#now that smoke coming out of him and spitting the bullet? BRAIN ROT

[watmalik]

I’m going to start gaslighting people into thinking Logan was the Original Hawk Tuah Girl 🤷🏽‍♀️

[queers-gambit]

Shower Shenanigans

part one: Perpetual L's and Overwhelming Dubs

prompt: midnight callers turn your quiet night upside down, but at least it ends with you riding your stranger in the shower.

pairing: Tangerine x female!reader

fandom masterlist: Bullet Train

word count: 4.7k+

note: nobody asked for this but he's my muse now

warnings: cursing, smut (unprotected, in the shower, she's on top), blood, wounds, brain rot, author isn't British, probably setting up for part three, wonky brain doesn't care what warnings are missed.

A storm had rolled over Osaka, a steady thrumming at your hotel window creating a calming ambiance as you lit a couple of the candles you ordered from the front desk. Curled up on the tiny loveseat offered in the small living space, you flipped through your latest novel you grabbed before running into Tangerine at the train station. Speaking of, you glared at your phone for the hundredth time in an hour, feeling a sort of overwhelming dread that he hadn't called yet - or at the very least, texted.

Was it silly? Oh, you KNOW it was.

But he had said some really pretty things that rang in your ears on a haunting repeat the rest of the train ride. Then the whole taxi ride through Osaka, and the three days it's been since meeting him - he just wouldn't leave your conscious. Every meeting you had was vaguely interrupted by some sort of thought about your mysterious stranger, driving you up the wall.

Sure, you could call him, but the idea of calling a stranger for no reason other than to hear his voice felt a little too vulnerable to you. Yo could ask where he was, if he wanted to come for a visit - or hell, even before you departed Japan back for London, England, you could come see him... If he so wanted.

But your mind refused to let you dial his number, which was left in your recents after he had texted himself in the bathroom. The memory of your ex was still so fresh, making you feel silly for having such vivid, intense fantasies about a man you've met once. And for the love of Christ, you didn't even know his real name! Just his silly, fruity codename!

Man, if you hadn't been embarrassed before, the memory of moaning a fucking fruit surely made you cringe to the point you wanted the Earth to open up, swallow you whole, and never spit you out.

Your trip was soon to end with your departing flight tomorrow night, giving you just a day of leisure time in the city - but you didn't feel like doing much since the storm. Your book was interesting enough, keeping you entertained with a cart of hot food from room service within arms reach. Your tea was lukewarm by now, being much easier to drink, bowl of air-popped popcorn sat in your lap. Over the sounds of thunder, there was a knock at your door.

More like a banging, but hey, logistics. This was odd considering it was close to nine in the evening and you hadn't called for anything.

With a sigh, you marked your page and stood; annoyed by the continuous knocking, oversized tee shirt falling back over your thighs, socked feet stuffing into your slippers before traveling to the door. You called in Japanese, "Who is it?"

There was a small scraping, making your brows furrow and call your question again - but with much more urgency. "'S me, love, open the door, please," a raspy, British accent croaked seemingly through the crack. You left the chain lock in place, slowly opening the door a fraction to discover Tangerine - bloodied to high hell - leaning on the doorframe of your hotel room with two other bloody men behind him.

"What the fuck? Jesus Christ," you hissed, shutting the door, snapping the chain off and yanking it open once more. "Get in here, are you okay?" You asked, gasping right after when Tangerine stumbled a little, making you catch him; assualting your sinuses with the smell of citrus, metallic blood, and cigarette smoke. "All right, all right, you're safe now, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon," you muttered, helping him over your shoulders and into your decently spacious hotel room. "C'mon, you two! Step lively before you trigger hotel security!"

You shuffled your stranger into the room and deposited him on the sofa; hearing his grunt of exaggerated pain. You looked at the others, sighing as you moved things out of the way, inviting the other two men to sit around the furniture. You tried not to worry about the cleaning bill you would surely get for all their blood.

"Jesus Christ, did you get shot?" You asked, seeing the fleshy wound in his shoulder that was very poorly staunched.

"That arsehole did it," he panted, pointing at the blonde stranger.

"Hi," the arsehole waved, "it was an accident, for whatever it's worth. I, uh... I have bad luck, don't really like guns," he shrugged meekly.

"You lot look like hell," you sighed, shaking your head and standing to your feet to take a few steps away. You asked over your shoulder, "Guess I shouldn't bother asking what happened?"

"Train wreck," the man Tangerine had been with earlier answered.

You blinked in shock, the men all wincing as they were seemingly finally able to relax. Only now, you noted they were all in the same clothes as days ago, just tattered, torn, burnt and singed, soaking wet from the storm, stained with blood. You looked at Tangerine, demanding, "Is that why you told me to get off the train? You were gonna crash it!?"

"No, no, darlin', that wasn't the plan," Tangerine coughed, head tilted back. "Just... Happened."

"Call it his bad luck, huh?" You shook your head and moved for the hotel's phone, dialing the front desk and waiting. When they answered, the cheery front desk girl asked how she could help and you asked her what first aid supplies the hotel kept stocked. She answered and you asked if you'd be able to get enough for three kits - claiming you were practicing for a medical school final. She was more than happy to oblige, telling you her brother did much of the same, and she'd send the kits right up.

Thanking her, you hung up, and turned back for room. You found a pair of shorts and hopped into them for modesty, using your ice bucket to fill with water, grabbing whatever hand towels and washcloths you could. You set the bucket to the coffee table, dipping the cloths in for the two strangers, asking, "You guys wanna clean up a bit?"

"Please," the blonde wheezed.

You nodded, handing over the wet towels and moved the bucket a little closer for them to reach. You introduced yourself to them, offering a smile, turning for Tangerine and taking a seat beside him to start cleaning him up. "Lemon," your companion's counterpart introduced.

"Ladybug."

"More fucking codenames," you mumbled, shaking your head, trying to mop up Tangerine's forehead. "Jesus, fuck, sweetheart, what did you do? Bash your head through a glass wall?"

"Window, actually," he mumbled, reaching up to caress your wrist and cracking his eyes open. "Thank you, darlin'."

"Hush," you smiled, wiping the blood from his mouth. "You guys are gonna need showers and new clothes, huh?" You looked at the other two, who were scattered around the room to use whatever reflective surface they could find.

"That'd be nice," Ladybug nodded. "Anyone any cash?"

You sighed, "I've got you guys, 's all right."

As you reached for the bucket of warm water again to rinse the washcloth and wring it out, you missed the looks Lemon and Tangerine exchanged; both mildly impressed with your generosity and kindness. Certainly, someone who would never get tangled up in the lot of them on regular circumstances.

The knock at your door made the entire room still, you sparing them a skeptical look and reprimanding as you stood, "Relax, it's just the supplies."

Still, Lemon and Ladybug made sure they were out of sight as Tangerine just couldn't move once deposited on the sofa. You greeted the service worker, strategic in how wide you opened the door, and accepted the supplies; thanking the man, closing the door, and depositing the materials on your still-made bed.

However, a new thought occurred and you picked up the phone once more. When it connected to the front desk, you asked if your conjoining room was vacant - and to your shock, it was. You asked if they would add the room to yours because your friend suddenly decided to join you (not a total lie), and some 20 minutes later, you were giving Ladybug and Lemon their own room keys. You propped the conjoining door open, the two men using the first aid kits and the other room's shower as you got Tangerine to a point you didn't think he would bleed out.

"Okay, sweetheart," you caressed his jaw, "I'm gonna pop over to the shops across the street, okay? Grab you guys some necessities."

"You don't have to, we shouldn't burden you like this," he whispered.

"You guys can't walk around in these clothes," you chuckled.

"Have been."

"Yeah, on the side of the road, huh?"

"Back of a tangerine truck for a bit, too," he chuckled.

"Well, that's fitting. Look, just," you sighed, leaning in to peck his lips softly, "stay here, rest, eat, I'll be right back. Get a shower if you feel able, yeah?"

He nodded, just looking you over for a moment. "I'm sorry," he whispered, shaking his head, "I didn't know where else t'go. Whole plan went t'shit, we were out of options, love, just... Didn't know where t'turn ta."

"How'd you even find me?"

He shrugged, "I have my ways."

"Well, that's doesn't vaguely make you sound like a stalker." Another peck to his amused smile. "I'll be right back, promise," you stood, found a pair of sweats, a hoodie, and changed your shoes before heading out the door.

Was it stupid to leave three strangers alone in your hotel room? For sure. But you still went, you were a caring person by nature and the idea of making them fend for themselves felt wrong.

Especially after the state they showed up in, Tangerine's soft words about not knowing where to go; you just wanted to help since you had the ability to.

Across the street, splashing through puddles, you zipped around what was available and gathered three sets of sweatpants, shirts, jackets or hoodies, and figured their shoes were fine for now until they could change them later. You grabbed a few snacks and bottles of water, sports drinks, and energy drinks, paid, and made it back to your hotel room.

"Oh, blessings, you sweet girl!" Lemon gasped when you presented the change of clothes and snacks. "Oh, fuck yeah," he whispered to himself, taking the gift and going to change as you tossed Ladybug his own set.

When you found Tangerine, he was in the same place - but at least he didn't look worse. Just exhausted.

"Hey," you cooed, caressing his head and watching his eyes crack open.

"You're back," he smiled.

"Mhm," you hummed, "and you need a shower. C'mon, then you can get in bed, get some rest."

"Nah, love," he groaned when you took his wrists, "let's jus' go t'bed."

"Tan, you're absolutely disgusting right now, you'll feel better under the water. C'mon, there's a shower seat, you don't have to do anything, I'll help you."

He winced when you helped him on his feet, hobbling into the bathroom as Ladybug and Lemon were chowing down on whatever they could get their hands on. In the bathroom, you shut the door, set a clean towel on the counter, and turned to see him leaning on a wall, just watching you. You offered a soft smile, starting the shower to hea up, and then approaching him.

"Easy," you whispered, helping him unlatch his belt, step from his shoes, and then shed his trousers. His waistcoat followed, then his button-up, you gasping lightly, "Oh, fuck! Oh, my God. Yeah," you gently pet his side, prodding the dark wound, "you've got some broken ribs, sweetheart. Fuck's sake."

"That arsehole did that, too," he mused.

"Seriously? Damn, how'd you get your arse handed to yah by a lad named Ladybug?" You joked, dropping his boxers and pulling him from the wall. You made sure he was on the shower seat before stepping back and stripping yourself, joining him in the heat and getting to your knees.

With another washcloth, you gently suds over his body, the soap helping sweep away from grime. He let you work, scrubbing his feet, then working up his legs, rinsing, reapplying the soap, and continuing on your way. You washed his thighs and up his hips, to his waist, ignoring the way his cock stirred to life, bobbing into your elbow as it swelled. You were gentle over his bruises, the water feeling nice over your tired bodies; the soft scents of the soap soothing.

When you straightened up to wash his chest, you missed the way his eyes scanned over your soaking wet form. Feeling your hands on his collarbones, he reached down to seize your hips and heave - making you yelp. "The hell are you doing?" You gasped, needing to stabilize yourself on the wall and his non-shot shoulder.

"'S been three days too long, just wanted yah close," he whispered, sighing as his hands smoothed down your hips; gripping the flesh until indentations appeared.

You tisked, "You're hurt, you don't need t'fuckin' lift me. Use your words next time, won't you?"

He chuckled, "And what? Risk you sayin' no 'cause you don't wanna hurt me? Nah, love," he sighed. "Just wanted yah close, t'feel yah."

You hummed, "Close your eyes."

"Hmm?"

You held up the shampoo bottle, squirting a generous amount into your hand before starting to lather it into his scalp. He groaned, hissed at a few intervals, but overall let you work your fingers through his curls; pulling out any knots, shards of glass, and loosening the dried blood.

"You all right?" You checked, lifted on your knees to work; breasts all but pressed into his face.

"Mhm," he hummed, coiling his arms around you so he could literally just press his face into your cleavage. You chuckled, giving him a quick cuddle as he pecked your skin slowly, and continuing your work. When you lowered yourself back to his lap, your bare cunt drug down his shaft, making you both groan. "Baby," he seethed through his teeth, gripping the back of your neck to keep you close, "please, just - get on me, yeah? Need yah - on a biblical level, darlin'."

"You're hurt," you weakly refused, your resolve barely hanging on by a thread.

"Not so hurt that I can't enjoy this, huh?" He argued, licking over your lips to halt all rational thought. "C'mon, love, we hiked it three days here - after a fuckin' train wreck. I would've dropped if not for the thought of you, seein' yah, touchin' you again. Don't even gotta move, just sit there, love."

"If I do, will you finally just sit still and let me clean you up?"

"Whatever baby wants, she'll have, swear it," he grinned, hoisting you into his arms so he could grip his throbbing cock, lower you, and line himself up until you were impaling yourself on him. "Jesus, fuck!" He snapped, mixing with your whimper at his impossible stretch. "Ah, you feel so fuckin' good, doll, this is it - this is what I needed, huh? All I fuckin' needed - fuck - right fuckin' here."

"Hush," you whispered with an embarrassed smile, glancing back. "I need the shower head."

"I got us," he answered, holding you tight and standing with a small grunt. He easily grabbed the shower head, handing it to you, letting you rinse his hair out as he turned to pin you against the wall with his hips for balance.

"This isn't just sitting," you mocked, soap flowing down his shoulders and chest. "Close your eyes, please," you whispered, wiping the frothy suds from his face as he did. "God, your curls are magnificent, seriously, why does God give the best qualities to men - who don't even appreciate what they have?"

He laughed lightly, "Gotta get your attention somehow."

"Mhm, these lashes? Not even a drop of mascara," you mused, pecking the tip of his nose while one hand held his jaw. "And this jawline? Baby, this alone could cut glass."

"Like your nipples, right?" He teased, nipping your collarbones; both acutely aware of your pebbled nips dancing across his flesh each time you moved. He chuckled, readjusting you when you reached to set the shower head back in the holder; making sure it could cascade over the bench still. "We done?" He asked softly.

"Nope, got the conditioner," you rolled your eyes, holding his shoulders when he moved back for the seat; still firmly inside you. When he sat again, you released a high-pitched breath when the position pushed him further into you; your legs folding beside his thighs to keep the ideal grip.

"In a second," he smirked, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. "Just need this, yeah?" He spoke against your lips, licking into your mouth. "Been hiking with a fucking hard-on for days, love, just fuckin' need this," he hissed into your mouth, teeth raking over your bottom lip in a possessive bite. You moaned quietly, lost in the ministrations of kissing him like a drunk teenager, barely aware when he started moving your hips over him.

"Tan," you tried.

"C'mon, love, we both need it," he shook his head. "Tell me to stop and I will, but I think we both need this."

With a long sigh, you pet his cheek, deciding, "Fine, but we're taking it easy, you're still - " But then there was a loud knock at the bathroom door, Lemon calling your name in question. You slapped a hand over Tangerine's irritated mouth when he looked ready to yell his protest, answering, "What is it, honey, are you guys okay? What's wrong?"

"Yeah, just, uh... Can we order a couple things from room service? Bit starving, thinkin' something hot?"

"Oh, yeah, whatever you guys need!" You encouraged happily, Tangerine biting your palm and making your hand retract with a small whine and pout.

"Oi!" He called over the shower stream.

"Yeah?" Lemon was heard laughing.

"Don't run up her bill, mate!"

"It's okay," you whispered, pecking his forehead. "Get what you need, Lemon," you called, "but order Tangerine something to eat, too, please!"

"On it, love! Thank you!"

"Oh! Of course!" You beamed back at Tangerine, who offered you a mild look of annoyance.

"Now, why do that?" He asked, grinding your hips on his again. "Huh? Those two will eat you outta house and home, love."

"It's fine, you guys have been through a lot," you promised, connecting your lips in a long kiss. "Now, you wanna keep talking financials or put the rest of this hot water to use?"

"There's my girl," he grunted, standing from the bench to move fully under the water; pinning you to the wall again.

You grunted when you collided with the cold tile, but the warm tongue in your mouth was plenty distraction. You held his neck like it was your single tether to life, teeth clashing, tongues wagging, lips wet and creating obscene sounds the more intense the kisses turned.

"Fuck," you felt the air punch from your lungs when Tangerine pulled his hips back to start thrusting; brows furrowed together in concentration as he worked in and out of you at an already brutal pace. You didn't complain - he obviously needed this, and by God, it felt otherworldly.

"'Ats my girl, so fuckin' good for me," he muttered, needing this more than you have ever before; each hand holding a thigh to keep you spread open for his taking, hips hammering into yours as his balls slapped the apex of your cunt to echo around the room.

You felt incoherent when he picked up his speed, dropping his forehead to your shoulder when your head was thrown back as he worked you closer, closer, closer to your release. There was no thought in your mind, just Tangerine; drunk on his smell, taste, touch, never wanting this feeling to end.

Just outside the bathroom, Ladybug was accepting the room service order when he heard the messy, obscene noises coming from the bathroom; looking wide eyed at the closed door. Lemon laughed, "Might wanna walk away, Joburg, he don't like nobody listening in."

"Kinda hard to when they're that loud," he blanched when you released a pornographic moan as Tangerine readjusted his stance so his cock was piercing what felt like straight through you. Lemon laughed at Ladybug being startled so much he literally scurried away.

"C'mon, love," Tangerine panted.

"Go back," you moaned, pawing at his shoulders as you felt too slippery in this position.

"Huh?"

"Sit!" You insisted, him pulling back from the wall and backing up until the bench hit the back of his knees - dropping him. "There's my boy," you mocked, a hand on the wall, the other on his good shoulder, supporting you to vigorously ride him. You felt renewed energy now that he was obviously okay, only his bullet wound still weeping - something you'll patch up once out of the water.

"Oh, holy fuck," Tangerine moaned, louder than you would've thought; his head thumping back to the wall and losing all composure. "That's it, doll, keep like that - ohhh, fuck me!"

"Exactly what I'm doing, yeah?" You teased, moving your hand to his throat and keeping pressure enough not to fully choke his air supply, but enough to make him moan at the feeling.

His mouth dropped open as you rode him enthusiastically, feeling determined to reward him for coming all this way to track you down. Yeah, sure, for a moment, it was concerning, but now, you simply didn't care that three strangers had found your hotel room and now crashed with you.

Nothing mattered when this deliriously delicious cock was inside you.

"Jesus!" Tangerine moaned, hands to your hips to help you move, but it seemed the years in your youth as an equestrian was truly paying off. Call it muscle memory, but years after mastering the posting trot and the correct canter diagonal, you were riding Tangerine as if you'd drop dead if you didn't. And he felt it, he felt all of it. "Yeah, you're too good at this," he groaned, "so fuckin' good - Goddamnit - fuck me. Just like that, love, keep going - fuck, I'm right there."

You smirked, pushing his neck back so we was pinned to the wall now, his eyes locked with yours, mouth agape, your breasts bouncing with vigor. You squeaked when Tangerine braced his feet, his own hips thrusting up into you to match your movements; adding to both your mounting pleasures as the shower created a cloud of steam around you both in a welcomed lung-choking heat.

You honestly didn't mean to, but the absolute gut-wrecking pleasure you felt was enough for you to moan in Tangerine's ear, "Daddy."

It seemed the right word as Tangerine groaned in an echo, thrusting faster to the point you couldn't keep up. You could only moan, groan, squeak, cry-out as he jackhammered up into you - something that made Lemon and Ladybug exchange looks, gather their things, and rush back over to their adjoining room to leave you both a fraction of privacy.

"Yeah, tell Daddy how good it is," he seethed in your ear, opening his mouth, and biting down on your neck; hand tightly wound in your hair.

"So good."

"How good?"

"Too good, Daddy, please," you sobbed, braced on his shoulders and chest as his arms held you tight to let him thrust with abandon. "Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, yes, yes, yes," you praised, your orgasm rushing higher and higher to a new height. "Fuck," you moaned in his ear, "need this cock everyday. Went three days without, felt like I was losing my fucking mind."

"Feelin's mutual, love, so fuckin' mutual," he agreed, his cock swelling, "just needed t'get here, find yah again. Shit, fuck," he looked to where you were conjoined, praising, "gonna need yah home address - ain't no way we're goin' without one another, huh? Hey?"

"Yes, yes, yes," you squeaked, "there - there - there!"

His thumb pressed to your clit and you were done for. Grinding and humping into his hips, you crashed over the other side of your orgasm; feeling mildly limp as you slumped against his shoulder, letting Tangerine thrust a few more times.

"YES!" He shouted your name through clenched teeth, holding you with a vice grip as he bottomed out, balls contracting, squirting his full load inside you with shuddering breaths.

"Oh, my God," you sniffled, holding onto him as your legs were spent and you knew, the odds of you moving any time soon were slim to none.

"Yeah," Tangerine chuckled, leaning back to the wall as he panted; keeping hold of you. "Yah all right, love?"

"Uh-huh," you breathed, still absentminded.

"Yeah," he mused, pecking below your ear. "Just what the doctor ordered, huh?"

"Think the doctor would want your wound closed," you slowly sat off him, looking to the bloody hole and frowning as you pet around the irritated skin. He winced gently, making you frown, "Let's go, love, you need this tended to."

Only, when you dismounted, his cock flopping out of you once released, you tried to find your feet but only found the floor.

"C'mon, love, you just sit," he sighed, scooping you up and switching spots. He set you on the bench, stood, rinsed off under the water, readjusted the stream so it hit you a little better as he lathered conditioner into his curls with one arm.

"You're supposed to leave it sit for a bit," you tisked when he washed the conditioner out; shaking his curls.

"'S all right, still does the job."

"Your girlfriends never taught you haircare?"

He cleared his throat, looking a bit sheepish as he avoided your eyes. "Never really had one outside of secondary school. Job doesn't make dating the easiest, yeah?"

You furrowed your brows gently, then nodded, "Okay, well, just means you've room to learn, right?"

"Yeah, sure. You gonna teach me, love?" He mused, slicking his hair back in the water before shutting it off; wringing a few strands out.

"Why not?" You smiled. "But you gotta teach me something in return."

"Hmm? What's that you wanna learn?"

"How to shoot a gun."

He offered you a long look, seemingly skeptical. You accepted his hand and got from the bench, squeezing when the weight of your body made them tremble lightly. Stepping out, you both dried off with towels as he offered, "Why d'you think I know how to shoot a gun?"

"Tellin' me that Ladybug fellow is the only one? That's fine, I can ask him," you quipped, making him instantly respond,

"Nah, nah, nah, nah, don't do all that, I'll teach yah, love."

You smiled softly, wrapping your hair in a towel and approaching him - still naked. "Thank you," you whispered, kissing his lips in a soft, sweeping motion that made him hum in the back of his throat and reach for your bare arsecheek. "Now, c'mon, let's get you stitched up before you go startin' something you can't finish."

"You met me, love? I always finish," he gave a cheeky squeeze.

"Mhm, might be the last time, too, with this blood loss. Huh?"

He relented in a head nod and wrapped the towel around his hips, watching you shrug on a fluffy white robe and tie the sash. He took your hand, laced your fingers together, and exited the bathroom - only to come to a shocking halt.

There was blood trailed all over the room, medical supplies strewn around, and several food wrappers. "Told yah, love," Tangerine sighed.

"It's okay," you smiled, "they'll clean it."

"You're so sure?"

"I'm very persuasive," you eased. "C'mon, sit," you ushered him back to the bloodied sofa, figuring damage was already done and anymore blood wouldn't make much of a difference. You grabbed whatever material you could, snapping on rubber gloves and taking a deep breath. "Ready?" You asked Tangerine.

"One more kiss and you can have at it," he sighed, leaning in until you met him happily; offering several swipes of his tongue before resting his forehead on your own.

"It'll sting for a bit," you warned, holding the bottle of alcohol.

"C'mon, darlin', 's all right, I can handle - OH! FUCKS SAKE!" He cursed when you poured the disinfectant over his bullet wound.

In the next room, Ladybug and Lemon shared a look before snickering as if two juvenile boys at a sleepover. And honestly? Spot the difference.

requesting rules and masterlist

Bullet Train masterlist

[yikes-strikes-again]

rating: gen word count: 2271 tags: angst, hurt/comfort, light on the comfort part, canon compliant, the slaughter, the corruption, season 5 spoilers, episode: e163, spoilers for episode: e163, spooky eye powers             summary: Martin learns exactly what happens if Jon doesn't give his statements. Inspired by a line from episode 177. Takes place between episodes 163 and 164.

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Buried in the wreckage of the blasted wasteland, a typewriter began clicking rapidly.

With soles caked in mud, they crunched through what must have been leagues of the trenches - though, obviously, there was no way to tell. No way to tell how far they had traveled or how far they had yet to go. The Panopticon-Institute remained on the horizon, ever-distant and always looming.

The sounds of war were not far away. Once in a while, artillery fire would tear the silence apart, ripping through the walls of bunkers and causing a throbbing, painful ringing in the ears. Jon and Martin would hold onto each other for support, though often they would still fall into the wet and sloshing ground, caking their clothing in another layer of grime. But here, the danger was less immediate than it was miles ago. Slower, in wounds rather than weapons.

Countless soldiers nursed the bandaged stumps of lost limbs, ones either amputated or blown off. In the case of the former, the procedure rarely prevented infection from spreading through the victim’s veins with each beat of their heart, or cleanly excised the deepest strains of necrotized tissue. They knew this, of course. They knew that they would only get sicker, and the knowledge terrorized them even more than the certain death that lay not a meter above.

Clouds of flies thicker than pudding swarmed around the dead. Well, one hoped they were dead. It was hard to tell when everyone seemed to be on the verge of permanent collapse, either from mortal injury, illness, or an overdose of grief. It didn’t matter why - when someone laid down in this place, they never got up again.

It was calmer on this side of the trenches. Quieter. But in the quelling of the chaos, it gave Martin a chance to process how awful it all was, and that was worse.

He looked at Jon. If he had to guess, he’d say that Jon was faring worse than Martin was. There was a hard set to his shoulders, and he spoke little save to warn Martin of danger or obstacles. When he did speak, his voice was terse and irritable. Martin rarely got a glimpse of his eyes, but when he did, he saw that Jon’s pupils were erratic and searching.

Both of them had been quiet for days, weeks perhaps, ever since Jon had ranted like a madman in that bunker, surrounded by all those catatonic people. Martin didn’t understand  why  he had to do that, why he was compelled to speak of all the awful things that were already upon them, only that something bad would happen if he didn’t. He had made it clear that Jon would find no audience for his ramblings in Martin, and Jon had accommodated that thus far.

Martin stopped at the turn of the trench, finding a more gentle slope of the wall to rest his shoulder upon, though the soil was damp and rancid-smelling. He didn't feel fatigue, but his shoes were not meant for hiking, and they were uncomfortable. He was soaked to the bone, filthy, and freezing cold, and he really wanted to know when he could stop being that way.

Jon stopped so suddenly that his boots skidded on the mud and he had to sway to keep his balance.

“What is it now, Martin?”

There was no resignation to his voice, no apathy or even frustration, unlike before. Just pure, stifled anger, and the cryptic storm brewing from behind his eyes.

Martin looked at him pleadingly. “Can’t you tell me anything about how long we’ve still got to walk? At least until we get out of… this place.”

Jon sighed the sigh of a parent who had been asked “Are we there yet?” by their impatient child one too many times. “Like I said the first two thousand times, time and space  do not exist in the way they once did. When the world was whole and there existed minds who knew not of terror.” He cringed almost imperceptibly, and scrubbed at his temples with his palms. “As much as I hate to hear the phrase myself, we will get there when we  get  there.”

It felt silly to complain about someone’s bad attitude when they were in a literal hellscape, but Martin didn’t like the way he’d started speaking through gritted teeth. He wanted respite from this particular nightmare, yes, but he also wanted to know why Jon was so angry.

Martin didn’t get the sense that it would do any good to ask him, though.

He sighed. “It’s been so long.  What if we never get there? Just wandering in circles in a never-ending trench.”

“Well, Martin, we  will never get there if we keep stopping to burrow a nightmare and ceaseless frenzy.”

He paused to consider that. He figured he’d heard wrong - his hearing was still a bit muted from the gunfire. “What?”

“I said, we’ll never get there if gangrene blisters or sanguine bagpipes.”

“What?  What the hell does that mean?”

Jon made an irritated noise, then spoke slowly as if talking to someone who was very stupid. “Agony bore a bloody sickle for crushing the sleepless.”

Martin stared at him, and narrowed his eyes, gripped by a dawning horror that had nothing to do with the disease and death that surrounded him. “Jon, you’re not making any sense.”

Some of the anger faded from Jon’s expression. Then, suddenly, he clutched at his head with both hands as if in pain. His eyes widened, focusing briefly on Martin before returning to the million things that only he could see.

“Sever,” he said pointedly. And, as if spurred on by something, he continued, both voice and body shaking with intensity. “Limbs metallic see bloated warhead and vicious gas spitting cauterize through. Spleen pale cannon warhead bile where tetanus sinews. And gore and ring and soldier visceral from bodies brother teeth for rancid crimson darkness.” He spoke with such terrible certainty, as if he fully expected Martin to comprehend the meaning of every word.

The corners of Martin’s mouth became taut, but since smiling requires the pretense of happiness, he did not smile. “Listen, Jon, I know we’re both under a lot of stress, but this is a really bad way to try and lighten the mood, okay? It’s not funny. You’re scaring me.” He drew a sharp and shaking breath and released it in a hollow imitation of laughter. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? Are you just taking something out on m—”

“Chaotic laughter and screeching god.” Jon’s eyes were on him, but they weren’t looking at him. They were wild, desperate. Something awful was happening to him, something that caused him to forget how to stand, that ceaselessly filled his mind with secondhand terrors, that stole his voice and gave it to the neverending flood of words that rose like bile from his throat. “Iron hands, jettison liver, with heroic terror bullets and mottled rage buzzing, burning and lungs gone. Necrotized gurney which hell hath nuclear rot aching, whose shivering eye orders and despairs, immobile river filth screaming for prison and tear—”

“Jon, stop!” Martin pushed off the wall and stumbled over to where Jon had slipped onto the filthy earth. He shook him. “Snap out of it!”

“— off running, smoke and cloth the bacteria acrid, with hungry singing comrade forever hidden. Writhing from crater, sobbing but the fever moans flaking to clinging, melting daggers. Helpless pathway churning through exploding infinity—”

Martin was nearing his wits’ end. He dragged Jon, who went limp, into a nearby dugout, so tiny that sunlight still shone across most of its floor. He tried to block out the onslaught of babbled nonsense that somehow evoked a thousand nightmarish images as clear as day, but Jon’s voice had taken on that quality that made it impossible not to listen. He continued to shake him with repetitive, mechanical regularity, but as the words bore into his brain Martin’s movements grew weak and yielding.

Jon lay on Martin’s lap, staring far beyond the dirt ceiling. “Gorging jaws of metal death surround your blood-borne reach towards distant jargon, but surreal enemy adrenaline has harrowed pathological exaltations. Barbed manslaughter. Feeding warfare. Stinging trigger…”

His eyes fell to him for a split second. “Martin,” he said, and Martin remembered to breathe. But the moment was gone as quick as it had come, and Jon was launched into another disjointed tirade.

If the hands of his watch spun as reliably as they once had, Martin might have found that he sat crouched in that dugout for exactly six hours and thirty-four minutes, keeping Jon’s back out of the mud. But, for what it was worth, it felt like years. Jon continued his nonsensical ranting, scarcely stopping to breathe, and from the way he desperately spat the words one got the feeling that he wished he didn’t have to. His voice rose and fell at random, reaching sudden and unpredictable climaxes of raving and shouting before settling back into a listless murmur. Trying to ignore him was an exercise in futility. Every few words a new, terrible image would implant itself into Martin’s mind, and then another, and another, together weaving a tapestry of terror from the thread of Jon’s omnipotent train of thought. He couldn’t stop listening, and Jon couldn’t stop talking, so whenever Martin’s thoughts weren’t drowned out by the bile of the Beholding they were filled with despair.

Would this never end? Were they doomed to rot in this place, their minds slowly unraveled by the power of the Eye filtered only by Jon’s droning voice? Would they never move again, like all the rest in this awful place, locked in a stony embrace like some warped parody of The  Pietà?

Martin couldn’t know. But in between terrors, it was all he could imagine as tears ran down his face.

It was a small mercy that this particular fear of Martin’s wasn't due to come about just yet. The first clue was that the flood of words had slowed to a trickle. The second was that when Jon paused for breath, it was deeper and less hurried than before. His voice had lost its former vigor, and it was all Martin could hope that he had finally started to exhaust himself.

“... never respite from wretched hope… singe a coagulated daylight swarm… justice not for careening wails… farewell… slaughter,” he paused, panting. “Finished” was too hopeful a word, and his voice carried no note of finality.

But there was a blessed silence. Martin expected it to end at any moment, but it stretched on as the seconds passed. There were distant cries of war, and the sound of Jon trying to make up for the breath he’d lost, but it all faded into nothing in the presence of the euphoric silence.

Several minutes passed this way, and it was only then that Martin dared to speak with the expectation that he’d get a response.

“Jon,” he began, finally daring to make eye contact - his otherworldly gaze had been far too intense to meet, before - and found that Jon was seeing him again. “What… happened?”

He blinked at Martin. There was another silence, shorter and more deliberate than the last, but less comfortable. “I—” He cleared his throat. “I think… I just…” He grabbed his temples with both hands and winced, and Martin pulled them both out of the light.

A moment’s migraine, and Jon collected himself. “There’s just… so much. Fear. Everywhere we go, from everyone in the world. I see it all. I  feel  it all.” Martin listened passively, despair replaced by a deep frustration. He knew this, and Jon knew how he felt about being his… receptacle for it all. But he didn’t interrupt.

“We have been through a domain of The Slaughter, and are now passing into one of The Corruption. I’ve been… accumulating more and more of The Slaughter’s fear all this time, and now that we’re leaving it… I suppose it wanted me to let it out. Now or never.” He paused. “And... I  have  to let it out, willingly, or else…”

“This happens.”

Jon sighed. “Apparently.”

Martin considered this, wondering if Jon could see the tear tracks that had left clean paths down his otherwise dirty face.

“Why didn’t you just give a statement? You know…  before  it was forced out of you?”

Jon looked at his hands for a long time. Then, in a small, guilty voice, he said, “I was trying to keep it inside.”

“Keep it inside?  Why?  ”

“I thought…” He covered his mouth in the gesture of one whose face burned with shame. “I thought I could control it, if I just willed it hard enough. These trenches… too long. Too narrow. There was nowhere for you to go. I didn’t want to stop, and I didn’t want to leave you.”

Martin stopped, and he softened. “Jon.” He sighed through his nose, and placed his hand on the back of Jon’s head. Then he brought him up into an embrace. “This was worse.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he murmured into Martin’s neck.

“... I’m just glad you’re okay.”

They stayed like that for an undefinable amount of time, relishing the only avenue of comfort available to them anymore. Then, with Jon clinging to Martin for support, they climbed to their feet, and set out under the sky again, which had at some point shifted from violent red to a sickly yellow. A new understanding dawned on them both, mostly Martin, who resolved to allow Jon his space when he needed to… vent.

He only wished the knowledge hadn’t had to come from personal experience.

Something lurking in the ruins ripped the page off the typewriter, and its keys never made a noise again.

[violetsmoak]

Appetence [4/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/48114034

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn’t expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #incubus #leather jacket #cigarettes

First Chapter

Canon-Compliance: Alternate Universe; Jason still died but was not found by Talia when he was resurrected. All other events mostly follow the same chronology as New Earth continuity, with mentions made to events in New 52 

Beta Reader: I’ll get back to you on that.

________________________________________________________________

Tim may have miscalculated.

Under normal circumstances, his plan would be no big deal for him to recalibrate; thinking on one’s feet is part of being a Bat, after all. And it’s not like he doesn’t have assets.

The alleyway, though dark, is broad and not filled with cumbersome obstacles that would impede fighting in close quarters. There’s enough shadow for him to disappear into if need be, and if he were unable to reach for the tools in his utility belt or bandolier, he would easily find makeshift weapons—shards of glass from a broken mirror or loose bricks.

He’s just having a little trouble concentrating.

Actually, he’s having a lot of trouble concentrating and worse, trying to get his body to do anything he wants it to right now.

Almost the minute he stepped into the alleyway Tim felt a heaviness settled into his bones.

He’d shaken it off as a random bout of exhaustion—the kind that creeps up on him frequently, especially when he hasn’t slept properly in a few nights—but this one didn’t go away. He can’t seem to push it back or ignore it just enough to regain his wits.

And now Salvatore is moving directly into his personal space, too close for comfort, Tim should be lashing out to stop his advance. A blow to the chest, a twist of his wrist to bring him down to his knees.

But he finds he can’t.

Tim’s arms and legs are like lead weights by his side, too heavy to maneuver.

Then Salvatore is reaching out to him, tipping two fingers under his chin and stroking the skin there. Tim shivers, in disgust and at how cold the other man’s skin is.

“There now, isn’t this cozy?” the other man purrs.

Tim’s heart begins to beat faster, and he thinks it’s adrenaline at first, a reaction to his immobility and the danger of the situation. But the way his cheeks flood with warmth and the way his suit suddenly feels too tight tell him it’s something else.

“It could be cozier,” Salvatore continues thoughtfully, tracing Tim’s jaw. “What do you say, baby? Take off that ugly hood and show off the pretty cheekbones I know you have.”

“What…are you doing…to me?” Tim growls as he struggles against the immediate compulsion to do as the other man says. He can’t keep his hands from moving toward his face, though they do so slowly, trembling as he tries to hold back.

“Not anything you don’t want me to, I’m sure.”

“I…really…don’t…”

“That’s because you don’t know what you’re missing. Now, let me see what I have to work with.”

The cowl is off, hanging heavily against his back. Tim is barely able to keep himself from releasing his domino mask as well, if only because Salvatore didn’t specifically ask for it. Whatever this compulsion is caused by, it allows for loopholes—though he doesn’t know how much longer that’s going to last.

How is he doing this? He barely suggested it and Tim’s completely susceptible to him, to the point where his training is like a distant memory. The entire situation reminds him of being under the influence of Poison Ivy’s concoctions, but somehow different. Where hers focus on achieving biochemical responses or altering hormones, this is different; it feels like something is being drawn out of him on a deeper level.

“Oh, I was right. You Bats all look so edible from a distance. It’s even better up close.”

Tim’s brain scrambles for a plan, trying to buy himself time. If he could just make the smallest movement, he could activate his comm to call for help.

His fingers remain stiff and uncooperating.

“Metahuman,” he accuses.

Salvatore pauses, looking offended for a moment. “I’m no such thing. Nothing so new and crude.”

“Is this…what you did to Dante?”

“Who? Oh. The one in the picture. No, I didn’t play with your little friend. He wasn’t really my type. Too…pure. But you?” His uncanny eyes rake over Tim again. “Mmmm.”

“But you know…who did…take him?”

“No idea. I already told you there are worse things than me out there. At least I’m just acting according to my nature—the real monsters out there are the ones that make themselves.” He grins, and it somehow seems like he has too many teeth. “Now stop asking me questions, pretty boy, and behave yourself.” His hand slithers up Tim’s arm and over his shoulder. “I promise to make it good for you—it just tastes so much better when willingly given.”

And it’s like Tim’s protests die in his throat, the fight draining out of him with every passing second and every inch closer that Salvatore moves. He casts his eyes around, trying to find anything he might use for a weapon if he could just reach for it—

Instead, he catches sight of movement. For a moment feels a burst of hope, until he understands it’s just Salvatore’s reflection on the broken mirror. That disappointment morphs quickly into horror when he realizes he’s not seeing the enticing young man in front of him reflected there.

Instead, a hairless, gray and vaguely humanoid shape leans over Tim’s reflection. Its facial features are inhuman, cold black eyes with a reflective tint and an open, gaping mouth like a Sarlacc pit.

It takes every bit of effort he has to try to pull backward, away from the approaching…thing. Even as he knows there’s no stopping him, that he can’t even twitch his fingers enough to engage the taster in his suit.

He’s going to have to wait until the creature comes into actual physical contact with him, press him up against the electric panel in his chest to throw him off.

Bile rises in his throat at that thought

As Salvatore leans into him, lowering his mouth to Tim and bringing an overwhelming scent of sickly-sweet rot, his consciousness begins to ebb away, lulled into a dreamy haze

Maybe…maybe it won’t be so…bad

“You know, usually I avoid your kind, since I’m not so great with the fleshy side of ugly,” a voice declares from the mouth of the cave, shattering the overwhelming tension, “but there’s someone big and brooding goin’ to take exception to this guy going missing or dead.”

And then suddenly Salvatore is being hauled off of him, sending Tim falling to his knees when the creature’s compulsion no longer able to hold him up. Salvatore reacts like an angry cat, hissing violently at the newcomer.

Tim has the impression of red hair and a leather jacket, but that’s it as he struggles to regain control of his faculties; the hazy sensation is slow to ebb away. The quick withdrawal of whatever was keeping him in thrall retracts as abruptly as a snapping elastic, forcing a kind of whiplash feeling.

Immediately, his stomach revolts and he can’t hold back from vomiting on the ground.

“I get you’re just doing what you do, and all,” the stranger continues to talk, a taunting edge in his voice, “but there are a lot of people out there with self-esteem issues and no self-respect who’d be more than happy to give you what you want. This guy? Doesn’t look as into it as you are. I mean, you had to pull the mojo out on him right away…”

“Maldito hijo de puta,” Salvatore spits.

The stranger snorts. “That’s a bit personal, don’t you think?”

“Take a hike, filth,” Salvatore snarls. “I don’t care what you think you know, you’re not ready to tangle with me.”

“Oh, well, now I’ve got to stay.”

“I won’t waste my time with foreplay, then.”

And Salvatore takes a running leap at Leather Jacket, hauling his hand back as if to punch him. Except his fingers are open and curled and sharpening—

Leather Jacket swears as he ducks backward, the creature’s claws raking down the front of his chest. He staggers backward.

“You want to walk away,” Salvatore orders coldly. “Walk into traffic.”

Leather Jacket falters a moment and then laughs. “You really think I’d have come at you if I didn’t have protection against your stupid hypno-crap?”

Salvatore makes a shocked noise, which is cut off when a fist hits his face. He reels backward a few feet.

Wiping his mouth, Tim tugs his cowl back up over his face with trembling hands, needing to regain that sense of anonymity and disguise the effect all this has had on him. It’s all he can manage at the moment, his legs still wobbling like jelly. There’s no way he can get up right now and throw himself into the fray.

The stranger pulls something out from beneath his jacket pocket as Salvatore recovers and goes to make another move. Tim recognizes the shape of a gun.

“You know that won’t kill me,” Salvatore sneers.

“Do I?” the man replies and pulls the trigger.

“No!” Tim cries; too late.

Bullets tear through Salvatore’s shoulder, making him snarl in pain and fury as his body jerks backward with the force of it. But instead of falling to the ground, blood spurting from the wounds, he remains standing; the wound begins to smoke.

“You’re right, it won’t kill you,” Leather Jacket agrees as Salvatore gnashes his teeth. “But it will take you a few hours to heal. Who knows what I could do to you in that time?”

Salvatore growls and lunges forward again, and Leather Jackey fires two more precise shots, this time to his knees. Now it’s Salvatore on his knees, panting in pain.

“That was warning number two,” Leather Jacket tells him coolly. “Want to go for a third?”

Tim senses the exact moment when the fight goes out of Salvatore’s body. The next time he moves, it’s angling his body away from Leather Jacket, using a wall to pull himself upward.

“Now, bugger off while I’m feeling merciful,” Leather Jacket growls. “And stay the hell out of Crime Alley. Try the Diamond District for your hunting grounds—you’ll fit right in.”

The injured Salvatore gives another hiss, cradling his wounded shoulder, but thinks better of taking another run at his opponent. Instead, he turns about and limps off at a run.

Leather Jacket snorts at the sight, shaking his head.

Tim still needs to lean against the wall to steady himself, his stomach continuing to swoop angrily. As the haze in his head retreats, it’s with a swirling, withdrawing sensation that has him seeing spots.

He should probably thank the guy who saved him, even if it’s embarrassing, he needed to be saved, but he can’t unstick his tongue.

“Is this a new thing for you lot?” the stranger asks. “Coming down here to work the streets, getting picked up and almost eaten by suspicious strangers? I mean, it’s a step down from tangling with the Joker, ain’t it?” The sardonic tone falters slightly on the name, a hard cold seeping in. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Well, if Tim was going to thank him, now he’s not. He deals with enough entitlement from the old fogies in the WE boardroom, he doesn’t have the patience to deal with it during his night job. Instead, he tries to unpack everything that just happened.

“How did you know?” he asks, tongue still heavy in his mouth. He’s not sure if he’s asking about how he knew to come down here, how he knew what Salvatore was trying to do—how he knew how to fight the creature off.

“Seen his kind around. Didn’t always know what they were, but once you’ve tangled with one incubus, the rest is pretty easy.”

Tim finally manages to straighten up under his own power, but still can’t see the man’s face. The way he’s standing, the light from the road behind them casts dark shadows across his features.

“Who are you?”

“None of your business.” The man digs into his pocket for something and hauls out a carton of cigarettes. He considers them a moment, then holds one out. “Need something to ground you?”

“No.”

He shrugs, lights up; the spark of the flame isn’t enough to uncover his features, but Tim senses a judgemental glance being thrown his way. “You sure you should be wearin’ that cape if you can’t take care of yourself?”

Tim scowls at that. “I’m having an off day.”

“That’s puttin’ it lightly.”

Tim’s head is finally starting to clear, his focus returning; he catalogs what he can about the stranger

Tall and muscular; built like Bruce, though thicker in the thighs than the shoulders; scarred hands—a fighter—boots scuffed with black earth; that’s rare in the city. Wandering around somewhere with lots of soil and earth? And the way he speaks…Tim detects a foreign lilt on the edges of his words. Non-rhotic postvocalic consonants.

At first, it sounds like he’s from around here, except…it blends with something else. Sort of sounds like when Alfred goes full-on-West London when he talks to anyone from England.

So this guy probably spent some time there.

Squinting he notes the cigarette package as it disappears into the man’s pocket.

Silk Cut. Definitely spent time in Britain then.

And whatever he just fought; it wasn’t human—but not a meta. Which by process of elimination usually means magic.

Tim flips through his mental catalog, trying to narrow down which major player this guy could be working with, rogue or hero; the cigarette brand triggers something from a file memorized years ago, quirks and data about enemies, allies, and undecideds. One name stands out.

“Constantine,” he says after a moment. “You work with Constantine.”

The man is pretty good at hiding his surprise, but Tim senses the minute stiffening of his shoulders. It’s gone a beat later, smoothed into the man’s deceptively languid posture. “Guess I owe him a pint; I didn’t think he’d made much of an impression when he was last here.”

“You shouldn’t be in Gotham,” Tim growls, trying to regain some kind of imposing authority following tonight’s fiasco. “And you definitely shouldn’t be interrupting my interrogation.”

“Interrogation? More like succumbin’ to a supernatural roofie. What were you going to do, snore at it?”

Tim clenches his fists.

“I had it under control. If he got close enough, the chest panel in my suit is equipped with a taser. It activates if my vitals experience a sudden, sharp change.”

“Then you seriously don’t understand what you were up against if you think your little Bat-issue toys were going to do anythin’. That was an incubus that had you, and you were gonna get a lot less information and a lot more dead if I hadn’t stepped in. So. Again…you’re welcome.”

“Because of you I lost my best lead tonight,” Tim shoots back.

“Right. Mission comes first, even at the expense of your own life,” the stranger deadpans. “How could I forget that.”

And that sentence should be Tim’s first clue that all is not what it seems to be, but his brain is still rebooting from whatever Salvatore did to it and he’s fighting off growing frustration.

Not only did he screw up his investigation, but a civilian—typical or not—had to jump in and save him.

Tim straightens up.

Fixing the most unimpressed glare he can muster from beneath his cowl, he faces the interloper, ready to deliver a cool quip before he grapples away.

(Drama is not just for Bruce Wayne if the occasion calls for it.)

But when he finally gets a good look at his savior, every word in every language he has ever known vanishes.

Because Tim knows that face.

Even if it’s a little harder now, stubbled and scarred, and lacking the unblemished, boyish roundness of childhood, Tim Drake could never forget the face of Jason Todd.

⁂

Next Chapter

[benbarnesescape]

Blood, Sex and Whiskey - Part 5

All Comes Crashing Down 

Warnings: M for Violence, Language

A/N: This is just a reminder that this story was influenced by the characters in the comic more than the plot of the Netflix show. Though now I def. might pull more characters from there and some influences, this is an inspired work of fiction by them. Also if I missed you in the tags I’m sorry! 

That said – enjoy!

 Tag List:  @iheartbinbons @binbonsadoration @lafemmedemon @la-fille-en-aiguilles@ladyblablabla @drinix @padfootagain @princesse-de-ravenclaw @lovelysiriuss @deerprongs @maraudereestauderelb

You’re desperate as your bloody hands shakily dial the number to your commander on the tiny Toyota Yaris’ console, your foot a brick under the gas pedal as you weaved in and out of New York traffic.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up.” You mutter underneath your breath, listening to the phone echo the ring in the tiny space as you cut off a semi trunk to speed off the ramp.

“ID.”

Your bosses cold voice cuts through the air and you fight back the sob before you sputter out your military security id.

“Glad to hear your still alive Viper.”

There’s relief in his voice and you give a grateful nod. There wasn’t anything more dangerous from this mission than the ones you had been on before, except the variable that still had you confused, uncomfortable.

Billy.

There was something different in his voice that had you grasping your brain, like déjà vu. But you didn’t serve in the military and you were sure you never encountered Billy’s unit.

Then you frown.

You couldn’t be sure. The first 20 years of your life was like smoke in your brain. Sometimes memories would come back, fuzzy snapshots that would trigger feelings of nostalgia. But they were short and typically left you sweats, shaking and uncomfortable as you tried to claw back to reality.

You couldn’t afford the serum side effect to paralyze you right now.

“Did you get my message? Do you have a unit headed toward Castle’s house?”

Your voice is desperate as you turn down the street corner, so familiar with the route to Frank Castle’s house that you can even determine how many miles you are before you arrive. The small community is dark. Quiet.

Nothing had happened yet.

“We were unsure when. We had a patrol or two head over but they said there was limited to no activity…”

“Send our men. Jenkins, do you hear me, they’re going to bomb the place. We have to get them out and into protective custody stat.”

You turn into his block, slowing down the car as you slowly near the small home. They lived across from a park, a small one in the community and you park on the side closest to the park taking in the horizon, looking for movement. It’s as silent as an ocean before the storm.

“You can confirm this.”

“I heard it from Billy’s mouth. They’re all in there. Frank. His family. We can’t let him murder them. Bombings are the Russo boy’s specialty.”

Silence, then.

“Are you there now? At Castle’s place?”

“Yes.”

“How does it look?”

“Quiet. Too quiet. Let me in there. In and out – I can get them in 8 minutes.”

“Not less?” the question is a challenge and you scoff as you check the barrel of your gun, reloading it before sticking it between your bra.

“There’s a kid. He’s the three minute factor I have to consider. And Frank probably trying to murder me from waking him from his sleep and forcing his family out of the house.”

“Do what needs to be done.”

You step out of the car, the jingle of the door being open the only sound resonating in the silent neighborhood. You shiver, your body instantly breaking out in goosebumps as you draw your jacket closer to you.

Something was off. Wrong. Off keel.

You start to move toward the house slowly. Cold, spring air feels your lungs as your ears fill with the faint sound of a dog barking. There is a light flicker coming out of one of the rooms on the top floor of the Castle home, probably a TV. Its dry – drier than normal for the east coast – as the fait smell of something familiar feels your nostrils. You were only halfway across the street when you turn, stopping to look across the playground.

Now someone else was there. And they were watching you.

“Send a unit over. Bomb unit. Billy might be on his way with his men. Send a bomb unit and our squad.”

You shake the feeling off. Ignore every natural instinct that tells you that something is wrong as you tighten your hand around the phone, turning back to the house.

Then it hits you. It resonates in the ground first, the shockwave rippling through the thick tar and concrete before it reaches you, throwing off your body’s gravity as you’re blasted out of the air. The air is inked with orange, red and yellow – heat overwhelming your body as silence fills you, darkness taking over as you feel yourself lifted from the ground.

Then there’s darkness.

When you wake up, your ears are ringing loudly. Your body aches, you’re sore as you move your body, and you stiffen, trying your best to bite back the scream that threatens to emit from you.

 Your car alarm, along with others, are ringing loudly as you slowly move your right arm. Then you’re left. You will your left leg, then you’re right. You focus on where the pain is resonating and your pray your spine isn’t injured – that you’ve broken a rib or two. You slowly start to try to move your back and sob back relief. Definitely your ribs – maybe even a punctured lung. But that’s it. Your phone is still gripped around your hand, a small steel vice as you hear Commander Jenkins scream out “Agent. Agent Viper. Agent!?”

You move slowly as you sit up on the trunk, assessing the other damages you may have received. Outside of the rib injury, a few cuts and bruises. But you were fine. You raise the phone to your ear as you echo this out into the small metallic device, almost in a zombie state,  

“I’m fine.”

Your voice is cracked as you try to gather your senses, allowing your brain to register what had just happened. And then it hits you.

You had failed.

You try to will yourself out of the dented metal, trying to ignore the franticness of Jenkins voice trying to gauge a report. The sound of neighbors stirring from their homes as they come out of their homes, trying to understand the events. The faint sound of sirens nearing.

It’s the sound of blood curling screaming that finally motivates you as you ignore everything, focusing on the owner of the sound.

Frank Castle.

He’s donned in his black attire, the white skull gleaming in the fire light as he sits on his knees, tragically looking onto the scene – of his home. Of what was once his wife and son.

You falling into a heap on the ground stirs his attention, pure hate and rage flashing in his eyes. Trying to understand where you fall into this equation.

You watch him, heaving heavily before you assess the terrain. Trying to gauge how much time you have left before everyone is on top of you, before this neighborhood becomes a bookmark in history as a blood bath.

You turn off your phone, ignoring Jenkins as he’s barking off orders as you stammer closer to Frank.

You know that a man in his place will do one of two things. He will either kill you, fast and quick.  Or he’ll take you hostage until he no longer needs you in which case he will take pleasure in the kill. Slow, painful and delectably sweet.  

You had failed – never failed a mission before – and was willing to deal with the consequence. You may have a red ledger in your history, this consequences of your past no longer in your memory - stolen from you but you knew the damage of who you used to be. The damage it had done to people – to families. You were a toxin, a bomb, the bullet that pierced its enemy. No matter how hard you tried, you were damaging, cancerous, lethal.

Dying by a man who only wanted to do right for this world seemed just.

You’re limping to him, trying to shake off the effects of being blasted in close proximity when you see the gleam. It almost clashes with the fire, blending with embers consuming the old wood but you see it just as much as Frank can’t – too distracted in grief and despair.

Billy’s last move.

You’re light, quick on your feet. Surprised that the pain from earlier isn’t limiting you from barreling toward Frank, your body swift and limber as you tackle him, rolling him out of the way  just in time to avoid the bullet that was aimed for his head. You roll off into a car as Frank rolls in front of his lawn, trying to ingest what has just occurred. Those dark eyes lay upon you again, drinking you in with renewed anger and confusion, before he looks to the place he was kneeling at, the crisp indenture in the cement from the sniper riffle. Another round goes off, a bit above your head and you chuckle, a strong pain erupting in your ribs as you cough up blood.

This is how you were going to end.

Not by Castle, an honorable death. By fucking Billy Russo.

Seemed fitting considering the person you had become.

Another shot close to your head and you close your eyes, waiting for death to encompass you. Focusing on the increased chatter of neighbors who have neared, the sound of sirens now even closer – probably three blocks now. The heat of the flames, the smell of skin and rot filling the air. The soft vibration of your phone in your pocket, the weight of the gun in your chest as it sticks to you in hot humidity. This is what your life had always been. A spectacle of death. You were always waiting for it. Secretly wanted it. Couldn’t fear it. It was the second home in your mind.

You allow yourself to lie there, blood you now knew to be filling your lungs as you spit out more, fighting it for drowning you from within as it tampers down your chin, hot and sticky.  

Waiting for relief.

You see Frank inch toward you, on his stomach. He’s counted the number of shots, knows he has a window to finish what Billy has started.

“I’m sorry. I tried to save them but I was too late and I’m sorry.”

Your voice is raw and the pain is overpowering as you close your eyes once more.

Waiting for it to finally be over.  

A/N: I leave this to you my dear readers. I want to continue on but want to gauge if its worth my investing. So I will either continue with this series upon popular demand or leave it here. Let me know your thoughts!

[lclrgsl]

fandom: good behavior pairing: letty x javier words: 2k rating: T

dedicated to @firefeufuego who told me about this show, and i’ve been obsessed ever since. Thanks to @garglyswoof for her beta work, you’re the best. 

read on ao3

He has already ripped the label off of two beer bottles when she arrives in their motel room. She immediately pushes the yellow, stained curtains open to look at the parking lot. The motel sign decorates the room with a pink gleam, but she's expecting blue and red flashing lights soon - she can almost hear them.

“I -,” Letty starts, but the words get stuck in her throat, she feels like she's going to retch. She's not looking at their parked car, because she can almost see the corpse, wrapped in a trash bag and a bullet in his head.

He bites his lower lip, like he does so often. He wants to reach out, lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but he's afraid it might have been too much for her this time. “Did you get it?” Javier asks, his legs shaking, begging him to stand up and bring her closer.

Letty turns around with an unamused huff, tugging off her short blond wig. She wants to rub off her makeup and claw at her skin, she's itching to unscrew a bottle and drink the whole thing.

“Yes I did,” she says almost disbelievingly.

Letty rummages through her little purse and hands him the phone. It has a case with a beer label on it, and it belongs to a rotting corpse in Javier’s trunk.

As soon as Javier takes it, Letty tugs off the latex gloves itching her skin. Javier puts the phone in his back pocket, and his other hand, still holding hers, lets go to stroke up her arm until he can bring his palm flat between her shoulder blades. “That's good. It's done now,” he murmurs in her ear.

“No, it's not,” Letty says with a bit of anger, because this is a scenario she knows all too well, but this time she's starring as the main actress. She starts fidgeting, debating over wanting him to let go or wanting him closer. “I held the gun that - “ she starts, as if she needs to explain, and Javier can only put his hand on her neck and kiss her forehead.

“You did what was right.”

She humorlessly laughs, “Did I?”

Javier studies her face and shrugs, as if it was her choice to make, to believe whether or not it was the right thing to do. “You saved me.”

Letty closes her eyes and wets her lips, letting him guide her head to his shoulder. She wonders how such a terrible man, with terrible hands, can be so soft, his eyes warm and his embrace soothing, but she still fists his shirt and asks him to hold her harder.

“I pulled the trigger,” she whispers in the crook of his neck.

Javier takes her hand, and brings her fingers to his lips, kissing her index - the one she used - the murderer. Then it's her other fingers, those that held the gun, then it's her palm. Letty follows him with her gaze until he looks back at her when he kisses her palm, once, then twice.

She had a phone number noted there once.

“This is a whole new line I just crossed,” Letty sobs. While he's kissing her wrist, she closes her eyes and murmurs, “There was meth.”

Javier snaps his head up, concerned. He’s looking at her eyes, her pupils, her lips. He brings his hand to her cheek, his thumb outlining her jaw - maybe he wants to check her teeth, scrutinize her eyes.

“On the bedside table. I looked at it for ten minutes straight.” There were blood stains on the little package, on the sheets and the wall, but she could pretend they are just flowers, poppies growing out in the dusty room, it would be easier if she’d let herself take one bite of the white crystals, to be high enough. “And I thought, might as well smoke the whole thing, and snort the rest.”

“But you didn’t.”

She shakes her head, her hands trembling violently. She tries to clench them into fists, but she has no strength left.

“I didn't. But for a minute I saw a way out. An OD and I'd just be another body in your trunk.”

Letty spits her guilt out, because she deserves the same treatment as her victim, and this thought is gnawing at her brain.

Javier's holding her wrist a bit harder, his jaw clenched, and his other hand at the nape of her neck forces her to look at him. He has a grave expression - he almost looks mad with the pink light accentuating his traits, his frown. “You can't say that. I won't allow it.”

Letty sobs and closes her eyes.

“I have a life debt now. I will not let you kill yourself. Ever. Do you understand?”

She opens her eyes again. She hears Christian's words, do not let him go , but what makes her worthy to live now? She’s just killed a man.

“I need you,” he says slowly.

It's selfish, almost cruel, what he says to her. She's walking on a thin thread, but he's down here ready to catch her.

She knows how to destroy her life. It's easy, and she's the first victim. How many times had she looked in the mirror and murmured to her reflection - you cunt, you little piece of shit - while there was still smoke in her room?

Taking her own life has been easy; the scary part is how easy it is to take his too.

Still, she hadn’t taken the drug, she hadn’t even touched it. She thought about it, she thought about burning the guilt along with the crystals, but she thought about Javier too - a rifle pointed at him, on his knees on the purple carpet, his hands up in surrender. She'd pulled the trigger.

Letty nods. She has Jacob, she has him. He needs her, and she needs him. He has seen too many corpses, but she refuses to ever see his. She has lived all her life with guilt, she'll just have to make some room on her shoulders for a bigger chunk. She nods again.

“Good.”

He was beating his wife and son. He was a bad man. Letty hears him say.

“I won't let you feel guilty. He would have died anyway.”

She lets him unzip her dress as he kisses her shoulder. He sits her down on the bed, gets rid of her shoes. Is he so careful with a corpse? - a treacherous thought.

He goes to the bathroom and she hears water filling the tub.

“Undress,” Javier says, while he tosses her dress, her shoes and his own clothes in a trash bag.

Letty obeys unquestioningly. She unclasps her bra and slides her underwear down her legs.

“In the bathtub.”

The bathtub is full of clear water but the paint is peeled, the tiles are old and broken. It brings old memories of dirty rooms and smoke. “Do you mind if I add bubbles?” she asks, her voice unsteady. Bubbles are not going to wash away her sins, but she might as well try to scrub the blood off her face.

“Sure.”

She grabs the little plastic bottle with another motel name on it and empties it. She just stares at the forming bubbles, and soon the water overflows, curtains of water falling on the floor, running to her feet. Letty quickly turns off the water and gets in, a wide puddle left on the white tiles.

She holds her knees to her chest, bringing the lavender-scented foam closer. There are some blood stains on her arm, and she can't rub them off, somehow.

“You’re not coming?”

Javier enters the bathroom, his hands on his hips, wearing only his underwear, and Letty slides to the other side of the tub, leaving room for him to join her. “Wait -” he holds a finger up and disappears for a minute. He comes back with little bottles of cheap wine and a cigarette packet.

He leaves them on the tub edge before tugging off his underwear. Letty doesn't shy away and watches him getting in the bath.

It's small, and they have to find a way to both fit. Letty is between his legs, her knees still to her chest and they're face-to-face.

Javier opens a mini bottle and hands it to her.She looks at the bottle like it's the forbidden fruit.

“Wine is fine,” Javier says.

This wine is, in fact, not fine, it's grainy and bitter, but it gets to her head fast and makes her forget the guilt, the sound and the colors, so she takes another gulp. It's empty soon enough, she opens another one. She leaves a trail of empty bottles on the edge of the tub.

Javier is looking at her closely, holding his own bottle. His hand hanging out of the tub, before he brings the two-dollar bottle to his lips. He passes his tongue on his teeth with a frowning face. Letty knows the wine is disgusting but it does the job.

“Can I have a cigarette?”

Javier brings it to her lips and lights it up.

“Thank you,” she says, smoke trailing from her mouth. She tries to relax and let her head fall, but tobacco is not enough to break her mind and forget about what she's done.

“Come here,” Javier says, his hand on her knee.

Letty turns and leans against his chest, his hand immediately going to her hair and neck. He cups some water and brings it to her breast, rubs her skin with the foam, kisses her temple. He passes his hand across her neck, with soap, and Letty closes her eyes at the caresses.

He's affectionate, he takes care of her and it makes her heart swell and ache. Maybe he's afraid for her. Little things can make her melt - a substance in a spoon, or burnt crystals in a lightbulb - upset, sad or angry, a little bit of everything.

Javier touches her throat, like he did the day they met, her carotide underneath his fingers.

The ashes fall on the floor, floating in the puddle. Javier takes her cigarette from her and takes a drag.“Thank you,” he says, bringing the cigarette to her mouth.

She looks at the smoke while thinking about what it entails. He's not talking about the cigarette, or the bubbles. It's about the bullet, about the gun she held, pointing at the back of his head, and when he didn't lower the rifle, she pulled the trigger.

And as soon as his John Deere cap fell on the ground, Javier held Letty in his arms, turning her around, taking the gun from her, desperate to not let her see and resent herself.

He took care of the bodies.

Letty nods, holding his free hand in hers. She bites her lip to swallow down a sob, as heavy as a rock. Guilt is hard to kill. She's already picking at her nails.

He kisses her neck and cheek, caresses her arms and holds her close. With two fingers, he turns her head for him to kiss her. It works better than wine and cigarettes.

Javier looks at her, with his big brown eyes. He makes his words heavier when he repeats, “Thank you,” shaking his head as if to ask her if she understands what it means for a man like him to be thankful.

Letty nods.

She feels guilty but not regretful somehow. It was him or Javier.

They stay until the water is cold and there are too many butts and empty bottles on the floor. Soon enough the morning will come, the pink light will turn into yellow, neon lights killed by the sun. They stumble out of the tub when Letty starts shaking. She kisses him again, and again, trying to take a bit of strength.

She'll buy some dye tomorrow. She can't wear this blond wig. She can't wear the same dress or shoes. She wants to forget about the pink light, the stains.

Letty lies down on the bed, looks at the bathroom door. Javier lies beside her, curling his body to fit against hers. Letty grabs his hand, holds it tight against her chest. He has killer hands, calloused, broad and warm. Now she has them too.

[illumynare]

Red vs Blue fic: Gift of the Magi (5/12)

Summary: Wash has already gone through too much, been broken too often. So when they get captured by Hargrove together, Tucker figures he has one job: until the cavalry shows up, keep Wash alive and (relatively) sane. No matter the cost.

Unfortunately, Wash is just as determined to protect him.

Parings: None. Warnings: Rated M. Canon-typical language, aftermath of canonical character death, psychological torture, hallucinations, hallucinated child harm, mentions of torture and suicide, fake-out character death.

Notes: Also available on AO3!

simulation_00010 Wash drops his gun and then Freckles shoots him, bullets ripping through his ribs and his spine, but it's all right because Caboose is all right

simulation_00011 Wash shoots Caboose but he misses, he misses and then Andersmith tackles him, Bitters takes his gun away and he's a captive and they're going to execute him but it's all right because Caboose is all right 

simulation_00111 Wash shoots Caboose but he misses, he misses and then Carolina shoots him in the shoulder, slams her heel into the wound and grinds down, and she drags him back to a small cold cell without windows and he has to stay there alone, alone forever, but it's all right it's all right because Caboose is all right

Caboose is

Caboose is

It's like the ghost of Epsilon, of Alpha, still running calculations in his head. Dreaming up scenarios where he fails and is hurt and it doesn't matter because at least he doesn't kill Caboose.

Caboose is the one who wanted him, who said "Can we keep him?" Caboose is the first one who trusted him, who saved him, and now he's dead.

Wash walks back to the Pelican. He lets the Mark IV black him out into transport mode. When he's back on the Staff of Charon, he hands over the drive of downloaded information. He goes back to his cell and sinks to the floor, leaning against the wall.

Good to have you back, Agent Washington!

I'm pretty that we can trust you.

I mean we are friends.

He waits.

This is the truth that Wash learned after Epsilon: nothing ever stops. After Epsilon died, after Wash was ready to die, minute after minute after minute dragged on. When he was certified Article 12, locked up and restrained and done, he still kept breathing and waiting and listening to the nurses walk up and down the hallway. He woke screaming in the night, and then he was awake, and stared at the ceiling in weary boredom for hours.

Eventually, that mattered. Eventually, the drumbeat of feet outside his door became more real than the memories, and when he woke after the nightmares, he counted the tiles in the ceiling, and learned to put the memories away.

That won't happen now. It doesn't matter how long Wash waits; there will be no coming back from this. 

But that fact doesn't make anything stop.

He realizes that he's flexing his fingers, one by one. It's an old habit, one he started when he was Article 12 and his body didn't feel like any part of him. Epsilon unmade him twice: once when he downloaded the memories of Leonard Church, of a body three inches taller and ten pounds lighter, and once when he sent out that END OF FILE signal to every nerve and bone.

For years after, Wash was haunted by the feeling that his body wasn't real. Flexing his fingers was the first way he learned to cope, to make his limbs feel like his own—

Caboose crushed him into the couch, leaning all his weight on Wash as he said, "Well, I think we should have a movie night, you know, for the popcorn," and Tucker grumbled,"We can't do that because you fucking burned our only movie," and meanwhile Caboose was warm, warm, and heavy, pinning him in place. Wash's heart jerked and rabbited against his ribs, but the pressure didn't turn into pain, and it didn't feel exactly like a trap.

It felt like an anchor. Like Caboose was pinning him down, keeping him in this body, in this moment, and Wash had an absurd urge to cry because he couldn't remember when he had last felt so real.

"Oh, my God, remember Mr. Frittles."

"Church is not a guinea pig, Tucker. His cheeks are not that fat."

"He's not Church, you idiot." Then Tucker grinned at Wash. "Heh, you don't look so badass now."

—and there's an ache clawing at his throat and Wash can't. He can't do this. 

But his heart keeps beating and his lungs keep breathing and now Wash understands Alpha and Epsilon as he never did before. If he could carve out these memories, he would. If he could set every synapse in his brain on fire, reduce himself to ash and echoes, he would, no matter who was left broken in his wake.

Except.

Tucker.

He can still be rescued. If Wash can keep him alive long enough.

Wash isn't stupid. He knows that even if the cavalry comes, he isn't going home. There's no such thing anymore. And he's worked for Hargrove and he's murdered for Hargrove and if Kimball lets him live, she'll put him in prison. Carolina and Tucker, if they don't break in and kill him, will leave him there to rot.

He knows what that will be like. Night and days and nights again with nothing but memories (his and not his) rolling around in his head, until the world feels like it's endlessly expanding and contracting, and sometimes his body is a balloon drifting away and sometimes it's a leaden weight he can barely move and none of it is ever real—

Wash rolls his hands into fists, finger by finger. Takes a deep breath. 

There's no hope for him now. But there still is for Tucker. 

Once he's safe, Wash can go crazy. He can shred all the pieces of himself that survived Epsilon, that Caboose helped knit back together. He deserves it and he wants it, just as much as he wants to kill Hargrove. But right now, he has to hold himself together.

He doesn't even try to sleep.

He waits.

The alarms wail on and on forever, the sound slicing through Tucker's head as he stumbles through the hallway. The floor is tilted at a sickening angle, and it makes everything seem—

Seriously? We're doing the crash again?

—unreal, especially the bodies, oh God there are bodies everywhere. 

Tucker doesn't want to believe this is happening. But it is. The ship crashed, and it's all his fucking fault. He saw that blonde pilot and thought, Hey, I'm a hero now, chicks dig that, and now the remains of the ship are buckling under their own weight and he can hear people screaming in the distance, and he can't find Wash.

Then he turns a corner, and he finds Wash.

He's not sure what happened. The ruins are too twisted and buckled, and the emergency lighting is too dim. It looks like some sort of girder snapped free of the wall, and it's—

It's pinned Wash right through the stomach. 

Like a bug, Tucker thinks without meaning to, and he wants to vomit because he remembers middle school science projects and teasing Wash that he was Agent Cockroach.

". . . Tucker?"

Fuck. He isn't dead.

Tucker drops to his knees. "Yeah. I'm here. It's okay."

There's no way to get Wash out. The girder probably snapped his spine, and it's obviously holding his guts in. It hasn't stopped the bleeding—there's a huge pool of blood around him, Tucker is kneeling in his blood and he can smell it even through the air filters in his helmet—but Tucker still repeats, "You're going to be fine."

Wash makes this awful choking noise, and after a moment Tucker realizes it's laughter.

"Don't . . . lie to your commanding officer."

"Shut up, you're going to be fine," Tucker repeats helplessly.

"Caboose?"

Tucker feels like his heart stops.

He found Caboose first. He was already dead. Tucker thinks it was fast, and that's his only comfort, but he will never, ever forgive himself—

"Caboose is fine," he lies. "He's already out."

"Good," Wash sighs. "Good."

Then he's still. After a few moments, Tucker realizes he isn't breathing anymore. That's probably all he was holding on for, to know that his team was all right.

Flames crackle in the distance. The smoke is getting worse; Tucker can smell it now, as well as the blood. He knows that he should go, that Wash would want him to go, but he can't make himself move. He's kneeling in his friend's blood and he can't think of a single reason to get up and walk, if he burns alive here then he deserves it, and he is—he is—

He's choking on the smoke, even through his helmet, which doesn't make sense. The filters aren't that busted. But it doesn't matter, Wash and Caboose are dead, and it's all his fault. That's the only thing he can think about, as the world goes dark. It's all his fault.

Then he wakes up.

Tucker wakes up, strapped face-down in a medical bed, with spit and tears and snot puddled around his face, and all he can think is that oh God, the air smells so good. It's such a relief to be away from the smell of blood and smoke, he wants to start crying again.

Then he thinks, Shit, where am I?

Somebody's talking nearby, but he can't quite make out the words and his head is spinning. He's—he's with Hargrove, he remembers that now, he got captured at a temple and . . . 

It wasn't real, Tucker.

Shut up, you aren't real, he thinks angrily. Because he remembers that much: Church is dead, Tucker is a prisoner, and he's so fucked-up that now he's hallucinating Church's voice even when he isn't hooked into the machine.

He knows it's a hallucination, because Church was never this nice to him.

Okay, you have a point. But c'mon, you remember what really happened, right?

The ship really crashed.

Tucker is sure about that. He'll never forget crawling out of there.

And it wasn't his fault, he remembers that now—it was the mercenaries and the tractor beam, oh thank God it wasn't his fault—

And Wash is alive, he knows that, because Wash is why he's here in the machine.

But Caboose?

Tucker feels like his stomach has turned to ice as he scrabbles desperately at his memories. It's so real, the image of Caboose crushed under rubble in the ship—for a moment, he can't remember anything else about Caboose and the crash, and that image of Caboose adopting a killer robot, maybe that's just a daydream, something he wanted to be true—

They've unstrapped him and now they're pulling Tucker up from the medical bed, and he barely notices because he's too busy panicking over fucking Caboose.

He's alive, Tucker. I promise.

Tucker ignores Church, because he's not real and also fuck Church. If he wanted Tucker to listen to him, he shouldn't have died like an asshole. 

But as he stumbles back to his cell, he manages to dig out the memory: Caboose, with a dent in his helmet but still on his feet, yelling, "OH MY GOD THAT WAS LOUD AM I DEAF? TUCKER CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

He survived the crash. He helped Tucker get Wash out of the ship, because Wash wasn't impaled like in the simulation, but he was pretty fucked up anyway.

Caboose is still alive. All those memories Tucker has of him on Chorus are real.

See? Told you so.

The guards shove him into the cell and lock the door behind him, and Tucker slides down to the ground, sick and shaky with relief.

Shit. He really believed that one. Even after he woke up.

How many simulations has he been through now? He can't remember. But it's getting harder and harder to tell the difference between them and reality.

He doesn't know how much longer he can do this.

Tucker, says Church, it's going to be fine. The others will come for us. You just gotta have a little faith.

"Seriously," Tucker says out loud, his throat hurting, "go fuck yourself."

He listened to Church's goodbye message, okay, he knows all about having faith and it means dying like an asshole when you don't need to. Okay, there were a lot of soldiers on the Staff of Charon, and Tucker doesn't know how the battle would have gone without the fragments super-powering his suit—but they've faced worse odds. They could've won.

He would never have had to hear Delta say, It was the most logical strategy, and Omega growl, He made us to protect you.

Tucker only went to talk to the new fragments once. He stormed out of the room with their storage unit twenty seconds after he went in. It's fine if Wash and Carolina want to agonize over whether they're stable enough to trust, and if Caboose wants to befriend them, and if Sarge wants to plot ways to recruit them for Red Team. But Tucker?

He's fucking done with asshole computer programs.

The next day, Wash is allowed to see Tucker again.

He doesn't want to. Wash doesn’t know how he can look him in the eye after what he’s done. But he has to make sure that he's still all right, and he can’t let Hargrove think that Tucker is no longer leverage.

Because then Tucker will be dead.

Wash has gone longer than this without sleep many times before, but he still feels dizzy as he walks to the mess hall. It’s worse when he gets there, and sits down to wait for the guards to fetch Tucker, because the background noise is too much like the mess hall on Chorus. He keeps remembering meals with his team, Tucker and Caboose squabbling together—and Wash has spent so long trying to keep his memories where they belong, but now he wishes he could fall into them and never leave—

“Hey, Wash.”

His head snaps up. Tucker is standing there in front of him, Tucker is—

Alive.

He looks tense, unhappy as he drops into his chair, but what matters is that he’s alive.

“Status report?” asks Wash.

“Well, I’m still a prisoner,” Tucker grumbles. "Seriously, why the fuck have the others not found us yet?" 

He’s sitting kind of crooked in his chair, his leg jiggling. He’s not in his armor, just his kevlar bodysuit, and Wash can’t help thinking how that wouldn’t hold up against a sniper bullet. Or a few bursts from an auto rifle. Or—

“They’re going to find us,” says Wash. “We just have to be patient.”

"Well, that’s easy for you to say," says Tucker. "You get to go out and train soldiers. I’m so bored, I could almost talk to Caboose."

Hearing Tucker say the name out loud is like a knife in his brain, and for a few moments Wash’s head is nothing but a white hot babble of memories—

good to have you back simulation_001100 Agent Washington went rogue and had to be put down I AM AN EMOTIONAL TIME BOMB I’m sorry to tell you

"—and the food is shit, like, this stuff is okay, but when I'm not in here they just give me—Wash?"

Wash is dizzy, mouth dry, heart hammering. Tucker’s looking at him now like he’s worried, but that's only because he still doesn't know.

Tucker deserves to know, Tucker deserves to shoot him in the face, but right now Tucker is a prisoner and Wash can't. He can't let him know that his team is destroyed, one dead and the other a murderer.

"Wash?" Tucker asks again, and his voice is gentle, as if Wash hasn't fucking murdered two of his friends, first Alpha and now Caboose. "Are you okay?"

He just has to hold out until the cavalry arrives. Then Wash will go to prison and Tucker will . . . Tucker will be all right. He has to be all right.

"I'm just fine, Private Tucker," he says.

[spyvstailor]

Chapter Seventeen of Pillar of Salt, for my fandom of two @daisylou2013 and @resurrectionofannabellee.

Chapter Seventeen

**Fate**

They were wandering past an empty gas station, when Sophia realized that she had forgotten her book.

“What do you need a book for?” Fate inquired when she told him.

“For nighttime reading,” she explained.

He chuckled. “Girl, how long do you expect us to be out here?”

She shrugged. “You never know.”

Pulling her into a drop behind an overturned truck, Fate whispered. “I want us to clear out this gas station. There may be some little treasures left behind.”

Sophia nodded.

“Now this will be the first time we work as team, yeah? I need you at my back, no faltering if something's bearing down.”

“I won't,” Sophia promised, her young face steeling into an adorably determined grimace.

Fate couldn't help reaching out and pinching her cheek, causing her to drop her grimace and giggle.

“Hey!”

“Alright, let's move out, you see anything move you shoot first.”

“What if it's someone alive?” She asked.

Fate paused, before he firmly repeated himself. “Shoot anything that moves.”

Sophia looked doubtful, before she nodded once.

“Alright, let's go,” he said, leading them up and over the truck.

Easing into the gas station as quietly as he could, he took in the space, memorizing any exits in the event they needed them. Behind the counter an uggie stood, gazing dumbly at the cash register.

Grasping Sophia by her elbow, he motioned for her to put her rifle on her back and use her knife. He figured if there wasn't a herd waiting for them, there shouldn't be too many more. No sense in wasting the bullets.

The girl hurriedly put her rifle on her back and removed her combat knife from the sheath at her hip.

Motioning for her to keep her eyes on him as back up, he approached the shuffler.

It jerked into a gross semblance of consciousness and grunted. Fate lured it out from behind the counter, before he stabbed up and into its brain from under the poor man's chin.

Dropping it quietly, he glanced around, before moving on into the backroom, Sophia at his back.

In the backroom another uggie was standing in the corner.

Fate kicked it in the middle of the back and knocked it forward, before ramming his knife into the back of its skull.

Copping a squat back there, he dropped his pack and opened it.

“Alright,” he said to Sophia. “Whatever looks useful, we shove inside our packs.”

“What's useful?” She asked.

“Lighters, batteries, unopened bottled water, granola bars, toiletries, anything that can keep and we can use,” he said.

The young girl nodded, before setting off going through boxes in the storeroom.

Fate waited until she was distracted, before going through the uggie's pockets for anything useful. Pulling out the man's wallet, he frowned and opened it long enough to read the man's name, before tucking it back where he found it.

“What's this?” Sophia asked pulling down a small metal object from a high shelf where it was tucked.

Standing up, Fate moved to her side and took the object.

It was a crack pipe.

Staring at the item in his hand, he pondered lying to the girl, before deciding she was taking things better than most girls her age would.

“It's a crack pipe,” he said.

“What's that?”

“It's a pipe you would use to smoke crack cocaine or crystal meth.”

Sophia was quiet for a moment, before nodding. “Okay.”

Tossing the pipe out of the room as far as he could fling it, Fate approached the girl as she continued her hunt for goodies.

“You find anything that looks like rock candy, you don't touch it, yeah?” He asked.

She nodded.

Turning his attention to going through a box of his own, he was buried elbow deep into a box of bubblegum, when Sophia asked, “why do people do drugs and drink?”

He shoved the bubblegum aside and opened another box. “Mais, that's a good question, lapin.” Sitting back, he pushed his helmet back and eyed her quietly. Normally it would be strapped tight if he was going to wear it, but he wasn't in the Corps anymore and annoyances be damned. “I suppose...well, you read your books to escape bad things, yeah? Like bad days or just feeling down. I guess some people drink and do drugs because of that.”

“Did you ever do drugs?” She asked.

Fate thought of the few times in high school where he smoked a bone with some of the rowdy kids who never went to class. “I smoked pot a few times.”

Sophia dropped from inspecting the top shelf and moved to sit beside him, dragging a box towards her.

“Why do you do that?” She asked him as they went back to sorting through the gas station's inventory.

“Do what, lapin?”

“Tell me truth all the time.”

Fate was quiet, opening a piece of bubblegum and offering her half. “Mais,” he began thoughtfully. “I suppose that's just what you do with people you love and trust.”

Sophia was quiet, chewing on her gum.

“When mama wasn't around,” she began softly, unable to look him in the eye, using the inventory before them as an excuse not to look at him. “My daddy used to try to...do things with me...touch me. Mama came home one day and found him...she never left me alone with him after that.”

The air around them felt like it was tightening, squeezing him like one of those blood pressure armbands, numbing his extremities.

“I know what was happening,” she admitted. “I'm not a baby, only he was really scary when he was mad.” Sophia's voice faltered and tears welled in her pretty hazel eyes. “That night he beat mama so badly she took me and we ran away to this place where we stayed overnight.”

“Why'd you two go back?” He asked, managing to find his voice.

“He found us a few days later and I remember him whispering really softly to mama, I thought they were making up, but he said something and we went home. I don't know what he said, but it scared mama, I could see it in her eyes.” Finding a box of lighters, she held it up and tucked the contents into his pack carefully. “I didn't tell you this to make you feel sorry for me and mama,” she said. “Only so that you'd know. I don't want to keep any secrets from you.”

“I appreciate the confidence you have in me, honeychild.”

She smiled sadly at him, tucking her creamed honey hair behind her ear and saying, “and I know you'd never hurt me or mama. You're different than daddy.”

He returned the smile. “I'd rather hurt myself than ever hurt you or your mama.”

“I hope you never have to, we love you too much,” she pointed out.

Spitting out his gum, he grinned and pulled a pack of Peeps out from one of the boxes. “Peep?”

She beamed and nodded.

Hearing a vehicle pulling up out front, Fate hurriedly gathered up his pack and pressing a finger to his lips, wordlessly motioned for Sophia to stay where she was as he crept out from the backroom to move to the window in order to peer out.

Outside a beat up old Cadillac had stopped and a scruffy man had emerged to urinate.

Grimacing, Fate ducked his head below the windowsill as the man looked up and around to ensure he was safe.

“Pete,” another man shouted from the car. “You're the only jackass I know who pulls over in order to piss on a gas pump.”

“Fuck it,” Pete shouted back. “This asshole got me arrested for jacking some shit last April, hope he rots in hell.”

Figuring Pete was returning not only to take a leak, but to perhaps finish robbing the place, he hurriedly moved away from the window and into the backroom.

“Come on, lapin, let's head out,” he said as casually as he could in order to keep her calm.

“Are there people here?” She asked.

“Yeah, let's take the back exit.”

They were returning home that evening loaded down with goodies, walking along a train track in order to avoid the main roads and Pete and his buddy should they be skulking around.

Sophia walked ahead of him, balancing on the rail as any child would.

After a while, he could have sworn he heard her murmuring to herself.

He edged ahead a little closer to her in order to hear her.

“O-ho the Wells Fargo Wagon is a-comin' down the street,” she sang under her breath. “Oh please let it be for me! O-ho the Wells Fargo Wagon is a-comin' down the street, I wish, I wish I knew what it could be!”

Beaming, Fate recalled the movie though he was sure it was a musical, wasn't it? He had watched it as a boy, curled up in front of his Mamere's old crackly television set. Late night movie, with oh...the mom from The Partridge Family.

“I got a box of maple sugar on my birthday.” Sophia went on singing under her breath.

Fate wished he knew the words. He could only remember bits and pieces.

“In March I got a gray mackinaw. And once I got some grapefruit from Tampa. Montgom'ry Ward sent me a bathtub and a cross-cut saw.”

Scooping up Sophia he helped her out on the next part.

“O-ho the Wells Fargo Wagon is a-comin' now. Is it a prepaid surprise or C.O.D.?” He sang louder than she had been.

Sophia giggled.

Holding her under her arms, he walked her ahead of him, her feet barely touching the rail.

“It could be curtains! Or dishes! Or a double boiler!” She broke off into a fit of giggles. “Or it could be...yes, it could be, yes, you're right it surely could be--” She giggled some more. “Somethin' special. Somethin' very, very special now, just for me!”

Releasing her, Fate hopped onto the rail and balanced behind her as they walked and sang together.

“O-ho the Wells Fargo Wagon is a-comin' down the street. Oh, don't let him pass my door! O-ho the Wells Fargo Wagon is a-comin' down the street I wish I knew what he was comin' for.” They sang together.

Sophia waited for him to sing the next part, but he shrugged, so she took over. “I got some salmon from Seattle last September. And I expect a new rockin' chair. I hope I get my raisins from Fresno. The D.A.R. have sent a cannon for the courthouse square.”

Somehow Fate remembered the next part better than he should have and bust in, “O-ho the Wellth Fargo Wagon ith a-comin' now, I don't know how I can ever wait to thee. It could be thumpin' for thumone who ith no relation but it could be thump'n thpethyul just for me!”

Sophia doubled over in laughter, falling from the rail.

Scooping her up in his arms, Fate continued their journey and they continued to sing. “O-ho, you Wells Fargo Wagon keep a-comin'. O-ho, you Wells Fargo Wagon, keep a-comin'. O-ho you Wells Fargo Wagon, don't you dare make a stop until you stop for me!”

When they finally got home, their voices were scratchy from singing and their feet hurt from fooling around on the railroad track, but they felt happy and lighthearted as they trudged through their front gate.

Only Dale at the gate and Carol were up.

“Find anything good?” Dale asked.

Fate pulled out a box of Peeps and tossed them at the man. “Peeps!”

Dale eyed the pink things in his hand. “Thanks. How'd it go, sweetheart?” He asked Sophia.

“Good,” she chirped. “We didn't have any real troubles and I found some lighters.”

“This little lady took down an uggie on our way home,” Fate bragged. “Without even needing my help. With only her knife.”

“Taking them down is good, but just remember so are you, once they were as well,” he cautioned.

“I will,” Sophia said. “She was suffering, they all are.”

“I was beginning to get worried,” Carol said as she walked over to them from the dorms.

“Sorry,” Fate apologized. “We had to stop at this farmhouse, raid their pantry for some preserves and canned goods. Got some more to go back for tomorrow, couldn't carry it all.”

Sophia held up her heavy pack with a grunt. “We got all this though.”

“How'd it go?” Carol asked her daughter, stroking her hair.

“Good! Fate showed me how to make a bush biffy,” she said.

“A what?”

Fate cringed. “Lapin, you make it sound crass.”

“That's what you called it!” The girl protested.

“Ooh-ye-yi!” He exclaimed. “Best get inside, yeah? It's bedtime, I think.”

As Sophia headed inside, Carol turned to him.

“What's a bush biffy?”

Fate felt himself grow a little red. “I showed her how to dig a hole to do her messing in, keeps people from stepping in it. Don't know why that was the highlight of her day.”

Rolling her eyes, Carol pushed him in the direction of the dorms. “Anything you teach that girl is the highlight of her life.”