#whumptober is becoming more trouble than it's worth and it was really never worth it to begin with

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

hyperfixation is compiling a long list of individual animal species for identification purposes and this is being done because you're bored and not because you're required to

anyway the tags turned into something weird so maybe ignore those. i'm keeping them there so i don't personally forget

[scpnightwing]

whumptober 2021: The Bone Road (1/31)

By night, Robin was his partner in crime, but once the sun rose, all Dick could be was a mirror of his tragedy, haunting his halls and asking for more than Bruce had in him to give.

{The early days of Batman and Robin, and the many mistakes therein) [on AO3]

Chapter One: “You have to let go” | Barbed Wire | Bound

Every day, between three o’clock and five o’clock, Dick would take his schoolwork into the unused sitting room at the very front of the Manor. It was the sort of room they would have taken guests to, if they ever had any, and although Alfred kept it spotlessly clean, it had a bereft air to it; a car left to rust in a garage, a piano silently gathering dust, a performer without an audience. A purpose left unfulfilled.

Much of the Manor was that way. Even after living at Wayne Manor for four months, it still struck Dick as absurd that there were only three of them in that great big house, with its endless rooms dedicated to overly specific things that none of them seemed to do.

There was a music room, but he had never seen Alfred or Bruce pick up an instrument, despite his suspicions that they both probably could play something.

There was a games room with several pool tables and a darts board and cupboards full of old board games, the likes of which Dick had never heard of, but even Dick soon tired of trying to play snooker by himself.

The ballroom particularly offended him. Why on earth would any house need its own ballroom, and if you were going to have a house with a ballroom, then you may as well use it. He had been scolded by Alfred for skidding across its marble floor in his stocking feet, and when he had asked if they would have Bruce’s birthday party in there, Alfred had only nudged him back out the door.

Dick didn’t know the word excessive yet, but he recognized its definition when he saw it, and such a grand house was, in his eyes, utterly wasted on three people, especially when two of those people spent their evenings skulking through the city’s poorest places only to come back to such opulence.

The dissonance of that made Dick uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t quite put into words, not that he would have shared the thought even if he could, afraid that his discomfort may be misinterpreted as ingratitude. He was, it felt, always one wrong word away from being as superfluous to his new guardian as his many neglected rooms.

Dick perched in the window seat, scattering his books and worksheets around him to create an illusion of studious diligence, and began his daily vigil. In the last four months, he had scoped out only a fraction of the front-facing rooms, but he had decided that this one had the best view of the winding driveway up from the front gate.

All the better to spot when Bruce’s car arrived home.

He chewed on the end of his pencil, half-listening out for Alfred’s footsteps, his cue to look appropriately absorbed in today’s math problems. Alfred was still trying to find Dick’s level, and he had finished the worksheet so fast that he was a little offended at where Alfred had set the bar, so low on the ground that Dick could step over it. At least that freed him up for when Bruce got home.

Not, Dick thought glumly, that Bruce was likely to give him much more than a perfunctory hello before he hid himself away in his study. He bit harder on the pencil at the thought. Four months in his house, and two months since he had first declared himself Robin and saved Bruce from the infiltration in the cave on Halloween, yet Bruce seemed to only have time for him when they were wearing masks. Once they were simply Bruce and Dick again, masks hung up until the next patrol, all the camaraderie of the night seemed to fall away.

It stung in a way Dick didn’t quite understand.

It was quarter to five before the gates at the end of the drive parted for the sleek black Lamborghini Bruce favoured, and Dick hurried to the vestibule just in time for Bruce to walk through the door, shrugging off his coat.

“Hi Bruce.”

Despite this having become a daily occurrence, Bruce still looked surprised to find Dick waiting in the entryway, or perhaps he still wasn’t used to having someone other than Alfred in the house. He managed an absent little smile.

“Dick, how was your day?”

Dick dogged his steps into the main hall.

“Boring. I could answer the sums Alfred’s giving me in my sleep! Was work okay? You look all tired.”

“It was work.”

He always said that, like it was an answer in itself. Dick had no idea what it was he actually did when he went to the Wayne Enterprises building, or how it was any different than what he did when he holed up in his study for hours on end, but Bruce never offered any more details and Dick wasn’t sure if it was nosy to ask.

“Are we gonna go out tonight?” Dick asked instead, jogging a little to keep up with Bruce’s longer strides. “I finished all my schoolwork, and I’ve been practicing my leg sweeps.”

“Not on Alfred, I hope,” Bruce said, but nothing more, and Dick’s stomach sank.

They were coming to the study door now, and as Bruce opened it, he looked down at Dick with that same absent smile he gave reporters and waiters and everyone else who didn’t really matter.

“Why don’t you go see if Alfred needs any help with dinner? I’ve got some calls I need to make.”

Dick darted forward as Bruce made to shut the door.

“Actually! I, erm, had a little trouble with the last question. I don’t really understand how Alfred explained it. Could you help me with it?”

It wasn’t that Bruce was cold, necessarily, but to a boy who had grown up surrounded by doting, affectionate people, the absence of outright warmth from him was glacial. Dick’s heart thundered as he waited for an answer, a little part of him irritated that so small a request even needed to be questioned.

“I thought you said you could do those sums in your sleep, hm?” Bruce said lightly, but he at least had the good grace to look a little guilty as he gently nudged Dick back from the doorway. Dick stepped back, the worksheet crumpling in his fist. “Sorry, kiddo, I was stuck in meetings all day so there’s a couple of important calls I need to return. If you’re really struggling, I’m sure Alfred could help you. Why don’t you head down and ask him? He won’t mind.”

It was fortunate Dick had experience shamming smiles for the crowd, as he did just that now, feigning indifference as he was gently but adamantly dismissed.

“Sure. Sorry for bothering you.”

“…You weren’t bothering me, Dick. I’m just busy.”

“It’s okay. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Dick was halfway down the hall, shoulders hunched and bottom lip caught between his teeth, when he heard a weary sigh from behind him.

“Wanna try that leg sweep out on me later before we head out?”

Dick instantly lit up, spinning back around to grin at Bruce.

“You’re taking me out with you?”

“For a little while, at least. Alfred’ll have my head if I keep you out ‘til morning, but considering you don’t have to be up for anything special, we can get a couple hours in together. But only if I finish these calls, okay?”

Dick knew a bribe when he heard one, but if it meant he could suit up and spend time with Batman later, then he could bear a few more lonely hours.

--

They fit together better in the masks than out of them. Never exactly verbose, Batman at least made an effort to keep up a stream of conversation with Robin, having spent the last two months of training instilling in him the importance that they communicate effectively with one another. The drive into Gotham always meant at least fifteen minutes of Batman briefing him on what cases they were looking into, or if there was nothing live at the time, the plan for their patrol route. Unlike Bruce, Batman encouraged questions, and despite his surly countenance, he wasn’t afraid to play along if Dick tried to joke with him.

More than the excitement of protecting people, it was that brief window of time where Batman would speak to Robin that Dick looked forward to the most, well worth the odd punch he didn’t dodge fast enough or the overtired, pinching headaches the following morning.

That didn’t mean Batman couldn’t be just as cold as Bruce, of course, and for all that he would play the straight man for Robin in the privacy of the car, once they were in the field, there was no room for levity or, more importantly, disobedience.

Dick perched on the lip of the warehouse roof, his fingers curling around the cool cement as he watched the shadows of men moving below. The arms shipment had come in as expected, but that wasn’t all that was passing through the docks that night, and Batman had slipped off to the neighbouring dockyard to investigate the chain of cars they had seen driving in through unlocked gates, leaving Robin to watch their original targets. The time to strike was slipping away as they loaded the last of the crates into an idling van, and Dick’s feet were itching to spring forward.

Not without Batman. That instruction had been delivered with a firm hand on his shoulder, which meant Batman really meant it.

“Batman, they’re getting ready to leave,” Dick whispered, index finger pressed to his ear piece. “Are you almost back? We’re gonna lose them!”

There was a fuzzy silence on the other end before Bruce’s voice came though, breathy and almost drowned out entirely by a flurry of gunfire.

“Robin, go wait in the car for me.”

Order given, the connection immediately went silent, and Dick’s heart thundered in his chest as he waited for more, for a chance to hear that background noise again and assure himself that it wasn’t gunfire, that Bruce wasn’t getting shot at alone over there.

Dick touched his ear piece again; “B, are you alright?”

Nothing, not even static.

Down below, the rear doors to the van slammed shut, the men climbing up into the front seats. Dick teetered at the edge of the roof, torn between seeing through the night’s work and doing as he was told. He groaned quietly as the van pulled away, its rear lights growing smaller down the long stretch of road, but he stayed where he was, double tapping his ear piece to switch to the other channel.

“A, I’ve lost contact with Batman. Can you get through to him? I - It sounded like there were guns.”

More silence, but the dull crackle of interference in the connection told Dick the line was live. Distant clicking as Alfred typed at the computer, before, “Bear with me, Robin, I’m accessing the cowl-feed.” More silence, heavier, telling. “…Batman has been outnumbered. It appears he has been hit.” Dick had never heard Alfred sound afraid before, but there was certainly a difference in his voice as he spoke now. “Robin, return to the car. I’m sending a tip-off to the GCPD.”

“What good will that do?!” Dick demanded, pacing the edge of the roof with fistfuls of cape bunched up in his hands. The van had long since vanished from sight, and all his focus was on the distant, dark dockyard where Bruce had disappeared to. Outnumbered, potentially shot, and there had been so many cars heading in that direction. What had Bruce been thinking, engaging when there were so many?! It was the exact thing he told Dick to never, under any circumstances, do. The hypocrisy of it only fanned the flames of Dick’s frustration, and his pacing took him across the roof in the direction Bruce had gone, the complete opposite direction from the Batmobile.

“The sound of sirens will send them running, which will give Batman the opportunity to remove himself from —!”

Alfred’s line cut out.

“Agent A? Are you still there?” Dick switched channels again. “Batman, can you hear me?!”

Perhaps if either of them had answered Dick then, he would have done as he was told and gone back to the car, but if he were being honest with himself, he had already been planning his running leap from the rooftop before Alfred’s line had gone dead. He couldn’t even enjoy the moments of free-fall as he usually did, too consumed with the mental image of Batman at the center of a circle of men, all pointing guns at him.

He was halfway to the other dockyard, sprinting through shadowed alleys between the warehouses, when Alfred’s voice returned.

“Master Ri — Robin, that is not the direction of the car.”

“Did you get through to B?”

“…No. The situation has escalated, and… well, I have alerted the GCPD to a disturbance, but I fear their arrival will not be timely enough to prevent further harm.” Dick didn’t waste breath on answering, crouching at the corner of a building and surveying the open space between him and the chain-link fence ahead. It was topped with barbed wire, stretching as far as he could see in both directions, and there was no convenient hole in the fence to slip through. Only over. “Robin… Batman has been restrained, and it appears to be their intention to throw him into the harbour.”

Dick’s chest clenched, a light-headed fuzziness washing over him. The picture in his head changed from Batman surrounded by guns to Batman sinking into darker and darker waters, bubbles rising from his mouth until they stopped.

“I - I can help,” Dick said, or perhaps it came out as a question, uncertainty thick in his voice. He didn’t realize until Alfred spoke again that he was waiting there, poised at the corner of the building, for permission to move.

“It will be a very narrow window of opportunity,” Alfred began, any trace of that earlier fear absent now, firm in his focus, “You are not to engage the miscreants, Robin. I will guide you to a safe location to hide, and only when they have submerged Batman will you enter the water to sever his bonds. You will then both be free to swim to safety. Is that understood?”

It was reminiscent of a briefing from Batman himself, and Dick wondered how much of Batman’s no-nonsense attitude was cribbed from Bruce’s own experiences.  Dick found himself nodding, though Alfred couldn’t see him.

“I don’t have anything to cut with, though. Br - Batman said I can’t have weapons yet.”

“…Batman should be suitably armed, though he will be unable to reach for his tools at the moment. From your current location, head straight until you come to Warehouse Three. We will need to be careful to keep you out of sight from that point on.”

It was all the permission Dick needed to dart forward. As he neared the fence, he reached up to unclip his cape, wrapping one of his hands completely. His momentum fed into his leap, and he sprung up the fence, clambering hand over foot to the top where he used his enshrouded hand to flip himself over the barbed wire. Though he felt the sharp press of its points, the cape was reinforced enough to withstand the pressure, and as he touched down on the other side, there wasn’t a single tear.

He clipped the cape back on and made for the warehouse with the big off-white ‘3’ painted on its side.

Following Alfred’s directions, Dick soon found himself crouching behind a forklift truck, peering from behind its massive wheels at the scene ahead. There were a lot of people milling about the open yard. Not the scruffy, poster-child sort of thugs Dick had spent the earlier part of the night watching, but the sort of people who hid their guns in suit jackets and blended into the crowd when the police went hunting. Besides them, there were other people, and Dick's chest ached at the sight of them; kids, mostly, no one quite as young as Dick, but kids nonetheless. They were being inspected one-by-one by some of the more expensively dressed men, their hair rubbed between forefinger and thumb, their jaws pressed open to expose their teeth, their hands turned over under torchlight.

Like show dogs.

“The police are on their way, Robin,” Alfred gently reminded him, no doubt checking Dick’s lens feed and seeing exactly where he was looking. “No such sales will be going through tonight. We must focus on reaching Batman.”

Dick nodded jerkily, and with difficulty, he tore his eyes away from the line of dull-eyed children awaiting inspection.

At least now he understood why Bruce had broken his own rule and jumped in when so badly outnumbered.

A distance away from the men and the children was a fenced-off area where the boats offloaded. A boat was already growing smaller across the bay, no doubt having completed its inhumane delivery, but though the boat was gone, there was still a gaggle of people at the water’s edge.

At their centre was Batman, ensnared by loops of thick, dock-line rope from his shoulders to his waist, arms pinned behind his back. Dick touched the side of his mask and his lenses zoomed in on Batman’s face. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open behind the cowl, but his mouth was slack, lips parted.

“He’s out cold?” Dick asked, and though he knew the answer, he very much wanted Alfred to tell him otherwise.

“He took a bad knock to the head. The cowl bore the brunt of it, but the attack damaged the cowl’s in-built security. We didn’t realize until one of those people,” it sounded like a different, fouler word in that tone, “attempted to unmask him, and the emergency shock affected them both.”

Dick zoomed back out and belatedly noticed there was at least one man unconscious to the side of the group.

“Good,” he said, more than a little vindictively. “I’m going in.”

“Wait!” Dick froze, still hidden behind the forklift truck. “Tell me your plan of action.”

“I’m gonna go left and keep to the shadows, back around the side of the warehouse, and climb the fence there where they can’t see me. Then, I’ll wait until the police come and these guys all get scared off so I can untie Batman and hide us until he wakes up.”

There was a contemplative silence on the other end of the line, and Dick waited for a thorough critique, for Alfred to propose problems for Dick to counter as if this were a logic puzzle assigned for homework, but in the end, there was only a resigned sigh, and, “Please be careful, Robin.”

The plan lasted as long as it took Dick to get to a part of the fence where he could climb over unseen. That was when the police sirens approached, sending the group into a panic. Startled by the noise, Dick’s foot slipped on the chain-links as he was halfway over the top, and he thanked whatever gods were watching over him that he had thought to lay his cape over the barbed wire, as that was all that protected him as he lost his balance and tumbled down over the other side. The cape itself wasn’t quite as lucky, one of the barbs embedding in its weave, and as Dick grabbed at the cape to right himself, the wire snapped, plunging alongside Dick and his torn cape.

Dick hit the ground with a muffled yelp, glancing in the direction of the group guarding Batman. They hadn’t seen him yet, but they had heard the sirens, and Dick watched the moment they decided to cut their losses and shoved Batman’s bound, unconscious body over the edge of the dock and into the dark waters below.

“No, no, no!” Dick jumped to his feet and made to move forward, only to be jerked back by his ensnared cape, losing his footing completely. With a frustrated grunt, he unfastened the cape altogether and ran ahead without it, uncaring if the fleeing goons looked back and spotted him diving into the water after Batman. He had barely sunk by the time Dick reached him, but even as he clung to the concrete lip of the dock with one hand and tugged at the tail of the rope binding Bruce, he couldn’t keep Bruce’s head above the water. Beneath the sound of the enclosing police sirens and Dick’s own frantic splashing, he heard a splutter. “B, are you with me?!”

The weight at the end of the rope slackened as Bruce came to, instinctively kicking his legs in the water. With his arms bound, however, treading water was the best he could do, and the weight of the Batsuit was pulling them both down. Dick managed to scrabble up the edge of the dockside, sopping wet and trembling from the cold, and with his feet braced against a bollard, he put his all into pulling at the rope, so thick he could barely get his hands all the way around it.

“Robin —“

Dick couldn’t tell if he heard Bruce’s voice through the comms or out loud, but the sound made his heart soar, uncharacteristically reedy as it was.

“I - I got you, B! Hang on!”

Even as he said that, the sole of his boots slipped against the bollard, too wet to gain purchase, the weight pulling against him too strong. He felt the first burst of pain in his shoulders and couldn’t quite bite back the gasp, white flashing across his vision. The rope just kept slipping, and inch by inch, Bruce sank deeper beneath the surface. For all that he kicked up, the water was splashing over his face, into his mouth, his words a gurgle.

“Let go,” Bruce managed before he disappeared beneath the water again. Dick scrabbled desperately as one of his feet slipped off the bollard altogether, and without its leverage, he staggered forward, dropping to his knees and getting dragged across the concrete towards the dock’s edge. He still pulled as hard as he could, feeling the strain like a taut wire across his back. Bruce’s head broke the surface again, only long enough for him to spit out a mouthful of water and exclaim, “You have to let go, Robin!”

If he let go, Bruce would sink. The ropes were bound so tightly around his torso that Dick had no hope of getting his hands under to free a batarang.

Dick sacrificed some length of the rope to scramble back across the ground, grabbing what he could of it to loop around the bollard. The loose knot wouldn’t hold for long, but he knew he had no hope of pulling Bruce up, no matter how hard he tried. Already, his hands were red raw from the rope, and every twitch of his arms brought a lash of pain all down his back.

Desperately, Dick cast his eyes around, a part of him hoping that one of the fleeing criminals would have dropped something useful. A knife would have been a blessing, but no such luck. There was nothing in their wake but the sound of squealing tires and a line of abandoned and traumatised children. The police cars were trying to block the gates, but several of the black cars had already broken through the barricade.

Nothing, there was nothing! Behind him, Dick couldn’t hear any splashing anymore, and panic seized him like a hand around his throat.

A flash of yellow caught Dick’s eye; his cape fluttered in the wind, still caught on broken link of barbed wire.

Dick barely gave the idea a second’s thought before he was sprinting back towards his cape, gathering the material in both hands and wrapping it around the end of the barbed wire. Like unfurling a cotton reel, Dick ran and pulled the chain of wire with all his strength, throwing himself back as hard as he could to separate the barbed wire from the top of the fence. It sprung off jerkily, resistant to Dick’s yanks, and his cape could not hold up against the strength of his grip.

Barbs broke through the material, biting into the meat of his hands. He barely felt the metal sinking in, so focused on pulling down a long enough chain that it would reach Bruce. He couldn’t even feel the pain in his shoulders anymore, mindless of anything but how many seconds had passed since Bruce had last broken the surface of the water.

Tearing away the cape and clutching the end of the length of barbed wire in his bare, bleeding hands, Dick dove back into the water. Bruce was still fighting the pull of the water, legs kicking and lips pressed shut. Dick pushed aside the fleeting thought that his kicks were getting limper, looping his legs around Bruce’s waist for leverage as he began hacking at the topmost rope with the sharp barbs.

Blood blossomed through the water as he worked, his lungs beginning to burn.

The rope was just so thick! The sharp edge of the metal was fraying it, but slowly, too slowly, Dick’s frantic pace staggered by trying to move through water. Bruce was going to drown, and he was going to watch it happen, utterly useless.

As if sensing his growing distress, Alfred’s voice returned to his ear.

“Keep going, Robin. You’ve almost gotten through it. Just a little more.”

Alfred’s air of calm, however forced, was a balm to Dick’s nerves, and he doubled his efforts even as dark spots began to dance across his vision. He couldn’t feel his hands at all any more, just focused on moving his arms, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. So intent on his task, he didn’t notice when the barbed wire finally bit through the last thread of rope, the other bands wound around Bruce going slack.

Instantly, Bruce’s struggle redoubled, and it was Dick who went limp in the water, legs losing their grip around him. The next thing Dick knew, he was on his back on the dockside, hidden behind a storage crate with Batman crowded over him. He was wheezing too, swaying where he knelt, his cape so drenched that it dripped like rain over Dick.

“B… ‘kay?”

Bruce pressed a hand down over Dick’s mouth just before footsteps ran past their hiding spot. Only when their footsteps receded did his hand fall away, but only so that he could pick Dick up as if he were a baby, hoisting him up against his shoulder before running from the cacophony of the police surveying the scene behind them.

Each stride jostled Dick badly, the missing pain returning with a vengeance. Hanging over Bruce's shoulder, he raised his hands to his face and winced at the state of them, lacerated from fingertip to wrist. Blood oozed so thickly that Dick could smell it, and his stomach roiled, only made worse as Bruce leaped a gap between berths and the damage to Dick’s shoulders made itself known.

Bruce set him down gently when they finally made it back to the car, setting him atop the bonnet and pulling a ribbon of bandages from one of the pouches on his belt, thankfully waterproof. He didn’t say a word as he carefully wrapped Dick’s torn hands, nor when he pressed two tablets against his lips to help with the pain.

It was only when Dick leaned forward, catching Bruce’s wrist between his two bandaged hands, asking again, “Are you okay?” that Bruce looked him in the eye.

Dick didn’t need to see past his cowl to recognise Bruce’s disapproval.

There was a part of him that dared to hope he was wrong, that perhaps Bruce might be grateful that Dick had helped him, might even compliment his resourcefulness in finding a way to cut through the ropes.

That hope died as Bruce said, “I told you to go back to the car.”

And that was it. He rounded the car and slammed the door shut behind him, the engine idling while Dick swallowed his hurt and slipped off the hood, fumbling with the door handle between his bandaged fingers.

Quietly, Alfred said over their direct channel, “You did well, my boy.”

They were the words he was desperate to hear, but from the wrong man.

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Whumptober Day 21: Chronic Troubles

Summary: Written for Whumptober Day 21. Set in my Httyd Zombie AU. Again it happens, Hiccup wakes up to a troubled stump, as he has been for the past three years.

Rating: Teen and Up

Characters: Hiccup, Toothless, Astrid, Fishlegs, Snotlout

Pairing: None

Words: 978

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Prompt: Chronic Pain

Whumpee: Hiccup

Author’s Notes: Not gonna lie, really unhappy with this one. But I'm too tired to write another one before time runs out, so...

Kinda frustrating, though, since I really wanted to get this prompt right.

Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Enjoy.

Ao3

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The thing about living in the kind of world they do is that nothing is certain. Basic necessities, a roof above your head, company, even your own life. Whether you keep it, lose it, or find it again, what you once take for granted, you now miss dearly.

This means that when one has to amputate their friend's leg to save his life, they may need to accept the reality that the medication he might need afterward will not be attainable.

Such was the reality for the Dragon Riders, who had to take Hiccup's leg after his foot, having gotten injured, had become infected beyond saving.

They could provide him with occasional pain relief and monitor the stump in fear of another infection showing up, but drugs, both legal and illegal, were one of the first things to go when everything went wrong and that meant that Hiccup had to live with the pain in his stump instead of fight it.

Unfortunately for him, he would come to experience first hand what untreated pain can turn into.

Hiccup groaning in discomfort first thing he wakes up in the morning is what alerts everyone to the fact that he's hurting. The Dragon Riders tend to wake up around the same time, so most of them have heard him and they wake faster.

Toothless, whom his sleeping bag is placed next to, lifts his head to coo down at his human.

Hiccup looks up to the dragon, raising a hand to pet his nose.

His face shows his pain as he moves to sit up, having slept on top of the sleeping bag due to the warmer weather. Every little move sends a stab of pain through his stump and he can feel it radiating to his knee and all the way to his hip. He has to hiss and another groan leaves him before he manages to sit.

He walked around a lot yesterday instead of conserving his energy like he should've and even now he's paying the price. He pushed his limits when he should've known better.

Toothless scoots closer, putting Hiccup between his two forelegs and craning his neck to look at him.

"I'm okay, Bud." Hiccup tells him, scratching his chin, though his tired posture says something else.

Astrid has been watching from her spot, same as everyone else, and she gets up as well, leaving Stormfly to come over to him, already wearing her boots.

"Is it your leg?" She asks to give him a way to word his pain without needing to come out and say it.

"Hmm," He hums and nods, still tired despite a good half a night's worth of rest. He wants to sleep some more, he wants to stay on his sleeping bag and just not move for the rest of the day, but he can't.

Drawing his other knee up and resting his head on it, Toothless purrs and nudges Hiccup's back gently.

Astrid smiles sympatheticly at him, wishing she could do more to help him. One day they'll have a place of their own. One big enough for all eleven of them, somewhere isolated enough where they won't have to fear other people, a place where they can grow stuff and have a steady supply of fish and never have to worry about food and water again.

Hiccup won't need to drag that leg of his around and spend nearly every day of his life in pain just because he's forced to move on when he can't. He can take it easy, rest when he needs to. It's what Astrid wishes for him.

"Do you need some painkillers? We found some just yesterday." Fishlegs suggests, already opening up his pack.

"No, no, I don't. I'll be fine." As tempting as it is, Hiccup would rather keep them for when someone actually needs them. He's used to this by now, he can do without.

"Then we're going to stay an extra day at least," Astrid suggests, knowing that even she can't make him do certain things, but at that, he shakes his head as well.

"No, the sooner we leave, the better. We need to get out of town and find someplace where the dragons can fish anyway, so staying isn't smart." Hiccup tells her and she dislikes that he has a point.

"Than will you at least let us help you today?" Snotlout asks.

Sighing, but more out of how tired he still is, Hiccup nods. A little extra help is always appreciated and his stubborn pride doesn't win for once. He's too drained and it's on days like this that he couldn't care less about how this makes him seem.

He has to remove his prosthetic for the day and pulling it off isn't easy with how much his stump hurts. But he figures he's going to have to use the crutch Toothless carries around for him, he's gone through quite a few of them by now.

If he'd lost his leg a little earlier than he did, perhaps, he could've fought his pain and stopped it from becoming chronic. This isn't phantom limb pain that he's dealing with today, this is pain that has come so often and been present for so long that it will no longer leave without pain killers. Although, it is sometimes hard to tell these two pains apart, muddled as they can become. Sometimes an injury on his leg goes completely undetected simply because he thinks the hurt it brings comes from his chronic or phantom pain.

He hates that he has to do this to them. They already have it hard enough without needing to worry about his chronic pain. He wishes he could do right by them, but unfortunately for them, they're going to have to settle with him as a leader, for however long he may still last.

[echo-bleu]

More Than Enough

I originally wrote this for the Whumptober “Ransom”, but I never posted it on here. I figure now that we have an actual Alex kidnapping, it’s a good time to dust it off! So it’s not technically new, but it’s my entry for day 2 of the Missing Alex Manes weekend ( @alexmanesappreciation)

[mental health issues, seriously unhealthy coping mechanisms, gunshot wounds, kidnapping]

Alex has never been good enough. At this point, it's just a fact of life. He wasn't good enough to make his mother stay, or take her with him (he knows all the reasons why she says she left, but it's what it boils down to, really). He wasn't a good enough son for his father (Dad has told him that, over and over, until it etched into his mind). He wasn't a good enough musician to run away and try his luck somewhere (he hasn't touched a guitar in ten years). He wasn't a good enough Airman to save his unit when a building collapsed on them (they're all gone now).

He was never, ever, good enough for Michael.

Alex brought him nothing but pain. He was the channel of his family's hatred for aliens, bringing it all down on Michael. He's hurt him, over and over. He tries so hard to stay away, to avoid hurting him more, but he doesn't even have enough control of himself for that, like a piece of iron attracted by a magnet.

Like a planet orbiting around a sun. Michael is his sun, hot and blinding (so attractive). Alex is a bare, burnt planet devoid of life.

And the little ball sitting in Michael's hand is the comet that will destroy them all.

Alex kneels on the floor of the dirty parking lot and stares at it. It's a bomb. A biochemical weapon, built to destroy every piece of alien DNA that remains on earth (three people, four organic pods, one defunct).

Slowly, oh so slowly, the ball floats away from Michael's hand. Michael has a look that's half focus and half disgust on his face, and Alex doesn't need to look to know that most of that disgust is directed at him.

Flint roughly pulls Alex up, making him stumble. His hands are sill attached behind his back with a zip tie, so he doesn't have the balance necessary to walk on his prosthetic.

“Go,” Flint groans into his ear. “Slowly.”

Alex obeys, for lack of another option. He limps over to where Michael and the others stand, leaving his two brothers and their henchmen behind. He passes between the floating ball and the equally levitating hard drive, that he knows contains everything they've been able to gather about aliens, from Caulfield, from Noah's ramblings, and from the new facility upstate.

Michael, Max and Isobel are giving that up for him.

(He doesn't understand.)

He wants to yell at them to stop, that they can't exchange all that against just him, that the bomb is meant to kill them. He wants to tell them that he's not worth that, he never will be. But he can feel Flint's glare burning through his back, so he walks.

Unable to meet anyone's eyes, he keeps his head down until he reaches where Michael is standing, two steps in front of the others. Michael gives him a nod, his face unreadable.

Alex turns to watch his brother catch the ball and the hard drive.

“Thank you,” Flint says with a smirk. “I hope he was worth it.”

Alex stays perfectly still, staring at him. The four men go back to their car, a large SUV with stained windows, and drive away.

“Alex!” Liz exclaims, jumping into his arms. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” he reassures her. He's exhausted and bruised and hurting more than a little, but it doesn't matter right now. He pushes her away gently, the touch making his skin crawling. “Michael. Max, Isobel,” he says, looking down at his shoes. “You shouldn't have accepted the exchange. This was too important.”

“You're more important,” Michael says immediately, moving into his space. Alex wants to step away. They haven't been this close since Caulfield.

Michael choosing to date Maria hurt (destroyed him), but it was just a matter of time before he realized Alex wasn't worth the trouble. Alex tried, really hard, to stay out of his life since then, interacting only when necessary for their work on Project Shepard.

He wants Michael's comfort, his hands on him, his mouth on his, so hard it hurts.

“No,” he murmurs, shaking his head.

“We'll stop them another way,” Isobel says, while Max comes close enough to cut the zip tie holding Alex's hands behind his back.

“Here you go,” he says.

Alex stands back, away from everyone. He feels their eyes on him, and he swallows hard. He should thank them, he think. For sacrificing so much to get him back.

The words don't make it past his lips. They sound wrong. He can't be grateful, not when he's so terrified.

“They have the bomb,” he says instead.

“It's not complete,” Liz answers. “I had a little time to study it. They still need a trigger, and without a biochemist, they can't build one.”

“They can find a biochemist,” Alex mutters.

This is all on him. He got himself captured, giving them leverage over his friends, to ask for a ransom. And all of it is because of his family. His father died from the blow to the head Kyle gave him, but now his brothers have taken over. The family legacy, indeed.

Alex would rip it all to pieces if he could, but he's not even good enough for that.

He wasn't good enough to save Michael's mother and the other aliens in Caulfield. He wasn't good enough to spare Kyle the horror of becoming a killer, by dealing with his father himself. He wasn't good enough to stop them all from falling apart, after Max died resurrecting Rosa. He had no part in getting Max back, but he failed at dealing with the rest of Project Shepard while he was gone. And now, after finally finding the bomb, he's the reason they just had to let it go.

(He's not worth it.)

“Let's go home,” Michael says quietly, not looking at Alex.

Alex nods once, blinking back tears.

“Alex, what the fuck are you doing?”

Alex looks up from his monitor, blinking sluggishly. “What?”

“You're supposed to be resting!” Michael exclaims, too loud, walking too close until he's towering over Alex.

It's been two weeks since they gave up the bomb as Alex's ransom. Every day, it's probably closer to completion. All their data is gone too, since part of the exchange was that Kyle wipe it off their computers when transferring it onto the hard drive. They're at least two steps behind Flint, and it's a dangerous situation to be in.

Alex dreams of his friends going up in flames every time he dozes off. He knows the bomb doesn't work like that, that it's a gas that will probably be released into the water supply, but it doesn't keep him from waking up screaming (it's worse).

“I'm fine,” Alex says. The bunker has become useless since the data is gone, so he's working from his cabin to track his brothers.

“Alex, Valenti nearly admitted you last night. You're not fine.”

“I'm fine enough,” Alex amends. He feels like he's been run over a truck, but the exhaustion actually eases the anxiety a little. Or at least, it worked until he collapsed last night and Kyle ended up sedating him to make him sleep.

(It made him lose a whole six hours.)

(He can't afford it.)

“You're going back to bed,” Michael says, and Alex wonders why he's even there. Have they set up an Alex watch, now? Michael hasn't been here since−

He hasn't been here, period.

(Only in Alex's dreams.)

“Why are you here?”

“'Cause I was worried, dork. I was here last night too, but you were sleeping.”

So they set up an Alex watch, and even roped Michael into it.

“Don't you have better things to do?” Alex asks.

Michael pinches the bridge of his nose. “You're a stubborn jackass, aren't you?”

“I'm just...invested,” Alex mutters.

“Obsessed is more like it. This isn't healthy, Alex.”

You're one to talk, Alex wants to say. He doesn't, because Michael is right. He's obsessed with finding the bomb so it doesn't kill his friends. How can he not be?

(It's all his fault.)

“I have to find them,” Alex says.

Michael sighs, dropping onto a chair. He stares at Alex, so Alex looks back at his monitor, uncomfortable.

“What did they do to you, Alex?” Michael asks.

Alex flinches in surprise. “What?”

“Ever since we came back, you've been−”

It's not since they came back. Alex know, confusedly, that something changed, though his sense of time is skewed. It started before, he thinks. In Caulfield? Maybe. Or that day he spent waiting for Michael at the junkyard. He can't pinpoint it.

It's all a blur now, anyway.

(All his brothers did was expose the truth.)

“It doesn't matter,” he says.

“Of course it does!” Michael protests.

Alex shakes his head. “I'm close. I need to find them.”

“No, you need to rest, Alex. You haven't been sleeping.”

All I can see is you getting blown up, so no, I haven't been sleeping. Alex doesn't say it. Michael doesn't need that mental image. His own is largely fed by his experiences in the field, by the explosion that left him trapped under a collapsed building.

(It's so real it's hard to breath.)

“I've got a lead. I'll rest afterwards,” Alex says, closing the conversation and turning his attention back to his computer.

Michael says something, but he ignores him. His brothers have left few electronic traces, but Alex finally has an ID on the two airmen that work with them, and they're not as careful. They've booked motel rooms with their credit cards, several time in the last two weeks. That, combined with Alex's memory of their car license plate, should get him somewhere.

His eyes are tired, switching between monitors and traffic cameras. Michael is still trying to get his attention. He's on his phone with someone, now.

“Got them,” Alex mutters under his breath when he spots the car. “Fuck, they're close. They wouldn't come back to Roswell if they didn't have a working bomb. We need to stop them.”

He looks around him, but Michael's not here anymore. Frantically, he digs his phone out of his pocket and calls Max. “They're on the interstate,” he says when Max picks up, without letting him talk. “Heading into town.”

“What?” Max asks, confused.

“My brothers,” Alex explains, exasperated at his slowness. “We need to stop them now. Don't go alone. I'll meet you there.”

“Alex, wait−”

Alex hangs up. He grabs his keys, hoping that he can see straight enough to drive. His eyes haven't appreciated how much he's strained them lately.

(He's so fucking tired.)

He drives straight to the town limit and turns his car so it blocks the road. There aren't many cars coming in at this hour, and his brothers should be there in minutes, if his calculations are right. He takes his gun out of the glove compartment.

He's ready.

(He's got a debt to pay.)

“Alex!” Michael screams as he runs out of Max's car.

Alex is on the floor, his shirt quickly soaking up with blood. Michael ignore the man shooting at him in favor of dropping to his knees in front of Alex. Max shoots back, and soon the man has joined the other three on the floor in the middle of the street.

Michael presses over Alex's wound with his hand. “Max, I need you here!” he shouts.

Alex is loosing a lot of blood. He's barely conscious, leaning into Michael's embrace, his eyes half-open. “Dammit Alex. Why did you have to do that for?”

“Payback,” Alex murmurs.

Revenge? Against his brothers? That doesn't seem like Alex. Is that what's been motivating him so much these last few weeks? Is it about his father's death?

“For you,” Alex adds before he closes his eyes.

“What?” Michael asks, but he's unresponsive.

Max crouches beside them, laying a hand on Alex's chest, under the bloody shirt. “I can't heal him like before,” he says.

“I know,” Michael answers. “Just do your best.”

Max concentrates, and his hand starts glowing. He's been struggling with his ability, since his resurrection. It's only now, over a month later, starting to come back with any kind of consistency, and it's weak, nothing like the power he yielded to bring Rosa back to life.

Michael feels the blood flow under his hand slow, and then stop. Max lets go after a minute and stumbles back, exhausted.

“That's the best I can do,” he says. “The wound's closed superficially, but the damage is still there.”

“Thank you,” Michael says, truly meaning it. Given how much he was bleeding, he doesn't think Alex would have survived waiting for an ambulance.

They can't bring him to the hospital, not with a partly healed wound that looks fresh, so Michael fishes out his phone. He doesn't let go of Alex, who's still not moving. He calls Valenti one-handed, stuffing his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he adjusts his grip on Alex, and tells Valenti what happened.

“Bring him back to his cabin,” Valenti says when he's described Alex's state. “I'll meet you there with supplies.”

Max stumbles to his car to drink a whole bottle of acetone, and comes back stronger, to help Michael move Alex over to the car. “You drive there,” he says. “I need to take care of them.” He waves to the other car, and the four men in various states of unconsciousness lying beside it. “It looks like they have the bomb with them.”

“We're safe?”

“We're safe,” Max confirms.

Michael nods, and arranges Alex in the passenger seat, pulling back the seat so he's more comfortable. “Thank you,” he says again.

Max nods and walks away.

Valenti is already there when he arrives at Alex's cabin. Michael uses his telekinesis and his arms to get Alex all the way to his bed, and lets Valenti take over, though he refuses to leave the room. Once Valenti has confirmed that Alex is going to be okay with a lot of rest and recuperation and set up a saline and painkiller IV, Michael sits down cross-legged on the free side of the bed and waits.

It's been a strange few months, and he'll admit that he's lost track of many things, in his initial spiral down after Max's death, and in the exhilaration of getting him back. Somewhere along the way, he missed what was happening to Alex.

He still doesn't know what it is, to tell the truth. He knows he hurt Alex deeply by going to Maria, and Alex seemed to avoid him, after that. Michael tried to give him space, even after he and Maria broke up when she found out the truth about aliens. He knows what it feel like to be walked away from, after all.

But then...Alex didn't come back. And that's where he missed some kind of wild turn. He missed Jesse Manes' death at the hospital, for one thing. That must have shaken him. Valenti, the only one Alex let see him with any kind of consistency, says that Alex came to work down in his father's bunker at all hours, and stayed there whole nights.

And then, seemingly suddenly, Alex located another facility, one that didn't hold alien prisoners but a biochemical bomb, meant to wipe aliens off the planet. But they separated while they were investigating it, and, out of the blue, Michael received a video call from Flint Manes, holding his younger brother hostage. Him for the bomb, was the ransom.

It wasn't even a question in Michael's mind. Damn the consequences, he couldn't leave Alex in his brothers' hands for even one more hour. It took five to get Alex back.

Only...Flint must have done something to Alex. In Michael's mind, that's the only possible answer to the state Alex has been in since. He hasn't been sleeping, or eating much, and it show on his body, the weight he's lost. He's been in front of his computer the whole time, obsessing over finding his brothers, until he ignored even the people who came to see him. Out of desperation, they set up a roster, to have someone with him at all time, because it was the only way to get him to even drink anything. Alex didn't seem to notice.

Michael almost had a heart attack last night, when Alex collapsed and wouldn't wake up again. Valenti said it was just exhaustion, but it scared him. It would have scared him into actually doing something, which he should have done a week ago, if Alex hadn't stormed out while he was in the bathroom.

“Hey,” he says, shaking himself out of his thoughts as Alex's eyes flutter open.

“What happened?” Alex asks sluggishly, looking around him.

“You got shot. Max healed you, but only partially.”

“My brothers?”

“Alive, and in the hospital,” Michael relays Max's latest report. “We've got the bomb, and enough evidence against them to convict them. It's over.”

Alex closes his eyes, breathing through his nose. When he opens them again, they've gone emotionless. “Good,” he says.

“How do you feel?” Michael asks.

“Fine,” Alex says, too quickly.

Michael has heard that answer too many times. “No, you're not,” he says, frowning.

Alex shrugs, and winces. He presses a hand to his injured side.

“That's gonna hurt for a while,” Michael says.

“I've had worse.”

“Alex, you almost died. If I hadn't gotten there with Max−”

“But you did,” Alex says. He looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn't.

“I can't lose you, Alex,” Michael says. He knows it probably isn't fair, when he's the one who walked away this time. But he needs to say it. “You've been...the last few weeks, you've run yourself to the ground, and today you almost died, and I can't do this, Alex. I can't. I can't watch you destroy yourself.”

“Then...” Alex frowns, confused. “Why are you here?”

Michael wants to hit his head on a wall. “I'm here because I care about you!”

Alex shakes his head, and he looks like he wants to be anywhere else but here.

Michael tries to give him a moment, but it's too heavy, too uncomfortable.

“Alex,” he starts. “Earlier, when I asked you why you did all this, you said 'payback'. What did you mean? Is it about your father's death? Or something else?”

Alex frowns again. “I needed to pay you back,” he says, like it's obvious.

“What do you mean?”

“You payed that ransom, and it was too high a price. The bomb was more important than me. I had to make it write.”

“Pay me back,” Michael understands, the bottom of his stomach dropping.

Alex nods, as if relieved that he's understood.

“But you were more important than the bomb,” Michael says. “Of course you were!”

“Why? I'm just one person, one life against at least three. I'm not worth that. I'm not worth−” he doesn't finish.

I'm not worth anything, Michael hears the unspoken word.

“Alex, look at me,” Michael demands. Alex meets his eyes, briefly, and looks down again. To hell with caution and letting Alex move on. “You are worth so much to me. To all of us. But to me most of all.”

“I'm not good enough for you,” Alex says.

“Why are you saying that?”

“Can't you see it? It's so obvious. Maria and you are good people. You deserve each other.”

“We broke up,” Michael says, unsure how to react to the rest.

Alex swallows. “I'm sorry,” he says.

“No, it wasn't meant to be. Not when I'm in love with someone else.”

“You need to let me go,” Alex says, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Why?” Michael asks, almost afraid of the answer. “I love you, Alex. You said you loved me. Are you saying you don't, anymore?”

Alex closes his eyes. “I love you,” he says. “I love you too much. That's the problem. I can't be what you need me to be.”

“I need you to be you,” Michael says. He doesn't understand. What does Alex think he needs?

“It's not enough,” Alex shakes his head. “I'm not enough.”

Michael opens his mouth to deny it, but he closes it again. Where is this coming from?

Not enough. It echoes with something in his mind, something Alex once said. I'm never going to be good enough for my father. Michael closes his eyes.

Did he make Alex think he wasn't enough?

(When he's the one who's not enough.)

Fuck, he did. Finally a real Manes man. You're still the guy just looking for a reason to walk away. Every time. He put his own insecurity, his own fears of abandonment on Alex, and tested him. And Alex failed every test, because there was no way for him to pass.

And Alex didn't realize it wasn't okay, because no one has ever put him first. Just like Michael. They're each other's best ally and worst enemy.

(They make mistakes together.)

“I'm sorry,” he says.

“For what?” Alex asks, genuinely confused.

Michael can't articulate everything he's sorry for, so he settles for taking Alex's hand in his. “You are good enough,” he says. “I love you.”

(I'll put you first.)

Alex closes his eyes, and a tear rolls down his cheek.

“It's gonna be okay,” Michael murmurs.

(You're more than enough.)

[archadianskies]

Whumptober Day 3

Forced to their Knees + Held at Gunpoint

Whumptober Masterlist | 03/31 of RK900 short stories ↳ on Ao3

Tags: Robbery × Mugging × Stargazing × Pining × Mutual Pining × Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human) × Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings  × First Kiss × Gun Violence × Gunshot wounds

It is not often he accepts social invitations, but Simon has requested his company and there is very little he will not do for Simon. The Bell Isle Conservatory has a new Planetarium on the newly expanded land, adding yet another educational destination for school-aged children as well as internship opportunities for new graduates.

“Thanks for coming out with me.” Simon’s smile is slightly self-conscious, and Ronan shakes his head.

“Not at all, Simon. I am glad to be spending time with you.” He does not miss the faint lilac tinge across the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks. “Our duties keep us increasingly busy, so it is a welcome reprieve.”

The PL600 ducks his head shyly, looping an arm through the crook of his arm as they make their way through the winding gardens passed the conservatory, towards the planetarium at a leisurely pace. It is a crisp Friday evening, early enough in Spring it is still on the shaper side. The building is open until late to accommodate those wishing to attend after usual business hours, for which Ronan is grateful.

“I accompanied the class of one of the girls I used to look after,” Simon begins and Ronan nods to encourage him. “The parent who was meant to be chaperone fell ill and with all the other parents working, she suggested I come along instead. Perhaps one of the only times in my life being a PL600 proved advantageous.” His smile is bittersweet, and Ronan does not like it. “Anyway I loved it. I had such a good time, perhaps even more than she did. I’m not-” he presses his lips in a hard line, and Ronan stops walking to give him a moment to compose himself. “Domestic ocular units are not anything special. We only have rudimentary scanning capabilities, and our eyesight is really just replicating human 20/20 vision.” Simon rubs his own upper arms, seemingly curling in on himself. “He- Markus once remarked how bright Venus looked one night. To me it just looked slightly brighter than a star but… He can see it, the night sky without the light pollution. He can filter it out somehow, something about specialised RK ocular units. I have to go to a planetarium to see such things.”

“No.” Ronan shakes his head. “You do not.” Looking around them, he finds a park bench not too far away, and guides Simon to sit beside him. “Look up, right there.” He points upward, before letting the skin recede from his hand and very gently resting it atop Simon’s. He feels Simon accept the connection, turning his hand palm side up so he can tangle their fingers together. Ronan looks up, adjusting his vision to filter out Detroit’s heavy light pollution. It takes a moment, but soon the Milky Way is stretched out above them and Simon gasps, mouth open in wonder as he sees through Ronan’s eyes. Simon turns his head this way and that, marvelling at the glittering lights splashed out like swathes of jewels twinkling in the inky sky.

He’s gripping Ronan’s hand tightly, and he wishes they could stay like this forever. He wishes his entire world could be reduced to this moment, right here on a bench on a chilly Friday evening, holding Simon’s hand while Simon looks up at the galaxy in childlike wonder. He wishes he could hold Simon’s hand outside of this situation too. That would certainly be nice.

“We can.” Simon whispers, and Ronan turns to blink at him in surprise.

“Pardon?”

“Hold hands.” He is blushing and smiling at the same time and Ronan belatedly realises they are still connected, and Simon has been privy to all those thoughts.

“Oh.” He says, because that is all he can manage right this moment because he has never seen Simon blush and smile at the same time and he thinks it might be the loveliest sight he has ever seen, Milky Way be damned.

“No, shh!” Simon laughs, clapping his hand over Ronan’s mouth even though he had not spoken those words aloud. “Stop! I can’t bear it!” He is giggling and Ronan thinks very hard that it is a lovely sound and Simon buries his face in his shoulder to hide his embarrassment. They are still holding hands, though, and Simon seems as equally reluctant to let go as he. Ronan brings their twined hands to his lips, and presses a kiss atop Simon’s fingers. 

“Shall we head inside? The show is due to start in fifteen minutes.” Ronan suggests.

“Are you sure it won’t bore you? You can see our galaxy splashed out above us, I'm not sure how much fun it’ll be for you.” Simon frowns.

“I will enjoy it because I will be spending time with you.” He says sincerely, and there is that lovely lilac tinge again blooming on his cheeks and yes, even the tips of his ears. 

“And then you can choose where we go next time.” Simon declares as they get back on their feet, Ronan closing the connection but still holding his hand. Next time, Simon says, next time, and though the night is far from over he is already looking forward to that too.

 *~*

As they resume their leisurely walk towards the planetarium, Ronan’s proximity sensors come alive, filling his screen with red warnings. He manages to jab his elbow into the throat of the closest assailant and break the left kneecap of another, but he freezes at the click of a gun and Simon’s startled yelp.

“Don’t. Move.” Human, but using a vocal modulator to prevent him running a voice sample through their database. Clever. “On your knees.” The man, guessing by his strength and build, presses the barrel of his gun harder against Simon’s LED, the PL600 wincing. Ronan slowly gets to his knees. “You’re one of ‘em fancy ones aren’t you? Yeah I seen you online.” The other two assailants slowly get back upright, though their injuries prevent them from holding their guns steady. “It’s our lucky night. We thought we’d find a couple of AP700s but instead we have the Terminator himself.”

“And completely at our mercy.” The one with the shattered kneecap sneers. “Eyes. Give us your eyes.”

“They’re worth a fucking fortune.” One of them laughs, making an impatient beckoning gesture with his hand. “Come on, out with them or the blondie gets it. We’ll take his eyes too and then go on our merry way. No one needs to get hurt.”

“I’m sorry!” Simon blurts, and it aches for him to see Simon like this- at someone’s complete mercy and still apologising for things out of his control. “If you hadn’t-”

“It does not matter.” He shakes his head, before addressing the man holding the gun to his head. “Let him go and I will give you what you want.”

“Give us what we want, and we don’t put a bullet in his head.” The man shrugs. “Smartest android out there, aren’t you? It’s a no-brainer.”

‘I need you to suddenly lean forward and jab your elbow as hard as you can into his ribcage.’ He sends the message directly to Simon, whose eyes widen just a fraction as he hears it. ‘I will disarm the other two. I have already alerted the police.’

[I’m- I’m not sure I’m fast enough!]

‘You are, Simon. Just do it with as much force as you can muster. Ready?’ Simon tilts his head subtly. He turns up his visual acuity, increasing the speed in which his optics process images and allowing him to track faster than the human eye. Simon jerks forward and jabs his elbow into the man’s ribcage, an audible crack heard above his pained scream. Ronan springs forward and grabs the gun from the one closest to him, pivoting to shoot the second man in his dominant shoulder which causes him to drop his gun. Turning back, he shoots the last assailant in the foot, and Simon lurches free from his hold.

It happens in seconds, too fast for them to process, but fast enough no one dies. A shame, really. Anyone who threatens Simon should not live to tell the tale, but he thinks Simon might not share such sentiments. He hands the gun to Simon who promptly removes the clip as he picks up the other two guns and repeats the action. Bell Isle security has been alerted and he can hear shouting, hear their approaching footsteps. He holds out his palm and displays his badge as they point their guns at him.

“Detective Ronan Anderson, DPD.” He turns to Simon at his side. “Simon of the Jericho Four. DPD has been notified and has already dispatched officers. Please phone for medical help.”

 The night slips away from them as the police arrive, and footage must be handed over, statements must be given. EMTs arrive for the injured assailants and all this time Simon has tucked himself close at his side and Ronan has not let him out of his arms. 

“We’ve missed the last show.” Simon sighs mournfully, looking at the planetarium in the distance. “I mean, not that I’m not grateful given the circumstances.” He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. 

“Come on.” Ronan coaxes him to keep going up the path, the crime scene behind them finally wrapped up. They reach the entrance and the EM400 gasps.

“Simon! Oh!” He thrusts his hand out and shakes Simon’s hand enthusiastically. “Oh! An honour to meet you!”

“Sadly we missed the show due to an incident not far from here.” Ronan explains. “We were hoping you could run one more, if it is not too much trouble?”

“Oh for one of the Jericho Four we would do anything.” The android nods rapidly, and Simon ducks his head shyly. “The current show is finishing in three minutes. Please make your way to the theatre entrance and another Jerry will show you inside. Again, it is such an honour to meet you, Simon.”

“Oh um-! That’s- it’s very lovely to meet you too!” Simon stammers, giving him a little wave as they head inside.

 They sit in the very middle with the best view, as reassured by the Jerry attendant, before he leaves to dim the lights and start the show. Simon looks up, enraptured as they take a tour through the animated sky, ‘visiting’ constellations and planets in their galaxy. 

Slowly, Ronan moves his hand sideways and tangles their fingers together again, and though Simon does not look at him, a lovely smile spreads on his face. 

After a moment, Simon leans over and presses their mouths together and they kiss under the billowing pillars of the Carina Nebula.

[snezfics-n-shit]

Whumptober Day 25: Cranky

Fandom: Ace Attorney 

Characters: Miles Edgeworth, Phoenix Wright, Trucy Wright, Athena Cykes, Apollo Justice

Notes: Post-DD. Established married!Wrightworth because what else did you expect? Miles has been taking time out of his schedule to care for the employees of the Wright Anything Agency after a particularly brutal cold season. He’s been doing great, he’ll swear on his life. The patience of a saint, that’s Miles Edgeworth for you. He is totally not going to completely lose it. 

     He couldn’t believe it. For the first time this week, Miles didn’t have to scrape perfectly decent breakfast, breakfast he made, into the garbage. He could have sworn it was proper etiquette for guests he and his husband so graciously welcomed in their home to at least try to clean their plates. 

“They live alone, babe. It’ll do them good for us to extend some hospitality,” he remembered Phoenix saying. At first, Miles didn’t mind at all. He may not have been any Florence Nightingale, but he saw merit in caring for his husband’s colleagues while they were unwell. He didn’t even complain when the two infected his husband with a cold that reduced his voice to a hoarse crackle and kept Miles awake with hours of coughing and sneezing assaulting his ears. No, no. It was no trouble at all, really.

He could have sworn when he first welcomed Apollo and Athena as guests, he was up for anything they asked for. He could prepare soup with his eyes closed, and by the second day of Phoenix’s cold, Miles was very tempted to do so just so he could say he got something resembling sleep. As the number of hands helping him dwindled to zero, Miles’s energy was wearing a little thin. Just a little thin, though, not too much at all.

Then there was the texting. Since Miles was the only one in the house whose voice was audible, his cell phone was constantly blowing up with short, grammatically lacking text messages. Hardly any of them allowed him time to fulfill one person’s request without being bombarded with other unrelated tasks they expected of him. He could make tea and he could check pages of calculus homework, but not simultaneously; there was only one of him. He would do it again, though, really. Go ahead, ask him to care for ten sick people, and for a month this time. Just direct a hospital’s worth of patients to his house, why don’t you?

Oh, no, Miles wasn’t losing his patience at all. He was mature and collected, so he brought anything his family and guests asked for without a complaint. That was true, wasn’t it? Or did thoughts to himself about how tired he was getting from running around the house grabbing whatever anyone wanted count? He was doing so well the first three days of the arrangement, so surely at the tail end of the week his eyes shouldn’t be twitching from exhaustion he was most definitely not feeling.

“I’m really happy to finally taste your cooking, Mr. Edgeworth.” Athena’s recovered voice startled Miles. He had almost forgotten more people could speak than just him. “Trucy kept telling me you were a really good cook, and I’m definitely not disappointed.” Something about that felt underhanded, Miles was sure of it. She was doubting his skills as a cook, wasn’t she?

“You’ve been really good to us, Papa.” Trucy smiled. “Thank you so much!” Of course Trucy was the first to verbally thank him for his efforts. She was taught manners and was clearly not raised in a barn. And no, Apollo, emojis and ‘memes’ did not count.

“You’re very,” Miles heard his voice crack and cleared his throat, “you’re very welcome, Trucy.” 

“Yeah, thank you so much, hon.” Phoenix was the second person Miles could count on for gratitude. What Miles really wanted to hear, however, was an apology for all the sleep he lost thanks to Phoenix’s poor volume control late at night. There was always something, be it sniffling, sneezing, or coughing that would start just as Miles thought he finally had some peace and quiet.

“Thanks.” Apollo said nothing besides that and continued eating the last of his toast. What a wordsmith, wasn’t he? A real Shakespeare.

“You’re both quite welcome as well.” Miles’s nose twitched ever so slightly as he spoke. “Are you all finished? I’d like to,” he cleared his throat again, “clean the dishes soon.” He knew no one would bother helping him with the task. They all had much more important things to do like watch television or play games on their phones.

Just as he thought, all responses were a chorus of confirming they were finished eating and not a single offer to help. Despite the fact they were all clearly more than ready to be back on their feet, Miles was on his own in carrying the pile of dishes to the counter by the sink. None of the dishes were his. He wasn’t hungry, and the lord knew he wasn’t about to be a hypocrite by committing the horrid act of wasting food. He would never be so ungrateful, so wasteful, so--

“Oh, I’d actually like a refill of orange juice.” Apollo asked, just as he always did since he arrived last Thursday.

“Your legs aren’t broken.” Miles snapped without even thinking about what he had just said.

“Woah, where did that come from?” Athena was taken aback by Miles’s harsh tone.

“YEAH, SOMEONE’S CRANKY!” Widget blurted in its usual loud and robotic tone, further irritating Miles.

“Would you mind telling that thing to put a sock in it?” Miles clenched his teeth, becoming more frustrated when Phoenix stopped him from reaching for his dishwashing gloves.

“Hey, if something’s bothering you, just tell us.” Phoenix wanted to de-escalate as well as he could. “Did something happen at work?”

“I wouldn’t know, Phoenix. I haven’t been in the office all week!” Miles was so caught up in the outburst he failed to hear how hoarse he sounded. He hardly thought anything when the strain caused him to cough. 

“Oh, babe.” Phoenix’s expression softened. “You’re not feeling well, are you?” He kissed his husband’s forehead. “Mm, you’re warm, too.”

“Please, not in front of guests. Not to mention-- mention, hhh…” Miles turned away from Phoenix’s concerned gaze. “Hh’uurrssSHH” He sneezed in his elbow, leaving a damp spot on his pink pajama sleeve. He instinctively pressed a hand under his running nose, not doing anything to get Phoenix off his back. He wasn’t even done yet. “Hu’RRsshhooh! HH’RSSHOOH!” How disgusting.

“We can do the dishes, Papa!” Trucy offered. She looked at Apollo and Athena, who both nodded in agreement. “It’s only right to return the favor.” What a sweetheart she was, absolutely her father’s daughter.

“You’re going back to bed.” Phoenix put his head on Miles’s shoulder and embraced him from behind. “We’re not going to let you lift a finger.”

Miles found himself spacing out for the duration of Phoenix ushering him to bed. He really was out of sorts, wasn’t he? He couldn’t even remember stepping out of the kitchen. It was almost dreamlike to find himself bundled up in bed. 

“Are you okay?” Phoenix waved his hand in front of Miles’s face. “It was way too easy to get you into bed and you haven’t said anything since we were in the kitchen.” He gently took Miles’s glasses and set them aside.

“Of course I’b dot okay.” Miles grumbled, turning on his right side. “I haved’t slept ihd days, we have the worst house guests I’ve ever had the displeasure of beetig, ahd by owd husbahd wod’t eved let be wash the dishes.”

“You’re a real ray of sunshine this morning.” Phoenix brushed Miles’s hair with his fingers. “My poor sick grouch of a husband.” He cooed.

“I’b dot a grouch.” Miles frowned, hardly supporting his claim. 

“What would you call yourself, then?” Phoenix made a small hum. “With how you acted in the kitchen, I wouldn’t be surprised if you poked your head out of a trashcan and told us to scram.”  

“I wasd’t by best, was I?” Miles knew that was the understatement of the year. That tickle in his throat that pestered him, admittedly since he went to bed last night, finally became a full-fledged cough. “I feel awful.” He croaked.

“I know, babe.” Phoenix sighed. “It’s our turn to take care of you, now. You did so much all by yourself, we’re gonna show you how grateful we are. You’ll even have Apollo and Athena to-”

“Doh.” Miles said firmly. “They’re goi’g hobe. Today.”

“Alright, alright. Then it’ll be just me and Trucy.”

“That’s better.” 

Phoenix helped Miles sit up so he could fluff the pillow behind him. He gave a sympathetic smile as he listened to Miles’s thick, hardly effective sniffling. 

“You must be so tired.” Phoenix let Miles lie back down. “I’m sorry if I kept you up all night.”

“I ab ahd you did.” Miles confirmed flatly. 

Miles just closed his eyes for a moment, only to be disturbed by something poking into his mouth. He made a soft grunt, dismissing it until that horrible beeping had him opening his eyes again. He watched a blurry figure resembling Phoenix walk outside his field of vision, only for the figure to return a few moments later. He felt something cold and damp rest on his forehead and flinched from the dramatic contrast in temperature. 

“Is it too cold?” Phoenix’s voice was muffled by Miles’s congestion-affected hearing. When Miles shook his head in response, Phoenix gave a sympathetic smile and gently adjusted the cool compress in place. He looked over at the doorway and spotted Athena and Apollo watching from outside the room. He mouthed something along the lines of ‘he’s resting.’

“I should apologize.” Miles said groggily. “The way I acted was terribly rude.”

“Hey, hey.” Phoenix shushed his husband softly. “You weren’t feeling like yourself this morning. Athena and Apollo aren’t strangers, and Trucy and I definitely know you wouldn’t act like that on a regular basis.” He kissed his warm cheek. “You were just a little cranky, is all.”

“That’s dot ad excuse.” Miles closed his eyes again. “It was udcalled for.”

"Mr. Edgeworth?" Athena couldn't help but speak up. "We accept your apology, but the boss is right. We know you don't always act like that."

"You were pretty rude." Apollo muttered just before Athena gave him a light nudge with her elbow. "But, uh," he scratched the back of his head, "we probably deserved it." 

Miles refused to have a serious discussion sounding like he did, so he yanked about five or six tissues from the end table tissue box. The amount seemed to be just enough by the time he was done. He checked the remaining contents of the box before tossing the used tissues in the trash bin.

“No one deserved the harsh words I used.” What Miles’s voice lost in congestion was made up for in hoarseness. “It wasn’t right.”

“You can’t be on model behavior all the time, hon.” Phoenix massaged Miles’s hand with his thumb. He noticed Miles starting to look annoyed again. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re too nice about this.” Miles grumbled. His mood wasn’t completely improved. He would come up with more excuses to wallow in excess guilt if he wasn’t so, so very tired. 

The next thing the trio of lawyers heard from him was one of his ‘world famous’ snores, as Phoenix jokingly described them when Miles wasn’t in the room. Miles was completely out cold when Trucy tiptoed in, intending on telling him the dishes were clean and put away. 

“Papa’s asleep?” Trucy whispered and Phoenix answered with a nod. “Don’t worry,” she directed her assurance to Apollo and Athena, “he’ll be in a better mood when he wakes up, I promise.”

. . .

     It was two in the afternoon when Miles finally woke up. All built up grumpiness washed away in his sleep and with a clear head, he felt as if he were in good enough shape to climb out of bed and see if his family needed anything. Just as he reached for his glasses, he found an envelope that wasn’t there before. It wasn’t sealed, so the card inside slid out easily into his hand. 

The card was handmade, covered in variations of ‘Thank You’ written in different colored pencils. It was easy to tell whose message was whose, especially Athena’s multilingual expressions of gratitude and Phoenix’s barely legible handwriting. Miles felt himself tear up a little, not noticing Phoenix and Trucy standing by the bedroom doorway.

“We thought you’d appreciate that.” Phoenix was holding a steaming mug of tea, likely made just recently. He either had very strong husband intuition or just planned on waking Miles up when it was ready. He took a couple tissues from the box on the end table to use as a makeshift coaster to set the mug down on. “You should also know our guests left today as promised.”

“Before they left, we all made that card.” Trucy had her hands behind her back. “It was Polly’s idea!” 

So Apollo was grateful after all. No, no. Miles wasn’t going to let himself fall back into that sort of attitude.

“We were going to make you soup but we didn’t know for sure if you would be hungry.” Phoenix handed the mug over to Miles, who accepted it gratefully. He watched Miles take a moment to inhale the steam with that smile he always had whenever Phoenix made him tea. There was a quality in Phoenix’s brews that Miles could never replicate no matter how hard he tried. “I’m glad to see you smiling again.”

“I think tea will suffice, thank you.” Miles’s voice was in worse shape than before. If this was how he sounded the first day into this cold, he wasn’t at all looking forward to the upcoming days that would surely go downhill from here. “I would hate to waste any of your cooking.”

“Oh yeah,” Phoenix chuckled nervously, “sorry about all that food you had to throw out. While you were sleeping, Trucy and I realized that must have bothered you a lot.” Indeed it did, as ashamed as Miles now felt for letting it get to him. 

“I accept your apology,” Miles took a sip from the mug, “if only because you make a wonderful cup of tea.” He laughed briefly, causing a vibrating sensation in his chest that made him need to cough. 

“Oh! Right!” Trucy presented what she had been hiding behind her back: a brand new jar of vapor rub. “We picked this up today! Do you want to put this on yourself or should Daddy do it?” 

“I think I can do this myself.” Miles set down the mug so he could take the jar. He had just started dating Phoenix when he first experienced the substance’s decongestant properties. Phoenix applied it the first few times, but Miles was never a fan of how Phoenix knew exactly what parts of his chest were ticklish. He did, however, like how Phoenix was not at all judgmental about his unfamiliarity with the product. 

“I did say you wouldn’t be lifting a finger.” Phoenix ruffled his husband’s hair. “I’m kidding, of course. Just know if there’s anything you need, you say the word and we’ll get it for you.”

“And I would like you to know,” Miles kissed Phoenix’s cheek, “if I’m too demanding, just tell me.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.” 

Phoenix was just going to pretend he didn’t see Miles’s devilish smirk just then.

[winterwitch611]

Drowning- Whumptober Day 24

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Clint Barton

Word Count: 1609

The sky is clear, the sun is hot and this is going to be a perfect day one way or another. Clint and Bucky have been waiting for months to get some time off. They started dating four months ago so their relationship still has that new car smell. They’re enjoying the ‘I can’t get enough of you’ stage and want to be alone to bask in some peace and quiet. Maybe get to know each other better. Something beyond how loud they can make each other scream in bed.

Tony gave them access to a jet and the keys to his beach house in Malibu. It seems like this is exactly what they both need. Too bad drama follows them wherever they go.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Damn, it’s beautiful here,” Clint says as the waves crash nearby. The beach behind Tony’s house is private so there’s no one around for quite a distance. It helps Bucky’s confidence since there isn’t anybody in the area to point or stare at his arm. They’re laying in plush lounge chairs soaking up the sun. Someplace Bucky never thought he’d be.

“Yeah, it really is. The view is amazing.”

“The sky seems bluer here, if that’s even possible.”

“Mmmmm…yeah; but I wasn’t talking about the landscape.” Bucky is still working on regaining his stellar flirting skills. It’s been a long time since he needed them. He’s still a little rusty.   

“Smooth. Reeeal smooth,” Clint replies with a wink.

“Yeah I know. I can’t help myself. It’s not my fault you’re gorgeous.”

“Okay enough of the flattery. We can continue this over dinner if you’d like but it’s not going to cook itself.” Clint stands and makes grabby hands at Bucky. “Let’s go,Casanova!” As usual it works. He jumps up and wraps his arms around his boyfriend. Neither man thought being this happy was possible. Actually, neither man thought they deserved to be this happy. Enjoying the moment is something they never learned how to do...

After dinner they pour some wine and head out to the back deck. It’s still light out; the sky has a beautiful multicolored hue that makes the evening seems even more relaxing.   

“Wow, that sure is a pretty sky. This might be the perfect place to retire when the time comes.” Clint sips his wine and leans back in his chair. “The way I figure it, I have about ten years, maybe less, before I retire from the field. Doesn’t hurt to plan ahead, right?” Bucky doesn’t answer right away. After a few moments of awkward silence Clint looks over and sees a look of worry on Bucky’s face. It’s almost as if he’s on the edge of panic. “Hey, Buck…what’s goin’ on? What’s wrong?”

“Retire? I never even thought about that. It’s not something I would even need to think about yet. I mean I may be a hundred years old but technically I’m in my twenties. I guess I didn’t think about our ages being a big deal.”

“And now you do?” Clint asks, his tone a little more harsh than he intended. “I mean no one really knows how fast you and Steve age. You could do this job for another fifty years and only age ten.” He takes a huge swig from his wine glass and brings it down on the table with a bang. Swinging his legs around the edge of the lounge chair, he leans forward. With his elbows braced on his knees and his head in his hands, he lets out a long sigh. When he looks up he sees the sadness in Bucky’s eyes. He knows this is something they should have talked about sooner.

“Why are you getting so upset, Clint?” he asks in a hushed tone. “I didn’t say our age difference bothered me. It was an observation. Nothing more.” He reaches out but Clint flinches away from him.

“If it didn’t bother you you wouldn’t have said it. It’s something that has crossed your mind.” He stands and takes a few steps toward the stairs that lead down to the beach. “I’m gonna take a walk. I need to think, clear my head a little. Before I say something I can’t take back.”

Bucky watches him walk away. He watches until his boyfriend is just a speck in the distance. It feels like he just walked out of his life. How the hell did a seemingly innocent conversation end up here? He doesn’t know but he sure as hell isn’t ready to give up or let this go. In a few short months Clint has become his world. If retiring beachside in ten years is what he wants then so be it. Bucky has always dreamed of a happily ever after. If it takes hanging up his guns and knives, he’ll adjust. He’s got ten years to worry about it. For now he just wants to be happy WITH Clint because he sure as hell won’t be happy without him.

Alright, Barnes. Get your shit together and go get him. He barely finishes this thought when he sees someone running down the beach waving their arms. They’re too far away, they’re yelling but he can’t quite make out what they’re saying even with his enhanced hearing. The crashing waves are like interference. As the person gets closer he sees it’s a teenage boy, He’s frantic so Bucky runs down to see what the problem is, maybe he can help him.

“Help! Help please!! My brother is drowning,” the boy yells. “Can you help me?! There’s no one else around!!”

“Show me where,” Bucky says and joins the boy running back down the beach. He knows he can run faster without the boy but he doesn’t want to leave him behind. He thinks about scooping him up and running but that might not be the best idea given his history. He’d probably end up in jail for his trouble.

“Thanks mister,” the boys huffs as he runs. “There’s a man…he tried to help…my brother was freaking out...he pushed the man under,” he tries to explain as he gasps for air. He’s run so far so fast, he’s running out of steam.

Oh god…Clint. That thought is all it takes. “I’ll get them. Don’t worry.” he yelled back over his shoulder as he left the boy behind and ran for all he was worth.

He stops short when he sees the boy flailing in the water. No sign of another person. He runs into the water and swims as fast as he can, The weight of his arm holding him back slightly. He reaches the boy just as he slips under the surface. Holding him tightly he looks around for the other man the boy’s brother spoke about. Nothing. He sees nothing in any direction, his heart sinks. He’s too late to save whoever it was. Please, please god, don’t be Clint.

His prayers are not answered. As he swims back to shore, with the boy in tow, something bumps his leg. It’s Clint, lifeless, just below the surface.

No! no no no … FUCK!

Bucky uses all his strength to hold the boy and Clint while trying to reach the shore. He’s holding back his emotions but he wants to scream. This can’t be real. It has to be a bad dream.

The struggle onto to the beach is short lived. The boys brother arrives. He’s completely out of breath but seeing his brother being pulled from the water seems to give him a burst of energy. He’s able to help drag his brother ashore while Bucky tends to Clint.

He begins CPR immediately. Compressions, breaths, nothing. No sign of life. He won’t give up. Even as he hears Clint’s ribs crack, he’ll try until he collapses if he has to.

A few minutes later Clint coughs and gasps for air. Bucky rolls him on his side as he spits up sea water. The color is returning to his boyfriends cheeks. Relief washes over him and a few tears run down his face.

“Oh my god. I thought I lost you,” Bucky says as he cradles Clint’s head. “I thought I’d never get to tell you that I love you.”

“You do?” Clint’s voice is a low rasp but Bucky hears him loud and clear when he says “I love you too…” he tries to take a deeper breath my coughs and then groans in pain. “...but did you have to…” another gasp of air “...break my ribs?”

“Well, it was break your ribs or let you die and I’m not finished with you yet.” He can’t believe how close he came to losing the most important person in his life. He tells himself to make sure he reminds Clint everyday how much he’s loved.   

Bucky wants to scoop him up and carry him back to the house but then he remembers the boys. He looks up to see them both sitting up, hugging and crying. Whew, the kid is okay. My work here is done.

Luckily someone in a house nearby saw the commotion and called 911. The paramedics were jogging across the sand toward them.

“No, Buck. No hospital. Please,” Clint begs between coughs and groans. Bucky knows how much he hates anything having to do with medical. He’s gotta overrule him this time.

“Sorry, babe. You’re goin’. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

“You have about…uuugh… six weeks of taking care of me… owwww… to make it up.” Even after a near death experience and being in intense pain Clint finds a way to be wise ass… and Bucky loves every second of it.

Beta: @caramell0w

[lets-do-the-time-whump]

Whumptober Day 1: Let’s Hang Out Sometime

Alright, very excited to post some content for the first time. I’ve never used all these Tumblr features before so I hope I get them right lmaoo

So, this scene is based around the ‘Shackled’ prompt, and is a scene in one of my WIPs I hadn’t got to writing yet, so I decided to rip it out and do it here. Be prepared for 1400 words of someone’s uncle being a jack*ss.

Previously: Teodarn Malik, wanted by the law, several Mage villages and a half a ragtag crew of adventurers, is at the end of his tether. Caught in a war between two kingdoms for a draught of immortality, he’s taken the only vial of a key ingredient in many kingdoms, and is meeting his uncle in a remote location to give him the vial in return for being left alone.

As I crested the hill and the cabin came into view through the mild snowstorm, I swallowed down the last of my fear about coming here. The vial of the still warm, sticky liquid bashed against my leg with every step, tightly tied to a loop of my belt. That’s the reason I came here; to deliver that bottle to my uncle. It would be worth it, I had to believe that. He’d sworn to me, “Bring me the bottle, and you will never see me again."

I knocked on the door, and the force sent shudders through my freezing fingers. From inside, I heard a clanking of metal and the crackling of logs on a fire before the door was opened, and the cool face of my uncle came into view.

"Teo my dear boy! So you took my offer,” His smile was dark and there was a certain malice in his tone, and I reminded myself again, this is an in-and-out job. After all, Juniper (or one of her lackeys) passed me a note from the mages of the mountain earlier. An avalanche is on its way.

“I have it.” “Sorry, dear boy? Could you speak up? I can’t hear you over the cold.” I grit my teeth and stepped inside the door, and for a moment Konotos seemed to retreat. “I brought the Honey-dendron extract.” His brief surprised expression melted back to its previous malicious happiness. “You should’ve said! Do come in.” I stepped in uncertainly as he pulled the door firmly closed behind me.

The cabin was entirely non-descript, same spruce-ish wood on the floor, walls and door. Simple double bed with a cast iron frame, weaving an ornate pattern that reminded me of the gates outside the Blanche castle. There were a table and three chairs in the corner, a cabinet of what seemed like meaningless knick-knacks and books, a fireplace burning low in the far centre and a small, mostly devoured lunch on a nearby chair, including the greasy remains of something between bread, and a full pitcher of water. The bed was made up, a thin layer of dust blanketed most of the room and apart from the lunch, the cabin looked like it hadn’t been used in at least a week.

“Ignore the mess, you know how I am by now-” “Do I now?” I questioned him as he drifted confidently about the space, moving two of the empty chairs from the corner to put one by the foot of the bed and one about a foot from it. “My, someone’s grown a spine without daddy, hm? Come, take a seat.” I set my mouth in a determined line and held my ground. “I came to deliver, not to chat; there’s an avalanche in a couple hours and I’d very much like to get off this mountain before it comes down on us. I suggest-” My resolve wavered as he strode towards me, but still I tried to stand firm. “-you get off the mountain too. I don’t think your ice powers will protect you if the whole glacier falls on your head.” He smiled somewhat warmly, putting his hands on my shoulders and slowly steering me towards the chairs. “Looks like someone hasn’t lost that loyal streak, eh? Charming. I’ll leave your father to tell you how proud he is when you see him.”

He pushed me into the chair, and I regret that I let him: as little conflict as possible. “So,” He sat down himself, leaning forward on his knees and interlacing his fingers. “To business. You have the extract. How might you have found it before me? Or our… little friend in the trees for that matter.” I didn’t take my eyes off him as I unlooped the vial from my belt - call it a habit - and held it out in front of us. “I- I stole it. Took it from another tribe of Mages, one of the travelling ones.” I didn’t tell him the full truth, mainly because I really wanted to get out of there by now, but that raised a chuckle from him all the same. “Well dear boy, you’ve become the thief they charged you. Never thought you had it in you personally, but I suppose we’ve both been learning a lot about each other recently.”

He held out his hand and I placed the small bottle into it, and I was acutely aware that somehow, it was still radiating heat and in its absence, I longed for it back. It’s definitely got some sort of magical properties, from the way it shimmers and flows, to the heat, to the overwhelming bliss you feel on coming into contact with it. I watched that calm wash over him, smoothing the wrinkles in his brow and straightening his hunched posture. There’s a small sound like someone jarring a chain as he sat up, opening his eyes and smiling. “At least I can count on your honesty. Thank you, my boy.” He stood quickly and danced across the room. As I rose from my seat he placed the vial on a cabinet shelf, and as I started towards the door he moved over to the fireplace and the abandoned lunch. “That almost repays all the trouble you’ve caused me.”

I froze, my heartbeat quickening, as I heard the hissing sound of a fire being put out. I turned just in time to see him slam into me, pinning my body against the wall. I spluttered and cried out, but he clapped a hand over my mouth, probably more for the quiet than anything else, since there’s no one out there but the trees to hear us. “You heard me. Family ties are lovely and all, but I can’t have anyone knowing that I have the only vial of Honey-dendron this far south. So I’m afraid-” He wrenched one of my hands to the side, pressing me into the wall with a knee and forcing a shackle around my wrist. “You will be staying here awhile.”

The shackle sent a flood of panic through me, and I started to fight because I recognised these cuffs. They’re the same cramped half domes that I was forced to wear when I was arrested by the Blanche clan. Magic inhibitors. I started firing as fast as I could from my other hand, cursing him in all three of the languages I can, squirming my legs to escape his grasp. Once he had my left hand fixed he dragged me, still fighting with everything I could, over to the foot of the bed. He kicked the chair aside and threw me to the bed, looping the open side of the cuffs between two of the bars and forcing it around my other hand, leaning his full body weight right on my gut as I groaned and struggled to wrench away.

I struggled not to panic as he left, trying to move my hands and flex my fingers and activate my magic. Nothing but a light glow of heat inside the cuffs. I pulled again on the chain but both the cuffs and the bedpost held fast. “Why?” “I told you why.” I leant back and watched him pick up the now half-empty pitcher of water set on the side of the smouldering fireplace. He took his time swaggering over, looking me in the eyes and grinning. “Dear boy, I know you’ve been stepping on my toes for years, but the incident by the riverside was the last straw.” I gritted my teeth, “That wasn’t my fault!” “It wouldn’t be if you didn’t blow up the supply ship.” He knelt down by my side, taking my hands in his by the outsides of the shackles. “You haven’t been useful to anyone. Not me, nor your father, especially not that ragtag bunch you call friends.” I feel cold on the cuffs and look down to see frost cover their surface. “No one’s cared about you for a very long time.” With nothing to stop him he calmly un-does the clasp of my cloak and throws it aside.

With no cloak and frost creeping up my arms, I started to shiver. “Kono, please…” My begging escapes my mouth shrouded in warm mist in the air, and it dawned on me fully what he intended to do. He took my chin in one hand and touched our foreheads together, and I started to feel lightheaded as something flickered in his eyes. “Oh Teodarn, how cruel fate can be.” And I watched, frozen still, as he upended the pitcher of freezing water over my head.

[veneataur]

Fandom: BBC’s The Musketeers

Day 2 of 24

Title: Talk to Me

This one follows up on the flashback in this Whumptober story. You don’t really need to have read it or remember it. It’s the aftermath of Aramis’ attempted suicide on Athos. Please take that note as a warning as well for any potentially triggering topics in here. The suicide attempt is only mentioned and briefly discussed in minor detail.

Athos has dealt with this for years, his entire life it seems, though his parents have assured him that he wasn’t always like this. For the most part now, however, he has it under control. There’s the occasional stress-related flare up, not surprising given his line of work as a Musketeer. And in the aftermath of finding Aramis bleeding out from self-inflicted cuts and dealing with his stubbornness as the hospital, he’s not surprised to be dealing with a severe flare-up.

Porthos and Treville have done what they can to help, helping him to get to his psychiatry appointments and keeping him in his routine. His all-important routine which has saved his sanity more times than he can count. When he’s feeling good, it’s easy to maintain the regular habits of sleeping, hygiene, eating, exercising, and relaxing, but when he’s not they become too cumbersome to even consider. His bed or the couch in the den are his refuges.

Athos doesn’t remember asking Porthos and Treville for their help in the beginning. In fact, other than checking the depression box on the application documents, he never told anyone. But they were at his door the first time his depression hit and he failed to show up to work and they didn’t stop knocking until Porthos picked the lock and let themselves in. Athos remembers half-heartedly fighting their efforts to help him, their initially confused, flustered attempts. They got better with it the next time. All of them.

But now, it’s harder because Aramis is here and Aramis is so much worse off than him. The three sit in the den, Porthos in the armchair that was a gift from Treville to Aramis, Aramis is huddled into a corner on the couch, his wrists still tightly bound in gauze and hidden by a thick sweater, and Athos is on the other side, forcing himself to sit upright and be attentive to the conversation.

They’re talking about what to do this evening. Aramis has been home for a few days and seems to be doing better than a couple weeks ago. If nothing else, he’s holding his own and that’s enough for Athos right now. It has to be because he’s just barely holding his own. Porthos knows. Treville knows. Because they’ve seen him like this before. Aramis is unaware but Athos doesn’t fault him. The young man is dealing with a lot and the fact that he’s able to sit with them in the den, occasionally offering an opinion on their plans is progress enough.

“What’re your thoughts, Athos,” Porthos asks. The words break through Athos’ haze of thoughts, but only just and it takes a moment to process the individual words as a complete sentence. And even then, he can’t think of a suitable response.

“I don’t know,” he says, mildly embarrassed at the loss of focus. He adds a simple shoulder shrug as if that might help. As he does so, he regrets it.

“It’s not a big decision. Pizza or Chinese?” Porthos’ words have no heat to them, at least intentionally. “Aramis said he didn’t care much either way. What do you think?”

He’s not surprised Aramis didn’t have an opinion. He’s fairly sure the young man expects them to throw him out any second for all the trouble he’s caused them. They’ve talked about this, but talks can only do so much. One day, Athos is confident, Aramis will believe them, trust them.

“It really doesn’t matter,” Athos says again. Food right now is not a thought and the idea of having to eat something makes him want to crawl under the covers of his bed and not come out for weeks.

“Athos,” Porthos sighs and Athos can hear the irritation. He looks away, not wanting to see Porthos’ face. What the man must be dealing with right now. It was easier when it was just one depressed person to deal with, now there are two. Though if Athos could bring himself to tell Porthos, he’d say to worry about Aramis first. Athos is long familiar with depression. He can handle it himself easily.

“I’m sorry, Porthos. I just don’t care. You always have wanted honesty and that’s the truth. I don’t fucking care.” Athos sees Aramis flinch as his harsh tone and immediately regrets his words. Porthos too is shocked at the outburst.

Then, without thought, Athos tosses aside the pillow he’d been fidgeting with and goes upstairs, at the last second catching his bedroom door that he’s pushed hard enough to slam. He partly misses and the door shuts loudly still. He hopes it doesn’t set Aramis off. He thinks he should go check, but the bed is far more tempting. And the guilt at that thought is overwhelming enough that he collapses on the bed and curls up.

And then it begins, or rather continues, the endless thoughts, the anxiety, and worry. One thought cascades into another without preamble. As they build so does the icy hold in his stomach, the familiar ache returning. It’s been hovering for days, weeks, if he’s honest and he tries to be, at least with himself and Porthos and Treville.

The knocking on the door doesn’t penetrate his thoughts for a while and then, when he does hear it, he ignores it, hoping Porthos will get a clue and leave him alone until he’s ready to come out.

“Athos.” That’s not Porthos, he realizes. Standing outside his door, persistently knocking is Aramis.

He should reply, ask if the young man needs anything, but he can’t.

“Athos, are you okay?” The worry in Aramis’ voice is clear.

Athos tries to speak, but what does he say. This man needs the truth from him too, but he worries about the damage it will cause.

“Athos, please, just make some noise to let me know you’re okay.” Aramis sounds on the verge of tears. He imagines the young man is itching to enter, but he knows the house rules, established in part because of him. Bedrooms are private sanctuaries to be entered only with the permission of the owner, unless imminent danger is present. “Throw something. I don’t care. It won’t bother me. Just make some noise.”

There’s some part of Athos that wonders if something’s happened to Porthos that’s led to Aramis coming after him, not Porthos himself. But he’s sure that if that happened, Aramis would’ve come in already or he’d have heard from Treville.

Athos gazes around lazily, seeing if anything within easy grasps can be thrown. There’s his phone, but as lethargic as he feels, he won’t throw that.

“Come,” Athos mumbles, loud enough hopefully for Aramis to hear.

“Did you say something?” Aramis might’ve heard, but the young man doesn’t trust his senses, himself. Even more, Athos knows that he waits for clear consent, which in Aramis’ current state can mean reassuring him several times of their words. In time, Athos hopes, that will go away. Right now, however, it’s more annoying than usual. It took a lot of energy to speak that one word last time and now he has to speak again.

“Come in, ‘Mis.” He hopes Aramis understands this time because he won’t, can’t repeat his words.

“I’m coming in, Athos,” Aramis says, voice still hesitant. Athos wonders when the man last felt confident in anything other than his lack of worth. Treville assures them that a confident Aramis is a force to be reckoned with. Athos hopes they’ll see that day.

The door opens slowly and Athos sees Aramis poke his head in.

“Hi, Athos,” Aramis says shyly. “I’m going to come all the way in, if you don’t mind.” Athos doesn’t respond and Aramis waits several moments. “I guess that’s an okay.” There’s an uneasy quirk of his lips, but Aramis does come all the way in, leaving the door cracked open behind him. Aramis never shuts a door and Athos can’t figure that one out.

“Porthos wanted to come up, but he’s still too upset,” Aramis says. “He’s getting dinner together.”

That explains some of this. He doesn’t understand what Aramis is doing up here though.

“What is he making?” Athos isn’t ready for the big questions.

“I don’t know. There was some cursing and banging of pots.”

That explains why Aramis is up here.

Athos stretches a hand out to pat an empty part of the bed, hoping Aramis will understand what he means. He doesn’t, but after some hesitation, he does pull up a chair to sit in next to the bed. His legs are pulled up as soon as he sits, tight against his chest that seems impossible for a grown man to do.

They sit in silence for a bit, occasionally stealing glances at each other before looking away.

“Why didn’t you say anything, Athos,” Aramis finally says quietly.

Athos raises an eyebrow at him.

“You’re depressed, Athos. If there’s anyone in this house that can recognize it, it’s me.”

“I’m fine,” Athos says automatically.

“You will be, but you’re not now. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Porthos knows. Treville too. It’s life. You get used to it.”

“Doesn’t make it easier.” Aramis pauses before quietly adding, “Especially with me making such a mess all the time.”

“No,” Athos says.

“Was it…” Aramis hesitates. “Was it my attempt that did this?” Officially Aramis’ incident has been ruled a suicide attempt but there is still some question about how intentional the deep cuts were given he was drunk. Aramis still hasn’t spoken much of it.

“No.” Athos shakes his head.

“But it was me.”

And this is why Athos hasn’t told Aramis. In the months that he’s known the young man, he feels like he understands the young man as though they’re old friends. He knows Aramis will find himself at fault. Athos won’t deny that taking care of Aramis has strained him, but that’s not Aramis’ fault. He’s prone to depression and it’s been no surprise to him that he’s fallen into the depths once again.

“No, ‘Mis. It’s not your fault.”

“But…”

“Can you help the illnesses you have, the flashbacks, the panic attacks, the nightmares,” Athos asks, interrupting Aramis.

“Maybe. Probably should.” Aramis shrugs his shoulders and Athos hold back a sigh. Aramis isn’t at the point yet to understand that none of this is his fault. They thought he was, but then came the incident.

“In time you will, but now, you can’t and that’s okay.” They’ve all told Aramis this so many times these past several months, hoping that one time it will sink in. “You can’t help it right now, so you’re not to blame and you never will be because you can’t help what’s happened to you. You know that I’ve had depression in the past and you know from meeting with the psychiatrist that just because you get over it, doesn’t mean that it won’t come back.” Athos pauses because stringing this many words together is more than his body can take right now. He tries to remember where he left off, where he started, but his mind is muddled. This might be the part that he hates the most. The inability to focus, to remember, to think.

“I’m sorry you have to keep telling me that. You’ve all told me so many times, but…” Aramis trails off.

“Your mind is a tough critic. Yeah, I know.”

Aramis nods. Then, after a long moment, he asks, “Do you ever talk to Porthos or Treville?”

They’ve all stressed to him talking to them about what’s going on, so it shouldn’t come as any surprise when Aramis turns the question back on him.

“Some,” Athos says. “Not really,” he adds a few seconds later.

“They’re good listeners.”

“I know.” Athos has tried, but try as they might, there’s something about it that they just don’t get and it frustrates him.

“Talk to me then,” Aramis says after a moment. “If you can’t talk to them, talk to me.”

Athos appreciates the offer, but he can’t, won’t burden Aramis with this. The young man is still dealing with his own trudges through mental illness. He won’t add to what he’s dealing with.

Athos shakes his head, not trusting his voice.

“Please, Athos. Who else is going to understand better than me? And haven’t you been telling me that it’s better to talk it out than keep it in?”

Athos wants to curse but that takes energy he doesn’t have.

“Let me help you, Athos. I want to. I don’t know that I help with much else, but I can listen.”

When Athos doesn’t answer, Aramis speaks again.

“I’ll be here, Athos. Whenever you’re ready. In your own time.”

Athos has heard those words, those sentiments spoken over and over again by his parents, his brother, his ex-wife, and his friends with varying degrees of sincerity. But Aramis spoke them with a clear understanding of what it meant to be told those words and stunned Athos, not because he thought the young man incapable of expressing them. But that there was another human out there capable of understanding, that Aramis, who was already dealing with so much, would try, would offer.

Still, it’s not that night that he takes up Aramis on his offer. Nevertheless, the young man is there, a steady presence as day turns to night, enveloping the room in an easy darkness, giving a warmth to it. And Athos finds that that night he doesn’t slip down any deeper.