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r0ttenb0gb0dy · 1 month ago

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3/10 Coda "Rex" Morelli

(minor gore, descriptions of blood)

A few months into the never-ending hazing ritual Coda called the Shadow Company, he was on a hot streak. Graves had taken up the mantle of sparring with him, training him, all of it — it was better for him over the Shadows, who never quite pushed him to the limits. They didn’t want to break him, not that he really wanted to either, but he wasn’t scared to in order to get results.

Coda looked up at him as they got up off the mat, clutching a combat knife in hand. This week was a non-stop run of knife training, the only thing he truly seemed to struggle with. It was the timing maybe, or the sharp edge of the blade, but he couldn’t quite get it down.

“Remember, Coda, this isn’t just about survival. It’s about provin’ your worth t’me, okay?” His tone was oddly gentle, soft even as he watched him clamber up to his feet again, boots planted firmly on the mat.

Coda nodded and looked down at the blade in hand, momentarily catching a glimpse of his reflection in it — pleasantly surprised to see that the small cut he had given him on his cheek wasn’t bleeding. He was really pushing them, though, and they were confused. How do you essentially imprison and beat the hell out of someone, and then hand them a knife and not expect them to hurt you? Maybe that’s what he wanted — Coda to push harder, go for a wound instead of just letting him walk away.

“So…you really want me to go for it? You trust me like that, to come at you with a knife full force — prove myself?”

“Trust, darlin’, is a delicate thing.” Graves’ tone was low, dark and practically unreadable. He was a mysterious sort of guy, they had gotten used to that. “Make no mistake, sweetheart, this ain’t about trust. It’s about testin’ your mettle, pushin’ you to the limit until you can show me just what you’re worth to Shadow Company.”

“So you’re sayin’ you trust me not to kill you?”

“I’m sayin’ you should just put your money where your mouth is and actually fight, soldier.”

Fucking prick.

They fought again and again, every time he nicked them with the blade or sliced a slit in their shirt he learned something — the way he moved, the tells that gave it away over time. The goal in mind was to get as close to killing him as possible without actually doing it, to show him that they were capable of besting someone nearly twice their size in physical combat.

Eventually, after a grueling hour of attempts, Coda had him right where they wanted him. Unconsciously they flipped the blade in the air mid-fight, catching it by the blade so that they could press the hilt into his stomach. It cut into their palm slightly, drawing blood, but it didn’t bug them much with the thrill of a win coursing through their veins.

“Better,” They breathed, looking up at him with pure satisfaction. “Much…much better.”

“Better indeed.” He laughed, a deep gravelly tone, looking down at the way they were just casually gripping a serrated blade. He reached out and removed their hand from the blade, turning it around so they eere holding the hilt again. “Try not to maim yourself next time, though, darlin’.”

“No promises.” Coda replied, stepping back slightly as they inspected the cuts on their palm. A problem for much later. “I don’t get why you keep callin’ me that. Your dear or your darlin’.”

“My dear, my darling,” He repeats them, his words dripping with sarcasm and mockery. “Terms of endearment, don’t read too much into it.”

“Just thought that terms of endearment were for those you care about, that’s all.” They replied as they began the ever-dangerous dance of a knife fight once again. Carefully dodging his swipes and grabs, his blade never quite finding their flesh. Maybe they were getting cocky, maybe they were just distracted by something — but the searing hot pain of a knife slicing into their arm brought them back to reality. Stupidly, they’d tried to block with their dominant arm, something he didn’t account for since it’d be ridiculous to try and block with the hand holding the knife. Their blade clattered to the floor as they looked on with abject horror, a massive slice dug through the flesh of their forearm.

“Oh — oh, fuck.” Coda stared. “Y-Yeah, that’ll…that’ll do it.” They stuttered as they watched the blood trickle down their wrist, pattering into the mat beneath their boots. He didn’t know what to do. Stop and tend to the wound or pick the knife up and keep going. Their gaze shifted to Graves, to the knife, and then back to the bloody mess on their forearm. He only watched as they bled, the sight of the crimson liquid sending a surge of conflicting emotions through him.

“Damnit, Coda.” He huffed, his voice laced with a rare hint of genuine concern. “You need to be smarter than that.”

He stepped closer, gaze fixated on their arm, the blood pooling and trickling down. A part of him urges him to stop, tend to the wound, ensure she’s okay. Another part of him, the winning part, reveled in the chaos of forcing her to continue past their own limits. Break that bright-eyed demeanor right out of them like a wild horse.

“Get up.” He commanded, picking the knife up and holding it out to them. “Finish what you started.”

The heartbreaking whimper that came out of them would’ve stopped anyone else. Not him. Their fingers clasped over the torn skin of their arm in some sad attempt to stop the bleeding. They went to make a smart comment but all that came out was an apology.

“I’m sorry.”

He cut them, and they were apologizing.

Coda looked at the blade for a moment before they ripped at the sleeve of their shirt, using the piece of fabric to half-ass tie it around the gash, blood darkening the fabric in seconds. They were beyond dizzy, but they took the knife back, despite the way their hands were shaking violently. They would not see it, but the way they struggled with teary eyes and trembling hands — it tugged at something deep inside of Graves. They were like a scared animal, teeth bared out of terror, not rage.

Coda swallowed their fear and raised their blade up to him, but it was no use. His movements were erratic and exhausted, unsteady despite his best efforts. Their mind was clouded with too many thoughts — both the pain and the genuine fear seeded in their mind making it difficult to worry about fighting back.

His blade met Coda’s throat once again but he didn’t cut, just like the many times before. He had won. They knew he would, he probably saw it coming as well. Their hand dropped the blade as soon as they were sure he had taken his victory and they looked down to see the thick layer of blood coating their hand.

“I-I’m so-sorry again, I-I’ll — I’ll do be-better next time.” Coda was not sure why they were apologizing but he was, even as he crumpled to the floor, clutching the aching wound. “Sorry for — fuck — for bleeding on th-the mat.”

“Coda,” He says, kneeling down to meet their gaze, “Stop apologizing.” He reaches out, watching as they sort of jerk away at first out of fear, but then allows him to grasp their arm. It was almost like he genuinely felt bad about cutting them, like it wasn’t the intention despite the fact he had nicked them before without remorse. After a moment he left their side to grab a medkit from the side of the room, something they kept just in case of accidents, and he knelt back before them with a bandage in hand. It wasn’t the best, but it would hold the wound shut until he could get the medic to look at it.

“Th-Thank you…” Coda said softly as he bandaged the wound, soft winces escaping them as it sincerely hurt worse than anything he had ever felt. Their gaze flicked up from the cut to him, cobalt blue eyes fixed on their arm with careful intent.

“I’ll take you to Bones tomorrow.” Graves replies. “Medic.”

They weren’t sure if they had proved themselves or not, but getting to see a real medic must mean something. He went to stand up when he finished but he nearly fell right back down, vision going dark the second he went vertical again. “Fuckin’ hell…can — can you…h-help me walk me back? I-I can’t see straight.”

Graves looked unamused, and like he almost would rather leave him there than help him back. He got himself in this mess, he should walk back to the barracks himself. By his side, of course, he still didn’t let him wander �� but on his own.

“M’sorry, m’just a whole fuckin’ problem, aren’t I?” Coda realized he probably wasn’t going to help him and tried to stand again, truly shocked when they looked up and saw him holding a hand out to them.

“You’re a fucking problem, yes, but you’re my fucking problem, and I don’t let problems go unresolved.” His touch was firm and cold as he took their hand, pulling them up to their feet. Maybe it lingered longer than it needed to, but he’d chalk it up to asserting dominance if they pestered him about it. “Lean on me. I won’t let you fall.”

If they weren’t lightheaded before, they were now.

He spoke to them like they were human just then, like they were more than the dirt on his boots, than an inconvenience.

Lean on me, I won’t let you fall.

It repeated over and over in their mind as he helped them back to the barracks, a sense of comfort washing over them as he sat them down on the edge of the bed.

“Get some rest.”

“I-I will — thank you.” Coda replied softly as he left, the room oddly silent. A few Shadows were asleep, a few were just sort of around, but nobody bothered them even seeing them covered in their own blood. Coda thought for a long while before they peeled themselves out of their blood stained clothes and pulled on a fresh shirt and sweats before coiling up in bed. The mattress squeaked under them, but it was a great comfort to just lay down.

It was silent in the barracks before they let themselves feel anything, but when they did, it hit them hard. Tears cut down his cheeks, all warm and salty, soft sobs choking out as he clutched the frumpy pillow to his chest. His wrist hurt terribly but not bad enough to elicit tears, no, this was all emotional.

He had been captured, interrogated, and then forced into subhuman treatment by a man he despised only to get stabbed by that same man and they apologized. His small frame trembled as he sobbed, eventually succumbing to the pain and exhaustion and passing out. He had grown so used to him in such a short time and yet he hated him so deeply. It was like breathing in air that was sure to kill him eventually, but he needed it all the same.

Graves was making him regret choosing to comply, that was for God damn sure. Being in a pine-box sounded peachy in comparison to this feeling of unwantedness, of inconvenience, of constant rejection from the only thing he really wanted.

It sat wrong with Coda that he wanted to belong here, to have Graves' approval.

Why did he care what that bastard thought?

—

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@simonrriley

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