#like okay you want to build stakes? risk him lose everything he's built

[ontheropesss]

The Dick Grayson I know (Nightwing (1996) #151):

The one I'm stuck with (Nightwing (2016) #111):

[stargaze-issei]

— "𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞" (𝐛. 𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭; when your father, the head of the japanese mafia, was killed, your childhood friend swore to protect you till his death. now, you're the empress of the underground world, and he doesn't know what's harder, to keep you safe or manage to hide his feelings. what will he do when, for the first time, your life's at risk and he isn't anywhere near?

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞; mafia!au, angst.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; swearing, mentions of blood, guns, murder, kidnap, yk... mafia stuff.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭; 2.7k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; lemme know if u want a part two bc i felt like it was getting too long and i don't know if anyone will read it or like it 👉🏻👈🏻

"where the fuck are you?" bakugou's voice stroke over the phone, noticeably angry. he had told you several times to never go anywhere without him, which you mostly did, if it weren't for him being away a lot of times. nothing less was expected from your right hand, who handled every dirty job, and considering your line of work, it wasn't scarce. but you did had other bodyguards, just as trained as katsuki, willing to give their lifes for you, which was extremely better than having bakugou giving his life.

to his eyes, you were still the little girl from before. he saw you as a someone who needed protection. at first, you agreed. your father was murdered, someone managed to get through all his security and killed him, none of the guns he and his security team carried around could protect him, killing you would be like stealing a sweet from a baby. bakugou had always kept you safe, despite his agressive usual safe, he cared about you more than he cared for himself. so you stuck to his side, believing, hoping, he'd die for you. but that was a long time ago, now, you could defend yourself, and had raised a sense of loyalty in your people by your own. your father's empire was based in fear, yours? by admiration. you didn't see your people as working ants, but as important parts of a whole. still, anyone who was a threat to you, bakugou made sure to erase them forever.

"don't talk to me like that, i'm your boss" you could feel him losing his shit, a smile began to form in your face. even when everyone respected you, he was still the same.

"you can't boss anyone if you're fucking dead, you dumb shit" a laugh came out of your throat, he couldn't avoid smiling at the sound "wait, oh, okay, i know we're you are. stay there, i'll be in three" he hung up before you could reply.

you looked back, at one of your guards who was just putting away his phone. of course they told him. why couldn't you go get your own coffee? being in the office all day was tiring, to be five minutes outside was all you asked for. a few seconds after, they handed you your coffee, obviously, a guard had to try it first, in case that barista wanted to suddenly murder you. of course he didn't.

"who let her go outside without me knowing, huh?" a furious katsuki appeared through the door, making a scene in the place. you gave him a warning look. if there was something you hated, was that. everyone in the area knew who you were, but why make it any more obvious. those people were just living their usual lifes, and people tend to get nervous around you. "the car is waiting outside" he understood, but you knew he was going to scold you anyways.

you walked outside, smiling, and got into the car, followed by katsuki and one of his subordinates, the other one got in the front sit, next to the driver.

"save it, i'm n–"

"the fuck you are" he cut you "your safety is my responsibility, if i say you can't go out without me, then you fucking don't. specially not when there are people after your head" there was no denying he was right, but still, it upset you.

"there's always people after my head, bakugou".

two weeks ago, two men went into your office. they were in charge of some dealing territories, though small, important. most contraband had to pass those places, you controlled those police departments making everything easier to your truck drivers. they were beaten, cover in blood and barely standing.

"our men, all of them... they all..." only one of them could talk, the other being too shocked to even look at you. "kazuhito's men, it was them... they said we had to tell you, they're coming after you" you couldn't show any fear in front of your so called soldiers, and your template remained at ease. a shout was enough to get those men the help they needed, after holding their hands, you promised to go see them once they were checked by doctors. you called bakugou as soon as they left, he was the first who should know and help you decide what to do next.

the kazuhito family had always been rivals, enemies of the worst kind. everyone suspect they were behind your father's assassination, but with no proof, even you knew it would be the biggest mistake to charge against them, despite your personal desires.

"i already told the drivers they had to take rout b for a while, but we can't let them just keep what's our" you explained to katsuki once he arrived. "those drugs have to get in town by us, damnit". it was clear how frustrated you were, those assholes had mess with your and your father's hardwork.

"if we retaliate, a war will unchain. your father tried to avoid that for years"

"and see how he ended up" bakugou didn't know if it was the anger, or you talking. "we will lose everyone's respect if we don't do something, they killed dozens of our people, katsuki".

he was trying hard to stay objective in that situation, but it was near impossible. a war would put you in more danger than ever, your life was at stake, and bakugou wasn't sure if he was willing to risk it. growing up by your side, your father taking him in when his parents died, you were his only family. more than that, he loved you. the only reason he was able to do his job right, was the fear of losing you. your head was already valued in millions, how could he protect you in the middle of a conflict, that would end only with your death or the kazuhito's leader's death? your power was bigger than theirs by little, but they did something that reckless, which meant they thought they had out powered you. had they? or were they just bluffing? had they miscalculated?.

"we're taking action, wether you support me or not" you looked into each other's eyes, you knew him enough to understand his fear, just not the reason behind it. your voice softened "but i'd much rather do it with you by my side".

"you're the boss" he spoke, already regretting it "i'll schedule a meeting so the high charges let everyone else know, i'm staying at your place so we can trace a plan".

and there you were now, being reprimanded by bakugou. he was extremely tired, he decided to stay with you until things were calmer, which could be several months from then. getting up at six a.m, going to sleep past midnight, being always looking for possible threats, it had given him bags under his eyes.

"i'm sorry" you said once you were alone with him, it was only then that you could let your guard down "i'm making this harder for you".

"yeah, you are. but it's my job, after all" that came out wrong, he thought. it wasn't his job, it was his fucking life purpose. he wanted you to live a long, happy life, as hard as it seemed.

"i guess it is" deep down, his response disappointed you.

"hey, look at me" out of nowhere, his body was insanely close to yours, you felt his breath in your face as he lifted your chin with his finger "there's nothing i wouldn't do for you, got that, dumbass?"

for a brief moment, the taste of his lips was all you could think about. i bet they're soft. but as fast as it started, it was over, katsuki pulled away harshly, inventing an excuse to leave. he had flown too close to the sun, so close that it burned his skin.

a few more people went to see you that day, asking for diverse permissions, advice and stuff like that. since it had been slow, compared to other times, you decided to home early. a call to your team, and the car was already outside. bakugou left instructions for your departure, because he had things to do somewhere else, much to his displeasure. you were accompanied by your escorts to the doors of the building, that seemed like a normal office compound. there were waiting two other guards, making a total of six people protecting you. way to go, bakugou.

"how's your wife, ryota?" you asked the driver. of course, not everyone fitted in the same car, so you got into the second one, middle seat, between a built up woman and a big man. you tried to remember everyone's name, but it was difficult.

"she's good, ma'am, sends her regards" he smiled at you over the mirror.

"and the baby? he must be a month old, right?" at the memory of his child, his face lightened "you should take some days off, i bet your wife and son miss you"

"i have a duty with you, m–" a loud impact interrupted him, the front glass had exploded. the car had an abrupt movement back and forward, all you could see was blood, everywhere.

the woman next to you took her gun out, in order to protect you , you thought, completely wrong. before everyone could react to her act, she shot the guard in front of you.  you looked at your side, searching for someone alive, the same bullet that had killed ryota was in the guard's at your right forehead. besides you , the only other person was that woman. if she hadn't glasses on, that stare could've seen throughout your soul. then you remembered, katsuki made you bare with a knife under your sleeve. with a weird move, you felt its sharpness against your skin, it was there, but she read you like a book. before you could even pull it out, another shot stroke followed by a intense pain in you thight. the bitch had shot you. you blamed it on the adrenaline, because nothing hurt. what happened after was a couple of blurry images in your memory.

bakugou had called you more than a hundred times, you, the drivers, the guards, everyone in his fucking team, but no one knew anything. the cameras at your house never showed you arriving, your phone's location was off. he was out of his head, if he didn't hear from you in the next five minutes, someone's going to die. he rushed into his car, following your rout at a dangerous speed. 

both cars were full of bullet holes, and every guard he had hired was dead. there wasn't a place without blood. tears of pure rage came to his eyes, fuck, it was his fault. he started to look for you, but the whole world was spinning around him. where were you? where was your body? were you alive?, this couldn't be happening. he had left you unprotected, alone, and now you could be dead, because of his uselessness. his phone vibrated in his pocket.

"sir, we– we have– the kazuhito's are here" he left as fast as he came. they had touch you, they had taken you away from him, and he wasn't going to let them get away with it, even if he had to go against a whole army, whoever was behind it all was going to pay.

a man in a suit was sitting in the chair of your office, smoking a cigarette, as calm as a rock. katsuki was so close to rip his head of right there, that somebody had to hold him down. his own people updated him, saying that he had gone into the building alone, with no weapons of any kind, not even a cellphone.

"where the fuck is she?" he crashed his hand against the desk.

"ah, mr. bakugou, please take a se–"

"tell me where she is right now if you want to keep your head, fucking bastard" his hand had wondered to the tip of the gun in his belt, menacing to blow up at any second.

"you won't do that, mr., if i don't return to my people in one hour, she'll be so fucked up that not even you will recognize her" a laugh surge grom bakugou, a dark, cold laugh.

"i don't have to kill you, then" one of the man's hand rested in the desk, like asking for katsuki to rip it off his body. as you did, he also carried knifes under his shirt. in less than a second, one of them was buried into the man's hand. he screamed, both in shock and pain, giving your bodyguard a hatred look. "what do you want, shitface?"

"i-it's quite simple, actually" his face was white as paper, and even though he wanted to talk normally, his voice shivered "we want you to take over the y/l/n's business, under our command of course" he let out a sigh, trying to keep his composure and ignoring his bleeding hand "if you– if you agree, she will have to leave japan and never..."

bakugou won't agree to that. not now and not ever. to give away what you and your father built from scratch, and spent decades keeping safe, was like killing your child, and your father's memory. to send you away, alone, where he most likely won't see you again in years, was also off the table. it wasn't funny anymore. he started walking around the man's chair, picking up his sleeves. he checked the clock in the office, he had forty-five minutes with the man, meaning, forty-five minutes to make him talk. he ressourced to every fast interrogation method he knew. the people outside the door weren't surprised when they heard the man's screams, even wondering what had taken so long for the boss to start acting. katsuki was never a patient man. his senses were blocked, he couldn't hear anything but screams and begging, all his eyes could see was pain through all the man's body, his hands felt nothing but warm blood. but for the first time in a while, he wasn't enjoying it. he was doing it out of need, the need to save you. every minute that went by, was a minute were your life risked. he never felt so close to losing his sanity.

"outside the city! she's in one of our safe houses outside the city! i don't know which, please stop!" ten minutes before the timeline he finally gave up. your intelligence had all their safe houses, storages, garages, every location needed. not a second passed when one of yours men delivered a map with all the points marked. there were five in total.

"throw him outside in ten minutes" he shouted, walking to the armory "two teams, six people each, my fucking people, hear me? now, dammit! we're leaving in a minute, if i have to go by my fucking self, i'll do it"

when he was armed to the teeth, almost a dozen of people followed him outside. they were his most trusted men and women, being trained together, he knew they were as skilled as him, and they were all willing to put their life's at stake for you, their boss. in the car, bakugou barked the instructions. he had narrowed it down to two possible locations with all the information he had. if they had to kill every person in those places, then be it. he's going to get you back.

[florenceandthemachine]

it took me a while to think of something but how about a dialogue prompt? "I don't know what you want from me." for buddie!! fluff or angst, you get to decide :)

COMBINED WITH BUDDIEWEEK2020 PROMPT 

July 10th   - Day 5: “It’s okay, you can cry.” + comfort

living that two birds one stone lyfestyle bc I am what? a lazy pos. 

anyway here's some fun Buckley siblings feat Buddie xoxoxo

There were several things that Eddie knew to be true about Buck.

One, was that he loved Buck, with every piece of his heart.

Two, that Buck loved him with his whole entire soul.

Three, that no matter what happened, no matter who came into their lives, long after Eddie was dead and gone, Buck had Maddie, and Maddie had Buck.

The Buckley siblings were both bound by trauma, so to speak—they had survived natural disasters, complete miracles, their parents, and they were more or less connected at the hip. It was good, a camaraderie that Eddie wished he had with his sisters; who were nice enough when they wanted to be, but who's teasing remarks cut a bit too deep when they weren’t careful. 

Buck and Maddie had a built in support system with one another, and that much was obvious. 

What was slightly less obvious was how fiercely, painfully competitive the Buckley siblings were with one another; a fact that was typically forgotten until it was too late.

It started out harmlessly enough. 

Hen had invited everyone and their kids to Dave and Busters for Denny’s birthday. It was a nice enough gesture in a fun, neutral location—a huge building filled with games, prizes, and that kind of greasy food that looks amazing in the moment and leaves you feeling sluggish for days. Buck and Chris were stuck together like glue—Eddie had learned long ago that simple acts of fun were as good for Buck as they were for Chris, and it was easy for Eddie to cheer them on in whatever shenanigans they took on; he wasn’t about to allow anyone to call it out and risk Buck feeling an ounce of unnecessary shame. 

Besides, he really couldn’t find anything in him but delight as he watched Buck scoop Christopher up in his arms and promptly launch them both into a ball pit, the bright peal of Chris’s laughter ringing above the low din in the building. 

Chim, as usual, was the one to ruin everything.

(Okay, not ‘as usual’, but still.)

He and Maddie had arrived a little later on in the evening, their arrival perfectly timed between the stampede of children and cake cutting, their gift bag nestled securely on the present table that Denny kept eyeing with growing excitement. 

Chim was the one who let out a whistle when he walked into the building, taking in everything around him. 

Chim was the one who bent down to greet Chris, letting Buck’s attention stray from Eddie’s kid, going over to hug his sister.

And it was Chim, who opened his fat mouth, when Maddie and Buck were less than an arms length from one another, as he ruffled Chris’ hair and looked over to the far wall of the building.

“Who the hell thought a Mario Party tournament would be a good idea?”

Eddie could feel a cold chill run down his spine, his stomach dropping in despair as he caught the matching glints in Buck and Maddie’s eyes.

“Mads, do you wanna…?”

No, no, no, Eddie could literally feel his sanity sliding away as Maddie pretended to think it over. 

“I mean, if you’re in the mood to lose…”

Eddie shot a nasty look at Chim, who was blissfully unaware of what hell he had just served up on what was supposed to be a child’s birthday. A fun night. A night where the kids got to be kids, and the adults were supposed to know how to act.

--

Correction—the adults knew how to act. The adults were just choosing to act like kids. 

Because that’s what they regressed to; Buck and Maddie were both two professional adults, who worked with high stake situations for a living. They were both mature adults. And when they got into it, they literally regressed into teenagers, shoving one another, bickering at a rapid fire pace, hell, Eddie was surprised Maddie hadn’t gone for a noogie or a wet willy yet, anything to assure her victory.

If Eddie had to be honest, he was pretty impressed with Buck’s focus, and Maddie’s state of mind (it didn’t feel right to say he was ‘proud’, so impressed would have to do). Most of the time, when the Buckley’s got into it, the rest of the world was a blur, but they were more than a half hour into a game and there was not a single fuck word dropped so far. 

That wasn’t to say that the tensions weren’t high—and somehow, the mini games made it so much worse for everyone involved. As amusing as it was to watch Maddie self-sabotage when she was paired up with Buck to ensure he wouldn’t get any points, Buck’s stress levels when he was paired up with one of the CPU’s were nearly apocalyptic. 

At the very least, Eddie seemed to be far from alone in thinking that the competition between the two was at least a little bit funny—by the time the Buckley’s had entered their final turn, they had a small crowd of children gathered around them. Eddie wasn’t sure if they were watching the game or just laughing at the antics of the two overgrown children, but honestly, he couldn’t blame them either way.

“Nooo! I don’t know what you want from me, Luigi!” Buck wailed—literally wailed—as he sunk down to his knees, looking more dejected than Eddie had ever seen him before, just moments after his CPU partner had pushed him into an oncoming bomb.

That moment seemed to be enough to turn the tide of the game—Maddie was able to pull ahead in coins to secure her spot in the lead, and when the last mini game started, Eddie couldn’t help it. He was actually holding his breath, secretly rooting for Buck to absolutely trash her. But in a supportive, future-sibling-in-law kind of way.

He felt himself groan as the game swung the other way—something about Maddie literally cackling when she got the final, tie-breaking bonus star sending a shiver down his spine. That woman was vicious, and part of him wanted to warn Chim to watch his back—but then again, Chim was the one who got them into all of this in the first place. The group that had gathered around them started to disperse as Maddie started her victory dance, and Eddie had to sigh as he waded through the sea of children.

For now, he had a man to attend to. A man who was literally laying down on the floor of a glorified Chuck-E-Cheese’s, but that was his man none the less, damn it.

“C’mere Buck, come on.”

“Eddie, it’s not fair.”

“I know, baby.”

“I was so close!”

“It’s okay, you can cry.” Eddie said, sighing as he easily scooped his overly-dramatic boyfriend into a bridal carry, kissing his temple. It was almost amusing—at the very least, Eddie was biting his lip, doing his best not to laugh as Buck made a sound that actually sounded like he was on the brink of tears as Eddie deposited his dead weight back into his side of the booth. He knew better than to suggest that it was just a game, because it was never just a game, not when the Buckley’s were concerned. 

Maddie was beaming as she slid into the booth across from Buck, her eyes lighting up with another win beneath her belt, and Eddie could appreciate that; hopefully, it meant that they would cut it out, and Eddie could actually enjoy some time off with Buck, and—

“Buck, they have an air hockey table open.”

“Oh, you’re on.”

—and nope, Buck was already on his feet, previous trauma forgotten as he bolted to the ATM to get another stack of quarters.

Eddie wanted to be annoyed, he really did—but he couldn’t seem to get the dopey smile off of his face as Buck started to cackle. All he could do was order another beer on Maddie’s tab, clinking bottles with Chim as he cracked it open.

“Damn, you got it bad.” He really did.

“Shut up, Chim.”

He really, really did.

[prettyflyshyguy]

Hey hey hey its past my bedtime but here’s the rest of chapter 2 since what I posted before was unfinished! This is very much the unedited version and may be subject to change, if you have feedback as always I’d love to hear it!

Chapter 2 if you need a refresher of where we’re at, this next chunk is a direct continuation.

The water started to run cold. 

He still had his mind intact, that meant he could still help. There were bigger things at stake. He’d never given up in the face of hardship before, and this was just a new challenge. He knew he had to find Helena, at very least. 

With a spur of energy, he stood up in confidence. He borrowed a towel and dried himself off. In the midst of scrubbing his hair down he had the uncomfortable realisation that he had lost all his clothes due to everything and technically he was completely buck naked. Absolutely refusing to parade around without at very least, a nice pair of pants, he quietly apologised to whoever lived here as he rifled through their clothes, hoping with a stroke of luck he’d find something in his size. 

No luck. 

Begrudgingly accepting fate, he sighed deeply and prayed that he wouldn't run into anyone he knew before getting a chance to make himself look slightly more human again. He returned to the bathroom, at least he could fix his hair. 

-

Maybe this wasn’t so bad. ‘Mission objective: obtain pants’ gave him ample opportunity to get more comfortable in his own skin again. It was like learning to walk but you’re leaping between broken buildings instead. He wouldn't admit it, but he was greatly enjoying the feeling of freedom that it brought. The streets were quiet, but there were enough BOW’s haphazardly roaming here and there to warrant caution. Not just the usual shambling zombies, but a range of the strange things he’d seen since arriving in China. He was confident he could take them in a fight, but didn’t want to waste time, or risk serious injury. All he had was his physical attributes and he was much more comfortable with a knife in a situation like this. He never had beaten Chris in a one on one spar before, better not get cocky.  

Crossing a few blocks, he could hear some noises unlike the usual groans of zombies on the street bellow. Carefully peering down from a broken window two stories up, he could see a small military unit below. There were five of them, probably BSAA but he couldn't see for sure. Coincidentally they were on a main street lined with storefronts. From the mannequins still in the windows Leon could see some were for clothes. 

The last thing he wanted was to get in a fight with armed military, especially not the BSAA who were still helping survivors and evacuate areas. He watched carefully as one he assumed to be the team leader called orders, and the five split up and wandered further down the street or inside nearby buildings. With silence and grace, when he was confident they were far enough away or out of sight he vaulted over the windowsill and quickly scaled the wall down, bolting for the clothes store across the road. The door was broken and left wide open, no need to make excess noise or breaking in thankfully.

Breathing a sigh of relief as he slinked over to the pants rack on the wall, he quickly found his size pulled a pair down, shuffling and first getting one leg in so as to not lose balance. 

He froze when he heard the faint sound of a shaky voice, coming from the open door.

“... Hello? Is anyone there?”

The light of a torch flashed over the store, sweeping around until it landed on Leon. Who stood there frozen, awkwardly with one leg in the jeans he had selected.

The source of the voice also stood there frozen, looking at him. They were with the BSAA, that much was clear now as they were only a matter of meters away from him. He could see the sweat on their face, the gun aimed directly at him quivered slightly. The fear and confusion in their face painted them clearly as a rookie. Poor bastard, he thought. 

No training prepares you for the real experience of standing face to face with a BOW, let alone one that appeared to be stealing jeans. 

Leon’s mind raced a mile a minute. Was it worth running? Would he make it to cover without being shot? Would he more likely simply trip and fall because he has one leg in the pants and one not?

A horrible, terrible idea crossed his mind. His expression shifted from uncomfortability and fear to something of a sinister stare. 

‘I’m going to hell for this’ he thought, before shifting to a glare, mandibles spreading wide and opening his jaw the full length as he let out an inhuman, deathly scream. 

The Rookie completely panicked, letting out a scream nowhere near as equal in volume to Leons, turning and bolting out of the shop. 

It was an extremely risky move, banking on the hope the Rookie would wait for permission before opening fire on an unknown threat. He was lucky it paid off. Quickly pulling the other leg on, he grabbed a belt, in case he needed it, from a nearby hanger and bolted out the front door where the Rookie exited. Hearing shouts either side of him as the other team members must have rushed to the source of the sound, he dashed up the side of another building, jumping into a window as the sound of bullets zipped past him. Not stopping to look back, he bounded away for a few blocks just to be sure he was safe. In an abandoned office he finally let himself stop and catch his breath. Leaning against a wall, he puffed for a minute or two.

Despite trying to hide it, a smile broke out across his face as he started to laugh, gently at first before he broke out into heaving for breaths as he couldn't control himself, lifting an arm across his face as he sunk to the floor. He felt so guilty, but the look on the Rookie’s face was priceless. 

His laughter was interrupted as it turned to violent coughing. Something had built up in his throat, and he heaved as his body tried to get it out. It had the consistency of phlegm but was a much darker colour, it reminded him of the slime that came out of the cocoon with him. Wiping his mouth and taking a few deep breaths to make sure he was okay, he smiled again. His laugh sounded normal, maybe his voice would come back too with time. 

He moved over to a window overlooking the main street outside, he could see the building where Sherry said Simmons would be. He had to get there, that was his only lead of meeting up with anyone or at least getting to Simmons before he had a chance to cause the world any more damage.

[one-deranged-son]

(This is Not) The Way of God

Written by Gossamere as John and Froggy as Ian Nashton.

Warning:

This plot is rated explicit for language, description of violence, thoughts of suicide, torture, and a lot of things. Read at your own risk.

Honestly, I don’t really care about the grammar anymore because it’s been months since I write this so whatever.

Original story was posted in Twitter but due to it’s obtuse cleaning policy, some parts are unable to be saved.

John

"Fucking hell."

The Revelator tighten the belt strapped in his thigh even more; pressing the open wound to prevent it from dripping another single drop of blood again. He had lost a lot of them today, yesterday, and the other days. He can't afford that again.

His vision started to get blurry and, god-fucking-dammit, even now he can't help but to curse out loud as he felt himself trembling like mad. He can't even hear the guttural noises in the background as the crowds screeched, screamed, and shouted for their dear life. Yet, the distinct smell of smoke—of burnt blood—of the remaining ashes—were pungent in his nose.

The Revelator pulled his feet close to his chest, biting his inner cheeks as he tried to handle the pain. It was really a suicide plan, to actually ambush his target in an open space when his shot wound hasn't healed just yet, and now he has to bear with another one which, unfortunately, was placed on his vital part of escaping plan.

Standing up hurts like a bitch.

"Motherfucker..."

He should've seen it on the first hand, his plan was somehow lacking of intel and as soon as he executes it, it was already going southward. Now he's stuck like a lost (feral) kitten inside a dark alley, far away from his home, with a burning building just outside his spot, and losing blood.

He's fucked, that's for sure.

John struggled to keep himself awake, but really, it's hard. And without even realizing it, everything turned black.

Motherfucker, indeed.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Ian Nashton stepped foot in New York City. 

But he wasn't there on a vacation—far from it, actually.

He was visiting his goddamned baby brother in a hospital.

Rewind to couple of days ago.

The younger Nashton mentioned that he had a convention in New York to attend to. 

All was well until the second night of his stay.

Ever heard of the saying "caught in the wrong place at the wrong time"? That's precisely what happened with Jansen. During the middle of the night, there was an explosion that originated a couple of rooms adjacent to Jansen's. 

That side of the building almost immediately caught fire, and of course, the younger Nashton and many others were injured. But many more lost their lives because they were (somehow) asleep during the fire or they have been rendered unconscious by carbon monoxide. 

Jansen was no stranger to things blowing up. Explosions often happen in his lab; whether done deliberately as a demonstration, or an accident. 

Miraculously, he's never gotten seriously injured from from those explosions, nor have they ever claimed anyone's lives. Perhaps because they tend to be smaller in scale than the hotel explosion. It also helps that Jansen had his lab built some distance away from residential areas.

Jansen's injuries weren't too extreme (compared to some other survivors), there were some minor burns on his limbs, some cuts from splintered wood, a sprained ankle and a broken arm—which he got because he tripped down the emergency stairs.

However, in the eyes of Ian Nashton, it wasn't just the injuries hat got him worried. What got him worried was the attack. More specifically, WHO was behind it.

Without a shadow of a doubt, the detective knew who was behind the attack. It was glaringly obvious. Unfortunately, New York wasn't his area, so he could only leave it to NYPD.

At the very most, he could leave an anonymous tip.

As soon as the news dropped, Ian immediately packed and booked an express ticket to New York—he had dropped Monty by Jeffrey's place because he wasn't exactly sure how long he'd stay in New York. 

Back to the present, now.

The doctor told the brothers that Jansen could leave within two weeks.

"Oi. I'm gonna go out and look for food, okay? Do you want anything?" Ian asked.

"Borax." Jansen said in a groggy tone. Obviously, he was joking. That man sometimes say the stupidest of things. Such irony for a mind so brilliant. Maybe he's gotten a little loopy from his meds.

Ian sighed loudly and grabbed his hat. "What the fuck. I'll get you a burger, then."

Jansen responded with a tired hum. By now, the detective was out of the room already.

Once outside, Ian took out his phone and dialed a number—hoping that the person would pick up immediately.

After a few seconds, the call was picked up. Thank the stars.

"Hello, detective! Did you hear about—"

"—the explosion at Roosevelt Hotel? Yeah. I did. My brother was caught in that damn explosion. It's him, it's glaringly obvious. I'm in New York right now, but I need a favor. Tell me everything you know so far about the attack."

As he walked and talked, Ian had a faint scowl on his face—he was sure agent Moore could hear it through the call.

"Well, our victim is Anton Pavlov. He's a small time politician from Russia—known for his love of gambling and infidelity. Now also known for getting burnt to a crisp." There were some quick rustling of paper on the other side, agent Moore was probably reviewing his notes. "Often frequents the United States on so called business trips, when in actuality, he was taking part in high stakes gambling."

Ian groaned loudly and massaged one side of his temple with his free hand. "As if relations between these two countries weren't bad enough, right? God damn it. He's getting balls-y." 

"I'm sure that thanks to the publicity he's gotten, the Russian government would have known who he is by now. This could mean trouble."

Agent Moore was right. It could. 

"Also. One more thing. A couple of days before this, Jimmy Carter—not the former president, obviously—was murdered and his mansion burnt down. And get this, Carter had similar vices to Pavlov."

"Um… thank you. Listen, I'll call you back later, okay? Keep me updated… if you can." With that, Ian ended the call and put his phone back in his pocket. 

The detective wasn't actually sure where he was headed. He said he wanted to get food, but his main intention was to take some fresh air and talk to the agent. Ian didn't want his younger brother to know because he'd probably worry about Ian instead of himself. 

(To be fair, Ian had only recovered from his own injuries recently)

Now, the detective walked through the streets aimlessly. He was deep in thought, indicated by the frown on his face.

A couple of days back, Jimmy Carter was crucified, and his mansion was burnt down. Then, after that, Anton Pavlov was burnt alive—like Dick Foster—and his hotel room exploded. 

The fact that these attacks occurred within a short time frame made it seem as if the Revelator already had everything planned—as if he had a list. Ian thought that he wouldn't be surprised if by tomorrow, someone else would become deranged Jesus' next victim.

Just his luck.

Ian didn't need to wait until tomorrow—because he heard the faint but familiar sound of sirens. Police, ambulance and firefighters all combined together in that all too familiar cacophony. When the detective looked up, he could see a glow of blue, red, white and orange—as he walked closer, he could hear people screaming and he could smell it. 

Smoke, burnt flesh, ashes—you name it. 

Sure enough, there was a burning building a few blocks away. What building it was, Ian wasn't even sure, the flames had consumed the sign, and Ian wasn't a New Yorker, so he didn't know for sure. If he had to guess, he'd guess that it was an apartment complex.

Even in the midst of all the chaos, the detective's senses were sharp as ever.

He noticed something moving in a dark alleyway. Too big to be an animal. It must be a person. At first, he thought it must have been a homeless person, but as he walked closer, he could hear a faint grunting and… cursing?

Someone's hurt. 

Instinctively, Ian rushed into the alley. He used his phone's flashlight to make it easier for himself to see. "Hello? Are you—"

Oh.

F U C K. 

It's the goddamned Revelator himself. Curled up in a dark alley with some sort of wound on his thigh. Ian nearly dropped his (new) phone, but the detective quickly regained his composure and for a brief moment, he only saw red.

The thought of his younger brother in hospital crossed his mind. His younger brother who had absolutely NOTHING to do with the Revelator was now hurt.

He thought of Sam. How the poor man had to rely on a cane as he recovers from his leg injury, also caused by the Revelator.

He thought of poor Jeffrey. His dominant hand just happened to be the one that got broken. The poor man's productivity was greatly affected because of it.

He thought of Thomas and his family—how they could have lost him that day.

He thought of himself. And what the Revelator has done to him.

Can you blame Ian for wanting revenge?

Ian lowered his hat so it concealed his face, just in case the Revelator wakes up. 

For a brief moment, the detective felt nothing but pure hatred and anger. He considered taking one of the arsonist's weapons and just… end the poor bastard's life then and there. 

It seemed so easy. 

There were no cameras, and there were some bins they could hide behind. NYPD would probably shrug off the case, anyway. The Revelator had been a thorn in their side lately, no?

Actually…

Forget murder and revenge, Ian could even just leave him there to bleed out.

Fortunately, his conscience finally came through.

What he was going to do instead isn't ideal either. But at least (hopefully) the Revelator would still be alive. 

Ian sent his current address to agent Moore's number, along with a text which read:

'I found him. Please send someone here ASAP. He's injured, by the way, so bring a medic along.'

The detective left the dark alley and blended in with some of the bystanders. He only had to wait a measly half an hour before a black sedan parked near the alley. Out came a short man with ginger hair and freckled face. 

That must be agent Lewis. Agent Moore wasn't in New York at that moment, but he said he'd drop by as soon as possible.

Ian watched as the ginger man discreetly walked into and out—with the Revelator—of the alley. The two men were now in that sedan, and before Ian knew it, the car had driven off to who knows where.

Perhaps now would be a good time to get that burger for his brother.

That night, Ian had returned to Jansen's room, and he brought a burger along, just like he promised. When he got back, he found Jansen sitting up in his bed and playing on his phone, the younger man was probably updating his followers about his current situation.

"Got your burger." Ian dropped the paper bag on his brother's lap.

"Took you long enough. There was a McDonald's just down this street! Where the hell were you, man? I was starving here!"

How ungrateful he was, but Ian only rolled his eyes in response.

"Actually, I went the long way. I... uh... I saw the Revelator."

"YOU WHAT?!" Jansen screamed, it looked as if he was ready to jump out of his bed.

"Hey, relax. I'm not hurt. He was, though. I found him in some alley. Unconscious." A part of Ian didn't want to tell this story to Jansen, but they've always shared things with each other, so Ian grabbed a chair and sat next to the younger's bed.

"He was so vulnerable, J. I... I wanted to... you know... kill him. Right there." There was a slight look of shame on the detective's face.

"But you didn't, because you don't like the idea of taking someone else's life." Even if it was Ian's own. Jansen always found it a little puzzling, but who was he to judge?

"No, I uh... I gave him up to the authorities. But... still. The thought crossed my mind. Even if he's a notorious fugitive, I'm pretty sure in that circumstance, it would count as murder. So..."

"Yeah, well... terrible thoughts cross everyone's minds from time to time. But if you don't act on it, that doesn't make you a bad person."

Ian had began to smile, his brother can be so wise sometimes, and the detective was damn proud of that.

"What DOES make you a bad person, however... is the fact that you forgot to ask for extra pickles on my burger, you blithering idiot!" Jansen finished his whining by throwing a pillow to Ian's face.

The elder Nashton retaliated by groaning and throwing the pillow back. 

How he missed these banters.

John

"Wake up."

Truth be told, John couldn't even understand those words. He just felt like it was the word being said in front of his fucking salad when a cold water splash his face.

Hey, this pattern is familiar.

He actually jerked up straight, mind blaring sirens and drove his whole mind on full alert mode. His eyes were still blurry out of the blood loss, and his limbs hurt like shit, but it wasn't just his feet now who feels as if it was refusing to move. It was his arms too.

"Hello, John."

Oh. Oh, not again.

John groaned, low and guttural as the realization hit him. He was still high from the pain, the tranquilizer (maybe), and from, basically, everything. He could barely see anything clearly, but, although John ain't an observer, he could understand what kind of shit he is in to.

The room was every shade of gray, from the cold concrete to the bland ceilings. Every corner was sharp and straight, and there was a bulb hanging just on top of his head, threatening to fall down as it dangles left and right without the actual consent of his worrisome heart towards the future impact.

At this point of time, someone had began to speak. And, holy fuck, John couldn't even understand what he means as his hearing only caught some faint "Hello", "Interrogation", and "Do you understand?"

No, he doesn't understand at all.

He knew that the room was jammed and somehow... crowded. He recognized the man behind the prior questions, and he was sitting in front of him. John couldn't make up his face as his eyes were still hazy and the room was poorly lit. Then there were two more people beside him on a tactical gears and were heavily armed. He can obviously see where this shit is going.

And with how this goddamn stranger keeps asking question, things just doesn't better.

So now all John did was groan softly as he tried to gain his composure back, because everything was too quick for him, but not enough for them. And he knew that because while John is sitting still, barely budging and saying any coherent word, he could feel the strand of his hair getting yanked behind and some loud "answer me!" before some blows were landed in his face.

Repeatedly. Over and over again.

At least take off your ring, goddamit.

"What's your name?"

"Who's on your list?"

"Is there anyone involved besides you?"

At one time there were fingers around his throat, at one time he was forced to stare right into that face full of wrinkle, and at another time he realized that maybe he should cut his hair soon because they're enjoying this shit too much. Kinky.

But he refused to answer. Even as he regained his full focus, he didn't answer. He wouldn't even give them the satisfaction of seeing him whimper or react.

So the Revelator sat still, letting the man fuck the shit outta him as he bit down his inner cheeks. 'Cause even though he didn't say anything, it didn't mean he didn't feel any pain.

It hurt like a goddamn bitch.

Ian Nashton

The next morning, Ian told Jansen that he had to go somewhere, something about seeing an old a friend.

He wasn't completely lying, but the full truth was that during the middle of the night, Ian Nashton received a text from agent Moore. The latter invited the former to meet in a certain location.

It was regarding the Revelator, who was now in their custody.

Ian was THRILLED to be invited. So, like going out to see an old friend, Ian dressed in his best suit, complete with a matching hat.

It may be a little extra, but hey, if you're going to see someone who (probably) thought you were dead, you might as well go all out.

When the detective reached the building, he was greeted by agents Moore and Lewis. Seeing them side by side was always a treat, because agent Moore was (freakishly) tall, whilst agent Lewis was short.

"We have provided the things that you asked for. Although... I'm still confused as to why you want them." Agent Moore explained as he led the detective down a flight of stairs.

"It's a Chicago thing."

It took some convincing, but Ian was allowed to be in the room alone with the Revelator.

When he entered, the room was pitch black, just the way he wanted it to be.

Ian can be such a theatrical bastard sometimes.

He felt around for the chair and sat down. Then the light flickered on.

"Hello, John."

And there he was.

The Revelator.

Restrained securely in his chair. He was all battered and bruised, looking so pale and tired. Confused and dazed.

Ian feigned a look of pity as he observed the other man's injuries.

"You don't look so good. I guess my friend's men really roughed you up, huh?"

Ian glanced to the left of the room and smiled thinly when he saw a telephone book and a baton.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not quite dead, John. As a matter of fact, I'm very much alive." Ian finished his sentence by patting John on the cheeks, purposefully hitting the latter's bruises.

ㅤㅤ

John

God knows how many hours had he passed out in the most painful position ever existed. When those bastards decided to leave the room and switched the lights off, John knew that he won't meet whomever they told him anywhere soon. So after a moment of short whining and groaning, John decided to sleep.

He deserved that good nap.

Wrong.

John could barely register the very fact that the jammed door had started to budge and gave this annoying, heavy creak. It took him a moment to regain his consciousness, until there come a flash of light and, really, it didn't do any good but to blind his eyes out.

His breath hitched when the heard the anonymous steps closer to him, and well, although John knew he's probably going to die in this miserable room, nothing had managed to cause his heart to beat so furiously except for a cheery voice.

That cheery voice.

"Detective," he whispered, unable to contain the soft chuckle or the slight tremble in his voice. He didn't know if it was because of pain or something else. But at this point of time, John knew that he's not going to die.

It's going to be ten times worsen with Ian fucking Nashton and his fancy hat.

"You look nice."

John glanced towards the man who had purposely hit the bruise on his cheek. ‘What an asshole,’ he thought, as he flashed a playful smirk towards the nosy detective. He was about to say something that might annoy him, again, but John figured out that by sealing his lips as secure as possible might be his best option—for now.

Especially after his eyes caught the slight glint of a baton and... a phone book

Seems like he ain't the only one losing his mind.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"You don't." Ian shot back almost immediately, his voice was laced with venom and hatred, yet his face remained neutral.

The detective removed his hat and placed it on the table. 

"Tsk, you're getting reckless, John. Going after foreign politicians, now? You could've started a war, you know?" 

The detective held back his smile. He wanted to play his cards right, because he's gotten a couple of things he could use against John.

Physical methods wouldn't work on John, Ian already knew that, but he knew things no other interrogators do.

But for now, he'll just get his revenge, physically.

"You've hurt my brother, John." Ian stated coldly. The detective stood up and walked towards the baton and telephone book. He never condoned using physical beatings during an interrogation, but after what John has put him and his friends through, he would make an exception.

"I can hold this book to the side of your head and use the baton at full swing, it'd hurt like hell, but it won't leave a mark. Would you like a demonstration?"

He didn't even wait for an answer. The detective did as he described, he held the phone book to the side of John's head and hits the arsonist with the baton at full swing. The resulting impact sound was loud, and it echoed through the room.

Ian was in disbelief for a moment, but truth be told, he's always wanted to do that. 

"Work with me, John. Tell me who's your next target." Another hit, harder than the last one.

The detective's voice had gone lower, angrier, and more aggressive. 

The detective has been penting up his frustrations and anger ever since he got out of the hospital.

He felt small then, but now? Now he wanted John to feel small. 

ㅤㅤ

John

Russian and brother. It didn't take a long time for John to realize that Ian's hatred wasn't exactly directed to the fact he literally almost started a war. And it was true that he was very reckless 'bout that, but John knew damn well that wasn't the reason.

Detective Ian fucking Nashton just wanted a revenge because of his brother.

So much for just.

John knew what's coming at him, and he wasn't entirely surprised when a full land blew across his face. His face closed in a grimace, its skin pale, clammy, and goddamn bruised. Every few minutes his mind begged so he could scream, like those guys in any Tarantino movie that was being tortured, but he can't. And this shit is worse.

So much worse.

John ain't letting the bastard get the satisfaction to see him scream, groan, or even hear a single fucking whine.

The detective didn't even let him answer as another hard blow hits his already bruised cheeks. Searing pain pulsated around the wound, intensifying the cut like a goddamn bitch. With every hit, his muscle quivered, twitched, making him jolt in surprise. The black mists swirled at the edges of his eyes, but John ain't going to answer.

He just tilted his head, and smiled.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

It's true. This was mostly revenge, though having other reasons helped his conscience.

Blow after blow, the detective hadn't stopped. Perhaps after John did the same thing to him, something dark in him might have awakened, and it showed its ugly face now.

So much hatred, so much anger.

It was consuming him.

And then there's that smile again. Ian dropped the baton and used the phone book to hit John directly on the face—he wanted to wipe the smile off of that bastard's face.

If the chair wasn't so sturdy, John would probably have been knocked backwards by the blow. 

The detective slammed the phone book on the table, and he sat on the edge of it. 

He'll take a break and change tactics now.

"Playing this game again, are you, Mr. Monsoon? That's your name, isn't it? Or at least, it's the name that you took. You're not the real John Monsoon, he died in the late nineties. Agent Moore was there. You remember him, don't you?"

The detective was so, /so/ kind to brush John's hair away from his face.

"After all, you were the fourth shooter on that day, weren't you? John Monsoon—the real one, Cole Hedlund, Paul MacCullagh… and… you."

Ian wasn't a hundred percent sure yet, but the trick was to appear confident. And he was confident. 

"I'll ask for your real name, but you're probably just going to smile at me. You know, I admire your strength. I really do. We're alike in that respect. But I can see it—your body's beginning to tremble. How long will it be until you finally crack?" 

ㅤㅤ

John

Another blow landed on his face, another pain in the goddamn ass.

John was stumbling now, and he thanked the God for the fucking chair because everything was fading. And it hurts. Holy fucking shit, it hurt like a goddamn bitch but John sat quietly. Nothing can ever fucking wipe the smug on his face.

That, until, the goddamn detective stopped his movement, stared intently at him, and said the word, ‘Monsoon’. But it's nothing new. After all, he literal crave those words on the detective's skin.

And John was about to flash that goddamn grin again when it finally hits him.

"John Monsoon."

"Cole Hedlund."

"Paul MacCullagh."

Something new. Not his name.

His foster parents' name.

John eyes blown wide.

Ian fucking Nashton should've been dead, but he's alive. Ian fucking Nashton should've been dead and not ask a shit to the goddamn CIA, or the FBI, or any other shit, but he's alive. Ian fucking Nashton should've been dead and not know about John Monsoon, Cole Hedlund, or Paul MacCullagh, but he's alive.

And he knows.

He's fucked.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Now it was Ian's turn to smile. 

It was genuine, you could even call it sweet.

His deduction was right. The man in front of him /was/ the fourth shooter. 

John didn't even need to say anything—his reaction said it all. 

"Gerard, old friend! He really was your fourth shooter." 

The detective wasn't sure where it was, but he knew there's a device somewhere in this room that'd allow others on the outside to listen in.

The detective turned his attention back to John. He grabbed the man's chin oh so gently and tilted his head up.

"Are you ready to talk now, or do I have to spill all your secrets first, hmm?"

Ian leaned in closer, until his lips were mere centimeters away from John's ear. He whispered, so only the two of them can hear what was being said.

"Trust me, John. They're better off between me and you than with them."

ㅤㅤ

John

John can't even get himself to be disgusted or anything by the sudden contact. He was far too distracted with multiple set of ‘what’ and ‘how’ and just, ‘why?’

Even now calling himself as John feels so wrong. It felt so weird in his own mind because deep down he know that name wasn't his. The Revelator wasn't ‘his’. It was never his and it should have never been his, but, fucking hell, what are the odds

When the detective lifted his head ever so slowly so now that bastard could clearly see how John's pupils had shrunk so badly, he wished he could just back away and lift that usual smug grin of his, but he froze. Heavens, he froze.

That fucking grin had faltered away and now it's planted on Ian fucking Nashton's annoying face.

That son of a bitch.

John would rather bite his motherfucking tongue off and be a mute than having to talk. 'Cause no matter what the fucking detective said, no matter how good and relishing that goddamn offer sounded in his ears, nothing—for fuck's sake—nothing will actually get better.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Perhaps something had changed in the detective ever since that incident at the barn—but Ian hadn't realized yet.

The detective landed a sudden, full-blown slap across John's face and exhaled forcefully.

"That was for trying to burn me alive. Nice try, though."

Beating with a baton and telephone book for what John did to his brother, and a slap for what he did to the detective himself.

"Anyway. John, Paul, and Cole. Most people would wonder what your connection to them is, but by process of elimination, /I/ know that they'd have to be a parental figure of some kind. Why else would a teenager be with three grown men?"

There could be other reasons, but Ian had crossed those out already.

"I also know that John Monsoon—the one that died—must be the one you were closest to. Because you took HIS name. Not Paul's, not Cole's. But John's." 

The detective had backed away by now, and he was idly flipping through the pages of the telephone book. Occasionally, he did glance at John, just to see if the latter had changed expressions.

"He must be the one you considered a father. I mean, you took his identity, not just as John, but also as the Revelator. He taught you. And you hold him in high regards, I'm sure."

ㅤㅤ

John

The fact that detective Ian fucking Nashton known about the holy trinity shocked him, but it didn't leave that much of an impression. After all, they were long gone. What does that have to do with John? It might shake him a little, but it ain't gonna make him tremble forever.

At this point of time, it wasn't even surprising to him anymore that all of the deductions were right, yet of course, he won't ever, ever, ever say that in front of his face.

Despite having beaten up like a pulp, John still managed to reply. Not directly, though, fuck that silent treatment. Now he's rolling his eyes 'cause he's really irritated and, gosh, if only John ain't having his arms and legs tied up, he might have smacked the detective's head so hard, just to make him shut his mouth.

But neither sentence nor a single word slipped from his mouth. John has been kind enough to his own self for letting him whine or groan or just sorta respond to the surprising slap. Yet he still didn't speak a thing. Even without having him to talk, the detective just keeps talking and John figured out that he might as well let him do that rather than spilling all the tea.

Instead, John giggled. A quiet and short one, just to see if it could taunt the detective even more.

My, oh, my. It might hurt him like a bitch, but seeing how desperate someone could look even if it was hidden beneath a triumphant smile surely bring some pride to blossom in his chest.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

There's that giggle again. That brief yet fucked up giggle he couldn't shake off ever since the barn incident. 

        He hated it.

But Ian kept his attention to the phone book, as if he was looking for something. 

"You're giggling now, but I know something that they don't. Something very precious to you."

The detective's finger stopped at an address in the phone book. He tapped it a couple of times before showing it to John.

"You recognize this address?" Ian asked, that smile was back on his face.

       A sweet but knowing smile.

Of course John would recognize it.

It was the address of Peter's school.

"I know who they are." The detective suddenly closed the telephone book shut, it made a loud thud which echoed through the room. 

"Peter's a bright kid, you know? I was helping him solve the murder of his classmate whilst you were wreaking havoc in my town. Has he ever mentioned that?" 

The detective flicked John's forehead with his fingers and chuckled to himself. 

"He probably already knows, if not from his own investigations, then the news. He probably doesn't know the full truth, though, hm? I wonder what he would say if he knew more than what he knows now? If he knew that you kidnapped me and tried to burn me alive? If he knew that you've hurt Jansen?" 

The detective got off from the table and returned to his seat across from John.

"What would he say if he knew that you might have just started a war because you were so reckless? I know about them, John. Your family."

The detective adjusted the position of his glasses. His smile was now gone, and instead, there was a cold expression on his face. 

He actually only knew about Peter, but part of it all is to let the enemy think you know more—to keep a poker face. Just as he was doing now.

"Now they know, too."

Ian gestured at the door, referring to the agents that may be outside.

"So, John. Are you still keen on playing the silent game?"

ㅤㅤ

John

John was leaning away, whatever the bastard is showing him, he doesn't really care.

Hell, he thought as if it was easy to actually read without a proper lighting. But when the book echoes around the room and the detective said "I know who they are", John's heart skipped a beat.

"Peter's a bright kid, you know?"

And that's what it takes for John to still, again. Eyes blowing wide, but his mouth isn't shut. John's jaw was slack. His face fell faster than Humpty Dumpty with a cement boots.

He could feel his brain stutters for a moment and every part of him went on pause while his thoughts were struggling to catch up. And when the detective pointed at the door, the notorious Revelator feels as if his blood were drained to the last bit.

It was hard to breathe.

"Shut up," he whispered, his voice sounded as if there were ropes coiled around his neck.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

That look of terror on the Revelator's face somehow brought positive feelings to the detective, and he laughed.

He was amused, though still in disbelief that he managed to shake they infamous Revelator.

Him, a four eyed detective with good connections and observation skills.

"What was that, John? I can't hear you."

As a matter of fact, he did hear it, but he wanted to hear it again. After minutes of silent treatments, John finally began to crack. Even if it wasn't anything useful.

       He cracked.

"You had your chance, you know. I really didn't want it to come to this, but you were so stubborn." The detective slammed his hand on the table—as if about to begin an outburst, but he inhaled slowly.

"You were priding yourself on being able to keep quiet, but… look what it has come down to. That's selfishness, John. Even /I'm/ not like that."

ㅤㅤ

John

"Shut up," he whispered again, lower, quieter, and it was even barely inaudible 'cause he knew that the goddamn detective could hear himself crystal clear.

And John was about to keep it like that, but as time went by, the laughter just makes his blood boil and his skin scorching and the piercing headache just made him want to rip himself apart, 'cause after all this time, after facing into countless of a problem either caused by himself or by some other useless fuckstains, this is the first time John felt so hopelessly useless.

"Shut up, shut up, shut the HELL up!"

He barked, eyes glaring as if he was trying to drill a hole into the other's face, and teeth gritted as if he had been staring at the devil himself. There was no softness in that gaze. It was a look that conveyed a bubbling hatred. Disgust perhaps.

The chain rattled as he jolted his body forward, perhaps almost stumbling but the urge to bite the latter's neck off was so fucking irresistible. He doesn't give a damn fuck if those things are going to leave a mark, he doesn't give a damn fuck about anything.

Except for his kids.

And it's a real flaw,

Now he's failing 'cause of it.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Finally, there's that reaction he's been waiting for. The Revelator was no longer the one smiling—the detective was.

Ian leaned away when John tried to lunge forward, though there's still a (smug) smile on the detective's face.

The Revelator may have broken people with his fists, his guns and his knives. But Ian Nashton has broken plenty of other criminals through his words and wits alone.

The pen is truly mightier than the sword.

"Peter mentioned the name Andre a lot—that's his friend, no?" The detective closed his eyes and visualized the Revelator's living room again, he visualized the socks scattered in the room.

"A son and a daughter. You took them in, they might have been dropped by your doorstep, but you began to care more and more for them. Somehow balancing a suburban life and being the Revelator. Until… I came around. Now, history has its eyes on you."

The detective crossed one leg over on top the other.

"Piece by piece, bit by bit. I unraveled you, John. You once told me that I should be afraid of you—but I think it should be you who's afraid."

And he knew, deep down, John was afraid. If not for himself, then for his kids.

"Let me ask you a riddle: I cannot be bought, but I can be stolen with one glance. I'm worthless to one but priceless to two. What am I?"

The detective has never really felt like this before. He felt so… powerful.

And he didn't wait for an answer.

"Love. For some, it can be their strength. But for others, it can be their weakness. What is it for you, John?"

ㅤㅤ

John

John's nose flared. He could barely breath due to the immense sensation on his lungs. His mind was clouded, his chest heaving heavily with every breath he took, and now his heart beating furiously against his ribcage, threatening to jump out and breaking away all his bones.

In another situation, John would shrug at the question, but now he's just furious. The once soft panic had grown into a turmoil inside his mind, swirling against his thoughts into a vortex of impulsiveness and stupidity. He found himself gnawing the inside of his cheeks until the taste of blood filled his mouth, and yet, John can't help but to stare intently at his captor and bark some more.

"Compared to the probability of me getting outta here alive, there's a bigger chance I would die on this shit hole," he begins, never for once his eyes left the other's sinister gleam. Just by letting the hatred slip into his brain already makes his breathing rapid and shallow. John can feel his pulse pounding in his temples.

"But lemme tell you what, detective. If I do manage to get the fuck out of here, I will let you know, 'cause that would be the day when no aid will come at you. Hell will be naked before you and destruction has no covering upon your fucking, pretty face. And just when you thought you were safe behind those closed walls with your fucking FBI dogs, I will proof you wrong, sweetheart. You know who I am, baby, you know who the Revelator is. With a donkey's jawbone I have made donkeys of them. With a donkey's jawbone I have killed a thousand men. But I ain't gonna start by killing you first, oh no, I will fill your mountains with the dead. Your hills, your valleys, and your streams will be filled with people slaughtered by the sword. I will make you desolate forever, sweetheart. And when the last light burns out in your dense skull, I’ll be there to inhale the smoke that comes from your fucking burnt bones."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

To any normal person, those threats alone would send shivers down their spine.

But detective Ian Nashton wasn't a normal person by any means. He always smiled and kept his head up in the face of danger.

So he smiled. As if John had just told him the sweetest of words instead of threats. 

It helped that he knows that he has some sort of leverage over John. With his knowledge and connections, Ian was certain he'd have more. 

"My dearest John," he began, "I know exactly who you are. Maybe better than you know yourself. But you don't know me—not as well as I know you—or what /I/ am capable of. With what I know about you, and your family… are you really willing to risk that?"

The detective's eyes darted towards one corner of the room, where he assumed the microphone would be. 

He knows that there was at least one agent on the other side.

"One of his kids' name's Peter Brown. I've talked to him. Nice kid—you wouldn't believe the Revelator's his father. Anyway, I'm sure he won't mind to have a little chat."

The detective returned his gaze to the man sitting in front of him. The expression on the detective's face was cold and unfeeling—perhaps John could even see the darkness behind those spectacles.

        It was unlike himself.

"Are you just going to continue making threats, John?"

ㅤㅤ

John

Any normal person would just back off, but John has always known that Ian Nashton wasn't a normal person. If any way, John is most likely to be digging his own grave for blabbering too much, but there's no pain in trying, right?

Seems like he was wrong.

When the words started to roll from the latter's lips, John had anticipated for the words outcome. But he didn't anticipate... this.

When the goddamn detective flicked his eyes towards the corner of the room, John's bowel dropped. And not just that, when he starts mentioning Peter's full name, he felt the world shatter around him. He wasn't even sure if his heart had skipped another one or two beats or whether it was thumping so fast to the point it feels like nothing at all.

"Y—you're a monster."

He choked, biting his lips so hard as he struggled to keep himself from stammering too much. God forbids him from trembling, but as the gut-wrenching sobs tore through his chest, he just couldn't help himself. John could feel his head spinning around when the realization finally hit him; those cold eyes are giving it away.

He had just reached the end of his fall.

"You're worse than the devil himself."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"That's rich, coming from the man who has a tendency to burn people alive. That's not even the worst of your crimes, is it? You're the one that has tortured and murdered people. You're the one that caused needless deaths and destruction. You're the one that has raped that poor woman," Ian scoffed, disgusted. 

"And yet, /I'm/ the monster? For what? All I said was that I'm sure Peter would LOVE to have a chat to us about his dear old dad. Fine, maybe today I've used more extreme methods with the telephone book and baton. But it pales in comparison to what you have done. Aside from that… our time together here has been perfectly legal."

Truth be told, Ian felt a slight guilt when John began to sob. But he's built himself up to this moment now, and the detective kept that cold expression. 

"Maybe in your twisted little world, I am worse than the devil. And so what? Do you see yourself as a saint? I doubt it, but it'll be laughable if you did."

Somehow, this was no longer really an interrogation anymore, but more of a 'break The Revelator' session.

"I'm an agnostic man, if you haven't noticed. So go on, threaten me with hell all you want. Because I don't believe in it."

The detective wasn't done yet. Oh no.

"I would have left you in that alley to bleed out that night. I don't know if you remember. But I helped you—I WANTED to help ou. For Peter's sake, anyway. He loves you very much, surely he'd be devastated if he saw that you've been found dead in some dark alley."

The detective stood up and leaned over the table, and he pointed to the other man accusingly.

"YOU were so stubborn, though. Even more stubborn than I had been. We tried so hard to work with you, but you were just so arrogant and prideful, weren't you? Like I said, I REALLY didn't want to pull this card, but you brought this upon yourself, John."

The detective crossed his arms and scoffed once more.

"This. Is. YOUR. Fault."

ㅤㅤ

John

John wasn't the type to deny the truth. Hell, how could he? All of his shit has been exposed to the rest of the world. Even recently, he saw a blog dedicated to him, the Revelator himself.

And although John could actually manage to say that he's doing it for the people's own good, although he could actually say that everyone he had ever slaughtered like a lamb had given one chance to change, although John could actually tell the detective that the police sucked bad so he decided to do anything by himself, John didn't. Not that it mattes now.

What matters now is now the official knows about his kids, and that was due to the courtesy of Ian Nashton.

John didn't even bother to contain the choked out sobs as he feels his eyes starting to burn, surely he had brought this all to himself, but who knows that the detective could be this petty?

Using his kids to blackmail him, heh, so must for just.

He started chewing on his lower lip and his eyes welled up with tears. Pitiful as it sounds, John was on the edge. He knows he had failed one thing he desperately try to do.

"Yet you haven't seen me punishing a son for his father's crime," he whispered.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The detective sat on the table again, and he grabbed John's chin to lift the man's head. Just with one glance, he could see that there were tears in the other man's eyes.

      He did this.

He reduced the Revelator to tears. 

He wasn't proud of it, though. He knows it isn't the most clean of methods, but the detective doesn't consider this to be straight up blackmail. He'd call it… persuasion.

Blackmail is the act of demanding money or another benefit from someone in return for not revealing compromising information about them.

Ian hasn't actually done that—but he wanted John to think that he did.

      (He had to do what he had to do)

And it seemed to work. He reduced the fearsome Revelator to tears by mere words.

The detective actually felt genuine pity for John.

John looked so pathetic.

The detective took out his pocket square and gently patted John's eyes dry. For a moment, that cold gaze was gone, replaced by something more affable. Caring, even.

He lowered his voice, so only the two of them could hear it. The detective made an effort to sound kinder, too—it was as if he had become a different person.

"Tsk, tsk. /I/ never said anything about punishing him. You see, I'm not in charge here. But those guys out there? Who knows what they'll do? Agent Moore is one of the best men here that I've ever met. But as for the rest of them, I can't say the same thing." Ian placed the fabric on his lap and once again brushed John's hair away from his face. "It's your fault, yes, but you have a chance to fix it. To make it right. Cooperate and answer the questions you have been asked. It's simple, isn't it?"

The detective folded the fabric neatly and placed it back where it was. He took his hat and idly brushed his thumb across the fabric.

"Then we can get you help. Professional help. Think about it, John. You could live normally amongst society. With your kids—you don't have to do any of this anymore."

Ian let out yet another sigh, "I'm sure your children would like that too. Not having to deal with you being absent, or in jail. Think about it, John. Because once I'm out of here, I don't think I can help you anymore."

ㅤㅤ

John

At some point of time, John knew he has to say something. He highly doubted that the detective will let him slide that easily without getting any answer, especially since he had thrown all the cards at him. He had come this far, why would he stop?

But it still leaves a huge question mark on his head. Some people might be able to pull some strings for him, but it won't ever cleanse him from all the crimes he did. If not in front of the law, then maybe God will, but who fucking knows?

Hence John stayed still, lips sealed tight. He refused to meet the man's eyes and decided to stare right into the cold, gray concrete.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"Depends. Some of us can pull some strings. Not me, though. I don't have that kind of power." The detective shrugged and placed the hat back on his head.

"Would you rather stay here with uncertainty, or would you rather have the chance to be able to see your kids again? I hate the insanity plea as much as the next person but I'm just saying that there's a chance you could be put in an asylum."

The detective now stood behind John and gave him a few pats on the shoulder.

"Now it's up to you. Just answer a few questions, it's not that hard, is it? If not for me, do it for your kids."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"It's fine. Take your time to think—but I really don't have much. So I'll ask you again. What's your real name? Who's your next target?" Those two questions were the main things that they wanted—especially Ian.

"What made you like this, John? Do you even remember?"

Ian honestly wanted this to be over just as much as John did—though he's played all his cards, the detective wasn't proud that he had to stoop so low. Now that the anger had left him.

The children were perfectly safe.

But John needed to think otherwise.

The detective had to do what he had to do.

ㅤㅤ

John

John had it seen coming at him. Everyone and their curious mind and their oh-so-important questions. Have they heard about curiosity killed the cat? He doesn't think so.

So when the detective begins with his questions, John takes a deep breath, hoping it would stop himself from trembling. It didn't work, but at least he tried.

What's your name?

"John."

Who's your next target?

"Haven't decided yet."

What made you like this?

"I don’t know."

Do you even remember?

He stayed quiet.

"No."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Ian was familiar to the saying. Curiosity killed the cat. Who isn't? After all, it is a well known saying—warning people of the dangers of unnecessary investigation. 

But how many people are familiar with the later half of the saying? The rejoinder?

But satisfaction brought it back. 

Finding the answer would be a reward in itself. That's why the detective pressed on.

"I asked for your REAL name. Not the one you took from your parental figure!" The detective slammed his hand on the table again. "Don't lie to me, you bastard."

Ian narrowed his eyes and spoke in a warning tone. "Don't make me do something you'd regret."

ㅤㅤ

John

John was never a good liar and he wasn't even planning to hide it this time. Instead, he stared down at his feet, again, struggling to keep himself on hold 'cause now the slightest pitch of tone from the detective had managed to bring himself into a full alert mode. He can feel himself trembling again.

So he didn't respond.

Not a single word, not a single huff of breath.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Being observant as he was, it's no surprise that Ian would be like a living lie detector.

The detective crossed his arms and sighed in disappointment.

"Fine. Have it your way. But let me just remind you, that you brought this upon yourself."

Ian Nashton glanced at the corner of the room again.

"Bring the kids in."

ㅤㅤ

John

Eyes widening in surprise, John weren't expecting any of that to come from the detective's foul mouth. But he shit you not that the very first response he gave was not a defiant look, but it was a smile full of disbelief. Half frowning, half quirking his brows, John said, “You're mad.”

But when he saw the cold look across the man's visage, John felt himself getting light-headed again. Everything was spinning and falling and he could feel his arms struggling to free himself from the chair. And when it should hurt a lot, John could barely register it as he feels the dam of his eyes breaking away, again.

"You can't do that," he said, and even though he was still smiling—chuckling, even—the glints of his eyes were filled with nothing but a full terror.

"You're fucking mad, they're only seventeen, you can't do anything to innocent kids, they don't have anything to do with this, you bastard!"

And that was supposed to be a threat, but with the way his voice stammering, eyes reddening, and streams of tears flowing faster than his own heartbeat, it sounded more of a plead.

"Jesus Christ!" John barked, his body wracked with an onslaught of sobs and tears.

"You're absolutely mad, please, oh my god, kill me already, just kill me, but don't do anything to them, please, please, please, please, please don't."

He wasn't even trying to free himself anymore, all the frantic movement was just an attempt to get himself closer to the detective because he can feel his voice breaking away, and he's afraid he couldn't hear him in between the choked sobs.

"I'll tell you anything, just don't do anything, please, it's Monsoon, it's Monsoon. My name is Monsoon, please."

John stared at the man, his voice breaking away every second which passed them.

"It's Isaiah Monsoon."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Ian would be lying if he said he didn't feel his stomach drop when he saw those terror stricken eyes. Yes, at the beginning he'd laughed and smiled at John, but now? Now the detective's conscience was starting to get to him.

But he kept that cold and unfeeling expression as best as he could. He has gotten this far. He can feel the guilt later, after this is all done.

"What about the innocent lives lost because of your actions, huh?! They also had nothing to do with it, yet they suffered! Innocent people have lost their lives too because of you, John!" Ian raised his voice again. "And what of my brother? He was just a man going to a video convention, caught in your explosion that night. Besides, I never said anything about hurting them. You just assumed that that would happen."

The detective inhaled sharply and cleared his throat. He hadn't anticipated how John was begging and pleading. Not for his life, but for death. 

He was in tears.

And it didn't happen because he was beaten to a pulp. Not by agent Moore's men, not even by the detective himself.

    But because of Ian's words.

And finally, there's that name he has been after this entire time. Said in between sobs and pleads, the detective almost didn't hear it.

"Isaiah. Of course. It makes perfect sense. See, I expected it to have been a Biblical name. Kind of odd to be addressing you in this way, though. Huh. And I'm sure it must be odd to hear it roll off my tongue."

That information satisfied his own curiosity (and probably agent Moore's as well), but technically speaking, it wasn't of much use.

"You still have other unanswered questions. But I believe you were telling the truth. At least... about your next target. There is no list, is there? You just go after whoever you can, correct?"

Despite the horrible feeling he had in his stomach, the detective still managed to force a thin smile. John's statement about the detective being mad had amused him.

How ironic that the deranged Revelator accused the detective of madness.

"By the way, I'm not mad, /Isaiah/. Just a well connected man who happens to notice everything. Although... I wouldn't blame you for thinking otherwise. There's a quote often thought to have been said by Aristotle, "No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness". What do you think?"

When Ian looked into the other's eyes, he no longer saw the fierceness he was so familiar with, he just saw desperation and hopelessness. He saw /fear/. The once fearsome Revelator was now a mess, covered in bruises and dried up blood; his cheeks dampened with tears and his voice breaking with each word he tried to say.

Ian felt pity for the man, but a tiny part of him in the back of the detective's mind wanted to laugh at John.

Like it was a sickness.

    Was this how John had felt at the barn?

The detective leaned against the doorway, he was ready to leave, but he kept his gaze locked on the other man.

"Anything? Well, go on then. You better have something good, otherwise I will go. For starters, tell me. Do you work alone? Or do you have some sort of a team, just like the previous Revelator?"

ㅤㅤ

John

John can't—Isaiah can't even think straight as the only thing in his mind was, "the detective is right".

All of the things happened, all of the innocent life he had taken away, and all of the things that might happen to his kids, everything were all his fault. He knew he'd done something awful when he had to work so hard to justify it. The more demanding the reparations his subconscious required, the worse he knew it was.

He couldn't even hear whatever the detective had been blabbering because now the guilt did not only sit on his chest, but also deep inside his brain. All the things he had done could never be un-done. Even if he tried to make amends, Isaiah knows that it was still out of the questions.

Even confessing to Father Brown won't erase the guilt nor lift any single weight from it. Even if he speaks his heart to God and beg for his mercy, nothing would make him feel better.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds passed. No words came out of his lips except for restless murmurs of pleading, choked out sobs and a loud sniff. He could only shake his head when the detective asked him something. The guild that had been eating himself, pestering him, and burning the end of his throat had prevented him on speaking anything.

Four second. Five seconds. Six seconds passed. He wonders if his tears would drain out in a night because he couldn't stop himself from bawling. He had clung his faith in the love of Christ and hung the remains of his sanity on it. Every night he prayed that one day all of his pain would be let unfurl and his sin will be washed clean. But now he had to face the truth.

He had done this to himself, he had done this to his kids.

And if something happens to them, how could he forgive himself?

He shook his head.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The detective wasn't sure what he was feeling. He felt guilt, but somewhere inside him, he also felt satisfaction.

He had a principle that sometimes, surely the right way is the ugly way. But was this the right way, or is it just ugly? Ian wasn't sure.

Would this be worth it in the long run? Perhaps.

He let out a deep sigh. He wanted to give John—no, Isaiah—some pats on the back out of pity, (and perhaps subtly apologize) but he was certain that that may ruin the illusion he has built this far. So he only cleared his throat to get the other man's attention.

"Well, I'm afraid I must go now. As long as you cooperate and behave, your children will be safe." That sentence alone was hard for him to say, because it was a lie—his children are perfectly safe regardless of what he'll do.

But it's all an act. He had to keep it up.

"I really didn't want it to be like this, but you left me no choice. I suppose it's been kind of nice meeting you again. See you never, J—I mean, Isaiah." 

The detective immediately stumbled out of the room and slammed the door behind him. There wasn't a single soul outside except for agent Moore. 

Still, Ian Nashton leaned against the door and slumped to the ground, he let his head hang low as he massaged his temples with both of his hands.

"Fucking hell, I can't believe I did that. That was cruel, even for someone like him. Tell me everyone else was gone when I mentioned his family."

The ridiculously tall agent Moore crouched in front of Ian and gave a reassuring nod, though he wasn't sure if the detective had seen it. "Yes. I ordered them to leave as soon as you had stopped hitting him."

Ian removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as he let out a groan. "I feel sick—it was my idea but somehow I feel sick. I feel conflicted. Damn it, Gerard, I feel sick."

The agent placed a comforting hand on the detective's shoulder, "I'm sure… even I was a little… surprised, Ian. But… hey. The ends will justify the means, wouldn't it?"

"I guess—I hope so. I know his kids are perfectly safe. But still, seeing him like that? I feel kind of… pitiful. Underneath that Revelator exterior he seem like he could be a good father." Ian sighed deeply and held his head in his hands.

"Trust me, detective. I've seen worse methods. What you've done today pales in comparison to what I've witnessed first hand. Now, come on. I think you should go home." The taller man stood up and held out his hand for Ian.

The detective took it and pulled himself up. He casted a hesitant glance at the door and an image of a broken down Isaiah crossed his mind, though he immediately shook it off.

"R-right. I should probably go—clear my head. Thank you, for the opportunity and for arranging all of this. And, um. Yeah. Do no harm." Ian wasn't sure what came over him, but he pulled the older man into a brief hug before he made his way out of the building.

He trusted agent Moore, Ian knew he wouldn't do anything to John's kids because he has a nephew of his own.

ㅤㅤ

John

When the door shut close, Isaiah didn't even stop himself from tearing out. It hurts, everything hurts. His muscles, his head, his heart. It could be a hundred degrees out and he'd still be frozen on the inside. Everything feels cold and he can't stop shivering, trembling.

There is static in his head once more; the side effect of this constant fear, the constant stress he lives with. The pain came out like an uproar from his throat in the form of a silent scream, then a heart wrenching wail.

The detective was right.

He had done this to himself.

He had done this to them.

Now he could only beg.

"Just kill me already."

[intertwincd]

hope is a terminal, featureless smoke.

part 2 of the handle with care trilogy

hope is a terminal, featureless smoke

Too much. It was all too much.

The more you have to give, the more you have to lose—the cycle is an endless, tireless one; until you run out of things to give, out of cards to play.

Oliver never knew what missing someone was supposed to feel like until Connor happened. Until he left. It was the sudden realization that he had given too much that made him pull out.

What does missing someone feel like?

It is…a clench in your gut that you just couldn’t let go. If you, like Oliver, tried to bury the tugging sensation with workload on top of workload, you will later find out that it did no good in muting the part of you that wailed for you to go back.

Oliver hasn’t realized that yet, or at least he is pretending not to.

He goes to work day after day until it no longer feels real anymore, and day after day he insists to himself that eventually he’ll get over it. It never felt real in the first place, no, too good to be true would be the most accurate way to put it.

The days go by like clockwork: the same colleagues, the same job, the same miserable office. It’s all the same. Routine is tiring but it’s really the only refuge you have when your thoughts won’t shut up. Today it seems that it isn’t going so well for Oliver.

His mind buzzes relentlessly, ruthlessly. And Ollie has it bad because he can’t douse it out with a warm beverage like coffee—it fuels his thoughts.

Oliver puts up a fight, he types on, determined to think of anything but Connor. Needless to say, he fights on the losing side of the battle and eventually, he gives in to his flood of thoughts.

And they come as an entanglement of emotion and fragments of memories, all of which are too much to comprehend. Oliver’s mind has always operated in system and codes, line and order. He isn’t quite familiar with jumbled up thoughts.

As he brews himself a cup of coffee—defeated, a man needs his coffee—he picks every detail apart. It’s protocol: analyze, identify problem and solve.

Part i: how

To say that Connor hitting on him was a miracle would be understating it. Of course, there was always an ulterior motive; but unlike so many others that had come and went previously, Connor had chosen to stay. And it was supposed to be a good thing, except it wasn’t.

it was cancer, every moment of it. Sickeningly good was the time they had spent together, but not good enough to stop Oliver from second-guessing what everything was supposed to lead to, like he always did. (his mind was always two steps ahead, strategizing his next most rational move.)

being the person he was, he knew most good things in his life had a tendency to leave the moment he started latching on. Things like love, happiness and above all, Connor.

Oliver was smart though, he had a way of dealing with it, the inevitable separation and loss of Good Things. He would see it coming and he would weigh out the risks, calculating the amount of effort to put in, finding a way to make sure it wouldn’t hurt quite as much when the Good Thing left.

The problem with Connor was that Oliver didn’t see him coming. He was caught off-guard, unprepared. He didn’t know how much effort to put in, so he gave it his all; that is, until he knew he’d given too much.

He’d forgiven Connor in hopes of making things work again. He tried, he really did try to save what they had, but it was too much.

The frail relationship he had woven with his bare hands was not enough, and even the strongest vessels break under pressure. He’d given in to Connor’s charm again and again just to see the relationship last another day. He would’ve done anything.

Oliver’s fingers glide over the black keys. Typing the same codes, thinking the same thoughts.

He takes an occasional sip of coffee and he hates it, he hates that it tastes like Connor and he hates that everything seems to find a way to remind him of Connor, he hates that it was, he hates it all.

But what is there left to do other than to reminisce and grief?

Part ii: why

In between lines of JavaScript, Oliver’s mind wanders to places his body cannot reach nor go to. It went to the empty apartment, the diner they’d always buy takeout from, the bar where they met…And he would wonder if Connor thought of him too.

And then there is the question his mind can never run from: why?

If you were looking for the simplest answer then this is it: he was confused.

Where Connor was so sure of himself, Oliver just felt like he wasn’t enough for anyone; which led to him falling victim and caving in to Connor’s charm. Everything was about Connor, and maybe that was what love was supposed to feel like—reckless infatuation—but the longer it went on, the emptier Oliver felt.

He’d gotten his self-worth all mixed up with Connor and the validation and…The sex. That was all the relationship was built on: spur of the moment decisions and the rush.

It was nice to an extent, but when he started to feel incomplete without Connor it felt wrong. The sappy romance novels he’d read didn’t have anything on dependence and the almighty insecurity.

People in love talk about pouring out their souls into someone else, but they don’t mention the feeling of being hollow in the middle—when you’ve given up too much.

Surely that has its consequences too. If it did, then this would be it. Feeling like you are nothing without another wasn’t so much romantic, let alone normal.

If you’d ask Oliver about the part of himself he loved the most then, he would’ve said Connor without a second of doubt; and that’s why it was wrong. So he left. He wanted to be complete again. He wanted to build his self-worth on something that was a little more concrete—to be his own person.

Oliver’s workplace is a quiet one, so his thoughts got much louder, putting the crunch and click of keyboards to shame.

It all felt like a big time out. Some time to think clearly again, without the distraction of heart. A deep breath out of water.  It was hard—there’s no denying it—but it was by all means necessary.

Part iii: when

When will it stop?

This broken faucet of thoughts, when will it stop? It has only been a day and yet Oliver feels like he’s been floating in his ocean of thoughts for a whole eternity.

The same questions circle him and at this point he didn’t know if this was what he had in mind when he decided to take a break.

When they were together, every day felt like the last good day to Oliver. The entire course of the relationship felt like treading on a tightrope, every move was to be gone over countless times—it had to be perfect or everything could end in a matter of seconds.

For a while it was okay, it was love, Oliver had to remind himself.

The fact was that there was too much at stake, things at stake included: 1 heart.

Oliver loved with all his heart and so did Connor, but Oliver found himself at the waiting end of the line far too often. Waiting…For Connor. For his love to be reciprocated, for his effort to be acknowledged.

Most of the time Connor loved back as well; in slow waves of affection and crashing tides of lust and want. He gave Oliver the occasional dose of validation and appreciation he needed and Oliver let himself be consumed by it.

If Oliver could pinpoint the moment he was aware of how much he needed Connor it would be the night Connor had called dinner off because of a case he was working on. Oliver had went the extra mile to conjure up a four course meal that night, only to get a text message from Connor letting him know how sorry he was.

The worst part was that Oliver wasn’t mad at all, not one bit. He’d made up enough reasons to justify Connor missing dinner for the fourth time before his conscience even had the chance to put the blame on him.

At the dining table Oliver ate silently, his thoughts lingering not too far from wherever Connor would’ve been, and as he looked across the table at the empty seat he felt it. Terrible, horrible familiarity; he’d gotten used to having his promises broken.

That was the exact moment he felt all of it slip away from him, all at once.

He stayed for a few more days, hoping to see a silver lining, but it never came. In its place stood realization, cold as ever.  

Hope was what kept him going; hope was what got him into this mess from the start. Hope was the feeble foundation their relationship was built on, but it was all they had, really.

And then as if it wasn’t already bad enough, Connor went and fucked another man.

Part iv: who

It took a little getting used to, being his own person again.

It was more like the calm after the storm. He'd gotten used to the turbulence, and now that it was all well  again part of him wanted it back.

Maybe it’s because being in a relationship distracts him from himself—it’s hard to constantly have to give yourself pep talks (that don’t go anywhere).

As a person, Oliver has never felt complete. Like, he always felt as if he was missing a piece somewhere. Almost enough but just not. Poetic garbage aside it would be the crude term of having low self-esteem.

Maybe it isn’t as bad as it seems, maybe the fact that it happens to everyone is supposed to mean it matters  less (it doesn’t) but to Oliver it felt like a manifesting disease, and the more he thought about it the worse it would get.

Who was he, anyway?

The only things he could describe himself with were the traits he lacked. In a way Oliver became the person Connor wanted to love, became that person who never got angry, who said all the right things and steered far from the wrong, became the boyfriend that waited past midnight, and it was all his own fault.

Oliver stares at the computer screen and the dark blue glow it emits, and the lines of code are no longer lines of code; they’re text messages from Connor, missed calls from Connor, voicemails from Connor; Connor, Connor, Connor.

Could he really forgive him? Connor knew the type of man that Oliver was. He knew how to reel him right back even if he fucked him over a million times, and he did.

Forgiving him would mean walking back into a trap, forgiving him would mean letting himself feel vulnerable and weak—not enough. It would mean that he’d admitted that he was nothing without Connor.

The computer whirrs and buzzes, the firewalls and servers demanding to be fixed all at once and it becomes a montage of wails and of course it isn’t that simple—it’s a computer for christ’s sake.

The wailing derived from his head, more specifically his own voice, begs and pleas for him to just go back to whatever or whoever home was, it is too tired of fighting this urge.

Naturally, Oliver shuts the laptop and makes his way back to 303.

That night, he barely gets any sleep, with his mind elsewhere as it always is. The pandemonium in his mind fades off into a distant static, letting him off the hook.

Slumber doesn’t come without a price though, nothing does. The phone rings at 3 and doesn’t stop until 4, when Oliver tears himself away from his bed. The amount of misery left from the night before it weighs him down along with fatigue.

The phone rings again, the pesky little electrical monster.

Squinting, Oliver sees a familiar number on the screen, and he sighs because every ounce of pain from the day before is back at full force.

Connor’s name flashes above the number, and Oliver loses another battle in his mind as he answers the call. The phone call is a short one but it wakes him up. The things Connor could say…

Someway and somehow, Oliver finds himself in Connor’s apartment and his mind is perplexed to find itself back at square one.

The bitter smell of beer is strong in the air as Oliver pushes the door open.

It smells like defeat and it seems that Oliver isn’t the only one having a tough time alone. Connor looks defeated, with the amount of cans around him he did not look at the slightest okay.

At this point it’s almost satirical that Oliver feels nothing but hopeless. His feet stay rooted to the ground and he stares at Connor as all his walls come down in one single instant. Connor had said that he had ‘figured it out’ and was apologizing profusely on the phone.

Granted, Oliver had expected to see much more than a drunk man in his apartment, fast asleep. There isn’t any anger left in Oliver for now, so he settles for some peace and quiet.

For a few minutes he actually convinces himself to clean up the mess Connor made of himself, he even changes Connor out of his button-down and into an old tee shirt, tucking him into bed.

Part v: what (the following morning)

The pavements gleam in the sunlight. Every step he takes in the direction home corresponds with the steps he took away from Connor.

So what was it that held him back?

When Connor had cheated, it felt like Connor had taken pieces of Oliver and had given them to another man just like that. Still he heard himself defending Connor for something so awful, so foul. He didn’t want to forgive him because to do that he had to first forgive himself.

He was an IT expert, he specialized in fixing things; yet the only thing he could not seem to mend was himself. It would be unbelievably inconsiderate to let Connor carry two burdens, not to mention himself. Trying to mend Connor would only mean doubling the casualties.

He couldn’t fix himself so he went from lover to lover, finding the missing piece, expecting them to make everything alright again.

He’d been searching in all the wrong places. The missing parts of himself resided in him. They were his love and the way he loved—with passion, with pride. Didn’t he see? The only person who could complete him was himself.  

And the whole time he’d thought Connor was taking his love from him…He was only learning to open up. Oliver was so preoccupied that he hadn’t taken anything in from Connor’s point of view—the fact that this exclusive relationship was something still fairly new to him.

Insecurity wasn’t his tragic flaw—his pride was. God, he’d been so fucking selfish.

The briefcase stays clutched in Oliver’s hand, but his knuckles have gone white and his mind is blank. His conscience is clear as he closes his door behind him.

He had all his answers in his two hands and for now he’s stunned.

The water from the showerhead pounds the man’s chest and under the steady splash of cold water is the sound of a heart waking up. The emotions that wash over him is a cocktail mixture of a heavy sense of guilt with an overflowing relief.

This could all still work out if both of them were willing to try. This could still work.

Getting into bed seems to be the hardest thing when your head is just starting to rev up again, intrigued by its want to right all the wrongs there are.

He falls asleep at long last with the bedside lamp still turned on, eyes getting the rest they’ve been deprived of.

It was the right decision, ollie had decided. Leaving (both Connor and his apartment this morning) was the best thing he could have done. He was in no place to fix Connor given the circumstances. They both aren’t thinking straight right now, in each other’s presence it was too great a distraction.

Some time apart would suffice, hopefully.

The next day at work is a breeze. The lines of codes are no longer blurring together or doing anything they shouldn’t be. He sees things with a new light now and everything feels new.

Even his coworkers give him double takes as he walks in—must be the freshly laundered suit—and everyone seems shocked, even Oliver himself, when he accepts an invitation to lunch with his colleagues.

Everyday Oliver learns to forgive Connor more, even if he hasn’t formally apologized, ollie likes to believe that he will soon.

Oliver thinks of Connor still, but in his head it seems a lot more like a virtual checking-up-on than longing, for the most part.

Part vi: where (2 weeks later)

Oliver had all his missing pieces back and his life in order again. It feels good.

On a Saturday afternoon Oliver decides to treat himself to some ice cream he had been craving the whole week, and at the little parlor everything is nice and quiet as always, until the owner of the shop asks him about Connor.

The ice cream melts against the metal spoon and what was meant to be a chocolate triple deluxe looks like a chocolate avalanche.

At the mention of Connor’s name, Oliver is brought back into the memory of his first time visiting this parlor. Connor had insisted that ice cream was the best dessert and Oliver had given in, half unwillingly tagging along to the little unsuspecting ice cream parlor.

They had made countless trips there since, every time they failed to pick a proper place to eat.

The chocolate ice cream lacks taste without Connor around. Oliver looks around and everywhere he sees himself and Connor—laughing in a booth, arguing about the best tacos, talking about anything and everything.

Oliver takes his paper cup of ice cream and leaves the shop, intending to look for someplace quieter.

He takes a stroll around a park and walks past shop windows, but everywhere he goes, he sees Connor. On benches, in restaurants and bars…The chocolate ice cream ends up in the garbage and Oliver stays lost in thought.

It’s impossible to escape the pull in his stomach that is back and strong as ever; and this time Oliver doesn’t doubt it anymore. He’s certain of it—he misses him.

He’s everywhere. Oliver sees him everywhere, because his subconscious wants to.

Is it time yet? To go back to Connor and bask in everything that is him? Is it time yet to go back and finally, finally make the amendments he’s been meaning to make?

Is it time yet to go…Home?

Miraculously, Oliver has ended up in front of Connor’s apartment again. His feet are starting to make his decisions for him now, it seems.

This is it then, he supposes. It must be time.

It has to be.

[jamest-kirk]

So the McKirk actors AU, the movie they shot, what about some kind of AU with a similar story to the one the movie had? Jim as one survivor in that bunker and Leonard from outside, just like there.

Long post ahead!

Every day is pretty much the same. Up at 6AM, breakfast by 7. Jim starts working as a patrol officer at 8, and he does so until dinner time. After dinner, he works out, showers, and spends time in the bar or other recreational areas until 11PM. There is an occasional shift when Jim fills in for another officer who’s fallen ill, but otherwise, every day looks exactly the same. And it’s fine, it really is. Jim doesn’t know any better. Doesn’t know the world before the bombs, other than what’s on the movies in the small theater room. That world was beautiful. The world now is a poisonous one.

Until Leonard shows up. The vault elders always assured no one knew about this vault in particular. Built in secret, and all that. But there he is, when Jim is alone with Scotty in the security office. This guy just stumbles closer towards the vault door, and starts banging his fists against te sealed metal doors in hopes anyone could hear. “Scotty, what is this?” Jim asks. “An outsider,” Scotty comments. “I mean, why is he even alive? Outside is supposed to be too radiated,” Jim replies, and Scotty shrugs. He pushes the comms button, hesitating briefly before leaning in closer to the microphone. “State your name and the purpose of your visit,” Scotty demands, before adding a: “please”. “My name is Leonard McCoy,” the other says, panting lightly, and looking up towards the security camera, “I am a doctor from Vault 118. I seek temporary shelter for-” Jim flinches at the sound of high pitched shrieking in the distance, echoing through the cave that hides their vault door. “No,” Scotty says, but Jim frowns. “Scotty, something’s coming. We can’t just let this man die.” “We have orders, sir. We can’t risk the safety of the entire vault for the sake of one man.” “So, give him a radiation scan.” “No, sir,” Scotty says, “I’ll lose my job if I–” but Jim pushes the lever that releases the vault door anyway. As soon as the thing starts to open, Leonard glips inside. Jim and Scotty both struggle to close it on time for a horde of the creepiest, deformed once-humans, but they manage. Scotty lets out a relieved sigh, rubbing his temples and shooting Jim a glare. “You realize those things could have–” “Yes, but they didn’t,” Jim says, and then he leaves to find Leonard.

Jim guides Leonard to the sickbay, but instead of greeting the stranger kindly like Jim expected, Leonard is pushed up against the wall and his hands are quickly tied behind his back. He doesn’t even have the time to stop it. The first time he catches Leonard privately is in one of the cells, and he approaches him cautiously. “You’re from another vault?” he asks, and Leonard looks up. “Yeah. 118. You guys always lock up strangers immediately?” “You’re the first we ever let in,” Jim admits with a sheepish smile. “Or, well, I let you in. What happened out there? What’s it like?” “Our vault looks pretty much the same,” Leonard replies, “or, looked, anyway. It was destroyed.” Jim listens curiously, sitting down by the edge of that cell. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Leonard shrugs. “I’m just looking for refuge. The world out there, it’s not… it’s not for people like us. When can I be let out?”

“Never,” Spock says, and Jim frowns. “Why not? He says he’s from Vault 118. It’s a legitimate vault!” "We don’t know if that is even true,“ Spock counters. “He could be from the ground. He’s been on the ground.“ “We did a radiation scan on him,” Jim says, “the amount of radiation in his blood is something we can cure.” “It’s illogical to put the safety of the entire vault at stake for the sake of a complete stranger,” Spock says, “and since when do you even care?” “Because,” Jim says, “it’s the right thing to do.” 

So Leonard doesn’t get released fro his cell. Not until it’s absolutely necessary. They’re pretty well sealed off, but occasional trades with the outside happen. Things they can’t grow on their own. Jim’s not actually aware of this happening, until people start falling ill. Jim, too, is feeling sick. He’s not as much of a shivering mess as most, but he does throw up a few times, looks pale and feels sweaty. Spock and Uhura decide to put the sick people in quarantine at first, but when more people start falling ill and work starts lacking, they have no choice but to call those who are still able back into work. “You okay?” Jim asks Spock, who also looks sickly. “We will be once we pass this thing,” Spock says, and Jim hands him a blanket. “Take your rest, yeah? Do we know what caused this?” Jim asks, and Spock shrugs. “Probably just from the outside. Improperly decontaminated trader,” he explains, and Jim smiles worriedly. “Hey, that guy we got locked up-” he starts, but Spock throws him an annoyed glance. “Hey, hear me out, Spock. That guy said he was a doctor. After Martha passed, we haven’t had a real educated one,” Jim says. “Who says this guy is the real deal?” “Why don’t we give it a try, though?” Jim asks, “worst case scenario, he can’t help us and we send him back out. Best case scenario, we have ourselves a new doctor.”

Leonard doesn’t really need convincing. He’s just happy to get out of that cell. And he wasn’t lying when he said he was a doctor. The moment he gets to the sickbay, he quietly gets to work, and he seems to know what he’s doing. “It’s not a virus,” Leonard explains after he’s checked up on at least four people, including Spock. “What is it, then?” Spock asks. “Food poisoning,” Leonard says, “I can help everyone if you have antibiotics. If not, I can make them.” “You can make them?” Jim asks curiously. “I mean, natural antibiotics. As natural as they come out there in the wild.” “You… want to go out there?” Spock asks with a frown, and Leonard nods. “Yeah. I mean, not really, but if I have to, I will.”

Jim doesn’t think Leonard will return. He offers his assistance, but neither Spock, Uhura, or Scotty let him. But a day later, Leonard is back. With chemicals and dried plants. Jim watches Leonard use the antibiotics on those who are really sick, and provides  his own special tea to the others. Jim feels better almost instantly, but maybe he’s a little biased - he finds Leonard absolutely fascinating.

Uhura provides Leonard with his own room afterwards, but he shares bathrooms with Jim and Scotty. Jim really doesn’t mind. Leonard wakes up around the same time as him, and so Jim has the pleasure of watching Leonard shower while Jim brushes his teeth. Jim’s had his share of romances in the bunker, but neither of them permanent, and this is mostly just a nice view. Jim knows everything about everyone in here, but Leonard is a stranger. Leonard is very, very interesting.

Leonard is allowed outside. Or, according to him, he’s required outside to gather supplies. He goes out in the morning at least once a week and comes home with whatever he can scavenge. Multiple times Jim tries to come with him, but no one in the vault lets him. Neither does Leonard. But then things go missing in the vault. Small things. Valuables, food resources, and blood samples. Everyone suspects Leonard, which Jim thinks is completely unfair, but he’s the only one who worked with blood samples recently. The first person who actually confronts Leonard about it gets a punch in the face, too, which doesn’t really bode very well for Leonard. 

After he’s released from a night in his cell, Jim takes him back to his room. “Did you do it?” Jim asks, and Leonard raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” “Steal those supplies-” “Yes, I know what you were referring to. What purpose would I gain with stealing supplies?” Leonard asks, “you guys took me in, I’ve been helping people here. Why would I ruin that?” “I don’t know,” Jim says. “There’s over a hundred people in this vault. Why am I the only one who’s being suspected?” “I don’t know,” Jim repeats. He watches Leonard pull his shirt off, briefly confused and distracted. “What are you doing?” “Taking a shower,” Leonard replies, “or is that a crime now, too?” “No,” Jim says  through gritted teeth. 

People start falling ill again. Leonard tries his best, Jim can tell, but the first fatal victim is a young girl. Food poisoning and radiation fever, Leonard calls it. “Whose fault is that?” Spock asks Leonard, cornering him in his office. “What?” Leonard asks. “The radiation fever,” Spock says, “I know you have been exposing us to the radiation outside.” “What?” Jim asks, “Spock, what?” “It’s true, isn’t it?” Spock asks. Leonard nods, and Jim feels strangely heartbroken. “But I can explain,” Leonard says, “these vaults, they’re not build to last. I was just–” “Save it,” Spock replies, and Jim frowns because Spock looks like he’s genuinely upset with his own answer “pack your things, doctor. Come morning, we will revoke your residency here.”

“Spock,” Jim calls out after him, “we don’t have to do this. Leonard is a good doctor.” “You think I don’t know that?” Spock counters, falling down on his couch and grabbing his notebook, “doctor McCoy and I have been spending many nights together to do research. I’m just as displeased by this as you are.” “Then why are you doing this?” Jim counters. “A little girl died this morning,” Spock replies, “because of radiation fever.” “We are blatantly ignoring the fact that this is the third of forth time in a shot time we’ve struggled with food poisoning-” “That’s irrelevant, and we’re assuming that’s true because that’s what Leonard says, we don’t know if that’s true,” Spock says, “I’m sorry, Jim. I know you’ve taken a liking to him. So have I. But I have to put the safety of the vault before my own feelings.”

Jim visits Leonard’s room, and he watches those tense shoulders shove clothes and supplies in a small backpack. “Why’d you do it?” Jim asks, “the radiation. It’s dangerous. Why would you-” “Because all of you are going to die without me doing so,” Leonard replies, and Jim raises his eyebrows. “What?” “These vaults were built to sustain up to 20 years underground, not 200,” Leonard replies, “one strong radiation storm out there and all of these people are going to die unless you gradually expose them to small amounts of radiation. Not enough to kill them, but–” “Then why did that little girl die?” Jim asks. “That wasn’t me,” Leonard replies, “someone else.” “You’re the only one who has access to the outside regularly!” Jim counters. He frowns when Leonard yanks open his night stand and pulls a pistol out. But rather than threatening Jim with it, he puts it in his backpack, too. “Fuck you,” Leonard says, “my daughter died of overexposure. All I’ve done since day one here, is trying to stop this vault from the same fate, and I’ve been questioned and suspected about it all the time.” “You could’ve just been honest about it!” Jim says, stepping in closer and grabbing Leonard’s arm. Leonard spins around to see him, and he narrows his eyes. Jim frowns, still angry, but taken off guard when Leonard pulls Jim in closer and kisses him. It’s somehow angry and passionate at the same time, and Jim wraps his arms around Leonard’s shoulders, pulling him in impossibly closer.

But this somehow makes Leonard’s departure even harder. Jim gets dressed  quietly in the morning, and so does Leonard. They’re both barely dressed up when guards show up to escort Leonard out. Leonard goes with them without struggle. Jim walks with them, too, and he quietly watches the vault doors slide open. It just feels wrong, somehow. In the time that Leonard spent in their vault, Jim became completely smitten with this doctor. It doesn’t feel right to see him walk through those vault door. And when the doors start closing, Jim finds himself moving. He walks towards the closing doors. Slow, at first, and then quicker. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he sprints through the sliding doors less than a second before it closes behind him, and only then it dawns on him. He’s on the outside. 

“Leonard!” Jim calls out, running after the other. “Jim?” Leonard asks, spinning around while he climbs his way out to the surface. “What are you doing here?!” “I don’t… I don’t know,” Jim admits sheepishly, falling in love with that grumpy frown all over again when Leonard reaches out and pulls Jim up to his level. “You’re an idiot,” Leonard says, and Jim shrugs. “Can’t argue with that.” “Can you handle a gun?” Leonard asks. The question itself makes Jim frown in worry, but he nods. “I can.” “Good,” Leonard says, reaching out into his backpack and taking out a pistol, “you’re gonna need it.” He gives one to Jim, and after Jim tucks it in his belt, Leonard continues to climb towards the surface. 

The surface is an oddly beautiful mixture between a world destroyed by the nuclear war, and mother nature’s attempt to take it back. Patches of green forests go combined with stretches of dry, dead land. “We’ll go to the nearest secured city,” Leonard says, “get a hotelroom for a few days, figure out where to go next. We’ll be fine unless a storm hits. Unless… you want to go back? You still can.” Jim takes a deep breath, the air fresh in his lungs, and it’s like nothing he’s ever breathed in before. The soft breeze and the sun on his skin makes his eyes water, but it’s not unpleasant. “There’s cities? Where people live?” “Yeah,” Leonard says, “people started getting out of vaults a hundred years ago.” Jim looks behind them, towards the descent back to the vault, and then looks at Leonard again. Mind made up, he reaches out and grabs Leonard’s hand. “Let’s go, then.”