Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Think of the life you have lived until now as over and, as a dead man, see what’s left as a bonus and live it according to Nature.
Love the hand that fate deals you and play it as your own, for what could be more fitting?” - Marcus Aurelius

The day was crisp, the morning air laced with whispers that eluded of spring. 

It was a cold winter day, colder than the bright rays of the sun would suggest, with beams dancing freely amidst the light. White speckles of morning frost covered the turquoise grass, blending green and blue hues. The streets of Shelbyville slowly starting to bustle with their usual routine, unbothered by the changing seasons. One could perceive the engine of cars and buses, the chatter of schoolchildren, and the humdrum of early working lives trudging forward.

Amidst it all, nestled between an unremarkably bland bakery and a shuttered laundromat, stood his newest endeavour. He hadn't yet decided what the small store's name would be - the answer, he conceived, would come in its own time.

Bob stood inside his shop, a quiet satisfaction swelling within him as he surveyed the main sales area. Despite the dark circles under his eyes - formed after the countless sleepless nights that greatly helped to keep his mind from slipping into unwanted chambers - a flicker of light revealed the determination in his steadfast gaze.

His flower shop was a study in deliberate elegance, a space that radiated thoughtfulness, as though every detail had been touched by his meticulous hand.

The shop was narrow but inviting, its walls covered in beautiful dark mahogany wood. Sets of dark wooden shelves - decorated with elegant gold-painted details - rose to the ceiling, lined with vases and small decorative items. Everything was perfectly organized, the arrangement resembling a curated library more than a retail display.

In contrast, the ceiling and the farthest wall, which faced the counter, were painted in a deep, velvety crimson - a colour that seemed to both absorb and reflect light, giving the space a feeling of warmth and intimacy.
The ambiance worked in tandem, drawing visitors in and making them feel as though they’d stepped into another world, far removed from the mundane city streets.

Soft, diffused light filtered through tall arched windows that framed the view of the street outside. Velvet drapes flanked the windows, currently pulled back to let in the sunlight, which spilled golden rays across the dark slate wood floors, polished to a subtle sheen. Their golden glow cast gentle shadows, which danced across the tilted floor.

Various lamps hung from the ceiling, their intricate brass arms holding delicate bulbs that illuminated the shop in a way that felt almost sacred. The light pooled on surfaces below, highlighting the deliberate placement of each object and lending an almost theatrical quality to the room - paralleling the profundity of an opera house stage.

The floor space was divided by low wooden display tables and a register counter. Behind the counter, small cabinets and drawers housed ribbons, tools, and other necessities. Both the counter and the floral arranging table shared a similar style, with matching wooden frames and finishes.

The corners of the shop were filled with touches that reflected Bob’s interests. A small brass gramophone rested on one shelf, often playing soft classical music that blended seamlessly with the atmosphere. Various books were placed among the shelves, including a well-worn copy of The Winter’s Tale, its pages filled with handwritten notes.

He had purchased four tall oval mirrors, wrapped and leaning against the walls, two for each side of the room. They were intended to create the illusion of a larger, more luminous space - a simple but effective trick that plenty of stores employed. Despite everything else being set, Bob couldn’t bring himself to unwrap the mirrors and couldn’t quite articulate why.

The flower shop wasn’t just a business; it was a stage - a testament to his new life. He had spent weeks, months, designing the space with the same obsessive care he once dedicated to his grandiose plots of vengeance. Only now, his labour bore not the same marks nor purposes. He wanted his shop to be original. He took pride in crafting a space that was uniquely his - he desired to make things of his own that should be new and unthought of by others, and delighted in the praise of his skill.

The air smelled faintly of fresh paint, varnish and aged wood – touches of jasmine, or bergamot, from a small diffuser hidden discreetly. Running a hand over the polished mahogany counter, a shy smile tugged at his lips as he envisioned the shelves adorned with a display of freshly arranged bouquets: daffodils, tulips, and roses, each chosen intentionally.

"My haven.", he whispered inaudibly.
It held the promise of a fresh start, all the while it carried the weight of all he had been - and some of what he was still striving to leave behind.

Although, for all its beauty and precision, the shop couldn’t fully shield him from the shadowy ghosts of his past. Winter was the season for sought after endings and new beginnings, after all - and not a single flower had yet entered the small shop.

Each morning and afternoon, like clockwork, Bob would catch sight of him.

“What’s he doing here?” Bob wondered, his fingers tightening on the shears he was holding. “Is fate mocking me again?”. The - now - young man’s route seemed to take him directly past the shop, his lanky frame silhouetted against the store’s front window. The familiar lean facial features, his canary-blond hair - now longer and slightly disheveled - nearly covered his eyes. It gave him a pensive look, rather than the cool, nonchalant air he was probably aiming for.

Bob didn’t know why Bart was in the neighboring town. He had moved here to distance himself from the marks of his past and the shadow of his reputation. And Bob had no intention of keeping tabs on the boy; he’d sworn off such compulsive tendencies. And yet, there Bart was. Some days he would walk by himself, others with his childhood friend Milhouse. A haunting sight.

He wasn’t deliberately stalking Bart, of course. Or so he told himself.

Bob would watch from behind the glass, his eyes narrowing with an involuntary mixture of hurtful resentment and… something else. Something he could not name.

There was a time when the sight of Bart would ignite a conflagration within him. The boy had been his tormentor, his nemesis, his raison d’être. But now? Now, there was only a faint ember where the fire once raged - a curiosity, tinged with something approaching regret.

His prison therapist’s voice echoed in his mind, persistent and annoyingly clear: “What does that rage tell you, Robert?”

At first, he had refused to engage with such a line of questioning. The answer was obvious. The boy had ruined his life. Wasn’t that reason enough?

"Write it down, Robert. Not just the negative aspects but the positive ones as well. Keep it to yourself for later assessment. You are an academic, after all - draw your own conclusions.”

At the time, he had scoffed, dismissing the suggestion as trite psychobabble. But now, standing behind the safety of his shop window and watching Bart pass by, he found himself turning those words over like a puzzle piece, trying to make sense of them.

In the past, he had followed the boy closely. He had memorized Bart’s impudent tone, the lightness in his carefree steps, the childish ease with which he sailed free through life… infuriating. Bart had turned his world upside down and acted as if nothing changed. “Isn’t this enough reason to drive any serious man to consider murder?”, he growled to the counsellor through clenched teeth.“Bart, like every other Springfieldian, revels in a mindless, pleasure-driven life...”, Bob had convinced himself that his disdain was rational, that it stemmed from his higher moral stance.

But Bart wasn’t quite like any other in their town, and he knew that.

The boy had outsmarted him repeatedly, unraveling his schemes with a brilliance - or luck - that defied explanation. No matter how intricate or elaborate his plans - how carefully constructed each mosaic of murder - Bart always came out on top, leaving Bob to stew in the bitterness of his failures.

“The hand of fate truly has its favourites.”, Bob lamented. 

And failure had worn him down. Over the years, through countless incarcerations, the flames of rage had cooled, replaced by exhaustion and numbness. What had that anger ever meant? Where had it propelled him? Bob’s knuckles turned white from the force of his grip on the shears. He remembered the grandiosity of his schemes, the theatrical monologues, the self-righteous conviction that his genius was wasted on a world that refused to recognize it. All of it, in hindsight, felt like the desperate thrashing of a man terrified of his own mediocrity.

It was Thursday afternoon. Bob was arranging a display of snowdrops and daphne shrub, the first seasonal flowers to arrive at the store, when he felt it: the heavy pull of a gaze. He turned, and there he was.

Bart Simpson, standing on the sidewalk, alone, staring directly at him through the glass.

For a split second, neither of them moved.

And then, Bob saw it - the flicker of recognition, the widening of Bart’s eyes, the subtle stiffening of his posture. Finally, like a shadow cast across the younger’s face, came the fear. It was in the way Bart’s shoulders hunched, the way his gaze hold his presence, expecting Bob’s next move and ready to dart away for the nearest escape route.

Bob’s breath caught in his throat.

He had planted that fear. He had cultivated it with every threat, every scheme, every manic declaration of vengeance. And now, seeing it reflected back at him, he felt… hollow. 

It wasn’t the feeling he was accustomed to during his long, imaginary daydreams of Bart’s destiny under his thumb - pulling the strings, fully in control - feeding on the boy’s fear like a ravenous, insatiable hyena.

To say that losing to the brat and being forced to confront his own failures - time and time again - had been humbling would be an understatement. Reluctantly, and under the inescapable weight of a myriad of circumstances and events that had significantly contributed to the reduction of his sentence, he had poured out his frustrations to the prison counsellors. This humiliating experience grated mercilessly against his pride, yet it undeniably revealed a deeper truth.

Listening to himself spill the black bilious venom of his hatred over time had led him to the realisation: deep down, he held a begrudging respect for Bart.

It wasn’t just the boy’s tenacity that commanded admiration, though that alone was formidable. It was his untamed nature, his rebellious, self-sufficient spirit that refused to be broken. Bart was more than a mere adversary - more than a pebble blocking his path to be discarded and moved past. No. He was his sworn enemy, a long-standing rival, and most importantly, a truly worthy opponent. Bart Simpson had been his end goal.

Bart had earned that regard and, to Robert, the intertwine of their destinies felt inevitable.

A fugitive glimmer of golden light jolted him back to the present. He had been lost in thought, rapidly recalling all the ways he had once imagined breaking the boy, the elaborate schemes and cruel methods he had envisioned to finally crush him. Now, with a grown up Bart standing right in front of him like this, a strange dissonance crept in.

Was this young man really the same boy he had once despised so intensely? The same person who had occupied such a towering, almost mythic place in his mind that it had driven him to the brink of madness? He seemed… different.

At that instant, Bart no longer exuded the brash, defiant energy that had once defined him. Instead, there was something subdued in his demeanour - a tremble that betrayed an undercurrent of anxiety. It was as if he carried the weight of their history on his young frame, the scars of their battles left behind - on both of them. And for the first time, Bob wondered if his hatred had been as much a prison for himself as it had been a weapon against the boy.

Bob looked down at his hands. His wide palms and long fingers stained with the pollen of the flowers he had been arranging. These were the same hands that had once built traps, wielded weapons, and clutched at the edges of revenge. 

Now, they sought to… arrange, to create, to nurture. And yet, could such hands ever truly atone?

He looked up, meeting Bart’s gaze once more. For a brief, shattering moment, he saw himself - not the larger-than-life persona he had once fashioned himself to be, but the broken man beneath it all. A man who had desperately sought meaning in destruction. For he had come to believe there was no other place to find it.

When Bart finally turned and walked away, his steps quick and uneven, Bob remained frozen. The weight of their encounter lingered, thick and suffocating.

He returned to his work, but his movements were slower now, his thoughts more deliberate. As he carefully placed a bouquet in the window display, his eyes caught his own reflection in the glass. He looked older, wearier, and sadder than he remembered. Perhaps this reluctance to confront his own image was what had kept him from unwrapping the mirrors in the shop.

But it didn’t matter now. His hand rose instinctively to rub his full beard, grounding himself, as he contemplatively recited a passage he had recently read:

Swear his thought over
By each particular star in heaven and
By all their influences, you may as well
Forbid the sea for to obey the moon
As or by oath remove or counsel shake
The fabric of his folly, whose foundation
Is piled upon his faith and will continue
The standing of his body.

William Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale, 510.

The flowers in his shop would bloom, their beauty ephemeral but undeniably real. They were a reminder that growth and change were seasonal - and were constant. He could not erase the seeds he had planted in Bart over ten years, nor the vine-like scars they had left behind. And as the sun set over Shelbyville, casting a golden light over his little shop, Bob allowed himself a fragile hope. Perhaps, with time, he could sow something different - something new.

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe you’re dragging me to - whatever this even is.” Bart grumbled, flabbergasted and regretting every decision that led him here.

“Hey! We’re both stuck in this mess,” Milhouse retorted, slightly hurt, while lowering his voice to make sure only Bart could hear.

“If you had kept your mouth shut…” Bart groaned, rubbing his temples.

“This is not my fault!” Milhouse shot back, crossing his arms. Then, in a quieter murmur, he added, “Come on, Bart. It’s… networking. You know, making connections with the senior students. It could really help us, especially since, you know, I’m struggling with Code, and you’re, uh…” He hesitated, nervously adjusting his glasses. “You’re not exactly acing anything right now.”

Bart let out a dramatic groan, running a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah, thanks for the reminder. But this whole thing smells rotten, Mill. Why are they even taking us over to the arts department? This doesn’t add up… and it screams humiliation.” He sighed.

Before Milhouse could respond, the group of senior students escorting them slowed down, stopping in front of a wide room. Bart eyed them with suspicion - there was an unmistakable vibe about this group - a smirk on one of the guy’s faces that he immediately despised. “Feels like elementary school all over again…” he thought bitterly.

“Alright, freshmen,” the tallest of the group announced, turning to face them. His smug expression was enough to make Bart’s fists want to meet his face. “This is your stop. Inside you go. We’ll be watching your… performance.”

“Performance?” Bart repeated, raising an eyebrow. “What is this, hazing for wannabe ballerinas?”

“Something like that,” another senior replied, snickering.

Bart shot Milhouse a glare. “Great job, Milhouse.”

“I didn’t know it was a prank!” Milhouse whispered back, clutching his backpack like it was a life vest.

“Get moving,” one of the seniors barked, pushing the studio door open. 

Bart sends a sharp look to Milhouse. “You'll repay me for this… big time.”

“Ah, new practitioners! Welcome. We were just about to start. Don’t be shy, come in, come in,” a pleasant-looking man greeted them warmly, gesturing for them to join the rest of the class. “Leave your shoes and personal belongings with the others, at the entrance, and join us.”

They both gulped in unison and stepped inside. There was no going back now.

Following the instructions, a reluctant Bart trailed behind his bespectacled roommate, who seemed far too eager for someone heading into a dance class.

The room was spacious, with high ceilings and mirrored walls that captured and reflected every awkward angle of Bart and Milhouse as they shuffled in. The polished wooden floor gleamed under the golden light of the overhead fixtures, making their hesitant steps all the more noticeable. They blended into the group of students already gathered in the center - some stretching, others chatting quietly.

Bart followed, from the corner of his eye, the group of seniors who had led them here. They had settled themselves smugly on a set of chairs at the far side of the room, clearly ready to enjoy the show.

“You all know how the class is structured,” the instructor began, his tone calm but firm. “But since we have new faces today, let’s start from the basics.”

One student raised her hand, her agitation impossible to ignore. “Yes, Catherine, we know you’re eager to finish the sequence from Tchaikovsky’s play,” the instructor addressed with light sarcasm in his tone, earning a few laughs from the class. “But, as an advanced practitioner, you also understand that repeating base-level exercises is essential for maintaining muscle strength and flexibility. Constant training is required to perform advanced movements with precision.” His demeanor was warm but commanding.

Bart and Milhouse exchanged uneasy glances. They already expected this to be embarrassing - pure spectacle for their so-called audience - but now, listening to the instructor’s speech, they felt truly terrified.

Bart glanced at the students. 

The group of students was an eclectic mix - artsy types, as he’d expected - a colourful treat to the eye: blue, violet, and white-haired students amongst them. Most were girls, but there were a few guys as well. Tattoos snaked along arms and legs, while others sported pierced ears or unconventional fashion choices. Bold and unapologetic, and - he had to admit - he found that cool as hell. 

He touched his own ear absentmindedly. His fingers brushed the silver hoop he’d gotten recently, a simple earring in his left ear that he really liked. He’d been toying with the idea of a second piercing, maybe higher up on the cartilage, but what he really wanted was a tattoo. He had ideas - so many ideas - but figured he shouldn’t burden his family with it, considering they were already footing the bill for him to study at Shelbyville University.

His dorm was included in the tuition, which helped, but, to make ends meet, Bart worked a couple of hours during weekends at the - almost - coolest place in town: the skateboard shop. Which was conveniently located next to the skate park, a match made in heaven. 

So, until he could afford the tattoo with its own cash, he would delay it a tad bit longer.

His gaze wandered back to the students. A guy with a nose ring was doing a handstand in the corner. Another girl laughed as she spun in place, her bracelets jingling with each twirl. Bart couldn’t help but admire how free-spirited they all seemed.

As the students began to settle into place, waiting for the teacher’s next instructions, Bart tried to mimic their movements, half-paying attention to whatever was being said. He glanced at Milhouse, spotting a coy smile on his face.

“Did I miss a joke or something?” Bart murmured mockingly.

“No… but the introduction wasn’t that bad, I think.” Milhouse replied, hushing him.

Bart rolled his eyes and glanced sideways to see if the seniors were still watching them. He figured they’d lose interest soon enough.

A green haired girl from the class caught his attention. Bart smirked and gave her a quick wink. She rolled her eyes but smiled faintly, and his confidence ticked up a notch.

They started with warm-up exercises and stretches, moving fluidly into pirouettes, step drills, and rhythm sequences. As the class progressed, Bart’s attention drifted to the surrounding faces. Some of the girls were stunning - slim, elegant, and exuding confidence. Every so often, he’d lock eyes with one, then another, and another. His lips would tug upward into a slight smirk, his gaze carrying a flirtatious glint. The girls responded, some with shy smiles, others bolder, their eyes scanning him in return. “Too easy,” Bart thought with languid disinterest.

Amid the shifting bodies, Bart’s attention landed on the instructor. The teacher’s movements were precise, almost hypnotic. Bart caught himself entranced as the teacher demonstrated a particularly complex sequence of steps, the taut lines of his muscles shifting beneath the fitted fabric of his shirt. It felt like watching a professional athlete - graceful, controlled. Bart blinked, suddenly realizing he’d been staring too long.

“He looks good,” Bart admitted to himself. “Guess he’d have to, for this job.”

Like the wind, each movement was deliberate and fluid. The man walked - and danced - with an almost mesmerizing precision, his quick, assured steps threading effortlessly through the class without so much as brushing another student. Ironically, due to being distracted, he misstepped. His foot was placed awkwardly and made him desperately attempt to regain balance. He stumbled forward, arms flailing, and braced himself for what he was sure would be a humiliating faceplant.

Before he could hit the ground, firm hands caught him by his waist, steadying him. Startled, Bart blinked, his foot finally finding solid ground. He turned, face-to-chest with the teacher, his head tilting up to meet the man’s eyes.

The man’s expression shifted from concern to a warm, relieved smile. “Be mindful of how you place your feet.”

Bart’s cheeks flushed hot, and he quickly stepped back, mumbling, “Uh, yeah, thanks.” He felt the man’s hands leave his body and saw him move on to observe the other students. Bart stood frozen for a moment, his heart pounding.

He tried to focus on the exercises, imitating the others as best as he could, but his mind wandered, replaying that moment. He told himself it was out of fear of embarrassment over that slip-up, and no other reason.

After adding the numbers of two girls from the class and waving them goodbye, Bart caught up with his friend. Millhouse had been chatting with the teacher, apparently to tell him how much he enjoyed the class. Bart cast a final glance at the instructor before stepping outside with his friend.

“Dude! Those last moves were sick! I always thought contemporary dance was weird, but like, it felt kinda cool, I don't know? Don’t you think that’s weird?” Milhouse beamed, eager to share his excitement about the entire thing.

“Yeah. Speak for yourself,” Bart muttered, rolling his eyes. “You didn’t almost wipe out in front of everyone.”

“Hey, at least we made it through. Even if it was some kind of prank, I think we handled it okay,” Milhouse replied.

Outside, the group of seniors were waiting and invited them over to the student’s bar for a drink.

“How’d you like your little dance class, freshmen? Fun twirling around for everyone?” A smug grin plastered on his face.

“Ahaha! Well? Why the long face?” another one laughed, teasing.

Bart smirked, crossing his arms. “Oh, it was great. Met some baddies, learned some moves, might even go back. You should try it sometime. Might help you loosen up a little.”

The senior’s grin faltered. “What do you mean, prick?”

“Yeah,” Bart continued, leaning in mock-conspiratorially. “You know, chicks dig a guy who can dance… and I can assure you they weren’t looking your way.”

Bart stood up, casually extended a hand, popped open his beer with a flick, and glanced at Milhouse, who was barely managing to stifle a laugh.

“What does a nub like you think he knows about anything?” the senior spat, scowling. Fuming with anger.

Two members of the group snickered at how easily Bart was getting under the other’s skin. Clearly, this group wasn’t as cohesive as they tried to appear.

“Go figure,” Bart muttered, pulling out his phone and holding it at head level. He winked, turned on his heel, and walked off, Milhouse quickly falling into step beside him. Bart gave a lazy, backhanded wave as they left the university’s bar, leaving the group to stew in their own sense of importance - or lack thereof.

“Nice one,” Milhouse said, grinning.

“Yeah, well, I’ve had my fair share of experience handling clowns,” Bart replied with a smirk.

The classes were over for the day. Nothing of importance had really happened otherwise.

“I’m going to the library to finish the exercises and review today’s assignments. Wanna come?”

“You know I don’t.” Bart couldn’t bring himself to care. Milhouse was taking the course way too seriously - he’d take notes, do exercises, revise, and then head to the library to study even more “You’ve always been a nerd,” Bart mocked.

“And you could start caring a little! You’re going to fail if you keep playing around,” Milhouse shot back, his tone exasperated.

“Dude, you sound like my mother,” Bart retaliated, rolling his eyes.

They said their goodbyes. 

Mill was right, he thought. He was trying to do things right. He actually was - this time - finally, for once. “I just need a little more time, that’s all.” Bart muttered.

Bart took his usual route back to the dorm. The sun was setting, painting the sky in warm hues of orange and pink. The dorms weren’t far from the university - just a couple of streets away. He only needed to cross a few blocks, take a left, then a right, and he’d be back, relaxing in no time. Although classes had ended relatively early, it was winter, and the sun was already setting below the horizon.

A warm glow reflected in the windows of nearby stores. Street lamplights seemed to be lit by catching and holding the fading rays of sunlight.

Bart found himself lost in the beauty of it all. The streets here seemed brighter than those in his hometown - or maybe it was just the novelty of his newfound freedom and independence. He felt invigorated. Stretching his arms, he exhaled deeply.

The possibilities ahead both excited and slightly unnerved him. He was an adult now, and there was a weight attached to that reality that he didn’t wish to acknowledge. His expression turned serious, contemplative. He had left so much behind, and -

As he walked down a quiet street, his eye caught movement inside a store to his right. Reflexively, he glanced through the window, still enveloped in his thoughts. He slowed his pace. He couldn’t tell what had made him come to a halt, at first.

“What…” His thoughts stalled. What was he seeing?

He froze mid-step, his mind trying to catch up with his eyes. Inside, partially obscured by the contrast between the lighting and the shadows, was a tall, ghost-like figure with a head of deep red curls.

“It can’t be,” Bart’s mind racing, his chest tightening. “It can’t be him.”

His heart plummeted like a stone, sinking into his stomach, as if pulled to the ground by an invisible hand. The recognition hit him like a freight train. And it all came flooding at once, a rush of memories buried from long ago. Blood roared in his ears. His muscles tensed; his body instinctively ready to run as fast as possible – to sprint back to safety.

Flashbacks surged through his mind, the images vivid and clear, as if no time had passed. The man’s presence like a looming shadow over his days, the narrow escapes, the schemes, the terror. He could almost hear Bob’s voice - deep, sinister, and mocking – a voice that echoed in his head and haunted so many of his childhood nightmares.

Bart clenched his fists and shook it off. His instincts screamed at him to run, but his feet refused to obey. He remained rooted in place.

The figure inside turned slightly, his eyes meeting Bart’s through the glass.

“No… no, no, no…” Bart’s thoughts spiraled as he evaluated his options. “Back to the university and blend in with the crowd? To the dorms?” That would be a disaster - he would lead Bob right to where he lived! “Horrible plan. Better go to the police station directly.” If only he knew where that was…

His eyes glanced back at Bob. The man hadn’t moved an inch. He was just standing there, staring at him. “What was he thinking?” Bart’s eyes darted downward, checking the man’s hands. Empty. A good sign. He also noticed the table beside Bob, which was covered in partially assembled flower arrangements that the man seemed to be working on. No knives or blunt objects in sight. Bart took a shaky breath, his heartbeat beginning to slow.

Bob wasn’t lunging for him. In fact, his expression didn’t carry the manic energy Bart remembered. There was no crazed glint in his eye, no malevolent smile. He was wearing a black apron, full grown bear, and from what Bart could deduce, he appears to have been working. Bob was still staring at him, unchanging, in fact, he almost looked… stunned. Like he, too, couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Still, Bart wasn’t stupid. Just because Bob hadn’t made a move didn’t mean he wouldn’t. Bart knew the man too well to assume otherwise. Even though their last encounter had ended on surprisingly “good” terms - if not being murdered could be considered good – Bart had set in his mind that it wouldn’t be the last he saw of Sideshow Bob. That man just wouldn’t quit on him. Never.

Better to get out now, Bart decided, before he doesn’t live to regret it.

He took a few stumbling steps backward, his eyes never leaving Bob’s. Once the man was out of sight, Bart turned on his heel and bolted down the street, his heartbeat hammering in his ears.

He sprinted back toward the university.

Chapter Text

The morning sun slanted through the tall windows of the flower shop, painting the walls with streaks of golden light. Dust swirled in the quiet air, disturbed only by the careful movement of Bob’s hands as he arranged a display of crimson roses and white lilies near the entrance. Their fragrance hung in the air, rich and fresh, but he scarcely noticed. His thoughts wandered elsewhere.

Another sleepless night, this time haunted by a very familiar presence.

He hadn’t meant to be seen. Truly, he hadn’t. He had been content to stand at the periphery, to simply watch the former object of his obsession pass by.

But that brief exchange - Bart’s face, the initial softness of his expression turning into startled recognition, the way his lean body coiled, instinct seizing him before thought could, and those eyes… bright, blue, locking onto him - played on his mind on an endless loop. And he held onto the memory, unwilling or unable to let go.

He told himself he wished their eyes had never met - that he never wanted to see his look of fear ever again.

And as if someone had heard him, this morning, Bart was absent.

The clock on the wall chimed ten, marking the time Bart had passed by the day before. Yet the street outside remained empty, save for the usual flow of pedestrians. Bob stood near the window, watering a pot of ivy that hung above the counter, and found himself scanning every face that passed.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, placing the watering can aside. “He has every right to avoid me. It would be the sensible thing to do.”

He moved back to the counter, reorganizing his tools - a pair of shears, floral tape, a roll of pale pink ribbon - before tossing them aside with a sigh. It was futile to pretend he wasn’t disappointed. A part of him, buried beneath layers of guilt and shame, had actually hoped to see Bart again.

But hope, as Shakespeare wrote, “is a lover’s staff; walk hence with that, and manage it against despairing thoughts.” And despair, Bob knew, was a familiar companion.

He had vowed to leave his old life behind, to focus instead on building something pure, something beautiful. Everything around him in here, in his small shop, was an extension of his commitment to change.

The past had no place here.

And yet, like weeds creeping through cracks in pavement, it found its way back

✶ ✶ ✶

The boy was absent again the next day and the day that followed.

To keep his mind occupied, Bob threw himself into his work. He contacted local wedding planners, offering custom floral arrangements for their events. He reached out to funeral homes, promising tasteful, empathetic designs for grieving families. When the shop was quiet, he tinkered with ideas for an upcoming Valentine’s Day display, sketching plans and jotting down notes.

But no amount of work could completely silence the thoughts that plagued him.

Taking his prison counsellor’s advice, he decided to write down his thoughts during the shop’s slower hours. There was an unmistakable beauty in reflection, he thought - especially here, surrounded by the life he had built, among the things he held dear. In this space, vulnerability felt safe.

Holding onto that strength, he moved carefully through the familiar maze of low tables and flower arrangements to reach the counter. His long fingers extended toward the drawer, pulling it open with a soft, muffled slide. He retrieved an old-looking, brown leather journal. Worn at first glance, but in truth, brand new. He had commissioned it from a craftsman who specialized in handcrafted, personalized pieces. Surely, he wasn’t about to spill his private thoughts into some flimsy, mass-produced notebook…

He hesitated. It would be easier to scribble out on any scrap of paper and toss it in the trash or burn it when he was done. A fleeting confession, gone as soon as it was spoken.

“No.” Bob muttered the word under his breath. He could never do that.

He opened the journal. The pages were soft to the touch, a blend of wood pulp and cotton, giving them a smooth yet textured feel beneath his fingertips. With the open book resting in his hands, he sat down and cast a glance toward the front window. The street outside was calm. He was alone.

His eyelids lowered briefly, lingering for just a second too long, before he reached for his favourite ink pen.

The words poured out effortlessly.

He wrote without pause, without interruption. When he finally look up to check the time, hours had passed. He had lost himself in it. A linden teacup laid cold at his right side.

Bob sighed, running a hand through his deep red curls, freeing the strands he had tucked back earlier into an unruly mess. The ticking of the clock grew louder in his ears as an unwelcome reminder of time slipping away.

After carefully placing the journal back in the drawer, he turned to the roses on the counter, running his fingers over their soft, velvety petals. They were delicate. Fleeting. A single misplaced snip, and the beauty they held would unravel entirely.

A part of him - a small, irrepressible fragment - wondered if he and Bart were the same. If the boy’s defiance, so deeply ingrained, could truly be severed by Bob’s own resolve.

“It’s for the best,” he murmured. “Let the boy live his life. I have my own to tend to.”

With that, he straightened his posture, placed the last of the roses into a crystal vase, and flipped the shop’s sign to Closed.

Locking the door behind him, he walked toward his black Dodge. Only now did he notice that the day’s earlier brightness had been replaced by a cold, muted blueish grey. The air outside felt eerily still, and heavy clouds were forming quickly in the afternoon sky, charged with an impending storm.

The distant murmur of a passing couple’s conversation reminded him, painfully, of how unreachable his predicament had made him feel - separated from the simple joys and warmth of connection. He pressed the car keys into his palm, rolling the cool metal between his fingers. It helped steady his nerves.

He was going to need it for his next destination.

Bart’s head was pounding.

He groaned, rolling over in bed and immediately regretting it as the sunlight streaming through the window stabbed at his eyes.

“Ugh, kill me now,” he muttered, burying his face in the pillow.

Flashes of the previous night came back in bits and pieces: loud music, wavy neon lights, a girl with a septum piercing laughing at one of his jokes, shots of green-glimmering heat burning all the way down his throat, biting his tongue as he watched Milhouse awkwardly try to flirt with someone way out of his league. And Lee - clinging to him again, making him promise they’d go out soon, all while receiving death stares from some girls in her friend group. Two of them he had been with before, neither relationship lasting more than a week. The others just eyed him with suspicion, worried about their friend - probably aware of Bart’s bad reputation.

He didn’t get why Lee wouldn’t just leave it be. They had their fun, it didn’t work out, he moved on, like he always did. She didn’t.

Bart sat up, wincing as his stomach churned.

“Okay, maybe I overdid it,” he admitted, though the memory of the night’s chaos was a welcoming distraction from the one thing he didn’t want to think about.

He ran.

Straight into a haze of alcohol and weed, flirting with strangers, dancing until his legs gave out and his mind was emptied - hypnotised - reduced to nothing but music, laughter, and meaningless conversation. Purified - in the silencing of thought.

But now, with the hangover hitting him like a freight train, there was no more running.

Bart groaned again and dragged himself to the bathroom. He splashed his face with cold water, gripping the edges of the sink as droplets slid down his cheeks. His reflection stared back at him - groggy and dishevelled, eyes heavy with the remnants of last night’s bad decisions.

It was already past noon, and heading to class felt pointless.

It’s not worth the trouble. Well, one more day won’t make my grades worse than they already are. He sighed, grabbed a towel, dried his face, and decided to head to the common kitchen instead.

The dorm kitchen was unusually quiet, a rare sight in the chaotic world of campus living. A couple of mismatched bowls and cups sat abandoned in the sink, but otherwise, the place was empty and still.

Bart opened a cabinet, grabbed a half-empty box of cereal, and poured some into a bowl. No milk. Whatever. He ate them dry, watching the flakes as he stirred them absently with his spoon.

As he sat at the table, the sound of the crispy cereal felt strangely comforting.

The familiar crunch, the rhythmic soothing motion - it took him back to mornings at home.

The smell of pancakes, eggs and bacon. His mom humming a soft tune in the kitchen.

The warmth of sunlight through the windows. The loud, boastful conversations. The chaotic energy of their dining table.

His mom fussing over everyone, flipping pancakes and scolding Homer for sneaking bacon before breakfast was served.

Lisa - always eager to impress - launching into some intellectual shtick about the environment or a new book she’d read.

Bart scoffed. She’d try so hard to grab Mom and Dad’s attention… like her worth depended on it.

He paused, staring down at his colorful cereal.

Lisa didn’t need to do that, did she?

She was already smart as hell. And their parents loved her for who she was, not just for the trophies or perfect grades.

But maybe she didn’t feel that way.

Maybe she thought she had to earn love.

Bart frowned, irritated by his own thoughts.

“Man, when did I turn into the guy who thinks about feelings at breakfast?” he muttered, shoving another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

He grabbed the half-empty bowl and trudged back to his shared dorm room.

His room was quiet, too. Milhouse was probably still at university, buried under a stack of notes. Bart flopped onto the low, slightly lumpy sofa near the TV and grabbed the PlayStation controller.

Empty cans of cheap energy drinks littered the floor. The burnt-out tips of cigarettes and blunts rested in a makeshift ashtray. He didn’t leave his stash out in the open, but he might as well have, given the state of the place. The small black burn marks on the couch were enough of a giveaway.

He thought about rolling one. Maybe doing a line.

That would take his mind off things, right?

But his sore body protested – the sensation of weakness and nausea surged forth just by thinking of it.

Instead, he turned on the TV, scrolled through the game menu, and picked one of his favourites - a mindless shoot-to-kill type of game he could usually lose himself in.

His fingers moved on autopilot, but he couldn’t focus - his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Ugh, screw this,” Bart muttered, tossing the controller aside.

The game continued playing in the background as he slumped further into the couch, rubbing his temples.

This isn’t helping.

Bart opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

This has to stop. He kept telling himself that. He was supposed to straighten up. That’s what was expected of him. He wasn’t ten anymore. He wanted to be here, in this uni freedom lifestyle. But what freedom did he really have if all he did was comply? Study, study, work, study some more…

Still, he sure as hell wasn’t about to go back home and face his failures. That couldn’t happen.

Dizzy, he pushed himself up and grabbed one of the empty cans, starting to clean up. He stuffed trash into a plastic bag - empty wrappers, cigarette butts, crushed energy drinks. When the place looked slightly less like a disaster zone, he cracked open the window. Cold air rushed in, brushing through his spiky blond strains of hair, cooling the heat in his face. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

Then he appeared in his mind.

Bart’s eyes snapped open, pulse quickening.

Maybe he needed to talk to someone.

He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. Notifications popped up—new friend requests, a worried message from Milhouse about skipping class again, some random picture Lee had sent that he didn’t bother looking at. He ignored all of them and went straight to his contacts.

Milhouse? No. Too close. He’d freak out, and the last thing Bart needed was more nervous energy in the mix.

Maybe… Lisa?

She was always the rational one, the one who could take any problem, dissect it, and hand you a solution like it was a math equation she solved in five minutes flat. Lisa was distant enough not to press too hard, but still reliable. She’d have some advice.

And she didn’t need to know everything. Just enough to help him figure out what the hell to do.

He opened the messaging app and started typing.

Bart:
Yo, Lis. Got a sec?

Lisa:
Hi. How are you, Bart?

Bart:
Good. (Liar)
You?

Lisa:
Going through a series of analytical assignments about the importance of… (a long-winded academic explanation Bart instantly tuned out) … it’s been challenging, which is keeping me motivated!

Bart:
Cool, cool.
Ok, so… hypothetical question.

Lisa:
Oh boy.

Bart:
If you ran into someone from your past who, like, really screwed with you, and it made you kinda freak out… what would you do?

Lisa:
Hmm. That’s a loaded question.

Bart:
No kidding.

Lisa:
Are you safe? Do you want me to call?

Before he could even answer, his phone started ringing.

“Are you alright?” Lisa’s voice came through, sharp with concern.

“Yeah, yeah. I mean, they didn’t even talk to me. I just… saw them, and it threw me off, I guess.”

Lisa hesitated. “Was it Nelson? Because if it was, I can have a chat with - ”

Bart sighed. “No, Lis, it wasn’t Nelson. Don’t worry, okay? I can handle things. I just… need your opinion.”

A pause. “Okay. But promise me if something happens, you’ll tell me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Promise.”

“Alright.” Her tone shifted into analysis mode. “Sounds like this person still has serious emotional weight over you.”

“You could say that.”

Lisa paused, either thinking of an answer or trying to figure out who he was talking about.

“Okay, here’s what I think. If you keep running into this person, eventually, you’ll figure out their intentions. And if you’re unsure what they’re about, avoiding them is only going to give them more power over you. Then you won’t know if the fear is about them or just the past they bring up, right?”

“Hmm… I don't know, I guess?”

Lisa sighed. “Okay, maybe the best thing to do is face it head-on.”

“You mean, like… confront them?”

“Not necessarily. This isn’t about them. It’s about you. Maybe you need to figure out why seeing them got to you so much. What is it about them that still has a hold on you?”

“Wow. Okay. Full therapist mode now, huh?”

“You asked.”

“Fair.”

“Listen, I know a lot of things aren’t easy to deal with.”

She hesitated, then added, “And, Bart… I just want to say, I’m proud of how far you’ve come already. But running from things… that’s probably not gonna help either.”

“Jeez. Yeah… thanks, Lis.” He flushed a bit, scoffing dismissively. She knew his struggles, even if he never told their parents.

“Anytime. If you need to talk, I’m here.”

“Cool. Thanks, sis.”

“Love you too.”

Click.

Bart tossed his phone onto the bed and lay back, staring at the ceiling. Lisa was right. He didn’t have to figure it all out today, but he couldn’t keep running from it either.

He exhaled slowly, the weight on his chest feeling just a little lighter. Just from talking about it.

Maybe going back there wasn’t such a crazy idea after all. At the very least, he’d finally know what Bob was up to.

✶ ✶ ✶

The weekend passed in a blur.

Bart spent Saturday at the skate shop, chatting with customers, showing off tricks on the demo board. Keeping himself busy was easier - focusing on anything else was easier. Hell, he even managed to clean the dorm, to Milhouse’s complete and utter astonishment. Who knows? If he kept this up, maybe he’d even get some studying done.

But by Sunday, after his shift ended, the unease had grown too loud to ignore. He had to do something. If only to prove to himself that he wasn’t afraid.

“Alright,” he muttered as he left work, stepping into the cool evening air. “Time to face the music.”

The plan was simple: swing by the flower shop on his way home, stay out of sight, and figure out what Bob was up to.

His heart pounded as he approached the shop. The weather was unsteady - light rain had begun to fall, dampening his hoodie. It was evening already, but the streetlights hadn’t turned on yet, and the darkness crept in fast. The streets were quiet - a typical sunday. People were at home, soaking up the last moments of the weekend before monday stole them away.

Bart stopped across the street, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, hood pulled up against the cold drizzle.

Then, at the last second, he hesitated.

Did he really want to do this? Dig up his past after so many years of silence? He could just take another route. Pretend he never saw him. Never knew he was here.

But he wasn’t a coward.

And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let him win.

With a deep breath, Bart stepped closer, slipping into the shadows of a nearby alley.

“Alright, man,” he muttered to himself, smirking faintly. “Let’s see what you’re up to.”

Chapter Text

The road stretched endlessly before him, winding through the dense and ever-darkening forest. The farther he drove, the deeper the pines loomed, closing in on either side - the wet scent of pine and damp earth seeping through the vents. Any trace of family houses - what few there had been - had long since disappeared. 

With every mile, the world seemed to narrow, swallowed by the silent, impenetrable gloom. His weary eyes remained fixed on the asphalt of the all-too-familiar, road, while a creeping dread tightened in his chest.

He eased his foot off the pedal. The car rolled forward slowly, kicking up white dust and grating over the gravel, before he finally brought it to a stop. A terrifying stillness settled over him as he stared at the facility. He could hear his own breath. 

His hand moved stiffly, mechanically, reaching for the keys. Fingers grazed the metal, but he did not turn them. Instead, he remained frozen - rigid - trapped in the paralysis of his mind and body. He lingered there, longer than made sense, until at last, he exhaled and forced himself out of the car.

“Mr. Terwilliger.” The soft-spoken man greeted with a polite nod. “It’s good to see you.”

The office was small, sterile in its impersonality, indistinguishable from the countless other rooms and cells within the institution. The walls, a dull lifeless gray, bore the cracks of time - thin veins spreading across the ceiling. A single potted plant on the small barred window, struggling to survive in the dim light. There was nothing superfluous here and no traces of warmth. A metal filing cabinet stood rigidly in the corner, a few books rested on a small side table, and a framed landscape hung on the wall behind the counsellor’s chair.

Dr. Holland sat across from him - a man in his forties, dressed in a professional attire, holding a clipboard in one hand and a pen in another.

He exuded the measured patience of a man who had long since mastered the art of silence.

The emptiness of the room was a deliberate act; it was a necessity.

Security here was no mere afterthought - a misplaced object could mean the difference between life and death for the man dealing with criminals.

In spite of that, Robert was unchained. There was no need for shackles, not anymore. Nonetheless, the cold metal remained too near for comfort - thick chains, padlocks, iron weights resting idly at the foot of the chaise lounge, silent but ever-present - as he lowered himself onto the recliner.

“Doctor” Bob mirrored the nod but added nothing else. He had no interest in pleasantries.

“I understand you’ve opened your business venture,” the doctor started, wearing a calm, unreadable expression.

Bob almost scoffed at the simplicity of the statement, his fingers adjusting his cuffs, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle. “Yes,” he answered, crisp and restrained. “A modest establishment, but a respectable one.”

“And how is it going?” Holland continued.

Shifting his position with effortless grace, Robert crossed one leg over the other, his posture the very picture of composed dignity. 

“A gradual and measured ascent, as is customary for any nascent endeavour,” he began, his voice smooth with melodic cadence. His hands moved with deliberate elegance, each gesture imbued with calculated emphasis.

“One must, of course, proceed with wisdom, positioning oneself strategically, forging the right alliances, cultivating the necessary partnerships…” He trailed off from the sheer pleasure of hearing himself articulate the perfection of his own foresight.

He had expected this line of questioning - there was no hesitation, no faltering - why should there be? He had rehearsed this moment long before it arrived, and he knew precisely how to perform it. It was not difficult to be truthful when the truth itself was a testament to his brilliance. Robert spoke with the easy charm of a man who expected to be listened to, drawing others into the elegance of his ambition, leaving no room for doubt that he was, in every way, the master of the stage.

And oh, what a delight it was to unveil his machinations, to guide his audience - to captivate - through the intricate corridors of his design, to…

“Ah.” Holland nodded, his fingers steepled, drawing Bob back from his long internal monologue. “A fresh start.”

Bob’s jaw tightened immediately as the man didn’t indulge him. He felt cold anger wash over him - like a proverbial rake in the face. His lips pressed into a thin line, his displeasure plastered across his features for a moment before he willed it away.

With an exaggerated sigh, he shifted, uncrossing his legs, and answered with affected constraint. “I prefer to think of it as a necessary redirection.”

The doctor studied him for a moment before continuing. “You seem dedicated. Work has always been something you could immerse yourself in.”

Bob arched an eyebrow, his voice measured with a hint of defensive indignation. “And what, pray tell, is the implication? That I am using it as a distraction?”

Holland’s voice remained neutral. “Are you?”

Silence stretched between them. Bob’s fingers tapped against the chaise lounge, betraying his otherwise composed demeanour.

He hesitated. 

If part of him had come to accept, perhaps even trust Dr. Holland, another part remained guarded by keeping such inquiries at bay. The circumstances and the setting did little to ease that resistance.

“I find that people often cling to structure when they feel untethered,” the therapist offered. “A ship in a storm, so to speak.”

Bob let out a small, humourless chuckle. “A steady boat maintains its integrity even in the most unforgiving of seas.” He exhaled sharply. “I suppose you mean to tell me that the sea cannot be controlled, only the vessel.”

The doctor’s unjudging tone loosened him, if only slightly. “What conclusions do you draw?”

Bob looked away, his gaze setting on the cracked paint on the walls. “Control is an illusion, then. What are we, if not at the mercy of the currents?”

“The ones who decide how we sail.”

Bob let the words settle, but he did not respond.

The conversation shifted, the doctor probing - gently, never forcefully - into his personal life. Family. His ex-wife. His brother. Bob deflected with polite indifference, as if they were distant figures on a fading photograph.

“You’ve been distant from your past,” Holland noted. “But distance does not always mean escape.”

Bob’s grip tightened, a certain young man’s face surging right to the forefront of his mind.

“Being somewhere new brings opportunities,” the doctor continued. “But it also brings challenges - a chance to take different courses of action, to form new connections.”

A hollow laugh left Bob’s lips. “Oh, doctor,” he murmured, voice edged with amused bitterness. “Do you truly believe that isolation is the problem?”

Holland observed him carefully. “Do you?”

Bob leaned forward slightly, his gaze dark, unreadable. “Some men are born… misaligned with the world. They do not fit into its crevices. And so, they must carve out their own space, by any means necessary.”

A long paused followed before he added, almost inaudibly, “Though some… eventually find even that space to be lacking.”

Holland did not react. “And where do you stand now?”

Bob exhaled, leaning back. “I am not certain.”

Holland nodded. “That’s an answer too.”

When Bob stepped outside, the cold breeze struck him first. The sky was fully overcast, darkening with the promise of rain, wrapping the yard in an oppressive atmosphere. A prison guard walked beside him - one of the few with whom he had built something resembling mutual respect.

As they crossed the yard, Bob spotted his recurring ex-cellmate lounging in the outdoor pavilion.

“Five minutes,” Bob requested. 

The officer gave a dismissive nod, stepping back but remaining within sight.

Snake looked up as Bob approached. Their greeting was wordless at first - just a brief, knowing exchange of glances. A hardened familiarity.

“You look like shit,” Snake muttered, smirking.

Bob smirked faintly in return. “And you look exactly as I left you.”

“That’s what the hole does to a man.” Snake exhaled through his nose, his posture relaxed. 

But in a flicker, his eyes darted around sharply, and when he spoke again, his tone shifted entirely to an almost inaudible sound. “Place is a mess. Some guard’s been spreading shit, stirring up paranoia. People turnin’ on their own.”

Bob’s gaze sharpened, but didn’t utter a single word. He didn’t have to.

Snake confirmed with an imperceptible nod. “Bastard’s got half the block thinkin’ their own crew’s ratting on ‘em. The man’s got a gift for that kinda thing.”

Before either could say more, a voice slithered into the conversation.

“Well, well. What do we have here?”

Jack Lassen.

It was Lassen. It was always Lassen.

Bob had met men like Lassen before. Cruel men. Men who wielded power not as a duty but as a pleasure, savouring the suffering of others like a fine indulgence. And if Bob had righteously justified his own hand in such matters, he had still found that Lassen was something else entirely. 

He was not satisfied with merely enforcing order in a system that already rewarded greed and dominance - he had to corrupt, to rot a man from inside out, to make something putrid out of everything he touched. Breaking bones was crude, temporary; Lassen preferred to break something far more permanent.

As if prison weren’t already enough of a dank, urine-soaked hellhole, filled with pain and despair… For a time, Bob had been one of Lassen’s projects.

Initially, it had masqueraded as a strange sort of camaraderie. Robert had been no ordinary inmate after all; he carried himself with a precision that set him apart. He was articulate, composed, a man of intelligence - qualities that, in a place like that, were as much a weapon as they were a liability.

Lassen had seen it immediately. And he had taken his sweet time dissecting him.

“You know, sideshow,” he had mused during their first real conversation, leaning against the bars of Bob’s cell, twirling his baton between gloved fingers. “You and I aren’t so different.”

Bob barely spared him a glance, keeping his attention on the book in his lap - a battered volume of The Prince. “Is that so?” He replied unfazed.

Lassen chuckled. “Oh, yes. Both of us had our lives turned upside down by the same little rascal, didn’t we?”

That made Bob’s fingers tighten slightly around the pages.

Lassen noticed.

“You want to gut him,” he continued, his voice thick with amusement. “I get it. Really, I do.” He paused for emphasis. “The kid ruined my life, too.”

Bob finally looked at him, his sharp eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

Lassen grinned. “I had a simple, comfortable job before he came along. The little shit pulls one prank - one - and receives the appropriate punishment. That’s all it took. Then suddenly, I’m the villain.” His expression darkened, danger flickering in his slit-like eyes. “Funny, ain’t it? How they always get away with it.”

Bob had studied him carefully. He had known, even then, that Lassen was not to be trusted. But in that moment, hearing that confession, it had felt like a strange, bitter kinship. Two men undone by the same force.

But Robert couldn’t have been more painfully wrong.

Lassen didn’t hate Bart. Not the way Bob did.

Hate, in its purest form, was obsessive, all-consuming, immense and undeniably personal. 

Lassen’s wasn’t personal. It was sport. Something that Bob had realised far too late. And that’s when, for the sadistic prison guard, Bob had become nothing more than another game piece.

It hadn’t taken long for Lassen to reveal his true nature.

What had started as crude, snide remarks slowly turned into something far more insidious. He enjoyed getting under Bob’s skin, prodding at the wounds with sickening precision. And nothing brought him more pleasure than watching Bob wrestle with his own demons.

It had started off simple.

“You ever wonder what he’s up to right now?” Lassen would say as he strolled past, voice light, conversational. “Bet he’s sleepin’ soundly in his nice warm bed. No idea that you’re rotting here like an animal.”

Bob purposely ignored him. The first few times.

Then the remarks became sharper, more calculated, eerily specific.

“You know, I’ve got time off next week,” Lassen had mused once, stopping right outside Bob’s cell, and leaning casually. “I might take a little drive down to Springfield. Do some sightseeing. Maybe take a nice evening stroll through Evergreen Terrace…”

Bob went still. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

Lassen smirked, lowering his voice to something just above a whisper. 

“I wonder if he still sleeps with the window open.”

Bob felt the floor drop out from under him.

That was the moment. The moment something in him snapped.

He lunged. The chains caught him before he could reach the bars, but it hadn’t mattered - Lassen wanted that reaction. He had fed on it.

Bob saw it in his eyes.

“Easy now, sideshow,” Lassen chuckled, tapping his baton lazily against the metal. “Wouldn’t want to end up in solitary again, would ya?”

Bob said nothing. His breath came out ragged, sharp. His mind racing, screaming. He knew - knew - that Lassen was bluffing. That he was playing a sick game. That he had no real intention of following through.

But what if he had?

What if Lassen had gone to Springfield? What if he had stood outside the boy’s window, just to prove a point?

It was never, I’ll hurt him. Nor even, I’ll kill him.

It was, I have time. Time and freedom to go wherever I want. To stand outside his window. To walk past his school. To watch.

And knowing that he could, was enough to drive Robert into the brink of madness. To send him spiralling into a rage-fuelled helplessness, and unbearable impotence. Knowing that Lassen could act on his threats, and that Bob would be powerless to stop it…

And Lassen had known it.

Bob had tried - tried - to kill the obsession.

He told himself again and again that it was over. That he had to move forward. That he had wasted too much of his life being consumed by a vendetta that had led to nothing but ruin.

But Lassen had forced him to stare into it, day after day, relentlessly.

“You’re thinking about him right now, aren’t you?” he had taunted once, as Bob sat silently in the rec room, gripping the side of the table so tightly it nearly cracked beneath his fingers. “You hate that he still lives in your mind.”

Bob had swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He had wanted, desperately, to shut it all out.

But Lassen wouldn’t let him. 

Because Lassen didn’t just want to see him suffer.

He wanted to own his suffering.

And for a while, he had.

The one thing Bob had allowed himself to cling to - his hatred for the brat, his last semblance of control in that miserable hellhole - had been the very thing Lassen had twisted into leverage.

Bob had known that he had to let it go. That he had to sever himself from the past if he was ever going to claw his way out. That was the only way to win.

And so, slowly, he had forced himself to stop reacting. No more lunging. No more clenched fists. No more glares or retorts. Just silence. It had been the only way to take the power back.

And when the day finally came that he walked out of that prison cell, he had thought - hoped - that it was over.

But now, standing there, with Lassen’s voice still ringing in his ears, he knew it wasn’t.

Bob clenched his jaw as he stepped further away from the facility. The air was so heavy he could barely breathe.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

The words clung to him, thick as tar.

Bob inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his shoulders to relax, unclenching his fists. 

He wouldn’t let the bastard get to him. Not again.

He was free now.

As he reached for the car door, a bitter thought coiled in the back of his mind.

He had been in prison for years.

However, in some ways, it felt like he had never left.

Chapter Text

The penitentiary was already miles behind him, swallowed by the road and the endless dark-green stretch of pine forest. It should have felt like a clean severing - a cutting away of dead flesh.

All the same, he found that it changed nothing.

Some things refused to detach. The dread. The deep seethed rage. The intrusive weight of unfinished business pressing in between his ribs like an old, infected wound.

Even now, he could still feel Lassen’s presence. His low voice, frighteningly toneless - inhuman even - digging under his skin, tearing him apart like rusted hooks.

“You should have killed him when you had the chance, sideshow.”

As he held down the anger rising within, a thought managed to hiss out in between his clenched teeth before he could stop it.

“Maybe I should have killed you.”

He’d had the chance to silence Lassen for good - but he had decided against it. Because that’s where Lassen had misjudged him. Robert knew when to be patient. When to hold back for what he truly wanted.

As the lights of Shelbyville flickered into view, the tension in his shoulders loosened slightly. He was heading home, where things made sense. Where his mind could rest, uninterrupted, and find some semblance of peace.

That moment of relief was short-lived. A small, sharp recollection surfaced - his house keys. He had left them at the flower shop.

“Doesn’t matter.” He thought.

It was just another reason to return to his esteemed harbour.

By the time he parked in his usual spot of choice, two streets away, the rain had settled into a steady drizzle. The slick pavement shimmered under the last stream of pale light, turning the town into a dim watercolour. He pulled his umbrella free, stepping out onto the street, the cold biting through his long black wool coat.

As he gradually approached the main street, his eyes caught movement.

A hooded figure loomed in front of his shop, shifting uneasily.

Bob stopped right in the mouth of the alley.

He observed as the figure checked their surroundings. Then, they reached into their pocket, fumbling with something near the door’s lock.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

It felt like the world was in slow motion as he analysed the strange affair unraveling in front of him. Steadying his breath, he remained calculatedly still - the scene stirred an old, eerie feeling of… déjà vu.

He frowned with irritation. This wasn’t the first time.

And, of course, Bob would recognise him anywhere, at any place, no matter the circumstances.

The moment Bart stepped onto the rain-slick pavement right in front of the flower shop, his stomach twisted into a tight knot. The store loomed above him, high and threatening.

Said store stood tall, perhaps more even by the weight of the feelings clouding his better judgment. The tip of the roof speared through the stormy-heavy clouds, standing like a silent warning sign, a presage against the night sky.

Peering through the closed curtains of the front window display, he found the interior to be no more inviting. The dense plants, overgrown and unruly, spiked wildly casting shadows that stretched and curled against the glass. They seem to be clawing outward as if attempting to reach for him.

He shivered - whether from the breeze or from fear, he couldn’t quite tell.

Bart’s eyes widened. There it was.

That sharp-edged pressure, that old, unwelcome weight pressing against his chest like a loaded gun - he was being watched.

He didn’t need proof. He didn’t need to see Sideshow Bob inside the store or lurking in some alleyway, hidden in the shadows. It had been years, but Bart knew. He had lived under the man’s gaze for too long, and you don’t forget that kind of thing. You don’t just move on. You don’t just pretend you’re safe.

Not when every time you let your guard down, you barely make it out alive.

His hands curled into fists inside his hoodie pocket, and he forced a slow breath through his nose. Rain crashed like needles against his shoulders and back. The street was deserted. Just dim light, the slick sheen of water reflecting off the pavement, the occasional passing car in the distance.

The store was closed.

He had expected that. It was Sunday, after all - late, dark, raining. But a part of him had still wanted to see the lights on, to see Bob behind the counter so he could storm in and finally - finally - confront the bastard. If he had done it at ten-years-old, he could do it again. He would do it again.

But now, standing in the freezing rain, staring at the locked door, the confrontation he’d envisioned felt… less solid. Less real.

He swallowed, throat tight.

Now what? Was he just supposed to go home? Sleep peacefully? Pretend he wasn’t crawling out of his own goddamn skin every time he thought about Bob being free? Being near?

No. Fuck no.

His fingers ghosted over the contents of his pocket - his credit card, his keys, the cold steel of a Swiss Army knife.

A backup plan. A - just in case.

He hadn’t let himself think about actually using it. Not really. But now, standing there, his pulse pounding in his ears - he felt something he hadn’t felt in years.

The rush.

The itch of taking a risk - a real risk - stepping straight into the wolf’s den. That wild, reckless spike of adrenaline that had been missing from his life for too damn long.

The cold rain coaxed him forward, urging him to take the leap, to plunge headfirst into the unknown. You won’t regret it.

His lips curled into the smallest, breathless smirk.

“What the hell.”

He cast one last glance around, scanning the empty street. The uneasy weight of unseen eyes still carving on his back - yet no soul was to be found.

“Come on, then” he thought, “Try me, bastard.”

He strode forward.

Staring at the closed door, he remained focused on the faint outline, listening as his fingers worked on the mechanism. His heart is well ahead of him, the muscle beating inside his chest rapidly - the hairs on the back of his neck rising.  

Then - click.

The lock gave way.

Bart slipped inside.

And darkness swallowed him whole.

Bob’s lips pressed into a thin line as he watched the younger man slip inside, leaving the street empty behind him.

“Bold, aren’t you?”

Annoyance flickered through him, but beneath it, a sharper, more insidious tinge of nostalgia… curiosity.

For a long time, Bart’s paranoia had amused him.

The brat had been terrified, convinced - rightly so - that as long was Bob was on parole, he would be lurking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Bart had lived in fear of Bob’s revenge, convinced of the man’s return as if it was an inevitability.

What exquisite delights he had felt to be the master of such powerful emotions.

To have become the one thing Bart feared most.

An ever-present omen haunting the edges of the boy’s reality.

For a time, that fear had defined him. It had given Bob an identity - terrifying, predatory and deadly, but an identity, nonetheless. A role to play in the grand stage that is life.

Now, even after a decade, it appears that some of that still remained.

And yet - there was a difference.

Bart might still fear him.

But he was the one trespassing.

Bob allowed himself a slow, measured breath before he moved.

Bart was issuing a challenge.

And Bob was very eager to take it.

Quick of mind and light of step, he slipped around the alley to the back of the store, priding himself on retaining the practiced ease honed through years of stalking.

Only two slit, fox-like eyes gleamed in the dim light as he unlocked the door and slipped inside, without a sound.

The darkness of the backroom welcomed him.

Inside, he waited.

The scent hit him first. Faint, but unmistakable - earthy flora and the musky fragrance of freshly wet soil, laced with something richer, more refined.

His cologne.

Bart had always hated that smell.

It pulled him back. To late nights ripped straight from his childhood nightmares.

The man stalking him, always so close - getting closer. Bart walks, drenched in sweat, shaking with fear and anticipation. A crackle. A shadow shifting through wet bushes. The scent of damp earth and crushed leaves, thick in the air. A sudden movement at his right. Hands seize him from behind. Tight. He can’t run. Long fingers clamp over his mouth, muffling his protests. The man’s cologne floods his senses. Bart squeezes his eyes shut. His heart slams against his chest frantic. Suffocating. A deep voice whispering at his ear “Hush now…”

Bart tore himself from the memory, his breath sharp, pulse erratic. Not now. Not here.

He scanned the place. Everything here was too… curated. Too deliberately arranged in a way that unsettled him.

This wasn’t just any shop. It was his shop.

And it reeked of the same dramatic, self-indulgent theatrics as the man who owned it.

Bart’s fingers flexed at his sides as he took a cautious step forward. The wooden floorboard beneath him let out the faintest creak.

His pulse stuttered.

From the sliver of space between the backroom’s shelves, Bob watched as Bart moved through the store, the dim glow from the streetlights slicing shadows across his face. The younger man’s posture was tense, but his hands - his hands were quick. Practiced.

Bob tsked inwardly.

And where, exactly, did the boy learn that?

Bart wasn’t just searching.

He was hunting.

For what? Evidence? Some proof that he was still plotting his demise?

A quiet, amused scoff almost slipped from Bob’s lips.

“Paranoid little thing. Still convinced he’s the target.”

Bart’s wet shoes left a clear trail across the floor. His darting glances into reflective surfaces betrayed his nervousness. He was using the mirrors - not well, but enough to show he had learned a few tricks over the years.

“Still sloppy, though.”

“This is stupid!”

He knew it was stupid.

But he needed something. Evidence. Proof. A reason to act before Bob did.

Because Bob would make a move. It was just a matter of when.

Bart moved deeper into the store, his breath slow and restrained. His shoes left damp marks in his wake, and he grimaced. Shit. He needed to be careful.

His eyes swept across the shelves, the counter, the corners of the room - nothing immediately suspicious. But that meant nothing. Bob had always been good at hiding things. At hiding himself.

A ripple of unease crawled down Bart’s spine.

He reached for one of the tall mirrors positioned strategically between displays, angling it just enough to get a glimpse of the room behind him.

Nothing.

Still, his skin prickled.

You are not alone.

A sharp spike of adrenaline shot through his bloodstream. He felt like one of those idiots in horror movies - the ones who wander into obviously dangerous places, the ones you want to scream at for being so goddamn reckless.

"Do I really want to greet possible death this way?"

"But am I going to be forever intimidated by this asshole? Who thinks he can keep coming and going as he pleases - and turn my life upside down!"

That knowledge made him viscerally angry, and equally helpless.

He clenched his jaw in determination, forced the hesitation down, and kept moving.

Then, something caught his eye.

A book.

Not just any book - a journal.

It was tucked away inside a slightly open drawer near the counter, half-hidden beneath some paperwork. Bart hadn’t been looking for it, hadn’t expected to find it, but the moment he saw it, he knew.

This was something important.

Bob’s patience was wearing thin. First Lassen, now Bart.

“Doesn’t this day ever end?”

He closed his eyes, holding in an exasperated sigh.

Being somewhere new brings opportunities … a chance to take different courses of action.

He remembered his therapist words. But if his past refused to unshackle him, how was he supposed to move forward?

And right now, that brat was invading his sanctuary - a sneaky little mouse - rummaging through someone else’s sacred walls.

He finally opened his eyes -

Bart had stilled.

His fingers grazed the edge of a book.

Bob’s stomach dropped.

His journal.

Bart picked it up, flipped through its pages. His brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pressing together as he skimmed the words.

Bob felt something sharp twist in his chest.

This was bad.

Very bad.

Bart’s fingers closed around the worn edges, flipping it open before he could second-guess himself.

Eyes skimmed the pages.

He felt his stomach drop.

His pulse slammed against his throat.

He wasn’t even fully processing the words yet - just flashes of phrases, snippets of sentences. But that was enough.

This wasn’t a simple journal. It wasn’t some mundane collection of thoughts or daily reflections.

It was about him.

Bob had been writing about him.

Even after all these years.

A chill crept up Bart’s spine, settling deep into his bones.

"This is worse than I thought.”

He was still obsessed.

The journal was clutched in his hand before he even made the conscious decision to take it. His body was moving before his mind could catch up.

Get out. Now!

Bob could stop this now. A single step forward, a clearing of his throat - Bart would panic, drop the book, run.

But he did nothing.

His muscles coiled with readiness, but his mind held him back.

And that unsettled him the most.

Because he wasn’t sure why.

It’s easy.

Snatch the journal from Bart’s hands.

Corner him.

Shatter his pretty little illusions of safety once and for all.

And yet - he didn’t move.

He saw Bart’s eyes widen, his shoulders tense, as if sensing something unseen. He suddenly shoved the book into the pocket of his hoodie and turned on his heel.

Bob’s breath caught.

“Come on Robert…”

Bart turned on his heel, every nerve in his body screaming at him to run.

And then -

The feeling. Persistent.

Something shifting in the air.

He stopped just shy of the door, every muscle locking into place.

His breath hitched.

“He’s here.”

“He’s leaving.”

Still, Bob remained stuck in place.

“I can still stop him!”

The realization struck like ice water down his back.

Bart could feel it. Him.

The shop was too silent. The kind of silence that wasn’t natural. The kind that watched.

His fingers tightened around the journal. He forced himself to exhale, forced himself to move - to push the door open and step out into the cold night -

“Not too fast, don’t run, don’t fucking run -“

The door clicked shut behind Bart.

He stepped into the rain, his form swallowed by the storm outside.

What are we, if not at the mercy of the currents? The ones who decide how we sail.

Bob exhaled.

Silence settled in the shop.

The only sound was the rain hammering against the glass, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of water slipping through the gutter.

The street was empty.

The rain had picked up, falling in sheets now, swallowing the sound of his footsteps as Bart walked away - quick, but steady.

Never running.

He didn’t look back.

Didn’t dare.

Because if he did - he might see something he didn’t want to see.

Robert should be angry.

He should be furious.

And yet, as he stared at the empty space where Bart had stood, something else curled at the edge of his mind.

A quiet, lingering question.

“Did I - want him to take it?”

The thought made his stomach twist with revulsion.

He shook it off, straightening his posture, forcing defensive logic to override emotion.

“That’s impossible - “

This was just a mistake.

A mistake he would not allow to happen again.

Outside, the storm rumbled low against the earth, creeping closer.

Bart’s hands shook. His pulse pounded.

But the journal was secure, hidden away in the pocket of his hoodie, and that was all that mattered.

Because now - now he knew.

Bob wasn’t done with him.

And Bart sure as hell wasn’t done with Bob.

Chapter Text

“Angst macht den Wolf größer als er ist”

Milhouse was off having dinner with his family. He had texted Bart, inviting him along, although Bart declined without hesitation – he had a far more urgent affair at hand.

The journal sat on his desk, a silent, radioactive threat.

He had tossed it there as soon as he arrived at the dorm, shoved off his soaked hoodie, paced the room, cracked his knuckles, paced some more – then stopped. Stared at it. Half-expecting it to burst into flames under the sheer force of his gaze.

“What the hell am I doing?”

Bart dropped onto his bed, arms crossed, shoulders tight - never averting eyes from it. And feeling like a complete idiot for bringing it home.

He should have just thrown it away. Burned it. Left it in a goddamn gutter somewhere. But no - he had kept it dry, stuffed inside his hoodie, pressed against his body like some kind of precious artifact.

Wasn’t this just another reason for Bob to hate his guts? As if their history wasn’t enough, now he had stolen from the man?

But he had to. Bart had to know. Because not knowing was worse.

Bart exhaled an agonized breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Reading this was just asking to see some unhinged Shakespearean murder manifesto. He rubbed his hands over his forehead.

Here he was. Alone. In his room. With that man’s thoughts sitting inches away from him.

Reaching forward, he picked up the book, staring closely at it - the sleek, lively dark brown cover, the faint scent of leather and paper. Slowly, he dragged his thumbnail along the spine.

Just open it, dumbass.

What the hell was he so afraid of? A part of him hoped it was nothing. That it was just pages of deranged plotting - a madman sharpening his knives. That would be expected.

Finally gathering up the courage, Bart opened it.

At first, it was exactly what he expected. Neat, meticulous handwriting, pretentious, dripping with the kind of smug self-importance only Bob could pull off.

"The store has been performing well. I expected as much. People always return to beauty, even when they don’t deserve it."

Bart rolled his eyes. Jesus, get over yourself.

"There is an undeniable pleasure in precision. The way a well-kept shop aligns itself to the eye - the balance of colour, of form, of scent. People do not understand this. They do not see the artistry. They purchase flowers not as one purchases a masterpiece, but as one purchases a disposable pleasantry. A meaningless token. A substitute for true thoughtfulness."

Oh no. Not the ‘people are dumb, but I am a tortured genius’ monologue. Classic Bob.

"Art, when it is honest, is an act of control. It is the reshaping of chaos into order, the bending of nature to the will. What is a garden, after all, but nature subjugated? True beauty is cultivated. The wild is only beautiful when it is tamed."

He snorted. Yep.

That was the most ‘Bob’ thing he had ever read. He imagined the guy writing this in some candlelit study, wearing a robe, sipping overpriced wine, composing sonnets to himself.

At least prison hadn’t beaten the drama out of him.

He kept flipping. Observations. Reflections. Boring shit. Most of it was about his life after getting out of prison - brief notes on business, the weather, customers, nothing damning.

Bart almost laughed – if it wasn’t for the condescension and snobbism, he would start to think that the guy turned into a suburban dad after all these years.

A blank page and then, a shift.

No introduction. No preamble. Just one line, standing out.

"I saw him."

He tensed again.

“At first, I entertained the notion that my senses had deceived me. After all, it has been well over a decade.”

“Bart’s once-soft features have been chiseled into something sharper, leaner - adulthood has stretched his frame, refining boyhood’s puppy-like edges into a form that moves with a tempered grace. He is no longer the impudent child I once knew.”

“Albeit the recognition was instantaneous. Not in the symmetry of his face nor in the maturity of his build, but in the cadence of his movement. The way he walks - still carrying that same insufferable air of careless defiance, as if the world itself is a joke he is in on. It is an attitude I have seen countless times before, but in him, it remains uniquely, maddeningly irreverent.”

“When my eyes fell upon him after all these years, something within me stirred. A sensation both foreign and familiar, lingering just beyond the reach of definition. I am unsure what to name it.”

Bart stopped tapping his fingers against his leg, a light fluster permeating his cheeks.

“Oh yeah? Try ‘restraining order waiting to happen.’” He pushed forward, eyes darting across the sentences.

"He didn’t recognize me at first. I expected as much. Bart was always quick to dismiss danger unless it was staring him dead in the face. Perhaps that was why he survived me so long."

Bart exhaled sharply, between gritted teeth.

There it was. The condescending, arrogantly cruel, you’re-too-stupid-to-live-but-somehow-you-keep-outsmarting-me Bob.

“I wonder - does he even think of me at all?"

Bart froze. His fingers gripping the paper tight, he frowned in disbelief, tilting his head slightly to his right. “What kind of question is that?”

"I thought that I saw something else in his eyes - something I hadn’t seen before. A weight, perhaps, that had not been there before. I wonder… Has the world worn him down? Has time chipped away at his sharp, unrelenting edge?

Bart scowled. “Edge this, asshole,” he muttered, flipping the page aggressively.

"Strange. I had anticipated the sight of him to incite rage. That same deep, marrow-scorching fury that fuelled me for years. I had expected the desire to rise within me to make Bart fear me once more.”

Bart felt a strange, cold pull in his stomach.

"There is a purity to it."

"Fear is honest in a way that nothing else can aim to be. The rest of the world play their little game, hide behind facades of pleasantries and politeness. But fear - fear is unfiltered. It strips a man to his bones - to his very essence. Fear makes you real."

"And his fear - Bart’s fear - was exquisite."

“What the hell does that even mean?” he whispered, apprehensive. The more he read, the more eerie and unnerved he felt.

"I had seen it so many times in Bart’s eyes when he knew I was near. That sharp, gasping awareness of being prey. The quickening of breath. The tightening of his stance. The way he swallowed hard, hands balling into fists, trying - so desperately, so tragically - to hold onto that paper-thin bravado."

The increasing heartbeat drummed rhythmically on his tightened throat. He hated - hated - how vividly he could remember it: the electricity running through his spine whenever he thought he heard a sound behind him, the triggering of his survival instincts before his mind even caught up.

And Bob - that smug son of a bitch - had been drinking it in. Relishing on it. Bart exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to slow his pulse.

It doesn’t matter. That was then. Bob is rotting in some floral shop, waxing poetic about things that don’t exist anymore.

He’d grown to be an adult now and he could definitely take the man down if needed. But, above all, Bart wasn’t scared of him anymore.

… right?

"Did he ever recognize what a gift that was? To be seen so thoroughly? To be stripped of all pretence, to be laid bare before someone who truly knew him. Who knew him better than he knew himself?"

"I now wonder if he still feels it. If, even to this day, when he steps into a dark room, he hesitates. If he listens. If he wonders whether I am there."

“What the fuck!” Bart shouted, pure shock tightening his shoulders, making his whole-body snap upright.

What the fuck…

He had always known Bob was a psycho - that wasn’t news. But this… this was something else.

It didn’t help that the way Bob wrote it, conjured the most cursed, skin-crawling images Bart’s mind could muster. He pictured himself, exposed, naked, vulnerable, pinned beneath the weight of Bob’s presence alone – the man’s words were enough to both spike a vertiginous rush of adrenaline and terrify him to the core.

Bart shook the thought from his mind immediately.

"And - if he does not, then what am I?"

"If he no longer fears me, then have I faded? Have I ceased to be?"

Perplexity was plastered in Bart’s face.

This wasn’t what he was supposed to find. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to find evidence that Bob was still dangerous. Still scheming.

Not - not this. These weird-ass confessions.

Bob was talking about it like it was some kind of special moment between them. Like they had shared something.

A coldness creeped inside of him.

Bart felt like his entire past had just been reframed. His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

The worst part - the absolute worst part of it - was that he couldn’t stop himself from remembering it too.

Because.

Yeah.

He remembered… Not just the fear. But the awareness. That Bob saw him stripped of his defences – that he forced him to strip off his defences. And Bart viscerally hated that, even now, even years later.

Bart struggled to stay calm. His eyes glued to the thing.

"It is a peculiar thing - to wish to destroy and preserve something in equal measure. To sharpen a blade and then hesitate at the moment of the cut."

"I have often wondered, if I had succeeded, what I would have felt in the aftermath. Would it have been satisfaction? Relief? Or would I have simply found myself staring into the void I had created, and realized - too late - that I had only erased the thing that made me real? That defined me?"

“That would have been a fate worse than failure itself."

"Perhaps that was why I played with him. Why I prolonged it, drew it out, let Bart escape time and again. Perhaps, even then, I understood that my purpose was not in the act of destroying him, but in the pursuit itself."

"I do not regret pursuing him. That was never the mistake. The mistake was assuming I would be unchanged by it."

At this point, Bart’s heart was hammering so wildly it felt as if it might break free from his ribcage and take flight.

He couldn’t make sense of it. Truly - he couldn’t. Bob had spent years trying to kill him – years! Attempt after attempt. Plan after plan. And now, here he was - admitting that he had never truly wanted it to end?

A tense, agonized breath shuddered out of Bart’s lips.

To have been killed once and for all, or to be trapped in this twisted, endless charade with the man? He swallowed hard. He honestly wasn’t sure which one sounded worse.

"Perhaps, even then, I knew that, once the final curtain fell, there would be nothing left for me at all."

Bart’s fingers rubbed his temples, trying to process the weight of Bob’s admissions, plus digesting the swirl of mixed emotions brewing inside him.

This wasn’t just the usual theatrical villain-monologue diary crap. Bart stared at the page, his jaw tightening. What the hell was he supposed to do with this? Bob wasn’t sorry - clearly not. And yet, something had changed.

That was the worst part. That was what burrowed under his skin.

Bob had written like a man looking into a mirror and not liking what he saw. It wasn’t guilt. It was worse.

It was self-awareness.

Like he had gone too deep into the madness and only now realized that he had no way back. Bart swallowed hard, flipping to the next page with more force than necessary.

"Would it be humiliating to admit that, in some grotesque way, he was my greatest audience? That I performed for him alone?"

"If he understood that, would he laugh?

Bart’s fingers dug into the journal.

No.

No, fuck you.

“You’re so full of shit…”

Bob had spent years hunting him, tormenting him, trying to kill him - and now he wanted to act like this was some philosophical existential crisis?!

A raw, incredulous, bitter laugh tore out of Bart’s throat.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be shitting me.”

Bart read the words again. And again. And each time, his stomach twisted.

He cursed Bob. Because… was it really bullshit?

All the twisted, over-the-top theatrics. The absurdly complicated schemes that, in the end, always led Bob right back to him. The propaganda, the threats, the dramatic proclamations of hatred, of vengeance, of making him suffer. Bob’s constant, seething death wish hanging over him like a shadow.

But now, reading this -

Was it ever just about that?

Had it ever been as simple as revenge? His idea of ‘justice’ for having been sent to prison?

Or was Bob just another person who had needed something from him?

Bart felt sick.

"When did it begin? When did my hatred for him become the single most defining thing about me? When did his recognition of me become the only thing that mattered?"

Bart stared at the words, his breath uneven.

Recognition?

There it was again. Bob hadn’t wanted to kill him - he had needed Bart to see him. To understand him. To validate him.

Another bitter laugh bubbled up in Bart’s throat, but it died before it could escape.

Jesus.

For the first time, in years, Bart felt something new regarding Bob.

Not just fear. Not just hatred.

Something messier. Something that made him uneasy.

Was it… pity?

No. It couldn’t be.

And yet… the image of Bob in his mind had shifted.

No longer the monstrous, relentless wolf at his heels - always hunting, always raging. Now, he saw a figure… uncertain. A shape blurred at the edges, fraying, lost.

And that feeling, Bart understood.

Feeling lost.

"I’ve asked myself countless times: why him? That first time I saw him – why had I felt the need to reach out to him? Why did he linger when the others faded? Was it because he didn’t applaud? Why was that small act of defiance the spark that burned through everything I had built?"

"There is a fundamental truth I cannot ignore: he is different from the rest. He always was. The others followed the pattern. They idolized me. They swallowed the illusion whole and never once questioned what lay beneath it."

"Except for him."

"Oh, he saw me. He saw past all the pretence. Past the mask. While the others cheered and laughed, he stared. He recognized something the others could not."

"And I loathed him for it."

"And I craved it, in equal measure."

Bart shut the book violently.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

That wasn’t -

That wasn’t true.

He was a kid. He hadn’t seen anything!

Bob was just some corny-ass performer trying too hard to be fancy.

He remembered that night. He hadn’t given a damn about Bob back then. He had been concerned about Krusty’s imprisonment. At most, Bob’s changes in the show had bored him. Just another corny stage act, another lame adult trying to sell kids on ‘culture’ when all they wanted was noise and chaos.

But apparently, that moment had seared itself into Bob’s soul like a goddamn brand.

The words still sat there, lodged under his ribs, making him feel… exposed.

Like Bob had been watching him all these years, waiting for him to put the pieces together.

Slowly, stiffly, Bart opened the book again. Dreading each new sentence.

"Even amidst our dance, he always saw the wires. He knew the trick before it was revealed. He rejected the fantasy. And I cannot decide if I resent him for that, or if I - on some humiliating, wretched level - admire it."

Bart’s breath hitched.

No. No, fuck that.

He ran a hand through his head in desperation, messing up the strands of hair.

At long last, his eyes fell upon the final entry, the weight of every preceding word pressing down inside him.

"I thought, at the time, that I purely despised his nature. That I needed to correct it. But perhaps the opposite was true. Perhaps I needed him to remain unbroken, because if he bent for me - if he submitted - I would have no choice but to confront what I had become."

"His self-assurance, his audacity - it was maddening. Infuriating. But enviable. He never questioned himself, never faltered. I despised him for it, but part of me wanted to grasp at that certainty, to hold it, to make it mine."

"Even now, after all these years, I find myself wondering if he still holds that clarity. If he still stands apart, untouched by the weight of mediocrity.”

"If I were to speak to him now, would I find that same sharpness, that same unyielding gaze? If I were to reach out, would he sharpen me in turn? Or would I simply be grasping at something that no longer exists?”

The words ended there, leaving the remaining pages a silent white void.

Bart blinked.

His fingers still clutched to the journal, like letting go might somehow let Bob slip further into his head.

The man’s thoughts were a fucking maelstrom.

What a joke. What a fucking joke. He thought bitterly, jaw clenched hard, his pulse hammering.

“This is so wrong...”

Bob’s words painted a version of him that didn’t feel real. Didn’t feel like him. He wrote about Bart like he was some unwavering force of nature, some brilliant, perfect, untouchable thing, some ideal - that Bart could barely recognize.

To think that all those years, this idea that Bob crafted of Bart haunted him like a specter of truth.

Rage was boiling within him. If Bob saw him now - saw the screwed-up mess of a life he had - would he be disappointed?

The thought made Bart want to break something.

He wanted Bob to be wrong about him. He wanted to prove it.

But why did he care what the man thought?

Damn it.

Because this changed things.

Not everything.

Just enough to make him certain that Bob was neither willing to kill him nor coming for him – at least not in the way he always feared.

But… his thoughts.

Bart needed to make sure that whatever Bob thought this was, whatever twisted idea he had built up in his mind, whatever fantasy he had created -

That he would shatter it.

He needed to see Bob’s face when he confronted him.

He needed to prove that Bob didn’t know him.

To prove that he wasn’t Bob’s goddamn moral compass.

Nor was Bart his unfinished story.

Chapter Text

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
The hand that held the steel:
For only blood can wipe out blood,
And only tears can heal

Oscar Wilde

The atmosphere carried the aroma of damp earth and crushed petals, overpowered now by the metallic scent of rain seeping through the recently closed door. Like a beast turning in its sleep, a storm outside rumbled low, distant but inevitable.

He exhaled, stiffly pressing his thumb and forefinger against his temples. His control was not slipping. It wasn’t. He had simply miscalculated. A moment’s hesitation, nothing more. He would fix this. He always did.

The sound of the door clicking shut still echoed in his mind, louder than the impending tempest.

Bob’s fingers twitched.

Was it a cruel twist of fate that had brought this moment upon him, or some karmic reckoning he wasn’t yet prepared to face?

A few wet imprinted marks of sneakers drew spirals around the floor. The slightly open drawer from where Bart had retrieved the journal. The faintest smudge on the counter where he had placed his hand. His precious store felt... tainted.

Bob’s first instinct was to erase it all. To scrub it clean, restore the store’s previous order, as if none of it had ever happened.

He stood at the threshold, motionless, listening to the faint patter of raindrops against the glass windows - as he stared, he realized with striking clarity why he couldn’t do it.

If he erased it, there would be nothing left. Not of Bart. Not of this moment. Nor proof that Bart had been here at all.

And so, he let it be. Exactly as it was.

He locked the shop. Pulled his coat tighter around himself. And drove home.

✶✶✶

It was completely dark when he stepped inside.

The house was silent.

No music. No voices. Just the sharp wind and the low crashing of rain singing outdoors.

Even as he flicked on a lamp, the dim golden light did little to soften the frigid, modern expanse of the space. It was all glass, steel and black leather, a house built like a mausoleum for a man who had spent too many years caged.

Bob shed his black long coat, tossing it over the armchair with an undignified carelessness that was unlike him. The air inside was warm, albeit it did nothing to touch the cold gripping his chest.

He should never have written that journal.

“What was I thinking?”

“That fool of a therapist! Talking of ‘processing,’ of ‘externalizing emotions,’ of ‘naming your demons to reclaim your power’…”

“What power??”

His greatest weakness had been handed over to Bart like a gift!

Bob exhaled, forcing himself to move, to do something other than think. Heading to the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of wine, he moved rigidly - strained - with the vestiges of a rage that had nowhere to go.

Delicate glass touched his thin lips. He took a long sip of the velvety blood-red Bordeaux. Didn’t taste it.

Mechanically, as routine, he began to undress. First removed his waistcoat. Cufflinks. Shirt buttons, one by one.

The weighted turn of his head brought his reflection into view. A distorted specter in the tall bedroom mirror.

He held his own gaze. Eyes traced the gaunt hollows of his chest, the stark, almost geometric prominence of his collarbones, the sharp ridges of his ribs rising and falling with each breath. He had honed it to something angular and spare. The body, a cruel, merciless mirror to his mind, both stripped of excess and starved of indulgence.

Beneath the phantom-like luminosity, his eyes laid on the faded red ink. A mark that time could not erase.

“Die Bart Die”

For a long time, he had not thought of it. 

It had been a symbol. A mark of purpose. A memorial of past grievances. And a reminder that his work was never finished.

But now... at this precise instant, it was mocking him. Because his work was, indeed, finished.

And he was left with nothing to show from it.

Had it become a monument to his own undoing, instead?

A bitter laugh, hoarse and mirthless, escaped his throat.

“How ironic… how absurd.”

How absurd he must have looked, parading around with this carved into his flesh, as if his life meant something in relation to Bart.

But didn’t it? Hadn’t he spent years proving exactly that? Hadn’t he built his very existence around it?

The glass in his hand trembled. He pressed his free hand over the tattoo. Over the cruel curvature of each letter, over his own history.

At long last, he let himself see. See it all.

The years. Wasted.

Years spent desperately attempting to convince himself that Bart needed to fear him. That the fear was proof of something real.

Because if Bart feared him, then he was powerful. And if he was powerful, then he was in control. And if he was in control, then he was not the one who was weak.

Robert laughed. A sharp, brittle laughter.

All those times he had returned to the same obsession, the same battle, chasing a boy who was always three steps ahead, laughing, running - free.

With ‘Sideshow Bob’, always behind.

Always caged in something. Prison. Obsession. Himself.

And the most damning of all - the cruellest irony of his wretched existence -

Bart had never been chained with him.

Not truly.

Rain lashed, a ceaseless percussion of raw fury against the world beyond. He rocked back against the wall, pressing his body to the cool surface, staring at the ceiling with burning eyes.

“What an idiot,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

He had been the one needing Bart, all along.

Beyond the desire to kill him. Beyond even the need to prove anything to him.

Simply because, without Bart, who was he?

Who was he if not the monster in Bart’s story? If not the villain, the obsession, the dark cloud hanging over the boy’s charmed little life?

For years, he had sought to persuade Bart. To instill in him the certainty that he was the threat Bart would never escape from. But was it not equally true that he had been trying to persuade himself? To convince himself that this was his rightful place in the story.

He had devoted his existence to Bart - hunting, chasing, orchestrating his vengeance. Disregarding it all, Bart had never been his to claim. Never his to own nor to shape.

Not in the way Bart had defined Robert.

Was it not true that Bart had always forged ahead? Had Bart ever truly paused, even for a moment, to consider Bob’s will? His existence untouched by the need for approval or acknowledgment? As soon as Bob was out of sight, wasn't he also out of Bart's mind?

Oh, and how he had tried.

Tried to make Bart need him. Fighting to mould Bart’s existence around him.

He had designed it that way.

But what good is a narrative if it’s one-sided? What does the path of self-delusion could ever bring if not failure? And what future can self-delusion hold, except collapse?

And now -

The deed was done.

Forever.

Bart had read him.

Bart had seen him. Truly seen him. Had glimpsed the fevered, obsessive, wretched thing writhing in his mind. Had seen past every grandiose justification, every poetic lament, every careful, artful delusion…

And the curtain had fallen.

Their battle had ended, albeit the surrender felt worse.

He envisioned Bart’s eyes piercing through his mind, scrutinizing every unguarded corner, uncovering the depths of what he refused to say aloud.

And, finally, leaving. Disappearing. For he had not even the faintest hope that Bart would ever stand before him again.

Not out of fear. Not out of horror.

But because it simply did not matter. Robert was irrelevant.

He didn’t matter to Bart.

The chapter had closed, and the story had ceased to hold any meaning.

Hastily, Bob lifted the back of his wrist to his forehead, a shield veiling his expression, to obscure himself from the world - from his own reflection. His shoulders trembling beneath the strain. Not with rage. Not with denial.

With grief.

Years. Decades.

Gone.

For what? For a game only he was playing?

In a swift, violent reflex, his fingers clenched, and the glass gave way. Shards bit deep into his palm, but he scarcely felt them - his body deaf to the pain.

Rain battered against the windows. Wind howled through the darkness outside. A rampant beast demanding entry.

He didn’t hear it. He didn’t care for it. He did not move.

Tears blurred his vision.

Warm rivulets of crimson blood traced idle paths down his fingers, a cruel contrast to the numbing cold that had claimed him – that had set root deep within his bones

A breath left him - shaky, uneven - a fragile note struck just off-key, discordant and fractured. The realization opened him raw, like a gut wound.

For the first time, in the deepest part of himself - he knew.

It was never Bart he had been destroying.

It had always been himself.

The choices. The rage. The refusal to let go. To be anything else. To allow himself a life outside of this. This prison he had built with his own hands.

It had poisoned him. His body. His soul.

And there was no more escape now, no performance to uphold. Nothing left but to surrender.

So, he resigned himself to it.

To feeling, to breaking, to drowning in the ruin of it all.

A darkened pool formed beneath him, the mingling of wine, blood, and grief.

How bitterly ironic that the blood he had long imagined spilling into his drink had been meant to be Bart’s - never his own.

The violent tempestuous night seemed too low and quiet, a mere whisper against the torrent of sorrow consuming him. Its fury couldn’t rival his grief. Grief stripped of spectacle, stripped of pretence, no indulgent lament. Just pain, pure and raw. Spilling from his eyes. Unbearably, excruciatingly, real.

The thought entered his mind, slow and quiet.

What now?

His mind tried desperately to find an escape, to run from the feelings overwhelming him – to find an anchor. Any solution.

Did he crawl back to it?

Did he hunt Bart down one more time?

“I could take back the journal...”

Take the control back, find some way to pull Bart into this web again, force him to look, to see, to acknowledge him. Convince himself that there was still meaning to be wrung from it. Could he regain his power if he just forced Bart to see him again?

But what had he achieved from that if not constant, irrevocable, failure?

What life had that given him?

Or -

His throat tightened.

Robert could do the one thing he had never done.

“I could let go.”

The sobs came slowly, silently, as he pressed the bloodied hand to his face.

“What would it take?”

To wash it away. To let it fade, just as Bart had faded from his life. As meaning had faded from his life.

“Can I forgive?”

…Not Bart.

“Myself?”

If he could not forgive himself - then there was nothing left to take.

Slumped against the wall, Bob let his head fall back. His chest felt empty. Hollowed of everything that once filled it. The storm softened, now settling into an uneasy hush. A lullaby that had forgotten how to soothe, murmuring at the edges of his fading awareness.

Chapter Text

Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.

T.S. Eliot

An energetic swirling chittering in his mind, relentlessly pecks through the thick fog enveloping his consciousness. The persistent sounds become louder, more high-pitched. 

Bob groaned, vainly resisting against the intrusion. As he slowly opened his eyes, subtle rays of morning sunlight edged through the curtains.

The clock on the nightstand marked 6:13 AM.

He pushed himself upright, and a sharp sting in his left hand shot up his arm. His hand withdrew contact instinctively, and as he lifted his palm to inspect it, a deep red stain had spread through the bandage - a hasty, poorly secured thing from last night’s fit of self-destruction.

For a long moment, he only stared. There was something oddly fascinating about blood in the morning light. Less ominous. Less theatrical. Just… matter. Life, siphoning out from under his skin. A faint vibration started to coil in his lower abdomen. He hastily averted his attention from it.

The insistent chirping urged him to slide out of bed. He crossed the room and pulled open the shutters.

A sudden flurry of movement - tiny, darting shadows. A cluster of swallows, startled by his intrusion, swirled into the open air like ink spilled into water. They dipped and twisted, their bodies slashing expansive arcs through the sky.

Bob leaned against the windowsill, watching them.

“I should have torn their nests down weeks ago.” The damn things had settled in the high corners of the house’s eaves. “Persistent little architects, rebuilding faster than I can destroy.” They left droppings on the terrace. They filled the mornings with their chirping. Taking space that was not theirs.

"Although…"

He inhaled the crisp dawn breeze, following their elegantly synchronized flight.

Perhaps, for now, he would let them be.

In the bathroom, Bob sliced through the bandages and peeled them away to inspect the damage. The cuts weren’t deep enough for true concern. Only deep enough to sting and to remind him. Regardless, some self-repair was in order. 

He had learned to stitch his own wounds years ago - a skill honed through countless “small accidents” on Krusty’s set, through every prison scuffle, and through every failure that demanded a tangible price.

He sighed, the strange emptiness in his chest making itself more apparent.

The needle felt cold between his fingers, but his hands remained steady. A pull. A few sharp stings. Knot. Cut.

A job well done.

As he wiped away the last traces of blood and wrapped his hand anew, his reflection caught his eye.

The hollowness around his eyes wasn’t as pronounced - they looked… softer. His skin, less sallow. The face in the mirror was tired, yes, but not haunted. Not as eerie as before.

Come to think of it, this had been the longest night he’d had in ages. A long, silent, dreamless night. 

He trimmed his beard and turned on the shower. The ritual wouldn’t be complete without tending to the rest of himself.

As the warm water coursed over him, and the carefully chosen scents of his body wash and shampoo filled the air, his mind began to ease. The heat seeped into his muscles, drawing out the tension, washing him in quiet, fragrant bliss.

Maybe - just maybe - it wasn’t so unbearable after all. Perhaps he could live. There was, he conceded, a quiet pleasure in simplicity. 

He took his time dressing. A plain white shirt. Grey trousers. Simple. Unremarkable. The meticulous attention he usually devoted to his wardrobe felt… exhausting. Today, he had neither the patience nor the interest to curate a facade.

No suppliers were scheduled to visit the shop, and no familiar clients were expected. Perhaps, for once, he could afford a genuine pause - a few quiet hours before returning to the routine.

His stomach twisted, dragging him out of his lethargic state. He hadn’t eaten properly in days - perhaps even weeks. His body, ever-adaptive, had learned to function under the slow erosion of neglect.

“Well… not today.”

He made himself an espresso, opened the fridge, and reached for a bowl of fresh green grapes. As he did, a buzz broke the silence.

A message.

He glanced at his phone -

Dr. Holland will call at 10 AM.

A confirmation.

“Ah. Right.”

Some dim, frayed memory of last night surfaced, a moment of impulse, of brief panic. He had sent a message.

His fingers hovered over the screen. He could cancel.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he slid the phone back into his pocket and walked out the door.

Lately, he scarcely recognized himself - caught in spirals of doubt and moments of hesitation. This was not the man he had envisioned, not the sculpted persona he had carved and worn like an armour for so long. Now, he felt like a mosaic of mismatched fragments: ambitions, fears, and expectations, all haphazardly fused together. He had spent his life defining himself by what he must never be - never ordinary, never forgettable, never a failure - that he had forgotten to simply ask: Who am I? And what do I actually want? A weary sigh passed his lips. The questions came like quiet waves, and he let them come.

“Well then… Attempting to enjoy this unsolicited intermission can’t possibly wound me more than I already am, can it?” He let the sardonic lament out, resigned, as he turned on the car.

The car moved forward, without direction, just movement, leaving behind the quiet streets. An imperceptible smirk played at his lips as the opening road gave a clear view, the wind blowing fresh at his face. The sky stretched vast and open above him, an intense blue, speckled with soft, wispy clouds. It was a shockingly beautiful day. Robert scoffed at the irony.

The radio murmured softly in the background.

Interlocutor: “And now, with you dear listeners, a song from one of your all-time favourites - The Lighthouse Keeper by Sam Smith. Stay with us.”

Some nameless station playing tender, elegiac melodies. There was something oddly appropriate about that. He didn’t turn it off. 

As he drove on, the pressure in his chest loosened - like a hand slowly unclenching. Not quite relief, but no longer suffocation either.

Reflections began to shimmer along the edges of his vision. Glints of sunlight refracted on windshields, dancing off the distant waves. The coastal road appeared before him.

He pulled the car to a gentle stop near the breakwater. The gulls wheeled and cried overhead. The shoreline sprawled wide and glistening, the sand a tapestry of gold and glass beneath the slanting sun. Salt hung in the air, both soft and sharp, a familiar sting against the throat. He beheld the ocean from the driver’s seat. “The thought of all that raw, surging power makes me wonder why the hell I should care.” His concerns suddenly seemed minuscule in comparison to the beautiful scenery unfolding before his eyes.

The phone rang at exactly 10:00 AM.

Bob let it ring twice before answering.

BOB: Doctor.

THERAPIST: Good morning, Robert.

(A pause.)

THERAPIST: You reached out last night.

BOB: Did I?

THERAPIST: Yes.

(Bob exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against the steering wheel.)

BOB: A moment of weakness. Pay it no mind.

THERAPIST: I see. (A pause.) And how do you feel this morning?

BOB: Oh, spectacular. I stitched my own hand, engaged in light ornithology, and have driven halfway away from town for no discernible reason. A morning of great productivity.

(His voice sounded more erratic than he had intended. He cursed himself for that.)

THERAPIST: And the night before?

(Silence.)

(Bob’s grip on the wheel tightened.)

BOB: …I don’t wish to discuss it.

THERAPIST: That’s fair. But you contacted me for a reason.

(Bob’s jaw clenched. “Damn the man’s insistence.”)

THERAPIST: (Calm, unfazed.) You sound tired.

BOB: (Laughs dryly.) Insightful as always, doctor. Yes, I’m tired. And I woke up feeling… hollow.

(He let out a sharp breath, his tone shifting.)

BOB: I had a realization last night, doctor. A rather cruel one, if I’m being honest. Would you like to hear it?

THERAPIST: I’m listening.

(Bob laughed, quiet and humorless.)

BOB: I’ve spent years… years, doctor, cultivating the perfect intellect. The perfect form. The perfect plan. And yet - 

(His voice fails, suddenly filled with bitterness.)

- For all my supposed brilliance, I have been a fool.

THERAPIST: In what way?

BOB: In every way that matters. I thought I held the reins. That I dictated the terms of our… dynamic. Of my life. Of his life… 

THERAPIST: Bart’s?

BOB: Yes.

(A reflective pause.)

BOB: (Voice unsteady.) He was the only one who ever truly saw me, you see. And I hated him for it.

THERAPIST: Because you didn’t like what he saw?

(Bob exhales sharply, painfully.)

BOB: Because it meant I wasn’t above him. Because it meant that for all my sophistication, all my intellect - I was still, painfully, humiliatingly, human.

(A moment of silence.)

BOB: I never controlled Bart. I only ever chased him. And he never needed me. All these years, I thought… No - not thought. I built my very existence upon the assumption that I was inevitable to him. A villain, yes, but a necessary one. A force in his life as vital as oxygen, as indelible as memory. But the truth is - he was always free. And I… was not.

THERAPIST: That’s difficult to admit.

BOB: (Stranded.) Oh, you have no idea.

(A longer silence as he recomposed himself.)

BOB: (Flatly.) Tell me, doctor. Is there a term for the particular sensation of realizing you’ve ruined your own life?

THERAPIST: Regret?

BOB: (Scoffs.) Regret is for small things. A missed opportunity. A poor investment. I speak of something far worse.

(A pause. Then, softer, quieter.)

I have burned decades in pursuit of something that was never truly mine to take. And now… now, that the dust has settled - I look at my life and find I am left with nothing at all.

THERAPIST: That isn’t true.

BOB: (Coldly.) Spare me the optimism. It doesn’t suit you.

THERAPIST: I’m not speaking in platitudes, Robert. You are still here. And you have a choice.

BOB: (Scoffs, rubbing a temple.) Oh, well, if it’s simply a matter of choice, why, I’ll just decide to be free this very instant. How absurd of me not to have thought of it before!

THERAPIST: It’s not that simple, no. But you are at a crossroads, Robert. And you are aware of it, which is great progress. Tell me - when was the last time you allowed yourself to simply exist? Without fighting something?

(A long silence. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower, more uncertain.)

BOB: I… don’t know.

THERAPIST: Not knowing opens up possibilities.

BOB: (A soft chuckle, but there’s no real humor in it.) How wonderfully poetic. Tell me, do I get a certificate once I master the art of not knowing?

THERAPIST: (Not taking the bait.) Take life one moment at a time. Eat when you’re hungry. Sleep when you’re tired. Allow yourself to be. In the same manner that you can’t do good work if your tools are out of line, your brain works much the same way, Robert.

(The thought sits with him.)

Bob’s fingers let go of the wheel. His eyes drifted toward the horizon - at the endless stretch of sky, a vast and unknowable sea beyond it.

A choice.

He let out a quiet breath.

BOB: (raw, brittle) You make it sound so simple.

THERAPIST: Not simple. Just possible.

(Bob closed his eyes.)

(A long moment of silence followed.)

THERAPIST: You’re allowing yourself to grieve, Robert.

BOB: (Tired.) I’ve unraveled. That’s what I’ve done.

THERAPIST: No. You allowed yourself to stop performing. That’s honesty.

BOB: (Quietly, skeptically) Is that what this is now? Honesty? Because it feels… (he searches) …horrifyingly small.

THERAPIST: It’s the beginning of proportion.

BOB: Proportion?

THERAPIST: Yes. The world - and your place in it - has been distorted through the lens of your pain for a long time. What you felt as grand was sometimes inflated. What was small was often dismissed. You’ve started to resize your life into something closer to reality. And reality - as humbling as it is - also holds possibility.

(A small reflective pause.)

THERAPIST: The man you were built himself on war. The man you are becoming might build something else entirely.

BOB: (Pause. Imperceptibly, more breath than voice) And what if I don’t know how?

THERAPIST: (Warmly) Then start where you are. You opened a flower shop. You’ve already taken the first steps.

BOB: (chuckles amused) A florist. Robert the Florist. It sounds like a Kafkaesque predicament.

THERAPIST: It sounds like peace. And peace, for a man like you, is an act of radical defiance.

(A beat of silence)

BOB: (Exhaling slowly.) I must admit… I slept through the night. Properly. I can’t remember the last time that happened.

THERAPIST: That’s not insignificant.

BOB: (Softly, thoughtfully) No. It’s not.

(Pause.)

BOB: It’s strange… I thought that letting go of him - of that chase - would feel like erasing myself. But maybe… maybe it was never him I needed.

THERAPIST: What do you think you needed?

BOB: (Quiet, but clear.) A mirror. One that didn’t distort.

THERAPIST: And now?

BOB: (Gently.) Now, I think I’d rather build a window.

(The silence that followed was lighter.)

THERAPIST: You have the tools, Robert. You just need to believe that you’re allowed to use them.

BOB: (A small, unfamiliar smile.) Well, you can’t do good work if your tools are misaligned. Isn’t that what you said, doctor?

THERAPIST: (Amused.) I did. And your mind, Robert - as dramatic as it is - is one of the sharpest tools I’ve seen. It’s time you put it to use… for yourself.

BOB: (Softly) Yes. For myself.

(Beat.)

THERAPIST: We’ll speak again soon. But I want you to consider something. Not as a patient - but as a man.

BOB: Go on.

THERAPIST: Healing might not be about becoming someone new… but, maybe, being someone true.

(The call ends.)

A single swallow darted across the horizon amongst the screeching gulls. He watches it. His expression is not exactly peaceful, but it’s no longer clenched either. There’s weariness there, and ache, and perhaps even quiet longing.

But also, for the first time, there is permission.

To exist.

To rest.

To begin again. Even if slowly, imperfectly. 

He stepped outside the car.

Chapter Text

If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.

Sun Tzu

Bart kicked at a loose chunk of gravel as he rounded the corner of the shop, not really meaning to stop - until he did.

The storefront stood quiet.

Velvet drapes hung just as they had the night before, only slightly parted, frozen in time. He leaned in closer, peering through the narrow gap. Inside, it was still. Not a lamp left glowing, not even the faintest flicker of movement within. Only a few shy slivers of morning light managed to creep through the parted fabric, laying tentative stripes across the floorboards. Even the dust seemed hesitant to stir.

Bart’s brows furrowed. His scowl deepened.

“Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, scratching absently at a prickling itch on his forearm. “Coward.”

“What?” Milhouse asked, pushing his glasses up as he caught up and followed Bart’s glare toward the window.

“Shop’s been closed since yesterday,” Bart said flatly. “He knows.”

“Knows what?”

“Forget it,” Bart snapped, brushing it off with a shake of his head and turning on his heel.

Milhouse blinked, puzzled, trying to decode Bart’s off-kilter mood.

“Is this about that flower guy?” he asked, cautiously.

Bart didn’t answer. His pace picked up, more agitated now. Basking in spring’s golden morning light, the street stretched ahead. The breeze was soft, fragrant with freshly baked goods, the storefronts glowed with early business, and people ran their errands blithely.

But the young blond pounded. An invisible, dark cloud over his head. Skunk herbal smell permeated his clothing more than usual.

“I just think maybe you’re blowing this outta proportion,” Milhouse offered, trying to lighten the mood, and hurrying to catch up. “Maybe he’s sick. Or out running errands. People do that, you know.”

Bart snorted, a bitter edge on his voice. “Yeah, well, people also run away when they’ve got something to hide.”

Milhouse glanced at him sideways, cautious, like he was watching a lit match drift too close to a dry field.

“Okay...” he ventured, his voice trailing uncertainly.

“I said drop it,” Bart barked, sharper than intended. Then, after a beat, he added, “I’ll tell you later. Maybe.”

Millhouse nodded and backed off, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Sure. No big deal.”

But the mood was already wrecked. And Bart’s brain was still looping the same sentence: “He ran. After dumping that crap, he ran.”

His blood was too loud in his ears.

✶

University wasn’t any better.

Bart slipped into the back row of his morning lecture a solid ten minutes late, still pissed off, earbuds in his ears, reddened eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hoodie.

The professor caught his eye, raising an eyebrow.

Bart pulled out the earbuds, slouched in the stiff plastic chair, limbs sprawling, and pretended to care.

Words blurred together on the slides. Usually this stuff clicked - hell, it was one of the few classes he was halfway decent at. But it might as well have been in another language because, today, nothing stuck.

His black-and-yellow pencil tapped a restless beat against the edge of his notebook, fingers twitching like they needed something to break.

A dull, run-of-the-mill clock over the entrance wall ticked louder than the lecture. The teacher paced her sentences with learned certainty.

“Now, if we consider this variant, we begin to see-“ she gestured toward a complex diagram on the whiteboard, “-a cohesive framework. Mr. Simpson?”

Bart blinked, startled. His eyes snapped up.

A beat passed. Then another. Heads slowly turned.

The silence that followed made his skin start to itch again. Everyone was waiting. He stared at the board like maybe the answer was hiding in one of the interceptions.

He swallowed. “Sorry… Could you repeat the question?”

A pause. The teacher didn’t lecture him. She didn’t scold. Didn’t even frown. She just looked… disappointed.

“No question. Just checking if you’re with us.” she stated, with a mild, dismissive tone that somehow felt worse. Like he didn’t even matter enough to get yelled at.

That hit harder than any reprimand. The class moved on without him. He stared blankly at his notes, at the half-finished diagram he didn’t remember drawing. The ball of frustration in his chest twisted tighter.

No one cared if he drifted. If he sank. That used to be the point, didn’t it? Freedom. Independence. Then why did it just feel like being allowed to drown? Bart sank lower in his seat, jaw clenched, throat tight.

“Would it kill someone to at least act like they gave a crap?”

Another voice stung in the back of Bart’s head: You wanted to grow up. Well, here it is.

✶ ✶

After class, he didn’t wait for Millhouse. He walked straight out of the building, didn’t know where he was going, didn’t care. His legs just wanted to move. 

He got about two blocks before his phone buzzed.

Upcoming call - Mom

He debated letting it ring out. But it buzzed again. Persistent.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, you finally answered your phone,” came Marge’s voice, tight with both relief and mom-tone accusation. “I was about to call Millhouse.”

Bart sighed. “I’ve just been busy.”

“Too busy to call? To answer a message?”

“I’m not twelve, Mom.”

“You’re right. You’re almost twenty-one. Which means I don’t get to ground you anymore, but I do get to worry.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Are you okay, honey?” she asked softly, worry filling her raspy voice. “Really okay? You don’t sound like yourself lately.”

“I’m just tired. That’s all.”

“That’s not all,” she attempted to sound harsh. “You barely come home, you keep brushing us off - honey, are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No.”

“Because I know sometimes you don’t want to tell us when things are going south.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

Bart stopped walking. He was in front of some random bus stop, barely even noticing it.

“I’ve got exams coming up,” Bart countered, irritated, attempting to bury a hint of desperation in his voice. “A bunch of crap to memorize. People act like it’s no big deal, and I’m just trying to keep up. It’s not that deep, Mom.”

There was silence on the other end.

“I wish you’d come home this next weekend,” Marge said at last, her voice gentler now, like she was trying not to push too hard. “Even just for a night. Lisa is coming, and she misses you. We all do.”

Bart looked at the sky.

“Yeah. I’ll think about it.”

“Promise me?”

“…I’ll try.”

“Okay. It was nice to hear from you. My special little guy. I love you, sweetie.”

He didn’t say it back right away. Then he mumbled, “Love you too,” and hung up before she could get another word in.

Marge’s voice had been threaded with concern, even though she’d tiptoed around not to pry, which only made Bart feel more ashamed.

Liar. Stated that same pesky voice inside his head.

✶ ✶ ✶

By late afternoon, Bart ended up back near the flower shop.

Still closed.

He stood across the street, arms folded, smoking a joint, and glaring at the stupid painted door like it personally offended him.

“This is bull,” he muttered between gritted teeth. “You don’t get to write a whole Shakespearean drama in a notebook and then vanish like it never happened. You don’t get to screw people up and then skip town.”

A couple walking a dog passed behind him, giving him a wide berth. He didn’t care.

He stood there another five minutes, until the blunt burned to the roach. Fingers snapped the tip away.

He almost threw a rock at the window.

Didn’t.

✶ ✶ ✶ ✶

He climbed up to the roof of a half-empty dorm building later. Legs dangling over the edge, letting the wind sting his face - not for the view, just to be somewhere no one else was. Somewhere he could be angry without explaining it.

He thought about Sideshow Bob’s voice. About that stupid journal. About the fact that the guy hadn’t said one word to him in person in ten years. And now this whole ‘reappear just to immediately disappear next’ act?

And that ‘Flower Shop business’ thing? He tsked audibly. “Bet he calls that ‘Self-reinvention.’ Translation: hide-and-seek for grown men.”

It was pathetic.

It was familiar.

Run when things get hard. Hide instead of facing. Pretend everything’s fine until it blows up in your face.

Bart hated that he understood it so well.

And he really hated that he couldn’t do anything about it - not yet.

✶ ✶ ✶ ✶ ✶

The next morning, the shop was still shut tight.

Bart stood in front of it for a second before class, coffee in one hand, dark circles under his eyes from too little sleep and too many racing thoughts. Nothing. Not even a flicker from inside. Just the same goddamn closed sign burning in his retina.

A stone lodged in the throat. A weight pressing behind his eyes.

He hadn’t slept properly. Again. His dreams had been frantic. He dreamed of trying to speak, but no sound would come out of his mouth. It would send him into a panic, he’d scream, only to be met with silence. When he’d finally pried himself out of bed, his voice was there, and the world had the nerve to go on as usual. Sunlight. Toast. The gentle creak of campus life waking up around him. 

As if nothing had changed.

His eyes pierced through the sign on the locked door.

Then he turned around and left.

By the time evening hit, after another round of lectures he barely heard and notes that looked more like scribbles from a broken pen, he was ready to give up. Headphones in. Zoning out. Same old nothing.

He was walking past the shop on his way home when he noticed. 

The door was open.

Just a sliver, letting the breeze in. The wooden sign hung, reading: Open.

His stomach flipped.

There wasn’t a second of hesitation. His legs moved before his brain caught up.

He pushed the door open so fast it hit the bell hard enough to knock it out. The scent of fresh leaves and flowers hit him like a wall. It was just like that night.

And there he was.

Behind the counter, tying a thin cord to an arrangement of daffodils and hyacinths with turquoise leaves, like he had all the time in the world. Head tilted slightly in concentration. The unmistakable shock of red curls pulled back in a loose knot. An elegant white shirt rolled at the sleeves, an earthy copper-brown apron stained faintly with pollen. The same collected, quietly smug air that made Bart’s blood boil.

Robert looked up, startled by the hostile sound.

Bart didn’t wait.

“You think you can just drop that psychotic diary into my life and then disappear for two days like it didn’t happen?” Bart snapped, loud and sharp. “Like I wasn’t gonna notice? Like I wasn’t gonna have something to say?”

Bob stood still, watching him, confused. His expression changed into a frown at the accusation. 

“I didn’t ‘drop it’, Bart. You stole i-“

“I read it,” Bart interrupted. “All of it. Every single page. Your creepy-ass ramblings, your sick obsession with me. What the hell is wrong with you?!”

His voice started cracking near the end, but he powered through.

“You talk like you know me, like you’ve got me aaall figured out. Like I’m some heroic counterpart in your big story. I’m not your muse, man. I’m not your narrative arc! I’m just a guy trying to stay afloat in a life that doesn’t-stop-kicking!”

Bob remained silent.

Bart stepped forward, pointing a trembling digit. 

“You think I don’t feel the pressure? That I don’t know everyone’s just waiting for me to screw up again? Professors act like every subject is easy. My parents call me like I’m one missed visit away from juvie. I’m just trying to pass my damn classes without imploding! And you - ! You waltz in with your little shop and your tragic villain writings, like I’m supposed to see you as some deep, misunderstood guy.”

He was pacing now, fists clenched, eyes wild.

“You want to know what I see when I look at you?” he growled. “I see the guy who tried to kill me, repeatedly, acting like we’ve some sort of unspoken ‘understanding’. Like we’re… reflections of each other or some crap.”

Bart stopped right in front of the counter, the last thing standing between them, breathing hard.

“I’m not like you! I will never be.”

He paused for a moment. His voice dropped, becoming heavier. “But - I’m scared that part of me is.”

Bob’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture shifted. 

“You think it’s flattering,” Bart choked, his tightened throat starting to burn. “All the stuff you wrote. That I’m capable of seeing you. That I’m this… symbol of truth or resilience or whatever fantasy you’ve cooked up. But you don’t get it. You’re drowning me.”

His eyes were glassy, blinking too fast. “I don’t want to be anyone’s symbol. I can’t even keep my own life together.” 

For a second, silence swallowed the short space between them. His heart thudded like a jackhammer. The trembling spread through his body. A tear slid down his cheek, and he wiped it away fast, like it betrayed him.

Bob still hadn’t spoken. And somehow, that made this worse.

“Say something!” Bart barked, suddenly panicked. “Aren’t you gonna defend yourself? Laugh at me? Quote something obnoxious and British?!”

Still nothing. Just a soft, quiet gaze that didn’t mock, didn’t pity. And then, finally, Bob said, simply.

“Thank you.”

Bart stopped.  “What?”

“For telling me how you feel.”

Bart stared at him like he’d grown another head. His mind went blank for a second.

“What…” he repeated. “N-no threats? No insulting counterattack?”

Silence.

“…You’re really just gonna stand there and take it?”

Bob’s eyelids lowered slightly. A silent confirmation.

That broke something else inside him.

Bart wiped another tear. He cursed under his breath and turned sharply for the door. His hand hit the frame on the way out, hard, just to let the pain remind him he was still in control.

But before stepping outside, voice shaking, he muttered without looking back.

“And I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

And then Bart was gone.

The bell rang overhead, and the door clicked shut.

Bart didn’t stop walking until he was five blocks away, eyes still wet, glued to the pavement, hands in fists - shivering - deep into his pockets.

He felt like a complete idiot.

But, for the first time in days, he could actually breathe.

Chapter Text

✶ Not all that long ago ✶

The late August sun oozed through the neighbourhood homes like molasses. Slow and dense. Its heat rose in waves that blurred reality at the edges. Bart wiped his wrist across his forehead, brushing away yet another layer of clinging sweat. He couldn’t tell if he was packing or just rearranging the wreckage.

Standing in the middle of a room that now felt too small and cluttered, the young blond moved with difficulty, trapped in by half-packed boxes slumped open around him. T-shirts hung limply off drawer edges, trousers peaking out, half-stuffed into a duffel bag. A pile of loose comic books spilled from an old milk crate marked “ESSENTIALS.” A long forgotten, faded Krusty doll sat half-buried under a heap of mismatched socks, its smile crooked and weary.

His skateboard leaned against the wall by the window, the grip tape worn from years of escapes - real and metaphorical. Nearby, a worn sock, hanging off the corner of a box cryptically labelled “MAYBE?” in sharpie, sat untouched. It seemed to mirror the look on his face.

With a sigh, he paused - surrounded by all the pieces of his life that didn’t quite fit in a suitcase - and ran a hand through his now-shaggier, tousled hair. The posters on his wall - bands, movies, scratched-up stickers - suddenly felt juvenile. Even the scribbles carved into his wooden desk as a teen looked far more desperate than rebellious.

From across the hall, he could hear the soft sound of tape being smoothed over cardboard. Her door was wide open, and even from here, he could see that her room had transformed into a minimalist masterpiece of efficiency. Labeled boxes stacked neatly. Color-coded labels. A checklist pinned to the wall, each item ticked off - her side of the move was already finished. Of course it was. She was a scholarship winner, a rising star. And Bart? He was still figuring out which shirts didn’t fit him any longer.

Lisa appeared in his doorway, holding a stack of textbooks and a USB drive looped around her wrist. She was wearing a Yale T-shirt already - probably gifted at orientation.

“The van’s coming tomorrow at nine, Bart. AM. That’s morning. In case your brain’s still on nocturnal hours.” She teased, although not unkindly.

“Wow, thanks. Wouldn’t have figured that out without your twenty-six reminders.” Bart retorted, rolling his eyes.

With a sneer, she stepped into the room - scanning the chaos with an arched eyebrow.

“I labelled the kitchen utensils, so we don’t get things mixed up. Also, please don’t put your dirty sneakers anywhere near the kitchen again...”

Bart flopped back on his bed dramatically. “I swear you were born with a clipboard in your hand. Probably filed your own birth certificate.”

“And you probably tried to set yours on fire.” Lisa scowled.

They didn’t laugh, only the silence that followed wasn’t cold. Just worn, complicated and familiar.

Bart sat up slowly.  “So you’re really doing it. Yale.”

“Yeah... I guess I am.” Lisa eased up, surprised by the brother’s shift in tone.

He nodded, then looked away. He felt himself too far away, somehow. Everything did. And he hated how strange it made him feel.

“You graduated early. Scholarships. Ivy League. It’s like… every time I think I’m catching up, you just take off again.” Bart took a breath, still avoiding her eyes. His thumb twisting on his knee. “I’m not even sure I want to go to Shelbyville U… I mean, I barely scraped by at high school!”

Lisa sat down on the floor across from him, cross-legged, careful not to wrinkle her pressed slacks.

“You don’t need to be measuring yourself against me. We are running different races, Bart. Everyone is.” Lisa reassured.

“Yeah, but yours has a finish line with a medal. Mine feels like… I’m still trying to find the map.” Bart mumbled, bitterly.

“I didn’t just stumble into this, Bart. I worked for it! And it’s not getting any easier from here.” She shot back with a glare.

Silence fell back again, heavier now. Bart looked around at the fragmented mess of his half-packed life, then down at his hands. Fingers smudged with ink from an attempt at organizing.

“You think I’ll make it, too?” he asked low, reticent.

Lisa’s frown vanished. A genuine smile on her lips. “We both will. In our own ways.”

Their eyes finally met. Bart’s expression had softened. Just a little. He smiled at her, then poked, in his usual smug tone.

“Still annoyingly good at pep talks.”

“Occupational hazard. Being your sister, I had to get creative.” They laughed.

✶✶✶

Marge peaked through the open door in the garage, Bart hunched next to one of his packing boxes, fidgeting with an old scissor pretending it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. She just leaned on the frame, hesitating to step in right away, watching her son wrestle with his own restlessness.

“Need any help, sweety?”

“I’m good.” Bart answered absent-mindedly.

Stepping closer, with the scent of lemon cleaner clinging to her and hands wrapped absently around a tea towel, her gaze moved over the place. Dust clinging to the old bike and tools that lined the walls, a box of ancient CDs – that no one had the heart to throw out - on a table corner, and a lifetime of half-finished projects.

“You always liked hiding out in here. That is, when the treehouse became a bit too small for you.”

Bart didn’t look up immediately, he was too focused on taping the box shut.

“Guess some things don’t change.” He said after a beat.

The box flaps didn’t quite stay down. Bart pressed harder, like the tape might hold together more than just cardboard.

“Shelbyville University, huh?” she inquired softly.

Bart stiffened slightly. She hadn’t asked why before - not verbally. And she wasn’t exactly asking now, either. Just placing the words down gently between them, like glass.

“You never mentioned looking at it. Not even once.” Her head slightly tilted.

“I looked.” An awkward pause. “Didn’t think I’d get in. But I did.”

“You could’ve picked someplace else, Bart. Or… stayed.” She ventured, hesitantly.

“Sure. Like, which one of my past mistakes I want to build a future on?” Bart’s lips curled into a thin smile that didn’t reach past his lips.

Marge winced just a little, but didn’t push. She had placed the towel down and picked it up again almost immediately from the dusty table, turning it over in her hands - something to hold onto.

“Honey, is this really what you want?”

Bart finally looked at her. His jaw worked a moment, the words were stuck somewhere behind his teeth.

“Lisa’s off to Yale. On a full ride. With a double major. Meanwhile, I barely got a ‘congrats’ email from a school that probably thought I was my own reference.” He scoffed, half-smirking, half-sinking.

“Bart-”

“It’s not that I hate it.” He cut her off. “I just... I didn’t choose it because it’s my dream. I chose it because it felt like the next stop on the train, and everyone else already had a seat.”

The silence was thick, filled with the quiet buzzing of summer and the distant bark of one of the neighbour’s dog.

Marge stepped forward and cupped the side of his face, thumb brushing his cheek - that still held traces of the little boy she used to coax down from trees, scuffles and detention.

“You do it your way. Just don’t forget I’m still your biggest fan.”

He swallowed. Looked away. Nodded, barely.

She kissed the top of his head - quick, before he could squirm - and left the towel beside him like a parting gift.

“Dinner’s in fifteen. If you haven’t packed up your appetite.”

She turned and walked out, leaving Bart alone with the hum of the garage and a weight quietly set in his chest.

✶✶✶

The glow of the television flickered across the living room in erratic bursts - gunfire from a mindless action flick flashing over Homer’s glassy-eyed face. He sat sunken into his familiar dent in the couch like gravity held him tighter than anyone else. One sock clung halfway off his foot. Empty beer cans littered the coffee table, one had already rolled to the floor, defeated. A half-eaten sandwich sat forgotten on a paper plate.

The room smelled faintly of grease and something resembling burnt oil - a hint of Marge’s last kitchen misfire wafting in.

Bart entered from the hallway, arms around a large box, his footsteps heavy. He dropped it on the floor with a thud that echoed loud.

“Watch the floor, boy.” The father reprimanded, without looking.

“It’s already got like nine stains and a Cheeto fossil.” Bart muttered.

“Still! One day this house is gonna be yours.” Homer still didn’t move an inch.

That made Bart stop. He blinked.

“What do you mean, ‘mine’?”

Homer finally peeled his eyes from the screen, slow and unbothered, like someone flipping through channels in his brain. He chuckled - a soft, careless sound - and took a lazy sip from his beer.

“Come on. Lisa’s off to be a big important brainiac. Maggie will probably be famous from TikTok. And you? You’re my little buddy. You’ll be holding down the fort, keeping the couch warm.”

He grinned, satisfied with his own sentiment. To Bart, it landed like a verdict.

“Always knew you’d be the one who didn’t fly too far. That’s not a bad thing, y’know.” Within two milliseconds, Homer was once again glued to the screen.

Bart stared at him. Eyes hollow, his mouth agape.

“Right. Of course.” He turned without another word. No sarcasm, no punchline.

As he passed the hall, Maggie stepped out of the kitchen with a smoothie in hand, earbuds around her neck. She caught the edge of Bart’s expression.

He didn’t see her. Or maybe he did. At that moment he didn’t care. He moved fast, almost stumbling over a loose shoe at the bottom of the stairs. The door of his room, upstairs, slammed shut.

Inside, Bart stood motionless, in the half-packed chaos of his room, with a twist in his guts. He kicked one of the boxes hard. It didn’t budge. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands over his face. The weight of it all - university, Lisa, Homer, himself - was too much and not enough all at once.

Bart rubbed his temples, trying to dissipate the building frustration. But the pressure behind his eyes and a ringing in his ears refused to fade.

His only thought was of leaving.

Not for college. Just… leaving.

✶✶✶

Later that night, when placid quietude had settled and everyone was fast asleep, Bart sat cross-legged on the thin carpet of his childhood bedroom, facing the closet. One last round of rummaging before morning came.

He cracked open an old box labeled “SPRAY CANS (EL BARTO STUFF – DO NOT TOUCH!!)”. Inside, a couple of rusted-out cans, long dried, and a few still fresh, unopened. He picked one up, shook it. It hissed softly, promising a kind of freedom he hadn’t enjoyed for what felt like an eternity now.

A sigh escaped him.

God, he missed it. The thrill of getting caught - or almost getting caught. Of carving his name onto the principal’s office like he mattered. Like he existed. Like he had impact. El Barto was free from the weight of responsibilities. This version of Bart? Not so much.

As he moved aside a crumpled blanket and a cracked yo-yo, his fingers brushed something different - the edges of something thinner, and papery dry. A small, half-open, worn-out box was wedged in the corner beneath a stack of miscellaneous junk.

Without a label, or a warning. It seemed to be, just, forgotten.

He dragged it closer. It was full of letters.

Bart slid one out.

His heart thumped. He knew what they were before he saw the name. The handwriting was unmistakable: bold, elegant, deranged - bloody.

‘SIDESHOW BOB’ ROBERT TERWILLIGER
c/o SPRINGFIELD PENITENTIARY, BLOCK B

He unfolded it.

“Dearest Bart,” it began, almost affectionate - before spiralling quickly into lyrical promises of torment. The man had compared him to “A petty Prometheus, stealing not the divine fire, but dignity from civilization’s progress.” a “Malignant tick burrowed deep into the throat of reason itself.” in the second paragraph. In the third, there was a Latin phrase he never bothered to translate, but it couldn’t have been good.

He kept reading.

Another. And another. Unsettling specific vows of revenge. One had a poem, an actually really well-written poem, about how he’d be “gently dismembered to the sound of Bach.”

Bart gulped. A cold shiver crawled over his spine like a memory that hadn’t aged.

Yet, a small, involuntary chuckle broke out of him. It startled even himself.

“Guy put more effort into writing these than I did into my college application.” He leaned back against the edge of the bed, the letter dangling from his fingers.

The moonlight through the blinds drew silver bars across the floor, framing his upper body inside the intermittent light-shadow. Not unlike the ones Bob had stared at throughout the years.

The absurdity of it all hung in the air. Ridiculous and kind of… comforting?

At least he had a nemesis.

Lisa didn’t get that. Yale was shiny, sure, but did they mail you personalized death threats?

Bart smirked, frightened and proud all at once.

“Score one for the failure.” he joked, coiled in the pale moonlight, shooting his fist up in the air to immediately let if fall back down, limp.

Refolding the letter with a considerably unusual regard, he dropped it back in the box with the others. Sideshow Bob had neither written, nor reappeared in his life, in years - maybe prison had finally swallowed him whole, or maybe he was waiting. The thought still curled around Bart’s gut like a cold serpent, be that as it may, he shoved it aside.

If he woke up sweating tonight, he was blaming ‘past Bart’ for not just burning the damn letters – the keys for the trapdoor into the night terrors he thought he’d outgrown.

“No warning signs, no reason to panic.” Bart soothed himself.

Marge had stored the letters as part of the police investigation, as material proof. Now, they served simply as reminders.

Reminders that he’d mattered. That he was once unforgettable. Even if it was to a homicidal lunatic with a deep baritone and delusions of grandeur.

Tossing in the last hoodie, he zipped up his duffel and stood. The room felt emptier now. Like the final beat of a song you didn’t realize you’d memorized.

Tomorrow he’d go to Shelbyville. To whatever came next.

He didn’t know if it was the right move. He just knew he had to move.

And this time, he wasn’t staying behind.

Chapter Text

“You what?!”

Millhouse nearly dropped his coke, which would’ve been a tragedy in itself.

They perched on a low concrete wall just outside campus, like they used to back in middle school, only now with better jawlines and worse sleep habits – they were no longer boys pretending to be grown.

Bart barely flinched. “Told him off. Said everything I had to say. Screamed it, actually.”

He was staring like Bart had just stated that the sky was green. “Bart - Bart, wait, who did you scream at?”

Taking a long sip of his soda, Bart leaned back.

“You know who. Sideshow Bob,” Bart said casually.

Millhouse gasped so hard he choked. “Sideshow Bob?! The homicidal maniac who tried to murder you like twelve times?! That - Sideshow Bob?!”

Bart gave a small shrug. “It’s the only ‘Sideshow Bob’ I know.”

The dumbfounded young man rose so abruptly that his cola splashed just enough to leave sticky evidence on their sneakers - and a desolate look on Bart’s face.

“You’ve been hanging out around a felon and you’re only telling me now?!”

“I didn’t hang out, I confronted him,” Bart stated, gesturing for him to sit back down. “Big difference.”

“You’re insane! This is insane! Bart, does your mother know about this?!”

“Of course not,” Bart scoffed. “She’d bake him a pie or something. Look, Millhouse, it’s fine. He’s not trying anything. No evil plan. No threats. He’s just… selling flowers.”

Millhouse rubbed his temples exasperated. “Flowers laced with poison, probably.”

Bart snorted. “Hm, nah. Would’ve ruined his pretty little arrangements, trust me.”

“Still! You shouldn’t be anywhere near him!” Millhouse wheezed.

“Yeah, well,” Bart muttered, kicking a pebble off the wall. “I kind of broke into his shop the other night and stole his journal, so…”

He froze. “You-broke into his shop?!!”

“Okay, bad phrasing." Bart cringed. "I ‘borrowed’ it. Temporarily. Without permission.”

“That’s called a CRIME, Bart!”

“Relax! I’ll return it.”

“Wait - hold on!" Millhouse’s eyes were practically vibrating. "You broke into the store of a man who literally tried to stab you to death - and then yelled at him?! What is wrong with you?!”

“I had stuff to say!” Bart barked. “Stuff I needed to say!”

His friend dropped back down onto the wall, hands in his head. “This is how I die. As your accomplice...”

“You’re not my accomplice,” Bart retorted jovially. “Unless you want to be. I need a lookout for next time-”

Mill slapped his arm. “Bart!” 

“Kidding! Jeez. Look. He’s not gonna hurt me.”

Millhouse blinked at him, fog clinging to his glasses. “How do you know that?”

“I just do,” Bart said, quieter now.

Millhouse frowned, utterly unconvinced but exhausted by the panic. “So… what - exactly - happened when you went there?”

Bart looked off for a moment, his attention drawn to a scruffy bird that landed near a crusty pile of someone’s discarded fries.

“I gave it to him. Everything. All of it. Told him off for the diary, the way he sees me, the pressure of everyone thinking I’m gonna turn out a proper adult all of a sudden. Just - screamed my lungs out.”

“And?” his friend asked, hesitant.

“He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t get mad,” Bart said pensive. “He didn’t yell back at me, nor pulled out a knife and go full maniac. He just stood there. Listening.”

“That’s… strange.” 

“Right?” Bart said, voice clipped. “He just thanked me. For being honest.”

“That’s even more unsettling.”

Bart cracked a smile. “Tell me about it.”

Only the grin didn’t last.

He stared down at the sidewalk, foot bouncing restlessly.

“I don’t get it, man. I thought he’d snap. Unleash a villain-style monologue, at least, listing every petty thing I’ve ever done wrong and how I’d pay for it tenfold. Something dramatic. But he just stood there. Like... Like he saw through it.”

His friend watched him in quiet anticipation.

Bart’s words got stuck somewhere between thought and tongue.

“I was fed up,” he muttered. “I’ve been carrying around this fear and anger of him for years, you know? And then I finally let it out, and it was like - he wasn’t even surprised. Like he expected it.”

Millhouse frowned. “Maybe he felt like he owed you that.”

“Maybe,” Bart said. “Or maybe he’s playing some weird reverse-psychology long game and I’m falling right into it.”

“Clearly.” Mill nodded confidently.

Bart gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, but… I dunno. It felt real.”

There was a pause. Weighty.

Bart rubbed his face with both hands and groaned. “I made a total idiot out of myself.”

“No offense,” Millhouse said gently, “but that’s kind of your thing.”

Bart gave him a look, then cracked a weak grin. “Gee, don’t sugarcoat it or anything.”

He leaned back again, propping himself on his hands, and looked up. The sky was washed in that clean, early blue.

From the university buildings behind them came the expected rustling of motion of another day beginning in earnest. Somewhere, a class was starting late - somewhere else, one was ending early. And connecting through it all was the scent of coffee and the unspoken agreement that no one really had it figured out.

Soft clouds moved slowly over his head.

“I think I scared myself more than I scared him.”

Millhouse nudged him with his elbow. “That’s… kinda deep.”                              

“Don’t get used to it.” Bart smirked.

Wednesday

“It is difficult to fathom that, after years of enmity, he would hold in his hands the very ammunition to blackmail or humiliate me - and do nothing. I had braced myself for ridicule. For retribution. Instead, I am met with something far more disarming: ambiguity.”

“Since our last... encounter - that storm of rage and grief he hurled at me - he has passed by each day. Without pause, without acknowledgment.”

“Today, he did not slow, albeit there was a brief glance. A scan, perhaps. I suspect I am being measured. Not for threat, not anymore - but for something else. Relevance? Integrity? Reassurance, perhaps. I cannot say.”

“The boy who once danced through trouble with a smirk - all fire and jab - now walks as if he’s been disarmed by something far heavier than guilt: disappointment. The kind that comes not from malice, but unmet need. It shames me more than any threat could.”

“He did not approach. Nor did I. It was too early for theatre.”

“His friend - the blue-haired, bespectacled one - appeared to notice the exchange. There was a tension in his stride, a tightening, like he feared I might leap from behind the hydrangeas with a dagger. I considered waving, tempted to watch the reaction. I refrained. I am not that man anymore.”

“Most days.”

Thursday

“There he was again - this time in the soft languor of late afternoon. The shop was unusually agitated, a bridesmaid accompanied by relatives, two regulars whose conversation trailed off and were now discussing floor polish as though it were philosophy.”

“And still, I noticed him. Backpack slung lazily, fingers tapping a hesitant rhythm over the strap. He slowed near the awning - briefly - unsure, eyes flickering inside. A moment suspended.”

“I didn’t break from conversation, nor did I lose sight of him. I allowed the moment to pass - like a drifting cloud refusing to rain.”

“He kept walking.”

“What followed was an emotion I dare not name. A tangle of disappointment and relief, each one undermining the other. We are both uncertain, then. That feels… appropriate.”

“I don’t know what it means. But I would be lying - to myself most of all - if I claimed not to be intrigued.”

Friday

“It is strange, to be the one who is quietly watched. Stranger still to welcome it. He lingers less now, but with greater purpose. Our eyes met today. There was a nod - nearly imperceptible, but deliberate. It felt like the beginning of a conversation neither of us know how to voice. Or dares to.”

“What am I to him now? A ghost? A riddle? A man?”

“And what is he to me?”

“A question.”

“A shifting presence of the boy I once knew. Or thought I did.”

“The truth is, I no longer know who Bartholomew Simpson is. What he’s become. I could find out, of course - a name like his leaves traces. But I don’t want a dossier. I want to hear him. As I did that day - unfiltered, unguarded. That moment was... unrepeatable in its honesty. A kind of brutal gift.”

“A young-man I have yet to discover... one to which I am still learning not to answer with violence, or ideology, but patience.”

“My former fixation left me exposed, degraded. I fear what any renewed interest might cost me now. And I question its nature. I concede that my curiosity is not purely altruistic… Do I seek redemption? Or is it the old hunger cloaked in civility?”

“Do I miss the power of having Bart's eyes only on me? The delicious weight of being in control?”

“I must tread carefully. I’ve built something here, however modest. I won’t jeopardize it over fantasy or folly.”

“Perhaps he will walk in again. Perhaps not. Either way, the winds have changed.”

✶ ✶ ✶

The doorbell chimed with its usual soft ring. An ordinary sound that, on this particular afternoon, rang with the weight of significance. Robert did not look up immediately. He knew.

“Hey,” came the familiar voice. Steadier than the last time. Slightly.

Robert’s gaze moved from the book on his hands to the edge of his reading glasses. As if fearing that any harsher movement would scare the visitor away. “Good afternoon.”

Bart was standing just inside the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking everywhere except directly at him. The air between them hummed faintly, like a string pulled taut but not snapped.

“Your shop smells... nice today.” Bart muttered, like the words had been stuck on his tongue too long, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Peonies,” Bob stated, his gaze flicking shortly toward the rosy blooms. “They arrived fresh this morning. Delicate, but with surprising resilience.” He smiled absently. “I rather like that about them.”

“Cool.” A beat. Bart’s eyes finally met his. Then dropped again.

He took a couple of hesitant steps forward and pulled something from his front pocket. Bart held it out toward Bob with the energy of a kid returning something he knows he wasn’t supposed to take.

“Here,” he blurted out. “Your diary.”

Bob blinked, then leaned forward slowly and accepted the journal with careful fingers. 

“Thank you.” Bart looked away, scratching the back of his neck. “For, uh… not calling the cops. Or, like, getting me arrested. Or whatever.”

Bob offered a faint smile. “That would have involved explaining how a reoffender left his shop so measly locked - with no signs of forced entry, just a missing journal and a wounded sense of pride. I believe I wouldn’t sound very credible.”

Bart huffed. A shy - familiar - smirk found its way to his lips as he ventured, looking at the man between high shoulders. “You dug your own grave.”

Bob gave a graceful nod. “I’m afraid I did.”

In his mind, the boy had always been preserved in a kind of freeze-frame: sharp-tongued, wild-eyed, gleaming with mischief – he wondered how much of those traces still permeated his personality.

They stood there in a lull, both facing each other, both pretending not to examine every breath the other took. How much taller he had grown to be - though still a couple of inches shy of meeting Robert eye to eye.

The hoodie he wore was a light, off-white - almost lemon-tinted - and it set off the paleness of his skin. He had paired it with washed-out jeans and casual sneakers that complemented his youthful style.

Bart's eyes were of a translucent and restless blue - one that had once brimmed with insolence.

He was lean, yes, still carrying the edges of adolescence, only there was strength in his frame too - ungrown muscle, but capable. The kind of body that hadn’t finished becoming. There was a freshness about him, although not the sweet kind. Not saccharine. It was sharper - bracing - like citrus. A briskness that wakes you up when you don’t expect it.

Bart was standing there awkwardly, self-conscious, trying too hard not to try too hard.

And Robert realized, with a flicker of discomfort, that he was cataloguing these details with far too much interest.

“But, uh…” Bart’s voice caught slightly. “I guess it’s… better. That we talked. Or whatever that was.”

Bob tilted his head. “Yes. I agree.”

Bart opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked toward the shelf of orchids, like they might give him the words he wanted, then back at the counter.

“Well,” he said. “I should go. I’ve got, like… stuff.”

“Of course.”

Bart nodded once and turned to leave.

“Maybe next time,” Bart murmured, tossed off as an afterthought. “I’ll try not to yell so much.”

The bell rang behind him as he left - soft as breath.

Light poured in through the shop’s front windows, stained amber by the slant of late afternoon, catching the glint of glass vases and glimmering off water drops – sunlight clung to the petals and leaves like warm honey.

Bob stood still behind the counter, journal in hand. A quiet warmth blooming in his chest.

“Next time…”

Chapter Text

Et qui sait si les fleurs nouvelles que je rêve
Trouveront dans ce sol lavé comme une grève
Le mystique aliment qui ferait leur vigueur?

                              ✶

And yet these new blossoms, for which I craved,
Will they find in this earth-like a shore that is laved-
The mystical fuel which vigour imparts?

Charles Baudelaire, The Flowers of Evil

It was early morning, but the sun was already being uncharacteristically generous. A buttery warmth stretched over the pavement of the street and glinted off the store’s windows. Light filtered through the leaves of the trees that lined the sidewalk, casting dappled shadows on the ground. Freshly baked pastries and balcony flowers filled the air with a sweet and comforting scent.

At the tiny bakery next to his flower shop, two tables had been dragged onto the sidewalk, trying very hard to pretend the street was café-dotted Paris instead of an unremarkable strip of mixed stores and small apartment buildings.

Robert sat at the far table, as immaculate as ever. Coffee steamed gently in a white porcelain cup, untouched. One hand rested on the folded corner of the newspaper, turning the pages not out of interest, but ritual. The front page warned of unrest abroad, although his gaze lingered on a small article in the ‘Art & Culture’ section - a modest theatre performance tucked between gallery listings. He was barely focused on reading. More so waiting, elegantly, as though the next act of his day depended on a cue yet to be given.

At that hour, one could already perceive the campus-bound chatter hovering through the city like lazy jazz. Then, unmistakable even at a distance, a familiar, loping gait: tall-ish, casual, half-hanging onto his backpack like it might be too much effort to carry it properly.

Bart.

That slouch, that gait, that face... Bob tracked his silhouette like a pianist tracks the notes of a re-discovered, difficult piece.

Bart came into view earlier than usual. His headphones rested crooked around his neck, and a I-definitely-didn’t-sleep-right look, was a quiet tell.

The man tilted his chin slightly and called out, in that way of his: perfectly neutral, entirely deliberate.

“Care to join me, Mr. Simpson?”

Bart stopped and looked over his shoulder suddenly more alert, like someone just called him into a principal’s office.

“Why?” He asked, sceptical.

“No particular reason.” Bob answered casually, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Just a coffee. And perhaps… a brioche. If you're open to bribery.”

“I… could be.” A pause “Are you paying?”

“I offered.” Bob incentivised.

Bart gave the spread a long look. His eyes wandering from the empty seat, and then towards Bob. “A real breakfast… And free?” That might be the most suspicious part.

“Gonna try and poison me with sugar?” Bart mused with narrowed eyes, smiling. “That’s a new angle.”

“Not with sugar, with temptation, dear boy. A far subtler art.”

“Temptation?” The corner of Bart’s lips quirked into a lopsided grin, but his eyes stayed cautious. Was he being offered breakfast or bait? He wasn't sure.

“Alright, Hannibal.” Bart said as he slid into the corner seat, slow and suspicious, as far from Bob as the table allowed.

The man’s thin smile ghosted across his face. A habit he still hadn’t shaken.

Bart shot him a sidelong glance. If Bob wasn’t plotting murder, he was doing a damn good impression. “Where would he start? Jugular? Straight through the heart? Or, hell - maybe aim lower… Guy’s had years to level up his crazy.” He gulped. “So, if he’s not out for blood… what the hell does he want?”

Robert caught the waitress’s eye and gave a small polite nod.

“It’s a modest place, but they take pride in what they make. I’ll have the waitress list what’s available. Do pick anything you’d like.” His tone was informal, perhaps even a little rehearsed, but the offer was genuine.

“Anything I like, huh?” Bart’s voice held a trace of disbelief - or dare.

The waitress approached them, notepad in hand, wearing the warmest of smiles. “Good morning,” she chimed.

Bart, who had just started to relax into the chair, offered a half-smile. “Morning.”

With her pen poised, she rattled off the day’s options: pancakes, toast, croissants, a colourful selection of muffins and fresh fruit.

“I’ll take the pancakes,” Bart said, without hesitation, “with all the toppings on them. I’m feeling brave.” He leaned back, glancing at Bob with mock solemnity. “And a glass of orange juice, please.”

The waitress chuckled. “You got it.”

She turned toward Bob with a slight tilt of her head. “And you, sir? Want anything else?”

Her tone was softer now, almost flirty, but not quite. A bit - extra nice. Enough to register. She definitely looked like the type who remembered names, who probably got good tips without trying hard.

Bob gave the slightest shake of his head, eyes not leaving the newspaper he'd casually draped over the table’s edge.

“No, thank you. I’m perfectly content.” Polite, polished, and unreadable.

As she walked away, silence fell for a moment, the street noise washing softly over them - a distant car alarm, the clink of Bob’s cup, birds and bees, Bart’s tousled hair reflecting gold in the sun.

✶ ✶ ✶

It gave him a strange warmth - that quiet kind of nostalgia that creeps in unannounced - having the former object of his obsession sitting across from him like this. Unbound. Not hypnotized. Not running or screaming. Simply seated. And, most important of all, accepting from him.

A flicker of symmetry.

“Life is made of little delights like these,” Robert crooned to himself, pleased. A sip of espresso, the light of a new day starting fresh, and Bart Simpson across from him without a single snide insult - yet. “A little treat,” he told himself. “A small indulgence. Nothing more.” He could gift himself this precious moment.

Nothing further. Nothing dangerous.

✶ ✶ ✶

“I must ask,” he began at last, voice smooth and self-satisfied, “how did Springfield’s most incorrigible youth manage to infiltrate the hallowed halls of Shelbyville University?” His smile was a sliver, part genuine, part rhetorical bait.

Bart leaned back and crossed his arms, chin tilted up just enough to broadcast defiance.

“Well,” he said, “how does an ex-criminal wind up running a flower shop in Shelbyville?”

Touché.

Robert allowed a small, appreciative hum to escape. Mercifully, the waitress returned with Bart’s drink, cheerful and bright as a jingle.

“Pancakes’ll be ready in five,” she said, setting the glass down.

Bart didn’t bother looking at her. His eyes stayed locked on Bob, like he was still testing the water for a hidden electric current.

Robert, ever the gracious host, nodded his thanks to the waitress. Internally, he prayed she hadn’t overheard the boy’s remark. The last thing he needed was local gossip catching wind of old sins...

Once she was gone, he tried again.

“I won’t lie. I was surprised to find you here. Attending higher education, no less.” His tone was even, conversational, but not without weight.

Bart made a vague, unimpressed sound. Then he shrugged, gaze drifting off for a moment before returning - half-defiant, half-exposed.

“Yeah, well. It’s not like I had much of a choice. Everyone expects you to go to college these days. Some guidance counsellor waves a pamphlet in your face and tells you it’s that or you fade into nothing.”

A pause.

“I figured I’d pick something… Even if it’s just until I work things out.”

He shifted in his seat, expression sheltered - pride, maybe, or the kind of vulnerability that turns into bravado if you try hard enough. Bart’s fingers curled around the condensation of the glass and he took a sip.

Robert watched, observing him patiently. Bart’s attention snagged briefly on a biker speeding past, then quickly redirected, carefully avoiding the one gaze that awaited him.

“And,” Robert’s inquiry came silk-wrapped. “How are you finding it?”

Bart exhaled, this time less guarded.

“I managed high school. Barely. But Springfield… it got too small. Everything was always the same..." He gesticulated with an hint of irritation. "Same people, same jokes, same fights. I wanted something else. Something bigger. Mill helped a lot, actually." A thin, relived smile, curled at his lips. "He’s better at planning.”

“I really want to be here.” He added, quieter, gaze drifting further away.

There it was again. That sliver of sincerity, tucked in between sarcasm and defence mechanisms. Robert lowered his eyes to his coffee and smiled gently.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Bart gave him a long, narrow, suspicious look.

“Yeah, right.” The words didn’t leave his lips, but they reflected between his eyes and his arched eyebrow.

Robert didn’t press. He folded his hands neatly, letting the moment sit.

“As for myself,” he offered after a pause, “I’m simply trying to start anew. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Bart thought, dryly. He could practically hear air quotes around the phrase. “Yeah right. What does he mean, ‘that’s all’? This is Bob Terwilliger. He doesn’t start anew. He plots anew. He s-c-h-e-m-e-s anew.”

He imagined the man stepping out of the city hall one day, brand-new floral tie and all, declaring himself president of Shelbyville (or pope!). Something massive. Something really absurd.

Something very, very like him.

Still, Bart said nothing.

Instead, he tightened his grip around the glass, and across the table, Bob took another sip of coffee, watching him over the rim of the porcelain cup.

The waiter arrived, setting down the plate of fluffy pancakes in front of Bart like a diplomatic offering. The colourful dish was syrup glossed, butter slowly melting, and fruit arranged just shy of excessive.

Bart caught the waiter’s eyes - not towards him - but lingering on Bob for a fraction longer than professional courtesy required, before wishing “Bon appétit” and leaving. He didn’t comment on it, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested he noticed.

He took a sip of juice first - tart and sweet - before picking up his fork. The first bite practically melting on his tongue.

“Damn,” he muttered, eyes gleaming. “This is actually... good.”

Robert watched him, elbows propped lightly on the table, his fingertips pressed together. He looked like someone quietly pleased with a plan unfolding.

With a flicker of dry humour, he asked, “May I ask what academic endeavour are you currently half-attending?”

He barely looked up, giving Bob a half-second glance and a raised brow. “Tech course. Real thrilling stuff.” he said, before returning to his delicious pancakes.

“Of course,” Bob replied smoothly. “We all begin somewhere.”

Bart paused mid-bite. “That supposed to be an insult?”

“Only if you’re inclined to take it that way.” Bob tilted his head, his tone was soft - unreadable. 

Bart rolled his eyes but veered toward Bob anyway, trying to decide if he was being mocked. Then he shrugged.

“Trust me, there’ll be plenty of time for a full-blown crisis once I hit campus. Right now, I only need carbs and some mild passive hostility, if you don’t mind.”

Bob gave the faintest laugh, more of a breath really, but it was genuine.

A moment passed.

Then, more sincerely, Robert inquired. “What made you want to pursue a degree in tech?”

Bart wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “I wanna test and review games. New releases, prototypes, that kind of thing. Get paid to break stuff and have opinions.”

Bob blinked slowly, as though digesting something heavy. He inhaled once. For a moment, something imperceptibly shifted in his posture - like a judgment had started to form but he forced it back down.

He landed on a neutral, “Oh.”

Bart looked up sharply.

“Oh?” he repeated, not hiding the edge. “You think it’s stupid.”

“I - didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Bart huffed, gaze snapping to the side. One hand flexed against his thigh. “Look, I get it. It’s not a real job. I’m wasting my life. If it makes you think less of me, well - get in line.”

Bob regarded him evenly, his expression unreadable but softer than expected. “I never said that either.”

There was a pause. Bart squinted slightly, trying to determine if he was being toyed with or understood. Then, in classic Bart fashion, he deflected.

“What about you, then?” he shot back, tone sharp but not unkind. “You just… sell flowers now?”

“I do,” Bob replied simply. “A quieter enterprise. Mostly.”

Bart’s eyes flicked toward the shop behind them. A display of flowers and potted succulents soaked in sunlight. He then glanced between Bob and the juice.

“What happened to the whole criminal mastermind routine?”

“I found a certain peace in the fragility of life.” Robert’s voice was low, almost contemplative.

Bart let out a single, disbelieving snort. “Wow. That’s almost poetic. Almost.”

The man smiled faintly at the jab but didn’t reply. There was no need to.

Leaning back in his chair, Bart stretched just enough to feign nonchalance, fork still dangling loosely between his fingers.

“And people just… let you open a shop like that?”

“I had to apply for a license,” Bob replied, canting his head with a faint smile that was half amusement, half appraisal. “And assure the city I wouldn’t use any gardening tools… creatively.” He gestured vaguely with one hand, as if conjuring past mayhem out of thin air to then brush it aside.

Bart cracked a smile, involuntary. He took a sip of his orange juice like it might hide the moment slipping between them. This was, after all, the closest thing to a truce either had offered in years.

Silence returned. It wasn't companionable yet. Only delicate.

Bart tapped at the edge of his plate, pushing crumbs with a finger, deliberately not looking at Bob - until he did. Bob, for his part, sat still, espresso cup in hand, watching with that maddening, unreadable calm. Like he was waiting - calmly, unyielding - aware.

After a bit of silence Bart stated, unfiltered, “You’re not getting all nostalgic just ‘cause you saw me, are you?” Bart’s smirk deepened, not quite coy and not quite innocent either. “Would kinda ruin the whole ‘ex-villain reformed into a florist’ thing…”

Bob’s mouth twitched, a knowing little curl. He dipped his head slightly, theatrically.

“Would you prefer I maintain the act? Growl and monologue about vengeance over your morning juice?”

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest Monday I’ve had.” Bart gave a dry laugh.

Fingers playing with the glass, his eyes never really leaving Bob, like he was expecting him to slip - reveal a flash of teeth beneath all that politeness.

“Still weird though,” Bart muttered. “You talking like this. Like a real person.”

Bob set the cup down with delicate precision.

“I assure you, it’s disorienting for me too.”

Their eyes met again in a tightrope of emotion. This time, Bart didn’t look away immediately.

Suddenly, Bart’s phone buzzed against the table.

“Ah, shit.” He gulped the last of the juice and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Gotta head out.”

He stood, a little too quickly, backpack immediately slung over one shoulder.

“Thanks for the sugar,” he said, flashing a grin that was 70% bluff, 30% something else he hadn’t decided on yet.

Bob looked up at him, serene.

“Come by again. You’re always welcome.”

Bart paused, stared confused at the man and hummed something like a reticent: “’kay?”.

And with that, he turned and began walking off. Bob watched him go, one hand curled loosely around his espresso cup, the other resting still and open on the table.

Bart didn’t look back, but his thoughts did.

“Lisa was right,” he admitted to himself, more easily now than before. The fear wasn’t really about Sideshow Bob anymore. Not fully. Not the man sitting there – or inside the flower shop. It was about everything else... It was about the past. It was about the version of him that used to see monsters in alleyways and grown-ups as ticking time bombs.

But that wasn’t this.

This - strangely - had been fine. Good, even. A novelty feeling: associating one positive emotion with the man who used to haunt his worst nightmares.

Bart exhaled through his nose.

He turned onto the interchange, angling toward campus. His steps felt just a bit lighter.

✶ ✶ ✶

"Ah, to be a prideful young man, brimming with defiance, fumbling to stay afloat in a world already shifting beneath his feet. All pose and sarcasm, eager to prove something… To whom? He likely didn’t know. Fresh from the nest and already tangled in expectations and social rituals."

"The quiet panic of uncertainty."

Robert stirred what little remained of his espresso, the spoon tracing lazy, concentric spirals - a controlled dark storm in miniature.

Some decisions, he knew, would unspool and release their grip in time. Others would calcify in silence. Hidden, permanent. A rot that learns to wear the shape of normalcy.

He’d made both kinds.

"A weight that feels entirely yours. No one to hoist the burden for you. Everyone is too encumbered by their own lives, and the world, mercilessly indifferent, keeps its pace."

"Perhaps some young woman might wander into the boy’s life one day. A gentle, radiant soul, unsuspecting of her own power. Someone to soften his world’s edges. Whose kindness might cradle the tender, unspoken chambers of his heart. Someone who could, without even realizing, grant him the grace of feeling known."

The thought made Robert’s chest twist. He swallowed hard against the sudden ache, his jaw tightening unconsciously, his expression darkening before he could smooth it away.

The waitress returned with the bill, her cheerful routine trailing off as her eyes caught the change in his face. Her voice stumbled mid-sentence, caught off guard by whatever she’d seen there.

Robert blinked, then recovered with an ease born of decades. A measured - elegant - smile, found its way to his lips.

“Thank you,” he said gently, extending a generous tip. “Do keep the change.”

She nodded, subdued now, and withdrew with ease.

He stood and reached for his coat, casting one last glance toward the street, sunlight spilling like memory onto the pavement.

“Oh, pull yourself together, Robert.” he muttered under his breath as he turned toward his shop.

How strange. There had been a time when such restraint would’ve felt foreign - impossible, even. There was no inner voice to negotiate with and no space for hesitation. He had lived by appetite and ambition - desire was directive, and action followed suit.

It was a clean system, in its way.

But perhaps clarity wasn’t the same as truth. And perhaps complexity had meaning - this tangled, maddening restraint, was not weakness after all.

Perhaps it was a kind of grace.

Chapter Text

"I also know", said Candide, "that we must cultivate our garden.”
Voltaire

It was mid-afternoon when the delivery truck pulled into the quiet street outside the flower shop, exhaling a heavy, mechanical hiss as it came to a halt.

Bob was elbow-deep in his weekly inventory, one hand gripping a clipboard, the other hovering over the list. He muttered a soft tally under his breath, distracted, until the hiss of the air brakes nudged him back to the present. With a small exhale, he moved toward the door and swung it open. A rush of heat met him - dense. He paused there for a beat, just as a figure moved across the far sidewalk.

Bart Simpson ambled past with his usual lazy gait. His posture suggested nonchalance, expression arranged in its habitual mix of indifference and low-grade mischief – but something about it betrayed a deeper awareness. He wasn’t hurrying. He didn’t even glance toward the delivery truck. Whether he hadn’t noticed or simply didn’t care was difficult to tell.

Bob stepped out onto the threshold, the words already leaving his mouth before he could give himself time to reconsider.

“You there. Young man.” He aimed for polite detachment, but even to his own ears, it came out more clipped than casual.

Bart stopped mid-step, turned his head over one shoulder like a cat reluctantly acknowledging it had been called. His eyebrows lifted, face lighting with mock surprise.

“If this is about the pancakes, I’m broke ‘til Thursday!” he called out, voice buoyant, teasing.

Bob huffed a small laugh. He raised a hand in a half-dismissive wave, clipboard still clasped in his fingers.

“Tempting as it is to pursue debt collection over pastry, no. I need hands. Strong ones. Preferably attached to someone not completely foreign to manual labour.”

Bart shaded his eyes with one hand and squinted toward the truck, the edges of his mouth twitching in amusement. Then his gaze returned to Bob with theatrical scepticism.

“First breakfast. Now work? This is starting to look a lot like one of your ‘very elaborate schemes’.”

Bob rolled his eyes skyward, lips tugging upward despite his best efforts.

“I’m offering a one-time, highly conditional act of mercy,” he said. “There are crates of stock flowers in distress. A matter of some urgency.”

“You mean you don’t want to wrinkle your nice, pressed shirt?” Bart tossed back, grin crooked.

“You’re coming or not?” Bob replied, already turning on his heel to head back inside, the door clicking softly behind him.

Bart shrugged.

“Alright.”

✶ ✶ ✶

The delivery bay at the back of the shop was markedly cooler, the kind of dim, utilitarian space made for quiet, necessary work. Slatted vents along the upper walls let in thin blades of afternoon light, a ceiling fan turned with a dry hum overhead.

The truck’s cargo door had been rolled up, revealing stacks of boxes packed tight. Some were leaning precariously - much to Bob’s exasperation - their cardboard softened at the edges, floral farm labels sun-bleached and curling at the corners. Bart stepped inside after the man to be greeted with the scent: sweet, clean, and oddly nostalgic. A blend of fresh-cut stock flowers and greenery - bright and almost medicinal, like something between a springtime garden and the antiseptic hallway of a school nurse’s office.

He blinked, then stepped further in, already tugging at the zipper of his hoodie. After carrying in the first two crates, he peeled it off and tossed it onto a low wooden stool near the wall, revealing a white t-shirt clinging slightly to his back where sweat had started to gather.

Bob glanced up from his clipboard towards Bart's figure.

There was something startling in the simplicity of it, the white t-shirt complementing his pale skin. The lines of Bart’s shoulders, lean but defined, finding his neck. The soft rise and fall of his breathing. A faint scar tracked across his left shoulder, new enough to still bear a pink edge, but already fading to pale.

Bart turned just then, catching his gaze. He didn’t flinch. If anything, he squared his stance. Eyes calm but watchful, daring him to make something of it. Bob turned away too quickly, straightening his back with more tension than was strictly necessary.

He consulted his clipboard with sudden urgency.

“Start with the stock bundles. Gently, please. Their stems don’t take kindly to rough treatment.”

Bart gave a sharp little laugh, low in his throat.

“Irony’s rich… Coming from someone who once tried to slice me in half with a machete.”

Bob didn’t look up, but his tone was light, almost absentminded.

“If memory serves, it was more of a... rotating ensemble of weapons.”

That pulled a reluctant smile from Bart as he bent to grab the next crate.

They worked in silence after that - not quite quiet and not peaceful either. There was the occasional scrape of cardboard on tile, the crinkle of plastic wrap, Bob’s occasional instructions and the squeak of his pen against his inventory sheet. Bart made snide comments under his breath - never sharp enough to be cruel - and Bob replied only when the mood suited him.

Half an hour passed. Bart’s shirt now clung fully to his back, damp at the collar and shoulders. His forearms were streaked with pale green from leaf-rub and floral dust, and his temples glistened faintly with sweat.

He straightened mid-lift, a little breathless, and glanced at Bob across a stack of daffodils.

“You seriously do this every day?”

Bob was crouched beside a crate of chrysanthemums, running a practiced hand across the heads to check for bruising. He didn’t look up at first.

“At every shipment, yes.” His voice was softer now, thoughtful. “It’s repetitive, albeit I find comfort in it. Here, things grow, bloom, and fade. One can say that - there are no surprises.”

Bart grinned. “That’s the goal? Avoid surprises?”

“Surprises,” Bob said plainly, “rarely favour men like me.”

There was something in his voice then - a tiredness or acceptance that didn’t quite hide the ache beneath. Bart’s grin faded a touch. He gave Bob a sidelong glance, testing.

“You’re not gonna change your mind and use me as plant fertilizer, are you?”

That earned a laugh. Not loud, but real. It softened the air between them.

Bart stepped in closer, cradling a slightly squashed bundle of stock in both hands. The petals were faintly bruised, their pastel whites and purples dulled at the edges from the jostle of transport. He looked mildly apologetic, but not exactly sorry.

Bob glanced up from where he was tallying another crate, then down at the stems. But his gaze didn't stay on them long. He tilted his head slightly.

“That mark on your upper arm.” His voice was mild, but not idle. “Skateboard?”

Bart followed his eyes and glanced down at the scar near his bicep. He shrugged, the motion loose but slightly guarded.

“Nah. Old door in my dorm sucks. Had to throw a shoulder into it once.”

Bob looked at the mark for a beat too long. His fingers tapped against the clipboard - a twitch of thought - and then stilled.

He looked away before speaking again, voice pitched lower.

“You should be more careful.”

The quiet hung strangely heavy in the cool backroom. Dust motes moved lazily in the slanted light, caught in the gentle push of the fan overhead.

Bart didn’t smile.

“Why do you care?”

A pause stretched between them, taut and precarious. Bob’s brows shifted. Then, a bit too briskly he cut the silence.

“I don’t want your insurance premiums haunting me.”

To that, Bart snorted, the smallest grin tugging at his mouth.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He let it go, but not without noticing the retreat. Bob tapped the clipboard once more, as though concluding the moment by sheer force of will.

“I’ll put on something from the front. You’ve earned a break.”

Bob returned to the storefront.

Outside, the street was quiet, the rush hour had passed and only a bus murmured by in the distance, its sound rising and fading like a tide.

He moved to the old gramophone nestled near the shop counter. The records were stacked in soft sleeves nearby. He chose one without too much thought - an old jazz standard with a slow, smoky piano line - and let the needle drop.

Crackles filled the silence first, replaced then by the soft first notes. Music that didn't demand attention, just quietly wove itself through the air like it had always been there.

From the cooler behind the counter, Bob poured a tall glass of water and added two clinking ice cubes.

Bart, meanwhile, had unpacked halfway into the third crate when his hand brushed something cool. Not the soft give of petals or the gentle rubber tension of bundled stems - a solid object, with edges.

He froze. Then pulled his hand back fast, like he’d been burned.

It was a knife. A small paring one - simple, clean, with a smooth wooden handle. Nothing overtly menacing. But it lay there on the crate’s burlap lining with the unsettling stillness of something placed on purpose.

His breath caught, dry at the back of his throat. For a moment, the gramophone music became distant, muffled - just a ghost behind the sound of his own pulse. The scent of stock flowers, once sharp and comforting, turned metallic at the edges. Like copper in his mouth.

He swallowed.

“Wrong crate,” he said tightly, voice pitched higher than he intended. The words felt like they didn’t belong to him.

Bob stepped through the doorway a moment later, cup in hand, brow furrowing at the tone. He crossed the room in two strides and set it down beside Bart’s hoodie, just out of the way - following the younger one’s stare to the crate.

Then he saw it.

“Ah.” He crouched slowly. “That should’ve been packed with the trimming tools. The supplier probably made a mistake.”

He spoke evenly, but there was a too-casual edge in his voice. Like he knew this mattered more than he could admit and was trying to keep the world from slipping sideways.

Bart didn’t answer. He reached for another bundle, fingers too tight on the stems, trying to steady himself. The flowers crunched faintly under his grip.

“Happens,” he muttered.

Bob didn’t immediately move. Then he reached down and picked up the knife - not quickly, but not hesitantly either. Like he was aware that every inch of movement mattered now. Bart’s shoulders flinched, barely perceptible but there - eyes keeping track of the man facing him.

Bob held the knife with care, turning it once in his hand, before walking it to the low metal shelf where he kept supplementary gardening tools and loose twine. He set it down gently. Deliberately. Like it might break.

A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought:

“Forgive me.”

Bart let out a short, dry breath. Not quite a laugh. And finally dropped his gaze.

“It’s - just a knife...”

He passed by Bob, heading for the next box, trying to smile but failing halfway through. His mouth lifted, but the usual spark didn’t make it to his eyes. The rhythm between them - so easy earlier - stumbled. Not broken. Just out of synchrony.

Bob watched him go, lips parted as though to speak - but no words followed. Only silence, and the soft scrape of a box shifted from wood to tile.

He turned back to the stems, the smell of stock now sharper, bordering on bitter. He began to pack again, slower than before.

No one spoke for a long while.

But over time, the silence settled. Not resolved but diffused. The labour absorbed them both. Movement filled the space where words didn’t, and breath evened out with the repetition of work. The tension melted by degrees - not forgotten but folded into the rhythm.

✶ ✶ ✶

They worked until the sun, slipping lazily toward the horizon, had gone syrup-thick - slanting golden light across the front windows and casting elongated shadows that spilled ink across the tiled floor.

The last crate found its place on the stacked pallet with a low thud. Bob pressed his pen to the clipboard, made a final tick, then signed at the bottom with a decisive flick.

Done.

The soft crackle of jazz still floated from the gramophone. The track had shifted to something slower, a bit wistful now.

Bart leaned against the open doorway, framed in the orange spill of the setting sun. The light caught in the tousle of his hair, silhouetting his figure in a dull golden outline. One heel tapped lazily against the metal doorframe, an idle rhythm that didn’t quite match the music.

“So,” he said, tone dry but playful, “what do I get? Payment? Praise?”

Bob didn’t look up right away. He was still making a few notes in the margin, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

He finally cast a glance over, sideways beneath his brow.

“You get the satisfaction of having briefly served a purpose.”

Bart put a hand to his chest in mock sentiment.

“Wow. That was beautiful. I’m touched. Truly.”

Bob raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” Bart smirked. “Might just come back tomorrow, you know. Demand overtime.”

Bob’s words came steady, without irony.

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

Bart blinked. The banter tripped. He straightened just slightly, something unguarded flickering across his face before he turned his head, pretending to study the pavement outside.

His smirk tugged upward again - smaller this time. Uneven. Not performed.

Bob watched him for a second longer, then spoke again. This time his voice dropped a note, gentler but clear.

“Thank you, Bart.” A pause. “You’ve grown into a capable young man.”

Bart let out a scoff - deflective - the way a person laughs at something that didn’t sit easy in their chest. He hunched his shoulders slightly and tilted his head away, like the compliment might slide off if he didn’t let it stick.

“Yeah, whatever, man.”

But his cheeks flushed pink, lightly. And he didn’t leave.

He stood there a moment longer, letting the silence stretch.

A breeze rustled through the trailing vines and blossoms hung by the entrance, setting them swaying gently. The scent of stock flowers lingered - thick, slightly peppery, with a hint of clove. Grounding and alive.

And when Bart finally pushed himself off the doorframe and wandered out into the fading day, he didn’t say goodbye. He raised a hand halfway in a parting wave. Casual. Almost thoughtless.

Bob watched the gesture until Bart disappeared from sight.

The scent lingered after him.

Dense. Earthy. Sweet.

Chapter Text

“The night is the hardest time to be alive and 4 am knows all my secrets.”
Poppy Brite

The board rattled under his feet, wheels skipping a little on a crack in the pavement. He kicked once, twice, gained speed, and let the momentum carry him down the gentle slope behind the strip mall by the campus. It was late enough that the storefronts had mostly closed, their electric signs quivering in the dusk like restless summer insects. That liminal period of the day where everything feels just a little off-centre: not completely night, but too far ahead to still be called daytime.

Bart leaned on his weight to swerve around a dumpster, foot dragging to slow down before he coasted again.

His head was full.

Not loud - not the usual buzz - but packed, the way his backpack got when he stuffed everything in without checking what he actually needed. Filled in with thoughtless weight. With things he hadn't meant to carry.

He certainly hadn’t planned on helping the guy. Hell, he hadn’t even planned on walking down that street today. But there Bob was.

Clipboard in hand, shirt - still a blinding white that no real florist would dare wear - tucked into those absurdly well-fitted slacks that made his legs look even longer, and the usual pretentious “I’m-not-asking-but-you-will-do-as-I-say” tone. Same as ever… except, not exactly.

Things had shifted. Not in a big scale. Not enough to make him feel safe.

But enough to make Bart… question.

He popped the board up at the edge of the sidewalk, caught it mid-air with one hand and let it drop by the chain-link fence behind the gas station. A quiet spot, overlooked and cracked, the kind of place no one bothered to fix. He leaned there, arms slung loosely over the top rail, breathing through his nose as the wind shifted.

Stock flowers... Their smell still stuck to his skin.

There was something surreal about the man - like seeing a symphony conductor going elbow-deep into the soil. His demeanour belonged to a man who wrote opera reviews on an expensive coffeehouse, not one who made bouquets for a living. And yet… it worked, somehow. It shouldn’t, but it did.

His fingers twitched a little - memory of the crate’s weight, the cold truck. The stupid knife. It wasn’t even a big one. But still, when he touched it, it all came back flooding again, like an open dam.

Bob had seen it. Of course he had. The man noticed everything. And Bart hated that it still mattered – that his heart had raced in his chest. Hated that it had made the lightness of the mood turn heavy – made him vigilant, fearful. Hated even more that Bob’s behaviour had changed. His hands became… extra careful. Like he was afraid to trigger him further. And he hated that it all made him feel so vulnerable…

Why’d he even say yes?

Not to save the flowers. Not for the paycheck he wouldn’t get. Maybe it was curiosity… Or maybe it was those ‘tempting’ pancakes.

He snorted. Quiet, under his breath.

The thing is, no one ever offers him breakfast. He gets offered trouble, excuses, warnings, rumors, condolences and - especially - resentment. Rarely a clean plate and a chair to sit in. And even rarer – a second ask.

And Bob asked... Not super nicely, but honestly. And Bart hadn’t had to pretend. Not much, anyway.

He pushed himself off the fence again, board back under his feet. One more run down the slope. Faster this time. Without thinking. Just moving.

It wasn’t forgiveness.

But maybe it was progress. A dent in the old narrative. A break in the loop.

Or maybe it was nothing. He’d wake up tomorrow and laugh at himself for thinking too hard.

But… He could sense the man struggling - in the way he’d sometimes catch him looking. It sent a shiver down his spine.

Was he really that far gone? Willingly there, waiting.

Ready to say yes at the faintest suggestion of falling deeper into this rabbit hole?

God… he missed the thrill.

And Bob’s deep voice. That simple - but genuine - “Thank you, Bart,” rang in his head longer than it had any right to.

He kicked into motion again.

Let the street pull him forward.

The stems had grown curved. A few millimetres off, leaning where they shouldn’t and soft where they ought to have been crisp. Robert turned one in his palm, fingers adjusting the angle, shears ready in the other.

Snip.

A clean, precise, cut.

Another.

The shop was quiet now - save for the dull metronome of wind hitting the windows and the rustle of leaves near the back exit. Music had faded. After the needle on the record player clicked once, the whole store spun into silence.

He found this part of the night... difficult. Although not for the silence - for he loved that. Robert found that he needed quiet as intensely as his plants needed water and sun – as sustenance, to live, to grow.

No. This time was difficult for the thoughts it allowed to collect. Thoughts that multiplied in corners like dust behind display stands.

He’d told himself that the invitation was practical, simple. He needed help. The crates were heavy, his back had complained last week, and the supplier was incompetent at best.

But even as he’d stood at the threshold, clipboard in hand, calling Bart’s name across the street - he knew that wasn’t the whole story.

He wasn’t being honest.

Snip.

Another stem trimmed.

There had been... curiosity. Yes. But also hunger. A dangerous word. One he’d taught himself to leash.

Not the rage-fuelled kind of hunger - God no - but the other.

A compulsive tilt toward chaos that rose from down below - toward patterns he thought he’d discarded.

He used to dream in blueprints, plot trajectories and pencil-in exits. Bart’s habits, his voice, his laughter - once the language of prey - had rooted themselves in Bob’s psyche like vines cracking on masonry.

He thought he’d purged it. That, with time, obsession would dissolve into memory - thin as a dream half-forgotten at dawn.

But then the boy had come back into his orbit. Uninvited. Changed.

And Bob had offered him breakfast.

A laugh escaped him, dry and brittle.

He set the shears down, their quiet clink echoing faintly in the stillness of the room.

With near-silent steps, he reached for the small drawer beneath the counter, fingertips tracing its edges with absent fondness before sliding it open.

From within, he retrieved his leather-bound journal. He flipped to the last page, where ink waited patiently for thoughts not yet named.

The pen hovered for a moment.

Bart as grown.

And I can’t decide whether that fills me with pride, regret, or something dangerously adjacent to longing.

There is intent in him now. Still unrefined, still instinctively reactive, but learning his balance. Learning himself.

He sat across from me. Accepted what I offered. Extended help with no demand for recompense. He listened. He challenged. That last part, especially... I missed it more than I had anticipated.

He’s brilliant, in his own irreverent way. He always has been.

I wonder if anyone has ever told him that - genuinely, without irony or agenda.

I nearly did…

But my words carry weight, and too much implication.

And then - the knife.

A small, utilitarian thing. Unremarkable.

And yet the moment I entered the room and saw him…

The tremor in his hand, the breath that snagged in his throat, the edge in his voice. I noticed everything.

He didn’t flinch like a child fearful of injury.

He flinched like someone who’s seen that glint in too many dark rooms.

Rooms I constructed.

Moments I authored.

It wasn’t the same weapon. Not the one. But similar enough: in shape, in weight, in memory.

I had chosen the blade for a reason, long ago. Precision. Silence. Intimacy. The ability to end him in ways both excruciatingly painful and sadistically self-serving.

Now, that memory lives in his spine. In his being.

He covered it with his usual dismissiveness, a shrug and a crooked smirk. But the tension stayed. Not in his face - he’s too good at masks - but in the way he avoided even the thought of it, after.

As if even brushing against it would be enough to reignite the nightmare.

I should have said something.

I didn’t.

Cowardice, cloaked in caution.

He has every right to never forgive me. For the pain, for the terror, for the years he spent bracing for my return.

And now I place a knife in his proximity and expect peace?

Perhaps I wanted to believe he had moved beyond it.

Perhaps I wanted to believe I had.

Or perhaps I simply wished.

He paused. The pen ghosted the paper.

“And what do I want?”

That’s what gnawed. Not guilt - not precisely. He had made peace with the darkness in himself. Or learned to fold it into neat shapes. But this - this tension - was unfamiliar. Unearned. The knife in the crate had said it all.

Some part of Bart still flinched.

Some part of Bob still... enjoyed being seen.

The shame wasn’t in the history. It was in the possibility - that part of him wanted the boy’s gaze not just for redemption, but to matter. Again. Still.

That was the danger.

He let go of the pen and picked up the shears again. Trimmed another bloom.

Too much softness in the head. It would rot.

How close can you stand to something without reaching?

How much kindness before it curls back into the shape of something else?

Bob did not know. But Bart hadn’t run.

That counted for something. Maybe not forgiveness.

But the root, once torn, had not died. It had grown in another direction.

A pale moon rose over the quiet street, blurring softly behind the glass. Inside, the stems continued to fall.

Chapter Text

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”
C.G. Jung

The morning sun slapped Bart in the face like a judgmental aunt - too bright, too early, and very much uninvited. He hadn’t studied. At all. Again. The night before had disappeared in a blur of controller clicks and neon pixels, punctuated by half-eaten nachos and a phone call from a girl whose name he hadn’t been able to forget. Especially not with the way she kept flooding his phone with over-emotional texts at a daily basis.

Shelbyville University looked somehow more foreboding than usual, its sleek glass front reflecting the crisp light like it was judging him too. Students hustled past, lattes in hand, AirPods and books firmly held, marching toward their futures while Bart meandered in their wake - a proud alumnus of the course of bare minimum.

He arrived at the lecture hall just as the teacher was writing the words "Spring Semester - Midterm Assessment" on the whiteboard. Bart's stomach sank. He had the vague memory of an email mentioning this was today. Vague... He dropped into his usual seat.

A test was slapped down in front of him like an unmovable object predicting his unavoidable fate. He stared at the first question – the question stared back at him.

"Explain the basic principles of object-oriented programming."

Bart blinked as he somewhat remembered Lisa trying to explain that. Something about classes, and objects, and… inheritance?

"They all live in the same house," he scribbled down. "Big messy family. Sometimes they argue. That’s polymorphism…"

By the the time the exame ended, Bart had chewed his pen beyond recognition. He handed the paper in and slinked out of the room, visibly defeated.

Outside, the air hit him like a second slap. He needed to get serious for he was here on effort, not talent. Shelbyville wasn’t Springfield - he wasn’t coasting on reputation anymore. He needed something… Motivation. Direction. An actual plan, and quick.

Instead, he got Lee. Again.

She caught up to him near the student union building. Bright-eyed - too bright - and dressed in layered pastels as if she was trying out for a music video from a more optimistic decade.

“Hey, Bart! You finally came!” she called, giving a half-wave and speeding up.

“Heyyyy...” Bart smiled vaguely, her words not clicking. Did he agree on meting up? He wasn’t trying to be cruel. He just didn’t keep track of promises, not unless he had to.

Lee launched into a monologue about her morning routine, her new poetry professor, and how she thought of Bart during a particularly beautiful sunrise. Bart smiled, nodded, occasionally added a "Totally," or "No way," like it was a rhythm game. Her energy was sweet - too sweet. And a little suffocating.

Behind her, her best friend Janine trailed like a living eye-roll. She was stern, sharp-jawed, sombre, and clearly not a fan. The two girls together seemed like an illogical clash of entirely different world.

“So,” Lee said, sidling up a little closer, “you mentioned we could maybe hang out again sometime?”

“Sure,” Bart replied reflexively. “Yeah. Uh, this weekend?”

Lee lit up. Janine glared harder.

Bart felt the dread pool in his stomach. That was not going to happen.

“Cool,” she said, beaming. “I’ll text you.”

She skipped off. Janine lingered.

“You know she actually likes you, right?”

“I figured.” Bart replied with a shrug.

“Then maybe don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.” the girl’s tone was cutting.

Bart opened his mouth to retort. Re-considered, and smirked. Then walked off, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. Guilt tapped at his brain but didn’t stay long. What was he supposed to do, really? He was barely holding his own head up - he couldn’t hold someone else’s heart too.

He stopped by a vending machine, dropped in some coins, and pressed for orange juice. The bottle clunked down heavily. He took a sip and thought, randomly, of that breakfast he had with Bob. The man’s calm expression. That uneasy tension he’d felt working at his side. The air itself had felt too dense, too warm...

Bart scoffed to himself.

Yeah. Maybe he did need to start thinking about consequences.

The flower shop smelled of eucalyptus and jasmine. Bob liked that. It allowed for a focus and cleanness of mind that kept him sharp and disciplined - unlike the chaos of past compulsions.

A beautiful mid-morning light poured through the wide front windows, settling in softly across pots of blooming peonies and vases filled with jasmine and orchids. The centrepiece today was a towering arrangement of golden ranunculus, blue delphinium, and fern - an ode to the celebration he’d been commissioned for: the Annual Spring Day at the Shelby Glade Retirement Community.

The people at the retirement wanted color, joy, and fragrance that evoked memory. In sum, they wanted to feel young again.

Bob understood that in ways he rarely admitted.

As he arranged the leaves on a bouquet with analytical rigour, he heard the bell above the door ring. Two voices followed - young and female, bright but clashing.

“Oh my God, Lee, he’s not going to follow through!” said the deeper, impatient tone. “He’s stringing you along.”

“I know he seems careless,” came the reply - Lee, presumably - “but there’s something there. Bart is just... distracted because of mid-term. That’s all.”

Oh.

Robert heard the name, and in hearing, could think of little else.

Without a word, he glided behind the counter, composed, though his eyes followed the girls and their meandering curiosity toward the tulips.

“I think he’s overwhelmed,” Lee added wistfully. “University is big, and people like him need time.”

“People like him,” Janine snapped, “are used to getting away with things because they’re charming!”

Bob allowed himself a thin smile. “How very true…”

He stepped forward - not too quickly - only enough to be noticed.

“Can I help you ladies find something?”

Lee blushed, her fingers tightening on her bag strap. Janine crossed her arms with performative indifference.

“Something small,” Lee ventured, her voice just shy of a whisper, “or, erm - maybe... symbolic?” Her gaze flitted nervously to a pot of violets, “For a guy...”

“Ah, a violet.” Bob mused, eyes half-lidded in thought. “The flower of quiet virtue… and hidden truths.”

He let the words linger dramatically in the air, then pivoted with practiced elegance, gesturing toward another bloom.

“Albeit, young lady, if it’s the thrill of new affection you seek…” he lifted a bloom delicately, “may I suggest a carnation? Understated, yes - but it carries the fire of unspoken longing.”

Lee tilted her head, cheeks warm, clearly spellbound. “That sounds right...” she murmured, almost to herself.

With a silk-smooth motion, Bob wrapped a ribbon around the stem - black, for contrast - his voice dropping to a gentler cadence.

“Tell me, if it isn’t impolite of me to ask,” he said, almost conspiratorially, “is he the kind of man who runs, or the kind who waits to be chased?”

Janine let out a sharp snort, eyes rolling with sisterly judgment. “Oh, he definitely runs.”

Lee, still caught in the soft haze of imagined romance, run her fingers absently through the fur of the little plushie decorating her bag.

“Maybe…” she said, almost dreamily, “maybe he’s both.”

Bob handed the flower over with solemn reverence.

“Well then,” he said, his voice low, measured. “Perhaps he’s the sort who only stops when something truly worth stopping for... finally catches his attention.”

Lee took the carnation as if it were a spell - careful fingers around the ribboned stem, eyes glowing wide with silent thanks. Janine, meanwhile, gave Bob a suspicious glance.

As the girls exited, their voices faded with their steps. Bob returned to the counter, fingers tapping on the register. He wasn’t smiling. He was... bemused. And slightly annoyed at himself.

What, precisely, was he doing?

Inserting himself into the boy’s romantic entanglements like some over-invested theatre director, rearranging the act on a whim?

He’d meant to make peace. Maybe. Perhaps to witness Bart, to observe how the years had sculpted him.

Not to orchestrate teenage-like flirtations via carefully planned flower symbolism.

“Pathetic.”

Even as he resumed trimming the bouquet, still a part of him - the hidden part - looked forward to the moment Bart saw the flower. Bob exhaled - blade flashing in neat, precise snips.

Would he understand?

Would he question its meaning?

Would he come to ask?

Bob smiled faintly.

“Oh, Robert.” he thought, aligning the final stem in the arrangement, “You’re absolutely hopeless.”

As he glanced to the red carnations near the front - that seemed to bloom more vividly just for him - he couldn’t help but think:

Perhaps that’s exactly what makes the game worth playing.

He found the flower later, tucked lazily between the folds of his backpack where the girl had dropped it without fanfare. Probably during one of those forced goodbye hugs and her chirpy giggles. The black lace was there - now coiled loosely around the stem waiting to unravel.

A carnation. An eruption of crimson - intense and bold.

At first, he ignored it - a mere flirty leftover from Lee. But it didn’t fit. Lee was more of a sticker-and-glitter type, not red florals with poetic implications. The dark ribbon was the real giveaway though. Too sophisticated. Too seductive.

Too Bob.

He held it up, squinting – like it was a living reminiscent of some random lecture about Romanticism and the beauty of decay. And if, hypothetically, the flower really had been Bob's choice… Could he have also known it was meant for Bart? Or was it a mere coincidence?

He placed the carnation onto the cafeteria table. Not too far, not too close. Like it might whisper something compromising if he leaned in. Or worse: remind him he didn’t really mind being reminded.

Milhouse finally showed up and joined him at the table, tray already in hand.

The flower just sat there while they ate lunch. A perfect red punctuation mark on the mess that was his life. Across the table, Millhouse stared at it.

“So... who gave you that?” he asked, gesturing.

Bart didn’t look up from his sandwich.

“Lee.”

“She’s really going for it, huh?” Millhouse raised a brow and made a face.

“Guess so.” Bart replied passively.

The blue-haired youngster sighed, like someone bearing the heavy weight of his own romantic obscurity. He peeled back the wrapper from his burrito without enthusiasm.

“Man... girls just give you stuff.” He shook his head. “You barely try! I brought a girl my mother’s lemon squares and she said she was gluten-sensitive and not looking for a relationship...”

Bart scoffed.

“That’s your opener?”

Millhouse threw a nacho at him.

“Shut up. At least I try.” He pointed at the flower. “You don’t even like Lee.”

Bart didn’t argue. Instead, he chewed - thoughtfully, slowly.

His friend stabbed the last bite of burrito, muttering “Seriously dude. How do you even do it? You get a new girl every month, like you’re the main character or something.”

Bart didn’t respond either. Instead, he drummed his fingers once on the table, eyes trailing the curl of black ribbon.

Detecting the weird vibe, Millhouse sighed again and stood up with a crinkle of foil.

“Anyway. Gotta go beg our Professor for an extension. I’ll tell him my sanity declined after watching you get unearned affection from multiple sources.” He joked.

“Tell him I said hi.” Bart shrugged, nonchalant.

Millhouse just grinned and sauntered off.

✶ ✶ ✶

Later, at the park where he went to half-study and half-make peace with the fact that he’d probably have to re-take the morning exam, the flower remained in his backpack. Still lace wrapped. Still enveloped in a faint smell of...

A buzz on his pocket interrupted his thoughts.

Lee texted him in all caps about how sweet it was for him to "like the flower that the charming florist helped her pick for him :))”, followed by far too many emojis.

He almost texted back: “That ‘charming florist’ used to plan my physical and psychological destruction, so maybe pump the brakes.”

But he didn’t answer. Just exhaled and put his phone away. Yep - that sealed it. Bart had been right.

He could almost picture Bob tying the ribbon himself, absurdly careful fingers looping it with religious precision, then giving that tiny, infuriatingly condescending smile, as if to say: yes, I’m watching you.

“Son of a bitch,” Bart muttered under his breath. And not even with anger. Just that strange heady mix of being annoyed and lowkey thrill.

Bart laid back on the soft grass, the blades gently tickling the back of his neck, at his side the textbooks stayed open but ignored. Children’s laughter echoed from the playground nearby, a woman jogging by with her golden retriever, a kite flapped overhead, its tail casting fleeting shadows. He tapped his lip with his fingers, eyes narrowed at the sky, as if waiting for it to answer something he hadn’t yet asked.

“He’s messing with me.”

Because of course he was. After all, that’s what Bob used to do. Except now, apparently, instead of grand operatic threats or nighttime murder-attempt surprises, he did flowers. It was subtle, classy, vaguely flirtatious, and - well - vaguely terrifying...

Again, very him.

What the hell was the man thinking? Bart’d never admit it out loud, but the flower was doing exactly what it was designed to do -

Stay in his mind.

And Bart for sure didn’t like being outmaneuvered. Even when surprises came wrapped in biodegradable elegance. Still, he wasn’t sure of its actual meaning, maybe it was just a very Bob-branded new way of saying: I know what you’re doing.

With a quiet exhale, he let his eyelids fall and the spring cradle him in its arms. The birds chirping, children’s laughter in the distance, and the rhythmic hush of breeze brushing fresh grass - all blending into a tender lull.

✶ ✶ ✶

He didn’t acknowledge it - he wasn't feeling like paying a visit to the shop. Or even do a sarcastic return by mail, with the flower stuffed in an envelope marked “sucker”, like old times. Even thought, Bart had to admit… the urge to mess with Bob in return was almost too delicious to ignore.

Later at night, when he went back to his dorm, he opened the desk drawer. Hesitant, at first, he then dropped the carnation inside.

Maybe he’d think about it when exams were over.

He closed the drawer with a dry click and shook his head.

“Dude seriously needs a hobby that doesn’t include messing with my emotional calibration.”

But he was smiling. Just a little.

Chapter Text

“To dance the dance of then and now, past and present, abuser and victim, doer and done-to, we dance on the head of a pin, spinning dizzily amid these points, changing perspectives, shifting identifications, blurring boundaries, spinning a tapestry of meaning and nuance that has the potential for depth, subtlety, ambiguity, and a multiplicity of rich, self-other experience, but a dance that also holds the forbidding prospect of spinning out of control, of falling over the edge into a miasma of projective-introjective enmeshment, boundarylessness, and deadly negativity.”

Whose Bad Objects Are We Anyway?: Repetition and Our Elusive Love Affair with Evil, J.M. Davies (2004)

“You are the knife I turn inside myself.”
Frank Kafka

The door hadn’t been locked.

I didn’t lock it.

I should have. I always mean to.

But some part of me - the part I pretend no longer rules me - wanted to be found.

And there he was.

Dripping with rain, eyes rimmed in sleepless defiance, Bart Simpson stood in my doorway like a storm I thought I’d outgrown.

I should be afraid or, at least, cautious. But, instead, I felt… ready.

Bart pushed it open, quiet as breath, and stepped into the darkened shop like he had every right to be there.

The lights were low - dimmed enough to make the shadows look purposeful. On the counter sat a half-wilted arrangement of snapdragons and red carnations, their edges curling inward like animalistic claws.

He closed the door behind him, the bell above it muted - removed. Maybe out of paranoia. Maybe out of guilt.

He walks in like he owns the place. Of course he does. He always has - my mind, my regret, my obsession. I arranged these flowers, this lighting, this silence - all of it - like a stage, and he steps onto it as if it’s owed to him.

Maybe it is.

“I know you’re here.” Bart’s voice was flat.

I could sense he was angry tonight, rattled, bruised in places I can’t see. I don’t need to know what happened - Milhouse, probably, or Lisa, or maybe nothing at all. Maybe the weight of memory is enough to drag him back to me.

A rustle came from the backroom.

I emerged slowly, as a ghost being summoned.

It is only fair, really.

I never stopped haunting myself.

My expression conveyed no surprise. The mirrors encasing Bart threw my image back at me: a man hollowed by time - and quietly lethal. The way hearth fire rests, burning low but not dead, waiting for a breath of air to awaken.

“You always were impatient.” I realized the words arose from my mouth. My voice still had that rich, performative edge - like I couldn’t help but wrap every word in velvet.

Then, I stood still. Waiting.

And let him throw the next stone.

Bart took two steps forward. I could feel that his heart was racing, although he masked it well.

“And you always wanted to be seen,” his voice was sharp, slurring at the edges. “Congratulations. I see you.”

I smiled, but the smile didn’t reach my eyes. “Do you?”

Silence stretched between us. I saw Bart’s fists clench in his hoodie pockets.

“I should report you,” he spoke through clenched teeth. “I should have done it the second I saw you through that window.”

“Then why didn’t you?” I asked, my tone gentle, cruel.

Bart swallowed.

“I don’t know.”

But I knew he did. He just couldn’t say it.

I took a slow step forward, then another. Each movement a declaration. Not overtly threatening, no - but inevitable. The way a predator knows the shape of its own shadow. A reminder that I still knew how to move without sound - and how to be heard anyway.

“You reappear in my life,” I began, voice low and rough. “Now, you walk into my space. You seek me out. Tell me, Bart – why?”

Bart choke in his breath, betraying his nerves. His voice sank, heavy with the hesitation of whether to reveal or retreat.

“Because I- wanted to see if you still felt like a threat…”

I stopped two feet away from him. “And?”

Bart’s jaw tightened. “You do.”

I tilted my head. “Good.”

Bart surged forward, grabbing the front of my shirt and slamming me back into the edge of the counter. The vase behind us rattled, the flowers trembled.

I steadied myself against the counter, legs parted. He stood squarely between them, his grip tight at my chest. Our faces mere inches apart.

“You don’t get to win,” Bart snapped. “You don’t get to sit in your fucking flower shop like nothing ever happened!”

I didn’t flinch. “And yet, you’re here.”

He doesn’t realize that there’s no winning in this.

Only proximity.

And pain.

Bart’s grip didn’t loosen. “Don’t think for a second I forgot what you did to me.”

“I hope you didn’t,” I stated quietly. “That's how I know I mattered.”

Bart’s eyes flared - with pain, rage, brimming with electricity.

“You don’t- anymore!” he shouted.

“Liar.” I whispered, leaning. My breath touching Bart’s mouth.

Bart’s hand twitched - not in violence, but in want. Confused, infuriated want. “You always think you know everything, don’t you?”

When he yells this, I want to laugh - not out of cruelty, but because it’s so very like him to accuse me of omniscience when all I’ve ever really known was him.

That’s my sin.

And my sentence.

“I- should hate you.” he breathed, impossibly close to my skin. The dim light catching the line of his throat. His eyes were pleading, angry, needing.

“I know.” I admit, more sigh than words, my gaze never leaving his.

Time cracked and split open - Bart advanced suddenly, his lips crashing into mine. A mistake accepted - and made twice.

It wasn’t love. Nor forgiveness.

It was war.

It was punishment.

It was memory re-lived.

And it was the echo of violence artfully dressed in desire.

And I -

surrender -

instantly.

We were all teeth and heat and raw fury. I responded immediately, my hands clutching Bart’s hips like rope, like anchor, like need.

I have lived off scraps for years. What is one night, if it tastes like forgiveness? Even if falsely.

His hands are trembling. Mine are greedy. Our mouths don’t ask permission, and neither do our bodies. We crash, collide, feed on each other’s hunger - fire burning of fire - not lovers, not enemies, not anything that sane people would recognize.

But it’s real.

And that’s all I’ve ever wanted from him.

When we finally broke apart, we were breathless, our bodies half-entangled. Lips pulsating, sore, wetted by the other’s substance. Bart’s hand still gripped my shirt - mine, unyielding, claimed lower at his waist. How I wished he wouldn’t let go.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Bart justified, panting.

Of course he says that.

He has to.

I leaned closer, my lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“I know,” I whispered softly. “That’s why it hurts so much.”

Because the alternative - that this did mean something - would ruin us both.

Bart stepped away from me. Hesitant. Shaking.

And I let him.

I say nothing.

Just watch him retreat.

The night shadows gradually veiled his glassy eyes as he turned around without a word. 

The door clicked shut behind him.

I look around the shop - the wreckage, the flowers torn apart, petals scattered on the floor - remnants of the most painful of confessions.

This isn’t redemption.

It’s relapse.

But gods help me…

…I don’t regret it.

Robert jolted awake with a strangled gasp, cold sweat clung to his skin. His breath came ragged, chest aching - hurt - like he’d been dragged out of deep water. 

The sheets stuck to him, damp, tangled around his body like restraints.

He sat up slowly and rubbed his face in an attempt to steady himself. His lips still tingled, like the kiss had actually happened. Ghost-lust and guilt woven into every nerve ending of his being.

Looking toward the window, he saw that morning light hadn’t broken yet. There were only shadows. Mercifully.

He sat there, caught between shame and some deep, relentless, hunger he couldn’t name.

Was that what he wanted? Or what he feared?

Was it a warning? Or a wish?

He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, feeling cold all of a sudden. His heart still raced, but now it wasn’t beating for Bart - but from the echo of his own collapse.

“What am I trying to do…?”

He had no clear answer - only the ash-like aftertaste of something not quite right, but familiar, nonetheless. And underneath it, the smallest spark of a far worse feeling.

Longing.

 “Damn it…”

Bart trudged down the sidewalk, eyes anchored to the concrete, wearing a scowl so deep it might’ve been chiselled from stone. He wore a light coloured, half-zipped, hooded jacket. The sleeves pushed up unevenly - his forearms already revealing a light tan from unplanned naps under the sun.

“The library?” With its fluorescent lights and the incessant rustling of papers? No. “The Starbucks near campus?” Where girls go whisper the latest gossip and giggle? No, not there either.

“Good afternoon.”

As he mentally listed all the available options that came to his mind, he didn’t even acknowledge the man standing next to him. It wasn’t until Bob’s deep baritone cut through the haze of his frustration that Bart stopped in his tracks.

“Hey.” Bart greeted flatly, finally looking up.

With a broom in hand, Bob - who had seemingly been sweeping - stood just outside the flower shop, sleeves rolled to the lean - muscular - forearms in that no-nonsense way people do when they expect to get the job done. His deep-red curls, tied back neatly, framed a face marked with that particular kind of tired patience - the look of a man who'd been productive all morning and was now debating whether to continue sweeping leaves or go write poetry instead. 

He tilted his head down, catching the tension on Bart’s eyes.

“Is everything alright?”

Bart exhaled hard through his nose, the ghost of a scoff on his lips.

“Midterms,” he said, dryly.

“Ah.”

Bart let out an audible sigh.

“I’m supposed to study for finals but I can't focus anywhere.” He gestured, with an hint of annoyance. “Other students blast EDM at the dorms, and the library gives me panic…” He needed quiet, but he couldn’t find it. Not on campus, not at the dorms, certainly not in his own head.

For a while, Bart looked away, lost entirely in his thoughts, before noticing the weight of Bob’s attention fixed on him. The man’s expression was guarded, but touched with concern.

“And I kinda got kicked out of the study lounge. Apparently, my ‘vibe’ is disruptive.” He added, grinning half-heartedly and tossing a hand to his neck like it was all part of the charm.

“You do carry yourself with the elegance of an academic anarchist.” Bob mused with a smile, almost fondly. “Come inside. Let your ‘vibe’ disrupt my shop instead.”

Bart blinked.

“To what? Get mocked in stereo?” He questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“You won’t be bothered. I promise not to monologue - much.” Bob raised his hand with a knowing smile.

Bart hesitated, “I don’t want to be in your way…”

“You won’t be.” Bob reassured softly. “Besides, I could use the company. It’s been a slow day.”

Slinging his bag over one shoulder, Bart stepped past Bob into the flower shop. The air inside felt a couple degrees cooler than outside, but not by much. The heat had been climbing all day, and now in the afternoon haze, it had finally settled into a comfortable warmth.

Crossing the threshold always felt theatrical, a curated still life in motion, in which every surface hummed with color: deep fuchsia, chalky lilac, the brown-green of fresh stems. There was a tactile stillness to the shop in its linen-wrapped stems, in the velvety petals, and soft moss. A place half-living, half-preserved.

Bart dropped his bag onto the arranging table and sat down - upright, this time. Like maybe sitting correctly might force the rest of him to fall into line. He cracked open his notepad, pulled out two dog-eared workbooks, a few papers and tried to focus.

Ten minutes in, and his leg was already bouncing, pen clicking in restless rhythm, posture slipping into a full-bodied slouch. His thoughts nowhere near the material.

Did I reply to Millhouse’s text? Wait, did Millhouse even text me back?

Is the flower still in my drawer? Should I check on it? Flowers die, right? What if it’s already dead? Should I ask Bob about it? No, I have a task to do. Focus.

Why do highlighters squeak sometimes and other times they don’t? There’s gotta be a reason. Is it due to friction? Or the amount of marker juice? Wait, is it even called “marker juice”?

Was Bob always that tall? Is it the shoes? Maybe he wears higher shoes on purpose... Does he own boots?

“Studying” and “suffering” both start with S. Coincidence? I doubt it.

Ugh, shut up, brain!

A row of orchids received Bob’s hands, but not his full attention. As he watched Bart’s jittering movements from afar - recognizable, almost endearing - he wiped his pollen dusted hands and fetched a mug. When the moment felt right, he approached and placed it before Bart, the ceramic touching the wood with a soft clink.

“Chamomile,” he said. “It’ll help calm your nerves.” Bob’s voice didn’t rise above conversational.

Bart frown deepened, picking up the cup. 

“I’m not nervous,” he lied, taking a sip and immediately wincing at the heat. “I get it, I suck at this. That’s the whole problem!” His voice came harsher than he intended, tainted with self-directed venom. 

The porcelain clinked sharply as Bart placed it down, a slight spill betraying the tension in his grip.

Bob stilled, his gaze narrowing. Then, without waiting, he adjusted Bart’s chair an inch, spun the fan to a low breeze, and calmly wiped the spill. His hands moved with a quiet efficiency, arranging a tidy workspace with a precision that bordered on compulsive.

And Bart - who’d been too lost in his own mental fog to care - suddenly felt the shift.  The familiar edge of being managed. Like a stage being reset behind his back.

He tensed, instincts kicking in.

“Wait.” Bart snapped, voice rising with suspicion.

Bob paused mid-motion, hand still holding the coaster he’d meant to put under the cup.

Bart eyed him. “What are you doing?”

“You need discipline.” Bob stated calmly.

Bart blinked at him, confused and slightly alarmed.

“I’m not here for tutoring.” He said, too quickly.

“No,” Bob said, leaning a bit closer, enough to draw attention. 

“You’re spirited. Unpredictable. But with the right guidance…” He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished - like he’d not decided on a conclusion yet.

Bart felt his face flush too fast “And you think you’re the right guidance?” His voice cracked just enough to betray the sting.

Bob straightened, his expression unreadable. The silence between them took on a new weight.

Bart’s voice was quieter now, cautious.

“Is this… Are you doing that thing?” 

“What thing?” Bob asked, voice levelled.

“That thing - like, you’re trying to ‘fix me’… like I’m some broken thing or something.” Bart said, the words tumbling out more guarded than aggressive. His brow furrowed.

Bob’s gaze sharpened, analytical but not threatening.

“I’m offering structure.”

“You are… offering control.” Bart muttered, not looking at him directly.

The air between them held still.

Silence stretched for a minute.

Then Bob stepped back, slow and deliberate, as if giving Bart space.

“I see.” he said, voice low.

Bart let out a breath, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Look, I know I suck at this,” he muttered. “I can’t focus, I never could. My brain just… doesn’t do calm.” Bart laughed once - short and bitter. “And I don’t know how to make myself care.” He glanced sideways, as if embarrassed, looking anywhere but at Bob.

“So, yeah… yeah, maybe part of me just wants you to handle it. To tell me what to do. Because when someone else is in charge, I can just… shut everything off. Go blank.”

He looked down at his hands, hesitant.

“It’s easier...”

Bob watched him now - too intently - and something in his gaze betrayed a quiet wound.

“You believe that’s the reason why I invited you in?” Bob asked, his voice was too still.

Bart shifted, uncomfortable.

“I don’t know,” he said carefully. “Do you?”

“No, Bart…” He hesitated, then admitted, quietly. “I am - not certain of anything where you’re concerned.”

The sounds outside the shop faded.

“I told myself it was remorse,” Bob started, the words dragging like rusted chains. “For what I’ve… done. To you.” Each syllable tasted metallic, iron heavy in his mouth.

Bart’s gaze was unwavering and alert.

“Or perhaps decency,” Bob added, eyes cast slightly downward. “But if I’m honest… perhaps part of me wanted to feel necessary. To believe I can help you guide yourself. Help you find rhythm. Similar to the way I regulate myself.”

Bart blinked slowly, frown pulling at his features.

“You do that?” he asked, with sincere curiosity.

“Constantly.” Bob murmured, almost to himself.

Bart smirked faintly, not with humour but a reluctant understanding.

“I run,” he said simply, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. “When stuff gets loud in my head… I just tap out.” He rubbed his fingers restlessly. “Girls, drugs, parties, games… Doesn’t matter what, as longs as it shuts it off for a bit.”

Bob didn’t interrupt. He just stayed, silent and listening.

He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Keeps me afloat.”

Bob didn’t smile. 

Bart looked up again, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“So. What is this, then?” His smirk was half-hearted. “Some twisted co-regulation scheme?”

Bob considered him for a moment, then took a breath, the corners of his eyes softening.

“I think this is two unstable people trying not to make each other worse.”

Bart gave a slow nod and looked away.

“Yeah, that tracks.”

He picked up the pen, spun it once between his fingers and asked - voice low.

“You can stay nearby, if you want. But don’t... choreograph me, please.”

Bob gave a slow nod, no judgment in his eyes.

After a while, Bart found himself actually getting into the rhythm of studying. The tea helped - surprisingly - and the quiet hum of the shop was soothing in a way he hadn’t expected. 

The lamp buzzed. Outside, traffic murmured. Time passed.

Bob moved around the shop in near-silence, watering, trimming, rearranging flowers. But often, his eyes found Bart again - leaning now over a topic, lips moving slightly as he worked through it. Fighting not the material, but his own attention.

Nearly two hours later, Bob set a new cup of tea beside Bart, along with a small tray of crackers and an orange cut into wedges.

Bart looked up and caught Bob’s eye - his stomach did a funny little flip - a line of blue ink crossed one knuckle.

“Thanks.” He smiled, shyly.

✶ ✶ ✶

As the evening deepened, the flower shop spilled warm gold onto the sidewalk, soft against the indigo sky. Streetlamps blinked awake, casting slow-moving amber halos across the pavement. Bart stepped out, the air fresh with the scent of cooling stone.

They stood for a moment in the quiet of the street. The shop’s glow lit Bob from behind, haloing his silhouette - sleeves still rolled, the top button of his shirt undone. His deep-red curls had loosened through the day, falling in soft arcs near his temple and glowing with a gentle warm hue.

Bart’s expression looked almost peaceful. His pale blue eyes - sharp in daylight - now looked softer, hazed with quiet. His hair tousled from a distracted hand. A pair of headphones dangled loosely around his neck, shifting with every breath.

“See you around,” Bart muttered, trying for casual, eyes darting somewhere just past Bob’s shoulder

Bob nodded once, slower than necessary. “Try not to get kicked out of the next study lounge.” He teased softly.

Bart let out a soft, quick, laugh. Like he regretted it the second it escaped.

A moment of silence. Something half-formed and unsaid hanging between them. Their eyes met one last time. 

Then Bart turned, pulling his headphones over his ears, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Bob watched until he disappeared, swallowed gradually by the violet-blue dusk of the evening.

As Bob locked the front door, a flicker in the corner of his vision caught his attention - a glint of metal. A car idled in the end of the street, its lights off. Then it eased into motion and slid quietly down the road, like a serpent returning to water.

He frowned.

It wasn’t the first time Bob had felt watched.

The engine purred like a satisfied predator.

Behind the wheel, the man smiled - a blade-thin thing that never touched his eyes. The chrome trim of the dash gleamed under the passing lamps as he turned the wheel with ease.

He tapped the side of the steering wheel in rhythm with the tires rolling over the asphalt. A clock-like ticking sound.

“Two birds. One strike. What a lovely, lovely day.”

Chapter Text

“It is a common fault of men not to reckon on storms in fair weather.”
Niccolò Machiavelli

“Homo homini lupus est.”
Plauto

The floor stuck to your shoes, a mélange of indistinct smokes stuck to your lungs, and what was left of your discernment stuck somewhere back near the entrance.

Phone cameras flashed, skin glowed under coloured LEDs, lip gloss got smeared, and glitter spread at every surface – the crowd was loud, young, their laughter sharp and tipsy.

Mixers hissed, ice clattered into shakers, fluorescent drinks slid across the bar table like neon comets. Every beat synchronized the dancing crowd - the bass, the mist, the strobes light swallowed words and thoughts whole. Every song brought a new wave, arms raised, hips moving, the floor shaking under sneakers and stilettos alike.

Everything was loud, luminous, overflowing - a glowing altar to bad decisions - a cocktail that reminded Bart that he still had a body. A body that ached, that burned, and that still hungered for every sensation - instantly.

The laughter spilled onto the sidewalk outside, pooling like the puddles of beer foam under the streetlamp glare. Milhouse stumbled ahead, hollering about “the revolution” and tipping his imaginary hat to a random group standing by. Bart howled with laughter, arm draped loosely over his shoulder. His mouth had a bitter-sweet taste of vodka and sugar.

“Mills, tell me - why do we keep coming back to this stinking hellhole?” Bart slurred, kicking an empty discardable cup toward the nearest gutter.

“Because,” Milhouse declared, puffed up and righteous, “it lets us be ourselves without judgment!”

Bart grinned widely. “Hell yeah, baby.”

They were both wrecked, sloppy, and loud - drenched in that post-midterm delirium that tasted like long-yearned-for freedom.

With two more guys - Nathen and Quinn, from their course - behind them, they headed back to hangout at the student’s dorms. The night was still young, and Bart was feeling good and alive. His brain felt smushed and turned to velvet - his cheeks hurt from grinning.

Somewhere between a joke about one of their teachers and Bart’s too-loud chant over escaping old Springfield, Quinn and Nathen darted off, right before the group reached the building. Milhouse called him out, but Bart was mid-howl, doubled over laughing, with no idea why.

When he looked up, a figure was standing. It wasn’t Quinn, nor any other student.

Blue uniform. Glossy badge.

A flashlight was aimed into his eyes, splitting him open.

“You two, put your hands visible. Don’t move.”

The voice wasn’t even loud, yet Milhouse sobered instantly.

“Shit.”

Bart blinked twice. His limbs moved like molasses.

The cop stepped closer, his hand resting on his holster out of habit, disinterested eyes scanning them both.

Bart’s world tilted. He could still hear music, but it was suddenly very, very, far away. He tried to speak, but the words stalled in his dried-up throat.

“Student IDs,” the cop demanded sharply, shining the flashlight in their faces again, catching them in the eyes. They winced instinctively, eyes squeezing shut against the glare.

While Milhouse fumbled with his wallet, obediently, Bart stood there. His mouth felt like sand, and his hands were starting to twitch.

“W-we are right outside the dorms, s-sir.” Milhouse defended quickly, high-pitched and stuttering. “We’re not, uh - we didn’t-”

Another officer stepped closer without a word - just watching - his stare heavy and unreadable. Bart felt his skin crawl at the way he was being looked at. And he didn’t like it - he didn’t like any of this whole damn situation, actually.

Abruptly, with unsettling precision, the cop started frisking him.

“A little something to get the night started, huh?” the second one stated, pulling something from Bart’s back pocket.

He held up a crushed bag containing white powder.

Bart gut twisted hard. His blood went cold. 

“No-” Bart choked out - his head heavy - dizzy. “That’s not - I didn’t-”

“Right.” the cop cut in, deadpan.

“Bartholomew Jojo Simpson?” he read aloud, holding up the ID he’d fished out. He threw a look at his partner, then back at Bart.

“What a coincidence. We happened to find a couple of interesting things in your dorm. Want to walk us through that?”

✶

The inside of the station was too white. The aggressive brightness of the sharp fluorescent lights overhead pushed Bart’s eyes to the ground. He could hear three distinct sounds: the electric buzz of the lights, distant clattering sharp noises coming from undefined rooms, and his own drumming heartbeat.

Sitting alone in the holding room, Bart blinked, trying to sober up. The sterile emptiness surrounding him sent a freezing shiver through him.

“It can’t be that bad - it won’t be that bad.”

Bart tried to soothe himself in his thoughts, but his head felt dizzy.

His mouth tasted like metal. Blood, maybe. Adrenaline, definitely. His jaw had locked sometime after they took Milhouse down a different hall. There was a tacky sensation in his palms. He looked down.

He hadn’t realized his hands were trembling until now. He turned them up to see them covered in sweat. Whether it was fear or the lingering effects of the drugs and alcohol, he couldn’t say.

Milhouse would be fine. Milhouse was always more abstained.

He wasn’t.

The walls felt like they were expanding and contracting, his focus kept drifting, and Bart kept feeling dizzier and dizzier.

A door opened suddenly.

A tall, thickset cop appeared. He was in his mid-forties maybe - expression flat and face stern. He looked at Bart the same way one sees a sheet of paper: as if he was pure procedure.

He didn’t speak, instead, gestured.

Bart’s body rose on instinct - the kind carved from years of knowing what happens if you don’t - a conditioned compliance.

Trained like a dog that hears the leash jingle.

Get up. Don’t make it worse.

It never stopped the worst from happening but made him feel like it might.

He followed the man.

They walked down a narrow hall, past walls, rowed lights and murmurs behind closed doors. Bart tried to count the doors. Tried to remember how many fire extinguishers he had seen. Tried to find any way to calm himself down. Failed.

The cop stopped. A door was opened, and he was ordered in.

The room was sterile white, aggressive in its brightness. A single metal table sat at the centre, flanked by only one chair. An adjustable lamp was already tilted, aimed for the spotlight, but not on.

A wall-sized mirror watched them from the side, reflecting back their silhouettes - blurred and slightly warped.

Inside, another officer was already waiting, his back turned, slipping on a pair of latex gloves with quiet finality.

The door closed with a muted thud.

He glanced back. The cop who brought him didn’t stay.

It felt like a verdict had just been passed.

The light was turned on and hit him full in the face. Bart flinched, blinking hard, like a moth caught in a surgical lamp. He couldn’t make out the man across from him - his features were lost in shadow.

He wasn’t handcuffed. But there was no doubt who held the power.

Bart was told to spread his arms. He followed the command, turning his face to the side as the light seared into his eyes.

“Feet shoulder-width.”

He obeyed.

The officer moved methodically - hoodie off, laid flat on the table, searched.

Then the waistband. Then the pockets.

Bart didn’t flinch. He’d done a quick visit at juvenile before. They handle you fast - pat you like meat - no eye contact. It was clinical, fast, and only meant to keep you straight.  Only meant to strip your comfort, not your soul.

But this wasn’t fast.

And it didn’t feel clinical.

One of the gloved hands paused at his back, pressing into his spine firmly. The other started running up the inside of his thigh.

Too high.

Too fucking high.

He flinched.

Immediately, the cop’s voice ordered. “Stand still.”

Bart’s pulse kicked up, thrumming hard on his skull.

The first hand had slid to the nape of his neck. The second was up on his inner thigh.

Bart gasped.

“You got something hidden?” the voice asked - too close - blurring into the white noise of panic.

He couldn’t form a word.

His body was shaking.

The fluorescent light scalded his vision. He started seeing double. His head was spinning.

Everything in that room faded into black silhouettes - observers without eyes, judges without faces.

He didn’t know how many cops were in the room anymore.

Was there really only one? Were there two? Four?

They were shadows now. Watching him fall.

His breath stuttered. His eyes shut.

Not here.

Not now.

Not again.

The first time someone touched him like this had been rougher. Quick and clumsy - but less methodical, too.

A corner of a hallway. Wrong time to mouth off, wrong place to be in. And the wrong guy - someone who wanted to prove something. Bart had never told anyone. He had buried it deep.

Hadn’t even wanted to tell himself.

But his body remembered.

His body remembered perfectly.

He was sixteen again. Laing flat on concrete after a fight - one shoulder dislocated, a knee in his chest. Sheltering himself from a pair of hands. Hands touching him - claiming him. A voice growling against his temple:

“Still think you're funny now?”

“This will teach you some respect-”

“You’re lucky you have a pretty face.”

“Look at me now, you little shit!”

Now here he was again. In another room, another city, another man.

And all he could do was stand still.

A quiver ran through his body.

More pressure, cruel, and persistent.

He sobbed involuntarily. The cop didn’t acknowledge it or chose not to.

The second hand now pressing against his hips, checking seams. The grip around his waistband was too hard. The cold slide of gloves brushed on places that made his breath stall. The touch lingered.

He jerked, tried to speak, choked instead.

The world blurred - his vision darkened at the edges.

“Relax,” came the voice. Like a threat pretending to be instruction.

And Bart couldn’t.

Every nerve snapped awake, raw and thrumming with terror.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He wasn’t Bart anymore.

He was nothing.

A thing that didn’t fight.

A thing that didn’t bite back.

That’s what they wanted.

Break you down to parts.

Strip you. Empty you.

Take-

and take-

from you.

He blinked fast. His lashes were wet.

No.

No.

Not like this.

He forced himself to breathe.

In.

Out.

Pretend you’re not in your skin.

Pretend it’s not you.

Pretend it’s not real.

Pretend everything will be just fine.

The precinct’s reception room was washed in a bluish, artificial fluorescent glow, cold and quiet with anticipation. Milhouse stood just beneath the exit sign, twisting his fingers together.

“So... that’s it?” His voice was small, barely tethered to coherency.

An old, tired-looking, officer behind the bulletproof glass didn’t even glance up.

“You’re free to go, but your friend’s being held for possession.” he said, matter-of-factly. “We found enough in his dorm to qualify for a deeper investigation. Plus he was under the influence.”

He paled. “W-what happens now?”

“The bail’s posted on the wall.” The man stated indifferently.

Milhouse turned his head, as if bracing for a punch. He stared, mouth agape.

The number might as well have been written in blood. He swallowed, but the dryness of his throat turned the motion into a choke.

“I don’t- I mean, I can’t - how the hell am I supposed to-”

“Are you his legal guardian?” the cop asked, without interest, like if repeating protocol.

Milhouse blinked, flustered. “I’m… his friend.”

The officer’s eyes didn’t shift. “Then unless someone liable steps up, he’s not leaving any time soon.”

An indistinct buzz sounded. Somewhere down the building’s corridor, a door slammed shut.

The younger flinched.

Outside, Millhouse walked out to the quiet stillness of late-night air. Orange sodium lights buzzed above the empty sidewalks, and the only perceivable sound was that of newspaper's pages occasionally flapping on the road, rustled by the breeze.

Standing on the concrete steps of the station, arms crossed tight over his chest, he felt like the whole world had been set in pause.

He couldn’t think clearly.

The reality was stark: Bart was inside there - alone, high, probably spiralling by now - and Milhouse was useless out here - empty-pocketed and sick with worry.

But what could he possibly do? They couldn’t afford bail - not on part-time wages.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts with trembling hands. Lisa, maybe? But at this hour? It was 4:37 AM and she was miles away.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over her name.

But the fallout - the look on her face when she found out.

Neither she, nor Bart’s family, could fix this fast enough. Not without questions and certainly not without consequences.

But what else could he do?

He stopped.

A name came to mind.

Insane.

Insane even to consider it.

But Bart had gone to him - more than once. Trusted him, even, though Milhouse wasn’t sure that word felt right. Still, Bart had come back from that flower shop in one piece. And if he’d chosen to return, repeatedly, despite everything…

Maybe they’d reached some truce, some strange kind of… understanding?

And, who else was there?

It was a shot in the dark.

He didn’t have much hope, but it might be the only one.

Milhouse turned, made for the road, and ran.

Inside the flower shop, time moved differently.

It was as if midnight had passed unnoticed. Silence was dead-set, and the only trace of life was a weak desk lamp casting a golden pool across the counter, it reflected the strained curve of Bob’s shoulders.

Robert bent over a series of hydrangeas, sleeves rolled up, a pair of tweezers delicately plucking thrips from the undersides of the curling leaves. He murmured a thought to himself - that sounded more like a curse in Latin - as he scraped an infestation off his prized plants.

He hated the warming of the heather. It was too prosperous and brought with it all sort of destructive parasites.

Buried in the task at hand, Bob barely registered the noise at first. Just a whisper at the edge of his focus. But it came again - more definite this time.

A knock at the front door, light and unsure.

His brow furrowed as he checked the clock.

“It’s 4:45 in the morning.”

He set the tool aside, ran a cloth across his fingers, and eased silently toward the front, adjusting his collar unconsciously - a gesture somewhere between preparation and defense. Without switching on the light, he peeked through the thin parting of curtain and window frame.

Outside stood a young man that didn’t quite match the time of night or place – sweaty bangs clinging to his forehead, cheeks blotched pink, expression teetering between panic and disorientation. His eyes held a strange sort of desperation.

Bob stared in confusion, then unlocked the newly-installed deadbolt and pulled open the door.

“Yes?” he asked, voice sharp as steal.

Milhouse flinched like a stray dog, caught between the indecision to either bolt or beg.

“I - uh - sorry. I know this is weird. And - late. So late. But it’s because of Bart’s... I mean…” He flailed, his mouth wouldn’t form the words.

Bob raised a hand to silence him. Not violently, but with command.

“Breathe, boy, and tell me what happened.”

Milhouse nodded quickly, practically hyperventilating as he tried to comply.

“Bart’s in trouble,” he managed at last. “Like - real trouble. The cops… they arrested him. He had stuff with him and was high when they found him. He’s still there now. They won’t let him go unless someone pays the bail. And I - I don’t have enough. I don’t know what else to do. I tried-”

Bob stilled. A shadow of unease creeping in.

The air around him hardened like glass.

“This wasn’t random. Or was it?”

“Am I overthinking?”

The thought tasted like iron.

His voice, when it came, was too soft. It scared Milhouse more than if he’d shouted.

“Did anyone come looking for him before?”

“I-I don’t know,” Milhouse pondered. “But the cops were already at the dorms when we arrived. Said they found stuff on Bart’s room.”

Bob stood still, replaying the words.

“Student’s dorms aren’t raided without cause. Someone had to have known something - or claimed to.”

“There had to be a call. Or an anonymous tip. It was the only way they’d have gotten a warrant-“

The pieces locked together, and with them, a thudding rush in his chest.

The memory came as a whisper. Invasive.

“I wonder if he still sleeps with the window open.”

Panic slithered in. Dread seeped into his chest.

The man’s expression darkened. All warmth vanished.

Milhouse instinctively stepped back, noticing the shift in air.

Then Robert straightened - slowly, like a serpent uncoiling from the soil. A man - yes - still a man. But not just a man.

A new edge had settled in his stance - dangerous and predatory. He reached for his coat in a sharp motion. As he turner and stared down at Milhouse, his eyes had narrowed to slits, his voice was heavy as stone.

“Lead me to Bart.”

Milhouse blinked, throat dry.

He suddenly wasn’t so sure if he was saving his friend or delivering him.

Chapter Text

“Only great pain is, as the teacher of great suspicion, the ultimate liberator of the spirit…
I doubt whether such pain improves us - but I do know it deepens us.”
Friedrich Nietzsche

“One must be a fox in order to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten off wolves.”
Niccolò Machiavelli

The walls around him were of a cold greyish-white with a fluorescent fixture overhead. The air tasted metallic and Bart didn’t know if it was from the room itself, from the blood still ghosting his gums after biting the inside of his cheeks, or from the fear coiled at the back of his throat.

He sat curled up on the metal bench bolted to the furthest wall with his legs drawn up, his arms locked tight around them. His whole body felt like it might collapse, and he had to fold himself to prevent it from happening - prevent the room itself from tearing him open.

The station, despite its slow erosion, had a practical and clean design that allowed officers to monitor detainees easily. This section was a row of secure, sterile holding cells with white walls, large windows opened for the main corridor, and individual doors. There was no clock and no openings for the outside.

Bart could only hear the sound of distant footsteps and that of his own breathing. His mouth was dry, his heartbeat wouldn’t regulate. A slow churning dread curled on his stomach - restlessly - and he could feel his throat all the way down, like if he was going to throw up and cry and punch the wall all at once.

His shirt smelled like sweat, alcohol and secondhand smoke. His jeans were crooked from where they’d been yanked down then pushed back up. The fabric felt foreign - wrong on his hips - and his skin felt exposed, oversensitive…

Fragile.

He could still feel it. The hands.

He fought the tears from forming on his eyes. And the shame from his mind.

He buried his face deeper towards his knees and chest.

Don’t let it become a thing…

Instead, he focused on the last thing the cop had said before the cell clanged shut: "You should be more careful who you let into your life. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened."

That sentence.

That fucking sentence.

At the time, it had barely registered. He was feeling dizzy, raw, trying to swallow the heat burning up the back of his throat. But now, alone in that cell, he had nothing but the echo of that voice - that tone - slick with implication. The words crawled underneath his skin.

He lifted his head just enough to stare into the opposite wall, into its blank, damp, impassive whiteness.

What the hell did that mean?

He scanned back, replaying everything. One minute, him and his group were stumbling back from the bar, still laughing, cracking jokes… then came the flashing light, the domineering cop’s voice ordering them in.

The static inside of the patrol’s car.

The silence of the police station.

Then the blinding room, the faceless cop… the way that the cop's hands didn’t search but pressed... paused, gripped, assessed.

Bart squeezed his eyes shut, fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his skin.

Don’t. Don’t go there.

If he named it, he’d have to deal with it. If he didn’t, maybe he could let it blur, let it smudge away like the rest of the night already had.

But the cop’s words kept bleeding through.

“You should be more careful who you let into your life…”

He rocked back and forward slightly, the motion helping to make him feel grounded.

Who knew about his stash?

He hadn’t exactly been careful. A few classmates knew, sure… and Lee, probably? One girl from the contemporary dance class who always asked for something to borrow. But mostly they were users too - Bart knew the look. And those weren’t the kind to snitch. Hell, half of them probably had worse in their sock drawers.

Milhouse? Never. Wouldn’t even think about it.

So, who else?

The list was short, and his close circle wasn’t big. But one name had a different connotation.

Bob...

Bob knew.

His stomach clenched so hard he nearly doubled over again. The image came fast and involuntary: Bob in his formal attire, snipping stems, shirt sleeves rolled, calm and precise. The way he spoke, always with weight. And lately… a weird warmth under the surface.

Bart had told him. That late afternoon, offhandedly, in one of those - more honest - moments they shared.

Would he?

Could he?

Bart turned his head sharply and tried to stop shaking. He gritted his teeth hard, too hard, until his jaw hurt.

Why would Bob do that?

Why lure him in with politeness, warmth, food - and then… what? Turn him over? For what gain?

But then, his brain - treacherously - began spiralling:

Bob had been very open with him. But the tension between them never completely faded. Could he have been walking a tightrope this whole time?

Maybe it was a long game.

Maybe the flower shop was camouflage.

Maybe the man had never really changed.

Was it... manipulation? A slow and methodical way of setting him up?

Maybe this was Bart’s penance. Being trapped in a cell because he believed someone like him could change.

What if that cop wasn’t making a vague warning?

What if it was a concrete message?

What if he’d already been played?

Had he ever really been safe around him?

The thought struck like an electrical current straight to the spine. Bart stood up suddenly, too fast. His head felt dizzy again, the world lurched sideways. He pressed his hands to the wall, chest heaving, trying to regain balance. His mind spiralled faster now, eating itself alive.

No.

No- it can’t be…

But the voice inside his chest, the one born from years of terror, of betrayal, of pain, whispered.

It always is.

He slid down the wall again and curled up on the floor, hugging his legs tighter.

His eyes burned, but he refused to cry. Instead, he closed them and imagined the noise of the bar - the music, the laughing, the warmth of dancing bodies, Milhouse’s presence, the bubble of a life that moments before was his only reality.

He pressed his forehead to his knees and shook.

The tires screeched against the asphalt of the parking lot like a wounded beast. A shriek that sparked along Millhouse’s nerves and rattled him all the way from skull to teeth.

Bob didn’t park so much as abandon the car diagonally, across two spots, the engine still growling as he made his way out. He slammed the door violently while Milhouse fumbled with his seatbelt, scrambling after him. The younger’s jacket hung crooked on his frame, the zipper caught halfway, and his hair clung in damp strands to his forehead.

The station rose out of the dark steeped in the jaundiced glow of sodium lamps, a sickly white light bled from its entrance and small windows.

Inside, the air carried the bite of bleach and burnt coffee. It was nearly five a.m., but the nocturnal tension was thick and only growing.

Bob crossed the threshold, his steps cut through the silence with the cadence of a vendetta.

He didn’t wait for a greeting.

“Robert Terwilliger. I’m here to post bail for Bartholomew Simpson.” His voice grave.

The receptionist looked up, wearing the startled neutrality of someone for whom sleep deprivation and late-night chaos were just part of the paycheck.

"It'll take a few minutes." The man grouched out, fingers dragged across the keyboard.

Bob leaned forward, his presence pressing across the desk like weight.

“Make them quick.”

Milhouse lingered beside him, hands wringing.

“We’re taking him home, right? After this?” He asked nervously.

Bob didn’t respond. His mind was already tearing through possibilities, most of them ending with him breaking through the doors and dragging Bart out by force. But he’d had enough run-ins with legal bureaucracy to know he didn’t want another.

Why had this happened? Why now?

Something in the air warned of a tightening trap.

Then an officer stepped out from the doorway, his hair silvering at the temples, every line of his face guarded and still.

“Mr. Terwilliger, you’re requested in Interview Room number 2.”

Bob turned his head, a crease cutting deep between his brows.

Requested?

That was not necessary procedure.

He turned to Milhouse, pulling a twenty and a folded receipt from his coat. With a pen from his pocket, he scrawled something quickly on the back.

“Wait for him. Get a taxi and take him straight home. Don’t let him out of your sight. If he needs me, give him this.”

The bill and paper were in Milhouse’s palm before he’d even processed the words.

“Wait, what-?” Milhouse started.

But Bob was already moving.

✶

The room was lit like a morgue, three fluorescent panels humming overhead, bleaching the life out of the space. Shadows gathered in the corners where sharp angles didn’t allow the light to pass through, forming a deep, stagnant darkness.

A steel table, bolted to the floor, divided the space with cutting precision. One chair on either side, perfectly aligned, waiting for the next confession - or the next execution.

Jack Lassen sat in the farthest chair. His pressed uniform caught the light at sharp angles, his badge throwing a faint reflection onto the tabletop. But his eyes… those were another thing entirely. They gleamed with the viscous sheen of oil slicked over dirty water, and like oil, they promised to cling to anything they touched.

Robert stepped in, the door clicking shut behind him like the locking of a lion’s cage.

He didn’t sit. He didn’t speak.

Lassen’s gaze moved with him, tracking his movements like a scope.

When his mouth curved, it was slow and assured - one of those smiles that was founded not in warmth but on certainty.

“Robert Terwilliger,” he rasped, savouring each syllable as though they bled. “I was hoping we’d speak… privately.”

Bob stood still, his height and stillness forcing Lassen to lift his chin slightly.

“I see you came running the second your boy got into trouble,” Lassen went on, his voice was now mild, almost conversational. “Loyalty’s admirable. Rare, even, nowadays.” He let the words hang, precise, the hum of the lights seeping into the silence. “But restraint… rarer, still.”

Bob’s jaw flexed, but his eyes didn’t waver.

Lassen rose slowly, the chair scraping against the floor in a single, deliberate note. He didn’t break eye contact as he came around the table.

His steps were unhurried, but each one shortened the space between them until only two measured feet remained – the way a bird of prey judges the distance to strike.

“You and I,” he crooned, the sweetness of his tone rotting at the edges. “We understand repetition. A man with your… history - doesn’t orbit a boy like him by accident.”

He straightened, patiently, his badge catching the light again, a sharp glint pinned between them.

“You’ve been seen - together - enough times for the whispers to grow teeth. And teeth, Bob, teeth bite - in courtrooms, in headlines, in businesses…” He let his gaze drop to Robert’s hands.

Bob’s voice was a low blade, the kind of tone that demanded silence to be heard.

“What do you want.”

Lassen’s grin thinned into something predatory - an oddly mechanical gesture that felt wrong in the motion.

“What I want?” He gestured to the room, then to the badge. “I want order, Bob. Predictability. People like you staying in the roles they’ve proven they’re suited for. You keep circling that boy, and sooner or later someone’s going to open your old files. Then it’s not about what’s true. It’s about what plays.”

Silence sat again.

He stepped in, closing the gap by half. Close enough for Bob to feel the faint heat from his breath. His eyes never blinking.

“He won’t last inside, and you know that. A pretty boy like him, a mouth like his - they’ll eat him alive. But you…” Lassen’s mouth curved as he cocked his head, the way someone might admire a doomed animal. “You’re built for cages. You’ve earned yours...”

Bob’s gaze was sharp enough to cut through the dim light, his fingers curled into fists, a quiet flex that didn’t escape Lassen’s eyes.

“You saved him tonight,” Lassen breathed, retreating by one step, reclaiming his ground with military precision. “But I wonder how many more nights you’ll manage that…”

For a moment, nothing moved.

Even the stale air seemed to hesitate, the hum of the lights swelling like a slow heartbeat.

Robert’s gaze wasn’t heat - it was glacial. The stillness before steel meets flesh, the slow coil of violence caged in restraint - and the coldness of the hunter that knew the exact shape of the kill.

When he finally spoke, the words carried the gentleness of a man laying flowers on a grave.

“Enjoy your fun while you still can.”

He turned, each movement precise, his footsteps ticking like a countdown across the tile.

The door closed without a whisper, sealing the room in the echo of his absence.

The sound came first.

The metallic clink of the lock turning. A small sound that inside of Bart was felt like an earthquake, his stomach twisted into a tight knot of pure anxiety.

The door opened. A new officer stepped in - this one younger, with a clipped haircut and a civil but detached expression.

“You’re being released.”

Bart stared for a beat too long, like he wasn’t sure if he understood the meaning of those words.

Then he stood up and exited. He felt nothing, neither relief nor resistance - as though his body had been disconnected from the rest of him and was now operating on muscle memory alone.

His sneakers scraped against the tiles as he followed the officer out.

Milhouse was there.

The fluorescent lights overhead made him look pale, his blue hair a muted, sweaty mess. His arms opened - and Bart, without even thinking, stepped into them.

It wasn’t a joyful hug, and there was nothing even graceful about it. Bart collapsed forward, as if his spirit had given in. His head laid in Milhouse’s shoulder, his arms hanged limp for a second before finding the strength to reciprocate.

His friend didn’t ask anything.

The night air outside the precinct was sharp and cold. They slid into the backseat of a yellow, excessively warmed up, cab.

The driver asked for the address and Milhouse answered. After that, it was silence.

Bart’s gaze locked somewhere past the glass, but his eyes didn’t grasp on anything - just a fixed, glazed stare, like his mind was still half-locked in the holding cell.

Milhouse kept looking at him, searching for something to say. Bart’s jaw was tense, his face was pale and his lips bloodless. His hands wouldn’t stop moving - first rubbing his knees, the fabric of his jeans, then touching the edge of his hoodie, then back to rubbing his thighs.

“Do you need a hospital?” Milhouse asked at last. His voice quiet, careful, and a bit afraid.

Bart shook his head without looking away from the window. “They’ll find it in my system.”

And that was it.

The driver’s radio murmured low music as the city drifted past in streaks of lamplight. Every bump in the road made Bart flinch. Milhouse observed but didn’t push.

The cab pulled up under the dormitory’s front entrance. It was quiet at this hour - only the screeching sound crickets and the soft hiss of tires on the street as the cab pulled away.

Milhouse unlocked the door and Bart followed him inside. When they reached the dorm, Bart stood there for a second, then another, his face apathetic.

And then - without warning - he crumpled forward.

His forehead pressed hard into Milhouse’s shoulder, his breath hitching once, twice - to then break entirely.

For the first time in a long time, Bart cried. Weakly, trembling, his shoulders shivering under Milhouse’s embrace.

Milhouse held him clumsily - he wasn’t good at this - but he was present. At the window, the first colours of morning bled into the sky and, outside, the dormitory lights buzzed and trembled on the edge of going dark.

Neither noticed.

Chapter Text

“Like plants, so men also grow, some in the light, others in the shadows.
There are many who need the shadows and not the light.”
Carl Jung, The Red Book

“One repeats because repeating now means that one will escape the old trauma and because revenge and orgasm deserve repeating.
Those are reasons enough.”
Robert J. Stoller, Perversion - The Erotic Form of Hatred

The precinct at dawn was a desolate wasteland. Empty coffee cups littered desks and overflowed trashcans, paperwork slumped in uneven piles, and the air reeked of stale coffee, cheap aftershave tangled with disinfectant that never managed to cover the rot beneath.

His mirror-polished boots struck the floor with the clipped rhythm of authority, each step precise and echoing like a drill march. The badge pinned to his chest caught the first pale threads of daylight through the high windows, scattering its shine into the eyes of every police officer he passed - like the sun itself conspired to highlight him.

Heads lifted as he walked by. They always did. Since his first day here, about a month ago, the room shifted whenever he entered. A few officers returned quickly to their screens and case files, but never fast enough to hide the glance he caught - that wary glance.

“Respect and fear. Two faces of the same coin.” Jack crooned to himself.

Last night had been a gift, every unexpected turn more rewarding than the last. An unravelling of threads so precise, so perfect, with all the strings in his hands. A spectacle created solely for his amusement.

The raid at the dorms had been set in motion by him, of course. Ultimately, nothing ever moved without a little incentive. But he hadn’t predicted fortune to bend so neatly in his favour: his colleagues bringing the boy in the very same night, caught red-handed. Perfect.

The hardest part had been slipping past protocol - convincing them that he should be the one to search Bart, and that the cameras could conveniently look the other way. But luck was on his side, and so was the filth tucked into their closets. A whisper of exposure was all it took.

"After all, no one likes the light turned on them."

He smiled.

And just like that, the room was his. And the boy’s.

It couldn’t have gone better. Simpson breaking down piece by piece, fear and panic suffocating him until his gaze went empty. And then, the inevitable second act: Terwilliger, storming in, as though auditioning for some forgotten Shakespearean tragedy. All grand gesture, fury, and hollow nobility. Predictable. Tiresomely so.

Call it obsession, call it perversion - it didn’t matter. It was all the same rot beneath a different mask. It was weakness, and Jack had slipped the blade right into the wound. He could still savour the silence that followed. The silence of a man suffocating on his own rage. Terwilliger’s eyes had promised violence, but his body stayed shackled. The great cat declawed, pacing behind and invisible cage - and Jack was the one holding the key.

That was the system’s beauty. 

Bob fought with force - all fire and raw fury. Jack fought with rules. While Bob’s prison had iron bars, Jack’s prison was bureaucracy itself - regulations, codes, paperwork, unwritten loyalties... Invisible walls that were harder than concrete. And no lion, however furious, could tear them down.

He was untouchable.

A pair of rookies drifted near the vending machine, straightening like soldiers as he strode past. One couldn’t help himself - their eyes caught his, lingered a fraction too long. Jack’s grin carved sharper.

"Of course. Word had spread. It always did."

Whispers moved faster than reports in this building, and he knew the portrait they painted of him: ruthless, unyielding, dangerous when crossed. Let them whisper. Let them lower their voices when he passed. A man feared was a man respected. And respect was power.

His fingertips traced the badge, habit-polished until it gleamed coldly back at him.

"Robert Terwilliger…"

Jack paused at the glass door leading outside, sunlight already spilling in the lot. He caught his reflection staring back: immaculate uniform, sharp jaw, sharper smile - and he straightened it all with a tug of his collar.

'Enjoy your fun while you still can.' Bob had warned.

Jack almost laughed.

The fun was only beginning.

“I’m… really sorry, Bart.” Milhouse’s voice was thin and apologetic, almost swallowed by the stillness of the dorm room. “I- I should’ve done more.”

Bart hunched on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his knees, gaze pinned to the floor. He thought about laughing, like he always did. Deflect, pretend. Make it easier for both of them. But he couldn’t. Not this time.

“You couldn’t have done anything else,” he muttered, voice rough. “You weren’t the one… getting touched.”

The words dropped heavy into the room, too raw. He coughed, forcing them back down, and turning his face toward the wall.

“Besides, I’ve been through worse.” The pitch of his voice rang false, stretched too thin.

Milhouse’s expression twisted, he shuttered and opted not to push his friend further.

Bart shifted, rubbing his palms against his jeans in an absent, self-soothing motion. Then stilled and blinked up at him with sudden clarity.

“Wait - how the hell did you even get me out?”

Milhouse stiffened, eyes darting away as his fingers fumbled with the hem of his jacket.

“I… didn’t. I mean - I tried, but… it wasn’t me. I asked someone else.”

“Asked who?” Bart’s eyes narrowed, suspicion cutting through the haze.

The words stuck in Milhouse’s throat before he forced them out, like ripping off a bandage.

“Sideshow Bob.”

The name landed like a brick. Bart straightened.

Milhouse hurried to explain, his voice cracking as he waved his hands in frantic defense.

“I didn’t know what else to do! You were locked up, the bail was too high, your family - Lisa - everyone would ask questions and - I thought… I thought maybe he could help. And he did.”

From his back pocket, Milhouse pulled out a folded slip of receipt. The paper was creased and smudged. On the reverse, a phone number was slashed across in elegant but merciless handwriting.

“He said… to give this to you. If you needed him.”

Bart stared down at it. The numbers looked like a scar branded into cheap paper.

✶ ✶ ✶

Later, when Milhouse left him alone to “get some sleep,” Bart was still sitting on his bed with the receipt in hand. The dorm was darkened except for the stripes of morning light spilling through the blinds.

His thoughts raced in frantic circles. Bart couldn't shake the thought that there was something more to this than just bad luck. Or someone...

“You should be more careful who you let into your life.” The cop’s voice echoed in his head.

There was no brushing it off - Bob was still the person who made the most sense.

The time they had spent together… it could have all been bait. What if that had been the plan all along - Bart’s fall scripted into one of Bob’s elaborate schemes? A trap disguised as help. Kindness dangled on a hook, with the knife waiting just out of sight?

That would have been his style… Elegantly cruel and as patient as poison.

Wouldn’t that be the most Bob thing of all?

He could hear the man’s voice, velvet and venom at once, warmth curling into contempt. Bart gnawed the inside of his - already sore - cheek.

He knew too damn well what Bob was capable of - he’d witnessed it, survived it. And the man had earned his suspicion ten times over.

But then… why help him at all? Why bail him out? Why show up in the dead of night, when walking away would’ve cost him nothing? He could’ve left Bart to rot. Could’ve smiled from the dark and done nothing.

But he hadn’t. He’d stepped in. That wasn’t betrayal. That was… the opposite?

Bart frowned, his chest feeling tight. The relief was real - terrifyingly so - but…

Still, he didn’t need saving.

Bart didn’t need anyone swooping in like some hero from a black-and-white film… That wasn’t like him. He got himself into this mess, and he’d crawl back out, teeth bared. Like he always had.

Depending on Bob felt… wrong.

“I don’t need him.” Bart threw the words out, arms crossing in stubborn defiance.

But then… why? Why had he done it? Why again? It wasn’t the first time Bob had been there in some crooked, sideways way.

Did Bob actually care?

Or was that naive - suicidal, even - of him to think?

Was he doing these things out of guilt?

The spiral gnawed at him, swinging between paranoia and some strange, unwanted yearning. Bob’s face kept appearing in his mind like a broken projector reel.

Threat? Savior? Manipulator? Ally?

Bart’s eyes dropped to the number again. He hadn’t let go of it, not once. His phone waited, screen glowing, his thumb hovered over the numbers.

“This is stupid.” he muttered to the empty room.

And still, he typed it in, one digit at a time. He hesitated, pulse pounding.

Then, with a sharp inhale, he pressed the call button.

The dial tone rang once. Rang twice.

The house was immersed in its usual silence.

Morning light leaked through the blinds in fractured stripes, carving pale scars across the living room. The air itself seemed to hesitate, caught between one moment and the next, as if time had forgotten to move forward.

The armchair held him in its depths, but Bob hadn’t moved since dawn, his stillness eerie, unnatural - rivalling that of a statue. His coat was still on, sleeves wrinkled at the elbows, the faint smell of smoke clung to it - one of his rare concessions to weakness.

His fingers moved faintly against the armrest, curling and stretching as though reminding themselves they belonged to a living man. The slow motion betraying the storm he couldn’t release.

He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t moved. Even his shoes remained on, heavily binding him to the floor. Yet the station followed him here - the buzz of fluorescent light still whined in his ears, thin and crude, phantom-like and inescapable, like the memory of a migraine.

Lassen waited behind his eyelids.

The man’s eyes, glinting in the interrogation room’s stale light, fat with arrogance, drunk on power. Bob recognized that gaze too well: the look of a man convinced the system was his private stage, and that cruelty was a form of artistry.

The same look Lassen had worn years ago.

The summer sun turned the yard into a kiln, concrete exhaling heat under the weight of the sun. The air carried its usual perfume - sweat, piss, cheap tobacco, and rusted iron. Men prowled the yard in tight circles, while guards barked from their posts, their voices always too far to matter.

And in the middle of it: Lassen.

Leaning in the doorway of C-block as if the prison itself were his lounge, his posture loose - as if bored by the monotony - but the act was paper-thin and his gaze was always cutting. His eyes missed nothing - always listening, always watching. He spun his threads in murmurs, trading lies and half-truths as if they were gold. Dropping words in the right ear and letting gravity do the rest. The yard danced at his rhythm without knowing it.

A rumour could bruise a man black.

Or bury him six feet under.

Lassen leaned in the shadows, eyes like glass marbles catching every detail. Still, unblinking, a ghost with a smirk carved into his face. As if the violence belonged to him.

He never lunged. Never struck. He let the anger of others do it for him.

Blackmail was his art.

Survival had meant following the advice once whispered to him by Snake: Never owe Lassen. Never let him smell fear. If he does, he’ll bleed you dry.

He had been right, Snake had survived him knowing that truth.

But as dawn fractured across his blinds, Bob felt the cold inevitability of it: Lassen didn’t need his hypothetical fear anymore. He had found something much better:

Bartholomew Simpson. His weakness in the flesh.

The boy was a lever. One that Lassen would keep pulling until the strain broke one of them.

Unless Bob pulled first.

His hand stilled on the armrest.

Every man had a weakness. Even the most careful hunter left tracks. And once you knew where to press, how to press, the whole balance of power shifts.

Lassen believed himself untouchable.

Robert would relish proving him wrong.

He leaned back against the armchair, the leather creaking faintly under his shoulders. His eyes were sharp now, no longer bloodshot with exhaustion but narrowed with calculation. The idea sat in him like a seed in fertile ground, waiting for the right moment to sprout.

It wasn’t a matter of if.

Only how.

The silence pressed closer, and for a moment he almost welcomed it.

Then -

Rrrring.

The shrill slashed through the air, abrupt against its quiet fragility.

Bob’s head snapped toward the coffee table, toward the small device shuddering on the glass. The sight pulled a rare crease between his brows.

Calls didn’t come this early. Not on his personal number.

Slowly, almost reverently, Bob stretched out his hand, fingertips grazing the glowing screen that buzzed with an unknown number. He let the phone ring twice before accepting the connection.

No words emerged - only a faint, hesitant breath, delicate as a whisper, revealing more than any voice could.

“Bart?” Bob asked with a soft, careful tone, mindful of the fragile silence.

A tense pause filled the line, broken only by a faint scrape - perhaps the edge of a sleeve dragged against the receiver in nervous hesitation. At last, Bart’s voice surfaced, thin and frayed at the edges.

“You don’t have to keep doing this.” he uttered, voice strained.

Bob closed his eyes, letting the words land quietly.

“Doing what?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“This.” Bart’s voice was initially edged with sharpness, but then softened into something that almost cracked. “Helping me... Covering for me, paying things off. It’s not your responsibility. You don’t owe me after…” He trailed off, swallowed. “After before.”

After what you did.

The words hung there, pressed into the silence. Unspoken but sharpened all the same, heavy with everything neither of them said.

Bob inhaled slowly. He could hear the defensiveness in Bart’s tone, the pride and pain bleeding through each clipped syllable. He knew that sound intimately - he had lived in it. And beneath, the feeling that Bart was trying to create distance, perhaps by hurting himself first.

“That is not the reason.” Bob said softly. His voice steady but carrying the weight of what felt like a confession.

“Then why?” Bart’s voice was quiet now, searching, vulnerable beneath the surface.

Bob drew a slow breath, steadying himself.

The truth - the raw, unfiltered truth: that every gesture was selfish - was too dangerous to voice aloud. So he offered what honesty he could survive saying.

“Because I want to.” he stated quietly.

The silence that ensued was different - longer, tentative, filled with quiet curiosity - as Bart’s breathing slowed and softened.

“That doesn’t make sense.” he murmured eventually.

“It doesn’t have to.” Bob said softly, but there was a tenderness behind his words that caught Bart off guard - his breath coming unevenly through the line.

Another pause ensued and when Bart spoke again, his voice was lower, nearly an admission to himself.

“I know… this is on me.”

Bob sat up straighter, tension curling tightly in his grip on the chair’s arm. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Bart faltered, words catching before he pushed through. “I coast. I let things slide. If I don’t choose, then maybe the bad ones don’t count. I just let everything pile up, and then it blows up. I can’t act surprised when it does… That’s how I got here. Failed exams, failing to even hold on a date, dorm full of shit I shouldn’t have had...”

Bob fought the urge to interrupt, to insist that the blame wasn’t entirely his to bear - but on the man who targeted and cornered him, on the man who came back because of Bob.

But he held himself still. This wasn’t a confession to be interrupted. And it wasn’t about his absolution. It was a young man looking at himself.

“I need to stop,” Bart continued. “I need to figure out what I’m doing. Not just… wait for impact. So I’m gonna stay with my parents for a while. Till the end of the week. Clear my head.”

His words weren’t polished, but they carried weight - an intent that Robert acknowledged. He pressed his palm firmly against the chair’s arm, grounding himself.

“Yes… perhaps that is safest. Better there than exposed here. At least, in theory.” Bob thought to himself, but not without the bitterness of absence already pressing in around him.

His reply was simple, but purposeful. “Do as you must. But remember - if trouble comes, I am only ever one call away.”

A silence followed, but it wasn’t hollow. Bart didn’t feel the need to fill it, he let it breathe, have space. That, in itself, was new.

Finally, Bart said softly, “Yeah.”

Then, after a beat, Bart added, quietly.

“…Don’t burn yourself out on me, okay?”

Bob blinked. The words caught him off guard, striking more deeply than any accusation ever had.

“Bart…” His voice wavered, more emotional than he had intended. “I won’t.”

The boy exhaled, his breath shaky but calmer than before. “Okay.”

Another quiet pause. Then, softer still: “Thank you.”

The line went silent.

Bob lingered with the silent phone in his hand, eyes unfocused on the trembling light painted across the floor, his chest pulled tight.

Bart owed him nothing. And still… He had thought to worry for him.

The line went dead with a soft click. Bart remained still, sitting on his bed with the phone still resting in his hand, gazing at the dark screen.

He sighed heavily, everything feeling too much - too heavy for him to bear.

But Bob’s voice had been so gentle, so comforting. It stayed with him in the quiet, like the echo of an embrace he was too prideful to admit he needed - like a song he’d been secretly listening to, but afraid to acknowledge how much it’s been on his mind.

“I am only ever one call away.”

He unlocked his phone, navigating to the recent dialed list and tapped into the edit screen.

Name:

He paused, pondering for a moment… then typed:

The Florist

On the suggestion bar, a variety of flower emojis appeared. He scrolled through them, searching for the right one. No carnations, of course - that would be too specific. Only roses showed up. Close enough. Too close, really.

He chose it anyway.

Saved it.

The tiny red rose glowed softly back at him, amplifying the oddness of it all. He let out a light scoff, and only then did he notice he was smiling - a subtle, gentle curve that eased the tension in his features.

He lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. There was much on his mind, but fear or despair didn’t fill him. Instead, another - gentle, quieter - feeling was blooming inside his chest.

He didn’t understand it, but -

Bart didn’t try to push it aside.

Chapter Text

“You will burn and you will burn out, you will be healed and come back again."
Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

The garage crouched at the far end of a cracked asphalt lot, half-swallowed by overgrown weeds. Its rusting metal roof clicked and groaned as the early sun warmed it. Inside, the air was heavy with burnt fuel, dust, grease, and the faint metallic tang of blood long since washed away.

Tools littered the workbench in chaotic piles, a crowbar rested across a disembowelled toolbox, a stack of wrenches darkened by grease. At the centre of it all sat a half-dismantled car that seemed more carcass than vehicle, its insides pried open to the gaze of the all-seeing morning light.

Snake was under it, lying flat on a creeper, a cigarette dangling from his lips despite the fumes, and humming off-key to an 80’s song from the radio he kept at arm’s reach. When the tall man’s silhouette filled the open entrance, his singing was cut short. The device was turned off with a firm thud. Snake slid out on the board, squinting against the light, and wiped his hands on a rag so filthy it only moved the grease around.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. The memory of the yard hung between them still - the stink of concrete and steel returned, but so did the strange warmth of recognition. The silent bond of men who had walked through the same fire and would never walk apart from it. Then Snake grinned, sharp and crooked, like a wolf baring its teeth.

“Man… seeing you is like déjà vu in a nightmare.” He tossed the rag aside, pushing himself up with an easy swagger. “Didn’t think I’d see your face around Springfield again.”

What touched Bob’s mouth wasn’t quite a smile, but it wasn’t contempt either. Their hands met and held firmly, longer than courtesy demanded - a wordless kinship.

“You look… alive.” His tone was flat, but the corner of his mouth tugged faintly.

Snake let out a rough chuckle. “Alive, yeah. Penniless, reeking of gasoline, but well above ground. I’ll take it.” He smirked, arms akimbo.

Then his grin softened a notch.

“You don’t come lurkin’ around these parts without a script in your hand. So, what’s the deal? Don’t tell me we’ve got homework.”

Robert’s tone came heavy, carrying only one word:

“Lassen.”

The sound throbbed low in the air, like thunder after the lightning. Snake’s grin sharpened instantly, eyes glittering with the vicious pleasure of old grudges unburied.

“Well, damn. Now we’re talking.” Snake leaned back against the workbench, fishing out a new cigarette. “That son of a bitch burned every last one of us. Sellin’ favours, makin’ us pay in flesh. Bastard railed more men than a skank ever could… Still makes my blood boil.” He flicked his lighter. “So. What’s the play?”

Stepping in fully, Bob shoved the aluminium door closed. It shrieked in protest, sealing away the morning light. The garage seemed to shrink, drowned in shadow, as the lone bulb threw their faces into a harsh yellow, stage-like, light.

“Something tells me Lassen left Springfield for a reason.” Bob uttered, cold as stone. “A transfer? No. A man like him never walks away clean. He sheds one skin, slips into another. Burying deep whatever secrets he’s hoarded before the stench rises.”

Snake leaned back, considering. He let the smoke roll lazily out of his mouth, sending it ceiling-ward.

“I want every whisper,” Bob continued, low and cutting. “Every time he bent the rules, every debt unpaid, every shipment that came up light, every man he left with a reason to cut his throat. And like all man drunk on power, he left a trail. His mistake was thinking no one would dare to trace it.”

Snake tilted his head, tapping ash onto the floor. “And you don’t wanna touch the dirt yourself.”

Bob’s expression seemed carved from marble. “No. This one has to be clean. So clean he won’t even realize whose hands were on the shovel.”

That earned him a slow chuckle. Snake studied him, curiosity flickering behind the amusement.

“Tell me somethin’, Bob. You got a cushy gig now, right? A business, cash, a nice quiet life... Why crawl back into the sewer for this bastard? We both know revenge don’t pay bills.”

A muscle ticked in Bob’s jaw, betraying the danger in his restraint. Silence clung to him – a quiet pulse of weighted fury. The fan overhead churned, each blade cleaving the air with a noise that was more violence than motion.

“Some men,” Bob said at last, voice a low rasp, leaning in. “Mistake the system for a shield. They think power makes them untouchable.” His figure eclipsed the light, voice dropping, shadow stretching sharply over Snake’s cigarette smoke.

“Sooner or later, they lay their hands on matters that ought never be theirs.”

Snake’s grin thinned, sharp with understanding. “Ah… This ain’t just business. It’s personal.”

Bob’s eyes narrowed to slits, the gleam in them feral.

“Everything worth doing is personal, Snake. That’s why we do it.”

The silence stretched, heavy with old loyalty and the promise of fresh blood. Snake’s cigarette arced through the dim light, landing in an oil can where the ember snuffed itself out into darkness with a hiss - a baptism of the pact they hadn’t yet spoken.

“Alright.” Snake finally said, voice decisive. “I got ears in the hole, and a couple uniforms who owe me more than a beer. If Lassen’s been fucking around - someone will know.”

Bob inclined his head, a gesture of gratitude wrapped in iron formality.

“Bring me rumours. I’ll turn them into sentences.”

Snake smirked. “Man, you always had the words. Fine. I’ll dig up the trash. You light up the fire.”

For the first time all morning, Bob smiled – a lethal razor-thin line. “Precisely.”

The house smelled the same. Frying oil sunk deep into the walls, cheap detergent clinging stubbornly to every carpet and every fabric, a faint sweetness of air freshener doing its best to disguise the lively myriad of scents.

Bart dropped his worn duffel bag just past the threshold. It looked misplaced, like it had wandered into someone else’s house, someone else's life. His mother’s face lit up with that same expected warmth it always did when he walked in. She hugged him too tightly, smoothing his hair like he was still a child. His father only half turned from the TV, granting him his “Hey, son!”, before quickly heading to Moe’s before Marge stopped fussing over Bart to notice his sudden absence.

Dinner brought him back to the usual shared family routine. Pork chops, fries, overcooked carrots, corn from a can. The kind of food he was used to. The kind you know the taste so well it swallows you with memories. It should have felt grounding - safe. But instead, it made Bart feel like he’d walked a few steps back in life.

Marge asked small questions in her careful way: How were his classes? Did he need new books? Was University treating him alright? She pressed, lightly concerned, but not enough to sting. Homer just nodded through most of it, his fork clattering against the plate. Every now and then, he cracked a joke about the two of them watching the game together that weekend, “just like old times,” and for once Bart didn’t even roll his eyes. He only nodded. It was easier.

Bart shrugged his answers, keeping them vague, never lying outright but carefully trimming away the parts that really mattered. Exams hadn’t gone well and he needed to “reset” before next term. That was all. The words felt half-false, but they worked. His mom offered sympathetic nods, Homer just snorted.

Eventually, the conversation ran shallow. Lisa sat quiet for most of the meal, watching it play out with a serious expression.

✶ ✶ ✶

Later, as he made his way to the bathroom, Bart caught snippets of his parent’s conversation through the corridor.

Marge’s voice came heavy with concern from the kitchen. “He’s lost, Homer. He needs guidance.”

“Relax Marge… He’s been trouble since the day he was born. He’ll land on his feet eventually. Pass the chips.” Homer muttered, his speech thick with alcohol and indifference.

Bart could make out Marge’s soft reprimand, “Homer…”

He swallowed hard, feeling the familiar sting of his parents’ words as his mind raced with a mixture of defiance and fatigue. These comments were nothing new. Still, he pushed forward, brushing off the hurt.

Once the dishes were put away and the house gradually grew quiet, Bart quietly slipped outside, drawn by the stillness of the night and the promise of solitude.

The air was sharper here than in Shelbyville, a faint tang of cut grass and pollen mixed under the clear bite of late-spring night. He wandered almost unconsciously into the backyard, and his feet found the ladder.

The old treehouse creaked like it resented their weight, both his and the years. He sat on the wooden floor with his knees bent awkwardly, back against the wall near a scrawled graffiti from when he was a kid. ‘El Barto’ was still scratched into the corner, jagged and too deep, a boy’s declaration of permanence that didn’t hold up with time

He exhaled, the smell of weathered pine and dust filling his lungs with nostalgic familiarity. The woodhouse was small, private, making the space feel like his own.

“Thought I’d find you here.” The illusion cracked with a voice at the entrance.

Lisa’s voice floated up before her head appeared through the hatch. She climbed in without waiting for an answer, folding herself down cross-legged opposite him. The space that used to fit six kids comfortably now pressed them shoulder to wall.

“You didn’t say much at dinner.” she stated.

Bart snorted. “Since when do I ever?”

“Since Mom asked three times about your classes and you changed the subject to corn.” Lisa sent him a sidelong glance.

He smirked at that, but it didn’t stick. Silence spread out for a few minutes, broken by the sound of light wind shuffling leaves outside.

“You wanna talk?” she asked. Her voice was soft, but her eyes were sharp.

Bart shrugged, staring out the window at the strip of night sky.

“Not much to say. I screwed up at exams.” His voice was flat.

Lisa didn’t hesitate, her reply edged with derision. “That’s not the whole story.”

“You always expect me to blow it, don’t you?” Bart shot suddenly.

Her brows furrowed. “Bart, that’s not fair-“

“Isn’t it?” He shifted, the boards creaking. “You’ve been waiting for me to screw up since we were kids. And surprise, surprise - here I am, living up to the prophecy.” His anger rang harsher than he’d meant, startling him as much as her.

Lisa’s mouth tightened, frustration mixed with concern. “Bart, I’m your sister, I know you. And I know when something’s wrong. You don’t hide it as well as you think you do.”

His laugh was bitter. “Guess not.”

Crickets whined outside. Bart kept picking at a splinter in the floorboard.

“I… kept stuff I shouldn’t have. At the dorm.” He paused, then forced the words out. “Stash. Pills, weed, other crap. More than I should’ve. More than I was using. They caught me.”

Lisa’s posture straightened instantly, her eyes widened, sharp with alarm.

“You got… caught?”

“Yeah.” His throat burned as the truth left him. “They dragged me in. Held me. If things had gone worse, I’d still be there.” He laughed bitterly, short and joyless.

Saying it out loud felt like swallowing glass, even if he didn’t share the details.

“God, Bart- what were you thinking? You could’ve ruined everything. You could’ve ruined yourself.”

“I already did.” He shot back sharply, pain bleeding into the words.

Lisa pressed her fingers to her temple, shaking her head. “Do Mom and Dad know?”

“No!” Bart said immediately. His tone was final, almost desperate. “They don’t need to.”

For a moment, he thought she’d launch into a lecture, but instead her voice came out lower, weighted.

“Bart… do you realize how close that could’ve-”

“Yeah, I know.” His voice cracked, then hardened. “Trust me. I know. It could’ve been worse. Way worse. But… Milhouse was there. And…” He caught himself before saying too much, his pride tightening the words in his throat. He looked down at the floorboard splinters again.

Her sister’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

Bart shook his head quickly, gaze darting away. “Doesn’t matter. Just someone else - who… helped.”

Lisa studied him, folding her arms. “You can’t keep crashing through life like this, Bart. It’s not sustainable.”

“I know that-” Bart started begrudgingly.

“If you knew, why didn’t you ask for help before it got out of control?” She cut him off, angrily. “You’re not as alone as you make yourself out to be. I’m here. Milhouse is here. You don’t have to let things crush you before you finally admit you need someone.”

The reprimand landed in Bart’s gut like a punch. He was used to this. But…

She stopped herself, realizing how Bart’s expression had twisted painfully.

“What I’m saying is - let the people who care about you help. You don’t have to do this all on your own.” Her voice softened but couldn't entirely hide a hint of sadness and regreat.

Bart pressed his palms into his eyes, the sting behind them almost unbearable.

“Yeah. Thanks. I’ll… figure it out.” he mumbled, trying to sound indifferent.

Lisa’s disbelief was written all over her face and in her words. She still regarded him as the immature and reckless brother she needed to protect from himself, as if he were someone she couldn’t trust to stand on his own two feet.

And, honestly? He probably deserved it.

But it made Bart feel like he had fallen back into an old role - one scripted for him long ago - that no longer fit the kind of man he was trying to become.

As Lisa headed back inside, the treehouse settled into stillness, the only audible sound was the faint groan of the wooden planks in the night breeze. Bart gazed upward through the tiny wooden-framed window, the stars shimmering silently, offering no answers - only the calm, heavy serenity of the night.

One thought surfaced, uninvited, and refused to leave him in peace amid the tranquil darkness.

"Bob doesn’t see me that way."

He doesn’t see him like his family does.

Not like Lisa, who was waiting for the slip-up. For the next reason to shake her head and remind him of the cycle he could never seem to break. Not like Mom, whose sighs had grown heavier with the years, or Dad, who either laughed off or dismissed his mistakes like they were inevitable. That quiet hopelessness had hung in their eyes for so long that Bart had learned to expect it himself.

But Bob - Bob - looks at him differently.

With patience. As though Bart was still learning, still allowed to stumble while figuring out how to stand. Even in his teasing, in the sharp edge of his wit, there was a steadiness beneath it. An underlaying feeling of respect. He’d caught it in the pauses, in the way Bob’s gaze lingered without judgment, as though he were weighing him on equal ground.

He didn’t see a lost cause.

He didn’t see a kid.

He didn’t see trouble.

He saw him. For whom he was.

Bob made him feel he was someone worth seeing.

And that voice - that maddeningly calm, deep, deliberate voice - had carried words Bart hadn’t realized he’d been starving for until they got planted like seeds in his chest.

“You’ve grown into a capable young man.”

The irony of it made his throat tighten. That he of all people would be the one to say it, and worse - mean it.

Bart’s arms wrapped around himself as if he could hold the ache in, keep it from spilling out. He blinked fast, but it didn’t stop the burn at his eyes. What unnerved him wasn’t the pain, the shame or even the fear - what perplexed him the most was that fragile hope: the aching possibility that he was not the sum of his failures.

Maybe he was more.

And that someone - someone who should have been the last person on earth to believe in him - already knew it.

Chapter Text

“The only verdict is vengeance: a Vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous.”
V

“Our values determine our choices, and our choices define our actions.”
Unknown

The Springfield Penitentiary loomed with its familiar geometry of stone and concrete, casting an impenetrable shadow across the surrounding precinct. Bob had walked through its gates a thousand times before - once as a prisoner, now as a visitor whose freedom came tethered to scheduled appointments and psychological evaluations. The irony was not lost on him; indeed, he savoured it with the bitter appreciation of a man who understood that redemption often wore the mask of obligation.

The same walls that once monitored his every movement, now received him punctually - a box on a calendar form he was obliged to tick. But that ritual never felt like mere routine for him. Never.

Each visit carried the weight of performance, of proving himself worthy of the trust that society had grudgingly extended.

“Robert,” Dr. Holland said evenly, folding his hands atop a yellow legal pad. Behind his glasses he wore a calm that could be mistaken for boredom. “You seem well.”

Bob inclined his head, his expensive coat draped. He sit with graceful economy, every inch the reformed intellectual who had transcended his baser instincts.

“Appearances are important.”

Holland smiled faintly. “Appearances aside, I’m pleased with your trajectory. Your progress remains consistent. Less agitation in your demeanour, more psychological grounding in your responses. I daresay, at this juncture, our sessions might be more preventive formality than clinical necessity."

Bob tilted his head, considering. Though what he was examining was the very notion of his own rehabilitation.

“A formality,” he repeated, as though tasting the word. His fingers flexed against the worn leather of the chair's arms. “And yet…”

Holland raised an eyebrow. “And yet?”

Bob leaned slightly forward, the movement constricted. “I find myself… unsettled, recently. Not by any resurgence of my former... destructive appetites,” he said carefully, “but by something altogether more pedestrian. Or perhaps more perilous.”

“Perilous?” Holland prompted.

“A… connection.” Bob allowed the word to hang, testing its weight aloud for perhaps the first time. “Unexpected and… disruptive. I find myself-” He paused, searching for a less vulnerable word. “- divided.”

Dr. Holland’s pen didn’t move, though it hovered as if prepared. “Divided in what way?”

“Between what I want and what I should want.” Bob’s eyes narrowed faintly, his voice dropping to a near-confession. “Between desire and restraint. And I fear that if I lean too far in either direction, I will undo what progress I’ve achieved.”

Holland regarded him for a long moment. His expression shifting from professional interest to recognition. Then he dropped the pen softly to the side before finally speaking.

"You're describing intimacy, Robert. Or perhaps more accurately, you're confronting the threat of it. The possibility that another human being might see past your constructed persona and choose to remain."

Bob's lips twitched into a sharp, fleeting smile that held equal measures of appreciation and self-deprecation.

"Your diagnostic remains as incisive as ever, Doctor. Though I suspect you're being deliberately generous in your interpretation."

"And is this intimacy romantic in nature?" The doctor asked with clinical directness.

Bob offered nothing aloud. But his gaze, still and unwavering, betrayed the answer he found himself unable to articulate.

“I see,” Holland said with calm understanding. “And do you believe this connection threatens you?”

Bob’s voice came sharpened, as though each word cost him. “It threatens… my equilibrium. To want something - or someone - can be endured, analyzed from a safe intellectual distance. But to act on that desire..." He folded his hands together with white-knuckled intensity. "Action transforms possibility into irreversible consequence."

Holland spoke with a practiced clarity.

“What you describe isn’t pathology, Robert. It's the fundamental human condition. Vulnerability doesn't erase the progress you've made - it deepens it, makes it real rather than theoretical. What matters now is whether you can distinguish between compulsion and conscious choice.”

Lost in contemplation, Bob exhaled slowly, his eyes fixed on some invisible horizon beyond the office walls.

“Choice,” he echoed, though the word seemed to carry the weight of both liberation and terrifying responsibility - an anchor that might either ground him or drag him into depths he wasn't certain he could navigate.

The silence stretched.

Then Bob’s gaze lifted, sharpened with a new-found clarity.

“Doctor, if I may… While on the subject of threats.”

Holland inclined his head. “Yes.”

“There is a man.” Bob’s jaw tightened at the word. “One of the guards. He’s resurfaced in my life - hardly by chance. And his… fixation is no benign reunion.”

A flicker crossed Holland’s face, professional calm edged with recognition. “This guard… would he be Jack Lassen?”

Bob’s posture shifted, coiled with suspicion. “How could you possibly know I was referring to him?”

“Well,” Holland’s tone, though measured, carried a trace of concern. “During his tenure here, I had the opportunity to observe him - tangentially - at a distance, though often enough. I found his… 'methods' troubling. And his presence corrosive.”

Bob leaned forward, urgency burning through the cracks of his restraint. “You’ve seen it.”

"More than seen," Holland admitted, his tone carrying a faint weariness that spoke of years bearing witness to corruption.

"Inmates confided in me regarding coercion – direct threats against family visits, denial of medical care for compliance, manufactured infractions to extend sentences, trading commissary privileges for silence." His fingers drummed against the clipboard as darker memories surfaced. "Unauthorized punishments that left no official record… solitary confinement off the books, 'accidents' during transfers, deliberate placement with hostile inmates."

His countenance assumed the gravity of a man reconciling with his own moral compromises.

"Nothing formal ever reached the warden's desk, naturally. The deputy warden ensured certain incidents simply… 'evaporated' from documentation. But there’re enough statements and enough convenient oversights to make me cautious every time his name surfaced in conversation."

Bob’s throat tightened, his expression grew sombre, shadows deepening the lines around his eyes. Lassen’s smirk reappeared in the interrogation room, his words still burning in his conscience.

You like cages. You’ve earned yours.

Holland's voice dropped an octave. "And if I told you that I may have… notes from reports. Records that never left as official complaints, but that I kept-"

The silence expanded, filled with possibility and peril.

"Would such evidence interest you?"

Bob stared, his penetrating gaze searching Holland's face for any trace of deception or manipulation. The air between them charged.

"You would entrust such materials to me?" His voice was low, incredulous, almost reverent - the tone of a man who had long ago ceased expecting genuine alliance from those in positions of authority. "After everything… after knowing who I am, what I've done, you would place such evidence in my hands?"

"I would," Holland said without hesitation, though his fingers tensed almost imperceptibly as they rested on the desk. "Because you are not the only one he tried to grind under his heel. And because..." He leaned back slightly, "I believe that trust, once extended in good faith, deserves to be met in kind. You've honoured our sessions, Robert. You've shown me the man beneath the reputation."

For the first time since entering, Bob completely faltered. The carefully constructed persona - part intellectual, part predator - cracked. His hands flexed once, unclenching, as if releasing some private restraint he'd carried since arriving at the penitentiary.

He stood slowly, his considerable height unfolding with deliberate grace. Holland did not move, even as the man approached. Bob extended a hand, his long fingers almost showing the slightest trembling of barely contained emotion.

Holland regarded it a moment. Then he clasped it firmly, his grip steady - not as a doctor to a patient, but as one man to another who had witnessed the machinery of power crush those it was meant to protect.

Bob's voice was low, roughened with something dangerously close to gratitude.

"You have my respect, Doctor. More than I can articulate."

Holland's grip tightened once before releasing, a final punctuation to their unlikely covenant.

"One last piece of advice, Robert. If you're to act on what I'm giving you... act wisely. Justice pursued in haste often becomes indistinguishable from vengeance. And, preferably, not alone. Even the most brilliant mind benefits from trusted alliances."

Bob's lips curved faintly, the shadow of a smile that held both warmth and something more dangerous - the satisfaction of a chess master recognizing an elegant solution.

"Wisely. Not alone. Yes... that is advice I might finally take, after years of prideful solitude." He paused, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Perhaps it's time to remember that even Hamlet had Horatio."

He turned toward the door, his coat whispering behind him like wings.

✶ ✶ ✶

The week was near its end. The backroom existed in perpetual twilight, its atmosphere thick with the earthy perfume of soil and the acrid bite of chemical fertilizers. Plastic containers of pesticides bore warning labels in stark red letters - words that seemed to mock the careful restraint he'd built around his own nature. The faint hiss of a leaking bag of mulch filled the silence like a serpent's whisper.

Robert moved through the small space, his sleeves - habitually rolled - exposed forearms marked by old tattoos and new scratches from thorns. The trimming knife in his hand caught brief glints of light as he sliced through twine binding the newest shipment - fifty pounds of prize-winning rose bushes that customers would never suspect had been handled by hands capable of far more delicate and terrible work.

The back door stood open, letting in a thin blade of afternoon light that carved through the dust-laden atmosphere. Beyond lay the narrow alley where delivery trucks rumbled past and stray cats sometimes sought food among the dumpsters. The distant sounds of traffic provided a constant urban lullaby, occasionally punctuated by the flutter of wings or the people’s chatters - sounds that had become the soundtrack to his exile from his former life.

Then: movement.

A shadow flickered past the crack of the open door - too wide to be a cat, too hesitant to be a casual passerby, too near to be innocent.

Bob froze, the trimming knife suspended in air like a conductor's baton before the start of a symphony. His entire body shifted - muscles coiling, breathing deepening, pupils dilating as decades of survival instinct blazed to life

"Lassen." The name slithered through his thoughts like poison through veins. "Watching. Waiting. Testing my perimeter."

Three long strides carried him across the backroom. He pressed himself against the wall beside the door, feeling the cool concrete against his shoulder blade, his breathing controlled to absolute silence. From this position, he commanded the angles - could see without being seen, strike without warning, disappear into shadow if necessary.

Another flicker of movement - bolder this time, a head appearing in the doorframe, peering in.

"Amateur." The assessment was instant and decisive.

With explosive precision, his hand shot out. Fingers closing around fabric and flesh, dragging his target into the dim interior.

A yelp shattered the air - high, sharp, utterly panicked - but Robert's free hand clamped over the intruder's mouth before the sound could evolve into a scream that might draw unwanted attention. He pinned the frightened intruder against the nearest stack of crates. The knife materialized in Bob’s other hand as if conjured by will alone, its blade catching what little light penetrated their impromptu prison. The man angled it not to strike - not yet - but to communicate the absolute seriousness of the situation.

Milhouse.

Recognition struck him, transforming predator back into human in the space of one heartbeat.

The boy's arms flailed with pathetic desperation, muffled squeaks spilling from his throat. His glasses had slipped nearly to the tip of his nose and sweat beaded on his forehead despite the room's coolness.

"Silence." Bob's voice emerged, low and commanding. His grip eased only fractionally as he bent close enough for his words to cut through the boy’s panic. "What are you doing skulking around the back of my establishment like some common burglar?"

Milhouse mumbled frantically behind the barrier of Bob's palm, his words dissolving into desperately meaningless syllables.

Then a thought struck him with the force of a revelation, sending icy water through his veins.

Bart.

"Is he in danger?" The question erupted, terrifying in its controlled urgency. “Has something happened?"

Milhouse shook his head with violent desperation, garbling sounds.

Robert hesitated - a moment of calculation that felt like an eternity - then slowly withdrew his palm, ready to clamp it down again if the boy proved foolish enough to scream.

Milhouse sucked air like a drowning man finally breaking the surface, his voice stammering out in broken fragments: "Y-yes! I mean, no! He's safe, he's-he's at the dorm right now, probably unpacking his stuff-"

Bob leaned closer, his considerable height transforming him into a tower of barely contained menace.

"Then why,” he said slowly, voice carrying the weight of iron. “Are you prying instead of simply entering through my front door like a civilized human being?"

Milhouse's throat worked convulsively as he swallowed. His glasses had fogged with fear-sweat, and he twisted his hands as if trying to wring courage from invisible cloth.

"Because I didn't know if I should come here at all," he blurted, words tumbling over each other in desperate haste. "I thought-I thought if Bart knew I was telling you this, he'd never speak to me again. He'd never forgive me."

Bob's grip on the knife shifted subtly - not raised in threat, not lowered in dismissal, but simply present. Waiting. "Telling me what, exactly?"

The boy’s breath trembled. His eyes darting toward the rectangle of light that marked the door - escape route or trap, depending on Bob's mood. When he met Bob's gaze again, he seemed cornered, “It’s because of what happened. A cop. The one who- searched him.”

Robert’s jaw clenched, the words falling into silence like stones into a well.

Milhouse pressed forward in a desperate rush, words spilling out as if afraid that silence would give him time to reconsider, “I mean- he didn’t just check Bart for stuff. He-he touched him. It was-” He gagged on the word. “It was wrong.”

The backroom dissolved around them.

In its place materialized the sterile fluorescent hell of an interrogation room.

Bart stood, his hoodie rumpled. The search extending far beyond professional necessity, lingering in places that had nothing to do with contraband and everything to do with power and predatory satisfaction.

Fingers explored with deliberate, calculated violation.

Somewhere in the distance - or perhaps very close - Milhouse's voice continued its desperate testimony, voice wavered in the blur, “Bart didn’t want me to say anything- he wants to bury it-but I saw him after... I saw him. He was shaking so bad I thought he’d break apart. He wasn’t okay. And I- I didn’t know what to do...”

Bart's face white as chalk, lips compressed into a thin line against sounds he refused to make - refusing to give his tormentor the satisfaction of hearing his distress.

His body betraying his fear, trembling, his eyes pleading for it to end.

And hovering above it all: Lassen. His smirk. His enjoyment. Wearing that particular expression of sadistic pleasure that Bob recognized from his own mirror in darker days - the look of a predator savouring the fear of helpless prey.

A wave of nausea struck Bob's stomach like a physical blow, bile rising in his throat. His grip on the knife tight, knuckles whitening.

Robert's breathing remained slow and controlled through sheer force of will, though his heart hammered against his ribs with volcanic violence.

In his mind, two images burned with absolute clarity: Bart collapsing inward on himself, reduced to trembling vulnerability by cruelty. And Lassen's hand - that instrument of violation and power - taking liberties that should have been answered with immediate and permanent consequences.

Every instinct screamed for action. The knife in his hand seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat, eager to taste justice. I could find out his vulnerable hours, plan the approach, execute the sentence, dispose of the evidence and make the problem disappear without trace.

But years of discipline held him motionless - years spent behind bars learning that revenge without planning was just another form of suicide. The careful architecture of his rebuilt life depended on choosing wisdom over instinct, strategy over satisfaction.

He let the silence stretch, enough for the boy to quake under it. Then, with deliberate calm, he lowered the knife and placed it on the workbench with the care of someone setting down a loaded weapon.

When he spoke, his voice emerged quieter than before, but no less dangerous. "Did Bart tell you this directly? His own words, not your interpretation or assumption?"

Milhouse nodded with miserable certainty, his glasses sliding further down his nose with the motion. "Not all at once. Pieces of it. But enough to understand what happened…." His voice fractured completely. "Please- don't tell him I came here. Don't let him know I told you. He'll never forgive me if he thinks I betrayed his trust."

Robert studied him, eyes dark as slate. The boy’s fear was genuine, Milhouse's eyes held the particular anguish of someone forced to choose between honouring a friend's wishes and potentially saving that friend from further harm.

Finally, Robert placed a hand on Milhouse's shoulder - a gesture that carried unexpected weight, grounding and almost paternal in its weight.

“You did well,” Bob said, steady, each syllable with reassuring assertively. “You may have spared him far worse.”

Milhouse blinked in stunned relief, tears gathering behind his lenses. "So... you'll help him?”

Robert's eyes narrowed to slits, the fury vanishing from his voice to be replaced by something infinitely colder. "There is nothing in heaven or hell that will stop me."

Milhouse exhaled shakily, relief and residual terror warring in his expression as he nodded with desperate gratitude. He nearly stumbled forward as Bob released him, his legs unsteady from the aftermath of fear and adrenaline.

“Go now,” Bob commanded with quiet authority. "Stay close to him. Watch for changes in behaviour, signs of surveillance, anything that suggests that cop’s interest hasn't ended. Say nothing of our conversation - not to Bart, not to anyone else. Leave the rest of this matter to me."

The boy fled, his shoes squeaking against the concrete floor, marking his escape into the relative safety of daylight and normalcy.

Robert remained alone in the backroom, surrounded by mulch, pesticides and an unsettling stillness. The chemical warnings on the crates caught his gaze again: TOXIC, CORROSIVE, FATAL IF MISUSED.

He closed his eyes, that one image still burned with permanent, searing clarity: Lassen's hands on Bart's skin, taking liberties that should have cost him everything.

The breath Robert drew in trembled with rage.

"That man will not draw another breath unpunished."

Chapter Text

“I desire violently – and I wait.”
Anaïs Nin, The Voice

The secretary’s office spat him back into the corridor alongside its walls lined with faded announcements, the tile floor scuffed from decades of anxious students pacing the same path as him. Phones rang behind closed doors, muffled arguments leaked from offices, and the steady shuffle of sneakers and boots echoed along the corridor. A burst of laughter spiked from somewhere down the hall, contrasting with the building’s gravity.

Bart shoved the paperwork into his backpack, the confirmation slip folded sharp and final. Done, signed.

He’d retake the exams. No more excuses, no more running.

Light poured across the campus lawn, sharp enough to carve the shadows clean beneath the trees. Shelbyville students lounged outside, their voices a low background hum of chatter and laughter - the smell of pizza drifted from the union steps. Bart barely registered any of it. He walked fast, almost at a march - until a voice, sweet and feminine, cut through the noise.

“Bart?”

Lee stood by the fountain, sunlight catching on the gloss of her pastel dress. Her pink bag clung to one shoulder, ribbons bouncing as she adjusted the strap. Her eyes - too wide, too bright - locked onto him, and Bart felt the gut-punch of obligation before she even said another word.

“We should talk.” he said quickly, pre-empting the hopeful smile tugging at her lips.

“Oh, okay.” She bounced slightly on her toes, eyes shining with all the warmth of someone who’d been waiting.

Bart swallowed as he approached. He hated this. But not saying it would be worse. “Yeah. But… listen. I can’t do this.”

The smile faltered instantly, her lips parting like the words had knocked the air out of her. “What?”

“I mean…” He rubbed at the back of his neck, stalling. “Look- you’re great. Really. Cute, funny. You deserve someone who-”

“Stop.” Her voice cut him sharp, trembling, cheeks flushing. “I don’t wanna hear it!”

She turned on her heel before he could gather another word, her white sneakers scuffing against the pavement as she broke into a half-run. The sound of her sobs swallowed by the water’s rush.

Bart remained still, fists shoved uselessly into his pockets, his stomach churned with guilt.

And then he realized he wasn’t alone. Someone else’s footsteps approached.

“How noble.” a voice said, sarcastic and unsparing.

Bart’s head jerked up. Janine, Lee’s friend, with her arms crossed and gaze pinning him like a hawk. She looked exactly how Bart imagined her: ready to flay him alive.

He braced himself, already shrinking from the words he knew were coming.

But, instead, Janine’s expression shifted into something unreadable. Still keen, but calmer than before.

“You did well.”

Bart blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” She didn’t soften, didn’t smile. “You told her straight. That’s better than stringing her along.”

Bart stared at her, brain catching up. He’d been ready to eat dirt, not… this?

Janine sighed, tilting her head toward where Lee had run off.

“Don’t get me wrong - I’m pissed at you. You broke her heart, and I’ll probably be listening to her cry about you for days.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “But she’ll get over it. She’s tougher than she seems, and she’ll find someone good - fast.”

Bart grimaced. “…And you’ll be dragging me through the mud in the meantime.”

“Obviously.” Janine’s tone cut through him straight this time, mouth twitched into the faintest smirk. “You’re going to be the punchline of every joke, the jerk who thought he was hot shit but was just a spineless, pathetic, asshole.”

Bart huffed, cringing as if he’d been slapped. “Fantastic.”

“Hey, don’t look so wounded.” Janine’s tone was blunt but not unkind. “It’s just how it is. You did the right thing today.”

With that, she turned and jogged after Lee, her dark raven hair flashed in the sunlight before she disappeared around the cafeteria corner.

Bart stayed where he was, hands shoved into his pockets, staring at the ground. The guilt was still there - but lighter somehow. Janine’s honesty stung, sure, but it felt like being hit with cold water that woke him up instead of drowning him.

He exhaled, slow.

There was still one other place he had to go.

✶

The florist’s windows came into sight, sunlight bouncing off the front, and yet his chest tightened at the sight. It wasn’t fear gritting at his nerves, not anymore. He told himself it was the need for a schedule that pushed him here. He needed a routine - hours mapped to get studying done. And if he had to tether himself to someone, Bob was the kind of man who wouldn’t let him run. Literally.

He did take Lisa’s advice in a way - not carrying everything alone - just not the way she’d picture. She’d probably imagined him signing up for group study sessions, color-coding notes, maybe even a meditation app. Yeah, no.

He’d sworn after that miserable night in the station: no more drifting. No more excuses. Try, fail, try again. Do better.

But he knew that wasn’t all of it.

What really pushed him there, what made his pulse pick up as he reached for the doorknob - was that, for the first time since this whole accidental reunion began, Bart realized he was actually looking forward to seeing him again.

Not out of obligation, or gratitude, and definitely not out of any trace of left-over resentment. This was different. There was a twitch of teenage adrenaline, sure, but… something else too.

The anticipation of catching Bob’s gaze and not looking away this time. Of tossing some light sarcastic remark across the orchids, just to see if he could break his perfect composure and get that genuine smile he was beginning to crave. The comforting scents of the shop - the way Bob treated him, like he had all the time in the world to spare for him.

And maybe to hear his voice dropping to that genuine, unexpectedly soft, almost caring tone of the phone call…

His chest started thudding, louder, until it embarrassed him.

He tried to shake it off like it was nothing. A fleeting thought. But when he pushed the door open and stepped inside, his mouth tugged toward a full grin he didn’t think of suppressing.

“Guess what,” Bart said, performing nonchalance, shoulders loose, tone up-beat and playful. “I survived the week. Didn’t get into any trouble. No trophies, though.”

Robert’s darkened gaze snapped up from the shears, his mind circling in thought – at far darker places where retribution had taken root. And then Bart walked in, tossing out a line like nothing had happened - so alive, so absurdly casual -, and the fog broke just enough. Startled at first, Bob then almost laughed at himself: the boy, shielding him from his own storm.

The weight in his chest eased. He let himself follow Bart’s lead.

“Then it’s already a victory worth celebrating.”

Bart snorted, rubbed the back of his neck, but the spark in his eye betrayed him. He lingered by the arranging table as though searching for a segue, drumming his fingers against the strap of his backpack, before blurting it out.

“I was thinking to maybe… come by. After classes. To study. If- that’s alright.”

The words struck him like a chord Bob hadn’t expected to hear again. His grip faltered - the stem nearly snapped in his fingers. The bloom of hope was sudden, fierce, dangerous. The kind of hope he knew better than to entertain.

“That would be more than alright,” Bob replied, each syllable measured to conceal the rush behind it. “You’d be welcome.”

“Cool. Yeah. Then… I’ll do that.” Bart’s voice softened into timidity, the bravado giving way to tentative trust.

Bob inclined his head, allowing himself the faintest smile - one meant only for Bart. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Bart’s wide eyes lingered half a second longer than before, then he gave a small nod, almost sheepish. “See ya tomorrow.”

He pushed out into the late spring air, sunlight spilling through the door as it closed.

The bell had hardly stopped chiming when Bob moved to the door. His body knew before his mind caught up.

Through the glass, he tracked Bart’s blond head weaving through the late afternoon crowd, careless as ever, cutting across the curb - unguarded, exposed, too close to the road.

And the car was there.

Lassen’s profile silhouetted in the driver’s seat. He didn’t hide, didn’t pretend. He was staring straight across the street, hand drumming the wheel.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A slow metronome, counting seconds.

In a heartbeat, the car growled away, silently. Gone.

The warmth that Bart had left in him - fragile, almost too sweet to endure - curdled into acid. His insides burned. Rage coiled in his chest, alive

Bob’s own hand twitched as though it longed for a blade. For decisive weight.

The old solution. Clear, final. A single stroke to end the game.

But he breathed. Not yet.

Hell itself seethed in him, but he would not let the bastard touch even a hair on Bart’s head. He would make sure of that.

The plan had to move faster. Snake’s rumours, the reports - every fragment - had to be drawn together and turned into a noose. Until then, Bart would be safest here, under his wing.

Safe. That word throbbed inside him. He repeated it like a vow, though the acid still scalded his throat.

The afternoons grew into its own rhythm. The scent of stock and hyacinth hung heavy, mixed with the faint bite of stems cut fresh. Light streamed in gold bars through the front, catching on leaves, making the air shimmer green and amber.

Bart arrived with a full backpack and notebooks under his arm, dropping them into the chair that always seemed to be waiting for him. Bob had never announced it, but the space was kept clear each day, stems shifted aside, scissors tucked away, the surface wiped clean – and Bart started to notice.

He didn’t say anything at first, just sat there and tried his best to keep his focus.

Every time Bob turned his back, Bart’s pen spun uselessly between his fingers. Like the excuse that Bob wasn’t looking could hide the fact that he was half-watching the guy fix flowers. The shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders, sunlight threading fire through his unruly red mane. It was hard not to take the opportunity to look - so he pretended not to while doing exactly that.

The man was way too quiet though, and Bart couldn’t decide if it was some weird form of respect or just Bob being all dark-and-mysterious for the drama of it. Either way, an hour in, and Bart’s patience gave out. He had to poke the bear.

“Hey,” Bart called, while tapping his notebook. “Are you always this quiet, or just when I’m around?”

Bob finally turned, gaze steady, tone even. “Wouldn’t light chatter only tempt you to slack off?”

Bart set the pen down, then folded his hands under his chin, watching Bob with a mischievous tilt to his smirk. “Are you even capable of letting me do that?”

An unguarded smile curved Bob’s lip - fleeting, but unmistakably there - before disappearing again, as though he regretted letting it slip. Bart didn’t. He held onto it, that quiet proof of victory, all through the long stretch of studying that followed.

✶ ✶

The rhythm deepened.

Tea slid to Bart’s side without a word, steam rising in thin veils that curled and danced with the late sunlight. Sometimes it was crackers, sometimes fruits - slices of oranges, peaches, pomegranates balanced on a napkin, plump grapes - a mix of roasted nuts every now and then - always appearing only when he had filled enough of the page that the white no longer gaped back at him. The timing was uncanny.

Bart pretended to scoff, rolling his eyes as he scribbled on, but secretly he waited for it. He found himself listening for the soft clink of porcelain against wood, the brush of Bob’s fingers close by as he set the cup down. The simple prospect of it kept him going longer than he ever admitted.

One evening, after scratching through two problems in a row, Bart leaned back with a stretch, arms flung behind his head. The steam rose again at his elbow, as if Bob had been waiting for the exact moment.

Bart blinked, then looked up. “You’re doing it on purpose.”

Bob stood over him, still half-bent, hand just pulling back from the cup. One brow arched. “Doing what?”

“Rewarding me.” Bart tried to make it a tease, but his voice came out flatter, closer to accusation.

Bob’s gaze sank into him, dark and amused. “Does it work?”

The bluntness knocked the grin out of him - Bart faltered, caught. He muttered, “Maybe.”

The faintest curve quivered at the corner of Bob’s mouth, not soft but edged, as though he knew exactly what he was doing. His eyes lingered, a weight Bart couldn’t shrug off.

“Good.”

The word landed like a blow. Bart’s face heated instantly. He ducked his head, pen scratching nonsense across a blank page just to have something to do with his hands. The cup steamed at his side, untouched, the warmth of Bob’s nearness clinging longer than the porcelain’s heat.

✶ ✶ ✶

He reached for it too quickly. The cup tipped, liquid amber spilling across the desk, soaking into the pages before he could jerk them aside.

“Shit-!”

He scrambled, but Bob was already there. A cloth appeared in his hand, long firm fingers catching Bart’s wrist before the tea could reach his sleeve. The grip was steady, strong, thumb pressing lightly over the pulse at the inside of his wrist as he swiped the skin clean.

“Hold still.”

Low, quiet - the voice stopped him all the same, edged with command.

Bart froze, heart slamming against the pressure of that thumb. “It’s fine,” he managed, too fast, his face burning more than the spill.

“Hot?” Bob asked.

“No. I’m fine-”

Their eyes met for the briefest instant - sharp, searing - before Bob turned away, focusing on blotting the notes. His motions carried the ease of habit, precise in the way of someone long used to tending to small mishaps - the reflex of the florist accustomed to handling fragility.

But there - at the delicate jut of Bart’s wrist - he faltered. Fingers staying longer than reason allowed, before retreating. And the sudden loss left Bart’s skin prickling, bereft.

He swallowed, trying to laugh, fumbling for cover. “Guess I’m not cut out for tea-time elegance.”

Bob’s hands stilled on the cloth. His eyes lifted to meet his again.

“No,” he said at last. “Not elegance. Chaos, perhaps…” The pause stretched, heavy, before his voice dipped lower, dense as smoke. “You wear that better - and it never fails at honesty.”

The words twisted his stomach and brain. Bart rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks aflame, watching the man cross the room to wring the cloth over the sink. His gaze snagged on the tattoo inked down Bob’s arm, the curve of muscle shifting beneath it, the sharp cut of his shoulders. He lingered a moment too long, trapped, before yanking his eyes away.

What did he mean by that? Why couldn’t he stop looking at Bob?

Bart’s stomach swooped traitorously, low and hot. He ducked fast, dragging his damp notes into order, scratching pen across paper in frantic pretense. Anything, anything, to cover the fire in his face.

“You always keep this spot clear,” Bart said one evening, tapping the corner of the table with the end of his pencil. “Every day it’s just… waiting for me.”

Bob’s hands were deep in the chrysanthemums, stems dripping cold water through his fingers. He stilled. “Because you use it.”

“That simple?” Bart tilted his head, eyes too open, too curious.

“Yes.” Bob forced himself to look over, to hold the boy’s gaze for half a beat before it burned. “It’s yours. While you want it.”

Bart didn’t look away. The pencil stopped tapping. His stare was warm, searching, too close to something Bob could not allow. Bob turned back to the stems, clenching them hard enough that petals bruised between his fingers. His pulse thudded in his ears.

This is unsustainable.

The boy had grown comfortable here - too comfortable.

He lounged at the table as though the shop belonged to him.

The scrawl of his notes crept wide over the margins, his wrist moving quick beneath a tangle of bracelets - braided cord, metal beads, a half-frayed festival band. When he leaned back, the shark’s tooth at his chest shifted, dragging the black cord against his collar like a marker of youth.

Bob had let it happen. Worse - he had prepared for it, day after day, clearing the table, choosing among the best brands of tea, leaving the quietness for the younger to fill. And Bart expected it now - an expectation that was both balm and pain: sweet, unbearable, torturous.

Milhouse’s drop-offs doubled as quiet surveillance - Bart didn’t notice the shift, but Bob certainly did and was assuaged by it. He had already started smoking again - one more failed method of restraint as the fire pressed closer, sharper, every day.

Every glance became a prod, a test.

The spill. The moment Bart’s wrist was in his grasp, pulse thudding wild under his thumb. The boy’s blush, the stammered laugh… What dangerous proximity that forbidden touch had fostered… With the shadow of the onlooker always present in his mind - the cold blink of a lens capturing Bart’s face, turning something tender into evidence, into ammunition. The image soured quickly, bitter in his throat. He couldn’t lean closer - not when desire was a knife sharp on both ends. Not when it could cut them both open.

And Bart had noticed. God, he had noticed.

“Lately, you always get that look when I’m around.” he’d said earlier - pressing - almost demanding the truth. Bob had deflected, but the words sank inside him like lead dropped in water, impossible to dredge back up.

Now the boy reclined again, languid and reckless, a dare carved into every careless line. His collar slipped low, revealing a pale strip of skin where lamplight pooled like molten gold. His jaw was set in focus, yet his cheeks betrayed him with a faint flush. And his eyes - those restless eyes - kept circling back, grazing over him as if waiting for the moment restraint gave way.

Bob’s teeth ground. He noticed everything. God help him, he noticed everything.

And always - the window. Its reflection fractured by light, showing him what he could not forget: the car idling across the street, engine low, silhouette patient as a predator. Lassen, with his hands loose on the wheel, fingers tapping that same maddening rhythm. Watching. Counting.

Bob’s chest burned with it. Fury and hunger indistinguishable. He wanted to tear the door open, drag the man out, feel his skull break under his grip. He wanted to silence the grin he knew was waiting. He wanted to end it now.

But Bart sat only a few feet away, close enough for Bob to hear the scratch of his pen, before glancing up to catch his eyes again, unthinking. That trust, that unguarded warmth - the leash that held Bob still.

So he stood in the centre of it all: Bart’s nearness like fire against his skin, Lassen’s shadow gnawing at his back. Outside, the predator. Inside, the boy provoking him - without understanding how close Bob was to breaking.

Rigid, stoic, careful - that was the mask. But, inside, he was molten. Every glance and every smile winding the coil tighter, sharper. Both sweet and savage, both tenderness and fury, both growing unbearably with each passing day.

The gramophone clicked as Bob lifted the needle, selecting a record from the stack. His movements were unhurried, methodical - every gesture as if weighed before release. His fingers traced the sleeve’s worn edge, red hair falling forward as though even this simple act deserved reverence.

From the table, Bart watched, chin balanced on his fist, pencil tapping out a restless beat. The man had been extra careful all afternoon, orbiting just out of reach, answering with clipped words every time Bart poked. The silence between them pressed heavier with each passing minute until Bart’s nerves prickled like static.

Enough.

He pushed the chair back and crossed the floor.

“Hey,” he said lightly, as though he hadn’t just decided to do something reckless.

“Shouldn’t you be finishing that page?” Bob didn’t look up, still holding the record as if he could pretend not to notice the footsteps closing in.

Bart ignored the jab. He came to stand at his shoulder, close enough that the faint musk of tobacco and greenery drifted from Bob’s shirt, close enough that if Bob shifted half an inch, their arms would brush. He leaned in, nonchalant, as if all he meant to do was glance at the vinyl.

Bob went rigid, his whole body tightening on the edge.

“What are you doing?” The man’s voice was calm, but pitched low, taut as a wire.

Bart tilted his head, feigning innocence. His breath skimmed Bob’s shoulder when he spoke. “This one,” he said, tapping the record with one fingertip. “It’s good. Used to play a lot on the radio when I was younger.” His voice was casual, careless. Inside, his heart drummed like a fist against his ribs.

He waited for Bob to step away, to put the wall up again – the inevitable recoil. But Bob didn’t. He stood utterly still, every line of him tense as a drawn bow, but he didn’t retreat.

Then Bob’s eyes flicked sideways - a quick, instinctive glance toward the window. Bart caught it but didn’t decipher it. The glance outside. Always outside.

Bob exhaled once, barely audible.

Then his gaze returned, steady, fixed on Bart with a weight that pinned him to the spot. “If you’re testing whether your presence is wanted here, Bart…” He paused, each word guttural, drawn out like a dangerous declaration. “It is.”

The world contracted. Bart’s throat closed. Heat flared high across his cheeks, betraying him instantly. He opened his mouth, closed it again. The grin he’d rehearsed falling under the gravity of those words.

Bob’s eyes softened, though his mouth curved - faintly, sharply - almost into a smile. Almost into challenge. “Although if you’re going to stand this close,” Bob murmured, voice dipping lower, “you’ll have to prove you can focus despite it. Do you think you’re capable?”

The question slid down Bart’s spine like liquor set alight. His stomach knotted so fiercely he thought it might drop right through him. He wanted to scoff, to spit back something cocky, but the sound snagged in his throat.

“Y-yeah. Easy.”

He saw the man smile, still unmoving, his nearness radiating heat.

The gramophone clicked, then spun, the record catching with a hiss of static that began to fill the shop.

Bart felt trapped in it - the scent of cut stems, the warmth of Bob’s shoulder inches from his own, the brush of breath between them, the way the pendant lights gilded every line of the man’s face, his dark unwavering eyes.

He should have stepped back. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

Bart’s hand twitched at his side, aching to reach for anything to ground himself. Instead, he clenched it into a fist, breath quick, cheeks hot.

The gaze of his former attempted murderer lingered, reluctant to let go - then finally, carefully, he turned back to lower the record into place.

That particular evening had settled into violet. The last light clung to the shop windows, bruised purple sliding into the amber glow of the lamps inside. Outside, the street lay mostly quiet, the car across the road was a silhouette under the weak streetlight, engine idling low, as though it breathed. Bob had not looked directly at it for half an hour, but he did not need to. A weight pressing against the glass. A dare.

Heat lingered indoors, clinging heavier than the season demanded. Music floated low from the gramophone, thin as gauze. His prized roses had finally bloomed that very afternoon, heads lush and heavy with scent, petals spilling wide - velvet and crimson dark.

The scattered stems from the day’s work had been cleared away, the counter wiped, the floor swept. All that remained was Bart, leaning with his elbows on the table, chin in one hand, the other tracing idle patterns over the margin of a book he had not been reading for several minutes.

On the other side of the table, Bob pretended to busy himself with an arrange that did not need arranging. He had learned the choreography of restraint long ago - how to fold his body into calm motions when his mind was anything but. Yet, tonight, Bart’s silence was the loudest thing in the room.

“You ever notice,” Bart said suddenly, voice low, roughened for having sat unused too long, “how you feel different in certain places? With certain people, I mean.”

Bob looked up, steady. Bart’s eyes were on the tabletop, not him.

“It’s like… I come here and I don’t feel like the same person who’s out there,” Bart went on, thumb smudging the page without realizing it. “Not the one who’s supposed to always mess up, or… or the one people keep waiting to trip. I don’t know. Here it feels-” He stopped, bit the inside of his cheek, then let the words fall as though surrendering to them. “It feels like I could be someone else. Someone better. Because of you.”

The lamp hummed, its light cutting soft gold across Bart’s profile, catching in his hair, making it look almost unreal - too fine, too fragile. For a moment, Bob forgot the steady metronome of the car engine outside. Forgot Lassen’s patient cruelty.

Bart shifted in his chair, glanced up quick, then away again as though the courage of speaking had already cost him too much. His voice softened, more tentative now, almost breaking with the risk carrying in his words.

“What do you feel about me?”

The question hung there, raw and trembling.

Robert’s chest tightened. He drew a breath, long and controlled, though inside it was closer to a gasp. His thoughts scattered. He tried to catalogue them as he would clues on a blueprint, but they refused order.

He is waiting - he is actually waiting for me.

Expecting me.

Expecting me!

God, the boy doesn’t even know what he’s done.

Bob could feel it in his chest like something splitting, tearing wide - as if the quiet order he had so carefully built, brick upon brick, was cracking down its spine. He had accepted desire long ago, buried it beneath discipline, learned to let it burn in silence where no one could see. To look and not touch, to crave and not take. To bend it all into patience, control. He thought he had mastered that art, thought he had himself secure.

And now this.

What do you feel about me?

Spoken in a voice that trembled but did not withdraw.

It struck Bob with a force that was almost violent: Bart’s pale blue eyes, when they dared glance at him, once, shy, then looked away - and that avoidance was more intimate than if he’d dared to stare - carried no irony, no trick. Only that dangerous openness. That reciprocity.

It undid him.

Bob had not expected it. Never that. He thought himself condemned to wanting alone, to watching. He thought Bart might accept his presence, trust him, lean against him in quiet moments - yes. But to be looked at that way, with something blooming in the gaze, with expectancy, with invitation… It was intolerable.

Intolerable, because it was everything he wanted.

The rage rose because he couldn’t reach. Rage at the car outside, at the man in it, at every leash Lassen has looped around his throat. Rage at the bars still rattling in his memory, at the knowledge that he must perform restraint even when freedom is right there, warm-blooded and waiting for him across a table. Rage at Bart himself, too, sweet and reckless, for sitting there with that face, that hair, those eyes that glance and shy away and expect him.

How dare he?

How dare he look at him as though Bob could still be chosen.

Every detail of him became unbearable.

The yellow pendant lights did not simply touch Bart’s hair - they crowned him, laying strands of gold over the blond until they gleamed like an angel’s halo. Violet dusk pressed at the windows, its colours bleeding softly into the room. The air had the weightless grace of a Rococo scene: drowsy light, the floral tender hues, and the leisured - sensual - beauty of the youthful faun, meant more for dream than for life. Bob’s chest tightened as though the universe had staged it, daring him to withstand the sight.

His face-

God, his face.

That hesitant courage in his eyes, the quick dart away when he dared to look up, the faint flush at his cheeks betraying what words did not. Bob stared and found no flaw. Only softness, only vulnerability laid bare, and the invitation hidden in the tilt of his mouth.

His mouth-

Bob’s thoughts slipped dangerously there. Full without him realizing, parted slightly as if already waiting, already ready to be claimed. He imagined - against his own will, against every vow of discipline - how it would feel to press against it, to taste, to take. The thought seared through him like a wound, and he gripped the table’s edge so hard his knuckles whiten, just to keep himself tethered.

And Bart’s hands… nervous, restless things. One still hovering over the page, thumb worrying the corner, as though he needed some small thing to keep from flying apart. Bob wanted to cover that hand with his own, to still it, to teach it the steadiness that had eluded them both. He wanted to lift it, kiss the knuckles, let the boy know in no uncertain terms that every doubt in him was mistaken, that he was seen, wanted, cherished beyond measure.

Every nerve in him ached with it: he wanted. God, he wanted. He wanted to push the table aside, pull Bart into his arms, press his mouth hard against that uncertain, trembling line of a smile until the world itself splintered. He wanted to take him here, under the violet light and the lamp, to claim him so that no shadow of Lassen, no whisper of Springfield, no memory of a cell could ever erase the fact that he was his.

His.

The thought alone was intoxicating, more dangerous than any blade he had ever held. It flooded him, filled him, threatened to drown him. If desire was once a steady ember, tonight it was a blaze tearing through everything he had built to contain it.

And still -

And still - despite everything -

He did nothing.

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t touch.

He couldn’t even give a word, because the car waited outside like an executioner with infinite patience. Bob could feel it even without turning his head. The trap was there, waiting. One slip, one touch too long caught in the wrong frame, and it would all be ash.

So he stood. Petrified. Staring at Bart as though staring might substitute for possession, as though his eyes alone might brand him. He drank in everything: his beautifully bright eyes, the curve of Bart’s cheek under lamplight, the gentleness of his hair falling toward his brow, the pulse visible at his throat, the unbearable sweetness of a boy who actually dared to expect him.

It was agony.

It was ecstasy.

It was the precise edge where love and ruin became the same thing.

And Bob, astonished, furious, starving, found himself wishing - more than he had ever wished for anything - to tear the night apart for him, to silence the car outside, rip Lassen’s grin from his face, burn the entire city down if it meant that when the smoke cleared, Bart would still be here, looking at him like that.

That nothing would exist except the two of them in that violet-lit room, and the simple, devastating truth that Bart wanted him.

The dam had broken. The flood was here. And he sat, drowning in it, unable to lift a hand.

It was worship and it was fury, it was tenderness, and it was violence - it was every contradiction Bob had ever carried, condensed into that single, unbearable truth:

He’d fallen madly for him.

Chapter Text

Act II

“Your heart does roughly the same thing whether you are in a murderous rage or having an orgasm."
"Again, the opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference.”
Robert M. Sapolsky, Behave

The ringing of the bell over the door shattered the stillness.

A rush of cold night air slipped in, agitating the stems and loose petals. The scent of soil and tea and hyacinth fled with it, leaving the room hollow.

The moment - whatever it had been - was gone.

Bob’s eyes flicked toward the entrance, jaw tightening. Milhouse stood framed in the doorway, half-apologetic, the streetlamp behind him cutting a yellow edge along his jacket.

“Uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, nodding toward Bart. “You ready, Bart?”

Bart’s tongue was sandpaper, his cheeks hot.

He nodded too fast. “Yeah, just a sec.”

He gathered his books quickly, the rushing sound filling the shop. Right when he was about to leave, Bart felt Bob’s gaze once more - steady, unreadable, weighing him - and then he was out under dark nocturnal sky, the door shutting behind with a chime that stayed too long in his mind.

✦︎

Outside, the night hit him cold and awakening. The air smelled of dust, pollen and smoke. Goosebumps prickled along his skin where the warmth of the shop had clung a second earlier. He rubbed on his upper arms.

Milhouse fell into step beside him, hands deep in his pockets. They walked for a while without talking, the only sounds were the soft rhythm of shoes on pavement, the buzz of power lines, the low engine of an occasional car passing by.

Bart’s breath came unevenly. Everything inside him still rang from what had almost happened - what hadn’t. He could feel the question he’d thrown into the air still hanging there, suspended somewhere behind the glass door.

Unanswered.

Milhouse broke the silence first. “You’re super quiet tonight.”

Bart forced a grin that fooled no one. “Just tired.”

“Uh-huh.” Milhouse’s glance caught him sidelong. “And you think I’m an idiot.”

Bart snorted, tried to laugh it off, then hesitated. The words tangled on his tongue.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Have you ever…” He kicked at a loose pebble, watching it skitter ahead. “…liked someone you weren’t supposed to?”

Milhouse slowed, shoes scraping the curb. “Supposed to?”

Bart kept his eyes on his sneakers. “Yeah. Someone… unexpected.”

For a moment there was only the sound of traffic breathing far away. Then Milhouse said quietly, “You’re talking about him, aren’t you?”

Bart’s face burned in the dark. “I didn’t say-”

“He’s hot.” Milhouse blurted.

Bart stopped mid-step. “Ah-?”

“What? I have eyes too!” Milhouse lifted both hands, defensive, cringing at Bart’s surprised expression.

Bart stared at him for another beat before breaking into laughter. Tension dissolved inside him as he did - laughing aloud, helplessly.

“Dude, what the fuck!”

Milhouse cleared his throat, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“I’m just saying, okay? It’s not… surprising. You don’t pick who you crush on.”

“Yeah?” Bart tilted a wider grin at him. “Did you get over my sister already, then?”

“B-art! I told you to drop that - me and Lisa are just friends.” Milhouse crossed his arms, but a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.

Bart’s next laugh was thin, more uncertain. “But… it’s him, Mills. He’s - Bob.”

Milhouse’s expression became pensive. He scratched at his jaw, thinking for a while.

“Look, if he’s doing something weird, say it. But, I don’t know, I’ve seen the way you come out of there lately.” He poked, just so slightly. “You look happy.”

“Pff.” Bart scoffed, rolling his eyes, but he was smiling.

The streetlamps passed over them one by one, painting their shadows long and gold across the asphalt. His thoughts circled back to the warmth of Bob’s gestures, on his voice – to the smell of flowers and tea that clung to his clothes, to the intensely penetrating way Bob was looking at him before the bell had rung.

Maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe he hadn’t.

The night air pressed cool against his skin, but beneath it, he was burning.

✦︎

Back in the dorm, Milhouse mumbled a quick “night, dude” and disappeared into his room.

Bart changed into his pyjamas and sat on the edge of his bed. He’d already brushed his teeth and set his phone to charge, a car passed outside, headlights flashing through the blinds. Everything felt too quiet after that afternoon. Too normal.

His brain wasn’t done replaying it, though. The question, the silence after, the intensity of Bob’s gaze before the bell rang. He couldn’t stop hearing it, seeing it, feeling it.

He opened the drawer and pulled out the carnation. It had dried out since the day Bob gave it to him - dark red now, almost brown, the petals stiff and curled like old paper. He laid it on the blanket beside him, turning it with one finger. It looked fragile, like it would crumble if he touched it too roughly.

Did any of it even mean anything? The glances, the silences, the way Bob always knew when to show up with tea right when he needed it.

And his voice -

“If you’re testing whether your presence is wanted here, Bart… it is.”

Those words still sent a shiver down his spine, electric and sweet - they struck through him again, as sharp as the first time.

Too intentional to be casual. Too intimate to be denied.

He sighed and leaned back on his elbows, staring at the ceiling.

“I don’t even know what it means.” he thought. “To like him. To like a man.”

The thought felt strange, heavy and real at the same time. It didn’t feel wrong. Just… big.

His mind kept pulling up pieces of him - the deep, dark, timbre of his voice; the way his hands moved when he worked with flowers, fingers long and deft, sinuous veins beneath pale skin. And the small lines forming around his eyes when he smiled for real.

His stomach fluttered again, low and nervous.

He pressed the carnation between his palms, the dry edges scratching against his skin. His chest felt tight.

Maybe it was normal. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was both.

He turned the flower over, watching the shadow of his hand move on the wall. He imagined Bob sitting there next to him, like in some alternate version of the night where the bell hadn’t rung.

He imagined the warmth of Bob’s body beside his own - the dip of the bed, the press of heat, the whisper of breath brushing his neck. He could almost feel those long fingers resting idly against the sheet - against his skin.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The thought alone sent a slow, liquid heat through him.

Bart laughed under his breath - half embarrassed, completely erect - and pushed a hand through his hair. “You’re such an idiot.” he whispered to himself. But he couldn’t stop smiling.

He tucked the carnation back into the drawer, careful not to crush it.

When he finally lay down, he took the day’s t-shirt with him and curled it up into a ball. It smelled faintly of the shop: flowers, smoke, his cologne. He held onto it as pleasure blurred the edges of his thoughts. Until the quietness of the room felt less empty – until, through heavy breaths, he found release - until sleep finally took over, still holding that warmth in his chest.

The bar stank.

Not in a poetic, smoky, whiskey-soaked way - but in the raw, bacterial stench of neglect. He’d driven over an hour to reach this pit, this shrine to entropy, and now sat in what could only be described as the pinnacle of decay. Compared to this, Moe’s Tavern would have been a minimalist salon.

Robert Terwilliger had been seated for precisely seven minutes and forty-nine seconds - he’d been counting - and in that time had catalogued no fewer than twelve health code violations.

He resisted the urge to reach for his handkerchief.

He resisted the urge to breathe too deeply.

He resisted, above all, the urge to stand up and flee.

Opposite him, Snake lounged like a man sitting at a throne. One arm hung lazily along the cracked vinyl backrest, the other gripping a tall, greasy glass of beer, foam trembling at the rim.

“Lighten up, Bob. You’ve been lookin’ at that tabletop like it personally insulted you.”

“I am merely noting,” Bob replied, voice dripping with revulsion, “that it appears to be moist. From what, I refuse to speculate.”

His expression twisted as though the word itself left a residue on his tongue. He couldn’t fathom how Snake could be so at ease in a place that reminded him, so vividly, of incarceration.

Snake snorted, unbothered, and reached into the battered duffel at his side. He slammed a folder onto the table - wrinkled, beer-stained, and bulging with paper.

“Alright, alright. You don’t wanna drink.” His grin was half sneer, half challenge. “Down to business then.”

He leaned forward, eyes bright under the flickering light.

“You wanted dirt on Lassen? I got the whole dumpster. Enough shit to bury that fucking bastard six feet deep - maybe twice.”

Bob’s discomfort sharpened into focus. He straightened looking at the folder sat between them like a loaded gun.

Snake eased the folder toward him like a dealer pushing a stack of marked cards. He thumbed a limp photo free first and slid it across the table.

“Here.” Snake’s voice was oil and gravel. “Got statements from ex-cons. One of them, Pietro - said Lassen told him there would be a gap in the perimeter, ‘run and you’re out.’. Sent him sprinting toward the electric fence. The prison dogs ripped into his legs, dragged him into the wire. He hit the electric line and his legs went dead. Crawled back on his hands. No witnesses, no paperwork, just a “casualty” from his attempt of escape. Pietro’s in a chair now – nothing left of him from waist down.”

Bob’s jaw flexed.

“This one’s fun.” Snake tapped a printed screenshot with the eagerness of a man with something to prove. “Suggestive texts from Lassen to another one of the guards - you’ll love this - almost a Shakespearean soliloquy of manipulation. ‘You know what they deserve. Be useful, and the world will forget your debts.’ Sweet, right?”

Bob exhaled, slow and measured. The room seemed to fill with a familiar silent fear - the kind that live on men who must trade obedience for survival.

“And this?” he continued.

Snake shoved another sheet forward - a scanned memo from the evidence room stamped in faded ink.

“Envelope of seized cash, ‘misplaced’ on Lassen’s shift. You can practically smell the rot. Someone’s pockets get fat, someone’s mouth gets shut.” He grinned, showing too much teeth. “More recently, there’re rumours of his role on bidding of contraband via the precinct, off-the-books auctions of stuff they nabbed. Word is the bidding goes to an inner circle. Police apprehensions turned to profit - this is Lassen’s sort of parish.”

He rummaged deeper, producing photocopies of other items, from mild to severe: a complaint note from a prison kitchen worker about forced overtime under threat; a notarized-ish-sounding but questionably acquired testimony describing punishment in the laundry room; a catalogued photo of a crate unaccounted for in the inventory logs; and a myriad of violations of prisoner’s basic rights.

“Alone?” Snake tapped the pile with a knuckle. “They’re trash. Stack ’em and they’re tinder - hand me a match and I’ll burn this motherfucker down.”

Bob let the pages fall through his fingers like leaves. He read each one the way a conductor would a score, feeling the rhythm of omission and repetition. The names threaded the story: the man’s cruelties braided into a system.

“This one,” he said finally, tapping the evidence-room memo with a fingertip. “Goes to Internal Affairs. But not from you. From someone who still thinks I’m a bastard - which won’t be hard to find.”

Snake’s smile split wider. “So we feed the machine his own tail.”

“And this…” Bob slid the inmate statements aside. “These go to a journalist who owes you a favour. One who understands how to let the police hang themselves in the court of public opinion before the courts get involved.”

He closed the folder like a judge slamming down a verdict. His voice was low - measured, but lethal in its precision.

“These need categorization. The minor misconducts with felon’s separated from the abuse of authority. The photographs – get them to be anonymously leaked through the penitentiary or municipal paper’s ethics watchdog. The coercion ones stay quiet until we have ironclad confirmation that someone will testify, with protection.”

Snake chuckled. “You’re scary when you go all strategist mode.”

“And then we do the rest quietly.” Bob continued. “We don’t burn everything at once. We starve him of deniability. We force the machine to chew its own gears.”

“So? We droppin’ the hammer tonight or what?” Snake’s impatience had the honed edge of a man who loved fireworks.

Bob didn’t answer right away. He felt the folder under his palm as if it were hot. The bar’s stink receded, for once, eclipsed by something sharper and far more private: the image of a young man’s face, his voice, bright blue eyes finding him in sunlight among dahlias.

Snake watched him, the angle of his head asking the question - like a marksman puzzling over why the trigger wasn't pulled. He leaned in, the booth creaking beneath him.

“Don’t tell me you’re hesitating,” he said, voice low and hungry. “This is open season. Say the word and I’ll put Lassen’s name on every bathroom stall from here to Shelbyville. I’ll have reporters licking the crumbs off his history by breakfast.”

Bob exhaled. Not with anger, no theatrical flair this time.

“There’s… more to this.” he said.

Snake blinked, pupils narrowing with a predator’s interest. “More than everything Lassen did to us back then?”

“He’s not just a past threat.” Bob paused, each syllable weighted. “He’s… involved. He’s-” His mouth twitched, like the word burned on the way out. “He’s blackmailing me - with someone.”

Snake’s grin split, equal parts amusement and appetite. “Oh? You got a rival suitor? This turning into a telenovela?” He bumped the table with a careless finger. “Do tell.”

“Do not cheapen this.” Bob’s voice snapped clean, small as a blade.

Snake raised both hands in mock surrender, palms up, the movement theatrical. Bob’s fingers drummed once against the folder, a quiet metronome, then stilled.

“The person Lassen is targeting… complicates the matter.” Bob said, quieter now. “Because he is also - mine.”

For a breath the world narrowed to the two of them. Snake’s face rearranged as if the news took time to land: amusement, then surface calculation, then a slow, dawning comprehension.

“Man,” Snake murmured, slow. “I’ve only seen you look like that for one person in all the years I’ve known you. Don’t tell me - are we talkin’ about him? Bart Simpson? The one you had a death wish on?”

Bob did not flinch. He did not blink. The silence was the answer.

Snake sat back, eyebrows arching high toward his hairline. “Holy shit, bro. You’re telling me you’re playing chess over Simpson? That’s the one Lassen’s sniffing around?”

Bob swallowed, the motion was almost invisible. “Not sniffing. Observing. Trying to collect ammunition.”

“I thought you’d outgrown the revenge thing,” Snake said, a laugh that was more reflex than humour.

“I did.” Bob answered simply.

The grin left Snake’s face. The booth’s dim light carved new planes into his features, for a moment he looked almost sober.

“I don’t understand, then,” he said flatly.

Bob closed his eyes once, like someone pausing to steady a flame. When he opened them his voice was rawer, more honest than their shared world allowed.

“I am saying – that he stands between me and Bart. And, perhaps…” his voice strained “A future unshackled from the past. And I do not know if my intervention here would be… protection or possession.”

For the first time since they’d sat down, Snake went truly quiet. The clink of glass and the bar’s laughter swelled around them, ordinary life continuing - indifferent.

“Dude…” he said finally, the word small. He leaned back, letting the silence hang heavy for a beat.

“That’s why I find myself… compromised. Emotionally compromised. He - Bart - and I - ” The syllables came out ragged, torn through clenched control. His shoulders held rigid, one hand drifted toward his temple, fingers dragging down his face as if to keep it from cracking.

“You’re telling me you’re in love with that same kid you used to try to kill?” Snake interrupted, voice carrying a kind of perplexity.

“It isn’t-” Bob floundered. “- quite that simplistic.”

Snake shrugged, refusing the drama, “It is to me. Not judging man, I’m just saying - pick a damn lane.”

Then Snake leaned forward, voice surprisingly steady.

“Alright. Let me see if I got this straight.” Snake laced his fingers, cracked them once, then opened them like he was laying cards on a table. “You wanna take Lassen down - but you’re thinking it’s not for Bart, it’s to keep him?”

Robert’s throat tightened. His hands had stilled on the table, long fingers pressed flat - he said nothing, the silence answered with honesty.

Snake tapped the table, impatience brightening his movements. “Then here’s your answer, Bob: don’t decide for him. Give him the damn intel. Let him choose how to burn Lassen. You’re trying to prove you’ve changed? Trust him with the matchstick.”

Bob remained eerily still. Snake watched him, something like kinship and roguery flickering in his gaze. “Just - don’t try to play god.”

Bob’s hand drifted, almost automatically, to the folder. When he lifted his eyes, the look that met Snake’s had shed some of its old armour - resolve tempered by fear, quieter, but real.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “I will… consider it.”

Snake’s grin returned, broader, triumphant in its own way. “Good. ‘Cause I’m gonna wreck that bastard either way. But I’d hate to step on your redemption arc.”

A half-smile threatened the corners of Bob’s mouth, he almost let it free. It stayed lodged there, as close as a promise.