#RIP TO THE REST OF BUILD A PROBLEM BUT IVE BEEN WAITING FOR BORED LIKE ME FOR AGES THIS IS THE ONLY SONG I WILL BE LISTENING TO

[kestralslibrary]

whumptober day 2 - “they don’t care about you.” + alt prompt 8: hunting

[feat. a lil ending thing under the read more!]

“They don’t care about you. You know that, right?”

The grumble that escapes Kaycee is one full of annoyance and bitterness. She’s heard this multiple times, from multiple people, in this damn place. It feels bitter every time someone says it to her. It felt bitter when this place was just fluorescent lights, antiseptic, and a fight for life. It feels bitter now, even with the darkness and dampness that the building holds. She’d torch what remained if she could, really. Torch it and all the memories that it held.

Instead, she just sits on the frame of a hospital bed, in a long-ago burnt out hospital room in a long-ago burnt out hospital. The air’s still dusty and ashy despite having been vacated and abandoned years ago now. The only light that comes in is through a broken window, unfiltered yellow lighting the darkness.

Across from her sits broken medical equipment- shattered screens, bent IV poles, cabinets and drawers thrown open by squatters that came here long ago. Anything that has any worth is long gone, whether that be because of being stolen or destroyed in the fire.

“So what’s your point?” She finally snaps back, shoving off of the bedframe and meandering her way towards who had just spoken to her.”You’re telling me shit I already know. I know that they don’t care about me. I’m not stupid.” She’s fiddling with her hair while she stands there, but her eyes bore into the blue ones that stare at her from the corner. “So why waste your time?”

Eric’s probably got a solid eight inches on her, with eyes like a clear blue sky and black hair that curls up at the bottom. He’s standing with his arms folded across his chest and a smirk on his face, watching as Kaycee moves to stand in front of him. If he wanted to, he could heft her up on his shoulder and drop her out the window. It would be easy. It would be so easy to just be rid of her.

But that’s the problem- if she dies, he does too. It’s almost like a joke that he’s not in on, and its one that he’s getting tired of.

“So the point is, you can do whatever you want to do? Fuck, Kaycee, you’re invisible. Everyone thinks you’re dead, and everyone’s moved on. No one’s going to come looking for you, or try to find you, or anything.” Eric laughs, and it’s enough to make Kaycee want to punch him in his stupid face. He’s the reason she’s alive, after all. If he hadn’t pulled that little stunt back when they were both stuck in the lab, she’d be dead. So really, she owes him.

“... that sounds like a threat.“ Kaycee narrows her stare, not quite standing in front of him. He could easily grab her if he wanted to, but it almost seems like he’s waiting for her to make the first move. “Was that a threat?”

“Only a threat if you want to be.” The tone Eric says it in seems to convey that it, in fact, should be taken as a threat. When she tries to back away, he lurches forward and grabs her arm, and the glint in his eyes is nothing short of a hunter that’s stalking its prey. “But I think it would be in your best interest to take it as such.”

Kaycee knows that look, but she’d never been the target of that look. Usually, he’s the type to launch to her defense. Usually, he’s the one ripping other people apart when she’s in danger. She’s never been the one to be at the receiving end of his anger…

And yet, here she was.

She wrenches her arm back from him, letting out a soft growl to accompany the motion. He never lets the grip go, but the arm looks like it glitches through his hand. He shakes it for a moment to bring it back to form before he just tilts his head, looking her up and down with a cocked brow. Is she going to run?

Kaycee just groans and turns, walking away and back to the window, staring out it. The rest of the hospital is probably just as bad as this part, but maybe she’d at least be able to find something she could use. Something in her gut says that this time will just be the same as the others- he gives her a head start. She takes it.

He hunts her. They fight. She dies.

He revives her. And they do this dance again.

“Figured.” The sound of footsteps kicking through dust comes up behind her, and an arm goes around her shoulder. In a flick of movement, there’s a pack of cigarettes in that hand. “Want a light?”

“Fine.” She reaches up and takes one, sticking it in her mouth while she fishes for her lighter. A few seconds and a light later, she draws in a breath, then exhales it slowly. The smoke trails up and away from them, disappearing into the air.

It’s almost romantic, really.

“Ten minutes this time? Think you’ll be able to make decent time with that?” Eric huffs out, taking a drag from his own and turning his head so that the smoke doesn’t blow in her face. “I might even be able to give you fifteen this time. Because they don’t care, but I do.”

“Oh, fuck off.” 

They’re both standing at the window, looking out it like they’re on the coast, watching the sun rise or something. Almost romantic. Almost.

“What, would you rather me start hunting you the moment you leave this room?”

“I’d rather you didn’t hunt me at all, actually.” Kaycee takes another long, deep drag, holding the smoke in for a few extra moments before blowing it out. “That’s the most ideal thing. You stop hunting me and we go back to what we were.” She shrugs, tapping the ash off the end of the cigarette onto the floor and stepping on it. “Before whatever this is happened.”

He’s silent for a few minutes, almost like he’s lost in thought. Kaycee turns to glance at him, and for those few moments, he looks normal. Calm, if a bit distant. Any moment, he’ll turn to her and grin and press a kiss to her forehead, and they’ll get in the car and go for a dr-

That’s not going to happen, though.

“Hm, maybe one day. Maybe when I’m bored. Or… maybe when I don’t care enough to treat you like a wild animal anymore.” Eric’s finished his cigarette by now, tossing it onto the ground and stepping on it. In the same motion, he pulls his arm back from her shoulder, ruffling her hair a decent bit. “You’re fun to toy with, though.”

“Again, fuck you.” She takes the final drag from her own, crushing it underfoot as well, and dusts her hands off. “We’re doing this now, I guess?”

“Sure, why not?” There’s the predatory purr to his tone again, his eyes glinting in the light. “I think we’ve killed enough time. You’ve got ten. Make them count.”

Kaycee flips him off, turning on her heel and bolting into the hallway.

She knows these halls- where the holes are, where she can duck into rooms, shortcuts to other hallways. She’s done this multiple times- and yet, every time, she’s surprised. Maybe that’s a side effect of Eric’s very presence- after all, someone with the title of the Administrator would have a way to fuck with all of this. This is his game, anyway- it would make sense. 

So far, she’s taken a new route to put walls between him and her. Walls always seemed to buy her extra time- or maybe he was just letting her believe that. She’s not sure at this point, really. For all she knows, he could be orchestrating this to make her believe she has a chance to escape.

It’s thirty minutes before Kaycee hears anything.and feels a stab of pain shoot down her arm. There’s a sound of glass breaking somewhere nearby, accompanied by distant sirens. When she looks down, she’s greeted by the sight of a thin trickle of blood originating from a hole in her upper arm. Almost like she’s been shot. Damn it. He’d seen her and was hiding in shadows somewhere.

She’s in a cafeteria now, dodging through broken tables and navigating over broken glass before there’s another, much stronger stab of pain. Again, like she’s been shot. This time, it’s in her side. It makes her stumble, almost losing her balance and collapsing into what remains of a broken window. When she looks around the large space, she thinks she can almost catch a glimpse of Eric.

Well, that’s not really Eric now. That’s the Administrator.

She runs as fast as she can, but it’s never quite fast enough. Not even running between tables and into the actual kitchen portion of the room gives her any extra safety- he seems to move with the swiftness and agility of a cheetah, easily jumping any blockades she’s put between them. The wounds she has burn with the exertion she’s put on them, and her arm and side of her shirt are crimson.

She makes the mistake of pausing to take a breath, and that’s when he grabs her by the throat and holds her up. 

Kaycee’s not sure what burns more- the wounds or his hand on her neck. But she slams an arm into his elbow to try and break the grip he’s got, kicking at his stomach to try and push him away. It, by some miracle, works, and she hits the ground while he has to regain his balance. He never goes down, though, and while she’s moving to get back up, he grabs and wrenches her arms behind her. In the same movement, there’s a knife at her throat.

“You know… I gotta hand it to you. If the others were still around, they’d be impressed. That’s a record for you!” His voice crackles like static in her brain, and the discomfort causes her to begin to writhe again. “Maybe next time, you’ll get to forty! Maybe even an hour, eventually.” The metal digs into her skin, but doesn’t cut just yet. “I’m sure if they were here, they’d care enough to help, don’t you?” 

Kaycee writhes, but that only tightens the grip he’s got on her. The knife presses closer, cold against her neck. The edges of her vision are starting to go fuzzy- and she always hated when he pulled that. It was getting boring, really- the dazed and confused act got so drab after a while. All she knows is that she can’t stop moving- stillness is death, and she’s one slippery bitch.

“Fuck off.” She manages to get a hand free, elbowing him in the stomach. It seems to catch him off guard- actually off guard- because he lets her go and stumbles back, the knife moving away from her throat. She turns, following him, and wrenches the knife blade-first from his hand, ignoring the stinging pain in her fingers. Before he’s had a chance to recover, she has the blade pressed to his throat.

“Now, now,” he just chuckles, looking her over with a smirk. “You know what killing me does, don’t you? Then you really don’t have anyone to care about you. I’m all you’ve got. You’re not actually going to ki-”

“They called me a godkiller before. You saw what I did to Gardener, and Photographer. I have no fucking problem doing that to you.” The metal digs into his skin, blood welling up from the cut. “You… you  fucked up by saving me. Because that wasn’t Eric’s doing.” She chuckles, adjusting the grip on the knife. The blood’s made it hard to keep a constant, good hold on it, but… something tells her that she doesn’t have to worry much about that. “Did you forget what they did to me? They made me a weapon. And they gave me one very simple thing to live by. Do you know what that is?” Her own blood is beginning to drip down the hilt and onto the blade, and for a moment, she can’t tell whose blood is whose.

“Let me guess, never rest, nev-”

“Wrong. If gods can bleed, Admin, gods can die.”

The shortening of his title makes a growl rise in his throat, but when he goes to lunge, Kaycee drags the blade fully across. The violence of the motion causes a small blood splatter to flick from the knife’s tip into an arc on the floor. There’s a choking sound that comes from him as he attempts to reach up to grab at her hands, but before he gets too far, she digs the knife- to the hilt- into his temple. A few moments later, and he goes still.

When Kaycee finally gets up, she doesn’t go far before she collapses, head spinning from the exertion and the wounds she’d sustained. The entire side of her shirt, at this point, was stained red, and her arm was shaking. But she couldn’t do anything to staunch the bleeding.

Even if she’d killed him, she’d just bleed out. And this time, there was no coming back. All she could do was close her eyes and wait for the end to come. An end she finally welcomed. 

And when the darkness comes for her-

She’s back at the window, with Eric’s arm around her shoulders and the two of them sharing a cigarette break. It’s a horrible sense of deja vu. She’s supposed to be dead.

“I’d rather you didn’t hunt me at all, actually.” She takes another long, deep drag, holding the smoke in for a few extra moments before blowing it out. “That’s the most ideal thing. You stop hunting me and we go back to what we were.” She shrugs, tapping the ash off the end of the cigarette onto the floor and stepping on it. “Before whatever this is happened.”

He’s silent for a few minutes, almost like he’s lost in thought. Kaycee turns to glance at him, and for those few moments, he looks normal. Calm, if a bit distant. Any moment, he’ll turn to her and grin and press a kiss to her forehead, and they’ll get in the car and go for a dr-

“Alright. We can stop. It’s getting kind of boring anyway.” 

When she turns to stare at him, almost incredulously, it’s the expression she knows- calm, if a bit distant. He grins, kissing her forehead, and tosses the cigarette behind him, then looks out the window.

“Think the car’s still running? I mean, I can probably get it to run again if it’s not, but… would be easier if it was.” He keeps the grip on her shoulders, squeezing her gently. “C’mon, let’s get outta here. I think we’ve done our time.”

Kaycee almost can’t believe it- and when they finally manage to step foot outside, it doesn’t immediately return them to the top floor. No, they’re outside, in the sun, and fresh air, and whatever they were stuck in, it’s over. It’s over.

#whumptober 2023 #character: kaycee blackwell #universe: madness #ships: young gods (kaycee x eric)

[count-woe-laf]

AND SO WE SIT HERE AND TALK IN CIRCLES- POINTED POLITENESS TILL WE TURN PURPLE

OH REALLY CAN WE CUT IT ALL AND BREAK THE WALLS AND TALK LIKE WE'VE BEEN MARRIED FOURTY YEARS

#IGNORE ME JUST- #SCREAMMMMM #RIP TO THE REST OF BUILD A PROBLEM BUT IVE BEEN WAITING FOR BORED LIKE ME FOR AGES THIS IS THE ONLY SONG I WILL BE LISTENING TO #LIKE !!!!!! ITS SO GOOOOD #I CANT WAIT TO LISTEN TO THE REST OF THE ALBUM BUT RN THIS IS THE ONLY SONG IN MY HEAD #ASFHGASFJHGFSAKHGAKJSGF!!!!! #ANYWAYS- BACK TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED NORMAL DASH WITHOUT PEN BEING ANNOYING #the pasta speaks #tw caps #dodie #?

[the-stick-scribblers]

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, like they tell you to do when you're anxious and you just need everything to slow down.  And I think of Ireland because I remember the rolling green hills giving me this peaceful feeling, and that's what I want now.  This is what I'm imagining as I lay here, the IV in my arm, a place almost as far from here as possible.

Drawing blood, I suddenly understand the phrase in a way I haven't before.  Sort of dark to imagine, the tiny needle literally pulling blood from the vein in my arm, slowly draining it into the clinical plastic bag at my side.  God, why do they have to be clear?  The temptation to open my eyes, even just one of them, if only for a second, is strong.  I don't know why.  I hate this.  I can't even think about it without getting sick to my stomach, hence the conjured images of craggy green hills against a gray sea and white sky.  I cling to them but my stomach does a sick sort of flop anyway.

"Question," says a voice from my left, but I assume it's addressing one of the volunteers and I ignore it.  Then, "What are you doing here if you obviously hate it so much?"

Carefully, I turn my head -- fortunately the voice is speaking from the side opposite my own plastic bag -- and open my eyes.  The man, not much older than me I guess, on the table closest to me is lying with his own arm outstretched, and I can see his bag of blood just fine, though he isn't looking at it but at me.

"Sorry?" I say.  Isn't it sort of common knowledge that you leave each other alone at these things?

"You hate this," he repeats.  "So why come?"

He has a haughty sort of expression on his face, and I notice that his clothes are nice.  Well-fitted, and his shirt, rolled up to the elbow on his right side, just above where the IV is taped to his arm, looks expensive.  He's probably just here for something to do because he has no real responsibility.

I turn my head away again and roll my eyes.  This is a mistake, as it sends another wave of nausea rolling through me.  "It's a good thing to do," I say.  And this will be the end of it, I assume.

Only then the stranger says, "Oh, you're one of those.  A Do-Gooder."

Despite myself, I'm intrigued -- and annoyed.  Why else would anyone be here, and how dare this complete stranger write it off as trivial, silly, meaningless.  He doesn't even know me.

"Brian," he says then, and this time my head whips toward him.  He's laughing before I remember I'm wearing a brightly-colored name tag, the name "Brian," my name in at least one sense, scrawled across it in a bold, blocky script that couldn't be more different from my own.  "Brian Do-Gooder."

"What is your problem?" I ask him, and to my surprise he answers me.

"About a dozen things probably, though only three or four are the reason I'm here."

This startles me into paying more attention and I notice that the mystery guy's name is on his name tag too.

"Thurio?" I say.

"Shakespeare."

"Why?"

"No idea," Thurio says.  "It's not like I named myself."

Fair point, I guess.  Again I notice his clothes.  They're too nice to be at a blood drive, or maybe that's just what he wants people to think?  I'm not sure what to make of his statement that his problems are his reason for being here.  Does he mean literally -- is he sick?  Does that even make sense?  Maybe he means he's broke, though it doesn't look like he's donating anything they pay you for.

"Let me guess," he says now, and he tips his head further back against the little, paper-toweled pillow beneath his head.  "You think there's something wrong with you.  Maybe you've done something you're not proud of.  Hurt someone.  In the boring sense?"  He lifts his head from the pillow and looks at me more closely, like he can read what I'm thinking if he tries hard enough.  "No," he says slowly, drawing the word out, a long O.  "I don't think so.  Something more interesting.  But still not as bad as you act like it is.  And this is your way to attempt making some sort of cosmic amends.  Probably no one even knows you're here.  Am I right?"  He doesn't give me a chance to answer, but instead barrels on, with apparently no care for how rude he's being.  "So what'd you do?  God, you didn't get someone pregnant, did you?  This would be a really ironic way to try to make up for that, and it severely pales."

"I didn't get anyone pregnant," I say, and Thurio nods to me, as though he has suspected this all along even though he's the one who brought it up in the first place.  Still, I'm glad to have the chance to say this, because aside from the detail of it, his read of me isn't entirely inaccurate.  But he doesn't need to know that.  "I don't even know why I'm talking to you," I say, and turn away again.

I'm not sure if he's going to say anything else or leave me alone, because this is when the alarm starts.  At first I don't understand what I'm hearing.  I think it feels so impossible, so dissonant with the time and place that my brain can't supply me with the answer as fast as it usually would.  But it's the screeching, flashing noise of a fire alarm, and after several seconds of a frozen sort of terror, I realize this.

I'm so stunned -- can this happen at a blood drive?  We didn't go over emergency exits -- that for a while I don't move.  I'm not sure what to do with the plastic bag full of my blood, and when I look around, the volunteers working the drive are all busy with other people who probably need more help than I do.

"Jesus, you really can't deal with this, can you?" Thurio says from my other side.

I turn to look at him and he's standing right beside my padded table, his own bag of blood held in his hand.

"Here," he says.  He comes around to the other side and unhooks my bag from beneath the table where it's been hanging and slowly filling up as the IV does its work.  Then he wraps a hand around my elbow and pulls me so I'm sitting up.  He holds out the bag to me but I just look at it with the same sick, flip-flopping feeling in my gut.  I shake my head because I don't dare open my mouth to speak.

As all of this is happening, the room is clearing out and the alarm is still blaring.  The people working the blood drive are helping people out of the room, directing them toward the building exits, explaining where to go once they get outside.  No one is even paying any attention to us.

"All right," Thurio says.  He reaches for the IV in my arm, braces one hand against my forearm and grips the other around the long plastic tube.

"No!" I say, just in time to keep him from yanking the needle out of my arm.

"Seriously?" he says, but I can't stand the thought of this all being a waste.  But he shakes his head and leaves the needle in place.  I get down from the table and we rush toward the door of the room.  "This way," Thurio says, now carrying both bags of blood, his own and mine.  He hurries down the hall and I have to run to keep up so the IV doesn't get ripped out of my arm anyway.  Every once in a while I feel it tug against my skin.  It stings and gives me a lurching, ill sort of feeling, but there's nothing to do other than keep on, following Thurio, who at least seems to know where he's going.

Thurio leads us to a door no one else seems to be using, but I have no choice but to follow him.  Then we're outside, and I feel winded in a way I'm sure I wouldn't if all of my blood was currently in my body where it's supposed to be.  But the sun feels good on my face and there's no one over here, which is nice after the panic inside.

I gesture to the wall of the building and Thurio follows me over so I can lean against it and catch my breath.

I feel light-headed, and for a couple minutes I just rest, my face warm under the sun, and try not to think about anything other than stabilizing my body.  When I feel a little better, I realize that for a moment, I've felt that tugging sensation in my arm again, the soft spot on the inside of my elbow where the needle is still rooted in the vein.  I open my eyes and see Thurio shaking both of the bags.

"What are you doing?" I say.

"If you don't shake them every few minutes, the blood clots," he tells me.

I take his word for it, and the shaking only lasts another moment.

It's easier to see him out here in the sun than it had been inside when I was distracted by trying not to throw up all over myself.  Now the IV is attached to me but no longer pulling the blood out of my arm, and it's easier to focus.  He's got dark hair that seems to have a bit of a curl to it, though it's short.  Handsome features, though now he's squinting in the sun.

"Come on," he says.  "We should get this out of you."

He pulls on the bag as he moves toward a set of steps a few feet away, so I have to follow him and sit beside him.  Without the panic of the screaming fire alarm -- still going off faintly inside, and it occurs to me that in case there's a real fire, we should probably move further away from the building -- and the need to rush that it had presented, the idea of this stranger removing the IV from my arm no longer feels quite so horrifying, and I still don't like the idea of touching the bag myself.

"Just, be careful," I say.

Thurio looks up at me and gives me what I can only assume is a wry expression.

“Are you sure you know how to do this?”

“It’s not like it’s difficult,” Thurio says.

“Maybe we should just wait until we go back inside.”

Thurio looks up at me, expression plainly saying that it doesn’t make an inch of difference to him.  “Do you want to wait?” he says.

But the thought of staying out here in the sun for God knows how long with the needle still in my arm makes me feel a little sick.  I shake my head.

“Okay,” Thurio says.  He holds my elbow in one hand and gets a firm but gentle grip on the needle with the other.  “You might want to close your eyes,” he says, and I do.

#first i wrote the rest of this in both the wrong tense and wrong pov #then i posted it to the wrong blog #honestly sometimes i just need to be taken out of commission for a recharge #jesus h christ #short story #flash fiction #idek

[darknesstodawnuniverse]

Whumptober Day 17 - Withdrawal

So this has taken ages to get posted. Life got in the way and then I broke my arm...so yeah. I do plan on doing all 31 days of the Whumptober prompt list, even though its November. We are back into the Modern AU for this one. The story of why Athos got sober. 

You can find this on ff.net and Ao3 for your reading convenience as well.

Read the rest of my Whumptober 2017 prompt fills here.

Athos just paced at first.

A restless prowl around the small room. He told himself that it was just restless energy and worry for Aramis that kept him from relaxing.

It absolutely had nothing to do with his body already yearning for a drink.

He wasn’t in complete denial. He knew he had a problem. He knew it wasn’t a good thing that he couldn’t sleep without a few beers and a whiskey chaser (or three). He knew it was unhealthy that he rarely remembered his off-duty nights because he drank so heavily on them.

But he never got behind the wheel. He never drank on duty. He never hurt anyone.

Until today.

After today, he would never drink again.

Porthos watched Athos pace, restlessly moving around the room. It wasn’t a large space. A small, enclosed unit with a window into the hall. It had blinds, but Athos hadn’t yet bothered to close them. It looked like every other room in the hospital honestly.

“How bad will it get?” Porthos asked Lemay as their doctor stepped up next to him.

“Hard to say. He said he’d gone out and downed half a bottle of Jack before coming back to have me check him in, so he probably won’t start really showing symptoms for a while yet.  What happened on this mission?”

Porthos sighed, closing his eyes and seeing Athos and Aramis both covered in blood, Aramis with an oxygen mask and too pale skin.

“Things went sideways…Aramis is in surgery.”

Lemay arched a concerned brow.

“I’ll get you an update on him,” the doctor assured. “And I’ll take care of Athos.”

“Can he do it? Can he get sober? Athos’s been drinking as long as we’ve known him… It’s never been this bad but it’s… It’s gotten worse lately, I guess.”

“He seemed determined,” Lemay replied simply. “Which is good because his success here will largely depend on him. At the end of it all, he needs to want to be sober more than he wants a drink. I’ll do what I can for him, but I won’t lock him up. If he asks to leave, I’ll try to reason with him but won’t restrain him.”

Porthos nodded. He didn’t doubt Athos motivation. He had seen the look in his eyes when he had realized what this nasty habit had caused.

Athos wouldn’t give up.

Hours later…

Athos curled on the bed, shaking and fighting the urge to rip put the IV Lemay had taped to his arm.

He closed his eyes and remembered why he was here.

“I’ve got eyes on the target,” Aramis’ voice whispered over their comm. “Outlaw, are you ready to receive the package?”

“Affirmative,” Porthos replied steadily.

Athos swallowed, pacing down one alley way and into the next. His part in this was to keep the patrolling guard contained.  If anyone stumbled upon Aramis, the whole mission would be blown. This whole thing had to be tied perfectly. Aramis had to take out their target at the exact moment Porthos snatched the package – in this case a spy who wanted to defect – and then cover Porthos retreat from the small army of men who would swiftly try to kill them.

Athos paused, wiping a hand across his brow as he leaned against the wall. He glared down at his shaking hands.

This mission had taken longer than planned. It was supposed to be 48 hours. It had been 72.  Athos hadn’t been this long without a drink since basic training. He had, admittedly, been drinking more and more as of late. The time it took for him to start yearning for another drink was getting shorter and shorter. It had never been a problem before now.

“Diablo, I’ve got heat signatures closing in on your position.” Treville’s voice snapped across the line. “Rapier, deal with it.”

Athos frowned, glancing around. He’d been patrolling the area, but now wasn’t sure exactly how far he’d wandered from Aramis’ position. He retraced his steps down the alley and looked around again.

“Rapier, get to Diablo’s position,” Treville barked.

Athos took off at a run.

“I hear them on the stairs,” Aramis hissed.

“How long before we can execute?” Porthos snapped back.

“Twenty seconds,” Treville replied sharply. “Rapier, what’s your status?”

Athos was running, scanning the buildings, looking for the one that Aramis had chosen as his roost. How had he wandered so far? He finally spotted it two blocks away.

“Rapier, where are you?” Porthos growled.

“Too far,” Athos whispered to himself as he sprinted towards the building.

“They’re on the roof,” Aramis’ voice whispered across the line. “Haven’t found me yet.”

“Abort,” Treville snapped. “Diablo, abort!”

“Negative,” Aramis hissed. “This is too important. I can still make the shot. Outlaw be ready. Top, on your mark.”

“Ten seconds,” Treville stated sharply.

Athos sprinted, feeling his stomach twist and head start to spin.

“Five.”

There was a shout across the line and then the familiar sound of one of Aramis’ Desert Eagles discharging.

Silence fell.

“Execute.”

A shot from Aramis’ rifle cracked through the stillness, followed swiftly by several more. Then it went abruptly silent.

“Package secure,” Porthos reported a few tense moments later. “That was a little closer than I found comforting, but we got away clean enough.”

Athos hit the stairwell, sprinting up. A wave of dizziness caught him off guard and he had to stop, bracing his hands on his knees.

“Diablo, report!” Treville snapped.

There was grunting and cursing over the line and then a very out of breath response.

“A bit...” another curse, “busy.”

“Rapier, where the hell are you?” Porthos demanded.

Athos started moving again.

“I’m almost there.”

He burst out onto the rooftop with his gun up. But only eerie silence greeted him. He rounded the enclosed stairwell to where Aramis had been perched and blew out a harsh breath.

There were four bodies collapsed all in the same general area and only one of them was moving.

Athos quickly covered the last few steps to Aramis, who was struggling to drag himself away from the other three bodies and leaving a trail of blood in his wake. His rifle was knocked over and hanging precariously half over the ledge, such lack of care spoke to how desperate the fight had been.

“Nice of you to show up,” Aramis teased with a breathy chuckle. His words bore no heat, but Athos felt struck anyway.

“What’s his status?” Porthos demanded. “Is he alright?”

“We need…” Athos had to pause to swallow moisture into his suddenly dry throat when he saw the amount of blood seeping through Aramis’ fingers where he had a hand pressed to a wound low on his back. “We need emergency evac. Diablo is down.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Aramis scolded with a grin and jerk of his chin at the other three bodies. “Those three are much worse off.”

Athos glared him into silence and Aramis just shrugged, collapsing back against the rooftop while Athos dug a pressure bandage out of his pack and replaced Aramis hand with it. When he drew his own hands back they were coated in blood – Aramis’ blood. He watched the marksman blink slowly, gaze a bit less focused than it bad been a moment ago.

“Hey, stay with me.” Athos snapped, sharply tapping Aramis’ cheek. “Stay awake!”

Athos stared across the darkened room and brought one of his hands up into his field of vision. He could still see the blood if he looked hard enough. Aramis’ blood.

Another wave of nausea hit, and he groaned, tucking his arms around his waist to ride it out. He’d already vomited out anything of substance an hour ago.

But he wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t give up. He would accept whatever pain came with this. It was no less than he deserved. And there was something so much more important he was fighting for.

“What the hell happened?” Porthos shouted, rounding on him once they whisked a terrifyingly pale Aramis away from the evac chopper that had been sent for them. “Where were you?”

Athos shook his head, fruitlessly trying to wipe his hands on his pants. But the blood had started to dry. It wouldn’t be so easily removed.

Porthos snatched him up by his shirt, dragging him in close. The larger man’s eyes bore into his angrily.

“I can see your hands shaking. You’re sweating and fidgety. How long’s it been, eh? How long since your last drink?”

Athos met his gaze squarely but couldn’t find the words to respond.

Porthos shook his head in disgust and shoved him away.

“You choose, Athos. You choose right now which is more important – that poison or us.” Porthos pointed towards the doors Aramis had been rushed through only moments ago. “He counted on you... I counted on you to have his back. He’s in there because you couldn’t do your job! You aren’t going in the field with him again unless you’re stone cold sober. So choose.”

Then Porthos turned his back on him and walked away. 

Athos had found the nearest liquor store and downed half a bottle of Jack Daniels before he even knew what he was doing. When he’d realized he was standing in a dirty alley, bottle in hand, nearly shaking with the relief of finally getting a drink, reality had crashed down hard on his shoulders. He should have been with his brothers. He should have been with Porthos, waiting for news on Aramis.

He’d thrown the bottle across the alley, watched it shatter, and made his way back to the hospital. He’d walked straight up to Lemay and asked to be checked in.

He had made his choice.

Porthos jumped when a hand settled on his shoulder. He blinked up blearily at Treville.

“Aramis is out of surgery and awake. He’s asking for you.”

Porthos stood up so quickly he nearly lost his balance. Treville steadied him and then pat his shoulder in comfort.

“How’s Athos?” Porthos asked.

Treville sighed.

“He’ll get through it,” the older man promised. “He’s strong and determined.”

Porthos nodded, scrubbing a hand across his eyes.

“Aramis is waiting,” Treville urged. Porthos didn’t need to be told again.

He found their sniper curled onto his side, propped on pillows. His eyes were closed, but as soon as Porthos stepped into the room, they opened.

“Hey, how’re you feelin’?” Porthos greeted. He grabbed a chair from against the wall and carried it over to the bed, so he could sit.

“Like I got stabbed…or shot…which one was it?” Aramis replied groggily. His usually sharp gaze was dulled with pain medication and lingering anesthesia.

“Stabbed,” Porthos informed him.

Aramis hummed an acknowledgment and blinked heavily at him.

“Where’s Athos?” he asked eventually.

Porthos sighed.

“He’s checked himself in with Lemay.”

Aramis frowned in confusion.

“Was he hurt?” he asked, worry creasing his brow. He started shifting like he was going to try to rise, so Porthos leaned forward, pressing a calming hand against his arm.

“He’s not hurt. He’s…well he’s…trying to get sober.”

Aramis still looked confused for a moment, but then his muddled thoughts seemed to align.

“He is?” the sniper asked in surprise.

Porthos nodded.

“Just…for now? Or forever?” Aramis went on.

“He was talking like it was going to be a permanent change,” Porthos answered.

“But why?” Aramis asked in bewilderment.

Porthos rubbed wearily at his eyes. He never enjoyed talking to a medicated Aramis. It was always jarring to see the sniper’s usually sharp, quick mind slowed and befuddled.  

“You, mostly. A bit of me, perhaps.”

“Me?”

Porthos met his gaze.

“A bit of a reckoning for him, I think, finding you bleeding out on that rooftop.”

When Aramis still looked confused, Porthos narrowed his eyes.

“Do you even remember what happened?” he wondered.

Aramis’ eyebrow twitched.

“It’s a bit…hazy,” he admitted with a bit of an embarrassed grin. “Damn pain meds…always muddle things up.”

Porthos grinned a little in response, but sobered quickly as he recalled the events that brought them here.

“He was supposed to be covering you, but he was out of position. He got distracted with…” Porthos shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know exactly what happened. But he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Three men cornered you on the rooftop. You shot one with your handgun, but had to cover me and the package. That allowed the other two to get the drop on you.”

Aramis was frowning now, gaze reflective as he seemed to laboriously shift through his drug-weighted thoughts.

“When Athos got there, it was all over. You’d taken them out, but were bleeding heavily. You were unconscious by the time I got there.”

Aramis’ gaze shifted around the room, taking in the various monitors before he looked back at Porthos.

“You blamed him for this?” Aramis realized.

Porthos sighed and rubbed at his eyes again.

“He should have had your back, Aramis.”

“What does any of this have to do with his drinking?”

Porthos stared at him, realizing belatedly that Aramis hadn’t seen the signs Porthos had when they’d gotten off the chopper. He’d been too busy being unconscious.  

“He had the shakes, ‘Mis. Sweats. Twitches. All the signs of withdrawal. He didn’t have your back because he got distracted by how long it’d been since he had a drink.”

Aramis’ eyes widened in surprise.

“When we got here and they took you away to surgery and I realized what was going on…” Porthos shook his head. “I nearly laid him out right there.”

“But you didn’t,” Aramis questioned curiously.

“I wanted to,” Porthos admitted. “But the look in his eyes…he knew what he’d done. He knew what his addiction to that poison had cost. So I gave him a choice. The drinking or us. I told him he couldn’t have both, not anymore.”

“And?” Aramis prodded.

“He chose us.”

Athos cleared his throat, rapping lightly on the door that led to Aramis’ hospital room.

“It’s not as if it’s got a lock,” came the chuckling response. Athos reached for the handle. “Honestly, Porthos, I don’t know why you’re even kno…oh…”

Athos stood awkwardly in the doorway, staring at Aramis, who was sprawled on his side, propped on pillows, messing with a tablet.

“I thought you were Porthos,” Aramis pointed out needlessly.

Athos just shook his head. He wasn’t Porthos...obviously.

Aramis assessed him with that calculating look Athos had only ever seen snipers use.

“Are you…?” Aramis trailed off with a vague wave of his hand.

“Three days sober? Yes.” Athos answered. “Lemay told me I could walk around, stretch my legs.”

As if cued, his legs trembled and Athos swiftly took the seat next to the bed. Aramis eyed him knowingly but didn’t comment.

“How are you?” Athos asked, looking the marksman over. His color was back and his gaze sharp, which meant he’d talked them into giving him the weaker painkillers. Aramis didn’t like having his senses dulled.

“Alright,” Aramis replied easily. “Ready to get out of here.”

Athos grinned a little. Aramis wouldn’t be Aramis if he didn’t grow quickly restless with inactivity.

“How are you?” Aramis wondered.

Athos sighed.

“Getting there,” he replied.

Aramis nodded slowly, watching him closely.

“I want to apologize to you Aramis.”

“You don’t have to,” the sniper replied immediately.

“I want to,” Athos countered.

“Athos…”

“You have always been too forgiving, Aramis. I will allow you to forgive me this, if you allow me to apologize.”

Aramis sighed and waved him on and Athos cleared his throat. He met the marksman’s gaze and was wholly unsurprised to find no judgement there, no recrimination, only the same warmth and brotherhood there had always been. Seeing it made the Athos confession flow easily from his lips.

“I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten. Or perhaps had refused to realize,” he began. “I told myself that it wasn’t affecting my job. I wasn’t being irresponsible. No-one was getting hurt so why shouldn’t I continue drinking? Only ad time passed I continued to drink more and more. And the time I could last between drinks got less and less.”

Athos paused, running a hand over his mouth and down his chin. He forced himself to hold Aramis’ steady gaze as he went on.

“I knew things were bad going into the op that night, but I did think I would be fine to do the job. I never would have put you or Porthos at risk if I thought myself truly compromised.”

“I know, Athos. Of course, I know that,” Aramis assured fervently.

Athos let out a shuddering breath.

“I overestimated myself,” he admitted. “I got distracted, caught up in my own head and strayed out of position. I didn’t even… I had no idea how far I had gone until getting back meant your life or death.”

Athos closed his eyes and shook his head, hating himself for what his addiction had cost – for what it had almost cost.

“If you had died…” Athos whispered in horror.

“I didn’t though,” Aramis reminded.

“Because you’re you. Because you’re the toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever known. You survived because of you, Aramis. But you nearly died because of me.”

Athos leaned forward, gaze earnest.

“The drinking is over. I will never let you down in such a way again.”

“I know you won’t,” Aramis replied sincerely, his dark eyes speaking clearly of forgiveness already given.

In the face of it, Athos was stunned to feel his eyes start stinging.

He didn’t deserve a brother like Aramis. Few, in fact, ever could.

“I’m thinking of changing my code name,” Athos announced suddenly, desperate to regain some sort of equilibrium.

“To what? Teetotaler?” Aramis asked with a snort. When Athos merely fixed him with a glare Aramis shrugged. “Too soon?”

“Whiskey,” Athos corrected mildly.

Aramis’ brow furrowed in confusion. They both knew it was Athos’ drink of choice.

“So that I never forget and never go back.”

Aramis held his gaze and nodded.

“Whiskey, Outlaw, and Diablo…I like it.”

#whumptober #ficlet #whumptober 2017

[book-n-bean]

What would it be like without tv?

Every night, we put the tv on and watch it until it’s late or we’re too tired to stay up any longer.

Since when did everyone just switch on their tvs at night after dinner and just watch?

What’s it like without the tv? Without the noise? When you have to entertain yourself? Would you spend more time with the people you love, would you read more? Would kids do more homework just to have something to do?

I’m not saying I’m not grateful for technology, I just think it’s so sad to be in this position every night, it’s so empty and boring and sad.

It’s just going to get worse as I get older too. Everyone connected to technology more and more. How long will it take for our world to be made out of technology? We’re already working on trees that glow in the dark to provide light and save electricity?

I don’t know.

Lately I’ve just been feeling like life is so empty and sad and pointless, and maybe that’s me being a little depressed and hopeless; but it’s true. What should we be excited about in life? Our futures? Because our futures are the same as everyone else’s, there’s really not much we’ll do that other people havent. And of course, that doesnt mean we wont enjoy it, i dont know what it means.

Maybe there’s something wrong with me - I FEEL wrong. Like im so much more up in my head than i should be, but i cant figure out how to come back to earth. I cant even remember if this is normal, to spend so much time thinking; even when im talking to people, doing things, i’m in my head. It’s worse when im listening to music, or doing something that doesnt require concentration. Reading is a distraction, and watching things can be a distraction too; but then i feel strange when I stop doing those things. I feel blank and empty like there’s nothing waiting for me beyond the book or the screen. Like the world is so quiet, unturning, people are frozen out in the street where they were walking, smoke comes from the exhaust of cars...but they dont move. And then time just skips, and suddenly it’s a couple of hours later and ive lived and so have the people in the street, the frozen cars are different to the ones before and the light outside the window is different. I know i lived every moment that i seem to have skipped, and i can remember each and every one of those seconds, but it feels like nothing happened in them at all...

I think i need help, but it would be so hard to talk about this. No one would understand, they couldnt help...it’s like that feeling i used to get, where it felt like my cells were freezing, through my chest into my left arm, into my palm. It felt like my blood was freezing, and it hurt. It would throb through me, some kind of icy breeze, and then it would linger...then disappear. My counsellor didnt understand that, i cant remember what she said; but im sure i would have remembered if it had been useful or interesting/important.

What do i do? I feel like ive got so many problems, but maybe im not looking at the big picture. Maybe i’m looking at every individual problem as it hits me and they just keep banking up as i fail to immediately solve them. That’s another question though, how far do they bank up? Have i actually been solving any of my problems, or have i just been side-stepping them and saying “good enough”?

I know i need help...maybe, and maybe i want help...but how do i get it? Therapy has never helped me before, ive always been better off working things out on my own, talking to my mum about things to get them off my chest and then doing the rest on my own. Who do i get help from? What would it cost? I could go to a school therapist, but i’d have to skip class for that, it would get weird. I dont want to skip class - that would stress me out. And last time, the school counsellor didnt help, but then again, i cant remember having big problems the last time i went...i think i’d been dating james for 2 months when i went to her; that’s such a long time ago, around about now.

Maybe this is normal...it’s just being a teenager, right? I dont want to worry my mum either, im okay, im dealing with it; even if that means struggling...as long as im just dealing with it. Im trying to focus on music, i know i should be trying to focus on school but im not interested right now. School feels empty too, i go to a building, entertain myself on the bus twice a day, talk to people i call friends, sit through six classes and take notes, pretend to/actually listen, crush on people who dont notice me, and then i go home and do it all again the next day. For what? An education, to be social; whatever. See what i mean? Everything feels pointless.

Even my possibilities seem close-ended; my endless possibilities. Breaking up with James was meant to make me feel open, see all the options out there. It doesnt feel like that. Sometimes i get a flash of that feeling, realising that there are so many people to love in the world and I could probably have a lot of them...but that door is as closed as ever because of my crush on the boy who’s taken; my heart is already dedicated to him...and he’s going to have to break it. I dont want him to, but if im going to move on, he’ll have to break my heart first. Maybe it’ll be indirect, maybe i’ll do it for him, telling myself he’ll never notice me, that im not like her and she’s better than me, the simple fact that it probably means nothing when he looks at me, oh and the lack of him noticing me. Yea sure, we text a lot occasionally, when i start the conversation, we tease each other and joke, but at the end of the day, what does it really mean? Anything? I dont know.

That’s the answer to all of my questions: I don’t know.

I’m not going to get help, not yet. At least I know I’m not depressed, something’s wrong but it’s not that. Luckily, I’m not suicidal, and I don’t want to self-harm; I tried that. In the shower, with the shaving razor, two little red lines, running blood, the sting, it didnt feel good, it didnt help; and I regretted it, I wanted it to go away. I won’t be trying that again, at least not for a while.

I just don’t understand, when did this all happen? And why? What started it - and how do I stop it? Melbourne Music Tour was perfect, I felt alive again, life felt electric and full, lovely and full of opportunities, friendship, warmth; experience. It was 7 days. I had seven days of life. It has been almost 7 days since. I have had seven days of emptiness. I could say it’s a cycle, but it’s not. It was a long, flat line of nothing, and then a 7 day blip, a promising little heartbeat...the world has gone flat again.

I’m kind of getting sad writing this, negativity and all. And it’s not helping, I feel the same, fuzzy head, tired, bored, it’s late (11:07pm, so not really that late for me, but im still tired). Im surprised about how much ive written though, how all of this is just flowing and ive just been letting it all out; ive barely stopped.

Maybe i am a little depressed, sadness comes easily. I do feel sad, deep down, it hurts. And when i do feel sad I know it’s deep, it’s the kind of sadness that opens a ravine in your chest and makes you want to hug something close to you, tight, to close the gap, make it feel better; to have something to hold onto while you’re being ripped apart from the inside out; and when you have no one that’s a little hard to do.

I want to tell myself that I’ll be okay, the thought lingered in my head, but I don’t feel like I will be right now. Im not interested...in life? I dont want to die, i just dont feel interested in doing anything im doing, not really. Even my hobbies are all dropping away. What are my hobbies? I spent one day writing in the holidays and i havent since. I read a bit...but its not very fun. I havent painted anything for months, watching Glee is a good distraction, but its more a way to pass the time than a way to entertain myself. Music is my only real hobby, i enjoy it, i love playing guitar, feeling the song, learning piano, looking at sheet music, recording my voice memos on my phone; if anything can get me through, it’s music. Maybe that’s the way out. I’m planning on buying a proper microphone, to record myself and sing into and...ive been thinking about starting a youtube channel, to have somewhere to put all of the voice memos i record. Maybe people will like it, maybe i’ll like it. It feels like the only step, in any direction, that im planning on taking in my life right now; everything else seems blurred and slow motion, walled-off. Music seems like a road to follow...

I dont know how to end this, i dont know what to say at all. I feel like there’s a lot more to say, but i know ive already said a lot, and i also know that theres nothing else materialising in my head right now; just the distant feel of thoughts. Im scared as well, we just watched a movie, there were dead people in it, it was gory, scary; i didnt like it. So now im paranoid and scared. I’ll go sit in my room, against my headboard, with the wall next to me; it feels safe there.

Maybe i really do need help - i sound insane. Im not, im just going through stuff...maybe i’ll end up talking to mum about it, but for now im going to take the weekend to chill.