#or shove a rusty needle through my nose and force a nose ring that's too big into the hole

[putridmoon]

i am feeling so manic and i know I'm being stupid and making horrible decisions but I cant stop doing it :)

[daringyounggrayson]

Summary: Dick and Bruce have been on shaky terms for a while, but they realize that none of that matters when they're both captured on an impromptu team-up. To make matters worse, one of their captors has a grudge against Dick, who already isn't at the top of his game due to injuries. Separated, Bruce can only watch and hope that someone finds them before it's too late.

Content Warning: gunshot wounds, blood, discussion of injuries, vomiting, and feeding tubes. 

oOo

“Nightwing?”

He’s on the ground, gravel pressing into his back. The smell of rain mixes with the distinct smell of blood. He can hear the rain pounding against something—an umbrella, or maybe a tarp—but it doesn’t touch him. He’s wet, though, and he can feel blood running down his face.

“Nightwing?” the voice is louder now, more urgent.

“Quiet!” someone hisses, followed by the sound of a blunt object coming into contact with flesh.

Dick opens his eyes only for them to immediately close again. He uses all of his energy to blink them open and refuse the tempting offer to keep them closed. He looks like he’s in a scrapyard, and Batman is being restrained by two men, both armed. Not good.

He tries to push himself up, to get a better look at their captors, or to at least adjust himself so into a less painful position, one that makes it a little easier to breathe. He hears the gravel crunching before he’s even gotten an arm under himself.

“Don’t touch him,” Bruce warns, followed by a grunt when the butt of a gun collides with him again.

Dick is still trying to push himself up when a foot collides with his chest. It sends him back down gasping, but more kicks keep coming. He’s coughing and curled up on his side by the time they stop. There’s something metallic in his mouth, but he can’t work up the strength to spit it out. A hand grips his hair and yanks his head up. He snaps his eyes for a moment, and one of the strangers shakes him a little, hissing, “Stay down.”

His head slams against the ground again and Dick does his best not to move. Not so much because of the warning; it just really hurts.

“Nightwing, are you alright?” Bruce asks, taking another hit before he’s even finished his question.

“Talk to him again, and we’ll shoot him.”

He hears a car roll up over the sound of his ragged breathing.

“What the hell took you so long?” Someone calls out when a car opens.

There’s a laugh. “I don’t think you have a right to complain here, seeing as you’re the one who—”

“We don’t have time for this,” another guy says. “Did you get the stuff?”

“Right here.” Something rustles, maybe a bag. Dick is too busy breathing to open his eyes and look. “There are a few doses in there, wasn’t sure how much we’d need.”

The bag rustles some more. “We’ll start with one and see how it goes. You get the Bat, I’ll take that one.”

“I hate needles,” someone else mumbles. “And does he really need it? Look at him.”

“We’re not taking chances. Suck it up.”

More gravel crunching, and then Dick can hear Bruce struggling against his captors. Dick can’t bring himself to move, but he does open his eyes. A guy is coming toward him with a needle.

Dick watches as he kneels on the ground and sets the needle on the ground. He pulls a penlight out of his pocket and turns it on, holding it in his teeth. The brightness makes Dick close his eyes again.

“Don’t think it will go through the suit. Neck okay?” he calls.

“Just get it in him!”

The man pulls Dick’s hair back and holds his head down, then Dick hears the clatter of the syringe.

Bruce is struggling again, and Dick wonders if he’s already been given his injection. “Don’t touch him!”

There’s the smack of a gun against Bruce again. “What the fuck did I tell you?”

Dick hisses as the needle is shoved into his neck and the liquid is forced into his veins. It burns and Dick wonders what hell it will do to him.

“Mel, you finished?”

“One second,” the guy—Mel, apparently—says. “Yup, all good.” The needle slides out of Dick’s skin and he digs his fingers into the gravel.

“Move,” the other guy says, and the gravel crunches quickly as he gets closer. He looks up to see Mel shoved to the side as a gun is aimed at Dick. “Maybe this will help you learn that your actions have consequences.”

The gun goes off and Dick feels a sharp, burning spread across his lower leg. He tries to move, to grasp his leg, stem the bleeding, but he takes a kick to the stomach for his efforts that leaves his coughing and choking.

“Stop!” Bruce shouts, has been shouting, but it sounds slurred. “Get away from him!”

The man tisks. “Now look what you’re making me do.”

The gun goes off again, this time hitting his stomach. Dick gasps, hands going to cover his stomach.

Bruce doesn’t say anything this time.

“Good. See? Keep that up and you two will be just dandy.”

“My car won’t,” one of the guys whines. “Blood is such a pain to get out.”

“We’ll bandage him and put him on a tarp, chill out.”

Dick feels dizzy and his ears are ringing. It’s getting hard to stay awake, and he feels a little numb.

Someone’s pressing against his head, his stomach, his leg. Then he feels himself being lifted to the air and set down on a hard, crinkly surface. A door slams shut and Dick has no idea how much time has passed when he feels himself lurch forward.

“Nightwing?” Bruce whispers next to him. “You’re going to be alright, chum. They gave us sedatives.” Bruce must be restrained because he doesn’t touch him. “Fight it.”

Dick can’t answer him; he’s already lost to the world.

oOo

Dick wakes up on a padded surface. The surface isn’t especially soft; his best guess is a gurney. There’s the familiar sound of medical monitors beeping, and there’s a nasal cannula feeding him oxygen. He feels nauseous and everything hurts, which someone should do something about, because by every indication, he’s somewhere where someone could do something about it.

But something’s off, too. Because there’s something tight pulled across his chest and thighs, and something is digging into his wrists and ankles. When he forces his eyes open, he finds that he’s in a poorly lit room that he doesn’t recognize. It looks like a basement or a storage unit.

He turns his head—damn, his neck is sore—and finds what looks like a chain-link fence that goes all the way up to the ceiling.

“What?” he can’t help but whisper. His throat hurts too, in a family way like he’s just gotten out of surgery, and that much would explain the rest of what he’s feeling. But if that’s the case, why is he here? Why isn’t he home, or at least someplace that looks like it’s been cleaned in the last month?

“Nightwing?” that’s Bruce. He’ll explain everything.

Dick turns his head to the other side, now taking in the IV pole beside him. He sees Bruce—still in his Batsuit, but stripped of his belt—restrained and kept in his own chain-link cage. “What . . . what happened?”

Bruce’s face falters. “I couldn’t get us out of the restraints. The sedatives they used where strong, and they gave me a second dose before we were put in the van. I couldn’t stay awake.”

The van triggers Dick’s memory, and he remembers the scrapyard, and the men, and the gunshots.

“I woke up when we got here, but we were getting out of a different van than the one we got into and the guards were different. Several people joined us and took you away. They brought me here and they wheeled you in on a gurney about an hour ago,” Bruce explains. “Do you know where they took you?”

Dick shakes his head, trying to think. He remembers bright lights and people wearing scrubs. Someone had asked him questions and he’d tried to answer them but his thoughts wouldn’t cooperate. The scrub-wearing people—doctors, he supposes—hadn’t been happy about that. He thinks he threw up, something else they hadn’t been happy about. They sent someone to get a new gown because Dick hadn’t been able to roll over in time—or move at all, for that matter. He’d passed out again before they’d come back, but he didn’t feel vomit on himself, so he guesses they’d succeeded in finding a new gown—wait! He’s wearing different clothes and his mask is gone. 

He flails on the gurney in panic, trying and failing to get up, get out. The gurney rattles but it doesn’t tip over.

“Nightwing, deep breaths. You’re alright,” Bruce tries to tell him.

“Do they know? My suit—my mask—they took it,” Dick tries to explain.

“I know,” Bruce says. “I know. And we’ll deal with it. But I’m not concerned about that right now.”

“Do they know?” Dick repeats, noticing how the beeping his picked up.

“They haven’t given any indication that they know or care about our identities,” Bruce says. “Take a breath, chum. You need to breathe.”

Bruce hasn’t called him that in a while; something about the nickname calms Dick, letting him relax enough to take a breath. A door opens and someone in scrubs comes running in. “I told you we should have kept him in medical,” the one is grumbling.

“And I agreed with you,” her partner grumbles back. Bruce has gone quiet again, and Dick listens as keys clatter and unlock the cage door. It swings open with a rusty squeak.

“How are you feeling, hon?” the woman says. Her hair is pulled into a bun and she has a medical mask over her mouth and nose. She’s pulling on gloves.

The man already has his gloves on and is fiddling with the monitors. “His oxygen is dropping again.”

She glances over at the monitor. “Raise it by ten percent and see how he does.” She steps forward toward Dick, pulling down his blanket and unbuttoning the top of his gown before pulling that down to. It’s then that Dick notices the chest tube, explaining the tugging feeling. She unwraps the stethoscope from around her neck and presses it against his chest, making him shiver. “Deep breath, Nightwing,” she tells him.

He doesn’t change his breathing at all, just stares at her.

She looks down at him, frowning. “Can you understand me?”

Dick doesn’t answer. He moves his gaze to look at what the man is doing. He’s by the end of his gurney, looking at some bags, one of which has blood in it.

“Nightwing,” the woman grabs his chin, pulling his eyes to her. “This is important. Can you follow my finger with just your eyes?”

She moves her finger and Dick, begrudgingly, follows it, unsure of what would happen to him if he didn’t.

“Good,” she praises, a little relieved. “I’m going to flash a light in your eyes now, just look at my nose.”

He does as he’s told, bracing himself for the painful light. She pulls his eyelids up one at a time. “Hmm.”

“What?” the other doctor asks.

“Can you pass me his chart?”

“Here.”

She flips through it, adding a few notes. “I think we’re okay for now, but we should probably schedule another CT later today.”

The man scoffs. “Like they’ll approve that.”

She shrugs. “We can still ask.”

The man lifts the bottom half of Dick’s blanket off, pressing against his feet. His toes curl, and the man asks, “Can you feel that?” Dick nods, and the man lets go of his feet and moves to check the catheters.

“Nightwing,” the woman catches his attention again. “Can you speak?”

“Yes,” he says slowly.

She smiles. “Perfect. Are you in any pain? Still feeling nauseous?”

Dick nods, not feeling speech is worth the throat pain, especially for these two.

“I’ll see what we can do for that. Does taking deep breaths make it worse?”

He nods again, and she nods back sympathetically.

“I thought so, but I need to check your breathing, okay? You were in pretty bad shape when they dropped you off, and with your oxygen dropping like that, we need to make sure things aren’t getting worse.”

He doesn’t like being talked to like this, but he nods.

“Alright, then, let’s give this another try.” She places the stethoscope on his chest, saying, “Deep breath.”

He does as he’s told, taking a deep breath each time he’s asked. Eventually, she’s satisfied and puts the stethoscope back around her neck. “No change,” she announces. She turns to her partner. “Finished?”

“Yeah,” he’s frowning. “No change.”

They pack up their stuff, but Dick realizes he’s now wearing a blood pressure cuff, which they leave on. They button up Dick’s gown again and tuck him back up in the blanket.

“What’s going on?” he finally brings himself to ask.

“Classified,” they say in unison.

The guy gets his attention. “See this?” he points to a button attached to the gurney. “If something feels wrong, press it and we’ll get an alert.”

“Who’s keeping me here?” Dick asks.

“Classified,” they say again.

“We don’t even know this stuff,” the woman tells him. “But some advice: don’t ask questions. They’re not going to kill you, so just don’t cause any problems and you’ll be okay.”

“How long do you plan to keep me here?” Dick tries.

“They’ll probably move you soon, but they never give us a date,” she says. “I doubt they’d do anything with you so soon after surgery, though. There’s nothing you need to worry about right now.”

“And the surgery was for?” Dick asks, already knowing they’re not going to tell him if he still owns all of his organs.

“We told you: you weren’t in good shape when they dropped you off. Worst guy we’ve seen in a while. Pissed off the wrong people, huh?” the man asks.

“We need to get going,” the woman tells him, already at the door. “Oh, and no more trying to move around, yeah? You’ll just hurt yourself. Besides, everything is being video-taped, and if you manage to get off the gurney, we’ll see it and have to activate the electric fence and sedate you—it will be a whole thing.”

“Set your recovery back too, no doubt,” the man adds. “And it will probably make them mad, so fewer painkillers for you.”

Dick blinks at them as they leave without another word. He watches as they say something to Bruce, but Dick can’t make it out. Then they’re gone, out of sight.

“Where the hell are we?” Dick asks Bruce. “Who are these people?”

“I don’t know. I suspect that they’re going to try to auction us off,” Bruce says.

“Great.” Dick rolls his head back to stare at the ceiling. His head is pounding, and after a moment, he closes his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks. “They wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Honestly? Not great.” And that’s the understatement of the year. Maybe if he could just move, or sit up. “Is someone coming for us?”

“We’ve been missing for at least twelve hours,” Bruce says. “I’m sure someone is looking.”

Dick can feel himself starting to drift off, so he opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Bruce. The lighting isn’t great, and Bruce isn’t exactly close, but from what Dick can see, he looks alright. “Are you okay? They didn’t shoot you too, did they?”

Bruce shakes his head. “I’m fine. A few cuts and bruises. They stitched something when I got here, but they never took me to a medical unit.”

Dick thinks about how Bruce must have felt, sitting here alone and not knowing what they did with Dick or if he’d come back. Dick can only imagine the relief Bruce felt when they wheeled Dick in, and then how quickly it must have been replaced by panic when Dick lied a few yards away, unresponsive for an hour.

Dick swallows. “I’m okay,” he says, but his voice shakes.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Bruce sounds helpless, and it’s just making Dick feel worse.

“I’m okay,” he tries again, but his voice sounds worse than the first time.

“You look tired, chum.”

“Yeah.” It’s weird, Bruce being so close and so far away from him.

“Get some sleep. I’ll take care of everything else.”

“Okay.” Dick exhales slowly. “Okay.”

oOo

Pressure against the bottom of his eyebrows jolts him awake, and he hears the clacking of his restraints against the gurney as he reflexively tries to bring them to his face to smack whatever is causing the pain to go away. The pressure disappears and Dick looks around the room to see three people in the cage with him. The two people in scrubs are the doctors who visited him earlier, and after he woke up from surgery the first time, but the third person is someone new, a little older, and wearing what Dick guesses is a guard uniform. Dick feels a new wave of nausea when he sees he’s holding a tray of food.

“Nightwing?” the one doctor asks. He groans when he sees the penlight she’s holding. “I wasn’t able to get you anything more for the pain or nausea, but we’re working on it. I’m going to do another exam now, and then I’m going to need you to eat something, okay?”

“I’m not hungry,” Dick grumbles. He’d wanted to sit up so badly earlier, but now he just wants to lie down. He turns his head to find Bruce. There are two guards in his cell, watching him eat with one hand still attached to the cage wall. But he’s eating, and Dick wonders what they said to get him to eat. They haven’t been here that long, after all; no way Bruce would crack so easily.

“That’s not up to you,” the guard snarls at him.

“Right,” the woman sighs. “Exam, then?”

She runs through the same exam as earlier while the male doctor changes out his IV bags and jots down vitals. This time, however, they also check his wounds and change some of the bandages.

“Everything is still stable,” the doctor announces, pulling Dick’s gown down again and the blanket back up. “I still want another CT, though.”

“You just said he’s fine,” the guard snaps.

She puts her hands in the air. “Just giving my medical opinion.”

The guard mutters something under his breath that makes her roll her eyes. “Can this one feed himself?”

“He hasn’t eaten anything yet,” she supplies as an answer. “So, we’ll find that out together.”

Without warning, they raise Dick’s gurney, and he’s left reeling in dizziness and nausea, but because of the restraints, he can’t curl forward to provide any relief. The guard grabs his hand a little tighter than necessary as he lengthens the restraint.

“Try to touch any of us or any of the medical supplies, and you’ll regret it, understand?” the guard asks, and Dick nods. The man grunts and shoves a spoon at Dick, then drops the tray in his lap. “Eat.”

Dick scoops up a bite of food and brings it to his mouth with a shaky hand. He swallows and takes a deep breath, trying to keep it down.

“You’re not finished,” the guard presses.

“Trying not to puke,” Dick grits out.

“Enough of the backtalk,” the guard shouts at him.

Dick doesn’t even look at him, just tries to take another bite. He drops the spoon when he feels the mush he swallowed rise in the back of his throat. He claps a hand over his mouth, trying to swallow it back down, and in his haste, he brushes against the nasal cannula.

“What did I tell you about touching the medical equipment?” the guard growls, grabbing Dick’s hand and slamming it back down against the gurney. He watches as the guard shortens the length of the restraint to even shorter than before, and he does the same on the other side, taking the opportunity to tighten them both around his wrists while he’s at it. He’d thought they were tight before, but now he thinks they’re going to risk cutting off his circulation.

He looks over at the doctors, who are standing in the opposite corner looking bored. He looks over at Bruce, who’s watching him with hidden panic as he keeps eating.

His guard has picked up the spoon and shoves it at Dick’s face with such force that it hit his teeth and he gags on it. He turns his head on reflex, spitting out the bits of food that managed to get in.

“Wrong move,” the guard snarls. He takes the tray and moves away from the gurney. He finds a lever and Dick is suddenly horizontal again. “He’s no cooperating.”

“And what do you want us to do about it?” the doctor asks, glancing at her nails.

“Tube him. The boss won’t be happy if he starves to death, and I’m not dealing with any sort of hunger strike from the prisoners.”

“As always, we thank you for your astute observations and predictive abilities. You truly are keeping us all safe,” she drawls.

“Shut it and just get the job done.” The guard is clenching his fist, but she doesn’t seem the least bit concerned.

“Sure thing,” she says. She looks at her partner. “You put the kit on the cart, right?”

“Right here,” he says, holding it up.

Dick furrows his eyebrows—how did they know they’d need it?

The guard leans over him. “You’re here for a minimum of two weeks, and after what you did to my brother Tommy, I’m going to make it as hellish as possible.”

Dick is about to ask who exactly Tommy is, but he’s sure whatever happened was justified. After all, Nightwing does sort of have a thing for dealing with criminals and protecting innocents.

“If you could step away from my patient, I’d love to get started,” the doctor interrupts.

“All yours,” the guard says taking a step back.

Dick glances at Bruce. He’s finished his meal and is back in his regular restraint position, watching Dick like a hawk. Bruce’s guards are outside the cells and watching Dick.

“Pass me the Xylocaine,” the doctor says as she slowly raises Dick’s gurney upright again.

He’s had NG tubes placed before—not exactly something he wants to have happen again, especially for no reason whatsoever. If the guard wasn’t standing there, maybe Dick would have tried to talk the doctors out of it, but it’s too dangerous. For himself, sure, but also for Bruce. They had no problem using him against Bruce earlier, so he doesn’t see why the reverse wouldn’t also be true.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” the guard says.

The doctor closes her eyes and takes a breath, then turns to the guard. “I know you have fun with this sort of thing.” He grins, malicious. “But I promise, this will be uncomfortable enough with the Xylocaine.”

“But it’s not necessary, is it?” the guard asks.

“No,” both doctors reply begrudgingly.

“So why pump more drugs into the kid? You’ll ruin his worth like that. Nobody wants a junky,” the guard reasons.

The doctor closes her eyes and takes another breath, no doubt holding her tongue with all of her willpower. “Fine. Since I guess you call the medical shots around here now.”

“Sure as hell I do.”

“Nightwing, you’re going to need to work with me on this or you could hurt yourself, okay?” her eyes are a little pleading, and Dick wonders what will happen to her if something goes wrong. He nods and she looks a little relieved. “I’m going to measure out the tubing and then thread it down. You’ll need to swallow some water when I ask you to, and you’ll need to tell me if it hurts too much, understand?”

He nods again and tries to stay still as she places the tubing at the tip of his nose and pulls it back across his cheek, measuring it out. This isn’t going to be fun for anyone—well, anyone other than that fucked up guard.

oOo

Dick thinks he’s dying. He’s lying on his back, desperate to be able to do so much as roll on his side. The tube is making his throat hurt more and his nose burns. His cheek is itchy where the tube is taped in place and he can’t adjust it at all. He’s nauseous and his stomach has been cramping since the feed started. The male doctor had turned it off early when Dick almost puked because they were afraid the tube would come up. Again.

Because of Dick’s gagging, it took three tries to get the tube in in the first place. There’s no doubt in his mind that it would have been easier with some Xylocaine, but he hadn’t been allowed that, and now they’ve stopped his regular painkillers too. He isn’t even 48-hours out of surgery and he has nothing to help with the broken ribs, punctured lung, head wound, and two bullet wounds. And that’s just what Dick knows; there could be other internal injuries they repaired that he’s not even aware of. Maybe there’s something wrong with his stomach and that’s why the nausea has been so bad. No one’s telling him anything and he just wants to go home.

“Nightwing?” Bruce calls.

“I don’t feel good, B.”

“I know,” Bruce says. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

There’s a pause that says Bruce thinks this is his fault, but Dick can’t give a reassuring talk right now. Talking hurts too much.

“What did the guard say to you?” Bruce asks. “Before, when you were eating.”

Dick squeezes his eyes shut as a wave of pain courses through him. “Uh, he wants revenge. I put Tommy—his brother—away or something,” Dick says, trying to press his temple into the pillow as best he can. His head and neck are killing him. He wishes they would turn the lights off.

“Hnn. Did he sound or look family?” Bruce asks.

Dick shakes his head, and a moan leaks out.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asks, like he can do something.

“Just hurts,” Dick explains with a croak. “No painkillers.”

“Those bastards,” Bruce growls.

“Said.” Dick swallows around the tube. “Said I’d be here for at least two weeks.”

“Hnn. That’s interesting,” Bruce says. “That must be when the auction is.”

“Confirmation?” Dick asks, trying to speak as little as possible.

“I overheard the guards talking. They said enough to imply,” Bruce says.

“Got a plan?” Dick asks, because Bruce always has a plan. Dick is supposed to always have a plan, and usually, he does, but the best plan he has right now is to let someone else get him out of this mess.

“Working on it,” Bruce says, which is the exact opposite of reassuring. “For now, we need to be patient.”

“Easy for you to say,” Dick mumbles. Bruce still hears him though; his flinch is enough to tell Dick that much. Dick rolls his head to stare at the ceiling.

“Is there anything I can do?” Bruce asks after a while.

Dick figures he’s offering to talk to him, and maybe Dick would take him up on it, but his head hurts too much. “I’m tired.”

“Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The last thing Dick thinks before slipping back into the blessing that is unconsciousness is how hollow Bruce’s words are, how the man has no say in where he will be when Dick wakes up.

oOo

The sleep doesn’t last, but the nausea has finally let up. The pain gets worse, though, and it pulls him from his slumber. Dick just wants to be able to curl up, but he can’t. He’ll just have to deal and try to tap into some of his pain management strategies.

(The problem is, Dick can’t think like this. He’s tired and in pain and can’t focus long enough to have anything work. He needs help.)

Bruce dozed off at some point, but he wakes up when Dick calls him.

“What is it, chum?” Bruce asks, urgent and attentive.

“Can you,” Dick starts, pausing to swallow and lick his lips. His voice must be barely audible at this point, just a croak. “Can’t think. Guided imagery?”

“Of course,” Bruce says, sitting up a little straighter. “How bad is the pain?”

Dick just nods.

“Oh sweetheart,” Bruce says, and Dick thinks Bruce is going for a record, calling him that so often since being captured. He wonders why Bruce isn’t concerned about keeping up the tough Batman front; maybe Dick really looks that bad.

“Please?”

“Close your eyes and take a few deep breaths.” Dick does as he’s told, listening as Bruce takes a deep breath with him. “Imagine you’re walking through the woods . . .”

oOo

Bruce is still talking to Dick in a calm voice—telling him to hear the crunch of a branch under his foot, feel the wind running through his hair—when the guards come in with the two doctors. Bruce stops speaking and Dick takes a deep breath. The guided imagery had been helping a little, and with Bruce’s voice grounding him, he’d been able to follow along for most of it. He thought he was about to fall asleep, but now the woods are gone and who knows what tortures await him now.

The guards hand Bruce a tray of food, and he starts eating without protest.

“How are you feeling this morning, Nightwing?” the doctor asks, pulling on her mask and gloves.

Dick doesn’t answer, just focuses on Bruce.

“Alrighty then, no pleasantries today I see,” she says. “We’re going to do a quick exam, and if you’re a good boy, we’ll give you a sedative and take you on a little trip, sound like a plan?”

Dick furrows his eyebrows and frowns—what?

“Relax. I can’t tell you what’s happening until we’re done—company policy—but trust me, this is a good thing. Plus, a sedative will do you some good,” she says. “I’m guessing you didn’t get much sleep last night? What with the painkiller ban and all.”

He blinks at her, still not wanting to talk.

She shrugs and starts checking Dick’s wounds. The male doctor is there too, yawning behind his mask as he changes out the bags hanging off the gurney—all of which have varying amounts of red in them, something that makes Dick’s eyes go wide. No one comments on it when he points it out, just shrugs. Great.

The doctor finishes changing his bandages and gauze, cleaning some of the wounds as she goes. The male doctor jots down his vitals and checks out his various tubes. It’s still uncomfortable, but knowing that the doctors aren’t going to hurt him offers him some reassurance.

The male doctor checks Dick’s feeding tube, grimacing with his eyes at the sight of Dick’s throat. “I suppose we should be grateful he let us use the lubricant.”

“Don’t say that,” the doctor hisses.

“What? He’s not even here,” he says, taking the penlight away from Dick’s mouth. Dick glances over at the guards, but it does no good; he can’t tell them apart.

The doctor must finish, because Dick’s gown and blanket are fixed and his gurney is being raised.

The doctor runs him through a quick neuro exam and she seems satisfied. She goes back to her tray and fills a syringe, no doubt with the promised sedative. She walks back to him and injects the liquid through his IV. It’s cold, and it makes him feel tingly within seconds.

“How’s the swelling on his neck?” the doctor asks as Dick feels himself fading.

Dick blinks, looking at the male doctor to try to figure out what’s wrong with his neck. “A little worse than yesterday.”

“What was his temperature?” the doctor asks.

Dick blinks hard, trying to stay awake, to get the information that’s rightfully his, but he can’t. He sleeps.

oOo

Dick wakes up still in his cage, which doesn’t make sense. He looks around, but it’s the same room, and Bruce is still in the cell next to him. His nausea is back too—god he hates sedatives.

“What happened?” Dick asks, and Bruce snaps his head to look over at him.

“You’re awake,” Bruce says, a little sad. Dick’s a little sad about it too, to be honest; recovering from surgery without any painkillers and unable to move isn’t exactly fun. “I don’t know where they took you, but I think it was for another CT scan.”

“Why’d they sedate me?” Dick asks. It still hurts to talk, but it’s getting better. A little.

“They probably didn’t want you to be able to figure out where they were going,” Bruce explains, and Dick hums in agreement.

“My head okay?” Dick asks.

“They wouldn’t talk to me, but they brought you back without any new bandages,” Bruce tells him, and Dick hums again. “Still tired?” Bruce asks.

Dick nods a little, breathing deeply from another wave of nausea. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Bruce grunts. “Worried about you. They said you have a fever.”

That might explain part of why he’s feeling so shitty, and fuzzy. “Yeah?”

“They were worried about your neck.”

That night in the rain—the man injected him with the needle after he placed it on the ground, in the gravel. “One of the goons that grabbed us doesn’t know anything about keeping needles clean.” He wonders, idly, if the needle had been used.

Bruce growls, literally growls. Dick almost laughs, but the tube shoved down his nose keeps him from it.

“There was a lot of blood in those bags,” Dick muses, thinking back to this morning. He wonders how long he’s been out, he wonders if Bruce kept track.

“I know, sweetheart,” Bruce tells him gently; Dick adds another “sweetheart” to his count. “From what I can see, there’s less now. You’re not getting worse.”

“Except for the fever,” Dick says.

“Except for the fever.”

oOo

Somehow, Dick is able to fall asleep again. He wakes to the sounds of people murmuring around him, something that never fails to spark panic in his chest. He’s shivering, he notices; someone’s taken his blanket, but his gown is still in the right place.

He opens his eyes to find the two doctors and several guards.

“He needs medicine,” the doctor is instating. “He could die.”

“It’s a fever,” the guard says. He meets Dick’s eyes, “Look, he’s even awake. He’s fine.”

Dick doesn’t think that’s true; he’s feeling worse than he did last time. He rolls his head to look at Bruce, he looks back at him and mouths something Dick can’t make out. He wonders if he should add another “sweetheart” to his count, just to be safe. What was his count again? How long have they been here, and where is here?

“Where?” Dick croaks, and his throat hurts and his voice doesn’t sound like his. He coughs, trying to clear it, but that makes his throat worse and sends pain crashing through his ribs, tugging at his side. He tries to move his hands, to hold his chest together, but he can’t move them. He can’t move! “B?”

“You’re alright, Nightwing. Focus.” Bruce is always telling him to focus, but focus on what?

“Don’t talk to him,” the guard spits.

“Will you let me run a blood test?” the doctor asks. “Then when those come back with infection written in bold, we can give him antibiotics. No painkillers, just antibiotics and an ice pack for the fever, cross my heart.”

“It’s probably just a cold, he doesn’t need medicine,” the guard insists. “And if it’s not a cold, whoever buys him can decide what to do with him and his medical care.”

“No one will want him like this,” she presses. “And last I checked, you were supposed to get approval for what I asked for, not take those decisions into your hands and—”

There’s a hand around her throat, and Dick tries to leap up to help, but he’s stuck—he’s stuck, he’s stuck, he’s stuck!

There’s beeping, and someone is telling him to take a breath, and someone is telling them to shut up and it’s too much and Dick can’t think, he can’t—

Dick’s finger twitches, brushing across a button. He remembers someone telling him to press it, and that someone would come. He presses it once, twice, three times. A louder beeping goes off, a different octave. It’s an alarm.

The woman reappears, the alarm stops, the monitors keep going. “What is it? What happened?”

“Need help,” Dick grits out, and that’s the last thing he remembers.

oOo

“Check on Nightwing first.”

Dick pulls his eyes open at the sound of his name, and when he looks toward the doorway, he sees not the doctors he’s half-expecting, but Robin and Spoiler—the rescue team has finally arrived.

With a click, Tim cuts off the lock and the two of them run to his side.

“Are you alright?” Tim asks him as he and Stephanie work on getting off his restraints. Bruce is cutting his own restraints with a weapon someone must have given him.

“Fantastic now that you guys are here. Get this stuff off me, yeah?” Dick asks, sitting up as soon as the restraints are gone.

“I don’t . . .” Tim trails off, looking up at Batman when he joins them.

“Spoiler, turn off the monitors,” Batman commands, receiving a dutiful nod. She’s oddly quiet and her movements are stiff, Dick notes.

Dick moves to pull the IV out of his hand, but Bruce stops him.

“Let me. Lie down and relax.”

“I’m fine,” Dick protests, but he knows he’s not; sitting up is sending a shooting pain to his chest and stomach, but he’s too stubborn to listen to them.

Bruce ignores him but takes out the IV, then lets Dick take off the blood pressure cuff and sticky pads for the heart monitor. Steph and Tim watch as Bruce and Dick remove most of the medical equipment, leaving in the tubes and catheters in until they can get the proper supplies.

“Lie down,” Bruce tells him, again.

“I can walk,” Dick says.

Bruce gives him a hard stare, forcing Dick back down by sheer will.

“Oracle?” Bruce asks, pressing the new comm Tim must have given him. Bruce nods in a way that tells Dick that Babs gave him good news. “Let’s move.”

Dick drapes an arm over his eyes and takes a deep breath as he’s rolled out of the room at what he’s sure is a sprint. Tim grabs his hand, squeezing it once to reassure him before letting go again. The past few days have been a nightmare, but it’s almost over; he’s going home.

oOo

Alfred freaked out as much as he’s capable of when he first saw Dick, all wide eyes and sharp inhales followed by frowns and tisking. Dick’s chest had a looked particularly bad, covered in bruises from where he’d been kicked repeatedly and with enough force to do more than bruise. The doctors, though, had done a good job. After countless scans, Alfred confirmed that they’d managed to repair one of his kidneys, which was likely damaged by one of the bullets, and a punctured lung. All of his organs were still in place and Alfred didn’t have to perform any additional surgery.

He did, however, remove the chest tube, feeding tube, and catheters.

Alfred wanted to keep him on an IV for painkillers, fluids, and antibiotics. The antibiotics, weren’t for the injection site, to Dick’s surprise. While it had been red and swollen, it wasn’t that bad by the time he’d arrived at the cave; their bigger problem was the fact that Dick had developed pneumonia, probably because he’d been immobilized, kept in poor conditions, and had broken ribs paired with a punctured lung. Despite his condition, Dick had convinced Alfred not to put him on an IV, citing that he’d had too many wires and tubes for his taste. They both had a sense that Dick would be fighting IVs for quite a while.

Dick mostly stayed in his bed for the first few days, too knocked out by drugs and fever to do much of anything else. By the fourth day, he was up and shuffling around the manor, gearing up to convince Alfred to let him go home and recover there. It was weird, being in the manor. It gave him a hard to describe feeling, one that made him almost itchy.

He figured, though, that his argument wouldn’t be very effective if Dick looked as tired as he felt. He’d had a hard time sleeping last night and one glance in the mirror told him it showed; taking a quick power nap on the couch while he waited to run into Alfred would be for the best.

Bruce, however, felt that it was up to him to sabotage Dick’s perfectly good plan by waking him up.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were asleep,” Bruce says when Dick sits up on the couch with a yawn. He’s wearing a suit; Bruce must just be getting home from work, then, meaning Dick slept longer than he’d intended to.

“It’s fine,” Dick mumbles, stifling another yawn. “Did you need something?”

Bruce shakes his head. “You weren’t in your room. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Oh. I’m feeling a little better and just wanted a change of scenery,” Dick explains. “I actually think I’m healed enough to get out of your hair, so.” Dick ends with a shrug.

“And you think that’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be? I feel fine,” Dick says.

“You have pneumonia and are recovering from two GSWs.”

Dick scoffs, rolls his eyes. “I’ve dealt with worse on my own.”

“Hnn.” Bruce tightens his stare, but it’s not angry. Concerned, maybe. Worried. “I’m sure Alfred agrees that you should stay here until you’re fully healed.”

Dick blinks at him, wondering where this is coming from. Dick had kind of gotten the sense that, if anything, Bruce had been avoiding him. But now, it almost sounds like Bruce wants him around. Bruce had obviously and understandably been worried when Dick was first hurt, but he’s in the clear now; Bruce should be back to normal.

“This is the first time we’ve really seen each other in a month,” Dick muses, unable to think of another time they had been around each other more for than an hour outside of masks.

A beat passes, a pause that lasts a moment too long. “Yes. What’s your point?”

Dick sighs, pushes his hair back. “We weren’t even planning on seeing each other last week, it was just by chance.”

Bruce nods.

“So, if you had no problem avoiding me for a month—a whole month, Bruce—why do you care now?” Dick asks, and he really hopes there’s an answer out there. “I’ve been sick and injured on my own before. There were plenty of times when you knew I was sick or injured, and Alfred called, but you didn’t.”

“I thought you wanted space,” Bruce supplies.

“Bullshit,” Dick snaps. “What kid doesn’t want their”—Dick cuts himself off, not knowing what he’s going to say, not wanting to say it. “When have I not wanted you around when I’ve been hurt?”

“You have asked me to leave on several occasions,” Bruce says.

Dick presses his palms into his eyes. “Why are you so difficult?”

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Bruce says. “It seems like you’re angry with me no matter what I do. If you ask me to go, you’re mad that I didn’t stay, but now I’m asking you to stay, and you’re arguing with me. What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” Dick whines. He wants Bruce around, but sometimes it feels like the Bruce he wants isn’t around anymore, or maybe never was. It’s hard, looking at a parental figure without the rose-tinted glasses childhood hides them behind. Now he looks at Bruce and he’s reminded of all the hurt and shortcomings that came with his upbringing; he looks at Bruce and he’s angry for everything that wasn’t and isn’t.

“Neither do I,” Bruce tells him. “Sometimes it feels like you want nothing to do with me.”

Dick wants to scream, tell Bruce that there’s a fucking reason why Dick doesn’t want anything to do with him, with certain sides of him. He wants to tell him that, yeah, maybe both of them are at fault for the way things are between them, but he was the child—just a dumb, angry teenager—and it shouldn’t be his job to make things right and ignore all the things Bruce has done to him, or hasn’t done. He wants to take the venom on his tongue and tell Bruce all the ways he fucked up and demand apology after apology and make Bruce feel like shit.

(In this moment, all of that feels like an absolute truth, a certainty. But given time, it will falter; Bruce’s flaws won’t seem so extreme and the hurt Dick feels won’t run as deep.)

Instead, he says, “That’s not true.” This is another truth—albeit one that doesn’t always feel absolute and constant, but a truth nonetheless.

“Then why did you stop coming to the manor?” Bruce asks.

It’s a fair question with a complicated answer that Dick doesn’t think he has. It’s more complicated than saying “you replaced me with another kid” because that isn’t where it started, and deep-down Dick knows that isn’t completely true. It’s more complicated than saying “you never ask me to come home” because Bruce might be asking, probably has been, but Bruce doesn’t use words for those kinds of requests and Dick is too tired, too done, to translate Bruce-speak. It’s more complicated than saying “I don’t know what I’m doing and I can’t be around people who know that I don’t know what I’m doing” because then it wouldn’t just be Bruce he’s avoiding.

He finds himself voicing a watered-down version of the truth: “It doesn’t feel like home anymore.”

“Hnn.” Bruce takes a seat on the couch, and Dick moves his feet to accommodate him. After a moment of silent debate, Dick leans his head against Bruce’s should, and Bruce tucks him underneath his chin, just like he used to do when Dick still lived here. “Things have changed,” Bruce says simply.

“Yeah.” And Dick can’t pinpoint where exactly the change started, where the tipping point was, and what role Dick played in tipping it.

“I’ve missed you.”

For a second, Dick is wearing the rose-tinted glasses again, but only for that second. “I’ll stay,” Dick agrees.

Bruce presses a kiss into his hairline, and Dick feels at home, if only for a second.

“I don’t want to go another month without seeing you,” Dick continues. “We need to start making an effort.” That’s what it means to be an adult, right?

Bruce nods, humming in agreement. “I’m sorry I stopped, that I . . . pushed you away.”

Dick sighs, not feeling up to the conversation boiling in that sentence. He presses himself into Bruce a little harder despite his aching ribs. Bruce runs his fingers through Dick’s hair, and Dick closes his eyes, breathing slowing.

In that moment, Dick feels like everything will be alright. He knows that the rose-tinted glasses will eventually fall away and shatter, but when they do, he hopes that things will still look brighter than they did before he put them on, even if he knows they won’t be as bright without them. He doesn’t need a childish fantasy of a perfect father figure, but he does need Bruce, and with a little effort, he hopes that it will be more than enough.  

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

S.T. REWRITE - S2:E9; Chapter Nine, The Gate - [Pt. 3]

A Will Byers x Reader Series

The survivors turn up the heat on the monstrous force that's holding Will hostage, and Y/n's powers are put to the ultimate test in the process. Eleven makes plans to finish what she started.

A/n: You might be noticing a lot less 1st person pov, I'm slowing inching away from that since 1st person isn't a strength of mine. I most likely will phase that out altogether, idk, let me know?

Trigger Warnings: Violent racism. Allusions to domestic violence. If you would like/need to skip, I will be putting the usual markers [●●●] before and after. Both of these warnings will fall under the marker. Safe reading, my loves! I care about you all so deeply, and I want you guys to have my stories as an escape so I'm really hating myself that this scene is coming out during all this. Not that it was ever not going on before cuz we all know that's bullshit, but with it all being so amplified right now. Again, I love you all and if you ever need anything 💕💕💕💞💞💞 edit: also brief mention of needles

||3rd Person POV||

Billy Hargrove's car skids to a halt in front of the Byers house, the four tires send gravel up flying. The headlights dim out with a sharp click as he puts the car to sleep, and the rusty car door squeaks as he opens it. He takes the dying cigarette out from between his smirking lips when he sees who is waiting for him on the porch.

"Am I dreaming, or is that you Harrington?"

Steve sighs, tiredly. "Yeah, it's me. Don't cream your pants."

A cocky smirk overtook Billy's face and he shed his coat out of intimidation. Steve stepped off the porch and the two boys walked across the yard until they were directly across from one another.

"Whatya doing here, amigo?" Billy asks.

Steve cocked his head to the side, his arms coming to cross over his chest. "I could ask you the same thing... Amigo."

The cigarette hung loosely from Billy's lips once more, and for a small but lingering moment, he observed Steve trying to get a read on him.

"I'm looking for my step sister. Little birdie told me she was here."

Steve was quick to dawn a mask of surprise. "Huh, that's weird I don't know her."

Billy's face was slowly but surely molding into a wild glare, his brows already knitted together in agitation. He begins gesturing, vaguely.

"Small, redhead. Bit of a bitch."

A lick of anger flickered over Steve but for the kids' sake, he didn't let it show. He merely shrugged in a bored manner.

"Doesn't ring a bell. Sorry, buddy."

Billy shook his head as he glowered at the ground, a twinge of disgust twisted up in his face. He took the cigarette into his hands, and he looks at it for only a second and smacks his lips.

A deep sigh resonates from within his chest, and he steps forward waving a shaky hand in the air.

"You know... I don't know, this...?" He falters, trying to find the appropriate word. "This whole situation, Harrington, I don't know. It's giving me heebie-jeebies."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

He takes another drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke fill his lungs and the feeling fuels his rage.

"My thirteen-year-old sister goes missing all day," his cold green eyes were now wide and dilated. Beady almost as he looked at Steve, no longer attempting to hide his fury. "And then I find her with you. In a stranger's house. And you lie to me about it."

His voice is shockingly calm, but lower than usual. A disgusted and hardened scowl contorts his face, and it doesn't ever seem to move. Steve laughs, hoping it doesn't sound as nervous as he is beginning to feel. Luckily, he recovers quickly.

"Man, were you dropped too much as a child, or what?"

The smoke leaves Billy's lungs in a joyous cackle, his tongue flicks across his top set of teeth in excitement and there is a wild and unhinged look in his eyes. Steve didn't know it yet, but he had just said the magic words. He had just pushed the wrong button.

"I don't know what you don't understand about what I just said." Steve finished, watching unsettled as Billy continued to lick his lips excitedly. "She's not here."

Steve felt his confidence rising considerably. Up until Billy inched closer, he then rose up his cigarette, pointing it over his shoulder towards the house.

"Then who is that?"

Steve looks over his shoulder to find four heads crammed together against the window, watching.

Inside, Max, Dustin, Lucas, and Mike threw themselves down against the couch as fast as they could.

"Shit!" Cried Dustin, he looks between his friends hopefully. "Did he see us?"

"Oh, shit," Steve mumbles, turning back. "listen--"

Steve was on the concrete in seconds, Billy stalking forward to tower over him.

"I told you to plant your feet." He spits.

His right leg rears up and in one swift motion, his boot collides with Steve's abdomen, knocking the breath out of him.

The front door slams against the wall, shaking the frame and the four cowering bodies standing across the room.

[●●●]

His eyes narrow upon seeing Lucas among the bunch. Eerily enough, despite his bigoted fury, his face is completely devoid of emotion.

"Well, well, well," he seethes, one long arm throwing the door slammed behind him. "Lucas Sinclair, what a surprise."

He marches forward, and every thud of his boot's rubber soles against the linoleum is like a boom in his ears. He is already backing away, Max the only one brave enough to stay by his side. Billy's attention is redirected to her.

"I thought I told you to stay away from him, Max?"

"Billy, go away."

Her voice is shaking but she holds her ground. His voice lowers to a terrifying and threatening volume as he spits at her coldly.

"You disobeyed me," he says, in almost a sad and disappointed tone. "You know what happens when you disobey me."

"Billy--"

"I break things,"

The second the words left his tongue, he whirls on Lucas picking him up by the scruff of his jacket and carries him all the way to the kitchen wall. He cries out, fighting against the iron grip, but it does little help. Terrified screams of protest erupted from the other three kids, but he doesn't listen.

"Get off of me, you--!"

Billy shoves Lucas farther into the shelf to enunciate his point and he leans in closer, teeth gritted.

"If Maxine won't listen to me, maybe you will," Lucas doesn't give up fighting, his legs and arms still struggle for freedom but what little confidence he had waned as Billy leaned in closer. "Stay away from her."

Lucas feels himself being pulled forward before being thrown back into the shelf again and he grimaces in pain.

"STAY," his head begins to tremor, his rage overcoming his body. "away from her. Do you hear me?"

His heart slamming against his ribcage as he stares at Billy and his furious scowl, Lucas takes several shallow breaths and grits his teeth right back. "I said get off of me!"

Lucas's knee flies up and connects with Billy's groin, and the young Hargrove stumbles back with a tremendous groan. He's doubled over, hands gripping his legs and squeezing in pain till his skin goes completely white. Slowly his head rises revealing his now purple face, it's decorated with several thick blue veins on his forehead. His groans of pain evolved into furious growls, and his beady eyes are locked on Lucas.

"You are SO dead, Sinclair!" He roared. "You're dead."

[●●●]

A hand landed on Billy's shoulder, ripping him around on his heel to find Steve with disgust written all over his face.

"No," he spits, cocking one arm back. "You are!"

Steve's fist collided with Billy's nose, sending the other teenager back several paces once again doubling over. He watched as Billy straightened up, an odious and maniacal cackle erupting from his throat as he wore a wicked grin. Blood began to pour from his nose, and he licked his lips excitedly. Behind them, Lucas had scurried away and into the waiting arms of his friends who all took him into a protective group hug.

"Looks like you got some fire in ya after all, huh?" Belted Billy joyously. He stalks closer towards Steve, his voice lowering with every word. "I've been waiting to meet this King Steve everybody's been telling me so much about."

Steve reaches out and places his two forefingers on Billy's chest, lightly pushing him away. "Get out."

Billy stills as if contemplating his next move but by the time Steve can even blink, Billy has already made it. His fist swings through the air, nearly hitting the side of his head if he hadn't ducked fast enough. As he comes back up, Steve uses the momentum to swing his own fist into Billy's head and it knocks him into the table.

Dustin and the other begin to jump for joy. "Yes! Kick his ass, Steve!"

Billy rises again, more blood covering his lip and another cackle bubbling up but Steve doesn't wait for it to coms out this time. He throws another punch, and it lands squarely in Billy's jaw and he tumbles further into the kitchen counter. He just laughs more, blood now pouring from his mouth and staining his lips and teeth.

Another punch.

His lower back collides with the rim of the kitchen sink, and everything on the counters nearby begins to shake. His head is rolled back in laughter, and the kids encouraging cries are enough to distract Steve from the fact that Billy's right hand is reaching for a plate.

It breaks over his skull and he stumbles back covering his eyes and clutching his scalp. The kids' cries never stop, but they do turn worried as they scream for him to get up, and various 'looks out's were thrown his way. Billy was already on the move, and his shoulder reared back, his hand balled up into a fist with his eyes locked on his target.

When the blow finally comes, Steve is sent into the shelf and several things fall to the floor, including himself. He manages to catch his footing before completely meeting the ground, and as he struggles for balance he fumbles into the living room. He feels himself being yanked up to his feet, Billy's hands grip his sleeves tightly and he gives him a good jolt. His head rolls around on his shoulders as he is thrown around, still blind sighted with pain.

All he can do at the moment is push his one free arm into Billy's heaving chest, desperate to create as much distance as possible. He's shaken again, and Billy drops his voice into an angry hiss.

"No one," he pants. "tells me what to do."

His head flies back before barreling into Steve's, once again sending him flying across the floor. A triumphant cry is ripped from Billy's bloodied lips, the veins in his forehead and throat resurfacing. He stomps across the room towards Steve, all the while ignoring the many screams and pleas for him to stop and leave him alone.

"You're gonna kill him!"

"Billy, stop!"

"Get up, Steve! Come on, you can do it!"

Billy swings one leg over Steve's nearly unconscious form, trapping him in one spot and continues to throw his punches now completely unhinged. Steve's head is swung from side to side as each of Billy's fists connect with his face. Blood flies with every swing, a terrifying roar erupting deep within Billy's chest, and Steve is already more than halfway under. It is truly a disturbing sight to behold, the kids stand planted to the ground in utter terror, screaming their throats raw, begging for him to stop.

All except for Max. She knows her stepbrother is too far gone, and even if he wasn't, he never was an easy one to talk down. She must take matters into her own hands, and that's exactly what she does.

Her eyes have already found one of the syringes used on Will, and it was still full. Wasting no time she snatches it up and rips off the cap. Shoving the boys aside, Max marches across the living room to an unsuspecting Billy. The syringe flies above her head before descending in one swift motion and entering his neck.

Max backs away, the syringe remains buried deep in his skin. He clamors to his feet, staring at her in shock though already it has begun to take effect. He staggers back as loses balance, and his eyelids grow visibly heavy. His bloodied hand feels as if its filled with lead as it rises all the way up to his neck, and he winces as pulls the needle out.

"The hell is this?" He grumbles, lumbering after her. "You little shit, what did you do?"

He has to fight hard to maintain his vision and his balance. It feels as if gravity has tripled. With her directly in his sights, his anger once again redirected at her, he commands his feet to take him to her. Instead, he blinks and finds himself on his back with an aching spine.

"Shit," Mike breathes.

The anesthesia coursing hard through his veins is enough to subdue him but does not bring him completely under as it did the small Byers boy. But it was enough for everyone at that moment. They watched disturbed as he laid on the floor, his head rolling back and forth as he laughed almost joyously. He was amused.

Max only looks at him, for once in her life without even a sliver of fear. All that's left is loathing, and disgust.

She shakes her head, deciding she is still not done. Max would ensure that this would not happen again.

Max takes the bat into her hands and held it over her shoulder, stalking over till she towered over Billy as he had done to her oh so many times.

"From here on out, you are going to leave me and my friends alone. Do you understand?"

"Screw you," he spits.

With all her might she throws the bat into the floor just between his legs, his head limply raises up to see that it had missed his crotch by only inches. Everyone watches in awe.

She has to pry the bat from the floor, the several metal nails had been buried deep into the wood floor only further proving her strength and point.

"Say you understand!" She roars. "Say it!"

He says nothing, his head still rolls across the floor.

"SAY IT!"

"I understand," he whispers meekly.

Her brows shoot up, and she tilts her head. "What?"

"I understand." He repeats.

His eyes flutter closed, exhaustion sweeping over him. Satisfied, and finally free, Max drops the bat to the ground with a clatter.

Three mouths watch agape at the sight, they only widen further when she steps around his still body. Bending over, she pulls a set of keys that stick out from his pocket and hold them up for all to see with an impatient look.

"Let's get out of here."

||Reader's POV||

The ride here lasted way too long, at least it felt like it did. My hand comes to rest on the shoulder of Jonathan's seat as I try to peer around to look at where we are. The car had already been going fairlybslow these past few minutes, but it had gotten even slower leaving me to believe we had to be here. Sure enough, just past a few trees, I can barely make out a small wooden porch of the cabin illuminated by the headlights.

I look over to my right at Joyce as the car comes to a stop. Nancy and Jonathan exit the car and head for the trunk, their doors rocking the car a bit when they close them. Will, for the most part, is cradled against Joyce, his head lays against her chest. She hasn't taken her eyes off of him since we got in the car, she's just been lovingly stroking his hair and brushing strands away from his face. My eyes fall to him, my mind hasn't been able to think about anything else other than him or what I'm about to try to do.

I feel eyes on me, and I look up to meet eyes with Joyce. Her expression is hard and somber, her lip is trembling but her eyes are far kinder. We share a silent exchange, knowing the road that lies ahead will not be an easy one, and it's almost a weak attempt at consoling each other.

I take a deep breath and open my door.

"Y/n,"

I stop, my hand leaving the handle and I look at her curiously.

"Sweetie, I am so, so proud, a-a-and thankful for what you are willing to do for this family," she smiles halfheartedly. "But this is a lot to ask. Are you sure this is something you're up for? I couldn't possibly ask you to do something so big if it's too much."

I look at my feet, her words bouncing around my head. They are the perfect meal for my anxiety, feeding all my fears and doubts. And yet, nothing inside me changes. I look up at her, my eyes falling to Will as I speak.

"Yes," I murmur, shaking my head a bit. "I don't think I'd be able to live with myself if I didn't at least try."

My eyes well up with tears, and I look to the woman, who so long ago, had become like a second mother to me.

"Will's my best friend, he's one of the best people I know. And I know he would do the same for me," her eyes are fogging up too, I realize. "This family has done so much for me... I want to give something back."

"Oh, honey," she croaks, reaching a hand out and over Will to give my hand a light squeeze. "You are apart of this family."

The dam breaks, and I feel several hot tears slide down my cheeks and dangle from my jaw. I smile crookedly and soon so does she. She gives my hand another light and loving squeeze and we nod and exit the car.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Between the four of us, we managed to get Will and everything we brought up to the house in one trip. I took the stuff Jonathan had grabbed from the trunk so that he could carry Will.

Nancy is the first to enter, and hitting a switch by the front door, a couple of lights flicker on. We file in one by one, and when I enter after Jonathan, I'm surprised at what I see. And smell. I had expected a mothy, and dusty old cabin given the boards over the windows but it was surprisingly tidy and smelled a bit like an unusually pleasant mix of laundry detergent and pine.

It finally hits me this was where El had spent the last year. It's weird to think this is where she has been living all this time. I step out of the way as Joyce comes in after me, and hesitates just as I did to look around. I stand on the other side of the couch as Jonathan lays Will down on the cushions. Thankfully, he hadn't woken up and we can all only hope that he stays that way until we're ready. We were halfway there when we realized we forgot the anesthesia.

I release a deep breath, trying to push out as much of my nerves as I can and my eyes linger across the room soaking up the details. My eyes catch on what lays sprawled out on the coffee table; a large and completed puzzle of a fireworks display. I feel my expression soften, the ends of my lips tugging up as I think about El enjoying her puzzles.

"It's actually," Nancy said as she got a good look around. "kinda nice."

"Hopefully we can keep it that way," I joke dryly.

I watch as Joyce roams around the room inspecting the place, finally she stops in front of the cast iron fireplace and kneels down in front of it. She looks up at all of us and nods.

"We'll do it here."

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Jonathan and Joyce bring Hopper's bed out into the living room in front of the fireplace. All the while, Nancy and I begin setting up the heaters.

I'm glad I have the help, it makes everything a little less intimidating. Only a little. I still know that this is going to take just about everything I've got.

But I meant what I said to Joyce. I am going to do this. I have to. And I want to.

That quick trip to Chicago is starting to turn out to be not such not a bad thing, after all. If I hadn't gone, I never would have broke. I never would have hurt so hard that I found my control. I never would have hit rock bottom. But that's the thing about rock bottom, I guess.

You can only go up from here.

Joyce begins to fill the fireplace to the very top, and Jonathan and Nancy have already turned on the space heaters.

I return from the kitchen with snacks and juice in hand, and I felt absolutely foolish. But halfway through set up, I realized I was going to need all the strength I could get. Which meant I needed fuel. Thankfully, the others not only understood but encouraged it. Even though it all made sense, I still felt silly sitting at the table, eating Hopper's food while everything was going on around me.

But I'm so hungry. I hadn't realized how tired and starving I was until I sat down. It must have been almost a full day since I've eaten! I try to remind myself that this is all what's best for everyone. I can't make much of a difference if I'm not taking care of myself too.

I'm surprised I'm having trouble at all, but my nerves are only growing as time marches on. But before I know it, I've cleared everything in front of me, and just in time, too. The others are now gathering around Will, and they don't seem to be attending to any more details. I rise from my chair and join them.

When I see Will, I can feel coils around my heart tightening, constricting it completely. I suddenly wish Dustin were here just so I could yell at him, cause it really did look like it was right out of the Exorcist.

They had managed to tie his hands and feet down, each limb now connected to each leg of the bed. His arms laid as perfect 'L's beside his head, and he was still an unnatural shade of white.

"You sure this is a good idea?" Jonathan asks, voicing all of our inner doubts.

Without breaking her gaze away, and the hard and stern expression returning to Joyce's face she answers.

"This thing has had Will long enough," she spits, sounding as angry as I felt. "Let's kill this son of a bitch."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · Black Lives Matter links below. Check them out please! Do what you can, every voice counts! These past couple resources have been thanks to @ blm-links on tumblr

Colorado Freedom Fund

"Founded in 2018, Colorado Freedom Fund (CFF) is a revolving fund that pays ransom (posts money bond, pays cash bail) for people unable to afford the cost of buying their own freedom. #FreeThemAll #BringOurNeighborsHome"

[Link]

Anti Repression Resources & Tips

"We provide support for actions that are anti-patriarchal, anti-racist, anti-imperialist & anti-capitalist. Our support work comes primarily in the form of education, information and referrals. We also manage an anti-repression bail fund for those that do not have the resources to bail or bond themselves. We are a first resort for education and information on solidarity and a last resort for financial support."

[Link]

Friendly reminder to check out and support the wonderful black writers on this site. Particularly accounts dedicated to writing woc/poc!readers. I've found the most on tumblr [you can find and add to the list on my notifs board. I'll move it somewhere more conviennent when I can] but I've struggled finding some on here and on ao3 and such.

So please tag them below, or here in the comments, any you might know of on this site or ao3, they NEED to be easier to find!! Especially with x readers. I'll return here and add to this as well when I can. Again, soon I hope to find a more creative and useful way to tag black and poc/woc!wow! Cause again, I want this to be an easy to find resource for anyone looking for xreaders.

I'll be sharing them on every platform of my account, so you guys get the recognition - and proper representation - you deserve.

+++

Tag List: @dickkwad​​ @aimee-lucass​​ @iblesstherainsdown-in-africa​​  @miscellaneoustoasts​ @happyandlonely-blog​ @missmulti​ @youpi-chan​ @peeperparkour​ @ba-responds​ @bibliophilesquared​ @blogforhoes​ @witch-of-all-things-soft​ @shawkneecaps​ @whothefuckstolemykeds​ @mirdall @fishswimbetterunderwater​ @daughter-of-the-stars11​ @stranger-things4​ @heavenlycat567​ @nightbu-g​ @grapesauze​

DM me, or drop by my inbox if you want to be added!

[whumpitywhumpwhump]

Heyyyy, I’m *loving* Noah! Can you please do falling from a great height, with Lilly somehow restraining his wings?

Okay, you must have read my mind, because I literally already had an outline for something like this saved on my computer! I took a little liberty with restraining his wings (she sorta restrains…all of him???) to kinda make everything flow in character. This was high key sooooo much fun to write, hope you like it!!!!

Lilly runs her fingers over the raised lines in his flesh.They are a soft pink color, puckered at the edges. The marks have looked likethis for two days now with no change—that indicates that this is as close tohealed as they’ll get for now. She snaps open the notebook in her hands.

Day 13 of Test 2: Specimen’s back appears to be permanentlyscarred. No change from yesterday. This marks the last day of the experiment. Conclusionwill be written at a later date.

Usually, Lilly writes her conclusion immediately, but she hasanother test in mind, for which she needs good weather. Today there are clearskies, but the forecast calls for heavy downpour for the rest of the week.Rather than wait to do the experiment, she’ll just put off writing the conclusionof the earlier one.

She turns off the camera, placing it back in the drawer itcame out of almost two weeks ago. Then she leans the tripod against the wall,clicking its legs into the upright position. Her notebook flicks open oncemore.

Third Test: Flight

Angels have wings, so it stands to reason that they arecapable of flight. However, it is yet to be seen how they achieve flight. Ihave x-rays on file from Specimen 003 that illuminate the bone structure (noteson that can be found in the files on Specimen 003). A question still remains: Doangels require grace to fly or is flight just a capacity of their skeletomuscularmakeup?

To test this, I will examine Specimen 006’s capacity forflight without its grace. This test will be conducted at the edge of the shortcliff on my property. The cliff is approximately 30 feet high, which means thateven if it fails to achieve flight, the resulting fall should be survivable.

To ensure that this Specimen does not escape, I will beattaching small nodes at the base of its wings, which are designed to release a surge of paralyzing electricity if I press the detonator.

Results:

She gathers the nodes, which were piled carefully on a shelfin the cabinet. Each one has microscopic needles that sink easily into the skinat the base of his wings. With a piece of clear medical tape, she secures eachone, making sure they don’t fall off at any point.

Next, the magnetic cuffs come off his wings. Lilly lightlymassages the muscles near the base—they need to be in working order to flyproperly. There are slight indents in the flesh where the cuffs were sitting,so she gently rubbed those areas too. Can’t take any chances with outsidefactors.

“Specimen 006, we are going to be conducting a new testtoday. This one requires us to go outside and travel to the site of the test. Itrust that you will be on your best behavior the entire time.”

Without waiting for a response, she freed the loop of chainattached to his wrists. Using it as a lead, she guided her specimen up thestairs and out into the kitchen. As long as we walk quickly, I’ll be back intime for dinner.

–

Noah’s shoulders ache from spending two weeks keeping hisarms above his head. Now his legs ache from being forced to walk so far afternot moving for weeks. More trees pass him by as they continue deeper into thewilderness that his human calls her property.

Just when he thinks he can’t walk any further, they breakout of the trees and Lilly stops moving. She slowly unfastens the restraintsaround his wrists; he frowns when he sees the red, angry skin under them. Thechilly outside air actually stings a little against them.

“Now, here is the test we will be performing. I want to see ifyou can fly as normal without your grace. There is a small gully here, maybe 30feet deep. I’d like you to fly out over the middle of it and then return to me.If you cannot fly, simply spread your wings and slowly glide to the ground. Ifyou can fly, do be mindful to return to me once you’re done. If you don’t I’llhave to take the necessary actions, which will be less than pleasant for you.Do you understand?”

Noah nods, afraid suddenly. Can he fly without his grace? Hedoesn’t know. Lilly steps aside, letting him move up to the lip of the edge. Helooks over it, chewing his lip. It looks pretty deep—

A hard shove against his back pushes him off solid ground. Withnothing but air beneath his feet, his wings start flapping. To his surprise andrelief, he feels himself lifting up in flight. He casts a glance back at Lilly,who’s watching him carefully. What could she possibly do to me?

He flaps harder, flying higher and further away quickly. Hechecks back, sees a stern look on her features. Noah doesn’t even considerslowing down, he’s so close to free, he needs to report back to Heaven on this—zzzzzzzz!

His wings seize, his body seizes, electricity slams up anddown the length of his spine. He can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t fly!

He’s falling, falling fast, come on, wings, flap, please!They do not flap. His wings won’t move. His limbs won’t move. The onlythings moving are his eyes and the world as it rushes past him.

The top of the gully flies past his field of sight, and hecan see the ground coming up rapidly. He couldn’t squeeze his eyes shut orbrace at all, so he aimed his eyes up and watched the sky.

It’ll be over soon, how bad can it be, gotta be almostthere, maybe? Maybe soon, maybe—

His feet collide with the ground. He hears sickening cracksand crunches, then he’s falling back, eyes still locked on the sky, then, likea light switch flipping, darkness.

–

Dusky sunlight swirls into his field of vision. Hazy bluesky, rusty orange cliffside, billowy white clouds—

Pain. Pain. Pain so much pain. PainpainpainpainpainpainpAINPAINPAINPAIN—

Noah tries to lean forward, just a bit, just enough to seewhat hurts so so much, but the movement makes his hips grate; he falls backwith a soft keen. He tilts his head to the side, glancing down his body—his stomachrevolts at the sight, convulsing, forcing bile up his throat. He can’t reallyroll over to spit it up, so he just turns his head and lets it run down his cheek.

His legs—what had previously been identifiable as his legs—arebone and blood and twisting and swelling and so many other unnatural thingsthat aren’t legs. The muscles of the left one spasm and Noah shrieks.

Ahhh, AHH, no, no, stop, pain, can’t, ahh, can’t move, don’tmove, ruined, ahhhhh, noo, nooo, legs, aHHhhh, please

He can’t string together a single coherent thought over thewaves of agony rippling up from his legs. His body is cold, shocked beyond anycapacity to register temperature. He shivers, and the resulting jolt of hislegs pulls a long, low moan through his lips.

His chest hitches, trying to sob—he can’t find the energy,no, the strength, to put tears behind it, so his chest just convulses, tryingto expel some of the misery, some of the brokenness, some of the wrongness.

“Didn’t I tell you not to try to escape?” He flinches awayfrom the sound, leg bones shift, breathy whimpers spill out. She practicallyappeared out of nowhere.

There’s a camera flash, the sound of pen on paper—the soundsfilter through his loud, wet breaths and sharp whines and harsh gasps.

Fingers wrap around his ankles. Bone grates, blood leaks. Ascream echoes off the rocks. “Please, no, no, please, stop, ‘m sorry, so sorry,stop, pleeeeeaaasee…” He trails off into incoherent begging.

Noah firmly believes this is the worst pain in the entireworld, the scrape of his bones under her fingers, the throbbing pulse of painracing up his body, the stench of blood and bile blending together. Nothingcould possibly be worse than this. He’s certain.

Then the tugging starts. She’s pulling him, by his ankles,his legs are shifting, bone is moving, joints are stretching, muscles are twisting,blood is flowing, shrieks are ripping their way out. As his legs twist and tugin ways shouldn’t be possible, his hearing fades to a ringing hum, his nose fillswith the metallic stench, his tongue burns from whatever is being ejected, his bodyfeels nothing but the pain, the overwhelming ache and burn and throb of agony,and his vision zooms in on a cloud, far away, high above this shattered body,and pulls that  safe, distant whiteness overhis gaze, letting all semblance of consciousness fade away—maybe his mind willescape where his body failed. Maybe.

Feel free to send me requests whenever y’all want! Green means it’s completed, red means I have a request for it! Thanks y’all!!!!!!!

[awintercat]

At the last it bites like a serpent

A writing collaboration by @thatshipcat and @awintersrose.

Direct sequel to A Deal with the Devil.

Summary: After a night of wild passion, Kakuzu and Orochimaru make a swift escape from the hotel before anyone charges them with the destruction of private property. Needless to say, they are permanently banned.

Warnings: Allusions to Sex, Mature Themes, Minor Character Death

The front desk is a picture of quiet as the young attendant takes her place and begins her day, with a smile and a cup of hot tea in hand. She hums to herself as she gathers paperwork and peruses the list of guests checking out of the hotel, just as out of nowhere, two men in dark cloaks arrive at the desk without making as much as a sound.

“Ah!” The attendant jumps in fright, squeaking as her tea splashes all over her blouse, and sheets of rice paper fly into the air around her.

“G-good morning sirs!”

The smaller, feminine man chuckles condescendingly at her greeting as he leans against the other, a fine piece of shredded fabric wrapped around his throat. Purpling and green bite marks dot his skin, each varying in brightness and intensity as they disappear under his coat. His hair is haphazardly brushed - neat, but with the sort of wavy texture that comes from sleeping on wet hair.

It looks as if he tangled with a wild animal, lost, then hastily threw on his clothes and pretended to be the victor. He is certainly cocky enough, as he grins at her like the cat that ate the canary.

The taller man stares at her, unimpressed. His hair is similarly mussed, carelessly stuffed behind a mask and forehead protector. He reaches into his sleeve, decorated with swirling red clouds, throws a room key onto the counter next to several tea-soaked documents.

"Room 810," he grunts. He turns on his heel and stalked towards the exit before she could say anything else.

Shaken and trying to clean up the mess, the attendant scrambles to catch the key, calling a hasty, “Have a nice day!” after the guests.

She nabs it, then grimaces as something that is decidedly not tea smears on her hand in a lurid shade of rusty red. She looks toward the door and the two men are gone, as if they had never been there.

Grabbing a tissue from her desk, she cleans up her hand and the key, then sets to finishing the checkout process. The paperwork lists nothing more than a single name, 'Donyoku', staying one night with a guest. The man paid cash upfront, as many of their guests do, but the attendant finds it curious that he did not even ask for his deposit to be returned. No one leaves money behind without good reason, so it can only mean one thing. A mess. She rings a bell for housekeeping to be alerted, then files the paperwork.

“Room 810,” she advises the maid, before leaving to start another pot of tea.

Ten minutes later, an elderly couple ambles up to her desk. This time she is not surprised but sets down her second cup of tea.

“Good morning!” she chirps. “I hope you enjoyed your stay. Will you be checking out this morning?”

The poor little granny gives her a weary smile, and nudges her husband with her elbow. He jerks awake, blinking wildly.

“Oh! Well we didn’t get much sleep, you see. There was a lot of noise next door,” the man says nervously, taking off his spectacles to wipe them with his sleeve.

“What room were you in?” the attendant asks, trying to remain calm, rifling through the pile of papers, and looking for their receipts.

“809.” he says, and her blood runs cold.

“What happened?”

“Some kinda fight, I tell you!”

“Oh, my stars! It honestly went on over and over, off and on throughout the night. Crashing and banging, and at one point it sounded like someone was getting murdered! I do hope they are alright, “ the wife sighs, shaking her head in disbelief.

The attendant gulps nervously. “I - I am so sorry for the inconvenience - ”

A bone-chilling screech rips across the courtyard, echoing through the stone building.

The two watch the panicked attendant rush off.

"Perhaps we should have called the police, Kentarou..." The wife says solemnly to her husband. He nods solemnly, chin dipping to his chest... and begins to sleep once more.

The door to the room has been flung open by the maid, who had apparently fainted in fright. The attendant gingerly steps over her, crunching broken glass into the carpet - and immediately gasps, one hand covering her mouth in shock.

A mess wouldn't even begin to describe room 810.

The queen sized beds have been pushed together, though the bed frames are shattered beyond repair. All of the bed linens are torn in countless places, like the cloth around the smaller man’s neck, stained with blood and other sticky substances best left to the imagination.

Glass crunches under her feet as she makes her way further into the wreckage. The lamp is in pieces on the floor, most of it anyway, the base dangling from the broken bedside table, sparks jumping from the outlet where it is still plugged in behind the bed. There are blood trails all over one of the walls, leading into the bathroom, where the scene becomes even more harrowing.

There are two hand-shaped craters gouged out of the countertop, and broken tiles are littered everywhere the attendant looks. The floor is covered in water and red-streaked towels, and the bench in the shower is cracked and collapsed down the middle.

The attendant stumbles out of the bathroom, light-headed.

“Cops,” she mutters to herself, heading past the splintered bed frames and toward the nightstand. “I need to call the cops.”

She is climbing over the crushed mattress towards the phone when something sharp nicks her foot.

A lump of nerves leaps to the back of her throat, constricting her airway so tightly that she is forced to swallow her dread head on. It slides down her esophagus, heavy like a boulder, and settles in her stomach as fear. Terror.

She makes herself look down.

There, stabbing through the wooden sole of her sandal is a senbon needle - sharp, deadly, and covered in a strange, iridescent color. There is a paperthin, near invisible scratch between the first toe and the second, where the skin is already starting to turn purple and black.

Deep down, she already knows it’s too late.

When the maid finally regains consciousness, she sees the attendant’s corpse. And screams.

Hours later and many miles away from a nondescript town containing a very unfortunate hotel, Orochimaru and Kakuzu stop to recalibrate and ready themselves for their next assignment. Simple bounty collecting it may be, but Orochimaru is insistent on being well prepared for all eventualities, and he knows his partner shares that sentiment. After all, one never knows what they might find when encountering other missing-nin; there may be manifold opportunities to sate his ceaseless curiosities.

Their belongings are intact, with exception of his haori and Kakuzu’s cowl, which went missing during the activities of the night before, and his weapons pouch is oddly light. After a moment perusing the contents, Orochimaru realizes what is missing.

“Kakuzu-san, I do believe my senbon were left behind,” he says mildly. “You would not have happened to have anything to do with that, would you?"

"You must have forgotten them."  Kakuzu clicks open the metal lock on his briefcase. He recalls his hand on Orochimaru's ankle, the scent of musk and sex permeating throughout the room, and the muffled tinkle of the senbon needles as they dropped onto the carpet.  The memories of their coupling flit through his mind, unbidden but impossible to forget.

First, on the bed with several sake-flavored kisses. Then again, Orochimaru’s legs knotted about his waist, panting low into Kakuzu’s ear, stamping a red imprint of his partner’s form over the walls.

Once more, in the bathroom, bending Orochimaru over the sink, Kakuzu’s hands braced against the counter, his nose buried into the back of the smaller man’s neck. Being stunned by the vision of Orochimaru in the mirror - pupils blown, cheeks stained crimson - as Kakuzu comes inside him. Pulling away from the other only to find pieces of the counter crumbling in his hands.

Again, unexpectedly, when they are trying to get clean. In one moment, watching Orochimaru bend down to get something, then in the next he is riding Kakuzu’s cock. Breaking the bench, moving outside the shower and fucking Orochimaru in a bed of towels. Leaving the tile cracked and the bathroom flooded.

At last, in the beds. Five times in total. Orochimaru glancing over a sliver of his pale shoulder - cold and gleaming like the crescent moon. Questioning Kakuzu’s promise to push the beds together. “Are you not the devil?”

He remembers, in vivid detail, shaking his partner awake; the slow, sleepy smile that had curled on Orochimaru’s lips - then his hidden outrage when Kakuzu shoved him into his cloak and rushed him out of the room, ignoring the metallic glints in the morning light in his haste to leave.

Orochimaru hums thoughtfully, breaking Kakuzu from his thoughts, and meeting his eyes. He can sense the heat rising on his partner’s face, smell the faint traces of lust radiating in the air between them. Kakuzu may hide his expressions behind a mask, but it is clear to Orochimaru what he might be thinking about.

"Those senbon were dipped in an extract of aconite... I suppose they will just have to be replaced."

“Then replace them.”

"That poison is rather expensive."

"If they are so expensive, then you should take better care of your things."

Orochimaru brushes a hand through his hair, a breeze fanning through the dark locks. "Hard to take care of things when someone else is in control of them."

Kakuzu glances at the ragged cloth tied around Orochimaru’s neck, the teeth-shaped indentations on his pale chest, and the shadows underneath his eyes. Satisfaction blooms in his own chest, but with it comes a tinge of near-guilt. Hardly much at all, but enough to make him pause.

Kakuzu lets out a long, exasperated sigh and begins picking through the briefcase, counting the notes again and again. They are short, painfully so. Once Pein took the Akatsuki's cut, they would certainly be in the red.

Standing up, Kakuzu snaps the briefcase shut and throws it behind his shoulder.  "In two days, we are returning to the Hot Water base to obtain funds and supplies. We will borrow some poisons from some of Akasuna's stores then."

"Now, now, it's not worth risking both our lives over. Sasori-san is...temperamental about his poisons. I'll improvise."

Kakuzu snorts. “Akasuna is always ‘temperamental’. To say the least.”

“I’m only interested in getting caught in strings of my own choosing.” Orochimaru passes in front of Kakuzu with a slight flourish, golden eyes darting back to peer at his partner. “I can make more when we pass through Rice Paddy country.”

Pebbles and dirt crunch under Orochimaru’s feet, cloak floating elegantly behind him as he sways down the path. Kakuzu allows himself a second to admire the view before catching up to the snake.

“Fine.” The edges of their sleeves brush as Kakuzu takes the lead, calling out behind him, “Rice Paddy, it is.”

“You’re the boss, Kakuzu-san.”

Orochimaru allows the hint of a smirk to grace his features, eyeing the set of his partner's broad shoulders, the line of his spine, and the places where he knows four mysterious masks are embedded in Kakuzu's flesh. They still have not had their talk, and if Kakuzu wants to dissemble, Orochimaru knows just how to handle it.

Rice Paddy Country is home, after all.