Work Text:
Twelve
Sparrow wakes up to the worst headache he’s ever felt, and for a moment, he doesn’t know where he is. He knows he should be worried about this, but all his thoughts seem so far away, so out of reach. He tries to open his eyes, but the light sends jolts of pain straight through his skull. He hears someone make a low whining noise, and it takes him a while to realize that noise comes from him. He feels hands carding through his hair, and a soft voice telling him it’s okay, to keep his eyes closed, that he’s okay. He doesn’t know why he wouldn’t be okay, but he appreciates the reassurance regardless.
He keeps his eyes shut as more sensations start to roll in - he recognizes the voice as his mother’s, and god, it’s been so long since he’s gotten to see his mom in a normal setting. It’s her hands carding through his hair, her lap that his head is resting on - he could almost cry, he missed her so much. He wonders where Lark is, he knows he missed her too.
Wait. Lark. Lark.
Something’s wrong with Lark. What is it?
He forces his eyes open, wincing at the light that hits them, but powering through - his brother is more important than a little bit of pain. Something’s wrong, he knows it is, he can’t remember. Why can’t he remember?
He vaguely registers his mom grabbing at his hand, trying to get him to lay back down, asking if he’s okay, but he’s on a mission. He has to find Lark, has to figure out what’s wrong. His head feels so fuzzy, like tv static getting progressively louder and louder. He can’t think, he wants his brother, he needs his brother.
He stumbles into the kitchen - something happened in the kitchen. What happened? It was something bad, he knows that, but his thoughts are so, so fuzzy.
He trips over something, he’s not sure what, and catches himself on the table. He can hear voices around him, but can’t make out what they’re saying - it’s all so far away. His vision zeros in on his hand, gripping the edge of the table. There’s a knife next to it. Why is there a knife on the table? Mom and Dad would never leave a knife where he or Lark could get it. He moves his hand over to touch it, and oh god, is that blood? He needs to find Lark, needs to make sure he’s okay.
Lark. The knife. Lark was holding the knife. Why was Lark holding the knife?
And then it hits him.
Oh god. Oh god. Lark stabbed their dad. Sparrow can’t remember what happened after that - oh god, why can’t he remember? Lark was going to apologize, he was going to make things better, and Sparrow was so excited - he just wanted his dad and brother back. But then everything was moving so fast and Lark was pushing a knife into their dad’s back and all of a sudden all Sparrow could feel was white-hot, all-consuming pain. He couldn’t see, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think.
Where earlier his head had been foggy, his thoughts slow, they were now racing. He needed to find Lark, needed to find his dad, needed to figure out what the hell had happened.
There’s a hand on his shoulder, and another pulling the knife away from where his palm rested on it, and so many voices and sounds and feelings and it’s all too much. He can feel his eyes watering, feel his breathing getting faster, and god all he wants is a hug from his daddy and to see his brother and know that it’s all okay.
But it’s not. It’s not all okay. Lark had stabbed his dad, had unleashed the Doodler, and intentionally or not, Sparrow had helped. He played right into Lark’s plan, and despite it all, he can’t even bring himself to be angry at his brother. He’s never been angry at Lark, not really - he can’t be. They’re each other’s other halves, they’re incomplete without one another.
Dad told him to always look out for his brother, to stick by his side, so he would. It would always be him and Lark against the world, even if that had a completely different meaning now.
He wipes the tears from his eyes and shoves the hand off his shoulder, turning to run up the stairs. To his room. To Lark's room.
He wants to see his dad, wants to make sure he’s okay, but he has to see Lark. It’s a matter of want vs. need, and in the end, he needs his brother. He always will.
He opens the door to Lark’s room and sees the figure of his brother, still unconscious, in his bed. Sparrow shuts the door behind him and walks over, taking his brother’s hand. He doesn’t know if Lark can hear him, but he speaks anyway. He has to- he needs Lark to know that he’s still on his side, always will be, forever and ever.
He relays as much to his brother, voice wobbly with tears, hand still gripping Lark’s, and he feels a squeeze. He knows what it means, it’s Lark’s way of responding. It means “thank you,” it means “I love you,” it means “us against the world, forever and always.”
Sparrow squeezes back. It means “forever and always.”
Seventeen
Sparrow watches his brother fall out of the Throne of the Doodler, gasping and yelling in pain, and moves faster than he thinks he ever has. He doesn’t even remember running across the room - just knows that one second he's keeping his father distracted, and the next he’s holding his brother as he rambles about killing the Doodler. Sparrow tunes that part out, he really doesn’t care at the moment, he just wants to make sure Lark is okay.
He feels his chest constrict as Lark shoves their dad away, refusing his care in any way, but pushes those emotions down. Lark hates their dad - hates Henry - and there’s no point in still being upset about it.
Sparrow holds Lark’s hand in the backseat of the Odyssey the whole way home. If anyone had asked, the twins would have responded that it was for Sparrow’s sake, but they both knew that wasn’t really it. They needed each other, would always have each other, and - even if they didn’t really believe it - they were still kids. They needed to indulge in even the slightest bit of comfort for themselves.
Lark locks himself away in his room immediately upon getting home, and Sparrow knows that, for a while, he needs to give him space. He debates going downstairs and talking to his dad, but he can’t bring himself to do it. It’ll just make him upset again, and he can’t afford to be upset, not when Lark’s like this. He has to be the level-headed one. Especially after all that happened today.
Sparrow manages, albeit with some difficulty, to wait a few hours before he allows himself to knock on Lark’s door - he doesn’t wait for a response, never has - before he pushes it open and is greeted by the tear-stained face of his brother. Lark says nothing as he pulls Sparrow into a hug, and Sparrow doesn’t complain. They stay like that for a while, just soaking up each others’ presence, and Sparrow can almost convince himself that everything is okay again.
Like usual, that sense of calm doesn’t last long. As much as he hates to do it, Sparrow pulls away first. He came in here for a reason, he has to see it through - he needs to know what Lark saw in that church, why his insistence on killing the Doodler seemed to heighten even more. Sparrow already feels so disconnected from his brother, he can’t have this be yet another thing standing in between them. Sparrow has just as much of a right to know what the Doodler wants as Lark does.
Lark grimaces as Sparrow pulls away, and Sparrow can only assume it’s because he knows what conversation is to follow. He allows himself a second to breathe, to get his bearings, before he finally asks.
“What did you see?”
Lark shakes his head. Sparrow isn't necessarily surprised at his unwillingness to share, but he is a little frustrated. They’re supposed to tell each other everything, especially something this important. (He tries not to think about the last time Lark failed to inform him of something important, but the images of a bloody knife and infinite static and a deep red sky still fill his brain).
“You have to tell me, Lark, you have to. I’m in this just as much as you, I need to know.”
Lark’s face takes on a guarded expression, and Sparrow knows it’s going to be a long night. “No, you’re not. You didn’t stab Henry, you didn’t summon that fucking thing, you’re not in it as much as me. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I don’t care, I deserve to know too. This thing is in both of us, isn’t it? It affects me just as much as you.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Sparrow knows as soon as the words leave his mouth, as soon as Lark’s face grows angry and his knuckles white.
“It affects you just as much as me? Are you fucking serious, Sparrow? You don’t know shit about this thing! This is all my fucking fault, and no amount of your dumb love wolf bullshit is going to change that fact. I’m the one that’s going to deal with it, and you can fucking back off.” His voice raises in volume as he continues, “You shouldn’t even be a part of this anyways, I know you don’t fucking trust me. If you did you wouldn’t keep asking these stupid fucking questions.”
Despite his attempts to stifle his emotions, Sparrow feels himself growing angry. “I don’t trust you? I don't trust you? What the fuck are you on? If I didn’t trust you I wouldn’t fucking be here, I would be downstairs with our parents trying to fucking fix things. But no, instead I’m up here being your fucking therapist, like always, and you don’t even have the decency to tell me shit that absolutely does involve me! I need to know what you saw in that thing, Lark.”
“No. That’s fucking final. Go talk to fucking Henry, see if I care. We’re not kids anymore, Sparrow, you don’t need to know every fucking thing about me.”
“But I want to. I want to be able to help.”
"You can help by getting out of my fucking room,“ Lark says as he fumbles to open the door. “Just fucking leave me alone.”
So Sparrow leaves.
And when Lark shows up at his door late that night, with sleep-mussed hair and watery eyes and shaky hands, Sparrow welcomes him with open arms, just like always. And even if he never tells Sparrow what he saw, he does apologize, and that means something, at least.
Twenty
Sparrow knew he had to be the first one to have a kid. He had known since the day they discovered that goddamned prophecy - he could not let that weight fall on Lark’s shoulders. He hated the idea of having a child just to use them, but what other choice did he have? He created the Doodler, he drew it, he had to be the one to end it - or at least, his bloodline did. And Lark already held so much guilt, Sparrow couldn’t possibly let him take anymore on.
So he pushed his emotions aside, as he had become accustomed to doing, and steeled himself for the future. He would meet someone, someone he genuinely loved, and have a kid with them. That kid would be raised to save the world. He’d teach them how to defend themself, how to protect others, and Lark would teach them how to fight, how to kill, how to defeat the Doodler. It was the only way. He had to remind himself of that, day after day after day. There was no other way to end this.
He thought he would be fine with it, thought he had finally come to terms with what he would have to put his firstborn through - but sitting in the hospital room, holding his girlfriend’s hand as their baby makes her presence known to the world, all of that comes to a halt.
He has a baby, a child, a daughter. A kid that he made, that Rebecca made, that she would love and that he - no matter how hard he tried to push it down - would also love.
God, he is fucked.
He stares into the eyes of his daughter, laying on Rebecca’s chest, crying and squirming but beautiful all the same, and whispers her name. Hero.
Hero. That’s what she is. That’s what she has to be. He cannot let himself forget that.
But for now, in the solitude of this hospital room, it’s just him, and the woman he loves, and his daughter.
God, his daughter.
He lets himself really, truly love her - if only for a few minutes.
Twenty Four
Sparrow can’t stand the sense of deja vu he gets from sitting in this damned ER room, hating how similar it feels to Hero’s birth. (This is nothing like Hero’s, he reminds himself. This child doesn’t have a purpose, other than to be happy and safe and normal. This child, he can love without limits.)
He holds his wife’s hand again, his actions eerily reminiscent of those he took four years ago. He tries to remind himself to breathe. This isn’t the same, he tells himself. This one doesn’t have to save the world - doesn’t have to be a hero.
Normal comes into the world - well, Normally. And that’s all Sparrow could have possibly asked for. No complications, no extra injuries, just a quick, smooth childbirth.
Rebecca looks at Sparrow with a look of love, of adoration, and it almost makes him sick how much he doesn’t deserve it.
Do you know how much of a monster I am? He wants to ask. Do you know that the last time we were here, I was convincing myself that I couldn't love our daughter? Do you know what this world is going to do to her?
But he says none of that. Instead he smiles back at her, squeezes her hand, and takes his turn holding their baby boy.
He looks just like him, he thinks. Big brown eyes and an unruly mop of curly hair and freckles - so many freckles.
He takes a moment to soak in this feeling, of holding a child who he’ll never have to put in danger, who he can really, truly love, without constraint. His son will never have to learn how to shoot a gun or kill a deer or tend to injuries or fight against magic. He’ll never have to face down the Doodler with the knowledge that he probably won’t make it out alive. His bruises and scraped knees will come from falling off bikes and playing on playgrounds, his tears will be shed over toy disputes and little-kid arguments.
Sparrow promises himself this, promises that he will do everything he can to give this kid a good life - something he knows he can’t do for Hero.
“You’re Normal,” he whispers, cradling the child in his arms. “You’re normal, and that’s all you ever have to be.”
Thirty
Sparrow nearly throws up at the sight of Hero. He knew what would happen tonight - knew that when he and Lark took her camping this time, she would have to do it - but that doesn’t make the sight of it any less jarring.
There’s blood on her face, on her hands, on her shirt - and not from the usual deer she practices on (though Sparrow also vehemently disagrees with that. It’s the only way, he tells himself - repeats it like a mantra, like a prayer. It’s the only way). There’s a bag slung over her shoulder, a gun in her shaky hands, and tear stains on her cheeks. Sparrow signals to Lark to come talk to him alone (he needs to, before he loses it entirely).
Lark knows he hates this, hates having to put his daughter through years of trauma, having to make her a child soldier to fix what they fucked up. He knows. So when Sparrow leans in for a hug, Lark would never deny him.
Sparrow does not allow himself to cry. He can’t, not when his daughter just killed a man for the first time because of him. He can’t, because this is his fault. It’s unfair to her to cry, to break down, when she’s the one who just witnessed the life leave someone’s eyes.
God, he really is a monster.
He has to go see her, to calm her down. He may be a shit person, a shittier parent, but damn him if he doesn’t at least try. It may be a necessity to train her, but it’s not a necessity to deprive her of comfort.
Sparrow slips away from Lark, who gives him a knowing look as he begins to walk away. He’ll keep watch for the night, Sparrow knows. Lark did the hard stuff, the training - it’s time for Sparrow to pick up the pieces. He hates knowing he has the easier job.
He doesn’t say anything to Hero at first, can’t get the words to leave his mouth. Instead he just sits next to her, slings an arm around her shoulder, and pulls her close. She sniffles, tries to wipe her tears away, and god, he has to say something.
“It’s okay to cry, baby,” he says, voice just above a whisper. “I know that was hard, it was scary, it’s okay to cry. I’m right here. Daddy’s here. I’m so sorry you had to do that.”
Hero removes her hands from her face and clings closer to Sparrow, burying her face in his chest. He wraps his arms around her, embracing her - and wills her to feel, at the very least, comforted. He hears her voice, rough and teary, respond “I have to do it to help people, right? Uncle Lark said I can’t save the world if I can’t hurt bad guys. I have to.”
Sparrow nearly bursts into tears right then, but he holds it together - he has to, for her. “That’s right, baby. You have to know how to fight, but it’s still okay to be upset after.”
They sit in silence for a little while after that, Sparrow hugging his daughter, rocking them slightly. He loves Hero, he loves her so much. He wishes he didn’t. He hates himself for that.
“I love you,” he whispers, breaking the silence. “You’re my Hero, I love you.”
He can't ignore the voice in his head, laughing, saying that if he really loved her he would never do this to her.
He just holds her closer and tries to ignore the blood on her (his) hands.
Thirty Five
Sparrow watches his brother storm out of their childhood home, and he can almost feel his heart ripping in two.
This is it, he knows. He has to make his choice - Lark or Henry, he can’t have both.
He knows who he will choose, he’s always known. That doesn’t make it any less devastating.
He gives Lark a look out the window, praying he’ll understand what it means - “I’m with you, I’ll always be with you, I’ll always choose you. Just let me say goodbye.”
He doesn’t hear the car horn honk or his phone ping, so he assumes Lark got the message.
He turns to his father - older, now, than he once was, sporting smile lines and wrinkles - which greatly contradict with the tear tracks running down his face.
“Sparrow-” he starts, but chokes up before he can continue.
“I’m sorry,” Sparrow responds, holding back his tears as best he can. "I tried, I really did. I wanted this to work, I wanted to have you both. I’m so fucking selfish. I’m sorry.”
“This isn’t your fault, honey, you aren’t responsible for your brother. But I love him, and I love you, and that won’t ever change. You’re okay, birdie.”
The use of his childhood nickname breaks Sparrow completely, and despite his best efforts, his tears begin to spill over - and once they start, they just won’t stop. He thinks back to several years ago, when he was twelve, when Lark had just stabbed Dad and everything had gone to shit and all he wanted in the whole wide world was a hug from his daddy - and somehow, in this moment, he feels exactly like that scared little kid again.
He’s sobbing, his breathing erratic, and when he feels his father’s arms wrap around him, he can’t help but melt into the embrace. It’ll be the last time he gets to experience it, he knows. And he knows it’s selfish, but he wants to give himself this one thing, a proper goodbye.
Sparrow pulls away too soon. He looks into his father’s eyes, wet with tears, and he knows that Henry knows he’s made his decision.
It was never really a decision, anyways. Lark and Sparrow are just that - two halves of a whole. Where one goes, the other follows. Their fates were written in the stars the day Sparrow, intentionally or not, helped Lark put a knife through their father’s back.
He can’t take anymore of this. He feels like he’s going to fall apart. He needs a hug, he needs to break something, he needs a drink, he needs to hit someone - it’s all too much.
“I-I have to go. I have to go. I’m sorry, dad. I really am.”
“It’s okay, birdie, it’s okay. I love you so much, I always will. No matter what.”
Sparrow is crying too hard to respond, and as he steps onto the porch and shuts the door behind him, he feels something inside of him break.
He doesn’t know how he knows, can’t explain it, other than a bone-deep feeling of utter loss. A loss of confidence, of stability, of power, of love, and he knows deep down that this was the last straw.
Sparrow leaves his Love Wolf identity on the front porch of his childhood home, and he does not look back.
Thirty Eight
Sparrow’s fucked up. He knows this, without a shadow of a doubt. He’s a horrible, selfish, awful person and an even worse parent and he has no idea how to fix this.
His daughter, his Hero, won’t even speak to him - and yeah, he gets it, he deserves it. It hurts even worse to know that everything he put her through was for naught. There was another way, was always another way - he and Lark were just too blindsided to see it.
God, he feels so stupid.
And now Normal’s involved in all of this - Normal, who is anything but normal, who is so similar to Sparrow that it scares the absolute shit out of him. Normal, who he told he wasn’t proud of. Normal, who was never supposed to have to deal with any of this.
He doesn’t know what to do, and from the looks of it, neither does Lark.
They watch as Normal and the other teens work together, to do something their parents never could. They watch as Normal, time and time again, chooses love over everything else.
"He’s just like you, you know,” Lark whispers.
“No,” Sparrow responds. “He’s better. He’s so much better.”
“They’re going to fix this.”
“I hope they do a better job than us.”
“They will.”
Lark reaches out and takes Sparrow’s hand, never tearing his eyes away from the kids. “We can still help them,” he says. “It’s not too late. We fucked things up, but maybe we can still fix them.”
Sparrow squeezes his hand. “Maybe we can still fix them. We can make things better for them. Both of them. Both of us.”
“It’s us against the world, brother.”
“Forever and always.”