scripted-downfall

[scripted-downfall]

Can I request some just pure curtwen angst lol. Like one of them is injured on a mission and the other is UNBELIEVABLY worried or they have a conversation abt self-hatred or something

You know what I don't do enough? Owen being in the line of fire... So y'know what? I'm gonna experiment a little here, I'm gonna get this man bloody, beat him up a little, and see where it goes

Owen knew the way, he was confident of that much. The place that Curt had told him to rendezvous was familiar enough, all that was left was to get there. And that was where it got difficult, because it was currently a chore just to keep himself upright, let alone keep himself on track. Presently, the only thing stopping him gtom highlighting his every step with a trail of blood was the spare cloth he'd found in his kit bag, that was doing numbers in alleviating the flow of blood spilling from a gash at his hip.

Every other step he took burned with a kind of intensity that he wished he wasn't familiar with. Knowing himself as well as he did, this wouldn't be the last time he found himself in a bar fight for the sake of the job— it certainly wasn't the first occurence, in any case— but next time, he promised himself that he wouldn't be so sloppy.

He felt his weight start to shift, grit his teeth, and kept on pushing. He always would, as long as physically possible. If he focused on something else— the sound of his footsteps against the pavement, or the way his leather jacket felt in this position, or every breath that thundered through his ears— the pain wasn't… That bad.

He regretted thinking that within the moment.

In fact, it was that bad. He'd lost a fight, hilariously outnumbered, and now he was paying the price for it. God, where was Curt? Surely this rendezvous point couldn't be this far away…

"Owen, Jesus Christ!"

Time had passed. Owen wasn't sure of how much, but he did know that he hadn't made it. At some point, he had hit the pavement, and no matter how much he forced himself to try, he couldn't pull himself up without succumbing to the violent tremor that overtook his system.

He hadn't found Curt, but Curt had found him. Enough time had passed for him to have gotten concerned. Owen had a habit of mentioning that he would return by a certain time. Normally, he stuck to it. His timekeeping was impeccable, and Curt knew to trust that, so when he missed that margin, there was normally a cause for concern.

Owen looked up at him, registering the way his brow was drawn. "Curt…"

Immediately, Curt had noticed the blood staining Owen's shirt, and the cloth that he was trying to press against his side. He helped him to his feet without a word, and made sure he was well supported. "The hell happened to you?"

Owen readjusted, making sure that the cloth was still firmly planted against the gash. "It… didn't go as planned…"

"Are you kidding me? That's what you're going with?"

"Don't worry about it, Curt," Owen tried to insist.

"Don't worry? Don't worry?! O, I don't know if you you've noticed, but you're bleeding out on the street right now, and you're more than an hour later than you said you'd be."

"Yeah, I got held up. It's fine…"

"What, held up against a wall while someone beat the shit outta you?"

Owen faltered ass they turned the corner, and tried to pretend like that wasn't entirely accurate. "It doesn't look that bad, does it?"

"That's what happened, isn't it?" Curt sighed when Owen nodded silently, and tried to focus on getting them both to the rendezvous point. "Where?"

"Bar. Some bellend packed a knife—" He staggered, and Curt's supporting arm gained a reflexive, brighter grip as he fought to keep Owen upright. He sighed, despising the way his chest seemed to shake upon his every breath. "And I got caught up in the crossfire, that's all."

Curt didn't say anything further until the two of them were inside. It was painful enough watching Owen try to shrug off what was quite a serious wound in his side, but it was even more painful when they got to the rendezvous point and he started grabbing the supplies to fix himself up like Curt wasn't there at all. The more he tried to ask about it, the more he knew Owen was going to shrug it off, so he almost let him get on with it.

Almost.

"Owen, why d'you insist on doing that yourself? I am right here…"

Owen pulled from his pocket the flask and stared down at the equipment for a while, half lost in the offer and half waiting on his mind to catch up and come up with something viable. Nothing happened, though. He didn't try to contradict Curt's offer, nor claim once again that he was fine, nor try to think of any reason why he was so reliant upon his insistence to claim independence out of this job.

Because, as a rule, he didn't have to.

And he knew he wasn't entirely okay, as far as that word would be stretched. The way his hands wer shaking was enough of a tell, for starters, and he knew he wouldn't be able to do a good job of himself like this.

"Because if I do a bad job, then it's fine, because it's me. But I don't want my blood on someone else's child, so to speak…" that answer seemed well thought out enough to qualify as something that had come from him, at any rate.

"Y'know, that's half the reason I'm here. There's always a good chance that you're gonna come back in a state like this, and what happens when you can't take care of yourself, huh?"

"Curt, I—"

"No, what happens then? You just expect me to leave you to bleed out or what?"

"That's— quite dramatic." This was not a good call. The longer they spent fighting about this, the more blood he was going to lose, and he really couldn't afford that. He took a drink from the flask— strong and fiery, though not very much to his taste. At least it took the edge off…

Once he was suitably deterred from feeling the full effects of pain, he finally removed the cloth from it's position, and grimaced at the sight of the blood still pouring from the wound.

"No, it's not," Curt answered defensively, and then he got a good look at the wound too. "I mean, look at that thing!"

Owen raised an eyebrow at that. "Never been in a bar fight before? If you don't have at least one poor lad on the ground, spillin' blood on the carpet, then you haven't done it right."

Curt's mouth opened, looking for something he could possibly say to that, but all that came out was a blank stammer that meant no more to him than it did to Owen. "Jesus, I— how many times have you been the guy on the ground?"

"Enough…" Owen muttered as he started to do what he could to clean that parts that he could see. That's what did it for Curt, and he'd risen, knelt by Owen's side, and had taken the alcohol soaked cloth that he'd been using before either of them could think twice.

"I worry about you, y'know that? Sure, you might not be impulsive like I am, but god, you really know how to get yourself hurt… And don't try and tell me you're fine, because I'm sitting eye level to the reason that you're very much not."

"You and I are—" Owen inhaled sharply. Curt apologised. "We're the same. Don't tell me you aren't also in the habit of pretending you're fine…"

"So you admit you're pretending?"

A single breath of laughter. "I won't admit that either way."

Curt knew what he was doing when it was someone else. He was surprisingly thorough, on top of the distraction of this assuring conversation, that was helping, for all it was worth, to keep Owen's mind off the current happenings.

"Why? Why say you're fine when I hadta come and look for you?"

"Because you know fine well that this isn't the worst I've ever been…"

"Yeah, I know," Curt reached for the bandages. Owen nudged them towards him with the hand that wasn't holding the flask, then took another swig. Curt had to fight a laugh at the way he winced. "Maybe you're not a man after my own heart, after all," he teased, to which Owen shook his head.

"I don't know how you drink that shit."

"I don't know how you can't."

"It's fucking awful."

Curt laughed, partly because Owen was halfway to letting his accent drop— and hearing him swear when he was trying his hardest to remain proper was always amusing— and partly because of his reaction to the whiskey, which never failed to delight. "Nobody said you had to drink it, if it's that bad."

"You can't exactly equip yourself for a mission and pack a flask of wine…"

"Wine, huh?"

"What? If you're going to go in for day drinking, there is a way to do it, and that is certainly the best."

"Imagine tryna give yourself pain relief with a glass of red, though."

"Maybe you have a point there."

Curt shifted back a little, prompting Owen to move from his board stiff position to see how the bandages felt. He seemed to think tey were fine, until Curt brought him back into place and seemed to inspect them for a moment. He muttered something Owen didn't catchm and then picked up another roll.

"What's the matter?"

"You're bleeding through."

"Great…"

"Hold on a moment, I've got this."

#fucken masterpiece #more curtwen angst + hurt/comfort fics keeping us fed #glorious as ever <3

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Immortalizing this video on Tumblr because it’s just so silly. The Ted hair, Joey’s dancing, Curt’s voice breaking from laughing, it’s all so delightful

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are you taking prompts still

Yes! It might take me a bit to get to any I receive, but please send stuff in! (And I've lately been on a bit of a Starkid-et-al kick, which doesn't seem to be going away, but any fandom works so long as I know it!)

#answered asks #scripted downfall asks answered

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I shall wrap thee in these cinders, Ell, and you shall be as radiant and terrible as I

listening to the cinderella's castle demo's and i am SO excited for ella's starlight and flame dress so i did a little speedpaint

#this is so gorgeous

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hi i never noticed til i saw it pointed out on tv tropes that joey literally goes and shaves his moustache during the witch in the web. the commitment

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can we please talk about the Trail to Oregon music directions

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Something I constantly think about in SaF is how they have Agent Curt Mega, the "American Spy" go about trying to be very Bond-esque and attempting to mimic the British movie franchise, yet Owen, the British Spy, is the one doing the very Americanized Mission Impossible-esque mask removal and face reveal.

I don't know why I just find it immensely funny to think about.

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'You got lost, but you made your way back home.

You went and sold your soul, an allegiance dead and gone.'

What if one weird guy was actually three people and I spent all evening listening to Day & Age and trying to draw them? What then?

(Shout out once again to @starpirateee and @scripted-downfall for the pasta.txt fics - I cannot get pasta.txt!Wil out of my brain, so now this drawing exists. I hope you don't mind, and that I did your concept justice!)

#the delay in reblogging is due only to the fact that i had to commute home before i could #op please know that i have spent that entire time vibrating with simultaneous glee and awe #this is so bloody gorgeous!!! i'm going feral #the differences from one to the next??? the triptych arrangement??? the poses???? #i'm sobbing /pos #prev tags really said it best -> insane about this op you just made my night

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Shortly after Miss Holloway retired from the stage, she opened a diner. Miss Retro's, she calls it. Someone called her that once, but if she tries to put her finger on whom, she can't quite figure it out. He died, she thinks. And then someone walks into the diner and they start talking over a plate of hotcakes and a cup of coffee. He says his name is Duke.

Possibly a launchpoint for a longer Holloweane reverse AU series; definitely set in an AU where Duke made a deal and Miss Holloway didn't. For @starpirateee! :)

#hatchetverse #miss holloway #douglas keane #duke keane #holloweane #reverse au #<- taking a risk and putting main tags. if that's not okay i'll remove them #hatchetfield fics #fic promo #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic

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❄️ & 🌪

Heya trin! I'm gonna be answering these for the crossnamara collab fic I'm currently working on with @scripted-downfall (bc the brainrot is strong && this fic makes me insane)

❄️Share a snippet from a WIP of your choosing.

The sound— the feeling— buried deep in his bones, humming and vibrating and hurting, louder and stronger and more ferocious than anything else he could force himself to recall.

His hands found the tangles of his hair, and he coiled into himself a little, letting his fingertips curl through it. That feeling brought him back to a version of reality a little more, but the orchestra was playing towards their climax, and that was hard to ignore. Louder, and louder, and more intense... Stay in the moment, stay here, don't lose yourself now, not when-

"Losin' your mind all by yourself, handsome?"

John's eyes opened. When had he closed them? And his gaze immediately settled on two long streaks of blue. His first thought was relief in finally getting a glimpse of colour again. The immediate second thought was a tidal wave of recognition, accounting for the voice, the shade of blue, and the name that went with all of that. He looked up, straightening himself out as if he hadn't already been perceived as the mess he knew all too well that he was.

Wiley crouched, flashing that dangerous, broken glass smile. "Long way t'go just to have a little breakdown, Johnny. I dunno how you did that— shuttin' me outta your space like that— but that's just plain rude." They looked for a moment like they were trying to scrutinise something deep within his eyes. A too-long stare, under which John felt more and more uncomfortable.

🌪️Sum up a WIP with a few fic tropes/Ao3 tags.

Ambiguous lovers-to-enemies

Died and came back wrong

Chosen by a god (see: becomes a god's favourite toy, essentially)

Grudge match? Kinda???

#i love this snippet so bloody much #i also cannot wait #gives me two reasons to rb this #one for appreciation and one for promo #this bit makes me so feral my gods #starpirateee recs <3

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curtwen prompt!! you brought it up in the last curtwen fever prompt so now I’d actually love to see reluctant post-banana sick fic care (going either way, but owen having to take care of the man he thinks he hates lives a little rent free in my head) if you’d want to write that :)

Funny you should mention that, actually 👀 because I literally got asked this not half an hour later:

Same brain, huh? At this point, it's too much of a coincidence not to write, so the two of you can have your way with this reluctant caretaking

"Come on, Curt, we don't have the time to stay here!" Tatiana made sure to keep her tone a mix of insistent and well meaning. It was her fault that Curt had ended up in this mess. Since finding out that he was arriving in Monte Carlo, the Deadliest Man had requested that they make things a little interesting, that they should manage to get agent Mega alone for even a moment.

Now, Curt was at a level rather closer to death than she would've hoped, and she was glad that she'd arrived now instead of a minute later, otherwise she was sure that she'd have found him in a much worse state.

Curt stumbled to his feet, shooting a glare over his shoulder that spoke of all the betrayal he felt. Near enough all the energy he had left was being used on trying to keep himself upright, but he could always spare a little on making sure she knew how offended he was that she'd essentially left him to die.

"What, you expect me to trust you, after that?" He snapped, glancing back towards the Deadliest Man, who was still trying to recover from that blow to the head he'd been dealt.

"I don't care if you do or not, we have to go!"

She reached out. Instinct took over, and Curt reached out too. When her hand clasped around his forearm, his breath caught in his throat. There was a light set of footsteps across the room that he was absolutely sure that nobody else would hear. Every instinct within was telling him not to look, this wasn't the time for-

"Owen..?"

Despite everything, he looked up anyway, across the room, straight into the colourless, blank stare of Owen, who was leaning against the wall by the door. The bastard even had the audacity to lift a hand and wave, like he was fully aware that Curt couldn't take his eyes off him. This was the Owen that resided in his head. He had been at once familiar and entirely unwelcome, like finding out that a stowaway on board a vessel was actually your closest friend, and having to choose between selling them out or leaving them to a potentially worse fate by not saying a word. Part of him really didn't want to see Owen there at all, he was nothing more than a reminder of his fate, and what he could've done better.

The other part of him knew that his mind was just making up an image of Owen that was so unfailingly unscathed, because he simply couldn't handle the idea of him being marred in any way. It hurt to try and imagine what kind of injuries he must have accrued during the fall. During the explosion. During the moments before he took his final breath…

He was so caught up in the moment that he barely registered Tatiana drop her arm and start running out of the door, under the impression that he was hot on her heels. The more space they put between themselves and the likes of the Deadliest Man, the less likely they were to be traced, she knew that. So when she'd told Curt to get going, she'd really meant it.

But that did mean that she missed the Deadliest Man— missed Agent Owen Carvour— take a gun from the holster at his side and offload, striking Curt just above the hip. She missed Curt bite down a cry of pain, whirling around just in time to see the assassin rising to his feet. And the way that Curt looked down on himself to examine the wound. And the fact that his fingertips came back bloody, the way his eyes went wide, and the way he hit the floor within moments of registering the dark red substance that coated his hand.

Tatiana may have missed that, but Owen didn't.

Curt collapsed, and it took a long moment before he worked out the reason why. Of course. That bastard was terrified of the sight of his own blood. Of all the things for a man to be afraid of…

Of course, that wasn't the only injury he'd managed to sustain. The last few minutes had been a rather interesting ride, and Tatiana had come dangerously close to not finding Curt Mega alive at all. If he had his own way, he would've made sure he kept that arrogant son of a bitch alive for months, right on the delicate cusp between being alive and being dead. To watch him suffer, to see him experience something even close to the level of pain he himself had endured over those few painful months… Those months he had spent stupidly wishing Curt would come back for him, where he would hold himself strong, forcing himself to remember there was something on the other side worth surviving for… It hurt like hell, and he wasn't going to pretend to ignore any of the scars it had given him. He would never be the same, so why should Curt be?

All the same, whether he was able to get his own way or not, the truth of the matter lay in the here and now. Curt— supposedly the best spy this side of the Atlantic— had just passed out on first sight of his own blood. And Tatiana was gone. Of course, it was only a matter of time before she realised Curt wasn't actually behind her— even in the bustle of the casino hotel. Then, she'd make her return, no doubt. Until then, though, Owen had a bleeding Curt on the ground, and a certain idea in his head that he would rather not see him dead, actually. Maybe some other time he could get into the making him beg for death part… He deserved as much.

He sighed deeply. "God, Mega, you really need to work on that fuckin' issue of yours…" He muttered stiffly as he crouched and began rifling through the bag under the bed for his own supplies. Those kind of things were always needed in an emergency, sure, but he didn't expect this emergency to involve the patching up of the man he hated with such a fiery passion…

That was a matter for another moment. Curt couldn't work on his issues, because he wasn't conscious. He couldn't call him out for caring even slightly, because he wasn't conscious. He couldn't even figure out that the man behind the mask— the one that had been promptly removed and discarded on the bed— was the man he'd been searching for, because he wasn't conscious.

And that was the issue that needed dealing with right now.

Owen reminded himself that he couldn't care less what happened to Curt, so long as it happened by his hand. And by his hand, this had happened, so there was always that. As he pulled Curt's tuxedo jacket from his shoulders enough to be able to lift his shirt and start working on the bullet wound now causing blossoms of red against the fabric, he wondered to himself just what was making him do this. He didn't care. Especially not about Curt. He'd been told one too many times that he was cold, and callous, and all of those things they wanted a perfect operative-slash-weapon to be. If all of that was true, then there was no way that he could possibly have any room left for caring about Curt.

But, on the other hand, four years was a long time to be missing what was essentially a piece of himself.

And now here he was. Right there, at his disposal. Missing a tooth, clearly missing some brain matter, and missing a fair bit of blood that just… Would not stop coming.

The bullet hadn't even lodged in, it was a surface wound at best. And yet, Curt bled and bled and bled. Something wasn't entirely right here…

Owen decided not to think about that. He applied the first layer of gauze, and started to wrap the bandage around Curt's midriff. Periodically, he kept looking up at the door, to make sure he wasn't going to be spotted or caught in this position. He imagined it looked rather strange— a man with a knife at one side of his belt and a machete at the other, kneeling by the side of another and applying layers of bandages to a bullet wound. By all accounts, it didn't make sense, and thinking about it brought the slightest of smiles to his face.

"Look at you…" He hummed. Filling the silence was the best bet here, otherwise he'd start thinking about the few times he could remember doing this before… The moments he'd spent in the dead of night on the floor of some shitty motel room, making sure Curt stayed alive. And he really didn't want to think about that. The tenderly spoken words, the way their hands brushed against one another, the meaningless teasing about how he should've been more careful…

God, he missed the old times.

"… You're an absolute mess, Curt. It's absolutely fine for you to play the damsel in distress, though, isn't it? When you need saving, look at how there's always someone there to pick up your slack, and look how often it has to be me… Where the hell were you when I needed you, though?" He asked quietly, shaking his head. He wasn't so deterred by the sight of blood at his fingertips, but ironically, it had disturbed some inner part of him for exactly the same reason that it had disturbed Curt.

Because… Well, because it was Curt's.

And there was some inner part of him— that same man he'd spent the last four years trying to push down within himself— that was concerned. Concerned about the fact that the blood wouldn't stop. Concerned about what would've happened if he wasn't stopped. He didn't care about the aching in his own head left over from the blunt end of the pistol… That didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. Apparently, what really mattered was this stupid, selfish— loving, grounding, gorgeous— American agent spreading blood all over the hardwood floors.

What would've happened if he wasn't stopped? Would he have actually dared to go so far as to kill Mega? Would he have gone that far, here in this hotel room, only to pack his bag and leave immediately after like he didn't just leave the body of his partner in the room?

Curt is not your partner. Not anymore.

He sighed to himself. "Where were you when I was calling your name with all the energy I had left?" His hand pressed down against the wound, just above the primary source of pain. He reached for another layer of bandages.

"Where were you when I was bleeding out on the floor of a cell, sparing a thought to the last hope I had that you might come back?" He watched the blossom of red seep in through the bandages and bit his lip, letting his apprehension show for a fraction of a second. He had no right to be nervous right now. He had every right to be pissed.

"Where were you when your shadow sat at the other side of the room, huh? All the time I spent wishing that was really you, even if you'd come to do nothing but observe while I made sure I lived to see tomorrow… You weren't there. You never were. This…" This life he had been given. This life he knew he should be grateful for, because at the end of the day, it wasn't his to have and never was…This had all come from that fall, the last time he trusted Curt to have his back. "This is your fault."

And yet, he kept winding bandages around his waist, administering all of the care that he knew he could muster, especially towards Curt. On one hand, this was his fault. He had walked away when Owen needed him the most, and yet… He didn't really have a choice, did he? There was a good chance that he would've died as well…

But he'd never come back. He'd never bothered to check whether Owen was alive. Because he would've found nothing, and he would've known something was wrong, because nobody's body just disappeared…

The only time Owen stopped working was the brief moment he reached up to scrub a furious tear from his eye, as if Curt deserved the satisfaction of knowing that he was close to breaking over just the thought of him. He left in his wake a smear of red that he didn't think twice about. Like he hadn't felt the chill of blood against his face before… As if he'd never had to wonder if a particularly bad round would leave a stain to his cheeks.

He'd been lucky so far, but it was only a matter of time, he supposed.

"Y'know, this isn't so fun when you're not around to listen…" He whispered, leaning in close. Another check of the door. Another show that nobody was there waiting for him. Another sigh. "I never wanted to kill you, Curt, you should know that. And I know, that's absolutely nothing when it comes down to it, but I digress…"

He made a final check to ensure that the bandage was tight enough, that it would hold if and when Curt got on his feet again, then stood up, towering over the unconscious form of the man who used to hold the title of partner… Of lover.

"I guess you'll never know what really happened here tonight. And I know you can hear me, but I know you're just like me. You always have been. You've been hearing me for the last four years…" A dry, humourless chuckle left him, the only barrier against the floodgates opening. "And that's someone else's song, I'm afraid… This? This is one of those. Think of it as someone else's song, it'll make things a lot easier when I do what I have to do… For both of us, I think."

When Tatiana found Curt, he was barely conscious, trying to button up the shirt that someone had left wide open, and trying to make himself look in the least bit presentable. He had pretty much stopped bleeding, but it didn't take a genius to notice that someone had bothered to patch him up with a few layers of fresh bandage. He could feel it against his skin, taut and securing. A professional's job— or at least, someone who really knew what they were doing.

His memory held onto the ghost of a voice. Chiding him. Telling him that it was all his fault. Telling him that he wasn't there. That voice had a name, and that name belonged to a ghost. He knew it. The ghost knew it too, it seemed.

But there was no trace of him.

#lovely as freaking ever #i see what you meant about that line though #yowch #it is glorious though #yet more curtwen recs let's go #starpirateee recs <3

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It's just gone midnight when the being that was once Wilbur Cross tumbles out of the Black and White, bleeding and on the run and not entirely sure where to go. It's just past 12:30 when they stumble through John Mcnamara's front door and collapse on his couch. It's only a matter of time before they invade his kitchen, too.

My retelling of the iconic pasta.txt for the self-named pastafic exchange! Could technically be read as gen, but it's Crossnamara if you're cool, what can I say? For @starpirateee :)

#hatchetverse #crossnamara #macnacross #wilbur cross #john mcnamara #general john mcnamara #<- taking a risk and putting main tags. if that's not okay i'll remove them #hatchetfield fics #fic promo #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #but it's on ffnet too

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I saw a headcannon once that Curt and Owen both have very strong Texan and Cockney (London working class) accents respectively, but have to use toned-down generic American/British accents when on the job. Do you think you could write something of them drunk, injured, sleepy, or stressed (basically in a scenario where theyre not thinking too much about their accent) where it slips out, and either confuses or entertains the other? Thanks! (also i love your writing so much its insane :D)

I have bought into this headcanon before, both sides of it! Working class Owen is something that can be so personal, actually, and full on cowboy Curt is so goddamn fun! Certainly will be good respite from the last fic 👀

Curt was bleeding and barely capable of holding himself together. He'd forced himself to keep face, not looking down enough to be able to see it. It was bad enough that he could feel it, sticky and viscous against his hand. That alone was enough to make him feel nauseous, but he was a professional. He knew how to deal with wounds without feeling the need to pass out.

Owen did as he always did. For him, it was just another part of the job, be it his own blood or someone else's, it was all the same when it came down to it. He had been the one to patch Curt up often enough, it was practically routine. This instance was no different.

With Curt suitably positioned, leaning back against his hands, Owen found the kit he needed and got to work. Curt dug his hands into the sofa to avoid having any kind of reaction to the stitches.

"I think you're lucky..." Owen remarked, laying his hand either side of the wound. "A few inches further down and you could say goodbye to ever charming a lady to the bedroom again..."

Curt tried to huff a breath of laughter, but that did nothing for him except make everything hurt more. "Ugh, god, please don't try an' be funny, I can't handle it-!"

Owen knew that Curt had always had a certain lilt to his words, some kind of intonation lost to time, but he'd never quite heard it like that before. He said nothing, but thinking about it had made him falter. The needle slipped a little, and Curt cursed under his breath.

"Jeez, Owen, ya couldn't take it easy?" He hissed.

No, he hadn't been hearing things. Curt really had slipped into a far more prominent southern twang than was normally present in his voice. One that he never even thought he'd hear from him. "Of... Course, I'm sorry." However surprised he was by that, it didn't stop the task at hand, or the need to finish it before it became too hard to see through the blood that was pooling.

Curt raised an eyebrow. "What'cha lookin' at me like that for?"

"I knew you were a southerner, but I didn't know it was supposed to be that obvious..."

"Wha-? Oh, fuckin' hell." Disappointment and something close to annoyance lingered on his face. He sighed, brushing a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I grew up in Texas. I tell people Austin, but that's just cos it's easier than sayin' some nowhere town 'bout fifty miles out."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Huh?"

"You don't seem particularly happy about it."

"It's just, I spent weeks on tonin' this accent down so I wouldn't stand out so much when I was on the job, y'know? All that, then it just goes an' comes back when I'm not thinkin' 'bout it..."

Owen nodded, and pressed down a little harder to alleviate some of the sensation from the needle. "It's a stress response, reverting back to accents that don't take so much strain to uphold." He answered automatically, feeling Curt shift a little bit under his hand.

"Right. Yeah. Somethin' like that."

"You don't have to think about it at all— you presumably grew up sounding like that... So you're focusing on something like the pain of being shot, and suddenly-"

"I'm seventeen again, and I sure as hell sound it, too." This time, Curt did manage a chuckle that didn't seem to hurt so much. Maybe it was because Owen was almost done patching him up, and there was less cause for every alarm bell in his body to be blaring... "Yeah, that's pretty much spot on."

"Would it make you feel any better to know that I have exactly the same stress response?"

"I'm sorry, what now?"

Owen didn't elaborate. He worked on finishing up Curt's stitches, and then started cleaning the needle and packing up the kit. Completely baffled by not getting a response, Curt held up a hand to stop him before he could move away. "Woah, woah, hold on. You're tellin' me you don't sound like that either?"

"It seems we've both been lying about exactly the same thing." A soft smile crossed Owen's face, and he simply decided to discard the kit on the coffee table for the time being. He'd played right into Curt's curiosities there, he supposed, so he might as well play into them a little more...

"I wanna know now!" True to his person, Curt remained ever the curious one. He carefully replaced his shirt, and leaned forwards as much as the pain would allow. "What d'you sound like? Where are you from?"

Owen raised his hands. "Would you let me clean up before I told you that, please?"

Curt resigned with a nod, and followed Owen from the sofa with a glance as he wandered away to wash his hands of the blood that may have otherwise stained his fingertips. When he returned, he was waiting eagerly, intrigued to find out where Owen had come from and why it seemed both of them held sacred the exact same lie.

"I suppose I had the same problem as you," Owen started, as he took a seat next to Curt and shifted enough to look at him. "It was a matter of just... Wishing to be invisible among the men at the agency, and then it became something of a habit..."

"So, what about it, then? Where'd you grow up?"

"I grew up in Southwark. It's... Close enough to Peckham? You've been there."

He had. And he remembered how strong the accents were around there, too. To hear something like that coming from Owen would probably send him into shock, he supposed, especially since he was so used to what he was hearing now. He caught himself staring and shook his head. "No way..."

Owen took a breath. He had to think about dropping the accent he had now, it had become a subconscious effort to keep it up, and he hadn't actively heard his own, true voice in a long time.

"People don't— y'know— really ask for clarification when you tell 'em you're from London, so I tend not to bother givin' any better than that... Besides," he smiled, "I get foreigners thinkin' I'm right posh, and that's kinda fun, really."

Curt stared. He'd literally been gearing himself up for the sudden change, but hearing Owen sound so rough was not something he'd previously ever imagined. "Oh my god... You really never run outta ways to surprise me, huh?"

"Well, you asked..."

"Oh, and I'm not complainin'! 'S just unexpected when I've known you with that other voice for so long."

"I could say the same..."

"Why'd ya let people believe you're posh if you ain't?"

"... 'S easier. Most people just assume all of London is exactly the same, and who'm I to argue?" He leaned in a little, letting his gaze meet Curt's. "But, you wanna know the hardest part 'bout tryna keep that up?"

"Shoot."

"I used to swear like a sailor."

Curt laughed. When he realised Owen was being entirely serious, he laughed only harder. "Now that, I gotta hear!"

"Get me drunk enough, and you have yourself a deal."

#one of these days i'll reblog something other than your writing #today is not that day #i love this hc so much and this drabble is glorious as always #if i convert one of my followers into checking out spies are forever that'll be enough #it's the tragic gay spies of it all :') #starpirateee recs <3

[scripted-downfall]

Soooo. I’m sorry. I accidentally pressed send before I could finish the request. But here’s my fic request.

Warning a bit dark and angsty.

Ted pretended to be friends with Tinky but helped the CCRP capture him. At first he was happy to be free but after a a year something didn’t feel right. So after living happily with Jenny and his family. he went to go see him and is horrified to sees Tinky in a cage completely broken down and looking like death. His horns are cut off his body is beyond messed up and he’s a scared mess.

Ted decides to save him. Even if he knows it might not end well. ( maybe Jenny followed him and is the one to convince him)

I don’t know lol. It’s your choice. Go dark if you want to

A bit dark? A bit angsty? Jesus anon, this is right up my alley, but I dare say it's a little more than a bit angsty 👀

A warning to the rest of you: this gets dark. Proceed with caution

Ted had gotten used to the notion that fate was very much not in his hands, that he couldn't control what happened to him, and that the shitty hand life dealt was just bad luck, or something bigger than him deciding to give him a hard time just because he was there.

then fate had decided to play into his hands. He met the entity responsible for his years of downfall, and suddenly everything else shifted into play. For thirty years of his life, he'd been dealt ream after ream of pure bad luck, but after chance had him find the entity known as the Weaver of Impossibilities— the very same being who had been shuffling the cards of his fate and consistently dealing the worst of the worst— he found he could control fate with nothing more than simple persuasion. And that was a strength he learned to play into.

The day Jenny came back from her stint in Clivesdale, single and alone, he suddenly found himself with a free day. He'd managed to catch her as she was walking across the bridge , and reconnecting with her felt like he'd never lost her at all. They were dating within the fortnight, and she'd moved in straight away, given that she'd been staying in a hotel room until she could find a place to call her own again.

The Weaver remained in the forest. No more than a whisper among the trees at times, and a manifestation of whatever imagination Ted had left at the worst of them. He couldn't tell if he was hallucinating or not, but he actively spoke to this thing on occasion, and he would dare say that he'd sparked some kind of good deal in that time.

It felt like destiny was at his disposal, and for once in his life, he was truly happy. Happy with Jenny, happy with the state of his life… Everything was finally looking up for him.

It wasn't strictly his fault when he managed to accidentally sell out the Weaver, but he felt his disappearance like a knife through his chest when it happened. He was chatting to some woman he'd never seen before, who claimed she was a scientist from the lower floors of CCRP's in-branch development and research sector. And while Ted didn't understand a word of that, he managed to understand that there was a whole team of scientists working right underneath him, and he'd never noticed.

Though, apparently, it was true. There were apparently three sub-floors underneath what he knew to be CCRP, and they were filled with people who, first of all, knew what the company did, and second, actively put research into its development. This was something he could barely comprehend, but she had smiled and told him not to think about it too much.

"But while I'm here, I've been asking around the people on your floor, so I may as well ask you too. You haven't had any... Strange occurrences in the woods lately, have you?"

Ted scoffed. "Lady, everyone has strange experiences in the Witchwood, you're gonna have to be a bit more specific with that one."

She nodded, seemingly expecting this. "Specifically, a feeling like you're being watched, or particularly unexplainable auditory or visual hallucinations."

"... Huh."

"What is it?"

"Y'know, call me crazy, but you've pretty much described my exact experiences the last times ive been in that forest..."

Her face seemed to light up. "Really? And you say this has happened multiple times?"

"Sure. First time was a bit weird, but I went back a few days later to make sure I wasn't losing my mind, y'know?"

She nodded. "You wouldn't mind telling me about that, would you?"

That's how Ted ended up seeing the first sub-floor, of the office he'd worked at for years, for the very first time. He sat down in a comfortable looking office with the scientist, and she pulled out a notebook and pen to record what he was going to tell her. He imagined this was what therapy looked like, though he had no real way of confirming that.

"So, uh... What d'you need from me?"

"Your name, for a start."

"Theodore Spankoffski." Then, quickly, he added, "Ted." He leaned against the chair and folded his arms. Part of him was yet to register the fact that someone might believe him about the thing in the woods, but there was someone there now, and in fact, this woman was there to believe him. She had asked him, based way too specifically on his own experiences, and the way she'd said it made him think there were other people who might believe him too.

God forbid, maybe there was something in the woods...

"What're you saying... That I haven't been making this shit up? That there is something in the woods?"

"I don't know, Mr Spankoffski... There's nothing to say for certain whether there is something in the woods or not. the accounts I've heard so far have been pretty consistent, but that all depends on what you've seen, I suppose." She absently tapped the end of her pen against the notebook spirals, waiting on him to begin his account. He tried to figure out how he was going to phrase this, but kept falling flat. Really, there was no good way of explaining that he had shit luck for three decades of his life, and now suddenly everything was better, because he'd been in conference with this weird fucking thing in the middle of the woods.

"I dunno.... I've been hearing a lot of ticking and shit, like someone taped a speaker next to an old clock and stuck it up on some fuckin' tree. You get me?"

She nodded carefully and noted that down.

"There's that, and then there's a kind of voice? I guess it's clear enough to understand among everything else."

"What does the voice sound like?"

"Best way I can put it is... Grating? I'm gonna sound mad for this, but the first couple times I thought it was in my head, cos I could almost feel it when it spoke to me? Real nails-on-a-chalkboard shit. Have you heard that one before?"

"Can't say I have, no... I don't think anyone's ever tried to tell me they could feel the voice as well as hear it."

"Well, you asked for what happened in the woods, and this is pretty much exactly what happened in the woods..." This was a mistake. The idea of being so open was starting to become a little intimidating to him, and his better instincts were starting to shut off in favour of trying to defend himself and the fact that he knew he wasn't crazy. There was no way he was losing his mind, not if other people had reported things in the forest too... If he wasn't alone, then there was something there, and that meant that he was right to have believed it was all real.

"I'm not saying I don't believe you, I'm just saying you're the first to have ever told me... That. Is there anything else? What about what you saw?"

"Oh, that one's easy." Ted relaxed a little again, letting his shoulders dropped. In all of that, he hadn't realised how tense he'd gotten over the idea that he was actually starting to crack. "I saw this huge presence in the trees. I've seen it... Every time. Yeah, you said something about being watched... I know that feeling. It's like, the moment I set foot in there, there's something following my every move. It's kinda fuckin' creepy, if you ask me... Anyway, yeah, this presence. Six— seven feet or more, this enormous... I dunno, goat? Kinda?"

In all of this, the one thing that Ted neglected to think about was what they were actually doing with that infomation. Scientists put research into things, right? That must have been what they were doing with everything he'd told them. He'd become a willing participant in a science experiment that he didn't know the stakes of, and for some reason, that was absolutely fine by him.

He also didn't think about why they wanted to know so much about whatever was going on in the woods. It took him days to figure out that the Weaver had disappeared, but when he did, he really learned the weight of knowing of the existence of the labs under CCRP.

It started in the dead of night, in the most uncomfortable night of sleep he thought he'd ever had. Before that day, he didn't know that dreams couls be painful, or that they came so vividly; he wasn't entirely sure he dreamt in the first place...

He was alone in the middle of a dense grove of trees that he was sure he'd never seen before. The darkness was thick and stifling, and the trees were so dark they were almost black. Silence— suffocating, dead silence— flooded the air, and Ted considered it a wonder that he could even still breathe.

A dull ache started spreading through his head— starting at his temples and blazing across his forehead. He gained the strength to move enough to reach up towards his temples, as if that was going to do anything to satiate the way his skull seemed to be rattling inside his head. As he winced, something seemed to grow within him. Something visceral and knowing and angry. Something he didn't know, but something he felt he recognised.

Meaningless words flashed through his mind in a series of bright sparks and bursts, which didn't really do anything but make his headache worse.

Follower.

Power.

Betrayal.

Darkness.

Chosen.

He couldn't make sense of it, and the more he tried, the worse it hurt. the trees started to shift, to grow and cage him in. He collapsed to his knees, and then promptly lost all ability to move. As the branches started closing in around him, he started to lose the ability to breathe, too.

As he started to struggle, the branches started to wrap around his head, his neck, binding his arms firmly behind him. He swore he felt something burst through his temples, sharp enough to tear through the wrap of branches and sending a fiery heat pounding through his brain. He screamed. That visceral something tore itself out from his throat and echoed through the trees. He'd never known pain like it, but just at the moment he thought this was the peak of it, the sensation got worse. A sharp branch ripped through the center of his chest— alien-style— and came through the other side dripping in red.

Ted awoke screaming, and forcing himself to take breaths bigger than his panicking mind would allow. His hand shot to his chest, and when he found that there was no gaping wound in his torso, he used it as an excuse to check his heart. Still racing, usurprisingly. He sighed, thankful that he wasn't being torn apart outside of the inescapable aether.

"Teddy?"

A voice. A woman's voice. His gaze snapped over his shoulder, and relief flooded him in an instant. She was still here. He was in his apartment, and he was real, and she was real, too...

"Jenny-"He breathed, as if he didn't want to make himself believe it for fear that she might fall apart in his arms if he let himself believe she was actually there. He tried again, brandishing his relief. "Jenny... Oh my god..."

She hesitated, and then laid a hand on his shoulder. "Teddy, are you okay?"

He could feel the burning in his chest, the residing tension left over in his arms from fighting their binds, and the dull pounding in his head. All of those felt real enough for him to believe that he had actually been in that forest in the middle of nowhere, and that he had witnessed something akin to his own death firsthand. But at the same time, he'd been thrust that violently into the waking world that he was certain that he'd been dreaming. 

"I'm fine, I-" Out of the corner of his eye, he caught something that made him stop in his tracks. there were reddened, twisted marks delved into the skin of his arm, like something had been laced around them way too tight. To really check to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing, he lifted both of his arms to the same level and stared, completely horrified, at the unmistakable twists from the branches in his mind now imprinted onto his flesh. "Shit."

He looked to Jenny. He needed to know that she was seeing this too, that this wasn't just some fraction of nightmare left over in the confines of his mind.

Her brow drew in concern, and with the hand that had just been dislodged from his shoulder through the sudden movement, she traced the indents. "What... Are these?" She whispered, somewhere between horribly concerned and amazed. Those hadn't been there before a few hours ago when they'd fallen asleep, but they almost looked like they'd just happened.

His forearms were covered with those bizzare twists, like something had been tied around his arms way too tight for way too long. Noting she could think of would make those patternsm though, and they looked painful— deep and red and slightly cold to the touch.

"Are they anywhere else?" He asked, once again stricken with panic.

"Anywhere else..." She echoed, scanning his chest and working her way up. She caught sight of more, spreading from his collarbone about half way up his throat. In answer to his question, she nodded slowly, and watched as he frowned.

"Where?"

"Here, on your neck. What happened to you?"

"... Bad dream."

The lines on his neck ran lengthways, as if he'd been strangled with whatever had held his arms in place. It was no wonder he was struggling to breathe... But for all of that to have come from some kind of nightmare? She'd heard of people being injured in dreams before, of course, but never anything about them waking up with those injuries still intact.

The panic had settled in deep, and an instinct that Ted had never before acknowledged came to pass. He suddenly felt the need to confront the woods, the Weaver... Anything that would listen. If this was the start of his bad luck returning, he needed to source it, and he needed to eradicate it before it became too late.  "Listen, Jenny, I-I gotta go."

"Huh?"

"I think I know what that shit is, and I gotta go figure it out. But don't worry, okay? And don't wait up for me... I'll be back before you wake up."

"I don't understand, Teddy..."

"I think it'd be best if you didn't. I promise, babe, I'm fine, and all of this will have blown over by the time you wake up, 'kay? You trust me, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

He nodded, reaching out for her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Trust me on this one, too." He picked up a pair of trousers from the ground and threw them on with the first t-shirt he could find— some faded old band tee he'd had since he was a teenager. On the way out, he grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen, and told himself once again that, yes, he knew exactly what he was doing, and yes, he really was leaving everything real behind in favour of working out the inner darkness of his mind.

His hand ran up the base of his neck, where Jenny had pointed out the other branch marks. They were the same, raised and jagged and terrifyingly close to cutting off his airways. As a precaution, he brushed through his hair and felt around his temples. Much to his relief, there wasn't a trace of blood up there. That was strange; why was it that the branches could be noticed after he'd woken up, but the violent something that had literally tore from his brain had no effect on him?

Instinct took him to the borders of the forest, and he clicked the flashlight into action. The beam flickered, and his breath wavered; he'd frankly never felt less confident in his entire life. But he had to see whether the nightmare foliage existed somewhere in the depths of the Witchwood.

His light bounced off the groves in the trees, and though he didn't entirely realise it, there was a part of him that was looking for the Weaver. Bad luck and the curse of his forefathers came back full force, and he needed to know why. Since talking to the Weaver, he had come to realise that he was the reason his fate had changed.

This was the first time he'd so much as thought about the woods since that interview. How long had it been now? Months? Over a year? He couldn't say he knew for certain...

"Uh, hello? Anyone there?" His voice came out uncertain, wavering slightly more than he'd come to apprecciate. In a time past, he would've heard the clock by now, that incessant ticking filling his ears and drowning out the possibility of other sounds even existing in this space. Today it was all too quiet, and his voice cast an echo, just as it would through any other forest.

The silence was noticeable. This forest seemed to run on clockwork— which was indeed one of the only things keeping him from fully being able to believe that any of this was real— and the constant motion of gears paired with the sturdy timekeeping that had never so much as faltered in all of his time was now just... Gone. Shattered. Leaving nothing in the woods but a thankless abyss. His head turned with the motions of his flashlight beam, looking for a sign of life.

There was nothing in the air but his own breath, and nothing on the ground but the sturdy sound of his footsteps in the dirt. All at once, he remembered the interview he undertook in the basement. How had it taken him so long to realise there was a basement in CCRP? Clearly, there was a good reason they didn't want it known to the rest of the office…

To him, that meant nothing but the fact that they were clearly hiding something. And that told him his next direction. Knowing that there was something potentially shady going on right underneath the broken printer network and the regular weekday get togethers in the break room to discuss the happenings of the week. Away from anything normal, there was that, and he figured it was something to be wary of.

It was some unholy hour by the time he'd trailed the length of the town, looking for his office block in the dark and trying not to make himself look weird by using the flashlight too much. It was just a little breaking and entering, nothing much to it! He knew where the back entrance to the office block was; that was something he'd used to his advantage on many an occasion to take a smoke break where nobody would bother him. The lock was flimsy with age, and nobody tended to go around there even at the best of times, so he found himself ducking into that familiar side alley and heading towards the back entrance. He could still navigate the office from the back, he supposed.

He wandered the length of the lobby, looking for the staircase he'd taken with the scientist before he'd sat down in her office. It had been hidden by a door that he always assumed was a broom cupboard, and thinking about that made it a lot easier. He'd passed that broom cupboard more times than he could count over the years, and he'd always thought how weird a place it was in, and how small it must've been on the inside.

Of course, he was right about that. There was no room either side of the first flight of stairs, just thin, grey walls and those echoing wooden stairs. Guided by the flashlight beam, he led himself down, towards the first sub-floor. That was the one he was familiar with, but it also made the most sense to start there. That scientist had worked on this floor. Her office was here, so whatever experiment or research she was running was likely going to be on this floor.

He looked around cautiously, passing a long row of individual offices on one side of the wall, and large, glass panelled rooms on the other, all labelled and co-ordinated depending on what they did. A-4, frequency limitation testing. A-13, space time continuum research and development. He turned a corner, and all of the A labelled corridors became B labelled corridors. All of the signs were interesting, and he made a mental note of a few of them to look into later. This was incredibly interesting to him, how much could be going on under his feet while he and everyone else who worked the offices had no idea.

Another corner led him to a bunch of rooms under the C label. He had to give it to these freaks, they certainly knew how to organise their shit… Again, all of the doors were labelled with the major experiment taking place within, until he found one that made him stop in his tracks.

C-8.

There was nothing listed for this elusive lab C-8. That, or the label so carefully slipped into the frame of the other doors had simply been discarded somewhere. While there was no indication of what they were doing in there, there was a note on the door, hastily scrawled out in a handwriting that looked like the owner had been in quite a rush.

Do not enter. Experiment conditions extremely unstable.

Ted tried the door. It was stuck tight. With a blind determination he hadn't seen in himself before, he backed up towards the wall on the other side, and made a break for it, trying to barge the door in with his shoulder. The first time, he heard a crack that he couldn't identify as either something from the door or from himself, but no movement on the door.

Again and again, he backed up and slammed as much force as he could muster into the door before the hinges gave out, and he crashed to the ground among the near splintered door, ripped from it's frame. The intensity at which he hit the floor drew a pained cry out of him, then he bit his lip and forced himself into thinking that, although it was some crazy time of the morning, there may well still be someone still on the premises.

He pulled himself to his feet and found the flashlight resting on the door where he'd fell. After a few sturdy taps against the back of his hand, it flickered back into life, and he started to look around, mainly to see what the hell had gone on in this room that was so bad it had to warrant the place being sealed off…

This room didn't really have a lot to show for itself; the place looked like it had been well and truly abandoned. Not in any state of disarray, either. It simply looked like everyone had upped and left at first opportunity. There was even a half finished, positively freezing glass of water festering away on the desk. The bugs had gotten to it, by the looks of things, and Ted decided he didn't want to think about that or the weird smell that hung in the air. Something was deeply off about this whole thing… He felt wrong for being there.

Asides from the faint sound of his own footsteps, the only sound in the entire place seemed to be someone's broken old watch, ticking a few paces forwards then a few paces back. It struggled, it stammered, and Ted briefly wondered why it was so loud.

"SpanKOFFSKI!"

A voice tore through the thick silence, strained, furious, and marred with misuse. At first, he thought it was behind him, so he turned slowly, in order to not give himself away too much. Someone- or some_thing_ knew his name, knew who he was. That was never good on it's own, but when he'd seen nobody else here since he left work the previous night, it sent a deep wave of fear shooting through his body.

His flashlight beam caught it before he did. There was one thing in the room that had been entirely abandoned, and when Ted eventually followed the line of his light, his breath caught in his throat.

"Oh my fucking god-"

To say the least, what he saw before him was a cage. Tall, imposing, and still holding strong despite the thick layers of deep brown rust set into the bars. In the middle of all that, broken and barely recognisable, was the Weaver. Ted knew the shape of the figure immediately, although it had once stood so tall and intimidating in the middle of the woods. There was a glaringly obvious list of things wrong with him, though, from the blood matting his skin, to the sheer amount of raw flesh exposed to the open air, breathing shakily in time with the rising and falling of his torso. The part of him that was nothing more than bone looked withered, the visible half of his skull cracked and malformed.

Ted's flashlight beam darted over the wounds in turn, and the dreading pit in his stomach grew worse with everything he set his sights on. He didn't know what had happened here in the slightest, but as he dared to turn his gaze away for a second, he caught sight of something on the desk that was clearly made to be somewhere else.

C-8. Temporal manipulation.

His eyes went wide, and he reached out to grab the plaque that should've sat on the door. Temporal manipulation… For some reason, that made all too much sense. To him, this being had always been associated with the careful winding of an old pocket watch, and the first swing of a grandfather clock's pendulum, and the very idea of clockwork, so this… This made sense to him. That thing was some kind of master of time. It had dominions over a domain he would never begin to understand, and the fact that he'd seen Jenny again at all was suddenly no coincidence. He had been played right into the hands of something that could control the very idea of time itself.

He didn't know whether that made him lucky or cursed. Right now he didn't care.

Before he could turn his attention back on the being, his eyes shot open, he pulled himself from the ground, and had reached out to pull Ted closer. He stared into manic blue eyes, more resembling that of a goat, and crazed with what looked like centuries of torment. Not his torment, but that of others. Ted saw years and years worth of people who had died and been reborn, lost in the flow of existence and never to be seen again. He had to force himself to look away, but there was nowhere else to look.

The thing seemed to examine the wounds on his neck, then noticed the identical ones lacing his arms. His head jerked one way, then the other. Ted was too focused on keeping the flashlight in hand to do anything about fighting the intense grip pulling him towards the bars of the cage.

Betrayal.

Betrayer.

The words started to make sense. Four fragments of a story started to fit together, to morph from the world of dreams and manifest themselves in a more solid place in his head. That was him. His was the betrayal that had set this into motion. The darkness had set over the woods was because of him. He'd been chosen by this thing, and he'd done nothing but sell it out.

 

But that also meant that the power was in his hands. That he was the one who could fix this.

 

"I know… What I have to do…" He managed, and in an instant, the thing released him, collapsing back against the bars.

 

Without saying a word, he started searching for something that would amend his mistakes. Nobody else so much as came in laboratory C-8 anymore, they wouldn't know if something had happened, or if someone had been brave enough to try and take destiny into their own hands. This wasn't going to be as simple as a key or something he would normally think to use. This place had been abandoned for so long that they had likely taken the last semblances of hope for the Weaver's escape along with them.

Ted settled on the heaviest thing he could muster, and started denting the bars as if he were some kind of master smith, attempting to make light work of molten metal. The layers upon layers of rust settled against the freezing metal made it slightly easier, but Ted could've wished for some kind of assistance, at least. Or for it to be a little less loud. The only thought circulating his brain was that this would work. He knew fate. He had accepted his own, bad as it was. He could live with that. But for once, there was a little confidence in the very concept of destiny... That maybe, he'd be able to change things if he just tried hard enough.

If someone else had been there with him, they hadn't made their presence known, not even as he got down on his knees and started busting the old cage with nothing more than blind determination and a paperweight.

But it was making an impact. The repetitive clanging against his ears, for one, but it did seem that he was actually making progress.

He didn't know how long he was at it, but eventually it was long enough to be able to bend back the bar and fully dislodge it. The other ones came easier after that, and eventually— violent ringing in his ears be damned— he had a gap large enough that the Weaver could escape through.

"Go-!" Ted panted, shaking out his hand and letting the paperweight clatter to the ground. "Get the fuck outta here!"

#it is dark but it's also gorgeous!!! #y'all the writing here is honestly top-notch #i don't even have words #best shit frfr #just read it if you happen to have the time/energy/chance!!!! #starpirateee recs <3

[scripted-downfall]

Fic request please but its very meh because i am not very creative tbh

any chance i could ask for a billted drabble? i saw your ted post and have realized that its a cool idea and i am curious as to how u would write them

Welcome back to: more characters I have never written somehow!

How have I got this far and never written Bill? Well I suppose there's a first time for everything, and I'm happy to oblige! this is bouncing off something @scripted-downfall said to me, because the idea is literally a small parasite in my brain and I had to write it out before I lost my mind

tw for blood and injury

"Why the fuck is this such a big secret to you? Who the hell's gonna care if they see you with me?!"

Bill remembered every word of that argument, how close he'd gotten to snapping, and then how quickly everything went over the edge. He had too much pride to admit that he liked seeing himself with Ted, and had covered over the last few dates they'd been on in his head with the excuse that friends go out to the theatre together and Ted would be the only one to want to go anyway.

It was hard to admit that he actually felt for Ted, especially like that. He'd fallen a long time ago, for the charming air and slightly corny lines he'd try and pull in the break room. There was something about Ted that Bill had never found himself in the appeal for previously, but all of that had changed when he'd actually started to pay attention. Because, to put it one way, Ted wasn't half bad, and he was surprisingly suited to the idea of slowing the pace and just… Settling down. Ted had once admitted that he could probably count on one hand the number of people who knew about his innermost desire to just have a normal life like everyone else had. Bill was on that list somewhere. Part of him wanted to know who else was.

He supposed it didn't much matter now. They'd fought, because Bill wasn't fully in tune with the idea that he and Ted could be together and nobody would really cast judgement beyond maybe asking the reason why he chose Ted of all people. They just wouldn't understand, not even if he tried to explain it to them. Ted was not like everyone thought he was, and that's what they wouldn't believe about him.

"Y'know what, Bill? Have it your way. I can't be bothered to try and keep this shit up with you."

That was the last time anyone had seen Ted, apparently. He'd stormed out into the street, and apparently, nobody had seen him since. At first, Bill thought he was just ignoring him, that he was refusing to answer the phone and wouldn't respond to any of the texts because he was still mad, and he'd come around in time enough for the two of them to try and work something out.

He checked every time he got another text, wondering whether he'd just missed the notification, but every time he looked it told the same story. Ted hadn't even opened the messages. Eventually, his phone just stopped ringing altogether, and Bill's attempts went straight to his voicemail. He didn't want to seem desperate, and he'd given up on figuring out what to say by the third time he heard those achingly familiar words.

Hey, this is Ted. I'm a little busy right now, if you know what I mean~ …Anyway, if it's important, you know what you gotta do…"

And he had. Twice.

"Ted… It's Bill. Look, I get that you're trying to ignore me, but can we just talk about this? I know you're mad. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't… But it's been two days, and I haven't heard a word from you! I just want to work this out, okay?"

"Hey… It's me again. Charlotte said she hasn't heard from you either? What's going on! Are you going to just keep ignoring everyone? Look, just… Just call me back, okay? I need to talk to you."

By the third day, Bill had given up trying to call, to text. But that didn't mean Ted was any less on his mind. What had he done that was so bad that Ted had stopped talking to everyone? Was he okay? He understood him not talking to him, but there was the matter of people like Charlotte, who had no part in this, and yet who Ted refused to communicate with even so… It didn't make sense, at least not for a few hours. In the dead of night, after he had decided that he wasn't getting anywhere just by thinking about it, he was awoken by a harsh knock at his door.

Part of him hoped it was Ted. Even though he knew for a fact that Ted didn't knock anywher near that hard.

It wasn't Ted at all. It was about as far from Ted as he could possibly get. Standing at his door was a tall, serious looking cop, with a notebook in hand. Bill faltered.

"Bill Woodward?"

He nodded, unable to think of anything he could've possibly done that might warrant a cop in the middle of the night.

"I need to talk to you about the disappearance of Ted Spankoffski… His brother believes you might've been one of the last people to see him."

In the moment, Bill froze. His heart pounded in his ears, and he had to force himself to breathe before the panic set in too preemptively. "Ted's gone? When? Wh-what happened?"

"We don't know… All we know is that he was seen on the afternoon of the 15th, and nobody's seen him since. But, as I said, his brother seems to think that he was with you at some point after that. Is that true?"

Today was the 19th. It was 1:30 in the morning on the 19th. Ted had been missing for a little over three days. Hearing that sent a shiver running up Bill's spine, and he stiffened, glad that he was still holding onto his front door. "Uh… Yeah. Yeah, I saw him on the night. Around 8, I think."

"Did he mention leaving town to you?"

"No."

"Not at all?"

"… No."

"No, I wanna know! Is your problem with me?" Ted stared him down, not so much forcing an answer from him as demanding an explanation to an all too righteous question. He had every right to ask it, and Bill knew it well.

"No, it's not you…" He knew he wasn't entirely sure of that answer. And he thought Ted had worked that much out from the way he scoffed.

"You're so fucking ridiculous…" Ted shook his head, running an exasperated his hand through his hair. "Jesus, you know I don't care if it _is me, right? I'd rather you just said something!"_

"What happened between you and Mr Spankoffski that night?"

For once, it wasn't the early hour putting Bill off from his thoughts. It was the crushing anvil of grief that had started barrelling down his chest the moment he realised that Ted wasn't just being petty and ignoring him, he'd actively been declared missing. Nobody- not even his god damn brother- knew where he was, and he was coming to the alarming realisation that he may have been the last person to have seen him.

He may be the last man to ever see Ted Spankoffski alive.

His knuckles paled against the doorframe, purely through how hard he was now gripping it. His breath wavered, and Ted became the only thing able to occupy his mind. God only knows he was trying to stop thinking about the idea that he could be indirectly responsible for Ted's death, if anything was to happen to him… Wherever he'd gone. But the truth of the matter was that he couldn't stop thinking about it, no matter how hard he tried. Because there was a good chance that he was responsible, if not to some degree, at least. And that weighed heavy on his mind.

"We argued. Ted, he… He called me out, he had every right to, and then he left. I haven't heard from him since."

"Have you made an attempt?"

He nodded, slowly. His eyes absently landed on his phone on the coffee table, before he found it in him to turn back to the cop. "I've tried to call, but I think his phone might be dead. Straight to voicemail, every time I tried…"

The last words of the argument echoed through his head. I can't be bothered to try and keep this shit up with you. He knew well enough to know what that was. If there had been something serious between the two of them- if he hadn't screwed it up enough to actually admit that he liked the way they were together- then that was Ted asking for a break up. ending their relationship in favour of going off and being just as he was before. But, at this point, Bill wasn't entirely sure that there was a relationship for them to break up.

And to top it all off, Ted might be dead.

He didn't sleep that night, not even long after the cop left him behind- presumably to ask someone else or write up what little report he was given. His mind was way too occupied to be able to get any rest whatsoever. Ted was gone. What had happened to him? A lot of people disappeared around here, it happened often enough that people seemed to have lost all semblance of caring, but it mattered to him. He mattered to him. And he wasn't going to stop until he found out what had happened to him.

He tried to keep in frequent enough contact with Ted's brother, who seemed genuinely relieved that there was another person in on the search. The two of them tried for all it was worth to look for Ted, but neither of them got very far. Weeks passed- Bill only knew that because he counted them carefully- before there was anything of a sign at all.

True to his luck, that sign manifested itself as a knock on his door in the dead of night.

He braced himself. There was a small part in the back of his mind saying this was it. This was the cops again, and they were going to tell him that they'd found Ted's body. That echoed through the space in his mind, and he tried to get used to it a little, so when he eventually heard it, it wouldn't make him break immediately.

When he opened the door, he laid eyes upon the last person he expected to see darkening his doorway, and immediately startled. There, breathing like he'd just ran a mile, and covered in dirt, sweat, and something Bill came to recognise as blood, was Ted. He was holding himself up, an arm wrapped around his chest, and as soon as he laid eyes on Bill, something in him seemed to crack. The floodgates opened immediately, and before Bill could think to say anything, or to give an apology, Ted stumbled forwards, and ended up in Bill's arms, sobbing into his shoulder.

Confused, but relieved beyond measure to see him again, Bill led Ted inside, and they stood in the doorway, slightly further away from the bitter cold. So many thoughts were racing in his mind that he couldn't keep them all in check. More questions than he dared to try and ask, as well as the blatant need to see to the clear wounds that Ted had amassed.

Ted lifted his gaze for only a moment, and Bill met his eyes as they glazed over with tears again. "Bill, I- I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry…" He managed, though Bill barely caught it through the next sob that racked his chest.

Sorry? What the hell was he sorry for?

"Ted, you've been gone for weeks… What happened to you?" Where did you go? Why are you bleeding? He tried to keep his tone soft, but he was honestly surprised he wasn't gripping him by the shoulders and checking to see if he was real, so anything else was a bonus.

"I don't- it doesn't matter… Please, Bill, I… I fucked up. I don't wanna fight. I didn't mean to- to say any of that shit, I swear…"

On one hand, despite the fact that Bill was going to say it didn't matter because Ted was bleeding why was he bleeding where did the blood come from, the words had cut deep, and he wasn't going to pretend they didn't hurt. On the other, apparently more prominent hand, Ted was alive, and breathing, and here, and suddenly, none of that mattered anymore.

"It's not… It's not your fault. I got pissed for- for no reason, and I get if you hate me it's just… I needed to find you."

"It's okay, Ted…" Bill muttered, pulling away enough to close the door behind them. "It's… Fine. You're not the only one who said stuff he didn't mean."

Ted looked up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He didn't know whether his mind was fully capable of communicating what he wanted to say, and he wasn't entirely sure whether he was able to vocalise it anyway. In short, his mind was a mess, and the last weeks hadn't helped that in the slightest. "We cool?"

"We're fine, I promise… Are you still bleeding?"

"Uh… I'm not sure… I don't think so?"

#okay look i know i tried to make y'all read the curtwen fic (which i stand by) #but i also need to try to make y'all read this one too okay #it's absolutely glorious #i'm honoured to have been a part of it and i've already reread it like six times okay #i know almost none of y'all are starkid people but read thisssss (pls) #starpirateee recs <3

[scripted-downfall]

“Like a nighthawk, he preys” hits a lot harder when the only nighthawk in the show, being Zeke The Fightin Nighthawk, prays for his life right before max kills him.

#oh gods #(/pos to op)