#there comes a time where you gotta cut your damn losses and open ao3 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

docockbrainrot · 3 years ago

Text

i think i want you (to leave)

Summary: We’re all running from something. Sometimes, metaphorically. Sometimes, literally. Literally running, from the very strangely hypnotizing supervillain that seems hellbent on ruining every bit of your life he can get all eight of his limbs on.

Pairing: Doc Ock X Reader/ Otto Octavius X Reader

Content: Slow Burn, NSFW eventually, 18+

AO3 link here.

Previous Chapter

Chapter 5

anathema// former vandal

The next several days are an uneventful blur. You barely leave your apartment, except for brief dog walks and grabbing food from the bodega across the street.

It’s 9 pm on Saturday and you’re fresh out of the shower, tucked away in a very fuzzy robe, lounging on the couch and watching YouTube on your television. You almost miss the subtle taptaptaptap sound coming from your window, you're so engrossed in the cooking show you’ve been binging. Gotta fill the void somehow, right?

You can’t see anything outside from where you’re sitting. The lights are on and make it impossible to peer through the reflections on the glass. Maybe it’s a bird. Or a branch is caught on the fire escape. Either way, you certainly can’t be assed to check it out and you take another sip of your chamomile tea- you’ve been trying everything under the sun, just about short of literally snorting lines of melatonin, to try to sleep better at night. Nothing’s been working. But you have been making a very valiant effort.

A few moments go by and you forget all about the window disturbance until,

TAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAP.

It’s jarring. It’s loud. Above all else, it’s annoying. Chekov spares you a look, like you’re the one making a racket. Effectively exasperated, you make an effort to set, not slam, down your mug, feeling decidedly not Calm and Relaxed as the tea promised. Suppose it’s not miracle shit though, is it? You would not be a good candidate for a horror movie because you fearlessly storm over to the window and throw it open (it wasn’t locked in the first place; you’re quite terrible at remembering to). You stick your head out and glower at whatever irritating mischief is happening out here, ready to rip the fire escape off the side of the brick building.

You’re greeted by something cold and hard (and indubiously metal, judging by how it felt against your sternum) shoving you back into your apartment, sending you sprawling unceremoniously to the hardwood floor. A string of profanities ready to leave your tongue, you sit up and adjust your robe in an attempt to preserve a modicum of your modesty. The rant dies in your throat as red eyed claws grip the threshold of your pre-war window and it’s almost comical the way He maneuvers himself in, far too large to be making these sorts of entrances. Standing up to his full height before you while you’re still sitting dumbfounded on the floor reminds you of just how impressively built he is. You manage to pick your jaw up, but your ass remains firmly planted on the wood.

“Uh… you could have just used the buzzer, dude. I have a front door, you know,” you sputter out, brain blitzing in pretty much every way possible. Your thoughts are racing and eventually they settle on the most important thing you can think to ask in that moment: “... Why aren’t you wearing a shirt.” You can't help the way your eyes are drawn to his broad chest, gaze lingering on the vast scarring that spills out from the metal contraption clamped around his midsection.

Otto very graciously closes the window behind himself. Or at least his little robot accomplices do it for him. You still aren’t sure what’s going on with that- the whole AI thing. Not even a blip on your radar of concerns at this point. “Didn’t want anyone to see me come in. Your building has a camera on the front, facing the street.”

“That’s why you’re shirtless?” You ask dumbly. Interesting method of camouflage. “What? No- what? It doesn’t matter- listen to me. I need you to do something for me. A small favor.”

He doesn’t seem to notice the compromised position he put you in. Typical. Gathering up your broken pride, you get up and tighten the tie of your robe a bit. It isn’t until then that he has the decency to look a smidge embarrassed and you hope you didn't just give him a free show on your way to getting to your feet. “You literally just broke into my apartment and now you’re asking for a favor? We barely know each other!”

“Less complicated when there's nothing personal involved yet, plus- you let me in,” he corrects you. You wish he would stop doing that. You wish he would stop meeting with you like this, under weird and mysterious circumstances. Even though it's only been like twice. You're already over it.

“You threw me across the room!”

“Touche.”

Otto does not apologize and you did not sincerely expect him to. The look on his face reads more like the cat that got the canary than regretful. You feel as though you’ve come to recognize that expression on his face and you also feel as though you don’t much like the fact that you’ve enough encounters with this man that you can recognize a damn thing about him. “What… could you possibly need me to do for you? I am not robbing a bank.” You just want to get that out into the open as soon as possible.

“I don’t need your help robbing a bank,” he snorts as if the idea is preposterous and you take a moment to feel insulted. Wow. Okay. You could totally rob a bank if you wanted to. Deciding to not comment on your wounded ego, you let him get to the point. Otto pulls something out of his inner coat pocket. It's some kind of rolled up paper and you think at first maybe it's a newspaper or magazine. He unfurls it onto the coffee table and holds it open with two metal claws on either side so it doesn't ravel itself back up.

You realize it's a blueprint. "This is… Oscorp," you point out stupidly, brow furrowing in confusion. There's levels to what's happening here. Layers upon layers, melding together with rot and decay and you can all but smell it. But there's something missing, something that would tie all of the wackjob shit that's been happening to you and around you together. It feels like when you have a very particular thought and then walking into another room makes it dissolve from your head. You're trying to grasp for it, to fit the puzzle pieces together, but it's just out of reach.

"Yes. It is. I have a small task I need you to do," Otto starts off, metal phalanges pushing his glasses up onto the top of his head as he looks over at you. For the first time, you can see his eyes in the light. The warm amber feels like a mockery- you have seen his cruelty in action.

"Where did you get this?"

"Does it matter?" Of course he'd say that.

Your fingertips brush against the metaphorical wayward chain link. It's right there. You just have to grab it and pull it back to you, like the anchor of a ship before it can set sail.

He's talking. You aren't listening. He's tracing a finger over the schematics. You don't see it. Realization washes over you in a heart-dropping tsunami. The voicemail you got from Oscorp plays like a broken record in your mind. 'Hello, Y/N. We're calling in regards to your employment status here at Oscorp. Unfortunately, due to a breach of security, we are having to make staffing cuts and are going to have to let you go. We appreciate your time and effort and wish you the best of luck in your next endeavor.' It didn't make sense at the time. A lot of things didn't. You replay the scene of poor David, desperately pleading for his life at the hands of the man hunched over here, just in your living room. You mentally re-run it over and over like bad 80s sitcoms on late night television.

"Lab Coat Guy…"

You don't realize you whispered it out loud until Otto goes silent.

"What?"

You slowly look at him and take a single step backwards, shaking your head. The company embroidered on David's lab coat hadn't been clear to you in the moment- but it's crystal in hindsight. Oscorp. "You got me fired." Your tone is flat, until anger flashes through you, like a streak of lightning through a dark, moonless sky, illuminating all of things that didn’t make sense before.

"It doesn't matter. What I need you to do-" He's so nonchalant, so blasé that it only stokes the embers of frustration until there's a roaring blaze burning beneath your skin. It's all about him, what he needs, what he wants. He has the nerve, the audacity, to keep traipsing into your life, kicking you while you're down and then ask for favors? You want to say all of that to him but unfortunately for you, you're an angry crier. Your outburst of bravery at him the last time you saw each other had surprised even you- but now there's so much more emotion roiling around inside you.

"No. No, no. Fuck you. You got me fired! I can't- I can't not have a job, I have to pay rent! You could get me arrested for just talking to you!" Oscorp had you canned to tie up any potential loose ends before anymore Davids could slip through the cracks. You think about how scared the poor dude must have been, threatened into stealing blueprints from the biggest corporation in the city, for one of the most infamous criminals. You don't know how they found out you were even remotely involved and you don't want to know.

Tears are streaming down your cheeks and once the floodgates have opened you're very familiar with how long it's going to take to close them again. After all you've been bottling this up since you found out, too disappointed to even tell any of your friends or family.

Otto appears taken aback, to say the least. He even looks like he's at a loss for words; that's a first. You know he could kill you where you stand in the blink of an eye, but in that moment you don’t even care. You’ve been trying so hard for so long to get on your feet, to do things for yourself and get away from the past. You moved across the country, you left everything behind, you got a damn dog. It seems like every time you manage to take a step forward in life, you’re knocked flat on your ass, apparently literally sometimes. It isn’t fair. Things don’t come easily to you, you’ve always had to work for them. You aren’t wealthy, you aren’t a supergenius, you’re just… you. The job at Oscorp was good money and you really felt like you were getting your shit together for a while.

“They’re not who you think they are,” he says finally, so calmly, with such carefulness about his words, that you sniffle pathetically and look up at him. He doesn’t look nearly as pleased with himself as you thought he might. And here you’ve been, under the impression that he gets off on hurting people. “Oscorp. I’m not… I’m not just doing this for me. You have to understand that.”

The schematics are furled up and tucked away. You make the mistake of meeting his eyes. Maybe it’s just the tears that blur your vision, but you swear you see a softness there before they’re hidden away again by his glasses.

He lingers at the window.

“I hope you’ll reconsider.” And then he was making his exit, even taking care to gently close the window on the way out. But he raps on the glass with his knuckles from where he stands on the fire escape and you know the look of confusion on your tear-streaked face speaks for itself. Otto points to the latches on the window. ‘Lock it.’ He mouths before he’s gone, presumably to wreak havoc and harass other unsuspecting young women that don’t want anything to do with him.

You thought everything had come together- but the more sense you make of it, the less you seem sure of the bigger picture. You aren't even sure exactly what he wanted you to do.

You’re left with an endless bounty of questions, and not enough answers to satisfy any of them.

#otto octavius x reader #doc ock x reader #fanfiction #otto octavius #doc ock

59 notes · View notes

starilicious · 3 years ago

Text

der lagi lekin (hunter x force-user!gn! reader + ep. 8 fix-it)

》 summary: tbb episode 8 fix-it featuring a force-user reader who used to be a jedi. reader is a part of tbb and in a relationship with hunter, but the squad–nor hunter–knows that reader is a force-user. (disclaimer: all of this was written before episode 9 was released! see a/n for an explanation ^_^) (another disclaimer: if you want just the hunter x reader comfort, please let me know and i'll finish it up and post it!)

》 word count: ~8k (yeah, it's a lot LOL)

click here to read on AO3

》 warnings: in-universe swearing, mental breakdown, some slight sensory overloads, pretty mild panic attack, light canon-typical violence, angst + some comfort, survivor's guilt from surviving order 66, no use of y/n, slightly plot heavy because i got way too carried away in writing (whoops?) [if i should add more warnings, please let me know!]

》 spoilers: major ones for tbb episode 8 "reunion"

》 a/n: okay look, i gotta confess: this wasn’t supposed to be an episode 8 fix-it. really. i’m actually glad cad bane won because we get to see that the clones don’t always win every fight... i think it makes for a better and more complex story. anyway, i started out writing just reader and hunter comfort after episode 8 ended. but i’m weak for omega because she reminds me so much of my younger siblings and i ended up writing a wholeass fix-it to save her (even tho cad bane is a downright badass). i kind of liked what i did with building up the plot so much that i might continue this story of force-user!reader with tbb. but that’s a tangent we can deal with later. if you would like a part two with the hunter x reader comfort this was originally intended to be, let me know!

as i said in the summary, i wrote all of this before episode 9 came out–just be aware of that. because it’s so long, it took me a while to edit, which is why i’m posting after ep. 9 was released. but without further ado, i hope you like it! <33

》 misc. notes:

• title of the fic is from the hindi song "der lagi lekin" from the film zindagi na milegi dobara. i linked the song in blue and linked the english translations in green in case you're curious! it's not necessary to listen or understand the song, but i thought it went well with the fic :)

“Everybody get down!” Wrecker yells. You and the squad immediately do as he instructs, diving towards the ground and covering your head. Stars, I hope this works.

The charges the six of you placed around the gigantic cone that surrounds the core cylinder explodes in a deafening blast. You curl into the tightest ball you can manage, breathing so hard that the HUD inside your helmet temporarily fogs up. Metal shards of the explosion rain down on you hard.

For a moment, it seems like nothing happened. But then you hear the telltale, ear-grinding creak of the durasteel and the squad is roughly catapulted forward from the force of the cone beginning to fall down.

You struggle to stand up as you lurch this way and that, trying to regain your balance and stabilize as Tech calls out, “Hold on!”

You quickly glance at the rest of the Bad Batch, trying to see if any of them were hurt. Other than the absolutely terrified look on Omega’s face, all is well considering the circumstances. The metal groans and begins its descent, taking your feeling of being grounded with it. The weightlessness is uncomfortably familiar to say the least, but you ignore it as the six of you scramble to hold on to the side of the cone. You certainly did your fair share of acrobatics back in the war, but feeling it hum around you...it’s too much. It’s too much. You elect to push it back into the depths of your brain. But it doesn’t leave.

It never really does.

Omega’s anxious whimpers come in faintly through your thick helmet and you whip around, frantically trying to find where she is. But before you can find her, the cone lands vertically on its head and the force is so violent that your stable hold on the durasteel is broken. Panicked, you quickly fire a grappling hook towards the ledge where you were previously hanging on. The hook catches and you stop abruptly, the jerky movement almost wrenching your arm out of its socket.

You look down to see Omega falling from someone’s grip and into Hunter’s arms. You can barely tell where anyone is thanks to the lack of light and the incessant motion.

The cone begins to topple onto its side and suddenly, your wire snaps from the tension. You let out a scream of surprise as you plummet downwards, wind rushing past your helmet. ForceIdon’twanttodieohmyMakerohno–

But you never hit the ground, instead being flung sideways as the cone tears into two. On trained instinct, you tuck yourself into a ball to try and roll in order to break your fall instead of using it. That time is long gone.

You land with a sickening thud and hiss in pain as your back hits the metal hard. You hear something crack, but whether it is your armor or something internal, you have absolutely no idea, and don’t have time to check before you black out.

✧✦✧

You jolt awake, a sound making its way into your consciousness. Finally, the damn place stopped moving. You take a few minutes to try and relieve the painful pressure in your chest, reaching up to rip your helmet off because you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe.

You tilt your head back as you struggle to take in air and let the adrenaline subside. You hear voices in the distance and you strain your ears to pick up on the sound as you quickly check yourself over. As far as you can tell, nothing major is broken, and at this point, that is all that matters. Though, your head is pounding, and for more reasons than one

“–nter.. port side... what… status?”

You can’t tell who is speaking, the message too far away for you to hear. But the bits and pieces are enough for you to know that it’s someone from the Bad Batch and that you weren’t unconscious for long. You stand up and dust yourself off before slowly walking to where you believe the origin of the sound is.

“–engine… got company.” A blaster sound and then an explosion rings through the quiet.

Your eyes widen and you quickly pick up the pace, getting your blaster ready as you pick your way through the sharp metal that is jutting out from the ground.

You click on your wrist comm. “Echo, you there?” A faint crackle before his voice comes through, but the signal is scratchy. You frown in frustration.

“–are you? Hunter is... port side,” Echo says and you smack your commlink to try and get the electronics to work, but it’s no use. The device is broken, most likely from the fall, you deduce.

“Meet… Marauder.”

You don’t bother to answer, knowing Echo would probably not even be able to hear what you had to say anyway. Without a signal booster or repeater, there’s no way you can get your transmission across the channel frequency.

It takes a few minutes, but you eventually find the night sky of Bracca blinking down at you at the end of the ripped off cone. You run out to find that you’re in the middle of where the cone broke in half. Okay, new plan. I need to find Hunter. Hunter will know what to do.

You scan your surroundings. The HUD isn’t picking up on any lifeforms near you, and you realize with sinking dread that you have no more options. Whichever piece you climbed through to get to your squadmates, it would take too long for you to search for them since you don’t know their coordinates and your comm isn’t working. Frankly, the Empire–Crosshair��would find you first. You have to use it.

You have to use the Force.

A wave of nausea overcomes you at the mere thought of it and you sway. In an attempt to ground yourself, you tear off your helmet to breathe some fresh air and end up keeling over as the bile rises in your throat. Nothing comes out. You can’t tell if that’s a positive or not.

You could have saved them. Someone. Anyone.

It itches at you in the back of your head, wishing to be let out of its cage. But you can’t. You can’t do it. What’s the use anyway? All you would be doing is saving yourself. The choice of surviving it all has haunted you ever since. Your head pounds in agony.

You saw it happen. You could have helped them. And you ran like a coward. Only ever concerned about yourself.

You inhale sharply as the scene flashes before your eyes, clones shooting at you and the other Jedi. The blaster fire. The confusion. The screams.

How pathetic.

The last statement, an echo of Crosshair’s words, bounces around in your brain. You clutch your head as you let out a heartbroken sob, knee deep in the dirt and metal and grief. Tears create clean tracks down your face as you finally break down, the flood of emotions bursting the dam open. At this point, you don’t know if the emotions are yours or the ones you previously felt through the Force, all of them swirling and blending into one. The bottled up anguish merged together when you attempted to cut yourself off from the Force after the clones–your friends–attacked.

The pain of their death is perhaps the worst of all. Horror courses through you as you finally process your friends and mentors dying around the galaxy, their deaths, their distress, their fear reverberating heavily throughout the Force. Each one cripples you further as you once again struggle to breathe.

It feels like light years pass when you finally calm down to a practically numb state of being. The scenes stop replaying behind your closed eyelids and the echoing shrieks die down to a faint, hollow whisper. You’re suddenly exhausted, limbs heavy and energy sapped. It was almost relieving to finally let the Force once again flow through your body, your nerves lightly tingling with potential despite how tired you feel. You collapse onto the ground and try to recenter yourself.

But despite finally acknowledging the loss, it doesn’t feel right. You didn’t get to say goodbye. You hadn’t been able to even think about them, much less honor them, too focused on going on the run to concentrate on anything beyond the next day’s survival. Even once you joined the Bad Batch, you were paranoid about their chips, about your friends turning on you at any moment. You were always extremely reluctant to engage in the Force, even at the worst of times.

With a start, you realize that you don’t need to worry about your squadmates. Their inhibitor chips are now gone. You… you are safe.

You let out a shocked laugh as it sinks in. A glimmer of hope, of peace. I’m safe.

You sit up then, criss-crossing your legs as you survey the broken landscape of Bracca. Despite the planet being a graveyard, you feel lucidly alive. Perhaps something died in you, that wretched day. But something else, slowly but surely, began growing in its place. It’s meek, but it’s there.

You let out a breath and close your eyes, reaching for the Force like it’s an old friend. It accepts your invitation with hesitation, joining hands with you as if you did not try beating it to death for days on end. You sink into the gentle lapping waves of the Force, extending into it and widening your scope.

There’s something that lurks beneath the surface, in the deep. Dark and sinister and so utterly painful. It calls to you, quiet and low. Enticing. Tempting. And something in you knows that it’s the reason for your previous life’s demise.

But you can feel Hunter’s–and Omega’s, you realize–presence near you in the Force. Even with your relatively damaged connection to the Force after Order 66, the Bad Batch’s Force auras were something you could always hone in on. You let yourself direct your focus to the duo, letting their emotions be your beacon to the acceptance of the Light side of the Force.

In a split second, you decide to not dive deeper into the Force. This isn’t the place nor the time to discover what is prowling in the endless yawning of the Force, to discover why everything happened. So you direct your concentration to the beings on the planet, feeling and breathing your way through the Life Force.

You freeze. There’s something here. No… someone. Your eyebrows furrow as you divert your attention away from your friends and other organisms to the peculiar source. Something about this person strikes you as familiar.

Your eyes snap open and you gasp. I’m not alone. A Force-sensitive. Someone survived. Giddy beyond belief, you snatch up your helmet and begin trekking your way across the wreckage in the opposite direction of Hunter and Omega before pausing. Whoever this person is doesn’t know about your presence on the planet.

And despite the fear you felt emanating off of them in the Force, you somehow knew they were safe, at least for now. And they would remain so if you have anything to say about it. Maker forbid anything that jeopardizes this person’s fragile safety. After all, you know best what it’s like to constantly flee scene after scene.

Staying away is the best thing to do. I’ll come back for you, whoever you are.

You double back and make quick work of getting across the debris as you focus your concentration on Hunter’s and Omega’s Force signatures. As you get closer to the port side, you hear Omega’s high voice. Through your HUD, you can see her small form. You grin. She disappears then, and on closer inspection, you figure she jumped through some broken cargo doors.

The entrance she and Hunter took is too high for you to jump up to, even with the aid of the Force. Combined with your wariness of probe droids, you decide to take a different route from the right side, climbing up the broken ship. The slick oil mixed with the water still present on the metal makes for a difficult trek, and you slip more times than you would like to admit.

Hunter’s gruff voice floats up towards you and you scramble the last few meters to the edge of a hole in the ceiling before pausing. The Force is itching at the back of your head. Something’s wrong.

You peek over the edge of the giant slab of durasteel that created the hole to see bodies in white armor littered everywhere–clones, you realize. Your heart pangs in sadness at the sight.

Slightly to your right, a blue figure and a techno-service droid stand in front of a ship and a frightened Omega stands behind a defensive Hunter. Your mouth drops open. Kriff.

Cad Bane.

A memory from near the beginning of the war hits you in full force. You and Anakin had taken some time on Coruscant to catch up with each other after you passed your trials and were promoted to Jedi Knight. He told you about a mission where he had to stop a bounty hunter who successfully stole a Jedi holocron. You remember how surprised you were when you heard the bitter disgust in Anakin’s voice. The ruthlessly cunning bounty hunter not only threatened to kill Ahsoka, but he murdered Master Ropal.

Judging by the looks of it, Hunter doesn’t know who he is. If the Anakin Skywalker had a difficult time with Cad Bane, there is no way in sithhell Hunter can take him on, even with his enhanced senses. Frankly, you seriously doubt you can either, especially with how rusty your Force skills are now. And that means this isn’t going to end well.

You watch carefully as you tune into the conversation.

“Ain’t you smart?” Bane smirks. “The kid’s got it all figured it out.”

“You’re in trouble now!” the droid exclaims, pointing at Hunter and Omega. You grit your teeth in annoyance.

“Who hired you?” Hunter asks. Stalling. Not a bad move, Hunter.

“Son,” Bane sighs, already done with the brief conversation. “That’s confidential information. Now hand her over.”

Omega stays behind Hunter, taking a knee as Hunter walks forward protectively. You bristle. How am I supposed to help from up here?

“She’s not going anywhere.”

Your eyes drift over the scene in a panic and you take in the fallen clones again. An idea pops into your head. It is desperate, but at this point, you don’t have much of a choice.

Bane mimics Hunter’s movement, walking forward and putting a hand near his belt. The tension is as thick as duracrete.

“That’s unfortunate… for you.”

You grab the long barrel piece from your belt, fitting it over your blaster hurriedly as the showdown begins. Out of the corner of your eye, you see them staring each other down and you can’t help but roll your eyes. Men.

During the war, Crosshair helped you re-engineer your weapon so you could put together various pieces in the field to make a blaster gun that loosely resembled his own sniper. Seeing the clones reminded you of him. A wave of sadness washes over you, but you shake your head. Now is not the time.

You screw on the telescopic sight and set up your makeshift sniper. You peer through the viewfinder and find Bane’s chest. Your finger tenses over the trigger.

You let yourself sink deep into the Force, let it guide your actions. Inhale. Exhale. I can do this. As you relax, the mellow warmth you missed so dearly washes over you, gently eroding the torment in your mind and heart, guiding your focus to the here and now. Trust in the Force.

Wait.

Now.

You fire two bolts straight into your target the same exact moment Bane and Hunter shoot each other. Hunter’s shot hits the droid, breaking off its leg. Bane’s shot hits directly in Hunter’s chest, as yours did Bane. Both men immediately fall backwards and slam into the ground.

“My booster!” Oh. So not a leg. Got it.

“Hunter!”

Kriff kriff kriff. You jump down nimbly from your hiding spot in the ceiling and immediately sprint towards the duo. Is he dead? You would unapologetically release sithhell on Bane if he killed the man you love.

Omega panics as she tries to wake Hunter up, continuously calling his name before taking a glimpse of her surroundings. Before you can react, she grabs her bow and pulls it taut, aiming at you. She looks petrified.

“Whoa! Omega, it’s me!” you exclaim, holding your hands up in surrender. She takes a moment to actually look at you before sagging in relief. Suddenly, the droid comes speeding out of nowhere and Omega shoots, the energy bolt whizzing past your waist and straight into the droid before it can attack you from behind.

The shot rings true and the grumpy robot falls. You turn around to grab at its exposed parts under its head and yank them out to make sure it can’t power on again.

“Thanks, Omega. I owe you one,” you say and Omega gives you a proud smile.

You place a comforting hand on her shoulder before kneeling down to shake Hunter awake, but it doesn’t work. You take a moment to analyse Hunter’s Life Force. It’s a bit dimmer, but it’s constant, meaning he’s out cold and doesn’t have the life draining out of him. You let out a sigh of relief. He’s alive. You glance back to see Bane still not moving. Good.

“What’re we gonna do?” Omega whispers as you both peer down at Hunter. His armor is smoking from Bane’s blaster shot and you exhale through your teeth, trying to come up with a plan. You slip off a glove to check Hunter’s pulse–it’s strong. You don’t want to leave Omega alone, even if Bane is unconscious, but you aren’t sure you have a choice.

“Well we can’t carry him to safety, neither of us are strong enough for that,” you think aloud, gears churning in your head. You would have to wait for help, even if you were sitting ducks.

Briefly, you entertain the thought of taking Bane’s ship. The only problem is you don’t know what trackers or other gadgets are in there–it’s too costly of a risk and a price you weren’t willing to pay. You sigh, resigned.

“Omega, you try to comm the others and see if you can wake Hunter up. I’m going to go inside this guy’s ship and see if I can find something that can help us. We have to get out of here before the bounty hunter wakes up,” you instruct and Omega nods, youthful determination flooding back into her eyes.

You leave her to it, walking cautiously towards Bane’s ship. You look down at him. His armor is smoking in two places from the shots you fired. Based on what you see, he’s still unconscious, and his Life Force reflects the same conclusion. How long that would remain, you don’t know. Which means you need to work fast.

You board the ship while you remove the sniper attachments from your blaster and clip them back onto your belt. You keep your guard up as you look around. No droids. Guess that techno-service droid is his one and only.

In an effort to slowly re-familiarize yourself with the Force, you send out a quick pulse through it to see if there are any lifeforms aboard the ship, relaxing when you find none. You rummage through all the cabinets that you discover, looking high and low as you try to locate something of use. The secret compartment in the cockpit proves to be the fruitful reward to your search. With a wave of your hand, you unlock it with ease. Bingo.

Credits. Bags of them. And they’re unmarked creds, which make your score even better. Hopefully, it would be enough to pay off your debt to Cid and give the Havoc Marauder some much-needed upgrades.

Usually, you would feel bad about stealing from someone, but considering this was a bounty hunter – Cad Bane, no less – you figure you can risk treading the grey area of your moral code.

You grab as many bags as you’re able, stuffing them inside your backpack and clipping the rest onto your belt. At this moment, you’re incredibly grateful to Tech and Echo for designing a sturdy utility belt that fits you well. The standard ones were for clones and you definitely were not a clone.

You exit the cockpit and head to the second level of the ship to see if there’s anything else you can find. A stack of crates sits in the corner across from what you assume to be a prison. You scrunch your nose in disgust as you open one to find medical supplies. Bacta patches and gel, vitapaste, rations, water, gloves, sanitary napkins–it was all there. Delighted, you close the crate and click the repulsor to make it levitate. Oh how you love technology.

You turn around and walk back up the stairs to leave the ship. You freeze at the exit ramp. You have got to be karking kidding me.

“Sorry lil’ lady.”

Cad Bane stuns Omega in front of your eyes before rounding on you and immediately fires. In a desperate attempt to save yourself, you throw your hands up and the honeyed power of the Force rushes through every fibre of your being. The blaster bolts slow down to a snail-like crawl and your eyes widen. How did I…?

Never mind how you argue with yourself. Time to get out of here!

You tiptoe around each bolt, the effort of keeping them in stasis becoming more difficult with each passing moment. You grit your teeth as your arms shake, but you keep going until you are finally off the ramp. You lower your arms and the energy hits the inside of the ship, spazzing out the blinking controls inside.

Bane turns to you in surprise, astonished at how you’re suddenly in front of him. You don’t give him the luxury of processing the event and immediately punch him in the face with as much strength as you can muster. Bane pitches backwards and collapses onto the ground, just as he did the first time. You grab your stun blaster and shoot him as extra assurance. You really did not want this to repeat again. Hopefully he never wakes up with a memory of what I just did...

“Now stay down,” you mutter to a knocked out Bane, cradling your now injured hand. You have no idea how Wrecker ever does this because wow your hand is killing you.

You have to say, you’re pretty proud of yourself for being able to render him unconscious not once, but two times. You wish you could tell Anakin–the thought saddens you. He’s probably dead too.

With that vividly cheery thought, you stagger back from the ramp in exhaustion, weary from the sudden surge of the Force still ebbing and coursing through your body.

None of the Bad Batch knew you used to be a Jedi–not even Hunter. It was something only a few of your closest Jedi friends and the Jedi Council knew about.

But after what happened today, with Rex helping your squadmates get their inhibitor chips out, with you finally letting the Force in… maybe it is time to tell them. The secrecy wouldn’t be needed anymore now that you were sure you were safe around your friends. But clearly, the universe wanted to throw a nasty vibroblade in your plans by knocking Hunter and Omega unconscious and having the best kriffing bounty hunter in the galaxy be hot on your heels.

You take a few seconds to get your breath back and regain your mental energy. You aren’t out of the woods yet. You run inside Bane’s ship to grab the crate of medical supplies before sprinting back out towards Hunter and Omega.

You lean down and pat Omega’s cheek gently, trying to wake her up, but she’s out cold. Why is everyone around me unconscious? Frankly, you’re equally amused and terrified by the situation laid out in front of you.

You sigh, looking around to see if you can find some cover. There’s a giant sheet of durasteel to your left, big enough to act as a barrier in case trouble comes knocking. You bend down and pick Omega up before placing her down cautiously, leaning her small body against the metal. You repeat the action with the crate you found.

The third time proves to be much more difficult. Hunter certainly isn’t as muscular as Wrecker, but he sure as sithhell isn’t as light as Omega. You tap your foot nervously, trying to figure out a way for you to lift him. Yes, you could use the Force, but you don’t want to alert the other Force-sensitive on the planet. If they knew about your existence, it could put them in danger, and that was the last thing you wanted.

Giving up, you place your hands underneath Hunter’s armpits and effectively drag him all the way over, propping him up as you did Omega. You cringe at the sound of his armor grating the floor. There are sure to be dirty scuff marks on it now. Sorry Hunter.

Just as you’re about to sit down next to him, heaving deep breaths from the exertion, you pause. A warning is practically blaring in the Force and you tense, urgently trying to figure out the cause.

“Not again,” you mumble under your breath. You can’t handle any more action today. With Hunter and Omega both down, and your extreme fatigue from engaging in the Force, you don’t know how much of a fight you can put up. Not to mention you never trained as a soldier. There was a reason why you left the military planning strategies to the Bad Batch.

You hold your blaster close to your chest as you scan the environment. Bane is immobile and so is the dismantled techno-service droid. So what’s wrong?

Ten nerve-wracking seconds pass before you get your answer. Clone voices waft up to your hiding spot and you bite your cheek in frustration as your head continues to pound. Your headache still hasn’t stopped.

There is no way you can fight them all off, especially if Crosshair is with them. They are too far away for you to get a read on how many there are, and frankly, you’re much too scared to even peek around the durasteel to count.

One of Tech’s previous statements floats through your mind. About three attack shuttles worth.

You can feel your heart thumping wildly in your chest, blood rushing through your ears as anxiety ties your stomach into knots. I can’t do this, I can’t do this, Ican’tdothis.

You take deep breaths, doing your best to clear your mind and focus. You had to do this. There is no other option other than surrendering or dying. No, damnit, you would go down fighting until the Life Force left you.

You peer just past the edge of the metal to see at least twenty clones heading your way. Certainly not ideal, but you bide your time. If you started shooting now, you couldn’t use the element of surprise to your advantage and they would easily overwhelm you. But once they’re close enough, you hope you can at least take a couple out before having to resort to using the Force. It isn’t ideal, but it’s all you have.

Honestly, you don’t know if you could get out of this one alive, much less protect Hunter and Omega too. Maker help me.

It throws you off when they finally come into sight–you see how plain the clones’ armor looked without paint. You never really noticed it before since you were always running for your life in those circumstances. But now that you think about it, you are so used to seeing bright blue or green or yellow that the alabaster white just seems so… odd.

“Looks like a big fight happened here.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. All these men are dead.”

Now.

You whip your body around the metal and immediately begin shooting as fast as you can pull the trigger, trying to make every shot count. The troopers hesitate for just a moment, most likely due to their surprise of you being there. But that second is all you need.

You take out the three men closest to you before jumping back behind the metal as their barrage of fire rains down on you. You do your best to shoot back and manage to take out one more clone, but they’re beginning to gain too much ground too fast. I can do this. I have to do this.

As far as you can tell, Crosshair isn’t with the clones attacking you, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t set up shop somewhere nearby, waiting to shoot you.

You shudder. It’s a chilling thought.

You grab one of your last detonators from your belt and hurl it as far as you can. The rapid beeping rises quickly in pitch before the charge explodes. Anguished cries reverberate throughout the area, and you briefly feel sorry for having to take such drastic measures as you feel their Force signatures dim swiftly. But you don’t have a choice.

Peeking around the corner, you count around eight to ten clones down. Not bad considering the circumstances.

You continue shooting as much as you can but now the troopers are much too close for comfort and you’re feeling overwhelmed. The durasteel you are using for cover isn’t meant to take this kind of damage, and the integrity of your shield is quickly waning as told by the constant creaks and groans. You don’t know what to do. Will we make it?

In your haste of shooting first and panicking later, you don’t notice Hunter groaning, finally waking up. And before you have time to even glance at him, the familiar hum of the Havoc Marauder and its lights shine down on you. Your sag in relief. Looks like Omega was able to comm them after all. Never before have you been so glad to see the beat-up hunk of junk. (You would never say that to Tech though–the Marauder is his baby, his pride and joy.)

Echo, Wrecker, and Tech all race off the ship, guns ablazing. Wrecker and Tech stand guard, serving as cover fire while Echo bends down to help you out.

“Hunter, wake up!” Echo hisses and smacks his helmet lightly. Hunter mumbles in pain as he starts to move, trying to look around as his HUD boots back up. Seriously? Now you wake up? you think sarcastically. But you’re much more relieved at the fact that he has actually woken up.

“What happened? Where’s Omega?” Wrecker bellows, worried.

“She’s right here, I’ve got her!” you shout back at the same time Echo says, “He was shot in the chest plate.”

You pocket your blaster and gather the young girl in your arms with every last bit of strength you have left. You aren’t strong enough to hold her in one arm and shoot with the other. That is much more up Wrecker’s alley.

“We have to get him on board!” Tech exclaims as he helps Echo support Hunter. You pick Omega up in both arms and bolt for the ship as fast as you can while yelling at Tech to grab the crate of supplies.

“Incoming!” Wrecker calls out as a fresh wave of troopers advance towards the six of you. You grunt as you deposit Omega in a chair near the controls before pulling out your blaster and helping Wrecker shoot down the men racing towards you.

“Got him. Tech, fly us out of here!” Echo commands while Wrecker makes a gesture for them to get on the ship faster. Hunter stumbles as he does his best to upright himself.

“Go go go!” Wrecker exclaims. Tech shoves the crate next to Omega’s seat and makes a beeline for the cockpit as you continue shooting, moving to the side to make space for Echo and Hunter to come on board. Wrecker quickly climbs in right after them and the ramp closes shut.

Tech immediately pilots the Havoc Marauder up and away from the scene. You vaguely hear the sound of blaster fire hitting the bottom of the ship while you drop your blaster on the ground and wrench Hunter’s helmet off in a panic. You take his face in your hands as you scan him quickly, trying to figure out if he’s hurt or not.

Hunter bats your hands away. “He... he took Omega,” he says and you shake your head. Wrecker pipes up from behind you to respond.

“Who? Crosshair?”

“The bounty hunter,” Hunter mutters as he rubs a hand over his face. Before Wrecker can answer again, you step in.

“No, he didn’t. I took him down. And no, he’s not dead,” you tack on quickly when you see Echo open his mouth. Echo shakes his head fondly and you just grin at him.

“She’s right here,” Echo says instead, pointing to Omega’s sleeping figure. Hunter turns in surprise to see that his brother is indeed telling the truth.

“How...?” Hunter’s voice trails off. Echo and Wrecker look at you expectantly, and Hunter follows suit. You sigh and take off your helmet, setting it down on the ledge next to the controls. You don’t look at them.

“It’s a long story.”

You don’t have a chance to elaborate any further because Tech walks in, interrupting the conversation.

“I’ve made the jump to hyperspace. There was a cruiser in the atmosphere, but I was able to quietly go past them by disguising our ship as a bounty hunter’s. They didn’t interfere. I put in the coordinates for Ord Mantell. I estimate our time of arrival to be five hours and thirty two minutes,” Tech reports and Hunter nods while you voice your thanks.

“Looks like we got time!” Wrecker says cheerily, pulling out an extra chair. Tech looks to you in confusion.

“Did I miss something significant?” Tech asks, concerned about the information he did not receive as he adjusts his goggles. You shake your head but now, all eyes are back on you.

“She was just about to tell us how she saved Omega,” Hunter supplies helpfully and Tech nods in understanding. He grabs a chair as well and sits down, interested in hearing what you have to say.

You look around the room, realizing you can’t get out of it. You are exhausted and just want to sleep but based on the looks you are getting from the boys, there is no way you can leave without giving a sufficient answer.

You sit down on a chair in between Omega and Echo and begin explaining.

“When the cone fell, it separated. I got knocked out when I hit the ground, but I don’t think I broke anything,” you quickly reassure as Tech grabs a datapad to scan your vitals.

“After I came to, I tried comming Echo, but my commlink was broken – I could only hear bits and pieces of what he said. There were some voices near me so I just followed them and–” you pause, not sure if you should tell them what happened. What you experienced, what you found out. “–I saw Hunter and Omega. The ledge I found was way too high for me to jump to, so I climbed up the side of the wreckage to see them and the bounty hunter facing off,” you say, choosing to leave the detail out. It was too personal. You still needed time.

All of them are listening intently, hanging on to every word you’re saying. Hunter’s gaze on you is heavy and loaded with questions. Tech is still tapping away on the datapad, but you know you have his full attention. Multitasking may not be possible for regular humans, but it definitely was for Tech.

“When I saw the bounty hunter, I knew Hunter wasn’t going to win,” you mumble sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck. Hunter winces at your statement and you rush to explain why.

“Hunter, you have to trust that I genuinely don’t doubt your abilities. You are much more of a soldier than I will ever be. But this bounty hunter is one of the best, if not the best in the entire galaxy. He’s gone against the Jedi, and won. Based on what Anakin told me at the beginning of the war, Cad Bane is ruthless. He tortured Master Ropal and killed him. Believe it or not, I think he tried to abduct Chancellor Palpatine. Even Anakin had a difficult time fighting him.”

A tense quiet settles over you all as you mentally revisit your conversation with Anakin, and later with Ahsoka. She told you how it was one of the first times she was genuinely afraid that she was going to die, or at least get hurt very severely.

Echo’s rough voice shakes you out of your reverie. “How do–did you know General Skywalker?” he asks, clearly confused at how you referred to him on a first-name basis. You mentally facepalm yourself. How did I forget he served as part of the 501st? You feel incredibly stupid.

You could make up a lie, of course, but it wouldn’t be worth it. Hunter’s enhanced senses and Tech’s vitals scan could probably pick up on your biological signs, not to mention you would feel terribly guilty about not being honest. I promised myself I would tell them…

You blow out a nervous breath, deciding to at least give them something. They deserved that much.

“I’m–well, I was a Jedi,” you admit, staring down at your feet. You can’t bring yourself to look at them, feeling almost… ashamed.

The boys are shocked into silence and you cringe. There was probably a much better way for you to say that, but now it was out there. Yet the pressure that had been weighing down on you since you let the Force back in didn’t lessen.

“What?” Wrecker questions, thrown completely for a loop. “You’re a Jedi?”

Before you can answer, Tech pipes up. “When I reviewed your medical data, there was no note about an elevated midi-chlorian count or any sort of connection to the Force. Additionally, there is no documentation of you serving as a General or a Commander during the war in the Republic military records. How were you a Jedi? And why aren’t you one now? You used past tense in your sentence,” Tech adjusts his goggles as he attempts to register this new information that conflicted with his previous knowledge.

You sigh, drumming your fingers on your thigh. “I left the Jedi Order before the war ended. I promise I’ll explain everything in detail later, but for now, you have to understand that I’m just a Force-user. I trained as a Jedi, but I’m not a Jedi, not anymore,” you clarify, lifting your head up to make eye contact with each of them.

“Aw man, that’s so cool. You have to show us your cool mind tricks sometime!” Wrecker smiles and you agree to his request. It warms your heart to see him so excited.

“It makes sense. You must have seen the regs turn on the Jedi but didn’t know why. When you started traveling with us, you didn’t know if we would turn on you too, even though we’re not regs,” Hunter realizes, and you nod in affirmation. You’re secretly relieved by the fact that he doesn’t seem angry, just… just thoughtful.

“And then when I saw what happened to Crosshair, I knew I couldn’t risk ever telling any of you. But when Rex told us about the chips…” you trail off.

Echo picks up your sentence quickly. “You figured out you would be safe with us if we got our chips removed. No wonder you were so insistent on following what Rex said.”

You smile at the last part, a bit embarrassed. He wasn’t wrong. You were probably even more insistent than Rex was on telling them to get their inhibitor chips out. Better to be safe than sorry you told them. Though at the time, you hadn’t even thought about how removing their chips would impact you and your abilities. You were too focused on keeping the Force out of your body to entertain that thought.

Wrecker suddenly gets up and gathers you in a bone-crushing hug. “Well you don’t have to worry now! We got those stupid chips out of our heads, which means I promise we won’t kill you!” he says cheerfully and you can’t help but laugh as you hug him back, the knot in your chest beginning to unravel. You could always count on Wrecker’s wonderfully big heart to raise your spirits.

“You’re right, big guy. It’s honestly a relief. One less thing I have to worry about.”

Wrecker lets go of you and you pick up where you left off. “As I was saying, Cad Bane isn’t a bounty hunter we can take lightly. Crosshair helped me re-engineer my blaster to turn it into a pseudo sniper with attachable parts during the war. Because I was so high up, I could get a clear shot of Bane. From that vantage point, I shot him at the same time Hunter and Bane shot each other.”

Echo’s mouth drops open. “Damn.”

“What I didn’t expect was for Hunter to be rendered completely unconscious. So I told Omega to try to comm you guys while I went on Bane’s ship to see if I could find anything. And I did.” You pull off your backpack and dump out the contents. Bags of credits come tumbling out. You unhook the few bags on your belt and toss them into the pile.

“Bane had a secret compartment with a lot of credits. So I took them and that crate I yelled at Tech to get,” you explain as you reach into the bag to show off the Imperial credits.

Tech’s eyes widen as he lifts up a bag to inspect it. “I will have to calculate how much you took and mark it in the inventory, but based on my initial deduction, this may be enough for us to upgrade the Marauder and provide sustenance for at least a few months.”

“Nice one!” Wrecker compliments and you grin in response. “What’s in the crate?” he asks, walking over to lift up the top.

“Medical supplies. We barely had any left so I figured I might as well take that too,” you shrug as Hunter gets up to join Wrecker to peer at the contents.

“What happened after that? You said you told Omega to comm the others, which means she was awake. Did she get hurt while I was out? Is that why you look so exhausted?” Hunter inquires, astute as ever.

You bite your lower lip. “When I was getting off his ship with the goods, he had woken up again. Before I could do anything, he stunned Omega and then immediately shot at me,” you pause, wondering if you should elaborate on how you got out of the situation. You decide to come clean on this part.

“I… I don’t know how, but I was able to stop the blaster bolts and keep them – and Bane – in stasis with the Force. The problem was that it took a lot out of me. After not really using the Force for so long, my energy reserves were pretty much gone,” you sigh, absentmindedly rubbing your arms. Your muscles are still sore from the event.

“After that, I punched him and knocked him out again. I dragged you and Omega away from the ship so that I could protect you, and I ended up using that giant piece of durasteel as cover to fight off those clones. Then you guys came and rescued us and that’s that,” you finish, suddenly fatigued from the conversation. You slump back into your chair, perfect posture be damned.

“Wow,” is all Echo says, surprised by your strength. It took some serious stamina to be able to withstand so much for so long. Echo remembered seeing Commander Tano and General Skywalker be exhausted after some especially intense missions where they constantly had to use the Force.

“Yeah,” you mutter, massaging your dominant hand. It is still throbbing from the mean hook you threw at Bane. You don’t have any regrets. You glance at Omega’s sleeping figure and soften. The things I would do for this girl.

“Looks like I taught you well!” Wrecker laughs and you smile. When you first met the Bad Batch, Wrecker took it upon himself to teach you basic self-defense and how to overtake an opponent intelligently. Even though you already learned how to fight as part of your Jedi and military training, you couldn’t say no to him when he looked so excited. But it paid off because he’s right. Wrecker did teach you well.

“You did. You basically saved my ass out there with your amazing teaching skills,” you chuckle, glancing down at your hand. You think you’ll probably have to cover it in bacta gel to speed up the healing process before having yet another realization. (You seem to be having a lot of those today.)

I can just Force-heal. Before, you couldn’t Force-heal because it would look suspicious if something healed too fast. But now that they know, you don’t have to solely depend on medical supplies anymore.

Tech, as always, is right on cue. “Is your hand alright? For you to render Bane unconscious must have been no easy feat. Not to mention that according to the medscan I just took, you have a mild concussion, most likely due to your fall. I can run a medical diagnostic test to start and then run more specific tests to combat your pain...” Tech mutters the last part to himself, brain running light years faster than his mouth as his fingers fly over the datapad.

You debate it for a moment before nodding. “That would be great, Tech–thanks. But right now, I’m exhausted, so I’m going to go and crash in my bunk. Wake me up if I need to punch someone again,” you joke before shuffling away from your squadmates. You ruffle Omega’s hair affectionately as you pass by her and pick up your blaster from the ground before climbing down the ladder. You don’t notice Hunter’s troubled gaze or how his Force signature sours a bit as you leave.

You quickly clean up and throw on some bacta patches on a few nasty bruises. You sit down on your bed and pull the privacy curtain before deciding to open up your secret compartment next to your mattress. You stare down at the objects, the only things you have left as a reminder of the past. You reach down for one of them, about to touch it when you stop.

You shake your head and shut the drawer. Deciding to finally, finally hit the hay, you’re out like a light as soon as your head hits the pillow. Dealing with the Force and healing yourself could be done later. Not even your constant pain and crippling worry about your family friends could keep you up any longer.

please consider reblogging! it really helps me and is super encouraging ^_^

72 notes · View notes

polaroid15 · 4 years ago

Text

The Words I Never Said

Summary: “I am a scientist, Peter. You are an experiment. It’s the natural order of things, really, that I study you.”

“You’re insane. You have to let me go.”

“I don’t think you understand, so I will try to be more clear. I own you. My research courses through your veins. Your life is my property.”

Or, Norman Osborn kidnaps Peter, and Tony will do anything to get him back.

Read on Ao3 HERE :)

--------

Peter knows something is wrong as soon as Happy’s ID fills his phone screen.

He’s sitting on the edge of a rooftop, legs dangling fifty feet in the air and a half eaten sandwich from Delmar’s in his hand. Not even waiting to swallow, Peter accepts the call. “Happy? What is it, what’s wrong?”

At first, he’s met with an uneasy silence. His spider sense flares uncomfortably in response. “Why do you always assume something’s wrong?” Happy asks.

“Because something always is.”

Happy sighs. “It’s Tony.”

If Peter weren’t sitting, he would have fallen. He steadies himself anyways, leaning back as the cityscape below threatens vertigo. “What? What about him? Is he okay?”

The silence again. God, it’s killing him. Peter can hear his heartbeat in his ears. “Happy,” he stresses. “Talk to me. Is he okay?”

“As far as I know, he’s fine. I got a ransom call about fifteen minutes ago. Oscorp has him.”

Peter’s head is a top spinning out of control. He drops his sandwich and stands, too upset to stay stationary. He paces on the roof with his free hand on his head. “Oscorp? Are you kidding me? What- how the hell did this happen? What does Oscorp want with Tony?”

“It’s a long story. But listen- it’s not Tony that they’re really after, kid.”

Peter stops short in his frantic pacing, his spider sense flaring once more. “What is it then?”

“They want Spider-Man. They want you in exchange for Tony’s life.”

Peter can’t breathe, all the puzzle pieces clicking into place. Oh man.

“I’ll do it,” he says, though somewhere in the promise his confidence wavers. “Do you know where in Oscorp he’s being held?”

“No- Pete. Listen to me right now. God, I shouldn’t have called. You can’t just barge in there, okay? We need to strategize. Swing to the Tower and we’ll make a plan to get him back safe without putting you at risk too.”

“He could be dead by then!” Peter argues stubbornly. He spins on his heels and sees the top of Oscorp tower, barely visible through the New York skyline. “It’s me they want.”

Happy’s voice rises, and if Peter wasn’t so hyperfocused on his mentor’s safety he would hear the man’s raw concern bleeding through. “Peter. You are not handing yourself over to Oscorp. Come to the Tower and we’ll figure out a way. There’s a better way.”

“I can’t let him die because of me,” Peter whispers, because Ben already has. No more blood. “I’m sorry Happy. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“Peter! Don’t you dare hang up-”

But he does, his adrenaline making it almost impossible to feel the sting of guilt that follows. After tucking his phone away, Peter sprints to the edge of the roof and leaps. He free falls and fires a web, swings, and prays that he won’t be too late.

-------

“He’s not going to come. I’m terrible leverage.”

“On the contrary, Stark.”

Tony flexes his arms against his restraints and grinds his teeth together until his jaw aches. They had called Happy. Made their demands. Spider-Man, in exchange for his life.

Peter.

“Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong. I hardly know Spider-Man. I built his suit. That’s it.” A lie. God, it’s such a lie. Peter is his kid. As close to flesh and blood as he’ll ever get. “He’s not coming, so you might as well put a bullet between my eyes while you still have the upper hand.”

Tony doesn’t know the names of the men holding him, only that Norman is behind it all. There are five of them all together, each one armed with an assault rifle and military-grade vests. The ringleader, and ugly man with a pierced lip, smirks at Tony’s suggestion. “If Spider-Man is half the hero he claims to be, he’ll come.”

It leaves Tony’s mouth dry, because it’s true. Peter will do anything to keep him safe.

And it scares the hell out of him.

“The hour’s almost up,” one of the men says. “If Spidey doesn’t show soon our heads are on the line.”

“He’ll show,” sneers the man with the piercing. “Be patient.”

Tony pulls harder on his restraints, but they don’t budge. Come on, Happy. Fix this.

Five tortuous minutes pass.

The elevator dings as the doors open, spilling orange light into the dimly lit room. It’s empty and the ringleader curses, raising his rifle to his eye. “Check it out,” he orders the man to his left.

Obeying, the accomplice moves quickly towards the open elevator, his heavy footsteps making loud echoes that reverberate through Tony’s head. The anticipation is overwhelming. Please don’t be Peter. Oh God, please don’t let it be him.

The doors start to close but the man reaches out a hand to stop the movement. Tony holds his breath, hands sweating and heartbeat threatening to jump out of his neck at what lies beyond. It’s the longest second of his life.

The man looks left, right. Then up. “Holy crap!”

The sound of webbing is enough to bring tears of panic to Tony’s eyes. He digs his nails into the chair and watches in earnest as the man falls back against the floor, his entire upper body encased in webs that keep him in place.

Chaos.

Before Tony has the chance to blink, Peter is swinging out from the elevator and shooting off webs. They hit and shatter glass, and Tony ducks as gunshots start to fire. He feels a rough hand in his hair that is gone a second later, a web hitting his assailant’s face and landing him flat on his back.

More gunshots. A window erupts into thousands of fragments.

Silence.

Tony jerks up his head, dizzy with relief when his eyes land on Peter. The boy is sprinting towards him, sliding on his knees and grappling with Tony’s bindings until they snap. “Oh my god! Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay. I’m so sorry this is all my fault and I can’t believe they fell for that elevator trick-”

“Kid!” Tony interrupts, grabbing him at the shoulders and shaking lightly. “You can’t be here!”

“But-”

“They want you, idiot! Not me.”

Peter squirms away from his grip before turning his head sharply towards the staircase, a tic Tony has come to recognize as his Peter tingle in action. “More are on their way. No time to argue. We gotta go!”

Knowing better than to object, he allows Peter to help him to his feet and stumble towards the elevator. His legs are cramped and stiff from sitting in the chair for so long, but the adrenaline of keeping Peter safe stows the pain somewhere he can’t feel it.

Behind them, the door to the staircase slams open. There’s gunshots and yells and in the crescendo of the noise, Peter pushes him forward. The force of it knocks him off balance and he slides the last couple of feet into the elevator, landing awkwardly against the back wall. Peter scrambles in moments later, his breathing ragged. “Get the door!” he screams.

Tony fights to get to his knees and slams his hand against the button for the parking garage. Bullets tear into the metal as the doors close.

They make it.

“Oh thank god,” Tony exhales, sliding down the wall. “Nice moves, kid.”

“T-Tony?” Peter stammers, his back turned. Something in his voice makes Tony’s blood run cold.

“Pete? What is it?”

Peter turns slowly, his hand pressed hard against the base of his ribcage. Tony doesn’t need to look hard to know he’s bleeding. That he got shot-

“No. Peter-” Before he can finish, Peter collapses down to his knees. Tony moves faster than ever to help soften the fall, his hands moving on instinct to cover the growing warmth on the kid’s side. “This can’t- You can’t-”

“Sorry,” Peter murmurs. “There were too many. Didn’t mean to.”

“Obviously not!”

The elevator lurches horribly, the small space going dark as they stop. Tony curses loudly as the elevator fills with soft yellow emergency lights. Under his hands, Peter laughs. It’s delirious. “They cut the power. Smart.”

“Not smart!” Tony hisses. “Now we’re trapped.”

“Don’t say that,” Peter whines. “You know I’m claustrophobic.”

“Why did you come here? What the hell were you thinking?”

Peter gapes at him, eyelids drooping. “Are you kidding me? I just saved your ass!”

“No, you’re going to get us both killed!”

“That’s not going to happen!” Peter says, struggling to get up before moaning and collapsing back. Tony’s knees are sticky with what can only be a growing pool of the boy’s blood. He tries very hard not to think about it.

Tony pushes Peter’s head back, his touch leaving tiny smudges of red under the boy’s hairline. Fix this. Fix him. “Stay down Pete. Moving around is only going to make the bleeding worse.”

“Yeah, I feel that,” Peter wheezes. His face is about a dozen shades more pale than normal. “Must’ve- must’ve hit something important.”

The dark crimson spreads. Tony is three seconds away from a panic attack. “Side wounds bleed a lot. Just try and stay awake, alright buddy?”

Peter hums, his eyes hazy as they trace the four walls keeping them captive. “I hate small spaces.”

“I know. I’m sorry. This is all such a damn mess.”

“Couldn’t leave you,” Peter slurs.

“You should’ve.”

“If it were me, you would- you would have done the same thing.”

Through the dim emergency lighting, Tony sees Peter begin to shiver. He wonders if it’s from the shock or the blood loss. Maybe it’s some sick combination of the two. Tony presses his hands down harder against the wound and Peter cries out, his eyes rolling back.

“Hey, hey. Focus up kid. Don’t go anywhere. You want to save me? Then save me. You can’t do that if you’re unconscious.”

Peter’s eyelids flutter but stay stubbornly open, his chest heaving with laboured breaths. His lips are crimson. He looks up at Tony in a daze. “Never been shot before,” he murmurs. “Ben-”

“Don’t go there,” Tony interrupts, mouth going sour. “Don’t think about it.”

“Kinda- kinda hard not too.”

God, this kid.

The stain underneath Peter grows further, pooling underneath Tony’s shins. “Think you can web the wound? It’ll- it’ll slow the bleeding. Buy us some time.”

“Time,” Peter agrees, lifting a shaky hand. “Help me.”

Together, they seal the wound closed. It saturates quickly but holds, though for how long is uncertain. His hands are free now, covered completely with Peter’s blood. It’s impossible to look away.

“Hey,” Peter says, covering Tony’s hand with his own and pushing them down. As if everything around them has slowed, Tony meets Peter’s eyes. “It’s okay. Happy is on his way-”

The elevator lurches again, the emergency lights replaced by the regular ones. Both flinch against the brightness, the gore of Peter’s wound even more vivid and launching Tony’s heart into his throat.

“This’ll be a good story one day,” Peter says breathlessly, paling further as the webbing over his side begins to leak.

“You’re not funny, kid.” His hands are shaking too badly to do anything. He prays that whoever is waiting for them at the bottom is friendly, that Happy found a way to save them.

“I mean it,” Peter says, smiling up at him. Even with blood stained teeth, Tony can’t help the rush of fondness that washes over him. “Never a dull moment.”

“God, Pete. If you only knew how many gray hairs you’ve given me-”

“Gray hair is in right now. Very trendy.”

The elevator hits its destination. Tony turns his back on Peter to face the doors head on, his arms splayed out wide to protect him. “Look, kid. Whatever happens-”

The door springs open. Too quick. A dozen men stand waiting, their weapons trained to shoot. Peter gasps behind him as he struggles to get up, and Tony sacrifices a hand to push him back gently.

“We only want Spider-Man. This doesn’t have to concern you, Stark.”

Rage, hot and consuming rises up through Tony’s chest. “If you want him, you have to go through me.”

Peter makes a low noise of protest, words seemingly beyond him. He feels the kid’s weak hand circle around his wrist, his thumb slick with blood running what should be a comforting line across his pulse point.

“Whatever you say.”

They surge forward. Tony struggles and screams but it’s hopeless. There’s too many of them. He’s wrestled away from the elevator and dragged out into the garage. “Don’t touch him!” Tony spits, too desperate to breathe. He watches in horror as they swarm Peter’s body, grabbing his limbs ungently and extracting him. It leaves a gruesome streak of red.

“NO!” Tony fights. He fights with everything he has. Because it’s Peter. It’s his kid, and it’s his own damn fault that they’re in this mess to begin with. “I’ll kill you! If you touch a hair on his head, I’ll-”

Something hard slams against his forehead, stunning him. The world goes blurry as his body loses its strength. He pitches forward and sees Peter on the brink of unconsciousness reach out for him.

He already knows they’ve lost. He reaches back anyways.

A boot slams into his temple.

And then there’s nothing.

----------

“-ony.”

“-hear me?”

“Damn it.”

Static. Darkness.

“Give him some space!”

It’s a battle to stick to reality. For now, he’s blissfully unaware, concerned only with how difficult it is to open his eyes.

“Come on, boss. Now would be a good time to show some life.”

The voice is familiar. Safe. Tony tries again to climb out of the dark hole he’s stuck in and manages, by some miracle, to regain his sight. The first thing he sees is Happy leaning over him, his face pinched in worry. “Thank God. You still got all your brains?”

“Happy?” Tony mumbles, the static still hanging heavy in his brain. “What-” he turns his head, sees an impossible amount of blood, and nearly passes right the hell back out. Peter. Oscorp. “Oh my god. P-Peter. They have Peter.”

“Take it easy,” Happy says, using both arms to help support Tony in his struggle to sit. “You took a hard hit to the head.”

“Peter was shot. They- they took him.”

“Calm down, boss. We’re going to get him back.”

“No. No, Happy you don’t understand-” Hot blood. A red hand reaching out for him. “Oh Christ. I can’t- I can’t-”

“Yes you can. You can. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Tony gasps, his eyes stinging as Happy guides his head down to hang by his knees. He can’t see the blood anymore. It helps.

“He’s a tough kid. Norman’s an idiot. We’ll have him back in no time.”

“He’s just a kid, Hap.” My kid. “This is all my fault.”

“No,” Happy says, his hand squeezing Tony’s shoulder in feeble reassurance. “I called him. If anything, it’s mine. I should’ve known he’d swing over here guns blazing.”

Head still spinning, Tony tries to focus on bringing air into his chest. You can’t help Peter like this. Get better. Breathe. “He wanted to save me.”

Happy is quiet for a long time. Then, “he did save you.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut. “He sure has a habit of that doesn’t he?”

Beside him, Happy nods. Tony catches him looking at the elevator with a look of foreign bitterness.

“Now it’s our turn.”

---------

Peter wakes up alone.

It’s disorienting and painful, his mind clouded and his stomach tied into nauseating knots. It doesn’t take him long to remember what happened.

He’s tied down to a chair, his hands cuffed tight behind him with something strong enough to keep him in place. Vibranium, possibly. Or maybe it’s just the blood loss making him weak.

Stifling a groan, Peter rolls his head until it rests on his chest instead of hanging back. He’s not wearing his suit anymore. In its place, a pair of medical pants and a loose fitting t-shirt. Trying hard not to dwell on the invasion, he realizes his mask is gone, which doesn’t surprise him but is scary nonetheless.

They know who he is.

The shirt is bloodstained, but barely. Rather they stitched him up or his healing factor kicked in enough to close the skin. Regardless, the wound stings. Peter tries to ignore it.

Certain he’s not at risk of dropping dead, Peter expands his attention to his surroundings. Another facility, by the looks of it. The walls are white and albeit a little worn down. Old lab equipment and machinery litters the perimeter in no particular order or fashion, suggesting he’s in some kind of storage room.

He tugs on his cuffs and thinks of Tony.

He should’ve listened to Happy.

Before his thoughts can venture farther the door to the room opens. Norman Osborn fills its space and Peter shrinks away, fighting once more with his restraints. He’s alone. “Hello Peter.”

Heart beating hard against his ribs, Peter tries not to show the fear he feels. He raises his chin. “You’re a monster,” he says.

Norman chuckles like they’re good friends catching up after many years of being apart. He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. “It seems, Mr. Parker, that the only monster here is you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course I do,” Norman says, “because I made you, didn’t I?”

“My powers have nothing to do with you.”

“Lying will profit you nothing.”

Peter can’t decipher between his anger and his fear, a hate he didn’t know he was capable of burning low in the center of his chest. “What do you want with me?”

Norman’s eyes light up as if he’s been waiting for Peter to ask all along. With the gait of someone at perfect ease, he strays closer and leans against an old lab table. “I am a scientist, Peter. You are an experiment. It’s the natural order of things, really, that I study you.”

“You’re insane. You have to let me go.”

“I don’t think you understand, so I will try to be more clear. I own you. My research courses through your veins. Your life is my property.”

Peter feels his walls crumbling. He strains his wrists even after he feels his skin split underneath.

“I don’t belong to anyone. You’re sick and you’ll never get away with this.”

Norman comes up beside him and backhands him so hard that Peter sees stars. It’s more shocking than painful, though his mouth fills with blood.

“You are not in the position to be disrespectful, Mr. Parker.”

Peter spits the blood in his mouth at Norman’s feet. “Tony will come for me.”

“Oh Peter,” Norman says softly. He straightens, his long shadow covering Peter’s small form. “Tony Stark is dead.”

Peter’s insides freeze. He stops breathing. Norman slips his hand into his pocket and reveals a syringe filled with clear liquid. He continues to smile, seeming to enjoy Peter’s distress. “You’re lying,” he chokes when no other words come. Because it can’t be true. He doesn’t remember a lot after the elevator had opened. Only that they had dragged Tony away from him. But he had been alive, then. Alive, not dead.

“I’m afraid not. One of my men shot him in the head when he resisted. I suppose Iron Man was not as indestructible as we thought. Now, try not to squirm.” Norman slides the needle under the skin at his neck. Peter doesn’t even feel it, his body numb with shock.

“No. No. It’s not true. It’s not-”

A wave of dizziness hits Peter hard, more powerful than when he had been bleeding out in the elevator. In an instant, all the strength in his body disappears and his head lolls back against the chair. Through tunneling vision, he sees Norman smirk. “You should’ve done a better job at protecting him,” he says.

Tony. Hot tears leak down the sides of Peter’s face. His heart is going to beat straight out of his freaking chest.

It’s the last thing he remembers.

-------

“We need to find him.”

“Tony, calm down. Let the Doctor look you over.”

Tony squirms away. He feels like he’s trapped. “No. We’re wasting time! Osborn has Peter and he’s going to kill him-”

Happy gestures for the Doctor to step away. Looking conflicted, she nods. When the door closes behind her Happy kneels in front of where Tony sits and places both hands on his shoulders. “If Osborn wanted Peter dead he wouldn’t have taken him. He would’ve just killed him at Oscorp. We’ll find him, but you need to get checked out first. You’ll be no good for Peter in the state you’re in right now, you hear me?”

Though it should be impossible, Tony manages to nod.

Obvious relief colours Happy’s face. “I’ll get the Doctor back in here. Keep breathing, boss.”

Peter. Gone. His fault.

“Right.”

----------

The drug Norman had injected into him doesn’t last long. Peter wakes up strapped to a table, a blinding light pointed directly at his face and the shadows of scientists surrounding him on all sides. They peer down at him like he’s the most fascinating thing they’ve ever seen, bloody instruments paused in their hands as he struggles to get the cotton out of his brain.

“Amazing. Awake already. Inject him again, but double the dose this time.”

“No,” Peter moans, his voice nearly inaudible. He tries to move and can’t. “P-please.”

He doesn’t feel the needle. He doesn’t feel the pain. It’s almost more scary this way.

“Sleep, Spider. Let us do our work.”

His body is weak. Tony is dead. Peter doesn’t even try to hold on.

This time, he’s out for good.

---------

Tony gets three stitches in his head. It’s uncomfortable but nothing in comparison to the heaviness in his chest.

“Any luck with Oscorp’s records FRI?”

“My system does not detect any Oscorp facilities that are unaccounted for. Facial recognition and security camera data is currently underway.”

Beside him, Happy holds his breath. They’re on thin ice and Tony is two seconds away from knocking down every building in New York. “Double time, FRI.”

It’s been three hours since he lost Peter.

Tony doesn’t let himself think the worst.

--------

Peter is back in the chair.

Every inch of him hurts, the scattered pain somehow much worse than the intense localized agony of the gunshot wound. He refuses to look down at his body, to see what Osborn has reduced him to.

I own you.

Tony Stark is dead.

This time, they’ve gagged him. When Peter cries, he can barely hear the sound to his own ears. He feels like he’s falling down a steep cliff, unable to find purchase or stop his descent. For the first time since he’d been bit, Peter sincerely wishes none of it had ever happened.

Tony is dead and Peter has no one to blame but himself. He wishes they had more time, that he had told Tony the things he’d always wanted to but never had the courage to verbalize.

His stilted sobs make his side scream in pain. Peter loses his breath.

He hopes Happy is looking for him.

But maybe he doesn’t deserve it.

--------

It’s another long hour before FRIDAY finishes her search. “Boss, I have identified three probable locations for Mr. Parker.”

His relief is a dam breaking open in his chest. “What’s the most probable?”

“Sending the coordinates to your suit now.”

It’s all he needs to hear. Metal encloses around his body and Happy sprints towards the car.

For the first time in hours Tony feels hope.

I’m coming Pete, he thinks. I’ll get you back.

No matter the cost.

--------

Peter is drifting when Norman comes back to his room, though from the drugs or the pain he isn't sure. The man drags in a chair this time and sets it in front of Peter, sitting comfortably with a manilla folder on his lap.

Without his voice, all Peter can do is glare.

“Now, now, Peter. There’s no need for such hostility.”

Go to hell, he tries to stay. It comes out as a pathetic jumble of words.

“Even gagged, you’re too mouthy for your own good. Speaking is a privilege, Mr. Parker. In time you will learn that.”

Tears well in Peter’s eyes. He blinks furiously to prevent them from falling.

“Congratulations on completing your first session. You truly are remarkable. The results my colleagues have shown me are almost too good to be true.”

Peter closes his eyes and breathes carefully through his nose. He wants this to be a dream. A horrible, terrible dream. Because if it’s a dream he can wake up. He can wake up and Tony will be alive. The pain will disappear.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Norman muses, “how this all came to be. A school field trip, correct? The chances are nearly impossible. It’s almost like this was meant to be.”

Peter stays perfectly still and quiet. Norman’s hand clamps around his jaw and shakes his head hard. Crying out into the gag, Peter tries to flinch away, but the man is too close. He can smell his cologne, which in reality probably costs more than Peter’s entire life. “You will look at me when I speak to you, understood?”

If Peter could spit in his face, he would. He jerks in his cuffs, his anger giving him the strength he needs for his defiance. Norman hits him for a second time. This time, in the eye. Peter has had enough experience to know it will swell.

“You’re lucky we still need you,” Norman says.

Peter glares, feeling sick enough to throw up as Norman pulls out another syringe. “Ready for round two?”

--------

The first location is a dead end. Tony checks it three times over to make sure he isn’t missing anything.

It’s been five hours.

“FRI. What’re the next coordinates?”

He doesn’t give himself the luxury to be afraid of what he might find.

--------

Peter wakes up screaming.

He doesn’t know why, at first. Only that he’s lying flat on a cold table, pinned and surrounded by strangers.

Then he feels the pain.

White hot. All consuming. Mind melting. It’s so intense that he doesn’t really comprehend where it’s coming from, or if he’ll be able to survive it. His muscles strain and stretch under the restraints, and then one of his hands breaks free all together. It lashes out, hitting the scientist closest and throwing him across the room. If Peter were more lucid he would hear the crunch of bone against the wall, or the yells of the others.

But he doesn’t.

His body clinging to freedom, his hand continues to fight desperately. He manages to hit away another scientist before three sets of hands press his arm down hard against the table. A sharp jab in his neck lets him know he’s been injected again. His limbs lose some strength, his mind fogging, but it’s not enough. Peter screams and fights. He cries.

Somewhere in the distance, a door is thrown open. Through the kaleidoscopic mess of his vision Peter sees Norman and cries harder. “S-stop-”

Norman’s hand closes around Peter’s neck and squeezes. “You don’t have a say over what happens to you. Do you understand? I own you!” He applies more pressure and Peter wonders distantly if his eyes will pop straight out of his head. “I. Own. You.”

Peter loses control over his body. His lungs stall in his chest. Only then does Norman let go, wiping his hand on his jacket. “Keep going,” he orders.

Peter is too exhausted to sob, darkness gathering around his vision. I’m going to die, he realizes.

Something hits his head hard, and he welcomes the escape with open arms.

--------

Seven hours. Tony’s tracked the three locations, all proving to be as useful as the last. His patience is slipping, his resolve shaken.

“FRI? I could really use a miracle right now.”

“Retrieving coordinates for the next location: an Oscorp storage facility in Staten Island.”

“Thanks. Send Happy the same.”

“Of course.”

Tony flies like his life depends on it. Because really, it does. If he loses Peter-

Stop, he chastises himself. Focus. It’s not over yet.

Fifteen minutes later, Tony lands hard enough to dent the cement under foot outside the storage facility. On the outside, his chances look bleak. Dark windows, no cars in the lot. “FRI, can you pick up any heat signatures?”

After a short pause, FRIDAY replies. “There are approximately ten heat signatures detected inside.”

“Oh god. Do any match Peter?”

“Yes, boss, it appears so.”

His legs turn to jelly. “Tell- tell Happy. I’m going in.”

“Sending a message to Happy Hogan.”

“Best point of entry?”

“The front door will be fine, sir.”

Tony follows FRIDAY’s prompts from the dark entrance to one of the building’s sublevels. Once close enough, he hears voices. Laughter, even. “FRI?” he whispers.

“The door to your left,” she supplies.

Tony wastes no time in blasting it off its hinges. Halted screams come from the smoking wreckage as Tony steps through. It appears to be some sort of staff room, a large group of men and women in lab coats sitting around a circular table. They stare at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Spider-Man,” Tony demands. “Where the hell is he?”

No one answers. He fires a repulsor at the ceiling.

“Norman has him!” one of them yell, hands raised to shield her head. “Follow the corridor down to the end. You’ll- you’ll find him in there.”

Tony can hardly see straight in his relief. He backs out of the room, dislodging a drone from his suit to block their exit. “If any of you try to leave, this will shoot. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He runs.

The end of the corridor.

Peter. Peter. Peter-

After confirmation from FRIDAY, Tony kicks down the door in question. His blood goes cold. Because it’s Peter- his kid- cuffed with his hands behind his back and a thick gag around his mouth. His head is tipped back, his eyes closed. He’s covered in so much blood that Tony has trouble seeing parts of him that are clean.

And beside him, Osborn.

He fires a repulsor at the man before his mind can catch up. It hits Osborn in the chest and he flies back, hitting the wall with a loud grunt and sliding down to the floor. Though painful, Tony steps past Peter’s lax body. He’s not sure if he’s awake. Or even alive.

“Wait!” Norman yells, raising his hands in defense. “You can’t- you can’t do this.”

“Like hell I can’t,” Tony growls, his palm growing hot. He raises it to Norman’s face. “You took my kid. You hurt him.”

“Peter’s life ceased being his own the moment he was bitten by my spider. I have the right to study him, to learn from what I created.”

“You’re an animal. I should kill you right now.”

“But you won’t,” Norman counters, his eyes glinting against the fire in Tony’s hand. “Because if you do, Peter will never forgive you. He’s good, Stark. Too good for you. And you know that.”

Tony clenches his jaw hard, his heart beating loud in his ears. He thinks of Peter sitting on a table in the lab, kicking his feet and laughing at a joke Tony had told. He thinks of the boy thumb wrestling with Happy and the cheesy birthday card he had made Tony last year.

“You’re right,” Tony says, lowering his hand. “I won’t kill you.”

Norman perks, his mouth curling.

“But you’re going to wish I had.”

And with that, Tony hits him across the face. Harder than he should. Osborn goes limp against the wall.

Behind him, Peter moans.

“Peter-”

Tony removes his faceplate and collapses at Peter’s feet. One of the boy’s eyes is open to a slit, the other swollen shut. When he connects with Tony his eyebrows draw together in confusion. Then, without further warning, he begins to cry.

“Hey, hey, woah. It’s okay kiddo. I’m here.” He reaches up and gently removes the gag from Peter’s mouth, the skin underneath it raw and chapped. “I’m here, buddy. Don’t cry.”

Peter doesn’t look any less comforted. He strains against his bindings. “Are you real?” he whispers, his voice cracked and strained. Only now does Tony see the dark bruising around the kid’s neck. The sight brings bile up his throat.

“I’m real,” he promises, reaching up his hands to card through Peter’s hair. “I’m here.”

Peter sobs again, going limp. Tony catches him against his chest and cradles him close. “They told- they told me they shot you,” Peter says. “They told me you were dead.”

Tears of his own well in Tony’s eyes. He presses his cheek into Peter’s hair. “I’m not dead,” he says, voice wavering. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thought it was my fault,” Peter slurs. More of his weight dips into Tony’s chest as he goes quiet.

“Kid?” Tony shifts so he can see Peter’s face. His eyes are closed, his breaths short and laboured. “Damn it! Pete, can you hear me?”

Happy chooses this moment to arrive. He swings into the room, a pistol curled around his fingers and his eyes wider than Tony’s ever seen them. “Is he-?”

“Alive,” Tony chokes. “He was talking just a second ago. I don’t know what happened.”

“It looks like they tried to pull him apart.”

And it’s true.

“Call a med team. The police- the whole works. I need to get him out of this chair.”

“On it,” Happy says. His eyes linger on Peter in obvious distress before he flees from the room, pulling out his phone and barking out orders.

“Alright Petey. Hang tight.” Tony positions his limp body against the back of the chair, trying not to dwell on how unalive he looks. He ventures to Osborn’s body, retrieves a promising ring of keys, and returns back to Peter.

“I got you kid. I got you.” His hands are shaking too badly to fit the key in the small slot at the base of the cuff. He has to sit back on his heels and take ten measured breaths before he tries again. This time it works and Peter’s arms pop free.

Without the restraint, Peter’s body tips forward. With an aborted yell, Tony lunges forward to catch him. They end up in a tangled heap on the dirty floor, Peter’s head pillowed in his lap.

“Oh Pete. Oh god. W-wake up. It’s over now.”

Nothing. Above the bruises, there’s half a dozen needle marks in his neck.

“Peter? Come on, bud. Wake up.”

Wake up. Wake up.

He rocks the kid in his lap until help arrives, refusing even for a moment to let go.

-------

Peter realizes three things in quick succession when he wakes up.

First, it’s quiet, and the distinct lack of his spider sense is more than relieving. He’s safe, he realizes. Which two, means it’s over.

His vision struggles to keep up with his waking body but after a few long blinks the blurred medbay comes into sharper focus. He sees May’s purse, though she herself isn’t in the room. And with a stiff turn of his head, Peter comes to terms with thing number three.

Tony.

The man is slumped in a chair beside his bed, his head tipped back as he snores. The events of his rescue rush back into his head with such force it leaves him dizzy. Without further warning, tears leak out of his eyes.

Alive. He’s alive.

They both are.

As if Tony has a fifth sense of his own, he shifts in his sleep and his head dips. The jerky movement must be enough to wake him because within seconds, his eyes open. They connect with Peter fast, widening when he registers that Peter’s awake.

“Oh Pete,” he says, rubbing at his eyes and leaning forward. “What’s wrong? Are- are you okay bud?”

Peter lifts a heavy hand to wipe the moisture from his cheeks. “Sorry,” he whispers, trying for a smile. “Must be the drugs.”

The creases on Tony’s forehead smooth. He returns Peter’s smile, though some deep abiding concern rests in his eyes. “God, it’s good to see you awake. You gave us all a good scare.”

“Right,” Peter agrees, his strength already dwindling. He casts a sideway glance over at May’s purse. “Is she- is she okay?”

“She’s happy you’re safe. That you’re getting better. She just went to grab some food. She’ll be back real soon.”

Peter’s insides feel hollowed out. He thinks of Norman standing over him. I own you. “Oh. That’s good.”

Tony scoots closer in his chair. “How’re you feeling bud? Any pain?”

To Peter’s embarrassment, another tear leaks out of his eye. He catches it quickly and sucks in a shaky breath. “No.”

“You sure?”

Peter bites his lip. Stares at Tony’s worried face. “I really thought you were dead.”

Tony holds his breath and pulls absently at his fingers. “He was just trying to get in your head, Pete.”

“Yeah,” he laughs without humour. “Well, it worked.”

“Peter...”

“It’s just- the whole time I was thinking about everything I should’ve told you. When Ben died, I regretted- I regretted my last words, you know? Wish I said more.”

“Your uncle knew how much you loved him, kiddo.”

Peter swallows hard. “And do you?”

Tony blinks. “What?”

“Know,” Peter says, staring stubbornly at the wall. “That I love you? Because I never told you before and then it was too late. I was too- I don’t know. Scared, I guess. But I can’t be too late again. I have a second chance now and I want you to know.”

Silence. Peter can’t look. Maybe Tony got up and left-

Warmth. Arms circling his chest. Peter inhales sharply in his surprise, the tubes and wires hooking him up to the machines pinching. Oh god, he’s hugging me.

“I thought I lost you too,” Tony whispers over his shoulder. Peter is frozen. “When they dragged me out of that elevator and took you-” he chokes. “I thought-”

Peter closes his eyes. He’s tired and achy, his bones like lead under his skin. “I’m fine.”

“Let me finish.”

“Okay.”

Tony breathes in deeply, his chest expanding against Peter’s. “I love you too, Pete, is what I’m trying to say. So damn much. Since day one, really. And if you ever scare me like this again I swear I’ll lock you in a tower like goddamn Rapunzel.”

Peter’s glad that Tony can’t see his face. I love you too. Finally regaining strength, he wraps his arms around Tony’s shoulders to complete the embrace. It’s weak and broken but tangible. Real. “Thank you for saving me.”

“You did the same for me.”

They separate. Neither comment on their wet faces. “What happened to Norman?” Peter asks. It feels like his throat is closing.

Tony looks down at the floor. His hand had fallen from the hug to rest on Peter’s arm. He doesn’t let go, and Peter doesn’t want him to. “Prison. He won’t hurt you again, Pete. I promise you.”

He isn’t sure how the admission makes him feel. “Oh.”

His side twinges in pain. Something must cross over his face because Tony winces too, like the hurt is his own. “I’m so sorry, Pete.”

Peter leans back against his pillows, lightheaded all of a sudden, his energy far past spent. “I hate it when you apologize,” he murmurs.

“Pfft. Well, the feeling’s mutual.”

Peter smiles. He closes his eyes. “You gonna tap back out?” Tony asks gently.

He hardly finds the strength within himself to nod. Everything is catching up to him, a dark shadow of a nightmare. It’s over, he tries to remind himself. Tony is alive. May is safe. He loves you back. “Stay?”

“Always, Pete. I’m not moving a muscle.” As if to prove it, his thumb runs across Peter’s wrist, straight over the bandages covering the marks of his restraints. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Stuck with me too,” Peter slurs. He reaches out blindly until he finds Tony’s hand and grips it with as much strength as he can muster, which truthfully isn’t much. “Like a web.”

He drifts further, but is sure he can hear Tony’s quiet laugh, that he feels Tony’s lips press over his forehead.

“Go to sleep kiddo. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

And he will. Peter knows it.

Always.

#irondad #irondad fic #peter parker #tony stark #norman osborn #kidnapping #hurt/comfort #hurt peter parker #peter parker whump #protective tony stark #protective peter parker #tony stark acting as peter parkers parental figure #angst with a happy ending #gun violence

107 notes · View notes

petrichoravellichor · 4 years ago

Text

Title: A New Kind of Life

Wordcount: ~10k

Rating: T

Summary: What if, when Sam and Dean break into the Empty, Cas isn’t the only one they save? A post-15x19 fix-it fic in which Crowley gets a second shot at the redemption (and family) he deserves.

(Read on Ao3)

********************

Chapter 1 (of 5) (Ch. 2, Ch. 3, Chs. 4 & 5)

“Crowley! Wake up, you son of a bitch, wake up!”

Crowley opens his eyes to Dean shaking him hard by the shoulders. Which is strange: the last thing Crowley remembers, he was dying, alone and forgotten in a parallel universe.

He isn’t there anymore. Instead, Dean is kneeling over him in a dome of golden light beyond which everything is dark, and for a brief, absurd moment he’ll chastise himself for later, Crowley thinks he’s somehow ended up in Heaven.

Then he glances past Dean and sees Sam with an exhausted-looking Castiel slumped against him; next to them is a younger man Crowley doesn’t recognize, but his eyes are molten gold, the same color as the dome surrounding them all. The amount of raw power emanating from the golden-eyed man makes every one of Crowley’s hairs stand on end, and not in a good way.

No, definitely not his idea of Heaven.

Crowley snaps his gaze back to Dean. “What—” he begins, but Dean cuts him off, hauling him to his feet.

“No time for questions!” Dean yells, and it’s only then that Crowley registers the roar coming from beyond the dome: it’s as though they’re standing in the eye of a hurricane as all around them things blow apart. “Come on, we gotta go!”

And then they’re all running, the dome of light moving with them like a shield as wispy black wraiths crash and burn against its perimeter and somewhere unseen, a hideous voice howls in rage.

*****

Once they’re safely back in the Bunker war room, Dean takes hold of Castiel and, along with the golden-eyed man—whose irises have faded to a soft, concerned blue—ushers him off in the direction of the infirmary, promising gruffly as he goes that he and Crowley will talk later.

Patience, however, is a virtue, and Crowley isn’t feeling particularly virtuous—especially not after seeing how tenderly Dean and Castiel looked at each other as Dean wrapped an arm around the angel’s waist and led him from the room. The sight had left a bitter taste in Crowley’s mouth, one he does his best to ignore. There will be time for that later; right now, he needs answers, and he’s not waiting on Dean in order to get them.

He crosses his arms and fixes Sam with an expectant glare. “All right, Moose,” he says, "out with it: what in God’s name is going on?”

Sam snorts, looking tired. “Um, yeah, about that...” He gestures towards the map table, then heads over to the liquor cabinet. “You...might wanna sit down.”

Crowley arches a brow, but he does as Sam suggests. Sam joins him a moment later and, after pouring them each a drink, spends the better part of the next hour telling Crowley all that’s transpired in the three years—three years—Crowley’s been dead.

Which is, it turns out, rather a lot.

Lucifer’s spawn survived his birth and is none other than the golden-eyed man Crowley saw when he woke up; his name is Jack, and for all intents and purposes, he considers Castiel to be his father.

An alternate version of Michael got a hold of Dean for a while, until Jack killed Michael at the cost of his soul, then, in a soulless rage, killed Mary.

God killed Jack. All Hell broke loose. Rowena, who’d apparently survived Lucifer’s last attempt to kill her, died to fix it and was now Queen of Hell.

Billie brought Jack back to kill God. Dean tried to kill Billie, so Billie tried to kill him. Castiel managed to take Billie out by admitting his love for Dean, at which point the Empty took Castiel—

Of course, thinks Crowley, the bitter taste in his mouth returning with a vengeance. Of. Bloody. Course...

The brothers had stormed the Empty not for him, but for Castiel. Good, noble, righteous Castiel, the wayward Angel of Thursday who’s been hopelessly in love with Dean for longer than Crowley has known him...and whom, it seems, Dean has finally admitted to loving back. Sam and Dean had saved Castiel because they loved him, because Dean loved him, but Crowley...They’d probably only rescued him because they’d figured they owed him for saving their denim-clad arses that day at the lake.

Now, as Crowley half-listens to Sam talk about defeating God, he glowers down at the map table and wishes they hadn’t bothered bringing him back at all, because it’s one thing to die unloved; it’s another to have to live that way. Crowley’s done both, and he knows which he prefers. At least in the Empty, he’d been at peace.

“Crowley? Hey, you okay?”

He looks up to see Sam regarding him from under a furrowed brow. Bollocks...

“Naturally,” Crowley says, leaning back in his chair with a dismissive smile. “That’s quite a tale, Moose. It sounds like you and Squirrel have outdone yourselves these past few years, even managed to pull one over on God; bravo. I’m sure Lucifer’s spawn will make a spectacular replacement: he is, after all, three.”

Sam’s eyes harden. “Jack’s nothing like Lucifer; he’s good, and he’s got us to help him, and Amara—”

“Oh, Amara! Now there’s a recipe for success if I’ve ever heard one: God’s evil sister and her Satanic great-nephew with billions of raw souls at their disposal. How could that possibly go wrong?” Crowley scoffs, shaking his head. “Honestly, there’s just no learning with you lot, is there? You just keep humming the same damn tune, then acting surprised when the notes turn sour, and it never even occurs to you to pick. A new. Bloody. Song.”

The frown on Sam’s face intensifies. “This is different. Jack, Amara, they’re on our side, and now that Rowena’s in charge of Hell—”

Crowley snorts. “Right. Care to wager on how long that lasts?” Then, at the look of sudden wariness on Sam’s face, he rolls his eyes. “Calm down, Moose; that wasn’t me plotting a coup. I have no plans to try and take back the crown.”

“You don’t?”

“Why on earth would I?” Crowley takes a sip of brandy, grimacing slightly at the flavor—for all the changes the past few years have wrought, the Winchesters’ abominable taste in liquor remains tragically consistent. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but I hated Hell as much as the blasted place hated me. If Mother thinks she can do better, she can have it.”

They sit without speaking for a moment; then Sam clears his throat. “You know,” he says quietly, “Rowena regrets how things ended between the two of you.”

Crowley stiffens, a stab of anger piercing his gut. “No, she doesn’t.”

“She does,” Sam insists, and how anyone can look so stupidly earnest is beyond Crowley’s ability to comprehend. “She told us so.”

Crowley scoffs. “And you believed her?” he demands, left hand closing into a fist at his side. “You know, for the longest time, I thought you were the smart one.”

Sam sighs. “Crowley...Look, I’m not saying Rowena’s perfect—”

“She’s quite literally the Queen of Hell, Moose.” Crowley manages to keep his voice level, but his fingernails are digging into his palm. “I’d say that’s about as far from perfect as anyone can get.”

“—but I think you two should talk.”

Crowley’s hand starts to bleed.

“I mean it,” continues Sam, when Crowley says nothing. “When I was a kid, my dad...he wasn’t there the way he should’ve been, and we fought a lot, and there were times I felt like I hated him, but when he died...”

A multitude of emotions flicker across Sam’s face in rapid succession, too fast for Crowley to name them all, but the final one, the one Sam looks back at him with, is regret. “When he died,” Sam continues, “I didn’t care about any of that. And maybe I should have. I know I should have. Believe me, I tried. But I just...kept coming back to the fact that what I was feeling, the good and the bad, I’d never get to actually say it to him, and if he was somehow sorry for the bad, that was something I’d never get to hear.”

Crowley’s anger flares white hot; his hidden palm is slick with blood. “If you have a point,” he growls, “I’d encourage you to come out with it.”

“My point,” says Sam, curtly, “is that you actually have a chance at some closure, and I think you should take it. For your own sake.”

Crowley clenches his jaw, looks away. “For my own sake,” he echoes, softly. As if his and Sam’s pain is the same. As if Rowena is capable of causing anything but. “Tell me, Moose: since when do you or your imbecile of a brother actually give a damn about my own sake?”

He raises his gaze to stare coldly at Sam who, for the first time since they sat down, seems at a genuine loss for words. Crowley snaps his glass down on the table and stands. “Thought as much.”

He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and turns to go—where, exactly, he has no idea—only to nearly crash headlong into Dean, and suddenly, Crowley’s anger turns to outright fury, because at the end of the day, it didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter that Crowley had gone up against Hell and his mother and even his own better judgment for Dean more times than he could count.

It didn’t matter that the two of them had shared a bed when Dean was a demon, doing extraordinary things to triplets that Crowley would have kicked out in a heartbeat if he’d thought he could get away with it.

It didn’t matter that Crowley had sacrificed his life to save Dean and Sam and the whole bloody world.

None of it mattered, because for all the times Crowley had chosen Dean, Dean had never once chosen him. Then again, Crowley thinks, maybe it’s his own fault for expecting any different, his due comeuppance for stupidly believing he deserved to be loved. It doesn’t matter; he knows better now.

“Hello, Dean,” he snarls. “Come to look in on me now that you’ve seen to your angel? Well you needn’t have bothered; I was just leaving.”

Dean frowns, crossing his arms. “The hell do you mean, you’re leaving?”

“I mean get out of my way.”

“No.”

“And why not?” Crowley demands, voice rising. “Am I your prisoner? I’ve already told your oaf of a brother that I’ve no interest in causing any sort of trouble in Hell, so if that’s what this is about, then you can just—”

“Damn it, Crowley,” snaps Dean, “no, that’s not what this is about; it’s about where are you even gonna go. You got a place somewhere we don’t know about?”

“I’ll find one.”

“Or,” Dean counters, “you could cut the crap and just stay here.”

That catches Crowley off guard, but only for a moment; he gives Dean a hard look, determined not to let the surprise show on his face. “And why on earth would I want to do that?”

“Because you know it’s the smart thing to do,” says Dean, face impassive, “and last I checked, you were an asshole, not an idiot.”

And it’s not that Crowley doesn't know full well that running off half-cocked into a world whose dynamics have fundamentally changed is naive at best and suicidal at worst—that isn’t what makes him nearly scream in rage, because he knows it’s patently true. No, the infuriating thing, the truly mortifying thing, is that Dean knows him well enough to know that he knows it, and that if Crowley does leave, he’s only going to prove Dean right.

The thought is more than Crowley can bear; still, if he doesn’t get out of this room right now, he’s going to start shouting—at Dean, at himself, at everything. There are other, less crowded places in this godforsaken Bunker, and it’s past time he went and found one. He’s not going to give Dean the satisfaction of watching him break.

Crowley pulls his fury tight and close, stepping forward into Dean’s space and glaring up at him with every bit of defiance he can muster. “Funny,” he sneers, “because last I checked, you were both.”

And he vanishes before Dean can respond.

*****

Crowley finds an unoccupied room at the far end of the hall and decides to claim it as his own for the time being. He bolts the door and turns to collapse onto the bed...only to freeze dead in his tracks.

His mother is standing in the corner. As Crowley gapes, Rowena takes a step forward, face pale and incredulous. “Fergus?” she whispers. “Gods, is it really you?”

Her voice snaps Crowley out of his shock, and he narrows his eyes. “Mother,” he growls, the word like poison in his mouth. “What do you want?”

“Sam told me they were going to try and get you back,” Rowena says softly, eyes roving over Crowley’s face as though seeing him for the first time, “and I wanted...I needed to see if they’d done it, if you were all right.”

Crowley glares, making a mental note to have a word with Sam about this particular indiscretion. “Well, you’ve seen me. Now get out.”

Rowena recoils, and if Crowley didn’t know any better, he’d swear his words actually hurt her. “You’re angry,” she says. “You’re angry, and you’ve every right to be, but if you’d just let me explain—”

“Explain what?” Crowley snaps. He clenches both hands into fists, ignoring the burn in his left palm. “What could you possibly have to say to me that I’d want to hear? You hate me, remember?”

“I love you—”

Crowley barks out a laugh. “Really? Have you forgotten the last time we saw each other? You left on a bus after you sent my son to his death, all because you wanted to watch me ‘suffer the loss of a child’, of my child!” He stumbles towards her, half-blind with rage. “Tell me, Mother: did losing me bring you any suffering, or were you just sad you weren’t there to collect three pigs in exchange?”

Rowena looks as though she’s been slapped. “Of course I suffered! Do you have any idea what I went through trying to get you back? I faced Death herself; I begged her to return you to me, but she wouldn’t do it! Ask Sam, ask Dean!”

“They’ve already told me,” Crowley grinds out. “It doesn’t matter.”

“How can you say that?” Rowena is crying now, tears rolling freely down her face. “Of course it matters! I did it because I missed you, because I love you!”

“You’ve never loved me a day in your life.”

“That isn’t true! I did love you; I do!” Rowena takes another step forward and reaches out a hand. “If you could just find it in your heart to forgive me—”

“Forgive you?” Crowley snarls, and it’s all he can do not to spit in her face. “You don’t get to ask for my forgiveness, not after any one thing you’ve put me through, not after everything! What was it you said to me that day at the bus station, your parting words? ‘Who better than me to crush your shriveled heart’? At least I had a heart, once; you never did.”

“Fergus—”

And Crowley explodes. “GET OUT!” he screams, seizing the lamp off the bedside table and hurling it at his mother with all his might...only to watch as it flies right through her and crashes into the wall.

And then Rowena’s gone, just like she always is, and Crowley’s alone, just like he always is. He stands in the middle of the room and stares hollowly into empty space. “Astral projection,” he says, quietly; it always had been one of his mother’s favorite tricks. “Of course.”

He spends the rest of the night warding the room as many ways as he knows how, determined not to let his mother or anyone else get the drop on him again.

#crowley #spn crowley #fergus macleod #crowley macleod #crowley fic #spn #supernatural #supernatural fix-it fic #spn fix-it fic #fanfiction #a new kind of life #my writing #here we gooooo!!!

138 notes · View notes

carry-the-sky · 4 years ago

Note

Hi could you do 14. touch on a bruise for brio please?

ahhh thanks for sending this one in!! have some post-s3 angst, hahaha. :)

(also on ao3)

The next time she sees him, he’s bleeding.

Okay, maybe not actively, but the jagged line of stitches etched above his ear looks like it’s seconds away from ripping open. Beth takes in the nasty bruise blooming along his jawline, the cut splitting his bottom lip.

“Um,” she says.

Rio smirks. “What’s up?”

“I—” she sputters, because he’s just standing there with that stupid, smug expression, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to drop by the showroom after hours looking like—that. “You—what happened?”

“Not your division, darlin’.”

He says it lightly enough, but Beth reads the undercurrent of warning in his voice like a neon sign. He wants her to drop it.

Well. She’s not feeling very incentivized to give him what he wants at the moment.

“It is when you bring that”—she pointedly eyes the stitches—“into my showroom. Those look awful, by the way. Did he do them?” She juts her chin toward Mick, who’s lurking in the doorway.

The two men share a look, and Mick folds his arms across his chest. “Maybe I did,” he grumbles. “YouTube’s got tutorials for everythin’.”

Beth glances between them both. She’s about to open her mouth—to say what, she has absolutely no idea—when Mick snorts, shaking his head at the same time that Rio’s mouth twists into a grin.

“Nah,” Rio says, still smiling as he casts a glance back at Mick. “Nah, he didn’t. Your concern’s duly noted, though.”

Mick makes another sound in his throat that he quickly covers by turning it into a cough. Beth’s face flames, but she draws herself up and meets Rio’s gaze head-on. Let him try to get a rise out of her—she knows better than to take that bait.

“Fine. What can I do for you, boss?” she says, spitting out that last word like it’s acid.

Rio’s eyes fall to the floor, but Beth can still see the ghost of a grin lingering at the corners of his mouth, like he knows he got under her skin. Like he’s won. For one furious second, she imagines how hard she’d have to hit him to split his lip, leave a bruise. She imagines hurting him and liking it.

But she doesn’t really have to, does she? Beth still remembers the weight of his gun in her hand, how the recoil from pumping the trigger once, twice, three times made her hand ache for days afterwards. She remembers him choking on his own blood, the sound of it filling up the loft—

No. No, she hadn’t liked any part of that. It’s a catch twenty-two; she hates him, she wants him dead, gone and out of her life, his name crossed out in permanent ink, but then—sometimes she doesn’t. It’s the not-knowing that keeps her circling the drain, pushing that damn boulder up the hill only to watch it come crashing down again and again.

She thinks she might hate that even more than she hates him.

Beth blinks, coming back to the office. Mick’s staring her down like a hawk, but Rio’s gaze is more appraising, head tilted to the side in a gesture that’s so familiar, so him, it makes her stomach flip.

“Just here for my cut,” he says, as nonchalant as if they’re discussing the weather. She hears the unspoken words as clearly as the night he said them—you, me, we. It’s just business.

Beth holds his gaze a second longer, then tugs a black duffel out from under her desk. She hands it off, dropping the straps like they burned her to avoid brushing her hand against his when he takes it from her. If he notices, he doesn’t show it.

“What, no mama bag this time?” he says, then presses his lips together like he’s trying not to grin.

Beth glares at Mick, who just shrugs. She snaps her eyes back to Rio, barely managing to unclench her teeth before asking, “Anything else?”

“Yeah, Mick’s gonna check the books.”

Of course he is. Beth isn’t exactly shocked, but it still feels like a slap on the wrist, another reminder that there’s a hierarchy and she’s the furthest thing from sitting on top. Even this, the operation she pieced together herself, the system she built on equal parts desperation and determination—even this isn’t hers.

You wanna be the king, you gotta kill the king.

Yeah, she tried that. Technically she’s still trying, but she shoves that thought down deep and ignores the twinge in her chest.

Rio’s already turning to go, slinging the duffel over his shoulder. “Next week, yeah?”

Maybe it’s the way he says it, like he’s glad he can pawn her off on someone else because he has better things to do with his time, or maybe the stress and exhaustion from these past few months are finally cracking her foundation—the reason doesn’t really matter. Beth can’t—won’t—let him have the last word.

“You should really get those stitches looked at,” she says.

He pauses, then looks back at her. In the low light, his eyes almost look black.

“I’ve had worse,” he says, and the words hang between them for a moment, heavy as a loaded gun.

Beth swallows. “Still. They could get infected.”

Something slides across Rio’s face, sharp and predatory. It’s the look he gets when he sees an opportunity, and Beth feels her stomach drop.

“Yeah?” he says, turning around so that he’s facing her again. He drops the duffel, and Beth can’t help flinching at the thud it makes when it hits the floor. “Sounds like you’re volunteerin’.”

“No, that’s not—”

But he’s moving, sliding into the chair on the opposite side of her desk. Beth’s eyes dart to Mick, but he just arches an eyebrow, not even bothering to look up from the list of sales projections he’s been checking.

Rio leans back in his seat. “A’ight, doc, fix me up.”

Beth stays where she is. The irritation that’s been bubbling just beneath the surface ever since he walked through the door is reaching its boiling point, but there’s something else humming under her skin, crackling like a live wire. He can leave whenever he wants—he was halfway out the door a second ago—but instead he chose to stay.

They’re circling the same drain, each of them waiting to see who will get sucked under first.

“I’ll—get the first aid kit,” Beth says, stepping around the desk only to be stopped in her tracks by Mick, who clears his throat audibly and pulls his jacket back to reveal the Glock tucked against his side.

Beth resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Really? You think I’m stupid enough to try something with both of you here?”

Rio doesn’t answer, just fixes her with an amused look.

“Fine,” Beth snaps, taking a step back. She nods at Mick, tips her head in the direction of the door. “It’s in the bathroom across the hall.”

Mick gives her a two-fingered salute and ducks out of the room, and then it’s just her and Rio.

He’s still—watching her. He looks relaxed enough, legs spread a bit and his hands clasped loosely in front of him, and if Beth didn’t know better, she’d say the expression on his face is almost neutral. But she does know better. His eyes are what give him away, flashing with the same electricity that’s thrumming behind her sternum. He’s waiting for her to make a move. She knows, because she’s doing the same thing.

God, she hates how much she likes this.

She barely registers Mick coming back—it’s only when he tosses the first aid kit onto the desk that she jumps, startled back to herself.

“Thanks,” she says, injecting as much sarcasm as she can into the word.

Mick’s mouth twitches, but he goes straight back to the books, sinking into a chair in the far corner of the office. Beth rolls her own chair around the side of the desk, lowers herself slowly into a seated position beside Rio. This close, she can see each individual color in the whorl-patterned bruise that stretches up toward the hollow of his cheek. She lets her eyes drag across it, then up his temple. The stitches look—well, not great. It’s clear they were done hastily, probably to prevent as much blood loss as possible, but the wound is seeping.

“Damn, that bad, huh?” Rio asks, reading it on her face.

Beth stares down at the kit in front of her. Her first aid knowledge extends about as far as patching up a skinned knees and Benadryl for minor allergic reactions—removing possibly-infected stitches from her crime boss’ head isn’t even in the same zip code.

“I don’t—I don’t know what you want me to do,” she says, abruptly exhausted.

Rio adopts an expression of mock concern that does nothing to ease Beth’s urge to slap him. “Oh, no?” he says. “What part’s trippin’ you up?”

Beth shuts her eyes for a second, briefly wonders why the hell she didn’t let him waltz out of here when she had the chance—except she knows why, and so does he, and when she looks again—

He’s practically beaming, that smug tilt at the corners of his mouth dialed up about a thousand percent, and it’s like a puzzle piece slotting into place. This is just another game—he’s messing with her, playing with his food before eating it.

The low buzz of electricity inside her ignites.

He’s not the only one who’s hungry.

“No, you’re right,” she says, popping open the first aid kit and digging around until she finds the antiseptic wipes. “I should at least clean those stitches up. Maybe even remove them, start fresh.”

She glances up, and that’s the only reason that she sees him falter, a blink-and-miss-it record-scratch behind his eyes before he recovers, slides the mask back on. Satisfaction floods through her. She can play his game.

“Whatever’s good, ma,” he says with a shrug. “You’re the boss, yeah?” He echoes her earlier emphasis on the word, grinning when he sees the barb land. “Shit, that’s my bad—poor choice o’ words.”

Beth rips open a wipe. “This might sting,” she says, pressing against his line of stitches, hard. She’s rewarded with him hissing a breath through his teeth, the hand at his knee balling into a fist.

“Easy, mama,” he grits out.

Beth flashes him her sweetest smile. “I’m sorry, is that too rough? I thought you liked that.”

Mick makes a noise like he’s choking, and Rio looks over, eyes bright with amusement. “Ay, cállate la boca.”

“Didn’t say nothin’,” Mick mumbles, still staring intently at the books.

Beth presses her tongue behind her teeth, swallowing a pinch of annoyance as she switches tactics. “Aren’t crime lords supposed to have, I don’t know, some sort of medical professional on retainer? For situations like this?”

“Nah,” Rio says with a shake of his head. “Why, you gunnin’ for a promotion? ‘Cause I gotta say, your bedside manner could use some work.”

And something inside her roars, because this is how she’s going to get him. She dabs gently at the wound beneath his stitches, swiping a thumb over the sutures. Rio winces, jerks back—

She sees it, the moment he drops the mask.

Beth leans forward. She brings the antiseptic up to his face again, stops just short of pressing it to his skin, as if to ask, okay?

She sees it, the moment he drops the mask.

Beth starts at his temple, softly scrubbing at the caked-on blood that’s streaked down from the cut above his ear. Her hand moves lower, fingers gliding over his cheekbones, and she’s not sure if she imagines his breath hitching when she reaches the bruise at his jaw. She drags her thumb across it, then back again. His skin is warm, under the pads of her fingers.

“How am I doing now?” she breathes, barely above a whisper, and she knows she doesn’t imagine him dipping a glance down to her mouth. Their faces are inches apart, close enough for her to count the shades of brown in his eyes. Her fingers trace lower, toward the curve of his lips—

His hand comes up to grasp her wrist, tug it away from his face. “Don’t,” he growls, low like thunder. A warning. “Don’t do that, Elizabeth.”

He’s looking at her again, but she almost doesn’t recognize the emotion swimming in his eyes. He’s—terrified. Of her. For a fleeting second she lets the thrill of it run through her, buoyant on the feeling of power, the feeling that she’s won—

(—she did it, she shot him, she’s free—)

The moment pops like a soap bubble, and she’s empty, hollow, everything good inside of her scooped away until this is what’s left. This is who she is. And maybe this game they’re playing was never meant to have a winner.

The realization leaves her numb.

She’s vaguely aware of Mick slipping the books back onto her desk, and when her eyes flick back up to Rio, his mask is firmly back in place. Steel, untouchable.

“I’m all better now, thanks,” he says, and then he’s pulling away, pushing up from the desk, slipping out the door. She watches his silhouette until it dissolves into shadow.

She’s alone.

#brio #beth x rio #brio fic #nbc good girls #my fic

77 notes · View notes

twilitty · 4 years ago

Text

Moonlit ch.1

This is the first chapter in my new fic Moonlit, it will be posted on Tumblr, ao3, and ffnet. New chapters uploaded every week and a half. Message/comment to be added to my tag list.

3k words

big thank you to my beta reader @effervescentlyirrevocable who has given me the absolute best criticism and helped make this chapter so beautiful :)

Bella moves to Forks Washington, her first week is uneventful. This fic has aged up characters, making them all at entry-college level ages.

Chapter One

My senses are sharper in Forks than they were in Phoenix, I’ve only been here a handful of days yet everything seemed brighter, louder, more alive than my past home. There was something here for me, something that made me feel more alert than I have in years.

The sound of heavy rain slowly pulls me out of my restless sleep, an elbow is thrown across my eyes in an attempt to keep the real world at bay. It’s always raining, the mist layering the ground never abandons its post, and the chilly air seemingly lasts indefinitely. The rainy town of Forks Washington sooner resembles my personal hell than it does a sleepy old town. The forest that borders the town at each cardinal point is layered in green moss, damp dirt, and an endless supply of fresh animal tracks. I’d moved to Forks only a week ago, the sum of which was spent unpacking dreadfully thin clothing and acquainting myself with the few stores and public access areas the town has to offer.

My father, Charlie, has had little to do with this process apart from moral support and the occasional bag of fast food that he’s picked up while on shift. Charlie is the town's police chief, a job that both seems ill-needed and also unbearably boring. How much crime can be committed in a town of fewer than ten thousand citizens? Other than the odd tag on a school building or bush party, what does his shift consist of? I have yet to bring my insulting opinions on his career to his attention, and likely will never do so. He’s a good man with a heart of gold and a passion for the judicial system, which is ever-present in his TV browsing as he cruises through endless episodes of Law & Order.

I’m not a big TV person, even back home in Phoenix, I preferred reading to the television. Perhaps this was related to my mother’s endless stack of yoga DVD’s that seemed to consume our viewing; her in a downward dog position gossiping about her latest advancements at her newest club membership, me sitting on the couch finishing a craft for her so she won’t be late submitting it. My favourite of her crafts was embroidery, one month I embroidered nearly two hundred dandelions on a pair of jeans for her. She gave them to the club administrator as an apology before she quit.

Regardless, at night when the TV is blaring the intro theme to a cop show, I am curled in bed with a book under my nose and headphones in my ears. Blocking out the rain is a full-time chore.

This morning is a particularly eventful morning, not because of any specific events, but rather the events that will be set into motion because of this morning. Today is the first day of my online college courses. I’m currently enrolled in an undeclared major. My hope is that the three courses I’m taking this spring term will help me decide on what I want to do in the future.

Charlie had given me a new laptop upon my arrival in Forks, a current model with modest upgrades to “enhance my academic experience”. Or at least that’s what the box boasted. I am not entirely convinced that a larger memory will miraculously cure me of my educational despise. High school was tortuous, I had few friends and fewer interests outside of my mother’s hobbies. I had no extra-curricular activities that were not synonymous with financial responsibilities. The monthly budget book was mine to care for, as was the constant, intrusive phone calls of the bank when my mother got too engaged in a store. She’s a gullible woman if nothing else. If a store clerk tells her a blouse suits her figure, she’ll purchase ten colours in the article along with two in a size lower just in case she finally loses the ten pounds she’s been trying to shed.

My eyes have barely opened, the down of my forearm just a fraction away from my pupil when Charlie pounds against my door. You’d imagine I was fostering a fugitive in here with the noise he’s making, but this is just the way my father is, loud noises and soft voices. I wonder, idly, if perhaps he has minor hearing loss from spending so much time around guns.

“I’m up!” I call out, my voice is thin and calloused with morning sleep. I clear my throat as the knocking cuts off, “Good morning, Dad.” Charlie doesn’t like me calling him Charlie.

“Morning, Bells,” he calls back through the door, quiet enough to not be taken as aggressive yet loud enough to sound authoritative. He is a father, my father, at heart. He pauses, and it’s as if I can hear the mental gears shifting in his mind. He hasn’t had to be a father since I was a baby, after that Renee was the parent. Charlie was the summer distraction. “Don’t be late for school.” I grunt a response, reaching for the alarm clock on my nightstand and groaning at the early hour of the morning. Barely eight, class doesn’t officially start until noon. I guess there’s nothing wrong with logging in early, although I’d much rather catch up on the sleep I’ve lost to the thunderous storms we’ve been experiencing recently.

As if he could sense my intentions, Charlie knocks against my door again. “Bella, I mean it. You didn’t come here to slack off, now.” No, I think nastily, I came here for peace and quiet.

Between unpacking my belongings and touring the town, I’ve developed a routine in my new living situation. Charlie is fond of my company, enjoying having a woman in the house outside of his ex-wife, my mother and ex-roommate. Although, his fondness of my presence does not directly translate to time spent together. He makes me breakfast, occasionally placing it in the oven to keep warm, and then immediately heads off to his family that is the Forks police station. We meet again for lunch, depending on our individual plans for the day, and then reunite again just in time for dinner. Food really is the great American pastime.

I dress in jeans and a light blue sweater that smells mysteriously of mildew although it’s a recent purchase and has yet to be worn outdoors. I suppose the rain permeates every available space, closed windows be damned. My socks are tall and I have to roll my jeans up at the bottoms to accommodate for the thick, high fabric of them. It’s a trick Charlie taught me for wearing rain boots, the higher the socks the less likely they are to run down to your toes as you walk. Immediately after that trick was taught I went to the nearest hiking store and purchased a pair of rain boots. My first pair of rain boots at nineteen years of age. Unfathomable yet ironic considering my lineage marks back to the wettest town in the continental US. My ancestors roll in their graves every time I step outdoors and forget a jacket or umbrella, I’m sure of it.

Charlie is waiting for me downstairs, both a surprise and unwelcome presence. I had a battered copy of Dorian Gray under my arm, I was expecting philosophy and moral ambiguity, not idle conversation. Before the chief notices my book, I slide it over the back of the couch and enter the kitchen with a polite smile. There’s bacon frying on the stovetop, the police chief is dressed in uniform already, but has a stained white apron tied around his neck. “Dad?”

“Oh,” he turns around and gives me a tight smile, “Excited for your big day?” You’d imagine it’s my first day of preschool with the amount of enthusiasm he’s trying to keep hidden from me, not my first day of online school. I don’t say anything to dampen his mood, I’m glad he’s excited about something. His life is repetitive, if my existence here proves to be no more useful than just disrupting his schedule, it will still be a success.

“Yeah, I guess.” He turns back to the bacon and shifts it around quickly, the grease snapping up at him. If it burns him he doesn’t show it, just maintains the stiff-backed posture of a respectable police officer cooking his daughter breakfast. “I’ve gotta ask, what’s up with the apron?” I stifle a giggle behind a bite of the toast that’s sitting in the middle of the small table. He shakes his head in faux annoyance.

Charlie takes the pan off the hot element, sliding the bacon onto two plates and pouring the grease into an open can. The second trick he taught me since arriving here: never pour grease down the drain.

“I’m in uniform, it would be disrespectful to the badge to stain it.” He slides a plate of bacon in front of me, sitting down in his designated seat across the table. “Besides,” he takes a sip of coffee from his to-go mug. “Can you imagine walking into a police station smelling of fried pig?”

Breakfast ends quickly. We each eat a piece of toast, Charlie stuffing a second piece into a plastic bag “for later” and heading out the door. I still have half a plate of bacon in front of me after he leaves, the maple glaze filling the small kitchen with its smell.

After my Mom and Charlie got married, Renee redecorated much of the house. Her lace curtains still hang in the master bedroom window, constantly drawn closed. The rest of the house has been minorly updated with age, the TV got bigger, the couch more comfortable, new bed linens and even newer rocking chairs on the porch. I had asked Charlie if they were Moms when I first came up to the house a week ago.

They were rocking gently in the wind, the wood seemed to be polished as it shined in what little light filtered through the depressive clouds. They were sitting side by side, matching pillows on them both, a coffee table in the middle with a stack of coasters. It was an old person's porch, where husband and wife would sit all grey and wrinkled, waving at the neighbourhood kids as the bus dropped them off from school. I could almost picture Charlie and Renee sitting there, her knitting a scarf and him content to just watch her and the scenery.

He informed me that they were relatively new, a purchase from a shop down on the Reservation. We haven’t spoken about them since, but I wonder if perhaps he wishes he had someone to sit out there with him.

I spend the morning before class doing odd chores around the house. It’s nice living at Charlie’s, nicer than I had expected it to be. I’m not a fan of the weather or the fact that I currently have no social life, but it’s nice to just sit. I throw my laundry in the wash and manage to get the kitchen cleaned up with just enough time left over to sit on the couch and read a chapter of my book before class.

School has never been my strong suit. That’s not to say I get poor marks or intentionally skip classes, I just never found it as fulfilling as my peers seemed to. I never woke up and looked forward to the social or academic aspect of high school. Perhaps this contributed to me postponing my college experience and only starting it now when I should already be a year into my program.

When I log into my schools online database and click on my first class, Social Psychology 1001, I’m immediately transported to a screen filled with windows and the faces of my classmates. “Hello, class!” The professor's voice calls out over my computer. Perhaps online school won’t be my strong suit either.

Class ends and the next one starts, and I get through all three classes and an hour's worth of homework by the time Charlie pops in for dinner.

“Hey, Bells,” He calls as he opens the front door. I can hear him from where I sit in the kitchen, hanging his gun belt up by the front door and kicking his boots off into a heap on the floor. I imagine Mom back in Phoenix, walking into the house with arms full of bags and tossing her flip flops onto her pile of shoes beside the coatrack she used for purses. Some things won’t ever change.

“How was work?” I ask. He pauses to poke his head into the kitchen, moustache moving as he chews on his lip. I can’t remember when Charlie initially grew out his moustache, just that one summer I arrived and thought could he look more like a cop?

“Good, good, just some meetings. New family moving into town, all foster kids around your age.” He takes pause, staring off into some middle ground in the hallway as if deep in thought. His eyebrows furrow, “Don’t want any trouble makers coming in, but the father seems nice. Respectable.”

“That’s nice,” I contribute conversationally. Charlie and I rarely have material conversations, always just idle talk of the weather or what's for dinner. I’m not entirely sure how to approach this topic, which clearly seems to be occupying his mind.

“Yeah, he’s a doctor.” He grins at this, toothy and a little crooked to the right side. A pang of embarrassment settles in my chest before he speaks, as if knowing where this will turn. “Perfect for you, considering how often your clumsiness-” I wave a hand over my face, grimacing at his words. “Don’t speak it into existence,” I mutter with a half-hearted plea underlying my words. He chuckles, disappearing up the stairs.

I hear the shower turn on after a few minutes of him fumbling around, presumably trying to get undressed. I’m sure once he’s showered and in sweatpants it’ll be twenty questions about my day of school. I’m not sure I have the heart to break the truth to him: it absolutely sucked.

The material was interesting enough, psychology has always been close to my heart. I loved the idea of people being more than their actions and thoughts, that there was something making them say that or something making them act that way. Perhaps this was yet another symptom of having Renee for a mother.

I sit at the kitchen table for a moment longer, my computer is closed in front of me and my pencil case- dreadfully unnecessary with school being online-sits closed and untouched. I haven’t made any friends in my classes, not that I had expected to. Twelve years of public school and no friend group to show for it, just a few texts every couple of weeks. Why would I have believed college, and an online college at that, would be any better?

Having enough with my thoughts, I get up from the table and pack my things into my bag. I’ve completed enough work for today, the rest of the evening I’ll spend either with Charlie or in my room. I’d rather not be nose deep in pdf textbooks and youtube videos constituting as follow-up lectures, I’ve had enough of that today. As if sensing the immediacy of my departure from the kitchen, the shower cuts off and I hear the bathroom door squeak open. For a man who, until recently, lived alone with too much free time, you’d imagine he’d have taken better care of the house. Nearly every door, except my own, creaks open and closed. I made sure to oil my hinges nearly immediately after moving in, I didn’t want Charlie to wake up every time I sneak downstairs for a comfort snack or warm glass of milk to help me sleep. He’s lived alone for nearly twenty years, he doesn’t need his sleep schedule disrupted now.

“The game is on in-” Charlie pauses as if double-checking the times mentally, “- an hour and a half. Are you interested?” He’s calling from up the stairs. I wonder if he truly wants me to watch the game with him, whatever sport it may be, or if he’s only being polite.

“Uh, I was just going to organize my room right now and then maybe make something for dinner,” I say in response. The floors don’t make a noise and I know he’s heard me, but he doesn’t respond. A lump forms in my throat, perhaps he really did want to watch with me.

“That’s fine, but if you want we can order in?” The lump passes and I convince myself that there is no reason to avoid the TV. It’s not like I’ll be a disruption, if I get bored I can read on the couch. I’ve only watched TV with Charlie on a few occasions since my move here, and each time I strategically saved my questions for the commercial breaks.

“Sure! That works.” The floorboards creak and I hear him retreat into his room, the door closing with a pitiful squeak.

We eat pizza on the couch, a large meat-lover for the carnivorous father and a small vegetarian with extra mushrooms for the daughter who cares about her cardiovascular health. We eat slowly, occasionally Charlie will make a face at the television or mumble something under his breath, but other than that we’re quiet. The sport turns out to be baseball and I recall a few of the basic rules from the tragic gym classes of my past. It’s not disastrous in any way, and surprisingly I don’t get bored. There is something relaxing about the repetitive nature of the game.

After the game ends we box up the remaining slices and put them in the fridge to be eaten tomorrow, say good night, and go our separate ways at the top of the stairs.

taglist:

@musingsofvenus @maybesandohnos

#twilight #edward cullen #bella swan #jasper #the twilight saga #carlisle #twilight saga #smeyer #2008 #twilight renaissance #bella/jacob #jacob/bella #jacobxbella #bellaxjacob #fanfic #fanfiction #twilight fanfic #mine

19 notes · View notes

lifblogs · 4 years ago

Text

#SPNDBCC | Love Confessions | @foundfamily4eva

READ ON AO3

The lamp in Dean’s room glowed dimly; probably needed a new bulb. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

He’d tried to tell himself that he was over it, that he was okay, and he was even telling Sam that. But he wasn’t okay. Dean was so very far from okay that the word didn’t even come into his vocabulary. If someone drew a line, with okay being somewhere in the middle, and the worst being off to the left, he’d have gotten to the end of the line, fallen off of it, and then plummeted.

Really, he had plummeted.

He was still falling.

He knelt before his bed, hands clasped together like someone would to pray, and he looked up.

How to do this? How to start this? Dean didn’t know if there was any way. Those words were just stuck inside of him, like they were hot-glued to his insides and if they were ripped off, they’d rip him too. His heart would bleed.

But shouldn’t he at least try? Didn’t the angel who’d sacrificed for him deserve that much?

Dean tried taking in a deep breath, and it was already shaky. The grief in him was so fresh it was as if he’d been shot by a bullet, and now it wouldn’t come out. Like it had pulverized his bones. His eyes lined with tears.

“Cas…” Dean tried to begin, voice breaking on the word. “Cas, I don’t know—I don’t know if you can hear me. You probably… You probably can’t. I want to think you’re in Heaven, you know? Or that you’re still on Earth, and you went away somewhere, and you’re—and you’re gonna come back.” Dean paused, sniffling, having to compose himself. It didn’t seem to work. A tear rolled down his cheek. “I miss you, man,” he went on. “Every day without you… it’s like Hell all over again, and I just keep thinking, ‘No, no, he’s gonna come back. He’s gonna raise you out of this dark place.’ That’s what you’ve done for me, you know? But now… But now I guess you’re done saving me. You finished the job. You saved me one last time.

“And Cas…” The words caught in his throat. He swallowed roughly. As he blinked, more tears spilled free, rolling down his cheeks to his chin, where they dripped off to patter and soak into his shirt. “Cas, I miss you. And I know — I know — I probably just sound like some ungrateful, whiny, piece of crap. But I can’t help it, man. I miss you every damn day, every damn second. I miss you—I miss you when I get up in the morning, when I get dressed, hell, even when I shower. I miss you with every bite of food I eat, with everything that I read and see and do. I miss you when I go to bed at night, when I—when I wake up, still crying because you’re not here.

“Cas, you’re everything to me. And I’m sorry…” His throat ached, and he had to cut himself off. If he didn’t close his mouth he was going to start sobbing. Dean held his breath. Tears fell. His heart was cut open, like a medical examiner was trying to figure out the cause of death.

CDeath: Damaged heart. Signs point to there being previous damage before death. Conditions were most likely chronic.

Chronic indeed. Dean had always hurt, ever since his mom had died. He’d hurt from that loss, and hurt because of Dad, and hurt because he’d had to take care of Sammy. He’d hurt from the hunting, and losing people over, and over, and over again. Now Cas, Cas was the final straw. The last piece to the puzzle that had to be brushed away for it to be completely broken.

A sob did leave him now, and his bottom lip trembled. Then, he found the courage to go on, “I’m sorry I never told you that. I’m sorry I—I never told you to stay. I just… I let you go. And I hate myself for doing that. I shouldn’t have hurt you. You shouldn’t have had to feel that way.

“But even then, you saved me. I don’t know why. And yeah, I know—I know what you… what you said. But… how? After all I did to you, you still felt that way? Cas, that is either the dumbest thing or the most powerful thing I have ever heard of.

“Maybe dumb,” he said with a sad smile, a sound leaving him that might have been a laugh. “We were a couple of dumbasses anyway, weren’t we?”

He licked his lips, mouth suddenly too dry. Blood rushed in his ears, and his damaged heart pounded with a deep agony he would never be able to comprehend.

“Cas, those times I let you go. I… It shouldn’t have been like that. I should’ve been there for you like you were for me. And not just ‘cause—not just ‘cause of how you felt, but because… because of how I felt.

“I’m sorry I never got the chance to tell you. You know, for years, part of me just thought an angel could never feel the same way, you know? You’re literally a different being than me, a different entity. Or at least… you were. Now you’re—” He cut himself off, then went on, letting his words fall out of him in a different direction, “The things I felt, I didn’t know what they were at first. ‘Cause of the hunting life, ‘cause of my dad, ‘cause of all of it, I just… I didn’t know who I was. And you helped me find out, Cas. You helped me learn that. You did so much for me. God, you did so damn much. And I wish… I wish you were here, so I can—so I can say... thank you. Because the way you made me feel, it was something I’d never felt before, something I’d always tried to feel.

“And I didn’t want to face it. I didn’t want to look at it, because how could I when I thought you couldn’t love me back? How could I when everyone around me dies? How could I when… when I didn’t even like who I was?

“And, I gotta be honest, I’m trying, Cas. I’m really trying here, to make your sacrifice worth it, to tell myself that your death won’t be in vain. And I just… I don’t know how. It’s like there’s a hole in me, and it—and it’s eating everything I am, everything I ever wanted to be. Because you’re not here.

“You’re not here, when you should be, when you should’ve heard me say everything I’ve had stuck in me for years. I gotta admit, even now with praying, I’m not sure I can do it. Maybe ‘cause you can’t hear me, or maybe ‘cause… I don’t want to hear myself. I have to though, you know, man? I have to. You deserved that much, and I truly don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can, you deserve these words.

“Cas, I… Cas, I love you.” Dean cried more when those words left his mouth, and he all but choked on his sob, everything in him tearing apart. “And I don’t know how to stop. So please, just... hear me. Somehow. In some way. Please hear me.”

Dean wiped his tears away, looking up, and he wished more than anything that he would feel a hand on his shoulder, or hear Cas’ wings.

There was silence, and Dean was left untouched, empty.

“Well, that’s about all I got to say. So, uh… good talk. I miss you.”

Dean kissed his palm, and then raised it upwards, wanting some entity out there to know how much he loved Castiel.

Then, the familiar rustle of wings that he hadn’t heard in years met his ears, and he didn’t even dare to hope.

A hand rested on his shoulder.

Dean turned, eyes still wet with tears, heart still thumping furiously, not even wanting to believe it, because if he believed it he would break, if he believed it he would completely shatter and turn into a fine dust that’d be blown away on an unforgiving stormy wind.

“Cas?” he asked, voice broken and choked up.

The angel — his angel — smiled. His true love.

“Hello, Dean.”

#SPNDBCC #Day 8. Love Confessions #Destiel #Destiel fanfiction #spn #Supernatural #spn fanfiction #Supernatural fanfiction #fanfiction #writing #my writing

36 notes · View notes

jadekitty777 · 4 years ago

Text

Doomsday Dinner Party: Chapter 2

Me? Updating a story from 2018? It’s more likely than you think. I’ve been wanting to write a continuation to this one for a long time.

Day 3: AU Day @taiqrowweek

Rating: T

Words: 9,000

Summary: The world might be over as they know it, but that didn’t mean their still wasn’t time for a road trip.

Ao3 Link: Doomsday Dinner Party (This link leaks to chapter 1, since reading it is kind of required and it’s been a long time)

June in the south was miserable and Qrow had not missed it one bit. Especially when that meant waking up with his clothes sticking to him like an uncomfortable, sweat-soaked blanket. It didn’t help that Tai was practically a furnace, and such an extreme cuddler it was as if he was trying to make it into the next Olympic sport.

He carefully wiggled his way out of the other’s grip, his efforts proving successful when he stirred but didn’t wake. As he sat up, he bit back the groan as his entire body ached in protest, every muscle sore from last night’s desperate escape. His shoulders were particularly knotted up, but he didn’t dare try to rub at them. Not with his fingertips still scraped raw from the failed attempts to grab the edge of the concrete wall he’d tried to vault himself over.

Qrow glanced over at Tai, still slumbering away.

He remembered that split second of dread that had shot through him, when he called for Tai’s help and the man, already safely straddled on the fence, looked the other way. He had thought, this was it. Tai was going to jump to the other side and leave him to die. He couldn’t describe the feeling that overwhelmed him when Tai only chucked their bags over before joining him back on the ground to help him over, putting himself in danger to save him.

After every other loss Qrow’d endured – friends, coworkers, his father, civilization itself – he was certain that nothing else could faze him. Oh, how the universe loved to prove him wrong. For the dread he felt when he was in trouble was nothing compared to the all-encompassing terror that engulfed him when it was Tai’s life on the line instead.

He’d almost lost him last night and the thought alone still shook his very soul.

It wasn’t even supposed to be like this. His plan had been simple: Team up with the trained soldier and travel from Montana to Texas. Try to locate his sister in Wichita Falls. Then, get a free pass into the military safe haven in Archer City. He was just supposed to use Tai’s connections to save his own skin, not fall for the guy.

And yet, here he was, a foolish man gently stroking his knuckles across Tai’s face, heart jumping at the little smile that elicited.

Damn it.

Qrow pulled away, before getting to his feet and picking up his scythe as he headed for the door. He opened it only a crack at first, listening carefully for any out of place noises – shambling feet, hissing breath. Anything that might indicate a Stalker nearby. When nothing caught his ear, he widened it, took a quick visual sweep of the area, before determining it was safe and walking outside.

Though he had no skill in reading it, the sun wasn’t too high yet, so he guessed it was only a bit past eight. Despite the early hour though, the summer heat was already settling in thick. He turned on his heels, getting another gander of the area. Even in the light, there wasn’t much to the facility. The wall surrounded the perimeter, only broken by an iron wrought gate that was probably only ever opened for vehicular traffic. He spotted nothing beyond the metal bars, so the horde that had chased them had thankfully continued on, rather than lingering in wait for them. Within the walls, there was only the small office building they’d holed up into and the white tanks that potentially held some water.

Possibly a back-up supply in case of a tornado emergency? He wasn’t sure, but it would be worth investigating after Tai got up.

For now, he had a different task in mind as he settled on the ground in the shade of one of the tanks and rested his weapon in his lap. Having been so exhausted, he hadn’t cleaned the blade last night like he should have. It was going to be a chore to do so this morning, now that the blood had had time to dry and crust over. It would have to be done before they moved out though, so he set himself to work on the arduous task.

It wasn’t until he was nearly done that Tai finally emerged, lumbering his way over to sit down beside him.

“Breakfast?” He greeted, shaking a bag of almonds at him.

“Sure.” Qrow accepted a handful, throwing them all into his mouth before picking back up his grit stone and moved it along the sharp end of the scythe. With the sound too grating to talk over, they shared the meager meal in silence. Not that there was much left to sharpen. Only a few more strokes and the task was done.

It was worrisome that the bag was empty in just as little time.

To avoid thinking about it, he rapped his knuckles on the tank behind them. “Was thinking there might be some water in here.”

“Doubt it.” Tai said, appraising the unit with a skeptical eye.

“Oh yeah?” He challenged. “What makes you so sure?”

Without breaking eye contact, Tai pointed to something above Qrow’s head. “Well that, for starters.”

He looked up at what he was indicating, spotting the bright yellow sticker with big, bold letters that said: Caution – Fire Hazard.

Not missing a beat, he said, “Could still be water. It’s a hazard to fire.”

Tai chuckled. “Oh, I see. It’s one of those badly translated stickers from Peru then.”

“Peru? Why not China?”

“Because my people have standards.”

“Your people?” Qrow arched a brow. “Tai, you’re like the whitest Chinese person to ever exist.”

He gave him a once over. “Kettle, black. Or in this case, white.”

“Hah. Clever.” He mocked. “Least I got the Asian eyes.”

“And they’re very pretty.” Tai reached out, roughing up his hair until most of the shaggy locks were covering his vision. He laughed Qrow off when he tried to swipe at him in retribution, scuttling back and getting to his feet. “Come on, we should get moving before the sun gets too high.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stood as well, pushing his hair back into place, grimacing at the grime and grease that kept it into place like a self-made hair gel.

God, what he wouldn’t do for a shower.

As they headed back to the little metal building, he said, “So my thought is we head back to the car. Salvage it if we can. Ransack it if we can’t.” They’d left a lot behind in yesterday’s escape, including a canister of gas and some spare water.

Tai nodded stepping inside just long enough to grab their packs. “Shouldn’t be a problem. The freeway should be mostly clear now, so we can probably hotwire something new if need be.” He headed towards the gate, handing Qrow’s bag over as he passed. “We can probably go scavenging in a few of the small towns on the way, but if all goes well, we can definitely make it to Wichita before nightfall.”

Qrow froze.

It took the other man almost a dozen steps before he noticed. He paused, glancing back, “Qrow?”

He shifted his weight uncertainly, dropping his gaze. “Yeah, ‘bout that. I was thinking maybe we should just… skip Wichita and head straight for Archer City?”

The silence that followed allowed Qrow to feel lower than the dirt he was staring at. And though Tai wasn’t a violent man by nature, at least where the living folks were concerned, he still flinched all the same when the man approached him.

But the most Tai did was lay a hand on his shoulder, voicing softly, “Are you sure?”

“Last night was the first time we’ve encountered a crowd of that size. We barely made it.” He replied. “If we couldn’t handle that, how are we going to handle Wichita being like that from end to end?”

“You don’t know that.”

He finally rose his gaze. “No, but I do know better than to gamble on a losing hand.”

“But,” It was hard to catalogue the pinched expression that formed on Tai’s face. “But she’s your sister.”

He swallowed down the sudden grief that was trying to crawl its way out of his throat. “Yeah. Truth is though, I know she’s not there. She either got out, or she didn’t. I only wanted to go for me. To find peace with it, I guess.” He laid his hand over Tai’s, feeling the scars on the knuckles and the warmth of his skin. Alive. Here. “But I don’t want to lose you by chasing ghosts.”

Those soulful, blue eyes searched his face carefully. Then, for no reason at all, Tai pulled him into a hug, whispering into his hair. “Okay.”

It was almost like he was trying to comfort him. He didn’t know why though. He was fine.

Qrow buried his head into Tai’s shoulder.

…He was fine.

Qrow was nothing if not masterful at ignoring his own emotions.

“What do you think?” Qrow asked as he splayed himself over the hood of a Ferrari. “Perfect for the next calendar?”

“Qrow no.” The smile gave his partner away.

“Oh you’re right, the ladies like the open shirt look.” He teased, reaching up to undo a few of the top buttons.

Tai shoved a hand in his face, pushing him. “Cut it out porn star. We gotta actually work.”

He gave a mournful sigh. “My career, ended before it could take off.”

Qrow hopped down from the car, trailing after the other man. As they’d feared, their little hit and run last night really did a number on the Camry. The back wheels were now pitched up on a hill of squirming, hissing Stalkers. There was really no hope of getting it loose without a tow and even if they could, the potential damage the vehicle sustained probably negated the effort.

So they made their way to the freeway as planned, now eerily empty except for the few dead still stuck in their seatbelts. They made sure to avoid those ones.

“Oh, what about this one?” Tai pointed out a Jeep Wrangler, eyes practically sparkling. “Be good for some off roading, yeah?”

“Yeah, ‘cept that gas guzzler ain’t going to get us very far.” He nudged him onwards, peering into the windows of the cars they were walking by, trying to see if there were any abandoned snacks or water bottles to snag. Unfortunately, the best he could seem to find was a pack of Winterfresh gum, the sticks so old they crumbled.

They ate them anyways.

After about an hour of scouring their options and many failed attempts to get something working that hadn’t had something wear out from disuse and time under the hot sun, they finally managed to get a little Hyundai purring to life. Qrow eased it down the grassy slope, the whole frame shaking roughly as they made their way to the side road they’d been traveling on. Once they hit it, it was smooth sailing from there, Qrow pulling down the window to stick his hand out while Tai hummed showtunes beside him and mapped out the safest route to their final destination.

They reached Sterling within the first ten minutes. The small town, boasting only an original population of 800, was like a ghost town to drive through. A shambling straggler could be seen here or there, but mostly they went through uninterrupted – stopping only to check an already well-ransacked Dollar General. Temple, the next village down the 65, was not much more impressive and with tiny stores just as empty. They pulled over halfway down on the 70 to wash up in the Red River (not quite the shower he’d been hoping for, but it would do). They collected some spare water to boil later, before moving on.

Soon enough, they were turning onto the 79 and crossing the state border, driving through Byers, a town so miniscule, it wasn’t worth touring.

“Maybe we should just keep going.” Qrow said as they entered Petrolia, finding the show to be the same as the rest: lifeless streets decorated with only the occasional Stalker and nothing else. “We really aren’t getting anywhere with all these stops.”

Tai ran a hand through his hair, already dry as the early afternoon sun bore down from above like a heat lamp. “Suppose so. We’re only an hour or so away. Turn right here.”

He did as told, eyeing the signs as he did so.

Tried to ignore the heaviness in his heart as he realized they were turning away from Wichita Falls.

He focused twice as hard on the asphalt stretching for miles before them, avoiding the occasional abandoned car or, in one case, tractor. There wasn’t much to see on the countryside of Texas, even less so now. It was nothing but wide, open fields, overgrown with weeds that had gone untilled, interspaced by the occasional barn or house. Any livestock there had been seemed to have escaped from their pens or frozen during the winter season.

They both looked away from the dead horse still tied to its post in the corral.

It took only twenty minutes to hit the next city. Despite it being three times larger than the other towns, they made it through Henrietta without incident.

They were just going under the overpass of the freeway when Tai suddenly exclaimed, “Wait! Turn around!”

“What? What is it?” Qrow asked, U-turning in the middle of the road.

“We need to go there!”

He followed the direction he was pointing, eyebrows going up to his hairline. “Pecan Shed? The fuck you want to go there for?”

“It’s a gift shop.”

He waited a beat. “And?”

“It has things… and stuff?”

Qrow rolled his eyes. “What a concept. Next you’ll be telling me hardware stores have nails.” He turned onto the side street all the same, pulling into the parking lot within seconds. He gave the building a once over as they got out of the car.

It was a fairly large. Two stories tall and long as a barn, with a fancy awning in front that mimicked a shed roof and a patio with seating that stretched all across the front and down both sides of the property. The name of the place was in big red letters at the top story, something that would be easily visible from the freeway when passing by. The front doors were made of glass, surprisingly still intact and, more importantly, unlocked.

They stepped inside with caution at first, but a quick sweep of the open floor and a few calls to garner attention with no response told them they weren’t in any immediate danger.

Which meant…

They shared a glance, before immediately tackling the still semi-stocked junk food station in the middle of the room. He ripped open a package of Ruffles, stuffing half the bag in his mouth at once. It tasted like heaven. Stale, over-salted heaven.

Beside him, Tai was inspecting a bag of what appeared to be shelled peanuts while tipping back a bag of Fritos.

He swallowed down another handful, saying, “Save those.” They would keep better longer and they were good fillers when they had nothing else.

“Ye’I’no.” Tai garbled out, his normal southern politeness completely abolished in the sightline of food.

Qrow, who had no politeness at all, just tossed the empty bag over his shoulder and reached for the Funyuns next.

By the time they had their fill, there was a small collection of litter at their feet. He sighed, plopping down onto the nearby checkout counter, smoothing a hand over his belly. They’d had to ration for so long, he couldn’t even remember the last time he felt safe to overindulge. Too worried about what he’d need tomorrow to worry about the ache in his stomach today.

“Sir, how much will this cost?”

Qrow looked up, smirking as Tai stood before him with two hand baskets full of goods. “For what? The food or my sexy ass?”

He winked. “The food. Your ass is priceless.”

“Least you know quality when you see it.” He hopped down, taking one of the baskets and following the other out to the car.

They fell into an easy rhythm, scouring the shop top to bottom for anything worth nabbing. Drinks, trail mixes, jerky, matches, candles, blankets, batteries, knives. Even things like books and magazines were useful for campfire tinder – and maybe a bit of reading for those really boring nights.

Then again, Qrow thought as he placed a few shirt-wrapped bottles of wine in the back, there were always other methods of entertainment.

He slammed the trunk closed, before heading back in for one last sweep through of the back aisles. He zigzagged around the store, triple-checking the sections they’d already emptied. A selection of colorful novelty mugs caught his attention and he chortled over the one with the cartoon Corgi surrounded by a heart and flowing text framing it that said, ‘This is the Corgkey to my heart’.

Tai had always said he wanted a dog, hadn’t he?

He plucked it off the shelf and made his way towards where he could spot the familiar head of blond hair peeking above the displays. He wheeled the corner, about to call out – only for it to choke in his throat when he realized what the other man was doing.

Tai stood in front of a rack of wooden baskets, each one filled to the brim with stuffed animals. He seemed to be in a silent debate over whether to take the fuzzy teddy bear or the brightly colored unicorn, as if it were the most important decision of his life.

He looked so… lost.

Qrow inched forward hesitantly, moving loud enough that he knew he was there, but quiet enough to not disturb him.

It seemed Tai wasn’t completely stuck in his own head though, for when he finally stood at his side, he spoke, “I used to bring Yang here a lot.”

He tilted his head, surprised. “Your daughter?” Tai hadn’t talked about his girls much; whether it be out of a simple habit of privacy or a necessity to keep himself focused on survival instead of agonizing over his children’s fate was unknown to Qrow, but either way he’d never pried.

“Yeah. When I’d take her to go visit her mom, if the trip didn’t go well – and it rarely did – I’d bring her here. She loved the dinosaur exhibit that’s in front of the truck stop. I’d let her play there as long as she wanted and then we’d eat at the Steak N’ Shake.” He waved a hand at the store around them. “Then we’d come here, get some of the specialty fudge to bring home and Yang would pick out a stuffed animal for Ruby. Somehow, she always knew which one she’d love the most.” He laughed. It was a strained, wounded sound. “I’m afraid I don’t have her intuition though. I can’t even remember if Ruby was still in her unicorn phase before I left.”

Qrow swallowed down that same, awful grief from before that was trying to escape. Instead, he forced some cheer into his tone as he said, “Well you know what I do when I can’t make a decision?” He turned to the baskets in front of them and pulled one right off the rack, dropping it down between them, “I get them all.”

Tai blinked down at it, before a genuine smile broke free. It was like watching the sun come out after a rainstorm. “Qrow, we can’t bring them all.”

“Watch me.” He pulled another one free and balanced it against his hip as he hefted it towards the car.

Ten minutes later, they were peeling out of the parking lot, about a hundred pairs of eyes watching the road go by from the backseat.

And Tai didn’t stop smiling.

A semi-truck was parked sideways along the two-laned road that cut across the lake on the 172, it’s front fender partially submerged in the murky water, effectively blocking the way. Qrow didn’t think much of it as he turned them around to take another route.

He grew more suspicious when they encountered multiple semis parked in a line across the 174.

Tai lent forward, eyeing the trucks with narrowed eyes. “These are barricades.”

“And people don’t set up barricades if they aren’t trying to protect something.” Qrow determined, switching into low gear. “Come on, we can drive around it.”

“Wait!” He grabbed his wrist, keeping it from touching the wheel. “If the military set these up, then the fields are probably mined.”

He considered that for a moment, before shifting into reverse. “Alright then we’ll try up the highway.”

Around they went, the detour taking them nearly a half hour – and sure enough, right at the juncture that converged the highway with the freeway, another blockade halted their forward motion. But this time, there was a message left for them in bright red paint along the bodies of every truck:

TURN AROUND OR DIE

“The fuck,” He breathed, a shiver running down his spine. He looked to the man beside him, whose face had gone white. “Tai?”

Tai set his jaw, before pulling out the map. “Come on, let’s get closer than we’re walking it.”

“And what are we doing about that?” Qrow snapped, pretending his voice didn’t hit the octave of a screeching bat.

“You don’t have to come with me.”

The words were like a blow to the face. “What?”

He pointed out the frontage entrance a few miles south. “I’ll go, and then I’ll come back and get you if it’s safe.”

His heart slowed down from its 100-mile a minute pulse line to only about 80. He pulled the car around, grumbling all the while, “Like hell you will.”

Despite his words though, as they neared the off ramp, the desire to just hit the gas and keep going overcame him so strongly, it was like his foot was fighting against a two-ton weight. He looked again to the man beside him, tried to draw strength from his unwavering nerve. Tai had the look of a man who was about to go to war with the whole world if it dared stand in his way of him and his kids – and if Qrow just became another obstacle, he had no doubt on where he’d end up on that side of the battle.

He wished he’d had even an ounce of that same backbone for his sister.

He beat down his shame and jerked the wheel to the right, heading down the ramp and following the way back up to where the street met another. He turned onto it. The road was immediately rough, more dirt than asphalt, rattling the frame of the car harshly as they slowly trudged between the empty farming fields.

Halfway down the road, they came to a pair of dead ash trees, one on either side. Hanging from their blackened and brittle branches were about half a dozen empty nooses. But one was not.

Instead, in its snare, was the body of a decaying crow.

A promise and an omen.

An eerie silence fell between them as they passed underneath it, the air stifling, suffocating.

Qrow coughed and said, “I think that was my cousin.”

Tai snorted, smacking his arm. “Shut up.”

His own snickers were practically hysteric. The buzzing that had started in his nerves from the first warning sign had turned into a crawling feeling, like a line of ants were marching along his skin. To combat it, his grip on the wheel tightened.

This was insane. People had done all this. Blocked the roads, painted the warnings, hung the signs. All in an effort to keep other survivors from coming close. Was it all just the military’s doing? Scare tactics because they were overcrowded? Or was it something worse?

Just what were they walking into?

“Hey.”

Qrow sucked in a sharp breath, looking down at the hand now covering his own.

Tai ran a thumb over his knuckles, the movement as gentle as his voice, “It’s okay if you want to stay back, really.”

“Fuck that.” He snapped. “You would of come with me to Wichita, no matter what, right?”

“Yeah, absolutely.” Was the immediate assurance, followed shortly by, “But that doesn’t mean you owe me your life.”

He thought, again, of last night. Their shared panic as they ran across the fields. The wall that loomed ahead, cutting off their escape. Tai’s frantic orders as he helped him over.

Had he been alone, that would have been it.

He couldn’t stomach the thought of Tai being in a similar situation – needing him to look out for him. And him just not being there.

“No.” He avowed, meeting his eye. “We’re in this together. So unless you’re gonna throw me out of this damn car, you can cut it out with the martyr shit. Okay?”

The hand over his pulled his off the wheel, Tai clutching onto it almost fiercely. “Okay.”

Qrow let him keep it, slipping his fingers between Tai’s own as he turned back to the road.

As they neared its end, he noticed an assortment of industrial standard wind turbines. Perhaps once in use to provide power to the few speckled barns and homes on the horizon. He turned north, driving between them, peering up at them. The blades were whirling lazily in the breeze as the metallic forest caught the bright, summer sun, gleaming harshly bright.

He had to wonder if the buildings out here still had power. Or, if not, if a bit of tweaking to the structures might be able to bring them back to life. He was long removed from his university days when he would dabble about in engineering, and he’d never actually studied the ins and outs of wind energy converters, but the temptation to try was irresistible. To be able to cook their meals on a stove again or, god, have a hot shower. He had to bet there were some independent water wells out here and the land was still prime for growing too; it wouldn’t be hard to get their own crops growing. With time, they might even be able to find some livestock again. And a dog, too.

Qrow got lost in the fantasy of it.

So much so, Tai almost made him jump when he suddenly spoke up, “Here too?”

He blinked away the afterimages of him and Tai playing house during the apocalypse, focusing on the reality before him.

Scoffed at the sight of the pickup truck parked sideways across the road. He rolled to a stop, eyeing a side street in the rearview mirror a short-ways back. It was even less maintained than the ones they’d been traveling down so far, promising a ride that would rival a go around on some bumper cars.

“What do you wanna do? Walk it or keep going?” He asked gruffly.

Tai hummed thoughtfully, eyeing the map once more. “We’re not too far off at this point. Ten miles at most.”

“Not far off, he says.” Qrow mocked under his breath, even as he parked the car.

His partner laughed, undoing his seatbelt. “It’ll be good for you. Your scrawny legs could use some definition.”

He opened his mouth to retort, reaching for the keys to turn off the car –

When the one in front of them roared to life.

They froze, staring at the truck.

“What?” Tai whispered.

To assure they hadn’t misheard, the engine revved loudly.

Then, the wheels rotated towards them, the axles squealing as the truck came barreling towards them.

“Oh shit.” Qrow barked, throwing them into reverse and slamming down on the gas pedal.

Tai yelped as he was thrown into the dash as they rocketed backwards several meters. Another quick gear shift, and Qrow twisted the wheel around, flying down the road he’d spotted before. They hit a pot hole hard enough to throw them up from their seats, but he didn’t dare slow down.

His arms trembled and sweat started to bead from his brow. “What the fuck.”

He looked at the rearview, seeing the truck taking the same corner, gunning after them.

“What the fuck!” He shouted again.

“I don’t know!” Tai shouted back, scrambling to get his seatbelt back on.

“There’s someone in there.”

“You think?!”

He smacked the wheel. “Well what the fuck do we do!?”

“Calm down.” Was the sharp reply, Tai twisting around in his seat to keep an eye on their pursuer. “We just need to lose him.”

“Oh, that’s all? Brilliant!”

“Qrow.” The commanding tone shut him down immediately, his partner leveling him with a look. “Listen to me. We’re going to be fine. Just focus on driving. We’ll find a place around here, a home, a barn whatever. Just something with some cover.”

He took a few deep breathes, trying to steel his nerves. “Alright, alright.”

Except, it became abundantly clear that plan was sunk, as they sped past the first side street, completely blocked off by rubbish and vehicles. It was the same story with the next one.

Tai cursed under his breath. “He’s corralling us.”

“Maybe we should ditch the car? Head out into the field and make a run for it?” Qrow suggested.

He shook his head. “We’ll be too exposed. I think our better bet is to figure out where he’s leading us.”

“And then?”

“Then we’ll talk this out with whoever this guy is.”

“And if he doesn’t want to talk?”

Tai’s expression smoothed out into something cold. “Then you’re lucky I’m a good shot.”

Qrow swallowed, not arguing further.

He knew Tai could do it, if he had to. That’s how the military had trained him. But he hadn’t had to go through any of those tough regimens like his partner. Hell, up until eight months ago, he’d been living a rather lavish, uncomplicated life helping his old man upkeep the business fixing transmissions and rotating tires.

He was a mechanic! How the hell did he end up in a high-speed chase in the middle of fucking nowhere?

A blare of the truck’s horn made his heart jump into his throat. What was this guy gonna do, once he got them where he wanted them? Would he really start shooting?

God, he didn’t want to kill anyone. Not someone alive at least.

Another rough bump shook the thought down, so he tried to focus on keeping them steady instead. Another mile on, and the road ahead became blocked by another pickup truck, forcing them to take a hard right.

As he turned, he spotted movement in the front seat of the car.

A sense of foreboding swept through him and once they got far enough down the road, he braved a glance. Sure enough, the rearview told him they were now being pursued by two cars.

“Tai.” Qrow hissed in warning.

But Tai wasn’t looking at the situation behind them, instead pointing forward. “Look.”

He did, squinting a bit. Though still a good few miles off, he could just barely make out the shape of a large building of some sort – taller than any of the other buildings around these parts. Unnatural and out of place.

“What is that?” He asked.

“Dunno. But I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”

The suspicion turned to truth as they continued down the road, the structure looming ever closer. Until he could make out it wasn’t a building at all, but rather a massive fence, at least two stories tall. It was made of a mismatch of materials, including timber beams, chain link mesh, and aluminum sheet metal.

It had to be sturdy though, because as they rolled up to the front gate, he could spot half a dozen people standing on platforms attached to it, three on either side of the gate.

Every single one of them held a rifle.

“What now?” Qrow barely got out around the knot in his throat.

“I…” Tai looked frantically from side to side, as if an escape route would just materialize from thin air. When nothing did, he looked to him, and for the first time since this all started, Qrow could see the fear in his eyes. “I don’t know.”

They both looked back as they heard the sound of car doors closing, the drivers of either car stepping out and heading towards them. One was a man with short brown hair, the front of it pulled up like a plumage of feathers. His shirt was sleeveless, boasting well-toned arms that promised an ill-fate for his opponents. Yet, even he seemed slightly dwarfed by his companion – a tree of a woman, solidly built, and tall. She was swinging around a giant mallet like it weighed nothing.

The two of them split, flanking their car from either side.

The man knocked on Qrow’s window, pointing down.

Getting the hint, he rolled it down.

The man rested a hand along the top of the door, leaning in. “Where y’all heading? The zoo?”

He blinked, confused – and then he remembered the army of stuffed animals in the back seat, and scowled. “Clever, asshole.”

That only seemed to amuse the other, as he chuckled. His voice was smooth and calm. He knew who was in charge here. “This one’s got some bite, don’t he Elm?”

“Sure does.” Elm replied. “And look, they’re just your type. A couple of pretty boys.”

The hair on the back of his neck stood up uncomfortably. The fuck did that mean?

Beside him, Tai took a deep breath, saying slowly. “Look, we’re not trying to start any trouble. We were just passing on through.”

“Were you now?” The man drummed his fingers on the roof above him, the noise unusually grating with Qrow’s nerves so shot. “And you just happened to come this way? Didn’t happen to see any of our warnings or blocked roads?”

“You guys did all that?” Qrow realized too late the question only made him sound falsely innocent.

“Cute. Real cute.” The easygoing smile disappeared, replaced with something rigid and dangerous. “Alright that’s enough small talk. So, let me explain how this is going to work. The two of you are going to get out of the car. You’re not going to struggle or try anything stupid, ‘cause if you do…” He lent in even further, as if he were trying to share a secret with them. “You see those people up there? They don’t have the best of aim, but they sure do got a lot of bullets. Quantity over quality and all that.”

Qrow’s hands tightened over the wheel he still hadn’t let go of. Tai’s breath hitched.

Neither of them moved.

The man gave a longsuffering sigh. “Come on now. Don’t make us drag you out.”

Another beat passed.

Then, with a reluctant click, Tai undid his seatbelt. Opened the door slowly.

“Attaboy.” The man praised, before turning his gaze to him. “Now you.”

Qrow shut his eyes, counted down from five, and finally managed to pry one hand loose. Shakily, he pulled the car into park, before doing the same as his partner and stepping out of the car.

“That’s it, nice and easy.” The other coached. “Now, arms out.”

Once, when he was young and stupid, he got pulled over for drunk driving. So, he wasn’t unfamiliar with a pat down. This was a lot more… thorough. The asshole even managed to find the swiss army knife in his back pocket.

From where he was being given much the same treatment by Elm, he heard Tai ask, “Can’t we talk about this?”

“You can sing like a bird, but it won’t do you any good until the chief gets here.” She replied.

The chief? What kind of society were they running? A tribe?

“Alright, this way.” The man tossed all his weapons onto the seat of the car, before clapping a hand down on his shoulder, pulling him forward. “Gonna need you front and center.”

Qrow reluctantly followed, fighting the urge to curl away from his touch. He grunted a bit when the other forced him down, his knees cracking painfully on the ground. Tai was manhandled into the same position beside him, grunting a bit as Elm forced him down even more roughly.

The man called over them both, “Where’s the chief?”

The tiniest of the firing squad, a dark-skinned woman with boyishly short hair, called back, “Almost here!”

“Clover.” Elm said urgently from behind them. There was a light jingling noise that Qrow couldn’t place but recognized as something passed between them.

There was a few short seconds of nothing, and then suddenly Clover was marching around them, kneeling down in front of his partner. In his hand were Tai’s dog tags. “Where did you get this?” He asked darkly.

Tai looked between them and Clover, murmuring, “They’re mine.”

“Really?” He flipped the face of it around, reading it aloud. “So, your telling me your name is Taiyang Xiao Long?”

His lips pressed into a firm, defiant frown. “Yes.”

“Bullshit.” Clover spit in his face. “Who’d you take this from?”

“I didn’t steal it from anyone.”

“Fuck off with that you-”

Qrow’s fingers clenched into fists, his own temper flaring. “Hey! Why don’t you fuck off! It’s called remarriage jackass – or is that too hard a concept for you?”

It probably wasn’t the best thing to do, if the flash of panic that passed over Tai’s face was any indication. But Clover just leveled him with a glare before getting back to his feet, letting the chain dangle from his fingers. “You know, I heard her people liked to take souvenirs from the dead. But a soldier’s tags? That’s just vile. How many of my friends’ bodies did you desecrate back at the base?”

‘Her people’? ‘Bodies’? What was this guy prattling on about?

“Wait. Just wait a second. The base?” Tai took a shaky breath. “Archer City base? You’re from there?”

Elm smacked the heel of her hammer into the ground right behind him. “We both were. It was all real nice, until your little buddies came by and slaughtered the lot of us.”

Qrow felt his stomach plummet at those words.

Tai had gone pale, his composure barely hanging on. Desperately, he croaked out, “How many survived?”

Whatever he thought of his reaction did nothing to temper the acidic hatred Clover stared down at him with. “You’re looking at ‘em.”

Had Tai been one of his actual enemies, Clover may have been proud to know how devastating a blow he’d just delivered. Regardless of it all, the damage was done. And Tai?

Tai broke. It wasn’t loud, like the way glass shatters. Rather it was subtle and unfixable, like the snapping of a flower stem.

Qrow’s own heart fractured at the way he whimpered, curling in on himself. The fleeting sunflower, already beginning to wilt and die, now that his roots were gone.

He reached out for him, hand coming to rest on his back, not caring if the lumberjack of a woman behind him smashed his entire arm flat for it.

“She’s here!” One of the squad from above called. The chain link rattled as someone ascended the platform from the other side.

Qrow paid it all only half an ear and eye, more concerned with the defeated man before him then anything this chief was going to do with them. Though, when he heard the telltale stomp of boots from above, he offered a cursory glance skyward.

She was a tall woman, with wild black hair and a curvy, powerful figure. A bandanna covered the lower half of her face, and she seemed equally disinterested in them, instead speaking with the petite woman who’d spoken before.

“Not much to say about them boss.” Clover reported. “One of them’s got some stolen tags from a Taiyang though.”

That grabbed her attention immediately, her body jerking around as she looked down at them with intense interest.

Even from here, Qrow could tell her eyes were blood red.

And then he couldn’t see them at all as, without warning, she practically raced back to the ladder as she shrilled orders at her people, “LOWER YOUR WEAPONS AND LET THEM UP! OPEN THE GATES, NOW!”

There was a sudden, confused cacophony of voices. Another sharp command and then, an equally snappish retort that bellowed above them all, “You heard her, open it!!”

Qrow caught Clover and Elm sharing a worried look between them. He felt his guard rise higher, confusion and fear melding into one. What was going on? Was she coming down there to kill Tai herself? He shifted over, trying to block Tai’s body with his own as he heard the latch of the gate come undone, slowly starting to roll open.

The chief could hardly wait for it, practically squeezing her way through.

Except at some point on the way down, she’d ripped away the mask. This close, there was no mistaking her.

“Oh my god.” Qrow whispered. “Oh my god.”

Then he was on his feet, shoes scrambling for purchase and hands clambering over the dirt to get himself up as fast as possible, taking off at a run. The rest of the world fell away, the only thing left the woman running just as fast for him – and despite it being mere seconds, it was entirely too long when they finally collided.

Her name burst from his lips like a prayer he never thought would be answered. “Raven! Oh god, Raven.”

It was impossible. She was here. She was here!

His heart beat as wild as his sister’s hair, the mane of it seeming the surround him as she buried her face into his neck and sobbed. “Qrow. You’re alive. I never thought – How’d you even get here?”

His response came out in a stammer. “Me? B-But you-! And I, I,” Oh, he was crying too.

So he stopped trying, just held on tight and let the tidal wave of emotion hit him. The grief he’d been ignoring. The guilt of having given up. The hope he never let live. The relief of her being safe. The unbelievable happiness knowing she was actually and truly alive.

“I love you.” The words burst out of him, sudden and uncontainable. As if he needed to make up for lost time. All the years he should have said it more, after the divorce had split them across the country and the forced separation left them bitter even with each other. Until the phone calls went from every day to almost never. Until they only caught up on the occasional holiday. Until he thought there was nothing worse than becoming invested into something he was destined just to lose.

But he’d been wrong. Feeling like he was completely alone was much, much worse.

“That wasn’t an answer.” She spoke around tears. “But I love you too, you stupid idiot.”

“’Stupid idiot’? Really bringing out the big guns with that one aren’t ya?” He laughed and she shoved him a bit. It was just like the old days.

“It’s just such a strong character trait, it has to be said twice.” Raven assured, wiping her face.

He was about to retort when Clover cut in between them. “Hey uh, I don’t mean to interrupt your reunion, but I think there’s something wrong with your friend.”

Qrow’s head snapped around. Like that moment in the gift shop, Tai seemed to be lost in his own head – but even further this time. He didn’t even respond to the way Elm shook him or tried to encourage him to his feet.

“Shit.” He breathed, before racing back to his side. He waved the other woman aside, kneeling down next to him. “Tai, babe? You in there?”

Nothing.

“Come on, don’t do this to me.” He murmured frantically, reaching out to hold his hand.

His sister approached, and though she appeared to be oddly taken aback, her voice was sharp and commanding, “What happened?”

Qrow waved vaguely to his left. “Your little boy scout there is what. Told him his family died.”

“What?!” The soldier barked, holding up his hands, “I did no such thing.”

He leveled him with his best glare. “’You’re looking at ‘em’? That’s what you said about the survivors. His daughters were there, asshole.”

At least, that was what Taiyang was hoping. He had banked everything he had that his little girls had made it to the safe zone and were just waiting for him to return. The unshakable belief had been the only thing keeping him sane.

Now that it was gone, he had nothing left to hold onto. Qrow didn’t know what to do, or even had the faintest clue how to pull the other back from the sea of despair he was drowning in.

Clover looked horrified. “I, but I-I didn’t-!”

“It’s fine.” Raven asserted.

“What?!” Qrow shouted. “How can you just fucking say that?!”

She leveled him with look he couldn’t even begin to decipher. “Just. Let me.”

Without any further context then that, she settled on the dirt next to them. She reached out, gripping Tai’s jaw and turning his head to face her and in a gentle octave Qrow’d never heard her use, said, “Tai, can you hear me? I need you to come back. Yang and Ruby are here.”

At the sound of his daughters’ names, Tai finally blinked, some light returning to his gaze. Encouraged, Raven lent in closer.

“They’re alive. They’re safe. But you need to wake back up if you want to see them. Can you do that for us?”

He felt the hand in his slowly starting to grip back. Whatever his sister was doing was working – and while Tai’s brain was starting back up, Qrow felt like his was doing all sorts of mental gymnastics just to catch up. How did she know Tai’s kids? Were they really beyond those gates? Did they talk about their dad enough that she just knew who he had to be?

The real answer turned out to be exceedingly more simple and absolutely mind-bending, because Tai finally croaked out, “Rae?”

His sister smiled and responded as if it were the most natural thing on earth, “Yeah, it’s me.”

The words echoed on repeat in his ears. Rae. As in, Tai’s first girlfriend Rae. Yang’s mother? Was also Raven, his sister?!

Qrow felt like he was going to need one of these quiet-talk therapy sessions because now he wasn’t sure he was entirely all here anymore.

The world was still intent on moving on whether he was there or not though. Tai inhaled shakily, practically pleading, “And, the girls? They’re really-?”

“Come see for yourself.” Raven stood.

Taking a moment to gather himself, Qrow followed suit, pulling Tai up with him. He led him towards the entrance, shooting a look at his sister that promised they were going to talk about this.

She avoided his eye and fell in step with them, calling first to the firing squad still above them, “Hey, show’s over! Back to your jobs!” Then to the soldiers, “Clover, Elm. Bring in that car and then get back to your posts.”

“Yes ma’am.” Clover saluted. “And uh, Qrow, Tai?” Only Qrow looked back – holding up his hand to catch Tai’s tags when he tossed them his way. “Sorry.”

He nodded, pocketing them. He made a mental note to make sure the other man gave twice as good an apology to Tai when his lover was more present.

They stepped through the gate and it was like entering a long-forgotten world. The road continued on straight – but the acres of fields on either side were busy with tents, motor homes, and even a few trailers, everyone making do with whatever shelter they could find. People were milling about, doing all sorts of things. He could see some older men in lawn chairs, enraptured by a game of Chinese Checkers. A team was working with various gardening tools to clear up some free land. Another team was working on the skeleton of a structure against one of the walls that was looking like the beginning of a home. Pens were built towards the back, a few cows and a chicken coop in view and there were a few fire pits speckled around the facility, once in use as several people boiled and stored water.

A sense of surrealism enveloped him. They’d been on their own so long, he almost forgot what normal life could look like.

“This almost doesn’t feel real.” Qrow admitted, eyeing a young pair sparring in the shade of the wall.

“You get used to it.” Raven replied, leading them towards the west side of the colony. “We all keep pretty busy. Everyone’s got a job here; a way to contribute. We take care of each other, keep each other safe.”

He scoffed. “That why we got chased halfway to hell getting here?”

“It’s… preventative.” She explained. “We just want to make sure everyone comes to the front door.”

“So you can shoot them.”

“If they give us reason to.”

He gaped at her, aghast.

Raven sighed, walking in-between the space of two parked RVs. “This world doesn’t have rules anymore and there are a lot of bad people willing to take advantage of that.”

“Like at the base.” It was a surprise to both of them to hear Tai speak. “What happened there?”

Something dark flittered along his sister’s face, before she looked away. “Another group wanted what we had. So, one night, they rammed down the gates with a few semitrucks filled to the brim with biters to get it. There was over a thousand of us there. Now there’s only a little over a hundred of us.”

“Christ.” Qrow cursed. He couldn’t even fathom it. What kind of mindset did someone have to have to do something so willingly vicious?

“These people already lost everything twice over now. They’re looking to me to make sure they don’t lose more.” She stood a little taller, her voice strong and confidant. A voice people would find faith in following. “So yeah, I’ll scare even God himself away from our gates if that’s what it takes.”

If there was a concern to take away from all that, the day had been much too harrowing and long to put any honest consideration to it. So, he just let it lie, a gnat in the back of his thoughts for now.

He figured any other conversation was probably moot anyways, as when they rounded another trailer home the field opened up to what appeared to be a small picnic and playground area. In the center between the various tables and play equipment was a canopy tent, providing shade to the small gathering of children underneath it. They were all sitting in the grass, listening to the woman before them as she read aloud.

Tai’s grip had become iron tight, breath shallowing out.

As they drew near, Raven spoke up, “Summer, mind if we interrupt?”

The disruption drew everyone’s gaze on them, eyes wide and curious at the strange newcomers in their midst. Their teacher, Summer, seemed as equally spellbound, the book she’d been reading falling right out of her hands.

From the front, Qrow caught movement as one of the students stood, and he saw his niece for the first time. For even if the color was Tai’s, there was really no mistaking that wild mane for anyone other than a carbon copy of Raven’s – no matter how much those flimsy pigtails tried to tame it. She had to of been around eight or nine and she had a gangly appearance about her, the same way he had been during most of his childhood while he was still growing. He hoped she wouldn’t get his outrageously long legs.

Beside her, another girl stood. Had he not already known she was only two years apart from Yang, he would have mistaken little Ruby for being even younger. She was tiny, something that would probably follow her all the way through to adulthood. Unlike her sister, who seemed to be a mismatch of both her parents, she was practically a miniature version of the woman just behind her, right down to the silver eyes.

“Dad!” Yang shouted, shoving her way through the crowd recklessly. With her clearing the path, Ruby had no trouble following, letting loose a shrill cry of her own.

Whatever trance Tai had been transfixed in broke immediately, and he tore away to clear the distance between him and them, falling to his knees as they reached each other. Finally, finally after what had probably felt like an eternity to the father, he was able to scoop both of them up into his arms and hold them close, sobbing with unashamed abandon as he bestowed them with kisses and I love you’s.

Qrow heart melted at the sight, blinking away tears of his own as a delirium of happiness overtook him.

Raven wound an arm over his shoulders, pulling him against her once more. It grounded him, reminding him this was all actually happening. The little farm home he’d envisioned earlier crumbled away. In its place something new and bigger formed. His sister, Tai’s girls, and this little piece of land and community – their Beacon of hope in the middle of nowhere – was all part of his reality. Their reality.

They were home.

#qrow branwen #taiyang xiao long #Taiqrow #taiqrowweek #rwby #fanfiction #Chase Firekitten's Tale

11 notes · View notes

theshopislocal · 4 years ago

Text

corinth rains

New and improved Heaven may well be the Happiest Place (not) on Earth. But Dean, it turns out, is still Dean.

(also on AO3)

chapter three

Charlie’s place is frickin’ awesome.

That said, Dean doesn’t understand most of her decor. There’s a surprisingly beautiful oil painting of what looks like the bushy-haired girl from Harry Potter standing over the corpse of a monster with a face made of teeth; Charlie called it the Demogorgon, which clarified precisely nothing. On another wall, there’s a giant framed poster of the little shruggie emoticon dude, which, on closer inspection, is itself made of other shruggie emoticon dudes. In the center of the foyer stands a life-size marble statue of Poison Ivy, flanked on either side by two huge suits of armor, armed with iron flails.

Then, of course, the crowning jewels: a wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling flatscreen TV and a tiny blue console that ostensibly contains every video game ever made. Charlie calls it the Deus ExBox.

“I swear to Jack,” Charlie mutters, fingers smashing against the controller buttons, “if you say ‘get over here’ one more time—”

Dean shrugs as much as he’s able while spamming the square button. “It’s the best move!”

“Yeah,” Charlie snorts, “and you cheese it.” She presses several buttons at once, and her character - a skinny brunette in a hilarious and mildly sexy bathing suit - kicks Dean’s guy about thirty damn times.

Dean makes a frenetic motion with the controller and goes full button mash. “You cheese Mileena! With your stupid tele-drop—”

“Hey,” Charlie starts, turning briefly to glare at Dean, “Mileena’s my main, ok—”

Dean uses the moment of distraction to pull the joystick hard to the left, tapping square one last time. His character - a rippling muscled dude in a skintight suit with a yellow loincloth - casts his spear at Mileena, yelling a guttural ‘Get over here!’

Mileena’s health bar drops to zero, and she sways back and forth. Dean gives Charlie a smirking side-eye.

She shakes her head and points a blunt-nailed finger at him. “Dean, don’t you dare. Dean.”

Dean gives her a winning smile and moves the joystick side to side, thumb hovering over the X button.

“Dean, don’t you dare toasty me—”

He taps the X, and Scorpion spits a pillar of flame at Mileena.

Fatality, the screen reads. Scorpion wins.

Charlie stares blankly for a moment, slack-jawed and dull-eyed, before cutting a glare at Dean. “I literally hate you.”

Dean’s mouth pulls into a wide grin, and he raises his hands in a shrug. “C’mon, who could hate this face.”

“What face?” Charlie grumbles. “All I see is a butt.”

Dean gives a bark of laughter, and his cheeks ache. He’s learned that Charlie is an appallingly poor sport, and her swearing tirades in the wake of a loss amuse him to no end.

She gives him a mild glare, betrayed by the play of a smile around her mouth, and reaches for her giant pint glass - ‘it’s a stein, you philistine’ - only to frown down at the flat dregs. She shifts as if to stand, then her face lights up, and she smiles over at Dean. “Hey, check this out,” she says, and the childlike excitement in her voice has Dean leaning forward. She raises the stein overhead and bellows, “Beer me!”

Her glass refills itself, bottom to top, an inch of fluffy white head settling over translucent gold. Dean’s brows rise, and his lips tick up. “See now, that I could get used to.”

Charlie gives him a self-congratulatory smile and passes the glass to Dean. He tips his head in thanks and takes a gulp, face scrunching up at the taste.

“Ugh, god,” he sputters, setting the glass down heavily on the low coffee table. “What is that?”

Charlie’s lips turn down in a dramatic pout. “Stella Artois.”

Ugh. What are they, at a bachelorette party in the Hamptons? “Aren’t you supposed to be a lesbian?”

Charlie gives him an unimpressed glare and hoists herself off the couch. “I’m a chapstick power alpha, thank you very much.”

Dean’s sure he knows what all those words mean individually, but- “Yeah, I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

Charlie rolls her eyes and skips towards the kitchen, tapping the Yoda bobble head on the bookshelf as she passes it. There are several other action figures on the shelf, and a bunch of other tchotchkes, most of which he can barely make out in the dim fluorescent light. He glances over at the windows framing the dining table; he figures Charlie’s gotta have a great view, being situated so near the lake. But the curtains - done in a deep, velvety purple that looks like some sort of magic fur - are drawn, the afternoon light pooling just around the bottom.

Dean feels his brow wrinkle. “Hey,” he calls, “why are your curtains closed?”

“What?” comes Charlie’s muffled voice.

Dean rolls his eyes and waits until she comes around the corner with two dark bottles of IPA. “Why are your curtains closed?”

She raises her eyebrows at him, flopping herself onto the couch. “Cuz the sun’s out? Duh?”

Dean takes a bottle from her hand, twists off the cap. “You don’t like it?”

Charlie gives him a dry look. “Dude. I’m a pasty code-jockey otaku.”

This time, Dean isn’t sure he knows what any of those words mean. He squints at her, shaking his head.

She sighs. “Sunlight could kill me.”

Dean snorts a laugh. “Ah.” He vaguely remembers a case he’d worked solo while Sam was at university: a teenage boy had spawned a Tulpa while writing a (surprisingly good) web comic. Dean had interviewed him in his dorm room - all empty Mountain Dew bottles and half-eaten bowls of ramen. Kid looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in years.

Back then, Dean had told him to pull the comic from his site and go the hell outside. Now, Dean feels mild envy for him and Charlie both.

“I miss rain,” Dean says, and it feels like a confession.

Charlie turns toward him and tilts her head, expression curious and bemused.

Dean harrumphs and adjusts his seat. “I mean, I like the—” he gestures vaguely toward the window, “—the picnic weather, too, I just...” he trails off, noting Charlie’s scrunched frown, and shrugs. “I dunno. Sam says there’re storms, past the mountain.”

Charlie’s brow smoothes at that, and she perks up, grabbing her stein with both hands. “Probably. All kinds of weird stuff over there.” She takes a long swig and gives a tiny burp that has Dean huffing a laugh. “You seen the mini forest in the field?”

Dean sobers and shakes his head. “He said that’s where the storm was.”

“Oh,” Charlie murmurs. “Huh. Wasn’t last time I saw it.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been over the mountain?” He tries to picture her with a bindle in place of an iPhone and hiking boots in lieu of her Converse, but comes up short.

Charlie smirks at him and takes another gulp, licking the foam from her top lip. “I may have spent my first afternoon here flying around on a broomstick like Harry Potter.”

Dean tips his head back in a nod. He really should’ve guessed that. He brings his bottle to his mouth, taking a cautious sniff to make sure he’s not drinking any more of that wimpy shit, and gives Charlie a sidelong glance. “Did you catch the snitch?”

Charlie beams. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

Dean shakes his head and smiles. “Attagirl.” He takes a long drink, enough to clear the neck, and savors the bitter hoppy flavor on his tongue. It’s a damn sight better than the swill he’s had with Bobby. Or whatever the fuck Stella Artois is.

“It was on fire.”

Dean swallows and cuts a glance at Charlie. “What?”

“The forest,” she says, smoothing a finger over the lip of her glass. “I mean, not the whole thing, just a couple trees near this, like, barn thing? They were all charred.” She tilts her head, considering. “Coulda been lightning, I guess? I dunno.”

Dean feels a pit open up in his stomach, strange and unbidden. He sets his beer down on the table, butting it up against his controller. “You tell the Arch?”

Charlie shrugs. “Kevin said not to worry about it.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and he turns fully toward her. “You talked to Kevin?”

When he’d heard through the grapevine that Kevin had finally made it over, Dean had sent Jack a silent, thankful prayer. He’s thought about checking in on the kid, but word has it he’s top dog at the Library - the new and improved Scribe of Heaven. Dean figures that’s about as close to ‘advanced placement’ as the kid is likely to get, this side of the pearly gates.

“I stopped by the Library,” Charlie says, nonchalant. Then she gives Dean a mischievous grin, raising her glass to her mouth. “Wanted to see if they had Lady Death in Lingerie.”

Dean frowns. “Is that... Is that porn?”

Charlie smirks at him. “It’s a comic, but... yes, yes it is.”

Dean blinks hard and gives her an incredulous look. “You got Kevin out of the Library ... for cartoon porn?”

“Hey,” Charlie demurs, “you don’t get to say anything about cartoon porn, I’ve seen your browser history.” Dean rolls his eyes even as his face warms, but doesn’t offer a defense.

“And no,” she continues, eyes going shifty. “He let me in.”

Charlie’s posture is stiff, her eyes round with manufactured innocence. She was a shit liar when she was alive, and she’s an even shittier one dead.

Dean gives her a blatantly doubtful look. “He let you in.”

Charlie puffs her cheeks out and her eyes dart side to side. For a second, she looks like she might try to stick to her guns, but she blows out a sigh instead. “Okay,” she concedes. “Maybe ‘let’ isn’t the right word.”

Dean breathes out a mildly bewildered laugh, pressing his forehead to the bottle in his hands. “You broke into Heaven’s Library?”

Her tiny white hands rise in a shameless shrug. “You can take the girl out of the corporate espionage scheme...”

Dean shakes his head, smiling wry but wide, stomach aching with laughter. “Pretty hardcore,” he says, then faces forward. “For a nerd.” He takes another short sip, noting Charlie’s scowl in his peripheral vision.

“Well,” she huffs and grabs her stein, “you’re pretty ripped.” She lets that hang for a moment, until Dean looks over at her, brows raised. “For a handmaiden,” she smirks and takes a smug pull.

Dean rolls his eyes and nods around a dry smile. Charlie gives a tittering laugh that he can’t help but return, and he polishes off his beer, shoulder butted up against hers.

He stares down into the empty bottle, turning it between his thumb and middle finger. “So Kevin said it’s fine?” he asks. He keeps his tone mild so as not to betray his peculiar unease, but he can’t quite suppress the note of concern. “Tiny burnt forest with lightning and a creepy barn?”

She shrugs and chugs the last inch of her beer in a great swallow. “I guess?” she says, voice thick. “I don’t know.” She belches for a solid three seconds, and Dean turns his lips down, impressed. “Got the feeling it was kinda...” she tips her head side to side, “top secret? Maybe not, like, nuclear football level, but… something.”

Dean snorts and glares into the chasm inside his beer bottle. “What, you think Heaven’s got an Area 51?”

Charlie shrugs again, grabbing her controller to select a new fighter. “Stranger things, I guess.”

Dean nods absently and casts his eyes about the room. The shruggie guy is still shrugging, Yoda’s head still bobbing, Ivy’s white marble eyes staring sightlessly toward the door. Dean’s gaze settles on a painting he hadn’t noticed, tucked into the corner behind a threadbare recliner: an abstract composition of flowing indigo and teal, offset by swathes of pale yellow edged in pink, with a crooked pillar of white rising up the center. Dean’s not much of a one for fine art, but something tells him this is a masterpiece. Ageless and tragic and blue, it tugs at a rough-sawn edge in his chest. He thinks it might be a flower or a river. Or a cloud. Or maybe a bruise.

It looks familiar, like he’s seen it in a textbook or possibly a museum. Then again, in Dean’s very short - and very, very long - life, he figures he’s seen just about everything.

Abstraction Blue by Georgia O'Keeffe

chapter two | chapter four

table of contents

#corinth rains #destiel #deancas #fanfiction #post canon #slow burn #dean-centric #tw: alcohol #chapter wc: ~2k

1 note · View note

chyrstis · 5 years ago

Text

I won’t ask for much (but just this once, I’d like you) 8/10

Only two more to go, and let me just say that it’s mildly amusing to me to be posting a winter fic when springtime’s in full bloom.

Pairing: Sharky Boshaw x John Seed Rating: E (but only for Ch. 10, the rest are a solid T) Word Count: 4K

Link to AO3!

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10

—

Sharky steals a boat. It just happens to be John’s boat, and when it’s damaged along with his boathouse, John proceeds to lay out a means of having Sharky pay him back. [No Cult AU]

———–

Fall ended, and with the beginning of winter the first hint of snow rolled in. One to two inches of it blew in to start, blanketing everything in a fine layer of white as the temperatures dropped.

Nothing that would bury his place outright, but that still didn’t stop Sharky from giving half of it a good ol’ scorch with his flamethrower. He had a yearly thing going, adjusting it each time just to get the right stream of flame flowing, so he wouldn’t burn much under the snow. But thankfully, this wasn’t one where he was on the verge of getting caught for it.

Not yet at least, as he took the jet of fire and gave it another sweep across where the snow was coating the road. He’d get at least two to three more passes before hitting the pavement, and needed to be sure to stop it at any sign of the fire spreading.

Now was not the time to get cozy up at the jail either, no matter how well they decked the halls over there.

Hurk let him know early on that he was set to do their usual thing this time of year. He’d pull up a chair with him as they had their annual holiday bonfire, before heading out to Aunt Addie’s. Those were the best times, and the ones where he really had all he could’ve ever wanted.

Sometimes there were odd years. The ones where Hurk was gone after all, being one hell of a kick ass super spy, and Sharky found it harder to get in on the holiday fun with his aunt. Felt a little too much like an outsider, and thought his time was better spent down at the Eagle drinking himself stupid before trying and failing to write a dirty phrase into the snow.

This year was set up to be one of the good ones, though. He had Hurk, they had their usual plans set up, and tonight they’d even decided to get in a little pre-holiday drink-a-thon. He’d supply the venue and grab half of the alcohol, while Hurk would cover the rest. Snag them more booze, maybe even a few movies, and he’d try to see how fast he could beat him at his own self-declared shot-taking record.

But first, he needed the beer. Smokes too, since he’d gone through most of his current pack, and snapped up what he could down at the general store.

They only had one six pack of the beers he and Hurk liked, though, and when he went fishing for cash he wasn’t able to cover for another, so he cut his losses. He paid for the beer plus one pack of cigs, and knew Hurk would have his back on the rest.

Not breaking his usual habit, he took one of the beers and popped the cap as soon as he was out the door. Hit by the cold, he shivered but shrugged it off as he tilted the beer back. It wasn’t far to his car, so he could double-time it there before anyone could say two words about it.

“Strange.”

He paused, and nearly coughed the drink up. John was standing not even three feet away, dressed in a long dark coat. A blue scarf was wrapped around his neck, and between harsh coughs Sharky might’ve been able to pick out the light smile he wore. Almost friendly.

The air escaped John in a puff as he chuckled. “You would think something warm would be better for this weather.”

“It…uh, that’s what the whiskey at home’s for,” Sharky rasped, “or fireball. Usually a winner.”

“Ah.”

John raised a gloved hand to hold his coat closed, clearly cold, but he didn’t drop his eyes or move on. Just held the look he was set on aiming at him, and Sharky knew his mouth was in danger of running off on him.

Once he could get it going again, that is. Funny how John had a way of doing that to him.

“You, er, need anything from here? You never-“ I never see you down here. “Didn’t think there was a thing you’d ever run out of.”

“Yes, I… There were a few things I did find I needed.” The smile faded. “Matches.”

“Oh. Yeah, you might need some of those.” He took another drink of the beer, hoping it would cover the way his mouth was twisting. And didn’t like one bit the way his lighter suddenly burned a hole in his pocket. “For heat?”

“Heat, mostly.” John shrugged, and tried another smile. “Haven’t decided to take a page out of your book just yet. But it’s tempting.”

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Pressed against the back of his teeth as he felt his grip on the beer tighten. “So, uh…”

“It’s good to see you.”

“Good luck with that.”

He’d blurted it out just as John spoke, not expecting anything along those lines.

Something flashed in John’s eyes. It was hard to tell out here in the dark at first, but those blue eyes of his managed to catch the light. What little there was brought them out, and he didn’t know what to do with the hurt he’d let him see.

“Fuck, I uh-this isn’t, look I-“

“You’re busy.” Smoothing out the front of his coat, John looked down as he did so, studying his leather gloves closely. “Clearly I’ve interrupted something, and you need to get back to it.”

Chug-a-lugging a beer out in public wasn’t something. Lighting another cigarette only to stub it out before finishing it in the ashtray of his car wasn’t something. Missing him wasn’t-

Sharky swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Think you’re right about that.”

This was his cue to leave. He had been out here long enough, stared over at him long enough, and he didn’t trust at all his ability to hide any of it at this point.

Still, he let himself look at John again, just for a moment longer, because what was one more second? He’d dug the hole deep enough to start. He’d keep on going until he had a whole damn trench.

“See you around, man,” he threw out over his shoulder as he turned to leave. “Oh, and happy holidays and all that shit.”

The snow crunched under his feet as he trudged over to his car, ready to throw the door open and hop in fast. But this time around John didn’t call out to him. He put the last of the beer down from behind the driver’s seat, waiting for it, listening, only for his phone to give him a notification instead.

Slipping it out, he opened up the message waiting for him.

Happy holidays. Take care.

“Holy shit, Sharky. Thought they were out of this. Though, looks like they would’ve been if you’d put any more of a dent into it.”

Hurk snagged one of the beers on the table – one of three remaining, which wasn’t all that bad – and got to work on it quicker than he had. Then took the other next to it right after.

Stifling a laugh, Sharky flicked a loose bottlecap at him from the couch. “You trying to say something? After I head on down there and nearly freeze my ass off hunting for that shit?”

“Whoa, no. ‘Cause that’s just hella rude turning my nose up at any free alcohol being offered, but this ain’t enough for two. Hell, it’s barely enough for one.”

And with their shindig consisting of one beer, the remains of another six-pack in his fridge, plus the line of spirits they’d taken a crack at already, it was looking a little on the sad side. Hurk hadn’t even been able to snag a keg, not this time around. All after showing up to Sharky’s house, emptying his pockets for spare change for a potential second booze run, and didn’t even have a movie or three to share.

“And not a single call back,” Hurk sighed, “I’m hurting, cuz. Thought we’d be able to cozy up to some fine-ass ladies tonight, but no takers.”

“Eh, it happens.”

Disappointing as it was, he was hard-pressed to care. At least until Hurk threw a handful of bottle caps back at him, and he dove to the other end of the couch to dodge them.

“Well, you’re in a funk still. Don’t think I’m not noticing that, or done worrying about it either!”

“Look, it’s late. We’re short on shit. Any lady walking in through that door would walk back out again after seeing how lame of a situation we’ve got going here. And that’s not even covering the porn mag left on the table.”

“Hey, I marked a spot. Thought you’d appreciate it since you’re blue, and needed a little something to make you smile.” Hurk walked over to it and held the magazine up, thumbing through a few pages before turning it around to show it to him. “Come on, you love this chick.”

“Yeah, I know.” He sat back down, and folded an arm under his head. Gave what Hurk was holding a passing glance, before leaning back. “It’s nothing. Just some of that seasonal shit.”

“Well, I think I know how to get this party going again. We exit stage left, head on down to see Miss Mary May, and work our way up from there, eh?”

Sharky grunted in response, and Hurk groaned in exasperation.

“Duderino, you’re killing me here. I’ve gotta find a way to get you back to bouncing off the walls, or we’re both done. Like, the party’s dead, but we’ve gotta keep on going. Work our way back on up, so we can rise from this. Majestic and-”

The magazine was tossed down, and Sharky heard a gasp.

“Oh, shit. That’s pretty fucking sharp there, cuz.”

“Hmm? What is?”

“These sunglasses. Where’d the hell you manage to get them?”

Sharky shot up in his seat.

In the middle of shooting off a set of finger guns, Hurk had slipped the pair he’d found on, pausing only to push them further up the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, this is pretty damn cool. Don’t know about all the blue, though, you think these little guys come in red, white, and blue instead?”

Sharky scrambled up and off of the couch, and wrangled them away from Hurk. “Careful with that shit, okay? You’ll fucking break them if you bend them the wrong way.”

“Whoa, whoa there, man! Easy, easy!” Hurk held up his hands, and gave Sharky a wary look as he examined the pair. “It’s a set of sunglasses, bud. No big deal, not that I was gonna actually break ‘em.”

“They’re five-hundred bucks, man.”

Hurk changed his tune immediately, “Well, fuck a duck. And you’re holding onto them? Who the hell do you know willing to spend bookoo bucks on a set of glasses?”

It didn’t take long for him to narrow that down either, and Sharky’s grimace in response only sent the unspoken point home.

“Wait. Are those John’s?”

Sharky adjusted his hold on the sunglasses, almost cradling them in his hands. “He dropped them. We were working one day, he had to run off to do something with his bro, and I…grabbed them. Wasn’t thinking much at the time, like I know he could’ve come back to grab them later, but I thought they’d get smashed out there. Figured I’d have a chance to give ‘em back, except later never really came, and I, uh. Held onto them.”

“Well, it’s his fault for doing you dirty like that. Cutting you out of the whole deal after trapping you in it to begin with? Stealing and keeping his shit seems like fair game to me.”

Glancing down at them, Sharky sighed. “Nah, not really. Not like you think it would.”

Hurk got quiet, saying nothing as he went and gently placed the sunglasses back down on the dining room table. The low whistle Sharky got after that though, had him trying to force himself not to bolt.

“Fuck me running, dude. You weren’t kidding before, were you?”

“Kidding ‘bout what?” Sharky replied, feeling sheepish. “The whole him not being a douche thing, or the part where I kind of liked him?”

“Man, both. Definitely both.”

“Oh. Well, it-it’s fucking bad.” Swallowing the lump in his throat, Sharky swiped his cap off to run a hand through his hair. “It’s a whole lot of bullshit, ‘cause I was busting my ass out there. Wanted to get it all over and done with so we could go back to acting like nothing had happened. Then I didn’t mind it as much. Kinda thought we were friends or heading towards it, and…I might’ve blown that too.”

Dropping his arm, he sniffed, and tried to look anywhere but Hurk’s way.

“’Cause you don’t wanna kiss your friends or try to. Muddies things a whole hell of a lot, and it’s…it didn’t work out. And I don’t know why, but I still wanna see him. Know how he’s doing even if he doesn’t give two shits about me, and when I had that chance today grabbing that,” he said pointing over towards the beer, “I blew it again.”

“Well, what about you? Takes two loving and willing adults to do the ol’ sideways shuff-” Hurk paused, scrunching up his face as he considered it. “Wait, that’s a bad way of saying it, ‘cause we’re not talking fucking, we’re talking feelings. Which usually leads to fucking, but the point still stands, though. You gotta have a say in some of this here. Especially if you like this guy – and fucking John, man, but I ain’t judging. Much.”

Hurk’s hands went up again as Sharky gave as much of a glare as he could muster. But even that fizzled out completely as his eyes dropped straight to his feet.

“You gotta have something to say something, right?”

It was bitter on his tongue, and he tried to choke it back. Found himself thinking of the smile John gave him earlier. How he’d looked at him, warm enough to root him to the very spot.

“Something solid. Something to go off of instead of just guessing, and I’ve done enough of that, man. Burned that bridge and boat – though some of that shit came pre-burned, if we really wanna get into it. Like I think there’s still bits and pieces at the bottom of the river that we’d be able to dig up. Big enough chunks to drag up and float on Titantic-style, and…yeah. That’s just how this kinda thing goes.”

When Hurk walked over and gave him a hug, he didn’t pull back. Sniffed a little more as he tried to get it together, because like hell was he going to start blubbering over this. He’d managed to avoid it so far, but this would be the stick needed to break that damn camel’s back.

“Hey, it’s okay," Hurk said, hugging him tighter. "Sorry for giving you shit over something you can’t really control, and shit for any of this at all. I want you to be happy, and if he makes you happy? You lock that down, and dial it in tight. But if he’s being weird about it? He’s the one missing out. Him, not you. You’re the coolest guy around. Like the one you go to whenever you need to get down and party hard, and if that ain’t the kind of party we’re having? You’ll still find a way to knock all our fucking socks off with some crazy shit. ‘Cause that’s you, cuz.”

“Just me?”

“Yeah, just you, being the best, badass baby cousin a guy could ever ask for.”

After a few pats on the back, Sharky let out a sigh. Felt some of the weight start to lift after letting that out into the open, and felt a little better too. Not completely, not even by a long shot, but he’d work his way there.

“You know what’ll help? Not all of it, but at least for now?” Hurk asked.

“A round of shots?”

“Round of the best alcohol we can handle, and tonight I’ve got us covered. We’ll do that for a while, then finish off the night watching ol’ Vinny being a total badass.”

Thinking it over, Sharky felt a smile start to creep in. “Maybe throw in some other shit too. Like, maybe one round of the holiday fireplace or something? The crackling’s nice.”

“Anything you like, bud. Anything you like.”

Nights at the Spread Eagle during winter weren’t much different than during the rest of the year. Sure, there was a draft, but the place was just as busy as any other. The drinks flowed, the regulars had their winter gear on, and everyone was set on having a good a time as possible.

Hurk made good on his promise shortly after they got there, toasting him before the two got cracking on their first round of shots. He didn’t want to get blasted, but the warmth that set in was welcome, and with every story that Hurk dove into he found it that much easier to let loose and laugh.

Heading up for the next round, Sharky kept his beer close as he hit the counter up front, passed their order on to the always lovely Mary May, and set in for a short wait. Resting both arms on the counter he took a look around, and noticed there was no line at the jukebox. With quarters rustling around in his pocket, he had change to spare.

“Waiting on something?”

Shifting, Sharky tried to make space for the person next to him. “Shit, sorry, let me just-“

Then felt the rest of the response die in his mouth as he glanced up at Jacob. Dude was still as tall and imposing as he remembered, but wasn’t eyeing him with the intent to kill. Or anything other than what he guessed was friendly for him.

“Yo, how’s it…how’s it going?”

“It’s going.” Jacob took the spot next to him by the bar, settling in, and Sharky tapped his fingers on the counter a little faster. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“No shit.”

“You two aren’t talking much anymore?”

Nothing came through in his tone. Not anger or irritation, and while Sharky was still waiting for him to throw him a beating, Jake wasn’t gunning for it.

“I, uh, don’t think that’s the way I’d put it. ‘Cause if you know two things about it, and I know you guys are all close and shit, it’s…not great,” Sharky said, going straight for his beer.

“Yeah. You used to be all he ever talked about.”

That made him spit his next drink out. Getting one hell of a dirty look from Mary May, he grabbed as many napkins as he could to sop it up, wiping the counter down, and felt his face burn the entire time.

“Dude, what the fuck?”

Jacob simply kept on tending to his own beer. Drained it completely as he stood there next to him, and sighed when done.

“Heard about you enough to wonder if he’d ever shut up about you. Charlemagne this, Boshaw that. Had a new story every week, if not every night we’d stop by. Like with that skunk. Got real unlucky with that.”

Groaning, Sharky set his face in his hands, “Yeah, it was…it was pretty bad.”

“Can’t dodge those easy.”

“I didn’t. Thought that was the whole point of that one.” Sharky sat up, and eyed him. “So, I get it. You’ve heard some shit.”

Jacob set the empty bottle down, and motioned for another. “Plenty. More than I know you want to hear, until he stopped. Stopped saying much of anything about you at all, and didn’t look none too pleased about it either.”

“Well, you wanna know more? Talk to him about it.”

“I did.” Mary May slid him a beer, and he redirected it towards Sharky, “Which is why I told him to talk to you.”

“Why would you…why’d you do that?” Sharky asked, any irritation at this bleeding away.

“John’s not easy to deal with. Then if he goes and fucks something up along the way? He’s ten times worse. If he makes a mistake, not many are going to push back, or correct him on it.”

“So, is that what this is? You think he made a mistake?”

“He did.” The piercing look Jacob aimed at him made him sit up a little straighter. “He liked having you around. Why throw that away?”

That punched him up and down all at once, and he didn’t want to get his hopes up. Not again.

“Look. I get it, you’re being a bro. Trying to look out for him and shit, and I respect that. It means a lot, but you want me to talk to him? Like sit down, link arms, and work any of this out?”

Sharky pulled out his phone and didn’t even wait for Jacob to prompt him. Just called John, and hit speakerphone so that they could hear it as it dialed.

“Dude won’t answer. Hasn’t yet, and won’t now.”

Jacob crossed his arms, set to wait with him, and Sharky listened for those telltale words of John’s. The same few words the voicemail hit him with when he’d first tried this weeks back.

“Hello?”

Sharky stared down at his phone, at the seconds of the connected call as they ticked by on the screen, and felt his mouth go dry.

“Charle- …-nyone there?”

Slapping it against his ear, he turned off the speakerphone and talked fast, “Hey, uh, you…you’re not supposed to pick up.”

“I’m not?”

“No, you’re…” He stopped his leg when he felt it start bouncing into overdrive, “It’s, uh, sorry. Sorry about earlier. Wanted to get that out first, ‘cause I didn’t know I was gonna see you and really had to run off. Might’ve also thought this would’ve gone straight to voicemail, so I could, you know. Actually work my way through this. Make it sound good, not...”

“No, it’s…it’s fine,” John cleared his throat, and his next few words were warmer, “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you at all, so even this is welcome.”

“Oh, er, well. Cool.” Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

“And…you don’t need to apologize for that. I didn’t handle it as well as I should’ve, and putting you on the spot like that was far from fair. It's hard to hear you over the line right now, but if you want to talk more, I’d be glad to. About that, or anything else.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His heart was hammering in place, and his eyes skimmed the entire bar. Jumping from item to item, needing a topic or an excuse to keep things going, he floundered in place until he stopped on the white snowflakes decorating one of the other guests’ sweaters. It was an ugly sweater to be loud and proud of, and the glittery shovel emblazoned on the front stuck out next to a large lumpy snowman.

That set a few gears into motion, and his mouth was moving before he could stop it. “Shovel.”

“Shovel?”

Shifting on his chair, Sharky swore under his breath. Put it in a sentence. Words, verbs, and some of those phrases like that Wheel of Fortune shit. That’s how you do this.

“You er, need any shoveling done? Like you’re dealing with a ton of snow coming down, or about to? ‘Cause I’ve got some ways of fixing that. Got more than a few, might even give you a method or two provided you want a uh, demo. Or a guarantee any of it’ll work, and I can cover it. Give you a sneak preview or something.”

John went silent, the sounds of the bar rising enough to cover him, and Sharky didn’t bother stopping his leg this time. Just felt it vibrate enough to make his voice uneven.

“Hey, John? You still with me there, amigo?”

“I’m still here,” he said, and Sharky couldn’t hold back his relief.

“So, what do you say? You dig any of that?”

“Yes.” It was faint, but he might’ve heard a laugh, “I think you’re right. I could use someone here after all.”

#far cry 5 #sharky boshaw #john seed #hurk drubman jr #jacob seed #john seed/sharky boshaw #fanfiction #FC5 fanfiction #didn't mean to space these out so much but there's no harm in that #and extra editing time never hurts at all #fic: I won't ask for much #fic series: we could make a home out of this

6 notes · View notes

celtics534 · 5 years ago

Text

Hiding from the Real World

Have you ever just hide from all your responsibilities? Sometimes that’s a very poor decision. Welcome to the Doom Days!

Read on : FF.net and AO3

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Harry wanted to smack his forehead against the steering wheel as the synthesized strings started up for the tenth time. He had nothing against Rick Astley-- actually, he found the song fun the first time it played. Everything had still been fine the third playback. On the fifth playback, he had taken the CD out of the player to check for scratches. Not a single one. No, the disk wasn’t skipping back to the same song, it was an entire playlist of Never Gonna Give You Up.

The obvious fix would have been to skip the cursed track until something new came on, but of course, the old beater car’s radio wasn’t completely intact. The damn skip button was missing. So then he’d thought, why not just turn off the radio… but alas, the knob wouldn’t move or push in. In other words, Harry was stuck in a constant state of being Rick-Rolled.

When he had found the old disk in the glove compartment, he’d been thrilled to not be driving in permanent quiet. Now he was debating returning to the heavy silence. The only thing that was holding him back was the fear of being lost to his own thoughts again.

The first hour had been burdened with thoughts of everything that had gone wrong. Molly getting sick, Cedric being shot, Seamus…

Nope! Harry focused on the music again.

We've known each other for so long

Your heart's been aching but you're too shy to say it

Inside we both know what's been going on

We know the game and we're gonna play it

The more he listened to Rick’s baritone lyrics the more he related to them. But maybe that was just because he needed to find some reason not to lose his mind. Or perhaps this was him losing it.

Harry glanced in the rear-view mirror. Ginny slept soundly, splayed across the entire backseat. He’d told Ginny to try and get some sleep while they had the chance. After all the shite they’d been through… Harry personally thought he could sleep for a week and he figured she’d feel the same.

He hadn’t been wrong. At first, Ginny had protested, but minutes after letting her head rest on the old seat she had started to snore lightly. Now her mouth was completely agape and a little pool of drool had formed. Harry didn’t care that her clothes were covered in grime and blood: She was the epitome of beauty. Without her… Harry couldn’t even fathom. She was his own personal angel.

There was a moment of silence before the rhythmic drums started again. Play number thirteen. He flicked on the windshield wipers as a light rain started to come down.

I just wanna tell you how I'm feeling

Gotta make you understand

Harry glanced back at Ginny. There was so much he wanted to tell her. Harry had tried after that plonker had attacked him, but the worlds just hadn’t come out as he’d wanted. Ginny had understood what he’d meant of course, as she always seemed to be able to. But there had been so much more. There still was so much more.

Love wasn’t exactly a constant in Harry’s life. He’d grown up without any real affection from his aunt and uncle, who’d resented having to raise him after his parents were killed in a car crash. It wasn’t until he’d become friends with Ron that Harry started to understand what it meant to care for someone. When Ron’s parents had all but legally adopted him, Harry had finally learned what it meant to have a parent’s love.

But Ginny… even at that age of sixteen, it had been a different feeling. Ron and all his brothers had become Harry’s brothers, but Ginny -- she had never been a sister to him, much as he’d tried to convince himself to the contrary. She had always been more.

And now it was clear to him why: He was in love with her. Absolutely and incorrigibly mad for her. Harry knew now wasn’t the time for big confessions of love or romantic gestures. The world was in chaos with no sign of normalcy ever returning.

But fuck it all! The only thing Harry cared about was Ginny. The world was a burning fucking mess and all he thought about was her.

While that blade had been pressed into his throat, his only thought was of her protection. There had been no thoughts towards his own safety apart from staying alive long enough to keep her alive. Every cell in his body screamed at him to find a way to get her out of there.

An old van lay sideways across the two-lane road, forcing Harry to drive half on the pavement and half on the dirt. Their car dipped with the lower terrain, jostling the occupants with the roughness of the road.

When he remounted the pavement, Harry heard a little groan from the back seat. Glancing back, Ginny was sitting up, one hand rubbing at a still-closed eye. Harry was lucky that the road was clear at that moment because he couldn’t take his eyes off Ginny as she stretched and yawned. The way her chest rose with her deep breath and her shirt rode up her abdomen as her arms went over her head… Yeah, it was a really good thing the road was empty and straight.

The song faded out as his eyes met hers in the rear view.

Ginny sent him a lazy smile that sent his pulse into overdrive. It took all his willpower to keep his hands on the wheel rather than cup her jaw.

Every now and then I get a little bit lonely

And you're never coming 'round

(Turn around) every now and then I get a little bit tired

Of listening to the sound of my tears

It took Harry a second to register the change of song. His eyes snapped to the radio, trying to figure out if he had finally lost his marbles.

“Bonnie Tyler?” Ginny had leaned forward onto the middle console. Her fingers had landed on his shoulder, playing with a hole in the fabric. Harry felt goose pimples every time her skin touched his.

“Uh --” Harry swallowed hard, trying to regain the power of speech. “I guess so.”

“Not a bad choice.” Ginny let out a small laugh. “Here, can you move your hand?”

“Huh?”

“Can you move your hand so I can climb into the front?” Ginny poked his hand that had been resting across the middle console. “I don’t wanna crush your fingers.”

“Right.” Harry put both hands on the wheel, keeping his eyes on the road as Ginny climbed into the seat beside him.

“So,” Ginny drawled once she’d settled. “How long was I out?”

“An hour and a half at max.”

“Fuck, Harry!” Ginny’s angry tone made him jerk sideways to look at her. She was glaring at him, her brown eyes narrowed. Should he find that so hot? “You were supposed to wake me after an hour so I could take a turn driving.”

She wasn’t wrong.They had agreed an hour of sleep each. But every time Harry had thought of waking her he just remembered how tired she’d looked. He shrugged a shoulder. “I was fine.”

“Harry.” Now she sounded more tired than before. “What did I say before we left my parents' house?”

Harry thought back to Weasleys’ sitting room. It felt like it had been years since that night. So much had happened since then.

Ginny didn’t wait for him to respond. “I said no bollocks! We need to be honest with each other. And you, sir, just lied to me.”

“What do you -”

“You’re not fine.” Her fingers glided along his throat where a knife had been only hours beforehand. “You’ve been shot and had a knife on you all in less than two days. Not to mention gotten little sleep --”

“Hey now.” Harry finally took a turn cutting her off. He met her intense gaze. “I’m extremely satisfied with my lack of sleep last night.”

Just like he’d intended, Ginny’s lips quirked upwards. “You and me both.” Their eyes stayed locked. Fuck, if Harry hadn’t been driving… As it was, he hadn’t looked at the road in way too long. Begrudgingly, Harry turned his attention back to the dreary path.

When Ginny’s hand came over and took his free hand, lacing their fingers and squeezing his palm, Harry’s breath hitched. A memory from earlier that day washed over him: His hands in hers, clasped tightly together as he held them above her head… his ears filled with the sound of her sighs. He licked his lips as if he could still taste her skin.

“You need some rest, Harry.” Ginny’s quiet voice pulled him back to reality. “Please pull over.”

“I’m --”

“Please, Harry.”

The please is what did it. He slowed to a stop, shifting gears so the car was parked.

“Thank you.” Ginny released his hand, and before he could bemoan the loss of her touch, her hand turned his cheek so he was looking at her. She leaned across the console and pressed her lips to his. It wasn’t a kiss of unbridled passion, but it made his toes curl all the same.

When she pulled away, Ginny’s lips were twisted in a content smile. “Now, get back there and get some sleep.”

Harry did as he was told, crawling over the console (bumping his knee painfully as he did so). He lay across the back seat, as Ginny had done, curling his legs because they were too long to fully stretched out.

He closed his eyes and instantly started drifting off. Before he was completely unconscious to the world, he heard the start to Rick Astley’s hit song and Ginny’s muttered comment about how much she enjoyed the oldie.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Harry.” Ginny’s soothing voice matched the hand running on along his back. Harry didn’t want to open his eyes if it took him away from the perfect dream. “Harry, come on.”

The hand stopped, and Harry opened his eyes to a smiling Ginny. “It raining too hard to see.”

Harry sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What?” It took him a few seconds to register the pounding of rain on the metal roof. After another few seconds (and adjustment of glasses) he noticed the downpour on the windscreen.

Ginny was sitting up in the driver's seat, her body turned towards him. “I found this little cottage off the main road. I think we should head in there and get some real rest.”

“How --” Harry yawned. “How long did I sleep for?”

“About twenty minutes.” Ginny gave him a sympathetic look. “Didn’t even get your allotted hour.”

“Better than nothing.” He yawned one more time, this time stretching his stiff limbs. “So we gonna make a break for this cottage?”

Ginny laughed. “Yeah, it’s about six meters in front of us.”

Harry picked up their rucksacks from the backseat floor space. “All right, lead the way, m’lady.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Harry watched Ginny spread the blanket across the lumpy mattress. The old cottage wasn’t the best accommodations in the world, but it was better than nothing. It had most of its roof (despite a small hole in the left-hand corner) and there was a bed (albeit a cheap one), but Harry wasn’t gonna complain.

“That should do.” Ginny patted the freshly made covers they’d found in a cabinet before peeling back the top blanket and crawling in. “I’m ready to sleep for a year.”

“You and me both.” Harry hesitated for a second before sliding beside her.

Ginny shivered while pulling the blanket up to her ears. “I hate waiting for the blankets to warm up,” she complained, her voice muffled.

Harry moved closer to her. “With the two of us, it shouldn’t take too long.”

“Hmm.” Ginny looked at him, her brown eyes alight with something he hadn’t seen in a long time…

“What are you—” Harry let out a little laugh as she pulled the blankets up over her head. “Gin?”

“It’s warmer like this.”

“How can that be true?”

“It is!” Ginny’s head reappeared as she tugged the blanket off her head. “Come on, it’s cozy down there.” She grabbed his arm and tugged him lower onto the mattress before throwing the cover over both their heads. She draped the end over the headboard, creating a little tent.

“See, cozy.” Ginny smiled at him. It was an easy and comfortable gesture, but it sent Harry’s pulse into double-time.

Ginny didn’t have any idea what she did to him. How could one woman drive him mad with one look? But it wasn’t just one look, now was it? It was everything about her. Body, mind, soul. He couldn’t get enough of her.

“Did you notice that the CD in the car only played Never Gonna Give You Up?” Ginny asked, starting Harry from his own daydream of tasting that bit of exposed skin on her collarbone.

“Huh? Oh, yeah!” Harry rolled his eyes. “If I’d wanted to get Rick-Rolled I would have asked. That damn chorus is still stuck in my head.”

Ginny smirked at him. “Oh, you mean this chorus?” She started humming the repetitive song with enthusiasm.

“No! Come on.” Harry gently pushed her head into the blanket wall.

“Right!” Ginny came back from her shunning with a grin. “You want to get rid of that song. I think I can fix that.” She got onto her knees, her head skimming the top of the make-shift tent, and turned to face him before starting to sing.

I've been dancing on top of cars and stumbling out of bars

I follow you through the dark, can't get enough

You're the medicine and the pain, the tattoo inside my brain

And, baby, you know it's obvious

I'm a sucker for you

You say the word and I'll go anywhere blindly

Harry watched her clap in time with the beat. His grin spread as he remembered her doing the same thing when they’d been dancing to it at Abingdon.

I'm a sucker for you, yeah

Ginny pointed at him, a coy smirk on her lips as she continued her number.

Any road you take, you know that you'll find me

I'm a sucker for all the subliminal things

No one knows about you (about you) about you (about you)

Ginny winked at him. "I like to think I’m the only one who knows about your original dance moves.”

It took Harry a moment to come back to his senses; his attention had drifted to a body part of hers that moved oh so tantalizingly with her swaying. “Huh? Oh, shut up.”

Ginny laughed and brought her lithe form closer to him. The space under the covers had already warmed his skin, but with her so close, Harry was worried about combusting. Her lips ran up his jaw, never quite touching him. When she reached his ear, her breath set his body on fire. “Make me.”

Harry let out a growl from deep in his throat as he pressed himself to her, pushing her into the mattress. His lips caressed every inch of skin they could find. Her cheek, jaw, down the length of her neck. Ginny’s moan only egged him on.

When he reached a point near her collarbone, her shirt became a nuisance real fast. He moved the collar away with his nose and reattached his lips to her skin.

Ginny arched into him, another moan falling from her lips. Harry’s hands had a mind of their own as they reached for the hem of her oversized shirt (which had once belonged to one of her brothers), before lifting it over her head. His own shirt quickly followed. She let out a shaky breath as his mouth went back to his recently deserted spot of skin. “I didn’t realize you hated my singing that much.”

Harry nuzzled his nose down the center of her chest, his power of thought long gone. “I don’t hate it,” he murmured into her warm skin. “But it’s not in the top ten things I love about you, that’s for sure.”

Ginny stiffened under him for half a second, before her fingers threaded through his hair. She used her grip on him to pull his face back to eye level. “What did you just say?”

“Uh --” To be completely honest, Harry couldn’t remember anything before Ginny’s shirt had been removed. He felt like a deer caught in the headlights as she studied him.

Ginny watched him for a moment, her lips twisting into a smug smirk. “Think about it, Harry…” He did, he really tried, but his mind had gone blank under her blazing scrutiny. She let out a low throaty laugh that seemed to course through his body. “All right, take your time. I’ll find some way to entertain myself.”

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and before he knew what had happened Ginny had flipped them, her lips traveling over his body. First his neck, then down his chest… When her fingers threaded through the hair by his navel before sliding down to tease the waistband of his pajama trousers, Harry didn’t know if he would ever be able to form conscious thought again.

It was then when he thought all possibly of introspection impossible that Harry remembered what he’d just said. Love. He’d said he’d loved her. In a roundabout way, sure, but he’d told Ginny he loved her. “Well…” He swallowed hard. “I can’t lie. I —I'm in love with a lot of things you do, Gin.”

He hated himself for stuttering, but fuck this wasn’t an easy thing to say. At least not for him. Ginny’s body moved up his, bare skin connecting in a glorious fashion. When she was eye level with him, Harry’s heart raced even faster. Ginny was positively beaming at him.

She kissed him, her tongue teasing his bottom lip before pulling away. “Don’t worry, Harry. I understand.” Her lips pressed against his for another tantalizingly short period of time. “Your dancing isn’t in the top ten things I love about you.”

Harry’s breath hitched, once his mind finally registered what her words meant. “You —Your?”

Ginny let out the alluringly rich laugh again. “How about I give you an example of one of my top favorite things about you?” Her lips pressed to his briefly before moving down his body. Every place she touched burned like a wildfire, out of control and intense.

It took everything Harry had, but he refused to let her always win their cheeky banter. “I have always been a visual learner.”

Ginny stopped her descent, her dark eyes meeting his. “Trust me, this is a lesson you’ll never forget.” Her fingers gripped the waistband of his trousers, this time with conviction, pulling down with deliberate slowness.

“Gin.” Harry couldn’t stop his voice from coming out in a desperate groan.

Ginny winked at him. “Don’t worry, the presentation is about to begin.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Fuck! That was the only thing Harry’s brain could manage to think. A sharp throbbing coursed through his head. He lifted his eyelashes an inch—which was all his body capable of handling. The first thing that he noticed was the light. Natural light poured through the windows. Next was that he was still in the little cabin Ginny had found. He recognized the ugly crooked painting from the sitting room.

He shifted himself and found his arms constrained. Harry pulled at his wrists, testing his mobility. The feeling of rope pulling his skin burned.

Harry fully opened his eyes.

He twisted his upper torso to look around his back. Someone had tied him to one of the support beams that sat in all the corners of the room.

The fuck? Harry looked around the small living area. Nothing was out of place from what he’d notice before he and Ginny —

Ginny!

How could he have forgotten about Ginny? His eyes flew around the room, looking for any hint of red. It took only seconds for him to find her, having been tuned into her presence for years. She was tied as well, her hands close to an old fashioned radiator. A cloth was tied over her mouth, acting as a make-shift gag. And to make matters oh so much worse, she was stark naked.

Harry strained against his bonds. They could do whatever wanted to him, but not Ginny! As he made to open his mouth to call out to her, Harry felt the pain in his jaw. His mouth was already wide open and apparently had been for quite a while based on the tightness he felt. He moved his tongue slowly, feeling the roughness of poor fabric.

So they gagged me too, Harry thought. He had no idea what was going on. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep after their lesson. They had laid next to one another, Ginny snuggled into his side with her head resting on his chest until sleep had overcome him.

Fuck!

Never let everyone sleep at the same time! It was survival 101. Have one man stay up and watch for sneak attacks, like this must have been. If Harry was connecting the fragmented clues correctly, he’d say that whoever tied them up had also hit him rather hard on the head.

Harry only had himself to blame. He should have stayed awake, but when Ginny had turned them so she was spooning him… there had been nothing running through his sated mind other than how perfect Ginny’s warmth was.

A slamming noise drew Harry’s attention away from Ginny. He forced his body to slacken and his eyes shut to slits. Harry wanted any advantage he could get and letting them think he was still out cold was the best he had.

A large man walked through the open loo door. His nose was scrunched in annoyance, while his lips moved rapidly. “Making me check the toilets. Fuck him.” The man moved in closer, his small beady eyes directed at Ginny. “At least I get to have a good view now.”

It took all of Harry’s willpower to not try and jump the man. His blood boiled at the mere thought of his fucker’s eyes anywhere near Ginny, nude or not.

That’s when he saw it, Ginny’s nose twitch. She wasn’t knocked out, as he’d assumed. Looking closer he saw her hands clenched into a tight fist. Every other part of her demeanor gave the appearance she was asleep. The slack shoulders and deep breathing through her nose. No, if Harry hadn’t been so adept at Ginny watching he never would have guessed.

“Still sleepin’, huh?” The brute had gotten in close. Bile rose in Harry’s throat as the man brushed his fingers along Ginny’s cheek. “Haven’t been with something as good lookin’ as you in a while.”

Harry snapped. He didn’t care about how many other captors there might be, or how he couldn’t even break from his bonds. No, all that mattered was tearing this man limb from limb.

Before he could hulk out of his rope another voice spoke from inside the bedroom. “Oi, Goyle, come give us a hand in ‘ere!”

The fucker, apparently named Goyle, turned towards his name, his fingers hovering just above Ginny’s jawline. “Why?”

A new male yelled from across the building. “Doesn’t matter why, you git! Just get your lard arse in here!”

Goyle’s hand dropped to his side as he meandered away, muttering under his breath. As soon as Goyle’s back disappeared into the other room, Ginny snapped to attention. Her fisted hands unclasped, revealing a broken piece of glass. She spun it in her fingers so it was against her bond and started to saw through the braided material. Her brown eyes were sharp as she looked over her shoulder, examining the knots.

Harry didn’t dare try to signal her, worried it could startle her, making the makeshift blade slip. He watched as the glass sliced through the rope, each thread snapping loose in what felt like slow-motion.

Finally, the last bit of the braid broke and Ginny’s hands were free. She quickly ungagged herself. The cloth was tossed aside as Ginny rubbed her sore jaw… and that’s when their eyes locked. Ginny stayed low, crawling towards Harry.

“Hey.” She murmured into his ear, her voice gravelly, as she removed his gag.

Harry swallowed hard before responding. “Hey.”

She kissed him hard and quick before moving her hands to his bonds.

“Ginny, what happened?” Harry kept his tone low as he felt the rope slacken.

“I honestly don't know,” Ginny admitted. “One minute I was asleep in the bed, and the next I was waking up over some bloke’s shoulder as he carried me out here. Okay, you’re free.” Ginny drew back taking the rope with her.

Harry rolled his wrists as he moved into a kneeling position beside Ginny.

“Alright, what’s the plan?” Ginny asked as she tossed the broken bonds aside.

“Plan?” Harry hadn’t even conceived of a plan for being free. His only thought had been how to kill anyone who touched Ginny. “Er…” The cogs in his head really needed to start functioning properly. “How many are there?”

Ginny glanced over at the bedroom doorway. “I’d say three. I’ve only heard three voices and seen two of them.”

Harry nodded the wheels in his head finally starting to turn. “All right, I say we set a trap.”

“What kind of trap?”

“I’m thinking we lure one of them here and give them a taste of their own medicine.”

Ginny smirked. “I like the sound of that. We can pretend to still be tied up, and I bet if I cry out, that arsehole who keeps staring at me will come and check it out.”

“That’s what I was thinking too.” Harry took a deep breath looking her directly in the eyes. “He didn’t do anything to you, right?”

She shook her head. “No, just a few touches and suggestions.” Her hand came up to caress his cheek. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I know, but —” A shiver ran up his spine. He didn’t know how to explain to her what the idea of that fucker touching her did to him.

Ginny didn’t seem to need his words; she nodded before kissing him gently. “I know. But let's not focus on any what-ifs. We’ve got some shitheads to deal with.”

#hinny #Hinny Doom Days #Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fan fiction #harry X ginny #hinny fanfic

29 notes · View notes

polaroid15 · 4 years ago

Text

To Be Like You

Read on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30005406

Summary: I’ll kill you and everyone you love. I’ll kill you dead.

Peter closes his eyes to keep the world from spinning. His panic sits like putty in his throat, blocking the air from reaching his lungs. He wraps his fingers around his neck, his pulse erratic underneath like he had just finished running a mile.

Come on Peter. Come on Spider-Man.

Or, the missing scene in Homecoming after the vulture fight.

----

It’s not working out.

I wanted you to be better.

There’s sand in Peter’s eyes, in his cuts. It mixes with his blood and adds to the ache, stinging and burning every inch of his skin like fire.

It hurts, but really it’s nothing in comparison to the heaviness in his chest.

I’m going to need the suit back.

Mr. Stark. Toomes. Homecoming.

He’s not exactly sure how he ended up on the cyclone, everything in his recent memory a dark blur. One moment he’s standing in front of Toomes, the last of his energy spent in cleaning up the beach and the next he’s sitting in the sky. The air is colder up here, but he’s too in shock to really feel it. Besides, it doesn’t come close to how cold it had been on the plane.

Before he had crashed it, of course.

Or when Toomes had dropped him in the river.

I lost the internship.

Logically he knows he needs to move, that he needs to go home, but the low-burning fire on the beach distracts him and steals all his attention along with the breath in his chest. He stares and reimagines the impact of the plane hitting the earth, of Toomes slamming him into the sand. The burns on his hands make them tremble and the pain brings tears to his eyes.

If you’re nothing without the suit you shouldn’t have it.

I’m trying to save you!

He wants to go home, crawl under his covers, bury his day deep underground and let it die. To wake up tomorrow and for everything to go back to the way it was.

But he can’t, the prospect impossible.

May is home.

It’ll break her heart.

Nothing will ever be the same again and the deep-rooted sadness that accompanies the realization threatens him to tears.

You smell like garbage.

Ned could help him. Ned can help-

It’s almost enough to spur Peter into action. But then he pictures Ned at homecoming with the rest of the normal kids and a deep pain separate from his physical infirmities cuts through him like a knife.

Like a talon in his chest.

Ned doesn’t deserve it, Peter realizes bitterly, even if he is his guy in the chair. Besides, Peter can barely fathom the energy to move off the cyclone let alone travel all the way to Ned’s house.

He has no phone. He’s out of web shooter fluid.

He’s out of options.

Hey. I just saved your life. Now what do you say?

Thank you.

A low noise of anguish comes out of his throat, surprising him. Through the smoke and the fire he can see Toomes’s legs jutting out in the sand. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t tried to escape.

I’ll kill you and everyone you love. I’ll kill you dead.

Come on Peter. Come on Spider-Man.

A sob rips through him, and out of everything that has happened tonight, it’s what surprises him the most. Tony abandoning him, the warehouse crushing him, getting thrown off a plane, his fight with Toomes- it’s all too much and he can’t breathe-

Lights and sirens coax his eyes open, though the tears in them make it near impossible to see. There’s ambulances and firetrucks and police cruisers.

To clean up the mess he made.

Is everyone okay?

No thanks to you.

He’s too tired to be relieved.

He doesn’t look for Happy’s car.

Sorry doesn’t cut it.

He should go to Ned’s.

Peter tries to move. Can’t. An overwhelming chill infects his body. He feels lightheaded and woozy and somewhere through the cutting numbness he feels his entire body give up on him. It’s deep, bordering on bone dead exhaustion. When he reaches up his fingers to touch at his chest they come away painted red.

Red, like May’s hair.

Red, like Tony’s armour.

Red, like the suit he had lost.

A deep nausea starts at the base of his gut and his vision shifts like a kaleidoscope. Only now does he realize how badly he’s screwed up, how he’s going to bleed out on the cyclone of all places.

He doesn’t have his phone, doesn’t have Karen or Mr. Stark or anybody. For once his inability to ask for help is entirely his own fault. There are no plan b’s, no second chances.

He’s alone.

It’s scary.

Come on Peter. Come on Spider-Man.

A bus was thrown at him, a warehouse dropped on his shoulders. He crashed a plane and fought a man with metal wings. It had taken strength. More than he’s ever had to use in his life.

And where is that strength now?

He doesn’t even have the energy to wipe the tears off his cheeks.

Through depleting vision, he sees blurred figures approach Toomes, the lights of their flashlights hitting his makeshift prison.

It’s over, he thinks, but it’s empty and cold. It doesn’t feel anything like he had hoped it would. And maybe that’s what it means to be a hero- to feel like you lose even when you win.

He wants to go home.

But he can’t.

The beach turns black, his chin lolling down to rest on his chest.

He’s so tired.

-----

Tony hadn’t quite expected to end his night on the beach and especially not surrounded by the burning remnants of his belongings. The plane had sheared an ugly line on the coast, though the damage is admittedly nowhere as catastrophic as it could have been.

Everyone is safe, they had assured him. No casualties.

Regardless Happy is a mess, unable to look him in the eye. Tony tries hard not to be upset at him.

His friend comes up to him now. His face is pale and ashen, the panic in it accentuated by the low light of the ruin around them. Breathless, Happy gestures over his shoulder with his thumb. “We uh- we found something boss. Over here.”

Feet sinking into the sand, Tony stumbles after him. It doesn’t take long for Tony to see their destination, standing straight like a beacon through the destruction. All the valuables on the plane, everything, stacked together neatly. A man is sitting at the base of the pile. The Vulture, Tony realizes darkly.

But it’s not what has the breath stalling in his chest.

It’s the webbing holding everything together.

Peter.

World narrowing and ears ringing, Tony crosses the rest of the distance to stand in front of the criminal. He looks smug, Tony thinks, and a little more than rough around the edges. His clothes smoke on their edges. There’s blood in his hairline and under his nose.

And beside his face, stuck to the mess, a note from Spider-Man.

P.S. Sorry about the plane.

“Where is he?” Tony asks, his fingers curling involuntarily into fists. The rational part of his mind is telling him to calm down, because Peter wouldn’t have been able to clean up the beach if he were dead.

He’s okay. He has to be okay.

Toomes smiles crookedly at him, reflecting behind it some foreign aspect of loss beyond the visible world. Tony has seen it hundreds of times, feels the weight behind it. “Pedro?” Toomes asks lightly, and Tony’s blood turns to ice. “Dead, hopefully.”

Happy holds him back from slamming his fist into Toomes’s teeth, though his own face reddens with anger. “You know who he is,” Tony says instead, accusatory to cover the fear creating a sinkhole in his chest. “How?”

Smirk unfailing, Toomes shrugs as if he hadn’t just been beat by a fifteen year old kid. “He was my daughter’s date to homecoming. Too bad he missed it.”

Happy swears viciously and let’s Tony go, taking a resolved step back. Freed, Tony drops to his knees in the hot sand and wraps his fist around Toomes’s collar. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears. “Listen closely bird man. If you’ve done anything to hurt that boy I swear to God I’ll end you. You’ll never see the light of day again, you hear? Now where the hell is he?”

Toomes doesn’t flinch. Eyes reflecting fire, he returns Tony’s passion in equal measure. “He was the one so hellbent on fighting me. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be his damn babysitter?”

“WHERE IS HE?”

Toomes laughs. Laughs. He spits out blood. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“I’d prefer it.”

Disgusted, Tony releases his grip and stands back. He looks towards the water and wishes he could hear the waves hitting shore instead of the uncomfortable buzz in his ears. “You knew he was fifteen,” Tony says, “and you still did this.”

“You did too. Don’t pretend you’re better than me, Stark.”

It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Something rockhard, something he thought was untouchable, shatters in his chest. It leaves him feeling sick and twisted and he fights the urge to throw up.

What if somebody had died tonight? Different story right? Cause that’s on you.

And if you die, I feel like that’s on me. I don’t need that on my conscience.

“Have fun in jail,” Tony says, but there’s no heat behind it. Because criminal or not, Toomes is right. He’s let Peter down. Big time. He turns to Happy and hopes to the universe that the split in his chest isn’t visible on his face. “Leave him. We gotta find the kid.”

“Better hurry,” Toomes says, coughing against the smoke. Some of his bravo is failing. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he bleeds out within the hour.” It’s said in anger but Tony is familiar enough with facades to know that Toomes has constructed one of his own. He’s worried.

And if Toomes is worried, Tony is three seconds away from a full blown panic attack. He turns away from the scene without another word, holding his breath so it doesn’t leave somewhere he can’t get it back from. Happy stays by his side, matching his strides with precision and hand outstretched should Tony need it.

“I’ve messed up,” Tony says.

“We all have.”

“I have to find him.”

Happy straightens, eyes cutting across the beach. “He could be anywhere by now.”

If his friend says anything else it dies in the sudden roar in his ears. His eyes attach to a speck of blue and red under the lowlights of the amusement park as if the gods themselves have orchestrated the connection. Even from the distance Tony knows without a doubt that it’s Peter.

I tried to tell you about it but you didn’t listen! None of this would’ve happened if you had just listened to me!

If you cared you’d actually be here.

“I see him.” His mouth is numb.

“What?”

“I see the kid.”

“Where?”

“Oh God. I need a suit.”

“Tony calm down-”

“I need a suit!”

And they’re running.

----

Peter is prodded back to existence by something warm on his shoulder. A faint murmur registers in the back of his mind, like TV static or hearing someone talking from a different room.

So tired.

“Kid? Peter?”

The surface is painful, he decides, so he sinks further.

“Parker! Open your eyes right now. That’s an order, you hear me?”

The voice is familiar. He wants to listen. He tries, but his eyes stick as if fused together with cement.

Cement. The warehouse. Thousands of pounds crushing him, making it impossible to breathe-

He gasps, his body jerking involuntarily with the movement. It makes every ache and pain in his chest triple and he can’t breathe and he can’t move and he’s being crushed. It’s cold. He sees nothing but sky and loses his grip.

And then he’s falling.

The ground rushes up to meet him in a disorienting blur and it’s only then he remembers. Toomes. The beach. The cyclone. The fact that he’s out of web fluid.

He doesn’t have the time or energy to scream before his descent is halted, the warmth from before attaching itself around his biceps and lowering him gently to the ground. Peter collapses against it, grateful, and looks up to his rescuer.

An Iron Man suit, the eyes blank and angry.

Sorry doesn’t cut it.

Something heavy rolls through him and he scrambles back, his breathing ratcheting up like clockwork. The blood on his hands leave marks on the pavement. “Mr- Mr. Stark. Oh man. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry-”

Tony emerges from the suit and it’s him, really him. Just like after the ferry. It’s surprising enough to stop his backward scramble and stare at the worried lines in Tony’s face, in the transparent fear in his eyes. He rushes to close the distance Peter had made between them, squatting down close. “Kid?” he asks, his tone thick with something foreign.

He should be angry. He’s supposed to be angry. Why doesn’t he look angry?

“I’m sorry,” Peter says again, blinking slowly.

“Don’t be sorry,” Tony says. Behind him, a sleek black car pulls up. Happy exits from the driver’s seat and Peter forgets how to breathe again.

Is everyone safe?

No thanks to you.

No thanks to me?

“I messed everything up,” Peter murmurs, backing away further until his back hits something cold and metal. “Oh man. Your- your plane. I’m so sorry.”

Everything blurs again. Distantly he’s aware of Tony approaching him but Peter must make a noise because he stops short.

“You’re hurt,” Tony says, something like pleading in his voice.

“No. I- I’m fine.”

“No, Peter. You’re not.”

I was the only one who believed in you. Everyone else said I was crazy to recruit a fourteen year old kid.

I’m fifteen-

No. This is where you zip it! The adult is talking.

“I said- I said I’m fine.” As if to prove it, Peter struggles to his feet because he doesn’t need their help. Tony walked away. Happy ignored him.

These are the facts.

Standing is harder than he anticipates and he can’t help but cry out against the new pain it brings, swaying when it makes him dizzy. Something warm trickles down from his chest and back. He sees double. “I’m okay,” he pants, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not fine!” Tony yells.

Peter flinches.

Tony does too.

He wants Ned. He wants May. He wants everything to be okay.

It’s not working out. I’m going to need the suit back.

“I gotta go,” Peter mumbles, but the world is dissolving. He tries to walk away, to show them that he’s as independent as they want him to be. “I gotta go home.”

He doesn’t even make it two steps.

Tony catches him when he falls and Peter doesn’t have the control or strength to push him away.

I just wanted to be like you.

And I wanted you to be better.

“Help me get him to the car.”

And like a mountain of cement crashing down over his head, everything turns dark.

-----

Peter collapsing chalks up to be one of the most terrifying experiences of Tony’s life. It’s worse than when he had fallen off the cyclone just minutes before, worse than finding Peter strung up between a divided ferry.

He catches the kid before his head hits the ground and promises himself that from here on out, it’s a permanent part of his job description.

Together they manage to haul Peter into the back of the car. Tony crawls in beside him and brings Peter’s head onto his lap, pressing shaking hands down against the worst of the bleeding. Happy scrambles to the driver’s seat, tires kicking up smoke as they peel out of the lot.

Peter looks terrible.

He looks dead.

Pale and bloody, his eyelids bruised and tear tracks cutting through the ash and grime on his cheeks. He’s wearing his original suit. Pajamas, as he had first referred to them as. They’re ripped to shreds, charred and stained with crimson.

I’m going to need the suit back.

Tony’s hands are red. He did this.

“Drive faster,” he says.

“I am.”

“Driver faster!”

“Tony-”

“Just do it.”

Peter’s head lolls with the movement of the car. He looks small and weak and fragile. He looks exactly how Tony never wanted to see him.

He should be at homecoming dancing with his friends. Not here, not hurt.

Your fault, his mind screams at him. This is on you.

“How much farther to the Tower?” he asks, throat constricting.

Happy’s sympathetic eyes find him in the rearview mirror. “The Tower’s empty, remember? We’re going to the hospital. Ten minutes tops.”

Christ. Of course it’s empty.

Because he left. He walked away and took Peter’s only protection with him.

Your fault. All your damn fault-

“Make it five.”

Peter moans, scrunches his eyes before opening them. Tony pats his cheek lightly in hopes to rouse him further. “Underoos?” he prompts. “You back with us?”

Cloudy eyes meet his own but don’t connect.

“M’ St’k?”

“Y-yeah kid. You’re going to be okay.”

Peter’s breath hitches, speeding up. “I’m sorry,” he whispers in anguish. “‘M so s’ry.”

“Peter don’t-”

“Wanted to be better,” he slurs. Weak and uncoordinated fingers latch onto Tony’s sleeve, leaving smudges of red. “‘M sorry. Wanted to be better.”

Happy stiffens. Tony forgets how to breathe.

“It hurts Mr. Stark.”

He’s out of his depth, drowning in the deep end.

“Comfort him!” Happy snaps from the driver’s seat.

Tony feels dizzy. He pats Peter’s head once, twice. More blood transfers onto his palm. “It’ll be okay bud. We’re getting you help. It’ll stop hurting soon I promise.”

Peter closes his eyes. “W’nted to be better.”

Happy accelerates.

----

Happy Hogan’s defenses are crumbling.

Cracking, tumbling, like Humpty Dumpty on his goddamn wall.

Because it’s Peter, and it’s the plane, and none of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t been such an idiot.

Everything after pulling up to the hospital is a blur. He remembers parking behind an ambulance, remembers his hands shaking too badly to twist the key out of the ignition. He remembers Peter tucked against Tony’s side in the back seat, dead quiet as Tony hyperventilates.

“He’s- he’s not waking up Hap.”

“He’s going to be fine.”

“He’s- he’s-”

“Breathe Tony.”

And then they’re inside, carrying Peter between them like a ragdoll. He doesn’t make a sound, lax and broken and it’s all his fault.

It doesn’t take long before Peter is scooped up by a team of doctors. The loss of the kid’s weight leaves Happy feeling cold. He stands in the middle of the hall and watches as Tony follows the staff pushing Peter along on a stretcher. Even from his position he can hear Tony talking frantically about NDAs and giving Peter the best treatment they’ve ever given anyone in their entire careers or so help them-

Eventually Tony can’t go any further. He stops at the swing of a double door, his palm resting on the glass as Peter is whisked away.

The hand curls into a fist.

Crimson smears under the movement.

Happy finds the strength to move. One step, two, until he’s at Tony’s side. He’s scared to touch him, to break something else, but finally works up the courage to lay and hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s sit down,” is all he can manage.

Tony doesn’t say anything, looking nearly as pale as the kid had been. He allows Happy to steer him into the waiting room and flips off other visitors as they gasp and stare. They find a quiet corner and sink into separate chairs.

They don’t speak for an hour.

Cho finds them at the tail end of the time. Happy is surprised to see her and figures somewhere in this whole mess Tony reached out to her. Her hair is windblown and her eyes are wide and alert, ready to jump in and intervene.

“Where did they take him?” is all she asks.

Tony moves for the first time, pointing towards the doors of surgery.

As quick as she had appeared, Cho is gone.

“Damn it,” Tony whispers, sinking low into his chair. The blood on his hands is dry now, flaking off his skin when he reaches up to rub tiredly at his face. It’s only now that Happy realizes his own hands have Peter’s blood on them too.

“It’s not your fault,” Happy says. The walls are closing in, the temperature seeming to increase by ten degrees.

“It is my fault. I dragged him to Germany. I gave him a suit, I gave him protection, and then I just yanked it all out from under his feet. I didn’t even have the guts to wait and see if he stuck the landing.”

Happy swallows. “Peter is stubborn. We both know that. You did the right thing-”

Tony shakes his head violently, throwing up a hand to cut him off. “No, no. You don’t understand. That kid is fifteen years old!”

“I know, Tony.”

“He should be at homecoming with his friends right now.”

“I know.”

“He’s bleeding out in a set of glorified pajamas because I was too scared to trust him.”

“We’ve all made mistakes here.”

Tony is quiet, looking at him with red rimmed and bloodshot eyes. “He’s just a kid, Hap. He didn’t even call for help. He doesn’t- he doesn’t trust me anymore. And he still saved all my crap. Do you know how much damage that stuff would have caused in the wrong hands?”

Yes. Stomach sinking, Happy looks to the doors Peter had disappeared through. He wishes for the kid to come cartwheeling out in his usual energy, in one piece and alive. Bragging about churros and bike robberies and Star Wars-

“Happy?”

Tony’s voice is disant.

“Happy.”

“What?” His throat is dry.

“What are you not telling me?”

Pretending not to feel the blood on his hands, Happy shifts uncomfortably in the cheap hospital chair. “I was stressed about the move,” he says slowly, “and you know what the kid’s been like. Calling and texting about every little thing since Germany.”

Tony is silent, the tension between them thick enough to cut.

“His friend called tonight. Before the plane went down. To warn me, I’m sure.”

“And?” Tony prompts, but the tone of his voice tells Happy he already knows the answer.

“I didn’t hear him out. I hung up. It’s my fault Peter had to do this alone.”

Keeping his focus anywhere but Tony is easy but it doesn’t save him from the reaction. He hears a sharp intake of breath, a muted curse. Tony stands, towering above him. He walks away, disappears, and for a moment Happy thinks it’s over. He hangs his head between his knees.

Then Tony’s shoes come into his field of vision. “We all made mistakes here,” he says.

And that’s it.

Tony sits back down and Happy holds his breath until Cho comes back through the doors. She approaches them quickly, her face completely neutral.

She looks at Tony and Tony alone, his face pained enough to know it must be the priority.

“Is he-?”

“He’ll be fine.”

Tony sags against the chair and covers his eyes with his hands, gasping for breath as if emerging from deep water. Cho waits patiently for Tony to collect himself and it gives Happy equal opportunity to blink the relief out of his eyes.

He’ll be fine. He’s okay.

“Thank you,” Tony says, his voice cracking on the end. “Oh God. Thank you.”

Cho’s expression turns into something gentle, her voice even more so. “He’s young,” she says.

“I know.”

“He sustained a lot of injuries. And though he’ll heal fine on the surface,” she pauses, taking a step closer, “just remember that there are wounds that you can’t see.”

Tony straightens, jaw setting.

It feels like a mantle being set.

“I’ll make sure he’s okay,” Tony promises.

“Good.” Cho stands straight and pulls the clipboard that had been hanging at her hip in front of her. “Before I let you see him, there’s something I think we should discuss.”

Happy holds his breath again. It sits heavy in his chest.

“What?”

“Peter received a variance of injuries. Puncture marks, burns, a concussion, a fractured wrist, multiple bruises and lacerations, the list goes on. All seem to coincide with the plane crash and following fight with Adrian Toomes.”

Tony stiffens, his fingernails splitting the wooden armrests of his chair. “And?”

Cho shuffles on her feet. Happy has never seen her nervous, but she looks it now. “There was something else too,” she says. “Deep bruising around his torso with several of his ribs fractured or broken. I believe something else happened to Peter, perhaps before he got on the plane.”

Happy clears his throat, finally finding the energy to enter the conversation. Tony is sheet white, eyes blank and unblinking. “What’s your best guess?”

Sympathetic, Cho dips her head. “In my best opinion, I would say he was crushed under something with a substantial amount of weight, probably for an extended period of time. There was concrete dust all over his clothes.”

Tony sucks in a shallow breath and doesn’t release it.

“But of course it’s all hypothetical. We won’t know anything for certain until he wakes up.”

“Which will be when?” Happy asks.

“With his metabolism I can’t be sure. Most likely within a couple hours.”

“Can I see him?” Tony asks, voice small.

“Of course. Follow me.”

Tony stands and doesn’t ask for Happy to follow.

He figures he deserves it.

So he sits alone, staring at the ceiling and wishing with every inch of his soul that he hadn’t hung up his phone.

----

Tony sits in the small hospital room.

It feels like failure.

It feels like relief.

Peter is small against the sheets and blankets, the tubes and wires. He’s pale and marred with dark bruising but at least he’s not covered in blood anymore.

He never wants to see Peter covered in blood again.

The kid doesn’t stir and Tony almost wishes that he’ll stay that way, that he won’t have to face reality and fess up to his sins; that Peter will remain safe and whole and better off without him interfering.

After a long hour of collecting himself, he calls May and asks if he can take Peter to an impromptu conference for the weekend. She sounds uncertain but ultimately caves, telling Tony to have Peter call her when they get here.

He thanks her and tries above everything else to keep his voice steady.

Hangs up and stares at the phone in his hand.

Hears the machines breathing air into Peter’s nose.

Hears other machines tracking his heart, reassuring it’s still beating.

He lays his head onto the bed and cries bitterly.

It’s quiet. His chest constricts.

Your fault.

He isn’t sure when he stops. He’s exhausted.

The heart monitor changes. The blankets shift.

“M’ St’k?”

The voice alleviates some of the pain in his chest. Slowly Tony raises his head, feeling slightly embarrassed the kid has found him hanging over him like some mother hen. He covers it with a smile and hopes it conveys a confidence he doesn’t feel. “Hi kid. How’re you feeling?”

Peter’s breath hitches. He looks up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, bottom lip trembling. “The roof,” he slurs, “‘s it gonna fall?”

Confused, Tony looks up. “What?”

Becoming more agitated, Peter grabs Tony’s wrist. The contact burns, makes acid rise up through his stomach. “Gonna fall. We gotta- gotta leave.”

Tony shakes his head but feels otherwise frozen. His mind is working double time trying to process that Peter’s hand is latching onto him, looking at him in a way that signals the difference between life and death. “The roof’s not going to fall,” he says. “You’re okay. Everything’s okay now.”

Unconvinced, Peter lays his head back and squeezes his eyes closed, his grip on Tony unfailing. “No. Falling. Hur’s.”

“I’m so sorry kid.”

“Plane fell too. Plane. Fire.”

“Peter-”

The kid’s eyes grow wide, impossibly so. There’s no coherence behind them, only drugs and pain and fear. “Mr. Stark. My- my parents died in a plane crash.”

Tony feels his eyes sting, his throat tighten.

“Thought I was goin’ die. See them.”

Words are impossible.

“Hurts.”

And then Peter relaxes, closes his eyes, goes limp against the covers with a low whine. His hand is still curled tight around Tony’s wrist. He stares and stares and stares.

Then he pulls it away, stumbles to the trash can in the corner of the room, and throws up.

-----

The next time Peter wakes up he’s more lucid, but barely.

“May?” he breathes, his face pinched in pain.

“I handled it,” Tony says.

“The plane?”

“Everything accounted for and safe. All thanks to you.”

Deep breaths. “Happy?”

A sharp pain. “He’s okay, Peter.”

A tear. “Liz?”

“Who’s Liz?”

But Peter doesn’t answer, his eyes closing against another dose of drugs.

The pain leaves his face in an instant.

----

Thirteen hours later and Peter is eating jello, eyes drooping and paler than Count Dracula. Tony sits in the corner, quiet and unsure, unable to stop watching his every move. He catches the kid throwing him hesitant looks and tries not to think of the implications behind it.

“You can go,” Peter says after his jello is gone, setting the empty container aside. “I know- I know you're busy.”

Every inch of Tony’s body goes cold. “I’m staying right here until you're better.”

“I feel better.”

“I’ll let Cho be the judge of that.”

Peter sighs and sticks out his bottom lip. “Fine.”

None of this would have happened if you had just listened to me!

“You should get some more rest.”

“Alright Mr. Stark.”

Something in the kid’s eyes is dark and sad.

And Tony isn’t brave enough to address it.

-----

Tony doesn’t sleep.

Peter does. A lot, though largely in part to the drugs still being pumped through him. It should be a peaceful sleep. God knows he deserves it.

But he twitches and flinches.

Whimpers.

Cries and wakes up gasping.

Tony sits by Peter’s side like a guard dog and talks to him after each episode until he falls back into a restless sleep. He looks at Peter’s bruised hand and is tempted to hold it like his own father never had, to assure in extra measure that everything is going to be okay.

But he doesn’t, wishing instead he were strong enough.

Peter doesn’t reach out for him either.

“It’s okay,” he says, feeling powerless and unsure if Peter can hear him half the time through a panic undesigned for fifteen year old kids. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

It helps a little. Peter apologizes over and over, and Tony tells him not to.

“I wanted to be better,” is the core of Peter’s delirium.

It feels like a knife to the gut.

-----

Sleep is difficult, a plague of concrete dust and sand.

Of not being able to breathe.

Of hitting the ground so hard he thinks for sure all his teeth rattle out of his skull.

He dreams about Mr. Stark standing in front of him, telling him he doesn’t deserve the suit. Of walking home in Hello Kitty pajamas.

He dreams of Toomes pulling a gun on him in his car.

Of the ringing in his ears after the plane had hit the ground.

Darkness. Dust.

It’s not working out. I’m going to need the suit back.

An impossible weight landing on him, grinding him to dust.

Help! Please! I’m down here. I can’t move!

I’ll kill you and everyone you love. I’ll kill you dead.

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe-

“Peter!”

The darkness changes, shifting to a light glow. It’s an unfamiliar room with unfamiliar sounds and smells. A heartbeat, loud and erratic.

“Peter it’s okay. Wake up. You’re safe.”

“Wha-”

He gasps for air, certain there’s none despite the pressure of an oxygen tube against his nose. He claws at his chest and feels the distant sting of cuts.

“Peter you gotta breathe.”

It’s Tony. His face swims in front of Peter, looking just as panicked as Peter feels. Why is Tony here? Where is here-

“Breathe, bud. Listen to me, okay? Use those freaky spider powers to listen to me breathe.”

“Mr. Stark-”

“It’s okay. You can do it.” Peter flinches when Tony grabs his hand. He brings it flush against his chest, rising and falling in exaggeration. “Follow this, okay? You can do it kid.”

He tries.

After a while, he succeeds.

Air has never felt so good.

Peter falls back against his pillows but Tony doesn’t let go. He feels exhausted, chest and ribs burning, his mind foggy. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles through numb lips. “What- what happened?”

Tony’s grip tightens. “You were panicking.”

“Oh.” Something in Tony’s expression tells him that it might not have been the first time.

“How are you feeling now?”

Peter shrugs, eyes fluttering but remaining open. Everything comes rushing back to him now. Toomes, falling off the cyclone, being brought here. Tony, for some reason, refusing to leave his side and bringing him jello. “Mm. Tired. Sore.”

“Do you- do you want to talk about it?”

No.

He shrugs.

Tony is quiet for a long time. “I’m really sorry Peter,” he says. His voice is different, heavy in a way Peter has never heard before. “I should’ve never let this happen.”

The pain returns to his chest and Peter smiles in an attempt to dispel it. He tries for humour, a language they both share. “I’m the one that screwed the pooch, remember?”

Tony stills.

“Peter look at me.”

He does.

“You definitely did screw the pooch,” he agrees, “at the ferry. But nothing after, you hear? That was- that was all on me. I screwed the pooch too.”

Peter furrows his brows, shimmying up his stance against the pillows. It hurts, but this is more important. “What? You did nothing wrong.”

“I took away the thing I specifically designed to keep you safe. We didn’t listen to you. We let you go through that alone. You should’ve been at homecoming, Pete. You shouldn’t have had to go through what you did.”

“Toomes was my date’s dad,” Peter admits, then laughs hysterically. It really is funny. “He pulled a gun on me in the car and then-” his mouth goes sour.

Tony’s eyebrows raise. He isn’t smiling. “A gun? Peter- God. Then what?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

Peter sighs. Closes his eyes. Wishes none of this ever happened.

“He kind of dropped a warehouse on me. But it really wasn’t a big deal, I promise! I got out before he got to the plane and everything was fine-”

“Fine?” Tony chokes. “Peter Parker that is so astronomically far from fine!”

To his left, Peter hears his heart monitor double. Tony must notice it too because he visibly relaxes, though a vein pulses at his temple.

“It was scary,” Peter admits, “I- I couldn’t move at first, or breathe. I thought I was going to die.” He pauses, eyes widening, because it’s true. He shakes his head to make the faint ringing in his ears leave. “It’s okay. I got through it.”

Tony’s heart is beating rapidly. Peter can hear it. He doesn’t have the strength to look at the expression on his mentor’s face. “Is that what you dreamt about earlier?” he asks quietly.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

Peter lets his shoulders fall. He picks at a string on his comforter. “Yeah,” he says softly, “it was part of it.”

Tony curses, shifts away. It feels like a gaping distance that Peter doesn’t know how to bridge. “I never should’ve taken the suit away. Your AI would have alerted me. I could have helped.”

If you’re nothing without the suit, you shouldn’t have it.

“I get why you did. I was being irresponsible. All those people on the ferry could’ve died. I get it Mr. Stark, really.”

Tony is quiet. “If we hadn’t found you at the beach-”

“You did though,” Peter assures, even though his voice cracks. “Everything’s okay.”

But it’s not. It’s really, really not.

Tony collapses. Peter thinks he isn’t going to say anything more on the matter. Then, “I’m sorry.”

Tears well up in Peter’s eyes. “I’m sorry too.”

And then Peter is sobbing. He can’t help it. Everything since the ferry crashes over him, drowning him. He tightens his hand over his mouth and tries to hold in the noise, turns away from Tony who is sitting shell-shocked in his chair.

“I’m sorry,” Peter gasps between sobs, “I’m sorry-”

And then Tony is hugging him.

That’s not a hug. I’m just grabbing the door for you. We’re not there yet.

And it makes him cry harder.

“You’re okay,” Tony says into his hair. Confident this time. Sure. “Breathe, Pete. Things will get better. I promise you.”

“It was all so scary,” Peter whispers. For the first time it doesn’t feel like weakness. “The- the warehouse. The plane. I thought- I thought it was going to hit the city. And- and Toomes. He said he was- he said he was going to kill everyone I loved and it was- it was so scary Mr. Stark.”

“You’re allowed to be scared. Hell, I was scared too.”

Peter regains control over his breathing and manages to hug Tony back. They stay like that for a while before separating.

Peter pretends not to notice the shine in Tony’s eyes, too.

“I didn’t know Iron Man was scared of anything,” he says, only partly serious.

“Well there’s not much,” Tony agrees.

And then he laughs.

And Peter laughs too. It’s stilted and disbelieving and relieved.

“No more sorrys,” Peter begs between breaths. “Okay? We’re even.”

“Deal.”

They sit in a short silence. Warmth enters the room.

“You deserve the suit,” Tony says. “I mean it kid. You did good. You did the right thing. You deserve it.”

“Mr. Stark-”

“Nope. Don’t want to hear it. My decision is final. If you proved anything tonight it’s that you’re meant to be Spider-Man. It’s who you are, kid. I’m not going to stop you from that.”

The warmth from the room moves into Peter’s chest. He stays perfectly still to prevent disturbing it. “Thanks,” he whispers, because it’s all he can manage.

“Help me upgrade it,” Tony says. It’s an invitation, but it sounds more like a plea. “Come over to the compound on the weekends. I’ll show you the mechanics of it. We can work on it together.”

“What? Are- are you sure?”

“More than anything.”

Peter smiles as the aches and pains in his body seem to disappear. “I’d really like that,” he says.

If you cared you’d actually be here.

And he is, Peter realizes. Maybe he had been all along.

He’s here. And for now, it’s enough.

-----

A month passes.

It’s one of the best in Tony’s life.

Peter heals and springs back like an elastic band. He smiles and talks enthusiastically about Star Wars and May and acing algebra tests.

His scars fade. He talks to Tony on the bad days when it hurts to breathe.

He gets help.

They’re together now, squished side by side to peer into a magnifying glass. Peter’s leg is bouncing, lips pressed into a determined line as he tinkers with the mask under the table. “Like this?” he asks.

Tony nods, though he doesn’t look. He already knows the kid is doing it perfectly. “Just like that.”

It hits him then, how much the kid means to him.

Though really he knew from the very first day. From the first second.

“Kid?”

Peter looks up, his concentration slipping into an easy smile. “Yeah?”

It looks like trust, like family.

“I’m just proud is all,” Tony says quickly. It’s important. “I wanted you to know that.”

“Oh,” Peter says, pink coloring his cheeks. “Thanks Mr. Stark.”

“It’s Tony, kid.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Stark.”

God. This child will be the death of me. He rolls his eyes and ruffles Peter’s hair, an odd display of affection he never would have thought himself capable of. “Fine, have it your way Mr. Parker. Now get back to work already.”

“Yes sir.” His smile is wider than Tony’s ever seen it.

The kid.

Peter.

He could live a lifetime of this, he thinks in content.

And maybe, just maybe, he will.

47 notes · View notes

ariadnelives · 6 years ago

Text

Chapter 7 -- The Nightmare

[Missed earlier chapters? Go catch up here! Otherwise, welcome back! Oh, and make sure to join our discord server! Chapter can also be found @ ao3]

“I hate this lady so much,” Pilar practically snarled as she adjusted the ship's course. “Was she ever young, do you think?”

“Nah,” Ariadne said from the passenger seat, trying in vain to get a spoon to stick to her nose, “I feel like she's probably been an unpleasant old crone forever.”

“She was probably already on Calisto when they got there and they just built the bio-dome around her stupid rocking chair.”

The Jovian moon Calisto was now within visual range, and the rest of the viewport was filled with yellow and orange swirls. No matter how many operations they ran through the colonial moons, they never quite got used to the scale of a gas giant. Jupiter and Saturn took their breath away every time they looked at them. Something primal and hard-coded into their DNA told them that this was not something they were meant to see, and yet, here they were, a stone's throw from Jupiter.

The ship pulled closer to Calisto and Ariadne abandoned her spoon effort to pull out fake IDs to get into the bio-dome.

They got into the dome without incident, found a small garage to park in, and gave an almost comically large tip to the downtrodden-looking lot attendant.

La Pesadilla's high-rise apartment was at the top of a building whose elevator was constantly broken. While a woman of her means would be able to have it fixed, she liked that it was broken because it meant anyone who wanted to visit her would have to take the stairs.

Ariadne quickly repaired the electromagnets, actually making the elevator much faster than it was before it had broken, and wrote “HA” on the “Out of Order” sign. They were at her door in seconds.

La Pesadilla answered and, like Jupiter, her appearance never ceased to shock Ariadne and Pilar. At a glance, one might guess she was 90 years old. Her skin was eerily reminiscent to a well-worn catcher's mitt both in texture and coloration. Her expression was about as friendly as a large-mouth grouper, and under her tattered bathrobe was an inexplicable t-shirt depicting what appeared to be a zebra wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigar. Whether she wore pants under the bathrobe was up for speculation.

She walked with a cane, even though she did not need one, simply because she liked to jab it at people when speaking.

“You didn't fix my elevator, did you?” she more snarled than said.

“Nope,” Ariadne lied.

“Good, I like it broken,” La Pesadilla grumbled, “makes it harder for people to drop by and ask me favors.”

There was a moment of silence in the hall as Pilar and Ariadne struggled to find the words to respond to this statement.

“Well, come in if you're coming in,” she said, gesturing into the apartment with her cane, “I pay to air condition the inside of the apartment, not the hallway. Every second this door is open is a waste of my money.”

Ariadne and Spacebreather, still at a loss for response, stepped into La Pesadilla's apartment.

The place was decorated like a family-style restaurant, which is to say, the walls were covered with hundreds of curios, oddities, and other units of nonsense which begged the question, “what exactly is the difference between vintage collectibles and old garbage?”

Two other women sat on an overstuffed couch in the corner, their focus divided between small information terminals affixed to the armrests and a holographic table at the center of the room playing an old rerun of Val Deimos, P.I. at an almost obscenely loud volume.

“Balotelli's cheating on his wife again,” said the one on the left, a relaxed-looking black woman of approximately 70 with wraparound sunglasses (worn indoors for reasons that were known only to her) and a blue-and-purple sweater knitted to look like a particularly starry galaxy that Ariadne thought might be subtly swirling and twinkling. “How much do you think he'll pay us to keep it under wraps this time?”

“No dice,” replied the one on the right, a strong-jawed white woman of perhaps 65, wearing a tank top, cargo pants, and combat boots with an iron-gray buzz cut. With one hand, she rapidly tapped on her terminal. With the other, she repeatedly lifted a rather heavy hand weight. She did not seem to break eye contact at any point with the flickering rerun streaming on the surface of the coffee table. “His wife knows. Hired a private dick to tail them last week. Tried to have 'em whacked but lost her nerve at the last second.”

“Do we have the records?” Galaxy-sweater asked.

“I have the contract here,” Tank-top replied.

“We double down. He's up for reelection in May, and I'm sure neither of them wants the scandal breaking in April. Probably pay a pretty penny to keep it under wraps.”

“Sex, betrayal, and intrigue?” Tank-top asked. “This sounds like a pretty valuable story. It'd be a shame if some reporter outbid them for it.”

“Oh my god,” Ariadne cut in, “do you always talk in clichéd banter or is this for our benefit?”

Tank-top stopped her arm curls for half a second and then continued. Galaxy-sweater raised an eyebrow at her.

“Who's this lunchbox?” Galaxy-sweater asked in a derisive way that seemed to be second nature to mean old ladies and made even the most baffling of insults seem to make sense.

“This is that brat I was telling you about,” La Pesadilla growled.

Tank-top did not look away from her television program. “The one who always fixes the elevator?”

“I think so,” La Pesadilla grumbled. She wandered into the kitchen but continued speaking, incrementally increasing the volume of her voice so she could still be heard. “Her name starts with an A, and her wife here is named after … I don't know, some kind of rice dish.”

Pilar pondered this for a moment and resolved to ask Cookie about it later on.

“Shoot, hope that elevator is fixed.” Galaxy-sweater smiled, “I got bad knees and shit to do.”

La Pesadilla returned with two brightly colored plastic cups, filled with a cloudy yellow substance. She practically shoved these into the hands of her guests with a grunt.

“What do… what is…” Ariadne was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. She was barely reaching adulthood herself and she still had very little experience in the department of respecting her elders. She suspected that perhaps sixty percent of the people in the room were not acting as they should, but she was unsure of where she fell in that ratio.

“It's lemonade.” La Pesadilla removed a smallish disc-shaped tin from her bathrobe pocket, pulled out a handful of leaves, jammed them into her cheek, and began chewing them. “You're kids, you drink lemonade. You're in my house, I offer you a drink. The elevator's out of order, you take the fucking stairs instead of trying to fix it. There's rules to this sort of thing.”

“I said I didn't fix your elevator,” Ariadne stammered.

“You always say that.” La Pesadilla rolled her eyes. “What do you want? You're talking through our program.” She gestured at the hologram. The show was popular enough that Pilar had seen this particular episode several times with her parents, and since she had not had parents in approximately a decade, it was a safe bet it was not their first viewing.

“You could always pause it while we conduct our business,” Pilar offered in a tone she hoped would come across as helpful. She took a polite sip of her lemonade, which had no ice and seemed to be little more than powdered mix stirred into room-temperature tap water.

“You could've shown up on the hour, like a normal person, so you don't interrupt the last five minutes of my show.” La Pesadilla slumped into an old, heavily-patched recliner, searched for a small metal jar, and spat the leaves out into it. “So, spit it out.”

Galaxy-sweater let out a small “heh” at her phrasing.

“Why do you come here and bother me again?”

Ariadne finally seemed to find her voice. “We're looking for information.”

“Well, you've come to the right place,” Tank-top grunted, somehow still lifting her weight, “we've got all of it.”

“The Red God cult that's formed on Mars in the last year or so. We need to know everything we can about them.”

“What do we get?” La Pesadilla asked. “I mean, you're asking me to do the opposite of my job here. People pay me to keep their secrets. If I tell you about these guys, I ain't got no leverage on 'em, can't charge 'em for my services, feel? If I'm gonna spill the beans, I gotta know it's worth more than keeping my mouth shut.”

“Cut the crap,” Pilar said simply, “money is no object to us, and I think you'll be pleased with the amount we've deposited in your account as an act of good faith.”

La Pesadilla tapped at her display and raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Well, I'll be damned.”

“You'll get the other half when we have our information,” Pilar said.

La Pesadilla looked at Galaxy-sweater and nodded.

“Think we got something on them.” Galaxy-sweater said, tapping away on her own display. “Yeah, their leader's this fancy scientist turned whacked-out bible nut, calls himself the Zealot.”

“Real original nickname,” Tank-top added.

“Got into some real shady shit.” Galaxy-sweater furrowed her brow at the display. “We got our hands on a few black market ledgers about 20 years back, and the shit he was buying? Banned on just about every rock in the system.”

“Why would someone selling illegal goods on the black market keep a ledger of their customers?” Ariadne wondered out loud. Galaxy-sweater looked at her flatly and gestured vaguely at the blackmail operation they were currently sitting in the middle of. Ariadne took a sip of her lemonade. “I see.”

“You said 20 years ago?” Pilar looked confused. “These guys have only been operating for the past year, year and a half.”

“Nah,” La Pesadilla grunted, “they been around longer'n you kids have been alive. The Red God stuff is new. They used to walk around the moons, door to door, saying that the Earth was a New Sodom that was to be destroyed due to its sin and heresy and that the only way to be sure Jesus would spare the rest of the system was to join their church.”

“Or make a donation,” Tank-top said.

“Course, the day they predicted came and went.” Galaxy-sweater chuckled. “The Earth was still there. Then that happened, oh, five or six more times before everyone stopped giving them the time of day.”

“Buncha idjits,” La Pesadilla mumbled, “Jesus don't need our money, and he's got a whole universe to run. He doesn't go around blowing up planets because some people didn't pray right. All he cares about is if you're a good person. He don't even care if you believe in him if you ask me, just live your life best you can and he won't bother you.”

“Like bees?” Galaxy-sweater asked, smirking.

“Exactly, like bees. You don't bother him, he don't bother you.”

Ariadne thought this moralizing was rich coming from a professional blackmailer, and she couldn't help but think she'd been given the same advice about what to do when you encounter a swarm of bees, but she bit her tongue to avoid starting another tangent.

La Pesadilla took a sip from a nearby mug that seemed to be full of red wine. “Anyway, nobody bought his end-is-nigh crock and, last I heard, he was a pretty sick fucker. He bought a bunch of illegal shit and went underground. Nobody heard from them for a while, and they came back with a new god and a shiny new preacher. Little white girl, 'bout your age.”

Ariadne scowled. “Not even close.”

La Pesadilla matched her scowl. “Kid, if we're talking years, I'm easily five of you. You both got all your original teeth? You're the same age, far as I'm concerned.”

“What exactly did he buy?” Pilar attempted to break the tension. She, at times, was confused by Ariadne's talent for locking horns with grumpy older women, but suspected this was a deeper issue than they had time to unpack at the moment.

Galaxy-sweater looked at her screen. “We got three Cortex brand neural implants. Those things were all the rage back in the 90s, companies used to get them for all the employees so memos would go right to their brain.”

Tank-top laughed slightly. “Yeah, but they got banned pretty quick.”

La Pesadilla took another sip of mug-wine. “Security risk… a lot of bosses got caught snooping in their employee's thoughts. There was one big scandal where a manager tried to increase productivity by planting thoughts in his employees heads while they slept. An entire office working 16-hour shifts and sleeping at their desks because their brain was telling them 'if I stop working I'll die, if I ask for overtime I'll die, if I make a mistake I'll die.'”

“Yikes,” Ariadne concluded. “Go on, what else?”

“Blueprints for immersion pod,” Galaxy-sweater explained, “That's a VR capsule that uses the brain's visualization center as a processor to create realistic simulations of pre-programmed scenarios. Originally designed for video gaming, scrapped because every focus tester who attempted to play a children's shoot-em-up game had to be treated for very real PTSD, and made illegal after the prototypes were found being used as training simulators for a radical Earth-based supremacist paramilitary corps.”

“I'm sensing a theme here,” Pilar chimed in.

“Here's where it gets really interesting,” Galaxy-sweater said, pointing at the screen, “he bought up a bunch of medical equipment. Machines for growing and implanting new organs.”

“Shouldn't need that,” Tank-top piped up, still watching her show but seeming to slow down on the weights. “I know he was sick, but if he needed a transplant he could get one at any hospital and be home for supper.”

“Could've been for implanting the Cortex device,” Ariadne suggested.

“Could be,” La Pesadilla said. “We ain't here to speculate, we just give you the information.”

“Aaaaand,” Galaxy-sweater reached the end of her list, “one Quantum Shift Generator. Weird little devices, designed for the Shop-n-Go corporation. They had this idea for expanding to the colonial moons that they could just build a single store interior which all of their storefronts would lead into, that way they could have a dozen stores in a bio-dome but only pay one set of overworked employees.”

“Wonder why that got banned.” Ariadne smirked.

“If you're thinkin' it's some worker's rights whatever, you're wrong,” La Pesadilla grumbled, pouring herself another mug of wine from a bottle that had been conveniently located next to the mug on the table. “It's because all the exterior doors led to the same interior, but they ain't give you the same courtesy on the way out.”

“What she's trying to say,” Tank-top said, placing her weight on the ground and reaching for a nearby bottle of water, “is that people would attempt to leave the store only to find themselves coming out of the wrong one. You could end up 15 miles across town in the 40 seconds it took you to buy an iced tea and a candy bar.”

“Would've made a great public transit system if there was some way to predict which storefront you'd come out of,” Galaxy-sweater offered.

“That's all we've got,” La Pesadilla said. “Where's the rest of my money?”

“Now, hang on,” Galaxy-sweater said, easing herself off the couch, “these girls paid good money and we have got one more thing. Been meaning to get rid of it anyway.”

She ambled over to a bookshelf, grabbed a small, shabby-looking paperback, ripped the back cover clean off, and handed it to Ariadne. “They dropped this in our mailslot back when they were still pretending to be Christian. Got a picture of the Zealot on the back. Might help.”

La Pesadilla jabbed her cane towards the closed door. “Now, get out of my house and put that money in my account.”

Ariadne and Pilar put down their half-finished lemonades, more than glad to not have to finish drinking them, and walked towards the door. As they exited, they heard La Pesadilla mumble, “and so help me if that elevator is working.” The door closed behind them and they immediately heard it lock.

In the elevator ride down to the first floor, Ariadne looked at the laminated cover she'd been handed. The photograph was of a white man, perhaps in his 40s, with squinting, intense eyes, a full but neatly trimmed gray beard, a straight, pointed nose, and a wide-brimmed black hat.

She felt uneasy and turned the book over. Something about him, something she couldn't quite place but knew very few others would see, hit upsettingly close to home. She didn't look at it again for the rest of the trip back.

#core story

15 notes · View notes

ship-ambrosia · 6 years ago

Text

Silverlight (RWBY) - Chapter 2

Chapter 2! This fic literally my life rn besides school...

Link to the fic on AO3: Chapter 1

It wasn’t something she absolutely hated, but she shifted uncomfortably under the gazes bearing into her. Normally, going into bars were nothing to her. Maybe it was because this one was crowded with people she didn’t know. Maybe it’s because she wasn’t searching for her mother this time. Either way she was sure the faster she left, the better. Was it that obvious she didn’t belong here? Did they all think she was going to try to bust them? She was in the heart of the black market, but she wasn’t stupid. Any wrong move and there’d be seven knives and hatchets pressed to her back. Still, she thought it was pretty clear she was a Huntress and that none of them would be stupid enough to go toe-to-toe with her, but she didn’t particularly want to test it. She approached the bartender and sat down on one of the stools, resting both arms on the counter in front of her. Slowly, the older woman standing behind the bar cleaning glasses moved over toward her with an interested expression. The busty, crimson-lipped bartender gave her a once over and her smile appeared more amused as she tucked a loss strand of burgundy hair behind her ear. “Doll, aren’t you a little young to be here?” She asked with a sultry voice. “I get that a lot. Heard this is the heart of the town. Just here to ask something.” “You’ll get an answer depending on what it is you want, sweetie,” there was an ominous, daring tone to the woman’s voice now, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Still, she knew to play coy. “I don’t know why everyone’s so suspicious of me. Just looking for someone selling a bike around here. Working condition, I don’t have time to fix her up.” The bartender looked her up and down once again, some coldness disappearing from her expression. “We’re just not very fond of people who come around carrying themselves as righteous as you do. But if you’re just here for the business, I think I’ve got something for you. Heard there’s a man on the north end of town who’s got his hand on a nearly brand-new motorcycle. No questions asked where he got it, and it’s yours. Provided you can pay.” “I don’t think that’ll be an issue. Thanks for the tip, Miss... uh... sorry, I never caught your name.” “Mathilda,” she answered with a smirk, a sultry gaze fixated on the young Huntress in front of her. “Mathilda Applegate. But don’t go thinkin’ just cuz you’re cute that you can name drop me all over town, sweetheart.” “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she saluted the older woman with two fingers as she got off the barstool. “Thanks for the tip, Mathilda. Hope I see you around!” With that, she took one final look around the bar before pushing the door to the outside back open with a bright yellow arm that caught the bartender’s eye for the first time. “That must be the Branwen Clan’s girl,” the older woman mumbled to herself as the door closed behind the girl with golden hair. Yang blew out a breath as the doors closed behind her, taking a moment to stretch before continuing on with the information the bartender had given her. If there was no bike, she was going to be really freaking pissed. The whole situation made her miss BMBLB more than anything. Though she could hardly say that she regretted the actions that had befallen her beautiful bike - running over a psychotic terrorist who had tormented her best friend for years and had caused her disability was wonderfully therapeutic - she did regret other things that this was reminding her of. Therefore, the faster she got a new ride, the better. Her scroll went off just as she had started her trek to the northern side of lower Mistral. Yang walked with a carefree attitude, but unlocked her Ember Celica just in case anyone thought it would be a good idea to jump her while she was distracted. “Hey sis, what’s up?” “Oh, nothing. Just wanted to check up on you. You’ve been gone for a bit now.” Yang laughed. “Ruby, it’s only been a couple days. I think I’ll be okay.” “I know I know, if anyone would, it’d be you,” her sister replied. “General Ironwood said he wants our ship to Vacuo leaving as soon as possible, though. He doesn’t know we’re only waiting on you.” “I mean, if he’s going to make a big deal about it, you guys can leave and I’ll catch up. Or just a few of you can go.” “You know we don’t want to split up again unless we’re forced to,” Ruby said with a downtrodden expression. Yang felt a sense of nostalgia and guilt twisting in her stomach at that. Though she was perhaps the only member of Team RWBY to pick up and leave everyone behind after what happened at Beacon, Yang knew that mentally, she’d been gone. Ruby had left with Jaune, Ren, and Nora because Yang had not been ready to go with them. “I don’t want to split up unless we have to either,” she mumbled, before her expression became sunny again. “Listen, I think I’ve found a guy. As long as the bike’s in working condition, I’ll be back on the train to Argus by tonight! Doesn’t that sound great?” “Yeah, but Yang...” Ruby squinted her eyes on the small screen. “Where are you?” “In Mistral?” “That doesn’t look anything like when we were there before!” Yang glanced around herself before offering a sheepish smile. “I miiiiight be in the bottom levels of the city... where Qrow told us never to go...” Her sister’s eyes grew wide. “Yang! He told us not to go there because it was dangerous!” “I know, but where else was I gonna get a bike? Besides, I think I’m okay,” The tone of her voice portraying the actual meaning of her words, I don’t think anyone is going to mess with me, and I’m going to leave as soon as I get the bike so that I don’t test it. Ruby sighed. “Okay Yang, just... be careful. Please.” “When have I ever given you a chance to worry?” She offered in a sort of playful tone, watching as her sister’s expression darkened once again. There were plenty of times. Guilt sunk in Yang’s stomach again as she almost found herself sunken back into her memories. Before she could be completely swallowed, however, a sudden commotion behind her caught the blonde brawler’s attention. “Yang? What is it?” Ruby asked, though her sister did not hear her. Yang had put her scroll down to her side as she turned, where she saw a small group of men huddled around an alleyway. As she watched, one of the men raised a gun to the sky and fired off several warning shots. “C’mon kid!” The man was laughing. “If you don’t hand everything you got over, we’ll just have to take it from ya!” “Pretty boy shouldn’t have anything on the bunch of us,” said another within Yang’s line of vision, warming up his fists by hitting them together in a similar manner to her. When he did, she could see sparks from electric dust come off his bracelets. A familiar sensation made its way to the surface from inside her, of hitting thugs where it hurt when she was just starting out fighting. Of dueling her mother’s bandits on her search for Ruby and the others. Of being tricked and lied to, over and over again by people who just didn’t care about others. She remembered looking into the gray eyes of a man who had lied to her, who had used her, who had turned everyone against her and turned into a damn puppet and laughed about it the whole time. She remembered how much she really, really hated that feeling and her eyes went red. Were these guys some slimy Huntsmen? Or just low-lifes who got their hands on Huntsmen weaponry? Yang guessed to the latter, since this was the area of notorious black market deals of Mistral. That’s why she was here, after all. “Yang! YANG!” Ruby was still calling from beside her. She rose her scroll back to her face. Her sister looked concerned. “What’s going on?!” “I’m fine Ruby, but I gotta go! I have to help him!” Yang explained quickly. “Wait, don’t-“ she cut Ruby off by hanging up on her and stuffing her scroll back in her pocket. Taking off by letting out a blast from both her Ember Celica and the gun on her prosthetic arm reminiscent of the old days, Yang went flying at the men laughing and firing intimidation shots into the sky. So much for laying low, echoed in the back of her mind, but as Yang swung her fist at the first asshole she came up on, she remembered that laying low had never really been her style. ~ It had been longer than 24 hours since leaving Salem’s palace, and what a quiet few hours it had been. Mercury wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. In that time he’d bounced between taverns, keeping his ears open as he listened to the mumbling between tavern drunkards and sketchy shopkeeps for any jobs that caught his fancy. He had to start from scratch. He wasn’t going to ride on what he’d done for Salem and Cinder, and the idea of using Marcus for legacy left a bad taste in his mouth. That meant he’d need to take the dirtiest jobs he could find, the ones that not just any assassin would take. He figured becoming a regular mercenary wasn’t a bad idea either, since all he knew was how to fight and he saw no point in limiting himself further. Anything that gave him a new reputation and a neutral place in the world, and made it clear that no one could mess with him. Every voice that triggered a memory made him jump though, every flash of red, green, or gold made him freeze. He was so freaked out at the prospect of being recognized that he hadn’t been able to sleep. This was the life that he was leading now, and he knew he’d have to get used to it. A fake sense of freedom while he ran from everything he had left behind. Mercury was glad he’d remembered his money in his haste to leave Salem’s palace, after getting himself some food and restocking supplies of dust and ammo that he loaded into his greaves. An assassin caught without his weapons was a dead one, though he knew he could overwhelm anyone with his kicks he didn’t want to risk it. Especially with so many people after him. He was just leaving the shop, and glanced up toward the higher levels of Mistral along the side of the mountain when another familiar caught in his ears. It rattled in his head, causing his breath to catch in his throat. “Thanks for the tip, Mathilda!” Called the worst possible voice he could hear right now, even worse than Salem’s. “Hope I see you around!” Mercury whipped around, looking for the source of the voice. Had he imagined it? Was he literally so paranoid at this point that he was hallucinating? If he was going insane though, he could handle that. Anything was better than actually running into anyone. Than running into her. But then the flash of gold caught his eye. There she stood, a hand on her forehead to block the sun from her eyes as she looked around. Blonde hair just as wild and free as he remembered. Same clothes, with a purple bandana tied around her leg that should’ve given away that it was her. But what really convinced Mercury was the lemon-yellow paint job on her prosthetic arm. He stood, frozen, for some time, staring at her as if he couldn’t believe she was real. He was staring with his mouth agape too, and vaguely saw people giving him odd looks as they passed by. They probably just thought he was perverted or something, which was perfectly fine by him. Anything was better than being spotted by her. What was she doing here? Why was she in Mistral? The last thing he knew about her and the others, they’d been in Atlas. They had already gotten the Relic from Haven - he’d chosen to hide in Mistral over Vacuo for that exact reason. Because he knew they wouldn’t be here. What the hell was she doing here? Mercury finally steadied himself, and backed away slowly. He noticed she had started to walk in the opposite direction with her scroll up to her face, speaking to someone, and he breathed a sigh of relief. This was it, he thought as he watched her form moving further away from him, her golden hair getting swallowed by the crowd of loners and mercenaries. This was his escape from the old life. But you could ask her why. The voice was so sudden, so unexpected, that Mercury looked around himself, expecting someone to have crept up behind him and whispered in his ear. When he found no one, he realized that voice was his. The traitorous Mercury had returned, the one who had kept reminding him of her and her arm before. Before he could even wonder what it was that he wanted to know, it struck him. Before he could even think about what he was doing, Mercury was moving swiftly through the crowd toward. He shouldered people out of his way, just barely holding on to the last he could see of her golden hair. It was as if his feet were moving on his own as he drifted behind her. He couldn’t make out who she was talking to, but he caught some of the words. “-Listen, I think I’ve found a guy. As long as the bike’s in working condition, I’ll be back on the train to Argus by tonight! Doesn’t that sound great?” So she was in Mistral looking for someone, and the rest of the team was in Argus. What were they doing back in Anima though? Had Ozpin directed them there? If so, he was incredibly stupid. Going back to Argus was just as predictable as going to Vacuo. Salem would surely go after them there. At least he knew now to stay as far away from Argus as he possible. “In Mistral?” He heard her ask as he got closer, still keeping distance to prevent her from noticing him and to keep anyone from noticing that he was following her. He had garnered some of his senses by this point, remembering that he needed to be inconspicuous. The question sounded less like an inquiry, however, and more of an effort on Yang’s end to answer whatever the person she was talking to had asked; a coverup, if Mercury had ever seen one. Finally, he made out the voice on the other end of the call, and Mercury ducked into a nearby alley after realizing how close he was to her. “That doesn’t look anything like when we were there before!” Of course it was Little Red, the irritatingly hyper leader of their team and her younger sister. “I miiiiight be in the bottom levels of the city... where Qrow told us never to go...” He heard her sister begin to whine in protest, but Mercury was suddenly knocked to his knees from a blow to the back of his head. Stars covered his vision for a moment from the impact as his entire body was immediately on edge, sense of survival alerting him instantly to a group of people having now surrounded him. In a burst of adrenaline, Mercury whipped his body around so that he had a better angle to defend himself from. He finally shook the stars out of his eyes and faced the group above him. On instinct, he took them all in. Five people, four men and one woman holding what appeared to be a modified falchion. A gunshot went off in his ear, but no pain registered to him. Mercury looked down to his legs, but saw no bullet hole. Instead, the bastard with the gun was just standing there, grinning down at him with the barrel raised to the sky, smoking from his warning shot. “That’s an awful fancy pair of boots you got, sweetie,” the woman with the falchion purred. “Mind if I have a look?” “C’mon kid!” The first man laughed when Mercury didn’t reply. “If you don’t hand everything you got over, we’ll just have to take it from ya!” Mercury geared up into a fighting stance in response, glowering at the thugs from behind his messy gray hair. “Pretty boy shouldn’t have anything on the bunch of us,” spoke one of the other men, who slammed his fists together. The bracelets around his wrists crackled with electric dust, but what really got Mercury was how much that pose reminded him of the girl he’d been tailing. He shook his head though, pushing her to the back of his mind. This wasn’t about her anymore. This was about his survival on the streets. A warning shot, huh? What a group of morons. Mercury lunged forward at the nearest adversary, a third man holding a surprisingly vanilla knife. They were just a bunch of wannabes. They couldn’t hold a candle to the real deal. The knife collided with the armor covering his bicep, and all he could do was smirk at the dumb expression on the man’s face as Mercury swept his feet out from underneath him, and then spun around and nailed him in the cheek with his other boot. As the man went flying, he turned around to face the others. “You should’ve taken the shot and gotten the upper hand on me when you had the chance,” he mocked, lifting his leg into the air and cocking the pistol in his boot. Before he could take his own shot, a deafening, high-pitched yell echoed back from the main street and sent chills down Mercury’s spine. A flash of gold erupted in front of his eyes, brilliant and blinding and the combination of the worst possible thing he could imagine in that moment. Her own gauntlets went off as her fist collided with the man holding the gun, sending him flying in a similar manner to what he’d done to the man with the regular knife. Mercury didn’t really know why, but he froze when he realized she’d come to help him. “Hey, leave him alone you freaks!” Yang exclaimed, before turning her gaze toward where he stood in the middle of the group. “Are you okay ma-“ he watched her eyes grow wide, shock and fury increasing by the second as recognition fell over her. “Mercury?!” Unsurprisingly, she had come to his assistance without knowing it was him. He wondered if she was going to regret that punch in the long run. He sure was. Mercury lifted his chin up in her direction, offering her the same smirk he’d given her when they reunited at Haven Academy. He wasn’t quite sure what was possessing him, but he couldn’t stop smiling. “How’s it going, Blondie?” ~ The wind that whistled through the valley and the cries of the nightmare creatures being birthed of the pools of tar around the castle were the only noises around as Emerald entered Salem’s throne room. She disliked the palace’s grand view very much, especially since Salem had never fixed the shattered glass windows. Her hair whipped around as she stepped forward, getting down on her knees. “You wanted to see me, your Grace?” The witch turned around when she spoke, looking down with indifference toward her pawn. No, at this point Emerald had become at least a Rook. Cinder was the Pawn now. And the loss of one of her Knights greatly displeased Salem. “I did, yes,” she spoke in that soft tone, the one she used when appealing to her conspirators’ needs. “I wanted to talk to you because it has come to my attention that Mercury has left. You two are rather close, aren’t you? Did he tell you where he was going?” Emerald faltered, shifting awkwardly. “No, he didn’t say anything to me. And we aren’t that close,” she looked down toward her feet. “We worked together because we both worked for Cinder. And then, you.” “I can tell when you lie, Emerald,” Salem sounded displeased, but not angry. “You care about him.” “Only because he’s some of the only family I’ve had. You and Cinder are more important to me.” “Good,” Salem’s voice came from right above her now. Emerald hadn’t even realized she had been walking closer to her. “I’m glad to hear you say that. Because I have reason to believe that our poor, dear Mercury left with the intention of running away from our cause.” Her eyes widened at her mistress’s words. “No... no, there’s no way! There’s no way he would walk away from this!” Emerald immediately flinched, years spent with Cinder instantly reminding her that to speak disbelief, to argue even with the older woman’s best interest in mind was inviting punishment. But Salem did nothing. When she looked up toward the witch, Salem was almost looking at her with pity. “I’m very sorry to be the one who tells you this,” there was no sympathy in her voice though. Salem, physically, didn’t have the capacity for such a thing. “But Mercury Black has fled. He not only forfeits his place in my world and the desires I would have gifted him, but he has also forfeited his life. I will not be sending you after him, as I have more important things for you to accomplish and I feel that my Grimm will find him soon enough, but you must understand Emerald... if you were to run into him out in the world of Remnant, you are to kill him.” There was another silent moment of horror as she took in Salem’s orders. She had worked with him, ended up trusting her back to him. He was some of the only family she’d ever had. But at the same time, the news of his abandonment burned an anger within her unlike anything she had ever felt before, even after she believed Cinder had died. When she had been doubting their allegiance, he had scorned her. Insulted her. And he’d constantly made fun of her for caring about Cinder all the while before. Now he had left her alone. Salem was right, she realized bitterly. Mercury was either with them or dead. He didn’t get a choice any other way. Emerald closed her eyes and bowed her head very so slightly. “Of course, your Highness.” Salem stopped at the tone of her voice, turning around toward the young woman with a smile. “Very good.”

#original post by bree #bree writes #silverlight #gauntlets and greaves #gng #liquid gold #disabler #rwby ships #bree ships things #multi chapter #yang x mercury #mercury redemption #mercury black #yang xiao long

21 notes · View notes