#alcohol does nothing to numb the pain of being baited

[purkinje-effect]

Asking for Trouble

Cait gets a terrible first impression of Melancholy, my Sole.

This blurb has sat in my drafts for a few years now, and I decided to polish it up and finish the thought. Not sure if the encounter will be canon to Anatomy, but it’s here nonetheless. (For those curious to timeline placement, we’ll say this is roughly after the Park Street Station stuff in Fourth Instar, and sometime after his falling out with Mac.)

TWs: Heavy angst, injury and death, drug use and alcohol, explicit description of drug side effects, and violence-baiting.

Cross-posted on AO3 here if you’d rather. Likes, comments, kudos, etc. are all greatly, greatly appreciated.

_____________________________________

Someone at the Dugout Inn had mentioned this place. ‘Choly had come here with a vague recollection that the Combat Zone had once paraded skin. It only served to live up to its name now without any innuendo. Observing a little violence could be cathartic, too, and damn, if he couldn’t use some catharsis after his myriad missteps in Goodneighbor. All his life a spectator, vicarious in every regard.

He belonged here far before Goodneighbor or Diamond City, regardless of looking the part. Who could say a quavering, grey little man wearing a white three piece suit over head-to-toe leather orthotic braces didn’t fit right in among these earthly, physical misfits? He certainly couldn’t see any hackneyed political messes or territory wars erupting here: only people blowing off steam any way they could find it.

He couldn’t entirely say he minded that Angel’s compulsive cleaning habits almost always nettled the Hister Handy into picking up after social locations like this burlesque theater which now showcased cage fights. The possibility any of these raiders might hack it almost avoided him altogether, since he seemed like the only one with a Pip-Boy with which to do so. Such a worry would stick with him long-term after what he’d seen the Rust Devils do to Lowell.

His mind sang praises that Angel had allowed him to resume adding alkaloids to his meal replacement beverage, the Melancholia. Hubeine gave him negligible trouble compared to other options.

The fight unfolding before him was the billed spectacle for the night: for one hour, plus implicit encores, Cait would take down any body foolish enough to step foot into the cage to fistfight her unarmed. He swirled at some bourbon in a shot glass, from his bar seat to one side of the stage. His cataract eyes raised as he watched her continue through the athletic redhead’s performance. Somehow she managed restraint just shy of lethal blows, despite her precision and brute force. Any composure belied the depth of her murderous and bottomless rage. Glassy and lugubrious, he followed her bared teeth and retracted lips, her unblinking eyes, her adrenaline-wired and overworked musculature, her leaden instinctual footwork.

Despite having knocked out seven opponents in twenty minutes already, she wore more of their blood than they did.

In every mannerism, he recognized his enlisted in her. He stopped sipping at his liquor and threw the glass back, only to refill it.

Cait danced with the eighth opponent for about a minute before things escalated. The burly, hairy man pulled a switchblade on her, and managed to gouge her in the arm. In the physical sense, it didn’t faze her. In the mental sense, it had shattered the sanctity of her performance. She roared at him and lunged to sink her teeth into his face.

The crowd exploded. Her ghoul manager stepped in and attempted to stop the match-up, but he knew better than to get between her and the fool. She refused first aid, intent to fuck the guy up. The man kept his distance from her, knife still drawn, clutching at his gushing cheek. she voiced her displeasure to her manager, and he seemed to walk away and leave her again to her opponent... Only to bring her a baseball bat. A bloodied grin ripped across her face as she choked up on it like a familiar friend.

‘Choly smiled quaintly, head askew. The ghoul knew that the crowd demanded results--and more importantly, he knew that the crowd needed to see the consequences of forsaking what little honor they agreed upon in this dive.

She slugged him in the head. As he fell over, she proceeded to beat the shit out of him. The resultant din deafened much how ‘Choly might imagine Fenway Park during the World Series. Not that baseball had been his druthers. God, he wished that had been him on the receiving end. Between her hair, her leather corset, and the carnage, red was so very much her color. Head to toe, she was rage incarnate.

No one wanted to challenge her after that, especially not if they had to step around the bloody mess she’d splattered across the stage.

Time blurred a bit in ‘Choly’s shot glass. The next he looked up, he realized the champion sat beside him to drown herself in a fifth of vodka straight from the bottle. He straightened as coolly as he could, shifting to watch her. He adjusted his half-moon glasses, but could otherwise not obfuscate his alarm. He couldn’t leave alone the familiarity of the untethered ferocity with which she carried herself.

“Forgive me if this is forward of me, but I will get you any chems you want, if you will swear off cyclomorphine. The Psycho.”

“Bull shit,” came a potent Irish twang. She slammed down the bottle. Beneath the indignity in her glower, a tinge of fear felt more like the pressure of desperation. “You suggestin’ I couldn’t possibly fight as well as I do, weren’t I doped up? Your stupid mug hasn’t been here before. I’d remember. Who the hell do you think you are, to go around insultin’ the talent?”

His heart begged hot for her to retaliate. His gloved fingers tapped gingerly at the barely varnished countertop.

“I mean it. Name it. Med-X. Calmex. Anything but Psycho. I’ll even get dirty and brew you the most potent Jet you’ve ever had, if what you really need is escapism and not a low. CM isn’t a chem. It’s a death sentence. And... even if that’s the desired end result, that’s just about as gruesome and painful as it gets.”

She swiveled on the bar stool, resting both hands squarely on her spread knees. Her dead gaze bored through him.

“The fuck do you care so much about this wild theory of yours? You go around cold readin’ everybody’s vices tryin’ to hock your snake oil? Some salesman you are. You’ve got the Charisma of a Mirelurk egg that’s been in the sun.”

He raised his hands in defense, and then said what he meant sooner than meaning what he said.

“I’m not trying to sell you anything. I keep trying to offer solutions to the people I’ve hurt with my life choices, fix the damage rather than enterprise on it. Please let me get you chasing a different devil. Anything but that.”

“You’ve never met me in your life, and I don’t know your name or face from a Molerat in the floorboards. Don’t you try and bullshit me into believing you’re capable of fixing what ails me--and don’t you dare try to take credit for anyone that’s wronged me.”

“I’m the reason Psycho exists in the quantities it does in the Commonwealth. So yes, your pain IS my fault, at least part--”

His jaw seared. ‘Choly found himself sprawled in the floor. He felt around for his glasses, and as they returned to his face, he smiled up at her imploringly from where she stood over him. She cracked her knuckles sourly.

“I don’t have time for this nonsense. Tryin’ t’say I’m the one’s got a chem problem. What color is the sky for you? Forget you.”

Her hard exterior began to show signs of crumblign, in a series of stifled tics, most noticeably a corner of her mouth and the same ear. He could only begin to speculate to what exactly it was she’d taken exception, but he had to keep her attention, hold her contempt. Charm had never come naturally to him, so instead he had to sound the part of insisting at all costs that he was right.

“--Fine, you don’t want to quit. That’s a choice, too. I’ll make however much Psycho you want. You want to go out like that, I can help you with that. But I want you to know just exactly what that death looks like. Abscessed injection sites. Your gums and cuticles bleed. Your tear ducts bleed. It weakens all your capillaries, the tiniest blood vessels in your body. Internal bleeding. Organ deterioration. The numbness doesn’t turn off the pain--it only makes it so you don’t care. Is the anger easier than the hurt? If that’s how you want to go out, I’m not in any position to question it. But you might as well have an expert supplying you with it.”

Rather than help him up, she bore a heel down on his right hand. With an anxious chuckle, he winced, but welcomed being pinned in place. She glared down at him, seething. She didn’t want to hear another word from him, but she had to. Something about him surely sounded more deranged than intoxicated, and it threatened to haunt her.

“Do you know why cyclomorphine exists?” he continued, breath stuttering all the while. “Do you know what it is? Of course not. It was a prewar chemical--I can’t even comfortably endear it a chem--that the military developed so its soldiers no longer felt injury or fatigue. They endeavored to engineer soldiers who wouldn’t quit when hurt, even fatally. And it was only one of a dozen projects of its kind, to exploit the different aspects of human limits. Nothing human came from refining Psycho. It destroys something fundamental to a sense of humanity. The perfect formula didn’t concern itself with whether the patient came back in one piece, or alive at all. The Deenwood Project wasn’t poetic, wasn’t artistic, didn’t make a single beautiful thing. The fact that CM fell into paramilitary use after my tenure ended with the Army... and the fact it now as a result flows freely throughout the country as holdovers from... from the police attempting to keep the peace through intense and consistent violence... The fact is, I’m one of the chemists responsible for cyclomorphine’s end product. Responsible for it being one of the devices of America’s victory at Anchorage... So yes, yes I am. Responsible for what ails you. You’re civilian collateral of the United States Army.”

Her posture shifted slowly from anger to bitterness. She ground her heel into his palm. He pretended the token of her grief got through the reinforced officer’s glove.

“It’s not my place to question the source of your pain, and it’s not my place to insist that I be the one to take it away. I simply know that no matter how great the pain you’re in... Psycho dissolves parts of you, every time you use it to numb you. It begins physically, then advances to spiritually. It robs you of who you are.”

“That’s just the thing. I can’t handle bein’ me. This is the only part I’m fit to play. Besides, Tommy only cares if his juggernaut brings in the caps. I’m beholden to a contract. And the way I see it, you’re tryin’ to come between a man and his money, pokin’ around where your nose doesn’t belong! You’re lucky we’re out here and not in the cage, creep. Either I’m paid to beat your arse, or you’re askin’ to get blackballed.”

He sighed dreamily up at her, almost regretting that she let up on his hand. She drew her fists when his hand went to the lining pocket of his vest, but he chuckled producing a sack of caps.

“I thought you’d never ask. I admire one who rests their agency in someone else’s hands--or pockets, as it were. Surely, this is to the tune of you doing the honors. Add a black eye to the busted jaw. Tack on whatever you like. Ladies’ choice.”

She snatched the sack from him, frowning incredulously.

“What kind of sick flirting game is this? You tryin’ to buy me into bed? I know I’m easy on the eyes, but this isn’t a brothel these days, in case your damaged brain can’t tell the difference.”

He knew he wouldn’t be getting back the sack, but at least he’d tricked her into accepting some fleck of reparations from him.

“How many caps would it take to break your contract? To get you out of here?”

A broken sarcastic laugh crackled out of her. He’d long since surpassed overstepping, having moved on to stepping on toes.

“You’re insane if you think I’d ever want to leave the Combat Zone, especially not on the arm of the likes of you. I’ve got everything I could want here--except right now, not a place without you. You’re the one who needs to lay off the chems. Get your stupid brain-damaged arse out of here before I ask Tommy what I can do with you.”

He whistled for Angel, then retrieved his cane to stand.

“I suppose if you won’t let me help you, obliging you is the least I can do.”

With his Handy by his side, the two left without further question.

On his walk back to Hotel Rexford, he accepted that he’d probably never know the answer, but still he wondered if he had the same or opposite trouble as Cait: Were the two chasing a perpetual numbness, or were they chasing the futility of trying to feel anything again, at any cost?

#fallout #fallout 4 #fallout cait #cait fallout #sole survivor #combat zone #melancholy #deplorable karma sole survivor #battle for anchorage #psycho #whump

[maxskulline]

Max has had an issue with narcotics for a long time. But she always managed to control it - to not fall into addiction. She uses strong alcohol and the occasional drug (her drug of choice is Ketamine for the numbing and dissociative effects it provides, but she also smokes weed and takes party drugs from time to time), as a means to numb herself to the onslaught of guilt and self hatred that she always carries within her - even as a teenager - and to numb the pain of, well, simply existing. The same goes for sex: it is a device Max has learned to master because the bliss of pleasure is a short-term relief, because it helps her forget and ignore the everpresent shadows in the back of her mind, digging in their talons until every meager ounce of self-esteem has been torn to ribbons. 

But it gets worse from there. And there is a point in Max’s life where the leash on her habits slips, where it is all she can do not to fall apart completely - or maybe she does it solely for the hope of falling apart to begin with? 

I already explained that Max finds a purpose on Paniola Ranch before she and Rosie ultimately ship off to Galar. But what happens before the ranch? How did she end up there? 

After the events on Aether Paradise, a few months pass before she ever sets foot on the ranch. In the first, initial month, Max is bedridden and recovering from the poisoned wound Gala inflicted on her during her battle with Guzma. She doesn’t know what horrors had happened to Rosie until a while later, but it is a demon of guilt that starts nagging and nagging until she can’t take it anymore. Even looking at her friend will result in Max wanting to double over and puke, or run to the next window and fling herself out of it, that is how unbearable the guilt weighs on Max. 

For letting this happen to Rosie. For letting this happen to her best friend. For letting her Pokémon be almost killed by the man she thought she had loved. For letting Guzma get to this state to begin with. For being so weak that she could not protect anyone - anyone she loves. For killing that Pokémon, so many years back. For being an utter, disgusting failure, a waste of a person.

Failure failure failure failure failure failure failure failure failure failure failure failure

Max never, ever lets these demons show. It is a battle she fights with herself, silently, and mostly at night when the memories come to the surface - memories that she spends so carefully forgetting, dissociating until the daggers barely scrape her. Rosie does not know of the battles she fights, because Max doesn’t tell her - ever. She cannot bear to burden her friend any more, and she can’t let anyone see how much she utterly hates herself. 

But the demons begin showing in other ways. Because when Max is well enough again, she begins to frequent bars, and when she comes home she is pissed out of her mind. If she comes home at all. Latter doesn’t always happen. Sometimes, Max finds herself waking in the middle of a park, or in the bed of a stranger, unable to recall their name or how she had gotten there. Leaving Rosie with Plumeria, where they’re currently squatting at, unable to imagine that Rosie could be possibly worried about her. Because why would anyone be? Why would anyone want to even see her alive- she is a failure, a wreck, weak - Guzma had shown her that she was nothing. That she never meant shit to him, too. Her inability to save her friend or her Pokémon showed that her parents had always been right.

So she drinks, and she fucks, and she dances, drowning out the thunder in her head for a few hours. Leaving Rosie worried, neglecting her Pokémon and irritating Plumeria. Hitting rock bottom. Clinging to the blissful numbness in those precious few hours where Max lets go and forgets, even herself. Max loses weight again during that month, and it becomes very obvious to others that this girl is slowly killing herself. That’s when Plumeria’s patience snaps - and that’s when she finds out Rosie is pregnant.

It does not take a second for Max to piece it all together. How this had happened - where, and when. Feeling trapped in what feels like an event horizon, a bottomless pit of darkness that she cannot escape from, because this is her fault, too. 

Plumeria knew about Rosie before Max did, and could sense what the information would do to Max. That’s why she had arranged a setup to get them both settled into Paniola Ranch, where Rosie would be safe and taken care of, before the news cracked. Max could not go on like this - Plumeria would not see it happening. If it seemed like a cruel decision, Plumeria could rest well with the knowledge that it came from a place of love, and worry. If she let Max go on like this, she’d last no longer than a month. She was withering. But she could not be the one who snapped her back into reality, give her cold turkey - it had to be a more drastic measure, of giving Max a purpose, something she currently absolutely lacked of. And, because Max was so intent of pushing everyone, including Rosie and her own Pokémon, away, Plumeria reached a treshold with her patience, too. 

The news did not go down well with Max, of course. A nasty arguement ensued, in which things were said that drove a temporary rift between her and Plumeria (and is one of the reasons Max initially cut all ties with her when she left for Galar). Plumeria compared her to Guzma - and while she spoke the truth, it was the wrong thing to say to her. 

Max and Rosie left for Paniola Ranch, because Max was given an ultimatum. Either go, or leave - without Rosie, who would always have a place with Plumeria as long as she needed it. Max, who did not ever want to live on the streets again, had no choice but to take the bait. It would not be until many, many months later that she saw Plumeria’s actions for what they were: to save her life. 

For the first two weeks on the ranch, Max could not bring herself to leave her room. Had locked the door and shut the windows, and she would only eat the food she was brought every other day. If her depression was bad before, now it rendered her motionless - incapacitated. Unable to leave her bed, with nothing but the roaring silence around her, and the shadows in her mind. Telling her what she told herself, over and over: she is worthless, she is a bad friend, she is weak, she is useless, and she utterly, utterly failed Rosie. The distance she put between them were for two reasons: to avoid Rosie’s disappointment at seeing her like this, and to keep the girl away from herself because she brought nothing but trouble to her. She could not fathom the idea that Rosie might need her more than ever, and she could not be that person - for anyone. 

Rosie met Rocky around this time - unbeknownst to Max, he would prove an anchor to the both of them, although even more so to Rosie. 

Eventually the Ranch caught up on her shit, and she was practically forced to do her share of work. It was hard at first, due to the detorriation of her body, both from malnourishment, alcohol abuse and because she was still recovering from the Golisopod inflicted wound. She did not manage any heavy lifting and started to tend to the Pokémon instead. Cleaning out their boxes, feeding them, all whilst keeping her distance from other people still. Until Rosie introduced her to Rocky - with such a sunny, carefree demeanor that it was very, very hard not to feel comfortable in his presence. Seeing Rosie befriending him did something to Max. Some sort of relief washed through Max - despite everything that had happened to her friend, she was still capable of forming connections. And shame. Shame for not being there for her like she should have been. That someone else started to fill this role. It took her another week to process it, and finally, finally show some semblance of change everyone was desperate to see in her.

Max left her room more often to spend tentative time with Rosie, although she never discussed anything that had ocurred on Aether Paradise. Keeping it casual, as easy as she could, Max did try to mend the bond between them. But the nightmares still haunted her at night, reminding her of how close she had been to losing everything she cared for. Rocky could sense it - through whatever empathy he had within him, he could sense what sort of demons haunted Rosie’s friend.

And offered to train her, and her Pokémon.

For so many years, Max had been behind the training of her Pokémon. It was the sole reason why Guzma had come so close to killing them - killing her, even. And the offer did scare her, a lot, because it is hard to shed the level of overprotection Max held over her team. Still, if there was one thing Max knew she could never let happen again, it was this:

She would not be weak anymore. Her Pokémon deserved to be prepared for everything. Her Pokémon deserved to be trained.

So she accepted. Every morning, for two hours before her work started, she would meet Rocky and train with him. And when she finished work and he was busy, she would take her Pokémon to the fields and do it herself. It was the one purpose she had missed in the past two months, a void that slowly filled, a sense of doing the right thing. The healing slowly began.

But, even years down the road, Rosie will still not know that the guilt had never left Max. It is the one truth Max swore to take into her grave. 

#💀 headcanons #💀 V: The Queen of Nothing #I am still on hiatus. Somewhat. But I have been feeling more depressed these days and writing this... was therapeutic. #I have started reading A Court of Silver Flames and Nesta Archeron reminded me so much of Max. It inspired me to write this. #drugs tw #alcohol tw

[retrauxpunk]

Hi so I have a prompt for a dinfoyle fic and I have no idea where to put it so i figured I'd put it here. If this has already been done someone please send it to me! Prompt: Dinesh and Gilfoyle are always fighting, but one day one of Gilfoyle's insults cuts too deep.

Hi anon! This is a sweet prompt and I got mildly carried away — here it is! (click here to read it on AO3)

-

‘I am not,’ said Gilfoyle, ‘a poser. The things I do and say are all reflections of my true self, and of my own beliefs. Which is more than can be said for you, thus making you the real “poser” here.’

Dinesh snorted with laughter, but couldn’t resist taking the bait. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

Gilfoyle folded his arms and spun around to face Dinesh. That was always a bad sign. He was smirking, too — or at least, his version of smirking, which involved an almost imperceptible twitch of the mouth, barely visible beneath his beard, and the slightest tilt of his head. To anyone who didn’t know Gilfoyle, the change in expression would have been barely noticeable; to Dinesh, it was loud and clear as a siren. A all-too-familiar siren, broadcasting all-too-familiar contempt.

‘It means,’ said Gilfoyle, ‘that you have no discernible personality or goals in life other than an obscene, all-consuming desperation to prove your worth via largely arbitrary measures handed down by society that you have unquestioningly internalised. What you are, what you do, and what you want is entirely relative — completely dependent on others and the need to feel better than them. You are the human embodiment of “keeping up with the Joneses” — or rather, the failure to do so.’

Dinesh stared. It was partly surprise at the unexpectedly long diatribe, but it was also the fact that he felt like something inside him had frozen, and he suspected that if he moved, then it would shatter and tear him apart from the inside out.

‘Oh, fuck you,’ he said finally, several seconds too late.

Gilfoyle simply shrugged and turned back to his computer. Now that — not even bothering to respond — that was a really bad sign. Dinesh could always tell when he was defeated. And so could Gilfoyle.

* * *

That evening, they went out — the whole Pied Piper team, plus Monica, who was taking them to an eye-wateringly expensive wine bar to celebrate the securing of their Series B round of funding.

Dinesh should have been happy. The venue was beautiful, somehow both elegantly understated and satisfyingly lavish at once, the bar snacks were delicious, and the alcohol was top-notch, flowing freely on someone else’s dime. Everyone was drunk, talking and laughing and having fun outside of work for the first time in ages.

Except me, he found himself thinking, partway through his latest of several glasses of wine. It wasn’t exactly a new realisation, but it was the first time he’d actually put it into words.

Everyone here is having a good time except me.

He had tried to deny it, tried to enjoy himself and act like a normal peson, had been trying all day — but the sadly unavoidable fact of the matter was that he felt like shit, and had done so ever since Gilfoyle’s character assassination earlier that morning.

Except it wasn’t really a character assassination if it was true, was it? And the more Dinesh thought about it, the less he was able to convince himself that it wasn’t. Gilfoyle’s words had echoed in his head for the rest of the day, and Dinesh had analysed each and every one in painstaking detail.

And he had concluded, unavoidably, that Gilfoyle was right. As much as he wished he could, he was simply unable to refute any of it. He was desperate to prove himself. He did constantly judge himself in relation to others. Every success, every failure, it meant nothing unless measured up against the yardstick of someone else.

A nudge to the ribs broke him out of his reverie. Dinesh blinked, turning face a very drunk Richard.

‘Hey,’ he said, eyes hooded, grin crooked, ‘hey, earth to Dinesh?’

‘What?’ Dinesh responded, too loudly and too abruptly. The rest of the table turned to look at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gilfoyle watching him, and tried to ignore it.

‘I was asking,’ said Richard, in a comically long-suffering tone, ‘if you wanted to get a magnum.’

Dinesh must have looked confused, because Richard rolled his eyes (since when did Richard roll his eyes at him?) and elaborated, ‘Y’know, of champagne.’

‘Oh,’ said Dinesh. ‘Um.’ He opened his mouth to answer, and instead just sighed loudly to — at — himself. The usual enthusiasm that would’ve bubbled up in him at the prospect of such extravagant indulgences was completely absent. Had — had Gilfoyle broken him?

‘You know what,’ he heard himself saying as he started to get up from his seat, ‘you guys go ahead. I’m gonna — I’m gonna go get some fresh air.’ He tried to smile, and could tell even without a mirror that it looked more like a grimace. A horrible, pathetic grimace, to match his persistently horrible, thoroughly pathetic mood.

Before the others could say anything, he lurched away from the table and, after a moment’s disorientation, headed for the courtyard.

It was an unseasonably cold night. The only other patrons outside were smokers, huddled near the doorway. Dinesh headed for the bench that was furthest away from the door, beneath a gnarled lemon tree, and sat down. He wrapped his arms around himself, wishing he’d brought his jacket. Still, there was no way he was going back inside just yet.

The answer, he decided, was ‘yes’ — Gilfoyle had broken him. Dinesh couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so miserable, and the worst part of it was that he was miserable while also being drunk. His head pounded, his limbs were heavy and clumsy, and everything felt blunt and blurred — but there was none of the buzz, none of the feeling good. In fact, he realised, the alcohol didn’t even seem to be numbing his pain. It wasn’t doing the one thing that drink was meant to reliably do. Instead, he somehow felt both numb and dreadful, the worst of both worlds. How was that possible — or, for that matter, fair?

He sighed, exhaling forcefully through gritted teeth. What’s the plan here, exactly? asked a small, judgemental voice in his head. Just gonna sit outside sulking like a child until someone comes to collect you? They’re not gonna come, they’re busy enjoying themselves. Unlike you.

God, he realised, he was still doing it. Still comparing himself to others, defining himself solely in relation to them. The thought was actually physically painful to consider.

Dinesh shifted in his seat, turning a little to face the entrance back into the bar. It really was cold outside. Maybe he should just go back in — or go home.

He was about to stand up when an all-too-familiar figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm golden light of the bar’s interior.

Fuck. Dinesh slumped back down on the bench and shifted uneasily as Gilfoyle approached him. What does he want?

As Gilfoyle stepped into the light, Dinesh saw that he was carrying two flutes of champagne. They glinted in the light from the lamps scattered through the courtyard as he approached.

Without a word, Gilfoyle sat down on the bench beside Dinesh, and offered him one of the glasses.

Dinesh stared at it suspiciously, his gaze flicking between the champagne and Gilfoyle’s ever-impassive expression.

‘You gonna take it, or what?’ said Gilfoyle, when the silence stretched too long.

Dinesh took the glass, but didn’t take a sip. ‘What’s this for?’

Gilfoyle shrugged, so slightly that Dinesh almost missed it. ‘I thought,’ he said, in the same dry and measured tone always, ‘you might like some champagne.’

If it were anyone else, Dinesh would have been pleased. He’d have said thank you, he’d have drunk the champagne, and that would’ve been that.

But this was Gilfoyle.

‘What’s the catch?’ said Dinesh. ‘Why are you — why are you here? Was this —’ he gestured with the champagne glass, almost spilling its contents, ‘— just an excuse to come out here and mock me again?’

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Gilfoyle responded, without missing a beat. ‘If my aim was to come out here to mock you, I wouldn’t need an excuse.’

Dinesh bristled, self-pity and misery suddenly transmogrifying into anger. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He was openly glaring at Gilfoyle now, staring into those unreadable eyes and wishing that he could literally bore into them with his own. ‘Forgive me for daring to suspect that the reason you came out here was to make fun of me. It’s not like that’s ever happened before or anything. There’s never been a precedent for that kind of behaviour from you. Silly me.’

Gilfoyle didn’t respond. Dinesh seethed, still glaring. He dimly noticed that he was holding the stem of the champagne flute so tightly he might actually break it.

And then something completely unexpected happened — Gilfoyle looked away. He lowered his gaze, turning his head a little, ostensibly staring at the ground. Dinesh actually blinked in surprise, and loosened his grip on his glass to something a little more sensible.

Several seconds passed before Gilfoyle broke the silence. He raised his head but kept his gaze averted from Dinesh, instead staring straight ahead.

‘I didn’t mean it,’ he said.

‘Didn’t mean what?’ said Dinesh suspiciously.

Gilfoyle turned to face him, but didn’t meet his eyes. A second passed before he spoke. ‘What I said this morning. About you being … a poser. About how you live your life according to others, and how everything about you revolves around trying to prove —’

‘Yeah, I remember, asshole,’ Dinesh interjected sharply. ‘You don’t have to fucking repeat it.’ He shook his head in disgust. Whether the disgust was more directed at Gilfoyle or at himself, it was hard to say. ‘What’s your point?’

Gilfoyle looked up then, finally making eye contact again. ‘My point is — and I do not say this lightly — my point is, I was wrong.’ He spoke haltingly, as if saying the words were taking a not insubstantial amount of effort. ‘Those things I said about you were not … accurate. And you shouldn’t act like they are.’

Dinesh could hardly believe his ears. It felt like the world was swaying around him, and not just from drunkenness.

‘Then why did you say it?’ he said at last.

Gilfoyle raised an eyebrow, as if to say, really? You really have to ask?

‘Because I was fucking with you,’ he said finally, when it became clear that Dinesh wasn’t going to accept silence as a response. ‘I said it to fuck with you, and that’s — that’s about it.’

Dinesh let out a humourless laugh. ‘Yeah, well.’ He fidgeted with the champagne glass, staring into its bubbly contents. ‘Even if that’s true — and that’s a big if —’ he stopped, cutting himself off with a sigh before speaking again, ‘— you turned out to be right anyway.’

Gilfoyle frowned slightly. It was the most expression Dinesh had seen on his face all day. ‘I’m sorry, what?’

Dinesh sighed again. ‘Look, I don’t know why you’re pretending to be nice to me, but you can stop, okay? What you said was true, all of it. You know it, I know it, you don’t need to lie to me to try and make me feel better. Just leave me alone. And you can take this with you,’ he added, thrusting the champagne flute at him. ‘I don’t fucking want your pity gifts.’

Gilfoyle looked down at the flute, then back at Dinesh. ‘Are you fucking serious?’ He pushed Dinesh’s hand away, gently but firmly. ‘This isn’t a pity gift. It’s — it’s an olive branch, you idiot. The only pity in this situation is the self-pity that you’re currently still wallowing in. And I am willing to accept that that is, to some extent, my fault. So —’ he heaved a breath, looking around the courtyard before continuing, almost as if to check for eavesdroppers, ‘I’m sorry.’

It took Dinesh a couple of tries to find his voice. ‘You’re fucking what?’

Gilfoyle’s lips twitched. Was that a smile? It was gone too quickly for Dinesh to be sure. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, ‘for what I said.’ He looked down again, clearing his throat. Dinesh had never seen him look so uncomfortable before, and even while most of him was reeling, there was a small part that whispered, relish this. It won’t happen again.

‘Trust me,’ he continued, ‘I know what I said, and I know it’s not true. Not completely, at least — maybe a bit. But,’ he added, seeing Dinesh’s eyebrows raise, ‘that’s the case for pretty much everyone on this earth, so I wouldn’t worry about it.’

Dinesh studied Gilfoyle’s expression, trying to spot the tell-tale trace of mockery, some sardonic twinkle in his eye, some sign that this was all a ruse. And maybe it was because he was too drunk, but he couldn’t find it.

‘Look,’ Gilfoyle went on, in a long-suffering though not exactly unpleasant tone, ‘if all you cared about really was just money and status and proving yourself according to society’s idea of success, do you think you would’ve stuck by Richard and Pied Piper through all the shit that we’ve been through?’ He looked Dinesh dead in the eye before continuing. ‘Do you think I’d still be tolerating your presence?’

Dinesh swallowed. The pounding in his head was much worse now, almost as bad as the ridiculous speed at which his heart was now beating. ‘Tolerating?’ he echoed, once he was sure he could speak without his voice shaking.

Gilfoyle definitely smiled then, briefly but unmistakably. ‘Voluntarily spending time with,’ he corrected. He gestured vaguely with one hand at their surroundings, as if to underline his point.

Dinesh didn’t know what to say. Part of him was still waiting for the trick, the cruel catch that was surely waiting for him. ‘You’re just saying that because you’re drunk,’ he mumbled, looking back at Gilfoyle, not quite daring to meet his eyes. As the words left his mouth, he found himself fervently wishing that he was wrong.

Gilfoyle responded by raising his glass. ‘In vino veritas,’ he said.

Dinesh followed suit, more out of reflexive habit than anything else — he was still, simply put, in shock.

Gilfoyle clinked their glasses together. ‘In wine, there is truth,’ he translated, and brought the glass to his lips.

Dinesh did the same. As he savoured the sensation of bubbles dancing on his tongue, it occurred to him that he couldn’t remember the last time that champagne had never tasted quite so sweet.

#silicon valley #dinfoyle #dinesh chugtai #bertram gilfoyle #dinfoyle text #retrauxpunk writes #my sv stuff #lmao was i using this partly to procrastinate working on embers? yes #did this get longer than i expected? #also yes #anyway yeah enjoy this dinfoyle shippers #and #sv squad #(lmao this was such a pain to format on tumblr because of the abundant use of italics #dinesh is an italics person when i write him #apparently #anyway yeah here it is #*finger guns and teleports away like a powerpoint animation* #anon #asks #sv asks #retrauxpunk responds to prompts sometimes

[ellanainthetardis]

Prompt (only if you're still taking them ofc): Effie embarrasses herself pre-Mockingjay and Haymitch tries to calm her down (maybe with Cinna there too just bc i love Cinna) :)

Here you go! [x]

One For The Gag-Reel

“I cannot wait forthis dreadful Tour to be over!” Effiesnapped, her cheeks still burning red. She limped to the closest armchair andsat down with relief, immediately folding her right leg over her left so shecould get a good look at her ankle.

“But we’rehaving so much fun…” Haymitch drawled out. Without any sympathy. As usual. He went straight to the liquor cart and shesupposed she should  have been gratefulhe hadn’t headed directly to the train’s bar car.

She pursed herlips and glared at his back.

“It’s not that bad.”Katniss offered, dropping on the couch.

Humiliating.

It was humiliating.

“Not that bad?”she hissed. “You are aware this willprobably go into the gag reel, aren’t you? Everyone will watch me fall downthose stairs on a loop and laugh.”

“It was funny.”Haymitch snorted, taking off his jacket and tossing it on the back of thecouch. “That little screech you made? Comedygold.”

“The important thing is that you didn’t really gethurt.” Peeta commented, not unkindly, as he sat on Katniss’ other side.

“It truly wasn’tthat bad, darling.” Portia swore. “I doubt the cameras had a good angle…”

“You are sweet but the cameras were aimed straight atthe flight of stairs I missed.” she retorted. She undid the buckle of the shoeand rotated her ankle a few times. There was an unmistakable pinch. “Damn shoes!”

“Told you they would kill you.” Haymitch taunted fromthe cart where he was doing who knew what. How long did it take to pour oneselfa drink? And really was it too muchto expect for him to do the polite thing and offer everyone one?

“I am so sorry, Effie.” Cinna winced. “I designedthose heels..”

“Oh, it is fine…” she sighed, a little subdued by thatapology. “It was the stairs… The stairs were faulty.”

“She should have told Six’s mayor.” Katniss mutteredto Peeta under her breath. “I’m sure he would have liked to know.”

Effie pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at thechildren.

“Here’s some ice.” Haymitch declared before she couldtell the girl off for being insensitive to her pain. “Quit bitching now.”

She was genuinely surprised when he placed ice cubeswrapped in a cloth around her ankle. He hadn’t been fixing himself a glass then,after all. It made her feel guilty and she gave him an apologetic look that hedismissed with a roll of his eyes.

She was not really angry anyway.

Simply…

Well. Humiliated.She couldn’t even tell how it had happened. One minute she was walking up thestairs next to Haymitch, the next she was falling all the way back down. Sheremembered having made a desperate grab for him, she remembered he had tried tocatch her… Then she was sliding down the stairs on her side. Everyone rushed toher naturally. The Mayor, the kids, Cinna and Portia… Even Haymitch had beennext to her in a flash, asking if she was alright before defusing the tensionwith a joke…

She had laughed along and she had smiled for thecameras but she hadn’t been able to relax all dinner, fixated on the fact thatthe whole country had seen that fall and that it would probably play on repeatfor days. The simple thought wasenough to make her flush again.

The children didn’t linger long in the living-room andPortia, after making sure she was alright, followed them down the corridor,declaring she wanted to get as much sleep as possible before they reached Five.Effie could understand that. They were all tired and stressed out. She wouldn’thave fallen down the stairs if she hadn’t been tired and stressed out.

The ice made her skin numb and she moved the makeshiftpack around a little, wincing when she caught sight of her ankle.

“Oh.” Cinna made a face, crouching next to herarmchair and lifting the ice pack to get a closer look. “That doesn’t lookgood…”

“What?” Haymitch asked from the other side of the roomwhere, this time, he was fixinghimself a drink.

“It’s swollen.” the stylist said. “I think you mightneed a doctor…”

“It is simply a sprain. Nothing I cannot handle.” shesighed.

Haymitch took a sip of his drink on his way to herarmchair and handed it to her for safekeeping. He carefully coiled one handaround her ankle and placed his other one of her foot. He slowly made her footturn one way and then the other…

She had half a mind to ask him if he had gotten amedical degree while she wasn’t looking…

“Shit,sweetheart, it does look bad.” hefrowned, a bit sheepish. Probably because he had been making fun of her nonstopsince it had happened.

“I will keep it wrapped until we have to go on cameratomorrow.” she sighed, glancing at Cinna with a pout. “I was supposed to wearthe red heels in Five but I think they might be too high now. Do you think wemight switch for the black ones? They are less impressive but they are alsomore comfortable.”

“You’re joking.” Haymitch scoffed, gently rubbing histhumb on the swollen part of her ankle. “You shouldn’t put weight on that foot.Never mind wearing those death traps.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I went down the catwalk withmore serious injuries than this.” she dismissed. “Sprains are a model’s lot.”

“I will go see what we can do for your outfit.” Cinnapromised. “We’ll make you look so fabulous nobody will remember what happenedtonight.”

“I doubt that but I thank you.” she smiled, squeezinghis hand when he placed it on her shoulder. “Goodnight, dear.”

Once the sliding door had automatically closed behindthe stylist, Effie slouched a little in the armchair, losing her regal bearingand wincing at the pain in her side. She only hesitated a short moment beforefinishing Haymitch’s whiskey. The taste was awful but she hoped the alcoholwould help her relax.

He tossed her an annoyed look when he saw what she haddone but didn’t comment, still busy inspecting her ankle as if he could heal itjust with his willpower.

“I hate totrouble you but would you terriblymind helping me to my room?” she asked.

“You hate to trouble me?” he snorted, openly mocking.“Since when?”

She pouted. “I was simplybeing polite.”

“See, you sayyou’re being polite but that’s just a covert way to be bossy.” he accused,outstretching a hand to help her up. “Come on, I’ll carry you. Should have saidit was that bad. Wouldn’t have letyou walk all the way from the Justice Building to the train.”

“I told youI was in pain.” she argued.

“No. You told me it was a disaster ‘cause everyone’dbe laughing at you.” he objected, rolling his eyes. “You said you were fine.”

“Well, I was not about to admit being hurt through myown clumsiness on national TV.” she retorted, wrapping her arms around hisneck. She held her breath when he picked her up, pain flaring on her right sidebut she clenched her jaw and pressed her forehead against his shoulder.

“What now?” he grumbled. “You’re okay?”

“Bruised.” she breathed out slowly.

He didn’t answer but his expression grew a little darkerand he hurried down the corridors and to her bedroom. He was careful when heplaced her down on the bed and she was grateful he didn’t toss her like hesometimes did when he fancied himself a funny man.

“Where’s the first aid kit?” he asked, alreadyrummaging in the cupboard of her en-suited bathroom. “Never mind. Found it.”

There were more sounds of things being moved around.She supposed he was looking for the right salve.

She did a quick job of getting rid of her remainingshoe and of the dress. Then she stood up and hopped to the full-length mirrorscrewed on the wardrobe door. And she made a face.

There were angry looking bruises on her right sidefrom her ribs to her mid-thigh.

“You shouldn’t be up…” Haymitch started scolding as hecame back in the bedroom only to do a double take. “Holy shit.”

Before she really understood what was going on, he hadher sitting down on the bed and he was running his palm all over the bruisedarea, sometimes pressing a little too hard for comfort. There was a frantic,almost panicked look in his eyes and it took her a few minutes to figure outwhat was wrong.

“I am fine,Haymitch.” she promised.  

“You’re lucky you didn’t crack your ribs.” hemuttered. “Shit. You should have saidit was that bad.”

“I honestly did not know.” she sighed. “And the factyou are distressed do not excuse your language.”

“Ain’t distressed.I don’t care if you go and break your neck.” he grumbled, picking up the smalljar he had found in the bathroom.

She tried to take it from him but he batted her handaway. It seemed he was determined to take care of her injuries himself so shelet him, relaxing because as strong as his hands were – and there were strong – they could be extremelytender when he wanted them to.

He was only satisfied when her side was entirely coated with cream. He rubbed a generousamount on her ankle too and watched, apparently fascinated, when she expertlywrapped it tight.

He lifted his eyebrows. “How often have you donethat?”

“I told you. Sprains… It is a common thing.” sheshrugged. “I have been wearing heels since I was ten. It is bound to happen.”

He stared at her and then shook his head, standing upfrom the bed to get rid of his own clothes. “But you still wear them. You’recrazy.”

She huffed but didn’t rise to that bait. She watchedhim discard his waistcoat on the chair in the corner before kicking his shoesagainst the wall…

“I do not remember inviting you to stay tonight.” shescorned, a little vexed by his name-calling.

“Thought it was an open invitation thing…” he smirked,glancing at her over his shoulder before ripping the tie off his neck andtossing it on top of the waistcoat. The shirt and the pants didn’t get thatfar, they remained on a heap on the floor, prompting her to press her lips in ahard disapproving line. Not that he cared.

“Perhaps you thought wrong.” she hummed, unclaspingher bra and slipping her panties off. She had to use the bathroom anyway so shepointedly hopped to the clothes hamper to drop her dirty laundry.

He was usually more receptive to her naked self – evenif she was hopping around – but his grey eyes remained on the bruises marringher pale skin. And they were hard.

She rethought her original plan of going into thebathroom and limped closer to him, locking her arms around his neck. His handshovered uncertainly next to her hips before settling at the small of her back.She wasn’t sure she liked the way he was touching her, as if she was abreakable fragile thing. He never touched her like that.

“You know Imark easily.” she reminded him. “It looks more impressive than it is. It doesnot even hurt that much.”  

“Yeah.” he granted, brushing his knuckles along theline of her spine. “Just don’t like seeing you hurt.”

She smiled and raised on tip toes – balanced on heronly good foot – to kiss him.

She didn’t make the mistake of telling him she thoughthe was being sweet but she hoped she made herself clear anyway.

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #prompt #victory tour #funny one #hurt comfort #hbic effie #protective haymitch #coconuts friends #injuries #the kids #the stylists

[imrowanartist]

Sometime during the night Anders is woken up from his much needed sleep by continuous knocking on his door that slowly grows more agitated. It takes him a minute to orientate himself after being woken so abruptly, and he stretches his limbs that still ache from the work of the day before. Or today? He realises he has no clue what time of night it is, and for how long he has actually been asleep.

“Anders?”, a muffled voice asks through the door, “I know you’re in there.”

The mystery person on the other side of the door has apparently run out of patience, and…wait. Is that actually who he thinks it is, calling his name?

Anders gets up, dressed in nothing more than a loose shirt and leggings, and crosses his clinic on bare feet. He opens his door and to his surprise it is Fenris’s lanky frame that is standing in the doorway, his markings illuminated by the flames slowly dying in the hearth. The elf is not wearing a breastplate and gauntlets, revealing the lines of lyrium all along the arms to the fingertips.

“Fenris?” he says, slowly, cautiously, before adding, “Have you come to insult me some more?” in a sharper tone.

Fenris scowls at that, but doesn’t take the bait. “I…” he clears his throat, “I require your help, mage.”

Anders is stunned into silence for all but a second before he lets out a laugh. Fenris’s scowls deepens, but Anders can’t help himself. “You require my help? Well, isn’t that ironic.” He says, but when Fenris shifts his weight Anders doesn’t miss the flash of pain on the elf’s face.

“You’re hurt.” He says, the healer in him taking over.

Fenris nods, the admission costing him obvious effort. It must be something serious if the elf has come all the way to him. Normally he prefers to stay by himself in his crumbling mansion, and heal his own wounds through non-magical means. Unless he’s actually dying that is. Only then he’ll allow Anders to use his healing magic on him.  Anders has to admit that he’s more than a little curious to find out what has hurt Fenris so bad that’s he willing to speak to ‘the abomination’.

So he steps back to let the elf in and gestures to one of the cots lining the wall of his clinic then turns to build up the fire again. From the corner of his eye he watches Fenris limp across the room and then lower himself on a cot.

When the fire is burning again, and Anders is sure he has enough light to work by, he focuses his attention on his patient. In the light of the fire notices how pale Fenris is, how a sheen of sweat clings to the elf’s skin. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was actually running a fever, whatever the injury. He wonders how long Fenris has walked around with it, before he decided to come to him.

“So what has hurt the mighty warrior so badly, that he has to come to a lowly apostate for help?” Anders asks.

“I have no need for your sarcasm.” Fenris responds, his scowl still firmly in place.

“But you do have need of my healing skills. So show me.”

Fenris hesitates a moment, then lifts his right foot up and lays it across his knee, the sole angled towards the healer so the lights fall on it. Anders sucks in a breath. The ball of Fenris’s foot is an angry red, and in the middle of it…

“Maker’s breath, Fenris! Is that a nail?!”

He doesn’t wait for an answer and grabs the foot by the heel and pulls it towards him to get a closer look. He can feel Fenris tense from the physical contact, but ignoring it he studies the appendix. And indeed, there’s a nail imbedded in the elf’s foot, very deep by the look of it, the area around it clearly infected.

“What? Where?,” he shakes his head in horror, then settles on the most relevant question, “How long has this been in here?”

“Two days.” Fenris answers, his face tight both from pain and the discomfort of being touched. “I’ve attempted to take it out myself but with no success. I lacked the proper tools.”

“You fool.” Anders says with no real heat as he lowers Fenris’ leg to the ground and gets up to grab a rag, a bottle of alcohol and, most importantly, a pair of firm pincers. He settles himself down on his knees, with his tools, in front of the cot. The flames of the fire illuminating both him and the stubborn elf in front of him.

“This is going to be very painful,” he starts, “I could numb your food with magic but..”

“No magic.” Fenris cuts him off, “I can handle whatever pain you are going to inflict on me.”

Anders snorts. “I was expecting nothing less.”

He pulls up the elf’s foot again and removes the wrapping that usually covers most of it but leaves the toes and heel bare. Elves and their strange footwear. Or lack thereof.

He picks up his alcohol soaked rag and start with cleaning the infected area as much as he can without touching the nail. When that’s done he picks up his pincers and gets a grip on the nail. He hears Fenris suck in a sharp breath as he starts to pull on it gently.

“Can’t you just pull it out fast?” Fenris asks, his voice a little hoarse.

“I can’t. That might damage your foot more.”

To distract the elf, and because Anders is honestly curious, he attempts to start a conversation while he works.

“Why do you elves walk around barefoot anyway?” he asks, trying to keep his tone conversational. He can feel Fenris giving him a look, so he doesn’t expect an answer. But maybe Fenris does need the distraction, because after clearing his throat he starts talking.

“Elven slaves…are not permitted to wear shoes in the Imperium.” he starts hesitantly, then he picks up, “The Masters think it’s a punishment. So after I escaped from Danarius, one of the first things I did was steal a pair of boots. But I found that it made me feel…less grounded. Less connected. As if my reflexes were better when my toes where in connection with the earth underneath me. It’s strange, but I can’t explain it any other way.”

Anders listens, while he keeps working on pulling the nail out, bit by bit.

“I asked Merrill once. She said it was because elves have a connection to nature that you humans lack. I feel no cultural bonds at all towards the elves, Dalish or other, but apparently this is something that does bind us all together, willingly or not. I do not care much for the reasoning behind it, but if it makes me fight better, then I will forego footwear. It’s a shame that I cannot tell the Magisters in Tevinter that their punishment is not a punishment at all, though.”

The last thing is said with something that could almost qualify as a chuckle, but it’s cut off as Fenris squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip when Anders pulls out the last part of the nail with considerably more force.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk this much.” He says to the elf as he studies the nail that’s now lying in the palm of his hand, “Andraste’s flaming knickers, would you look at that! That is one hell of a nail.”

Fenris’s only response is a snort, so Anders puts the nail down and pours a generous amount of alcohol over his foot to shut him up. Then he rubs the wound clean with the alcohol soaked rag and binds it. Then he binds it some more, because he knows that his warnings to the elf to stay of his feet will fall on deaf ears anyway.

When he’s done an awkward silence falls over the clinic. Anders doesn’t really know what else to say to Fenris, so he gets up and starts cleaning up his tools.

Fenris replaces his foot wrapping then raises himself up from the cot, trying to keep as much weight of his injured foot, and proceeds to stand somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“I’d warn you to stay of your feet, but I know that’s not going to happen, just..” Anders gestures at nothing in particular, “get some rest, and remember to clean the bandages. And if it doesn’t get better, come back. I’d might actually have to use magic on it then.”

They fall silent again. Fenris just nods instead of arguing on the use of magic, then limps to the door.

“Do you want to keep the nail?” Anders asks suddenly, but immediately regrets his question when he sees the incredulous look the elf gives him.

“I want that infernal thing as far away from me as possible.” Fenris deadpans, but Anders swears he can see something of smirk ghost over his face. And just when he thinks Fenris is going to limp out the door without saying anything, the elf turns.

“Thank you for the help, mage.” He says, before he disappears into the darkness of the night.

Anders is left staring at the nail, which he swears is about 2 inches long. Then he turns, puts it up on a shelf as a reminder that Fenris apparently does have the capability to be decent towards him once in a while, before he drags himself back to bed.

The next day, they’re back at each other’s throats, and all is right in Thedas.

#dragon age 2 #dragon age #fanart #fanfic #fenris #fenris is upset #poor fenris #elves #anders #illustration #why do elves walk barefoot?

[lafislife]

This War of Mine

Alexander Hamilton always thought he was going to be someone one day. He was ambitious, hard working and smart, and did not mind demonstrating it every time he had the chance.

Now he is trapped in the middle of civil war, and all his dreams crumble to the ground, the future he had carefully planned disappearing before his very eyes.

But he survives. He always does. And maybe something better can come out of this.

Time: Modern Civil War AU.

(T/W): Gunshoots. Wartime, Blood, Streetfighting. Vomiting.

(A/N): This is the introduction to a multi-chapter fic I am working on, based on the game going by the same name. I don’t know what to expect from this, as I am writing it mostly for myself. For those who are not familiar with the game, it’s modern war from the perspective of the civilians living through it. It is heart wreanching and horribly sad, but a true slap to the face and wake up call for those who still think war is a glorious endeavor.

I haven’t decided on ships yet, so I accept your ideas on it. To be honest, this is quite self indulgent, and I find it probable that I may write characters, well, out of character. I am sorry if I do so.

I need to clarify that my first language isn’t english, so I will probably fuck up a lot. Please view my mistakes with indulgence, and correct them whenever you feel like doing so.

With no further ado, I’ll leave you to it

Alex’s blood freezes when he hears the first gunshot, scrapping the stone just above his head. The beating of his heart is loud, so loud it almost drowns all noises around him.

Except for the gunshots.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his shaking hands, his vision blurring for a moment while he stands up, still hiding behind the corner. He is trapped, and he does not have much time: infantry is patroling the area, marching justmarching behind him, just a few blocks away around the corner. Just a few meters away, is safety. Relative safety. He only needs to cross this intersection.

Sounds easy. It is not.

There’s that damned sniper, holding him back. He lost a friend a few days ago to the same man, atop the bell tower of the town’s church, shooting at everything that dared move across the tiny square.

Another gunshot drives him back to reality: militia was closing in. He has to cross.

He needs to be smart, and be smart fast. The pressure on his head increases, the shadow of a headache ghosting over him as he thinks, and thinks and thinks. He absentmindedly toys with the rubble at his feet.

He is distracted by another gunshot, distant, and he sees the hoof of a horse from the square’s monument falling to the ground, stone rolling along the floor before it stops. Alexander wonders what caused the sniper to shoot, as he cannot see anyone, but he dismisses the thought quickly. It was probably a bird or a rat startling the sniper.

That’s when it hits him

The sniper shot at everything that moved down the square.

It was madness. Yes, the sniper had to reload in between shots, and he could -theoretically- bait a shot out of him before attempting to cross, yes,but it was insane. There was no way he could cross the street in time, not enough time, not enough time, and if he tripped he would definitely be a goner and-

Another gunshot, just down the street. Alexander does not need to wonder who is it this time: the militia is behind him, and he knows that too well. There is a blood-curling scream, a woman, maybe even a child. He cannot tell. Another gunshot. The screaming stops instantly.

He can even hear the militia laughing behind him -or is he imagining it? Is the cruelty of this war playing tricks on his mind?. He couldn’t stop to think about it. Not now. He needs to survive, and he knows the militia is a block down right around the corner. 

He needs to cross now.

His hands were shaking a bit, cold fingers scrapping themselves as they pick up the stones from the ground. Careful as to not be seen, he throws one rock to the square.

Nothing. The militia was half a block away.

Not daring to  glance behind him, afraid his nerves would fail him if he does, he throws the second rock, harder, making as much sound as possible with it.

Nothing. He has to cross. The militia is right around the corner. He has to cross, and the militia is turning around the corner, he has to cross, he will be spotted if he did not cross.

Last chance. He throws the last stone as hard and as far as he can. There is no answer, there is no answer and oh god, there is no answer and he is going to die.

The loud bang from the sniper’s rifle shocks him so much that he is paralyzed for what feels like a thousand hours. He feels like fainting, vision blurring, not being able to hear much, and the militia is right behind him, and he has to run.

And he runs. He doesn’t even realize it at first, but he is running and he is running fast. He doesn’t stop at the broken cars to catch his breath and bait another shot before crossing the rest of the square -that was Plan A- but now there was no time for it. Instead, he keeps running, not breathing, not seeing, not hearing, just running.

He is almost there. Just five steps keep him from being on the other side of the square, in the safety of another corner.

There is another gunshot.

The pain does not come at first: he throws himself against the wall of the building, safety behind the corner on the other side of the square. His lungs burn as they fill with much needed air, his legs shake and there are tears in his eyes as he realizes he is alive.

Then, he feels it: the dripping down his ribs, the wetness, the thickness that starts dampening his shirt and sweater. He feels a cold sweat as he reaches a hand to his ribs, fingers barely touching the place.

He is shot.

All feelings come back at once: the first thing he notices is the pain, hot-white searing pain setting his side on fire as the blood pours, and drips and stains. The next thing he notices, is that he can barely feel his legs, and that he is shaking too much: he does not know if it is because of the pain or because how terrified he is.

He knows he needs to move, and he needs to do so soon. Crossing the square means being away from danger, but not for long: he needs to be behind locked doors before dawn. He stands up, and he is glad there is a wall behind him because he would have fallen down if there wasn’t.

He gives a tentative step, one hand over the wound, the other on the building’s cold concrete walls. The next step is far more painful: the tension that his right leg puts over his wound is almost unbearable. The blood overflows his hand, rivers of red runnind down his knucles.

He feels sick to the stomach, cold sweat now covering his whole body. The adrenaline high is coming to an end and the headache from before has grown into a full blown migraine. His gunshot wound gnaws at him, steel fangs biting hard at his ribs.

After a few meters he cannot stand it anymore. He doubles over, heaves and retches until everything on his stomach is spilled unto the sidewalk. It does not take much time, he hasn’t eaten since yesterday.

Alex’s legs can barely support his weight now. He feels completely drained, and the weight of his body becomes too much for his weak knees. In the back of his mind there are voices yelling, you need to move on, you need to go, it is almost dawn and you need to hide before it comes.

But the pain is just too much. He lets himself slide down the building's wall, shallow breaths becoming long, deep ones. He just needs to catch his breath, he tells himself. If he takes five minutes - maybe ten minutes, he can go on.

He closes his eyes. He smells the gunpowder in the air, the vomit on his sweatshirt, the blood on his hands. He can even feel the copper taste of it in his mouth, and he swirls his tongue once, twice, as if trying to get rid of it. At least it wasn’t as unpleasant as bile.

He feels incredibly calm, head haning back, supported only by the wall behind him. His legs are numb and his fingers relaxed, barely twitching from time to time. His eyelids start dropping, and it is then he realizes how fucked he is: he is sure he won’t be able to get up now.

He should be scared. He is going to die, either from bloodloss or from the patrol men when they found him the next morning. But he is not. He feels calm, calmer than he ever felt before in his life. There is certainty in death that life could not offer, not in the middle of this chaos.

He is almost dead and he is almost terrified of how little he cares about dying - the irony does not scape him. He just wishes it ends quickly.

He is almost asleep when he feels a strong shove. There are strong hands against him, gabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. Was he being robbed? He is carrying a backpack, he does have food, and bandages and alcohol in it - all suplies hard to come by in times like these.

But Alexander does not care. He just wished to die. He wishes to die soon, to forget the pain, to forget the headache, to forget this world of unending horrors.

His body, however, doesn’t stop resisting.  Alex resists, hands clutching the collar of his attacker. He cannot open his eyes, too tired for it, so he struggles blindly against his opponent.  Weak arms wrestle where his mind wanted rest, and he manages a light punch on a lighltly stubbled cheek.

The assaulter’s response is not delayed: a blow to his head and all around Alex turns black.

#hamilton #alexander hamilton #marquis de lafayette #eliza schuyler #angelica schuyler #hercules mulligan #john laurens #george washington #modern au #wartime au