#“what happened to me?” | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

adrift-in-thyme · 6 months

Text

Whumptober Day 29: "What happened to me?"

Read it on Ao3

- First

- Summary: Link becomes an uwilling pawn in a dastardy plot

CW for possession, blood and injury, mentions of death, captivity, and torture

----------------

Everything hurts.

Link drags his eyes open, groaning as consciousness alerts him to the agony that tears him apart. The emptiness he had been drifting in had been far preferable to this.

…whatever this is.

He stands in crimson-tinged near-darkness, held up solely by the manacles around his wrists and ankles. The only light source is from the pools of lava that gurgle and bubble on either side of him. The heat that emanates from them seems to claw at him, smothering and searing. Chained as he is, he can’t escape its reach.

Link swallows, wincing as something wet trickles down his forehead and into his eye. He can’t even tell where his wounds begin and where they end.

How had he even gotten them? He wonders, trying to force his dazed, jumbled thoughts into something coherent. And how had he ended up here?

As far as he knows, he has never set foot in this place before. It positively wreaks of dark power though, almost as suffocating as the flaming heat that burns his exposed skin and laps at the tattered remains of his tunic and trousers.

He closes his eyes, attempting to ignore the pain and let the memories he knows are there come forth. But they are stubborn things. He recalls nothing save for the abyss he had floated in, buoyed upon soft, weightless waves of light.

It was painless there. Pleasant, almost. Save for those odd moments when he had sworn he was doing something…speaking, acting, feeling. But those moments had not been his own. Not truly. No, his life, his reality…

Ah.

He blinks his eyes open again, a grim smile on his lips. The flickering of flames upon the obsidian surface of the opposite wall seems to taunt him.

He had been dead. Felled by Demise’s lightning, torn asunder by his claws.

And as he had taken his final breaths, Hylia had sent his people to the sky.

“Link, hurry! Jump into the light! Please!”

He had wanted to. In truth, he would have given anything to take to the skies with them, make a new home, get a second chance at protecting his beloved people. But fate had not willed it so.

Apparently, however, he is not quite off its leash just yet. Otherwise he would not be sitting here would he? In some cruel joke to the gods.

There is no rest for the wicked, he has heard some say. There is no rest for heroes either. Not the ones who failed, at least.

He should feel bitter, he supposes. All he feels is tired. It seeps in through the bloodied cracks in his skin, oozing into his bones and muscles, encompassing his soul. He sags beneath its weight.

Forgive me, Hylia. I do not know if I have the strength to face whatever trial fate has set before me.

“So, even in this place, you dare to pray to your goddess. It will do you no good.”

The voice booms around the space, echoing off of the walls. Footsteps join in its aftermath, loud and heavy, mingling with the scrape of a door sliding open. Link raises his head.

Before him stands an all-too-familiar figure. His hair is like burning flames, his flesh the color of ash. His eyes are ablaze with the fury Link faced so long ago.

“Demise.”

He spits the title with all the animosity he can conjure. There is no shortage of it, to be certain. It boils within him, hotter than the lava that leaps toward him.

“I thought Hylia sealed you away. How are you here now?”

“One could ask you the same thing,” the demon god rumbles. “But you have no right to question me in the first place.”

He stalks toward him and Link tenses.

“You are as much of a pathetic worm as you were back then.”

A clawed hand forces his chin up, nails drawing blood, hold so tight that Link grits his teeth to keep from crying out.

“I am not so pathetic as you think,” he retorts. “I defeated you back then, did I not?”

Demise laughs, actually laughs, and the earth shakes with the sound.

“You did nothing. It was your goddess who sealed me and her sword which saved your people. Your only accomplishment was securing an untimely death for yourself.”

His expression darkens. Link meets it with an answering glare. He refused to bow before this deity back then. He refuses to now.

“However, there are ways in which you can be useful.”

He turns away. A short distance away there sits a large throne, shrouded in shadow, and adorned with carved depictions of people writhing in agony. An enormous claymore rests against it and Demise scoops it up as though holding it is no feat at all. He runs a finger across its ridged edges and Link feels his breath stutter.

“You won’t kill me again so soon,” he says, steady tone belying the terrified turmoil within.

“No, I will not do that.” Demise walks back to him. Lifting the weapon, he presses the tip of it against Link’s neck. “Only humans kill indiscriminately.”

Link swallows, feeling the chill of cold metal on his skin. It is almost unnatural amidst all this heat.

“You may say that. But you certainly killed indiscriminately during the war. What of all the people you slaughtered in your attempt at bringing about a world of darkness?”

“You misunderstand, pitiful human,” he snarls. “I take as many lives as I wish. But I take them with purpose.”

He presses the blade closer. It bites mercilessly into Link’s flesh. Blood bubbles up beneath it.

“Know this. I threaten with purpose, as well. I have use for you and you will fulfill it.”

“No. I won’t.”

The blade bites harder. Link clenches his hands into fists. The pain within him is an unending rhythm. The heat smothers him. But he won’t back down. He won’t surrender. Whatever this demon god wants, he refuses to give it to him.

“No is not an answer you give to a god, fool.”

Suddenly, his body lights up with agony. Link arches back, a strangled scream breaking free. Flames sear through his very bones, fire courses through his veins. All he can see is red.

And then, just as quickly, it’s over. He sags against his chains, gasping for breath.

“There are nine heroes. Nine men and boys like yourself.”

He blinks, dazedly trying to comprehend Demise’s words.

“N-nine?” Link raises his head, hardly registering the absence of the blade. “There should…should only be one. Me.”

Again, Demise’s laughter fills the cavernous space.

“The failure you and your goddess share has haunted many, boy. These nine possess your spirit. I wish for them to be wiped from history itself.”

He hefts the weapon in his hand, regarding it calmly. Link stares dimly at it. Thoughts tumble through his mind in a panicked race to be heard.

Nine heroes with his spirit. A failure that doomed them all. Demise standing before him now.

The seal broke. It must have. And he hadn’t been there to recreate it.

…neither had Hylia.

No.

Link’s eyes widen.

He remembers bits and pieces of his last moments. Words spoken in soft tones. Broken messages that hadn’t seemed important in the face of death.

“I…shed divinity…simple human.”

He chokes on a cry.

Hylia, what did you do?

“My servants attempted to do the deed,” Demise is saying now, as though his previous words are not fit to destroy Link completely. “But they failed. Every one of them.”

Flaming irises skewer him. He is like a fairy trapped in the bottle of an unsavory person – helpless, terrified.

“You will not.”

Link bares his teeth in a snarl. A mixture of terror and guilt and hopelessness, he has found, quickly becomes rage in the heart of a warrior. It fills him now, blinding him to the pain, to the sorrow, dragging him from the depths like a wild animal struggling against the walls of its cage.

“What…what makes you assume I will do your bidding? You may have dragged me back from the land of the dead, but I have no goodwill in my heart towards you for it.”

He cocks his head, a harsh grin splitting his lips. Every word tastes like ash and blood in his mouth, an outpouring of the fires of battle roaring in his soul.

“Or perhaps you think you can intimidate me because my goddess is gone and my people with her? I assure you, I am well accustomed to facing terrors alone. Your idle threats don’t frighten me.”

“You dare speak to a god in such a manner, insolent human?” Demise practically looms over him, all flaming power and dark magic. He steps closer and his meaty fist closes around Link’s neck. He chokes, gasping as agony streaks up his throat and a skull-crushing rush fills his ears. “You will find that my threats are anything but idle. You will do my bidding.”

He leans in, heedless of Link’s thrashing and clawing.

“You will do it because I will make you. Open your mind, little human, and let me in.”

Link’s eyes blow wide with panic. His attempts to break free grow impossibly more desperate as the reality of what Demise is about to do strikes home.

He can’t possibly resist a god’s attempts to make him an unwilling, unthinking pawn. He isn’t strong enough. Especially not now, after everything.

I could not even slay him the first time. By the gods, I failed so completely that I burdened nine with the task that was meant only for me.

How on earth can I hold him back now?

He lifts his eyes to the heavens, tears of pain and desperation burning in them.

If you hear me, Hylia, help me! Give me the strength to…

His thoughts shatter. It comes at him in a rush of roaring power, thundering into his mind like an oncoming tsunami. And at the same time his body ignites again with searing agony. His world dissolves into a hellish haze of inescapable pain.

He thinks he screams. At least, that must be the terrible sound that echoes in his ears and tears at his throat. But he can’t be sure. He can’t be sure of anything really. Suddenly, everything is upside down and sideways and a swirl of hazy, nauseating confusion.

“You are strong,” someone sneers and he hardly understands the words. “It sickens me. Fall before me, Chosen Hero of the Goddess. Become my puppet.”

Everything intensifies. Colors explode before his eyes, memories rush by at incomprehensible speeds – his own and those he has never seen before, that don’t even belong in his mind. Desires snake into his heart, his limbs grow heavy, his body unnaturally cold.

He screams again, but this time it is more pitiful, more weak – a last ditch attempt to protest what distantly, he knows is coming.

“Yes.” Demise’s face is inches from his. Abruptly, he can make it out with striking clarity. “You are mine.”

Link chokes on a sob.

I’m sorry.

He doesn’t even remember who he is apologizing to anymore. Or what he was doing here. Or why everything hurts so badly.

But he doesn’t need to. Not really. Because in the next moment, everything falls away.

Between one strangled, gasping, desperate breath and the next, he loses himself.

20 notes · View notes

slytherinlesbians · 6 months

Text

Whumptober 2023, Day 29: "What happened to me?"

fandom: criminal minds | characters: spencer reid (centric), derek morgan, jennifer jareau, aaron hotchner | ship: none | trigger warnings: past addiction, gunshot wound | content: spencer is shot on a case, pain relief used in the hospital brings up bad feelings, team as a family, dad!hotch | word count: 888.

Spencer comes to slowly. His brain feels thick with fog, like he can’t form a clear thought. His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, his head heavy. He blinks a couple of times before he realizes there are other people in the room. He blinks another couple of times before he realizes what the room even is - he’s in the hospital.

“‘S happening?” he mumbles lethargically. Morgan, sitting next to his bedside, jumps.

“Kid! I didn’t realize you were awake! You good?”

“Uh…” Spencer says, swallowing a few times, trying to get his bearings. “Thirsty?”

“I got you,” Morgan says, leaning over to the bedside table and pouring a glass of water. He helps Spencer sit up - his whole body feels like it weighs a ton - and helps him sip the water. As he lays back down, a significant wave of exhaustion hits him.

“Wha’ happened t’ me?” he asks. He falls back asleep before he gets his answer.

When he wakes next, it’s dark outside. JJ is at his bedside, and Morgan and Rossi are standing at the end of the bed, talking softly. JJ is watching him, and she gives him a small smile.

“Hey, Spence, welcome back.”

“Jayje,” Spencer mutters, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as best he can. “Where’d I go?”

She laughs quietly. “Sorry, nowhere. I just meant you’ve been asleep for a while.”

“Happened?” he asks. It takes incredible effort to ask such a simple question. She sighs.

“You were stabbed, sweetheart. You passed out before the medics arrived, but you got through surgery fine. You just need to rest now.”

“Oh,” he says. “‘M tired.”

“Yeah, you will be for a while,” she says sympathetically. “You take as long as you need, okay? We’re not going anywhere.”

He strains himself for a moment to look up at the end of his bed where Morgan and Rossi stand.

“Where’s…” he struggles for a moment to put the pieces together, but JJ does so for him.

“Emily and Hotch just went for a walk to get some food. They’ll be back soon.”

Things get fuzzy again after that - he doesn’t remember what he says in response to JJ, or whether he says anything at all. The next time he opens his eyes, he aches all over. The pain is dull and throbbing and he trembles in bed. He must moan or say something, because he squints to see Hotch spin around from talking seriously to two people he doesn’t recognise - doctors.

“It’s okay Reid,” he says soothingly. “You’ll be okay in a moment.”

“It… hurts,” he gasps, and he has no idea where the pain is coming from, only that it’s everywhere and his skin feels like it’s on fire. He's so hot. He’s drenched in sweat, and Hotch comes over to push his hair back off his head.

“I know,” Hotch says, something in his voice Spencer can’t quite place. “It won’t soon, Spencer. It’ll be over soon.”

A nurse comes over and takes Spencer’s arm. Something flits across Hotch’s face - regret? Spencer can’t tell, everything hurts too much. The nurse produces a needle and injects it into Spencer’s arm. The relief is almost instant. He slips back into sleep easily.

The next time he wakes up, it’s still dark, and he feels… good. Really good. Pleasant, even. Is he still in the hospital? It all feels very nice, truly. Like he’s floating. A little euphoric. A little bit like…

The recognition of the feeling hits Spencer with full force, slamming into his chest. He gasps and sits up, dizzy and hazy as ever. Emily and JJ sit on one side of him, Hotch on the other. All three look at him with the exact same expression, somewhere between sympathy and pain.

“I’m - they gave me - why didn’t you tell them-,” he still feels so foggy and distant, he can barely string three words together. He slumps back against his pillows and looks at Hotch, who shuts his eyes for a second and wipes a tired hand over his face.

“Give us a moment,” he says to Emily and JJ, who nod and take their leave. Once the door is shut behind them. Spencer tries again.

“I’m - on something,” he says, stilted. The words feel ugly in his mouth. His lower lip trembles, and he presses them together to stop himself from bursting into embarrassing tears in front of his boss. “What did they give me?” he whispers.

“Morphine,” Hotch says quietly. “I’m sorry, Spencer.”

“It’s - in my records. That I don’t-,”

“I know. But I’m your medical proxy, and you couldn’t keep pushing through the pain without it. You burnt through all the other stuff and you-,” Hotch inhales uncharacteristically shakily. “I didn’t have a choice, Spencer. I am so sorry. We can talk about it more when you’re a little better, but please, don’t strain yourself now. Please. Just rest.”

“I-,” Spencer chokes, wrapping the blanket around him tighter. He wants to sink into it. He wants to disappear. Even his fuzzy, drugged up brain can understand why Hotch did what he did. But the irrational part of him is beginning to panic.

“I don’t want it,” is all he can manage without sobbing.

“I know,” Hotch says tiredly. “I know, Spencer. I’m sorry.”

#whumptober2023 #no.29 #“what happened to me?”#criminal minds #fanfiction #addiction tw #gunshot wound tw #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #david rossi #the bau

21 notes · View notes

little-peril-stories · 6 months

Text

Whumptober 2023: Box in Your Heart

Whumptober 2023 Masterlist

It's Halloween! Let's have a story set in a cemetery.

Warnings: angst, traumatic memories

Chapter 48 | Chapter 49 | TPOT Masterlist | Are You Nobody, Too? | Finale Part 1

Word count: 4500 || Approx reading time: 19 mins

Box in Your Heart

Teaser: Will flicks his gaze to me for only a second, his answer plain on his face—a face that’s pale and pinched, more so than I’ve seen in a while. He doesn’t say a word.

I don’t tail Will every time he disappears. After the first time, once I realized where he was going and what he was up to—once I was satisfied that he wasn’t doing anything stupid—I just let him be.

Today, though, there’s a storm brewing in the distance. The early days of spring bring madness around here—as likely to usher in flurries of wet, sleety snow as to pelt the earth with vicious rain, and the steely clouds on the horizon don’t give any indication of which they’re bringing. All I know is that it’s still cold and wet outside, and if Will stays out too long, he’s going to get soaked to the bone, and then I’m going to have to contend with his sniffly, sneezing, complaining self for the next week while he whines and drives us all to distraction.

At least Verity might fall out of love with him if she realizes what a pain in the ass he can sometimes be—although, by some miracle, she hasn’t noticed yet, so it seems I just have to keep waiting until we skip town for her infatuation to break.

Will doesn’t turn around when I approach, and I have to wonder if he even hears me. “Hey.”

He stiffens, but doesn’t seem startled. “Hey.”

Not the warmest welcome I could have hoped for, but I knew that going in. All of us could see it this morning: there were green-gold storm clouds in his eyes, not just in the sky. I heard Jamie and Geoff muttering before I left to chase after him, and though I didn’t catch everything, I know I heard the word nightmare.

So I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he’s not thrilled to discover I’ve been hovering behind him.

“You all right?”

I have to smile, not at his gloomy silence, but at the way Will is perched on the ground. Without any of us noticing, he stole Jamie’s green scarf—old habits die hard, as they say—but he’s not wearing it; instead, he’s using it like a little pillow, keeping a barrier between his clothes and the damp earth. I can’t imagine Jamie will be delighted about getting his scarf back all muddy and wet.

Will flicks his gaze to me for only a second, his answer plain on his face—a face that’s pale and pinched, more so than I’ve seen in a while. He doesn’t say a word.

All right. It’s a silent treatment kind of day. Nothing I can’t handle. “What can I do to help?”

“Nothing, Colette.”

“Can I sit down?”

“You can do whatever you want.”

I bite back a sigh, grimace at the prospect of putting my body on the soggy ground, and take a seat, trying to fluff out my skirts as best I can. Wish I’d thought to bring something to sit on. He doesn’t pay me any heed, though, just keeps his eyes on the ground.

I know what’s here, and what he’s staring at, and why he always comes to this area of the churchyard. There’s no headstone, no marking whatsoever, and probably close to twenty coffins rotting away underneath the grass. The thought of Will and Jamie’s mother having had nothing more than a pauper’s funeral makes my throat ache. Probably, that’s not what Will is brooding about today, but it is the reason he always comes back to this spot.

The urge to prompt again, Want to tell me what’s bothering you? is so strong, it itches. I keep it inside, though, knowing he’ll spook and possibly fuck right off if I don’t play this carefully, but I have to tug a ball of yarn and a pair of knitting needles out of my pocket for distraction.

“You look like an old woman,” he says, and I catch a glint of hazel as he sends another unimpressed glance toward me and my restless, looping fingers.

Perhaps I should be irritated by the comment, but the truth is, I despise knitting and I’ve only taken it up again out of the boredom these last few months, and to be fair, I probably do look like an old woman. “You want to take over instead?”

He scoffs. Looks away.

“Your loss,” I say, revelling silently in my victory when the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. “You don’t also want to look like an old lady?”

Biting his lip and attempting—royally unsuccessfully, I might add—to appear like he doesn’t want to laugh at least a little, he turns his face away before he asks, “How’d you know where I was?”

“Will.” It’s offensive, the suggestion that I wouldn’t be able to tail his grumpy, stomping footsteps. “You storm around like an elephant when you’re pissed off. Anyone would know where you were. Not just me.”

He hurls me a withering glare. “I don’t know what an elephant looks like.”

“If you ever picked up a book or any of the countless magazines Verity has delivered to the house,” I say, exasperated, “you might.”

To my surprise, the look in his eyes changes—a familiar, mischievous glint lights up. “Gotta assume they walk around real graceful and stealthy.”

“You would be incorrect in that assumption.”

Finally, he lets out a snort of laughter, and I have to suddenly entertain the possibility that maybe he’s pulling my leg about the elephant thing. “Why’d you follow me, then?”

It’s my turn to give him The Look. “To make sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Will.”

“Colette.”

“Fox.”

“Spider.”

“W—”

“I just needed a break,” he says before we can start going in circles again. “Okay? That’s it. I just… I couldn’t…”

His words fade away, and I let them. It’s hard to tell exactly what he meant: I couldn’t handle being in the house anymore. I couldn’t stay and wait for you all to pester me about my nightmares. I couldn’t bear the thought of more housework. I couldn’t look at all your annoying faces for a second longer.

He drifts off again, tugging tufts of grass and earth out of the ground, absently building a little pile in front of him, growing to collect rocks and twigs, too, as the silence drags on.

“Will,” I finally say when my patience for knitting and waiting for him to say something runs out, “it looks like it’s going to storm.”

“So?”

“So I don’t want to be out here if it’s going to rain.”

“So go back, then.”

“I’d rather not go back without you.”

His Adam’s apple bobs in and out. “You can. I don’t care.”

I shove out the next words before they can retreat. “I’m worried about you.”

“I told you I’m fine.”

“And I don’t think I believe you.”

He picks up one of the stones and throws it in the air, catching it in his fist, only to toss it again a few seconds later. “I know you were all talking about me this morning. All worried because I had…” So fast his arm seems to blur, he hurls the stone into the distance. It knocks against someone’s grave, clacking and hitting the ground with a dull thump. “Yeah. I had a fucking nightmare. It was bad. Okay? It was bad. I—I hate it. It… You know? I—”

I don’t have to ask what he saw in his dreams, what apparently had him in a cold sweat in the early hours of the morning, because I’m sure I already know, but I do anyway. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll say it out loud. “Want to talk about what was in it?”

“Same shit,” he says, his back going stiff. “Back—there.”

Almost, Will. Almost.

“Bloody fucking Hatchett,” he says bitterly, reaching for another rock and lobbing that, too. “Bloody goddamn knife.”

Knife. Almost beyond my control, my eyes sweep over him, travelling over the clothes that conceal what we all know is there—the assortment of pale, fading scars. The ones on his arms and wrists I see most often, whitish pink and shiny. Jamie says the ones on his back are bad, and around his ankles, too, left by the bite of a cat-o’-nine-tails and unyielding iron chains.

“I thought by now…” He doesn’t seem to notice my once-over, just attacks another distant grave with his rage-fuelled aim. “I don’t know, I just thought…”

Another stone. Another sigh.

I wait. That’s all I can do, I think. Because he’s lost again, quiet and staring, done slinging stuff around but plucking through the bits of damp dirt and grass. Not seeing any of it.

A loud bark rushes the air, originating somewhere beyond my sight, and I jump nearly out of my skin, spitting out a frustrated, “Ah, shit,” when my skein of wool rolls off my folded legs, away from the safety of my lap and onto the mucky ground.

He doesn’t notice, even when I have to strain to reach the errant, runaway wool.

“Not long now,” he says suddenly.

With a final stretch, my fingers grasp the yarn, and I jerk it back toward me before it can roll away again. “Until what?”

“Till we leave.”

My muscles still, drawn to a freeze by the razor-thin edge of sorrow to his tone. “No.” I have to school my own voice to keep out the relief and joy I feel over our looming departure, sentiments it doesn’t seem like he shares. “Not much longer at all.”

“I know I should want to go.” No surprise—he won’t look at me. “Just fucking leave it all behind, right?”

Well. I doubt that.

“I just don’t know what’s wrong with me. What the fuck happened, you know? I just…I mean….it’s been months—”

“Will—”

“And you’d think months later, I’d just—right? The nightmares and all that shit and it’s so stupid, you—I—”

“Will—”

Somewhere over the city centre, there’s a crack of thunder, making me jump again. I guess that answers the question about whether it’s going to be snow or rain. In response, it seems, to the gathering storm, a howl rises from amongst the stones.

“Fuck,” I squeak, quite unintentionally, at the sudden onslaught of noise.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he says, and to my surprise, he’s laughing. “That’s just Ginger.”

“Ginger?”

“The dog,” he says, laughing even harder at the look of confusion and not-unwarranted concern on my face.

“Whose dog?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Can’t tell if she belongs to anyone. But I’ve seen her here before.”

As if she can tell he’s talking about her, the animal he’s apparently taken it upon himself to call Ginger appears out of nowhere, bounding toward him in a rapid gallop, presenting a tongue far too slobbery for my liking. Unable to help myself, I stiffen at the sight of her.

I’m not afraid of dogs. I’m not.

But this one is careering toward us pretty damn fast, and it’s big, and we did just hear her howl an eerie, ear-splitting wail into the coming storm.

“Relax,” he says as the dog skids to a stop in front of him, planting herself by his boots and immediately and enthusiastically beginning to lick the sleeve of his coat. “She’s sweet.”

She’s dirty is perhaps a more accurate statement. “Will, you’re going to end up with fleas. You don’t know where she came from.”

“Oh, shut up. She doesn’t have fleas.”

Based on the way she turns away from him for a hearty scratch, he’s wrong, but he’s also smiling, so I drop the matter and just watch him while he drifts off, showering affection on the dog. I’m still pretending to knit, of course. I mean, knitting. Actually knitting.

“Stop staring at me,” he grumbles after a while, once he’s cottoned on.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Ginger yawns, revealing a gaping maw with at least two missing teeth, then curls up on the muddy ground, pressing herself against the side of Will’s leg. As he rests his hand on her flank, he heaves a long sigh.

Time to try again. “What’s wrong?”

Maybe with his favourite animal cuddled up at his side—fleas and all—he might be more amenable to talking about what’s bothering him.

But he just says, “Nothing.”

Another rumble of thunder. Not overhead yet, but I think I’ve lost my chance to make it out of here in dry clothes. But he doesn’t look like he’s moving anytime soon. “Listen to that. We’re going to die out here in this storm, tragically struck by lightning, caught out in the elements, and you’re lying to my face. You may as well just tell me now, since you won’t have another chance.”

He makes a face. “You’re being dramatic. And mor…” He paused. “What’s the word?”

“What word?”

“When you’re being weird and annoying and talking about how we’re going to die.”

Chuckling, I tell him, “Morbid,” which he remembers once I get to the b sound, and he ends up saying it with me.

God, what a relief to have a genuine laugh together.

“In all seriousness…” I try again once the giggles have faded. “You can tell me. If you want.”

He gives another long sigh, heavy enough that Ginger the dog looks up at him, affronted, when it bursts out of him.

“There’s nothing to say.” He’s mumbling, staring at the ground again. “Not really. I just… It was a bad morning. Started bad. Didn’t want to hang around, or I was going to end up punching Jamie in the face.”

“Why? What did Jamie do?”

“Nothing. He’s just the most annoying asshole in the world when I’m in a bad mood.”

Brothers. Good grief.

“Well, really, everyone was pissing me off, but I can’t hit Geoff. Or you.”

“That’s true,” I say. “If you ever tried, I’d break your fingers.”

“Yeah. I fucking know.” But he’s smiling, even though it’s sad and doesn’t really reach his eyes.

I venture a guess, one I’m pretty confident in. Maybe being more specific will help. “Is this all about us leaving?”

“I guess so.”

It’s a relief to get some kind of confirmation from him. I’ve no doubt our upcoming departure is part of it, but we both—we all—know that there’s so much more that eats away at him. The scars Baden Hatchett and the other constables left on his skin, they’re all covered up now. But he’s got more than even that. Scars on his soul, too. How often they crack open and bleed, set him on edge like they did this morning, how often he pretends he’s fine when he’s the exact opposite… I suppose only he knows.

“Never been anywhere else,” he says, rushing the words. “You know? Dad used to go around. With the railroad. Building it and whatever. But we were kids, and we obviously never went with him. So…”

So this city is all he and Jamie have ever known. The place that broke him time and time again, the place where people kept leaving him behind. And now, so we can all start fresh and get away from the constables who’ll wrap a noose around every one of our necks if we aren’t careful, he’s the one leaving instead.

“Come on, let’s hurry, before it rains.”

It takes me a minute to register that we’re not alone, and that a girl is winding her way through the gravestones, calling to someone I can’t yet see.

Happy to ignore her and whoever she’s talking to, I open my mouth to encourage Will to finish the thought he started, but he can’t hear me, not anymore. He’s off again, staring, his eyes fixed on the girl.

“Good god, Will, don’t stare like th—”

The girl calls to her companion again, wind whipping a dark blue skirt around her legs and sending wisps of dark brown hair crisscrossing over her face. At Will’s side, the hand that isn’t resting on Ginger’s mud-streaked fur clenches into a fist.

“It’s just going to be different.” It spills out of him, his tone suddenly frantic and unsure. “We’ll be gone and we might never come back. And it’ll be… If... We’ll be gone. You know, just in case…”

He clamps his mouth closed.

A little girl finally appears, sniffling, her hands covered in mud. A sister? A daughter? It’s impossible to tell. When the older girl turns to call for the child again, she notices the tear-streaked face and grime-coated fingers. “Oh…what happened?”

“I fell,” the kid whimpers, holding out her hands.

“Let me see,” the girl says, gently. “Oh, look at that. It’s a bit muddy, and I’m sure it stung, but you know what? I think you’ll be all right.”

Whatever the little one mumbles in answer, I don’t catch, but the girl feels in her pocket for a handkerchief, and when she produces it, she wipes the child’s hands clean. “See? Good as new.”

Ginger has sat up now, golden eyes fixed on the two in the distance as they pick up the pace again and head toward someone’s grave, quiet chatter drifting away on the wind. Will, like the dog, is still gawking.

“Stop,” I say, elbowing him in the ribs, eliciting an annoyed grunt.

“Ow!” The jolt of pain seems to wake him up. “What was that for?”

“You were staring at them like a madman.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“I wasn’t.”

He was, and he’s lucky the girl didn’t notice, because I don’t think she would have been happy to find a strange man gaping at her from across the cemetery. But I hold my tongue. “All right, all right, take it easy. You weren’t. I’m sorry.”

He resumes his grass-pulling and stone-throwing, quiet and pensive once more. Less angry now. Still sad.

“Do you want me to make you one of those?” I ask, pointing toward Jamie’s green scarf.

He blinks, coming back from whatever far-away land of daydreams he was in. “Huh?” I gesture toward the scarf again, and a tiny smirk slips onto his face. “You hate knitting.” He jerks his chin toward my mistake-ridden, misshapen, half-finished stocking.

“I know, but I’d do it for you. Anyway, scarves are one of the easiest things to make. Hard to mess up too bad.”

He chews his lip, still amused, tilting his head to the side, and I know there’s some kind of smartass comment coming my way. “I’ll ask Verity to make me one.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“She’s way better at it than you are.”

“I’m serious, William,” I say, brandishing my needles. “Don’t even think about it.”

That’s all I need—for Verie to read too much into an innocent (well, not exactly innocent, since he’s just trying to get under my skin) request from Will right before we leave, possibly forever.

“Forget it.” I roll my needles into the black wool and tuck the whole lot of it away in my coat pocket. “I’ll just teach you to knit and you can make it yourself.”

“Like that’s going to happen,” he says, laughing hard enough to earn a gruff whine and unimpressed look from Ginger. “No, thanks.”

“Jamie knows how to knit.”

He snorts. “Jamie’s Jamie.”

“And Geoff.”

“Yeah, but he knows how to do everything.”

“Even my father knows how to knit.”

Will raises his eyebrows. “No, he doesn’t. You’re lying.”

“I most certainly am not.” I cross my arms. “Justine wasn’t always around, you know. There were a few years where he was alone. After my mother...”

I let the last word disappear.

“I know your ma died, Colette,” he says tiredly. “I’m not a little kid. You don’t have to be afraid to say it.”

Ginger stands up, stretches, scratches, and wanders over to me, sniffing enthusiastically. Will grunts in annoyance when she knocks over his precious pile of detritus with her muddy feet. “Aw, Ginger, come on.”

Biting my lip, I try to nudge her away from me as gently as I can.

Out of nowhere, she stiffens, whirling away from me, a low growl in her throat.

“Will,” I say, inching away even though Ginger isn’t growing at me.

Frowning, he grabs onto her, apparently not even considering the possibility that she might turn, snapping and barking, to take a bite out of his hand. “No,” he says, so sternly it’s almost adorable, while he scans the graveyard, trying to figure out what she’s growling at. “You’re scaring Colette.”

Which she’s not.

I think he and I spot what she’s detected at the same time: a fleeting glimpse of a long tail, too fluffy and red to belong to a stray dog, as an animal disappears into the gathering gloom.

“That’s rude. We’re practically cousins. He didn’t even come by to say hello,” Will says indignantly, and as I’m preparing to remind him that foxes are predators with sharp teeth and he probably doesn’t want the thing to come by and say hello, I realize he’s making a joke.

A stupid joke, but a joke nonetheless.

He clings to the still-growling dog—whether for Ginger’s or the fox’s sake, I’m not sure—while we chuckle, and it’s as she calms and he lets go that the first droplets of rain begin to patter around us.

“It’s just water,” he says when I groan in annoyance. To prove his point, he leans back on his hands, tilting his face to catch the raindrops as they fall. “It feels nice.”

“We’re going to get soaked.”

He shrugs his shoulders and doesn’t move.

Ginger, now officially the smartest out of the three of us, huffs, whines, and strides off, presumably to find shelter. Jealously, I watch her vanish.

“Bye, then,” Will says, snorting.

“I’m not just going to leave you alone in the rain,” I say, exasperated, “even if I am pissed off about getting sopping wet.”

“What?” The look he gives me is utterly bewildered. “I know. I was saying goodbye to her.”

And then we’re laughing again, yes, laughing, while we sit in the churchyard on his mother’s unmarked grave, riding out his foul mood and being drowned in the cold spring rain.

Maybe, just maybe, we’re almost in the clear.

“I just wondered,” he says, rebuilding his little pile of stones, grass, and tree debris despite how soggy it’s all gotten, “if, you know, this might be my last chance. To come here.”

It’s been many long months, seemingly endless at times, of Jamie’s recovery, and Will’s too, and actually, you know what, all of us, leading up to our opportunity to seek real freedom somewhere else. At the cost, though, of leaving behind everything we know.

“She’d understand,” I day, even though I never met their mother and only know what Jamie and Will have shared.

“You think?”

Deciding to take the risk, I reach for his hand. It’s ice cold, but I honestly don’t think he even realizes. “I’m sure she’d want you to be safe. Right?”

“Guess so.” He frowns down at my fingers over his, but he doesn’t tug them free. I’m all right with that. I’d rather have him glaring at me a little than watch him fall back into quiet emptiness, that silent enemy that’s never that far away no matter how much time passes.

I grit my teeth against the chill, knowing now that I am locked in a battle with my stubborn mule of a friend, and whoever admits it’s time to go first is the loser.

And I’m playing against the champion, so I almost whoop with triumphant delight when he mumbles a few minutes later, “I’m kind of cold now.”

“Well, let’s go, then,” I say, holding back my entirely justified I told you so.

He agrees, shivering a little but appearing to be in far better spirits than before. Apparently, all it took was fresh air, a flea-ridden dog, a fleeting visit from a mangy fox, some peace and quiet, a few flashes of lightning, buckets of cold-ass rain, and some messy, disorganized attempts at getting him to talk about the feelings he so staunchly keeps locked away.

Nothing I couldn’t handle.

He stands, helping me up too since I haven’t let go of his hand, which I’m grateful for, as wet skirts are not easy or pleasant to move around in. Before we head toward the road, he pauses, staring out at the cemetery like he’s looking for someone.

“I’m hungry,” he says right before I tell him that actually, it’s getting really stormy now and it’s time to go, thank you very much. He turns to me, and whatever he was thinking about is lost and locked away again. “Are you hungry?”

“A little,” I say, trying not to laugh as I pull him away.

“What d’you think it’ll take to get Verity to bake me an apple cake?”

All it would take is a grin and a single word, but I’m not saying that. “Leave her alone. She’s busy.”

“But—”

“Make it yourself,” I say firmly.

“I don’t know how—”

“Well, maybe it’s time for you to learn something actually useful, you lazy ass.”

When this is met with silence, I cringe, wondering if I went back to bantering too soon.

“Well, teach me, then.”

Rain forgotten, I stumble to a stop. “What?”

“Teach me how to cook.”

“Bake,” I correct automatically, because I’m not sure I’m hearing any of this right.

“Whatever. To bake, then.”

He stares back at me, chin jutted out. Waiting for me to tease him, I think, to give him a reason to change his mind and say not to bother.

“Okay,” I say uncertainly, mind still reeling. “Oh…okay. Sure.”

I don’t understand him, I really don’t. Knitting is a no, but learning to bake—or cook, hopefully—is a yes. We’re leaving soon, but he’s asking now.

Best not to question these things too much, I suppose.

“Hurry up, then, if that’s what you want,” I say, tugging him along again. “Still gotta make it home in one piece first.”

I want to look at his face, see what expression waits there, but I’ve got my head ducked now, trying to keep the rain out of my eyes.

“Here,” he says, dropping his hat onto my head. “See if that helps.”

It doesn’t, but I tell him it does, and even though he lets go of my hand after a few minutes, I catch a rain-bleary glimpse of him at my side. There’s no smile, not exactly, but the storm that was in his face before has moved on, slapping us with real rain and wind instead. As I watch, blinking water from my eyes, he tilts his head back again, relishing the scouring embrace of the storm as he draws in a long breath and keeps moving forward.

Chapter 48 | Chapter 49 | TPOT Masterlist | Are You Nobody, Too? | Finale Part 1

Whumptober 2023 Prompts Fulfilled

No. 25: “You’re not delivering a perfect body to the grave.” | Storm

No. 27: “You drew stars around my scars; But now I’m bleeding. | Scars | “Let me see.”

No. 28: “We might not make it to the morning; so go on and tell me now.” | Bloody Knife

No. 29: “I only sink deeper the deeper I think.” | Troubled Past Resurfacing | “What happened to me?”

No. 30: “It’s okay, just to say, ‘I’m not okay’.” | Borrowed Clothing | “Not much longer...”

No. 31: “I thought that I was getting better.” | Emptiness | Setbacks | “Take it easy.”

14 notes · View notes

spritehouse · 6 months

Text

Put Down the Knife (we're not swapping blood)

read on ao3

Prompts: "What happened to me?" (no. 29), Reluctant Whumper (alt), & "Take it easy" (no. 30) | @whumptober-archive

⚠️Content Warnings: kidnapping, mentions of torture and drugging/drugs, flashbacks (about hankel), violence (including, strangulation, stabbing, and gunshots), hospitals - nothing is graphic! please read responsibly!

Pairing: Luke Alvez/Spencer Reid

Summary: Luke’s movements are ragged and desperate, a result of the drugs coursing through his system, not the smooth and seamless motions Spencer has memorized from mandatory hand-to-hand combat practice, and if it were anyone else—anyone who didn’t train with their partner, probably going easy on them—they could disarm and pin him easily– “Luke! Please–” –but Spencer can’t, hot tears burning in his eyes, blurring his vision, every ounce of understanding, knowing that this isn’t the man he married, flying out the window as his partner stands before him. “I’m sorry.”

- or, luke gets kidnapped and spencer has to face a partner who doesn't recognize him

Notes: this is it for whumptober! thank you everyone who read, left kudos & comments/liked any of my works, i really enjoyed participating this year :]

“Luke!”

Spencer coughs, choking on blood as his partner slams his back against the brick wall, a cold hand with a crushing grip wrapping around his throat, unseeing eyes with an achingly unfamiliar gaze in overflowing amber he usually holds onto like a lifeline staring into his soul.

“Reid!”

The brunette’s fingers scramble to claw at Luke’s suffocating hold, shaking his head as he makes eye contact with Emily, her gun trained on the older agent.

“DON’T!” He shouts, his gaze returning to his partner, searching for a sign that he’s still in there, dark, dilated pupils staring back. “Luke, it’s me! It’s Spencer–!”

The hand around his neck tightens, taking the last of his air, the desperate words dying before they leave his lips as darkness dances in the edges of his vision.

“Luke–”

Time seems to slow down in the seconds after he hears the first shot, unsure of the source until pain tears through his side, blade carving through his flesh before both of them fall, and everything goes dark.

He can’t breathe.

Luke is missing.

He can’t breathe, stumbling through the precinct on unsteady feet, staggering into the bathroom, and collapsing to his knees, expelling the meager contents of his mostly empty stomach.

Luke is missing.

He leans against the wall, his usually overactive brain ignoring statistics about the number of germs in public restrooms in favor of repeating one thing.

Luke is missing.

Luke is missing. Luke is missing. LukeismissingLukeismissingLukeismissing–

“Spence– Spence!” JJ is crouching in front of him, holding his trembling hands between hers, squeezing them slightly as he flinches, words finally reaching him under the waves of panic washing over him like the rising tide. “There you are. It’s okay, Spence, deep breaths–”

“Can’t– He’s missing. Gone. Can’t breathe– He’s gone– He–” Spencer sputters, eyes darting back and forth, adrenaline sending his senses into overdrive. “He’s gone. They took him. They took him. He’s gone–”

“I know you’re scared, Spence–”

“He’s drugging them, Jen, and torturing them—fucking with their heads—Luke is being– He–” He stops, taking in shuttered gasps, head spinning from the lack of oxygen, closing his eyes as he squeezes his friend’s hands.

“I know, Spence, but Luke is strong, and he knows we’re looking for him, that you are looking for him, and we won’t stop until he’s safe. We’ll find him, and then you’ll be there for him the whole time—he’ll never be alone—no matter what. Right?”

“Yeah– Yeah. He’s strong; he’ll be okay. The unsub doesn’t kill them. He won’t kill him unless he deviates–”

“He won’t, Spence, this guy is organized, and Luke knows that too. He’ll be okay.”

“He’ll be okay,” Spencer repeats with a nod. “He’ll be okay.”

He has to be; Spencer doesn’t know what he’ll do otherwise.

It’s dark and damp in the empty park Spencer sits in, staring into the distance, clutching his phone while he waits.

“The park you met—10 PM—come alone and unarmed.”

They didn’t get anything from the call, unable to place a trap and trace or pick up any sounds in the background that gave them something, anything.

“Or he dies.”

They don’t have enough information for anything else, forced to play into the unsubs hands, sending Spencer in as bait.

He never protested, only arguing when the higher-ups almost refused to let him go, desperate to do anything to see Luke again.

“Perimeter is clear, Spence,” Emily says through his comm, her voice level and calm with an edge of anxiety at the prospect of two of her agents, her friends, her family being in harm’s way. “Five minutes. We’ve got your back.”

Spencer stares at the package, holding it in shaky hands, staring at his name scrawled across the top.

Doctor Spencer Reid-Alvez.

He tears away the brown paper carefully, taking a step back with a gasp as the wrapping reveals a silver chain with dog tags– Luke’s dog tags in a plastic bag, blood staining the silver.

“Spence–”

He can’t breathe, staring at the chain on the table; the sight of it without his partner burned into his brain.

“His ring is missing.”

He stares at the spot where the band, almost identical to the one that sits on Spencer’s finger, save for a small nick on the side and the width—Spencer fell while chasing an unsub, the hand with his ring catching his fall against concrete, and Luke’s is slightly thicker—usually stays, the older agent unwilling to lose it in the field.

“They took his ring. They took it. It’s gone. It’s not here–”

“Spence–”

He’s spiraling again, he knows he is, but he can’t stop it, his nails digging into his palms until they draw blood, head spinning as he hyperventilates, imaging his husband where he’s been—in that little shack in Georgia, smelling burning fish hearts and livers, cold and utterly alone–

“Spencer–”

–but there’s no camera, no connection, no way of communicating with the rest of the world, nothing to keep him present, desperate to send a message, drifting into a haze of dissociation and drugs instead–

“Come on, Spence, open your eyes. Look at me.”

Fingers pry his fists open, making the brunette shutter as the suffocating air touches torn skin, eyes flying open, finding himself on the floor of the conference room.

“It’s a trophy, Spence,” Emily speaks softly, still holding the younger agent’s hands. “He takes trophies—symbols of love—but he doesn’t kill them. Luke is still alive–”

Spencer shakes his head, pulling his hands out of hers and sealing them over his ears; sounds and smells the click of a revolver, damp dirt, dust, everything—overwhelming his senses, the band around his finger burning the skin until he has to pry it off, holding clutching it in his bloody palms.

“We’re going to find him, Spence,” Emily murmurs a string of steady reassurances as her agent gasps, stuttering and stumbling over desperate sobs until his tears taper, eyes running dry, room lapsing into solemn silence until–

“Guys,” Penelope gasps, grabbing Spencer’s phone as it rings, the screen lighting up with Luke’s number—the call they’ve been waiting for. “It’s him.”

He remembers the first time they met.

Spencer remembers everything, but time still takes its toll on the strips of film filling his head, scenes losing some sounds and smells, leaving him staring at silent and detached pictures.

But that day is as clear and crisp as the leaves that littered the ground like scattered sunsets of scarlet, orange, and brown, the air cool and calm as chess clocks clicked, turns ticking on.

This is different, so different.

He doesn’t recognize his husband’s silhouette at first, shadow staggering over the hill until the soft glow of the lamps’ lights illuminates the stained, golden skin he knows every inch of.

“Luke…?”

And then he catches the soft glint in his hand, metal shining, reflecting the starts in Luke’s grasp, gaze locked on the blade until Spencer can see his partner’s dilated pupils–

“Luke?”

“‘Pence…?”

JJ looks up from her messages with Emily as her friend speaks, voice soft and scratchy, entire body tensing as Luke pries his eyes open, panic washing over him as he pulls on the soft restraints around his wrists.

“Hey– Hey, Luke, look at me.” She’s by his side in a second, drawing the disoriented agent’s attention away from the soft cuffs around his wrists.

“JJ? What–”

“It’s okay. Everything’s okay. Take it easy. Breathe, Luke. I will explain everything, but I need you to breathe. Okay?” He nods, taking stuttered, staccato breaths as he looks away, studying the machines surrounding him, pausing at the chain on the table beside him, missing the most important piece–

“What happened to me?” Luke looks up at her, catching how the blonde’s mask of calm slips for just a split second. “JJ, what did I do?”

It happens too fast.

Suddenly, he’s running, sprinting down the streets, listening to the sound of his partner’s feet hitting the concrete behind him.

“Spence? What’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer, lungs aching, on fire from the strain, only focused on escaping–

“Reid!”

“Don’t shoot him!” Spencer chokes, stumbling over his feet before turning a sharp corner. “Whatever you do—Do. Not. Shoot.”

“Spence–”

Pain shoots through his body as he falls against the pavement, skin ripping on sharp rocks waiting where he lands.

“Don’t fucking shoot, Em!” He nearly screams into the comms, staggering to his feet to face his partner, Luke’s eyes empty and unseeing—unrecognizing—as he lunges towards the younger brunette. “EMILY–”

“Okay! Okay—standing down—Spence–”

More agony cuts Emily off, exploding through him as his husband slams him against the ground, something in him shattering–

“Luke–!”

He scrambles to his feet, staggering back, taking shuddering gasps as he glances between Luke and his comm on the ground.

“Luke, come on, look at me–”

Spencer ducks out of the way as his partner dives toward him, knife nicking his shoulder as his movement stutters, hearing someone shout his name in the distance.

“Spence!”

“Stay back!”

He can’t win this fight.

“Spencer!”

Even if he was willing to hurt his husband, he could never overpower him.

“Luke!”

Luke’s movements are ragged and desperate, a result of the drugs coursing through his system, not the smooth and seamless motions Spencer has memorized from mandatory hand-to-hand combat practice, and if it were anyone else—anyone who didn’t train with their partner, probably going easy on them—they could disarm and pin him easily–

“Luke! Please–”

–but Spencer can’t, hot tears burning in his eyes, blurring his vision, every ounce of understanding, knowing that this isn’t the man he married, flying out the window as his partner stands before him.

“I’m sorry.”

But he also can’t lose, can’t let Luke hurt him how the drugs want him to, can’t let him wake up to that–

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry–”

He’s stuck.

Spencer is awake by the time the unit chief has dealt with the diplomatic mess two married FBI agents fighting in the street made, and Emily is starting to think he’d rise from the dead to chew her out if he could.

“Reid–”

Derek is by his side, silent as his friend’s anger unfolds.

“I told you not to shoot him.”

His ring has returned to his finger following his surgery, almost as if it never left, a testament to Spencer’s resolve—his unrelenting adoration for his partner.

“Spencer, he was going to kill you–”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“He almost did!” The younger brunette clenches his jaw, clasping his left hand around his right, hiding the finger that holds his ring. “I know it wasn’t him, Spence—that wasn’t Luke—and because of that, he almost killed you; I don’t blame him, but it’s true.”

Spencer is silent for a second, staring at his boss—not his friend, not right now—lips pressed into a tight line.

“I could’ve gotten through to him–”

“No, Spence, you couldn’t have,” He opens his mouth to interrupt, but Emily stops him. “Your emotions are clouding your judgment, Spencer, and I don’t blame you. You love him—he’s your husband—but I know part of you understands that your love is keeping you from seeing this rationally; part of you knows that you couldn’t have gotten through to him, not with the drugs that were in his system.”

Spencer frowns, glancing at Derek with a sigh.

“How is he?” He asks after a second, fidgeting with his ring as he stares at the stuffed bear Penelope got him.

“He’s been in and out. Tara’s been with him for a while, and JJ just took over to give her time to rest, but we’ll probably have to wait for him to sober up to see how he’s doing,” Emily reports, watching her agent for any tension as she talks. “His doctors are monitoring him closely and trying to keep the medication they give him to a minimum. I hit him in the thigh, and the bullet went through and through cleanly; he’ll probably recover faster than you.”

“Okay,” Spencer nods, chewing on his bottom lip as he processes, making a mental note of everything. “Keep me updated?”

“Of course.”

“Luke–”

“Reid!”

The brunette’s fingers scramble to claw at Luke’s suffocating hold, shaking his head as he makes eye contact with Emily, her gun trained on the older agent.

“DON’T!” He shouts, his gaze returning to his partner, searching for a sign that he’s still in there, dark, dilated pupils staring back. “Come on, Luke, it’s me! Please. It’s me–”

The hand around his neck tightens, taking the last of his air, the desperate words dying before they leave his lips as darkness dances in the edges of his vision.

“Luke–”

Luke’s shoulders are tense, trembling hands clenching the blanket in his lap as Spencer turns the corner, steps staggering as he sees his husband.

“Cariño–”

He breaks the short distance between them in a second, practically lunging into the older brunette’s arms, burying his face in Luke’s neck.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry–” Spencer’s tears soak his skin, seeping into the collar of his shirt.

“Don’t apologize, cariño. Please don’t apologize. It’s not your fault,” Luke’s hand rests on his partner’s back, their arms intertwining like two halves of a whole slotting together. “I’m sorry for scaring you, Spence. You know I would never hurt you if I could help it—right?”

“I know,” Spencer nods as Luke peppers gentle kisses across his hairline. “It wasn’t you; I know.”

“Okay—good—because it’s true, Spence. I would never hurt you.”

The younger agent hums happily, leaning against his husband’s chest, listening to his heart as he takes Luke’s hand, slipping a silver band around his finger.

“I know,” He smiles softly, kissing his partner’s jaw, relishing the familiar feeling of stubble against his skin. “I know. I love you.”

7 notes · View notes

jianghushenanigans · 6 months

Text

Whumptober Day 29: "What happened to me?"

He wakes up, suddenly, to a bright room, to his arms tied to his chest tied to the chair he has been sat at, to a painted-on concerned expression on a face he knows all too well.

“Meng Yao! What have you done to me?!”

Jin Guangyao has the audacity to look confused – to pretend to look confused. Nothing on that man’s face is real. Nie Mingjue will never trust him again.

“Da-ge, I…”

“You still dare? After tying me up like a criminal. The moment I’m free, Meng Yao, I swear, I’ll –”

The rest mist building at the edges of his vision, the heat creeping up his chest, is abruptly cut off by familiar running footsteps, by familiar cries.

“Da-ge, no please, you have to calm down!” A-Sang has tears in his eyes. Genuine tears, not the put-on fake ones he wears to get out of doing anything he doesn’t want to do.

That is not familiar. It feels like he is falling from a great height.

“A-Sang, are you alright?” If anything happens to a-Sang, Nie Mingjue will… what will Nie Mingjue do? He promised, he promised that he’d take care of him.

“Am I alright? Da-ge. I. You...” A-Sang cuts himself off, scrubbing a hand across his face. Nie Mingjue wants nothing more than to reach out and hold him close, like he did when he was just a baby and ill through the winters.

He can’t. His arms are still tied. He doesn’t… he doesn’t know why his arms are tied. He doesn’t know why a-Sang hasn’t untied him. He doesn’t know why his didi is worried, is afraid.

“What happened to me?” His voice is quiet, even to his own ears.

“Da-ge, do you not…” It is Jin Guangyao who is speaking, distress in his voice that feels almost genuine, if Nie Mingjue didn’t know better. “Do you not remember?”

Nie Mingjue is thirteen years old. They told him to stay in his room, but the yelling has stopped, finally. He creeps, silently, to his father’s door, hoping that his a-die is going to be alright.

“A qi-deviation? It can’t be. I don’t remember any of it.”

Crossposted here on ao3

#whumptober 2023 #no.29 #“What happened to me?”#the untamed #mdzs #fic #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #jin guangyao #there's some kind of canon divergence going on here but I haven't quite worked out what it is yet

5 notes · View notes

susiequaz12 · 6 months

Text

Whumptober 29

No. 29: “I only sink deeper the deeper I think.”

Scented Candle | Troubled Past Resurfacing | “What happened to me?”

Day 29! Continuing Lo and Sol's time. This is right after yesterday's chapter from Day 28. CW: immortal whumpee, vampire caretaker, character death, burning, blood, stabbing, talk of death, and then some nice angsty fluff and caretaking.

- - -

Solomon sat at the floor of the cave next to the fire. He had quickly checked the wound on his arm, wrapping it tight in some bandages. He had then checked the wounds across Lo’s back, they’d closed up, no longer seeping blood as they had began healing.

Roland had stabbed them over and over again- Solomon could still feel Lo’s weight on top of him as they were slaughtered- bleeding out to death on top of him as they’d sacrificed themselves for the vampire.

After they’d cleaned the wounds, Solomon carefully pulled Lo onto his lap, wrapping them up in his arms next to the fire, slowly rocking them back and forth, stroking their hair and waiting for the life to flush back into their body.

“I’m sorry- I’m so sorry-” he mumbled, planting a kiss into Lo’s soft curls. “I will never let anyone hurt you- I promise. Never again-”

Solomon let the tears fall from the weight of his failure. He let himself cry, holding the human in his arms as he began to hear the screams coming from outside.

He knew the sun was high above the horizon now, shining brightly above the tree line as Roland screamed and begged. No doubt he was burning to a crisp as the sunlight singed his skin- charring his flesh, sending coursing pain through what little of his body that he could still feel.

Solomon closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the human as their blood began to pump again throughout their veins. He carded fingers through their hair and planted another kiss on their forehead as Roland’s screams and cries slowly began to fade- dying down to soft whimpers before there was nothing left but the silence of the outside air.

Marlowe’s body flinched, and Solomon held them a little tighter, careful to avoid the injuries on their back. Their breathing began to grow unsteady, a trembling in their limbs as they began to come back to the world of the living.

Suddenly their body jolted backwards, nearly throwing themselves out of Solomon’s grasp. He quickly held onto them tighter as Lo began to shake with sobs, quick little breaths coming through their chest.

“Shh- shh it’s alright Lo, I’ve got you-” Sol whispered.

Eventually Lo’s eyes fluttered open slowly, seeing the vampire’s face above them. They stared for a moment, eyes scanning across his features before closing them once more.

“What- what happened?” Lo whispered. “What happened to me?”

“You’re alright- you’re back now, it’s okay-”

Lo curled in tighter as they glanced around the cave, eyes darting back and forth. “I- I don’t remember what- what happened.” They sighed.

“We- we were attacked-” Sol stated gently. “You, you sacrificed yourself to save me, and, and got hurt in the process. But it’s okay- he’s- he’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Marlowe shuffled gently in Solomon’s arms, wincing slightly as it jostled the injuries on their back. They nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer as the present slowly came back to them.

“Lo, what- what happens when you die?”

Lo glanced up at the vampire, bringing up a few gentle fingers to touch the side of his face, inspecting the bruises that littered the edges of his jaw. The dark purples and reds standing out against his pale skin.

“He got you good-” Lo mumbled. They leaned forward, planting a soft kiss along the edge of his jaw, and the vampire froze. He gripped Lo’s hand in his shaking fingers as Lo planted another kiss across the bruises and Sol softly closed his eyes.

“Lo- you’re- you’re delirious-” he mumbled. The human fell back into the vampire’s lap, nuzzling closer into them with a contended sigh. “Lo, what- what happens?”

“Hmm?” Lo mumbled

“When you die?”

“Oh-” their voice dropped, eyes falling back to some distant place somewhere. They took a deep breath before answering. “It- it depends on how I- how I die. If it’s quick and painless, then so is- so is coming back.”

Sol took in a quick breath, carding his hand through their hair again, Lo relishing in the gentle touch. “And if- if it’s not?” He asked.

“You mean if it’s traumatic? I sort of relive it all. The moment I die, over again, and the- the pain, until I heal and my body brings me back.” Solomon tensed and Lo reached out to grab his hand, gently pulling it to their lips. “It’s why it takes a minute sometimes, I- I’m not sure what’s real and what’s not- it takes my brain a minute to start working again.”

Solomon let his hand rest against the side of Lo’s face, gently brushing away a strand of hair with his thumb.

“Lo, do you- do you know what’s real right now?”

Lo nodded, eyes glancing up at the vampire behind long eyelashes. “I know I’m being held in the arms of a really handsome vampire- who’s currently looking at me like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

Sol let out a chuckle, shaking his head. “I think you’re still delirious, Lo-”

Lo stared back up at the vampire, placing a soft hand against the side of his face- a rush of heat flowing through him at the way the human looked at him. “I don’t think I am-” they whispered.

Lo gently pulled the vampire closer into them, feeling his breath gently on their face, before they closed the distance between them, feeling his lips against their own.

The vampire tensed, his body locking up at the gentleness of the human- before he slowly relaxed into the kiss. He let his hand card through their hair and the human let out a sigh of content, softly pulling away and glancing back up at the vampire.

“God quit- quit looking at me like that-” Solomon mumbled.

“Like what?” Lo whispered.

“Like I’m- like I’m worth something.”

Lo turned his face back to theirs, brushing a thumb against the bruising on his jaw, pulling him in closer- their foreheads touching.

“But Sol- you are- to me you’re worth everything.”

Sol fought back a stream of tears, unresisting as Lo pulled him in for another kiss. For the first time in a while, Sol let his guards down. He let all inhibitions loose and just relished in the softness of the human’s lips- the way their body pressed into his- the way their tongue slipped softly behind his lips, exploring his mouth as Lo deepened the kiss, and Sol let them.

Sol held the human tighter, gripping his hand securely- but softly into their hair. Lo returned the favor, a gentle hand against the back of his neck as they continued, keeping the vampire pressed securely into them as they kissed.

Sol began to let his tears freely fall as the human kissed him. Because for the first time in a long time- Sol actually felt worth something.

- - -

Tag List: @imagination1reality0 @thecyrulik @whumpsday @termsnconditions-apply @spectral-whumpy-writer @raddyscoops @whumptober-archive

#whumptober2023 #no.29 #“what happened to me?”#ocs #whump writing #emotional whump #aftermath whump #angsty caretaking #character death #immortal whumpee #vampire caretaker #kissing tw #marlowe the immortal #does this count as whump? is there enough angst in here?#I might have to start making this story more whumpy again #theyre getting too soft lol

2 notes · View notes

whump-me · 6 months

Text

Whumptober Day 29: "What happened to me?"

This is a standalone story in my original Mind Games universe, a modern-day sci-fi/fantasy thriller setting about ordinary humans with superhuman abilities and the people who want to use or destroy them. Full description in my Whumptober masterpost, which is linked in my pinned post.

This story contains: lab whump mentions, forced pregnancy mentions, time loss, caretaking

Words: 2300

---

The room smelled wrong. Not bad, just wrong, the way another person’s house never quite smells like your own. Misha tried to lift an arm to rub the sleep from her eyes. That one movement felt like lifting a fifty-pound weight.

Her heart sped up at the exertion. Her eyelids remained stubbornly closed, like they were gummed shut.

Why had she fallen asleep in someone else’s house? And why was she so weak?

Just how hard had she partied last night?

Another question lurked underneath that one. A question attached to a half-memory, maybe a dream. People in black masks reaching for her. A needle biting into her neck before everything went dark. Who—

And under that question, there was one more, with a deeper pit of fear behind it. How long—

She banished those questions the way she was used to dismissing good advice from well-meaning friends. She didn’t think she wanted the answers. Better to pretend the questions didn’t exist.

She finally pried her eyes open. The room was a blur, but she could already tell she didn’t know this place. All the blurry shapes were as wrong as the smell. The walls were too close. The light came from a bedside lamp, not the overhead light of her own bedroom.

One of the blurs was human-shaped.

A bolt of panic she didn’t understand shot up from her gut and straight to her heart. She tried to push the blankets aside. They were too heavy.

“Try not to move too much,” said the blurry figure, moving closer. “You’ve been through a lot.”

The voice was no one she knew. None of her friends would have known better than to talk to her in that pitying tone. Why did this stranger pity her? What had happened?

She tried to calm her racing heart with a deep breath. But even her chest felt too heavy to lift.

Just a hard night of partying. That was all. She’d have to remember to go easier on the booze next time. She wasn’t as young as she used to be.

That last thought sent a fresh burst of fear through her. She didn’t understand why. She had a feeling she didn’t want to understand why.

“That’s it,” the stranger encouraged as she gave up on shifting the blankets. “Go back to sleep. You need the rest. Real rest, not…” The voice turned strangely reticent before trailing off entirely.

She blinked, trying to bring the figure into focus. He was a man. Short-haired. Baby-faced. Looked like the type to hand out sloppy drunken kisses after two beers.

She didn’t know him.

“Who are you?” she demanded in a voice as blurry as her vision. “Where am I?”

“There will be time for all that later.” There was that pity again. “Right now, you need to rest.”

Oh hell no. No baby-faced stranger got to talk to her like that. She showed herself to a sitting position, heavy blankets be damned, and relished the look of alarm on his face.

A wave of dizziness sent multicolored spots dancing in front of her eyes. A cold sweat dampened her shirt—and what was she wearing, anyway? It looked like scrubs, or a prison uniform. She wouldn’t be caught dead in this, not even to sleep. But more concerning than her outfit was that sitting up made her feel like she had run a marathon.

Baby Face reached for her. “Lie back down,” he urged. “Rest.”

She snarled at him. “Keep your hands off me, or I’ll bite.”

Even out of breath as she was, her threat must have sounded serious enough, because Baby Face backed off quick. As his arms receded, she looked down at her own. They looked as wrong as the room. Her arms were toothpicks, her skin pale as a vampire. Her skin was dry and cracked in places, and why did she have bruises she didn’t remember getting?

And were those needle marks? She might have been a bit enthusiastic about her partying, but she didn’t do needle drugs. Not ever.

The image of those men in black masks popped, unwanted, into her head again.

Just a dream. That was all.

But her unrecognizable arms weren’t a dream.

“Where’s Anna?” she demanded. If Anna didn’t wasn’t here, if she didn’t know where Misha was, she would be worried sick. More than Misha needed to understand what was going on, she needed to feel Anna’s gentle arms around her, and hear her sweet voice tell her everything was going to be all right.

If Anna told her that, she might to be able to believe it.

“I’m sorry,” said Baby Face. “I don’t know who that is.” He bit his lip, like there was something else he wanted to say but didn’t dare.

“Her number is in my phone.”

His eyes darted away. “Your phone… wasn’t on you,” he said without looking at her.

The man with the black masks… Misha narrowed her eyes at Baby Face. Impossible to know whose face—whose baby face—had been under one of those masks.

“You kidnapped me.” She swung her legs over the other side of the bed. She started to push yourself up.

His eyes widened in fresh alarm. “Don’t—”

She stood. Sharp pain shot up her legs. She wobbled like a bowling pin and toppled. She leaned back just in time, and managed to fall back onto the mattress instead of onto the hard wooden floor.

Baby Face reached for her, like he meant to help her back onto the bed. She snarled at him again. He backed off.

“I didn’t kidnap you,” he said. “I helped rescue you.” He held out a hand. “Please. Let me help you up.”

When he reached for her again, she didn’t resist. Maybe because he really did look too innocent to have kidnapped anyone. Maybe because she didn’t want to slide off the mattress and wind up in a puddle on the floor, and if no one helped her up, that was what would have happened. At a certain point, you couldn’t be too picky about where your help came from.

“Rescued me from what?” she asked, once she was lying in bed again. The other questions leapt into her mouth. She closed her lips on them before they could escape. Who… how long…

“Rest,” Baby Face said, instead of answering.

“I’ll rest when I get some answers.” When he leaned down to tuck the blanket up to her chin—as if she were a child—she grabbed his wrist in her strangely bony fingers. She yanked him down quick, letting surprise substitute for strength, and wrapped her other hand around his neck. She might have lost most of her strength, but those bony fingers sure did dig in well.

He gave a strangled eep and tried to pull away. She dug her nails in deeper. Blood welled up around her fingers.

“Answers,” she said, staring at him with narrowed eyes.

“It won’t help,” he squeaked. “Not right now. What you need is—”

“If you say rest, I swear to God I’ll rip your throat out right now.”

He must have known she couldn’t do it. But there was still a flash of fear in his eyes as he nodded. “All right,” he said. “All right.”

At least it was fear in his eyes now, and not pity.

She released him. And wouldn’t you know it, the first thing he did was finish tucking her in. She hated the gentleness of his movements. She was never the type of person other people were gentle with. She used to wish she was. Not anymore. Now she would have traded all his kind gestures for a fraction of her former strength.

“You got a blood test,” he said.

All her memories felt strangely fuzzy, like her life up to this moment had happened in a dream. After a moment, she nodded. “My doctor wanted to test for vitamin deficiencies.”

“Your test results ended up in the hands of a government program called the Psi Enhancement Research Initiative,” Baby Face said. “They routinely monitor blood tests from labs all around the country, and run extra tests on the samples. You came up positive for a gene that allows for the development of psi abilities.”

“Psychic powers?” She snorted. “Even if I believed in that kind of thing, I’m no psychic. Give me the real truth, or I’ll get out of this bed and finish what I started.”

She hated that it was an empty threat. She hated that he knew it.

Baby Face lifted his hands. “It’s the truth. I swear.” He eyed her warily as he continued. “You have a rare version of the gene. In most people, the gene either activates on its own or can be activated with a synthetic compound PERI created. The version you have is different. You can’t develop an ability of your own, but the gene is likely to express strongly in any children you have.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, then I guess it’s a shame I’m never having them.”

She waited for him to feed him more of her bullshit story. Instead, he looked at his feet, at the far wall, anywhere but at her. He stood in pale-faced, frozen silence.

The look on his face sent a shiver down her spine. “What’s wrong?”

“One reason PERI searches for people with this gene is to train them as government operatives,” he said. “Another is to use them in laboratory research. A third reason…” He took a deep breath before continuing. “They have a… a breeding program.”

That cold shiver came back. This time, it spread until every part of her was cold.

She wanted to tell him his story was still bullshit. She wanted to heave herself out of bed, weak as she was, and follow through on her threat. She didn’t do either of those things.

Because it wasn’t bullshit. She felt it in her bones. The same way she knew she hadn’t just partied too hard last night.

And it hadn’t been just last night, had it?

“How long?” she asked.

Only silence answered her.

“How long?” she repeated, injecting a hint of steel into her weak voice.

“Seven years,” he said with clear reluctance.

A few seconds ago, he hadn’t been able to look at her. Now he wouldn’t look anywhere but at her. He eyed her like she was a rabid dog about to bite. Like she was a teary-eyed infant about to erupt into wails. He looked at her like he was sure she regretted asking—or at least like he regretted telling her.

She could have told him she had never been the type to fall apart. Not even over the big stuff—and this certainly qualified. But right now, she wished she were the type to yell or cry or throw things. At least then she would have known what to do.

And no, she didn’t regret asking. But he had been right about one thing. Knowing the truth didn’t make anything better.

She stared up at the ceiling, trying to figure out how to react. What would Anna have urged her to do? Cry on this guy’s shoulder, probably. Get therapy, assuming she could find a therapist who wouldn’t laugh her out of their office if she started talking about secret government reading programs. Then maybe have some big revelation and decide to live in a way that made the most of the second chance she’d been given. Raise money for orphans. Cure a rare disease. Something like that.

That sounded like the healthy response. It sounded like what Anna would have done. But Misha had never been one for the healthy response. She’d always been more of the type to force her pain down with booze and distractions and sheer willpower.

But that had been seven years ago.

She wasn’t the same person she had been. After seven years, how could she be?

That chill came over her again.

She made her decision. She looked back at Baby Face, who was still watching her with wary apprehension.

“In that case, it’s high time I had a drink,” she said, with a note of wry humor in her voice. “You can’t drink when you’re pregnant, after all.”

She wasn’t ready for it to be seven years later. She wasn’t ready to be different. She’d rather be the same person she had always been, flaws and all. At least then she’d be able to recognize herself.

At least then, the gulf between then and now wouldn’t feel impossibly wide.

Baby Face blinked at her. Not the response he’d expected, she was guessing.

“Have a drink with me,” she urged. “You look like you need it.” She forced herself to a sitting position again. This time, she was prepared for the wave of weakness that came over her. Seven years of muscle atrophy—no wonder she couldn’t sit up in bed without getting winded.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said doubtfully. “You’re still recovering.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Apparently I’ve spent the better part of a decade as an unconscious lab rat,” she said. “It’s high time I got to be a real person, don’t you think? Drink with me.”

He started to shake his head. He opened his mouth—to tell her to rest, she was sure.

“Please,” she said quietly, and let a little of her fear show through in her voice.

She’d always been the type who would rather die than show the slightest hint of vulnerability. Maybe she could let herself change a little.

Baby Face looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. Her, not the poor pathetic figure who needed to lie in bed and rot. Not the feral creature who had wrapped her hand around his neck.

She watched him make a decision of his own. Then he nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s have a drink.”

---

Tagged: @cakeinthevoid @gala1981

Ask to be added or removed from my Whumptober 2023 taglist.

#whumptober2023 #no.29 #“What happened to me?”#oc #fic #warnings in post #my writing: whumptober 2023 #my writing: Mind Games #my writing

4 notes · View notes

stellarcoachman · 6 months

Text

Twisting Tracks Chapter 29

Prompt: Troubled Past Resurfacing | "What happened to me?" CW: Injury, Blood, Scars, PTSD, Referenced Major Character Death Summary: Ingo and Rei help Akari defeat Volo. Ingo learns some things about himself.

#whumptober2023 #no.29 #troubled past resurfacing #“what happened to me?”#submas #fic #blood and injury #scars #ptsd

2 notes · View notes

splendidissimus · 6 months

Text

January 2002 - Repressed Memory

((Content warning: mental manipulation, mind invasion (mentioned), false / repressed / erased memories, loss of autonomy))

((Promptspiration: @whumptober-archive 2023: day 29: I only sink deeper, the deeper I think / Troubled past resurfacing / "What happened to me?" ))

Genre: whump

Romance level: minor

Angst level: 4/5

Draco's headspace: anger / fear -> vicious -> fatalistic

((words: ~2800))

------------------------------------

Theo was watching Draco more closely than he normally had to; it had been clear to him for a while that something was weighing on him, but he was trusting in Draco to mention it if he needed to. He didn't want to talk about it, and he seemed to be handling it well enough, though mostly by throwing himself into work; he hadn't even been home in four or five days. It wasn't impairing his ability to function, so Theo didn't push, but he was there if he needed him, and he watched.

Watching so closely was how he was able, when he followed Draco through the floo, to catch the end of the subtle motion of him pulling his sleeve down to hide the flashing alarm of his heart monitor. "Draco?" He touched his back.

"Hm?" Draco looked back and up at him, casual, hiding that there was anything to acknowledge.

"What is it?"

"There's nothing."

He caught Draco's hand before he could pull away and pushed back his sleeve. The alarm was still flickering in reflection of his dangerously fast heartbeat. "Whatever this has been, it isn't getting better. Let me help."

Draco looked away and pushed his sleeve back down. "It's fine. I know it's in my head."

"Has it been getting worse?" The way Draco didn't answer or look at him confirmed it. "Tell me."

Draco glanced at him, eyes slightly narrowed, but he had made a promise to answer that phrase, and he kept it. His eyes flicked around the room. "I've been having the same dream for… months. It's getting more detailed, and I've started having… flashes… of it, while I'm awake, especially in this room." He ran his hand through his hair and gripped the back of his neck, briefly. Then he shook his hand out and he appeared composed again. "But as I said, I can handle it."

May as well get out of that room, then. Theo led the way from the drawing room with a hand on Draco's back. "What is it?"

"It's Death Eaters… It doesn't matter. It's just that it keeps coming back." He took out his potion bag as they walked. "I think I'll go to sleep until dinnertime tomorrow," he said, and took out a Dreamless Sleep potion, holding it to the light to gauge how many hours it would last for.

—

"You're wanted downstairs."

Theo wasn't used to being addressed by the portraits, especially with such purpose, and he had to blink up at it to be sure it was actually talking to him. It was the Elizabethan Malfoy portrait that Draco called his father's spy, now sharing a frame with an old woman that Theo had never bothered to ask the identity of, and that made sense. It was also looking impatient with him for delaying.

"Right. His office?"

"The master study, yes."

When he made his way to Lucius' office — sorry, study — both of Draco's parents were there, him sitting at the desk and her beside it facing her husband, looking very much like he was walking in on a serious conversation, and the way they both looked over at him was decidedly uncomfortable.

"You've no practical experience with Memory Charms, have you?" Lucius said with no preamble.

"No…"

"Might I suggest you acquire it. In the meantime," he pushed a business card across the desk, "arrange a pretext for him to visit her." He looked at the name on the card, and then glanced back up for an explanation. "An Obliviator of particular discretion."

He glanced at the portrait behind Lucius' desk, now observing; he didn't have to ask how Draco's father knew anything, no doubt it had been eavesdropping when they came home. Obviously his parents knew something Draco didn't, something that troubled them. "Then you're saying he's not dreaming?"

"I'm saying that if you mean to help him, this is what you'll do."

The door swung open and hit the wall solidly. Draco was wearing a narrow expression of fury that made him look sharp. "No — answer the question, Father."

"Draco—"

"Because it didn't." His voice had started low and clipped, but as he came closer it got higher, as anger gave way to something less controlled. His hands clenched in tight white balls. "That never happened!"

"You're right!" Lucius had to raise his voice to get through to him over his own yelling. "It isn't a real memory."

"Then what is it?" he demanded. "What do you know? Why do I keep thinking of… of…"

His parents exchanged a look that would have been subtle outside this house but was a yell to people accustomed to speaking their language. "Just get rid of it," his mother said. "Don't worry about it."

"No! Tell me! Tell me what happened to me!"

"The Dark Lord did it," Lucius said flatly. "Gave you a memory that never happened. Punishment for your failures, and your… proclivities."

"No…" He took a step backward, pulling away. "He can't — he couldn't —"

"He took amusement in giving his victims such visions they would wish they were dead, at times. When he wanted to truly make them suffer before he killed them. Or, occasionally, in lieu of killing them, when he could still use them."

Draco gripped the back of his neck so tightly his fingernails were going to draw blood. "When? I don't— I would know…"

"The first night."

"No. No, I passed out when you were Crucioing me, and that's it."

"No," Theo said quietly. "I've seen that memory… that's not what happened. Voldemort did do something, and you started… you had a bad reaction."

Draco's eyes jerked from Theo back to his parents, flicking between them before focusing on his father. "And so you Obliviated me? You just decided to take my memories? What right—"

His mother interrupted. "I did."

If they thought that would temper his anger, that he couldn't be angry with his mother, they badly miscalculated. "Of course it was you!" he exploded. "Who else could it be? Who else thinks that my mind is their plaything besides you and Lord Voldemort? Now getting rid of my inconvenient emotions wasn't good enough. Why even stop at memories? Why not just root around and pull things out until you actually fix me? Maybe you can even make me like women and not have to deal with a fucking fairy—"

"Don't speak to your mother that way," Lucius ordered him. She was bearing Draco's outburst stoically, but she had crossed her arms. "The Dark Lord—"

"Stop calling him that, you sycophant, there's no one here to impress."

Lucius' eyes narrowed. "Voldemort left little option. You couldn't keep that. No one had any way of knowing you would be this fragile."

He was trying to reason with Draco; that was the wrong tactic. There was no point trying use logic with him when he was in full attack mode — he wasn't interested in the truth or working anything out, he was just lashing out to hurt people as deeply as possible. Anything they said would just be turned into more ammunition for him to turn back on them.

"What else did you take?" Draco demanded. "How much more?"

"Nothing," his mother said firmly.

"I don't believe you." He looked like he was realising this as he said it, and he backed away. "But I'll never know, will I?" The cuff on his wrist started flashing.

Theo stepped forward, arm out between them to try to steer him back. "Draco, you need to calm down," he started. He didn't get to go any further; Draco raised his hand and clenched it without even really looking at him, and then he had the disturbing sensation of his mouth being fused together, pressing his tongue flat as his teeth disappeared and he had no lips to open. He backed off, groping at it and fumbling for his wand.

"You can't just do this to me!" Draco screamed at his parents. "Stay out of my mind! It's broken and it's shitty but it's mine and you don't get to touch it! I'm not an extension of you for you to pose like a doll and dress up like you like. If that's what you want, go have another kid, if you think between you you can scrape together enough emotion for another human being — maybe you can raise them right this time, and you can have what you always wanted, and leave me alone!"

And then he was gone, slamming the door behind him, with his magic instead of his hands. The silence felt deafening. Draco was a storm, at times, sweeping through, overwhelming, irresistible, leaving destruction in his wake when he moved on. It was awesome to behold, but being caught in it left you miserable and disoriented. Theo was relieved to have only been hit by the edge of the blast directed at his parents. That was exhausting enough.

Theo finally ended Draco's curse on him in the calm after he'd left, watching the door, and thoughtfully put his wand away.

"A while ago, I actually suggested modifying his memory to get rid of his dreams," he said. "To make it easier. He made a pretty convincing argument that it would drive him mad if he knew he couldn't trust his mind."

His parents didn't respond. His mother turned her back to the door and stared into the fire. It was quiet for a minute.

"The solution seems pretty clear," the portrait noted. "Have the old memory removed, and the memory of this. Perhaps try to do it better this time."

"Not helpful," Lucius said, tone annoyed. The portrait sniffed.

In another minute, Theo silently left the room to see if he could find him.

—

It took Theo some time to find Draco, because the last place he would have expected to find him was the drawing room, the scene of whatever false memory had been haunting his dreams. He only found him there when he had come to the conclusion that Draco had left and was on his way to follow him.

"Draco." He couldn't help the tinge of relief in his voice. Draco hadn't even taken his favourite chair, he was just sitting in the middle of a sofa with his elbows resting on his knees.

He came to put his hand on Draco's shoulder, but Draco reached up to knock his hand away before he could touch him. "I'm fine," Draco said, and spread his hands to show how he wasn't crying, or sick, or caught deep down in his thoughts, or exploding with rage. "You can go report to your masters that I'm not tearing down the house around their ears."

"I didn't come for them." He sat down beside him, but didn't touch. "I work for you, remember?"

"Sure." He clasped his hands between his knees again.

Theo studied the firelight flickering over his distant expression. "Are you actually okay?"

"If I say 'no', what are you going to do? Cheering Charm to make me be happy? Numbing Hex so I don't care? Sleeping Charm so I'll sleep it off? Obliviate away the memory of tonight?"

"Just talking," Theo said patiently.

Draco looked distantly into the fire. "Now I know my mother has done every one of those things, and probably more that she didn't think I needed to be aware of."

"Cheering Charm? That doesn't really sound like her."

"I was a happy kid, but not always. I guess when I was little that was the easiest way to deal with it when I got sulky." He gripped his hands tighter. "But at least that was temporary. This is an irreversible change."

He kneaded his hands together, hard, absently pressing his thumb along the bones of his hand like he was going to force them out.

"I can't trust them ever again," he said distantly. "Even if I want to, I can't. How could I?"

"They were helping. You might not like what they did, but you know why they did it."

"That's right," Draco said acidly. "I guess that proves I can trust them, all of you, to do one thing: whatever you think is best, whether that means you're doing something for me or about me or to me. And what I want doesn't matter."

"Why are you including me in that? Are you saying you can't trust me, either?"

"Don't pretend like you weren't going to do what he said."

"Seeing this…" He searched Draco's drawn face. "Yeah, I'd have thought about it, at least. Is it doing you any good to remember? Because it looks like it's just hurting you."

"It's not remembering that's hurting me. I think I could have dealt with that memory… It's so far beyond awful, I want to be sick, but I think I could have handled it, eventually. Especially knowing it wasn't real." He bowed his head over his knees and gripped the back of it with both hands. "It's… Now, every dream I have, I have to wonder, is that another torture memory he forced into my head? Or even something that really happened that they tried to erase? Every memory I can't get out of my head, I have to wonder if it happened, or did he put it there? How much of what I know is real? Everything that happened… is that really how it went? After what I think is the end, is there more I was made to forget? Did I do things I don't know, that were erased 'for my own good'?"

Theo could see how Draco's quick mind was working against him. The moment he was introduced to the first problem, that his dream was a memory, his mind immediately jumped ahead to find the second and third layers of the problem without pausing to process any of it. He didn't have time to come to terms with one thing at a time; it all piled on him at once.

"Has this started coming back before?" Draco wondered blankly toward his knees. "And they got me Obliviated before I could remember completely? …Have I learned this before and they had that memory erased, too?"

"I really don't think so."

"But that's the point, isn't it? You don't actually know. And neither do I. I never can. For the rest of my life, I'll never know…"

Theo set his hand on Draco's back, and Draco let him this time. He rubbed his back slowly, but Draco wasn't tense; he was loose, defeated, almost limp.

"I don't know what to do," Draco admitted quietly.

"I think the first thing is really just to sleep. This might seem less overwhelming if you get some decent rest, and you can think about it better in the morning." If he'd just gone to sleep when he'd said he was going to, he wouldn't have noticed Theo coming downstairs, he wouldn't have followed, he wouldn't have heard any of this… He wouldn't be having to deal with this. If only he'd done that, if only Theo had checked that he'd done it, this could all have been avoided.

Draco didn't answer for a moment. "Not here," he finally said, dully. "Everything here is memories. I'll go back to my office."

"Or to my house."

Draco thought about it, then nodded. Theo felt a tiny knot in his chest unclench; what that meant was that, no matter what he said, Draco did still trust him.

"Can I come with you?"

"Do whatever you want… it's not like I could stop you."

"Tell me 'no' and I won't," he said patiently.

"You don't get how that's not the same." Draco pushed himself to his feet. "Yes. You can come."

"All right. Go ahead, I have to get something."

"Tell my parents, you mean?" Draco said. "Don't bother." He pointed over and up the wall without looking, and only then did Theo see the Elizabethan portrait sharing a frame with a witch on a horse.

"No, I really do have to get my stuff, but I'll be right behind you."

Draco nodded without answering and through floo powder into the fire to take him to Theo's house.

Theo sat back with a sigh, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. "I'll try to bring him back tomorrow," he said in a minute to the portrait, since now he didn't have to actually find Draco's parents now. "If he's not okay, I'll let you know."

Then he went upstairs to get his books and join Draco.

2 notes · View notes