Killing Is Forgiving - (Killer Croc x Reader)

14. - Belleville, 1989

"I may have spent too much in
my life just remembering."

- Francis McDormand,
from 'Nomadland' -

━━━ ✙ ━━━

(Javier's P.O.V.)

With relief, I retrieved my photo that (Y/n) had discovered. For a second, I anticipated (Y/n) to scold me for using the car or drive me out of (their) house or something. Turned out (they) just wanted a context behind this photo that sadly I didn't really have the knowledge of. Well, not much that I knew.

I inspected the photo for any scratches that (Y/n) might have made involuntarily, only to be grateful that (Y/n) didn't defile the precious memento. This was the only thing that reminded me of home, not just the idea of it, and every home has to be heavenly.

Or, in other words, my brother is my only home.

"So, this isn't you?"

I shook my head as I crooked a dry smile. "No. The one on the left is my brother, and next to him is his friend. I did lie about my age, though." (Y/n) hummed meaningfully and scooted closer to me.

"So, how old are you exactly?" (Y/n) interrogated in a slightly venomous tone as (they) eyed me up and down, expecting a particular gesture that might indicate whether I was going to give (them) a sincere answer or persist with the mendacity.

Knowing that I didn't really have anything to hide from (them) since age's just a number, I tried to recollect about it and realized that I didn't know my exact age. "I... don't know if I'm mistaking my age since I kinda forget in the first place, but I assume that it's between 25, 26, or 27."

(Y/n) gawked in surprise upon hearing my answer, and before I could even ask, (they) explained why (they) reacted like that. "How in the world do you have such a baby face?! I actually thought you were 17!"

I laughed bitterly, forcing a smile to blossom. "I guess our ageless faces run in the family," then the laugh faded, "just like the trafficking business." I could catch a glimpse of (Y/n) frowning upon my sudden dismay, encouraging (them) to stroke my shoulder as (they) consoled me by saying, "You did the right thing."

I gave (them) a wry smile even though I didn't quite agree with (them). Still, that's the reason why I ran away in the first place.

Although that's not the only reason.

"You're right, I did," I acquiesced, brushing the edge of the photo with my thumb. (They) patted my shoulder thrice before asking me whether (they) could borrow the photo or not. I lent (them) the photo, this time officially, and once (they) were satisfied with my charity, (they) began to interrogate me further. I wondered if (they) liked to irritate Janice with endless questions.

Oh, yeah. I could ask (them) about Janice one day when (they)'re ready to talk about it.

"Do you miss home sometimes?" (Y/n) asked, throwing me a look of sympathy while I should be the one doing that to (them). Gosh, I could imagine the irony.

I shrugged, expecting (Y/n) to postulate my sluggish reciprocation as nonchalance. However, I struggled to construct a definite answer since I didn't want to expose my past too much to (them). When I came up with one, I vocalized it. "I miss... the idea of home, but not the home." Then, I fixed my gaze upon my brother's face on the photo as the feeling of guilt from intending to cast the truth aside began to evoke.

"But, then again, there's my brother."

(Y/n)'s eyebrows shriveled in apparent confusion. "I thought you hate your whole family?"