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zepskies · 3 months

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Being Human - Part 4 (Finale)

Pairing: Alec McDowell x F. Reader

Summary: Your life made sense before Alec slipped his way in. He unravels your threads without even trying. He frustrates you as easily as he weasels back into your good graces. But you soon realize that this man is worth the challenge.

AN: (I decided to release this a bit early.) Here we are, friends! The final chapter...

Chapter Summary: Ames White captures you, forcing Alec to his knees.

Word Count: 4,300

Tags/Warnings: Peril and violence, angst, major hurt/comfort, but also major fluff...

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Part 4: Reckoning

Terminal City is a region on the edge of the city. The chemical and biohazardous waste that was dumped there after the Pulse makes ordinary humans sick, but for the immune transgenics, it’s the perfect spot to carve out a sanctuary.

Alec has been visiting the sector frequently, working with Max, Joshua, and other Manticore escapees to build up its infrastructure. Joshua lives here full-time now, as it’s safer for the half-canine transgenic and others like him, who don’t “look” human.

Today, Alec’s working with Mole and Joshua on ammunitions. Regardless of what any of them look like, they are all soldiers, in one way or another built and trained for warfare.

As much as Alec doesn’t want to see it, the tensions between “ordinaries” and transgenics are mounting, especially in Seattle.

He checks his watch and realizes that he’s late to meet you.

“Shit. I gotta go,” he says.

“Where’re you going?” Max asks. She has a perceptive eye, but Alec doesn’t reveal anything. He revs up his motorcycle and dons his helmet.

“Just going to meet someone,” he says, purposely vague. He doesn’t want another lecture from her.

The truth is, he’s dreading this. He knows when he sees you, it’ll be damn near impossible to maintain his distance. He should’ve just met you at your apartment, but surrounded by your things, your familiar scent etched into every fiber of your place…it would buckle his resolve.

So he heads back on his motorcycle all the way home.

Something’s off.

He instinctively knows after he climbs up the stairs to his apartment. He tests the door, and it opens without him having to unlock it.

You would know better than to leave the door open.

He pushes inside the apartment, and he’s greeted to a scene that drops his heart into his stomach.

His apartment is empty, but a table near the kitchen is knocked over. Glass liters the ground where it’s overturned, and on further inspection, he finds drying bloodstains on the glass and on the floor.

His heart beats faster as he takes in everything with wide eyes. He doesn’t smell gunpowder, or find anything else that would tell him what happened here.

He does find your purse, tossed by the couch in the living room.

Alec whips out his phone and calls your cell.

“Hello, 494.” A man’s voice—one that Alec would know anywhere. It prickles his skin with unease and makes his blood boil all at once.

“Ames White.” Alec’s teeth grind. “What game are you playing now?”

“This isn’t a game. It’s business,” White claims. “I have something you want. How much are you willing to pay to make sure she stays alive?”

Alec forces himself to calm down, even though his pulse is racing.

“What do you want?”

“You. And 452. With no bullshit on your end,” the agent replies. “Or this girl is going to pay that price for you.”

Alec’s breath becomes unsteady. “And if I comply, you’ll let her go. I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Oh, I won’t lie to you. She’s on her way to the lab as we speak. You see, they’re gonna want to analyze that abomination she’s carrying,” White says.

That steals the breath from Alec’s lungs.

His eyes grow wide as he puts together what the man is saying.

“But if you do comply,” he says, “I’ll make sure they let her deliver to term, at least.”

Alec’s throat tightens. Oh, God…

“You let her go, you son of a bitch!” he grinds out. His white-knuckle grip pops a few springs in the couch. He releases it and covers his face, pressing hard between his eyes. “She’s not part of this!”

“It seems she is, 494. I’ll send you the time and the place. Be there with 452.”

The line clicks. Alec’s breathing is harsh. He grips his phone so hard it nearly shatters, but he tosses it onto the couch and pushes his palms against the burn in his eyes. His jaw locks with the strain of clenched teeth. No, no, no, NO!

His phone chimes with a voicemail message. Alec grabs the phone and listens. It details coordinates and a meeting time: tonight, at midnight.

Alec makes another call with what remains of his phone.

“Max,” he says shakily. “I need your help.”

Alec barely resists pacing throughout Logan’s apartment while the latter types away, researching the coordinates Ames White provided for the meeting point. Their forced surrender.

Max perches on the corner of the couch with her arms crossed. She’s concerned for you as well, but she gazes at him with sympathy.

“We’ll find her, Alec,” she says.

Alec shakes his head.

“He could have her anywhere,” he gestures widely. “He could’ve already handed her off to whatever shady government agency he works for. Or with that damn cult, that in case you’ve forgotten, hates us. Like everyone else in this city.”

“Not everyone,” Max reminds him pointedly.

“Yeah, and look where we are now,” Alec retorts. “I told you this would happen!”

“Do you want to be right, or do you want to save her?” Max shoots back. “Now think. We’ve found bases of White’s operations before. Both for the agency, and the breeding cult.”

“I’m cross-referencing old locations,” Logan says. He’s been typing away at his computer for several minutes. “I can ask Asha and her people to join the search. And I can do an Eyes Only broadcast, encourage people to keep an eye out.”

Alec nods, but any outcomes of those plans will take time. Time you might not have.

They’ve been following anonymous tips for hours. Joshua and a few X5s and X6s joined the search for Ames White, and more importantly, for you.

Alec and Max have been working together without stopping even for a breath throughout the night. They only have one hour before they’re meant to be at the agreed meeting point: an abandoned building near the edge of the city. No doubt for their easy extraction.

Logan eventually calls Alec to tell him about a lab within a mile of the scheduled rendezvous point. There have been reports of late-night transports—locals calling in about strange noises, and in one case, what someone thought was a muffled gunshot.

Alec and Max agree to check it out, but they’re going to cut it close with the meeting time.

“Josh. Where are you, buddy?” Alec asks after calling his friend’s cell.

“I’m here.”

“Where’s here?”

“Here,” Joshua replies. He’s turned the corner and found his friends on the crossing of Avalon St. and Broadway, via his elite sense of smell.

“Good,” Alec smiles in relief. He pats his taller friend’s arm. “You’ve been a big help so far, but I need you for this. Wanna be part of the rescue party?”

“Yes,” Joshua nods, but his tone suggests he’s offended that Alec has to ask. “Help save your mate.”

Alec’s smile weakens. He doubts you’ll ever want to be that with him, ever again. But he’ll be damned if the government, or some damn breeding cult, is going to lay a hand on you.

Logan agrees to meet them there in his van for backup, while Josh hitches a ride on the back of Alec’s motorcycle. The three of them haul ass to the location of the suspected lab.

They approach a large, three-story dilapidated building. According to Logan, it used to be a mental health asylum. When the government bought it out, the facility was turned into a private lab.

Great, comes Alec’s sardonic thought. Hopefully the ghosts of whoever was tortured here won’t cause them any problems.

He and Max communicate silently through the militaristic hand motions they learned in their training to scope the place’s security, its entry points, and the best way for them to infiltrate the building. Although Manticore made Joshua, he hasn’t gone through the same training as most transgenics have.

He’s fortunate for it, but it means that Max has to direct him more carefully. He covers her and Alec as they approach the back entrance, which seems to be where they most often transport both cargo and people. Right now, there’s a large van waiting on standby.

Alec rips out the driver first, while Max and Joshua take on the other guards who start shooting. Alec comes around the back of the van, and when the first guard opens the back door, Alec tears the gun out of his hands and yanks him out. Alec uses the man’s body like a Kevlar vest as his two companies unload a clip or two. He punches them both out hard enough to hear the crack of bone.

The van inside is empty, but he sees a cot and several machines already ready and waiting to transport someone. He grits his teeth and slams the door shut on his way out.

“She’s not in there,” he tells Max. “If she’s here, she’s gotta be inside.”

Max and Joshua have taken out the outside guards, no problem, but he’s sure there’ll be more where that came from.

The three of them enter the building and race through the long hallways, slipping by lab technicians, doctors, and other staff. Anyone who attempts to stop them soon regrets it.

Alec is especially brutal and efficient with the federal security guards. Max watches him out of the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t yet warn him to pull his punches. The stakes are high, and she understands his anger and stress.

“There’s a file room,” Alec points to a door that’s labeled: RECORDS.

“I doubt they’ll have a file on her yet, especially if White’s trying to keep this under wraps,” Max says.

Joshua looks around and points across the hall. “Cameras?”

The other two look in the direction he’s pointing to, and they see what he sees—a room labeled: SECURITY.

Alec slaps a companionable hand on Joshua’s back, and they head for the security room. The guards are dealt with swiftly, being knocked out and piled against the back wall. While Joshua keeps a lookout, Max and Alec scan the many different camera feeds: focused on various hallways and lab subjects.

Alec scans each of them rapidly. He’s always been good with TV.

He finds you on one of the camera feeds and he points to it. “There she is! Room 204.”

You’re in a small, cell-like room, sleeping on what almost looks like a hospital bed. Except there’s a breathing mask held over your face, probably keeping you unconscious, and you’re attached to several monitors. It makes his heart sink and his spine tighten with rage, simultaneously.

“Let’s go,” Max says, but it’s not necessary. Alec is already halfway out the door.

They’re stopped at a four-way crossroads in the hall. In the center is Ames White.

“You’re smart, I’ll give you that,” he grants with an incline of his head. He takes a radio clipped to his belt and clicks it on, speaking into it. “Transport the girl. Make sure she’s sedated.”

Alec seethes. Before he can sprint headlong into a fight, Joshua stops him. Alec looks up at him in askance.

“You go. Find her. Leave him with me,” Joshua says. His blue eyes are sharp with predatory anger at the man who killed Annie Fisher.

Alec softens a fraction and nods in understanding. He shoots Max a look.

“Go, I’ll catch up with you,” she says.

Alec nods and races on ahead. He dodges bullets with the help of superior speed and crashes into each guard, taking them out with brutal force. He steals a gun off of one of them, and that saves him a lot of time and energy. He tries not to kill anyone, but he can’t think about holding back. He just needs to get to you.

He reaches the second floor, and finally to Room 204.

Two men are already in the room. He doesn’t want to open fire—the room is too small, the risk of ricochet too high. He grabs a knife from his belt and hurls it at the first man, who was poised to inject something into your arm. The second guard turns with his gun, but Alec is already moving too fast for human eyes to follow.

He breaks the man’s arm, followed by a swift uppercut. He takes the gun and hurls the man into the far wall, knocking him clean out as he slumps to the floor.

Alec breathes hard in the aftermath, but he begins to soften after his attention turns to you. He sets down the gun and takes in the sight of you, still dressed in jeans and a blood-stained shirt.

You’re heavily sedated and restrained by your wrists and ankles. You have a bandage wrapped around your forearm, along with brain and heart monitors attached to your forehead and chest, and an IV drip in your other arm.

Alec takes a breath, and he starts with the wires, removing the small suction cups from your body and disconnecting all the monitors. He takes off the mask and unclips the leather restraints.

The fury builds back up inside him at what they’ve already done to you. He doesn’t want to think any more on what they’d planned to do.

You must’ve been terrified, he thinks. He touches your cheek tenderly. His free hand hesitates, before it rests gently on your belly. He calls your name.

You don’t stir just yet. Your body is still under the effects of the sedation. So he carefully lifts you into his arms. He hears Max approach, and she’s there in the doorway by the time he turns around.

“Let’s go,” Alec says. His face is hard and angry while he carries you out.

They regroup with Joshua in the lobby, though even Alec stops short when he sees the carnage. Ames White’s body lays on the floor with unseeing eyes. His throat is torn out.

Joshua has blood in his teeth. He wipes at his face with the back of his arm, his eyes veering away from Max and Alec. Max blinks through her shock and tries to keep her mouth from falling open.

“Time to go,” Joshua says. His voice is heavy, but matter of fact.

“We’ll need to take his body, get rid of it later,” Max says, when she recovers. “We can’t let the police find him.”

They’ll blame us, is understood by them all. The police won’t have the full story, but it won’t matter. Appearances are everything.

Max finds a black body bag in a nearby storage closet and Joshua collects White, later hefting the full body bag over his shoulder.

They make their escape out the back of the building, where Logan is waiting with his van. Joshua deposits the body in the back, where he also climbs in. Max takes the front passenger seat while Alec carries you into the middle seat bed.

Nothing else feels right but to hold you in his arms. To stroke your cheek and wait, both desperate for, and yet dreading the moment you’ll open your eyes.

Because when you do, there’s a good chance that he’ll find your fear. Or worse.

“She’s going to be okay,” Max says to him, quietly. She’s twisted towards him in her seat.

“Maybe physically,” Alec counters. “I don’t know, Max. How did being held up in a lab affect your mental health?”

Her lips purse. “One step at a time, okay?”

Alec shakes his head and looks down at you. He tries to commit your peaceful face to memory, because he doubts that he’ll ever see it again after tonight.

Slowly, you start to wake.

At first, all you see is shadows and shapes of someone looming over you. Unconsciously you whimper and push at whatever holds you down, but the hold is gentle, the voice soothing.

“Shh, it’s okay. Sweetheart, it’s me,” he says.

Your eyes clear and focus as you blink…though they soon flood with tears. Relief takes over your fear. You see his concerned, handsome face, and your lower lip trembles.

“Alec,” is all you manage to say. You still have some trouble moving your heavy body, but you grab a fistful of his shirt and wince as you pull yourself up, just enough to bury your face into his chest. Your body shakes with the force of your sobs.

Alec gathers you up against him and shushes you gently, even as his heart clenches. He soothes a hand over your hair and your back.

“I’ve gotcha. It’s okay, you’re safe,” he says in your ear. He meets Max’s concerned gaze, then Joshua’s in the shrouded end of the car. Even Logan glances back through the rearview mirror as he drives.

Alec tries to block them out and focus on you. He holds you and comforts you for as long as you let him.

Eventually, you pull away to look at his face. You still have tears in your eyes, but now, it’s with a hue of uncertainty.

“The man…the agent who took me. He was looking for you,” you say. Your voice is weak and a bit coarse. You try to clear it.

Alec wishes he had some water for you.

“He’s gone. You don’t have to worry about him,” he says.

You let out a shaky breath, but you meet his gaze. “He said that you’re not…Alec, are you…”

He sighs; he understands the question you’re trying to ask.

“Yeah. Those freaks you hear people talking about on the news?” he says. “I’m one of ‘em.”

Your eyes widen as your breathing becomes more labored.

“I was made in a lab,” Alec confesses. “At Manticore, bred and trained to be a soldier.”

A transgenic.

Your hand falls away from his chest, and you take that in with an unblinking stare. He can see you trying to process all this.

You glance over at Max, who had been facing the front to give you and Alec the semblance of privacy. Feeling your gaze on her, she turns around and gives you a half-hearted smile.

“Hey, girl,” she greets. “Glad you’re okay.”

“You’re like him too?” you ask. Max nods.

Suddenly, everything makes so much sense. Why she and Alec have always seemed to share history and bickered like siblings. Why Max was friendly, but never truly your family. Why Alec had been so much of a mystery to you. Why he’d broken your heart.

“Joshua too,” says a deep voice from the back.

You turn your head and gasp as your eyes fly open wide again. Alec gives his friend a look over your head, but he tries to reassure you with a warm hand on your lower back. He hopes you can’t see the dried blood on Joshua’s snout.

Joshua breaks into a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he says, gesturing to his wolf-like face. “Bit of dog in my cocktail.”

You shake your head slowly. Your mouth opens and closes, but you try your best to get through your shock (and a lance of fear). Your head tilts as you consider his kind, very human blue eyes.

“You, um, your name is Joshua?” you say at last.

“Yes, Joshua,” he nods. “Rescue party.”

You blink at that. “You…helped get me out of there?”

He nods again, with a smile that flashes a few canine pointed teeth. You rest a hand over your wildly beating heart.

“Thank…you,” you manage.

Joshua bobs his head. “No problem. Saved Alec’s mate.”

If possible, your eyes widen further at that one. You turn back to Alec with raised brows. He offers a wan smile and a nervous chuckle. You notice, however, that he hasn’t let go of you. You’re also still sitting across his lap.

“This is what you were hiding from me,” you say, perhaps stating the obvious. Your heart clenches with pain. “Why you…”

He brushes his hand along your arm.

“I was trying to protect you,” Alec says. His brows furrow as his green-eyed gaze veers away from your face, with shame. “But I failed, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. None of this was supposed to happen—”

Some instinct has you reaching out to sooth your hand along his cheek, stopping his lips with your thumb. You stare up into his eyes, and they’re no longer guarded or distant. They’re the eyes you remember.

Whatever you are, you’re mine.

You lean up and press your lips to his.

After a beat, Alec’s eyes close, and he answers you in kind. His fingers sink into your knotted hair. You grip his shirt by the collar, and he wraps his arm securely around you.

With each new kiss, you feel more relieved. You don’t realize you’re trembling until he clasps your shaking hand against his cheek, to steady you.

Alec gives you one more searing kiss before he pulls you into his arms. It’s a hug you both need.

His eyes shut tight as he buries his face in your neck, inhaling your scent. His lips find the mark he’d left weeks ago on your skin. It’s faint by now, but it’s still there. He takes deep breaths to calm himself, and you rub his back through it.

He realizes you’re comforting him now; a fact that makes him smile.

You’re mine, instinct tells him. And this time, he just can’t fight it.

Logan houses you and Alec for the night (or the morning, since dawn breaks by the time you all get back).

You’re exhausted, but you still force yourself to shower. You’ll have to remind yourself to thank Logan for the spare clothing, though you don’t bother with the sweatpants just opt for the large shirt as you roll into bed.

Alec isn’t far behind after he takes a quick shower. You force yourself to stay awake, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom. His skin glistens when he eventually leaves the bathroom, and you watch him cross the bedroom with just a towel low on his hips. He shoots you a smile before he starts getting dressed.

“Logan says he’s help us find a new place to live,” he says.

You slowly smile at that. “Us?”

“Well, you know, both of our apartments are compromised.”

“Yeah, I get that,” you reply. When he slides into bed next to you, you swim through the covers and inch closer to him. “I’m just glad it’s a together thing.”

Alec gives you an amused look, but there’s warmth in his eyes. He thumbs at your lower lip. Soon, his smile begins to fall.

“I didn’t want to get you caught up in this. In my crazy fucked up life,” he says.

“I know,” you sigh. “But I’m in it now. I’m in this with you. You realize that, right?”

He nods, though he doesn’t think he deserves it. Or you, for that matter.

He slips his arm around you, just the same. You rest your head against his shoulder and tap his chin.

“Alec, I don’t care what you are,” you say. “Transgenic or not, you’re the man I’ve always known.”

He lets out a subtle breath at that, chuckling.

“For better or worse, right?” he asks.

You smile. “I have something to tell you…though I’m pretty sure you already know.”

Despite a tremor of nerves, a slow grin spreads across his face.

“Tell me anyway,” he says. “I love surprises where I know the answer.”

You giggle. “You sure about that?”

“Yes,” he nods with a smirk. “Just tell me, woman.”

Your hand drifts down to rest against his chest, and you tilt up your face so you can meet his dancing eyes. The fact that he seems genuine gives you enough courage to just…say it.

“Alec, I’m pregnant,” you tell him.

His smile grows.

“…Really?” he teases. “You sure it’s mine?”

You gasp, laughing, and you shove against his chest. You twist away from the cage of his arms, but he laughs and doesn’t let you so easily escape. You realize then how truly strong he is when he rolls you under him on the bed.

He dips down and claims you with a kiss. He shakes his head, because he never thought this would be his life. His hand sneaks under the sheets to rest over your lower belly, through the shirt. In turn, you cover his hand. You bite your lip with slight anxiety.

“You’re really okay with this?” you ask. “Even after everything we…this is a lot for us. Really soon.”

Alec gradually sobers, and he acknowledges that with a nod.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Honestly, I didn’t see this coming.”

You have to laugh a little at that. His lips tug at the corners, but as he squeezes your hand back, he stares directly into your eyes.

“But I’m not letting you do this alone. I… I love you,” he admits. “Sorry it took me so long to figure it out.”

Tears burn in your eyes, but only one finds its way down your cheek. You take in a tremulous breath and nod.

“I love you too,” you reply. Though you can’t hide a different uncertainty when you look at him. “But if you leave me again…Alec, I can’t.”

He looks more vehement than you’ve ever seen him when he shakes his head, meeting your gaze.

“That’s not happening. I promise,” he says. “You’re stuck with me, baby. So much that you might just get sick of me.”

You utter a laugh through your tears, and you nod in acceptance. Alec smiles and wipes your cheek dry before he gathers you tighter into his arms, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

You relax against his chest with a sigh. His heartbeat thrums steadily under your cheek.

And you finally rest.

AN: And there we have it. 🥹 I truly hope you enjoyed Being Human.

I might come back to add bonus one-shots to this, if you guys are interested in seeing more of their story. 💜 But I hope you'll let me know what you think about how it all shook out here!

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dr3amofagame · 3 years

Note

Do you consider a possibility that c!Punz never betrayed c!Dream in the first place and whole "I'm sorry, Dream -- but you should have paid me more" thing was a facade and undercover for Punz? Like Dream said that Punz should not associated with him, so it was intentional-

staged disc finale theory my beloved !!! :D it’s definitely one of my favorite theories, though i’m still holding out (for now) as for believing super firmly in one direction or another (tho the staged finale is definitely the one i prefer for Many reasons, haha.) c!punz is so so fun no matter if the betrayal was intentional or not, but oh boyyyy if it was something planned ,,, man .

*c!dream voice, after quackity starts visiting*: the risk i took was calculated, but man am i bad at math.

anyway c!punz and c!dream interactions make me soft as heck so have this !!

tw: implied torture, abuse, violence, blood, injuries, emotional distress, panicking, dehumanization, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unhealthy mindsets, illness, trauma, flashbacks, starvation mention, suicide mention, death mentions, dark content, dark imagery, prison arc/pandora’s vault themes, c!quackity critical/dark portrayal of c!quackity

Dream comes to in vague moments and flashes.

There’s a hand brushing over his forehead, too gentle to be Quackity or the Warden, not Techno because Techno is Gone and he has Left and won’t come again, running through the sweat-soaked locks and pulling them back out of his forehead. He’s unbearably hot, shifting around on the ground, only barely registering it moving beneath him. Water, cool and clear, is tipped in between his lips, quenching his thirst and easing the dryness of his mouth. Someone speaks, voice low and rumbling, and even though he’s unable to make out the words, there’s something about the cadence of them and the specific rhythm in which they move and rise and dip that is bone-achingly familiar, enough to lull him into a fitful sleep. Through it all, there is always something, someone, lingering in the edges of his vision, a shadow standing near and watching over him; part of him remembers Quackity, remembers the Warden, and recoils in fright; another part of him remembers Techno, remembers the barest flashes of a life before obsidian and lava and pain and hell, and wants nothing more than to get closer.

When the fog in his head finally clears away enough to think, the first coherent thought he has is oh fuck, I need to piss.

Which, out of all possible things to think, is probably up there as one of the worst, and he’s sure that when his head feels a little less like it’s trying to actively kill him (ha, let it- it’s far from the first to try) the panic will settle in as it always does. As it is, he’s exhausted, and hungry, and he really really needs to pee- so he forces his eyes open to move away from where he’s probably still stuck in a puddle of dried blood in the middle of his cell.

The second coherent thought he has is this: this isn’t Pandora.

The realization has him thoroughly awake, eyes snapping open out of his previous fatigue to take in his surroundings, feet kicking out to the weight on top of them that he hadn’t even noticed was there, panicking against his restraints that end up not being restraints at all, giving way easily under his thrashing and resolving to what appears to be a thick blanket when he has the mind to look. With the covers gone off of whatever he’s lying on (a bed?) he’s suddenly, unbearably cold - the prison has always been hot, the lava baking into him and leaving his skin sticky with sweat, and he thinks that the room he’s in is probably not meant to feel like a fucking freezer, but after months of being one wrong step away from heatstroke, anything cooler than the goddamn Nether feels like literal ice against his skin. The room is wooden and cozy and oddly familiar, an open door leading to what appears to be a bathroom and a closed one going who knows where, window panes built into the opposite wall to let the sunlight in. It’s a nice room, all things considered, and Dream fucking hates it.

He pulls himself to his feet, cursing at the wobbly edge to his stance when he finally manages to stand, his vision wavering dangerously in time to the spinning of his head. His eyes flick between the two doors - he still needs to go to the bathroom, and using it now will lessen the amount of things to get in the way of his escape in the future - but at the same time, there's no knowing when people will come to (hurt him, beat him, starve him, punish him, leaving him bruised and bleeding and half-dead on the floor just as he deserves) him and he needs all the time he can get to get the hell away. In the end, he slinks into the bathroom, ignoring the thudding in his chest as he does so - at the very least, the cabinets in the thing might provide him with some manner of a weapon.

He’s only just past the door on the way out - a fucking broomstick in his hand because it’s all he could find - when his ears catch on the sound of metal clicking against each other and his eyes fall on the knob of the other door shaking as someone makes their way in. All at once, panic slams into him - goddammit, he should’ve just run when he had the chance - and he directs quick, desperate glances at the window. Maybe, if he’s fast enough, he can book it out of there and disappear into the trees; it’ll hurt, but it’ll be better than getting caught. Anything would be better than getting caught-

“Dream?”

Dream blinks. All at once, the same feeling of getting the air punched out of him returns, but combined with something warm and floaty wrapping around his chest, something almost a little like relief - and hell, if that isn’t something he’s not felt for a while.

“Punz?”

Punz is standing in the doorway, hoodie rumpled, expression more than a little frazzled; Dream’s breath hitches at the sight of the sword strapped to his side, but their face holds none of the harsh edges and cold-dark-hard hatred that had characterized the Warden and Quackity’s visits, mouth slightly parted and eyes shining with nothing but what appears to be shock and concern. The sight of them, again, nearly has Dream dizzy, a swell of tangled, unexplainable emotion rising to the back of his throat as he sways on his feet. He hadn’t thought that he would see Punz again, he realizes, had never thought he’d see his stupid gold chain and his stupid outfit he never bothered changing, ever, or that same lopsided smirk and pale blue eyes- the last time he’d seen them, it was in that vault, their mouth twisted up in the act the two of them had decided on and eyes shimmering with unease and regret; as far as goodbyes went, it wasn’t the worst, not when Punz was one of the few to never leave him, not really, not when something ached in their expression other than the hatred that had colored all of the other expressionless faces watching him die. Months later, alone in Pandora, he must’ve grown resigned, or something, the repeated reminders that he would die alone and afraid and it would be nothing more than he deserved settling into his skin and against his bones; Punz’s expression twists, visible even across the room, and- oh.

They must’ve thought the same thing, too.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Punz asks, finally, and Dream decides not to point out the way his voice cracks harshly in the middle, especially when the other man strides forward and starts to awkwardly herd him back in the direction of the bed - covers still thrown to the floor - in the middle of the room. Dream lets them, not replying because he doesn’t really know where to even begin describing the tangled knot of panic and shock that had strung his muscles tense when he woke up in a room he didn’t recognize, not knowing if he can really describe it all at all, trying his best not to flinch at the hands flitting in the corners of his vision as he falls back into a sitting position onto the bed. His fingers settle into the mattress, pressing into the bedsheets cautiously and marveling when they fall away under the pressure. Punz watches him, expression odd, gathers the blankets from the ground and presses them over and around him in a way that’s entirely awkward but does leave him warmer than he’d been before, before walking back on his heels with an odd expression that makes Dream’s insides twist.

“You,” Punz says after a long second, voice wavering, “are a fucking idiot,” and it’s all the warning Dream gets before a white-and-black blur is rushing towards him, arms wrapping around his chest and his vision whites out in alarm and panic. When the pain doesn’t come, he comes back to his senses enough to realize that Punz’s arms are still wrapped around him, shoulders shaking as he holds him close but not painfully, careful not to pull too much against the places on his ribs and back that leave him gasping with small shocks of pain, head pressed against the crook of Dream’s neck and hair tickling his face. Dream can feel his heart hammering in his chest, but as the panic dies something warm and long-neglected stirs in the middle of his chest, and he melts forward with a quiet hum. This is- nice. Really, really nice.

“What were you thinking?” Punz mutters, too quiet to really be directed at him, hands curling tighter into the folds of the hoodie - oh, he’s wearing one of those, not the same stiff, bloodstained material of the prison uniform that had chafed against his skin, another constant source of pain and discomfort of thousands in the hell that had been Pandora’s Vault - on him, and Dream doesn’t really know what to do except sit there and blink dumbly, listening to the heartbeat of the person leaning against him rumbling against his ears. It’s oddly calming, has the pressure on his chest lightening enough to take a full breath, and then another, the warmth of someone leaning against him almost too much but not enough at the same time - his eyes burn, and he ignores them.

“I-” he doesn’t really think that Punz was really asking a question, but just ignoring his question seems rude, too, and even despite the fuzzy warmth settling into his skin and into his bones from the pressure of Punz’s arms around his body and their head against his shoulder, he’s still unable to shake the anxiety of leaving a query unanswered, a constant murmur to listen obey do as you’re told or you’re going to regret it put on a damn good show or suffer the consequences remaining no matter how hard he tries to push it away. He wets his lips when his mouth feels too dry to keep speaking, eyes fluttering closed as he leans forward further, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You-” Punz cuts themselves off with a wet, incredulous-sounding laugh that has Dream jerking back despite himself, meeting their ice-cold eyes when they pull themselves back to look at him. He doesn’t really recognize the expression he wears, Dream realizes with a jolt, the way his lips are pressed together and the churning in his eyes, and his lungs seize in his chest.

“Sir-”

If anything, Punz’s expression only seems to harden, and the warmth disappears as Dream looks into their eyes - cold, two polished shards of ice, frosted over pools of water in the middle of the tundra, flinty and sharp and brilliant blue. His hands shake as he pulls them back to his chest, trembling from the chill that’s made its home in his muscles and frozen them in place - sir sorry sir please don’t hurt me im sorry please I didn’t mean to

“Fuck, Dream,” he shakes his head, and only then does Dream see the slight wobble to their bottom lip, the waver to their words like they’re struggling to keep themselves together, “why didn’t you say anything?”

What?

You almost died, you know,” he keeps going, not meeting his eyes as they direct their gaze out the window, “Several times, honestly. Fucking hell- when Techno brought you out- I didn’t think you would survive. I didn’t think anyone could survive that.”

Dream swallows. He doesn’t remember getting out, doesn’t really remember much at all if he’s being honest; there was the black of the cell, the heat of the lava, Techno promising to get him out before disappearing in a flash of purple, Quackity throwing him against the wall (Where the fuck did Techno go? You better have a fuckin’ answer, pal, if you want your death to be anything resemblin’ quick-) then nothing. Everything. His heart hammering in his chest and blood slick against his skin and the press of metal against his windpipe and pain, the only constant within it all, the only thing that made any goddamn sense when the room seemed to flip and turn and twist and his feelings knotted and frayed between anger-betrayal-distress-sadness-fear-grief, when reality swirled into a dizzying blur of colors and feelings and sounds carving themselves into the inside of his skull- then here. Dream flexes his hand experimentally, marveling at the feeling - the pain is almost gone.

He’d forgotten how it felt, really, to live and not hurt.

“Dream,” Punz calls again, voice low and worried, and Dream can’t help the way his head snaps up to meet their eyes and can’t help the flinch that twists his neck back when their frown deepens. It’d been a show, at least he tells himself, because Quackity would stop earlier if he screamed more, but- his hands tremble at his sides, twisted into the sheets of the bed, a near-constant litany of reminders and rules beating like they have a heart of their own in the back of his head. It was a show- he feels himself almost buckle, give in under the force of the stare leveled at him, and hates himself for how weak he feels, pinned under the eyes trained on his own. He’s not sure how much of a show it is anymore.

“Dream,” Punz repeats, words even softer, and the ugly feeling of shame and anger twists inside Dream’s chest again. Punz- ever unflappable, deadly with almost any weapon and never letting anyone see him as anything but deliberately apathetic - is watching him with an expression so uncharacteristically and unbearably gentle that it makes his breath catch in his throat. “You could’ve died,” he says once again, and the look that paints his face is so terribly vulnerable, feelings pouring over like a cup overfilled, bubbling forward and bleeding from every corner, and Dream- can’t. He doesn’t know what to do in the face of such stark emotion, doesn’t know how how to handle the way his eyes burn and his heart throbs like an exposed nerve, the way everything yawns wide in the middle of his chest into void and emptiness and pain so deeply carved in the space within his ribs that he half-thinks he’s been hollowed out entirely.

“But I didn’t.”

Punz pulls back, but Dream isn’t looking at him, is staring at the scarred surfaces of the backs of his hands and the knobs of his knuckles sticking out against the thinned-out skin and the yellowed nails he’s pushing against the blanket, the fourth and fifth ones of his right hand missing. They shake, no matter how long he looks at them and how hard he tries to make them stay still, and he can feel a voice whispering in the back of his mind, tone too familiar to ignore. Weak.

“I didn’t die,” he says when Punz doesn’t reply, looking at his scarred hands, weak hands, broken hands. “So it’s okay. We can keep- we can keep going.”

“Dream-” their voice is a blade scraping against an anvil, nails scraping over his ribs, his hands clamping over his ears before he’s realized he’s moved and his brain screaming at him for doing so once he realizes that he has, “-what the fuck are you talking about?”

Still, he hadn’t survived months of Quackity’s visits by bending over the second he was pushed, so he forces his tongue to move from where it’s fallen to the bottom of his mouth like lead, feels his eyes go steely even from under the way his vision has already begun to wobble.

“It’s not over yet,” he continues, trying to keep his words even, “‘cause I didn’t die, so we’re not done. I gotta- we have to reevaluate, of course,” he can’t stop, because the second he stops talking is the second he falls apart, so he ignores the way that Punz stiffens and stills and doesn’t let anything stop the flow of words spilling out of his mouth, “because the vault and the prison- um, obviously didn’t go as planned, but it’s fine. Just a minor- um, minor inconvenience. A setback- but it’s not- it’s not unsalvageable- we just have to-”

“Are you kidding me?” Punz cuts him off with a sharp laugh, disbelieving and just on the wrong side of desperate, and the air in Dream’s lungs freezes into a solid block of ice in the middle of his chest, “you- you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Punz?”

Dream’s voice comes out small, himself shrinking back into the bed, keenly aware, suddenly, of how there is nowhere he can go to run - Punz doesn’t seem to notice that he’s spoken at all, one of his hands moving up to tug through his hair, which is - now that Dream is looking - fluffier and messier than he remembers, sticking up in all directions like they didn’t bother to smooth it down.

“You think this is fine? You think that because you didn’t fucking die, that this is all okay?” Punz’s voice rises in volume slowly, not loud enough to be a shout but enough to go hard and unyielding like a threat, and with each word every remnant of the vault comes crawling, clawing back up to the front of his head, a pounding reminder to play his role, put on a show, behave behave behave-

“Goddammit, Dream,” Punz startles him out of his own thoughts, looking straight into his eyes with their ice-blue ones, “have you seen yourself?”

Have you seen yourself? Lying down in your own goddamn filth like a fucking mutt- prime, you disgust me.

“Your ribs were basically shattered. Your legs had fractures on both sides, and your back was so fucking torn up that it looked like more blood than skin. You’ve been starved- enough for me to see every goddamn bone in your body, it feels like. Your throat was bruised to hell- I wasn’t sure if you were gonna be able to speak again, fuck, and like a day after we got here you got fucking pneumonia.” Punz’s breath hitches, “Your skin was a literal fucking oven- I thought you’d bake yourself from the inside out. You could’ve died- you should’ve died.”

You should’ve died a hell of a long time ago, pal- should’ve saved us all the fucking trouble and offed yourself like Wilbur fucking Soot.

He flinches, and this, Punz seems to notice, eyes widening a fraction before they pitch their voce lower, clearly taking a few breaths to calm down and reaching forward to take one of Dream’s hands loosely in his own, thumb smoothing over the bumps of his knuckles.

“You’re not fine,” he says after a long while, shaking his head. “Hell- I’m not fine. But we’re not doing anything like- like the vault or the prison again, dude. I told you they were shit ideas- fuck. We never should’ve done that.”

“It was worth it,” Dream butts in, because he can’t imagine a world where it wasn’t, can’t imagine a world where all of that was for nothing, “it was worth it-”

“No it fucking wasn’t, are you out of your mind?” Punz replies immediately, voice overlapping over Dream’s own, “have you listened to a single thing I’ve said? You- look at you! How was that worth it?”

Dream shakes his head stubbornly, already feeling the way his jaw is trembling around the words he forces himself to speak. “The server- it was all for the server-”

“Fuck the server!”

Punz seems startled by their own shout, drawing back at the same time Dream does, breathing ragged. He takes a few seconds to compose himself, bringing his hand to his face as Dream sits stock still, not daring to move, hardly daring to breathe.

“Fuck the fucking server, okay?” Punz says, finally, voice cracking in the middle, “You lost two damn lives for this server. You got fucking tortured for fucking months for this shitstain of a server. Just- fuck them. I’m not watching you tear yourself to fucking shreds for this- not again. I can’t sit around and watch you fucking die again, Dream, I can’t drag you out bleeding out in my fucking arms again- fuck-” Punz shakes their head, and oh. They’re crying.

“No more. Fuck the server. I’m done, Dream- we’re done with them.”

Dream blinks, so thoroughly surprised that he thinks the shock knocked him straight out of the building panic attack, leaving nothing but a slight thrumming of anxiety still simmering beneath his skin. Almost instinctually, in a motion he doesn’t really remember but still has the muscle memory for, he opens his arms- and in a similar, near-unconscious response, Punz tumbles into his arms.

He blinks, not moving his arms to curl around the other, feeling the weight of another person against his again and the sound of their breathing and relearning them both. This is- new, for both of them. Dream was never emotional, not before the prison, not that he wanted to be after it either- but Quackity always had a particular affinity for tearing him apart, shard by shard. And Punz- he’d never been like this, even back in the day, when things were easier and they didn’t bear the constant burden of netherite against their backs. They’d always been stoic, sharp, sarcastic, cool and dry in a way that chafed against Sapnap’s fire and always led to Dream laughing at them sooner or later. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, feeling the heat behind his eyes finally sear too hot and boil over, tears squeezing through his closed eyes and falling down his face.

“Okay,” he says, finally, and there’s nothing easy about the acquiescence, not when he had poured blood and sweat and the better half of himself into this place, salted the earth with his tears until no more would come and nothing else would grow. He thinks that he will have more to think and more to say and more to protest come the next days, that the binds between him and his goals have been weaved too deep with the fibers of his soul for him to tear them free without sacrificing what broken pieces of himself he has left, but all he can think right now is how fucking tired he is. He remembers Techno’s voice, going through myth after myth to pass time in the prison, and thinks with something like humor and something like grief - let someone else be Atlas for a day. The sky is too heavy right now. Punz’s arms tighten around his body, enough to remind him that they’re there but not enough to press at his still-healing ribs, and he thinks that they might understand. “Okay.”

210 notes · View notes

ive-been-worse · 3 years

Text

Liable PT 2

Word Count: 2,419

Warning: Violence, blood, knives, hospitals, close calls, mentions of anxiety/panic, let me know if I missed any.

A/N: this is part two to a different post. It's long, I can't write cases, kinda angsty but it has a happy ending. Enjoy

“Can you believe it?” You point your spoon at no one in particular. “A ‘liability’! God!” You let out a sardonic laugh and viciously dig into your ice cream.

You, Emily, JJ, and Penny are having girls’ night. Yes, you’re a little tipsy and definitely not over anything.

Emily shakes her head while JJ pours more wine for everyone.

“Y/N/N, you know you aren’t a liability. You’re damn good at your job and Hotch was full of shit,” Em doesn’t normally bash the boss but she’s a little more than tipsy too.

“You know what it is?” Penny butts in, “He likes youuuuuuu.”

Her words elicit a scoff from you, “As if.” Heat rose in your cheeks.

“No, she’s right. Everyone can see it. Hotch totally has a thing for you!” JJ exclaims, spilling a little of her wine. “Come on, are you seriously saying you’ve never noticed how much he hovers over you?”

“Or stiffens whenever you’re with an unsub?” Em adds.

“Or how he almost flinches everytime you call him ‘Agent Hotchner’,” Penny giggles.

“And, you like him too!” JJ says with a sudden seriousness.

You shake your head. As much as you want to deny JJ’s words, you can’t. Your crush has been blooming for a long time. It’s part of the reason why you’re taking this sudden cold front from your boss so hard. If only you knew what to do.

***

“Aaron, you gotta tell her,” was the first thing Dave said after sneaking into Hotch’s office.

“Tell who what, Dave?” Aaron asked. He didn’t have to ask. Dave was talking about you, just like he has been the last multiple times Dave has sought him out.

“Y/N. You know she’s a good agent. She deserves to know that.”

“Is that all?” Aaron has yet to look up from his paperwork.

“‘Is that all?’” Dave repeats, “No, first, it’s affecting the team. Everyone can see that. There’s so much tension between you two. After you fix that, you should also tell her how you feel.”

“Enough, there’s nothing to tell,” Aaron pinches the bridge of his nose, “I’ll handle it, okay?”

“You better.”

***

Hotch had kept you out of the field for seven cases. Seven. Working from Quantico was killing you and you had a newfound respect for Penny. That’s why you jumped, literally jumped, at the chance to finally go on a case with the team. However, you’re confined to the police precinct. Not ideal, but you’ll take what you can get. So while the team is gathering information in the field, you’re working on the geographical profile.

Unfortunately, geographical profiles are not your strong suit. More unfortunately, you’ve determined that there’s not enough information to make one. With a sigh, you push yourself away from the desk and make your way to the mediocre coffee station.

A young officer approaches with a smile, “What a case, right?”

You look him over. This case is probably the worst he’s seen. He’s not too bad on the eyes. Not quite your type. You shake your head as the thought of your boss flits through your mind. Giving the officer a small smile, “That’s your opening?”

Red blooms across his cheeks as he shrugs and rubs the back of his neck. “I had to start with something. I’m John,” his hand comes out between you two.

“I’m Y/N, nice to meet you,” he grips your hand a little too hard.

The door to the precinct opens. Hotch, Emily, and Reid come in. They were at the latest crime scene.

Nodding your head at your team, “That’s my cue.”

You take your leave but John stops you. “How about you and I take some time and I’ll buy you a better coffee?”

“I can’t. We have to solve this case. That’s my priority,” It’s a little harsh but that’s what you’re here to do in the first place so that’s what you’re going to do.

“L/N,” Hotch calls.

“I’m coming,” you take your coffee and go to them. “What did you find?”

“Her friends report some guy talking to her at the bar they went to the night before she went missing. Apparently he kept trying to get her to go somewhere with him.” Hotch fills you in.

“Let me guess, she kept turning him down?” You fill in, earning a nod from your boss.

“How’s the geographical profile?” Reid asks.

“You’re welcome to take a shot at it but there’s not enough.”

This time it’s Emily who speaks, “We need another victim.”

And you got one that night.

The next day you're able to finish the profile. Right as you do, coffee is set on your desk. You look up to see John. “Thank you,” you tell him. Relief filling you at the thought of caffeine.

“You looked like you could use it,” he smiled at you. Taking a sip you looked up in surprise. The coffee was exactly how you like it. “I- uh - I noticed how you took it yesterday while we were talking.” John rubbed the back of his neck and you nodded.

“We’re ready to give the profile.” Hotch announced over the room to gather everyone’s attention. It didn’t take long for everyone to get ready.

“We believe that the unsub is a young male, in his twenties to thirties,” Hotch started.

“He’ll probably try to inject himself in this investigation if he hasn’t already,” Morgan went next.

Your turn, “Given the places the victims are taken from and the dump sites, the unsub’s comfort zone is in this area,” you gesture to the map, “Meaning he either lives or works somewhere in the area.” The rest of the profile goes smoothly.

After, you take a step outside, needing to clear your head. The door opens and there’s footsteps. You turn to talk to the person. A butt of a gun slams into your head. You feel the shock.

Everything goes black.

***

You come too in a dark place and you can’t make anything out. You can hear a flip get switched and the lights flicker on above you. Squinting against the harsh light, you try to orient yourself. You take inventory. You’re sitting. Killer headache, probably a concussion. There’s something wet on your temple. You go to wipe it away only to discover your hands are bound behind you. Ankles similarly tied but to the legs of the chair.

Trying to fight the panic setting in, you take a deep breath and look around. Knives line the wall in all different sizes. Pictures of the previous victims are hung on the wall with some sort of writing by them.

The unsub walks into the room. He has an old camera with him. It’s flash blinds you. You turn your head away from the flash. When you look back, the unsub’s back is to you and he’s hanging the picture he just took on the wall. He looks familiar. You can’t place him until he turns around.

John.

John with a knife.

John with a knife, and he's coming toward you.

***

“He uses a knife so he’s likely impotent but there’s nothing else that implies this is sexual for him,” Morgan rubs his temples.

“The multiple stab wounds are all done before the kill. So he’s sadistic,” Rossi adds.

JJ enters the room, a worried look on her face. “Y/N isn’t here. I’ve checked with the hotel and they haven’t seen her since we left. She’s not answering her phone.”

“What do you mean she isn’t here?” Rossi asks.

“No one knows where she went,” JJ says.

“Guys,” Reid enters the room, holding up a phone. Your phone.

“She wouldn’t leave with just anyone. Y/N’s careful.” Rossi scrubs his face.

“She probably didn’t go willingly. It’s broken.” Reid tells them, setting the phone on the table.

“I’ll call Hotch,” Morgan stands, leaving the room.

***

Coughs tear through you. Blood dribbles out, dripping onto your already ruined shirt. You turn your head and spit, trying to clear your mouth from the coppery liquid.

“You couldn’t have just said yes? It was just coffee. But no you couldn’t do that could you!” John lets out a deranged laugh. “You’re just like the others. So stuck up you won’t give anyone a chance.” The knife he wields sinks into your abdomen and you bite your lip to keep in the pained gasp. “We could have been happy together. You’d have to give up your job though. This isn’t a line of work for a lady.”

That line. You’d been hearing that line since you joined the BAU. You’re so tired of it. His face is so close. You spit and it lands on his cheek. A strange sense of satisfaction fills you as the bloody saliva trails down his jaw.

John wipes it off, “You’re going to regret that.” His fist hits the side of your head, sending ringing through your skull.

“No,” you cough up more blood. “You’ll regret this. My team will find you and you will pay.”

“Too bad you won’t be alive to see it.”

***

You were barely conscious when they found you. Your breaths are shallow. You don’t know what happened, what went down. All you know is that suddenly, you’re not in that chair anymore. You’re not there, and someone is being loud. Someone is yelling. You try to open your eyes to see who.

“Hotch,” it comes out weak. Barely a whisper. Your hand goes up on its own accord to wipe his tears, leaving a streak of red in its wake. “Why are you crying?” Suddenly your hand falls back to your side and you turn your head.

“Y/N! Hey Y/N! Stay with me!” His hand turns your head to look at him. His hands are so big. He’s warm. So warm. After you had been so cold.

“You’re so handsome, Hotch. So handsome,” it slurred out. Everything goes back once more.

***

The team is waiting anxiously at the hospital. Most of the cuts are shallow but the ones that aren’t caused you to need emergency surgery. They’re bad, more than enough to cause worry.

“She’ll make it. Y/N is strong. She’ll make it,” Emily sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.

Reid has his head in his hands.

Morgan is pacing.

Garcia rushes into the waiting room when she gets there, “How is she?”

“She’s in emergency surgery,” Rossi answers.

She collapses into a nearby chair.

Hours drip by. One after another. Someone convinces Hotch to change, get out of the bloodstained suit. Someone else gets everyone coffee, or a snack. No one touches those.

The more time passes the more everyone gets worried. When the doctor comes out, it’s too soon and not soon enough all at the same time. “She’s stable,” everything they say after is a blur from the relief. “You’re welcome to see her when she wakes up.”

It’s an hour later when a nervous looking nurse comes in the waiting room. “Are you for Y/N L/N?” Everyone stands nodding. “She’s- uh- she’s asking for an Agent Hotchner?”

“That’s me,” Hotch steps forward.

“Follow me. Uh- the rest of you can see her in a little while,” the nurse sent a smile to the rest of the team.

***

The light was bright in the hospital. The doctor was telling you what happened but you didn’t hear any of it.

The door opens and Hotch rushes to your side, “Y/N!” He scans you over, eyes stopping on every bandage.

“Hotch,” your hand covers his to get his attention. “What happened?”

“I- We almost lost you. It was bad. You lost a lot of blood,” he tries to fight back the tears.

“I’m sorry. I should have been more careful. I should have realized-”

“No!” His voice comes out startlingly loud. He makes an effort to soften it. “No. This isn’t your fault. No one blames you.”

You let out a self-deprecating laugh, “Sure. No one blames me. They all just think I’m a liability right?” The word slips out before you can stop it.

Liability. The same one he used before. It felt like a knife to the gut.

“No. No. No. You’re not a liability. It was wrong of me to say that. God, Y/N, you could never be a liability. You’re an amazing agent. You never would have made it if you weren’t. I never should have said that. I was worried. You were with that unsub all by yourself for god knows how long and could have been seriously hurt. It was wrong. I never meant it,” He was rambling. He knew. Hotch could also feel the tears track down his face.

“You mean it?” Your voice comes out small and weak, you fight back your own tears.

Hotch nods rapidly. “Every word. When this happened. I was so scared Y/N. I can’t lose you.” His head falls to the mattress, trying to hide the tears.

You take a deep breath and decide to try your luck. Today has to be a day of defeating odds. “Aaron,” that causes his head to shoot up. It’s your first time calling him by his name. “Aaron, look, I gotta tell you. I can’t just make it through that and keep quiet about this anymore, who knows about the time. Oh boy, I just- ah- I like you Aaron. More than I probably should, given that you’re my boss but it’s true,” you refuse to meet his eyes, scared of what you’d see.

“Y/N,” he pauses, “Y/N look at me,” his voice is gentle, coaxing you to meet his eyes. He smiles despite the tears. “I like you too. I’ve tried to hide it for so long. I did, but I can’t do it anymore.”

You laugh and then grimace from the pain radiating in your chest. You brush off Hotch’s concern. “I’m fine. If we do this though, we have to do it right. Not just getting together because of the high of relief that we both probably feel. Okay?”

“Of course, we’ll take it slow.”

Despite everything, you’re happy right now. On painkillers, and definitely traumatized, but right now, in this moment, you’re happy. It only gets better when the rest of your team, the best friends you have, flood the room. Everyone is high on the relief of survival and all-in-all, it could only be better if you weren’t stuck in the hospital.

#aaron hotch x reader #hotch x reader #criminal minds #angst #happy ending

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alecmagnuslwb · 3 years

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Broken Wings

Read on AO3

“Look I need it to be said that I did not collect any of the things in this room, and the only reason I know about it is cause the guy who is responsible for this room drank a few too many and I happened to be in be in the room and heard,” Ritchie says nervously flitting about in front of the magically protected door. “And then I stole his keys for the hell of it right before he got arrested for drunk and disorderly behavior starting a bar fight, and decided to do the right thing. Keep that in mind the right thing and call you two to do what needs to be done with everything back here.”

“Ritchie just shut up and open the door,” Zatanna says stern and tired of this. He’s been giving the same sort of spiel since he first turned up at their door promising he was there to do something good and just.

“Right,” he shakes his head tumbling the keys over in his hands. He finds the right one inserting it into the lock and turning. The magic on the door shimmers and falls open, automatically welcoming them in.

Before they’ve even stepped inside, Zatanna and John both can see a cavalcade of things that shouldn’t be here or anywhere else. They step in and break off from one another each taking a side of the long hall the walls lined with trophies, glass cases that have to be stepped around cautiously holding boxes and weaponry.

Zatanna eyes the wall and instantly knows this isn’t like the study in the house of mystery this isn’t a collection of magical artifacts this is a collection of the people who enchanted the artifacts in the first place. A collection of magic snuffed out before it’s time, of magic taken from this earth without remorse or hesitation.

A sword covered in dried blood hangs proudly on the wall a literal spotlight on it. She touches her fingers to a glass case a small box with the tattered claws of a werewolf resting inside, beside them a set of horns clearly ripped from the head of someone harshly and the jagged fangs of a vampire still stuck with tacky gums attached at their base.

Pieces, that’s what everything in this room is. The sick trophies of a serial killer or someone just obsessed with them, obsessed with the death and destruction of people like her and John. People like her friends, her family.

This is a mausoleum without the kindness of good memories encased inside, just the terror of peoples last moments. Of the horrors done to them as they took their last breaths and lived out their final moments in fear.

This place should be burned to the ground.

“Zee,” John says from the other side of the room his voice soft and shocked tearing her away from a jar of preserved eyeballs of varying shapes and shades. She walks over to his side unable to look at the perverse pieces she passes by. Ritchie nervously stands in the middle of it all looking just as shaken by the displays around him even if this isn’t the first time he’s seen it all.

“Yeah?” she says when she reaches him. He gestures a hand upwards and she follows it with her eyes.

There on the wall is the most familiar piece in the room she’s found so far, a piece that belonged to someone she knows. Someone she cares for.

“Are those-” she starts not even finishing the sentence, she already knows the answer anyways she’d recognize those wings anywhere. She doesn’t want it to be true, the ends are bloodstained dry, red and dark brown nearly still dripping from jagged edges that were clearly painfully torn or cut from the body they once were connected to.

“Those are Luci’s I’m sure of it,” John says looking up at the wings sadly.

“Have you heard from him lately?” she asks eyes not able to tear away from the wings she once saw spring beautifully from Lucifer’s back.

John shakes his head. “No, not in a while. You?”

Zatanna shakes her head sadly. She just assumed it was Lucifer as usual disappearing off somewhere to do God knows what, quite literally, hell knows where. She didn’t question his radio silence; it was nothing new.

Now she’s staring up at his tattered and bloodied wings wondering if there was a completely different, far more deadly reason why he hasn’t called in some time. Wondering if these wings she’s seen on display, these wings she’s felt cover her from bullet fire were torn unwillingly from his back and if they were willingly taken what the hell could have led to that.

“We have to track him down as soon as we’ve dealt with this sick fuck,” she says finally looking away from wings. John nods in agreement, he lifts a hand to her lower back in comfort, calming the anger she knows he can see simmering all the way down to her bones.

“Where’d this guy you stole the keys off of end up?” John asks turning to Ritchie.

“Gotham lockup,” he says wringing his hands.

“I can call Bruce, he can pull some strings and make sure this guy doesn’t get loose,” Zatanna says stepping over to another display case wanting to turn it over and send it shattering to the ground. “He’ll need to see this though; he’ll need the proof to make anything stick.”

“Who knows how many of these people he killed,” John says eyes straying back to the wings on the wall that Zatanna is trying to pointedly ignore for now. “And how many he just collected. Either way he’s a fucking monster.”

Monster is putting it lightly. Zatanna wants to burn everything in here, take these horrendous memories and turn them to ash and then maybe give the guy who owns it all the same treatment.

“Which means we can’t light the place on fire yet,” she says angrily.

“Soon,” John says comfortingly placing his hand back on her back. “First we have someone we need to check in on.”

Zatanna nods her head taking one last sad look at the wings before pulling up a portal to take them out of this monstrous place.

#my fic #johnzee #john constantine #zatanna zatara #writersmonth2021 #magicblazersource

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sergeant-donny-donowitz · 4 years

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Making Friends: Basterds Imagine-Fem!Reader

Requested by @cass-danvers

@owba-chan @war-obsessed @inglourious-imagines @tealaquinn @struggling-bee @frozenhuntress67 @kwyloz @sodapop182 @marlenemarauders @what-the--curtains @taikawho @spookybearlandtaco Let me know if you wanna be added to the IB or OUATIH taglists! :)

___________ It was a cool Sunday evening. The basterds marched into an A-list, luxurious club in the middle of Paris, in the middle of the nazi occupation. It was a bold move. Some may even say stupid. But it was necessary. Besides, they were the basterds. Bolder still was something they'd come to see in a few moments. It was you. You, in your long, glamorous red evening gown, with a slit down your leg, and black gloves half way up your arm. And bolder still, the bright spotlight shining directly onto you with a loud click, just as the band began to play. The basterds had never seen you before...but the light that flowed onto the crowd immediately around you was quite revealing. They'd seen every single one of those spectators before. They were all high ranking, high profile, high-on-their-kill-list nazis. All of them were targets the basterds had been pursuing from the moment they landed in France a year before. And there they were, all in one place. Donny instinctively reached for a pistol hidden in his coat, but Hugo signaled him off, shaking his head slightly. If Donny did what all the basterds wanted to do, none of them would make it out alive. Aldo looked around at the basterds, with stark eyes indicating one word they often did not listen to: "Wait." Since it was an order, they had to do just that, while clenching their fists and jaws seeing their prime targets slip through their fingers. In order to fit in, they ordered a round of drinks, and lit up some cigarettes. They had no choice but to listen...and watch... your performance. "When they had the earthquake in San Francisco, back in 19-6..." You were singing put the Blame on Mame. It wasn't quite what they expected to hear, but, they weren't exactly complaining. And yet...

Aldo leaned into the table, and muttered low enough so no outsiders could hear, "Look for anyone that might be Y/n L/n. Got it?" Aldo rolled his eyes, seeing Hirschberg's eyes were glued to the stage. "Got it, Hirschberg?" "Uh huh..." Aldo muttered, "Damn it, Hirschberg," and glanced at the stage... He wasn't disappointed. The light from the chandeliers reflected off your eyes, beaming flares of danger and daring as you sang and swayed with the band, walking out toward the crowd, "Put the blame on Mame, boys..." The basterds scanned the room, looking for anyone that looked like a Y/N L/N. "Mame did a dance called the hoochy coo-" Hirschberg's elbow rested on the table, and his chin dug into the palm of his hand as he sighed, "Hm...she really did." Smitty rolled his eyes, nudging Hirschberg out of his day dream. "Look for L/N." "I'm lookin'..." "Not at the right-" With that, the song ended, and the announcer spoke in French while the crowd called out for an encore. The one thing all the basterds were able to pick out, even though they didn't speak French, was two words: Y/N L/N. Donny laughed in disbelief, "No fucken' way..." "This is crazy..." Omar shook his head,, watching as you blew kisses out to the crowd with a wide smile. "She's crazy..." Wicki muttered, lighting a cigarette that rested between his lips.

Aldo shrugged, "Well shit..." He chuckled, and sighed, "Well best damn place to hide is right out in the open, some times." Hirschberg elbowed Smitty, remarking "Told ya I was lookin' the right fucken way." They sat through the encore, and the encore to the encore, and the roaring applause. They watched as you spent the night moving from enemy to enemy, spilling their drunken and careless secrets right into your ears. Eventually, the club was empty except for one of the bar tenders set to lock up, you, and a few disguised soldiers. "Des amis à vous?" He chuckled lightly as he wiped down a glass. "Friends of yours?" "J'espère" you sighed, as you took a drink for yourself, "Hopefully." The bartender, Marius, leaned over the counter and presented you with your purse. "Merci," you chuckled as you pulled out a folder. You made your way to the table in the back of the club where ten young men were sitting. You stopped at the edge of the table. Though the lights were fully on, there was still a sharp streak of intrigue and hazard cutting through your smile. You were one dangerous woman, any basterd could see that. You looked them over, barely half a moment studying each of their faces. You slid the folder onto the table, and it met the hands of the man at the very end of the table: Aldo Raine. A round of whiskey and packs of smokes were brought to the table as he briefly filed through the thick stack of bloodstained information. It was exactly what he was looking for...which was suspicious. Aldo sniffed some tobacco before looking up at you, "So uh, where does a pretty lil' parisian singer like you get information like this?" You spoke suddenly, in what could without a doubt be identified as a Brummie accent, "Get yourselves some friends, mate." Hirschberg smiled blankly with dreamy eyes as he nodded "So you're British..." Your accent changed suddenly, sounding like an equally dreamy California girl as you shrugged, "Depends who's asking." Aldo had his fair share of run ins with spies and double agents. He laughed, "Aw you tommy's don't know wh-" You suddenly mimicked his accent, "Tommy, huh? Ain't that nice." He was startled, but then smirked a little "Well I'll be damned..." You shrugged, now in your natural tone and accent, "Sometimes, darlings, the best informants are only great pretenders." Hirschberg could hardly contain his excitement, asking with a wide grin, "Who are you?" Smitty rolled his eyes, though he had to admit, "You do look familiar." "Oh," You shrugged, "I've been here and there." "Where?" Even Wicki was a little curious.

Seeing as you'd all be there for quite some time, a pot of coffee was brought over by Marius.

Hugo finally spoke up, "You make friends with the nazis?" "I make them think I do." You shrugged, taking a sip of coffee, with a sly grin. "Rub elbows with the higher-ups, get them piss-drunk. A few drinks loosens anyone up...And loose lips sink ships," you winked as you stirred your coffee. Something about the way you smirked told them you were one hell of a spy. You could tell your enemies the loveliest lies of all, and they'd believe you. You were dangerous... But to the basterds, you were now an ally and an advantage. Donny raised his eyebrow, remembering their briefing before finding you. It wasn't just a folder with names and rumors. You had indispensible, indisposable insight. This folder was only the tip of the iceberg. You had names, you knew faces, voices, wives, families, addresses, plans and plots, back alleys, back ups, and back stabbers, spies, and double-agents. You knew the worst of the worst, and they knew you. Just what the basterds needed. Not only that, but you were supposed to house the basterds in your apartment in the dead center of Paris while you helped them piece everything together and create a plan of attack. Donny asked, "They know where to find you?" "No one gets in without an invite. Every one of those damn animals stationed in France knows that," you smirked, "But, for the next few weeks, only you boys have an invite. No one gets in or out." The doorman, after all, was a friend of the resistance. He packed a gun. A knife. Not only that, he literally owed you his life. Marius vouched for that as you walked toward the stage. You'd left your keys backstage.

"So how do we know you won't double cross us?" Wicki wanted to trust someone, he really did... But that got harder to do as the war went on. You stopped by the stage, looking back at him, you lifted your leg onto the stage, your heel producing a powerful, echoing thud. The slit of your dress shifted, revealing a knife strapped to your thigh. "This knife belonged to-" you trailed off, knowing you'd never see his face again. You'd used that very knife to exact revenge on the nazi that took him from you. "Someone I used to know. Using it won't bring him back...but it does make the world a little brighter." Hirschberg sighed, resting his face on his palms, murmuring "Marry me..." You giggled, disappearing behind the stage's velvet curtains. You soon reappeared with the keys, then quietly led the basterds through Paris. Louis, the doorman, kind as ever, let you all in through a hidden back door. He familiarized himself with the basterds, taking note of their faces. They were the only ones to be allowed in to see you for the next few weeks. As the basterds followed you to the elevators, and you made sure no one saw them walking into your apartment. You quickly unlocked the door, and drew the curtains before turning on the lights, then welcomed them all in. For the next couple of weeks, this would be their headquarters. You showed them around. It was a big place. You had a few guest rooms, showers, and had stocked up the kitchen. The flat itself was about as luxurious as the club. "Nice place ya got here, kid." Donny smirked as he sat on the couch, which was the first couch he had sat on in well over a year. Aldo nodded, looking around, noting the thick walls and quiet area. "This'll do..." Wicki wasn't so sure. He stood behind you as you cleared things off the large dining room table, and began to set down files, maps, and photographs that they'd need for the mission. "The nazis know where you live, don't they? What if-" You shook your head. "I wouldn't bring you somewhere it was dangerous. Believe me, corporal. I want this war to end, too." You sighed, "Besides....it'd be rather ungentlemanly to just barge into a lady's home, knowing she lives alone. As a matter of fact, it's scandalous." "How can you be so sure?" You shrugged, as you organized some of the papers, "Would you rather these meeting be held somewhere more public?" Omar smirked, "She's got ya there, Wicki." You sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was just past 2:30 in the morning. You welcomed them to make themselves at home. They slept in a warm, quiet place for once. Though it was safer than what they were used to, there was still a lingering fear that any moment, the sound of marching boots would echo in the hallway leading to your front door. They were soldiers, far behind enemy lines. There was always a chance of something going wrong. You weren't a soldier, but you were in no less danger. It was Wednesday now. You spent the first few days going through files, showing them what information and photographs you had about their targets before even starting to come up with a plan of attack. It was now nearing midnight, and you noticed Aldo was tense, snapping a bit at his men. He wasn't uneasy because of the information you were giving them, in fact, the things you gave them gave him the most peace of mind he'd had since he left Tennessee. You slipped away for a moment, and found Utivich in the kitchen, eating a pastry you'd left out for them. You noticed he had a bit of a sweet tooth, and made a point of saving a few extra treats for him (because Donny tended to eat way more than his fair share). "So your lieutenant's a little-" "On edge?" Smitty chuckled a little with a sigh, "Aren't we all, miss?" "Y/n." You smiled kindly as you sat by him, handing him another pastry. He smiled with bright, grateful eyes, "Thanks, Y/n." You nodded once, and after a moment you asked, "He a smoker?" You hadn't seen Aldo light up a cigarette, and wondered if he'd gone through his ration...and subsequently gone through a bit of a withdrawal Smitty shook his head, "Snorter, though. Man loves his snuff." "Ah," you nodded, understanding as you made your way to a cabinet. You pulled out five tins of snuff, or so, and Smitty watched in awe. "I told you, make friends to survive this," you winked as you walked back out to the main room. The rest of the basterds were calling it a day, and finding a place around the radio to sit. Aldo was standing by the window, looking across the street. There was an operahouse and a theater there, which was going to play a part in the big plan. "No one's going to talk. You're not the first man anyone's seen on this balcony," You chuckled as you pulled him out to the balcony for a breath of fresh air. He looked up at the stars. The big black canvas with an infinite splatter of stars, reminding him of the southern night sky. He smiled softly. You slipped the tins into his hands, and he turned to you "What's this for?" You shrugged, "A little birdy..." You glanced out at the sky, and the Parisian skyline. Sure it was bright...but this night didn't hold a candle to what you knew before the war. You smiled softly, nostalgia clouding your eyes. It was a familiar feeling, and you saw it in Aldo's eyes, picturing a sky an ocean away. You left him there, knowing soldiers like Aldo had a lot to think about, and a world on their shoulders. So you sat with the others by the radio for a while, looking at them once in a while, wondering where they'd be a year from then. Maybe they'd be home by then... At least, you hoped they would be.

Later that night, you woke to the sound of footsteps. Your eyes shot open, fearing the worst, as you reached for your knife. You snuck to your doorway, ready for anything... Except for what you saw. Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz pacing around, murmuring things to himself every so often. "Hugo." Your voice was soft...and that's what startled him most. You motioned for him to come in. He hestitated for a moment. He spoke lowly, "Sie könnten die falsche Idee bekommen ..." 'They might get the wrong idea...' How he knew you could speak German, you didn't know. He lingered outside of your bedroom, and you giggled, rolling your eyes as you pulled him in, "Schlimmeres kann über Menschen wie uns gesagt werden." 'Worse things can be said about people like us." He smiled briefly, though it was dark, you couldn't see it. You flipped a dim lamp on, and shuffled through a hidden drawer, till you pulled out a key. You smiled, hoping he'd be a bit patient with your system. You opened a jewelry box...though there was no jewelry in it. Just cartridges and bullets for guns Hugo hadn't seen around. He was a little impressed, though he'd only admit it to you years later on a visit. You pulled out another key, then pulled out a box, and unlocked it. Hugo wasn't a nosy person. But...seeing the lengths at which you'd gone in such a short time during the war, he was a little curious at just how much information you had hidden away for the allies. In that box, no more than two feet across, he saw carefully folded notes, clipped to photographs, sketches, seeming to never end. In the blink of an eye, you snapped the box shut, and handed Hugo a folded, handwritten note and a photograph. His eyes narrowed, and his knuckles went white as his eyes locked onto the photograph. "So I was right..." You sighed as you sat on the bed, "You know him." Hugo looked up at you, and nodded slightly. You handed over the other scrap of paper. It contained an address, a phone number, and a few other details Hugo may have deemed useful. The nazi in the photograph was the one responsible for torturing Hugo when he was detained. That same nazi happened to be transferred to Paris just after Hugo's escape... and he happened to make his way into the club...regularly, every Friday and Saturday night. He often bragged about being the one to capture and torture the great Hugo Stiglitz, to your face... He slowly smiled again... He was going to sneak out, without a doubt. You saw him to the door, and winked, "Habe Spaß," 'Have fun.' It was now Friday afternoon, and you had to go to the club to perform for the evening.

The basterds were a little reluctant in letting you go. What if someone followed you? Or what if- You immediately shut down all worries and disguised suspicions. "It'd be far more suspicious if I didn't show up, since I've been there every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evening for the past four years, with no exceptions. That's how I've made it this far." Aldo nodded, then said, "Omar. Why don't you go with Y/n?" Omar nodded, "Yes, sir," while Hirschberg muttered "Are you fucking kidding me?!" After you slipped into a long black dress, satin gloves, and shimmering heels, Hirschberg lingered by the door. "How do you do it?" "Do what?" You asked passively, as you slipped a deep red shade of red lipstick over your lips. "Do this job. Talk to them nazi fucks, and not blow their brains out?" Your heels clicked over the wooden floor was you down the hall, "I wouldn't get very far if I did, now would I?" "Huh..." He shrugged chuckling, "Maybe not in those shoes." "Mm," You smiled, resting your gloved palm against his cheek, remarking quietly with a smirk "Don't wait up." His heart melted, he sighed deeply with parted lips, watching you walk out the door. Omar walked out with you, and followed you to the club. Not closely enough for there to be questions, but close enough to get a good seat...for..."safety measures." The truth was, you reminded Omar of his kid sister. He got a letter, just before leaving England for France with the newly formed team of basterds, a year earlier. She'd gotten married, and Omar never forgave himself for having to miss it. She was so much like you, it kind of hurt him. He didn't know much about you, and frankly, he didn't bother asking. It was a dangerous thing to do in these times. But it broke his heart, knowing you probably had a family waiting for you to come home, somewhere in the world, just like he did. Still, he tended to keep distant from you. For a moment, toward the end of your performance, there was a glimmer of a tear in the corner of his eye. For a moment, as you sang on that stage, you smiled just like his sister did, and it broke his heart. It was three AM by the time you were both back at your apartment, and he didn't say much. You didn't ask what was wrong. You knew soldiers, and you knew better. Besides, he seemed tired, and headed to bed right away. He didn't seem to notice the figure looming over the table with all the plans and information charted out. "Wilhelm?" You called out quietly, in case a few basterds had fallen asleep nearby. You set down your keys, and slipped off your heels with a breath of relief, and walked over to him, looking down at the plans, "What did we miss?" He shook his head, "Nothing..." He spoke sincerely, but you noted a twinge of worry in his voice. "You need some rest," you sat, resting the side of your face against your palm, and your elbow on the table. He shook his head again, "No matter how much we plan..." "You're basterds," you smiled a little, not understanding yet. "It'll work. It has to work." He spoke suddenly, which wasn't something he did often. "There used to be more of us," he sank into a chair beside you. "I see..." you looked at him, "Maybe I will never understand what it is to be a basterd. But...I understand what it feels to be scared of losing everything." He only raised an eyebrow, as he turned to look at you. You weren't just a singing spy in over her head. You had a story, as detailed, and mysterious as any of the basterds. In that moment, when he looked in your eyes, he felt as though he'd known you, at some time. And yet, you seemed distant. You smiled, "So the only thing we can do is raise the stakes." "What do you mean?" You shrugged, "I can make a few calls....figuratively." "To?" "A few Soviets. Andrei, Mikhail, Yura, Irina. They're all snipers. I can get some resistance fighters in, some rebels, some double-agents. I know people on the inside, that can get in with no suspicions. No questions asked." He smiled a little, beginning to feel a little relieved."You've already called them." He was half asking, half confirming. You smiled with a nod, "I was going to mention it in the morning." "Mention it?" He chuckled a little, "You really are the greatest agent I've never heard of." You laughed softly, "Goodnight, Wilhelm." "Goodnight," he smiled, as he found a place to sleep in one of the guest rooms. You were only halfway down the hall, when you heard an odd sound. You slowly pushed open one of the doors, and found Donny sharpening his knives He hadn't noticed you walk in. "Keep it up, and you'll whittle it down to nothing." He smirked, and you asked "What's troubling you Sergeant?" You shrugged a little, "Didn't think that was a possibility." "And I didn't think you'd be as good of an agent as you are." "Hm," you laughed as you sat across from him, "No one ever suspects pretty ones like you and me." He'd been called every name you could think of, but pretty...well, that was not a common one. He put the knife down and you saw how tense he looked about the upcoming mission. By dawn, the basterds would be leaving. "What do you drink?" "Whatever you have, kid." You came back shortly with some whiskey, and your glasses clinked. For once, Donny was silent. But, he was calm now. You finished your drink, and said good night. But, before you slipped out the door, he said your name. You lingered by the doorway and he said, "Thanks kid. For everything." You smiled softly, "My pleasure." as you shut the door.

Though you weren't going with them, you found yourself as equally sleepless. If something went wrong, you knew you'd never forgive yourself. You'd hardly have time anyway. If something went wrong, you'd definitely be found out and executed. It wasn't long before you heard birds chirping outside. The basterds scrambled to get their things ready, go over the plan one last time, and say their thanks and goodbye. They slipped out the door silently, separately, and slowly, as to not alert any neighbors. The very last basterd to leave was Smitty. He lingered by the door, and seemed worried. "What's wrong?" "What if they find out about you?" You smiled softly, "Oh, don't you worry about me." "If they find this," he gestured to all the files you had laid out, "If they know you helped us...they'll kill you... Or worse. I mean, what if-" "Well," you sighed, as you lit a cigarette with a peaceful sigh, "That's just the way it goes, sometimes." You'd come to that conclusion the night before. "But," he shook his head, almost as though refusing to say goodbye. "Oh..." You hugged him "Don't you worry about me, love." You smirked a little, "I have friends that'll take care of me." "But...what...how can you be so sure? How can you be so calm?!" "Like I said before," you shrugged, "If you want to survive this war, make yourself some friends." He nodded, with a half-hearted smile as he left. Before you closed the door, he turned back and asked softly "Are we...friends?" "You know where to find me," you smiled, letting him know you were the kind of friend that would get them through the war. As a matter of fact, they'd meet other contacts, rebels, and informants over the next few years. And every once in a while...just when they least expected it, that new 'friend' would tell them you said hello. Far from the skyline of Paris, and any luxurious club, wandering the bloodstained wilderness, Aldo would always respond the same, but genuine way. He'd smile, and hold one of tin boxes of snuff you'd given him, and chuckle, "Well I'll be damned..." It wasn't until the war ended that you got to say hello yourself. It was a Saturday night. Paris was free. And it was your last night performing in that club. It was time you went home you thought... You looked out at the crowd, studying the faces of French, and other allied soldiers. You saw friends of yours, finally allowed to be at ease. You saw a face you hadn't seen since before the war. He'd written a review of a movie of yours, an undiscovered gem, he called it. His name was Archie Hicox. Lieutenant, now. And, you were thrilled to see a few more familiar faces by him. Bridget von Hammersmarck, of all people. And, of course, the basterds. You addressed the crowd, spoke in French, but didn't say goodbye. This was not a time to say goodbyes. All you said was that this next song was one near and dear to your heart. You sang Put the Blame on Mame, just as you had the night you met the basterds. You couldn’t stop smiling as you sang that old familiar song. That night, it felt as though you’d never sang it before. You felt free, you felt more alive than you had before. And seeing those basterds again did it. They couldn’t believe a spy with so much to lose like you could make it this far...but then again, basterds like them had made it to the end. In a way, they owed it to you. At the end of your performance, the loudest cheers and claps and demands for an encore came from a table of basterds. What are friends for, after all?

#Inglourious Basterds #aldo raine #aldo the apache #Donny Donowitz #the bear jew #smithson utivich #Omar Ulmer #gerold hirschberg #Hirschberg #hugo stiglitz #Wilhelm Wicki

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saitamaandmanakoblog · 3 years

Text

Manako’s PTSD: The Hero Training Test: 1/2

Remember all the fan-made fiction of Saitama and Manako is not in order so good luck with that.

“Hey Saitama do you want to come to Hero Training with me?”

“Nay I’m good, if they give you any trouble call me ok.”

“Ok, bye Saitama, I love you~”

“Love you too Manako.”

Manako hugged Saitama before she went out

Time Skip

Slowly, the Metting Room started to trickle in, and a few attempted to make small talk with the other heroes. She sighed when she realized that the minister is was going to be late.

“Hey, Manako!” Child Emperor grinned. “You’re the one my friend talked about, right? ZombieMan is his username!!”

“Yeah.” Manako smiled softly. “My Username name is FlashLight.” She explained. “He told me to keep a lookout for you. Sorry it took so long. I’m kind of socially awkward.”

“That’s fine, ZombieMan is, too.” Child Emperor grinned. “Is it ok if I ask you some questions, Manako?”

“So, Manako!” The Green hair girl, leaned towards her, cutting off whatever Child Emperor was going to ask. “I have to ask. What’s your Powers?!”

“My… Powers?” Manako blinked. Didn’t they…? Oh. She didn’t tell them. She opened her mouth to affirm that her powers is a literal flashlight when Sweet Mask decided to be an ass and do it for her.

“BL?! Ha! That little Monster’s power is literally a flashlight. She’s basically useless. I have no idea how the fuck she managed to get into A Class.”

“Flashlight?” Child Emperor echoed, confused.

“Gee, thanks a lot.” Manako threw SweetMask a tired glare, startling the blond. “But yeah, I’m basically a Flashlight. I still managed to become a hero same as the rest of you. So doubt me if you want, but just know that underestimating me will not end well for you.” There was a glint in her eye that made the heroes falter.

“I think it’s so cool! A Monster and you still got in?!, you’re incredible!” Child Emperor grinned, taking Manako aback.

“Um… what?” She blinked. She’d been so ready for the teasing and discrimination, already having built the wall around herself in preparation… but… what?

“Yeah!” Dark Shine grinned. Watchdog gave her a thumbs up.

“I think you’re very brave and definitely someone I wouldn’t underestimate on the battlefield. If you could take down those monsters while saving civilians , then you must be a force to be reckoned with.” Metal Bat.

“Though I gotta ask, how did you beat them?!” Child Emperor was literally bouncing in his seat.

Before anyone could say anything else, The Minister strode in, making Manako stiffen. Oh Phew it’s just the Tester guy or TG for short.

( I have no idea what’s the staff’s name is so the random mister guy is going to be the Hero Tester.)

After the TG explain the rules Manako smirked. This was going to be fun.

Flash Forward

Okay, scratch that. This was going to suck. Test Guy had put her up against SweetMask of all people. Manako didn’t know how, but she had a feeling that it was either on purpose, or a ‘unlucky accident’. Either way, her TG looked happy with the matchup. She supposed that Tester Guy simply thought that the two were friends since they went to same zones to help a bunch of random civilians at at that time, but…

Manako was not an idiot. She knew he had weak points and faults just like everyone else. He was just better at hiding them. Can’t look at something ugly—specifically that monster who easily beat up Sweet Mask and the roof started collapsing—and the important sparkles that came out of him? But there is one problem SweetMask has a strong hate towards monsters thereafter was something that could easily pull her into a flashback. (She hated sudden loud noises, but explosions were the worst. She blamed childhood trauma.) She knew this, which is why he tried his best to stay away from SweetMask whenever possible.

That’s why she always stay close to Saitama, she always feels safe around her BFF and Geno since most of the time she just hang in Saitama’s Pouch.

“TG?” Manako asked quietly, making sure none of her heroes would overhear. “I was wondering if I could switch opponents. I know that normally this isn’t allowed, but I have… bad reactions to certain noises, and was going to talk to Mike about working around it at the end of this week.” Manako was trying to be mature about this. She really was.

(Mike is a made up Monster Character in this universe.)

After all, she knew, logically, that this fear of hers is extremely dangerous in the field of heroism. However, that’s what Mike, the counselor, was for. He’d help Manako work through them—even if she didn’t want to talk about anything to the Ant Monster—and then Manako would be cleared to do hero work in those situations.

She was waiting until the end of the week because she knew it could pose the risk of her safety when she go out with one of Saitama’s Hero Work Trip Days, which she does not want Saitama to worry.

TG just smiled down at her. “I understand, Manako, but you cannot always choose what powers your enemies have. Even if it makes you uncomfortable, I ask that you still bear with the exercise. If things start getting out of hand, I’ll stop it.”

He isn’t taking me seriously. Manako sighed. “If that’s your final decision that’s fine by me.” I am in huge trouble!

Okay, so maybe Manako was being a little harsh. But she felt somewhat unfair and considering that the Monster Association. Tried to kill her twice. And yeah, she understood why he’d pared her with SweetMask, and even mostly understand why he thought it’s a good idea, but Monako was still bitter about the whole thing. And considering all that she’d been through, she felt that the minister chose the wrong person to do the test.

When the match started, Manako took a deep steadying breath. “Child Emperor.” The boy looked at her. “SweetMask will come after me. I’ll distract him to keep him in bay. Take this,” she passed him a small canister, “It’s a smokescreen.” He said. “Try to use it on Flashy Flash speed against him.”

“Right!” Child Emperor grinned, taking it from Manako with a smile.

“GO!”

Like a flash, Manako and Child Emperor bolted into the city’s building. As expected, SweetMask met them on the second floor, heading them off.

Manako motioned for Child Emperor to hide as he drew SweetMask attention. “Why do you hate monsters so much SweetMask?, What have I ever done to you?”

“Shut the hell up you Monsters! Why are you in the Hero Association? Are you here to spy on everyone?!”

“That’s what’s got you so mad?” Manako sighed, as she saw Child Emperor sneak up the stairs from the corner of his eye. “SweetMask. This is obviously a huge miss understanding can’t we just talk this out and be friends?.” She watched as the blond flinched.

“Like I’d ever be friends with a Monster reject like you!” He snarled, lunging forward with his all-too-familiar sharp hands.

Manako easily dodged, catching his arm pin it into the wall. It would’ve ended there if SweetMask hadn’t used his other hand to slice her up, but his free legs break through the floor and sending the two crashing to the room below.

SweetMask immediately jumped away and reared around to the offensive.

“So you’ve got some moves. So what!” SweetMask snarled. “You’re still a Monster ! You’ll gonna get killed anyways!”

“SweetMask.” Manako flinched when she hears a huge explosion went off a room above. The smell of the dust that the explosion kicked up and the sound of the ceiling crumbling at the edges of the hole that SweetMask made, but Manako nasty memories rather came right away.

Flash Back

“It’ll be alright, kid.” Aden smiled as she patted Manako’s head. “You’ll make it out of this.”

“B-but i don’t want you to die.” She protested through thick tears. “You can come with me. Saitama is a good friend he can help us.” She flinched at the sound of angry mobs of monsters.

“You know I can’t. Tell Saitama and the others I’m sorry—and stay safe, kiddo. Keep smiling.” She gave Manako a grin before standing up from their hiding place, leaving Manako essentially buried in a safe-hole Aden had dug just for her and the others so they have a chance to escape through the secret tunnels. “See ya in the next life.”

“Goodbye.” Manako smiled as best she could. “Auntie Aden.”

Manako shook his head sharply, barely dodging a blow from SweetMask. He hadn’t had to think about Aden’s death in a long time. The Ant Monsters had run out to draw the Mobs away from Manako’s hiding spot. All she’d managed to find of the ant after was few bloodstained pieces of clothing and some bone,And her minding helmet, That was it.

End of Flashback

“I know you won’t understand this, but there are bigger things for me to worry about than your point of view!.” Manako charged at him, ducking under a angry swings and dodging fierce blows.

Oh sh*t that was close!

The noises and explosion were starting to overwhelm her, and the smell of blood and nitroglycerin filled his nostrils, mixing with the scent of ash and smoke. She found that it made it harder to remember on what she was supposed to do. SweetMask kept using his hands-like glimpses of knifes and swords of the corner of his eyes.

Sometimes, when SweetMask tried to slice her with his hand, she overlapped with the image of the Miners evil boss. His red eyes glinted in malice and amusing glee, and Manako wasn’t sure if that was the hallucination or not.

Don’t kill him. The thought ran through her mind. She had to remember. This was SweetMask , not the Monster Association… not the evil boss… this is SweetMask . She pulled back, restraining herself, fighting against years of instinct screaming at her to do otherwise. She fought at only a small percentage of her power. She couldn’t go all-out. Not against her death coworkers. Not against, a fellow friend . A human child.

The two finally jumped apart to catch their breath as Manako held up his hand (a hand that looked bloody pale and was horribly dry from overuse of the slice hand technique), one finger hooked in the pin on the rope. Yellow eyes glined in bloodlust as they thirsted for his death. “You know what structure of this building is, right? Well, Monster, what’dya think these are for?”

Manako’s eyes widened in startled realization as her vision focused on the present for that moment. “The force of the channels down through the walls to the floor.…”

“STOP! YOUR GONNA KILL HER!” TG’s voice rung out in worry, and Manako heard the familiar voice of Mike in the background. Mikey? What’s he doing here?

“Only if she doesn’t jump!” SweetMask grinned as he pulled the rope pin.

If Manako hadn’t spent a decade time surviveing Saitama training or fighting a unbelievably fast and ludicrously strong Monsters, she’d would’ve actually died.

But luckily for Manako, her reflexes were insane, and she managed to dodge most of the buildings rubbles. But one caught her left leg, burning and piercing the skin. The smell of burned flesh reached her nostrils, mixing with the dust kicked up from Manako’s trap. The scent mixed with blood became unnervingly similar to the scent of a decayed corpse from the Monsters Association, and suddenly Manako was completely gone—she didn’t know where she was.

She was half-sure her mind was playing tricks on herself, but she heard some mobs nearby. She glanced around herself quickly, and slipped into stealth mode, hiding in the best spot she could find. She’d wait out the Anger Monsters—Mike and the others was smart enough to do the same. And if her friends was in trouble, Manako would plan it out. She’d go to help them if that were the case. She made a promise to the gang to keep each other safe, after all. Mike wouldn’t die. She’d make sure of it.

But she also promised Aden that she’d look after herself. So she needed to survive. “You’re doing great, Manako.” Aden’s hand ruffled her head. “You’re doing just fine. Keep your elbow bent a little more, yeah! Like that!”

She violently flung the thought out of her mind—this was no time to think of people long dead.

They will survive. No matter what.

May the Meeting Room

Silver Fang was tired. Not that that was necessarily anything new, per say, but he was apprehensive about Saitama’s friend first Heroics Test. Never once his gut feelings lie, he decided to observe TG’s lesson. It was the man’s first time testing heroes, after all, so he’d likely need a hand reigning in 19 superpowered Heroes.

He entered the observation room with TG and the remaining 15 Heroes as Blast, Atomic Samurai, King, Metal Night ready themselves for their battle. ZombieMan , personally, was against the idea of SweetMask and Manako facing one another (or a battle exercise right off the bat, but he trusted that TG had enough common sense to stop heroes for over doing it).

Something about the way SweetMask had lunged at Saitama’s Sidekick during the test before had rubbed him the wrong way. Though Manako hadn’t seemed phased by the unprompted lunge, ZombieMan could see the way she tensed around SweetMask and the surrounding. He suspected this was a case of trauma or something similar, but with no evidence there was nothing ZombieMan could do about it except do his best to prevent any further altercations.

Warily, he kept his eye on the match before him. He just had a feeling.

“Turn on the audio.” Silver Fang spoke up, startling the TG. He internally smirked—he loved scaring people when he’s on stealth mode.

“Silver Fang. I wasn’t aware that you were observing the Test today?”

“I wanted to make sure you had an extra set of eyes on these 2. They’re a handful.” He explained, and TG nodded.

“Um… how do I turn on the audio?”

ZombieMan sighed before leaning over and pressing the obvious white button with the headphone icon. Honestly, the staff should’ve made him get a teaching degree or at least. teach him in private so he will know what to do.

They listened as Manako handed what she explained was a smoke screen bomb to Child Emperor. Clever idea, but let’s see well her plan works.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t long until Manako met with SweetMask , and the results were as hated as ZombieMan had feared.

“Why do you hate monsters so much SweetMask?, What have I ever done to you?” Manako worriedly asked, causing SweetMask bristle in anger.

“Shut the hell up you Monsters! Why are you in the Hero Association? Are you here to spy on everyone?!”

“That’s what’s got you so mad?”. “SweetMask. This is obviously a huge miss understanding can’t we just talk this out and be friends?.” Obviously there’s a lot of context I’m missing, here.

“Like I’d ever be friends with a Monster reject like you!” ZombieMan’s attention immediately became entirely focused on the fight. He had suspected that SweetMask’s record wasn’t as clean as it initially appeared, but 1SRanks has a lot of advantage to hide from the public eye, also noob crushers was very serious—especially for a Monster hero like Manako and Saitama.

ZombieMan also found himself appreciating the smooth form that Manako had, and his obvious expertise with analyzing. She wielded them with experience beyond his years, and ZombieMan wondered where shee’d learned to fight.

Compared to Manako, SweetMask looked like a raging fashion model with graceful and stylish appearance or manner elegance.—powerful, with strong instincts, but a lot of wasted energy and movement. Manako’s movement wasted none, and actually reminded ZombieMan he needs to improve his fighting style a little more on his Weapon.

He tensed when SweetMask cracked a hole in the floor, freeing himself from Maniko’s grasp.

“So you’ve got some moves. So what!” SweetMask snarled. “You’re still a Monster ! You’ll gonna get killed anyways!”

Zim eyes narrowed. This was a personal statement. He knew right there that both of these 2 heroes would need to talk (SweetMask for his anger and fame blindness, and for Manako is low self-esteem and trauma.)

“SweetMask .” Manako flinched as another crashing sound went off, and ZombieMan took a deep breath. He didn’t like the feeling he was getting.

And for a moment, Manako froze. No… ZombieMan’s eyes narrowed. That’s not right. This is something else… But between the shitty angle of the camera and the dust settling, ZombieMan couldn’t name what it was before the Monster snapped herself out of it.

“I know you won’t understand this, but there are bigger things for me to worry about than your point of view .”

Something’s not right. The dust settled and he could see a lot more clearly. Manako’s eyes… they were somewhat glassy and she didn’t look completely there. It was as if she didn’t completely recognize where she was beyond the fight. That worried ZombieMan. A lot.

And then something changed.

It was subtle, and the shift was one that ZombieMan only barely noticed, but Manako went from a sparring fighting style to a fighting for your life style. He caught Manako altering several moves at the last minute that would’ve been lethal (for SweetMask) if he hadn’t changed course. That was when he’d decided that enough was enough. He moved to stop the match before someone got killed, when SweetMask spoke up.

“You know what structure of this building is, right? Well, Monster, what’dya think these are for?”

“The force of the channels down through the walls to the floor.…”

“STOP! YOUR GONNA KILL HER!” TG

shouted over the intercom.

“SweetMask , if you pull that ro—” ZombieMan started, but SweetMask didn’t hear him.

“Only if she doesn’t jump!” ZombieMan felt anger well up alongside his fear as the pin was pulled and a massive crash and explosion took out the building crumbling down.

“Holly Sh*t?! Is everyone okay?!” TG asked, but ZombieMan hit a button on the panel instead while Sliver Fang worried.

“Stop the exercise! Anyone continuing to fight will be expelled.” Silver Fang promised as TG sent him an affronted look.

“I’m going to go check on Manako and The rest. Call the hospital, there’s sure to be injuries.” TG nodded meekly and went to do as told. “Hero Training has been canceled” glared at the remaining heroes , who nodded and planted their feet where they stood or sat. half of them is terrified and the other half is worried if that was of ZombieMan , then good, he’d done something right. Silver Fang though

His heart pounded in worry. SweetMask was leaning casually against a wall, acting like nothing was wrong. While Child Emperor was sitting down on the floor and Flashy Flash was looking at the crumpled building “You are going to wait for me in the minsters office. We will have a nice long discussion on why that was not okay. And the boss wants to talk to you so don’t attempt to go elsewhere, and you’ll find yourself in huge trouble.” ZombieMan glared, and SweetMask straightened in shock and nodded.

Silver Fang stayed with the 3 heroes while ZombieMan looked for Manako

Fubuki and King came down the stairs, worry evident on their faces. “So are they ok?” Fubuki asked.

“Just go back to the other heroes since this test is called while I locate Manako also can you call Saitama.” He ordered, and King and Fubuki did what he had said.

ZombieMan was good at finding people with his analyzing skills—he had to be to find the crooks and crannies lurking in back alleyways at important missions. But it was harder to find Manako for the life of him, finding Manako is really tricky. And that scared him. It wasn’t until he finally caught sight of a few drops of blood on the floor (likely from cutting herself on rubble) that his eyes focused on a deathly still figure hiding in the rubble.

Wide one eyes stared around his environment, as if tracking unseen enemies. She flinched—twitched, more like—at unheard sounds, and her breathing was almost nonexistent.

ZombieMan realized that Manako was stuck in some kind of flashback. “Bright Light.” No reaction.

“Manako.” He tried again, noticing that his friend twitched a little at the sound of her given name.

“Mikey?” ZombieMan blinked. Who the heck is Mikey? He decided not to question it right now. “Yeah, kid. It’s me.” He carefully made his way over to him. “Can you tell me where you are right now?”

“Cave Mineing. I can hear them nearby… Making a break for it would be too dangerous, though. But as long we stick to the plan we can make it out alive. Did you get hurt?” Manako’s voice was scarcely a whisper, and ZombieMan couldn’t help but feel a little heartbroken to see the hardened and fearful look on her face. Just what had happened to Manako in the past? She looked like a soldier in a warzone.

“I’m okay. Listen to me. You’re at Hero Association You’re safe, it’s okay. Nobody is going to hurt you.” He kept his voice calm and soft, and the monsters blinked a few times in confusion. “There’s no one here but our gang?,But… I can hear them?”

“Hear who?”

“The anger mobs of monsters.” There was a pause. So Manako has enemies who are not only human but also monsters? “Mikey? Are the gang okay? Foapy, MooMoo… And Vend?” Are those Manako’s old friends?

“Yeah. Everyone’s okay, Manako.” He rolled with it, calling him Mikey. The monsters relaxed substantially, so ZombieMan assumed it was the right call. “Saitama is here to pick you up.”

“Saitama? But he’s…” her eye furrowed before her eyes cleared up quickly.

ZombieMan carefully placed a hand on Bright Light’s shoulder, and he found Manako’s hand grasping his arm like a lifeline. “Where am I?” She asked desperately.

“It’s Wednesday.. You just started your first Hero Test of Hero Association .” He answered quietly, and she froze for a moment before she melted into his arms.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…” ZombieMan ignored the tears that were soaking into his coat as he held Saitama’s Sidekick . He reached up to his radio. “Silver Fang, I’ve found her. She’s hurt, but nothing life-threatening. I’m taking her to the Saitama myself.”

He then turned his attention back to the obviously traumatized monsters. “It’s all right, Bright Light. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I… I must’ve hurt my coworkers and my teammate I… I’m so sorry…”

#opm #one punch man #saitama #manako #Saitama&manako

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clocktowncourage · 3 years

Text

@dcviated

Lifetimes after a young soldier named Atro disappeared in a mysterious mansion, a horse carriage pulls up to its front door. Its three passengers are tired. They must have come a long way, if the fresh layer of road dirt on the carriage and the sweat soaking under the horses’ tack is any evidence. But arriving at their destination seems to breathe new life into them, and they exit the carriage with an energy that wasn’t there before.

Kafei looks over his shoulder at Avver, the Clock Town soldier who’s on his way to tie up the horses. Avver nods back at Kafei. Kafei’s father, Mayor Dotour, is used to people doing things for him and walks on ahead, smiling slightly at the perfect weather. Kafei turns back and catches up to his father, who is ambling on with a combination of purpose and aimlessness that reminds him of an oversized bee.

He noticed that Dotour is treating Avver like scenery, and it doesn’t sit right; Kafei isn’t from his parents’ generation, and he certainly isn’t a politician. He doubts his father will ever change, there will surely always be tension between them. But somehow, this trip has been unusually pleasant. They talked about books and history, which had become a welcome topic of conversation for a trip focused on initial efforts to rescue a lost library. Kafei was surprised by how much Dotour knew about history, an interest he usually accepts as too niche to talk to most people about. And Dotour seemed surprised by just how much Kafei knew. Sometimes Dotour doesn’t like to learn that people know more than him about things. But that was okay too, somehow. Things have been going so unnaturally well that Kafei is almost waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“There it is,” Dotour says with satisfaction, crossing his arms and looking at the old mansion. “Let’s get your books.”

“Well, the town’s books,” Kafei laughs humbly. “It would be the opposite of helping your image for the election if people thought that I was taking the books.” He looks back over his shoulder at Avver again, for new reasons entirely.

But Dotour doesn’t answer him. Just bobs his head from side to side noncommittally. And suddenly, the other shoe is on the ground, and Kafei knows.

“You didn’t... you didn’t come here because of publicity that will help you win the election,” he says slowly, looking at his father. “People in Clock Town don’t care about books and they don’t care about history. This isn’t part of your campaign at all.”

Dotour makes a noncommittal noise and shakes his head from side to side again. Now he’s smiling. Kafei is not. Kafei was being caught in webs before he was trying to catch people in them. The feeling of suddenly finding that he’d been carefully steered into something of the old man’s design is familiar and humiliating, even if it’s well-intentioned this time around. There’s a memory of a child’s bafflement at trying to keep up with an adult, tangled up in the experience. Was his father smarter than him? Or just older?

“If you want to spend time with me, you can just spend time with me!” Kafei snaps, taking a step back and glaring. “Play the sad violin about Mom being too pushy to communicate with all you’d like, but I’m not her!”

“It is for the campaign,” Dotour says, suddenly serious. Kafei blinks. Dotour sighs, a warning tell that he’s going to cooperate but sees it as a special sacrifice he expects credit for. “I have been running a town that makes my son want to disappear,” he says quietly. “What would you think of that, in my place? You’re quite right that no one cares about history or restoring a library. But it will only be seen as respectable and mature if a mayoral candidate starts caring more about things like that. I want to make Clock Town a place where you want to live, Kafei.”

Kafei never could have predicted just how many people would really notice if he disappeared for a month without warning. For a moment, all he can do is stare at his father. He’s not sure how he feels about this. Then he thinks about it some more and decides he’s angry.

“No,” he says, finally. “You don’t get to do this to me. You can’t tie me up in a grand gesture that’s hidden behind twelve layers of secrecy and put the responsibility on me to magically guess what it represents and do all the work to make that heal our relationship. The minute things get hard when we have real conversations, you always tap out, you blame things on other people, usually me. And for the record, you treated me like I was invisible for a long time before I disappeared. Do you want this conversation? Do you really want this? Is this for my benefit at all, or just for you? If you apologize for literally anything, I’ll talk to you. Literally one thing.”

Dotour looks taken aback. “Well... well I don’t know what you mean by an apology,” he says carefully, not looking at Kafei. “I thought the day has been going pretty well so far...”

Kafei snorts like exactly, then storms into the old mansion by himself, leaving Dotour blinking in the sunlight. The worst part of this is, they have a trip of several hours ahead of them just to get back to town, and they’re probably going to spend it fighting. Or sullenly silent. Kafei runs the conversation over in his mind. Was he too harsh? Would Dotour spend half this much energy wondering about his impact on Kafei? The library, at least, is exactly what he hoped it would be. He almost forgets about the fight as he takes in just how many books are here.

Then he steps on an old bloodstain. And the one who’s been trying to be remembered crosses paths with the one who’s been trying to disappear.

_______________

When the horrible sensation stops, Kafei is lying on the floor of the mansion. There’s something on his face. He slowly reaches up to touch it. It’s cold and metallic, and he can’t get it off. Okay. He sits up slowly and inspects an awful swollen bite on his right arm. How? When? Why?? He doesn’t have to roll up his sleeve to see it, and his outfit doesn’t even have sleeves anymore, he’s wearing a loose tunic and sandals.

He’s just taken all of this in, and suddenly a group of soldiers with spears are running towards him, shouting Atro! Atro!! His days tangled up with the Curiosity Shop man’s little operation have left him with a strong impression that he’s got nothing to say to soldiers and policemen and the like. His thoughts immediately go to how guilty he might look, how he might talk his way out of the encounter. But this group treats him like a long lost friend. And then he realizes that they’re wearing the same outfit that he is. When that clicks, he smiles and acts like he recognizes them, mind racing, looking for clues about what in the world is going on. His ‘buddies’ help him stand and bring him back out of the mansion, supporting him between them no matter how much he insists that he's just fine (a lie).

The first major clue comes in the form of meeting Captain Keeta face to face. There’s no question it’s him. The other soldiers call him that, and he looks just like the illustrations Kafei has seen in books. Now his legs really do fail to support him, completely. What!! How is this possible?

The history books write Captain Keeta as quite the positive figure, like someone you’d want to be friends with. Face to face with the man, Kafei suddenly understands that a military commander from a country that actively wages wars is like, an ultimate kind of cop. Kafei feels guilty for lying to the soldiers and acting like Atro. He feels guilty for things he did back in his own timeline. He feels guilty for things he might do in the future. But Captain Keeta, it turns out, also cares quite a lot about looking out for his soldiers. He asks Kafei about the wound. He shows real sympathy for the injury.

But then he asks him why there’s a golden spider mask on his face. And then they try to get it off, and they can’t. And then Captain Keeta wants to know why they can’t get it off. And when Kafei doesn’t have a good answer, Captain Keeta arrests him.

Well, not really. But the Captain sure as hell knows that his soldier didn’t go into that spider-infested mansion with a mark of the enemy stuck to his face. The bite is suspicious too. He doesn’t say, You’re under arrest, but he does say that the mission will be delayed and that he needs to take Atro back to the capitol to be seen by a shaman. And until they can get a shaman to look at Atro’s situation, there will unfortunately be a possibility that Atro could be a danger to the other soldiers, so he’s placed under a sort of quarantine. ...Saying that Kafei got arrested sure does capture the gist while saving time.

The journey to the capitol is uncomfortable. Kafei is able to gain some sympathy and push away suspicion by maintaining that he has amnesia from his experience and can only remember his name. But Captain Keeta hasn’t been told any details that would explain amnesia from natural causes, so that simply makes him more suspicious about just how bad this curse might be. The two soldiers who come with them are friendly, but they mirror the Captain’s suspicions, which really drives a wedge. Kafei considers wryly that the universe heard that he didn’t want to ride back to Clock Town with his father just to fight or stew and gave him an alternative. No, yeah, this is worse. He also finds out that Atro is only eighteen, and he almost laughs out loud, at that. Is it just his fate, to keep getting cursed into some form of tater tot? He’s oddly calm...he’s grateful for it, but he has no illusion that it will last.

When they get to the capitol, there’s a huge celebration going on, and... could Kafei be blamed for slipping into the crowd at the first opportunity? That’s his go-to reaction to being arrested, at any rate. He genuinely feels guilty about stealing a keaton mask (Ikana had keaton masks!) from a partygoer who isn’t paying attention to their stuff. Unfortunately for the partygoer, having a big spider stuck to his face, and being seen in that state, and getting caught, is scarier to Kafei than the guilt. Artfully swiping some meat on a stick from a vendor only feels right, for completing the disguise of definitely belonging here. Then the music changes and everybody starts dancing in an area over there, and Kafei rushes over and slyly takes the hand of a silver-haired girl. He asks her how this one goes, bobbing to the music like he’s having a good time, like he’s a happy puppy who’s just met a new friend. He’d definitely forgive Anju for rushing to go dance with a boy if it was to distract people trying to arrest her again. Not that anybody would try to arrest Anju. Oh wow, he really pities the self who will have to deal with all of this shit that’s going on, once the shock wears off.

#dcviated #I write a lot..... we know this!!#pls feel free to write an equally long reply & really knock your socks off with that; alternately; no pressure to match length

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maaaaaatryoshka0325 · 4 years

Text

As Above, So Below - Kim Seungmin Paranormal Investigator AU Part 3

(<- Previous Part) (Next Part ->)

Warnings: blood, paranormal beings

“Y/N! Y/N get up!”

You groaned as you lifted your head, turning onto your side. You looked up and saw Haru’s head poking down the large gap in the ground. The fall was too far for you to climb back up, and the force of the impact had knocked you breathless.

“I’m gonna go get Seungmin and the boys!” She called, running off.

You winced as you began to sit up, your hand immediately going to your cheek as you noticed the feeling of blood dripping down your face. You had a cut across your temple, and your cheek felt quite numb. You slowly looked around, your eyes widening when you realized where you were.

Old, soaked wooden cabinets framed the 'walls' in what looked like an underground tunnel. You slowly brought yourself to your feet and looked around, seeing little bottles on the shelves. Along the 'walls' were symbols and words written in Latin, and it dawned on you.

This was, indeed, a ritual ground; and you found the exact spot where they were all held. You slowly walked through the tunnel, your feet splashing in deep puddles as you flashed your phones flashlight around. Old and new bloodstains painted the walls and the wet ground, making you shudder.

“6….”

You slowly turned, seeing a ragged woman standing across from you. Her head was hanging low, her skin pale with tints of blue here and there. Your body froze in horror as she slowly took a step towards you.

“6….”

Your breath was caught in your throat as her neck snapped and her eyes shot up to meet yours, a sinister smile on her face. Her teeth were rotten, filled with blood and dirt between the gaps.

“6.”

In a flash she was coming towards you, a shriek leaving her lips. You dropped down and fell into the water, choked gags leaving your lips as you let out a cry for help. You kept your eyes closed and struggled, when two arms grabbed you and pulled you into the stone ground.

“Y/N, are you okay?!” A familiar voice rung in your ears.

You slowly opened your eyes, noticing that Hyunjin had crouched down in front of you, his hands holding your arms.

“Oh my god- you’re bleeding!” He gasped.

Hyunjin felt how bad you were shaking, from being drenched in water and from fear. He quickly helped you up and strapped his vest around you, the same one he had on, as the others pulled you both up. When you were pulled from the earth, your legs gave out and you collapsed onto your knees as you gasped for air. You felt a pair of hands grab your face, and you looked up to see Seungmin’s worried face.

“Are you okay?” He asked, his warm hands feeling like heaven on your skin.

You shakily nodded, and he quickly pulled off his hoodie and wrapped it around you, then pulled you into his chest. You closed your eyes and sat there for a moment, his warmth filling your body, comforting you. His hands rubbed your arms, helping you warm up as Hyunjin began to speak.

“Below there- there’s where all the rituals were held before the resort was made. That’s where all of this is coming from.” Hyunjin said.

“Y/N? Did you see one of them down there?” Seungmin asked.

You nodded into his chest, his hand moving up to stroke your hair.

“S-She was the one who kept saying 6…. She’s the witch.” You said shakily.

“We’ll have to go down there and document it before we can send this out to the Vatican.” Haru said.

“We’ll go down soon.” Seungmin said.

You grabbed his shirt when he went to get up and shook your head.

“Let me go back down too.” You said.

“Y/N, you’re hurt and by the looks of it, she attacked you.” He argued.

“I can see when they’re there Seungmin, I don’t want you guys to get hurt too.” You argued back.

Seungmin sighed, then nodded as he looked at the darkening sky.

“It’ll be better to go during the day anyways. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” He suggested.

You nodded as he helped you up, using his body to support yours as he brought you back to the cabin. He sat you down on a chair in the kitchen and sat down beside you as he went to clean your wound.

“I should probably shower first, that water was filthy.” You laughed.

He nodded and made sure you made it to the bathroom okay. You took the quickest shower you could, not wanting to be alone. When you got back, Seungmin led you to the couch and cleaned the wound on your temple and pressed ice to your bruising cheek.

“You better hope that doesn’t swell, or you’ll look like a chipmunk.” He said with an amused chuckle.

“Maybe I like looking like a chipmunk.” You giggled.

His eyes met yours as he gave you a sweet smile.

“You’re very brave, Y/N.” He said.

You blushed and shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

“You don’t have to be so modest.” He chuckled, ruffling your hair.

“Yeah yeah yeah.” You giggled.

Hyunjin lit the fireplace and Felix made hot chocolate for everyone, the five of you sitting in the living room in silence.

“Maybe we should all sleep down here tonight, just in case.” Haru suggested.

Everyone nodded in agreement as you all went to grab pillows and blankets. As you grabbed your blanket, Haru appeared in your doorway.

“Thanks for earlier.” She said lowly before walking away.

You smiled and headed back down the stairs as you situated your pillows and blankets on the couch. You and Seungmin were apparently sharing the same couch, which you didn’t mind, but Haru seemed too. She didn’t say anything about it, but by the look she gave you as she threw her pillows and blankets on the opposite couch said it all. When you all settled in, it took exactly ten minutes for Felix to be passed out on Hyunjin, literally snoring on his chest as Hyunjin was laying on his back, his plump lips slightly parted as he slept. Haru fell asleep sometime later, but a throbbing headache made you stir and sit up.

“Can’t sleep?” Seungmin’s voice made you jump.

He chuckled as you slowly nodded your head and sighed.

“I have a killer migraine.” You sighed.

“Do you want something for it?” He asked.

You nodded as he stood up and headed into the kitchen, coming back with a glass of water and a few small pills.

“It’s for migraines.” He said.

You nodded and took the pills from his hands, throwing them back with a swig of water. He sat down beside you and you basked in his comforting presence, his aura keeping you completely calm.

“If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.” He said, his large eyes looking into yours.

“Thank you.” You whispered with a small smile.

“You too. I’ll help you guys in any way I can.”

“I know.” He said with a sweet smile. “What you did earlier, pushing Haru out of the way, was extremely brave. You impressed us all.”

You blushed and nodded as you slowly laid down, Seungmin doing the same. Your legs were slightly touching, the only thing separating your bodies was the thin blankets.

“Goodnight Seungmin.” You whispered.

“Goodnight Y/N.” He whispered back.

Hyunjin strapped the vest around your body, attaching the rope to it. The Oh’s and their son were going to stay above ground as you all investigated the underground ritual rooms. Their son slowly lowered you and Felix down together, Felix clutching the camera in his hand.

“I’m surprised you’re coming back down here after what happened yesterday.” He said, unhooking the rope from his vest.

“I think it’s best if I do, just in case something is going to happen, I can at least see it.” You said.

He gave you a sweet smile as Hyunjin and Haru were lowered next, unbuckling their vests as Seungmin came down last.

“Are you guys ready?” Seungmin asked.

“Shouldn’t you have asked us that while we were up there?” Hyunjin chuckled.

“A yes or no would have sufficed.” Seungmin said with a roll of his eyes.

Hyunjin and Felix got their cameras ready as you began to lead Seungmin through the rooms.

“Kim Seungmin here with Y/N, Haru, Hyunjin, and Felix. We came to a mountain resort that has a dark history of murders, the most recent being about a week ago. While looking around for clues, Y/N fell into what appears to be an underground ritual ground.” Seungmin began as Hyunjin and Felix moved the cameras around the small room, zooming in on the old bottles and the writings and markings on the wall.

You all slowly made your way through the tunnels and into small rooms, human remains, fresh and old blood staining the walls and the floor. Haru walked beside you, leaning in close to your ear.

“Do you see anything?” She asked.

“Only what you guys can see so far, I don’t know if she’ll show her face.” You answered.

“She who?” Felix asked, zooming up close to you.

“The witch. The one that attacked me yesterday.” You answered to the camera.

“Can you describe what she looks like?” Hyunjin asked.

“She was really pale, and she had spots of blue skin. Her teeth were rotted and stained with blood, and her hair… It was withered.” You explained quietly.

“What did you do to make her appear?” Felix asked.

Hyunjin was shooting at another angle, when your eyes landed on something behind Felix… More like someone.

Her rotting form was standing behind Felix, her eyes glaring right at him as she moved.

“Felix!” You screamed, as blood ran down his arm from her clawing it.

“Shit!” He yelled, the camera dropping down from his hands.

“Fuck!” Hyunjin gasped, setting his camera down and rushing to Felix, who was clutching his bleeding arm.

Seungmin pushed you and Haru behind him as his wide eyes met yours.

“Y/N, where is she?!” He yelled.

You frantically looked around, not seeing her anywhere. Hyunjin had taken his shirt off and wrapped it tightly around Felix’s wound. You saw her again, this time rushing towards Hyunjin.

“No!” You yelled, ripping the cross that hung around Seungmin’s neck off and rushing towards them. She stopped just as you ran in front of them, the cross burning into her chest. A shrill screech left her lips, making everyone cover their ears. She flew away from you and disappeared, making you sigh in relief.

You felt Seungmin grab you as he dragged you away from the tunnels and to the opening in the ground. You and Haru were lifted first, then Felix, who was clutching his camera instead of his wound. When Hyunjin and Seungmin came up, Hyunjin was hugging Felix tightly, shock in his eyes as he pressed against his wound.

“Fuck your camera dude! You’re bleeding!” Hyunjin yelled.

“No! I got it all!” Felix said as the camera was still rolling.

“I just contacted the priest, he’s sending the evidence straight to the Vatican.” Seungmin said as he entered the living room, where you were cleaning the scratch on Felix’s arm.

“Do you think it’ll take long?” Haru asked.

“No, not with how bad the situation is. I think they’ll respond within a day. We’ll just need to stay until they respond, the priest wants us out of here as soon as possible.” Seungmin said.

You finished wrapping Felix’s arm, giving him an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t see her soon enough to stop her from hurting you.” You apologized softly.

“Hey, this isn’t your fault ya know.” Felix chuckled. “This will make a rad scar.”

You laughed and shook your head as he gave you a hug, rubbing your back. “Don’t blame yourself for this, okay? You don’t have eyes everywhere.”

You nodded with a soft smile as he got up and followed Hyunjin into the kitchen, as the two of them agreed to cook dinner. You felt the couch dip beside you and looked over to see Seungmin sitting beside you, a soft reassuring smile on his face.

“I told the priest about Joonwoo, and he’s going to go visit him when the Vatican responds. I found out what hospital he’s in and sent him the location.” He told you softly.

“Thank you so much Seungmin.” You thanked him with a huge smile.

“No problem, I knew how much that meant to you.” He said, flashing you a toothy grin.

Your heart skipped a beat at his words and at his handsome smile, a wave of comfort making you relax.

“Thank you, Seungmin. I really appreciate you.” You said.

“It’s no problem, really. You’ve helped us a lot.” He said.

“I wish I could’ve been more help when Felix got hurt.” You sighed.

“I already told you to stop blaming yourself.” Felix’s voice made you jump as you turned your head and looked at him.

“Yeah Y/N, stop blaming yourself. You were pretty badass when you ripped off Seungmin’s cross and jumped in front of us.” Hyunjin piped up, walking into the living room with plates full of food.

You blushed as he handed you your food, their words lifting you a bit. You knew they didn’t want you to feel guilty, and you knew their words were genuine when they said it wasn’t your fault.

“So what about that boy?” Haru asked.

“I told the priest about him, he’ll visit him as soon as the case gets approved.” Seungmin said.

“That’s good, from what Y/N said and showed us, he was really possessed.” Hyunjin pointed out, taking a bite of his food.

“Do you think the case will be approved?” Felix asked.

“Definitely. There’s too much evidence and too much going on for them to deny it.” Seungmin said.

“I hope it doesn’t take long, I’m sick of being on this mountain.” Haru grumbled as she started to climb the stairs.

“Maybe we should all stay together again, we definitely pissed off the spirits here.” You suggested as Haru climbed the stairs.

“No, you pissed off the spirits here.” Haru said, stopping and folding her arms as she looked at you. “And who gave you the right to tell us what to do?”

“Haru that’s enough.” Seungmin said firmly. “Y/N saved you from falling, saved Hyunjin and Felix, and has been a huge help in this case. Stop talking to her like that.”

Haru huffed and turned around and stomped up the stairs, making Seungmin sigh and rub his temples.

“I really can’t take her attitude anymore.” He sighed.

“It’s okay.” You reassured him, rubbing his shoulder.

Haru stepped into the shower, running the hot water over her already heated body.

Who does she think she is? Telling me what to do! Thinking she can replace me!

She closed her eyes and scrubbed her hair as the steam in the shower began to make the room misty. She stepped under the water and relaxed as the suds from her hair slowly slid down her back and down the drain. A cold feeling in her back made her freeze, and she slowly turned around. The water turned red and black, and standing in it, was the witch.

Haru’s breathing became ragged as they stared at each other, before the witch opened her mouth and shrieked, making Haru scream as she lunged at her.

You and Seungmin shot up at Haru’s screams and dashed to the bathroom.

“Fuck! The doors locked!” You gasped.

Seungmin backed you up, then lifted his knee to his chest and kicked the spot right beside the knob, breaking the lock and swinging the door open. (Yes, this is how you break the lock and kick it down). Haru was shivering on the ground, her hair covering her face and upper body. You pushed Seungmin out and grabbed Haru’s towel, wrapping it over her.

“Haru? Haru what happened?” You asked.

She didn’t respond, she just jerked away from you. Her eyes were narrowed when she looked at you.

“Get away from me!” She yelled.

You raised your hands and backed away, stepping out of the bathroom. Felix ran in and crouched down beside her.

“What happened?” He asked.

“Keep her away from me!” Haru screamed at him.

“She was just trying to help, stop screaming!” Felix yelled before lifting her up and bringing her to her room.

“Are you okay?” Seungmin asked.

“Yeah, I just have no idea what I did.” You sighed.

“She’s just freaked out right now, don’t worry.” He reassured you.

“I guess.” You sighed.

He rubbed your shoulder reassuringly and gave you a soft smile.

“Don’t worry, okay?” He asked softly.

You nodded as you yawned. He handed you a pillow and had you lay down as he stretched.

“Get some sleep, I have some writing to do.” He said.

You nodded as you laid at the end of the couch, his back pressed against your thighs as he typed on his computer. He began to softly hum, making your eyes feel heavier as you drifted off.

It’s been two days since Seungmin had sent in the tape, and you were beginning to feel anxious. Did they reject it? Do they think we’re lying? What will happen if they don’t come? What will become of Joonwoo? All of these questions made your head spin, and you were beginning to feel sick to your stomach.

You were sitting in the living room, the fire blazing and a movie playing just above the open fireplace. It was some sappy romance Haru put on, but you liked the plot. A mafia leader falling in love with a writer, their love story bringing tears to your eyes. Loving a mafia boss seemed to be tragic, or at least in this storyline.

A soft knock on the door made the both of you turn your heads, then glance at each other.

“Maybe you should open it.” Haru said.

“Why me?” You asked, your eyes wide.

“You’ll be able to sense it if it’s the witch.” She said, getting up and slowly peeking out the window.

“I can sense ghosts, not if it’s another crazy person!” You argued.

Despite your protests, you still got up and looked through the peephole, before throwing the door open, relief fluttering in your chest.

“Who is it?” Haru asked.

You turned as a man clad in black stepped in.

“The priest.”

You and Seungmin packed the car, and Haru gave Seungmin a confused look.

“Is Felix coming with me and Hyunjin?” She asked.

“Yes.” Seungmin answered.

“So it’ll be the two of you alone?” She asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Is there a problem with that?” Seungmin asked, arching a brow.

“No.” She mumbled, walking away.

“Why isn’t Felix coming with us?” You asked him. “He came with us up here.”

“Because, there’s somewhere I want to take you.” Seungmin said with a kind smile.

You looked at him in confusion as he ushered you into the car, opening the door for you. He gave you a kind smile as he got into the driver's seat and began driving towards the town. Your eyes scanned along the many buildings, wandering what he had planned on doing. Your eyes widened when he pulled into a hospital, and you gave him a questioning look.

“Joonwoo’s here.” He said with a soft smile. “The priest already saw him and confirmed your theory; he was still possessed.”

Your eyes were wide, your lips breaking out into a smile as he smiled back at you.

“He cleansed him, they’re going to take this into consideration at his trial. They also had someone film the exorcism, so they have more than enough evidence.” He said.

You both stepped out of the car and into the hospital as Seungmin walked over to the front desk.

“We’re here to see Joonwoo.” Seungmin told the woman.

“Are you family?” She asked, arching a brow.

“No, but we’re the ones that got the priest here.” He said.

She nodded her head and stood up, leading you both to a room.

“Be careful with loud noises, he’s still spooked.” She warned.

You both nodded and she went on her way, walking back to the desk. Seungmin beckoned towards the door, a soft, reassuring smile on his face. “After you.”

You slowly opened the door and saw Joonwoo sitting up in the bed, his eyes on a T.V attached to the ceiling in the room. He turned his head when you and Seungmin entered, and his eyes beamed when he saw you.

“Y/N? You came to see me again?” He asked, hope in his eyes.

“Of course, I had to see how you were doing.” You said, sitting next to his bed.

He bowed his head to Seungmin, who politely bowed back.

“Thank you guys so much.” Joonwoo said, his eyes filling with tears. “The priest performed an exorcism on me, and now I have a chance, all because of you guys.”

“It was all Y/N, she went to find you, and she asked me to get the priest.” Seungmin said with a smile.

A small sob left Joonwoo’s lips, and you gently pulled him into a hug. His face was in your chest as he cried, and Seungmin sat on the opposite side of the bed and rubbed his back.

“It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay now. We all know what happened.” Seungmin soothed him.

Joonwoo clutched Seungmin’s hand as he kept his face in your chest, your fingers gently threading through his hair.

“It’s okay Joonwoo.” You said softly, stroking his hair.

When he calmed down, he pulled away and gave you both grateful smiles.

“Are you guys leaving?” He asked.

“Yes, the priest and the church will take care of cleansing the place, and we’re going to head back home.” Seungmin said.

“Can I at least get your numbers? I want to update both of you.” He said, his eyes pleading.

“Of course! Please keep us updated!” You said, taking a piece of paper from the desk in the back of the room and writing down your number. Seungmin wrote down his own, and Joonwoo gave you both grateful smiles.

“I hope I see you both again someday. Get home safe!” He said with a big smile.

You gave him another hug and he patted your back, before waving you off with his arms.

“Go go, it’s gonna get dark soon!” He said with a smile.

You and Seungmin headed for the door, and you turned back to Joonwoo.

“Please call as soon as you can!” You said with a smile before heading out.

You walked out of the hospital with a smile on your face, before turning to Seungmin. He gave you a soft smile, then his eyes widened when you stepped into his arms, hugging around his middle.

“Thank you, Seungmin.” You whispered.

He brought his arms around you and let out a soft laugh, his hands gently rubbing your back.

“Don’t mention it, I’ll do whatever I can for you.” He said as you stepped back, your eyes locking.

Your heart began to beat fast in your chest, and you realized, you were beginning to fall for the soft hearted paranormal investigator.

#kim Seungmin #kim seungmin stray kids #stray kids kim seungmin #stray kids seungmin #seungmin stray kids #skz kim seungmin #kim seungmin skz #skz seungmin #seungmin skz #paranormal investigator #stray kids #straykids #skz #skz imagines #stray kids au #stray kids imagines

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candied-peach · 5 years

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ao3: “my brother’s keeper” rating: T warnings: a n g s t, unsympathetic patton (he doesn’t mean to be, but he is), creativitwins angst, sympathetic deceit, sympathetic remus, intrusive thoughts, remus typical stuff genre: hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending description: Once upon a time, they were one.

Once upon a time, there was one Creativity.

But then Thomas drew himself electrocuting his brother. And dreamed about zombies invading his home town. And remembered the sharks on the Discovery Channel that he'd seen last week and wondered what it felt like to have your arm chewed off by one.

It scared Patton. Morality was all about good and evil, right and wrong, black and white.

And Morality thought something was wrong with Creativity.

He doesn't mean to. (It means nothing to Remus, knowing that, but Roman tries to take solace in it, when he's curled up in the middle of the bed he used to share with himself, when he used to be one person, before the split. Before Remus was taken away.)

Intent doesn't mean much. Not when Creativity feels the biggest pain he has ever felt in his life, when a shriek tears free from his throat-

And one becomes two, sprawling on the floor and staring at each other with baffled, hurt eyes.

"Who are you?" The red-and-white-garbed one asks, his voice shaking.

"I could ask you the same thing," the green-and-black one blurts out. As if on a count to three, the two chorus as one.

"Creativity!"

They find themselves clinging to each other, soaking each other's shoulders with their tears, because there is a chasm, a hole that can never be put back together, and they don't know why.

It doesn't take long for the others to find out. Logic is quietly horrified. He stands there adjusting his glasses with shaking hands, his gaze switching from one twin to the next, as if to catalog their differences. Patton is loudly horrified, but even Roman can see the wobbly, guilty relief in the back of Patton's eyes. (Remus hates him for it.)

"You can't stay here," Patton says. "It doesn't make sense. You aren't like us."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Roman shoots back, standing protectively in front of his brother, his fists clenched. "He's just as much like me as anyone else! We aren't supposed to be two people, Morality!"

Patton gasps, taking a step back. His eyes shine wetly behind his glasses.

"No, you're not," he admits. "But you are two people."

"He'll be happier with me," the other side says quietly. His eyes flick around the scene as he pulls the too-long cape around his shoulders, one snake eye glittering at Patton. "I won't try to make him be someone he's not."

But they get one last night. Deceit is not so cruel as to rip them asunder so quickly, no matter what Patton's panicky exhortations demand. Patton is scared of Remus, and Roman can't understand why.

"I'm scared," Remus admits that night, when they're both curled up in the king-sized bed, in opposing pajamas. Roman thinks he could grow to hate the color red very quickly.

"Me, too," Roman says. "But- It's okay! We'll still be brothers, right? They can't take that away from us!" Like they took away being whole.

"Right," Remus says.

They're wrong.

"I don't think your brother is a good influence on you," Patton says, worrying his bottom lip as he stares at the sketches on Roman's desk. "That- We don't want Thomas to hurt anyone."

"It wouldn't hurt anyone," Roman argues. "They're just drawings, Patton! It's just thoughts! Thoughts can't hurt Thomas!"

"Yes, they can!" Patton bursts out. "He has nightmares and he feels bad and it is hurting him!"

"Hurting him?" Roman asks, his voice a near-growl. "Or hurting you?"

Remus wilts every time he comes back from seeing his brother. Deceit and Virgil learn not to question why after the first time he summons his morningstar and crashes it into the wall.

"It's not fair," he howls at the water-spotted ceiling, his bottom lip quivering. Virgil realizes with a start that Thomas's baby teeth decorate the front of Remus's outfit. "I don't want to hurt Thomas. I just want to be me."

"You will have your chance," Deceit soothes.

"When?" Remus demands. But not even the dishonest side can spin a lie fast enough.

Thomas grows up. Remus's power waxes and wanes. What would happen if you jumped out of a moving car?

Ever wanted to kill your brother?

Ooh! Wanna drive over the edge of that cliff?

I wonder what our bones look like under our skin.

I wonder-

He takes pride in each twisted, creative thought, wondering what Roman would think of his work. They don't visit each other much now. Roman's been thoroughly corrupted by the others, as Remus now so disdainfully refers to them. But Remus can see the truth behind Roman's shining eyes.

He's just terrified that Patton will throw him out, too.

Then Virgil leaves, driven to the others by Thomas's growing awareness and acceptance of him as a concept, and Remus hates life this way a little more. It's not the same without the storm cloud and he knows Deceit feels the same way. The dark feels a little too dark now, and Deceit doesn't play off Remus the same way Virgil does.

Deceit tries to influence Thomas more directly, but it doesn't work. Remus knows as soon as Deceit reappears, cursing so fluently the air around him seems to glitter. His eyes light on Remus and he strides over.

"Remus," he purrs. "You want to be more honest? More direct?"

"Always!" Remus grins. The smile on Deceit's face doesn't reach his eyes.

"No longer will you deceive yourself about the ugliness within you," he says, contemplative.

"Neat!" Remus says. He feels confused, though. Deceit sighs.

"Not you," he says. "Thomas. Don't you want to show him what other little surprises hide in here, that he's so vested in suppressing? And you can visit your dear brother again, of course..."

Remus's smile is very sharp.

"It would be a pleasure," he says.

It is a bittersweet one, made all the more so by Roman literally lying at his feet. Logic's contributions don't help, not when he can see Virgil and Patton, and particularly Morality. Morality fears him, and it thrills Remus down to the tips of his boots.

I'm not the only one who can be split, Morality, he thinks, even as he sinks down in supposed defeat. Maybe you can, too. Maybe I can split you and you'll be two-in-one and cry and cry and-

He frowns. Instead of the familiar lines of his own room, he's ended up in Roman's.

It is nothing like his. Instead of grimy, bloodstained walls and a flickering light bulb, the walls are painted blinding white, gilded with gold, and a brilliant chandelier hangs from the middle of the ceiling. Everything is bloody scarlet and burnished gold and bone white and it makes Remus feel sick.

Roman sinks down a few minutes later, and he jumps when he sees Remus, sitting cross-legged in the middle of his floor and humming something.

"What do you want?" Roman asks warily. Remus looks up.

"When's the last time we talked?" He asks. "When's the last time we did anything together?"

"I..." Roman stops. "I don't know," he admits.

"I miss you," Remus says quietly. "I miss being- you know- us."

"You knocked me out for most of the video!" Roman says. A ghost of a smile creeps across Remus's face.

"That's called brotherly affection," he says. "Besides, be grateful it wasn't more. I have lots more ideas where that came from."

"I'm sure you do," Roman says dryly, then hesitates. "...Can I see them?"

Eyes shining, Remus dashes to his room to grab them.

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mxliv-oftheendless · 4 years

Text

The Shocking Case of O.J. Simpson (Part 1)

Yep, we’re back with this insanity! In honor of me getting through the first week of winter semester, here is the next installment in KISS Unsolved! However, unlike last time, where we saw Paul, Gene, and Vinnie going on a hunt for the supernatural, here we see them covering a true crime case, because Buzzfeed Unsolved also covers unsolved true crime cases. It actually took me quite a while to decide which episode to adapt for this, but ultimately I decided on this one, partly because this case really fascinates me. I also decided that since there’s three co-hosts in this AU, Vinnie’s going to be the one covering the true crime cases (I thought it fitting, since he’s a bit of an unsolved mystery himself). Here is the original episode if you want to watch that before reading this story.

A quick note about this one: I learned from last time to split up the episodes so I don’t go over the post length limit and Tumblr starts acting like a jerk. I know it’s awkward, but that’s how it’s gonna have to be.

IMPORTANT NOTE: this case is very controversial. I realize that. It also contains some effed-up details that some people may not be comfortable with reading. If at any point you are feeling uncomfortable, please do not hesitate to stop reading. You are not a lesser person for it.

And now, without further ado, enjoy!

Tag list: @cosmicrealmofkissteria @ashestoashesvvi @kategwidt

Commentary text:

Paul

Gene

Vinnie

Something said in unison

[screen cuts from title card to Vinnie, Gene, and Paul sitting behind a desk cluttered with papers, pens, a desk lamp, and other objects. Behind them are bulletin boards full of things from various unsolved cases and conspiracies. In order from left to right: Paul, Gene, Vinnie]

VINNIE: This week on Buzzfeed Unsolved, we discuss the brutal murders of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman, or as you may know it: the case of O. J. Simpson, who was Nicole’s ex-husband, a Hall of Fame running back in the NFL, and the case’s top suspect.

PAUL: Fun fact: we’re all old enough to remember this case.

GENE: Yep. I remember there was a lot of Yiddish thrown around my house after the verdict.

VINNIE: A lot of people our age and older than us will remember quite a bit about this case. I remember watching it on television.

PAUL: Yeah, I actually never knew O. J. was a football player. I always knew him as the guy who murdered someone.

GENE: Me too.

VINNIE: Yeah. There’s a lot of unpack here, so… let’s get into it. [opens folder]

[screen cuts away from the three to a black screen. Pictures and text appear on screen as Vinnie narrates]

VINNIE [voiceover]: In the early morning of June 13th, 1994, at 12:10 AM, the bodies of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald L. Goldman were found outside Nicole’s Brentwood townhouse, stabbed to death.

[screen cuts to the three of them in a car driving through a neighborhood, Brentwood. Vinnie is driving, Paul is in the passenger seat, aiming a camera at Vinnie, and Gene is in the backseat]

VINNIE: So right now, we are on our way to Nicole Brown Simpson’s former residence. [time skip: the car parks on the side of the street]

PAUL: [looks at the house across the street] Is that it, right over there?

VINNIE: Yep. That’s the place.

GENE: I feel… I don’t really feel all that right going into this place.

VINNIE: Oh, we’re not going onto the property.

GENE: We’re not? I thought we were going to go see where the bodies were found.

VINNIE: Oh hell no, we’re not doing that.

PAUL: That is kind of disrespectful.

GENE: Okay, good.

[all three of them sit still for a couple beats. Then Vinnie sighs and unbuckles his seatbelt, and opens the door to get out. Gene and Paul follow suit. Screen cuts back to the slideshow]

VINNIE [voiceover]: At the time, Nicole and O. J. Simpson were divorced and living in separate residences, both in Brentwood. The bodies were discovered by two neighbors who were literally led to the crime scene by Nicole’s dog. Multiple neighbors would say the dog was incessantly barking at the time of the murder. [audio of a barking dog plays with the narration]

[cuts back to the sidewalk in front of Nicole Brown Simpson’s house. Paul has the camera on Vinnie, who is taking steps while Gene watches off to the side]

VINNIE: So the dog led the neighbors down the street, to the entrance, and they saw the blood coming down from the entrance to the sidewalk.

[cuts to the three once again sitting in the car; it is now darker out]

PAUL: What occurs to me, though, is how close together all these apartments are. And how…

VINNIE: How no one heard…

PAUL: Yeah. From the way I always heard it, I assumed the houses were really spread out and the street was bigger. But no, they’re all pretty stacked on top of each other. I think… I feel like someone would have had to have heard something.

VINNIE: … That’s a good point, I never thought about that. [runs his hand over his face] Jesus…

GENE: This case just got so much heavier.

[screen cuts back to the slideshow]

VINNIE [voiceover]: Let’s go over the established, highly-detailed timeline. On June 12th, 1994 at 6:30 PM, Nicole, her children, and others arrive at a restaurant called Mezzaluna. At 9:15 PM, Nicole’s sister calls Mezzaluna and says her mother left her glasses there. Ronald Goldman goes to pick up the glasses. At 9:00 – 9:30 PM, Brian “Kato” Kaelin and O. J. Simpson go to McDonald’s for dinner.

Can’t imagine McDonald’s was excited to hear that…

Yeah…

…as part of the testimony.

Was that part of the testimony?

I mean it had to have been, since it’s on the official timeline.

… Well.

*snickering*

I mean… it got a lot of coverage at the time so… free advertising, I guess?

Yeah, I suppose.

VINNIE [voiceover]: At 9:45 PM, Kato and O. J. return home from McDonald’s. Kato was staying in O. J.’s guest house at the time. At 9:48 to 9:50 PM, Goldman leaves Mezzaluna with an envelope containing Nicole’s mother’s glasses. At 10:15 PM, Nicole Simpson’s neighbor hears a dog bark and cry while he is watching TV. The prosecution would later cite these barks as Nicole’s dog, who was crying out over the murder of its owner, Nicole.

They went by dog bark?

Well all dog barks are a bit different. The neighbor could’ve recognized it as Nicole’s dog from the bark.

Yeah, that’s probably what happened.

Honestly, I feel like the dog is the real hero of this story.

*laughs* I don’t think there are many heroes in this story, Gene.

No, let’s say that. We need at least one good thing to come out of this story.

Fine, okay. This dog’s a regular Lassie.

VINNIE [voiceover]: At 10:25 PM, a limo driver named Allan Park arrives at O. J.’s home, O. J. having been scheduled for a red eye flight from L. A. to Chicago at 11:45 PM. At 10:40 PM, O. J.’s guest, Kato, hears three loud thumps on the outside wall of the guest house he is staying in. From 10:40 to 10:55 PM, Park buzzes O. J.’s intercom several times, but there is no answer. Just before 11:00 PM, Park sees a shadowy figure—six feet tall, two hundred pounds—walking across the driveway towards the house. At 11:00 PM, Park tries buzzing the intercom again; this time, O. J. answers. O. J. tells Park that he had overslept and had just gotten out of the shower.

Suspicious.

Yeah, quite suspicious.

This is a very detailed description of a “shadowy figure.”

*laughs* Yeah, “He was six feet, weighed two hundred pounds—and was enshrouded in shadow.”

*laughter*

VINNIE [voiceover]: At 11:45 PM, O. J. departs on an American Airlines flight to Chicago. And taking us back to the start, at 12:10 AM, the bodies of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald L. Goldman are discovered outside her townhouse stabbed to death. Evidence found at the crime scene includes a bloodstained glove left behind by the killer, a knitted hat, and a bloody footprint. At 5:00 PM, detectives arrive at O. J.’s house and discover some key pieces of evidence… but we’ll get to that later. Meanwhile, O. J.’s flight lands in Chicago. According to lead prosecutor Marcia Clark, Detective Ron Philips called O. J. to inform him his ex-wife was dead. O. J.’s first response: “Who killed her?”

Not good.

Yes, very not good.

Not, “How did she die?”

Nope.

“What happened?”

Nope.

“Who killed her”… that’s what he said.

*quiet laughter*

That’s not the go-to question there.

*laughter* Heheh, no, it is not.

Not the best decision ya could’ve made, O. J.

VINNIE [voiceover]: O. J. was questioned for three hours by the LAPD, but released. On June 17th, 1994, O. J. was charged with the murder of Nicole Simpson and Ronald Goldman. But he famously did not surrender to the police, and was declared a fugitive. The ensuing low-speed police chase of O. J. on the freeways of southern California in his white Ford Bronco is a lasting memory for anybody familiar with the case.

Do either of you remember this?

Oh yeah, I definitely remember this.

My memories of this are actually a little vague. I do remember people talking about this after it happened, though.

I think my sister actually yelled at the screen for O. J. to go faster.

*laughter*

VINNIE [voiceover]: O. J. was in the passenger seat, while the car was driven by his friend, Al Cowlings. Cowlings explained he did not stop because O. J. had a gun to his own head in the car, and because O. J. was suicidal. A suicide note written by O. J. was in fact found, but we’ll get to that in a bit.

[screen cuts to the three back in the car. It is daytime, and they are now on the freeway]

VINNIE: So right now, we are going about the speed O. J. was going, and we’re in rush-hour traffic.

PAUL: I gotta say, I’m actually a little bored.

GENE: This doesn’t exactly feel like Fast and Furious.

VINNIE: Well, the stuff in Fast and Furious probably doesn’t happen in real life, Genie.

VINNIE [voiceover]: During the chase, they recorded a phone call between O. J. and homicide detective Tom Lange. Here’s some audio from that:

LANGE: Nobody’s going to get hurt.

SIMPSON: I’m the only one that deserves…

LANGE: No, you don’t deserve that.

SIMPSON: I’m gonna get hurt…

LANGE: You do not deserve to get hurt.

SIMPSON: [groans]

LANGE: You do not deserve to get hurt. Don’t do this.

SIMPSON: All I did was love Nicole. All I did was love her.

VINNIE [voiceover]: The chase would end at O. J.’s home in Brentwood. Inside the car, they found, in what I imagine was unintentional humor, makeup adhesive, a fake mustache and goatee, O. J.’s passport, and a gun.

Pfft, hahahahah—!

*laughing* What the hell?

*laughing* I know, that’s—just try to imagine one of the most famous people at this time, trying to sneak through airport security with a glued-on mustache…

That’s hilarious!

… and thinking it’s gonna work.

This guy didn’t even change his passport, that’s… was he even trying at all?

VINNIE [voiceover]: O. J. surrendered to the police at 8:51 PM. Now, let’s go over the suicide note. Apart from thanking those who meant a lot to him in his life, O. J. professed his innocence. Quote, “First, everyone understand. I have nothing to do with Nicole’s murder. I loved her; always have and always will. If we had a problem, it’s because I loved her so much.”

Well, that’s… kinda sweet, I guess…

Seems kinda over the top to me.

I had the same impression. Overall, though, when you put it in with everything else… I don’t know.

What’s our consensus here, do we all agree that he did it?

I have actually been told that we should refrain from explicitly saying who we think did it.

Oh, really?

Why?

Well, because this is a very controversial case. We all remember how controversial it was. We don’t wanna step on any toes.

... I guess that’s fair.

Yeah, that’s fair.

To be continued in Part 2!

#kiss unsolved #kiss unsolved true crime #so just to clarify on their roles for episodes #gene does the supernatural episodes while vinnie does the true crime #and paul is the voice of reason and skeptic (and of course the troll lol)#as I said in the beginning: this is a pretty controversial case #but it was a fascinating one for me since it happened less than a decade before I was born #so that's why I went with this one #hey at least it's not jonbenet ramsey #I agree with shane; that case bums me out man #anyway hope you guys enjoyed!#kiss au writing #my writing #thanks for reading!

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lowtldes · 5 years

Text

you were trouble by design - f!deputy/jacob seed

a little fic from my mob au

words: 5.9k

warnings/tags: swearing, mentions of violence, angst (this ship is probably doomed to fail), emotionally charged frisking

also on ao3

Apartments. 08:00. Come alone.

“Asshole,” Rook mutters, anxiously checking her phone for the sixth time to make sure she’s not hallucinating. The text message is there, clear as day, glaring up at her from the cracked screen of her phone.

She rubs her thumb across the little text bubble, as if she can wipe away the words like they’re a smudge on her screen. Sure, she can just delete the message, delete the entire conversation, delete his goddamn contact, but if Rook’s being honest with herself, she’s stalling.

Rook plans to throw the whole phone away, she does. Really. She does.

It’s just that she might have a little trouble letting go of ten months of working undercover as security for the Seed Family. What if she gets some useful information, right? What if she needs to contact any of the Seeds for some kind of deal?

As if any of the Seeds or their underlings would ever speak to her without shooting first.

Then why has Jacob fucking Seed summoned her to the Seed family’s apartments? More importantly, why did she actually come?

It’s not like she’s been hitting the Bliss or anything, no, anyone who worked under Jacob’s command was forbidden from indulging in Faith’s product. I guess I’m just out of my fucking mind.

Rook gets out of her car with a sigh and crosses the street, finishing her coffee with a few greedy gulps before tossing the cup into the overflowing garbage can on the sidewalk.

The two guards outside the building give her the stink eye, knowing exactly who she is. Jacob’s ex-second-in-command. A traitor. An undercover cop. A snake in the garden.

“I’m here to see Jacob,” Rook says firmly. She’s not gonna let a couple of disposables intimidate her. “He wanted to see me.”

“You’re not welcome here no more, sinner,” one of them spits, then literally spits on the ground in front of her.

“Check with one of the Chosen,” Rook glares. “Feeney or Lonny or whoever the fuck they hired to replace me. I’m getting into this building, whether you like it or not.”

The guard glares right back at her, and the two of them are caught in a staring match, waiting to see who cracks first. It’s one of Rook’s vacation days and it’s too goddamn early to deal with this bullshit, but she’s gonna stand out here all fucking day if she has to wait for this guy to crack.

“Uh, hey,” the other guard says, clearing his throat. “I think Jacob did send word down the line that he was expecting someone—”

“He didn’t,” the guard stuck in her staring contest hisses, “don’t be a fucking coward. We can’t let her through.”

Rook unlocks her phone without breaking eye contact, she knows she’s left his text on as the first thing on her screen. She holds it up, flashing the screen. “He sent this to me. Last night. Who do you think he’s gonna have words with if he finds out I wasn’t let into the building?”

“Okay, okay, we really should—”

“She’s a traitor, and she’s not authorized.” The guard’s eye twitches. He seems to be turning red. “We’re not letting her in—”

“How ‘bout I call him?” Rook says breezily, muscle memory helping her tap away to her phone app without looking. “I’m sure Jacob will want to talk—”

“Let her through!” The other guard caves, nudging the reluctant guard hard on the shoulder and stepping aside for Rook. “Just. Just go. If you’re really not allowed inside, Jacob will shoot you himself, right? Go on in.”

Fuck. He might have just called me over here to shoot me in the head.

“Thanks,” Rook deadpans. She steps past the guards, right through the doors to the lobby with a sigh, trying to calm her anxious thoughts. Anxious as they are, they make sense. Why the fuck did she come here without back up, without telling anybody?

Guess it’s harder than she thought to weasel Jacob’s authority out of her head.

One of the elevators arrive just a second after she hits the button. Rook stands in front as the ding! tells her the doors are opening. It’s on its way up, coming from the basement levels. As the door opens, Rook finds herself dreading who she’s gonna see inside the elevator. Don’t be a Seed don’t be a Seed don’t be a Seed.

The doors open, and the first thing she’s hit by is the familiar mingling scents of whiskey and blood, along with JOHN SEED in bold black ink.

“Well, well. Look who it fucking is.”

Rook sighs and steps into the elevator. She keeps her distance. “Hi, Lonny. Gonna kill me?”

Lonny’s lips curl into a sneer, then he relaxes, leaning back against the wall of the elevator and drumming his gloved—bloodstained gloved fingers against his thighs. The doors close, and Rook does her best to not shift uncomfortably in the presence of her ex-coworker-slash-homicidal-friend.

“Nah,” he says casually, but his fingers twitch. He wants to strangle the life out of her, she knows. “Figured you’d be dead already if we wanted it. No use getting this elevator all bloody over something John won’t give me the order for.”

“Aw, thanks,” Rook says dryly. “I didn’t know you could be so sentimental.”

Rook moves to press the button for the Seeds’ floor, only to see that the button’s already lit.

“Gonna pay the big bad wolf a visit?” Lonny asks, tone dripping with malice.

“Yep,” Rook sighs, rolling her eyes at Lonny’s nickname for Jacob. What she says next slips out before she even notices she’s speaking again. Old habits. “What about you, Lon? Reporting your business in the basement back to John?”

“Don’t do that,” Lonny hisses, standing up straight now. He glares daggers at her. “Don’t you fuckin’ pretend we’re still friendly, ‘cause we’re not. That’s on you.”

Rook grimaces, biting down on her tongue. She only nods in return, because she knows that if she speaks again she’ll probably make things worse.

Like a fucking godsend, the elevator slows to a halt. Over Lonny’s death glares, the elevator dings! and the doors slide open. Lonny swings one hand forward, gesturing for her to step out first. Somehow, the nicety of it stings.

Rook steps out and turns the corner, knowing the floorplan by heart. She hears Lonny saunter out after her, walking in the other direction, towards the entrance to John’s penthouse.

“You better watch your back, Deputy,” Lonny’s voice echoes down the hall. “You never know who might wanna crack open that thick skull of yours after you showed your true nature.”

Rook tries her best not to dwell on whether or not that was a threat or a warning.

Jacob opens the door after her first knock. Rook’s hand is still floating where the door used to be, curled into a fist as if she’s ready to rap her knuckles on Jacob’s chin.

“You’re late,” is all he says, warm breath fanning across her raised fist. He steps away from the doorway, swinging the door open wider and jerking his head in motion for her to enter.

Rook glances her phone. 08:01.

“The meatheads outside the building held me up,” she replies, stepping into Jacob’s studio.

Jacob has the smallest apartment out of all the siblings. It’s still the biggest fucking studio apartment she’s ever been in, but she knows Joseph’s has a walk-in closet and guest room, Faith’s got a massive penthouse, and John has a fucking swimming pool in his massive penthouse.

Jacob is just as dramatic as the rest of his family, but he’s always preferred simpler things. Rook and Lonny used to joke about how Jacob probably wouldn’t mind living in some tiny downtown studio with moldy walls and a broken fridge if John had no say in his family’s living situations.

Jacob quietly shuts the door and crosses his arms, scrutinizing Rook with narrowed eyes. Rook swallows hard, nervous about this whole damn thing, but she narrows her eyes right back at Jacob, refusing to crack under his cold gaze.

He looks like shit. Well, he almost always looks like shit—bloodstained and faded shirts, the scarring, the sleepless nights purpling beneath his eyes—but this time around it’s worse than usual. Reminds her of times he’d get into arguments with Joseph, or the one time John was kidnapped by Pagan Min to shake them.

She looks away from him for a moment, eyes darting across the studio to the balcony where she knows an ashtray sits on a small metal table. There are still thin wisps of smoke rising from it. She knew it, she could smell it on him from here. He’s been smoking again. He only smokes when he’s really stuck on something.

The circles around his eyes are more pronounced, even more like bruises than they usually are. There’s a cut high on his neck, just beneath his beard, dark red splotches of dried blood soaking through gauze. She recognizes the grey shirt he’s wearing, the pattern of old, faded blood splattered across the right shoulder. Pagan Min’s blood, if she remembers correctly.

She still remembers the massacre. Only You, Jacob’s fucking calling card, playing softly in the background. Bodies strewn about. The smell of gunpowder and blood in the air. Pink suit crumpled in Jacob’s fist. Jacob beating the blond bastard within an inch of his life. Rook’s own strength useless in trying to pull Jacob off the other crime lord. John, bruised but whole, rope burn around his inked wrists, shrugging Lonny off and trying to help Rook calm Jacob.

Jacob, stop it! We can’t have another war on our hands.

He took you, John.

And now he’s almost dead. He’s atoned. Let him go.

It’s only after John’s reasoning does Jacob surrender into Rook’s hold. Whenever she looks back at that night, some fucked up part of her thinks it was almost an embrace.

There’s a new shade of red painted across the chest of his shirt. A dark, vibrant red. Dry, but new. The smears look like fingerprints, like someone was grabbing desperately at him. Was it the same person who gave him that cut on his neck? Just another day in the life.

“What are you thinking?” Jacob asks, oh so casually, dragging her thoughts back into the present.

“You look like shit.”

“Always the charmer.”

“Could say the same about you,” Rook shrugs, shoving her hands into her pockets to stop from fidgeting. “Now what the hell did you call me here for?”

It’s only been a week since she last saw that piercing gaze. So much has changed in a week, including her tolerance for Jacob’s intensity. It’s either she’s imagining something different in the weight of his gaze, or she’s no longer accustomed to it.

Whatever it is, her skin crawls all the same.

She’s just waiting for a gun to be drawn at her, a knife pointed at her throat, a punch in the fucking face—anything. Anything that’ll fucking make sense. After her cover was blown, she wasn’t able to see or speak to Jacob before she had to bail. There was no closure. Now here she is, a week later, basically letting herself be trapped in a room with big bad Jacob Seed, waiting for some kind of vengeance.

She never bought into Eden’s Gate, into the shit Joseph Seed preached, but deep down she regrets the attachments she had for some people—Faith, Lonny, Jacob—she regrets her betrayal just because of them. She knew better than to like these people, but she did anyway, and now she’s here.

Maybe the reason she came here without a second thought was that she sought penance. Maybe she wants to atone. What better way to make up for betraying people she foolishly grew to care about than to let Jacob himself cull her?

But Jacob doesn’t move. He doesn’t draw a weapon. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t fucking breathe.

“Wanted your opinion on something,” Jacob says slowly, as if he’s testing the words.

Rook blinks. “You wanted… my opinion on something.”

“Come on,” Jacob nods, and jerks his head for her to follow. He walks over past the kitchenette, socked feet padding softly on the marble floor, towards the large desk by the window.

Rook’s head is spinning. She doesn’t know how she actually decides to follow him. She could have floated all the way to the desk for all she knows, but suddenly she’s there, looking over the papers and blueprints scattered around the table while Jacob stands close enough to be practically breathing down her neck.

“I don’t work for you anymore, Jacob.”

He ignores her. “After that shit with Pagan Min went down, we need to secure another trade deal, new alliances. Joseph doesn’t like it, but John and Faith agree that we should look to other gangs.”

Rook chews on her lip. She squints at the papers, then glances back up to see that Jacob’s already looking at her. “Not a bad idea. Who do you have in mind?”

“The Highwaymen.”

“The twins? They’re a couple of loose cannons. That’s not gonna last.”

“True. Vaas Montenegro?”

Rook snorts. “Even more of a loose cannon. Plus, he’s in the middle of a power struggle with his sister. Citra. I don’t think it’ll do you any good working with either of them.”

Jacob juts out his bottom lip, making a show of thinking. “Hm. The Van Der Linde MC.”

“The motorcycle club?” Rook scoffs, shaking her head. “Sure, if you want them to bleed us dry. We both know John’s a good talker, an even better negotiator. But I’ve investigated them before—I’ve met Dutch Van Der Linde and Hosea Matthews. You can’t trust a single word that comes out of their mouths.”

“Heard they’re a little unstable at the moment,” Jacob shrugs, icy blue eyes lighting up, leaning closer to her. “I’ve got intel that some jackass named Micah Bell has joined them, and it’s stirred some shit up within their ranks.”

“That doesn’t matter. We can’t trust them.”

Jacob’s serious façade suddenly melts into a grin, razor fucking sharp. Rook’s suddenly all too aware of how close he is.

“What?” She asks, swallowing hard. “What is it?”

“You still give a shit,” he says, voice low. Almost a purr. “You said ‘we.’”

Shit. Shit. Wasn’t even thinking. Rook steps back, shaking her head, a sudden panic spiking her pulse. “No. No, no, no. I didn’t. I don’t. That was—that was just out of habit.”

Jacob takes another step closer, looming over her, dog tags swishing on his chest like a pendulum. “You wanna know why I brought you here?” He scoffs. “Shit, I was surprised that you even showed up.”

“You brought me here for some kind of revenge, I’m guessing,” Rook says, mouth suddenly dry. She takes another step back, desperate for space. “You’re pissed, I get it.”

Jacob just follows her step, he’s no longer grinning. Instead, he looks at her curiously. “Why did you show up, huh? You wanted to see what would happen? Old habits, maybe? Still got it stuck in your head, fuckin’ autopilot for you? I call, you come—no questions, no second thought, is that it?”

“Jacob—”

“Or are you here for more undercover work?” Jacob continues, tone mocking, face twisted into a sneer. “You wearing a wire? Can all your little cop friends hear me, see me?”

“I’m not—I’m not wearing a wire,” Rook says. Her back hits something—the kitchen counter. He’s got her cornered. “Why did you tell me to come here? To see how much dirt I got on you and your family? Not enough, since you’re all still here and not behind bars. You don’t need to bother with me—”

“I wanted you here to see how much of it was a fucking lie.”

Rook blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Been thinkin’ a lot since you left us.” Jacob leans forward, hands bracing the edge of the counter at her sides—caging her in. “Wanted to see if I was right. Wanted to see if you actually cared.”

Rook sucks in a breath, looking anywhere but at the prying, eviscerating look in Jacob’s blue, blue eyes. “What does it matter?”

She can hear a knuckle crack as Jacob tightens his grip on the countertop’s edge, the pads of his fingers squeaking against the black marbled granite. Voice so low, so husky, it’s a goddamn crime. “It matters.”

“I don’t care about what your brother preaches. I never did,” Rook says firmly, quietly. “I never cared about Eden’s Gate. I never gave a shit about your family’s plans.”

“Seemed to care quite a bit whenever you helped me map out our attacks, our culling. Seemed to care about what happens to all of us,” Jacob near whispers, leaning down so close that she can feel his breath hot on her face. “Just now—you warned me against all those potential deals. Like you said, you don’t work for us anymore. So what made you give a shit about that, huh? Enlighten me, Deputy.”

He spits Deputy like it’s venom in his mouth, unable to hide the hurt in his voice, in his eyes.

“Look. The time I spent here—I made mistakes,” Rook begins, standing up straighter, head held high. Holding her fucking ground. He’s trying to pull the intimidation act on her, but Rook isn’t going to let him. “I don’t give two shits about the Project.”

Jacob remains unfazed. He doesn’t look very happy about that admission, but he still looks expectant. Head tilted down to look at her, cold blue eyes watching her intently. Leaning in so close that Rook can see every detail, every scar on his face. The crow’s feet, the frown lines, the dark circles from the demons in his sleep. The old, barely-there scars of chemical burn across his cheeks. Small, silvered cuts from when he served. The newer scars—the split brow and slash above his beard from bad deals, the long, pinkened gash going down his cheekbone from Eli Palmer.

It’s a strange thing, to know so much about a person and then pretend you never knew them at all.

“Cat got your tongue?” Jacob breathes. She’s been staring for too long. “C’mon, you got something to say, don’t ya? It’s written all over your face.”

“Fuck you.”

“I know you. Don’t you forget that,” Jacob sneers, contempt jumping out in the form of a curled lip, bone white teeth. “I thought a lot would change about you after you dropped the act, but you’ve still got the same quirks, the same look in your eye. You’re still a goddamn open book.”

“I don’t care about Eden’s Gate.”

“You care about something, that’s for sure.”

Might as well just let the chips fall, right? She came here for some kind of closure, didn’t she? Might as well just vent about all the shit she’s been keeping cooped up. Jacob’s always been a good listener, if he decides to grant you the time of day, that is.

Fuck it.

“I made the mistake of caring about people,” Rook hisses. “People I shouldn’t have, people who don’t deserve it. I fucked up, I gave a shit about what happens to Faith, what happens to Lonny—sometimes I even cared about what happens to your goddamn brothers.” Rook juts out her index finger, driving it right past Jacob’s dog tags and into the meat of his chest. “But I guess my biggest, unholy, grandiose fuck up of all fuck ups,” she jabs her pointer finger at him again, and god, she hopes she leaves a bruise, “is giving a shit about what happens to you.”

Jacob Seed, the goddamn sword of the Eden’s Gate Mob. Criminal. Hunter. Weapons-dealer. Killer. Brainwasher with a fondness for old music. Fucking monster.

Rook saw it all, Rook saw the worst of it. What does that say about her, her self-preservation? She was here to observe and report. Here to ruin him and his family.

And what did she end up doing? She ended up caring.

You fucking idiot, she thinks to herself as she stares down Jacob goddamn Seed.

Jacob draws back, not dropping his arms from trapping her by the counter, but he puts some breathing room between them again. His brow twitches, mouth curling into something that almost looks like disdain. But Rook knows him well enough to know that whenever he makes that face, the root of it is usually uncertainty.

“That’s cute,” he scoffs, sounding a little hoarse. “You rehearse that with your people back at the precinct?”

“Nobody knows I’m here.”

He frowns down at her, eyes narrowed, a how stupid do you think I am? kind of look.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Rook says with a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “I’m not working you. I’m not wearing a wire or anything. I—fuck—I’m technically on vacation. What the fuck am I doing here?”

Jacob doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything except watch her with a guarded expression.

Rook waits a moment, for any kind of response, a kind fuck off, but instead gets nothing. The silence is like a weight on her chest, about to crush through bone. It’s too early for this shit. She pushes one of Jacob’s hands off the counter, a light slap to his scarred forearm, and sidesteps away when he drops his arm.

“I think it’s best for everyone if you don’t contact me again,” Rook says, trying to keep her voice even. She brushes past him, shoes quietly tapping on the marble floor as she heads for the door.

She makes it four steps before Jacob grabs her wrist, the warmth of his palm burning into her skin, tugging slightly to stop her from moving further.

“We’re not done here,” he grates, a sour expression on his face.

Rook spins around to face him, at her wit’s end, and shoves him once with her free hand. “Quit playing games, Jacob. I’ve got better fucking things to do.”

Jacob doesn’t let go of her wrist, the pressure of his grip near bruising. His frown deepens, Adam’s apple bobbing. There’s a far, far away look in his eyes. “You lied.”

“I was doing my job,” Rook says quietly. Badly, she wants to say, I was doing my job badly.

“And now?” Jacob asks, voice softer than she’s ever heard it. His other hand rises to hold her chin, gently tipping her head up to look at him. He sounds like he’s swallowed a mouthful of gravel, low voice scratched up in his throat. “How much of what you said is true? Say it again. Look me in the fucking eye.”

Rook can hear her pulse thundering in her ears. Ten months—ten fucking months of working for the Seeds, of seeing Jacob all hours of the day every day, and they barely touched that entire time. A professional distance always kept between them despite whatever the fuck was going on with the tension that grew steadily each day. The most they ever touched before this was probably when she was holding him in place after the shit with Pagan Min, and before that it would barely be a brush of hands, a gaze that lingers for a little too long. That was always the extent of it.

So this? Standing way too close for the second—no, third time in one day—in one morning? Calloused hand braceleting her wrist, thumb pressed against her chin and knuckles gently grazing her throat?

This is too much. Rook’s gonna fucking lose it. This thing that grew slow and steady between them for the better part of a year—Rook was ready to just ignore it. She’s been ignoring it. And now it’s about to snap. Pop like a fucking bubble.

“I fucked up,” Rook murmurs, feeling like she’s burning up. It’s like looking into the fucking sun. His gaze is too close, too intense, but Rook can’t tear her eyes away no matter how much she wants to. “I ended up caring. About you.”

Jacob inhales shakily, face shuttering as his grip tightens around her wrist. He leans in closer, tilting down down down until Rook ends up leaning towards him, against the thumb pressing into her chin, meeting him halfway when he presses his forehead against hers. Rook, quietly freaking out, feels herself lean into him with a heavy sigh.

Forehead touches are the Seed Family’s trademark. Rook’s never been on the receiving end of a Seed forehead touch, it being reserved for the Family and the Family only, but she’s seen them in action. An intense, familial bond displayed in a single touch between bowed heads, usually initiated by Joseph Seed.

This feels entirely different. Neither of them are pulling back. Jacob presses his forehead into hers, the warmth of his skin burning into her own, feeling almost feverish. That’s what this is—a fever dream. Rook lets Jacob tilt her head up higher, noses bumping, facial hair tickling her skin. Jacob looks down at her lips, his eyes hooded.

“What are you doing,” she whispers. A question spoken like a statement, a statement that’s secretly an order, a demand. Do something.

“You betrayed us,” Jacob rasps, his breath hot on her face. He relieves the pressure off her chin, then his thumb treks up, coming to rest on the center of her bottom lip, pressing lightly. He starts to lightly trace the length of her lip. So slow, so enthralled, as if he’s trying to memorize the very feel of it.

Rook has never seen Jacob Seed gentle. It might just be the strangest fucking thing she’s ever seen.

He stops, pulls back ever so slightly so that their faces are no longer touching. Close, too close, but just enough space left between them for Rook to get her thoughts in order. His thumb leaves her lips and he drags his hand down to cage around her throat, closing around her neck just shy of uncomfortable.

“You betrayed us,” he says again, more like a growl this time, like he’s trying to reason with himself. He glares down at her, pupils dilated, but anger renewed. “A goddamn cop. How the fuck am I supposed to trust that there isn’t anyone else listening in right now?”

“What if—” Rook pauses, her mind screaming at her to get out now. To go right out the door and never come back. There’s still time, she hasn’t damned herself yet.

Jacob leans closer, watching, waiting. Rook swallows hard, feels Jacob’s thumb roll over her throat.

“What if I could prove it to you?” She pulls her wrist out of Jacob’s grasp and holds his forearm with both hands, distantly realizing that this is the first time she’s touched the scars there, that Jacob never lets anyone this close to his scars.

“How?” Jacob’s voice so low, so hoarse, it almost makes her knees weak. His eyes dart down to her hands around his arm, his scars, then back at her face, scrutinizing. He gives her throat an apprehensive little squeeze. A warning, but she’s not sure what for.

Rook slides her hands down his arm to hold his wrist. A moment passes, every other sound drowned out by the thundering of her blood rushing through her ears. Thud and thud and thud.

Then Rook pulls Jacob’s hand close, pressing his palm flat against her chest, foolishly, right over her rabbit heart. “Check me for a wire.”

Jacob makes a gutted, breathless sound as his head sways close, nose brushing hers. “That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”

“Go ahead. Check me.” Whose conviction would Jacob fully trust but his own, after all?

Jacob lets out a quiet scoff and releases her neck, the air in the room suddenly feeling so much colder compared to the warmth of his hand. He grips her shoulder, holding her steady, then starts to roam her chest with his other hand. Tracing her collarbones over the fabric of her shirt, outrageously skipping over her breasts through a modesty she didn’t know was possible from him, and settles high above her navel, tracing circles over her ribcage.

“You know,” Rook breathes, “wires would typically be worn under the shirt.”

“You’re playing with fuckin’ fire, Deputy,” Jacob warns, fingers digging into her shoulder.

Working around the Seeds for ten months, Rook’s been cut, punched, and fucking shot at. Yeah, she’s playing with fire, but it’s just another hazard to the long list. Maybe she wouldn’t mind getting a little burned.

Jacob’s already left his scars, deep beneath her skin, right to the marrow. Like the old third-degree burns on Jacob’s skin. Rook’s never gonna get him out.

So she does the only thing her Jacob-drunk mind can think of and lets him right in.

It’s like kissing a statue at first—Jacob freezing up the moment she grabs him by the shirt and reaches up to press her lips against his. Hands bunching the chain of his dog tags, the bloodstained fabric of his shirt. Clutching right where those smeared handprints are of his most recent punching bag.

He only reacts when Rook takes his bottom lip between her teeth and bites. The nip of teeth is like a jumpstart of electricity. Jacob groans and opens his mouth to her, hands suddenly bracing her arms at each side and guiding her around, back to the spot against the kitchen counter he’d trapped her by before.

They both have the same idea, because the second Rook starts to lift herself up onto the counter, Jacob’s hoisting her up onto the countertop like she weighs nothing. Once Rook is settled, barely seated on the edge and locking her legs around Jacob’s waist, Jacob dutifully returns to the task she had assigned him.

Rook’s supposed to be out buying a new phone or catching up with Hudson over a cup of coffee. Or, considering the time and day, she should still be fucking sleeping right now. Yet here she is, about to hit second-base with Jacob fucking Seed.

Jacob’s hands snake underneath her shirt, drawing a small gasp out of Rook when he drags his warm, warm hands across her stomach, pinching the skin of her waist. Jacob kisses her hard, exploring every bit of her mouth with his tongue, his facial hair scraping against her face. Rook leans in closer, tangling her fingers in his hair, kissing back with vigor, teeth clashing, lips bruising.

“Don’t think you’re wearing a wire,” Jacob hums against her face, voice low and hoarse, peppering light kisses across her cheek, down her jaw.

“Really?” Rook says, gasping when he cups her breasts, a thumb flicking over one of her nipples through her bra.

“Can’t fuckin’ trust you still, though,” Jacob mutters. His hands snake around her back and unhook her bra. “So I should be thorough.”

Then there’s a knock. Knuckles rapping impatiently on Jacob’s door. Voices on the other side, muffled and close.

“Shit,” Jacob hisses. He extracts his hands from her beneath her shirt and rests them on her denim-clad thighs, gripping tight as he leans his forehead against hers again, eyes shut. “What’s today?”

Rook cradles his face in her hands, feeling the fuzz of his beard against her palms. She whispers, “Sunday.”

“Shit.”

The knocking starts again. This time louder, sharper. A fist pounding against the door.

“Jacob! Wake up! Stop moping about the traitor, we’re going to be late for Joseph’s mass.”

“John, be nicer.” The next words are spoken quieter, but now that Jacob and Rook are silent and listening, it’s not quiet enough. “She obviously has him going through something. It affected all of us differently.”

Rook bites her lip hard, trying to stifle the ridiculous urge to giggle—to fucking giggle.

“We’re going to be late, Faith. We’re never late.”

“Fine. You’re right.”

“JACOB!” More knocking. “It’s 8:53, get up!”

God, Rook almost forgot how insistent John can be.

Jacob tears away from Rook with a sound that’s closer to a snarl than a sigh. He strides over to his door and cracks it open, using his body to block his siblings’ view of the apartment’s interior. Rook sighs quietly and hops off the counter, reaching behind to redo the clasp on her bra.

“Go already,” Jacob grumbles to them, curt, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Are you—”

“Wait in the goddamn car,” he says and shuts the door.

Jacob stands facing the door, listening to Faith and John mutter to each other and leave. When he’s sure they’ve gone, he steps away from the door and slowly turns around.

Rook smooths down her shirt and combs her hair with her fingers, doing her best to look like Jacob wasn’t just running his hands all over her.

“I like you here,” Jacob says. He frowns, fists clenched at his sides, like he didn’t mean to say that.

Rook barks out a laugh, a bitter sound. “You should have said that months ago.”

“Would this shit have turned out differently if I did?”

“Probably not.”

Jacob nods, lips pressed into a thin line, a muscle tensing in his jaw.

They stand there for a while, just staring, holding back words that would make this worse. Jacob is the first to break eye contact, shaking his head and taking a step towards his boots resting by the door. He shucks them on, swipes his gun and keys off the counter, tucks the gun into his waistband behind him, and grabs his military jacket of a nearby chair.

“Come on,” he says gruffly, shrugging the jacket on and opening the door again. He jerks his head in motion for her to go out first. “You’re taking the stairs.”

“You know it’s not a secret I’m here, right?” Rook snorts, walking out the door. She waits for Jacob to exit and lock his door before continuing down the hall. “The guards outside know. Lonny knows. Which means John probably knows, or will know. And Faith just knows everything. Joseph too.”

“I know,” Jacob mutters, keeping a good distance between them as they walk. It’s painfully familiar. They stop in front of the staircase landing. “Just don’t want them to bother me about yo—this yet.”

Rook glances at the stairs, then back to Jacob, who’s standing so much closer again. She smacks her lips. She doesn’t know what to say. She knows what she wants to say. “Jacob—”

Cold eyes flash. “Don’t.”

Rook nods, exhaling shakily, and steps back. She turns around and starts down the stairs, pretending that everything is okay. She reaches the bottom of the flight and stops when Jacob speaks again, rough voice projected slightly by the acoustics of the stairwell.

“Don’t come back.”

Rook frowns up at him, white knuckling the railing. “I won’t. Don’t contact me. This can’t happen again.”

Jacob nods stiffly, expression unreadable. “This can’t happen again.”

And then he leaves, disappearing around the corner towards the elevators.

Rook makes it down three floors before she stops, falls back to sit on the steps, and tries to banish the hollow feeling in her chest.

It’s for the best.

#jacob seed #jacob seed x deputy #Far Cry 5 #far cry 5 fanfiction #jacob seed x rook #i really hope this isn't too ooc i haven't written jacob in a hot minute #mob au #my writing

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frenchy-and-the-sea · 5 years

Text

D&D - Doing Good

I couldn’t tell you why this exists, except that I was possessed by the sudden need to write it. Maybe it’s all of the found family bullshit of the idiots game. Maybe I just wanted to write something for a good friend. Either way, I literally have not worked on anything else for days because this grabbed me and threatened my life if I didn’t finish it.

Long before the original idiot crew, a few months after Val’s ship was wrecked, she got helped out of a rather shitty situations by @gomanyeo‘s half-orc barbarian Gavaar. He incidentally became a very important figure in Val’s life after that. I’ve had little flashes of scenes in my head involving them for ages, and I figured it was time to put them on paper.

4800 words.

The tiefling is in a field.

Gavaar can see her even from the edge of it. She is broad shouldered and sun-darkened, bereft of anything more deadly than her size, and even at his distance, he can see blood splattered across the curve of her horns. He approaches slowly, uncoiling a length of rope. She does not move.

“You run from town?”

She flinches as he speaks, but slowly turns to face him. Her eyes, bright gold, are sunk into wide pools of black.

“Chased,” she says after a moment. Her voice sounds thin, and cracks like brittle sea grass. Gavaar grunts and unclips his waterskin from his waist. The gold eyes follow it, hungry despite themselves.

“Come,” he says. For a moment, there is a flash of animal panic across her face, involuntary as the fixation on his waterskin. Then cold resignation firms the lines around her forehead, and she hangs her head, pushing slowly onto her feet. There is blood down the front of her shirt, too.

He leads her out of the sway of grasses, down the road, back to the makeshift camp he had made the night before. He does not bother with the rope; she does not bother to run.

“Sit,” he says when they arrive. She does. He silently sets about making a meager breakfast of sausage and dry bread, gathers a second skin of water, and passes her both.

“Tell me,” he says as she frowns down at the plate.

“Tell you what?” she asks, without heat. He points towards the town. She sighs, and takes a deep draw of water.

It is a simple story, all things considered. She tells it in short, halting bursts: a day of dodging the town’s vitriol, of guards following too closely, a night in a tavern hard won from a slightly less hostile owner. The man that refused to share a hearth space with an ox-woman. The words exchanged. The first punch thrown. The temper lost.

Her words get very small as she describes her flight into the night, and she does not recount the hours through sunrise. Her fingers, the claws all torn down to their quick, knead into the bloodstained hem of her shirt.

“That is all?” Gavaar asks, when her voice finally peters out. Her eyes flash up to him, fire and iron.

“What do you mean, ‘that is all’?” she asks. Her voice shakes as it swells in volume. “A man is dead! Not just beaten to all shit, not just bedridden for a few fucking days like he deserved, but fully, properly dead! All because I couldn’t fucking...”

Her words tighten to a squeak and vanish, and she tears her eyes away from him to stare holes into her untouched plate, quaking with an emotion that Gavaar knows too well to name. He watches her for a long moment - takes in the blood, and the trembling shoulders, the honest-to-gods whiteness of her knuckles - and nods.

“Eat,” he says at last. “It is long walk.”

They pack up the camp together in silence when she is done, dumping the half-finished plate of food into the bushes for the beasts to find. He shoulders his pack and moves back towards town. She follows.

When they approach the edge of the woods beside the gates, he turns back towards her.

“Don’t go in,” he says. The iron of resignation in her stare eases, replaced with a touch of confusion instead, but she nods and dutifully steps back into the shadow of the trees. He grunts and continues in on his own.

The constable’s office is too small and reeks of piss from the tiny jailhouse beyond the back door, and Gavaar has to duck his head around the doorframe to enter. He is greeted with a strangled gasp of alarm and the dull ring of a sword against its scabbard as he does.

“Oh, merciful gods.” The constable, from his place at the corner desk, slaps a hand over his chest and sags back into his chair. “You’ve got a mean fucking mug, don’t you? Well, I suppose that’s why they hired you in the first place. Come, come, don’t just ogle me from the doorway. Did you find her?”

Gavaar steps further inside, eyeing the man over once more. He is squat and grim-faced, held together with fitted leathers that creak from overwear but lack of proper use, and leans forward with an eager sneer that sends Gavaar’s hand even faster to his pocket.

“No,” he says, and drops the warrant onto the constable’s desk. The man watches it flutter down, and his grin goes with it.

“No?” he asks. Gavaar nods and turns to leave. A chair squeals across the floor behind him.

“What do you mean, no?” The constable’s voice picks up a deadly edge. “There’s a dangerous criminal on the loose, and you are just giving up -”

“I do not want contract,” says Gavaar in a warning tone over his shoulder. “Give to someone else.” Then he turns, ducks out of the room, and pretends not to hear the abuse that is hurled at his back.

The tiefling is still waiting when he wanders back up the road.

“Find better place to stay,” he says, as she steps out of the woodline towards him. “Not safe here. There is still contract for you.”

She freezes mid-step, her brow furrowing. “Well….yes,” she says slowly. “I thought...I thought that’s what you were doing.”

Gavaar grunts, shifts his pack, and turns back towards the road. “No. You hurt someone. You want to do better. Can do better. But not in there. There, they just kill you. Is a waste.”

He nods once more, then hikes up his pack and walks on. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the tiefling turn towards the gates, arms limp at her side, bewildered.

A few moments later, the footsteps begin to follow.

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

“You're a hell of a fighter,” she says three days later, as they watch the company of bandits that they have dispersed flee up the road. The contract had suggested dispatching the whole lot, but they had been quick to back down at the sight of the snarling half-orc with a tiefling at his back, and Gavaar is not the wasteful sort.

“Yes,” he says, shouldering his maul with a grunt. “Have trained well.” She snorts as he nudges past her and over to the now-abandoned camp tucked against the treeline.

“And so modest, too,” he hears her mutter from behind him with exaggerated awe. “How ever do you do it?”

He ignores the comment, as he has done many times over the last few days, and watches out of the corner of his good eye as she kneels beside one of the unconscious bandits and begins picking through his meager belongings. Time has done her some manner of good, at least; she speaks now, to do more than just offer a shift of watch or tell her name, and she has found what Gavaar assumes is a former familiarity with humor. She still sleeps badly of course, and refuses anything more deadly than the rigging knife that she carries, but she feels more like a person now, and less like a trailing shadow.

“Gavaar,” she says suddenly, pulling his attention to where she is untangling the unconscious man’s short sword from the scabbard on his hip. It looks remarkably well kept for a bandit’s blade, and she holds it up with a quizzical frown. “You want this?”

He snorts and gestures to his maul. She shrugs.

“Hey, just thought I’d ask.”

She fumbles for a few more seconds to unclip the scabbard from the man’s hip, then peers down at the blade, gauging it on some metric he can only begin to guess at. There is a severity in her attention, the sort that comes from long hours of familiarity with steel, and Gavaar feels it tug at something in him as she glances down to her tar-stained knife, sigh, and sling the sword’s belt around her own waist.

“Val,” he says before he can stop himself. Her eyes snap up, suddenly wide; she had told him her name days ago, but even traveling, he has had no use of speaking it. He ignores the stare, and gestures down to the sword.

“You learn?”

“I…” She shakes her head, clears her throat. “I mean, I have. A bit. I can swing the damn thing, if that’s what you’re asking. I won’t get in the way -”

“No,” says Gavaar, and gestures again; this time, with a firm thump at his own chest. “From me. You learn?”

There is a brief flash of annoyance in her eyes, and then a sudden surge of guilt and grief as she stares back at him. Her hand hovers above the grip of her newfound sword as both slowly melt into a long, searching look that she drags across his face, his shoulders, the maul in his hands. He stares back, and does not move.

Eventually, she takes a deep, shaking breath.

“That thing that you did,” she says at last, “when we were fighting, I...I would’ve sworn you were about to kill every one of those bastards. You were furious. But there’s a finesse to it, isn’t there? You get angry on purpose. You control it.” Her hands tighten on the grip and her eyes go hard. “Could you teach that?”

“Yes,” says Gavaar. It is not what she needs, perhaps not even what she wants, but Gavaar is as much a liar as he is wasteful. “But if you learn, I teach you fighting first.”

The intensity in her eyes lessens, just a little, as he sets back to turning the rest of the camp over. “Now, give me some credit. I did fight off two bandits with just a knife; I’m not entirely hopeless.”

She spends the rest of the trek back up the road making offhand testaments to her own martial skill until Gavaar points them out a spot to make camp in a little patch of dirt a few hundred paces off of the roadside. They make camp in full silence, as they have the last three nights, and Val disappears to fetch fresh water. When she returns, Gavaar is sitting beside the fire, maul across his lap, with almost every stitch of clothing removed.

“Take off,” he says with a gesture, as she slowly sets their waterskins down. Her eyes snap to the simple cotton garments she wears, and then back up to him.

“Ah...beg pardon?”

“Take off,” he repeats with deliberate slowness, and stands. Val steps back, and her hand goes instinctively to the sword at her hip.

“I think we might’ve misunderstood each other,” she says, a little frantically. “I did mean literal fighting, not -”

“Yes,” Gavaar cuts in. “You can fight. Have told me all day. We learn to fight without weapons.”

He makes another gesture to the sword on her hip, and watches as her face goes slack with sudden understanding. Slowly, carefully, she unbuckles the sword from her waist.

“Still, ah, don’t quite understand the bit of running around in our skivvies, if I’m honest,” she says as she pulls the stained shirt over her head and detangles it from around her horns. Gavaar sets the maul head first onto the ground and moves to the clear, grassy spread besides the camp.

“Clothes easy to grab,” he says as she kicks her breeches into the dirt. “Easy to get hold. We learn hardest thing first.”

“Well, that seems backwards,” say Val, a second before she is thrown to the ground.

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

Not bad,” Gavaar rumbles as he looms over where Val is stumbling up from the dirt. She grits her teeth and snarls, and then lunges forward with a quickness that he silently prides himself for teaching. He hooks a hand under the edge of her pauldron as she steps into reach and tries to tug her off balance, but she bats him off with her shield arm and then lashes the flat of her sword against the outer round of his thigh. It goes numb for a moment and he staggers, just in time to see her grin, tuck her shield against her chest and then drive it into his side with every ounce of her considerable strength behind it. He grunts, and staggers, but manages to catch himself before he falls.

“Fuck!” She steps back and flings her shield to the dirt in frustration. “I thought I had you!”

“It was good idea,” he says, shaking the last of the numbness from his leg. “Weaken to strike. Is what we have been doing.”

“Except it didn’t work,” Val growls. She sighs and stoops to pick up her shield again, grimacing when she notices the bruise starting to turn a shade of wine-purple on her arm.

“It will,” says Gavaar. And then, after a pause, adds, “Maybe not on me.”

“Oh, certainly not,” Val replies with a roll of her eyes. “You know, brick walls can crumble too, Stiff.”

“Name is Gavaar,” he tells her, scowling. The nickname she has deigned to give him isn’t entirely irritating - he’s been around enough bards to have a higher tolerance than that - but he will be damned before he just allows her to have it.

“Yes, well, it takes half as long to say, and you still answer it.” She grins when he grumbles, then glances down at her shield. “Aw, shit. Good thing Quender is nearby; I might’ve put this one out of commission with that last bout.”

She holds it up, and Gavaar can see that the wood has splintered clear down the center of it. He nods.

“We finish for today,” he says, and shoulders his maul. “Find new one.”

They kick dirt over the last embers of their fire and wander the rest of the way into the city, passing trade caravans and guards that give them a critical one over from their posts. No one stops them though, and as they pass beneath the arches of the city gates, Val instinctively slips into the lead.

“Welcome,” says the slender man behind the counter of the first armorer they find. He freezes as the door swings shut behind them, and the silhouettes of a tiefling and a half-orc that has to hunch to fit in his shop suddenly come into view.

“Evening,” says Val before he can continue, sinking into an easy drawl that she has mentioned offhand came from a few years at sea. She reaches back to give Gavaar’s arm a quick squeeze - the one that tells him to hang back - and steps up to the counter. “You seem to be the only person in several hundred miles what knows his business, and how to give a girl what she wants.”

She leans on the counter with an overdramatic wink, and Gavaar watches the man’s tense shoulders relax slightly.

“It hasn’t been unheard of,” he says after a moment, with a tentative smile. “Oh, and I sell armaments, too.”

Val laughs at his own good-natured wink and hefts her shield onto the counter. “Well lucky me, as I’m in want of something a bit less battered than this.”

The man lets out a long, low whistle as he slowly takes the shield from her. He eyes the splintering wood, and Gavaar sees him steal an unsubtle glance towards the still-darkening bruise on Val’s arm.

“You’re the, ah, adventurous sort, I see,” he says at last, coaxing up a smile. Val grins.

“In most things, yes. Turns out, that means I’ve got to have something sturdy enough to stand between me and the big guy.”

She gestures Gavaar forward, and the shopkeeper’s eyes widen as he suddenly remembers the silent half-orc still lingering in his doorway. He does not shrink back when Gavaar approaches though, and even manages a polite nod as Val leans back onto the counter.

“I might have something,” he says, and though his eyes still linger on Gavaar, his gaze has morphed from fear to tentative appraisal. Val taps the counter and grins.

“Good man! I thought you might. Hell, if your stock’s any good, I could also be in the market for something a bit...a bit, ah…oh.”

Gavaar glances sideways as Val’s voice shrinks to a whisper, and she stands from her place against the counter. Her overly friendly customer act is gone, replaced by a very genuine look of surprise as she draws away from the counter and over towards a row of polearm racks against the back wall. The shopkeeper leans across the counter, watching as she plucks a very simple looking iron trident from the row.

“Ahh,” he says, with what Gavaar thinks is a worrying amount of relish, “you seem to have found the strangest of my wares by far. An older gentleman brought it up from the Stormlashed Sea about a month ago and offered it in a trade. Insisted it was a weapon.”

“It is,” Val says, her voice soft and very far away. She changes her grip so it rolls smoothly into her right hand and smiles. “We used to carry them on hunts. They’re hard to come by, and hard to store, but if you agreed to be put out in a tiny boat against something big and mean, the crew tried to make you big and mean too. Bastards.”

She chuckles to herself, and the shopkeeper gives Gavaar a bemused look across the counter. He does not turn to respond. There’s something in the way Val’s hand fits around the trident’s grip, some peculiar rightness to the way she holds it, that digs its way deep into the center of the little spot of fondness that has been growing over the last four months. He watches her for a long moment as she admires the simple iron spear, then turns abruptly to the shopkeeper.

“How much?”

Val’s head snaps up in his periphery, and the odd faraway look in her eye vanishes.

“No, no, it’s fine.” She hurriedly props the trident back into its rack and steps up to Gavaar’s side. “Just a bit of nostalgia, that’s all -”

Gavaar’s hand fits over the entire width of her shoulder as he reaches out and pushes her gently behind him. Then he turns back to the shopkeeper, fixes him with an intense look, and opens his purse.

“How much?”

“Are you, ah, still looking for a new shield too?” the man asks slowly, craning his neck to look up. Behind him, Gavaar feels Val shoulder her way forward.

“He’s not -”

“Yes,” he interrupts, and pushes Val back behind him once again. He can do this all day, and she knows it; she makes a big show of huffing loudly anyway, but does not move again.

In all, they burn through almost ten gold at the shop. Val manages to haggle the trident and shield down to five with only minimal flirting, and Gavaar picks up several palm-sized whetstones that she does a valiant job of trying to get him to put back. They leave with the shopkeeper’s cheerful bids to return in their ears, and a significantly lighter purse.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Val says, the moment the door is shut behind them. Gavaar keeps walking, and says nothing. Val huffs and jogs to keep up.

“Look,” she goes on, “I know you’re actually a giant marshmallow wrapped in a stone’s clothing, but consider this: you’re not going to be getting that gold back! I told you, all the contract earnings are yours. I’m just along for the ride. And while I know you could probably survive on your on stoicism and dirt for the better part of a week out of spite, eventually you’re going to need a proper meal, and money to buy it, and -”

“You need it,” Gavaar interrupts, and shrugs off the hand that Val has put on his forearm. She snorts and lengthens her stride again.

“I needed a new shield,” she corrects, shaking where it is strapped to her arm. “I’ve already got a sword, and it’s only a little banged up and -”

“No,” Gavaar says, without looking down. “You need it. Like blood. Like air. You take care of sword. Is good. But is just more steel. That.” He points to where her hand rests loosely against the choke of the trident. “That is yours. Is right. Is what you will use to do good.”

Out of the corner of his unruined eye, Gavaar sees her look down and run a thumb over the unblemished iron. Her claw, still filed down to the skin, glances off with a dull ring.

“You have an awful lot of confidence in that,” she says at last. Gavaar grunts.

“Do not need confidence. Have trained with you. Have traveled. You weaken. Disarm. Knock down. Like today, in field. Is good.”

Val snorts. “That’s because I didn't want to hurt you.”

“No,” says Gavaar, sparing her a sidelong glance. “Never wanted to hurt anyone.”

Val makes a noise halfway between being strangled and getting the wind knocked out of her. Gavaar pretends not to notice, but he waits until she has gotten her breath back before he goes on.

“Come. We go to inn, get meal. Tomorrow, more training.”

He takes the lead now, beating them a broad path through the streets as locals stare or stumble out of the way. Val says nothing for a moment, then takes a long, slow breath.

“I….I suppose I'll do my best,” she says finally.

“No,” says Gavaar, finally turning to her. “Do good.”

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

“Gods alive,” Val snarls from across the table, six months later. “Can’t you do an impression of something other than a godsdamn brick wall?”

They are sat on opposite sides of one of the few square tables that the inn has to offer, staring each other down over the map sprawled out between them. Val is leaned forward over it, her hand planted smack in the middle of the Wastes as she leers at him. Gavaar, true to form, chews silently on a piece of pork and does not move.

After a moment, Val snorts and pushes upright again.

“Oh, wonderful,” she sneers. “You’ve chosen the impression of an ass, now. How suited you are to that too!”

“Am eating.”

“And avoiding the question!” She pushes back away from the table in indignation, turning away from him and pinching the bridge of her nose. When she finally turns back, her shoulders are sagging again, and she slips into her chair with a weary sigh.

“We’ll find work further east,” she says. There is a hint of pleading in her voice now. “I have allies down there. Friends, in some cities! They’ll know where we can find some more lucrative business, and unlike the south, we probably won’t have to gamble with which places we’ll be chased clear out of by an angry fucking mob.”

Gavaar sets down his pork and grunts. “Am going to the feywild.”

“The feywild?” Val throws her hands up in indignation. “That’s worse! You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you? That place is nothing but a mind-twisting death trap, and the only contracts you’ll find there are not the sort you and I are after. If we went east - ”

“Do not have to go together.”

The words fight him even harder than usual, but Gavaar manages not to stumble. Not when Val pauses mid-sneer, or straightens in her chair, or stares, with two wide, black-pool eyes, back at him.

Not even when she takes a breath and it shakes.

“Ah,” she says finally. Her hands fall into her lap and twist themselves together. “So. That’s it, then.”

He nods. “You have path. So do I.”

“Of course.”

They sit in silence for a few long minutes, each fixated on a different point on the map between them. Eventually, Val clears her throat.

“I’d best, ah, go prepare then,” she says, and slowly gets to her feet. She gets as far as the end of the table before Gavaar’s hand catches her arm.

“Not leaving for anger,” he says as he pushes to his feet. “Leaving because is time. Is natural.” He taps her forehead. “You are smart. Strong. Have tools to do good. Are ready to move on.”

“I dunno, Stiff,” Val mutters, shrugging him off. “Last time I was alone, ‘doing good’ and I made for strange bedfellows.”

Gavaar indulges himself in a little little flicker of annoyance and plants both hands on her shoulders. The shove sends her staggering backwards, but she does not fall, and her shield slips onto her arm with instinctive speed. The annoyance flickers out like a candle flame, warming instead to a faint glow of pride.

“You go forward,” he tells her, as she glares over the edge of her shield. “Does not change what happened. Does not fix it. But worse to do nothing. Worse to stay same.”

“I thought I was,” she snarls. The edge of the word cracks, just a little. “I thought this was helping! And I thought I had some say in how I got to fucking do that!”

“You do,” says Gavaar evenly. “I go to feywild. Could come too.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but understanding swarms in a moment later, and Gavaar watches the wrestling match that happens in miniature behind her eyes in silence. Eventually, begrudgingly, she lets her shield fall.

“No,” she says softly, “no, you’re right. You’ve got things you have to do, and if it’s not something I’m willing to join you in, I should just….”

She hates herself for each word, Gavaar can see, and he decides that he will not torture her any further. He nudges past the shield that still lingers between them and drops a hand onto her shoulder. She leans into it without reserve, too shaky and miserable to maintain their usual respectful distance. This time, Gavaar does not complain.

“I should actually go prepare,” she says after a moment, coaxing up the bitter remains of a smile. Gavaar nods and drops his hand, watching as she sifts through her meager coinage and then slips out of the door.

The day passes in a dizzy blur, hurried and lagging all in one. He sees Val for very little of it; true to her word, she spends most of the afternoon in the city, bartering for all of the little comforts she has taken advantage of while in his company. When she does return, it is almost nightfall, and she occupies herself with small-talk and the reorganization of her pack from the floor of their room. They don’t mention leaving again.

The next day is much of the same; small-talk, the usual packing, the slow, silent walk through the city. Gavaar can feel a strange tugging at his feet, and has to force himself through far too many of his steps. By Val’s lagging pace, she is doing the same.

Eventually, though, they pass through the outskirts of the city, and the road rises up to meet them. Gavaar can see the way it curls down to the south, the way a beaten wagon track winds eastward through a set of wide and rolling hills. Val leads them to where it splits and lingers for a moment, making anxious little adjustments to her pack.

“I’m for Orgez,” she says at last, turning to him, “in case you decide that going into a fey-laden murder forest just isn’t quite a good idea anymore.”

He snorts, his closest approximation of a laugh. “Is not that bad.”

“Still.” She reaches up, wraps a hand around as much of his shoulder as she can, and gives it a hard squeeze. “I want to see you again, understand? Alive and unfucked by a bunch of faeries, if you can manage it.”

He huffs. “You have….odd goodbye.”

“It’s so you’ll remember it, asshole.” She smiles though, genuine for the first time in a full day, then claps him once more on the shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Stiff.”

“Yes,” he says, and grips her shoulder too. “Do good.”

They part ways in silence, their usual sort, backs turned towards one another with a finality that settles somewhere between relief and bitter disappointment. Gavaar waits until the road starts to curve, and his resolve starts to settle, before he dares take a glance over his shoulder.

Behind him, Val stands at the top of the hill that her road crests, facing him too, the curve of a wide grin drawn across her face. She waves as she catches his eye, and laughs, so loudly that he can hear it across the grassy span of the field between them.

Then she turns away one last time, back towards the horizon, and vanishes into the curve of the rising sun.

#my writing #oc crap #d&d #d&d shenanigans #valtish #other people's ocs #i love gavaar sm that I had to write 4k+ words about him #and val obviously but you know #i don't write much in present tense anymore but #it sort of fit gavaar #and it was a nice foray back into it

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hopeisour4letteredword · 5 years

Text

believe in me (who believes in you)

Summary: “You just said you couldn’t promise not to die.” “Ema was the one who brought up dying,” Apollo says. “I’m not dying. It’s just a cold. I’m fine.” Klavier tries to think of a line of attack that isn’t just telling Apollo he’s wrong, actually.

read it here on AO3 if you prefer.

Klavier needs to get this defense attorney off his crime scene. He understands, vaguely, that this is how most of his fellow prosecutors feel about the presence of any defense attorney on their crime scenes at any time. For him, though, it’s a special occasion.

Apollo sneezes.

“Herr Forehead—“

“No,” Apollo snaps.

“I was just going to offer you a handkerchief,” Klavier says.

Apollo squints at him like he thinks maybe Klavier is lying. He’s not—although he was going to follow the handkerchief offer up with one for a ride home, off the crime scene, to someplace warm and safe where he can rest.

“Please don’t die,” Ema says. “We already have enough dead bodies to deal with.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Apollo says. He scrunches his face up like he might sneeze again, but only sniffles miserably.

Klavier passes him the handkerchief.

“Thanks,” Apollo mumbles.

Klavier wavers for a moment, then decides that getting into arguments with Apollo is literally his job, and says, “I really think you should go home.”

Apollo scowls, and opens his mouth.

“You just said you couldn’t promise not to die.”

“Ema was the one who brought up dying,” Apollo says. “I’m not dying. It’s just a cold. I’m fine.”

Klavier tries to think of a line of attack that isn’t just telling Apollo he’s wrong, actually.

“Are you though?” Ema says. “Because you’ve been sneezing nonstop since you got here, and you kind of look like death, and I’ve been thinking about making the fop take your temperature.”

“Why me?” Klavier demands, sidetracked. “You’re the one with the thermometers.”

“If I try to take his temperature he’ll just tell me to go to hell,” Ema says, which is probably true.

“You think I wouldn’t tell Prosecutor Gavin to go to hell?” Apollo says, indignantly.

“I’m not gonna touch that one,” Ema says.

“Well, I would,” Apollo tells Klavier. Klavier tries his very best to look like he believes that. “I would! And nobody is taking my temperature. There’s nothing wrong with my temperature.”

Ema says, “If there’s nothing wrong with your temperature, then you shouldn’t have a problem with us taking it.”

“Don’t you try to bully me with logic!”

“Herr Forehead, I assure you, nobody was under the delusion that logic and reasoning were the best way to change your mind.”

Apollo gives him an outraged look for that one, and Klavier might fear retaliation if he hadn’t spent the last half-hour listening to Apollo’s struggling respiratory system. His favorite defense attorney is in no shape to pick fights. Which is exactly why he needs to go home. Instead, in complete disregard of the conversation, Apollo turns heel and goes back to snooping around the crime scene.

“He’s going to contaminate everything,” Ema says, sorrowfully.

“You’re all heart,” Klavier tells her. He slides his phone out of his pocket and opens his message thread with the chief prosecutor.

Klavier looks up from his phone.

“You let me poke around bloodstains and splatters all the time,” Apollo is saying.

“Yeah, when you aren’t sneezing in them,” Ema says. “What if your germs screw up our blood tests?”

“Herr Forehead,” Klavier calls. Apollo makes an inquiring sound without looking towards him. “The Chief Prosecutor has offered to find another defense attorney for the case.”

Apollo turns then, and Klavier almost winces at his expression. He looks—betrayed, wounded, gutted, any or all of the above.

“You don’t want me on the case?”

“I always want you on my cases,” Klavier says, carefully. “But right now I’m worried about your health.”

“I told you, I’m fine!” Apollo shouts, and immediately pays for it with a coughing fit. Klavier crosses to his side and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I don’t—hrgh—I don’t need to go home.”

“You’re freaking the fop out,” Ema says. “How’s he supposed to help you find the truth if he’s distracted by babysitting you?”

“That won’t be a problem,” Apollo grits out, “Because I don’t need babysitting.”

“I know you can take care of yourself, mausi, but—“

Ema is giving him a scandalized look already—he didn’t mean to use the endearment, it honestly just slipped out, it would be weirder to stop and retract it at this point—but it doesn’t matter, because somewhere behind Klavier, someone hollers at a volume fit to rival Apollo’s Chords of Steel,

“APOLLO FUCKING JUSTICE!”

“Oh shit,” Apollo fucking Justice says.

“I swear,” the voice continues, as Klavier and Ema turn to stare in bewilderment. A young man is stalking towards them. Klavier feels like he’s seen him somewhere before, but he’s not sure where. “To fucking GOD, I can’t leave you alone for FIVE MINUTES—“

“How did you even find me?” Apollo interrupts.

“I used the Find My Phone app for your phone,” the stranger says.

“I gave you access to that for EMERGENCIES!”

“This is an emergency!”

“For life-or-death emergencies!”

“This is—“

“Oh, no it isn’t, don’t even try—“

“I’m allowed to worry,” the stranger says, “When my BEST FRIEND in the WHOLE WORLD—“

“We are in front of my COLLEAGUES—“

“—Just, like, disappears the second I take my eyes off him even though I KNOW he’s sick and stupidly self-sacrificing—“

“I am NOT THAT—“

“Oh, hey,” he says, turning to Klavier and Ema. “Prosecutor Gavin and Detective Skye, right? I totally forgot, we haven’t actually met, have we? Apollo’s talked about you guys so much, I feel like I already know you—“

“CLAY,” Apollo yells, and then sneezes violently.

“I’m Clay Terran,” Clay continues, cheerfully. He sticks a hand out to Klavier. “And I’m here to take this dumbass off your hands.”

Klavier feels the beginnings of a smile overtake him as he shakes Clay’s hand. That’s why he looked familiar; Apollo has shown him pictures. “I hope one or two of the things you heard was good.”

“Oh, overwhelmingly net positive.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Apollo says, hoarsely, as Clay shakes Ema’s hand.

“Sunshine, you sound like you have asthma right now, you aren’t killing anyone.”

Apollo gives him a dark look.

“Come on, man. We can go visit my dad and get him to feed us or something. Get you some warm food and drink, and cold medicine—“

“I don’t need cold medicine,” Apollo says, “And I’m not leaving this crime scene unless Kl—Prosecutor Gavin says he doesn’t trust the case with me anymore.”

No pressure or anything. Ema slides Klavier a sympathetic grimace.

Clay says, “Remember that time I got the death flu and I was convinced I was gonna be taken off the mission if I took a sick day and you told me I wasn’t Ken fucking Mattingly?”

“Yes,” Apollo says, with obvious reluctance.

“You’re not Ken fucking Mattingly, Apollo.”

“Someone else taking his job because he was sick is literally exactly what happened to Ken Mattingly,” Apollo says.

“Who the hell is Ken Mattingly?” Ema ask Klavier, under her breath. Klavier shrugs helplessly. He has no clue.

“This is a court case, not a fucking space mission,” Clay says. “There will be other cases. Dude, please. Come get some dinner with me and go home and sleep. I don’t wanna watch you burn yourself out.”

Apollo opens his mouth, brows furrowed dangerously. Klavier knows that look almost intimately. It’s the one he gets from across the courtroom when Herr Forehead is about to pick a fight. It’s the look that precedes the yelling. Clay visibly braces himself, jaw clenched and chin tilted upwards. Klavier feels Ema tense at his shoulder, and he can’t help wincing preemptively either—except that suddenly, Apollo deflates, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose like he has a headache.

He probably does.

“Okay,” he says. “Back up. Let’s pretend we did the whole shouting deal, we both said things we regret, it was really bad, et cetera, et cetera. Can we agree to move past that?”

“Sure,” Clay says, amiably, relaxing a little.

“You didn’t come here to out-stubborn me,” Apollo says. He’s staring at Clay like a witness on the stand. “We’re both stubborn dipshits, you wouldn’t play that game. Or at least you wouldn’t count on it. So what’s your last resort? What’s your trump card, Clay?”

“You’re my best friend and I love you and don’t want you to die,” Clay says, without hesitation. Apollo looks unimpressed, but before he can say anything, Clay adds, “Also, I already told my dad you’re coming to dinner tonight. He’s making soup because he’s worried about you.”

“You told your dad?!”

Clay shrugs, but his expression radiates smug satisfaction.

“You goddamned snitch!”

“I can only imagine how worried he would be if I had to call him back to say you’re actually taking a case right now,” Clay says. With difficulty, he schools his face back to disarming innocence. “Working so hard when you have a fever, out on a crime scene late on a chilly night…”

“It’s not even cold out. You’re the worst,” Apollo says, sullenly. There’s a defeated slump to his shoulders now. “I hate you.”

Clay grins. “I love you, too, man.”

“Who’s taking my case?” Apollo demands, abruptly turning back to Klavier. Klavier and Ema have been watching the entire exchange like a tennis volley, and both jump a little when Apollo whirls on them.

“Oh, hold on—“ Klavier pulls his phone back out of his pocket and thumbs back to the thread with the Chief Prosecutor. Fortunately, the good Chief has taken the radio silence appropriately and kept him updated on finding a new defense attorney. “Ah, someone called Raymond Shields.”

“I know that guy,” Ema says. Apollo’s expression shifts from sullen to hopeful. “He’s—well, I was gonna say he was weird, but in the grand scheme of people we know he’s not that bad. And he’s got the whole believe in your client thing down. He’ll get the job done.”

“See?” Clay says.

“I’m not speaking to you,” Apollo says, stubbornly not looking back at him. He stays focused on Klavier and Ema. “You’ll take care of it, right? Klavier?”

“Ja, of course,” Klavier says. “We’ll find the truth.”

“Science never lies,” Ema adds. Apollo looks dubious about this, but has the good grace not to say anything. He must really be sick.

“I’m trusting you, okay?”

“I know,” Klavier says. And he does know, although something warm settles in his stomach to hear Apollo confirm it out loud. “Don’t you worry, schatzi. Have I ever let you down before?”

“No,” Apollo grumbles.

“SEE?” Clay says, louder this time.

Apollo spares him a glare, then asks Klavier, “D’you want the easy court victory when I murder him? I’m planning to take credit for it.”

“You’ll have to fight Ms. Blackquill for the privilege of killing me,” Clay retorts.

“No murders,” Klavier tells Apollo. Apollo makes a face at him, but doesn’t resist when Clay steps in close enough to loop a hand around his elbow and start dragging him away from the crime scene. “Get some rest! Relax!”

“Don’t forget, the truth—“

“Yeah, yeah,” Ema says. “We know! Go home already!”

Apollo, evidently committed to the idea of being off the clock, flips her the bird. She sticks her tongue out at him in return.

“Only professionals here,” Klavier says, amused. Clay escorts Apollo across the park to a parked car, and bundles him into the passenger seat before ducking back over to the driver’s side. Klavier and Ema watch in silence as they drive off.

“Thank God,” Ema finally says. “I thought I was gonna have to spend an entire case watching you make sad concerned puppy eyes at him.”

“Hey,” Klavier says.

“Don’t you ‘hey’ me. Mausi? Schatzi?”

Klavier Gavin doesn’t blush. If there’s any heat in his cheeks right now, surely it’s just because it is actually a bit chilly out. “Force of habit.”

“Force of pining, more like,” Ema says, because she’s ruthless and Klavier probably shouldn’t have spent so much time teasing her about her girlfriend. “Keep me updated, will you? I’m sure he’ll text you about how annoyed he is to be at home watching movies and taking naps or whatever.”

“I will,” Klavier says. Ema cares, too, in her own way.

“Now let’s show Mr. Shields how it’s done,” Ema says.

“Oh, let’s.”

And they do.

#klapollo #apollo justice #klavier gavin #clay terran #ema skye #not art #ace attorney #long post

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