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vargaslovinghours · 1 year

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Fandom: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac (But really Vargas lol) Rating: Teen and up Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

What, exactly, did Scriabin take from Edgar when they separated?

My first multichapter fic for Vargas! :D Yay!

(Pls read Ch. 1 first - Ch. 2 is also recommended, but as long as you're caught up on the first, you're good to go!)

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Side B

What the fuck.

"It's, it's possible that if, maybe whatever happened earlier, whatever caused all that blood and for us to be knocked unconscious-"

What the fuck.

"-and if I suffered a head injury, then maybe-"

No. That's enough.

Scriabin pushed away from the closet door he'd defensively pressed himself up against and put his hands on Edgar's shoulders, which quieted him. He looked at him expectantly, with eyes that Scriabin somehow only just now realized were casually guarded, curious, uncertain in a way that denoted inexperience. That was so messed up, that was completely wrong. Edgar should've been on guard, absolutely, but only because he knew exactly what Scriabin was capable of. He really didn't want to look at him right now if this was what he was going to be seeing instead.

He spun him quickly and pushed him out the door before he could protest. He got one last look at those wide, confused eyes before he slammed the door behind him, bracing it shut with both hands for good measure.

What. The fuck. His head came forward, making a dull thud as his forehead connected with the door. He doesn't remember me? His fingers curled on the door. What does he mean he doesn't remember me?! How could he not know me?! One hand pushed through his hair; his scalp tingled and that was so weird, he felt it and it was so weird- We literally just- He literally just-! As if pulling him screaming into life wasn't bad enough, now he had decided to play some sick prank!

This can't be true. It's just like him to try and make jokes at the worst possible time, he has no tact.

There was a timid knock on the other side of the door. Scriabin jumped as it resonated through his skull, his elbow, pressed to the door with his hand buried in his hair, set his jaw. Then silence.

If he was really trying to get back in, clear things up, say he was only kidding, he'd actually try.

Nothing.

Scriabin's blood was ice as he went over it again. The way he'd said his name. The vacant look in his eyes as he said it, like his mouth knew its shape but none of the meaning. No fear, no realization, nothing that really felt like Edgar, just sound, just noise.

Maybe he really had-

Oh god. His knees gave out, and his arms had no practice at holding him upright, not yet. His hand slid down the door, his other hand guarding his head as his hair fluffed against the grain.

How could he do this

This is all his fault

Stupid, idiotic

He can't do this to me

I can't believe him

I can't believe this

How dare he leave me alone like this

Thoughts spiralling, and all he could do was hold himself down, press his fingers into the back of his neck, force his chest to his knees and maybe he wouldn't immolate under it all. He was shaking, from tension or fear he couldn't tell, his mind too hazardous and loud to cut through it all. He was shaking, dizzy, and if he moved, letting go would surely kill him.

He can't do this to me.

He breathed. And breathed. And swallowed. Eyes closed, heart pounding, sure. Confusion and dismay, whatever. Pain. Fine. So be it.

This isn't like me. A hand untethered from his vice grip in his hair, and he stayed attached to the floor. It connected with the carpet below him and became a new lifeline. He pushed up and away into a limp sit, arms already burning slightly from holding himself up after all that. He shook his head mildly. This isn't who I'm going to be in life. His body, this fear response be damned, he was in control now.

Regroup. Let's- a mental pause, barely a quarter of a second long as he turned the word in his head. Let's pretend it's all true- what does that mean?

He flopped over, leaned upright with his back against the door, heels of his fists pushed down into the carpet to scootch closer. Moving was so awkward still, very unfitting.

He was acting normal. Well, Edgar's baseline for "normal" had changed considerably, so maybe put an asterisk on that. Not that he was ever normal to begin with, but normal-for-Edgar, -ish. That means he has to have some memory.

Scriabin held out a hand, arm slung over his knee, one finger held out. He had recognized his glasses. One. The apartment. Two. Which key to use. Three. He had said Todd's name. Four.

His stuff can be discounted, he's had all that for a while. Back down to one. The kid is a new fixture. Which means he remembers the last couple months at least. He shook his head and brought his hand up to comb through his hair. Well...it's fuzzy for me, so it probably is for him, too. Scriabin remembered everything in as much clarity as the last couple months allowed, there was no way Edgar would know more even if he had all his memories.

Speaking of which, Scriabin could remember everything. He flipped through; the last two months and bringing Todd in, Edgar's parting words to Johnny, his and Devi's conversation - he grit his teeth - and further back, everything along the way, all the way back. False dreams, shared childhoods, everything that was once Edgar's alone, he still remembered it. Nothing was out of place which made it all the more strange!

This is so fucking weird, if I remember everything, then why would he-

He stopped short. His purported purpose had been to replace Edgar. Take him over completely. If he bought into the conceit for a moment, just to play in the space... He was alive now. That was not as intended; it shouldn't even have been possible.

Did he...give me his memories? Like, all the way? Not just to borrow, to shape him, give him legitimacy - he was alive now. His own person. Separate, embodied, and whole. Was this the price of life?

That's stupid. But possible, he couldn't discount. If this - he brought his hands up and looked down at them, watched himself touch his own chest and felt it beneath his coat, shirt, the nerves firing as his slid his fingers up himself - if this was possible, then...

He continued for a moment, curious and reverant, all of him new and privately exciting, to exist and to touch, to feel, smell, see, all of it clear and fresh and penetrated deeply into his mind, as if a layer of film had been lifted from his senses. The moment passed as the memories, unbidden but important, cluttered in around him again.

There were still a lot of questions, and most of them couldn't be answered without Edgar, ugh. If getting anything out of him before had been like pulling teeth, he was very sobered to think about how it might be now. Depending on how much Edgar remembered, maybe he could start piecing things together.

Did he do it on purpose? Did he know this would happen? There's no way he would have been willing to if he had- But he couldn't ask him things like that. Even if he did remember, admitting something like that...

He was just spinning his wheels at this point. Better to gather what he could from the man himself. He looked up, preparing to stand.

Ah-

The room was still in something of a state.

Edgar would be annoying, or at least distracted by trying to pick up the clothes and uncarefully unpacked items strewn about the floor from Scriabin's very successful excavation of his old glasses. The clutter would have to go if he wanted his full attention.

He grumbled as he pushed off the door to pick up the first few things. First day of life and I'm already his maid. Figures. He's always needed me to clean up after him.

Silence.

Somehow it only just hit him. Thinking alone in the late hours, planning things behind Edgar's back, it was nothing new. But a barb unsunk into his mental flesh was left out in the wide emptiness, poised to stab whoever happened upon it next, and he was the only one here.

He felt very small all of a sudden, and he didn't like it at all.

His eyes blankly scanned the room, looking for nothing, until they settled on the toy at Edgar's bedside. His toy.

He dropped the items he'd bundled into his arms and made his way over. He picked up the small simulacrum, turned it over in his hands once, and stared at it.

He wouldn't know this. Not really. He brushed a thumb up and over the little mouth, the contours of its small face. Retroactively, I've never been this at all.

I'm no one to him.

Does this mean we can start over? The thought struck him like lightning, freezing his heart in his chest. He was fixed solid, staring down at the small figure in his hands.

Before he could even think, he'd already thrown it through the open closet door, landing noisily in the box he'd dug through with a clatter. He grabbed up the fallen clothes and items and stuffed them back in the box, burying the toy in mundane detritus, then closed the cardboard flaps and slammed the door of the closet for good measure.

His breath was laboured and he glared, like wishing it gone would make the closet itself disappear.

Answers. He needed answers, more than anything.

He ripped the door open, and there was Edgar who looked up, staring dumbly back at him and carrying the clothes he'd shed earlier over his arm. Something in his mind clicked over, and he didn't think about it.

"Alright," he caught his breath for half a second, "what do you remember?"

Edgar just kept on staring, mouth open, eyes unconfident behind weak glasses. Scriabin huffed irritably, I don't have time for this, and moved towards him, arm outstretched.

"Come on." Edgar gave a small startled sound behind him as he grabbed his collar and dragged him through the doorway. He threw him across the room, not bothering to watch his arc as he closed the door behind him. The bed was that way, he'd be fine.

When he turned back, Edgar had managed to catch himself, though already halfway on the bed. Scriabin stood with his back to the door, feet planted and he crossed his arms. No more speculating around impossibilities, tangible and present as they might be, it was time for a proper interrogation. It was at least preferable to-

Edgar made a face at him and scooted back, offering a seat next to him on the bed. Equal footing briefly flashed through his mind and while he wouldn't consider it ideal, nothing today was really going his way. He sighed, then made his way over and sat across from Edgar, who was eyeing him with a certain degree of caution. At least the feeling was mutual.

"Spill." He re-crossed his arms and leaned towards Edgar. "What do you know?"

Edgar hesitated, apparently thinking, his hands laced and fingers agitatedly if quietly rubbing the backs of his hands.

"I want to verify some things first."

Scriabin snorted dismissively. Where had Edgar's overly-trusting nature gone? A serial killer, well he's an honoured guest, but Scriabin? He didn't even distrust him for the right reasons.

He gestured with an open hand, Go ahead, then tucked his arm back in.

"Todd's last name?"

Pfsh. At least it was proof enough that anything Edgar knew, Scriabin did as well. As expected.

"Casil. His stupid bear's called Shmee in case you forgot that too." Edgar shook his head. No he hadn't? If only he could just check!

"Do you know our phone number?" Obviously he did, so he rattled it off quickly, Edgar nodding in turn. He flipped his hair in time with the last digit, careful to keep his eyes covered. It was a bit of a timid attempt, being the first in this body, which was a minor blessing he supposed.

Edgar mulled over what he'd given him for a moment, then a moment longer, then a moment even longer. His eyes searched absently, gazing down into his own hand, his other on his chin, lightly thumbing his goatee. He was focused on names and numbers, but those were child's play compared to everything, everything Scriabin still wanted to know. It was frustrating on a visceral level, watching him struggle with such simple innocuous nothings while the most important person in his life was sitting right in front of him.

He was supposed to be the most important.

It was frustrating.

"You really don't remember anything, do you?" He didn't hide the sneer as it shaped his voice - odd the way his body just did that now, did things without him actively thinking them into being. Even things like the little waver that made its way in that he pushed back down and under. He was frustrated, angry, tired - any emotionality could be attributed to those, nothing else.

Edgar didn't answer, just kept his gaze locked to his face. That was almost worse. Watching him fumble through things, it wasn't fun, but at least he wasn't trying to pry. He could see him try to look past his bangs, and the fact that he didn't know better...

Scriabin looked away for a moment, then thought better of it. Best defense is a good offense.

He reached for Edgar's face, for those damn scars, ever-present reminders. Edgar shied away, not wanting to be touched suddenly by someone he didn't know. As if Scriabin had ever cared about that.

Well, things were different now. Maybe he didn't really want to touch him anyway. Not yet.

"Do you remember these...?" Instead he framed his face with his hands less than an inch from his skin, and even there he could feel the heat coming off him. Edgar reached for his face, looking away from Scriabin as he touched the angry red marks. He winced minutely, then glanced back at Scriabin, searching him, his expression guarded again. Scriabin could hear his own pulse in his ears.

"...Johnny?"

"Fuck." Fuck! "Of course you'd remember him but not me." God damn it! It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, just because Johnny came first by a hair's breadth, just because he wasn't in Edgar's head, with Edgar's fucked up little obsession with the murderous stick figure- It limited what he could get away with too, if he remembered that far back. Absolutely nothing was going in his favour.

"I'm sorry..." He sounded genuinely remorseful, and it stuck in his throat. Disgusting. "So you know Johnny, too."

"Unfortunately." Scriabin tucked his chin to his chest, arms crossed again in close proximity. This sucks. Edgar just kept rambling, unaware as ever. His excuses held this time at least, one point in his favour, no points for bringing his annoying habits with him despite everything.

"I don't think I've seen him for a couple months now? Everything's awfully..." He gave a vague gesture and Scriabin uncurled slightly. He was giving him room to contribute. He shook his head.

"You haven't."

"Have you?"

He returned to his tight coil of sulking. Not like he was keen to meet up and chat, but he couldn't explain why he hadn't had the opportunity to either.

"I remember he called, too."

"Ugh," barely above breath. Enough about Johnny! Again, Edgar continued obliviously.

"Although I don't really recall what we talked about, not for a while..."

Of course not. I took over for half of those.

He perked a bit, and Edgar focused more on him, patiently setting his hands in his lap.

"You know."

He could play this to his advantage. Give Johnny some well-deserved karmic justice for fucking him over so many times. It was almost better that Edgar didn't know - Scriabin had been trying to get him away from Johnny all this time, and if he really had forgotten everything, not just the moments when Scriabin took over but every moment they had shared, then that meant it coincided almost perfectly with his first meeting with Johnny. Blank spot after blank spot after blank spot, all lined up immediately after getting his face slashed.

He could work with that.

"It's probably trauma." Edgar startled and his hand shot to his temple, lightly touching his hair.

"Like, head trauma?" Scriabing almost laughed. Yeah, probably that too. But that wouldn't help his case.

"No." He leaned in, taking a more intimate, secretive tone. "Think about it. When did things start getting fuzzy?" If he was right on this - which of course he was, but not being able to verify, not being able to see that he was right, it was disconcerting - but if he was, Edgar's memories of Scriabin should start with that first fateful encounter, give or take. A bit of reframing here, a touch of implication there... It probably wasn't even an outright lie; if Edgar's memory were perfect after experiencing everything Johnny had put them through, that would be some kind of twisted miracle.

His only real concern was their "childhood" - how much had Scriabin pulled with him? Would that throw off his story? But that was so far back, there was no way Scriabin or Johnny could be implicated in that. As long as Edgar didn't bring it up before he thought his way around it...

Edgar stayed quiet for a long while. His eyes raced behind closed eyelids, searching, scanning, retracing - Scriabin could almost see the moments where he hesitated, stopped and went back, then starting recollecting again. He wished he could see it for real, watch him unfold himself, touch those memories again, hold up his own in contrast. Even just hear Edgar's thoughts as they went by, feel the emotions he felt. But he couldn't, so he just stared as unblinkingly as this new body would allow, just watched as Edgar went over everything on his own.

He finally opened his eyes, staring back into Scriabin's though he was sure they were still hidden. He felt naked and awkward and Edgar still hadn't said anything. If he could just see like he was supposed to, or if Edgar would just tell him, he wouldn't have to ask. I have to do everything around here.

"It was after you met him, wasn't it?"

"You think it's...mental trauma?" An unspoken 'yes.' Relief flooded him, and he pushed ahead.

"Edgar. He stabbed you." Edgar gripped his shoulder, his eyes closing again and he looked to be in pain. That was a very effective reminder at least. "Do you even know why?" He shook his head and spoke throught half-grit teeth.

"I must have made him mad, but I don't remember-" Of course not, I did that.

"Your mind is trying to protect you." Not. But one of us has to with your inexhaustable deathwish. Scriabin reached out to touch him properly, but Edgar pulled away. He didn't follow, still not yet. Play up the pity. "He messed you up so bad," with a curl in his tone, an I told you so that barely made it to words even privately; how long had he been holding that in? "Surely you must've felt like you wanted, you needed to get away from him, that he wasn't good for you, that you-" He'd told him so many times, some it must have stuck, some of it had to have-

"Then-!" Edgar's eyes shot open, wide and desperate with an edge of disbelief. A strangled gasp escaped him, half-choking him as he tried to speak. "Then why can't I remember you?!"

He almost began rolling off the cuff, but really, he still didn't know for sure. And it definitely wasn't like he could tell the truth even if he wanted to; who, who hadn't lived it, would believe him? Edgar certainly wouldn't, not with his lack of imagination. He had to dress this up, weave a narrative that was plausible, had the perfect mix of truth and falsehood to stand up to scrutiny.

Huh. Ironic.

"I..." No. Some of this was Edgar's fault too. "We...argued."

"Argued?"

"I... Mng." He wanted to aim for some kind of levity, but his throat had tightened on him. He just wanted to tell this stupid inside joke and not have it affect him, not have it mean anything, and here he was getting emotional? He'd say it and fucking mean it. "It's not like I'm in your head, so-" spat out in a rush, there, he'd said it. Haha, isn't that so funny. He swallowed harshly, pushing down everything he felt into his stomach acid. He was in control. He was fine. This didn't shake him. "I can't know for sure," another humourless laugh inside, "but I was against your relationship with Johnny. Maybe you shut me out so you could keep seeing him with no pushback."

It certainly wasn't outside the realm of possibilities of what Edgar would do to avoid taking Scriabin's extremely basic advice about fraternizing with serial killers. How many times had he been ignored up to this point, only to culminate in the ultimate 'I don't know what you're talking about.' Pfeh. I bet he wishes he'd thought of this sooner. It did nothing for his painfully stuttered pulse.

"You know, I've been trying to convince you to stop going back to him for a while, but, well..." He waved his hand at Edgar's hand still death gripped into his shoulder, and Edgar averted his eyes guiltily. At least he showed some remorse. Better than his nigh constant apologia.

He stayed quiet a moment longer, and just before Scriabin made to fill the silence again, Edgar struck him with an intense look.

"What are you to me?" Ugh. Of course. There was not a single good answer for that. Even if he told him everything- no, especially if he told him everything, there was no way Edgar would believe him. But coming up with a convincing lie on the spot, when they were so clearly something to each other - even he needed time to come up with something workable. How could he have ever prepared for a situation like this? It was never meant to happen, so many things were never meant to happen!

He continued at Scriabin's silence. "You know Nny," Ugh! Even his awful nickname. "And Todd. And...me." He couldn't refute it, so he nodded tightly. "Do you live here?"

Technically he had, and technically he hadn't. Still, going forward, it would be easier to let Edgar assume that he did. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go at the moment anyway.

"Yes."

"Are we..." He searched him, looked him over as much as he could and he wasn't subtle about it. If only Scriabin had his proper glasses, he'd let him look as much he wanted, behold his spectacle! As it was, he just felt self-conscious and it was very unbefitting. "...family?"

The baggage on that. He did not feel like opening that particular can of worms in either of their current states. He turned his head and flipped through any number of halfway decent ways to phrase it until he hit on something Edgar would remember. Better not to contradict for now.

"You told Johnny you have no family when you met."

"That's true..." Edgar blinked, processing. "Wait, did I tell you that?" Scriabin startled. Even after he'd accounted for his memory! Of course he had to pick his story apart now, he never knew when to leave well enough alone.

"When you-" No, he had to be involved. "When we bandaged your face."

Edgar mulled on that for a few seconds, taking on a thoughtful pose. "I only remember being alone."

"You don't remember me at all. What do you want from me?" He huffed.

"No, sorry, you're right."

"Thank you." He was right!

Where had Edgar expected him to be? There was something weird about how he'd said it. He filed the thought away for later.

"So, if you've been living here, where..." Edgar looked around the room, then back to Scriabin. "Where have you been sleeping? Todd's already on the couch..."

Scriabin couldn't help as a smile sprung to his face. If he was going to present him with such a perfect opportunity, well, he'd better take it. He even had the decency to look nervous in response! This was too good.

"Would you believe me if I said right here, in bed?" He again tucked his chin, playfully this time, his hair falling further in his eyes. Even through the dark tangles he could make out Edgar's face immediately bristling with heat.

Ooh. That's such a fetching shade on you, my dear.

"But-! I, I haven't been sleeping on the floor!" He was visibly sweating!

"Correct." His smile grew. This was too easy, and he needed an easy win right about now.

"W-" He leaned forward on his legs, though refused to get any closer. When he spoke it was a harsh whisper. "Why...?"

Scriabin shrugged easily, not bothering to reign in his smile in the least. "I mean, where else, right?" He leaned in since Edgar refused to, and oh. He was blushing all the way up to his scalp. Hilarious. "You certainly didn't seem to mind." He couldn't hold back the slightly musical tone or his eyebrows inclination to move on their own. His body knew what he was getting at, and he could see it only increased Edgar's fluster. All the better.

"Well I do now!" Edgar darted up and away, stumbling in his hasty retreat. "If you'll excuse me!" though he was already practically in the hallway by the time he said it. What a display, and Scriabin's laugh was loud and natural.

Finally, something positive. He'd managed to fumble his way through, not his best work in lying or manipulation, but he'd set some important groundwork. He'd gotten some answers, and he could start to shape some more believable stories around them.

The biggest hurdles were Johnny and Devi. As long as Edgar didn't meet with them too soon - or well, at all would be preferable, but he doubted he could just keep him locked up, as much as the idea appealed to him. There were so many things that were possible now, things that he had the ability to do, given the right circumstances... All of that in due time. For now he had a yarn to spin.

He listened as Edgar fumbled in the hall, the sheer sound of cloth being pulled and folded over an arm barely perceptable. Was he really going to try to sleep on what little was left over? Maybe he'd give up once he realized the pickings were thin and beg Scriabin to let him sleep with him. Hah.

While he was out, Scriabin made his way over to the pajamas drawer. They were all old and soft, even just to his hand. They'd do for now, until he could get his own. It wasn't like he hadn't worn all this before anyway.

By the time he'd finished dressing, his clothes discarded on the opposite side of the bed to where Edgar had set up his little nest, Edgar had finally gotten himself a set of pajamas. He wondered for a moment if he'd dress with Scriabin in the room again, though maybe his intense stare drove him off. Who could say. He patted the bed with a wide grin when he returned and was dutifully ignored. He settled down to the side, and Scriabin laid on his arms to look down at him.

"Ugh, lame."

"I don't-"

"Yeah, whatever." He'd heard it all before. At least he could literally look down on him like this. He folded his hands and leaned just a bit further, looking him over. A desire he hadn't realized he had surfaced in the dark and quiet. "Give me your hand."

"Sorry?" Scriabin held out his hand expectantly.

"I used to hear your heart beat every day." Edgar looked at him incredulously, but Scriabin was unperturbed. "Let me hear it again."

He hesitated but eventually slowly offered his arm. "...Okay."

He pulled his arm up and placed his thumb against his wrist. He felt a strange mismatch - where he'd been expecting one heartbeat, there were two. He covered his surprise, near shock at the realization that of course he had his own body now, by pulling harder on Edgar's arm, directing him up to his ear.

"Wh-"

"Shh." Quietly. He had wanted this, wanted this body, this separation, this freedom for so long, and now... He spoke quietly, his voice betraying nothing. "I'm listening."

Edgar's pulse was erratic, but he hardly paid attention to it. His own fingers on Edgar's skin, warm and pliant, and Edgar's fingers twitching in his hair, he could feel it, he was trying not to touch him- This hesitation was killing him, every jerky movement away not from fear of what Scriabin could do to him, just uncertainty, like he was still a stranger- He pressed him harder to his head, and he could feel goosebumps under his fingers. He wanted to just hold him there until all the memories they'd shared poured back through him, into his blood, into his breath.

Where are you?

But he replied in that same uncertain, guarded tone that indicated he didn't know, not really.

"C...can I have my arm back now?"

He pushed him away. "Fine." Edgar curled his hand protectively against his chest, and he noticed he rubbed it slightly, he probably hadn't even realized.

He mumbled out a harried "Good night," and it was almost enough to make Scriabin smile. Almost. He could still affect him but this wasn't enough, it wasn't right.

He laid his head on the pillow, not bothering to pull his arm up over the side of the bed. If he twitched in the night and touched Edgar, well, that could mean anything. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he did it on purpose. Plausible deniability was one of his greatest assets.

As it was, he was just tired. Maybe he didn't pull it back because he hated the thought of sleeping alone, pushed out and forgotten, and hated it more that he was even thinking something like that. How pathetic. He didn't need anyone, especially not Edgar.

But he was tired. Not in his right mind.

Does this mean we can start over...?

The thought echoed and died, and he slept.

#💟#Fanfiction #Blank Slate AU #Edgar #Scriabin #Todd #Shmee #He's technically in there but once again no speaking lines :P Yet anyway lol #It's fanfic time again! I fell into yet another writing fugue and finished Chapters 1 and 2 in like four days lol #If you'll notice tho ♪ Neither of those chapters are featured under the cut :3c Pls do read Ch. 1 at least to get caught up before diving in #This one took a bit longer but that'd be because it's Almost as big as both previous chapters combined lol #I'll update it to the chapter list in a few days! Y'all get a preview here :D It'll be the same there with slightly different formatting #Decided to try something new since tumblr doesn't normally allow underlines but it's very important to Scriabin's syntax #I promise they're all just links to the first chapter lol - you're welcome to check but I promise I didn't put a sneaky link anywhere lol #My one gripe is that it doesn't look as good on-blog :/ Fine on the dash! But I'm not willing to sacrifice the dark colouration on the links #Italics were chosen as the only light feature for a reason ♪#I mean at least it's not Bolded lol I'll take it #These were a lot of fun to write so far ahhh <3 I've been wanting to dig a little deeper for a long while now!#I mentioned this idea offhandedly in the tags of Incoming Outgoing but ahhh it's very rewarding to put to words :D #Fun Fun Fun

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provincial-charmer · 9 months

Text

As Boundless As The Sea

SURPRISE! It's Chapter Two! Immediately! Because I already had it posted elsewhere so I figured why not! Also hey, first mention of an actual canon character!

If you want taken back to Chapter One, it's over here!

Rated: E for Everyone, briefly slipping toward PG

Warnings: Mentions of religious persecution, the Spanish Inquisition warrants a warning all it's own, brief implications of watching a burning at the stake, brief mentions of torture that Marco doesn't fully listen to because he briefly DISSOCIATES, which, also, warning for very brief dissociation

Recommended Listening: "Map and Willie" by Dave Grusin, from The Goonies soundtrack

Chapter Two: Enter Captain Gutiérrez

In which we are introduced to our central antagonist, as well as our treasure map. Can't have a treasure hunt without one of those.

Captain Aurelio Guiomar Gutiérrez was a mountain of a man. With a heavy mane of hair in varying shades of grey and white and a large, fur-trimmed coat laid over his already broad shoulders, no light came through the door so long as he stood there. I might have been deceived into thinking there was light in his eyes, but it could have been a dim reflection of the sun, too ashamed to look upon him fully.

It also could have been the firelight of Hell. I couldn’t tell. What I could tell was that he came to me with all the joy of a carnivore in his face. And what brought him joy only ever brought me misery.

He returned my greeting by tipping his hat as his smile grew wider still. “And a good morning to you as well, Marco! I hope you’re enjoying your break!”

I looked down to the beignet in my hand. In response, I told him with false playfulness, “I was enjoying it, before you showed up.”

He laughed. It was a heavy sound that shook the bones of any who heard it. Which wasn’t a compliment. “Oh, don’t worry! I won’t take too much of your time! I just have a new job for you! That’s all!”

“Oh, good. ” I responded, knowing it wouldn’t be good at all.

“Now, now, don’t give me that!” He then said to me in a scolding manner I assumed was intended to be playful, only to clap a hand onto my shoulder with far too much force for my comfort. “I think you’re going to enjoy this one!”

I rolled my eyes. “You’ve said that before…”

“And I’ve meant it every time! If I may?”

As he gestured to my house with his free hand, I sighed. Of course he wanted in. As if I could refuse him.

“You may.” I removed his hand from my shoulder so I could step aside. “Right this way, Capitán. ”

His smile grew wider, showing more teeth, before he had the dignity to close his mouth and enter. Now, when he smiled with a closed mouth, that was one of the only times I could have been fooled into thinking his smile was pleasant. That was how I figured many felt about him. He might have been pleasant to listen to for some – somehow – and he might have been pleasant to look at for others – somehow – but as soon as he opened his mouth…

“May I also take one of these?” He then asked me, as he pointed at the basket of beignets in passing.

I wanted to say no. But he was my guest. My higher-ranking, terribly influential guest. “ Sí, sí puedes. But only one! I want there to still be some for Perlita when she gets home, do you understand?”

“ Sí, sí, I understand…”

He said this as he took the biggest beignet out of the basket. Bastardo.

Now Aurelio, he loved dragging his visits out well into the day. I hardly saw him in years past due to the War of the Agreement, so I didn’t have to dread his visits very often. However, seeing now that he had come back to stay, he seemed to want to take as much of my time as possible. Normally, I would tolerate those conversations to a certain point, then say a key word or phrase that would signal to him that it was time to go.

Not here. I wanted this conversation to last no longer than it needed to. So as we approached the coffee table, I got right to the point. “Now, what am I translating this time?” I asked him. “Not another religious text, I hope?”

I took my first bite out of the beignet after asking him this. And I will admit, the sugar certainly helped me to tolerate him. But only a little.

“Not at all!” He started to tell me with a wave of his hand. “This request has nothing to do with the church whatsoever!”

Ah, wonderful, I started thinking to myself, I won’t have to deal with the –

“Instead, this request comes from Her Royal Majesty, Queen Isabel de Farnesio!”

As quickly as my relief came, it went, and with it went my appetite.

For all my work for the Navy, this much could be said: whatever the Navy made me do was almost always within the realm of what I knew, and they were almost always completely transparent with me on who made the request. This was one of the few benefits to being employed by those who knew exactly the limitations of my education. It also helped that I knew exactly who to curse out when I was losing too much sleep.

But for all the translations I had made before, the requests never came from royalty. This… this was unheard of.

“… Queen Isabel?” I asked him, slowly, to which he gave but a single nod. “What in the world would she want me to translate?”

His smile grew, and there were the teeth again. I regretted asking immediately. “See for yourself.”

The Captain then removed a scroll case he had so carefully concealed under his coat. Had I been paying more attention when he had come in, I’m certain I would have noticed it sooner. But I did not. Instead, I stared at this case, struck silent by the mark of the Spanish royal family upon its seal.

Luckily, I always kept a pair of gloves in one of my pockets, should it get too cold to head out bare-handed. So to protect the case from the evidence of my eating, I put them on before handling the case myself. Even though the case was clearly made by the Crown, and so was in no danger of breaking to my touch, I was still as cautious as could be in opening it. But the cap twisted off easily enough, releasing to me the smell of sea salt and stale blood.

All things considered, I was relieved to smell nothing worse.

Slowly, I tipped the case so what was inside would slide into my open hand. What then slipped out nearly stopped my heart. For something of this case size, I expected it to be made out of linen, or perhaps cotton.

Instead, what fell into my hand was papyrus.

For those who may not know, papyrus is made from the pith - or medulla - of the papyrus plant, rather than the cloth that we use. It was most prominently documented as being used by the Egyptians, but was used by other cultures of the Mediterranean Sea, as well as several Asian cultures.

Up to this point, I had never been given the honor of handling papyrus. The last I had seen of it was on display in someone’s home in Venice, back when I had lived there many years ago. There, no one was ever allowed to touch it, given its age. It may very well have fallen apart if anyone so much as bent it the wrong way.

Yet here it was. A piece of history, sitting in my hands.

I was captivated. He could have presented me with the crown of the King himself and I would have regarded it with less respect.

Carefully, so carefully, I moved everything else on the coffee table aside to unroll the scroll fully. I did this as slowly as I could, not just to see what was on it, but to listen to the sound it made. It had a satisfying crackle to it that pleased the ears. I made certain not to fracture or tear it in the process. Not that I needed to, as it appeared an entire section of the scroll was missing when fully unfurled.

What I saw upon it then was… a map. An honest-to-God map.

“… Capitán, ” I slowly started to ask, “How did you…”

Then I stopped myself. I didn’t need to ask how. It was the Spanish Navy. The greatest likelihood is that they stole it. Instead I asked, “Where did you even find this?”

When I looked back up to him, he looked too proud. “We happened to recover it from the hands of a recently acquired prisoner of ours,” He answered, “one Capitán Jack Sparrow. ”

I actively had to hold my breath to prevent myself from sighing again. Captain Jack Sparrow. Of course. It couldn’t have been anyone else, out of all pirates, no no. It just had to be him…

The Captain continued, either ignorant to my recognition of the name or uncaring of it. “At first, he didn’t want to tell us anything about it. He tried giving us every name and excuse he could, if it meant we could have let him and his scruffy friend go. Pájaro terco. ”

He scoffed, before taking another bite of his beignet. He didn’t even wait until he was done chewing before going on. Luckily he got nothing on the map.

“Once we placed him in the hands of the Inquisition, they wasted no time making him sing.”

A chill came over me then. As it always did, whenever the Inquisition was brought up in conversation.

The Spanish Inquisition, or the Tribunal del Santo Oficio de la Inquisición, as was the full title, was a truly wicked organization, loudly professing their loyalty to the Crown of Spain and God above while committing the most heinous crimes in their name. They claimed to know the word of God, yet acted with such wickedness that I felt even the Devil would have crossed himself in their presence.

No part of our history involving them was good. There was not one good thing they did for us, as a people, a community, or a civilization. My own personal history in dealing with them was especially unpleasant. So much so that I neither saw Captain Gutiérrez’s mouth move nor heard anything else of what he said.

All that was in my mind was fire. Fire, and rain, and the curses that my mother spoke above a raging storm, scorned by an auto de fe.

I struggled to force the images out of my mind as I looked back down to the map. I had no immediate recognition of the geography compared to modern charts. And aside from the unfamiliar coastlines drawn out, there were several islands scattered around the paths marked on the map that I couldn’t immediately recall. I couldn’t even make out the end of the trail. That was the section that had been torn off.

How unfortunate.

“… it’s truly a shame they didn’t have to whip him much. Considering what he said to us, I feel he should have lost more skin for it. Ah, well.”

It was then I remembered where I was, and who I had the misfortune of talking to.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

I looked up to see Captain Gutiérrez regarding the map and I with a familiar fondness. One that seemed to seek some kind of approval from me, for reasons I could never figure out. To satisfy this, I agreed with him. “It is. In all my years of working here, I’ve never seen anything like this. Do you know how this came into Capitán Sparrow’s possession?”

He thought well about this. I figured he was looking for the right words, as I had assumed by this point that there were some things the Spanish Royal Navy knew that I, being a common man, was not privy to. So as much as I imagine he didn’t want to be, he had to be careful with what he told me.

During this silence, I briefly imagined the satisfaction one must have found in being in a position that was able to tell him ‘no’ and get away with it. I also fantasized about a quarry in one of his big game hunts overseas devouring him with the same elegant carelessness that he devoured the beignet.

I quite liked the idea of it being a lioness. Or a bear. Or perhaps a particularly humble little family of piranhas that he tripped and fell into the jaws of while trying to cross a river.

I liked that last one especially.

Eventually, he found his answer. “Well, according to Sparrow, he, eh… acquired the map from a rival of his. A piece was torn off in his escape, so that remains with the previous owners. When he finally told us where he believed it led, Queen Isabel was most interested in authenticating his claim, and sent me out to find one who could translate the languages present.”

“I recognized one of them as Ancient Greek, then recalled you mentioning you had studied Greek while you worked abroad. So I went to find you at once.”

On my second look at the map, I noted that yes, Ancient Greek was there… alongside Egyptian hieroglyphs. The latter was used on the names of locations such as land masses, cities, rivers and oceans, and the former was more common as fragments scattered throughout. In my mind, the parts in Greek were likely notes made by whoever purchased the map when it was first made. The hieroglyphs had to be from the map’s creators.

An Ancient Egyptian map with notes from an Ancient Greek expedition… were it any other circumstance on any other day, I would have been beside myself with joy. It just had to be a work-related translation…

“Well, you should consider yourself lucky you managed to catch me when you did.” I then told him. I did my best not to let my disappointment at the situation show. “I’ll have plenty of time to translate it for you, seeing as you caught me before I could even schedule my next hunting trip. ”

I brushed my fingers gently over the surface of the map as I said this. It was a marvel holding such a priceless piece. Alas, I couldn’t ignore who it came from. It was a map valued by a pirate , after all. If Jack Sparrow himself was interested in it…

I had to ask. “Where did he say it leads? I imagine he would have been after something incredibly valuable for the Queen of Spain to be interested…”

Captain Gutiérrez straightened himself up and told me, beaming with well-contained excitement, “ Well, if Sparrow is to be believed… then it may well lead to Atlantis.”

I looked up to him from where I sat.

He looked down at me from where he stood.

The silence weighed heavy like an anchor between us.

Did I hear him correctly?

I might not have. Best to check.

“… Atlantis.” I slowly said.

"Sí,” He repeated. “Atlantis.”

“The ancient city, lost to the Greeks.” I went on. “The city said to have spurned the gods, and to have sunk beneath the waves for it? That city?”

“One and the same!”

As I slowly looked back down to the map, the academic in me wanted to laugh. All through my years I had heard scholars and sailors alike tell stories of their search for it, only to return humbled and empty-handed. And I myself had participated in my own share of debates as to the validity of its existence. I was among the audience believing the theory that Atlantis was invented by Plato to try and warn his own people to be more humble. Nothing else would have made sense to me. There was simply no way an entire city could sink to the bottom of the sea without any outside record or evidence.

It was a cautionary tale to me. Nothing more.

And yet, part of me wanted to believe in it. That part of me that grew up loving the tales of my father’s expeditions – that believed every fantastical story my brother Thorello told me to help me sleep at night – wanted to believe that Atlantis was real, and that it was out there, waiting to be uncovered.

Waiting for someone like me.

That, and there was no denying the age of the map before me, nor whose hands it came from. It would have taken a master to try and recreate a map like this for any kind of forgery. Even if it proved to be yet another dead end, I allowed myself the briefest moment to fantasize…

Realistically, it could have been a ruin, like so many others. A husk of its former self. It might not have even had much to offer in the way of monetary gain. But oh, the possibilities! Mosaics and pottery! Glimpses of ancient artwork and architecture! Undiscovered historical records, memories from the people that lived there, depictions of now-extinct wildlife, or perhaps even the fragments of an incomplete epic… the possibilities were endless!

Oh, if only it had fallen into someone else’s hands! If only it wasn’t the Spanish Royal Navy that had found it! I knew exactly where all that was found in Atlantis would go if they got their hands on it.

Still, the map I held in my hands was real, there was no mistake about that. Whether the destination was real or not had yet to be seen. All I knew was that I had my work cut out for me in translating it.

Which begged the question… “So how much will I be paid to translate it?”

Captain Gutiérrez grinned. “That’s the best part,” He started to say. He proceeded to finish off his beignet with a few final bites before continuing. “ If it happens to lead to Atlantis, and if we are able to claim it in the name of Spain, then I’ve convinced them that it should be a valuable enough find to dismiss what remains of your debt! Rather clever of me, don’t you think?”

There were no words I could recall, in any of the countless languages I had been taught, that could at all describe all the conflicting feelings that arose in that singular moment. But I will still try to explain, in brief, to the best of my ability.

See, my debt to the Navy, at the time, was not the traditional kind of debt. I wasn’t told specific numbers to work toward paying off, nor was I allowed to even ask how much was left. If I tried, all I got were vague answers. Professional speeches that sounded perfect on paper, yet gave no real human comfort.

Not once, in eighteen, almost nineteen years of service, was I ever told, “doing this will absolve you of the rest of your debt.”

It felt too good to be true. Like a dream I had yet to wake up from, before the tiles beneath my feet suddenly collapsed out from beneath me and dropped me into sea.

But that was just it. It was too good to be true. If not for just one word in that entire conversation, I might have jumped for joy. I might have kissed a man, even, if not for that one accursed word.

"… ‘If’?” I asked.

"Sí. ‘If’.” Captain Gutiérrez confirmed. That proud grin on his face fell when he said that, but it fell in a way I couldn’t read clearly. I could never quite tell if his hopes for me were sincere or not. “Sadly, it will not be so easy for me to convince them to pay you as much if it doesn’t lead to Atlantis. So I suppose you’ll need to authenticate it first.”

“After all, there’s no speaking for what has not yet been proven, is there?”

I knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. What little hope had stirred slowly turned to hatred. Hatred that I didn’t allow to show in my voice, knowing just how much power he had over me in this situation.

“… No, there isn’t.”

“As I thought!” He clapped his hands together. “How soon can you have it done?”

Slowly, I breathed in, then out. Re-imagining the piranhas helped, to some extent. “If you’re only asking for authentication,” I told him, “it should take me no more than a day or two, once it’s clean. A full translation of the map will take much longer, depending on if you want me to make a fully translated copy or merely make notes on what the original says.”

“We’ll prioritize authentication, then.” He said this with a honeyed sweetness that, to me, tasted like poison. “I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

I smiled back at him as he rose, as he passed me by, even as he broke his own word and stole two more beignets out of that little woven basket. I let him think I didn’t notice. Only when I knew his back was to me did I let it fall, scowling as I had wanted to for the entire conversation. As he made ready to leave, I heard him pause at the door. I could feel him staring at my back. How I loathed the sensation.

“Oh! And thank you for the beignets! They’re delicious!”

My hands slowly tightened their grip on the table as he left. It took every good grace within me to resist the urge to throw the remainder of the basket at the back of his head. But that would have wasted perfectly good food. Then Perlita wouldn’t have been able to have any.

Once my door was shut, and I knew with absolute certainty that he was gone, I let myself relax. I was left alone with my thoughts, once so neatly organized, now all disoriented by the weight of the task laid before me.

I reached up to pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Mierda...”

Whatever beignets were left in the basket, I left for Perlita. I was no longer hungry for them. Instead, I washed my hands properly before taking the map, the case, and my gloves up to my office to begin work. By the time she finally came back about six hours later, that’s precisely where she found me.

Alone, in my office, working the daylight away.

As usual.

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