#color fixer oc | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

detroitbydark · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter 15

Title: Tell Me That Your Soul Lies Now

Relationship: Sev/OC/Scorch

Rating: Teen+

Characters: Jessa, Sev, Scorch, Mereel Skirata

Warnings: Mentions of Canon typical violence Big Men Yelling Loudly and kissy face

Summary: The brotherly reunion doesn't go as planned -or- The one where Jessa gets really good at making Commandos and Nulls angry.

Under the never-ending dark cast by Wroshyr trees, Sev had been introduced to more terrors than a sleep cycle had room for. He’d spent months in the The Shadowlands of Kashyyyk, and of all the horrors and nightmare fuel he’d become intimately familiar with, none would hold a candle to the sound of Jessa’s screams. None would inspire the same bone quaking fear he’d felt seeing her bloodied form on the ground.

Sev’s palms sweat in the leather casing of his gloves. His fingers flex around the rifle gripped in his hands. It’s only the quiet, biting voice of his buir in the back of his head that keeps him from shooting first and asking questions later.

Scorch seems to have no such affliction. His blaster stays trained on the scene before them. Jessa coughs, rolling to her hands and knees, dragging in big swallows of air. Red streaks paint her bare back.

Sev sees the body behind the two, its blood still pooling and cooling around it. Jessa’s blade is lodged haphazardly in the terminal wound it created.

Fixer’s free hand hovering toward Jessa earns him a snarl made tinny by Scorch’s vocoder. It tells Sev everything he needs to know about where his brother’s head is- or maybe it’s the blaster aimed right between their former squadmate’s eyes.

Scorch advances, each stride eating up the distance between them. Jessa’s eyes, wide and blue as crystal pools, show confusion and then realization. Then she's scrambling, her battered, broken high heels skidding on the duracrete as she all but throws herself between Fixer and the unwavering muzzle of Scorch's rifle.

“Move!”

She flinches at the bark. Droplets of blood sparkle across her cheek like liquid rubies. The movement is nearly enough to make him lose his focus.

“Jessa…” Her name is growled like a curse. “Move.”

“Scorch-”

“I said move.” There is no love lost in Scorch’s voice. He sounds as cold and as locked-in as their buir could ever hope for. Loose wisps of Jessa’s hair frame her face, floating around her like a halo as she shakes her head.

Sev feels like a spectator to a drama he never wanted to see. The barrel of his rifle tips away from the pair in front of them. Jessa’s hands are trembling, ichor dripping from the tips of manicured nails. Scorch is a statue, still as death.

“Come here, Princess.”

Her eyes flick to him but she knows as well as he does who the danger is. He tries another approach.

“Vod…”

Scorch pays no heed to him. Sev watches him stalk forward. Jessa may be ignorant to the ugly history between the two Deltas, but she knows Scorch- or she thinks she does. Sev knows that her body will do little to shield Fixer from his brother's rage, but try she does. Scorch’s blaster settles on her, the muzzle begging to kiss her body, the invisible bullseye centering on her chest as perfectly as if Sev had aimed himself.

“Scorch. Check it.” His voice drops low, his buir’s own slow cadence coloring his. His steps are careful as he moves in. Scorch gives him a sidelong look. Sev can feel the tension radiating from his brother, a live wire with a hair trigger. The barrel of his own rifle is an extension of himself as the muzzle slides up under the other blaster.

“Unless you plan to kill her, get her out of your crosshairs.”

“You think this is funny?”

Sev stares, unmoving, “Don’t hear me laughing.”

Jessa moves, wiping ineffectively at the trickle of blood on her face, only successful in smearing it more. Her eyes are hard, her feet hip-width apart to counteract the slight sway that’s too easy to see. Fek. He might be able to talk her down. Maybe, in another dimension, he’d be able to talk Scorch down. He can’t do both.

“Scorch. Stand down.”

A growl, a low Huttese curse, is the answer he gets before something connects with his side and sends him stumbling off balance. The hu’tunn pushed him! A cold flash of panic sends his heart racing. He’s righting himself as Scorch’s hand grips Jessa’s shoulder and yanks her almost off her feet. Her back hits a nearby crate with an audible thunk before she crumples. Not wasting a second of distraction, Scorch launches himself at their former squad brother.

There was a time when a fight between the two clones would have been fair, a time when they were evenly matched and years of familiarity led to an intimate understanding of how the other fought. That time has come and gone.The blaster in Fixer’s grip falls free as Scorch’s fist connects with a brutal blow to his head. His arms come up to defend his face, trying weakly to curl in on himself as Scorch looms over him, pushing him flat against the ground, straddling his body and loosing an onslaught.

Jessa scrabbles, hands pushing up on the rough duracrete while she struggles to get her legs under her. There’s a split second as she rights herself, a moment that Sev can see the fire burning in her eyes and he knows exactly what she’s about to do. There’s no time to think, no time to breathe. He lunges. His arms band around her waist as she makes a desperate dive toward the one-sided assault. Her momentum throws them both forward and they land with his armor-covered body pressing her into the duracrete.

She snarls like a feral aak, kicking out in a desperate attempt to dislodge him. His beskar’gam absorbs the brunt of her fury. No question, if her knife had been in her hands and not cooling in the belly of her victim, she’d use it.

“Scorch, stop! It’s Fixer! Sev, stop him!” Jessa's fractured voice doesn’t cease the violence, Scorch either deafened by rage or flatly refusing to comply. Fixer’s desperate defense starts to fail. It’s a brutal punch connecting squarely with his temple that seals his fate- his head rolls like a doll’s, his glassy eyes finding the pair of them. Jessa makes a sound of horror.

Sev sees it then- a moment of recognition in Fixer’s eyes, of clarity not focused on the woman struggling in his grasp, but on him.

“Sev..” the voice is weak, but even as Scorch hauls him closer to death, there’s relief in Fixer’s voice… and while Jessa’s pleas had been outside of his world made narrow by emotion, the quiet word from Fixer gives Scorch pause in his onslaught. Sev swallows hard. A million different memories flash through his Fett-given eidetic memory. This was their brother. He’d always been told to protect his pod above all else, but had what Fixer done- would have done, he clarifies- to Scorch been unforgivable? He wasn’t a man who liked to battle ‘what ifs’.

“Dar’vod!” The word is an accusation ground out through gritted teeth as Scorch’s moment of hesitation resolves itself again to violence. The demolition expert clutches his once-brother’s collar and twists tight. Fixer’s eyes roll back up to his attacker as he weakly grasps the yellow and gray of his brother’s vambrace. Jessa’s body jerks in Sev’s grasp. Her arms flail and a wild fist hits him in the buyce. If she felt the pain she wasn’t letting it slow her down. He adjusts his grip, pulling her arms into her sides to stop her from hurting herself more.

“Vaii gar ijaat?! He’s hurt!” Her voice is raw, full of scorn.

“In a minute he’ll be dead.” Scorch’s free hand goes for his boot knife. “Problem solved.”

“Leave that to Buir.” Sev’s voice is level, even as Jessa lets her fury be known. ‘You don’t get to decide that.’

In the end it’s not Jessa’s hurled accusation that stops Scorch. It’s the word Buir. Like a switch flipped, like Wal’buir telling Mird luubid, Scorch drops Fixer unceremoniously to the ground, rocking back on his heels with a modulated snarl of disgust. His chest heaves as he rises and takes a step back. His eyes never leave Fixer as Sev loosens his grip on Jessa, not letting her loose but not fighting against her when she pushes free of his restraining arms and crawls the short distance to the barely-conscious commando. She gathers his head in her lap, brushes sweat soaked hair back, checking over the quickly swelling planes of his face with shaking hands.

Scorch‘s shoulders wilt like meadow flowers in the hot sun. Sev watches his buyce linger too long on the pair on the ground.

And then it’s back to business.

He turns away from Sev, from Jessa and Fixer, and makes a show of dropping into a crouch and grabbing his blaster. He checks the settings, the charge pack before meeting Sev’s gaze.

“I’m not carrying him.”

Jessa slowly pulls Fixer to a seated position, looping his limp arm around her shoulders. Scorch’s words are clearly spoken through gritted teeth. He doesn’t spare any of them so much as a glance.

“He keeps up or he gets left behind.”

——

Murder.

Murder was always an option, especially for traitors like him.

For the moment, the blind fury that had burned away Scorch’s grip on higher thought had become a smolder. Ending Fixer would have to wait for another day. His chest hurt, heart pumping rough to match the puffs of breath he was trying his best to slow down. He'd hit a flashpoint. Fear of losing Jessa had fueled him past the point of reason. He’d have killed Fixer if Sev’s voice hadn’t cut through the fog. He would have killed him dead with his bare hands, right in front of her. He shakes out his balled fist, willing the adrenaline from his system and the slight tremble from his fingers. He’d gone through her to get to his prey. Hot shame burns in his gut.

Sev is helping her prop Fixer up. Jessa is staring into the dar’vod’s eyes as he slumps against a crate, his hand griping her forearm before sliding limply to his side. Sev muscles in, roughly shoving something in Fixer’s mouth. One of Doc Gilamar’s stims, most likely. Commando candy. Scorch wishes it was cyanide.

No one speaks.

Without the first hint of a glance in his direction, Jessa makes herself busy shoving her feet into stolen boots. Not very polite, but their previous owner was decidedly quiet on the matter. Scorch hadn’t missed the wound on her side as Jessa had retrieved her blade, wiping blood from the honed edge of the beskar on the tattered remains of her dress. He’d had to smother whatever pride he’d felt for his Mesh’la. She’d certainly done the same for any warm feelings she had toward him.

Kriff. He’d ruined everything, hadn’t he?

———

Everything is a blur. In time, Jessa will come to know it as shock, a feeling of weariness welding itself to her bones. Her body has gone into autopilot, leaving her merely a bystander to it all. She’s numb, unable to feel the pain from her injuries, the cold air on her skin, or the burn in her lungs with each breath she takes.

Initially she’d been the one shouldering Fixer’s weight, leaning into him as he leaned into her in a desperate attempt to keep him upright. Whatever Sev had given him had added some coordination to his steps, but it certainly had not added any pep. After the second time she’d nearly buckled under the weight of him, Sev had taken over. A blaster had been pressed into her hands with simple instructions while he’d juggled his own rifle and the injured commando into his grip. Don’t point it at anyone. Keep your finger off the bang switch, Princess. It was the only time during the slog to the hanger Scorch had looked back, though Sev’s low rumble nixed any chatter before it started.

“And don’t shoot him just yet.”

Whether Sev had been serious or trying for levity in the situation, she wasn’t sure. In honesty, she was too fried to even care.

Whatever higher power there was- the Manda maybe- saw fit to give them a retreat clear of opposition. The halls were eerily quiet, the bombing seeming to have died off. The scuff of footsteps echoing around them was the only thing tethering her to the present. Right. Left. Right. Left. Fixer’s prosthetic ground and whined with every step, getting a questioning look from Sev. Her stolen boots were tight and too narrow- a blister was going to form at the base of her little toes if she kept them on too long. The trade-off was the faster pace she could keep. The blaster in her hands, sized to Sev specs, is heavy. There is no safety. It takes active thought to follow his instructions.

She stays sandwiched between the two men, trapped in their bubble of safety, the only sounds to be heard are their boot falls and the shuffle-grate-whirr of Fixer’s prosthetic as he struggles to keep his feet moving in time with them. They continue to herd her along until the wide maw of the hanger takes shape.

The domed ray shield had likely been lost during the bombing. The destruction around them was inescapable. With emergency power restored, so had the shield. Only hours before she’d strutted in amongst the wealthy and powerful, nose held high, prepared for a completely different outcome. Now, half the shining pleasure cruisers and exotic transports were covered in a fine layer of duracrete dust, while the others lay on their sides in their docks or sat partially crushed by collapsing walls. Smoke hung in the air with the acrid smell of starship fuel. A pair of feet jut out from under a nearly pleasure yacht. She doesn’t put a name to the coppery tang that hits her nose.

Behind her Sev clears his throat, drawing her wandering mind back. Scorch has stopped ahead, the T of his visor focused unflinchingly on her. Words die on her tongue. Nothing good would come of speaking now. He pauses another second before flagging Sev forward.

“Here. I’ll take him.” She shifts Sev’s blaster awkwardly to her other hand, and Sev deposits Fixer’s weight on her. His arm dangles limply over her shoulders. She has to lean into his body as he starts sagging against her. It’s an effort to keep him on his feet. Her hand goes to his back for support, her own fatigue rearing its ugly head. It comes over her in growing waves, the weariness soaking bone deep.

“S-sorry.” Fixer wheezes between gritted teeth.

Jessa tries to redistribute the weight of him. Her eyes go to the other two Vaus a few feet away. There’s no conversation to hear. She had no comm channel to listen in on to figure out what they were saying.

“Don’t-” she huffs a frustrated breath, “say you’re sorry. It’s not-”

It’s not a sound that alerts her, at least not one she could consciously identify. It’s an instinct, a split second sensation of something. Her body moves without hesitation, blaster swinging up to attention and finger covering the trigger. Her eyes lag behind the arc of the muzzle- she doesn’t recognize the target until he’s well in her sights, and-

“HAR’CHAAK!”

The blaster discharges, the bolt going wide and scarring the duracrete wall meters behind his head. Jessa freezes, staring down the trembling barrel at a wide-eyed, furious Mereel. Fixer groans at the sudden twist of her body against his, but she can’t move- can’t stop- can’t lower the blaster. The Null’s eyes burn like an accusing brand.

“Vau!”

“There’s three of us. Better clarify.” Despite their earlier standoff, Scorch’s presence at her back and his low warning voice are a balm to her nerves.

“How about the one that thinks it’s ok to off her handler!”

The heavy blaster trembles in her hand. She’d nearly nearly shot Kal Skirata‘s son. The implications send a fresh wave of nausea bubbling in her gut.

Sev’s gloved hand lays delicate and steady over the barrel of the blaster, pressing it down to point safely at the duracrete. His thumb slips between her finger and the trigger guard before carefully plucking it from her grip.

“At ease, Princess.”

Mereel’s buyce is clipped to his belt, and aside from the murderous glint in his eyes and the light sheen of sweat on his brow, there’s no indication he’s any worse for wear.

This is what he was bred for, a small voice at the back of her mind whispers as her eyes flit to the scorched wall. But not you.

“I thought you were gone already.” Thankfully Scorch has the words to fill the chasm between Mereel and their own small group.

“Took me longer to get back than I thought. Didn’t exactly have help.” His critical eyes rove from her blood-spattered face to her too-small boots, and clearly find her wanting. If not for the solid weight of the former commando reliant on her to stand, she’d have found a rock to crawl under. “Though it looks like I was better off doing it alone. How does he look worse than when you blew the op? I’ll take him, give him here.”

“She didn’t blow the op.” It’s Scorch, his teeth clearly gritted under his helmet. He doesn’t help as Mereel lifts Fixer from her as if he weighed nothing. She’s too tired to fight. Truth be told, it’s a relief. Her body sways as she has to find her balance yet again. A gloved hand comes to rest solidly on her hip. Scorch’s hand is steadying. She can see him from the corner of her eye as he shuffles closer. Cool beskar presses to bare skin and goosebumps rise on her arms. He doesn’t look down at her, his visor set on Mereel, but his hand doesn’t move.

“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Keldabe. We’d be gone by now if she hadn’t gone rogue.”

“She didn’t go rogue.” Sev falls into place at her side.

“None of that was a question, Delta. First sniff of a woman and you all go to pieces.” he shakes his head in disgust. “And you-” his gloved finger finds her, “You’re coming with me, Princess.”

“Don’t call her that.” Sev growls, a small ember of warmth sparks in her chest. Mereel gives no time for dwelling on the feeling.

“I’ll call her whatever the kriff I want. She disobeyed orders. You all did. She left me to carry a vod back under fire, you abandoned two of my vod’e with a pack of untested cadets to chase down your pretty little piece of ass, and somehow your brother comes out looking like you brained him for aiwha bait? No, I’m gonna deliver him right to your buir and tell him exactly what osik you pulled. Last chance. Are you coming with me, or going with them?”

“With them.” The words come out without hesitation. Without question. Even with Scorch’s ire, there’s nowhere else should choose to be.

“Your funeral. You’ve never seen what happens when someone disappoints your precious buir, have you, Princess? You wanna know what’s coming? Ask Atin.”

“Blooded-” it’s a barely audible wheeze from Fixer, more like a creaking floorboard than a word. Mereel jostles him in query.

“What are you on about, vod?”

“She’s- blooded-”

The Null looks skeptical, “Yeah? She a real Delta now? A real Mando? Got the fancy blades,” he points out caustically. “Even has a pair of guard strill’e.”

Sev growls, at the end of his invisible chain. “Enough.”

“That’s right, it is enough. She was assigned to me. She’s my responsibility. I’m the one that has to report to your buir. If I leave her behind it’s my ass. Bad enough she’s damaged goods. What do you think he’s gonna say when he sees her?”

She recoils. He talks like she’s not there, like she’s a broken blaster or a miswired det. It’s a slap in the face, and it hurts as much as any punch the dead rebel had thrown. What was there to say to that? They hadn’t said it outright, but she knew she was the only reason Sev and Scorch hadn’t been with the rest of their squad already safely in the black. She was probably the reason Mereel hadn’t left. He had a trooper who needed medical care, and he wasn’t getting it because she didn’t listen. It’s because-

Scorch’s comforting bulk steps around her, the support at her back turning to a shield of beskar from Mereel Skirata’s vitriol.

“She stays with us. We endex’ed the mission and none of ours are dead. Our buir will be just fine. Sounds like you’re more worried about what your buir is going to think.” If only for a second it’s like Walon Vau’s voice is coming through the vocoder and not Scorch’s. There’s a level of patronizing, a bored disdain that would make the old merc proud. “Old Kal always has had a problem with independent thinkers. That’s why he likes Ordo so much.”

“This really the hill you want to die on, Scorch?’’

Jessa leans her forehead against the cold beskar covering the Delta’s back. The cool metal is a relief against her heated skin.

“I’ve done it on smaller, stupider hills than this one.”

“You know what? Fine. She’s your responsibility now.”

“Great. Glad we agree on something.”

“This conversation isn’t over. We’re gonna have this out sooner or later.”

Jessa can’t help but think he’s talking to her more than Scorch. Scorch turns to Sev, dismissing Mereel without a second thought. They’re on private comms again. Scorch’s hands gesture about the hanger. Her eyes find Mereel as he starts up the ramp to the ship they’d come in on. He looks over his shoulder and their eyes lock. It confirms it.

He was talking to her.

————

Scorch is quiet. That should be the first sign that something is very wrong. Sev glances in his direction as they work fifteen minutes of preflight check into three. The ship is not happy rumbling to life in unknown hands. It rattles and shimmies as a series of explosions from deep within the facility chase them out. Their parting gift, all the way from Kyrimorut.

They hit atmo before it’s even had time to properly warm up. Jessa sits quietly in the co-pilot seat, her legs curled under her in a poor attempt to make herself invisible. It hardly matters- she could disappear entirely, but Sev knows good and well that there’s nothing that can stop the coming squall.

Scorch punches the coordinates for home with prejudice. The ship rises from the smouldering ruins of the former Imperial prison. It’s a war zone. Sev takes a mental snapshot, a picture to use during a later debrief. There are no smart comments from his brother, no quips or jokes, as the black of space engulfs the transport. Sev catches the sharp turn of Jessa’s head towards the nearest transparisteel window, her fingers worrying her tattered dress as Scorch storms past and disappears down into the bowels of the ship without a second look.

He should say something. He should calm any fears she has. but he can’t because that was Scorch’s job and honestly he’s just as pissed as his pod brother. The only difference is he’s not sure how much right he has to that anger.

“Sev?”

Jessa’s voice waivers. He controls the sigh threatening to give away his own thoughts. Training hadn’t prepared them for this. Maybe this was what his Buir had meant when he’d said he hadn’t prepared them for this life. War was dirty. It was pain and struggle and brutality, but he knew how to handle war. This, though- this wasn’t surviving, it was living. Jessa had been thrown to the wolves and she’d done her best to keep up with the pack. Sev’s stomach knots. She hadn’t been ready, and they’d allowed her to get into this situation- even if she’d volunteered- when that hu’tunn Skirata had brought it to her. They hadn’t fought to protect her, hadn’t advocated. Their fault in the events that had transpired was all too clear. The shame at falling short of his buir’s high standards, and guilt- a new feeling he was not liking- gnawed at his guts.

“Sev?” Her voice grows more concerned.

“Shut up for a second. I’m trying to think.” Jessa’s eyes widen at the growled words, her body curling in on itself in the copilot's seat.

Scorch’s seat.

But Scorch isn’t there. Sev’s sensitive hearing picks up the crash of metal on metal, of his brother down near the crew quarters putting his demolitions training to use. Jessa flinches. All right, maybe enhanced hearing wasn’t needed.

Only one other time has he ever seen his brother come absolutely unglued. Feeling it, they used to call it in the old days. That point when a man had been pushed too far, when that raging beast within took over. Sev’s not sure how to fix it. It took cold-blooded murder and a Jedi before. Sev was no Jedi.

“Haar’chak!” The curse slips from his lips. Jessa. Scorch. His buir. It’s all too much. It’s a tangled mess that he can’t begin to unravel. Not now. Not yet. There’s no hesitation as he cancels the flight plan and re-enters a new destination, one where they’ll have time to make this right without the busybodies of Kyrimorut breathing down their kriffing necks, before rounding on Jessa. “Go find him and make this better.”

“I-“

“No.” There’s no room for discussion- it’s an order, not a request. “You find him and you fix this.”

Her chest rises in a slow deep breath before she allows the air to rush out. Her eyes water but nothing comes. He wasn’t about to be swayed by tears, but it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have felt worse then he already did. Slowly she unwraps her arms from around her body and stands. She makes a pained sound through gritted teeth and nearly nearly topples over as she stands. Sev’s got his hands on her upper arms bracing her in a flash.

“What’s wrong?”

Jessa shrugs from his hold. “Stupid boots.” She crouches and Sev looks away from all the skin on display. She grunts as she works to unlace the dead rebels boots and kick them both off. Her voice isn’t meant for him but he hears it regardless, “Stupid. Too small. Gonna kill me.”

He smothers the derisive sound as she stands. In bare feet, she’s an inch shorter than before. But she looks so much smaller. So breakable. He can hear her scream echoing in his head. He can see the blood covering the floor and her hands. For just a moment he’d thought it was hers and they’d been too late. Scorch had been too lost in the red haze- it had taken him far more than a moment. He’d thought she was gone.

She turns to go, and he doesn’t bother to worry about her feet on the cold durasteel. She’d had worse. She was a survivor. Like he was. Like Scorch was. Her eyes lock on the door Scorch had disappeared through, but she doesn’t move.

“Now, princess.”

She turns tired blue eyes to him and offers a nod. Sev doesn’t move back to the pilot's seat after she disappears down the stairs outside the control room. She doesn’t look back.

It wasn’t going to be pretty, but it had to be done. She’d need to come to terms with Scorch’s darker side if this was going to work. His vod was more than the happy aak dog pup she’d come to know at Kyrimorut, and she needed to reconcile that. For herself. For all of them.

———-

She’s only distantly aware of the biting sharpness of the cold steel grating as she pads along. She moves on autopilot. Scorch, her comfort and her support, has never been closed off from her. He’s never turned away from her. Never given her a cross look, or been anything but a safe place to fall, but the coldness she’d seen in him when they’d found her with Fixer laying at her feet and blood on her hands… the chaos of it all had been raw, had spoken of hatred. There had been no quips, no smile, no sweet greeting of Mesh’la.

In that moment the primal part of her, the part meant only for survival, the part that had spurred her to crawl into the cargo hold of an escaping ship, had known fear.

It’s not hard to find him. She follows the sound of crashing until she’s outside a tiny medbay, if the hypos and bacta dressings spilling into the passage were anything to go off of. She steps into the door frame just in time to see his gloved fist connect with the wall. When he pulls back, a dent stares back at them both

“Scorch?” His shoulders tense at the sound of his own name. Bleached-blond curls are plastered to his head with perspiration. His buyce rolls at his feet. The sounds of his ragged breathing fills the small room.

“Scorch…” she tries again when he doesn’t turn to face her. “You’re scaring me.”

That earns her a bitter laugh. “I’m scaring you. I’m scaring you?”

A cold chill runs down her spine and she suddenly wishes she had more than the remnants of her thin cocktail dress over her body. Scorch turns and, for the first time, Jessa can see that spark of psychopathy that Parja had once told her all of Delta possessed.

A gift from their dear Wal’buir.

She hadn’t believed it. Not entirely. She’d seen it glowing cold in Sev- accepted its existence- but it’s foreign and frightening in Scorch’s eyes.

Jessa takes one step back. He follows, matching each of her backwards steps with his own, his longer stride eating up the distance between them.

“Stop.” It’s an order barked out in a way that makes Jessa wonder if this really wasn’t Sev. “You don’t get to do this. Do you understand?”

Tendrils of hair fall in a curtain around her face as she shakes it from side to side. Her stomach revolts and a wave of nausea rolls through her. “I don’t-“

Scorch’s eyes flash dangerously.

“You don’t get to follow me down here and tell me you’re scared. Not after what- kriff!” He turns and punches the wall again. Jessa jumps. The sound of durasteel reverberates in the moment of silence that follows. He makes no move like the blow hurt as he turns back.

“Mereel gave you the order! He told you to abort! He ordered you to abort and you didn’t listen. You put yourself and everyone else in danger- for what?”

“Scorch-”

“For what?!”

“It was Fixer, Scorch!” Jessa finds her voice, though it still wavers in the face of his wrath as she tries to make him understand. “It was your brother, and if I didn’t go in there, who's to say he wasn’t going to be lost again? How was I supposed to look at you? At Sev? At your father and say I could have helped him and didn’t?”

“How would you have looked at any of us if you were dead?” Jessa stands her ground as he stalks forward, towering over her. A tempest rages in his gaze, but her battered body stays defiantly straight. “Tell me... haar’chak… did you even think- I keep seeing you with blood on your hands- your face- laying on the ground like a ragdoll with dead eyes“

He’s seeing her corpse.

“But I didn’t die. I’m here!” Desperation bubbles up inside, mixing with the nausea and making her feel dizzy, “I thought it was worth it. Aliit is worth everything.”

His finger comes up within an inch of her face. “Aliit ori'shya tal'din!” He spits the words like a curse. “Do you know what that means? Before you throw some Mando’a in my face and pretend like it makes everything better. Aliit ori'shya tal'din. Family is more than blood. There’s your Mando’a lesson for the day, Mesh’la.”

Hot tears sting her eyes.

“Scorch-“ She watches helplessly as he turns and stalks away. His hands run roughly through his hair, callused fingers yanking at the roots. With a growl his boot connects with his discarded buyce. It flies across the room and crashes against a wall. The sound fills the quiet between them like a bomb going off. Jessa recoils as he turns, his brows drawn together in an unwavering stare.

“No, Jess. You want family? You’re our family. You’re aliit, but you are so much more than that. How do you not see it? How do you not see how important you are to me? To Sev? If something would have happened to you-” His voice suddenly becomes calm, slowing to make sure his point is understood, and he closes the space between them again. “If something had happened to you, if Fixer had been alive and you- had-” the word gets choked off. When he speaks again his voice has gone cold. “If you’d died. I would have filled that dar’vod filth with blaster bolts and then I would have razed that whole moon. I would have left nothing but ash for the empire to choke on.” His voice fills the space, and he looms dark and desperate over her. “Do you understand?!”

“Ner vod, enough.” Sev deep-gravelled baritone rumbles behind Jessa. She’s trapped between the two. She can feel the heat radiating from them both, warming her skin laid bare by the tatters of her dress.

“She needs to know! She needs to understand!”

“Then just tell her. Enough with the dramatics.”

Jessa turns her head to catch the back and forth volley and the quiet stare down that follows. They’re talking without words in the way that she’d learned was purely Delta. It’s too much. She just wants her boys.

The ship shudders and Jessa places her hand flat over the kar’ta beskar in the middle of Scorch’s chest to brace herself. His gloved hand covers hers, fingers hesitant and then gently squeezing. The fight drains from Scorch’s eyes as she watches. She feels the rise and fall of his chest, shivers when it syncs with her own, can imagine the feel of his heart through his armor in time with her own.

“Jessa… we… love you. Not just me. Not just Sev. Both of us. We- neither of us- have done anything like this before. Or felt this way. It’s not normal, I get that. It's not how this kind of thing usually happens, but… we’ve never been normal. Either of us. Ever.” His hand over hers presses down insistently.

“We wanted to tell you, but everyone kept saying we’d need to decide. That we needed to make you choose if you wanted one of us-”

“Or neither of us.” Sev’s grumble is a vulnerable, half-breathed footnote to his brother’s yammering.

“- yeah, or that, and it didn’t feel right. I’ve never done anything right without him by my side-”

“That gives me the warm and fuzzies.”

Scorch ignores his brother, charging ever forward. “Part of why we went on that last hunt was because we needed to… think. Talk. Clear our heads. Figure this out without everyone else butting in. And…” Scorch gestures vaguely at the room around them. At his brother. At himself. The commando, seemingly never at a loss for words, is suddenly struck mute.

‘I- this is,’ her tongue stumbles. ‘It’s a lot… I just...’

Sev’s familiar frame presses in behind her like the reassuring weight of a heavy blanket. “Laseema said you wouldn’t make a choice, and we don’t want you to. We’re making it easy. Two for one.”

Two for one.

“Or none at all. It’s a package deal. Neither of us can do this right alone, but together? Together we’re one full person. We could be that for you.”

It’s whiplash, emotions shifting at the speed of light from one corner of the galaxy to the other, leaving her dizzy. “You…? I- I don’t feel so good.”

“Not the reaction I was hoping for,” Sev grumbles. Her eyes squeeze shut in a sad attempt to stop the world from spinning.

“Jess? Mesh’la?” Scorch’s voice is softer. Still not the same comforting one she was used to, infused as it was with residual anger and tension. With hurt. A hand cradles her cheek, a thumb gingerly strokes over the smeared blood there. When she opens her eyes, only that’s written across Scorch’s face is concern.

“Exam table?” Sev’s voice comes from near her ear, his hands falling to her hips.

“A scan probably isn’t a bad thing.” Scorch’s worried eyes never leave hers even though the pair of them are doing that thing again, talking like she wasn’t there.

“I’m fine.” She pulls in a slow deep breath, counts to three before letting it escape. “I’m fine, I just…” She hesitates. “You want an… us? Both of you?’

Something flashes in Scorch’s eyes. Just a twitch of his brows as his gloved hand cups her face.

“That’s what the daggers were for. They were a courting gift. It was to show our intent.” He glances at Sev. “Maybe we both should have been there.”

Sev huffs. “Probably.”

Scorch shakes his head and refocuses on her. “We’re never going to ask you to choose.”

Sev rumbles in agreement behind her. “Prefer you don’t, actually.”

“You can relax now.” Scorch continues.

“Maybe you should listen to yourself. Stop telling me what to do.”

“Start listening,” Sev mutters. She can feel the lines of beskar armor along her back, cool against her bare skin.

She tries to turn her head, but Scorch’s hand slips down to her chin and grips it softly, demanding her full attention.

“Just know, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be perfect. I hope this is good enough.”

Jessa hardly has time to think before his mouth is pressing against hers. Her head spins and her senses are filled with Scorch, the smell of detonite and sweat, the coarse pads of his fingers holding her like she was something precious. It takes a moment for her brain to catch up. She feels the pressure of his lips lessen, retreating, then she’s pressing into him, lips sliding against his tentatively. Her hand slides up his chest, behind his neck and into the damp curls at the back of his head. It’s all the encouragement he needs, moving from slow and careful to feverish as if his own iron will had blown apart with the base they just left. She can feel Sev’s hands tightening at her hips. Scorch moves to pull away but she follows after, desperate to not lose contact with him, demanding a response. He doesn’t disappoint.

The first time he’d kissed her hadn’t felt like this. This was no chaste peck before running away on a hunt. There was nothing sweet about this. His mouth is hot and demanding as his tongue seeks entry, stroking and pressing along the seam of her lips until she opens to him. He groans low in his chest as he licks into her mouth. She pours her apologies into the press of their lips. Sev’s fingers dig into the flesh of her hips in a silent reminder of his presence. Like she could ever forget.

Scorch pulls away, his eyes boring into hers, a slideshow of emotions only for her. A ragged breath slips from his kiss-swollen lips. Gently, like she was made of porcelain, he encourages her head to turn and taste Sev’s mouth. It’s a bad angle and their teeth clack together while they struggle to find their fit but when they do… She’s always known there was a difference between the two, never so naive to assume that because they were clones they were the same. Kissing the pair drives that fact home. Sev kisses like he’s trying to devour her soul. It’s deep, aggressive and consuming, and Jessa’s body turns and presses into his chest. Scorch mouths at her shoulder through the soft fabric covering it. His teeth sink gently into the flesh and Sev swallows the resulting moans with enthusiasm.

To be surrounded and pressed between them, to feel safe and protected, becomes overwhelming. Jessa feels the hot sting of tears building. She tries to call them back, focusing on the warm sensation of arousal building between her thighs instead, but she can’t. The sob that works it’s way from her throat startles her. Sev swallows it down but pulls away, his eyes laser focused. Scorch’s hands squeeze along her body.

“Are you hurt?” Sev demands quietly, trying to search her eyes. His hand clamps on her chin and draws her face back when she tries to turn away. The tears are rolling, hot and saline down her cheeks now. Soft sobs wrack her body as she attempts to speak.

“I’m not- I’m not hurt. I’m sor-sorry.” She manages. “Please don’t stop I-“

Scorch’s warm voice hushes her. She only struggles for a moment as she’s drawn back into his chest and his thick arms wrap around her. His chin rests softly on her shoulder as he speaks.

“Shh… that’s enough, Mesh’la.”

All she can muster is a weak nod. Sev presses his forehead to hers softly. A tender touch that is so rare and precious from the commando that Jessa feels the emotion surge back to the top. She swallows hard, choking everything back.

“So, about our final destination,” Sev begins clearing his throat. “We’re gonna take the scenic route.”

translations

Vaii gar ijaat- where is your honor

vod/vod’ika- comrade/brother/sister

Hut’unn- coward (a severe insult)

buy’ce-helmet

Haar’chak-damn it

Osik- shit

Buir- parent

Dar’vod- not a brother

Luubid- enough

Taglist: @bylightofdawn @leias-left-hair-bun-again @skdubbs @passionofthesith @haloangel391 @fractiouskat @peacelandbread @clonewarslover55 @cherry-cokes-world @nelba @jedi-mando @shadylightbearherring @poppunkdee @iamassbuttkingofhell

@royalhandmaidens @wolfswing @lockbox22 @generic-geek-girl @captainrexwouldnever @kesskirata @ahhrenata @apathetic-catastrophie @littledragonlady @my-own-oracle

#republic commando #Soul Lies #Clan Vau Verse #Repcomm #clone commando scorch #Clone Commando Sev #Clone Commando Fixer

18 notes · View notes

ruvviks · 7 months ago

Text

– Nosebleed.

Characters >> Rogue Amendiares, Vincent Mayer (oc), Vitali Dobrynin (oc) Total >> 4.6k words Warnings >> Alcohol mention, blood, violence Context >> This fic takes place a few months after the conclusion of King of Fools!

‘EAT SHIT!’

The screams and cheers in the Afterlife were disorienting, a whirlpool of colors and bright neon lights blurring Vitali’s vision as the room spun around him in his fall and he rolled on his back over one of the standing tables and collapsed on the floor. He coughed, blood splattering on the already slippery tiles under him– chest painfully tightening as he pushed himself back up with no hesitation, readying himself just in time for a second merc to ram into him and, rather than send him flying now, roughly shove him into a pillar.

He hadn’t come there with the intention to fight.

Quite the opposite, in fact; had simply wanted to sit down for a civilized meeting with his partner and the club’s owner and have a drink or two– or just a glass of water, really, Vitali wasn’t sure if Vincent was letting him reach for the liquors any time soon– and discuss business, see if the Council was ready to meet again after months of uncertainty with the Broker on the loose.

A fist directly to the jaw made Vitali regain his senses and he grunted as he grabbed the wrists of the mercenary, dragging their arms to the side to give himself the space to ram his forehead directly onto their nose. He kicked against their kneecap and slammed his elbow across their cheekbone, then shoved his foot directly in their stomach to push them into the arms of one of their allies.

‘Just a relaxing night out,’ he mockingly stated out loud, hooking his finger into the collar of his shirt to rip the top button open and give himself a bit more air while spitting some more blood on the floor. ‘Circumstances have settled down enough. What could possibly go wrong?’

‘Spare me the theatrics!’ Vincent yelled, grabbing a merc by their hair and dragging them backwards down to his own level to shove his shoulder against the side of their face and ram them into the same pillar that now had some of Vitali’s blood on it. ‘Forgive me for forgetting you’re the Afterlife’s second most hated guy after Johnny fuckin’ Silverhand!’

Logically, this should have come as no surprise to either of them. Not once in his life had a visit to the nightclub in Watson gone well for Vitali– either receiving an only partially deserved beating, or a scolding from the Queen of Fixers herself no less– and the consequences of the very wrong assumption he could simply waltz in there after the shit that had gone down during his last two visits were starting to make themselves rather painfully known.

Next time we’re meeting at my club.

The mercenaries had Vincent and Vitali surrounded now, six against two, so far with the unspoken rule of “no guns allowed in a fistfight” still in place though Vitali could not say for certain how long it’d continue to last. He took a few sauntering steps forward, steadying himself positioned between the most dangerous looking assailants and Vincent– he really did not need to collect the hits reserved for Vitali alone, especially not with several of their friends watching.

His gaze was drawn to the crowd that had gathered near the bar. Cato– stood between Eddie and Huxley– grinned, and waved excitedly at him.

‘Surely we can talk this out like civilized people,’ Vitali said, slowly raising his hands when the mercs collectively started closing in. Not as much of an attempt at a parley, but moreso to give them the chance to walk away while they still could; Vitali valued his free time and his rest, but he would be lying if he said he hadn’t been itching to get back into the field now that business had picked up as usual, and what better than a good ol’ scuffle during his night out to get him back in the rhythm?

‘We lost everything because of you!’ one of the mercs spat, parroting a sentence the fixer had heard just a few too many times in the past months; yet another gaggle of the Broker’s left behind mercenaries still out for revenge over something that had been mostly out of Vitali’s control, and if anything it’d been blown out of proportion to the point he wasn’t even entirely sure anymore what they were being so difficult about in the first place.

‘Have you tried lost-and-found?’ Vincent asked, noticing Vitali’s now tightly clenched jaw and stepping closer to ready himself for a possible incoming attack. ‘Box is just outside the entrance, right next to get-off-our-dicks-and-move-on-with-your–fuckin’–!’

Two of the mercenaries instantly charged forward, lunging at Vincent– but Vitali cut them both off before they could even get close, body-slamming one into the other to knock them off their feet. He dodged an incoming fist from a third assailant– but was too slow to step aside for the fourth and landed on his back on the floor before he could realize what was going on, vision blurred by involuntary tears as the air was violently slammed out of his lungs.

Hands wrapped tightly around his throat and for a split second he panicked, the situation reawakening memories of Ravager– the ex-Maelstromer on the Broker’s payroll who had tried to kill him in very similar fashion– but he shook the fear before it could take hold and reached for the knife hidden in the side pocket of his pants, flicking it out and taking a swipe at the mercenary’s wrists.

Not a gun, right?

The pressure was lifted from his neck and he gasped for air, kicking his assailant off his chest and rolling over to create more distance between the two of them– only to immediately receive a kick in the kidney by someone else and he couldn’t stop a pained cry from leaving his lips, cursing in Russian as he flailed the knife around in an attempt to hit, well, anything at that point.

Okay, he was a little off his game. Who could blame him? The last year had not been kind to Vitali and while it was nice to no longer be actively hunted down for sport by a fixer and his mercenaries blaming him for a bunch of lies and things he hadn’t had any control over, the nightmares and dissociative episodes that had followed still held him tightly in their grasp and they had made it difficult for him to focus on anything else.

The tallest of the mercenaries– what Vitali could only assume was their leader– grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and effortlessly lifted him up while avoiding his poorly aimed attacks, Vitali’s feet hovering a few inches above the floor as his wrist was pulled to the side and the knife was forcibly removed from his hand.

‘Nothin’ personal, Dobrynin,’ the man said, grinning as he held Vitali’s own knife up to eye level, threatening to sink it directly into one of his sockets while Vitali grabbed the hand holding his shirt and kicked his legs in an attempt to get down. ‘Simply just settin’ the score. Fair and square.’

All the chaos surrounding them seemed to blur and fade out, Vitali’s mind focusing only on the merc holding him up, and the knife lingering mere inches away from his face, the blade steadily centered at the height of his left eye.

He scoffed in return, baring his teeth as he briefly struggled in the merc’s grip– right before turning his head and biting the man’s hand, as hard as he could, teeth sinking deep into flesh until they hit bone and he was dropped back on the floor, the mercenary crying out in pain and yanking himself loose as if he’d touched fire.

‘First fucking mistake–’ Vitali breathed, straightening his back and wiping the blood off his lips with the back of his hand.

‘– Assume that I play fair.’

Someone fell into Vitali’s side and it instantly drew him back to reality– he grabbed them by the shoulders and used the momentum of their fall to launch them in the direction of the merc leader, to knock him off balance and make him drop the knife. He looked around, eyes frantically searching for Vincent– and found him all the way in the back of the club pinned in a corner, kicking and screaming as he fended off the two last remaining mercenaries at once.

Vitali walked over, noticing his cane on the floor– he had lost it directly at the start of the confrontation, as it had been the first thing that had been kicked out from under his weight– and he hit the bottom end of it with the heel of his shoe to kick it up into his hand; tossed it up in the air to catch it by the bottom end of the shaft and swung it directly into the head of one of the mercs from the side, the impact hard enough to send them skidding across the floor.

‘I got it, I got it–!’ Vincent protested, but Vitali had already grabbed a handful of the other merc’s hair to yank them back– but before he could do anything Vincent grabbed a stool from the side of the bar with both hands and rammed it directly into the merc’s face, causing them to go limp in Vitali’s grip and fall to the floor.

‘I said I got it,’ Vincent repeated himself, a slight hint of annoyance in his voice as his gaze failed to meet Vitali’s– yet he took a step closer anyway, bumping his forehead against Vitali’s still held up hand and the latter gently ran his fingers down Vincent’s temple and cheek, a futile attempt to wipe some blood off his face.

‘Oh, of course. Thought I heard something.’

Vitali turned around and immediately noticed the sudden wide opening in the crowd on the opposite side of the bar, Rogue Amendiares herself stood with arms crossed in front of her chest right in the middle. The merc leader seemed to pay her no mind and charged forward– though before he could get even close Rogue kicked a broken off pole from a stool in his direction right under his boot and he comically slipped on it and fell backwards, the pole slowly rolling further until it came to a stop at Vitali’s feet.

‘Party’s over!’ Rogue called out and loudly clapped her hands together, the urgent undertone in her voice causing the rest of the Afterlife’s clientele to scatter instantly. ‘Everyone get back to your business, if I see any more drawn weapons I’m shuttin’ the place down for the night.’

Vitali sharply exhaled, allowing his heartbeat to settle as he set his cane down on the floor and leaned heavily on it to relieve his leg. The pain wasn’t as bad as it used to be, and he had made decent progress with taking better care of himself and taking his rest– though he had no doubt he’d feel this in the morning, and already considered leaving the office closed until noon to give himself some time to sleep it off.

‘I don’t give a damn how bad of a bad leg day you’re having, Dobrynin,’ Rogue sharply said, lowering her voice and pointing a finger in Vitali’s direction as she briskly walked closer to the two of them. ‘Next time you make a mess of my club I’m handing you a mop to clean your fucking blood off the floor and you’re not leaving until I can see my own reflection in it. We understood?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Vitali replied, barely able to keep a straight face when Vincent mumbled something about attaching a mop head to the end of his cane– and he could tell Rogue heard it too.

As much as he hated to admit it, the fight had done Vitali good. He felt alert, now; more awake than when he had entered the club a little under half an hour earlier, and he felt surprisingly refreshed despite the several hits he had taken directly to the jaw and cheekbone.

Of course it could easily be a byproduct of the adrenaline still coursing through his veins; but a little excitement from time to time– or his cravings for it for that matter– really wasn’t gonna be the end of the world.

Rogue gestured at some of her mercs to clean up the mess at their feet, turning on her heels and returning to her booth in the corner of the club. Vitali followed suit, Vincent at his side– both of them carefully watching their footing as they stepped over the unconscious mercenaries and several puddles of blood from various sources, including Vitali’s nose and mouth, which both still had yet to stop.

‘Now to what do I owe this pleasure?’ Rogue sarcastically asked over her shoulder, glancing to her side and giving Cato, Eddie, and Huxley a wave as she passed them by. ‘Usually never a good sign when either of you shows up on my doorstep.’

‘Wanted to come and say hi, if you can believe it,’ Vitali answered, equally as sarcastic in tone, and he smiled softly at Eddie when they handed him a tissue to clean himself up.

‘We’ve been over this, Vito. Could’ve called.’

‘Rather talk to you in person about this, if you don’t mind.’

Rogue’s movements briefly faltered in the midst of sitting down, glancing back in Vitali’s direction as she realized what he was talking about– and a shadow washed over her face, understandably so, while she slowly let herself sink down onto the couch.

Of course Vitali could have called; nothing he was about to say could not have been said on holo and it would have saved him and his mercenaries the trouble of traveling there– and a whole lot of bruises and sore muscles, too.

He slowly took a seat opposite of Rogue, the gravity of the situation a little undermined by the tissue held up against his nose filling up with blood at an almost comical speed. But Rogue understood the urgency either way– flicked her hand to send off the security stationed at the booth’s entrance, and Huxley and Eddie immediately took their place while Cato wandered off to keep an eye out in the rest of the club.

‘Okay,’ Rogue said, taking a deep breath and leaning back in her seat while draping her arms over the back of the couch. ‘Indulge me. How’s the family?’

A rather pointed question, and a little touchy of a subject at that. Vitali bit the inside of his cheek and shoved the memories of when he had last seen most his family members aside– he knew Rogue was not asking about them in the slightest and she did not need to know he hadn’t heard anything from his siblings or his mother since the conclusion with the Broker back in August.

‘Situation is back under control,’ he replied, carefully allowing himself to relax a little now that his heartbeat had returned to normal. ‘I assume you’ve been informed about the intel provided to the Council’s checkpoints? And the returned resources to the warehouses on the docks?’

‘In passing.’ Rogue paused, giving Vitali a moment to grab a new tissue. ‘Your doing?’

‘My father’s.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Why would I lie?’

The atmosphere in the booth had taken a rapid and sharp turn, Vincent shifting uncomfortably on his seat as Vitali held Rogue’s gaze and moved along with her to stay in her view when she scoffed and tried to look away. She licked her lips and squinted, pulling her arms from the back of the couch and leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees.

‘After all the damage he’s done,’ she slowly said, ‘why this? Your old man, the Broker– full 180 degree turn, do-gooder of the fucking year. Why?’

‘Does it matter why?’

Vitali exhaled sharply, pausing to let his heart settle down again– not entirely sure why it had decided to speed up in the first place. He finally averted his gaze, allowing it to wander off back into the rest of the club; business had gone back to normal and the unconscious mercs had been disposed of outside, leaving just puddles of blood behind for an unfortunate cleaning crew.

Rogue raised valid points, and he was well aware. Matvey had shown a rather curious amount of determination to set things right and if Vitali didn’t know any better he would have assumed it was simply part of his father’s plan to manipulate people into trusting him.

But he had lost everything, too.

Vitali watched in silence as Rogue reached for the box of tissues, taking one out while moving forward and leaning with one knee on the low table stood between them to grab Vitali’s face and wipe some blood he had missed off his cheek and jaw.

His parents had gotten a divorce. Naturally so– Nadya’s affair with Ravager had been nasty enough as a deed on its own, but especially in the bigger picture of things it’d been a dirty move considering Matvey’s loyalty to her and he had not wanted to stick around even with the ex-Maelstromer six feet under.

Matvey had lost his job, his wife, custody of two of his children, and all his mercenaries in his professional life as a fixer. If all he was doing was still part of some bigger plan, if he was still trying to manipulate everyone in some desperate attempt to get back what he lost, Vitali would declare him mad– but he knew his father better than that, and he knew that he knew when to accept defeat.

‘I will be honest, I have yet to figure him out,’ Vitali softly admitted, wincing a little when Rogue pushed his face to the side a little too roughly. ‘But he went after all of this by himself, with no one telling him he had to do so. It has to mean something.’

Vitali knew it could easily be wishful thinking. It could easily be him wanting it to mean something, and his judgment could once again easily be clouded by the fact it’s about his own blood– but after everything that had happened, it only felt fair to give Matvey the benefit of the doubt now that it looked like he was actually trying.

Rogue sighed and shook her head, giving Vitali a pat on his cheek as she tossed the tissue on the table and moved back onto the couch. For a second, it looked like she wanted to say something– but visibly changed her mind and looked at Vincent instead, a questioning look decorating her face.

‘I dunno what to think,’ Vincent said indifferently without missing a beat, as if he had already been waiting for his cue. ‘It’s definitely a situation. All I can say is that Vitali isn’t lyin’, and that I’ve seen plenty of people waste a second chance the moment they received it. This doesn’t seem like a waste to me.’

The knot that had taken shape in Vitali’s stomach over the past few minutes of the conversation instantly disappeared, and he turned his head to give Vincent a soft smile; the merc by his side had been avoiding all eye contact with anyone before but crossed gazes with Vitali for a split second now, and despite the hesitance in his voice when he had spoken and despite his feelings on the matter– which Vitali was more than well aware of– he still returned the smile, moving a little closer on the couch to lean against Vitali’s arm.

‘So I can take your word for it when you tell me it’s all under control?’ Rogue asked, picking up her drink from the table and slowly taking a sip.

‘You have my word, Rogue. Always.’ Vitali paused, giving himself a moment to pick the right words to say. ‘You know I will act swiftly if things change.’

A scoff, and a laugh. ‘Will you?’

Alright, he had that one coming.

‘I have the full picture now,’ Vitali calmly continued, knowing very well he had not been as proactive back when the Broker had still been an ongoing issue. ‘He strays off the path again, it’s over. I have given him a chance to prove himself, and no more. I promise.’

‘Good. Glad we got an understanding now.’ Rogue licked her lips, ticking her fingernail against the side of her glass. ‘Shame if I have to dispose of two Dobrynins at once.’

Perhaps a little harsh, but a fair reaction, still. Vitali did not bat an eye and instead put a reassuring arm around Vincent’s shoulder, who had perked up a little upon Rogue’s comment– but Vitali knew she was not throwing a threat his way, but merely a warning.

And he understood– the situation had dragged on for long enough and it partially was his fault alone. His mercenaries and friends were a lot more forgiving on that front, but he knew very well that Rogue was getting tired of his bullshit and in order for their collaboration to survive, she needed his ass back in gear.

‘So what’s next?’ Rogue asked, as Vitali clicked his tongue to signal to Eddie and Huxley they were dismissed, the both of them wandering over to the bar to get themselves something to drink before they’d have to leave.

‘I’d like to meet the Council,’ he answered, pulling his arm back from around Vincent’s shoulders and holding his cane between his knees in both hands, slightly rolling it back and forth– a habit he found himself doing a lot more often those days, especially when he was starting to feel a little on edge.

‘I doubt they will hear me out considering the– V, what did you call it again? The “clownfest” this year has been, so I won’t even try– but we have to look at the future. We still have to work together.’

Rogue nodded and smiled lightly at the comment, glancing into the rest of the club and waving someone of her own entourage over to give her a refill on her drink.

‘Agreed,’ she said, slightly wiggling her glass between her fingers with a questioning look in Vitali’s direction– to which he simply shook his head. ‘V?’

‘Gotta move on,’ Vincent simply answered, also politely declining Rogue’s offer on a drink with a shake of his head. ‘We’ve picked things back up, there’s work to do. Loads of it. Need to know if the Council is on the same page with that.’

‘And are you two? On the same page?’

Another pointed but fair question.

They hadn’t been, for a while– in the heat of all things they had ended up with different perspectives which had led to a lot more tension Vitali had ever thought he would have with his partner, and in the midst of it all he had for a moment truly believed they were done for.

‘We are,’ Vincent said, not a single hint of hesitation in his voice as he spoke. ‘I’d’ve handled things differently, but everyone would’ve handled things in the way they thought was right. There’s no bad blood. I get why he did what he did. I’m just glad we both lived to tell the tale.’

He turned to look at Vitali again, that same reassuring smile lingering on his face– and it took all of Vitali’s self-restraint to not lean in to kiss him right then and there, the relief that washed over him in that moment strong enough to keep him going for the next few months.

He still worried sometimes. He still felt bad about what had happened.

But Vincent was right– they had to move on, in every sense of the word, and Vitali’s guilt could not hold him back from that.

‘Very well.’

Rogue set her refilled glass back on the table and briefly rubbed her hands over her thighs, signaling to Vitali their conversation was coming to an end. All three of them stood up simultaneously– and he could already feel the consequences of the scuffle from earlier in his legs and hip, the pain searing through his muscles.

‘I’ll call in a meeting as soon as I can,’ Rogue said, escorting Vincent and Vitali back to the bar where the rest of Vitali’s mercs had gathered to wait. ‘Expect a couple days turnaround, I’ll have Nix send you the detes. Who’s hosting?’

‘We can do Prodigy.’ Vitali paused, stepping aside to let some mercs pass by without getting shouldered out of the way. ‘Doubt they will want to visit the Crest, and I am not coming here any time soon anymore. No offense.’

‘None taken. I’ve been tellin’ you to stay away.’

‘So you have.’

Vitali took his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them at Huxley, giving Vincent a soft nudge forward to signal they could go and get ready outside. He watched the four of them wade through the crowd to make their way to the exit on the right, and the second they were out of sight he leaned on his cane a little heavier than before.

‘Take it easy, alright?’ Rogue said, stepping a little closer when she noticed the change in his demeanor. ‘Stupid gets you killed, Vito. I’ve seen it before, don’t wanna see it again. And right now? You’re givin’ me the massive impression you’re being stupid.’

Obviously she was right. While he had been taking his rest, Vitali had gone back to work entirely too soon and he was already starting to feel the consequences of it now– but what else was he to do? He loved his job; he could not sit still even if his life depended on it, and one more day of pure boredom at home would have led him to places he would’ve normally not even gone to with a gun.

Vitali’s gaze trailed the club, carefully watching the clientele around him– and of course he caught a rather large chunk of them staring, quickly avoiding their gaze the second his eyes crossed theirs, though he no longer knew if it was because of his reputation, because of Rogue, because of the fight from earlier, or because his brain was simply making it all up.

‘I’m trying,’ was all he could manage to say. ‘To take it easy– I’m trying.’

‘I can tell.’ No hint of sarcasm, but Rogue simultaneously reached out to fix the collar of Vitali’s shirt, the bloodstain on it still a little damp against his skin. ‘Try harder.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

He knew there was nothing else he could say.

Rogue carefully watched his expression, her hand lingering on his collar for a little longer than necessary as she tried to read him– then slowly pulled away with a little nod of approval, and she began to turn on her heels to return to her business for the night.

‘And– Rogue? Thank you. For everything.’

Vitali meant it.

She had been the only one to know that his father was the Broker, and she had trusted him through it all– had not once turned against him like the rest of the Council had, and she had shown him patience and kindness he knew he had been undeserving of while he had tried to sort things out for himself.

Rogue glanced back at him and scoffed, shaking her head– though he could see the softness on her face even from a distance, and he could not stop a smile from spreading across his face.

‘Get out of here, Vitali,’ Rogue said, waving her hand in the direction of the Afterlife’s exit, and she began making her way back to her booth.

‘And no funny business on your way out.’

taglist (opt in/out)

@velocitic, @deadrlngers, @euryalex, @ordinarymaine, @gurathins;

@mojaves, @shellibisshe, @dickytwister, @mnwlk, @rindemption;

@ncytiri, @calenhads, @noirapocalypto, @florbelles, @radioactiveshitstorm;

@strafethesesinners, @fashionablyfyrdraaca, @radioactive-synth, @katsigian, @estevnys;

@elgaravel, @aezyrraeshh, @carlosoliveiraa

#nuclearwriting #scared for my life posting this but hi. baby's first actual full piece of writing in monthsss i hope you guys like it!!!#let me know what you think!!!#this fic is inspired by the chapter in which vitali does basically this at the afterlife as well but like. it's happening again now #it feels on brand for him to just get into fights basically every time he goes there LMAO everyone is tired of him #i feel like this gets a little sloppy at the end but it's ok i'm allowed. it was a very self indulgent fic i just wanted to write a fight

21 notes · View notes