner, glancing over his shoulder with an expectant look. “Let’s go.”

She looked down, lifting her leg to get on behind him, her arms wrapping around his thick middle before beginning to clutch at the material; and they weren’t even moving yet. She was thankful her face was hidden against his back because she could feel it burning.

He kicked the stand and drove out, taking it slower than he had before, and she was more grateful for that than she thought she’d be. She loosened her grip on his clothes slightly but still didn’t open her eyes.

So instead, she focused on her breathing, forcing herself to take deep breaths, even if the cold air breezing past made it hard to really breathe in. At least the clothes he had gotten her covered her more than the ones she was wearing before, she noted, but her head was freezing, and it still ached from the bleach he had applied rather forcefully. She had the urge to run a hand over her head again, but the instinct of survival overrode, and she stayed wrapped around her captor.

They were slowing down, and he leaned back as he got ready to get off. “Now, yuh’re gonna scoot forward, put yuh feet on the ground, an’ make sure me bike don’t tip, got it?”

Her cheek pulled as she nodded against his coat, and her arms slipped away from him as he got up, one of his hands still on the handle as she scooted forward, putting her booted feet on the gravel before leaning forward to hold the rubber grips.

Feeling the weight of the bike beneath her, she watched him walk towards the side of the convenient store, where a Redbox and an ATM sat against the brick wall. As she figured, he was not renting a movie, and stopped in front of the banking machine, his back still to her as he kept his head down.

She looked at her hands before following the contours of the bike she was sitting on. If she knew what she was doing, she’d probably back out and take off. He wouldn’t be able to chase her on this, but she had also driven a car a grand total of ten times in her life, barely managed to get her license, and had absolutely no idea to drive the current vehicle she was on. Gwen was sure it would require more strength than she had to keep the tire straight, and she wasn’t even sure if she’d be able to stay balanced while the bike was moving without something solid, like Captain Boomerang, to hold her.

So she sat still, eyes still glancing over the shiny black painted tank of the bike as a deep frown pulled at her lips. She heard him muttering to himself, his footsteps as he came back towards her, and the sound of money being shifted around.

Gwen looked up, noticing a rather large stack of cash in both of his hands, larger than her allowance, anyway, flipping it from one hand to the other; counting them, she realized, and he grunted with satisfaction as he opened the side of his coat to put it in one of the many pockets.

Boomerang stopped beside the bike and grabbed the end of the handle, raising an eyebrow at her. Her face burned again and she scooted back, watching him as he sat in front of her again, already starting to back out before she even settled herself to wrap her arms around him.

He didn’t drive slow this time. They were off like a shot, the sound of the bike echoing off through the night as they drove into darkness. His large body wasn’t much of a wind block, and as he cranked the gas harder, she decided that she truly hated the man.

There was a constant fear of her slipping off ringing through her mind, and several times she swore she felt her butt slide back on the leather seat. Her body protested, too, because everything seemed to just hurt. The jostling of the bike forced her legs to press closer to her calves in an effort of keeping stable, and her back hurt from the bouncing, but she had no hope of him stopping, so she bit down on her lip and urged time to move faster.

Gwen’s bottom was numb and her eyes were drooping when she felt the motorcycle lurch to a stop and turn off. Boomerang shifted and she leaned back gingerly, trying to stretch and pry her eyes open. She heard him kick the kickstand and she released her death grip on his clothes, curling and uncurling her fists until her fingers popped.

He moved swiftly, his movements easy and graceful as he got off, waiting beside the bike while he folded his arms and waited for her.

“C’mon,” he said gruffly. “We only got a few.”

In her exhausted state, she had no idea what he meant, but none the less she bobbed her head in a nod, trying to get off the bike without stumbling. She failed, rather miserably, to get off in the same fashion he had and her tired knees buckled. His hands shot out, grabbing her biceps as he emitted an annoyed grunt. Being too weary to react, she blinked slowly up at him, instead. He shook his head, blowing out an angry sigh, before releasing one of his hands. He turned and towed her along.

The pair were in a parking lot that was dimly lit by the neon pink and blue glow that came from the lights and sign that rested on the sides of the small building that he was leading her up to. It was a diner, maybe a truck stop, and the sign reading “Open 24 Hours” and “Aunty Dee’s” buzzed quietly as they got closer.

Gwen—not surprisingly—didn’t recognize the building or the name.

As the Aussie pulled her to the door, she noticed it was still dark out, and she could see the outline of more trees beyond the lot, and they were likely nowhere that she knew.

He opened the glass door, steering her to a booth before she had the luxury of looking around the place. Pushing her down into a rather comfy seat, he sat down across from her, clenching his jaw twice. She pulled off her backpack slowly, letting it sit on the seat beside her.

“Don’t talk until I say, got it, love?” He growled, and she cringed while nodded as she heard heels clicking on the tile floor.

When she looked up there was a woman, dressed in a blue diner uniform, stopping in front of their table with two menus in hand. Her hair was brown, and her face was slightly wrinkled, and Gwen would guess she was in her fifties. As she came closer, putting the menus down onto the table, Gwen could make out the name on her nametag, just a simple “Jo”.

Jo eyed Boomerang up and down as he put a hand on the menu closest to him, sliding it across the table until it was in front of him, and he flipped it open without looking at either of the women.

“Long time, no see, stranger,” Jo said, and Boomerang grunted in response. She rolled her eyes and looked at Gwen, giving her a ‘who’s this guy’ look. “New York Strip’s the special today, ten bucks, actually. What do you want to drink?”

“Beer,” he replied simply. “Whatevah yah got. Get her water.” He gestured to her with a wave of his hand and she looked down at the table. She could practically feel Jo’s stare until she turned and walked away, and the man across from her spoke up again.

“See what yah want an’ order it. This is the last meal yuh’re gonna get for awhile. Don’t think I’m bein’ nice either. I haven’t eaten a full meal in a week, so this is yuh last chance.”

The now-blonde reached for the other menu gingerly, glancing at him to see if he was going to take it from her; but he didn’t, in fact, he didn’t even look up at her, eyes skimming over the food options. She swallowed and opened the flaps, trying to focus on actually reading what was available instead of thinking about the fact that he didn’t seem to have any intention of really filling her basic needs for motor function.

Come to think of it, Gwen hadn’t ever been to a diner, and looking around at everything, she was fascinated. The lighting was bright, not like the fancy restaurants her parents always took her to. There wasn’t anyone else there, and there were several booths lining the windows on the wall. There weren’t any stand-alone tables, only bar stools at the bar across from them.

There was an old jukebox in the corner, with a vibrant strip of light framing the wooden panels. Gwen hadn’t ever seen one in real life, and her eyes zeroed in on it, amazed by the fact that they actually existed.

More neon signs and lights lined the walls, throwing colors around across shiny metal and windows, and she had a hard time looking back at her menu as Jo re-emerged from a swinging grey door—which Gwen assumed led back to the kitchens—with two drinks in her hands.

She put down a glass stein full of amber bubbly liquid in front of the Captain, who glanced at it as Jo set down her water. She pulled a small notepad out of her apron along with a pen, clicking the top before looking at Boomerang.

“What do you want?”

He scoffed slightly at her tone, finally looking up at her. “Usual, Jo. Strip, medium-rare. Fries. Whatevah.”

Jo nodded, jotting it down quickly before looking to Gwen. Gwen looked down, her cheeks flaring out of embarrassment because she had hardly looked at anything, and had no idea what she wanted.

She heard Boomerang clear his throat, and she swore she could feel sweat forming on her forehead as he began to tap his finger on the table. “Um…”

“For Christ’s sake, she’ll have a number two.”

The menu was swept up by the waitress before Gwen even had a chance to see what a number two was and her shoulders slumped as Jo turned and left. The Aussie grabbed the stein, lifting it to his lips before taking several long gulps of the liquid she could smell from across the table. She resisted the urge to gag, trying not to scrunch up her face.

“Don’t like it, Gwennie?” He asked mockingly.

“No,” she whispered.

“Shame,” he said, setting the glass down. “When our food comes out, we’re gonna talk ‘bout yuh family.”

She folded her arms over her belly and hunched slightly as thoughts of her situation once again crept into her mind. Her family didn’t matter anymore, and they wouldn’t care. Boomerang didn’t know that, not yet, but he would soon, and what would happen then? Would he throw her off his bike going full speed? Would he keep her and use her for his own… Purposes?

Gwen shuddered, not wanting to think about what might transpire after her dinner.

Boomerang sat back, his arms resting casually on the surface of the table with a hand around the handle of his large mug, a third of the beer gone already. He looked more relaxed than she’d seen him yet, and still he was as tense as a wire. She could see it in the way he was constantly glancing out the window towards the road, his boot tapping out a tattoo on the ground.

Then there was this place. Gwen wondered how he knew about it, and how Jo seemed to know who he was. Had he been here many times before? How did they know each other? How long had they known each other?

He cocked his head at her, and her thoughts on the matter ceased. The silence was charged with awkward tension and she squirmed uncomfortably as neither of them made a sound. She could’ve heard a pin drop.

Gwen didn’t know if it was a relief or a curse when Jo opened the door again, carrying two plates towards their table. She set a large steak with fries down in front of the Captain, pulling out a steak knife and fork from a pocket of her apron before setting the other plate down in front of the mortified woman.

“Enjoy,” she said and disappeared as Gwendolyn stared at the large pile of food in front of her.

It was a burger, bigger than both her fists, and it was surrounded by thick cut fries. The entire plate was greasy, and Gwen was sure she’d only ever seen something similar on TV. She had no idea how she was going to eat it all, or if he expected her to.

Then the lovely aroma of meat cooked to perfection with lettuce, cheese, tomatoes, good bread, and various spices wafted up into her nose. Her stomach growled abashedly, and she gripped the burger firmly, taking a cautious bite. The taste hit her tongue and she moaned quietly before she began chewing quickly, realizing just how starving she was as she began to wolf it down, trying not to look at the man who was staring at her in surprise as he cut into his steak.

The main part of the meal was gone within five minutes, and when she started to pick up fries, Boomerang leaned closer to her. “Impressive,” he said with a shrug. “Bartholme, eh? How’s the family?”

“Fine,” she murmured, taking a small bite of the fry she grabbed.

He raised an eyebrow. “Good, yeah? Still got that ‘empire of wealth’?” Gwen nodded, and a grin split across his face. “How much yah think they’d pay fah yah?”

The fry stopped midway to her mouth, and Gwen’s heart fell again. “They wouldn’t pay anything,” she replied, and Boomer’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, obviously confused.

“Why’s that?”

“Because they don’t care about me,” she said. “They never have. You taking me is the perfect chance to get rid of me. They never cared.”

Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed from somewhere inside his chest, mocking her again. “Who cares if they don’t give a fuck about yah? I certainly don’t,” he shrugged, grabbing a fry of his own. “But they care about their image. Y’know, in the public eye, or some shit.”

She felt a pit form in her chest, coiling tight and making it harder to breathe. She looked down at her blue acrylic nails, the back of her throat and eyes aching.

“And your nails had better be oval with the blue I chose.”

There was never any concern for her, not once. It was always about how she looked, and what her mother had chosen for her. She thought about the clothes she took comfort in, shoved into the bottom of the pack next to her. They weren’t hers; she never even shopped for them. The only things she owned that she bought herself was the Gucci purse that she had left behind with her phone and cards, and the pencil skirt that had been spilled on earlier that day. Both were gone now, and her mother was probably pulling out her hair because her daughter wasn’t going to make it to the opening of the new building next week. They weren’t going to be the perfect family.

She dropped the fry, pushing it back slightly to indicate that she was done. She was no longer hungry, and she heard him chuckle.

“All just fell intah place,” he said. “How much d’yah think they’d pay tah make ‘em look perfect, huh? The rich cunts they are.”

Gwen tried to swallow the lump in her throat before whispering, “As much as it takes.”

He lifted a piece of steak to his mouth, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Good. How’s yuh brother?”

“Fine,” her voice shook and he raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll need his number. An’ yuh parents’.”

She didn’t look up at him this time. “What are you going to do?”

“Whatevah the fuck I want,” he snapped and she flinched. He didn’t talk after that, only finished his steak and appeared to be deep in thought, glaring as he cut through the meat, his face twitching with whatever was going on inside of his head.

Gwen hardly chanced a look up. She didn’t want to stoke Boomerang’s anger any more than she had by asking the simple question. Reaching up to touch her cheek, she tried to refrain from shaking; she didn’t want to get hit again by such a large man.

He pushed his plate to the side when he was done, draining the rest of his beer in one go before wiping the foam from his mustache, looking to the counter, eyes scanning around—for Jo, she thought—as he sighed through his nose.

She glanced at the swinging door before looking back at him, her eyes zeroing in on his now exposed neck. Her stomach dropped, her face paling as she bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood.

The numbers spanned across the side of his neck, about an inch tall, stopping at the column of his throat. 135183518. They looked more crude than they did professional, but they were bold and black and permanent, and she knew exactly what they were.

The woman had only heard about them, after all, no one ever saw someone who was put away in a penitentiary out and about. They were marks, his prison number, meaning he hadn’t just been in prison, he had been in the worst of the worst, and had to be the worst of the worst in order to have them inked into his skin forever.

Her mind jumped and she clenched her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. Sitting across from her was likely an escaped convict. That’s why the police were already after him when he came out of the shadows and grabbed her, that’s why he was so nervous about being followed. He was already wanted and had likely just put a higher price on his head in taking her.

She wondered, for a split second, if he had other marks that might indicate his time. Really, she only knew of the number system, but she had never focused on what went on penitentiaries, or prisons, and they kept quiet about what they did. Who was he? What did he do to land him in there in the first place?

The Captain glanced at her then, seeing her eyes zeroed in on his neck. He kept his neck exposed to her. “What?” he asked.

“How-how’d you get those?”

He merely smirked. “Why? Do they scare yah?” He leered, leaning towards her. “Does it scare yah knowin’ what I might be?”

She leaned back to try and put space between them, and he just rolled his eyes. He stood up, saying, “I’ll be back, stay here,” before walking towards the swinging door. Bringing her hands to her face, she rubbed at her eyes tiredly, trying not to glance at the door and be tempted to run.

Gwen didn’t know where the hell she was, or what direction was what, and knew she would likely get nowhere with him on her trail so instead she fell forward onto the table, folding her arms to hide in them and hope that she would end up okay.

Closing her eyes, she was nearly asleep when she heard Boomerang’s footsteps again, stopping by the table. She felt a hand on her shoulder, shaking her slightly.

“Gwennie,” he grumbled. “C’mon. There’s a bed where we’re goin’.”

She sat up as quickly as she could without getting dizzy, grabbing her pack slowly before scooting out of the booth to stand up. She felt his hand touch her lower back, guiding her as she struggled to pull the straps of her backpack over her shoulders.

Back out into the cold to the bike, she wrapped her arms around herself to try and fend off the breeze as he got on, starting up the engine again. She got on behind him again and wrapped her arms around him.

She was asleep before he even backed out.

The woman woke up to the sensation of being picked up and pulled off the comfortable seat she was sitting on. Her eyes opened, her vision blurry, to Captain Boomerang’s face looming above hers, looking about as tired as she felt as he set her down. His hands released their grips on her arms, jerking his head for her to follow him.

He pulled out a set of keys from somewhere inside of his coat, unlocking the door in the dark before walking in. She walked behind him, rubbing her eyes as her body slouched. He turned, closing the door after she came in and flipped the light switch. They were in what looked like an old garage, the light was dim and yellow and cast long shadows across the walls.

There wasn’t much in the small room. There was a work desk, with more boomerangs scattered across it and several literally embedded in the walls. More tarps like the ones she’d seen him pull off back at the parking garage were folded in the corner and shoved back into the opposite corner was a small bed with a pillow and a skimpy blanket.

Boomerang breezed past her towards the work desk, opening a drawer before pulling out several license plates. He pushed aside the boomerangs, spreading all of the plates he grabbed over the desk as Gwen came closer.

There were six in all. Six different states and six different numbers. He glanced over them quickly, and Gwen realized he was going to change the current one on the bike in case they were searching for it. He grunted when he determined which one he was going to go with, grabbing the Virginia plate before putting the rest back inside the desk.

“Are you a convict?” Gwen heard herself ask, still swaying on her feet from exhaustion.

The man simply grunted in response and she nodded her head, yawning as she lifted her elbow to her face to conceal it. He didn’t look up as he pulled out a small rolled up piece of paper, opening it to reveal a map of the East Coast.

“How long were you in jail for? I bet it was Arkham. That’s why you were in Gotham. That’s why you didn’t know who I was,” she continued. “Because you haven’t been around to see.”

His fingers tapped on the surface of the desk. “Did your tattoo hurt? Does everyone get them?” No reply. “Did you get them because you did something worse than everyone else?”

His hand shot up before she could react, wrapping around her throat so tightly her foot came up to hit him in the stomach in shock. It didn’t seem to phase him as he lifted her off the ground, his face and eyes dark with rage that had been hidden inside of him. He squeezed slightly, and she gagged, trying to breathe as her hands came up to grab his leather covered hand.

“Damn right, yah rich bitch,” he spat out with venom. “I got these cuz I’m a bad man, an’ if yah don’t shut yuh trap, I’ll show yah how bad I can be.”

He lowered her as he snarled the words until his face was inches from hers, his teeth bared like an animal. Her attempts at pushing on his hand were getting more feeble, and her heart beat wildly in her chest and she could hear it in her ears. Her eyes were wide, staring at her attacker as he crushed her neck again, harder than last time, and her vision began to grow dark around the edges, her body going slack.

She knew she’d get in trouble if she was loud, her mother would likely come tearing into her room, yelling about how it was late at night and how foolish she was for crying so obnoxiously. So she tried not to make it obvious, or loud, or annoying, just in case. Her face hid in her pillow, her body wracking with ugly sobs.

Facing nightmares was hard for Gwennie. Her mother had taken all of her stuffed animals when last year just after her third birthday, and now at four years old, she had nothing to hold, nothing to help her cope with the scary images that ran through her mind. She only had her pillow and blanket.

She froze mid-sob when she heard the door open before curling her body up tighter, trying to avoid the oncoming wrath of her mother. She heard the click of the door closing, and the bed dipped as someone sat down on it.

“Gwennie?”

She looked up, tears still streaming down her face. Her brother, dressed in his pajamas, smiled tiredly and opened his arms.

Gwennie willingly went, hiding her face in her brother’s chest. His hands touched her back gently, rubbing up and down.

“What’s wrong, Princess Gwennie?”

His attempt at making her smile didn’t work and she shook her head.

“You can tell me,” he told her.

“I had a b-bad dream, Jay-Jay,” she choked out, having trouble breathing through her cries. He shushed her quietly.

“That’s okay,” he said. “It wasn’t real. I had a bad dream, too.”

She pulled back, looking up at him as she brought the back of her hand up to wipe her nose childishly. “You did?”

Jason nodded his head. “Yep.”

“But you’re not crying.”

“No,” he agreed. “Sometimes you can’t let the bad dreams hear you cry, it makes them happy.”

“Well, they’re mean.”

Her brother laughed and nodded. “Yeah they are,” he responded and lifted his finger to his lips. “So you have to be quiet, so then they don’t get meaner.”

Gwen scrunched up her face at the thought of the bad dreams returning. “Okay,” she said, her lip wobbling. Her hands came up to rub her eyes and wipe her face off. “Jay-Jay?”

“What?”

“What if Mom heard me?”

He shrugged. “I don’t think she did, I could hear her snoring like a cow when I came in here.”

Gwennie let out a surprisingly loud giggle and slapped a hand over her mouth. Jason grinned cheekily and wiped another stray tear from her cheek.

“Wanna know somethin’ else about Mom?”

“What?”

“She’s just a bad dream, too.”

Slowly removing her hand from her mouth, she nodded a little. “Does that mean she’s happy when I cry?”

Jason frowned slightly, his lip pouting out as he thought about the question before shaking his head. “Not all the time,” he said. “See she doesn’t like waking up, and she doesn’t like it when you’re loud, but when you let her hear you, she gets more mean, and that’s bad.”

Gwennie nodded slowly, her head throbbing from her crying session. “Can you help me fight the bad dreams?”

“Yep,” Jason said as he let go of her. “We gotta sleep, Gwennie.”

She nodded, scooting back as Jason got off the bed, flipping over the pillow and fluffing it. He spread the blanket over the bed after and lifted it for Gwennie to get under. She did so slowly, sniffling softly as Jason laid down next to her.

“Can you help me fight Mom, too?”

“Not right now,” he said. “But when we’re older, we’ll be able to leave so she can’t be a bad dream anymore.”

“Can we leave together?”

“Of course, we can, Gwennie,” he said and hugged her close to him again. “You’re my sister.”

“So?”

“So that means that I’m gonna take care of you.”

She didn’t reply as she closed her eyes, hiding her face against him again as she prayed for no more bad dreams so they couldn’t hear her cry again.

“Jay-Jay?” She asked quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Does that mean I can take care of you, too?”

He kissed her head. “Of course, Gwennie. Go to sleep.”

She pulled her arms up to warm them, and within minutes, she drifted into a dreamless sleep, where the bad dreams wouldn’t be around for a long long time.

Chapter Text

Gwendolyn felt his hand squeeze one last time, and his face disappeared, her body tingling like the tips of her fingers did when she put a rubber band around them. She couldn’t pull in any more oxygen, and her chest burned like it had been lit on fire. Just as her eyes began to close, his hand vanished and she dropped two feet to the ground, crashing down hard on her side, her ankle throbbing from trying to catch her.

She couldn’t move, her vision still dark as she let out a hacking cough that hurt her throat, the pressure inside of her chest starting to relieve itself. She wanted to curl up on herself, she wanted to back away from her attacker, she wanted to run, but she couldn’t even lift her finger. Tears stung the back of her eyes and her mouth was open, trying to get as much air as possible into her throat.

Breathing suddenly didn’t feel normal, like the air was stopping in her throat and didn’t slip past like it always did, and she realized that her throat was most likely swelling and panic took her again, her body starting to shake. Hyperventilating on the floor now, she barely heard his footsteps going away from her and pause.

Gwen prayed Boomerang stayed far from her. She shook and gasped and coughed, body finally beginning to curl in on itself to protect her from the threat that stood three feet away. She was terrified, not daring to reach up and touch her throat. The woman wouldn’t dare acknowledge the mark he’d just made on her.

Her vision began to work again, blurry and not fond of the dim light, just as he began walking towards her again. She tried to push herself away, tried to open her mouth to talk, but nothing came out, and nothing happened as he crouched down. His hands reached under her arms, gripping and lifting her again slowly.

“Yah gotta keep yuh mouth shut, Gwennie,” he said with indifference.

She gasped in response and she felt herself being lowered. He laid her down on the somewhat hard surface of the bed in the corner, and she felt a blanket being laid over her as he muttered about how she was stealing the bed.

Serves the bastard right, she thought.

She could hear the swish of his jeans and his footsteps, and the soft clang of metal, before the door closed and she was left alone. Her hand immediately came up, gingerly pressing against the bruising and tender flesh. Gwen hissed in pain, and the tears hit her, streaming down her cheeks as she curled up.

Trying to breathe through her sobs before it became even more difficult to inhale through a swelling throat and hyperventilation, it became abundantly clear that she was lying in a bed that he had slept in. His scent was laced into the pillow and the blanket, and she was surrounded by the musky smell, and though she could hardly focus on it, it made everything worse.

The woman refused to turn her face into the pillow and give in to him. She moved her hand from her neck and wished she could clasp it over her mouth to stop the gasping sobs erupting from her stinging throat.

Her body curled in on itself again, and she turned onto her side, her arm separating her cheek and the pillow as she jerked with cries that echoed through the small garage. She hoped that the Captain couldn’t hear her, because if he did, it was just showing him more submission and weakness than she already had.

The thought of him actually feeling guilty about it cracked across her mind and she let out a harsh, watery laugh. He wouldn’t. Not after he had backhanded her and bound her to a sink and left her to the mercy of hair bleach for nearly an hour. Not after he looked at her with eyes that told her he was fully willing and prepared to kill her.

He must’ve stopped when he realized that if she was dead, he wouldn’t really be able to barter with anything. Gambling with a dead woman wasn’t going to get him many places. Gwen’s chest tightened again, from lack of breath or realization, she wasn’t sure. Did that mean he was going to keep her alive? Torture her for information that she didn’t have, or didn’t matter?

Breathing starting to come easier as her gasps grew quiet, Gwen debated on sleep. If he returned and found her asleep, would he lash out again? She knew he did so because she couldn’t seem to shut her mouth, but she couldn’t help it. She was asleep on her feet, and she wanted to know. She should’ve remembered her mother’s training, “ Don’t you dare talk, not until I give you permission,” instead of going off.

She was still exhausted, and her breathing spell did nothing to help her. The woman couldn’t even swallow and a lump was lodged in her throat. Her body hadn’t stopped shaking, and her eyes were drooping. There were no sounds from outside and she wondered if the man was still there.

Gwen decided that going to look would be a bad idea with her inability to breathe properly. So she remained in the bed that smelled like him, covered by the barely-there blanket that smelled like him, too, and his handprint forming on her throat. She just trembled harder when she realized she was a sitting duck in his bed, and that waiting for him to come back could bring anything, including rape.

She didn’t look forward to seeing herself in any mirror, or waiting, or really anything at all.

She covered her ears, hoping that they would block out her thoughts as she tucked her knees tighter against her chest, wanting to disappear as her head pounded. The blonde found her body giving up to the burnout and her eyes closed.

His loud grunt woke her up, and she shot up in bed, eyes trying to scan the room furiously while still unfocused. Her body remained curled in on itself, protecting her stomach and neck as she hunched and began coughing loudly. Her hand grabbed at her neck softly, hoping it would magically relieve the pain of being torn up from the inside out. She gasped, shutting her eyes as she tried to focus on relaxing herself before hyperventilation began.

Opening her eyes after several deep breaths, she moved her hand from her throat to her chest. Boomerang was still standing in the same direction she had heard the grunt from. She figured he probably hadn’t moved, as she hadn’t heard anything—not like she would over her coughing—and his eyes were locked on her form. His body was still, his face shadowed to the point that she couldn’t read his eyes. He had something over his shoulder, and he hung onto it with both of his hands, the most she could tell of it in the dim light that it was big and it was black.

His coat and jacket were gone, leaving him in a grey wifebeater that framed his arms. Being able to see him now, without his large and heavy clothes, made her gently push herself back on the bed. He was still massive and imposing like the layers hadn’t ever been removed, and seeing the muscles that adorned his body, not just feeling them around her neck or through his coat, made her go pale.

His expression didn’t change, even when her back touched the cold wall. He shifted what was on his shoulder, sighing through his nose as he stood up tall again.

“I’ll be back,” he said, turning around. “Don’t think about leavin’.” He walked to the door. She watched as it swung closed behind him, noting that hardly any light was coming in from outside, meaning it could be morning or evening.

The quietness that descended in the room was only disrupted by her ragged breaths. Gwen wasn’t even thinking about actually leaving, or moving, even if she longed to do it. For one, he would surely catch her before she got far, and two, with her throat mangled, she wasn’t so sure she could intake enough oxygen to walk.

Quite suddenly, she realized she felt more emotional than anything else. She felt depleted. She was overwhelmed again, angry at Captain Boomerang, at her family, at herself for being so weak , and sad at the situation she was in, and in pain . Fingertips pressed against her jugular and she felt like crying all over again.

Gwendolyn couldn’t have been with the Captain for more than twenty-four hours, unless he had allowed her to sleep the day away, which she doubted he would’ve, with his urgency to keep moving—even if she’d need the rest to keep up with his fast pace. However, she had no way of tracking time or knowing just how long she had been captive.

Her stomach growled quietly, and that was, at least, some indication she had been in his bed a while, but she had also fallen asleep against him on the bike on the way to… Wherever they were, and on the way to Aunty Dee’s, and who knows how long that had been for.

She rubbed her arm, pleased to find that she was still clothed. At least, that was one good thing, she thought as the backs of her eyes began to sting. She wasn’t just isolated from anyone, or anything she knew, anymore, she was isolated from herself. Hurt, hungry, and lost, Gwen had no idea what to do, and she had no ideas other than to go along with her captor and pray he wouldn’t try to kill her again. She wrapped her arms around her shins before resting her forehead on her knees and prepared herself to wallow in her grief.

Just as she was about to mourn the loss of what had now been left behind and stamped for approval by his handprint on her neck, she heard the door open and close again. She didn’t dare lift her head as his footsteps carried him to the bed to sink on it beside her.

“Look at me, Sweetheart.” She could feel his breath on her ear.

Lifting her head to look at him, Gwen’s lip trembled until her teeth bit the inside of her lip; she gave him a hollow expression. His hands touched her jaw, tilting her head back with the pads of his fingers on her cheeks, and he moved her head left and right, examining her neck with a bored expression.

“Yuh job,” he told her, “From now on, is keepin’ quiet. I don’t like repeatin’ myself, an’ me past is mine. Don’t fuckin’ ask questions about it. Got it, Gwennie?”

The Aussie released her and she nodded. He rubbed his scruffy chin before stroking the thick beard on the side of his face. “Can yah talk?”

Gwen didn’t want to try. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth, and she knew her throat would protest, but she knew he might get mad if he didn’t.

“I—” she stopped, her voice cracking before she cried out in pain, shutting her eyes and grabbing her throat again. “I guess…”

“Good,” he said simply, “Yah’ve had enough rest, I’ve changed the plates. We’ll be leavin’ in ten minutes. Bathroom’s in the corner.” He gestured with his hands in the general direction and shrugged. “Yah know the rules, no tryin’ tah run.”

Standing up, he walked away towards his work desk, not once looking back at her. The woman looked around her, trying to find her worn down backpack, which was down on the ground beside the bed. She snagged it and stood up slowly before trying to look too hasty on her way. She wanted to keep as much distance between him and her as possible at all times. The door closed and she sagged slightly from relief.

It was dark and she struggled to find the light switch on the wall. When she found it and flipped it on, she wished she hadn’t been looking in the direction that she had.

The reflection of Gwen stared back at her and already she looked haunting. Her face was framed by her bruised neck, and her hair fell to the side of her head in wild curls, displaying the freshly shaven and bleached hair. For a moment, she wondered if he was going to continue bleaching it when the roots came back and shuddered as she inched her way towards the mirror.

She put her hands on the sink under it, leaning forward to stare at herself. Her neck was practically black, fading to purple and then to yellows and browns the farther they got from his handprint. His thumb had bruised up and across her jaw to beside her ear, while his other fingers trailed to the other side of her neck, under and behind her ear. Her esophagus was a mass of bruising where blood vessels had burst due to his iron grip. Lifting a hand, she gingerly touched it again, tilting her head back and forth as she frowned.

Boomerang had been out of control, even if it was only for a split second. She could see it in his eyes, but her memory was hazy, like the lack of oxygen at the time made it fuzzy around the edges. It had scared her and still, she could feel her stomach drop and clench just at the thought of having to hang onto him again if they were still using his motorcycle, which she knew they likely were.

Covering her eyes with her hands, she took deep breaths. She had been kidnapped, hit, choked, forced into clothes she hated, and had her hair cut and bleached. If this was only the beginning, where was she going to end up? Was she going to get killed before she was rescued—if she even was rescued—or was she going to have to live with this until he was done with her? At least he hadn’t touched her breasts, or her ass, or anything else, like he wanted to violate her, but then again, she had no idea what she could expect from the man and what she couldn’t.

She jumped, her hip hitting the faucet, and she yelped as it jarred her body, when she heard a bang outside of the door. It sounded like something had hit the ground, and it reminded her of the time she wasted staring at herself. She turned, spying the toilet in the corner before moving quickly.

Glancing at her clothes as she flushed, she nearly groaned in frustration until she opened her mouth and her neck stung, like tiny needles being stuck into her, and she immediately stopped, grimacing as she reminded herself to stay quiet. Gwendolyn grabbed the back of her shirt just as a knock came at the door.

“I’m givin’ yah three seconds to open this, or I’ll break it like last time.”

She hurried, grabbing the handle before pulling it open to be met with Boomerang’s scowling face, his jacket, and his coat thrown over his body as he looked over her with an eyebrow raised. He shrugged and turned, gesturing with his hand for her to follow as he strode to the door. She walked behind him with her head down, rather upset she didn't get to change her clothes. 

The bike was already running and the temperature outside was chilly and dropping, she assumed when she saw that the sun was setting and not rising. Of course, he wouldn’t travel during the day. He sat down and didn’t look back at her, only turned his head to listen as her boots made the gravel she was walking on crunch.

Sitting behind him, she was already shaking. Her arms needed a pep talk before finally wrapping around his large figure. He kicked up the stand and revved, turning out onto the main road as she turned her head, keeping her cheek away from his back as she watched the long shadows of the trees around them go by.

They had been riding for God knows how long, but Gwennie couldn’t take it any longer. She was numb, her hands were so cold they were stiff and hardly clinging to the fabric of his jacket, and she couldn’t breathe.

It had been getting worse as it got colder. The air whipped so hard and fast she could barely get enough into her damaged windpipe, but then add the frigid autumn chill as it got closer to winter and it stung so bad she had been crying for at least twenty minutes. Then the air stopped coming.

She gasped and no sound came out. Her lungs began stinging harder than before, her chest knotting so tightly it felt like she was being sat on by the man in front of her. Her throat burned, and when she started to feel light headed, she began to really panic.

Gwen lifted her hands pounding as hard as she could on his chest, pleading in her head, please please God, make him stop. Please.

She could tell the Aussie was irritated, and he began to slow down, but it didn’t seem like he was intending on stopping, and that’s when she really started going. She lifted her feet, her boots dragging down his calves, her hands barely balling into fists before she started hitting anything she could reach on the front of his body. She could hear him snarl, and the bike pulled to the side of the road wrenching to a stop.

The moment the stopped she no longer had the momentum to keep her upright, and with her hands no longer holding onto him, her body slipped off, her already split cheek hitting the ground first. She was too weak to shake, her body trying to pull in oxygen hopelessly.

“Shit,” she heard him say, and his hands were on her arms, pulling her upright like she didn’t weigh anything. “Fuck.”

Dead weight in his hands, air finally got past her mouth and down into her lungs, only a little, but it was enough to keep her from passing out as he made her stand straighter. “C’mon, Gwennie girl. Breathe. That’s it.”

Ragged gasps started to make their way out of her mouth. Her hair hung in her face, her feet essentially useless as Boomerang kept her up. She shut her eyes, trying to focus on breathing in more of the cold air, even as it burned its way down into her body. She began shaking then, leaning back against his solid body to support herself.

Boomerang didn’t say anything as he continued to keep her upright. One of his arms was around her waist, keeping her as straight as possible to allow her airway to open up more. It took her time, sitting there on the side of the road in the darkness with her captor helping her breathe again until she could open her eyes and not feel like she would fall flat on her face if he let go of her.

“I’m okay,” she whispered and winced.

“Are yah sure?”

She nodded and he placed her back on the ground again before stepping away. It took her a moment, and she stumbled to the side, stopping herself before he could touch her. She coughed quietly, hunching over as she took several more shaky breaths.

Confident that there would be no panic attack and that the spell was over, she turned to see Boomerang’s face, closed off and guarded. He didn’t show any expression as he looked at her. She felt uncomfortable in her skin, and she looked down at his chest. She watched him move, opening his coat before pulling out his beanie.

“Use this then,” he said. “Keep the cold from bitin’.”

She took it gingerly, knowing it would smell like him, but if it kept her from having more trouble breathing than she wanted right now, she would have to make do. He nodded after she took the dark blue cap, moving to set up on his bike again, the light shining out on the vacant road.

He kicked his leg over and waited for her. Nerves made her belly clench as she sat down behind him, hoping she wouldn’t have to deal with any more problems centered around her breathing. Not entirely sure what to do with the beanie, she wrapped one arm around him, holding the fabric to her face, finally deciding to give up the fight of keeping away from him.

Her forehead leaned on his shoulder and when the wind started flying past them again, she realized it wasn’t nearly as fast as before. She breathed slowly through the beanie he gave her, it smelled musky, and faintly of smoke, closing her eyes to try and ready herself for however longer they had ahead of them.

It was still dark when she saw the lights of a small town start going by, with street lamps, stores, and neon lights. She hadn’t needed to stop again, though she did need to tap on him to ask him to slow down when it got hard to breathe, even through the beanie, which did a good job of cycling the cold air out.

He pulled up to a stop on the curb in front of a motel. It looked a bit ragged, and rundown, but he didn’t seem to care as he shrugged at her, a clear sign for her to get off. She did so quickly, standing up on jelly legs.

Boomerang pulled his coat open, reaching in before pulling out the stack of money he grabbed before they had gone to the diner. He looked through it quickly, pulling out to twenties to hand to her.

“Now, that motel right there,” he told her. “I want yah tah go get a room. One bed. One night. Yah’ll come an’ tell me what room it is, an’ I’ll go park me bike.”

Gwen nodded, gently taking the bills out of his hand. “Okay.”

He eyed her skeptically. “I told yah, yah had a pretty neck. Yah’ve a pretty face, tah. I wouldn’t try makin’ yuh escape. I know who yah are. I’ll find yah, or kill yuh family in the process.”

Images of her parents and brother flashed through her head quickly and she knew her skin became lighter as she swallowed.

“I won’t try,” she replied meekly, and he looked at her a moment longer before shooing her away. 

She walked quickly, wrapping her arms around herself as she located the glass door that had a sign saying ‘Lobby’ hanging in it. She swung it open and marched herself inside, holding the forty dollars tightly in her fist.

The man was older, and he was sitting behind the desk reading a large book when she walked up. He looked at her, pushing his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. He eyed her up and down, obviously trying not to stare at her cheek and neck.

“Can I help you?” His voice was quiet.

“O-one room, please. One bed,” she stuttered and bit down her lip. The man took a deep breath in through his nose, grabbing a bookmark before sliding it into the book and closing it to put aside.

He stood up after grabbing another book. Realizing that it was a guest book, she panicked. She knew he wouldn’t want her using her real name, and she had no preparation, or what to even put down. He put it up on the counter in front of her, putting a pen on the pages. Her apprehension was clear on her face, she must’ve thought because he leaned forward to whisper something to her.

“I’m the one who runs this place,” he said. “No one but me sees the book. You’ll be safe here for the night.”

With a tight-lipped smile, she nodded and took up the pen. “Can you tell me what day it is?”

“October 24,” he replied, and she wrote it beside the space where she would put her name.

Thinking quickly, she already began to spell out ‘Gwennie’. Last name, last name, she thought. Fraser. She bit her lip as she signed it. The man took the book back, turning it to set it down in front of him.

“Well, Ms. Fraser,” he said. “If you need me to call the cops for you, I can.”

Gwen shook her head. “N-no.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

Beginning to panic, she had no idea what to say. What if he called the cops because she didn’t reply? She reached up and touched her neck before blurting out, “He saved me from worse, the man I’m with.”

“Where is he?”

“Parking.”

He sighed and slowly nodded. “Very well,” he muttered as he opened a door and produced a key. “Room twenty-three, second floor. Thirty-five dollars.”

She took it when he handed it to her in exchange for the two bills. He got the change quickly and after she grabbed it she was wrapping her arms around herself again to brace for the weather.

The Captain was still sitting there, looking impatient as he unfolded his arms from over his chest when he saw her walking towards him. Gwen stopped in front of him, holding out the five dollars, which he took and stuffed inside his coat, where she saw the glint of metal and was reminded he had weapons on him at all times.

“Room?”

“Twenty-three.”

He scratched at the side of his beard and nodded slowly, appearing to be deep in thought before grabbing the handlebars of his bike. “Well,” he said. “Go up there an’ leave the door open. I’ll be up soon.”

The woman nodded and he pushed off, driving down the road and she didn’t look at his retreating form, only turned and started back across the lot, fumbling with the keyring as she started climbing the spiral staircase to the second floor of the two-floor building.

Unlocking the door was harder than she would’ve thought. First, her hands were shaking, and that made it no easier getting it into the keyhole. Second, once she got it there and turned the key, the door didn’t budge when she pushed against it, and she moaned quietly out of frustration. She kicked at it before trying it again to no avail.

Putting on a face of frustration, she grabbed the handle and twisted it, shoving her shoulder into the door until it swung open, and she was a hot and sweaty mess. She shut the door behind her, dropping the backpack and sighing at the loss of weight as she moved to the only bed, falling down on it with her arms and legs sprawled out.

She would’ve fallen asleep like that if Boomerang didn’t come in several minutes later, closing the door loudly behind him to announce his arrival.

“Get up,” he said as he brushed past her.

Lifting her body slowly, she wondered why he was making her move. His jaw was clenched and he turned, sitting on the bed as he bent over to take off his boots. “I didn’t sleep last night ‘cuz of yah,” he growled. “So yah’ll be takin’ the couch.”

“What?”

He looked over his shoulder, his eyes glimmering with a warning. “Yah’ll take the couch, an’ I’ll take the bed. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

She pushed off the bed and sighed, glancing at the sofa in the corner that didn’t look comfortable to sit in, let alone lay on and sleep, but she also felt her body weighed with fatigue and the events of the day so far, and wanted to rest more than anything. She sat on it, finding it only slightly more comfortable than it looked.

Not seeing a blanket around except for on the bed, she knew she’d have to deal without one as she turned to lay on her side. She was too unwilling to change in front of him to even look at her backpack.

Gwendolyn curled her body up, closing her eyes and hiding her face as she turned over. She heard more footsteps and the sound of clothes being moved around before she felt a sheet being draped over her.

At least, it was something, she thought and hoped sleep came sooner than later.

Gwennie honestly hadn’t meant to do anything wrong, but somehow she did and knew she would be paying the consequences.

They had been at a dinner party, her mother and her, likely in celebration of something her father had done, but Gwen honestly had no idea. She wasn’t told such things while being so young. What she had done was an accident, and at seven, accidents did happen, but her mother certainly didn’t seem to think so.

She had been sitting there at the table that had a white cloth over it with glasses of wine and water on it, kicking her feet and thinking about what she was going to do when she got home. Gwennie was quite bored, to be honest. She resorted to playing games in her head, watching people around the large hall move around, thinking of songs, tv shows, anything really. Then she realized the man next to her had been talking to her.

Gwennie had turned with her hands up on the table, not registering that her hands moved with her. They knocked into the man’s glass of red wine, spilling it over the table and over the man’s pants and white dress shirt. She gasped, already starting to profusely say sorry while she heard her mother telling her to be quiet while apologizing, too.  

The man only chuckled as he grabbed some napkins to get the staining liquid off of him while waving his hand. He looked at Gwen before he did his mother, telling her with kind eyes and a soft smile that she had nothing to worry about, and that it was only an accident, before saying the same to Lucinda. She had liked the man and had sighed in relief before smiling again.

Gwendolyn wished that her mother would’ve believed him.

She was shoved through the door by her mother, tripping and stumbling onto the hardwood of the chic and large apartment. Scrambling to get up, she heard her mother slam the door.

“What was that?” She snarled at Gwen as she grabbed her arm. Gwen began to struggle, feeling the tears ready to burst.

“I don’t know!”

“Don’t you dare raise your voice at me,” she shouted, flipping her around to face her. “What the hell do you mean, ‘you don’t know,’ give me a break, Gwendolyn!”

The salty tears came, cascading down across her cheeks as she struggled more in her mother’s tight grip. She wished she could slip out of her grasp and run to her room. Maybe there she would be safe.

She was jostled, brought close to her mother’s form, angry and intimidating. “Are you even listening to me, Gwen?”

Gwendolyn didn’t respond, and she was jostled again by her mother. “You’re a disgrace!” She shouted at her, “You spilled Mr. Turner’s drink like the stupid insolent girl you are!”

“I didn’t mean to,” the daughter whispered, but it only seemed to set off her mother more. Her arm was released and a second later a hand came down on her cheek.

“Didn’t mean to?” Her mother cried, “You embarrassed me! You embarrassed the family name like it meant nothing! Do you have any idea how important that dinner was? How important Mr. Turner’s stocks are? Of course, you don’t! You could’ve ruined it all, Gwendolyn!”

She didn’t know how she ruined it all, the man seemed so kind and forgiving, but if her mother said it, it must’ve been true. Gwen didn’t even know what stocks were, but whatever they were, they seemed to be important, because that’s all she heard her mother and father talking about anymore. She hadn’t meant to hurt anything.

More tears came and she covered her face, deciding her best option was to turn and run down the hall to her room. Her heels clopped loudly on the floor as she did so, hearing her mother curse behind her. She slammed the door behind her, hoping that wouldn’t set her mother off again as she ran to her bed, jumping up on it to hide her face in her pillow.

What if she really had ruined everything? What would her mother do to her? What if her father got involved? It wasn’t like he ever really was, but that was always a possibility, and she cried into the pillow at the thought.

Her cheek stung, and she was finding it harder to breathe. She sat up, gasping for air. It wasn’t coming. She began to panic, hands grabbing her neck as she felt like she was being choked, or sat on.  Gwennie grabbed her neck with one hand, the other waving around in a panicky motion like it was going to help her get air into her lungs, but nothing was working. She didn’t know what to do.

Jay-Jay would’ve, she thought suddenly, and cringed, moving back to the corner of her bed to sit against the wall. The old Jay-Jay would’ve , she told herself through her haze of panic. Not the new one.

She missed her brother. She covered her eyes with her hands now, still trying to sob and breathe and panic altogether. Gwen sat like that for a long time, the struggle to breathe getting worse and worse until her cheek finally stopped hurting so badly, and the tears stopped coming. Then she collapsed on the bed, shaky and tired.

She was panting out of exertion, and her lungs began to fill with air easier than before, and the weight lifted off her chest.  She closed her eyes, never wanting to experience that again. Her body ached and shook slightly, and all she wanted to do was sleep.

Hearing the occasional noise from outside the door, she hoped her mother wouldn’t be coming in again anytime soon, or have her father walk in. She knew by now she would be grounded. She still didn’t understand why, but if she asked, she would probably get smacked again. She rubbed at her eyes and sniffled.

Gwen kept her eyes closed, curling up and still aware she hadn’t changed into her pajamas, which was likely going to get her into more trouble, but she didn’t care. She wanted to sleep, and hopefully, Mr. Turner wasn’t going to do anything bad with his stocks and her mother and father. She curled up tighter, her hands under her head, as she tried to sleep, continuing to sniffle into her pillow.

Chapter Text

His mother was a gifted singer, a talent she passed to him, and Owen loved hearing her sing. She always did when she was around the house, no matter what she was doing, from cleaning to making food, she’d sing. Owen got to the point where he would, too, grin at the table while he was playing with his toys and sing nonsense words if he didn’t know the lyrics. His mother would only laugh at him.

She was singing while he snuck around behind her, his eyes glued to the cookies cooling in the pan on the counter. He was four, and for four, he was big, able to reach the top of the counter if he was determined, and, this time, he truly was. He kept glancing at his mum, who was in her own world, making some form of sauce that smelled good, while shaking her hips and singing. Confident she wouldn’t turn around, he hurried to the edge of the counter, reaching up with small hands to grab one of the cookies.

He snagged one, not bothering to look over his shoulder, a grin of triumph on his face as he stood on his feet instead of his toes again, admiring his prize.

“An’ just what, my Wild Colonial Boy, d’yah think you’re doin’?”

He flipped around, staring up at his mum who was leaning over him with a smirk on her face, his cookie halfway to his open mouth. He grinned again, running between her legs and out of the kitchen, laughing as he heard his mother behind him.

Running into his room, he tried to push the door closed, but she was there, grabbing a hold of him and heaving up as he laughed, clutching his cookie close to his chest. He heard her laugh with him, spinning around to walk back out.

“Takin’ cookies behind my back. Tsk tsk.”

Her son continued to laugh, trying to take a bite of his treat before it possibly was taken away, but he couldn’t stop giggling long enough to do so. She continued laughing, too, setting him on the counter in the kitchen, some distance away from the cookies so he couldn’t grab another.

“Dessert before dinner isn’t a good idea, love.”

“Why?” He asked, his eyes bright with mischief.

“Because it’ll ruin your appetite.”

He sat and thought about it for a moment before breaking off part of his cookie and handing it to her. “Not ruined anymore!”

His mother took it, winking and grinning impishly. “Just this once,” she replied, popping the food into her mouth. Owen quickly took a bite, too, just in case. She lifted a finger to her lips as she turned around and grabbed another cookie for herself, taking a big bite out of it.

Owen gasped, “Mum!”

“What?”

“Yah gonna ruin yuh appetite,” he whispered, and she threw her head back with a laugh, reaching forward to ruffle Owen’s hair.

“Too right, my love,” she said and turned around again to return to making dinner. “Reckon we should have dessert first tonight?”

The boy couldn’t nod fast enough, grinning as he took another large bite of his cookie. His mother looked over her shoulder, winking again as she started to sing. Even though Owen didn’t know the words, he sang along, too, greatly enjoying his snack.

She was still asleep when Owen woke up, curled up in her sheet on the couch as he struggled to roll out of the warm bed. Naked as the day he was born, he stumbled his way to the bathroom, rubbing his bleary eyes slowly to avoid pain from the bruise he still had around the right side of his face.

He flipped on the light, wincing at the brightness before closing the door, considering taking a shower, as he hadn’t since the freezing thirty-second ones he was allowed in Arkham. He was in the shower with the water turned to as hot as he could stand it without another thought, groaning with relief at the feel of it pounding on his back.

He took deep breaths, tilting his head back to let it run through his hair and down onto his face. His fingers were splayed across the wall as he leaned on it, finally ducking his head to let more of the water run over his shoulders.

Boomerang was concerned, very concerned. The bruises on Gwennie’s neck were bad and he knew it. It wasn’t so much that he had choked her that was bothering him, it meant that she would be more noticeable, with those blaring purple and black marks, and if anyone saw her next to him? He could be putting up with more police on his tail and he really didn’t want to deal with that. It would just be a waste of his time.

That and he didn't want to have to worry about the system having a location where they were last seen. That would mean they were one step closer with their plans to Boomerang, and he didn't need them to have a leg up. No sir, he did not. Location was the hardest part about the whole blackmail thing. He could definitely pull the ‘if you even think about calling the cops I'll kill her' card, but he had to consider if they would truly care. He shrugged to himself. It was a chance he'd take.

With the money, he decided, he'd just have them transfer it to an account he wasn't going to use while he had her and keep it coming for later use. Even with the money he already had stored up, he never considered himself rich. He didn't act like them, he didn't want to act like them, so he never would be them. He knew what it was like to be down on his knees with no money and he'd rather be looked at as rough and tumble than snobby and “pristine”.

He spun around, letting the water hit his chest directly. He wasn't so sure if it was the actual money he cared about or just the safety of it. He had a net and he knew he did. He had one back home, too, just in case he ever returned. He shook his head slowly, reminding himself that he didn't have to worry about that right now, and he needed to zigzag up and then down farther than he had across the East to possibly throw off any followers before even thinking about tipping off his location somehow.

The Captain didn't know what time it was, but he knew if there was still light out, he wouldn't be leaving yet. He needed to move by the dark as best as he could and keep the witness count low. He grabbed the tiny bottle of shampoo the stall had, deciding now was the time to truly scrub off Arkham, and realized while touching the sides of his head that he had let it grow longer than he wanted it.

A smirk suddenly pulled at his lips as he rinsed his hair and grabbed conditioner. He knew just what to do if he and lovely Gwennie had any free time. He scrubbed at his hair quickly, doing a once over his body with the bar of soap before letting the water run over him one last time.

Grabbing the towel, he hardly bothered to dry off as he wrapped it around his waist and strode out of the room, holding the corners of the towel by his hip. Boomerang reached for the alarm clock. 4 PM blared back at him and he nodded slowly, at least, two more hours until the sun would begin to sink.

His first thought was cigarettes. He needed them. If he went another hour without them he might get ravenous again, and who knows what would happen to Gwen’s lovely skin, then? He took a deep breath, beginning to put his clothes on, not caring if he had yet to wash them as he checked his total count of weapons and money.

Boomerang grabbed Gwen’s backpack on the way out, along with the room key as he locked the door behind him. He was sure she wouldn’t leave without what was left of her old life and besides, where would she go? He was going to the corner and back, a trip that would take less than five minutes. She wouldn’t be able to get anywhere and both of them knew it. So he meandered his way to his bike, thinking about how good it was going to be to inhale that smoke again.

Starting up his bike and driving down the road was easy. Dealing with idiots thirty minutes after he just woke up was not. The gangly man behind the counter couldn’t have been older than twenty-one, tall and awkward, and most likely high, which made him that much more incompetent in Owen’s eyes.

He was the only other person in the establishment, his eyes drifting back and forth as he walked up the counter. His gaze was already zeroed in on the pack he wanted and when he looked down, he saw a pack of twelve little cigars. His tongue moved uncomfortably with need.

“Marlboro, blue,” he said, rather slowly as he knew the guy in front of him would need time to comprehend it. “Captain Black, classic.”

The boy, Gregory—at least, that's what the name tag said—blinked and looked down at the case where the cigars he wanted were. The Aussie’s eye twitched as he squatted as slow as fucking possible to grab it. His fingers tapped at the glass impatiently as he stood up again, placing the twelve pack on the counter. He turned, staring at the wall with cigarettes on the small shelves behind him.

“What’d you say?”

“Marlboro,” Boomerang said through clenched teeth. “Blue.”

“Say,” Gregory said, looking over his shoulder. “You’re not from around here.”

Boomerangs elbows hit the surface of the glass case with his hands rubbing his temples before Gregory could blink. “I had no fuckin’ idea.”

The boy laughed and Boomerang’s already thin patience was slipping away. “Look, mate. I’m not fuckin’ in the mood. Let’s go.”

His eyes kept glancing down at the cigars, wanting them desperately. He looked up, patting one of his pockets to ensure that he still had his lighter as the kid finally grabbed the cigarettes he wanted. He rubbed his face some more as the kid slowly began to ring his items up. The impatient tapping transferred to his foot as his boot continued on the floor.

“That’ll be $9.50,” he said. “I need to see some ID.”

Owen raised his eyebrow and gave him a blank look. He reached into his coat with a sigh and pulled out his wallet, presenting his driver’s license, the one that even gave his real name that he had stolen back from the Arkham Archives. He showed it to the boy, unsure if he even knew how to read it, as he grabbed a ten. He slid it to the clerk when he nodded his OK on the ID, snatching back his wallet before grabbing the tobacco products he just bought.

He had thought of robbing the place on his way in. Mugging whoever was at the counter to gather up all he wanted and run, but he realized that would get more attention drawn to him than there already he was, he had been catching glimpses of news and newspapers, though he knew he needed to look a little more closely. He had been a little put off by it, and still was, it would’ve been fun. That and he didn’t want to spend much money, but what could he do?

“Keep the change,” he sneered, before charging towards the door, pocketing his Marlboros while busting up the pack of cigars, wanting to put one in his mouth while he drove back. It wasn’t that he liked the taste. In fact he hated it, and he didn’t particularly like the smell of smoke either, but keeping it pressed against his tongue, giving it a few nibbles, made it easier to hold off on needing to smoke it then and there.

The moment he parked the bike he was grabbing for his lighter, cupping the flame before bringing it to the end of the cigar. He took a deep drag, closing his eyes as he blew it out of the corner of his mouth. Owen got off slowly, still shrugging Gwennie’s pack over one shoulder as he walked back around the motel building and up the spiral stairs to the room. He pulled out the key, humming around his small cigar as he put it in the hole, listening to it click as the door unlocked when he turned it.

Flipping on the light, he shut and locked the door again behind him, pleased to see that Gwennie was now awake, sitting straight up on the couch with the sheet raised against her chest like she had something to hide.

“Mornin’, Sweetheart,” he told her, blowing out smoke as he held the cigar gently with his teeth. Her face screwed up at the cloud of smoke that wafted into the room. “How’d yah sleep?”

His tone was sarcastic and he didn’t much care, but she knew she had to answer. “Fine,” she murmured. “Thanks.”

He nodded approvingly. “I’ve got a job fah yah tah do.”

She bit her lip, nodding back and Boomerang grinned at her, taking another soft drag. He walked back to the bathroom, where last night he had found a set of hair clippers, which he had washed and decided she would use to trim him up a bit. The lines were there, she’d only have to follow them. If she fucked up? He shrugged a bit to himself. He’d cross that bridge when he got there.

Walking back out, he grabbed one of the chairs in the corner of the room, pulling it up by the nightstand with a lamp and power outlet beside it. He turned on the lamp, plugged in the clippers, and beckoned Gwen. She stood slowly, walking towards him as he set her backpack on the bed.

“Now then,” he said to her as he handed her the clippers and sat with his back to her. “Yuh’re gonna cut me hair an’ clean up the beard a bit. The lines’re there, follow ‘em an’ I’m sure yah’ll be fine.”

He felt her hands gingerly touch his head, running through the longer curls to get them out of the way so she could see where the shave started. She was slow and Boomerang assumed she had probably never held clippers, or shaved a man’s head before. He could feel it pressing against the side of his skull in a much gentler fashion than he had been with his boomerang when cutting hers.

Her hand gently wiped away the shaved hair from the side of his head before going around to get the other side, breathing slowly as Boomerang started to get to the point of finishing off his cigar. He breathed deeply, tilting his head when her fingers lightly pushed. She bent down the top of his ear, shaving behind it before finishing at the top of his mutton chop, swallowing loud enough that he could hear it.

Grabbing the rest of his little cigar, he put it out with no regard on the nightstand, blowing out the last of the smoke as he turned to look at her. Her face was blank. He tried to prevent his eyebrows from furrowing as he tilted his head back slightly.

“Clean it up, love,” he spoke quietly as he gestured to his beard.

Gwen did so, her hand touching one side of her face as her lips twitched in the essence of a frown. The clippers touched his cheeks, not daring to go into the thick beard, like he asked. He tilted his head back again when she moved to do his chin and neck. She didn’t look at his eyes once and he figured she must’ve been ashamed.

“One’s uneven,” she said suddenly, her face filled with panic. He smirked at her before chuckling.

“One’s always been, love,” he replied as she stepped away. He brought a hand up, feeling over his face and his head before nodding slowly. “I’m gonna rinse. Get dressed. We leave when I come back.”

Rising, he walked off to the bathroom, closing the door before turning on the sink to run his head under, secretly pleased she did well on his grooming, simply because he didn’t have to shave something off that he didn’t like.

Owen was coloring at his desk, kicking his legs as he sat in his small chair, humming one of the songs his mother was singing this morning as she got ready for work. His head bobbed from side to side as he murmured some of the words that he knew, which were far and in between, but he didn’t mind. His mother never seemed to either. So he smiled to himself and continued moving his crayon over his drawing.

It was of him and his mum and, hopefully, the dog Owen had asked for and wanted so desperately. Not knowing what color he wanted it to be, he made him all of the colors he could think of seeing on a dog: ginger, grey, white, black, yellow, and brown. Overall he was very pleased and he hoped Mum would be, too. He grinned as he signed his name on the bottom, writing “To Mum” in his best hand.

He was admiring his work, thinking of how she had told him they would consider looking into a dog. He promised her he would feed it and water it and clean up after it. She had raised her eyebrows at him, and he had folded his arms over his chest, pouting as he told her. “I’m seven! I can do those things!”

Melody had laughed, shaking her head before moving to pick him up. “I suppose we’ll think about it, love.”

The dog was all Owen could think about. When he got out of bed he asked about it again, and she only smiled softly and told him they’d continue to think about it. He had been bouncing around ever since.

The boy set down the piece when he was done, ready to run and tell Miss Kumar he wanted to give it to his mum, but when he turned to get up, Miss Kumar was already standing there in front of him with her kind smile and gentle eyes.

“What have you drawn, Owen?” She asked him.

He grinned up at her, grabbing his paper to show her. “Mum, an’ me, an’ the dog we’re gonna get!”

His teacher laughed, taking the picture in her hands before giving it back to him. “Good job, Owen! Your mum will be proud of yah. It’s time to clean up, okay?”

Owen nodded his head, beaming at her praise as she called for the other kids to start packing up. He ran to get his backpack in his excitement, thrumming with energy and at the anticipation of seeing what Mum was going to think of his effort at convincing her to get the dog he wanted.

He was gentle about sliding his paper into his rather empty backpack. He put his pencils and crayons away in their boxes before carefully putting them in, too, not wanting to spill them everywhere like he had two weeks ago. The bell rang after he slid the straps on. Miss Kumar waved goodbye as they walked out the door, Owen running past all of them to go meet with his mother in the pick-up lane.

She wasn’t there when he got there, which had happened in the past. Sometimes she ran late from work and Owen understood; sometimes he ran late from class, too. He pulled himself up on one of the benches out front, still beaming and kicking his feet as he watched.

Other kids got in the cars of their parents, some starting the walk home, but Owen was still there. Eventually, he came to be the only one, looking left and right at the empty school yard as he wondered where she was. She was normally never this late, plus he didn’t want to wait much longer, anyway.

He heard a car engine and his head turned like a shot, only to see a police car coming down the lane. It parked up on the curb and turned off before the officer, a stocky and broad-shouldered man, got out and began walking towards the main doors, giving Owen a smile as he disappeared from view.

The boy’s gaze moved back to the police car. He smiled at it, wondering what it would be like to turn on the sirens or the lights, or chase down bad people to give them a long time out so that they didn’t do it again.

Nodding his head to himself, he could see it, being the good guy, helping people. He liked to help people and his mother was proud of him for it. How proud would she be if she saw him making sure that no one got hurt again on his watch? He began bouncing again.

Now he had two things he needed to tell his mum.

“Owen?”

He looked up to see Miss Kumar, standing in her flowy dress with her hand out to him with a sad smile. Owen was immediately concerned. Miss Kumar never looked sad.

Taking her hand, he got off the bench, his eyebrows furrowing. “Miss Kumar, what’s wrong?”

She shook her head, tugging him towards the main doors, the same the police officer had gone through. She didn’t reply, opening the door for him before ushering him inside the space between the two sets of doors. She crouched down and Owen could see the officer and Principal Spence standing outside of the office, looking at them through the glass while having a conversation.

“Owen, sweetheart,” his teacher sounded like she was about to cry. “I need to tell yah something.”

He looked at her again and she took a deep breath, biting on her lip. “What’s wrong?” He whispered.

“Your mother,” her voice was shaking. “Your mother won’t be able to pick you up, Owen.”

“What do you mean? Why can’t she?”

“She… She was in a car accident, love,” she hesitated, looking away, and Owen began to get a bad feeling, his stomach twisting uncomfortable. “She didn’t make it.”

He stared at her, his shoulders slumping. Didn’t make it, he thought to himself. How could she not make it? She was his mother, she always made it. Whether it was getting him to school, or taking him home, or making dinner and breakfast for him, or letting him go see his friends and two cousins. She always pulled through and made it work for him.

Miss Kumar’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a tight hug as he stood limply in her arms. She wouldn’t lie to Owen, would she? It dawned on him then. “She didn’t make it.” Was his mother… Dead?

No. She couldn’t be.

His teacher stepped back and Owen looked up blankly. His chest hurt like his lungs were being constricted. His stomach was still rolling uncomfortably. He felt like crying and screaming, but nothing came out. His lips didn’t part, and no tears fell across his cheeks. He couldn’t believe her. His mother had to be alive. She wouldn’t leave him.

Miss Kumar lead him out of the double doors and towards the principal and the officer. Owen didn’t look at either of them. His hands were shaking, he knew, but that didn’t matter. He knew they were giving him sad looks, but that meant his mother was hurt, or gone forever, and he couldn’t have that. He wouldn’t have that.

The officer nodded something to Principal Spence and Owen didn’t hear it. Everything sounded like it did when he would go to one of the local beaches with his mum and he’d go under the waves where he could hardly hear anything. The man he didn’t know stepped forward, crouching down before he put his hand on Owen’s shoulder.

“I’m Paul, mate,” he said. “And I’m here tah take yah to yuh auntie’s, alright?”

Owen slowly looked down and nodded. Paul stood up, placing his hand on the back of his neck gently to urge him around to walk out and towards the car. The boy didn’t mind as he continued looking at his feet.

He hadn’t seen his aunt for a couple months, since summer vacation when he got to sleep over with his cousins for a week after Christmas. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see his aunt at all. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see his mother.

Paul opened back door for him, helping him buckle up before closing the door to get in the driver’s seat. Owen stared at the window, watching as the road they were supposed to turn down that lead to home passed them.

He kept looking back, hoping that there was a mistake and Paul would get a call, saying that Owen’s mum was fine and that Owen could go back to his house, and he could go get his dog, but no such call ever came. Several tears began pouring over his cheeks.

The boy didn’t know what to do, but his mother would’ve.

Only realizing that they were at his aunt’s house when Paul opened the door, he slid out and nearly stumbled to his knees, catching himself on the police officer’s leg. He didn’t mutter an apology, even though he meant to. He looked up and realized there was another police car pulled up to the curb and the same sinking feeling began to take over his body.

Ushered forward by Paul, he trudged to the front door, reaching up to open it without waiting for permission. His aunt, Cherise, stood in the hallway when it swung open with tears running down her cheeks and she immediately ran forward, grabbing Owen to lift him up.

Feeling himself being wrapped in her arms, her hands patting his back and telling him that he was going to be okay, he truly felt the urge to cry. The resolve that his mother was waiting for him began to crack and his heart did, too. He wailed loudly and Cherise merely cradled him, tucking his head into the crook of her neck.

“I know, baby,” she told him, ignoring the two officers. “I know.”

“W-where is me m-mum?”

“I think yah know where, love.”

Owen shook his head rather violently, more sobs erupting from his throat, and they didn’t stop. He wanted to kick and he wanted to punch and he wanted to hurt someone, but he was unable in his aunt’s arms, clinging to her because she was real and there. His mother should’ve been, and that only made him sob harder and begin to cough.

Cherise continued to pat his back, whispering gently in his ear, “I’m here, Owen. It’s gonna be okay.”

But it wasn’t going to be and Owen knew it. Why would they play such a cruel joke on him and tell him that his mother was dead?

They wouldn’t.

At this realization, Owen did begin to kick. He wanted down and he wanted to run. He never wanted to return. He wanted to find his mum, but he didn’t know how to. His aunt continued to hold him, even as he shouted and kicked, dismissing the officers quietly, telling them to call with any new information.

Beginning to cough again, Cherise put him down and he nearly stumbled back. She caught him by the arm, more tears running down her face, too.

“Owen,” she pleaded. “Relax. Panicking isn’t gonna make it better.”

“Where is she?” He shouted back, his arm hanging limply at his side as his face scrunched up. The pain in his chest was growing worse and worse and he could scarcely breathe. He coughed again, his body hunching as he looked down at the ground, his other arm still held in her hand.

“She’s gone.”

“No! Yuh’re a liah!”

“I’m not, baby. I’m not.”

Owen forced his way out of her grasp, looking at the door before trying to run for it, only to fall flat on his face and sob harder. His aunt picked him up again, wrapping him in a hug as she kissed his head.

She wasn’t helping. She was sobbing, too, and she fell to the floor with Owen in her arms, cradling her to her body as she hugged him, rocking back and forth. It wasn’t fair, he thought, clinging to his aunt but wanting to let go.

All thoughts of the picture of his mum and the dog he wanted in his backpack were gone. His mother wasn’t ever going to be able to pick him up again, let alone go with him to get a puppy. What was he supposed to do? What was going to happen to him?

Part of him was still telling him that they were lying to him, but as he felt his aunt’s body shake with her crying, that part began to grow quieter and quieter. He had never seen his aunt cry before.

A big pair of arms wrapped around the two of them and Owen’s vision was too blurry with tears to know who they belonged to. They hugged them close to whoever’s body it was and made him feel even worse because they weren’t his mother’s arms and they never would be.

“I got the call,” it was his uncle, Logan, he guessed through the haze of grief that had begun to pour through him, making his body shake uncontrollably as the tears just kept coming and coming, and the feelings of despair that made his chest and arms and legs feel completely numb was growing worse.

The numbness didn’t stop. The crying eventually did, but not the horrible hollow feeling deep inside of him. He always felt like he was going to cry, the back of his throat and eyes burning constantly, but he never did. He stayed with them, his aunt and uncle and two cousins, Kaitlyn and Josh, at least for the two weeks leading up to the funeral. He didn’t go to school, nor did he really leave the room that they gave him with Josh. He never talked, he didn’t want to, and there was no reason to.

The funeral was when it really hit him. The casket was closed, and he was dressed in the nicest suit that his aunt and uncle could provide, but he never stood up to talk about his mum, or even sat close to the mahogany tomb. No, he sat far away in the corner of the funeral home, curled up on a chair while refusing to look at or talk with anyone. He broke down and sobbed there, not letting anyone touch him or comfort him.

He cried when they were at the graveyard, too, the day was colder, the wind blowing around them, and Owen never wanted to get out of the car. He nearly fell walking up the hill towards the site for the grave that they had chosen, his hands catching him on the grass as he bit his lip, already feeling the tears running down his flushed cheeks. He had had enough of crying over the past two weeks, enough of feeling numb, but he couldn’t stop it.

Owen stood behind his uncle as people talked about his mother again. He looked anywhere but ahead the entire time. He saw a man, not such a strange sight, only he was standing down by the cars, a black jacket on with dark jeans, his hair combed back, and he was looking right at Owen. He couldn’t make out the expression on the man’s face and he had the urge to tug on Logan’s dress shirt and ask who the man was, but he never did, and they sat there, seventy feet from each other, watching carefully.

He felt like he should know whoever it was. His head throbbed as he tried to see if he remembered him, but nothing came to mind. The man cocked his head slightly and to Owen it looked like he was breathing harder, like he was crying, too, but the boy couldn’t be sure as he continued to stare at him, not paying attention to anything else going on around him.

The service concluded after that, and the man walked briskly towards one of the trucks parked on the road that cut through the cemetery, and he was off before anyone could see him, other than Owen, that is. His aunt gently placed a hand on his shoulder and he looked up at her, able to tell she was trying not to cry as she told him it was time to go home.

A week after, Owen never wanted to see another police officer again, especially after they dragged him from the courtroom kicking and screaming, begging his aunt to let him stay with her.

“Please!” Was the only word he could say, his vision blurred as he stared at his aunt, who had a hand covering her mouth, Logan at her side giving him a desperate look as he was pulled through the doors.

He thrashed harder, trying to squirm out of the hands holding him to no avail, he wailed loudly, not caring who was watching as he was taken through the lobby and out to the police car that was to take him to the foster care center to get him placed in a home that would be better suited to his needs, but Owen didn’t want that. He wanted the only family he had left.

The officers were apologizing, among some curse words as he kicked at them while pleading for them to let him go, but they only gave him sad looks as they put him in the back seat of one of the squadron cars. They locked the door just as Owen tried to open it, kicking at the divider and the door and the seat, wanting out badly.

“Lemme go!” He cried as they got into the car in front of him, “Please lemme go! I want my aunt!”

They didn’t reply as they drove away and Owen put his hands to the glass, watching as the courtroom, and the last of his family, disappeared behind him.

Owen was alone.

Chapter Text

Owen decided while washing his hair and face that they would remain in the area for one more night. They were three states from New Jersey and he figured that would provide for a little leeway of time. That and he hadn't had sex in nearly three years and just the thought of it made him want to push the heel of his palm down into his crotch to relieve the pressure of his jeans.

So he came to the conclusion that they would stay where they were, even if he told her they weren’t going to.

It was growing darker when the man stepped out of the bathroom again, running the towel over his head. Gwen was on the bed, sitting up with her knees by her chest as she stared at the wall, looking rather bored until she spotted him moving towards her. He rolled his eyes at her when she sat up straighter and more alert.

He sat down in front of her, continuing to towel off as he looked at her, now dressed in some ragtag jeans he got her and the same black tee she had been wearing. “Here’s the deal, Gwennie,” he said. “I’m feelin’ like goin’ out. Yuh’re gonna stay here.”

She opened her mouth, obviously intending on replying but Boomerang just cocked his eyebrow. She didn’t say anything, sealing her lips shut and he nodded his approval.

“If yah don’t stay, or yah contact someone, or do somethin’ yah know I ain’t gonna like,” he reached out, grabbing her chin to lift up her head to see the bruises on her neck. “There’ll be consequences. Not just fah yah, mind. I might kill the clerk, or someone in the room next door, who knows,” he shrugged, “Got it?”

Gwennie nodded her head without comment, her face pale, and Boomerang smiled cruelly. “I’ll be takin’ yuh bag, tah, with all them pretty clothes.”

Standing up then, he tossed the towel beside her on the bed. He turned, grabbing the pack—which was in the same place that he had left it in—before snagging up his coat. Her eyes were on him as he slid the coat on along with the backpack. Owen walked to the door, putting his hand on the handle as he pointed at her. “Yah bettah be here when I get back.”

He opened and slammed the door behind him before he heard her reply. He knew she wasn’t going anywhere and it made him laugh as he reached into his coat to pull out a cigarette to smoke before he set out. She was afraid of him, too afraid to think about what consequences she—and others—would face if she did try to flee or talk to anyone. He was being completely serious when he told her that he’d kill the owner of the motel, or whoever the hell was running the front desk at the time, or anyone really.

If there was one thing that Captain Boomerang did, he thought as he lit the cigarette, it’s that he meant what he said when he said it.

He smoked it quickly and threw the butt on the ground, grinding it under his boot before he got onto his bike. Boomerang knew there was a local bar and a local bar could mean a local strip club. He knew without a doubt he could get one of those women into a back room where he could pound away until he was satisfied.

Driving around past the bar, his eyes darted back and forth until they landed on another bar sign, a flashing neon outline of a stripper under it, and he knew he had found what he was looking for. He pulled his bike up alongside the curb, kicking out the stand after turning off the motorcycle.

Striding in through the door, his lips curled as he felt the bass line in his body, saw the lowlights, watched the girls striding along the stage and on the poles, touching themselves and each other, and he was hard all over again.

He set up beside part of the stage, where the women would walk and dance for him. He glanced at their legs, eyes on their asses most of all before moving to their chests. There was one that seemed to take a liking to him, shaking her bum right in front of him as he watched the curves of her body. All he needed to do was give her a few raised eyebrows, a charming smile, a wink, and she pointed at the door in the corner with the bruiser in front of it. He nodded once and she quickly moved off stage to the back.

Boomerang meandered over to the bruiser, not wanting to get into an altercation while waiting for her. The bruiser had his arms folded across his chest, looking over him with a look of distaste. He lifted his hand, making a gesture for him to scram when the door opened, and the dancer from before poked her head out and bit her lip, jerking her head for him to follow. He smirked at the guard as he walked back through the door behind him.

The small woman grabbed his hand, leading him down the hall and past several closed doors before pulling him into a small room. It looked like a dressing room, he thought as she closed the door, with a mirror and a desk with makeup that had been strewn across it. He plopped himself down on the leather couch against the back wall.

She was small, not as small as Gwennie, but small. She had red hair, bright to the point that it was almost orange. She walked to him, settling down in his lap. Hands slipping under the straps of the pack on his shoulders, she took it off, setting it down on the floor. Her eyes were on him and she was wearing next nothing. The woman pressed closer and started to push off his heavy coat.

“What’s yuh name, love?” He asked her, his hands moving up the backs of her thighs.

“Roxanne,” she told him, her fingers dragging along his shoulders.

She lowered herself down onto his lap, his coat falling onto the couch behind him. Her hands brushed back over his shoulders, moving to squeeze his chest through his tank top. One of his hands moved to her lower back and he moved his other hand, fingers grabbing and tearing off her nipple pasties. He tossed them aside, ducking his head to drag his tongue over the tops of her breasts.

“Lovely,” he muttered. She had a thong on, plaid that was different shades of red over white, and he was toying with the string across her hip. He hummed his approval as he looked up at her, smirking devilishly. “Fine choice, darlin’.”

The woman threw back her head to present her chest to him, giggling softly. He hadn’t ever heard Gwennie giggle before. He sat up ramrod straight, his eyebrows furrowed. Why the hell was he thinking of her? Or better yet, comparing this woman to her?

Roxanne’s hand touched his jaw and his eyes refocused on her. She was biting her lip while her eyes traced down his chest. He swallowed softly, shaking himself a little before standing, lifting her up to turn her around and lay her on her back. He leaned down, the coarse hair on the side of his face brushing her cheek as he took her earlobe into his mouth.

Her hands moved to his jeans, starting to fumble with the fly. She pulled the zipper down and pushed the jeans down to the middle of his thighs, fingers drifting to squeeze his ass. He hissed, more of a warning than anything.

“Tell me your name,” she whispered.

It struck Owen, then, that hardly anyone really knew his name anymore. He was just Captain Boomerang, that’s what he had turned into. It’s what he was. He never considered telling anyone his name anymore, not just Gwen, and certainly not this stripper. He mentally cursed, allowing that weak woman who he had been with for four days to creep into his mind again. It had to be because she was the only one he had been with for more than two hours in close proximity in nearly three years, Christ, she even rode on the back of his bike—his baby. He didn’t count being in prison trucks with other prisoners when he was shipped around across the States from penitentiary to prison to penitentiary.

He pushed himself up fully, his feet firmly on the floor. Roxanne whined and Boomerang’s eyes narrowed. He was getting distracted. He couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t let Gwen, or prison, or whatever the hell else was lurking in his mind, interrupt him getting a bit of ass.

The redhead sat up, her hands touching the back of his neck. “Hey, look at me, baby,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me. Come on.”

Nodding a little he leaned down again, taking a breath to refocus himself as his cock twitched, reminding him of his semi-naked status and her fully naked status. His lips touched along her jaw, teeth leaving marks that could potentially bruise. The Aussie hummed, his hips starting to grind against hers.

He didn’t look at her face much, but he was glad her skin wasn’t caked with makeup. He hated the way it tasted, or how strippers always seemed to look like a total mess up close. Boomerang supposed that one pro about it was that it covered hickeys, and love bites, and bruises. His body locked up again. Gwen didn’t have any to cover her neck, either.

Boomerang shoved himself to his feet, shouting aloud in outrage. Roxanne—if that even was her real name, he thought—sat up, pushing herself back on the couch. He ran a hand through his hair, looking to the ground for his clothes only to see her backpack. He nearly kicked it. His raging hard on was still extremely evident, after all, he didn’t even have his pants up all the way to cover it and he was never one for underwear.

He grabbed his jeans, pulling them up with his teeth bared. How dare she? How dare she sit in his mind, creeping around when she had no right to be there when he didn’t want her there? This was his night to release, but of course, the bitch he had to kidnap was going to ruin everything and keep his mind off of the woman that was offering herself on the couch moments ago.

Reaching over to get his coat off the couch, he shrugged it on. He seized the backpack of the ground with a vengeance like it was Gwennie herself, and she was there mocking him, ruining his one time to get laid with her around. He wouldn’t be able to bring one home either if he couldn’t stop thinking about her presence. He clenched his fists, glared at the woman as if it was her fault, too, and stormed out.

The Australian nearly slammed the door on his way into the room, a six pack of Stella Artois in one hand, the room key in another. If he couldn’t get laid he could, at least, get tipsy, he thought as he rounded the corner before stopping in his tracks when his eyes landed on the woman on the bed.

Gwennie was laid out on her stomach, her face hidden by a curtain of blonde hair, one leg under the blanket, and one pale, bare leg out across the top of the sheets. He stared at the leg, surprised at the fact that she would honestly sleep without pants when she knew he would be coming back. He dropped the backpack on the ground, the soft thump louder than his boots on the floor as he went to set the beers down on the couch, where he would be sitting to indulge in the alcoholic beverages.

The Captain grabbed one and twisted the cap first, not wanting to sit if he would have to get up to get a bottle opener, but his hands did the trick. He gulped down the first half of it before turning around to sit. His eyes were watching her in the darkness, anger from before bubbling up inside him again over the shock of her being half naked.

It grew more as he went onto his second bottle, knowing he would be getting buzzed soon enough. He was letting the beer get to him. By the time he was almost done with the second, he was up and moving towards the bed, ready to teach her a lesson for encroaching on his thoughts. He grabbed the blanket, tearing it off the bed to wake her, but she didn’t even twitch, and Boomerang was now presented with an ass covered by thin white panties and her shirt bunched up just below her lower back.

Seeing it, in his slightly buzzed state, was definitely different from knowing what was under the duvet. His body perked up again and he could feel the blood rushing all over again, his balls ached and reminded him he hadn’t emptied them yet. He felt his body stumble back to the couch, his eyes still focused on the white cotton that framed the curve of her butt, which had more meat on it than he first thought.

His jeans were shoved down before he knew it, cock in hand as he slowly pumped a rhythm, breathing a sigh of relief at being touched. He continued staring at her, unsure if he was angry, or relieved, or even guilty. He was using her image as a tool, and though he didn’t let himself mind much, he was a third of the way to being drunk, he was jerking off, and he still wanted to bury himself deep inside of someone.

His arm moved faster, wrist curling so his hand twisted around himself. He didn’t make much noise, only soft and quick breathing through his nose as his hips bucked up, his body asking for more from him. He gave it as he continued staring at her, his cheeks flushed.

Owen reached down to the ground, grabbing the bottle of Stella and downed the rest of it, eyes still open as his hand moved faster, wanting to get his release over with so the pressure would finally release in glorious elation.

Even with his eyes focused on her pale skin, he wasn’t seeing her. No, he was imagining being buried deep inside of someone, their body moving with his, his cock in a much wetter and hotter place than his hand. Panting harder now, he was immersed in his head, wanting to tug on a woman’s hair, fuck her hard into whatever surface he put her on. He wanted to feel nails clawing down his back and teeth biting into his shoulder to muffle loud moans and screams.

He wanted to feel it all again. He wanted to taste sweat running across skin, or nibble on an earlobe, or hold a thigh and hip so tightly he knew they would bruise. He wanted to dominate again and satisfy himself. Just the thought of feeling a woman clenching around him as she came because of him made him hiss through his teeth and send him over the edge.

A guttural groan erupted from his throat, quiet and strained as he rode his way through his climax, his hips jerking harder as he threw his head back. His body curled in on itself as the waves of pleasure pumped through him, the knots of tension in his muscles coming undone as he relaxed, coming down from his high.

Still breathing heavily, the Captain looked up. Gwennie still hadn’t moved and remained stretched out over the bed. He sighed and grabbed another beer to pop open, discarding his coat before heading for the bathroom to wipe down his grey wife beater with a towel. He didn’t look at her again as he trudged his way across the room, or when he stood in the doorway with one of the motel towels, looking down as he sipped on his beer, dabbing at the fabric. He finally gave up after hardly touching the shirt, pulling it off of his head to toss in the tub, making a mental note that he’d have to wash it, or make Gwen do it.

He sat on the edge of the bed after that, careful not to move it too much as he held up the TV remote, flipping on the television as he set his beers by his feet, intending on drinking the rest of them tonight. Scrolling through the channels, he finally got to the local news that seemed to have started twenty minutes before at ten.

Watching absent-mindedly, he went through his alcohol, monitoring any weather and possible missing person alerts, or escaped convict alerts. Light showers all through tomorrow over West Virginia. He sighed at the prospect of driving his bike in the dark and rain, even if it wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before. Then the major story came on, and he laughed silently when his mug shot was displayed on the screen with Gwen’s photo next to his, looking much different than she did now. He knew his handy work would pay off, with her at least.

There was a woman talking and their pictures moved to the top right of the screen as she sat at her desk, staring at the camera.

“Four days ago, escaped penitentiary convict, Owen Mercer,” he frowned when they used his real name. He didn’t like revealing that information, “Aka, Captain Boomerang, kidnapped Gwendolyn Bartholme, the daughter of Leopold Bartholme, one of the most powerful men in the world,” she said in that standard reporting voice all reporters seemed to have. “A little over a week ago, Boomerang managed to escape from Arkham and ran rampant through Gotham before taking Miss Bartholme hostage, in order to make his escape.”

He smirked into his bottle when the warden of Arkham showed up on screen with the mic in front of him. “Archibald Lee: Arkham Asylum Warden” popped up near the bottom of the TV as he began to talk.

“Arkham is still as strong as it always has been. Sometimes criminals do escape, unfortunately, it happens, but the percentile is at an extreme low with a 0.9% chance of anyone getting out. I warn all of you to be on guard. Mercer is crafty and cruel and delusional. He’s dangerous.”

“Fuckin’ Archie,” he scoffed. “Yah douche.”

It cut to a different anchor, standing by a well-dressed woman that looked faintly like Gwennie. It clicked that he was staring at her mother, Lucinda. The anchor lifted the mic, looking to her left before saying, “I’m here with Lucinda Bartholme, the mother of Gwendolyn, who has decided to speak with us. What do you have to say?”

Owen could tell she was faking the emotion on her face. He knew she’d be believable to other viewers, ones who hadn’t ever needed to know body language like the back of their hands to know how to win any form of a fight. He sighed through his nose, interested in what she had to say.

“I miss my daughter,” she started, lifting a handkerchief to her blot at her eyes. “It’s been three days since my baby was taken from me and I miss her. I want her home, safe, with me. I beg of you, if you see my baby girl,” she paused, looking away as she coughed like she was crying, “Bring her home to me.”

He cocked an eyebrow like she was standing in front of him, muttering, “Stupid rich bitch,” under his breath as the woman at the news station came on again, shaking her head and frowning.

“Such a shame,” she said. “If you see either Owen Mercer or Gwendolyn Bartholme, you are urged to contact law enforcement. Now onto our next story tonight…”

Boomerang didn’t pay much attention after that, as he was on his last beer. He didn’t like that his face and hers had been broadcast, even though he knew it had been or was going to be, anyway. It made it harder for him to go out during morning or evening hours, or get a motel if someone recognized one of the two. He clenched his jaw before downing the last of his drink.

Stumbling to his feet, his head pounded as he felt his world sway immediately. He turned around, eyeing the bed he was just sitting on that still held Gwennie’s sleeping form. Not thinking, he simply let himself flop down onto the bed, making the mattress bounce as he laughed quietly into the blanket. He grabbed the edge of the duvet, having himself up before starting to grumble, trying to get under it. He settled in, the warm blanket it over him as he relaxed.

The blanket was gone from Gwen's body, and Boomerang could care less because he was out like a light in seconds.

 Something was moving against him. He felt hot under the covers and his eyes didn’t want to crack open. He grunted in annoyance and froze when he heard a soft, breathy nose in reply. His eyes opened wide as he lifted his head. They had both moved in the night, him onto his back while she was burrowed against him under the blanket, one of her thighs across him with an arm over his stomach.

He could see light peeking through the curtains and turned his head. 3:00 PM. She gasped again and his head whipped back to lock his gaze on her, intrigued by what the woman—who was terrified of him—was doing.

Gwen’s hips were rocking slowly and Boomerang realized the apex of her legs was right against his thigh. Her breathing was unsteady, her fingers curling into the skin above his hip as she pushed against him. He realized with a delightful grin, that she was having a wet dream, and this could make the perfect opportunity to tease her and mock her further.

She bit down on her lip, her eyes fluttering as she started to move rougher, her breath coming faster and in harsh pants. He sat back, feeling his own arousal deep in the pit of his belly as he watched the woman move. He hadn’t ever had a woman move against him in her sleep, and even though it was Gwen, he didn’t mind it so much.

Her hand gripped at him harder and suddenly she came to a stop. He watched as her head slowly lifted, her mouth gaping and her eyes wide with horror as she stared at him.

Boomerang chuckled and whispered, “Mornin’, darl’.”

 Owen hated the house they pulled up to. The place was spacious, what with its two floors, a large basement, colorful walls, decorations, family portraits, and warm, cozy furniture. Unrelenting, Owen still hated it. To him, it was totally bland. It didn’t have charm to the hugeness, or the nice leather couches, or the dumb grey and tan and whatever color walls. It wasn’t like home was.

He had spoken a grand total of seven words since he had arrived two weeks ago; those words being, “Thank,” “You,” “Owen,” “No,” “Please,” “Yes,” and “Maybe.” Otherwise, his lips stayed sealed and he kept his head down, not wanting to interact.

The Garrisons were a nice family, he knew, but they weren’t his. Mrs. Garrison, a bit of a short and plump woman in her thirties, watched him like a hawk, constantly asking if he needed anything to eat, or drink, or do, and the boy would shake his head in response. Mr. Garrison was tall and lanky, but he didn’t talk much, so normally if he was in the same room as Owen, they didn’t much interact, which suited the both of them fine. The real problem Owen had with the Garrisons, was their son, Zane.

Oh, he didn’t like Zane, not one bit.

He never shut his mouth. It was like a motor with no filter between his brain and tongue and it only stopped when he was asleep. It didn’t help the horrible headaches Owen had been having over the past five weeks and he felt disrespected. He never replied, but he definitely had had the urge to tell the kid to fuck off.

It was evening and he was getting ready to jump in bed, getting into the pajamas he was allowed to bring from home, the ones his mother got him. They were a bit longer, with white and red plaid that Owen had come to take comfort in. He wore them every night, and neither of the parents made any comments, allowing him his private thoughts and space.

He was about to hop up and snuggle under the covers in the “guest bedroom”, only pausing to take off his socks, when he heard Zane’s annoying voice begin on one of its motor trips.

“Where’d yah get those?” He asked and Owen didn’t look at him. “Those stupid jammies?”

He peeled off his other sock, anger already building inside of him, making his chest feel heavy. He clenched the cloth in his hand. My jammies aren’t stupid, he said to himself. Nodding slowly, he dropped the sock and returned to climbing up into bed.

“Didn’t yah hear me?” Zane told him, inviting himself into the room. “I asked where yah got ‘em.”

“None o’ yuh business,” Owen snapped back. The boy looked shocked by the fact that he had actually replied to him.

“Yes, it is. I gotta make sure me mum doesn’t shop there. I’m not dumb enough to wear stupid pajamas.”

The boy on the bed was still sitting up and his head whipped around to glare at the boy who was bigger and two years older than him. “They’re not stupid.”

“Yes, they are.”

“No.”

“Yep.”

“No!”

“Ye—”

Something inside of Owen cracked, the heavy feeling in his chest exploded, and he launched off the bed with a fierce cry, coming down on the idiot hard with his fists swinging, hitting the boy anywhere he could reach.

Zane fell back, his hands coming up to shove at Owen as he landed on the ground with a thud, yelling unintelligible things back at the small boy, who was shouting at him.

“Yah don’t tell me my shit’s stupid,” he cried. “Me mum got it fah me, an’ she isn’t stupid! Yuh’re stupid!”

Tears were streaming down his face, his throat closing up as he continued pounding on the boy. “Yah should learn some respect!”

He was shoved off by Zane’s feet, which knocked the breath out of him when they slammed into his stomach. “Yuh’re crazy!” He shouted back at him, his fist coming up to hook Owen in the jaw, sending him sprawling onto his back beside the bed. He could hear pounding footsteps coming up the stairs towards them and faintly heard Zane calling out for his mum, but he could hardly see, his world swaying back and forth as horrible pricks of pain erupted across the side of his face.

There was yelling and Owen was pulled to his feet by Mr. Garrison, who looked extremely concerned as Mrs. Garrison grabbed Zane by the ear, hauling him off down the hallway. The lonely boy’s crying got louder, tears that he hadn’t shed in two weeks tracking down his face as loud sobs shook his body. Garrison lifted him, putting him on the bed before kneeling down in front of him.

“Now, son,” he said, his voice calm and deep. “What happened?”

“He-he called m-me mum’s jammies dumb,” he stuttered out, trying to breathe through his nose properly.

“What did you say?”

He shook his head and coughed, trying to breathe enough to get out a reply. “They were-weren’t.”

“He didn’t stop, did he?”

Owen shook his head and Mr. Garrison pulled him into a hug, sitting on the bed beside him. He sighed softly, rocking the two of them as Owen cried into his side. He knew what this would mean, he wouldn’t get to stay, not that he much wanted to, but it meant another family other than his own didn’t want him.

His heart hurt, his chest feeling caved in like he had been sat on. Would the police come and get him again, haul him off to the foster care center to wait for a family to choose him and take him home for a stupid little trial run?

He didn’t want to see any more police. Not after being dragged out of that courtroom kicking and screaming. He shuddered at the thought and felt Garrison’s arms come around him tighter.

“What did he say?” It was Mrs. Garrison. The sound of her voice startled him and he jumped, hands clinging to Mr. Garrison’s shirt with all he had.

“Zane was callin’ his pyjamas dumb.”

He felt himself being pulled away from Mr. Garrison and he cried out before he realized the woman was only pulling him in for a gentle hug. “Hush now, baby, it’s okay,” she said to him, but he could tell she was about to say something else, and he didn’t want anything to do with it.

“Yah still shouldn’t have punched him.”

“He disrespected me,” Owen sniffled back, wanting to start pulling him away.

“I know,” she acknowledged, “But that doesn’t mean I allow hitting or violence in this household. Understand?”

Owen nodded, beginning to pull his body back as she continued rambling on. “If this happens again, Owen, yah won’t like the consequences. I’m givin’ yah another chance.”

She released him and stared down at him with a hard expression, obviously wanting him to understand the situation he put himself in. He didn’t look back at up her, only lifted his arm to wipe his nose. The boy sniffled, wiping his palms under his eyes next.

She gently rubbed his shoulder, having a silent conversation with Mr. Garrison before she patted him and told him goodnight. She left without another word and the man beside him on the bed pulled him close again one more time before standing up.

“Yah be a good lad, alright?”

“Okay,” he told him, moving to peel back the covers. His face hurt and his body shook and he was exhausted. He just wanted to go to bed.

“I’ll go get yah somethin’ fah yah face,” he told him before he left the room, closing the door behind him to leave Owen to his own thoughts for the next five minutes.

Huddling up inside of his blanket, curled around his pillow, Owen still had salty tears coming out of the corners of his eyes. He took another hit for his mother and she wasn’t even there to cuddle with him and help take the pain away, or see what he did to Zane for disrespecting her. She wasn’t someone to be disrespected, she was his mother, and no one was allowed to disrespect his mum.

He sniffled and took on a determined look as he stared into the darkness created by the blanket. He wasn’t going to let anyone ever disrespect his mother again, no matter the consequences.

Chapter Text

Boomerang was smirking at her as she stared at him, her mouth open and pure fear blooming in her chest, making her body lock up. “Mornin’, darl’,” rang in her ears and she slowly pulled her eyes away, noticing her body strewn across the man’s.

“Enjoyin’ yuhself?” He asked and she scrambled back and away from him, her mind horrified with the way her body felt. “Looks like it, all flushed, aren’t yah?”

She was hot, her face flushed with an ache between her legs that she had been taught to ignore by her mother. He chuckled and she noticed that one of his hands was on his chest, the other at his side, and that’s where they had been when she woke up.

His chest. She suddenly looked at it, unsure if she was surprised to find it inked. His left breast, over his heart, had the continent of Australia with a bold blue outline that faded towards the center of the piece and there was more detailing she couldn’t see inside. Her eyes drifted to the other pec. A formation of stars, which she recognized as the same stars on the Australian flag, stretched across his skin; one of the stars right on his nipple, where a silver hoop gleamed through it. The piercing was what she was surprised about, staring at it with her eyebrows furrowed. She didn't understand why he would do such a thing to his body.

Her face, instead of turning darker red, drained of color. No, she said to herself. No, I didn’t do that. I didn’t look, I didn’t do anything. However, from the way his smirk was growing into a large and amused grin, she realized that she had to have been. She moved back farther away, nearly tumbling off the bed as she covered her eyes.

“Interestin’,” he said as he sat up, “Well, while yah sort yuh thoughts, I’m gonna have me anothah showah before we go.”

She watched him start to move and looked back to his thigh where she had been pressed against him. The denim in the middle of his leg had a dark spot, obviously damp. She began shaking right then, wondering how horrible her mother would say she was for indulging in her sleep. She truly hadn't meant to. Feelings of shame and dreaded arousal flooded her body.

He put his feet on the ground and stood, stretching his back until an audible crack rang through the room. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him again, staring at the spot where he had been laying, her body feeling chilled without any warmth pressed to it. She heard him humming playfully as he sauntered around the bed and towards the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Her body fell onto the bed then, only feeling slightly better now that his presence wasn’t right next to her. She rolled onto her back, making a meal of her lip as she stared at the ceiling. She heard the water of the shower start and allowed herself to relax into the heat the mattress retained. It felt like her thighs were still shaking and the tightness in her lower belly urged her to find release. It was coiled up and uncomfortable and she could feel a gush between her thighs. She lifted her hands to cover her face before closing her eyes.

She let her arms fall, feeling slightly braver with herself than before after several deep breaths. Trying to wrap her mind around what just happened, she could feel her hand drifting cautiously across her stomach like she was expecting it to get caught and smacked, even though she was alone. Her panties were soaked and she felt a rush of exhilaration. This hadn’t ever happened to her, not like this, not with such emotion .

Gwen had been dreaming, of what, she wasn’t entirely sure, but she could still feel the heat, a large body over her, his eyes staring down at her. She closed her eyes, trying to recall his blurred face, if he even had one, but nothing came, and her fingers slipped inside of the hem of her underwear, daring to go where she had only gone twice before.

She was sensitive, her hips jerking and her breath growing shaky as her fingers slid over her folds. Her wrist moved slowly, creating circles against skin so hot she felt like it was burning her finger tips. Releasing her lip from its prison between her teeth, she let her mouth gape, a string of soft breathy sounds coming from inside her belly, making her throat ache. She simply ignored it as she used more pressure.

It was strange, and new, and somewhat intriguing to Gwen, the way her body reacted to having the most private part of her body touched and molded. The blush on her face didn’t go away as she arched her back slightly, working her fingers harder on instinct, wanting to know what it felt like to have the coil low in her belly pop.

She turned her head, eyes still shut as she pressed her non-injured cheek into the pillow, gasping and releasing shaky, almost sob-like sighs. Everything around her seemed to disappear and the only thing that mattered is what her hand was doing between her thighs as she experimented, rubbing her palm over herself before returning to using the pads of her fingers to squeeze her clit.

Then everything shattered around her and she froze, still breathing hard, as she heard a soft moan coming from behind the bathroom door, carrying over the sound of the water. It had been deep and masculine and to her, sounded like the louder equivalent to the noises she’d been making. There was only one man it could’ve come from and that was Boomerang. It struck her then. Was he touching himself, too?

Her hand shot out of her panties and she bolted up, breathing hard and the intention of laying a finger on herself for sexual pleasure was gone. The dream, suddenly vivid in her mind, came to her with Boomerang’s face leering in her mind’s eye, touching her arms gently with the tips of his fingers as he kissed behind her ear.

She hadn’t ever even been kissed and the thought of having a dream about anyone touching their lips to her body was completely absurd, but make that man Boomerang? She shook her head, feeling the tightness in her chest that signaled an oncoming panic attack while her throat protested the rapid intake of air, only making it harder to breathe.

Why was he in my dream?

She knew he had what the magazines called a pretty and charming face, but to her, he wasn’t like that. He was big and he was scary and that grin that he seemed to have just to specifically jeer at her made her recoil, her face—though protesting through pain—scrunched up in a disgusted and fearful expression.

The woman felt like she was going to need to scrub every inch of her body until it was red and raw. How dare that man? Invade her dreams and touch her in such intimate places, and how dare she touch herself at the thought of such a man? How dare she touch herself at all?

“God dammit, Gwendolyn! What did I say?” She could hear her mother’s words echoing and bouncing around inside her head. “You disgust me!”

She covered her face with her hands. Her mother had warned her and told her that she was not to touch herself. She had been told never to think about, let alone have sex, before she was married. Her mother made sure she understood that it was pure sin and if she sinned, she would be deemed a whore and would become cast off. No one would ever want her.

Then, of course, she had to commit this grievous sin, in the room next to her captor, just after dreaming of him. What would she be, at this point, in the eyes of her mother?

“Nothing better than a whore,” her mind supplied and she cringed, pulling her knees up to her chest to wrap her arms around them. She rocked her body as she heard more deep groans from behind the bathroom door. She stared at the wall ahead of her, at a total loss.

Trying to focus on distracting herself, Gwendolyn thought of her throat. She wished she had painkillers. She had had trouble falling asleep because of the pain she was in and was horribly uncomfortable, but at least Boomerang hadn’t been there to watch her struggle due to the damage he had done to her. That would’ve been worse.

If she was being honest with herself, right now she was feeling miserable and completely violated, especially after being reminded of him putting his hands on her only two days before. Had it only been two days? She felt a chill creep up her spine. Two days and look what she had to show. A split cheek, a swollen and bruised neck, dirty dreams, and she had touched herself.

Why is this happening to me? Haven’t I been through enough? She pulled down her hands as she thought, pulling at her cheeks like it would give her answers, her hands being gentle enough that they didn’t cause the scab on her cheek to flare up or split. She simply didn’t understand. Why would God being doing this to her? What had she done to deserve any of it? She shook her head and jumped when she heard a gasping moan before the water shut off.

Feeling grimy, she rested her forehead on her knees and waited for him to come out of the bathroom. The door was yanked open and she flinched, fearing that he was going to be angry. His feet were quiet, but she still heard them walking towards the bed. She heard fabric hit the covers and looked up to see his jeans and the tank top he had been wearing.

“Yuh’re gonna wash those,” he said simply and she looked over to him. He was holding the white towel around his hips and she felt her cheeks burn as she moved her gaze up to his face. “I know there’s a wash downstairs. Maybe I’ll let yah take one or two pieces of yuh own.”

Dread filled her. She didn’t want to leave the room, or go and wash his clothes, but the moment she hesitated, his eyebrow cocked up warningly. Gwen nearly scrambled to get up, but she composed herself last second and grabbed his clothes slowly, folding them over her arm. At least this way she wouldn’t have to deal with a half naked man in the room. She went to grab her backpack, which was sitting on the couch, but he was suddenly beside her, gripping her wrist.

“Two shirts, darl’,” he said. “Not the whole pack.”

She frowned and nodded, waiting for him to release her arm before sliding the zipper up, reaching in until she felt the fabric of cotton shirts. She pulled them out, threw them over onto the couch and grabbed the jeans she had left there last night, realizing she was still in her underwear as she pulled them on as quickly as she could. He seemed uninterested as she took the clothes again and walked to the door.

“Bettah be back tah check in, or I’ll come an’ get yah, understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good, go,” he said and shooed her away and out the door. She nearly jumped when it closed behind her.

The woman stared at the drying machine, and then up at the clock, and back to the drying machine. Her fingers tapped the surface and she would lift a hand to run through her hair every few minutes. She was worried she was taking too much time. What if she was? What would Boomerang do?

She had thought about running when she got to the bottom of the stairs, just dropping the clothes and going as far as she could, but what good would it do? She had no shoes on. She had no idea where she was and he obviously had a better idea than her and the moment she closed the door she still felt like he was watching her every move and was confident she wouldn’t dare try to run. His threat had been very real the day before and she remembered the way his eyes burned into hers, being completely serious. She was sure his warning still applied.

She had returned after she put the wash in, and he remained in his towel, going through his large overcoat that was laid out on the bed. He had looked up and shooed her away, and she scampered back down the stairs and to the washing machine she had left unattended, not wanting to look at him, or communicate with him. At least the clothes were a distraction.

Feeling uncomfortable to the point that she was paranoid, she didn’t even realize that she hadn’t been wearing a bra when he shoved her out the door, or when he waved her away. Her arms covered her chest where her nipples were poking through the fabric of her shirt. Gwen was absolutely mortified, starting down at the tops of her small breasts before glaring and reprimanding them in her head, telling them that poking through the shirt was an absolutely horrible thing to do.

How she hadn’t realized she was without one when she woke up pressed against the Captain, she had no idea, but she was just as abashed about it.

The machine dinged and she jumped before she scrambled to open the door, yanking out the warmed clothes before folding them up on top of the dryer and stacking them to make them easier to carry. She, unfortunately, had no basket. Gwen’s hands were shaking as she pulled the clothes off, leaning them against her chest as she carried them out in a hurry, glad no one was there to watch her.

Running up the stairs, she nearly tripped and lost her balance. Her toe caught on the top stair and panic surged through her at the aspect of losing the load of clothes. She barely managed to get her foot under her, stumbling out across the landing as she breathed hard, stopping in front of their door, too busy holding the fabric to her chest to push her hair out of her face.

Gwen managed to get the door open, kicking it closed behind her as she walked into the room, looking to her left to see Boomerang laid out on the bed, towel and clothing nowhere in sight. His body was on full display. She squeaked, dropping the clothes then to shield her eyes before she saw too much.

“Christ woman,” he grunted and she heard the bed squeak. “Just had tah drop ‘em. What, did the view distract yah again?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, keeping her eyes closed as he walked to her, unsure if she should move to get the clothes or not while her face flared all over again.

The Aussie scoffed and Gwendolyn couldn’t help but cringe, hoping he wasn’t going to get pissed about the current situation of their clothing. She knew what would’ve happened with her mother had she dropped them. She would’ve gone to bed that night with a burning cheek and no dinner like she had done several times before.

“I got pants on,” he said it gruffly and she heard him zip up his fly. Still not wanting to open her eyes until he had a shirt on, she barely cracked one open. “Here’s how we’re gonna work tonight. There’s a buffet bar downstairs. I’ll grab a snack, then we leave.”

Gwen nodded as he shrugged the tank on, pulling it out to inspect the front like he was looking for something. “Do whatevah the fuck yah do. I’ll be back,” he told her and walked out the way she came in, his boots in hand.

She set to changing her clothes into the warm ones on the floor immediately, horrified to find that one of the shirts was a midriff and the other a tank. Trying to decide between showing her stomach or most of her shoulders and back when she was taught that skin was scandalous became a terrifying prospect and when she ran to her pack to see if there were any other shirts, she only found another tank and another pair of jeans beside her dark blue dress.

Reminded of her old life and the Gucci purse that had snapped with her personal belongings inside, she cringed with shame and shook her head. The blonde stared at the silky fabric longingly before decided to go with the midriff. If they were on the bike, she could block her stomach, not her shoulders. She got on the floor, reaching under the bed where she remembered putting the bra the night before—as her mother taught her never to leave womanly things out in view—and grabbed it before rushing to the bathroom. Disposing of her shirt, she refused to look at herself in the mirror as she pulled on her bra, staring at the shirt she put on the counter.

Eyeing the shirt, she inspecting the dark material carefully. It was plain, unlike the last one she had on, and was a strange mix of black and gray colors, but it looked comfortable enough, she decided. Gwen shrugged it on and tugged at the ends of it, wishing she could magically make it grow.

Deciding to leave it alone for the time being, she went to the bathroom, all while staring at the shower almost longingly. She hadn’t had one in what felt like forever. Her lips pulled down into a frown as she stood and buttoned up her pants again.

Boomerang hadn’t returned when she walked back out, aiming to put the other shirt in her bag to keep some kind of order and organization to the life she had been thrown into with him. She pulled on the boots he had gotten her, lacing them up with a precise hand. Unsure what she was to do now, she sat on the bed and ignored the urge to chew on her fingers—a nervous habit she had that her mother had slapped her hands for.

It felt, to her, like the minutes were lasting twice as long as normal. The feeling of arousal in her stomach was completely gone, leaving her body feeling twisted up in tense, uncomfortable knots. Wondering what her mother would think of her being in the same bed with a strange man and leaving out the fact that she had been pushed up against him made her hang her head and fidget.

Would her mother even care at this point? After all, she was gone. There was no reason to care about what her daughter was doing as long as she wasn’t out destroying the family name, or taking money. Then and only then would her mother bat an eyelash. The thought of Boomerang possibly asking for their number in the future for him to get money made her nervous. She knew if she were to get out of this situation alive, her parents would not be happy with her affiliation in the stealing of their precious dollars.

She fidgeted and Boomerang took that moment to storm in, two small steaming cups in one hand and two pastries in the other. He tossed one of the pastries at her and she barely caught it, finding out that it was a danish as he set a cup on the side table by the bed.

“Two minutes an’ we’re out, whether yuh’re done, or not.”

Gwen could smell the coffee and she moved towards the table, gently taking the cup before sipping on it. She didn’t like what he had given her, straight black coffee, but she decided it was best not to complain as she bit into the cheap danish, grimacing as she chewed.

He was pacing back and forth with a system worked out between taking bites of his danish and drinks out of his own cup, which she assumed was the same as hers. She didn’t directly look at him as she watched him. He was obviously angry and she had no desire to make it worse. So she heeded his warning and roughly swallowed the last of the tiny meal he had brought her.

The Captain didn’t say a word as he gathered his jacket and coat, checking everything as she grabbed her pack and pulled it on, still subconsciously tugging on her shirt. He didn’t look at her as he walked out the door and gestured for her to follow behind him, the pad of his thumb running along his lower lip.

It was dark and there wasn’t any lightning flashing around them. The Australian seemed confident as he drove through the pounding rain. They were both soaked and Gwendolyn was frozen to the bone, goosebumps all over her body as she held the cold beanie against her mouth. Her lungs and throat burned, but she was doing her best to push through and breathe.

They were coming around a bend, Gwen hanging onto his slippery jacket, when the bike sputtered and she heard Boomer curse loud enough that she could hear it. They veered and she clung, fearing her body was going to slide off the wet seat as the bike turned off.

“Get off,” he commanded over his shoulder, his voice booming. She slipped off without a second thought, trying to ignore the freezing air that hit her when she wasn’t behind him. With her arms around herself, she watched him sit on the back rubbing his face with his hands.

In the night without any lights, she could barely see him as he shoved himself up and off his bike, kicking the stand before crouching on the other side of it like he was going to be able to see what was wrong with it without a light. She bit down on her lip and made a disgruntled sound as the rain began to come down harder. He must’ve heard it—and she figured he must have amazing ears—because she saw his head snap up.

“What?” He barked out at her.

“Nothing.”

“Yah bettah tell me.”

“I was just thinking of how bad this day’s been,” she replied in a meek voice. “It started bad—”

“Hey!” He cut her off as he stood up to lean over his bike and jab a finger at her. “Yah were cuddled up tah me ! So why don’t yah stop usin’ that little mouth of yours an’ keep it shut, alright?”

Gwen had flinched when he moved again, thinking he was going to come around the bike when he was really only squatting down again, muttering spitefully under his breath. The small woman shifted back and forth, placing her hands on her arms and rubbing them up and down to try and warm herself. He didn’t look up at her again as he moved his hands off the seat of the bike.

This is my chance, Gwendolyn thought quite suddenly. It’s dark, he’s distracted. I could get away.

She knew, of course, that the chances were slim, but there was a chance. She had to take it, for better or for worse. She didn’t want to sit behind him on that wretched death trap of a bike any longer.

The blonde looked behind her. They were still in timber and she assumed he had his reasons for remaining on side roads winding through the forests. Slowly nodding her head and gathering up what little courage she had, she turned on the balls of feet and took off, her boots already slipping in the mud on the side of the road as she prepared herself to scramble up the hill. She actually got to the top of the small hollow that cradled the road and was about to go flying down the other side when a strong hand that came out of nowhere, and without a single sound, gripped her arm.

A burst of sudden wind rushed past her at his arrival, like his own running pushed it, and she was in the air with the momentum, feet kicking as she fell back to Earth, his hand still holding tight and firmly as she crashed down onto her backpack and the cold, wet ground.

Without a sound, without warning, Gwen shook her head to fight off the tears as the wind was knocked out of her. It was already a struggle to breathe in the damn cold and now she was gasping. How could he have caught up so fast without any noise?

“Yah dropped me beanie,” he said casually and held it over her face. “Sad tah see my gift goin’ uncared fah.”

She shook her head, reaching for it, but he just shrugged and put it in one of his coat’s pockets. “Yah fucked up now, Gwennie girl.”

He yanked her to her feet and she stumbled, struggling to get air through into her lungs as she made rather unflattering wheezing noises. He towed her along roughly, jostling her back down the hill through the mud.

“Now that yah’ve had yuh fun,” he said. “Yuh’re gonna stay right with me. I’ll let yah off, just this once, an’ if yah do it again,” he shook his head at her and clicked his tongue. “Well, yah don’t wanna know what I have in mind.”

Gwen nodded, her lip trembling as she felt tears surging to the backs of her eyes. Her hair was plastered to her head in wet and stringy curls. He let go of her when they were beside the bike again, him practically shoving her away as he kicked the stand.

“She’s gonna need work. It’s a ten minute walk tah the nearest town.”

Joy, she thought miserably, folding her arms over her stomach again as she bowed her head, walking beside him as he started to push the bike through the rain, her arm and neck throbbing.

The nanny hadn’t shown up yet and Lucinda was surely going to give her a verbal beating, but as the kids watched her pace, they knew it would be when she got back.

“I haven’t got time for this,” she finally gritted and stopped her pacing, spinning towards Jason and Gwendolyn. “You will wait here and you will behave, do you understand me?”

“Yes, mother,” they both replied and she gave them a warning glare before marching out the door and slamming it behind her. The kids looked at each other and grinned.

“You ready?”

“Uh-huh,” Gwen hummed.

“I’ll count first! One… Two…”

“Wait! I’m not ready!”

“Okay okay,” Jason replied as he covered his eyes in the middle of the living room. “I’m only going to count to twenty.” Gwen stuck out her tongue. “I’m counting!”

The little five-year-old couldn’t help but giggle as she ran down the hall into Jason’s room, shutting her mouth as soon as she got inside. She hustled to his closet, where she knew she could hide under his clothes. The girl closed the door behind her and burrowed into the pile of them, trying to press down her frizzy curls as she pulled one of his shirts over the top of her head, leaving her eyes clear so she could see if he found her.

“Ready or not, here I come!” Her brother called and she slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. She could hear him, moving about the house, humming and asking where she was, or if she was under the bed in her room, or even in his room. Her heart beat wildly as she sat in the dark, listening as he walked in.

“I bet she’s… Under the bed!” He paused. “No… Hm… Where could Gwennie be?”

Jason came to the closet and she heard the door open before she looked up at his grinning face, jumping out of the pile of clothes. “You found me!”

He caught her in a hug. “Oh yes I did, Gwennie. Now you’re going to have to find me.”

“Okay!”

“Remember to count to twenty.”

“I know,” she said it exasperatedly and pushed on his chest to signal that she wanted to be put down. “I’m gonna count!”

He chuckled and ruffled her hair as she pouted before telling her to close her eyes. She did and started counting, even putting her hands up over her face for good measure as she heard him run out of his room.

“Twenty!” She chimed when she reached the number in her head. “I’m gonna find you, Jay-Jay!”

Her room was first to be checked, so that’s where she went. She checked under her bed, inside her closet, behind the door, and under her blankets that were on the bed, but quickly decided he wasn’t there before trekking out into the hall again, knowing that their parents’ room was off limits.

Running into the living room, she looked in every corner, under the coffee table, under the couch and chair cushions, behind the door where they kept the small selection of DVDs before huffing and folding her arms.

“I’m gonna find you, Jay-Jay,” she repeated and wandered over across to the kitchen.

Gwen began with the cupboards that were on the ground and under the sink, opening them all before doing a thorough check. She pulled herself up onto the counter, looking through the cupboards—even if she knew they wouldn’t hold him, it counted to double check, right?—coming up empty handed as she sat with her legs dangling over the granite surface. She pouted and then remembered that she had yet to check the dining room.

She meandered over to it slowly, poking her head around the corner of the counter before realizing if he wasn’t under the table, then he wasn’t going to be in there. She spun around and looked towards the hallway, catching movement at the far end by his room.

“Aha!” She cried. “Found you!”

The sister ran to him and he laughed, letting her hug him as he wrapped his arms around her. “I thought I had you fooled,” he told her. “Nothing can get past you, Gwennie.”

She grinned up at him. “Nope!”

The sound of the front door closing startled the both of them, and they looked up to see the nanny, a small woman who was looking out of breath and frazzled, standing in the entry. Jason was the first to pull away and start walking towards her and Gwen did try to follow, but she felt her feet stumble over themselves and she pitched forward, pushing her brother on accident. Her brother then tripped, too, and tried to catch his balance on the fragile pot nearby, sending it tumbling to the floor.

It all happened in a matter of seconds, the blue shards of ceramic slamming into the hardwood before shattering. All three people in the apartment stopped dead in their tracks, staring at the pieces as they went flying over the floor, leaving dust and powder in their wake. The table holding the piece fell, too, only adding to the chaos as the largest piece of the pot rocked back and forth on its side from the force of the impact.

Everything was silent after that, no one daring to even breathe. They all knew the consequences of something being broken, even the nanny. She wouldn’t have been hired without Lucinda forcing her to memorize the rules of the household, and Lucinda was not going to be happy at all about this.

Slowly, as the condemning pieces of pottery sat staring back at them, everyone let out the breath they were holding. The nanny straightened herself and Gwen knew that an accident like this on her watch was going to get her fired if she wasn’t going to be already for being late. Mother didn’t like people who were late.

“Of course, this happens when I get here,” she heard the woman mutter as she covered her face with her hands. The brother and sister slowly stood up.

Gwen moved to gently tug on Jason’s shirt, the two of them still staring at the broken shards on the ground.

“Mom’s not gonna like that, Jay-Jay,” she murmured.

“No,” he replied in a whisper. “She isn’t going to like that at all.” Jason looked over his shoulder at her. “Are you okay?”

Gwen nodded and looked up at him. He looked at her feet and told her,  “Go get shoes on, okay?”

“Okay. Are you okay?”

He nodded his head, too. “Of course, I am,” he replied. “That was fun.”

She giggled softly and he flashed her a large and wide grin. If she had known that would’ve been the last smile she would ever get from him, especially with teeth showing, especially with that look of pure happiness on his face, she would’ve made more of an effort to remember it.

Chapter Text

Trudging through the mud and forcing the bike forward as he wheeled it towards the small garage at the back of town was miserable and Boomerang was freezing. He knew that staying in the tiny garage wasn’t going to be an option. There was no heating, no bed, no couch, no blankets, no nothing, and he wasn’t going to deal with a cold floor, sopping wet and cold himself.

Gwennie was drenched, too, trailing after him with her arms across her stomach, looking at the ground as she followed him, stopping when he stopped, walking when he walked. He had known it was a matter of time before she would try and test the hold he had over her and personally, he figured it was easier to get it over with now so he didn’t have to deal with it again.

After all, he didn’t want to have to run up another muddy hill with hardly any friction or bearing as to where he was stepping in the dark when the ground was zooming past him to get to her.

He didn’t much like having to hurt her. He didn’t much like hurting anyone, unless they deserved it—and in this case he supposed she certainly did—but he knew that decisions had to be made, and if she was going to make it more difficult on herself, then that’s what she was going to do. He was willing to compromise.

Pulling out his ring of keys, still remembering each and what they unlocked, he unlocked the padlocked doors, swinging them open to wheel in his Harley. The Captain heard the woman’s boots clopping behind him, obviously unaware of how to be silent in them. He shook his head as he flicked the light on, moving to park his bike in the center of the small garage.

Owen had no idea what was wrong with her and he was not happy about that. He had had bikes break down on him in the past and knew it could be anything. He hoped it was something fixable, something that would only require a day’s work. He couldn’t stay too long and draw attention to himself.

“We can’t stay here tonight,” he told Gwen, who bobbed her head in a nod.

“Where will we go?”

He kicked the stand on the bike, sighing as he stepped back. “Motel down the road. No heat here.”

She nodded her head again and Boomerang looked out through the open doors into the pouring rain and then to her, her hair plastered to her head and face in strange, wet curls. She was shivering and staring at the ground while looking so tired he thought she was ready to sway and fall over. Perhaps she was, Owen thought, and decided it was best to leave as soon as possible.

“Come,” was all he said, leading the way out into the storm again, padlocking the doors and triple checking them before touching her arm, his silent way of telling her to keep close. She did so without comment as he weaved behind the garage and down small, one-way streets. He rounded on her when the motel came into view, handing her thirty dollars out of his large money stack.

“Yah know the drill.”

Gwennie took the thirty. “One bed?”

“One,” he assured her and pointed to the building. “Go on. I’ll be here.”

She began to walk across the street and he called, “Oh, an’ Gwen,” he waited until she turned around to continue, “Don’t pull any shit.”

Gwen didn’t reply, only turning to run towards the motel as the rain came down in droves, Boomerang watching her go from the shadows as he reached into his coat, pulling out one of his deadly metal boomerangs. He toyed with it as he watched her disappear behind a glass door.

The room was disturbingly quiet—if you ignored the sound of the storm pounding away outside. When he had gotten inside, Gwen following and closing the door, he had immediately claimed the bed, Gwen not protesting as she set down her backpack.

“I’ll let yah have a showah tonight,” he had told her. “Aftah I have mine.”

So he had taken off his soaked clothes, leaving his coat and jacket put up on hangers that were attached to the door before stripping out of everything else. His shower was quick, as he didn’t want much more to do with water tonight.

His stomach growled at him, telling him that he needed to find a way to stock up on food. Owen knew he could put snacks inside of Gwen’s pack and he knew he needed to keep up his large and intimidating presence. He frowned at the thought that he might need to stop at more places to eat than he had originally planned on.

He didn’t wash. He didn’t see the reason why he needed to when he had the day before after he became painfully aroused all over again when the woman that he was holding hostage was rubbing on him.

In all honesty, Captain Boomerang had been, and still was, surprised. He was almost surprised about him falling into bed with her, anyway, drunk off his ass and giggling to himself, but he knew when he wasn’t sober he’d done some weird things, but no. Waking up to Gwennie, the one who squeaked and jumped and blushed when she realized he was naked, the one who flinched at every one of his movements, the one who had been taken by him, having a dream that was obviously influenced by the effect of his thigh on her clit, shocked him. He was still surprised and wondered what she had thought and done while he was rubbing himself all over again.

He supposed she was probably berating herself, but after a moment of thought he shrugged. She was a simple puzzle, one he didn’t want to waste his time on with a bed he could warm calling his name. After remembering the blankets awaiting him, he had gotten out and dried and had wrapped the towel around his waist, allowing her to go back for a fifteen minute shower.

His mind was running.

Even with the soothing and rhythmic sound of drops of water hitting the roof, and the window, he couldn’t focus enough to let his mind calm. His bike was worrying him almost as must as the weather. He sat up, the cover falling to his lap, and scrambled for the remote on the nightstand, eager to start the TV.

He found the news station, lowering the volume as he watched the commercials play, hoping he had caught some form of news, or weather forecast. If he managed to get the bike fixed, he thought, he did not want to be caught in a “light drizzle” again.

It was a rerun of the news earlier and he breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps this would help ease his nerves enough to sleep some. He hadn’t been able to shake off the feeling he had gotten in the buffet bar just before he left the last stop. There hadn’t been anyone in there, but he wasn’t able to escape the anxious thought that he was being watched and he knew better than to think he was paranoid.

He still hadn’t shaken it. The door was locked and the blinds pulled, no one could possibly see him, but the twisting of his gut didn’t go away, and his hunger didn’t help as he tried to pay attention to what was happening on the TV and to whether he could still hear shower water or not.

“Tomorrow,” he told himself with a hand over his belly and the thought of something more than a simple danish.

“—Lawton with the weather—”

“—Showers to stop tomorrow—”

“—Roads could be frozen—”

The Aussie put his head in his hands, heels of his palms pressing against his eyes. He couldn’t focus. They were in a bad spot with the weather keeping them there and the bike broken down, until he could figure out what was wrong with it. If he had had his way, they’d still be out driving through the rain, likely skipping through the town with no look at the small garage, no matter what memories were awaiting inside.

He pulled his hands away, looking at his tattooed forearms. Maybe penance would calm me. He hadn’t done any since he was inside of the cement walls of his prison cell, kneeling by the bed, holding his left forearm, his thumb touching the tallies inked into his skin.

There were seven, spanning in thin, two inch lines over his inner arm, where usually only he could see them. Even if he couldn’t, hidden by his jacket and coat, he always knew they were there, like they were constantly burning and always in the back of his head. The lines haunted him, just as he planned for them to.

There were seven, seven lives, seven souls that he could never give back, and knew in his heart that he had done them wrong. Seven innocents that had been taken by his hand. His fingers touched the lines as he moved off the bed, no longer focused on the TV, or the sound of the shower running as he knelt beside it on the floor.

Boomerang had done it many times and knew what to say without hesitation. He took several deep breaths, bracing his arm on the mattress to present it to the world.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, directed at God and the guiltless. “Fah I have taken seven souls that were not mine tah take. Fah I was selfish in my control and took more than necessary. Fah I have yah haunting my mind an’ yah will forevah as a punishment.

“Forgive me,” he repeated. “Fah I know the wrongs I’ve done tah yah an’ tah others. Fah I know that I’m still committing sins an’ do so with the knowledge that yuh’re watchin’. Fah I know that I have taken a job that was nevah mine tah take, just the same. Fah holdin’ yah in my own sacred sacrament an’ usin’ yah as a tool.”

He took a deep breath. “Forgive me, fah I know I am not innocent.”

Bowing his head, Boomerang took deep breaths, murmuring “Forgive me,” over and over until the silence around him became too oppressing, as if it was judging him for thinking he had a right to even ask forgiveness. He knew he didn’t deserve it.

Inside a bubble of quietness, he sat, forehead pressed against his wrist as his fingers touched every tally without looking at them. He knew where each was placed. He closed his eyes and his ears began to allow the sounds he had closed out to trickle around him again.

People on the TV were still talking, and he figured it was likely about something unimportant. His eyes opened when he realized that the shower was no longer running. He swallowed and slowly lifted his head, turning it slightly to catch her out of the corner of his eye, staring at him from the doorway.

He had been caught.

Boomerang picked himself up off the ground slowly, still holding his forearm. He didn’t turn around to look at her, only crawled into bed, the white towel still wrapped around his waist. He rolled himself over, facing the wall, deciding to let her deal with the TV, if she wanted it on or off, as he closed his eyes, cradling his arm to his chest.

It was, actually, lightly drizzling when he pulled himself out of bed at two in the afternoon, a soft pitter patter that echoed through the room as he stretched and grunted. His spine popped and he sighed, glancing around the room.

The TV was off, the blinds were still closed, and Gwen was curled up on the couch with a small blanket around her. He had no idea where it had come from, but as long as she hadn’t taken it from the bed, he didn’t care. Owen rubbed his face slowly and wandered over to the bathroom, wondering if his clothes had dried.

He was surprised to find his clothes hanging, as he had left them in the sink the night before. Realizing Gwennie probably put them up to help them dry, he reached out to touch his tank top. It was still damp, but not soaked, and in all honesty that would work fine for him, especially if it was still wet outside.

He grabbed his jeans off the towel rack, pulling the denim on slowly before groping on the floor for his belt. He looped the leather around his waist, clipped his heavy glove to his belt loop, and finished putting on his tank and jacket, carrying his coat and boots back out into the room.

Moving in the day was certainly not something he preferred doing, but he also knew that he had to get out of the area as quickly as possible and the only way to do that was to get the bike ready to go and that was his first priority. There’s more to it, he reminded himself, don’t forget the compass, or the holster.

Boomerang pulled on his boots, nodding and lacing them up after checking to make sure his knife was alright. He slid it back into it’s duct tape pocket and stood, walking to the couch to shake Gwen and wake her up.

She startled when he touched her, jumping before squinting up at him. He didn’t smile, or smirk, or say anything teasing like he normally would. No, he just jerked his head in a gesture to get up before turning around to grab his coat. The worry of what might be wrong with his Harley was weighing heavily on him and as he heard her getting up, he remembered her after he had finished his penance, though he had hardly looked at her much when he was done.

He was sure she was shocked, if she had heard what he said. But he had no time to dwell on what she thought, that and he didn’t much care. He was tired and felt a bit grouchy as he began going through his coat, inspecting to see how much water had seeped through the material. He was pleasantly surprised when almost nothing in side of the sealed pockets were wet. His cards were fine, the money was fine, even some of his boomerangs hadn’t been touched by the water.

The Captain stayed quiet, listening to the girl rummaging around, grabbing her backpack before wandering into the bathroom, the door quietly shutting behind her.

“Don’t take long,” he called as he started to put on his coat. No reply.

His eyebrow kicked up, not altogether pleased as he made his way to the bathroom door. He leaned his shoulder on the frame and lifted his hand to knock on the wood.

“I’m coming,” it was a soft squeak in response, but he grunted his approval and waited for her.

The blonde was wearing the ACDC shirt again, her hair a mess atop her head as she came out, her backpack on her shoulders. She looked at him, eyes sparked with the faintest bit of curiosity, but she made no move to vocalize it.

“Sun’s still out,” he said, “Meanin’ we’ll have tah be quick.”

“Where are we going?” Her voice was quiet.

“The garage.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but bit down on her lip to stop herself. He gestured for her to continue with his hand.

“Will we be eating…?”

He didn’t let his expression change as he stared at her for a good ten seconds before nodding once. “Yes. Latah.”

Gwennie swallowed and nodded and followed him as he turned on his heel, walking to the door.

The skies were dark grey overhead, the rain coming down in small droplets as he dug around in his coat, producing the room key. He handed it to her. “I want yah tah go turn this in. I’ll be waitin’ where I was last night.”

They parted, him watching her as she disappeared through the same door she did last night before he crossed the quiet street to wait on the other side. He leaned up against the brick building, his arms folded with his head down in case anyone passed.

He had yet to decide where they were going to eat and he probably wasn’t going to until it was time to do so. He knew there were diners and several fast food places around for miles, it was just a matter of deciding where to chance his luck. Unfortunately, it was a dangerous game, one that he had to play.

She walked up to him, her own arms folded around her and they set off, Boomerang keeping his eye on her as he lead the way back to the garage, head down whenever he saw anyone, or when a car passed. Gwen mimicked him after he growled for her to, her blonde curls falling down into her face as she looked at her feet.

The man closed the large doors behind them, locking them from the inside after flipping on the single, buzzing light in the garage. His bike was still there and he felt a weight he didn’t know he had lift from his shoulders. He shed his coat, laying it on the workbench in the corner and rolled his jacket sleeves up.

He rummaged around through the small desks in the garage, coming up with various tools like screws and screwdrivers and the like, which he all set by the bike before getting out a rag and kneeling beside the tools and the subject that was needing repairs, taking a deep breath as he steeled himself, praying it was nothing serious. He ran a thumb along his lip, exhaling.

Let’s do this.

Owen suspected she was more interested than she let on, that or she was just bored. Gwen was leaning over him, careful not to lay a hand on him or the Harley, watching his hands intently as he popped off the covers of the engine, which he had saved for last. His hands were covered in oil as he rubbed his forehead with his forearm, his blue jacket discarded.

He thought about utilizing her, thought about making her go to the other side of the bike to hold it steady, but he decided that she probably would lack the strength if anything did happen to push it over. He had a better chance catching it while kneeling on the ground with discarded screws and wrenches in his hands than she did standing. He didn’t need her ending up with broken legs if it fell, as that would definitely be a problem.

He had one of the mini cigars hanging out of the side of his mouth, the stress of the situation had driven him to light one and let the smoke billow around him.

“What’s that?” She asked quietly, her finger pointing to one of the glinting metal pieces that the light caught.

“Carburetor.”

“What does it do?” She sounded hesitant, like she was concerned he was going to blow up like he did last time she asked questions, the marks around her neck were still purple.

“It monitors the injection of oxygen intah the fuel.”

“Why?”

He sighed and set down the screwdriver to look over his shoulder at her. “Why yah interested?”

She looked down and shrugged. He was silent for a moment.

“It reduces the carbon monoxide an’ soot that gets burned when the engine’s runnin’.”

Gwennie perked up slightly and nodded her head. She didn’t ask any questions again, obviously satisfied by what she was able to ask today, and went back to watching him work as he investigated further.

After some more poking and prodding around, he found the source of the problem when he found the cam chain dangling from it’s gears, the chain snapped. He made a noise of frustration, his mind running through memories, hoping he had a replacement in the garage.

“Is that what stopped the bike?”

He glanced at her like she was stupid and she took that as a yes, nodding her head slowly. “What is it?”

“Cam chain.”

“What does it do?”

“Makes the gears work.”

He stood up after removing the broken one, laying it out on the dirty rag. She stepped back immediately, giving him the space to move. Now the challenge would be finding one, which he had very vivid memories of putting replacements here and at the garage in Tennessee.  He knew there had to be one here.

Beginning to rummage around with only glances at first, he began to grow concerned when it didn’t magically appear. He started looking deeper now, moving gears and screws around in the drawers hoping to catch a glimpse of it, but there was nothing.

How could I have gotten replacements and stored them, but not grabbed a fuckin’ cam chain?

It was a mystery to him, one that didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t be so stupid, he’d have backups. The Aussie made an exasperated noise, starting to slam drawers closed and rip them open, blowing out smoke from his almost gone cigar forcefully.

“Where the fuck is it?”

“What?” Gwennie asked behind him.

“The fuckin’ replacement.”

He heard something clink behind him and spun around. She held it up, making it look much bigger in her tiny hands. “This?”

Boomerang charged towards her. “Where did yah find it?”

She didn’t respond as he pulled it out of her hands and he followed her gaze, now focused on the massive tattoo on his right arm. He grunted in annoyance, his eyes narrowing at her as he spun around marched back to his bike.

“Mummy! Mummy!”

Owen was bouncing up and down on her bed, a grin splitting across his face as she slowly lifted her head from the pillow, her hair a mess atop her head.

“What, my love?”

“Guess what day it is!”

Melody smiled softly at her son, sun rays from the window throwing light across her tanned skin, hinting at her Polynesian descent. “I haven’t the faintest clue, my Wild Colonial Boy.”

He flopped down on his belly, making the mattress shake as he squealed, “It’s my birthday!”

“Nah,” she replied, a glint in her chocolate eyes. “Yah had yuh birthday last year, April sixth, I remembah.”

“Well it’s back,” the boy, who was now six, cried.

He crawled over to her, rolling on top of her as she made a soft “umph” sound. She shook her head at him. “Nope. I distinctly remember. Birthdays only happen when yuh’re under four.”

“Muuummm!”

“Alright, Alright,” she replied. “Happy birthday, Owen.”

Owen whooped, catapulting off his mother and onto the ground, filled with so much excitement that he ran down the hall and back again, flying around the corner while urging her to get up.

There was going to be a cake, and presents, and cartoon shows, and it was just going to be him and his mum. She even told him that he could help her back the cake and frost it. He’d never made one before and just the idea of it made the boy buzz and bounce and giggle.

His mum was slowly dragging herself out of bed, her turquoise pajamas wrinkled. His blue dinosaur-print ones weren’t much different. She smiled warmly when she saw him and held out her hand to take his when she got to the doorway, where he grabbed a hold of it as tight as he could and began dragging her towards the kitchen.

She made him pancakes, which were ultimately his favorite breakfast on any ordinary day, but especially on his birthday. After buttering them up and slapping strawberry jam on them—his favorite pancake topping—they both sat at the small dining table and dug in, the two of them sharing grins and soft laughs.

“I wanna bake the cake,” he demanded, immediately after she finished cleaning up after breakfast.

“Wild Boy, we’ve only just had breakfast.”

He pouted, his lower lip jutting out. “Pllleeeaasssee?”

She gave him a knowing look. “Before going to the park?”

“Yeah!”

“I’ll allow it,” she told him and he cheered. “Just this once.”

Melody boosted him up onto the counter, setting him down before getting out everything she would need. He had never seen her bake a cake before. He knew she had for his previous birthdays and they always tasted good.

“Want to help me mix everything?” He nodded and she patted his head as she placed two different bowls on the counter. “Okay, we have to mix dry things and wet things separately first.”

“Why?”

“Because the cake will be upset if we don’t,” she said as she measured out the sugar and put it in the yellow bowl, already reaching for the flour. Owen nodded his head in understanding, not wanting his birthday cake to be upset at all.

It was a chocolate cake that they were making and after she added the cocoa, she plugged in the beater machine and let Owen put his hand on it, helping him start mixing the different powders around. He hardly paid attention to “holding” the machine, more fascinated as the white mixed with the brown inside of the bowl. He grinned proudly when his mother announced that it was done.

“Now,” she instructed, “We gotta get all the eggs, milk, oil, an’ vanilla together tah add.”

He helped her crack the eggs, two of them, without one shell in the bowl, which his mother praised. He helped with the vanilla, too, and he got to pour it all into the bowl after his mom turned on the beater again, helping him hold the container while she steadily mixed it all together.

He helped pour it all into the pan that they greased and set it in the oven. The boy bounced on the balls of his feet. “Is it gonna taste good, Mum?”

“Of course it is,” she replied. “I wouldn’t make it fah yuh birthday if it wasn’t.”

After watching it through the oven window for several minutes, he ran off to his room when his mother asked him to go get dressed. He decided to go with his favorite shirt, an orange one with a kangaroo on the front of it, and some jeans his mum got for him only the week before. He came flying back out when he was done, coming to a sliding stop in the kitchen, where Melody was already dressed.

“Should we have the cake before or after the park?”

Intrigued by the question, he watched her as she made a pot of coffee. He did really want cake, but he also knew that he had to wait for it to cool, and they still hadn’t made any frosting, but if they did wait to eat it before running off to the park down at the bottom of the neighborhood, then they could watch cartoons.

In the end, cartoons won out, so that’s what they did first while they waited for the cake to finish baking. They sat on the couch, cuddling as she turned on ‘What’s New Scooby-Doo?’ for him. He did love Scooby-Doo.

He stayed on the couch when she got up to pull the cake out of the oven, determined to finish the episode before starting on frosting. She let him without complaint, leaning on the wall, her eyes going back and forth between her son and the TV with the ghost of a smile pulling at her lips.

She put him on the counter again, pulling out the powdered sugar before plopping it down next to him. Immediately, he had the urge to dig his hands into it, and slap it into his mouth, but she quickly saw his intentions and gave him a firm stare. His hand dropped before he was even able to touch the bag.

She melted down the butter as he stared at the tantalizing sugar, his tongue touching his lips. “Why is there powder sugar?”

“It makes the frostin’ fluffy.”

He nodded once, deciding that the fluffiness of the frosting was more important than a taste and the wrath of his mother.

Mum grabbed the beaters again after adding cocoa to the butter, Owen watching as he held up the machine while she poured milk and powdered sugar in carefully, a squeal of glee erupting from the boy when he saw the frosting begin to take shape.

They frosted the cooled cake together, her hand holding his as he slapped the dark chocolate fluff over the dessert. He had requested double chocolate and was very smug looking as she helped him spread the frosting.

Finally, when it was done, his mother pulled out a small package, tearing it open to produce a number six candle stick, which she set right in the middle of the cake. “Are yah ready tah blow out your candle?”

He nodded vigorously and she reached for the matches on top of the refrigerator, striking one before lighting the candle. She held him up, his hands on the edge of the stove as he sat, mesmerized by the flame that meant celebrating being one year older. There were butterflies in his stomach. It was exciting and even his mum was thrumming with energy.

“Happy birthday, My Love,” she began to sing.

“Happy birthday, My sweet,

Happy birthday, Wild Colonial Boy,

Happy birthday, to you.”

Squirming to lean forward farther, he blew with all his might, the flame vanishing into a thin trail of smoke. He watched it disappear as it traveled upwards, a look of wonder on his face.

“Mum?” He asked.

“Yes?”

“Where does the smoke go?”

She thought about it for a moment, still holding him up. “It goes to tell the world that yuh’re older.”

“Why?”

“Because the world likes watching yah grow,” she replied. “The smoke tells it tah keep yah safe, so every time yah blow out a candle, even if it isn’t fah yuh birthday, it will keep yah safe, just for yah an’ me.”

Chapter Text

Ink was strange and versatile. It had been used for hundreds and hundreds of years, printing books, writing letters, being pounded into someone’s skin permanently. Gwen didn’t understand the concept of it, her mother’s voice in the back of her head saying, “What a disgusting thing to do, defile your body. Don’t you ever do it, Gwendolyn.”

She knew of the ones on his chest, the tattoos, and even the ones she had seen the night before on his back, but there were more, and she had no idea how she hadn’t noticed them before. They were all up his right arm and she couldn’t stop staring as he crouched by the bike again, grumbling as he worked with the chain. She had seen the one on his hand when he ripped the chain from her grasp. It was a snake, one that stretched from the knuckle of his thumb to his wrist, writhing and twisting with a peculiar design on its head, and three dots surrounding it; two to either side of the eyes and one in front of the mouth. It showed both scales and underbelly, like it was struggling to right itself.

She had no way of knowing what it meant, but she knew she didn’t like the feeling she got when she saw it, her hands twisting into her shirt. It looked like a prisoner’s tattoo.

The other on his right arm was much bigger, and it wrapped around his bicep and forearm. It was a mermaid, her body curved, arms raised with her hands above her head, nails long, fingers spread and curled like she was casting a spell. Her face looked on in the other direction, delicate lines making the face and the crown of jewels on her head, along with the beads and coins that looped across her hair and around her body, swirling this way and that with wisps of floating hair. She had blank, pupilless eyes.

Her tail was large with scaling along the sides, some filled in with black and some left untouched, as they traveled to just under her ribs. The center of the tail, though it had muscle detail through the hatched shading, was untouched by anything other than dots; her fins fanned out as if she was swimming, her tail ending on the top of his forearm, closed instead of spread. It wrapped around his arm completely, starting on his bicep and twirling until it ended on his outer forearm. But the size of the piece wasn’t what shocked Gwen the most, it was the large bared breasts, nipples hard and poking out from her body.  

She would’ve said the strange creature on his arms was beautiful, if she had something covering herself, but she didn’t, and Gwen was somewhere between puzzled and feeling grimy. First, why would someone go to lengths to tattoo such an extensive piece on their body, with detail and hatched shading, but then make it naked?

“Nudity is vile, Gwendolyn.”

The woman, standing beside the large man, watching his arms and hands, still couldn’t find it in her to tear her gaze away from the black ink that adorned his skin. She wanted to reach out and touch it, curious if it was embossed rather than imprinted, but kept her hands to herself, her throat throbbing in reminder of what might happen should she touch him without permission. At least her ankle no longer hurt.

He was putting the metal casings back on now, screwing in the screws, his cigar gone and put out on the ground, and her eyes shifted to his left arm, acutely aware of another tattoo on his inner arm, large and right above his wrist. It was a compass face, the needles with the golden letters “N” and “S” were directly opposite, and the only colored details that weren’t black. The circle surrounding the axis and main eight triangles that signified direction were embellished and it reminded her of lace. The other triangles had simple lines through the center, splitting them in half while encompassed by a circle with little marks and numbers, the triangles divided by long lines that spread from the inner circle to the outer.

Gwen was simply baffled. First, he was pierced in his ears and his nipple, and then he had all of these… scandalous marks. Why would anyone want to do such a thing to themselves?

“Because they’re fools.” She had no idea if her mother ever said such a thing, but she still heard her voice loud and clear.

“Caught yah admirin’ the view again, darl’. I must be irresistible.”

Her cheeks heated and her eyes finally glanced away. She heard him snort faintly. “Looks like yah like me more than yah thought, hm?” She felt his elbow nudge her thigh and she jumped at the unexpected touch. He laughed and stood, his towering form casting part of her in shadow. He clapped and rubbed his hands together.

“Now that that’s fixed,” Boomerang spun on his heel before walking back to the desk with various bits and pieces of metal and tools scattered over it. “I just gotta grab a couple things an’ we’ll be leavin’. Get dinnah.” He touched his belly in demonstration. “I’m starved.”

Me, too, her mind echoed, but she didn’t say anything, folding her arms as she watched the brown-haired man. He was quick, fingers deftly picking a stout gold cylinder, one that would easily fit in the palm of her hand, with a clasp keeping two halves together. It went into his jean pocket before she could decide on what it was.

The next thing he grabbed didn’t make any sense to her until he put it on. It looked, to her, like the holsters detectives always wore in movies, with the straps wrapping around the shoulders and connecting in the back with holsters hanging off them. Only his weren’t for guns. Both sides had boomerang shaped holders and as he adjusted it, she realized the right side even had a holder for—she assumed—drinks.

He grinned at her, something mysterious under his facial hair. Gwen’s nails dug into her arms as she willed herself to remain impassive. He snorted softly with amusement, but didn’t make any comments as he walked to the bike, starting it up with a whoop.

“Be a darlin’,” he said. “Grab me coat.”

Boomerang had left almost immediately, shrugging on the jacket and coat, which were surprisingly very heavy, before rolling out. It was still light outside, but the shadows were quickly growing longer, and with the beanie around his head and her face buried into his back to try and maintain a steady, less painful way of breathing, no one would’ve really taken care to notice them.

The rain was still there, falling in light, streaking drops as they drove on to the outskirts of the small town. He had made sure to lock the doors with the padlock behind him, not looking back at it once as they drove away.

Gwen did.

The diner he pulled up to was different than the last one, but the sign said ‘OPEN’ and ‘24 Hour Pancakes’. Gwen assumed Boomerang truly wanted those pancakes by the way he plowed through the door after ensuring no one else was in there.

He had sat at a table, staring at the empty counter with a vengeance. Gwen sat quietly across from him, laying down her backpack on the ground at her feet. His eyes snapped to her when the backpack hit the ground with a dull ‘whump’.  

“We’re gonna be usin’ that,” the Captain told her. “Keep snacks in it. Can’t have me dyin’ of starvation .”

He said the word with spite, anger nestled deep in his tone and the deep lines that formed on his face when his lips pulled down. Gwendolyn simply nodded, moving her gaze to his fingers, which were tapping on the surface of the table. His right pinky had a golden ring that she hadn’t noticed and she realized he may have picked it up at the garage, too.

How many objects was he keeping hidden?   She thought, and why?

The only thing that seemed significant was the chain she had grabbed and the holsters. They likely had reason behind them that she didn’t know, but she still wondered, somewhere in the crevice of her mind, where she wasn’t afraid, a voice commanded her to ask. But fear won out and her mouth stayed shut.

A waiter came around then, a small boy that was maybe Gwen’s age, with two menus in hand. Boomerang waved him off when he tried to set them down, “Watah fah me an’ the girl. Big stack of pancakes.”

The boy’s eyes were glued to Gwen, on her cheek before trailing to her neck. He swallowed and for a split second seemed to forget what he was going to say.

“Butter?” The Captain nodded. “Syrup?” Another nod. “Will that be all, sir?”

He raised a brow at Gwen, daring her to defy him before replying, “Yeah.”

The boy slid away without another word. The Captain’s eyes trailed back to her before he reached across, grabbing a hold of her chin and moving her head back. Her neck stretched, sending a dull pain shooting up inside her head and she groaned at the unexpected touch.

Gwen knew she was still bruised badly. She had seen it last night before she had gotten into her shower. His hand marked her neck with purple and black, the edges of where his fingers had dug into her skin hardly faded. Her arm had bruised slightly, too, and the cut on her cheek was barely healing. A tremor of alarm went through her at the thought of how powerful he was. He was in control and both of them knew it.

He slowly let go and she rubbed her chin gingerly, eyes refusing to meet his. It was a distraction and now she was aware of it. His expression was deep-set, obviously not pleased as he slowly sat back in his chair, clicking his tongue with thought.

He was a strange man, she knew that well enough by now. Blunt and uncanny, cruel and guilty. The memory of the night before was fresh in her mind, how she walked out to find him kneeling beside the bed, his arm outstretched like it held all of the answers.

There were two more tattoos, and she couldn’t make out details, but she knew the shape of two boomerangs when she saw them, stretched over his skin, each following the path of his shoulder blades, one end pointing out towards his shoulder while the other pointed down to his lower back. Then the one on the back of his neck, looking like a barcode with black lines of uneven lengths and weights. She didn't know their purpose, or know if she even wanted to. 

“Forgive me,” he had said, clear as crystal and quiet. She wanted to know who he had been asking, and still did. She moved her fingers from her chin to her neck, coaxing it gently in tiny little circles.

She snapped out of her daze when a stack of hot pancakes was put in front of her in the center of the table. Two forks and knives were set before he stepped back, looking between her and the Aussie. Boomerang murmured something and the boy scuttled off before returning with a plate, setting it beside her along with glasses of water. The man said something else to him before they were left alone.

He took one of the forks, stabbing into the top pancake before lifting it and slapping it down onto her plate, handing her one of the cartons of butter before he took to his own pancakes, wasting no time in getting them prepared.

It was slow work, like she’d never done it before, even though she knew she had on several occasions. She watched the pale yellow cream melt over the steaming cake slowly, not daring to look up when she felt his eyes on her.

“Bettah eat fast or I’ll take it.”

Her stomach growled and she didn’t bother reaching for the syrup that stood on the table, cutting into the food and eating it, the very real threat of him taking the only substantially sized food she’d had in days making her wolf it down.

He was eating his with just as much ferocity, four in all to her one. She decided it was better than to complain, especially when he had two and a half gone by the time she finished her one, and the fact that he’d given her one at all. She grabbed a hold of her water and downed that, too, just in case.

Boomerang sat back, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand before belching and drinking his own water. He slapped his belly in contentment.

“Haven’t had pancakes in years,” he commented.

“I haven’t either,” she replied quietly.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Yah haven’t?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Mother thought that they weren’t real food.” A small smile twitched at her lips and he let out an amused scoff.

“Not real food? Well, they’re realer than her.”

Her smile grew just a fraction of an inch. She could just imagine how much Lucinda would hate being told that she was beneath a pancake; her face all scrunched up and red with anger, stomping and demanding whoever said it to take it back. Lucinda couldn’t handle being insulted, and everyone knew it.

After Boomerang lifted his hand in a signal, the waiter swooped in, removing the dishes before setting down the small black book for tabs. He opened it, scanning over it quickly before pulling out a wallet, looking through it and pulling out a card  before grabbing the pen to sign his name.

With a hand Gwen never thought he’d have—she could even read it upside down—he wrote ‘Aric Charleton’ in firm, neat cursive over the line. It didn’t even take him long to write it; it looked practiced and as if he’d signed it all his life. He closed the book after sliding the card in and stood, gesturing for her to follow him as he walked to the counter, waiting for the boy to run his card before he took his leave, Gwen still sitting and watching him.

She snapped out of her small stupor and scrambled for her bag before pumping her legs to catch up to him, already out the door. Aric Charleton. He certainly didn’t seem like an Aric, or a Charleton. Come to think of it, he didn’t really seem like an anyone, other than Captain Boomerang. Was it honestly his name? She supposed if he actually had an authentic name, it would sound strange to her, anyway. He was simply the Captain. Nothing else seemed to fit.

“Aric?” She inquired it while trying to keep her lips from pursing. “Aric Charelton?”

“Think that’s my name?”

“No.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Yah might be a lil’ smartah than I thought.”

Neither of them said anything else as he kicked a leg over his bike. Gwen pulled the straps of her backpack over her shoulders and straddled the bike behind him, arms instinctively going round his middle.

“It’s an alias,” he said simply and started backing out. “Yah won’t evah know my name, Gwennie girl.”

She didn’t reply as he turned out onto the road, the smell of rain still heavy in the air. For now, the puddles had stopped being filled. She watched the road pass beneath their booted feet as he drove on, leaving the town behind in fog.

Gwen lost track of time. She had no idea how long a minute to an hour was on the bike—the Captain seemed to decide, now that it was fixed, to go as fast as possible on it—and wasn’t sure if she wanted to know. Her rump and throat ached, her calves feeling numb, and timing meant knowing how long it had been since she’d seen anyone familiar, anyone safe.

She buried her face in his back. She didn’t want to know how long she had been gone for. Eventually, her parents would give up, if they were searching for her, and tell the media that she was likely dead, all while “grieving” the loss. Then, after several weeks, she would be lost to the past and no one would ever remember her name.

Boomerang had yet to ask for the phone numbers, but she doubted that he had forgotten. Maybe he was waiting for whatever he assumed was the right moment? For the perfect time to stir up trouble in the household? Gwendolyn had no idea.

She was grateful when she walked into the motel room, though, trudging her way into the room before sitting on the bed. Knowing she wasn’t going to be sleeping in it, she wanted to relish it before the Captain kicked her off of it. She laid back slowly, rubbing at her eyes as she took in the relative warmth of the room. It was better than having the cold wet air whipping past her on the bike, no doubt.

He was quiet as he stripped out of his jacket and coat, laying them behind her on the comforter before moving to take off his holsters, which he had packed full of boomerangs already. They were easier to access than the ones in his coat, she figured. He pulled off his boots, stretching out his toes inside his socks before taking those off, too.

He nudged her and nodded to the couch and she took her leave, crawling off the bed before falling onto the cushions with her hair bouncing around her. She shifted slightly, getting as comfortable as she could. She’d still sleep and she knew it, with how exhausted she was.  

“Tomorrow’s a long day,” he murmured and she cracked her eyes open momentarily. “We gotta get down tah  North Carolina fah a little while, then we’ll go back up, towards Maine.”

His words registered in her brain, but with her eyes drooping, she didn’t pay him any mind.

“Be up early, Gwennie.”

It was December, cold and dark during the day, with the sun sinking before she ever had the chance to go out and play after she was done with her daily chores. She knew, though, that after last week’s incident with one of Lucinda’s favorite pots, that she was likely never going to be allowed out, again.

She had come home, and the moment she noticed the faint white dust of where the pot had landed, and the empty display table, she went into a rage, slapping the nanny and sending her out, telling her she wasn’t going to get paid or ever hired back. Jason and Gwen knew that she wasn’t, anyway, simply because she was late.

But then she was gone, and the children were then left alone to face their mother’s wrath. She marched up to them, grabbing Gwendolyn by the shirt, obviously assuming it was her, her hands shaking with her anger. Jason had immediately grabbed the back of the shirt then, pulling her away.

“It was me,” he said. “Not my sister.”

His grin from before was long gone. Both of them knew that punishment wasn’t going to be easy.

She had let go of Gwen slowly, like she still wanted to shout at her daughter for even allowing it to happen. Women were supposed to keep everything under control, or so her mother had told her. Lucinda was quick, grabbing a hold of Jason’s ear before pulling him away down the hall, all the while shouting, “You little scoundrel! Just you wait until your father hears about what you’ve done! The beating you’ll be getting from me will be nothing compared to his!”

Gwen had run to her room after the door slammed, unsure what to do. She hadn’t heard any sounds from the other side of the wall, not one yell from Jay-Jay or Lucinda. Gwen had felt the sting of the belt on her bottom before, but she had never been able to stay silent through that.

She had heard her father come home, his heavy footsteps marching through the house before closing the bedroom door.

Gwen had fallen asleep in silence that night, staring into the darkness, hoping her brother was going to be okay.

Of course, that had been a week ago, but she hadn’t seen her brother. It was as if he had made off in the night, but she knew that wasn’t the case. If Jason had run away, Lucinda would be going insane, tearing out her hair, sending out search parties, whatever she could do to find her precious boy.

Her mother knew what was going on. Gwendolyn was simply left out of the loop. Her father hadn’t been home either, but that was normal with his business trips all around the world. She had thought that maybe Jason went with Leopold. She had no idea why he’d want to do such a thing, but then again, want didn’t matter to the Bartholme family—unless it was greediness, the want for more money.

Today, though, his absence was most definitely felt. Her daily chores, which consisted of scrubbing the kitchen and bathroom floors, making sure the mirrors in the guest bathroom were clean 24/7, and sweeping the hallway, increased to encompass Jason’s as well. She practically took on all of the cleaning at only five and her little arms ached. She wished her mother wasn’t so strung up about maids, because then she might actually be able to go outside.

Gwen’s favorite season was winter; it was Jason’s, too. They both adored running in the snow outside, making snow angels, and having secret snowball fights out behind one of the most pristine apartment buildings in all of Gotham. Now, though, she had no one to run and play with.

She was watching the world through the window. She was alone, her mother off at some meeting. Lucinda had refused to hire another nanny, figuring that alone, Gwendolyn wouldn’t cause problems. She knew how to get the cereal in the cupboard just fine, and her mother was only going to be gone for forty minutes at max.

Gwennie didn’t think she too much cared.

Finishing her chores, she decided to sit by the large window wall of the apartment, on the floor and wrapped up in her favorite blanket. The snowflakes swirled by on the breeze with what little light left by the sun there was. She could barely see its shape through the dark clouds above, falling down to disappear through the night.

Lucinda came home after some time, Gwen wasn’t really sure, she had been distracted. She shot off the ground before the door opened, just as it was being unlocked. Her mother wouldn’t like her sitting on the ground, but she remained by the window.

The woman made no comment as she walked in, closing the door behind her before strutting to the table to set down her purse and take off her styled and fitted jacket. Gwen kept her gaze on the dark window as she wriggled nervously, knowing that the question she wanted to ask could certainly get her sent off to bed without dinner.

“Mom?” She asked quietly.

Her mother sighed, sounding exasperated. “Yes, Gwendolyn?”

“Where’s Jason?”

“With your father.”

“Why?”

Heels clicked across the floor towards her and the child turned around to look up at her. She had an eyebrow raised, her makeup done perfectly, making her face seem long and daunting to Gwen.

“Why do you ask such silly questions?”

“Because I miss my brother.” It was whispered and shook with apprehension.

“Well he’s not coming home,” she replied. “Ever. He’s finally focused on the business like he should’ve been long ago. Now help me clean up for dinner.”

Chapter Text

It was silent in the room when she woke up, not even the sound of breathing disturbing the stillness. Gwen could hear her heart within her own ears, her eyes opening and adjusting to the darkness. The lump that was Boomerang was still on the bed, wrapped up in the covers, oblivious to the world.

She slowly sat up, eager to stretch her back after laying on the uncomfortable couch. She arched her spine, feeling and hearing several pops before sighing and hunching over. Then she heard it, off faintly in the still of the night.

Police sirens.

Suddenly the Captain shot out of bed at a speed she’d never seen a man be able to move, especially after being asleep moments ago, tossing off the blankets, his naked body pale in the dark.

“Get up!” It was tinged with weariness, and slightly too quiet, but it was harsh and snapped. She didn’t waste another second, scrambling up quickly, her head pounding at the wave of vertigo that came over her.

He was already rushing to put his jeans on, sliding his belt through the loops. She could see the sweat on his forehead, and he was mumbling to himself. She didn’t bother changing her clothes, but she did bother to grab her boots and socks, shoving her feet into them. She didn’t want to run without something on her feet.

Her hair was suddenly yanked up, and she yelped when he appeared in front of her, his tank top on as he twisted the locks up and shoved his beanie over her head, carefully concealing all of her blonde curls. He inspected it, hands moving over her scalp under the beanie line. Gwen realized he was breathing hard through his nose, jaw clenching and unclenching. His hands pulled away, and his thumb ran along his lip, his other fingers coming up to pinch at it before he whirled around.

“Grab yuh pack,” he told her as he slid on his jacket. “We’ll need it.”

He was putting on the overcoat, his holsters on but not strapped to his body, striding towards the door, boots unlaced but on his feet, and she followed behind with the green backpack on her shoulders. He put his hand on the doorknob. The sounds of the sirens were much closer now.

He turned his wrist, about to pull back the door when they both heard it, clear through the megaphone of the officer shouting in, “Captain Boomerang! Come out with your hands up! We know you’re in there!”

Boomerang’s head turned and she could see part of his face as his ear pressed against the door. There was no panic.

“We’ve been tracking you since Coburn! We’ve been tipped off since then! We know you have Gwendolyn! Release her unharmed and come out with your hands up!”

The Captain looked over at her slowly and she could see he was deep in thought, obviously not prepared for this. His hand turned back and left the door knob, keeping the door closed. “I’m gonna need yah tah do somethin’, Gwennie. We’ve only got a few seconds.”

He stepped back, reaching into his coat before producing a thick metal boomerang with several large cords of leather wrapped around the center. “I need yah tah open the door when I say an’ get outta the way.”

Slowly nodding, Gwen realized her hands were shaking as she stumbled her way to where he was, placing her own hand on the knob before looking back at him. He readjusted the boomerang, and she heard the distinct beeping before he moved to grab the tail end.

“Now, Gwennie!”

She flung the door open and dropped to the ground, she heard his grunt and heard the beeping fly over her with a woosh. There was a shout from outside and an explosion rocked the building, making the ground shake. Her arm was grabbed and she was drug up and out the door, feet tripping as he ran ahead of her, flinging another boomerang down into the mass of cars and cops, who were now in a state of panic, one of the cars on their side with smoke billowing out of it.

She stared at the black smoke, even though there wasn’t a lot of it, in shock that she had helped aid such a crime. He pulled her around a corner and she heard another explosion before he forced her down the fire escape first, following after her with his boots thumping on the ground. “The bike,” he told her. “Hurry. Get to it an’ get it started.” He was already tossing the keys at her and she nodded, barely catching them with her fumbling hands.

“Don’t pull shit or yah’ll end up like them.”

The woman didn’t need the reminder as she turned and ran to where they had parked the bike last night, nearly knocking it over as she clambered onto it. Jamming the keys into the ignition like she’d seen him do before, the bike started and she looked up to see Boomerang throw one more of his weapons around the corner of the building before running across, looking like a bull ready to gore whoever stood in his way. She scooted back quickly and he straddled the bike, kicking the stand before gunning the gas, launching out of the small parking lot onto the two-lane street.

If the police shouted, or fired any guns, or if there was another explosion, she couldn’t hear it over the roar of the bike and the wind rushing past her ears so hard that they stung. Her eyes were wide open, and even with her arms held tight around the Captain, she knew she was shaking, her fingers dug deep into his coat.

Gwen didn’t know how many times they tilted when he banked around a turn, or how many bumps they hit, or how fast they were going. All she could think about was her hand on the door knob, ripping it open when Boomerang told her to, and listening as the boomerang that could’ve killed someone soared overhead.

It’s your fault. You opened that door.

Gwen didn’t know why all the mocking voices in her head just happened to cackle in her mother’s voice, but they did, and Gwen simply didn’t know how to stop them.

If you had kept that door shut, you could be going home. You could be done with Boomerang, but no, instead you decided to aid in killing someone.

She had no idea if the boomerang, or any the ones he had thrown after, had actually killed someone, but the explosion was powerful for such a small object, obviously built to maximize the effect, and she had seen the way it turned that car onto its side. It was entirely possible that someone had been killed.

It’s your fault. It’s your fault. Your fault, your fault!

She wanted to scream, hide her face away from everyone and everything and shout and yell until her throat hurt. Her fingers squeezed his coat again, knowing that she couldn’t do anything she wanted, and then not knowing what to do at all.

The curly-haired woman felt lost, with small pieces her blonde locks flying out from under the beanie behind her as he made his way around another turn, his eyes looking back over his shoulder. It was like she was in a deep dark well, the deadly cold water around her rising steadily, and the promise of safety at the top of the hole, but the walls were made of crumbling dirt, and chancing the treacherous climb would end her life, and she knew it.

She had no choice but to sit and long for the light above, or the inky black water below and around her.

Finally shutting her eyes, Gwen let her cheek lean against his back as tears stung behind her lids. She was stuck where she was.

The bike drove into the black of night, far from main roads and any towns. Gwen could see the stars when she looked up, and not like the one or two she could see from Gotham, with the lights blocking out the vast sparkling sea above, she could see them all. Swirls and waves and clusters of white dots filling the sky to the point that she could barely see any black between them.

It was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen. Even in her half-asleep state, hanging onto the Captain, she kept her eyes open and on the sky, admiring something she’d never seen before with her own eyes. She swore she saw shooting stars.

Too busy looking at the sky and too tired to truly focus on her surroundings, Gwen didn’t even notice when the bike began to slow until it came to a stop with a small jolt on the side of the road. Slowly moving her head to poke around him, there was a motel, just ahead, and distant lights further down the road, presumably leading into another town.

“We’re gonna stop fah a minute… Make sure it’s safe before we do anythin’.”

She nodded her head and let go of him slowly as he shifted, getting off the bike. He stretched his back slightly, one hand on the handle to keep the bike upright before he jerked his head in a motion for her to get off. She did so slowly, the muscles in her legs tight and cramped, aching in protest as they supported her weight again.

Captain Boomerang set to walking the motorcycle off the road, Gwen stumbling behind him while rubbing her face with the palms of her hands to try and wake herself up. She could barely see where she was putting her feet as he silently walked ahead of her and down into the ditch by the side of the road.

He kicked the stand when he decided there was sufficient cover, a large patch of tall grass separating the road from the ditch. The Aussie carefully balanced the bike and set off, not making any gestures towards her, but knowing she would follow behind anyway. She didn’t want to risk real consequences after trying to run last time.

He settled twenty feet up the road, plopping himself down by a thick tree, his knees drawn up to his chest as his eyes locked on the motel that was only a hundred yards away. The blonde wrapped her arms around herself and sat beside him with a foot between them, her legs up and crossed at the ankles. She still had his beanie on, pulled down around her ears. She’d decided that keeping it on her head was more important than around her mouth.

Breathing had been coming easier, the massive swelling in her throat finally going down enough that she felt like she could speak relatively normally and breathe well. Bruising, she knew, would take longer. Reminded of him inspecting her neck yesterday, she tentatively pressed her fingertips to her throat.

There was a breeze that rustled the leaves, some shriveled up and orange or yellow or red from the changing seasons, pulling some off their trees and down to the ground. The sound reminded her of the snakes in the desert in movies, or TV shows. It was nippy, and after five or so minutes, she had begun to violently shiver, but neither of them said a word, his gaze only shifting to look at the road every few minutes.

Her teeth began to chatter before she could stop them, clicking together inside her mouth as her jaw jerked. She could see his own jaw clench out of the corner of her eye before she felt his large hand on her shoulder, grabbing it and pulling her easily towards him over dead leaves.

“Quit yuh racket,” he said. “Yah ain’t gonna freeze.”

His heavy coat with its many pockets wrapped around her, tucking her close to his side without pressing her hard against him. Body heat radiated off of him, even through his jacket, and his coat kept out the breeze. Gwen ducked her head, wanting to keep the rest of her body out of the wind.

Returning to silence, she closed her eyes and focused on the sound of the breeze and the leaves sounding like rattlesnakes.

The both of them must have sat there for an hour at least, his arms folded around his knees, hers tucked up against him to try and gain heat, and his eyes never strayed from the road and the motel.

“I think,” The Captain mumbled after sometime. “That it’ll be safe. If no coppa has come by now, they won’t.” He heaved himself up and in an instant, the cold air closed around Gwen, making her hiss and jump up off the ground, nearly losing her balance as her knees throbbed in protest.

She couldn’t catch his expression in the darkness and she couldn’t try, because when she looked up at him, expecting to see his sneer, he was already walking off towards his bike, his back to her. Gwen walked quickly after him, the idea of being left, even this close to a town, in the woods, was not something she wanted to think about in anyway.

Boomerang rolled the bike back out onto the road, starting it up and straddling it, hardly waiting for her to join him before he drove down the stretch of road he’d been observing like a hawk.

“Yah know the drill,” he told her over the sound of the bike. “Go in an’ get a room.

She nodded against him as he pulled in, parked, and handed her a small stack of money, only thirty dollars, but she figured it would be enough for this small place to stay, with only four visible rooms that she could see, the doors facing the lot.

She walked into the door that was marked with a sign that said “VACANCY”. The room was small, with a little desk on the far side, and two cushioned chairs across from it. There was an older lady, plump with dark skin and white frizzy hair that was pulled up in a bun. Gwen thought she was asleep before she stepped up with the money clutched in her hand, but surely enough, the woman sat up and looked at her.

“One room, please,” her voice was quiet. “Just one bed.”

The woman nodded and held out her hand. “Twenty dollars an’ eight cents.”

Gwen set down the bills Boomerang had given her, getting together twenty-one to hand her. She took the money and opened a drawer. “You want the change?”

“Yes, please.”

92 cents were dropped in her palm and her hand closed around the coins. The woman stood up, a key in her hand, and she gestured for Gwen to follow her. “C’mon, I’ll show you your room.”

“No, no, I don’t think that’s—”

She waved her off, “Nonsense, honey.”

Gwen tried to protest further, but the woman wasn’t having it, hobbling past her and out the door. The younger woman had no choice but to follow, casting a glance at where Boomerang was lying in wait, the bike turned off, his form shrouded in the dark by the side of the road. She swallowed and looked down at her feet.

“I’m Elise, by the way, you don’t gotta tell me your name, but now you know who I am and where to find me.”

There was something about her words that struck Gwendolyn, and she felt it in her chest. It was a reassurance. “Thank you,” she replied, but refrained from speaking of her name. Boomerang wouldn’t like that.

Elise stopped in front of a door around the back of the building, holding out the key before unlocking it. She turned the knob and stepped in, gesturing for Gwen behind her. “This’ll work, then?”

Gwen nodded, realizing there wasn’t a couch in the room, just a large bed, but she wasn’t going to complain. That would’ve looked strange, she thought. “Yes, it will.”

“Good,” the woman replied, grabbing Gwen’s backpack before setting it on the floor by the bed, making her feel slightly more welcome and warm inside the motel. “And here you are.” She grabbed Gwen’s hand, pulling it towards her before setting the key in her palm, along with the coins she had yet to pocket.

“And you, sweet girl—I can tell you’re sweet, you’ve got that look in your eyes—if you ever meet another man who does that to you again,” she nodded to Gwen’s neck. “You kick his ass, or you come to Old Elise, she’ll do it for you.”

She smiled warmly at her, patting her shoulder gently. “You be good, alright?”

“Okay,” Gwen said, still trying to comprehend what the old woman had just said to her. “Thank you.”

Elise continued smiling, patted her one more time, and left without another word, closing the door behind her. Gwendolyn stood in the middle of the room, staring at the door. “You kick his ass.” If only it were that easy.

There was a hard knock on the door, unmistakably Boomerang, and she hurried, swinging it open. He pushed in past her, letting her shut the door, looking exhausted but alert. He didn’t even relax inside, his back drawn up, shoulders broad and tight. He swung around, hand outstretched, and she deposited what was in her hand in his, quickly pulling out the remaining dollars before stepping back with her head down. He reached into his coat, pulling out his brown wallet, putting the little amount of money inside before returning it.

Boomerang glanced around the room, eyebrows raised before he sneered ever so faintly. “Looks like yah get the floor, Gwennie.”

She nodded her head and heard his boots walk across the floor before the bed bounced as he sat on it. He laid back, legs crossing at the ankles before he brought his hands up behind his head, interlacing them to cradle his skull. “Much bettah,” he murmured.

Gwen set to grabbing her pack and unzipping it, assuming she wasn’t going to get a pillow or a blanket, she found the softest shirt she had and bunched it up, knowing that it wouldn’t make a great pillow, but it was better than nothing. She set it in her lap, just about to look for anything else to cover herself with inside the bag as he stood up.

“I’m gonna have me a smoke,” he stretched his back, nodded, and was back out the door before she had the chance to respond. Looking up at the bed, she saw it. The wallet she hadn't seen much of, left forgotten on the bed.

Perhaps it had fallen out, she thought. I should leave it alone.

She was curious, though, wondering if there were any traces of his life, his ID, something, and before she could stop herself, she was reaching for the folded leather, eyes wide and filled with thoughts of what secrets could be inside.

Standing up fully, she grabbed it, opening the folds with an eagerness and some degree of exhilaration at the fact that he could be back at any moment, but the first thing revealed caught her completely off guard. It wasn’t an ID of some kind, or more money, or even a credit card, it was a picture, an old polaroid, like one of the ones that printed as soon as the picture was taken. It was even stamped with a date. April 6, 1995.

It looked like a selfie, the woman in the picture’s face was smeared with chocolate cake frosting, and she was grinning, her black wavy hair pulled to one side, her eyes sparkling with happiness and warmth, her tanned skin dotted with several freckles, and then there was a boy behind her, sitting on what looked like a counter, grinning as hard as he could, too, his hair a mop of brown curls on his head, with the same chocolate frosting smeared across his features. The woman was holding a candle in her hand, one shaped in the form of a six.

1995. It was older, and it snapped in her head that she had been born in 1995. It obviously couldn’t have been a girl back wherever he was from, or a son from wherever he was from, the Captain couldn’t have been older than thirty.

Was it him? Her gaze locked onto the boy, looking so happy and so innocent. It was possible, but who would the woman be? His mother? His sister? In all honesty, how did that boy become the man standing outside and smoking a cigarette or a cigar, on the run from the law, a murderer?

The door opened suddenly and Gwen nearly dropped the wallet, looking up to see Boomerang, his eyes locked onto the wallet in her hands. He slammed the door and her chest felt heavy, her breathing picking up.

Run! Her mind shouted. Do something!

“Where,” he was breathing hard, too, his lips moving to bare his teeth, his anger obviously building quickly, “Did yah get that?”

“I-I, well, it—”

Then he was in front of her, his body massive, leaning over her, getting in her face. “Yah don’t gettah touch her! ” He shouted it and she dropped the wallet, cowering and trying to stumble back.

“I’m s-sorry, please, don’t—”

“Don’t what? ” The words were spat out, his body moving towards her like a predator moving in for the kill. There was a dark look in his eyes, the same one she had seen when he had grabbed her by the neck and squeezed so tightly she thought she was going to die.

Her body kicked into motion before she could think, springing to try and run past him, scrambling with panic, but his hand came down on her arm before she could get anywhere, grabbing it tightly and yanking her. Pain exploded in her shoulder and she felt something pop like it never had before as he threw her back to where she was. She yelled out, moving to clutch her arm before she even ran into the wall with her back, making the pain even worse. Her vision wavered, blurry with tears and pain, but she could see him clearly, crouching down, his eyes locked on hers.

A sob tore from her throat and she knew she wasn’t in the presence of the man she had been with, it was something darker. He started babbling, his body shaking with what, she assumed, was anger.

“Yah think yah can hurt me? Control me? ” He laughed, scornful and cold as he stood up, his hand in his coat to pull out boomerangs. “ Fuck. No. I don’t think so.”

“I didn’t—”

His arm whipped out and a boomerang buried itself into the wall beside her head. She screamed, trying to crawl away on her hands and knees, shrinking against the bed. She brought her arms up, despite the wrenching pain in her shoulder that made her feel like she was going to throw up any contents in her stomach. She tucked her head against her knees, shutting her eyes and trembling.

Boomerang was shouting and grunting, and she could hear things being thrown around, breaking and splintering. Something wooden hit the wall beside her and broke, splinters flying in every direction, several of them burying themselves in her arms. There were more ‘thum’s of boomerangs being driven into the walls, and maybe the bed. She didn’t know.

Fight or flight instincts had left her. If she even tried to move she knew he’d turn his attention to her again. Her throat was closing up and air wasn’t getting through to her lungs despite how hard she was gasping for breath. It was all happening too fast. First, she helped him possibly injure police officers, then helped him get another motel room, and now he was now in attack mode.

She heard another ‘thum’ along with him shouting, “Yah ain’t gonna take me back, goddammit!”

There was a thump, loud and heavy and it made the floor shake. She slowly parted her arms, peeking up above her knees to see him on his own, his face in his hands. Then he dropped his hands and screamed.

The Jones’ were a fair family, Gwendolyn thought, rich like all of her parents’ “friends,” with different companies spread over the globe. They were snobby, and laughed like it, too, but they had a daughter, and that daughter happened to be one of Gwen’s friends, even if she didn’t like her. She had to take what she could get.

Emmaline Jones was a bit of a rebel, and Gwendolyn admired that about her. She was willing to go out on her own time, or skip out on chores, and even sneak off to see a few boys. Gwendolyn could never, if Lucinda caught her there was a real possibility that Gwen wouldn’t ever be seen again.

They, the Jones’, were over on Wednesday night, and at sixteen, the Bartholme daughter was tired of the “play dates” the adults would send Gwen and Emmaline off on to keep them out of the way while they discussed money. They were both the same age, both going to the same rich kid school, and both entirely bored as they sat in Gwen’s room.

She wasn’t sure how the topic came about, but it did, and Gwendolyn was absolutely shocked when Emmaline had told her that she had fallen into bed with none other than Sarafino Ravenna, quite possibly the most attractive boy at school, and a jock for certain. What shocked her, even more, is what Emmaline said about it.

“He wasn’t my first,” she had said to her, stretched out on the bed. “But it was so good.”

“Good?”

Emmaline nodded her head and hummed. “Yeah. He was super sweet, but he packs a punch, Gwendolyn.” She winked and Gwen looked away, her cheeks red.

Her eyebrows had furrowed as she thought about it. She knew what sex was, of course, her mother had taught her that much, but she never said anything about it feeling remotely good. In fact, she had told her it was quite the opposite, and never ever to spoil yourself before marriage.

“A good husband,” Gwen remembered her saying, “Doesn’t want his wife spoiled.”

“Why would you… Sleep with him?” She asked quietly.

“Because it’s fun,” the other woman replied.

Gwen didn’t understand. “But don’t you want to wait for marriage?”

“Gwen,” Emmaline addressed, sitting up. “I don’t want to get married. It’s all a game they play,” she gestured towards the door. “They just want us to get out and have more kids to get more money off of and keep the business going. They don’t care about us , or our opinion, so why should we care about theirs?”

She did have a point.

“Plus, if I do get married, it’s probably going to be some arranged bullshit with a guy I don’t like. I want to do something before my parents force me into it.”

Gwen scowled a little when Emmaline swore, but didn’t make a comment about it. They moved on and talked about other things (after Emmaline complimented Sarafino on his fine package, to which Gwendolyn covered her face and shook her head) and soon, the night was over, the Jones’ leaving with plans to come back again in two weeks.

The other girl had winked at her before closing the door, telling her to “Try it sometime,” in regards to pleasuring herself. It was such an absurd thought, but one that didn’t leave her head the rest of the night, and didn’t let her sleep.

She tossed and turned, trying to get the conversation out of her head. Gwen didn’t want to think about anything to do with sex. It was taboo, no matter what Emmaline said… Right? She didn’t know. She turned over again, her stomach wound up in knots.

Closing her eyes tightly, she rolled onto her back, taking deep breaths, her hand inching towards the hemline of her pajama pants. She breathed deeply, trying to stop the fast pounding of her heart as her fingertips dipped into the pants and the underwear underneath, her other hand clenched in a fist by her hip.

Her fingers were cold compared to the heat of her core, and she startled slightly, biting her bottom lip. But she didn’t stop, the pads of her fingers slowly circling the flesh at the apex of her thighs, and surprisingly, it felt better than she thought it would. Almost… Good.

Body relaxing slowly, she continued, turning her head to the side to gasp quietly. More butterflies gathered in her stomach, tight and in clusters. She couldn’t believe what she was doing, directly disobeying her mother and enjoying it. Gwen’s lip twitched in a smirk.

Her back arched as she pressed harder,  gasping again as her hips bucked off the mattress.

“Gwendolyn!”

Eyes snapping open and wide, she stared at her mother’s form in the doorway, hand flying out of her pants as she sat up, breathing hard. She hadn’t even heard the door open. Lucinda’s face was twisted in a snarl.

“You ungrateful little thing!” She cried, charging towards the bed. “How dare you try and defile yourself! Do you not want a good husband? Do you not want to be a good wife? How dare you disobey your mother! God dammit, Gwendolyn, what did I say?”

Her arm was grabbed and she was yanked from the bed, feet trying to find purchase on the hardwood as she nearly fell to her knees. Lucinda stood her up straight, hand coming down and cracking across Gwen’s cheek.

“Answer me, Gwendolyn!”

“I won’t do it again!”

Another smack. “Why would you even think to disgrace me? You’re nothing better than a whore!”

“I didn’t mean to, I promise!”

She was thrown back and she stumbled into the bed, calves hitting the frame and sending her toppling back.

“You wait here, you deceitful thing,” Lucinda hissed. “I’m going to go get the belt.”

Hardly able to breathe with the panic racing through her system, telling her to run, or fight, or just do something, she curled up. She brought her hands to the back of her head, tucking her forehead against her knees as she heard her mother stomping out into her room, then several drawers slamming shut, and then the sound of the steps returning. She closed her eyes again.

Gwen wasn’t seen for a week at school, or even outside of her room, after that. She didn’t dare think to defile herself ever again.

Chapter Text

The Aussie’s throat burned, whether from screaming or the stinging feeling of tears in the backs of his eyes, he didn’t know. His hands felt seared and when he focused his blurry vision on them, they were bloody, various cuts and splinters embedded in his palms. He had no idea what had happened and he couldn’t hear anything in the room, like it wasn’t coming through and registering. So he turned his hands over and over, staring at them, trying to piece together what had happened.

The last thing he remembered was coming through the door, just after putting out his smoke, and seeing her holding his wallet, staring at the picture that was meant for his eyes and his eyes alone —how dare she?— beyond that, it was like there was a gap in his memory. He’d had it happen before, a breakdown so powerful he couldn’t remember it. He was overwhelmed, too many emotions flooding him at once, and he felt horribly drained, like his muscles were falling off the bones.

Sound seemed to get through now, and he could hear her, sobbing quietly. He slowly looked up, trying to find her with vision that wouldn’t focus. The room was a mess, he could tell that much, and it explained the condition of his hands.

Her small body looked even tinier, and she was curled in a ball, knees pulled up to her chest with her arms around them, her blonde curls springing out from under his beanie. Her gaze slowly lifted and he could make out the tears gleaming across her red cheeks.

“You’re a monster!” She shouted in a shaky voice, obviously scared he was going to start rampaging again, “Just some big guy wh-who thinks he can hurt women because he’s big!”

He couldn’t believe she was speaking out against him, but something inside of him felt like it cracked at the words, his chest flaring slightly with pain, his head pounding, and he saw the leering face of his father.

“Boy-o.”

All at once he was falling back, scrambling as far away from her and the idea of his father as he could, hands crying in protest as he pushed himself across the floor until he hit the wall, breathing hard. His eyes rolled back in his head and he was lost again.

The screaming was loud, and it echoed through the house. He could hear it, and the sounds of loud masculine grunts and feminine cries, as he hid head under his pillows. Something from outside the door slammed into the ground and the floor shook. Slowly and cautiously, he inched his way out of the bed, running to his door before opening it just a crack to see if his mum was okay.

He could see her, sitting against the wall in the kitchen, and she made eye contact for a split second before the man who had patted his head and called him “Boy-o” came into view, his large body stalking towards her with his fists clenched.

“George, please—”

“I had enough of yuh damn yappin’, woman,” he snarled, his body ducking low as his raised fist came down. His mother screamed, her legs kicking and hands reaching up to claw and slap the larger man, but it didn’t seem to faze him.

Owen watched, his mouth open, his mind blank with shock. His mother’s screams began to get weaker, and he watched the man grab her around the neck and lift her, pushing her against the wall. “I can’t believe yah kept the brat, seein’ as how weak yah are, Melody,” he said.

Melody’s body was slack, her eyes hardly open, not chancing a glance down the hall where the door had swung almost completely open and her four-year-old son stood stunned.

“Yuh’re fuckin’ pathetic,” he growled and turned, throwing the woman to the ground before lifting his foot to press into her side, making her cry out weakly. The man looked up, seeing his son before his lips tugged up in a broad grin.

“See now, Son,” he said. “ This is how yah treat people who don’t got the strength yah do.”

Owen didn’t move, just stared, and the man threw his head back and roared with laughter, using his feet to roll his mother over to see him. “Look at him, eh? He’d bettah start learnin’ how tah be like his old man, instead of his worthless bitch of a mum.”

Her face was blotchy and red, and she choked out a sob, looking at him with despair. “Owen, honey,” she said quietly. “Go back into your room.”

The man with sideburns and a crooked nose cackled again. “Might as well listen tah her, Boy-o,” he said. “I’ll be back tah teach yah more, anyway. Then we can really do some time together.”

His mother cried out again, and Owen desperately wanted to move towards her, he wanted to beat the man off of her and snarl that he wasn’t allowed to touch his mother, but he was frozen in place. He was shaking, confused, angry, and had no idea what to do.

“Owen,” his mother said again. “Please.” The man sneered, reaching down to start undoing his belt and fly, hand reaching into his jeans, and Owen ran into his room, slamming the door behind him as he felt tears start to stream down his face.

He could hear more screams every now and again, along with much more frequent loud masculine grunts, and he knew his mother had given up trying to fight the large man. He curled up across from the door in the corner of his room, hiding his face in his elbows as he, the one who hadn’t protected his mum from the bad man, sobbed.

He came to slowly, aware of the rapid pounding coming from somewhere next to him. His world swayed as he opened his eyes, trying to figure out where he was, images of his mother being hit and rolled around by his father’s booted foot vivid in his mind. He felt weak, like he was too weak to even lift his head.

He breathed raggedly, his chest heaving with exhaustion and he barely managed to glance up. It was the door, he realized, or someone on the other side kicking and knocking on it as hard as possible.

Gwennie.

She was still where she was when he had stumbled back—and his hands were still reminding him of how bad of a decision that was—curled up, her eyes still open, staring blankly ahead. Tears were no longer running down her cheeks, but he could see the lines where they had trailed across her skin. I’m sorry. His mouth suddenly became dry, his tongue like a block of sand. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Don’t say it.

I’m sorry.

“Open this damn door!” It was a woman, Owen could tell, her voice deep and resonating. He rolled onto his hands and knees, staring at his bloodied palms as he tried to remember how to stand up, like he had never done it before in his life. He stumbled and figured he looked drunk, trying to get to the door to open it, prepared to try and formulate something to say to deter whoever was on the other side.

Unfortunately, he opened the door before he was ready.

The woman was shorter than he was and she was glaring up at him before he even realized she was only standing centimeters from him. Then she promptly lifted her foot and smashed her heel down on his toes through his boot. He gave a shout, shoving the woman away, who kept her balance and moved to shove him back, her large body pushing him through the doorway.

“Now just who the hell do you think you are, coming into my motel unannounced?” She had a blazing fury about her, and Boomerang being as discombobulated as he was, couldn’t come up with a response, other than to growl and glare at her. “Look at what you’ve done!”

Gwennie looked up at the woman, he could see her out of the corner of his eyes, and her face flashed with recognition. She was beside the girl in a second, helping her to her feet while crooning things the man couldn’t hear.

“Now just yah fuckin’ wait!” He snapped, working up the stability to go and grab the woman by the back of her shirt, tugging her away from Gwen, who sat on the bed. “Yah have no right tah touch her.”

“Neither do you.”

“She’s in my company!”

“And look at what good that’s been!”

He could feel his face heating up, his lips curling, and everything suddenly sharpened around him again, everything that had transpired in the room just before was forgotten, but his chest was still miserably tight, and it still wasn’t easy to breathe. “I can handle it.”

“Get outta my way, can’t you see she’s hurt?”

“I can fuckin’ handle it!”

Another shove from the woman, followed by one from the man. His heart pounded in his chest, his eyes darting around. “Go!”

“It’s my damn motel!”

“I paid fah the room!”

Harsher breathing filled the space between them and he realized it was coming from him.

“Ooh!” She waved her hands in jazz fashion. “I’m so scared, look at you, makin’ a girl go get your room.”

His eye twitched and he grabbed the top of her shirt, bunching it up in his hands and lifting her until the material of the shirt started popping and straining from the effort. “I ain’t dealin’ with this shit . I’ll take care of her. I’ll patch her up. Yah won’t say a word, an’ I won’t hurt her no more, an’ we’ll leave. Fuckin’ hear me?”

The woman glared at him, her eyes narrowed with hatred. “I’ll leave, an’ I won’t touch her. I swear on me life.” His body heaved with the force of his breathing, he hazarded a glance behind him at the woman on the bed, who was staring at the two of them with her lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed. “I won’t hurt her like that again.”

Owen’s eyes darted back to the older woman and he released her, feeling uncomfortable under her scrutinizing gaze, the fight gone from his body. He wanted—no, needed —to leave immediately, and something crossed over her face.

“Alright,” it was quiet and firm. “I’ll let you, but I getta stay and watch you fix her up, understand?”

He gritted his teeth and nodded his agreement slowly, turning on his heel while watching her carefully, his ears trying to hear her over the pounding of his heart.

Nevah forget what’s behind yah.

The Captain stood in front of Gwen, taking the arm she was still cradling in his hands with as much gentleness as he could muster. She gasped, shutting her eyes and looking down. He leaned over, seeing the lump sticking out under her shirt. He moved the arm slowly, rotating it and half circles while she whined and strained against his touch.

“Dislocated,” he muttered. “Stop movin’ an’ I’ll set it.”

Pain’s relative.

He did give her credit for trying to stop from squirming, he knew how painful dislocations could be. His hand touched her other shoulder, making her lay down before he grabbed a hold of her elbow and wrist. The Aussie pulled with a slow deliberation, away from her body, eyes closed as the limb protested until he heard a ‘clunk!’ and felt the jerk as her shoulder slid back into place.

Releasing his grip on her arm, he could see the traces of blood over her arm, small dribbles still coming from his own hands.

“I need something to sling her arm with,” he told the woman behind him, not wanting to sacrifice something of his own for her.

“You got a jacket on.”

He didn’t hide his irritation, lip lifting in distaste as he pulled off his coat, letting it fall to the floor before pulling his arms out of the holster straps and slipping out of the jacket. He set to creating a makeshift sling for her, tying the sleeves around the top of her shoulder.

“Thank you,” Gwen whispered, her lower lip wobbling faintly.

He didn’t respond, moving to grab her backpack on the ground by the bed. Sliding the straps and his holsters back onto his shoulders, he slipped on his glove and grabbed his coat. “Let’s go, Gwennie.” Turning to find her hugging the black woman, he scoffed. “I’ll be by the bike. Be quick about it.”

He stormed out of the room, which he thought felt like it was closing in on him and trapping him, making it harder to focus on where the damn door was, grumbling as he walked out towards his Harley.

The man sat on his bike, watching the corner of the building, waiting for Gwen to come out. If she didn’t within a minute, he’d be storming back, even if he didn’t want to. That woman would be an idiot to take her and try to hide her.

One of his breast pockets felt heavy, heavier than usual, and when he reached in, he remembered what he put in it. Surprised that it did feel so heavy in that moment, he pulled out the old golden object, kept polished, safe, and hidden away so dust couldn’t damage it. He rubbed it with his thumb for a moment, his throat tight.

He opened it slowly, dragging the tips of his fingers over the glass surface that covered the needles and designs of the compass inside, the same needles and designs that resided on his wrist forever.

His mother loomed in his mind’s eye, the edges of her face blurry, but the look on her face was vivid, full of fear, panic, and anger. His shoulders straightened and his body was tight with anxiety.

“Don’t yah evah do that again!”

“Not now, mum,” he hissed through gritted teeth, clenching his eyes in hopes that her face would disappear. It didn’t.

“Yah scared me, Owen!”

He shook his head, hand tightening on the compass. “Leave me, alone, mum… Please. I can’t…”

Owen thought he felt a hand on his shoulder and his eyes tore open, searching and not wanting to see. No one was there. Melody’s face was gone, though the thought still sent shivers down his spine.

He looked at the compass again, swallowing around the lump in his throat before snapping it closed and pressing it against his heart.

The man slipped it back into his breast pocket when he saw Gwennie come around the corner, stuffing something into her pocket.

“I swear on me life.”

“Listen to me next time,” he still heard her. “Keep yuh promises, Wild Colonial Boy. Please.”

He could almost feel her arms around him, squeezing him. He shook it off and started his bike instead, waiting for the woman to get on behind him.

Owen was surprised when it wasn’t as painful as he thought it would be. He remembered when he was a child, more of a child than he was now, and he thought of the needles going into his skin, with barbed teeth and a nasty vengeance for daring to come under their siege. In truth, it still did hurt, the rattle of the tattoo gun firing the single needle into his hand over and over again, but not like that.

The boys were out in the parlor, probably laughing and joking. This was the true place for initiation, the back rooms in an old brick building with the neon sign that said ‘TATTOOS’ out front. Of course, there were the ceremonies before, like winning twelve boxing matches with taped hands, or completing a successful run.

But the final induction could be anything, whatever Warrin decided, it could be planned, or not, it didn’t matter. If Warrin “Ophi” Abbey told a man he was ready, then so he was. It had been Owen’s hundredth and sixty-second run, he had been counting of course, when Ophi came to him.

“Yuh’re ready, kid,” he told him, his grizzled face grinning with a shine in his eyes, his large hand patting the teen on the shoulder. “Yah done well.”

The boy couldn’t help but beam, craving the approval of his elder and chief. However, he knew what it did entail. Permanent ink, no way out, needles barring down into your skin. He had been nervous, the guys in his group cheered for him when he told them Warrin chose him, they were all already members, the two who headed their group had slapped him on the back with their own inked hands.

Not many ever got inked before their eighth year, and normally that was unusual, too. It was his fifth and he knew it was an honor. He was a good worker, loyal to the cause. Some simply took longer than him to show that.

The fourteen-year-old had likely been pale when he headed back to the room. He knew he wasn’t of age, but that hadn’t stopped him before with the things he had done. Images of a woman against him, her smooth legs alongside his flashed in his head, the way she felt when she clenched her pussy around his cock, forcing his orgasm from him without a second to waste. He was pressured into it, but by the time he had gotten alone with the woman in the back room of a brothel, he no longer cared, his clothes off of his body and on the floor, and his hands kneading at her flesh.

He knew with his size and the facial hair already growing on his face that he could’ve easily passed for eighteen, and he had when he was out on a run with his backpack strapped to his shoulders during the dead of night or the middle of the day, normally fifteen to twenty pounds of Auntie Emma inside, though he never had put any of it inside of his body.

James always told him, “It’s a bad idea, Cue,” Owen never knew why he called him ‘Cue’ but he hadn’t protested it, “Tah visit Mary Jane, or Auntie Emma, or Mama Cocoa, or any of them girls. ‘Specially when they’re bein’ saved fah someone else. They’ll fuck yah up. Don’t end up like some of us.”

He had told him that when he had first been recruited, and reminded him every time he brought in a bag from the Docks, or the Shed, or the special designated areas for special sellers and movers. One thing Owen never was, was a buyer, and he was thankful for it.

A particularly sharp prick of the needle brought him out of his daze.

“Sorry,” the artist muttered. The outline had been finished, along with the four dots, the three around the head and the one in the curl of the tail. Now he was filling in the details, which had been stenciled on, the layered scales on the back, and the lines of the underbelly as it twisted and warped over the space from his thumb to his wrist.

It was a snake, which symbolized the gang. The Ghost Heads. Luca had told him they were called so because snakes were deadly, the heads containing the venom ready to strike at any time, but that wasn’t all they were. They were ghosts that no one could catch, always right below the surface.

He gazed at the needle, watching the lines of black behind it before the artist would lift it away and bring up a wipe, swabbing away excess blood and ink. He grunted quietly as he lifted his head, deciding to look at the artwork on the walls instead.

Owen zoned out after that, eyes unfocused as the tattoo was completed. He had heard that there was a second part to the true initiation, and sometimes it varied, but no one ever revealed what the options were, just that sometimes it was different, but it was also required. The boy knew he would be going through with that, too.

“Yuh’re done.” He felt the wipe on his arm again. “I’ll wrap it an’ send yah off with some cream. Don’t take the wrap off fah a few hours.”

Nodding, he waited until it was bandaged carefully, before shaking his hand and taking the bottle that had instructions for tattoo care on the back. He had heard of infected tattoos and didn’t desire such a thing.

He was shown out and the Boys whooped when he showed them the bandages, coming to slap him on the back and make jokes and comments.

They all stopped when the door opened, still grinning and snickering and elbowing each other as Warrin walked in, pale skin visible even in the darkness before he stepped inside.

“Owen,” he sounded pleased. “Welcome, permanently, tah the Ghost Heads.”

Several calls rose from the crowd and Ophi held up his hand for silence before stretching it out to him. Owen took it.

“Cue.”

Owen nodded, accepting the nickname he would have forever, given to him by James. He would’ve scoffed had he not been in the presence of the man that led them. He had heard that leaders usually were not as involved as Warrin was in the business of the gang, and figured as long as he stayed in good graces, that would amount to no problems.

“Come with me,” he told him. “Everyone else, go on an’ scram.”

They all filed out the door after Owen and Warrin and then turned and walked down the street the opposite way, still ramped up and excited, and likely out to go and get drunk somewhere.

“How was it? Was yuh first, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Owen replied as they walked. “Wasn’t bad.”

Warrin nodded. “Things normally ain’t as bad as they seem on the surface. That’s why we settle under it.”

Ophi led him to a place he hadn’t ever been, another older brick building with the lights on inside, and the sound of feminine laughter drifting out into the night air.

“The second part is usually different in someway or anothah fah everyone,” the older man said casually. “Sometimes it’s goin’ out an’ gettin’ drunk, kissin’ a man, kissin’ a boomer’s ass, havin’ sex.” He shrugged. “We’re goin’ with sex fah yah, but the catch is I’m lettin’ yah choose from me own group.”

Owen’s jaw dropped.

He always kept his girls for himself, in fact he was notorious for never being seen with other women than his own, and never letting those women even look at another man, or another man look at any of his women. No one knew where he had gotten them, sometimes they just showed up. But this , Owen knew, never happened.

“I get ‘em all tested for disease, so they’re clean. Yah are, tah, yeah?”

“Yes, Sah.”

“Don’t gotta call me sah.”

Cue nodded and swallowed as Warrin opened the door, calling out that they had a guest. After some scrambling movements, all of them were standing in the front room with several modest couches, a coffee table, and a large television. There were eight of them, and Owen went with the one he thought he liked best.

She was small, with dark brown hair and a cute face, smiling up at him with large eyes. The only thing Warrin said before they both went up the stairs, the girl, Annalise, leading him to her room, was “Don’t be afraid tah have a good time, boy.”

Annalise had his large hand in hers, giggling softly as she shut the door behind them. “What’s your name?”

Her accent was American.

“Owen,” he replied quietly.

“Take off your clothes.”

He did so, pulling off the tank top, the boots, and the jeans he had on.

“Ooh, just got tattooed, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” she said before biting her lip, looking over him. “Commando, too. Warrin doesn’t let me see others… I’m glad he let me see you.”

She was dressed in a bikini, and started to move around him, her hands gently gliding over his sides and across his back. Her clothing joined his on the floor, and they went tumbling into bed.

He was inexperienced, and she seemed to know this, because she began to guide him, giving him soft commands as he bit at her neck and pulled at her breasts, his hips pressing against hers in slow and deliberate figure eights.

His body was pulled taut, shivering with lust and excitement, the only thoughts running through his head were of how he needed to push into her and he needed to do it right now., and that’s just what he did when he felt her fingers guiding him into the heat of her body.

He pulsed, both of his heads throbbing as he sucked in a deep breath. His hands touched the bed beside her head and her hip, pressing her down into the mattress.

“Move,” Annalise told him, and he didn’t need more urging. His hips pistoned into her, having only lain with a woman once before, and he was eager, biting down on her neck like an animal. His fingers dug into her hip, sure to leave bruises.

Warm breath spread over skin, fast and harsh as they both grunted and moaned quietly. She wasn’t loud and Owen didn’t mind, her nails dug into his back and pulled at his hair hard, and that made up for the lack of verbal encouragement. She gripped at him, sucking him into her as her legs wrapped around the back of his thighs.

Her back arched, moaning his name softly, and he moved to bite on her earlobe gently, pulling and sucking on it. She gasped, her nails clamping down on his skin again and her legs tightening, her walls quivering around his cock. Her body shook slightly and she clenched even harder around him. Unsure if her climax was real or not, he didn’t care, because seconds later he was going over the edge, too, producing the loudest grunt of the night, his muscled body rigid as he shoved into her several times, flaming hot pleasure shooting from his balls straight up his spine.

He rolled off of her after several minutes, a sleepy and sated smile on his face. She pressed up against him, her cheek on his chest, her fingers playing with the patchy springy chest hair.

He fucked her again, twice that night, in fact, and left before the sun began to rise, needing to make it back to his current foster home before six. He had a slight bounce to his step as he jogged across the city towards the burbs.

“Cue!”

Owen stopped in his tracks, backing up until he stood at the mouth of an alley. James materialized out of the darkness and the teen felt his body relax just faintly.

But something wasn’t right. His normal laid back manner had changed and a grievous look had taken up room on his face. His hand settled on Owen's shoulder.

"Now yah listen tah me, Cue," he said. "I like yah, an' yah just dug yuhself deepah intah the hole."

Owen didn't understand, furrowing his brows. "What?"

"Yah promise me, Cue," he looked desperate now, and Owen's heart felt torn. "When yah get the chance, yah run far from this place. Yah remember that, Cue, promise me."

He promised.

Chapter Text

He always found that he was rather fascinated by hands. He didn’t know where the intrigue had come from, but it was there, and he always found himself staring at fingers, seeing what kind they were, and how they socketed back into the palm. He was quite fond of women’s hands, never quite as big as his, or normally as worked, and often times if he wasn’t in a hurry, he’d pick a girl to spend the night with based off of long and elegant fingers with soft pads. But sometimes he was left to stare at his own, clutched around the handlebars of his bike.

Owen didn’t quite know why the thought of his knuckles suddenly sent memories shooting through his head of when his hands had been locked with others, but it had, and now as they drove down the road from the motel, neither of them with any sleep to be had to their names, that was all he could think about to avoid what had happened in that room. He didn’t want to think of it.

He banked around a curb and Gwen’s one arm, the only she had available, tightened around him to keep from sliding off the back of the motorcycle. He tried to refocus his mind, as it drifted to and fro. His eyes saw the road. The sun had just barely begun to light the skies, but it hadn’t risen yet, giving the world around them an almost twilight-like atmosphere. He never quite liked mornings.

Off he went again, tumbling into his own thoughts. Her hand tightened involuntarily in his shirt, as it had been doing since they took off. Perhaps that is what got his mind on thinking about different kinds of hands, and what he preferred.

Suddenly pain struck his chest, blooming from inside so fiercely he let out a forceful sigh.

He hated it.

He hated the sudden bursts of emotion welling up inside him, other than exhilaration, or being so drunk he simply couldn’t feel, and that’s exactly where he wished he was. Emotions were a hard subject for the Aussie, and if he had his way, he’d never feel them. They were bad, dangerous even.

Emotions of any kind were only there to drag a person in his trade down. What if the enemy knew that he truly had them, or knew how to exploit them? Something like what had happened between Gwennie and himself could happen all over again, where he was no longer in control, and then what would happen? He’d be fucked, and he knew it. Owen wasn’t allowed to have emotions, or show the vulnerable ones, not just because of the risk that came with them, but because he didn’t want to believe he was vulnerable.

“I ain’t weak,” he muttered to himself. That was what mattered, in the end. Was he weak? Was he strong? He assumed he had some strength, after all, he had survived three years in Arkham Asylum, which, mind you, was no easy feat.

He had hardened himself long before he had ever come to sit inside a prison cell for more than a month.

“It’s parta the job,” he hated thinking about his father, but one of his lessons rang through his head. “If we ain’t solid, we lose the game.”

That was one of the only things Owen ever actually believed his father was right about.

Usually, he could push it all away, but the blackout, the flashback, broke open the floodgates, and he felt powerless to stop it as guilt continued to ball up inside of him. If I can’t stop it, he told himself, then I won’t apologize.  He wasn't going to, anyway, but it was the only plan he could come up with.

Boomerang nearly had before and he wouldn’t allow himself to crumble again. Asking forgiveness would give power to the person he was asking it of and would give them power over him. He was tired enough of being controlled, or having someone “reigning supreme” over him, and it would not happen again. He vowed it when he broke out through the sewers, crawling up onto Gotham’s streets like a sewer rat, but he had finally been freed.

It’s gonna be fine, he talked to himself more often than he thought he should. Yah don’t have tah think about it. She’s fine, yuh’re fine—

Oh god. What about the woman?

The woman, how could she forget her? Up in his face, yelling, protecting Gwennie. What would she do? Had she seen his license plate? Boomerang knew he would keep up his end of the bargain, but would she do the same? He couldn’t trust her. How could he have been so stupid?

Anger started to even out the guilt and he had half a mind to flip around and go back and make sure she hadn’t done anything, but that would be wasted time. If there was one thing the man couldn’t afford, it was wasted time, effort, and gas. Speaking of which, he would need to refill soon.

His grip loosened on the handlebars. If she had called someone, then she had, and there wasn’t a damn thing Owen could do about it now but run like he always had. He just had to hope she kept her word and didn’t call anyone, hoping that she had given him the time he needed. His head turned, looking over his shoulder, just in case.

Shaking himself slightly, he focused on the road again, going round another curve. He startled, nearly gunning the gas when he heard a sharp scream from behind him, deciding to pull the brakes instead. The tire squealed as the bike came to a stop, his boots hitting the ground silently. He was breathing hard, worked up, but he could hear her, gasping and whimpering. She sounded like she was truly in pain. It took him a moment to register what was going on and he had to rattle himself all over again before sitting up straight.

“Stay on,” he said loud enough for her to hear and slid off the bike. He watched as she fell forward slightly, catching herself on the seat with her hand as he pushed his Harley to the side of the road.

It was obvious she wasn’t breathing well. He couldn’t be sure if it was from the pain of her shoulder, or the fact that her neck might still be swollen, or even both. He kicked the stand, turned off the bike, and grabbed her good arm, helping her off.

“Take a moment. Get some air.”

Gwennie nodded, wheezing slightly as she walked away from him for a moment, pushing the blonde curls out of her face that had fallen over her eyes. She didn’t look back at him, gaze trained on the road and the trees around them. Her breathing was shaky, but it seemed she was getting control over it.

“What’s wrong?”

His voice startled her.  She didn’t respond.

“I asked yah a question.”

Her eyes darted to him and he could see her start shaking. Annoyance made him grit his teeth. He could understand if she was frightened by him, but being unresponsive wouldn’t do. “I don’t like repeatin’ myself, Gwennie,” he snapped. “What is wrong?”

She shook her head and he stepped towards her, a loud sigh coming out of his nostrils. She rounded towards him, stumbling back over her feet as she tried to back away quickly, nearly falling down to the gravel. Her face looked suspended in time and his eyes focused on it, able to see every little freckle, even from several feet away, that dotted her face.

In that one moment, she looked like his mother.

Then the memory of before, the one that had been locked away, hit him again. His father’s body moving towards her, his fist raised, and the look of fear that made his gut churn so uncomfortably he stumbled back himself.

“What if it’s an accident?”

“Well accidents happen, an’ sometimes yah can’t do anything about it, but you can always decide what you do after.”

Owen took a slow and deep breath. He made a promise.

“I ain’t gonna hurt yah, Gwennie,” it was quiet but carried in the crisp air. “I meant it when I said it.”

Her shoulders stayed tense as she stared up at him. Her throat moved in a swallow and she winced.

“Now,” he kept his words soft, “What’s wrong?”

“My shoulder,” she whispered, hand going to the makeshift sling. “Hanging on hurts too much, it pulls. I can’t stay on anymore.”

Captain Boomerang pursed his lips, folding his arms in a relaxed gesture. “An’ what d’yah think we should do?”

Gwen shook her head slowly, gaze moving to the ground with her eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t know.”

“I could tie yah tah me.”

“No.”

His lips twitched in a faint smile. “Well, we can’t stop here an’ wait fah yah shoulder tah rest. We ain’t got that kinda time.”

“I know.”

He moved one of his hands, his thumb coming up to rub against his lower lip. He could actually tie her to him if he wanted, just get one of her pairs of jeans out of the backpack and strap her around his waist, but that wouldn’t do, and speaking of the backpack, it was probably hurting her shoulder. He frowned. He could take the backpack.

“What about my lap?” He said suddenly.

She looked up, obviously startled by the idea. She didn’t respond immediately, but he could see her thinking through it. “Do I have a choice?”

“I ain’t leavin’ yah. It’s that or gettin’ tied.”

A sigh escaped her lips and she nodded. “Okay.”

“Good. Come on.”

He jerked his head and walked back towards the bike. He reached out as she neared, slowly so he didn’t scare her, and grabbed one of the straps of the backpack she had. He pulled the bag away from her, loosening the bands to accommodate for his larger body. Then, he held out his hand to her while scooting back to give her room on the seat, the pack strapped to his back.

Obviously hesitant, her hand gently held onto his as she climbed on, unstable and off balance, but he held tight. She settled in front of him, rigid, and he could feel the waves of nervousness coming off of her. He decided to stay quiet about it as he started the bike again.

Her body was shaking as he pulled back out onto the road, slipping back towards him until she pressed against him. He lifted his feet as he propelled his Harley with the gas, slowly banking around the next turn, his arms like a cage around her. She bumped into his left arm as she slid towards it, but he didn’t let her fall.

He still felt the guilt inside him, no matter how much he didn’t want to. He still didn’t want to think about it. She was in front of him, now, her back pressed against his chest, impossibly small in his eyes. Her blonde curls flew wildly, not quite reaching his face, but they curled around his jaw and neck, like soft caresses aside from the wind.

Gwen’s hair was thicker than he remembered it being, and felt almost silky, despite not having washed it in a few days. Her roots were barely starting to show, he could see them if he looked down, small dark splashes that contrasted the golden blonde whenever the hair went a certain way. He wondered what it would look like when the dark hair was longer, but he wasn’t sure if he could let that happen. Maybe he’d actually dye her hair a color next time. He hadn’t decided yet, but when that day came he would need to cut it again.

He realized she hadn’t made any comments on the style he had chosen for her. In fact, he hadn’t ever seen her feel around her head or even run a hand through the top. Was it on purpose? He remembered once, when he was in a local bar, and two of the waitresses would not shut up about their hair and how it looked, or how important it was, or how one’s looked better than the other’s. Quite honestly, Owen never much cared, but he did wonder if Gwen had these same “values” when it came to how it looked.

Lucinda Bartholme flashed inside his head, her fake show for the reporters. Oh yeah, he thought. I’ll betcha she does.

His hands gripped the handles tighter. He’d need to contact Gwennie’s family soon, but not yet. He needed to wait for the shock to ride out a little longer. That and he was reminded by the faint growl of his stomach that they would need to stop for some kind of snack or food.

As his own hair whipped around on top of his head, he took one hand off the handle and wrapped his arm around her waist.

“I know the way home.”

Owen kicked a rock to and fro on the sidewalk out in front of the school. “Yeah, yeah. Just left up there,” he looked up. “Then this way an’ that, an’ bam. Home.” He grinned to himself. “I’ll phone mum when I get there.”

The boy bent over, grabbing his oddly shaped rock, grey and almost perfectly round, before stashing it in his pocket to play with later, and maybe put down to kick along the way. He knew it wasn’t that far, but he figured why not?

He smiled widely, grabbing his pack off the ground before setting off, watching as other kids hurried into cars, or remained waiting by the doors. He didn’t quite feel like waiting today. First, he had to go uphill, or at least he thought so, and then go up to the crosswalk and go across. Then he’d be in the neighborhood. He would find his way, he knew, and maybe have an adventure while he was at it.

That’s what he did, head held high, setting off up the road.

His head was held high, a grin stretching across his face. His mum was going to be proud of him and he knew it. He was going to find his way home, and be extra careful about crossing the street, even with the crossing guard. He, a six-year-old boy, was responsible, his mother had told him so.

He walked with confidence, watching where he stepped, following birds with his eyes. He put his thumbs under the straps of his pack as he turned left on the next intersection he came to. After that, he pulled out his pebble, placing it on the ground to kick around, and thus started following the pebble, no matter where it went.

Lost in his own world, he began to play, even tossing the pebble to run after it, and pretend he was in a chase, going after the bad guy, or maybe the good guy, he really hadn’t thought that much into it, but it didn’t matter. Owen scampered after the round grey pebble without another thought, giggling to himself.

Then he tripped, going down hard, his hands reaching to catch him. They slid on the pavement, stinging and making him cry out. The rock forgotten, his cheek scraped and tears starting to swell in his eyes, he pushed himself up. He sniffled, regretting it when pain shot through the right side of his face. His palms were bleeding, spots of crimson across the scrapes, and were shaking, the skin pink and peeling.

Owen's fingers lifted to touch his cheek, pulling away dark and sticky with blood. He swallowed. He had landed on his pebble. Tears began trailing down his face, stinging the cut he had on his cheek. His first thought was stitches, and he remembered when he first needed them two years before, when he had fallen off the porch and cracked his head open. He shook his head, he didn’t want that.

He sat back on his butt, wiping at his tears with the backs of his hands before he had a glance around. He had no idea where he was now, the houses were unfamiliar, with larger grass yards and two floors. It wasn’t home.

Sniffling and messy, Owen reached for his pebble again, red with his blood. He squeezed it in his fist, ignoring the protest of his hand before he pushed himself up again. Looking back and forth, the boy decided that it was best to try and go back the way he came, and try to remember. He didn’t have a choice now.

He was lost.

The boy did try to find his way, he really did. He wanted to be home and see his mum again, but whenever he got to a point where the street ended, or got to another intersection, he lost hope that he would ever see his mother again, which prompted more tears.

He trudged on, though, his legs tired, and his knees likely skinned, too, staring at his hands. He coughed, his throat tight. Every time he lifted his hand to wipe away more tears, he winced, and pulled his hand back with splotches of blood. His cheek hadn’t sealed with clotting blood.

“Owen!”

He flipped around, startled, nearly losing his balance and tumbling into the grass. Pure relief washed over him when he saw his mother running from her car to him, from the other side of the street, her hands outstretched. He ran back towards her, jumping onto her when they were close.

Melody pressed him close to her body, hands scrambling over him to ensure that he was real and was there with her as he did the same. She breathed out a large shaky sigh, he braced himself as she set him down, a look of anger, relief, and fear evident on her face, her eyes rapidly whipping over him before stopping on his cut cheek.

“Yah scared me, Owen!” She nearly shrieked it, hugging him close to her all over again. “Don’t yah evah do that again!”

Tears started flowing harder from his eyes, stinging as he clung, hiding his face in her neck. “I’m s-sorry… I was so scared, Mum.”

She kissed his head, standing up straight. “Yah can’t do that tah me again, Owen. I can’t handle that. Do yah have any idea how terrifying it was when I came round an’ yah weren’t there? I thought someone had taken yah off! What would I’ve done then?”

“I dunno.”

“I don’t either, Owen. Yah can’t run off. Look, yah hurt yuhself. Lemme see your hands.”

He willingly showed her the scrapes and she clicked her tongue, kissing both of his palms. She cupped his non-injured cheek and kissed his forehead. “Let’s go home an’ get this cleaned up, alright?”

The car ride was quiet and the boy realized tears were still running down his mother’s face, even if she wiped them away as quickly as possible.

“Mum,” he mumbled. “Yah don’t gotta be sad. I’m here now.”

She smiled at him, weak and tired. “I know. It’s okay.”

He held his pebble tight in his fist, as he had yet to discard it, even as he got out of the car and went up to the house, opening the door with his free hand. He walked in, put his backpack down by the doorway, and patiently waited for Melody, knowing that he may be chewed out further, which he knew he didn’t want, but deserved.

He may have been responsible, but maybe he wasn’t smart.

Breezing by him, she walked into the kitchen, leaving Owen to follow behind. She opened the cabinet next to the fridge, pulling out a tube with weird stuff inside that she said made all cuts heal faster—Owen thought it stung and didn’t help—and band-aids. She turned after getting some out, grabbing him under his armpits to lift him up onto the counter.

Melody started with his hands, carefully putting the medicine on the bandaids before putting them on his palms. She did the same with his knees, which had indeed been skinned. She frowned at the cut on his cheek before turning around to rummage through the cabinet again.

“What are those?” He asked softly when she pulled out another box.

“They’re called butterfly stitches.”

“Why?”

“Because they have wings like a butterfly,” she replied. “Sometimes yah use these instead of band-aids. They’re fah deepah cuts.”

He slowly nodded his head, eyebrows furrowed.

She smiled tightly and put three on his cheek, pushing his skin together to keep it in place with the stitches, even though they weren’t really stitches, which he was fine with. She hugged him after that, her arms squeezing his shoulders.

“Yah promised me,” she said, “That yah wouldn’t run off if I was runnin’ late.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Why did yah run off?”

“Because I thought I knew the way home. Yah’d be proud of me if I made it home all by myself.”

He looked down at the ground and she held him close to her. “I’m always proud of yah, my boy. Yah don’t have to impress me.”

She let go and helped him off the counter. “Come with me, I want tah give you something.”

So he went, following her down into the basement, where he usually never went because of the dark. Not all of the lights worked, and that scared him, but with his mother beside him, he did feel better about it.

She led him into the laundry room, which was filled with knick knacks and heirlooms. She told him that one day they would be his, too, and she’d tell him about everyone so he knew what they all meant. She told him it was important to know about his history. He had grinned, thinking that it was a fascinating idea.

She looked through some boxes on the shelves, too high up for him to reach, before she pulled out a small box that he could probably hold in both of his hands. It was wooden, a rich shade of reddish brown, with a clasp on the front that kept it closed, and she set it on the table on the far side of the room, gesturing for him to come over.

He got up onto the table with her help, sitting on it and watching as she opened it. There was a pouch inside, deep blue and soft-looking, but there was nothing else. Feeling a little let down that it was only a little bag, he frowned. She chuckled and pulled it out.

“There’s more to it than yah think, love.”

Grabbing it, she pulled it open and held it over her hand, palm up. A flash of gold and a cylinder plopped down into her hand, short and stout, with a long golden chain. She set the pouch down inside the box and turned to show her son as she opened it.

His eyes widened when she did. It was a compass, with golden lettering and a gold face with black designs on the inside.

“Woah,” he said, reaching out to touch the glass that protected the needles.

She smiled at him. “D’yah know what it is?”

He nodded. “It’s a compass.”

“Very good,” she praised and he beamed. “My father gave this to me when I was just a little older than you. It was given tah him by his father, too.”

He never met his grandfather, he had died before Owen was born, but Mum talked about him a lot and had shown him pictures. He wished he could’ve met him, as he had met his grandmother, too. She loved to give him candy, even though he never knew what kind. He always popped it into his mouth with a quiet 'thank yah' and a smile.

She gently grabbed his hand, setting the open compass down in it. “So I’m going tah give it to yah.”

His mouth stretched out in a grin. “Thank you, Mum.”

“You’re very welcome,” she said. “But you gotta listen to me next time. Keep yuh promises, Wild Colonial Boy. Please.”

He nodded. “I will. I promise.”

She kissed his forehead.

“I’m givin’ this to yah in case yah evah get lost again, alright?”

He looked up at her, his eyebrows furrowed a little with confusion. He had heard of compasses at school, sure, but had no idea what they really did. “Will it help me?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “See those needles? I’ll teach yah how to read them, so if yah ever get lost again, no mattah where or how, all yah gotta do is look at this compass, okay? It’ll always lead yah home.”

“Always?”

“Of course,” she replied and grinned. “I’d be really mad at it if it didn’t.”

“That wouldn’t be good,” he replied in an honest tone. She threw her head back and laughed.

“No, my love, it wouldn’t.”

She took the compass from him, slipping it into the pouch again before closing it and giving it back. “Keep it in here, okay? It’ll keep it safe.”

He nodded and looked up at her. “Okay. I love yah, Mum.”

“I love yah, too, Owen. Now, let’s go make some dinner.”

Chapter Text

She was colder than she had been on the back of the bike, even though he was still a furnace pressed close, she no longer had a wind block. At least his jacket sling kept her fairly covered. Gwen hung onto his arm now, instead of his whole body, her fingers curling into the thick padding on the right arm of his coat for purchase, despite being pressed so close that the only way she was going to fall is if the man behind her fell.

For a split moment, she wondered if he had ever crashed. His leather coat would protect his arms, at least, and his torso, and maybe the tops of his legs, but everything else was game to the road. She wondered if he had any scars from such a thing, she’d never focused on looking for any scars he had. Sometimes she didn’t see hers, either.

Gwendolyn’s hand shifted closer to her side and she looked down, gazing at the hand he still had on the handlebars. She wasn’t sure if it was safe to drive with one hand, especially on a motorcycle, but the horrid burning in her shoulder reminded her that she best leave him to his own business for now. He had a gold ring on his pinky, she knew she’d seen it before, but she was more distracted by the scar that traced down across the side of his hand, white and slightly zig-zagged.

Focused on looking over his hands now, she saw small blemishes here and there, some scars faded and barely there, some thin, some obvious, all across his knuckles and fingers. She gripped his arm harder and looked away, aware that now most of her fake nails had fallen off, the oval blue ones her mother wanted her to have.

A bump jarred her and his arm tightened around her as she dug her nails into his coat. Gwen was tired and in pain, and quite frankly wished he would pull over so she could sleep, even just on the side of the road. She was terrified and if she wasn’t trembling from the cool air she was from fear of what he might do next. He had promised, yes, right in front of her while she had been staring at the wall, unsure of how to feel anything in that moment, but she didn’t know what his promises were worth, and that only scared her more.

Elise had been quick after he shut the door and left, pulling out a notepad from the nightstand that hadn’t been destroyed in his fit of rage. She grabbed a pen from her pocket and wrote quickly, handing it to her.

“This is my personal number,” she said, closing her hand around it gently. “You don’t be afraid to call me in an emergency, alright, honey? I can’t stop you if you go with him, but I’ll help you if you need me. Stand up for yourself. You’re strong. I won’t say anything to the police if you don’t want me to.”

Gwen didn’t want to deal with a Boomerang and police interaction again, the last one was scary enough, and she was drained. “You don’t have to,” she had said. Elise had smiled a tight smile. She kissed her forehead and Gwen felt more of a motherly presence than she had ever felt in her own home.

“You just call, especially if he does that again. If you don’t whoop his ass, I will, alright? Now go on. You gotta get outta here.”

She had liked Elise and had quickly folded up the note, stuffing it into her pocket as she came around the corner, hoping Boomerang didn’t notice. There was no telling how he would’ve reacted to it.

He had promised again, though, a second time when it was just her and him, sincerity in his eyes that she had never seen before, and her emotions were a jumbled mess, not knowing what to trust, or what to do next. Talking to him was scary, and admitting to the pain of her shoulder made her nervous, and unsure what to expect, but him offering to let her sit in front of him was no where near the ballpark of her expectations.

The Captain was kinder about that than he’d been about anything before.

They were approaching a town now, Gwen thought, judging by the buildings she could see in the early morning light ahead. She felt his breath shift across the side of her head, his facial hair touching the shell of her ear.

“We’re comin’ up on a town,” he said. “We stop fah gas an’ dressin's, maybe some food.”

She didn’t respond and his head pulled away from hers again, continuing on the road. There weren’t any trees lining the two-lane street, only grass fields, with the forest pushed back fifty feet away. Not as much cover, she thought. He doesn’t like that.

Not at all.

Boomerang wheeled the bike up next to the sidewalk, kicking the stand, the smell of gas still fresh in Gwen’s nostrils. He looked at her, still on the bike. The sun lit the area around them, and for the first time, Gwen saw Boomerang in a very clear light. He looked tired.

“Need that tightened?”

She shook her head.

“Alright, c’mon.”

He grabbed her bicep, helping her off the seat before letting go after her feet were firmly planted on the ground. He walked ahead of her, the backpack still hanging from his shoulders as he opened the doors and strode in.

She followed behind without protest, stepping in to see an old man behind the counter, and more importantly, the rifle on the wall behind him. Boomerang’s head was visible above the shelves, and she could even hear his grumbling from by the door. There was one other man, and the only reason she saw him is because he was on the far side of the room, one of the freezer doors open as he looked through the shelves, obviously for beer.

Gwen walked through to Boomerang, standing behind him quietly. Basic first aid is what he was going through, seeming to check off a list in his head while whispering it as he grabbed a couple things here and there, along with an ace bandage and several bottles of pills that she decided were most likely painkillers.

“Go on an’ get boxes of food,” he muttered, “Like granola bahs or some shit.”

The woman followed his instructions, walking away before patrolling up and down the sections, looking over candy and bags of trail mix. Nature Valley bars caught her eye first, a box on the shelf that was stocked with five. She grabbed all of them and put them beside her arm in the sling. The bag of trail mix was best, which she balanced in the crook of her elbow. Several bags of beef jerky were next.

She had only had jerky three times before in her life, once when Jason had brought some home before he went off with their father, a secret that neither of them said anything about to their mother or anyone else. He kept it hidden under his mattress, pulling it out on good occasions. Maybe now with the Aussie she’d be allowed to have some.

And thank God he stopped for portable food, she thought.

Going back around to where she had seen him last, he was still standing there, looking over two small boxes before putting one back and looking up at her, examining what she had in her arms. He walked closer, moving to poke and prod and see what she got.

“Good choice,” the man gestured to the jerky before jerking his head and turning, carrying all that he evidently needed for his impromptu first aid kit in one arm. He strode up to the counter, putting his things on the surface before turning to grab what she had collected to put it by his.

“This it?”

Boomerang nodded and the man set to work, grabbing each box or bag and scanning.

He tapped his fingers as the man behind the counter scanned their items in. Gwen felt like she was swaying on her feet, her eyes drooping. She hadn’t slept in awhile and was almost leaning against the Aussie beside her. Instead, she jumped when a hand drifted across her butt, nearly squealing has her slung arm bumped into the counter.

Boomerang’s body moved away with a step and a six pack of beer bottles was none too gently put down in front of her. Hot breath washed across her ear, making her cringe. It was the same man she’d seen when she first walked in. The Captain didn’t say anything.

“Hey, baby,” he husked. He had a beard, short and red, just like his hair. He had a pointed nose, and Gwen instantly wanted to shy away and run, but she was trapped between Boomerang and the stranger. “Lookin’ a little roughed up.”

His hand came up, touching her cheek to push her head, making her look at him. She wanted to raise her lip in disgust, or close her eyes so she didn’t have to look at him, but she did neither. The man’s eyes flitted up above her head, obviously looking at Boomerang.

“You’re a pretty li’l thing, aren’t you?”

She didn’t reply and a grin crept across his face.

“Say,” he said, “Why don’t you home with me tonight, hm? I can give you a better time, show you what a real man is, I’m sure. Whatever you like to do, baby girl.”

Silence fell over the four, the beeping of the scanner stopped as they all stared at her, waiting for her response. Courage that she hadn’t felt before suddenly bloomed in her chest, along with another emotion she barely ever let herself feel. Anger swept through her.

“Gutter rats would be better company than you ,” she snapped at him, using her left hand to shove him away.

Startling again, she jumped when a deep booming sound came from behind her. She looked to see the Captain, head thrown back, a grin on his face as barking laughter exploded from him, making him bend slightly to put his forearms on the counter, covering his face as he continued. For a second, she felt like laughing, too, and even giggled.

“Don’t you laugh at me.”

His hand grabbed her bad arm, and she cried out in pain. A flurry of movement swept over the four people and Gwen was shoved behind a large body, and she heard the cock of a rifle as the man behind the counter took aim at the man who had grabbed her.

“Now look,” the man was almost expressionless, frustration in his eyes, “I don’t mind you comin’ to my store, tryin’ to pick up ladies, but don’t you think of grabbin’ ‘em in my presence, got it?”

She couldn’t see what the Aussie looked like, but she could see his shoulders shift with heavy breathing. He had a warning tone, deep when he spoke, “Don’t yah touch her again, yah got it? Or do I gotta pound it intah yuh skull?”

Gwen couldn’t hear a response, so she assumed he shook his head. The man pulled his gun away and Boomerang shifted again, moving to grab everything he bought and take off the pack, piling it all in along with her clothes. He pulled out money next, paying the vendor with a few bills and taking the change.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye before putting a hand on her good shoulder and turning her gently towards the door, walking behind her.

He chuckled again after the door shut. “Maybe I’m rubbin’ off on yah,” he said, moving to fall in step beside her. “That was pretty smart ass talk.”

“You seemed to like it,” she spoke quietly.

Another short laugh escaped the man. “Well watchin’ him crumple was pretty good.”

Boomerang straddled the bike, scooting back after starting it. She slowly put a leg over in front of him. His hands gripped the handlebars and soon they were back out on the road again, out of the town, his arm around her waist.

“I’m falling asleep,” she called over the sound of the wind, her eyes threatening to shut entirely.

“I’ll find us a place,” he replied in her ear, “I won’t let yah fall if yah sleep.”

She didn’t respond, her body becoming heavier as sleep overcame her, leaning back into her captor.

Boomerang had her sit on the bed, untying his jacket from on top of her shoulder. She hissed when her arm was released. Gwen was still tired and hadn’t really wanted to wake up when he pulled up to some motel. She could barely remember getting the room.

He grabbed the backpack, pulling out the long ace bandage he’d gotten before pulling it out of its packaging and starting to create a sling out of it, wrapping it around her forearm several times before tying the ends up above her shoulder. It seemed more sturdy than the jacket sling. It hurt, but it wasn’t worse than anything she hadn’t felt before.

“Yah’ve got some cuts, yeah?”

She gave a small nod and he pulled out a box of bandaids and jerked his head to the bathroom. She took it carefully in her left hand and walked slowly into the other room. There were a few on her arms, some she simply couldn’t put a band-aid on due to one of her hands being constricted, but she did her best at patching herself up.

There were one or two on her legs with small holes in the fabric of her jeans. Gwen did her best to ignore her reflection and the man from the gas station popped into her head again with his cocky and disgusting look.

“Hey, baby.”

Shuddering just thinking about it, she shook her head. She could still feel where he had grabbed her bottom, like his hand burned her.

“You’re a pretty li’l thing, aren’t you?”

Her eyes drifted to the mirror, seeing the finally fading bruise that wrapped around her throat, and the cut on her cheek that was now only a small scab from when he had smacked her. How could he think she was pretty? It wasn’t possible for her to be anything pleasant to look at with all of her injuries.

Maybe that’s what he wanted?

She felt bile rise up in her throat and before she knew what happened she was on her knees in front of the toilet, heaving what food she did have in her stomach into it. She thought about his face again. He’d wanted her, he’d wanted to rough her up, he wanted to have her. Gagging, her body jerked again.

Gwen’s body shook, one hand gripping the porcelain with white knuckles as she breathed hard, tears streaming down her cheeks. Of course she had dealt with catcalls when she was walking around Gotham in her heels, normally in some form fitting dress her mother had gotten her, or made her wear, and she had always been disgusted then, but it wasn’t like they had touched her, or ever really been that close to her.

He had put his hands on her and then tried to pull her to him, but Boomerang had stopped him. Her breath caught in her throat. Why had he stopped him? God, she was so confused, her head spinning, her body swaying with dizziness. She had even made him laugh.

None of it made any sense to her, and her mind was having trouble processing everything now like there was an overload of information.

Her hand loosened, still white and shaking, and she felt top heavy. Her eyes began to roll back, vision swimming with black and white squiggly lines, before she felt herself topple over and hit the cold tile, thoughts no longer processing as her eyes closed.

The pain was so excruciating she felt like she couldn’t breathe. It rippled across her side in time with her heartbeat and her vision was already getting spotty as the paramedics burst in, a stretcher with them. She was on a table now, a dull throbbing in her head reminding her of how she had fallen over just minutes before when the pain had gotten worse. It had been growing progressively worse over the past few days.

This is so embarrassing, she thought, what is Mother going to think?

She closed her eyes, only to have one of the EMTs tap her cheek, asking her to stay awake and keep her eyes open as best she could. Despite the complete desire to shut them, Gwen did her best, staring up at the bright lights in the classroom. They asked questions to the teacher, since Gwen wasn’t much in the state for answering many, and then she was rushed out to the ambulance.

She flinched when the doors closed.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Gwendolyn Marie Bartholme.”

“Okay, where does it hurt?”

“My left side.”

She could feel her shirt being lifted and a few murmurs. “How bad is the pain on a scale of one to ten?”

“Nine,” she said without hesitation, grimacing. More murmurs.

“Do you know what you were bitten by?”

Gwen shook her head and they set to putting a needle in her arm, hooked up to a bag of painkillers they said, though it didn’t do much. The two medics told her they couldn’t give her much until they got to the hospital, just in case.

She thought that was stupid.

The girl, only sixteen, honestly had no idea when she’d been bitten by whatever had bitten her, but several (maybe more than several) mornings ago at five o’clock or so it was only a red dot with a little pinprick of blood, so she’d assumed it could’ve been anything. It certainly could’ve been, but now for the first time in her life she thought she was truly dying, and when she looked at the medics, she feared they thought so, too.

It had definitely gotten worse, but she hadn’t said anything out of distress, her mother would likely chew her ear off for getting bitten by something or another, and she didn’t want to face that. At the moment, she still wasn’t sure if she regretted it.

Then they were pulling her out of the ambulance after a fairly hard stop, several of them rushing her into the sterilized smelling ER of the Gotham City Hospital, shouting commands as they ran down a hallway.

“—Could be gangrenous—”

“—Surgery—”

“—Ten milligrams—”

“—Get the anesthesia—”

Gwen’s head was spinning, eyes darting to the six people running beside her stretcher. The pushed her into a room and lifted her up onto a metal table, a bright light overhead, and she cried out in pain, having hardly any idea what was going on, her brain unable to focus and put together any of the words that spilled from their lips.

A mask was suddenly slapped across her face, she breathed in, and her eyes closed.

Pain still pushed through her, but it was much more dulled, really just a throb, and her eyes hurt when she tried to open them. The room was too bright, and she wasn’t quite ready to wake up. She wished she could go back to sleep when she heard her mother.

“What about her skin?” She was asking. “Will the skin be alright?”

“Both incisions will most likely scar.”

She could practically hear her mother’s face scrunch up in disgust as she cracked her eyes open, barely seeing a man in a white coat with a clipboard in his hand, her mother next to him with a narrowed gaze. The doctor looked up, a warm smile coming to his face. He had warm eyes, too.

“Ah,” he said, “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Not good,” Gwen replied quietly.

He chuckled a little. “Humor me. I’m the doctor who did your surgery, Dr. Cascini. How’s the pain?”

Gwen let her eyes flick to her mother. “Just a throb.”

“Good, the medications are working well. Well, we ran a few tests on the infected skin we removed from your side, which I’ll explain in just a moment, and it seems that you were bitten by a brown recluse.”

“Silly girl,” her mother cut in before she could respond. “What were you doing? Or thinking?”

“Mrs. Bartholme, please.”

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

“I’m trying to talk to your daughter. If you continue, I’ll get you thrown out of this hospital.”

Her mother promptly shut her mouth, and Gwendolyn had a hard time keeping a smile off of her face, looking back to Dr. Cascini with a satisfied feeling in her chest.

“As I was saying, we believe you were bitten by a brown recluse. How long ago were you bitten?”

She furrowed her eyebrows, trying to jog her fogged memory. “Maybe… A week ago?”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” He moved to set down his clipboard, his tone inquiring, but not mocking in any way. She appreciated that—her mother would’ve continued yelling, she was sure.

“I didn’t really think it was anything,” she responded. “I’ve been bitten before by things, I thought it would pass.”

The doctor nodded, pushing his glasses up further onto the bridge of his nose as he looked down at her. “Well, unfortunately, your decision to stay quiet has cost you skin and muscle on your side and on your thigh.”

“My thigh?”

“You can’t feel it right now, can you?”

She shook her head and he replied, “Good. We had to take out the infected skin and muscle tissue. It was about an inch or so deep and several inches wide, the venom moved quickly. Because the wound was simply too big to stitch or staple back up, we needed to take skin and muscle from somewhere else, so we took it from your thigh. The graft might not take on your side, which means we would have to do it again, and it will scar for sure, then. Sometimes the donor sites scar, too, but we won’t know until it heals.”

All she heard was the word ‘scar’ and she felt sick to her stomach. She knew it made her mother sick, too. She could see her face twist into rage, her glare rounding on her.

“I’ll have the nurse show you how to clean them later when I send her in to do so and replace the bandages.”

“Okay,” Gwen murmured.

“Page me if you need anything, alright?”

Gwen nodded and the man left, pulling the curtains in front of the door closed. She was left alone with her mother. She practically recoiled before Lucinda even said anything, or moved, and a burning sensation rippled up her side.

“You disappoint me,” she snarled. “First, you go and get bitten by a stupid spider, and then you have to get surgery because you’re too stupid to tell anyone that you were hurt! At least if you’d told someone you wouldn’t be scarring!”

That’s what her mother cared about of course, and Gwen knew that this time would be no different. Rejection was just a dull pain in her chest now, something she was abundantly used to. She couldn’t close her eyes, or block it out, her mother would never let her.

“Just what will the media think,” she was saying, her hands thrown up with her bracelets jingling together, “When they find out? Or what about when you can’t do any modeling involving your skin? God, you’ve ruined this opportunity, Gwendolyn!”

Sometimes she did wish she could be the ‘perfect daughter’ for the Bartholme family, with perfect legs, a big smile, flawless skin, and a charming attitude. She supposed she did have these things, though she knew that some of the media didn’t like her freckles, but they were never her. Lucinda trained her, coaxed her, into being some wonderful perfect little child, like she truly mattered to her, and the world ate it up, loving whenever the family would go to opening galas together, or were spotted at some fancy restaurant.

They had no idea what it was like inside.

She figured it was just as bad as her father’s corrupt way of ripping people off and making more money, with conspiracy after conspiracy, betrayal and lies and coldness. She hadn’t seen Jason in two months, and doubted that he would ever show his face around the hospital. A sharp throb pressed against her sternum and she swallowed, realizing Lucinda was still talking.

“What is your father going to think when the insurance doesn’t cover all the costs of your surgery? Or when he realizes you aren’t going to be able to model to make money? Answer me, Gwendolyn!”

“I don’t know.”

Her mother opened her mouth, ready to snap off another insult or question, but Gwen was saved by the ring that came from Lucinda’s purse. She practically growled as she turned on her heel, stomping to her purse to grab her phone, and then stomp out.

Gwen finally felt her body relax again.

The food was horrible.

She had eaten disgusting things before, like snails, or squid, or raw beef, but at least that stuff was gourmet and socially acceptable. Hospital food made her want to throw up and never touch another pudding cup again. Their pathetic excuses for pasta, or edible meat, wasn’t even pleasing to look at, and she wanted nothing to do with it.

Like the nurse said—and she really didn’t like her nurse, she was way too peppy, all the time, every time—if she didn’t eat, she didn’t heal quicker. She had to. So she gagged her way through it whenever a tray was set in front of her. If she really thought about it, it tasted like the hospital smelled—sterilized four times every two hours.

However, the cake was good, which she could only eat when no one was around, otherwise, Lucinda would march it back to the cafeteria and call it blasphemy for trying to fatten up her daughter. It was one thing she was allowed that the nurse who attended her had caught onto. That was the one thing Gwen liked about her.

Figuring the best way to get through breakfast, lunch, and dinner was to wolf everything down, that’s what she normally did. Gwendolyn tried to eat what she could as fast as possible without choking, plus she found it was better for the pain if she moved as little as possible with her left side, and going fast with her right more or less balanced it out and got it over with quickly.

Dr. Cascini thought that the healing of the mesh on her side was taking, and wouldn’t need to be redone, which had been some form of a relief to her mother because it meant less scarring. Gwen was glad because she figured it meant less pain for her to go through.

She hadn’t seen the mess, it hurt too much to shift and move her arm and breast to actually see it, and it was usually cleaned fairly quickly, which was painful, too. It was punishment, she guessed, for deciding to stay quiet. At least most of the time her mother was away and she was alone with the flat screen television across the room, or homework that had been brought from her school for her excusal until the doctor saw fit.

So far, not much of the media had caught wind of what had happened yet, and she hadn’t dealt with any photographers springing in unannounced to get a shot of her laid out in bed, a constant grimace on her face, and hardly able to move. Nothing had been reported, so it seemed Lucinda had done a good job of keeping everyone quiet about it, or Leopold.

Speaking of Leopold, he’d been in twice to see her, giving a gruff greeting, a little bit of lecturing with his wife standing behind him, some awkward silence while he sat in the chair for an hour, and then he’d say goodbye and leave. If he came in a third time she was sure it would be the same routine and even the same lecture.

“Now Gwendolyn,” he had said to her, “Next time I’m sure you’ll say something. It was very foolish of you not to, and I nearly couldn’t get the insurance to pay for the procedure! Absolutely incredulous!”

Mr. Bartholme had scoffed, his eyes rolling, obviously quite outraged over whatever had happened with the insurance, and how it was insane that they even considered not paying for the entire procedure.

Who knew what strings Daddy had to pull to ensure that he didn’t put in a penny?

She hadn’t seen her brother, though. Not that she expected him to visit. Last she heard he was in London, helping run some of the Bartholme European firms. He hardly ever came around anymore, and tended to ignore Gwennie like the plague.

He never explained what he had meant when she first saw him again, about how she couldn’t pry, and that it was for her wellbeing. It never once crossed her mind that being apart from her brother, who no longer seemed to care, was good for her wellbeing, but now, she supposed, since he didn’t care, it was.

She blew out a sigh, her head laid back, listening to the news about how there was a spring storm ready to blow up from the South and how temperatures would be lowering steadily over the next week.

“It’ll be two more weeks at least,” Cascini stepped into the room, a small smile on his face as he closed the curtains in front of the door behind him. “Which I don’t think is too bad, do you?”

“Yes.”

He gave a small laugh. “Is it the food?”

“How’d you guess?” She joked weakly and he stepped closer to the bed.

“I must be psychic. How’s the pain on a scale of one to ten?”

She was tired of that question, but at least it was her actual doctor asking now, not an overly peppy nurse. “Five to six.”

“So it isn’t getting better?” He pulled up his wheely-stool and sat on it beside the bed, grabbing the clipboard with all of her information on it before doing so. He murmured to himself for a moment.

“No, not really,” she replied.

He blew air out of his mouth, flipping and looking through some of the papers before setting it down on the blanket by her side. “Unfortunately, there isn’t much more I can do for your pain. It’s inevitable, and I can’t give you more morphine than your body can handle.”

Gwen nodded. “I understand.”

“But according to the nurse and her notes, you’re healing well. I’ll be in the next time everything gets redressed so I can see that for myself. I think you’ll be able to be home in a couple of weeks, though you’ll still be on bed rest.”

Groaning, she let her head fall back again. “I’d rather just stay here than be at home on bed rest.”

He patted her hand in a comforting way. “I don’t blame you, Miss Bartholme.”

“Will I have to?”

Dr. Cascini smiled just a little, and Gwen noticed that his smile always reached his eyes when it was genuine. “Do you want to sit here and eat hospital food all day?”

She groaned again, wanting to lift the pillow from behind her head to smack him with, but she knew she couldn’t. “Don’t ruin it for me, Doctor.”

“I’m afraid I already have.”

He gave her hand another pat and stood up. “Yes, you will have to go home when the time comes and we’ll see how you’re healing, and then you’ll likely return to school and carry on as you have.”

“Okay,” she said, her lip jutting out in a pout.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you.”

“Mother isn’t here between eight and three.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied from over his shoulder as he retreated towards the door, sending her a wink. “I’ve already figured that out.”

After returning home, she decided she’d still rather be at the hospital, despite the food. At least there she got cake, and she preferred the overly peppy nurse to the maid that her mother hired to care for her. Most of the time the maid was too terrified to dare to do anything that might anger Lucinda, which included things like moving Gwen when she was uncomfortable, or bringing her extra food, or even turning on the TV in her room.

So after about an hour of being home, she was tempted to ask to go back to the hospital, or fake more pain than she was in, but she knew that it probably wouldn’t work and she was stuck at home in bed with a week or more of bed rest. Then she’d go back to the hospital and get the staples that held the mesh to her side out, and then she’d be back in school, back to doing chores, back to being the perfect daughter of the Bartholme family.

She hated it, and whenever the maid said no, or shook her head with a nervous look on her face, Gwen wanted to shout and get up to hit her with a pillow instead of his doctor. That, however, was improper, and if any word of it got back to Lucinda, she’d likely get a bar of soap to the mouth, as per usual.

Gwendolyn just stayed quiet, holed up in her bed while taking pain medication every four hours, staring out the window as the rain fell over Gotham. Even the preppy private school she went to would be better than this.

Emmaline had dropped in several times when it was just her and the maid home, telling her the latest gossip around school because at least it was entertainment. Gwen even laughed slightly when she heard about how Marisa Green had tripped walking into US History and spilled the coffee in her hand all over her uniform. She could’ve gone without the comments about who was a couple, and who made out in the bathrooms, or had sex in the back lot, but it came with Emmaline, and any company was better than none.

The day came when she was finally allowed to get up, a test run to get to the car to go to the hospital, and despite the searing flames that shot through her, she pushed through, determined to finally get out of bed.

That is until she fell in the hallway and in the effort to catch herself, smacked her side into the door frame.

“What have you done now, Child?” Came her mother’s mocking voice. “If you just cost us more money, you aren’t going to be happy with the consequences.”

Gwen felt tears stinging her eyes, but she nodded. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

“You better be. Now get up. We can’t be late.”

Pushing herself up, she knew she couldn’t get out of it, her pain, her family. She was done and stuck where she was. She lifted a hand and wiped her cheek before Lucinda could see her crying. If this was the life she had, then it was simply what she had.

Lucinda’s hand wrapped around her daughter’s bicep, helping to push her up and out the door. Gwen took a deep breath, looked at her feet, and continued walking.

Chapter Text

Whatever it was, it was freezing, and completely enveloped her head; her hair floated around her face, brushing against her cheeks softly. There was a hard pressure at the base of her skull, pressing down on her. She realized quite suddenly that she wasn’t inhaling air, just the freezing matter that made the back of her throat and nose sting. Her mouth opened, trying at any chance for oxygen, only to release what she happened to have residing in her lungs.

She couldn’t hear herself scream.

The pressure suddenly yanked up and she felt herself being pulled from the cold, gasping desperately. Her hair plastered to her head and face, her eyes still closed as her fingers scrambled for purchase on what surface she felt under her hands, still in the frigid material her head had just been in.

“Gwennie,” it was faint. She felt warm air over her ear. “C’mon, Gwennie girl, open yuh eyes.”

She felt something patting her cheek, and her name was called again. Her eyes pried open, moving slowly, like they were in control and not her. She was over the side of a bathtub, the clear water looking back at her before her gaze drifted to her left.

Gwen could barely make out his face, blurry and slightly undefined, but she knew his nose well enough by now, and his green eyes were filled with serious intensity. His mouth was moving and she strained to hear what he was saying, but her sense didn’t seem to work. She looked over him further and realized that the pressure at the base of her head was his hand, fisted up into her hair tightly.

“Gwennie!”

Everything sharpened, and she suddenly felt like coughing, her body bending to do so. The hand in her hair let go of her, coming to a rest on her back. Memories of her in the bathroom, being bent over the toilet, falling to the ground, the disgust she had felt welling up inside of her, all came back to her. She lifted her hand to wipe the back of her mouth.

“Yah took a fall,” he said to her, on his knees beside her. He had a towel in his hands and she took it slowly with her left hand, deciding to wrap it around her head and neck instead of trying to dry her locks of hair. He helped her stand up slowly, his firm grip pulling on her arm when she swayed with dizziness. “Yah need tah lie down.”

Boomerang slowly turned her around, helping her walk forward as she stared at her feet, the towel still over her head. She could feel herself begin to shake, a wave of cool air washing over her, making her skin rise with gooseflesh. Shuffling, she made her way out, and he helped her sit down on the only bed in the room. The TV was on.

“Dizzy still?”

She nodded a little.

“Well don’t do that, then,” he replied, turning away from her to grab her pack against the wall. He opened the first pocket and reached in, pulling out the box of granola bars they had gotten at the gas station before grabbing a pill bottle and opening it, too. He handed her a bar and two round red pills. “Eat that an’ take the pills, it’ll make yah feel bettah. I think I’m gonna take a showah. Don’t stand up.”

He was gone through the door before she could reply and her gaze shifted to the wrapped food in her hand, along with the two pills. Opening it after lifting it to her mouth to pull at with her teeth, she took slow bites, not tasting, throwing the pills onto her tongue before she swallowed.

The television was on across from her, flipped to what seemed to be the local news station. She was mindlessly chewing the snack she had gotten when something caught her eye. It was her picture, from before her hair had been cut, dark brown and curling around her, and then beside it was the man who was in the other room. She had seen mugshots enough to know that it was his. He looks younger , she thought. He was obviously unhappy, glowering at whoever was taking the picture in his typical fashion.

“—aka, Captain Boomerang—” Of course she missed his name. “—Has been on the run for four weeks, and for the last three has held Gwendolyn Bartholme, daughter of Leopold Bartholme, owner of Bartholme Industries, captive. According to the last sighting of the two, which was at a motel near Clay, West Virginia, where they gave authorities the slip after Captain Boomerang maliciously attacked the police officers working to save Gwendolyn, he is still holding her captive.

“There haven’t been any more sightings as of late, but we urge you to be on the lookout for these two. Gwendolyn’s family misses her dearly and has offered a ransom of half a million dollars to whoever finds her and gets her home safely. Rewards for tips are also mentioned, though nothing is set in stone. The amount is expected to go up over time. The criminal she is with is extremely dangerous. After escaping Arkham Asylum, where he had been brought to from Belle Reve Penitentiary in Louisiana, he went on to break back into the asylum to retrieve his things, rob the Thirty-Second Bank, and then kill a citizen before proceeding to kidnap Gwendolyn.

“Please phone in at this number if you have any information, or have seen either of these two.”

Kill a citizen. She shouldn’t have been surprised, after his threats to hurt her, or others if she decided to run away from him, or after she found him on his knees, grasping his arm and asking forgiveness of the ones he’d killed that were innocent to him. Yet it still shocked her, like it all became real when someone other than her or the Aussie in the bathroom mentioned it. It wasn’t just her thoughts running away with her.

He had killed someone, and then seven before, and then God knows how many before and after that. He wasn’t incapable. Shaking harder, and not from the cold hair that she had yet to dry, she looked at the granola bar she hadn’t finished, unsure if she could finish.

Gwen glanced from the TV, which now showed a seven-day weather forecast, to the door. She could see the light splaying across the carpeted floor, and after straining to hear, the sound of running water reached her. She looked back at the screen and went on finishing the food in her hands, crumpling up the wrapper before letting it fall to the floor.

She lifted the hand she could, grabbing her towel to run it over her head a few more times. It yanked suddenly, and she almost yelped before she realized the bathroom door had opened and the Aussie had come walking out, a towel around his waist.

“Damn near dry now, anyway,” he said. “‘Cept yuh clothes.”

The blonde shook her head and his hands quickly pushed the white towel over her curls, leaving them in a heap on her head, but drier than they were before. He tossed it away when he was done, going back into the bathroom before coming out with his clothes in hand. It seemed he didn’t have anything else.

“Yuh’re gonna haftah wash these again, maybe tomorrah.”

“Did you kill someone?”

She gasped the moment it left her lips, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. Her feet were already stumbling back for fear he would turn and wield his anger for asking him such a question. He had stopped moving, his gaze still on his tank top. Gwen wasn’t sure if he looked more or less intimidating without his clothes on, or his big coat, because whether he was nude or had his clothes on, he could do damage.

“When?” He asked, his voice just barely loud enough to be heard over the TV.

There was a lump in her bruised throat, and she struggled to swallow around it. “Before you… You kidnapped me. Right before.”

Boomerang lifted his head, gazing at the wall before turning his sharp eyes on her, glimmering with alertness. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

He turned his body then, in front of her after taking three steps as she pressed back against the wall. He put his hand by her head, leaning down to get a better look at her. She could feel his breath against her forehead.

“Because,” he replied. “He threatened tah call, send me back tah Arkham, get me a worse sentence than I already had. I can’t go back—I won’t go back. Evah.”

“Yah ain’t gonna take me back, god dammit!”

Gwen almost flinched, despite the fact that he hadn’t moved towards or away from her, at the image of him dropping to his knees and screaming in pure rage. He was breathing deep and slow, eyes trained intensely on her. “No one innocent sends a person tah that hellhole .”

Boomerang pushed off the wall and away from her, his back on display. For the first time, she saw his back tattoos in detail. Two boomerangs that followed the curve of his shoulder blades, with fairly thick black outlines holding the outer shapes together, and thinner ones for the finer details inside the boomerangs. The one on his right shoulder was brown, with orange, red, blue, and purple dots covering it in a pattern, some dots unfilled, simply black circles traced in his skin. In the center was the word “CAPTAIN” written in darker brown and clearly visible, with single lines written in sharp curves, the pattern around it was a snake, winding over the boomerang made completely of the dots in a color explosion.

The other boomerang was a slate azure, with the same word written on it in the same fashion with a darker blue. The dots formed a crocodile, filled with diamonds that were simply his bare skin along its back and several shades of green and brown dots. Designs filled the spaces behind the animals, graceful circles and waves, making the dots pop.

They were beautiful.

Slowly but surely she returned to the bed, sitting and avoiding looking at Boomerang as his towel dropped and he rummaged around in the backpack. Soon she felt herself leaning back until she was laid out across the mattress.

Her eyes closed and she was venturing into the darkness once again in seconds.

Gwen still had no idea what he was doing. His back was to her as he rummaged around on a work desk, the sound of metal clanging echoing through the garage. They were at another of them, and she was tempted to ask how many he had; keeping her mouth shut sounded like a better plan. She remained sitting on the far side of the room where he told her to go, watching curiously.

The Aussie had made her wash his clothes again after she woke up alone in the bed; he was already awake. There was only one washer and one dryer in the entire motel, with bad detergent that made her cringe, but when it came to bad detergent or being dirty, she poured it in and set the clothes to wash. At least, this time, she had a bra on and when she walked back into the room, she was prepared to shield her eyes from the naked man strolling around with absolutely no shame as he ate some beef jerky.

He had asked her how her injury was doing, even going as far as tightening up the bandage and sling that had come loose in all of the events the night before. Then he put on clothes, told her he had work to do, and walked out with the backpack in hand, leaving her to follow.

She had sat in front of him again, and decided while her shoulder was healing, that would be her new place on the bike. It didn’t force her to hang onto her captor and attacker for dear life.

“How,” he said suddenly, “Did yah find out I killed someone?”

“It was on the news.”

Boomerang turned his head, looking over his shoulder at her. “They’re still blabberin’ ‘bout us then?”

She nodded slowly and he chuckled. “Figured they would be… Didn’t mention my name, did they?”

“Not that I heard.”

“Good. I suggest yah be careful with what yah watch. Nevah know what might show up. ”

While she didn’t quite know what he meant, she nodded. He was the one who had the news on when she came out, cold and soaking wet because of him. He was the one that left her alone to watch it. If he was so concerned about what she was watching, why didn’t he change it?

“Fuck.”

Gwen’s head snapped up and he sighed, setting down something before turning around fully. She still couldn’t quite see what was behind him, or what he was doing, and she was doing her best not to find out.

“I need more fuses an’ charcoal powdah. C’mon, we’re runnin’ intah town.”

She nodded and he grabbed his wallet out of the coat before walking out of the garage, leaving his outerwear behind, which surprised her. They were his identity, and held all of his weapons, that and it was getting colder and colder outside as they approached the middle of autumn. He left the bike behind, too, walking down the street of the small town, glancing at her every few seconds to make sure she was still beside him.

It didn’t take him long to find the general store, and he pushed the door open behind him just long enough so she could slip through. He combed through the store, looking through shelves while making inquisitive noises in the back of his throat.

Boomerang grabbed the fuse wire first, tightly wrapped around a reel. He held it under his arm as he turned around, going back to investigating all of the shelves, mumbling, “Charcoal powdah, charcoal powdah,” over and over under his breath.

When Gwen realized he wasn’t finding it, she began looking, too, just in case she saw something labeled that he had missed. She could feel the frustration start rolling off of him as they went on; he didn’t want to be here longer than he had to be.

Then she saw it, a small, black, rounded container with a tan label. “Pure and Fine Charcoal Powder” it read as she stopped, reaching for it carefully.

“Captain,” she called quietly as she got her hand around it. “Is this it?”

He charged up to her, making her step back as he snatched it out of her hand. The man held it up, reading the side of the label quickly before nodding. “It is. Good eye,” he told her and walked away from her towards the front of the store.

She looked down at her feet, following the sound of his footsteps, until she ran into him when she realized that he wasn’t walking anymore. He grunted at her, and she noticed he was stopped in front of a rack of sunglasses.

“Might need tah get yah some, tah.”

He reached out, grabbing two pairs, before handing her one. “Try ‘em.” He was already putting on the other. They were both aviators, she’d seen enough of the expensive ones around Gotham and other events to know the style. She slid them on slowly with her one hand and Boomerang turned to look at her, the tag hanging down on his cheek, giving them a lopsided look.

She bit her lip to keep from smiling until she realized he was smiling, too, glancing at the mirror, obviously amused, just the same. He took them off, folding them up, deciding quite quickly that they would work for him, and then looked at her expectantly. Hers had black metal rims, thin with large lenses that she could feel touching her cheeks.

“Don’t look tah bad,” he said. “Those gonna work?”

Nodding, she pulled hers off and he held out his hand, taking them from her. He didn’t stop this time on his way to buy his four items, though she thought it would be funny if he suddenly detoured for something material, like chapstick.

Everything was bought quickly and they were out the door, walking back in the direction of the garage, the bag in his hand and the backpack on his shoulders as he rummaged around for his new sunglasses. It was sunny out, and her eyes were squinted against the reflection of light off of the sidewalk and road, he got the tag off by biting through the string, and did the same with hers after his were already on.

Gwen put them on and felt oddly comfortable in them. Sunglasses were something she used to wear all the time, no matter the kind, as long as they matched her outfit. These ones did match her tanktop and black jeans, and for some reason, she found a sense of safety in that. They were familiar to her, even if she’d never had aviators before.

Suddenly his hand grabbed hers and it startled her, her breathing picking up. His breath brushed across her ear. “There’s a cop comin’ up. Don’t stare.”

Her eyes snapped ahead of them, and sure enough, there was a police officer walking towards them, only thirty feet away. Despite the fact that he wouldn’t be able to see her gaze, she averted it just like Boomerang told her.

Nervousness balled up in the pit of her stomach and she didn’t know why. She felt her heart start pounding harder in her chest, and something told her she needed to run, and she needed to run now . What was going to happen? What if the cop recognized them, what would Boomerang do?

She remembered when he told her that if she decided to contact anyone, or do something she knew he wouldn’t like, he’d kill whoever was running the motel, and anyone that stood in his way. She knew he wasn’t lying then, and still knew it now, he wouldn’t hesitate if he saw it necessary, and that terrified her. She already helped him possibly hurt someone once when she threw open that door, and he could’ve killed them. He wouldn’t be opposed to killing him, she thought, even out in the open.

“Say somethin’.” She jumped as his voice pushed her out of her thoughts.

“Like what?”

“Somethin’ funny.”

“Y-you’re an ass?”

A deep rumble came from him and suddenly she felt herself being turned and pushed back a step before her back hit the wall. More anxiety pulsed through her as he shifted closer, unsure as to what he was doing, and she almost opened her mouth to ask him.

“Gettin’ feisty,” Boomerang replied. “We gotta hide from him, so make this look real.”

She had no idea what he meant by “make this look real” as they weren’t really doing anything. Gwen couldn’t see his eyes behind the shades he wore, but she knew they were trained on her. His face changed, not of the tired, alert, and deadly demeanor, she was used to. His eyebrows were raised, his lips kicked up, and he looked innocent. A good act, she thought as she saw the officer coming closer.

What are you going to do, Boomerang?

Gwen finally nodded in response and he leaned down, his lips pressing against hers.

Gwennie’s face lit up when she saw her brother, sitting there at the table when she stepped into the dining room. Butterflies filled her stomach as she grinned, wanting to charge into the room and hug him, but knowing she couldn’t with her mother right behind her.

She tried not to bounce as she straightened her dress ever so slightly. She pulled herself up into her chair, hands by her side as she looked across at Jason. But Jason didn’t look back, his eyes trained on his mother as she sat down beside Gwennie.

It had been two years, and two years had done a lot to him. He was only eleven, his hair combed back with a sharp, white button up and a watch on his left wrist. Jay-Jay had been away with their father, off learning about the business, or at least that’s what Lucinda told her, for two years. He looked like he had been, almost the perfect mirror image of her father who sat at the head of the table, a newspaper in his hand as the hired chef brought in their meal for the evening.

All through dinner the small seven-year-old tried to flag down her brother while staying unnoticed by her parents, and all through dinner her pleading went ignored, and the butterflies gradually turned into rocks, dropping in her stomach. She didn’t want to eat, not anymore. She wanted to cry.

Why wouldn’t her brother even look at her? His eyes went back and forth between the parents, never once settling on her, and not a soul made a comment. She knew that she wasn’t allowed to, even if she wanted to scream and hug him, telling him how much she missed him.

Then she realized he was talking with her parents, about things he told her he hated, like money, and what the modern market was doing, and how the world was changing to suit their money necessities. Gwen wanted to shake her head with her tongue out and make very unladylike noises in response.

This Jason, the one across from her, was slowly becoming a Jason she didn’t know, and she didn’t want to see that. Her Jason, her brother Jason, would’ve hugged her despite her mother’s presence, and grinned and ruffled her hair, calling her Gwennie, or even referring to her as “Princess Gwennie.” He would’ve at least shown that he knew she existed. This Jason did none of those things, and she didn’t understand.

She stayed silent through dinner, unsure what to say, and not allowed to speak out of turn, anyway. She never really knew what they were talking about, or what certain words meant, and soon enough she didn’t realize they were talking anymore. That always happened a lot at dinner, and sometimes at breakfast, if her parents were together. Off they’d ramble about something new, or something old, and it became background noise.

Gwen ate what was given to her in small portions, deciding to stay focused on her pork than on the lost cause of getting Jason to see her again. It was pointless now, and Gwen refused to let tears fall down her cheeks. She refused to even sniffle. He wouldn’t get to her.

He’s like Mom and Dad.

A whole load of bricks was piled onto Gwen, and she felt as if her back would break from all of the pressure. What had they done to her brother after that horrible accident when the pot had fallen and shattered on the floor?

It’s your fault. You broke the pot.

Her mouth dropped open slightly as the thought repeated over and over again in her head, and the flashback of her falling into the small table, the image of the pot in pieces on the floor, played in her memory.

Was her brother mad at her, and that’s why he wouldn’t look at her? The urge to apologize over and over nearly pushed her to actually do it verbally. What if this really was all her fault?

Dessert was set down in front of her, a piece of cheesecake with a strawberry swirl, usually one of her favorites, but she had no urge to eat it today. No, she only wanted to tell her brother she was sorry, cry, and run to her room where she might be able to find some safety.

“Gwendolyn,” her mother said, sounding exasperated. “I will not allow you to sit and stare at your food.”

Her cheeks flared and she looked down at her lap when her brother finally looked at her. Shame washed over her. “Yes, Mother. I’m sorry.”

“Right, well…”

The girl was left to her own thoughts again, taking up her fork to slowly begin eating her cheesecake, not wanting to be embarrassed again, and not wanting to embarrass her mother any further in front of this “new brother”.

She ate quietly, looking at her plate with her hands folded in her lap when she was finished. She hadn’t been excused yet, and therefore, wasn’t allowed to leave the table. Everyone else was much slower, getting distracted by their conversation until Lucinda decided to speak up.

“Jason,” she addressed him first, “Gwendolyn, you are both excused and may leave. Your father and I must talk.”

Gwen didn’t look at her brother as she slid off of her chair, walking with a straight back out of the dining room and down the hallway towards her room. She heard his footsteps behind her but didn’t look back. If he wasn’t going to look at her, she wasn’t going to look at him.

She opened the door to her room, turning to close it when it stopped moving. She glanced up and saw her brother with his hand on the door. He looked impassive, but then again, the hallway was dark, and she hadn’t turned the lights on in her room.

“May I come in?”'

Stepping out of the way, she flipped the switch, flooding the room with light, and he entered, the door shutting gently without a sound behind him.

“I can’t be in here long,” he said, his back still to her, “Mother wouldn’t be happy with me.”

“Okay,” Gwen replied, moving to gently kick off her shoes.

An awkward silence hung in the air between them, and she almost felt like crying. She hadn’t ever had an awkward silence with her brother, or ever felt awkward around him. But she did now, and it was another thing that reminded her, this boy in front of her was not the boy she knew, and probably never would be.

“So how are you?”

“Good.”

“Are you saying that because Mom told you to?”

“Why do you care?” She fired back, before slapping her hand over her mouth. She spread her fingers and spoke through them. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

He held up his hand and finally turned. “It’s okay.” Jason took a deep breath. “I know I left you, and that you aren’t happy with me.”

Gwen refrained from retorting, because that’s not what ladies are supposed to do. Instead, she nodded, trying to say that no, she wasn’t very happy with the brother who left her to her mother’s wrath alone for two years.

“It’s been a long time, and I’m going away again with Dad tomorrow. It’s fun, going around and learning everything.”

No response came from the girl. She played with her hands in front of her, unsure what to say. Did he enjoy being away from her? Was it “fun”? Nausea washed over her.

“Why are you in my room?”

“I’m not supposed to be.”

“Why are you?” She repeated.

“Because you’re my sister.”

Gwen shook her head, taking a deep, trembling breath. “I am not your sister.”

Jason looked shocked. His eyes widened slightly, and his eyebrows furrowed, his lips parting as he stared at the small girl in front of him, who was now staring up at him with a straight face, completely meaning what she said.

“If I was your sister,” she continued, “You never would have left me alone with Mom.”

“You’re still—”

“No,” Gwen said, wanting to stomp her foot down in a showy display. “I am not your sister. I would like it if you left my room.”

He stood there, staring at her dumbly, before slowly stepping towards the door. He put his hand on the doorknob, pausing as Gwen stared holes right through him. “You’re always going to be my sister, Gwennie. I’m sorry I left you with Mom, but I had no choice. After this, I can’t talk to you anymore, and I won’t talk to you. Please, don’t pry. Goodbye, Gwen. I’ll see you at the next opening.”

The door shut behind him before his sister could think to speak, and all too suddenly tears promptly burst out from her eyes, and she had to bite down on her lip to keep herself from wailing.

None of it made any sense, and again her brother abandoned her, and it seemed like this time, it was for good. Gwendolyn was alone and Jason, the one person who she still trusted to be there, was gone, and wasn’t coming back.

He had no choice, a voice cried out in her mind, but she shook her head so hard her curls slapped her in the face. He didn’t want to leave you!

My brother, she thought in response,  would’ve fought for me.

Chapter Text

Captain Boomerang’s hand came up, brushing against her jaw as the other remained beside Gwendolyn’s head. Her eyes were open wide, her mouth opening in shock, which only made it easier for his tongue to touch her lip. When she noticed his eyes were shut, she startled and shut hers, too.

She had absolutely no idea what she was doing, and her body was locked and stiff. She felt his arm move behind her, pushing her closer to him with a hand on her butt, bending her so she wasn’t standing straight like a board. He shifted the two them, and she could hear the officer walking closer as his tongue brushed further into her mouth. She retracted hers, unsure what to do.

Gwen knew that she was shaking like a leaf, her hands holding onto his tank top.

He pressed even closer to her, his thighs on either side of hers, pushing her back into the building behind her. Their shades clacked together as he tilted his head towards hers. His beard scratched against her lips and her cheek, raking over her skin as he moved.

The sound of someone clearing their throat startled her all over again, and a voice said, “Go find somewhere else to do that.”

Boomerang’s face pulled away from hers, and in a perfect American accent he called over his shoulder, “Sorry, Officer.”

His lips touched hers again and she opened her eyes to find his open, too, through the shades, looking to his left as the officer continued on. He didn’t pull away for a good ten seconds of heavy breathing and awkward silence.

Gwen’s lips tingled and she took one of her hands away from him, the pads of her fingertips touching them. He looked back at her, a cheeky and offending grin spreading over his face. “I’ll betcha I just stole yuh first kiss, first real one, anyway.”

Her cheeks burned suddenly, her whole face did, actually, and she felt like her neck was, too. He laughed and his hand left her jaw, his arm unwinding from around her. She suddenly felt the ground under her feet again, as she had been lifted up by him easily.

He smacked his lips together, seeming to take great delight in her state of shock. “Well, fah someone who’s nevah kissed, I’d give yah a five, maybe a five an’ a half,” he said, his elbow nudging into her as he turned, stepping away back towards his destination. “Not bad aftah we woke up in bed togethah, eh?” Her cheeks burned as the images of her body grinding against his unconsciously popped up in her mind.

He kissed me.

The woman felt the urge to gag, or spit, or run to the nearest bathroom and wash her mouth out. Her tongue settled, and she could pick up the faint traces of him. Tasting like smoke, and something like wind, rough and distinct. She did gag a little then, and Boomerang, ten feet or so from her now, turned around.

“Ah yah comin’ willin’ly or do I gotta come getcha?”

“C-coming,” she replied, urging her rooted feet to move, and they did. She stepped forward slowly, one after the other, until she was beside him. He nodded, and they continued on, Gwen looking at her feet. She had to push the sunglasses up on the bridge of her nose every now and again, but other than that, her fingers remained on her lips.

He kissed me, she thought again. How dare he?

The Captain was tapping his boot and humming along to some tune in his head, deep and continuous as she sat and stared at the wall, unable to look at him, his bike, or anything that was him. Hearing him was bad enough.

“Dum da dum da dum da dum,” he sang quietly, obviously in a cheerful spirit. She could hear clanging, and finally, she grew curious enough to push away from the wall she was leaning against and come closer. He looked up when she did.

“Good work, tahday,” he praised, making her blanch slightly. “Slipped right undah that fuckah’s nose.”

Gwen swallowed nervously, deciding not to respond to his statement. “What are you making?”

He lifted up one of his boomerangs in the light, glinting it back and forth. “Well,” he started, setting it down over a wad of cloth that had black, white, and yellow powder on it, enough that it was entirely possible it wouldn’t all fit into her hand. “I used all me good boomerangs, the ones that exploded, so now I’m improvising.” He shrugged, taking the ends of the cloth to wrap around the metal weapon. He took some of the copper wirings he had gotten, sticking into the cloth before he grabbed black electrical tape.

“What’s in it…?”

“Charcoal, sulfah, potassium nitrate,” he responded, “Some othah special ingredients of my own, like sawdust, sodium somethin’ an’ nitro-shit.” Boomerang wiggled his eyebrows and chuckled to himself.

“And what does that make?”

He taped down one end of the cloth completely, careful not to spill any of the powder out the unsealed side. “A very hefty amount of gunpowdah an’ a very dangerous explosive.”

She swallowed again.

“Not like what I had, that shit was high tech, but it’ll do,” he muttered as he taped down the other side.

Boomerang tossed his namesake around slightly, throwing it up and down and shaking it. She stepped back, nervous, like it was going to explode right then. He raised an eyebrow at her, a smirk kicking up the corner of his lip.

“What? Inexperienced in this, tah?” She glanced down and he waved her off. “I ain’t gonna light ‘em in here. That’d be fuckin’ stupid.”

She didn’t respond to him as he set it down and grabbed another strip of a different color of cloth. He grabbed the jars and containers on the surface in front of him, setting to recreating another. He had three already.

“How many do you need?”

“Tellin’ me I got tah many?”

Gwen peered up at him. “I don’t know.”

Boomerang glanced at her, one of his eyebrows raised, his mouth slightly parted with thought. He didn’t say anything else, and she didn’t either, watching him create three more, exactly the same as all the others. She decided he had more of a knack for remembering things than he let on. But then again, maybe he had to. She shuddered at the memory of him telling her bluntly that he had murdered someone, and then defended it easily.

“No one innocent sends a person tah that hellhole .”

He obviously had no intentions of going back, and she had no idea what that meant for her. Was she going to be with him forever? The woman cringed at the horrible suggestion her mind made. At this point, it seemed like it could be a possibility, and it terrified her. She couldn’t be stuck with him, could she? What if he never let her go? What would he do with her?

Thoughts started to swirl around in her head. What if he breaks his promise and hurts me again? What if he gets caught? What if he doesn’t get caught? What about that kiss? What does it mean? What if he touches me?

A chill went up her spine, and suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. She snapped out of her head, her eyes focusing slowly. He stood in front of her, looking at her with a guarded face. She was hyperventilating.

“Hey, calm down,” he said quietly. “Nothin’s wrong.”

She wanted to shout that something was wrong, very wrong. That she shouldn’t be with him, and she wanted to go home, because at least that was familiar.

So is he, now.

Freezing up again at that voice that sounded like her mother’s, she wanted to crumple and cry. Boomerang’s hand didn’t move, and he continued on looking at her, knowing she wasn’t calming down, in fact, her breathing was growing harsher.

“Gwennie, darl’.”

She shook her head and he wound around her, steering her with the hand still on her shoulder towards the bike. “I think we need tah get yah back tah the motel.” She let him guide her and felt like her body was shutting down with panic. Her knees wobbled, and her eyes drooped.

Straddling the bike nearly made her lose her balance and he made sure she wasn’t going to topple over before he opened the door, wheeled out the vehicle, made sure the door was then locked after he grabbed his coat and jacket, sat behind her, and sped off.

Gwen was asleep when he pulled her off, and she was very disgruntled to be woken up by his large hand lifting her up and off his black motorcycle. His arm circled her waist as she struggled to keep her eyes open. He pushed her forward, and her hand grabbed the top of his arm for support.

She felt like her legs were jelly, and whenever she stepped, he had to pull up her weight, and she could tell he was getting annoyed.

“Fuckin’ walk,” he hissed at her.

“‘m tryin’...”

The world swayed slightly and she pitched forward, and if his arm hadn’t wrapped tighter around her, her face would’ve hit the ground before she could react. He pulled her upright, his nostrils flaring as he turned her to look at him. Her head rocked, not wanting to stay up.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he muttered as he bent, lifting her to slip his arms under her knees. His breathing became slightly more labored as she rocked back and forth in his arms, dull pain emanating from her shoulder. "Might as well be fuckin' drunk."

Her chest still her hurt and her eyes were still struggling to remain open and watch him. She couldn’t move, though, her body hanging limply, and she wondered if she was still asleep, and was simply dreaming. Or if she was asleep and somehow aware of what was going on in the world outside of her mind. She knew she was dead weight in his arms.

She felt herself being jarred and realized he was balancing her as he bent to open the door to the motel room they had gotten the day before. Her shades were still hooked on her shirt, right between her breasts. She didn’t know where his were. He was huffing in near silence, his chest bumping into her side with every breath. The door closed behind them and they were submerged in darkness.

Gwen’s eyes closed again, pleased with the blackness that would help her sleep. She felt her body being set down on a cushiony surface, her body laying out, and a light suddenly blared behind her eyelids.

“Gwennie,” she felt someone nudge her side, none too gently. “Wake up. Yah need food an’ I need tah check yuh shouldah.”

She didn’t want to sit up, but after several more nudges and the sound of his feet walking away from her, she pushed herself up. She could see him by the backpack, rummaging through it before pulling out the bag of beef jerky.

“Yah need tah eat somethin’.”

The blonde didn’t nod, or reply, as he opened the bag and walked towards her, reaching in to pull out several pieces. He handed them to her and she carefully took them between her fingertips, nose scrunching at the greasy residue that came off on her skin. She took a breath and took a bit, appreciating that it tasted better than it felt.

He had grabbed some, too, putting the bag back where he pulled it from as he pulled at the dry strips of meat.

“Since yuh shouldah’s all fucked up,” he said, causing her to look up at him, “I’ll let yah have the bed. Just this once, yah had it last night, tah.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

His eyebrows furrowed suddenly, the mask of cockiness and aggression suddenly whisked away. He stared at her for a long moment, making her look down and take another bite of jerky. Had he never been thanked before?

She felt his gaze leave her and saw him look down at his hands out of her peripheral vision. It took awhile for him to answer, his eyebrows staying scrunched while she assumed he thought over the fact that she had thanked him.

“Yuh’re welcome,” he replied, just as quiet as her own voice, before he walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Somehow, someway, she ended up in front of a camera, a white floor and background behind her as she sat in a barely-there bikini. She was surprised her mother allowed this, what with her scar, and how much skin the bathing suits she was walking around in showed.

But Lucinda didn’t make any comments, and neither did Gwen. She had become rather self-conscious of the two scars that adorned her side and the inside of her thigh, the ones that made her skin slightly bumpy to the touch.

“Alright now turn to the right and look at the camera.”

Gwen did as asked, ignoring the flashing light as the photographer praised her and turned the camera this way and that. He ordered her around, telling her what expression to use next, or to do this and that. She noticed when he never took pictures really showing her left side, or positions where the inside of her thigh was visible.

“Could you move your leg a little bit… Yeah, just like that! Lookin’ beautiful, Gwen.”

The avoidance of her scarring made her feel worse, in some odd way. For one, she didn’t want to be here, anyway. She had modeled once or twice when her parents made her and she put up with it. This particular one was for one of the companies her father had partially bought and they were kickstarting a new bathing suit campaign. Supposedly, she would have to take pictures with a man, either today or tomorrow.

She certainly didn’t want to do that.

“Alright, lovely,” the photographer, David something, said, “Go back and change into the white one with red polka-dots. We’ll bring in Seamus with you for that one.”

Gwen nodded and walked back towards the dressing room, unnervingly aware of David’s eyes on her bottom as her hips swayed. It had been nearly a year since the surgery. She imagined that Lucinda had ensured the contract as very specific on avoiding any scarring. The perfect daughter couldn’t be un-perfect in anyway, and Lucinda would find a way to ensure that.

Changing quickly into the bikini on the rack that David had asked her to get into, she didn’t look at herself in the mirror. Somehow this one was worse than the last one, barely holding up her breasts and keeping her nipples hidden. Her butt was nearly bare. Her cheeks flared at the thought of one of her nipples slipping out and making an appearance.

The teenager shook her head, trying to expel the idea of such a thing. It resurfaced when she Seamus. He was built, his nearly-naked body showed that much, his abs sculpted and looking larger than they probably were under the lights. His hair was black, combed back over his head, and a slight shadow of facial hair dusted his lower face. He had slanted his eyes, chocolate in color, and he smiled when he saw her. He was older than her, his face more defined, but it still contained echoes of youth; he couldn’t be that much older.

She blushed and looked down as she approached.

“We haven’t met,” he said. His voice was fruity and relaxed, each vowel carrying carefully. “I’m Seamus. David said he’d be right back, he was grabbing coffee, I think.”

“I’m Gwen,” she answered, reaching out a small hand. He took it, completely engulfing it in his large one.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Gwen.”

A boom startled her, coming from behind them, and David swept in again, a girl—her assistant, no less—behind him holding a tray of pastries. “Alright you two, let’s get to it. We’ll need to do this several times in different outfits and I want to try and get it all done today.”

Seamus released her hand. “What first?”

David began directing and talking about different poses they were going to need to do, and Gwen wasn’t entirely sure how she, or her mother, felt about his hands being on her for every single position they would have to do. One the fair-haired photographer had in mind was her in his arms, bridal style.

Taking a deep breath, she decided to go with it. What choice did she have? Gwen’s assistant was quick, a spray bottle in hand along with a comb to rearrange her hair, pulling the curls over to one side in preparation for the shoot. Her natural makeup was touched on and she was put out in front of the lights again.

The first was easy enough, his hand was on her right hip, around her shoulders, his other hanging at his side. She had to put both of her hands on his chest, feeling his skin, and look at the camera with her bottom lip held between her teeth. He was supposed to be looking down at her.

Gwen didn’t know if he was or wasn’t, but didn’t look up to find out.

Instead, she continued doing what David told her to. She stepped around in front of the other model, tossing her hair as she looked over her shoulder, her lips slightly parted with her hands on Seamus’ shoulders.

He was taller than her by a good foot, and his chest was bare of hair. He didn’t have any tattoos or piercings, so far as she could tell. He had white teeth, all straight, and covered by plump lips, the bottom larger than the top. He was handsome, she did admit that much. The man in front of her was one of the ones the girls at school would be drooling about during lunch, giggling and hoping one day to meet him.

She didn’t know if that made her feel any better.

His hands touched her flanks, almost possessively, as the photographer instructed. Then they both turned, her body moving so her back was against him, her head laid back against his chest as her back arched, her left leg slightly bent as her hip tilted to maintain the position.

Being near him made her unbearably nervous, and when she was allowed to take a break to get water and change into one more bathing suit, she felt like she could finally breathe. Her assistant was there, a small cookie in hand. It was a treat Gwen would be sure not to tell her mother about.

“He’s a little dreamy,” her assistant broke into her thoughts. Gwen had forgotten her name.

“Who? Seamus?”

The assistant grinned and replied, “Well, duh!”

Gwen laughed softly. The woman in front of her couldn’t have been too much older than her, all her brown hair pulled back in a sensible bun that matched her black blazer, pencil skirt, and white dress shirt. She looked sensible enough.

“What I wouldn’t give to touch those abs.” Gwen felt an elbow nudge her side.

Gwen wrinkled her nose. “I think they were freshly waxed. My fingers feel grimy.”

Her face scrunched up in response. “Well someone needs to get him a bath. Want to help me give him one?”

The teen couldn’t help but laugh again. “I’ll let you handle that one,” she said and brushed some hair back behind her ear. “I need to go get changed.”

“The dark blue one is next.”

“I know.”

The assistant gave her a thumbs up and Gwen walked away, feeling her hips sway slightly as her bare feet padded back to the dressing room. She changed quickly, knowing the five minutes she had would be up soon. She tied up the next bikini, which covered more than the last few had. They actually held her boobs in place in a halter fashion, and the bottoms covered her butt, almost like boy shorts.

Dark blue against her pale, freckled skin set it off, and she felt more confident than she had all day walking back out to greet Seamus, who was wear a dark blue speedo with white, arching stripes on the side. Her confidence wavered and she took a deep breath.

His eyes traveled over her body, still the same warm chocolate as before and he took her hand to pull her around closer to him. “That one is the best,” he said. “I can tell.”

Gwen nodded her head and looked down, her cheeks burning ever so slightly.

They were finally done. It had taken two more hours of being pressed up against that man for pictures, being held, sitting on his shoulders, standing awkwardly, pulling the same face over and over. She only got to smile for three poses out of who knows how many.

She shut the dressing room door behind her, sagging against it until she spotted her normal change of clothes, and in a heartbeat, the bikini was thrown to the floor and she was pulling on designer jeans, a lovely tank top, and a tan jacket lined with fur. Her mother had left the jacket for her this morning.

Gwen felt much better within the safety and familiarity of the apparel, taking deep breaths as she bent down to grab her purse and heels, which she had stored under the desk in the room. There was a knock on the door and she quickly shot up, nearly bumping her head on the corner of the surface.

“Come in,” she said quietly, turning around.

The door swung up open, and to her surprise, in stepped Seamus, who was dressed in a normal t-shirt with blue jeans on and a pair of sneakers. He looked… Normal. Not like some bathing suit model. She liked the way he looked this way better. He seemed more relaxed to her.

“Hey,” he said. “I just wanted to say thanks for modeling with me today.”

Gwen felt her eyebrows furrow. Why would he be thanking her? “Um… Yeah. Of course,” she paused. “Why are you thanking me?”

Seamus gave her a slightly tight smile. “I didn’t know how you, or your mother—” Oh God, he knew about her mother— “felt about the whole scar deal. I think it’s a bit brave of you to stand in front of the camera, even if the scars aren’t too big.”

“Oh,” Gwendolyn couldn’t help but smile shyly at him, “I appreciate that.”

He stepped closer to her, closing the door behind him. “Plus, I thought you did a good job, anyway. David was kinda going overboard with all the touching, and how long he took. I can’t believe he didn’t split it into two days.”

“Maybe something came up?”

The black-haired man shrugged. “Who knows? But it takes a lot to be that patient.”

I have practice , she thought, but didn’t say it. Instead, she brushed some hair out of her face and looked up at him. His lips parted, like he was going to say something else, but he promptly shut them and smiled wider.

“You’re very beautiful,” he said. “You know that, Gwen?”

She nodded her head and he stepped closer.

“Do you think I could take you out to get some coffee sometime? I think you’re a very sweet gal.”

“I… I would like that.”

Did he just show interest in me? She wasn’t sure if she felt like recoiling, or grinning. So she settled on a small step back and a small smile.

“Here, could I get your number?” He pulled out his phone and unlocked it. She took it in shaky hands, sending a text to herself so she could save his number.

“There,” her voice was quiet as she handed it back to him.

He nodded and pocketed the device while stepping closer still. His body was almost pressed against hers and her heart pounded in her chest, echoing in her eardrums. He smelled spicy, and she guessed it clung to his clothes, or he had just put on some cologne, but it burned her nostrils as she inhaled.

“Gwen,” he murmured, leaning down towards her. “Can I kiss you?”

Two voices rang out in her head, one encouraging her, totally and completely curious as to what it felt like, and what he tasted like. The other warned against it, threatening what her mother might do if she found out. She nodded before she really made the decision, and his body moved against her, his lips ghosting over hers to test her reaction.

Her nails dug into the desk behind her and he inhaled deeply before he touched their lips firmly, his mouth opening every so slightly to let his tongue slide out against her lips, and she had no idea how to respond.

His arms came around her, pulling her away from the desk, and her hands grabbed under his arms at his back. She felt her own lips try and part at the force of his, his tongue continuing to slide out, trying to coax her into it. Her eyes closed, and she slowly began to part her lips—

A knock on the door startled both of them, and they sprang apart just before it opened. Her assistant stepped in, glancing back and forth between the two.

“Thank you again,” he broke the silence, drawing the attention to himself as he ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll catch you around, Gwen.”

“Good bye, Seamus.”

He turned and left the room, tossing a small wave over his shoulder, and then he was gone. Gwen looked to see the woman in the doorway, failing to hide a grin.

“You kissed him.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah, you did. You responded too quickly. Come, I won’t tell your mother. It’s time to go.”

Chapter Text

The Captain had the decency to take the couch that night, just as he had the night before, even if he really didn’t want to. He didn’t even fit on the damn thing, and because of this, didn’t really sleep at all. His eyes shut once or twice at one point, but that was really about it. His back hurt after about an hour and he stared, huffing at the ceiling. He had tried to move several times, not only just rolling from one side to the other, but standing up several times to change which direction he was facing on the couch.

When nothing worked, he huffed to himself for nearly five minutes, legs awkwardly hanging off the couch, one arm cramped and pressed against the back cushions, and one draped on the floor, while his neck laid against the armrest, his head craned awkwardly so he could keep an eye on the door.

His mouth watered for something, something not quite alcoholic, or another cigar, but he would settle for those. He raked through his mind, trying to figure out what taste he wanted to cover his tongue, his eyes squinted. It came to him quite suddenly, a striking thought across his mind.

He hadn’t had cereal since before he had been locked up, and god damn he wanted some. At that, he rolled out of the couch, deciding that sleeping on the uncomfortable thing wasn’t going to happen, and he began dressing himself to go find some cereal, even the tiny boxes at the gas station down the street.

Determined now, he set off towards his goal, leaving his bike in the lot as he walked to the corner, ready to get some cereal and go back to the motel to put it in his belly with some nice cold milk.

Owen was quick about it, scanning through the little gas station with a small scowl on his face. He finally found it, several small boxes that could fit in his hand lined up, all marked with different titles. He scanned through them, unsure which he wanted, until his eyes fell on the Apple Jacks. He felt his jaw clench at the thought of such a treat and in an instant, the only two green boxes were swept under his arm, and he was off looking for styrofoam bowls.

Quickly finding a pack of five, and then some spoons, he swung by the fridges for a half gallon of milk, and was at the register. It was the same man he’d bought the snacks and first aid from, and no words were passed between them, only “8.76,” when everything was bought. Boomerang forked over nine dollars and left with a bag hanging from his hand.

He walked quickly, ready to sit down, eat, and leave after he took the bike back to the garage to replace the plates. He was even quiet when he walked into the motel room, not grumbling to himself like he normally did whenever he stepped through a doorway that was slightly too small for his coat and it caught on the frame.

There was a small table, with small chairs, but with the urge to slam as much cereal into his mouth as he could until he was satisfied, he gladly wedged himself into one and began preparing his breakfast.

He poured nearly the entire box into the bowl he got out, following up with half of the milk, before sitting back with his plastic spoon to begin contentedly munching on the cereal, eyes shut as he enjoyed the flavors and the cold feeling of the liquid on his tongue.

As he began shoveling more of the cereal into his mouth, he thought back to the events of yesterday after he had gotten those sunglasses, which he realized he quite liked the look of. They were way too big for Gwennie, and hid most of her face, which he didn’t mind, especially if they were going to be traveling more through the daylight. When he had seen that cop, he didn’t panic, his mind quickly coming up with something to hide them.

Very intimate PDA would definitely work, his brain had decided, and before he knew what he was doing he had Gwen against a building, his arm around her, the other by her head, pulling her up as he bent down and slid his lips and tongue against hers. She had tasted strange, like rosemary, and her body felt even smaller when pushed up against his.

She had been warm.

Of course, she had absolutely no idea what she was doing, which had made it even better when he kept his lips on hers, watching the cop walk by with a disgusted look. He had taken her first real kiss, which stroked his ego. He grinned thinking about it. He’d have to remember that one.

He was munching, probably quite loudly, lost in his own world, when Gwen suddenly plopped down in the seat across from him, distracting him from his bowl of cereal. Her blonde hair was a mess from rolling in her sleep, a big poof on top of her head. She looked like she was still asleep, her eyes half closed as she looked at him, the bowl in his hand, and then started to move to get her own.

For a split second, he felt like he should stop her, simply because he could, and he would sneer, claiming it was all his. But he didn’t, and he furrowed his eyebrows, looking down at the milk and green and orange rings floating in it, curious as to why he wasn’t going to. He heard her getting her own, rustling in the plastic for a bowl, getting a spoon, pouring some Apple Jacks out of the box already opened, even though there wasn’t much after he had taken it.

She ate slowly, keeping the bowl on the table as he sat back, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. He grabbed his spoon again, and continued eating.

Owen felt like the silence was too oppressive, now that she was actually awake and there was no sound other than chomping between them, and it didn’t take long for him to stand up and move to turn on the TV.

The morning news was just starting, and he really didn’t pay attention as he sat back down, his eyes glancing up at it every now and then, but never truly seeing. He even poured a second bowl for himself, opening the second box. He wasn’t sure if it was hunger that drove him, boredom, or the craving that he still felt when he hadn’t taken another bite.

“I’ve never had this kind of cereal,” Gwen said softly.

Boomerang looked at her. “Apple Jacks?”

She giggled. His eyebrows raised in shock and he fought the urge to jerk a little at the quiet sound coming from her lips.

“It sounds so odd when you say it.”

He chuckled under his breath. “‘Suppose it does. Not in the usual vocab.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It isn’t… You chew loud.”

Gwennie inhaled sharply, suddenly very aware that a small insult just slipped past her lips. She looked up at him, face going pale. He took a bite and made an effort to chew louder.

“Did I wake yah?” He asked around a mouthful of food.

Her nose scrunched up, and he took that as a yes, a smirk pulling at his lips, revealing some of his teeth.

“Good.”

The woman across from him turned back to her food, her white cheeks turning darker red, and his gaze turned back to the news. The anchors were going through some stories they had, one about a local kidnapping, an uplifting one about a child beating cancer, and then they had one of a wreck last night, where there was even a reporter on the scene.

It was a motorcycle wreck, a head-on collision with a car that had sent the driver flying over the roof of a truck and skidding twenty feet over the road. He was life-flighted out and was currently in critical condition. Owen didn’t have to see pictures—though they didn’t show any—to know what it looked like.

Broken bones, skin looking like it was melting off the muscle with burns on what skin did remain, the horrible jarred feeling in your head that you were hurt, and you were still in danger, and the horrible smell of burning rubber. He hated that smell.

There were pieces of the man’s bike, scattered on the road behind the reporter. The same road he and Gwennie had entered the town on. It showed the driver of the truck, a burly man who sounded choked up and looked genuinely concerned.

Boomerang knew he was. They closed the story with condolences and saying they would pray for him, and keep the audience updated on the news of his condition before they moved onto the weather.

He looked at Gwen, who had the spoon full of cereal halfway to her mouth as she watched the television. He could see the thoughts shifting behind her eyes, apprehension coming across her face. He knew she wouldn’t like hearing about a man crashing, especially when his Harley was all they had. Owen didn’t say anything about it.

Realizing then, he couldn’t help but perk up a little. There was no mention of Gwennie, or himself.

A grin stretched across his face slowly. It was the start of what he wanted. They were forgetting, the idea of Gwennie girl being apart from her family slowly unraveling and drifting away from the thoughts of the general public. It was like a tiny shell on the beach, not quite embedded in the sand, and very noticeable when the water was away. Then the ocean would sweep in, and away goes the shell, not to be seen unless brought back upon the shore.

Bringing her back into view was exactly what he wanted to do, when the time was right, of course.

She was watching him, he knew, but he decided against making a snappy comment. For now, the less she knew, the better. It kept her easy to keep control of, and at the moment, that was more of a relief than anything else.

The weather report came on after that, which was really what he wanted. Since it seemed that they were going to be traveling during the day now, which he would probably switch up again to throw any possible hounds off the trail, it was better to be semi-prepared.

Partly cloudy today with a 55-60°F average, light rain tomorrow with about the same temperature, possible rain the next day, and then hopefully sunny for the rest of the week. It was supposed to be getting colder, especially since it was getting to winter. He hoped it didn’t randomly snow on them.

He set down his empty bowl after drinking the rest of the milk inside it. When Gwen signaled that she wasn’t having any more, he downed the rest of the half gallon, too, wiping away the drops of white from his mustache with the back of his hand.

“Get dressed, unless yah wanna go out in that,” he told her. “It’s time we get outta here.”

Gwen nodded and stood up, moving to the bag to get a change of clothes while he put the remaining bowls and spoons in the open pack just in case they ever needed it, along with the half empty box of Apple Jacks. He waited for her to come back out, looked her up and down in the black tee and jeans, told her to put on her boots, and grabbed the backpack.

The Australian had put away the long wrap, keeping it on top of the clothes so he wouldn’t forget and have her fuck up her shoulder even more. He gestured for her to come closer after he had pulled out what he was using for a sling, dropping the pack.

He wrapped it around her forearm five times, keeping the bandage tight as he moved to pull it over her shoulder and under her arm, able to do so twice before tying it, the knot by her hand. Boomerang nodded at his handiwork and zipped up the pack, pulling it onto his shoulder before striding out the door.

She didn’t say anything else to him, silent on the ride back to the garage as she sat on his lap, and when they both got off.

He was originally going to change his plates yesterday, but when the woman started having a panic and looked like she was about to faint all over again, he decided it would be best to wait another day.

Owen chose the Georgia plates this time, replacing the Pennsylvania ones he had on. After the last altercation with the cops, it was about time he did, anyway. He changed them in silence, placing the Pennsylvania ones on the desk to put away for future use if he needed them. He pulled out his set of fake stickers, slapping a blue “NOV, 2016” sticker on the corner. He smirked to himself and looked up at Gwen.

She was staring intently at his neck, the side with his brand. He remembered the last time she had asked about it, and how his vision had gone black for a moment and he had grabbed her throat.

“Thank you,” she suddenly whispered.

The Captain was taken aback. He raised an eyebrow, grabbing the stickers to hide in his desk. “Fah what?”

The woman took a deep breath. “Letting me sleep on the bed for the last two nights.”

He took his time thinking about a response. A simple, ‘Yuh’re welcome,’ wouldn’t do. He rubbed his thumb over his lip before letting his fingers drift to scratch in the facial hair on his cheek.

“Bettah be thankin’ me,” he finally responded, looking over at her. “Damn couch gave me a crook in me neck.”

The corners of her lips twitched a little and he got the feeling she knew exactly how he felt as he rolled his head to emphasize his stiff neck. He stopped when the idea washed over him, shaking himself.

“Time tah go,” he changed the subject and turned around, walking back to his Harley to wheel it out of the garage. Locking the door behind him, he got on, waiting for her to get on in front of him. She didn’t move and he held out his hand.

She seemed to be lost in her own world, too, only touching his hand when she saw it appear in front of her. He guessed she was remembering the report this morning, metal and tires scattered on the road. His fingers closed around hers, helping her onto the seat. He pulled his shades off the front of his jacket, flipping them out to put them on.

Gwennie did the same. He carefully put his arm around her waist, just under where her arm was resting in the sling that was keeping her shoulder from jostling too much. He revved the engine and sped off down the road.

Owen really didn’t think he had done anything wrong. The girl was fucking hot with legs for days that he stared at as she walked through the bar, minding the four men playing pool and three others beside himself. She was wearing shorts, riding right up under a good round ass and he smirked calmly as he continued to order beer after beer.

He had hit on her, of course. Raising an eyebrow as he commented on the jean shorts, promising he could help her squeeze out of them. She rolled her eyes, a disdainful look on her face as she set down another longneck. She walked away, hips swaying, hair bouncing on her head.

His hand lifted, gesturing back over when he downed his drink, and another comment slipped from his loose tongue, something about how he had a pull out couch, but he wouldn’t be pulling out if he got her down on it. Her eye roll met him again, a tight and annoyed smile on her lips as she slammed down another bottle. He grinned with glee at her annoyance.

The last comment, after he had about sixteen beers, was what pushed her. Or maybe it was his hand coming across her ass when she turned. He had said it in a dejected tone, as she had been rejecting him all night, “Think yah need an attitude adjustment, baby. I can help yah with that.”

The woman lifted her hand, signaling something, and suddenly two bouncers were hauling him out of his booth as he tried to reason, his pounding head and blurry vision didn’t help as he was punched once in the gut and once in the nose before he was tossed out the back and onto the street.

He shouted a garbled mess, either something in Aussie slang, or something telling them they were a bunch of kangaroo shits for fucking with him. He pushed himself up straight, swaying on his feet as he mumbled more incoherence under his breath, wiping his forearm under his nose to see blood smearing over his leather jacket.

“Fuckin’…  Fuckin’ great,” he mumbled and started meandering his way towards the front where he had his bike. He nearly fell backward trying to get on, still getting images of the beauty’s ass swaying in his head, and then growing frustrated with a scowl when he realized that she was what got him booted.

“Fuck her.”

He started the bike, probably not well enough to be driving in any way, but not exactly caring as he wheeled himself out and started on the road. It was only across town to the garage he and George owned, and he made sure he knew the way to the local bar the moment they moved into a place that was easy to maintain, cheaper, and off the grid. God, he hoped George wasn’t around.

The twenty-two-year-old swerved, head drooping. He tried to mentally kick himself, eyes doing their best to actually see the road. Owen snorted at the thought that passed through his mind, telling him he’d be better off driving with his eyes closed than being drunk. His body followed his mind, his eyes shutting as he began to lose control, the front wheel wobbling back and forth until it suddenly stopped with a sickening crunch, and he felt weightless.

Air breezed past him, rushing through his goatee, and opening his eyes produced bright colors. His heart thumped in his chest, his hair hanging above his head like he was upside down. Then his body came down, raw skin, denim, and leather skidding along gravel, the smell of burnt metal and rubber invading his mouth and nostrils at the wretched pain that pushed through his drunken haze over the left side of his body.

He couldn’t open his eyes as he felt himself skid, up in the air before coming down again, his body spinning on the asphalt as he continued to roll across it. His head throbbed worse than before and he was unable to lift his neck, or hear, or see. He could see the explosions of pain coming from his arm, back, leg, and fucking everything, hurting so badly that with every pump of blood and shift of his body, bright white light flashed across his vision.

The Aussie felt like he should scream in pain, alert others to the fact that something bad had just happened to him. Maybe he was screaming, but he couldn’t feel his face, or his throat, and had no idea if he was or if he wasn’t.

He did have an idea, though, about the fact that he wanted to die right then in that moment.

The white lights became dimmer until he faded into a world of agony and blackness surrounded him.

Owen woke up while being jostled around, crying out sharply as his arm and leg, which were bent very uncomfortably, brushed against something slightly stiff that pulled on the red and raw tissue that was his skin and the shredded black leather.

“Good,” he heard a snide, cocky, Aussie-accented voice call. “I don’t gotta deal with wakin’ yah.”

He couldn’t see straight, still, vision unfocused and swaying. He felt like his head was splitting, along with the rest of his body, and he prayed he wasn’t dead and ended up with his father being there as a punishment.

Jostled again, feeling something cracking and shifting in his side and collarbone, he shouted, voice filled with anger, “Tone it down, yah bloody fuck!”

He was in the cab of George’s old pickup, he knew now, and if the smell of burnt rubber wasn’t still latched onto his nose, he knew he’d be able to smell booze, smoke, and probably several very questionable things that he had no interest in knowing the details of.

His chest was heavy and he felt like he couldn’t breathe, gasping after he shouted. George took another turn and they came to a stop, Owen sliding forward, his head hitting something hard that sent more stars across his vision. He called out again, wanting to curl up in some effort to protect himself.

The cab shook when George slammed his door, getting out to open the one by Owen’s head.

“Alright,” he said, his fingers curling under Owen’s arms, “Let’s get yah inside.”

Owen’s dad pulled him slowly, helping to support him as he practically fell out of the truck. He could feel something wet on his cheeks, and he didn’t know if it was blood, or tears, and he didn’t really care as he tried to put his feet on the ground, gritting his teeth.

“Can’t… Can’t walk.”

“I know, Boy-o.”

Thus he was dragged inside, George doing what he could to keep him off the ground entirely, though most of the way his feet were dragging painfully. Everything stung and throbbed and ached to the point where breathing made spots appear before his eyes, much less being moved and trying to move his own body.

He was laid on his bed, shutting his eyes tightly as wave after wave of searing agony touched his body.

The pains were different. The ones in his legs, primarily his left thigh and calf, felt like they were scorching, as if he had set them to a hot stove and left them to burn for several minutes; his hands were a mix, aching and stinging, like a cross between a burn and a knife digging into his skin. His elbow stung. His side hurt every time he tried to breathe, a steady throb sending sparks through him. His collarbone and shoulder felt the same with every shift of his body.

George walked in with the large first aid kit they kept in the corner in his hands and Owen felt lightheaded, knowing that this wasn’t going to end well.

“I need,” he wheezed, “Tah go… Tah the hospital.”

“Quit wastin’ yuh air, yah’ll hurt yuhself. I’m a self-certified doctah.”

Owen really did not like the sound of that and began struggling to try and sit up, nearly screaming aloud in pain before the older man was over him, pushing him back down with a hand on his chest.

“Movin’ won’t help eithah.”

He laid back, knowing his lower lip was wobbling. He shut his eyes as George began to move him, shrugging off the leather jacket, and by the time it was discarded on the floor, Owen was passed out again.

Daylight was coming in through the dew-covered windows, shining right over Owen’s eyes, making him blink awake slowly. He lifted his arm, moving with the intention of rubbing a hand over his face. It had to be mid-morning for the light to be shining on his corner by now. He stopped short, eyes opening wide with pain, stomach tightening as blinding sparks of pain shot across his body from his right side.

Everything came back to him, the drinking, the crash, his da’ pulling him in and claiming to be a doctor, his world going black. He kept his head down, scared of moving his neck, despite his eyes getting aggravated by the light.

His mind began to debate, wondering whether it was time to push through the pain and sit up against the wall and possibly get a gauge on how bad the damage was, or just sit useless with light in his face. He didn’t like the idea of being useless and after about thirty seconds, he was inching slowly, pushing himself up, teeth pressed tight against each other as he groaned, pain erupting in his hands, his sides, collarbone, and legs.

The man’s neck was stiff, which of course didn’t help, and when he finally sat against the wall, he felt like he had run a marathon, sweat beaded on his forehead and dripping down his face, his breath shallow and quick.

He had, in fact, been moved to his bed. He was ass naked, aside from the cloth wraps that were tied around his thighs and his left calf, and felt disgruntled and hungry. He craved a cigarette, his tongue dry, or maybe water.

Owen looked to his left at the simple stand by his bed, surprised to find his gold chains sitting there, surprised that George—who was missing in action—hadn’t taken them in the night. Then his eyes landed on the bottle of whisky right next to them, the prospect of it driving him to move already.

He pushed through the pain, noticing the sides and palms of his hands were bandaged, to grab the bottle. Then came the challenge of opening it and lifting it to his mouth, bringing tears to his eyes as he strained with the bottle. His hands shook as he held the drink in both hands, lifting it slowly to his lips, the burning liquid rich and damn satisfying as it passed over his tongue at a snail’s pace and down his throat.

Not wanting to pull away, he took several long gulps of it before finally setting the bottle down on his lap, still panting. He could feel a dribble of the amber liquid running off his lip into his goatee.

“Nevah seen a man go through such pains tah get a drink.”

Owen didn’t look over at him, knowing the door to the garage was closing. “Like yuh haven’t done worse.”

“Watch yuh mouth, I patched yah up.”

He didn’t respond, rolling his eyes, deciding instead to try for another swallow, or three, of the whisky, shaky and desperate.

George didn’t say much else as he went to their mini fridge, pulling out a beer for himself, he only grumbled about cops.

It clicked in his head then, that cops would likely be investigating the wrecked bike, because he knew that George wasn’t big enough, strong enough, or caring enough, to put it in the back of his shitty pick-up. That meant that he wasn’t getting her back.

A dull thud radiated in his chest. He’d help make that bike, restoring it to its former glory. He did his best to take a deep breath, feeling like his ribs were tingling and rattling under his skin, furiously beating whatever they could to make sure he could feel them.

“I fixed up what yah couldn’t,” George suddenly said from his position on the couch. “Yuh legs, yuh head. But broken bones ain’t my problem, yah can fix those, by sittin’ yuh ass there ‘til they heal.” He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s on yah.”

Naturally, his father would half-ass it. He snorted faintly, a fake sneer on his face. “Thanks, da’. ”

“Welcome, Boy-o,” he replied nonchalantly, a smirk on his lips as he mocked him.

Another eye roll and a painful sip came from the younger man, followed by one from the older as he grabbed the remote and turned on the television they had backed into the corner of the garage.

Owen looked down at the bottle and knew that it was going to be a very long road to recovery.

The younger Australian grew tired of bed rest very quickly. The first few days weren’t too bad because he slept them away, exhausted and in pain, alcohol and painkillers only doing so much. For the most part, the garage was quiet, George either gone, or actually keeping his trap shut for once.

Sometimes he liked the silence, and sometimes he hated it.

He had found a comfortable way to lay, finally, a position between sitting up and lying down with pillows supporting his neck and head. Getting them there had hurt so damn bad it had taken over two hours to finally just settle. The only reason he moved now was to get something that would potentially get rid of the constant dull pain coming from his legs and ribs, his collarbones and shoulder only hurt if he moved any, but sometimes they throbbed on and off, reminding him of how fucking stupid he had been.

He was healing, though. Which worked good for him, because he wanted to get out of the dim space. Unfortunately, he couldn’t go anywhere. His motorcycle was lost, and at the moment the only means he had of getting another was stealing or finding parts to build one. Owen didn’t know if he had the patience to build one, and after spending more than a week lying around, he had made up his mind on several plans of procuring one, even if most were damn near impossible.

Today, though, today he decided he was going to stand up on his own. He was cramped and uncomfortable, and really had to take a piss. Pushing himself up fully had gotten easier, but still made beads of sweat form along his forehead, stinging very noticeable in his ribs and shoulders.

Owen moved his legs slowly after lifting off the small blanket, moving them off the bed to place his feet on the floor. He took slow and deep breaths, forcing himself to stay calm as he put his hand on the nightstand, standing slowly as he leaned on the stand for a good thirty seconds, trying to calm down.

It was a slow process, and he always stuck close to the wall to lean on to try and prevent himself from toppling. He hardly bent his knees or lifted his feet from the ground, making it to the small bathroom with a triumphant smile.

He still had to lean, hand on the wall over the toilet as he relieved himself. He felt a small swell of pride at making it on his own, despite the pain that wracked through his body at every waking moment. Then, of course, he had to turn around, his foot slipping on the small rug in the bathroom, sending him down to the ground with a shout, followed by a loud scream of pain.

George had helped him up off the ground, Owen finding himself unable to move, his body numb to pain, and yet overcome by it, hurting so much he wanted to lay there and die. He had accepted that to be his fate until the older Aussie walked in and found him.

“Christ, Boy,” he had said, bending to help pull him up. “Yah fuckin’ idiot.”

Owen didn’t reply, body limp against his father’s as he was returned to the bed he was growing horribly tired of. He was slumped over, body broken, his will breaking, too, simply because he was so damn tired of feeling useless.

He felt like he was going to cry, but kept tears at bay. Not moving when George put two white pills on the stand next to a glass of some form of alcohol. Owen didn’t go to grab them, electing instead to lift his legs faintly to imitate the fetal position, and stare at his lap.

Neither of them spoke, but Owen knew that George hadn’t left. He was on the couch, watching something on the television. He couldn’t hear it, deciding to zone out and leave himself to the silence in his head.

The man was tired of the pain his body felt, and was tired of feeling utterly fucking useless. Sitting on the bed made him feel pudgy, and if he looked at his bare stomach as the days got longer, he thought he looked it, too. He was tired of staring at walls for hours, stifling groans and yelps if he even thought of shifting slightly.

The former gang member really didn’t know if he had enough patience to wait this entire shit hole out, and if he didn’t, he had no idea what he was going to do.

“Could yah grab me somethin’?” Owen asked him casually as he grabbed his keys. “Like a burgah? I’m fuckin’ starved.”

George gave him a long hard look from across the room, an eyebrow raised in disinterest. “Man up, Boy-o. I ain’t got time tah mollycoddle yah, got it? Now, I’m goin’ tah the bar. Don’t pull some stupid shit like yah did last time.”

The door slammed closed before Owen could open his mouth to protest. “Thanks, yah fuckin’ arsehole!” he shouted.

He grumbled after, spitting some more insults at the George he imagined still standing by the door in his head. He was starving, his belly grumbling and groaning, and he sighed after he turned his head to look down at it.

Owen’s head fell back against the pillow, neck craned awkwardly. He clenched and unclenched his jaw several times, painfully aware of how much he wanted a smoke, or a burger, and he wasn’t able to have either. At this point, he’d really take any food as long as it was edible. Having his father watching after him didn’t exactly mean that he had full meals every day, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. On average breakfast and sometimes lunch weren’t included in George’s ‘care’.

It wouldn’t have been like this if he had been with his mum.

The young man flinched despite the pain it caused at the thought of Melody. He tried not to think of her directly very often. In the end, it put him in a horrible mood filled with sadness and anger, but at this point, he wasn’t going to be much better off not thinking of her.

Memories filled his head before he could stop them and he remembered when he was barely getting to the point where he could ride his bike without training wheels, and when he swerved too hard, hit the curb, and was sent over the handlebars. His hands, elbows, and knees had scraped on the pavement.

Melody had come running, picking him up as the waterworks began. She had made his favorite soup, her special chicken noodle, after she had patched him up with soft words and kisses which made his injuries magically feel better until he was sniffling but smiling at her as he had sipped on his soup.

He wanted to smile at the memory, but couldn’t push himself to do so. Instead, the familiar emotional pain took over his chest, making his sternum feel like it was cracking and breaking until it split apart.

In the end, right now, he’d give anything to have Melody by his side. At least he’d be fed then, and fed something good, for all three meals. He wouldn’t have to be concerned about whether he was healing properly, because if his mother had kept him home instead of taking him to the hospital, she’d at least be taking care of him instead of leaving him to his own devices with a stitched head, broken and wrapped up legs, and broken bones in his upper body.

Craving something much more different now, he wanted to curl up and crawl away. He wasn’t hungry anymore, or wanting nicotine, or painkillers, or alcohol. No, he wanted his mother, and he wanted to feel and remember that love that she gave to him every time she saw him.

He felt the tears start burning, and with George gone, he felt it slightly acceptable to cry. The memories and feeling of warmth that his mum always provided, were growing fuzzy in his head.

Fearing he was forgetting her, he shut his eyes, unshed tears wanting release, and he sobbed in silence.

Chapter Text

Cue smiled, a soft and warm grin that he reserved only for moments like these, face to face with her. Annalise bit her lip, trying to stop her mouth from curling up to no avail. The teen leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her closer, playfully nibbling on her neck as she stifled a laugh.

“Owen,” she murmured, her arms going around his neck, forcing him to lift his head. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I know, love,” he replied, kissing her head. “But I’ll be back. Ophi ain’t ‘round on Friday nights.”

“You were lucky he wasn’t tonight.”

“Mmm.”

He moved his head and sealed his lips over hers, continuing to hum as their tongues touched leisurely.

“I’m gonna get yah out sometime,” he whispered when he pulled his head back, his forehead against hers. “An’ we’re gonna go far from here where we can be free, just yah an’ me, Anna.”

The brunette pulled her head back, her large eyes sparkling with hope and happiness. “Do you really think we could do it?”

“Baby, I know we could.”

Anna hugged him tight as he hugged back, his arms around her torso with no intention of releasing her as she sat on his lap, her legs around his hips.

“I love you, Owen.”

He hesitated, like he always did, unsure what the warm and bubbly feeling in his chest was when he heard her say it. He knew she never said it to anyone else, especially not Ophi, and it gave him a feeling of pride. The sixteen-year-old let his smile fade slightly as he looked down at her.

“I love yah, tah, Annalise.”

They held onto each other, their eyes closed, knowing they didn’t have much time left. He hated how quickly the nights slipped away from them. Two years had been hard on both of them, Owen sneaking in and out of the house, Anna sometimes crawling out of her window to drop down into his waiting arms, laughing behind a hand at the rush they both felt.

He wasn’t sure if it was love he felt for her, then again, he didn’t know what this kind of love was supposed to feel like; he did know, though, that he enjoyed being wanted for more than just getting between the sheets. Anna wanted to be with him, by his side, holding his hand.

Having had this thought several times, he sighed. He wanted it, too. Anna gave him something he hadn’t had in a long time, and that was the concern and compassion of a female, someone who wanted to take care of him, and only him. He wanted to protect her and take her, just so she could be his, so he didn’t have to leave knowing that Warrin’s favorite girl was his favorite, too.

It always ended too quickly with her. He felt like sometimes, he didn’t know her, and she didn’t know him, and he was probably right. Owen shoved the thought out of his memory, not wanting his mind to ruin the night now as it had done before. He always tried to leave with a smile on his face and the taste of her on his lips, just in case.

He looked up at the small clock on the stand beside the bed. His spirits dropped and Anna pulled her body away to look up at him.

“Is it time?” She asked, her voice gentle, reminding him of a warm summer breeze on Christmas morning.

“It is.”

The girl kissed him slowly and deeply, and Owen let her take over the kiss—something he rarely allowed.

“Remember me,” she told him. “Just like you always do, so you can come back to me.”

“Don’t worry about that.” He smiled. “I’ll always come back tah yah, Anna.”

Without another word, they untangled and Owen got up, putting his clothes back on. He fastened his belt as she opened the window again, stepping out of the way so he could get out. He gave her one more peck, right on the lips, her face cradled in his hand, and he was gone into the night.

No one could really pinpoint when the Boys would be in town, but they’d certainly know when they were there. Beer was always passed around, loud booming laughter would fill the apartment and echo out onto the streets. Games were played, like darts, or punching each other until no one could see straight, but it was all in good fun.

Tonight, however, Owen didn’t join in the festivities. Usually, they didn’t need a reason to fuck around, but tonight was a big night. They’d successfully taken down the leader of the gang that had tried to encroach on their territory, some spin-off joke of the Hells Angels, which was a major reason for celebration.

Cue simply didn’t feel like it, staring down at the tinny in his hand with his jaw set. Something was eating at him, a horrible feeling deep in his belly, telling him that something was very wrong. He didn’t know what it could’ve been, though, and he’d gone through the last few days in his head over and over, trying to pick through and see if he had been threatened somewhere, or if he had slipped up in his running, but absolutely nothing came to mind, and it made him want to crunch up the can in his hands.

Something crashed, making the teen look up to see Luca, his ass on the floor, having gone through the glass table in the living space. Everyone went silent, staring at him, until laughter swept through the men surrounding him. Luca’s face burned red, but he laughed along with them. Owen just shook his head.

James plopped down on the couch beside him, his hand resting on Owen’s shoulder. “Ain’t lookin’ hot, Cue,” he said. “What’sa mattah?”

“I dunno.”

“Is it a Sheila, huh?”

The younger peered at him out of the corner of his eye before shrugging.

“There it is. C’mon, I know yah’ve got one an’ yah won’t tell me.”

“Yeah, ‘cuz I can’t, James.”

Owen hadn’t ever called James by his nickname of ‘Jack-Rabbit’, and didn’t exactly want to know how he acquired it. James never seemed to mind.

“Annalise, ain’t it. I told yah that wasn’t a good idea.”

The teenager glared at him. “I heard yah the first thousand times,” he snapped at him. “Look, I like her, okay? So fuck off.”

“Touchy,” James replied. “I’ll leave it.”

Owen took a long sip from his cheap beer, wanting to glare holes into anything he could, including James.

Jack-Rabbit didn’t say anything more, taking a drink of his own beer. The Boys were now arguing over Football, as they normally did since they all came from different parts of the country.

“Nah, it’s the Kangas!”

“Oh shuddup, yah fuckin’ idiot, it’s about the Eagles.”

Running a hand down his face, he would’ve sat back, if he hadn’t jumped at the door banging open. Everyone silenced, someone pulling Luca up off the floor and slapping a hand over his mouth as he opened it.

A chill ran down Owen’s spine, his heart thudding hard in his chest, the feelings of fear, panic, and anger ready to take over and kick him into fight or flight. Ophi stepped through the door, calm and eerie, aside from the rage that filled his eyes like smoke.

Ophi had something in his hand and he stopped in the center of the open apartment, right where everyone could see him. He held it up and Owen felt his stomach drop as he paled, his lips parting. It was his watch. His dumb fucking watch that Anna had taken off to mess around with.

“Kid,” James whispered softly, setting his beer down on the ground.

Warrin Abbey glared around, his lip lifting to bare his teeth. “Someone,” he gritted out, “Has been seein’ one of my girls.”

Everyone was silent, and Warrin began to pace in a small circle, staring at the watch. Someone, likely Baxter, called out, “How d’yah know it was one ‘a us?"

“Because yah fuckin’ idiots ah the only ones who’d think they could get away with it.”

Owen had gotten away with it, for two years, and now put his Boys in danger. He set his beer down, too, clenching his fists. He mentally prepared himself as everyone began murmuring, the leader’s eyes still raking over everyone. Owen began to stand when James shoved him back down and stood instead.

“Was me, Warrin.”

The man who stood was on the ground in a second, a clean punch to his jaw from Warrin setting him down. Owen shot up, intent on defending James, moving to put himself between the two men.

“Whatcha gonna do, boy?” The man snarled. “Hardly got any skill tah yah name, Cue, an’ I like yah, tah. Get outta my way. Unless yah been fuckin’ her, tah.”

Owen was grabbed and pulled away by Baxter and Rain, out of Warrin’s line of fire as he leaned down, picking up James by the shirt. He bent farther, whispered something, gave him another punch, and forced the man to his feet.

James looked over his shoulder at Owen, a small and tight smile on his lips with a sad look in his eyes. Owen felt a pang in his chest, too startled to fight against the hands holding him, his mouth open, face as white as a ghost.

The door was slammed behind them.

Not daring to go visit Annalise, he spent most of his time over the next few days actually showing up at school and staying with the current foster family. The Martinottis were a good family, two parents and a little baby whose name was Chook. He’d been with them for a little over three months, behaving well with them because they didn’t badger him, asking if he was sneaking around, if he wasn’t going to school, or anything related to that. Really the only time they ever asked him anything of importance was if he’d watch the babe, or if they had to call a babysitter.

Chook was an adorable baby, happy to see people, mellow, easy to care for, and he provided a welcome distraction from the thoughts that had been burning in his head. All he could think about was James’ face before the door closed, and Anna’s grin. He desperately wanted to know if they were alright, he wanted to go and find out for himself, but the pit in his stomach kept him from seeking anyone out.

James had stood in his place. Owen couldn’t understand why someone would take that bullet for him, the same one who told him he needed to leave, and then stayed by his side when he didn’t. What was he to James?

They were all a form of family, and when the teen had found a way to trick the system and request staying in the same city, Sydney and burbs of Sydney—like Rozelle, where he was now—he stayed. James had been the one who had found him, being surrounded by three men, maybe in their twenties, accusing him of stealing something that Owen didn’t even understand. The memory was fuzzy, but he remembered James had said a few words and the three had run while James helped Owen to his feet.

From then on, he realized, James had always been there. On his first run, during his initiation, whenever Owen was having trouble and his emotions were getting the best of him. The man had always been right there to help keep him out of as much danger as possible. He had been there until the end.

Owen had made him a promise, and it was one he intended to keep. He was going to run as far away as he could.

Looking down at the baby in his arms, he knew he would have to wait, at least until they got back. He knew of several ways to flee the city, and to flee the country if he had to, and he began to think about the best options when there was a knock on the door.

Annoyed with being interrupted in his already moody state, he stomped through the large house, peering out the window to see Baxter on the porch.

“Gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me, Chook, yeah?”

Opening the door, he raised an eyebrow at the older and burlier man.

“Warrin needs yah.”

He didn’t want to hear that snake’s name and fought the urge to roll his eyes or spit an insult. Instead, he raised an eyebrow at him. “Can’t right now. Won’t leave him unattended.”

“We got that,” Baxter took a step back, gesturing around the porch with his arm, and Owen watched as Chook’s normal babysitter, a girl named Elaine, came round with a small smile.

“I can handle him, Owen,” she told him, already taking him out of his hands. “Baxter called an’ said that he knew yah and we got talking. So here I am.”

One, he had no idea how she knew Baxter, and two, Baxter probably wasn’t his real name. But regardless, it was Elaine, even if the Ghost Heads put her up to it, and he trusted her. He reluctantly allowed her to take Chook from his arms.

“Call me or the parents if yah need somethin’, alright?”

The blonde nodded. “I know, Owen. Go on.”

Baxter grabbed his bicep and pulled him out of the doorway before he could say anything else. More nerves rattled inside of him, the familiar pit of fear and anxiety forming in his stomach, the same feeling he had when Warrin had discovered his watch in Annalise’s possession.

“Ain’t nobody seen Jack-Rabbit,” Baxter said quietly as he opened the truck door to push Owen in. “Warrin’s only called fah yah, so yah gotta tell us if somethin’s happened. We couldn’t believe James’d do that.”

He could still hear him talking after the door closed and he walked around to get in.

“Guess we’re all nerved up. When Ophi gets mad yah know it’s a cat fight, yah know what I mean?”

Owen rubbed his face and nodded, trying to tune out Baxter and get ahold of his thoughts as they drove off down the road, headed for Bondi, according to the driver. The teen got to the point where he didn’t respond, and figured the only reason the other kept talking was out of nervousness.

Ophi was a powerful man, and when he sought someone out, it wasn’t a joke. Based on the last time they all encountered each other, it was very possible this wasn’t going to be a pleasant meeting with the leader. Baxter likely knew this.

He stopped several blocks off from the beach, telling Owen that House Two was where he was supposed to go. He grabbed Owen’s shoulder before he got out, giving him a tight smile, his own way of saying ‘good luck’. The boy nodded in response and left, starting on his walk, his hands in his pockets.

The house was small and white, a safe house of sorts, one always open to members of the Ghost Heads. He could smell the sea salt in the air and took a deep breath as he walked up the steps, opening the door and poking his head in.

“Come in, Owen.”

He cautiously entered the home, the door closing quietly behind him as he stepped through the way into the living space. Ophi wasn’t there and Cue forced himself to take several deep breaths to calm his rapid heartbeat and work deeper into the house.

At the bar in the kitchen, Ophi had two beers, waiting patiently.

“Sorry tah take yah from watchin’ that kid,” he said casually, sliding one of the beers to him. “But I got a tight schedule this week.”

Nodding, he took the opened bottle, having a small sip as he kept his eyes on the man. “‘S fine.”

Abbey stared at him for several long seconds with a blank face that made Owen shift his weight back and forth on his feet. Neither of them broke eye contact as he lifted his beer, taking a long drink while Owen simply put his down, not sure if he could stomach alcohol.

“Anna and James have vanished,” he told him like they were talking about what to have for dinner. “Dunno where they went, likely left the state, or the country.”

He felt his skin become tight with gooseflesh, a shiver going down his spine as he saw the blunt secret flashing in the snake’s eyes, daring him to question his lie.

They didn’t vanish, oh no, Owen knew. If the feelings telling him to turn and run right now, the feelings telling him that he was lying, didn’t say so, then he would’ve known from the way he smirked.

He killed them.

“Always sad, yah know,” he told him, walking to look out the sliding glass door as the teen clenched his fists. “Loosin’ a girl. She was a screamer.”

He killed them.

“James, I dunno about him. He always seemed the quiet an’ stoic type, didn’t he? Liked you a lot, though. Didn’t think he’d leave yah without sayin’ somethin’ first. Did he evah say anythin’ tah yah?”

He killed them and now he was baiting him, trying to get him to crack. “She was a screamer .” He wanted to run his hands through his hair, pull on it, or tear at the skin on his face, or lunge and slam Ophi’s head into the counter until both his skull and the granite were broken and in pieces.

“Did he, Cue?”

“No.”

“Sad,” Warrin said, turning around. “I’m sure he woulda wanted tah, if yah mattahed.”

He shrugged and Owen looked away, the backs of his eyes burning. Did his Annalise suffer? Screamer. God, he hoped it didn’t last long. Did Ophi know that it was Owen, not James? Would it have gotten James a lighter punishment?

He tried to shake his head, get rid of the thoughts that were clouding his judgment.

“I’m sorry,” Warrin said, and Owen looked up to see him grinning like a predator. “But yah see, Owen, I gotta job fah yah.”

Captain Boomerang shot up, tumbling to the floor of the couch in his panic, sweat-drenched and gasping. His hands splayed across the carpet, long fingers pale in the dark, the dream vivid in his memory. He shut his eyes tightly, forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths.

Warrin leered in his mind and he startled, digging his fingers into the carpet. Breaths coming harder and faster again, a ball formed in the center of his chest, weighing down his lungs, compressing them until he began shaking, wanting to lift his hands and beat at his chest, or rub at his throat, anything to stop the panic.

Instead, he stared at the floor, trying to see the carpet without light, imagining small designs in it, some that maybe he could feel if he reached out and touched. Maybe he needed a cigarette, or a beer, too, but at least trying to focus on something other than the weight he was feeling helped. His chest loosened.

“Yuh’re fine, Mercer. Getta grip.”

He pushed himself up onto his knees, stretching his back slowly. Glancing over at the bed, he saw Gwennie, sprawled over the mattress. Anger began balling inside of him as the dream played over and over, Ophi’s fucking smile, his glinting eyes, his teasing tone. Owen clenched his fists, wishing Warrin were there so he could punch the shit out of him.

Of all the faces from his past, Warrin was the one that never left him, always seeking him out when he was at his weakest. The man followed him, whether he did physically, the Aussie wasn’t sure, but he was always there giving him a chill if he thought about him. Currently, the only thing Warrin gave him was the urge to break something.

Pulling one hand down his face, his eyes really zeroed in on Gwen, and he shoved himself to his feet. Marching over, he grabbed one of her legs, wrapping his hand around her calf easily, the ends of his fingers and the end of his thumb touching.

“Get up,” he snapped, yanking her hard enough that she yelped and kicked back before opening her eyes.

Her kick landed on his thigh. He barely felt it, but it did nothing to put out the fire that was burning in him.

“What the fuck was that?”

“I-I’m sorry.”

“Excuse me?” He pulled on her again, bringing her closer until he leaned down and his face was inches from hers. “Yuh’re sorry?”

She nodded, averting her gaze. He could hear her swallow and his hand raised, the back of it ready to connect with her cheek.

“You promised,” Gwennie whispered. Owen stopped, his hand frozen four inches from her cheek. She was breathing hard, harder than he was, but her eyes weren’t averted. They were staring at him.

Slowly, he dropped his hand and stood up straight again, staring at her with an eerie stone face. “Get outta bed. Yah’ve had it fah two nights an’ I ain’t stayin’ on that couch any longah.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing as she scrambled off the bed and over to the sofa. Her arm was still in the sling he had made, but he refused to look at it as he fluffed the pillow and settled to lay down.

They had stopped at the place just before the sun went down, and Owen felt exhaustion from traveling creeping in, but the panic and memories his dreams had been bringing up recently made him question if he was ever going to actually really sleep. He doubted it.

Lying down, the man knew he’d already be staring at the ceiling. He settled, one hand behind his head and the other on his stomach. He closed his eyes, knowing they would be open in ten minutes to glance around and hopefully find something to distract him and get the voices and faces out of his head.

For the first time since he’d slept in the same room as her, Owen heard soft sobs coming from Gwennie’s direction.

He knew that fucking bastard was lying as he jogged through the streets in the dark. He knew it but he couldn’t do a damn thing, other than getting himself and his foster family killed. He couldn’t allow that to happen either.

“He’s workin’ fah the gang ‘cross town, yah know the ones that we been fightin’ with? The Coffin Cheatahs, I think. Birdie says that he’s goin’ tah lip tah the coppas. Can’t let that happen, Cue, so shut him up.”

Owen knew that there were several meanings of ‘shut him up’, and didn’t ask to clarify. All he could see was that glint in his eyes, the same one that was there when he told the teen of their disappearances. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to block them out.

He had a job to do, and he’d allow his emotions to swallow him whole later. For now, he had to get out alive, which meant doing the job that his leader had given him.

Given the kid’s running route, Owen set off, knowing he could intercept him on time before he made it to his dropoff at the Fifth and Second dock. His plan, hopefully, was just to rough up the kid a little bit, give him a couple punches, interrogate him and make him tell the truth. He didn’t know how old this kid really was, or even if he was a kid, but Ophi had called him so, and Owen figured he was probably his age.

Cue knew the streets of the city and the suburbs around Sydney like the back of his hand. All of them mapped out in his head after having run on them since he had stumbled into the gang seven years before. Finding the shortcuts was easy, hopping some fences, taking back alleys, until he could catch his breath and wait in the shadows.

Abbey said he was shorter than Owen, had some shaggy, dirty blond hair, and wasn’t near as muscular. The teen assumed he’d know him when he saw him, and waited, eyes watching where he knew he’d see his target.

Ten minutes of the faint sounds of the city, like some car horns in the night, some laughing coming from the bar just down the way, and crickets filled his ears as he stood, his gaze glued as he prepared himself, like a cat waiting to pounce on its prey. The sounds made it easier to keep the voices in his head away, and for now, that’s all he needed.

Sure enough, he heard the sounds of shoes slapping pavement, and watched the small quick shape round the corner, bolting towards him. Owen simply stepped out where the other could see him, and he skidded to a halt, twenty feet from the teenager.

Owen’s stomach dropped, his heart in his throat. He could see the child now, a real child, who couldn’t have been older than twelve, stood red-faced and breathing hard, staring at Owen. He ran his thumb over his bottom lip, watching the younger closely.

“What’s yuh name?” Cue called.

The kid was quick, not hesitating as he replied, “Can’t tell yah, Sir.”

Raising an eyebrow, Owen inched forward. “Oh? Yah can’t? Why’s that? Ain’t yah part of the Ghost Heads, Boy?”

He watched the kid’s eyes dart to his hand, though it was probably too dark to see. He took one step back. “Yeah, but I got rules.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?” the Aussie taunted. “Like bein’ a two-faced rat? Betrayin’ the family? What’s yuh name?”

The kid backed up another step, his face getting paler in the light as his breathing picked up. “Ryan… I d-don’t know what yuh’re talkin’ about. Please, just tryin’ tah finish me run.”

“I’m a runner, tah, yah know,”—Owen walked faster towards the kid—“But see, I got special ins with Ophi, an’ he told me, yah were thinkin’ of doin’ somethin’ not so good tah us. So tell me, were yah?”

Shaking his head, Ryan tried to back up again, stumbling and falling. “N-no, Sir. I wasn’t. I promise.”

Something in the teen started to snap, and it was like he could feel it inside of his skull, and against his chest; something that was throbbing so hard and fast that it was straining, and beginning to fray. He felt his eye twitch, emotions starting to flood his system, along with pure adrenaline, making him want to run like a hot-blooded horse until he couldn’t anymore.

“Really? Yah think that’s gonna convince me?”

He didn’t know where the words were coming from. Ophi had been lying, right? He took a step closer, his vision starting to blur. He realized he was shaking.

Yuh’re doin’ yuh job , he reminded himself, clenching his jaw.

The boy began to scramble, trying to roll and get up, but it was too late, and Owen was on top of him, grabbing the front of his shirt with his fist ready to bring down and crunch against his face.

He was mid-swing when he couldn’t see or hear anymore.

Feeling his body moving and touching things without him being able to see them was a strange experience. He stared into blackness, unable to hear, smell, or see, but he could feel his mouth and tongue moving, like he was speaking, and he could feel his hands and arms moving. He could feel something jab into his lip and into his ribs. He could feel himself picking up something heavy, only to slam it back down again.

His fingers wrapped around something that felt strong and hard under them, but not strong enough that Owen couldn’t squish it easily in his grip. Something knotted in his stomach, a bad sensation, distracting him from whatever he was feeling.

Ryan was dead in Owen’s hands when he could finally see again, his palms wrapped tightly around the child’s throat. His arms were shaking, and he could feel the tears leaking from his eyes onto his cheeks. His mouth parted slightly as he stared, unsure what to do, or how to react.

The boy’s face was bruised, his lip and eyebrow split. Blood was dripping down the side of his face as his mouth hung open, his eyes staring vacantly back at his murderer. Owen dropped the body, scrambling back across the alley in the dark. His body fell awkwardly, his joints twisted like there was nothing holding them back, making him look broken in the dark.

Owen’s hand covered his mouth as it opened, not having a clue what to do. He looked up and down the alley for any sign of life, praying to God no one saw him. He glanced back to the body, his own shaking violently.

He didn’t know what had happened.

His knuckles were skinned, and his lip throbbed like he had been punched. He couldn’t remember ever touching the kid, only preparing to punch him with a hand fisted in his shirt. More tears came, and he realized he wasn’t crying for the kid he’d just ended, or for the fact he had killed someone, but for Anna and James.

He could see their faces, looking at him with fear, or horror, or pity, or understanding. What would they think? Him, reduced to a mess in an alleyway by a man who was a power-hungry snake, who didn’t listen when told, and who had fucked up everything in the span of two nights. God, what the fuck was wrong with him?

"Boy-o," echoed out in his head, making him want to rip his eyeballs out so the pressure behind them would stop.

Pushing himself to his feet, he shouted out, an angry cry of pain. He ran his hands through his short hair, yanking on it as he breathed hard, beginning to pace back and forth, not daring to look at Ryan.

It hit him, quite suddenly, that he needed to run far and he needed to run hard. A sudden wave of calmness came over him, and he knew what to do. He willed himself to go to the body, and began working off the boy’s shoes, his eyes unseeing as he wove the laces together in a knot. There was a powerline just down the way in the direction of the Fifth and Second dock.

He threw them up until they caught, hanging together as a message. He did his job.

Owen sniffled, running his forearm across his face. It was time to leave.

Chapter Text

Waking up in a bed after several nights on very uncomfortable sofas left Captain Boomerang feeling a little bit more refreshed than he had been in some time. If he dreamt again, he didn’t remember, which was perfectly fine by him. He ran a hand down his face, stretching and grunting softly, not quite ready to face the morning yet.

That was, until his stomach rumbled and he groaned, remembering the last of the jerky in the green backpack. Owen sat up, doing a quick scan of the room before he pushed himself out of bed. Gwen was on the couch, her back to him, the door was still locked, curtains pulled over the windows, and the pack was by the door. Unfortunately, he had finished all of his Apple Jacks the afternoon before.

He wandered over and leaned down to unzip the largest pocket to reach in and grab the dried meat. Pulling it out, he could smell the smoky aroma and couldn’t resist opening the package to begin pushing the strips in his mouth, while locating the remote to turn on the television.

The food was gone in seconds, his fingers feeling greasy as he ate the last one, scrolling through channels with his other hand until he found the news. He sat on the bed, tossing the remote behind him as he chewed absent-mindedly.

“Today we had a very big advancement in the Gwendolyn Bartholme case, right here in our own state of Kentucky,” the anchor was saying, getting a laugh out of it, and Owen’s jaw stopped working at the meat. “In Raccoon, Captain Boomerang was spotted at Evan’s Hardware Store.”

A picture popped up, and despite the fact that they had passed it on the way to the motel down the street, he had never once stopped there, let alone had he gone inside. But there was a picture, one that was unmistakably him, walking out of the door, staring at the camera of some passerby who snapped a picture of him. His mutton chops were there, his coat, his jacket. Hell, he was even wearing the sunglasses he had gotten with Gwennie.

It was in the same fucking town. Had he been sleepwalking? Or drunk and didn’t know? No. He wasn’t that careless, and yet, there he was. It even showed the damn sign.

“Authorities have been contacted to investigate and hopefully flush out the criminal as well as find Gwendolyn. We encourage you to lock your doors and contact police if you should see anything of him, or Gwendolyn.”

Boomerang was up on his feet in a flash, finding his jeans on the floor before shoving his legs into them. He buttoned them and zipped up the fly, placing his hand on Gwen’s side to shake her.

“Gwennie,” he hissed, “Gwennie, let’s go. Get up. Now. ”

The man shook her harder, and she lifted her head from the sofa. His hand wrapped around her arm, moving to yank her up off the bed, resulting in a cry of pain. He remembered her shoulder and released his grip, clenching his jaw.

“Get shoes on, an’ hurry with it. I ain’t got time tah sling yuh arm,” Boomerang snapped as he worked on his socks and boots, sitting on the end of his bed, locating his shirt, jacket, and coat. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, he saw that it was only 6:30 AM. In his mind he was making a plan, knowing that he couldn’t go back the way he came in. It was likely that police would be waiting there for him.

But taking a different road back up and out might work. There was a bigger town just over the mountain, and if he could get to it, they could hide. Then the matter was getting to it. He rubbed his thumb hard over his lower lip before shoving on the rest of his clothes and grabbing the pack.

“Let’s go, Sweetheart,” he said to Gwen, who was struggling to walk straight, her eyes drooping. It didn’t take long for him to grab her left arm and march out into the parking lot towards his bike.

The Captain took off his beanie, gathering up her hair in it before pulling their sunglasses out of the backpack. Putting them on his face, despite the fact that the sun wasn’t exactly risen yet. She was struggling, obviously, her eyes still half closed, her shoulder likely causing her pain, and it didn’t take long for him to simply grab her and put her down on the seat. He sat behind her, started the bike, and turned out onto the road without a glance back.

They were driving alongside a creek, and whether Gwen was looking at it or asleep, he wasn’t sure. Getting farther from the town, Owen felt more comfortable, constantly checking his side mirrors, his confidence growing when each time he looked there was nothing behind them. That is, until there was something behind them.

There were three that came around the bend, without their lights on, making Owen sit up straighter and closer to Gwen. She lifted her head when he pressed tighter to her and he leaned his head down.

“Cops behind us. Yuh’re gonna hang on, got it?”

Her hands suddenly dug into his thighs, fisting up his jeans. He kept watching the mirrors, waiting and watching. They didn’t turn on the sirens, only following with a good thirty feet between them.

His heart began to pound in his chest, the tingly feeling in his gut making him feel jittery, like bugs were crawling over his skin. Ten minutes to the bigger town, just over the ridge, and he’d be able to hide in plain sight all over again, and then get the hell out of Kentucky.

“Almost there, Boomer,” he whispered. “Almost there.”

They began to come closer, making his heart pound harder, but he forced himself to take deep breaths. Gwennie was sitting straight up now, likely watching the mirrors as well, her hands never loosening.

He wondered, while he had the chance to, if she thought they were going to save her. Or if they would even catch him. He could tell she disliked him, and probably would jump at the chance to be rid of him, and remembered that she had before. It made him tighten his grip on the handlebars, anger flooding his system at this entire fucking situation.

Owen hated being on the run and was reminded of that, when the nearest car was twenty feet away. He pushed the bike a bit harder, resisting the urge to gun it, knowing that would only get him caught before he could escape.

Gwennie was breathing hard enough that he could hear it and feel her back expanding against his chest. Adrenaline was likely kicking in and pumping through her system, making her feel even more like prey than she already did. In Owen’s experience, whether he had done something wrong, or not, being with someone who just committed a crime, and then being chased down by police or SWAT, made him feel like a trapped rabbit with nowhere to go, or like a fish hooked on a line with no hope of escape.

They banked around a large curve and something changed in the atmosphere. He could see the town ahead and if he could, so could the squad cars behind him. He did what they expected, and the piercing sound of sirens echoed through the crisp morning air. Gwen jumped and he could feel her nails through the denim. He pulled on the gas, shooting along the asphalt.

Wind blasted around him, making it hard to hear as they hurtled down the street into town, buildings as well as cars whooshing past as Owen weaved, crossing from one lane to the other on the two-lane street. Him winding in and out of the cars and trucks while they struggled to pull over. The intersection ahead had traffic lights, already yellow, but Boomerang wasn’t slowing down.

“Captain! Captain, I don’t think that’s a good—”

“Shut up, Gwen,” he snapped.

The light turned red, a black truck careened through the intersection just as they crossed into it. Owen watched the bumper as if they were in slow motion, missing the exhaust pipe by mere centimeters. He could hear someone screaming.

Brakes squealed and Owen jerked the bike, barely missing the stopped car in the left lane, by centimeters again. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, bile rising in his throat at the memory of the sickening sensation of weightlessness. His heart thudded in his ears and for a moment, he felt like he couldn’t see.

The Australian glanced in the mirror, feeling like he wasn’t in his body, like it was a dream and he was watching himself do it. The cops were stopped behind the black truck, as well as three other vehicles that had come to a stop in the center of the intersection. He didn’t take the time to check if any had crashed before he slowed enough to turn into an alleyway.

Slowing down more, he eased through some turns until they came to a stop by a dumpster, boxed in by three brick buildings. Both of them were breathing hard, Gwen to the point of hyperventilation. She was shaking like a leaf and if he turned her around, he was sure her eyes would be blown wide with panic and fear.

“Gwennie girl,” he said, trying to rein in his own pants. “Gwennie, calm down.”

“There was a truck—we almos—it was so close—Boomerang, I—”

He peeled one hand off his handlebar, grimy and sweaty, and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her back into him.

“Quiet now, Darl’.”

Suddenly the tears came, her body wracking with quiet sobs as she lifted her legs, curling in on herself, and further into him as a result. He wanted to shove her away, tell her to pull her shit together. But he didn’t, too shaken himself by the close encounters.

He’d never risked something like that before. In fact, the only time he ever came that close to being hit by anything like that was when he was jogging in Sydney as a teenager and was nearly hit by a cab. Even then, it hadn’t been mere centimeters away from death, or being caught, twice , within a second and a half. Gwennie likely hadn’t either.

So the man held her, not quite sure what to do while knowing he needed to form a new game plan and he needed to do so fast.

“Yah need yuh shouldah wrapped,” he said, and pulled his arm away, shrugging off the backpack, his ears still pricked for any chance cops followed him. He pulled his holsters out after unzipping the pack, along with the bandages. He slung her arm quickly, and rather sloppily, after turning her, before putting on the last of his ensemble under his coat, making sure to stick several boomerangs in each holder.

She didn’t say anything, tears still streaming down her freckled face, her nose red, her lips pouted. He either needed to get back to where they had been and change his plates again, or make it to the next safe house, either in Tennessee, or Virginia.

Virginia’s closah, he thought, and he began forming the plan in his mind, doing his best to pull the memory of the roads through Appalachia out of his scrambled brain. First, though, they needed to get out of where they were, and they needed to do it as soon as possible. It wouldn’t be long before the place was crawling with police, or worse.

He’d give it another few minutes, let Gwen have a moment to relax more, before fixing to leave again. He had to find a different way out of town, and he hadn’t ever been here before. He felt like there was a tendril, thick and black, taking root in his chest, pressing against his ribs, his sternum, as well as his spine, making him feel even further panicked and uncomfortable.

The Captain began chanting in his head, telling himself that this wasn’t the time to start panicking due to the stress of the situation. He slung the pack back around after zipping it up, helping Gwen turn until her back was to him like before. She still trembled and she bent over, setting her hands on the tank of the motorcycle. Owen listened to her as she tried to take deep, rattling breaths.

Starting the bike again, he readjusted the beanie on her head, pulling it down tighter around her ears. He backed up, flipping the vehicle around to creep through alongside the backs of buildings until there was an outlet to a different road than the one he’d come in on. He turned onto it carefully, scanning everything like a hawk, one hand poised and ready to shove past Gwen and grab the boomerang he had put on his left side.

No police as far as he knew were visible. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and began driving down the road, staying under the 30 mph speed limit, looking as casual as he could. He figured if it was night, he would’ve given his jacket and put it over Gwen, wearing the dark blue in the case they were seen, but not noticed.

He shook his head and cursed. The heavy feeling of paranoia in his chest didn’t cease as he checked the mirrors, looking over his shoulder, looking down every road. He relied on his sense of direction and the view of the mountains, traveling southeast as quietly and quickly as he could.

The woman who sat in front of him clung to his leg still, even if only with one hand, and he would’ve had his forearm over her stomach like he had become used to, if they weren’t going so slow. But he couldn’t focus on that right now.

That’s when he saw it, the chance for freedom. A road going away from where they were, four lanes and obviously well-traveled; a way out. He turned without hesitation, knowing he could find his way with a map, or find a town or a road he knew to get to refuge in Virginia.

Pressing forward, the bike grew slightly louder as he drove, leaving the town behind him. The panic was still very real and present in his mind, but he watched the buildings disappear behind trees, and soon vanish. He shook himself, mentally and physically.

For now, he had gotten away. Not all rabbits trapped were caught, and not all fish hooked were netted.

The fucker just had to open his mouth to say a few choice words about his mum. In all honesty, Owen wasn’t 100% sure as to what the man did say, but he knew ‘whore’ was dropped, and that settled the deal of his fist flying into the other’s face, sending him sprawling on the floor.

“Say it again, bloke,” he had dared, alcohol making his vision blurry, not paying attention to the bartender grabbing the phone on the wall as the other man had stood. The two of them then threw lazy and uncoordinated punches at each other, grunting and fumbling as they went at it.

Next thing the eighteen-year-old knew, he was being slammed down on the bar, his hands being yanked behind him as an officer slapped cuffs on his wrists, reciting the whole ‘these are your rights’ deal that the Australian didn’t care about. Thus he was shoved into a car and spent the night sleeping in a jail cell.

Three days to get bailed, otherwise, he was spending 70 days in a different kind of cell. The bail was $1150, for underage drinking and battery. The other man, funny enough, was stuck in the same space with him. Neither of them had talked yet, and Owen stared at the brick wall.

“Mercer!”

Turning his head, he glanced at the officer who was now unlocking the cell door. His eyebrows furrowed.

“You’re getting bailed. Let’s go and grab your things.”

The officer didn’t grab him when he stepped out, only relocking the cell and leading Owen to the front desk where he grabbed a bag with his wallet, sunglasses, and motorcycle keys inside.

“Who bailed me?”

“He’s behind you. Don’t go messing around again, Mercer. This is the only warning you’re going to get.”

Owen gave a single nod to the officer, who was pointing threateningly at him, and turned around, the bag in his hands. The only person behind him was outside, and he could see him through the windows by the glass doors, smoking a cigarette. Waiting. Sighing out his nose, he walked through and out, only to drop the bag when the stranger looked up.

It was like looking in a mirror, only with less facial hair that had one or two grey streaks and three or four more wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. His hair was combed back and he had a tee shirt and a casual jacket on, along with jeans. The lit cigarette was hanging out of his mouth, his eyes dark and piercing, staring Owen down.

“Got a problem with yuh hands, Boy-o?”

His mother had told him stories about his father, never framing it to make him look like he was a bad man, or a good man, but Owen knew he had left when she found out she was pregnant. Owen couldn’t remember if he ever met his father or not, but somehow doubted it. Melody never much talked about him, the subject obviously sore for her.

The younger bent down, grabbing a hold of the plastic. “No.”

Standing up straight, he regained his mental footing, the shock of possibly having his father here in front of him passing inch by inch. The man raked his eyes up and down Owen’s form, scrutinizing and calculating, much in the same manner Owen did, his face carefully constructed into a slight frown, giving no emotion away.

“Why did yah bail me?”

“Cuz yuh’re mah boy, obviously,” he replied as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “I’m George. George Harkness.”

“Owen Mercer.”

He watched the older man’s eye twitch at the last name, almost imperceptibly. “Yah got a place tah stay?”

“Nah. Not really.”

The teenager had several places he could go to, but he was constantly bouncing around. The friends he had were mostly acquaintances with a spare room, and Owen usually ended up forking a few dollars over to stay in a bed and get a shower or two. If George was possibly offering up a place to stay and Owen didn’t have to pay for it, he could live through it.

“Come with me fah the night. We’ll talk about yah payin’ me back.”

Fuck.

George pulled the truck up to the side of the building, away from windows with his headlights off. The rumble of the engine died as he turned the keys, sitting back. He looked at Owen, who was staring back at him, an eyebrow raised.

The younger watched as George reached into the back of the cab, pulling an empty duffle bag up before setting it in his lap. Owen opened it, a glint of metal shining in the dark. He pulled it out carefully, staring at the object.

“A boomerang. Really?”

“They’re convenient. Maybe I’ll teach yah how to throw ‘em. Fah now, yah gonna pay me back, by robbin’ this place. Jewelry an’ shit. If there ain’t an alarm set, someone’s inside. Code’s 4387, an’ yah got twenty seconds tah disarm it, ‘s my guess, before it calls the coppas.”

Owen stared at him incredulously. “Yah want me tah rob a jewelry store with a fuckin’ boomerang.”

“Yeah.”

George leaned over, opening the glove box before pulling out a bag of beef jerky. Owen’s annoyance grew.

“Not comin’ with?”

“Nah, tah much fun ain’t good fah me heart. Plus yuh’re payin’ me back.”

Clenching his jaw, he took a deep breath. “Fuckin’ wankah,” he snapped before shoving himself out of the truck, holding the duffle in one hand and the boomerang around the leather-wrapped middle in the other. He could hear George laughing as he shook himself, mentally preparing to walk around, into the store, and hopefully not fuck this up.

There wasn’t an alarm when he stepped in, the bag dropped beside the door as he closed it behind him. The boomerang was carefully stuffed into his pants, resting on his hip. He kept his head down, knowing that there were likely security cameras, and did a quick scan of the room. It was dark, display cases full of necklaces, rings, and bracelets, some catching in the light that was coming from the back room.

There’s someone here, he thought, and quickly worked his way towards the open door. It was a storage room, and not a very big one, with several shelves, with holding boxes stacked on one another, lining each wall.

She was easy to find, her back to him, standing over one of the boxes, which was open. Owen looked around quickly, taking note that there weren’t any cameras in here. He stepped in silently, pulling the boomerang out of his jeans.

His sneakers were silent on the stone floor as he worked his way over. She was smaller than him, the top of her head at his shoulder, and she was thin. Her hair was brunette, long waves going down her back. He lifted the boomerang, clamping one hand over her mouth, bringing the weapon to her neck with the other.

He cleared his throat and crooned in her ear, living in America for two years helping him perfect an accent, “Hello, Sweetheart.”

Shifting closer, he pulled her back into him. She tensed up immediately, her body rigid as her breathing sped up, harsh and loud through her nose. Pressing the blade a bit harder into her neck, he knew what he had to do.

“I’m gonna need you to shut off the cameras in this place, got it? You know how to do that, don’t you, baby?”

She nodded her head slowly.

“Good. So here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna let you go and follow you, and you’re going to do exactly what I say. No calling the police, or pressing alarms, nothing. Got it? I won’t hesitate to use this.”

She nodded and again and he pulled his hand away from her mouth, giving a slight push of the boomerang for emphasis before pulling it away, too. He placed it in his jeans again, covering the end with his shirt. He put a hand on her back when she tried to turn around, guiding her carefully so she didn’t see his face.

“Where can you turn them off?”

“By the door,” she whispered.

“Then let’s go.”

He followed her out, closely behind. His face was carefully tilted, avoiding the view of the cameras as he focused on her hair. “How do you turn them off?”

She didn’t turn around, his hand still on her lower back, but she answered, “You just pull the plug on the bottom of the modem.”

“Will that shut off the alarms and shit?”

The woman nodded and stopped when she got to the small box that hung by the door. Several thin red and black cords came out the top, going into the wall, while a thick black wire came out the bottom, running across the floor to an outlet. She simply yanked the larger cable and it fell to the ground.

Owen snatched the duffle bag off the ground. “Open the cases for me. The expensive shit. I’ll know if it isn’t, and if it isn’t, I’ll kill you and find it myself.”

She hurried, going to open one of the display cases in the back, mumbling something about gold and diamonds. Frankly, Owen didn’t care what they were. He needed the good stuff, because he knew if George was anything like himself, he wouldn’t be let off for shit that wasn’t going to be worth anything.

The glass opened up on the top and Owen quickly began pulling out the rings and necklaces inside, careful with his fingertips as he grabbed each chain or diamond.

“Open the next one,” he snapped as he shoved them into the open duffle. He heard another case open, looking at her out of his peripheral to his left. The current case was picked over quickly, and he was moving onto the second, this one filled with close to ten necklaces, jeweled with different shapes, colors, and sizes. He swiped all of them, too.

“Next.”

No sound.

He realized suddenly he had taken his eyes off her. He heard a sound behind him and breathed deep, listening as footsteps came closer, scared and nervous, while he finished placing the last necklace in the bag. Hesitation, a stop, and he flipped around, watching as a wooden baseball bat came flying down towards him. It cracked across his palm, jarring his arm, making him grunt loudly as he caught it in his grasp.

A shot of adrenaline burst through him, his heart pumping wildly. Anger boiled beneath his skin, making it burn while he wanted to bare his teeth at her. His eyes landed on her, and for a split second, she looked too familiar for comfort, like a ghost out of his past. Her eyes were locked on him, making his heart pound harder in his chest.

He almost whispered her name, that is, until he felt the bat move. His hand closed around it, like it was all moving in slow motion, and so was she, her face scrunched with effort. Instinct took over, knowing she was going to swing that bat again when real time resumed, and his fist lifted, connecting with the bottom of her jaw.

She fell to the ground hard, the bat clattering beside her, the world around him coming into focus again. He breathed hard, staring down at her, his fist still clenched, eyes wide with shock. It had happened too slow, and too fast, all it once, his body acting without his brain thinking about it, allowing him to focus on the heist he was currently pulling.

The teenager rubbed his face, fingers running over his cheeks before he grabbed the bag again, deciding he had enough, and was going to get out as fast as possible. He zipped it up, feeling for the boomerang still residing in his jeans, before rushing out the door and around the building.

George’s truck was still there, thank God. He tried to open the door with his left hand, almost crying out in pain and shock as bolts of aggravation trailed up from his fingertips to the middle of his forearm. He shifted the bag, letting the straps fall to the crook of his right arm, opening the door carefully with the other hand before getting in.

The bag was set between them and George put his jerky down, licking his fingers as Owen slammed the door.

“I can’t be sure if the coppas were called. We need tah leave.”

“Was someone inside?” 

“Yeah,” he replied, his knuckles aching slightly with the reminder that they had connected with bone.

“Did they see yah?” George asked, starting the engine.

Owen shrugged. “Only fah a second.”

“What happened?”

“I punched her.”

A loud and rumbling laugh came from his father. “Yuh’re kiddin’! Nice one, Boy-o. Didn’t think yah had it in yah!”

A grimy and disgusting feeling began to crawl over his skin as George began to back them up, driving them out of the small lot to turn out onto the road. More anger and frustration boiled up inside of him. He had punched a woman who was trying to protect what she made her money from, who was trying to protect herself, for the man who was now laughing about it in the seat next to him.

His fists clenched as well as his jaw, listening to George chuckling faintly. The former gang member didn’t say anything. Feeling guilty isn’t acceptable, Owen , he told himself.

“Yah comin’ back tah my place, eh?”

“Yeah. I reckon I am.”

Chapter Text

Gwendolyn Bartholme, the daughter of a billionaire, had never truly been cold—what with the heat on constantly during the fall and winter, and even during the cold showers of spring—until she had met Boomerang. Since she had so pleasantly run into him on the streets of Gotham, she was wearing tank tops and midriffs, and uncomfortable tee shirts in late autumn, in the morning, afternoon, and night. She had gotten intolerably aware of how chilled goosebumps felt when they rose across her skin, and how the wind took vengeance if you dared cut through it, how it stung sliding across your cheeks.

Before she was riding on the front of a motorcycle, chilled to the bone as she hung onto a thick leg with one hand, a large forearm wrapped around her, the only cold she’d ever experienced was being out in the snow ten minutes too long when winter came, or forgetting to turn the right knob in the shower. She was definitely frigid now.

It was finally getting darker, the sun sinking in the west at a snail’s pace. She was shivering violently, the air whipping up under her shirt while it curled across her skin, keeping it pebbled in gooseflesh. Boomerang hadn’t said a word since they had escaped, hadn’t grunted or even made a sound. In her exhausted state, she would’ve forgotten he was there, had he not been driving while pressing up against her.

Every part of her ached, toes, neck, legs, back. She wanted to sleep, her eyes drifting shut several times, but when she closed them, all she could think of was her heart beating in her chest, life flashing before her eyes as they careened past two very deadly vehicles, while easily going sixty miles an hour.

Her body was completely drained after the rush of adrenaline that had fired through her system when the Captain informed her they were being followed and ended when they were two hours away from the town they had managed to hide in. She felt miserable and grimy, her mind at war with itself over what would’ve happened if they had been caught, or hit. The line between staying with her mother, or being held captive with Boomerang had become blurry long ago.

Home was familiar, though, and often over the worry, fear, and panic she had knotted in her stomach, she felt homesick for Gotham, where she knew the streets.

The headlight flipped on, illuminating the road in front of them as the sky lit with a deep rich pink and purple, the last colors of the day, before it faded into the black of night. They had taken off their sunglasses about an hour ago, the only time the Aussie behind her had pulled over, allowing her to get off and stretch for about thirty seconds before he had grabbed her by the shirt and plopped her down in front of him again.

Gwen felt her eyes close and her head wobble on her shoulders as she drifted into a world that wasn’t sleeping, but wasn’t quite awake either. She was aware of every sound, the engine, the trees, the wheels cruising over the asphalt. She could feel every movement or jostle, whether going over some dips, or him turning the handlebars, or the way he felt behind her, thrumming with the energy of his bike. She was there for an imperceptible amount of time, no thoughts dancing through her head.

She didn’t open her eyes again until they started slowing down, coming to a stop in front of a tiny house, only two floors and neither of which were even the size of her living room back in Gotham. There wasn’t even a garage.

The bike shut off and Boomerang stood up, stepping away from the bike with one hand still on the handle as he waited for her. Climbing off the two-wheeled vehicle, she stumbled, catching her balance as he walked the bike over the dirt path around to the back of the house before he returned and gestured for her to follow him.

Walking up the porch steps, he pulled a ring of keys from out of one of his pockets before pushing one into the lock. The door clicked and he swung it open, stepping inside and closing it behind her.

“What is this place?” She asked.

“A house,” he replied. Gwen was about to snap something back but he cut her off. “Had a mate die some years ago an’ he gave the lease tah me.”

Gwendolyn peered at him. “Wouldn’t the cops know to search here?”

Boomerang shook his head, shedding his coat as he walked out of the small entryway. Gwen followed him into a small galley kitchen, glancing around in the dark. “Nah. I's signed tah one a’ my fake names.”

She rubbed her arms after folding them, still feeling the chill from outside. She followed him as he wandered through the house, taking off his jacket, glove, and holsters before he went upstairs, guessing that he was looking for something to be out of place, a person to be living there, or even police, but he seemed satisfied that everything was how he’d left it.

“Alright, we’re runnin’ tah the cornah togethah,” he announced, stripping her of his beanie. “Gotta get yah some new hair dye.”

Her feet practically wept when she found out he intended on walking there, not riding the bike. He held her by the crook of her elbow, walking on the illuminated sidewalk along what appeared to be the main street of the town. She could feel her shoulders slump when she looked up and saw the first rays of the morning.

The rest she had had on the bike wasn’t nearly enough, her body shaking with the effort of walking when she wanted to collapse. Traveling was exhausting her, and if she had to choose a part of her body that hurt the most, it was probably her rump and thighs. Boomerang simply kept going as they turned the corner.

Coming to a stop across the road from a Walgreens, out of view, he turned towards her, gently grabbing her chin between his fingers. “Here’s the deal, Gwennie girl. I’m gonna give yah twenty bucks an’ I’ll let yah choose the dye yah want. Can’t be yuh original hair color an’ it can’t be somethin’ that sticks out, got it?”

Pulling his wallet out of his pocket, he opened it and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. He handed it to her and encouraged her to hurry, saying he would give her ten minutes before he marched in himself, which Gwen knew would result in more time on the road, not sitting in a house possibly sleeping.

She took the money, nodded, and hobbled across the road quickly towards the store. She kept her head down, not only out of tiredness, but out of need. She had to avoid being recognized if at all possible. She didn’t see anyone else, other than two workers hanging out by the front.

Gwendolyn rushed through, looking for the many boxes of dye that usually lined the shelves. She found them rather easily, looking over all of them while wishing she could have her normal hair back, but knowing that wasn’t an option.

Her fingers danced from box to box, looking at some of the options for red. Boomerang probably wouldn’t approve of red, so even in giving her the option to choose her hair color, she still couldn’t truly branch out. Through her exhausted and overworked mind, a small flame of anger sparked in her, still unfamiliar, even though she had felt it two or three times before with him in her thoughts.

She didn’t know what to think of the Australian that had kidnapped her anymore. It was like he didn’t know what to think of himself either, and therefore went back and forth in his attitude and mood without any warning. It was hard knowing where to step, and where not to step, but knowing that she had to put her foot down somewhere, or she was going to make him angry; after he nearly went back on that promise two nights before, she did not want to make him angry.

Gwen’s hand finally settled on a box, the picture showing a light golden brown. She grabbed it and quickly turned, making her way to the front. She held the twenty dollars tight in her other fist, immediately handing it to the cashier before he even had time to say a word. She barely looked at him when he asked, “Find what you needed okay?”
She nodded, and the man told her about her change and asked if she wanted it bagged. She nodded again and put the money he gave back, close to fourteen bucks, in the bag with the dye before hurrying out the door.

Captain Boomerang was still waiting in the same spot, the sun illuminating him more as it rose further. His form wasn’t hard to find and he began walking along the road back towards the house when he saw her come out. Gwen, not wanting to be left behind, walked faster, despite the throbbing, sharp pain that shot through her legs with every step.

She fell in step with him, holding the bag tightly as she looked down at her feet, watching her boots. Gwen hadn’t really looked at herself since before she was on the cover of magazines every week, or having photoshoots or paparazzi waiting at her door. The black combat boots Boomerang had gotten her were a stark contrast to the heels she always wore, the thud when they hit the ground a far cry from the click clack. Even though her heels always made her ankles and knees hurt, she felt longing churn in her chest. Beginning to feel overwhelmed, she looked away from her feet and their reminder of everything she was missing.

The door locked behind them and the Australian took her upstairs to the bathroom, grabbing a boomerang from his holster on the way. He took the bag from her and set it on the counter of the small room. The tub was fair sized, a shower curtain and a shower head coming out of the grey wall. There was barely a counter and a sink, and there was hardly enough room in front of the toilet if she wanted to stretch her legs out when she sat down on the seat. Her sling was taken off and discarded on the floor.

He pulled out the box of hair dye, staring at the picture for what felt like forever to Gwen, leaving her filled with tension. Fear prickled at her skin, wondering if she had chosen something he was going to lose his head about. She could still remember that look on his face when he barged in, finding her holding his wallet.

The Captain looked up at her and nodded. “Good choice,” he said. “Now get up. Time tah cut.”

The woman stood up and he steered her with a hand on her shoulder, putting her right in front of him facing the mirror. She stared up at him, his face a foot and a half above hers, as his fingers began to run through her hair. He pulled out one or two tangles before gathering up the curls, keeping them in one fist and pulled to the side as he grabbed the boomerang.

His face was hardened with concentration and thought and she could see his mind working on something else entirely while he carefully pulled the blade over the inch long hair that had begun to grow on the side of her head. She could hear and feel it scrape, much more clean and gentle than the last time he cut her hair as he carefully arched it over her ear.

He had to bend over slightly to see properly, getting the hair as close down to her scalp as possible before he switched hands and started on the other side.

“I’m gonna let yah dye yu’self.”

For a moment, she thought she misheard him, and nearly asked him to repeat what he’d said. He continued to pull the blade through her dark brown hair, carefully shaping along the lines he had created when he first chopped it off.

“Thank you,” she whispered in response, watching as he finished up, carefully pulling the boomerang across both sides once or twice to seal the deal. Her cheeks burned and she looked down at her feet, surrounded by bits of her hair on the black tile, when she realized there were no nicks or cuts.

He left the room silently, closing the door behind him.

Gwen grabbed the box, reading the instructions over quickly, since she’d only dyed her hair once before, and pulled out the plastic gloves, massively oversized for her hands. She set to work, careful and slow as she worked the dye into her longer curls, from her roots out. The faint burn set in, as well as the feeling of it dripping down somewhere when it really wasn’t.

She kept her curls up with her hand as best she could, not interested in having her hair slap down on her neck and dye her skin. For her second time, she thought she did pretty well, only one or two splotches of the dye touched her freshly shaved skin. She felt a small flicker of pride at the tiny accomplishment.

The dye came with two bottles that both fit in the palm of her hand, shampoo and conditioner that she would wash with after rinsing. Her eyes glanced at the tub and an idea popped into her head. Opening the door with her elbows as she kept up her hair wasn’t the easiest thing she’d ever done, but she managed and padded out into the master bedroom.

He was on the bed, an arm over his eyes, his bare feet hanging over the side of the mattress.

“Boomerang?”

“Mmm?”

“Could I… Maybe could… Can—”

“Spit it out, love.”

The woman gathered her thoughts, her exhausted mind and tongue having trouble working together to form a sentence. She cleared her throat. “Could I maybe take a bath?”

His arm moved from his face and he looked at her, eyes creasing at the corners. “Reckon yah been good, ain’t heard much grizzlin’...” he rubbed at his chin in thought, which was starting to grow longer facial hair. “Fah tonight, I’ll let yah.”

A very small smile graced her lips. She nodded her head and walked back into the small room, guessing the ten minutes it would take to color the already bleached hair before she turned on the faucet to run the cold water through her tresses. She grabbed the towel off the wall, rubbing the curls carefully as she went to sit on the toilet seat and start the water. The conditioner and shampoo were set on the floor, ready to be grabbed.

Dipping her toes into hot, steaming water, naked as the day she was born, was easily the best feeling she’d ever had. Gwendolyn eased her way down into the water, enjoying the pleasant slide as it wrapped itself around her, inviting her in and pulling her down to relish it. Her eyes closed and she leaned her head back against the cool ceramic behind her.

She was pretty sure she fell asleep in there because when she woke up, the water wasn’t warm anymore, and that made her feel the need to hop out, and her head had dipped into the water, soaking her hair. She reached down to get the hair products before pouring a generous amount of shampoo on her hands, the sweet smell of roses and lilies wafting into her nose as she scrubbed into her hair, feeling the suds collide with the grime from before.

Her hair fanned out in the water, her curls floating in careful waves as she rinsed out the bubbles. Her head swayed back and forth and she listed to the sound of the water sliding over her ears, something she had forgotten about. A stab of homesickness hit her in the belly, but she shook it off and sat up.

Conditioning felt even better, like her hair was truly being purged of all the disgustingness that had clung to it since she washed it last, and she anticipated how wonderful it would feel, how soft it might be against her fingertips. The woman grew excited as she let her hands fall into the water, thinking about how for tonight she wouldn’t have any tangles.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t find any body soap, but for now, she elected to scrub at her skin with the water and allow herself to enjoy the feeling of freshly washed hair. She dried it carefully when she got out, droplets of water rolled off her skin and onto the floor. Gwen’s eyes followed them as she worked on tapping and rubbing the fabric—which was hard and itchy, unlike the fluffy, soft ones she had at home—over her skin.

The hostage wrapped the towel around her body, carefully folding it so it would stay over her breasts. One glance at her discarded clothes on the floor and she decided immediately she would not be putting them again tonight. She had to find the backpack.

Captain Boomerang was still awake, stretched out over the queen sized bed like he hadn’t ever moved. She felt herself growing meeker, wanting to go back into the bathroom and stay there for the night. An image popped into her head, quite suddenly, and she remembered when she had fainted and he had woken her up and brought her back out, giving her food and something to focus on.

His eyes were trained on her when she decided to go through with the first plan of finding the green pack with all of her clothes inside. He pushed himself up, gesturing for her to follow. “Come with me,” he rumbled, quiet and tired, the words almost slurred. His feet were silent on the ground as he led her out of the room and to the one down the hallway.

The door opened to a small bedroom, a twin bed shoved into one corner and a dresser pushed into the one across from it. The walls, she thought, looked like a rich cream color, and it felt more welcoming than any of the other places they’d been.

“I ain’t decided if we’re leavin’ in the evenin’,” he said. “So rest up.”

She nodded her head, turning around to look at him and ask if she could go her clothes, or if he knew where they even were, but the door was already closed and she heard him walking away.

Gwen huffed, hushed in case he somehow heard her, and turned around again, eyes falling on the bed, where a green backpack was waiting for her.

The stylist, whose name was Maggie, was very kind and gentle, asking if the water was too hot when she washed Gwendolyn’s hair in the salon. She made sure the twenty-year-old was comfortable and able to relax just the smallest bit under her mother’s hawk-like gaze. Gwen lifted her head as the hot towel came down under her, drying her neck and patting out some of the water coating the strands of dark hair.

Gwen didn’t know what her mother wanted her to do, as Lucinda had elected not to say a word to her on the ride over because she had been three minutes late coming back from a small lunch with Emmaline.

Maggie began to toy with her hair when she got her client sat down in the black cushioned chair. She ran her fingers through it, fanning it out to get a better feel for how best to cut it.

“So,” she said, a smile on her face, “What are we doing with all this hair?”

“Why would you ask her opinion?” Lucinda’s clipped and snide tone tore apart any thoughts Gwen had of having a good appointment. She was simply reminded that her mother was still behind them.

Maggie looked confused, her eyebrows furrowed. “It’s her hair, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t her gala. Her opinion doesn’t matter, mine does.”

“Harsh,” Gwen heard the woman murmur.

Lucinda raised an eyebrow, and Gwen knew that Maggie had made a mistake. She wanted to cover her face, her cheeks hot with embarrassment as her mother folded her arms over her chest and raised one perfectly done eyebrow. “Excuse me? I don’t like mumbling.”

“Nothing,” she replied, making it sound casual. Gwen could hear her take some deep breaths. “What would you like, then?”

The older woman glared at the stylist, and then at Gwen, like she had come up with some plan to ruin the daily schedule and make her angry. Gwen looked down as Lucinda’s heels clicked on the hardwood.

“Do not test me. I want her hair done how I want it, and it has to be done perfectly. Do not ask her opinion, or what she would like. Her thoughts do not matter.”

“I’m not trying to test you, Mrs. Bartholme—” Gwen did have to admire her patience. “—I simply didn’t know that you would be in charge of this appointment.”

Mrs. Bartholme let out a dignified ‘hmph!’ and kept her arms folded as she stood behind the two. Maggie looked back, waiting for direction.

“Two inches off the bottom and get rid of the bangs coming in, she doesn’t need them. Then we’ll talk styling.”

“Is there a specific way you want me to cut off the bottom?”

There were a couple moments of silence and Gwen’s eyes stared at the desk Maggie had, with all of her different bottles, baskets, and jars, each holding a different product or tool. It gave Gwen an odd sense of comfort and coziness, like she could tell what kind of a person her stylist was by the way it was almost cluttered, but not quite.

Then she heard the snip of scissors, and watched as two inches of her hair began to disappear, falling to the ground, or onto the black cape that covered her. Then she heard the murmuring start again, and it didn’t sound like anything in particular.

“Gotta go this way,” she was saying. “Or it’ll be uneven. Then just gotta get that… And that…” Maggie walked around to the front of Gwen, starting to clip and shape her bangs like Lucinda wanted, so they simply faded into the rest of her hair.

“I told you,” Lucinda said, her tone calm and deadly. Gwen knew everything was about to turn down a very stormy road and that feeling of morbid embarrassment clawed at her again. She pleaded at Maggie with her eyes to not respond as Lucinda continued, “Not to mumble.”

“Oh, I was only talking with myself.” The woman sounded chipper. Gwen decided she couldn’t be much older than herself. She felt a knot forming in her throat and she was unable to swallow it down.

“Oh, were you?”

“Yes.” Snip.

“I told you something, and you disobeyed me . I’m your business’ best client. How do you think that will make Shane feel?”

Shane Faulkner was the manager, and after coming to Shane’s Boutique since she was a little girl, Gwendolyn knew him well. He was uppity and extremely cocksure, his nose turned up with his hair and small soul patch shaved, cut, and styled to absolute perfection. He had absolutely no problem with listening to Lucinda’s word, as he seemed to trust her judgment. If this reached him, like some had before, then Maggie would be out the door and Gwen knew it.

“Maggie,” she whispered, trying to keep it quiet enough that her mother didn’t hear. Maggie’s eyes glanced at her, but didn’t acknowledge it otherwise.

“I want to see the manager. Right now. Where’s Shane?”

The black-haired woman’s eyes went wide and round, suddenly understanding. She looked down and shook her head. “I’ll go get him,” she announced loud and clear, almost a mocking blow to Lucinda. Gwen did admit that she had to admire the woman’s courage, because, with Lucinda Bartholme, there was more at stake than just a job.

She walked away towards the backroom and Gwen stayed awkwardly seated in the chair. Her mother was likely rolling through insults in her mind, calling the hairdresser names, or saying she was some foolish and insolent girl who had no idea who she was talking to. In fact, Gwendolyn was ninety-nine percent sure that was exactly what she was thinking.

“Lucy, darling!”

Shane was always a quick mover, his feet always sure, and his snobbishness rolled off him in sickening ways. He kissed Lucinda’s cheek and gave her one of his dazzling smiles. “Whatever is the matter?”
Turning her head to get a better view, Gwen watched Maggie, shrunken and fidgeting behind her manager. She was playing with her hands, lacing and unlacing her fingers together, likely out of nervousness. She knew what was coming.

“Hello, Shane. I have some complaints about this young woman here. Maggie.”

Shane turned his head, looking at the girl, and Gwen wanted to cover her face with her hands, feeling as though everyone in the salon turned their heads to look at what all the commotion was, staring at Gwen sitting alone in her chair at the same time. Gwen felt like this happened every time, and she was probably right.

“What about her?”

“She will not listen to me. I told her to stop mumbling and she didn’t. Then I told her to cut off two inches, and she cut two and a half! What’s next, lobbing off everything?”

Shane didn’t respond immediately, but Gwen didn’t dare look up until she heard a sniffle, and saw Maggie over by the desk. The client realized that she was packing up her things. When she heard her mom and the store manager still having a conversation, she reached out and touched Maggie’s arm.

“I’m so so sorry, Maggie. She’s like this with everyone… Thank you, for asking about my opinion, and if I could help you, I would.”

Maggie turned her head, wiping a tear away with the back of her hand. She smiled weakly, but it was something. “No… It’s okay… I didn’t really like Shane anyway.”

“Good luck, okay?”

“Thank y—”

“Gwendolyn! We’re leaving. Dry off your hair and let’s go.”

The woman handed her a towel. Gwen took it with a smile and stood up. She quickly rubbed it over her head, getting her hair dried as quickly as she could, before she grabbed her purse and followed her mother out the door.

“She was such a silly, foolish girl,” Lucinda said when they got into the escort car. “Your hair will have to do, and I’ll be styling it at home.”

Gwen could tell her mother wasn’t happy about this fact, but stayed silent. She learned long ago that Mrs. Bartholme didn’t care about her opinion on simple, or large matters, and found it easier if she just went along with what was asked of her. Even if she hated it.

Much like the appointment today, it was like any other appointment she’d ever had in her life. Gwendolyn never got a say in what her hair looked like, her mother controlling how it was cut, when it was cut, what color it was, the way it was styled, anything , from the day she was born. The Bartholme daughter never had a chance to even try to do something with her own hair that would please herself.

She was twenty years old, and for the past twenty years, she never had a say. How stupid is that?

That was one of the things she hated, and if she could talk without fear of Lucinda slapping her, or ruining another something in her life, she’d tell her how much she did. But just the thought of trying to stand up to her mother made her mouth go dry. In all honesty, she’d never seen someone put their foot down on her mother and win.

“It’s your fault.”

Gwen looked up to see her mother’s cold gaze locked on her. “What?”

“It’s your fault she was fired. If you hadn’t let her ask what you wanted of all things, then I wouldn’t have had to get Shane.”

She kept her posture straight and proper like usual, not allowing her body to give off any signs of discomfort or guilt, despite the way her stomach tightened like a stone had been dropped in it. “Then I suppose that is her problem,” she responded. Lucinda gave her a smile, so sudden that it rose the hairs on the back of her neck.

“Yes, it is.”

Being forced to say what her mother wanted to hear, listening to her twist everything around and aim it at her, dealing with everything, always put it into perspective for her. If there was one thing Gwen had to choose over everything else, one thing she hated with everything in her, it would be her mother.

Chapter Text

She could hear leaves rustling, a soft murmur through the darkness of her room, something that reminded her of a babbling brook. Even though she hadn’t ever really heard one, she liked to think that she knew what they sounded like. She then realized the window was open and she was sure it wasn’t before she fell onto the bed and faded into a deep sleep. She lifted her head, glancing around the small room that was empty of anyone but her.

There was noise coming from somewhere else in the small house. She heard a few thumps, and what sounded like footsteps, before it all became quiet again, and the leaves whispered through the window in the night. How long have I been asleep? Gwen remembered when Boomerang had said something about not knowing when they were leaving again, and she felt a twinge of gratefulness at being allowed to sleep longer than she thought she’d be able to.

Her toes touched the cold hardwood, sending a shiver up her bare legs and Gwendolyn pushed herself up and out of bed, wrapping her arms around herself. Her shoulder ached without the makeshift sling they had to hold her arm up and she remembered discarding it in the bathroom the morning before.

The door creaked when she opened it, and she poked her head out; nervousness gathered in the pit of her stomach at the idea of walking through a dark, old house that was unfamiliar to her. She took a deep breath and padded her way out into the hall, her feet hardly making a sound as she navigated to the stairs.

What if it’s not Boomerang? What if it’s someone I don’t know? She frowned as her anxiety began to grow, her heart thumping in her chest. Her hand clutched at the railing as she went down the steps and around into the kitchen, where the light was on. No one was in the room, but she could smell something sweet wafting in the air. She knew it was food, and the idea of eating something that smelled so good made her mouth water.

“Didn’t think yah’d be awake.”

She squealed, her body jumping forward in shock before she flipped around, eyes wide. He was laughing before her gaze rounded on him.

“Don’t startle me like that,” she mumbled, not nearly as strong sounding as she wished she could be.

“Or what?” He was smiling, under his facial hair, although his eyes still looked tired, just like they always did. “Nevahmind it, love. C’mon, I got Macca’s.”

Having no idea what ‘Macca’s’ was, she followed his massive form as he walked through the kitchen into a small dining space. The light above was switched on before she entered the room. The table was big enough for two chairs, and resting on top of the white surface were two bags with the McDonald’s logo. For the first time in her life, she wanted to cry and eat as much of their greasy food as possible.

She sat across from him and he nudged one of the bags in her direction. “Figured yah wouldn’t care about what I got yah.”

He was right, of course, and her belly growled as more sweet smells wafted around her. She grabbed the bag without a second thought and reached in, pulling out something resembling a burger that was wrapped in paper.

There was cheese on it, along with a fluffy egg and a sausage patty. Gwen couldn’t even remember what it was called, but it smelled delicious, and felt hot in her hands, and she couldn’t resist. She devoured it in seconds, savoring the taste of something other than granola bars. Her fingers felt greasy and she contemplated licking them clean until she saw Boomerang staring at her with a raised eyebrow, a sandwich of his own in his hand with a large bite taken out of it.

She felt a blush rising in her cheeks and reached into her bag for a napkin. The Australian moved and grabbed the drink in front of him before pushing it her way. The aftertaste of what she had just eaten bubbled up in her mouth, and her lips were around the straw before she could think, the sweet taste of Coca-cola washing it away. Gwen almost moaned at the taste.

“Yuh’re gonna haftah get dressed,” the Captain said around a mouthful of food. “We’re leavin’ when I’m done.”

“What time is it?”

He cocked his brow at her before he looked at his wrist, where there was a shiny gold watch that she hadn’t seen before. Maybe it was new? She didn’t know and decided not to dwell on it.

“Ten aftah four. I wanna get a good jump before the sun comes up.”

Gwen stifled a sigh of exhaustion, not only because of how early it was but because they weren’t going to stick around any longer. She wanted to sit on the bed she’d slept in upstairs for the next week, and she would if he let her.

Standing up, she took one last big gulp of the soda, before walking out of the room, through the kitchen, and up the stairs. She shut the bedroom door behind her, finding the backpack on the floor where she’d left it before digging through to find some jeans to slip on, deciding she didn’t want to change her shirt.

She found her way to the bathroom she’d been in the night before and picked up her discarded clothes, shoving them into the backpack before slipping on her socks and boots, and after she glanced at herself in the mirror, she pulled out the wrap for her sling.

Her golden brown hair didn’t look so bad, she thought, as she turned her head this way and that to look at it. She’d gotten used to half her hair being gone at this point, and jerked her head so all the curls fell to one side. The new color didn’t stand out to her, not like the blonde did. She almost had the urge to reach up and touch her locks, but decided against it, turning instead to shut off the light and make her way back down the stairs.

“Boomer?”

He was already by the door, eyes shining in the dark. “Got a nickname fah me now?”

Gwen shook her head and looked down, holding out the wrap with one hand. “Could you…?”

He was quick, his hands deft as he worked the cloth. “Still hurts then?”

“Yes,” she mumbled. He grunted in reply, tied off the wrap, and walked out the door.

Captain Boomerang didn’t seem to have that many qualms about stopping at the gas station as the sun began going down, and Gwendolyn didn’t have that many either. It gave her the chance to get off the bike and stretch her cramped legs.

She had nearly fallen asleep against him that morning, when it was still dark and he turned out on the road, leaving the only house she’d been in for a few weeks—maybe even a month—behind. It was sad to think that she likely wouldn’t be sleeping on a mattress the next time she laid down.

Gwen bent over, touching the toes of her boots, groaning when she came back up and placed her hands on her lower back, leaning back until she felt a pleasant pop in the base of her spine. She shook out her arms and legs before she yawned and looked back at that Australian.

He had been silent for the ride, not one word, not one grunt. She didn’t mind the silence, but it was strange, and a little uncharacteristic. Granted, he didn’t really speak that much to her, usually too busy in his own mind, but he hadn’t been quiet for over ten hours before. She was still confused about why he had let her bathe, put the backpack in the bedroom for her, and why he bothered getting her breakfast along with sharing his drink with her.

Boomerang was still just as confusing as when he’d first grabbed her. The image of a dirty rat scampering up out of a sewer with a small blue beanie on played in her mind, and she couldn’t help but bring up her hand and laugh into it.

“What’s funny?”

She turned around, smile gone, greeting his cocky and unabashed expression. “Nothing.” His eyes narrowed at her, but he didn’t make a comment, only swinging his leg back over the bike. He clicked his tongue, like he was encouraging her, and she wanted to glare at him. Instead, she strode over and sat in front of him,

The rumble of the bike vibrated against her legs as they sped on down the road, his arm swiftly moving around her midsection to secure her. Her hand went over his large forearm, the only grip she had, and watched the road, although hardly any vehicles ever seemed to pass them and she decided it was because he knew where he was, and what roads to take to avoid them. She had the nagging feeling in the back of her mind that he’d done this several times before, as he didn’t seem to slip up.

She sensed it then, and nearly jumped—barely refraining from shooting up straight—when she felt something large and warm rub against her head. The hostage realized that it was the man’s cheek, brushing smoothly over her hair. The arm around her tugged on her, pulling her back until she was cupped between his thighs. Her legs were spread wider as her hips shifted, she felt every rumble of the motorcycle beneath her, the apex of her thighs open and pressed against the leather seat.

He inhaled behind her, deep and slow, before letting out his breath in a soft sigh. Was he smelling her? There was a bump in the road, jolting her, and small shocks of heat began to fire up through her belly and into her body. Her cheeks flushed as tendrils of heat twisted through her, and her hand grabbed at his forearm tighter.

Her eyes drifted closed and he rubbed his cheek against the side of her head, almost too light for her to tell this time. Her leg jerked and she was reminded of the dream she had had when she was in bed with Boomerang and the feeling she’d had when she was alone, her fingers carefully touching her most intimate parts.

It was exhilarating, the seam of her jeans sliding up and rubbing against her, the motorcycle she was on wasn’t helping, and he was moving her slowly and surely with his arm. His stomach was pressed against her back and she was sure she was melting, her nerves rippling with stimulation and excitement, her mind shut off from all outside thought. All she wanted was to focus on what was going on between her legs.

She found herself rocking forward, her body eager for more, her knees spread apart. His denim-clad thighs were right up against hers, strong and thick. He was behind her when she moved, and she rolled her hips back into him without thinking.

The man’s fingers splayed wider over her stomach and she swore they burned her through her shirt. Her hand moved, laying on top of his massive one, and his palm trailed down, sliding over the top of her jeans before stopping just above where she had the aching desire to let him touch.

The heel of his hand began to rub small circles, never trailing down further. Her nails bit into his skin while his breath curled around the shell of her ear, the side of his face against her head. She didn’t open her eyes, unsure if it was because she didn’t want to see what was being done to her, or if it was because she was imagining it.

A heavy weight began forming in the pit of her stomach, and every bit of her skin was on fire, ignited by the pressure of him . It seemed like every part of him was on her, from his thighs, to his hand, to his front. She couldn’t understand how he was still driving and able to keep his focus on the road, while she was basically immobilized.

Gwendolyn wanted more, and pushed against him harder, in a clumsy attempt to angle her pelvis to get his hand to slide down. She wanted to be unable to think; she wanted the distraction, however,  Boomerang didn’t let his hand fall from its place, and she could hear his low chuckle right next to her ear.

He pushed his hand down against her again, continuing to feed the growing sense of desperate need within her core. She squirmed against him, trying to find a way to satisfy the heavy knot of tension, making her breathless and wanting for something she couldn't describe.

Her hips shifted and pitched back into him and she heard him make an odd sound, something similar to choking, like the air was caught in his throat. She grinned, opening her eyes as she realized she could gain an upper hand. She shifted back again hard enough that his fingers curled into her skin, and his whisper reached down into her, kissing that tense knot, setting her nerves ablaze all over again.

“Gwennie.”

Her head fell back into his hard body, and he nibbled on the side of her neck. The bike began to slow down and she felt him lift his head. She trained her eyes forward and realized they were at another motel, and it was growing darker by the second.

“Yah know the drill,” he mumbled, right against her ear. “Get the room, an’ maybe I’ll give yah a hand, mmm?”

She nodded, swallowing as his hand lifted off of her. “Yes, Captain.”

“Good girl.”

He helped her get off the seat, her knees nearly giving out as she wobbled like a baby deer. He handed her the money and off she went, finding the door with a sign on the knob that read ‘VACANCY’.  The man she gave twenty-five dollars to hardly looked up from the book he was engrossed in, only handing her the keys with a, “Thank you, have a good night.”

The Aussie was standing by the door, waiting for her with dark eyes that were full of promises. Her legs trembled again and her mouth watered as she handed him the key. He grabbed a hold of her bicep gently, and walked quickly, toting her with him to the door. She realized his hands were shaking as he jammed the key into the door and unlocked it.

Her back slammed the door shut as he lifted her against it, his large hands holding her thighs like she weighed nothing, his lips pressed hard against hers, and for the first time, she didn’t hesitate to open her mouth.

His tongue invaded, slipping over her bottom lip to press against hers. He tasted windblown, and faintly like smoke; much like how she imagined he would. She didn’t remember if she tasted him the last time he kissed her, it had happened so quickly and unexpectedly, and this time her hand dug into the material of his jacket, pulling on it.

Boomerang pulled his head back, licking his lips, before his hands made quick work of her sling, his stomach and legs holding her up as he tossed the wrap aside. One of his forearms snaked its way behind her lower back, and his hand coming up to touch her cheek before they kissed again, accompanied by his quiet groan. She thought it sounded more like a growl than anything else, and she was desperate for more, her hands slipping under his coat to grab at his sides and back.

His coat slid to the ground and his jacket was unzipped, hitting the floor along with it. The Aussie’s hands moved and his lips pulled back, centimeters from hers as he grabbed a hold of the bottom of her shirt. He pulled it off her, being careful of her shoulder, and more of her skin was revealed to him.

Boomerang continued his assault on her mouth, one of his hands ghosting over the top of her breast, still held securely in her bra, before moving up towards her shoulder. He took her small wrist in the same hand, holding it up by her head before pinning it to the door. His body pressed close to hers and he took the hand of her injured arm carefully, moving to tuck it into the cup of her bra, her palm against her nipple.

“Leave that there, take a hand in yuh own pleashah,” he told her, chuckling under his breath. “Yuh’re all worked up fah me, Gwennie girl… Ain’t yah?” His lips trailed over her cheek to her ear, where he crooned, “I can make it all bettah. Yah want me tah?”

Yes. She wanted him to, more than she’d ever wanted him to do anything since they’d first met, which surprised her. For the first time, Gwen felt like she could trust him, just a little more than she had, though not that much more. Her hips bucked at his low and rumbling tone, her head turning to give him more access to her ear and neck.

“Yes,” she whispered and his hands grabbed a hold of her thighs again, pulling back to lower her until her feet touched the ground. She hung onto his shoulder, making him bend down and go with her while the button of her fly popped open.

The Captain’s hand snaked under the denim, forcing the zipper down as he leaned over her, the tip of his nose trailing over her temple. “Yah tell me if yah want me tah stop.”

She nodded her head and curled her toes as his fingers slid over her panties to press against her clit. Her hand grabbed at her breast, enhancing the feeling. He was slow, rubbing back and forth carefully, gauging her reaction as she arched her back, her head pressing against the wood of the door. Her legs, still like jelly from earlier, began to shake, her breathing picking up until she was panting.

Gwen’s chest heaved, her hips trying to move and encourage him as his fingers pressed harder, giving her a jolt, causing a gasp to roll off her lips. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she guessed he seemed to take that as encouragement, because he swiftly pulled the cloth out of the way, and his bare skin touched hers.

His caress was hot and intense, almost like it burned her, and she immediately ached for more. Her mouth was agape and when he circled his fingers, several quiet moans slipped out from her tongue. He pulled the palm of his hand back, carefully feeling over her with the pads of his fingers.

“Yuh’re already wet fah me,” he told her, his voice heavy. She wondered how he was feeling, was it something similar to her? She felt like she needed to touch his arms where more skin was open to her, and she found herself  trailing her free hand over his massive shoulder and onto his bicep, where she curled her fingers into his muscle. “Like that, don’t yah, darl’?”

Gwen let her head fall forward, her eyes opening to look down in the dark. His fingers moved down again, close to her entrance, and his thumb flicked at her folds. A long and thick digit began to sink into her, making her gasp and tighten at the intrusion, her face scrunching up against the discomfort.

“Relax, Sweetheart,” he commanded.

Her nails were dragging along his skin, as well as hers, and she glanced up to find his eyes locked on her, observing her, his chest expanding faster than usual. His thighs were up against hers, and his other hand was on the door behind her, next to her flank.

“Let yu’self enjoy it, baby.”

His thumb didn’t stop, applying different amounts of pressure as he toyed with her, waiting for her. Her body throbbed, unsure of how to deal with the disturbance in her lower region, but wanting more all the same. Her muscles relaxed as she willed them to, her walls unclenched around his finger.

He praised her, moaning appreciatively as he curled his finger slightly. “There yah go.”

Slow and easy, he pumped into her, his hand drawing back and forth as his lips traced down the side of her face, willing her to turn her head so he could have access to her neck. There was no way she could refuse his request, and his teeth gently dove into her skin, his tongue soothing the small bites and marks he left behind.

She couldn't control the sounds that were coming from her, as his fingers and mouth seemed to play her like an instrument, and he seemed to love listening to her every whine, love feeling every twitch and jerk. She cried out when a second finger joined the first, not stopping for her to adjust, only curling and massaging to help soothe any pain.

She wasn’t going to tell him to stop, not when she could feel tension heavy in her stomach, wanting to explode and unwind. Instead, she encouraged him, finding enough confidence to moan something she never thought she’d say in such a tone.

“Captain.”

His body shuddered against hers, his fingers and thumb shaking in their careful and precise movements. He regained his ground, pressing into her harder, breathing out hard on her skin, the feeling of it soothing her, as well as turning her on even more.

Her eyes shot open suddenly, and she remembered the last time she was this into something that was taboo, something that was forbidden, when her mother had caught her, and told her she was a whore. Did this make her a whore, then? A slut even? She felt like her eyes might water, and her hand lifted off his bicep, the other coming out of her bra to splay across his tank top, pressing hard against his chest.

He didn’t step back, but he did stop immediately; his head lifted, his face held inches above hers. His eyes danced over her face and she expected him to look angry at her for stopping him, but instead, he looked curious, some note of understanding in his irises.

“This is wrong,” she mumbled.

Boomerang shook his head. “No,” he told her calmly. “It’s just nature, Gwennie.”

Something in her trusted him, whether it was her rational mind, or the piece of her that wanted him to undo her now and forever, she wasn’t sure. But his eyes were level, watching patiently—more patiently than she’d ever seen him—for her response. She knew if she said no more, he would listen.

The need throbbing through her body called to her again, sparks of fire still ablaze in her stomach and up into the center of her chest, where her heart continued to beat wildly. She swallowed, eyes large and innocent. “Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

She nodded her consent, his fingers curled, and all thoughts of her mother were erased from her mind. He didn’t return to kissing her neck and chose to encourage her instead, his voice getting rougher and deeper, interrupted by several moans.

“Yuh’re doin’ lovely, Gwen,” he mumbled. “Bloody lovely.”

She gasped, her body angling towards him, trying to make him move faster. He complied, his fingers pumping quicker. The tips of his fingers curled, stroking a spot that made her vision blank, and the world around her vanished. She could feel her legs shaking, and the vibrations in her throat as she groaned, along with her body going crazy with heat and pure bliss. Her eyes rolled back, and she felt herself going slack.

Her feet slipped out from under her, but she didn’t fall to the ground. She was swept up into strong arms, rocked back and forth, and then eased down onto something comfy and soft. A blanket, or a bed, she thought as she felt her jeans being pulled off, before something large and heavy dropped over her body. She curled up under it, her eyes closing as she felt her body shutting down, finally ready for a real night’s rest.

Gwendolyn couldn’t believe what she was doing, holding onto Emmaline’s hand as they ran down the street from where they parked towards the movie theater in their heels, laughing loudly in the night as they rushed through puddles.

“Are you sure about this?” Gwen had asked.

Her friend had waved dismissively. “I turned eighteen last week, and you’re eighteen, and we graduate next week! No more homework! C’mon, we have to celebrate.”

The teenager knew it was wrong, sneaking out when her mother and father were away on a business trip, but no one was there to stop her, and the burst of adrenaline she felt when she locked the apartment door behind her was unmatched by anything she’d experienced before, her grin not leaving her face.

She didn’t know what movie Emmaline wanted to see, but she knew it was R-rated, and that it was a midnight showing. It had taken an hour of convincing, and Gwen didn’t understand why her friend pushed so hard for her to come—she thought that maybe it was because of how worried she got over the well-being Gwen, but Gwen didn’t know for sure.

It was true, though, a break would be nice. They were almost done with high school, and Gwen couldn’t wait to be done. Hopefully, she could look ahead to her own future, one devoid of her mother. The thought of being on her own, independent and strong, made her feel warm and fuzzy inside, and she laughed again as they rushed up the steps towards the ticket booths.

“Two for the midnight showing of Magic Mike,” Emmaline said, reaching into her purse as the employee behind the glass asked where they wanted to sit. Gwen allowed her to control where they were sitting, and what movie they were seeing; after all, it was Emma’s treat.

She had heard of Magic Mike, and had even seen a few commercials, and had the basic idea of the movie. The movie, she assumed, followed male strippers, but she wasn’t sure. More adrenaline pumped through her system when she realized that on top of sneaking out, she was seeing a movie that would be strictly forbidden by Lucinda’s standards.

Gwen, for the first time in a long time, however, simply didn’t care.

The tickets were bought and the two of them made their way inside. They stopped at concessions and got popcorn, several candy bars, and two large sodas, then continued to grin and laugh as they sat in their seats.

Of course, Gwen was a blushing mess through the movie, feeling the urge to avert her eyes several times, much to her friend’s delight. Emmaline laughed and teased her quietly whenever Gwen made a face, or looked away, or mumbled something like, “Shouldn’t he have more clothes on…?”

It was still elating, though, seeing more skin than she knew existed on the fit male actors that danced on the screen, stripped of any normal clothes. They were cute, she did admit, with nice jaws and pretty faces. Emmaline rolled her eyes when she said it, pointing out broad shoulders and nice chests.

Gwen wasn’t sure where the appeal in a nice body was, and instead shrugged to herself and shoveled another handful of popcorn into her mouth.

What really made her squirm, and what made Emmaline nearly have to leave the theater due to being overcome with laughter, was when sex was implied, or women’s chest was bared. She didn’t even mind the butts so much, but some of it simply made her look away, or want to shut her ears. Hearing breasts be referred to as ‘melons’ made her roll her eyes and look at her friend, mouthing, ‘did they really say that?’

Whenever the red head wasn’t laughing at her, or making an obscene comment, she was captivated, just like any other woman watching the same film, and maybe some of the men. Her eyes were glued to the screen, taking in every detail, and she gushed about it when they were walking out, holding onto Gwen’s arm like a lifeline.

“Did you see Channing Tatum?” She groaned aloud, rather embarrassingly, but Gwen still laughed. “He’s sooo hot!”

“I did see him. I saw the other guys, too.”

“Ooh! Look at you, Gwen. Did you check some of them out?”

Emmaline winked and Gwen shot her playful glare. “No.”

“Uh-huh. You totally did! See! I knew it. I knew you’d like the movie! It’s about time I started working you out of that shell your mom’s built up.”

Gwendolyn’s eyebrows furrowed. “Well, the movie wasn’t bad. Can we not talk about my mom?”

Emmaline pulled herself up straight again, still holding onto her friend. “Yeah, sure. Sorry. Let’s talk about Channing’s abs instead!”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Aww, thanks.”

More laughter was shared through the night as they stopped to get some ice cream at the creamery around the corner, a place that Gwen hadn’t ever visited before. Gwen’s cheeks hurt when she got home, locking the door behind her. She took a deep breath, relaxing her shoulders, and wished she had more nights like this, where she could have a little fun and unwind.

“Nice of you to show up.”

Tension shot into her body and she flinched at the voice. Turning around, she saw her mother standing by the counter, her arms folded. Gwen could hear the toe of her heel clicking on the hardwood, and Gwen knew she was going to have a long night with a lot of explaining to do.

Chapter Text

Gwendolyn felt warm and comfortable, like she was wrapped up against a big pillow that doubled as a heater, or maybe an insulator. She pressed closer to it, refusing to open her eyes as she stretched her toes, before relaxing again.

When she opened her eyes, she wasn’t quite so warm anymore, and she could hear noise, like someone talking. Her vision slowly focused, and she realized she was staring at a dark tan colored wall, her arms laid out in front of her on the mattress, with the comforter drawn up under her arm.

“This is what her brother, Jason Bartholme, had to say.”

She heard a voice state and sat up, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, her hair a tangled mess on her head. Captain Boomerang’s back was facing her as he stood at the end of the bed without a shirt on, his jeans pulled up around his hips. In front of him was the TV, which was on and showing her brother, a microphone in his hand as he looked at the camera.

“Gwen, if you’re watching this, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that I let this happen, and that you’re in the situation you’re in now. I love you, Gwennie, so much. You’ve always been my sister, and the most wonderful one I could ask for, and I’m going to find you, and bring you home. I promise. Boomerang, I know you’re watching this, and I will track you down, and I will find you, and I will come get my sister back, and if you’ve hurt her, I’ll make sure you pay for it.”

The scene changed, and a woman stood on the screen of the TV instead. “Police encourage you to keep an eye out for either Gwendolyn or Boomerang. We will keep you updated on the Bartholme’s views of the proposed ransom, and anything else, here on your local news.”

Proposed ransom? Jason? Gwen’s head already started to hurt, and the day just started. Why was Jason acting innocent and kind? He never showed his face unless absolutely necessary. Did Lucinda put him up to it? What was this ‘proposed ransom’?

She felt her eyes widen and she looked to her captor, who had turned, his eyes trained on her. Everything fell into place, and she watched his lips turn up in a sneer.

“What the hell?” Gwen snapped and glared at him.

His eyebrow raised. “Gwennie girl,” he replied mockingly. “Did yah just swear at me?”

Rage boiled up inside her, making her chest feel heavy. She breathed harder, images of what happened before she fell asleep the night before danced in her mind. Her fists clenched as the familiar feeling of shame and embarrassment washed through her. She had given herself more to him than she had anyone before, her captor, and here he was, still using her to his advantage.

Her mother was right.

All of the nasty things Lucinda had said to her about sex being taboo came rushing back to her, causing a twisting agony to grow inside her stomach and chest, it’s black tendrils wrapping around everything it could. It squeezed her insides, making her tremble. She had given something to him, something special, but he was a man, and a very bad one at that. She clenched her jaw, unable to focus on anything other than how pissed off she was.

Gwen shoved herself up and out of bed, stalking around it until she stood in front of him, and her hand lifted before she realized what she was doing and landed across his cheek with a hard, echoing ‘smack!’. Her palm stung, her wrist aching at the unexpected force, and his head whipped to the side.

His fingers lifted, touching the skin that was turning red and white, rapidly showing her handprint. He looked at her, the shock evident on his face as she took a shaky breath, deciding that she no longer cared about what his consequences for her may be.

“You fucking asshole!” She shouted, wanting to tell him how violated and used she felt. “How dare you? What did you do? Ask for money for my return? Like you, the sleazy fucking gutter rat that you are, would ever take me home!”

“I gotta make me money somehow,” he growled, a dark look coming over his face. He drew himself up, standing over her, but she didn’t back down. She widened her stance, planting her feet like a tree with her hands clenched, scowling up at him.

Her fingernails bit into her skin and she had the urge to smack him again. “Sure, because you don’t have enough in all your fucking bank accounts, where you’ve just stolen from everyone to make yourself richer! What, do you think you’re any different from those people having banquets and balls every night, or sitting and blowing over half a million dollars in a night because it isn’t going to hurt their precious money?”

“Yah bettah shut up, Gwen,” he warned. “Or I’ll make yah.”

“Oh yeah? How? By finger fucking me again? Making me think, for just a moment, that maybe I could trust you?”

“If that’s what yah want,” he leered, leaning down to get in her face. “What, yah think that meant anythin’? Were yah hopin’ that I’d just suddenly change me tune? I was hopin’ tah get inside them pretty knickers last night with more than just me fingers—” Gwen felt like she was going to be sick as he glanced down at her underwear. “—but yah had tah ruin the fun. An’ so yah know what I did? I went tah the cornah, made me a phone call tah the news station, just so everyone’d see so I could get what I wanted. Now, I’m gonna need them phone numbahs.”

“No.”

His jaw clenched, his eyes burning into hers. “What was that?”

“I said no. I will not be your toy.”

“Yah seemed tah like it before. What’s a mattah now, Sweetheart? Think yah got a mind 'a yuh own?”

Her hand came up again, slapping the same cheek she’d hit before, and he bellowed in outrage, lunging down to grab her. She dodged to the side, scrambling across the bed. His hand wrapped around her ankle, and she turned, bringing up her foot before slamming her heel into his nose. The crunch echoed through the room along with his scream of outrage, and made her blanch, but his hand released her as he brought his palms up to his nose.

“Yah broke me fuckin’ nose!”

“Didn’t your mother teach you better?”

She got off the bed on the other side, putting the mattress between him and her as blood began trickling down out of his nostrils onto his upper lip. He stared at her—she hadn’t missed his wince when she mentioned his mother—swearing quietly as his fingers gingerly touched the bridge of his nose, which was now crooked.

“I’m so sick and tired of being treated like I’m not anything, like I’m a piece of trash that doesn’t matter! Well, guess what, I am not nothing, and I’m not a piece of trash, and I’m not going to be treated like it anymore!” She was screaming at him, eyes filled with fury. She felt bigger than she was, and more dangerous, like a puffed up angry cat. “You think you can just manipulate me, and use me, and maybe you did and it worked, but it isn’t going to work anymore, Boomerang! You abused me, smacked me around, tore my arm out of my socket, yelled at me!”

Gwendolyn was breathing hard, every memory with him flashing through her mind, fueling her rage. She wanted to grab at her curls and pull them out, or even punch something. “My hair’s gone because of you! I can’t even wear my dress, or my heels! Instead, I have to wear clothes that make me look like a fucking slut when it’s cold as hell outside! Newsflash, asshole, it’s almost winter!”

His eyebrows furrowed just the slightest bit, eyes still trained on her while his hand remained cupped under his nose, catching the blood. It only made her feel angrier, in a twisted, satisfied way. How could he be confused, after all he had done to her?

“Oh? Are you confused? Let me explain it, then. I’m tired of sitting on your bike for more hours than I get to sleep comfortably! My legs hurt, my butt hurts, just everything hurts! And I’m so hungry, all the damn time. I’m done with your silly granola bars, or your stupid gas station snacks. I can’t survive on oats and wrappers, I’m not a goat!”

“Yuh’re naive, Gwennie,” he told her, his voice quiet and icy, a stark contrast to her shouting, and it sent a chill down her spine. He wasn’t ever this calm. “Yah don’t know the world, or how it treats yah. Maybe when yah learn that, yah’ll undahstand. Until then, keep yuh mouth shut.”

The Captain moved, walking around the mattress, and for a moment she thought he was going to come after her, and her muscles tightened in anticipation. Instead, he walked towards the mirror and sink on the other side of the room.

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“Then people’ll die cuz ‘a yah. Or yah’ll die.” Boomerang shrugged like it wasn’t anything, turning on the sink. She watched as he washed off his hands before he looked up in the mirror, took a hold of his nose, and pushed it back into place. His eyes closed tightly and more blood dripped down into the ceramic as he grunted loudly. “If yah think fah a second I ain’t as tired as yah, then yah need tah remembah that every damn thing yuh’re goin’ through, I have been, tah.”

“At least your arm isn’t in a sling because someone lost their temper. You aren’t being treated like someone else’s property.”

His eyes opened, and he looked at her in the reflection. “I spent three years bein’ someone else’s property, Gwennie, an’ believe me, yah could be treated a hell of a lot worse.”

“You’re a coward,” she seethed. “You sit and attack the smaller targets, thinking you’re all high and mighty. Who are you going to kill next, huh? Those marks on your arm look awfully lonely. How would your mom feel about that?”

His hands splayed on the counter as he leaned on it, not looking away. “Don’t talk about me mum, Gwennie.”

“Why? Because you know she’d be disappointed in you?”

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes, something primal, and before she blinked, he was in front of her, inches from her face, the faint smell of electricity filling her nose. She screamed and jumped, the backs of her knees hitting the mattress, before he grabbed onto her bicep, keeping her from falling over as he leaned down, the threat in his eyes very real.

“Don’t talk about me mum,” he hissed. “Now get fuckin’ dressed. We’re leavin’.”

He let go of her and she rubbed her arm as he stalked back to the sink, where the water was still running. His attention left her, focusing on splashing water onto his cheek. She swallowed, her heart beating wildly in her chest as she turned away.

What was that?

Gwen had refused to take his jacket when they got outside, despite the fact that it was snowing. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her waist, continued glaring at him, and sat on the leather seat. He even tried putting it around her shoulders, to which she grabbed it and threw it on the ground.

“Fine. Freeze,” he had snapped and put it on again, followed by his coat. As they sped down the road and the large cold snowflakes hit her bare skin, she regretted that decision. His arm didn’t wrap around her like it usually did, and he wasn’t an imposing force behind her. He kept several inches between them, and despite her grimacing, she did appreciate that, even if it meant dealing with no source of heat.

Gwendolyn began shivering, her arms around herself as her teeth chattered. She was sure her hair was flying every which way in the Captain’s face as she squinted against the falling snow. Her skin began to smart, the flakes and wind leaving icy cold burns on what wasn’t covered, and what was covered was quickly turning wet, sticky, and frigid, plastering against her skin.

She braved it for as long as she could, her body starting to lean back into the Aussie, hoping for some warmth. When she had to close her eyes and bow her body to try and retain heat, she turned her head and called over her shoulder, “Could you pull over?”

He didn’t seem to hear her as he continued driving. He didn’t even glance down at her, and she shivered harder, wanting to glare at him.

“Please?”

His sigh was loud enough that she could hear it and he slowed down, pulling off onto the grass beside the road before stopping. He put his feet on the ground and took his hands off the handlebars.

“Could you—”

“Shut up.”

She heard movement and snapped her jaw shut, arms still folded as she narrowed her eyes and kept her gaze ahead. Heavy material fell over her shoulders, warm and soft, and she realized it was his jacket. Slowly, she unwound her arms and put it on properly, bunching it up until her numb fingers were visible enough to zip it up—which was a challenge as she shook.

Gwen let the sleeves stretch out again, and clenched her fists, burrowing them into the pockets of the large jacket. She assumed he was shrugging his coat back on before he got going again, pulling back out onto the road. The woman buried her face in the blue and white striped collar, inhaling the scent of him, but more importantly, finding an adequate wind block.

The jacket was warm, very warm, and made her feel snug and cozy, despite the air that was still attacking the tips of her ears. She would’ve asked for the beanie, too, if he wasn’t wearing it. She would have to work with what she had on, and that was better than nothing.

Her hair continued blowing around, and she was sure there were flakes of snow clinging to the strands, but for now she closed her eyes, hating the rumble of the bike that made her thighs hurt. She hated not having anything to lean into, either, but she was not going to be pressing up against him any time soon.

Sighing deeply, she decided she’d stick to cuddling into his warm jacket, protecting her from the nippy air, and think about the morning before, the sound of the bike and wind fading as she was left to her thoughts.

Gwennie was absolutely fascinated by the creatures. She didn’t quite understand how they could make eight legs work together so gracefully; she thought if she had eight legs she would be a fumbling mess. They were strange, coming in different shapes and sizes, some hairy and some not — she had even asked Jay-Jay if the hair meant they were mammals, too, to which he shrugged, but decided they couldn’t be, as some didn’t have hair.

It had been three days since she asked him the question, and he dropped a book in front of the five-year-old on her bed. It was a picture book, full of little facts and information on arachnids, and she grinned at the image on the cover that was of a tarantula.

“I heard that it was August sixth,” he claimed.

Gwen clapped her hands together once, eyes shining with glee.

“Happy birthday, Gwennie.”

She touched the cover of the book, a grin splitting across her face before she jumped up to hug her older brother around the neck while crying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Jason laughed, hugging her back. “Of course, Princess Gwennie. Only the best for her Royal Highness.”

The girl giggled and let go of him, her feet planted firmly on her mattress. “How did you get it?”

“Oh, I just asked Jonny to grab it,” he said. Jonny was Jason’s security guard. Lucinda insisted that Jonny make sure Jason didn’t step out of line, and that he continuously kept up a good appearance, even if he was only nine. Her mother told her that when she was old enough, she’d get one, too. Gwen never liked that idea, as much as she liked Jonny. She didn’t want to have an escort everywhere, or have someone make sure that she did the dishes on time.

She nodded. “Could you tell him thank you?”

“Yep,” he replied. “And he wanted to say happy birthday, too.”

Gwen beamed, warm butterflies floating around in her stomach. Jason always managed to get her something for her special day, whether it was something he made, or somehow snuck in for her. Her parents got her things, too, of course, and then there were the presents from her grandparents and her uncles, aunts, and cousins, but it was never the same as getting a gift from her brother.

“I know you like spiders,” her brother confessed and shuddered, shaking his head. “I don’t know why you do, but I thought you’d like to know more about them.”

She jumped up, falling back onto the bed on her bum before reaching for the book. “Do you think this will tell me if they’re ma… Mam-mamals?”

“Mammals, you mean?” Gwennie always had trouble with that word. “I bet it will.”

He sat on the bed across from her, glancing at the book as she opened it. She flipped through it quickly, deciding to look at the pictures to make sure she was going to like it before reading it later when her chores were done. Her delight and excitement grew each time she turned the page.

“I’m gonna teach you all ‘bout spiders, Jay-Jay.”

“Oh yeah?”

Gwennie nodded. “Yep. Even if you don’t want me to.”

Jason laughed and reached over to ruffle her hair, causing her to glower at him. “Well then, I guess I’ll have to want to.”

Gwendolyn knew she should’ve been working on her Biology project about marsupials instead of doing her own private research on Hogna carolinensis , her latest fancy. She still had a week before the project was due, and while she knew procrastinating would be disapproved of, her mother wasn’t home.

Lucinda absolutely hated spiders and had no idea why her fifteen-year-old daughter would take such an interest in the eight-legged creatures, and shortly after she found Gwen’s book nine years before, just after Jason had left her, she banned Gwen from putting time and effort into things that “didn’t matter.”

In fact, her mother had listed many things that night that Gwen remembered. She was supposed to be a lady, and being a lady meant that she focused her time on being pretty and envied, as well as doing what she was supposed to do, like chores, or schoolwork, or learning how to be the proper woman for when the “right man” came along. She wasn’t supposed to waste her time on things that had no place in a woman’s life, such as spiders, or having any kind of freedom whatsoever.

As she grew older, Gwen realized that her mother would likely never let her go, and Gwendolyn dreaded that. There was still just a small smidgen of hope, that when Gwen graduated, she’d be able to leave the Bartholme household and go out to live her own life, and not be restrained by her mother’s silly little rules. Somewhere, though, she knew that Lucinda would find a way to trap her, and keep her right where she wanted her.

Her mother had a nasty ability to do that to people.

That was one thing that Gwen had learned—whether it meant being a proper woman or not—from her mother, and that was how to manipulate people until she got her way. She’d done it to the few escorts she’d had, and managed to get some alone time every now and again because of it. Most of them Lucinda had fired, or placed somewhere else to do a different job for her, because she managed to find out that they weren’t obeying her orders above anyone else’s. Gwen didn’t care about that, though.

She shook her head, focusing again on her laptop screen, clicking through tabs with her notebook in front of her. She wasn’t even sure what the goal of her research was on the Carolina wolf spider, but she knew that she wanted to know more.

Out of all the spiders she’d read about, this one intrigued her the most, and she couldn’t put her finger on why. It was the biggest wolf spider in North America, about as big, or maybe even bigger than her hand, and a skilled ambush predator. Despite its size and its normal diet of large grasshoppers and pests, it was not very fond of anything bigger than itself.

Gwen always found it funny when spiders were more inclined to run the other way from a human, when a human was more inclined to run the other way from the spider.

She wrote down another note, something about their shedding cycles, when she heard the front door open and close. The teenager scrambled, shutting her notebook before cramming it into one of the drawers in her desk. She quickly closed her tabs, replacing them with the ones she had open on kangaroos, before hurrying to grab her backpack.

“Gwendolyn?”

“In my room, Mother!”

Heels clicked along the hardwood floors of the home before the stopped in the doorway. Her eyes scanned the room as Gwen pulled out her Biology folder, glancing at her laptop. “What are you doing?”

“I was about to start working on my Bio project.”

Lucinda raised her eyebrows. “Shouldn’t you have started on that an hour ago?”

Gwen nodded, quickly thinking up a lie. “I was, but I got distracted. Emmaline called me and had questions on when it was due, and how many points it was worth.”

“Of course, she would. She’d rather just not do it. She’s a bad influence, Gwendolyn. Well, when is it due and how many points is it worth?”

“It’s due on Tuesday, and Mr. Brown didn’t say how many points exactly, but he said it would be 20% of our grade. Which means if she doesn’t do it, it would lower her a letter, unless she’s already failing.”

Seeming to take Gwen’s word for it, her mother nodded approvingly. “Good.”

Then her eyes stopped on Gwen’s desk and she walked over to it, bending down to see the semi-open drawer. “You really need to learn how to organize better,” she said, reaching in to grab the notebook.

Gwen’s stomach dropped, knowing how angry her mother was about to be at finding out her daughter disobeyed her. Lucinda opened the book, looking through the pages with an expression that was hard for Gwen to read. Even if she didn’t read the notes, there were sketches in the pages, and there wasn’t getting out of this one.

“What was your Biology project on, Gwendolyn?”

“Marsupials…”

“So why am I seeing spiders in this notebook?”

The teenager looked down and swallowed. “Because I was researching them.”

The notebook slapped closed and was slammed down on the desk, making Gwen flinch. “What did I say about spiders? I’m sure you remember, or are you as thick-skulled as your father? Must I repeat myself, Gwendolyn?”

“No.”

“So why,” she asked, striding towards her, “Are you studying them?”

“Because I wanted to.”

Lucinda’s hand grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at her. “You disobeyed me. I told you that want of anything that doesn’t have to do with you being proper is useless and should be ignored. Those—” she gestured to the desk behind her. “—have absolutely no place here, or anywhere. Do you understand me? You should not be filling your time with worthless activities. The floors haven’t even been swept yet, because you were too busy thinking you could get away with doing what you wanted, instead of being a proper woman like I’m raising you to be.”

“I did get away with it,” she mumbled without thinking.

The hand holding her jaw let go, and then came down on Gwen’s cheek, making it sting. “You will not back talk me, young lady. Do you understand? I will have no more of this. You will listen to me. Answer me!”

“Yes, I understand,” Gwen whispered, averting her eyes.

Lucinda stepped back before turning and going to the desk again. She picked up the notebook, holding it by her side. “I expect the floors to be swept when I come back,” she informed her, “Or you will not be getting dinner.”

“Yes, Mother. I apologize.”

She made a dignified ‘hmph’ sound, before marching out of the room and down the hall. Heat grew behind Gwendolyn’s eyes, her throat tight as she heard the door slam. She had spent years filling out the notebook on all kinds of arachnids, the pages were old, the corners turned up, and each one had been her little escape, a little rebellion.

Now they were gone, because she had been foolish and careless, impatient enough that she didn’t wait for the night when she could sneak and know that her work was safer than in broad daylight. Tears spilled out onto her cheeks, anger making her shake as she clenched her fists and walked out to go get the broom.

Gwen wouldn’t ever see that grey notebook again and she knew it, her burning cheek a very strong reminder. She had been a fool to think she could get away with it.

She swept carefully and quickly in silence, just finishing when Lucinda walked in again, nodding at the teenager in approval. “Dinner will be served in forty-five minutes. Go work on your project. Your real one.”

Gwen flinched and did as she was told.

Chapter Text

Owen had tried to ignore the marks on her neck when he turned around and saw her sitting up, and then continued to try and ignore them when she got up and smacked him hard enough that his head cracked to the side. He hadn’t really meant to suck or bite on her neck hard enough to bruise, but there the marks were, purple and defined against her pale skin, a blaring reminder of what he had done to her.

Gwen had tasted sweet, her skin salty with sweat, and deliciously hot. She was tempting, and as soon as he got his fingers into her dripping core, his eyes had closed with a groan caught in his throat out of appreciation for how tight she was, and he’d wanted to be buried inside her. When she stopped him, her eyes unsure and scared, he looked back with pure understanding, and if she had asked him to stop, he would’ve.

When she collapsed in his arms, exhausted and almost ready to drop into unconsciousness, he had been a little disappointed. After all, he was hoping to get a release for that painful ache that was being compressed by his jeans, as well as the stinging need to empty the boys.

The Captain was bloody tired of his own hands.

It was easy after that, though, when he saw her lying there, sleeping like a baby swaddled up in a warm blanket. He knew she wouldn’t wake up, and the sleepless nights he’d gone through over the last month where he planned meticulously were finally going to pay off. All he’d need after giving the call to the news station was Leopold’s or Lucinda’s number, preferably both.

His climax had been short lived, before he was out in the freezing night on the corner as soft snowflakes started to fall while he was standing over a payphone. If he made it public and focused the world’s attention on the Bartholme’s and not him, he’d get his money out of the pressure the media would put on them, and then would likely continue to suck money out of them, while he had the chance.

Sleeping around her though, her small body wrapped in his arms and pressed close to him, made a twinge of guilt latch its claws into his gut. She was so warm and so damn innocent, with those big baby blues that reminded him of home staring up at him, looking for guidance. He knew, deep down, that he shouldn’t be the one to show her such things, but he had shoved it out of his mind.

His nose hurt now, very badly, especially with the biting wind and snow landing on the tender cartilage. It had been an eventful morning, one that he wasn’t expecting at all. He knew Gwennie would be upset, after all, he did use her for money, and then play it off like he was going to use her for sex too, but had somehow found in his heart just enough good not to. When he demanded the numbers, and she hit him again, sending flaming rage down his spine, he couldn’t believe her nerve.

He couldn’t believe it when her heel slammed hard into his nose, either, and was dazed before she had even dared spoke a word of his mum. His eyes narrowed as he kept them on the road, vowing in his mind that she would pay for such a comment.

Even still, with her face full of rage, her body in a wide stance that displayed a power he rarely saw so confidently displayed, her eyes were innocent and unsure of her steps, even if she was unaware of it. She still surprised him, which had thrown him off even further, when she didn’t back down after he thought he’d clearly won.

The small woman, half his size, had cornered him in his thoughts, and he did not like being cornered.

He had thought, for just a split second, that he was going to break his promise to her. Owen had certainly been tempted to, and when he grabbed her ankle, or her arm, he wasn’t quite sure what the end goal was, and his anger nearly got the best of him. Best he should wait, he decided, for another day to break such oaths.

Gwennie had put a good two inches between them on his Harley, to the point that he couldn’t feel the heat coming off of her anymore. Her hands were balled up and shoved into the pockets of his jacket, and he was concerned she was going to fall off, until he remembered that if she even started twitching in a suggestion of sliding off the side, his arm was there, and he would catch her whether she slid under it or not.

Funny, he mused, that she believed she couldn’t trust me .

Owen shook his head to clear his thoughts, unsure of what he truly felt inside, even though anger, guilt, and stress were tearing the shit out of his chest and stomach. The backpack was a heavy weight on his shoulders, and for the first time he realized Gwennie didn’t have her sling on, and the hand she used to hit him had been the one with the aching shoulder. He was sure it was hurting now, or maybe she was still numb, or high on adrenaline.

His fists clenched harder around the handles, his mouth dry with the urge to smoke, or have a drink. A bell rang in his head at the idea of a nice cold beer, and he knew where their next stop was going to be.

Captain Boomerang was reluctant to show his ID as he put down the case of six beers on the counter, keeping his head down as he glanced out the window at his bike, where Gwen was sitting with her arms folded.

The woman behind the counter hardly looked twice, not recognizing him or his name as he asked for a pack of Marlboro blue. Unlike the last person he bought cigarettes from, she wasn’t a bloody idiot. She slid the pack across to him after he paid her and he walked out the door again.

“Don’t let these drop,” the Australian told Gwennie, putting the case of beers down onto her lap before reaching to put his cigarettes inside of his coat. He could see the apprehension and disgust on her face and wondered how old the girl even was. Could she even legally drink alcohol? She had to be older than eighteen, he knew that. He felt himself growing frustrated with the thought and pushed it away.

He sighed out his nose, putting himself behind her as he leaned over and started up his baby. The headlight flipped on, shining in the dusk—reminding him that the sun was rapidly falling in the sky—and he began to back out.

Fatigue weighed on him; it wasn’t like he wasn’t tired of constantly being on the move, especially as winter set in. Owen had been waiting all day to have a damn drink—he got cranky going too long without a smoke, or a nice and cold sip of beer. Too long usually was usually anytime over 24 hours—hopefully he would find some sleep when he laid down tonight.

Gwen went and got the room, like she always did, and the twenty-eight-year-old waited outside, holding his beers with a freshly lit smoke hanging out of his mouth. She gave him the key in silence when she walked out, a small plastic card with the number “16” printed on it, and he led the way, eager to open the door.

A bottle of beer was out of the case and opened before the door even closed. He took several long gulps, downing half of it as he walked into the room and spied just one bed. He wasn’t taking the floor this time. Satisfied with the warmth of his drink, he sat himself down on the bed, the case beside him.

Gwen stood awkwardly, and he took off the backpack and tossed it at her. She flinched, stepping back before catching it, and glared at him. He watched her as she sat herself down on the couch before his eyes swept the room until he found the remote on the nightstand and turned on the TV. After turning down the volume and seeing that it was some action movie he didn’t care about, he set to his beers, chugging down the rest of the bottle.

One beer turned to two, and two to four, and soon the whole case was done, and Owen felt the pleasant buzz he missed so much. He took a deep breath, laying back on the bed, dropping the last emptied beer bottle over onto the floor, listening to it clink against the other ones. He reached into his coat, fumbling to find the cigarettes he’d gotten, as well as his lighter, before putting one between his lips and inhaling deeply after lighting it.

His mind swirled with thoughts as he stared at the ceiling. The day before had been a roller coaster for the both of them, he knew, and he didn’t much blame her for her reaction, although that made him no less angry. He hadn’t meant to start what he had on the bike, but her hair had smelled so damn good he just couldn’t resist the temptation. His body took over, his mind practically shutting off, and he found himself rubbing against her curls with his cheek, extremely aware of her rocking back and forth for her own pleasure against his baby.

Her ass had felt so damn good, snugly pressed between his thighs, pushing back against his cock. Her pussy had been tight, and he had almost sobbed with want, his thumb flicking her clit back and forth. Too bad he hadn’t been able to bury himself inside her.

Gwen still teased his mind. Her scent floated in and out of his nose, whatever shampoo she used had made her hair smell like roses, and her taste touched his tongue, salty like her skin. Her skin had been soft against his hands, and her hands had clung to him, and he remembered just how small they were in comparison to his.

Her mewls were burned into his memory, and each time he thought about one of those sounds bleeding past her lips, his anger grew. He thought of what she had said, telling him his mother would be disappointed, and that the lines of the innocents looked lonely. His fists clenched on his thighs, his jaw screwed tight before he brought up his thumb, running it along his lower lip as he pushed himself up.

Rage from this morning filled him again, the memory of her slaps on his cheek, his nose still stinging, sending a dull ache through the rest of his face as he breathed, and her burning remarks. He couldn’t believe how naive she was, about the world, or about him. Her words, filled with aggression, strength, and underlying with fear and panic, had been sporadic, out of nowhere, and that was one thing he hated. She had become unpredictable in those moments.

She’s unpredictable now.

Boomerang blew air out his nose hard, the ripping pain coming from the cartilage only fueling his anger. Gwennie looked up, eyes locked on him from where she was sitting curled up on the couch, different colors from the TV washing over her face. He ambled over, taking off his coat before dropping it on the floor, puffing on his cigarette again.

“Hello, Gwennie,” he said conversationally, carefully masking the anger in his tone.

She swallowed. “Hi, Boomerang…”

“Tell me,” he invited, leaning down over her, one hand reaching out to splay against the back of the couch, supporting his weight. “Did yah like what I did tah yah last night?”

“I—”

“An’ don’t lie tah me eithah, Sweetheart.”

Her face turned red at the nickname, and he didn’t know if it was out of embarrassment, or anger, but he grinned in triumph. She didn’t look away as she replied with, “You aren’t doing that again.”

“I’m not? Tsk tsk. Yah didn’t answer me question.”

The brunette stared at him for a long time and he waited, tapping his boot on the ground as he blew out small wisps of smoke. Her cheeks grew redder, and for a moment, he thought she was about to cry. “I’m not playing this mind game with you.”

His eye twitched, and his patience began to run thin. “Answer the question.”

“Why,” she asked, “So you’ll feel better about yourself?”

A red streak flashed across his vision, anger charging through him like an electric shock. His fist clenched and he lifted it, swinging it hard until it buried itself in the wall. A faint pain shot up from his fingers into his arm and shoulder. He tore his hand out from the hole, shaking off the white dust. Gwennie had shot up, darting around the couch until she stood five feet away from him by the television.

He turned slowly, shaking out his hand with his eyes narrowed. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and smashed it with the toe of his boot. “Gwennie, Gwennie,” he chided, mocking and sharp with venom. “Look at what yah made me do.”

Taking a step towards her, he lifted up his chin. “Think yuh’re hot shit, don’t yah?” He hissed. “Think because yah can stand up tah me once, yah’ve got the world in yuh hands.” Owen threw back his head, laughing in such a cold matter it sent a shiver down his own spine as she flattened herself against the wall.

“Well, lemme tell yah, love. That ain’t how this works. See, I’m in charge here,” the Captain snapped at her. “Yah think yuh’re sah special, d’yah? I could find a whore down the street ten times bettah than yah. Aftah all, who wants tah deal with teachin’ a virgin? Wait, it ain’t any virgin, though. Nah, this is a princess, treated all nice an’ fancy sah she thinks she’s got a leg up on everyone

“Y’know what,” he asked, stepping towards her, ready to leer down in her face. He nearly stumbled, and was reminded of his impairment. “Yah ain’t even desirable, yuh’re just handy. An’ yah know, if yah ain’t gonna give it tah me, I’ll go somewhere else, where the women don’t look like girls, or princesses.”

Owen watched her flinch at each word he snapped at her, and he became aware that his voice had risen and risen until he was yelling at her. Conflict and pain flashed across her face, uneasiness, fear, and confusion drifting in her eyes. Even as he had spat the words, telling her she wasn’t desirable, his eyes had flicked to her body for just a moment, and he remembered it bared before him, and how he wanted to lick and kiss that skin.

He shook his head to himself, regaining his train of thought. His shoulders heaved with his heavy breathing, and he stood tall and strong. “Stay here,” he snapped. “If I come back latah an’ yah ain’t here, then there’ll be Hell tah pay, fah yah, an’ fah othahs.”

The Australian stooped to pick up his coat, making sure he had the keycard for the room they were both in, before marching towards the door, making a point to slam it behind him.

The bed was cold, like it had small and freezing hands that reached down to touch him, shooting pillars of ice up into his muscles. His skin was raised with goosebumps, the hair on his arms standing up. Of course, when he had gotten the room next to hers, the heater didn’t work, and he was now curled in a ball, trying to retain as much warmth as he could, his clothes still on.

He had promised himself earlier that day that she would pay for the comment she spoke about Melody, and he thought that what he said might suffice, but in his exhausted and inebriated mind, he wasn’t quite so sure. The familiar feeling of guilt curled inside him, twisting with raw anger; twisting with fear.

Owen found himself pushing back the blanket, getting out of the bed before kneeling down beside the mattress. He pulled down the sleeve of his jacket, revealing the crude lines. He gently touched each of them and closed his eyes, redirecting his mind to the mantra.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, directed at God and the guiltless. “Fah I have taken seven souls that were not mine tah take. Fah I was selfish in my control and took more than necessary. Fah I have yah hauntin’ my mind an’ yah will forevah as a punishment.

“Forgive me,” he repeated. “Fah I know the wrongs I’ve done tah yah an’ tah others. Fah I know that I’m still committin’ sins an’ do so with the knowledge that yuh’re watchin’. Fah I know that I have taken a job that was nevah mine tah take, just the same. Fah holdin’ yah in my own sacred sacrament an’ usin’ yah as a tool.

“Forgive me, fah I know I am not innocent.”

His fingers lightly danced over each line as he mouthed, ‘one, two, three, four, five, six, seven’. He remembered each of them, Three females, four males, all in situations where he never meant to hurt anyone; where he had felt backed into a corner with no escape.

He guessed that he always felt that way now.

Boomerang lowered his head, pressing his forehead to the compass on his wrist as he closed his eyes, repeating the mantra in soft whispers, over and over until he lost count of how many times he had done it. He didn’t cry, though there was a lump in his throat, and not including his shivering, he didn’t move from that spot, bowed down to a will greater than him, that he was too afraid of listening to.

Owen Mercer stayed there all night, hunched over and whispering to no one.

He had been a fool, thinking that just because he knew what he was doing like how he knew the back of his hand, that he didn’t have to be alert, or cautious. To him, it was like fueling up his bike, or his truck; it wasn’t difficult, he knew how, and it didn’t seem like it was something he had to be overly concerned with.

The Aussie now realized that comparing throwing a boomerang to putting gas in a tank was absolutely stupid. That, or one was simply much more painful than the other, and he knew that now, on his knees, hunched over his hand as he shook from agony and shock, screaming out in pain.

His vision was blurry, but he could see the gleam of the blade in the light, as well as the blood that was bubbling up out of the side of his hand. He hadn’t paid attention, believing he could catch a metal weapon when it came back without looking, and now he was paying the price. He could feel the tip, somewhere in the center of his palm, and he rocked back and forth, cradling his injured hand to his chest.

“Boy-o!”

Fuck me, he thought.

“The fuck’re yah on about?”

Owen heard his father’s footsteps, crunching on the gravel in the drive of the garage, before he stopped beside him. A hand locked around his wrist, firm and strong, pulling his hand away from his chest. He watched George inspect it passively, and then click his tongue.

“Everyone learns,” he claimed. “I got me one in me thigh. Nevah looked away again. Reckon that’s a bitah. C’mon.”

He recalled the last time his dad had played doctor to him, when he was in a motorcycle accident the year before, and cringed. Not having much of a choice with the state his hand was in however, he stood up and followed him inside, jaw clenched as his fingers throbbed hard, sending shockwaves down his arm.

“No hospitals,” George said the moment the door closed as he strode across the open space towards the bathroom, where the first aid kit was kept. Owen tried to take deep breaths, not looking at the boomerang in his hand. He knew that blood was dripping on the floor; he could hear it hit the cement, and he was about to puke, the pain and coppery smell in his nose making his head woozy.

Owen stumbled over to the couch, sitting on it with his arm stuck out, letting the liquid coming from the hole in his hand fall onto the floor instead of onto the cushions. George sat across from him on the coffee table, ignoring the creak it gave from taking his weight.

He wasn’t gentle—not that Owen was really expecting him to be, he was in too much pain and shock to tell him off, or at least to relax—and the boomerang was torn out of his hand, making Owen lift his foot and slam it into the ground several times as he threw his head back with another scream.

Some kind of fabric pressed to the side of his hand immediately, where red, thick liquid began to spill out in droves. George pressed hard, making the pain even worse. Owen could feel the two sides of the open wound pressed against each other, raw and sharp with electric pain, making his eyes water as his foot stomped down again. He gasped, finding himself barely able to breathe as he looked down at the cement floor.

The older Australian was mumbling something, likely mocking him about being an idiot, as he rooted around in the kit with his free hand. Owen saw the bottle and his instinct started to kick in, trying to stand up and scramble away. George gave a firm press down on his hand, making him arch his back and stop all attempts to flee at once.

His lower lip wobbled and he shook his head, “Please don’t, George… Please…”

“Tough it out.”

The rag moved and Owen flinched before the sting of the alcohol even touched his wound.

“Yah bloody fuckah!” The younger shouted at him, wanting to kick the table George sat on so it would fall, and his father would end up on his ass on the floor. He barely stopped himself, vision splattered with black, white, and red dots and lines. His head rolled back, a sob wracking through his body as George alternated between pressing hard against the bleeding incision and pouring alcohol inside of it.

Owen didn’t know if pouring cheap whiskey, or alcohol of any kind, into such an extensive wound was a good idea, but he couldn’t stop him when the man was set on a warpath.

“Looks like yah broke some bones,” George said, his fingers touching the top of his son’s hand. “Down in the palm. These two, fah sure—” the fingers pressed down on his pinky and ring finger “—the middle, I ain’t sure. But those ones ah shattahed.”

He didn’t dare lift his head, his eyes threatening to close and let him pass out, but he felt a hand pat his cheek. “No sleepin’. I gotta finish this.”

“How long?”

“‘Til it stops bleedin’ enough fah me tah stitch it,” he snapped at him. Owen felt like his hand was numbing, and so was his arm, up into his shoulder. He could feel it slowly rumbling through him, across his chest like a slow, calm wave moving towards the beach.

He was staring at the windows, the industrial factory ones that lined the top half of the garage wall on the right side. Most of the panes were different colors, and in the mornings the sun’s rays splashed against them with light, throwing colors across the far wall, as well as Owen’s bed. Owen enjoyed waking up to being bathed in the different shades and tints.

The push and pull of his skin coming together with the help of a needle and thread in the hands of George was strange. The man was much better with stitching than Owen thought he’d be, but then he remembered that George taught him some basic first aid he hadn’t known when he first began to coach him on cleaning up his criminal act, as well as teaching him the art of the boomerang, and that his father likely had been the only one around to tend to his own wounds. He had to be good at it if he was going to patch himself up.

His hand was dropped, and Owen felt it hit his thigh, sending another spark of pain up through him. He barely winced as he laid his body back, continuing to look up at the windows. George stood, his hands stained red, and cleaned up the supplies, putting everything back into the kit before taking the box back to the bathroom. Owen didn’t know how often George cleaned his tools, and the thought would’ve made him shudder, if he didn’t feel like alcohol was sloshing inside of his hand like it was a bottle.

He lifted his arm slowly, feeling like he might give out at any moment from lack of energy. His hand was stained with blood, too, and bruising had set in, as well as swelling, making his hand a large mess of blue, black, and red. Carefully tilting his hand, the former gang member inspected the stitches. While they were crude, he knew that they would do the job.

His arm fell, and he was asleep before he felt the pain of his palm making contact with his leg again.

Owen realized quite quickly when they started healing that he would not be able to bend his pinky, and could barely get his ring finger to twitch in the echo of a curve. Whether that was simply from the swelling and the fact that his bones were broken, or because they’d never be able to move again like they did, he wasn’t sure.

After thinking about it, though, he doubted he’d be able to use his two fingers properly again. The bones would fuse together, and there was nothing he could do about it. George would kill him, or smash his hand and make it worse if he tried to go to the hospital, and quite frankly, Owen didn’t really want to go, either. (For the same exact reason George steered away from going any place he might be recognized.)

He kept his hand against his chest, sometimes possessively cradling it with the non-injured one, like he had a sling on. The man kept it far away from anything he could bump it against, and the only time he let it rest was at night. He had taken to lying on his back because of it, fearful he’d roll and crush the damn thing in the night.

He also kept it far from George, eyeing him when he had a beer, or when he inspected Owen first. While George had helped, because Owen knew that without him, he would’ve passed out on the gravel outside, and it wasn’t like he was going to be able to drive, or think rationally enough right off to call for help, he still didn’t want his father coming near him. Plus, he wasn’t going to admit that George had helped, and that he would rather have had him there than not.

The not-so-gentle methods of ‘Doctor George’ served to cause more pain, Owen thought that maybe it was his Old Man’s way of punishing him for being stupid. Or maybe it was him just being an angry asshole like always. Owen could see it being both.

He had wrapped his hand in an ace bandage carefully, which made the idea of moving any of his fingers less tempting, because whenever he did, he wanted to cry out in pain, often having to bite his lip to mask any whimpers. He was eager to get back to doing things, because he felt useless and restless without a hand, but he didn’t want to risk injuring it; sitting around and not being able to work out, or work on his new bike, or do anything other than walking and running, made him angry and snappy at everything.

Owen believed more fights came out of that period than they had before, even after his motorcycle accident.

The boomerangs he’d made himself were carefully tucked away in Owen’s work desk. He didn’t trust himself enough to touch, or even look, at them again, let alone wield them, so they stayed there, likely gathering some dust.

Soon, he’d return for them, but he had no idea how he was going to get around the possible stiff finger issues. He knew he was going to have a fear of the metal slipping into his muscles again, like a steak knife through butter.

He shook his head, trying to make himself a bowl of cereal for breakfast, the sun just starting to rise. He’d figure it out he was sure, but for now, it was time to rest. He lifted the gallon of milk, only to have it slip, and send bits of Apple Jacks and splashes of the dairy everywhere and Owen glared at the wall.

It was going to be a long recovery.

The idea of a glove for protection had come to him in the middle of the night, as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, while trying to ignore the throbbing in his fingers. He remembered how his leather jacket had saved his arms from the road burn of the accident he’d had that left scars on his leg and side, and he began tumbling through his thoughts.

When he rooted around and found an old pair of tan leather work gloves, they worked perfectly. He knew it would be a project that he would have to work on over time, as acquiring or making chainmail would be no easy feat. He also decided that he would add padding to it, across his knuckles, over the thumb and the sides of his hand, just in case.

As his hand healed, he gathered his supplies, knowing he wouldn’t be able to start on making the armor until his left hand was healed. Galvanized steel was his wire of choice, and after finding two, three and a half pound spools of it, he figured he was set, as long as he got a metal rod to wrap it around, and he knew he had the right pliers somewhere in one of the desks, or on the tool wall.

He kept the supplies in his desk, waiting for when his hand was well enough to be able to snap wire, twist it, and link it together. He wanted the rings to be small and close together to create a tighter net, and he would line the top of his hand, as well as the palm and all the fingers, which meant he’d probably have to cut a lot of the leather from the glove and repurpose it, along with the second one. He didn’t mind so much.

The stitches were still there, at the order of George. Owen thought they were annoying, and they itched, and he wanted to tear them out when he saw the pink skin underneath. It had been a month and a half since the whole boomerang incident, and he knew that the inside of his hand wasn’t healed, and the outside probably wasn’t either.

He still tried to bend his fingers sometimes, just to see if they would ever give from being so stiff, especially his pinky, but he was losing hope that they would really still be usable. He knew that the bones of his pinky were most likely obliterated when the metal sliced through them.

It was going to scar badly, probably wicked and jagged along the side of his hand from the entrance and exit of the boomerang, as well as George’s stitching. He sighed, holding it up in the light like he had several times before, bending his wrist this way and that, as if it would give him answers on whether he’d be able to close his fist properly again, but they didn’t, and he rewrapped his hand with an ace bandage.

It was a bad idea. His hand wasn’t completely healed yet, it still ached and throbbed, black and blue with bruising, and if he moved something just right, or bumped into something, it would send those fiery electric shocks through his body that would stop him in his tracks.

But he had gotten impatient, and now he had his completed glove in front of him, fashioned out of his leather and steel armor. He was really quite proud of his handiwork as he held up his left hand (it had taken him fifteen minutes to get it on, shouts of pain accompanied with his tears and stomps,) looking over the glove.

He splayed his hand carefully across the counter, flattening them as best as he could. He held up one of his boomerangs, swallowing thickly. It was the second time he’d touched them, the first was to test it on the glove without his hand inside it, and now it was time to see if it would actually work.

First, he poked and prodded over the top of the leather and chains with the tip, almost absentmindedly. He couldn’t feel it in his left hand, even when he began to do it slightly harder. Owen grinned, cocky and excited, and he looked at the snake tattoo on his hand as he lifted it and brought it down, holding it around the cord wrapped middle, the point coming down towards the center of his hand.

Owen definitely felt it. It vibrated through his hand, rattling the bones and he threw back his head, a sharp cry ripping past his lips. He dropped the boomerang, grabbing a hold of his wrist to cradle it to his chest. He grunted loudly, still feeling the shockwaves of pain, and he found himself starting to pace, trying to walk it off as tears bit at the backs of his eyes.

Then, he suddenly smiled with glee, looking down at the glove, and he laughed a little, choked and sounding similar to a sob. He had succeeded; the weapon hadn’t gone through.

Chapter Text

Captain Boomerang could see his breath curling into the cold air as he stepped out of his room, stopping and stretching his back until he heard it pop before reaching into his coat to pull out a cigarette. He smoked it there on the second-floor terrace, forearms leaning on the metal rail, not looking behind him at the black door marked with a golden “16” on the front.

He hadn’t checked if she remained in there, but he had been awake all night, and not once did he hear the room door open and close. The criminal felt that she knew better than that, and inhaled the smoke in his lungs, letting the tobacco soothe him as he closed his eyes, blowing it out his nose, despite the sharp protest from the tender cartilage.

When he was done, he threw the cigarette onto the ground and crushed it with his boot and went to the door. It unlocked easily with the swipe of the card he had grabbed on his way out and swung open. Owen strode into the quiet room and kicked it closed behind him.

Gwennie hadn’t left, just like he thought, and she was awake. He assumed she had been lying on her back before he came in, but she was sitting up now, eyes wide and alert, staring at him as though he was going to suddenly lunge. He looked to the green backpack that was still on the couch and nodded to it, before jerking his head for her to follow and walked out.

He turned in the cards himself, keeping his head down while Gwen waited outside. He allowed her to take his jacket again. The blue garment was too large for her, the collar reaching her cheekbones and the hem only three inches above her knees. She had rolled the sleeves up four or five times, making it so her hands were visible, and he had to admit watching her struggle with that for several minutes through the window had been funny; but Owen didn’t smile, or do anything that might change his stoic and tired expression.

She got on in front of him, like she had become accustomed to doing, and he let her, the mental map of the area laying itself out in his mind as he turned on the bike and left the motel behind them.

Gwen looked surprised, and a little shocked, when he pulled up to the diner. The sun was just barely starting to rise, giving the world a fog-like haze as light shined through the dew hanging in the air. He parked his baby and kicked down the stand, not bothering to help her off as he walked towards the door.

This one looked different than the others he had taken her to. It seemed old and musty, almost like a bar that had been refashioned into a restaurant, the lights weren’t overly bright, and there was a jukebox in the corner, quietly playing music. Boomerang led his hostage to a booth in the back, away from the windows and prying eyes.

The waitress’s name was Jenny, and she was quick to join them, asking what they wanted to drink. Owen ordered a cheap bottle of beer without hesitation, his American accent going strong, and watched as the woman across from him quietly asked for water. She put down the menus and left them to their own devices, claiming in a chipper voice that she would be back in a minute to take their orders.

“Get what yah like,” he mumbled, not looking up at Gwen. He knew she was now staring at him, probably incredulously or curiously, but after yesterday, he had no desire to look at her, or talk to her. His nose still throbbed hard and painfully, and he hoped that a beer or two would take some of the edge away.

Eggs, hash browns, pork, and toast were combined for the breakfast special, and after Jenny told them both that when she returned, he set down his menu and told her that he wanted the special. Gwen did a last glance before ordering french toast sprinkled with powdered sugar. He wondered if she had ever had something he considered normal, like french toast, growing up. He remembered her fascination with pancakes, and how she told him that she hadn’t often had them.

It led him, not for the first time, to the conclusion that Gwennie had been sheltered her entire life. Right then he began to analyze the events of the past two days, how it went from him touching her in her most intimate places, to her kicking his nose so hard he could feel the bone crunch.

He was still somewhat shocked by her violent outburst. The fugitive rubbed his beard, thinking as he looked around the bar, refusing to focus on her. He was expecting something from her, maybe something he could use against her, something to tease her with, like maybe a sob fest, or a whiny outburst, but he wasn’t prepared to walk out with a burning cheek and a broken nose after being shouted at. Even if her strikes were wild and uncalculated, she was learning how to use her tongue as a weapon.

He brought his thumb up, running it along his lower lip. That wasn’t the only thing weighing on his mind now. How was he going to get the numbers out of Gwen? That would be the only way to get the money after they agreed to the terms, if they even would. At this point, after studying Gwen and drawing connections to the fake as fuck mother he’d seen, he wouldn’t be that surprised if they denied it.

Boomerang decided he would cross that bridge when they got there, and set his mind instead, on the destination he wanted to get to by the end of the night. It would be several hours on the road to get there, if the weather didn’t unleash its fury. For now, he only had his bike, but he guessed that it was now safe enough to switch to a larger vehicle, as it got colder and wetter.

The weather would slow down any physical police investigations, which worked fine for him. Any chance he could get even further ahead would work great. He hoped that the snow from yesterday slowed down any authorities that were alerted when he made his ransom public. He would just have to be patient and trust his plans.

She looked back down at the table where she had placed her hands. He let his gaze fall to her then, when he was sure she wouldn’t return it, and began to wonder what she was thinking, or how she was feeling after the events of the last month—another week and it would be a month and a half. In all honesty, he was slightly concerned she was going to keep up her newfound rebellious streak.

Maybe that ain't the worst thing, he thought. As long as I can keep an eye on her.

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. Owen didn’t know if his patience would be able to last that long.

Jenny brought out their plates and the Captain looked down, starting on his meal before the waitress even set down Gwen’s french toast. They both ate in silence, savoring the food.

For a moment, the smell of her breakfast, and the taste of hash browns in his mouth, reminded him of home.

He couldn’t stop thinking about his mother.

Every time he tried to focus on the road, or check his mirrors, or just simply not think, it didn’t work, he could see his mother in his mind. He could feel her hands on his cheeks, squeezing them like she did when he was a child, singing “Wild Colonial Boy” to him. He never quite understood why she chose that to sing to him, and he still didn’t.

Owen knew the words by heart, though, and he remembered sitting in his cell, singing quietly, holding onto his wrist where the compass was inked into his skin forever.

“There was a wild colonial boy, Jack Duggan was his name

He was born and raised in Ireland, in a place called Castlemaine

He was his father's only son, his mother's pride and joy

And dearly did his parents love the wild colonial boy.”

The beginning of the song crept into his head, always sung by his mother’s voice. He could remember being with her, in the back yard with the sun shining down. She was dancing when she sang it to him, a grin on her face as her son sang along with her.

“At the early age of sixteen years, he left his native home

And to Australia's sunny shore, he was inclined to roam

He robbed the rich, he helped the poor, he shot James McAvoy

A terror to Australia was, the wild colonial boy.”

Melody always sang it to him when he was upset. If he had woken up from a nightmare, or simply had a bad day, it cheered him up. The words made him feel like he was home, cozied up with a blanket around him watching cartoons while his mum made breakfast.

Owen didn’t remember her ever cooking him a bad meal, and his mouth watered at the thought of tasting her homemade pancakes again.

“One morning on the prairie, as Jack he rode along

A-listening to the mockingbird, a-singing a cheerful song

Up stepped a band of troopers: Kelly, Davis, and Fitzroy

They all set out to capture him, the wild colonial boy.”

Sometimes he wondered if the song was changed for him, after all he had been through. It seemed that he related to it much more now than he had before, though he had left Australia for America, instead of Ireland for Australia. He wasn’t exactly helping the poor, but he wasn’t opposed to robbing the rich, and guns weren’t exactly his style, either.

“‘Surrender now, Jack Duggan, for you see we're three to one

Surrender in the King's high name, you are a plundering son’

Jack drew two pistols from his belt, he proudly waved them high

‘I'll fight, but not surrender,’ said the wild colonial boy.”

He could barely see the asphalt ahead of him, his mind off distantly, and he began to hum quietly. If Gwen heard him, she didn’t give any indication of it. Owen almost closed his eyes, wanting to remember more.

“He fired a shot at Kelly, which brought him to the ground

And turning round to Davis, he received a fatal wound

A bullet pierced his proud young heart, from the pistol of Fitzroy

And that was how they captured him, the wild colonial boy.”

Occasionally, he wondered why Melody would ever tell him such a violent tale. In truth, he still didn’t know. The title was inked into his chest though, ‘WCB’ inside an outline of the continent of Australia, reminding him of just how much he missed home. His vision danced with memories of the past and he felt himself swallow as he tried to focus on driving.

His mum was still on his mind, and Gwen’s words began ringing in his ears. What would his mother think of him now, after all he’d done? He could see her, eyes filled with sadness and shame, her usual cheery expression completely vanished. Owen slouched, feeling his chest bump into Gwen’s back. He’d hang his head in shame if she were before him now, and he didn’t doubt that.

He had ignored what his mother taught him, and somewhere inside him, it ate at him, nagging and harassing him in the back of his skull. It hurt him to think about what she would make of him now, which always led to him wondering what would have happened if she had survived and the thought consistently brought a sharp pain to his heart. His hands tightened their grip on the handlebars, his lips parted so he could breathe easier.

After meeting his father back when he was just a teen, he realized now that he was more like him than he ever was like her. A stone dropped in his stomach, and he felt the urge to pull over and throw up until he couldn’t anymore. Mercer shook his head at himself instead, closing his eyes for several seconds before glancing from the road to the sky.

The dark, gathering clouds above distracted him. He wasn’t sure how much time he had, but he could feel the storm coming, and knew that it would be upon them soon. Sighing deeply, he sped up, determined to get to his destination before he and his passenger got caught in a potential blizzard.

There was a dirty, old, red and tan pick up around the back, almost out of view, but Owen ignored it as he kicked the stand on his bike and pulled out the keys. He walked up to the door, unlocking it before stepping in, turning on the low hanging, lantern-like lights instead of the bright ones before opening up the garage door. He wheeled his bike into the open floor space, Gwen standing behind him, and parked it next to his own truck, black and much newer than the one out behind the building.

There were two beds, shoved into opposite corners, both looking like they were slept in yesterday (if you ignored the dust.) Owen closed both the front and the garage doors, making sure to engage the dead bolting on the front.

Owen had more miserable memories than pleasant ones in this garage. The window panes lining the top of the wall to his left were dark, reflecting the clouds outside, almost black with water. The storm was ready to hit, and he was glad that he’d gotten them both to safety before it did.

The smell was the same, hard and musky, with a faint edge, like a tinge of alcohol, though no one had been here in almost five years. He could still smell smoke, blood, oil, beer, and sweat: the five things he had always associated with this place.

The tools weren't gone off the tool wall, and he glanced around at the beds, couch, television, and desks. It didn’t seem like anything was gone, or disturbed at all.

He wasn't sure if he was surprised by that, even though he knew that no one came to the old garage anymore. Owen was sure rumors of it being haunted were passed around, only to keep children away from any possible dangers. He doubted anyone would dare touch what Owen had left, just in case he returned. If the town he had spent several years working for respected anyone, it would be him.

Gwen was inspecting the inside of the brick building, walking around his truck to explore the rest of the garage, his jacket hanging off her frame while Owen decided it was in his best interest to see if the heating still worked. As far as he knew, any bills still pulled out of one of his private accounts, one of the ones he kept hidden, so everything should have been in working order. After all, the power was still on.

He fiddled with the heater and listened as Gwen wandered into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Speakin' 'a bathrooms, he thought, I'm gonna have me another showah latah. The idea of a shower made him feel warm, spreading through his core until it reached the tips of his toes and fingers. Sometimes, he did enjoy a nice and relaxed scrub down, and with how freezing it was starting to get, he knew it was going to make him feel much better for the rough night that was ahead.

Boomerang's thoughts were interrupted by the chill that went up his spine. The heating kicked on and he felt goosebumps wash over his skin and the feeling of being watched overwhelmed him. He stood up, ramrod straight, but when he turned, no one else stood in the garage.

Owen swallowed, gaze sweeping over the space. He avoided looking at the corner, the space that wasn’t his, and tried to shake it off. He straightened his shoulders, feeling something in his upper back pop, before he decided to check on his old bed.

It was a bit dusty, he had to admit, but he could shake it out easily and did so, watching the dust disappear into the air. He smoothed out the sheet, exhaling loudly. The man was concerned about how long they might be forced to stay there if it did start snowing—Owen doubted that it would pass without putting a layer of white on everything—especially if it carried on through the night.

Looking around the old garage, he didn’t want to stay very long at all. Gwen walked out of the bathroom, quiet and looking rather shy. He walked up past her, ready to see if there was any hot water.

“It’d be a bad idea tah leave,” he told her, just before he shut the door. “Have yuh pick a’ where yah wanna sleep, ‘cept that bed,” he gave a nod in the direction of his own. She didn’t acknowledge what he said, because he’d already shut the door behind him.

There was a rope in his mouth, frayed and thick, cutting his lips and his cheeks as it was pulled harder to some point behind his head. A heel slammed into the bottom of his rib cage and he cried out into the rope, his tongue slicing on the gag.

“Shut it, Mercer!”

It was dark in his cell, but he could see their bodies, decked out in their usual Arkham prison guard gear. The rope pulled harder and he could feel it working deeper into the sides of his mouth. He realized as he counted three men, the one behind him and two in front of him, standing over him, that he shouldn’t have discarded his clothes. He swallowed when he heard zippers being pulled down.

“Think he’ll put up much of a fight?”

“That’s why I brought more rope.”

“I say we beat him until he can’t fight anymore.”

“Nah, we already put the roofies in the water twenty minutes ago, he can’t fight.”

Owen realized they were right. He was losing feeling in his hands, the strange sensation of being completely aware of what was happening, being able to feel the pain, but not being able to react was traveling up his arms, along with his feet and legs. He tried to thrash, feeling weak and unable, as his vision blurred.

It was of no use, and Owen sat there as they all laughed, able to tell that he was trying his best to fight back. His movements were getting slower and slower, and his eyes widened, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst. His mind was telling him to find a way out, to fight, to do something, even if it knew he couldn’t.

A hand grabbed his pec, pulling at it like Owen would do to a female’s breast, before letting go and smacking it. Owen tried to cry out again, but the ability to make any sound left him. The makeshift gag still didn’t let up, instead it shifted, scratching over the previous small cuts it had left.

More hands began touching him, feeling over the planes of his stomach and chest, even touching his shoulders as the leering face of O’Malley came into view, a sick and twisted grin on his face. “Oh, you’re gonna be a good one, Mercer,” he said. Owen shut his eyes and tried to writhe around again, able to give his body a jolt, and he succeeded in startling them.

A punch landed on his jaw, the rope glancing across his skin, up the side of his cheek as the right corner of his mouth got yanked on. It was set in place again as he watched the shapes through blurry double vision, his head throbbing as he tried to keep his focus and stay alert.

“You’re going to behave, Mercer,” the voice behind him said, and he thought that maybe it was Macky.

Hands continued fondling him. Two pairs, one beginning to trail fingers along his flaccid penis as the other touched his balls and his thighs, urging his body to react while Owen’s mind willed it not to. He brought his leg up slightly, hoping to knee the man whose breath was ghosting over his thighs, but his knee didn’t even lift an inch.

He was hopeless, and suddenly he was being flipped by two of the men, the other crouching between his legs, teeth digging into the cheeks of his ass, making him let out a quiet, startled shriek. A hand clapped over his ear, making them ring hard enough that he shut his eyes; it was a warning. One of them sat on his back, just over his shoulder blades, making it hard to breathe as his head was held up awkwardly by the rope. The prisoner felt like a horse with a bit in its mouth, his nose an inch from the cement floor.

There was some talk behind him, words he could no longer hear as he mentally began to brace himself, knowing what was going to happen next as spit filled hands continued over the most intimate parts of him, as well as the backs of his thighs. He closed his eyes, trying to shake his head.

The man on his back leaned down, biting his earlobe to pull on it. “You’re gonna be fun, just like he said,” he whispered, and Owen didn’t give him the satisfaction of responding.

His legs were being picked up and spread, his body deadweight and the hands on his lower half left him. He had the sneaky feeling that whoever had lowered themselves to their knees behind him was O’Malley. The inmate closed his eyes tighter, biting into the rope, despite the pain in his gums.

O’Malley’s erection pressed against Owen’s ass cheeks, and several slaps came down on his skin, hard enough Owen could feel the sting. Still, he refused to cry out. He took deep breaths in through his nose, as deep as he could, anyway, before he felt like he was being torn apart.

His head jerked, and the rope pulled, making his neck crane awkwardly. The rope was moved, falling down to his neck and pulling up under his jaw. His mouth was open, gasping for breath, and he realized too little too late that it was a mistake to open his mouth as a cock was pushed past his lips. Too in shock with his jaw slack from the sedatives, he had no choice but to take it,  trying to focus on moving his tongue little by little to avoid the taste, no matter if it wasn’t going to be of any use.

He still refused to make any sounds, trying not to let any be pulled from him as two men began to groan, filling the cell with obscene noises. His hair was pulled at, keeping his head up. O’Malley started moving, his hips shifting back and forth with no restraint, jostling Owen’s hips. His eyes burned, and he knew if he opened them it was possible that tears from the pain would fall onto his cheeks.

It felt like a fire was burning through him, starting at where he was being brutally penetrated and racing up through the center of his body, like he was being torn apart. His whole body wept in protest, unable to move and fight back as he was violated, his skin crawling as several slaps were delivered to his face and thighs. He would’ve been gagging if he wasn’t powerless and useless.

“Lemme try that ass, O’Malley.”

“Gimme a second,” he huffed back.

Harder and quicker thrusts propelled the guard into him, making the pain progressively worse, like he was being stretched and shredded up from the inside out, like his guts were falling apart. The man’s cock was rigid inside him, and Owen could feel every painful inch. The cock in his mouth pulled out and his head bowed, no longer being held by his curls.

He was slapped on the face several more times by the dick that was covered in slobber and he heard the guard behind him grunt, “Should I cum in him, boys?”

Several protests were heard and the man shoved out of Owen. He heard shuffling and his head was yanked up again. He heard the feverish sounds of a man jacking off before the thick liquid hit his face. Owen wanted to cringe and spit it out in O’Malley’s eyes, following up with a sucker punch that would drop him. Shame overtook him as the guard smeared the fluid over his cheeks, making sure to dip some into his mouth.

The man he was blowing before moved into O’Malley’s spot, and thank God he wasn’t as big, despite the fact that the burning, miserable agony still grew worse with every snap of his hips. Macky was still on top of him, pinning him to the ground. The man in front of him pulled his head down around his member several times before releasing him to switch places with the man on top of him.

The rope grew tighter as another dick was forced past his lips, and Owen wished he could bite down and make the pain go away. But still, he remained useless, and instead was forced to feel the pain that would leave him unable to walk properly for weeks, and hear the slurs that the men were calling him, mixed in with their grunting, demeaning him further.

Owen prayed it would be over soon. Nothing had ever felt so violating, so vicious, and he supposed these men justified themselves as being ‘the punishers of those who have done wrongs against humanity’. They weren’t any better than him: a murderer, a thief. These men were cowards, raping his body and his mind.

His eyes stayed closed, and no matter how hard he tried to find an outlet, somewhere to go in his mind so he didn’t have to deal with what was going on in front of him, he simply couldn’t. All he could smell was sweat and musk, and he didn’t know how long he could go without breaking.

Owen stared at the wall, clutching the blanket to his chest like it was a lifeline, listening to the harsh wind blowing outside, vibrating the walls. It was storming by now, it had to be. He was sure that if he opened the door all he’d see was swirling white, pushing freezing air into the garage. At least with a blanket around him, it wasn’t too bad.

His eyes were wide, and despite how tired he knew his body was, he wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep. Memories from that prison cell, from being held down and beaten, shamed and raped, were reaching through his thoughts. He remembered, sitting alone, backed into a corner, the rope burns on his neck and around his mouth and cheeks bleeding slightly, and how he had shaken and curled up into a ball.

Nights after that had been rough. He barely ate, barely drank anything, for fear they’d try it again. He hadn’t moved from his spot for at least a few days, how many, he wasn’t exactly sure, and it was hard to get over jumping at every little sound echoing within the prison. It was like that now, listening to the weather outside, his body shaking.

He didn’t know if he trembled from the cold inching in under the blanket, or from the memories. It had happened twice in that cement cell. He tucked his knees up to his chest, feeling like he was backed into a corner all over again.

The Aussie remembered how it felt, like he was a fox being chased down by a hound, and its breath was hot on the back of his neck. His eyes widened, his heart pounding hard, and he tried to differentiate from reality and thought as he was absorbed again, their groans and laughter echoing in his ears.

“Oh yeah? How? By finger fucking me again? Making me think, for just a moment, that maybe I could trust you?”

He lifted his hands from the blanket, covering his eyes. Everything connected inside of his mind and he shook his head, trying to curl up tighter as he wondered what he’d done.

Gwen was on George’s bed, across the room from him, likely curled up in much the same way he was. He wondered if she was sleeping, or if she was awake. If she was awake, was she thinking about him, or what he’d done, or what he’d said?

Guilt clogged up his throat, making it hard to breathe. He bent his head, curling up harder, wishing that the blankets could swallow him whole. Why he was feeling this way, he reckoned he understood, but he didn’t want to, and did his best to shove everything back down again.

The sound of fabric rustling echoed through the garage, and he tensed, well aware that Gwennie was most likely awake. A particularly hard gust of wind slammed against the wall next to him, startling him. He heard her move again on the other side of the room, and he became confused, wanting to both move closer to the wall, and farther away from it.

Instead, he pulled the blanket up over his head, praying that the storm would pass soon.

Chapter Text

Running is a mind game.

The bed was cold, even as Gwen huddled under the blanket that she’d completely cocooned herself in. The damn thing had smelled like smoke, and a little bit like alcohol, but she realized a bed and a blanket was much better than the floor. Her body was weary, shaking under the cover, and every now and then she chanced a glance over at Captain Boomerang, thinking that maybe he was awake despite the soft snores she could hear coming from the blanket-covered lump.

Completely alone to her thoughts, her eyes flitted around the garage as she contemplated the conclusion she’d come to in her head. It had been more than a month, at least, that’s what she assumed, and somehow they still hadn’t been caught. Which led her to thinking about everything they’d been through, every little encounter with authorities, and how calm the Australian always seemed to be, like he’d done it a hundred times before. Maybe he had, and she just didn’t know it.

She had told him just the night before, that she was through playing mind games with him, but the more she analyzed everything, that’s all it was. It wasn’t just a physical chase, it was about being one step ahead mentally, knowing what to do, how to react, and it seemed that it was the same way he toyed with her.

Hearing those words had hurt her, even though her mind was confused by the reaction. That is, until she remembered what she had given to him, and he threw it back at her in the exact same fashion her mother said all men did. It wasn’t the notion that he was going to another woman, she could care less about the fact that he had a bedmate last night, it was more that he struck her where her insecurities ran before she had ever even met the crass man.

“Yah ain’t even desirable, yuh’re just handy.”

“Aftah all, who wants tah deal with teachin’ a virgin?”

Gwendolyn remembered when Emmaline had said something similar, just when they had gotten out of high school. It was a short and quick conversation over the phone, Emmaline stating that she had a date that night, and when Gwen wasn’t as enthused as her, proceeded to tell her that she needed to ‘get her shit together, because no one wants to deal with a virgin.’ She knew the statement contradicted itself, because wasn’t everyone a virgin at some point? Still, it had driven deep, settling uncomfortably in her belly, and Gwen had hung up quickly, not interested in hearing anymore about Emmaline’s “adventures”.

Her inexperience with matters that should’ve been the least of her problems, made her feel sick and tied down, unable to move or speak. She knew that it was still part of the game he played, and how vast the board was, or how complicated the rules were, she didn’t know, and she was stumbling around trying to learn.

He had been practically silent through the entire day, only speaking when absolutely necessary. Some part of his soundlessness frightened her, and yet also relaxed her.

She was pulled out her thoughts, startled enough that her eyes widened and her breath came out of her nose suddenly and sharply. The bed had moved, like someone had sat beside her, and her eyes darted around immediately, seeing no movement from Boomerang, and no one else was in the building.

A whole different kind of chill washed over her, a nervous ball gathering in her stomach as the hair on her arms and legs rose, along with goosebumps, and she swallowed, almost wanting to speak out loud to give herself comfort. Cigarette smoke, a much more pungent and fresh smell than what was coming from the sheets, wafted into her nose, and she felt something brush her thigh, which reminded her faintly of the Captain’s touch, causing her to scramble to get out of bed, stumbling and tripping as a result of the cocoon she’d made for herself.

Her cheek smacked on the ground, sending a dull pain through her face, but she found that she didn’t much care, as long as she was away from the bed in the corner. No one was on the bed, and the urge to run away pressed in on her mind, making her back rigid as she scrambled up.

Movement caught her attention, and she realized Boomerang was shifting, and worried that she’d made too much noise. Her heart pounded in her ears, the scare obviously having an effect on her. She was sure she was pale, and probably looked like she was unable to breathe, her mouth open as she tried to force air into her lungs at a calmer and quieter rate.

Gwen continued to back away from the bed until her legs bumped into the black leather couch. She looked behind her, then back to the bed, and found herself climbing onto the sofa, gripping for the large coat that was hanging off the opposite end, as well as the blue jacket, where the Captain had carelessly tossed both after coming out of the bathroom. She pulled both over herself, still shivering, scared, and unsure, as she sat up, leaning on the arm, watching the bed that she had just sprung from, like someone was going to appear.

No one did, as far as she knew, but within twenty minutes after resolving to stay awake just in case of an emergency, she was slumped over and asleep, drooling on Boomerang’s leather coat.

Boomerang was awake, light from the bathroom pouring out into the garage. It was still dark outside, or just dark enough that the illumination caused the objects around the space to cast shadows. Gwen looked up at the windows, seeing black through them. She squinted as she sat up straighter, flexing and unflexing her toes as she looked at the man.

His back was to her, and she could see his boomerang tattoos, shifting with the muscles in his back as he lifted his hands. She realized then that he was shaving, one of his weapons in his hand as he carefully tilted his head this way and that. He seemed to be engrossed in working on his facial hair, refining it all back into mutton chops instead of a burly beard.

Next was his hair, which didn’t seem to hard for him as he pushed his longer hair out of the way and slowly went along the side of his scalp. He tapped the blade on the sink before turning slightly sideways to get the farther strip before changing sides.

The girl bundled up in a coat and jacket remembered when she had cut his hair for him with clippers instead of with a knife. The Captain had watched her closely, his eyebrows creased with what she now learned to be thought, not impatience.

Her hair had been cut twice by him, and when she compared the two, she almost wondered if it was the same man both times. Her curls had been yanked and sheared, her skin nicked and stinging, sitting in that warehouse just after he had kidnapped her. She could remember the fear easily, unsure if it had really gone away, or just changed to accommodate for every little thing she had since learned about her captor. The second time, his hands had been gentle, his movements quick and graceful. She remembered him bending his knees slightly, just to give himself a better angle to see, instead of guessing. He had been concentrated on something else, and when he told her she could do her own hair coloring, she had been in shock.

Another few harsh taps echoed out of the bathroom, pulling her away from her memories. Gwendolyn swallowed thickly, once again seeing the man in the bathroom as he grabbed a towel and proceeded to wipe off the boomerang like it was a large kitchen knife. He turned on the water, bending down to splash it across his face and the sides of his head, before patting himself dry. The Aussie sighed and stopped, and she could see his hands, large and strong, gripping the sides of the sink, and watched as he appeared to stare at himself in the mirror.

Slowly peeling off his coat and jacket, she stretched out her foot and flinched when it touched the cold floor. The other followed, toes flattening before the rest of her foot did the same, and she stood up, remaining quiet and steady. She took a deep breath and found herself walking towards him, her bare feet making soft “ptt” sounds on the cement.

Boomerang’s back straightened, another sigh being pulled from his mouth, and he turned around to look at her. Dark shadows painted his face, and the only way she knew his eyes were on her was from the faint gleam reflecting back at her. He stared at her expressionless, before he shuffled out past her and went towards the bed he'd slept on the night before.

Gwen had the stark thought that he was just as much of a ghost as whatever had frightened her last night, silent, intimidating, and chilling. She couldn't help but glance at the bed crammed into the corner that smelled like smoke. Tension came to her thighs and back, pulling them tight, and she stepped into the bathroom quickly, closing the door with more force than she meant.

She did the same thing he had after shaving, and ran water over her face. The brunette then pushed the hair off her forehead and out of her eyes with her wet hands, watching herself as droplets clung to her eyebrows and eyelashes, some rolling down her cheeks and over her lips. She sniffled, not because she was crying, but because she had become colder than she already was.

Gwen grabbed the towel he’d left, using the edge to dry her face and pat her hair. She looked in the mirror again, watching as she rubbed her face with the fabric, how tired and pale she looked. While the hostage had always looked pale before—she wasn’t very good at tanning—this seemed different, like she was almost transparent.

Traveling up and down her upper body, her eyes went to her right arm, which hadn’t been up in a sling for two days. There was still a bruise from Boomerang’s hand from when he had grabbed her and yanked her so hard her shoulder came out of its socket. She gently touched it, noticing that now it was turning brown, and that it was no longer defined. A week ago she could still make out individual finger marks.

It was sensitive, even where it wasn’t bruised, and sent an ache up her arm into her shoulder. Her eyebrows furrowed when she realized that it didn’t really hurt. Instead, it reminded her of the pleasant ache that the Aussie she was with had given her between her thighs with his hand.

Anger and confusion overwhelmed her and she dropped her hand, her cheeks turning red as she huffed to herself. Gwen looked away and turned around, closing the door as she walked out,  feeling unsure of what to think as she kept her head down.

Gwendolyn thanked anyone who was listening to her prayers when Boomerang grabbed the green backpack and tossed into the cab of the truck that sat in the open space of the garage. It was black, just like his bike, but not jacked up like she thought it would be. It seemed rather plain to her, and the inside still smelled new. The front and back seats were leather, a deep shade of grey, and there was a console between the driver and passenger, which she found more reassuring than the choice of being shoved up against him, or falling off onto hard pavement.

He had turned the truck on, fully dressed now, except for his blue Captain jacket which was still on the couch, and looked to be investigating the vehicle. She stayed quiet and kept to herself, grabbing the bomber jacket and putting it on. Not bothering to roll up the sleeves, she waited by the couch, unwilling to sit. She bent over, tightening the laces on her boots, and kept a close watch on him out of the corner of her eye.

After looking at something under the hood for several minutes, he closed it and looked at her, an eyebrow raised.

“Yah comin’?”

She nodded and went around to the other side, taking her backpack off the seat to put it down by her legs. The Captain opened the garage door and when he got into the cab, a lit cigarette was hanging out of his mouth. Looking away, she scrunched up her nose in disgust, and he reversed out while she buckled herself in, feeling much better with the belt in front of her than an arm. The strap pressed down on her, though, creating a pressure that aggravated the injury that she’d pushed to the back of her mind. Her shoulder throbbed and she tried not to wince, shifting in the seat to try and relieve pressure.

He got out again, closing the garage door from the inside, coming out the front door and locking it behind him, his bike safely inside. Gwen watched the large man the whole time, the way he walked, how he glared at everything, and how tired he looked.

She guessed he didn’t have that great of a night either.

Snow was everywhere, at least a foot and a half on the ground, and she shivered just looking at it. The sun was barely starting to come up, making the white shimmer. The truck rocked when the Australian closed the door after getting back in. He shook himself before moving, turning a knob, and air blew out onto her, cold and startling.

“Does the heating work?” She squeaked, wanting to hide her face.

“Give it a minute,” he grumbled around the smoke in his mouth. His voice was gravelly, like he’d just woken up and had yet to have any coffee. In reality, he still wasn’t fully awake, and definitely hadn’t had any coffee.

He turned the truck around, and she listened to the crunch of the tires on the snow, as he started off onto the road. The only reason she could tell where the road was, was because of the trees that lined either side. Boomerang was barely even looking at the road, his eyes trained on the side mirror, like he was looking at something. Whatever it was, she couldn’t see it, and she decided he must have traveled on this road a lot to be able to go along it, in snow, hardly looking at what was ahead.

Gwen pushed the thought out of her mind, deciding she didn’t want to think about Boomerang, or his past. Instead, she pulled her knees up to her chest as best she could and wrapped her arms around them as she looked out the window, watching as they left the cover of trees, passed through a tiny town, and were off again, returning to the hunt.

“Gwendolyn! Gwen, sweet child, where are you?”

“Hiding!”

“Well now,” the old woman called back. “That isn’t very nice!”

The girl laughed, absolutely delighted at being tucked up under the coffee table in the large living room. When her mother told her that she would be staying with her grandmother for the weekend, she couldn’t have been more pleased, and had to stop herself from outwardly showing her excitement.

How her mother’s mother was such a kind and sweet woman and her daughter wasn’t, Gwennie wasn’t sure, but it certainly made her happy to be here instead of home.

She could see the old woman’s feet, just to her right. “I wonder where you could’ve gone! It seems I’ve lost you!”

Gwennie giggled before slapping a hand over her mouth, still laughing behind it. Her grandma moved, going around to the other side, making small comments about how she wasn’t on the couch, or behind the curtains, or in the kitchen, which only made the girl laugh harder.

“Come on, Gwen! I have birthday presents for you!”

All she heard was birthday and she was already scrambling out onto the hardwood floor, absolutely beaming. “I’m right here, Gramma!”

Gramma was a short woman with warm, chocolate eyes, and a smile that lit up whatever room she was in. Her patience was long and steady, and that’s part of why she allowed Gwen to stay for as long as she wanted, though it was more tailored to Lucinda’s wants. The woman swept her granddaughter’s hair out of her face, laughing softly.

“My my, where did you come from?”

Gwen lifted her hand, pointing to the table. “Under there! You’re bad at looking,” she told her, giggling again while Gramma began to usher her, turning her around to steer her towards the kitchen. Three pink bags were on the counter, with tissue paper coming out of the top of them.

She moved to get up on one of the stools, her grandmother helping her. Placing one hand on the granite countertop, she reached across to grab one of the bags and opened the first two without much of a fuss, and her grandmother didn’t interrupt.

One was a small picture, the frame around it black and wooden, and inside there was a picture of herself, her brother, and both her grandparents. Gwen was sad when she learned that Granpa wouldn’t be there that weekend, as he was away in California with her Uncle Jay. Gwen could remember her mom saying something about a golfing trip.

The second gift was a small, plush, stuffed animal; a bird with black wings, a blue back,
and a white underbelly. When she asked her grandmother what kind of bird it was, she told her it was a swallow. Gwen looked up from the soft animal, her eyebrows furrowing.

“But Gramma,” she whined. “What does it mean?”

The old woman, patient as ever, smiled and patted her hand. “When the time comes, you’ll know. Now, open your last present.”

The kid pushed the plush animal aside, reaching for the last bag, and when she slid her arm inside, she thought that what she felt on her fingers was a pair of jeans, and pulled them out, not quite sure what the item in her hands was. It looked like her jeans, but seemed bigger, like they would go farther up her body when she put them on.

“What are they?”

“Those are overalls. I had a pair when I was your age,” she claimed, smiling down at her. “Your mother did, too. I think you’ll like them.”

Gwen wondered what her mother would think, and grinned when she realized that it didn’t matter, because she was at her gramma’s house, not at home. “Will they make me look like a boy?”

“If you want them to.”

“What does that mean?”

A long time ago, when Gwen was just learning how to speak, everyone learned just how much she liked questions, even if her parents frowned on them. Her grandmother didn’t though, and it made her feel warm and welcome when she was allowed to ask any question, and get an answer—even if they didn’t make any sense to her.

“It means that if you want to look like a boy, then you can, and if you want to look like a girl, you can. You can look like whatever you want to.”

Gwen smiled and took the overalls, asking if she wore pants underneath or not, and after her grandma shook her head, the girl ran off to her room to put them on.

Coloring in the living room, her overalls on and loose, Gwen kicked her feet, humming to herself as she moved the crayon across the coloring page. She liked them a lot, and the first thing she’d done to show just how much she liked them, was go outside and roll in the dirt and grass.

Gramma didn’t mind, and Gwen stayed outside, running around the large property, tumbling through the long grass that lined the canal at the other end of the property. Taking a dip wasn’t expected, but was nice in the summer heat, and the bottoms of her overalls got soaked. She spent her time for the rest of the afternoon there, kicking at the water while looking for toads to touch.

She had caught three, and put them back where she found them after inspecting each thoroughly, and had talked to each one, naming them all the same thing: Gregory. Gwen climbed up the bank when she heard her name called, grinning and bounding across the yard to the back door.

“Hey, Gramma?” Gwen looked up from her coloring.

“Yes, Child?”

“What should I do?”

Her gramma set down the book she was holding and looked down at her. “Whatever do you mean?”

Gwen frowned, not quite sure how to phrase what she meant. She struggled for words. “Like… How… Um. When I grow up?”

“What should you be when you grow up, you mean?”

The girl nodded, pushing herself up until she brought her crossed legs in front of her. The woman smiled, warm and understanding, and scooted forward in her chair. “What do you want to be?”

“I dunno.”

“So why are you worried about it, love?”

Gwen shrugged. Everywhere she went with her parents, it was something to do with work. Someone was on the phone, or talking about something Gwen didn’t understand, and it didn’t seem to stop. They had to be the perfect, rich, media family; at least, that’s what her mother had said. More than once, the brunette wondered if she would do what her mother did—which never looked pleasant—or if she would find her own way.

Her gramma seemed to continue to just know what was going on inside the child’s head. “Is it because of your parents?”

“Yeah.”

“Gwendolyn,” she told her. “You can be anything you want to be. You can go anywhere you want to go. You can be whoever you want to be, and you want to know why? Because you’re you, and there isn’t anyone else like you.”

“Really?”

Gramma nodded. “Oh yes,” she said. “If anyone ever tries to tell you otherwise, or tries to make you do something you don’t want to, you look them in the eyes and you tell them who you are, okay?”

It took several moments for her to comprehend what the older woman was saying, but after awhile she smiled and replied, “Okay, Gramma.”

“Good. Now go wash your hands, it’s time for dinner.”

Chapter Text

“We ain’t gonna stop at a motel.”

Gwendolyn looked away from the window, turning her head to see the Captain. His profile was still visible in the fading light, and his expression seemed stern, like he was annoyed by something. Of course, he always seemed to be annoyed by one thing or another.

They had been going since early morning, only stopping once for gas, and Boomer instructed her to stay in the car while he filled up the truck and went inside. He came out with a bottle of water and three sandwiches in plastic containers, and had handed her one of them. He then pulled out and over some way down the road and popped open his, digging in like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

Her belly had growled, and she’d never known ham, lettuce, tomato, cheese, mayo and mustard to taste so damn good. Her sandwich was gone before a minute had passed and her spirits lifted from the feeling of food in her belly. Boomerang was finishing his second by the time she set the container down by her feet next to her backpack, and he grabbed the water bottle, unscrewing it before taking a long drink and handing it to her.

She had taken it carefully, not realizing how thirsty she was, and drank nearly half of it. Gwen could see his arm twitch, like he was going to move to take it away, but he didn’t, not until she was done, taking it and screwing the cap back on before dropping it in one of the cup holders between them.

There was one thing about being in a truck that she didn’t like, and it was that there was a whole new kind of ache in her body. Her back hurt, her knees felt cramped even when she tried to stretch them, and her neck ached. The aches might’ve been from the couch she had slept on, or they were left over from his bike, but either way, the truck wasn’t making them better.

“Are we stopping?” She had to raise her voice just a little to be heard over the music coming from the radio, some form of rock that she didn’t know.

“Reckon, in a bit, yeah,” he responded, sounding bored.

Gwendolyn turned her head to look at the road. “Somewhere, or…?”

The Captain cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “Nah. Side ‘a the road.”

“So where are we sleeping?” She asked, her eyebrows furrowed. The answer hit her just before he opened his mouth.

“In here,” he quipped. “Or would yah rathah sleep in the bed, or on the ground?”

Where they were now had also gotten a lot of snowfall, and the idea of sleeping anywhere outside of the cab made her shiver. It was going to be freezing out there, and at least inside the cab they weren’t going to get snowed on.

“I would rather stay in here,” she blurted, and to her surprise, he laughed quietly, but didn’t respond.

He pulled the truck over after the next bend, slow and steady in the snow, before turning off the truck and sitting back in his seat. “Got anymore food in the bag?”

“Granola bars,” she responded, and reached for the backpack. He held out his hand as she pulled some out after unzipping and searching through the clothes inside. Gwen gave him one and kept one for herself, and she watched him open the wrapper with his teeth.

She opened hers slower, and suddenly noticed her lack of oval, painted, fake nails. Gwendolyn wasn’t surprised that they were gone, but she was surprised that she hadn’t realized that they were. She stared at them until she was pulled out of her thoughts by him clearing his throat.

“If yah ain’t gonna eat that, I’m gonna take it,” he drawled. “I’ll sleep in the back, reckon I’ll have more space. Yah gonna stay up here?”

Her eyebrows furrowed as he paused. Was that an invitation?

“Because I’m lockin’ the doors, an’ if yah get out, yah can’t get back in.”

“I said I was sleeping in here.”

He opened his door and looked back at her with a cocky smile. “Only wanted tah check, Sweetheart.”

Gwen rolled her eyes at him, undoing her seatbelt as he opened the back door. She could hear him rustling around behind her, and instead of looking, she finished her snack. Something soft smacked her face and Boomerang got in while she looked at what he threw at her. It was a small, tan pillow; she looked over her shoulder to see him holding an identical one.

Putting the wrapper in the available cupholder, she took the pillow in both her hands and put it up against the window, shifting around until her legs rested against the center console after taking off her boots. She pulled off his jacket, covering herself with it instead and she rested her head against the cushion behind her.

When the truck finally stopped rocking with both of their movements—Gwendolyn was resisting sitting up to see just how cramped he was—she sighed and whispered, “Thank you, Boomer, for the pillow.”

“Yuh’re welcome, Gwennie.”

Eyes cracking open, Gwen was already frowning and wanting to go back to sleep. For a moment, she thought she might be able to chase down her dreams, adjust and settle again, that is until she moved and the sunlight hit her face. Her eyes scrunched up and she moved her head back to where it was, lifting it off the pillow. She thought about rolling over, but decided that she didn’t want to go through the effort with her legs still over the center console, so instead she sat up.

Boomerang was still in the back, snoring quietly like usual, and when she peeked over the seat, she had to stifle a sleepy giggle while her frown disappeared. His knees were brought up, one against his chest and the other parallel with his hip, one arm was hidden under the pillow, and the other was stretched out along the top of the back seat, and his face was smashed up against his shoulder.

Gwendolyn looked away after shaking her head, reaching to grab her pack. Finding the bag of trail mix she had kept under her clothes, she opened it and began popping several nuts into her mouth. She turned her head, gaze sweeping around the front of the truck. Of course, the snow hadn’t melted overnight, but it didn’t look like it had snowed again, and if it had, it wasn’t enough to be noticeable.

They were about ten feet from the road, and the asphalt was still clear. She wondered when they would be leaving, realizing that she had never seen the Captain sleep in past sunrise. He was always punctual, always alert and aware of just exactly what was going on, but if she looked back again, she was pretty sure she’d see him drooling, and very unaware of what was going on inside and outside of the truck.

A flash of blue distracted her, and her eyes trained on the hood, right up against the windshield. It was a bird, small with blue feathers, and when it turned its head, its belly was white, and there was a stripe of black around its eyes, stretching down its side. It ruffled itself, hopping to turn around, and Gwen was reminded of the small plush animal her grandmother had gotten her eighteen years ago.

She thought that maybe it was a swallow, and she watched its chest expand and its mouth open, and faintly through the glass, she could hear it, a soft squeaking chatter that made her relax into the seat.

She heard a groan, and Boomer’s face appeared above the center divider, his eyes barely open, and she was right about him drooling. He reached up and rubbed his face, yawning like a big bear. He looked at the small bird, appearing to be disgruntled by the creature, but then his face softened.

“That’s a swallow,” he murmured.

The memory pushed into her mind, fuzzy around the edges, like a photograph that had started to fade. Sadness spread through her chest as she remembered the smile the old woman had, and the nature that Gwen had loved so much. That was gone, though, and it had been long before she was torn away from her home.

“My gramma got me one. Not a real one,” she added quietly. “It was a little stuffed animal. She never told me why.”

He didn’t respond for some time, and they both stared at the bird as it opened its mouth and called again, its chest expanding and shaking with the force of its chatter.

“Me… Me mum liked swallows,” he admitted, and she looked at him, watching as his face grew long and he worked his jaw, like it was hard to say such a thing. For a moment, it shocked her that he even had a mother, and then she remembered the picture that she’d found in his wallet. “She said they were her favorite cuz’ they meant hope, an’ courage, some shit like that.”

Hope . The bird turned its head and ruffled itself again as the Captain mentioned something about how late it was in the migrating season. The bird lifted itself up and flew off, disappearing into the trees, and Gwen watched until she couldn’t see it anymore.

Then the realization of the Aussie just giving her a small piece of his story hit her, and she looked at him, only to find that he was turning away and getting out of the back. She brushed a piece of hair off of her face, sweeping it behind her ear as he got in the driver’s side just a moment later, yawning as he did so.

He rubbed his face after putting his seatbelt on—which struck her as something she thought he wouldn’t do—and started the car. The man held out his hand to her, and she looked down, realizing she still had the trail mix in her lap. She grabbed a handful and placed it in his palm, which he closed and retracted.

Eating what he had while he pulled out, she started eating again, too, while staring out the window.

It had started snowing again. Not hard or fast, but the flakes were large and looked fluffy, drifting down in the air like feathers. The heat was blowing gently through the cab of the truck, keeping her warm and toasty in a stark contrast to when they had ridden his motorcycle. She had her knees up by her chest, huddled in a ball against the door.

Captain Boomerang hadn’t said anything to her since they’d started. He’d stopped at a gas station, letting her rush to the bathroom while he got more jerky and granola bars, and then waited in the truck after he bought them, eating several pieces of dried meat. The criminal had even offered her a piece when she closed the door behind her.

She had taken it, enjoying the teriyaki taste as they left the town. She watched the white and brown blurs go by outside, a peaceful look on her face, and even with Boomerang only being two feet away from her, she felt like she could relax, just a little bit. He hadn’t said much else, instead, he’d turned the radio on and kept his thoughts to himself.

The music was rock, like before, and even though it wasn’t her favorite kind of music, she was grateful to have it. She hadn’t heard a single note in weeks, and the more she listened to it, the more she enjoyed it. Boomerang’s fingers were tapping on the wheel to the drums, and she thought about how this must’ve been a sense of normalcy to other people, listening to music, going down the road without conversation.

That wasn’t ever how Gwen’s car ride experiences were, aside from minimal or no conversation. There wasn’t ever music, or sitting in the front seat, especially when her mother was around to enforce the rules. The only reason Gwen knew any modern music, mainly hip-hop, was because of Emmaline, and she remembered listening twice to music in the passenger seat of her BMW. Even then, it wasn’t relaxed, or sitting back to enjoy not being in the cold. It was like she was obligated to talk to her friend, and sing along to the lyrics.

In the cab of Boomerang’s truck, she listened to a sound that she had hardly ever heard before, and for a second, she felt captivated inside her head, and her eyes closed as she felt the beat in her chest, like a blooming fire. She stretched out her legs, feeling her knees pop before she leaned back in the seat, focusing on the way the instruments vibrated through the speakers up into her body.

“Shit.”

His loud curse made her open her eyes turn her head to look in front of them, and she saw the flashing police lights down the road. There was a large orange sign that blocked the road with black letters across it: AVALANCHE WARNING.

Gwendolyn hadn’t seen any other roads or towns since they had grabbed snacks in the last one, which was nearly an hour ago. The truck slowed to a stop, easily a few hundred feet from the sign and police car, and she looked over to see him scowling at the roadblock.

“That,” he growled. “Is bloody fuckin’ stupid.”

“I don’t want to get killed in an avalanche,” she piped up, and his eyes whipped to hers, narrowed and sharp. He took a deep breath in through his nose, and sighed before shaking his head.

“Reckon not,” he agreed quietly, and turned around, making her nervous when the tires struggled to gain traction on the slippery road. She could feel him fuming, his jaw working as he brought up his thumb, running it along his bottom lip like she’d seen him do when he was frustrated.

Deciding that saying anything else, or asking any questions was a bad idea, she looked out the window again, staring at the mirror as the disruption disappeared behind them. Boomer didn’t say another word, and after thinking about it, she didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing, anymore. It usually meant he was dwelling in his head more than in the present, and she had been there a lot lately, too.

His nose was still black and purple, turning yellowish where the bruising faded into his cheeks. If she stared at it too long, her own nose would begin to hurt, and she didn’t want to upset him by looking at the damage she’d done. Really, she couldn’t believe he wasn’t in more pain, but maybe being on constant guard didn’t allow him to feel that kind of “inconvenience”.

The smell of smoke drifted into her nose, and the window was rolled down, letting in the freezing air. Her knees moved quickly, and again she bundled herself up in the corner, making herself small to avoid the cold. He had the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and he did have the decency to blow the disgusting fumes away from her.

She did see him wince with every breath he took, and a small smile kicked at her lips when she realized his nose was hurting just like her shoulder had. Gwendolyn turned her head away, resting it against the window, before closing her eyes to hopefully let sleep pass the time for her.

Gwendolyn really did try to keep her eyes from wandering into the crowd, as she knew it could ruin her performance, so she kept the small smile on her face like Coach Elise has told her to, and did her routine. The eleven-year-old forced out the thought that her family hadn’t come to her first solo, for fear it would stop her in the middle of the dance.

She’d worked hard, and really was quite proud of herself, so much so that she actually spoke up at the dinner table, a broad grin on her face, showing off her teeth. The girl hadn’t even been reprimanded for it, but was promptly told that they would discuss it later.

Gwen bowed low for her last position, one leg stretched out in front of her, toes pointed, with her forehead touching her knee, her other leg folded underneath her. The music stopped and the audience applauded her as she got up, not daring to look anywhere than the judges, before sashaying across the stage until she was hidden by the curtain.

Pride glowed from the girl, warm and happy as she grinned, her coach coming to greet her. Elise didn’t say much, simply patted her on the back, told her that she was proud, and sent her back to the room that she and the rest of her group had gotten ready in. Still slightly embarrassed from having Alice’s mom do her makeup—just like she always did—because her own mom wasn’t there, some of her spark left her. She always felt bad about it, though Alice’s mom assured her that there was nothing to feel bad about.

She didn’t know that she was hoping for anything when she slipped into the room, bright and seemingly small with the different costumes, mirrors, and makeup boxes covering the floors and walls. Looking around though, she felt crushed, and tears started welling up in her eyes when she realized that neither of the two moms in the room was her own.

Maybe she’s still in her seat? She thought, and bit down on her lip, knowing that she probably wasn’t.

She went to where her stuff was gathered up sat on the chair just as the other ballerinas came in, laughing and talking amongst themselves. They were all her age, or within a year of it. Gwen thought them all rather good, and she didn’t know if she was the best, but she had gotten the solo.

“Alright, everyone, get ready to go back out for awards!”

Gwen pouted and got off her chair, just after settling in, and went to get her jacket with the studio name on it.

She was crushed again when she didn’t receive an award, her chest aching badly as she looked into the crowd, and still had yet to spot anyone that she knew, and she suddenly wished that Gramma were here. She would’ve attended.

Sniffling, she watched as the group dance she couldn’t perform in get first place. When everything was handed out, they were filed back into the room, where Elise gave them a speech on how well they all did, and how proud she was of everyone. Gwen felt that she was excluded from this, and that she had let her coach down, which only served to hurt her more. She ran her wrists under her cheeks, wiping away stray tears as they were all dismissed.

The girl changed into her sweats and shirt, putting on the jacket again before placing her dress on it’s hanger, her shoes hanging with it, and left with the clothes over her shoulder. She went out into the main hallway, watching as families greeted those who performed, and she searched desperately, wanting to sit down somewhere alone and cry.

“Miss Gwen!”

She turned around to see Johnny, her escort, in a casual looking suit with a smile on his face. Before she could think twice she ran to him, falling into his arms as he knelt down to catch her. He lifted her carefully, squeezing her as she started to cry.

“Don’t cry, Miss Gwen,” he whispered. “I thought your performance was excellent; the best all night, if I do say so myself.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he reassured her. “I think you’re a wonderful ballerina, Gwen.”

She pulled back, looking at him while sniffling. He brought up his thumb and wiped away her tears with a smile. Johnny had always made her feel better when she was sad, or alone. Her mother had assigned him the job almost a year ago, and so far, he’d stayed in Lucinda’s good graces. Gwen hoped he remained there.

“Now, I got special permission to take you out for a little bit of ice-cream.”

A grin pulled at her lips, and a soft, “Really?” fell off her tongue.

Johnny nodded and set her on her feet, taking her dress and shoes “Really, really. Come now.”

The escort grabbed her hand gently in his and stood up, walking with her out the main doors towards the parking lot. He helped her into the sleek black car, making sure she was buckled up before putting her stuff in the trunk and getting into the driver’s seat.

Starting the car, Johnny looked back at her, winked, and set off towards their destination. Gwen didn’t speak, instead she looked out the window. It was a rainy night in Gotham, and the drops painted across her window, illuminated by the different lights they passed by. She leaned her head against it, and waited.

The ride didn't take long, and before she knew it, the door was being opened and she was unbuckling her seatbelt as Johnny held out his hand to help her. She stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the small creamery, and the door was closed behind her. She hadn't ever been to this one before, but really she'd only ever been to three, and only had had ice cream in a public place those three times, so this was definitely a treat.

He took her inside, telling her that she could get whatever she wanted. After getting settled at a table and having menus given to them, it took her nearly five minutes to decide on what she wanted.

It was called “Mae’s Favorite”, a large, homemade, chocolate chip cookie with soft served ice cream on top of it, surrounded by brownie bits and covered in caramel and chocolate sauce. Her mother wouldn't have approved, but her mouth watered for that cookie, and her mother wasn't there.

The cookie smelled delicious, and so did the brownies, and when she dipped her spoon into that melting ice-cream with the fresh, baked goods, she knew she wasn't prepared for how wonderful it was going to taste. All the problems of the night seemed to be whisked away, the painful ache in her chest from before vanishing like it was never there.

“Thank you, Johnny,” she told him around a mouthful of her dessert. “It's really good.”

Johnny smiled and nodded. “You're very welcome, Miss Gwen.”

“You're the best escort ever.”

“Thank you, Miss Gwen.”

She grinned at him, and scooped more of her delicious concoction into her mouth.

“Nothing?” Lucinda snarled in the middle of the living room. “You brought home nothing ?”

Gwen flinched, wishing that she still had Johnny with her. Her escort unfortunately, was not allowed to enter the home when Lucinda was there, unless Lucinda specifically requested it, because Lucinda thought herself fit to take care of Gwen herself. So she was alone, faced with her mother’s wrath.

She had been a ballerina, and Gwen had watched the videos of her mother, one of the best to ever come out of the United States. She knew that what Lucinda told her of passion, and the nature, and that she knew all of it, was not a lie, and that she wanted her daughter to be perfect, just like her.

But she hadn’t even shown up to my performance.

“You would’ve known that if you were there!” Gwen cried back, and it earned her a slap on the side of the head that left her ear ringing.

“I did the best that I could, you ungrateful child! And I would have been even more disappointed had I been there! I got you that solo, and you wasted it!”

Tears welled in her eyes as realization hit her. Had her mother really bribed her way into getting Gwen a solo? Did that mean that she wasn’t good at all?

Her lips turned down at the edges, and she couldn’t help but start to cry. “I thought I did well…”

“Thinking and doing are two very different things, Gwendolyn! You’ve disappointed me tonight, and I was hoping that you would’ve shown promise. If I had known how badly you did, I would’ve had John bring you right home.”

“I’m… I’m sorry, Mother.”

“Sorry doesn’t mean anything, Gwendolyn. How many times must I tell you that?”

Gwen looked down at her feet. “You won’t have to tell me anymore,” she murmured in reply, and her mother made a dignified ‘hmph!’ sound in response. She folded her arms, looking squarely down at her daughter.

“Go to your room,” she commanded. “I do not want you coming out unless I call for you, it is time for you to go to bed. Am I clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Go.”

The girl sniffled, running her fist under her eyes to catch and wipe away the tears that had fallen as she worked her way towards her bedroom. Saying that she was heartbroken over what had happened at that competition, and what her mother said, would’ve been an understatement.

In all honesty, she thought she had done well for the time and effort she had put into perfecting her routine, and she knew that she did some of the moves correctly, like her final pose, when she hadn’t even been able to hold it when her and Elise began to work on the dance. She thought she had done better than everyone else was saying, but in the end, like her mother had told her time and time again, it wasn’t what she thought, it was what her audience thought.

She got into her pajamas, slow and quiet, not wanting to change or do anything at all other than lay down. Gwen was sore, tired, and her head pounded gently, the imminent warning that a headache was fast approaching, and if she wanted to sleep, she’d have to find it quickly.

Getting under the covers, Gwen began to think about her performance in her head, trying to find where she messed up, or what she could’ve done wrong, but she couldn’t seem to find anything, not in the first forty seconds anyway, because by the time she got to redoing her seventh move in her head, she was already asleep.

Chapter Text

Backtracking was not a part of Owen’s plan, and quite frankly, it pissed him off. Avalanche warning, me arse, he bit out in his mind as he tapped the steering wheel forcefully with his fingers. Gwennie had sounded too cheery with her comment about not wanting to get killed in a snow slide, and while he didn’t particularly want to either, it forced him to rethink his plan as they drove away from the detour.

It had taken him a few minutes to come up with something, to map out where else he could go while taking into account any possible weather complications. The music from the radio helped, and he remembered once when George had told him that a real Aussie worked better under the influence of beer, or rock music, and “If yah got both in yuh system, yah got it right.”

The Australian tended to make it a point to avoid thinking, or talking about his dad. It was a taboo subject for him, but being in a truck—even though it was his own, and much nicer than George’s—was causing memories to resurface again, which just annoyed him further. Plus, his back hurt from sleeping in the backseat, and he was still a bit grumpy about that damn bird waking him up.

His face softened as he thought about the swallow that was on the hood of his black truck. Gwen had been staring at it like it was about to tell her everything it had ever seen, and all it had learned, and all he could think about was his mother. Owen couldn’t remember when she had told him what she thought of swallows, or of any other animals she had talked to him about that day, but he could remember her voice.

He had relayed it to Gwennie in his usually uncouth way, but he could hear her words in his head, telling him that swallows meant hope, and new beginnings, and that they were there to guide him into something unknown. His little, imaginative mind back then had taken the idea and run with it, even if he didn’t know what she meant. To be honest, he still had no idea, but he cherished it regardless.

Sometimes, he thought he was losing the snippets of his mother that he had, so he hung onto any memories that he could, no matter what they were about.

“Um…”

Boomerang glanced at Gwen out of the corner of his eye, watching as she bit her lip nervously and looked down.

“I was wondering if… If maybe we could stop for lunch?”

“Why?” He asked. “Ah yah hungry?”

The brunette shook her head. “No. Not yet. I was thinking later, when we’re both hungry…”

He could tell she’d taken a liking to eating something that was actually cooked fresh, something warm, and delicious. He liked it, too, he’d admit, and the chance to walk around for a minute was always welcome.

“Depends,” the Captain replied. “We’ll see.”

Gwen nodded her head, smiled just a little bit, and went back to looking out the window, and he didn’t miss the way her fingers tapped along to the music. He hadn’t taken her to be one to enjoy classic rock, and then it occurred to him that she might not have ever heard it before. Boomerang decided against making a comment, and turned his attention back to the road, thinking over his options, like cards in his hand.

He did stop for lunch around three in the afternoon, in a sleepy town he didn’t actually know the name of. The small diner on the edge of town only had four people in it: the waitress, the cook, himself, and Gwen.

The pair were in a booth sitting across from each other, Boomerang looking at the surroundings more than down at his own menu. He already knew what he wanted, because the French toast stuffed with cream cheese and strawberries and covered in powdered sugar sounded delightful.

It was difficult not ordering any alcohol, and his throat went dry at the thought of a burning drink, but he ignored it and opted for coca cola, instead—a treat he had only had once in the past three years. The last time he had it was when he’d gotten Macca’s for the both of them. It didn’t seem like it was that long ago, a little over a week, but it felt like it was fading to him, like an old memory.

Gwennie ordered a stack of three pancakes, which surprised him for a moment. But then he remembered that neither of them were really getting full meals, and much like himself, she was likely a lot hungrier than he realized. He knew he was losing more weight than he liked. Dropping below two-hundred pounds wasn’t something he was planning on, but knew it might happen. It annoyed him, and he started planning possible stops in the future for more food.

“Is cream cheese good?”

The Captain cocked his head to the side. “Evah had cheesecake?”

She nodded.

“An’ was that good?”

“Yes.”

“Then there’s yuh answer.”

Gwen’s lip turned up just faintly, and she opened her mouth, like she was going to say something else, but wasn’t entirely sure of herself. He smirked at her, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he watched for the waitress to return, a hand over his belly as the other laid on the table, his fingers tapping on the surface.

The plates were hot when she set them down and his mouth watered as he grabbed his fork.

“Alright, if you need anything else, just ask.”

Gwen thanked her, and he could see the polite look her face schooled into—probably something her mother had taught her. He didn’t say anything, too focused on smelling his lunch as he eyed it, watching as the whipped cream on top melted slowly from the heat.

The bell over the door rang, just as Boomer got the first piece of his meal to his mouth. His head snapped up, a rush of adrenaline going through his body, and he shifted, ready to get up and move if he had to. Instead, his face screwed up in confusion, his brows furrowed, as he stared at the middle-aged man who had walked in.

He had dark brown hair, which was long enough to reach his shoulders and had a slight wave to it, his jaw line hard, complimented by high cheeks and an arched nose. His eyes were small and hawk-like, and they scanned the room like he was searching for prey. He was wearing a black leather jacket, jeans, a white shirt, and a pair of black converse, and when his narrowed gaze landed on Owen, his clean-shaven face lit up with a large grin.

“Boomer Jr.!”

Owen cringed at the nickname, but it was better than being called by his real name, and he stood up when the tall man strode towards him.

“Evan,” he greeted, and the man pulled him into a hug. The Captain cringed again, his body stiff against the other’s arms as his back was clapped. He couldn’t see Gwen’s face, and he scowled while trying to push off the man, not wanting to shove.

Evan released him, his broad smile blinding as he looked over him. “Ye look good, lad,” he said with a firm nod, his hands moving to Owen’s arms, squeezing them before patting him and letting him go. “A pleasure seein’ ye here.”

He glanced at the booth Owen had been sitting in, eyes spotting Gwendolyn, and he held out his hand. “Aren’t ye a bonnie wee hen? I’m Evan McCulloch, at yer service.”

Her eyes flitted to Boomer first, then back to the older man and she gave him her hand. “Gwen.”

He lifted her hand to his lips, giving the top of it a kiss, and Owen rolled his eyes, sliding back down into his seat.

“Always such a romantic.”

“Aye,” he said. “Better than ye, I’d say. I dinna kidnap lovely girls, I get them tae agree tae come home wi’ me.”

Owen glared, and the Scot laughed, sitting down beside Gwen as she suddenly became extremely interested in her pancakes, picking up her fork to stab at them. He watched McCulloch’s arm twitch, like he was going to move it around the woman next to him, but he stopped short when Boomerang shook his head.

The waitress appeared again, seeming to notice the new company, and whipped out her notepad and pen faster than he’d ever seen anyone do it. “The usual, Mr. McKenzie?”

“Nae, Jenny. Coffee’ll be just fine.”

Owen eyed her when she nodded and walked away, her black pants covering her ass like a second skin. He lifted his thumb, running the pad along his bottom lip before grabbing his fork again to hopefully get a bite of his food.

“Dynamite in the sack, that one is.”

He knew McCulloch was nodding in the direction Jenny had gone, and it came as no shock that the man had been between her legs. If he was honest with himself, he’d probably been in the beds of every woman in town, married or not. Smooth talking got him that, he guessed, and the ladies tended to like his looks.

“Yah live ‘round here then?”

“Aye.” He sat back, stretching his arms over his head, ultimately ending up with one against the back of the seat, his hand inches away from Gwen’s shoulder. Owen’s eye twitched, just slightly, and the criminal gave him a knowing look. “I changed my last name, figured I’d settle down a bit, after all that wi’ ye an’ yer da’.”

Boomerang bit down on the bread, munching on it as Jenny brought the other man his coffee, giggling after she winked, and he responded in kind with a swift slap on the waitress’s ass. Gwen flinched, the man beside her too distracted to notice, and Owen went on with his meal, taking a few more bites.

“Avalanche warning cut us off down the road, an’ we had tah backtrack.”

“Och. It’s that time o’ the year. I find it annoyin’, myself.” He shrugged. “Where are ye plannin’ on goin’ now? Where’d ye come from?”

“The garage, an’ I ain’t goin’ back that way. How far’s yuh place?”

“Five minutes doon the road.”

He took a drink of his coffee, the steam going up through his nose, before setting the mug down to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Quite the nose ye got there, by the way. Who did that?”

Opening his mouth and ready to spit out a comment about how it wasn’t the tiny woman across from him, Gwen cut him off with a meek, “Me.”

Evan looked at her, his eyebrows raised in surprise, before he threw his head back with a loud and deep laugh. He bent over the table, pounding his fist on it twice as Owen contemplated grabbing his plate and whacking the man with it. The thought did make the hard, annoyed expression on his face lighten up a bit.

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. Ye really did that? I’m surprised ye aren’a dead, or ha’ a face lookin’ worse than his.”

After that, breakfast went better, and Owen found himself relaxing in the presence of his old friend. They talked about what he was doing for work now, since he said he wasn’t working any jobs at the moment and hadn’t in a few years. He was a carpenter, and all the locals knew him by Evan McKenzie of McKenzie Carpentry. It worked fine for the Scot, who had eluded the law for the past eight years, a steady job, a home, and something to do.

It didn’t take very long for them to strike up a plan, and by the time Gwen and himself finished, they had decided that they would be staying at Evan’s house for the night to give the both of them more rest. Owen doubted he’d be doing much resting between planning on if he wanted to go further north, or south, and catching up with McCulloch. His third thought was that he might be able to check on the Bartholme’s response to his ransom.

“I dinna ken why I didna recognize yer truck,” Evan said as they walked out. It was still overcast, dark clouds threatening to start dumping snow down onto the ground again. “Eh, doesna matter. Follow me, aye?”

“Was plannin’ on it.”

Owen opened the door to his truck, watching Gwennie go around to the other side out of the corner of his eye. The other laughed and smacked his back jovially.

“Smart arse.”

The Australian chuckled, getting up into his seat before closing the door with a sigh and dragged his hands down his face. Gwen was leaning against the center console, her elbow resting on top of it.

“Do you like him?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “He’s an old friend.”

The brunette scoffed and it made the man look at her. “I have eyes, I doubt you’d let someone hug you unless you knew them.”

“Was that the longest sentence yah’ve evah said tah me when yah weren’t yellin’?”

“Was that the longest sentence you’ve said to me when you weren’t telling me to do something?”

“Touche,” Boomer said boredly as he started the truck. “I can get along with him, sometimes. But we got a bed fah the night, an’ that’s fine with me.”

Gwen grew quiet, shifting in her seat as Owen backed out to follow Evan in his car. “Can we trust him?”

“Sweetheart,” Owen looked at her and grinned. “He’s a felon, tah. An’ yah can’t trust me, so why would yah trust him?”

“Touche,” she parroted.

Snickering, he leaned back into his seat, tempted to fish out his cigarettes. Deciding he could smoke one when he got there, he tapped his fingers impatiently as they drove across the sleepy town, past the gas station they had been at before, and around the outskirts until they pulled up to a white and blue, two-story house. It was small, probably only three or four rooms on the first floor, and maybe two on the second.

The Aussie pulled up in the drive, reaching into his coat to grab a smoke and lighter, putting the cigarette into his mouth and flicking the lighter until he got it smoking. He inhaled deeply, nodded to Gwen, and got out of the truck, hearing her door close after his.

Evan led them inside, telling them to make themselves at home with some a wide hand gesture while closing the door.

“Anyone else livin’ here?”

“Nae. Too big o’ risk.”

Owen nodded his head in understanding, watching Gwen amble out of the entry way and into the next room, not looking back over her shoulder at them. “Show me where Gwen an’ I’ll be stayin’.”

“I figured she’d be wi’ me.”

He shot the Scot a dark look. “Yah know bettah than tah test me, McCulloch.”

“Tsk. Only yer da’ called me by my last name. Touchy subject, aye?”

“Certainly seems like one tah avoid .”

They both  stared at each other and Owen clenched his fists. He had known the man since he was nineteen, and on some level he did trust him, but at the same time, nine years told him to be cautious, too, and he would bet money on Evan wanting to have a go at Gwen, and he was not going to let that happen.

Finally, the man stepped away and jerked his head, leaving Boomer to follow him. The room was on the second floor, a bit small with a queen sized bed in the middle of it, and after mentally noting where the two mirrors were, he nodded and went to go grab the backpack out in the truck.

Gwen had found her way up when he returned, and she was alone, looking out the window. He dropped the bag on the bed, glancing at the doorway. “I think yah’d be bettah off stayin’ up here.”

She startled, flipping around and pressing back against the window with one hand over her chest.

“I might get drunk, an’ he might…” Owen shook his head. “Only come down if yah need somethin’.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

He opened and closed his mouth once, thinking that he might’ve had something else to say, but nothing came to mind. Instead, he decided to nod at her once, turned around, and left, closing the door behind him before venturing back downstairs.

Owen was on his third beer, hardly tipsy by the time Evan was on his second line of coke. The Scotsman sat back, neck craned until the back of his head was resting on top of the cushion, eyes trained on the ceiling.

The Captain had his bare feet up on the table, his elbow up on the armrest as he watched the rugby game he’d managed to find after channel surfing for an hour. It wasn’t Australian Rules Football by any means, but at least it was something a little bit familiar. He’d checked the news, and there was no mention of Gwendolyn’s family, Gwen, or himself. and he decided that in the morning he’d check again, and if that brought him no luck, he was fairly certain that McCulloch had a computer that he would be able to use.

“Ye ever done drugs?”

Owen looked over at the man, taking a sip of the cheap beer he’d found in the fridge. “What kind?”

“The heavy shite,” Evan replied, sounding a bit dazed. “Like… Cocaine, and heroin, and opium. That stuff.”

“Nah. Just me smokes an’ alcohol.”

“Why?”

He almost fired back a smart ass answer, or something stupid, like asking the same back. But he stopped, and leaned back, a bit perplexed. He had always had access to it back in Australia, and the tattoo on his right hand—the one wrapped around his beer bottle—was enough to remind him of that. He had run them back and forth all the time, had wondered what it might be like, to get high, but never enough to actually stop him.

James had told him not to, more than once, and he reckoned that had a part to play. He had always tried to keep his promises to the gang member, and there was that one at least, that he could say he was still keeping. His chest panged and he winced, before gathering his thoughts.

“Nevah wanted tah, I guess. I didn’t like watchin’ it do shit tah othah people. I didn’t want it tah be me.”

Evan turned his head, looking back at the ceiling. “Did I ever tell ye why I do?”

“Once or twice, yeah.”

Sighing, he decided to change the subject. “That wee lass ye got wi’ ye. Gwen, aye? She’s a bonnie thing. I thought it was weird, when I heard aboot ye gettin’ outta Arkham, an’ then kidnappin’ someone. It sounded like somethin’ George’d do. Not ye.”

“I wasn’t plannin’ on it, if that’s what yuh’re sayin’. I didn’t want tah kidnap anyone. Y’know I don’t like lookin’ ovah more backs than me own.”

“Ye do fer her.”

Owen took another swig. “Doesn’t mean I want tah, or that I like it.”

“No,” he agreed. “I suppose ye’re right. It still did surprise me. Why’d ye do it?”

“Kidnap her, or breakout?”

“E’eryone wants tae get outta prison,” Evan snarked at the Aussie. “Why’d ye take her? The money? Her looks?”
He could remember that night, a week since he’d crawled up out of Gotham bay, just after squirming out of the sewers and diving into the cold, ocean water to avoid being found and taken back. He had chosen her because she seemed rich enough to be of importance, and he ultimately could make a buck off the deal; he had needed out, and she was his ticket. After he had found out just who she was, he didn’t want to let go of such a valuable pawn, someone who people knew and “loved”. Her family was a cesspool of social media attention, and he had tried to use it to work in his favor.

Still unsure if it had worked, he pushed the subject aside.

“Because I knew I could get out. I just had tah use her, an’ I was free. I found out who she was aftah we got outta Gotham, an’ I decided tah keep her, just in case.”

Evan stared at him dubiously, moving to rub his nose gently with his knuckle. “Is that still why she’s wi’ ye?”

Boomerang shrugged, taking his feet off of the table. The man’s gaze was just slightly unfocused as he watched Owen finish off the bottle, setting it down on the wooden surface.

“I dunno.”

He stood, wanting to avoid further questioning, and shuffled around in front of the TV. Evan sat up himself as brushed some of his hair back with his fingers.

“Where’re ye goin’?”

“Tah take a piss,” Owen replied, walking towards where the bathroom was located, just on the other side of the kitchen. “Why, wanna join me?”

McCulloch laughed and shook his head. “Nae plannin’ on it. Dinna hurt yerself.”

Owen chortled as he strode through the kitchen and around into the bathroom. With the door closed behind him, he sighed, leaned a hand on the wall after undoing his fly, and lost himself to his thoughts as he emptied his bladder.

It was an interesting question that his old acquaintance had asked, and he knew he had avoided it. Truthfully, he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Gwennie’s presence now. It wasn’t so much using her as a pawn anymore, even though she certainly still could be, but after a broken nose and a few slaps, he wasn’t sure if he was in the mood to face down that angry woman’s wrath again. Not until he was prepared to, anyway.

Now, he guessed it was more about companionship, and that was something he hadn’t had for three long years in any way, not with something that was alive—aside from the guard on the other side of his cell door, but he didn’t think that counted. She was a nice relief, someone quiet who kept him feeling like he had to be responsible, that he had to stay ahead because if he slipped up, his consequences were more than just a murder charge and breaking out of prison.

Owen grunted and shook his head, stepping back and zipping up his jeans after flushing. He opened the door, looking at himself in the mirror, and he stopped, listening intently.

“C’mon, baby…”

“No…”

“Ye ken ye’d like it.”

No response. He could hear a loud, male grunt, and a pained whimper. Gwennie .

His instincts kicked into overdrive and he marched into the doorway, a snarl on his lips before he even saw what was going on. Gwen’s face lit up with hope when she saw him, and he could see the fear nestled deep in her eyes, across the kitchen.

Evan had her on the counter, between her spread legs that he had pinned down with his body. Her hands were above her, wrenching her right shoulder up as he held her wrists against the cabinet with one hand.

“I’m goin’ tae fuck yer hole,” he could hear him say. “An’ ye’re goin’ tae love it, aye? I promise.”

“Yuh promise ain’t worth a penny,” Owen growled, low and menacing. The Scot dropped her hands, but he didn’t move, and her fingers splayed across his shoulders.

“Look at that,” he said. “She likes me.”

Evan turned his head, glancing back at Owen, and Gwen pulled her hand back while he watched with glorious satisfaction as her fist collided with the Scot’s jaw.

It wasn’t enough to really disorient the larger man, and she yelped out in pain, but Owen was already there before either of them had a split second to react, grabbing the back of Evan’s shirt and flipping him around. He was taller than him, only by a few inches, but he used it to his advantage as he fisted up the collar of the white fabric.

“I told yah before, a long time ago,” Owen hissed. “I don’t like it when people touch me things, an’ yah touched somethin’ a’ mine. I already told yah not tah touch her, an’ yah did.”

He turned them, putting his body between himself and Gwen before shoving the older man away. He stepped back, one hand grabbing Gwen’s arm and tugging to pull her down and closer to him.

“Yah touch her again, an’ I’ll cut off yuh bloody fingers, an’ maybe somethin’ else yah prize so fuckin’ much. Betcha the ladies won’t like yah then- cockless an’ fingerless.”

Evan glared at him, rubbing his jaw where a bright red mark was blotching across his skin. Boomerang smirked and shook his head. “If yah even think about comin’ in the room tonight, I’ll make sure it happens. We’re leavin’ in the mornin’. Thank yah, fah yuh hospitality, I’m sure we’ll be gone before yah wake up. It was a pleasha seein’ yah again.”

He turned around, placing his hand on Gwen’s side before urging her to walk ahead of him out of the kitchen and towards the stairs. His fingers splayed over her lower back, and he looked over his shoulder at the man fuming in the middle of the kitchen, confident he wouldn’t try anything, before he disappeared from view as they ascended.

Boomerang closed the door behind them, locking it for good measure.

“Are yah alrigh’?”

Gwen just nodded, hugging herself as she stared at her feet. He put his hands on her arms, barely touching her skin, before they slid down and he grabbed her hand, muttering, “Lemme see yuh knuckles.”

Even in the poor light, he could see how red they were, and how they were swelling. He’d delivered a punch wrong before, and ultimately ended up fracturing two of his fingers, and knew she was probably in a lot of pain. He shook his head, making a mental note to check them in the morning when they had more time, more light, and after letting them be for the night.

“Is yuh shouldah okay?”

Another nod, and Owen sighed, realizing she was already in her pajamas. He nudged her towards the bed, not stopping until she sat on it.

“Get some sleep,” he told her. “I’ll make sure he can’t get in.”

He turned away, finding the mirrors again as she got under the covers on the bed behind him. The first was a small stand-up mirror on the dresser in the corner, and he flipped that until the mirror was down. The other was a body length, that he lifted up and turned until it was as close to the wall as possible.

Owen took down the three pictures in the room, all three of them some form of landscape, the glass holding the faint light from the moon outside, and left them face down on the floor, before he took off his boots, his tank top, and his coat, leaving him just in jeans and socks as he sat on the other side of the bed.

He laid down with his back facing her, and listened closely to all of the sounds in the house, including the sound of her falling asleep only forty minutes later, his hand around a boomerang, just in case.

He flew down the hallway, a loud screech of laughter following him as his mother chased him, shouting after him, “I’m gonna get yah!”

The four-year-old got to the back door, opening it with all of his might before racing out into the yard. His foot caught on one of the steps, and everything that already seemed to be moving slowly around him—aside from his mum—felt like it slowed even more.

He landed against something, not the hard ground, or the small deck, but against his mum, as she caught him before he fell. She smiled softly at him as everything came back into focus, nothing moving slowly anymore.

“You need tah be careful, Owen,” she told him. “What woulda happened if I wasn’t here? Yah woulda fallen, an’ when yuh’re goin’ fast, fallin’ isn’t fun.”

“Have yah done it?”

“What?” Melody asked. “Tripped?”

The boy nodded his head and she laughed softly, helping him stand up straight again.

“Of course I have. I remembah when yuh grandpa was teachin’ me how to run supah fast, just like I’m teachin’ yah. I was runnin’ ‘round the back deck an’ when I tripped I went through the railing.”

He giggled, turning around to face his mum. “Can I always run fast?”

Melody shook her head. “Not really supah fast,” she replied. “That only comes in bursts.”

“Can I show othah people?”

She shook her head again, smiling. “No. They’ll get jealous and be mean, and that wouldn’t be very nice, would it?”

Owen’s face scrunched up, and he shook his head. He didn’t like it when people were mean. “Nope.”

She gently ruffled the hair on top of his head and grabbed his hand before leading him inside, telling him that it was time to make some lunch. After ten seconds of contemplation, he asked for grilled cheese (even though they’d had grilled cheese for lunch, three days in a row) and Melody nodded her head, setting him on the counter as she got the bread and cheese out after putting a flat pan on the stove.

“Why can we run supah fast and othah people can’t?”

“Because,” she responded, “It’s part o’ our family. My da’ could, his mum could, her mum could, an’ it goes back all the way tah the beginnin’.”

His eyebrows furrowed comically like they did every time he faced down a question inside of his head. “So… It’s like how I look like me da’?”

His mum gave him a faint smile, and nodded her head as she brushed a curly lock of hair behind her ear, starting on cutting the cheese. “Yes,” she told him. “An’ when yah have babies—” Owen scrunched up his face and shook his head, making her laugh. “—They’ll be able tah run, just like yah.”

“Sometimes, I move really fast without runnin’,” Owen said, and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Can yah do that, too?”

She put her hand on his thigh, and his whole leg started to rattle from the vibrations coming from his mother. Melody took her hand off him and he grinned.

“Like that?”

“Yeah! What’s it called?”

She pushed her knife down through the block of cheese. “Vibratin’. When yah run, yah vibrate, too. Since yuh’re movin’ yah don’t really feel it like when yuh’re just standin’ still.”

“Can yah do othah things?”

“Like?”

“Othah than runnin’ fast, or… Vibratin’?”

She turned away from him, grabbing the bread to set to work on grilling their sandwiches.

“Yes.”

Owen grinned, excited to learn more. “I wanna know!”

She laughed, quiet and tinkling, and shook her head. “Not yet, my Wild Colonial Boy. I’ll teach yah more when yuh’re oldah, I promise.”

He nearly pushed himself up and off of the counter to go and tug on her shirt, but instead folded his arms and pouted. “Why can’t I know now?”

Melody looked over her shoulder at him, her smile making him feel better. He knew that she would teach him, eventually. “Because yuh’re not old enough yet, my love.”

“Fine…”

She walked back over to him, only taking two steps, and kissed his forehead, brushing her thumb across his cheek. “I’m so very proud of you, Owen.”

The boy didn’t talk again until they were sitting at their table, across from each other while they ate grilled cheese and tomato soup. He was munching contentedly while he thought about how fast he could run, and how he was excited for his mum to teach him more, when he remembered the superheroes that he saw on TV.

He grinned widely, looking up at his mum. “Could I be a supahhero?”

“If yah want tah be,” she said. “Yah could be whatevah yah want tah be.”

“Would I make a good one?”

“I think so.” His mother reached across and pinched his cheek. “I think yah’d make a good anything.”

A warm feeling grew in his chest, spreading throughout his body as pride overtook him. He could see himself, fighting crime, helping people, being a good person, and making his mum proud of him.

Owen took another bite of his grilled cheese, kicking his feet excitedly. He had a new plan in his head now, not that he really had one before, as he hadn’t really thought about what he was going to be when he grew up. But he knew now, and he was excited.

Even if he was just a police officer, he was going to help people, and he wanted to do it—even though being a superhero would be preferred. Either way, he was determined, and he was ready to make his mum proud of him.

“I’m gonna be a supahhero.”

She smiled warmly. “What will yuh name be?”

He thought about it, not quite sure, before grinning and shouting, “Captain Kangaroo!”

Melody laughed, sitting back in her chair. “Well, I’m sure yah’ll be a wonderful superhero, Captain Kangaroo.”

Owen beamed at her, a whole new excitement rushing through his veins. The only thing he guessed, that could top this new found interest, was getting a dog. He’d have to work on that next.

Chapter Text

“Gwennie. Gwennie. C’mon, Gwennie girl.”

Owen watched her roll over and away from him after he poked her, nearly falling off the bed in the process, groaning as she pushed herself up on her elbows. Her hair was practically the only thing he could focus on in the dark; a mess on her head, tangled and uncombed as it hung down in her face. She looked at him with eyes that told him she was nowhere near being ready to wake up. He walked around the bed and held out his hand to her, taking her palm against his and helping lift her out of bed.

“I'll look at yuh othah hand latah, alrigh’? Maybe get some brekkie, but we need tah leave.”

“Okay,” Gwen whispered, and he let go of her. She watched her bare feet as she shuffled to her backpack, probably going to get pants, Boomerang thought as he put on his tank top and coat; she still had his jacket.

He opened the door for her, one of his boomerangs in his hand, and waited for her at the top of the stairs, listening to the quiet house. He didn't hear anyone downstairs, no floorboard creaking, no foot steps, just Gwen ambling towards him with one strap of the backpack over her shoulder. She tripped on the first step, and his hand shot out, wrapping around her bicep to catch her.

“Careful,” he warned, and let go as she nodded, her head perked up.

She pulled his jacket closer around herself when he opened the door, the pair of them greeted by a gust of freezing wind. He pressed his palm against her back between her shoulder blades as he pushed her forward, guiding her out of the door while looking up at the sky. It was barely six in the morning, meaning the sun had yet to rise, and he could feel the small kisses of snowflakes against his skin.

“What time is it?” Gwennie asked as they got to the truck.

Owen pulled his keys out of his pocket, unlocking the doors. “Time fah yah tah get in the truck,” he replied without missing a beat, and climbed in, starting it before she settled in the seat beside him.

He frowned in the direction of the house as he backed out, sighing and looking away once they were on the road. It was always sad to run across an old friend, for him anyway. Without fail, they were worse off than before, or further steeped in their old ways, every single time. To him, it was a shame to see someone like Evan, someone who he’d known and shared stories over a beer with, be reduced to small carpentering job, and seducing whorish women at local restaurants, bars, or just about anywhere he could find them.

Granted, Evan had always been that way. The Scot certainly had had a rough go, from being a mercenary, to killing his own father, to ending up working as a spy for the US and going rogue, he had no reason not to seek release. Owen knew that his time in prison, those long three years that had dragged on like an eternity, had changed him more than almost anything else in his life, and he had had a lot of time to contemplate the lows and highs of anyone he considered to be a friend.

It was a shame that the Scot had fallen in his eyes, especially since he’d last seen him, but he supposed it was no longer something he could be concerned about. In the end, if either of them needed help, they knew they could go to each other, and with that thought in mind, he drove away, feeling slightly less gloomy.

“Boomer?”

He grunted, turning out onto the main road that cut through the town.

“How do you know when you’ve broken a finger?”

“Fingah or a knuckle?”

“Both.”

Boomerang lifted one hand and placed the other on top of the steering wheel while he scratched his left cheek, burping in the process. “Hurts a bit, usually bruised an’ swollen. Yah won’t be able tah bend ‘em, or really move ‘em at all, especially if yah broke both.”

He could see Gwennie looking at her hand out of the corner of her eye, some of her fingers bending and some not.

“I’ll betcha they ain’t broken,” he said.

“What about my thumb?”

“Did yah punch him with yuh thumb inside yuh fist?”

He asked the question with mirth, and she looked away from him and down, likely embarrassed. Owen chuckled then, amused at the small woman. Really, he still couldn’t believe that she actually punched him. He would’ve made a joke about it when she did it, if there wasn’t any immediate danger.

After all, Evan had laughed when it was revealed that Gwen broke his nose—which still stung, if he sniffled—and then she had managed to get a jump on him and punch him hard enough to disorient him for a second.

“Maybe I’ll teach yah how tah throw a propah punch,” he concluded after thinking about it. “I punched like that me first time boxin’. Broke me thumb an’ three fingers. Happens tah everyone.”

“Why were you boxing?”

The man shrugged and replied, “‘Cuz it was fun. All ‘a the guys I was with did it, tried tah teach me before I hopped in. I wouldn’t have it. I didn’t make that mistake again.”

He didn’t remember much of that night. He had been a bit drunk, just like everyone else in the Pits. His goal hadn’t been to end up in one of the three rings, but ultimately his name was written on the chalkboard and James had tried to show him how to anticipate, dodge, and attack within thirty seconds before he was tossed in. Of course, even if they had five minutes, it wouldn’t have done much good. Owen wasn’t listening.

Gwennie nodded and looked out of the window, her legs lifting so she could curl up with her knees against her chest. Neither of them reached for the radio, or tried to start another conversation, both of them keeping to themselves and their own thoughts as the noise of the wind blowing past and over the truck filled the space between them.

Owen knew that going back to where the avalanche warning had been wasn’t a good plan, especially since the snow was getting heavier, and he wasn’t in the mood to flip around and come back. Some places he’d been were fuzzy in his mind, the image of the map of the eastern US smudged in his head, and he had to guess where to turn, and hope that he picked the right road to advance.

Going north was his goal now, but first he needed to get out of West Virginia, then figure out how to go about getting through New York from there, hopefully up into Vermont. That was the farthest place that he had somewhere to stay, and they could potentially stay there for more than a night or two.

Boomer yawned loudly and shook himself. One day at a time , he reminded himself in his head. One day at a time.

What possessed him to grab two  toothbrushes, toothpaste, and deodorant, he had no idea, but there he was with two packages of six-inch, roast beef sandwiches, and four essentials stacked on top of them, as he walked up to the counter. He spotted a stack of road maps next to the register, and grabbed one, pushing it across the counter.

The clerk bagged up his items after he paid, handing him his change before wishing him a good day. Keeping his head down, he walked out the door and stalked around the corner to where the ATM was. He had been steadily using the money he had pulled almost two months ago, and it was time to take from another account.

It was chilly, and he bounced on the balls of his feet. The snow had stopped some while ago, and he waited rather impatiently for the machine to actually work. He imagined that it was already slow, like most were, and the cold air made it no quicker.

He watched the money tick out of the machine when he was done with a satisfactory smile, taking the six hundred dollars before walking back towards the truck, eager to be out of the cold. Owen stuffed the notes in his coat after counting them and got in the vehicle, shaking his shoulders as if shaking off snow. Setting the bag on the center console, he ran a hand down his face, hearing the plastic rustle as Gwen began to root through it.

She furrowed her eyebrows when he glanced at her, and moved to stick his hand into the bag to get his sandwich. He assumed her expression was directed at the other things he’d gotten, and when she opened her mouth, he narrowed his eyes enough to tell her that he didn’t want to talk about it—mostly because he didn’t have an explanation, and didn’t want to deal with that knowing look she was probably going to send his way.

The brunette pulled out her own sandwich, and they both ate in silence. Owen was licking his fingers by the time she finished hers, putting her plastic container back in the bag.

“Can I use these…?”

He looked over and watched her gesture to what was in her lap. She was confused, he could see the thoughts in her head, trying to make sense of him possibly buying something for her that didn’t pertain to absolute necessities.

He raised his eyebrow at her and replied, “I wouldn’ta gotten ‘em, if I was the only one usin’ ‘em. ‘Cept the blue toothbrush, that’s mine.”  

“Thank you.”

The rustle of the plastic cut him off after he opened his mouth, and a tick of frustration settled in his chest, more like annoyance than anything. Her hands were shaking when she opened the deodorant—funny enough, it was meant for males—like he might take it from her.

The man looked away then, rubbing his thumb along his lower lip as he frowned, hearing the pop of the lid. She sighed with satisfaction as she rubbed it under her arms.

“I never thought I’d miss deodorant so much,” she admitted. “Mother wouldn’t even let me step out of my room if I hadn’t put it on under my arms, behind my knees, and under my breasts.”

Her face was turning red at the admission, and he chuckled a little, reaching out to grab the stick. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Yuh mum’s a piece ‘a work.”

She nodded and he took off the cap, applying it under his arms for the first time in months. He had to admit that the smooth, cool slide of the roll on was more pleasant than he was expecting, and he did like the smell. He almost sighed and echoed Gwen, but shook out his arms instead, putting the cap back on before handing it back to her. She took it and reached down, unzipping the pack to slide it in.

“Whenever we stop again,” she told him, “I’m going to brush my teeth hard enough I’m liable to break the toothbrush.”

Owen turned on the truck, putting the container for his sandwich down at Gwen’s feet. “I knew someone who did that,” he told her. “In prison they’d give yah some essentials sometimes. My first cellmate hadn’t brushed in ovah a year, an’ he brushed sah hard that the handle snapped. Poor bloke damn near cried.”

She lifted her hand, giggling behind it. “I’ve never heard of that really happening. They don’t seem easy to break.”

“It was like watchin’ a toothpick.”

“Did he at least get another one?”

The Australian shrugged his shoulders, backing out before accelerating towards the exit. “I dunno. I got transferred an’ nevah found out.”

Gwennie looked at him, her hand still over her mouth. “I hope he did.”

Unfortunately, Owen couldn’t remember the man’s name, even after he’d been hauled to solitary for getting into an ‘altercation’ with him. If he got a toothbrush, good for him, if not, Owen didn’t care.

Twenty minutes down the road, he pulled off, parking just to the side of it in the snow, and gestured towards the bag Gwen still had. “Gimme the map.”

She did as he asked, handing him the paper for him to unfold and lay out over the radio so they could both see it. The map was of the eastern states, from Kentucky and Virginia up north, and after some careful, quick glances, he laid his finger on the map above the name ‘ Thomastown ’.

“This,” he told her, tapping his finger on the map. “Is where we are. An’ we gotta get up tah New York an’ take the least likely used roads.”

The cab went quiet as Boomerang’s eyes raked over the map, familiarizing himself again with their surroundings. It had been too long, and some roads he thought existed didn’t, and some he didn’t know about now did.  He just needed to find the best way out.

“What about here?”

Her fingernail gently touched the paper and traced along the main road that turned onto a back road he hadn’t heard of, but it led up through half of the state, at least. He rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb, contemplating. “Not a bad idea.”

She sat back in her seat and Boomerang looked over the route several more times, making sure that he remembered where he was going to be turning onto the right road, and folded up, lifting the console to put the map in for later.

“I’ll see about gettin’ us a motel fah the night, alrigh’?”

Gwennie nodded, and resumed her usual position of looking out the window and staying quiet.

There were two small beds in the room, both of them covered with old-fashioned, brown and orange comforters, with two pillows, the cases the same design as the blanket. He doubted he was going to fit on his, and if he did, he was likely to roll off in the night.

He was right. Of course, he thought, glaring down at his feet as they hung off the end of the bed. His shoulders spanned across the width of the bed, and he folded his arms over his chest, scowling at the ceiling. Might as well accept it now, he told himself. Yuh’re gonna roll off.

Something dropped on tile flooring, he heard it echo through the open bathroom door, and glanced over. He could just barely see Gwen, bending over before picking up the tube of toothpaste that had fallen to the floor. She was quick about it, getting the toothpaste on the brush, running it under the water, and shoving it into her mouth to scrub her teeth in fast circles.

Owen stood up, scratching at his bare, hairy chest as he wandered over to the foot of the bed, where the backpack was. He rooted around, finding the bag with the other toothbrush inside, and grabbed it to take it out of the plastic packaging. It was a challenge, and he managed to give his thumb a paper cut—which he sucked on while tapping his foot angrily—but he got the toothbrush out and joined Gwennie in the bathroom.

He stayed behind her, reaching around her for the toothpaste and to wet the brush, and proceeded to brush his teeth. His eyes stayed on the reflection, not really focused on her, or himself, as he cleaned his teeth.

Whenever he went too long without giving them a good scrub, he forgot what it felt like to have clean teeth again, and he was excited to feel the gunk leave his gums. Gwen finished before him, spitting out the foam and rinsing her mouth out as she bent over the sink.

He stepped back when she moved to leave, watching her go. She started towards his bed, nearly sitting her ass down on it before he made an incredulous noise.

“Don’ si’ there. ‘S mine,” he said through the mess of foam and toothpaste in his mouth.

Gwen lifted her hands, mumbled something, and scooted away from the bed while Boomer gave a firm and satisfied nod, and returned to the task at hand.

He did the same as her, spitting out what was in his mouth and bending over the sink to get some water. The man sloshed it around his mouth, tossing his head back and gargling it before letting it fall into the bowl of the sink.

After rubbing his face, closing the door and taking a piss, he re-emerged and fell diagonally across the bed with a loud sigh. He brought up his arms, folding them under his head with his eyes hidden in the crook of his elbow. It was silent in the room, quiet enough that he thought he could hear his own heartbeat, slowing down as his body rested.

“Are we going to be staying here long?”

She sounded apprehensive, and he didn’t look up as he shook his head. “Nah. Leavin’ first thing.”

“My fingers…”

“Slipped me mind. Remind me in the mornin’.”

He could hear her sigh through her nose, obviously displeased by his answer. He grunted in response to her sigh, and heard movement on the bed across from him. When the rustling stopped, he began to fade off into sleep.

“Night, Boomer.”

“Mmph.”

Owen was in the hallway doing handstands against the wall, his curly hair long enough that when he went up and his heels touched the wall, it brushed against his fingers. He giggled, coming down on one toe before rocking up again. The little six-year-old had been experimenting with handstands all day—as they were the only things his mum permitted in the house where he went on his hands. He’d try to do cartwheels once and ended up knocking one of her large plants over.

He had felt bad, and had apologized profusely to her and to the plant, after they had righted it again.

The boy huffed, counting in his head as he held himself up, his face screwed up in concentration. 8, 9… 10!

“Mum!”

He dropped back onto the floor, nearly stumbling into the wall as he righted himself. He stepped, his bare feet warm on the cold hardwood, and stepped again, trying to decide if she was in her room, or if she was downstairs. She had, after all, been doing laundry.

The ball of his foot came down, and he felt something under it, something wet and sticky, and he swore he could hear something crunch. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, along with his arms, and the color drained from his face as he looked down, feeling something tickle—like a hair—the bottom of his foot.

Cautiously, he rocked back onto his heel, and all at once, hundreds of tiny creatures scattered out from underneath him, climbing over his feet, light enough that he almost couldn’t feel them. Almost.

Melody had warned him about spiders before. She told him that they were not to be toyed with, any kind of them, and that they were dangerous. If he ever saw one in the house, it was his job to tell her about it so she could get rid of it. (Melody didn’t normally kill them, simply scooped them up, if possible, and took them outside.)

She had not, however, told him what to do in the event of stepping on one, or really coming into direct contact with them at all, and there he was, standing in the hallway after crushing one, only to have its babies come tearing out of it.

He shrieked, hurting his own ears as the creatures scrambled up over his legs. Fear made his body lock up, and he had no idea what to do, and then his arms and legs started swinging wildly.

“Mum! Mum!”

He lost his balance, stumbling back and more of the baby spiders were crushed under his weight, and more were crawling over his toes.

“Help me! Mummy!”

He fell onto his back, and began rolling in blind panic, trying to move away from the source of the problem as he began screaming incoherently, tears welling in his eyes.

Hands wrapped around under his and ripped him up off the ground as he continued screaming, and he was rushed out the backdoor and off the porch. His mother put him down, not saying anything with an angry and focused look on her face, and grabbed the hose, spinning the wheel hard and fast.

Water rushed through the hose, and without a moment to prepare himself, she put her thumb against the lip of the opening and sprayed him down as he continued wailing, still feeling them crawling over him, even as the water washed over his skin and went through his pants—which Melody soon took off, along with his shirt to spray him down even more.

The water turned off after she gave his entire body another spray down, his hair hanging in his face and dripping down onto his feet as he whimpered loudly, ready to start crying all over again as she kneeled down, grabbing a hold of his arms.

“Owen, baby,” she said. “Owen, look at me. Look at me!”

Her fingers grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up at her through blurry eyes. “Are yah hurt? Did it bite yah? What happened?”

He shook his head, his shoulders shaking. “I-I was doin’ me-me handstands an’ I wanted tah-tah show yah an’ I d-didn’t see it an’ I stepped on it—” he hiccuped and it turned into coughing. “—an’ there were lil-little ones an’—”

“Alright, baby, alright. C’mere.”

Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him close to her. He clung to her and cried harder as his arms went over her shoulders, listening to her as she shushed him gently, her hand stroking his head.

“I’m here, my love. I’m here.”

"I’m scared.”

“I know, my Wild Colonial Boy.”

He hid his face against her neck, crying still, and she sat back as he cried, trying to shake the disgusting feeling of the beasts crawling over him.

His mum started to sing, her voice quietly lifting around them as she sang what she always did when he was upset, telling about the Wild Colonial Boy and his adventures from Ireland to Australia. It soothed him, and by the end, he was mumbling the words with her, sniffling and rubbing his nose as he pulled away from her.

“What about the spiders?” Owen whispered. “They’re still in there.”

“Don’t yah worry about that,” she told him, smiling a little. “We’re gonna go to Grandma’s an’ I’ll take care of it, okay?”

“Okay.”

She lifted him up and set him on her hip since he was barefoot, and he continued to sniffle as she walked around the house and put him on the hood of the car. “I’m gonna go grab the keys. Stay here.”

The boy nodded, telling her to be careful as she went into the house, emerging a few moments later with her hair poofing around her from running quickly. The doors unlocked and he slid off of the vehicle, opening the door to get into the backseat. She got into the driver’s seat and started up the car, looking back at him.

“Are yah alright?”

"Yeah,” he told her in a meek voice.

She reached her hand back for him to grab, and he took a hold of her fingers gently, wiping under his nose with his other hand as he held onto them, letting them comfort him and distract him as he tried not to think about the spiders. He closed his eyes, and tried to see something other than their little legs.

It didn’t work, but he still kept trying, all the way to his grandma’s house. He didn’t sleep that night.

Chapter Text

Gwen awoke to the sound of a scream, almost as high-pitched as her normal speaking voice, and shot up, giving herself whiplash in the process. It was followed by the sound of a muffled crash, loud enough that it shook the floor. She flipped off the covers, her toes touching the floor before the rest of her followed the sound into the bathroom.

She pressed her ear against the door, and listened to the sounds of a struggle coming from inside. Boomerang she assumed, was panting, grunting, and emitting high pitched whines that she could hear over the sound of the shower. She opened the door, concerned something was actually wrong.

Hot air and steam greeted her, as well as the sight of the tan shower curtain torn down off the curtain rod, cast over the tub—mainly a squirming and panicking form sitting at the end of it. She walked forward against her better judgment and grabbed a hold of the curtain, pulling it off and away, producing a very loud ‘yipe’ from the Australian.

The man looked uncharacteristically terrified, his eyes wide and his face pale, his lips parted as he curled up as tight as he possibly could at the end of the tub. His gaze wasn’t on her as his heel slipped against the wet ceramic, in an obvious effort to push him back into the wall. She followed his eyes to near the drain and that’s where she saw her.

She was trying to scramble out of the beating water of the shower, obviously just as terrified as the man was. Gwen imagined if she had a voice she’d be screaming—likely she was hissing up a storm, inaudible over the water. She was one of the most beautiful specimens Gwen had ever seen, at least, as beautiful as a wet Carolina wolf spider could get.

Sympathy overtook the woman. The spider wasn’t dangerous, or even venomous, and she meant absolutely no harm to Boomer, and Gwennie knew that. After turning off the water, she bent down over the side of the tub, holding out her hand to the spider—who was about the size of her palm—clicking her tongue soothingly. She saw the man out of the corner of her eye, looking absolutely horrified that Gwen would even consider touching the arachnid.

Sure enough, the spider scrambled into Gwen’s hand and clung for dear life, wet and sloppy in her movements. Gwen shushed her as she stood up, turning around to leave the bathroom, focusing now on the spider as she cupped both her hands around her.

“Boomer’s a big ol’ meanie, isn’t he? I bet he didn’t even see you! Ignorant bastard.”

The spider had all of her eyes trained on the person carrying her, her legs twitching like she was ready to move but wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to yet.

“Well, I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt you anymore. How does outside sound? It’s almost winter, you know you shouldn’t be awake.”

No response came of course, as she opened the motel room door. Gwen crouched down, placing her fingertips on the ground outside the threshold. “Alright, go on.”

She jerked her palms a little, pushing the spider off by using gravity. She took off like a shot, skittering away from the door and out of sight before Gwen even had the chance to stand up. She clapped her hands together and turned around, closing the door behind her.

Boomerang was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at her with his mouth open, his face screwed up in a ‘what the fuck is wrong with you’ look. Gwen gave him it right back and folded her arms.

“Ain’t even gonna wash yuh hands?”

“Why?”

He shook his head, face scrunching even more in confusion.

“I bet you didn’t even see her. You almost killed her.”

Boomer snorted, holding the towel around his waist up with one hand. “Yeah, sure, like it didn’t almost kill me first.”

“She’s non-venomous and was likely minding her own business when you came along and ruined her morning.”

“It ruined mine!” Boomerang protested, huffing loudly as he puffed out his chest. His pride had taken a mighty blow, it seemed, and now he was trying to compensate. “The bloody thing landed on me feet aftah I turned on the showah! Dropped down like a fuckin’ ninja an’ scared the shit outta me.”

“I’m sure she was terrified, too. I bet you washed her down when you started the shower,” Gwen shot back. “How would you like to be minding your own business and then suddenly get swept away with no control?”

Boomerang glared at her, and she knew he was taking it personally. “I have been, thank yah very much,” he snapped at her. She narrowed her eyes in response.

“I thought you were observant.”

“I am.”

“Obviously not enough to see a little spider, about to die because of your careless actions.”

“I wish she had…”

Gwen smiled in triumph, raising her chin, even if what he said wasn’t the nicest. He acknowledged her gender. He realized this mistake and grimaced, shaking his head and muttering, “Fuck off,” before turning around to retreat into the bathroom again.

“Watch out for more! Make sure you don’t knock one off of the ceiling when you slam the door!”

The door slammed in reply, and she giggled.

The Australian took her hand, looking over the swollen, nearly purple knuckles. He hadn’t spoken to her since he’d open the door and told her to come into the bathroom and grab the ace bandage. She didn’t think she needed it for her shoulder, anymore, as she hadn’t worn it in nearly half a week. She was only reminded of the injury if she moved her arm too fast, or bent it back in a weird direction.

She had done as she was told, and now she was up on the bathroom counter, wincing as he poked one of her fingers, sending a sharp shock of pain up through her arm. Gwen tried to snatch her hand away, but he kept a firm hold on her wrist, tugging back to let her know that he didn’t appreciate it.

Her thumb, he told her, was the only digit that was broken, since she had punched Evan with it locked against her palm. It was purple, and swollen up badly, and as Boomer pushed against it lightly, she cried out, one of her feet kicking out of instinct, narrowly missing his hip.

“Does yuh shouldah hurt?”

“It did after,” she admitted. “But not anymore. Only if I move it too fast.”

Boomerang nodded, still feeling over her fingers. “Alright. Yuh thumb is broken, but I think it’s a clean break, an’ it’ll heal up with time. These two knuckles ain’t broke, probably cracked. I’m gonna wrap ‘em up an’ we’ll get some ice fah ‘em. Since yah ain’t got a cast, yah’ll still be able tah move ‘em, sah make sure yah don’t.”

“Okay.”

He grabbed the ace bandage that she brought in, telling her to keep her hand up as he slid it between her fingers and thumb and began winding it around, careful as he periodically tightened it, making her eyes water as the wrap went up her wrist and back down, before he tucked the end back into one of the folds.

His hand held hers then, his thumb trailing across where her knuckles were, and she could feel it through the fabric. “I’ll see what I can do about gettin’ some more painkillahs, alright? How bad are they hurtin’ now?”

“Probably an eight,” she replied, wincing when he pressed a little too hard with his thumb. He didn’t seem to notice because he didn’t stop. Instead, he frowned at her.

“Can’t tell yah how long it’ll take tah heal, since I dunno how bad they’re broke. I’ll check ‘em every few days tah make sure they’re healin’ up as right as I can get ‘em tah.”

As right as he could get them to. That made her nervous, and she started fidgeting on the counter. She’d heard before about how bones didn’t always heal correctly if they weren’t set right, and she didn’t know what the implications of that would be, but her mind jumped to the worst possibilities, like never being able to move it again, or having it hurt whenever she tried to move it.

“They’ll be fine.” His voice cut into her thoughts, breaking the beginnings of a hyperventilation spell. “I’ve just about broken every damn bone in my body, an’ they all healed fine. I don’t see any bones comin’ out, or bein’ where they ain’t supposed tah be, sah they just need time, alright?”

She looked up at him, his expression reassuring as he dropped her hand. “We’ll getcha ice before we leave. Like I said, don’t move it, an’ I’ll check it every now an’ then, re-wrap it. Alright?”

“Okay.”

Boomerang sat on the end of his bed, cracking his knuckles and neck before running his thumb against his bottom lip. “I don’t like spiders,” he confessed. “They’re disgustin’, got tah many legs, an’ tah many eyes.”

“I don’t think so,” she replied, watching him as he looked over his shoulder at her. She was laid out on the other bed and turned onto her side to look at him. “I’ve always liked them, ever since I was a kid.”

“I ain’t had good experience with ‘em, I guess.”

“I haven’t either. Not… Physically, anyway.”

Boomerang looked at her, laying back with his face turned towards her. He gestured with his hand for her to continue, his expression showing grossed-out curiosity.

“When I was in eleventh grade,” she started, “I was bitten by a brown recluse, and I honestly didn’t even realize it until I passed out in the middle of class. I hadn’t paid attention to the bite, and didn’t realize that it was getting black and that the skin was decaying. I just ignored it, because that’s what I was supposed to do, you know? I saw the pictures after, it was disgusting.

“But anyway, the paramedics came and got me and took me to the hospital. I had to go into surgery and get a muscle graft taken from my thigh for my side, right here—” she rolled onto her back to point to the spot in her side “—because the muscle and skin was all eaten through by the venom and they had to cut a huge chunk out. Mom was so pissed . Want to know what she was actually angry about?”

Boomerang blinked at her, and she took it as a ‘yes.’

“She was mad that it was going to scar a little bit. Not that I could’ve died, or that I was too scared to tell anyone because I was never, under any circumstance, allowed to bring attention to myself; fuck no, that wasn’t it. She was mad that I was going to have some embossed skin on my side, that it was possibly going to ruin my chances at being ‘the perfect model’.” Gwendolyn huffed to herself, getting worked up as her heart beat faster in her chest. Thinking about the way Lucinda reacted that day always made her angry, angrier than usual at the antics her mother had pulled.

“I mean, yeah, I guess it’s kinda concerning, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t done anything like that before, it’s just that I hadn’t had a near-death experience before then, and when that happened, she didn’t even care. I thought mothers were supposed to give a shit about that stuff.”

The man sat up and stared at her, his eyebrows scrunched together as he thought about what she said. “They are,” he rumbled, meeting her eyes. “Mum’s ain’t supposed tah be selfish like that, or just be a fuckin’ bitch. Yuh mum, she’s a real piece ‘a work, I remembah seein’ her around when yuh da’ would show up somewhere with her, fah some publicity stunt: always cold, like she was gonna yell at anyone who even kinda thought about gettin’ in her way.”

He shook his head, chuckling a little. “She’s that kind’a person that give kids nightmares, an’ that ain’t someone who should be raisin’ kids. I’d get it, if it was all a silly joke fah the world, that whole mask she uses, but c’mon. Yah don’t do that tah yuh kid, yah don’t traumatize ‘em tah the point they could die an’ didn’t say a word.”

“I take it your mom wasn’t like mine,” she ventured, her tone quiet, fearing backlash from him. He tensed enough that she could see it, but he didn’t spring up off the bed, or yell, or express anything aggressive. Instead, he just melted back into the mattress.

“Nah,” he whispered. “Not at all. My mum actually helped me when I was attacked by them bloody bastards.”

He lifted his hand, gesturing towards the door she had taken the spider out of with a huff. “Hundreds ‘a the things. I stepped on a mum spidah on accident an’ her babies came flyin’ outta her like a fuckin’ river. One ‘a the most terrifyin’ moments ‘a me life.”

Gwen cringed at the idea of hundreds of baby spiders crawling up over her legs, or her arms. She did like spiders, yes, but not enough that she would be willing to let small spiderlings use her as a playground.

“That sounds terrifying. And disgusting.”

He made a dignified ‘hmph’ sound as he scratched his cheek. “Reckon I didn’t like spiders before that, but aftah? Fuck nah.”

Gwen frowned and nodded her head before pushing herself up, staring at her hands as she folded her legs beneath her. “I always liked spiders,” she said. “My brother used to sneak me books on them, and I got to learn more about them. When I started getting older and realized I could use the internet to help me research, it opened doors for me, you know? I got to go deeper, thought that maybe I could become arachnologist, But she caught me one night, studying up on some when I was technically supposed to be working on homework. She took it all away from me then, crushed my dreams, never let me do research without supervision, or get books. If I had tried to do anything involving spiders again, she would’ve found out, and who knows what she would’ve done…  I wanted to work with spiders; I had a whole life planned out in my head.”

It was silent when she finished, her shoulders slumped. His voice broke the silence,“I wanted tah be a cop.”

She snorted suddenly and lifted her hand to her face immediately after, eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” she managed to get out, before she fell back with laughter bubbling up out of her, the image of Boomerang looking like Jim Dangle from Reno 911 , wearing short-shorts and aviator glasses.

“Yeah yeah, get yuh giggles out,” he said and folded his arms, something reminiscent of a pout playing on his lips.

Gwen’s stomach hurt by the time she stopped, breathing hard with a grin on her face and tears threatening to leak out of her eyes. She hadn’t laughed like that in a long time; so long that she couldn’t remember the last time giggles brought her to tears. She sat up again, facing him now.

“Sorry,” she repeated, the barest hint of mirth in her tone.

He rolled his eyes. “Believe it or not, I did. Mum thought it was a great idea.” Boomerang leaned back, his hands planted behind him on the mattress. “I thought it was, tah. Went with gang life instead, an’ it got me here. I think about what it woulda been like sometimes, if I became one.” Boomer shrugged noncommittally. “Who knows?”

“I don’t know,” she told him. “But I can’t see you being a cop. Maybe it’s the beard.”

“Yah think so?” He asked, a smile spreading across his face as he reached up to run his fingers through the wiry mutton chops. “Well, if I’m evah inclined tah go intah that line ‘a duty, I’ll be sure tah have ‘em shaved.”

She laughed again and shook her head. “Then you wouldn’t be as scary.”

“What, it ain’t me size, it’s me beard?”

Gwen winked at him. “Totally.”

“Shame,” he clicked his tongue. “Looks like I definitely ain’t becomin’ a cop.”

She fell back onto the bed again, hands over her stomach, as her laughter filled the air, accompanied by his deep, rumbling chuckle.

The Captain let her choose the music they listened to in the truck. It was silent in the cab for about twenty minutes before he finally gestured to the radio, mumbling that she could pick what she wanted.

Gwen turned the knob with her left hand, her right secured against her belly with a small baggy of ice on it, stopping on frequencies that had signals, consistently shaking her head before changing it to the next station, muttering about how she didn’t like that song, or how she’d come back after commercials. She froze, fingers twitching against the console, when the familiar sound of a Christmas song came through the speakers, the words, and beats startling her to the point that her mouth gaped.

Is it already Christmas time?

The woman remembered as a tightness gathered in her chest, like a big vacuum, sucking up all the good feelings she had had all morning, that it was September when Boomerang took her away from home. The middle of September, and now, it was almost December, or maybe it was December. She didn’t know, since she didn’t have her phone, or even a calendar.

“From God our heavenly Father

This blessed angel came;

And unto certain shepherds

Brought tidings of the same;

How that in Bethlehem was born

The Son of God by name.”

The feeling inside her chest expanded, leaving her feeling lonely and unbelievably sad. Tears started pricking at her eyes as she brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them for comfort. Something tugged in her belly, an unpleasant pull that made her feel like she needed to roll the window down and prepare to throw up everything in her stomach. It was homesickness, the first time it had hit her hard since the first three weeks of being with the Australian.

A lone tear slipped out onto her cheek as she looked out the window. Christmas wasn’t that big of an ordeal with her family, with few gifts exchanged between all of them, but they never spent it apart from each other (aside from when her brother disappeared to go and train under her father). This would be the first time she wouldn’t see her parents on December 25, or smell the cinnamon rolls her mother always had made for the morning, or even see the Christmas tree that her mother would have put up exactly two weeks before the holiday.

“Ooooh, star of wonder, star of night.”

Gwen startled, snapping her head around to see Boomer, leaning back in the seat with a faint smile on his face, his eyes glazed over with memories. He was singing along with the woman’s voice coming through the speakers.

“Star with royal beauty bright. Westward leading, still proceeding, guide us to thy perfect light.”

He kept singing, his deep, smooth voice curling around her like a warm and cozy fire, inviting her in for more, making her rethink about what had destroyed her good mood. She perked up, her shoulders lifting as she watched him, lost in his own world as he tapped his fingers on his steering wheel, singing along like a caroler. It reminded her of a kid, happy-go-lucky, with excitement buzzing in their bones just simply because they were here, and on top of it, it was almost Christmas. She used to be like that, just for a short time.

Boomerang looked over at her, a smile on his face that told her everything she needed to know. It was a real one, genuine and delightful, something that made him look utterly charming and handsome, and his eyes were nothing short of sweet evergreen, delicious and snug, making her feel relaxed instantly, homesickness and worry draining out of her body like it was never there.

He made her feel okay again, and she tucked her face into the collar of his jacket, her own smile threatening to peek over the lip of the blue and white fabric as her face burned.

Jay-Jay snuck in carefully, tip-toeing across the wooden floorboards to make sure none of them creaked. She had to cover her mouth to stop her laughter as she watched him move in the darkness, pretending to be a ninja. He grinned at her, finally plopping onto her bed before he pulled out a bag from behind his back.

“You got them?” The five-year-old whispered to him.

“Of course I did. I know you love the stuff.”

She beamed at him as he opened the plastic bag, reaching inside for one of the dried pieces of beef before handing it to her. Gwennie chomped down on it with delight, pulling at the tough meat as she savored the smoky taste. Her eyes closed as she savored it all, the texture, the smell, the way it left a greasy residue on her fingers, the taste, everything .

No doubt about it, the girl loved beef jerky. It was her favorite food of all time, and Jason, whenever he could, always managed to get her some.

On this night though, it was more important than any other night, and they both knew that as she held out her hand for another piece. He handed one to her and she folded her legs under her, watching the thick snowflakes drift down outside of her window.

Jason sat back, munching on another piece of meat, looking out the window, too. “Gwennie?” 

“What?”

“What’s your favorite part about snow?”

A piece of the meat was handed to her as she thought about it. Gwen loved the snow, and she loved winter; she always had, tromping around in it when it was deep, or rolling in it, making snow angels, or building ramps that she could slide down after pouring water over the top of snow she had compacted (a trick her brother taught her). She pouted her lips before taking another bite, not quite sure what to tell him.

“All of it?” She tried, her eyebrows furrowed. Her brother smiled and shook his head.

“Nope. Your favorite part, that’s just one thing.”

“I like when it falls from the sky,” she said, lips screwed up in a pout. Jason called it her ‘pouty thinking face’.

“Why?”

“Because it’s really pretty,” she replied. “And then when it all falls down, it’s on the ground so I can play in it. Plus, I really like looking at lights on the street when it snows, because then you can see all the snowflakes! Did you know that no snowflake is the same, that they’re all different?”

She began to get excited, almost bouncing on her mattress, and he continued smiling at her. “I did know that,” he said. “Do you want to know my favorite part about snow?”
Gwen nodded excitedly, and he pulled out a few more slices of jerky as he gathered his thoughts, figuring out what he was going to say.

“My favorite part about snow is being able to play in it with you. You make the best slides. Do you remember when Rodney Hancock tried to go down the one we made last year and he slipped before he even got to the top of it and had to go home?”

She started giggling, covering her mouth as she remembered the red-headed boy, claiming that he was going to do the best trick going down the two foot slide her and her brother built, and slipped on ice before he even made it to the top, resulting in him hitting his nose on the hard surface of the ramp. He had touched his nose gingerly, and even though no blood was coming out of it, he ran home, claiming it was broken. Lucinda never got a call about it, so evidently it wasn’t broken, and the two children were allowed to continue their activities outside.

“Yes,” she replied. “I thought he was going to ruin it, jump down it and crush it, or something.”

“So did I,” he admitted and grinned. “Good thing he didn't go down it, we would've had to rebuild it.”

Gwennie scrunched up her face and shook her head with her tongue stuck out. “I would've made him do it,” she mumbled, her arms folded.

Jason laughed. “Oh I'm sure you would've,” he agreed. “Commanding him to do your bidding, just like a proper princess”

She rolled her eyes and giggled. “Well if he ruined it, he would've had to fix it. It's a rule!”

“I know, I know.”

He handed her another piece and she took it, thanking him.

“I can almost hear those cinnamon rolls calling my name,” he said casually. “Those are the best part, when mom gets them made.”

“I like the oranges.”

“She only got them twice.”

“Yeah, but I remember them. And they tasted really good, Jay-Jay.”

Her brother shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “I can't say, you took half of mine before I could really taste it.”

“I did not!”

“Did too.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, folding her arms again. He laughed, covered by his palm. “Oh you know I'm joking, Gwennie. I agree, they were good. Maybe if we're extra good tomorrow, Mom will let us get some.”

Gwennie perked up, smiling broadly. “You think so?”

Jason nodded and grinned back before looking down at the bag. “We're almost out.”

She reached over, swiping the bag out of his hands. He was right, they were almost out. Only two pieces of the jerky remained at the bottom of the bag, along with crumbs and small strips of meat that were too small to taste.

Pouting, she reached in and took one of the pieces for herself, giving the bag back to Jason. “Thank you,” she told him. “For letting me have some.”

“You’re welcome, Gwen. I know it’s your favorite.”

Gwen nodded her head, savoring her last piece for who knows how long. Her mother hated jerky, or really anything that was remotely unhealthy, which included anything with too much grease, fat, or carbs. Gwen didn’t like the diet her mother set for the family; the only time she ever got to try something sweet or really delicious was for dessert. Even that was a rarity.

Her brother would often sneak in treats though, like he did tonight, and share them with Gwen. One time he managed to get an entire box of six doughnuts into his room without anyone noticing, and then gave her two that night when the large apartment was quiet. Gwennie still had no idea how he did it, but she remembered how the chocolate on the doughnut tasted, and the delicious yellow cream inside it.

He sighed as he folded up the bag, chewing on the last piece of jerky. “At least tomorrow she’ll be a little bit nicer to us.”

Gwen moved to hug him, nodding against his chest as she thanked him again. He hugged her back and squeezed her before she moved off of him and he stood up.

“Merry Christmas, Gwen,” he said and gestured to her digital clock. It was five past midnight. “I’ll see you in the morning. Have a good night.”

“Merry Christmas, Jay-Jay. Sleep well.”

He smiled at her as he tip-toed across the room, and shut the door quietly behind him.

Chapter Text

Gwen was bundled up in his jacket, curled up tightly, with her head against the window as she slept. Snow had begun to fall after she fell asleep around four in the afternoon. They had stopped an hour before for a late lunch, and he had seen how exhausted she was, eyes drooping and her movements slow. Owen knew the truck was better for getting some rest than the bike was, and it looked like she wasn’t waking up anytime soon; nor was he planning on waking her.

He’d had a rough morning himself, getting up after a night of little sleep, only to get in the shower and feel a spider of all things, wet and heavy, drop down onto the top of his foot with an accompanying ‘plop!’. He shuddered just thinking about it, wanting to scrub his feet until they were red and raw.

Owen had shrieked, kicking his leg up to throw the spider off and as far away from him as it could get. He ended up slipping backward and pulling the shower curtain down on top of him, only to realize, that the spider was still in the tub, inches away from his legs.

Gwennie had been an unexpected surprise, pulling the curtain off and away from him, giving his heart another jump, as if there was going to be an even bigger spider pulling away the cloth, ready to attack him. How she picked up that thing without hesitation, cooing to it like it was a person and being sweet to it, was beyond him. Then she insisted on calling it a her, and she, and he managed to fall into the verbal trap she’d laid for him. He’d spent an additional fifteen minutes in the bathroom, grumbling angrily under his breath as he scrubbed his feet, checking the ceiling every thirty seconds to ensure there wasn’t another arachnid lying in wait.

After his heart had calmed down and the frustration had left him, he had fixed her hand as best he could, even getting her a bag of ice before they left the motel behind them.

Her mood changed when she settled on a station, Christmas music blaring out of the speakers. Her body had slumped over, her face turning downwards, and Boomerang had felt a pang in his stomach, that kind that reminded him of when he’d hurt her shoulder.

The words of the Christmas song slipped from his lips without him even realizing, and he couldn’t remember the last time he actually sang something. Even now, as he stared out at the road, white flakes going by outside in streaks, he couldn’t. She had been surprised, and in all honesty, he had been, too, but when he had watched her duck her face, a smile on her lips and her cheeks turning red, he didn’t have a mind to stop.

He hadn’t, not until they got to the empty rest stop for their late lunch, and by then she was singing along with him, whatever negative feelings she’d had were soon forgotten. Owen himself, hadn’t felt that happy since before the three years he’d spent in prison, and his lips remained turned up throughout their meal. They hadn’t said anything to each other, when they finished eating, leaving to get in the truck, music still playing as they continued on their way. Neither of them sang, this time, content to just listen, and after awhile, he looked over and saw that she was sound asleep.

He had turned down the radio, and now it was just background noise, behind his thoughts and the sound of the tires on the road. She was changing him, steadily and surely, and he wasn’t sure at all how he felt about that. Half the time he wanted to please her, to make sure she was comfortable, and the other half he was his usual self, his own number one priority, not her. She smiled more now, and he’d be damned if it didn’t push some weight off of his chest, damned if it didn’t help him relax, and damned if it didn’t make him want to smile back at her.

The Aussie didn’t even get angry when she mentioned his mum, anymore. The last people he’d ever been so open with were James and Annalise. The two names struck him in the chest like bullets, making it hard to breathe as he gripped the steering wheel tighter, remembering.

“Not now,” he murmured as their faces appeared in his mind. “Please.”

Gwen’s gasp cut through his thoughts, severing his connection with them surprisingly easily. His head turned, concerned as his body tightened automatically, prepared for a fight. Her face was scrunched up in her sleep, worry lines deeply engraved around her eyes and mouth as she gasped again, her body jerking.

She was beginning to pant, moving to turn her head the other way, and Boomer looked ahead to pull over. He did so easily, tires crunching the snow under the truck, before he unbuckled and leaned across the center console, his hands gripping her arms to turn her towards him.

“Gwennie, girl, look at me.”

Her eyes were moving under her lids, frantic as her breath came in harder pants. She tossed her head to the side, away from him, body straining in her sleep.

“Gwennie,” he repeated. “Gwennie. Gwen, dammit, wake up.”

She didn’t, and he started to grow frustrated, giving her arms a firm squeeze before snapping off a loud, “Gwen!”

She jolted away, eyes shooting open, gasping with her gaze unfocused as she started to struggle against Owen’s hands, legs lifting to try and kick at him.

“Gwennie, hey—would yah—Gwen! Knock it off!”

He glared at her, hard enough that his lip lifted up in a snarl and she stopped, staring at him with eyes wild and hair in her face. Fear left traces on her face, from the look in her blue irises, to the way her expression was drawn, terrified and apprehensive.

“Knock it off,” he growled again. “Throwin’ a damn fit’ll get yah nowhere fast.”

He could hear her swallow and he loosened his grip on her, watching her expression change from fear, to confusion, to looking like she was about to start crying right there. She was shaking badly, and Boomerang knew the feeling all too well; nightmares got the best of him sometimes, too.

“Hang on,” he said, letting her go before turning around to get out of the truck and walk around to open her door. “C’mere. Stretch yuh legs.”

He held out his hand to her as she turned towards him, her lip wobbling. Gwen’s tiny hand slipped into his, using him to help her stay steady as she got down and stood, her boots crunching on the snow. Owen didn’t let go of her, deciding that if she wanted, she could pull away from him.

The snow-covered woods around them held silence, like their own little bubble in the world, the only sounds they could hear were their boots on the snow, and her quick breaths, curling out into the air like smoke, disturbing the calm atmosphere.

She looked tired, older than she really was, with her body weighed down and slouched, her left hand holding onto his forearm as she cradled her right one to her body. He knew he probably looked tired too, and felt it, especially now that he was up and moving. His body protested, causing him to move slowly, his legs stiff, as he kept trying to stretch his back enough to pop his spine.

“Do we have to keep driving?” She asked quietly. “I want to stay here for awhile.”

“I ain’t sittin’ out in the cold, Gwennie girl, if that’s what yah mean.”

Gwennie shook her head, sniffling, and said, “No. I just don’t want to do any more driving for a minute.”

He grew quiet, the silence creeping in and engulfing him as he started to run through different scenarios in his head: getting caught by police, not getting caught by police, getting snowed in, having an anonymous tip dropped that they were just sitting on the side of the road, running out of gas, the battery dying—

Stop , he told himself, shoving the images that had come to mind away. She didn’t have a bad idea, staying in the truck for awhile, maybe for the rest of the day, could be a much-needed relief. The traveling was wearing on them more and more each day, bags under both their eyes, a good night’s sleep escaping them whenever they found a place to rest. Being on the run was a dangerous game, and stopping for longer than an hour anywhere ran a high risk, even the motels, but sometimes he had to look after his physical health too, and that was the argument he used as he helped her into the backseat, following behind her.

She didn’t object as they rearranged themselves several times, trying to find something comfortable in the cramped space after he took his coat off, spreading it over the both of them and grabbing his pillow from off the floor. He laid against the door behind him, mostly sitting up with one of his legs along the seat, foot flat against the window, while the other leg draped off, laying on the floor. Gwennie was between his legs, leaning back into his chest with her head turned, arms folded under his coat.

She curled into a ball on top of him, and his arms automatically snaked around her, keeping her close to him as he closed his eyes, falling asleep surprisingly easily.

“They were chasing me,” Gwen whispered after they had woken up. “I don't know who they were, they were just shadows, but I was scared of them. They wanted to hurt me.”

“D’yah know why they were chasin’ yah?” Owen asked, quiet in the dark.

“They wanted something from me.”

He grunted, shifting enough so there wasn't weight grinding down on his tailbone, before scratching his nose. “I've had dreams like that,” he admitted. “An’ no mattah how hard yah run, yah can't get away. They're always just a meter behind yah.”

She nodded, her cheek still pressed up against his chest. Her body was warm from sleep and pleasantly heavy, keeping him in a state between dreaming and being aware of reality. He blinked slowly, sleep just beginning to leave his senses, even though he'd woken up twenty minutes ago.

“Why do you think I dreamed it?”

“Reckon it's the same as why I do. Yah’ve been run down an’ chased, an’ yah still are.” He shrugged, noticing that the coat had slipped off of his upper body, being pulled towards Gwen as she wrapped it tighter around herself. “Are yah cold?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He pulled his arms tighter around her, not wanting to move and possibly have to go back out into the cold to get the truck turned on and the heat going. He placed his hands on her, rubbing up and down carefully, hoping to generate some more warmth for her.

“Go back tah sleep, Gwennie girl. Yah need it. If yah want, we can talk about yuh dream in the mornin’.”

Boomerang could hear her yawn before she stretched her legs and curled up again, making a soft huffing sound as she got settled. He stayed where he was, not wanting to disrupt her as she got comfortable.

“Boomer?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

“Yuh’re welcome. Now sleep. When yah wake up, we'll go an’ get some brekkie.”

She nodded again, and after a few minutes he felt her go limp, her breathing slowing down as she fell asleep against the Aussie. His hands moved over her, fingers trailing across her back, arm, and even down to her hip, letting the movements soothe him while he laid his head back against the cold window.

She didn't move much in her sleep, curled up like a cat napping in a patch of sunlight. He watched her, his hand drifting up to run his fingers through her hair, being as gentle as possible. What was driving him to touch her, secretly in the dark as he looked at her form, he didn't know, but he didn't want to stop.

Memories danced in his head, replacing Gwen with Annalise; his Anna, settled against him. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, looking up and across at the other window. Normally, he tried to ignore her whenever she came to his head, her voice and laugh calling to him, but tonight, he allowed her in, listening to her speaking in a memory when they playfully bickered about what was better, beef or chicken.

Owen missed her, the way she felt against him, the way she smelled, how her kisses tasted, how she looked after a long shower. He didn't know when he was with her if he was in love with her, but when he thought about it now, how he missed her so much that it was like a hole in his heart, how he longed to have her again in the dark nights, he knew he was. He still was in love with her, with the idea of them being alone together, like they had run and gotten away with it.

Two tears fell for her, but no more, running down his cheeks as he looked back down at Gwennie. She wasn't Annalise, but she was Gwen, and now, after what they had been through, he didn't wish she was someone else. Annalise left his mind, saying goodbye gently, like it was the last time.

The Australian sighed, closing his eyes as he moved his arms around Gwen again, and tried to find a little more sleep before they hit the road in the morning.

Christmas music was still playing in the cab, background noise to the crinkling of paper as they both unwrapped their food. Macca’s, while unexpected, had been a welcome sight, and at six in the morning, no one cared about them pulling up in the drive-thru. In fact, Boomerang was 95% sure that the teenager handing them their bag of food hadn’t actually even looked at either of them.

They both dug into their breakfast while pulled over down the road from the fast-food restaurant, munching contentedly.

His neck and back had ached by the time they got around to waking up and actually moving to get out earlier that morning. He’d nearly fallen out of the truck, catching himself by hanging onto the door until both of his feet were firmly in place.

She had giggled behind him, and then promptly slipped and landed on her ass in the snow while Boomerang laughed at her, bent over and wheezing instead of helping her. Gwen had grabbed a handful of snow and shoved it down the back of his shirt in retaliation once she had regained her footing, and he had cried out, shaking his body in an effort to get it off of his back.

He had glared at her and snatched up some snow of his own, flinging it and hitting her square in the chest. They ultimately ended up shoving snow onto each other, both of them laughing, before finally getting into the truck, wet and chilled, their faces rosy red while they grinned at one another.

Their hair was still damp and their noses were still red, and Owen could feel the faint tremors of the cold in his fingers as he held his egg, sausage, and cheese sandwich. Gwen took a sip from their shared drink in the cup holder, smacking her lips before she finished off her sandwich and reached into the bag to grab a napkin, wiping off her fingers.

The Australian simply licked his digits when he was done, grabbing for the Coke to take a drink. He put it back with a satisfied ‘aah’—soda was something he found himself craving every now and again—and started rooting around in his coat pocket for his cigarettes.

His fingers felt the box, but not the cool metal that should’ve been beside it, and his eyes widened in panic, pulling out the side of his coat to reach and look. The compass he kept inside was gone.

A ball quickly formed in his chest, heavy as lead, and he could feel himself beginning to hyperventilate, thinking of the last time he’d seen it or felt it against his fingers. He couldn’t lose that compass.

“I have it.”

A flare of rage shot through him and he rounded in the seat, glaring before he even laid his eyes on her. She was holding it out in her injured hand, looking down at the console.

“It fell out of your coat last night,” she said. “I forgot to take it out of my pocket and give it back. I’m sorry.”

He snatched it out of her hands with a loud, aggressive exhale through his nose, feeling it in his palm before tucking it into the pocket again, making sure it was secure while grabbing a smoke, now needing it more for stress-relief than anything else.

He rolled down the window and lit it, sticking the end in his mouth and inhaled deeply, blowing it out into the cold before sitting back, touching the compass through the fabric of the inside pocket.

“What is it? I’ve seen it before, but…” She trailed off, her voice slightly shaky, giving away her underlying fear of asking the question.

Boomerang turned his head after taking another drag. “A compass,” he managed to get out, like it pained him to acknowledge the question.

“Why—”

“Don’t ask that, Gwennie girl.”

It went silent in the cab for a good few minutes while he finished off the cigarette, tossing the butt out the window before rolling it up. Running his thumb across his lower lip, he started the truck, quickly accelerating out onto the road again.

“What does it look like?”

He hesitated, trying to decide between snapping ‘fuck off’ at her, or actually showing her, ultimately choosing to push up the sleeve of his coat and hold out his wrist. She’d seen it before, he knew, but he saw her eyes light up as she put two and two together, and her fingers twitched, like she wanted to reach out and touch the ink. Owen drew his hand back before she could inquire more.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, and turned her head to look out the window. The music stayed quiet, filling the space between them, neither of them making an effort to say more, or interact further. The familiar songs played throughout the cab of the truck, and with the reminder of the gold compass in his pocket, more thoughts of his mum crept into his head.

His heart started aching in his chest and he could hear her voice in his head. “Wild Colonial Boy, yuh’re bettah than that. Don’t be such an arse.”

Leave me alone, Mum.

“Then don’t be an arse,” her voice snapped. Boomerang sighed, practically feeling her hand smacking the back of his head. “Apologize.”

No.

“Now.”

Owen pulled a hand off the steering wheel, rubbing his face as he mentally argued with a person that wasn’t there. He could see her, arms folded, that look of ‘are you kidding me?’ stamped on her face.

“At least do somethin’.”

Like what, Mum? I ain’t gonna apologize.

“You figure it out.”

He huffed and it startled Gwen, making her jump in her seat. His eyes glanced at her and he mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

“Hmph.” It was smug, echoing in his mind as she disappeared.

Gwennie looked confused, eyebrows raised and her lips parted, before she smiled at him, soft and sweet, making him feel a bit better about his wounded pride. She reached for the cup, taking a sip of the Coke through the straw before nodding at him. “It’s okay.”

Owen had a schedule now, or as much of a schedule he could have in his cold, cement prison cell, barred by the metal door three inches thick. It started with pacing, and then there was a slow progression to push-ups, and then he moved on to planking on the hard floor, until his core hurt too much to continue, a process he continued until he was too exhausted to do more.

Back and forth, back and forth, his eyes locked onto his shuffling feet. They left him barefoot. The last time they provided him with shoes, he knocked someone out, sent four of his teeth spinning to the floor, and had one of them ready to be shoved down the throat of the man they had come from, who was begging for mercy. He was wrestled to the ground before he had the chance to make what he wanted, come true. That was also the first week he’d been in Arkham.

Judging by the newspapers his guard would sometimes slip under the door, it had been a year and three months since that incident, but there was no way they were letting him out of solitary. He was supposed to be secluded anyways, marked as a high-risk prisoner. He supposed the warden wanted to give him a chance, and had that fucker not opened his mouth and insulted his mother, he might be free to have some time out of the horrid cell he was in.

The twenty-six-year-old nearly laughed to himself at that. People fried up his fuse too quickly, and he would’ve ended up in this lovely cell, D-108, no matter what.

Back and forth, back and forth. The soles of his bare feet had gotten used to the freezing cell, and he refused to wear that silly jumpsuit if he was working himself into a fit, as he did every day, as part of the schedule. As a result, he strode in his small cell, eyes darting from side to side like a beast, expecting the hunter to pop out anywhere at any time, completely naked.

He collapsed his body, stretching out his legs and bending his elbows. He started breathing in and out in time as he pushed himself up and down, up and down, never letting his body hit the floor. He stared at one of the hairline cracks in the cement, his face twisted up in rage that seemed never ending to him, in constant abundance and ready to crash through him at any time. It mocked him, sitting there, a small imperfection on the perfect cell designed for keeping him away and hidden from society.

Owen truly didn’t understand why they didn’t just kill him. Wouldn’t that be easier for all parties, including himself? Then he wouldn’t have to deal with that horrible needle digging into the flesh of his neck so fucking often. He hated his damn identification numbers—he’d heard from the small talk of passing guards they were planning on doing barcode tattoos, too.

Up and down, up and down. He breathed harder, grunting with exertion, small beads of sweat trickling down the sides of his face. His arms ached, and he learned long ago that counting got him nowhere if he couldn’t brag about how he managed to do 658 push-ups in one sitting.

He stopped, bringing down his forearms to the floor, feeling his core already straining from the previous exercise, and from his planking thirty minutes ago. He shut his eyes, trying to ignore that little fucking crack. He continued to breathe hard, and grunt, and gasp as he maintained his position, muscles straining and stinging like electricity.

Going until he couldn’t go anymore was a given, then he’d recuperate and keep it up until his lunch was slid in under the door. His body shook, more sweat forming along his cheeks and his forehead. He’d be allowed to shave soon, shackled down as they took him in for a trim that another prisoner would provide him with.

Finally he slipped, his forearms pushing out from underneath him, and he let himself slowly fall onto the floor. Feeling it against his cheek gave him some relief as he stared at the wall, the cold seeping into the side of his face.

He hated these moments the most, the spaces between when he couldn’t distract himself, like when he gave himself a moment like this to regenerate after working out, or right before bed, when he was in the dark, staring into nothing. He hated them because they reminded him of why he paced, and worked, and punched the walls, and screamed until he couldn’t scream anymore.

Because he was alone.

Fuck, he was so fucking alone. He knew what it tasted like, what it smelled like, what it felt like. It was freezing, it smelled earthy, and if he tasted it, it was metallic. It was his prison cell.

It was crippling.

The urge to cry swept through him, just as it did every time. His breathing was shaky, already hinting at a breakdown. He heard himself, rather than felt himself, sniffle, scrunching up his nose as he kept the side of his face pressed down against the concrete. A tear did escape, rushing down onto the floor, one of many that had fallen against the dark grey floor.

He didn’t realize that he even liked things until he missed them, although he supposed he still didn’t like certain things, like chick-flicks, or musicals, or rom-coms, but fuck, he’d give a testicle to watch several, because at least they would be something different from the loneliness—from four walls, a floor, and a ceiling.

He missed mornings; he missed watching the sun slowly rising, gently touching everything in its quiet manner, telling that side of the world that it was time to get up and begin the day. He longed to see the mist hanging over everything like a shroud, sparkling when the rays of sunlight caught the little drops, making meadows seem like they came out of a book, or a very beautiful rom-com.

Owen wished he could laugh at the irony of the joke he made to himself. No one else was around to hear it.

He missed people. Yes, he never liked his father, an Aussie true and true just like himself, with an alcohol and temper problem, but at least he was company. Were his dad still alive, he wouldn’t mind sitting back and having a beer with him. Hell, he wouldn’t mind sitting back and having a beer with anyone right now, just as long as it wasn’t just him.

Maybe beer tasted like loneliness, too.

“Don’t ruin it fah yuhself,” he growled quietly, not yet willing to give up.

He missed everything that wasn’t prison. He missed a good burger, or steak. He missed his Harley—his baby. He missed his clothes, and his boomerangs. He missed being able to stand barefoot on grass and scrunch his toes to feel the dirt underfoot. He missed being able to touch people, in any way, holding hands, punching them, caressing skin, and feeling them touch him back in any shape or form. He missed cereal, toast, breakfast. He missed home.

Owen took a deep, shuddering breath. What he missed most was the ability to escape and run from his thoughts. He missed being able to hit the gas on his motorcycle and go anywhere to avoid the god-awful guilt in his head and chest. He missed being able to forget his insecurities, forget about his past.

But here, here he couldn’t run, he couldn’t avoid them. He had to listen to the voices, the memories, repeat over and over in his head until he couldn’t take it, but it didn’t matter if he could or couldn’t handle it, because he was forced to deal with it anyway.

“Useless,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Worthless, weak.”

The prisoner sat up, raking his hands through the hair on his head that was getting too long. “Murderah, bastard, fool, nothing. ”

They burned in his mind, over and over until he bent and clutched his forearm, scraping his nails over the tallies of the innocents he had slaughtered. Most of all, he knew, he was a failure. His mum hadn’t wanted him to be reduced to such a pile of nothingness in a cold, wet, prison cell. He spiraled, and the snake on the hand gripping hard at his arm reminded him of where it really started.

He was so fucking weak.

“Please,” he muttered. “Please, please, please.”

He’d beg forgiveness any day, he’d repent, he’d do fucking something if it meant he didn’t have to be alone anymore. He wanted forgiveness, the safety, and reassurance it would bring, whether or not it would clear him of a guilty conscience, he didn’t care.

His hands moved to ball up in his hair, wishing he could pull all of it out before he tried to stand on wobbly legs, barely keeping his balance as he began to pace again, whispering quietly, begging, sobbing, wishing, missing, hoping, everything.

Owen crumpled again before he could reach the other wall, his hands covering his eyes before he began screaming, tearing up his throat like he did every now and then. He wanted to pound on the walls and the floor, kick and punch until it gave way under his hands. He wanted out. He wanted to be okay, and feel alright, and not have a fucking voice in the back of his mind reminding him of how insane he was, and how he was such a god damned idiot, and of the horrible things he had done to people.

Most of all, he wanted forgiveness. He wanted a security, something that made him feel safe, like no one could touch him. He wanted to feel… Wanted again.

He shook, hands forming into fists, and he keeled over onto his side, biting on his lip as he cried in silence until he heard the scrape of the food tray.

Chapter Text

Their lips pressed together, chaste and gentle, in the backseat as they prepared for sleep again. Gwen didn’t know who started it, or who leaned in first; she guessed it didn’t matter, because now she felt warm, safe, and content. She hadn’t felt any form of comfort in a long time, even before he had taken her from Gotham, and curled up on the Aussie now, with her face against his neck, she was untroubled, her mind quiet. The anger that had flared within him earlier in the day was forgotten, and it led to a very quiet conversation about snow, and then to the backseat of the truck.

She was tempted to kiss him again, to feel his warm lips on hers and the scratch of his facial hair over her skin—which needed to be shaved—but decided against it. What they had become, sleeping against one another, laughing and having conversations, even having a fight with the snow, she didn’t know; there wasn’t a way to define it. He was still her kidnapper, and she was still his captive, but something had shifted between the two, like the power he held over her, had tried to break her with—and succeeded at, for a time—was slowly slipping away, leaving them just as people.

Gwen found the two of them holding their hands up, palms pressed together, staring at the size difference. The tips of her fingers didn’t even reach the second joint of his, and he curled his digits down on top of hers and straightened them out again several times. His hands were massive, more like paws, especially compared to her dainty and delicate ones. His were calloused and strong, rough against her fingertips.

Boomerang curled his fingers down a few more times, giving hers a gentle squeeze, and she wondered how her skin felt to him. Did he see her hands as weak, too small and fragile? Could he feel how soft they were? Was he thinking about the size difference, too?

His hand moved, wrapping around hers before pulling it down with his as he rested them both against his chest. He held them there, his thumb skimming over her knuckles. His quiet chuckle made the man shake, and he whispered, “Yuh’re tiny, Gwennie girl.”

“Maybe you're just huge,” she replied, and he rumbled with laughter again.

“Reckon that could be it.”

She smiled, turning her face into his chest to hide it from him, and his hand squeezed hers in response. “Boomer?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to have another nightmare.”

The Captain sighed, “No one does, Gwennie. Yah didn’t aftah yah fell back asleep again last night.”

“That was last night,” she mumbled, laying the side of her head flat against his chest, able to hear his heart beating steadily. “What if I have it again?”

“Then yah do.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Sometimes that happens. But dreams are dreams, Gwennie girl, an’ yah wake up from them. If it comes again, then I’ll be right here when yah wake up, an’ it won’t exist anymore.” His hand left hers, moving up to swipe some of her hair out of her face. “Maybe yah’ll have a good dream about snow… Or spiders.”

Gwen smacked his chest, giggling, and he laughed again, his arms wrapping around her shoulders. “Jerk.”

“I’m here all night,” he responded. “Go tah sleep, Sweetheart. They can’t hurt yah, especially not when I’m here.”

Her lips stayed turned up as she closed her eyes, snuggling up close to the Australian. She shifted on top of him, her body slipping towards the seat before she settled into him comfortably, lifting and laying her head back down several times. She focused on his breathing and let his heartbeat under her ears lull her into sleep.

Gwen brushed her teeth in the tiny restroom of a small, dirty gas station, focusing on her reflection instead of the grimy sink that she was going to be rinsing her mouth in. She scrubbed furiously, annoyed that she hadn’t had the chance to over the past few week. Starting the water, she bent down, eyes closed, and took a sip, sloshed it around, and let it fall back into the sink. She did it two more times and rinsed out the brush before standing up and turning the water off, basking in the feeling of clean teeth as she carded her fingers through her hair.

Boomerang was getting food, or at least a few snacks, because their bellies had been growling since they woke up. She hadn’t had a nightmare, thankfully, but couldn’t recall her dream, and it made her stay silent until they pulled up at the rinky-dink rest stop. She slipped the toothbrush and toothpaste into the pocket of the blue jacket she hardly took off, when she heard a muffled shout through the wall.

She paled, a stone dropping in her stomach, because even though his voice wasn’t clear, she knew it was the Australian. She rushed out the door, seeing Boomerang standing at the counter, hands splayed on the top of it as he leaned over. The clerk—a woman who couldn’t have been much older than herself, her hair blonde, and her expression frightened—was backed up against the wall, pale as she breathed hard.

“—Fuckin’ rip off! Yah really expect me tah pay eleven fuckin’ dollahs fah some smokes? Nah, nah nah. I don’t fuckin’ think so.”

“It’s the price, Sir.” Her voice was shaky and meek, and his hand lifted and slammed down in the shape of a fist, making her squeal and jump against the wall. Gwen could see on her face that the clerk wished she could fall through it.

“Yuh’re gonna gimme those damn smokes. I’m already payin’ more than I fuckin’ should be fah these,” he snarled, gesturing to whatever he had in front of him. “An’ I ain’t leavin’ here without me fuckin’ smokes.”

“They’re eleven, S-sir…”

His face twisted in rage, and Gwen ran to him, wrapping her hands around his bicep. He straightened, breathing hard out of his nose, before looking down at the woman beside him.

“Let’s get them somewhere else,” she told him. “They aren’t going to change the price, and I don’t like it when you steal things.”

His eyes flared with anger at her words and he turned to face her, shaking off her arms and leaning down in an effort to intimidate her. She stood her ground, her back straight and chin raised at him.

“Excuse me?”

“We can get them cheaper somewhere else,” she said again. “We can get the snacks somewhere else, too, if you’re so concerned about the price. You don’t need any more problems, so let’s just leave.”

Boomerang squared his shoulders, shooting a glance at the blonde that made her squeal again, before huffing. “Fine,” he snapped as he spun around on his heel to march out, leaving the treats where they were on the counter. “Yah bettah not fuckin’ tell anyone we were here, or I’ll come back, an’ yah won’t like it then.”

Gwen shot the woman an apologetic glance and stepped towards the door, watching as the clerk bit down on her lip, tears starting to well in her eyes, before leaving to follow after the angry Aussie.

He was cursing under his breath when they got back to the truck, tearing the door open as he hissed, “Stupid fuckin’ cunt, tryin’ tah rip me off. I shoulda fuckin’ shown her a piece ‘a my mind.”

The truck shook as he slammed the door behind him, and Gwen waited until it stopped rocking to open her door. She was met with an immediate verbal attack, his eyes glaring her down. “What the fuck’s wrong with yah, Gwennie?”

“Nothing,” she replied calmly, buckling her seatbelt after closing the door. “I just didn’t think you wanted someone else to put in a call to the police, and we can get cigarettes somewhere else down the road for cheaper. You didn’t have to scare the poor girl, she was only doing her job.”

“Oh? Just doin’ her job, eh? Yeah, by tryin’ tah steal me damn money.”

“Like you haven’t stolen money before,” she shot back at him hotly. “You need to think about what you say before you say it, Boomer, because I swear to God, half the time you’re just a big hypocrite. She was only doing her job, she doesn’t set the prices, the owner does, and you should hope that the owner doesn’t recognize you after the stupid scene you just caused over a box of poison. If you want them so badly, then drive, and go get some somewhere else. I’m hungry, anyway.”

He growled at her and she just folded her arms, giving him her best ‘are you done?’ look.

“Fine,” he gritted out. “If yah think yuh’re sah much bettah than me, I’ll just listen tah yah.”

It was bait and she knew it, and her anger grew, like a hot coal that grew warmer and warmer inside of her chest. Instead of using it, she ignored it, breathing deeply as she looked ahead out of the windshield, listening to him angrily start the truck and shift the gears.

He was mumbling, quiet enough that she couldn’t make out what he was saying, but she could tell that whatever it was, it was soothing to him. He ran his thumb over his bottom lip and sighed, fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

“I really… Really need some smokes, Gwen.” The last smoke he’d had that she’d seen was after their squabble yesterday. She didn’t question him, though. If he needed them, then he did.

“I know you do,” she replied. “But a pack of smokes isn’t worth another police chase, and it can’t be that far to the next gas station.”

“Alright,” he conceded. “Do we have any food left?”

“No. We ate the last of the trail mix yesterday.”

“Be thinkin’ ‘a somethin’ tah get then,” the Aussie said, looking gloomy as he slouched down in his seat and glared at the road. “I’m gonna be real pissed if there ain’t a gas station around within ten minutes.”

“So am I. I’m hungry.”

He snorted but didn’t say anything else.

It took an additional twenty minutes until one came up, a Chevron that held the promise of food, and Gwen’s stomach rumbled as Boomerang pulled over to the side of the road instead of turning into the parking lot. His knuckles were stark white as he gripped the steering wheel, and she assumed that his anger from earlier hadn’t left him quite yet.

She got out after him, shoving her hands into the pockets of the jacket, face stinging at the cold breeze in the air. The Captain practically marched through the door, barely giving her enough time to catch it before it shut in her face. Gwen followed him as he started walking through the store, looking over the shelves, and bumped into him when he stopped in front of her.

“What d’yah want?” He asked.

“Something that will last a little while.”

Boomerang stepped forward and leaned down, grabbing a large bag of trail mix before grunting. “Get what yah think yah need, then.”

She sighed as he walked away and continued to scan over what was available. Nothing seemed appealing to her, and if she had her way, she’d continue having actual meals—she was grateful they had become more frequent—but she knew not to ask for more, and resigned heself to grabbing five packs of apple fruit leathers.

He was at the counter, speaking quietly with the man behind it, gesturing to some cigarettes on the wall. The man turned and grabbed two packs, sliding them across the counter to the Aussie as Gwen set the food beside the bag of trail mix.

“Hey, could you tell me where the bathroom is?” She asked, and Boomer looked at her with a raised eyebrow. It would’ve been a good idea to go at the last place, but he had interrupted that with his shouting.

The man gruffly nodded and reached around the cash register, grabbing a ring with a key on it. “Go on out the doors an’ ‘round the side. Bring it on back when yer done.”

“Thank you,” she said and took the key from him. She touched Boomer’s arm. “Do you think you could get some waters, too?”

The Australian nodded his head and gestured for her to continue, saying he’d grab them, and she was out the door, twirling the ring around her finger. It was quiet and still outside, the snow on the ground and in the trees surrounding the establishment making the world seem bright, even though the sky was covered in light grey clouds.

Gwen hadn’t ever left Gotham after the snow started falling, usually staying from November through to early March. She could only remember one time that she actually did, when she was allowed to go to her grandmother’s on Christmas day. That was the first time she’d ever seen winter in a forest, before. The quiet unnerved her some, since she was used to the constant noise of the city, and she rounded the corner with her mind deep in thought, swearing she could hear the faint sound of cars constantly driving by like she could in her room back home.

She bumped into someone hard enough that she stumbled back, already saying an apology, but froze when she looked up mid-sentence, her mouth agape.

Evan grinned back and his hands came down on her shoulders to steady her. “Why, Gwen! Sae lovely tae see ye! I wasna expectin’ tae run intae ye… Well, actually, ye ran intae me, but that’s alrigh’. I’ll forgive ye.”

“I-I apologize,” she mumbled. “I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“Och, dinna worry aboot that. I’m glad tae see ye well, ye bonnie wee thing.”

“Hey, Evan, did you—” Another man came into view, and fear truly struck her then as she became aware of the situation at hand. It was the redheaded man that had grabbed her after Boomerang had dislocated her shoulder, telling her that he could give her a good time. She remembered calling him a gutter rat, and the look on his face told her he remembered that, too. “Hello there, sweetpea. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

The Scot kept one hand on her shoulder, gripping it tightly as she tried to step back and shrink away from the two men. “Ah, Byram, d’ye ken her?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “We had a little bit of a run in a month ago. Baby girl was all fired up.” Byram glanced over her. “Looks like she still likes to get a bit rough .” He gestured to her hand and then to her hair. “Nice color. Where’s the dog?”

“That’s a good question,” Evan replied and turned back to her. “Where is Boomer?”

Struck with fear, she didn’t reply, her face draining of color as she tried to step back, only to have him yank her around, his hand coming up to tangle in the hair on the back of her head as he slapped a hand over her mouth.

“Nae close, I think,” the Scot replied with glee. “What d’ye say, Byram? Should we ha’ some fun? A wee bit o’ well-deserved reward?”

Gwen started thrashing, trying to kick and scream, but her voice still wasn’t seeming to work, like her throat had closed up. Byram simply grabbed her legs and moved forward, pinning her to the man behind her as tears started to prick at her eyes. Her heart hammered so hard in her chest it hurt and her breathing picked up rapidly as the man started unzipping her jacket.

She began to pray, hoping to God that Boomerang would come around the corner and help her, but as she felt Byram’s cold hand dip into her shirt, touching her breast before tearing the fabric away to expose her skin and bra to the cold air, she felt hopeless, her arms and legs pinned, and two large men preying down on her.

Evan rubbed against her, pushing his crotch into her back as he chuckled under his breath. “Remember when I tried tae do this last time, Gwen? Oh, we were goin’ tae ha’ sae much fun.”

Let me go, she screamed in her mind, trying again to thrash in their hands. A hard, stinging slap was delivered to the top of her chest, making her flinch and stamp her feet, a scream erupting from behind the hand, making both of them chuckle as her other breast was slapped.

Tears ran down her cheeks and she closed her eyes, not wanting to see what they looked liked, what they were going to do. “Oh, look at that. She’s scared.”

“Aye,” Evan said. “Ye dinna need tae be. We’ll take care o’ ye. Here, Byram, let’s put her against the wall.”

They moved her, carefully keeping her pinned until she was up against the freezing bricks, Evan’s hand still over her mouth as they both pressed their legs into her, fingers roaming over her skin as she whimpered, a tongue trailing up over her cheek, making her flinch and try to scream again.

Evan’s hand lifted, smacking her hard enough that it blurred her vision, and his thumb and fingers dug into her cheeks, keeping her mouth open as Byram’s hand closed around her throat.

“Dinna fuckin’ scream again, aye, hen?”

She nodded as best she could and the hands left, making her neck and face ache before his palm was over her mouth again. Gwen took a deep breath, tilting her head back as they continued to chuckle and play with her body, her bra pulled down until her nipples came out over the tops of the cups.

Her resolve wasn’t made of steel, and the idea was sporadic and dangerous, but her brain didn’t care. Fighting wasn’t going to work, and she knew that, but if she could fight hard enough to give her time to run, she had a chance against the two. It was a slim chance, but she hardly hesitated and moved her face a little more, slowly enough that Evan didn’t seem to notice, preoccupied with rolling her hard nipple between two of his fingers. Byram was working on getting her pants down, hands gripping her hip and thigh.

She took a deep breath, turned her head just a little more, and bit down on Evan’s hand with a vengeance, hearing the man scream in pain as her teeth sliced through his skin. She could feel the resistance of his bones, hard under the pressure of her jaw, but she didn’t stop, feeling and hearing them give with several quick ‘crack!’s.

He screamed even harder, and Byram shoved his hand into Gwen’s face, getting her to let go of Evan, and leaving her unpinned. She brought up the only hand she had available, hooked her fingers, and dug her nails as hard as she could into Byram’s cheek.

His hand pulled back, fist slamming into her nose and cheek, making her shout and fall to the ground. Gwen looked up, tears in her eyes as she brought her hands under herself to push her up, only to feel a boot on her back pushing her down.

“Oh, I’ll fuckin’ kill ye, Gwen. I’ll gut ye like a damned fish.”

Through the blurriness, she saw the Australian, watching from across the road, his body turned towards her, like he was going to head to the truck parked down the street, but stopped when he saw them. There was a grin on his face, evil and scary, reminding her of when he first kidnapped her.

"Boomer!" She shrieked at him, despite the foot on her back pressing down when she made any noise. "Boomerang! Help me! Please!"

He stared at her a little longer and shrugged his shoulders, turned, and walked away.

Gwennie was vibrating with excitement in the backseat, fingers playing with the hem of her favorite winter dress, toying with the warm, red fabric. Her mother sighed exasperatedly.

“Gwendolyn,” she said. “Sit still. You do not need to be acting foolish.”

“Sorry, Mother,” Gwen replied. “I'm excited.”

A stern look told her that it was no excuse, and the fidgeting came to a stop as the eight-year-old turned her head to look out the window. The snowy forest passed by in a blur, giving the girl a good distraction as she thought about what could be waiting at her grandma’s home.

She hadn’t ever left Gotham before on Christmas, let alone seen her grandmother, and she couldn’t begin to fathom how excited she was. Lucinda wasn’t even going to be staying long, meaning Gwennie was going to have the day all to herself and her grandma.

The girl had had a good Christmas morning, getting three pairs of tights, a new pair of oxford shoes, and a pretty new dress that was made of thick strands of wool, all dyed a different shade of blue. She knew she’d be wearing it when she got the chance to. The cinnamon roll she had eaten this morning was delicious, and Lucinda was being surprisingly kinder today than she usually was, and when she announced Gwen would be staying at Gramma’s for the next three days, it just made the day better.

She frowned a little as an intrusive thought pricked at her mind. Jay-Jay won’t be there.

Continuing to fidget with her dress, she tried to put up walls, to tell the thought to go away because she didn’t want it there anymore. She already knew her brother wasn’t going to be there. He hadn’t been at the last three, and that broke her heart, but she realized on the first Christmas alone that it was just the way it was going to be.

She didn’t think about him very often, anymore; she got too sad when she did, and if she could avoid it, she would. Snow wasn’t the same without him; none of the holidays, or even her birthday, that they always were together for weren’t the same, either. Her shoulders slouched and she tried to think of her Gramma, and how they were going to have a wonderful time, and that she might even be able to play in the snow.

It hardly cheered Gwendolyn up, the frown still there, and she looked down at her feet. She made a list in her head about all the things she and her grandmother were going to do while she was there, and that made the rest of the drive a little more bearable.

She ran up the steps, even though her mother shouted behind her to stop, and jumped into Gramma’s arms with a giggle, hugging the old woman around the neck as her arms came around the girl.

“Merry Christmas!”

The older woman chuckled and replied, “Merry Christmas, Gwendolyn. Have you had a good morning?”

“Mmhhmm!”

She pulled her head back with a grin and was set down as Lucinda came up the steps. “Mother.”

“Lucy, dear,” Gramma replied. “Merry Christmas. Come inside.”

Gwen cheerily followed her grandma inside, her mother behind her, her cheeks stinging as they left the cold air. “Gramma?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Can I go play in the snow?”

“Absolutely no—” Lucinda started, but Gramma cut her off.

“Of course you can, Gwen,” she said. “But you’re going to have to change into your winter clothes, alright? A dress won’t do. Ah, Harold—” the woman looked up at the driver carrying her bag of clothes through the door. “Don’t take that upstairs yet. Little Gwen here has to change.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And, it will give your mother and I time to talk.”

Lucinda folded her arms, a faint scowl on her face, but she nodded. “Fine. Go on, Gwendolyn.”

Ten minutes later, she was tromping through snow that was nearly to her hip, jumping and shoving snow out of her way as she giggled and slipped around. She knew never to stray far, but that didn’t stop her from barreling into the nearest grove of trees, tossing snow around and pretending that ever blemish in the snow’s surface was some sort of animal track, even if she didn’t actually know whether they were or weren’t.

It didn’t matter to her though, as she fell back and began to move her arms and legs in wide sweeping motions, creating the first of ten snow angels, finishing one, before getting up and plopping down again in a different area.

She could’ve stayed out there for hours, she even had a game mapped out in her head, racing imaginary people and animals, having snowball fights with them, but by the time she watched her mom and Harold leave, the snow had gotten inside of her boots and coat, and she was soaked to the bone, and soon enough she was barging back towards the porch.

She walked through the door, taking off her boots and scrunching her face up at her wet socks, which she took off too, and padded towards the kitchen, nearly slipping on the hardwood.

“Gramma!”

“Yes, dear?”

“I’m all wet!”

The woman was walking around the counter when Gwen entered the kitchen, and she smiled. “Very wet indeed, sweetheart. Did you have fun?”

Gwennie nodded and beamed, her cheeks and nose red. “Yeah! Do you think I could go out again later?”

“Oh, probably. We’ll see what happens, okay? I want to show you how to make fudge tonight, but first, you need a bath, little Miss Gwen, before you freeze.”

One warm bath later, they were in the kitchen, Gwen in her pajamas up on the counter, watching and listening to her grandmother.

“First, you’re going to combine the cocoa, sugar, and salt,” she instructed after putting said ingredients in a large bowl. Handing Gwen a fork, she continued, “Stir this for me really well, okay?”

Gwen did as best she could, the mix inside turning light brown, and Gramma took the fork and bowl from her, putting the mixture into a pan she had on the stove. “Then we’re going to add some milk and bring it to a boil, okay? Do you want to help me stir it?”

“Yes, please.”

The milk was poured into the mix as the heat was put on, and they took turns stirring it; Gramma got out a cake pan when they weren’t, spraying the inside down as they got closer to it being ready to pour in. She stuck in a thermometer, looking at it carefully, before giving her a nod.

“Are you ready to put the other stuff in?”

Gwen grinned and nodded, and together they scooped out marshmallows and peanut butter, along with some margarine, and put them into the pan, and Gwen stirred it again, her arms getting a bit tired, and watched it melt in the mix.

She could smell it, the aroma engulfing her like a warm blanket, making her feel snug from her head to her toes. The blend of peanut butter, marshmallow, and chocolate reminded her of the one time she actually had a s'more, when Emmaline had invited her over and the family made a few in their living room. But this was different, the peanut butter giving it a sweet smell, and on top of it, she could smell how her grandmother’s house smelled, like peppermint and pine-tree, like candles giving out specific scents.

Gwen took a deep breath, and her grandmother chuckled. “Smells good, huh? It’s time to pour it into the pan. Want to watch me?”

The girl nodded, and Gramma added one more thing to the mix—vanilla, she thought, but wasn’t too sure—and moved the pan off of the stove, turning to pour the mix into the pan she’d sprayed earlier. Gwen watched as the different colors cascaded down, spreading out across the pan as more was added to it.

“And then,” Gramma started again as she scooped out the last bits and put the saucepan by the sink. “We’ll put it in the fridge and let it cool, then we’ll have some after dinner. How’s that sound?”

“What time is dinner?”

“I can start on it now. How does chicken casserole sound?”

Gwen grinned. “Can I help with that, too?”

Her gramma got her a sketchbook and a set of pencils, pretty and sand-colored, and she loved them before she even put the graphite to paper. She hadn’t ever had a sketchbook before, and couldn’t draw very well, but it opened up a whole new world of possibilities, and Gwennie had hugged her grandma as hard as she could before opening the other present she had under the large, decorated tree in the living room.

She unwrapped the box, and opened the lid to reveal a blanket, soft and fuzzy with knotted sides, holding two large pieces of fabric together. There weren’t any patterns on either side, only two solid colors: plum and navy, one for each side. It felt like it would be warm and comfortable, and the first thing she did was pull it out and wrap it around herself, turning to grin at her grandma.

“Thank you, Gramma.”

“You’re very welcome, Gwen. I thought since you liked being here so much, maybe I would give you something from here to take home.”

“Did you make this?” She asked, looking at the blanket, her fingers playing with one of the knots.

Gramma nodded and said, “I tied all of the ends together. I hope you’ll like it. I have one that I made and I use it all the time.”

“I think I will,” Gwennie said and stood up. “Can I eat fudge and wear it?”

The older woman slowly grinned and stood from her chair. “Oh yes, it’s the best way to eat fudge. Should we go grab mine?”

Gwen grinned, and nodded enthusiastically. “We don’t want to leave it out,” she replied, and the two of them walked together to her grandmother’s room, and that’s how they ended up in the kitchen, wrapped up in blankets, eating the fudge they made, while looking out the back door at the falling snow, giggling and planning what they were going to do over the next few days.

Chapter Text

Owen dropped the bag in his hands by the door, startled, as her voice tore through the air, echoing in the quiet, “Boomerang! Help me! Please!” She sounded desperate, and another scream followed, before it was cut off abruptly, causing him to charge around the side of the building, time slowing around him. His heart began to pound hard inside of his chest, thumping against his ribcage so hard that he could feel it contracting to pump blood as the adrenaline took over, making him see red when he saw two men, upright and oblivious to him.

Evan McCulloch stood over her body on the ground, her clothes askew, as did another man, one he vaguely recognized from the gas station when Owen had laughed at the remark Gwennie had made. Anger made him shake so hard his eyes blurred, and he charged forward, slamming into the Scot from behind. Time swayed around him, back to its normal speed as Evan crashed to the ground, his chin hitting the pavement.

Boomerang looked up at the other man, who’s face was draining of color, and he grabbed a hold of his shirt, delivering a swift and clean punch to his jaw before turning and flinging him hard enough that the other man tripped and stumbled into the brick wall, making him fall back and land on his ass, while the Aussie turned around to grab the Scot, who was now rolling over and trying to scramble away.

“Boomer, what a lovely surprise!” He said, his voice shaking. “I was only havin’ a wee bit o’ fun, aye? Nae hard feelings.”  

“I told yah loud and clear last time, Mirror Master,” he snarled as he leaned down, grabbing the collar of Evan’s shirt. “I don’t like it when people touch me things.” His fist drew back, slamming hard enough into Evan’s face that it rattled the bones in his hand, and the Scot screamed as Owen’s body shifted downward, crushing Evan’s hand beneath his thigh.

Something heavy crashed into Boomer’s side, making him lose his balance, and Evan was able to get away, scrambling up while the redhead stood behind the Aussie. Owen lunged towards Evan, and the man pulled something out of his pocket, opening the top, and Boomerang’s fist sunk into nothing as he disappeared, a compact makeup mirror fell to the ground.

It was crushed under his boot, and Boomerang rounded on the other man. “Oh, he’s left yah all alone now. Yah getta deal with me .”

To his credit, he did try to run, until the Captain pulled a boomerang out of his coat and fired it at his legs, watching as it nailed the side of his shin and stuck, causing the man to scream and trip. Boomerang was above him in an instant, a snarl on his lips.

“Yah touched Gwennie, an’ I’ll make sure ya pay.”

“No, please! Please, I was just going along with Evan! I didn’t mean to—”

Owen punched him hard once, in the temple, and the man was out like a light, going limp as Boomerang stood up straight and pulled his boomerang free of the man’s leg, wiping it off on his coat as he turned and went to check on Gwen.

She was trying to sit up, sobs and coughs making her body shake, and he kneeled, grabbing the cups of her bra to pull the fabric away from her body and let her breasts fall back into place.

“Are yah alright?” He mumbled as she attempted to pull up her pants, arms trembling so badly she couldn’t even manage it, and she cradled her hand to her chest as he helped her.

“W-why did you w-walk away?”

“Walk away?” He asked, eyebrows furrowed as helped her stand up. She coughed some more, leaning on him as he wrapped his arms around her.

Gwen nodded her head, sniffling. “You saw me and didn’t respond. You just shrugged and-and walked away.”

“Gwennie girl, I only heard yah scream when I came outta the doors,” he said, eyebrows furrowing with confusion. He wouldn’t ever have left her. “Where was I?”

“Over there,” she said, coughing again, and lifted her right hand as she stepped away from him to gesture.

“When?”

“Just a second before…” she stopped, her grip on him getting tighter. “Before you came the other way.”

“I’m fast Gwennie,” he said softly. “But not that fast. C’mon. We need tah get yah outta here.”

Boomerang stepped away from her, his arm around her shoulders, and urged her to fall into step beside him. They walked around the corner together, Owen urging her not to look down at the man he’d knocked out—whose blood was seeping out onto the concrete. He bent and grabbed the bag that he had dropped by the door and led her to the truck.

It was slow going, Gwennie having a hard time breathing and staying focused on putting one foot in front of the other, almost like she was too scared to step, and he was tempted to pick her up and cradle her to him. He didn’t, knowing that it would probably trigger more panic, which wouldn’t be the best thing for Gwen.

His adrenaline rush was starting to abate and it cleared his mind allowing him to rapidly go through possibilities as he opened the truck door, helping her up into the seat. It was possible she’d just seen someone who looked like him, because really, he didn’t have another explanation, unless she was seeing things. That concerned him; was she eating enough? Was she drinking enough? Was something else wrong with her?

He got into the driver’s seat and started the truck, putting the bag near her feet, listening to her whimpers, hiccups, and coughs as she tried to calm herself down. Owen decided it was going to best to give her time before he asked anything, even though he was itching to fire off questions at her.

Driving out onto the road and away from the gas station, the Aussie felt awkward and unsure. Neither of the men had their pants down or off, and Gwen had obviously fought back. He rolled over the fight inside of his head, aware now of the scratches that were dug deep in the redheaded man’s cheek.

He felt a small surge of pride, and wondered what else she may have done that he hadn’t seen, she wasn’t afraid to get her nails a bit dirty. Owen pushed it down, realizing that she probably wouldn’t like it if he was smug about what she had done, and distracted himself instead.

“There’s watah in the bag,” he told her. “Since yah asked me tah get yah some.”

He could hear her swallow, before she coughed again and nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered, and leaned down, hands trembling as she reached in and pulled out a bottle. Her cheeks, eyes, and nose were red, salty tears making her skin glisten, and he had to look away from her.

Owen drove for awhile, not focused on how much time had passed. She’d finally stopped gasping, and the only sound in the cab was the occasional sniffle and the sound of the road under the tires.

“Are yah alright, Gwennie girl?”

He didn’t look at her when he asked, nor when she answered half a minute later. “I think so.”

“Are yah willin’ tah tell me what happened? Or what yah saw?”

She hesitated again and Owen lifted a hand to rub his bottom lip with his thumb. “I… I guess so.”

The man gestured for her to go on and she looked out the window, her hands rubbing her arms. Gwennie took a few deep breaths and didn’t turn to face him as she began.

“They were standing there when I turned the corner, and they started talking, asking if you were there or not. I didn’t know really what to say, so I didn’t say anything… I was scared,” she admitted. “When they assumed you weren’t with me, they shoved me up against the wall and—”

“Yah don’t gotta tell me what they did, then.”

She nodded and swallowed, looking down at her lap. “Well… I bit Evan’s hand really hard… I felt the bones crack under my teeth.” Gwennie cringed at the memory, and Owen knew how it felt to be on both sides of getting a hand bitten that hard. “And then I scratched Byram and they threw me down, and when I looked up you were standing across the road, just staring. I called for you but you just shrugged and walked away.”

Owen grunted, a rather angry sound that made his throat tremble. How could he have walked away from her?

“Then you came around the corner just a second later, and you know what happened after.”

“Gwennie,” he started and bit his cheek before he reached across to touch hers, sliding a lock of hair back behind her ear. She flinched when his fingertips trailed over her skin, but didn’t move away. “D’yah really think that was me?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Who else could it have been? It looked exactly like you, even the beard, and the jacket, and the smile…”

Who else could it have been? That was a good question, one that Owen didn’t have the answer to.

“Sweetheart, yah know I can run fast, but I ain’t that fast. It wasn’t me, I promise.”

She looked up at him, tears in her eyes, looking confused and angry. “How am I supposed to believe that?”

“Yah woulda seen me runnin’, it ain’t like I move fastah than light, an’ I was walkin’ away. Fuck, they woulda seen me, an’ don’t yah think I woulda come up on the othah side if I was goin’ the othah direction?”

“I don’t know!” She shouted, her frustration written across her face as she turned red. “I don’t know, okay, Boomer? All I know is I saw you walking away from me, and leaving me there with them !”

“An’ it wasn’t me!” Owen snapped right back and looked away to take a few breaths, trying to push down the building irritation inside of him. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. His mind reeled as he tried to find a solution, like he was going through a filing cabinet checking off different tabs. It was faint, but when he caught a hold of it, he remembered, and he turned his head.

“Gwennie.”

“What?” She said, voice shaking as she folded her arms, trying to make herself smaller.

“D’yah remembah when we were in Racoon, an’ I woke yah up an’ we had tah get outta town?”

“When you nearly killed us?”

Boomerang rolled his eyes but nodded. “Yeah.” 

“I do.”

“Did yah evah catch why?”

Gwennie shook her head, keeping her arms folded as she started to pull her knees up to put her feet on the seat.

“There was a sightin’ ‘a me,” he said. “But the thing is, it was at a store I hadn’t been tah, at all, evah. Not even a few years ago when I went through, an’ there was even a picture, an’ it looked just like me, but I knew it couldn’ta been.”

Her eyebrows furrowed and her tongue swept out across her bottom lip, wetting it. “There really was a picture?”

“In the same town, just down the road. I saw it on the telly.”

“But how…?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think it was the same person?”

Owen shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “It has tah be, cuz it wasn’t me. I wouldn’t do that tah yah, Gwennie. I wouldn’t evah leave yah tah the dogs.”

“Why?”

That stumped him, and his cheeks flushed before he looked down at his lap, running his thumb over his lip again. There were several reasons he could come up with, like personal experience, but the other one—not wanting to lose her—he couldn’t say. He shifted uncomfortably, having more than a few memories to draw from and muttered, “Because I know what it’s like bein’ raped.”

He could feel the heat of her gaze and continued, “An’ yuh’re my responsibility, Gwennie. I ain’t lettin’ yah get hurt.” Not like the last time , he thought, trying to push out the memory of a girl in an alley, half naked and unconscious.

Owen looked up at her, and she mumbled thanks, before nodding her head. He could see the tightness in her shoulders and back, telling him she was still apprehensive.

“I wouldn’t lie tah yah, Gwennie.”

“I know.”

The tension didn’t leave her though, and he pulled back out onto the road again, knowing there was nothing more he could say. He mulled over his discovery, wondering if it was the same person.

If it was the same person, why was he doing this to Boomer? Better question, why did he look exactly like Owen? What was his motive? Why hadn’t he been caught? Something didn’t sit right with the Aussie, the nagging in his mind and the rolling of his stomach telling him there was more to this than he knew, and he didn’t like it.

The introduction of a third party made him nervous, especially since the man had to be following them for him to show up in two places they were, at the same time. How was he tracking them, and potentially doing a much better job than the authorities? Then again, it wasn’t too hard to stay several steps ahead of the cops.

He was surprised they never got along to where he was making the ransom call for Gwennie from—and he was both surprised and not surprised that the Bartholmes hadn’t gone through with his request; he had yet to tell Gwennie that—which meant this man had to be smarter than them, maybe almost as smart as Owen.

Owen had a pattern. Everyone did, and why the authorities hadn’t figured out his yet, he didn’t know, but this man had to have, which once again forced the ‘why?’ question into his mind.

He glanced in the rearview mirror, having a feeling he would be doing that a lot more often, to search for more than just black and white cars, or red and blue lights.

The motel was a good find, since there weren’t that many around on this road, and night had already fallen. He pulled up into the parking lot and turned off the truck, telling her to stay there and that he could handle it, as he shrugged off his coat. Owen grabbed his wallet and went inside, tongue sharp with an American accent. Two minutes later, after talking to the woman behind the desk, he came out with a key and gestured for Gwen to get out and follow. She had their bag of food in one hand and her backpack in the other when she did, looking down at the ground.

He opened the door for both of them, letting her in first before he closed and locked it behind him. There were two beds, and Boomer was grateful that he would have somewhere semi-comfortable to sleep—more comfortable than the backseat in his truck, anyway.

“I’m gonna showah.”

“Watch out for spiders,” she mumbled as she sat on the bed closest to the door, flashing a small smile at him.

He smiled back and nodded his head. “I’ll do my best tah.”

Owen let the hot water wash away the grime from his skin, along with the thoughts in his head. His eyes closed and he focused on the sound of the water running, hitting his back, and falling onto the floor as he braced his hands against the wall. His head bobbed as his lids grew heavy, almost too heavy to open, and he realized just how tired he was.

The shower curtain pulled away, startling the Aussie from his trance, and he looked over to see Gwen, naked as the day she was born, sticking her toes into the tub as she looked at him. He glanced away, not letting his eyes drift to the rest of her body. The shower curtain was tugged back into place, and he moved, backing up so she could slip around him and let the water fall on her.

“Why’ah yah in here?” He asked her, barely audible over the water.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

They left the comments at that, not speaking again as Boomer stepped up behind her, wetting his hair. He grabbed the tiny bottle of shampoo the motel provided and poured some on his hands, looking down at her head as he started to push his fingers through her brown hair. Her darker roots were starting to show, and for once, he didn’t want to see them dyed away.

He worked the suds through her hair, making sure everything was lathered up before he poured more on his hand to do the same to his own hair, watching her back as she rinsed it out. Her back was freckled, just like every other part of her, and he resisted the urge to touch the four large freckles on her shoulder blade as he scrubbed his head.

She moved out of his way and he let his fingers card through his curls—which were getting too long for his tastes—washing the bubbles out and watching as they washed down the drain.

Her fingers on his back startled him a second time, and he tensed up. Her nails drew away and he relaxed, almost wanting to look over his shoulder and apologize until she touched him again, tracing over his boomerang tattoos. His shoulders slumped, focusing on her touch, and it made him feel like he was about to fall asleep all over again.

She drew away after several minutes, and Owen hadn’t even realized he had leaned forward with his forehead against the wall until her fingers left his back. He straightened up, barely able to open his eyes, and took the conditioner as she handed it to him, already working some through her hair.

They finished quickly, getting out and drying off in silence, neither of them really looking at one another. He slung the towel around his waist and walked out of the bathroom towards the bed closest to him, not planning on getting dressed.

He fell onto it, taking off the towel and tossing it aside as he burrowed beneath the blankets. He shut his eyes, relaxing as he faced the rest of the room, ignoring the want to have something warm next to him.

Two minutes later, when he was seconds away from sleep, the blanket moved, and she—in a shirt and underwear—slipped inside, her back pressed to his chest, and his arm wrapped around her, pulling her close. He sighed, catching the clean smell drifting up from her hair, before he slipped off, mindful of her weight against him.

George raped the girl in the alley, while Owen stood by like nothing was wrong, crippling guilt nearly making him fall to his knees as she cried out once, but not again. He stared blankly across the street, leaning back against the wall as he felt himself zone out, away from the horrible crime he was allowing his father to commit.

No one else came walking down the road; no one came looking.

His father walked back out, a sneer on his face as he zipped up his pants, and Owen turned to walk around him, swallowing as his feet began to take him to the dumpster.

“Oi, yah wanna round on her, tah? Yah shoulda told me, maybe I woulda kept her awake fah yah.”

Owen lifted his hand, waving his father away like it was no big deal. “Don’t wait up,” he replied.

George snorted. “Have fun, then.”

The older man walked away, and Owen cringed when he peeked around the side of the dumpster, seeing her sprawled, unconscious, and looking like bruises were about to form along the cuts in her cheeks and swelling around her right eye.

He kneeled down, grabbing her pants that were around her ankles, and pulled them up to her hips. Owen brushed them off and tugged down her shirt, hooking his hands under her arms and lifting her. She made a sound, a quiet whine, and more guilt churned inside of him.

“Don’t worry, I got yah,” he said. “I’m gonna take yah tah the ER just a block from here.”

Her eyes didn’t open, her body dead weight in his arms, but she turned her face towards his chest. She was beautiful, at least, when she wasn’t beat up with tear tracks across her cheeks. Her hair was long, silky, and black like ink, her skin a soft golden color, and looking down at her made him want to cry for what had happened to her, and how he hadn’t stopped it.

He didn’t know her name, of course, George had picked her out at the local bar down the road, sneaked something in her drink, and the two of them were out the door with Owen following. His father told him to stand guard and make sure no one would interrupt him. The Aussie had felt himself go into a shocked state, somewhere between wanting to beat his father into the ground and wanting to walk away from the act behind him.

In the end, he did neither, and now he was going to try and make amends, knowing this—her bruised face turned against him—would haunt him in the nights when he couldn’t sleep, just like so many other of his monsters.

“My brother will kill him,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. His boots thudded on the pavement and he nodded his head, thinking he wouldn’t altogether mind if her brother did. “Why didn’t you help me?”

Owen suddenly realized that he didn’t know if she was actually talking to him or not, or if it was all in her head, because her eyes were still closed, and he didn’t know if her lips had actually moved.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “An’ I’m sorry… I’m gonna get yah some help, okay?”

“Where are we going?”

“The ER.”

“Take me home.”

Owen stopped walking, looking down at her. She still didn’t open her eyes and look up at him. He bit down on his lip, unsure what to do or say, because what if he was just imagining it?

“Where’s yuh home?”

“Three blocks from here. It’s an apartment building, tallest in the city. I’ll tell you when we get there.”

“What direction?”

“South.”

Against his better judgment, he turned around to go back the way he came and followed her directions. She told him when to turn twice to get to her building, and the pit his stomach only grew tighter as he walked up the stone steps into the lobby. No one was there, not at the front desk, or sitting around.

“Floor twenty-three,” she mumbled. “Room two.”

His arms were tired, trembling a little as he shifted her and went to the elevator. He ignored it, the burning in his biceps, the way a lump was forming in his throat, and how hard it was to breathe. He shut his eyes inside after pressing the button, trying to block out the sound of her one scream. He flinched when a ‘ding!’ signaled the doors opening, and he stepped out onto the twenty-third floor.

He walked down the hall to room two—there were only four on this level—and tried the door. The knob didn’t turn, it was locked, and he looked down at her, hoping there was a hidden key somewhere and she’d tell him where. She didn’t say anything, and he started kicking the door with his foot, unable to knock.

He continued until he heard the knob click, and the door swung open as he stepped back. The man was as big as Owen with just an inch on the Aussie, black shaggy hair, and brown piercing eyes, and he glared at him, opening his mouth before looking down at who he had in his arms.

“Annabelle!”

In seconds she was whisked out of the Aussie’s arms, and if his arms could cry, they’d be weeping in relief. The man held Annabelle close, hugging her gently.

“What happened to you? Are you well?”

“She’s unconscious, I think,” Owen told him.

The man glared hard at him. “What the hell did you do?”

Owen swallowed and looked down. “Nothin’. She was raped… Not by me, nah. She told me tah bring her home.”

“Inside.”

He stepped out of the way, and Owen didn’t see any other choice but to listen, and stepped across the threshold. Annabelle was rushed away as he closed the door behind him, and he could hear muffled voices.

The apartment was very nice, that was his first thought as he looked around. It was much nicer than the garage, clean and modern. This family was rich, and probably had some form of power; they always did.

“What’s your name?”

Owen looked to the man coming at him again, stopping inches away from him, and Owen managed to maintain eye contact. “Owen.”

“No last name?”

“Not that I wanna give.”

The man raised an eyebrow at him and held out his hand. “Brutus.”

The twenty-four-year-old shook it with a sweaty palm and frowned. He assumed this man was her brother; he looked too young to be the young woman’s father.

“ My brother will kill him. ”

“What happened?” Brutus demanded, folding his arms, and Owen straightened, held tight by an invisible string.

“Saw her at the bar on 46th, saw her get roofied an’ pulled out. Went tah investigate, an’ found her aftah she’d been raped. Picked her up an’ took her home, like she asked me tah.”

He was nervous, nearly stuttering and stumbling through his words. The lying came impulsively, and he couldn’t stop it until it was already out, and he finally broke eye contact, looking down at his feet.

“Are you telling me the truth?”

Owen didn’t say anything and Brutus grabbed his arm. The Aussie’s fist clenched, ready to fight back if needed. “You aren’t telling me the fucking truth.”

“Nah.”

“Did you rape her?”

Owen glared at him. “D’yah really think I woulda had the decency tah bring her home if I raped her?” He snarled. “Now get yuh hand off’a me.”

Brutus shoved him away, towards the door. “Thanks for bringing her home then, you fucking bastard.”

The Aussie backed up towards the door, unwilling to turn his back on the man now that a fight was brewing between the two. He turned the knob and opened the door.

“Who was it? Tell me that, at least.” Brutus looked dark, like he was ready to kill someone, and Owen figured he was—it was going to be him if he didn’t get out of there.

Owen looked down at his hand, the wicked scar across the side, knowing his pinky and ring finger were stiff and looked back up at him, a sneer of hatred pulling at his lips. “George,” he said. “George Harkness.”

The younger man hadn’t talked to George when he got home, or the day after, and George seemed to have no problem with this. Owen was continuously on guard, watching out in case Brutus showed up, which he could’ve at anytime. He knew the look of a man out for revenge, and that was what Annabelle’s brother looked like when that door closed behind Owen.

Their faces haunted him, from the long drive home, to sleeping at nights, to just making himself a small breakfast in the morning. He’d fucked up, and he’d done it bad, and he nearly threw up everything in his stomach when he walked through the door and George flashed him a grin. As if Owen had done something marvelous, something his father approved of, but Owen realized right then that anything his father condoned, was not something that he had an interest in doing.

“Yah got a stick up yuh arse,” George told him for the seventh time in two days. Owen ignored him, glancing again out the open garage door.

He could feel it, deep inside of his chest, that something was going to happen to one of them, or both of them soon, and at least he could prepare before it got there.

Owen shook his head, ignoring George’s stare, and returned to cleaning his bike.

“I’m goin’ tah the bar down the road,” George announced. “Yah comin’?”

“Nah, gonna watch the game.”

George rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Football?”

“Yeah.”

“Hell’s wrong with yah?”

“Isn’t there a beer callin’ yuh name?” Owen fired back with a distasteful look. George scoffed and pulled on his jacket, walking towards the door.

“Hope the game sucks!” He shouted at Owen before slamming the door behind him, making the windows rattle a little. The younger scowled at the TV, sitting back to try and relax some. An evening without his father around would be a nice one, no annoying questions or comments, no physical blows, no fighting over what to watch; just him. He ignored the nagging in the back of his mind that told him tonight would be the last time he’d ever see George alive. Instead, he got up to retrieve a cheap beer from the fridge, and settled in again; it was probably going to be a long night.

George’s bed was empty when Owen lugged himself up out of bed, and after taking his morning piss and moving to the kitchen, he noticed everywhere else was absent of the older Australian, too.

He set to making a small breakfast, a slice of toast and some cereal kept in a cupboard above the fridge. He sat at the table, eating in silence, his eyes watching the front door; the nagging had only gotten worse, and now as he stared at the wall across from him, it proceeded to put a bad feeling inside of him, making goosebumps rise up on his skin.

Owen finished breakfast and got himself dressed, packing away all of the boomerangs he’d created and kept in his work desk—he had eleven complete ones, and the one work in progress would be left behind. He got out his keys, deciding he’d rather have his bike than his truck, and opened the garage door.

He wheeled out his baby, starting her up and kicking the stand. He turned around to close the garage door and leave the place behind him forever, and his eyes stopped on the front door. Owen sighed, shaking his head as he walked up to kick George’s boot.

The man was slumped over, blood splattered over his chest, his coat gone. A piece of paper was pinned to his shirt, and Owen could see the writing without having to lean down.

‘Thank you’

Owen pulled out his flip phone, dialing 911, calmly telling them in his American accent that there was a body outside of the address, and he hung up the phone. He walked back over to his bike, leaving the corpse behind, and sped away, hardly feeling a shred of guilt.

Chapter Text

Gwen kept her head pillowed against Boomer’s chest, staring at her fingers that were splayed over his sternum, the tips of her nails tracing over the tattoo he had inked into his skin. She followed the outline of the continent of Australia, digits moving after to the letters within it; “WCB” was written in delicate script, the same deep blue as the outline. It looked weathered, the ink paled under the hair on his chest, and she glanced down to the one she could see, barely managing not to cross her eyes.

The stars looked faded too, the black having washed out of his skin over time. The star around his pierced nipple intrigued her, and her fingers moved across to touch the inked areola, catching on the small silver hoop through it. This led to her playing with the piercing alone, flicking it before starting to spin it, watching as it slid easily through the hole, eyebrows furrowed.

The Captain’s body shifted under her and he grunted, lifting the arm not around her to rub his face with his hand. She abruptly moved her hand away from his chest, laying it on his stomach, listening to him breathe as he stretched.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled as he let his body relax again.

Gwen moved her head, settling her chin on his chest. “Morning.”

He laid his hand beside hers, looking down at her with his eyes still half closed. “Sleep alright?”

“Yes.”

He nodded before laying his head back, sighing deeply, his arm still heavy around her. Gwen watched him, his eyes glued to the ceiling, his face twisting with his thoughts; she couldn’t read his expressions. She laid her head back down instead of trying to decipher what was going on inside his head, snuggling closer into his warm body, eyes closing again, waiting until he decided to get out of bed.

“Gwennie, c’mere.”

The brunette pulled herself out of the warm blankets with reluctance, touching her toes to the ground as she rubbed her eye and stepped towards the bathroom.

The Captain held out a boomerang to her when she stepped around the corner. “I want yah tah cut me hair,” he said. “Trim up me beard again fah me.”

She took the weapon gingerly, making sure the blade was pointing away from her fingers, and he turned around to put the lid of the toilet down. Gwen shifted her grip, grabbing at the leather cords wrapped around the middle.

He sat down, beckoning her over with his fingers.

“You know I’ve never held one of these, right?”

“Yeah, an’?”

“You want me to be near your head with it? With my left hand?”

He chuckled and beckoned her again, curling his fingers. “C’mon, Gwennie girl. I trust yah.” Boomerang spread his legs apart, giving her enough room to stand between them.

“Think ‘a it like when yah shave yuh legs,” he told her. “Blade goes with the skin, not against it.”

She turned the blade out, pressing her fingertips to his cheek to turn his head for her as she looked down at him, swallowing nervously. She lifted the boomerang, giving a gentle test, pressing the blade to the side of his head and dragging it towards the back of his neck.

His hair sliced off and when no skin joined it, she took a deep breath, continuing carefully across the side of his head. She knew he was watching her, gauging the expression on her face as she bit her lip, concentrating on watching the other blade on the boomerang so she didn’t accidentally clip his ear.

Gwen stayed focused on the act, being gentle and slow. The blade slid easily through his hair and after some careful testing she managed to get a close shave right up against the longer hair on the top and back of his head. She grabbed his chin again, turning his head the other way to get the other side, and he still watched her.

She did graze his ear once by accident, a small score across the top of the shell that made him hiss and jerk away, and Gwen stumbled back, nearly dropping the boomerang as she hugged it to her chest, pressing into the wall that was behind her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, deathly quiet as he lifted his fingers to touch the cut. It was tiny, hardly any blood at all dribbling out of it, but still, fear struck her in the chest like a heavy weight that made it nearly impossible to breathe as he brought his hand down to look for blood.

The Captain looked up at her, one of his eyebrows lifting. “Did yah cut yuhself?”

She looked down at her hand, unsure, but saw no blood. Shaking her head, she replied, “I don’t think so.”

“Then come finish.”

The woman tightened her grip on the boomerang, still having trouble breathing, and his command didn’t register in her head. Instead, she just stared at him while he stared back at her, waiting. Finally, he held his hand out to her, curling his fingers again.

“Gwennie girl,” he said, his tone soft. “It’s okay. C’mon. I cut me ears all the time.”

He kept his hand out, the palm open to her, and she stepped forward enough that he could wrap his hand around her wrist and pull her back to where she was.

“Yuh’re almost done. Could yah finish fah me? I’ll get me beard.”

Her hand was more than a little shaky as she lifted the weapon again; there were only two chunks, maybe three, that needed to be cut and she’d be done. She took deep breaths as best she could, calming herself down as she slid the silver metal along his head, bending his ear away carefully to ensure she didn’t cut it again as she finished up.

Gwen gave the boomerang back to him when she was done and she’d checked both sides, making sure there wasn’t anything she may have missed. He grabbed onto her wrist again as he stood, towering over her.

“Stay in here with me,” he told her. “When I’m done, we’ll check on yuh fingahs an’ rewrap ‘em.”

After nodding, she changed places with him and sat down on the toilet seat, watching him lean against the counter to look in the mirror. He moved the blade with expert precision, cutting under his bottom lip and down across his chin. Shaving under his jaw across his neck was next, and she watched how he stuck his tongue out in concentration before bringing the blade up to clean up his cheeks and trim the rest, before setting the blade down.

“Look bettah?” He asked her, looking back to his normal self, his mutton chops having reappeared in what had become a thick beard. She nodded her head, deciding against speaking, and held out her right hand to him.

Boomerang didn’t make a comment about her silence, and took her small hand gingerly, his fingers working to undo the wrap. It fell to the counter as he pulled it away, his thumb barely touching hers as he bent down to inspect it. Her knuckles were still bruised an ugly purple, not as dark as they were when he first wrapped them, but the middle of her thumb was still badly swollen, a black bruise wrapped around the digit, purple at either end.

“Bet that’s a nasty one,” he said. “I broke three bones in the palm ‘a me hand an’ it was darkah than that.” Boomer shuddered and shook his head, grabbing the bandage to wrap it around her hand again.

“Was it your left hand?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that why you have that scar?”

He looked up at her, pausing after he wound it around her wrist. “Yuh’re observant, Sweetheart. It is.”

She bunched up her toes and pursed her lips, curiosity getting the better of her. “What happened?”

The Aussie mulled over her question, his eyes not leaving her face as the two sat in silence for ten nerve-wracking seconds. He finally looked down, starting the process of folding the bandage around her hand again. “It happened five years ago,” he started, his tone much quieter. “I got cocky throwin’ boomerangs, thought I’d be able tah catch ‘em without lookin’.”

Boomer shook his head, carefully moving the cloth around her thumb. Gwen winced as a sharp shock of pain fired through her wrist, up her arm, and into her shoulder, making her whole body ache. “Well, found out I wasn’t able tah. Boomerang came back an’ it went intah my hand. I can remember feelin’ it, right here—” He pressed his thumb into the center of her palm. “—Shattered my two fingahs, fah sure, the middle was cracked. Think it was, anyway. Nevah went tah a doctah.”

Gwen furrowed her eyebrows and winced again as he continued around her knuckles. “Why didn’t you?”

“I was livin’ with me da’,” he said, and shrugged. “Wasn’t much I could do. I couldn’t think straight, let alone fight him on goin’ tah a hospital, so he patched it up himself. Left me with two melded fingers I can barely bend an’ pain when it gets wet. Can’t punch with me left, eithah.”

Gwen looked down at his hand, now noticing that his pinky wasn’t bending at all, and his ring finger faintly echoed a curve as he held onto the cloth, tucking the end into a fold to finish up his handiwork. “How did he fix it? I wouldn’t think it would be easy.”

“It wasn’t,” Boomerang said seriously. “An’ it really ain’t fixed. But he took out the boomerang, poured a fuck ton ‘a alcohol in it, an’ stitched it up.”

She cringed and he nodded his agreement, his hands leaving hers. “How many times have you broken your fingers?”

“Tah many times tah count, love.”

“What else have you broken?”

Boomer shook his head, offering her his hand. “I think yah should be askin’ what I haven’t broken. We’re leavin’ soon, Gwennie, I think yah should go get dressed.”

The car ride had been relatively silent, the radio sometimes being turned on, and sometimes turned off when commercials came, or one of them didn’t want to listen anymore. Gwen kept to herself, silent as usual, and watching out the window, thinking about what day it was, what was going on in the rest of the world, and what her family was doing. It dampened her mood, her heart feeling heavy in her chest.

The town they reached around four in the afternoon was small, Main Street having a grand total of five buildings on it. Boomer’s face had lit up in recognition as they passed through, and at the next intersection he was turning left and going down a narrow road with several brick buildings clustered close to the street. Some were connected and some separate, and most of them looked to be little shops. People were out walking on the sidewalk, bundled up in coats against the cold.

After another few turns, he pulled up behind a red brick building, small and decrepit. Boomerang got out and Gwen followed suit, lagging behind him as he walked up three steps to the back door. He reached into his coat and rooted around for what Gwen guessed to be a key, and she looked around her while waiting for him to open the door. The bricks were chipped, the snow around them unshoveled, and the windows she could see were fogged with age. She was sure she wouldn’t be able to see through them if she tried.

“Had a mate look aftah the place fah a bit,” Boomerang said as he got to unlocking the door. “I dunno if he still does or not, but let’s hope there ain’t any mice.”

Gwen scrunched up her face, the idea of the disgusting little creatures running around where they were going to be staying for however long Boomer decided, making her want to gag. He opened the door, letting her in first. Several lights flicked on, and he tossed the key onto the counter that was by the door.

It was a small living space, just one room, with a bed in the corner, and the rest of the walls were filled with a counter, table, desk, fridge, and sink. There was a garage door on the side opposite the bed, facing out towards the paved road they had come in on.

He rubbed his hands together, grumbling about the heat, and went around over by the fridge and after fiddling with the thermostat, she could hear the heat kick on with a harsh clicking sound. The Aussie then went about inspecting the place, while Gwen simply went to look in the fridge, finding nothing and closing the door with a huff.

“Boomer, I’m gonna go grab the backpack.”

He waved her off as he lifted the blanket and pillow off the bed, his back to her.

She was quick, jogging to the truck to open her door and grab the bag, her belly’s growling encouraging her to go faster. She shut the door with her hip, shrugging the pack up onto her shoulder.

A man caught her eye as she lifted her head; he was standing on the sidewalk, staring at her from across the street, his brown, long coat pulled tight around him. Their eyes met and a smile pulled at his lips, almost predatory. Something inside of her, a small voice in her mind, told her she needed to get out of his sight immediately and that’s what she did, scampering behind the building, up the steps, and back inside, locking the deadbolt behind her.

Boomer didn’t seem to notice how the color had drained from her face, and or if he had, he didn’t say anything, only helped her shrug off the pack and set it on the table.

He declared there weren’t any mice so far as he could tell, as he got out the snacks they had, handing her one of the fruit leathers she’d picked out. She nodded, thanked him, and ate it, her eyes flicking from the door, to the windows, to the garage door, the feeling of being stared at, like she was being studied remained with her, making her lose her appetite.

They stayed through the night, and that was when Gwen’s mind finally allowed the man from before to drift away, his piercing gaze vanishing like smoke. Boomer’s arms were wrapped around her, holding her up against his chest as they both laid on their sides, his chin tilted down and touching her head as she pressed her forehead to the hollow where his neck met his torso.

Her hands were pressed between them, her right carefully cradled to her chest to prevent it from being crushed or squished, and her left up against his stomach. His body was impossibly warm as usual, and the blanket cocooned around them, making it cozy and perfect for sleep.

Gwen couldn’t sleep though, even with the man gone—chased away by the safety of being right beside the Aussie. Instead, she was thinking about the two of them, curled up in bed together, and how it even happened.

She’d heard before about how people who were kidnapped were being brainwashed into loving and defending their captors, treating them like they were kings and queens. She feared it was happening to her, that was falling into some trap that he’d laid for her when he first grabbed her.

But you don’t defend him , she told herself. He’s still the asshole that hurt you, that took you from your home, that lied to you, and manipulated you.

That was true, and she didn’t try to defend it. He had been a dick, several parts of her still assumed he was going to be, despite how much he had expressed patience and concern as of late. What was she supposed to make of them, together, though? She thought about them kissing in the backseat of his truck, how they both welcomed the contact.

Boomerang hadn’t tried being inappropriate with her again, not after she had slapped him and yelled at him. Even the night before, in the shower, he hadn’t once looked below her shoulders. (Not that she knew of, anyway.)

She wasn’t going to justify his actions from before, but she might the actions he’d been showing as of late, like saving her and helping her instead of leaving her to the wolves. Even then, a small tinge of doubt blotted her mind, like a dark ink splotch that had dripped off a pen, because how was she supposed to believe him?

“Gwennie.”

His voice sliced through her thoughts, quiet and gentle. Her hand tightened in a ball against him and she looked up, meeting his gaze.

The Aussie’s eyes were soft in the light, concern etched deep within them. The arms around her loosened, as if giving her the chance to stand up and walk away if she really wanted to. His eyebrows were furrowed, a frown tugging at his lips.

“Yuh’re thinkin’ hard about somethin’, Sweetheart.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“Is there somethin’ yah gotta say?”

Gwen hesitated, realizing this was the first time he’d asked her that question. He’d given her the freedom right then and there to speak her mind. Her toes curled and flexed out of nerves and she shifted uncomfortably. “There was a man,” she told him. “Outside, when I went to get my bag. He was standing across the road and he was staring at me when I turned around.”

One of his arms moved, his hand splaying over her shoulder blade, his thumb swiping back and forth against the fabric of her shirt.

“He smiled at me, like… Like how you used to.”

His movements didn’t falter, one of his eyebrows moving to arch up over his eye.

“What d’yah think he wanted?”

Again, she hesitated, biting her lip and looking down at his chest, her hand starting to relax again. He was calm, being respectful instead of dismissive, and she finally just shrugged.

“What d’yah think we should do?”

“I don’t know. Maybe just watch out for him?” She asked and sighed. “He scared me.”

“Reckon I’ll keep the doors locked,” he told her. “Yah ain’t gotta be scared, Gwennie. D’yah wanna talk about somethin’ else? Or about him?”

She shook her head, scooting closer to him, and his arms tightened around her again, not pushing for her to tell him anymore.

“I ain’t gonna let anythin’ or anyone hurt yah, Gwennie,” he said. “Not aftah what I did tah hurt yah.”

“Okay.”

She felt him move and the bed creaked as his lips pressed against her forehead while he mumbled a goodnight, and they stayed like that until morning, Gwen’s thoughts leaving her as she finally found sleep.

It was simple to Gwendolyn; she didn’t want to go to the Wayne Ballroom Dinner. She didn’t even think it was really called that, but her mother refused to give her any more information on it, other than it was being held by Bruce Wayne, it was a very fancy event, and there would be dancing.

She wanted absolutely no part of it. She hated these types of formal dinners with a passion, and if she didn’t want to stab someone in the leg or dip out and run home within the first ten minutes, then she probably had already done one of the two. It wasn’t like she could actually succeed in doing such a thing, but she had certainly thought about it.

Three hours before they were supposed to be leaving, Gwendolyn kicked off her shoes and stripped out of her dress, opting for a pair of comfortable yoga pants and a sweater as she plopped down at her desk. Homework was more important than some silly little dinner, and her mother had made sure the seventeen-year-old’s schedule was overloaded with concurrent enrollment classes.

That was why she got into a real argument with her mother for the first time since she was ten. Lucinda had come in, demanded to know why she wasn’t ready, and why she was on her computer of all things. When Gwen tried to speak, she bombarded her with more questions, asking if she was stupid, or wanted to make the family look bad.

Gwen had slammed her hands down on the desk and shoved herself up, telling her mother. “I am not going to that stupid dinner, I have an essay due tomorrow night that I need to work on, and I hate them, anyway. Get out of my room.”

The fight broke out then, Lucinda repeating her questions on if she was an idiot, asking if she wanted to destroy the family’s reputation—which Gwen was sure one missed dinner wouldn’t do such a thing—causing the teenager to ask if her mother was stupid, firing it right back in her face.

The harshest words the girl had ever said were spat out, telling her mother, “You’re a terrible mother, trying to pull me away from every single responsibility you shoved onto me, and then blaming me when I get stretched too thin! I am not going to that stupid fucking galla, especially not with you ! I am staying home, and I am working on the homework I got from the class you signed me up for.”

The door had slammed behind Lucinda as she stormed out, and Gwen had sat down, breathing hard, watching her hands as they shook from the adrenaline. She continued to sit there, desperately trying to believe that she really had just stood up to her own mother.

“ Gwendolyn!”

The roar shook the apartment, sending a cold chill of fear straight down her spine, twirling through her vertebrae and making her shoot straight up. Her father was home, and she could hear him stomping down the hall towards her room.

Her father Leopold, very rarely got involved in Gwen’s life, either because he was away, or was home but working and manipulating his way through stocks, companies, and money. It worked fine for her, because the last time Leopold yelled at her, she had nightmares from the fear of such a large man bearing down on her.

The door swung open so hard it bounced off the wall, Leopold’s hand the only thing stopping it from coming back and hitting him. He was in one of his favorite dress suits, one he saved for very special occasions. Silver with brass-colored buttons accompanied with a metallic-looking, brass-colored pocket square, everything neatly pressed and fitted to his lean body. His black hair was slicked back, face freshly shaved, and he looked every bit the billionaire that he was, only with anger contorting his features instead of his regular schooled, calm expression.

“What do you think you are doing?” He snarled loudly, stepping into the room and marching up to her, unafraid of getting into her personal space.

Gwendolyn flinched back, bringing up her legs in an attempt to make herself smaller under his heated gaze. She was shaking again, hard enough that the chair rattled as she stared at her knees, realizing just how badly she’d messed up.

“I asked you a question, Gwendolyn,” her father said evenly, as if he were talking to a child. His fists clenched at his sides. “You are going to answer it.”

“Homework,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“I-t’s due tomorrow, Sir.”

“But what is tonight?”

“The dinner…”

Leopold grabbed her chin forcing her to look up at him. “You look at me when I am speaking to you, Gwendolyn. The dinner is tonight, and you are sitting in here, being a disobedient and insolent child , instead of getting ready to go to this dinner with your family. This is not optional, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Why did you back talk your mother?”

Gwen felt like crying, a lump forming in her throat, and she was still extremely aware of the sound her swivel chair was making as she trembled. “Because… Because she asked me if I was stupid.”

“And why aren’t you stupid?”

Pain struck her hard in the chest, her toes curling as she continued to try and grow smaller. “I’m trying to f-finish the work from the class she made me take.”

“Excuse me,” he said, laughing harshly and shaking his head. “Did you just use that tone with me?”

She rapidly shook her head, biting down so hard on her lip she could taste blood.

“Then you better fix that sentence. Now.”

She hesitated, knowing what to say that would please him, and what to say that would make him even angrier. Fear tore apart any shred of bravery or courage she’d had, and she shook her head. “I don’t have an answer, Sir.”

“That is exactly what I thought, Gwendolyn. You do not back talk your mother, and you do not back talk me. Take a page from your brother’s book and do what we ask of you, when we ask it. Do you understand?”

More pain struck her and she couldn’t help but look down as she nodded, tears starting to fall across her cheeks. He sighed loudly, more like an annoyed huff, and folded his arms.

“You have twenty minutes, Gwendolyn, and if you are not ready, or you are still wallowing in your self-pity, you will not like my consequence.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Will you be ready, Gwendolyn?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” he snapped and turned around, marching out and slamming the door behind him.

The horrible part about Leopold’s anger, is it stuck with Gwendolyn. Even though the threat was gone from her room, she was petrified on the chair, crying softly against her knees as she tried to compose herself, knowing that she’d have to redo her makeup and get on the form fitting, deep grey dress all over again.

She wiped away her tears after a good five minutes passed and stood on shaky legs, undressing and redressing, sniffling as she tried her best to get ready all over again,  glad she hadn’t taken off her makeup yet and that the runny mascara was going to be an easy fix.

Stepping out, she was already re-braiding her hair, several bobby pins in her mouth as she twisted it around on the side of her head, pinning it into place in her usual, formal style.

Leopold was waiting at the end of the hallway for her, his arms folded, and she looked down when she got to him. “Perhaps now you’ll listen better. Go downstairs. You’re riding with your mother.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

She slid past him, clenching her fists to try and stop herself from starting to tremble all over again, as she slipped out of the door.

Chapter Text

Gwendolyn had been stopped before while walking down the street for all manner of things. People always wanted pictures with her, and when she was spotted, flocking to her like any popular celebrity; they wanted to know more about her, asking questions as they held up a phone and snapped a picture. She’d heard “Wow, you’re really that short!” more times than she could count, and the inquiries about her father’s work were continuous, as well as wondering what Gwen would be doing next—generally, it was most likely going to be another modeling job.

She’d been asked to sign things before, to answer short three to six question interviews, or how to get the products she was modeling. On several occasions, she got questions on real-world issues, like what she thought of global warming, whom she was voting for in the next local election, what she thought about the economy, or social rights and movements; it didn’t ever really stop. At least on the streets, the questions—aside from asking for a picture—were fewer than on the social media websites she was forced to keep updated.

However, she’d never had someone come up to her asking her to help them. Until now.

The woman was older, and Gwendolyn immediately noticed her clothes and disheveled hair, all crumpled and un-formfitting, like she hadn’t bothered to undress and pick another outfit for several days. Her rich, clean upbringing made her want to step back and turn the other way, to avoid this woman like she usually did and be on her way. Instead, she stayed glued to the spot.

Her skin was a deep bronze, darker freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, and bags hung under her wrinkled eyes. Her black hair was frizzy, pulled up into a messy bun on top of her head, and turning grey around her temples with several grey streaks along the top of her head. Her back was slumped, eyes directed towards her feet, and she looked lost.

Most of all, as the twenty-year-old looked over her, she could see how in despair the woman was, clutching a paper of some kind to her chest. There were unshed tears in the woman’s brown eyes, along with a deep, painful looking agony nestled deep within them; something Gwen knew and could understand, and for a moment, her eyes flashed back the same emotion, and the two connected.

“Ms. Gwendolyn, yes?” The woman asked, and Gwen nodded her head.

“Yes.”

“I was wonderin’, if maybe I could—” the woman paused, swallowing thickly, and a tear leaked from those eyes that shined in such a bright heartache that the brunette’s chest stung, like her sternum over her heart cracked. “—if I could ask you to help me.”

Gwen nodded just a little and she replied, “I can try.”

“My son,” the woman said, her fists tightening around the paper before she tentatively reached out to hand it to Gwen. “He’s been missing for three weeks. I went to the police, but they stopped searching after the first five days, and I just know he’s out there and…”

She trailed off, like she wasn’t sure what else she could say, and Gwen watched her sniffle, more tears leaking out across her cheeks, and she willingly took the page.

It was a picture of a boy that couldn’t have been older than seventeen, grinning at the camera, eyes crinkled with his happiness. Gwen’s heart broke for the woman as she looked at him, and she had the sudden urge to start crying right there.

“His name’s Devon Fitzgerald, just started his tenth grade year a month ago,” she explained. “Sweetest boy you’ll ever meet, always goin’ to church on Sundays, always finishin’ up his chores without bein’ asked to, keeps up his grades, does what he’s supposed to. J-just a real nice boy, that’s all.”

Gwen’s fingers drifted over his face and she looked up at his mother, emotions raw between them, and a moment later they were embracing one another, the social standards between them forgotten.

She took the woman—Jana, was her name—to a small coffee shop on a secluded corner near the bay. No one bothered her there, and she didn’t bother anyone else: the frequents knew she came for a break from the world and it’s what they gave her. After buying her a coffee, which made the woman thank her again profusely, Gwen asked her questions.

She asked about her son; what he was like, her proudest moments of him, if she could talk about those memories. She told her in response that her proudest moments of her son were simply being his mother, and having him in her life. It made Gwendolyn feel an even stronger urge to help her.

They sat for two hours, way over what Gwen’s time out should’ve been, but she didn’t mind, because she was busy getting to know Jana and what she could of the woman’s son. Jana worked as a nurse at Gotham Memorial Hospital, often coming home late to keep food on the table for her and her son. Devon’s father had died before he had even been born, but Jana didn’t give up, because she still had someone to look after.

The woman told Gwen plain and simple, “Devon’s the only reason I have left to live, and without him by me, I don’t know what to do. I’m lost, Gwendolyn.”

Devon was an artist and enjoyed drawing and painting, exhibiting skill with a pencil that made his mother’s bad days easier with drawings of them or beautiful birds. He was a bright and attentive teenager, respectful and had an infectious laugh. He wanted nothing more than to see the good in the world.

She came home from work three weeks before on Wednesday, September 7th, and the apartment was empty, devoid of even his backpack. It was clear her son hadn’t made it home, and after a week of investigating, the police simply faded away. Jana was alone and scared, and had no other means of finding her son than by spreading what word she could, begging any passersby to keep an eye out for him.

Gwen had been a beacon of hope, someone who could help her, someone who could at least say something and have people listen. Gwendolyn considered for a moment what her mother would think, and knew immediately how much Lucinda would disapprove of Jana and her story, but also knew Lucinda wouldn’t mind the positive light assisting a woman missing a child would bring to their family, and that’s exactly how she planned on excusing it when she’d get chewed out for it later.

No one had seen Devon after he’d left school to walk home, taking the usual route as far as anyone could tell. No one knows exactly where he was when he mysteriously vanished, no one Jana knew had a motive for kidnapping, or doing the unthinkable to her son. (She didn’t acknowledge the fact that he could be dead, and Gwen didn’t either.) His bag wasn’t found, or anything else aside from his phone; he had simply vanished.

His phone had been turned off, the screen shattered, and that was all they had to go off of. It was found on a road just a block from their apartment building, “So close, but so far from home,” Jana had whispered, holding her coffee tighter in her hands.

She snapped a picture on her phone of the paper Jana had, saving it to post when she could later, after she was finished talking to the woman, and opened a notepad on her phone.

Gwen did what she thought would be the best and asked how tall he was, the street he was last seen on, where his phone was found, and if there were any identifiable marks on him that someone might recognize.

She wrote what Jana told her, describing him to hopefully give anyone who paid attention to her posts a better chance at recognizing him if he was seen. For now, it was all Gwen could do.

They parted, with Jana’s phone number in Gwen’s phone to keep each other updated on any advancements in the case, and because neither of them felt that the other should be alone. Gwen could see in Jana’s eyes something motherly, something that showed that the older woman understood the younger, and they had hugged with small smiles, and went different ways.

Lucinda was very displeased at first over the post on Gwen’s Instagram, and wasn’t afraid to barrel into her daughter’s room unannounced because of it. Gwen took her mother’s insult about having a “poor black kid” on her Insta with a straight face.

“But Mother,” Gwen had said calmly. “Wouldn’t this be better for us in the public eye? Helping a poor mother try and find her son would certainly get more than a few hits, don’t you think?”

Lucinda folded her arms over her chest, looking surprised that her daughter had actually come up with a logical excuse to be posting something about one of “them”.

“Very well,” Lucinda conceded, her eyes narrowing. “But if you do something like this again without my permission, you will be punished. Are you in contact with this… Mother?”

“Yes.”

“Cut ties with her. I do not want you associating with someone of such a low status. If there is something about the case of this teen, then you will go to the police,” her mother said, voice sharp and crisp. “Am I understood?”

Gwen had gotten used to playing this game now. Concede when needed, because there was always a way around her mother—even if it was risky. She wasn’t going to stop talking to Jana, not after speaking with the woman over coffee and getting to know her better. This was something more important than stopping over fear of her mother.

“You are,” she replied, and Lucinda gave a firm nod of her head before turning around and leaving the room.

The next three weeks dragged on, and so far what she knew from combing through comments (as well as asking her escort to do it), was that no one had any idea where Devon was. No one had reported anything, only saying things along the lines of, “I’ll pray for him and his mom”, “I’ll keep an eye out”, or “god bless them both”. It was exhausting and angering, especially as she continued to meet up with Jana who was on a steady downhill slope, her world continuing to crumble around her.

Gwen couldn’t do anything else that she knew of, other than sit beside her and hope that someone came forward with something. The chances of finding her son diminished bit by bit everyday, and it was like with each passing second, something drained from Jana, as if her soul was falling out, bleeding onto the ground, and leaving behind nothing but a husk.

The fourth week made it abundantly clear to Gwen that Jana was having trouble functioning, her eyes red and puffy constantly, even though no more tears fell from them. She wasn’t eating, her skin sinking against her bones until it seemed that that was all the woman was anymore—skin and bones.

The fifth week wasn’t much better; Gwen never brought it up. Instead, she told Jana about her late grandmother, telling story after story to fill the quiet, and hopefully not leave the woman feeling so alone. She knew it was hardly a help, but if it was something, that was better than nothing. To the young adult, watching Jana now was even more heartbreaking than when they’d met, and the overwhelming crush of helplessness and guilt was unrivaled by anything else she’d felt in her life.

The sixth week, Jana didn’t show. Gwendolyn sent her a text, short and to the point, “Thank you for all that you’ve done for me over the last month and a half. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you anymore Jana.”

She tossed the rest of her coffee and left, wiping several stray tears from her eyes and deciding that the small coffee shop overlooking the bay wasn’t going to be her hideaway anymore. There was something too intimate lingering in the walls there after their soft conversations, and Gwen decided it was better left where it lie, undisturbed and peaceful, perhaps one last place Jana would be able to find sanctuary. It wasn’t the best, but it was all Gwen could do.

Devon Fitzgerald was never found.

Gwendolyn refused to go anywhere without Boomer being near enough that she could see him. Outside definitely wasn't an option for her, unless he was with her; for now, he was her source of safety against the feeling of being hunted down, stalked like a rabbit against wolves. The Captain seemed to be understanding and didn't make a comment about it.

They'd restocked the fridge with milk and bottled water from the small market down the road, as well as two boxes of cereal and ramen. At first, she was wary of the noodles, never having had them before in her life, and watched as he combined them with a powder mix when they were done cooking. He poured two servings in plastic bowls, and they settled at the table.

The both of them had spent two days at the garage so far, the longest time they'd ever stopped in one place, and Gwen was absolutely relieved. She hadn't realized how much her body ached, not just from her broken bones, but from all of the traveling and activity. It was like it all had put a strain on her, stretching her thin, and now she was finally relaxing and beginning to feel back to normal. Having something as simple as boiled noodles with a not-so-good tasting mix made her want to cry, because it was something normal , not beef jerky or granola bars, for once.

Boomer ate his food in relative silence, slurping on several stray noodles here and there, not focusing on her struggle to control the fork in her left hand. She quickly became annoyed with holding her fork at such an awkward angle, dropping it, and just simply being unable to control it. Soon, Gwen was glaring at her bowl of noodles.

“Gwennie girl.”

“What?”

“Take off yuh wrap.”

She looked up at the Aussie, furrowing her eyebrows. He looked back impassively and gestured to her right hand on the table beside the bowl.

“Take it off an’ use it.”

“Excuse me?”

The Captain raised his eyebrow at her. “Excused,” he replied. “Now take off that wrap an’ use yuh hand. It ain’t gonna hurt much an’ yah need the exercise, an’ watchin’ yah struggle with ramen of all things, is gettin’ borin’.”

“Well I’m so glad you’re getting enjoyment out of watching me struggle,” she snapped at him, moving to start picking apart the wrap. He snorted, taking another bite of his noodles.

“Reckon I ain’t enjoyin’ it much, anymore.”

Gwendolyn huffed at him while glaring, and unwrapped her hand, cringing at the bruised skin of her fingers when they came into view. He reached across, sliding his palm under her hand to lift it up and look at it.

“Yeah, yah’ll be fine,” he said after glancing over the broken fingers and setting it back down. “Pick up yuh fork.”

Gwen moved to grab it with her left hand.

“No. With yuh right hand. I told yah that Gwennie, don’t make me repeat m’self.”

He twirled more noodles around his fork, lifting it to his lips as he watched her hesitate. Her hand was over the utensil, and slowly but surely she closed her hand around it, biting her lip against the small but vivid shocks of pain echoing through her palm and up into your arm.

“It hurts, Boomer…”

“Get ovah it. Yah’ll be fine.”

She continued to glare at him, not that it really seemed to bother him much, and proceeded to eat. It was a slow process, not as much as trying to control her left hand, but the pressure she had to exert with her thumb and index finger made them sting so fiercely she thought about how it might reduce her to tears in front of Boomer. She was eating though, no matter how slow, and in an angry and spiteful way, she took that as a victory, eyes narrowing whenever she looked up at him. If he was already looking at her, he’d just chuckle and shake his head, going back to eating his own food.

“Exercise,” Boomerang started as he stood up, apparently finished with his meal. “Is gonna make it a fuck ton easiah fah yuh hand tah heal.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

“Lot’a the best things in life hurt, Gwennie,” he said casually. “Includin’ healin’.”

She huffed, staring into her bowl. “No need to get philosophical on me.”

“Philosophical, eh? Nah love, yah dunno how deep I can get.”

“What if I want to?”

“Curiosity is gonna get tah yah, Gwennie,” he said and grinned at her over his shoulder as he walked to the sink.

“ Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press

My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;

Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express

The manner of my pity-wanting pain. ”

“Was that Shakespeare?”

“Reckon it coulda been.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

He set his bowl down on the counter, turning to face her as he leaned his hip against it. “Reckon I might be. Yah didn’t want me tah get all “philosophical” on yah, so I had tah.”

She set her fork down, carefully folding her arms. “Sonnet 140,” she said remembering nights illuminated by her lamp with a book of sonnets on her lap. “About a woman being neither chaste nor fair, and a man who is conflicted with matters of the heart.”

He gave her a wink, and said, “Didn’t think yah’d know it, tah be honest. Hopin’ I’d outdo yah.”

Gwen rolled her eyes, standing slowly. “As if you could outdo me ,” she joked and he laughed, shaking his head. Realizing she’d just joked with him, she couldn’t help but grin.

He reached out to take her bowl as she brought it towards him, and both went into the plastic sack they’d been using for trash. “Doubt I could,” he admitted.

“Where did you learn Shakespeare?”

His attitude changed, then, his body growing more tense as his back straightened. Boomer looked away from her, his eyes on the counter. “One ‘a me guards in Arkham,” he started. “He used tah get me books, y’know, little ones yah could sneak in. Dunno why he did; I nevah even saw the bloke’s face.”

The Australian shrugged. “Usually it was shit from the mid-1700s tah 1850 or so. Sometimes, though, he’d sneak in Shakespeare fah me. An Act outta Macbeth, some sonnets, enough tah keep me occupied. No one evah came tah take ‘em. They were all I had in there.”

Gwen nodded and he sighed, looking back at her, smiling just a little. “Things without all remedy, should be without regard: what's done, is done.”

She was cautious about approaching him on their fourth day at the garage, unsure how he would react to teaching her how she could defend herself. The man from before, watching her from across the street, was still haunting her thoughts whenever she was awake, and with past experiences with several men (including the one she was trying to work up the nerve to ask for help,) she wanted to know some form of defense.

The woman had thought about it since the night of their second day there, remembering the way he spoke about boxing, she knew there was no way he didn’t know something about it. Plus, knowing it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea for her, anyway.

“Boomer?”

“Hm?”

He was laying on the bed, spinning a crudely carved wooden boomerang around his finger as he looked up at the ceiling, only stopping when he turned his head towards her.

She was standing beside the bed, biting on her cheek. “I was wondering if you could teach me something.”

“What is this somethin’?”

“Well, I—” She stopped herself, hesitant on what to say, and altogether unsure now that she was asking him, if she even wanted to know. “With everything that’s happened, and me not really knowing how to fight, or how to defend myself, or just how—”

“So yah want me,” he cut in, sitting up. “Tah teach yah how tah fight?”

Gwen looked down at her hands, comparing the bandaged one to the other. “Well, I mean… Yeah… If you’re willing to.”

He pushed himself off of the bed, folding his arms after doing so. “Are yah sure yah want me tah? Yah only got one good hand.”

“I need something. I’m tired of getting caught and having no idea how to defend myself.”

Boomerang nodded his head, rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb as he contemplated it. “Well, I reckon yah got a point there. Gimme a minute, an’ we’ll see what I can do.”

She stepped away from him as he set the wooden boomerang down on the bed behind him as he got up, before he walked across the garage to the table.

“Don’t punch again with that hand,” he told her simply. “Ain’t gonna let yah break it more.”

“That’s exactly what I was going to do,” she said sarcastically, watching as he moved the table out of the way, listening to the legs scrape on the cement floor.

She could practically hear him roll his eyes as he clapped his hands together, deeming the table far enough out of the way as he turned around. He was shirtless and barefoot, dressed in a pair of sweats he’d managed to find under the bed the day before. He’d taken them to the local laundromat, along with their other clothes, and they both had sat and waited, him half naked, for everything to wash.

“Since yah can’t use yuh’re right hand, I’m just gonna have tah teach yah with yuh left, an’ it’s gonna be slow an’ yuh’re probably gonna hate it aftah a few days.”

Gwen frowned as he walked over to her, reaching down to grab her left wrist. “I thought you were going to actually teach me something, not predict how I was going to react.”

“Yuh’re fiesty tahday, baby,” he said, watching with a satisfied grin as her cheeks reddened. “Now, at least I can show yah how tah properly punch someone.”

His fingers moved to hers, pushing them down and shifting her thumb out beneath her knuckles. “Yah nevah want yuh thumb inside, as yah learned, an’ yah wanna make sure this,” he touched across the tops of her fingers. “Is what yuh’re usin’ when yah hit someone. Don’t wanna use the bottom of yuh fist, or just the very tops ‘a yuh knuckles.”

Boomer moved around her so that she was facing him. He grabbed her wrist again, pushing and pulling on her arm to make sure she knew he was going to move it. “Now fah the basics, don’t evah punch someone like this,” he instructed, and moved her hand so her fist hit his sternum, her knuckles vertical. “Yah always wanna turn yuh wrist—” the Captain moved her arm back and turned her wrist, leading it to his chest again so that her knuckles were lined up horizontally “—an’ hit like this, no mattah where yah hit ‘em. Always level.”

She repeated the action again, leveling out her knuckles before pulling her hand back, and imitated the move with her right, keeping her knuckles from touching his chest. He nodded his approval, watching her do it several times before stopping her.

“Now, yah always gotta be balanced. If yuh’re caught off balance, they’ll be able tah get yah before yah get them, yeah?” Boomer shifted his legs apart. “Push me.”

Gwen stared at him like he was crazy, and he gave her the same look right back, gesturing for her to come closer and do it. “If yah want me tah teach yah, yah know yuh’re gonna haftah hit me latah. Push me.”

She did so, almost gingerly, her palm flat against his chest as she shoved as hard as she thought she’d need to in order to get him to lose his balance. It was actually easy, and one push was all it took for him to step back twice.

“That is why balance is everythin’, Sweetheart,” he said to her, and returned, stepping behind her as he put his feet beside hers, kicking them until they were shoulder width apart. “This is about where yah should always be, and keep this,” he added, putting his hand over her core. “Tight and centered, undahstand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Is that all yah wanna do tahday? Or should I teach yah how tah step?”

“How do you step?”

“Like yah always do, love. Lead with the opposite foot,” he instructed. “If yuh’re punchin’ with yuh left, generally yah step forward with yuh right; if it’s yuh right, step with yuh left. Maybe when that hand ‘a yuhs heals I’ll really show yah how tah get fightin’.”

“Is that it?” She asked him, dropping her hands as she turned around and look up at him.

Boomerang nodded and replied, “Fah now. Ain’t much I can really do when yah got a broken hand.”

Gwen frowned, but nodded her head in understanding. Knowing something about a punch was better than nothing. “Thank you for that, at least.”

His hand came up, touching her jaw, and his eyes grew warmer. “Yuh’re very welcome Gwennie girl,” he mumbled, and leaned down to kiss her.

Chapter Text

Owen kept Gwennie pressed close to him, her sleeping body a dead weight in his arms. They'd slept beside each other a lot now, more than he had ever laid with someone and cuddled before—without sex involved, anyway. She was peaceful in her sleep, hardly moving, not a peep coming past her lips; unless she couldn't fall into unconsciousness, or a nightmare cut through her rest like darkness swallowing light in a small room when the match is blown out. That seemed more uncommon than ever now.

He hadn't told her what day it was; it hadn't really crossed his mind until she'd actually stripped in front of him to get into the shirt she wore to bed. Boomerang had looked away when the thought popped up in his head, telling him it was Christmas Eve. He had the overwhelming sense to get something for her, something nice, and perhaps he would. He was planning on leaving the small town behind whether he got her something or not—they'd spent too long in one spot, and he was growing anxious.

Owen thought about the woman, her cheek against his chest, and remembered how she looked wearing his jacket, snuggling into the material that blanketed her and wrapped around her easily. Perhaps one of her own is what he'd get her, if he had time to.

He kissed her forehead, staying curled up on his side, and kept her close. He'd get up early and be quick about it, he decided, then he'd be back in time for her to wake up. Owen nodded to himself, pressed closer to her, and fell asleep.

Gwen was in the kitchen when he came back, holding a box of cereal in her hand as she turned her head to look at him. Her eyebrow raised as she went back to preparing her breakfast. “And where were you?”

“Out gettin’ somethin’ before we leave,” he replied, walking over to set the bag on the table. “Somethin’ fah yah, actually.”

Gwen grabbed what little milk they had left and poured it into the bowl. She sat at the table, using her right hand to hold the spoon, before she started to munch on her food. “What is it?”

Owen took a seat across from her, running his thumb across his lip. “Reckon yah’ll haftah open it an’ find out, Gwennie girl.”

She rolled her eyes, reaching for the bag with her left hand. It was paper, and brown, simple and not giving away what was inside. The cereal was moved aside as her curiosity got the better of her, and she was reaching in to pull out what was inside.

The Captain was actually surprised he’d found it at the thrift shop on the edge of town; it seemed too nice and well-kept to be on the racks of such a dirty place. He’d dropped sixty bucks on the damn thing, and while he was angry to see the money go, he also knew that it was a steal to get the jacket for such a small price, without actually stealing it. It was dark brown leather with a shearling inside, a belt around the waist, and a few pockets to spare. It reminded him of his own coat, and going off of that, he knew it was going to be comfortable.

Gwen didn’t say anything when she pulled it out, her eyebrows raised and eyes wide. Her fingers felt over it, touching the wool on the inside, fiddling with the belt and the zipper. Then she looked up at him, and he gave her a smile, a small and—if he let himself admit it—nervous one.

“Merry Christmas, Gwennie.”

She slipped it on over her shirt, moving her shoulders around to test the give of the material. Owen shifted his weight from foot to foot, watching her. Gwen moved around a little more, looking down at the fabric instead of him, her thumbs feeling the edges of the long sleeves.

Then she frowned and glanced up at the man. “I don’t have anything for you.”

He furrowed his eyebrows, rather shocked that she was thinking of getting him , of all people, something. Then he scoffed, and began to laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about that, love; ain’t a reason tah.”

Her frown lessened as she watched his face, and the anxiety from before returned like an adder strike to his belly. Had he done something wrong? Did he say the wrong thing? He focused on a bead of blood, gathering on her lip from where she had bitten it too hard.

Gwennie stepped toward him, he fought the urge to step back in response, and her arms wrapped around his middle as her head laid against his chest. “Thank you, Boomer.”

He hugged her in return, his eyes closing as his cheek rested against her head. “Yuh’re welcome, Gwennie.”

The Captain could tell she was unhappy to leave, just like how she was unhappy to stay. Her emotions had started to mirror his, continuously alert for those around her, instead of the one right next to her. He didn’t mention it, even when he saw her eyes flicking to the side mirrors on the truck several times within a minute.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about his influence on her; in fact, he tried to ignore it. Instead, he decided to say it was a void inside of his head, one he didn’t care to see. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, blocking his thoughts as he ignored her, and paid attention to the road and his mirrors.

It was nearing five in the evening when he spotted a motel in a town that was unfamiliar to him. Snow was falling, thick flakes drifting down without wind blowing them around, and the parking lot had yet to be shoveled. He pulled into—what he figured was—a parking space, and got out.

Gwennie got the room like usual, and it was a relief when the door closed behind them. He tossed his boots off and his coat and jacket aside, moving to the bed. He even groaned as he fell face forward onto the bed, his body bouncing as the mattress squeaked. She laid down in a much more gentle fashion beside him, and his arm reached out to go across her belly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this tired.”

He squinted at her and she turned her head to look at him, a soft smile on her lips. “I’m an ol’ man,” he replied.

“You are not.”

“Twenty-eight, an’ countin’.”

She smacked the arm across her stomach playfully before turning onto her side to face him. “Only twenty-eight?”

“Yah sayin’ I look oldah?”

“No,” Gwen said, screwing up her face. “Er, maybe… The beard does seem to add a few years.”

Boomerang closed his eyes, scoffing as he smiled. “Fair ‘nough,” he mumbled. “How old ah yah, then, eh? Nevah did find out. I’d say yah were twenty-three.”

She shook her head, making a, “Uh-uh,” sound, and he furrowed his eyebrows. “Younger.”

“Yuh’re old enough tah drink, right?”

“Here or in Australia?”

“D’yah know what the age is in Oz?”

Gwen was silent for a beat. “Eighteen.”

Boomerang nodded his head and opened his eyes, looking at her suspiciously. “No way yuh’re youngah than twenty.”

She grinned and giggled, shaking her head. “Twenty-one, Captain.”

Owen scoffed. “Nah, no way.”

“I am,” she protested and turned over, smacking his chest with the back of her hand. “You’re just jealous because you didn’t age well.”

He cracked up at that, shaking the bed with his laughter. She was laughing, too, a gentle sound next to his. He spoke when he was done, taking a few deep breaths with a broad smile on his face—he missed laughing. “Yah sound like me mum, Gwennie girl.”

She had stopped laughing, too, and silence followed his statement. He sighed and pulled her a bit closer to him. His eyes closed, his body beginning to succumb to his exhaustion, her warmth helping him relax into falling asleep.

“What was she like?” He heard Gwen whisper. A dull pain thumped in his chest.

He cleared his throat, not opening his eyes. “The best,” he replied, his tone slightly shy. “A lovely woman, always put othah people before herself. Grew up in a poor neighborhood, not tah far from Melbourne, didn’t mattah though. She always was watchin’ out fah me.” He was quiet for a moment, hesitant. “She always wanted me tah be what I wanted—somethin’ bettah than I am now.

“Once I asked her if I could become a supahhero, like most kids probably do. Told her I wanted tah be Captain Kangaroo, can yah believe that?” He laughed a little. “An’ she nevah stopped me from thinkin’ I could. When she died… It changed everythin’. I didn’t want tah be who I was anymore.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Every day.”

“It’s… It’s weird… I don’t know much about your mom, or who she was or what she told you, but she seems so… so different from mine. I remember one time I was bitten by a spider and I ended up going to the hospital over it because I wanted to keep it hidden. I got a skin graft and everything and my mother, instead of caring that it could’ve been deadly, only cared about how it was going to make her look.”

The Aussie frowned. “Nevah much liked people like that, yeah?”

“Yeah…”

He opened his eyes and looked down at her. Her mouth was set in a frown, and for a moment, she looked like she was about to cry. He leaned down, giving her forehead a kiss. “Well… Even though yuh mum was a bitch, she can’t control yah now, can she?”

But yah can; are yah any bettah?

Gwen nodded and the Captain moved back and sat up. “I’m gonna go have a smoke. I’ll be back.” He stood, finding his coat on the floor and rifling through it for a pack of smokes and a lighter, before he left the room, standing out on the balcony of the two story motel in the cold.

He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until he tried to light his cigarette. He wavered, staring at the flame as it flickered and moved up and down, and then bent down regardless with the smoke in his mouth. He took a deep inhale, slipping the lighter back into his pocket, and stared into the darkness as the smoke dripped from his nose.

“What’s wrong?”

Owen sighed heavily, feeling his shoulders slump, and a burning ache through his body. “I… I fucked up, Mum.”

“With Gwen?” Owen nodded, and wished he could feel Melody’s embrace right now. He let out a slightly watery laugh, thinking about how small she would be compared to him now. “What mistakes have yah made?”

“I hurt her,” he replied immediately. “Didn’t protect her when she needed to me tah. I… I’ve used her. I’m just like da’. An’ she’s like yah--small an’ gentle, with an attitude when she’s comfortable. I’ve just fucked up.”

He couldn’t stop the burning behind his eyes and in his throat. He hated to cry. “An’ I dunno what tah do.”

“D’yah love her?”

The question hung in the air. His chest panged like his heart had stopped. He had trouble sucking in a breath, and he could hear a side comment in the silence that the smoke from the cigarette wasn’t helping. He bit his lip, and his fingers crushed the smoke. He let it fall to the ground.

Did he love her? Was he prepared to answer that? He didn’t know that he knew what love was. Flurries of memories played in his mind, when Gwennie was hurt, or laughing, or asleep. She was like a Renaissance painting, with a million emotions and ideas captured into a piece. He realized he wished he could sit in a museum and stare at her, analyze every brush stroke that created her. He wanted her for himself , just to view and adore alone.

Owen felt a small hand brush through the curls on the back of his neck, and when he turned, for a moment he could see his mum. She smiled at him.

“Yeah… Yeah, I do.”

“I think yah know what’s right, Colonial Boy,” Melody whispered. “Go on.”

He took a deep and shaky breath, and her hand disappeared. His eyes closed, a single tear dripping down his cheek, and he turned around, going back towards the door.

Moving across the room to her was a blissful blur to him, as though he never touched the ground, and simply floated to her. She asked him something, but the question didn’t process in his mind as he stared at her, cupped her cheek, and bent down to kiss her. He tried hard to put emotion into it, though he knew he wasn’t the best at expression. He moved his lips gently against hers, keeping his tongue from invading her mouth unless she invited it, his eyes closed as he savored the simple feeling of her.

Gwennie’s hands moved, coming to a rest behind his head and on his bicep as he leaned over her. She moved her lips back against his. Owen moved himself between her legs, wanting to feel them wrap around him. His arm slid under her with his other hand still continuing to cup her cheek, and he finally ended the kiss, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

Her cheeks were flushed, and her chest rising and falling quickly. She looked at him, her eyebrows raised with her lips parted. He wanted nothing more than to be consumed by her in that moment, to simply fall forward and forever into her eyes. His eyes welled with tears again, and he could faintly hear her ask what was wrong.

Instead of answering, he kissed her again, trying to hold her as close as possible to him.

“Gwen,” he murmured against her. “I… I wanted tah ask yah somethin’. An’-an’ I don’t want yah tah say yes if yah don’t want tah, yeah?”

He could hear her swallow before she responded. “Okay.”

The Aussie’s body was shaking, blood rushing in his ears, and his cheeks were beginning to turn a dark red. He’d never been so flustered to ask to have sex, and he’d never done it in this manner. He was terrified of her rejection, but if she gave it, he wouldn’t blame her for it. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke his voice was nearly dead silent. “Can I make love tah yah?”

Her answer was another kiss, which made him more nervous. How was he to know if that was a yes, or a softening of the blow before she said no? He tried to kiss her back, but his thoughts began running rampant. Perhaps he’d made a mistake in opening up to her, in asking a question that--in the way he felt he asked--had a profound importance. He knew he was shaking even harder, like a leaf barely hanging on.

“Yes,” she told him. “Now kiss me.”

He told her that it was going to hurt her, even after he had eaten her out and fingered her to prepare her. They didn’t have lube, and after his volunteering to go find some, Gwen told him that she would be okay. They resorted to using spit to try and lessen some of the friction.

Nevertheless, holding himself over her, and feeling her soft hand guide his cock inside of her, he saw the pain on her face clear as day when he began to push into her. His chest panged, his face expressing his concern. He didn’t want to hurt her, even if it was inevitable. He stopped moving immediately when her eyebrows furrowed together. He bent down to kiss her forehead, the best he could do with their size difference.

“D’yah need tah stop, love?”

Gwennie shook her head, her breaths coming in short bursts and her cheeks the same dark red as his. “Keep going.”

“I don’t want tah hurt yah.”

“It’s okay,” she reassured, giving him a small smile. He merely nodded and continued pushing into her, trying to ignore the expression of discomfort and pain that played across her features. It was difficult not to roll his eyes back into his head when he bottomed out within her. The tightness and the heat felt so fucking good. He didn’t know that he would last very long, were they to continue.

Owen didn’t move after that, continuing to kiss and nuzzle her forehead, encouraging him to tell her what she was thinking.

“Just… Give me a moment, please,” she asked, and Owen happily obliged, telling her to take all the time she needed to, and reminding her that they could stop if she wanted. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, not anymore.

She nodded when she was ready, and the Captain started gently, his hips rolling into hers, hardly pulling himself out of her to ensure she was okay with the feeling. Slowly, he watched her expression melt into blissful relaxation, and his chest didn’t just twinge, it exploded with a fire that spread through his entire body, feeling him adrenaline and accomplishment. He couldn’t get over how beautiful she was.

He quickened the pace, beginning to draw his hips back more to thrust into her. His eyes closed, his desire to simply feel her against him, and around him, overwhelming him. The Aussie tried not to put much weight on her as he gradually got faster.

When he heard her moan, he almost fell apart, grunting aloud as he slowed his pace, his cock twitching as his body throbbed. Her voice was a beautiful song in his ears, that she was giving only to him. He couldn’t help but start whispering her name again and again, and he wanted to make her moan for him more.

They were soft and small sounds, little gasps and quiet grunts here and there, but they wound him up tighter than a knot, and God, it was better than anything he’d experienced. He was panting hard, he could feel the beads of sweat start to form across his body, and he tried his damndest to remain focused on not hurting her.

He found his arms wrapping underneath her, embracing her as he continued pushing their bodies together. His cheek pressed to the side of her head, murmuring he was close. He felt her nails start to scratch across his back, and her own back arched.

“Right there,” she gasped. “Oh, God. Boomer!”

His name rolling off her lips both jarred him and excited him, and the combination sent his body into an orgasm. He grunted her name, finishing his climax in jerky thrusts, until he finally came down, trying to catch his breath.