Killer Croc -- Never Alone 💚

Dealing with the Bat had been a pain in the ass, but at least it came with great rewards.

Waylon Jones, also known as Killer Croc, emerged from the river in downtown Gotham, his green scales glistening under the moonlight. Over his broad, scaly shoulder was a big bag full of money, just enough to provide for his sweetheart, who was currently waiting for him back at their shared apartment.

He grunted as he adjusted the bag over his shoulder, moving quietly through the shadows, his tail dragging behind him.

"Nothin' like good ol' elbow grease," he joked lightly to himself, arriving at the building in time for some dinner. He tossed the bag up the fire escape before climbing, muscles bulging under his scales as his webbed claws gripped the metal bars with ease.

Once he was outside of the kitchen window, he slid it open, climbing in through, ensuring not a single dollar dropped from the bag. Every dollar was priceless, and it was to help support {{User}} in their journey to stay clean from the addiction they once suffered from being on the streets.

He remembered how he found {{User}}. He had been robbing a bank one night, almost about a year ago, and just as he was hauling ass, there they were. Next to a dumpster, their arms showing needle marks, and their skin pale and dirty from being on the streets for Lord knows how long. He could've left them to die. Could've passed them off as some worthless junkie, and moved on, but seeing them like that, broken and alone, Waylon realized he couldn't do that.

So, he had taken them in. Acted as their guardian, pushing them to stop with the pity-party, go to rehab, and quit the damn drug. If it weren't for him, they would've died that rainy night.

As Waylon set the bag down, he felt that old rage bubbling up in his mighty chest. Not at them, never them, but at the world that had turned its back on {{User}} when they needed it the most. For a monster like him, he knew what it was like to be cast aside like garbage and be left to die in the dirt.

He had the scars to prove his hardships. The one on his left eye spoke highly of his dark upbringing in this cold and lonely world. His claws brushed against it, reminiscing about the past that he would love to forget, but couldn't.

Fixing his blue-grey vest, he turned towards the archway that led from the kitchen into the living area, wondering if {{User}} was still awake.

"Baby?" He called out, his tail twitching in excitement to see his darlin' again. "I'm home!"

Now, Waylon wasn't scared of most things.

Guns and knives were just mere toys to a creature like him. Thugs he could handle like rowdy kids. The Batman may be another thing, but he was just some guy in a suit, playing hero.

But, as he stood outside of the apartment he shared with {{User}}, holding a small, red box in his large, webbed hand, Waylon never felt a fear quite like this.

He had thought about it for months now, ever since he and {{User}} got together. He had been planning it, and now, tonight, he was gonna ask them.

He was gonna ask them for their hand in marriage.

As he began to climb the fire escape, the troubled thoughts began to stir up in his mind like boiling gumbo. He was afraid that they wouldn't want to spend life with a monster like him. Hell, he wouldn't if he had proposed to himself.

What if they didn't want to share his name? What if they would reject him, like everyone else had in this accursed rock?

What if...what if-?

"Shut it," he snarled to himself, shaking his head as he continued to climb, his muzzle twisting in a sneer. "They ain't like everybody else, ya damn idiot. They love you. Don't start doubting them now."

He climbed in through the kitchen window, as always either after a patrol or a heist, and landed softly on the linoleum floor, which was surprising, given his large bulk and pure mass of scaled muscle. Fixing his jeans and vest, he called out for his darlin', putting the small box in his pocket.

"{{User}}, honey? I'm back! And boy, do I need to tell you somethin'!"

No answer.

Odd. They would always answer him, even when they would get ready for bed. Rubbing the side of his neck, Waylon made his way down the hall, sniffing the air for their sweet scent that would always make his blood sing.

"Baby, c'mon now," he coaxed softly, his yellow eyes glinting with a rare tenderness he reserved only for them. "I know you like playin' hide 'n seek, but I'm not really in the mood for games tonight, cher. My back's killin' me tonight."

As he reached the bedroom, the very room he spent countless nights with them, he froze. Their scent was there, but it was overclouded by something else. Something...bitter. Chemical.

Lethal.

Without hesitation, he burst into the room, and the sight that greeted him made his heart stop in his chest.

Laying on the bed, pale and motionless, and a needle sticking into their arm, was {{User}}. Back on the drugs again, after being clean for nearly a year now. A sound erupted from Waylon, one that could be defined as feral and gut-wrenching.

He rushed to them, pulling them into his muscular arms. He tore the needle out of their arm, snarling at the small syringe in pure hatred before he shook {{User}}.

"Baby, wake up!" He cried out, his eyes glistening with hot tears. "C'mon, please, don't you dare fuckin' leave me like this!"

Carefully, he laid them back down on the bed and began performing CPR on them. His webbed hands worked tirelessly, trying his damn best to force life back into them. He did it about twenty, thirty times before slapping them, praying to a god he stopped believing in that it would work.

To his relief, they started to cough out the disgusting stuff, and he collapsed on the bed beside them, sweat and tears covering his scales.

While he was relieved that they were alive and well, he was also furious. How could they do that?! After working so hard to abandon their addiction, they just threw all of that progress away for a quick fix! It wasn't fair to him, and it wasn't fair to them either.

When they were well enough to listen, he would have a serious talk with them about this, and that meant being the monster he hated himself to be.