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rhysismydaddy · 4 years ago

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Prisoner's Game Pt. 3 (Rowaelin)

~Aelin~

There was something decidedly pleasant about sneaking out of prison.

It was the thrill, she supposed.

She'd always been a bit of an adrenaline junky, and there was nothing that matched up to the excitement of breaking out of a maximum security prison with no one being the wiser.

Aelin ran through the tunnel, her steps sure and soundless, a smile blooming on her face. What she was doing shouldn't give her such joy, but along with being a thrill seeker, she'd always been just a little bit vindictive.

Or maybe a lot.

The map of the tunnels was still crystal clear after all this time, and she had it memorized down to the number of steps it took to get to the right turn.

It was a three hour run. Two underground, then one through the city out into the suburbs.

While the first two hours were definitely not fun, it was the last hour that was tricky.

Avoiding cameras, not drawing any unwanted attention, dressing so no one could see her face without looking too much like the criminal she was.

It was also more exhausting.

It was an hour of sprinting across rooftops, sprinting through town, then sprinting some more.

It was a little funny to her that the journey to where she needed to go was more difficult than actually breaking into the building.

She had a set of scrubs stored in a nearby lockbox, along with a wig and a few prosthetics to make her look more like Ansel, one of the nurses working the night shift.

The security guard, Shelly, was prone to reading romance novels during her shift and never questioned why she occasionally thought she saw two of the same person wandering around.

It was no different tonight.

Once she had everything in place, Aelin strode confidently through the halls, grabbing charts and nodding like she knew what the hell she was looking at.

No one stopped her, no one questioned her.

When she got to the room and chart she wanted, she slipped inside soundlessly and crept up to the bed.

Despite the ever-present urge to hurry things along, she stuck to her plan and kept the dose the same.

The person on the bed never woke up, never noticed her slip an extra drug into the IV bag hanging on the wall.

Silent, efficient, traceless.

Just like she'd been taught.

Leaving was even easier than entering.

She waited until real-Ansel had been out of the guard's sight for a while, then walked out the back door of the facility like she hadn't just committed a felony.

One of the few crimes she actually deserved to be in prison for, ironically.

Then she ran back, hiding in the traffic camera's blind spots and ditching the wig along the way.

It was a little stupid and drawn out to do it this way, not to mention unbelievably cruel, but Aelin had always had a flair for the dramatic.

Plus, like she said: exciting.

~Rowan~

Doubt is a strange emotion.

It starts small, so small you hardly even realize it's there.

And then, over time, it grows and grows like a fungus, eventually becoming something that you think about all the time. Something that kills you.

Rowan didn't believe in doubt.

His problem had never been with not believing in himself, it'd always been with the opposite affliction: over-conviction.

He believed things so fully, so deeply, it was hard to see it any other way.

It was what made him such a good lawyer. As the top public prosecutor in the city, he had a reputation for being impossible to win against.

He convinced himself of the defendant's guilt so completely, the jury had almost no option but to believe him.

He hadn't always been that way, he didn't think. Argumentative and stubborn, sure. His mother could attest to that. But never so unflinchingly self-assured. So alright with deceiving himself if need be.

If he had to guess, he'd say it'd started two months after the day of Aelin's trial.

He hadn't been lying to her four days ago; every word had been the truth. He'd worked his ass off all those years ago, trying to find something that would help him either clear her name or at least fucking sleep at night.

He'd given himself a timeline, deciding that if he couldn't find a single lead in two months, there probably wasn't one. Two months, and then he'd let it go.

He didn't regret stopping his hunt--he'd seen what an obsession could do to someone.

And when that day had come, he'd thought he was ready. He'd exhausted himself working both her case and the ones he was assigned, burning the candle at both ends and sleeping in the office more nights than his own bed.

There'd been nothing to be found. The evidence, the testimonies, the medical examiner's reports... they'd all pointed to Aelin.

So eventually he'd forced himself to stop looking.

But the sight of her swinging between the two court police officers, fighting for just one more second with him with a desperation he'd never seen from her... he hadn't known how he could just forget something like that.

The image followed him, haunted him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw hers. Lined with tears and disbelief and so much hurt he felt like invisible hands were wrapped around his neck.

So he'd hardened himself against it.

He'd repeated the pieces of evidence against her, told himself she was guilty until the words were easy to say, forced himself to visualize the crime scenes of her victims whenever he thought of her.

Piece by piece, he'd swapped out the months of positive memories they had with stone cold facts.

And it had worked.

After a month, he could sleep again. After a year, he hardly thought of her and when he did, it was with disgust.

Yet now, over eight years later, he found himself with just the slightest amount of doubt again.

It was the same nagging, incessant feeling he hadn't been able to shake eight years ago. Back for round two, apparently.

At first, he'd played it off as nerves from their conversation. She'd worked him up so much he'd admitted how much he'd once loved her and said things he shouldn't have.

His body was reacting to the sadness in her eyes, the surprise that had bloomed when he'd told her he'd fought for her. It was emotion, nothing based in logic, that made him want to start looking again.

At least that's what he told himself.

But four days later, he found himself on the couch--he really did need to give up and just buy a new bed--staring at the ceiling, trying to sleep and not being able to.

Because... well because what if she was telling the truth?

Why else would she have told him that story?

What had he missed during all those late nights spent hunched over her folder?

The questions grew and grew, until that once-little shard of doubt started to slowly drive him mad.

The uncertainty, no matter how small it had begun, had grown to be almost irritatingly large and unavoidable.

He couldn't stop thinking about what she'd said. The breadcrumbs that apparently only he could find.

What did that mean?

And why couldn't he just let it go?

"Fuck!" he yelled, throwing his blanket off and storming to the closet.

Like a love-struck idiot, he'd kept a box full of the stuff she'd left at his apartment during their relationship. The stuff that wasn't evidence, at least.

If it was something only he could find like she'd said, it was probably something only he had access to.

He dropped the box on his kitchen table and opened the lid.

Then cursed when the first thing he saw was a pair of red lace underwear. That was the last thing he needed to be thinking about and remembering.

Especially when he'd barely been able to resist the temptation to kiss her in that interrogation room.

Something about the way she'd looked at him after he'd told her he'd fought for her all those years ago had rattled the grip he had on his control hard.

She'd seemed so... sad. So hopeless. It had brought out the urge to comfort her in whatever way he could.

Hearing about her childhood and how she'd been raised by Arobynn Hamel hadn't made it any better. Truthfully, it'd broken something inside of him.

She'd always been so positive around him--a ray of light he'd felt was put on this earth just for him.

And all the while, she'd been forced to live with and work for one of the most notorious crime syndicate members of all time.

He'd always known she hadn't had a good childhood, but there was a difference between foster care hell and an actual house of horrors. Rowan couldn't even imagine the things she'd seen. Been forced to see, to do.

She made it out, he reminded himself, taking a deep breath.

But had she?

If what she'd told him was true, she'd killed those people because she'd been forced to.

It hadn't been her choice.

But there was something else about her, something he couldn't stop thinking about.

The secret she'd eluded to, the one that apparently only he had the key to solving.

A secret she'd promised would explain everything.

He tossed the underwear on the table, vowing to ignore them.

Then threw them in the trash a minute later when that became impossible.

You're such an asshole, he told himself, shaking his head. It's been eight years.

Even if that part of their relationship was most definitely memorable.

"Jesus," he laughed, running a hand over his face. Why was he even thinking about that?

Maybe it was the look in her eyes four days ago, or maybe it was simply that Aelin had been an important part of his life. He'd never forget the connection they'd had. Maybe it would always be a part of him.

But that was ridiculous, because he'd been connected to plenty of women since. Plenty of gorgeous brunettes and redheads.

For some reason, he hadn't been able to date a blonde, but that didn't mean anything.

He was over her.

Obviously.

Forcing his thoughts away from Aelin, he grabbed the next thing in the box.

Her address book. Maybe she'd left a note in there?

He flipped it open, scrolling through blank page after blank page. Her cousin's address and phone number were there--both of which he confirmed with police records--but other than that, it was blank.

The next thing he found made the ache in his chest expand to a soul-sucking hole.

It was a travel brochure for Aruba.

The edges were frayed from how much she'd flipped through it, and notes in her handwriting were scribbled throughout the pages.

He remembered this, all right.

He'd woken up one morning, a morning that seemed like a lifetime ago, to find her laying on top of him, leafing through the travel pamphlet with a huge grin on her face.

"We're going to Aruba," she'd whispered in lieu of a greeting, leaning down to press her lips to his.

"Why?" he'd asked back between kisses.

"Because it's the perfect place to hide from your real life," had been her laughed response.

She'd planned a trip for them at Christmas. Their very first trip together.

Every time they saw each other, she'd shown him a new page or told him about a new activity she wanted to do.

In general, she was a happy, excited person, but he'd never seen her so thrilled over anything like she was that trip.

He'd hidden it better, trying to play it cool, but he'd been excited, too.

He'd pictured her on the beach, running in the sand and smiling and laughing and drinking from a coconut. He'd imagined sneaking to the beach one night and making love to her in the ocean.

He'd imagined getting down on one knee and asking her to be his travel partner for life.

She'd been arrested two weeks before they were supposed to leave.

He tossed the little magazine back into the box, shaking his head to clear it of the memories and long-lost dreams.

The only thing left in the worn box was books.

Aelin had volunteered at a publishing house, trying to get hired as a fiction editor, and she'd always had a book in her ridiculously heavy pocket book.

She'd given him a few of her favorites, claiming that if he ever wanted to know the "real her," he had to read them.

A statement that made a lot more sense now than it used to.

He grabbed the one on top and leafed through it, going through the pages and scanning.

When that didn't yield anything, he flipped to the back of the book and looked at the inscription she'd written him.

March 1

Rowan,

I know you're not a fan of fiction, let alone romantic, feminist fiction, but I hope you'll read this and fall in love with Elizabeth's character like I did.

Aelin

He turned the book over and looked at the front again, then flipped through it again, then went through the whole process again.

Why did he feel like something about this didn't add up? And why was this, of all things, what she'd left as a breadcrumb?

He didn't figure it out until he reread the inscription for the fifth time and realized the date she'd written.

March 1st.

It was wrong; she'd given him this book on his birthday in February. He remembered because he'd laughed about her giving a grown man a romance novel for his birthday.

Why had she put March 1st? And why did that date stand out in his mind?

Stomach dropping, he finally figured out why that date was so important. It was the date of the first murder.

Maddison Kliff, a state senator who controversially wanted to fund renewable energy in the upcoming year, had been murdered the morning of March 1st eight years ago.

Breadcrumb.

He grabbed the next book from the stack, Wuthering Heights, and flipped to the end.

Almost the exact same inscription, except the date was April 13th, and the inspiring character was Linton Heathcliff.

April 13th was the day another victim died.

Rowan's heart started pounding, so hard he thought he was going to either pass out or go into cardiac arrest.

What was the connection between these dates, characters, and victims? Rowan could feel it in his gut that this was what she'd been talking about. It had to be.

He flipped through the books again, looking for something else, but there was nothing there. Nothing was underlined or highlighted, and the books were all in brand-new condition, no pages were bookmarked.

"What are you trying to tell me, Aelin?" he whispered, rubbing at his temples.

He made a list of all the dates and characters, stared at it until he thought he'd go blind, and tried to think like her.

Except her mind was a complex puzzle he'd never quite solved, so that didn't give him anything besides a headache.

He looked in the box again, hoping to magically find another note or something that explained everything in simple, idiot-proof terms.

But all that was there was that damn Aruba magazine.

It's the perfect place to hide from your real life.

The words came rushing back to him, so suddenly and violently it was like his subconscious had been shouting it for a while.

Was that it?

Maybe the connection wasn't only between the dates and characters, but it also had something to do with Aruba.

Maybe that was where this secret, whatever it was, was hiding.

Knowing he was probably grasping at straws, Rowan grabbed his phone and called the one person who'd help him.

"What the hell do you want?"

"I need a favor, Gavriel."

He heard a heavy sigh. "Like a we've been friends for twenty years favor or like an I'm the Chief of Police favor?"

"The latter," Rowan answered.

"Dammit, Rowan, you're going to get me fired one day." That was what he said every time. There was a long pause, then, "What do you need?"

"Flight manifests from Rifthold to Aruba from ten different days eight years ago."

Gavriel caught on quickly. "This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with a former flame of yours, would it? One currently serving time for ten murders from eight years ago?"

"Of course not," he lied, knowing he was busted.

Another sigh. "You need to let this go, kid."

Rowan ran a hand over his face, knowing that wasn't possible. Not when, for the first time since he'd been assigned this God forbidden case, he had a lead.

"Can you help me or not?"

"I will, as long as you promise to drop it once whatever you're chasing ends up to be yet another dead end."

Knowing he didn't have another choice, Rowan agreed.

Gavriel told him he'd send them over, then said softly, "I know you loved her, Rowan, but it's time to move on."

It's not that easy, he thought, thinking once again of Aelin sitting in that tiny cell, skin pale and hair too long.

"Thanks for your help," he said instead, hanging up before the lecture could continue.

A few minutes later, he was printing out the passenger lists from all the Rifthold to Aruba flights on each of the ten dates.

Starting with August 1st, he went through, passenger by passenger, and looked for an Elizabeth.

There'd been three direct flights to Aruba that day, so by the time he found it, his eyes were so tired he almost missed it entirely.

But there was a name that stuck out, one that was straight out of his copy of Pride and Prejudice.

Seat 14C had been occupied by Elizabeth Darcy, and she'd flown directly from Rifthold to Aruba on August 1st.

Rowan's jaw damn near hit the floor.

His hands shook as he highlighted the name, writing the victim's name next to it to keep it straight in his head.

His mind whirled with possible explanations, but he didn't let himself think about anything except the next date.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, he went through the passenger list for April 13th.

And sure enough, Linton Heathcliff was on one of the flights. In the same damn seat.

"Holy fuck," he whispered, grabbing the next sheet of paper.

He went date by date, flight by flight, and by the time he'd located every character, he was sure of what he'd found. What she'd left for him.

It wasn't a breadcrumb, it was the whole goddamn loaf.

Rowan barely made it to the kitchen sink before his stomach emptied as an explanation of what had really happened eight years ago started to form in his mind.

He didn't have all the pieces, but the ones he did have made him literally sick to think about.

Her insistence on being innocent, her begging him to look again, telling him only he could find the clues... it all made sense.

The doubt he'd been struggling with for eight long years suddenly disappeared, replaced by a certainty so swift and thorough and all encompassing, it almost took his breath away.

She hadn't been lying.

She hadn't killed those ten people.

She couldn't have, because...

"They're still alive."

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

dun dun duuuuun

part 4 out next Friday (sorry for the slow updates I'm in summer school)

@audreycressworth @whimsicallyreading @onceupona-chaos @lil-unoriginal-weirdo-273sole @surielandiareendgame @captain-swan-is-endgame @poisonous00 @vasudharaghavan @sailorsassley @endlessdaydream @swankii-art-teacher @beanco8 @stokingthemidnightflame @mis-lil-red @ladyfireheart-and-buzzard @sheharahu @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @jorjy-jo @court-of-dreams-and-ashes @perseusannabeth @cursebreaker29 @a-bit-of-a-cactus @elriel4life @girl-who-reads-the-books @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @live-the-fangirl-life @ireallyshouldsleeprn @highqueenofelfhame @loudphantomdragon @gracie-rosee @rowaelinismyotp @nahthanks @ghostlyrose2 @lovemollywho @inardour @tillyrubes10 @claralady @tswaney17 @rowanisahunk @superspiritfestival @thegoddessofyou @awesomelena555 @booksofthemoon @greerlunna @jlinez @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @aesthetics-11 @bamchickawowow @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace

#rowaelin #rowaelin fanfiction #rowan whitehorn #rowan x aelin #aelin galythinius #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfiction #throne of glass fandom

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irkenheretic · 3 years ago

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hell yea talk abt yr characters. 27, 42, 69 (nice)

ty king i owe u my life!!!

numbhmer 27 issss... grapa!!! he was on the actual show once, he took the credit for blorch's conquest? but in the comics it was larb who was blorch's supposed conqueror? well... in anarchisma, grapa suffered a seriously bad mental break during an interview, and went into a self-imposed exile and moved in with his buddy sneakyonfoota on his assigned planet, and the pair are eventually joined by a heretirken named minie. the trio of the are the center of an arc, and while the more well-adjusted sneakyonfoota is a good influence on grapa, trying his hardest to get him to settle down and talk about what caused his mental break and what's going on with him emotionally, grapa gravitates to the more "do drugs to forget" style of minie, the two of them eventually going on a huge drug bender

i genuinely really like the interactions of the trio as a whole and how each personality compliments and contrasts the others- i find it really interesting how these three play off each other, especially with grapa and sneakyonfoota's contrasting reactions to minie, the outsider- grapa and minie have similar mental problems but he refuses to connect with her due to her status as a defect, meanwhile sneakyonfoota has none of the problems but tries his best to understand and help both grapa and minie. i just think their dynamic as a triad is really neat!

next up, number 42 is....

oh.

my god.

number 42 is lefy himself.

what can i say about him that hasnt already been said? he's lefy! he's a keetish guy whos done a lot of things, most of them i cant talk about here for spoiler reasons! but uhhh... he's a singer/songwriter? i got that for ya! yeah its hard to talk in-depth about lefy because a lot of stuff about him is spoiler-heavy but yeah! oh another thing!! lefy is blatantly blatantly 100% without a shadow of a doubt in multiple ways De Fect Ive but is extremely in denial of his own defectiveness- he's not herephobic, though, not at all! he insists that he's not defective but that he "just thinks they're neat," and lives in denial about his own status. in a way hes a foil to zim himself; they're linked in a few ways in The Narrative and have a lot of the same mannerisms, down to both of them telling people to shut the fuck up when they're backed into a Denial Corner lmfao! but yeah lefy's denial of certain situations and his contrarian, oftentimes hypocritical view of certain things are the crux of his character, at least early on before he gets some character development and all that! he's a really interesting character that i could talk for HOURS about, but i also can't because, y'know, spoilers

number 69.... okay the funny thing is that i swore i could remember doing number 69 way back when i did this for the first time

and i did! its just that.... since then, more characters have been added to the sheet, so now number 69 is a completely different character!

her name is plum, and shes a hybrid scientist! she studies specifically hybrids, irken hybrids in particular, and is a medic for them as well due to her specialized knowledge! she's a very tall woman, but she's naturally average-height... she's addicted to getting height extensions- every time, she's told they can only increase her height a little due to her various physical ailments, and she agrees- only to go to a new person the next time and lie saying she's never gotten one before! it's uh, slowly degrading her mobility and quality of life. she has a lot of depressive episodes just as a side effect of Hereditary Mental Problems and being in pain all the time doesnt help. she was drawn to hybrid sciences due to herself being a hybrid, and her later romance with another hybrid!

and this will be a minor spoiler for h-word that relates to her, so if you just wanna wait till it comes out, feel free to! but if you dont really care, it's under the cut for ya

truth be told is, youve already met her if youve been keeping up with the story! but id understand if you havent recognized her.... because she's red's egg! yep!! plum is red's as-of-now unhatched smeet! isnt she.... uh.... interesting?? lmfao. she's a real cutie pie when she's hatched, though!!

#ty for the ask!!! :3 #now calling the tallest #anarchisma

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whump-town · 4 years ago

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The Blood That Haunts Me

post-scratch fic

no pairings

Hotch has a bad heart

word count 6k

In Savannah Hayes’ experience, Saturday’s are typically for parents with screaming toddlers looking for emergency medicine to soothe their fears about whatever toy their child has shoved up their nose or to ask an aged nurse what to do with this croup that just won’t go away. It’s scrapes and bruises from a fender bender with kids just learning to drive and roughly two to three broken arms from seven-year-olds learning to ride a bike without training wheels. With any luck, there will be only one underage kid in a banana bag and the college kids will be in and out for stitches and gone as quickly as they come. There’s always the regulars - older men and women that buzz with the opportunity to be out of their houses even if it’s to withstand the pain of stitches and staples on their thin skin.

Rarely has Savannah faced a Saturday where she knew someone being pulled into her emergency room. Virginia isn’t the biggest place but her friends are young and healthy and Saturdays are for squirmy children and stupid teenagers. When she sees him with his ankles stretched out over the end of the stretcher and a large hand weakly fighting with the paramedic to hold the oxygen mask over her face she’s certain of his identity. She’s good with faces and his is unmistakable.

“You shouldn’t be on break yet, baby.” Derek picks up on the first ring, the sound of Hank babbling loudly in the background making him chuckle deeply as he moves. The phone pinched between his shoulder and cheek, she can hear him pick up their son. Talking back to the baby.

Savannah is sitting in the emergency room, camped out behind the desk as she catalogs patient information. Despite it being a Saturday, the hospital is startlingly pretty timid (knock on wood). When there is a new patient the clatter is noticed. So when Hotch came in, supine but weakly fighting against the oxygen mask pulled down over his mouth, Savannah noticed. Even drugged and combative, he’s distinctly himself.

And as Savannah tells Derek, describes the man she’s quite fond of, he doesn’t believe her. Hotch doesn’t go to the hospital and no one’s heard from him in forever, he’s probably not even in Virginia. Garcia said Jack started high school last fall and if they were home and situated again with no contact then… Well, what are they supposed to do? “Derek--” Savannah can hear the pitch change in his voice. Derek goes from dismissive to genuinely worried and now pulling at strings because no one has talked to Hotch in months (nearly two years) and the idea of seeing him now is terrifying. “I am positive that it’s Hotch.” She leans around the monitor, frowning as she watches some nurses she knows buzz around him. Throwing out words she can’t make out entirely but she can see what they’re doing and it makes her heart jump a little to hear medications that they put orders out for.

Hotch makes a noise - it has to be loud for her to hear it from the distance she’s at. “Baby,” she stands and it makes her heart do a weird clenching thing when she catches a glimpse at his face. Sees that he’s crying and clearly upset. “Derek, he’s getting all kinds of agitated. I’m gonna call you back in a second, okay?” She doesn’t wait for an answer and tosses her phone down on her chair before calling out for one of the nurses she recognizes with a wave.

The nurse smiles when she sees Savannah - she’s got a particular gift with patients like Hotch.

“I know this one,” Savannah says, approaching the bed. “What have you got?”

Savannah doesn’t have all the details on the accident that occurred in 2009 with George Foyet. It’s not Derek’s story to tell and it’s not exactly the easiest one to bring into conversation. She’s aware of vague things like his collapse a few years later from scar tissue that caused him to bleed internally and that Hotch's ex-wife was killed by a serial killer. Mostly, she knows that Hotch is dependable and secure and that when he went into witness protection nearly two years ago his absence had crushed them all. Even if the likes of Emily Prentiss and her just as stubborn as hell husband would never admit it.

“Mild tachycardia and respiratory depression -” The nurse tells her about Hotch’s underactive thyroid, something he’s supposed to take medication for ever since the stabbing damaged the organs function. How it’s throwing his heart into tachycardia and it’s getting worse, not responding to medicine yet.

Savannah may not know what happened with George Foyet but she knows Derek regards Hotch as this infallible wall of a man. One she’s come to understand he thinks can’t ever fall down and one that, despite how fondly he’ll speak about him, annoys the hell out of him. Personally, Savannah thinks Aaron Hotchner is just a sweet man. She likes him and his little quirks. He’s quite the odd pairing when he gets together with Emily and Dave but they’re a funny crowd.

What she isn’t expecting is the mess of scars littering his chest. Experience allows her to date some of them by sight - their distinct shape and coloration clustering them into the same time frame and she can’t imagine how someone gets over half a dozen wounds like that at once. They don’t end there. On his right side, there’s a nearly faded out of existence scar from a chest tube. A puncture wound- something blunt she’d assumed by way of its roundness. Even a few rougher-looking, jagged scars that she assumes are shrapnel because Derek has nearly identical ones.

Savannah is a few moments too late to prevent Hotch from being pulled down by a sedative but he’s fighting it, blinking slowly to try and remain awake. “Hey,” she greets softly, turning his wrist over so she can see IV sight in his elbow. It’s secure and there’s nothing special to note but it’s going to bruise. “Long time no see Agent Hotchner.” She squeezes his fingers, smiling at the recognition behind his eyes even if his lips only form a silent mouthed version of her name.

With a smile - remembering the first time they met and how gently he’d taken her hand before shaking his head and admonishing “everyone calls me Hotch” - she reaches down and fixes his hair. He’s let it grow out since he left the BAU. Derek had been livid when he got word that Hotch wasn’t coming back despite the fact that he too left the unit. “How are you feeling, Hotch? Can I call someone?”

His eyes slide shut and for a moment she thinks he’s given in, sunk down low where his pain and his ailments can’t get him. He taps a finger against her palm and she understands he’s still here. “Morgan?” he rasps.

She nods, “Derek already knows you’re here. I imagine he’ll have the whole crew here in no time.” He grimaces, cracking an eye open to give her a look she understands entirely. She’s only ever faced their smothering worry once when Hank was born but she knows it’s a lot. It’s hard to imagine they’re going to somehow be less present and attuned with him than they with her. He’s not looking forward to that and it’s understandable. “Don’t worry,” she promises, “I’ll have your back when they get here.”

He nods, dull eyes sinking back under his eyelids. She holds his hand until she’s certain he’s fallen asleep.

“So,” the nurse asks softly. She moves and tubes and wires around so that they’re not laying against his bare skin. Folding the blankets over Hotch’s hips and leaving his chest bare. He’s still tachycardic, breathing laboriously through inflamed lungs. “How do you know this guy?”

Savannah sits down on the edge of the bed, taking Hotch’s hand into her own. Working her thumb in gentle, hypnotic motions between his knuckles and smiling sadly at the relieved rasping sigh that leaves his parted pale lips. “Family,” she answers because she’s not sure what the answer really is but in some way… yeah, family.

The nurse nods, going about what needs to be done while Savannah stays on the edge of the bed. She does what she can until she clears her throat. “Hey,” the nurse smiles, sympathetic to the soft faraway look in Savannah’s eyes. “Doctor Hamilton admitted him so I need to take him up to the--”

Savannah stands immediately, nodding. “Yeah,” she lays his hand back down on his chest. Stepping away from the bed, “sorry.” She shakes her head, stepping back as the brakes come up and he’s set into motion. “Second floor?” Savannah assumes.

The nurse nods, “he’ll be in room one seventeen. I’ll let the desk know he’s one of yours.”

Savannah watches him disappear down the hall, met at the mouth of the hall by other nurses and staff nodding as they take him to the right floor. She’d been there long enough to see his heart monitor and to identify the ventricular tachycardia plaguing him. He’ll likely need a pacemaker and she’s already racing to a solution. He’ll need to be monitored after surgery but can go home. Hank’s a little too small still but they have the guest room. If Derek cleans up the mess he lets Hank make in there--

Savannah’s heart sinks to the floor and she turns around. Hit with the sudden memory of the last event she saw Hotch at and remembers slowly that Hotch has a son and someone needs to find him.

All morning something had been off, Hotch didn’t have to say it for Jack to know. The oatmeal was made oddly, Hotch’s hands trembling so much he’d gotten the measurements wrong. Too much brown sugar but Jack hadn’t seemed to mind it being too sweet. He’d been distracted by his oatmeal and unalarmed by signs he hasn’t learned to be aware of. If Hotch had gotten up late or made breakfast and then laid down on the couch then Jack would have noticed. Bad days come frequently and like most storms look and sound distinct.

High anxiety days are an early rise, the sound of lights being turned on and off as Hotch fails to get comfortable in any room. Coming out of his room and finding his father curled up on the couch. His knees drawn up and a pillow pressed into his chest, a heated blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon. It’s lightly tiptoeing around the house so Hotch stays asleep and avoids him once he does move and allows his aching back to stretch out. Jack knows to keep his music down and to call Jessica if Hotch locks himself away.

Though time has dampened it’s severity it’s not impossible to find his father trying to work through untreated PTSD or ride out an intense wave of depression. Leaving him immobile or desperate for a distraction. Jack knows those things. He understands them and, like the blasting siren that screams out before a tornado, Jack knows when to duck for cover and ride out the storm.

But Jack had no idea what a heart attack would look like. What to expect or even if a heart attack had been what he’d seen.

Hands over his ears, Jack Hotchner sinks into the emotionless walls surrounding him. Trying to find the place past his body where everything ceases to exist. Insistently, against his will, he’s pulled back to a decade ago. To the sound of gunshots tearing through the only home he’d ever known. To Emily wiping his tears away with the palm of her hand, their backs to the carnage his father created in the fall. To a hospital not unlike this one where his father was patched up - open wounds covered and drugs numbing his rough edges - until Jack had finally been able to see him. The feeling of his father’s chest, broad and forever, solid as he’d curled his legs into his lap. His father cried softly as he explained what happened, what he’d done.

“Mommy isn’t coming home, buddy.”

Pinching his eyes shut, Jack rocks himself back and forth. He can’t go there. Not alone. He can’t go back to Foyet. He’s too old for those silly games. Too old for nightmares and monsters hiding under his bed. Unaware of the ones still crawling out of his father’s closet, wrapping their cold fingers around his ankle and threatening to pull him into the darkness with them.

You’re never too old for monsters.

Spencer had found the time to confide in Jack about being raised by a mentally ill single mother. His intent was to demonstrate to Jack that not only did he understand the pre-teens intense fury with his father but that the emotions would abate and Jack would have only a few moments to decide what to do next. How Spencer had turned eighteen and had to have his mother committed to an institution. A decision that haunted him but that he ultimately understood it was simply the only option. One day, Spencer clarified, Jack would understand the way his father worked.

Until that moment, Jack had been more or less paying attention. When it came to all things Uncle Spence, Jack typically has a longer attention span and all the patience in the world but the moment Jack realizes this was a one-on-one sort of deal he was done. He wanted out. But Reid stuttered. That one day, and the words had come out so quickly if he’d had a chance Reid would have stopped them, Jack would realize just what that meant. He’d look at his father and all the magic of his childish love would fall away and Jack would be left with his father’s bare bones. And it would be terrifying but, often, that’s all love is: all the bits bleached down to their true forms.

He gets it now, okay? The nutty academic parent with bouts of deep depression, an obsession with their jobs, and no idea how to say I love you like everyone else. He gets the comparison now. Can he be done? He wants to go home. He’s done learning this stupid lesson about love or whatever bullshit this is supposed to represent. When does it end? It’s going to end, right?

Derek Morgan falters in the doorway, stalled like an engine as he stands at the edge of the messy room. Hank hums in Derek’s left ear, bouncing his foot against Derek’s hip as he stands stationary and trying to wrap his head around everything happening. It’s overwhelming. Derek hasn’t seen Hotch in two years and if the sight of him alone - laid out right here - doesn’t bring its own intense wave of anger and longing then the sight of his uncovered chest is it’s own thing as well.

Hotch is on the bed, curled slightly to his right with the blankets leaving his pale chilled skin open. Even with his face turned into the pillow behind his head, he looks deathly pale in comparison to the white bedspread. Entirely too limp, too still as he lays there pulling in breaths audible over the hiss of the canal running under his nose. Nearly drowned out, consumed by the natural hums of the hospital and constant motion of the monitors to his left and the dissatisfied beep of the blood-pressure cuff around his right arm.

Savannah warned him of what he’d find once he got inside in case she got called away to a patient when he got there. She told him the buzz around the staff, what Hotch’s cardiologist thought and it stung to hear her warn him ahead of time what Hotch looked like, worse, she imagined, than what Derek was imaging. Weaker, she’d said as if the word was some sort of betrayal. He’s weak and Derek can’t push him and he’d wanted to advocate for himself but he couldn’t.

With tears in his eyes, he’d promised to be on his best behavior and Derek realized just how awful he and Hotch could be towards one another. How everyone sees it. He’d wondered if… Well, if Hotch hated him for it. They’d been close once. Partners. Haley used to joke she half expected he’d steal Aaron away from her. That old joke used to make Jason laugh so hard, the two of them together were the cause of all his worry and stress. Now…

Well, now Derek is standing in a room that can’t be more than a 120-foot space with far too much equipment in it feeling like he’s never been so far away from Hotch. So disconnected.

Hotch makes a soft sound from the bed, twitching his nose and flexing his fingers. There are more drugs than blood in him, keeping him weak and tired and unable to pick apart his surroundings. Hazy eyes blink open, peeled apart like they each weigh twenty pounds, and the simple act of keeping them open burns. He can’t make out the world around him very well but he sees the empty chairs on his left and the expanse of white all around. The hospital, he knows, and no one showed up.

Maybe they finally got wise and are leaving him to his own devices. Leaving him to rot where he won’t be missed. Sinking into the fibers of the bed and disappearing. They’ll stop pumping him so full of drugs and just let him wilt away. He wants it, craves the nothing he knows he’ll find. No masks or deception or this anger he feels burning and rearing its ugly head. Just nothing.

Derek steps into the room, sniffling to draw in some noise before he steps into Hotch’s line of sight. Hoping not to startle him, as he clears his throat, meeting Hotch’s gaze for only a moment looking down at his shoes. “Just me and Hank,” he offers. He tucks his hands into his pockets. He can feel Hotch still looking at him, hearing those painstakingly slow, labored breaths. He wishes he hadn’t come. To escape all this restless vulnerability.

Hotch’s eyes sink back shut, pale lips parting to mumbling, “Derek,” under his breath. Savannah told him Hotch wouldn’t even likely know he was there. The drugs are affecting his mental facilities, sedating him to keep him calm while they run tests. When he can remember what’s happening he’s scared and when he can’t… he has a baseline memory that hardly differentiates friend from foe. It’s the latter of which Savannah needs him to be aware of because Hotch’s heart can’t handle the stress. His mind is too clouded and his body too weak, he just needs someone to hold his hand. Someone to distract him.

Derek’s expecting a conversation. For Hotch to say something. To apologize for running off or to pay Hank some sort of mind. There’s not even a stiff silence, Hotch looks so weak, so pliant Derek isn’t sure he can even speak. He realizes that despite all the hefty warnings, despite everything that he was told he still walked into this room expecting Aaron Hotchner. He wanted, he needed the man in the suit, with that stern scowl, and gravelly voice. He’d needed the mask and instead he got the man. The man without the armor, just blood.

And it scares him.

It scares Derek that Hotch can’t put up his shields, that he can’t hide and play their cat and mouse game of anger and misunderstanding. They only have blind defeat.

Derek sits down in the visitor’s chair, shushing Hank when he squirms with agitation. Hank immediately starts touching everything in sight. Reaching and leaning dangerously out of Morgan’s lap, to touch the bed and smack his hand against the rail. A sound that makes Hotch’s eyes peel open to slivers before they shut again, unbothered. “Don’t touch that,” Derek pulls Hank into his lap, redirecting his attention.

He knows, from the low whine Hank lets out, that this isn’t going to work for very long. Mercifully, there’s a knock at the door and Savannah peeks her head in. Waving at Hank who fights his limbs out of Derek’s hold to be placed on the floor so he can propel his body in the direction of his mother.

“Hello baby,” Savannah scoops him right up. Grinning at that way he toddles, that quick toddler pace because he doesn’t know how to pump the brakes. How to set himself into motion that isn’t just guided by leaning forward and running.

Derek stands from his chair, clearing his throat and glancing down at Hotch before looking back to his wife and son.

Savannah can see his hesitation, his worry. “Why don’t we go to the cafeteria and get a snack? Hmm?” She jogs Hank up in her arms and he brightens at the offering - knowing pudding or a cookie is coming his way. “Derek?” She offers out her hand to him, “come on. I’ll explain everything to you downstairs.”

“Ugh--” all he can see is Hotch shivering. His skin slick with sweat from the strain on his body but the way he’s curled into the side. Trying to produce warmth where it isn’t. “Just give me a second.” Derek knows he can’t just throw the blanket over Hotch and he works himself up, gets upset just thinking about the mass of awful scars keeping his friend held together. All the old scars are bare for anyone and everyone to see. If Hotch had the presence of mind for it, he’d be upset.

With a gentleness born with great amounts of stress, Derek gently works the lower half of the blanket over Hotch’s leg. He folds the lower half over and hesitates, stares at Hotch, and wonders just how much he’s allowed. Hotch is cold and Derek knows that means his arms too but that crosses their line. They’re never spoken out loud, only shot through glances about trust and touch but Hotch is asleep or maybe lost to his haze of drugs (and Derek’s not really sure if there’s a difference between those two things). So, he picks up Hotch’s hand, swallowing against the uncomfortable swell of his throat when he feels just how cold the other man’s skin is. He tucks Hotch’s hand carefully against his chest.

Hotch’s face twitches, a grimace that makes him jerk his head but he doesn’t move his hand so Derek leaves it. Carefully, still watching and waiting for some explosive reaction but none come. Derek turns the heated blanket up to the highest setting, making sure even Hotch’s shoulders are covered. Tucking the blanket just under his chin.

Hotch groans from the back of his throat, a startling noise that comes with blinding panic. His eyes fly open, darting around the room and to Derek but not seeing. Derek can’t tell if it’s pain or fear but the machine over his shoulder picks up pace, reflecting Hotch’s distress. Hotch swallows thickly, mouth opening and eyes flicking around the room. Twisting, fighting his body in a futile battle where he loses no matter the outcome. Kicking out and dislodging blankets as he’s blinded by his pain.

“Step back Derek.” Derek just stands there, frozen. Savannah grabs him by the arm and pulls him back, allowing other people to come into the room. “He’s okay,” she mumbles, eyes glued to Hotch. He’s fighting blindly, anything and everything. His heart can’t take it, her eyes flick from his bare skin to the monitors. To the staff also taking note. “Derek, we can’t be in here.”

They pull the crash cart close, preparing vials of medicine before their eyes.

“What’re they--” Derek can’t move. He stands there watching them move blankets out of the way. Listening as they pull open a drawer and settle a machine on top and he knows what it is. Doesn’t need to be told what’s happening next. “Savannah.” He stumbles back, shaking his head. The machine wines, a high-pitched squeal that makes Derek’s heart pick up.

He doesn’t see, doesn’t watch.

He’s standing in the hall when the machine fires off. Can close his eyes but can’t unhear the sound of Hotch’s low groan, a punched-out sound but he’s alive. Still pulling in breaths.

“Morgan?”

He was still a baby the last time Morgan saw him. Quickly trying to climb to his father’s height but every bit as graceful as a colt, and angry. Angry with his father for falling into this same repeated history and questioning what he knew. How much of his father’s strength is something else? What does he really know about the man who raised him? Because he got himself a chunk of history, started to understand the man he’d always blindly turned to. His hero. Instead, he got glimpses, stories about the boy his mother knew and he could no longer recognize him.

But standing here now is a whole teenager. Blonde hair grown out and even taller, built unmistakably like his father with all height in his legs and pale.

“Jack.” Morgan stumbles back when Jack collides into him, long arms wrapping around him. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “When the hell did you get so big?” He’s standing there, a whole armful of the kid he used to give piggyback rides to.

Jack pulls away and wipes his eyes, furiously wipes his eyes so that Morgan can unsee the tears streaming down his face. “My-- My dad,” he asks. “Did you see him?” Jack looks at the room, alerted by the sounds coming from within, but Morgan steps in the way. “Morgan is he-- is he in there?” Jack worms his way out of Morgan’s arms, a whole tangle of long limbs.

Hotch would be proud to know Jack is exactly like him, real scrappy. A lot of fight for such a lanky person.

“Jack,” Morgan pulls him away from the door. Despite how much he wants to go to Hotch too, that’s not where Jack should be. That’s not what Jack should see. “Come on, kid. We can’t go in there. Come on.” The fight leaves him easily enough, he’s really just a kid standing there looking for someone to tell him what to do. Anyone to point him where he’s supposed to be.

Jack still wants to turn, as if pulled by strings.

“I called Rossi,” Morgan offers. Something to distract him, something good. “Everyone else? Reid and Garcia and Emily? They’re on their way, okay?” And even with loaded promises Jack can’t find the nerve to respond. Their names used to be a solace. Someone to call when he needs help with his math homework. To show up with books on whatever cool thing he’s into this week. His family.

People he hasn’t seen in forever.

They do come.

Hank’s ambling about, babbling to Morgan as he pulls his father around the waiting room. It’s his excited squeal that alerts them to the other’s arrival. To Reid holding the door open so the others can pass. The pile-up that happens, shocked inhales and silence as they stand there and look at the carnage. At Jack’s tear-stained face and Morgan going where Hank pulls but empty, fearful.

“Uncle Dave?” Jack stands up, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

Dave smiles, “hey kiddo.” He doesn’t argue against the armful of Jack he gets, just closes him up. “Christ,” Dave whispers. “You’re a giant.”

“What is he feeding you?” Jack turns around and finds Emily and all she can do is laugh as he hugs her too. Finds herself all wrapped up in his long arms. “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” she whispers, “letting you get so big.” She squeezes him tight, cups the back of his head.

There’s not much more time for reunions, never much time for anything.

“Aaron Hotchner?”

Never get used to this part either. The sitting. The waiting. The calling.

Savannah was right about the tachycardia.

“With your permission - ” and it’s important that detail be added. That Hotch can’t make this decision for himself anymore and it’s resting entirely on the shoulders of Jessica or Dave and Emily alternatively. That doesn’t mean it’s not like a kick to the gut. A cruel taunt. “We would like to prepare him for the surgery now while he’s stable.” Stable? Is that what he is? Laying back there with defibrillator pads on his chest and sedated to the point that Morgan wasn’t sure Hotch could even recognize him.

Jack sniffles, ducking his head and whispering to Emily. Attached to her hip, clinging to her. She shakes her head and brushes his hair back, “it doesn’t work like that, Jack.” Jack’s lower lip trembles and it breaks Emily’s heart so she interrupts the doctors. Despite the voice at the back of her head telling her this isn’t a good idea. Despite the sour twist in her stomach. The way she knows Hotch wouldn’t want this. “I know there are strict rules,” and that alone should be enough to know they’re likely to be shot down. “Is there any chance he can go back before the surgery? This is his son, he’s fifteen. He’ll be sixteen soon. You’re hardly breaking the rules at all.”

Soon is a bit of a stretch. Jack’s an October baby.

The doctor looks at Jack and sighs like this is really putting him off but nods. “Yeah, quickly. Five minutes, do you understand? You can’t be back there long,”

And Jack thinks he’s won something grand. That he’ll be faced with the same mirage Morgan was expecting. His dad will be sitting back there tall and strong, probably just tired like he’s sick. But he takes one step into the room and wishes he hadn’t come. Hadn’t asked.

They haven’t removed the defibrillator pads on his chest just pulled a blanket over his stomach but that only minimally covers the damage. There are still visibly warped bullet wounds and jagged surgical scars to be seen. But Dave has seen all that. He’d been there to watch the blood spray out when the scar on Hotch’s shoulder took place. Shouted as the gunshot sprayed out and Hotch grunted, being sent back into the wall behind him. But that was… God, that was a lifetime ago when Hotch was just a kid.

Dave turns behind him and sees Jack frozen in the doorway, eyes wide. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Jack nods but he can hardly move, can’t force himself to move further into the room. He’s seen his father shirtless, not enough times to really gather anything but he’s seen the damage of years of this job has caused. But this is different. Jack isn’t six, isn’t watching him shave. He’s standing there watching him pull in laborious breaths, struggling to keep living.

“You know,” Rossi sits down in the visitor’s chair. “When you were born he cried so hard that Gideon had to call me.” He looks back at Jack, watching his face for some inclination that he’s going to either come into the room or run away. “Haley was exhausted but… She was beautiful, always was. No matter if she was showing up at the office to haul your father home by the ear in her pajamas or crying her make-up off in the waiting room waiting for your knucklehead father to get out of surgery.”

But he’s missed the point.

He chances a glance to Hotch, watching his pale face twist in discomfort. “You were born at eleven at night and by that point I was already in bed and done for the night by ten kind of guy.” He can still remember sighing and almost ignoring his phone when it had gone off. “I got to the hospital and your dad was sitting on the floor just outside the room, sobbing so hard I thought he’d pass out.” It’s still pretty surprising he didn’t pass out. “Didn’t think he could do it. You were so small, small, and pink and screaming your little head off.”

Jack huffs, smiling as he kicks at the ground. Looking everywhere but his father or Dave.

“But I picked him up,” grabbed him by his shirt and forced him to his feet. Managing the tough love Gideon couldn’t bring himself to enforce. “I don’t think he stopped crying until he fell asleep. Just sitting there with you in his arms crying.” Rossi sighs shakes his head. “Honestly, you were tiny. Had a-- Had a thing with your heart and…” Rossi had held Jack after Hotch and Haley finally managed to catch some sleep. A nurse had figured he or Gideon one had to be a grandfather, why else would they be there? They’d sat there with Jack for about an hour just gushing over how small and cute he was. Trying to keep the baby content so Haley could get some sleep.

Drowsily his voice cuts through the silence, nothing but a ghost of a whisper. “An atrial septal defect.” It’s all he can manage but it’s enough to get their attention. Jack had been born with an atrial septal defect and they knew about it in advance just after Haley’s pregnancy got tricky. It was just a tiny little hole in his atrium, closed before he was a whole year old. That doesn’t mean it didn’t scare the hell out of them first. Leave them to check his bassinet every few hours. To make sure he was okay, still breathing.

“The doctor said I shouldn’t play soccer because of it.” Jack manages a few steps and comes to the very end of the bed. His fingers just barely touching the bed frame. “But you let me play anyways.”

Hotch clears his throat, shakes his head. “I didn’t. Jessica did.” He grimaces, shifting uselessly to find a position that doesn’t hurt. “Said-- She said if you were anything like me you’d find a way.” He’s talked himself breathless, gasping and fighting to breathe. “Might as well-- Might as well make it easy on myself. Just let you do it.” So he had. He signed Jack up for soccer despite his own fears and went to every match he could. Every practice. Until he was the only parent paying attention.

He coughs softly, setting off a weight and ache in his lungs. “Jessica--” he cuts himself off, coughing until he holds his breath and fists the sheets in his hand to keep from still.

Jack looks away, fixes his eyes on the floor.

Dave calls it. Hotch won’t admit he’s not okay and Dave would venture Jack has that same stubborn-streak, doesn’t want to think that Hotch isn’t okay.

“Come on,” Dave motions for Jack to follow him. “Times up, better get out of here before they kick us out.” Five or so minutes, that’s all they had and that’s passed. “You’ll be fine,” Dave promises.

He struggles to get his breath, to say something coherent. “Wait,” he grabs Dave’s shirt. Hospitals are so cold, they’re scary and miserable and he doesn’t want to be here. He wants to go home. “I’m sorry,” he manages. “I’m sorry.”

Dave pulls Jack on, can’t leave him behind, and can’t stay any longer.

“What did he mean?” Jack asks. He keeps looking back, looking over his shoulder to the room. “Why’d he say that?” He has to run to keep up with Dave’s pace. “Dave, please. Why’d he say he was sorry?”

Dave stops and just stands for a moment, looking at the hall before them. “He’s scared,” Dave answers, finally. “He’s just scared, that’s all.”

He doesn't think he’s going to make it. That’s the horrible ugly truth. That’s why he apologized. Just in case.

“Come on,” Dave holds out his arm. Smiles a smile that doesn't even try to make it to his eyes and wraps an arm around Jack. “It’s going to be okay. You know that?”

Jack looks back over his shoulder once more, to the room. He doesn’t buy it for a second but he nods anyway. “Course,” he answers.

“Good. That’s good.”

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #savannah hayes #derek morgan #hank morgan #jack hotchner #david rossi #emily prentiss #spencer reid #penelope garcia #jennifer jareau

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legumelupin · 5 years ago

Text

just a lil ficlet thing i wrote because i was inspired by legumes and my user. it’s severely unedited and may not make any sense whatsoever but it made me happy to write and it’s one of the shortest things ive ever written in terms of fanfiction. it’s not even 1k words.

“Hey Rem,” Sirius snickered. “Look at this.”

Sirius slid over the book he had opened on the library table to Remus who hadn’t shifted his attention over to his needy boyfriend. Sirius, as usual, had been trying to get Remus to talk to him the entire time they’d be in the library despite the werewolf’s pleas for them to ‘just study in peace for once’. Remus should know there’s rarely peace when Sirius Black is involved.

“Hm?” Remus asked non-committedly, his eyes still on his Transfiguration essay that was due in less than two hours. With the full moon having been not even a week ago, Remus was hard pressed to finish all the work he’d miss despite his wonderful friend’s notes and answers to homework. It was a pretty awful moon, too, so Sirius and James were more adamant about helping him out. He usually hated accepting their help. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate them or anything, it made him feel pitiable but he also knew that they weren’t doing it because they felt bad for him. They were his friends and they wanted to see him be happy and while it was hard for him to understand that all the time, James was always there to mother hen it into him.

“Moony!” Sirius whined, “Look! Look at what I’m showing you, it’s funny!” Sirius continued and Remus hummed in reply again causing his partner to scoff. Sirius shifted his attention to James.

“Jamie, look at this. I’m trying to show Remus,” the pureblood said with as much pointedness in his voice as he could muster, “but he won’t look even though I told him it’s funny!”

James looked up from his book with his nose scrunched and his eyebrows drawn inward. His glasses were falling down his nose a bit as he half-heartedly glared at Sirius. “What is it, Pads? I’m trying to look studious,” he snapped and Sirius rolled his eyes.

“Evans won’t notice you being studious, Prongs. It just looks unnatural for you,” Sirius snorted and James gave him an incredulous look.

“I study, dumbass. Sometimes,” James shot back. “I may have a certain reputation but I still have a reputation at home to uphold too,” he snapped without any bite really.

“Oh shove it, Potter. You don’t need to study for shit and what I have to show you is a right laugh,” Sirius insisted and James rolled his eyes fondly.

“Alright, what is it,” he asked, putting his book down way too eagerly and scooting next to Sirius.

“So I found this herbology textbook—“

“What the fuck, Pads?” James interrupted with a laugh, “A herbology book? You haven’t studied herbology since first year,” he continued with a perplexed cadence to his voice.

“Hey, if you can look studious to impress a chick, I can study fucking plants,” Sirius retorted and James playfully shoved Sirius shoulder.

“Fine, fine. What is it you need to show me?” he asked, leaning over the textbook that Sirius had opened. Sirius giggled wildly for a second before pointing at the spot on the page that had him in a tizzy.

“Read this,” he snickered.

James’s eyes scrutinized the text, his nose scrunching up as he murmured the words underneath his breath. Sirius could hear him say words like ‘fungi’ and ‘plant infection’ before James stopped murmuring the words and started giggling to himself. He’d gotten past the preamble of unnecessary bullshit and started reading the one important sentence that was in the book.

“This is important information,” James expressed, lifting his head before looking towards the scarred teenager sitting on the other side of Sirius.

“Remus, have you seen this?” James asked and Remus answered with another ‘hm’ that short and definitely showed that he was NOT listening in the slightest.

“Moony,” Sirius whined again. “Even James is asking you to look at what I have to show you. You’ve probably written two times as much as Minnie set out originally, just look! It’ll be super quick,” he pressed on and Remus sighed deeply, closing his eyes like he was trying to control snapping back.

“What?” he asked through clenched teeth, his eyes penetrating into Sirius’s and the latter only grinned.

“Read this sentence!” he urged, pushing the book down the table and in front of Remus’s nose and pointing at the section he was talking about. He made James read the whole passage but Remus only needed to read one sentence.

A smile broke out onto his face that he was obviously trying to control as he read it but it was obvious.

‘Legumes are a special type of vegetable important to potion making, however the fungus Colletotrichum infects multiple different taxa of legume such as those members of the Lupin taxa.’

“Our Moony is a legume!” James said with a certain airiness to his voice.

“Our favorite legume boy,” Sirius continued dreamily. “Loopy loopy legume,” he continued.

“Oh sod off,” Remus said but his voice was filled with adoration for his friends. “I have an essay to finish.”

“Such a studious legume boy,” James commented.

“My boyfriend is such a smart legume,” Sirius added on. “I’ll always protect him from fungi too,” he vowed and Remus’s cheeks started to turn pink.

“Moony the Legume has a nice ring to it,” James smiled brightly.

Remus sunk into his seat a bit as his cheeks continued to turn even pinker but he couldn’t help the smile that was forming on his face. He tried to refocus on his essay but Sirius and James just kept making comments about how he was a legume and how he was smart and beautiful. He really did have the best friends.

#sirius black #remus lupin #james potter #wolfstar #harry potter fanfiction #sweet legume bb #it’s all because of fucking legume #remus is small legume #legume

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atmilliways · 5 years ago

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And if you'd like another one, Charles & Melmord - 22(drunk) !

Okie, here it is. Warnings for, let’s see... Mature rating, Questionable employer/employee relationship, references to extensive scarring, and a Pity Handjob.

At the first opportunity after he’d been weaned off the pain medication and was no longer under quite so much surveillance, Melmord tracked down some booze and got drunk. He hadn’t found much, but after an interminable stay in the hospital, living on IVs and hospital food, it didn’t take much either and hit him a lot harder and a lot faster than he’d expected.

How Charles knew to find him in the communal employee kitchen—one of hundreds, probably, but the closest to his new, starkly furnished room—he would never know. By that point he was already swaying in his chair and didn’t think to ask.

“Having a, ah, little nightcap there, hm?” the man said as he took a seat directly across the table.

“Fuck you,” Melmord muttered into his bottle.

Charles shrugged, blank expression unchanging. “Suit yourself. But if you end up putting yourself back in urgent care with alcohol poisoning, any time off is coming directly out of your salary.”

“You don’ give a shit.”

“Not really, no. But you’re an investment of Dethklok Inc. now, and it’s my job to protect the band’s assets.”

Melmord took another drink, trying to forget all the stupid choices he’d made to end up here . . . up to and including everything that had happened on that rooftop. Signing that contract didn’t even make the list; by the time it came to that, his course had already been irrevocably locked in. He hadn’t bothered to read the fine print. Hell, fuck reading—on the first attempt he’d signed the bit of bare hospital tray next to it. But it was a contract drawn up by Charles Offdensen, the man who had stabbed him and thrown him off a roof mid-blowjob, and that didn’t bode well.

He found that he didn’t much care. The booze was definitely helping with that, so he downed another mouthful. As numb as he was becoming, it still burned pleasantly on the way down.

“Why’re you here?” he mumbled, and heard that his voice was tougher than usual from the drink and whatever emotions his body was going through that he was too drunk to feel. The disconnect reminded him of being in the hospital.

Instead of answering, Charles just shrugged. Melmord stared at his blank face and wondered if he even fucking knew. If anyone fucking knew anything. Of course they didn’t—life was one big hustle and the universe was in charge of the game, which was always fixed.

“Why’re you here,” Melmord mumbled again, more to himself this time. The next swig from his bottle missed his mouth and slopped down his chin, leaving him staring stupidly down and wondering how his shirt had gotten so wet. He pawed at it, then rose swaying to his feet. “I gotta . . . go laundry. Go do laundry. Only have the one shirt.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been issued a week’s worth of work shirts, Fjordslorn.”

“They ain’t mine,” Melmord spat back. His hands latched onto the back of the chair he’d just vacated—probably that chair. He didn’t know anymore. He wasn’t sure where his room was anymore or how to get back to it. All the hallways looked the same; all of Mordhaus was a fucking murder labyrinth, the innards of a beast that had swallowed him whole and now had only to sit back and digest.

He let do of the chair and took a first wobbly step, only to stumble and fall into a very solid chest. Blinking, trying to focus, a suit and bright red tie swam into his field of vision.

“It’s this way,” Charles said in his usual, flat, carefully removed voice. Not trying to blunt the edges of anything. (Good, Melmord thought. Maybe by falling on those edges he could kill himself for good this time, and not have to come back to all this.) The man seemed to have a knack for guiding drunkards though, because they were in his room with minimal delays or arguments in no time.

Melmord started haphazardly undoing his shirt buttons as soon as they stepped inside, not wanting to spend another second than necessary in his wet, wasted smelling only real shirt. Charles continued holding him upright while he did so, without comment.

But halfway through unbuttoning, a thought hit Melmord like a bolt of lightning. He paused and asked, “You wanna fuck me?”

“Not particularly,” Charles replied dryly.

“Why not? Y’already fucked me over, why not get your rocks off too. Inn’t that my job now?” Melmord gave up on the shirt buttons and started pawing to get his own pants open.

When he succeeded, all he got was another raised eyebrow. “You’re freeballing?”

“What can I say, I live as I died,” Melmord declared, shoving his pants down towards his ankles. It was difficult; they kept wanting to bunch up around his knees, and pulling the top of the pants down over the bunched up material wasn’t helping. He tried to stand on one foot and tug everything off, but all it did was unbalance and pitch him against Offdensen’s chest again.

“You’ve still got your shoes on,” Charles observed with a sigh. “Just get on the bed.”

Next thing he knew, Melmord was on his bed staring up at the ceiling while his mortal enemy and boss got his shoes and pants off. Right, he thought, I did offer. Might as well get ready. He palmed himself clumsily, trying to see if his cock was too drunk to wake up.

“Stop that,” Charles told him firmly. “I’m not going to fuck you.”

“Why fuck not?” Melmord rasped, incredulous. “That’s the job, isn’t it? That’s. What I said I’d do. Isn’t that in my contract?”

Charles rolled his eyes and started working on undoing the buttons of Melmord’s shirt. “I’m not in the habit of fucking people who are about thirty seconds away from being unconscious.”

“How long did it take me to fall off the roof?” Melmord shot back. He heard the whine in his voice—fuck it, he didn’t care. Of all the things he wanted, Charles fucking Offdensen definitely wasn’t one of them, but everything had felt wrong ever since he’d woken up at the hospital and wasn’t allowed booze, weed, or to look under his bandages (which he’d done anyway and ended up screaming until they’d sedated him), and the room was spinning like a broken compass, and he needed something to get the needle to settle. Even if ‘something’ ended up being a smack across the face.

From the tightening of Charles’ mouth and the deep lines around it, that was probably a definite possibility. And then—

Charles’ hand closed around his mostly limp cock, the other pushing the now opened shirt aside as his eyes fixed on the network of scar tissue that was Melmord’s upper body. “You have five minutes.”

Melmord grunted and closed his eyes, not wanting to look at himself. Not yet. Too new. “Gimme an even seven, man, I’m not a fucking teenager.”

“If it’s an even number you want, then six,” Charles retorted with a warning squeeze, making him groan. “And you don’t finish, before then, do it on your own time.”

It was the most clinically expert handjob Melmord had ever experienced, and he already knew that he was way too fucked up to get even a weak orgasm out of this. Charles was completely in control of the situation the entire time regardless of who was getting jacked off. Melmord felt like a kite on a string, and Charles was flying him . . . except not quite.

No, he decided hazily, it felt like he was a puppet and Charles his master, and there wasn’t one string but many. Charles pulled at them all, even the ones that made his lungs draw in and expel air, even the ones that made his muscles twitch around the metal ‘bones’ in his right shoulder and ribcage and parts of his spine. The very fact that he was alive and the very fact that he shouldn’t be were both in the puppet master’s grasp.

He kept his eyes squeezed closed, but he could feel the scars. Felt Charles’ free hand running over them, tracing, exploring the topography like a dedicated map maker. Felt drunken tears dribbling out from between his own eyelids and down the sides of his face because fuck, fuck, he’d screwed up so badly and now this was going to be the rest of his life: just another cog in the machine, with the occasional pity handjob thrown his way the same as one might toss scraps to a dog. That Charles was showing him some amount of charity here was irrelevant; it was a calculated mercy.

Even through all that, Melmord arched his back and laughed. Despite the fact that Charles had undoubtedly won, they were still sparring. Back and forth, push pull, verbal blow for verbal blow, and now this—it was funny.

It was like Charles didn’t know how to stop fighting, and Melmord, to his credit, at least knew the same about himself. They would continue scrapping like this forever, and that—even as his consciousness did indeed begin to fade into a deep, dark blackout—almost gave continuing to live some sort of meaning.

#metalocalypse #metalocalypse fanfic #my fanfiction #charles/melmord #melmord fjordslorn #charles foster offdensen

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pippki-writes · 4 years ago

Text

An Ill-Fitting Name: Snippet 4

NOTES:

Snippet 1

Snippets 2 & 3

Features lyrics from Danny Schmidt’s “This Too Shall Pass”

Faoust belongs to @thebiggestnerd - she writes him, the healer (whose contribution I summarized in this snippet, I don’t think she comes up again much for our murderboy here so I didn’t go too in depth with her) - everyone else is mine.

Longer post, 8,066 words folks! Buckle up.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

The name is like an ill-fitting coat, but it’s either wear it, or go naked in the cold, metaphorically speaking. He knows Faoust will kill him, but he’s not dead yet.

The officer sitting outside the room tilts her chair back on its legs, in one ear her radio turned low and largely ignored, holding her phone out playing music and keeping her other ear tilted to the room and its occupant for signs of life. He listens to the music coming from her phone:

We think too big

We think our self is one whole thing

And we claim that this collection

Has a name and is a being

But deep inside

When every cell divides

Well, it sets upon the rule that states

Self-interest is divine

He scrapes out an involuntary cough, and the officer lets her chair fall forward as she twists to check on him.

She tries to interrogate him, but he can’t talk, and only whispers “no.” He writes on her notepad, “I’m expecting a visitor,” and refuses to communicate further. His intuition is that Faoust will come here for him eventually, though he doesn’t know how long Faoust will let him live. Maybe Faoust won’t come while he’s in the hospital. But hovering over the edge of the pain, death feels certain and he knows where it will come from.

Finally, a visitor arrives. He hears the footsteps approaching, certainly heavier than any of the nurses that have tended to him, and the sound of a respectful shuffling in place, acknowledging the officer guarding his hospital room.

A familiar voice speaks. “Hey. I’m here to see my friend Asmodai, officer…?”

He can hear the sound of the officer crossing her arms, but she neither gets up nor offers her name. “Don’t suppose you might be able to tell me what the hell happened to him and how he ended up here?”

“Nah, wish I could. Is he ok?”

“He’s not in great shape. I’m not a doctor but he’s bad off. And not the kind of bad off that happens accidentally.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Almost as crazy as whoever did this. You don’t have any ideas?”

“Nah. I’m not really an ideas guy. Just a guy who worries about my friends. Can I go see him or...?”

The officer gives a defeated little grunt. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead. We can talk later.”

Dorien walks into the room as though he belongs there. Machines. IVs. In the middle of the room, bed propped up, staring at him, there’s that bastard Asmodai. Dorien takes a moment to breathe, staring back, looking angry. Dorien reminds himself why he is here. Not to kill him. Not to bring retribution. Just information to help Faoust. He clenches and unclenches his hands.

It takes Dorien a moment to realize what Asmodai is doing. The slight, strange sound, chest heaving—he is, very quietly, laughing.

He hasn’t come to terms with how to refer to himself—he is no more Isaiah than he was Asmodai, but he supposes, out of respect for the wish of a self who once knew what it wanted, he will call himself Isaiah until it fits. Or until he’s dead.

Isaiah laughs until the sound breaks into a cough. For starters, this was not the visitor he was expecting. And he can see why he would have been drawn to Dorien. Tall, dark-haired, handsome, and vulnerable. So many of his favorite things. The wizard Asmodai, before he stole his name, had been much the same.

Dorien keeps himself in check, and comes closer to the bedside. He doesn’t want the officer to hear him.

“What’s so fucking funny?” Dorien growls quietly.

Isaiah frowns. Talking will be an effort. He can’t even breathe too deeply, thanks to Dorien’s best attempts to slowly crush his ribs the other night after what he tried to do to Faoust. This is merely a fact—he doesn’t feel particular malice over it. He tries to choose his words carefully, so as not to waste them. There’s no volume, only whispering, but even the whispers are so resolute, so final. The playfulness of Asmodai is gone.

“Too much...to explain. What ...do you want...to know?”

Dorien folds his arms, lest he be tempted to do anything. “C’mon, what do you think I’d be here wanting to know. The magic-blocking cuffs. How do we take them off? Where’s the key?”

Isaiah shakes his head. “Didn’t get...a key. Wouldn’t...have wanted it.”

Dorien glares down at the bastard who nearly succeeded at killing the love of his life, and proceeds to try to get information out of him while texting Faoust. The conversation is slow going. The answers Dorien gets are halting and unsatisfying.

Faoust texts Dorien: "I want to know what he thinks should happen next."

Dorien looks down at Asmodai. “So what do you think should happen next?”

Isaiah sighs, unfazed. “Talking...not exactly....easy. Paper? Pen? Your phone?”

Dorien looks around for paper. He’s dumb, but not dumb enough to hand over his phone. He finds a notepad and a cheap pen in the desk drawer, and throws them on Asmodai’s lap.

Isaiah scribbles, handwriting messy and difficult on the flimsy pad, “He kills me for what” a scribble then, crossing out an “As,” and the writing resumes, “I’ve done. Why wouldn’t he? It’s inevitable.”

Dorien tears the paper off the notepad and holds it up, taking a picture to send to Faoust. “You’ve really fucked up, Asmodai.”

Isaiah’s mouth twitches a little at the name.

Above the top of the note, in the picture, Faoust can see Asmodai staring at the camera. There is no fear, nothing pathetic in the way he looks. Resolute. Certain. Final.

Faoust frowns. He had hoped for a bit more fight. But this is sort of like putting down a rabid dog at this point. It's not enjoyable for anyone involved.

Faoust: "tell him I'm disappointed that it came to this"

Faoust: "tell him I'll be there soon. As soon as my magic is back"

Dorien reads his phone, and before he can speak another note is being waved at him that reads “tell him come talk to me himself. This is fucking ridiculous.” Dorien sighs and snatches the note, snapping a picture for Faoust. There is a touch of defiance in Isaiah’s eye.

Faoust's lip curls in irritation and a tiny bit of embarrassment. Fine.

Faoust makes his way to the hospital, to the third floor, to the charge nurse.

“Looking for my friend,” says Faoust, “A John Doe?”

The charge nurse points with a pen. “The room with the officer. There’s already a visitor and technically I shouldn’t let too many people visit at once, but you know what? The world is hell. This hospital is hell. Go nuts.”

“Amen,” Faoust replies, heading over to the officer. “Hi, I'm here for my friend. I guess I have to answer questions first?”

The officer squints up at him suspiciously. “Damn, did the city call a prettyboy convention and I missed the memo?” She lets the chair rest back on all four legs. “I dunno, what do you know about what happened to your friend?”

“Not much. We were out partying, I know pandemic and all, but spare me the lecture. I told him goodbye and to call me when he got home but he never did.” Faoust pauses. “I heard he's bad. Maybe a hit and run?”

“Sure. Sure. Right.” The officer eyes him for a moment. “You’re a better liar than your friend. Go on in.”

“Liar? I- ugh. Fine.” He gives up on the officer and goes in the room.

“Alright you piece of shit. I'm here. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Isaiah looks at Faoust appreciatively. Yeah, he can see why he did all that shit. He sighs, wishing he could just fucking talk, and settles for hurriedly writing on the notepad.

Dorien mutters softly to Faoust. “He can’t talk..apparently.”

Faoust chuckles a little. “I should expect so.”

Isaiah rips off the note and holds it out. It begins with “A” scratched out and then “I resented the power you had over me. Wanted you to suffer. Wanted to kill you, and Dorien, and take your name, take your power. And didn’t want to kill you. Wanted to fuck and kill with you. Poorer judgment won out. Tried to make you suffer.” He sighs, frustrated at the time it takes to write, already writing on a new note.

Faoust reads the note and sighs. It was just as he thought.

“I wanted to just keep it fun and casual.” Faoust grits out through his teeth, “Why did you have to complicate things?”

Isaiah tosses Faoust a finished note: “No point in apologies. Won’t change what was done. No actions to right it” and starts writing a response to the question, tapping the pen on his chin, thinking.

“Wasn’t as fun fucking and killing without you. Didn’t like that.”

“That's called friendship, you absolute dolt.”

Isaiah pauses, and writes “Asmodai didn’t do well with having friends.”

Faoust runs his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Wait-Asmodai? Third person? Who the fuck are we talking to then?”

Isaiah makes a face. It’s difficult to explain. He writes. “I am. Was. Asmodai. For too long I think.”

He pauses, rolls his eye. He doesn’t feel like Isaiah either.

“I did what he did. But don’t feel what he felt, anymore. Memories, yes. Feeling? No.”

Faoust pauses. “So is..is Asmodai gone?”

“Depends on what you mean. The me that felt what he—I felt?”

Isaiah makes a quiet frustrated noise and slams the pen down. He is so tired of writing. He jots another note, mindful of trying to do magic around either of them. “Can I try magic on my voice? You mind?”

Faoust shrugs. “Go for it.”

Isaiah holds his right hand around his throat, eye closed. Healing has never been his strong suit, but he knows enough to get by. He just needs to be able to talk. His hand glows faintly.

When he speaks, his voice is rough, not much volume to it but it’s more than a whisper.

“If I don’t feel the things I felt when I called myself Asmodai, am I Asmodai?”

Faoust thinks. This complicates matters. “I'll be frank. If I were to leave you be, what would you do? Don't lie to me.”

“I would leave you alone.” Isaiah shrugs. “The things I ...Asmodai...I felt, I know them. Factually. I don’t feel them anymore.” He looks at Faoust sharply. “But I am responsible for what I did.”

Faoust thinks for a moment. “This is complicated. I'll need some time with this. What do you think you'll do when you're out of the hospital?”

“What do you mean, when I’m out of the hospital? You’re going to kill me. No further planning needed.”

“Well, I was thinking about waiting when you got out of the hospital regardless.”

Isaiah sighs. “Wish I’d known that sooner. Might’ve kept this magical existential crisis at bay.” He shakes his head. “No. Probably not. Asmodai—I. Fucked up too much. There was no way he...I...would win. It’s certain. You will kill me.” He shakes his head again.

“Look. I don't want to kill you. Asmodai. At all. At this point it's about putting down an animal. That's all. And now there's this whole thing that you're not even who I knew anymore? This complicates things. Shit, if I were to kill you, it wouldn't even feel right.”

Isaiah makes a frustrated noise. “Fuck. The only reason I’m like this is because you’re going to kill me.”

“Do you want me to kill you?”

Isaiah dodges the question. “Back when I started killing to take power and names, I bound my own name away, far beyond my memory, and it would only come back if I was certain I was going to die. So I could die not as whatever fucking asshole whose name I stole. But as myself. Or at least. In the name I was born with, right?

“I was Asmodai. I was happy being Asmodai. But now?

“I’m no more Asmodai than I am this damn name my shit mother gave me.”

Faoust thinks. “Well, look. Fine. I'll kill you. Put you down. But I have to wait. I can't do anything until I have my magic back.”

Isaiah twists his lips a little. “Hm. Can’t help there. Told your boy here, I don’t have a key for the cuffs.”

This whole time, Dorien has just been watching, arms crossed and not believing this bullshit.

“Yeah,” Faoust says, “I heard. I've just got to wait. So you've got to wait.”

Isaiah sighs again. “Isaiah. Isaiah James. My name.” He shrugs. “Me. Not me.”

Isaiah twists his lips briefly in disgust at the taste of his own name on his tongue. “If you’re going to kill me, you ought to have my name.”

Faoust nods and rubs his face. “Look, I'll put you down. I will. But it's going to take like at least a week for me to get my magic back.”

Isaiah gives another shrug. “You know where to find me. I know what I’ve done. It’s only right.”

“Alright. You're not going anywhere?”

Isaiah gives him a flat look. “Where and how the hell would I manage to do that?”

“I mean, you've got magic. I don't. You could pull out some magic to take yourself somewhere.”

Isaiah rubs his fingers together on his right hand, little sparks arcing between them as he stares vacantly at his hand. “Where would I go? For what purpose? I know my fate.”

Faoust nods, satisfied. “Alright. Well then, we'll be on our way. You've got my number.”

Isaiah nods, dismissing the sparks. “I’ll be waiting.”

Isaiah wonders if it’s worth healing himself--physically, at any rate. He closes his eye and takes stock of all his pain. So many choices. And what else is he supposed to do with his time? The burns, he thinks, he will work on those. He hovers his right hand over his burned forearm, wrapped loosely in the day’s fresh gauze, and slowly works a healing spell, distracted by memories of the fight. Remembering the moment it all turned on him, when help came for Faoust while he had no one. He shakes his head, his thoughts wandering around. So many emotions that ruled him that he’s no longer bound by. Though perhaps he should be. He ought to be more angry. But he is mostly hollowed out. He does not even notice when his thoughts slip over the witch and his magic doesn’t so much as flicker, the healing steadily and slowly knitting in his skin.

Those were Asmodai’s problems.

The worst part is the waiting. Or perhaps the worst part, right now, is the burns on his arm—his healing magic is slow, the process tedious, and his head is empty of any warming memory to draw upon to make the healing go faster. There are memories, so many memories, but as he turns his mind to each of them in turn he feels nothing he can pull from. Perhaps it would have been better not to restore the nerve endings that had been burnt away—as they return, so too returns the opportunity for fresh pain to scream through his senses. And the drugs have trouble working their wonders as his magic interferes with the natural order of his body. Too late now, he’s already started this project. When the nurses aren’t looking in on him, he hovers his hand over the burned arm and continues the laborious process of working healing magic. Healing was never his forte. It still isn’t. Good to know, though it still seems like all he knows is a catalogue of things he was, and now isn’t.

Though perhaps, Isaiah thinks, it’s pointless to dwell on. Does he need that badly to know who he is now, if he’s only going to die? Not that he wants to die. Though, he can tell, Asmodai didn’t want to die in a particularly crazed and desperate way that Isaiah no longer feels. He doesn’t want to die, but then, he doesn’t feel a clear sense that he wants much of anything right now. From the moment the spell he placed upon himself fell away, he has simply accepted the fact of his death. Imminent. Inevitable. Deserved.

Asmodai was awful—not in a way that Isaiah feels, merely as a summary of fact considering the things that he’d done. The drives that motivated him. But to be fair, Isaiah had not been a good person either. No. He had been awful too. Killed people. Tortured them. Enjoyed it. Sought power beyond his measure, and took it.

Killed the dark wizard who taught him everything.

Sealed himself away.

What had he thought would happen, if this spell had ever had cause to come undone? He can’t remember, but he is pretty sure he would not have guessed it would leave him like this. So...uncertain.

Regret implies a level of sadness Isaiah doesn’t feel. He...wishes he had been someone different though. He wishes he had acted differently. Had recognized his limits. Recognized battles he wouldn’t win, and had the sense not to fight them.

The nurse surely notices when Isaiah’s arm does not look as bad off today as it did yesterday, putting fresh gauze on, but says nothing. Discreetly checks the patient chart—yes, third degree burns. It definitely said the patient had third degree burns. But you don’t last long in this town by asking inconvenient questions. Since the patient is conscious now, staring out the window, the nurse offers him his phone from his belongings and plugs it in for him. There’s a crack across the screen, but the phone works.

Isaiah has been working on healing his arm. It is such a slow, deliberate process. He isn’t sure why he’s doing it, but now that he’s started he’s committed to continuing. After all, what else has he got to do? His arm is still a mess of burnt tissue and pain, fresh nerve endings and the testament to his limitations.

Later, he looks through his phone, deleting pictures that bring him no particular joy to look at. Eventually he texts Faoust, “Have you decided how you’ll do it?” and nothing else.

Faoust: “something quick. Could stab you right in the heart.”

The heart had been Asmodai’s favorite, ripped from his victims—sometimes raw, other times he’d toast them before devouring them whole.

Isaiah: “poetic. fitting.”

Faoust: "look man. I really don't want to do this. You could go about your business. I don't care"

Isaiah sighs, and leaves the message on read for a few minutes. He thinks.

Isaiah: “I did wrong by you. I accept responsibility for it.”

Faoust: "and I'm telling you it's fine."

Isaiah waits again before responding.

Isaiah: “now I’m the one that needs to think on that”

Faoust: "Asmodai tried to kill me. He failed. You're here now. Not the same as Asmodai. It's not the same kill for me. Look, I beat the shit out of you. That should cover it. Do you really want to die?"

Isaiah sighs to himself.

Isaiah: “no, I don’t”

Faoust: "then I'm giving you your fucking out. Take it."

Isaiah pauses. Again, Faoust giving him the opportunity not to die, after everything he...Asmodai...he did. After so many times he honestly deserved to die. He was a warped and twisted thing, not right, and surely not to be trusted. But fuck. He didn’t really want to die.

Isaiah: “...ok.”

Isaiah: “fine”

Faoust: "want me to call a healer for you?"

Isaiah: “...seriously?”

Faoust: "otherwise you're going to be stuck at the hospital forever. No offense but I want you out of here."

Isaiah: “sure, sure. If I’m healing myself it’ll take forever”

Faoust: "you can't kill her"

Isaiah: “of course”

Isaiah thinks about the warning, which is fair, considering his history. He doesn’t even feel like killing anyone right now. Which is strange to him. He wonders to himself as he waits if this is the right thing to do, not insisting Faoust kill him. If he’s just avoiding fate and what he deserves. But when Faoust arrives in his hospital room with a healer, and she uses magic to transport the three of them out of his hospital room, he just watches quietly, making no protest. The empty alley she takes them to is cold, and Isaiah’s broken body falls to the ground painfully without a bed beneath him anymore.

He sucks it up, grits his teeth, and withstands the pain and the cold. Not out of any sense of pride, but because he feels he deserves it. He lists out for the healer the procedures the doctors had done, along with his own meager attempts at healing, and in turn, she tells him what she’ll be able to do. The metal they used to set his bones will always bring him some pain and discomfort, and there’s nothing she can do for his eye, the curse--

“The eye,” says Isaiah, touching his cheek lightly, “has been there a long time now. It’s fine.”

The magic of healing is painful, and there is a lot of it to be done. Isaiah doesn’t scream, not the way he did when Faoust beat him in the first place. He endures, and tries to focus on the fact that he deserves this pain. This doesn’t stop a few strangled screams and growls from bubbling up. Faoust watches impassively, satisfied.

When it’s finished, Isaiah breathes heavily for a moment, feeling every nerve on fire, taking stock of how he feels. He sits up, slowly, impressed and in awe. He gives thanks to the healer, to Faoust, and stands up shakily on knees that are no longer shattered. He summons up the illusion of clothes over his hospital gown, with no idea where he ought to go, what he ought to do. When Faoust tells him to get the fuck out of here, he readily agrees. Not the first town he’s been kicked out of. Always violent. Always deserved.

He could teleport himself, but where the hell would he go? There’s nowhere he belongs. There’s a dull ache in his bones, and he picks a cardinal direction and starts walking toward it. The speed doesn’t matter. Isaiah doesn’t strictly need actual clothes. He could use magic to keep himself warm. But the first window shop he passes, he swaps his hospital gown for the outfit on display, and keeps walking. He walks until he’s passed by a sign indicating leaving/entering, the liminal space of one town bleeding into another, goes to the first clean motel he can find, uses his magic to procure a room, and passes out after having walked for hours.

At the hospital, a call is placed to 911. A patient is missing.

The officer assigned to take the report is the same one who had been guarding the room when Dorien and Faoust visited. With the most deadpan expression, she questions the charge nurse on duty, intoning dully, “wow, just fucking vanished, huh?”

She files a missing persons report for “Asmodai / Isaiah James,” because in spite of trying not to hear things she doesn’t want to have to question, she hears them anyway. She makes note of possible contacts / persons of interest, “Dorien” and “Faoust,” and submits her report to see if she can get away with not following up on anything further.

She doesn’t even bother running any checks on any of the names. She doesn’t find anything out about a decades-old missing persons report for a runaway boy of the name Isaiah James out of Ohio. If anyone bothered to fingerprint the victim at all to try to ID him while he was unconscious, the prints have been lost.

After all, a lot of people go missing in this town.

It’s just one more.

Her supervisor literally flips a coin to decide if such absolute bullshit shoddy work will be accepted. Tails. That’s a nope. He rejects the report, and sends her a CAD message: “hit the streets and try again sweetie.”

Officer Dannic “Dani” Voros swears, loudly, in her patrol car in the hospital parking lot, and slams her computer shut. Growls, and opens it again to search for any information she can find about Dorien and Faoust. If she can find anything, she’ll talk to them at least.

Here’s what she finds: no drivers licenses. No arrest records. No voter records. Nothing in any database she has access to. No hospital records, which no, her friend in the hospital records should NOT have looked up for her probably but dammit, this was important. Well, not important to her, but it’s what she was supposed to be doing and she was getting very annoyed with the lack of any hints of paper trail for those two.

She starts angrily and haphazardly googling search terms, and some combination of tall, mysterious, handsome, and Dorien does bring back a tabloid article about the enigmatic artist, which brings up several printed interviews and connections to a particular pre-teen punk rock band apparently bankrolled by Mr. Dorien Godforbidhehavealastname, and the names of its musicians. Actual names. First and last names, unlike those recordless bastards Dorien and Faoust. She searches the names. Property tax records. Bingo. A lead. And an address. She puts the patrol car in drive and heads out. One conversation largely conducted through the few-inch gap of a chained door later, Officer Voros has both probably offended another citizen with an inappropriate joke, and obtained an address for the two handsome strangers that called on her missing person.

The cold rain makes all this work extra annoying. She debates putting off the follow up until more clement weather. Or just never. Reluctantly she puts the patrol car in drive and heads to the address.

She looks at the apartment building as she pulls up. No, correction. She looks at the giant skeleton covered in Valentine’s decorations outside the apartment building as she pulls up. The apartment building itself is an afterthought. As she arrives, the weather around the apartment changes. Suddenly it is clear and 59 degrees.

Officer Voros just stares at the atmosphere and blinks at it like it has personally offended her. She twists in her seat to look back down the street at the weather there, then stares at the apartment again, and sinks back in her seat for a moment, closing her eyes, and thinks to herself, “thiiiiiiis. iiiiiis. some buuuuuuuullshiiiiiiiiit.”

She sighs a very angry sigh, gets out of the patrol car, and goes up to the appropriate door. She raps on the door with her very best authoritative knock.

Faoust opens the door and clocks the cop. “Hm.”

Officer Voros puts her hands on her hips and brightens comically. “And they said I’d never find the secret prettyboy convention! Those bastards once again were wrong.” She smiles, and doesn’t offer her name. “Evening citizen. I’m hoping you might help me with this absolute crazy missing persons case I’ve been cursed with.”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“Why, your dear friend or whatever bullshit you said at the time. Asmodai? Isaiah? You know, the guy SOMEBODY in this cursed plane of existence beat all to hell and put in the hospital.”

“Wait, wait, wait. How did he go missing? He couldn't stand, let alone walk? How did you lose him?”

“Yeah! That’s the crazy part, he just. Fucking. Vanished. Shattered kneecaps, pelvis, and all. Gone. Between you and me, that’s on the hospital. We weren’t watching him anymore at that point, but now it IS my problem to, you know. Figure out what the fuck happened and make sure there’s not a homicide investigation that should be happening here.”

Faoust shakes his head in disbelief as he tries to come up with a plan. “I could give you his motel room and location if you want? I mean, I haven't heard from him since I went to go see him?”

“Sure, sure. And it’s not like it’s illegal for him to leave the hospital. If he’s fine, I just need to lay eyes on him. It just seems real fucking suspiciously inconceivable how he’d have managed that in the state he was in, ya know?”

“Yeah, no, for sure. Let me go get some paper.”

Faoust leaves her at the front door and digs around in drawers looking for paper and pen. She stands at the front door, looking inside, pondering Faoust the whole while. He hands her a note with the address of the motel Asmodai had been staying at.

“Let me know if you find anything, yeah?”

Officer Voros takes the paper. “Of course.” She takes a blank card out of her pocket, a generic business card for the police department that doesn’t have her name on it. She writes down a phone number and offers the card to Faoust. “You think of anything else helpful, call or text me. Or if your prettyboy friend Dorien knows anything either.”

“Dorien doesn't know anything. At all. Not a braincell up there. But I'll keep it in mind.” Faoust takes the card and pockets it.

“Thanks. Stay safe citizen.” She heads down the steps and back to her patrol car, looking at the address. She knows the motel.

Officer Voros looks back toward Faoust from her patrol car for a long minute before she pulls out. She doesn’t have any sort of proof necessarily, just a feeling that Faoust was lying quite smoothly out of every side of his head right to her face. She types up a field contact for alias Faoust along with the address before she leaves.

Asmodai’s motel room ends up being a dead end. There’s nothing obviously off about the room, but she gets a weird vibe. Still a suitcase here. Some knives. Nothing much else. She does not discover that the room is under a stolen credit card in another name. She doesn’t look up any other purchases that stolen card might have made to connect it to an abandoned rental car that was impounded on Faoust’s street. She types up her report and deletes “went on a wild fucking goose chase because my corporal is a dickhead” from the report.

Officer Voros swears loudly, because she realizes she didn’t ask Faoust if the mysteriously vanished bastard had. a fucking. cell phone number. She groans. She decides she’ll pretend to have thought of that tomorrow, because she doesn’t want to follow up now.

The weak and cloudy light of morning is scattered further by the cheap, hazy curtains pulled loosely across the window. Isaiah wakes up, still dressed in his stolen clothes where he passed out on top of the covers. There it is—a dull ache in his bones, a twinge in his hips and knees as he pushes himself up to sit. He looks down at his palms, and they are smooth and untroubled, marked by nothing but the simple creases of where his hand folds. He flexes his left hand. The countless scars that had made a tangled nest there in his palm, the countless times he’d cut and called upon blood magic and done only a just-good-enough job of closing the wounds, when he remembered to heal himself at all, they’re all gone.

Isaiah doesn’t even have a knife, he realizes. His...Asmodai’s favored knives were either in the clothes left in the hospital, in the rental car, or in the motel room he has no intention of returning to. But it feels like he should have a knife. He has no money, but money isn’t too necessary when you’re flush with magic and short on moral qualms against stealing.

He heads out for the day to get a knife, zipping up his stolen coat. Something simple. New. He goes to the nearest outdoors store and sees a nice Benchmade folding knife with a black-coated blade and white handle and feels drawn to it. With an effortless bit of magic, the knife disappears from the case and appears in his pocket as he leaves the parking lot.

Isaiah flips the knife open experimentally, admires it, turning his wrist this way and that to see the sides of the blade. He unlocks the blade and closes it again, clipping the knife in his pocket. He doesn’t have a plan for it, but it felt appropriate in his hand.

Isaiah has been somewhat skirting around thinking about this fact, but taking the knife in his hand he has to confront it. He’s not someone who can go work a 9 to 5 job, take a little paycheck home, find someone sweet to love him and love in turn. Whatever he does next isn’t going to be some contented kind of life. That wasn’t the lot he was born to.

What he is good at...all he has ever been good at, is violence.

He walks slowly back to the current motel. He takes the knife out of his pocket, opening and closing it as he goes, thinking to himself. Magic, and violence. Magic and violence. This is all he’s ever known. Even if he wanted to do something else, how could he, at this point? He’s not a good person. And surely nothing he is capable of can be used for good ends. He hasn’t killed anyone in so many days now, and strangest of all, doesn’t feel particularly compelled to. Not averse to it either. But the stirring in his blood that craved to see the icy glint of fear through tears before an untimely death doesn’t move him, for now.

Officer Voros follows up with Faoust the next night, gets a phone number for her missing person, and puts in a request for a ping before taking a nap in her patrol car. She’ll follow up further in daylight hours. Before ending her night shift, Officer Voros tries to call the phone number Faoust provided for the missing person. It’s almost 6am, of course he doesn’t answer. She leaves a voicemail indicating for him to call the communications center so they can speak.

The next day, Officer Voros, as soon as assembly is done, goes to her patrol car and puts herself on a follow up before any calls can be assigned to her. She tries calling the number again. Isaiah looks at his phone. A blocked number. He silences the phone without answering, because who would be calling him? He hasn’t bothered checking his voicemail either, since he didn’t recognize the number that called. He’ll check it eventually. He sits in his motel room, opening and closing his stolen knife.

Officer Voros checks the latitude and longitude of the ping. Another motel. It’s within a mile of what technically counts as her jurisdiction, so technically she CAN go investigate her own damn self, OR she can call her counterparts in the next town over to check for her. She debates which sounds like more work. With an agonized groan that can surely be heard two counties over, Officer Voros puts her patrol car in drive and heads for the motel.

Officer Voros checks with the front desk, but thanks to his use of magic there’s no one checked in by the names of Asmodai or Isaiah James. She pulls up the coordinates on her phone to get as close as possible to the ping, and starts knocking on doors fruitlessly, starting with the ground floor. She has an idea, and dials the number again, and faintly hears a ring from a couple doors down. A little excited in spite of herself, she hustles down to the door and knocks.

Asmodai would’ve checked through the peephole before opening the door, if he opened it at all. Isaiah does not care, and opens the door as he silences his phone again, looking up from the phone at the officer.

“There you are, you mysterious bastard! Alive and unmurdered, and my hatred of paperwork thanks you for that.”

Isaiah feels a slight needle of panic, if only because he has done a lot of things that would not put him on the good side of the police. His eye darts briefly to her neck and back to meet her eyes.

“Here I am. Alive. Unmurdered, as you say.”

Officer Voros looks him up and down, frowning. This is definitely the same guy, that’s not a common scar after all, but he’s clearly not just unmurdered, but very significantly undamaged. “Didn’t you have a hell of a lot of shattered bones?”

Isaiah shrugs. “Modern medicine is a miracle.”

Officer Voros just blinks at him. She doesn’t believe him for a moment. “And I don’t suppose you might be able to tell me how you managed to make your way so secretly out of the hospital that they felt compelled to report you as a missing person?”

“Sorry, no. Not sure what the miscommunication was there. Quite obviously, I left the hospital.”

“Quite. Obviously. Of course.”

Isaiah smiles wanly. “Am I in trouble?”

Officer Voros continues looking him over suspiciously. “I suppose not. You left your paperwork from the hospital.” She hands him a stack of paperwork and billing statements. “Somehow.”

Isaiah takes the papers. “Oh, thanks.”

“And the belongings you came in with. Are still at the hospital.”

“Oops.”

“And a bunch of shit I’m guessing belongs to you is all left at another cheap motel.”

“You think?”

“No,” Officer Voros snaps. “I try to avoid thinking whenever I can. But I do think some weird ass shit is involved here with you.”

Isaiah’s hand twitches slightly, and he presses his lips together. “Hm.”

“But shit being weird isn’t my problem. Not my jurisdiction. So I suppose I don’t give a fuck. Glad you’re not murdered. Take care. Call your friends, they’re pretending to be worried about you.” She heads back to her patrol car.

Isaiah slowly lets out a tensely held breath.

Officer Voros sits in the parking lot, wrapping up her report. She tries calling Faoust from her blocked number. He answers, not knowing any better.

“Solid citizen! Faoust right? Your favorite friend-finding officer here. Found your friend.”

“Oh my god! Where was he? Is he ok?”

“He’s better than ok, considering the state I last saw him in. Damn near miraculous recovery. He’s just outside of town, another motel not far off the highway.”

“Oh man, thanks so much for finding him. I'll have to go see him. Are you able to give me the address?”

“That depends, are you going there to murder him?”

“Why the hell would Igo there to murder him?”

“Aaaa I’m just fucking with you. I’ve got a nice neat solved missing persons case here and if you went and murdered him it would just be an assfuck of paperwork that I don’t want to have to deal with is all.”

“Fucked up joke, officer.”

“Yeah, file a complaint on me if you’d like. Oh, right, address,” she says, and gives him the address and room of the Quality Inn where Isaiah is staying.

“Thank you. Despite the fucked up joke, I'm glad you found him.”

“Just doing my sworn duty and all that. Stay safe citizen,” she says and hangs up.

Without fully realizing it, Officer Voros has solved the first missing persons case in the department in nearly a year.

Officer Voros always keeps a spare portable radio among her belongings. She managed to get it more or less off the record, so that when she inevitably loses track of her actual radio again, she can make do with the backup until the original eventually resurfaces, and not get all manner of shit from her corporal for losing her radio AGAIN. She doesn’t think hard on the fact that her radio is once again MIA. It will turn up in time.

In his motel room, Isaiah switches the radio on, and fiddles between channels.

Isaiah lays on the bed, one hand manipulating the knife—open, closed, open, closed, each motion with a satisfying little sound—the other hand resting on the radio on his chest, occasionally following the chatter of traffic to a side channel. An officer keys up, her voice annoyed and muttering over sounds of entitlement in the background—“6676 to 200, switch to 2”—and Isaiah flips the radio to channel 2, partly because he is curious and partly because it sounds like the officer from the other night.

The officer keys up, he’s quite sure it’s her, and a voice that sounds like it expects the world laid compliantly at its feet cuts through the backdrop of everything the officer says

6676: 200 you on?

—this is AMERICA, I have RIGHTS, I demand to speak to your SUPERVISOR, I—

200: go’on whatcha got

—what is your NAME, no WHAT is your NAME—

6676: *you can hear the eye roll in her voice* can you just come over here and deal with this.

There’s a final indignant “do you even KNOW” in the background before the supervisor cuts over the traffic to advise he’s en route. Isaiah’s thumb closes the knife again with a sense of finality. He doesn’t care about the officers, but the woman in the background had the sort of voice you’d love to cut right out of her throat.

Isaiah sits up, goes to put the radio aside but pulls it back in front of him again. He focuses on the radio, whatever traces of grit and grime and little skin cells from the officer still stick to the plasticky radio, and does a tracking spell. He switches the radio off, puts it on the bedside table, and grabs his jacket on the way out the door.

Isaiah returns to his motel room. Hands clean. Knife clean.

He did not appear with an ear-splitting bang, as the witch does. He knows ways to move through shadows and though it isn’t instantaneous, it’s a hell of a lot quieter. Isaiah remained in the shadows, waiting. There, yes, the officer from the other night, and there, that must be 200, the human embodiment of an industrial refrigerator crossed with a boulder, and there. Jabbing her finger, practically frothing at the mouth, hair crisply cut, every line in her body set in the conviction of her own righteousness and that she should get what she wants. Isaiah didn’t even try to listen to what she was saying. It didn’t matter. He waited.

When the officers left, the woman turned to her minivan to get in. Or, that was what she intended to do. But she found as she walked, it was like her body was being pushed and pulled, and the sound had left her voice, and she walked into the shadows across the parking lot.

Without saying a word, Isaiah came up quickly behind her and slit her throat, and before a drop could hit the concrete sent her body and all its rapidly spilling blood deep, deep into the earth below.

Magic cleaned the knife. Magic cleaned his hands. He slipped back into the shadows and hurried to get the hell back out of Faoust’s town.

Isaiah returned to his motel room, everything clean. Feeling a certain ...satisfaction? Correctness? A bit of lost unease dissolved away within him.

Of course, Isaiah reflects on how different this murder was. He flicks the knife, open and closed. When he thinks of himself as he was, he has gotten in the habit of thinking of himself as an entirely separate person now. Asmodai was. Asmodai would have. So on. Asmodai would have taken far more enjoyment from the killing. Asmodai would have tasted the blood on the knife. Asmodai would have savored the delicious fear in her eyes, for as long as possible. Asmodai would have had the possibility of someone to share the experience with, though he resented so much about that fact. Asmodai was an idiot.

Isaiah switches the radio back on, quietly, to have something to listen to, since that’s all he has.

When Officer Voros was handling the latest missing person case early this morning, part of her was perversely satisfied—maybe that bitch descended back to hell where she belonged—and that other part of her, the part made of intuitions that guessed too correctly, that had long ago tried to bring up things that had since gone ignored, the part that she did her best to keep buried, that part felt a sharp jolt of unease. She was, officially, the last person to have seen the missing person. There was a security camera on the other side of the parking lot, and the footage made no sense. The victim—victim? Why was she already thinking victim?—missing bitch, then, started walking to her car, and then turned, and walked off to the far side of the parking lot, into grainy shadow. It didn’t look like someone had called out to her, she just...decided to go on some random bitch walk. In the dark of early morning hours, Officer Voros walked around the spot she went off to, clicking on her flashlight, looking for clues. Nothing.

It seemed appropriate for Isaiah to return to murder on his own...it’s all he knows. He’s not suddenly a good person. He’s not full of remorse for everything he did. It’s all just facts. Things that happened that can’t be changed.

He listens to the radio again today, and thinks with a sort of mirthless chuckle how hypocritical it would be for him to kill some of the people he’s hearing about. “If I were cutting throats for that, have to start with myself,” he thinks, over and over and over. Asmodai craved victims, sought them out. Isaiah is content to see what serendipity will bring.

Isaiah struck out into town yesterday to find a charger for his stolen radio. Listening gives him something to do besides think. He could have just gotten a commercial police scanner, or used an app on his phone to listen in, but that didn’t have the same appeal. He listens carefully, mentally keeping track of the addresses and where the officers are, when it’s announced anyway. The officer from the other night he can find easily enough, but without addresses and nothing to trace them with, magically speaking, finding any of these other officers would be incredibly difficult. Well, to do in a timely fashion anyway.

So he listens, and waits, hoping to feel that same jolt of dead certainty, knowing a voice spoke that would be his to kill.

Isaiah knows. An officer keys up “put me out with an animal problem at” and gives an address, and just before the radio cuts out he hears a man in the background, derisive, say “I don’t understand, it’s just a stupid—“ before being cut off by the end of the transmission. That voice. He felt it, like a nail being slashed at high speed across a chalkboard, a string plucked so hard it snaps, THAT is a man he needs to kill. He is equal parts thrilled and yet feels the calm certainty slipping over him. His knife is ready. He knows where to go. He slips out into the cold rain.

Sliding through shadows. Waiting. The man goes inside, alone. Isaiah slips inside, without a word, the only sound made is his knife blade locking into place. The man finds his voice is gone. The man walks toward Isaiah, against his own will, and kneels before him, fear shining in his eyes. Isaiah looks down, cold, comes around from behind, threads his fingers in the man’s hair and pulls back, hard, exposing his neck. He draws the blade firm and fast across the neck, and like the woman before Isaiah sends the body hundreds of feet into the ground below before a drop of blood can hit the floor.

He looks at the blood on the knife, for a moment, imagines the taste on his tongue like a mouth full of pennies. It doesn’t appeal to him, not right now. Magic cleans the blade, cleans the bit of blood on his hands, cleans the scene of any trace evidence, and Isaiah slips away.

- NEXT SNIPPET -

#an ill-fitting name #My writing #original story #collaborative fiction #Original work #original writing #original fiction #magic fiction #Magic murderer #Snippets #fictional murder #fictional murderer #Fictional incompetent police

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ashsblurbs · 5 years ago

Text

When you thought you found your happiness

*Not my gif*

“Not many people know or have seen Tony Stark in many years. The old playboy disappeared after his parents died from a car accident when he was only twenty-one. After that, he took over the family business and vanished. Rumors have it he ran off to Malibu and married one of his floozies. Others say he died with his parents and someone else has been covering as him. No one will ever know the truth. Not even the ones closest to him.”

After showing the most recent photo the world could fine of Tony Stark, the screen went black leaving Steve alone in a room full of silence. He and Tony weren’t so much different, he thought. Steve had disappeared without a trace nearly seventy years ago but that wasn’t his choice. Tony chose to run away. Steve had no right to judge Tony. He had never met him or knew him. He did know his father many years ago. All the information Steve had at the palm of his hands were the few videos and some files that director Fury had given to him once he woke up. The files told him nothing like usual. He was on his own in this new modern world. Steve looked over at the clock that was in his room and knew his keepers would come in shortly and bring him to meet his new teammates. Steve took a deep breath and sigh. He was happy to be alive. He really was but sometimes he just wished they would put him back in the ice.

“There was an idea to put together a team of special human beings to protect us against horrors we couldn’t imagine. This is why all of you are here.” Nick Fury walked out of the shadows. Steve remembered him since he was the first person he met once he woke up. He looked around the table trying to put names to faces that he recognized from his many files.

“This is Natasha Romanoff. She is a shield agent and ex-soviet spy. I wouldn’t mess with her if I was you. Next to her is Clint Barton. He is also an agent of shield and is skilled with a bow and arrow. Then we have Bruce Banner. He’s skilled in radiation and is also the Hulk. Lastly, we have Thor. The disgraced prince of Asgard.” Steve stared at the group feeling intimidated, feeling unworthy of being here. He might have super-soldier serum in him, but he was still just a kid from Brooklyn.

“Umm, you forgot two other members of your team.” Steve whipped his head around and found the lost man of the world standing in front of him. TONY STARK. He walked into the room with boldness around him. He commanded the room and all eyes were on him, especially Steve’s. Tony was gorgeous and the photos Steve were given couldn’t compare to what he was seeing right in front of him. He needed to talk to him. He wanted to know everything about him.

“It’s nice for you to join us, Stark.” Fury gestured for Tony to grab a seat but he stayed standing. Instead Tony moved over to one of the computers to analyze it.

“I thought you were dead,” Clint spoke up. This just made Tony laugh. “Nope, just been busy making the world a better place. If everyone here could pretend, I wasn’t here that would be great. I love the outlandish tale of me being missing.”

“Why are you here? You aren’t special.” Natasha said. Tony glared at her but turned back at the group where he finally laid his eyes on Steve’s beautiful blues. Tony sucked in a breath not wanting to lose his composure but the man that was looking back at him was his teenage dream. He was alive which Tony knew that. He was the one that pulled him out of the ice after all.

Steve notice Tony was staring at him. Steve stared back giving him a blank stare not wanting any more attention to be drawn on him. Tony gave him a half-smile and then turned back to look at the whole group. There was a flutter in his chest. For the first time since he woke up, he felt like everything would be okay and hadn’t had a clue why.

“You didn’t answer my question, Tony.” Tony shifted his focus towards Natasha.

“Well, I’m a billionaire so, I am going to fund this team. Welcome to the Avengers.” Tony turned around and left everyone awestruck. Steve jumped up after him wanting to get some answers to the many questions he had. Maybe he just wanted a chance to get up close and personal with the mystery of a man. It turned out Tony was faster than he ever thought.

“Hey, Mr. Stark, do you have some time to talk.” Tony whipped around and found Steve jogging towards him. Tony stopped in his tracks and took in the sights.

“Oh, don’t call me Mr. Stark that was my father which I heard you knew. Just call me Tony.” Tony flashed him a smile and took off his glasses. He doesn’t do this for many people, but Steve was different for some reason. Maybe it was because Steve was Captain America and Captain America was a symbol, he saw all throughout his life. He even had a poster on his wall of him. That made his cheeks turn slightly red. “What do you want to talk about, Cap? We can walk and talk.” Steve nodded and followed along. Tony must be a very busy man Steve thought.

“Where have you been all of these years?” Tony raised an eyebrow at him and pierced his lips.

“I should ask you the same thing, Cap.” Steve paused.

“I was taking a nap for several years but I’m back.” This just made Tony laughed.

“Well, you can say the same about me.” A comfortable silence fell over them as they continued to walk towards the exist. Steve had several more things he wanted to ask like why was he doing this and how was his dad? Before he could an alarm went off making both of them freeze.

“Hey, Captain, we need you on one of the planes now. We found a disturbance in south Germany. This is right up your ally.” Steve ran to join Natasha but paused to turn to Tony.

“Sorry, to cut this short. It was nice to meet you, Tony.”

“It was nice to meet you too Steve. Now go.” Steve ran to suit up and fight whatever threat they were about to run into. When he was suited up, he felt like he was somebody important and not the dead guy they found alive.

“You puny humans will always fail. I just think it's funny that seventy years ago at this exact spot a man stood over you demanding allegiance and now you have another one.” The red skull stood over the crowd.

“Hydra didn’t win the first time and we won’t let you now.” This made him laugh.

“Hydra will rule the world. Hail hydra!”

“Hail this” Steve dropped down from the aircraft leading a swift kick to the jaw of Red Skull.

“Captain America. I thought you died many years ago.”

“I could say the same about you.” Red skull blasted at Steve which he blocked with his shield.

They fought for several minutes each getting equal punches in until Red skull knocked his shield out of his hands leaving him defensive. The Red Skull wrapped an arm around his neck resulting in his airway to be cut off. Right when he was about to find a way to escape, Red skull was blasted releasing Steve. Steve looked up to find a red-figure flying above him. He really thought he had seen everything, but he guessed not. The red robot secured Red skull in cuffs and started to walk him towards the plane.

“Thank you, um.”

“Iron man. I am a friend of Tony Stark’s and is the last avenger. It is nice to meet you Captain America” As they kept walking up the ramp, someone fired a shot, hitting Steve in the back making him collapse on the ground leading him to fall paralyze. “Captain, are you okay.” Iron man released Red skull and bent down to carry Steve in and placed him down on the cot that Natasha pulled out.

“Ha,ha,ha! I will see you again Captain and we can finish this fight once and for all.”

Steve slowly opened his eyes to reveal a glaring light covering the room and a figure standing in the doorway. He blinked a couple more times and he noticed it was Tony. “What are you doing here?”

Tony shrugged and walked in farther into the room. “I heard from a friend of mine that you go hurt. Came to check on you.” Steve smiled weakly.

“Hey, tell your friend thank you. If it wasn’t for him, I probably would have been gone for real this time.” Tony stared at him. He looked so broken with bruises all over his face and IVs coming out of his left arm. He knew he would heal by tomorrow because of his super healing abilities but that didn’t make him not worry. Why did he care, he really didn’t know?

“I will when I see him. Now get better.” Tony turned around to walk away. There was no reason for him to still be there.

“Wait.” Tony stopped and turned around and saw Steve looking so small. “Will you stay? I don’t have anyone else.” Tony grabbed a chair and sat beside the bed.

“I don’t have anyone either. I will stay until you kick me out.” Steve rolled his head over very slowly and looked at Tony. He smiled and then closed his eyes where he fell asleep once again. Tony picked up Steve's hand. He ran his fingers along the bruises on his knuckles. Then he saw a scar that ran up his arm. It was not new because if it was it wouldn't be there. Steve would never have new scars because of the serum. He traced the scar till it disappeared into his sleeve. Who was Steve Rogers before Captain America, Tony thought?

Days and weeks went by. Steve and the rest of the Avengers went on missions fighting bad guys and trying to catch Red Skull after he got away the first time. He went underground and there wasn’t a trace of him since. While Captain America was fighting crime, Steve Rogers was finding a friend in Tony Stark. Every night they would get together and have dinner and maybe watch a movie. It was nice to finally find someone that didn’t look at him as this man out of time but just Steve.

Tony had asked the team to come to stay in his tower. It was supposed to be a base for the team but for Steve, it was a home. Steve was in his room currently drying off from showering. He looked around and found how it fit perfectly for him. It wasn’t too modernizing even though Tony wanted to. He had a photo of the last people that were in his life before he was frozen. One with the Hollowing Commandos, one with Peggy Carter and one with his best friend Bucky Barnes. He picked up the photo, staring at how happy Bucky looked instead of in his nightmares he heard Bucky’s screams. Tears slowly rolled down his cheeks missing his brother.

“Hey, Steve.” Steve turned around when he heard the knock on the door. He wiped his face quickly and opened the door to find Tony on the other side looking very, Tony. The real Tony with one of his band shirts on and his grease-stained jeans. Tony froze in the doorway seeing what was placed in front of him. “Is this how you answer the door for everyone?” Steve started to blush. He looked down and he realized he was just standing in his towel.

“Oh, I’m sorry let me just put something on really quick.” He closed the door slowly, but Tony stopped not wanting to lose the view. Tony reached out, placing a gentle hand on Steve’s chest.

“Wait, I just wanted to ask if you wanted to go to a little diner in Brooklyn.” Steve’s voice was caught in his throat. All he could think about was the heat that was rolling off of Tony’s body and the light touch of his hand sending shivers through his body. Steve grabbed hold of Tony’s hand and pulled him in closer wrapping him into his embrace. Every bad thought went through his head and he wanted to do all of it. “Yeah, I would love too. Say I pick you up around eight.” Steve pushed Tony back out of the room without another word leaving Tony breathless.

Tony leaned against the wall trying to catch his breath. He was trying to be his cool self, his playboy self but Steve brought out something totally different out of him. Tony wanted to be a good guy. Tony wanted to be the man Steve needed and the person he always wanted to be. For the first time, he felt like he could be that guy. Tony turned back to the door to knock on it one more time when the villain alert went off. Steve swung the door open already dressed in his uniform and strapping his shield to his back.

“Oh, Tony, you’re still here?” Steve gave him a perplexed look. What was Tony doing?

“I was just leaving but good luck on your mission. Don’t die.” Tony chuckled but then awkwardness fell between the two. “I will try not to.” Steve ran ahead of him while he made his way down to his lab so he could suit up himself.

“Okay, Iron Man shoot that pipe over there and then I will deflect the water. Hopefully, this will put out the fire. While Thor and Hulk take down those aliens over on third and fourth street. Romanoff and Barton help get the civilians to safety.” Iron man did as told and this allowed them to save thousands of people.

“Nice job, Captain. We make a good team, you and I.” Steve stood next to Ironman taking in the scenery of what they did together. They really were a good team.

“Yeah, we do, but do you think you guys could clean up. I have a date in a few hours. Well it’s not actually a date because the person I’m meeting didn’t say it was a date, but they did say we were going to a diner in my hometown, so it is a date right.” Steve frantically looked around with nervousness boiling up. Oh God, did he just overthink what this night was supposed to be. Iron man clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“I have a feeling that this night might be pretty special. Just don’t overthink it and be yourself.” Steve smiled feeling a little bit better. “Thank you, I really needed that. Well, I got to bounce. Have a goodnight, Iron Man.”

Tony through every item of clothing he owned out onto his floor since he couldn’t find anything that would be worthy for Steve to see him in. Ever since he found out that he could be going on a date with Steve, he just wanted everything to be perfect.

Steve tightened his tie and brushed his bangs to the side. He sprayed some colon on his wrist and grabbed the roses he picked up from the shop across from the tower. His nervousness was making him vibrate with excitement. He hadn’t liked someone this much in a long time and no one had liked him either. Tony was such a wonderful man that made him laugh and understood what was going on in his life. It was hard to find someone that shared the same life experiences and surprisingly him and Tony had.

Tony stared at his reflection of a broken man. Was he really going to do this? He stood with the nicest but also not so fancy outfit he owned on. Just a plain long sleeve black shirt with dark pants but he was Tony Stark after all so he through on a bright red jacket with it. He erased all of the negative thoughts that were popping into his head and just thought about how nervous but excited Steve was when he told a friend of his about his date. Tony looked down and saw that it was ten minutes past eight. Steve was late but then there was a knock at the door. He opened up to find a very handsome looking Steve Rogers staring at him with roses.

“I’m sorry, I’m late. I was fussing with my hair and then I almost forgot mine,” Tony took the roses out of Steve’s hands and placed them on his dresser. He pulled Steve in by the base of his collar and closed the door. Tony pressed a hard kiss to his mouth. The diner could wait another night they had other plans. The two men furiously removed their jackets off of one of another. Steve ran his hands through Tony’s hair, down his shoulder blades, then to the hem of his shirt lifting it over his head and discarding it off to the side. Tony started working on Steve’s belt buckle while he loosened his tie, wrapping it around Tony’s wrist. He pulled them tighter together and walked Tony back where he fell back onto the bed. There was a burning desire flashing over Steve’s eyes and there was a burning desire between Tony’s thighs.

Steve ripped the rest of his own clothing off leaving only his underwear. Tony could see Steve growing harder and he would be lying to himself if he didn’t say he wasn’t either. Steve pulled Tony’s still bound wrist above his head and pulled himself on top of him. Steve slowly started placing gentle kisses along Tony's jaw and down his body until he stopped at the top of his pants. Slowly he undid the buttons which just made Tony want him more. He pulled his pants down gently placing soft kisses on the inside of his thighs until finally, they were both just in their underwear. Steve laced his fingers on the inside of his boxers getting ready to take away the last piece of clothing that would leave Tony not completely naked but then he stopped.

“Do you want this Tony? Because I do” Tony let out a soft moan.

“Do your worst to me, Captain.” That was when all bets were off. Steve ripped Tony’s very expensive boxers off. There was no salvaging them.

Steve pulled Tony in closer loving the feeling of how he fit perfectly in his arms. He looked down and found Tony had fallen asleep. He looked like an angel. Steve ran his fingers through his hair taking in the memories they just shared. He never wanted this to end.

“Hey, Tony, want to go to that diner another night.” Tony stirred in his arms and looked up at him with sleepy eyes.

“Yeah, but I’m still hungry. We could get carried out.” Steve placed a kiss to the top of his head and moved to put some clothes on. “No, come back. I need snuggles.” Steve chuckled and grabbed one of his old shirts, through it over to Tony, and a pair of his shorts.

“Here put these on and follow me. I’m going to cook for you. How does pancakes sound?” Tony jumped up and wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist leaning against him.

“With chocolate chips.” Steve spun him around giving him a kiss. “Yes, chocolate chips. Anything for my baby.”

“My baby?” Steve paused looking at Tony. He was worried he had said something wrong.

“Should I have not called you that.” Tony leaned in closer taking in the warmth and scent of Steve. Steve, the man he would allow to have his whole heart as no one else had ever had before.

“No, I love it. I love being yours. You are mine too.”

Tony was in his lab tinkering away on his new invention. Tony stopped and looked at his phone to see he had a message from Steve saying he would be late tonight, but he promised they could still watch the movie they had planned. Tony replied and the swiped away the notification to look at his screen saver. It was of Steve. He was smiling with ice-cream in hand. This was their fourth or fifth date Tony thought. He really didn’t know.

“You’re going to break his heart, Stark.” Tony looked up to spot Nick Fury standing in his doorway giving him a stern look.

“What are you talking about Nick?” Tony turned off his phone and turned his back away from him.

“You know what I’m talking about. You haven’t told him yet have you.”

“Told who what.”

Nick came closer and slammed his hands down onto his desk. “You know what I’m talking about! You haven’t told Steve you are Iron Man. What’s going to happen when he finds out or worst you die in battle in that suit.” Tony turned around with fiery in his eyes.

“You don’t know what you are talking about. Steve is safer knowing nothing and for your information, tomorrow’s mission will be Iron Man’s last anyways. Steve will never know and then we can start living a normal life.” Nick just laughed.

“For someone that is so smart. You really are stupid Stark.” Nick turn and walked out of the lab leaving Tony feeling hollow. He was doing the right thing. It would kill Steve if he knew the truth. He wouldn’t be focus on the battlefield but be focused on worrying about keeping Tony safe. He knew he was right because that was why tomorrow would be his last mission. It was easier not to be there when Steve took a shot every time or he went down and didn’t get back up right away. He clicked back on his phone to look at Steve’s face once again. It would kill him if he knew he did anything to dim his beautiful smile. Tony laid his head in his hands and let all of his emotions flow. Tears streamed down his face. He was finally happy and why did it feel like it was about to be ripped away from him.

Tony finished suiting up placing his helmet on for his last mission as Iron Man. The last time fighting alongside Captain America. After this, he will be able to come home and be with his Steve as Tony. His hands shook. He closed his eyes and just breathed in. His life was about to change.

The team walked off the plane looking around at the ruble of Sokovia that was leftover. The place was eerie quiet as if there was no one here.

“Iron Man can you do a scan to see if there is anyone here. It seems we might be in the wrong place.” Iron Man did as ask of him, but nothing was detected. “Sorry Captain but no one is here. It’s like everyone has vanished. We may be too late.” He may have spoken too soon when several hydra agents appeared out of thin air. They attacked the Avengers from all angles.

“Hey, Cap, you have incoming from the west. Three of them.” Steve turned around to see them coming to him. He through his shield knocking each one out.

“Captain America we meet again.” Steve whirled around to spot Red Skull holding a Hydra weapon pointing straight at him.

“You are going down this time. You will not succeed with your plan.” Red Skull shot at him and he deflected it which just made Red Skull laugh harder.

“Here’s the thing Captain. I already have. Do you see how this town is left in ruins? Well, I’m going to do the same for your precious home. New York will be laid in shambles and you can’t do anything about it. The bomb will be there in thirty minutes” Steve stood paralyzed by the Red Skull’s words.

“Cap, come in Captain.” Steve turn on the coms to answer Iron Man. “There is a bomb coming towards New York in thirty minutes. What are we going to do?”

“I got this. I will fly it back this way and into the sky. You take care of Red Skull.” Iron Man flew away like a rocket. Steve stared up at the sky watching him go.

“Iron Man that is a one-way ticket.” “I know.” Steve through his shield knocking Red Skull down. Then he kicked and punched with no control. He saw the blood run down his face with each hit. He raised his shield above his head to make the final blow when he heard crackling coming from his earpiece.

“Hey, Captain.” Steve stopped recognizing that voice.

“Tony! What are you doing?”

“Steve, just listen to me. I want to say you were the best thing in my life and you made my life complete. I could never imagine finding the one person that completed me. You make me so happy. From the moments the sun comes up to when the sun goes down. I was so alone for so many years not wanting the world to see the real me but then you came along and changed all of that. You are my one. My only one. I love you and I will always love you, Steve Rogers.” Steve’s heart was pounding in his chest. What was Tony talking about? What was he doing?

“Tony, sweetheart, I love you too but why now. What are you doing?” The comms went dead. “Tony! Tony, answer me!” Steve ripped off his cowl and turned to Red Skull with determination. “What did you do?”

“I did nothing to your precious Tony.”

“Liar!” Out of rage and anger, Steve slammed his shield into his chest causing Red Skull to sputter his breathing and blood leaked out of his mouth. His eyes went glassy. This was the last time they would have to ever deal with Red Skull.

Steve turned back around at the sky to see Iron Man fly the missile in the sky. He disappeared. Steve thought he was gone. Then he looked up and saw a red object falling fast. “Thor catch him. Now!”

Thor laid him down to the ground and Steve ran over to see the light on his chest flicker. It was dim. Steve ran his hand along his chest and then he ripped off the faceplate to find the one face he didn’t want to see.

“Tony” he whispered. Steve lean closer to find he wasn’t breathing. Steve pulled him into his arms rocking him back and forth. “No, Tony, it can’t be you.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Get this off of him now,” he screamed. Thor came over and pulled the armor off. Steve picked Tony up in his arms and carried him onto the plane never letting him go. Steve didn’t know the last time he would see Tony was this morning. The last time to talk to him was over the comms. He didn’t even get to say goodbye.

“Steve, you need to place Tony on the stretcher.” Steve held him tighter.

“No! I wasn’t there to protect him and now he is dead. Get away from us!”

Steve carried Tony’s casket slowly down the aisle. He slowly lowered it down in the ground. He through several photos of them along with it. “Goodbye, my sweetheart. Goodbye, my hero.” Steve blew a kiss and walked away.

“We have lost a hero and I lost the love of my life. Tony Stark was a very private man and didn’t share many things to the public eye but the one thing he did share was his courageousness. His bravery and his brains. Tony Stark was Iron Man. They were one and the same. So, please let us remember him of the man he was.”

Steve left the press conference and went to Tony’s gravestone to say his final goodbye. “Hello, darling. I miss you every day. I didn’t get to tell you goodbye. I didn’t get to tell you that you made me feel like me again. I found myself again in a world I wasn’t supposed to belong. You made me happy and you made me laugh. I wanted to live my life with you, and I might not get to, but I get to have the memories. I love you, Tony.” Steve leaned down and kissed the tombstone. Running his fingers along the engravings. He placed his shield in front of it showing Tony he would be there to protect him forever. “Rest in Peace, Iron Man. I will see you forever, Tony.”

#stony #stevetony #superhusbands #ash's blurbs

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