Chapter 46: Safe
The world returned in layers.
First was smell. Not the antiseptic and rot of the clinic, but clean linen, starched and ironed, overlaying a faint, astringent note of medical-grade disinfectant. Then sound. The steady, nearly silent hum of climate control. The soft, relentless patter of rain against glass. No screams. No saws.
Then came the pain.
It wasn’t the sharp, blinding rupture of before. This was a deep, all-encompassing throb, a heavy blanket of agony smothering his entire lower body. His left leg felt like it had been replaced with concrete and broken glass. His right calf burned with a fiery, stitching pain. His shoulder was a distant, numb ache, wrapped tightly.
Reese opened his eyes.
He was in a large, dim room. A bedroom. Roman’s bedroom at the secure house. He knew the vault-like door, the soundproofed walls, the tasteful, minimalist furniture that cost more than most people’s cars. He was lying in the center of a massive bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows. A crisp, white duvet was pulled up to his waist.
He tried to move his left leg. A lightning bolt of nauseating pain shot from his ankle to his hip. A choked gasp escaped him. He lay still, breathing through it, staring at the recessed lighting in the ceiling. He was trussed up in bandages. His left leg was immobilized in a rigid brace from ankle to mid-thigh. His right calf was thickly wrapped. His chest and torso were a latticework of tape and gauze, pulling tightly with every breath. His left arm was in a sling, keeping his shoulder immobilized.
He was a collection of broken parts, neatly packaged.
Memory flooded back in jagged pieces: the warehouse ambush, the pipe, the bag, the operating lamp, the sound of his own bone being scored. Penguin’s wheezing voice. Then Roman in the doorway, backlit, a statue of vengeance. The feeling of being lifted, of blacking out from the pain of movement. Nothing after.
How long had he been here? A day? More?
He managed to turn his head on the pillow. On the nightstand stood a carafe of water, a capped syringe, a few orange pill bottles with typed labels, and a slender black remote. His eyes caught a glint of platinum against his throat. He couldn’t feel it, but he knew it was there. The collar.
A door opened silently on the far side of the room. Roman stepped in, dressed in dark gray sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt. He was barefoot. Reese had never seen him so under-dressed, so… domestic. He carried a small, steaming bowl in one hand and a folded towel over his arm.
Roman’s eyes met his immediately. He didn’t smile. He just looked, his gaze doing a swift, clinical assessment.
“You’re awake,” Roman said. His voice was neutral, quiet.
“Feels like I got hit by a bus,” Reese rasped. His throat was raw. “A bus that… then backed over me. Twice.”
Roman set the bowl and towel on the nightstand. He poured a glass of water, held it to Reese’s lips. Reese drank, the coolness a shock that grounded him. He swallowed painfully.
“Close enough,” Roman said, placing the glass down. He pulled a chair close to the bedside and sat. He didn’t touch Reese. He just looked at him, his blue eyes missing nothing—the sheen of sweat on Reese’s brow, the dilation of his pupils, the tightness around his mouth. “The left ankle and foot have three fractures. They’re set and pinned. The right calf required forty-seven stitches to close the muscle. Two cracked ribs. The shoulder was dislocated and has a minor tear. It’s been reduced. The rest is soft tissue damage and significant blood loss.”
He listed the injuries like a mechanic detailing repairs on a car. There was no pity in his tone.
“Penguin?” Reese asked, the word barely a whisper.
A flicker of something dark passed behind Roman’s eyes. “Oswald Cobblepot is no longer a concern for anyone. He won’t be receiving guests. Or seeing out of his right eye.”
Reese held his gaze for a long moment, then gave a single, slow nod. He looked away, studying the pattern of rain on the bulletproof window. The enormity of it—what had been done to him, what Roman had done in return—was a cold, hard stone in his gut. He felt hollowed out.
“They wanted the dock codes,” Reese said, his voice gaining a little strength. “And the judges’ names.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t give them anything.”
“I know that, too.”
The silence that followed was thick, but not uncomfortable. It was the silence of a battlefield after the guns had stopped. Roman picked up the towel, dipped a corner in the bowl of warm water. He began, with a startling gentleness, to wipe the sweat from Reese’s forehead, then his temples, his neck. The cloth was soft, the water a perfect, soothing temperature. Reese closed his eyes, the simple care of the act almost worse than the violence that preceded it. It threatened to unravel something tight inside him.
“Why…” Reese started, then stopped. He kept his eyes shut. “You could’ve left me there. I was compromised. A liability.”
Roman continued his ministrations, wiping down Reese’s uninjured arm. “You are my liability,” he said, his voice low. “No one else touches what’s mine. No one else decides when you’re disposable. That privilege is mine alone.”
It wasn’t a declaration of love. It was a statement of property law, ruthless and absolute. And in the twisted logic of their world, it was the closest thing to devotion Reese would ever get. It was real. It was the only currency that mattered here.
Reese opened his eyes. Roman was looking at him, the bowl of water resting on his knees. The mask of the crime lord was gone. In its place was a fatigue so deep it seemed etched into the lines of his face, and a focus so intense it was unnerving.
“Hurting you was an attack on my control,” Roman said, as if reading his thoughts. “On my authority. On my judgment in keeping you close. They thought you were a weakness to be exploited.” He placed the bowl aside and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “They were wrong. You are a piece of my strength. And they broke that piece. I don’t tolerate broken tools. I fix them.”
He reached out then, his hand hovering for a second before his fingers, calloused and warm, brushed a strand of hair from Reese’s forehead. The touch was deliberate, a possession reaffirmed.
The dam inside Reese, the one built from sarcasm and defiance and a lifetime of not letting anyone see the cracks, didn’t break. It just leaked. A single tear escaped the corner of his eye, tracking a hot, shameful path down into his hairline. He didn’t sob. He just went very still, his breath hitching once.
He expected Roman to pull back, to scorn the show of weakness.
Roman didn’t. He watched the tear fall. His thumb came up and caught the next one before it could form, wiping it away with a touch so soft it burned.
“Does it hurt?” Roman asked, his voice barely above a murmur.
It was an absurd question. Of course it hurt. Everything hurt. But Reese understood what he was really asking.
“Yes,” Reese whispered, the word raw and honest, stripped of all pretense.
Roman nodded, as if this was a crucial piece of data. “The doctor left instructions. Pain medication is on the table. The syringe is for breakthrough pain. It will make you sleep.”
“Don’t want to sleep,” Reese said quickly, a spike of panic cutting through the haze. Sleep meant dreams. Dreams meant the sound of the saw, the smell of his own burning bone.
Roman’s hand moved to the side of Reese’s face, his palm cradling his jaw, his thumb stroking his cheekbone. “You will. And I’ll be here when you wake up. No one is getting through that door.”
The command in his voice was absolute. It wasn’t a comfort; it was a fact. A promise forged in blood and violence. Reese believed it.
He let out a shuddering breath, the last of the adrenaline seeping away, leaving only the crushing fatigue and the deep, marrow-level ache. He leaned his head, just slightly, into Roman’s hand. A surrender. An acknowledgment.
“Thank you,” Reese said. The words felt foreign in his mouth, too small for the chasm of what had happened. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t say for coming for me, for killing them, for this. He just said it, letting it hang in the quiet, humid air between them.
Roman’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on his jaw. A silent acceptance. He held Reese’s gaze for a long moment, his blue eyes unreadable. Then he stood, his movements smooth and efficient. He picked up the remote from the nightstand and pressed a button. The recessed lights dimmed further, casting the room in deep shadow. The only light came from the gray rain-light at the window.
“Sleep,” Roman ordered, his voice back to its usual cool timbre. He didn’t leave. He moved the chair back slightly, but remained sitting, a dark silhouette against the gloom, watching.
Reese stared at the ceiling, feeling the heavy pull of the drugs, the weight of the injuries, the solid, terrifying presence of the man in the chair. The pain was a dull, persistent roar, but underneath it, for the first time since the warehouse doors had swung open, there was a thread of something else. Not safety. Never that. But a stark, unequivocal certainty.
He belonged to Roman Sionis. And Roman Sionis took care of what was his.
He closed his eyes, and for the first time, he let the darkness take him without a fight.
He closed his eyes, and for the first time, he let the darkness take him without a fight.
It didn’t last.
He was back under the operating lamp, its light a sterile sun burning his retinas. The whine of the bone saw filled his skull, a high-pitched scream that vibrated in his teeth. He felt the brutal heat of the blade against his shin, the grating shudder as it bit into the bone. He tried to scream, but his throat was packed with concrete dust. He looked down and saw Penguin’s man, his face a smeared blank, methodically turning his leg to hamburger.
Reese jerked awake with a soundless gasp, his good hand flying to his chest.
The room was dark, quiet. Rain tapped the glass. He was safe. He was in the bed. His heart hammered against his cracked ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a broken cage. He tried to slow his breathing, to orient himself in the thick gloom.
A shift in the shadows to his left.
Roman wasn’t in the chair. He was lying on top of the duvet beside him, on his back, rigid. In the faint light from the window, Reese could see the sheen of sweat on his temple. Roman’s eyes were open, staring fixedly at the ceiling, but they were glazed, unseeing. His breath came in short, sharp pulls through his nose.
“Roman?” Reese’s voice was scratchy from sleep and the remnants of the scream he hadn’t let out.
No response. Roman’s hand, lying on the duvet between them, was clenched into a fist so tight the knuckles were white moons.
Reese knew that look. He’d seen it once before, after a rival had taunted Roman about his family, about the mask. This was different. This was a thousand-yard stare into a private hell. Arkham, Reese thought.
Without thinking, Reese moved his right hand, the one not in the sling. It felt heavy, clumsy. He laid it over Roman’s clenched fist. His skin was cold.
“Hey,” Reese whispered, applying gentle pressure. “You’re here. It’s me.”
Roman flinched, a full-body shudder. His head snapped toward Reese, the glazed look sharpening into a feral, momentary panic. Then recognition flooded back, crashing over the nightmare. He blinked, and the mask of control slipped back into place, but it was cracked. Reese could see the effort it took.
“You were dreaming,” Reese said, stating the obvious.
Roman exhaled, a long, controlled stream of air. He didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he unfurled his fist beneath Reese’s palm, turning his hand to lace their fingers together. His grip was almost painful. “So were you,” he said, his voice gravelly from disuse.
“The saw,” Reese admitted. It felt stupid to say it out loud.
Roman was silent for a beat. “The orderlies,” he said finally, the words clipped and hollow. “The laughter. The… restraints.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
They lay there, hands locked, staring at the ceiling together. The shared silence was a palpable thing, thick with unsaid horrors. Reese’s leg throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
“I need to check your dressings,” Roman said abruptly, letting go of Reese’s hand and sitting up. The moment of vulnerability was over, shuttered away. He switched on a small, dim bedside lamp, the sudden light making Reese wince.
Roman’s movements were brusque, efficient. He fetched supplies from a discreet medical cart Reese hadn’t noticed before. He peeled back the duvet, his face a mask of clinical focus as he examined the heavy brace on Reese’s left leg, checking for swelling, for discoloration. His fingers probed gently around the edges of the bandages on Reese’s right calf.
“It’s fine,” Reese muttered, turning his head away. The care felt like a violation, a reminder of his helplessness.
“It’s not fine,” Roman corrected, not looking up. “It’s healing. There’s a difference.” He applied a fresh layer of antiseptic ointment to the stitching on Reese’s calf. The touch was cool, precise. “Infection would set you back weeks. We don’t have weeks. I have a territory to consolidate, and a power vacuum to exploit.”
Of course. It was always about the empire, the chessboard. Reese was a prized piece that had been temporarily damaged. The pragmatism was insulting. It was also, perversely, grounding.
“So I’m on a deadline,” Reese rasped, a weak attempt at his old smirk.
“You are.” Roman finished re-wrapping the calf, his hands swift and sure. “Your job is to lie here and mend. Mine is to ensure the environment allows for it.” He looked up, meeting Reese’s eyes. “The doctor will be here at nine. He’ll change the larger dressings and assess the pins. You’ll take the antibiotics with food. I’ll bring it.”
Reese nodded, the defiance leaking out of him. What was the point? Roman’s will was the room he was trapped in, more than any brace. He watched as Roman cleaned up, putting lids back on jars, disposing of wrappers. The domesticity of the scene was utterly surreal.
Roman returned to his side of the bed but didn’t lie down. He sat on the edge, his back to Reese. The rigid line of his shoulders betrayed a tension that hadn’t left.
Reese pushed himself up slightly on his elbow, ignoring the protest in his ribs. He reached out with his good hand and placed it on the center of Roman’s back, between his shoulder blades. The muscle there was a solid knot of wrought iron.
Roman went very still.
Reese didn’t massage it. He just let his hand rest there, a point of warmth and weight. He said nothing. There were no words that fit. Instead, he slowly drew his thumb in a small, slow circle over the cotton of the t-shirt.
A minute passed. Then another. Gradually, under his hand, the impossible tension in Roman’s spine began to soften, just a fraction. The man didn’t relax, not truly, but the fight-or-flight readiness seeped away, leaving a weary, solid fatigue.
“They’re dead,” Roman said to the dark window, his voice low. “Every one of them who was there. Every one who knew the location. The clinic is ashes.”
It wasn’t comfort. It was a report. A statement of fact. This was how Roman Sionis loved: with obliterating certainty.
“I know,” Reese whispered, his thumb still moving. He didn’t say thank you again. It was inadequate. He leaned his forehead against Roman’s back, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin fabric. “I’m still here.”
Roman turned his head slightly, just enough to see Reese’s profile from the corner of his eye. He didn’t pull away from the touch. After a long moment, he gave a single, slow nod.
He shifted then, lying back down, this time on his side facing Reese. He didn’t touch him, but his presence was a wall against the dark and the memories it held. Reese let his hand fall, exhaustion washing over him again.
“Sleep,” Roman commanded, his voice a rough whisper. “I’ll watch for the saw.”
Reese closed his eyes. The weight of the painkillers pulled him under, but this time, the descent was quieter. The last thing he felt was the solid, watchful presence beside him, a sentinel against the nightmares they both carried. It wasn’t peace. It was a temporary, hard-won truce, signed in blood and sealed in the dark.
It was a temporary, hard-won truce, signed in blood and sealed in the dark.
The next two weeks became a slow, painful education in helplessness. For Reese, who’d spent a lifetime crafting an armor of sharp edges and sharper remarks, the dependency was a poison. The first week, he was a prisoner of the bed. He could only shift positions with Roman’s help, a process that left him gritting his teeth, humiliated by his own gasps. Roman’s doctor, a silent man with cold hands, came and went, changing dressings and murmuring about granulating tissue.
“It’s looking clean,” the doctor said on day five, probing the stitching on Reese’s calf. Reese glared at the ceiling. “The swelling in the ankle is reducing. You’ll need to keep weight off it completely for another week, at minimum.”
“Fantastic,” Reese muttered. “I was just planning a marathon.”
Roman, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, didn’t smile. But something in his posture, a relaxed dominion, spoke volumes. He enjoyed fetching the water, adjusting the pillows, deciding when Reese took his pills. He enjoyed the simple power of being the one who could lift him.
“I need to piss,” Reese announced one afternoon, his voice tight.
“I know,” Roman said, not looking up from a financial report. He finished a paragraph, set the tablet down, and then came to the bedside. He didn’t ask if Reese needed help. He simply slid an arm behind his back and hauled him upright, taking his weight effortlessly. The journey to the adjoining bathroom was a humiliating shuffle, Reese’s right leg bearing minimal weight, his left a dead, braised log he dragged behind him.
“I can manage from here,” Reese growled, gripping the marble sink.
“Can you?” Roman asked, not relinquishing his hold. He didn’t leave. He stood, a silent, immovable assist, his presence a constant reminder of the breached boundaries. Reese hated it. His face burned. He completed the awkward, painful task under Roman’s dispassionate gaze, feeling like a pet.
The second week brought a small, cursed liberation: the sofa. Roman carried him there one morning, depositing him amidst a nest of blankets with the care one might use for a bomb. The change of scenery was a psychological relief, a view that wasn’t the bedroom ceiling. It was a gilded cage, but a larger one. From here, he could watch Roman work, could see the rain-streaked city far below.
He also saw the new rhythms of Roman’s control. Business was conducted via secure video calls in the next room, Roman’s voice a low, threatening drone. Men arrived sometimes, lower-level lieutenants, and they never looked at Reese directly. They spoke to Roman, their eyes on the floor, while Reese lay propped on silk cushions, a living testament to the price of crossing Black Mask.
“They think you’re my haunted portrait,” Roman remarked after one such meeting, bringing Reese a cup of broth. “The ghost in the drawing room. It’s useful.”
“Thrilled to be part of the decor,” Reese said, accepting the cup. His hands were steadier now. The deep, grinding ache had settled into a persistent, weary throb. The boredom was a new kind of torment. “Any chance I could get a book? Or, I dunno, a set of fucking knuckle-dusters to polish?”
Roman produced a sleek, expensive e-reader from a drawer. It was already loaded. “Knuckle-dusters are for people who can make a fist,” he said, his tone flat. “Concentrate on the broth.”
The wheelchair arrived on day ten. It was a top-of-the-line, shockingly lightweight model, all brushed aluminum and black leather. Roman presented it like a gift. “Doctor says you can begin to sit upright for longer periods. This will facilitate movement.”
Reese stared at it, a cold knot in his stomach. It was the ultimate symbol of everything he’d lost. “I don’t want it.”
“I didn’t ask,” Roman replied. He helped transfer Reese into it, his hands firm and inescapable. The feeling of being lowered into that seat, of looking up at Roman from that position, made fury spike through the pain. Roman’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, a heavy, proprietary weight. “See? Now you have a better view.”
He wheeled Reese to the floor-to-ceiling window. Gotham lay below them, a smudge of gray and miserable light. Roman left him there, parked before the vista like a sculpture. Reese sat for an hour, seething, watching the distant ant-like cars. He tried to turn the chair himself, but his upper body strength was sapped, and the motion pulled horribly at his ribs. He was stuck.
Roman watched him struggle from across the room, pretending to read. He didn’t intervene until Reese finally went slack, defeated, his breath fogging the cold glass. Only then did Roman cross the room, his footsteps silent on the rug, and turn the chair gently to face the interior.
“Ask,” Roman said quietly.
“Go to hell,” Reese whispered, his eyes hot.
Roman simply raised an eyebrow, waiting. The standoff stretched. The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of electronics. Reese’s pride was a tattered, aching thing. His leg throbbed. He needed to lie down.
“…Help me back to the sofa,” he finally ground out, the words tasting like ash.
A slow, deep satisfaction spread across Roman’s features. It wasn’t a smile. It was something quieter and more profound. He nodded. “Of course.”
The following days established a new, twisted routine. Roman would wheel him places—to the window, to the dining table for meals Reese could barely stomach, to the terrace door to feel a blast of damp air. Each trip required Reese to request it. Each request was a tiny surrender that Roman collected and savored.
“Pass the salt,” Reese said during a quiet lunch of scrambled eggs and toast.
Roman did so, his fingers brushing Reese’s as he handed it over. The touch lingered. “You’re gaining color,” he observed. “The food is helping.”
“The food is boring. I’d kill for a greasy burger.”
“When you can walk to the kitchen to make one, you can have it,” Roman said, taking a sip of water. “Until then, you’ll eat what rebuilds you.” He leaned back, studying Reese. “The defiance is returning. That’s a good sign.”
“It never left,” Reese shot back. “It’s just… temporally inconvenienced.”
Roman actually chuckled, a low, rough sound. He reached out and pressed the back of his knuckles against Reese’s cheek. The gesture was oddly gentle, possessive. “I know.”
On the afternoon of the fourteenth day, the doctor came for a final assessment. He had Reese try to put the faintest, most minimal weight on his left foot. The pain was a bright, shocking star, but the structure held. “The pins are doing their job,” the doctor said. “You can begin very careful, supported standing tomorrow. No walking yet. But you can get out of the chair under supervision.”
The doctor left. Reese sat on the edge of the sofa, the words echoing. A step. A literal step. He looked at the wheelchair, a few feet away, its shadow long in the late afternoon light.
Roman stood before him. “Well?”
Reese looked up, meeting those piercing blue eyes. He saw the expectation there, the anticipation of the request, the silent command. The familiar, frustrating heat of rebellion flared, tempered now by the bone-deep knowledge of his own limits. He hated this. He hated how much Roman enjoyed watching him navigate it.
He drew in a breath, the air cool in his lungs.
“Help me up,” Reese said, not breaking eye contact. It wasn’t a plea. It was a challenge.
Roman’s mouth quirked. He offered not a hand, but his forearm, a solid bar of muscle and tendon. Reese gripped it, his own grip weaker than he wanted. With a grunt of effort that sent fire through his side, he pulled himself up, using Roman as a anchor. He rose, unsteady, the brace on his leg feeling impossibly heavy. He stood, swaying, for the first time in two weeks. The world tilted. His right leg trembled violently.
Roman’s other hand came to his hip, steadying him, holding him there. Not letting him fall, not letting him move. Just holding him upright, suspended in the effort.
“There,” Roman murmured, his voice close to Reese’s ear. His breath was warm. His hold was absolute. “See what I can give you?”
Reese stood in the circle of his arms, shaking from strain, staring at the hated wheelchair from this new, precarious altitude. He said nothing. The victory was hollow and shared, and he wanted, more than anything, to shove Roman away. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He needed the solidity of that forearm, the press of that hand on his hip.
He was standing. And he had never felt more completely on his knees.