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sp0o0kylights · 9 months

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Part One / Part Two / Part Three (you're here)/ Part Four

A03

It ain’t much.” Wayne started, half-curious if the sight of his trailer would be the thing to offend Steve’s (so far lacking) born-rich sensibilities.

Of course turning to look at the kid proved he was in his own head about this more than Steve was, because Steve had his eyes closed and looked two seconds away from puking.

Right.

Pain management.

“I’ll get your stuff.” Wayne said as he guided the truck to its usual parking spot.

Steve’s quiet ‘okay’ had him hustling a little bit, and the fact he had to gently guide the kid’s hand off his bag handle told him it was the right choice.

The nailbat could wait in the car for the moment he figured, as he led Harrington in. He’d get it sorted once he’d fished out the pain pills and gotten Steve settled a bit.

"Eds--he's my nephew that I told you about--has the bedroom, so you and I get to share out here." Wayne explained as he loaded Steve up on Tylenol and put a bag of frozen peas in his hand, not bothering to give a tour of the trailer.

It was pretty damn clear which door led to the bathroom and which didn’t, given Ed’s door was wide open.

Steve peeked at the absolute chaos strewn about beyond the doorframe but didn’t say nothing of it.

Didn’t, in fact, even look too long, instead sitting at the table as directed.

Seemed to sink a little into it, leaning an elbow on the cheap wood to help keep his head up.

"The couch is a pull out, but I'll warn you the bar across the middle is nasty. I usually sleep on the cot over there," Wayne nodded to where it was rolled neatly against the opposite wall, "but given the state of you, I'll let ya have your pick."

Steve blinked (or winked, not like Wayne could tell since the peas were pressed against half of his face) finally seeming to perk up a bit. "I can't take your bed."

"I'm not going to fight you for it, I'm just offering." Wayne responded, now focused on trying to locate the bandages in his ancient medical kit.

The one on Steve's hand was falling apart, and he didn't like the look of the injury he could see under it.

Yeah, Wayne was absolutely going to need to make a run to the store.

“Lemme see.” He asked as he finally got what he wanted.

It seemed to take Harrington a minute to process what Wayne wanted, but he finally held out his injured hand, watching as Wayne unwrapped the bandages.

"I'll take the couch." Steve said stubbornly, but Wayne was past it, too busy frowning at the kid's hand.

It took him a moment, once he'd gotten it all off, to properly realize what he was seeing--that the mottled bruising on Steve's wrist was separate from the cut across his palm.

In fact, it looked a hell of a lot like…

Wayne paused, then pretended to fuss with the dirty bandages for a moment while his eyes sought out Steve's other wrist.

Sure enough, matching bruises.

Someone had tied the kid up--and it hadn’t been the feds, because these bruises were partially healed.

Wayne had initially thought of Steve as having been tortured in the same way roving bands of neighborhood kids tortured their peers. The kind of hurt that came when it was an unfair fight; four on one and wielding knives, so you had to take what you were given and pray you didn't get stabbed.

He was not thinking actual, honest to God torture.

Yet here the evidence was, plain as day.

'What the hell went down in that mall.'

Someone as young as Steve shouldn't have been caught up in it, and it made a deep part of Wayne ache for the poor kid across from him.

All this shit, and his parents still couldn't be bothered to come home.Just left him on his own, as if it was another Tuesday.

Did they even know? Wayne wondered as he got to work. Had Steve, or Hopper, or anyone tried to call them about the mallfire? Let them know their son got hurt?

Jim said he hadn’t bothered to reach out regarding the spooks, but that had been a week or so later past the fire.

Wayne couldn’t even imagine it.

Getting a call that Eddie been involved in such a thing would have him off the couch in an instant, and the image that played on the news, the ones all the reporters talked over of a gurney being wheeled out of Starcourt’s on fire front doors…

He’d have been a wreck until he had his kid in his sights.

‘Nothing you can do for that,’ Wayne figured silently, ‘but you can help him now.’

Wayne wasn't exactly an expert when it came to wound care, but like many people who just couldn't afford to go to a doctor he'd gotten by.

Learned a lot of home remedies. Figured out pretty quick when something needed to be seen by an expert and when you could hold off.

Made friends with some of the local nurses on the night shift down at the Red Barn, well enough that a few well baked treats and dishes could sometimes be traded for looking over a potentially broken arm or two.

It had come in handy plenty, given Ed’s ability to attract trouble, but thankfully he’d never managed to hurt himself like this.

He’d never even gotten caught in a bad fight.

A black eye or two sure, but the kid had adapted his “scary” act not too long after Wayne had gotten him, and it seemed to work as intended. It was half the reason Wayne never said anything about it (and hell, even let Eddie take his ancient leather motorcycle jacket.) .

All of that was to say that he could tell Harrington's hand needed cleaning before it could be rebandaged, but didn't appear to need stitches.

Course pouring alcohol all over an injury like this wasn't exactly going to be fun, and he told Steve as such.

"I know." Steve replied, with a grimace. The kid’s injuries seemed to be getting to him, and Wayne anticipated he was going to drop here the second Wayne was done looking him over.

He hoped Harrington could get in a few hours--particularly before Eddie came home.

Wayne gently wiped it clean, noting how well Steve sat given the amount of pain he had to be in.

Tylenol, even given the more than recommended amount he'd given Steve, just wasn't going to cut it.

Not in general, and definitely not for this.

What could help was likely something Eds had, which was yet another conversation Wayne wasn't looking forward to having.

Particularly given that Eds had sworn off selling hard drugs after his last encounter with Hopper, and Wayne knew damn well that had only lasted until the damn kid caught sight of an overdue bill.

Too smart for his own good, Eddie was.

"I can give you something to bite down on, if you like." Wayne said to Steve, getting the alcohol and bandages ready to go.

He got a tight smile in response. "So long as you don't use a needle, I'm good."

And Wayne figured it was just teenager talk--a young man who didn't really know how bad this was going to be, and prepared himself to hold Steve's arm down accordingly so they wouldn't have to do it twice.

"Four." Wayne counted down. "Three. Two."

He poured on two.

Better that than Steve clenching up in anticipation.

Steve hissed, arm jerking, but stilled it under his own power as Wayne began dabbing his hand with some of the medkit’s wipes.

He felt his eyebrow raise as Harrington froze himself in place, breathing in a way that felt practiced.

This, Wayne decided, was not Steve's first rodeo.

"Almost done." He promised softly as he finished wrapping the wound back up, this time in the pattern he'd been shown long ago.

"Thanks." Steve said, blinking rapidly.

The kid's eyes were wet, but he didn't let a tear fall, and that perked Wayne's attention more than anything.

Some men felt they weren't allowed to cry--and pushed the same ideals on their sons.

It wouldn't surprise him any if Richard Harrington was one of them.

"I know you got hit more than just your hands and face kid." Wayne said, after letting Steve have a moment to recover. "You bleeding under that shirt?"

"Not bleeding." Steve murmured, looking more and more like he was struggling to stay upright now that the worst part was over. "I think my hand got the worst of it."

"Do I want to know what happened there?" Wayne asked, keeping his voice calm and non judgemental.

Like they were back to talking sports.

"I fell back into a broken window.” Steve responded, and now that Wayne had seen the kid lie, it was easy to see when he was telling the truth.

"Ouch." Wayne said flatly. Which made that hint of a smile flash across Steve's face.

"I'll cut you a deal. I taped last weekend's game, but haven't had time to watch it yet. I figure you might not have had a chance neither." He sat back, nailing Harrington with a no-nonsense stare. "You let me take a look at what they did to your chest n' back there, and I'll put it on."

Steve just looked at him a little miserably, a beaten dog still hesitant to wag its tail. "I don't think there's anything you can do for it, it's really mostly bruised. Nothing feels broken though."

"You know what broken ribs feel like?" Wayne questioned partially out of curiosity but mostly to make sure.

Teenage boys loved to think themselves immortal after all.

Or at least his did.

"Cracked, but yeah." Steve admitted. "Couldn't finish out the year on the basketball team because of it."

He said it like it didn't hurt, but Wayne knew better.

Boy like Steve?

He'd bet big bills something like basketball was all the kid really had, in terms of positive relationships.

(Except apparently, whatever had made Hopper decide to look after him.)

"I mostly just wanna make sure nothing looks like it's broken or bleeding internally son." Wayne said, then tried to cinch it with some good old guilt tripping. "I'd hate to have to tell Hopper that after all he went through to keep you safe, you up and died on my couch."

"Hey, it might save him some future gray hairs." Steve responded but he looked a little more open to the idea, at least.

It took a bit more coaxing, but Wayne finally got the kid to take his shirt off.

The damage had him whistling out of instinct.

A fucking artist had gone to town on his torso, with bruised of all shades parading around to his left side.

Thankfully most of it didn't hold that deep, dark tone that indicated any kind of bleeding, his back had scratches and road rash, and his shoulder had one long, thin line that looked a hell of a lot like Steve had narrowly avoided getting cut with a knife.

"You got lucky, kid." Wayne told him.

Steve let out a shaky breath. "I know."

He hesitated, then opened his mouth, a question clear on his face.

Which of course, was the exact moment Eddie chose to walk through the door.

"Hey old man, I--Harrington!?"

"Munson?" Steve said, looking just as confused. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here?" Eddie had frozen in their little entryway, so close the door nearly whacked him on the ass as it slammed closed.

Privately, Wayne cursed his nephew's awful timing.

"What are you doing here?" Eddie challenged back, and it was only years of Wayne knowin’ the kid to see he was struggling to decide how he wanted to react.

“Uh…” Steve said, trailing off and looking pointedly at Wayne.

Eddie saw this just as he registered all of Steve’s injuries. “Shit Wayne, did you hit him with your car?”

“Don’t try to be funny, boy.” Wayne warned. There wasn’t much bite there, and Eddie, far too used to him, didn’t take it seriously.

Eddie was glued to the spot, eyes narrowing, “... Did Harrington hit the car with his fuckin’ face? Jesus christ.”

Wayne could tell he was struggling to pull one of his usual little bits, eyes too wide and voice too high.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Eddie.”

“We can take him out back and shoot him, put the poor bastard out of his misery.” Eddie continued, like a runaway train.

All gas, no breaks.

It was a joke but a poor one, and it made Steve straighten out of his sideways slant.

‘Dammit.’ Wayne thought with a sigh.

He needed to stop this now, before the two of them went for each other's throats.

“Since you already know each other I won’t bother with introductions.” Wayne cut in, before Eddie could blow up like a tea kettle--or cause Harrington to do the same. “Steve’s gonna be staying with us for a while.”

That of course, got the reaction Wayne had been hoping to avoid.

Eddie stood stunned for a second, mouth gaping like a fish.

“Why!?” He finally landed on, seeming both at a loss for words, and equally trying not to have a proper meltdown in front of Steve.

Certainly wasn’t for Wayne’s benefit.

"I'm…" Steve glanced at Wayne a second time, "...on vacation?"

It took everything Wayne had in him not to run a hand down his face.

He was going to give Harrington a pass, on account of the head trauma.

"You’re vacationing here.”Eddie’s tone was flat, but seething, like a lit fuse. “In my living room?”

“...Yeah?” He finished poorly tone up-ticking at the end like it was a question. “It’s a--college thing. Supposed to help my applications.”

This time, Wayne did run a hand down his face this time.

God save him from idiot teenagers.

Hands clenched tight, Eddie took an aborted glance to the right before shaking his head hard and scoffing. At least it let Wayne know exactly what his kid was thinking.

To Eddie’s right was the counter where Wayne kept the bills.

Before he realized just how badly Ed’s daddy had messed him up about such things, Wayne hadn’t bothered to hide the bills that were past due. Turns out the kid noticed such things, and worry over money had been the leading factor in more than one of Eddie’s run-ins with Hop.

Clearly, he thought it was the cause of Wayne entertaining this bullshit.

Offense was written in every rigid line of his body, and Wayne knew betrayal wasn’t gonna be far behind.

“What the hell Wayne!” Eddie spat, taking a singular step forward, the accent he tried so hard to hide growing thicker the madder he got. “We’re not a damn experiment--why would you agree to that!?”

He had seconds to salvage this, before Ed’s ran and did something dumb.

“‘Steve’s here cause I owe Hopper a favor.” Wayne answered honestly, standing to put himself between the two. “He reminded me of all the times he’s been good to you, and then he called it in. Now,”

He cut Eddie off before his rant could pick up steam and bowl them all over. “I need you both to listen to me. Steve, I need Eddie to know the basics in order to keep you safe. I’ll only tell him what he needs to hear to understand why that is.”

Steve stared at him for a moment, catching Wayne’s eye as the elder man positioned himself so he could see both boys at once.

“Okay.” Steve said, dropping the hesitant tone for something serious.

Eddie said nothing, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and gripping the edges of his jacket hard enough to leave creases.

Judging that as good enough, Wayne continued. “He’s not here on vacation, Ed’s. Hopper has asked us to house Steve for a bit due to an ongoing situation. It’s a dangerous one, and it’s important you do not tell anyone that Steve is here.”

Eddie’s mouth did the thing it did when he desperately wanted to say something, but Wayne held up a finger in the universal “wait.” position.

“Let me finish.” He warned, and though he caught a hell of a glare for it, Eddie remained silent.

“Right now I need you to trust me, son.” He said softly, and prayed that alone was enough for now. “I don’t do things without a good reason behind it. I know you know that. Let me get Steve settled, and I’ll come talk to you.”

He could go in depth a little more, outside of Harrington’s eyesight. There Eddie would be inclined to drop the parts of his personality he put on blast as a defense mechanism, and ideally, Steve could get the sleep he so desperately needed.

“It’ll be tight, but we’ll all get through this so long as you two keep your heads. “You both got plenty of problems right now on your own, you don’t need to add to it. You understand?”

Eddie’s eyes narrowed dramatically as he sucked in a deep breath.

“Fine.” He snarled, letting air hiss through his clenched teeth. “As long as King Dick here can keep himself out of my shit.”

Steve didn’t rise to the bait--or perhaps, was simply too tired to want to do anything but exit the conversation.

‘Yes Sir.” He said instead, and Wayne didn’t bother correcting him that time. Simply clocked the title as a nervous tick of Steve’s and let himself feel that brief pang of sorrow that he’d caused the kid to backslide a bit trust wise.

No use for it, though.

Not if he wanted peace in his home.

“Good.” Wayne said.

Eddie stormed past, beeling towards his room.

The door closed with an angry slam, the sound echoing throughout the trailer.

Steve reacted like a puppet with its strings cut, letting out his own breath and going right back to slumping sideways.

“Come on kid.” Wayne said quietly. “I think it’s beyond time you got to lay down. Let’s get you a shirt and some blankets.”

Steve didn’t say a word, just managed to get himself up and over to the couch, fumbling for his bag.

“Oh.” He said after a moment, pulling a green sweater from the duffel and blinking dully at it. “Shit--I mean, shoot.” He shot a guilty look to Wayne, like Eddie hadn’t just sworn up a storm in front of them both.

“What’s the matter?” Wayne just asked.

“It’s nothing, I just-- grabbed the wrong bag.” Steve told him earnestly. It was clear the day had taken a hard toll on him, because he was blinking rapidly, fighting away sleep.

A bad sign, given the energy Eddie had just come in with.

It should be taking him longer to feel safe to drop off, and that he was doin’ so anyway was a bad testament to the state of him.

“You need a different one?”

Steve shook his head. “No this is just my grab bag for the Upsi-errrm.” He hummed, before falling silent for a minute.

Wayne let him fish for words at his leisure.

“These are just clothes that I couldn’t get stains out of, kept them as backups.” Steve managed, before beginning the long process of pulling a shirt on.

Wayne almost offered to help, except he knew he’d likely be rejected. It was too soon, the trust between them not there yet.

He almost let the clothing comment go, figured it as just one of those things the brain did when it was injured and run down. The sweater Steve was struggling with was expensive and soft, and Wayne didn’t even see a stain until the poor kid finally finished getting it on.

He nearly froze, for the second time that day, when he did.

On one sleeve, smeared like Steve had wiped his face with it, was a bloodstain.

This one was old, and clearly attempts had been made to get it out.

‘Aw kid.’ He thought, staring at Steve as the kid managed to swing himself up on the couch, looking seconds away from dropping off. ‘What the hell has life done to you.’

It didn’t take long before sleep took him, but Wayne watched over him for a bit longer anyway, working up to what the hell he was going to tell his kid.

Eddie might very well not forgive him for this, but Wayne had a shot now to head things off before they got worse.

He just had to find the right words.

#small town rumors #steddie #pre steddie #wayne pov #outsider pov #wayne munson is a bamf #hey look eddie showed up!#little shit FOUGHT ME and is still fighting me a bit in the next chapter #I need him to quit being an asshole and go into more of that hurt/comfort section of this fic #hurt/comfort #enemies to lovers #sorta #its on a03 noooowstranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #0o0 fanfics #beat to shit steve harrington

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turtleinsoup · 5 months

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Cute little filler chapter! Nothing to see here. Nothing at all! Don’t even be scared! It’s just Draxum & the Twins having a teeny tiny little talk! :)

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ladyofthenoodle · 2 months

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HI EVERYONE I FINISHED A CHAPTER PLEASE APPLAUD

#i’m so excited about it ahhhhh it’s gonna be so hard not to post #SORRY IT TOOK FOREVER #but i think the final product is well worth the wait #this chapter fought me so hard but i won #eventually

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otaku553 · 1 year

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The eventual kazuha and sanemi dynamic

#kny crossover #genshin impact #kaedehara kazuha #shinazugawa sanemi #one day I’ll finish writing the first chapter. one day #anyways I love thinking about these two #i think platonic relationships are so fascinating #like you could definitely construe so many different friendships as romantic ships but to me these two as friends has so much potential #sanemi canonically dislikes Giyuu because he gives off a ‘better than everyone else there’ vibe that is purely unintentional #and canonically is friends with Iguro for reasons I still cannot figure out #sanemi’s so interesting because it’s not like he’s a purely chaotic character despite what his first appearance would suggest #the manga and genya’s memories clearly show that he has a lot of respect for oyakata-sama because oyakata-sama is not high and mighty and-#does in fact understand every sacrifice that goes into the battles that they fight that he must sit on the back lines for #sanemi is a very loyal person I think once someone has earned his loyalty even though he owes about showing this in very aggressive ways #I think he goes off against genya especially because genya fighting as a demon slayer goes against everything that sanemi has fought for #since they lost their happy lives sanemi has been fighting for at least one of them to still be able to live normally and he probably thinks #that Genya spat on that sentiment by becoming a demon slayer anyways #anyways I think sanemi and kazuha would have such an interesting dynamic #sanemi has the authoritative upper hand as a pillar but kazuha isn’t even a demon slayer which means sanemi’s position doesn’t do much #beyond acting as an indicator that he is one of the strongest of the corps anyways.#they’ve both lost a lot but sanemi still has someone to fight for whereas kazuha is holding onto the last embers of a corpse’s wishes #and I think them having a talk about their motivations would be very good #because I don’t think at this point that kazuha has very much reason to live beyond carrying on Tomo’s wishes #if the swords are parallels to visions I think Kazuha’s turning point will be when he receives his own nichirin sword #sorry for the long tags lmao

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deltarune-au-domain · 4 months

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So, would the Soulgrave version of chapter 3 happen because Noelle opened a dark fountain in Kris's house while they were trying to exorcise her?

In a way, yes.

#i cant draw a fight for the LIFE of me. just imagine its there- i swear they fought just trust me.#soulgrave #deltarune chapter 2 #kris #noelle #toriel #snowgrave #deltarune au #chiller #chiller noelle

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blindmagdalena · 7 months

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Eat Your Ego, Honey (Ch7)

homelander x oc 18+ escort services, sex work, voyeurism, stalking, Homelander in general. see ao3 link for detailed tags. chapter index. check out the playlist!

chapter summary: Following Homelander and Layla's disastrous morning after, she bumps into another hero at Vought Tower. Upon seeing the state of her, Starlight offers solace and the opportunity for Layla to put herself back together before she faces the world. Shortly thereafter, Homelander erupts on live television, changing public perception of him forever.

additional tags: unhealthy/codependent dynamics, panic attacks, references to sexual assault, excessive drinking. this is where all major canon deviations begin! 🖤

Halfway down the hall, Layla hears something crash and shatter in the penthouse behind her. She nearly loses her footing, but by some kind of miracle, she maintains her composure through the walk to the elevator.

She swallows back the taste of her own blood, wipes the tears from her cheeks, and viscerally feels the looks she garners from the handful of bewildered Vought employees she passes. The building isn’t nearly as empty as she would have hoped it would be on a Saturday. Such as it is when the heroes all live in-house.

She presses the button and waits, bitterly musing all the while how utterly ridiculous it is to have two elevators for a building with one hundred floors.

It’s been years since Layla has faced a walk of shame like this. She’s been so careful to curate her experiences–her entire life–in order to avoid this dreadful humiliation. She knows the picture she paints: a skewed and wrinkled dress, her jacket draped haphazardly on her shoulders, bruises scattered on her body, mascara tracks down her cheeks. It’s an ugly, empty feeling.

However, it’s easier to focus on that ugliness than it is to process everything that just happened. She isn’t ready to replay the events in her mind just yet, to backtrack the descent from a blissful morning-after to the bloody mess she stumbled out of.

She touches her tongue to the stinging slice on the inside of her mouth, closing her eyes.

You idiot. You stupid, stupid idiot.

Looking up, she sees a mural above the elevator depicting the heroes of the Seven. Never in her life has she wished more for Transluscent’s power of invisibility. She stares at the painting of Homelander. It doesn’t really look like him, the jaw too wide and too square. His hair is too blonde, lacking his darker undercut. It’s like some kind of caricature of him.

Then again, she’s hardly the expert on the man. This morning taught her as much.

Unfortunately, she isn’t invisible. That much is clear when she physically feels someone stop near her, senses the tentativeness in the air as she hears them take a breath before addressing her.

“Uhm, I’m so sorry, excuse me,” comes a gentle, feminine voice. Layla screws her eyes shut, and forces herself to remember how to be a person. “I’m not trying to be rude, but you… Is there anything I can do for you?”

Opening her eyes, Layla prepares her best placating smile, but she comes short of it when she actually looks and sees who’s talking to her.

Starlight is beautiful. Flaxen locks tumble over her shoulders in loose curls, and she stares with such warm, big brown eyes–so overwhelmingly full of empathy and concern–that Layla is temporarily stunned. She’s thoroughly embarrassed to be seen in such a state by someone so lovely, so widely adored, so much younger, that she flushes.

“You’re so sweet, no, I’m okay,” she says, self-consciously adjusting her coat. She lowers her voice when she says, “It’s worse than it looks, I’m…” She hesitates, trailing off. Starlight has taken a small step closer since she started talking.

She looks wholly unconvinced, and if Layla were in her position, she knows she would feel the same. She pushes out a strained smile, and gives a small shrug, fighting desperately against another bout of tears the longer she’s stared at by those mournful, painfully understanding eyes. The connection is so immediate. It’s raw and human in a way Layla realizes she desperately needs.

“Listen, I’m not trying to overstep, it’s just that I’ve been where you are,” she says gently. Layla recalls the Deep, and Starlight’s very public campaign against him. It’s no wonder she’s responding so urgently. “And if you want, you can come to my apartment,” she offers, standing right next to her now, her voice hushed. “You can get cleaned up, get changed. I have lots of clothes. You’re totally safe, okay? I promise. I’ll be there the whole time.”

Layla wants to tell her that it’s a misunderstanding, but the words don’t come to her. She glances at the illuminated dot on the elevator. Still over forty floors down. The thought of withstanding the ride all the way back down, pretending not to notice the way people are staring at her, makes her nauseous. Fearing that if she opens her mouth, she’ll lose her poise completely, she only nods.

“Okay! Okay, come with me,” Starlight says, putting a hand on Layla’s elbow to help guide her. Starlight walks with impressive command, seeming tall despite her relatively diminutive stature. As they walk together, it isn’t Layla that catches their attention. It’s the shining star at her side. She’s grateful for the cover of her glow, feeling less and less like she wants to disappear into herself.

They don’t speak on the way to Starlight’s suite, but her hand does remain on Layla’s arm. She swaps sides with her when they pass a group of employees, offering them a friendly greeting, throwing in a wave. She makes for a radiant distraction, every move purposeful.

It’s the kindest thing Layla can ever remember a near perfect stranger doing for her.

They reach a distinguished door that perfectly suits Starlight’s ensemble, embellished with white paint and accents of gold. She inputs a passcode that she doesn’t seem concerned with obscuring from Layla–0163–and the door automatically swings open. She leads the way inside, and the door closes behind them.

Only then does Starlight leave her side, walking ahead of her. “Let’s grab you some things really quick, you can just pick whatever, I’ve got a ton of promotional stuff if you don’t mind looking like a walking advertisement for Vought, but really, take whatever you want,” she says, gesturing for her to follow.

Starlight’s apartment is stark and modernistic, full of sharp angles and sleek lines. The archway to her living room is made of thick speckled marble, and beyond that, an accent wall of pure gold. It’s intensely opulent, and while it may suit her hero colorscheme, it’s considerably colder than Starlight herself seems to be. It’s not unlike Homelander’s penthouse in that regard: it speaks only of the image Vought wishes to present.

Following along, Layla says, “Thank you, Starlight. I’m Layla, by the way.” That causes Starlight to stop dead in her tracks, turning around. “Oh my god, I’m sorry, right, hi. You don’t have to–you can just call me Annie,” she insists, laughing at herself. “Wow, I am so tunnel visioned sometimes.”

“Annie,” Layla repeats with a smile. The name suits her far more than this apartment does. “Thank you.”

Annie returns a warm smile before resuming the task at hand. Her room is just as luxurious and sleek as the rest of her apartment, but unlike the other rooms, it’s clear she’s made this space more her own. There’s a pinboard hanging above her dresser with over a dozen photos pinned to it. Below that, a framed photo of Annie in her younger years, donning her classic Starlight attire, standing next to a woman Layla assumes might be her mother.

Etched into the frame is: “He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name.” Psalms‬ ‭147:4

“Okay, so, for real, help yourself to anything,” Annie says, gesturing broadly to the closet. “It’s kind of funny that I even have all of this when they only ever want me in the Starlight get-up.”

Upon closer inspection, sure enough, Annie’s closet is largely of a variety of high-end brands, specifically in crossover with Vought’s brand. Ever prone to opulence herself, Layla can’t help but touch the sleeve of a cardigan that catches her eye. It’s white with a faintly shimmering metallic trim, and slightly bulbous gold buttons. It looks designed very specifically for Starlight, and by a renown French designer no less.

“Go for it,” Annie encourages.

“This is a Balmain,” Layla says, looking at her in earnest astonishment. “This is easily worth thousands of dollars.”

Annie turns a slight shade of pink, looking just as surprised. “Oh, uh… Well, it was–it was a gift, you know. Promotional stuff. A crossover thing, I think, I just… It’s not really me. It’s nice, though! And if you like it, you should take it. I don’t think I’ve ever paid more than fifty dollars for a sweater. I’d just get it dirty,” she says, the words tumbling from her lips like marbles rolling down a flight of stairs. “You seem like you’d make better use of it than me.”

“Have you worn it before?” Layla asks, easing the garment from the velvet hanger that it rests on. Annie shakes her head. “Have you even tried it on?” Another shake of her blonde tresses. Exhaling an amused little breath, she puts the cardigan into her hands. “You should. It was made for you.”

“It was made for Starlight,” she corrects, but there isn’t any trace of disdain in her voice. Instead, Layla recognizes a sense of melancholy in the way Annie stares at the garment.

Starlight–Annie–provides a stark and mystifying contrast to Homelander. There is an aura of disconnect between who she is, who she wants to be, and who the world has made of her. Layla had expected her to be something of a princess: sweet, but aware of her royalty. Not embarrassed by it.

Homelander desperately wants to be the king of his kingdom, but the crown has fallen around his throat, and he chokes violently against it.

“I’m sorry, that sounds ungrateful now that I’ve said it. I just mean that it was made for me to wear, but it wasn’t made for me. It’s–I don’t know, it’s strange being me, but… Not me,” she says, holding the cardigan between her hands, absently moving her thumbs along the smooth, exquisitely soft fabric.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Layla assures her, turning back to the closet. There are more Balmain pieces, as well as a handful of Cucinelli, and even a Burberry gown. There must be hundreds of thousands of dollars hanging in this closet.

“You have a strong sense of yourself. That’s good. This world will eat you alive if you don’t,” she says, combing her fingers through the rows of clothing. Her hand stops on a simple white blouse–still costly, she knows from the feel of it that it’s made of viscose–and plucks it from the rack. She finds a long patterned skirt to match it. “For what it’s worth, I was happy to see this look of yours come back,” she says, gesturing to Starlight’s current ensemble, her signature cape and dress returned to her. The body suit with a plunging neckline and thigh high heels had looked ripped straight out of a playboy magazine, not a superhero lineup. “It suits you,” she continues, finally looking back at Annie, who’s smiling up at her with those big warm, shimmering brown eyes of hers.

Annie nods, idly hugging the cardigan to her middle. “Yeah, I think so, too.”

Layla smiles, folding the clothes she’s selected over her forearm. “That said… it’s okay to enjoy your spoils a little bit,” she says, nodding her head towards the closet. “You’re not any lesser for indulgence. I know, I know–strong women don’t care about pretty clothes, the ones who do are vapid airheads, hell on earth because Eve ate the apple, yada yada. But I’ll tell you a little secret,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. She whispers, “Sometimes an apple is just an apple, and apples… are delicious.”

They both laugh, the undercurrent of unease that had been lingering since the moment they met finally abating.

“Has anyone ever told you that you're, like, dangerously easy to talk to?” Annie asks, hanging the cardigan back up in the closet. Layla notes that this time, she moves it amidst the clothes she regularly wears.

“Yes, people love to tell me things,” she muses, following when Annie beckons her towards yet another room. She’s made an entire career off of making people feel comfortable enough with her to divulge some of the darkest, most secret aspects of themselves. A little girl talk is a welcome reprieve.

The bathroom is as lavish and impersonal as the rest of her apartment, feeling more like a hotel than a personal residence. There are tiny wrapped soaps and Vought branded bottles on every shelf. There are neatly folded stacks of pristine white towels, all of which are embroidered with a golden S. The level of detail to the place is almost unnerving, especially given how very unlike Annie it all is.

Much like with Homelander’s penthouse, it’s like walking through a meticulously crafted custom enclosure, not a home.

“Again, help yourself to whatever, I’ll be in the living room if you need anything,” Annie says from the doorway, offering a little wave.

Layla thanks her, and once the door shuts, she lets out a long, deep breath, her eyes falling shut. Her whole body feels heavy and aching, more exhausted than she can put into words. All she wants to do is lie down and never stand back up, but beneath her dress her skin feels tacky, and her muscles are yearning for the soothing caress of hot water.

She scrounges up the will power to undress and climb into the shower, taking her time to wash away the events of the last 12 hours from her body. The same can’t be said of her mind. Her fingers linger over bruises that have only grown darker, pressing lightly against her tender flesh. Homelander may as well have written his name, these marks ensuring she won’t forget their night any time soon.

It was so very nearly perfect.

She plays it over in her mind again and again, her body on autopilot through washing her hair. His son, the mother of his son, his relationship to them, his relationship to Layla herself, to his own name, it was all… “Complicated” was what he’d called things with his child. That seems to perfectly sum up just about everything in his life. She had tried to spare them the mess of an argument, falling back on familiar coping mechanisms–disconnecting and evacuating to find perspective–but the situation had escalated so rapidly from that point, she can barely track it even in hindsight.

“Please don’t leave me,” he had begged, looking smaller than she'd ever seen him. ”It’s my birthday.”

She doesn’t know how true that is. She’s always assumed the yearly birthday bash Vought celebrates on July 4th was a corporate thing in line with his personification of America, not his actual birthdate. She doesn’t know if this is a further entanglement of John and Homelander, or if there’s something deeper–something more sinister–at play.

Perhaps Starlight can shed some illumination on the matter.

Finishing the shower leaves Layla refreshed, albeit still weary. She draws her hair into a sleek updo and applies her favorite red lipstick as both comfort and armor. She won’t let any more of the world see her in shambles.

Stepping out into the living room, she finds Annie waiting patiently at the circular dining table, pouring over what looks like a script, though she closes the binder when she sees Layla approaching. “Hey!” Annie greets brightly, looking equal parts relieved and delighted. “Hey, wow. You look amazing,” she says, standing.

“I have you to thank for that,” Layla shoots back, reaching to take her hand, which Annie readily offers. “Thank you, Annie. Really. This meant more to me than you’ll ever know,” she says, squeezing her hand between both of hers.

Annie flusters, making a handful of noncommittal, dismissive noises. “No, no, it was the least I could do–and I mean that, okay? Like, the least. I could do more. I’m technically co-captain of the Seven now, and if you… You know, you wanted to–” Layla squeezes her hand again, smiling. “I understand. Thank you, Annie.”

She smiles back, but it doesn’t entirely reach her eyes. Layla can tell that she desperately wants to do more. She’s a hero, after all: she’s looking for a villain to defeat. Unfortunately, there isn’t one in this story. There is no clear cut antagonist for Starlight to conquer.

There are just two people whose jagged edges failed to line up, cutting them both in the process.

“Okay. Okay!” She says, but it’s clear that she’s having trouble dropping it by the way she keeps hold of Layla’s hand. “Okay, but if you change your mind, you can call me. I’m kind of a big deal,” she says playfully, leaning in as if it were a secret. “And I can pretty much guarantee you I can kick their ass. It’s not like it’s Homelander.”

Layla’s expression falters, her smile falling from her lips. Annie recognizes it before she can recover, and the dawning look of horror that comes across her face is one that Layla will never forget.

“Oh my god,” Annie whispers. “It was Homelander? Homelander?”

God damn it.

“Please don’t say it like that,” Layla pleads, expression imploring. “It’s not what you think, it was consensual, it just… It ended poorly, and we fought,” she continues to explain, but Annie only looks more and more bewildered as she goes on. “Please don’t tell anyone. My–our relationship is complicated, and it’s better that no one else knows.”

“Relationship,” she echoes incredulously. “Your… relationship with Homelander,” she says, clearly processing the words as she says them. “Holy shit.”

“Yes, and you’re very sweet to want to help me, and you have, but there’s no villain for you to unmask here,” she says, pulling her hands away.

Annie barks a sharp laugh at that, but catches herself quickly. “Sorry, sorry, that, uhm… Okay. I’m sorry, I just… I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Please,” Layla says again, leveling her with an even stare. “I need you to promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. It’s not something I can afford to be embroiled in,” she says, hoping that Annie’s desire to protect her will extend into this plea for secrecy.

Reluctantly, Annie nods. “I get it, I swear, but are you sure you’re safe? I don’t think you understand who he really is,” she says, her shock and incredulousness fading into a very urgent concern that makes something in Layla’s stomach twist up. “He’s not safe, Layla. Like, I mean really, really not safe. He’s freaking unhinged,” she whispers, as if he could be listening right this moment.

It occurs to Layla that he actually could be.

That twist in her gut sharpens, and her brows furrow. Instead of concern, however, she recognizes it as a sharp jut of defensiveness. Her lips part, but she takes a pause. “Is today his birthday?”

Annie’s expression smooths out in a wave of surprise. “What?”

“His birthday,” Layla repeats a touch impatiently. “Is today really his birthday?”

“Oh, uhm,” she frowns, clearly caught off guard by the abrupt switch in gears. “I don’t know. He certainly seems to think so.”

Huh. Does he truly not have anyone?

“I should go,” Layla says, reaching for her jacket where it hangs off of the back of one of the dining chairs.

“Wait, I’m sorry! I’m reacting badly, I know that, I’m just–I’m worried,” she says, an edge of panic audible in her tone.

“I know, I know, it’s okay. I’m not offended. I just have a lot to think about,” she says in turn, offering a slightly strained smile. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I really do, but I need time.”

She finds herself needing a lot of that lately.

Annie looks wounded and young at this, making her difficult to walk away from. After a beat, Layla moves closer and takes her into her arms, closing her eyes as she squeezes her tightly. “You’ve been a friend to me today, Annie. Thank you.”

The embrace is returned by strong arms that remind Layla this is no simple young woman. She has a similar gravity to her grip as Homelander, but her hold lacks his tangible desperation for touch. When they part, Annie doesn’t leave claw marks.

“I can still be your friend,” she says softly, pressing something into Layla’s hand. Opening her palm, Layla finds a folded posted, and unfurling that, a phone number. “The offer stands. If he… if… Just call me, okay?”

“Okay,” Layla relents, doubting she’ll get out of here if she doesn’t. She slips the paper securely into her purse. “I will. I promise.”

There’s a touch of relief in Annie’s expression at last. She manages a weak smile. “Thank you. Will you text me so I know you got home safe?” She asks, sounding every bit like a fretful mother hen.

“Sure, yes, of course,” she assures, mirroring Annie’s smile. The tension in the air is undeniable, an anxious thing that lives and breathes between them, but there is no fix for it. Layla does what she does best, and turns to flee from it, unprepared to face Annie’s ominous warning head on. The split behind her bottom lip stings when she touches her tongue to it.

All the while, Annie watches her go, her perfect brows pulled into a tight pinch. She has the ache in her gaze of someone who desperately wants to do more, but has been left at a loss for how to do it. Layla almost feels guilty for the distress in her eyes, but currently finds herself lacking the emotional bandwidth for it. She’s stretched so thin, she barely finds the strength to pull the door open.

That little piece of paper in her purse feels heavy, but not as heavy as Annie’s desperate words tumbling around in her head like bowling balls.

“He’s not safe… really, really not safe.”

Layla orders herself an Uber, and this time around garners significantly less attention walking the halls of Vought tower, glancing warily over her shoulder. She can’t shake the anxious–or in some small and twisted way, hopeful–feeling that she might see him looking back at her.

However, he remains a phantom possibility in her periphery. She slides into the car that pulls in to pick her up, and somehow manages to keep herself together on the drive back to her apartment.

It’s already 10am by the time she makes it inside, slipping out of her shoes and her jacket, dropping her purse on the floor, leaving them like a trail of breadcrumbs from her front door to her kitchen. Her head is throbbing, so she grabs a Tylenol from the shelf above her microwave and pours herself a modest glass of a rich dark merlot to wash it down. If she had any sense left in her she would serve herself a mimosa to at least pretend to herself she’s drinking responsibly this early in the morning, but the heavy tang of the red on her tongue makes her temples tingle and soothes the fray of her nerves.

Exhaling a rough breath, she pulls a container of semi-questionable leftovers from her fridge and sits down with it at her computer. Her empty stomach leaves her buzzed from the single glass, but she’s determined to put her mind anywhere else. She eats cold pasta with a spoon, and opens several emails with the intention of answering them, though after about an hour all she has is several half-hearted drafts and a perpetually churning stomach.

Certain that she won’t manage anything more productive, she pours herself another glass of wine and plants herself on the couch in front of her TV. Turning it on, she winces at the immediate flash of Homelander’s face, staring proud and determinedly down at her in an advert for his newest film. Quickly, she flips to another channel, letting out a long suffering breath before taking another swig of wine. She puts on something she’s seen before, something easy, and sinks back into the couch, pulling her blanket off of the back of the sofa and into her lap.

She doesn’t watch so much as she dissociates to the sound of her television, nursing the too-full glass she’d poured, taking the occasional sip as her mind circles the drain of the events of the morning over and over and over.

Homelander crashed into her life like a meteor. In such a short burst of time, he blew a hole in her life the size of a continent, and as she sits by herself day drinking to old episodes for comfort, she realizes how achingly empty the thought of his permanent absence leaves her.

By the time she finishes her glass of wine, she’s slumped almost completely horizontally. She sets the glass on the floor and completes the descent, curling up under her blanket. She passes out in the clothes Annie gave her and falls into a deep, troubled sleep.

Hours later, Layla wakes in a fugue state. Her apartment is silent, the television paused on a prompt that wonders if she’s still watching. The way that almost feels like the warmth of concern for her wellbeing is slightly alarming. With a groan, she pushes herself upright and digs both thumbs into her temples, looking around. 5:42pm.

“Fuck,” she sighs, swinging her legs off the couch. She knocks the wine glass she’d left there flying, and gives another emphatic fuck as she gets up to fetch it. She walks it to the sink, but upon seeing the mostly empty bottle of merlot still open on the counter, she decides she may as well finish it off, and pours the rest into her already wine-stained glass. She carries it to her fridge, where she digs around until she manages to assemble a plate of shredded mozzarella, a pepperoni sausage and a jar of pickled mussels.

She brings her assortment back to the couch and settles right back down in front of the television, taking a sip of her wine before she finds something slightly more stimulating to watch while she piles cheese on the end of the pepperoni with each bite.

The process of eating feels entirely mechanical. She’s only half paying attention to anything, but when she hears her phone alarm suddenly going off, she startles. Untangling herself from the blanket, she goes to where she dropped her purse near the front door, and fishes her phone out of it. Her stomach drops. BIRTHDAY BASH her screen reads. She’d promised him that she’d be watching from home. She forgot that she’d set an alarm.

Layla chews her tongue indecisively on the walk back to the couch, settling down with an uneasy sigh. It’s starting now. She taps her nails incessantly on the back of her phone, stomach twisting. The wine glass is empty and there’s a slight spin to her vision. Sucking in a sharp breath through her teeth, she picks up her remote and flips the channel. She’s met with the middle of a performance, a hero she doesn’t recognize singing some kind of boy band pop ballad.

Her stomach flips wildly. There are golden statues of Homelander on either side of the stage, and she finds she can focus on little else. It’s not hard to understand why he thinks himself a god when he is surrounded by golden effigies of himself and feverish, screaming worshippers. The world has created an impossible standard for all that he is. She absently touches her bruised lip, pressing on it until it stings.

The performance ends, and she recognizes the next hero–A-Train–who emerges on stage. He lends credit to Supersonic for his performance, answering her earlier quandary. She’s taken heroes for granted most of her life, considering herself removed from their fame and services. A part of her had even resented them for a long time. If the world was so full of heroism, why hadn’t any of them saved her parents?

Christ, the wine was really getting to her.

She snaps back to attention when A-Train announces the man of the hour, a severe looking portrait of Homelander flashing on the screen behind him. Her mouth feels dry, and she suddenly wishes she had another tall glass of wine in her hand, but she finds she can’t unglue herself from her seat. She sucks in a shallow breath, paying careful attention to his body language as he steps out onto stage.

Despite the celebration centering on Homelander, the camera favors Starlight as the two make their entrances. It’s surreal to remember that just this morning, she had shared space with each of them respectively. That she was wearing bruises from his hands and clothes from her closet. That feels like another lifetime entirely.

Homelander hasn’t stopped nodding since he stepped on stage. His smiles are tense and fleeting, flickering on and off like a sputtering flame fighting the winds around him. Starlight speaks, conducting herself well, but the look on her face when she’d realized who Layla had been with haunts her, coloring her perspective now. Annie looks like an entirely different person on that stage, voice tight and guarded. She’s not sure how much of that is an echo of He’s not safe. Really, really not safe, though.

Regardless, the announcement is going well right up until–

“Hey, Homelander! Your nazi died!”

Layla’s jaw drops. Anxiety hits like a chunk of ice falling into her gut. The camera remains painfully still, focused on Homelander’s frozen expression. His smile is too wide, full of teeth, and his eyes hollow. The silence left in the wake of that man is chilling.

Starlight intervenes, breaking the tension with an attempt at mediation. “Homelander, he’s just–he’s a human!”

“No,” Layla blurts aloud, standing from the couch. She pushes her hands into her hair. “Oh, Annie, no, no, stop.”

“He’s just like the rest of us. And we all make mistakes, right?”

It’s all wrong. She can see it in Homelander’s face, in the rapid way he’s blinking, in every twitch and spasm of his jaw. He looks like he’s about to explode.

To her mortification, he does.

“I’m not ‘just like the rest of you.’ I’m stronger, I’m smarter… I’m better. I am better!”

There’s so much fury and righteous vindication in him, but so too is there pain. His eyes are glassy, and she feels as if she can hear the wardrum pound of his heart even from here, see the vein throbbing in his neck. He looks like a caged animal lashing at the bars, roaring, demanding that the spectators see him for what he really is. See how tired he is of pacing for them, pretending he isn’t a wild creature that could rip them apart if he simply chose to.

Layla’s sick to her stomach. It feels like watching him rip himself apart in real time.

“You people should be thanking Christ that I am who and what I am because you need me!” He looks directly into the camera, and Layla feels it to her core when he says again, “You need me!”

The broadcast cuts abruptly into a glaringly loud ad, and Layla collapses back down onto her couch, breathing as if she’d just delivered the impassioned monologue.

“Oh god…” she exhales, covering her face. She isn’t egotistical enough to think herself the sole cause of such a catastrophic meltdown–it’s clearly been a long time coming–but witnessing it, she can’t help but feel like she may have been one of several straws that broke his back. The desperation in his glassy eyes from this morning haunts her. His image is everything to him.

What happens to a man like that if he loses it? What happens to the world?

Her mind spirals on a series of progressively more dire theoretical scenarios, and whether or not she could have avoided all of this had she just stayed with him. Talked him down. Her lip doesn’t sting anymore, but the repercussions of this will echo a great deal further.

She winds up pacing for nearly an hour, unable to settle her mind. She tries calling Chris, but after two failed attempts, she remembers their conversation about his honeymoon in Italy with Jason, and she curses under her breath. The other bottles in her bar cabinet are looking progressively more tempting when a distinct thump outside catches her attention. It almost sounds like something landed on her balcony. She thinks it must have fallen from an above neighbor, or maybe a bird, until she gets close enough to realize there’s a person out there.

“Oh my god, Homelander,” she rasps, frozen still in her place. He perfectly silhouettes her own reflection, staring at her through the glass, his expression gnarled in terrible anguish. It’s hard to tell in the dim lighting, but he looks as though he’s been crying.

After a beat of hesitation, she walks to the balcony door and twists it open just enough to stand in it, staring at him at a loss. “Can I come in?” He asks, voice reedy and thin. Pleading. It’s a shocking contrast to the anger she witnessed on the broadcast, but hardly surprising. She could see this torment lurking beneath it even then. It breaks her heart nonetheless.

She can already feel her own eyes beginning to prickle hotly in sympathy tears. “I don’t think that’s a good–” “Please,” he interjects, teeth locked in a tight grimace. “Please, Layla, I don’t… I don’t have anyone. Do you understand? I-I fucked up tonight, I fucked up bad, and I have nothing. If any of it was real, if you care just-just one fucking bit about me, then please. Please let me in,” he begs, bringing up his gloved hand to brace above her head on the doorframe, subtly rocking back and forth.

With every breath she takes, Layla feels the jagged edges of her aching heart pierce her lungs. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she takes a tentative step backwards, and then slowly opens her door to him, adrenaline pumping through her veins a mile a minute.

Of course she cares. She cares so much it makes her feel sick.

With a small nod, he steps inside, shaking out his hands. “Did you… Did you…?” He trails off, seemingly unable to bring himself to properly ask, but she knows what he’s trying to say.

“I saw,” she says gently, closing the balcony door.

“It’s over. It’s over, I’m fucking-I’m fucking finished,” he says with a wild gesture, running his hand through his already mussed hair.

She remains in place, keeping a subtle distance between them. “You’ve been under unfathomable stress. You were mocked on live television for something you’re still grieving, something that wasn’t your–” “It doesn’t fucking matter!” He snaps, both hands in the air. “No one cares about that, no one gives a fuck how I feel,” he hisses through his teeth, fresh tears welling in his eyes. He screws them shut, as if willing the tears to disappear. “I’m not their god, I’m not their hero, I’m-I’m nothing,” he says, starting to tug at the collar of his suit as if it’s choking him. He exhales a rough, mirthless laugh that sounds closer to a keen of pain.

He hooks the fingers of both hands in his collar, sucking in a strained breath, and Layla realizes with a start that he looks like he’s having a panic attack. She moves swiftly to him, gingerly taking hold of his wrists. “Shhhh, let go, let go,” she says kindly but firmly, knowing he responds best to a mix of the two. Thankfully, it works, his eyes meeting hers, his breaths a shallow frenzy.

“I can’t breathe,” he tells her, his confusion obvious in his tone and the furrow of his brow. If this has happened to him before, it’s been a long time.

“You’re panicking. Let’s take this off you,” she says, unfastening his suit top. “Listen to me breathe, alright?” She takes a deep breath in, and then on the exhale, counts out, “One, two three…” Another inhale, then, “One two three…”

She’s seen this happen before. Sometimes her sessions get intense. They can unlock memories and triggers her clients didn’t even know they had. This is far from her first time talking someone down from a panic attack.

He still looks confused, but he lets her disrobe him to his undershirt, the padded suit sliding off of his shoulders. They fight with his gloves briefly, slipping those off first, and then the top falls to the ground with a particularly heavy thud. He keeps his focus on her, and after a few rounds, he’s breathing with her, lips very faintly following along to her repetitive countdowns.

“That’s good, you’re doing so well,” she praises, cupping either side of his head. With her thumbs, she massages his temples. “Little longer now, breathe in, one two three four five…” She counts, holding a longer exhale, and then a deeper inhale. He follows her lead, leaning into her touch, and eventually his eyes fall shut, his breathing even.

Relieved, Layla tenderly pets down either side of his face, relaxing the muscles in his face, hoping to ease him back into himself. When he opens her eyes, they’re dreamy and tired. He looks more devastated than she ever could have imagined him. His eyes nearly close as he leans in towards her, but she turns her head away before he can kiss her. He lets out a strained little whimper, forehead coming to rest on her shoulder. He clutches desperately at the fabric of her shirt like he wants to pull her closer, agonizing for the reassurance of touch.

“What am I gonna do?” He asks morosely. She can hear the tightness in his throat like there’s a hand choking him.

“Sleep,” she tells him, taking his hand in hers. “For right now, all you need to do is sleep.”

With that, she guides him to her bedroom. He’s perfectly malleable in this state, moving when and where she leads him without an ounce of resistance. She sits him on her bed and kneels down to unfasten his boots while he watches her, dazed. She never could have imagined their places swapped like this when she first had him before her, fastening the heels he’d bought her.

Tugging his boots off, she sets them aside. His belt comes next, much too clunky to sleep in. He stands back up for this part, helping her, but he pushes his pants off, too. She supposes the padding likely isn’t very comfortable to sleep in, either. She stops him when he moves to push off his undergarments as well, though.

“Leave those,” she says gently.

“I can’t,” he says tightly, paused with his thumbs hooked under his shirt. “I can’t sleep with… I can’t,” he says, struggling to articulate himself. She wonders if it’s a sensory issue.

“Okay, alright. It’s okay,” she says, helping him to take off his shirt, too, followed by his underwear. Giving his hand a squeeze, she uses her opposite hand to pull back the covers, and gestures him into bed. He goes easily, but when she begins to pull the covers up over him, he stills her hand with his own.

“Aren’t you getting in, too?” He asks, brows furrowed over top of large, watery blue eyes.

She hesitates. “Homelander, I–” He flinches so hard that she stops. His gaze drops from hers, shame written clearly in the lines of his face.

“...John?” She attempts, but he shakes his head wordlessly.

He’s in shambles, and despite the little voice of reason demanding that she create distance, she aches too badly for him to leave him like this. Swallowing, she gives him a gentle pat. “Okay, darling. Move, move in. Roll over,” she says, which he does readily, sliding to the center of the bed. She slips in behind him, and after only a brief hesitation, slides her arm around his middle.

He greedily accepts her touch, laying his arm over hers and interlacing their fingers, letting out a shuddering breath that sounds like relief. He squeezes her hand, and she presses her forehead to the nape of his neck.

Their bodies slot together with such ease, it nearly feels like they were made to. Embracing him like this, she finds she better understands the story of Icarus and why he was so compelled to fly to the sun, even as it scorched him.

There is an inexplicable feeling that comes along with holding close something that burns so hot, that feels so much grander than yourself.

They lay like that for hours. Layla’s not sure how much of it he actually spends sleeping. She drifts in and out herself, rousing when his shoulders shake with silent sobs. She soothes him each time, hushing at his ear while she strokes his thumb with her own. He always settles. Eventually, she manages to drift into a deeper sleep, lulled into it by the heat of him in her arms, cradled preciously to her chest.

Unsurprisingly, he fits perfectly into the craterous void he left in her.

Chapter eight.

#homelander x oc #homelander #homelander fanfiction #my writing #eat your ego #AAAAAA my god i FOUGHT with this chapter #but it's here and it's almost 7k lmao #a thousand blessings on everyone who still cares about this fic and has stuck with me

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pain-in-the-butler · 2 months

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First draft. 21,614 words. Good lird we finally did it

#coattails #developed some new respect for Sebastian. this one fought me every step of the way just like Ciel himself #should be a few more days but I cannot wait to finally share chapter 32

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adrift-in-thyme · 2 months

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At long last here’s CHAPTER 9

First struggles with the increasing severity of his nightmares, and disturbing knowledge come to light.

#*splats*#this chapter fought me so freaking hard #here’s to hoping the next one will be easier #also the formatting is acting weird rn but I’m too tired to figure it out #(the formatting on ao3 that is. it’s not transferring correctly from google docs)#I’ll fix it tomorrow #anyways #hope y’all enjoy #now I’m going to bed #trin writes #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu first #lu chain #first meets the chain au #chapter update

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mxtxfanatic · 9 months

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So i was reading a wangxian fic last night, and it started out great: wwx ran away from yunmengjiang and ended up in the cloud recesses and met lwj and they became friends. I got super excited cuz it was very promising, but then a couple chapters in jc appears and then they do the whole “oh no wwx and jc love each other, they are best bros, wwx left because he didn’t want to cause his siblings pain by them having to be associated with him, jc begs his beloved brother to come back because he will always have a home in lotus pier, etc” and I immediately wanted to throw the whole fic away, but i guess im a masochist (and honestly it’s so freaking hard to find a good wx fic that doesn’t somehow involve the homophobic grape) and kept reading.

That was a mistake, long story short the whole thing ended with both wwx and lwj being best of friends with jc, lsz loving his grape uncle who’s the best and just so amazing and them all living happily ever after. Im so disappointed in myself for reading that crap 😩

Wish I could find that post someone wrote about how in mdzs fics, when Jiang Cheng shows up, the plot and all characters warp to accommodate him. No matter how in-character everything and everyone is, once Jiang Cheng enters the scene, it becomes the most ridiculous fanon mess that breaks even the logic of the story that the fic writer, themself, set up. Op was so real for that.

#mdzs asks #anon #still remembering the fic where the whole conflict was jc explicitly (and overtly homophobically) rejecting wwx’s wish to get married #and wwx fought him on it THE WHOLE STORY #but then in the last chapter jc cries about how he just wants wwx’s life to revolve around him #so wangxian agree that lwj THE HEIR OF ANOTHER CLAN should marry into lp #so wwx can continue to prioritize jc #despite that entitement being THE conflict of the story let me remind you #9 chapters of conflict just to end on the most ridiculous ooc ‘happily ever after’#because the author couldn’t commit to jc not being entitled to wwx’s life

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inyri · 2 months

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Equivalent Exchange (a SWTOR story): Chapter 41: Good Soldiers Follow Orders

Equivalent Exchange by inyri

Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic Characters: Female Imperial Agent (Cipher Nine)/Theron Shan Rating: E (this chapter: M. Trigger warning: graphic violence, depictions of torture, body horror.) Summary: If one wishes to gain something, one must offer something of equal value. In spycraft, it’s easy. Applying it to a relationship is another matter entirely. F!Agent/Theron Shan. (Spoilers for Shadow of Revan and Knights of the Fallen Empire/Knights of the Eternal Throne.)

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Author’s Note: Please note the trigger warnings. I had to step away from this for a little while (all right, more than a little while). Chapters are consecutive, of course, and as I posted the last one and moved to wrapping up this one I found life imitating art in a very, very uncomfortable way. I don’t talk a lot about my work for many reasons. Normally it’s not very exciting. And then there are the days that stay, the reminders that sometimes the world is deeply, viciously cruel in ways that are hard to process. As part of my work I met two men who were subjected to that cruelty, heard their stories, and helped care for them on their paths back home.

The first iterations of this series of scenes were very different from where we ended up. Nine and her team were far nastier at first, which wasn’t really true to her, and then I tried to make it funny which- well, obviously we can see the problem with that approach. So this is where we ended. It’s still an ugly chapter, but here we are.

This chapter is dedicated to AD, AH, and all victims of torture.

Good Soldiers Follow Orders

Theron follows her close as a shadow as they make their way from her ship across the base, dodging carefully around the first watch guards on their patrol routes. A month ago it would have been simple but a month ago they’d been sloppy; since then she’d ordered new watchposts set, new floodlights installed, locked down the turbolift platform to the valley below. There were so many other places to land a ship on Odessen, canyons and clearings and deep, dark forest far beyond the view of the towers, and it would have been far too easy for an infiltrator to sneak in.

Or one might simply use your landing bay. Valkorion’s armor gleams as an arc of light cuts across the path. In through the front door. All comers welcomed. Perhaps Arcann should-

The illusion shatters when she steps through it, the sentence left ominously unfinished.

Second patrol. Third patrol. Through the external door on the heels of a pair of Sana-Rae’s adepts, weaving through the hall and crammed into the back corners of the lift with an absolutely massive Zabrak with a distinct half-ring of glitterstim around one nostril (she makes a mental note- the cantina’s more than necessary but if they’ve got a spice problem that’s another vulnerability they can’t afford), down the hallways into Science Wing and nearly to the lab- outside door’s open, good, but how’s she going to-

Shit.

She’s six steps ahead of herself in contingency plans as usual, mind racing, but that doesn’t matter worth a damn when she fucks up Step One. Stopping so abruptly he almost runs right into her, she grabs Theron by the wrist and pulls him into the darkest corner of an empty meeting room. His head tilts in silent confusion as she reaches toward the stealth generator clipped to his belt. I thought- he starts to sign, one hand raised.

Switching, she replies, left-handed; pulling it free, she replaces it with hers. Backup has a shorter clock when the main’s off. If it overloads-

Theron nods. Bad. Right. Where should I stand?

Back- her fingers stutter as she considers (Void, she really isn’t thinking, is she? She needs to be. One mistake and the whole thing comes apart)- back left corner. You’ll have a five-count to get through the door before it closes, then don’t move and-

Don’t say anything. I know. He repeats the sign, an added emphasis. I promised.

She rubs her forehead, trying and failing to settle the ache building between her eyes. I know. Come on.

***

The inner laboratory door slides closed with a soft hiss, just muffling Theron’s last few footsteps as he settles carefully into the corner, and she lets her stealth field drop.

“I got your message.” Nine forces the words out, forces strength into her voice as she sets the lock. She cannot falter, not now. “SCORPIO, give me the holo. Let’s get it opened up.”

“Commander.” Doctor Lokin looks up from across the room, setting a handful of instruments and an empty syringe- not all clean, she notes- neatly into place on a polished metal tray. Beside him, her would-be killer slumps forward against the treatment chair’s restraints, an intravenous catheter in his right arm and his lower body wrapped in a surgical dropcloth, head covered by black fabric and bound around the middle with thick strips of spacer’s tape. “We were just beginning.”

[ sleepy already, cipher? but we’re only just beginning.

when hunter’s slap hits she startles bolt upright in the chair and then wishes she hadn’t, her ribs shifting beneath the straps like so many shattered potsherds as she grinds her teeth to keep from screaming. she’s screamed so much already and she won’t give him the satisfaction of another, won’t-

hunter gestures- toward the woman, she thinks, it’s getting hard to see now with her face so bruised. let’s wake her up, hm? ah, no- something cold and metallic tightening on her right index finger- the other hand, to start. now the left side, still the index finger, tighter and tighter and oh void it hurts it hurts it hurts she’s got to say something or it-

i’m telling you, she gasps, when those reinforcements get here from- and there’s a sharp snap and she can’t help it and she screams-

keep singing, little bird. I do so hate to have to break your pretty wings.]

Her hand throbs.

“I didn’t tell you to start without me.” Her stomach churns even as she curls her fingers into an easy fist, testing their movement; she couldn’t do that for a month after Corellia so it’s only the memory of pain, isn’t it? “And how long has that tape been on? We need his eyes open, not swollen shut. It’s too fucking tight.”

“If you’re referring to this-” Lokin lifts a pair of bloody-gripped forceps with one finger and a long-suffering look- “your knife tipped his saphenous, and I assumed you would prefer he not hemorrhage before you had the chance to work. I’ve only just run the amytal in, nothing more. But,” he squints at the rings of tape, flips a vibroscalpel from the tray into his palm and before she can even begin to move he slices through the binding neatly, once and then again, “you aren’t wrong. SCORPIO restrained him while I was busy with his leg, but I ought to have-”

SCORPIO turns from the console, shoulders lifting in what might have been a shrug. “My primary directive on Odessen remains operational security, Commander. He cannot share what he cannot see.”

“Yes, but-”

One of the wall-mounted monitors beeps, shrill and insistent, until Lokin prods it with a gloved finger and it lapses into red-flashing silence. “He’s starting to wake. Shall we?”

Void, she hates interrogations. (She used to be good at them once, when she was younger and followed orders better. She used to be good at them because of course, why waste precious time on subtleties when you can simply pry and bend and break and it all comes out in the end either way- maybe in pieces, yes, but that was just another puzzle to solve if one was clever enough, even if it was messier-

Orders were orders.

She used to be good at them once. Before Corellia.)

“Is Lana coming? She’s covering for me with Sana-Rae, I think, but-”

She turns too quickly as the door opens behind her and as she spins the room tips sideways and then it starts to spin, too; pausing midstep, she grabs at the nearer benchtop to steady herself, her left hand raised as a counterbalance. Lana clears the doorway in two steps, the worry lines across her forehead deepening.

“I’ve got you,” Lana murmurs. “We’ve just finished, and I had a feeling you might-” she only wrinkles her nose a little as she glances toward the instrument table- “want my help with this.”

When she nods the world shifts unpleasantly anticlockwise. “Yes. Dialing out blind on his holo’s a losing proposition. With any luck he’ll talk, but I’m not counting on it and we haven’t got the time to wear him down.” Pressing her lips together against a wave of nausea, she inhales. Exhales. Inhales. The spinning slows.

“Physical methods, then?”

She shakes her head- oh, Force, there it goes again- inhale. Exhale. “Just tell me what you see. I’ve been bled on enough today, and if we push too hard-”

“Does it matter? You can’t possibly intend to let him-” at her gesture Lana lowers her voice, just above a whisper- “walk away from this. An attack, here, on you- there have to be consequences.”

“Do I look like a Jedi to you? You know me better than that.” When she says it Lana snorts and rolls her eyes and to be fair she has a point- of course she has a point- but a misstep now could be the last strand of a rope to hang herself by, the final block knocked loose that brings the whole tower crashing down, and she can afford that far less than to give away a shred of undeserved mercy. “You’re a step ahead of me, that’s all. I need the who before I decide the what.”

Lana sighs. “I know. I only- I defer to you, Commander. It’s your decision.”

“Maybe, or maybe it’s Trant’s. But we won’t know until we know, and-” another warning chime from the monitors; another warning look from Lokin. “We’re running out of time. And when we’ve finished I’ve still got to talk to Koth and Senya, and-”

“Already postponed, and that can wait in any case. There’s nothing to discuss that won’t keep for a day. We’ll call them once we’re in transit,” Lana eyes her up and down, “after another round of kolto.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.” Lana’s hand comes to rest beneath her lifted arm; with the world still half-spinning she’d have missed the subtle pulse of energy if Lana hadn’t flinched when their fingertips meet. “Force help me, you’re not - I’ll take it over, Nine. I’ll… I can do it. You should rest.”

“No.” When she shakes her head the room stays level now, at least. It’s something. “No. This is my mess to sort out. Just lock the door.”

***

Five minutes later all she’s got out of him is a slurred sequence of names, ranks, and serial numbers (lying, Lana says each time from her perch behind the chair, though she knew that long before she said it) and the unwavering gut-punch certainty that the man is an SIS agent. With so little actual information to go on and their databases two years out of date- when Theron left he’d downloaded what he could but slicing back into the mainframe to sync them’s a risk none of them are willing to take right now- trying to find a name for her attacker’s useless, with dozens of dossiers a partial match to the same physical parameters: average height, average build, Underlevels accent, Republic emblems tattooed on biceps and back and another handful laser-faded to barely visible outlines. With half the Republic’s infantry dredged up from the Coruscant undercity’s gangs and prisons and half the SIS (and nearly all of SpecOps) poached from the army, she could have shot into the Dealer’s Den or the Red Rancor on a Primesday night and hit five clones of him in a straight line between the door and the bar.

She studies his face from every angle, waiting for a memory to trigger, and- no, still nothing, barely a nod in the corridor or a passing glance in the mess line. Three weeks on Odessen and the man’s practically a ghost, a traceless alias for a name and a ride hitched on a transport from Port Nowhere. Granted, both she and Theron had been off-planet most of that time, but stars, if this one got in so easily how many more could?

That’s a problem for another day. It has to be.

But for now SCORPIO runs the serials, just for the sake of thoroughness, and- ah. Those faces she knows: Corellia, six years ago; a Coruscanti gala, bloodstains on a black dress; Dromund Kaas, only a month or two before Zakuul.

She just hadn’t known their real names, then. It wouldn’t have mattered if she had.

Orders were orders.

“So you’re ten dead men in a trenchcoat, then? And you’re wrong about that last one, by the way. That was probably Cipher Four. I’ve never been to Ord Mantell.” She pushes his commpad away with a scowl. The damned thing’s wiped clean- all the more likely he’d spoken to Trant within the last half-day, then; that was a lesson from Alderaan that only the Director ought to have learned. With enough time they could have recovered it, but they don’t have time. So she turns back to him instead, her thumb and index finger poised on closed eyelids gone puffy from the pressure of the binding. “Last chance to make this easier on yourself. When did you last hear from Marcus Trant?”

“More’n ten. Way more.” His words are less slurred now, the serum finally taking effect, and Lana sits up straighter. “‘nd hells take your easier. You’re gonna kill me anyway, so-”

Void, why are they always so insistent on dying?

She doubts he can see her, so she just adds a twinge of melodrama to her sigh. “Not necessarily, agent. You tried to murder me. Naturally, I objected-” a little more pressure on his eye, just enough that he starts to shift against the restraining strap- “but if I really wanted you dead I’d have let you use your kill pill instead of wasting perfectly good antitoxin on you. I can be civil if you can.”

Lana closes her eyes, focused and still.

“To be clear, you’re alive as a means to an end and it’s in your best interest to cooperate. But you and I know how it goes, don’t we?” When she lifts her open hand SCORPIO presses the holotransmitter into her palm. “Good soldiers follow orders. It’s not personal. You were only doing as you’re told.” She leans in closer, knee jostling against his mended leg just a little harder than necessary as the paper drape crinkles, voice lowered in a simulacrum of confidence. “Stars, I remember those days. He sits in his big office and sics you on a target, unclips your leash and you just- well. Ours not to reason why, hm?”

The cuff around his right wrist clinks against the arm of the chair as he makes an obscene gesture.

Wrong tactic. Well, then.

Her sigh’s loud enough to make him flinch. “And it was all wrong, wasn’t it? All that planning, all that time pacing, writing a five-line message that he never even saw, all for nothing?” His breath stills, his heart rate spikes, and Lokin hooks another syringe to the IV port and slowly pushes the plunger down. “DId you think I wouldn’t see? I’d almost feel sorry for you if it wasn’t so utterly pathetic.”

His head lolls forward against the restraint, a counterpressure against her hand.

“Oh, no, no.” Shifting, she pushes him back upright with two fingertips in the center of his forehead. “Not yet. Not until-”

“I almost got you.” His mouth contorts- it might have passed for a grin in a darker room, teeth bared, feral- and something in his voice makes her hair stand on end. She recoils, pulling her hand away from his face even as he pauses. “So fucking close. Just a few more seconds and I’d’ve bled you dry, Cipher, and then I’d-”

(The words barely register; he’s not the first and certainly not the most creative person to threaten her with postmortem indecencies but somehow they always think it’s going to shock her into silence, as though it’s the single most awful thing that could ever happen when she’s lived through far worse horrors and more to the point she wouldn’t even know, she’d be dead).

“-see enough and you know Shan’d come running- Force, that would’ve been even better, the look on his traitor face even if it was the wrong way round-”

wait.

WAIT.

no, Trant wouldn’t have-

When she blinks she sees it all in the span of a millisecond: half a hundred ways it could have gone, half a hundred indignities inflicted, half a hundred times it breaks Theron for just long enough for the blow to fall. Lana must see something else; she makes the smallest little sound, a muffled gasp of disgust covered over by knuckles cracking in clenched-fisted fury and then a snarled Sith curse she doesn’t understand (but Valkorion clearly does- she isn’t wrong, he murmurs) and it brings her back to herself.

Her comm buzzes; her eyes flick down toward the screen.

Kicking him for breaking comm silence would be counterproductive, she supposes, but what does Belsavis have to do with anything? If Theron knows his name he ought to have just said so, not making her work harder than she already is.

< don’t know him but think I know the unit> <told Marcus it was a bad idea> <don’t think he listened>

That would explain the burned-off tattoos. Stars, has the SIS truly become that desperate? Or was this another Garza project- some experiment likely as not to fail just as Eclipse Squad had, so why waste frontline troops when the Republic had a whole planet full of froth-mouthed maniacs more than happy to keep killing as the cost of their freedom and if things did go bad, well, they were going to die one way or another so what did it matter?

Then SCORPIO blinks once, head turning toward her comm and then, slower, toward the corner and oh, damn it all-

“Didn’t think the SIS went in for necrophilia,” she says conversationally, covering her mouth over a particularly exaggerated yawn as Lokin barely stifles a snort. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell the Jedi. I am curious, though- did you pick that up on Belsavis, or was that why they locked you up in the first place?”

His teeth clench.

“Piracy? Hm, no. Some flavor of war crime, I’m sure- oh, I know. Fragged your CO, I’d bet. You’ve got that sort of look.”

“Onomatophobia. Go fuck yourself.”

(She’d come at it all wrong, hadn’t she?

She’d thought this wasn’t personal because for her it wasn’t. Okay, fine, with Trant maybe it is, now, but this is no old enemy. She only hurt him to start with because he cut her first and deeper and even Theron doesn’t know his name- and stars know his memory’s brilliant, to judge by his stories he remembers everyone he ever worked with and it was far harder for him when they weren’t all just Minder Ten and Fixer Twelve and Watcher Three. The garotte alone might have been sheer bloody-mindedness in a way she wouldn’t have expected from the SIS, but even the Republic for all its supercilious moralizing had its fair share of sadists; Hunter hadn’t truly been one of them but they’d certainly all thought so at the time and still they’d all turned their heads, every single time, even when she’d screamed until her voice gave out.

Of course her control word was in her Republic file. He wasn’t the only one to try to use it, the first ones in earnest and then, when she’d shredded enough of them into bloody little pieces that they realized it didn’t didn’t hold her any more, as a vicious sort of mockery. That worked a bit, she supposes; maybe it always will. Not well enough to save them, of course.

She’d thought it wasn’t personal, that orders were orders and he’d come after Theron because he had to. But stars, she’d been out of the game for five fucking years and he’s practically got her dossier memorized, errors and all, and he’d called Theron a traitor and the first time she really pushes his buttons he-

Oh, this was very personal.)

“No,” she says, and breathes, trying to untie the panic-knot tightening in her chest, “I don’t think I will.” Snatching up a scalpel from the instrument tray as her voice wavers, she presses its tip, just so, beneath his chin. “You thought you were close? Close only counts in horseshoes and heavy ordnance, puppy, and that and a slip of my hand’ll buy you an unmarked grave. And-” he’s trying not to move, trying not to flinch. A single bead of blood wells up beneath the blade and stars, it’d be so easy, just one little movement and stay calm stay calm stay calm- “you still haven’t answered my question. When did you last hear from Marcus Trant?”

Lana exhales as her gaze comes back into focus, lip curling. Whatever she saw, she didn’t like it. “Today. It was today. But beyond that-”

“It’s good enough.” It was never going to be that easy. “SCORPIO, you don’t still have Belsavis census access, do you?”

A yellow flash, and then- “I am no longer tethered to Ward 23, and what I retained is long out of date. Proximity would be required.”

“Never mind. We’ll move on to the holo, then. Doctor?”

“Ready.” Lokin nods approvingly as she sets the scalpel down. “Retractor?”

“Retractor, please. Left eye.”

One click. Two clicks. Three.

The ‘pub squirms, fighting the restraining strap in earnest as he tries to blink against the cold metal instrument. “What are you-” his pupil constricts until she shifts the operating light away- “you gonna take my eyes now, Cipher? Keep ‘em in a jar somewhere, or-”

The holo’s scanner locks on as she holds it level with his forced-open eye. “No, thank you. I never was much for souvenirs.”

It chimes cheerfully as it comes to life in her hand; she flips idly through the settings. The user ID’s a string of alphanumeric gibberish, the message system’s not set up and the whole thing’s still on factory default but she’d expected all of that. It’s almost certainly a burner. The call log’s intact, though, with four time-stamped entries. One: incoming but barely five seconds long, likely a functionality test. Not useful. Two: outgoing, eighteen days old. Confirmation of arrival? That’s a Coruscanti subnet, but that could be a handler. Three: outgoing, one day old, to the same address as the second- they’d landed back from Nar Shaddaa by then.

Four: incoming. Coruscant again, but a different address. One minute and six seconds duration.

Two and a half hours ago.

He said he’d call it off, Void damn him. If Trant kept his word and she’s wrong, if she burns the last thin strands of the bridge between Theron and everything he ever believed in to ashes and she’s wrong-

(He did say he would call them. Reflected in the freezer’s glass door, Valkorion tilts his head contemplatively. And tell them what?

He said-

he said-

[-but those last few breaths last longer if you don’t struggle, don’t they? You’ll figure that out soon enough.]

For the first time she can remember there is something like approval in his smile. So you did hear it, he says. But oh, little Cipher, you didn’t listen.)

She gestures to Lana and Lokin, pointing with two fingers at each one in turn and then the door with a snap of her wrist that sets it throbbing. “All of you but SCORPIO, clear the room. Now.”

Lana blinks but it’s Lokin who speaks first. “Commander, if I may? If you plan to proceed further, the subject may require additional stabilizing mea-”

“Wait outside until I call for you. That’s an order.”

He’s halfway to the door before Lana starts to move from the benchtop and even then she pauses beside her as she passes, one hand on her shoulder and her mouth lowered level with her ear. “You’re not getting Valkorion involved? I know you’d rather not dial out blind, but I thought I felt-”

“I’m not,” she murmurs in reply. “On either count. But if this goes bad I don’t want you in the room when it does.”

“All right.” The sheer force of disapproval contained in Lana’s sigh might have leveled buildings; it isn’t all right and they both know it but it’s far too late to argue over it now. “Should I go and find Theron, then? I can think of some excuse to keep him with me until you’ve finished.”

They both startle at the sound of SCORPIO’s voice. “Unnecessary. He is-” her heart stops as the droid’s eyes flicker- “secure.”

“We can’t be certain of that. He still doesn’t know, does he? If there’s a second-”

“I see many things that you do not, Lord Beniko.” Five metallic fingers uncurl ceilingward (not toward the corner; her heart stutters, then resumes). “I am perfectly certain.”

Lips pressed together, nostrils flared, Lana grits her teeth against a retort before she simply continues toward the exit. “Then I will wait,” she says, a sparking halo of electricity coiling around her words as the door slides shut behind her, “until I am needed.”

And then the room is quiet save the beeping monitors, the ‘pub’s ragged breathing and the sharp rattle of his restraints, and Nine glances sidelong at SCORPIO as she settles herself carefully in the blind spot on his right. “Be nice.”

“Error. Program file: nice not found.”

She must have iterated again; the sarcasm’s new. Rolling her eyes, she glances down at her comm again.

< Also, you are welcome.>

She flicks an ironic salute toward the droid and that too makes her wrist ache. More time in the tank, then, on the way to Voss. More time lost that she can’t afford and a favor owed that she probably can’t afford either- stars know SCORPIO’s kept secrets for her well enough through the years but she’s no particular fondness for Theron; the last time he’d cracked a joke about needing a processor update she’d signal-locked his implant to play That Slippery Little Hutt Of Mine on repeat for forty-three minutes straight until half his face was twitching and he’d finally apologized- but hopefully that can be negotiated. Ongoing access to the network, maybe. Lana will fuss and she’ll be right, but if that message had gone through unintercepted they all know what it might have meant. It’s a small enough price.

“If you’re done arguing-” the ‘pub’s slurring again. He’s burning through the serum faster than she’s ever seen- “either get this thing off me or-”

If he keeps that up she may as well not bother with the call. She ought to have known better than to think that he’d say much of anything useful but his ranting’s absolutely tedious; they’re going to need to gag him after all, aren’t they? It wasn’t supposed to be that sort of interrogation, but she also hadn’t particularly expected him to- oh, if he calls her that one more time she might just stab him after all. (Like he’s got any room to criticize- all her old sins could overfill an archive but at least she’s not a stars-damned corpsefucker.) “Shh.” When she tilts her head toward it SCORPIO picks up the spacer’s tape and tears a strip from the roll, pressing it firmly over his mouth until th+e noise quiets into muffled incomprehensibility. “That’s quite enough out of you, I think.“

Hm. That brings to mind a better idea, actually.

“Do we have enough input for a voiceprint? Something like this?” Tapping a brief message into her commpad, she sends it through to SCORPIO. Only a few lines, but if it truly is Trant on the other end of the connection it should be enough to be certain.

It has to be enough.

She doesn’t look toward the corner. She mustn’t look toward the corner.

“Way more than enough.” It’s near enough a perfect mimic. SCORPIO folds her arms smugly and the ‘pub goes grey. “Prepared for playback.”

“On my signal, then, but give me a twenty second delay on video.” Her fingers twitch despite themselves, tingling at the tips; she forces her breathing into rhythm. (Lana was right. She isn’t fine.

Lana was always right. But she doesn’t have a choice.)

Inhale. “And prep the package files for transmission on verbal command. No passcode.” Exhale.

A pause, a flash of scarlet. Inhale. “Yes, Commander.”

Exhale.

Inhale. She smooths her hair back, adjusts her collar carefully under her chin, slaps both cheeks briskly with closed fingers to bring a little color into them and even that little jolt rattles her brain inside her skull. She considers, briefly, the backs of her eyelids. That seems to help. Exhale.

The far corner remains quiet.

She lifts the holo in line with the ‘pub’s eye once more as his pupil shimmers finely from side to side; they’d definitely pushed the dose too high but even so it’s far faster than it ought to be, chasing some other vice out of his system, and the camera struggles, beeping and chirping error after error until finally it locks on.

Inhale. Exhale.

She meets SCORPIO’s gaze, scrolls back to the end of the call log, and presses redial.

Inhale.

“Connecting.” The tinny synthetic voice of the SIS operator sets her nerves on edge. “Connecting.” Come on, pick up-

The channel opens with a click and she nods, lets her breath out into the following silence before the voiceprint begins.

“It’s done. Shan and the Cipher. Wrong way ‘round, but-”

“Well-” the video delay goes both ways but she doesn’t need it, she’s heard Marcus Trant’s voice in so many briefings it’s burned into her brain; the last brittle shard of hope she’d clung to shatters and leaves her with nothing left but rage. How dare he- “it’s about fucking time.”

Oh, she is going to end him.

***

Nine’s body language shifts then, her spine rigid where she’d been starting to hunch forward in fatigue, her hands fisted, fingernails digging hard into her palms. Her stance settles, just a little wider, forward on her toes; her chin lifts. He can’t see her face, still angled toward the prisoner.

“Send the photo confirmation, then execute extraction- and get your video on. Where are you?” Force, he’s going to throw up. Even when Jonas told him, even after hearing Marcus with his own ears he hadn’t wanted to believe it. He’d called it off. It had to be a mistake- or maybe Nine’s paranoia got the better of her (and he knows why and he doesn’t fault her, she can’t help Valkorion in her head and the poison he’s feeding her day after day after day) and this was just another shadow to peer into. Dragged into the light, it would have been nothing at all. A mistake. A mistake.

She nods to the droid once again. “ Just a few more seconds. Bad connection but I’ve almost got it.”

He shudders. The copywork’s uncanny and he knows for sure that’s not all readback. If SCORPIO gets it in her head to playact as one of them, starts giving orders in Lana’s voice or Koth’s or his own? He’s no reason to think she would, but whatever loyalty she seems to owe starts and ends with Nine. They’ve got to talk about it, at least.

Nine angles away from their prisoner, raises the comm chest-high as the little hologram springs up in the hollow of her hand. He can see her better now, her face blank and beautiful and perfectly, utterly cold, and then she smiles and-

(He has spent far more time than he’d ever admit to, from Rishi to Ziost to Zakuul to tonight, every hit and hurt and shattered bone and her bloody armor left in a pile again and again on the medbay floor, being scared for Nine.

This might be the first time he’s honestly been scared of her.)

“Hello, Director,” she says. “We’ve really got to stop meeting like this.”

It’s only a little flinch, but it’s there. “Cipher. Still alive, I see.”

“Commander. You lied to me, Marcus. You know what happens now.”

“I think you’ll find that I didn’t.”

Every syllable of her laughter’s a rifle shot, clear and piercing. “Yes, yes. You said you’d call, and you did.” By his posture he’s caught and he knows it, back straight, shoulders set. “But you know perfectly well that wasn’t our agreement. To go by the way Theron spoke of you I’d have thought you an honorable man, but-”

Marcus lifts one hand, a futile placation as Nine’s mocking smile fades back into hard-eyed silence. “I really am sorry about Theron, for what little it’s worth. He-”

“You’re sorry?” That wasn’t a laugh, not quite, halfway caught in her broken throat. “You’re certainly about to be, but Theron’s fine. This puppy was just as stupid as the last one- worse, actually, since he got himself caught in the bargain.” She turns her body, lets the camera capture the prisoner behind her straining against the chair straps in wide-eyed muffled fury. “He never got anywhere close to Theron.”

“He knows, then?” (He still can’t see Marcus’ face. He isn’t sure whether he wants to.)

She shrugs, noncommittal. “One thing at a time.” Her free hand gestures vaguely toward the instrument tray. “I’ve been a bit busy, I’m afraid, and now I’ve got all these dossiers to send off-”

“I’d suggest some time in kolto first. You don’t look at all well, Cipher.”

“Commander.” When she blinks her eyes stay closed half a second too long and she sways back and forth and stars, she needs to sit down before she falls over but she’s too stubborn to let anyone see her hurting. He knows her tells now, though- her jaw clenches, her left hand curls and uncurls. “Five years in carbonite couldn’t kill me. You honestly thought a garotte would be enough?”

“No,” Marcus says softly. “Not really. But we make do with what we have, don’t we?”

“I suppose we do. SCORPIO, transmit file Eclipse . Full recipient list.”

One red flash, two green. “Transmission complete.”

(She really did it. Oh, fuck, she really, actually did it.

He should never have gone home. He should never have gone-

It isn’t home. Not any more.)

Marcus sighs. “Where?”

“Everywhere.” Nine looks up abruptly as one of the monitors sounds yet again; she reaches up and simply shuts it off completely and at this angle he can finally see properly, both of their faces in profile. “Every reputable news service in the Core Worlds and about half of the disreputable ones, so you may want to warn your receptionist. I suspect your switchboard’s about to melt.”

“She’ll handle it, and Eclipse Squad was Elin’s mess. I’m afraid I can’t comment. Now, if we’re finished-”

“We are not. Transmit file Legate. Full list. Call it off. Now.”

One red flash, two green, and Marcus winces, his composure finally breaking. “Are you out of your fucking mind? No one came out of that clean, you least of all.”

“I might be.” A knock at the door- no, it’s there, not here, and a comm chiming. “But Legate died in a warehouse collapse on Quesh, poor thing, though with all those warheads going up at once confirming it was quite impossible. Pity.”

A single vein pulses across his forehead.

“Call it off.”

Another knock. “Do you think Theron will believe that?”

“He doesn’t need to. He knows about the Castellan restraints- he’s known for years.” She glances, for the smallest fraction of a second, toward his corner. “I think he’ll understand if I blur the truth a little.”

(He nods before he remembers she can’t see him. Of course he understands. He wishes she hadn’t done it, wishes she hadn’t needed to do any of this, but of course he understands.)

The room goes quiet, the stillness broken only by restraint buckles clinking against the chair frame.

“Do you think he’ll believe this?”

The angle of her head’s a wordless question.

“What wouldn’t you do to bring down an enemy? The head of the SIS, no less.” The framing of the projection changes, the bottom edge of a screen coming into view as he stands up slowly from his desk. Marcus’d always lived at the office, one of so many bad habits he’d passed down to him over all the years they’d worked together (the work always comes first, he’d said. It always will. It will take everything you can give to it and then it will take more and you’ll swear and shout and threaten to quit. And then you won’t, because this is what we were made for. And that is how we win). “It’s everything you ever worked toward. So: a foiled assassination attempt in your own base- how terrible.” He clicks his tongue, a mocking little tsk. “You’d have to retaliate, and who would fault you?”

Nine’s eyes narrow.

“But if it came out that you set it all up- a few intercepted messages, perhaps, shared by an old friend-”

Her lips draw back from her bared teeth. “Stay away from him.”

“I’m finished,” Marcus says. “I know that. But that doesn’t mean you get to win. Once a iiar, always a liar, Cipher Nine. Who do you think he’ll believe- you? Or me?”

No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t . Not that it would have made a difference, but Marcus couldn’t have known that- Force, he really is going to throw up.

(When Theron joined the SIS he was seventeen years old and every adult he’d known for more than a galactic standard month had abandoned him, sold him out or simply sold him at the first sign he’d outgrown his usefulness. It took nearly a year on Coruscant, nearly a year of steady paychecks and a bed to sleep in every night, before he owned more clothes than he could fit into a go bag; it took almost two before he stopped apologizing for asking for equipment. But Marcus never gave up on him, even when he fucked up (which back then was more often than not), even when he bristled and snapped like a half-wild animal, even when he wanted to give up on himself. If Master Zho had been the nearest thing he’d known to a father- stars knows it wasn’t Jace, especially not now- Marcus had come close too, once.

Once.)

She takes a deep breath. She’s fading fast, now, hands tremulous even as she’s fighting to keep the holo steady. He can’t just sit here and watch this, he can’t, he can’t-

“Her,” Theron says, letting the stealth field drop as he takes a step forward and she spins, startled, at the sound of his voice. It comes out as a gasp; he doesn’t even know how long he’s been holding his breath. ”Who do I believe? Her. Always.”

Marcus buckles like he’s been gut-shot, bracing himself against his desk. “You- you said you hadn’t told him yet. You said-”

“I think you’ll find that I didn’t.” Nine smiles, absolutely feral and absolutely beautiful, and he steadies her with one hand at the small of her back. “Though as you can see, I really have been busy.”

The last time he saw that look on his face was the day the blockade went up around Coruscant. “Hello, Theron.”

“Hello, Marcus.”

He sits back into his chair, heavy, elbows resting on the desktop. “This office would have been yours, you know. You were ready for it. But you’re on the wrong side of the war.”

“Which war?” Nine says it at the same time he does and then she dips her head, ever so slightly- you first. “We’re here fighting Zakuul. We’re here fighting Arcann,” he continues, “and we’re finally winning. I know you know that. I know Jace knows that, and I know you’re both still fighting the same fucking war against the Empire that you’ve been fighting since before I was born because for you that’s the only thing that matters. But I’m not.”

“You dare-”

“I made my choice,” he says softly. “Now you make yours. Are you going to drag the whole SIS down with you?”

Marcus rests his head in his hands. For a moment it’s the day after the Ascendant Spear, the day after Ziost, the day after Tython, the weight of a thousand impossible choices and ten thousand lies pressing down on him, and then he looks up and shakes his head. “No.” He sighs. “No, I’m not. What happens now?”

“Resign,” Nine murmurs. “Retire. Disappear before the Senate comes for you, or let them scapegoat you: I don’t care what you do, but you will call this off. You will do it now, and if I ever have reason to doubt you- if anyone from the Republic so much as breathes harm in Theron’s direction- the Ralltiir file goes public.”

Someone’s pounding on his office door, a woman’s voice shouting something incomprehensible as he reaches out of frame, and then a few moments later a series of four tones in a cadence burned into his own memory- send message; subnet selected; confirm?-

Message sent.

The holotransmitter in Nine’s hand chimes.

“Done. Now, if there’s nothing else?”

Nine turns once more (and he turns with her, careful) to put their prisoner back into frame. “What do you want me to do with him? I’d put him back on Belsavis if I was you, but-”

Marcus stands up abruptly, even as he makes a face as she says Belsavis, at the unmistakable sound of a single round of blaster fire and the hiss of a door sliding open. “Elin,” he snaps, “not now -”

“Yes, now.” General Garza’s got a blaster pistol in one hand and a commpad in the other when she crosses into camera view. “I just got a fucking call from the fucking- oh.” She cranes her neck toward the projector. “Well, we can fix that problem, at least-”

The call disconnects abruptly.

Nine sags against him, exhausted. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I know I promised-”

“Commander.” He’d nearly forgotten SCORPIO was still at the console until she speaks, and he’s never heard that tone from her before; he looks sharply up at her and follows her sightline. The prisoner’s sitting bolt-straight, back rigid, eyes wide, and a high-pitched whine like a drill through durasteel shrills warning from somewhere that isn’t his mouth- “Commander, get down!”

All Theron can do is drop where they’re standing, his body a shield over Nine’s, before there’s an awful wet noise and the smell of blood and something else familiar in his nose, hot and metallic and not his and not hers and even though he knows he shouldn’t he looks up again and oh, fuck-

The lab door slides open and Doctor Lokin comes running into the room, Lana just behind with her lightsaber blazing, and they both stop short at the sight of it, at the ‘pub still strapped into the chair with half his head just gone and at him and Nine on the blood-spattered floor.

“What- who-” Lana covers her mouth with her free hand. “What in the Void happened?”

Nine’s shaking so hard she can barely move; he curls her close against him to keep her upright. “Not me,” she whispers. “Not me.”

#inyri writes #equivalent exchange #swtor #swtor fanfiction #imperial agent/theron shan #nine/theron #cipher nine #thank you all for your patience #as i wrote this one fought me for a very long time #so i hope it was worth the wait #and the next chapter is kinder to them i promise

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sp0o0kylights · 1 year

Text

Adopt a Jock Part Four / Part Five P 1 YOU ARE HERE / Part Five P 2

As always I own my soul to @chalkysgarbagefire and Hayley for helpin out with this one!

The problem with D&D games was that the drama room was only available on specific days.

As in, the days Hellfire was scheduled as a club for, much to said club’s distress.

This led directly into the second issue Hellfire faced--finding a place to host them all when they wanted to do something as a group outside of the main campaign they played.

(At least anything D&D related, with all of the screaming, ranting, and frantic dice rolling that came with it.)

Gareth knew Eddie had been lying through his teeth when he'd try to pitch Steve's house as a Hellfire hangout. Accepted that they’d never get to use all the sweet, sweet space Steve was known to have as much as he’d accepted Steve himself.

It was a lot, after all. Particularly when Eddie’s one-shots were known to last a good chunk of the day.

Once again, Steve had proved them all wrong.

(“We can use my house.” were five words not a single person at the table had ever expected to hear out of Harrington’s mouth, and it showed in the shocked silence that followed when he actually spoke them.

“What?” Steve asked, as six pairs of eyes stared at him. “Space is the problem right? So my house is the perfect solution.”

“Are you sure dude?” Grant asked hesitantly. “You know this one-shot isn’t gonna be a like, two hour thing, right?”

To their surprise Steve just gave him a flat, almost dead-eyed stare in return. “I’ve hosted the kids at my place before. Believe me, I am well aware.”

“As long as you’re absolutely sure…” Jeff had added, and could only roll his eyes when he got a sassy response from Steve.

Gareth of course, caught the way Steve kept seeking out Eddie’s eyes, as if hoping to make their oldest friend smile simply by offering up his house.

He didn’t even need to look to know it was working.)

It had taken some creative thinking (and a few wild excuses) to finangle things so that he could show up to Steve's literal castle of a home before anyone else without alerting Eddie but he'd managed it.

It was in fact, looking to be the highlight of Gareth's month.

Possibly the year, if they managed to pull off the little plot he had cooked up.

“I still don’t get how this is a prank.” Steve said, as Gareth prepped him before the others arrived.

"Trust me. If Eddie is anything, it's a jealous bitch." Gareth replied, seated on one of the countertops. "We dethrone him and he's gonna make an ass of himself for the next week. It'll be hilarious."

"I fail to see how that's different than usual." Steve grumbled as he bustled about.

Upon arrival Gareth had found him elbow deep into making cookies and what appeared to be themed cocktails, among several other bowls full of snacks of all kinds.

There was even little finger sandwiches, the kind that absolutely looked homemade, and Gareth would have teased him about that except he’d instantly stuffed two in his mouth.

("I won't be able to host since I'm playing, so I just want everything done before anyone comes over." Was Steve's explanation, when Gareth did manage to get out a few teasing quips.

With the proud lack of manners so many teenage boys possessed, Gareth talked right through his mouth of food. "God you’re a dork. How the hell did you get popular?"

"Shut up Emerson, you're wearing two jackets." Steve snipped in response, as if he didn’t look like the poster boy for Nordstrom.)

"Don't bring logic into this." Gareth continued, as he tried to snag some cookie dough.

Steve smacked the back of his hand with a spoon.

"Get a bowl and a spoon if you're going to eat the dough!" Steve grumbled at him, already bustling to get said bowl and spoon himself. “God you’re worse than Eddie. And the kids!”

Gareth waited until Steve turned before he stuck his tongue out at him. "Whatever you say, mom."

He got an over exaggerated eye roll in response.

"Anyway, the point is you're gonna witness something we'll get to tease Eddie about for years." Gareth said, as he watched Steve dole out some dough.

"You get to watch the little hamster on the wheel that powers Eddie's brain lose its shit and cause him to do something really stupid.” He made grabby hands for the bowl and spoon, and tucking in delightfully the second Steve handed them over.

Steve himself treated the entire exchange like he was feeding a particularly vicious and wild animal, making a show of yanking his hands back like Gareth might just go for his fingers. "I just don't understand why the thing you wanna fight about is cuddling."

"Bragging rights. The jokes we can make. The fact that your thighs look like they were made out of clouds, take your pick man.” Gareth counted off, in-between bites of dough.

"Clouds?" Steve asked, tilting his head.

“Big muscley clouds, Harrington. Also Grant’s here.”

Steve blinked. “How do you-” He asked, right before the sound of a car with an engine far too loud pulled into his driveway.

“He drives an absolute piece of crap. You ride in that thing one time and you’ll be able to hear it coming for the rest of your life.” Gareth explained, as Steve peered out the kitchen and down to his front doors.

(Plural, because he had two.

Gareth had never felt more judged by slabs of wood in his life than he had when he’d walked through them.)

"Last chance to bail, Stevie.” Gareth teased. “I won't hold it against you if you call it off mid-show though."

Steve didn’t answer for a moment, too busy disrobing from his baking apron—a bright yellow and red garment that practically swallowed him whole, complete with an embroidered ‘Claudia Henderson’ over the right breast. The embroidery gave rise to a few questions but Gareth decided to save them for later.

"No, something this fucking weird has to have a story behind it and I want to witness the fallout.” Steve finally replied, before rushing out of the kitchen.

He ripped open his front door, right after a knock echoed loudly throughout the house.

“Shit! What the hell man, were you just waiting to do that!?” Stewart yelped, prompting Gareth to snicker quietly and Steve to apologize.

Like the wealthy housewife he’d been no doubt raised by, Steve went through a whole spiel as he ushered Stewart and Grant in, pointing out bathrooms, letting them know where the game was going to take place (the giant fuck off table that looked like it should be hosting some kind of high-stakes negotiation instead of a bunch of nerds) and where they could put their things (into a closet dedicated to just guests.)

The trio of Eddie, Tiffany and Jeff arrived next, the latter two having been roped into helping Eddie haul his “D&D To Go” bags around.

Steve started his little host speech over, much to Gareth’s amusement, fluttering about and entirely forgetting about his cookies until the oven dinged, causing him to swear and rush back into the kitchen.

“Dude, breathe.” Gareth told him, almost done with his bowl. “It’s a D&D game, you don’t gotta go full out for us.”

“I just want to make sure everyone has a good time.“ Steve said with a shrug. Like none of the effort he’d gone to, was a big deal.

“Careful Harrington, say stuff like that again and we’re going to start thinking you enjoy hosting us.”

“Shut up Gary.” Steve said, setting his cookies on a cooling rack. “And put that bowl in the sink!”

Gareth jumped off the counter, trying his best to remove the shit eating from his face.

He failed entirely.

xXx

As far as pranks went, this one required quite the set up.

They couldn’t do it in the beginning of the D&D game--too obvious, and too easy for Eddie to call bullshit.

Doing it at the end wouldn’t work either. Eddie would know they were trying to rile him up and would no doubt find a way to ruin it.

Years of being Munson’s best friend had afforded Gareth the knowledge that this was going to have to be split in two parts, and the first part, the setup, started now.

Slowly. Methodically.

In a way that wouldn't spook Steve, or trigger Eddie's sense for trouble.

Gareth began by selecting a seat as far away from Eddie as possible, knowing his lovestruck idiot friend would be pulling out all the stops tonight in order to impress Steve (and get him to keep playing, of course.)

Sure enough, as soon as Eddie was done setting up he crooked a finger in Steve's direction.

“Harrington you’re here, next to me.” Eddie flashed him his most award winning grin, the one that said he was up to trouble in that charming, ‘aren’t I just a charming ol’ rogue?” sort of way.

“I made you a human fighter, just to start you off." He continued, as Steve took the seat next to him. "You can always make your own character later if you don't like playing this class, but I made this set up as straightforward as possible.”

“Human fighter huh?” Steve said, glancing down the sheet. “Okay.”

“You have any questions, you just ask. I promise I won’t bite. Not for your first time anyway.” Eddie winked, dipping in and out of Steve's space as he did so.

“Dude, I am begging you to please stop saying shit like that.” Jeff said with a long suffering sigh.

“No.” Eddie replied promptly, sticking his tongue out.

Steve just ducked his head to hide his smile.

A harsh clap halted any further response, as Eddie settled back into his seat and dipped into his DM narrator voice.

"Alright my little adventurers! Are we ready to begin?" He looked around as everyone looked towards him, the energy shifting instantly in the room.

Eddie grinned gleefully. "Perfect. You all wake up at an Inn, with no memory of how you got there…"

A story was quickly spun, one of mysterious memory loss and a sense that the group needed to stay together. Introductions were given once everyone came into the tavern of the inn, cut short when they were interrupted by a lone barkeep.

“Is the barkeep a human?” Steve cut in.

Eddie paused, temporarily thrown, but nodded encouragingly. “Yes, he is actually!”

Grant and Jeff both went to open their mouths, no doubt to tease, but Harrington beat them to it.

“Okay, I roll to fight him, or whatever.” Steve said.

“I--what?” Eddie asked.

“I roll to fight him.” Steve repeated. “Oh and my character screams “Death to humans!” before he attacks.”

He sat back with a smug little grin, and watched as Eddie froze in surprise, while Grant and Stewart's jaws promptly hit the floor.

“Harrington, you menace.” Tiff cackled, delighted.

Eddie just threw his head back and laughed.

It set the tone quite nicely for the rest of the one-shot.

xXx

“Grant, why are you looking at me through a fork?” Steve asked, about thirty minutes into the game.

“I’m pretending you’re in jail.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Grant, whose character had to physically carry Steve's fighter out of two altercations he started, just gave him a flat look. “It’s spiritually healing.”

"Hey Jeff." Gareth asked quietly, as banter was traded. "I'm catching a hell of a draft over here."

Jeff raised an eyebrow at him. "And what do you want me to do about it?"

"Switch me seats?"

Jeff rolled his eyes, but gave in easily enough.

"Fine." He said.

Gareth did his best to keep his grin off his face.

Step one, complete!

xxx

"You come upon a door." Eddie said, sitting deep in his seat while steepling his fingers. "It's a normal door, unremarkable in every way except for two things."

Groans filled the room, startling Steve.

"Oh god, not again." Stewart moaned, raking his hands through his hair. "I can't do this again!"

Eddie's grin merely grew. "The first odd thing you notice is that the door has been put into the wall at a tilt."

"I'm gonna kill him." Tiff snarled, writing something frantically in her notes. "Munson is a dead man walking."

"What is happening?" Steve asked, glancing around.

"The second thing is that you recognize this door." Eddie's grin was Cheshire cat-esque, smug in the chaos he was causing among his friends. "It's the same door you saw at the beginning of this adventure, leading into the room the Innkeeper asked you to stay away from."

"We're boned." Grant announced, throwing himself dramatically back against his chair.

Gareth made his own dramatic, frustrated noise, banging his fist on the table.

The full glass of soda next to him wobbled dangerously.

With a cough, he made another loud "ugh!" smacking his fist down a second time, closer to the glass.

As intended, it spilled all over Tiffany.

"Dude!" She exclaimed, shoving her chair backwards and jumping up.

"Oh shit Tiff, I'm so sorry!" Gareth gasped.

It was hard to keep a straight (albeit very sorry, least Tiffany hit him with her papers) face, but he managed.

Barely.

"You got my shirt wet you dick!"

"Here, switch it with this." Gareth stood, unwrapping the red and black checkered sweater from his waist. He offered it up with an apologetic face as Tiff snatched it out of his hands with a glare.

"I'll switch you seats too!" He called as she stormed off towards the bathroom.

Jeff and Grant both stared at him with raised eyebrows as Gareth quickly shuffled his and Tiff's stuff around, taking her now sticky chair.

"Maybe we should take a break?" He suggested, trying to act embarrassed when he was anything but. "This whole area needs to be wiped down."

"Five minutes." Eddie conceded. "I wanted one of Stevie's delicious cookies anyway." He stood, putting his arms up in a lazy stretch.

Steve stood with him, leaning over to examine the mess Gareth had made. “We can wipe this down but this wood’s kinda funny, it’s gonna be wet for a bit no matter how much we dry it.”

“Well shit.” Gareth said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about the table man.”

Steve waved him off. “Don’t worry about it, the kids spill on it constantly. You are probably going to need a different chair though unless you’re fine with your ass getting wet.”

“Do you have another chair somewhere, Stevie?” Eddie asked, making a show of looking around. “Cause I’m not seeing one. Not that I care if Gary-Berry sits on the floor.”

Steve had several extra chairs in fact, but he and Gareth had hidden them all away before anyone else had arrived.

“I used to, but Mike broke two.” Steve said, and Gareth found himself insanely impressed by the improv on display.

He hadn’t thought Harrington had that level of acting in him.

“If you’re okay with sharing though, the chair’s are big enough that we can kinda squish together.” Steve continued, completely ignoring the way Eddie’s eyes about bugged out of his head.

“Only if you’re sure, man. I don’t want to be more of a bother.” Gareth put on his saddest, ‘I dun fucked up’ face, and shuffled his feet a little, just for dramatic effect.

This was the performance of a lifetime and Gareth wanted his Grammy after it, because he and Steve had planned the entire thing right down to the shared chair bit.

“You’re not, Dustin does this constantly.” Steve replied easily.

“Or we could just put down a towel.” Jeff said, with a look on his face that said he thought everyone in the room was a fucking idiot.

Gareth could’ve strangled him.

“That’s probably a smarter idea.” Steve agreed, like the traitor he was. “I dunno if that’s gonna work for your papers and shit though, so you can just hedge into my space.”

Which wasn’t what Gareth wanted, but he had to give Steve props for the quick thinking.

At least it was just a minor setback.

“I’ll get a towel.” Jeff continued, and at least they all got to witness the look that graced Eddie’s face upon realizing that Jeff of all people, knew where Steve kept his towels.

xXx

"What the hell else can we do to try and open the door!?" Jeff snarled a while later, slamming his pencil down.

They'd tried multiple different approaches and so far nothing had worked to set off whatever trap Eddie had set up. Something that made their DM absolutely delighted, while frustrating everyone else.

"I still don't get why we can't just try to turn the knob." Steve complained, staring in confusion at the absolute riot Eddie's "completely normal" door had caused among the rest of his party.

"Do not touch that door Harrington!" Grant bellowed, pointing at him.

Steve raised his hands in the air placatingly. "Easy, easy, I was just making a suggestion."

Gareth, wedged as close into Steve's space as he could get, tapped his fingers on the table twice. It was the little code he’d come up with to alert Steve that he was about to do something to piss off Eddie related to the prank (mostly, so Steve had a heads up Gareth was about to touch him, not that Gareth had spun it that way when he’d explained it) before patting Steve’s shoulder, hooking his elbow on it and leaning over. “Not gonna lie man, it’s not a bad idea. We’ve tried right about everything else.”

He could feel Eddie's eyes burning a hole in his skull from here and he delighted in it.

“Do not encourage him.” Grant said through gritted teeth.

Gareth leaned his face on the arm perched on Harrington, his hair tickling Steve’s cheek as he tried to look as angelic as possible. “I couldn’t possibly know what you mean, Grantman.”

He was flipped off in response.

xXx

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” Stewart howled, and even Gareth’s jaw dropped when Steve finally gave in and tried to turn the knob--only to succeed and swing the door open.

“Well Munson? What happens to him?” Tiff said, having refused to call Eddie anything but his last name since the door had first appeared.

“Nothing.” Eddie practically purred. “I told you, it’s a totally normal door, and the only weird thing about it was that you recognized it and that it was put into the wall a little tilted.”

“Fuck you dude.” Stewart practically growled, balling up the piece of paper he’d been doodling on and flinging it towards their DM. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck. You!”

“No thank you.” Eddie replied cheekily, twirling a finger in his hair.

“We spent almost an hour trying to figure out how to open a regular door.” Jeff said, clearly processing. “An hour.”

Eddie just shrugged, shit eating grin plastered across his face.

Gareth once again tapped his fingers twice against the table, waited a moment, before banging his head gently against Steve’s shoulder. “I hate him.” He groaned.

After a long moment, Steve gently, if not a little awkwardly, patted him on the head.

“There, there, Gary. We defeated the door in the end.” He said calmly.

Gareth laughed, absolutely delighted. His head jerked up and a grin crossed his face as he immediately looked to see what Eddie made of that.

Pure murder, going by the face Eddie poorly tried to cover.

Perfect.

xXx

“With his last few moves, Sir Carrington-”

"I refuse to let that be my character's name.” Steve interjected, as he had every time Eddie brought up the name they’d apparently argued over. “If I have to figure out how to change it legally in your dumb game I fucking will."

Eddie didn’t even look in his direction.

“--Sir Carrington leaps into the air, swinging the sword of truth. It cleaves right through the Innkeeper, revealing him to be the dastardly villain you’ve heard so much about, Tareth the Trait. He’s gained an unusual amount of power after stealing the Inn from the former Innkeeper--”

“Really bro?” Gareth said, sending Eddie a flat look. “Tareth the Trait?”

“--With this final blow, Tareth collapses to the ground, dead. The Inn returns to its prior form, a safe haven for adventurers, instead of a trap.”

“Shut up guys, we did it!” Stewart said, throwing his hands up in a victory pose.

“Not gonna Eddie, I liked the twist.” Tiff complimented, a rare thing from her.

“Thank you, thank you.” Eddie stood up, sweeping an arm across his chest as he bowed. “Give yourselves a round of applause as well, especially for our dear Steven, who just completed his first D&D game!”

A cheer went up, causing Steve to flush red.

Gareth pretending to drum, knocking his shoulder into Steve’s much the way he had seen Eddie do as Steve sent an embarrassed smile around the room.

“We should celebrate.” Jeff said, as the chaos finally died down.

“I conquer, Jeff the Chef!” Eddie hollered, putting his foot on Steve’s chair. “Stevie-boy, you gotta have some good stuff around here for those big basketball wins!”

“Get your foot off the chair, Eds.” Steve groaned, but stood up (forcing Gareth to get up as well considering how far he’d been leaning into Steve’s space.) “And yeah we can order like pizza.”

“Pizza and beer?” Grant suggested.

“Oh my friend. I can do better than that.” Steve replied, a flash of his old, charming self coming through. “Allow me to raid my father’s liquor cabinet.”

“Hell yes!” Grant yelled, pumping his fist.

Tiffany rolled her eyes but didn’t protest, and neither Gareth noted, did anyone else.

Which was exactly what he wanted, because he hadn’t managed to land the perfect ending he and Harrington had planned.

Gareth would make it into Steve’s lap tonight, even if it killed him.

(Or worse, even if Eddie got there first, a thing that may very well happen considering Eddie was clearly annoyed with how Gareth had been hogging Steve.

Just as intended.)

SOME NOTES: I don't play d&d so writing it always requires a lot of research. Several pieces here (like the human fighter bit) are based off of/stolen from memes, videos or stories I read. If I fucked it up thaaaan idk squint and pretend its right LOL.

This one doesn’t have a bonus because I had to split Chapter Five into two parts. This is Part One, it’ll be one chapter on A03. It just kept going.

Also Adopt a Jock is officially going up ON A03 so I will no longer be accepting tags ( Ch. One is already uploaded I’m just struggling with the summary lol. I will make a post and link it to my pinned post when it’s up.) I will still be updating here since I am only updating chapters on A03 as fast as I can edit them, which is not fast at all, so I imagine the next few chaps will be here before there but eventually shits gonna even out, so those who did not get onto the tag list can subscribe to the A03!

Finally, Sorry this took so long, I have a prior ongoing medical issue and getting laid off fucked up my insurance. Had to cram in some procedures before it ran out. Long story short all I've done is sleep, go to a doctor or rant about one of the two lmao. Legit slept 18 hours yesterday ahaha k i l l m e

#this is more of an intro to lap wars than lap wars itself #but Part Two turns into Drunk Movie Night Sleepover Time so you bet your ASS lap wars is coming #Gareth continues to be both a gremlin #and a g #steddie #pre steddie #slow burn #steddie LOL #gareth emerson #Eddie Munson #steve harrington #0o0 fanfics #this chapter fought me #ngl I actually extended this whole fic out bc I wanted to write more hellfire shenanagins before the summer hit #and thus Robin and the S3 plot that I'll be messing up LOL

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ashlingiswriting · 9 months

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do i know you? chapter four

[ 5k words ] [ prev chapters: one, two, three ] [ masterlist ] "he's actually asking you the question—you, of all people. it’s so funny, it could break your heart." richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn warning: vague conversation about assault (no actual assault happened against any canon character), organized crime activities, mild claustrophobia

when you push open the door, you expect to find richie tucked away safe from the harsh wind, leaning against the wall in his usual spot. instead, he’s sitting on the sidewalk in front of your building, his ass on the curb and his feet on the asphalt, like he’s daring the cars to run over his toes. he doesn’t look like he’s waiting for somebody, he looks abandoned.

you tuck away your latest story—egyptian history is clearly not meant for tonight—and walk over to him. what’s up?

he says nothing.

all right, then. you sigh and you drop into a squat beside him, both feet flat, knees under your upper arms, and arms loosely crossed.

i can do this all night, you say.

his eyes don’t so much as flicker. his big black leather jacket has always looked ridiculous, oversized, like he’s playing dress up in his dad’s clothes, but there’s a touch of pathos to the slouch of it now. there’s a weariness that has soaked into him because he’s been marinating in it over the months. there’s pain, too, so much that you can’t help but think of michael.

it’s eva, he finally says.

the richie bad news thing? you say. it’s a wild guess but better than nothing. you have to say something, anchor him before he drifts off again.

he shakes his head. she said this man at school, he, uh. he really freaked her out today. i don’t know.

your stomach drops. nausea sets in immediately, but you push past it. step one is to protect her, and everything else can be dealt with later. you’re horrified to discover that after all that painstaking care you spent making sure he’s never cross-contaminated with your business, now there’s no choice. now there’s a threat. whatever the cost of the method, the threat has to end.

uncrossing your arms, you reach out and put your hand on richie’s arm, grip him firm through the leather jacket, and look at him squarely.

he blinks, looks down at your hand—you’ve never touched him before—and then up at your face.

slow, steady, marshaling every word of your command to pierce through the fog he’s in, you say: don’t do anything. i know a guy.

at that, his eyes sharpen and narrow, baffled. what are you talking about? he says. ow, jesus.

you search his face hard and clutch his arm even harder, like you can wring the truth out of him by the strength of your fingers alone.

she’s okay? you say.

she’s okay.

oh. pause. when the relief hits, it hits so hard, it’s nearly grief and it’s far too late. your mouth has gone bitter and your heartbeat is like a jackhammer to cement, reverberating through your body loud and fast and unstoppable. you let go of him.

richie’s face wrinkles with confusion, and he figures it out entire minutes too late. why would you think—

because it’s always some dirty old man, there’s always—you have to stop. your voice has gone transparent and you’re helpless to fix it. swallowing hard doesn’t help. standing up so fast that you’re lightheaded, that helps a little, though you don’t like the useless swing of your arms at your sides.

finally, you manage to say, i’m not crazy, these things fucking happen.

these things happen, but eva’s okay. nothing’s happened to her. richie says it with a terrible gentleness you can imagine him bestowing on a car crash survivor or a starved stray dog. his hand closes over your ankle through your jeans, the touch a shockwave that goes right through you. hey, i’m sorry, he says.

between leftover nausea and fresh embarrassment, you can’t even look at him, so stare far over his head and say, don’t.

he lets go. you wish he didn’t.

after a while, he says, you’ve never even met her.

she’s yours, though.

and there it is. the truth. you don’t know when this happened, but somewhere along the way, your care has stopped being richie’s inheritance from michael. now you care simply because it’s richie. it’s a surprise to find that there is someone left alive you’d kill for, but it also feels completely natural. if you’re dropped in water, you will swim. if you’re hit, you’ll hit back. if eva ever does get in trouble, you’ll do what you have to do. and that’s it.

the thought becomes so real you could touch it like a photograph in your back pocket. there’s someone left that you’d kill for. good to know.

you turn away from him, using the wind as an excuse, sheltering your cigarette and lighting it up again. richie stays sitting right where he is, as though you haven’t confessed anything. there really is a merciful streak in him about five miles wide.

the nausea abates, after a little while. the thought occurs to you that you can’t just get lost in your head again. he’s still sitting there, he still needs you.

so what’d this guy say. you keep your voice as casual as you can. the man at the school. what freaked her out so bad?

never mind, richie says. it’s okay.

i swear to god, richie, after all that, you better tell me about it.

okay, he says, every bit as exhausted and miserable as before, but at least no longer fully bogged down in his own head. you wanna sit down?

no.

he nods. into the fraught silence, his words come slower now. he speaks like he’s groping in the dark for the shape of his thoughts, fitting his hand to each individual word, mindful of sharp edges.

a poet visited her school today. he’d written something for them about the class caterpillar that died last week. i don’t know whose genius idea that was, but anyway. he pauses. now she’s asking me about things dying. people dying, you know. her mom. me.

after a second, you say, fucking poets, with real sympathy.

he nods wearily. somebody shot at the beef today too. we’re fine, nobody got hurt, it’s nothing, it’s. he rubs his forehead with his hand. it was a nice poem.

yeah? you say.

whole city’s just fucking…

he gestures once, gives up, and lets his hand dangle from his knee.

after a second, you sit down next to him, cross-legged and companionable.

what was it like? you say. the poem.

i can’t remember the words, he says. the general idea was, like. all a caterpillar needs to do is be what it is. eat everything, dream of flying. that’s what it’s meant to do. he looks over. you know what we’re meant to do?

he's actually asking you the question—you, of all people. it’s so funny, it could break your heart. you shake your head.

me neither. when he looks back out at the street, his eyes rest on the shadows in a way that makes the shadows seem that much more desolate. i mean, i’ve done things, but not. he doesn’t finish the thought aloud.

finally, he says, what would a poet even do with me?

a dark suspicion tries to grab onto, but it’s so ludicrous and so extreme that you bat it away. you just made the mistake of falling prey to a baseless, sick fear once. twice in one night, that’s too much.

what would a poet do with either of us? you say. but you’re not gonna die.

i might.

the worst thing about it is how quiet richie says it. it's not an argument. it's just a fact.

you’re not, you say fiercely.

richie turns his head and looks at you, his blue eyes fraught and unwavering.

how do you know?

ping!

fuck. your phone shouldn’t go off now, of all times. you haven’t had to deal with so much as a simple flesh wound since little caruso got shipped to the hospital, and now is the moment you get called in? if you ignore this text while you’re supposed to be on call, you could get fired or worse.

you ignore the text. back to the question: how do you know richie’s not gonna die? because he can’t. because you won’t allow it.

you say, if you’re not around, who’s gonna explain to your daughter that poets are all a bunch of shitheads?

ping! ping! ping!

fuck me, you mutter, putting your phone on vibrate.

it’s all right, never mind, richie says. he looks faintly sick, or maybe that’s just the cold and the time of night.

it’s not all right, but you open your phone anyway. as you start reading the texts, your heart rate goes into overdrive and the eerie calm of crisis descends on you.

i’m sorry, you say, meaning it. i’m really sorry. but you gotta get out of here.

as if to drive home your point, your phone vibrates in your hand with two more texts.

at first richie doesn’t move, and you’re afraid he’ll argue, or protest, or do anything that will force your hand to choose cruelty so you can get rid of him fast. but instead, he finally hauls himself to his feet.

you know a guy, huh, he says.

you don’t want to acknowledge the insinuation with any kind of an answer, which as it turns out is a mistake.

it’s all right, he says. i’m kind of a diy guy myself.

you look up. don’t be.

the wind is tearing at your hair, and at that angle, in shadow, his eyes look unusually dark, not one hint of blue.

i can’t track the fucking joke with you sometimes, richie says.

i’m not joking.

your phone vibrates once again.

fuck. you have no choice. you stand up, look at him as kindly as you know how, and say, get out of here. please.

and he does.

the texts come from an anonymous number, just like always.

> 28 ppl carbon monoxide poisoning

> 2 dead already

> no hospital

> beth can’t come

> 3 dead

> be there soon

the answer is obvious. if the poisoning has gotten so advanced that some of the victims are already dying, then only in-hospital treatment can save them. even a quick google could’ve come up with this answer, and yet it feels like it’s taking you twice as long to reason it out when half your brain is helplessly looping over and over on you’re not gonna die and i might.

when a black corolla pulls up next to you only a minute later, you yank open the passenger’s side door only to find the seat already occupied.

holy shit.

jack? you say, stunned. i thought you were in prison.

he’s big, round-shouldered and full-bearded, and he looks even bigger squashed into this small car. he’s also sweating like a motherfucker.

i was. get in.

you hurl yourself into the backseat and the driver takes off before you’ve even managed to get your hand on the seatbelt. the sudden violence sets you back on track. who cares how the oldest caruso kid got free? what matters are your patients.

listen, if we don’t do a hospital drop, these people are all dead, you say.

why?

you’re so grateful it’s jack. he’s brutally competent and efficient, not a word or a breath wasted, and he’s the only caruso kid who ever actually listens to you.

if carbon monoxide poisoning is this bad, we can’t just slap a bunch of oxygen masks on them and call it a day. that’s not enough, it won’t work fast enough. not with three dead already.

what do we need?

your skin is practically humming. hyperbaric chamber. lay them in an airtight container built specially for the purpose, fill it with pure oxygen, crank up the pressure. this is the kind of equipment that costs hundreds of thousands of dollars, so they probably don’t even have them at a place like saint anthony’s. these people need a level care of care that only northwestern-level money can buy, okay? or maybe uic. i don’t even think they’ll have enough chambers for all of them in one building, we might have to do two separate dumps, or—

no hospitals, jack says. we have orders.

now you remember why he’s the worst of the caruso kids too. he’s the smartest, which means he should fucking know better.

how much do these people know? you say. when that gets you nowhere, you drop subtlety and go straight for the jugular. are you really willing to kill twenty-five people just to please your fucking dad?

i’d kill you if i got orders, he says. don’t waste time.

it’s a breathtaking thing to hear, and yet, on some level, you were expecting it. after a second, you say, they’re dead, then. but tell me what we got.

no hospital raids, not around here. dad says it might fuck things up for little if a theft cranks up hospital security. but you’ve got as many oxygen canisters as you want down at the blackbird processing plant.

and that’s where we’re headed?

yeah.

okay, you say, and it sounds like a question. but then, five minutes later, you say okay like it’s the answer too.

jack fully turns around in his seat to look at you. he’s going prematurely gray at the temples, and in the dark, his eyes look bottomless.

what do you need? he says.

and for once, you know. what you need, what you are, and what you’re meant to do. so you tell him.

when you arrive, there are only a few lights on inside the factory. you and jack get on an indoor vehicle, a little white golf cart, and speed through a looming, shadowy forest of metallic machinery.

your patients are waiting for you, all of them unconscious and laid out neatly like logs in two rows on the ground. their faces and clothes look sickeningly similar to each other, so you glance at jack and mentally add human trafficking to the long list of his family’s crimes.

there’s also around two dozen men who all came to attention when jack stepped off the golf cart, standing silent and expectant. one of them is different from the others, a short man with the distinctive, overwhelmed expression of a civilian who just got drafted. that must be roberto, the floor manager that you talked to earlier on the phone.

sedatives? you say, and one of the men hands you a big plastic bin full of smaller boxes. you pick one up and squint at the tiny print on the white and orange label. fuck me.

the sedative they managed to get on short notice? it’s dormosedan. which is mean to be used on fucking horses. horses. jesus christ. yeah no, you’re not giving that to your patients.

we’ve got ahold of ten oxygen masks, says jack. eta twenty minutes.

you shake your head. you can see everything in viciously crisp color, time has slowed to syrup, and you can clock even the far-off horn of a distant train. oxygen masks aren’t enough.

turning to roberto, you gesture at the massive section of piping in front of you. is that it?

i don’t think it’ll work, he says, this close to shaking.

you speak past him to the assembled men. load them.

beside you, jack nods. with that, the men begin picking up your patients and carrying them to the wide-open hatch in the huge pipe, getting down on hands and knees, crawling, and pulling the unconscious people after them.

you can’t do this, roberto says. we have to call the cops, we can’t just—

jack reaches for the gun tucked into his jeans and you close your hand over his wrist just in time to stop him from pulling it out. if he gives this guy a heart attack, that’s just one more casualty for you to deal with.

roberto, this is fucking happening, you say. you let go of jack’s wrist, go over, and lean in close to him, ignoring his flinch. you lower your voice. please don’t make me deal with another casualty, we’ve got enough of those already.

after a second, roberto walks away and put his password into the control pad.

when the hatch closes, there are two bodies left lying on the floor, people who are already dead and thus not worth loading. how many patients left living does that make? twenty-four? twenty-three? you’ve lost count.

flood it with oxygen and then increase the pressure, you say to roberto.

how high do you want the pressure?

double whatever the psi is right now.

you can actually see the movement of roberto’s adam’s apple as he swallows.

hey, you say warningly.

after a second, he types in the command. you can hear the humming of the machine as the pressure increases.

you want me to pause it in intervals so the pressure doesn’t increase too fast? he says.

you have no fucking idea. no, you say. just do it.

you take out your phone and start a timer. you don’t even know how long these people should be in for, or how long the canisters will last, but you sit there with your pencil and paper, gather what you know, and get to work.

they can’t stay in for too long, because you’re terrified of one of them improving enough to wake up trapped in the dark. they’d die of a fucking heart attack, breaking into the list of the world’s top ten most miserable deaths. on the other hand, they have to stay in as long as it takes to oxygenate them, or they’ll be dead for certain. and a third consideration? if they’re in for too long, there is such a thing as oxygen poisoning. which. fucking hell.

you write out your calculations so hurriedly that you can barely read your own figures. god only knows if they’re correct. you finally come up with a number of minutes, and once that time has passed, you tell roberto to lower the pressure. in intervals this time, with pauses in between. after all this maniac effort, you’re not gonna lose anyone to the bends like they’re fucking scuba divers. no, no. you’ve entered the stage when everything is hopeful with zero basis in fact. they’re all gonna make it. every last one of them.

this is the worst part. the part when all the decisions have been made, and all you can do is stand there and wait. you abandon your paper and pencil on the floor and begin to pace like a maniac, not caring who sees you.

jack is texting to somebody on his phone, mountainous and intent, but when you pass by him, he says, homemade hyperbaric chamber.

are you supposed to feel fucking encouraged by that?

if they all die, you’re gonna have to kill me too, you mutter in a venomous undertone.

don’t make threats.

the oxygen masks arrive. turns out that only eight of them work, but at least they come with appropriately sized canisters. you instruct jack’s men on how to use the masks on the patients once they emerge from the pipe. if more than eight patients end up making it, they’ll have to rotate the masks between the patients in fifteen-minute intervals. somehow, you don’t think that will be a problem.

you can hear roberto praying quietly in the background.

time disappears, and the one thing you want most in the world is a smoke, though you can’t have it, not with all these gas canisters around. just one cigarette, that would save you. not a menthol, a sapphire. or maybe just standing partly sheltered from the wind in a spot that smells of those cigarettes, drinking half a smile over a stupid joke, you want it to be over already, you want to go home—

finally, the pipe has been completely depressurized and the patients are taken out one by one and laid out once again in their two rows. you dart forward, accidentally bashing your shoulder against an unexpected bit of machinery in the dark, and kneel beside the first one you see.

the woman is weathered and broad shouldered, somewhere in her forties, and looking as peaceful as if she’s just taking a nap. there are strands of gray in her dark hair and laugh lines in the corners of her eyes. you don’t want to check her pulse, but you do.

she’s alive.

all around you, there are footsteps padding by you, quiet words being exchanged. survivors are being laid out, men are fixing the oxygen masks on them, and somewhere in the background, roberto is trying to argue with jack, his voice pitching ever higher with every denial he’s dealt. some of the machines are being turned on in preparation for the morning’s work, great dark monsters humming and growling at each other in the dark.

this is not over. there is so much left to do. and yet, for a moment, you close your eyes and feel her pulse murmuring it into your fingertips: still here, still here.

when you were first charged with the care of these people, twenty-five of them were alive. by the time they’re carried away from the factory and you’re forced to go home, only nineteen of them are still breathing.

it’s nineteen more than you thought you could save. it’s still not enough.

when the car drops you off at your building, your eyes go to the spot where richie should be standing, but of course he’s not there. it’s morning, not his hour. why you were expecting him, you don’t know.

you want to tell him about this night more than anything, but you know you never can and you never will.

you find him laid out neatly like a log, gone cold and facing up. no blood, no wound, nobody else. at least this time they let you come and see him.

the sun comes up over the bridge and stains the cityscape as gold as good. oh, michael.

you kneel without a prayer, run your fingertips across his sweater, soft and slow as though you could still wake him up. your knuckles knock against metal, so you stop short, look down, and there it is: the gun, your gun, the ready death you try to pull from out of his fingers.

baby, let it go.

his grip goes tight, his blue eyes open slow.

the sound of your evening alarm tears you out of your dreams. you find yourself clutching at empty air so tightly that your nails leave red half-moons in your palms, and at first, you remember nothing but the feeling.

it all comes back in bits and pieces jumbled together: the little white golf cart speeding through the factory floor, the sunrise over the bridge, closed eyes above oxygen masks, the rows of bodies, richie’s eyes. you’re not gonna die and i might.

you sit up fast, fully awake. a chest-crushing certainty takes hold. all the old excuses are carried away from you like paper in the wind.

he says shit that would scare anyone into wondering if he’s okay, but then he turns around and jokes like nothing’s wrong. he has people he loves dearly, but he still comes to you for comfort that you are hardly able to provide. he has access to a gun. this time, it’ll be his own. other than that, it’s all the same as last time.

the fact that you’ve noticed the pattern is no comfort to you at all. by now, you know richie right down to the ground, from his peculiar little habits to his pet baseball peeves to his customary jewelry to the shape his mouth makes when he doesn’t want to admit that you’re funny. you know him so well.

and you’ve only ever been able to save people if they’re total strangers.

by the time richie strolls up to your building, it’s occurred to you that somewhere in the haze of grief and touch starvation and whatever words a shrink would use to describe the feeling of twenty-five lives depending on you, maybe, just maybe, you’ve gone a little fucking crazy yourself.

jack won’t return your texts or calls, so you have no idea how your patients are doing, and that is so deeply fucking upsetting that you swerve right back to richie.

maybe richie’s not deeply depressed. maybe it’s like the time—literally yesterday—when you assumed eva got hurt and psyched yourself up to request permission from old caruso for a full-on murder.

also, and this cannot be emphasized enough: you only slept for two hours.

so, mustering the last bit of mental strength left at your disposal, you head downstairs early and decide not to bring up your batshit theory unless you’ve got actual evidence that you’re right.

richie seems a surprised to find you waiting for him, and he approaches a little awkwardly, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. the sight of him alone is enough to calm you a little, the reality of his stained shirt and haggard face.

hey, you say, in your very best imitation of a normal person.

yo, he says. last night was.

yeah, you say. then, as casual as you can, you good?

he shrugs. i am if you are?

you nod. in the silence, you can feel the awkwardness draining away, so you give it a little while before you finally say say, so what’s the story, morning glory?

his nose is running a little and he’s as tired as ever, but the smile is real. you wanna see something crazy?

always.

he gets his phone out of his pocket and flips through a blur of emoji-studded texts to find the thing he’s looking for.

my buddy tim got video of this crazy fight on the l this morning. looks exactly like that one with the nerd. like, same fucking thing, i swear to god.

he turns to you and catches you watching him close, soaking him up. he’s stubble-cheeked and grinning, he’s standing solid, he’s completely fucking fine. he has to be.

what one with the nerd, you say, a little too late. noticeably too late, so you add an explanation. i didn’t get much sleep last night.

yeah, i wasn’t gonna say, but. he raises his eyebrows, tilts the words playful enough so they’re not a threat. secret agent?

you hum a bit of the james bond theme song, then point at his phone. you’re gonna have to show me the nerd one first, cause i don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

you’re gonna love this, he says.

you shake your head as you get out your pack and your lighter. you have no idea what it’s gonna be, but you’re smiling already. am i actually gonna love this, or is—

no, you’re actually gonna love it, he says.

cause you remember the one with the fuckin poacher trying—

well, maybe my tastes are a little too eclectic for you, a little too avant fucking garde, but—

avant—you burst out laughing. you bruce springsteen motherfucker, don’t talk to me about avant garde.

bruce springsteen is the man, was that supposed to be an insult? before you can say a thing in your defense, he interrupts. shh, it’s starting.

you lean against the wall and watch. you’re not gonna cry, but there’s something in the way his body protects you a little extra from the wind. he’s okay. he’s okay, so you must be too.

the video turns out to be exactly the opposite of what you expected, because the nerd wins. in detail, a meathead picks a fight with a skinny little twentysomething redhead, and the redhead retaliates so fast and dirty that even the meathead’s friends seem impressed when they arrive on the scene drag the redhead off him.

right? richie says, when the video ends, supremely satisfied. it’s so funny to you that he loves that video, because between meathead and nerd, you wouldn’t have guessed him as identifying with the nerd. rather than ask him about it, you settle for a childish little poke. you’re too exhausted to do anything else.

that’s a nerd to you? you say.

he’s wearing fucking glasses, what else do you want.

everyone wears glasses, numbskull. you flick the screen with a finger. that’s not a nerd.

richie splutters. and he’s short!

everyone’s short to you.

richie half turns to you and leans a little into your personal space, looming in a way that makes him occupy your whole field of vision. you stand your ground on instinct.

yeah, you’re short to me all right, he says.

well, you’re fucking…

he’s so tall, and that’s terrible, and yet you kind of wish he was even taller so his face wouldn’t be so close to your face. there’s really nothing you can think of to say. you’ve well and truly lost the plot.

richie bursts out laughing.

…a pain in my ass, is what you are, you say. rick.

so you got no sleep last night, he says, still laughing but moving back a fraction, letting up.

you shake your head ruefully. like none.

then what are you doing vertical?

good question. technically, it’s against the rules for you to sleep while you’re on call, but at this point you’re pretty done with the carusos and their fucking rules and you really only got out of bed this morning so you could see richie.

you shrug and raise your cigarette, half hoping he gets it and half hoping he doesn’t.

he does, of course. you can tell by the way he says, go, then. go take a nap.

you should be grateful that you’ve gotten through the conversation without making an utter fool of yourself with your little conspiracy theory, but being with him right now feels so easy, you don’t want to leave it behind.

you good? you say.

i’m fucking golden, baby.

so you leave. as you wait for the elevator to come down and get you, you look back at him one last time through the glass of the apartment building’s doors. he’s standing there watching one of his videos, totally engrossed, totally delighted, his fist pressed to his mouth.

sleep should be safe for you now, right? sleep should be safe for you now.

[ chapter five ] [ masterlist ]

@garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc, @beingalive1, @eternallyvenus, @cerial-junkie — if anyone else wants a tag, let me know.

#richie jerimovich x reader #richie jerimovich #the bear fx #the bear fanfiction #the bear fanfic #mine #readerfic #do i know you?#the bear imagine #this chapter kicked my ass lmao. but i fought back #thank you everyone who said anything it all really fueled me <333 #diky

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