Chapter 39: One More Time
I've been sitting here for hours now, watching Luke's chest rise and fall with each steady breath. Here in the safe room of our auxiliary Dorchester Dark Cave, time seems to stand still.
The room is cozy, more like a tiny studio apartment than a fortress hidden deep underground. Warm earth tones dominate the decor, from the plush area rug to the landscape paintings adorning the walls.
Luke lies still on the oversized bed, dwarfed by the mountain of pillows surrounding him. His face, now peaceful in slumber, is partially obscured by the bandages I applied earlier. They cover the red cuts he inflicted upon himself during his panic.
I can't help but notice how cute he looks while sleeping. His tousled brown hair falls across his forehead, and I resist the urge to brush it back.
As I watch him, I'm struck by a confusing mix of emotions. There's the overwhelming concern for his wellbeing, of course. The memory of his anguished screams still echoes in my mind, sending chills down my spine. But there's something else, too, a warmth in my chest that I'm not quite ready to name.
I find my eyes tracing the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the gentle arch of his eyebrows. Even with the bandages, there's no denying that Luke is handsome. In sleep, his features are relaxed, almost inviting. I feel a blush creeping up my neck in the direction of my thoughts and quickly look away.
"Focus, Lemon," I mutter to myself, shaking my head slightly. "He's been through hell. He needs a protector, not... whatever this is."
Still, as the hours tick by, I can't help but imagine what it would be like to curl up beside him, to offer comfort through simple presence. To be the one he turns to when the nightmares inevitably come.
'Jesus, I need to masturbate more if I can't stop thinking about this shit for two minutes.'
Luke's eyelids flutter, his long lashes casting delicate shadows on his cheeks in the soft lamplight. Slowly, his eyes open, revealing hazel irises still clouded with sleep and confusion. He blinks several times, trying to bring the unfamiliar room into focus.
His gaze wanders, taking in his surroundings. Finally, his eyes land on me, sitting vigilant at his bedside. A small furrow appears between his brows as he struggles to make sense of my presence.
"Where am I?" Luke asks, his voice hoarse. He winces slightly as if the act of speaking causes him pain.
I lean forward, keeping my movements slow and non-threatening. "You're somewhere safe," I say softly, trying to project calm and reassurance.
Luke's eyes dart around the room again, his breathing quickening slightly. He gulps audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. When he speaks again, there's a tremor in his voice. "Who are you?"
"I'm Dark Girl," I reply, offering a small smile that I hope is comforting.
Luke sighs heavily, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, there's a hint of frustration mixed with the confusion. "I don't know what that means," he says, his words slightly slurred with lingering fatigue.
He raises a hand, gesturing vaguely in the air. The movement seems to cost him considerable effort. "Does that mean you're Batman's sidekick?"
I blink, taken aback by the question. "Who's Batman?" I ask, genuinely perplexed.
Luke's expression shifts from confusion to annoyance. "The Batman knock-off woman," he says, his voice rising slightly. "Dark Star or whatever."
Understanding dawns, and I can't help but feel a twinge of amusement despite the gravity of the situation. "Oh, Dark Star," I say, nodding. "Yes, I work with her. She's my mentor."
Luke's eyes narrow slightly, studying me with newfound intensity. "So you're like... Robin?" he asks, a hint of skepticism creeping into his tone.
I shake my head, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "I don't know who Robin is," I admit. "But I'm Dark Star's protégé. We work together to protect the city."
Luke stares at me for a long moment, his hazel eyes searching my face intently. The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts dancing shadows across his features, accentuating the furrow that forms between his brows as he frowns slightly.
"Is your real name something like Jason Todd?" he asks, his voice tinged with a mixture of curiosity and what almost sounds like dread.
I shake my head. "No, it's not," I reply, still puzzled by his strange questions.
"Thank god," Luke breathes, visibly relaxing against the plush pillows. His shoulders slump as some of the tension drains from his body.
He's quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting to the landscape painting on the far wall.
"Are you the first Dark Girl?" he asks, shifting slightly to get more comfortable.
I shake my head again, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "No, I'm actually the third," I explain, my voice soft in the quiet room.
Luke's face breaks into a smile, transforming his features. "You're lucky then," he says, a hint of relief coloring his words.
His next question, however, catches me completely off guard. "Did the second one die because a killer clown used a crowbar on him?"
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with an implication I can't quite grasp. I blink rapidly, utterly baffled by the specificity of the query.
"I... what?" I stammer, my composure slipping for a moment. "How do you know about that?"
Luke's eyes widen slightly in surprise.
"It was a her," I continue, the words tumbling out in my confusion. "The second Dark Girl, I mean. But she did die like that. The Rapist did it. Then she came..."
Luke's eyes light up with recognition. He leans forward eagerly interrupting me. "Then she came back to life and became a vigilante who kills but is ultimately an anti-hero called the Red Hood!" he exclaims, his words tumbling out in a rush.
I stare at him in stunned silence, my mouth hanging open. Luke's brow furrows as he takes in my shocked expression.
"Wait, no," he corrects himself, shaking his head slightly. "It would be something dumber than red hood here. Is she maybe the Blue Hood?"
My eyes go wide as he nails it. The air seems to leave my lungs in a whoosh. "What the fuck?" I breathe, barely able to form the words.
Luke laughs, but it's a hollow sound. His eyes seem frustrated, almost angry. "What the fuck even is this world?" he mutters, running a hand through his tousled hair. "It mirrors everything in the stupidest possible way."
I lean forward, my heart pounding in my chest. "Luke," I say urgently, "do you have some kind of power to know these things?"
Luke's face falls the brief spark of animation fading from his eyes. He sinks back into the pillows, suddenly looking small and vulnerable. "No," he says curtly, shaking his head. "I don't have any powers like that. It's just... this world is like some comics and video games I used to know."
He pauses, his gaze growing distant. "I used to read a ton of comics in middle and high school with my late wife," he continues softly. "Marvel and DC. We'd spend hours poring over them, debating storylines and character arcs. We really loved Secret Wars."
I tilt my head, studying Luke's face. "So you really were married to another world's Super Star."
A single tear escapes, trailing down Luke's cheek. "Yeah," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "She was... incredible."
Luke falls silent for a moment, lost in memories. When he speaks again, his voice is barely audible. "Do you think Skye is going to be mad at me for what happened?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with fear and guilt. I lean forward, my heart aching for the pain I see etched across Luke's features. "Of course not," I say firmly. "Why would she be?"
Luke's eyes meet mine, brimming with a mixture of hope and disbelief. "But I... I was unfaithful," he chokes out. "Even if I didn't want it, even if I tried to fight them off... I still betrayed her."
I reach out, hesitating for a moment before gently placing my hand on Luke's arm. He flinches slightly at the contact but doesn't pull away. "Luke," I say softly, willing him to understand, "what happened to you wasn't your fault. It was a horrific crime committed against you. Skye will understand that."
Luke's eyes grow cold and distant, his gaze seeming to look through me rather than at me. The warm hazel of his irises dulls, becoming flat and lifeless. His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching beneath the skin.
"My old Skye told me if I was ever raped, I'd be punished for being too carefree," he says, his voice devoid of emotion. "Her punishments were never good."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and oppressive. I feel as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. My mind reels, trying to process the implications of what he's just revealed. The casual cruelty, the victim-blaming, the utter lack of empathy, it paints a chilling picture of Luke's past relationship.
After what feels like an eternity, I finally manage to speak. "I don't think this Skye will do that," I say softly, hoping my words carry the weight of truth.
Luke's lips curve into a hollow smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Do you mind if I take a bath?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
The sudden change of subject catches me off guard. "You're all clean," I blurt out before I can stop myself. "I bathed you earlier."
Luke stares at me with a furrowed brow, his hazel eyes widening slightly.
I feel heat rising to my cheeks as I realize how my words must have sounded. "I-I didn't do anything weird!" I add nervously, the words tumbling out in a rush. "You just needed to be cleaned up after... everything."
My explanation hangs in the air between us, the silence stretching out uncomfortably. Luke's gaze remains fixed on me, his expression unreadable. I resist the urge to fidget under his scrutiny, forcing myself to meet his eyes steadily despite the embarrassment burning through me.
Finally, Luke sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I want to bathe myself," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I still feel... dirty. Even if it's just an emotional thing."
The weight of his words settles over the room like a heavy blanket. My heart aches at the pain I hear in his voice, at the trauma still so clearly etched in every line of his body. I nod, trying to infuse my voice with warmth and understanding. "Alright," I say softly. "The bathroom's just through that door. Take all the time you need."
Luke nods gratefully, pushing himself up from the bed with visible effort. His movements are slow and deliberate as if every muscle in his body is protesting the action. He sways slightly as he stands, and I have to resist the urge to rush to his side and steady him.
With careful steps, Luke makes his way to the door near the bed. His hand trembles slightly as he reaches for the doorknob, and for a moment, I think he might change his mind. But then he's through the door, closing it behind him with a soft click that seems to echo in the sudden silence of the room.
As soon as Luke disappears from view, it's as if all the adrenaline and nervous energy that's been sustaining me suddenly evaporates. The events of the day crash over me like a tidal wave, leaving me feeling hollow and drained. My limbs feel leaden, my eyelids impossibly heavy.
I slump back in the chair, the plush cushions seeming to envelop me. The soft ticking of the clock on the wall becomes hypnotic, each second dragging me further towards exhaustion.
I look at my watch, the digital display glowing softly in the dim room. 3:06 AM. The lateness of the hour hits me like a physical weight, my eyelids growing heavier with each passing second.
As I sink deeper into the plush armchair, my thoughts begin to drift. The events of the day play out in fragmented scenes behind my closed eyelids, the frantic search through Boston's streets, the horrific alley, Luke's anguished screams echoing off the cavern walls. The images swirl and blur, reality giving way to the hazy realm between waking and sleeping.
The sound of running water from behind the bathroom door grows fainter as if coming from a great distance. My breathing slows, muscles relaxing as I slip into a light doze.
Suddenly, a firm hand grasps my shoulder, jolting me back to consciousness. My eyes fly open, heart racing as I struggle to orient myself. Dark Star looms over me, her expression stern beneath her mask. I blink rapidly, forcing my sluggish mind to focus.
"Where's Luke?" she demands, her voice low and urgent.
I glance at my watch, surprised to see only eleven minutes have passed. 3:17 AM glows accusingly on the display. Shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, I motion towards the bathroom door.
"He wanted to take a bath," I explain, my voice still rough with fatigue. "Said he still felt dirty."
Dark Star's eyes widen behind her mask, a look of alarm spreading across her features. "You left him alone?" she hisses, already striding towards the bathroom.
The implications of her concern hit me like a bucket of ice water, chasing away any lingering drowsiness. I spring to my feet, following close behind as Dark Star reaches for the doorknob.
Her gloved hand closes around the handle, but it doesn't budge. The door is locked.
"Luke?" Dark Star calls out, her voice tight with barely contained panic. "Luke, can you hear me?"
Dark Star's voice echoes off the walls, but there's no response from within. The only sound is the steady drip of water from the faucet, each drop landing with a soft plink that seems to grow louder in the ominous silence.
She doesn't even wait for an answer. With a swift, powerful motion, Dark Star kicks the door. The wood splinters with a sickening crack, the lock tearing free from the frame. The door flies inward, slamming against the wall with enough force to crack the plaster.
We rush in, hearts pounding, dreading what we might find. The bathroom is filled with steam, the mirror fogged over and dripping with condensation. The air is thick with the scent of soap and something metallic that makes my stomach churn.
And there, in the center of it all, is Luke.
He's submerged in the bathtub, the water tinged a sickening pink. His head under the water, eyes closed. Dark rivulets of blood trail down his arm, mixing with the bathwater in swirling crimson patterns.
On the edge of the tub, glowing wickedly in the harsh fluorescent light, lies a razor blade, ripped from one of the spare shavers. Its edge is stained red.
"No!" The anguished cry tears from my throat as I lunge forward, splashing into the tub without a second thought.
His head flops lifelessly against my chest, leaving a wet stain on my costume. His skin still warm and clammy, slick with bathwater and blood.
My trembling fingers press against Luke's neck, searching desperately for any sign of life. The seconds stretch into an eternity as I probe the clammy skin, silently pleading for a miracle. Then, faint but unmistakable, I feel it, the flutter of a pulse beneath my fingertips.
"He's alive!" I cry out, relief washing over me like a tidal wave. But the moment of joy is short-lived as my eyes fall to Luke's wrist. A deep, vicious gash runs down the center, blood cascading from the wound. The sight turns my stomach, but I force myself to focus.
"He's taken on water," I report to Dark Star, my voice shaking. "We need to get it out of his lungs."
Dark Star nods grimly, her face set in determination. "Perform CPR," she orders, already moving to Luke's side. "I'll take care of his wrist."
I don't hesitate. Tilting Luke's head back, I pinch his nose and seal my mouth over his. I blow two quick breaths, watching his chest rise and fall. Then I shift, placing my hands on his sternum and begin giving him chest compressions.
One, two, three, four... I count in my head, trying to maintain a steady pace.
I'm vaguely aware of Dark Star working beside me, her movements swift and precise. From the corner of my eye, I see her applying some kind of adhesive to Luke's wrist, the blood flow already slowing.
Leaning down, I breathe into Luke's mouth again. His lips are cold against mine. I push through, too terrified to care about the intimacy of the act. All that matters is getting Luke to breathe again.
Suddenly, Luke's body convulses beneath me. His eyes fly open, wide and panicked, as he begins to cough violently. A torrent of water erupts from his mouth, splattering across my face and chest. The acrid smell of vomit fills the air, but I've never been so relieved to be covered in someone else's bodily fluids.
"That's it, Luke," I encourage, rubbing his back as he continues to expel water from his lungs. "Just breathe. You're okay. You're safe."
Dark Star finishes with Luke's wrist, the bleeding now under control. She moves to his other side, helping to support him as the coughing fit subsides. Luke's breathing is ragged and labored, but he's alive. He's alive, and that's all that matters right now.
I keep my hand on Luke's back, feeling the tremors that run through his body. His skin is warm, goosebumps rising on his arms despite the humid air. Dark Star kneels beside him, her cape spread out on the wet tile floor like a pool of shadow.
Slowly, Luke raises his head. His wet hair is plastered to his forehead, water streaming down his face. But it's his eyes that make my breath catch in my throat. Those hazel irises cold and hard as stone. They fix on us with an intensity that sends a chill down my spine.
The silence stretches between us. Luke's gaze doesn't waver, drilling into us with a mixture of emotions I can barely comprehend. There's anger there, burning hot and fierce. But beneath it, I see something that breaks my heart, a deep, soul-crushing despair.
Without warning, Luke lets out a sound that's halfway between a sob and a growl. He slams his fist against the tile floor. Then, with agonizing slowness, he lowers his head until his head rests against the cool ceramic.
"Just let me die already."