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impala-dreamer · 8 months ago

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Save Me - Part Two

A Short Story

~ Sometimes, when life seems the brightest, shadows creep in. After announcing their engagement to the world, Jensen's fiancé is kidnapped. With the help of a friend, she tries to fight her way back home to him.~

Jensen Ackles x F!Reader, Dean Winchester (cameos by Misha Collins and OCs)

7,160 Words Total. Part Two: 3,950

Warnings: My kind of Super Angst. Blood. Injury. Kidnapping. It's really sad...

A/N: Written for @jacklesversebingo "No one's coming to save you. Get up!"

PART ONE ~ PART TWO

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works

Snow was falling from a gray sky. Big flakes landed on his shoulders, dusted his hair, melted on his cheeks. His lips were frozen; his fingers numb.

The cherry of his cigarette fell to the icy sidewalk and he huffed. He fumbled with the lighter and lit back up, pulling at the filter as if he were trying to set his lungs on fire.

Maybe he was. Maybe he wanted to set the hotel on fire, the police station, the entire city.

Jensen tipped his head back and exhaled, sending the smoke to mix with the clouds overhead.

“When did you start smoking again?”

Misha appeared next to him, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other holding a jacket. He was visibly cold, bouncing a bit for warmth even as he settled next to Jensen.

“I don’t know. When did the world implode? Four days ago?” He licked his lip and then took another drag. “Then.”

Misha shook his head sadly and Jensen rolled his eyes.

He flicked the butt into the street and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Put your coat on at least,” Misha suggested, tapping his shoulder with the jacket.

Jensen looked down at it as if he’d never seen anything like it.

“No.”

Misha sighed. “It’s freezing. You’re gonna get sick.”

“So?”

Not wanting to fight, Misha draped the jacket over Jensen’s shoulders and gave him a friendly squeeze.

“Y/N needs you to be strong. You can’t go off and get pneumonia.”

Jensen turned his head and glared; green eyes narrow and angry. “She doesn’t need me to be strong. She needs me to fucking find her.” His jaw clenched so hard he could feel his pulse beat in his temples. “She needs me to save her.”

Heartbroken, Misha closed his eyes and dropped his head. “I know. But there’s nothing you can do right now.”

Jensen scoffed. “Isn’t there?”

“No. The police are-”

Enraged, defeated, hopeless, Jensen spun away, kicking at the snow and pushing Misha’s care away. “The police aren’t doing shit! It’s been four fucking days!”

“I know…”

“They can’t even figure out who took her. The fucking- the security cameras in the parking garage weren’t fucking working! What the fuck good is that!”

The louder Jensen’s voice grew, the smaller Misha felt. There was nothing he could say, no way to comfort his friend.

Jensen wouldn’t be comforted even if Misha knew how. He wanted to rage at the universe. To put his fist through the brick wall behind him. To drive a truck through the Starbucks across the street. To run away from everyone and everything in this godforsaken city and find her. He had to find her.

A snowflake landed on his nose and he batted it away, slapping himself in the face.

He calmed.

His heart ached.

His voice crackled with tears.

“Odds are,” he whispered, “She’s dead already.”

“Don’t say that.” Misha choked back his own pain and cleared his throat. “The detective said there’s no reason to assume-”

Jensen laughed bitterly. “Forty-eight hours, isn’t that what they say? If you don’t find them in the first forty-eight hours you’re not going to. Or they turn up dead on the side of the road or in a shallow grave behind some psycho’s house.”

“Jensen…”

Green eyes closed to the world.

He was trembling, shaking from the cold and the pain of uncertainty and loss.

“I just…I don’t know what to do.”

They stood there in silence, letting January seep into their bones. There was nothing to say, nothing either of them could do.

It just was what it was.

And it was impossible.

A deep shiver moved through Jensen’s body and he shoved his arms through the jacket sleeves, thankful that Misha was looking out for him and the little things. He was too shattered to care about staying alive. Not right now.

He turned back to his friend and the revolving doors, deciding it was time to go back in and shake away the cold.

Flashing lights pulled his attention to the street and he held his breath as the police car turned into the hotel lot. The world moved in slow motion as the car parked in the nearby handicapped spot and Detective Lassiter hopped out. He held a clear bag in his thick fist and his countenance was heavy. He looked at Jensen and shook his head.

Jensen’s universe cracked. He bit his tongue, needing to feel the pain to keep himself conscious as the detective explained what had happened.

“They’re not asking for a ransom,” he said, speech rushed and emotionless. “Not yet, anyway. But this- this is good.” He handed the bag to Jensen.

Y/N’s diamond engagement ring glistened in the dim gray light.

Jensen closed his fist around it. The platinum prongs dug into his palm. “How?” His voice broke. “How is this good?”

“Means they want something. They’re not just going to kill her and be done. This is the kidnappers opening a line of communication.”

Jensen couldn’t hear him, couldn’t follow his words any longer. His fist tightened and the diamond cut through the thin evidence bag. He squeezed until it hurt, until his skin broke, until he could feel the warm trickle of blood.

A drop fell from his fist and painted the freshly fallen snow.

It was hard to stay awake, hard to think.

The pain was still there, but she couldn’t feel it much anymore. It didn’t feel as intense, as if she were getting used to the constant stabbing and shredding of her insides that accompanied every breath she took.

She couldn’t feel the cold anymore either. Her flesh had simply become part of the concrete, all of her warmth had been drained into the darkness.

In and out of the dreamless sleep of unconsciousness, she lay on the dirty floor, barely able to think let alone move.

“Why you?” she whispered, watching burgundy flannel pace back and forth by the steps.

Dean stopped short, his boots making a dull thud on the floor.

“What?”

She lifted her head, cringed at the hurt that erupted in her shoulder.

“I said, why is it you?”

His forehead creased and he shrugged. “I don’t know. Who else would it be?”

Y/N rubbed her right eye. It was dry and it hurt to blink. She was dehydrated and starving; her body was failing, her mind was slipping.

“It’s just odd, I guess.”

Dean sat on the bottom step, his elbows resting on his knees. “I don’t think it’s that weird. You need someone to talk to, you need someone to help. I’m pretty good at that shit.”

Y/N sighed. “But you don’t exist. I’m just talking to myself.”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really.”

“There should have been way more demon Dean.”

Jensen laughed and shot her a look that would have knocked her over had she not already been sitting down.

The couch cushion between them seemed as wide as an ocean, but neither were ready to swim across.

“You like bad boys, huh?” He licked his lips and watched hers as she answered.

“I guess everybody does at some point,” she said. “But there was something special about Dean as a demon. It was like… he was finally free for a little while. Like he was on vacation. Just hanging out and getting laid-”

Jensen grinned. “And murdering innocent people.”

She dipped her chin and looked up at him flirtatiously. “Is anyone ever truly innocent, Jensen?”

His smile faded and he stared harder. His lips parted slowly. “Are you?”

She blinked, painted lashes fanning over enchanting eyes. “I can be when I need to be.”

Her hand slid across the space between them and she bit her lip, daring him to match her move, begging him to meet her halfway.

He dropped his hand to the cushion, fingers landing a breath away from hers.

“What about right now?” he asked, leaning close.

She could feel the heat pushing off of him, smell the lingering scent of his faded cologne.

“Honestly?” she smirked.

He nodded. “Always.”

Y/N leaned in dangerously close. “I’m not feeling too innocent right now.”

A tentative kiss. The first taste of his lips; the first feel of her skin.

There were footsteps above her head. Someone running; heavy shoes falling on old wooden planks.

Y/N lay on her back and stared up at nothing. There were long beams above her and she wondered what it would take for them to come crashing down and crush her to death.

It wasn’t that she wanted to die, she’d never want that, but she knew it was happening. She could feel her body giving up. Her skin was hot but she shivered. Her blood had dried but the wounds wouldn’t stay closed. Her thoughts were fuzzy and shadows played tricks on her.

She couldn’t tell how long it had been since they’d tossed her down the steps; didn’t know how far from help she was. Time meant nothing. It could have been hours, a month, a week mostly likely. There was no way for her to guess. No windows to help count the sunsets, no ticking clock to pace her breaths to.

Sometimes, she counted her heartbeats just to have something to do, but they were unsteady. Too fast at times and then far too slow. It scared her to pay attention to the erratic pulse of her blood, so she tried to ignore it.

Mostly, she remembered things.

Mostly, she remembered him.

In moments when the pain overwhelmed her and her eyes refused to stop leaking, she would pull up his face, try to remember the placement of every freckle, count each thick eyelash. She could still feel his hands on her skin, smell his breath first thing in the morning. She could taste the salt on his neck after a workout, hear his delicate whispers in the heat of night. But his eyes were fading away. She couldn’t get the shade right in her mind; couldn’t remember what shirt made them darker, what time of day they looked the lightest.

The green was washing away.

Last winter. A break in filming. Sand beneath their feet; ocean breeze filling their lungs.

The sun was so bright it hurt her eyes, but she refused to close them, unwilling to miss one single second of time with him.

He was already burning in the sun; his shoulders tanning, his chest turning red. Every now and then, he’d take off and run into the water, dip below the perfect blue horizon and cool off. She loved those moments the best, when he came back to her dripping and laughing, his hair wet and slicked back behind his jet-fin ears.

He’d always come back to her, always fall down over her, hold himself up on his big arms and let the ocean water dribble down onto her bare stomach. He’d block the sun for a few precious moments, and all she could see was the halo around him and the love in his eyes.

“Y/N…”

She couldn’t open her eyes. They felt so heavy, so dry. It was all so pointless.

“Y/N, wake up, sweetheart.”

Dean was hovering again, crouched down at her side. His giant hand was hovering over her forehead as if checking her temperature like a mother would for her child.

“Don’t- don’t call me that,” she croaked. Her eyes fluttered open and she was met with his worried smile.

“What should I call you then?”

“A cab.”

He laughed softly. “You’re still funny. That’s good.”

“Is it?”

She tried to sit up but her spine felt like gelatin. She tried to speak but her throat was ripped to shreds. She tried to cry but her eyes were dry and nothing came out. Her shoulders shook and she moaned pitifully.

Dean’s jaw clenched, dimples popped above his lip. “You gotta get out of here. You’re not doin’ so well.”

Y/N curled in on herself, knees and shoulders meeting somewhere in the middle. “Go away.”

“No.”

She covered her face.

He shifted onto his knees. “You gotta get up and find a way out.”

“There is no way out. We’ve looked a hundred times.”

He exhaled hard, frustrated and desperate. “You gotta try again. You gotta get out.”

Her eyes fell closed again, her breathing slowed. “He’ll find me. He’ll save me…”

Y/N was still confused when the elevator door opened. Jensen had refused to tell her where they were going or why they were dressed like they were being photographed for GQ.

‘Wear that purple dress,’ he’d said on the phone with no explanation why.

Her hand clasped in his, they stepped out into a large empty ballroom. Floor to ceiling windows looked out on a gray morning; the L.A. smog was thick and hung like rain clouds in the sky.

Jensen led her deep into the room and turned to face her. He was nervous, she could tell. His chewed his bottom lip, rubbed his thumb over her hand quickly, breathed a little too fast.

She laughed gently. “What’s going on?”

He took a big, calming breath.

He licked his lips and smiled.

“Eighteen months ago, we were both here for that HBO after party. You wore this purple dress and I was wearing…” He looked down at his crisp black button down and charcoal slacks. “Well, this.”

She smiled. “I remember. It was the first time we met.”

He swallowed hard and held her hand in both of his. His palms were damp.

“But what you don’t know is that I saw you the very second you walked in.” He bit the corner of his mouth and took a second to collect his racing thoughts. “I was over there by the window talking to Eric and you walked in… It was like the crowd opened up for you. Every head turned; the music stopped.”

“I don’t think it was that much of an entrance,” she laughed.

“It was for me.”

Her heart raced.

“Jen, what’s going on?”

He smiled and bent down to kiss her lips. He held her face in his hands, ran his thumbs lightly over her cheeks. She kissed him back, licking at his plump lips.

“I wanted to do that the moment I saw you,” he whispered.

Her eyes fluttered open and all she saw was green.

“And this…”

He let her go and dropped down onto one knee.

He took her hand.

She held her breath.

“Marry me, Y/N…”

“I need you to calm down.”

Detective Lassiter was tucked behind his messy desk, his beer gut smushed against the edge.

Jensen refused to relax. He paced in front of the man’s desk, his hands rushing through his hair; fists beating at the stale air.

“I can’t fucking calm down, OK!” His face was red and his jaw hurt from holding his tongue for so long. “You people can’t do shit, you know that? It’s been six fucking days.”

“Mr. Ackles, please-”

“No. No. No.” He turned to the detective and slammed his hands down on the desk. He leaned in, close to growling. “You need to save her.”

The older man sat forward. “We are doing everything we can. They’re working on the emails right now. Still hoping there’s traceable DNA on the ring. We will get these bastards. We will find her.”

Jensen closed his eyes, felt a thousand more tears brewing in his chest. He didn’t know how much longer he could go on without having a complete breakdown. There wasn’t enough bourbon in the world to soothe his soul.

Only one thing would do.

Only Y/N.

He was coughing so badly she was sure he was dying. She could hear him from the kitchen, his wet cough rattling above the sound of the screaming kettle.

She poured the boiling water onto the tea bag and grabbed some Tylenol from the cabinet.

The room was dark but the light from his cell phone guided her across the soft carpet.

“Hey…”

He groaned miserably.

“You feelin’ any better?”

He shook his head. “I feel like death.”

Y/N set the mug of tea down on the nightstand and switched on the lamp.

He cringed at the light and shielded his eyes with a forearm over his face.

“You better not die on me, Ackles. I’ve still got plans for you.”

He smiled and sat up a little bit, reaching for the tea. “You can’t get rid of me this easily. Even if it is your fault.”

She gasped in mock offense. “It is not my fault!”

“You got me sick,” he chuckled and took a sip.

“Yeah. You’re right. It was all part of my master plan to steal the Impala from you.” She pressed her fingertips together and gave him an evil grin. “Everything is falling into place.”

He laughed. It triggered a cough and she took the tea from him as his body shook.

“Oh, god, Jen.” Her brow creased with worry and she pressed a cool hand to his cheek. “You’re burning up, baby. I think we should get you to the doctor.”

Jensen shook his head and grabbed her wrist. He closed his eyes and kissed her palm. “Just stay with me, please.”

She smiled and settled in next to him. “They couldn’t pull me away…”

There was screaming coming from above. The words were muffled but the emotion was clear.

They were coming for her.

Y/N lay face down on the floor, her fingertip tracing a crack in the concrete. She was tired, so tired, and cold again. The air touching her skin hurt, the strands of hair that touched her forehead felt like knives.

Dean was standing at the bottom of the stairs, his body locked in a tense defensive pose. He listened to the shouts, eyes narrowed and ears struggling to understand.

“That’s it,” he huffed, spinning around toward Y/N. “You gotta get up. You gotta go. Now.”

Boots pounded above.

Y/N sighed. “It’s fine. He’s coming for me. Jensen is coming. He’ll save me.”

Dean grit his teeth and knelt down beside her. His voice was deep and firm. “Listen to me. You can still fight. You can get up and fight.”

She laughed. “I can’t. Look at me. I’m… I can’t fight. They’ll kill me.”

“Then you go down swinging. You’re not some damsel in distress, Y/N. Get up and fight!”

Gingerly, she rolled over and looked up at him. “Maybe I am. Maybe I just have to lay here and wait for the cops to show up.” She sighed and closed her eyes, waving him away. “I’m tired, Dean.”

The fight upstairs was growing louder, the boots getting closer to the door.

Dean slammed his palms against the floor by her head, making her jolt awake.

“No one is coming to save you. Get up!”

Navy uniforms blurred in his vision. People rushed past the big window, but he stayed put, frozen in the chair beside Lassiter’s desk.

Jensen was in shock; tired and lost. He had barely heard the detective when he explained the situation.

They’d tracked down the kidnappers. The S.W.A.T. team was on their way. Just a few more hours and Y/N would be home.

He just had to wait.

Finally, Dean got her to stand. Her legs were shaky, but her head was clearing. She knew what had to be done.

Behind the staircase was an old, rusted tool box. Inside it, a hammer.

She gripped the wooden handle tight.

Dean urged her to stand in the shadows beside the staircase. He held her gaze, reassuring her every second that she could do this. She could fight her way out. She could run.

The boots above stopped. The kitchen light turned on, illuminating the seams around the door at the top of the stairs.

Y/N steadied her breathing. She bent her knees, planting herself on the spot.

The door creaked loudly as it was pulled open.

Her hand trembled.

Dean nodded reassuringly. “You got this.”

Heavy footsteps bounded down the stairs and a large man appeared, gun in hand.

Y/N’s blood was racing, adrenaline coursing through every cell.

The man turned to the right and Y/N leapt from the left. She lunged forward, swinging the hammer with every bit of strength she had.

She missed his head, striking him in the forearm.

The gun fell.

She pulled her arms back and the claw of the hammer dug into the flesh beneath the man’s chin. He screamed and doubled over, taking the old tool with him.

Y/N stared down at him, eyes wide with shock and terror.

“Now!” Dean clapped his hands, stealing her attention back. “Run!”

She could still feel the warmth of the lights on her face; hear the cheers from the crowd.

Jensen pulled her close and kissed a trail down to her lips. He kissed her forehead, her nose, the top of each cheek. By the time he met her lips, she was laughing into him, so warm, so happy.

His arms folded around her, his beard tickled her cheeks.

She clung to his shirt and sighed.

“I won’t be long,” he whispered. “Just gotta go smile for a thousand photos or so.”

She groaned. “I don’t wanna let go.”

He laughed and squeezed her tight. “Me either.”

The kitchen was bright, the lights burned her eyes. She stumbled into a chair and hit her foot against the island.

Dean was there every step, calling her name, leading her through the worst pain she’d ever experienced.

“You can do this,” he shouted, urging her to move faster. “Just a little farther. Come on!”

She pumped her arms, dodged the sparse furniture in the living room, raced for the front door.

It was locked, bolted and chained.

“Almost there, kid. Almost there.”

She focused hard, willing her fingers to cooperate.

The man shouted from the basement, loud and angry. Dean looked back over his shoulder, and flinched.

“You gotta hurry, Y/N-”

The chain was the hardest part. Her fingers were numb and tingling; she slipped more than once.

Boots thudded on linoleum.

“Come on!”

She wrenched the door open and tumbled out into the cold night air. The moon was full and bright, the sky clear and inky black.

She took a breath and steadied herself; bare feet sinking into the snowy lawn.

Dean was across the street already, silently urging her on with a waving hand and desperate expression.

Flashing lights pulled her gaze away and she smiled. They’d found her.

Sirens blared.

She took a step toward the street.

Dean shouted her name.

She smiled.

A shot rang out and her world fell into darkness.

Jensen collapsed.

His knees hit the ground first, then his hands. His palms scraped against the gravel but the sting was irrelevant.

Someone was touching him, grabbing at his shoulders, trying to help him up, but he shouted and pushed them away. He didn’t want help. He didn’t need comfort. He didn’t want anything.

His chest burned, his heart raged against his ribcage. The earth beneath him opened up, shattered like his soul.

“Jensen…”

He looked up into his own dark eyes. Eyes he’d seen in the mirror for years. Eyes that he’d cried with, laughed with, died with a thousand times.

Dean sighed. A single tear slid down his cheek.

“I’m sorry.”

Jensen closed his eyes and Dean faded into nothingness, swept away by the freezing January wind.

“Keep her safe, Dean,” he whispered. “Stay with her.”

“Always.”

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jumbled-messy-confused · 2 months ago

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Storm of Worry

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

A whirlwind of emotion settles into a rare moment of quiet comfort, as Kirigan’s softer side comes to light.

Notes:

Plays immediately after "Between Duty and Healing" While this story can stand on its own, I highly recommend reading “Bearing the Burden” and the related works first for a deeper understanding and richer context. (Warning: No Warning. Since this is the third ficlet in this series you all know by now what awaits you. Always the same... 😆) The "Bearing the Burden"-universe is AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace. As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series. Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!). I took certain creative liberties, particularly with respect to magic, medical details and the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it. And now have fun! And thank you for reading.

Alina kept a steady grip on Kirigan as they made their way back from the courtyard, his weight heavy against her side. His strength had noticeably waned in the last few minutes, she could feel the exhaustion radiating from him. But he pressed on with the stubborn determination that was so typically his. Beside them, Ivan’s face was a mask of composure, though Alina knew he was studying Kirigan’s every move, just as concerned. As they reached the wide hallway outside the war room, Ivan came to a stop. He offered a respectful nod, his eyes scanning Kirigan’s weary face. “I need to oversee the training of the children now.” His voice was quiet and respectful, almost gentle in its own way. “Just take it easy, General. Please.”

Kirigan returned the nod tiredly, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes. "Thank you, Ivan. I’ll see you later."

Ivan hesitated, just briefly, his eyes flicking to Alina. The question was clear: Can you handle this alone? Alina met his gaze with a firm nod, her jaw tightening with determination. She had this. She could manage. Satisfied, Ivan turned and strode away, leaving the two of them alone. With Ivan gone, Alina and Kirigan continued down the sunlit corridor, the bright midday light streaming through the windows and casting warm patterns on the stone walls.

They had barely taken two steps into the war room when Kirigan came to a sudden stop, so abruptly that Alina almost stumbled into him. Confused, she opened her mouth to ask what was wrong when he bellowed: “MISHA!” Alina’s heart leaped at the unexpected force behind the sudden shout and in the same instant, a small tornado erupted in the room. The curtains whipped upwards, and a fierce gust of wind sent papers flying off Kirigan’s desk, swirling in chaotic spirals.

Instinctively, Alina ducked, shielding her face from the onslaught of papers and flailing curtains. Her heart raced, not from fear but from the sheer unexpectedness of it all. When she glanced up, she saw Kirigan standing there, utterly unfazed by the chaos around him, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. In contrast to her, seemed completely at ease, as if this whirlwind of disorder was nothing out of the ordinary. After a couple of heartbeats, the wind began to subside, settling into a gentle breeze. Still confused, Alina slowly straightened up, brushing off the scattered papers that had landed on her. It was then that she saw him—hidden in the far corner of the room, just barely visible behind the now-dishevelled curtains.

A small boy, no more than six years old, peeked out from behind the heavy fabric. He was pale-faced and wide-eyed, his hands trembling as he stared at Kirigan. His expression was a mixture of shame and surprise at being caught; then it shifted to something far more raw. His face flushed with a sudden intensity, and his lips started to quiver as if he were struggling to hold back tears. Alina could see his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths as if his emotions were too large for his tiny body to contain. It was relief—pure and overwhelming; it washed over his face like a tidal wave, his eyes shining with a fragile, vulnerable hope. It was almost too much to witness, the way this little boy seemed to unravel before them. The depth of his distress, the innocence in his worry—it made Alina’s heart tighten painfully in her chest.

Kirigan’s smile had faded, a look of concern deepening on his features the moment he caught sight of the trembling child. He had clearly expected to find a mischievous boy, not one shaking with such obvious distress. Before Alina had even registered the situation fully, he was already stepping closer to the boy. “Misha?” His voice was now a soft murmur compared to the earlier bark. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in class?”

The boy didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still wide as he looked up at the man before him, fear and uncertainty written all over his face. He grabbed the edge of the curtain beside him, clutching the fabric tightly as if seeking some anchor. His lower lip still trembled. “I—I wanted to see if you were okay,” he finally stammered. “After the bridge collapsed, all the Grisha were so upset, and some of them were crying, and... and it scared me.” Alina felt a pang in her chest at the boy’s words. Of course, she thought. She hadn’t stopped to think about the children in the aftermath of everything—the fear, the confusion, the sense of helplessness they must have felt watching the adults around them break down in ways they rarely saw. It must have been terrifying, watching the pillars of their world—the Grisha, their teachers, their protectors—succumb to fear and panic. And Misha had seen all of it, through the unfiltered lens of a child’s imagination.

Kirigan’s expression softened, and without a moment’s hesitation, he knelt down, lowering himself to Misha’s level with surprising ease for someone so exhausted. Alina could see the strain it took, the way his body protested, but he did it without hesitation. His arms opened, wordlessly offering the boy the comfort he so clearly needed.

That was all it took. Misha flung himself forward, burying his face in the folds of Kirigan’s shirt. His small body shook with quiet sobs, his fingers clutching the fabric as if holding on for dear life.

Kirigan wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles across the boy’s back. His voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper, a soft murmur that seemed to fill the room with its warmth. “It’s all right,” he whispered, over and over, the words a gentle reassurance. “I’m fine. Everything’s going to be all right.” Misha’s sobs quieted, but he clung to Kirigan as if afraid to let go. And Kirigan, despite his weariness, held him just as firmly, as if nothing else in the world mattered at that moment. Alina felt her heart swell. For all of Kirigan’s power, for all his strength and unyielding authority, here he was, cradling a child who had been terrified of losing him. And the care, the quiet warmth he showed now, was something that stirred a deep affection in her.

After a long moment, Kirigan gently pulled back, still keeping his hands on Misha’s small shoulders. “Did no one tell you I was all right?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

Misha sniffled, rubbing his sleeve across his tear-streaked face. His voice came out in a shaky whisper. "The teachers said everything is fine and it’s not our business, but…" He hesitated, his lower lip trembling again. "I saw you. When they brought you back. You looked so... pale. There was blood, and... and they carried you like you were..." His breath hitched as he tried to continue. “The older kids… they said you might be... dying. They said the teachers just weren’t telling us because we’re too little.”

Alina’s breath caught at the memory. She remembered that moment all too well: the way Kirigan had lain on the cart, unconscious and limp, his face ashen, surrounded by Grisha too exhausted to mask their terror. Ivan, stoic, unshakable Ivan, who had been barely able to stand, looking utterly defeated; Alina herself—everyone had been at their limit. It had been a scene no child should have witnessed, and yet Misha had seen it all, his imagination filling in the terrifying gaps no one had explained to him. Kirigan’s expression had grown pained while he listened to Misha recount the events, the weight of the boy’s words pressing heavily on him. He tightened his arms, pulling the child closer again, lightly ruffling Misha’s hair. For a moment, they stayed like that, Kirigan’s exhaustion evident in the way his shoulders slumped, and his breaths came slow and heavy. Alina watched, her heart aching for both of them, feeling the depth of the General’s weariness.

Finally, he sighed softly, then gently pushed Misha back just enough to look him in the eyes. “I promise you, I’ll be back to my old self in a few days,” he assured the child. “I just need a little rest.” He offered a tired but sincere smile. “And this afternoon, maybe I’ll even stop by your training session, hm? Make sure Ivan’s not being too hard on you all.” Misha’s face transformed into a radiant smile, the kind of immediate shift from tears to beaming joy that only children could muster. He nodded eagerly, throwing his arms around Kirigan once more, squeezing tightly before stepping back. “Yes, General! That would be amazing!” “Good,” Kirigan gave his shoulders a final pat. “Now, run along and tell the others everything is fine. There’s nothing to worry about.” The boy beamed up at him, then turned and dashed out of the room, his small footsteps echoing down the hall.

Alina helped Kirigan to his feet, though it clearly took an effort on his part to stand again. With considerable difficulty, he pushed himself up, leaning heavily on her. It was clear he was at the end of his strength, despite his attempts to hide it. Once he was upright again, Kirigan took a moment to catch his breath, giving a half-amused, half-exasperated look at the scattered papers and overturned furniture. “Maybe I should have spared myself the shouting,” he grumbled. Alina couldn't help but laugh. “Well, I suppose we should be grateful he’s not a Tidemaker or an Inferni.”

Kirigan chuckled, though the sound was more tired than amused. “In that case, I wouldn’t have startled him like that.”

Alina nodded, that much she had figured. “You startled me, too, to be honest. I hadn’t noticed him,” she admitted. Kirigan had the decency to look somewhat embarrassed, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I saw his feet sticking out from under the curtain. There’s only one child that age who would be bold—or foolish—enough to hide in my office. Our biggest troublemaker.” He gave a small, weary sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Misha’s one of the more… spirited children. He’s a good boy, just… a little lost. Like many of the others. He’s been an orphan for years.” The weight of his words settled over Alina, touching something deep within her. She understood, perhaps better than most, the loneliness of losing everything. The fear that came with it. Kirigan smiled faintly, a touch of sadness in his eyes as he clearly understood what was going through her mind. His voice turned quieter, remorseful. “If I’d known why he was hiding, I wouldn’t have scared him.”

Alina felt another wave of emotion wash over her. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms gently around Kirigan, careful not to press too hard. He returned the embrace, his exhaustion evident in the way he leaned heavily against her. She could feel the weariness in his body, the way he seemed to struggle to stay upright. After a moment, she stepped back. “You need rest,” she stated, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Kirigan didn’t protest; he was too drained to resist her gentle insistence. Alina guided him through the door of his private chambers, leading him to the bed. She helped him sit down, his weight sinking into the mattress as he leaned back with a soft sigh.

As he settled against the pillows, she pulled the blanket over him, smoothing it out with tender care. He had no strength left, his head lolling to the side as he closed his eyes. Alina lowered herself onto the edge of the bed beside him. Taking a moment to observe him, she noted again how pale he looked, his features drawn tight with fatigue. Without thinking, she pressed her fingers against his neck, feeling his pulse beneath her fingertips—steady yet faint, a reminder of the toll the ordeal had taken on him.

Kirigan let out a low grumble, trying to muster some defiance. “I’m not dying, you know,” he finally murmured, his words hoarse and a bit slurred as he tried to fight off sleep. “I’m just… tired. And don’t even think about cleaning up the war room.”

Alina smiled softly, her heart swelling with affection. “Let that be my worry, not yours,” she replied, brushing a stray hair from his forehead.

He let out a small sigh, surrendering to his exhaustion, and she watched as he quickly drifted off, the battle against his weariness lost.

Alina sat there for a moment longer, watching over him. Then, quietly, she returned to the war room, where the remnants of the whirlwind still lay scattered across the floor; the chaos left behind by an anxious little Squaller. As she bent down to start gathering the papers, she couldn’t help but smile, her heart full from the tenderness she had witnessed. Misha’s storm had been born of worry and fear, a child’s imagination running wild in the absence of truth. But now, she hoped, the little boy and his friends would rest easier knowing their General would soon be well again.

Everything, at least for now, was going to be all right.

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