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bearsinpotatosacks · 2 years

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Day 5 of Benthan Week 2022 - Fake Death

Ethan Hunt doesn't accept death easily, but what happens when he's faced with it head on? @benthan-week-2022

Words: 6605

Ethan watched him run. Run around the corner with the drive in hand and a hasty smile on his face. His hair flapping as he ran down the clean white stairs and to the reception desk. It all seemed fine.

But his pace slowed as he neared him. His eyelids dropped lower over his eyes. The drive clattered onto the tiled floor, his hand flopping limp.

He'd almost reached them when he hit the ground. The thud reached Ethan before he knew what he was doing. Benji's head lay in his hand, soft hair caressing his fingers, thumb stroking his hand by the time he came to and realised what was going on.

"Ethan-"

Benji's voice was frail, faint and frightened. The air barely tickled Ethan's hand as he pulled him up so his head rested on his shoulder. Neither knew what was going on.

There was no blood. No bang of a gun or knife poking out his back. Just a thud and his eyes drifted closed. No goodbye. Just gone.

"Benji." He whispered back, too late. "Benji, wake up."

He didn't know what happened or why he- don't say it, that'll make it real. There wasn't any blood so why was he- again, don't say it.

He ran his index and ring finger down the rough material of his suit jacket, felt the smooth skin getting colder and paler in his touch. He found the pulse point and he stopped breathing.

No pulse.

His head dropped an inch or two, closer to Benji's face and felt no breath on his face. The rise and fall of his chest has stopped.

"Benji wake up," he said, louder this time. "Please."

Luther, whom he hadn't noticed getting closer, placed a hand on the shoulder that wasn't holding Benji's head. He didn't shake him, didn't move him, just stood.

"Ethan, we need to go."

Ethan didn't say anything. The words swam through the air before reaching him. He was thankful for the delay. He didn't want to hear the words, because they made it all too clear that Benji wasn't sleeping.

"We need to get to a hospital."

Ethan nodded. He didn't blink. Didn't want to breathe as to change anything.

"Yes, they'll figure out what went wrong." Ethan whispered.

'And fix him' he didn't add. He knew it sounded crazy. That he was really- not that. But saying Benji was anything other than asleep, or at most gone, would end him somehow more than he already had.

He nodded, hooked an arm under Benji's knees and fully embraced his head and torso with the other. Ilsa grabbed the drive, Will stopped the van outside the doors as they hobbled out. They were alive, at least.

Although Ethan was still on the floor in the entrance hall with Benji.

"What ha-" Will started.

Ilsa shook her head and got in the passenger side. Ethan distantly heard her low voice explaining. He heard her stop, wavering in her words, then Will's simple 'Oh'.

Luther opened the back door and let Ethan climb in. It was simple and bare but he couldn't care less.

He settled on the chipboard floor, careful not to jostle Benji too much, and set his gaze on his unmoving form.

He couldn't see his crystal blue eyes. There were wrinkles from years of laughter marking his face. His skin was almost sickly, growing ice cold. He traced a finger along his cheekbones, rubbing the smooth skin of his cheek and the ridges in his dry lips.

Too cold. Too empty. Not his Benji. Physically, this was the same man that he'd kissed, cuddled on a Sunday morning and had given pleasure to in the depths of night. But this body was too cold and still to be his Benji.

He pushed him back up onto his shoulder regardless. His hair was still soft, at least. The clothes on his body seemed too big for him, he’d shrunk. This body that served him left an empty casm within minutes.

Everything was dampened. He tried to focus on the world around him but couldn't. His vision was blurred if he tried to look anywhere but Benji.

His stomach dropped. A sense of deja vu washed over him. This was all too familiar. Far too close to '96, when everyone he held dear was lost in one night.

Memories flashed in his already crowded mind. Jack's face, or lack thereof. Sarah bleeding against a metal gate. Hannah's burnt body among the burning rubble of a car. And now Benji's cold body in his arms.

His arms squeezed around Benji tighter, like a child with a comfort blanket. The smell of his aftershave, sweat and Benji's familiar musk floated to him and eased the knots in his chest. Part of him didn't want them to loosen. That meant easing the pain and the pain was the only thing he had left of Benji.

In an attempt to distract himself from the still body in his arms, he didn't want to admit that Benji wasn't just still and cold yet, he peeked through his eyelashes at the others.

Luther had his eyes closed, head back against the side of the van taking deep, shuddering breaths. He'd known him the longest out of anyone in their little team and knew he didn't break like this for anyone. But Benji wasn't just anyone, they'd been disavowed countless times and saved the world from destruction practically on a daily basis together. That was excuse enough to break down.

Will drove with his eyes set on the road. But when Ethan looked closer he saw his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel and knots of tension from clenching his jaw.

Ilsa had her head against the window. He could probably relate to her feelings the most. She was the top agent of the MI6, had sacrificed impossible things for the cause and tried desperately not to start believing what Solomon Lane preached despite working closest with him for two years. And when she'd finally got people to care about, to call her family, she'd lost one and no-one knew why.

Returning to Benji, he held him tighter, tighter and tighter. Tight enough to break. Putting all his will into warming his empty body, forcing the soul back inside and begging any gods to return Benji to him. Hadn't he done enough good to get that? Had he really done enough bad that he was worthy of this pain?

That's all he felt. Pain. Not strong and piercing. Not forceful, shattered porcelain and ripped body parts.

It was slow and leaking. Tingling all over and threading into every part of him. A sick symbiosis that left him dazed and forgetting that the before was filled with happiness and life and not just a ploy to torment him.

He felt like he was underwater. Deep in the ocean, chained to the ocean floor with thick steel anchors. A cursed man left to a cursed fate.

The waves kept coming, kept plowing overhead. Cold had reached his bones. Shivers ran all over. No air reached his lungs as the familiar ache took over. But he didn't black out. No release for him.

He was blue. Murky darkness and an iciness that just couldn't be shaken off.

Part of him longed to feel what you'd expect to feel in grief. Sadness. Flooded by tears and not this awful black hole within him. He begged to feel lonely rather than deserving, wished to just have one normal thing even if it was the worst thing to have.

He didn't hear the doors open. Didn't see Luther get out or the others crowd around, staring at him like a zoo animal. Didn't see the blue flashing sirens against the night sky and jumped when Luther spoke to him in his patient but not 'I'm tiptoeing around you' voice.

"Ethan, we're here."

He turned his head gradually. Every muscle in his body was tight. Pain, the physical kind, seemed to buzz within him. His feet tingled from sitting on them. A high pitched whine surrounded him as he tried to listen and focus.

Outside the van was a white porter's bed. Hospital staff with tired faces stared at him. Everyone was so close. So expecting.

"Sir, we need you to give us the body."

Body. Not even a name. No memory or life. It made his stomach churn and the flooding rush of nothing came again.

He didn't move. Benji's body slipped off his shoulder. He rushed to lift him back up, couldn't be separated from him yet. He was already gone, still couldn't say what it actually was, he didn't want his body to go too.

"Sir-"

His head darted up.

"We need to move his body, your van is blocking the entrance for ambulances."

The nurse speaking to him looked tired. Her patience was worn thin, and the drizzling rain on her wrinkled scrubs. The bright flash of her purple patterned hijab almost hurt his eyes, too bright and positive for now.

"Okay." He managed to say.

He moved, feeling robotic as he did, from the van with a vice-like grip on Benji. This would be the start of the end. Time to say goodbye, even if every inch of him screamed otherwise.

Laying him down on the bed felt wrong. This wasn't their bed. He wouldn't be comfortable here, in a full suit. The rain raised his arm hair. Benji was already cold and would turn freezing in this weather.

But before he could jump in and reclaim Benji's body, Luther lay a hand on his shoulder. Will drove the van away and the world seemed to start moving again.

"Take care of him." He trembled.

"We will." The nurse said and walked away.

Another nurse pulled him into the ER. He didn't see her face, though, because his eyes couldn't look away from Benji, who was looking less and less like himself with every second.

~~~

"What's your name, sir?" The nurse asked.

He'd been placed on a bed, the thin privacy curtain pulled but the busy hum of the rest of the ER filled his head. It used all his energy to pay attention, so his response was lackluster, her words foggy in his ears.

"Ethan," he said, his voice raspy. "Ethan Hunt."

"Okay, Ethan, how old are you?"

"Erm, 58."

He was too old for this. Sure, people rarely retired at his age in the modern world, but his job wasn't the usual job. Too much running and dodging bullets and maniacal villains for someone facing 60 in a few years.

"What's your date of birth?"

She gently pushed his chest. A spike of dulled pain and a gasp, that it took him an embarrassingly long time to realise was his, told him his ribs were broken.

"You have three broken ribs," she said, writing it on a form next to her. "Date of birth?"

"August 18th, 1964."

"Where were you born?"

"Madison, Wisconsin,"

"Parents' names?"

"Nathan and Margaret Hunt."

Why so many questions? His head already hurt, so much pain in every way possible. All the questions had taken his mind away from Benji, how cold he'd be, lonely and possibly still scared. Maybe that was the point.

"Who was that man you were holding out there?"

She was smart, getting him to talk, taking him mind away from the vast nothingness that threatened to consume him.

"Benjamin Dunn, goes by Benji."

"Who's he to you?"

Her eyes flicked up from where she rubbed her fingers along the vertebrae in his neck, going down towards his hips. He noticed the bisexual flag pin on her landyard.

He loved Benji, would do anything for him. Ethan was fine telling friends, fine around Benji's family and alright with holding hands over the dinner table in a restaurant.

But telling a stranger seemed daunting. Maybe it was growing up in a small town in the 70s. Even after over thirty years he could still hear the ranting priests preaching about the vulgar sin of homosexuality, could still feel the sick rumble of guilt and raging blush on his cheeks when he saw Han Solo in Star Wars or the first time he kissed Jack.

He looked at her again, again at the tiny enameled pin and sighed.

"He's my partner, at work and home." He smiled.

"How long have you been together, now?"

"Coming up to five years,"

She smiled, "My girlfriend and I are coming up to four."

One of the knots in his chest eased. The happy memories of Benji flooded him. Light for a moment. Benji's smile, his laugh, the confusion when faced with a problem, it all came back.

They melted too fast, though. The smiles disappeared as he remembered he'd never see one again. Never make anymore memories. Never feel the weight of his body on his as they slept, or wash his hair with his wonderful smelling shampoo.

The nurse stepped back, finished with examining him. She scanned her notes again.

"Apart from some broken ribs, your physically fine-"

"Physically?"

"But I saw your reaction times and behavior outside, and I think you're in shock," she said. "That's why I've been asking you so many questions, Benji seems to be very close to you, and this is going to be a difficult time so I tried to make you remember good things."

He could only nod. She cared and tried. But the black hole just consumed it. Because Benji was gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.

Gone and never coming back. But he still couldn't say it.

The realisation dawned on him, nonetheless. His body went tingly, numb. Shockwaves rippled through his body. It all went blank, his mind, the good times, the bad times. Black hole consumed everything, finally.

Benji was gone, and Ethan not far behind.

~~~

He came to surrounded by darkness. Parts of his vision were a lighter red, where some light shone brighter through his eyelids. He tried to open them but felt them glued shut. What was going on?

Seeping cold shivered all over him. The kind that made him wonder if it was actually something cold or wet?

Everything was still. He tried to focus on a specific sound, figure out where he was, but nothing. There was a general hum of a room, heating that was barely on, lights shining behind his eyes and electricity.

One eye opened. Then the other.

He saw a turquoise tiled ceiling and LED strip lights. To his left, despite his neck creaking, he saw shining metal cupboards filled with rectangular drawers. His right had cluttered desks and windows, closed off by closed shutters.

The last thing he remembered was the mission. He had the drive, which contained everything they knew about a poison and its antidote, was running when his body shook, shuddered and he dropped. He was wearing a suit in those memories but, looking down, he was stark naked, only covered by a thin sheet.

His head was groggy. This didn’t make sense yet he couldn't place anything that could help. It was like he'd been asleep for years, felt like sleeping beauty but without the kiss.

A shuffle from behind the glass woke him from the slob. He darted up, spy instincts kicking in. The sheet fell to the ground

He glanced down at what he’d been lying on, just a metal table on wheels. A plate, metal too, was on a desk next to where his head had been. He snatched the sharpest tool he saw, a scalpel. God knows what would've been done to him with this.

Someone came around the corner. He formed an action stance, ready to move and attack. He may be a tech genius but he'd passed the field agent exam for a reason.

Someone in a white lab coat, halfway through a sip of coffee, stopped on his way to the table.

"Who are you?" Benji shouted. "Where am I? And why am I naked?"

He didn't reply. There was a splash and he dropped his coffee on the floor.

"Answer me!" He repeated, less bite to his words now, more confusion.

"S-sorry, I'm Andrew Dwart, Pathologist at the City Hospital."

His eyes were wide. He gulped and wiped his hands on his coat.

"Sorry, I'm not usually this flustered, I'm just not used to the people I work with talking back."

Benji lowered the scalpel. He knew what pathologists did, worked with blood, helped to identify problems, worked with the dead. But that meant- no, it couldn't be.

"What do you mean?" He asked.

"Well, you came to me, came to the hospital, dead. You were dead on my table until five minutes ago when I went to get a coffee," he chuckled awkwardly. "I'm glad I didn't get to doing anything."

It all clicked. Why everything went black, his strange surroundings. He was in the morgue of a hospital. Presumed dead. That only left why?

He dropped the scalpel on the metal table. The clarity ceased and confusion set in. An almost overwhelming realisation of his own mortality, flashbacks from the two other times he'd almost died and the swirling confusion took over.

"Dead?"

~~~

"Well, your bloods have come back." The doctor walked in with a file in hand. "There's an abundance of an unknown chemical in your blood that must've recreated the effects of death."

Benji sat on a hospital bed, partially clothed in the usual gown. The crew only half looked at the doctor. Their eyes more naturally fell on him, considering almost three hours ago he was dead.

"Somehow it managed to lower your heart rate and breathing to undetectable levels, lower your body temperature yet still keep you alive," she said.

"How?"

Benji was no doctor, not a scientist. He knew tech. Not bodies.

"We don't know yet, but my guess is that it must reduce breathing rate, and your heart rate to boot, to such a low level that you fell into an extreme coma, but we have no evidence,"

It was strange, to be so close go death yet so far. It was a controlled torture. But something that controlled, being able to calculate his body like he hacked computers. Someone being able to do that using an unknown chemical, it threw him.

"This kind of thing has been known in some animal species, some kinds of frogs have been known to hibernate in winter and allow themselves to freeze-" she looked at Benji. "But you’re not a frog."

He laughed, "No I'm not."

"Well, we have your bloods, so can investigate this further, and have been observing you for a while now, and you've shown no other side effects so I'll discharge you. Rest, I don't want you back to work for at least a week to stay safe. But if you feel any side effects, straight back, okay?" She said.

He nodded, watched her fill in forms as she left. The air conditioning chilled his skin. Goosebumps rose on his arms, hair standing on end.

Luther came forward and smacked him hard on the shoulder. He had a relieved smile on his face but his eyes were tinged red.

"It's great to have you back," he said. "Almost lost you there."

He tapped his hand, "Good to be here, nothing like being presumed dead to make you want to live your life."

"Or be reminded of your own mortality." Will spat with the same fatigued ease he always had after a mission, but he heard the heartfelt tones in his voice.

In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Ethan flinch. He'd been quiet since Benji came in. Hovered over his shoulder as the doctors ran tests and scrambled their brains to try and come up with any idea of how Benji 'came back to life'.

He hadn't had time to focus on why he was acting so ominously in amongst the rush of the hospital. But, the doctor had said a week off, and the IMF would surely give Ethan the time off too. So there was still plenty of time to dwell on that.

But not then. As a nurse came through with his clothes, and he was desperate to get into something warmer.

~~~

The apartment block was quiet at three am. Lights from the street shone through the windows on either end of the corridor.

He tried to step lightly on the creaking floorboards but the adrenaline from the hospital was wearing off and he became clumsy in his steps. The floorboards squeaked yet, when he looked at Ethan, his steps made no sound.

They unlocked the door. Benji felt himself ease as he realised he was home.

"Home sweet home, right?" He said.

Ethan didn't reply. He hadn't spoke for the entire cab ride home. Had barely said anything at the hospital either.

His face was hard to read, perfectly masked. All he could see was that odd calm. To anyone else this might seem good, having such a calm attitude around such chaos. But Benji knew Ethan better than that. He knew this was all a facade, his way of keeping the people he loved at just a distance that he wasn't being malicious but not too close as to burden them with his pain.

Benji had been fooled in the beginning. He'd enjoyed the cloud of security. Still drunk on Ethan's charm, lulled and satiated by his stunning good looks, marvelling intelligence and willingness to protect him. He didn't release it was a way to assure himself he wasn't being a burden to people.

He thought he'd told him he wasn't, thought he'd convinced him to give in a little and let himself be vulnerable. But apparently not enough.

"Have you eaten?" Benji asked him.

Ethan shook his head.

"I'll order something, somewhere's got to be open, right?"

He tried humour but got nothing. It was starting to worry him.

"I'll make something." Ethan said with little tone in his voice. "Omelette?"

"Sounds divine." He smiled. "I'm going for a shower, alright?"

Ethan nodded and turned left into the kitchen.

Benji shrugged and began to undress in the bedroom. He was already shaken from the night's events but Ethan being so cold, even if it wasn't meant to be malicious, was shaking him up further.

Making his way to the bathroom, he sneaked a glance at Ethan. He couldn't tell much from with his back turned but he noticed the difference. Ethan whistled when he cooked. But not today.

It was like the Ethan he loved wasn't there, the man he'd fallen for had disappeared and this cold shell remained. All he wanted to do was hold him, cradle him in the soft darkness of their apartment.

But Benji was also starting to feel grimy and sluggish. He turned on the shower and stepped under the hot spray.

The heat melted down his shoulders, worked out the muscles that had built up from hours of sitting hunched on a hospital bed. His mind drifted as the sound of the shower filled his head.

He took check of himself. His chest, arms, legs, head. All okay. He was safe. He was at home and home was safe.

Mentally would be a different story. This was just another experience to add to the roster, another choice for his nightmares. But he knew he had people there, Ethan, Will, Luther, Ilsa, who could support him. They'd tell him otherwise if he ever started to think he wasn't worth it. Which just added to the question of why Ethan was acting so distant?

After getting out and dressed, he rejoined Ethan in the kitchen. The omelettes were on the table and when the smell hit him he realised how hungry he was.

"Thanks," He said, sitting down to eat.

Ethan just nodded. He focused on the omelette as if it was an impossible task. His eyebrows furrowed and eyes steely, cold.

"How are you, then?" He asked.

"Alright," he said. "Tired, it's been a long day."

Benji lay a hand on his and smiled. Ethan's facade cracked, ever so slightly, and he returned a warm smile. It wasn't as vulnerable and honest as he wanted, but if that's all he could manage in terms of intimacy then he'd take it.

But he could tell he wasn't doing okay. And Benji knew Ethan better than to believe his lies about his wellbeing.

"You sure?"

"Benji, you're the one that needs to be worried about, you've been through a lot today, are you okay?"

Oh no, he thought, he's not getting out of this that easily.

"I'm tired and shaken and scared at how easily I could die and am yet again being faced with my own mortality, but I know I'll survive it, I've got through it before, and as annoying as it is that every time I start to get somewhere in terms of recovery something else comes along to cause more trauma, I'll get through it again." He said.

He placed down his knife and fork. Now he'd eaten, gotten warm and comfortable, his head was clearing. Not entirely free of everything from the night but enough to think clearly about what he wanted to say.

"You will," Ethan said.

He gave him another smile but this one was less warm. This was the charming one he used to dazzle people on missions, people who had no idea who he was and were easily fooled. Benji wasn't easily fooled.

"You didn't answer my question?" Benji repeated.

Ethan got up, darting so quickly his chair scraped across the floor and clattered backwards into the cupboard. He picked up the empty plates and set them in the sink. His back was straight. Uncomfortably bolt upright, yet his hands were shaking.

"It's alright if you're shaken up by this Ethan-" Benji got up more slowly, not wanting to set him off any more. "Even by IMF standards, this is pretty insane."

"I'm fine." Ethan said.

"You don't seem fine Ethan,"

He tensed further. The shaking in his hands was spreading to his forearms. Benji could see the muscles in his neck tense. The cold sweat forming on his skin shone in the low kitchen light.

"And that's okay, it's okay if you're not okay,"

"Not okay about what?" His voice was low but not threatening.

"About what happened tonight, I'm certainly not, and that's alright. We go through extreme things in our line of work and are taught that we need to deal with it all, but if you can't, that's okay." He said.

He stepped closer, like he was approaching a wounded stray cat, and lay a hand on the small of Ethan's back. He flinched. Actually flinched. How bad was this?

"The IMF may tell you that you need be okay with murder and world-ending scenarios, but no human was made for that, so when we can't deal with it, it's natural and okay," he uttered, made his words soft. "You don't have to be strong all the time, you can just be human, just be human with me, yeah?"

Ethan trembled under his hand. His entire body shook as he restrained himself from something. Breaking? Being honest?

He turned to him with his jaw set. His body shook like the earth in a storm. Grounding yet terrifying. Something meant to protect turning itself onto what it cared for.

"I'm fine." He said.

The steely indifference returned and was strong, thick. Whatever was hurting Ethan was hurting him badly. And Benji knew what it was, he'd died tonight, had died in front of his friends for no reason. That would shake anyone up.

But no, what had Benji perplexed was why Ethan was hiding it. Why was he so reluctant to talk to Benji? It wasn't like it was unprecedented, rather the contrary.

It was scaring him, not because Ethan had put on his game face, but because he only hid this much this severely in the early days of their relationship or when it was really bad.

"No you're not." Benji barked.

Ethan left the kitchen. Didn't listen to Benji. He went to slam the door but he caught it. He may be insistent on pushing Benji away but Benji could be stubborn sometimes too.

"Yes, I am."

He went to go into the bathroom, half opened the door when Benji laid his hand on his and closed it. He didn't want to be angry and he truly wasn't, he just wanted Ethan to talk to him.

"No, you're not."

Ethan met his eyes and shook off his hand. He didn't turn away, though, which was a start.

"Why is it such a big deal?"

"Why?" Benji scoffed. "Because I'm your boyfriend and I love you and I know you're hurting and I don't feel comfortable seeing you deny it."

Ethan tried to calm himself, tried to put on his facade again but softer this time. Yet Benji could see the cracks in the way his eyes misted with tears.

"I'm fine." He said, trying to hold his voice steady. "Are we done here?"

Benji gulped. Ethan was good at distracting him, good at the give and take and good at controlling it. Not in a malicious way, to protect himself, a coping mechanism. But that didn't mean it was a healthy one, or that it was easy for him to break his ease.

"No."

Ethan let out a long sigh. His calm exterior wore thin but he didn't go cold again. His hand shook and Benji's stomach sank when he saw the growing fear in his eyes.

"Really? Why can't we drop this? I'm tired, it's been a long day, the doctor told you to rest," Ethan raised his voice but there was no anger in his words. "I'm fine, you're the one who was hurt tonight, so why can't we just drop this?"

Benji saw the tears well up in his eyes as his own stung. He knew his face was lighting up red. Both their hands shook but Benji clenched his to give himself that last push of confidence.

"Because you're scaring me." He stated and felt all the determination and annoyance leave him.

Ethan too, dropped all resolve. A tear trickled down his face, now frozen in shock. He looked both older than he usually seemed but younger than his years.

"I'm scared at how easily you've turned back to old habits, and I know progress isn't linear, but even when things got tough in the past five years and you've distanced yourself, it was never like this." The tears flooded Benji's face.

"I'm scared because I know how much this hurt me and the others so it must've hurt you too but you won't admit it. I'm scared because you've never stopped talking to me before and I'm scared for you, because for you to go so far back within yourself, to protect yourself, then you must be so hurt and I'm scared because I never want you to hurt that much and feel that I, that someone, can't be there for you."

He held his fingers as Ethan continued to freeze. He didn't even seem to be breathing enough. And it made Benji's gut drop when he realised that this is what it was like for Ethan. Which made him realise why Ethan had pulled away so much.

"I can't say it," Ethan whimpered. "Don't make me say it."

Benji stepped closer, took Ethan's face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together. He reached for his hand and grasped it in his own clammy grip. He moved it over his heart, laying it flat out and made sure they could both feel the pulse.

"It's okay," he whispered back. "You're safe, I'm safe, we're safe here and it's okay to say it."

It was just them. Just them in the universe. So much pain that was bleeding away to comfort and catharsis.

"I can't."

Tears were falling down Ethan's face. He trembled like a leaf in the wind.

"Why?"

"Because that would make it real."

Benii kissed his forehead and smoothed his fingers along the stubble on his cheeks.

"But it was, for a little while. And you need to say it so you can heal and move on." He said. "Okay?"

Ethan didn't reply but closed his eyes. His hand pressed on Benji's chest. His breath caught in his mouth in a hiccup.

"You died."

And that's all it took for him to collapse into tears on his shoulder. His hands enclosed him in a tight embrace, rubbing up and down his back, gripping his t-shirt into his fists. His sobs began to fill the air, full and heartbroken.

Benji wrapped his arm around his back and lay a hand on Ethan's neck. He held him there as if nothing else mattered, because, in that moment, nothing else did. Pressing his thumb into the base of his scalp, he shushed him gently, stroked the short hairs there and listened to Ethan whimper as he wet his shoulder with his tears.

He'd never known him to cry so hard before. It was such a switch but one he should’ve seen coming. He didn't blame himself too much, for once, because tonight had been hard on all of them. But Benji realised that he'd fallen into the comfort of Ethan's strong reputation a little more than he'd intended to.

"Shh, shh, let it out," he whispered. "It's alright, honey, I'm here, okay?"

Ethan nodded and pulled up slowly. His dazzling eyes were red from crying. Red blotches covered his slippery looking cheeks. There was a tremble to his lips as Benji caressed a rogue strand of hair off his forehead, his hair was sticking to his moist face and would no doubt annoy him soon.

"You don't have to talk about it if it's too much for tonight, okay?" He said. "I know I didn't make it clear that I just wanted you to admit that you weren't fine and I'm sorry, I could see the cracks forming and didn't want you to think you had to hide them because I was the one who died."

Ethan still flinched but less so than before. He could see the bags under his eyes and the sag of his skin. They were both even more tired than before.

"You were so cold." He said. "So cold and still and empty, you weren't you and I had no idea why."

He said his words slowly with deliberation. Every syllable was taking effort and that was okay. Benji was proud of him just for admitting that something was off, so this was just extra.

"There was no blood, no weapons, no fight, you just fell and died in my arms without saying goodbye." His voice faltered, a fat tear rolled slowly down his face. "It was like Jack all over again, he was alive one second and dead the next, then Jim, then Hannah, then Sarah, and my body stopped feeling, just like that night, shut down and went into emergency mode as if I was being disavowed all over again and had to go on the run."

He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. He'd stopped whimpering now but his lip quivered as he brought up the courage to speak.

“You were so still, not yourself and there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t bring you back to life, couldn’t find out who did it and punish them, I couldn’t even mourn you properly as I couldn’t feel anything,” He said.

Benji nodded, cradling his hands as he spoke. Part of him wanted to know about what had happened, he hadn’t been there to experience it, that was the whole point of Ethan telling him. But hearing him speak of it, the memories so raw in his mind, was making the slight security he’d managed after accepting that this was going to be hard, melt away.

“Ilsa and Will and Luther they all dealt with it normally, Will was tense, Ilsa was defeated and Luther was tired but I felt nothing. There was pain but I was underwater, far away from it all, I’d take a few moments to hear things after they were said, I couldn’t move, I didn’t want to accept that you were dead, I couldn’t say it, couldn’t let them take you when they didn’t know who you were because they’d just be dealing with a body and that would mean you were-”

He hesitated, “That would mean you were dead and I didn’t want you to be, I couldn’t deal with it if you were, so I didn’t want to let you go because they’d prod and cut and you’d be cold and uncomfortable and I couldn’t deal with that, not after you’d just collapsed. I wanted you to be comfortable.”

Benji looked up from where he was stroking Ethan’s palm. He lay his hand on his cheek again and felt the growing stubble on his face.

“Well, I’m comfortable now,” he said.

Ethan nodded. He took a few deep breaths as the tears on his face dried. Gradually, as Benji began to realise that it was closer to four o’clock in the morning and his fatigue was starting to consume him, Ethan collected himself.

“They were so focused on me but I was still in shock and didn’t feel all the injuries they said I had. I almost didn’t want to break the bubble and stop saying you were just gone because I know that would cause me more pain than I could handle."

Ethan lent into the touch for a moment then pulled away, "And I guess that's why I was so distant, because admitting you were fine would mean having to admit you weren't fine and I couldn’t deal with that, so I just didn't deal with any of it at all, and I'm sorry."

He pressed his forehead to Ethan's and exhaled slowly, "Thank you for the apology," he said. "And we can deal with this together, okay? It won't be more pain than you can handle because you won't have to deal with it alone, so won't have to handle it by yourself."

"We can get through this together," he whispered.

Ethan nodded. His eyes were scrunched shut but for the first time all night, he actually had a sense of peace around him.

It was these moments that Benji loved. The peace in the heartbreak and pain. Because despite the despair, it gave them more understanding, a chance to learn and grow closer.

Benji pulled away and rubbed his eyes. His growing fatigue sank into him and he sagged onto Ethan.

"Bed, I think?" Benji stated.

Ethan nodded, giving him a kiss on the cheek before going into the bathroom. Benji blinked slowly and shuffled his way to bed, climbing into its warm cocoon and half falling asleep in moments.

Just as he was drifting off, Ethan slipped in next to him, crawled up him until his head was nestled in his neck. He heard him exhale, felt his breath tickle the hairs there.

"Can you stop wiggling," he said, laughing.

"Getting comfy," Ethan mumbled.

Benji's hands rested naturally on the base of Ethan's head. He carried on rubbing the short hairs there as he felt Ethan's muscles relax. His breaths grew deeper until he could feel he was asleep.

"Love you," he whispered, giving him one final kiss and closing his eyes to sleep.

I got the idea for what Benji was drugged with kind of from Amok Time in Star Trek, where a character takes a drug to fake death and save the day. I reread this fic in editing and it really is good, not to brag 😂. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!

#mission impossible #benthanweek2022 #benthan #benji dunn #ethan hunt #luther stickell #william brandt #ilsa faust #fake death #angst #hurt/comfort #fake character death #character death #bear writes

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hhgreggmementomori · 2 years

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thinking about how my first exposure to fake character deaths was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

#rudolph the red nosed reindeer #fake character death #thoughts

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folk-ever-lore · 2 years

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I Know Places

The life of the Guardian of the Miraculous was at great risk, as the League Of Assassins had put a target on their back. They wouldnʼt be safe anywhere they went. But Marinette and Jason had still been mad enough to hope that they could come up with a plan that would get the League Of Assassins to leave both of them alone and alive.

They had to be crazy.

“I know places we can hide,” Jason informed his girlfriend, not giving her a chance to argue.

She was going to argue anyway. “A place I will be hiding. You wonʼt be there with me.”

“But-” he tried to argue back, before getting completely cut off. There was no way in hell he was letting Marinette go through this alone. What sort of a boyfriend would he be if he did?

“I can protect myself,” she told him, pointing out her strengths. “If the worst comes to worst I can always use the cat miraculous to destroy them before they can hurt me.”

“Alright,” Jason agreed, knowing full well that once Marinette had set her mind to something there was nothing she couldnʼt do, “but hereʼs the plan.”

***

Moving day soon arrived and Marinette was set to have as little as possible of her stuff moved into one of Jasonʼs lesser known safe houses. She brought only what she considered absolutely essential, including her coffee machine and all her sewing equipment. She may as well get some commissions done while sheʼs locked up for her own good.

Jason was planning on bringing her some more stuff from home each time he visited.

But for the first three days she would be completely on her own there. Of course, she would have WiFi and TV and all the essentials but that didnʼt mean that she wasnʼt as cut off from the world as she could be.

She placed her box of supplies down and went to close the blinds at the nearest window. She couldnʼt have anyone looking in and seeing her. Could she?

BANG!

A bullet shot the window open, getting glass everywhere. She may have screamed a little, but no one was around to see and it had been a bit of a shock.

BANG!

***

People muttered those same useless words over and over.

“Iʼm sorry for your loss.” “Iʼm sorry for your loss.” “Iʼm sorry for your loss.” “Iʼm sorry for your loss.” “Iʼm sorry for your loss.” “Iʼm sorry for your loss.” “Iʼm sorry for your loss.” “Iʼm sorry for your loss.” “Iʼm sorry for your loss.” “Iʼm sorry for your loss.” “Iʼm sorry for your loss.” “Iʼm sorry for your loss.”

It was so repetitive. No one ever dared to make any effort to change the words up a bit. To make any real effort to say that they wished Marinette was still alive. To make any real effort to acknowledge Jasonʼs feelings.

That may have been the thing that hurt the most after the pain of losing his girlfriend. Heʼd been planning on proposing to her on her birthday, but now it didnʼt look like heʼd ever get the chance.

He wanted to say something, he wanted to acknowledge her death, he wanted to say something to remember her; but each time heʼd tried to come up with the right words to say heʼd always ended up coming up with something he wasnʼt meant to say.

Once the ceremony was done, he stayed behind so he could get a more private chance of saying something to her.

He refused to say goodbye. “I will see you again soon, my love,” he promised, standing over her grave.

Upon overhearing his words, the remainder of his family soon joins him in his mourning.

“Are you okay?” Dick asks, breaking the silence, despite the fact that he should already know the answer.

“No,” Jason admitted softly, refusing to move his head up from the ground to look at any of his family. “But I will be when I can kill the bastards that did this. Then Iʼll get to be with my love again.”

***

Jason had made it his mission to find those responsible for Marinette’s deaths and end them. In the space of a week, heʼd managed to find and kill the three operatives that had been in Gotham during the time of Marinette’s death.

He hadnʼt harmed them so much that they werenʼt recognisable, but they certainly werenʼt a pleasant sight to look at.

Along with the bodies, heʼd dragged himself down to the main League Of Assassins headquarters. Dumping the bodies in the training arena, he soon left to go and find Talia and Raʼs.

“I donʼt care what you do most of the time,” he yelled as he stormed into their private family quarters, “but you will stay the fuck away from me and anyone I love. As well as anything miraculous related.”

“We shall do no such thing,” Talia retorted, infuriated at his nerve to demand such things from them.

He sneered at them, “Then I will have fun painfully ending the rest of your people as I did those in Gotham last week. Send one of your servants to go check them if you want.”

When a servant, one from the League Of Assassins who was used to seeing blood and gore all the time, came back looking slightly pale, Raʼs and Talia seemed a bit keener to agree. After all they had taught him some of his skills and the rest had been taught to him by Batman. They were right to be worried about what he would do.

“Alright,” Raʼs gave in after a moment of consideration. “We will leave you, your loved ones and anything miraculous related alone. In exchange you shall leave our assets alone.”

Jason nodded. “Thank you.”

***

Before Jason could go back to Wayne Manor and tell his family that he had taken care of the league, there was somewhere else he had to stop by first.

He slipped into his safe house, making sure to avoid the glass on the floor.

“Hello,” he called out, “Marinette? Iʼm back.”

She grinned once she saw him. “I missed you so much. Itʼs been dreadfully boring being in her all by myself.”

“Iʼve got some good news then,” he said with a smile as he pulled her into a fierce hug that both of them needed far too much. “It’s safe for you to come out. The League shouldnʼt be bothering us again anytime soon.”

“Oh thank god. Iʼve missed human interaction much more than I thought I would.”

“Anyone in particular?” Jason asked cheekily.

“You, of course. But you already knew that.”

He shrugged, “Hearing it a few more times wouldnʼt hurt.”

Marinette laughed gently, “Youʼre such a dork. Come on, letʼs go tell your family the good news.”

He simply groaned in response, “Do we have to?”

“Yes,” she retorted, pulling him out the door. “We absolutely do.”

“Youʼre lucky I love you.”

“Indeed I am.”

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nerdsbianhokie · 2 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: NCIS: Hawai'i Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Lucy Tara/Kate Whistler Characters: Jane Tennant, Kate Whistler, Kai Holman, Jesse Boone, Lucy Tara Additional Tags: Fake Character Death, Canon Divergence, post 1x20, Heavy Angst, apparently if i write for a new fandom it's a 50/50 chance it'll be angst, so have that angst Summary:

Medina's full weight slumped onto her but Lucy couldn't

Couldn't push her off.

#kacy #fake character death #my fic

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fanstuff3 · 1 year

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youtube

The Worst Thing Moffat Did to Doctor Who (Video Essay)

#youtube #doctor who #moffat #doctor who writing #the writing of doctor who #fake character death

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aziidaa · 6 months

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‼️DEAD PLATE SPOILERS ‼️

drew a lil made-up missing scene for the game where vincent's cleaning up the freezer after killing mamon.

the dude decides to conduct a lil taste test before preparing the main course for his unknowing guest even tho he cant taste shit LMAO)

#dead plate spoilers #dead plate #dead plate game #vincent charbonneau #cw blood #cw fake blood #cw implied character death

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kythwena · 2 years

Quote

his only hope now was to call for help the only way he knew how.

Bring Him Home by ConeyIslandBlitz

#quote time #fic rec #the magicians fic #queliot #queliot fic #ao3:ConeyIslandBlitz #fix it fic #fake character death

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tibby · 8 months

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TOP TEN SAW CHARACTERS (AS VOTED BY MY FOLLOWERS) → #9. LINDSEY PEREZ

↳ “Rigg didn't kill Ivan. Ivan made his own choice. Isn't that the whole Jigsaw mantra?"

#horroredit #horrorgifs #filmedit #filmgifs #lindsey perez #saw iv #saw vi #sawcharacters #*#mine: gif #mine: misc #flashing //#m: saw vi #m: saw iv #i love you babygirl. queen of faking her own death.#also arguably the strongest character in the saw franchise for dealing with strahm daily for five years

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sagaduwyrm · 5 months

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The reason I refuse to acknowledge any other batfam death other than Jason is because, narratively, none of the others mattered.

Jason's death shaped everything that came after it in how the batfam responded to his death and handled it, and completely shaped his character.

I don't even know about most of the other "deaths" because they were so comparatively unimportant.

#if you ever get a chance to write comics #and you're thinking about killing and bringing the character back #ask yourself #is this a death that will matter for the rest of this character's existence?#will it shake their character forever?#if not? find some other method of creating tension #fake their death instead or something #Jason Todd and Bucky Barnes are the only valid died and came back story lines (I know Bucky didn't die but /narratively/—)#jason todd

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mishapen-dear · 7 months

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“There’s a problem.”

Bad twitches, pausing briefly, but doesn't stop crafting. “What is it?”

“The entity crammer won’t work,” Cellbit says. Bad’s hand crunches suddenly into the mine. He blinks down at it to see that a little red light, blinking sweetly, has been unearthed by the abrupt handling. He uses his thumb to gently push the explosive beneath the surface of the mine once again, smoothing the dirt back over it. He takes in a slow breath.

“We could blow him up with mines.” He knows that won’t work. It’s worth saying, anyway.

“It wouldn’t be fast enough.” Bad can hear movement behind him as Cellbit shifts on his feet. Bad keeps his ears perked for any sudden movements, but keeps his back turned as he works. If Cellbit suddenly turns against him... well. He isn’t going to just walk into a cage trap this time. “He has too many totems. We need another plan.”

There is another plan- this would be the perfect time to mention it, but the words stay locked behind Bad’s teeth. It would be so easy. All he would need is someone to keep Forever distracted while he sets up the scanner somewhere unavoidable, and then Forever would just need to walk through it, and that would be that. But that would be that for Bad, too. The scanner can take everything from Forever. The scanner can take everything from Bad. His warpstone and his enderpearls and his chorus fruit and his totems and his scythe- no, it’s not worth it. Bad remembers the cage. He remembers how quickly everyone turned on him. They’ve proved how much he can’t trust them with this.

He needs to find his kids, first. Then, maybe, he’ll let them know about the scanner. Then, if they really, truly, cannot find anything else... Then. It might be worth it then. For Forever.

Bad promises, “We’ll think of something,” and he crafts another explosive.

–

They think of mines. They think of the slingshot. They think of mobs. They think of everything.

It isn’t enough. Forever has so many totems that no plan is good enough, and they’re running out of time. Whatever they do, whenever they do it, it has to work, and it has to work fast. Forever on the Risus pills is very happy, and a little dumb, but he isn’t stupid- if he figures out that they’re trying to take the pills from him… Bad doesn’t want to think about it. But every new plan is just another dead end and a fresh headache, and they’re running out of time.

So- he does what he has to do.

One night, only a few days after Bad and Cellbit had their conversation about the entity crammer, Forever leads Bad to the beach. On the sand is a lonely little picnic blanket, red, surrounded by red candles and bunches of roses. Wine and crepes and a chicken dinner. Bad asks if the blanket’s wool was stolen from his base, Forever laughs and says no. The stars twinkle mournfully down at them; the waves mute their voices; the sand is so, so soft. Forever doesn’t stop smiling.

The candles are too dim to light them well, but the ring gleams in the moonlight. Forever holds it out to him, beaming, and Bad’s blood is rushing in his ears so thunderously that even as he sees Forever’s lips move he can’t hear the question over all this noise.

It doesn’t matter- Bad knows the answer.

He says yes.

It’s easy to play fiance. It’s so easy. Bad sits on his bed all day, spinning the Sunshine Protector over and over in his hands, and wonders if the world has always looked so dim. There is always a weight in his chest and a lump in his throat, and it feels like if he doesn’t move he’ll combust but he barely has the energy to stand. Most of the time, he feels stuck in standby. He can’t look for his children, because Forever gets agitated if Bad isn’t home when he gets home, and that’s against the whole point, isn’t it? The point to keep Forever happy. Keep him pliant. Pliable. Easy to worm into his heart so Bad can rip it open from the inside out.

It’s hard.

He’s just… he’s sad.

He’s angry, too. It sits below the surface of his soul, buzzing. He wants to scream. He wants to tear. Whenever Forever smiles at him Bad wants to chew his face off with his teeth. But Bad has a job to do, and he needs to stay reasonable to do it. He’s gone wild before- he knows what happens. He knows he needs to cling to his own leash with both hands and never let go. But Dapper is gone, and Pomme is gone, and there is a ring on his finger -not even diamond- and Forever is always smiling.

It’s the pills’ fault. Bad knows it’s the pills’ fault. He still wishes that Forever would try to kill him again. That would make everything very, very simple, very, very quickly.

But then the plan would be ruined, because Forever has so many totems that he could escape, and Bad-

Well, by that point, Bad would probably be a little ruined, too.

The door slams in the other room. He goes still, then stands. He can hear his fiance calling for him. “Bad!” Forever. He sounds cheerful. Happy. “Meu docinho de côco! I’m home!”

Bad expertly pulls cheer into his own voice. There are many things he is good at, and one of those things is lying. “Forever!” he calls back, and exits the room with the Sunshine Protector still in his hands. Forever, as always, doesn’t seem to notice. He perks up at the sight of Bad, like a golden retriever whose owner has just stepped in through the door. His perpetual grin is still on his face, being perpetual. There’s a wide, almost wild joy in his eyes; his happiness is tacky, like hard-candy drizzled left in the sun and then drizzled with syrup.

“Bad!” Forever cheers again, laughing. His white suit is perfect, the Brazilian flag pinned neatly across his shoulder. Every day, when he comes home, Bad looks for blood. As always, he finds none. Forever bounds over to take Bad in his arms and spins them both, as if they’re lovers long-apart finally reunited after a dangerous sea-bound journey. Forever leans in, quick, for a kiss.

There is a game they like to play. Bad doesn’t know if it’s a game for Forever, but it is a game for him. Since their engagement, Forever has gotten more bold with taking his pills in front of Bad- he’s gotten more bold in trying to get Bad to take them with him. Bad has only ever accepted kisses from Forever on his nose, cheek, and forehead- even before he saw Forever, moments before trying to catch his lips again, slip a pill between his teeth.

The game goes like this: Forever attempts to -literally- kiss Bad into oblivion; Bad dodges.

This scene plays out like all the ones before it. Bad turns his head to the side just in time, and Forever, undaunted by yet another failure, presses an enthusiastic kiss to his cheek instead of his lips. His free hand is on Bad’s other cheek, pressing their faces together with unfiltered affection. His hand is warm, and a little rough with hard-earned calluses, and his beard tickles Bad’s skin. His breath fans hot across Bad’s cheek.

He’s so happy.

Bad has never lost their game, but he thinks about it sometimes. Even if Forever managed to get a pill into his mouth, there’s nothing that would force him to swallow. But there’s nothing that would force him to spit it out, either… And then he holds onto the Sunshine Protector even more tightly and he messages Phil or Cellbit about whatever mass-murder attempt they’re thinking about trying next, at least until he can think about anything other than- that. They’ve gotten Etoiles in on it, recently, and any day now they’ll come up with a solution. They have to.

For now, Bad wraps his arms around Forever when he pulls back, grip loose, and plays his part by not stabbing him. “Hi, Forever!” he chirps. The enthusiasm feels wrong, but if he tried to pull up fondness he thinks he would just pull up bile instead. Maybe he should. Maybe he should spit acid into Forever’s face and see if that will kill his smile, make him angry, make them fight, just like they used to. He wants, more than almost-anything, to see Forever snarl. As a precaution to unfiltered impulses, Bad flicks his wrist and sends the Sunshine Protector back into his inventory.

“Hi, Bad!” There’s a flash of the pill between Forever’s teeth, sparking white hidden in his smile, and then he swallows audibly. Nothing happens for a moment, and then his eyes dilate, he starts to shake, and his grin widens far enough to show all of his teeth. Forever’s trembles turn almost violent, every other breath catching on a giggle. He falls against Bad, his weight pressing heavily into his fiance as the drug makes its way through his system. His hand goes from Bad’s cheek to his hair, pulling hard and clinging to it like a lifeline. His totem-hand digs painfully into Bad’s side. Bad just tightens his grip, and holds.

It never lasts for long. Soon, the two are left standing in an almost-peaceful embrace, with Bad’s arms wrapped securely around Forever and Forever’s cheek pressed against Bad’s shoulder. Forever’s shoulders are relaxed; his back open; his neck bared. If Bad’s leash were looser, he could lean down and tear his throat open with little more than teeth.

His head stings where Forever pulled his hair too hard.

Bad’s voice comes out too soft when he asks, “How was your day?”

“Oh,” Forever sighs. “Perfect, just perfect…” He nuzzles his face into Bad’s shoulder, the scruff of his beard making little scrtch scrtch sounds against the fabric of Bad’s robes. “But it’s even better now that I’m here with you.” Bad’s heart twinges. “And I’m going to go see Richarlyson when he wakes up,” Bad’s heart weeps. “Do you want to come with me?”

His tongue is like lead in his mouth. “Sure.”

Forever beams again. He squirms, and Bad lets him go. Forever doesn’t pay him any mind, just wanders over to the nearest mirror to peer at his own face. There’s scrutiny in his expression- Bad almost feels hopeful, and then Forever asks, “What do you think of my beard, Bad?”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re too nice to me, Badboy,” Forever scolds brightly. He’s still watching himself in the mirror. There’s a glaze over his eyes, almost fevered. “I want to look nice for our wedding.”

Bad’s stomach swoops. “Well-” he starts, scrabbling for yet another reason to delay it. He needs to wash his hair? No, he used that last time-

Forever derails all of Bad’s excuses by not mentioning a date, and instead saying, “Can you help me shave?”

Bad freezes. “What?”

“My face, Bad,” Forever insists, grin blinding as he turns towards him. “My beard. O cabelo do meu rosto.”

“I know what a beard is,” Bad snaps suddenly, sharper than he intended.

Forever’s smile twitches. “Great! So you’ll help me? Por favor, meu anjo?”

Give and take, don’t push too far. He’s here to stall for time, not to fight. The further he pushes Forever, the less he can control him. Bad takes a deep, slow breath, and shoves the anger back down. “...Okay.”

Forever beams.

–

That’s how the two of them end up in the bathroom, Bad sitting on the counter as he watches Forever meticulously craft the supplies. Bad had offered one of his own (many) blades for the procedure, but Forever’s grin had just grown wider as he shook his head and shuffled Bad into the bathroom.

It’s cramped in there, both of them in their full gear. Bad watches Forever mix the shaving cream, golden totem glittering in his palm as he awkwardly holds the bottle still. There’s a faint rushing in Bad’s ears. The knife is already prepped, laying on a warm, damp towel on the other side of Forever, furthest away from Bad.

His eyes keep going back to that totem. The rushing in his ears grows slowly in volume, until he thinks that he’s never going to hear anything else ever again. Bad is holding a totem, too. A totem of death, darker in colour and promising more pain. It’s not as good as a totem of undying but, as long as he holds it, he doesn’t need anyone to pull him up after a fall. The both of them, holding totems.

He’s surprised when he hears himself say, “Forever?”

Forever hums a curious noise. “Yes, meu xuxu?”

Bad swallows hard. He doesn’t know where this is going, but he has a feeling, and over a dozen code attacks have taught him to trust when he gets a feeling. Carefully, he gives voice to the thought that’s been nagging him, “I need both hands to shave you.”

“Okay!” Forever agrees, unphased.

“Forever,” Bad says. “I need to stop holding my totem.”

Forever doesn’t- falter, but he twitches, a little hiccup in whatever happy little daydream he’s been living in. “Don’t you trust me, Badboy?”

Bad thinks about the mines. He thinks about explosion after explosion after explosion at the end of a disastrous proposal. Bad licks his lips. “It’s not… about trust,” he says, words cautiously measured. He’s not the one on drugs, but he feels like vibrating from knotted-up anticipation. “You know I’ve been here a while. You know it was… hard. Even before the code. I’m…” Forever looks up at him. “I need your help.”

Forever cocks his head to the side, still smiling. “My help?”

Bad bites his lip, then, and doesn’t miss the way that Forever’s eyes train in on his mouth. “Yeah,” he says, warming to the lie. “Yeah. I need your help.” He starts unbuckling his chestplate.

Forever freezes, mouth falling open. “Badboy?” he says, voice a little tremulous. It almost sounds like him. Bad is embolded into continuing.

“You’re in danger, Forever,” Bad says, and oops- too true. He drops his chestplate into one of his backpacks, then continues, “As president, I mean. Not everyone loves the Federation. The code, political enemies- they all want to hurt you.”

��Political enemies,” Forever echoes with a laugh, and Bad feels something rush through him at the almost sardonic look Forever gives him.

Bad smiles back at him, letting it come out a little nervous. One by one, he removes the rest of his armour. Pants. Boots. His hands are shaking by the time he removes his helmet and drops it into the backpack. “I know what it’s like. That… worry. Even with your loved ones. So I don’t- I don’t want to scare you, Forever, but I want you to put your totem down, too.”

Forever keeps grinning. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.” There’s a sharpness to his voice, a grated edge that just promises more shouting and more pills. A risk of him running off, escaping, and Bad can’t lose this opportunity now that he’s got it. But Forever is stubborn, and this isn’t enough, so…

Fudge. Okay. He’s committed now; he has to keep going. Bad takes out the Sunshine Protector just to obviously, visibly, tuck that away into his weapons bag. Anything, anything, he has to remember he’ll do anything. He starts piling the rest of his inventory into his backpacks.

“...Meu anjo? What are you doing?”

“I want to- to help you, Forever,” Bad promises. He feels so naked. He’s fully clothed. He has no armour, and his hotbar has no weapon to defend himself from the man who tried to kill him only days before. It- he exists in a strange state of limbo. It doesn’t matter how killable he is, because he can always respawn. What is death to a grim reaper? What is death to an immortal? What is death to a grieving parent? But- still. There’s a vulnerability to packing away his weapons, his armour, his things. All of his prep made obsolete, no scanner involved at all. “But I can’t- if you’re holding a totem, I need to hold a totem, see? But you want to hold a totem in our house, which is totally safe, for the same reasons I do. So, if- if you’re the most powerful player around, maybe- maybe you can put it down. For a little bit.” Bad puts the death totem into the bag, and closes it with finality.

Forever is quiet. His smile looks hollow now.

Anything, anything, anything. Bad hops off of the counter and throws his backpacks into the tub, out of reach, and draws the curtain for good measure. Forever’s eyes follow the arc of his hand. “There,” Bad pants, and turns around again. He stands there, bared but fully clothed, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t been since- since- since some point he can’t even remember. “Now I’m- it’s up to you to protect me.” Bad wants Forever to try to kill him. “Now- now it’s your turn.”

“Bad…” Forever says, his voice softer than Bad has heard in… a while. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Bad’s heart drops. He’s so close. He’s so far. The rushing in his ears is so loud. He wants to bite, and claw, and hurt. He wants to dig his claws into Forever’s skin and- “I’ll let you kiss me,” Bad blurts, the promise tumbling all at once from his mouth like a badly-kept secret. “Once I’m done shaving you. Just- please, Forever. You know what it’s like. Please. Don’t you trust me?”

Forever cracks.

Bad’s breath catches when Forever pulls out his backpack -the one with the totems. Forever’s knuckles are white where his hands grip around the straps, but he places the backpack carefully outside the bathroom door before he steps away again. He looks jittery already, like a wild animal, and brandishes the totem still in his hand at Bad like a cross.

“I’m keeping this one,” he says, and his grin looks painful. “I’m- this one, I’m holding onto this one. Okay?”

“Okay,” Bad agrees, breathless. There is a lump in his throat. It’s hard to keep his hands still. Is he shaking? He might be shaking. Forever only has one totem. Bad has nothing. Forever has one totem.

Forever picks up the towel and the shaving knife with one hand, then carries them over. He holds them out. Bad takes them- the blade he accepts by its sharpest point, but he’s careful not to bleed. “Okay,” Forever whispers. Then, too quick, almost desperate, he takes out his bottle and gulps down another pill. He stumbles to the chair as the shakes start to wreck him, almost toppling over before he snatches onto the chair’s back to steady himself. Bad, still holding the knife, does nothing to help.

Forever manages to climb into the chair just as the trembles subside. He slumps back with a loud, satisfied sigh, like he’s just completed some great feat. He tilts his head back to look at Bad upside-down, his relaxation a stark contrast to the tension from just a moment before. He smiles dreamily up at his fiance, and it almost even reaches his (dilated, too wide) eyes.

“Oh, Badboy,” he sighs happily. “Come on, come on! We’re all ready now, aren’t we?”

Bad can very clearly see the column of Forever’s throat, stretched out and vulnerable. “Yeah.” Bad’s chest feels tight. He steps up behind the chair and looks down- Forever’s throat is right there. It’s a nice throat. Bad thinks it would be easy to fit both hands around it. He starts with just one hand. The damp towel is wiped gently over Forever’s mouth and jaw, then down over his neck. He does it again, preparing the skin for the sharp edge of the blade.

Forever hums quietly, appreciatively. He closes his eyes, and Bad’s blood sings.

An open neck. An ignorant victim. A single totem. It doesn’t matter how empty Bad’s inventory is- he has a knife, handed to him by Forever himself. Bad should stab him now. Two quick slices to the throat, a spray of blood, and a fresh corpse. It’s what Bad would have done before- but. He’s tense. There’s a stiffness to his muscles, and he doesn’t have armour. What if he misses? They’re so close together, it’s impossible to miss.

There’s something almost… ritualistic about a good shave, anyway.. Bad can’t put the blade to his throat, not yet. Forever will know if he starts too soon. He has no armour. He needs to do this right. The shaving knife disappears into his hotbar.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” Bad murmurs. He gently runs the towel along the bottom of Forever’s jaw, almost holding his mouth shut, but the president doesn’t seem to be bothered. Eyes still closed, he just makes a peaceful little humming noise. Bad moves the towel up a little higher- it hides the smile. It hides the smile, so Bad takes a moment to just… look. His stomach flips. Yeah, that’s Forever. That’s him. His lashes rest delicately against his skin, eyes shut and face smoothed into something peaceful. His hair has fallen into disarray, strands loose across his forehead, and Bad gingerly brushes them away.

He could lift the towel higher. It’s already over Forever’s mouth, and it could go over Forever’s nose, too. Bad could press down- or topple the chair, first, maybe, leave Forever falling into him as Bad suffocates him. Although- it would be difficult, but Forever could probably get a few good cuts into Bad before he suffocates, armourless as Bad is. But, then again, damp cloth is even better for a suffocation. Bad doesn’t think it matters if the towel is damp from water or from blood. Maybe he’d be able to keep the towel pressed down until he bled out. Maybe he’d die before Forever would; maybe he would fall across Forever and trap him beneath the wet cloth and the weight of his limp body, forcing the president to drown on the blood of his own fiance. Wouldn’t that be perfect?

No. Too risky. It’s too risky. Forever still has all of his items. If he puts down a sponge and hits Bad hard enough, he’ll be able to get away before either of them could die. If Bad screws this up, he will never get a chance like this ever again. He has to be smart.

So- cream, next, it’s shaving cream, next. Bad steps away as he throws the towel into his hotbar, then grabs the bottle and returns to Forever’s side. “How did you learn?” Forever asks. Bad pauses a moment to realize what Forever’s asking, then laughs a little lowly.

“I owned a pie shop, once,” he says. He pours the mixture into his hands to lather it. “I rented out the top floor to a barber. He was nice. Showed me a few things. Let me try a few things out with his clients.”

Forever’s brows raise. “‘Try a few things out with his clients?’” he echoes. He’s -of course- still smiling, but there’s a note in his voice that Bad can’t read.

“Yeah! Pies,” Bad explains. His heart twinges at the thought of simpler times. “They were pretty good. Now keep your mouth closed, Forever, or you’ll get foam in it.”

Forever acquieses, but he purses his lips playfully until Bad gets his hands on his face. Once upon a time, when Bad first arrived on the island, his claws were sharp enough that he’d needed to wear gloves at night, just so he wouldn’t accidentally cut himself in his sleep. And then there were the eggs. Ever since Dapper arrived, Bad has taken a day out of every month to file his fingers down to dull, harmless nubs. Swords could do all of the cutting he needed, and what would he do if he poked Dapper too hard and ended up cracking him? He couldn’t bear the thought.

But now. Bad uses the pads of his fingers to lather Forever’s face. If his claws were longer, they could gouge deep, bleeding ruts into his skin. As they are now, though, they do nothing more than scratch lightly over the stubble. At the worst, they leave a thin white line where they scrape over Forever’s actual skin.

In a moment of weakness, Bad swipes his dulled thumb under Forever’s eye, imagining the red tears that would bloom from the wound. Forever won’t cry over their lost eggs, but Bad could make him.

Bad swipes his thumb again, pressing the pad of his thumb down with just enough force to feel at the edge of bone that gives way to eye socket. It’s an almost tender gesture, and Forever’s skin is soft. But Forever makes a little noise and Bad jolts, jerking his hand back. He swallows quickly, then wastes no more time in getting back to work. He lathers Forever’s jaw, his cheeks, around his mouth, a little way down his neck- he’s quick, and efficient, and doesn’t linger. And then… and then there’s nothing for Bad to do but wash his hands, and grab the knife.

The shaving knife feels heavier. It falls into his hand from his hotbar with a solid weight. Inventories keep most items in the same state they were stored in, so the handle is still warm from Forever’s hands.

Bad hand is steady when he puts it to Forever’s neck.

His breath comes quicker, the rushing sound loud in his ears. Forever’s skin is warm and soft under his hand.

Forever hums. His skin flutters beneath the blade. His eyes are still closed, his smile is wide. “What’s your favourite type of flower?” he asks.

Bad hesitates for long enough that Forever opens his eyes to look at him. Bad swallows and doesn’t meet his gaze. He makes up for his hesitation by drawing the blade slowly up Forever’s neck, just an inch, and then summons the towel from his hotbar to wipe the shaving cream from the knife. “...Cornflowers,” he answers quietly. “Cornflowers are my favourite.”

“Ah, cornflowers,” Forever sighs happily, smiling widely up at Bad again. Bad keeps his eyes pinned to Forever’s neck and draws the blade across a fresh patch of skin. “Those are the blue ones, right?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re nice.” Forever hums. Bad puts the blade to his neck again, but then Forever keeps talking. “I think they will look nice in our wedding. We can have flower eggs! Imagine them, Badboy, all of them in their cute little outfits, throwing cornflowers around.”

Ow. He can see it so clearly, too. His little eggs all dressed up and covered in flowers as they march down the aisle… smiling. Happy. Bad swallows hard.

“I think the colours should be all black and blue,” Forever says, and shuts his eyes again. “And then you can stand out all pretty with your black and red, Bad. Will you wear your hair down again?”

“...Maybe,” Bad says quietly. “Now shhhh, Forever… I need you to hold still, and stop smiling.” Black and blue… He felt stuck on that. Black and blue. Like a bruise.

“Stop smiling?” Forever giggles. “But there’s so much to be happy about, meu anjo!”

“Are you sure?”

Forever opens his eyes to look up at Bad again. Bad looks back at him. The knife drifts upwards, slow, to press against Forever’s pulse. Bad’s hand is already slippery from the cold shaving cream, but he knows that the blood will be warm. He twitches when something warm touches his face- and he realizes, abruptly, that Forever’s hand has lifted up to tenderly cup his face. “Yeah,” Forever says, smiling.

Bad’s hand is shaking. Not a lot- not enough to cut, but enough for him to notice. They’re close. How long has Bad been leaning in? He presses the knife more firmly against Forever’s artery, but he doesn’t slice. “Stop. smiling,” he hisses. The words feel like grit spat from his mouth.

Forever’s thumb caresses the skin just beneath Bad’s eye, a mockery of the purely violent gesture Bad had subjected him to just moments before. Bad flushes hot in- in anger, or something else, but definitely with some anger, and then- and then Forever says, “Okay,” and he stops smiling. He closes his eyes again and leans back -Bad is startled to realize Forever had been leaning up towards him too- ultimately taking the blade away from his own neck, and he stops smiling. His hand falls away from Bad’s cheek, but it falls to lightly rest on the wrist of the hand that’s holding the towel.

Bad is quiet for a long, long moment, just staring down at his broken fiance. And then- and then he gets back to work.

The knife glides easily across Forever’s skin, shaving away the fine hairs of his beard. Bad is out of practice, but not so out of practice that he makes Forever bleed. When he moves on from Forever’s neck he has to lay the towel down so both hands are free to manipulate Forever’s face. He carefully pulls the skin taut where necessary, and only presses his dull nails down too hard once or twice. Forever sits peaceful and blank faced through it all.

And then-

And then it’s done.

Bad turns Forever’s head to one side, and then the other, and he barely has it in him to pretend he’s inspecting him for any missed spots. And then he lets go, and he steps back. The knife hangs almost limply in his hand.

It’s when Forever is grinning again, standing now and inspecting his own face in the mirror, that Bad asks, “Is it nice? Being happy?”

“What?” Forever turns to him, smile a little puzzled. His eyes are downright twinkling with fevered joy.

“Is it nice?”

“Yeah! You did a really good job, Badboy!” Forever praises. Bad’s traitorous heart leaps at the rare praise. Forever bounds the half-step over to swoop Bad into his arms and spin them, the two of them almost knocking over thr chair in the small space. Bad clings to him, and the single totem digs painfully into Bad’s side.

“Forever, that’s not what I asked,” Bad insists almost even before they come to a stop. He feels lightheaded. “Do you like being happy?”

“Yeah!” Forever chirps. “I’m with you, aren’t I?” And he leans in. When he kisses him, Bad doesn’t dodge.

Forever is so warm. His lips are soft and the kiss is so tender, gentle like Bad is a wild animal who might be frightened off at the first wrong move. Forever’s hand comes up to cup the back of Bad’s head, the other arm wrapping itself around his waist. Bad is pliant, and he doesn’t kiss him back, but his arms wrap around Forever and pulls him in closer. Their bodies are flush together with no room for even air between them, and Bad thinks that if he focuses hard enough he could feel Forever’s heart beat against his own. He splays one hand across Forever’s shoulderblades, pressing hard to pin him close, and he uses the other hand, the one with the knife, to stab Forever in the back six times over in quick succession.

Blood sprays on the mirror behind them. Blood coats Bad’s hand. There’s heat at Bad’s back as the totem pops! and the room is filled with a stinging, magical shower of green and golden sparks- his ears ring from the minor explosion. Forever gasps into Bad’s mouth, and he tastes like iron. The knife was deep in his back when Forever’s heart stopped- the skin is already healing over it, so Bad holds on tighter and rips the blade out.

Forever gets pulled back violently with the knife- their lips are disconnected with a slick sound that makes Bad’s head spin. “Bad?” Forever gasps. His eyes are wide, but not with joyous fever- with shock. It’s a good look. “You- you stabbed me?”

“I did.” There’s something wrong with Bad’s brain, some wires that must have been crossed on a bad respawn because he’s dizzy, he’s too-warm, he’s going to vibrate right out of his skin- he’s grabbing Forever by his hair and forcing his head down to kiss him.

There must be some wires crossed in Forever’s brain, too, because he kisses him back. It’s not tender or gentle- it’s a fight, just another battle that both of them are too stubborn to lose. Their teeth clack together and it’s awful and Bad’s blood sings. Forever tastes like his own blood and Bad bites his lip, hard, just to taste more. Forever gasps into his mouth, faltering, and Bad presses his advantage.

He shoves Forever backwards, towards the wall, stumbling forwards with him so they don’t separate more than a few inches apart. Forever makes a shuddery keening noise when his back hits the stone- and Bad knows it’s not just from pain, but he thinks it’s mostly from pain, because the knife had been between Forever’s back and the wall and now it’s been aquainted once again with Forever’s flesh. Bad pants hard, and it’s Forever who drags Bad closer and catches his mouth again.

There’s so much blood.

And then, suddenly, the blood is all that’s left.

[[PRESIDENT]Forever was slain by BadBoyHalo]

The shaving knife clatters into the ground as Bad falls into the space where Forever’s body once was. He catches himself on the wall, startled enough to stop breathing. There, on the ground, is the knife, shining wetly in the too-bright light of the bathroom. Next to it is a small pack that’s left behind after each player’s death- the remains of Forever’s inventory. Bad’s ultimate prize.

Bad is frozen for a moment. He’s vaguely aware of more chat messages coming in at a rapidfire pace- Cellbit, maybe, and Philza, and Etoiles and whoever else is awake right now, but he doesn’t look at any of them. He falls to his knees instead which are promptly stained by the bright-red mess across the floor. He finds out that doesn’t care- nor does he care when he stains the pack when he scrabbles for it, and and he doesn’t care when he stains the inventory items when he rummages, and he doesn’t care when he stains the pill bottle when his hand finally clasps around it.

He stares at Cucurucho’s smiling face on the too-white bottle, surrounded by smudges of red, then wipes his dirty thumb across its eyes to blind it with even more bloody smears. The bottle gets thrown into his inventory, then- the briefcase, right Forever had a briefcase, too, Bad needs to grab that, and-

and then that’s it.

That’s it.

Mechanically, Bad pushes himself to his feet. He leaves the shaving knife where it is. He gets dressed in his armour, gathers up all of his backpacks, and then he goes home.

He gets changed. He lays down in Dapper’s room, curled up on the floor next to Dapper’s empty bed. He holds the Sunshine Protector with both hands, closes his eyes, and tries to sleep. Bad doesn’t sleep. Bad also doesn’t answer any messages until morning, and maybe that can count as rest.

His mouth still tastes like blood.

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littlebigmouse · 5 months

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One worldbuilding detail Soul Eater really had going for it was the way they explained everyone having weird, unique and horror-movie inspired names such as Soul Eater, Black*Star, Franken Stein.

The school all these kids attend allows them to sign up with any name they want and to change their names once every six months.

You better believe if I were a thirteen year old with the ability to turn into a scythe and eat monster souls I'd call myself Soul Eater too. "But isn't his original name 'Soul Evans'? That's already a weird first name." He's from a family of musicians. He probably has a cousin called R'n'B.

It also made for the very nice touches in charaterisation where you'd see a character calling himself "Ox Ford" and knew immediately which brand of arrogant, insufferable child-prodigy this guy represented and you'd be absolutely right. Why is there a girl who can turn into a lantern who's name is "Jackie O'Lantern"? Because she's the funniest teenager on the squad.

Shoutout to Maka Albarn for taking her education so seriously she decided to not get herself a fun name, and to Justin Law, who let's say, subverted expectations.

It also just makes total sense for their wacky and non-conforming headmaster to not give a shit about names, or birth names, or gender norms. Death said trans rights, yo.

#bonus points to death the kid who absolutely just kept the name he was given at birth #death was really horrible at naming things #no wonder he just handed that responsibility to the kids #soul eater #soul eater meta #worldbuilding #soul eater just embraced that people are just like that and that a lot of the weirdness in the setting #are characters making conscious aesthetic decisions #why was medusa never caught as a fake nurse despite not changing her name or appearance?#because there is a literal zombie on the teaching staff and it's not the person covered head to toe in bandages #the overwhelmed half-scythe-man having meltdowns in the hallway is the most normal guy here medusa didn't trigger anyone's weirdness radar #they just thought she was a lesbian #that's probably how stein caught her out anyway #shonen anime

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stusbunker · 2 months

Text

Spotless: Pomposo

Chapter Fourteen

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela

Other characters: Sam, Dean/Jo, John/Kate, Adam, Ellen, Garth/Bess (in passing), Cas and Mary (mentioned)

Word Count: 4559

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining. MORE BACKSTORY AHEAD, story takes place currently in Dec 2017, flashback to Jan. 2004 in italics, talk of Sam's past use of hard drugs, hangovers, vomit, car accidents, injuries, character death, guilt, John was not so great a parent or husband, some paraphrasing of last chapter unbeta'd

Special shout out to @thoughtslikeaminefield who helped immensely on sorting out the backstory for this chapter too, way back when I started outlining this thing.

Series Masterlist

Sam settled on some old school soul music to start their road trip and Dean couldn’t even come up with a reason to complain. Aretha sang in the background and they headed east, the world was their oyster and all that. Dean held onto the small bit of smug satisfaction from the interview with Meg as the city disappeared behind them. She really wanted him to crack, but he hadn't and that gave him some hope for going home.

They veered north for a bit and continued on I-40 until they hit Flagstaff. Dean liked the mountains, the air was infinitely better than LA and there was something about spending the holidays where it got cold that made sense. Unfortunately, it was just an overnight stay. How they managed a room in the first hotel they tried, he’d never know. He just shuffled in with his duffel bag and his ball cap over his now sleep-sloppy hair. There was a player-piano in the lobby and Dean had the fleeting thought about how Cas was spending the holidays.

Maybe he’d try and leave him another message, it had been months.

Sam called Madison after dinner and Dean decided to check out the amenities in order to not have to watch Sam get all goopy. Dean hadn’t packed a bathing suit, but a gym’s a gym even if it’s just three treadmills, a stair climber and free weights. So, he jogged for a little bit, watching whatever passed for news. He forgot his earbuds in the room and it really wasn’t worth going back for, he was finding his groove even without music as a buffer to the world around him.

After a solid 5k, Dean stepped down to stretch. Which worked out because a couple in their fifties came in just as he started some curls, leaving the treadmills open for their evening stroll. They talked about their family, the wife explaining what she got each of their grandchildren and where they were supposed to be on which day. Perfectly normal people conversation, but something about it made Dean sad, so he tried to tune them out and focus on his reps.

Part of his life after Cain and Alistair was a loss of gym time. Sure, he could work out at home or even do laps around the neighborhood, but it wasn’t the hours in the ring or at the bag or with a jump rope full-body-punishment that he had worked himself up to. It was also a lot more peaceful, less reactionary. And Dean decided he would find a balance between stagnation and self-destruction. Twenty eighteen was just around the corner afterall.

Dean got back to the room in time to shower and crash. If they wanted to push it, they could make it to their Dad’s place the next day. But neither of them were in a hurry, even in Sam’s fuckboy Charger it was nice to be on the road together. Dean took the first stretch towards Albuquerque, but Sam called it in Santa Fe. He had thought ahead and booked them a hotel instead of chancing it again, which surprised Dean for some reason. Sam had gone and gotten to be responsible while Dean was busy fishing himself out of professional purgatory.

“You talk to Bela?” Sam asked as they waited for their pizza to be delivered.

“Uh, she texted me that she landed at Heathrow, but not really. Why?” Dean asked after taking a sip of his beer.

“Wasn’t sure if you guys were doing the whole gift exchange thing,” Sam shrugged. “Madison made me wait until after we get back to give her hers.”

Dean chuckled. “I don’t want to know what you’re giving her, alright?”

Sam rolled his eyes, but otherwise ignored the innuendo. “Won’t people be asking about what you got her?”

Dean hadn’t really thought about it. “I guess I could ask Trouble for some ideas, see if she thinks it’s necessary we post about it. I don’t know, I was kind of hoping of forgetting about the whole thing until New Year’s at Elizabeth’s, you know?”

Sam leveled Dean with a glare. “You know Dad is gonna ask to meet her.”

Dean set down his beer. “Well it’s a good thing she’s halfway across the world then.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Mom loved that show,” Sam said thoughtfully.

He was right. Dean had completely forgotten about why he’d recognized Bela the first time they’d met at your housewarming party way back when. But, yeah, Mary had watched ‘Red Sky in the Morning’ every Tuesday night after she put them to bed. Once Dean reached junior high, he was able to persuade her to let him stay up and watch too.

“I can’t believe it was on as long as it was, it was fucking awful,” Dean said playfully.

“Yeah, but it was her escape,” Sam added gently.

Dean took a long pull off his beer. “I guess so.”

When Sam went to meet the delivery driver, Dean turned on the television, banking on some sort of Christmas special to take his mind off memory lane. They ate quietly, letting last minute sales commercials drown out their thoughts. Tomorrow they were going home, or as close to it as they had outside of LA. Dean felt lopsided over getting to see Adam, having to navigate his dad, and tiptoeing Kate’s well-meaning but invasive nature.

But that’s family for you, nothing more important than that.

Dean rolled over on the couch, something had woken him up and he was too hungover to let it win. But it didn’t stop, a trilling sound coming from his pants pocket, fuck, it was his phone. He cracked one eye open and checked the caller id.

He closed his eyes and answered. “Morning, beautiful.”

“Dean Winchester?” a harried voice asked, decidedly not Jo.

“Ellen?”

“Yeah, listen— there’s been an accident. Jo and Y/N were T-boned on Hound Drive last night. Can you come to the hospital? I just came home for a change of clothes, but I’m heading back there now.”

Dean sat up, liquor and a headache dulling his reflexes. “Ellen? What are they saying?”

“She’s in the ICU. I— we need you there.”

��Terror flooded Dean’s system, churning with a relentless guilt. Jo wouldn’t have been out so late if it wasn’t to see him. He swallowed. “Uh, of course. Do you want me to drive you? I can be there in ten minutes.”

“I’ll pick you up. I’ve got my truck, the roads are still a mess.”

“Right, okay, I’m at Dad and Kate’s— do you–”

“I’ll be there soon.”

“Ellen? Be careful.”

“Don’t you start young man.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Ellen hung up.

Dean stumbled into the bathroom and threw up. He didn’t have time for a shower. Instead he grabbed his shaving kit and threw on a fresh layer of deodorant and brushed his teeth. He pounded three Advil with the water from one of those flowery Dixie cups Kate kept in a plastic dispenser on the counter. He couldn’t look at himself in the mirror, he knew how bad he must look. He stomped back into the living room and swapped his sweaty flannel for one that smelled neutral from his duffel. Adam showed up as Dean was shoving his boots on.

“Dean? Can I put on cartoons?”

He didn’t jump, Dean didn’t get scared of six-year-olds in footie pajamas. He was just on edge, was all.

“Knock yourself out,” Dean said.

“Where are you going?” Adam asked, stealing the afghan Dean had left on the floor.

“Uh, friend of mine had an accident, so I’m heading to the hospital. Can you tell Dad? I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“You can tell me yourself,” John’s voice pressed in behind Dean as he came in from the kitchen, mug of coffee in hand.

“Dad—,” Dean looked at his father, a man who had been on the road cheating on his mother for years. The same mother who died in a fire because John couldn’t bother to make sure to keep the electrical in their shitty double wide up to code. “It’s Jo. Ellen’s gonna take me to the hospital. Dad, I—”

John’s entire stance changed. “Go. Call when you know something. I’ll send Sammy when he’s up, he’ll know what to do.”

They both knew Sam couldn’t stop whatever was happening, but he’d keep Dean from causing a scene.

A car honked in the driveway.

“I gotta go. Thanks,” Dean brushed past his dad without even a glance at Adam.

Dean wouldn’t let Ellen drive, even hungover he trusted himself behind the wheel more than a desperate mother. She only pretended to argue before sliding across the bench seat and letting him in. The roads were a mess. In the thirty minute drive to the hospital, Dean saw another two cars in the ditch. Though, it was clear now in the morning sunshine, everything was blinding in its whiteness.

“Listen, you shut up and keep your head down. Let me do the talking,” Ellen warned him as they approached the reception desk.

“Hi, I’m Ellen Harvelle, I’m here to see my daughter Joanna? This is her fiance.”

Dean squirmed, but nodded at the nurse who looked at him like she wanted to reach over and hug him. “Of course, right this way.”

She led Dean and Ellen down a hushed hallway, the beeping of machines and huffing of ventilators the only sounds escaping the doorways as they passed. Dean looked around for a trash can, the painkillers in his stomach threatening to come back up. Ellen took his hand and pulled him into a room.

Jo was hooked up to more machines than should have fit in the tiny room. Her hair was matted with blood and she was drowning in the hospital gown. Her beautiful face was swollen and red, the bruises still forming where she hit the passenger side window— or maybe that was the dashboard, Dean couldn’t tell she was so misshapen.

“Oh, Jo,” Dean’s voice broke. He stopped himself from saying anything as the nurse talked, but all he wanted to do was sob.

He didn’t realize he had let go of Ellen’s hand until he was clenching the rail along Jo’s bedside. Ellen stood on the other side of her, carefully brushing the hair out of Jo’s beaten face. Her one arm was framed in a metal fixator, skin angry from where the bone sliced her open from the inside. Her leg was in a brace, but at least that meant those bones were more salvageable.

“What happened?” Dean said eventually, unsure of when the nurse left. He eyed the machines tracking Jo’s heart rate, but he wasn’t sure if the readings were good or bad.

“Someone was driving on the wrong side of the road— couldn’t see the lines and Y/N swerved to miss them, they spun out and the other car didn’t stop. They took her to surgery– her right knee was shattered.”

“Jo took the brunt of it,” Dean stated the obvious, still too terrified to reach out and touch Jo. She was suddenly so very fragile.

Ellen sniffed.

“They are watching for internal bleeding before they’ll operate. Her brain—," Ellen couldn’t finish.

“Hey,” Dean rushed around the bed and pulled Ellen against his chest, finally giving his hands something to do. “They’re doing everything they can.”

“It’s not enough,” Ellen argued.

“I know,” Dean agreed, squeezing her tighter.

Ellen pulled back and wiped her eyes, muttering to herself about going soft. Dean needed to give her a moment, hell, he needed a minute to catch his breath. He told her he was going to find coffee and she told him they had a waiting area down the hall. He nearly ran out of Jo’s room.

He checked his watch, it was just after ten o’clock. And as exhausted and hungover as Dean felt, he was pretty sure Ellen hadn’t slept at all after closing the bar. He wondered if she’d even made it home before getting the call. He found the coffee maker and pushed a button for something hot and thin and caffeinated. He wondered if Y/N had passed a breathalyzer, knowing how much Jo had been drinking didn’t make him certain her driver was much better off.

He was gonna be sick again.

He left the paper cup on the grate and fell into one of the stiff plastic chairs around the small table. He put his head between his knees and breathed, resting on his elbows. Dean counted the flecks in the white linoleum squares beneath his feet.

Nothing made sense. They were just getting started. Last night there was the impossible giddiness of seeing her in person after so long and now the unabashed horror of her mother sneaking him into the hospital as her fiance so he could see her before…

She was eighteen-fucking-years-old and he was going to lose her.

And it was all his fault.

He stared at the floor until he couldn’t anymore. The coffee was nothing more than a passing burn on the way to his knotted stomach. But he couldn’t stop the tears and he wouldn’t go back to Ellen until they were dry, she needed him to be better than that. When he couldn’t cry anymore and after he used his last single for a pack of peanut M&Ms, Dean went back to Jo’s room.

Ellen was asleep in an ugly mauve chair with her hand clutching Jo’s good ankle over the thin hospital blanket. Dean found another blanket from a CNA and tucked it around Ellen’s shoulders. He stood guard, through Ellen’s brief nap and the three o’clock shift change, even after Sam came by with lunch but left because he wasn’t allowed on the ward.

The seizures started around five and Ellen and Dean were asked to wait outside. Before six, she was wheeled away from them into emergency surgery and by seven she was gone. Dean had to hold Ellen back from slugging the surgeon. He caught her when she finally sank into reality, and somehow Dean found more tears.

Nothing felt real, least of all Dean himself.

Adam looked Dean in the eye and grinned.

“Get over here you little shit, I told you to stop growing the last time I saw you didn’t I?” Dean hugged his youngest brother hard, thumping him on the back as he rocked from foot to foot. “Good to see you, man.”

“You too,” Adam grunted out before Dean could release him.

Then came John, waiting for Dean as he walked through the front door. They didn’t say anything, just gave each other the once over and went in for the hug. John held him tight until he cleared his throat, stepping away from the vulnerable moment. Sam came in with his bags and hugged Kate first, who had been waiting in the hallway to the kitchen.

“Sammy,” John said, holding out his arms.

“Hey Dad,” Sam hugged with genuine warmth on his face, Dean never thought he’d see the day. But time does things to a person, and forgiveness was always Sam’s superpower.

“You boys hungry? I can reheat dinner, I know you’ve been on the road, wasn’t sure when you’d get in,” Kate offered as Dean went in for the obligatory hug. She had colored her hair, instead of her natural blonde it was a mature auburn, covering the gray and giving her a different air.

“Don’t worry about us, we can scavenge for something later,” Dean assured her. “I like your hair.”

That startled her. “Oh! Thank you, yeah I just figured I’d do something different for winter, you know.”

“Don’t she look good? I told her redheads are feisty,” John teased, wrapping his arm around her waist.

“Gross,” Adam called on the way to the basement, where Sam had headed down to watch him finish his game.

“Beer?” John offered and Dean gladly accepted.

Arriving three days early was pushing their luck, Dean knew that, but there was nothing keeping him in LA. And after the novelty of catching up and last minute shopping in the tiny downtown of Mills’ Crossing, there wasn’t much more small talk to be had.

Naturally, John started it. But it was over Sam that had Dean’s hackles up first. They were sitting down for a late lunch, having gone to church as a family for the first time since Kate and John got married when John made a comment about it was good to see Sam’s forearms ‘healthy’.

What he meant was he was proud of Sam for kicking his habit, for staying clean. What John didn’t know was that Sam was so good at hiding it, Dean had to check between his toes before he finally got him into rehab the last time. Seven years since Sam had kicked it and John still needed to point it out.

The jam session that night seemed to clear the air. Adam had decided he was a drummer sometime after Dean and Sam’s first platinum album so John built him an entire soundproof room in the basement to go wild. Which meant the Winchester men were a full four piece, if they got to pick their parts. Dean abstained from playing lead because it was John’s house after all, but the old man’s hands weren’t what they used to be. And that gave Dean a little bit of satisfaction.

They rolled through the classics, even playing a couple of Phantom Traveler’s songs that didn’t rely too much on the keys. Dean made John sing though, laughing when he made up his own lyrics.

They ended the night with a drunken, almost punk rendition of Jingle Bell Rock after which Kate shut the lights out on them and told them to go to bed.

Christmas Eve was boring, Dean had gotten stir crazy and kept checking his phone. He knew you had gotten in the night before, but he couldn’t justify trying to hang out while you had such little time with your family as it was. Sam gave him a look and they started playing poker, teasing Adam that he needed to know every version of the game if he was gonna hold his own one day.

Kate wiped the floor with them all.

They had eggnog and exchanged one round of gifts before going to bed, no expectations of Santa Claus or any set wake up time scheduled. It was just another day. Dean barely slept, anxiety churning inside him. He tried meditating. He even prayed, but God, who was understandably busy that night, didn’t save him. Because he woke up with a bug up his ass and, naturally, his father was the first one to point it out.

“You kiss your girlfriend with that mouth?” John asked after Dean cursed at Adam’s obnoxious ringtone.

“Do a lot more with it than that,” Dean muttered before he could stop himself.

“Dean Winchester,” John snapped as if Dean was still sixteen, still living under his roof.

“Oh, come on, kids in college, he’s heard worse,” Dean griped, going back to his coffee.

It all went downhill from there. Naturally, Adam got the lion’s share of gifts. Sam and Dean didn’t need anything, but it was so uneven it looked like John and Kate didn’t even remember they were coming to visit. Meanwhile, John’s plasma screen had arrived two days earlier and Sam and Dean were tasked with installing it in the living room midmorning.

Nothing says family time like manual labor and micromanagement.

Dean started drinking before Kate had taken the ham out of the oven. And while Sam wasn’t exactly keeping track, Dean felt like he was asking for whatever bitchface he got next. He just couldn’t stop himself once he started snarking.

Adam was telling them about the musical composition class he had finished and how he had written something for a string quartet.

“Our new keyboard player went to Julliard, you should send it to him,” Dean said off the cuff, before shoving some venison sausage in his mouth from the snack trays Kate put out.

“So you upgraded from Cas officially now?” John asked suspiciously.

“Dad, Cas left the band last spring, of course we made it official,” Sam cut in. John already knew this.

“I know, I just hoped you boys would work it out.”

Dean laughed darkly. “Nothing to work out. Dude left, we moved on.”

“And why did he leave exactly?” John goaded Dean.

Dean rolled his eyes, John was one to talk. He had pissed off half of all musicians between the Rockies and New Orleans before he hung it up.

“Let’s call it the Winchester temper and leave it at that,” Dean smiled without teeth, then popped more snacks into his mouth.

“Yeah, cuz the Campbell blood held only saints,” John muttered.

“Dad!” Sam admonished.

“That’s fucking rich! Talking about her when she’s not here to call you on your shit. I fucking punched Cas, alright?! You happy?! And who, DAD, taught me how to do that? Huh? Winchester temper. Not Campbell. That one was all from you.”

John stepped into Dean’s space, but spoke to Sam. “Sam, take your brother outside for a walk to cool down before dinner.”

Sam grunted in confirmation.

“Watch how you talk to me in my own home, Dean. Or I’ll show you a Winchester temper,” John said lowly. “You understand?”

Dean rolled his shoulders and looked his father in the eye. “Who exactly paid for this house again, Dad? Yeah, I’ll talk to you how you deserve it. I’m out of here.”

Dean felt Adam watching from the corner as Kate pulled John out of the kitchen and into their bedroom to give him a piece of her mind. Sam nodded at their younger brother, silently thanking him for holding down the fort as Dean stormed out the front door.

The Roadhouse was blissfully the same, with only a handful of beaten down cars in the parking lot. Dean had spent enough Christmases at bars or taverns throughout his life, but now he just wanted something that felt like home to get through this tightness in his chest. What they found inside was something altogether more special.

Ellen’s entire face lit up as they walked in, an empty plate in front of her and Garth manning the food line. Dean got his hug in first, but Sam took his time asking about what was going on. Then you were there, and Dean felt a hot shame creep up because he was this close to falling into old patterns. And that wasn’t how he ever wanted you to see him. He zipped his lips, pleading with himself to get a handle on his temper already.

He felt you breathe him in, the truth was never hard for you to suss out. And yet Dean held on, needing you close, being stupid and selfish as ever.

They took their free meal and ducked into a corner, watching as Ellen played angel to the downtrodden of Boone county. Slowly, Dean was able to set his shit aside. With Sam talking about anything and everything across from him; he accepted his resentment for his father, his frustration at himself and the stupid fucking feelings he had for you. It all seemed much more manageable when faced with people who had to get over much bigger obstacles with so much less. There was one more thing he promised he’d do while he was home, now that he’d visited Ellen. And he double checked that Sam was still good to go with him, to be his chauffeur.

They helped clean up, though Ellen moved a mile a minute and did tasks faster than she could explain them. And then Ellen was handing you off like a Christmas present, one that Dean couldn’t ever accept.

Ellen said her goodbyes and left Dean standing in the parking lot without much of a guess on what you wanted to do next.

“I guess we better get going,” he said, asking Sam more than anything.

Then Sam reminded Dean about the cemetery and a new wave of guilt seeped into Dean’s stomach. When it came to Jo, you had first dibs. She was your best friend and Dean’d be damned if he’d visit her without you getting a chance to too. As macabre as it was, he felt he owed it to you.

You looked like you were going to be ill.

“Maybe we should ask her if she wants to go,” he told Sam, searching your eyes for permission at the very least.

You took your time with the idea, but turned him down. “If it’s okay, would you mind dropping me off first? I know it’s in the other direction.”

Dean felt you sinking behind a wall the further they got from the Roadhouse, you asked questions and made conversation, but you weren’t really in it. He probably shouldn’t have brought up Jo, but with Ellen and Christmas and the Roadhouse, she was already everywhere anyway.

They let you out at your parents’ and headed back across town. The streets were almost empty with the sacredness of the holiday. The cemetery was decorated in pine wreaths and cheap red ribbons. The narrow paths were silent beneath their feet. Dean had thought he knew what he wanted to say when he decided to take this little side quest to see Jo.

What he said once Sam was safely back inside the Charger was something else entirely.

“So, I’ve been better. Not like I’m bad now, but I’ve been doing actually better. I was a mess for a long time. And not just from you, but a lot of shit. And last year, I guess earlier this year really, I kind of imploded. I started hurting people, like actually hurting them and justified it to myself somehow. Then I pushed Cas away from helping me, after breaking his nose. And well, the bands a lot different now. But we’re still doing it.

Look, Jo, I know you wanted me to live my dreams and see the world. Things I always wish you could have done. But sometimes dreams are regular everyday things, like bringing home pie or having somebody to say goodnight to. And I haven’t let myself have dreams in a long, long time. But I think maybe I’m starting to again.

And I just need you to know that I’m gonna be okay. And I am gonna do what I can to keep your people safe, because they’re my people now too, you know? You gave me another mom and a best friend without even meaning to. And we all miss you like crazy. But, we’re okay. Merry Christmas, beautiful. I hope the angels pull out all the stops up there.”

Dean exhaled, his nose thick and eyes stinging in the cold air. He wiped his face and looked at Jo’s name one more time before turning back towards the road. Sam waited until Dean was buckled in before asking, “you good?”

“Yeah, man. Let’s get back before I cause more of a sensation,” Dean said, not meeting Sam’s eyes.

“Okay,” was all Sam said.

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Chapter 15: Rubato

#spotless series #dean angst #dean/reader #dean/jo #dean/bela #slow burn #character death #grief #guilt #dean winchester fanfiction #rockstar au #fake dating

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