#whumptober isn’t meant to be perfect all the time right??

[smilesrobotlover]

Whumptober day 31- emptiness, setbacks, take it easy

Read day 30

Happy Halloween!!! Thank you so much for sticking with me with month! This was a fun challenge and I’m so proud of myself for pushing through it 😊 I hope you guys like this one, it’s kinda mid imo but it’s pretty intense I suppose.

Warnings: stabbing, blood loss, hopelessness, kind of an unhappy ending oops 😬 everything’s fine tho it’s fine

~~~~~~~

Age couldn’t help but hum along with Kass, Benji, and Linebeck’s music. They were playing some of Linebeck’s sea shanties, and it was getting more and more chaotic. Kass and Linebeck were remarkable singers, but Benji was pretty terrible, but they all sung loudly, laughing like maniacs at the end of every song. Age listened to them, laughing along whenever they erupted into laughter after a song. Age’s father walked up to them, looking like a mess and very frustrated.

“What are you all doing?” He asked angrily, a pitchfork resting on his shoulder while his prosthetic arm rested on his hip.

“Singing!” Kass answered, “care to join us?”

“No! I’m too busy working on the farm! No thanks to any of you!”

Benji gave an awkward chuckle but looked away while plucking his guitar. Linebeck gave a sigh and leaned back.

“Ammon, I’m a sailor, not a farmer,” he said, and the others nodded.

“Well I’m a soldier! But I’m still trying to make sure Talon’s farm doesn’t get ruined!” Ammon shouted.

“Man, I don’t get why both Talon and Rusl had to leave the farm,” Benji muttered, continuing to pluck his guitar. “They’re the farmers, we don’t know what we’re doing.”

Ammon sighed. “Talon is understandable, I’m not sure why Rusl left as well, but no matter! It doesn’t mean that you can just sit around lazing the day away!” He shot a look at Age, who sat up straight quickly. “What are you doing?”

“Ah– uh– I’m sorry father, I was just resting,” Age said quickly, and Ammon narrowed his eyes at him.

“Goddesses, what do you want from us Ammon?” Linebeck asked.

“I want some help! This farm work isn’t easy to do!”

Kass stood up, walking over to Ammon who was seething. “Now now, Ammon, tell us what to do and we will try to help. I’m sorry,” Kass said gently, which calmed Ammon down. Age was almost surprised at how calm Kass was in every situation, he was perfect for dealing with Wild’s… well… wild personality.

“Right, right,” Ammon let out a sigh. “I could use help grooming the horses, I’ve milked the cows, but if someone could feed the cuccos and clean the house, that’d be great, and also–”

“LOOK OUT!”

Age’s father was interrupted by Wild, who was chasing a round pig that was sprinting towards the men. They all shot up and moved out of the way as the pig nearly plowed through them, watching it run and stop just outside the ranch.

“Hey, don’t move towards it all at once,” Wild said breathlessly, resting his hands on his knees.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Link,” Kass said, “did that piglet escape?”

“Yeah, and I need to hurry and grab it before the others escape too!”

Linebeck let out a sigh of relief and crossed his arms. “You’ll never catch a pig by chasing it kid, you need to sneak up behind it, and then grab it before it knows what’s going on.”

“Oh great! You can catch it while I keep an eye on the other pigs!” Wild suggested with a smile. Linebeck looked at him in surprise.

“W-what? Noooo no no no my Link was always the pig catcher not me.”

“No, I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Ammon grinned, “Make yourself useful.”

Linebeck frowned then took off his overcoat, throwing it somewhere safe as he hesitantly walked over to the pig.

“Oh I need to watch this,” Benji said, running after the sailor. Age grinned and followed as well as his father grumbled. Linebeck was a good distance away from the pig, crouching down and crawling from behind the pig, being as quiet as possible. Benji snorted and Linebeck shot him a glare, cautiously moving closer to the pig.

“Oy, I thought you guys were going to help with the farm wor–”

“Yeah yeah, after this Ammon, shut up,” Benji interrupted, not taking his eyes off of Linebeck.

Ammon grumbled again, but he stayed with the others as they watched Linebeck. The sailor was close to the pig, and he quickly went to grab it, but it slipped out of his fingers, jumping over his head and onto his back. Linebeck let out a yelp as he went face first into the ground, getting dirt and mud all over himself. The others started laughing as he attempted to wrestle the pig, getting more and more dirty. Finally, he grabbed the pig and held it over his head, panting and glaring at the laughing group.

“Weren’t you guys going to do farm work?” He yelled. He looked at Wild who was still with the group. “Weren’t you going to keep an eye on the pigs?”

Wild scratched the back of his head while Benji snorted laughing. “It’s not my fault you’re so entertaining to watch.”

Linebeck grumbled and marched right past them, heading to the pig pen. “If one of those pigs escaped I’m not catching it!”

They all watched as Linebeck grumbled, and Kass smiled at Wild.

“It’s best to leave him alone while he blows off some steam.”

Wild shrugged. “Well, he can deal with the pigs then, if he’s gonna be such a grump.”

Kass chuckled and Wild’s gaze lingered over to Ammon, who was also watching him blankly. Kass quickly jumped in front of them, blocking off the view.

“Let’s go help with the horses! You like horses don’t you?” He suggested, and Wild agreed, the two walking towards the horses. Age sighed sadly. Ever since Wild met his father, he’d been pretending that he didn’t exist, but there were moments where he watched him for too long, and he would spiral. Thankfully, Kass was helping him through it, but it was very hard on his father. Age gave his father a small smile, who smiled back, but it quickly disappeared.

“Uh, ok, what the heck happened?” Benji asked, plucking his guitar strings. “Why are you and Kass avoiding each other?”

Ammon shook his head. “Me and Kass aren’t avoiding each other, it’s just… Wild.”

“Oh, right, your twin,” Benji looked at Age who shrugged.

“He’s not my twin, we’re… technically the same person.” Age sighed. “It’s hard to explain, but he’s from a timeline where evil won, he’s been asleep for a hundred years and… um…” Age looked at his father who was staring ahead.

“Oh, I get it now,” Benji said softly. Age gave him an awkward smile.

“Yeah…”

It was silent for a long moment until Ammon moved away.

“Let’s finish the chores, alright?” He said softly, and the other two followed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey! Hyrule, can you hear me?”

Hyrule groaned as consciousness began to return to him. He opened his eyes and saw everyone huddled around him, with Windy holding a magic potion.

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely Benji’s kid,” a man next to Twilight chuckled. Hyrule frowned.

“How d’ya know m’ dad?” He said weakly, his words slurring. The man grinned at Time, who was next to a woman with red hair.

“Well he knows his dad, that’s good,” another man he didn’t recognize with a big nose said. “Are ya good to drink this potion, little one?”

Hyrule squinted at Windy who started to uncork the bottle. He nodded and let the others sit him up. He drank the potion carefully, being able to drink it himself as he felt his strength return to him.

“Thank the goddesses you’re doing’ better, Hyrule,” Windy said when he finished the bottle. “We were getting worried about you!”

Hyrule smiled, then looked at the people he didn’t know. “Who are they?” He asked, pointing at all four of them.

“Hyrule, this is my father-in-law Talon, and my wife, Malon,” Time introduced the both of them.

“Huh, Malon and Talon, that’s cute.”

Talon chuckled. “Gotta keep that Lon Lon name, yeah?”

Malon laughed and nodded. Hyrule smiled and looked over at the man who was side hugging Twilight.

“Oh! Hyrule, this is my pa, Rusl.”

Rusl waved at him and Hyrule tilted his head.

“You don’t look like him.”

“I’m adopted.”

Hyrule made an “oh” sound and looked at the serious looking man behind the colors.

“This is our father!” Red introduced him. The man gave a nod at Hyrule.

“The name is Leon.”

“Nice to meet you all,” Hyrule smiled at them, and Windy grabbed his arm, helping him up. “Uh, so you mentioned my dad?”

“Oh yes!” Talon pointed to a ranch in the distance, “He’ll be so happy to see you!”

“Is that where he is?”

“Yep! At Lon Lon ranch! We’re almost there!”

Hyrule nodded. “Now I get the Lon Lon name…”

Time chuckled and nudged him towards the ranch. “C’mon, we don’t want to dawdle now do we? Let’s find your father.”

Hyrule grinned, beginning to register the idea of seeing his father again. He truthfully didn’t know him very well, he was separated from him when he was ten years old, being apart from him for so long that he almost forgot everything about him. He’d only just reunited with him, and though it felt weird calling him father, he still found familiar comfort in him, and he was excited to see him again. He started walking, still feeling weak, but determination to see his father again kept him going. When they reached the entrance, Hyrule jogged towards the horses despite his dizziness, and he looked around, spotting Wild next to a giant bird man.

“WILD!” He yelled out, sprinting towards him, but he felt his legs weaken, and he suddenly started to fall face first into the grass. He let out a yelp, but something caught him and helped him up. He looked at his savior confused, and grinned when he recognized his father, beaming at him.

“Orchid!” he cried, and pulled him into a tight hug. Hyrule buried his face in his neck and melted into the embrace.

“H-hey dad,” he mumbled, his voice wavering. He got a lump in his throat and he blinked back the tears when his dad started running his hand through his curly hair.

“I’m so happy to see you safe, Orchid. Too many times we’ve been separated.”

“Yeah.”

The two held each other for a while until he heard people come up behind him. He saw Wild and the bird man who were smiling.

“Oh my goodness!” The birdman looked at the two. “I can see the family resemblance!”

Benji chuckled and gestured to Kass. “Orchid, this is Kass. Kass, Wild, this is my son, Orchid.”

Wild narrowed his eyes. “‘Orchid’? Is that like… your real name?”

Hyrule nodded shyly, and Wild chuckled.

“Why didn’t you say that when we came up with nicknames? I’m sure it beats ‘Hyrule’.”

Hyrule shrugged. “I don’t know… Um… you have a bird for a dad?”

Wild looked at Kass in shock, and he laughed nervously. “No! No! He’s uh… he’s Kass and he’s a good friend! Has great songs. Can dance really well too.”

It grew silent and they all glanced at each other awkwardly. Time walked up to them and smiled at Wild.

“Wild! You're here! Are the others at the ranch as well?” He asked, with everyone else joining them (and Twilight scolding Hyrule for running off). Wild shook his head.

“Just me and Age.”

“Oh my!” Talon chuckled at the sight of Wild. “You must be Ammon’s kid huh?”

Wild’s smirk faded, and a sense of unease filled the air. Hyrule looked at his dad who had a blank expression on his face, then at Kass who had his wings resting on Wild’s shoulders, who surprisingly looked upset. Talon looked at everyone’s reactions and frowned.

“Was it something I said?”

“No, no Talon you’re alright um,” Kass looked back at the horses he and Wild were taking care of, “let’s finish the job, shall we?”

Wild nodded and ran over to the horses. Hyrule watched, realizing who Ammon is. The group knew about Wild and Age’s situation, but Hyrule always forgot about how serious of a situation it was, and how much it affected Wild. Benji looked at Talon and the others, who all looked concerned.

“It’s complicated, Talon, so don’t worry about it.” Benji looked at Windy and smiled warmly. “So you must be Linebeck’s then, huh?”

Windy’s dark expression lit up. “Yes! Where is he?”

“Over at the pig pen. Careful though, he’s kinda pissed off right now.”

Windy giggled. “When is he not? I’m gonna go find him!” The little sailor turned and sprinted in the wrong direction.

“The pig pen is the other way,” Benji called out to him, and Windy quickly turned around and sprinted in the correct direction. Everyone laughed at him as he ran by, clearly excited to see his own dad. Or at least, Hyrule assumed this Linebeck guy was his dad.

“Well, guys, how about we find Ammon and his kid and make some introductions,” Benji started, eyeing the different Links, “I’ve been dying to meet your guys' kids.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Linebeck finished washing all the mud and dirt off of him, grumbling about the stains on his pale shirt. He put his hair in a ponytail and watched the pigs play around. They seemed to be fine, no risk of another one getting out, but he wasn’t in the mood to see the others. He’d be forced to do farmwork, and he hated farmwork. He grabbed his coat and shook it off, making sure it wasn’t dirty, until one of the pigs gave a desperate squeal and he spun around, looking at it weird.

“What’s wrong with you?”

The pigs started to back away into the corner of the pen and Linebeck frowned.

“What are you pigs doing?”

He knelt down and tilted his head at the pig’s strange behavior, but something cold and sharp touched his neck, and he froze.

“Scream and I’ll slit your throat,” the familiar voice of the man who’s caused this mess whispered in his ear.

“You,” Linebeck growled, not moving with the knife up against his throat.

“You know, it took me a long time to find you and your friends, and to find you here, goddesses, it's infuriating,” the puppeteer sneered, and Linebeck rolled his eyes.

“What do you want, you big baby.”

The puppeteer scoffed. “You and your friends have been nothing but a thorn in my side! Always trying to ruin my plans and getting in my way! And then you suddenly disappear, somewhere where I can’t find you,” the puppeteer spun Linebeck around with his sword pointed at his neck. Linebeck glared at the one eyed mask he wore. “I’ve had enough of you, and I want nothing more than to kill you all.”

“So then kill me, why are you monologing when you have me right here with your pretty little knife pressed up against my neck?”

The puppeteer didn’t say anything, his grip tightening on Linebeck’s shoulder. He looked behind him, checking to see if anyone was there, and he returned his attention to his hostage. “I had no idea that the Links were all your sons,” his head tilted, “perhaps you all could be of some use to me.”

Linebeck’s eyes widened. “If you think you’re gonna use me against my kid—“

“These Links have truthfully been a pain as well, and if using their family to get them to listen is what I have to do, then so be it. If it’ll mean making you all suffer, then so be it.”

Linebeck kicked the puppeteer in the chest as hard as he could, trying to dig his heels in his ribs. The puppeteer grunted as he fell back, holding his side, but before he could do anything else, a battle cry was heard, and he jumped away before Link was able to slash him with his sword.

Wait, Link.

Link?

“Link!” Linebeck shouted, not believing his eyes when he saw the boy that he’s been looking for standing right in front of him, pointing his sword against the puppeteer.

“Oh, you’re here too. Isn’t that just convenient,” the puppeteer snarled and swung his sword at Link, who blocked it with his own. The two fought, Link being calm and collected while the puppeteer was enraged and messy. Linebeck just watched the two of them, his heart beating a mile per second.

Come on you idiot, help him! He thought to himself, looking around for anything that he could use as a weapon, but he found nothing. When he looked back at the two, the puppeteer had grabbed Link and threw him over his shoulder. Link landed with a painful thud, and he let out a cry.

“Link!” Linebeck called out again, more worry in his voice. Goddesses, why couldn’t he do anything to help him? Why was he so useless?

“You know what? I don’t need all you Links to be alive!” The puppeteer shouted, pointing his sword at Link, “I can make do without one!”

Linebeck gasped and finally moved. He sprinted towards the puppeteer as he thrusted his sword at Link, and he jumped over his kid, trying to tackle the puppeteer before he stabbed him and—

Linebeck grunted as he felt pain explode through his abdomen. He was face to face with the puppeteer, and when he looked down, his sword sunken deep into his stomach.

“Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen,” the puppeteer said breathlessly, and he kicked Linebeck to the ground, pulling the sword out of him.

“Linebeck!” He heard Link scream, and he saw him enter his vision, horror apparent on his face. Linebeck groaned at the pain, and felt the world spin around him as he felt the hot blood pouring out of him. He heard shouts and swords clanging, but Link stayed by his side, putting pressure on his wound. Linebeck stared at him, the boy that he was stuck with for so many months, the boy that saved his life countless times, the boy that he’s spent hours stargazing on his ship. Tears poured out of his eyes, and he reached out to him.

“L-Link,” he said, struggling to speak. Link turned to him and looked over his face.

“Linebeck, I—I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” he started to cry as the blood poured out of his wound.

“I’m—I’m glad you’re alright, green monkey,” Linebeck reached out to cradle his round face, but he saw the blood all over his hands, and a wave of nausea and dizziness overwhelmed him. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting his hand drop. “Oh goddesses…”

He heard people talking, and another set of hands helped with the pressure.

“We need Hyrule! He’s losing a lot of blood!”

“Hyrule is busy right now, Windy, I’m sorry.”

“But he’s going to die!”

Linebeck heard rummaging and cursing, then a cheer.

“I have a red potion! It’ll have to do alright?”

Someone lifted up his head and he opened his eyes, seeing Rusl sitting over him.

“Ok, Linebeck, I need you to drink this,” he said, and he put the red potion to his lips. Linebeck tried to do just that, and as he sipped the potion, he felt a warm tingly feeling go through his body as some of the pain left his body. He felt like he’d been drinking the potion for forever though, and Linebeck couldn’t drink it anymore. He suddenly went limp, and Rusl cursed under his breath. “You’re not done, keep going, please.”

Linebeck felt the world go dark around him, and the voices grew muffled. He heard shouting and crying, then darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Age groaned as another wave of monsters charged him and his father. He didn’t know what happened, he was greeting his friends when the puppeteer arrived and sent monsters after them. The Gerudo guards, Time, and Talon took Malon inside, and the two men guarded the home, Hyrule and Benji were fighting off a pack of Lizalfos, Rusl and Twilight ran off to help Linebeck who got hurt, Kass and Wild were busy with bokoblins, and Leon and the colors all went after the puppeteer. He and his father were being bombarded with wizzrobes, and they were never ending.

“When did the puppeteer show up?” His father grunted as he killed a wizzrobe.

“No idea, he always shows up at the worst times!”

The wave of wizzrobes were finally killed by the two, and Age spotted the puppeteer running from Leon.

“C’mon.” Age took off where they were, and soon the puppeteer was surrounded.

“Nowhere to run you bastard,” Leon growled, pointing his sword at the puppeteer. The others copied him, pointing their swords so that the puppeteer had nowhere to run.

“What are you going to do now that I’m caught, hm?” The puppeteer asked, tilting his head. “Are you gonna get on your knees and beg me to take you home?”

Leon grabbed his throat and slammed him against the wall. “Shut up! Make the monsters go away or else I’ll–”

“What? You’ll torture me? Not very virtuous, first knight.”

Leon tightened his hold on his neck, and Age glanced at his father, who looked mortified. All the colors had unease written on their faces, and Leon sighed, loosening his grip. But when his hand pulled away slightly, Age saw goop fall off his neck. Leon jumped away as the puppet melted, and he spun around.

“That was a decoy! Where is the puppeteer?”

They all looked around frantically, and Age spotted the real puppeteer watching them. He lifted his hands, and a bright light assaulted his eyes. He yelled out in pain, feeling his skin burn from the light.

“Link!” He heard his father call out, and he felt a hand grab his arm. He reached out and embraced the person near him, feeling the world around him spin and change.

And then he opened his eyes.

He was lying on his back, and he knew that he was no longer in Lon Lon ranch. He sat up, noting that he was in a forest with thin trees littering the ground, and he saw the colors, calling out for their father. He looked around, confused on where his own father was. He was right there. Age was hugging him, he remembered. Where was he? He shot up and looked around frantically, but his father was gone, as was Leon. Age heard loud sobbing suddenly, and he searched for whoever was crying. Green spotted Age and ran up to him, with the others following.

“Age! What happened? Where’s my father?”

“I don’t know. My father is missing too.”

Red was crying and he stared in the direction where the sobbing was coming from. “Did we… did the puppeteer teleport us away?”

“Obviously you idiot!” Blue shouted. “The ranch looks nothing like this place!”

“Hey hey,” Age rested his hands on the two, speaking in a gentle voice, “let’s try to find the others, alright? The last thing we need to do is fight each other.”

Blue grumbled and followed Age when he jogged in the direction of the sobbing. There was a small clearing with fallen trees, and they saw Hyrule and Time huddled up next to each other, the traveler looked upset, while Time looked devastated. His head was resting in his hands as he stared blankly at Twilight, who was holding a sobbing Windy. Twilight was rubbing his back and whispering reassurances to him as he cried.

“What happened?” Red asked, and Twilight gave him a solemn look.

“He… his father got stabbed, but it’ll be alright. He drank half a red potion, which is better than nothing,” he said firmly, mostly to Windy than anyone else, but the sailor continued to cry. Age winced at every sob he made, Windy was such a strong young man. Seeing him this hysterical, it was hard to watch. The group heard running and they flinched when someone arrived, but it was just Wild. He looked relieved to see everyone, but he still had a desperate look in his eye.

“The puppeteer is nearby, we need to go. Now.”

Time stood up, fury apparent on his face. “Good, then I can deal with him once and for all.”

Age ran up to him and stopped him from moving any further. “He’s too strong for you, we need to see if we can find the others, alright?”

“That man took me from my home twice. My wife could give birth soon and I won’t be able to be there for her!” Time snapped, his voice cracking at the end. Age took a deep breath and rested his hands on his arms.

“I know, I know, but think about it, he sent us away from Lon Lon so we’d be away from everyone. He wants to isolate us, we must stay together and find help. We—“ he gestured to Windy “—are not ready for a fight against the puppeteer.”

Time glared at him for a moment, then the anger left his eyes, and helplessness took over as he stumbled back. Age grabbed him and held him steady.

“Woah, hey, take it easy, Time.”

Time let out a shaky breath and sat back down next to Hyrule. “Malon…” he whispered, burying his face in his hands.

“Guys… I know it’s hard, but we need to leave.” Wild looked behind him. “The puppeteer can’t find us like this.”

Everyone nodded and stood up with Twilight helping Windy, who was shaking. Wild and Age stayed in the back, listening for anything that could be chasing them, while watching the upset heroes in front of them. Age only hoped that their fathers were safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where’s Link?”

Malon’s voice was shaking as Rusl put a bloody and unconscious Linebeck on the table. Benji stood near Talon, who was shaking pretty badly, looking confused and hurt. He had a deep scratch on his arm, and he stared at Linebeck in horror. It was chaos since the puppeteer attacked, Benji was with his son one second, and the next, he was gone. All the Links were gone, along with the puppeteer and his monsters. The men’s focus went to Linebeck who was practically dying from being stabbed. Rusl said that he drank some of the red potion, but the wound wasn’t fully healed, and he lost a lot of blood. Talon went to try to help, but Benji stopped him.

“Talon, maybe you should sit this one out,” he said softly.

“B-b-but he’ll d-die and I h-have to do something–”

“You’re shaking, and this is way out of your league, you know it.”

Talon took in a shaky breath, and Risa stepped up. “We can take care of him, you voe should go outside, alright?”

Talon nodded and headed for the door, with Malon following, asking where Link was. Benji looked at Linebeck who was pale and unmoving. He sent a quick prayer for his recovery, and went outside.

The men were all devastated in one way or another. Leon was cussing out and kicking the ground in fury, Ammon and Kass were comforting Talon and Malon, who were panicking, and Rusl…

The farmer went outside, and silent tears went down his face. Benji stared at him for a moment, then walked over to him, wrapping him in a hug. Rusl didn’t say anything, he just melted into the embrace and cried silently. Benji should be upset too, he’d lost his son three times now. First time, Orchid was only ten-years-old. Living with the guilt of losing him and possibly subjecting him to a terrible life was hard, but to see him alive and well six years later, it was a miracle. And then the puppeteer stole him away, and it felt like he lost him all over again. But now…. He just felt empty. He buried his face in Rusl’s shoulder and let out a sigh.

Now what were they going to do? They were back to square one, and this time, they weren’t in the same dimension as the Links. He thought that everything was going to be ok when he saw Orchid, but that didn’t last. It never did. He could tell the others felt a sense of hopelessness for finding their sons as well. And on top of that, they didn’t know if Linebeck was going to make it or not.

Their only hope was for some miracle to happen, but Benji didn’t think it would happen anytime soon. He just prayed that his son would at least be alright.

Please let him be alright…

[yusuke-of-valla]

Two Knights' Tango

Whumptober Day 1 Prompt: "You Have To Let Go"

Summary: Akechi remebers the truth of their current reality.

Word Count: 1303

TW: Cursing, Third Semester Bad End, Akechi being Akechi

AO3

Ren knows that his plans for a peaceful evening with his friends are ruined the second Goro walks in with that smile on his face.

It’s been a while since Goro -- no, Akechi, he is Akechi right now -- has put on that mask. A smile like daggers that doesn’t reach his eyes, his whole body tense with rage at everyone around him. He takes his usual seat at the counter and stares at Ren expectantly.

Ren, uninterested in having this conversation, takes his time making his coffee.

“What do you think?” Ren asks, passing a mug down to Akechi. A floating facsimile of how Morgana used to look smiles up at him, and Akechi makes a face that gives Ren the hilarious mental image of the Detective Prince punching a mug. “Yusuke’s been helping me practice latte art. It’s not as good as his but--”

“What the hell do you think is going on here?” Akechi growls.

“Well it’s Thursday, so we’re chatting before our usual study session with--”

Akechi grabs Ren by the shirt and pulls him close so their faces are inches apart. Despite knowing better, Ren can’t help but hope Akechi will claw his eyes out or something. Really let loose this time.

Instead Akechi lets him go after a second. “Why did you take the deal?” he asks.

Ren locks eyes with him. “Because otherwise you’d die, idiot, and despite what you think I should do, I care about your life.”

“Oh you care,” Akechi spits out. “Of course, that’s why you’ve forced us all to stay in this make believe world you and that damned doctor have cooked up.”

“I mean Maruki does most of the work,” Ren says, “I just play along.”

Akechi slams his fist on the table. “How are you so damn calm about this? Changing people against their will, forcing them to live a life you decided for them? What happened to the righteous leader of the Phantom Thieves?”

“I thought you hated that guy.”

“I will stab you.”

“Couldn’t even if you actually wanted to.”

“Oh yeah? Try me.”

“No,” Ren says, taking a sip out of Akechi’s latte. “You literally can’t. Haven’t you noticed the lack of work, detective?”

“Because Maruki won’t allow it?” Akechi hisses out. “And you’re ok with that?”

Ren shrugs, and Akechi looks legitimately taken about.

“W-what is wrong with you? You don’t even regret it? Sumire is dead because of you. Her heart may be beating but the personality of Sumire, the girl who looked up to you, is gone and replaced with some idealized shadow of a person who never existed. Your friends decided to reject this reality purely because you asked them to, and you just dragged them back-”

“They chose it first,” Ren says with a bitterness he didn’t think he still had. He should probably talk to Maruki about that.

“That’s not what happened and you know it,” Akechi replies. “Maruki never gave anyone a choice. No one except you. ”

“You asked me if I regretted anything?” Ren says. “Of course I do, I regret so many many things. But there’s nothing to be done now.”

“So you’re giving up? You can’t muster the courage to fight Maruki and-”

Ren hates this part.

“Use your fucking brain for once instead of trying to fight all of your problems, Akechi!” Ren snaps. “If this was just Maruki changing the past, this place would be unsustainable. People die, people get hurt, and people hurt each other. Sometimes they hurt each other without malicious intent, which is a bitch because then making everyone happy is impossible and it’s hard to predict when those cases are going to happen. Fixing everything the first time was hard enough, imagine having to do that over and over again with every little issue that could possibly upset someone as time passes.”

Goro’s eyes widen in realization. “So to make sure everything stays perfect Maruki would have to preserve things?””

“Pretty much the only way to do his whole thing without going crazy after the first decade or so.”

Goro takes a breath to steady himself. “And how, exactly, do you know this? Isn’t it just a hypothetical at this poi-”

“How long have you been a third year?”

Akechi opens his mouth to answer automatically, then stops and thinks about it. His hands ball into fists. “How long have we been here? In this reality. How long has this been going on, Ren?” he asks.

Ren shrugs. “Like I told you the last time we had this conversation, I haven’t been inclined to keep track.”

“The last time-- we’ve had this conversation before ?”

“Yep. You don’t exactly take it well, and that pings Maruki and then he, you know” Ren waves his hands in Akechi’s face, “makes you happy.”

Akechi grits his teeth but takes a deep breath. “So how come you remember?”

“Because a long, long time ago I signed a contract that said I’d take full responsibility for my actions,” Ren says, “and I didn’t realize what that really meant. Maruki’s tried to help but I guess there are some things even he can’t do.”

“Then why don’t you try and get back to our own reality?” Akechi asks.

“Because it’s gone. Mementos, it felt huge, but it really only affected Tokyo. I’m sure you’ve figured that out since we’ve only ever heard from targets in the city.”

“Which means Maruki’s reality only affected Tokyo.”

“Finally he puts it together!” Ren applauds.

“Don’t mock me. So while we’ve been here...”

“The rest of the world has moved on. Or destroyed itself. Who really knows. Either way the world we knew is gone,” Ren says, “What if I just condemn everyone to something worse?”

“So you’re just going to hide?”

“I already made a choice to get everyone stuck here. I can’t just change my mind-”

“You already did that when you accepted the deal!”

“And that was a mistake! You want me to just repeat it?” Ren snaps. “God damn it, Akechi. Even if we can break out of here, something that will be much harder than it was back then, who the fuck knows what we’re going back to. Maybe everything’s been destroyed, maybe World War III started. What? You want me to just repeat my mistakes and condemn everyone to something worse?

“It’s not just your choice! Don’t the others deserve a say in which reality they want to live in?”

“They’re fine not knowing. They’re happy either way.” Ren runs a hand through his hair. He’s worked up, again. Why? Why is he always angry when they get to this part? They've had this conversation so many times now -- it never changes -- and it still gets to him. “Just, let go, Goro. Give up on going back. I wish I could.” With that, Ren puts his apron on the counter and heads upstairs, phone out to tell the others to cancel for tonight. “Switch the sign around on your way out.”

~

“So, he’s not going to help us?” Sumire asks when Goro finishes the recording for the others.

Goro shrugs. “He’s given up. Do the rest of you want to continue without your fearless leader?”

An awkward silence settles over the small laundromat that they’d decided to meet in.

Then Haru steps up, eyes burning. “I will reclaim my future,” she says. “Or die trying.”

Slowly but surely, everyone else agrees. Goro doesn’t dare think about the relief that fills his chest at the thought of the others being willing to help him. They’re allies with a united goal, that's all. Besides, he could have done it without them.

A few feet away, hidden in the branches of the tree, a blue butterfly watches. It feels hope for the first time in a long while.

[much-ado-about-exy]

familiar ghosts

whumptober day 1: “you have to let go”

ao3

Dick is… tired. Although he can’t exactly remember why. There’s this bone-deep, crushing exhaustion in his limbs that feels too heavy for a fifteen-year-old kid to bear - although, being fifteen also feels sort of wrong for some reason, which is weird. But old ladies at galas for Wayne Enterprises tell him that he’s got an old soul, sometimes, so maybe that’s what that’s all about. Maybe his very old soul is chafing under the awkwardness of adolescence just as much as the rest of him is.

He does his best to shake off whatever it is, anyway. Today’s a really cool day, because Wally, who’s been his best friend for years and his crush for at least a couple months, give or take, finally asked him out on a date, and they’re meeting in Central City this afternoon. School’s just let out and Dick is already halfway to the closest Zeta-Tube to Gotham Academy, the chatter of his recently-dismissed classmates quickly fading behind him. 

The coordinates for the Zeta-Tube down the street from Wally’s house are as familiar to Dick as his own cell phone number - he’s been visiting Wally this way since before Batman even trusted him to be using the Tubes on his own, which - he’d certainly gotten in trouble for, at the time, but it had never really stopped him. He punches in the command impatiently and even though the transport is near-instantaneous, he can’t shake the restlessness in his limbs that overtakes him as he’s spat out of the Tube and into Central.

He pauses for a minute inside the phone booth that disguises the Tube’s entrance, changing from his school uniform into normal-people civvies before ducking out and sauntering determinedly unsuspiciously - spiciously? Maybe not - out of the alley and down the street. 

Wally’s waiting for him on his front porch already, of course. With the time difference, he’s been out of school for over an hour by now. He looks nice - he always looks nice, of course - although his hair is brushed kind of weird - it strikes Dick that maybe Wally dressed up a little, for this date, and that maybe Dick should have, too? But it’s Wally, his best friend, he hadn’t thought- well, there’s really nothing to be done about it now. Jeans and a short-sleeved shirt will have to do. 

Dick bounces on the balls of his feet once, twice, three times, suddenly anxious, before Wally’s down the stairs and standing in front of him. 

“Hey, dude- er, is dude still okay?” Wally scratches the back of his neck, face slowly turning red. 

“Duh,” says Dick. “Dude, nothing has to change that we don’t want to.”

“Right, yeah,” says Wally, grinning. 

He reaches out for a fistbump, but Dick pulls him into a hug instead. He’s still shorter than Wally, although by less than he had been a year or two ago, and he can hear the speedster’s heart pounding through his shirt as Wally’s arms tentatively close around him. It’s Dick’s turn to blush, now, and he lets go just as quickly as he’d grabbed on to begin with. What had he done that for?

He hastily bumps his fist against Wally’s loosely curled hand and turns to lead the way down the street, hoping it’s not obvious how jittery he is. 

“Dick,” says Wally, easily catching up and grabbing Dick’s hand, “you’re about to start cartwheeling down the street, man. Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“I am!” Dick sounds defensive even to himself. He sighs. “I’m just… Nervous. We’ve been friends forever! But it feels like… Things are supposed to feel different, now? On a date? And I don’t know how to do that right. What’s supposed to change?”

“Dude, you said it yourself.” Wally stops walking, drags Dick to a stop by their joined hands, and turns to face him. “Nothing, that we don’t want to. We’re still best bros - we can just, like, hold hands and kiss and stuff if we want to, now.”

That last bit comes out in a rush, Wally’s gaze dropping to the pavement. Dick grins. He’s spent enough time daydreaming about kissing Wally the thought of it hardly phases him anymore, except for the electricity that it sends down his spine to know that he can now.

“Totally,” he says, tugging on Wally’s hand to get them moving again. “You ready for me to kick your ass at roller skating?”

“Roller skating isn’t a competitive sport, you dick! And you’ve never been before, either.” 

Dick totally kicks Wally’s ass at roller skating. 

But something feels… Off about it. It’s not like he’s ever been inside the Central City Rollarama before today, but he has the strangest sense of deja vu about it. And he’s… Honestly better at skating than he probably should be, even given his solid sense of balance and acrobatic inclinations. And so is Wally - Dick has an itchy phantom memory of Wally landing on his ass over and over again on skates, laughing through a fake scowl every time Dick hauled him to his feet, but he knows - he knows - that they’ve never done this together before. Right?

He’s very purposefully continuing to ignore the sinking wrongness he’s been feeling all day, though, because he’s having fun, dammit, and whatever vigilante-dread-sense weirdness is going on can wait. Wally clings to his shoulders and appears to be doing his level best to drag the both of them to the ground as Dick tows him in circles around the rink, and Dick’s own laughter has him doubled over enough of the time that he’s sure Wally’s going to succeed.

Miraculously, they survive two hours of this - with no major injuries, no less - before Wally’s stomach starts to growl. 

“Ice cream?” Dick asks, guiding them toward the rink’s exit so they can take off their skates. 

“Babe,” Wally says, looking at Dick like he hung every star in the sky, or completed a titration with a margin of error less than one percent, “you read my mind.” 

It’s a good thing they’re near the wall by now, because Wally calling him babe just about knocks Dick off his feet, and the only thing that saves him from a bruised tailbone is the railing he grabs onto before he tips too far backward. 

“Cool,” he says, breathless. Please, god, don’t let Wally have noticed that. “Let’s go, then!”

While they swap out their skates for shoes, for just a second, Wally flickers into someone older, someone tired, and so does Dick. And then they’re back to normal again. 

They hold hands on their way to the ice cream shop down the street. Wally’s hand is warm and a little sweaty, and just a bit too small- too small? No, it’s just right. Their hands fit together as if they were always meant to hold each other. It’s perfect, so perfect that Dick barely keeps from skipping with how happy it makes him. 

Wally orders a strawberry cone, and Dick gets chocolate in a cup, but they’ve hardly even walked away from the shop with their ice cream when Wally sneaks up behind Dick and steals several bites of his. 

Dick gasps dramatically, whirling around to face the thief, who has already swallowed his stolen goods and returned to his own ice cream. 

“Wally,” he whines, “you jerk!”

“It’s good manners to share.” Wally turns up his nose and looks down it at Dick, smile lines betraying his stern expression.

And, really, Dick doesn’t even like strawberry ice cream, but that sort of behavior simply can’t be allowed. So, it’s strictly on principle that he grabs onto Wally’s arm and hangs off of it, switching tactics to try to clamber onto Wally’s shoulders when Wally passes his cone to his unassailed arm.

“Let go, you goof,” says Wally, dancing backwards out of Dick’s reach and holding his ice cream aloft. 

“What?” Dick asks, laughing. “Can’t handle the heat?”

But Dick blinks and something’s changed - Wally’s face is serious now, where it had been creased with smile lines half a second before. It’s alarming enough that Dick whirls around in a circle, certain that some supervillain is trying to get the drop on him, but there’s nothing there. 

“Dick,” says Wally, voice grave, and suddenly he seems much less corporeal than he had just a few seconds ago, shimmering like hot air over pavement, “let go.” 

“What?” Dick’s voice is higher, younger, less confident than some part of him knows it should be. This is wrong, it’s all wrong, this isn’t how today goes, but he doesn’t want to think about what that means, not now, not when things are so good. “I let go, I’m all the way over here now. It’s fine, see?” 

“You have to let go,” Wally says. Electricity sparks across Wally’s chest and his very existence seems to flicker with it. Old and then young again. Here and then gone. “It’s time, dude.” 

“Time for what?” Dick asks. He’s panicking now, unable to calm himself down. He hates being confused like this, hates being left in the dark, hates knowing even more. But he gets no answer. 

Wally’s ice cream splatters to the sidewalk, stray droplets landing on Dick’s beat up sneakers, as the boy holding it vanishes without a trace. 

---

And Dick, nineteen, alone in the oppressive dark of his Blüdhaven apartment, wakes up. 

[flowercrown-bard]

Whumptober Prompt 8: Don’t say goodbye

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/ Jaskier

Read on AO3

„Geralt, you‘re back!”

Jaskier’s eyes lit up, when he saw Geralt enter their small cabin. His smile added new wrinkles to the numerous ones already there.

Crow’s feet, Yennefer had called them decades ago. For Geralt the wrinkles were a reminder of a lifetime filled with laughter and bright smiles. Though he wasn’t the one in need of a reminder. He would never forget the decades he had been blessed with Jaskier’s presence.

Geralt closed the door behind him and went over to sit by Jaskier, taking his old hand in his. The skin wasn’t smooth anymore and the fingers were crooked from age, unable to elicit music from the lute that had been lying in its case unused for years now.

“I bought you a notebook.”

Jaskier let go of his hand to take to book from him, stroking the forget-me-not on the cover with a fond expression.  

“This is perfect. I have just finished filling my last one.”

“I know.”

Jaskier had shown it to him, proud like he had always been of his creations and exited to share them with Geralt. He had looked at every page, had let Jaskier explain to him the meaning of every line he had written.

Jaskier had looked at him with eager anticipation that almost gave him his years back.

“Come on, three words or less,” he had teased.

“It’s perfect,” Geralt had said and he had meant it. It was perfect, because it was Jaskier’s and it made him happy. It didn’t matter that Geralt hadn’t been able to read a single word. Jaskier’s hands have long ago began shaking too much to produce anything readable anymore, but if writing gave Jaskier joy then that was everything Geralt could ask for.

No, that wasn’t true. He wanted so much more than that. He wanted Jaskier to be young again, to be able to travel with him and let Geralt show him all the far off places he wouldn’t ever be able to travel to now.

At least he had been able to show him the coast.

Jaskier looked up from the journal and his eyes widened in surprise.

“Geralt! You’re back!”

His heart clenched painfully. It was fine, he told himself. He was used to this.

That didn’t make it any less painful.

“How nice of you to visit me,” Jaskier said lightly, as though the words didn’t break Geralt’s heart. “It has been far too long. How long can you stay, before you go hunting again?”

Forever. Geralt would stay forever by Jaskier’s side, as he had done for years now. Long gone were the days that Geralt only visited their cabin in between his hunts. For almost a decade he had been living here, taking care of Jaskier, helping him eat and walk and stroking his thinning hair as he went to bed wishing for the mercy of being granted more time with him. The only times Geralt still did his witchering, as Jaskier still called it after all those years, was when he accompanied the neighbouring fisherman-family to protect them from sirens and the like.

“I can stay with you for however long you need me to,” Geralt said and never had anything felt more true.

“Wonderful!” Jaskier said with a sly smirk. “Then you can tell me all about your adventure. You really should take me with you the next time.”

“I will.”

He won’t. The only adventure Geralt had left was the quiet life with Jaskier at the coast and the only thrill he needed was watching Jaskier’s eyes light up every time he met Geralt for the first time again.

“Wait, just let me get my quill.”

Jaskier moved slowly. It was obvious how much it pained him to take even small steps, the ache in his old joints sighing with every movement.

Geralt was tense, ready to jump up at any moment to catch Jaskier, should he stumble. He could have gotten the quill for Jaskier, but time and time again, he had been told that Jaskier wanted to know that he was still able to do things on his own.

The triumphant “Aha!” as Jaskier found the quill and almost dried up inkwell and sat back down, warmed Geralt’s chest. Watching all the pain of aching bones was bearable, when it gave him the sight of Jaskier still finding joy in the small things, as he had always done.

Jaskier looked up at Geralt expectantly, quill and the new notebook at the ready.

Geralt swallowed. There was no adventure to tell him off. Maybe later Geralt would tell Jaskier the truth, how he had met the fisher’s daughter on the way to the marked and helped repair her wagon, how he had had trouble buying all the essentials in this time of year.

Later, Jaskier would be happy to listen to the trivial things Geralt had to say. Now, he was attentively waiting for a heroic tale.

So Geralt gave him a tale. He told him about the time he had fought a cockatrice – one of Jaskier’s favourite stories, even though Jaskier didn’t know it.

As every time, Geralt told the story, Jaskier made inappropriate comments and laughed and gasped at the same parts he always did.

“Oh, this will make the most beautiful ballad! Oh, what should I call it?”

Geralt muttered the same thing he always said when Jaskier asked him for a title for this specific tale. An innuendo, of course.

Jaskier let out a barking laugh. “That is genius, my dear! Just you wait, I will make a poet out of you, after all.”

Geralt took the praise. It was easier than explaining that it had been Jaskier who had come up with the title of the ballad that he had already written ages ago, and unwittingly rewritten so many times after that.

“Will you take me to see the sea, Geralt?” Jaskier said after a while.

Geralt nodded and made to guide Jaskier outside.

“No, wait. I need my jacket first.”

“You are already wearing a jacket.”

Jaskier hit his arm playfully. “Yes, but it’s too dark. When going outside in summer, you should always wear bright colours to make the flowers jealous. Not that you would ever do that,” he added with a teasing wink.

“You’ll be cold.”

“I’ll have you to keep me warm.” Jaskier said it so casually that it made Geralt’s heart clench. Even after all this time, even though Jaskier couldn’t remember most of the times Geralt had kept him warm, he was still so sure that he would.

He sat Jaskier down on the small bench in front of their cabin, looking out over the sea. Jaskier sighed wistfully.

“I had always wanted to show you the coast. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Geralt agreed. It really was. It was beautiful and it was painful and Geralt knew that in years to come, he would never see the coast again, because it held to many memories of Jaskier and he wouldn’t be able to bear seeing the waves crash onto the shore without having Jaskier next to him to watch it with.

A breeze brushed Jaskier’s hair that matched Geralt’s in its colour, away from his forehead. Geralt laid an arm around Jaskier, doing his best to shield him from the wind, but it wasn’t enough to stop Jaskier from shivering.

All the warm colour of the summer jacket wasn’t enough to combat the bitter cold of winter.

Geralt stood up.

“Where are you going?” Jaskier asked, eyes suddenly fearful and he clutched Geralt’s hand in his.  

Geralt’s heart skipped a beat at the quivering in Jaskier’s voice.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back. I am just getting you a blanket.”

Jaskier nodded, but he didn’t let go.

“Jaskier…”

“There is something I need to tell you, before you leave.” He sounded so earnest, hope and worry mixing into a painful harmony. “I’ve been meaning to tell you for years.”

Geralt knew what Jaskier was going to say and yet his heart sped up, like the first time Jaskier had said these words to him.

“What is it?”

“I love you.”

No matter how often Geralt heard the words repeated, no matter how often Jaskier said them for the first time, hearing them was still as breath-taking and unbelievable as it had always been.

“I love you too.”

Jaskier’s smile as Geralt said the words made it all worth it. It made him endure.

He genlty pried his hand from Jaskier’s cold fingers. As much as Geralt longed to stay and make this moment last, he needed to get Jaskier the blanket. He prayed that when he got back outside the moment would still be present in Jaskier’s mind.

He felt Jaskier’s pale eyes on him, as he went inside the cabin again.

“Goodye, Geralt.”

He froze. Agonisingly slow, he turned to face Jaskier. “Don’t say that. Please, don’t, Jaskier. You never say goodbye. You always say –“

“I don’t think I’ll be seeing you around.” Jaskier’s voice was small, but for once his eyes were clear. “I am not stupid, Geralt. I know I am old. I know I am forgetting. It feels – it feels like I am trapped in my own mind and there are windows that show me the outside world and there are doors and I know if I pick the right one, I will understand. But I never find the right door.” He swallowed. He rubbed his fingers, whether out of nervousness or because of the cold, Geralt couldn’t tell. “Some doors are locked. And I am afraid one day I will not be able to walk through the door that tells me who you are, anymore.”

His eyes never left Geralt’s, as though Jaskier was trying to drink in the sight of him. As though he thought it was the last time seeing him.

Fear plunged its ugly claws into Geralt’s chest.

“You don’t need to remember me. I will let you get to know me again and again, if I have to. I will always come back to you. Even if the memory of me leaves you, I won’t.”

“No,” Jaskier said, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “But I think that I might. Maybe not today. Maybe not for years to come. But one day, I will leave you and I might not get the chance to say goodbye then.”

“Don’t say that.” It sounded harsher than Geralt intended. He tried to close himself off, to keep all emotion out of his face, but the impassive mask cracked. It had been too long since he had worn it. There had been no need to put it on while he was with Jaskier. Geralt hadn’t worn the mask for so long that now that he so desperately needed it, it didn’t fit anymore.

Jaskier tilted his head to the side, a smile still playing on his lips. “For years you complained that I wasn’t telling the truth in my songs and now that I am saying the truth, you don’t want it.”

“It’s not the truth.”

“Maybe it isn’t your truth, but it’s mine. And it would be so much easier if it was yours too.”

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t listen to another word of this.

Geralt all but fled into the cabin, leaning against the wall with closed eyes, trying and failing to get his breath under control. To get the words out of his mind.

It wasn’t the truth. Not yet.

Damn it, it wouldn’t be easier if he accepted it. Denying it and shoving the thought of the day that Geralt wouldn’t be seeing Jaskier around anymore as far away from his mind as he could at least allowed him to hope. To forget that there would ever be a time where no one would greet him and await his recounting of adventures long past.

He grabbed the woollen blanket from the rocking chair where Jaskier liked to look at books he couldn’t read anymore and balled it in his fists, before willing the tension to go away. Jaskier shouldn’t have to see him like this.

With a shaky breath, Geralt went back. Jaskier was looking over the sea, a faraway look in his eyes, as he listened to the seabirds’ cries as though they were nightingales. He didn’t even throw so much as glance at Geralt.

Geralt didn’t know whether Jaskier was angry because of what Geralt had said or whether he was too lost in his world of closed doors.

Carefully he put the blanket around Jaskier’s shoulders, tugging it tightly around him, before he sat down next to him.

Jaskier flinched and looked up at him, startled, before he broke out in a smile so bright, it could banish the winter wind tugging at their hair.

“Geralt! You’re back!”

Geralt closed his eyes, tried to put the mask back on, tried not to notice the crack in his heart that Jaskier’s words had left.

“You need to tell me about the adventure you had!”

“Maybe some other time,” Geralt said and he knew he couldn’t keep the thickness out of his voice. “For now, can we just… be here?”

Jaskier took his hand and squeezed it gently. “Of course, dear. I will still be here, when you are ready to tell the story.”

An iron chain wound around Geralt’s chest, getting tighter and tighter, making it hard to breathe. “I know.”

Geralt didn’t know for how long they just sat there, looking at the sea. As the sun began to set, Geralt found his words. This one, he knew, wasn’t a story Jaskier had forgotten just yet, but he told it anyway. He didn’t know, if Jaskier was even still listening, if he was aware of Geralt’s presence next to him. But as Geralt spoke about a day in Posada, about a devil and an annoying yet brave bard, he felt Jaskier’s hand twitch in his.

When he turned his head, Jaskier was still looking out at the sea, but there was a smile on his lips, lines around his eyes deepening with the memory of laughter.

Even when Geralt had finished the story, Jaskier still didn’t speak. It was only much later, when Geralt guided him back inside, put him to bed and pressed a kiss against his forehead that Jaskier finally found his words again.

“Will you do me a favour, Geralt?”

Geralt didn’t need to speak to let Jaskier know his answer. The look on the bard’s face told him that he already knew it. That Jaskier could ask for anything, ask for black pearl of Skellige that only existed in legends and romantic men’s hearts and Geralt would give it to him.

“Go find a new adventure.” After I’m gone.

Jaskier didn’t say the words, but Geralt knew that was what he meant. His throat became tight, but he nodded anyway.

Jaskier smiled and lifted his hand to caress Geralt’s cheek. “Thank you, my love.”

For a heartbeat there was silence, only the rush of the waves outside that would lull Jaskier to sleep.

Then, quietly, Geralt spoke the words that broke his heart but freed him from the chains around his chest. The words that Jaskier deserved to hear, at least this once.

“Goodbye, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes turned soft as Geralt took his hand from his cheek and pressed a soft kiss on it.

“See you around, Geralt.”

[jinmukangwrites]

Flinch (2/4)

A continuation of Day 24 of Whumptober

Chapter One, You are Here,

Ao3

Summary: Slade blackmails Dick into joining him. Things go downhill for Dick when Damian tries to get involved and Slade decides the interference is a perfect opportunity for a lesson in torture.

Warnings: Same warnings for chapter one, torture of a minor, blackmail, implied threats of rape/non-con. However, rape/non-con will not be in this fic. Just vague treats.

Notes: Do not be asked to be put on a tag list.

-o-o-o-o-

It's been about five minutes since anyone's touched Damian. This is the only evidence that he has that the torture is over. His entire body stings, and he feels similar to what a turkey must feel like on Thanksgiving day. 

All carved up. 

His shoulders ache, as do his hands, both of which have been tasked with carrying his entire body weight for the past few hours. However, all of his limbs felt weak and sensitive even before Deathstroke grabbed him from the corner of the cell he's been sitting in for the past… probably three or four days… and strung him up.

Every single cut along his body is like poisoned tipped needles, and he can feel blood dripping from almost every part of his person down to his pants, legs, feet, making a very uncomfortable puddle to stand in at the tips of his toes. 

A brush of air across his cheek is the only warning he gets before the blindfold and headphones are ripped off. Damian resists grasping, blinking his teary eyes to try and focus, his ears feeling numb. 

In front of him is none other than Deathstroke, an array of weapons on a table behind him, however the only one that's bloody is a simple knife. 

He quickly looks around the rest of the room, searching, but then thick fingers grab his cheeks and force Damian to look Deathstroke straight in the face. Damian glares and clenches his fists. 

"Grayson isn't here, brat," Deathstroke says smoothly. "So your little act can end. I know your pain tolerance is higher than that."

Damian narrows his eyes as Deathstroke uses his free hand to loosen the buckle of the cursed gag. The second it's out of his mouth, he spits at Deathstroke's face. There's specks of red in his saliva, but Damian assumes it's from the cut corners of his cheek thanks to that gag. He's been tasting copper for quite some time now.

The thing about Deathstroke's mask is that you can never tell what he's thinking, which is why Damian braced himself for a slap the second the assassin raised his hand. However, Deathstroke simply wipes the spit off his mask and then proceeds to brush it off in Damian's hair. 

"Where's Richard?" Damian hisses, tugging on the chains holding him up. "I know he was here."

"How, pray tell?" Deathstroke says, his voice teetering between a scoff and amusement.

Damian strengthens his glare and ignores the stream of blood that passes over his eyebrow and trails down the corner of his eyes. "I know the difference between the hand of a sadist, and the hand of a reluctant third party. You forced him to hurt me."

Deathstroke's entire posture shifts. His head tilts and he's shoulders follow suit. A knee bends ever so slowly. It grates on Damian's tolerance to see the man so full of himself, so confident in Damian's presence. To think just a few months before, this guy was stubbornly trying to convince Damian that he was his actual birth father.

Pathetic. 

"And what difference is that?" He asks. Curiosity lacing his tone. 

Damian bites the inside of his cheek. 

The reason his pain tolerance is so high is because it was trained into him. Ra's Al Ghul forced his mother to convict the deed while he was still a small child. Richard's hand against his skin, dragging a knife in painful ways felt exactly the same as his own mother's. 

But neither of them have felt like the rouge's of Gotham. The random crooks. Deathstroke himself. 

Damian decides to not answer that question out loud. Instead, he twists his bleeding lips into a snarl. "Whatever you're trying to do, it isn't going to work. Richard isn't yours."

"No," Deathstroke agrees, finally beginning to back off. He turns to the table filled with torture devised and Damian feels himself tense. Richard at the instruction of Deathstroke hurt. But the psychopath himself? However, Deathstroke turns and grabs a small box from the corner, one that when he opens it is filled with bandages and other various medical instruments.

Damian watches wearily as Deathstroke approaches, pulling out thread and a curved needle. 

As he threads the needle, Deathstroke continues to speak. "He's not mine. Not yet. But he will be. He has it in him, I've just got to remind him of it."

"By having him torture his brother?"

"By having him torture his son."

Damian's not sure why he flinches there. He tells himself it's because Deathstroke jabbed the needle through a deep cut in his shoulder. Damian quickly forces himself to become composed. "You're a foolish old man. Richard isn't my-"

"Biological father, no." The tugging of thread forcing itself though his already irritated skin without any numbing is agonizing. Damian doesn't voice his pain, just continues to glare while Deathstroke's finishes up that stitch, then moves on to the next one. "But we both know that blood has nothing to do with the bond between a parent and a child. Do not try to lie to me boy, I know how Grayson ticks. I know how you tick."

"You know nothing about us," Damian snarls. "I'm no more important to him than any of the others."

Deathstroke chuckles at that, like he's already won, and then he doesn't say anything more, just continues to stitch Damian up from the cuts he forced Richard to inflict. Damian doesn't try to converse. There's no point to. It's almost impossible to get anything from Deathstroke, especially if he feels like he's already won.

Soon enough, Deathstroke is taping the worst of the cuts. Once he's done with that, he reaches up to the shackles that have long since cut off most of the circulation to Damian's fingers. "Fight me, and I'll string you up by your ankles," Deathstroke mutters before taking off the shackles. 

Damian can't help it, he falls into Deathstroke's waiting arms. He tenses, but doesn't fight, as Deathstroke practically drags him out of the torture room and into the original cell Damian has awoken in. A manacle connected to the center of the floor is attached to his ankle, then Deathstroke steps back, leaving Damian to stand there with wobbly balance and glare. 

"What are you holding against him?" Damian demands before Deathstroke can leave. "Why would he join you?"

When Deathstroke speaks, there's a smirk in his voice. "Absolutely nothing, baby bird. I recommend you quit worrying about him and think about your own survival. The quicker you let yourself break, the quicker we can be done with this."

Damian growls, about to step forward and… he doesn't know, throw a fist or something, but then Deathstroke laughs and walks out, making the cell grow dark with the clanking sound of a bolt locking. 

It's thankfully not as dark as it was in the other cell. This one is meant for long term captivity, a bed shoved in a corner and a bucket in another. There's a slot at the bottom of the door where food and water will be shoved through three times a day if Deathstroke keeps up his patterns.

He wants to keep Damian alive and healthy. There's no fun in torturing a barely alive captive. The food even tasted good.  

Damian hobbles to the bucket and smirks. It's been emptied. A small revenge. The image of Deathstroke cleaning out a human waste filled bucket, even if it's his own human waste, has him keeping a smile on his face until he settles down onto the thin mattress with springs that stick up like a bed of nails. 

He stares at the ceiling for five minutes, getting out of his body and every stitch that insistently pulses to remind him it's still there. He stays that way until his breathing is even and his eyes are drooping. 

He rubs the nail of his ring finger on his left hand, and then brushes his right hand across his temple. 

"Any day now, Timothy..."

Nothing changes and Damian sighs, preparing himself for the long run. 

-o-o-o-o-

Slade doesn't say anything about what he made Dick do for the next three days. He would have continued to say nothing if Dick hadn't looked so out of it during their morning sparring session. 

But Dick did look out of it. He knows he did. Still does. He had a nightmare again last night, and he's come to the realization that Slade hasn't left the mansion at all since he made… since that. 

So he looks out of it. Sue him. 

"What's on your mind?" Slade asks in a way that almost sounds like a demand. Dick dodges under a swinging kick aiming for his head and then shoots forward to grab Slade around the ribs. 

"Nothing, sir," Dick grunts as Slade grabs his shoulders and practically throws Dick to the side. Curse Slade's superhuman strength. All the years Dick's known him and he still doesn't know exactly how strong Slade really is. 

He blinks shadowed memories of Grant out of his mind. 

"Don't lie to me." Slade punches Dick in the stomach while he was trying to get back to his feet. 

All the air leaves Dick's lungs as he collapses to the floor. A heavy boot lands in the center of his back, which makes it all the more impossible to catch his breath. 

"You'd be able to dodge that if you weren't distracted."

Dick grinds his teeth. He hates this. Hates it to his core. 

"I'm just…" he licks his lips, hoping Slade doesn't best him up for this. "I'm just worried about Damian…"

The foot on his back doesn't bring more pressure like he almost expected, but it doesn't let up either. 

A second passes. Then Slade's ever smooth voice. "I told you the boy was no longer your concern."

"I know, sir, I just… he was really hurt and-"

Slade interrupts before Dick can say and I'm not sure you let him go like you said you would.

"I made sure he wouldn't bleed to death, if that's what you're worried about."

The pressure on Dick's finally becomes greater, he can practically feel it bending his spine. He grimaces as Slade leans down and frowns at Dick. 

"Anything beyond that is none of your concern."

His face is deathly still. Serious. Dick can't argue, because if he does then something bad will happen. "Yes… master."

Slade gives a stiff nod then steps off of Dick. "Now get up. Focus on training, unless you want a beating."

-o-o-o-o-

Somehow, after that, Dick manages to convince himself that Damian is fine. Slade has never lied to Dick before. Everything he says is honest. He has no reason to lie. 

If he said he'd let Damian go after Damian was taught a lesson, then he'd let Damian go. 

It's as simple as that. 

He doesn't think about it for two more days. He doesn't think about it for two more days filled with the same old routine. Hours of training, of roaming, of sitting in the gym and dreading Slade's footsteps. Of missing his family. Of wanting to go home. 

Two more days almost becomes three when suddenly, right as he's preparing himself for bed, Slade walks in without even knocking. Dick grinds his teeth, feeling vulnerable with his shirt off and his pants just barely riding on his hips. Slade hasn't shown any… intentions… towards Dick since he's been here, but Dick wouldn't put it past the guy. 

He turns and tries to not glare. He probably does anyway. Slade doesn't seem to care, he just leans against the doorway and folds his arms across his chest. 

"Get dressed."

Dick knows better than to ask why. Instead he asks what, and Slade replies something he doesn't mind getting dirty. 

Dick doesn't mind any of his clothes getting dirty. They're all gifts from Slade. Not a single pair of clothes here down to his underwear was something he originally owned. But… he supposes he doesn't want to get his only pair of pajamas dirty. 

So, with Slade watching, he undresses and slips into a baggy pair of jeans and a crew-neck tee-shirt.

It's what he's been working out in since…

He stuffed his original gym clothes under his bed, let's leave it at that.

"Come," Slade says the second Dick is dressed. Dick glances longingly at his bed, then follows along without any argument. 

And then? Slade stops in front of the basement door, and Dick can't help but flinch back like he's been electrocuted. Somehow? Right then and there?

He knows. 

"You lied," he gasps before he can stop himself. Slade turns and raises an unamused eyebrow. Anger swirls in Dick's stomach like a whirlpool. "Damian's still down there."

Slade grins, and Dick feels his breath catch in his throat. "I said he can go after he's taught a lesson."

"But he was-" Dick stumbles over his words, struggles to keep himself from letting loose and charging at Slade with a flinging fist. 

"His lesson isn't a simple torture session," Slade chides, almost like he's pitying Dick. 

Dick can hardly breathe. Damian's down there, and Dick's been up here happily delusioned into thinking he's safe and sound back home? Dick gulps down air like it's made of molasses. "Then- then- when-?"

"When he's broken," Slade practically purrs. Dick feels liquid nitrogen replace every single blood cell. "When he's begging. We will continue this pattern, over and over again, until you no longer hesitate in your actions, until he's choking on his own sobs and telling you, not me, you to stop."

Dick recalls immediately every single cut he gave Damian close to a week ago. He thinks about having to reopen those wounds, cause more, keep going until everything he has and is becomes stained with un-washable blood.

He still takes hot showers. He can still smell it in the quiet hours of midnight. 

Slade sneers. "Don't worry so much, apprentice, there are more ways to torture someone than drawing blood."

Dick's heart feels like it hasn't only skipped a heartbeat as Slade steps closer... but that it's completely stopped all together. 

"There are some things worse than making wounds and causing pain."

Dick understands what he means. He understands what he means and he can feel it settle in that whirlpool of rage like a heavy boulder. He turns towards Slade, and tries to keep his voice even. "Master... Please, you have to be joking."

"I'm not," Slade says, "and you know you'll do it too if I tell you to. You'll do it because if you don't, I'll kill him and all of your other siblings." Slade pauses, his smirk widens. "How would that feel, boy? To take your own child's innocence?"

Bastard. Psychopath. A sadistic and perverted piece of shit. His stomach twists and before he can even think it through, he launches forward with a yell. Slade's one eye widens right before Dick socks him across the jaw. However, before Dick can attempt to do anything else, a heavy fist slams into his gut, right below his ribs. Every single molecule of air leaves his lungs and he's left gasping, choking, and holding back the urge to vomit; helpless to do anything but wheeze as he's grabbed by the color of his shirt and slammed against the basement door.

The knob jams mercilessly against his hip, and he might have cried out if he had any air left to spare. 

Instead, he can only attempt to catch his breath; his hands weakly grasping onto Slade's.

"Is this really what you want to be doing right now, Grayson?!" Slade hisses, a purple bruise on his jaw fading into clear complexion as he speaks. "Do you really want to fight me now? Like this?"

Dick chokes as Slade presses harder against his shirt, each hand feeling like stakes driven though his collarbones. 

"Let me tell you now boy," Slade sneers. Dick's heart stutters like an old BMW. "I don't intend for it to be taken that far. You don't want it to be taken that far. That's why, when you go down there, you're going to do your damndest to make. It. Count. The sooner you quit letting your annoying feelings on your family affect you, the sooner the brat can go home. Hurt. Traumatized. But alive."

"Fuck you," Dick spits. For a second, pure annoyance flashes through Slade's face, but all he does is let go of Dick like he's touched something worse than trash. 

Slade brushes his hands together, and gives Dick a steady look as Dick's finally allowed to suck in a lungful of air. He coughs, then glares. 

Slade simply stares back at him with sharp eyes. "Stop fighting me, apprentice. Accept this is new life and move on from your family. You're not leaving this one, kid. You're going to succeed me one day, you'll be ruthless." He pauses. Then his lips begin to twitch back into that infuriating smirk. "And you'll love it."

"I won't become you," Dick risks arguing back. "You can control me, use me for the rest of my life. You can force me to kill, but I'll never be you."

"Yeah," Slade says, grabbing Dick's shoulder and squeezing. It takes every ounce of strength he has to not flinch as Slade prods him to step out of the way of that blasted basement door. "Keep telling yourself that kid, it will be all the more enjoyable for me to watch yourself realize how wrong you are."

And with that, the door opens, revealing the dark and condoning depths down below. Dick's legs feel frozen until Slade impatiently tugs on his shoulders. Dick feels similar to the depressing atmosphere of the staircase as he slowly begins to walk down, having nothing to feel but the cold dread of the future. 

[magnus-the-maqnificent]

Whumptober Day 7

In the Depths of Hell

Alec groaned quietly, clasping his arms over his stomach and curling into the corner as much as he could. His wound was bleeding, far too heavy and fast for him to be fine by the time Jace and Isabelle would return.

The stone halls of the den were dark, providing Alec with ample cover to hide himself from the enemy’s eyes. When Maryse had called the three of them on his mission, Alec knew that it would be difficult for all three of them to return. But he had resolved then and there that if anyone were to remain behind, it would be him.

He just didn’t expect to run into one of the asmodei so soon into their mission. Jace had managed to deliver the killing blow, of course, but not before it stabbed Alec in the torso with one of its long claw-like limbs, and he had to remain behind. He could only hope that Jace and Isabelle would take care of the rest of the mission and return to him in one piece.

For now, Alec’s eyes shifted from left to right, watching out for any enemies who might pass this way. The halls were silent for a few painfully long moments, and then Alec heard the distant echoes of voices and footsteps.

Panic surged instantaneously within Alec’s veins. He leveled his breathing as best as he could, and backed into the well, pressing his back into the black wall. He was dressed in all Shadowhunter black, so it was easy to blend into the shadows. He had been trained from a young age to be able to blend into shadows. This ought to be easy to pull off.

Two forms appeared at the end of one hallway. One, a tall person, stalking through the halls with long thick-soled boots that clacked against the floor as they walked. The other was stubby and short, and from the wriggling movements it exhibited, was clearly was demon.

“On the third moon, you say?” the person was saying, and from the thick, rich deep voice, Alec assumed it was a man. “Isn’t that too early?”

“His majesty believes it is the perfect time.” The asmodei demon’s voice was rough and gurgly, as if it were speaking from underwater. Alec kept his trained eye upon them both, ignoring the dizziness that his wound was starting to cast over him.

“Very well, then,” the man stopped right next to Alec, who held his breath and waited. “Go ahead, I have something to attend to. I shall join father in a moment.”

The demon nodded and moved on. Alec watched the man, who watched the demon until it was out of sight, and then to his utter shock, turned upon him.

Alec sat extremely still, hoping that the man’s gaze would simply pass over him and then he would move on, but he kneeled in front of Alec, one hand shooting out and gripping the front of Alec’s jacket.

“What the hell,” he hissed, and Alec froze when he noticed the man’s eyes. “Are you doing here?”

His eyes were slit-pupilled like a cat’s, and in Alec’s world, that meant only one thing. He remembered the man saying something about meeting his father, and if this father was who he thought he was, then this person was...

“You-“ Alec’s throat blanched at the thought.

“Yes, I’m Magnus Bane,” he said, confirming Alec’s fears. Maybe he should’ve fought back immediately, but his nerves froze at the sight of one of the men he was taught to fear since childhood. “And you’re one of the nephilim. You’re not supposed to be here.”

Alec tried to say something, but Magnus ignored his efforts at speaking and looked both ways before he reached down and hoisted Alec up into his arms. Magnus stood, and Alec yelped, scrambling at Magnus’s shoulders for something to hold on to.

“We’ll have to take care of your wound,” he said, looking at the gaping wound in Alec’s stomach. He walked towards the nearest door and shouldered it open, then took Alec inside.

Alec’s heart was beating fast. He couldn’t fathom what was going to happen now. Magnus Bane was the eldest of Asmodeus’s children, and had a notorious reputation among the Shadowhunters. The room that Magnus took him into was dark for a moment, but then he snapped his fingers, the sound crisp and clear in the silent space. A few torches lining the walls lit up, and Alec took in the room with wide eyes. It was probably a study once. Now there was nothing more than a large empty desk in one corner, and several bookshelves with books spilling out of them, rotting away. Magnus cleared the dust off the desk with a flick of his hand, then placed Alec on it.

Alec jerked away from him, defensive when Magnus’s hand hovered close to his wound. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“Just shut up and trust me,” Magnus hissed. His hand was glowing with a blue light, and Alec watched in wonder as the blood cleared away, and his skin knitted itself over the wound. Though it was quick and clean, it wasn’t painless. Alec gripped the edge of the desk with his hands, biting his tongue to keep quiet as, in a few moments, his skin turned unblemished under the torn cloth as if there had never been a wound there in the first place.

“Why?” Alec gasped out when it was done.

Magnus looked up at him, his cat’s eyes bright and dangerous.

“Why the hell are you doing this?” Alec asked again. “We’re- You’re supposed to be killing me.”

Magnus cocked his head to one side. “And if I don’t kill you? What then? You’ll kill me?”

Alec was silent. He didn’t have to say it out loud. Both of them knew exactly what the answer was.

“Maybe I’m sick of all the killing,” Magnus said, backing away. “But you will never stop, will you? You won’t stop until all of us are gone.”

“You’re all demons,” Alec said. “It’s my duty.”

“Not all of us are demons,” Magnus said, and then turned away, swishing a flame to extinguish the lights. “This never happened. We never met. If you ever see me again, that will be out first meeting. And I may not be as kind then.”

Alec watched him leave, closing the door behind him, then gingerly got off the desk. He stretched sideways, making sure that his wound was completely healed, then unstrapped his bow from his shoulder and stepped out to find Isabelle and Jace.

[occasionalstorytelling]

Of Danger and Lies: Whumptober, Day One

Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine

Word Count: 2,342

Summary: After the end of the war, Garak and Bashir live together on Cardassia Prime. Garak works on rebuilding his home, and Julian explores the city looking for adventure. One day, something finds Julian.

Tags: Stabbing, Blood Loss

Garak was sick of drinking cold tea from a broken coffee machine. He was sick of the cold winter weather making him drowsy all day. At this exact second, however, he didn’t care about either of those things, because he was too busy being sick of waiting for Julian to get home.

Julian had said he’d be gone for less than an hour. It had been twice that time already, and no still sign of him. How long could it possibly take to run a few simple errands? But leave it to Julian to get distracted. He’d be back at the the office any minute now, holding something random in one hand, that same wide-eyed surprised look splattered all over his face, saying something like “I’ve never seen this fruit before! Is it native to Cardassia?” Of course it is, Doctor. And you’ll likely find it disgusting, just like the last few Cardassian delicacies you tried. But go ahead and give it a taste, because your completely unjustified optimism is the only thing that makes life seem worth it.

It had been a long day. Garak was sick of dealing with paperwork and reports. As soon as Julian got back, they were going straight home. Garak was ready to ditch his responsibilities for the night, cuddle up with Julian (who was always so WARM, even in the winter) and talk about their hopes for the future and not about the crushing realities of reality. Julian was the perfect companion for nights like that. Garak stirred his stupid cold tea with a finger, shifted his stupid scarf around his neck against the cold, and pretended to read something on his desk while he waited for Julian to come back.

“Sir!” Garak’s assistant came busting into the office, unannounced. Tain would never have tolerated that kind of behavior, Garak reflected drily. “There’s a human dead in the street outside!”

Now that was exactly the sort of thing Julian should be here for, Garak thought. Julian was a doctor, after all, and not every Cardassian doctor knew how to treat mammals. Whoever was outside would be better off with a veterinarian. Then again, he’d be better off if he came inside and waited for Julian to treat him, just like Garak was waiting for Julian. Come to think of it, though, where did the human come from? The only human Garak knew of living in the city was Julian, and…

It wasn’t a human dead in the street outside. It was his human dead in the street outside. In a swift fluid motion, Garak was suddenly past his assistant and out of the office, not even stopping to grab his coat. A small crowd was gathering in the street, murmuring and whispering to each other. Again, Tain would never have tolerated this, Garak thought grimly as he pushed though. Tain wouldn’t have let the rabble fuss over a measly dead body. If Julian was really dead, Garak didn’t know what he would do.

“Let me pass,” Garak hissed, shoving through the crowd with his sharp shoulders. He emerged into a small clear space, devoid of people except for one human lying on the ground. His dark skin color was visible through his frankly scandalous clothing choice, all that collarbone out in the open air, and in weather like this, too? Humans really have no understanding of the cold. 

The body was definitely Julian. He was lying face down on the ground, clutching a scrap of fabric in one hand. His bag must have been stolen. At a brief glance, he didn’t seem hurt. Some Cardassians wouldn’t know a dead human from a sleeping one, anyway, so it was entirely possible that everything was totally fine. Everything was fine.

Tain once said that the most dangerous lies are the ones you tell yourself…especially the ones you need to believe.

Garak knelt next to Julian, and ever so gently, flipped him over so he was lying on his back. Julian coughed at this (proving he was alive, which was good) but Garak’s new view of him revealed a dark patch of red all over his stomach, bleeding sticky red through his clothes.

“Julian?” Garak cupped Bashir’s face in one hand. “What happened?”

Julian fluttered his eyes, but they didn’t open. Come on, human medicine, try to remember something, Garak thought. He checked Julian’s pulse. There were some difficulties in finding it, so Garak could only assume it was weaker than usual. And Julian’s hands were cold. That wasn’t good. Julian was always so warm, but he wasn’t right now. That really wasn’t good. Humans were supposed to be warm. Garak scooped Julian up off the ground, hoping that he wasn’t injuring Julian more in an attempt to help him.

“Is anyone a doctor? A veterinarian?” Garak looked around at the crowd. Nothing but blank faces and confusion.

“Then get out of the way!” Garak screamed, channeling the all-consuming worry for Julian into anger and intimidation.

The crowd silently cleared a path. Despite the ridiculous cold, Garak fought through it, carrying Julian into the waiting room of his office. His assistant stood in the doorway, hovering uncertainly.

Garak took a small knife from one of his pockets and began cutting away at the fabric of Julian’s shirt. It only seemed to make the blood flow harder, and Julian’s face was starting to turn white. Garak examined the injury as best he could. It was a deep, thin cut—a stab wound. It wasn’t a very clean cut, either—clearly an amateurs work. And on top of that, humans were so fragile. No protective scales…and there was no point in carrying a knife on Cardassia if it couldn’t break a Cardassian’s skin. The knife must have ripped through Julian’s soft, perfect, unmarked skin like a…Garak shook his head, trying to focus.

“Call a veterinarian or a doctor,” Garak said to the assistant. “Whoever can get here first, so long as they know how to treat mammals.”

The assistant bolted out of the room, and Garak could only assume they were getting a communicator. Julian coughed and managed to flick his eyes open.

“I’m…I’m sorry I was running late,” he smiled weakly.

“Shh...it’s all right,” Garak said, gently pushing Julian’s hair out of his eyes. “What happened, dearest one?”

“Someone in the market...I was just getting back here when someone tried to take my purse. He called me a name and then...stabbed me,” Julian tried to sit up.

“Stay down,” Garak said. “Try not to move. Where’s your medkit?”

“There’s a spare at home,” Julian coughed. “The one I keep with me... it’s gone.”

“That’s okay,” Garak soothed. The medkit at home was a half hour’s walk away. Too far to be any use. “A doctor is on the way,” Garak lied. He had no idea if that was true. He hoped it was. “What do I do?” he asked.

“Put pressure on it,” Julian said. Garak removed his scarf, barely conscious anymore of the cold, and pressed it into Julian’s wound. Julian hissed with pain as he did so, then began to settle just slightly.

“How did this happen?” Garak whispered, mostly to himself.

“I’m not very good with Cardassian yet...but the name he called me. It was a compound word. Something about you, and something like “pet,” and something like “servant,” I think,” Julian said. “I guess I need to *cough* brush up on those lessons you’re giving me.”

“I know the word,” Garak said through gritted teeth. “Your translation is a kind way of putting it. I…I’ve heard people call you that before, but I made it clear how I felt about it and what I would do to anyone who used it,” Garak hissed.

Julian groaned. “More pressure. I’m...this hurts, it really hurts, Garak.”

Garak steeled himself, and pressed as hard as he could without breaking bones. “How’s this, my love?”

“I have no idea,” Julian sighed. “I need a doctor.”

“I know,” Garak blinked, trying to hold back tears. “I’m so sorry…whoever did this, they hurt you because of me, because of the way I love you. It’s my fault.”

“Love doesn’t hurt,” Julian coughed weakly. “And this isn’t your fault. I’m...getting sleepy. Keep me awake until a doctor arrives, okay? I might be going into shock, but I’m not sure, but I don’t know what we can do about that right now anyway.”

“Okay,” Garak said, putting all his focus on applying the appropriate pressure to the wound. “How do I keep you awake?”

“Ask me questions,” Julian said. “So I have to think.”

“Okay,” Garak said as he felt Julian’s blood beginning to soak though the scarf, warming his hands. It was almost a pleasant sensation, but that body heat belonged to Julian, and it shouldn’t be slipping away like this. Garak couldn’t stop himself from crying, like he hadn’t cried in a long time. “Julian, do you know where we are?”

“Your office,” Julian smiled. “My Garak, leading the way, rebuilding Cardassia.”

“That’s right,” Garak smiled sadly. “Do you remember how to say office in Cardassian?”

“No,” Julian furrowed his brow. “But I remember how to say home. And when I say my home, I actually say that it’s ours, and I use your name as part of the identifying structure.”

“Good,” Garak said, his vision starting to blur with tears. “You’ll be speaking Cardassian like a native soon enough.”

“You really think so?” Julian smiled, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back.

“I do,” Garak said. “What’s your favorite word I’ve taught you so far?”

Julian didn’t respond, his muscles going slack as he started to drift off.

“No, no, Julian, stay awake, stay awake, okay?” Garak hesitated for a horrible moment between shaking him awake and maintaining the pressure on the injury. He decided to focus on the pressure, trying to keep Julian’s blood where it belonged. “Julian, please, tell me any word you can remember in Cardassian, okay? You have to focus.”

Julian stirred, and said a word that froze Garak’s blood.

“Wherever did you hear that?” Garak flushed, angrily. It meant traitor, but more than that, it meant useless object. Something you’d discard. Someone who’d die in exile. It was a word Garak hadn’t heard in a long time. It was from one of Garak’s worst memories of Tain.

“s’ the first Cardassian word I learned,” Julian said, barely conscious. “Tain said it about you when I had to talk to him about the…the thingy in your brain. I thought it had to be good, because it’s about you. Is it a good one?”

“It’s not,” Garak said tightly. Some days he wished he could make Julian forget about the Wire.

“Okay,” Julian said. “Then...beloved. How do you say that in Cardassian?”

“I’ll teach you the syllables if you can stay awake for me,” Garak whispered.

“I’m…’m trying, Garak,” Julian coughed, voice weak from the blood loss. Garak’s hands were starting to stain red as the warm, sticky blood soaked through the scarf. How much blood could humans lose before they died? Garak didn’t know. Julian had already lost a lot.

“Is it worth it?” Garak asked, not sure if the question was meant for Julian or himself. “You’re only going to get hurt, staying attached to me like this. What if this is only the beginning? What if...what if it kills you, to be loved by me?”

“It’s worth it,” Julian said. “It won’t kill me, Garak…but if it did, it would be worth it.”

Despite Garak’s best efforts to keep Julian awake, that was the last thing Julian said until the doctor arrived. The doctor worked on Julian as Garak’s assistant ushered him away to wash his hands. Garak watched the red drain away into the sink. There was so much of it. It took only a few swipes of a dermal regenerator for the doctor to close the horrible hole in Julian’s stomach, but this didn’t mean Julian was safe, yet. Garak was told they’d need a matching human blood donor or a lot of replicator units (and quickly) to replace the blood he’d lost.

“Use my replicator units,” Garak didn’t hesitate. “It’ll take too long to find a donor.”

“It’s going to be a lot of units,” the doctor said.

“Use them all if you have to,” Garak glared. The doctor looked at Garak, every inch a man capable of murder, and complied. The transplant was replicated and given to Julian.

“He’ll wake up soon,” the doctor said, after the worst of the danger was passed. “We can move him to your house now. He should rest until he’s fully healed. It might be a few days.”

“I understand,” Garak said. They moved Julian on a stretcher into a vehicle and then to Garak’s house. Garak paid the doctor and set Julian up in his bed, sitting upright for circulation.

While Julian slept, Garak sifted through Julian’s pockets. Julian had kept most of his money safe in a wallet, so that had survived the mugging. In another pocket, there was a component piece that would have fixed the broken coffee machine. Garak sighed sadly. Julian really was too good for him.

A piece of paper fell out of Julian’s coat as Garak shook it out. A note, stained just slightly red with drops of human blood. Julian’s blood. It read: “Cardassia hates you. You will never weaken us with federation values. You’re next.”

It was written in Cardassian. It was unmistakably meant for Garak. Garak shredded the note and incinerated it.

Julian woke up not longer after, to a cup of room-temperature water Garak had ready for him. “Thank you,” Julian rasped. “How am I doing? Am I gonna be okay?”

“Everything is going to be okay,” Garak lied. He had no idea how things would be.

Tain was wrong, Garak decided. The most dangerous lies are the ones you tell your lover.

[flowercrown-bard]

The Boy who Ran: Final Chapter

Note: Pretty much just Shakespeare’s “King John” Act 4, Scene 1

Whumptober Prompt 6: Please

Read on AO3. No, seriously, read on AO3, this has become a bit longer than I intended (7K)

part 1 part 2  part 3  part 4  part 5

Cool air brushed against Geralt’s face, as he stood outside the blacksmith’s shop. It wasn’t enough to ease the burn in his chest.

“Master Witcher?” The burly man, Jakob sounded more timid than anyone had probably ever heard him be. No wonder. He was in the presence of a monster, after all. Two monsters.

Geralt grunted in acknowledgement, but didn’t turn to look at him, eyes fixed at the rising sun, as though he could will it to slow down and delay the inevitable.

“I… what do you want me to do?” Jakob hesitated. “It’s been hours since you brought him. Shouldn’t… forgive me for asking, but why haven’t you done anything?”

Geralt’s fists clenched at his side. It was a question he had tried his best to ignore. Why hadn’t he done anything yet? Whether he did it now or later – it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t change the heaviness of what he had to do. So why couldn’t he do it?

“He isn’t well,” the blacksmith continued. “He doesn’t scream, but he is in pain. I don’t want him in my forgery like this.”

It was only due to his training that Geralt’s heart remained steady. The blacksmith wasn’t alone in not wanting the creature Geralt had captured to be in pain.

The only reason why the blacksmith hadn’t turned Geralt away, was because he had been told to do whatever Geralt told him to. Geralt briefly wondered, whether Jakob regretted whatever he had done that had left him to grant this favour. It was clear that if it weren’t for that burn in his chest, the blacksmith would have been too terrified of Geralt to endure his presence. The air had stunk of his fear, as Geralt had dragged his prey towards the blacksmith’s shop, a wild expression on his face.

Geralt closed his eyes at the memory, the sharp pain in his chest getting worse and worse with every moment he dragged out the inevitable. He wasn’t sure if his hesitation was a mercy or torture for the creature being bound inside of the shop.

“Master witcher?”

“I will go to him.” Geralt said it more to himself than to Jakob. Saying the words was making it real. He couldn’t take it back anymore. “Prepare hot irons. It must be pure iron.”

The man flinched, the stink of fear coming back.

“What are you going to do with it?” There was a tremor in his voice, but Geralt knew he didn’t dare – wouldn’t physically be able to -  disobey. Geralt wished he would.

“What I need to do.”

No more words were wasted. Geralt watched the blacksmith disappear into the forgery, before he went after him and into a side-room of the shop.

It was dark, the only light provided by a small window in the back, through which the first rays of the rising sun fell. It was enough to reveal the man – creature! – sitting on the floor, head leaned back to rest against the wall. Bruises covered his skin, where Geralt had grabbed him too tightly, and burns where the iron chains the blacksmith had laid him in, cut into his flesh. Only another reminder for what Jaskier truly was.

Geralt wasn’t sure if Jaskier had even heard him approach. So he remained there, silent and still as a statue, until Jaskier lifted his head and flinched at the sight of him.

An ugly monster reared its head inside of Geralt. This was all wrong. He was supposed to protect Jaskier, not be the reason why his heart was racing with fear, his eyes wide like a fawn trapped by a hunter.

It didn’t hurt any less the second time around seeing that look. The first time he had seen it had been mere hours ago. Finding Jaskier hadn’t been difficult, even after the eternity Geralt had hesitated, naïve enough to think that he could refuse to do what he knew he had no choice in. Geralt knew Jaskier’s scent, though the sting of fear – and heartbreak? – had been new. So had been the uncertainty and the terrified tears in Jaskier’s eyes when Geralt had finally caught up with him. He wasn’t sure what had hurt more – the fear or the glimmer of hope in Jaskier’s expression. Jaskier hadn’t even tried to fight. That had been the worst part.

He hadn’t lifted a finger against Geralt, when he had grabbed him by the arms, rougher than he ever had before, when he had dragged Jaskier to the nearest town and into the blacksmith’s shop, growling instructions at the man who had no choice but obey, and left Jaskier bound and alone in this room to stand outside and try to remind himself that he had no choice in this either– that it might even be the right thing to do.

For an endless moment, they were just staring at each other, neither daring to break the silence. Acknowledging the situation meant that they would have to continue, one way or another.

He saw Jaskier swallow thickly, and Geralt’s heart clenched, as he silently yelled at Jaskier to stay quiet, to not make him do what he had come here to do. Of course, Jaskier didn’t hear his silent plea. Or, more likely he ignored it.

“Good morning, Geralt.”

It stung. Hundreds of time had Jaskier said those words to him, voice hoarse from sleep as he snuggled into Geralt’s embrace or cheerfully as he told Geralt that it was the perfect morning for an adventure. Now, his voice was guarded, as though he didn’t know how much emotion he was allowed to feel. Or maybe he had realised that there was no need to pretend to have positive emotions towards Geralt any more.

“Good morning, little Fae.”

Jaskier winced, as though Geralt had hit him. He might as well have.

“I don’t… I’m not…” for the first time since Geralt had known Jaskier, he seemed to well and truly at a loss of words. There was no way to deny what Geralt knew was the truth. A stone sank in Geralt’s stomach, as he watched Jaskier helplessly search for a way to talk himself out of this. Finally, Jaskier’s attempts stopped and he sighed instead. “Geralt, please don’t look so hurt. You seem … miserable.”

Geralt scoffed. “I’ve been happier.”

He didn’t say that he had been happier, when he had still been able to hold Jaskier in his arms, blissfully ignorant of his true nature. He didn’’t say that he couldn’t help but being hurt when his companion of years, his best friend, the man who held his heart in his hand, had turned out to only have used him.

Jaskier nodded, as though he could understand what Geralt even wasn’t able to fully comprehend himself. A cracked smile appeared on Jaskier’s face, a hollow imitation of that impish smirk he always wore, when he teased Geralt.

“You know, I somehow feel like I should be the hurt one between the two of us, you know, being a prisoner and all that.” He held up his bound wrists and Geralt’s stomach clenched when the burn marks mocked him. “I didn’t realise how much freedom I had. I could have become a sheep keeper. It would have been boring and dirty, but I still think I would be as happy as the day is long.”

Nothing of what he said made any sense. It was as though Jaskier didn’t even care what he was saying, but he needed words, any words, to cling onto, like a drowning man clinging to rotten wood that would surely break soon, but kept him afloat for the time being.

Jaskier let out a shaky laugh.

“I suppose I could also be happy in this blacksmith shop. We have slept in worse places.” He paused, a shadow passing over his face, cracking the barely- there mask of carefree joyfulness. Geralt wasn’t sure if Jaskier’s next words were ever meant to pass his lips. “That is, if I wasn’t so sure I would die here.”

“You are a Fae.”

Geralt hadn’t meant to say it. Voicing it once had been bad enough, the second time only felt like a knife twisting in his chest. But he needed the reminder, the reassurance of what Jaskier was. If he forgot, for even a second, he wouldn’t be able to do this.

Maybe he shouldn’t?

Jaskier’s eyes glistened and for a brief moment Geralt was sure, it was anger shimmering in them, before the first tear broke free of its prison and ran down Jaskier’s cheek.

“Is it my fault that I am what I am?” Jaskier said, voice thick and almost broken. “No, it isn’t. Fuck, I don’t even know what exactly I am. Geralt, I swear if I could, I would become fully human again, in an instant. I would, if it meant that I could spend the rest of my miserably short human life with you.” His smile came back, wobbly and fragile. “If I could, I would become human, only so you could love me again.”

Geralt staggered backwards, the words hitting him harder than any blow of an opponent’s sword. Irrationally, he longed for what Jaskier said to be true. For as long as he had known Jaskier, he had been so sure that he was human. And oh, he had loved him. Loved him still, though it shattered his heart. Why would Jaskier be any different now than he had been before?

The burn in his chest returned with renewed force, burned the doubt away, and let the bitter certainty creep in. A sweet voice whispered venomous truths into his ear. It didn’t matter what Geralt felt. Jaskier was a liar, he had lied to him from the moment they had met. He shouldn’t let him talk and plant those thoughts in his head that made him hesitate. This was a Fae’s tongue speaking. Geralt had to do what he came here to do, and quickly, before Jaskier’s lies poisoned his heart.

It felt wrong listening to this voice. Though it spoke the truth, everything inside of Geralt rebelled against it.

A new wave of heat pressed against his heart, making Geralt gasp for air.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, all false cheerfulness gone. “Are you alright?”

Geralt grunted, unable to answer, the pang he felt at the honest concern in Jaskier’s voice making the burn only worse. When Geralt made no move to ease his worries, but instead clenched his jaw against the pain, Jaskier stood up from where he had cowered before.

“Talk to me, Geralt.” Panic threatened to spill from Jaskier’s words. “Something isn’t right with you. Are you sick? You look so pale.”

Geralt saw him move closer and flinched back. The voice inside of him told him not to let him come any closer. If Geralt felt his loving touch, he would crumble, he wouldn’t be able to do what he had to.

Without thinking, Geralt snatched the crumbled up letter he was carrying with him out of his pocket and thrust it at Jaskier. It was the letter that had started mess. If it hadn’t been for this damned letter, he would have been able to let Jaskier go, to live his life as he was meant to, hunting alone. He would have never had to cross the path of the man who had lied to him ever again. But the letter had made that an impossible fantasy.

Geralt could barely repress the tremble of his hand as Jaskier took it from him, with a confused expression.

Geralt held his breath, as Jaskier smoothed out the paper and read over the words. Jaskier’s eyes widened with every second that passed. It was a short note, Jaskier must be reading it over and over, just as Geralt had done so many times, as though the words would change.

Geralt’s breath got stuck in his throat, as he watched the hated fear once again settle into Jaskier. He wanted to say something, anything, but he couldn’t. Not now that Jaskier knew what Geralt was about to do to him.

“This letter is too nicely written for such a horrible message.” Jaskier finally said, voice forcibly even. It didn’t hide the tremble of fear.

Jaskier held the letter out for Geralt to take back.

He didn’t take it. He never wanted to have anything more to do with this damned piece of paper and the horrors it demanded. He watched it flutter to the ground as Jaskier dropped it in front of his feet. It lay there harmlessly, as though it didn’t contain Jaskier’s damnation.

“Tell me this is a joke, Geralt.”Jaskier licked his cracked lips and Geralt could see the uncertainty clearly written on his face. “ ‘Burn the half-bred Fae’s Jaskier’s eyes out with a hot iron. Blind him as he has been blinded by his delusion’? What the fuck, Geralt? That is sick! Tell me you don’t really have to do that.”

The heat in Geralt’s chest got brighter, hotter.

“I do.” He said as though he was a groom on his wedding day and not the garrotter of the man he loved.

“And will you do it?”

“And I will.”

He kept all emotion out of his voice, trying and failing to make himself believe that he was the emotionless monster that people took him for. Maybe he truly was.

Something flashed in Jaskier’s eyes, a desperation Geralt had only seen once before. When he himself had been bleeding out, almost slain by a griffin and Jaskier had been standing over him, yelling at him not to leave him.

“Don’t say it like that,” Jaskier hissed. “If you tell me that you will hurt me like this, don’t do it as though you don’t feel anything. You cannot pretend, Geralt, not in front of me. I know that you aren’t unfeeling. I know that you feel more than any man could explain and it is breaking your heart.”

The words shot a spike though Geralt. They were just so…Jaskier. For decades he had defended Geralt and not even now would he stop, it seemed. When Geralt had been hurt on a hunt, Jaskier had always been there, wiping the blood away, not even once complaining that the blood was ruining his fancy clothes. When Geralt had shivered in the night from the aftereffects of his potions, Jaskier had held him with the same hands that were now bound with chains specifically made to hurt a Fae, to hurt him. Only moments before, Jaskier had asked him to talk to him, to tell him what was wrong, when he had thought Geralt might be in pain.

All this he had done when no one else would. Jaskier had stood by his side, when everyone else was throwing hateful glares at him.

Maybe Jaskier had sensed his thoughts, or maybe he just knew Geralt well enough to read him like a children’s book.

“You don’t have to pretend that you don’t feel,” he repeated. “I see you. I know you. You might think that my love was only pretend. Call it cunning or a ploy, if that’s what you want. That doesn’t make it any less true. I know what I feel – what I have felt for decades – and you know it too. Pretending that both of our feelings don’t exist won’t change a thing.” He took a shaky breath. “I know you aren’t cruel. Will you truly blind my eyes? Eyes that never so much as frowned at you when everyone else wasn’t even able to look at you without fear?”

No. No, no, he wouldn’t do it. Not when he had the memories of all the loving glances that couldn’t have been pretend. Not when despite the fear, Jaskier still refused to look at him with hatred.

Still, the burning inside of him spread, gripped not only his heart, but also his tongue, forcing his words.

“I have to. And I will.”

The words sounded foreign, as though they were not his own.

Another tear spilt from Jaskier’s eye. There was no trace of the weak smile on his face left, only a broken expression.

“Anyone could have told me – Melitele herself could have descended and told me that you were capable of doing this and I wouldn’t have believed it. I wouldn’t have believed anyone telling me you were cruel; so don’t think I will believe you.”

His mouth went dry. How could Jaskier still be so foolishly trusting? Maybe it was just the last shrapnel of a cruel hope that he wasn’t ready to see as the danger it was yet.

The silence that stretched out between them was interrupted by footsteps and a nervous cough. Geralt turned around, glad to have a reason not to look at Jaskier anymore.

What he found instead was worse. Jakob held an iron bar with one end hotly glowing and offered it to Geralt.

“It’s ready,” Jakob said, his nervous eyes jumping between Geralt and Jaskier.

Everything inside Geralt screamed at him not to take the iron, but he had no choice. His body moved on its own accord. Despite the protection of his gloves, the iron was hot in his hand, almost painful. How much worse would it be for Jaskier to receive the hot end? He had to do it fast. He couldn’t take the risk of Jaskier struggling and burning more of his face than he had to. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Hold him down,” he growled at Jakob, who paled, but complied.

Geralt swallowed hard, as he watched the blacksmith push a struggling Jaskier onto his knees and hold him in place, like an executioner holding a criminal down to face justice. Except Geralt was the executioner and nothing about this had anything to do with justice.

“No, let go of me!” Geralt watched, frozen in place by the heat burning inside him controlling his every move, as Jaskier tried to wind out of the blacksmith’s grip who was bound to obey Geralt’s every command.

“Geralt, please,” Jaskier’s voice was thick with tears. “If it’s only you, I can bare it. But don’t let me be hurt by him.”

The words sounded so terrified and with a sinking feeling Geralt realised that he had no idea what the blacksmith had done to Jaskier, while Geralt had stood outside the shop for hours, unable to go inside and do his duty. Unable to realise that while he was stalling for time he didn’t have, the blacksmith might have hurt Jaskier. ‘Make sure the Fae doesn’t escape. Bind him with iron and use force if you see fit.’ The earlier command came rushing back at him, choking him. Why had he been so vague? He hadn’t meant it. He hadn’t meant for Jaskier to get hurt. Those hadn’t been his words. And still, he had been the one to utter them, the one to sentence Jaskier to agony he didn’t deserve. Just as he had done now.

Every instinct in Geralt screamed at him to help his friend. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t even consciously acknowledge that there ever had been such a thing as friendship between them.

Jaskier cried out, tried to push the rough hands away, but even if he had ever been a fighter, with his hands bound and the iron blocking any magic he could have accessed, he stood no chance.

“Stop it, please!” His voice cracked with panic and he turned his pleading eyes to Geralt. “No more, I beg you! I promise, I won’t struggle. I will be still as a stone. Just please, take off these chains that burn my flesh! Listen, tell him to go and I will be quiet. I will do anything you say. I won’t struggle or wince or even say a single word. I won’t condemn you for what you will be doing to me. I will forgive you, whatever it is you will put me through, but please send him away.”

The unnamed force inside of Geralt burned him. Unbearable agony with every moment he hesitated, only comparable to the witcher trials. But all of the pain was nothing compared to the terror and desperation in Jaskier’s eyes.

“Go,” he said harshly. He shook from the effort of getting his lips to form the word. The fire inside flared up, making him grunt and tighten his grip on the iron. Iron, like the bindings around Jaskier’s wrist that were burning him. “Take off his chains.”

“Witcher?” Jakob looked unsure, as though he hadn’t quite understood.

“Do it!”

Seeing the chains fall to the floor with a clang should have felt like being able to draw breath again after being under water for too long. Instead the fire inside him raged. This was the opposite of what he was supposed to be doing.

It was worth it, if it meant watching Jakob get up and leave. Geralt didn’t hear if the blacksmith was saying anything as he left, didn’t see him retreat. All he could focus on was Jaskier’s shaking body, as he collapsed forward.

He was mumbling something. His voice trembled so much that Geralt could barely understand what he was saying over and over again.

“Thank you, thank you, Geralt, thank you.”

It was like a punch to the gut.

“Don’t thank me,” he growled. He couldn’t bear the sincerity in the words, knowing that he had no choice but to hurt Jaskier.

“I have to.” Jaskier looked up, tears streaming down his face, but that smile that broke Geralt’s heart was back. “I knew you were still in there. I knew somewhere deep inside, you were still the man I love and who loved me. Despite what I did – what I am.” The smile fell. “Let me go, Geralt. I promise, you won’t ever have to see me again, just please.”

Geralt was not the master of his body, as he said in a cold voice “Prepare yourself, Fae.”

As if not calling him by his name would make it easier. As though Geralt could fool himself into thinking this wasn’t fundamentally wrong.

As if it didn’t break him to see Jaskier’s face falling at his words.

“Please, Geralt, I’ll do anything. I cannot see you be so cruel.” A sob escaped him. “Is there nothing I can do?”

“Nothing but lose your eyes.”

Jaskier could run, run as fast and far away from Geralt and it wouldn’t be enough to safe him. This wouldn’t stop until it was done. Geralt would track him down, hunt him like an animal, no matter where he went. And he wouldn’t regain control over his actions until it was too late. His muscles strained and shook at the effort it took to hold the iron – now almost cold again, as if the weapon refused to do the unthinkable crime - without thrusting it at Jaskier’s face.

“If there is only one speck left of my friend,” Jaskier said as though he was composing his last song in Geralt’s dedication. “One grain that remembered us as we were – what we were to each other…” His voice trailed off, ended in a disbelieving, hopeless laugh as Jaskier’s head sunk down. “Your hate for me must be immeasurable if it is able to outweigh all the good we had together.”

It didn’t. By the gods, nothing, not even Geralt’s initial shock at finding out what Jaskier was could ever be enough to let him forget what Jaskier was to him. Nothing, but that insistent burn that reminded him of what he had to do. He wouldn’t be able to stall for much longer. Every one of Jaskier’s words cut him, made it harder.

“Is this your promise? You said you would be quiet.” As if Jaskier would ever be quiet. Not once had Geralt seen the bard without a song, a quip or aimless chatter on his lips. Or a love confession. Jaskier being silent would be wrong. Just like everything else that was happening.

“Don’t let me be quiet, Geralt. Don’t make us go back to the time where you scoffed at every word I spoke.” He hesitated, head lifting with a newfound foolish hope. “Or better yet, let me be quiet! If you have to hurt me, cut out my tongue and let me keep my eyes! Spare my eyes, if only so I can still look at you.”

Geralt’s stomach twisted. If his body was still his, he would drop the almost cold iron and fall to his knees in front of Jaskier, begging him for forgiveness. His voice was Jaskier’s everything and yet he would give it up – was hopeful at the prospect of giving it up – just so he would still be able to see the man that would hurt him more than anyone.

“I don’t want to do either.” Geralt’s voice shook, the ice in his veins that had appeared with Jaskier’s words the only thing combating the burning heat that forced him to do the unspeakable. “I don’t want to be here.”

Jaskier’s brows drew together. “But then why – You don’t hate me?” The last words were nothing more than a breath, but they sounded loud as thunder in Geralt’s ears.

“Never,” he pressed forth. “This” he pointed at the crumbled up letter still lying between them in its false innocence. “isn’t just some contract I can refuse. This is the fucking favour I owe the Fae. If it were my decision, I would be as far away from you as I can so I can’t hurt you anymore, but I can’t. I can’t move as I want to and I can’t refuse to move and do what that fucking Valdo wants me to do!”

All colour drained from Jaskier’s face and for a moment he seemed unable to speak, an expression of pure horror on his face as the understanding dawned on him.

“They make you do this? You are being forced into this?” His tone was something between fear and wild rage. “It’s all fucking Valdo. Hence the iron. Of course. They use you to prove a fucking point to me?”

Disbelief washed over Geralt. This was Jaskier’s takeaway? He had just heard that he wouldn’t be able to persuade Geralt to have mercy, because it wasn’t his choice and instead of focussing on what that meant for himself, he got angry on Geralt’s behalf? What was wrong with him? He should be worried about his own safety! He should try to flee and get as far away from Geralt and hope that the burn inside of him would get too much and kill him before he could harm Jaskier. That was the only outcome Geralt could hope for. If it didn’t take all of his strength to hold himself back, he would tell Jaskier so. He would tell him to run and safe himself.

“But how? I – that necklace was supposed to keep you safe. Valdo was supposed to never be able to come near you. I thought – Oh.” That little sound held so much vulnerability. Jaskier’s gaze wandered from his face to his chest, where his medallion rested – only his medallion. “Of course. You don’t have it any more.”

He wanted to speak, wanted to ask, what on earth Jaskier meant by that. For the first time since Geralt had found out what Jaskier was, he was glad that he didn’t have the pendant anymore. It would be cruel to Jaskier, if Geralt still carried the reminder of his love with him, as he was about to take away his sight. Still, even without the necklace, Geralt was filled with the certainty again. How could he have ever doubted Jaskier?

Geralt let out a pained groan, almost doubling over as the fire flared up again, trying its hardest to distract him from the knowledge of his love for Jaskier. Suddenly, Jaskier was on his feet again, his cold hands gently touching Geralt’s face. The force telling Geralt to attack Jaskier became unbearably strong.

“You are in pain.” Blue eyes searched his own. A beautiful blue, eternally youthful and usually full of cheer. And Geralt was the one who would end this blue. “Every second you don’t do it, you are hurting. Why?” A thumb stroked over his cheek and Geralt wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and lean into the touch – nothing but look into Jaskier’s eyes for as long as he would still be able to. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“Jaskier…” The strangled word was the only thing Geralt could bring himself to say.

“Do it.”

Oh how wrong Geralt had been. He had thought the worst part of this had been Jaskier not fighting against him before. But Jaskier’s passivity had been nothing compared to the eagerness in his voice as he now offered himself up to ease Geralt’s pain.

He wanted to refuse, to tell Jaskier that he shouldn’t sacrifice himself like that. That Geralt wasn’t worth it. That if he could, he would prolong this for long enough that it would kill him instead of hurting Jaskier, but his mouth didn’t move. This was it.

Jaskier took a shaky breath, tried to put on a brave face. He failed miserably.

“I’m scared, Geralt.” He looked so unbearably small and breakable. “I – Do you think you can hold on for just a moment longer?” Geralt couldn’t answer, couldn’t give any indication of his answer. But he could gather all that remained of his resistance to stay still as a stone and give Jaskier one last moment to prepare himself. He didn’t know if it would be more merciful to just get it over with and not prolong Jaskier’s fear, but if that what he needed Geralt would do his damnest to give it to him.  “Can you… can I hold your hand while you do it? If I won’t be able to see you afterwards, I want to at least feel that you are still there.”

The last remains of Geralt’s heart shattered. He couldn’t move, but as Jaskier carefully reached out a hand to hold his, he felt a tear slip out of his eye. He hadn’t been sure he even knew how to cry, yet here he was, tears spilling over, as he was about to burn his beloved’s eyes.

By now the iron was cold in his free hand. The metal would burn Jaskier nonetheless, slower, crueller.

Geralt’s jaw twitched and he lifted the hated iron. He hoped with all his heart that Jaskier could see in his eyes that he didn’t want to do this. No. Maybe it would be better, if Jaskier didn’t have to see it. If Geralt had never told him that he had no choice in this, if Jaskier still believed that Geralt took even the slightest pleasure in this, Jaskier would be able to hate him for it. It would be better than Jaskier accepting his fate.

Geralt shut his eyes tightly. He could still feel his arm lift the bar, unable to do anything against it, no matter how hard he strained his muscles.

A sob escaped Jaskier and his hand squeezed Geralt’s. And then Jaskier was pressed tightly against him, hugging him with his free arm as if his life depended on it.

He couldn’t hug him back. He couldn’t reciprocate as Jaskier’s lips brushed against his cheek. He could only let the bitter-sweet pain of it consume him, knowing that his body would push Jaskier away, even as his mind and heart wanted nothing more than hold him close and never let him go.

Jaskier must know it too. He must know that they were running out of time, for he spoke faster than ever.  “It’s useless now, it’s too late, but it’s still a reminder.” Geralt felt Jaskier fumble clumsily. He didn’t know what Jaskier was doing, but he soaked up these last words before Jaskier’s voice would turn to broken screams. “I meant what I said when I gave it to you. It should remind you that I love you, always, no matter what.” Finally, Jaskier managed to slip something around his neck. It didn’t weigh much, but Geralt felt it heavy against his chest, next to his medallion, next to his heart where it belonged. “No matter what I am and no matter what you do. Please, love, remember. It’s not your fault and I love you.”

Jaskier’s hand trailed over the Buttercup pendant he had given him back. And like a door being kicked in, his breath came back. The fire retreated with a hiss, like a campfire fighting – and losing! – against rain.

“I love you too.” Geralt still shook with the effort of the words, still fought for control over his own body, but now something else surged inside him, battling the fire. This time, he could win the fight.

The magic that bound him to his deal with the Fae continued urging him on to do it, now! But it couldn’t force him anymore.

There was a thud as the iron bar clattered to the floor. Geralt’s arms twined themselves around Jaskier.

“Geralt?” He sounded uncertain, fear mixed with something sweet. Hope.

“I am here. I…. I don’t know what happened, but I am back.” He kissed the top of Jaskier’s head, felt Jaskier’s tears wet his shirt. “I am sorry. I am so so sorry that you had to go through that.”

Jaskier didn’t answer, just buried his head into Geralt’s chest, as though it was the safest place on earth.

He didn’t know how much time passed as they clung onto each other, neither wanting to let go, like their lives depended on the closeness. As though the nightmare would come back as soon as they let go.

When they finally parted, Jaskier’s eyes were trained on the necklace. A smile danced on his lips, the first real one Geralt had seen since Jaskier had exposed his chaos. It was so unexpected that Geralt’s breath hitched. He hadn’t thought he would ever see this smile again.

“It worked,” Jaskier said with a voice like the sun. “The necklace works!”

Geralt furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

He took the pendant into his hand to get a better look at it. Jaskier laid his hand in top of his, pressing it gently against his chest.

“I will explain later.” Jaskier bit his lip. “For now, can we please get out of here? I don’t … can we please just leave?”

“Of course.” Geralt stepped back, giving Jaskier the space he needed. “Tell me where I should take you and I will. Is there a place where you will be safe?”

He prayed there was such a place. Thanks to him, Jaskier wouldn’t be able to go home to the Fae world ever again. They had been on the road for so long that Jaskier had no safe place to go back to on the continent either.

“I don’t care. Can we just go somewhere nice? The coast perhaps, just to get away together from all this…”

“Together?” Geralt’s voice was thick from the lump in his throat that had appeared at Jaskier’s words. “You don’t… Jaskier, you don’t have to. I can get you there and then leave. I don’t want you to think for even a moment that I would put you through this – through being in my presence for longer than necessary after what I have almost done.”

“No! I want you to be with me!” Jaskier said hastily and makes to close the space between them again, only to falter. “That is… only if you wanted to. I – I am still less than a human, I know what you said about Fae and after everything I couldn’t blame you if you don’t want to have anything to do with me anymore.”

“Jaskier.” His voice was soft. “You could never be less than anything. Whatever else you might be, you are my everything. I don’t ever want to lose you.”

A new smile broke through the doubt on Jaskier’s face, the sun finally beating the storm. “You won’t. We have all the time in the world.”

All the time in the world. It took a moment for the words to register and then it was like all the pressure inside of him left, like a bird that didn’t took to the sky after not knowing if the opened cage was a trap. Jaskier wasn’t fully human. He wouldn’t lose him to time and for as long as Geralt lived, he would make sure that death would never claim Jaskier for any other reason either.

“We have all the time in the world,” Geralt repeated. And he would spend every day, every minute of it loving Jaskier. “Let’s go to the coast.”

***

He breathed in the salty breeze. A smile danced on Jaskier’s lips and he leaned back against Geralt’s chest. Geralt’s arms sneaked around his waist holding him close.

Jaskier closed his eyes. He still couldn’t believe it. It had been years since they had acquired the cosy cabin by the sea, years of travelling the continent together, while knowing that there would always be a home they could come back to, and still it felt unreal. Jaskier didn’t think he would ever get used to it. It was too good. Too perfect. There must be some catch to it. It was impossible that the world would just let them live in peace, let them have their adventures and not bother them.

“What’s on your mind?” Geralt said, nuzzling his face into Jaskier’s hair.

“Nothing, dear.”

A soft kiss was planted in Jaskier’s hair. “You know you can talk to me. I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy. I am with you and it couldn’t be better.” He trailed of, worrying his lip between his teeth.

“But?”

Jaskier hesitated. “But I’m not sure how long it will last. One day I am going to mess up and what we have will break.”

The arms around him tightened. “That won’t happen. What we have isn’t that easy to break.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Jaskier felt the pendant press into his back, where he rested against Geralt’s chest. “You just have to lose the necklace and you won’t be protected anymore.”

“Then I won’t lose it,” Geralt said firmly. “I will protect it with my life, just as I will protect you. I won’t put you through the horrors of what my deal brought with it again.”

For a while, the roaring waves and the seabird’s cries were the only sound, as they both just took in the other’s presence.

Finally, Jaskier broke the silence again.

“There is one other thing I could do.” He hesitated. “That command, that damned Valdo gave you, it was specifically about what you were to do to me, Jaskier.” Geralt tensed behind him. Before he could say anything, Jaskier continued. “So, what if I wasn’t Jaskier anymore?”

“What do you mean?” Jaskier didn’t have to turn around to know that Geralt’s brows were drawn together in confusion.

“I… I have not always been Jaskier. That name - that identity - it was a gift from a Fae.” His throat became tight. “I could try to give it back. I could become fully human again. Become Julian again.” The name tasted bitter on his tongue and his stomach churned at the thought of becoming that scared little boy again, who had run from everything. He didn’t want to run anymore. He wanted to stay here, as he was with the one he loved. But he would do it, if it would free Geralt from the threat of the Fae’s influence for good.

“Would that even work?” Geralt said, the doubt and confusion evident in his voice. “Back when… on that day you said you couldn’t become human again.”

He hesitated. “I am not sure. It hadn’t even crossed my mind then. I have been me for so long that I almost forgot ever being someone else. So, no, I don’t know if it would work. If it did though, it might cancel the deal. You wouldn’t need to wear that necklace anymore-“

“I like that necklace.”

A smile lit Jaskier’s face up at Geralt’s defensive tone, but he continued. It wouldn’t be fair to not tell Geralt about this option. “If it worked, the humans would forget Jaskier ever existed.” He turned slightly, so that he could face Geralt. He lifted his hand to gently lay it on Geralt’s cheek. “Only humans would forget me. We could still be together, far away from everything.”

Geralt leaned into the touch and pressed a quick kiss against his palm. “The world would have lost something precious if it lost you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier paused. “You… you don’t want me to do it? Geralt, this could make life so much easier for you.”

A tiny smile quirked Geralt’s lips. “Since when has a witcher’s life been easy? I would choose a happy life with you over an easy one any day,” he said and his words made Jaskier’s heart speed up. “But it is your choice. Just know that whatever you choose, I will love you for you. If you decide to leave this name behind, you will still be the same person to me. No Fae magic can make you into someone you’re not.” The way Geralt said it hit something inside of Jaskier. He could put down the name he has been given by that Fae in the forest so many years ago, and Geralt wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t even know. It could be Jaskier’s secret and it wouldn’t matter, who anyone else thought Jaskier was. Geralt would know who he truly was. “I love you, Jaskier.”

“I love you too.”

Jaskier leaned towards him, kissing him softly. No matter, what else he might decide on his name, he knew one thing for certain. This was who he wanted to be. The man who didn’t need to run anymore, because he was safe in his beloved’s arms.  

[mostfacinorous]

GO Whumptober Day 18: Panic! At the Disco [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12][13][14][15][16][17]  

The fight at Tawny and Sarah’s hadn’t been much of one, and Crowley had slept for the better part of two weeks afterwards while he digested the hunter he’d swallowed whole. 

It had seemed like a quick fix, and left Aziraphale alone to mull over the prospect of making it up to him. He had, after all, gotten them into that mess by being so quick to suspect Crowley of something so against his character-- a recurring fault of his, he knew, and one that had done untold damage in the past. All based on an anti-demonic bias that was the result of a mixture of Heavenly propaganda and most of The Host’s unfamiliarity with this specific demon, so different to every other one he’d met. 

And what was more, he couldn’t shake the memory of the surprise on Crowley’s face at the prospect of Aziraphale having something for him, instead of the other way ‘round. 

He knew he’d been… careful. Maintained an appearance of standoffishness. But he hadn’t realized exactly how one sided everything had become until just that moment, and he felt an overwhelming need to put it to rights. 

And so it was that when Crowley did finally wake up, Aziraphale had made sure to leave a letter on his bedside table, neat as you like, inviting Crowley over for tea whenever he was available next. 

Just something small, to start-- it was usually Crowley who phoned to see if Aziraphale was free, and it seemed only polite to do it the other way, this time. 

Only, Crowley burst into the bookshop in a state, hair uncombed and jacket half sliding off of his thin shoulders, his fashionable neckwear notably missing. 

“Angel, you alright?” He asked, beelining from the door to the register and ignoring the human customers who had looked up and were taking in the scene with wide eyes. 

“What? Of course, Crowley, why wouldn’t I be?” Aziraphale asked, heart pounding in his throat.

Crowley pressed the note to the countertop with an annoyed flourish. 

“I thought someone might have captured you again,” He said lowly, and Aziraphale could only hope the customers hadn’t heard. 

“Oh, no, my dear boy-- I only meant to ask you over as a thanks for your help the other night.” He smoothed the letter, which had gotten wrinkled up in Crowley’s mad dash to reach the bookshop, poor thing. 

Crowley rocked back on his heels and looked at Aziraphale over his glasses. 

“That’s really all?” He pressed, and Aziraphale smiled and nodded and laced his fingers together over his stomach. 

“Truly.” He insisted. “I’m so sorry to have given you such a fright. You must let me make it up to you-- dinner, perhaps?” 

Crowley hummed, then looked around the store, as if aware for the first time that they weren’t alone. 

“Pick you up at seven?” 

Aziraphale gave him a wide grin. “That sounds perfect. Thank you, Crowley.” 

And so off Corwley went, pulling his coat on properly on his way out the door. 

Aziraphale was left to consider what sort of restaurant Crowley would like; they usually went where he wanted to go, and, tempting as it was to visit an old favorite, he felt like he probably needed something a little more… Crowley like. 

He tried to imagine what that would be like. Dark, full of bebop, probably with small plates, considering Crowley’s recent very large meal. Lots of alcohol. And of course, very stylish. 

Aziraphale did his best to dress the part, as well, and when Crowley arrived, he climbed in the Bentley a few layers lighter than usual, sans all tartan, and in slightly darker shades of taupe. 

Crowley stared at him, paying no attention to the cars queuing up behind him and laying on their horns. 

“You feeling alright, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, sounding wary. He looked tense, as well, and Aziraphale hoped he hadn’t made his invitation too soon after Crowley’s waking.

“Me? Yes, of course. Anyway I should be asking you-- you only just woke up after weeks of sleeping-- are you sure you’re up to going out tonight?” 

Crowley didn’t quite answer, instead turning his face away, long fingers strumming on the steering wheel. 

“Alright, where are we going?” He asked at length. 

Aziraphale grinned, bouncing a little in his seat, which seemed to ease at least a little of Crowley’s tension. He gave him the address of the place he’d found. 

“Up the High Street?” Crowley asked, eyebrows leaping up from behind his glasses frames. 

Aziraphale nodded eagerly. “Something a little different, I thought. Oh, I do hope you’ll like it!” 

They parked out front of Max’s, and Crowley looked up at the store front. Aziraphale couldn’t guess what he was thinking, but given he hadn’t seen the inside yet, nor the menu, he figured he couldn’t possibly disapprove. 

“Well, come on then, I’ve got a reservation waiting for us!” Aziraphale got out of the car with his usual enthusiasm, and Crowley followed a mere moment later, any hesitation he may have had gone when Aziraphale glanced over again. 

Aziraphale skipped the last few steps to the door and took hold of the handle, giving Crowley a quick, secretive smile as he felt the vibrations of the music through the thick wood and metal. “In we go!” He announced, and pulled the door open to let Crowley in-- and the loud music out. 

Crowley actually took a step backwards, looked at Aziraphale with surprise writ large on his face, and Aziraphale nodded. “I know! I found a place that plays bebop like it’s a concert for you!” He shouted over the din, already despairing of having any sort of a conversation over their meal. But, that was alright, if this was more to Crowley’s tastes. 

Crowley cocked his head, but took the few steps needed to cross the threshold, and Aziraphale followed him. 

Rather than shouting his name at the hosts, Aziraphale held up his phone with the reservation information displayed brightly enough to cast a glow on the humans’ faces.

The young man nodded and took up the menus, then gestured that they should follow him. 

Aziraphale had seen photos, but in them the restaurant had been empty and well lit, though the reviews had promised exactly the sort of atmosphere he’d been looking for. And it didn’t disappoint. The place was dark and crowded, the music loud and pulsing, the place giving off more of a modern dance club ambiance than a sit down restaurant. 

And yet when they were seated, on concrete blocks without seat backs, at a barren metal table, it was made clear that not only was this a restaurant, but they prided themselves on their miniaturized versions of American fare. 

“Look!” Aziraphale called, shoving the menu under Crowley’s nose-- “Sliders!” 

Crowley flinched, and Aziraphale felt his smile wavering somewhat. 

“There’s drinks as well.” He offered, flipping the laminated menu over to show off those offerings, and to his relief Crowley lifted it and began to peruse it-- though he didn pull out his mobile to light the menu. His glasses, Aziraphale realized-- it must be too dark to see properly through them. And of course, he couldn’t take them off, lest he have to worry about startling the humans. 

That was… unfortunate, and something that Aziraphale probably ought to have foreseen being an issue. But that was alright-- ordering was so little of the experience. Once they were beyond it… 

The server appeared as if on cue and offered them a touch screen pad-- another way to not speak to them, which was fine with Aziraphale. His throat already was a little sore, just from yelling those few sentences at Crowley. 

Crowley, too, looked relieved, and Aziraphale realized the menu was probably easier to read all lit up like that. 

Good. 

He relaxed back in his chair and looked around, taking in the very stylish people and the barrenness of the walls, free of kitsch or knick knacks or… character. He usually favored warm, inviting restaurants, and this one was every bit the opposite, but that was fine. It reminded him a little of Crowley’s flat, albeit a good deal louder. 

But then, Crowley did love both humans and their music. 

He took the little screen when Crowley thrust it his way and expected to see Crowley’s drink order, but instead he found a little bit of text in the “message to the waitstaff” section. 

It simply read

“CAN WE LEAVE?” 

Aziraphale felt his heart sink, but he sat the screen down and stood. 

Crowley was out of his seat faster than Aziraphale thought possible, and he followed, apologizing to the hosts as they left, though he knew that they couldn’t hear him. 

He returned to the car to find Crowley leaning against it and breathing heavily, his glasses off and his eyes shut. 

“Sorry, Angel. That was…” He trailed off, obviously not having words for the experience, and even with his eyes closed, his face scrunched. 

“That’s quite all right. It was a bit much, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale spoke softly. 

“Felt a bit like hell.” Crowley said slowly, then opened his eyes to train them on Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale saw the way Crowley’s look danced from one of his eyes to the next, then down his form, before narrowing. 

“Why did you choose there, of all places?” He asked, words coming out slow and suspicious. 

“Oh, I… I thought it might be something you’d like. With the stylishness and the dark…” He trailed off, realizing he’d misstepped something awful, and unsure how to fix it. 

“The dark, where I wouldn’t be able to get a proper look at you, the loud where we wouldn’t have to talk…” Crowley said slowly. “Asking me out so you wouldn’t seem like you were avoiding me…” 

“Whatever are you on about?” Aziraphale asked, feeling lost and like he’d missed something. 

“Tell me, angel,” Crowley said, words nearly a growl. “Why would the real Aziraphale choose this restaurant, when we passed ten of his favorites on the way here? Why would he be so adamant about doing something I like, when that isn’t at all how this works? Why take me somewhere where we could easily be ambushed, unable to hear or see anyone coming up behind us?” Crowley advanced on Aziraphale, and he felt his stomach plummeting. 

“Crowley?” He asked quietly. “Crowley, it’s-- I’m just me this time. I am sorry, it’s just, after my last ‘surprise’ went so badly, I thought…” 

Crowley looked confused, and even tilted his head, clearly considering. 

“Tell me something, Angel. Something only you could know. And if it’s even the slightest bit wrong, I swear to you I will drop you in a holy water fountain faster than you can say oysters.” 

Aziraphale huffed, but felt a tiny smile pulling up at the corners of his mouth. 

“You saved my books, during the blitz. Came into a church and everything, hopped around like… oh I’m not sure, a children’s character, and then you dropped a bomb right on our heads, left me to miracle us out… but you, you saved my books. And I have never forgotten it.” 

Crowley looked stricken, then glanced away, and Aziraphale watched as the tension drained from his frame and left him looking a bit like a half cooked pasta noodle-- droopy at the edges but still too stiff to slide fully into the pot. 

“Damn. I’m sorry, I’m a tit.” Crowley didn’t look him in the eye. “If you want to go back in…?”

“Not at all.” Aziraphale said firmly, in response to both. “Let’s say this is a failed experiment. Now-- is there anywhere you would like to go? Or we can pick up some takeaway and just go back to the bookshop. I have some rather fantastic seventy year old Egon Muller riesling we could crack open.” 

Crowley looked up at that, and gave Aziraphale an only somewhat strained smile. 

“That actually sounds fantastic. But only if you put some tartan on before we start-- I can’t shake how much you look like someone else dressed you.” 

Privately, that felt like a small victory to Aziraphale. He never would have banked on Crowley requesting he wear tartan. But, well, it had been a rather rough few weeks.

[cdelphiki]

wait wait wait what’s this I hear about a fic where Damian and Tim are kidnapped and Tim is forced to do things or Damian gets tortured bc I don’t remember that WIP and it’s EXACTLY my cup of tea like holy frick did I literally prompt that I don’t know but it is 100% My Kind Of Fic -gremlin

:D I’ve been working on it since like November, I want to say.  It was born of a handful of whumptober prompts and quickly ballooned to be wayyyyy too long to write for whumptober.  But anyway, Tim and Damian get kidnapped while working a Human Trafficking case, lots of torture happens.  Some brainwashing.  It’s bad.  They’re missing a while.  (but not life happens-a while.  Like, less than a year, while) They grow very super close in the meantime.  Because nothing brings people together like trauma!

I’m still super torn on the title.  There’s a phrase said around here a lot in the spring, and it’s Finnish, and it means “The new snow will be the death of the old snow,” and I feel it’s fitting, but it’s in another language.  You know?  I’m afraid that’s too cliche and will turn people off from clicking on the fic. So if anyone has title suggestions, I’m all ears.  I might come up with the perfect answer as I keep working.   

But anyway. Here’s the first chapter, just for you!  💕

Untitled WIP, chapter 1

Going back in school was not something Tim had ever planned on doing.  When he took over as CEO at Wayne Enterprises almost a year ago, he figured his days in the classroom were over.  As thrilling as 10th grade was, CEO was pretty much as high up on the ladder he could get, and if he got there without a high school diploma, what on earth was the point?

But Bruce had been adamant.  Talked him down out of his full time work at WE and encouraged him to go back to school.  Despite Tim’s assurances that he did, indeed, have friends, Bruce seemed to think that being at school around ‘normal’ kids would be good for him.  

Maybe Bruce was right, because sometimes Tim really enjoyed school.  11th grade was remarkably easy and stress-free compared to work, even if Lucius or Tam still called him every once in a while.  Or often, actually, but they knew not to bother him before 3pm unless it was an absolute emergency.  Which meant Tim’s days at school were rather relaxing.

That didn’t mean Tim didn’t live for the final school bell, though, just like every other student in that overpriced building.  

“Tim,” he heard someone shout from down the hall as he was shoving his books into his backpack, antsy to leave for the weekend, “we need to get together and work on our presentation.”

“Nah,” Tim said, turning to whom he now recognized as Mike, his lab partner, “I got it done.  I’ll email you the slides now.  There are notes on each slide, just review it and we’ll be fine.”

“Really?” Mike said, running to catch up as Tim made his way out of the building, “You don’t want me to do anything?”

“Nothing to do,” Tim said, waving a hand as he finished attaching the file to an email, “presentations are easy.  I have marked what you have to say in class.”

“Wow, thanks man.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” Tim said, turning toward the lower school where he needed to meet with Damian for pickup.

“We should hang out some time anyway,” Mike called after him, “I’ll text you.”

Tim shot back a peace sign, not even turning back to face Mike.  Because if he did, that would show the goofy smile he couldn’t contain as he bounded down the sidewalk. 

He almost felt…normal again.  Himself.  

Bruce was right.  Going back to school was a great idea.

Tim’s smile didn’t fade as he approached the pick-up area of the lower school.   That is, until he felt Damian approach him from behind.  It was like a sixth sense—a spidey sense—the way the back of his neck prickled whenever the brat was behind him. In reality, he’d probably actually heard Damian, and his subconscious was warning him of impending danger.  Which was unfair to Damian, maybe.  Since he hadn’t actually bodily harmed Tim in at least four hours.  

Fine.  Like three months. But still. 

“Drake,” Damian greeted in his usual flat, disinterested tone.  

“Gremlin,” Tim said, scanning over the line up of cars for Alfred.  There were over a dozen very nice, very expensive cars all along the road, mixed in with many more modest cars, but none of them belonged to Alfred.  Which was strange, because Alfred was usually one of the first in line.  

“It is unlike Pennyworth to be late,” Damian observed dryly, and Tim could hear the underlying tone of worry in the brat’s voice.  

Nodding, Tim scanned the cars again.  Then he saw it.  Bruce’s Tesla, about 15 cars back.  With a smile, Tim headed toward the car, uncaring whether Damian had noticed Bruce yet or not.  Now that they were in eyesight of Bruce, Damian was no longer his problem.  About ten seconds of babysitting was all he had to do that day.  It was a good day.

Damian, apparently, did notice Bruce.  Or, he at least followed Tim anyway toward the Tesla, and only reacted once Tim shouted, “Shotgun,” and quickly opened the passenger door and slid in. 

“Drake,” Damian hollared, scowl becoming more pronounced on his face as Tim grinned and shut the door between them. 

“That is unfair, I always have to sit in the back,” Damian grumbled after he opened the backdoor and slid in.

“That’s because you’re the baby,” Tim said, fastening his seatbelt and looking over at Bruce, “and tiny.  It’s safer for you in the back.”

Instead of react to their bickering, Bruce just grunted and pulled out into traffic. 

“I am not a baby,” Damian pouted, kicking at Tim’s seat, “and I am only a few inches shorter than you.”

“Well then, you should have called shotgun.”

“How was school?” Bruce asked in his gruff tone that signaled it was time to stop arguing, without him having to explicitly state that was the case.

“Fine,” Tim reported, pulling his tablet from his bag to settle back and read on the drive home.  He had a few reports to catch up on for work and he’d have to call Lucius once they got home to catch up on what happened while he was at school.

He was trying to let go of WE, honestly he was, but it was difficult.  And he enjoyed the work so much.

“Where is Pennyworth, Father?” Damian demanded.

Bruce sighed as he checked his mirrors while merging onto the highway.  “Running errands.  I offered to pick you up.”

“Why?” Damian said, now rifling through his backpack, likely for his sketchbook, if Tim knew the kid.  

“I can’t offer to pick you boys up?” Bruce asked, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.  

Tim smiled to himself as he opened up the next report to skim.  Bruce’s good moods were like sunshine in the middle of winter.  Warm and bright, lifting the mood of all those around him.  Today really was a good day.  

“Tt. You never have before.” 

“Actually, I do have an ulterior motive.”

“Shocker,” Tim mumbled, trying to get through the last report as fast as he could before Bruce demanded his attention.

“You know that case I’ve been working on for the past few months?” Bruce asked, raising an eyebrow at Tim.

Tim clicked his tablet’s screen off and asked, “the human trafficking one?”

“I’ve got a lead,” Bruce said, grunting in the affirmative, “and I’m leaving tonight to follow it.”

Ah.  So Bruce wanted to get them alone, trapped in a car, to impress into them how important it was to not kill each other on Alfred’s watch.  Smart.  Because neither of them would remain in the room otherwise.

“Where are we going, Father?” 

Tim snorted, “Please, Damian.  Like he’s take us on a human trafficking case that’s dragging him outside the country.”

“Well, actually,” Bruce said before Damian could protest, “I wanted to bring you, Tim.”

“Me?” Tim asked at the same time Damian shouted, “Him?”

“Yes.  Your skills would be useful to-”

“But Father,” Damian shouted, leaning forward so his face was right between the passenger and driver’s seats, “I am Robin.  I am your partner.”

“You’re both Robin,” Bruce grumbled as he checked around him to shift lanes, “and I have more than one partner.”  

“It’s Batman and Robin, not Batman and Red Robin,” Damian protested, still right into Tim’s ear.

“Damian,” Bruce snapped, “sit back properly and fasten your seatbelt.”

“You can’t take Drake,” Damian continued ranting, even as he complied with Bruce’s order, “It’s not fair.  You never take me anywhere.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Bruce grumbled, “Tim, we’ll leave tonight.  I’ve already let the others know we’ll be away and asked them to watch Gotham in the meantime.”

“What about me, Father,” Damian asked, still demanding in his tone, his age shining through gloriously with his tantrum.  

“Damian,” Bruce said calmly, just to be cut off by Damian again.

“This isn’t fair.  Not only are you leaving me behind but you’re going to force me to stay in all weekend.  I follow your dumb rules about curfews on school nights, this isn’t fair.”

“Damian,” Bruce repeated, tensing some as he shifted his hands on the steering wheel.  Tim just sank down into his chair and grinned.  Bruce angry with Damian was one of his favorite things.  It was even better than Bruce’s good moods, because the little brat deserved to get yelled at sometimes. It always made Tim happy to actually hear one of the adults in their lives actually do it.

“Why are you bringing Drake?”  

Tim grunted when his seat was kicked again.

Bruce seemed undeterred by Damian’s outburst and said simply, “His skills are more suited to this case than yours.”  

“What skills?” Damian shrieked, “I am the superior Robin in every way.”

Tim let out an annoyed huff turned his tablet back on.  Yelling over, he was ready to get immersed back into his work. He was used to Damian’s verbal abuse, but wasn’t interested in hearing Bruce not defend him. 

No one ever defended him against Damian.

“I need someone clever and quick on his feet who will not be rash in his decisions.  This is a very sensitive case and a lot can go wrong if we move too quickly.”

“I’ve done human trafficking cases before,” Damian protested, “I can handle it.  I can do it!”

“Not like this one you haven’t.  A lot can go wrong, it’s too risky.”

“But Father,” Damian said, his voice coming dangerously close to whining and Bruce was having none of it.

“If you are hoping to convince me to bring you,” Bruce said, his voice hard, “throwing a tantrum is not the way to do it.  All you are proving to me is that you are a petulant child.”

Damian let out a growl and kicked at Tim’s seat one more time as he collapsed against his own seat.  “This isn’t fair,” Tim heard the kid mumble.  

“We will leave in a few hours, so when we get home I expect you to wrap up any business you have,” Bruce told Tim, as if there hadn’t just been an argument in the car, “pack warm clothes.  It’s still winter in Siberia.”

“Okay,” Tim agreed, typing out an email for Lucius in lieu of the call he had been planning on having, “when will we return?”

“Wednesday, at the earliest,” Bruce grunted, just as they pulled off the highway toward Bristol, “Friday at the latest.”

Nodding, Tim finished up the email and said, “Did you tell my school already?”

“Alfred will call on Monday.  I already filled him in on the details.”

“Father, please,” Damian said, much more calmly than anything he’d said thus far.

“No, Damian,” Bruce said gently, almost sadly, while still somehow making his words sound firm and unchangeable, “Not this time.”

The enraged screech Damian let out, however, was nothing near gentle.  Tim had to hide his smile again when he heard it, because it was about as close to throwing a tantrum Damian got.  At least, the crying kind of tantrum.  He stomped around and screamed a lot while throwing things, usually.  This just sounded like…. a kid.  Being mad his dad won’t buy him that new toy at Walmart.  

Amusing.

“Damian Wayne,” Bruce snapped, turning to face Damian while they were stopped at a traffic light, “I said no and that’s final. Keep this up and you’ll find yourself benched indefinitely.”

Bruce’s death glare was leveled at Tim for half a second when he accidentally snorted. But Tim could tell there was no real heat behind it.  Not for Tim, at least.  It kind of made it harder to not laugh.  

But the threat worked, and Damian went silent and still.  And remained like that for the rest of the drive home.  Tim managed to keep the smile off his face, a feat much harder than would be expected in an atmosphere so tense.  

Those good mood vibes from earlier hadn’t been squashed by Damian, and Tim would be hard pressed to say he was anything but happy.

“I hate you, Drake,” Damian eventually muttered, just as Bruce parked the car in the garage.  

Tim grinned widely and turned to face Damian, just so he could stick his tongue out at the brat.  An action that would have earned him a knife in the face, six months ago.  Now all it got him was another kick to his chair.  He might have been punched, though, had he not quickly retreated back to the safety of having the seat between them.

Bruce simply raised an eyebrow at Tim, adequately scolding him for his behavior without even opening his mouth.

But then, of course, Bruce did open his mouth, too once they’d gotten out of the car. “If you’re going to act like a child-”

“No,” Tim said hastily, slinging his bag on his back, “you already invited me.  No take backs.”

“No take backs?” Bruce echoed, this time not masking the slight upturn of his lips, “Tim, what’s gotten into you?”

Tim just grinned and said, “Nothing.”  

“Well,” Bruce said, wrapping an arm around Tim’s shoulder as they walked.  Much slower than Damian’s stride, when he’d run into the Manor the second the car doors unlocked, “It’s nice.  To see you like this.”

When all Tim did was smile, because heck yeah, it was nice to feel that way, too, Bruce pat his back and then pushed him forward, “Go on.  Wrap things up, pack a bag.  We leave at 6.”

So Tim did.  Even as he listened to Damian throw crap around in his bedroom, just on the other side of the wall from Tim’s, he cheerfully packed a bag.  

Because between having a great day at school, making new friends, and getting a rare good mood from Bruce, Tim was already doing pretty well.  His days of depression felt pretty well gone and dead.  But take all that and add it to going on a week long trip with just him a Bruce? Something that hadn’t happened in years? Something he once thought would never happen again?

Yeah.

Tim was pretty damn ecstatic. 

[crowsent]

Whumptober 2019 Delirium

Yusuke Kitagawa, Persona 5, Delirium

CW: Madarame’s shitty parenting, starvation, hallucination, child abuse (minor)

=

Akira took one look at him and shook his head. “Stay behind, Fox.” The others nodded absentmindedly, agreeing with Joker’s decision. “You look a bit pale. We’re just going to handle a few requests today, so we won’t even be delving that deep into Mementos.” Yusuke could see the traces of a smile on Joker’s lips, meant to assure him that Yusuke wasn’t being a hindrance by not fighting, that it was perfectly alright for him to stay in the backlines. “Rest up. Don’t push yourself too hard.”

Haru, ever considerate, said, “We should go out to eat after this!” It was met with a chorus of agreements. Ryuji, in particular, hollered in delight, which prompted Morgana to swat him with a paw. “I’m sure we’re all going to be tired after fighting and there’s a place I’ve wanted to go to for so long. It would be much better if we could all go together, right?”

“Right!” Morgana cheered. “Now, onto the mission!”

Yusuke wanted to argue. Proclaim that he was so close to finishing his recreation of “Desire” and turning it into a piece worthy of something. A piece that depicted the inner workings of the heart, a theme that had eluded him for so long. Mementos, a place teeming with the unfettered desires of human souls, would be the perfect reference point from which Yusuke could begin his research into furthering himself as an artist. The designs and aesthetics of each individual level were so vastly removed from each other that Yusuke could analyse them for years and still never fully grasp it in its entirety.

The shadows as well, were of interesting shapes and colours. Why, the giant elephants that could very quickly tire out their group were quite fascinating to look at. Yusuke could stare at them for hours and to have a hands-on experience in a fight would prove beneficial to sparking his creativity. After all, battle sharpened his senses, honed his skills, and allowed him to pinpoint even the smallest minute detail he would otherwise never notice.

He should be on the frontlines, fighting. He’s quite capable of it. Though Akira was right that Yusuke was paler than usual, frailer than usual, he was certain that he would not be a burden. Admittedly, his aim might be impaired by the fact that his vision was swimming, but if he widened his range, then surely he would be able to hit something. Or at the very least, push the shadows towards someone whose vision wasn’t filled with black dots.

But ultimately, it was not his decision to make. And before he could even conjure up a convincing argument, Akira had decided on a party, and Morgana had already shifted. Whatever words he might have thought to say died on the tip of his tongue and Yusuke followed the others onto the bus, accepting the lack of stimulation for today’s trip into Mementos.

It was a shame. While working on the sequel to his Desire, Yusuke had several, smaller pieces he needed to finish. His art teacher hadn’t caught on to his slump as of yet, but it would be a matter of time before Yusuke’s incompetence was revealed. He needed to do something to prevent that. There were several half-painted canvases he had at the Kosei dorms, but lately, whenever he picked up a brush, his artistry simply fled.

What is he to do without inspiration?

Mementos, in a way, was Yusuke’s temporary answer to the drought he was facing. If he could fight, if he could feel death reaching its bony fingers out, attempting to grasp him, trying to drag him from the mortal realm and into the land of the forsaken, then surely, he would discover something new, something breathtaking, something that he absolutely must capture with paint.

Oh well. A lost opportunity is a lost opportunity. Akira -no- Joker, he was Joker here, was flexible and fair. If one of the Thieves wanted to fight, he let them, but should he deem them sick or tired or in Yusuke’s case, severely exhausted, then no amount of negotiation would change his mind. The only way Yusuke was fighting, was if the party was ambushed by a Shadow far too powerful for them to handle and Joker called backup.

Compared to that scenario, Yusuke would much rather go a day without having anything interesting to look at.

He could still try gleaning something from the dark cavernous depths he could see outside Morgana’s window though. It wasn’t quite like experiencing everything directly, but it would have to do. Yusuke pulled out the sketchbook he had tucked in the coat of his thief outfit and a pencil and watched the walls run. Sketching something, anything, when he was starving proved to be a challenge, but one that he was already familiar with. It would be no different than he was at the shack. Although, every jolt of the Mona Bus reminded Yusuke that he hadn’t eaten anything since

Since.

He can’t remember. It couldn’t be less than a week ago, when he turned in a project for his class. A mediocre piece that somehow fooled his instructor into thinking that Yusuke was not in the slump he was in. Technically masterful brushstrokes and a vague, abstract subject can get one far, apparently, despite hunger and fatigue. Yusuke hasn’t eaten.

He was starving. There was food being sold at the Kosei cafeteria, and if Yusuke remembered correctly, he had done some grocery shopping just the other day. Bread and jam, with one or two cans of sardines, but if he wanted, he could easily get some food for himself when he got back.

Not that it mattered. Yusuke could postpone having a meal until after he’s finished at least one of his projects. Worldly attachments prevent you from painting to your fullest potential. You must cast aside your pain and your hunger and focus on nothing but art. Art is the only thing you will excel at and you must devote all of yourself to perfect that craft.

If Yusuke focused on eating, on food, on base desires, then he would never create the masterpieces that he was surely capable of. Art is pain. Art is suffering. Art is beauty that can only be achieved through dedication. Food can wait, even as his stomach felt empty. Great art is worth suffering for and until you create something worth your food, you’re not getting a bite. It’s all for you, Yusuke. Don’t you see? This is how true art is created. It’s all for your sake. I’m doing this for you so be a good boy and paint.

Absently, Yusuke found himself nodding.

“Uh, Fox? You good man?” Ryuji sat with Yusuke near the back of the bus and nudged Yusuke’s arm. “What’cha doin?”

Yusuke turned away from the window to look at Ryuji. The skull mask looked menacing in the yellow light of the Adyeshach levels. “Isn’t it obvious?” Ryuji shook his head, the confused curl of his lips visible. “I’m sketching ideas for my new piece.”

Ryuji’s eyes darted to Yusuke’s sketchbook, then to his face. “Right. Hey Panther?” On Ryuji’s other side, Ann jolted to attention from her nap. Ryuji tapped her arm repeatedly and gestured to Yusuke. “I think I might be going insane so check for me. Does Fox have a sketchbook in his hands?”

“Ugh. You woke me up for this?” Ann slumped back into her seat and punched Ryuji in the shoulder. Yusuke found himself nodding. How can he sketch without a sketchbook?

“Of course Fox doesn’t have anything in his hands. Don’t be stupid.”

Wait.

“I assure you I have been spending my hour productively.” After all, if Yusuke can’t fight, he should at least spend the trip to Mementos sketching out ideas. “The yellow light brings an ambience to Mementos that I would otherwise not find in the real world. I would not be such a fool as to waste this opportunity.”

This got Ann wide awake. She shifted in her seat, leaning over Ryuji to stare Yusuke down with narrowed eyes. “Oracle!” Ann yelled. Futaba, sitting near the front, turned around. “What colour is Mementos?”

Futaba made a non-committal noise. “Kind of purple, kind of red. Why?”

She was wrong, but Yusuke elected not to comment on that.

“Doesn’t he look paler than usual?”

By now, everyone was turning to look at him. Yusuke could see the worry behind their masks. They were worrying too much.

“I’m perfectly fine.” Yusuke assured.

And promptly passed out.

-------------------------------------------------------------

“Is he okay?”

“The Doctor called the school dorms and told them that Yusuke was suffering from stress and mental fatigue but... she said that should be fine.”

“He can stay at Leblanc right? I’ll talk to Sojiro about that.”

“Right. Right. Yeah. Okay. I’ll get some blankets on the bed for him. I can sleep on the couch.”

“Dude. I can’t believe that he just collapsed. Makoto almost crashed the car.”

“I panicked! I didn’t think that Yusuke would just faint like that.”

“Still, I can’t help but wonder. Why did he pass out like that? Um. I’m still quite new here so I don’t know if I’m overstepping, but he doesn’t seem very healthy to me.”

“He’s always so pale…”

“Hey, Guinea Pig.”

“Takemi. How is he?”

“Fine. It’s nothing life threatening.”

There were disembodied voices around him, floating in the air. Yusuke blinked his eyes open to find drab white walls and the stench of sterilisation pungent in the air. It smelled like a hospital. Or a clinic. He hasn’t been to one recently. Why was he here? Or was the room redecorated without his knowing?

“What happened to him, Doctor?”

A woman stood at the foot of his bed. It wasn’t one of sensei’s pupils, but she was fairly young. Perhaps a visitor? No. Sensei did not allow visitors to stay at the shack. She had unusually blonde hair. Yusuke would love to paint it. He might just make that the next piece he submitted. She stood next to a woman in a white lab coat; a doctor.

“Exhaustion and fatigue plus an inordinate amount of stress caused him to collapse. Not to mention delirium and auditory and visual hallucinations that stem from malnutrition and sleep deprivation.”

“Oh no.”

“But when I messaged Inari just the other day he told me he had some food at the dorms! Did he not eat them?”

“Possibly.”

Yusuke can’t eat just yet. He had to create a new piece, before the deadline, before Sensei gets angry at his lack of productivity. He can’t just lay around doing nothing. Yusuke shifted and everyone in the room turned their eyes on him. What an odd group.

A young man with jet black hair sat beside Yusuke and gently pushed him back onto the bed. “Yusuke. Sleep. Just. Just sleep. I should have realised sooner, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Yusuke slurred. The black-haired man wore glasses. Yusuke would like to paint him too. “I can’t eat until I finish something. Sensei said so.”

“Sensei?” The black-haired man had lovely black eyes that matched his hair. His brows were creased in worry. “Yusuke. He’s not here. You’re safe. He can’t make you do anything anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Sensei stood by the door, scowling. He looked like a shogun, with a shiny gold robe and gaudy make up. Yusuke tried to point. The black-haired man held his arm down. There was an IV drip in the crook of Yusuke’s elbow. “He’s right behind you.”

The doctor sighed. “It will be a while before he’s back to normal. I suggest that you all get some rest.”

“I’ll stay with him,” said the black-haired man.

Sensei would get angry if there were visitors in the shack. Yusuke should have them all leave, for their sakes. But. A part of him didn’t want to be left alone. His eyes were heavy and he slid them shut. The black-haired young man looked worried.

Yusuke was starving.

He needed to finish another painting soon.

[lyssismagical]

I don’t invite the headrush but it follows me

Whumptober Days 9 & 10 - Shackled/Unconscious 

Read on AO3

Waking up in the lab isn’t too abnormal for a workaholic like Peter. It’s not weird to have a crick in his neck and vaguely aching joints and muscles. It’s not out of the ordinary to have a pounding headache and a shout on his lips.

What is abnormal, though, is to wake with his hands and ankles tied.

Thick metal encircles his wrists, attaching him to the table leg. He’s sitting awkwardly propped up on a chair, one of the ones bolted to the floor, ankles separately cuffed to the chair legs.

He tests the metal holding him, confusion more prominent than fear. He’s Spider-Man, he shouldn’t really fear anything, especially after everything he’s had to face.

But this is different. This wasn’t being kidnapped on his way to pick up Morgan, this isn’t following a bad guy into a trap, this isn’t being taken. This is his lab, his home.

He tugs a little harder at the chains, but they don’t budge.

“You won’t be able to free yourself, Spider-Man,” a voice drawls somewhere behind him. He tries to jerk around to see him, but he can’t strain his neck far enough to find the source of the disturbingly familiar voice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, trying not to let his sudden chill of fear show. This man knows he’s Spider-Man. Only a very select few people know that.

A laugh, chilling and echoing in the lab. “The internet will love this, Petey.”

Peter flinches at the nickname, wishing Morgan’s nickname for him wouldn’t be hurt in this way. “What do you mean? The internet?”

“Didn’t think I’d film this, did you?” the man continues condescendingly. “Once we’re done here, this will be uploaded for the world to see, Spidey. They’re going to hate you. They’re finally going to see how weak and pathetic their dear hero really is.”

There aren’t many options Peter has.

The shackles are too strong for him to break out of. He’s the sole leader of Stark Industries. It’s not weird for him to be on a work binge. Nobody’s going to question it.

“FRIDAY?” Peter says.

There’s no response and the man laughs. “Yeah, you thought I’d overlook that, didn’t you? She’s been disabled for ‘updates.’”

Tony, Pepper, and Morgan are all retired a few miles outside of the city. Tony wouldn’t even question Peter not calling for a few days, probably assuming Peter’s busy with running a multi-billion-dollar company.

May’s been going to nursing school to finally finish the degree she wanted to get. They’ve both been too busy to really call more than once or twice a week.

Nobody’s really going to notice for at least a few days. And Peter’s absolutely screwed.

“Before you ask,” the man continues, a strange metallic noise ringing through the air. “I’m not going to go on a villian-esque rant about how I deserved this company or at least more than what I got. I’m not going to bore you with my life story. All you need to know is that this isn’t going to be fun for you, but I’m going to have a wonderful time.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “I get it. Whatever. You wanted the company, Tony didn’t give it to you. He chose me. Therefore, it’s my fault. I feel like this is a pretty boring story, isn’t it?”

A fist slams down onto the table behind Peter, making him flinch, chains rattling against the metal chair legs.

But just as fast as the anger came, it disappears again. “Anywho, I’m not on a time crunch, but I’m a little too excited to wait any longer.”

The footsteps that slowly move around Peter are deliberate, making it last as long as the man can, letting the tension build up inside of Peter.

And then,

“Beck?”

Peter recognizes one of the employees he used to work with back when he used to just be in charge of R&D. He was always a little bit intimidating to work with because he used to have angry mood swings, blowing up at anyone, anytime. And Peter, the kind of person who actively avoids conflict, didn’t want to have to deal with that.

“You’re angry because of BARF, aren’t you?” He remembers, vaguely, hearing the conversation between Pepper and Tony a few years back. Beck had tried to get his job back not long after the snap, but Tony had recognized him before Pepper could hire him again.

Beck sneers, hand gripping the old camera in one hand shaking. “Of course, I’m angry. Did you think I wouldn’t care? Stark took everything from me.”

Peter just rolls his eyes, tugging a little bit at the chains.

He doesn’t expect the hit when it comes, whiting out his vision for a few long moments as he breathes through the pain, head flung to the side with the force of the punch.

“Fuck, man, you couldn’t just- I don’t know- talk to a therapist or something? I’ve heard that’s really good for someone’s-”

Just because he expects it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt any less. He’s been hit by his fair share of enhanced individuals or aliens or people with inhuman strength, so Beck’s punches are much less than the strength Peter’s used to feeling, but they’re constant.

There’s no fighting back, there’s nothing he can do. He can barely even pull his head back without worrying about breaking his wrists at the awkward angle of the cuffs.

Beck was right, he wasn’t going to bore Peter with chatter.

He spits some blood onto the tiled floor between hits, trying to find the breath again as he feels his lip split and his nose crack.

Beck hits him again. And again. And again.

The last thing Peter sees before he loses consciousness is a blinking red light.

*

When he comes to, he can barely peel his eyes open with the overwhelming swelling. He feels like he was stung by a thousand bees. He’s only ever been stung by one bee and it was when he was ten years old  and he had cried because he knew that meant the bee had died. May tried to console him, but he knew the bee population was diminishing and he had killed a bee when he’d been stung-

On track, he thinks, trying to grasp onto important thoughts even though his brain feels like molasses.

He can hear Beck mumbling not too far from him, humming a tuneless song. One of his hands is tapping the table at an inconsistent rhythm, a dull ringing whenever his ring hits the metal table.

Nobody’s gotten to him yet. Vaguely, he can hear one of the bots beeping angrily in the corner, but last he saw, they’d been broken in some way. Without wheels or batteries or whatever had been easiest to break them. Beck had thought this through.

“I know you’re awake!” Beck calls out. “I’ve been so bored without you.”

Peter pries his right open, left too swollen to even try. He opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is dry and the movement tugs at the cuts and bruises he knows litters his whole face. The last thing he needs is to reopen the wounds.

“I’ve been watching the video,” Beck continues like Peter cares. “And even though you did perfect, amazing work done, I just feel like it could’ve used a little more… je ne sais quoi. A little bit more pizzazz.”

Peter would’ve protested if he thought he could’ve moved his mouth without restarting the waterfall of blood from his lips.

Instead, he watches Beck until he disappears behind Peter’s chair.

And then, without warning, a sickening snap sounds through the lab.

A choked sob bubbles out of Peter’s chest as he tries to move away, pain flaring from his now broken finger all the way up to his head.

Beck laughs again, an awful noise that grates at Peter’s ears. “This is just the excitement I was looking for. I could make this into a film, Spidey, do you understand that? The money I could make.”

Peter forces his mouth open, desperately pulling at his chains as cold fingers rest on his ring finger of his left hand. He doesn’t care if he bleeds, he just wants this to stop.

“You can… you can have m’ney,” Peter says, tears starting to slide down his swollen face when his lip resplits and blood immediately fills his mouth.

“This isn’t about money, Peter. This is about fame,” Beck cackles gleefully.

Crack.

Peter cries out as a second and then third finger are broken, body shaking when the pain has nowhere to go. His chest aches, his fingers burn, his whole face throbs. He doesn’t have the energy to spit the blood out, so it all just drools out of his mouth and down the front of his shirt.

He only makes it through two more cracks before his mind, sludgy and murky, finally gives out to the pain.

*

He has to save himself. There’s no other way he can get out of this.

It’s probably Friday and he really can’t wait two more days for Tony to start getting antsy about Peter not responding to see why he hadn’t shown up for Sunday Night Barbeque. And even then, antsy isn’t going to get him saved.

“You ready for Part Three?” Beck says, a smile on his face. It makes his eyebrows look too high and his eyes too wide, leaning over his legs. He’s sitting directly across from Peter, split knuckles the only sign of something being wrong.

Peter makes an incomprehensible noise in return, chin resting on his chest, no longer the energy to hold him up. He cries out when he tries to flex his fingers. All ten are broken.

“I’m thinking of making it a YouTube series now,” Beck’s saying, talking about fame and money and everything he apparently deserves for thinking he invented BARF. “The world is going to be so happy someone finally put Spider-Man in his place. As nothing more than a petty little bug to be squashed.”

Peter can make out the camera, a few feet away, red light flashing obnoxiously. It’s sitting on a stack of miscellaneous objects as a makeshift tripod, holding it up so it’s pointed right at Peter.

He just wants to go to the cabin and curl up on the couch with May and Tony. Breathe in the soft scents of rose perfume and cinnamon body wash. Wants to watch old Disney movies with Morgan. He wants his family. He wants his Dad. He wants to cry.

Swallowing thickly around the metallic taste in his mouth, he tries to talk. To beg, maybe.

But then the door busts open.

And like the most incredible knight in shining armor, May stands in the doorway. Rhodey and Happy a few feet behind her.

“Get the hell away from my kid,” she demands, gun pointed at Beck’s head. Peter, in his at least partially delirious and blurry state, realizes it’s Ben’s old police gun. The one he kept locked in a safe in their closet. B.P is engraved in the side.

Beck stands quickly nearly tripping over his chair, hands raising and eyes wide. “You wouldn’t just kill someone-”

“You really want to test that theory?” May says, jaw clenched and expression hardened. She clicks off the safety. “Because I’d suggest you listen to what I say before you end up with a bullet between your eyes.”

Beck does as told, moving towards the wall until he’s out of Peter’s line of sight.

Rhodey moves forward, a pair of cuffs dangling in one of his hands. The bots are all beeping happily, knowing Peter’s safe now. Happy follows Rhodey’s lead, blocking Peter’s view of the man further.

May races over to Peter, sneakers squeaking against the floor in her hurry. She slips the gun back into the waistband of her white skirt, messy hair falling into her eyes as she sinks to her knees in front of Peter, gently cupping his face.

“My baby,” she murmurs, face falling. “Oh baby. You’ll be okay. I’m here, you’re okay.”

Peter blinks slowly at her, trying to hang onto reality as best as he can when his thoughts slip through his fingers like sand.

“Ti… ‘m tired,” he slurs, blood slipping through his lips and dripping onto his ruined shirt.

Her hands are cold and she smells like her wonderful rose perfume and she’s there and that’s all Peter’s been wanting. He doesn’t care that he’s twenty-three and shouldn’t be curling into his aunt’s embrace like he’s still a ten-year-old boy who’s been stung by a bee. He doesn’t care. All he knows is that she’s here and he’s safe.

“Sleep, baby. It’s okay. Tony’s on his way. You’re safe.”

*

It takes Peter three days of mostly sleeping and cuddling for him to heal, broken fingers very slowly mending back into place.

Three days is nothing in comparison to the three months it takes for Peter to even step foot into his lab which once felt safe and homey, and is now nothing more than a torture chamber filled to the brim with bad memories now. Memories of helplessness and pain.

Beck will never get out of prison and the tapes were all destroyed, but Peter doesn’t think he’ll ever forget Beck’s laughter and excitement, forever seared into Peter’s brain.

[rueitae]

Numb

Read my whumptober collection on Ao3

fantasy au, dragon Lance

~~~~~

Pidge wants to stop, utterly exhausted. Each step across the heavy, new-fallen (and still falling) snow is more difficult than the next. 

The hem of her dress is soaked, adding weight that she must carry. Though objectively pretty, this dress does little in the way of keeping her warm for such a journey. The air is frigid, wind howling this far up the mountain. Each breath she takes is like a knife to her lungs. One step - she manages to lift her foot over into the next step. Two steps - she can only summon up the energy to drag her bare feet through the snow. 

Push.

She gasps sharply, a fresh wave of cold surging through her when she lands face first into the snow. It’s so… so cold. Pidge doesn’t want to move, maybe she can stay here until she can cast a fire spell to warm her and oh quiznak no, Pidge what are you thinking? You’ll die!

Being cut off from her magic is more numbing than the cold. Never in her memory has she ever been without its comforting, green spark. The inhibitor cuffs around her wrists are like an impenetrable wall around the fountain of her powers.

The hands that pushed her do not help her up. 

“This is close enough,” the gruffer of the two men says. “The dragon will find her or she’ll die from the elements.”

The dragon! She’s so numb she’d forgotten there was a dragon up here! It’s not like she’d ever paid it much mind. Allura asked that no one ever came up here and Pidge had always figured a dragon living here was good enough reason not to come - cold notwithstanding!

“Good,” says the Prime Minister. The only joy Pidge takes in this is hearing him chatter his teeth, a far cry from his typically prim and proper speech. That’s what he gets for seeing to her demise himself. “I have had enough of this forsaken place. Leave Lady Holt here and let us return so that I can advise Queen Allura to war without interference.”

Anger burns in her long enough to lift her head and move her lips. “Y-you qu-quiznaker…”

A mocking ‘tch’ escapes the Prime Minister’s lips as he kneels down beside her. “That kind of language is quite unbefitting a noble lady. Have a little bit of grace in death, will you? For once in your life.”

Pidge can only shiver in response.

“Farewell. I’ll be sure to give a grand eulogy in your honor and commemorate your service to the crown.”

Pidge growls. “You leave Allura alone, you sna--”

She’s interrupted by a mouthful of snow.

The wind howls and if anything more is said, Pidge doesn't hear it. 

Snow still falls heavy as Pidge forces herself up. It's easier somehow, now that she can’t feel anything, though her body still protests. If she doesn’t find shelter, she will die here. Her family will have no idea what became of her and Allura will hear only the Prime Minister’s lies. The country’s welfare depends on her surviving this!

Thunder booms as Pidge looks around. There is nothing but white around her, she can hardly see the front of her face. 

Lightning strikes among the clouds and if Pidge had the energy to scream, she would have. 

As if a ghost, the large outline of what could only be a dragon looms over her, bright blue eyes focused in on her - the only detail she can make out.

The snow underneath her moves and so does she. Wet and stickiness around her body turns to the feeling of hard scales. 

Well, at least she’s warmer now.

~

Pidge wakes to the sound of a cracking fire. The blankets wrapped around her are warm, the mattress and pillows she lies on are soft and silky. She can feel her body again - every ache and pain from the long march up the mountain. But the bed is so comfortable she doesn’t want to move at all. She soaks in the calming presence of her magic spark that now flows freely through her body.

But… why is she warm? 

Why is she still alive?

Pidge compromises and opens her eyes. Before her is a large fireplace, though it's surrounded by uneven stone. Stroking the coals is the dragon, scales a soft blue, perfect for camouflage amongst the snow. His claw burns red from the heat, but it does not seem to bother him. Rather, he notices that she is awake.

She isn’t scared. Seeing him care for the fire - such a mundane and human action - sets her strangely at ease. Her magic bubbles with warmth, not at all worried over him. 

If not so tired, Pidge might have laughed at the way such a rumored fearsome beast scurried over to her. 

“You made it!” he says much more gleefully than Pidge ever expected a dragon to be. Behind his body, she can see his tail practically wagging. “I was hoping the herbs did the trick. How are you feeling?”

Pidge groans. She is not ready to be this upbeat. “Tired,” she says truthfully. “You saved me. Why?”

The dragon looks incredulous that she would even ask that, tiny finned ears perking up. “Because it's the right thing to do?” he asks - she hopes rhetorically - in a higher pitched tone. “What were you even doing up here and in that dress of all things? That is not appropriate for this climate!”

Her instinct it to retort sarcastically back at him, but she’s still so exhausted, and perhaps it would be in bad taste to be angry at her savior. 

Instead, she works to sit up, first propping up on her elbows. “I was meant to die,” she says with a deep sigh. “Prime Minister Keircen doesn’t want me around.”

The dragon slumps backward. “Oh.”

“‘Oh’ is right.” With great effort she manages to sit up… though she gathers the blankets to cuddle. “I need to get back. He’s going to tell Allura that Daibazaal is ready to attack at any moment, which isn’t true. There will be a war and both countries will be ruined.”

The dragon, for his part, looks terribly sympathetic to a matter that doesn’t concern him. “Maybe, but it takes a long time to get down from the mountain and you are in no shape to make it on your own, let alone on my back.”

Though tired, Pidge’s mind is sharp enough she catches his offer. “You’d be willing to bring me home? Don’t dragons kidnap maidens and eat humans?”

He bristles. “Perhaps the more unsavory ones. That’s beneath me.” Narrowing his eyes, he extends his long neck and sticks his snout as close as he can without touching her. “You’re a part of Allura’s court - has she not even mentioned me? Good ol’ Lancey Lance?”

Pidge feels her eyebrows rise, fascination and confusion melding together. “No… how do you know Allura… Lancey Lance?”

The dragons snorts, a puff of smoke coming from his nostrils as he pulls away. “It’s just Lance. I’ve known Allura since she was tiny. Someone tried to drop her at my doorstep like they did you. I brought her back and burned the castle.” He preens. “She knighted me for it.”

Pidge’s jaw drops, she hadn’t even been involved in court life but she remembered that fire and how everyone praised their young queen for coming back from the ashes.  “Allura was ten when that happened. That was your fault?”

Lance grins, his sharp teeth gleaming. “Magnificent, wasn’t it? Keith couldn’t make half as awesome a blaze if he tried.”

Suddenly, Allura’s insistence that everyone stay away from the mountain made much more sense. It wasn’t out of fear of her past, it was so everyone would leave Lance alone. 

Pidge gapes, much to Lance’s presumed pleasure. Kind he may be, but he was just as vain as any dragon she’d seen. 

“I need to get back now,” she says after several moments. “I need to tell Allura--”

“Nah uh uh,” Lance says, wagging his claw. With more gentleness than she ever expected from such a large creature, he pushes her to lie back down on the bed. “You are still recovering. This guy sounds nasty, you won’t be any use if you’re not prepared to fight once you get home. You like garlic knots? I got some baking in the bread oven.”

Pidge’s rumbling stomach answers for her and Lance trots off.

It finally allows her a chance to look around. The room is a strange blend of human conveniences and a distinctly dragon feel. She lies in a human sized bed fit for a king and the fireplace roars across the way. Between are drippings of gold and silver treasures of all kinds. 

Lance has been nothing but benevolent so far, so Pidge has no reason not to trust his word that he will bring her home. Though… dragons are dragons. She can’t help but wonder if there might be a price for his kindness. 

In the meantime, she'll have to take his hospitality. 

At least, she feels safe enough to sleep some more.

[one-lonely-whumperfly]

Whumptober: Shaky Hands & Trembling

(I’m finally starting Whumptober! Only six days late! I’m planning on having all of these be based on the story I wrote here, so enjoy!)

“Dooooove~? Where has my darling Dove gone?” Koda’s voice echoed through the home. He smiled as his Dove hurried into the dining room, looking at him expectantly with a small smile.

“Yes, sir?”

Koda beckoned the boy closer, watching his every movement. His Dove was so calm, so obedient. The perfect pet. His smile grew. “Come, it’s time to eat. I have some desserts and drinks for us to try.”

Dove bit back a gasp, nodding excitedly. He loved sampling meals with his Master. It must’ve meant he’d be throwing a party, soon. Maybe he’d even let Dove perform again!

"Thank you, sir. It all looks amazing!"

He sat in the chair Koda had pulled out for him, leaning into the hand that gently ruffled his hair. "Remember, my darling Dove, tell me which ones you think would be best for the party."

Dove nodded and picked up a small mug, breathing in the delicious scent. So sweet smelling... he took a sip, eyes widening.

"Oh, wow..." He whispered before quickly downing the drink. He smiled.

Koda chuckled as he watched him. "I take it we should include that one?" Dove nodded as his Master pushed more drinks and desserts to him. "Let's see about the rest."

In the end, all of the food and drinks were included into the party list. Koda hadn't sampled much, instead he enjoyed watching the reactions of his little Dove.

Once he finished the last of his drinks, Dove sighed and started to relax... but his chest started to tighten. His heart raced, nausea washed over him, and he started to shake.

"Dove, what's wrong?" Koda spoke softly as he moved closer.

"I...I-I-I... I d-d-don't know..." He whimpered in fear, unable to sit still. He tapped his foot, let his hands and shoulders tremble, took quick, shaky breaths. "D-don't... d-d-don't f-feel r...right..." The world was closing in on him and expanding at the same time. He was too small but didn't have enough space.

Koda frowned and watched him for a moment before realizing what must've happened. "Oh no... darling, almost all of the drinks were coffee drinks... full of caffeine."

C-caffeine? Dove had never had caffeine before. "I-I don't like it." He whined, tears in his eyes. He couldn't stop shaking.

Koda gently pulled him into his arms, rubbing his back. "It's okay, my little Dove. It won't last too long. Your heart's racing, isn't it?"

Dove nodded weakly, clinging to him. It was hard to breathe--

"Deep breaths. In. And out. You can do it. There you go." Koda directed him, still rubbing his back. He stroked his hair, too. "I'm here. I'm right here. Come on, let's bring you to the bedroom. Maybe lying down will help."

Dove nodded slightly, still holding onto him as they both stood. He gradually began to relax, but his body was still speeding. It wasn't until he was wrapped in blankets, in his Master's arms, that everything felt okay again.

[rpgwrites]

The Cold- Chapter 1: a Favour for a Friend

I wrote this chapter using the Whumptober prompt: 6. Dragged away. 

Warnings for Animal traps and getting shocked in this chapter. 

Story summary:

Months after Meridian has been found, people still can’t live their normal lives in Andromeda. The fight with the kett was still going strong. When Ryder is contacted with yet another mission, at first it looks like the kett, but with a second thorough look, it might be something else that lurks behind the shadows. There are too many things that don't add up and too many unanswered questions. Can Ryder leave this mission alone or will she give in and investigate things?

You can also read this on AO3 or FFN

Chapter 1: a Favour for a Friend

Pathfinder,

Usually, I wouldn’t be as direct but I need your help. We’re a village on Voeld. We take care of each other, but in the last few weeks, my sisters and brothers have been dragged away. I don’t know who, I don’t know why but the one thing I do know is that it isn’t the kett. Everybody has been ignoring my cry for help, nobody believes me. But these patterns are different from the kett. Maybe you’re different. Maybe you can do something about this.

A friend said to contact you.

Olsi Ivfra

Ryder frowned as she read the email again in Reyes’ VIP room. Deciding if she should take this mission or not.

This wasn’t the first time she got an email like this. Months since Meridian and they still didn’t know what the kett was up to next. People moved on. They rebuild. Since the death of the Archon, they tried to live a normal life. Most couldn’t succeed though.

Normal isn’t found easily in Andromeda.

Scott’s treatment was long. Lots of therapy was needed again but he was doing physically fine. Mentally was a different story.

He wouldn’t admit it but it was getting him down that everybody moved on but he couldn’t. He felt behind. Ryder could see it when she visited him. How when she left he wanted to desperately leave too. He was trapped.

Then there was also the thing of what he would do with his life once he was approved for active duty again. Which Harry assured her would almost be upon them.

“That looks serious,” Reyes suddenly said, examing her expression.  Ryder wasn’t sure when he came into the room.

“Just an email,” Ryder shrugged, her eyes were still fixed on her omni-tool. “People who disappear and think it isn’t the kett. The same old.”

Reyes’ eyes widened and at first, Ryder didn’t know why until he spoke. “Is that from Olsi?”

Ryder chewed her lip and double-checked the name. Sure enough, it was from the same person Reyes talked about unless they had a different last name, but what were the chances? Sara Ryder was long enough in Andromeda to not believe in coincidences. “So, you’re the friend,” she said unimpressed.

“Yes,” he said as if she should’ve expected that. “I think you should check it out.”

“Reyes,” she deactivated her omni-tool. “Do you know how many requests I get exactly like these? Do you know how many I checked out? And guess who was behind these every single time?”

“I know. I know,” he said. But Reyes couldn’t know because if he did he wouldn’t ask her this.

Andromeda still needed a lot of work. Eos, Havaral, Elaaden, hell even Kadara all needed a lot of improvement. There aren’t enough outposts and most focussed only on Meridian.

They should have focused more on Meridian when Ryder asked but they didn’t.

“Would I ever waste your time?” Reyes asked charmingly.

No, he wouldn’t. Ryder knew this. For every single thing, he asked her mission wise also benefited him as well as the Initiative. Except maybe Zia, but that was a different story.

“Fine,” Ryder said, still unsure. “But, I’m just checking it out. No promises.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” Reyes said. He leaned back on the couch, “Now that’s out of the way, do you want your usual?”

Since everything that happened with the Archon’s flagship months ago, Ryder has been doing better. Treatment plans worked, and treatment plans failed. She had her ups and downs.

She only tried alcohol once afterward. It was after they secured Meridian. They were celebrating and she talked to Lexi making sure it was okay. It wasn’t anything strong. But she had horrible consciousness. And afterward, she was on a strict fluid diet.

She never dared trying alcohol again, and she wasn’t planning on doing it right now. So when Reyes asked for her usual he meant water.

“Sure,” she said.

After their drinks or more accurately her water and his whiskey arrived, they would start to discuss business.

Things were doing better than expected in Kadara. The Port flourished under Reyes’ rule. Yes, there were still problems and of course, Kadara wasn’t crime-free. Reyes still had his smuggling business on the side after all. But people were happier.

There were no protection fees, or at least if there was Ryder wasn’t aware of them. Most were happy with Keema.

Ryder wasn’t aware of everything that was going around in Kadara. Just as she didn’t share all of her work with Reyes, it was the same with him. It was a perfect solution, but Ryder always had this sinking feeling that it won’t always be the case.

Secrets have a way of hurting the people you love. That’s one lesson she’ll always cherish.

Even though she and Reyes were in a happy relationship she still couldn’t be honest about her full injuries. They were talking about everything, but whenever those injuries became the subject she changed it. Reyes was suspicious. He even asked her why she was acting this way. She gave him a vague answer, saying it was in the past.

The look he gave her in return told her he didn’t believe her. Besides now wasn’t the place nor the time. They were happy and that was what counted. One day if they were still together and she needs to tell him she will. But that is not today.

****

“So, where to now Pathfinder?” the pilot of the Tempest asked when she arrived on the bridge.

Ryder could’ve tasked SAM to give the location to Kallo but she also thought it was time to do the rounds and check up on her crew.

“Voeld,” Ryder decided to go straight to the planet. It wouldn't help if she ignored it.

“Something happening at the icy planet?” Suvi asked as she arrived.

Part of the reason why they were on Kadara was because of her. Suvi divided her time helping the Nexus scientists and doing her work on the Tempest. It was hard but she succeeded. Suvi needed to gather samples with a team on her own. To say she was excited about her work was an understatement.

“Just to check something out,” Ryder said still unsure if this was worth checking out.

She went back to her quarters afterward and replied to her emails. There she got the agreed-upon meeting place.

She also scheduled a vid-call with Commander Do Xeel.

“Pathfinder,” the not so friendly meeting came. “With what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Commander, I was wondering if you know the Angara by the name of Olsi Ivfra?” Ryder decided to go straight to business.

Do Xeel straightened as she recognized the name. “We had dealings with her in the past. Why?” Do Xeel asked as she gave more of her attention to the conversation. “Have she started to bother you?”

Ryder heard what the Commander wasn’t saying. Even though she didn’t say it, it was in there. Hidden.

“So,” Ryder crossed her arms. “She complained about the missing people to you as well?”

“She has a friend,” the commander started. It looks like she has lots of friends where it counted. “After she complained to a lot of people and gave a lot of people head-splitters,” she meant headaches, Ryder reminded herself, “We started to check it out.”

“And what have you found?”

“The short version nothing.”

“She said it was unlike the other kett disappearances.” Ryder had to mention that. If only for herself. “Is that true?”

“I’ll admit,” the Commander said reluctantly. “There were things that didn’t add up.”

Ryder hated herself for saying it but it was where her mind was going to. “So it might not be the kett?”

“Pathfinder,” she used a tone that suggested she was talking to a kid and not the human Pathfinder. “If we investigated-“

“-Every case like this we’ll get nowhere,” Ryder finished her sentence. “I know. I know. That’s what I said.”

Do Xeel was not impressed that she interrupted her. Or at least that’s what her impression told her. Ryder always had a hard time reading Do Xeel.

“But, you’re still going to look into this?”

“Doing a favour for a friend.” That wasn’t exactly correct but she wasn’t sure what else to call it.

“You’ll waste your time with this,” she said not being impressed in the least. “Typical.”

Ryder chose to ignore it. “I’m on my way to Voeld.”

“Make sure to drop by. We could use your help with something.”

****

“I hate Voeld,” Liam said after Kallo landed the Tempest.

“Don’t worry Kosta,” Ryder tried to assure him. “I’m not planning to take you with me if I don’t have to.”

Vetra gave Ryder a stare that shouted, I hope you don’t pick me either.

Ryder buried her neck deeper into her scarf as if she could feel the cold even though they were on the temperature controlled Tempest. “Time to gear up,” she said to no one in particular.

“Who are you taking?” Vetra asked.

“No one,” Ryder said while she and Vetra walked away from the bridge. “It’s not far from the Resistance Base here.”

“So why gear up?” Vetra asked curiously.

“Have you ever been on Voeld?” the sarcastic question came. “Climate control.” And the kett.

But Ryder had a feeling Vetra's question was more of an ice breaker than anything else.

“Speaking of,” Vetra looked at the datapad that Ryder only saw now in the turian’s hands. “I had dealings with her.”

Vetra was speaking about Olsi of course. Ryder asked her as well as SAM for information about her.

Publically there wasn’t a lot of information about the Angara. Other than being a friend of the Charlatan and being a Collective she didn’t know much about her.

“Why only bring this up now?” Ryder raised her one eyebrow. “You’re keeping secrets Vetra?”

“I’m hurt, Ryder. I thought you trusted me,” the playful remark came.

“It has nothing to do with trust.” It was a lie of course. It had everything to do with trust but Ryder found it very suspicious that Vetra only mentioned it now and not sooner. The timing couldn’t be worse.

“She didn’t always go as Olsi.”

“Oh?” That perked Ryder’s curiosity more than it should have. “Someone with a past. Okay give me the datapad.”

Not that Ryder had time to look at everything now.

Ryder and Vetra went to their separate ways.

“SAM,” Ryder said while she was putting her armor on, “can you give me the short version of what’s on that datapad?” Ryder asked in the hopes it would work.

She was taking the shortcut because she had no time to thoroughly read the information. This wasn’t normally she did things. Ryder liked to do her research thoroughly.

“Yes Pathfinder.”

****

“Pathfinder you came,” the Angara said. Looking up and down from her omni-tool she confirmed that this was, in fact, Olsi Ivfra or more accurately according to Vetra Halane Oga Gira.

“Of course Halane.”

Ryder saying her real name seemed to have no effect on her which only led Ryder to believe that she expected it. “Looks like you did your research.”

“My research ended up nothing,” Ryder said. “But I’m sure you know it.”

“Vetra told you about me.”

“Does Reyes know?” Ryder asked. Ryder didn’t exactly have time to call him. But she had a feeling he knew. After Dorado’s betrayal, Reyes wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

“Of course. Who do you think gave me this new identity?”

Ryder didn’t know that Reyes was in the business of giving new identities. But then again the Charlatan was bound to have connections everywhere.

She wasn’t mad, Ryder understood.

“Okay,” Ryder decided to leave the subject alone. “Tell me what happened Halane.”

The first time the Angara might’ve been okay with Ryder using her real name but this time it made her face turn into something sour mixed with fear. “If you don’t mind Pathfinder call me Olsi.” Her eyes looked around frantically. Ryder wasn’t sure if this was the first time she noticed it or if it was the first that she has done this. “I have a reason for using my new name.” And just like that her features seemed to relax.

That was one of the things Vetra’s information didn’t state. It stated all about Halane but yet nothing about Olsi. It had where she grew up, what sort of business she did with Vetra. Then…it stopped. As if she disappeared on the face of the…Galaxy.

Her reasons for changing her name was unknown. But it didn’t matter.

“Sure,” Ryder agreed. “That’s your business.” And probably Reyes’, but she didn’t say that out loud. “Why shouldn’t I believe these disappearances doesn’t have anything to do with the kett?”

Ryder remembered the Angaras they found in the cages. It was mere months ago, but yet it felt like yesterday where the cold tried to catch them in its claws. In which state some of them were. Hungry for freedom. And what the kett had done to them.

It’s sad, and Ryder felt very wrong for not wanting to drop everything for a kett related mission. People still suffered under the kett’s influence. They were still at war with them. But it was also their reality. Everything was important. Ryder couldn’t afford to chase down every lead they came across. They were too many.

“Besides the patterns?” Olsi shrugged. “There’s also a survivor.”

That caught Ryder’s attention. Why didn’t anybody mention the survivor? And that’s exactly what she asked.

“Why didn’t you mention that before?” Ryder tried not to sound interested all of the sudden but she doubted she succeeded.

“Why?” she asked in a way that suggested the answer was obvious. “Because everybody thinks he is crazy.”

Ryder frowned in response, “But he remembers what happened? How did he get away?”

“Nobody is sure, he was found somewhere unknown. Alone in the cold,” Olsi started. “A group of Resistance scouts found him while on patrol.”

That sounded ominous to Ryder’s ears and she couldn’t exactly explain why. “No signs of…anything?” There’s always evidence. His attackers must’ve left some kind of clue.

“Nothing they could find.” There was no hesitancy in Olsi’s tone. No doubt. She was sure of herself. “He was missing for a few days. A couple of us went out searching for him. We had nothing to go on but drag marks.”

“And the Resistance thought it was the kett,” Ryder concluded.

“Yes, I’m not sure what the Resistance told you but my village needs help.” The tone of desperation screamed in the Angara’s tone. It was louder than her words. “Please Pathfinder, Reyes said you’re different.”

Different then who?

It wasn’t the first time he said that. But Ryder was still not sure if she should look into this.

“Give me the coordinates to this…person,” Ryder was unsure what to call him. Olsi hasn’t given any details of him yet.

“Thank you,” Olsi was grateful. Probably more than Ryder realized. “But be warned, he and his brother live in a secluded area. And he is very paranoid.”

****

“So we’re going to do this?” Peebee said when she strapped her shotgun on.

“Just checking things out.”

Why can’t I just let it go?

Every part of her screamed it was the kett. There was just that glimpse of doubt that crept in through the cracks. If she was wrong about this it would be on her.

“She’s only doing it because her boyfriend asked her,” Peebee directed at Cora. She had a playful grin on her lips.

Cora gave her a long hard stare before putting her breastplate on. Seemingly very uninterested in Ryder's reasons.

“We're not doing anything but checking things out,” Ryder checked to see if she had enough ammo clips.

Maybe Peebee had a point. Maybe if someone else asked her she would have thought twice before deciding to take this. But then again there were other reasons for her doing this as well.

When Reyes asked she hesitated. It didn't take a lot of persuasion though.

“That's probably the village your contact spoke off,” Cora said when they rode past some buildings.

“SAM?” Ryder asked for confirmation.

“That is correct.”

The road ahead was still long and they had a couple of hours at least ahead of them.

There were a couple of miles where only silence was heard.

“Is it just me or did it get colder?” Peebee asked. It was impossible. The Nomad had climate control but yet the same feeling crept onto Ryder as well.

“Yeah something isn't right about this place,” Cora agreed as well.

“Let's just check things out,” Ryder said as she parked the Nomad.

“Why are we parking so far?” Peebee asked as she looked at the building ahead of them. They were a couple of meters away from their destination.

Be sure to park your vehicle some distance away, Olsi’s words rang in Ryder's ears.

“It's better this way,” Ryder said.

“Pathfinder,” SAM spoke through her omni-tool, “I detect multiple traps.”

“Traps?” Cora asked in confusion. “There's something everybody doesn't have near their homes.”

“Well he is paranoid,” Ryder said as if it was normal. And this is far away from the village. Maybe there’s a lot of wild animals here.  “Keep an eye out.”

The three proceeded in caution but that didn't mean they kept their mouths shut the entire time.

“Why is this guy so paranoid?” Cora whispered. Nobody was sure why she whispered maybe not even Cora knew because they still had some steps before reaching the building. “Didn’t you say he had memory loss?”

“Yeah,” Ryder choose not to whisper. That didn’t mean she spoke loud either. “I’m not sure. Besides being scared of these people…”

“…Kett you mean,” Peebee tried to fill in.

If it is the kett, but she didn’t voice that out loud. “…will come after him,” Ryder continued, ignoring Peebee’s words. “It sounds like there’s more to that. Maybe it has to do with why people think he’s crazy.”

“Will what he says change anything?” Cora seemed curious if they would take this further. She still had no interest in Ryder’s reasons though.

“Well-“she started but she never got the chance to say anything.

“Pathfinder you're about to step on a trap.”

But the sound of a click told her it was too late.

Without thinking she took a step further but something stopped her and she fell. Pain shot through her ankle. Strangely enough, it made her nauseous. “Dammit,” Ryder said.

“Ryder, are you okay?” Cora and Peebee asked in unison.

“Just get me out-“but she was interrupted yet again. For a couple of minutes, she heard nothing as volts of electricity went through her body. Making her unable to do, or say anything. Her senses felt nonexistence. She felt as the pain went through every nerve.

The rest became foggy.

****

“Something is wrong,” Cora said when Ryder stopped responding.

“Is that-“ Peebee said and it wasn’t long until Cora saw it too. Signs of Ryder being shocked was visible to both of their eyes. Ryder’s eyes were squeezed shut as if she was trying block pain and her body rocked sideways from whatever the trap was doing to her.

It lasted only a few seconds and afterward a small dome shield-like covered Ryder.

“Has it stopped?” Cora asked no one and then all of a sudden realized there was an AI that always monitored Ryder. “SAM?”

“The Pathfinder’s ankle is badly damaged and she was shocked with multiple of volts,” The AI responded. “However it has stopped. Ryder is currently unconscious but trapped.”

“What the hell kind of trap is this?” Peebee voiced what Cora’s been thinking. “Is this for a human or an animal or both?”

“We got ourselves a live one,” they heard a male Angara approaching. “Get in here Tey!” he demanded.

“Just leave the thing to rot,” a second Angara responded.

When the Angara approach them – the one whose name wasn’t Tey – he held his weapon firmly.

Cora and Peebee held their hands in surrender, showing that they meant no harm. “We’re people just like you. You seem to have caught our friend,” Cora said.

But instead of it making their case it did not. “Why the hell are you on my property!?” he seemed mad. Very mad. He was ready to shoot. “Have you came to take me back? I’m not going. Not again!”

“Woah. Woah,” Cora said before the misunderstanding became bigger. “We’re not here to take anything or anyone. But she,” Cora pointed towards where Ryder still lay motionless on the snow, “probably needs some help.”

“Brother,” probably Tey said, ”What’s going on in there?” He ran towards his brother and stopped, clearly shocked by Ryder. “That’s…that’s a human. Not just any human.” He said as he recognized Ryder. “That’s the human Pathfinder.”

“She is staying in there until we know why they are here,” his brother didn’t move an inch. Still holding his weapon in the position it was before.

“Stay there until…” he repeated slowly like he couldn’t believe what his brother suggested. “Are you mad? She’s hurt. I’m getting her out.” He started to run back into the building.

It would’ve been nice if he asked his brother to put his weapon away.

It wasn’t long until the shield went down. “Peebee check on her,” Cora ordered.

“You’re not going anywhere,” the Angara threatened.

“Look,” Peebee said,” You can try to shoot me but I’m sure she can reach for her weapon before you can pull the trigger,” she said, referring to Cora. Peebee had enough of this. “I’m going.” And Peebee started to walk to Ryder.

“Brother, why haven’t you dropped your weapon?” Cora wasn’t sure when Tey returned.

When she looked at the direction where Ryder laid she saw the shield have disappeared.

“No,” the brother said.

“Drop. It. Now,” his firm voice came. And his brother did what he was told reluctantly.

“She’s getting awake!” Peebee screamed.

Cora didn’t know if Peebee screamed because she was worried or if she was relieved.

****

Ryder groaned as she heard voices arguing. Every nerve of her body screamed and she just wanted everyone to shut up. She was getting a headache and they weren’t making it better.

She tried to move her legs but stopped and groaned when the one sent a jolt of pain.

“Ryder!” the voice could only belong to Peebee. “Hold still.”

“What happened? The trap?” she questioned as she looked over her foggy surroundings.

“Yeah,” Peebee confirmed. “Some trap, huh?”

“Pathfinder,” an Angara was suddenly at her side. “I’m so sorry. These traps are animal traps.”

This sure doesn’t feel like an animal trap. “Can you get this thing off my leg?” Ryder tried to focus her eyes but everything seemed blurry.

“Oh yes. Yes. Of course,” the Angara said eagerly. “You might want to grab onto something.”

He might not have thought that through because there was only snow around them. And she sure as hell wasn’t planning on grabbing onto Peebee. “Just do it.” Irritation was visible in her tone.

Ryder closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. She felt the release of the teeth of the trap, but the relief didn’t stay long. She opened her eyes, blood was pouring from her ankle, and with it more pain. Just the sight of it made her feel dizzier.

That was until SAM did his work and helped her with pain control. “Thanks, SAM,” she said through their private channel.

“Can you stand?” Cora appeared with another Angara.

“No introductions?” Ryder joked. She wanted a minute before standing up. Everything was still blurry.

“Sorry Pathfinder,” the first Angara apologized. “My name is Tey and this is my brother Jirgan.”

“We shouldn’t let these people go,” Jirgan said. He didn't approve of his brother giving them his name.

“Excuse me?” Ryder raised her eyebrow. Why the hell not?

“Why have you come here? What do you want?” he demanded. But there was a sliver of fear there.

“Just to talk,” Ryder said trying to get up. Even though Ryder didn’t ask them Cora and Peebee were at her side helping her up. She couldn’t stand on her right foot. “Let’s go.”

“Ryder!” she heard Cora’s anxious voice.

Ryder was on the cold snow again. What happened? Did she collapse? She didn’t think it was possible but everything felt less clear. Everything was spinning, and she felt incredibly nauseous.

“We should get her inside quickly,” Tey said with rising panic while giving her bloody leg a concerned look.

“I’m fine. I can walk.”

“No you can’t,” both Peebee and Cora said. They looked at each other shocked that they said it together.

With a lot of trouble and protests, they got inside.

“Sit her there,” Tye said and Ryder had no idea where they were putting her. It was something soft.

She was trying to stay focus on the four talking people, but her eyes didn’t want to stay open. It felt a lifetime of trying to fight it but it wasn’t long until Ryder gave in to sleep.

[an-ace-phoenix]

Whumptober Day 1

Shaky Hands.

Peter stared down in horror as his hands shook. He knew what was happening, had been warned about it many times and had even been told what to do if it ever happened.

He could feel his mind going blank, everything he had ever been taught about how to be an Avenger going straight out the window.

He felt his legs give way beneath him as he crumbled into a Spiderman shaped pile on the rough ground of the roof.

How did he get up here? Why here? Why? Why? Why?

He could hear Karen. She was saying something, she sounded worried, but Peter couldn't make out her words. It sounded important but he was too tired to listen. He carefully put a hand against his side, pressing against the hole in his suit. It came away damp and red with blood.

He wanted - no - he needed to talk. Needed to yell or scream or tell Karen to call up Mr Stark. Sitting here he was just waiting for death. Waiting to bleed out or die from the winter chill - whichever came first.

His throat was fuzzy and his tounge limp as he tried to make words. All that came out were muffled moans, not even enough for Karen to register.

How long ago had he been stabbed?

He could remember the masked man and his sinister smile. He could remember a fight and the man's taunting voice - what the man was saying escaped him. He could remember the slippery, slick, cold feel as the knife slid into his side. He remembered the man grabbing it back, saying something along the lines of "I'm going to need that back." But after that, no more.

After that just darkness and finally coming back to his senses on top of this roof.

Was this where he was stabbed? He would have to assume so, he couldn't imagine managing to move far in this condition.

He looked around slowly - if only he could get his bearings - but his vision was just fuzz and his mind wasn't much better. The chances of him finding his way to safety was slim.

The notices of the city washed over him. Maybe he had been missing long enough for Mr Stark to get notified, maybe Karen had informed him about Peter's questionable vitals and he was already on his way here.

Peter knew that it was truly his only hope.

Maybe if he could send out a distress signal - find a way to tell Mr Stark to hurry - then he might be ok.

Did he have anything with that kind of system. Well, this was Tony - of course he did - but did he have anything within reach, anything he could set off even like this.

He has his suit, obviously, but he can't speak for the voice commands and he can't think straight enough to remember what the protocol for this was. Does Karen message Mr Stark as soon as things get weird or does she wait a bit. Will Tony be already heading in his direction?

How long has he been up here? Time seems screwed. He can't tell if it's been a second, a minute or an hour. All he can tell us pain.

He has his watch, its over the top of his suit, but he can't gather enough strength to look at it. He knows that if he can just move his hand, there is a panic button on the side. If Tony received that he would know there was something wrong. He tries, he really does, but all he can manage is a small wrist twitch, nowhere near enough to set off his panic button.

He can feel the darkness creeping in around the edges. Little spots, starting in the very corners of his vision, and then growing. Growing like they have a life of their own as they grow and move and block out the sky, one spot at a time.

His eyes start to slip closed, he tries to fight. He knows that once he closes them, he may never open them again. He may never wake up if he lets himself sleep. But he is so tired. So so tired. All he can think off is sleep.

Sleep would take away all his pain.

Why doesn't he want to fall asleep again?

He lets his eyes slowly drift closed. He can feel sleep clawing its way up, fighting a battle with wakefulness and Peter honestly doesn't know which will win.

Now that his sight is gone, all his other sense's flair into life. He can smell the crisp winter air as it burns his nose as he breathes. He can taste the coppery, metallic taste of blood as it bubbles up his throat. He can feel the roof digging into his back, grounding him into reality even as he sleeps away. He can hear the distant buzz of the city and something else. Something buzzing, distant, familiar. Karen is talking again, he still can't make her out, but he can hear another voice. It's deeper and he wished he could hear it properly. It sounds worried, he wants to help it.

But more than all that. He can feel pain. Sharp, stabbing pain which fills his entire being and makes him want to scream.

The pain makes the decision for him. Tips it right out of his hands and slits in his face as it does so. Darkness comes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

An annoying beeping is what awakens Peter from his slumber. Pulling him into wakefulness with its insistent beeping and annoying pitch.

He wonders if it's his alarm, but he's had the same tune programmed for the last few years and this isn't it.

He peels his eyes open, with more difficulty than he expected, and instantly slams them shut again.

Who left the light on! It was one of those glaring lights, the kind which burned your eyes and were worse than looking at the sun.

It was one of those lights that you find in offices, schools and hospitals. So why was one here?

He clearly wasn't in an office and he really hoped he wasn't at school. So that left hospital. Was he in a hospital? Why would he be in a hospital?

He cast his mind's eye back, how had he ended up (probably) in a hospital?

He could remember going out in patrol and then…. Oh yeah. Getting stabbed. Bleeding out on a rooftop. Right. Well. He didn't appear to be dead so that was one plus.

He carefully forced his eyes open once more, he needed to be sure that he was alive. That his identity was safe.

He looked around slowly. He appeared to be in the med bay? The med bay at the avengers compound. That was good. It meant his identity was probably still secret, he had been picked up before anyone could find him and before he could die. That was pretty neat actually.

Just then, he heard the click of a door opening and the unmistakable steps of Dr Banner walking into the room.

As soon as Bruce noticed he was awake, a large smile appears on his face "hey Peter, how are you feeling."

"Good actually. How long have I been out?"

"Only since yesterday. You're lucky you have super healing, or you would almost definitely be dead by now. I'll just do my rounds and then send Tony in."

Peter nodded in agreement as Bruce checked his vitals ect.

He was getting the feeling that Tony may have been the one to save him, if his hunch was right then he has a lot to thank him for.

"Ok. That's all done. I'll go tell the others you are awake." Bruce smiled again as he walked out and Peter was suddenly struck by the fact Bruce looked like he had been worried. The avengers had been worried about him!

He didn't have much time to dwell on that, before the doors crashed open and Mr Stark walked in. At first glance he seemed fine. The cool collected self he always was. But then Peter noticed his hair - messy from hands being dragged through it - his eyes - dark circles from not sleeping and dim with worry - his clothes - rumpled like he had been sitting on a chair for the last however long - and Peter knew he was not fine.

"Mr Stark." He said, hoping that if Tony could talk to him, maybe it would ease out the worried lines firming between his brows.

"Peter." Tony says quietly, almost like he's shocked that Peter is ok, but is very glad about it. It physically hurts Peter, Tony's always been the strong one, the one who never cracks, and here he was looking like he's about to cry.

Tony's hands were shaking so Peter lent forwards to grab them. "I'm ok Mr Stark. You saved me. I'm ok."

If anything, that only made Tony look even closer to tears as he reached out and pulled Peter into a tight hug.

"But I nearly didn't. You nearly died, and that would have been on me."

Peter knew nothing good was happening, definitely not anything to be happy about, but he was. The avengers cared about him. Tony cared about him. And anyway, there is a certain high you get from narrowly avoiding death, isn't there.

Bruce nipped in a few minutes later and  told Peter he had to stay on bed rest. Over the next couple of hours, every Avenger came to see him, but Tony didn't leave his side once.

The end of the day found them both on the bed, Tony gently running his hands through Peter's hair. Peter could practically hear the thoughts running through Tony's head, probably plans to improve the suit and stop this from ever happening again.

"You think too loud." He grumbled tiredly, causing Tony to chuckle.

"Go to sleep kid." Peter wanted to argue, say that he wasn't that young, he didn't need a bed time, but he was tired and sleep sounded perfect.

The next morning, Peter woke to find Tony still there, sleeping deeply.

Peter was very glad he had managed not to die. He felt safe, warm and his hands were no longer shaking. Everything was good.