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sunshiline-writes · 8 days ago

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Tommy in Wonderland

Chapter 29 of Professional//Victim

Paralyzed by injection, Tommy joins a tea party as the only guest still alive.

CW: Captive whumpee, intimate whumper, drugged whump, dehumanization, "willing" whumpee, medical whump, doll whumpee, doll fetishization, sex dolls, dollification, force feeding, hand feeding, discussion of food+eating+nausea+gagging, noncon body modification, desecration of remains ig???, manipulation, and strong horror elements.

This chapter really won't make sense out of context.

~ ~ ~

Caius pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, using it to shield his hand as he gingerly picked up the holding pin Sam had dropped. He shook his long blond hair behind his shoulders with a shimmy and wrinkled his nose at the decomposing corpse.

“Help me get the mask back on, before he comes back.”

Tommy could not do that, as he was very aware that the paralytics in his system were preventing him from moving away. Running away. That would be pretty good about now.

“Um, Caius…”

“What?!” Caius snapped, looking over to him. Tommy cleared his throat self consciously and nodded his head towards each shoulder.

“Ah. Right. Sam, get over here, help me with this.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?! We gotta get the fuck out of here! I’m not going to–”

“Ten. Nine. Eight.” Caius interrupted, his countdown short and terse. It made the last few hairs on the back of Tommy’s neck stand up. He wondered if his arm hair was prickling too, and he just couldn’t feel it. He looked down at his arms, which were covered. Oh, no, I don’t even have arm hair. They sheared me like a fucking sheep. Right.

Tommy pondered his lack of arm hair while the man who ruined his life bent over the decomposing body beside him, counting. Caius tapped a leather wing tipped oxford toe impatiently.

Sam had frozen when Caius had started counting. At three, he finally hustled over, breaking Tommy from his dissociation with the movement. Tommy wasn’t sure exactly what Caius would do to him if he didn’t come, but Sam suddenly looked pale and scared in a way that seemed unrelated to the corpse doll.

“Move the hair out of the way,” Caius directed, and Sam hesitated, staring uneasily at the blond wig strands that had fallen in the way of closing the mask.

“You are a doctor Sam, pull your shit together, we don’t have time for this,” Caius hissed.

“But I don’t–” Sam could barely start to protest before Caius growled over him.

“Listen to me. If you do not suck it up and do what I tell you, I am going to shove my fist so far up your ass I could work your mouth like a hand puppet. You’ll be sitting on a hemorrhoid pillow for a month after what I’m going to do to you.”

Sam pulled the hair out of the way and closed the clamshell mask, holding it until Caius could slide the pin back in place to secure it. It was hard to tell if it improved the smell, the stench was so thick in the nose, but Tommy hoped it would clear. Caius tossed his handkerchief to Sam, who used it to wipe the traces of brown fluid from the corpse away.

He was shaking.

Tommy still had no arm hair.

There was a sound slowly getting closer, something metallic with an odd wub wub wub and a rattle. It was coming from the long hallway off to the side that Dae-Ho had disappeared down. Caius sighed and straightened himself out, producing a bottle of hand sanitizer from another pocket and cleaning his hands meticulously. He kept his voice low.

“Look. It’s not like Dae-Ho is some murderer. He just kept a few favorite…” He adjusted his glasses, looking over the table.

“..clients.”

“You fucking knew?!” Sam snapped, coming back to himself a bit.

“I was told it wasn’t going to be a problem. And it wasn’t, until you decided to be a real fucking Sherlock Holmes over here. Look at Tommy, he’s keeping it together just fine.”

Uh oh. No, don’t compare me to-

Too late. Sam did look at him, and his look of incredulity fell to a glower. Tommy gave a weak smile that felt more like a grimace.

“You knew too?!”

“No, he didn’t, but he knows how to behave himself.” Caius carded his fingers through Tommy’s hair as he praised him. Tommy didn’t want to compete for Caius. He would gladly secede, if only he had the option. Sam looked pissed, but there was a little hurt under there, too. Tommy thought, not for the first time, I am so fucked.

The sound was getting louder quickly. Caius dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“If Dae-Ho causes problems, I’ll put him in the cremator myself. But I don’t see any reason to stop.”

One of the silver cadaver carts rolled into view, Dae-Ho at the helm pushing it along. He was using it like a trolley, a lace tablecloth over the table and carrying all the fixings of a lavish tea party.

“Tea!”

Caius and Sam found their way back to their seats to the side, and Dae-Ho took his time setting out plates. Each doll got a saucer, tea cup, and a folded napkin. The teapot, cups, and saucers were all a deep blue with golden star-like flecks.

“Lapis Lazuli, very beautiful. The ancient Egyptians highly valued it. Cleopatra painted her eyes with its blue powder. They had a culture very involved with death – very different from here and now.”

Tommy felt compelled to compliment him, but he held his tongue. The tea set was very beautiful indeed.

Dae-Ho started to work his way around the table, filling each plate with practiced ease. There was a fine spread of charcuterie, finger sandwiches, fresh fruit, tarts, and bagels with lox. Every doll got a small portion of each food, working down the mountains of it Dae-Ho had prepared for a total party of two.

Even with the portions left for himself and Tommy, it was still far too much food. Not that Tommy was complaining - he was always hungry, or nauseous in a way that he now knew well was still a form of hunger.

“Are you hungry, Tommy?”

Tommy gave him a plastic smile. Dae-Ho’s smile faltered, and he looked down at his empty plate.

Something is wrong.

“I um - yes, bibs. I’ll be right back.” Dae-Ho moved to the cabinet Sam had been rummaging through before.

Caius watched the scene unfolding in front of him. Tommy had a sheen of nervous sweat on his brow - Caius would have to powder his face again the next time Dae-Ho left the room for a few minutes. He was nervous for this one after Tommy’s sudden outburst in the car, but so far he was keeping to his word and behaving.

He couldn’t quite say the same for Sam. He looks down at his phone for a minute after telling Sam to quit fucking around, and boom, corpse reveal. Tommy had stayed miraculously calm, but Caius could tell he was in game mode now. He had to be unshakeable. Caius was looking for any kind of break in his poker face to flay him about later. His clever boy probably knew Caius was – so he needed to be a perfect doll today. Not that he’d be free from punishment, but he wouldn’t dig his grave any deeper.

Dae-Ho faced away just long enough for Caius and Tommy to touch base. It wasn’t a formal thing, just an instinct that had formed as Tommy slowly learned to serve his clients. They spoke with their eyes, with their expressions, subtle enough that few would notice. Tommy looked fully to him, and Caius was struck again by how beautiful he looked. His flawless skin was painted porcelain, a tinge of pink on his cheeks, his eyes drawn in thin lined black, the soft glow around them that Caius had painted on. His eyelashes were feathery, his lips plumped and glossed pink. Tommy’s curly hair fell in sculpted ringlets around his face. With the green contacts on top of his natural ones, his eyes looked enormous and jewel-like. So pretty. He wanted to see him cry. Tommy gave him a lot of cute aggression.

He was distracted, slower to take up Tommy’s message, but it was there. He looked anxious but determined, though Caius could see his vulnerability was wearing at him. It was hot seeing him so helpless, his limbs posed in the wire harness to sit docilely in his wheelchair, hands in his lap just waiting to be fed. Maybe afterwards he’d let Sam fuck him silly before the paralysis wore off.

Tommy’s eyes were pleading. Don’t be angry, I’m being good, see? It was like he’d barely registered the bodies in the room, but Tommy had a funny way of compartmentalizing sometimes. Or he would seem to drift a bit, his eyes unfocused, like he was forgetting what was happening as it happened. If it kept him calm, and he was compliant, then Caius found no reason to complain. Tommy was focused enough when they met eyes, and Caius gave him his signal in a subtle nod.

You’re doing well so far, keep it up.

Each doll was given a bib, adorned with ruffled white layers that almost resembled Victorian cravats. Caius had to stifle a laugh when Dae-Ho anointed Optimus Prime with one, showing the utmost care. Tommy was dressed in his bib last, Dae-Ho careful to pull his soft locks out of the way as he secured it over his collar. He stayed perfectly still, not even flinching when Dae-Ho’s hand touched his cheek. Caius knew Tommy hated it, but there was no indication given of his distaste. Tommy maintained a small smile, his eyebrows slightly raised to appear happy.

Dae-Ho finally sat down in his chair beside Tommy, taking his place at his little throne. Dae-Ho felt no need to don a bib himself. He loaded his and Tommy’s plates before starting to eat.

Caius hadn’t given Tommy anything to eat that day, and it was midday. Dae-Ho raised a cucumber sandwich square to Tommy’s lips. Tommy’s eyes flickered to Caius’s, seeking permission, and Caius tipped his head slightly. Go on. The communication between them was instant, practiced enough now that the client wouldn’t even register hesitation. Tommy opened his mouth and accepted the food. He didn’t lean forwards, resisted catching the crumbs with his tongue, only bit off exactly as much as Dae-Ho put in his mouth and chewed gratefully.

He flinched a fraction of an inch when a fleck of cream cheese fell to his chin, but adjusted immediately. Dae-Ho dabbed at his mouth gently, cleaning him up. Tommy snapped back to his soft smile after every bite.

Dae-Ho fed himself a few bites, and stood to circle his dolls. He stopped behind one of the sex dolls, picking up a tart from its plate and mashing it against the plastic mouth. Bits fell, catching in the ruffled bib. Other pieces fell to the table, or out of sight to the doll’s lap. Caius registered a faint feeling of disgust, considered it, let it pass. Others would look down on Caius’s own pleasures. He felt an aversion to judging those he chose for Tommy to play with, even a faint sense of kinship with them. If Dae-Ho wanted to feed them, well, Caius felt pleasure feeding Tommy, too. Still, it was hard to watch Dae-Ho "feed" his various dolls, mashing the food against their plastic faces.

When Dae-Ho sat beside Tommy again though, he looked oddly sad. He poured tea for the both of them, overfilling Tommy’s until it spilled over the edges and nearly filled the saucer before stopping with a startle.

Caius felt Sam’s hand on his thigh and turned his head, meeting his eyes. Sam looked uncomfortable, bouncing his knee with agitation.

“Are you seeing this?” Sam whispered urgently. Caius sneered at him, an anger rising again. He’d brought Sam to client appointments before, but it had been a while. Caius didn’t need him as much now that he was confident with patching Tommy for the drive home. But he didn’t remember Sam being so irritating before.

“What is wrong with–” A clatter at the table snapped Caius’s attention back. Dae-Ho was leaned over in his chair, feeding Tommy a tart. Tommy was keeping his composure as best he could, but Dae-Ho seemed suddenly distressed, and was trying to jam the whole thing in his mouth at once. Pieces were breaking off against Tommy’s lips, the tart filling smearing around his mouth. Dae-Ho shoved it suddenly, grinding it into Tommy’s face with anger.

“Why aren’t you right?? Why are you doing this?!” Dae-Ho demanded, though if he was actually talking to Tommy, it was unclear. Caius was immediately standing up, his hand moving down to his belt where he kept his baton.

“Dae-Ho, Dae-Ho,” Tommy cooed, his voice sweet. Caius grit his teeth - he wasn’t supposed to speak. But he stilled, for a reason beyond him, waiting to see Tommy's angle.

Dae-Ho stopped when Tommy spoke, his hands hesitating around his face.

“Play nice with your dolls, Dae-Ho,” Tommy said softly.

“Let me be here, with you. What’s wrong? Talk to me, I’m here for you.” The scene was a little goofy, with a pastry smeared on his face like a clown had done a drive by. But Tommy’s voice was gentle, understanding. It disarmed Dae-Ho, who withdrew his touch. He stared at Tommy, his lip trembling, before he suddenly collapsed onto him.

He pressed his face to Tommy’s chest, throwing his arms around him and squeezing. Caius started forwards again, but Tommy caught his eyes. His eyes were clear, determined.

Wait. Let me work.

“I don’t understand, why isn’t this working?? I don’t feel the way I thought I would,” Dae-Ho cried. Caius could see Tommy thinking.

“What feels different?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!”

“Dae-Ho….I’m here to be your doll. But let me be with you. Let me appreciate all you do. Did you know I was admiring your beautiful tea set?”

Dae-Ho sniffled and pulled back, grabbing Tommy’s napkin to wipe the crumbs from his own face.

“Really?”

“It looks like the night sky, with all the stars in gold. This is the nicest tea party I’ve ever been to.”

Caius caught it. Let me, let me. The way Tommy spoke was repetitive, hypnotic. Presenting himself as passive by asking Dae-Ho to let him, disarming his assertion down to a kind suggestion. Beautiful.

Tommy’s voice was melodic and even, using the light tone one would use while reading a bedtime story to a child. It was odd seeing a grown man like Dae-Ho, in his nice clothes, throwing a tantrum. Stranger still for Tommy to be talking him down, when he was usually the one having a fit.

Caius stepped back and sat back down, casting an arm around Sam’s shoulders. Sam looked spooked, but seemed to have given up on protesting for the moment. Tommy soothed Dae-Ho with niceties, and he was starting to warm back up. Normally Caius would have Tommy’s hide for breaking his client’s rules, but Tommy was handling himself. Almost self sufficient – but he would never stay by true choice.

Dae-Ho dabbed at the pastry still clinging to Tommy’s face apologetically, giggling when Tommy licked at the edges of his lips, inspiring a playful mood in him again.

“Can we try again? We will clean up, and you can come back in and introduce me to everyone.” Tommy could only slightly move his head, so all his acting had to be through his voice and his face. Caius imagined him as one of those little dolls with a pull string.

Pull on the string and hear him speak!

“Yes, Caius,” as it wound back in, and he would fall silent again. Pull it again.

“Thank you, Caius,” he would sigh. Wrapping him in the string, letting it cut into his soft skin. Untying him, finally letting the blood rush back in, the sweet way he cried Caius’s name forced from his throat as he rewound.

Dae-Ho departed to collect himself again, and they were left alone in the room. Caius took up his satchel and approached, Tommy’s eyes wide and nervous as he neared.

“Did I do okay?”

Caius pulled some baby wipes from his kit, one in hand while the other shook Tommy’s curls free of crumbs. He tucked them back behind his ears and away from his face so he could work, wiping his face clean.

“Talk less. But I think you’re reading him right.” Tommy’s eyes fluttered closed when he scrubbed too close. Caius licked his thumb and wiped the last smear of filling at the corner of his mouth away, drawing it back to his lips to taste it.

“I think I have an unusual amount of baked goods up my nose,” Tommy joked, giving a nervous smile. A small offering to break the tension between them that Tommy had caused in the car. Caius gave him nothing, keeping his face austere. Tommy’s face fell again, and he cast his eyes down. Caius had to hold the tissue for him to blow his nose. Sam cleared his throat loudly. Caius ignored him. He opted to powder Tommy’s face again, fixing his makeup with a few touches.

“You should try the food, it’s really good,” Tommy offered quietly.

“I don’t need handouts.” Caius was going to be bitchy until he could properly punish him. It gave him a delightful sense of schadenfreude to watch Tommy wilt from his words.

When he finished Tommy's touch up, he collected himself and turned to reclaim his seat. He saw Dae-Ho’s head peering around the corner out of the hallway, watching, ducking out of the way when Caius turned.

“Uh…Okay, Dae-Ho returning now!” He announced, backing into the hallway before walking out as if he had just arrived.

“Hello Dae-Ho,” Tommy greeted him, giving him a smile that didn't quite cover his pain. Caius realized a moment too late that he had shaken Tommy up at a time where he needed the utmost focus.

“I suppose I could be more supportive,” he murmured to Sam.

“I bet you could get some good money for him. Dae-Ho could add him to the guest list for his tea parties. Make him into corpse tea or whatever.” Caius slapped Sam’s thigh playfully in response. He was well aware of Sam’s jealous nature, but it was just too fun to exploit. His animosity towards Tommy could probably be soothed over the course of another few blowjobs. It was always good for Tommy's ego to spend some time on his knees, anyhow.

Dae-Ho scooped Tommy out of his wheelchair, picking him up bridal style. Tommy’s limbs dangled limply where they weren’t supported, and Caius could see the unease in his eyes as he was rearranged. Dae-Ho sat him in his lap, pushing and pulling him this way and that to get him seated the way he wanted. There was a tightness in Tommy’s jaw, his childlike glee fleeing his face the moment Dae-Ho was distracted. The second Dae-Ho looked over to his face, he would find a mask securely in place, perfectly serene. But Caius could see it when Tommy nervously swallowed, how his jaw was set, how empty and scared his eyes looked under the makeup he wore like warpaint.

Perched on his lap, Tommy resembled a ventriloquist dummy. Especially with the bow tie, peeking just over the top of the bib. Dae-Ho curled an arm around his shoulders, and used a fistful of his hair to move him, bending the armature up his spine to tilt his head back. Tommy held the position, his eyes flickering over to Caius momentarily as Dae-Ho picked at his plate.

He fed Tommy a sandwich, gentle this time, as he spoke, addressing his inanimate audience.

“Everyone, this is Tommy. Tommy, this is everyone.” He pointed to the corpse doll beside Tommy. She was drooped to the side slightly, and he realized with a start that there were still strands of her hair that had been pinned underneath the mask. Her blond wig was sitting low on her forehead, and there were drops of dark brown putrefaction staining her hair beneath the pin.

“This is Wendy. She’s a girly girl, and she loves to shop. But more than anything, she wants to be a mommy.” Tommy’s stomach clenched at the stark reminder of his situation. When did he stop noticing that awful smell? Now it was all he could think about. Suddenly the food seemed a lot less appealing.

“Next, we have Matthew, he is a model AND a safari guide. Don’t get this guy talking about cheetahs, he loves his cheetahs.” Dae-Ho winked and smiled conspiratorially with Tommy, who maintained the curl of his lips as a mechanical endurance.

“Then Oliver is a painter, who still leaves flowers on his mother’s grave every Sunday. Madison is a princess, but she ran away after she got pregnant from her peasant lover! Jamie is an archeologist for dinosaurs, and discovered an ancient Egyptian tomb. Optimus Prime is on a scouting mission to learn the pleasures of human life, and bolster his forces with meaning to save the Earth.” Each doll had a dramatic backstory, and seemingly, a personality. Dae-Ho’s tone was enthusiastic on some, wary on others, even angry with others still.

He must lead a… complex inner life. Tommy wondered absently if he would end up the same, bored and isolated to madness in his basement dorm.

He wondered if he would be happier for it.

Dae-Ho finished with the sex doll at his side. She was short but otherwise human sized, with a big head and bigger breasts. She had long, dark brown hair, pouty lips, and dead eyes.

Well. Not dead dead, but lifeless.

“This is Angela. Her dream is to be a fashion designer. And she is very, very kinky,” Dae-Ho informed him, turning to face him with a dirty grin. Tommy faltered slightly, unease tugging at him from the idea of Dae-Ho fucking a silicone doll.

“What, um – what kind of fashion?”

“Dresses! Fancy dresses,” Dae-Ho told him gladly, looking a bit surprised at the question.

“-But you should enjoy your tea. Bitter darjeeling with honey and hibiscus. Open up!” Dae-Ho brought the tea cup carefully to Tommy’s lips. The brown tea looked murky in the blue cup, a few drops of cream clouding the drink. It was hard to sip without moving anything other than his lips, and uncomfortable to drink with his head set back like it was. Lukewarm tea trickled down his chin, and he couldn’t help thinking of the ooze that flowed from the corpse doll’s head. He gagged, shifting his torso without thinking, but managed to cover it with a cough.

Dae-Ho looked at him with sudden disgust.

Too human.

“Such good tea, Dae-Ho, did you make it yourself?” Tommy tried to force his voice smooth with a hoarse throat. Dae-Ho’s face brightened back up a bit.

“Yes I did! The key is to let it steep for just long enough.” Smile, seem interested, bat eyelashes, repeat.

Sam watched Tommy at the table, having a grand old time of it. Dae-Ho fed him treats and he smiled and giggled like a tickle-me-elmo. Sam didn’t know how he could eat among dead bodies, it was disgusting. Dae-Ho pushed his fingers into pitted olives and fed them to Tommy from his fingertips, and he just lapped it up. When Dae-Ho fed him a tart, he sucked the crumbs from his fingers, making Dae-Ho erupt in delighted laughter.

Sucking fingers, his eyes flashing to Caius. It made Sam’s stomach churn. When did this scummy punk kid turn into such a little slut? And how the hell was Caius buying it? As irritated as he was watching him, he couldn’t quite make himself look away. He remembered Tommy sucking his cock, nibbling the piercing at his tip with his teeth, laving his tongue along the underside and – fuck, he was hard. Fuck this, I don’t want to see this shit.

When Dae-Ho finished eating, he set Tommy back down in his wheelchair. It was weird seeing him go limp, but Sam figured that’s what Dae-Ho was used to anyways. He was deceptively strong for being as petite as he was. He still took a couple breaths and stretched before he took the handles of the wheelchair in hand, turning to look straight at Sam.

“Well, gentleman, I believe it is time for the show. I’ll be changing Tommy into his costume, if you’d like to join me in my home theater.” Tommy’s eyes went big, and he looked as confused as Sam felt. Sam looked to Caius, who mostly looked bored, but he recognized the sparkle in his eyes that suggested he was very interested indeed. Caius stood and beckoned him to follow, padding after Dae-Ho to another room in the strange mortuary mansion.

As they left, some movement caught Sam’s eye, and he hesitated to look back. Two maids, dressed in the classic black and white, appeared seemingly out of nowhere. They emerged to tend the dolls, one making rounds to remove the bibs as the other started to gather the dishes together. She scraped the mostly-untouched food into a pile and started to stack the plates. They didn’t seem bothered at all by the smell, or the dolls. Sam shuddered to himself, happy to leave the tea party behind.

Exactly what the “show” would be, Sam had no clue. He wasn’t sure he was going to like whatever it was. Ahead of him, he saw Tommy’s hand slip off of his lap and dangle to the side, his numb fingers catching in the spokes for a few rotations before Dae-Ho pulled it back.

Well, at least Tommy was having a worse day.

Taglist:

@suspicious-whumping-egg @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday @defire @jumpywhumpywriter

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @knivestothroats @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

Thank you all for reading!

#cw: captive whumpee #intimate whumper #drugged whump #“willing” whumpee #medical whump #doll whumpee #doll fetishization #hand feeding #dollification #discussion of food+eating+nausea+gagging #Dae-ho is horrifying!!! I love him 😂😂#Sam being such a little bitch about everything is sending me #Caius being like “eh I can’t judge is also incredibly funny #loved this chapter #as always super fun to read!

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sunshiline-writes · 10 days ago

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Spit your sins out on my pulpit and find that filthy mouth of yours cleansed.

Art Tag: @whump-tr0pes @whump-queen @whumpsday h

@kixngiggles @onlywhumpcomments @project-xiii @ka1imba

@suspicious-whumping-egg @cyborg0109 h

@whatwhumpcomments @whumpcomica @i-eat-worlds h

@blood-and-regrets @dont-look-me-in-the-eye @burnticedlatte

@lonesome--hunter @whumpifi @oddsconvert y

@painsandconfusion @whumpasaurus101 @sadcatjae h

@kiratheperson @studyofwhump @sunshiline-writes h

@just-a-silly-little-whumper @chaotic---calm @ladyjaye13 h

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@mottinthemainpot @to-be-a-bee h

#whump #whump art #art #religious whump #angel whump #angel whumpee #oh this is LOVELY #very hot #im in love

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sunshiline-writes · 24 days ago

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Undertaking Alchemy: Chapter 1: Volatile Observation

CW: intimate whumper, kidnapping, captivity, violence

Next, Masterlist

Read on Ao3!

~~~

Soft fingers of morning sunlight crept in through the narrow leaded windows, the only outside visitor allowed in the alchemist’s tower prison. The golden beams warped through glass flasks and tubes, fanning rainbows across Ailen’s face where he lay in bed. The glinting otherworldly colors almost disguised the bruise blooming yellow across his dark cheekbone.

Ailen was awake and enjoying, as much as he was able to, the silence of the sunrise. The morning was when he felt best: most refreshed, most able to face his hopeless situation. Here in the hour of dawn, he was left unbothered. Unaccosted. The bed was warm and soft. With his eyes closed, he could easily imagine himself somewhere else.

Home, perhaps. With Mila.

The fantasy felt good – until it hurt.

The rainbow slid down his face and over his shoulder as he sat up, folding the goose-down duvet back and swinging his feet to the floor. The bed, a wardrobe, and a sink were located at 6 o’clock in an oval depression a few steps down from the lab which occupied the majority of the round tower room, but the meager living space was separated in no other way; he could see the door from where he sat, a heavy iron-barred thing at 3 o’clock, and anyone who entered could see him. The only real retreat could be found in the tiny toilet chamber at 12 o’clock.

The lack of privacy was old hat at this point. Ailen freed his braids from their silk scarf and shed his nightshirt; he washed up at the basin and moisturized his skin, scalp, and hair with a scant amount of oil of aramat; shivered as the chill air ghosted over healing bruises. He dressed quickly, in warm tall stockings, trousers, and a shirt and sweater vest, securing arm garters to hold his sleeves back – couldn’t have fabric draping down into open flames or stewing mixtures. His braids, too, tapered ends brushing his shoulders, were pulled out of his face with a silk tie. Lastly he donned a stained apron made of light leather.

He stepped into his shoes and crossed the laboratory to the windows, located at 9 o’clock on the tower’s circumference. One could be cranked open, just a few inches, to feel the air. It was bitingly cold today. Ailen’s breath clouded as he peeked out. No snow yet, only skeletal trees reaching thousands of arms up, as far as the eye could see.

Snow wasn’t something Ailen was particularly looking forward to. It was just something different. A symbol of time moving, against all odds.

He took one last breath of fresh air before closing the window and turning to face the lab.

Mismatched tables and cabinets gathered in a huddle, host to heating elements, alembics, kettles, beakers, jars, charts, books, scrolls, scribbled recipes, star maps – anything. Everything. Ailen had tried everything.

Time to think of something else.

Ailen dove in, shuffling through papers, flipping through books. Maybe if he combined Delvetta’s second principle with the magnetism of – no, he’d already done that! Mourning theory, but applied to thaumaturgical practice rather than alchemical? That would… definitely explode. Forthright’s compound, but move every ingredient one space to the left on the elemental table?

Ailen huffed. That was idiotic.

It would have to do.

He got as far as distilling the rovarian oxide when he heard the bolt slide and the door creak open behind him.

Even after all these weeks, the hair on the back of Ailen’s neck stood up.

“How’s my little alchemist?” the monster purred.

“Well, sir,” Ailen replied, carefully setting down the book he had been holding and smoothing out the page with a quaking hand.

“What are we working on today?” The door shut, and footsteps approached Ailen’s back.

“A v- a variation on, um, Forthright’s compound. Sir.” Ailen kept his eyes fixed on the open page in front of him.

“What kind of variation?” The footsteps turned, started to pace.

“A… substitution, of certain ingredients, that may yield… new results,” Ailen voice wavered as he struggled to put together a sentence through the fear.

“New results?”

“Yes, sir.”

“New results, or the results that I want?”

“I’m,” Ailen swallowed, “I’m fairly confident-”

“Fairly?”

The wizard was right behind Ailen, leaning in, hot breath on his ear. The stench of sulfur invaded his nostrils and the book blurred as tears flooded his eyes.

“Please let me try, sir, please let me try.”

“Oh,” the monster’s voice took on an air of sympathy, “What are you here for if not to try?” The footsteps retreated back towards the door. “I’ll check in again later.”

As soon as the bolt slid into place and signaled the wizard’s departure Ailen sank down onto his heels, pressing his forehead into the edge of the table with a shuddering breath.

One to the left didn’t fucking cut it.

Do better. Be better.

Ailen surged to his feet – swayed a moment – then seized his much-annotated elemental chart. Fuck one to the left. He knew his interactivities, his compatibilities. He could make educated decisions. He could do a real experiment.

He could bring the world one step closer to the philosopher’s stone.

~~~

The second time the bolt slid, Ailen was relieved. It was not the sharp, confident sound of the master of the castle entering, but instead the awkward, twitchy movements of the homunculus. He turned to watch the construct enter; a hairless, ashen-gray humanoid with large cats-eye marbles – its namesake – for eyes, dressed in formal butler’s attire. It bore a tray of food; braised leeks and potatoes with sausage. Ailen moved a few books and vials to make space on one table as the homunculus approached in its wandering way. It set the tray down with a clunk, and waited.

“Thank you, Marbles,” Ailen said with a weak smile.

The thanks was unnecessary, Marbles needed no kindness; but it was alive, in a way, and trapped, in a way, and it was entirely Ailen’s fault. The wizard had ordered him to create the homunculus soon after his arrival at Castle Dunswoll. Marbles worked without rest, cooking, cleaning, seeing to the needs of master and alchemist alike. It couldn’t be a pleasant existence, even if the construct wasn’t equipped to understand it.

“Listen,” Ailen said, picking up a page of his notes, eyes scanning it, “I replaced the termetic with calcium, and the sulfur with ink of demure, but I’m stuck on the aluminum. I can’t figure out what makes sense there – or if I even change it at all. What do you think?”

He looked up at Marbles, and the homunculus stared back. After a moment Ailen nodded.

“Yes, yes, I’ll leave it as it is. Too many variables to find a replacement.”

It was helpful, to speak aloud to someone. Ailen missed having a lab partner.

“Thanks again, Marbles. You may go.”

Marbles lurched out of the laboratory and Ailen watched it leave, unable to shake the sense of kinship he felt. But nonetheless, the bolt rattled back into place.

~~~

Ailen Maivon was the finest alchemist this side of the River Folk. He’d proven Winchester’s Theory, discovered the 46th element, invented half a dozen effective medicinal tinctures – his list of accolades went on.

Ailen had never thought his skill would make him a target. Perhaps that was naive.

The first that the alchemist heard of the wizard Edelgard was a warning. A cryptic letter, slipped under his door.

Watch out for the wizard Edelgard. Don’t go out after dark.

A strange note, but easily dismissed as a child’s game so close to All Hallow’s Eve.

The next time Ailen left his home after sunset, he didn’t return.

He’d awoken, sick as a dog, in the fully kitted laboratory tower. He’d fallen out of bed and nearly vomited on the shoes of the wizard looming over him.

“Teleportation magic is taxing on those unused to it. You’ll recover shortly.”

Ailen had raised his head, his eyes seeking upwards, from leather shoes to wool trousers to gold-buttoned damask robe. A swift kick to his ribs prevented him from taking in much more beyond that than pale eyes, sharp features, and graying hair.

“Don’t look at me unless I say so.”

Ailen had never imagined himself as cowardly, but he had also never faced true aggression. He was well-liked, too skilled to have true rivals, and lived in peaceful times. He found himself shaking like a fawn, obediently bowing his head.

“Wh-who…?”

“I am the wizard Edelgard. You will refer to me as sir,” the wizard began to pace, “You are in my home, Castle Dunswoll. And you are here,” he paused for dramatic effect, “To create the philosopher’s stone.”

Ailen’s head snapped up as he looked in disbelief at those pale eyes.

“You-”

Edelgard flicked his wrist and Ailen felt a cold hand against the back of his head. It dug its fingers in and slammed his head against the wooden floor. A mage hand, and a frighteningly corporeal one at that. Between this and the teleportation, Edelgard was far more powerful than any wizard Ailen had met before.

“Don’t look at me,” Edelgard repeated slowly, “Unless I say so.”

“I won’t!” Ailen panted, “I won’t.”

“Say yes sir.”

Ailen struggled against the mage hand, pressing his palms into the floor. This was wrong, this was very, very wrong.

A second hand materialized, seizing Ailen’s wrist and twisting his arm behind his back, painfully tight. The alchemist cried out.

“Ah! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sir, please!”

The hand on his wrist eased up.

“Better,” said the wizard softly.

Air rushed in and out of Ailen’s lungs in frenzied half sobs.

“You can’t – you can’t do this, people will look for me!”

“And they will not find you,” Edelgard replied simply.

Ailen’s vision blurred with tears.

“The philosopher’s stone is a myth! It’s a myth! I can’t make it!”

“Oh, you will. However long it takes.”

“No, please, sir, you have to let me go. If, if you let me go I won’t tell anyone, I won’t say anything, please.”

“I will release you when you have created the stone, and granted me eternal life. I will sign any document, swear any oath, promising such.”

“Please, I can’t!”

“I have faith in you, my little alchemist.”

Ailen heard the leather shoes step close to his head, sensed the wizard sink into a crouch. A warm hand tucked a stray braid behind his ear.

“You’ll figure it out.”

~~~

Next, Masterlist

Chapter One taglist (HEY YOU!! Let me know if you would like to be tagged in the rest of the story, otherwise I will not): @inhurtandincomfort @deadwrites @fleur-a-whump @inscrutable-shadow

#whump #whump writing #whump fic #intimate whumper #cw kidnapping #cw captivity #cw violence #HENRYYYYY!!!!!!#I love Alein! I love him so much #I AM SO EXCITED!!!!#GREAT START!

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sunshiline-writes · 24 days ago

Text

A Rose Amidst Thorns #24: The Shroud of Death

Previous | Masterlist | Next

A/N: Hello everyone! We're here at the beginning of the end! I hope you enjoy this! Big thanks and shout out to Henry @whump-card and the bestie Ev for beta reading !! Work count: 6.1 K

CW: minor character death, blood, gore, blink and you miss it reference to noncon, broken bones, gunshots, some reference to OCD-like thinking, burning of a dead body

___

There is something about time that slows down when someone is waiting for something big to happen. The world moves differently: too slow and too fast all at once. Time was strange like that. Solomon realized that time was not something that you run out of, it was something that you run into. He was running into the grasp of time and at the end of the road, death waited with open arms.

Solomon felt as if he were running faster toward the end than he had ever before. There was an aching pit in his stomach as the days went by. He was allowed to stay with Miguel for most of them. There was something different about Miguel that he couldn’t quite place. Ever since those two days spent with a dangerously high fever, barely clinging to life, Miguel had awoken with a new rigor.

His mother used to tell Solomon a story—a story of a man who had walked in the underworld for a day and half. The man had seen the most damning things and the most beautiful things. He had been shown the worst to come and the best to come. Afterwards, the man had a choice: to live or to die.

The man chose to live.

There will always be good, the man had said, always bad, but the choice to live will always be the right one. To live is to suffer, his mother always said, but it also means to love. As long as you have love in your heart—be it for a person or for a thing—there is always room to live.

Solomon missed his mother. His family. Gods, he missed his little brother. It was half why he was agreeing to this plan. The prospect of leaving—of going to see his family again—was too good to pass up. There was also the idea of introducing Miguel and Henrietta to his family. What would he say?

“Hello, Amá, these are the people who saved my soul from darkness”? How do you introduce people who are part of your soul? Who came into your life when you were lost and brought you back from the inbetween?

Solomon had always been warned of the people who walked aimlessly, the wanderers who went nowhere, no direction. The people who went through life half dead. Solomon hadn’t realized he had become one until he’d met Henrietta. Henrietta, who pulled him back with her incessant questions and willingness to talk to him. No matter how hard he tried to ignore her, she never stopped trying. Eventually, she’d gotten through to him, brought him back. Brought back his soul, his willingness to tend to others. She had reminded him of his duty of care.

As a doctor, as a friend, as a person, Solomon had a duty of care. It was important. It was his reason, the reason he was still here and the reason why he still had people to love.

He often wondered if his mother was still alive to even meet Henrietta and Miguel. Solomon had been in his twenties when he left home, determined and on a mission. Now he was sixty-two and so tired. It was improbable that his mother was still alive. He dreamt of her in the form of an owl once, around ten years ago. Solomon had known in his heart after that dream that she was gone. She had passed on waiting for him. Visiting him in a dream as the omen of an owl with his mothers eyes. Owls were death, they were a sign of a death that had happened, or a death yet to come. He had woken from that dream crying. Solomon had prayed that she forgave him for leaving. It was never the plan to be gone so long.

Still, he liked to fantasize about that meeting. Perhaps even introducing Miguel as his son, Henrietta as his best friend. All of them were idle dreams, but dreams were still dreams, no matter how improbable. Years ago, he would have never thought this probable. He would have never dared to dream. Now dreams felt like all he had.

Solomon was waiting. Waiting for something big to happen. Watching and feeling. He knew it would never be in the daylight. Yet he still expected it to happen. The day had gone by too fast, too slow. He was running into the time at full speed and he could feel death lurking over his shoulders like a cloud. This would not be easy. But it was never supposed to be, was it? Life was never as simple as you wanted it to be. This was the one and only truth.

When the sun went down he had counted all the materials in his bag over and over, making sure that everything was there. He had a terrible fear that he hadn’t packed enough or that he’d forgotten something. Solomon kept counting, barely realizing that hours had ticked by. He had his herbs, his knives, his bandages and medicines. Why couldn’t he feel like it was enough? The world came to a close for a second. If he didn’t have one thing, just one, everything would go wrong, he was sure of it.

He didn’t look up until someone had knocked on the door. Three times. Henrietta.

“Come in,” he mumbled as he sorted his things on the bed again.

“Sol?” she asked, voice soft. “What are you doing?”

“I am making sure I have everything. If I miss anything...”

A hand gently grabbed his bicep and he turned toward her. He frowned as Henrietta gently smiled. “Do you want to list the materials for me? I can help make sure everything’s there.”

Some of the tension inside Solomon released.

“Yes, I would—” He paused for a moment. “—appreciate that.”

She nodded and sat on the edge of the bed, pointing and counting each item that he had on his list. When he was done she spoke:

“Everything’s here, Solomon.”

“Thank you, I just... am worried.”

“I know,” she said softly, “Everything’s here, you read it to me, I counted. It’s all here.”

Solomon nodded, starting to place it all back in the bag. All in place carefully, or else things would break and then it would be ruined again. Henrietta watched him, eyes soft. The knot that curled in his chest slowly unraveled itself as he sat down next to her on the edge of the bed. She grabbed his hand, placing it in her lap. Her thumb gently ran over the back of his hand. Henrietta took a deep breath and leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Everything is going to work out the way it’s supposed to.”

Solomon wasn’t sure he was inclined to agree. He squeezed her hand, intertwining their fingers. She was his best friend. Perhaps in another life they were something akin to siblings. Or perhaps, in every other life, they were still best friends.

“I think everything will work out the way it will,” Solomon countered.

“But it will work out,” Henrietta finished. “Mm, it will.”

“Solomon, look at me.”

He followed the command easily and without fear. Solomon did not flinch when Henrietta unlocked her hand from his to cup his face. Gently, she ran her thumb over his cracked cheekbone that had sunken in. “Things will work out. We will make it. We are not alone here,” she said with such conviction, such determination, Solomon felt his soul become braver.

“You’re much too brave for your own good,” he replied, turning his face to lean more into her hand, bringing up a hand to cover hers. Her laugh sang in his ears. “I’ve been told that before.”

“Don’t let it go to your head now,” he chided softly.

“I’ve got to cook dinner. You know the signal, yes?” “I do.” “Good,” she said, slowly getting up. Then she reached for him and he bent down so she could kiss his forehead. “You’re ready, you’ve got this.”

Then she left, closing the door softly behind her.

Solomon felt like Death was no longer a cloud, but a shroud, right upon his shoulders.

***

Getting through dinner was a chore. Forcing himself to chew and swallow as Xavier read through the accounting books, going over the money. Xavier did not say a word over the course of dinner and neither did Solomon or Henrietta. The three of them ate in complete and utter silence until it was time to clean up. Xavier looked up as Solomon and Henrietta both stood, Solomon to retreat to his room for the night, and Henrietta to wash the dishes. They both stopped at the movement.

Xavier sat back and sighed.

“You know, if you got something to say to me why don’t you just say it?”

“No one has anything to say Xavier,” Henrietta attempted to soothe. The man shot her a look. No smile on his face as he closed the book he was writing in. He licked his lips. Hungry for something. Solomon wasn’t sure what.

“Solomon? You got something to say?”

“No,” Solomon said softly. “I am tired. I would like to go to bed.”

Xavier scoffed, leaning forward on the table, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t sure when Xavier last looked so tired. There was a thought, somewhere deep inside him, that Xavier was feeling guilty. Solomon was sure that was impossible. With everything he had done, the man was surely incapable of any emotion that wasn’t driven by anger.

“You’re getting old, ain't ya, Solomon? You won’t be around very much longer, will you?” “Xavi!” Henrietta exclaimed, as if it was something taboo to say.

Xavier raised a hand to shush her, his eyes fixated on Solomon.

Solomon stayed neutral, perfectly calm, staring back into the lifeless green eyes. His breathing stayed even and his hands stayed limp at his sides. The thing was, Xavier wasn’t wrong. He was sixty-two, far beyond his prime. Nearing the end of a road he never thought he’d ever walk. It might be in five years, it might be in a few months. His joints were creaky and his bones ached. Every moment was something he had to be careful with. Age did that, crept up without warning. Settled into your bones without permission. There was nothing anyone could do but accept the age and all its hardships as well as the gifts. To live was a gift, especially this long. His brother hadn’t gotten to this age, Terrance had barely gotten to nineteen, and Ximena had died young too. In truth, Solomon was very lucky to be at this age. To be here and alive to help the ones he loved escape from a monster.

“Perhaps not. But I am still here now. That’s all that matters, Xavier.”

“Yes. I guess so. Leave then, old man, go take your nap.”

“Everyone dies, Xavier,” Solomon said, before turning away. They would be leaving soon. Maybe not all of them would make it, but they were going to try, and perhaps that was enough.

***

He sat in his room for a long time lost in his own prayers. On his knees, hands on the bed. Begging the gods and God, to be merciful. His faith at times was the only thing that kept him upright. God would take care of him, so would the Earth. Solomon was changed, his soul spotted and dark, but he was going home. It had been a long time. Perhaps he would be forgiven when he was back at home. The Spirits would move through him and release him from his pain.

The smell hit him first, the burning wood. He lifted his head and stood up, grabbing his medical bag. The old leather was frayed and worn. But it was a gift from his teacher and he couldn’t bear to part with it. Solomon seemed to be stuck in the past, but the smell of smoke pushed him forward. As soon as he opened his bedroom door, there was a sound that wasn’t supposed to happen yet.

The sound of guns firing filled the air.

His heart stopped for a moment. This was not part of the plan; they were supposed to be as quiet as possible. The fire was supposed to be the only distraction. Something had gone horribly wrong here. The guns firing did not cover the sound of Xavier slamming open his bedroom door, pulling his trousers up and buckling his belt.

“What the fuck is happening?” Xavier screamed at Solomon.

“I don’t know—I smell smoke,” he lied easily, pretending not to feel queasy as Henrietta came out from behind Xavier, looking flush, pulling up her dress on her shoulder. “Are those gunshots?” she asked, staring at Xavier with big doe eyes. She seemed legitimately surprised, worry lining her face. It was right to do so. None of this was part of the plan. The beginnings of panic started in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Both of you, downstairs. Now,” Xavier commanded, voice tight with anger. He pushed Henrietta aside, going back into the bedroom. Probably into the closet where he kept the guns. Neither of them were inclined to argue. They hurriedly made their way down the stairs together, standing awkwardly in the living room. The air around them was tense and Solomon looked toward Henrietta, grabbing her hand tightly.

“Did something go wrong?” she whispered, anxiety making her voice shake. They snapped their heads in the same direction where there was a chorus of yelling and gunshots. “Oh God,” she said, stepping forward to go outside. As she made her way to the door, it swung open. Yardly stood there, rifle in one hand, panting heavily.

At the same moment, Xavier was walking down the stairs, footsteps angry, making the house creak. The house was angry too. The air was steaming with it. Or perhaps it was Solomon’s own fear making him slick with sweat. “What is happening?” Xavier growled to Yardly. “We’re under attack, sir—people are at the stables, they’re on fire. Horses everywhere, people shooting. It’s fucking war out there.”

Xavier’s eyes flashed dangerously as he moved through the living room, holding his own rifle, pistol already in its holster at his hip. “Yardly, stay here with them, make sure they don’t make a move. They try, shoot Solomon.” “Sir, I should be out there with you,” Yardly tried to argue, but Xavier was already out the door, slamming it behind him. Xavier was walking toward the smoke, toward the screaming and the guns and everything that was ever going wrong.

“FUCK!” screamed Yardly, pacing around. “He really wants me to babysit while my men are out there, fighting some kinda bandits.” Yardly stopped, turning toward them, lifting his rifle to point at them. The safety clicked off. “I should just kill the both of you, save me the trouble. I could say you guys tried to attack me. I had no choice.”

“Then you would die,” Solomon said simply, the hand not holding the bag, raising in surrender. “He would kill you and it would mean nothing. You can go, we won’t stop you.” “But you’ll leave and I’ll die anyway,” Yardly growled.

“You can leave too. You don’t have to work here,” Henrietta chimed in, eyes wide. “He’s gone mad, you know that. He’s not fit to lead. You’ve been leading the others for a while now, Yardly. You don’t have to be under his thumb.”

The man stayed there for a second, thinking hard, actually contemplating their words for a moment. Solomon knew how hard it was to choose. Especially because Yardly had been here for nearly as long as Solomon, give or take a few years. Solomon and Yardly knew him before Ximena died, they knew him when he was still charming and full of life. When he gave as much as he took. When Xavier could hide himself as a good man. Xavier wasn’t always like this. None of them were who they were twenty years ago. Xavier had been kind once. Well, maybe not kind, but he had a respect for people, was able to form a connection and create an understanding. He’d been decent—to them at least.

“I know, Yardly. The loyalty is still there, I feel it too. But he’s not who he was. You don’t have to let him keep destroying himself, or you, just because he gave you a job and shelter.”

Yardly looked up, narrowing his eyes. He slowly started to lower the gun, standing up straighter. There was a blink of understanding in his eyes.

There was a movement from behind Yardly, something that Solomon couldn’t quite parce out quick enough.

“Jesse, no—!” Henrietta screamed, before blood splattered over Solomon's face.

His ears rang as he stumbled backwards, hearing the body collapse to the ground. Jesse stood where Yardly had spinning his pistol before putting it back in his holster. He immediately bent down to grab the rifle that had clattered to the floor and unholstered Yardly’s pistol. Solomon felt numb, his fingers went to the wet blood on his face. Eyes staring at the limp body that was on the floor. Someone who he knew, someone he’d sparked multiple conversations. A memory of trying to keep men alive during the war shocked his body into numbness.

Yardly was dead.

“He was never gonna let you go,” Jesse stated matter-of-factly. “He was gonna kill you either way.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I- why?” Henrietta and Solomon spoke at the same time.

Jesse flipped Yardly’s gun in his hand and walked over to Henrietta, holding the gun out to her by the handle. “I just knew.”

Henrietta was enraged, Solomon could see it as she grabbed the pistol from Jesse’s hand harshly. Looking at the bullets inside as she clicked the revolver back in place.

“He was listening to us,” Solomon said, voice cracking.

“No he wasn’t.” Jesse muttered. “We gotta go now. Isabella and Joseph are waitin’ with the wagon roun’ back. If you want to get Miguel any time soon, then we gotta go now.”

Solomon stared at the blood pooling around Yardly’s head. Lifeless body on the floor. There was a deep ache in his soul. Grief? Guilt? Yardly was dead—Solomon had to accept that and move on.

His grip on his medical bag tightened. Pushing away the feeling of darkness in his chest, he nodded. Jesse stood up and pulled a small bottle of kerosene from his bag. He poured it on and around Yardly’s body, expression grim and serious. Then he lit the match. “We have to go,” he said, flicking the match at the body. It exploded in flames and both Solomon and Henrietta stepped back, eyes wide. They stared, mouth agape, as the fire spread. Then Solomon started moving. They needed to leave before the fire consumed them, too.

Henrietta’s breathing was ragged, but she followed as Solomon and Jesse made their way to the back door, which Jesse held open for them. The wagon was waiting there and a blonde woman jumped from the front, and Henrietta was running as well. They met in the middle, hugging each other tightly. It was only a second before they moved to the wagon together getting in the back. Jesse shoved Solomon forward.

“Come on old man, fucking move.”

Solomon ignored the pang of hurt that hit his chest at the harsh words. Forcing himself to move, he climbed into the back of the wagon.

“Go! Go! Go!” Jesse hissed as he jumped into the back, as he readied the rifle. “They’re everywhere.”

They moved with a jolt and the raging fire came into view from behind the house. Horses ran amok, kicking up dust, smoke thick in the air. The stables were just fire, orange and yellow flames wild as the fences caught fire too. Ranch hands were shooting wildly at the desert around them or trying to catch the horses that had run. The world was on fire. The night sky was covered by smoke. Nothing would ever be the same.

The wagon jumped and creaked under the harsh treatment as they came to a halting stop in front of the barn. “Jesse–-” Solomon started.

“Comin’,” Jesse said, hopping off the wagon as Solomon clambered down. God he was old. Solomon shouldn’t be doing this at his age, but they hurried inside, Jesse leading him up to the hayloft. Each step up the ladder made Solomon's knees creak and he panted when they got to the top.

“Oh, I see,” said a voice from in front of him. Not Miguel. Miguel didn’t speak. Solomon looked up from the ground and saw Xavier near Miguel’s cot, hand tightly fisting Miguel’s hair in one hand while the other hand held a pistol up to the bottom of his jaw. Miguel was breathing hard, tears streaming down his face. He was still, seemingly paralyzed by fear. Solomon locked eyes with him and he tried to open his mouth.

“I fucking knew it was you, Solomon,” Xavier spat, craning Miguel’s head back so he was only looking at the rafters, adams apple on display. Vulnerable.

“Xavier, let him go,” Solomon said slowly, tasting bile. Jesse was quiet. Solomon knew he was fighting some internal battle. He would not expect any action from the boy next to him. His gun was raised but his finger was off the trigger.

“Just let him go,” Solomon repeated.

“Did you really think this was going to work? Setting my buildings on fire? My home? My stables? Did you think you’d burn everything and not face any consequences? I thought you were smarter, Solomon.” Xavier spat toward Jesse. “And you, you definitely know better, boy.” Jesse swallowed, stepping toward Xavier, finger shakily moving to the trigger.

“Tio–-” Jesse started, only to stop himself when Xavier dug the gun further into Miguel’s jaw. It sprung a whimper from Miguel. Solomon felt his heart drop to his feet with the sound. He should have expected this: for Xavier to go to Miguel first. He was the perfect hostage, small, young. No one wants to see a kid die.

“Shut the fuck up,” Xavier snapped, vitriol dripping from every word. “Xavier–-” Solomon started and the gun cocked.

“If you don’t want mutt brains all over this barn, both of you will shut up and listen,” Xavier growled out.“Put your guns on the floor and kick them toward me.”

Jesse’s face morphed into a snarl as he dropped the rifle, kicking it over full force like a child throwing a tantrum. He unholstered his pistol and tossed that over with a dull thud on the wood. Solomon slowly raised his hands again, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral.

“I don’t have a gun,” Solomon said, voice steady.

“Of course you fucking don’t.”

Solomon had never used a gun before, and he wasn’t going to start now, especially not if he was going to prove Xavier wrong. There were lines he would not cross, that was not a weakness, it was a strength. It was his only strength. He found himself shrugging slightly in response.

The gun slowly uncocked and moved away from Miguel’s jaw. The hand gripping his hair relaxed, letting Miguel face them again. He was crying, tears streaking down his face. His breath shuddering, eyes glancing up to Xavier every second or two. It was a standstill for a slow second, everything freezing in place. The world had stopped spinning, allowing them all a moment to breathe. A moment to think.

“You can let him go,” Solomon breathed. “You can let him go now, you have our guns. Please, just let him go.”

Xavier looked at him. His eyes were no longer green, they were black holes. They were graves. He was going to bury all of them. The man took a step back and a slow smile crept onto his face. “No, no I don’t think I will, Solomon.” The gun was now pointed at them. More accurately, it was pointed directly at Solomon.

Solomon started to pray inwardly. Creator, help us.

Frantically, Miguel twisted in Xavier’s grasp, turning his head downward to the forearm that was around his throat and bit down. Xavier screamed. The gun went off. Solomon's world staggered to the right and fell downward. Solomon was on his hands and knees, his eyes were on the floor and it took a moment to realize he was still alive. Jesse was the one screaming, falling backwards. Scampering toward the wall. The realization hit Solomon that Jesse had pushed him out of the way of the bullet's trajectory, getting himself shot in the process. “Jesse—,” Solomon called out, but a scream distracted him.

The scream itself was muffled as Miguel had latched onto Xavier’s forearm. Blood dripped down his chin and he released the bite to turn around and shove Xavier backwards. The man staggered away, starting to raise the gun again. God, Solomon would never make it.

He had to try. He had to try.

Creator, give me strength. It was like his body was not his own as he pushed himself to his feet and raced to Xavier and Miguel, who stood frozen at the sight of the gun being pointed at him. Solomon’s body collided with Xavier's, knocking them both off their feet. The collison rattled his bones and the gun went off again missing its mark. Solomon’s hands went to the gun in an attempt to wrestle it away, ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder, ignoring every screaming instinct as he knocked the gun out of Xavier’s grip and it clattered a few feet away. They were a tangled mess of limbs and desperation as they both reached for the gun. There was blood everywhere, Solomon didn’t know whose it was. Xavier was draped over him, reaching, reaching.

Solomon was reaching too, and as his fingertips touched the gun, so did Xavier’s. Fingers managed to get the handle—Xavier’s fingers—and Solomon yelled in frustration.

He threw his elbow back into Xavier’s nose, causing the man to scream indignantly as blood flowed from his face and onto Solomon’s hair. He could feel it dripping down his neck, down his braids. Solomon pushed farther, his own hand reaching out and wrenching the gun from Xavier’s hand. He used all his strength to move his body to the side to throw Xavier off him. Xavier and him were on their sides, but Solomon was slower in getting up. Xavier clambered on top of him and gripped the wrist that was holding the gun tightly, bashing it on the floor. Solomon let it go, hearing his wrist crack under the force. His throat was raw with the scream he let out.

Where was Miguel? Was he going to see this? See his death? No child should watch their father-

The barrel of the gun pressed to his forehead, hot and heavy.

Creator, protect him…

Solomon did not close his eyes. He stared at the barrel of the gun. A bubble of hysteria made him laugh, feeling lightheaded. Was this really how he was going to die? On the floor, Xavier pressing a gun to his forehead? “Any last words, Solomon?”

A figure was behind Xavier. It looked like death. Was it for him? Where were Miguel and Jesse? Were they watching this?

“Don’t hurt my boy,” was all he could come up with.

He heard Xavier laugh and he stared at the graves in Xavier’s eyes. “Please, let him live.”

The gun cocked with a click.

Solomon did not close his eyes. If he was to die, he would stare it in the face. This time, Solomon would not cower. He would not falter. For once in his life, he would be brave. Perhaps Jesse and Miguel had left. They had been smart and just left. Solomon had been a good distraction. They could get away. It was the best case scenario.

The figure behind Xavier moved, the shovel coming down, and Solomon jerked to the side out of pure instinct. The shot rang out at the same time the shovel hit between Xavier’s shoulder blades. Solomon’s world went white, his left ear ringing loudly. Everything spun for a moment, his thoughts swimming in circles around him. Everything was doubled, Xavier was off of him. Another thud and another and another; hits—they were solid hits, full of power. Solomon turned over on his stomach, gathering his knees under him and emptied his dinner onto the floor. Bile and blood in his mouth.

He managed to lift his head, feeling something wet drip down his ear. Solomon reached up and touched his ear; blood was on his fingers. Everything was still ringing. The world swinging like a pendulum. Someone was in front of him and he jerked back, looking up to see brown eyes. Miguel. He was here. Why was he here?

“Miguel,” he choked out. Miguel didn’t respond, he just slotted an arm around Solomon’s waist and yanked him up on his feet. They staggered together to the ladder, Miguel making Solomon go down first. He half fell, missing a leg of the ladder, and stumbling down to the ground, using one of the pillars to hold himself up. Again, he retched on the ground, half leaning on the pillar. Solomon shook his head, opening and closing his eyes, trying to shake off the disorientation. Someone was talking to him, but it was muffled, sounding like he was underwater. “What?” he asked dumbly, being met with more words but none of them made any sense. They all jumbled in the air in front of him. Jesse was on the ground, hands pressed to a wound on his thigh. His eyes were wild as he continued to talk at Solomon, who couldn’t hear anything past the ringing in his ears. “What?” he asked again.

Miguel was back in his view, signing to him. Frantically asking if he was okay. Then he was wrapping an arm around Solomon, half dragging him, half helping him back to the wagon.

When they exited the barn, a man met them, talking at them. “You Solomon and Miguel?”

Solomon laughed deliriously and with a broken voice answered, “Yes. That’s us. There’s another boy in the barn, he needs help.”

“Got it. Wagon’s waiting, go get on it.”

God—everything was muffled, his ears were ringing. Miguel kept them moving and when they came to the wagon, Henrietta was under his arm. She was helping carry his weight as they moved. She was okay. She had waited for him.

Solomon found himself grateful to have so many people in his life that cared. That loved him enough to stay in the middle of a war. Things like this had the tendency to bring out the best and worst of people. He was so used to seeing the worst, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to see the good. Hope was crawling its way out of his spotted soul and settling into his bones instead.

They helped him onto the wagon where he collapsed. Breath heaving. The sound of guns and yelling were muted. For a moment the world closed in on Miguel. He was alive. He was more than that. Miguel saved him.

Creator, thank you.

Miguel saved him. There was a delirious laughter that escaped him. The thought of that happening a year ago would have been impossible. Before that, the boy was a shell. A shadow of his former self. Since that fever, since Xavier broke his body, he’d been different. He went on a spirit walk and came out stronger. Pride swelled in his chest. Perhaps he’d let himself believe that Miguel was someone that he could call a son.

“Solomon? You okay?” Henrietta asked, eyes searching over him. “You have blood everywhere.”

“We need to go,” he said, “Xavier is in the barn, he’s...”

“He’s not there anymore,” said someone from behind Henrietta, the man from a moment ago, he was helping Jesse into the wagon. “We gotta go—the hands are coming round the back. Go, go.” The wagon started to move, the world lurching forward. He pushed himself to a sitting position, looking over at Jesse. Jesse’s face was pale, but he shot Solomon a thumbs up, before aiming his rifle. The man who helped him also pointed a rifle. They aimed toward the barn, toward the fire. Solomon could see the ranch hands, coming out from all angles, pointing their guns at their wagon, toward their horses. “We’ll cover you! Go faster.”

The wagon jerked and they were moving faster. Smoke and bullets through the air felt lighter somehow as they made their way through the desert. Soon enough the sounds died low, the hands seemingly far enough behind that they stopped chasing them. The air cleared, but Solomon's left ear was still ringing. Everything was still muffled on that side. The gunshot right next to his head must have damaged the eardrum. The ringing would probably never go away.

As they got farther, Miguel began looking over Solomon, splinting his wrist with Henrietta’s help. Jesse had finally got the sense in him to sit back and look at his wound. The boy had taken a bullet for him. Solomon, after he was splinted, smiled.

“Help Jesse,” he said, and they both gave him an incredulous look. “Help him—he saved me.”

Miguel’s face morphed into a snarl as he shook his head. Henrietta on the other hand nodded, going over to Jesse to go and look at the wound. Solomon gently put his good hand around Miguel’s elbow. The boy shrugged him off, moving toward the other end of the wagon, letting a leg hang off it, the other leg pulled close to his chest. His heart ached for him. Solomon tried not to be hurt by the gesture, knowing that Miguel was nowhere near healed. His heart was cut open and bruised still. Solomon still felt slightly hurt by the gesture.

Eventually the wagon slowed to a stop. The world seemed to as well. It was quiet. The sun was rising, casting everything in a pale yellow light. The clouds were red and intense. He was able to actually sit with it.

How long had it been since he’d been off the ranch? Off the ranch with the idea that he would not be going back? More than twenty years of being stuck in a ritual. It was all new, all different.

The birds sang.

Solomon’s chest was opening and he could feel the light pouring through.

Solomon was finally above ground. He could breathe. He realized there were more people with them than he originally bargained for. Isabella sat at the front seat of the wagon with another man he didn’t know. There was Joseph, who was helping Henrietta with Jesse. Then three other men on horses behind them. It was almost surprising how many there were. He had expected less. But he’d always been a little inclined to underestimate Henrietta. She had done this, made all of this happen. He was proud. Solomon was proud of all of them. Henrietta came back to him, hands bloody from Jesse’s wound. She stared down at Solomon with a smile. It turned into a look of surprise, then intense grief.

She started to cry, fully sobbing and the wagon was silent as she did. No one said a word, nor looked too long. Henrietta leaned down and wrapped her arms around Solomon's neck, burying her face into a shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her.

When the sobbing quieted down, Henrietta finally spoke.

“We did it... We’re out. We’re out.”

They were still running, but she was right. They were out. This was the new beginning. They were on their way to a new life, a better one. It was enough to allow a moment of happiness. Henrietta deserved to be happy about this.

Everything Solomon had ever done since he met her and Miguel—it was all for them. It had always been for them.

“We’re out,” he agreed. “Everything is going to work out the way it’s supposed to.”

It always did.

It would right now.

There was hope here. They created it themselves, and they could only create more. Solomon knew he could, knew that Henrietta and Miguel could. Even Jesse. They had all crawled out of the graves that Xavier had dug for them, and now they were above ground. Everything they had ever been through, ever done. It had not killed them. It had made them different, they were not without darkness in their souls. But they were still here.

Maybe, just maybe, that was enough. ___

TAGLIST:

@demondamage @burntcoffeewhump @angst-after-dark @just-a-silly-little-whumper @tictac-murder-spaghetti @crash-bump-bring-the-whump @whumpifi

@flowersarefreetherapy @badgerwhump @whumpbees @whumplr-reader @cyberwhumper @kixngiggles

ask if you'd like to be added or removed!!

#whump #whumpblr #sunshine writes whump #poc whump #a rose amidst thorns #minor character death #gore #blood #gunshots #broken bones #burning of dead bodies #escape attempt #we're almost at the end can you believe it?#I hope you all enjoy

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sunshiline-writes · 1 month ago

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#minotaur #cw nudity #oh he's hot!!!#I love him!#what a guy.#sexy

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sunshiline-writes · 1 month ago

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A Rose Amidst Thorns : The Name His Father Gave (a oneshot)

Word Count: 2.7 k

This is a oneshot. It is Solomon's memory of Jesse as a young boy. Jesse is about 12 years old here. I hope you all enjoy!

CW: allusions to minor whump, migraines

It was cold today. A chilly breeze made Solomon shiver. The sky was that cold blue that said that it would be even colder later. The chill was familiar to him, it was less cold than the winters back home. Most winters when he was younger would be filled with snow and the smell of pine. Here it was dry, a slight breeze that carried no scent. Solomon often missed home during these months. He stood out on the porch, staring out at the sleepy ranch that also seemed to be taking in the chill. It seemed that everyone was having trouble waking up, even the animals. The chill made him feel just a little closer to home.

Xavier came out from inside the house, rubbing the front of his face and shivering slightly. He whistled low.

“Damn it’s cold, ain’t it Sol?”

Solomon forced a smile, “Yes. It is. It’s nice.”

“I suppose it’s nothing compared to what you're used to huh?” Xavier said, rubbing his

hands together and blowing the hot air from his breath into them. “Do me a favor and wake up Jesse in an hour or so? He’s got chores to do.”

Solomon gave him an inquisitive look. Xavier laughed slightly, suppressing a yawn.

“Figured he could sleep in a little, too cold right now for him,” he explained. Then he waved at Solomon as he walked down the steps. “Just an hour though. Don’t let him sleep till noon, kid can sleep like the dead if we let him.”

Jesse was a fairly new addition to the farm. The kid had come in a year and a half ago. Half dead from starvation and grief. His mother, Xavier's sister, had died. Solomon had met her once or twice. Jesse too. Ximena was a sickly little thing, but with a soft, hopeful disposition. She had dark, black curls and bright green eyes. Solomon had been checking her over after a nasty bout of pneumonia, making sure her lungs were healing right. Jesse had been next to them the whole time, asking questions and walking around them to look from different angles. Curious, talkative, intelligent, still had light in his eyes.

It had taken weeks of making the boy sip at broth and slowly work up to solid foods again. Xavier had handed the boy off to Solomon for the first month or so. He wondered if it was his own grief that had created a degree of separation in the two of them. Solomon tried not to think about it too much. He focused on getting Jesse better.

It had turned out that the boy was deathly afraid of water, or being wet in any capacity. Solomon had taken a wet rag to clean the boy once and he screamed so loud that Solomon had gotten disoriented. There were certain things that he recognized in the boy from the men he had helped in the war. The same wide eyed expression. Same terrified screams in dreams. He’d asked Xavier what exactly happened, but neither him or the boy seemed keen to talk about it.

It was strange and awful to see the young boy so haunted. For the first couple of months, Jesse said not one word to him. Not anything that wasn’t “no”, “yes” and “leave me alone”. Solomon had been patient, waiting for him to start talking again. Eventually he did. Solomon remembered the day clearly.

He’d been cooking dinner, a vegetable stew for them all. Game had been low that year. Jesse sat at the kitchen and just started to talk. It was like the boy had just rediscovered his voice and wanted to use it as much as possible. He said a lot without saying anything at all. Talking mindlessly about a stray dog that used to walk around his hometown. Solomon didn’t stop him, he didn’t have the heart to.

Jesse started to come around more and so did Xavier who had thrown himself into the working with the cattle. It was a lot more that they started all having meals together. Jesse talking over everyone at the table while Xavier sighed. It had been good for a while. Now Jesse was working with the ranch hands. He helped them fix the fences, clean out the stalls and whatever else was needed to be done. Jesse was a hard worker, following Xavier’s footsteps in throwing himself into work. Supposedly to forget. It wasn’t until the ranch hands had started to complain about the smell that things got bad again. Jesse simply refused to bathe, or anything of the sort. When he or Xavier tried to coax him into it, he ran, or shut the door to his room and put the dresser in front of the door. Xavier had gotten tired of it and had grabbed Jesse like a sack of potatoes one day, and threw him straight into the tub, clothes and all. The kid had shrieked like a wild pig and Solomon felt his heart in his throat as Xavier half drowned him.

Jesse didn’t talk for days after that.

Solomon tried not to think about all the things that happened after that. The bruises and the black eye he’d seen on the boy at times. The light that was still in his eyes had been slowly fading and Solomon was powerless to stop it. He didn’t know how. A conversation? Begging him to just give the boy some time. Solomon just couldn’t bring himself to take that chance. It could make things worse. For himself and the boy.

Solomon went inside, the chill finally had gone into his bones. He set a kettle on the stove and filled it with water. Then he started the fire below to heat it up. He sighed softly and finally made his way up the steps to Jesse’s room. First, he knocked on the door, then he turned the knob. Peeking his head in, he saw Jesse sitting on the bed, hunched over a bucket.

“Jesse?”

Jesse lifted his head slightly, and the boy squinted at him. His eyes were sunken in and his face was staunchly pale. “I’ll be right out,” Jesse mumbled, voice strained and shaky.

Solomon walked in, immediately going over to him, reaching out to try and touch his forehead. He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest when Jesse flinched away. Giving him a look of apprehension. His face paled even more and he leaned into the bucket, retching. “I’m going to touch your forehead to see if you have a fever Jesse,” Solomon stated, giving no room for argument. He pressed his hand against his forehead, frowning. No fever. In fact, the boy was cold, clammy. His whole body shook. “Jesse what’s going on?”

“N-nothing,” he stammered out, one hand going to rub at his face, “I just need a second.”

“Jesse,” Solomon prodded, hand moving away from his forehead. Gently, he cupped his cheek and Jesse lifted his head to meet Solomon's eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong so I can help you.”

“My head hurts,” he said softly, glancing at the door.

“Don’t worry about Xavier, you’re not working today. Can you tell me more?”

“I dunno, jus’ hurts, I feel like I’m gonna puke.”

Solomon hummed, frowning slightly, “Where is the headache?”

Jesse gave him a confused look for a moment, trying hard to think about the question before he pressed two fingers to his right temple, “Righ’ here. It’s all over my head but feels like something stabbing me right here.”

A migraine then. Solomon gently took the bucket from Jesse, placing it on the ground. Jesse whined slightly, curling up on himself, hunching over his stomach. Slowly, Solomon grabbed the boy’s shoulder and pushed him to lay down. This was much to Jesse’s dismay, who attempted to argue, opening his mouth, before shutting it. He maneuvered himself to lay on his side. His expression shifted from pained to worried.

“Xavier’s gonna be mad at me,” Jesse whispered.

“I’ll tell him you’re not feeling well,” Solomon assured, gently running a hand through Jesse’s greasy curls. He really wished he would wash himself.

“He won’t believe me,” he pressed, biting his lip.

“He will if it’s me,” said Solomon, sighing. He would have to do a bit of convincing, but Xavier would give in if he pressed enough. Hopefully. Xavier’s moods seemed to be more fickle than usual since his sister died. Solomon half expected it, but not this bad. He’d known for a long time now that Xavier was, not a great man. He’d seen terrible things, torture and death, all the hands of Xavier. Maybe it was a blind hope that Xavier would act just a little kinder to his sister's child.

Jesse squeezed his eyes shut, groaning in pain. Solomon knew his mother suffered from them too. He’d given her medicine for them once, a very, very low dose of ergot tea. Too much would poison her, so he gave her the minimum. His other suggestion was a wet rag over the eyes to keep the light from coming in. That would be impossible for Jesse.

Lavender and ginger root tea could work. It would at the very least relax him a bit. Solomon considered giving him some cough syrup. That had a sleep inducing effect, but he feared the boy might refuse due to the taste. There was nothing much he could do other than make some tea and hope that Jesse slept it off. He wondered vaguely if Jesse knew how to deal with them due to his mothers previous condition.

“Jesse, do you remember what your mother did for her migraines?”

Jesse glanced at the door again, as if Xavier would pop up at any moment. He curled around himself tighter, knees up to his stomach, hands balling into fists.

“Jesse?” Solomon pressed again.

“He don’ like it when I talk about her to much,” he whispered before burying his face into the duvet.

His heart skipped a beat. Would Xavier truly be that cruel? To not even let Jesse utter a word about his own mother? Was it grief? Unable to hear about her in any capacity because the pain was too much? Solomon didn’t know. But Xavier was haunted, Jesse was too. There was a spark of anger in him. Why did it matter if Xavier was haunted? He took the responsibility to care for his nephew. When someone has a child in their care, their own feelings and needs become secondary. That was how it should be. Xavier had never been one to put others before himself. As soon as Xavier decided to take in Jesse, his priority should have been helping the boy get better, his own grief should have come later.

“You can talk about her to me. Always. She was a good woman.”

“She was,” Jesse agreed softly. It took him a few times of opening and closing his mouth. Fighting some internal battle before he finally spoke. “She used to use the meds you gave her. Make tea. The wet rag thing. But.. but I can’t-”

“Shh, I know you can’t, I won’t make you.”

It was heartbreaking when Jesse pressed his palms to his eyes and pressed in, sucking in air through his teeth. The kettle whistle blew and Solomon moved to stand. He heard Jesse whimper and Solomon turned to him. “I’ll be back. I’m just going to make you some tea first okay?”

The watering eyes that stared at him, finally broke him into pieces. The kid was so young. Obviously been through something traumatic and was brought into a house full of violence. Solomon would have to watch Xavier change him, like he’d changed everyone around him. He always saw it, the people around Xavier tended to follow him into darkness. Jesse was going to be a part of it. Following his uncle down the dark path that had been spread out for him. How was he going to know anything else? It wasn’t Solomon’s job to lead him down the right path. He wouldn’t waste his time trying. Xavier would just turn his attempts into something dark and twisted like he always did. Solomon couldn’t save him. He couldn’t even bring himself to try. The one thing he could do, was give him a few spots of light in the darkness. Like now as he walked and made the tea. It had to be just right for him, or else it would never work. Just enough lavender to calm him, enough ginger to settle his stomach. If he didn’t, he’d have to make it again until it was right. He only remade it twice, before bringing a cup to Jesse. Helping him sit up to drink it. Jesse was surprisingly okay with all the help, letting Solomon gently maneuver him, helping him. Usually the kid was always wanting to do everything himself. Independent and determined. Solomon did what he could. He always did what he could. It was all he could do. It was all he could ever do.

“Solomon,” Jesse whispered, staring up at him, shaking him out of his ruminations, “my mom had headaches. She died. Am I going to die too?”

“No,” he said firmly. “You’re going to be just fine.”

“Do you promise?”

How was he supposed to answer the question? What could he say to sever the tension that they both could feel rising in the air?

“You’re not going to die Jesse,” he assured, “You’ll live a long life of whatever you choose. Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.”

“The way it’s supposed to,” Jesse repeated to himself, before flipping himself over to face the wall.

“Rest Jesse, you’ll feel better after some sleep.”

There was no response for a while and Solomon counted the boy's breaths. When they evened out, Solomon assured himself the boy was fine and asleep. He wished well for him. Standing up, he walked to the door. As he opened it, Jesse spoke again.

“Solomon. What’s my name?”

Turning toward him, door still half way open, Solomon hummed inquisitively. He was unsure of what he meant.

“Jesse Reede,” he answered carefully.

“Not that one,” the boy said softly, “the one my father gave me.”

Now it was Solomon's turn to fear Xavier. That was something that Xavier had insisted on. If Jesse was going to live with him, he would take Xavier’s name. Solomon had pathetically tried to convince Xavier otherwise. Xavier wouldn’t hear any of it. The desperation for an heir was that strong. Someone to take over the ranch, deal with the business end. So far, Xavier had none of his own. He hadn’t even found a wife yet. Though, since he’d taken in Jesse, Solomon had become increasingly grateful that Xavier didn’t have any kids. None of his own at least.

Solomon didn’t want to know what Xavier would do if he encouraged this behavior. The need to hear something from his own life. To have the one piece of his actual father that he had. Jesse didn’t even have any memories of him. All he had was the name. Well, and the fact that Jesse was practically a miniature version of Abraham. All red hair and freckles. He had his fathers looks, but his mothers eyes.

“Jesse Ricardo McCellan,” Solomon answered.

There was a long bit of silence between them before the quiet response came.

“Thank you.”

Don’t thank me, Solomon thought to himself. I can’t help you. Not in any way that is meaningful. God what had happened to him? Had he really lost that much faith in Xavier? Or had he lost that faith in himself? Faith that even the smallest amount of good could make a difference. He felt powerless to his own change. Maybe he would never come back from this. He’d stay forever jaded and powerless. The thought brought a sinking feeling in his chest. He pushed it away as he closed the door to Jesse’s room.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. It did nothing to settle the uneasiness in his chest.

Solomon could not save the boy.

He couldn’t even bring himself to try. ____

TAGLIST:

@demondamage @burntcoffeewhump @angst-after-dark @just-a-silly-little-whumper @tictac-murder-spaghetti @crash-bump-bring-the-whump @whumpifi

@flowersarefreetherapy @badgerwhump @whumpbees @whumplr-reader @cyberwhumper @kixngiggles

ask if you'd like to be added or removed!!

#whump #whumpblr #sunshine writes whump #Solomon and Jesse used to be really close #this is actually very sad #but also kinda wholesome.#a rose amidst thorns #ARAT: one shots

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sunshiline-writes · 2 months ago

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Withdraw

Part 2 of the Professional//Victim + In The Woods Somewhere crossover series The Professionals

Tommy spent the rest of the day outside, between lying in the sun and walking laps around the property. It felt like a dream after being in the hole for so long. Well, he assumed it was long - he had no way of knowing how much time had passed since Caius took away the last of his light.

He’d been outside for a couple of hours before he realized it might look bad to Fletcher. If they suspected he was trying to plan an escape, they might take away this freedom just as fast as they had given it. Tommy stood in front of the lodge, taking slow, even breaths to try to steel himself.

He finally ventured inside, nervous to walk through the house alone to try to find Fletcher. Luckily, they were in the kitchen, cooking something that reminded Tommy how hungry he was. He hadn’t dared take anything, even after Fletcher said he could. It felt like a trap.

Fletcher glanced in his direction. “What’s up?”

Oh. Tommy immediately forgot what he had prepared to say.

“I uh– I guess I just wanted to…check in. Do you need– do you want me to help with dinner? Or…anything else?..” He cringed internally, but offered Fletcher a timid smile. Please, please like me.

“Mm, no, I’m just cooking for myself right now,” Fletcher said.

“Oh, okay. I’ve just been outside, you have really - the grounds are really beautiful.”

“I’m glad you appreciate it. Have you eaten yet?”

“Uh…no, not yet.” The idea of taking his own food sounded infinitely daunting. Caius had been very strict on that, and it felt wrong now to assume what he could eat, and when. Tommy fidgeted uncomfortably, wrapping his arms around himself like a shield.

Fletcher said nothing. They retrieved two bowls from the cabinet, filled one for themself, then dished the remainder into the second. It was smaller, but still enough to be a decent serving. They picked both up and held the smaller one towards Tommy.

Tommy looked at the food. Steaming, vibrant vegetables tossed with rice. His stomach growled loud enough he was sure Fletcher heard it. He looked up at Fletcher, trying to read them, to see if this was real. They just waited.

Slowly, hesitantly, Tommy reached for the bowl, and Fletcher pulled it back. Tommy snapped his hand back like Fletcher had tried to bite him.

“I’m being nice,” Fletcher informed him. “I told you to eat hours ago. I’m not cooking all your meals for you. I’m cutting you some slack because you’re new here. But you need to feed yourself. Understand?”

“Yes, Fletcher.” Tommy swallowed nervously. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to… overstep.”

“I told you more than once that you can get your own food from the kitchen.”

They held out the bowl. Tommy haltingly reached for it again, and this time Fletcher let him take it.

“I’m sorry… thank you,” he added timidly. The bowl was warm in his hands, and the smell was making his mouth water.

“Do I eat at the table?”

“Sure,” Fletcher said, heading off towards the couch. “Wherever. You can eat in your room, just bring your dirty dishes back.”

Tommy absconded to his room to eat. Sitting at the table felt like too much. He snuck his dishes to the sink and sequestered himself back into his room until nightfall, just sitting at the window, trying to drink in the dream while it lasted.

When it started to grow late, his meditation was interrupted by a knock on the door. When Fletcher entered, Tommy scrambled to his feet.

“Stand down there, soldier, I just brought you some necessities. Since apparently they sent you without anything but the clothes on your back, I put together a little pack for you.” Fletcher opened the bag and showed him - shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, tooth paste, dental floss, antibiotic ointment, and a big box of bandaids.

Right. Still going to beat the shit out of me. Don’t get too comfy, Tommy chided himself, but accepted the pack gratefully.

“I don’t – I don’t know what to say, thank you,” he told Fletcher, hugging the bag to his chest.

“There’s some clothes in the dresser. Should fit you, sort of.”

Tommy nodded, thanking them again. Fletcher made a vague grunt of acknowledgement and left. He found a pair of gym shorts and a soft tee to sleep in, both baggy on him, but good enough. Fletcher didn’t lock the door to Tommy’s bedroom when they left, or even after he showered and brushed his teeth. Tommy couldn’t bear to turn the lights off, so he sat in bed with them on, anxiously waiting to see if Fletcher would lock his door. He was still waiting for the sound of that click when he finally fell asleep.

He woke up early on his own. It took him a minute to remember where he was, all that had transpired yesterday. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d fallen asleep without a heavy dose of meds from Sam. He wished he had some now, a thought that had occurred to him numerous times while he had sat vigilant the night before. He wasn’t in any real pain, other than the usual aches he had from things that never healed quite right. The meds still offered comfort, the best break he could get from his reality.

Through the window, he saw the grounds illuminated in a dull blue light. Sunrise hadn’t broken yet. Maybe it was the new surroundings, maybe it was a hanging fear of Caius coming for him – whatever it was, Tommy felt sick to his stomach with anxiety. He decided to get up and make his way downstairs to get a jump on the day. If he showed Fletcher that he was useful, then maybe they would maintain their mercy on him for a little longer.

It felt good – or, at least, better – to do something. He found an assortment of cleaning supplies in the cabinet under the sink, and got to work. Without knowing Fletcher’s schedule yet, he wasn’t sure how long he would have, but he was hellbent on doing the most thorough job he could. Everything was wiped down twice, every corner and crease scrubbed to perfection. Tommy was still furiously wiping at the grouting between the shower tiles when the door to the bathroom swung open.

“Uh…okay.” He recognized the trainee at the door, the only woman he’d seen around the lodge. Her hair was tied in a bun that more resembled a rat’s nest on top of her head, and she still had sleep in her eyes. She stepped back out the door, turning her head to call out–

“Fletcher! Your boy is taking up the bathroom!”

Tommy’s eyes went wide, still clutching the sponge when he raised his hands in a supplicant gesture. “No, wait, please don’t get–”

Fletcher appeared in the doorway, eyeing the disheveled Tommy standing in the bathtub. They looked over the bathroom he had already cleaned with a charming look of utter boredom.

“You. Let them use the bathroom.”

“Of course– I mean, yes Fletcher,” Tommy stumbled over himself, rushing to wipe the bleach from his hands and fleeing the bathroom while they waited.

“You can finish it later, it’s a bloodbath trying to get in there in the mornings. Go put some proper clothes on and get breakfast, I have tasks for you today.”

Tommy nodded eagerly and retreated to his room. He was already sweating, did Fletcher turn the heat on in the night or something? But when he wiped the sweat away, his skin felt clammy. He did his best to clean himself up a little, giving the dresser a quick rummage for clothes.

He settled on a pair of jeans and an old shirt with a car on it, boasting the Ford brand. While Tommy was not loyal to any particular car manufacturer, it felt like a little link to his home back in Detroit. Maybe that made it a lucky shirt – and he could really use whatever luck he could get for his first full day with Fletcher. Everything was still big on him, but he found a belt in the bottom drawer that helped. He took a deep breath before heading to the kitchen, scared to keep Fletcher waiting too long.

Having options to choose from for breakfast was a little overwhelming. He settled on a bowl of cereal and an apple. Sitting at the table with Fletcher helped a little - there had been very few times in the last five years that Tommy had eaten a meal without Caius’s supervision. Still, he bounced his leg under the table, and his anxiety nagged at him.

Am I chewing too loud? What does Fletcher want me to do? Are they unhappy with how I was cleaning the bathroom? Sweat dewed on his forehead while he struggled to get his meal down, even though everything tasted good. Fletcher even let him drink coffee, which he immediately burned his tongue on, eager as he was to get to drink it again.

Afterwards, Fletcher presented him with a list.

“Clean up the kitchen. Anything that doesn’t fit in the dishwasher needs to be hand washed, and don’t forget to wipe down the counters. Then start on the list. The order doesn’t matter, other than doing the dusting before you do the floors. I don’t care when you break for lunch, just don’t let me catch you slacking off for too long. I expect everything to be finished before dinner. If you have any questions, come find me, I’ll be with the students. Capiche?”

Tommy read through the list. Dust, scrub the floors, weed the crops, lunch, water everything in the greenhouse, clean the bathrooms on the middle floor and upstairs, clean up after dinner. It sounded doable - though the weeding could take a long time, depending on how bad it was. He tried to remember if he had seen many when he looked at the gardens yesterday – it couldn’t have been bad, he probably would have noticed that. Right?

He worked through the kitchen, trying to do as thorough a job as possible, as fast as possible. He upended the toaster over the sink, giving the bottom a few slaps to empty the crumbs out before wiping it down and replacing it. Dishes were rinsed with hot water before being loaded into the dishwasher, and he managed to slip the broom underneath the fridge while he was sweeping. There was an overflow of dishes from a day or two of neglect, so he was left with a lot of handwashes, which he polished dry. After a lot of rummaging in the cabinets, he eventually found where each thing went, or at least an approximation.

Dusting next, afterwards floors, by then the bathrooms should be mostly clear - and he had a head start on one. He dusted furiously, straining on the tips of his toes to reach the top of the ceiling fan blades. Everything got a once over with the duster, and then again by hand with a paper towel, spraying any surface that could take it with cleaner. It was odd using real cleaners again - he’d been long banned from most anything other than vinegar and baking soda. Nothing that could put him out permanently if he drank it.

He was soaked with sweat already before he moved down to the floor to scrub. No mop, just crawling around on his hands and knees to polish the wooden floors. The fumes from the lemon cleaner stung his eyes. With only a fitful night of sleep, his weariness was quickly catching up to him. At the same time, he was fervently anxious, buzzing with nervous energy. Jittery and exhausted, always a winning combo.

Tommy finished the main living room, his arms sore and knees aching already. He flexed his hands open and closed, trying to regain feeling. He kneeled on the floor and looked at the scrubber, and back up at all the flooring he still had to do, and a frustration welled up inside of him.

What stupid motherfucker buys a big fancy cabin they don’t even take their boots off in, and doesn’t own a mop. Invest in a goddamn Swiffer. How useless do you have to be to not even keep the bare minimum of cleaning supplies? Is that going to be my role here, being a housewife to replace your mommy doing everything for you?!

The moment passed, and he was a little taken aback by himself. Fletcher obviously wasn’t…whatever that was. They raised all of those crops, for fuck’s sake.

Pace yourself better. We just need a little - a super quick break. Grab some water.

Tommy set his supplies to the side and slipped into the kitchen. Unfortunately, he was not alone there, as a student was helping themselves to a late morning snack. Tommy had seen him yesterday, but steered clear. He was tall with a little bit of bulk, the poster boy of frat bros who’d recently gotten really into crossfit. His wavy hair was long on top, buzzed into a severe fade to the nape of his neck.

And he was making a goddamn mess.

A knife handle smeared with jelly stuck out of a jar of peanut butter on the counter, crumbs decorating the counter Tommy had just worked so hard to polish. He had a plate out, but opted to eat leaning against the counter instead, letting crumbs and drips of jam fall where they may on the newly cleaned floor.

Tommy stared at him for a moment in disbelief. Here was some real, shameless laziness to be mad about, but what could he say? He considered turning and leaving to drink from a bathroom faucet, but the trainee had spotted him. Nervously, Tommy made his way to the fridge to find a pitcher of filtered water he’d spotted earlier.

The trainee watched him with open curiosity as Tommy approached the refrigerator with the tribulation of a tightrope walker. When he extracted the pitcher, victorious, he peered inside to find it had been fridged empty. Tommy stared at it, dumbfounded, before raising his gaze to the sink, only a few feet from the other resident.

It was with a dramatic resignation that Tommy approached to refill it. His hands trembled holding it under the tap, wrists tired, already sore.

“I’m Billy,” the student offered. Tommy gave his general direction a curt nod, a thin smile.

“So uh…you live here now?”

Tommy set the pitcher on the counter, waiting for it to trickle through the filter.

“Yeah, um, I guess.”

Billy munched at his sandwich. There was a smear of peanut butter in his short beard.

“Why are you wearing a collar?”

Tommy froze, a deer in the headlights. He had assumed Fletcher had offered some form of explanation to the trainees. Or maybe they did, and Billy was trying to fuck with him. The familiar weight of his collar around his neck suddenly felt heavy, sweaty, conspicuous. The barbed tines inside itched.

“If it’s a sex thing, you can just say so. You look like you’re into some freaky shit.” Billy wasn’t subtle about checking him out, his eyes sweeping over Tommy with a lurid gaze. Maybe Tommy could have fielded it, if he was still under Caius, but what Fletcher expected from him remained an enigma. Should he ignore it? Dispute it? Agree with it? Excuse himself? Fletcher hadn’t said anything about how Tommy was supposed to treat the students.

“Jesus dude, chill. I was just asking.” Tommy hadn’t realized he was breathing hard until Billy raised his hands innocently.

“I’m – I’m sorry, I don’t think – I’m not sure if Fletcher…” Billy raised an eyebrow, waiting for Tommy to form a complete thought. Tommy waited for one, too. The awkward pause only grew more awkward.

“I just – came here for some water.” Tommy ended weakly. He snatched a glass from where he’d put them away earlier and poured some water in with shaky hands, spilling some on the counter. He wiped it up hastily with a towel, cursing under his breath.

“You look crazy tense. When’s the last time you got laid?”

“No,” Tommy snapped. Simple, but an unconscionable protest. He slapped a hand over his mouth and retreated, beelining for the bathroom. He enjoyed his hard-earned glass of water sitting in the half-cleaned tub, behind the curtain, hiding from the world as best he could behind a door with no lock.

His frantic compulsion to please Fletcher forced him out after only a brief break. He washed his face in the sink, sweat beading on his brow almost instantly. His head felt foggy, and a throbbing headache was blossoming in his skull. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment, before wringing his hands out as if to banish his shakes. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Fletcher was waiting for him.

Fletcher looked like they were about to say something, but stopped when they saw Tommy’s face. It was pale and sweaty, dark curls sticking to his forehead, deep shadows under his eyes. Not a huge difference from his usual demeanor, but enough to give them some pause.

“You good, dude?”

“Yes,” Tommy said quickly. Then, “Um, actually, I just have a headache. I was wondering if I could maybe get some painkillers, please?”

“Yeah, sure,” Fletcher said, still eyeing Tommy skeptically.

They led him back to the kitchen. Billy was gone, but his mess remained behind. Tommy could feel his heart racing. Should he tell Fletcher that he had cleaned the kitchen and Billy had messed it up again? Or would they get mad that he was blaming one of their trainees?

Fletcher glanced around but made no comment. They opened up a cabinet and fished out a bottle of ibuprofen, dumping two small red pills in Tommy’s hand.

Ibuprofen was not exactly what Tommy had hoped for. They may as well have stuck a bandaid on his forehead for all the good it was going to do him.

“Thank you,” Tommy murmured, staring down at the pills in his palm.

“You need water?”

“Oh...right. I got it.”

Tommy picked up the pitcher on the counter and shakily refilled his glass. He tossed the pills into his mouth and drank them down. He forced a smile to Fletcher.

“All good. Thanks.”

Everything went blurry, then sideways. The ground hit him hard.

Tommy laid on the floor staring up at the starburst of the ceiling light. Fletcher appeared over him, lightly slapping his cheek.

“Hey, hey, you with me?”

“Uh… uh-huh,” Tommy managed.

He started to stand up, but the room swam, and he fell back with a groan. He felt feverish, his short break hadn’t helped the sweating at all. His head pounded like a hammer to his temples. He felt so weak he could barely move, yet he trembled uncontrollably.

Tommy couldn’t deny it any longer. He’d tried to dismiss it, tried to power through, but he knew this feeling - it was unmistakable. It didn’t always happen when Caius took his pain meds away, depending on where in the healing cycle he was, if he’d been tapered off slowly - but when they cut him off cold-turkey, things got bad fast. He just wanted so badly to prove to Fletcher that he was worth keeping around. Instead, he was twitching uselessly at their feet on the kitchen floor, a junkie going through withdrawals.

Fletcher sighed, kneeling down over him. “Alright, alright, c’mere.” They pulled Tommy by his arms to sit up, hunched over his lap limply like a ragdoll. With a surprising swiftness, Fletcher pulled him over their shoulder and lifted him up in a fireman’s carry. Tommy squeaked, dizzied from the rapid shift, and swallowed back nausea as Fletcher carried him off. He was deposited unceremoniously into his bed with a bounce and a yelp.

“Bag, please, bag-” Tommy stammered, but he only lasted long enough to crawl to the edge of the bed before retching onto the floor.

“Great,” Fletcher mused dryly, and walked out, shutting the door behind them.

They only left Tommy to wallow a few minutes before they returned with paper towels and a cleaner Tommy had left in the living room.

“I’ll clean it up,” Tommy mewled, but when he reached for the paper towels, Fletcher slapped his hands away easily. Chastised, he curled his hands against his chest, whimpering in distress when Fletcher did a quick clean up.

Oh, they’re going to leave me to die in the woods for sure now - it should never be their duty to clean up after me. Fletcher’s aid had immediately iced Tommy’s agitation, leaving him feeling remorseful and meek.

“‘M so sorry,” he slurred miserably. Fletcher didn’t answer, just removed the soiled paper towels from the room without a word.

They returned a few minutes later with a water bottle, a sleeve of crackers, and a small garbage can that they placed beside his bed.

“Here, just, stay hydrated. I can make some ginger tea or something if you still feel… nauseous…” The end of Fletcher’s sentence trailed as they looked Tommy over. “You’re shaking real hard.”

Tommy wrapped his arms around himself as if he could hold himself still.

“Sorry,” he forced out through a clenched jaw. He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for. Being too sick to work?

Fletcher placed their hand against his forehead.

“When did you start feeling sick?”

“This… morning.”

“Hm.”

Fletcher stood there watching him for a moment, then sighed and sat down at the foot of the bed, drawing their phone from their pocket and dialing a number. There was a moment while they waited for an answer, then Tommy heard one half of their conversation.

“Hey, I got a guy here who got really sick all of a sudden. He just got here yesterday and seemed fine then. Feels like he’s running a fever, definitely sweaty, shaking, throwing up, headache, passed out for a second, looked like. Seems kinda out of it. He’s not like sneezing or coughing, though. Hey, anything else?”

Fletcher poked Tommy in the leg to signify they were talking to him.

“Um…” Tommy tried to take stock. He tried to remember the symptoms Fletcher had already said. “Hurts.”

“Hurts?”

Tommy nodded. The motion made his head swim.

“Okay, uh, body aches I guess,” Fletcher added to the person on the phone.

Fletcher pulled one of Tommy’s arms toward them and pressed their fingers to his wrist. After a moment they said, “It’s elevated.”

Fletcher listened to the person on the other end, then reached over and pulled Tommy’s eyelids open, looking closely.

“Yeah, I think so.”

They released, and Tommy squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them, Fletcher was pinching the bridge of their nose.

“Yeah, I was worried you would say that.” Fletcher moved the phone away from their mouth and spoke to Tommy. “You on drugs?”

Tommy’s mouth flapped like a fish out of water. They said on drugs like someone in a DARE psa, and he didn’t want to get in trouble so quickly. But it would be worse if he lied. It was obvious now, so he should just cooperate. Maybe… maybe Fletcher would get him what he needed if he was forthright about it.

Tommy nodded an affirmative.

“What were you on?”

“I, uh, I don’t know, exactly,” Tommy responded sheepishly. “Mostly, painkillers and sedatives. Sometimes….some coke, to wake me up. I just took whatever they gave me, I don’t - I didn’t ask questions. I think… I think the doctor started, um, overdosing me on purpose.”

Fletcher stared at Tommy a moment before speaking into the phone.

“I’m gonna have to call you back.”

Fletcher ended the call. They began dialing a new number, walking out of the room as they did so. They didn’t particularly want a chat with Caius, but it seemed to be in order.

“Tommy’s not giving you trouble, is he?” A silky voice asked when he picked up the call. Caius oozed charisma - an insufferable tryhard at his best.

“Well, he was perfectly well behaved before he started going through fucking withdrawals,” Fletcher said as they shut the door to their office behind them. “I need to know what drugs he was taking since you and your associates conveniently forgot to mention this.”

“Oh, well, we have a doctor on staff who provides cutting edge medical care-”

“What. Fucking. Drugs,” Fletcher cut him off.

“I’m saying,” Caius sounded annoyed, “that I didn’t administer the medications myself beyond some basic painkillers.”

Fletcher took a breath through their nose. “Then put me in contact with the doctor.”

“I’m not at liberty to be giving out the personal information of-”

“I will come to your fucking house!” Fletcher yelled through the phone. “Meadowview Community. Only house in an abandoned neighborhood development, props on pulling that off. You sold me a defective product. Don’t fuck around with me right now.”

“...One moment.”

There was shuffling and muttering on the other line before a new voice spoke into the receiver.

“This is Dr. Sam Snow, how can I help you?”

Fletcher blinked. “Were you fucking sitting next to Caius this whole time?”

“Well-”

“Put the phone on speaker. I want a list.”

Sam sighed, and Fletcher could hear him shifting in his seat on the other end.

“I make customized blends and dosages to fit the specific needs of-”

“Of what?” Fletcher interrupted again. “I don’t need the sales pitch, I need names of drugs.”

“Some of them are pre-market, the names wouldn’t be of any use to you. What do you need them for? Maybe I can help if I know what you’re looking for.”

“Yeah, the guy you sold me is going through withdrawals, so I need to know what he was taking.”

There was some muttering on the other end, muffled like a hand was held over the microphone.

“Mostly opioids, some SSRI’s, and then some stimulants and depressants to keep the yoyo going. Give him some methadone to wean him off, he’ll be fine. How bad off is he?”

“Shaking, passing out, throwing up, running a fever,” Fletcher rattled off the symptoms. “You said he was on SSRI’s?”

Caius said something unintelligible, and they both giggled.

“Uh, yeah, just to keep him from, you know. Kermiting-the-frog suicide. You might want to watch out for that.”

Fletcher blew out a long breath. “Okay. Methadone. Anything else I should know? How often was he taking stimulants - are those going to be a concern?”

“Eh, probably not. Towards the end there, we were kinda just keeping him in storage, so he’s just been doped down.”

“Right. Well. If there’s anything else I should know, you should tell me now. You don’t want me to have to call you again.”

Fletcher balanced their tone between civil and threatening. There was a long pause on the other end.

“...Like, about drugs?”

“About anything! If I need to know something, tell me now.”

“Ehh….not really? If you ever want some more though, I know all of Tommy’s favorites.”

“Did Tommy ask about me?” Caius spoke up, his voice carefully dry. He could play casual all he wanted, Fletcher wasn’t fooled.

“Why, did you want him to?”

Whatever Caius might have said, Sam interrupted. “We don’t care. Did you need anything else?”

“That’s all.” In the interest of being diplomatic, they forced out a, “Thanks,” before ending the call.

They called Estrada back.

“Do you have any methadone?”

Fletcher slipped back into Tommy’s room, looking something akin to apologetic. It set off alarm bells in Tommy’s head. If his heart wasn’t already racing from the withdrawals, it would be now.

“So… here’s the thing,” Fletcher began. “I can’t get you methadone until tomorrow at the earliest. So we’re just gonna have to tough this out together.”

It took a moment for Tommy to process what they were telling him, trying to think through a haze.

“Can I have something else? Just, a tiny bit to get me through, until then? Please?”

“Thing is, I don’t know what exactly you were taking, so I don’t really want to give you anything else. I don’t know what’s in your system right now - it’d be better to just flush everything and get a clean start.”

There was a terrible dread in Tommy’s expression for just a moment, before he reflexively masked himself with a poker face. He curled up on his side, looking up at the window, his throat too thick to reply.

“Alright, well, I’ll check up on you. Drink water, try to sleep it off for now. I’ll be back around for the thick of it.”

Before Fletcher could head for the door, Tommy pushed himself to sit up.

“Wait, wait, wait!”

Fletcher hesitated.

“What do I have to do?”

“You’re gonna just have to let it run its course-”

“No, no - to get the drugs,” Tommy stammered out. “What do you want me to do?”

Fletcher stared at him. “What did I just say?”

Tommy looked down at his hands, fidgeting.

“I know,” his voice broke. “But… you could get them. If you wanted. So… just tell me what you want and I’ll-” he swallowed uncomfortably. “-I won’t fight.”

Fletcher looked down at him. “You would do anything?”

“Yes,” Tommy breathed.

“That’s why you need to detox.”

Before Tommy could beg, bargain, or argue, Fletcher left the room.

Taglist: @suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday

@defire @jumpywhumpywriter @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @paperprinxe @desert-dyke

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @whatwasmyprevioususername @cursedandtired

@whump-only @misspelledwitch @redstainedsocks @thehopelessopus @im-just-here-for-the-whump

@thatsthewhump @utopian819 @pretty-face-breaker @thesuffererrrr

Thank you for reading!

#hi there #I loved this #poor Tommy #Caius asking about him 💀💀#also the kermiting the frog suicide line fucking SENT ME.#I love this little AU crossover.#it’s so fun

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sunshiline-writes · 2 months ago

Text

A Rose Amidst Thorns #23: On The Horizon

Word Count: 4.7k Previous | Masterlist | Next

Cw: slight suicidal ideation, aftermath of noncon

It took four days for him to wake up fully. By that time, the swelling around his face had gone down and he was left with bruising around his eyes and nose. His lower back hurt something awful and his insides felt like they’d been scraped raw. His insides were scraped raw. There were flashes of what happened, Xavier’s hand on his leg, then in his hair, lips on his throat, something rough and made of metal inside him, his hand pressing against something in his stomach. His brain filtered it out as best it could but there was something missing inside him.

His body felt empty. There was a big deep pit inside him that had only been growing larger and larger since he first arrived here. The aching numbness of despair ate and gnawed at his very core. He felt like an apple left to rot in the battering sun. Miguel thought, for just a moment, that Xavier had taken the last of him when he left the barn that night.

That night, it was his birthday. He was twenty-two. Nine years spent afraid and beaten. Six spent raped and used like a toy. But he couldn’t feel anything about that. There was just the numbness, the dark hole in his chest that only got deeper. Maybe Xavier finally killed the human in him. Took the last of Miguel with him when he left the barn. Maybe he was just the dog now. Nothing else left.

Dead dogs don’t bark.

He kicked out his feet from under the blanket, the heat was getting to him again. The sweat dripped off him in rivulets and made the blanket stick to his skin. He finally threw it off him and onto the floor. The air was dry, not even a breeze. His body protested as he moved himself onto his back, staring up at the barn rafters. Vision was still slightly blurry, he assumed that was from his eyes being pummeled. It had cleared slowly, over the past two or so days. But he still had fuzz in the corners of his eyes. Miguel had panicked for a moment that he was blind forever. That God had become increasingly more cruel as he got older. If his sight was taken from him as well, where would he be? What was the point then?

But he wasn’t blind and he wasn’t dead and God was still cruel.

Maybe God thought it was a funny joke. The fact that he kept on living through awful terrible things. Was it a curse to stay alive for so long? He had thought it was because he had hope for the future, that one day he’d get out of here and live a normal life. Now he couldn’t sit up without his stomach cramping painfully and his back seizing up on him.

Miguel was useless and a burden at the current moment. If they wanted to leave, he would only slow them down. They could go right now if they wanted. He would watch them go, Henrietta and Solomon, and he would be left behind again. Last time he didn’t really mind, nor was he all that surprised. Not when his hands were on Terrance’s stomach, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Henrietta mounted the horse and ran out of the barn. But his focus was on his friend. Terrance’s eyes were so afraid, so wide. His hands had covered Miguel’s as they both pressed to try and keep the blood inside.

It took five minutes for Solomon and Xavier to get there. Xavier had ripped Miguel from Terrance and threw him against one of the stall doors. There was so much screaming and angry words and Solomon working. He didn’t even have it in him to lie. Miguel thought the punishment was simple. He watched Terrance slowly die. The bullet had nicked his liver and he was being poisoned slowly by his own body. Solomon and Miguel could do nothing but keep him company. Miguel was holding his hand when he took his last breath and it was Miguel who buried him underneath the mesquite tree on the top of the hill. Three days of suffering and then a grave on top of a hill.

Three days of wondering why. Blaming himself, blaming Henrietta, blaming God. Was there really anyone to blame? It was an accident and Henrietta did the smart thing and left. Miguel had waited for a punishment that never really came. Nothing that wasn’t the usual. He expected something bigger. Something like what happened to him four nights ago. Xavier was waiting. Waiting until he got comfortable and when he was the most weakened. He didn’t have his hands like he used to. Could barely push him away, any punches were barely hard enough to bruise. He was malnourished and dehydrated. Miguel was a stray dog laying in wait for someone to kick it a few more times.

His body was falling apart and he could do nothing about it. Miguel grabbed at his hair, ignoring the pain as he pulled. Then he screamed, something hoarse and raw. His throat burned by the end of it. He took some deep breaths, fighting the urge to throw himself on the floor, to force himself to get up. Do something. Do anything.

His eyes closed as he tried to calm himself down and when he opened them, he saw curly red hair standing above him. This day couldn’t get any better. He couldn’t take Jesse right now. He’d die. He’d die this time and Jesse would probably laugh. His eyes closed again and he tried to choke back the whimpers at the thought of Jesse only being here for one reason. His whole body tensed as he waited for it to happen, for Jesse’s hand between his thighs and–

A gentle hand rested on his forehead instead. Miguel opened his eyes, trying hard to focus on Jesse. The hand on his forehead quickly retracted and wiped itself on Jesse’s pant leg. If he was saying something, Miguel couldn’t see it. His vision was still blurry, going in and out of focus. He squinted at Jesse and he could see Jesse turn to leave.

God had some mercy after all.

Solomon was the next person he saw. The two braids down on his shoulders as he placed a cool cloth on his forehead. Oh.. he was running a fever. Or he must have been. The world faded in and out of the edges of his vision. Everything melted into one another. Dripping onto his face and it melted into his skin. The hurt faded, his vision did too, the damp cloth removed itself from his forehead.

Something hot hit the back of his throat and Miguel coughed. His whole body seizing in pain. He turned his face, but the spoon was put to his lips again. It was cooler this time and he was able to drink it down. His world spun, when they finished feeding him, making him lay down again.

Miguel curled up tight. The blanket reappeared and disappeared. Everything faded in and out. He was dying. He knew he was dying. It was something like Terrance where something inside had been broken and he was slowly bleeding out. There was something wrong with this picture. If he died here, would he see Terrance again?

He would like that.

But for now, he would sleep, and maybe, just maybe, he would not wake up.

____

In the dream there was a lone coyote, staring at him from across the raging river. It turned away from him and he watched it walk into the desert. It threw its head back and even though he could not hear, it howled the song of freedom. The coyote disappeared into the sun rising behind it. The sky erupted into brilliant reds and oranges that stained the silver clouds.

The dream shifted to the side, sliding out of his vision.

He stood face to face with a child. The child had brown curls and light brown eyes that were filled with fire. He tilted his head at the child.

“Who are you?” he signed.

The child signed back. “I’m you.”

His memories returned in a whirlwind. Running around him in circles. His father offered Miguel as a way of payment for stolen horses. Because he was worth that much at least. A few horses. Xavier had tied his hands together in front of him, dragging him behind a horse.

The next memory was of his mother, rubbing his earlobes when he was younger.

Then he was holding the gun and aiming it at Xavier’s face, feeling the anger well up inside of him. His finger on the trigger and the noticeable lack of kickback as he pulled it. Xavier’s eyes filled with anger.

Pain flaring in his back with every crack of the whip.

Solomon lowering the blindfold and releasing the gag. His teeth sinking into Solomon's hand. Grinding his teeth against bone and Solomon’s refusal to pull away until Miguel let go of his hand.

Teaching Terrance sign language.

Jesse hovering over him in the barn stall. Breath hot on his neck and stickiness between his legs.

Terrance beating the absolute shit out of Jesse.

Henrietta playing her violin, letting him touch the wood as she played. Feeling the vibrations.

Solomon brushing his hair.

Terrance’s blood on his hands.

His hands being crushed under a boot. Nailed to the wall.

Dirt and oranges.

Everything surrounded him and it was too much. Too much to remember, so much he wanted to forget. He fell to his knees, hands pulling at his hair and he felt himself scream. Down low from inside his chest.

The boy gently took Miguel’s face into his hands, eyes determined and full of fire.

“You are still strong, if you could just remember,” he signed slowly

“I don’t want to remember, please. Too much has happened.”

The child gently wiped his tears. “You don’t have to remember it all. Bad things have happened. Bad things will happen. But there is good there too. There will be good again. You can’t give up yet.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know you are. I know we are. But giving up is not an option. There is light in your future. This darkness will not last forever. You have people in your heart who you cannot let down.” Solomon, Henrietta, Terrance, his sisters, his brother. “Yes, them. All of them. Everyone who has helped you survive, you owe it to them to try. Just one more time.”

Miguel closed his eyes. Remembering every good thing he could about each of them. From Solomon reading to him, to his little brother's smile.

Just one more time.

____ Miguel woke up with a gasp. His heart and head were pounding. Mouth filled with cotton. A hand gently laid itself on his chest, keeping him from getting up too fast. He choked on his breath, turning to his side. Rubbing at his eyes, which didn’t hurt as bad as before, he noticed, and opened them. His vision was clear.

Turning himself on his back again, he noticed it was Henrietta who stood over him. Eyebrows furrowed in concern. She laid the back of her hand on his forehead, it felt cool to the touch.

“Your fever finally broke,” she signed to him, gently smoothing his hair from his face. She stood up from the side of his cot. He watched her grab a canteen of water. She came back to him and pressed the opening to his lips. Miguel unsteadily grabbed it with his hands as Henrietta tipped it. Cool water filled his mouth and he drank greedily. She pulled it away and he whined lowly. “Slow down, you’re gonna choke,” she warned him, before she tipped it against his lips again. He forced himself to drink slower, savoring the coolness and fresh taste of the water.

When he was done, she pulled away. Staring at him with an expression that was something of a mix of worry and relief.

“How are you feeling? You’ve been out for three days,” she signed, looking him over.

Miguel thought about it for a moment, his face felt less swollen, his back was less painful as he forced himself to sit up, and the rawness of his insides had depleted some as well.

“Better than yesterday,” he signed back. “I’ve been sick for? A week?” Miguel asked, frowning. He put his hands in his lap and he stared down at them for a second. They didn’t hurt in the dream. They were normal in the dream. Lifting his gaze back to Henrietta he saw her nod. He took a deep breath before looking around at the barn room. There was a bucket filled with water with a rag over it on the floor. The light shining through the window at the top of the wall was a golden yellow.

“You were healing the first few days and Solomon said you probably had an infection from whatever Xavier used to..” Henrietta’s hands stopped moving and she shifted in the chair. The chair was new. That wasn’t there before. “I’m so sorry he did that to you. I never thought- he always looked at you, like that but I never thought he’d actually…”

Miguel reached forward and grabbed Henrietta’s hands in his. He shook his head. It wasn’t her fault. Xavier was always going to do it. There was nothing she could have done. The man always took what he wanted. Miguel was surprised he had waited so long. Henrietta nodded at him, pulling her hands away. She stood up from the chair and licked her lips nervously.

“I’ll go tell Solomon you’re awake.”

Yes. Solomon. God he had missed him. Really missed him. Not even for any particular reason. His presence being so far away, knowing he couldn’t even look at him without fear for punishment, was something that ate at him. He supposed that Xavier had to let Solomon see him since he’d been beaten and raped within an inch of his life. Apparently, he had almost died from infection. Maybe he was still dying. Miguel didn’t exactly feel great but he felt awake, aware. More than he had been in a long time. Almost like being blinded had cleared his vision.

There were still the dull aches from his body, but they were easier to ignore now. He tossed his legs over the cot with a low grunt. It took effort, he was still sore. His lower back protesting against any movement at all. The wood beneath his feet felt warm. Miguel lifted his face to the rafters of the barn and took in a deep breath. It smelled of manure, hay, and dust. This place was never going to smell like home. It never had. But he almost believed it was, he thought that if he had tried to make this home, it would be better. He was wrong. Something moved at the corner of his vision and he turned to see Jesse again. He looked like a wreck. His hair was tousled up like he’d been running his hands through it. There was dirt all over his clothes. It normally wouldn’t be such a sight if Jesse wasn’t staring at him like he’d just seen a ghost.

Miguel was not dead. Not yet. Jesse needn’t worry about that. Miguel was just too stubborn to die.

They seemed to stare at each other forever before Jesse finally ran a hand through his hair. Taking the steps to close the space between them. Then Jesse moved his fingers at him. It was so strange, so foreign, coming from him that Miguel took a second to realize that Jesse was signing at him. Full blown, sign language. His language. How long.. how.. Miguel was on him in seconds, ignoring the pain in his lower back, in his hands. Standing took more effort than he thought it would but he did it anyway. He curled his hands as best he could into fists and struck Jesse wherever he could. Shoulders, chest, back. Everywhere. Jesse stumbled back, grabbing his wrists in one hand, kicking his leg out from under him. He fell hard, head smacking against the ground. Jesse straddled him, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head. ”Wanna tell me why the fuck you did that?”

Miguel grunted, the pressure on his pelvis making his eyes water. Jesse, seeming to realize this, lifted his weight and shifted to instead sit on his thighs. He let go of Miguel’s hands and slowly brought his own hands back to himself. “You signed,” Miguel stated forcefully. Growling at Jesse.

“Yes,” Jesse signed back, shrugging slightly, “I thought you might be able to understand better if I signed.”

“How long have you fucking known?”

A look of realization crossed Jesse’s expression before he pressed his lips together in a firm line. “A while,” he signed, “I liked it when you struggled.”

“Fuck you,” Miguel said, smacking Jesse’s chest once more with a closed fist before leaning his head back on the floor. “You knew this whole time and you didn’t use it because you liked to see me try so hard to understand you.”

Jesse laughed, he could feel in the way his weight shifted on his thighs. Miguel refused to look at him. Refused to give him the satisfaction. The man leaned in real close, grabbing Miguel’s face, fingers digging into his cheeks as he made Miguel look at him. “You know, I thought the fire died in you a long time ago.” Just one more time. One more time.

Suddenly, Jesse’s head snapped upward, and Miguel followed his sight, craning his neck to see Solomon standing at the entrance to the hayloft. He climbed up from the ladder. Expression furious as he started to talk. Miguel couldn’t see what he was saying, but Jesse scrambled away, getting off him and holding his hands up in surrender. Miguel shakily sat up, eyes watching Jesse carefully.

“He hit me first!- I know.- I know! He literally hit me first.”

He caught the one sided conversation but turned to see Solomon kneeling beside him. Checking him over quietly, wrapping an arm around his waist he finally spoke, “Come on, lets get you back to your cot.”

Using the arm around his waist to support him, Solomon half lifted, half helped him stand. Walking the few steps toward the cot was more tiring than Miguel would have liked. When Solomon helped him sit down, his stomach turned awfully and his back ached.

“Did you hit him?” Solomon asked him in sign, before quietly sitting down next to him.

Miguel looked at Jesse, who had suddenly taken interest in the wall to the left of him. He chewed on his lip looking down at his feet when he answered.

“He knows sign. He’s known it for years and he just.. He never.. I’m sorry.”

Solomon stared at him for a moment, before pulling Miguel into a hug. A soft, enclosed space. He was saying something, his chest vibrated with speech. But Miguel just buried his face into Solomon's shirt, hands going under his arms and clutching at the back of his shirt. The older man wrapped a gentle hand on the back of his head. They stayed like that for a moment. Holding each other. Basking in each other's presence which they both went so long without. Solomon was everything. Every good thing that had ever happened here, it had happened when Solomon was near him. He’d never truly appreciated it before. The love. The pure, unconditional love that came from Solomon. Towards him, towards Henrietta. Solomon was the best man he’d ever met. Miguel would never live up to him. Maybe it was worth trying anyway.

They pulled away at the same time, staring at each other.

“I thought you were going to die there for a second. You need to rest. The infection seems to have run its course, but we can’t be too careful.”

Solomon turned toward Jesse, and Miguel followed his eyes. Jesse was talking again, this time signing as he did so. It still filled him with anger. To see his language in Jesse’s hands. Filthy, awful hands that hurt him so badly. Who watched him struggle and attempt to understand. Sometimes, Miguel got tired of translating words into his head. Trying to read and concentrate and then trying to make sense of it. It was exhausting.

“How are we gonna leave with him barely being able to walk?”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“He can’t ride a horse like that.”

“I know.”

“We’ve got a week.”

“I know.”

“Solomon-” “I know.”

Miguel frowned, tugging on Solomon's sleeve to grasp his attention.

“He’s coming with us? To where?” he asked, a sick feeling churning in his gut. Solomon and Jesse exchanged looks. Miguel felt his heart pick up pace, his stomach twist. Jesse was coming with them? They had a plan? Where was he? What was going on? Was this just because he was sick? Or had they been planning behind his back the whole time? “Miguel,” Solomon started.

“No.”

“Miguel,” Solomon said again, sighing heavily. “Listen carefully. Henrietta met some people, when you went into town. It’s people she knew when she left. They offered to help. They’re gonna help get us out of here.”

“How?”

“Just listen Miguel,” Solomon said, signs more forceful. So forceful that it made Miguel flinch. “I’m sorry, I just need you to understand. We have a date. They’re gonna set the stables on fire, a distraction. Jesse has guns, and-” “Since when is he involved? Why is he coming? Do you know what he’s done? Do you know how much-” “I know Miguel! But he also saved your life. He saved your life. Jesse found you after Xavier, brought you to me. If he hadn’t you would have died. You would have.”

Miguel bit his lip, anger welling in his chest. God when was the last time he’d been this angry? How long? Years? He wasn’t even this angry when he slammed the shovel over Jesse’s head. That was instinctual, a primal need for survival. This was different, this was pure. A true feeling that he couldn’t shove down into a little box inside his chest.

His hands clenched into fists on his lap, or something resembling a fist. The anger only grew as Solomon continued to speak.

“Jesse saved you. He’s only coming with us to the river. Then he’s going off on his own. He wants to leave as bad as the rest of us. Do you understand?”

“Why are you speaking to me like I’m a child?” Miguel asked suddenly, huffing slightly. “Of course I fucking understand.”

Solomon stared at him, mouth slightly open in surprise. He could see Solomon swallow before looking down at Miguel’s hands, then his eyes again.

“You changed. You’re different,” Solomon stated, an expression he’d never seen before on his face. Pride? Determination? Hope? “I’m sorry. You’re right. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you’re a child. You’re not. I just, I am worried and I am frustrated. We think you’ll take more time to heal than the time we actually have.”

A burden again then. Miguel was so tired of being a burden. There was a deep red mass taking a hold of his heart. So big that it was making it hard to breathe, hard to see. “I’ll be fine,” Miguel said, “I can be fine. I’ll push through. I always do.”

Solomon stared at him, studying him for a moment. Trying to figure out what had changed. Had he changed from this? It was noticeable to them at least. Something inside Miguel had snapped that night and something new was reborn. He was growing teeth. “They’ll set the stables on fire, Jesse has guns. Henrietta will meet us outside the barn with the key to your chain.”

Miguel thought for a moment and shook his head. “If we’re all meeting here, just shoot through it, it’ll take less time.”

Solomon looked back at Jesse and Jesse pressed his lips together in a tight line. Thinking for a moment before nodding. “Yeah we can do that. It would be easier,” he agreed. “We can unlock the manacle on the wagon.”

“Right,” Solomon said, rubbing his face, looking tired. “We’ll get you into the wagon, and Jesse and Henrietta’s people will cover us as we leave. The hope is.. The stables will distract Yardly and the others while we get all our things. Get you in the wagon, just buy us some time.”

“And then?”

“Then we run like hell.”

There was an uneasy silence between them all before Jesse finally decided to leave, to go off and tell Henrietta the new part of the plan. When Jesse left, Miguel felt like he could breathe. Like the very air got cleaner with his absence. The mass in his heart lessened slightly and he leaned back on the cot.

Solomon sat on the cot next to Miguel, simply staying next to him. Waiting for him to talk. Waiting for him to do something. Finally Miguel turned toward Solomon, his mouth felt dry again.

“I missed you,” he signed to Solomon, sitting up straight.

“I missed you too.”

“A week?”

“A week. Miguel, I’m sorry.”

Miguel shook his head, sighing. “No. Don’t be sorry. It’s fine. I don’t think Jesse should come with us. He could be pretending, playing a game. He could be tricking us.”

“He wants to get out of here just as bad as we do. As soon as we hit the river, we’re going different ways. We’re crossing, he’s not.”

“I don’t think he should come,” Miguel repeated. “He’s coming. He’s one of the only people who can use a gun well. We need him.”

“We don’t need him, he’s an asshole. He doesn’t deserve to leave.”

“If he stays he’s dead Miguel.”

The statement hit him like a train. The exhaustion did too. He’d gotten up too fast, his body felt awful. His hands were shaking.His back ached, and his head where it hit on the floor throbbed. He was starting to form a headache behind his eyes. Pressure building. Solomon gently put a hand on his shoulder and Miguel turned toward him again. “You need to rest,” he signed, his hand moving to the back of Miguel’s head and he pressed their foreheads together. “Miguel I thought you weren’t going to make it through the night.”

“I’m here Solomon,” Miguel assured. Just one more time. One more try. He had a reason to hope now. A reason to be here and present. He can’t escape to somewhere in his head this time. He had to be here. He had to. “I’m here.”

Solomon pulled away, gently trying to make Miguel lay down on the cot. Helping his head onto the pillow and lifting his feet. He curled up on the cot. It smelt like sweat and blood. One day he would sleep in a real bed, or at least, something that didn’t smell like shit. Solomon covered him again with the blanket.

Miguel frowned the pressure behind his eyes building more and he pressed a palm to his eyebrows. The bruising was still there and the pain of pressing against the bruises, dwindled the pressure behind his eyes. Hands gently grabbed his wrists and pulled them away from his face. He was too weak to pull back. “What’s wrong?”

“I have a headache, it’s nothing. I just need to sleep.”

Solomon rubbed a thumb over his forehead. Nodding. He started to slowly stand up and Miguel’s hand shot out, grabbing onto Solomon's sleeve. Solomon slowly sat back down, nodding silently. The silent request was loud. Stay.

He wouldn’t leave, not if he asked. And Miguel didn’t even have to ask. Not really. They were in this together. All or nothing.

Just one more time. One last time.

There was hope here. There was something new coming with the horizon. A coyote was howling in the distance. He couldn’t hear it, but he knew.

____

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sunshiline-writes · 2 months ago

Text

Colors of The End #4: Brown of the Earth

Word count : 2.5k

Cw: minor whump, minor character death, graphic descriptions of a dead body, manipulation, digging a grave, politics, child soldiers.

Benjamin was not a stranger to feeling like he was insufficient at his job. As the train came to a stop, he felt very much like he had failed in more aspects than one. Jeremiah seemed deep in thought as they walked out together, brows furrowed. Benjamin placed a gentle hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. Jeremiah glanced at him and didn’t offer any type of smile like he usually did.

Jeremiah was the youngest of the three of them. Fourteen seemed like such a young age for someone to be used as a weapon. But the fact of it was that Jeremiah was the strongest out of them. His lightning was something to be afraid of and even though he was young, he was useful. Ben hated that fact with a passion. The fact that he understood why Zachary kept letting him come on increasingly more dangerous missions. He was training all of them for something big. Ben wasn’t sure what, but it made his stomach churn.

There was an increasing feeling of doom that hovered over him like a cloud. He felt useless in a way. The mistake of yesterday weighed heavy on his shoulders. It was something simple, keep Isobele and Jeremiah close. Don’t let them get hurt. Then Isobele goes off on her own and almost gets herself killed. Fucking ridiculous. It wasn’t his fault but it was.

He looked back at Isobele using Zachary as a crutch to walk down the steps off the train. Zachary looked at her with a certain type of pride that made Benjamin’s anger rise to his throat. He hated him. Hated that man with every fiber of his being, even if he was the kinder option than what he had before. Barnabus used to beat him within an inch of his life if he missed a target. Zachary was more inclined to mind games.

Zachary was a taller man with long blonde hair always pulled back in a ponytail that made him look like an idiot. He had a kind face, soft green eyes that stared into the soul. Older than most people here, sometimes he swore he saw grey hairs at the roots. Ben had made a bet once with Isobele that Zachary dyed his hair. He rarely ever got truly mad. Never yelled. However, Benjamin had gotten a few hard slaps to the face when he talked a little too much. But Zachary never broke skin, rarely ever hard enough to bruise. The man always calmly assigned punishments like they were just chores they were meant to do in the first place.

Benjamin hated him. He hated him less than others, but the way he presented himself to Isobele and Jeremiah. Like he was something to be trusted, confided in. This man was neither.

“Ben. With me,” Zachary said as he helped Isobele down the last steps. Isobele was panting heavily, hand on her side. “Jeremiah, take Isobele to Sonya. Ben and I will meet with you later for the mission briefing.” “Yes sir,” came the practiced reply from Jem. He slowly wrapped an arm around Isobeles waist, careful to not touch her wound. As they walked past Benjamin, Isobele winked at him.

Idiot.

They watched them walk into the base and Benjamin looked at Zachary. He gave the man a shit eating grin.

“You gonna slap me again?”

Zachary chuckled and shook his head, “No. I lost my temper with you then. I was worried about your sister.”

“She was fine,” Ben said with a shrug, “would have been better if Henrik was on board.”

The man was silent for a moment. It made his chest twist sideways. Silence was never a good sign. Ben straightened his back.

“Walk with me Benjamin,” Zachary said, a possessive hand placed itself on the back of Benjamin’s neck. The weight of it felt like a brick. He forced his feet to move in time with Zachary’s.

“What happened Zachary?” Ben asked softly as they walked. The leaves were starting to turn orange with the colder weather. He tried to shake off Zachary’s hand, twisting out of the grip and meeting face to face with the man. “What happened?” he asked again, firmer.

“I want you to walk Benjamin.”

“Not until you tell me what the hell is going on!” he growled, stepping backwards.

“You’re really going to take that tone with me right now?” Zachary said calmly, looking at Ben with a plain look. “Think twice. Walk now, forward. Toward the ruins.”

“No.”

“Walk.”

The compulsion always hurt, always shattered the walls in his brain like a sledgehammer. He took a janky step forward and Zachary watched him with an unimpressed expression. Benjamin’s whole body was on fire as he fought the compulsion.

“I don’t know why you insist on fighting it, it’ll only hurt worse the longer you fight. Just walk.”

The compulsion hit again like a truck and his limbs moved on their own. Walking straight ahead. Down the little pathway he walked all the time with Henrik. Where they snuck off during drills. Mostly just to talk, to say they were committing some form of rebellion. Henrik had brought a gun once, hidden it under one of the stones. Just in case, he said, just in case. Ben could do nothing as Zachary walked behind him except look straight ahead. His heart hammered in his throat as they came to the ruins. “You can move now, don’t make me use that again. Understood?”

Benjamin took a deep heaving breath as his limbs unlocked, hunching over slightly.

“Yes sir.”

“This is where you Henrik tended to hide during briefings, was it not?”

“Yes sir.”

Zachary offered him a soft, sad smile. He gently laid his hands on Benjamin's shoulders and moved him forward. The ruins weren’t hard to maneuver through. It was a pile of rubble from the old days, what used to be a building. The concrete now had moss growing over it, plants and weeds nearly covered the entire ground, where the rubble hadn’t suffocated the soil. It was just a place to sit by and enjoy the sun. It was supposed to be safe. Even if they knew about the cameras. They weren’t supposed to bother them there.

“What is this?” Benjamin asked, hating how small his voice sounded.

Zachary left him, for a moment, pulling out a shovel from behind a pile of rubble and put it in Benjamin's hands. His hands felt the rough metal, looking up at Zachary with an incredulous look.

“Sir?”

“Oh? Respect now that you’re afraid?”

Ben lowered his eyes to the ground beneath his feet. The clearing between the piles of rubble that held yellow flowers from the weed. Zachary reached out to him and lifted his chin with a hooked finger. “I want you to dig until I say stop.”

“Wh-”

“Shut up Benjamin. Dig.”

There was no compulsion needed for him to shake his head free of Zachary’s finger and shove the shovel into the dirt. His heart hammered in his chest so hard he felt like his chest was going to burst. Everything tunneled in his vision as he shakily kept sinking the shovel into the dirt. Over and over. Until his shoulders were sore and his hands were blistered. He dug a few feet down, when Zachary instructed him to make it long too. That was when he knew he was digging a grave.

“You figured it out?” Zachary asked, sitting on a rock, legs crossed.

Ben set his jaw, before shoving the shovel into the ground and leaning forward on it. His smile was forced, but he kept it on his face. He sighed softly.

“Am I digging my own grave sir?”

Zachary returned his smile with one of his own. Hands clasped together on top of his knee. His uniform looked strange in the bright yellow glow of the sun. He hummed thoughtfully.

“You know? I thought about it. You and Henrik, coming out here during drills, at night. I let you have your fun. But the gun Ben. The supplies. Did you know Henrik was sending letters to rebel forces? Be honest.”

Benjamin couldn’t even fight the words that came from his mouth, spilling out from him like water.

“No. I knew about the gun, supplies. Not the letters.”

Zachary hummed thoughtfully again. “I figured that was the case. I bet he thought you were a liability with your mouth. With your.. affections for Isobele and Jeremiah.”

The man slowly uncrossed his legs, unclasped his hands and stood up. His uniform rustled with him. The dark green, almost blended with the weeds in the ground.

“I have a gift for you Benjamin,” he said, walking behind the rubble. There was a sound of something being dragged before he saw the body. Zachary nonchalantly threw the body in front of him and the smell of rot filled his senses. He gagged and turned away from the scene in front of him.

It wasn’t Henrik, it couldn’t be Henrik. It was something else. Something else that had Henriks eyes, his hair and his skin that was bloated and grey. The hole in his head didn’t exist and the way his whole body was awkwardly was thrown on the ground. Limbs looking strange. Benjamin turned to the side and threw up bile and last night's soup.

“This is what happens when you try to commit treason. This could be you instead if I hadn’t found the correspondence letters. I know you’ve been thinking about it. Escaping. Little birdie and all that. If I find anything from you, that even looks like it could be used for a little escape attempt. The next grave you’ll be digging won’t be yours. It’ll be Isobele’s, or Jeremiah’s. Am I understood, Benjamin?”

Benjamin's ears rang. He hated how casual Zachary sounded about it. The idea of harming his siblings. His stomach churned as he gasped for air.

“I need an answer from you,” Zachary pressed.

“Y-Yes sir,” Benjamin choked out.

“Good. Bury him. Take the time you need, but be back for dinner.”

Zachary left him casually, hands in his pockets and humming a tune. Calm and ever. He hated him. He preferred Barnabus’s beating over the fucking mind games and psychological warfare. Barnabus never had him bury the body of his best friend.

The tears came up faster than he could stop them. Ben fell to his knees and screamed. His hands clawed at the ground, tearing it and then pressed his head to the dirt. He screamed until his throat was raw and the aching in his chest had diminished to a certain numbness. His head spun still as he breathed in the smell of dirt and rot. His eyes opened, he stared at the deep brown of the earth. He felt the dirt in his fingernails and he reminded himself that he was still alive.

Then he screamed again, his head pounding with power. He felt it in his blood, in his muscles contracting. It worked itself up to his fingertips and he pounded a fist into the earth. He felt the rubble lift and fly backwards. There was a loud crack as it hit a tree and snapped it in half. A groaning sound mixed with the piece of concrete thudding against the ground. The tree fell backwards away from him. Ben laughed at the sound of it crashing to the ground. Hands deep into the earth, he forced the pressure from his head to his hands again. More concrete lifting into the air and shooting away from him. Hitting trees, more concrete. He wanted to crack it all, he wanted to crack the earth in fucking half. There were sounds all around him of rubble and earth breaking around him.

The power pulsated in his veins. There was a chemical reaction when he used it. Like his body was finally releasing pressure that had been building up for forever. It made him feel lighter, almost giddy from how good it felt. It released the weight on his chest. He could breathe finally. Even if there was still an aching hole in his stomach. His face felt wet, he put his fingers up to his lips and saw blood come away. His nose was bleeding. Maybe he went a little too far.

He still needed to bury Henrik. Ben couldn’t stay here on the ground forever. The anger could come back later. Right now, he needed to get up, pick up the shovel. Shove everything else away and focus on the task in front of him.

Slowly, he pushed himself up to stand.

His eyes glanced over the body.

Henrik Ardik was dead. He was nineteen years old. He liked licorice and sunsets. Henrik was a healer. He wanted so badly to help. Henrik took Ben’s letters to the train, snuck them to rebel forces. No one was supposed to pay attention to him. His blood, it was on Ben’s hands. His letters got him killed. Benjamin would live with that. He had to.

All in favor of getting Isobele and Jeremiah the fuck out of here. It was worth it right? It had to be worth it? Even if it was just a minute of freedom.

Benjamin buried his best friend, the mound of fresh dirt in the middle of the ruins was almost beautiful. The blisters on his hand stung, and his chest felt strangely numb. His feet did too. He took a moment to lift his head to the sky. Listening to the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The sun coming through the leaves was close to a golden color. The weeds that grew yellow flowers swayed toward him. Ben grabbed a handful, pulling them from the ground and laid them in the unmarked grave. He’d make the sacrifice worth it. He’d make all the blood on his hands worth it. It had to be worth it. Not for himself, but for them. They didn’t deserve this. Isobele was getting closer and closer to having the same mentality as the others. He wanted her to be different. Needed her to be different from what she was. If he got her out, she could figure out she was more than the fear she used to consume others. She could be so much more.

Then there was Jeremiah, who barely knew anything outside of orders. Who panicked when making a decision. Only knowing how to follow orders. Sometimes, Ben could see a personality coming out from the shell he currently was. A smile or a smug smirk when he hit Isobele during a sparring match.

Was it terrible of him to wish for more? To wish for their safety and maybe his own? He never asked to be a soldier. He was given, a gift from his town, for the promise of life. One life for many. Was he spared? Or was he just being killed in a different way? He was complacent in his role. But Isobele and Jeremiah, they were taken, forcibly turned into weapons. Ben was a gift, Jeremiah and Isobele were stolen treasure.

He would get them out if it was the last thing he did. Yellow flowers on a grave that was his, even if it wasn’t, burned itself into his mind. Ben looked one last time. He stood up straight, faced the setting sun, and gave a salute to his fallen friend.

“See you around Henrik,” he whispered, putting his hands in his pockets and beginning to walk back to the base.

___

#whump #minor whump #child soldiers #sunshine writes whump #graphic descriptions of a dead body #digging a grave #manipulation #minor character death #this ones dark and this story is supposed to be dark #Ben is 18 by the way #a baby

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