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This was a very stupid idea.
Kyle couldn’t fathom he thought this was a good idea at any point, but he knew he had to try something. Anything. So, here he was; hunched over the bar counter, arms caging in the beer he had no interest in drinking, listening to people stumble behind him.
The loneliness gnawed at him. But, anybody he knew wouldn’t…
Batman came to mind, for example. Are you finished? The one time Kyle tried to explain it. Are you finished? The tone reverberated through his spine. Condescending, tired, exasperated, and not in the fond way like Jen, John, Guy, any of those people were. Batman had sounded done.
Kyle imagined that, in a different setting, he’d feel rageful. The impulse to punch Batman in that moment had been a strong one, but the shaking in his lungs was stronger, and it kept him quiet. Quieter. Wally had snickered beside him, and the betrayal had sunk in deeper.
Maybe he was being dramatic.
Maybe, nothing truly happened that night, and he was getting ahead of himself, making a situation out of nothing.
Kyle drummed his fingers against the sweaty glass of beer in tune with the faint music that pumped through the bar. The stool was uncomfortable, barely tolerable, but it was something to focus on rather than the brushing of hands against his lower back. Fleeting touches, really. Stupid, fleeting touches.
Kyle had two memories that gave this experiment a purpose. A drink, just like this one, fizzy in the way it really, really shouldn’t be fizzy, and a voice. Rumbly, low, slurred, Bueno, Bueno, Bueno… that’s what he’s here for. ‘Here’ being the exact Gothamite bar these memories supposedly occurred. He didn’t tell Batman, because he hadn’t told Batman the first time he came down here, or the second time, or the third.
Nothing malicious has happened yet. That’s what was making Kyle so damned anxious. The beer had gone stale by now, as it’d been about two hours since he ordered it, but he hasn’t refreshed it. Instead, he had been staring down at the liquid, like it had the answers to the universe. Or something.
The drink rarely gave him anything but a headache in the morning and an ache in his jaw.
Fingers tightening around the glass, Kyle spared a glance away from it, to the slanted TV on the wall. There was a disgusting layer of filth on it, and in the corner, it was cracked, playing music from the 80s on repeat. Nostalgia night, they called it, but really, it was an excuse to get shitfaced with no consequences. Kyle didn’t mind it. Everyone was focusing on everyone else, and Kyle was left alone on the bar. Drink untouched.
His theory was working. It was working! He could almost laugh if he wouldn’t get weird looks from the bartender for it, who had been staring at him for a good long while now, not with the hungry look he’s used to — not that he’s used to hungry looks from men, at least — but a weird type of concern that had no place on a stranger’s face.
He’d rather the hunger. Worry had no place here. Especially not on someone he didn’t know’s face. Obviously, Kyle didn’t say anything — why would he? — since the bartender had to deal with drunken orders for more drinks. Over here, Mister Bartender, over here! That’s another word he’d hear a lot, as well, ‘more’. More, more, more!
Kyle swallowed thickly, and finally, took a gulp of the beer. It tasted shit, but that’s how beer was meant to taste. The next breath came shaky, and his jaw was clenching, a phantom throb echoing down his lips and into the hinge of his jaw. Another gulp down, and then another, relief disguised as freedom swimming through his veins, until the drippy foam was dribbling down the side of the glass and seeping into the callused skin of his fingertips, rendered useless and empty.
To be honest with himself, and let’s face it, he rarely was, he didn’t know what the issue was. Not now, not ever. Why did he even say all that to Batman, again? Frickin’ dumb, that’s what it was. Kyle didn’t know why he bothered. He probably expected a frown on Batman’s thin lips. Not one of those oh, you’ve done fucked up now frowns but a that’s… concerning frown. Like he pointed towards the other guys and gals when they came to him about things that Kyle just oh-so happened to overhear.
It’s okay. It’s fine.
Shakily, as if steadying himself, he waited until the bartender wasn’t haggling with a gaggle of tipsy women — Kyle had to keep an eye on them, definitely (not that way—) to order a smaller glass of beer. Whatever’s smaller than a pint, because Kyle had to keep an eye on the women. He had to. Nobody looked sober enough to defend themselves if the situation called for it, and, crap, given by the men in this bar, nobody else would, either. Was it weird to think that? Misogynistic? Sexist?
Women can definitely defend themselves. Drunk women, though? Especially women as drunk as those girls over there? Kyle was less certain about that. Jen would whack him upside the head if she was here. If Kyle had told her where he was going. If Kyle told anyone where he was going.
He had left the Ring back at home. He took the train out here. That’s the stupid part of this. No Ring, no quick escape if things went awry, if things went as Kyle hadn’t planned. But, that is as if to say he had a plan. Well, he had one. Just not a strong one. Or a smart one.
The idea was — the bar is the battlefield in this scenario. Get back out there. Push yourself into the crossfire. There’s a chance of being shot — spiked — and there’s a chance of being left untouched. Kyle’s in the middle of the battlefield, here. Originally, he had wanted back-up. If things went awry, as things typically did with Kyle involved, somebody would be there. That would’ve been smart.
Connor had been his first idea. He wouldn’t judge. No, obviously he wouldn’t. He’s the most non-judgemental guy Kyle knew, and Kyle knew a lot of guys. He doesn’t know why he didn’t ask. Too late to contemplate that. Then, it’d been Wally — Kyle does know why he didn’t even entertain Wally being his back-up. Despite the mutual respect and care they had for each other finally being at a point of friendship, there was apprehension of going to Wally about this. And it made sense. Kyle had reason to doubt it.
Are you finished? And, then, Wally’s answering snicker. The awkward silence from the rest of the members before they carried on. Surely, everyone understood what Kyle had been trying to say. It had been confusing, and that… that night, or morning, or whatever time because really, Kyle had no clue, that time, Bueno, Bueno, Bueno, over and over and over and over again, that goddamn voice grunting and moaning and the ache in his jaw and —
— and he didn’t want to think about it. Kyle couldn’t. Wally wasn’t available. He didn’t want to admit this to Jen, or John, though there would be no scrutiny from those two. Probably not. No, there wouldn’t be. Jen would get this watery look in her eye and she’d hold his hand and sniffle and in that firm voice of hers, she’d say that’s not your fault, Kyle. He had enough faith in her to trust her reaction.
And, well, John… John’s… he didn’t want to disappoint the older man, that’s what this was. Kyle didn’t want John to know. He could handle Jen knowing, but John Stewart? That guy, the one he’s looked up to for as long as he’s been a Green Lantern? No, definitely not. Absolutely not. And, Wally already knew. He just didn’t care. Connor would care, he was sure of that. Did Kyle want that care, though? Did he deserve it?
Kyle ordered another beer and downed that, too. He wasn’t tipsy, nowhere near it, and — and the drink was clean, otherwise he’d be feeling the effects already.
How quickly had he felt the effects the last time, actually? Was it from one sip to the next, he was dipping out of consciousness? Did people see? Did people notice? This was Gotham, shit like that happened on the daily. That’s what Batman’s meant to stop, but Batman wasn’t a God, despite the popular consensus, and he couldn’t be everywhere at once, despite the prayers people surely sang. Instead of please, God, save me from this, it’d be please, Batman, save me! and Batman would come swooping in that dramatic way of his, punch the daylights out of the bad guys and save the innocents. He had seen Batman at work in person, he knew the functions, how Batman controlled himself, how Batman kept up with seven guys on him.
Kyle didn’t know why he was fixating on that. If he was a stronger man, he’d probably chalk it up to: how come Batman didn’t know? But Kyle wasn’t a stronger man, not now. Not strong at all. He could barely bring a glass of beer to his lips in fear of it being different.
The bar got louder as the night went on. Minutes dragged, but Kyle wasn’t doing anything, anyway. The minutes were allowed to drag. Honestly, Kyle wanted to get up, and do something. Dance with someone. Be with someone. Be normal instead of brooding over a glass of beer like it had done him wrong. This was weird, an insanely weird experiment that he was angsting over for no reason, right?
There wasn’t even anything to remember. For weeks, he had been trying to muster up the courage to remember. But he fucking can’t, and it’s embarrassing that he’s spent this long trying to. Batman would be able to remember, using some Tibetan monk technique, or something. It was the lack of memory that was really throwing Kyle for a loop, and it was frustrating.
He couldn’t remember. The only pieces of evidence he had was a jolted voice chanting Bueno, Bueno, Bueno over and over and over again, and an ache in his jaw that just screamed for hours after every time he spoke, and the faintest, faintest, fuzzy memory of a drink tasting bad. All he had was that. If it were Batman, he would be able to remember. If it were Batman, it wouldn’t have happened to him at all. He’d know. He’d get out of there the second he figured it out, because he’s Batman.
Kyle’s lips trembled around the next sip. He didn’t manage to get any of the beer down his throat, but a body had slammed into his back with a loud, awkward grunt. The beer shook down his shirt — unwashed and old, Kyle didn’t care.
His skin exploded with sensation, and despite the slurred apologies from the man’s stubbly face, Kyle pushed up and swallowed the urge to hit him — he’s not starting a barfight, he’s not, he had to get out of there and call someone because he’s stupid, he left his ring at home on some power-trip, some twisted idea that he could do this without a back-up, he fucking can’t—
The grime of a Gotham alleyway wall wasn’t something Kyle thought he’d be greeting today, but it was a relief, and so was the sharp air that swept through his hair. Litter was kicked out of a way before Kyle was slumping into the ground, breaths frantic, memories shoving their way to the forefront — a hand in his hair, something in his throat, tears springing to his eyes because he really, really couldn’t breathe —
— goddamn it, the experiment almost worked. It almost worked. A sob caught in Kyle’s throat before he was muffling it, a hand clasped to his mouth, knees drawn up to his chest. This shit was humiliating. Horribly embarrassing. He wanted to go home. He wanted his Mom. He wanted to go home, to New York, to Jen. To John. Hell, to Alan, even.
Anywhere but here, where the musky air was suffocating and clinging to his skin. Here, where the phantom feeling of floorboards dug into his knees, and the influx, the onslaught of reminiscence had him choking on his own saliva — mortifying was barely a word to describe it, not anything close.
Pants echoed through the alley, strangled whines slipping past the firm press of his hand to his mouth. He thought he was over this. Ghosts of hands clutched his body; arms, legs, thighs, jaw, and a voice, in his ear, guttural and throaty and masculine and pleasured. Gasps of air were left ignored before another plunge into the depths of smothering water, and people had to have noticed — did the man have other people in there? Did people know? They knew, they saw, they saw. Kyle’s skin crawled like thousands of bugs had decided to dig him up. They saw only what Jen was allowed to see, Donna, Alex— they all saw, and he didn’t even know who they were. There were faces, blurry, smiles arched with pretty red lipstick and nailed fingers, gentle in the way they brushed his hair back — were there? Faces? Hands? Was it just him?
He just wanted to know. Not the memories, he just wanted to know if he was going crazy, if Batman had been right to dismiss him, if Wally had been right to laugh, if Wonder Woman had been right to ignore it entirely, if— if anything had even happened in the first place.
His breath hitched in a childish cry, face now buried in his arms. The back of his jacket was scratching against the sooty bricks of Gotham, and it was that minute pain that kept him here, rather than the creaky floorboards of there. Kyle couldn’t afford to be reacting like this here, he couldn’t. It was immature, and stupid, irresponsible, all the words everyone’s ever said, and they were right. This was one of the more idiotic things he’s done.
What he really needed was a distraction. Any distraction. Music. Anything. Someone else’s voice, to muffle out Bueno, Bueno, Bueno, to muffle out his own cries and whimpers, he needed—
“Kyle?” Connor’s voice rumbled out through the phone he had in his hand. Breath hitching, he brought it to his ear, choking back sounds just to hear the next sentence, “Kyle, are you there?”
“I’m—” Kyle’s face crumbled. Connor wouldn’t judge. He wouldn’t. Humiliation still coiled, a snake in his ribcage; how could he let it happen? How didn’t he know? How didn’t he know? “Hi.”
“Hey,” came the troubled but melodic voice again.
Kyle sniffled, breath hitching, and again, “Not— God, sorry. Not di—disturbing you, am I?” He somehow choked out, this impromptu phone call throwing him for a loop — he had been the one to call Connor, he knew that much, but he couldn’t remember when, or how. He was so tired of not remembering things.
There was a shuffle of something on Connor’s end, “No, Ky, you’re not disturbing me. What’s wrong?”
Straight to the point as ever. Kyle didn’t expect any different. For everything he had been thinking about, he couldn’t muster up the words, now — embarrassingly enough, he’s been rendered speechless for the first time in his life. He wanted to admit to what happened to him all those months ago. How he finally remembered. This moronic experiment. Guy would call it moronic. He’d call it plain crazy, and Kyle felt that way — crazy.
“I think I’m going crazy,” Kyle finally whispered after what would’ve been a minute of pure silence, “I’m— I’m goin’ crazy, Connor, I swear I am,” he couldn’t hold back the next strained sob, quavering and unbalanced.
“You’re not going crazy. Just— come on, I need you to tell me what’s wrong,” the words turned pleading at the end, tilted with softness.
“I— I was—” Kyle shook his head. He can’t say the goddamn word. After all of this, he couldn’t say it, couldn’t explain himself, couldn’t even begin to. He wished Connor was here, next to him. His hand would be heavy on his shoulder, worried gaze even heavier, his presence solid, sturdy, like it always was. “Sorry. God, sorry.”
“Kyle, you know me, there’s nothing to apologise for. You… don’t need to tell me what’s wrong, but I need to know some things,” Kyle made some affirming noise, “Are you safe?”
“Mm...”
“That’s not very reassuring,” it was a genuine comment, but it still made Kyle choke on a thick laugh.
“I’m— in Gotham.”
“What, why are you in Gotham?”
“Was doin’ an experiment,” his voice cracked on the word, “was— testin’ something out.” At Connor’s encouraging hum, he continued, “I—I don’t know what I was tryin’ to do. Maybe— like exposure therapy, y’know?”
“Exposure to what?”
Good question — the bar, the drink, the possibility of his drink getting spiked again, Gotham in its entirety?
“I’m at this, uh, bar,” Kyle murmured, “I needed… last time I was, um, here, I was…” he swallowed, “my drink, I know it was spiked, and I don’t know what happened after but I— but I know, at the same time, y’know? I know what happened, I was—”
Connor’s inhale was sharp, but quiet, faraway, “Kyle… it’s okay—”
“No— I need to say it, I gotta say it, I was— fuck,” he choked, “A man, he— and… I said something, I— to Batman, he didn’t believe me, Connor, he just… asked if I was finished speaking and they all… carried on. Even— even Wally, he laughed, Connor, he laughed…”
“Kyle, keep breathing. You have to stay calm,” his friend smoothly interjected, keys rattling in the background, “look around you. Can you see a bar sign?”
Following the soft orders, Kyle’s head snapped up, squinting towards the door he had exited out of a full twenty-two minutes ago — God, it’d been that long? The neon sign flickered, and half of the words were fizzled out.
“Uh,” Kyle began, eyebrows furrowing, swallowing past a hitch in his breath, “Noonan’s? Noonan’s.”
“Okay, thank you. I’m on my way. Stay there, keep talking to me. Just keep talking.”
“What? You’re on your way?” Kyle croaked, “Don’t be on your way. You don’t need to be on your way—”
“I do need to be, and I am on my way,” the other man interrupted. Kyle heard the faint sound of a car engine starting up; he couldn’t help the grimace. “You’re making that face of yours, aren’t you?”
“What face? There’s no face of mine. No face at all. I have a normal, normal face at all times,” the traitorous thudding of his heartbeat was beginning to lower. With the adrenaline rush fading, he could feel the influence of alcohol — he only had a few drinks, probably, maybe.
“Mm. Looks like I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”
Kyle knew this was a hopeless fight.
Sighing, he shakily exhaled. “…Fine. I’ll see you soon.”