#whump2021 collection
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FebuWhump Day13: Hiding Injury
Spy AU time! Honestly probably my favorite Micoverse AU.
Warnings: lots of guns, blood, violence, very cliche, like absolutely dripping with tropes i’m not kidding, open ending
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Miranda throws herself around a corner and presses her back against the wall, ejecting the spent cartridge from her gun and pulling a fresh clip from her belt. Shots chip off the concrete next to her and she flinches when Dom comes swinging around the corner after her. His suit coat is open and both his guns freed from their shoulder holsters. He leans against the wall, catching his breath as he reloads.
“Well,” He pants, a bitter smile on his face, “This certainly didn’t go as planned.”
“No,” Miranda agrees and leans down to kiss his temple, “But date nights rarely do. Come on, we’re almost to the extraction point; just a bit more to go!”
“Tell that to my aching legs.”
“I did tell you to stretch before we left, hon.”
Dom makes a face, takes a deep breath, and dives out of cover, firing down the hall as he goes. Miranda’s hot on his heels, picking off anyone unlucky enough to think they’ve dodged a bullet. It’s a rather harrowing dash to the door at the end of the hall but once they’re through it, they’re able to smash the electronic lock and keep themselves from being followed. Still, Miranda keeps an eye on the door while Dom hacks his way through the next lock.
“I hate missions like this,” Dom mutters, scowling at the keypad as it refuses to play nice with him, “I’m always so tired afterwards I never get to spend any quality time with Cody.”
“We did get that time off approved for next year,” Miranda says over her shoulder, “So that will be a whole month we get to spend with him. Have you thought about a vacation destination yet?”
There’s a beep as the electronic lock finally gives in to Dom’s demands, “Not yet. I was playing with the idea of Disneyland though. Do you think he’d like that?”
The door slides open and Miranda puts a bullet in the head of the guard waiting on the other side. She beams at Dom, “Sweetie, you know he’d be happy no matter where we took him.”
“Well, yeah,” They take off down a narrow hall lined with steel doors, guns at the ready, “But I want it to be really special! We don’t get a lot of vacation time.”
Miranda is spared from replying by a handful of armed guards bursting out of one of the doors they pass. Dom says a word he would never even dream of using in front of his son and starts taking potshots over his shoulder. But it’s hard to aim and shoot at the same time and everyone’s shots are going wide, pinging off the floors and gouging lines into the ceiling. Miranda feels a bullet graze her shoulder and hisses at the sting of it, but grits her teeth and keeps moving. There’s a T-intersection up ahead that can provide them with cover where they can pick off the enemy before moving on.
But apparently one of the guards has had enough.
Their gun empty, they instead hurl their weapon at the pair of spies, the strap on the rifle whipping through the air. It snags around Miranda’s ankles and she crashes to the floor, her own weapon spinning out of her grip as the air rushes out of her lungs.
“Mira!” Dom turns on a dime, spinning around so fast he almost drops to all fours as he sprints back to his wife. Bullets are still snapping at the air around him but he doesn’t hesitate, just picks Miranda up, throws her over his shoulder, and runs like hell. They’re both gasping for different reason when he ducks around the corner, Dom setting Miranda on the floor so she can get her breath back while he takes careful aim around the corner to pick off the enemy.
“How’re you doing? Are you okay?” Dom asks without taking his eye off the few remaining guards.
“All right, in one piece,” Miranda confirms, a little breathlessly, “You good to go?”
Dom fires another shot, there’s the thud of a body hitting the ground, and then silence. He lets out a slow, shaky breath, and looks at Miranda with a wobbly smile, “Er, yeah. I got the last of ‘em. We’re close, we should be okay from here.”
And they’re on the move again.
Miranda’s in the lead, having retrieved her dropped weapon, and is keeping a sharp eye out for anyone trying to make a move. They run into a few more harassers but nothing they can’t take care of. Dom is breathing heavily, sweat clinging to his brow and matting his hair. Not that Miranda looks much better, with fly-aways spilling from her bun and her shirt clinging to her back. She’s exhausted and ready to collapse into a hot bath and then curl up in Dom’s arms for a good night’s sleep. They’re almost out of here, they’re almost home, they just have to go a little bit further.
The extraction point is a large balcony on the side of the enemy base. Large enough for their allies to land and get them out. Miranda barricades the door, loose hair whipping in the chilly wind, and then turns to watch the sky. She keeps her gun in her hand and her nerves on alert; it wouldn’t do to relax just yet, they’re still in woods and danger is still very nearby. Dom is leaning against the wall near the door, his legs shaking, chest heaving, his eyes closed as he tries to even his breathing out.
“Are you okay?” Miranda asks, glancing at him before looking back to the horizon.
“Y-yeah,” Dom wheezes, “Jus’…just tired. Sorry. I’ll, uh, it’ll be better once we get out of here.”
“Do you think they’ll get us back in time to finish our date?” Miranda jokes, smiling at the skyline. The smile wavers when she doesn’t get a response, “Dom?” She turns, frowning, and the frown turns into panic when she sees her partner sliding to the floor, “Dom!” She hurries over and takes a knee beside him, hovering, “What’s wrong? Dom, talk to me. I need you to talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Dom slides his hand under his suit jacket, wincing, and withdraws it again, looking down at the red smeared across his palm. A crimson stain is spreading over his white shirt, soaking into the fabric. Dom looks pale and sick, his frame quivering with pain and his eyes glazed with exhaustion. His gun slips from his fingers and clatters to the floor as he lets his head thud back against the wall.
“Oops…” His voice is a hoarse whisper.
“You’re hit!” Miranda moves his jacket aside, abandoning her own gun to tear open the buttons on his shirt and inspect the wound.
“‘Least w-wait ‘till we’re home…” Dom says, chuckling weakly.
“Shut up, Bridges,” It’s said with panicked affection, worried and full of love, “Shit, this looks really bad. It’s been bleeding for a while, you’ve lost a lot of blood. When did you get hit?”
“When I went back for you.”
Miranda looks up at him and he’s smiling. It’s a weak smile but it’s so tender and warm that it breaks Miranda’s heart to see it. She presses a hand against his face and he tilts his head into her touch, letting his eyes fall closed as he just savors her. Her fingers card through his hair, thumb brushing his cheek, taking him in.
“You fantastic idiot,” She murmurs, leaning into him, pressing her forehead against his, “You’ve been running around with that injury and you didn’t say anything. You’re so stupid.”
“Couldn’t leave you.” He tells her in a low voice, tired and fading.
“Well you better not leave me now, Mr. Bridges,” Miranda tells him, shrugging off her jacket to fold it up and press it over his wound. He hisses, twitching at the pressure, but is too weak to do much else, “Or else I’ll be very angry with you.”
Dom’s tired chuckle is almost lost under the sound of chopper blades coming closer. His eyes are still closed and his breathing is shallow. Miranda blinks the hot tears from her eyes and presses closer to him, wants desperately to hold him and kiss him and hold his hand. She wishes they were home, on the couch, just sitting together and holding hands while the television played something stupid and mundane. His blood is seeping through her jacket and her breath hitches in a sounds that wants to be a cry.
“Don’t you dare leave me and Cody alone,” She says to him, ducking her face into his neck, listening to his wispy breaths and the fluttering of his heart, “I would never forgive you if you left us. Don’t leave, Dominic, don’t you dare. Don’t you dare leave me…” Miranda looks back up at his face, pale and still, his eyes closed, and she doesn’t stop the tears from racing down her face as her colleges run over to help bundle them into the chopper,
“I couldn’t live in a world without you in it.”
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FebuWhump Day 16: Broken Bones
-dabs in more Jake angst-
Warnings: teen angst, implied beatings, not much tbh this one’s really short
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“Where is he?” Robbie is tapping his foot irritably and scowling at his watch. He paces the garage again, walking back and forth in front of the door, and the aims a kick at it so that it booms alarmingly.
“He’ll be here,” Says Ian. He’s slumped over his drum set, spinning a stick in one hand while the other props up his chin, “Just give him a minute.”
“You said that ten minutes ago!” Robbie shoots back, throwing his hands in the air, “God, we should just phone it in, he’s not showing up tonight. So much for practice. Uuuhhhggg, what an unreliable—“
There’s a knock on the garage door.
Robbie pauses before crouching down to lift up the heavy door, shoving it back on its rollers with a scream of old metal. Jake’s standing in the drive, one eye already swelling shut, blood smeared down his front from a split lip and bloody noise, and he’s cradling his left hand to his chest. His head is ducked low, black hair hanging in his face, his expression a brewing thunderstorm beneath the dried tears on his cheeks.
“Fuck,” Says Robbie.
“It’s fine,” Jake growls through gritted teeth. He stomps past Robbie and into the garage proper, only using his right hand to unsling his guitar from his back, “Come on, let’s go.”
“Jake—“ Ian begins.
“I said it’s fine!” But when Jake tries to move his left hand, he doubles over with a grunt of pain instead.
Ian sighs and hauls himself out from behind his drums. He crouches down in front of Jake and gestures, “‘Aight, tough guy, lemme see.”
Jake glares at him but slowly extends his hand out so Ian can inspect it. Jake’s fingers are swollen and slightly crooked, already red and slowly turning purple in some spot. Robbie, leaning over Ian’s shoulder, hisses in sympathy. Ian tuts and shakes his head, carefully holding Jake’s palm so as not to disturb his fingers.
“Dude, your fingers are kind of fuckin’ broken,” He says, “You’re not playing anything like this.”
“I can play—!” Jake starts to protest, trying to pull his hand back, but Ian doesn’t let him go.
“Nuh-uh, man, no playing. Not on these mangled little matchsticks.”
“You—“
“Ey, Robbie, can you get Lacey? Ask her if she can gives us a ride to the clinic.”
“Uh,” Robbie blinks, glancing between Jake and Ian, “Yeah, sure. Be just a sec.” He hurries into the house, glancing over his shoulder at the other two before he pulls the door shut behind him.
A bitter silence falls around them in the garage. Jake is sitting cross legged on the floor now, glaring at the stained cement, his free hand clenched so tightly in his ratty jeans that his knuckles are white. Ian is still holding his hand gently in both of his own, idly looking out the garage door into the street. Hot fury radiates off Jake like a volcano, brimming and ready to boil over, on the brink of erupting and already seeping a toxic gas the poisons the air.
“Y’wanna stay at my place tonight?” Ian asks. Jake glances up from under his shaggy bangs but Ian’s still looking out towards the street as if he’s thinking of something else altogether.
“Probably shouldn’t,” Jake mutters darkly, “Would just make things worse.”
Ian finally turns to look at him, expression contorting into something other than his tired indifference, “Shit’s stupid.” He mutters, eyebrows drawn together as he looks at Jake’s broken fingers, “You gonna be good if you go back with your hand patched up?”
Jake sighs, shoulder slumping, his anger hissing out like a fire that’s lost its fuel. It sputter inside him, forever burning, a smoldering pit of loathing that will never completely go out. When he speaks, he sounds defeated,
“Fuck if I know. Maybe he’ll break the other one to make it even.” He chuckles darkly but the sound breaks off into a choked sob he quickly swallows down. He blinks furiously, ducks his head low so Ian can’t see his face.
Robbie comes running back with Lacey in tow and they pile Jake into the car and head towards the clinic. They make excuses about falling down the stairs. The staff give them suspicious looks but say nothing. Jake is stiff and quiet and distrusting, shrinking away from the doctors and nurses and giving one word answers if he has to speak at all.
Ian uses the pay phone by the check in desk to call the Fuller household.
He knows Jake needs a shoulder to cry on.
And he knows that shoulder will never be his.
#i know it's not super whumpy but idk i really wanted to write something like this i guess#the problem sons#young jake#ian#robbie#whump2021 collection#angst#injury#fan fiction
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FebuWhump Day 15: “Run. Don’t look back.”
I struggled with this one. Wrote a bunch of it out and then deleted it and started over again.
Bioshock AU! Out of all the places in Rapture, Fort Frolic has always terrified me the most. And Sander Cohen always scared me more than any Splicer.
Warnings: torture, electrocution, general warnings for Rapture and its citizens
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Sander Cohen has Jake’s chin in his hand, tilting his head up so he can look down at him through the eyes of his gilded masquerade mask.
Dan is frozen, rooted in place by the threat of Cohen literally holding Jake’s life in his hands. He’s afraid to move, afraid that one step will prompt the mad artist to tear into Jake without remorse. His arms are shaking where they’re wrapped around Milo, holding the little boy to his chest. Dan tries to convince himself that this was no one’s fault. The doors to Fort Frolic were wide open and Milo had skipped inside before either Jake or Dan could stop him. They’d had no choice but to chase after him.
And they had walked right into Sander Cohen’s waiting arms.
“There’s no need to look so frightened, Jacob,” Cohen’s voice is a liquid purr, delighted with himself, with the prize and power he holds, “I’m oh so pleased to see you again. Such a tragedy when you left. The things your voice could have done…”
“I…” Jake squeaks and his voice breaks, breath stuttering. His eyes are wide and panicked, his entire body trembling, his face so pale he looks as if he is about to faint.
“You should join me!” Cohen says suddenly, thrusting out his other hand, gesturing to the stage he’s standing on, “Fitzpatrick can play and you can sing again and my muse, ah! My muse, Jacob, she would be made whole again! A masterpiece, we could make! My little Nightingale!” He cups Jake’s face in both hands and Jake makes a noise like someone stepped on a mouse, “Back home where he belongs in the halls of the artist again~”
Jake half raises his hands, as if going to try and pull himself free from Sander Cohen, but he hesitates. His gaze snaps away from Cohen, flits to Dan and Milo and back again. He licks his lips and speaks in a shaking voice,
“I…am n-not here…to perform, M-Mister Cohen. This—I—we’re just—just passing through. Apologies for disturbing y-your work, sir. We—but it’s really quite—quite—we need to leave. Please. Now. Sir.”
Silence.
A long and terrible and dark silence.
And then something about Sander Cohen shifts.
His grip on Jake’s face tightens and Jake shouts in pain, clawing at Cohen’s tuxedo, yanking on his arms and trying to get free. Jake’s legs give out, feet kicking on the wooden stage, tears springing from his eyes as Cohen squeezes. Milo starts whimpering at the noise and Dan screams at Cohen to let Jake go, begs him to let go, but doesn’t dare take a step closer or draw his rifle, afraid of what could happen if he does.
“FITZPATRICK!” Cohen roars into the darkness of Fleet Hall, “FITZPATRICK, BRING ME THE LINES!”
There’s scrambling from backstage, clatters and hurried footsteps. A man in a bird mask and a plaid vest runs out from behind the curtain, dragging an armful of rattling cables with him. He pauses when he sees Cohen and the crying Jake, but only for a moment before he’s cinching shackles tight around Jake’s wrists and ankles, despite the other man’s flailing. When Fitzpatrick steps back, Cohen finally drops Jake to the stag, where he lands in a crumpled heap. Dan moves forward but Cohen’s eyes flash in the depths of his mask and Dan knows he’d never make it to Jake before something happened to himself or Milo. He’s a captive audience, forced to watch whatever Cohen has done to his friend.
Jake is shuddering, sniffling through his tears as he gets laboriously to his feet again. He tugs helplessly at the shackles on his wrists, the metal pinching his skin and locked tight by the key Fitzpatrick has tucked into a pocket. He looks up helplessly at Cohen.
“Now, now, Jacob, my precious Nightingale,” Cohen is smiling, his voice all sweetness and charm, almost sickening in its quality, “I only want my favorite disciple back. You were such a melodious creature, a siren, you seduced in the masses with your magnificent voice. Sing for us again, Nightingale, come on now. Let my muse hear you once more…”
But Jake is already shaking his head, taking a few steps back from Cohen, nearly tripping over the cables soldered to the shackles on his ankles, “I—I don’t s-sing any—anymore. Please, Mister Cohen, we’re just—we need to go—we—“
Cohen frowns, “Fitzpatrick.”
The man in the bird mask vanishes behind the curtain again. There’s a clunk of machinery, the fizzle of static, and then Jake is screaming.
His back arches, his body twitching with the electricity flowing through him. When the supply cuts off, he collapses to the floor in a pile like a broken toy, gasping and wheezing and shuddering. He heaves and vomit smears across the wooden stage with his tears and spittle. Cohen merely looks down at him, hands behind his back, patiently waiting for his former disciple to get up again.
“Sing, Jacob Pierly.”
Jake shakes his head.
The electricity hits him again and he flops onto his back, banging his head against the floor, screaming loud enough to shake the rafter again. Milo begins squirming in Dan’s arms, making noises of distress, and Dan holds him tighter.
“Stop it!” He shouts, voice cracking over Jake’s screams of agony, “Stop it! STOP YOU’LL KILL HIM! YOU’LL KILL HIM, JUST STOP!”
Jake sags, a bag of bones and bruises and pain, spasms making him twitch and gasp. Cohen has turned his eyes on Dan instead, his head tilting as he inspects them. Dan feels as if the man is peeling away layers of him, picking apart at what he can see—or at least, what he thinks he can see. Dan sets his jaw and stares back; he will not be cowed by Sander Cohen. He’s seen stranger things in Rapture than a man driven mad by his own art.
“Brutish,” Cohen says after a moment, a sneer of disappointment curling the corner of his mouth, “Soft in the right places but too rough in others. Not much use for you, Guardsman. But the child…” His voice becomes silky and charming again, a smile on his lips, hungry and eager, “What a light he could be! An angel with flaming hair…and a belly full of ADAM…”
Cohen takes a step towards the edge of the stage but in a clatter of wires and cables, Jake throws himself on the man, clawing at his suit and twisting the cables around the both of them.
“Go!” Jake shouts at Dan, his voice hoarse from screaming, his eyes red and still streaming tears, “Get out of here!”
“Jake!”
“RUN!” Jake snarls as Cohen thrashes, trying to throw him off, “Run, Dan!” For a second, just a split second, nothing else exists except for the desperate plea on Jake’s face and the shaky hope in his voice and Dan’s heart breaks when he hears it,
“And don’t look back.”
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Of course, Dan gets him away from Cohen somehow and Jake is like “yeah, so, I used to work for Cohen but, uh, then I realized he was kind of batshit insane so I quit and never went back to Fort Frolic let us never speak of this again”.
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FebuWhump Day 10: “I’m Sorry, I Didn’t Know...”
This isn’t really that whump-y and doesn’t need to be sheltered on my gore blog so I’m just gonna post it directly here. This is more emotional whump than anything, I guess...
Warnings: mentions of abuse, panic attack, awkward tension
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“Wait! Don’t—“ Dom starts to shout but Jake’s hand has already slipped off the door and let it slam shut behind him.
“Crap, sorry!” Jake tries the handle but it only jiggles uselessly against the lock, “Um…”
“Y-yeah, that door, ah, auto…auto-locks…” Dom says helplessly, his shoulders slumping.
“Why does it auto lock? Where’s the key? You have a key right?” Jake is still yanking on the door handle, even knowing that it won’t open. There’s the slightest hint of fear edging into his voice.
Dom sighs, “It only opens from the outside and it’s the only way in or out of this room. For security reasons.”
Jake makes a frustrated sound, “Well that’s stupid! How are we supposed to get out of here?”
“We have to wait for security to come by and check the room.”
“And when do they do that?”
“Mm,” Dom hunches into himself avoiding Jake’s gaze, “Um, every couple of hours…”
Jake curses through clenched teeth and Dom startles. He’s never heard Jake swear. Or get angry at all, really. He watches Jake kick the door in frustration and then look around the room for another exit even though he already knows there isn’t one. The room is tiny—a cramped storage space full of towering filing cabinets, their drawers bursting with paperwork and company records going back decades. It smells like dust and standing water and it’s Dom’s least favorite place in the office where he works. It’s also not the first time he’s been stuck in here.
He’s about to tell Jake to calm down and come sit with him while they wait when there’s a fizzling noise and then a loud POP! And they’re plunged into darkness. Apparently the lightbulb has decided now is the perfect time to burn out. Dom chalks it up to bad luck and resigns himself to sitting in the dark with a very angry neighbor.
Except he can still hear Jake and that increasingly rapid breathing doesn’t sound angry.
It sounds panicked.
“Jake?” He says tentatively, trying to blink through the dark, “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“I’m f-fine!” Jake snaps back. There’s a thud and more rattling from the door handle, “I just—just want to get out of here! I have th-things to do!”
“We have to wait until security comes by…” Dom says tiredly. He shuffles forward in the dark, hands outstretched in front of him, before it occurs to him to try his phone…which he’s left at his desk, he discovers when he pats his pockets. Kicking himself, Dom starts moving again. There hadn’t been a lot of space between him and Jake to begin with and he has a relative idea of where the door is given how many times he’s had to come through this room. But Jake’s been shuffling around a lot and Dom has no idea where he’s at.
Dom’s fingers brush fabric and he steps closer, rests his palm on Jake’s shoulder, “Jake—“
Jake yanks away and hits the door with a dull thud. Dom persists, reaches out again but Jake’s either ducking down or Dom aimed a little too high because his hand slides against Jake’s neck instead of his shoulder.
Jake goes ballistic.
A snarl unlike anything Dom has ever heard rips from somewhere deep in Jake’s chest and he’s suddenly a flurry of limbs in the dark. His nails scratch at Dom’s bare arms and he’s gone from kicking the door to kicking Dom in the shins. Something inside Dom wretches at the horrible familiarity of someone so scrawny fighting back with such vicious panic, an old dread stirring in his stomach at the frantic scrambling of Jake’s thin frame trying to keep him at bay.
“Jake! Jake, stop!.” He pleads with the twisting shadows, trying to batten down the hatch of panic he’s accidentally opened, “Jake, calm down! It’s me! It’s Dominic! It’s Dom! Jake! Jake, you’re okay!” Dom manages to catch one of Jake’s wrists, holding him back, and if anything that just makes Jake fight even more ferociously, “Jake, please! You’re safe, you’re okay, I promise! JAKE STOP IT!” All movement stops. Dom can feel Jake’s pulse fluttering rapidly through his grip on the smaller man’s wrist, “It’s okay, Jake, you’re okay. It’s just you and me in here. It’s okay…it’s okay…”
“D-Dom…? Oh—oh god, I—I’m so sorry—“ Jake stutters, his voice shaking, cracking under a pressure Dom doesn’t understand, “Dom, I—are you okay? I didn’t—are you—I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry!”
“It’s all right, I shouldn’t have snuck up on you…” Dom assures him, letting go of Jake’s wrist and taking a step back “Um, do you—sorry, but do you have your phone? Or something? I left mine at my desk and…”
“Oh! Oh, yeah, h-hang on!” The sound of fabric rustling and then blue light surges to life, making both men flinch at the sudden brightness, “Could we call someone to come let us out? Or something?”
“Maybe? I…I don’t know the number though…” Jake deflates at Dom’s words and Dom coughs awkwardly, “Um. Right. So why don’t we just…sit down and wait? For a bit?”
Jake takes a deep, shaky breath and nods, swallowing hard. He follows Dom to a stand of filing cabinets that face the door and slides down next to him. The thin carpet squares that make up the flooring aren’t very comfortable, but it will do.
The silence sitting between them is horrendously awkward.
Dom keeps rubbing his fingertips together, remembering the panicked surge of Jake’s heart under his grip. He feels disgusted with himself for scaring the other man. Should he apologize? Would that make it awkward? It would probably make things worse than they already were. Dom should just keep to himself and—
“Sorry.” Jake says and Dom jumps a little. He glances at Jake but Jake is looking at the light coming from his phone, at the plain blue background with no sign of personalization.
“Um…” Says Dom.
“For, uh, attacking you. I guess. Sorry.” Jake plucks at loose threads in the carpet squares. The bags under his eyes look darker in the light, “It—I, uh, I guess I have a little bit of…claustrophobia? Or something? Heh…” The wavering smile he’s been trying to hold slips off his face and drops into the shadows,
“My…brother. Used to—used to lock me in the closet under our stairs sometimes. It was so small and cramped and full of spiders. He’d leave me in there for hours sometimes, just let me scream and—“ He breaks off, his hands stilling over the fraying carpet, shaking slightly at ugly memories crawling to the surface. Dom can almost see them swimming behind his eyes. When Jake speaks again, it’s in such a hushed voice that it’s almost a breathless whisper,
“Sometimes he strangled me until I passed out, just to make me shut up.”
Dom goes cold.
He feels like he’s seeing something he’s not supposed to, like he’s walked in on something intimate and fragile and he needs to leave. But there’s nowhere to go and the words are already out in the open. He can’t pretend he didn’t hear them. So he looks away from Jake and stares at his chapped knuckles with little red scratches from their earlier struggle and says,
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”
Jake lets out a humorless chuckle, tilting his head back and letting it thud against the filing cabinet behind him, “Never told anyone. But…you were just trying to help and I tried to hurt you. Guess I just…wanted you to understand why…”
Dom doesn’t know what to say. Does he thank Jake for trusting him with such a deep and important part of himself? Does he apologize? Does he say something comforting? Does he share something as equally important and secret back?
He’s saved from figuring it out by the door clicking and swinging open.
A security guard is standing in the hall and looks genuinely surprised to see someone in the room, “What’re you two doin’ sittin’ here in the dark?”
“The bulb went out,” Dom says, heaving himself to his feet, “Thanks for letting us out, George.”
The guard nods, watches them file past. Jake’s keeping his head down, his expression blank, the guard watches him with a curious look, “Anytime, Mr. Bridges. You need help with anything?”
“No, no, we were just going,” Dom says, raises his hand to put it on Jake’s shoulder and changes his mind halfway through the motion, flailing his arm awkwardly in a sloppy farewell, “See you later, George.” And he hurries down the hall with Jake trailing after him.
Jake’s quiet confession in the dark nips at his heels, trying to chew its way into his heart to fester there alongside the memories of someone else he would have given anything to save.
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FebuWhump Day 12: “Who are you?”
I straight up am not happy with the way this one turned out. It just didn’t come out the way I wanted it to and it feel messy and there’s no ending because it was getting too long. I think I’m losing steam, fellas...
Warnings: self harm, lots of swearing, child abuse
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“You doing all right, Milo? You’ve been awful quiet these last few days.” Dan sets Milo’s dinner in front of him and goes back to the stove to fill his own.
Milo stares into his food and pushes it around with his fork. He makes no move to eat and doesn’t look up when Dan sits down across from him.
“Milo?”
Still no answer.
“Did something happen at school?”
Nothing.
“Are you hurt?” Dan sets his fork down in concern, leans over to touch Milo only to have the boy flinch at the brush of his fingertips, “Milo…?”
Milo hunches his shoulders, bunches his hoodie around himself, and glances at Dan through his bangs. It takes Dan a second to realize that the skin around Milo’s eye is getting puffy and dark, a bruise forming near the bridge of his nose and down his cheek.
“Milo…what happened…?”
There’s a sniffle, a whimper as tears well into Milo’s eyes, his knuckles white as he crushes the fabric of his hoodie in his fists. His words are so quiet, to soft and hoarse, that Dan almost can’t hear him,
“Jake…Jake hit me…”
Dan feels like the world has stopped turning.
Shock renders him immobile. It wipes his mind blank, a lightning strike to the central hard drive of his own mind, frying everything from his memory to his motor functions. His lungs seize, his throat closes, his mouth is dry, and his heart stops. Numbness sweeps over his nerves, followed quickly by a cold, prickling horror and a stabbing burn of denial.
“Jake?” He says and his voice is hollow and his tongue is heavy, “Jake? Hit you? He…he would never…Milo, he would never—“
“He did!” Milo hiccups, trying hide deeper in his hoodie, “I was j-just trying to—I was talking to him about school and he—he got mad! And told me to shut up and go—go away!”
Heat is sitting thickly at the base of Dan’s throat. Anger and confusion battle in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He stands, chair scraping the floor, and marches out of the kitchen towards the stairs. He knows Milo will follow him and he wants to tell him not to but Dan doesn’t trust his voice to be kind and steady right now. Jake doesn’t hit people, not anymore, and he certainly would never ever hit Milo, no matter how much the kid bothered him.
Jake’s bedroom door is locked but Dan’s never let a simple lock stop him. He twists the handle until he wrenches it loose from the frame and shoves the door open with a bang. He’ll worry about repairing it later.
Jake is sitting on the edge of the open window, blowing cigarette smoke into the chilly autumn air. He turns his head with a lazy sort of arrogance to look at Dan and sneers. There’s something about the way he’s sitting that doesn’t look like Jake at all, slouching and languid, like his limbs are all the wrong size. His shirt is open, buttons undone to expose his dangerously skinny chest, rib bones poking out like sunken piano keys, and there’s nothing on his feet, the old pair of jeans he’s in frayed at the hems.
“Jacob,” Dan says, trying to keep his voice level, the anger he’s keeping at bay seeping into his mouth and burning his tongue, “Milo said you hit him. Is—please tell me—it’s not true, right? You didn’t hit him. Right?”
The awful sneer on Jake’s face stretches, showing too many teeth, “So what if I did?” And even the cadence of his voice sounds wrong, “The brat was annoying me and couldn’t take a hint. He needed to be taught a lesson. Could use a few more, really.”
Dan hears Milo flinch in the doorway and the anger inside him build ferociously, “What the hell is wrong with you!? Are you—you’re—are you drinking again!? Where did this come from!?”
“Mmm, I dunno, Fuller,” Jake spits his name like a curse as he swivels on the window sill, swinging his legs around to stand up, “Maybe J—I’m finally showing my true colors. Nothing better than a bastard from a whole family of rotten, good-for-nothing bastards. Or maybe…” He blows out another cloud of smoke and is giving Dan a look like he’s challenging him to a fight “…you’d like to take a wild guess…Daniel Fuller.”
Dread suddenly tempers Dan’s boiling rage and he swallows the lump in his throat. Because it’s occured to him that he knows Jake better than anybody and Jake—no matter how drunk or angry and upset he is—would never talk like this. He would never hit Milo, he would never smoke, and he would never mention his sordid family history so casually. Dan narrows his eyes, hands curling into fists,
“Who are you?”
Jake laughs, a foreign and bitter noise that makes the air sour, “Now you’re getting it! Try thinking juuussstttt a little bit ha—hrngk!” He stiffens, convulses once, and his stance changes abruptly from sneering contempt to horrified panic, “Help me! I can’t make him leave! He’s—“ Jake cuts off again, body twitching, and then that bitter growl is back, “Don’t pay attention to the peanut gallery, Fuller. He’s just watching. This is between you and me…for now.”
“Who are you!?” Milo shouts from the doorway, “Get out of my dad! Give him back his body!”
“Shut up!” Not-Jake snarls, “I’ll deal with you later, brat! Right now, the grown ups are talking.” His gaze flicks back to Dan who is growing more and more terrified as realization begins to dawn on him. Something about it must show on his face, because Not-Jake laughs at him again, “Come oooonnn, Fuller, put the pieces together. I know we didn’t talk that much but my feelings will be so hurt if you’ve forgotten me…”
“Aaron…” Dan’s mouth is dry, “But…what…?”
“I’m dead, Danny-boy!” Aaron shouts and for the second the lights flicker and his eyes are burning red and there’s something writhing under Jake’s skin, “D-E-A-D! Dead! And none of you even knew! Mom didn’t bother to share that little bit of info! Not that she could anyway because somebody vanished and didn’t even leave us a forwarding address! Jacob!”
“Aaron, get out of Jake’s body! Now!”
“Make me!” Aaron taunts back and when Dan takes a step forward, Aaron presses the cherry of his cigarette into Jake’s bare chest, “Oopsie~” There’s that split second of convulsing and then Jake is screaming. He stumbles backwards and hits the wall, legs trembling, before his scream is cut off with another twitch and Aaron takes over again. He takes the cigarette away with a nasty grin and flicks the dead butt out the window,
“Careful, Fuller, don’t wanna hurt—GET OUT OF ME! GET OUT! GET OU—Shut up!.” Aaron snarls and his eyes burn red again for a moment.
Milo is sniffling in the background and Dan wants to tell him to go hide, to go away so he doesn’t witness this, but he doesn’t want to take his eyes off Aaron.
“What do you want?”
“Just visiting family,” Aaron says with a horrible purr, “Just want Jake to know exactly what it was like after he left, what happened to me when mom had no one else to take her shit out on.” He undoes the belt on Jake’s pants, slides it through the loops, and inspects it, “So here’s the game we’re gonna play, Fuller,” Aaron snaps the belt between his hands a couple times, testing its strength,
“I’m gonna make Jake suffer and you’re gonna watch and we’ll see who gives in f—ON’T DO THIS! AARON, PLEASE! I’M SORRY I DIDN’T KNOW! WE DON’T HAVE TO D—I told you to be quiet!”
Dan charges.
He slams into Jake’s body, pins him against the wall, one hand holding Jake’s wrists above his head and the other pressed loosely around his throat. Dan’s seething, partially out of rage and partially out of fear, his heart hammering in his chest, beating so hard he swears he can feel it pressing against his ribs.
Aaron’s chuckling darkly, looking up at him with a wicked sneer of triumph, “You wanna hurt me, Fuller? You wanna beat me up? Go ahead. Jake can take it. Trust me, I kn—“ The body under Dan’s grip shudders violently and then it’s Jake, the real Jake, pleading up at Dan with tears in his eyes, “Dan, oh gh-god, Dan you gotta stop him! Please! Just—tie me up or—or kill me! Do something! Please!” Another convulsion and Aaron is back in control, “Begging like the coward he is! Fucker! I’ll wreck your life, Jake! I’ll make you wish you were dead!”
“DAN PLEASE!” Jake screams the words, banging his head against the wall, begging with everything he has, “He’ll hurt Milo, please, I d-don’t want to—I don’t—please, don’t let him—Dan, please!”
And Dan feels his heart break into a million pieces as he stands there, pinning his best friend to the wall, with no idea what he should do.
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