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lily-drake · 10 months

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The Bird’s Baby Bug

Chapter 2

Ch. 1

Tim: 19 Mari: 10

Three in the morning, it was three in the f*ing morning and Jason was not having it. But unfortunately for him, whoever was calling wouldn’t stop! Fine, Jason would answer the phone, but he wouldn’t sound happy doing it!

“What the f* do you want?” He growled, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. Tonight was supposed to be his night of d*it.

“Jason, Jason thank G*.” Tim gasped in relief, it honestly shocked him. He and the replacement were definitely not on the best of terms, so why would he sound so relieved that he answered his phone. “Before you hang up,” he rambled quickly, “I could really use your help. This isn’t about me, it's about a kid that The League of Assassins kidnapped.”

Jason froze at that, what the f* was the replacement doing in The League of F*ing Assassins. “I’m sorry, but what now?”

Tim sighed through the phone, like he had any right to be exasperated like he hasn’t been radio silent for over six g*d*ng months and called him –the guy that has tried to murder him on multiple occasions–for help . “Look, it's a long story, but I need to get her out before Ra’s comes back, I’ll explain everything then. Sending my coordinates now.” Jason was about to respond, before he could the quick beep, beep, beep that singled the end of the call echoed in his ears. Son of a b*!

Jason glared at the phone, like he could will Tim to magically appear out of it so he could strangle him, but nothing happened. With one last sigh, Jason got out of bed and began to get ready to return to one of the many places that haunted his nightmares. Making a few calls to his lieutenants, telling them to make sure everyone stayed in line and demanding updates every night, he grabbed his emergency duffle bag and headed out.

_______ Tim didn’t want to admit how attached he became to the small girl over the span of a few hours. She was so small, and despite the horrors she had been forced to endure she was one of the sweetest people he’s ever met. Having learned that she had (unsurprisingly) not been allowed any form of education in her captivity, he had taken it upon himself to become her tutor while they waited for Jason. They drew, he helped her with numbers, helped her with her English and French, and when she was asleep in his bed, he would continue his investigation into Bruce’s whereabouts.

He had been tracking Jason’s progress through a code that he had activated on Jason’s phone when the man had picked up. It had taken him nearly three days to get here, and if everything went according to plan, he should be here within the next three hours. On the third day Tim began to explain in heavy detail to Marinette how he was going to free her from this Hell Hole and how she would go with his brother until he finished his mission here.

“So you’re leaving me?” Marinette whispered in broken English, her voice breaking slightly, though no tears welled in her eyes. Tim felt awful, but if he wanted to find Bruce, destroy the Pits, and avoid Ra’s; then this was his best course of action.

“It won’t be for very long,” he whispered, gently tucking a strand of her long dark hair behind one of her small ears. “I’ll be back before you know it, and Jason will take great care of you. He’s very protective of kids. Don’t tell him I said this,” he whispered into her ear, a mischievous smirk on his lips, “Jason may seem like a baddy, but he’s really just an oversized teddy bear.” (A teddy bear that would actually tear anyone and anything apart if he so felt like it.)

His heart melted when Marinette giggled, and goodness he didn’t want to let this small bean go. He quickly pulled the small child against his chest, giving her a tight embrace, relieved when she quickly returned it rather than shrinking away like she had a few times before. “You’re so brave Marinette. Never forget that.” He whispered.

The two stayed like that for only a few moments longer before he slowly pulled away with an affectionate hair ruffle. The moment was curtly interrupted when his door was forced open, and Tim knew who it was before he even turned around. There were only two people that existed on this base that would dare come into his room unannounced.

“Detective.” Ra’s greeted stoically. Tim cursed under his breath, Ra’s should have been gone for at least another day. Tim turned around, keeping Marinette tucked behind him. “I see you’ve met my little pet project.” He stated, never taking his cold gaze off Tim. Tim glared back at the man; his resolve to save the small child growing stronger the longer Marinette held onto the back of his shirt, tightening her trembling grip like it was her only lifeline. “I would ask you please return it to me, it is a very important asset that I would like to keep close.”

The sound of Marinette’s whimper made Tim feel almost animalistic with the need to protect. It was as exhilarating as it was horrifying. “No,” he snarled, “I don’t think I will. I’m sure that you have enough of her blood to fill each and every one of your Lazarus Pits to the brim.” He growled out, reaching for the bo staff at his side.

“Don’t be ridiculous Detective”, Ra’s sighed sounding almost exasperated, though he didn’t come any closer…yet. “Surely you know the reason we must keep her close, despite her blood’s usefulness.” Unfortunately Tim did understand what Ra’s was getting at. He had been reading through any and all files that pertained to “Subject E131”. Ra’s intended to use Marinette as a weapon; training and enhancing her powers so that she could use her control of plant life��and maybe even animal life–to use against his enemies—in other words, a better “model” of Poison Ivy. He wouldn’t let that be her fate, she would not be another pawn in Ra’s sick games.

“Yes, but I’m afraid that I can’t let that happen.” Snap . His staff snapped open, ready for whatever Ra’s had planned. Ra’s simply smirked, a twinkle in his eyes that sent a shiver down Tim’s spine.

“Very well Detective, have it your way.” Ra’s was fast, faster than Tim was expecting, but not fast enough. Tim shot his staff into the air, blocking the blow before using the momentum to push Ra’s sword away from him.

“Is this child really worth the risk of not being able to see your father again, Detective? Without my help, he’ll be lost forever.”

Tim ground his teeth, he wouldn’t let this manipulative ba* invade his mind. If he was as great of a detective as Ra’s claimed him to be, then he didn’t need Ra’s. He would find Bruce on his own, and show everyone that he wasn’t crazy. He would protect this child, because she deserved to feel safe.

He looked around for an opening while gently bushing the small child away from, but still behind, him. He couldn’t risk her safety more than he already is. Jason was out there, he would be here soon. He just needed to stall Ra’s and make it to the drop off point.

Ra’s attacked once more, this time trying to move around him, switching their positions so that Marinette would be right behind Ra’s. Tim wouldn’t let that happen though. He kept his feet solidly on the ground pushing against Ra’s momentum. The sound of Ra’s blade against his staff was a sharp clash as each fighter swung and danced around the other. “It is such a shame, Detective. I truly thought that you would join me as my right hand.”

Tim felt a vicious smirk fall onto his lips—the same smirk he used to strike fear into Gotham’s criminal underbelly—, “Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t murder those who stand against me.”

“Maybe now, but you could learn. You could come to see how efficient it is when you are trying to truly bring order to the world.”

“Yes, because torturing kids is definitely the “best way” of creating “order”.” He growled, ducking under Ra’s sword before throwing a right slam towards Ra’s abdomen.

Beep Beep

Jason was 30 minutes out. He must have been pushing his bike for all it’s worth if he got here that fast, Tim thought while using a downward thrust. Ra’s jumped back, surveying the room. He watched with glee as the cruel, condescending smile on Ra’s face fell away into a frustrated sneer.

“Where is she?” He demanded coldly.

Tim’s smile grew. “What, you thought I didn’t have a plan for if you came back early?” Tim had discovered a trap door under the bed that led to a small cave right at the edge of the base. Exactly where he told Jason to meet them. Ra’s must have forgotten about it with how big the base was, or simply did not believe that Tim would have found the small passage.

“I see I’ve underestimated you, Detective.” Ra’s sneered.

Tim simply chirped, “Your mistake.” Before he launched into a series of strikes, no longer afraid that he’d accidentally hurt Marinette. Ra’s blocked his strikes, only allowing him to get two or three before Ra’s countered him blow for blow. Tim allowed himself to be spun by Ra’s attack, following the movement so his back was to the door, just as he planned. Before Ra’s could strike down his next blow Tim was moving, running out of the room and through the seemingly deserted corridors.

He needed to distract the others, keep them far away from Mari and the drop off point, so he was strangely relieved when swarms of ninjas began to attack him. Though when he noticed Ra’s was not in the midst, he could feel a panic course through his muscles. What if he had found the passage? What if he had gotten there before Jason and had taken Mari? He would never be able to forgive himself.

Tim ducked past the blades and throwing stars; cursing when one of them grazed his unarmored forearm. The long gash stretched down his arm allowing warm blood to trickle down onto the stone floor. It didn’t matter though, because he had to keep fighting. Had to protect Marinette so that she could live her own life.

So he kept running, kept defending, kept ducking, and he kept fighting back.

“Red Hood to Red Robin. Red Hood to Red Robin, the package has been picked up.”

Tim nearly collapsed in relief, but considering he was still in the midst of battle, he decided that doing so would be a terrible idea.

Suddenly, the sound of gunshots hung heavy through the halls. Ra’s didn’t allow the use of guns, especially on base, and Tim only knew one person that could sneak in here without a problem while using that kind of weapon. The brief moment of his distraction cost him as the back of a hilt was smashed against his head. Tim collapsed, his body feeling heavy and sluggish.

“Tim!” Someone shouted, and suddenly, the pounding in his head cleared. A warmth surrounded him, just like when he had first met Marinette, except there wasn’t any excruciating pain like something was growing in him. Wait, oh sh*.

“Jason!” Tim screamed, jumping back onto his feet with renewed strength and pushing back the other ninja, as he moved toward the echoing sounds of gunshots rather than away. Before he could even round the corner he saw Marinette staring at him with haunted, watery eyes.

“They were going to take you next! You promised they wouldn’t take you away like that!” She sobbed, hugging herself. Tim felt his heart shatter into a million pieces. He extended his arms out, fully expecting her to shrink away. But she didn’t, she ran into his arms and let him pick her up, wrapping her legs around his chest when he moved her so she was situated against his left hip.

“I’m sorry, Sweetie. It won’t happen again now that I’ve got my little lucky charm back.” Marinette giggled lightly through her tears. But in all seriousness, Tim was absolutely terrified. She shouldn’t be here, she should be on her way back to Gotham right now with Jason! He was going to kill Jason. Tim touched the small device in his ear, turning his mic on. “Hood, I thought I told you to get her out of here. You said you picked her up!”

He could hear the reverberations of round after round leaving the chamber while Jason replied, “the Little Pixie said she wouldn’t leave without you. Screamed when I tried to touch her. Figured as long as she stayed with me she’d be fine while we rescued your sorry a*.”

“Well she didn’t stay by your side, you arrogant jerk.”

“Oh don’t even Mr. I’m-going-to-work-with-The-League-of-Assassins-with-no-bad-consequences-directed-towards-me. Seriously, what were you thinking ?”

Tim felt his jaw clench, shoulders tensing, as the memories of everyone telling him how he was crazy, how grief made him insane, how he simply wasn’t in his “right mind”. No one would listen, no one trusted him, but he was right ! He knows that he’s right! He didn’t respond.

“No excuse? What, did you want a taste of what it’s like on the other side? See what it’s like to-“

“ Shut up , Jason. The only reason I called you is because you know this place better than the others and I trusted you to have this child’s best interest in mind.”

It was silent over the line, well except for the resounding bullets, but it didn’t last long. “Let’s just get the h* out of here.” And that was that.

A few minutes later, he found Jason surrounded by bodies of ninjas, surprisingly not bleeding out. “Rubber bullets.” Jason informed, “Kid doesn’t need to see that.” Tim bites his lip before he can say: she’s already seen far worse . Tim gave Jason a sharp nod, and they were moving out. Tim followed closely behind Jason to wherever he had parked their getaway vehicle, hugging Marinette tighter to him as they ran. He was honestly surprised to see one of the Batplanes carefully concealed behind the large jungle canopy. He was honestly expecting to see one of Hood’s bikes. He was even more so when he saw Babs waiving towards them in her wheelchair.

“You have a lot of explaining to do, Boy Wonder .” She shouted, her voice filled with so much unadulterated rage that Tim actually feared for his life for the first time that day. He didn’t have time to hesitate though, who knew what or who was hiding in the jungle or coming after them. Adjusting his grip slightly on Mari he ran the rest of the way to the plane only letting himself relax his grip when they were in the air and flying far away. When he looked out the window, all he could see was Ra’s standing right where the plane had just taken off, sword raised in a challenge. If they had been even a few moments later, they might not have escaped.

“T-Tim?” Marinette whispered into his ear, startling him slightly. “Can I be put down now?”

“Yes, of course.” Tim said, quickly setting her down before he kneeled in front of her so that he could check her over for any injury. “Coming back for me was risky and irresponsible. You could’ve gotten taken again. I don’t think I’d ever be able to live with myself if that happened.” He stated as he patted her down, if one of those ninja hurt even a hair on her head he was going to-

“Ahem.” Tim’s face shot up at the sound, forcing him to meet Barbara’s cold and curious eyes. “Would you like to introduce us, and maaaybe explain why you’ve been radio silent for the past six months . Tim glared at Babs, but she held his gaze.

Sighing he turned away from her and looked at the small child, silent tears falling down her face. Tim felt his shoulders fall. He opened his arms and prayed that she wouldn’t flinch away from him like she had many other times before. When Marinette flung herself into his arms, filling the cold void with her warmth while her tears soaked his robes, he couldn’t have felt more relieved.

“I’m sorry for getting mad, Honey. You scared me, and I just want you to be safe. I-I never want you to go through what you went through there ever again.” He whispered to her in French.

“You know what they did?” She gasped back in her native tongue, her voice still so broken and raspy. “You took me away.”

Tears of his own fell down his cheeks as he lifted her off the ground. “It’s okay baby, you’re safe now.” He turned to look at Babs and Jason, who were looking away silently, giving them as much privacy as they could while still keeping an eye on the two. “Hey, there’s some snacks in the back, do you want to grab some?”

She sniffled, wiping at her eyes before giving him a small nod. Once her feet hit the floor, she moved to the back of the small plane where the small snack drawer sat.

“She was one of Ra’s experiments.” Tim stated before either of the two could say anything, trying to discreetly wipe at his eyes while still watching the small girl. “She’s a meta who has the ability of creation, very powerful. Ra’s put her under hundreds of different experiments and documented the results, taking and using her blood to reverse the Lazarus Pit side effects before turning her into a human weapon..”

Tim took in a shaky breath, his heart melting when he saw Marinette’s wide eyes when she pulled a bag of pretzels. She looked like she had just found lost treasure from an old chest. “She was 7 when they took her, she was trapped there for 3 years. Killed her parents and showed her the recording of their death to get the reaction they needed. I downloaded her entire file. It should finish downloading onto your computer in the clock tower in the next half hour.”

Marinette raced over to him holding a small pack of chocolate covered pretzels while hugging a second one close to her chest. Tim gently took it from her with a small, ruffling her hair in the process. “Thanks Mari. Why don’t you go sit down. You never know when there will be turbulence.”

Marinette hesitated, looking at him expectantly. “I’ll join you soon. I don’t plan to let you stay by yourself for very long.” With one more silent nod she moved to the front of the plane where there were four seats available.

“Tim, you do realize you’re 19, right?” Jason said, helmet and mask fully removed.

“Yes?”

“Okay, so then what’s your plan here? B’s not here to take her in,” Tim flinched at that. Bruce would be back, he would bring Bruce back! “I don’t think Dickie will take her either what with the Demon Brat, I-“

“I’m not entrusting you with her.” Jason shot him a sharp glare.

“Alright you dick, well what’s your plan then?”

“Well, I’m about as rich as Bruce, I am currently CEO of his company, and The Nest would only need to be restocked and a room redecorated…” Tim started mumbling, mind starting to wonder as he thought of everything he would need to do to make The Nest more… child friendly.

Snap snap. Startling back into the moment Tim glared at Babs for destroying his train of thought. “Focus Tim. So what I’m hearing is, you want to adopt her?” She asked incredulously.

“Yes, as soon as I bring Bruce back.” Tim agreed matter of factly causing both Jason and Barbara to flinch.

“Tim…” Babs began, her tone tired sounding.

“Don’t”, Tim growled startling all occupants on the plane, except Mari, she fell asleep. Tim had changed a lot in the last six months, and he knew exactly what was needed of him.

He was so close to finding Bruce. He just needed to find one last piece of evidence and he’d be able to bring Bruce back. Tim had found out that the man was stuck in a timestream and that he had been leaving clues that only Tim could find. He was going to bring the closest thing he had to a father home, and nobody was going to stop him.

“I know he’s still alive, and I can prove it. I have the files and physical proof to do so. I’m not crazy!” His breath was coming out in short puffs, his eyes were narrowed, and he could feel his clenched fist shaking at his side.

“Okay, Tim. We believe you. Just calm down.” Barbara began. She was talking in her victim’s voice and while Tim hated that it was directed towards him, he couldn’t help but take a little comfort in the smoothness of her words. Slowly he let himself relax, taking longer breaths as he calmed down.

“I’m fine. Just drop me off in Uganda and make sure Marinette’s safe. I’d prefer that you look after her,” he stated as he made eye contact with Babs, “keep her away from the Demon Brat and all. But I understand if you truly, 100% without a doubt , believe that Dick would be able to care for her better until I return.”

“What about me? I could watch the little pixie.” Jason grumbled as he stared at the limp form of the small girl.

“I trust you about as much as I can throw you Jason.”

“At least I know how to actually cook.”

“Boys.”

“I can learn!” Tim replied indignantly.

“BoYs.”

“Not without burning down your entire kitchen you couldn-“

“BOYS!”

Both snapped their necks to look at Babs. Letting out a long agitated sigh, “First of all, I’m not going to just drop you off in Uganda just for you to go off the radar again.” Tim was about to protest but she held her hand up, silencing him. “Before anything else is decided on I’m going to look through all of your evidence, then once we see that we can come to a decision on what happens next. Does that sound fair?”

Tim wanted to argue more, force them to relent until they just did what he asked because he was so close . But he held his tongue and gave a curt nod. “Fine, but I’m going to go whether or not you believe me.” Without another word he stalked over until he was sitting next to Marinette.

He watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, her face soothed over in sleep, and her head was tilted so that it was leaning against her shoulder at an uncomfortable angle. Gently, Tim guided her head until it rested against his chest. He felt her stir slightly, but instantly relaxed when he began to run his fingers up and down her back. Her hair was far too tangled and would definitely need a professional stylist to fix it before he felt comfortable enough running his fingers through it without causing any pain or discomfort.

When he looked up Babs and Jason were gone, the door to the cockpit left slightly ajar. Tim squeezed his eyes shut as he let out a long sigh that rattled his bones. With his free hand he rummaged through his leftmost bandolier and pulled out a small red button. Opening his eyes he stared at the small device, a devious smirk forming on his lips as he pushed the button.

Long live The League of Assassins, and long may it burn.

All he needed to do now was free Bruce. With that finished Tim closed his eyes, letting the gentle weight of Marinette comfort him as he let sleep finally take him over.

END Taglist:

@aespades @adrestar @astrynyx @doll246 @queenz-z @toodaloo-kangaroo @crazylittlemunchkin @seraphichana @miraculous-ninja @dorkus-minimus @mysticsoulgirl @ritacrow-blog @snow-leopard-777 @fidget-eep @sometandomstuff333 @lady-phoenix-of-tardis @shreeing @achaoticmess1 @liquid-luck-00 @buginetye @stainedglassm @prettylittlebutterflie @laurcad123 @iloontjeboontje @heartsong18 @raeuberprinzessin @when-no-wings-do-broomsticks @jennifer-rose123 @moon5608 @corporeal-terrestrial @skitarii-alpha-c6-555 @saltysugarysembei @phantom120 @kking13 @depressed-bitchy-demon @a-slytherinish-gryffindor @iamablinkmarvelarmy @fleursroses @buginetye @ev-cupcake @blackroserelina @rainbowbunny0159 @the-ace-reader @humanoid606 @taewinterbear95 @blueberrygeniejam @alex-rebecca-pearce @neulosfantacyworld

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silvfyre-writings · 9 months

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Who am I? (BSD Fanfic)

Welcome to yet another Fukudad fic, but this time, from Ranpo's POV, which is a first for me. In fact, despite Ranpo being in all my BSD fics, I have only written his POV once before (and you all know which story that is), so this was quite a challenge.

If you enjoy, do leave a like, or even reblog!

Ranpo sat with his back against his bedroom door, head on his knees as he stared at the skirt that had been lying innocently on the floor ever since he’d dragged it out of his closet that morning. Every time he picked out what to wear each morning, his eyes landed on the skirt, but he always told himself ‘next time’ or that ‘it wasn’t appropriate’, never quite finding the courage to wear it until recently. He had intended to wear it today, just like he had intended to yesterday, and the day before that one, and the week before—the point was that Ranpo was a coward.

The skirt had been a gift from Fukuzawa, bought six months prior on their first ever outing together, when the man had caught him staring at it for just a little too long. Fukuzawa had been clear back then when he’d told Ranpo he could only get pants and shirts, and yet Ranpo hadn’t been able to stop himself from staring at clothes he’d always had an interest in, but had never been allowed to look at or try back when his parents had still been alive. And because of that, he ended up making Fukuzawa spend more money on a piece of clothing that Ranpo hadn’t even worn once since its purchase.

Yeah, he was a coward.

It wasn’t even the judgement that made Ranpo so nervous, so scared to wear a piece of clothing that was considered by the rest of society as feminine, because he remembered Fukuzawa telling him that he was allowed to wear what he was comfortable in, regardless of whether it belonged to a boy or a girl, and that if Ranpo did indeed choose to ever wear the skirt, there would be no judgement from him. That wasn’t what bothered him. What bothered him was what putting on the skirt and wearing it would mean; Ranpo was already considered different and weird by everyone else in the world who met him just because he was different from the rest of them, he didn’t want to be judged for what he wore too.

There was a knock on the door, a single knock that he would never have heard if he’d still been asleep. “Ranpo?”

“I’m awake.” Ranpo called back. He’d been awake for hours in fact, long before Fukuzawa himself had even been awake, but he’d remained in his room all morning, trying to deal with this internal conflict of what clothing to wear that he’d suddenly found himself in the midst of. It wasn’t common for Ranpo to be awake before his guardian, but he hadn’t been sleeping well the past couple of days—not that Fukuzawa was aware of that yet, now that Ranpo had his own room—so he’d found himself with a lot of time to think. And while Ranpo didn’t mind thinking, he preferred to do it when he was working and trying to find criminals, not when he was alone in his room, with only himself to think about.

That was a dangerous game for him to start playing, and not one he wanted to partake in. Not again.

“I’m about to make breakfast.” Fukuzawa said before Ranpo could let his mind drift and get lost in his own thoughts again, which would undoubtedly make himself feel worse than he already did. He remained silent, not to ignore the older man, but because he knew there was a question inbound, and he already knew that the answer he had to give wasn’t one that was going to be easily accepted. And sure enough, the question came. “What would you like to eat?”

Ranpo sighed and buried his face into his knees. “I’m not hungry.”

And sure enough, his answer wasn’t accepted. “You didn’t eat dinner last night, Ranpo.” Fukuzawa sounded worried as he spoke, which just made Ranpo feel guilty for worrying the man in the first place. “Would you like me to—”

“I’ll eat later.” Ranpo interrupted, and squeezed his eyes shut; he knew he had to eat, and that if he didn’t eat something soon, then Fukuzawa would force him to drink one of those nutrition smoothies he’d had to have for a while a couple of months back, and that was the last thing Ranpo wanted. They didn’t taste nice. But… he just couldn’t bring himself to eat anything right now. It wasn’t that he felt nauseous or anything, it was simply that he had other things on his mind right now—like picking some god damn clothes for today—and food was the last thing he was thinking about.

“Ranpo—”

Before Fukuzawa could ask him anymore questions, or try to convince him to actually eat something, Ranpo spoke straight over the top of him. “I promise, I will eat before lunch.”

A sigh came through the door. “Alright…” Fukuzawa didn’t sound overly pleased, but seemed to believe that trying to argue would just be a pointless endeavour, and instead stepped away, and Ranpo listened as the sound of footsteps disappeared down the hall, and minutes later, the familiar sound of Fukuzawa cooking started up. It was normally a comforting sound, but this time it brought nothing but tension, and honestly, Ranpo didn’t know why.

Instead, he turned his attention back towards the skirt in his hands and angrily threw it across the room where it landed at the foot of his bed. Ranpo wanted to scream, but without a pillow to muffle it, he didn’t dare, only because it would bring Fukuzawa running, and while it wouldn’t be the first time he reacted badly to a piece of clothing, it was always embarrassing when it did happen. So he bit back the scream and kept it trapped in his throat as he climbed to his feet and returned to his closet. Ranpo went through his entire closet, throwing clothes all over his room as he tried to find something to wear, something that wouldn’t suffocate or make him feel ill—which none of his clothes did to begin with because Fukuzawa always paid attention when he bought clothes for Ranpo, but it was just one of those days where nothing was right.

Eventually, after emptying everything he owned onto the floor, Ranpo left his room behind and entered Fukuzawa’s, making a beeline for his guardian’s closet instead where he found the hoodie that he’d been offered the first night he’d stayed with Fukuzawa. It was well worn, but soft, and massive, and it was the only thing Ranpo could bear to wear today. It was the only thing he could wear, really, when his mind was like this, determined to make him hate the clothing that he wore every day. It was stupid, so, so, stupid, yet Ranpo had never succeeded in winning against himself. Maybe one day he would, but today was not one of those days. Pathetic.

After sitting on the floor of Fukuzawa’s room for almost ten minutes, Ranpo finally dragged himself to his feet and made his way to the living room where he did nothing but throw himself onto the couch that Fukuzawa was sitting in front of, quietly eating his own breakfast as he looked over some paperwork that Ranpo didn’t care to try and understand. It was important, if the way that Fukuzawa’s brow furrowed as he read was any indicator, and it was probably to do with getting Ranpo enrolled into school again, because Ranpo remembered Fukuzawa bringing it up once when they’d been in the midst of moving homes. Not that Ranpo had been paying attention then, because he’d been more focused on trying not to breakdown over shifting around again.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the new place they were living at, because he did. But he’d finally managed to get settled and comfortable in Fukuzawa’s old apartment before the lease had run out and they’d been forced to find somewhere else to live. Ranpo remembered Fukuzawa showing him a bunch of places, asking his opinion and thoughts, which had seemed strange at first, because why would Ranpo need to have an opinion on a temporary residence—Fukuzawa had explained to him what renting was when he’d said they had to move in the first place—only to learn that Fukuzawa was intending to buy a place.

And boy, if Ranpo hadn’t been swamped in guilt after learning that.

Fukuzawa had been quick to reassure him, because apparently Fukuzawa was the kind of adult Ranpo had been searching for since the death of parents, and ever since they’d met, the man had gotten good at being able to decipher Ranpo’s emotional and mental state, quite often before Ranpo himself even knew what he was feeling. Which was why, when Ranpo had started to fall apart at one of the apartments they’d looked at, Fukuzawa had taken him to the side and questioned him; gently.

“What are you feeling, Ranpo?” Fukuzawa had asked him after finding somewhere quiet for them to talk.

Ranpo had curled up into the corner of the bench they were sitting on, like he was wont to do when he wanted to hide by couldn’t. “Guilt.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re about to spend a lot of money for me. Again.” Ranpo had said, but when he’d lifted his head to see what kind of expression Fukuzawa was wearing on his face, he hadn’t expected to see worry and concern. No, he’d expected to see exasperation and frustration, but there was none of that, no matter how deep Ranpo tried to look.

And he just hadn’t understood how Fukuzawa could be so understanding all the damn time.

But after talking through Ranpo’s feelings—with Fukuzawa admitting that he himself was a little stressed about moving—things had gotten a little easier to deal with, and he and Fukuzawa had found a nice, still small, two bedroom place that they could both comfortable live in. It was a similar layout to Fukuzawa’s old place, but a little more modern and with an extra bedroom, and Ranpo would’ve been a fool to not notice that that was a deliberate choice. But since Fukuzawa didn’t say anything about it, he elected not to either, and now they had a home, one they wouldn’t have to leave unless they wanted to.

“Ranpo.” Fukuzawa’s voice caused Ranpo to blink and suddenly, he was back in the living room, with his guardian crouched before the couch, concern on his face, and a sliced up apple in hand. Fukuzawa’s other hand was just barely touching Ranpo’s own, and he blinked again, letting his eyes stay closed this time. It was easier to talk to people when he couldn’t see the expressions on their face, couldn’t see what kind of face people made when talking to him—when they judged him.

Not that Fukuzawa had ever been that person, and if he had, he’d kept his opinions to himself and away from Ranpo.

He’s drawn from his thoughts again when Fukuzawa’s hand squeezes his own and his eyes flick open just long enough to see the growing concern before he slammed them shut again. “Ranpo, are you alright?” Fukuzawa asked.

Ranpo wasn’t okay, that much was obvious to him, but he still nodded and smiled, trying his best to ease Fukuzawa’s worry. There was no sense in stressing out the man when not even Ranpo himself understood what was going on. Well, he understood a little bit, but the issue was something that only he could deal with, and it was one he’d been ignoring for years at this point, only thinking about it on the odd occasion. Back then, it’d been easy to forget about, because he’d had his parents, and then they’d died, and then it’d been about survival, and the problem was pushed to the very back of his mind.

But now that he had a stable place to live, and someone that cared about his wellbeing, it was harder to ignore, although he was still determined to do so.

“I’m alright.” Ranpo said when he realized he hadn’t responded to Fukuzawa’s question, and had seen the man’s expression become one of near-panic. He sat up from where he’d been laying on the couch, allowing enough room for Fukuzawa to sit next to him, and took the plate with the apple on it from Fukuzawa. He stared at the apple, feeling nothing but dread as he looked at the innocent piece of fruit, but he fought past that feeling and picked up a single slice. He nibbled on the apple, ignoring the way it felt tasteless in his mouth. “I’m alright.” He repeated.

“You’re not.” Fukuzawa said as he stood and sat next to Ranpo. “You’re wearing my clothes which is enough to tell me you aren’t.”

Ranpo hummed, because Fukuzawa was right as usual.

“Do you want to talk?” Fukuzawa asked, turning in his seat to look at Ranpo.

“No.” Ranpo picked up another piece of apple and began to eat it. He flicked his eyes open again, and looked at Fukuzawa without turning his head. Fukuzawa looked worried, but not overly worried like had had been the last time Ranpo hadn’t been well, probably because he was still eating unlike last time where even the foods Ranpo considered safe had failed him.

Fukuzawa hummed this time, and turned away. “Do I need to worry?”

“Not yet.” Ranpo said, and leaned against Fukuzawa’s arm. It was an invitation, one that his guardian took, and Ranpo relaxed the moment he felt that familiar weight come to rest across his shoulders. “It’s just a day. But I’ll let you know if you do need to worry.”

“Alright. Do you want to put a movie on?”

Ranpo nodded, and accepted the TV remote as it was handed to him, allowing Fukuzawa to get up go through the small collection of movies they owned—they’d been gifted them by an overly kind mother that Fukuzawa had apparently met only once before—and helped the man pick one out. The movies were all children’s movies and that was fine with Ranpo, especially today when he wasn’t sure if he could actually focus or not. Once the movie was started, Fukuzawa returned to his seat on the floor and began to work again, leaving Ranpo to his own devices.

As it turned out, it wasn’t just a day like Ranpo had initially thought, for the next day, he found himself in the exact same position as before; back pressed against the door and the innocent skirt clutched in his hands as he tried to find the non-existent courage to wear the damn thing. Because he wanted to wear it, but he just couldn’t, and he didn’t understand what it was that was stopping him from actively doing so. It was like there was something physically holding him back, something whispering into his ear that it was a bad idea, that he’d be judged for it like he had been the first time he’d dared to wear one.

Because this wasn’t the first time that Ranpo had been interested in more feminine clothing.

When he’d been younger, much younger, his mother had come home wearing a pretty skirt, and Ranpo had been fascinated with it. It’d looked easy to wear, light, and he couldn’t help but think what he would look like wearing it, and he’d asked his mother if he too, could wear one. His mother hadn’t been mean or cruel, but there’d been a odd expression on her face when she refused to let him, quietly telling him that skirt’s were not meant for young boys to wear, and that Ranpo was a boy, so no, he couldn’t wear one.

Ranpo hadn’t really understood what his mother had meant when she’d said that because why did it matter if you were a boy or a girl? Clothes were clothes. But his mother was his mother and good children always listened to their parents, so he didn’t try to argue with her, even if he did think what she’d said was stupid. And when both his parents had stepped out of the house to run some errands the very next day, Ranpo had snuck into his mothers closet and pulled out the skirt, running his tiny hands over the material with a smile before he pulled his pants off and pulled on the skirt, standing in front of the mirror with an even wider smile because it just felt right.

But the joy hadn’t lasted long when he’d lost track of time and his parents had come home. His father, upon seeing what he’d been wearing, had begun to yell that Ranpo was a boy, not a girl, and that he should be wearing what was appropriate for boys. Ranpo didn’t really remember that day too well; the yelling had spooked him because his parents had never yelled at him before, and he’d begun to cry, and then there’d been more arguing between his parents, and Ranpo had just torn off the skirt and thrown it at them before running to his room where he’d hidden away and broken down entirely.

He hadn’t understood why they were so mad about him wearing something different.

If it was comfortable and it looked nice, who cared what gender it was made for? Which of course, brought Ranpo to his next conundrum.

What made him a boy?

As a child, that had been a thought that had crossed his mind more than once, but back then it was nothing more than that. A thought. But ever since he’d lived on the streets of Yokohama, he’d been exposed to all kinds of people; girls that had boyish features, and boys that had girlish features, and people that fell between the lines and looked like both. It’d been fascinating to see, and if Ranpo hadn’t been busy trying to find somewhere to sleep and wondering when his next meal would be, he might have found the courage to ask those people about it and learn more.

But he hadn’t, and the thoughts had slipped back into the darkness of his mind once again.

Until now.

Unknowingly, Fukuzawa’s actions at the shopping mall all those months ago, had dragged those thoughts back into the light, back out into the open where they could no longer be ignored, no matter how much Ranpo had tried to. He remembered vividly how supportive Fukuzawa had been, without any kind of judgement in his voice or without any kind of disgust or unhappiness on his face, when Ranpo had struggled with choosing his own clothes for the first time. And when Ranpo had shown interest in clothing that fell outside of boy’s clothes, Fukuzawa hadn’t said anything at all about it, only asking if they were clothes that Ranpo wanted to wear. That was how he’d ended up with the skirt in the first place.

And here he was, teetering at the edge of a breakdown because he couldn’t make up his mind about a simple piece of clothing.

Ranpo sighed and stood, letting the skirt slip between his fingers, and hit the ground; the intention was to grab some different clothing from where it lay scattered across the floor—because he was yet to clean up his mess from yesterday—but instead, he stepped towards his closet and stared into the mirror. His eyes fell over his body, towards his still thin and bony arms, because despite Fukuzawa feeding him proper meals several times a day, he was still unable to put on weight. They fell towards his pudgy stomach, something he’d always had, even when he’d been on the verge of starvation before being rescued by Fukuzawa.

Ranpo’s eyes ran over his entire body, managing to find each and every fault that he had with it, no matter how big or small it was. And there was nothing. Not one thing about this body of his that he liked, and that scared him just a little, because what was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t go to Fukuzawa about this, because he just knew that the older man wouldn’t understand, that he’d ask too many questions that Ranpo didn’t want to answer—couldn’t answer—so that he could understand. And normally, that was fine, Ranpo appreciated the questions that Fukuzawa asked because it showed that the he cared about Ranpo’s well being and wanted to be able to help him.

Ranpo’s eyes fell to the skirt again, and in a sudden burst of bravery, he grabbed it and pulled it on before he stood in front of the mirror, and he just stared at himself. And stared. And stared. And stared. There was no relief or sudden epiphany when he saw himself in the skirt; instead there was dread. His stomach felt like it was about to fall out of him, and his heart was pounding so loud he could feel it in his ears. Unlike the time he’d tried on his mother’s skirt, this didn’t feel right at all. In fact, it felt wrong.

I look like a girl.

The thought crossed his mind as Ranpo looked at himself, and it was easy to see why. The shirt he was wearing was one of the ones that’d been picked out from the girl’s section of the clothing store; cut just a little different to the rest of his shirts, but the main reason was his hair. With everything that’d been happening, Ranpo had neglected to cut his hair, meaning that it had grown a bit longer than he was used to. Instead of hanging around his chin, it hung close to his shoulders, and now that Ranpo had noticed it, it just made him hate himself even more.

I look like a girl.

Ranpo shuddered at the realization, and turned away from the mirror, and his eyes fell on the scissors that lay on his bookshelf where they’d been forgotten about after he’d unpacked his meagre belongings. In an instant, he had a solution, and Ranpo crossed the room and grabbed the scissors before returning to the mirror. Scissors in hand, and determination powering him, Ranpo brought his hand up, grabbed a chunk of hair and cut. The sound of the scissors closing made him jump, and his eyes went wide when he saw the hair in his hand. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t cut his own hair before, because he had. Shorter hair was easier to maintain when living on the streets, although last time he’d cut it, it’d been with a broken knife that he’d found.

Snip.

Hair fell to the ground around him as Ranpo cut it. Massive chunks of different lengths because he couldn’t see through the tears that had begun to form after the second cut. They weren’t wanted, and Ranpo took a moment to wipe them away before they could even fall, but they returned just as fast. Ranpo sniffed, and dropped the scissors, jerking as they clattered against the wooden floor. It was as he jerked, that he could sight of himself in the mirror. Patchy, half-cut hair, and dressed in a skirt, Ranpo noticed that he didn’t look anything like a girl now, but neither did he look like a boy either, and that was when he felt right again. And that was when the realization flooded him.

He wasn’t anything.

Not a boy, not a girl.

He was nothing.

The scream erupted from him before he could stop it, and Ranpo collapsed to the ground in tears, surrounded by hair and clothing as he sobbed into the floor with his arms wrapped tight around his middle. Through his cries, he heard rapid footsteps fly down the hallway before his door was thrown open, and Fukuzawa burst into the room. Ranpo lifted his head just enough to see Fukuzawa in the mirror through blurry eyes, and his cries only grew stronger when he noticed concern and panic on the older man’s face.

It only took a second for Fukuzawa to act, and soon enough, Ranpo found himself being pulled into Fukuzawa’s arms, his face pressed against his guardian’s shoulder as he continued to cry. He sobbed, and shook, and he threw his hands against Fukuzawa’s chest. Ranpo felt a hand run through his hair, felt himself be rocked gently from side to side, and melted into the touch, his cries tapering off into silent wailing. The hand in his hair was warm and comforting, despite the callouses that were just as soothing despite their roughness. Ranpo tried not to focus on that part though, and instead he focused on the warmth surrounding him, and tried to follow the exaggerated breathing he could both hear and feel.

And for the first time in days, Ranpo’s mind went quiet.

He slumped in Fukuzawa’s arms, tired and all cried out, yet he made no effort to move, desperate to cling to the one thing in his life that had promised him stability; Fukuzawa. Fukuzawa let the silence draw on for just another minute before he pulled away and coaxed Ranpo into lifting his head. Ranpo pretended not to notice the way that Fukuzawa’s eyes fell to the scissors on the floor before they scanned over his arms, looking for marks that didn’t exist. “Are you injured?”

It wasn’t the question Ranpo had been expecting. He shook his head. “No.”

Fukuzawa hummed. “What were you doing with the scissors then?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ranpo scoffed, his own eyes falling to the mess of hair and clothes that lay spread around him. It was then that his mind decided to restart and remind him that he’d only cut half of his hair before he’d broken down. His cheeks burned in embarrassment at that thought, because apparently, having half a head of cut hair was more embarrassing than shamelessly breaking down in his guardian’s arms. It was with that thought in mind that Ranpo picked up the scissors, and moved to sit in front of the mirror, but the moment he lifted them to continue where he’d left off, a hand curled around his own and gently pried the scissors from his hand.

Fukuzawa didn’t say a word as he took the scissors and sat behind Ranpo, the sound of the scissors echoed in the silence as more of Ranpo’s hair fell to the floor. Ranpo sighed heavily and watched in the mirror as his hair began to even out and return to the length it had been when he and Fukuzawa had first met. Fukuzawa glanced into the mirror when he heard the sigh before he returned to cutting Ranpo’s hair. “Ranpo, what’s going on?”

Ranpo remained silent for a moment, thinking over in his mind whether or not he wanted to confide in Fukuzawa. There was a part of him that did, because Fukuzawa was Fukuzawa, and the man had been nothing but supportive the entire time Ranpo had known him. But there was also a part of him that didn’t want to, because Fukuzawa had already done so much for him without any complaint, so it just felt wrong to push yet another problem onto the man, a problem that Ranpo didn’t even understand yet. He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You know I’m willing to listen, whatever the problem might be.”

“What if I don’t know what the problem is?” Ranpo asked, watching as the last strand of uneven hair was cut off. He looked at himself in the mirror and felt a little more at ease now that his hair was at a much more comfortable length; it made him feel like less of a girl and more of the… whatever it was that he was.

“You can still talk to me, and we’ll try to figure it out.” Fukuzawa stood and moved to place the scissors back on the bookshelf where they had come from before he returned to Ranpo, standing behind him and resting his hands on Ranpo’s shoulders. “I must admit though, that I have an idea of what it is that’s bothering you.”

Ranpo’s head turned so fast, he was surprised his neck didn’t snap from the force of it as he stared at Fukuzawa with wide eyes. “You do?”

Fukuzawa nodded and held out a hand towards Ranpo, who took it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He was guided towards his bed where the two of them sat; Ranpo swinging his legs in the air anxiously whilst Fukuzawa sat in absolute calmness. “I am not sure how to word this in a way without sounding… blunt.”

“Blunt is okay.” Ranpo murmured. I think it will be at least.

A nod, and a minute of silence, and then Fukuzawa spoke. “Do you perhaps feel, as if you are more of a girl than a boy?”

Ranpo tilted his head so that his hair hid his face from view, and he hunched in on himself at the question. It was a valid question, and blunt just like Fukuzawa had warned him, but it still hit hard, and it left Ranpo unable to form words because he genuinely didn’t know. He didn’t think he was a girl, because aside from showing an interest in feminine clothes, Ranpo hadn’t really desired to be a girl. And considering he’d just broken down because he’d thought he’d looked too much like a girl, he didn’t think being a girl was for him.

But he also didn’t think being a boy was right either.

He’d been a boy his entire life, been told that he was a boy and dressed in boy clothes and made to act like a boy, but he’d never really felt… attached to being a boy. It was simply what he’d been raised to be, and he’d never really given it much more thought than that to it. He hadn’t needed to, not when he’d had more important things to deal with at the time. But now that he did have the time to think about it, it was all he could think about, and yet, there was no easy answer to his problem. There was just still so much he didn’t know and didn’t understand about it all; sure he understood his own feelings a little, but most of them were unknown and unfamiliar to him, and that was terrifying.

He could only hope that Fukuzawa would understand him.

“No.” Ranpo finally said. “I’m… interested in some aspects of femininity I guess you could say, but I don’t want to be a girl. But…”

“But?” Fukuzawa’s brow furrowed as he glanced down at Ranpo.

Ranpo somehow managed to curl up even smaller, and he felt a hand come to rest on his back, the firm pressure it provided helping him to relax, and he let out the breath he’d been holding, some more tension vacating his body. “I don’t know.”

“Alright.” Fukuzawa disappeared from beside him, only to appear right in front of Ranpo as he knelt in front of him, with kind eyes and no judgement. Ranpo nearly cried again just from that. “Let’s talk about it then. Because something’s going on, and I want to be able to help you, Ranpo. I’m worried.”

“I don’t know how to talk about it, because I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“You do, and I know you do, you just need a little bit of help getting there.” Fukuzawa reached out to rest a hand on Ranpo’s knee. “If you don’t feel like a girl, then what do you feel like?”

“Nothing. I feel like nothing.” Tears welled up in Ranpo’s eyes again against his will, but this time, he wiped them away with a clenched fist before they could start to fall. “Boy? Girl? I don’t understand it at all. Why does it matter? Why can’t I just be me? I’ve spent weeks wanting to wear this stupid skirt, but every time I looked at it, all I can remember is my parents telling me that I am a boy and that boy’s don’t wear skirts.

And when I came to Yokohama, it got even more confusing because I met boys that were actually girls and girls that were actually boys, and it was just too much because I grew up in a tiny village. We didn’t have those kinds of people, but—but it felt good, ya know, to know there were other people that didn’t feel attached to the way they were born, but I couldn’t ask because I had to survive, so I just never addressed it. But then there was—” Ranpo broke off suddenly, throat moving as he swallowed and shuddered. He’d been about to tell Fukuzawa what had happened with the rich man that had given him the scar on his shoulder; how the man had caressed him and called him pretty boy over and over again.

He may have been able to tell Fukuzawa the origin of that scar, but there was no way he’d ever divulge what had actually happened that day.

But judging from the look of slight anger on Fukuzawa’s face, he knew what Ranpo had been about to say. Because that anger was only reserved for the stranger that Fukuzawa had only ever heard about. That look didn’t last long, once Fukuzawa realized Ranpo was looking at him, and he smoothed his face into something gentler.

“Gender is… complicated.” Fukuzawa began to say. “Over my years, I too have run into people like you described, and many of them have gone through what you have. Uncertainty of what it is they are feeling, and fear of judgement for being different to how they were raised. Some of them gave into what their instincts said and changed themselves to suit how they felt, but there are others who were too scared and remain hidden from others.”

“So it’s… okay? For me to feel this way?”

“Of course.” The corner’s of Fukuzawa’s lips twitched upwards. “You know you better than anyone else. If you say you aren’t a girl, you aren’t. If you say you aren’t a boy, you aren’t. And if that happens to change as you grow older, then that’s fine too. It can take time to find yourself, Ranpo, but if it helps, you’ll always have my support.”

“What do I do then?” Ranpo asked, the stinging in his eyes growing stronger. He was pretty sure that there were tears slipping down his cheeks, but neither he or Fukuzawa made a move to do anything about it. They weren’t tears of sadness, but ones of relief; relief that regardless of how he felt about himself, he’d always have Fukuzawa beside him, supporting him as he figured it out.

“Well, that’s up to what you want to do.” Fukuzawa stood and began to move around the room, picking up strewn about clothing and folding it. Ranpo watched him with open eyes. “If you would like to be called something more neutral, you can come up with a new name, or you can go by different pronouns if you’d like to. People who identify the way you do tend to use they and them from what I’ve seen and heard.”

“And what if I do… do those things?” Ranpo asked, only because he wanted to know how Fukuzawa would react. He liked his name—it was the last thing he could tie to his parents, and besides, it belonged to him, so there was no way he’d ever consider changing it… but, as for pronouns… that was something he’d be willing to try, now that he knew it was actually an option.

“Then just let me know and I’ll use what you choose.” Fukuzawa said, as if it was just that easy when it really wasn’t. Ranpo had gone the past fourteen years being a boy, so to just throw that all away and embrace how he truly felt about himself… it just wasn’t easy to do so.

“If I do… do I have to tell everyone?”

Fukuzawa paused to look over at Ranpo, and shook his head. “Only if you want to. How you identify is your business and your business alone. If you feel comfortable with other people knowing, then you can tell them when they talk to you. But if you’d rather just be out to me, that’s fine too.”

Ranpo let out all the tension that remained with one breath, collapsing back against his—no their—bed. They smiled for the for the first time since all this had started, finally feeling as if they’d finally found the answer they’d been searching for, for years. An answer that felt right after so many years of not even understanding what was wrong in the first place. “I think I’d like to try those pronouns, for now, if that’s okay?”

“Of course it is.”

#bsd #bungo stray dogs #bsd fanfic #bungo stray dogs fanfic #edogawa ranpo #fukuzawa yukichi #hurt/comfort #lots of hurt #angst #comfort #nonbinary edogawa ranpo #fukudad #gender crisis #writing #fanfic

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whumpcereal · 2 years

Text

behavior modification, part seventeen

<previous, Masterlist here! This chapter has a little bit of everything--all our characters (even Mama Prescott and Carl), lots of hurt, some comfort--so enjoy!

Content warnings for intense sensory deprivation, noncon stimulation, suffocation, emotional distress, dissociation, and adult language

part seventeen, deprivation

Hi. You’ve almost reached Jack. Leave a message, and we’ll see if you make it.

Joe is ashamed of his own relief when the beep sounds and the call rolls to voicemail. He knows that Jack’s mailbox must be getting full; he dreads the day when he calls and won’t be able to leave a message. Not that Jack has heard any of them. Not that he knows that Joe calls every day, just to hear Jack’s voice.

“Hi, baby. It’s me again. I–I just wanted you to know that I miss you. I mean, of course you know that. Don’t you? I hope you do. Mama’s on her way. We’re going to–we’ll do everything we can to find you. I love you, okay? I love you so fucking much.”

He holds the phone to his ear for a few unnecessary seconds, but there’s no answer, no voice on the other end of the line. There never is. He ends the call and slips the phone back into his pocket. His toes dig into the carpet, and he drags them aimlessly back and forth.

He takes out his phone again.

Hi. You’ve almost reached Jack. Leave a message, and we’ll see if you make it.

“Sorry, I know I just–just–wait for me, baby, okay? Don’t go anywhere I can’t follow. I love you.”

-/-/-

Jack doesn’t know how long it’s been. Maybe ten seconds, maybe ten hours; it can’t be ten days; it feels like ten years. But he couldn’t track the time, even if he wanted to. The blackness has seeped into the fissures of his brain. It’s in his mouth, his eyes, his throat. It fills him and still, somehow, leaves him empty.

At first, he fought. He screamed beneath the duct tape gag and thrashed inside his leather prison. But it didn’t make a difference. The restraints are so heavy that he barely moved. Ivan didn’t come. The hood stayed on. His tears and sweat dried up. And then, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Like a fucking prehistoric insect in amber.

The panic does not recede. It’s tidal: the sensations he’s given–Joe’s voice, the throb of the beads–draw away, leaving Jack in stasis, in some kind of impenetrable void where he isn’t sure that he even exists; and then, they crash against him at once, sneaker waves that drag him into the undertow of feelings he doesn’t want and can’t escape. Tiny bursts of energy that cannot be expended explode inside his skull. He’s lost track of his body, feels like his limbs may have disappeared into space, and still, he aches to move. But he can’t.

He’s gone. So fucking gone.

Until he isn’t. Until Joe’s voice fills his head and yanks him back to the shallows.

“Jackie, I love you. If you can hear me–”

The beads whine, and Jack’s body burns. His muscles light up under their leather casing, but the movement is small, just a twitch.

“Please, baby–I just want to know you’re alright.”

Joe. Jack’s tongue, dry and heavy in the cavity of his mouth, twitches to answer, but his lips stay frozen beneath the tape. The vibration inside of him speeds up, and he curls inside the leather bag. He can’t, he can’t–

Joe’s voice is angry then, strained. “Jack, this isn’t funny.” Jack thinks he’s heard Joe say this before. He must have really fucked up. But the sound cuts off short, like somebody’s snaked their hand over Joe’s mouth and pulled him backward.

Half-formed thoughts pool in Jack’s darkness. Was Joe here? How could he be? Why–

A sob. “Jackie, please!”

The buzz inside drops off suddenly and then builds again, slowly, until the beads are humming against him, faster than before. If Jack has a voice, it shreds in his throat.

Colors flare beneath his eyelids, hot and dark, and Joe’s voice catches like a broken record.

“Please...please...please...”

Please, Jack thinks, if he can think at all. He swells against the metal between his legs, but there’s no release, nothing to move against, no body to move with. If Joe is here, it isn’t to help him.

“This isn’t funny,” Joe says again.

It isn’t. Jack keens beneath the hood, and the sound echoes inside his head. The colors pulse, but there are no shapes, nothing concrete. The beads drone, getting faster again. His body fights to move, to chase the sensation that’s gnawing at his insides, but the restraints pin him down.

“Jackie,” Joe says in his head, voice trailing off like there’s something more to say.

Something presses down, hard, on Jack’s face; leather butts against his skin, and it’s too much. Joe’s voice plays on repeat, and the beads scream, and there is no air.

Jack falls into blackness again, and when he comes to, there is only the silent nothing to greet him. Joe is gone. He feels nothing. He drifts. If he could want anything, he would want this to end. But he can’t want, doesn’t think, is barely there.

He’s gone. So fucking gone.

-/-/-

Joe is still staring at his phone when Carl’s bark pulls him back into the room. Paws skitter against hardwood floors, and the front door creaks open. There’s a soft laugh, even if it’s not quite as warm or easy as it should be.

“Well, hello, granddog.”

Carl pants, and Marilyn laughs again. Joe doesn’t move.

“Bear?” Marilyn calls. “Where are you, sweetheart?”

“In–” Joe’s voice is a clot of tears; he clears his throat. “In here, Mama.”

Marilyn walks in, the same care in her steps as when she used to come into his bedroom to soothe him after a nightmare.

“Oh, baby,” she murmurs. She wastes no time in wrapping her arms around Joe. Joe tries to breathe her in. Soft powder and lavender; her scent never changes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here faster.”

“Mama–” Joe tries, but the words dissolve. Marilyn only holds him closer.

“I know, Bear, I know. It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Joe whispers. He should be embarrassed, a 34-year-old man coming apart in his mother’s arms, but he can’t bring himself to care. He rubs his face against her shoulder.

“I know, but I’m here now, huh?” she says.

“Thank you.”

“Always, baby. You know that.”

“Yeah.”

Joe takes a shuddery breath, and Marilyn rubs tender circles across his back.

“When was the last time you ate?” she asks.

Joe shrugs. “I don’t know.”

It hasn’t seemed important. And besides, the kitchen is Jack’s. Joe doesn’t want to mess it up.

“Well, we’re going to fix that,” Marilyn says, brushing Joe’s curls from his forehead. Her hands are soft and cool. “And then, we’re going to take Carl for a long walk, and you’re going to tell me everything that’s happened.”

“Okay,” Joe says softly. He rubs at his eyes.

Marilyn sighs. “Bear, have you been sleeping?”

“No.”

He tries, but the bed doesn’t feel right without Jack in it.

Marilyn purses her lips. “Then, we’ll take care of that too. You can’t run yourself down like this.”

Joe laughs cheerlessly. “Sure I can.”

She takes Joe’s face between her hands, smoothing the stubbled apples of his cheeks with her thumbs. “No, you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I say so?” Marilyn raises an eyebrow, and then her face softens. “Because it isn’t good for you, Bear. And besides, don’t you think Jack needs you at your best?”

Joe winces like he’s been burnt. He doesn’t quite look at his mother. “I guess.”

“Well, I know,” Marilyn counters. “I’m here to take care of you. Both of you. We’ll bring him home, Joey. You’ll see.”

“How can you be so sure?” Joe whispers.

“Because this isn’t how it ends. Not for Jack, and not for you, Bear. I know it.”

Joe blinks against the stinging in his eyes. “But I don’t even know where to start.”

“Then we’ll figure that out together, sweetheart. Haven’t we always?”

Joe nods.

“Good,” Marilyn says. She presses a kiss to his forehead. “Now, food first. Then some vitamin D. And then, my love, you are sleeping, even if I have to ram an Ambien down your throat.”

A weak smile plays at Joe’s lips. “And then?”

“Then we start.”

Marilyn moves, ready to head to the kitchen, but Joe can’t make himself get up. His phone is still clutched in his hand.

“Mama?”

“What is it, baby?”

“I miss him. So much.”

Marilyn’s face pinches for a moment, and Joe knows that she’s willing her own tears to stay put. “I know, Bear. And I know he misses you too.” Her smile is watery. “Now, get your butt into the kitchen and let me feed you.”

“I’ll be right there,” Joe says.

“Okay, sweetheart.”

She leaves him. Carl saunters into the living room, settling himself on top of Joe’s feet. He makes a grunt low in his throat, his brown eyes searching Joe’s. Joe’s thumb presses against his phone screen.

Hi. You’ve almost reached Jack. Leave a message, and we’ll see if you make it.

“It’s me again. We’re going to find you, Jackie. We’re going to bring you home. Just hang on. I–I love you. You know that, right? I love you so much.”

And even if there isn’t any answer, Joe tries to find it in himself to believe.

-/-/-

“It’s me again. We’re going to find you, Jackie. We’re going to bring you home. Just hang on. I–I love you. You know that, right? I love you so much.”

Ivan rolls his eyes. Joe’s voicemails are getting more and more desperate. On the one hand, he calls often enough that Ivan has plenty of material to mine for his little sensory experiment with sweet Jackie.

On the other, Joe should be embarrassed.

There are sometimes eleven or twelve messages in one day. If Jack had really run off–which, unfortunately, Joe doesn’t seem to believe he would–Joe would do better just to send the kid his balls in an envelope. It isn’t dignified, this level of devotion.

However, Ivan supposes he doesn’t mind. He has eyes on Jackie’s disintegration, and ears on Joe’s.

Jack’s first twenty-four hours are nearly up. Ivan mostly lets the treatment work its magic unaided; he watches Jack from the video feed on his laptop in between clients and case notes.

The first few hours were the most eventful. Jack wriggled in the mummy bag like the captive worm he’s meant to be, but the restraints did their work; eventually, he stopped moving altogether.

Now, Ivan plays Joe’s little soundtrack when the mood strikes him, and he cycles through the beads’ settings until he can see some life. A few times, he’s gone to the basement to watch. When he thinks Jack is at his edge, when that delicious lean body twitches and jolts in its leather prison, Ivan covers the airhole in the hood to give the poor thing some relief. Better to be unconscious than to dwell on the fact that he won’t be granted release.

Ivan checks the window on his screen. Sweet Jackie is still just now, a black cocoon on the steel table. He’ll need food and water; he’ll probably need sedation to get some real rest before they try this again. It’s time.

Ivan goes to the basement.

Jack is barely conscious when Ivan removes the hood. His dark head lolls against the table, and when Ivan peels the tape from his mouth, his lips are already whitish and cracked. Ivan slowly unzips the sack. Jack’s limbs are pliant as a doll’s, and even though his skin is hot to the touch, he trembles when the basement air hits him.

“Jackie?” Ivan says gently.

Jack rasps out a moan, shaking his head listlessly back and forth. His eyes crack open, and the sliver of blue Ivan can see is brilliant against their bloodshot whites.

“Jackie,” he says again. It’s important that he use Joe’s words. “Baby, are you alright?”

He caresses Jack’s cheek, and Jack flinches away like a frightened animal. But there’s nowhere for him to go.

“P-please,” Jack whispers. He closes his eyes again; even the dim overhead light must feel like torture just now. “Please.”

Ivan moves his thumb in a rhythmic circle over Jack’s skin. He knows it’s too much, but Jack can’t pull away. “Please what, baby?”

“Please, Joe.”

Ivan smiles. “What is it, Jackie? Tell Joe what you need.”

“Sorry. S-so sorry.”

“I know you are, baby,” Ivan murmurs. “That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’re going to work to get better, isn’t it?”

Jack cries, but there aren’t any tears. His pretty little face twists into a grimace of pain, and he nods.

“You’re so good for me, Jackie. You did so good.” Ivan lifts Jack out of the leather sack and cradles him against his chest. “But I know you can do better, huh?”

Jack doesn’t respond. He’s limp in Ivan’s arms.

“Let’s take a little rest, baby. And then we’ll try again.”

next >

taglist: @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @sparrowsage, @aut0psy-s, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @no-terms-and-conditions-apply, @goldywhump, @reflected-pain, @darlingwhump, @squishablesunbeam, @dont-be-gentle-please, @deltaxxk, @irishwhiskeygrl, @keep-beach-city-werid, @keeper-of-all-the-random-things (send a message to be added)

#behavior modification #joe prescott oc #marilyn prescott oc #jack kenyon oc #ivan peters oc #lots of hurt #a little bit of comfort #tw sensory deprivation #pray for jackie #because yikes

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kaira-elffish · 1 year

Text

Throwing a quick snippet up for a ShrinkyClinks AU that I've been working on the past couple of days.

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

"Just admiring the view." Rumlow's tone mocks that of an actual lover.

Steve's skin crawls and judging by the way Soldat shifts uncomfortably it makes his crawl too. He pops the last pill, swallows, and gestures behind Rumlow.

"What's his name? I'm sick of calling him Soldat."

"You're sick of…" Rumlow parrots the question before he barks out a laugh. "Don't tell me you're getting attached Steven."

"I'm not." He bristles at the dismissal of his question. "But, if I'm going to have him hovering over me everywhere I go I might as well know his name."

"Right." Rumlow reaches around him to thumb through the sketchpad he had left sitting out. He pauses on one page before tearing it out with a laugh. "You're not getting attached at all."

Embarrassment burns through Steve as Rumlow flips the picture around to show Soldat. He doesn't have to see it to know which one it is. He'd sketched it yesterday when Soldat had allowed himself to relax a little bit.

"Let me guess, next you're gonna ask for the mask to be removed?" It's meant to be a quick jab but it lands home like a heat seeking missile.

He says nothing in reply to that; his heart hammering away painfully at his chest. "And if I was?"

Rumlow laughs again, this time from deep in his gut as he spins and grabs Soldat by the chin. The man's eyes widen with trepidation for the briefest of moments before they glaze over.

Steve hates the way it makes his eyes look dead. Like the light is on but nobody's home. He doesn't even notice that he had moved forward like he could stop Rumlow himself.

"The mask stays on." Rumlow releases his grip on Soldat's face. "And you can call him whatever the fuck you want."

#bucky barnes #steve rogers #shrinkyclinks #au #abuse #the winter soldier #fanfiction #snippet #its going to be a dark fic #lots of hurt #some comfort

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haleelah · 1 year

Text

Jaydick au where they share the same soul

Where Dick actually is about to die, and the only way to save him is if someone gives/shares their soul with him. But that person ought to have a very strong and deep emotional connection to Dick, in the form of a strong feelings of love, so the spell could actually work

Now on this mission there's only Jason available right now all of the other family are far away and they won't be able to make it in time

Dick finds it bittersweet because on one hand he is fairly sure Jason doesn't even look at him as a friend let even possesses any type of love towards him, but he is also happy as he doesn't want to risk another life by tying it to his own

Time is running out and Jason is out of reach. He was deathly still and silent the whole time. Heh maybe he doesn't even want to bother with the mess that's Dick, even at his final moments.....(it hurts so bad. And not because of his injuries....)

But then Jason moves with determination in his eyes. He looks at Dick "don't worry Goldie. Everything will be alright" Huh? "promis you"

Jason faces the witch and ask them to start proceeding with spell. Dick doesn't understand anything, and in the matter of seconds a magical contract has tied both of Dick and Jason's souls together

After that, Jason makes sure to get Dick to safety. They don't really speak of what happend, for Jason it's like a secret got forced out of him, and for Dick the events overall are too overwhelming.

Jason purposefully starts avoiding Dick out after that because Jason doesn't really want to get anything from Dick only because Dick feels indebted to Jason...... which is really stupid because that will only prolong their suffering

Anyways, now that they share the same soul they develope some kind of a soul bond that helps them feel each other emotions, also both of them are way less reckless on patrols, because now the death of one of them is the death of the other......

#jaydick #lots of hurt #because they are both stupid #and stubborn idiots #jason more than dick #although jason is just afraid of rejection or faked feelings #he gave his soul after all so i don't really blame him #but do not worry #comfort is eventual and it comes with a happy ending!!#note that i don't write fanfiction #only blog ideas #soulmate au #i gusse

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vallkyr · 1 year

Text

Step Out

When the people you trust most leave you to get caught by the task force hunting you, what else is there to do but finding new allies?

Different account now but the gif has still been made by the lovely @agustdawn

Pairings: Chan x Kwangsun (OC), Chan x Felix, Minho x Jisung, Changbin x Hyunjin, Younghyun x Liam (OC), Siyeon x Jonghyeon, Aaron x Minhyun and other minor pairings

Genres: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, some Romance and bits of Fluff in between

Tags: Dystopia AU, Rebels AU

Chapter Tags: -

Rating: Mature

General Warnings: Violence, Injury, Panic Attacks, Minor Character Death

Chapter Warnings: mention of injury, scars

Word Count: 12,904

Masterpost

< Previous Chapter |

Hey everyone! Step Out is back after two years! To be honest, I had a hard time writing Step Out since the allegations against Woojin started coming up and it didn’t change after the allegations turned out to be fake. I just couldn’t keep the story the way it was so I decided to replace Woojin by an OC. And since I was already changing things I went ahead and made some more changes (like also replacing Jae by an OC), edited everything I had uploaded and so on. I feel way more comfortable writing Step Out now so I hope that the next update won’t take quite as long. Until then, please enjoy the 9th chapter 💕

Chapter 9 - The burden of secrets

Numbers. So many goddamn numbers. A whole damn block of them. As though the mission wasn’t enough already. It’s all so damn overwhelming. Missions require all the concentration and energy Minho can muster and they always leave his brain exhausted, drained and lazy. And now he has to decipher the fucking message in this condition. He’s been fiddling around on his phone and sharpening pencils for ages now. Minho sighs as he peeks over to the sheet of paper on his desk, trying to get himself to get to work.

11111 111111

101 10 010 1110 110 000000 0011 1110 000000 0100 0 000000 0100 0010 00 000000 1110 0011 100 1000 111111

1 0100 0 0 1000 1 101 0011 0100 0 000000 101 0100 000000 101 1101 1000 000000 101 1000 010 001 111111

01 1000 000000 01 0011 0101 0101 000000 1001 1000 101 000000 101 00 010 0011 0 0011 0 1001 000000 101 0100 000000 1001 0100 000000 0100 0 000000 001 0011 1110 1110 0011 0100 0 1110 000000 1110 0100 0100 0 111111

011 1000 0100 011 0101 1000 000000 1110 101 0011 0101 0101 000000 100 0011 1110 0101 0011 0001 1000 000000 0010 1110 111111

1101 0010 1001 000000 0101 0010 111 000000 110 00 0100 001 000000 001 1000 111111

His head hurts just thinking about deciphering all of that. The first message was already a pain in the ass and the prospect of more and more and more messages like this is daunting. Why did he agree to that anyways? Talking is so much easier. Why does this shit have to be so complicated? Minho should probably make a table. So far, he hasn’t had the time for that, and he had hoped to avoid it for safety reasons. But the more he thinks about it, the more he feels like it can’t be avoided. He really underestimated how much work these messages would be. Minho sighs once again while he gets the writing pad from the drawer and places it on the table next to the message. He takes a pencil and a ruler and starts drawing his grid before gradually filling it. Letter by letter, code by code.

After an hour or so the whole thing is finally complete – at least Minho guesses it was an hour. Time runs as fast as a snail when you try to figure out what the letter Q looks like in your secret code. Minho hates that the code has to be this complicated, but it’s safety first and convenience second in this situation. They mustn’t risk the DIT spying into their communication. If anyone was to find the messages, they would surely give them over to that hell hole of an organisation. Just like the government expects of a ‘good citizen’.

Needing a bit of a change for his tortured brain, Minho decides to put everything aside for now and go downstairs into the kitchen. As expected, Spear B, Felix and Jisung have already started preparing dinner. The sweetest smile spreads over Jisung’s face when he spots Minho in the doorway and gestures for him to come over.

“How is it going?” How is it possible for someone to be this beautiful while peeling a carrot? If B and Lux weren’t here, Minho would love to hug Jisung right now. It would be so lovely to be in Jisung’s embrace, feel his warmth and just forget about his code-wrecked brain. But they aren’t alone. The others’ presence feels like a dark shadow looming over Minho.

“It’s exhausting,” Minho admits. “I wish there was an easier way, but meeting Virus regularly would be too dangerous even if he takes turns with Mercury.”

Jisung hums in understanding. “Then you’re here to take a break? I’m sure we’ll find something for you.”

“Yes please. I really need to get my mind off things a little.”

Without hesitation, Felix grabs his cutting board and sets it down in front of Minho. “Have fun.” His voice sounds overly sweet and the wateriness of Felix’s eyes gives Minho a pretty solid idea of what his task is going to be. Minho’s fear is confirmed when he looks down and is met with stinging in his own eyes. Onions. That explains why Felix was so quick to leave and find himself something else to do. Cutting onions definitely isn’t Minho’s favourite task, but at this point every distraction from that damn code is welcome. Even onions.

“Should have known I’d end up with that.” Despite the tears already forming in his eyes, Minho picks up the knife and gets to work. With the four of them all going about their tasks, they’re soon done preparing everything and can get to cooking, which Felix takes upon himself despite Minho’s protests. From then on Minho, Jisung and B are basically… useless. Everything they can do is keep Felix company and occasionally hand him ingredients. Jisung and Spear B soon start chatting with Felix occasionally chipping in when he isn’t too busy. Minho doesn’t have much to contribute except for a few sentences here and there. His mind is running a mile a minute and is completely empty at the same time. There’s so much to do, so much to think about, but Minho can’t seem to focus on anything. So many 0s and 1s are still circling through his brain.

“Dinner should be done soon,” Felix says before turning towards them. “Can one of you set the table?”

“On my way,” Minho says without hesitation. He is already getting plates from the cupboard when Jisung, who has been sitting on the kitchen counter since he finished peeling carrots, scoots over to him.

“Can I give you a hand?” When he sees Jisung like this, Minho almost forgets they had a mission today. Jisung looks calm and cosy in his oversized sweater that Minho is pretty sure is actually his own. He has been stealing more and more clothes from Minho lately, which should be annoying. But Minho finds it weirdly endearing. He could probably get his clothes back if he really wanted to, though he really prefers seeing them on Jisung over having them wait for him in the closet.

“Sure.”

Jisung slides down from the counter, helps Minho gather everything they need and carry it over to the dining room. Minho is about to go back to the kitchen and get glasses for them when Jisung stops him with a hand on his wrist. The little touch has Minho’s body shift down from forcing himself to function into just existing. He can finally let himself feel his tiredness and exhaustion without pushing it away. When Jisung tugs at his arm, Minho lets his heavy body be pulled away from the archway leading to the kitchen, into the privacy of the little dining room. “Are you okay?” Jisung’s pretty eyes are full of worry as he takes a closer look at Minho. “You seem so quiet.”

“Yeah it’s okay. I’m just exhausted and that message is eating my last brain cells.”

Jisung hums like he’s trying to come up with a way to make it better. Minho simply steps closer and lets his head drop onto Jisung’s shoulder. After a moment Jisung slings his arms around Minho and holds him close. Having Jisung hug him lets Minho forget about the code, about the table, about Felix and B in the kitchen, about everything. It feels like Jisung knocked over the glass of his mind and let all the stuff keeping him busy pour out before setting it down again. After a while Jisung starts humming a low tune and lightly swaying them back and forth. Minho can’t help but giggle as he closes his eyes and allows himself to sink deeper into Jisung’s embrace.

“You guys are taking ages. Do you need help with setting the table?” Hearing Spear B’s voice makes Minho tense up. He gives Jisung a quick slap on the butt that has Jisung smile to himself before stepping away from him. When Minho heads back into the kitchen, Jisung follows close behind him and helps him finish setting the table just in time for lunch to be ready.

Minho feels a lot more at ease when they’re eating. The weight of the day feels a little lighter now that he gets to have a break for once. Since Felix did most of the actual cooking, B and Jisung volunteer to do the dishes after dinner. Though hesitant, Minho goes back to decoding after clearing the table for them. He still isn’t enthusiastic about having to work again, but Minho’s brain definitely feels fresher after a bit of distraction and a tad of Jisung. Hopefully working with the code will be easier now that he has a table. He’ll just have to be a bit more careful now so nobody else gets their hands on it.

[-]

“Don’t stop.” Younghyun cracks an eye open to look up at Liam. Thankfully his request works and makes his boyfriend go right back to patting Younghyun’s hair.

“I should have gotten a dog instead.” Despite his words, Liam doesn’t stop or makes a move to get Younghyun’s head off his lap. “A dog would just fall asleep after five minutes and I could watch TV in peace.”

“A dog can’t cook dinner for you.” Noticing Liam directing a critical look at the empty pizza boxes, Younghyun quickly adds. “Not even on a good day.” As much as he loves cooking with Liam, after hearing that Jungkook is injured and having to deliver the news to Bambam Younghyun had been happy to just drop onto the couch and eat. He still feels exhausted, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Younghyun’s home.

“You underestimate my ability to teach a dog tricks.”

“My bad, I forgot your secret career as a dog trainer.” Younghyun fully opens his eyes and grins up at his boyfriend, who shakes his head and focuses on the TV again. “Speaking of dinner, Chan accepted the invitation. Is tomorrow alright?”

“Sure, I can go grocery shopping after work if we still need anything.” It takes a while before the question Younghyun was already expecting follows. “Any idea what we’ll cook?”

The same old problem. It’s been years and yet the struggle of ‘What can we cook?’ never gets any easier. “No, you?”

“Nope.”

“Fuck.” He and Liam start giggling. Younghyun really should have expected this when he invited Chan over. Deciding what they want to have for dinner is already hard enough when it’s just the two of them, but guests always make it even more difficult because they can’t bullshit their way through it and hope the result is edible. “I could ask Chan if he has any preferences.”

Liam gasps in fake surprise. “You’re a genius.”

“Bet a dog wouldn’t have been able to come up with that.” Younghyun chuckles.

“That’s it. Get off my lap.” It’s obvious Liam isn’t serious, but Younghyun sits up nonetheless and shifts to sit next to Liam. As soon as that’s done, he leans closer to kiss Liam’s cheek. Liam seems almost surprised. A little smile fills his face before morphing into a slightly suspicious frown. “What did you do?”

Younghyun rolls his eyes. Obviously, he cannot possible show affection if he didn’t screw up and accidentally wash a red sock with the white laundry. “Nothing. Just trying to thank you for your helping with delivering the news to my unit. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Liam’s gaze softens. “It was still you doing all the work,” he insists. “I just did my part to calm you down for that.”

Younghyun only hums in agreement. They don’t need any more words. Just locking eyes is enough for Younghyun to know Liam understands how important his support was even if he’s playing it down.

It’s Liam who eventually breaks the warm silence between them. “We should go to sleep. If we can’t manage to have a healthy sleeping schedule, you should at least get some rest after missions.”

Sadly he does have a point with that. Younghyun feels utterly exhausted after the mission and the situation surrounding Jungkook. It takes a bit of effort to get up from the couch, but they eventually make their way to the bathroom to get ready for bed. While they brush their teeth Younghyun watches Liam, who is already stripped down to his briefs and one of Younghyun’s shirts, run his hand through his hair, probably deciding that the dye needs to be freshened up in the near future. To anyone else the situation would look so mundane. But seeing Liam in all his half-dressed glory with toothpaste on his lips has Younghyun feel warm and fuzzy inside. The earlier ‘I’ll see you at home.’ is still present in his mind, because nothing describes what Liam is to him like the word home. Being with Liam makes Younghyun feel safe and at peace. No matter what happens, what might shake up their lives, they handle it side by side. Just like they have been doing for the past seven years already.

Younghyun is snapped out of his thoughts when Liam slaps him on the ass. “Did you fall asleep with your eyes wide open? You know you’re supposed to lie down and close your eyes first, right?”

“So that’s what I’ve been doing wrong,” Younghyun mutters while following Liam into their bed. He straddles Liam’s waist and bends down to kiss him while carding his hand through Liam’s chestnut coloured hair. When he pulls back, Liam has the softest smile on his face. They stay like this for a while, looking at each other, Younghyun twirling a strand of Liam’s hair around his finger. If it was an option for them, Younghyun would have asked Liam to marry him then and there. It’s not like either of them needs a ring or certificate whatever – the thought is kind of ridiculous to be honest – but the thought of making it official that they want to spend the rest of their lives together is kind of nice regardless. Though as things stand, they wouldn’t be able to get married no matter if they wanted to or not. At least not here.

“You know that I love you, right?”

“I do.” Liam chuckles. “Love you too, you sap.” Younghyun kisses Liam again and wishes him a good night before sliding out of Liam’s lap and into bed next to him. He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow knowing that he’s home.

[-]

Jisung stops in the door frame to their room when he sees Minho still bent over the desk. Minho looks fully concentrated and totally exhausted at the same time, which is a shame considering how relaxed he had seemed after dinner. Did the little break change anything at all? How Jisung wishes he could do more for Minho. He already puts his all into supporting Minho, cheering him up and making sure he relaxes after a hard day. But it never feels like enough, especially not when Minho looks this worn out. “What are you up to?”

Minho jumps up like a scared deer and immediately scrambles to cover his notes with his arms and upper body. It’s a strange sight, like he’d defend those notes with his life. “Sungie. I thought you and Spear B were doing the dishes.”

Jisung carefully steps into the room and closes the door after himself. “We’re done?” This is odd. Jisung understands if he scared Minho because Minho was focused and didn’t hear him come in. But this? It’s almost as if he’s trying to hide something from Jisung. What can be so drastic about those papers that Jisung isn’t allowed to catch as much as a glimpse of them? “Is something the matter? You seem weird…”

“No, it’s nothing. It’s just that I made myself a table for deciphering the code.” Minho leans back in his chair, giving up his defence over the stack of paper. Though he turns them around nonetheless. He still refuses to let Jisung see a thing of what he’s written down. “I mean you know the drill. If you end up getting questioned about this-”

“The less I know the better.” Jisung scoffs as he walks over to the bed and lets himself fall down onto it. This is so frustrating. Even though he’s kind of relieved Minho isn’t keeping any actual secrets from him, it sucks that Jisung isn’t allowed to learn the code. He wishes he could help Minho with deciphering or writing messages or do anything else useful aside from assisting Minho in planning.

“Jisung…” Worry sounds through Minho’s voice as he gets up, follows Jisung to the bed and crouches down on the floor in front of him. Just hearing Minho say his name pushes the negative feelings back a bit. No matter how chaotic and awful things around them might get, at the very least they’ll always have each other. Things between them have been going so well. They used to spend basically every free minute together anyways, but they’ve become even closer since they’ve been living here together.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll just read a bit while you work on the messages.”

“You sure?” Minho’s gaze is so gentle that just looking into his eyes releases a swarm of butterflies in Jisung’s stomach. Jisung wonders if he’ll ever fully get used to the way he melts into a puddle around Minho.

“Yeah. Now hurry up and get everything done. The sooner you’re back the sooner can I start cuddling you.”

“True.” Minho is smiling when he rises from the floor again. He stops midway to place a little kiss on Jisung’s lips. “Can’t wait.” Jisung can’t wait either. The thought of burying his face in Minho’s chest and breathing in Minho’s scent while they snuggle as close as they can already feels so wonderful. It will be like heaven to fall asleep in Minho’s arms after the mission. Damnit, Minho really needs to hurry and finish those messages.

“I’m rooting for you!” Jisung calls. The chuckle sends a little tremble through Minho’s shoulders, which is the most endearing thing ever. Jisung takes a moment to look at Minho’s back, basks in the warm feeling that spreads through his chest from being around his boyfriend. It never ceases to amaze Jisung how strong Minho is. Everyone feels exhausted after their missions yet here Minho is, still fulfilling his duties even though he probably wants to just fall into bed and sleep more than anyone. It’s so much work to plan their missions and it must be even more tiring to keep track of everyone and everything during the mission itself. How Minho can stay on top of it all is beyond Jisung’s comprehension.

Deciding to stay true to his words, Jisung gets up from the bed, walks over to the book shelve by the windows and starts looking through everything. Since this is – or rather used to be – the bedroom of Changbin’s parents, most of the books are… not really to Jisung’s liking. There’s stuff about business tactics, handling human resources, and ways to relax at work as well as literary classics that bore Jisung just from looking at them. The depressing choice of books makes Jisung glad he decided keep some books he stole from Changbin’s sister on the nearby side board. Jisung picks one that looks interesting, lies down on the bed again and starts reading.

The book isn’t quite as good as Jisung had hoped –well, it’s only the beginning anyways – but it keeps him busy. After a while, there’s shuffling at the desk, which immediately makes Jisung peeks over the pages of his books. Minho rips a piece from a blank sheet of paper and starts noting down his reply. Even from across the room, Jisung can tell Minho is hurrying. As soon as it’s done, he jumps up, turns around and proudly presents the note to Jisung.

00011 111111

0100 1011 1110 0101 111111

0100 1011 0000 000000 0100 1001 001 100 11 000000 1011 01 000000 0101 1011 010 110 1 000000 0101 1011 1110 0101 111111

1 010 0001 0001 01 0001 000000 111 10 1001 1000 000000 100 001 011 111111

Jisung doesn’t know what it says, the only meaning that matters to him is that Minho comes towards him with big steps. Jisung barely has time to put the book in his hands aside before Minho is already tackling him in a hug. They nestle together, Minho lying on top of Jisung like a blanket. Jisung wraps his arms around Minho and starts rubbing his back in slow, soothing motions. “Are you going to bring that note to your mailbox today?”

“No, it can wait until tomorrow morning. I just have to make it before Virus’ shift,” Minho mumbles into the crook of Jisung’s neck. “I just want to sleep now.”

“You can’t sleep fully clothed though.” Jisung emphasises his point by pulling at the elastic of Minho’s sweatpants before letting it snap against his skin.

“Sure I can.” Minho already sounds half asleep. “Just watch me.”

Seeing no other way to motivate his boyfriend, Jisung pushes Minho off of him, earning himself a frustrated whine. Giggling, Jisung rolls Minho onto his back, gets onto his knees and pulls Minho up by the arms. “Come on.” Minho still pretends to be annoyed by Jisung’s attempts to get him out of bed, making himself deadweight in Jisung’s arms. But the smile on his lips says otherwise.

“You could just undress me here.”

“Tempting,” Jisung admits. “But I can’t brush your teeth here.” Minho groans in annoyance when Jisung finally succeeds in hoisting Minho off the bed and into a standing position. Thinking that this will be enough, Jisung turns to walk away, but is stopped by arms circling his waist. With Minho basically glued to his back, Jisung drags both of them to the bathroom.

[-]

Jungkook’s mind feels fuzzy when he wakes up to a dark room. He can’t even remember going to bed last night. Except this isn’t his bed. Or his bedroom. Where is he? Where else would he be? Is he staying over at someone else’s place? Once Jungkook’s eyes are used to the darkness he takes a look around himself. This is a hospital room. And he’s the patient. He vaguely remembers waking up in the recovery room and that he was transferred, but he must have passed out again right after. What happened?

And what’s that sound? Water? Why would water be running in the middle of the night? Jungkook tries to sit up, but the pain in his leg stops him. He remains propped up on his elbows to take another look around the room. He got a single bed room, so there’s no roommate who could be showering at absurd hours. It could be from next door though? That’s probably it, right? What else would it be? Jungkook lets himself fall back onto the bed and closes his eyes. He’s so damn tired. No matter he much he must have slept already if it became night in the meantime, he doesn’t feel the least bit refreshed.

Suddenly the water stops followed by the sound of the shower door opening and the rustling of a towel. It’s too loud to be from a different room. But who would be here? The walls are probably just thinner than Jungkook would have thought. He should be sleeping instead of worrying his head over weird noises. Jungkook is about to doze off when the bathroom door creaks, making Jungkook snap his eyes open and – for lack of a better memory – try to sit up again. Fucking shit.

“Hey, careful.” Jimin rushes closer to his bed. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes…” Jimin? Why is Jimin here? He was on the ambulance with Jungkook, right? Yes, if nothing else Jungkook definitely remembers Jimin holding his hand in the ambulance. But what is he doing in Jungkook’s room? Jungkook looks up at Jimin, only now noticing the towel hanging over Jimin’s shoulders. His gaze wanders farther up to Jimin’s hair that is dripping water onto his shirt. Jimin showered in his hospital room? “What are you doing here?”

“You don’t remember?” Jimin chuckles while pulling a chair over to the bed and sitting down beside Jungkook. “We talked after you woke up. I asked you if I could shower here and you said it was fine.”

“Uhm.” Jungkook’s mind is completely blank. He can’t remember waking up before or talking to Jimin, but he can’t imagine that Jimin would lie about something like that. Why would he, anyways? “I don’t know. I guess I fell asleep right after.”

“Looks like it. Sorry if I startled you.” A warm smile takes over Jimin’s face. How come he looks so gorgeous without even doing anything? There’s something so gentle and cosy about seeing Jimin freshly out of the shower wearing a plain, white shirt. Immediately, Jungkook’s thoughts start wandering again. He remembers the way Jimin held his hand in the ambulance, how much strength Jimin’s presence was giving him. If he focuses, he can still feel Jimin’s warmth. As much as Jungkook would love to stay right here, look at Jimin and wallow in memories, he really needs to get to the bathroom. Now. But he doesn’t even manage to get out of bed before pain jolts through his leg once again.

“Wait.” Jimin jumps up, fetches a pair of crutches from the end of the bed and hands them to Jungkook. “Do you need any help?” Even now that Jungkook’s injury has been taken care of, Jimin is still worrying about Jungkook. Jungkook would find it sweet if he wasn’t so busy feeling guilty about it.

“I don’t know.” Jungkook is still wobbly when he gets up, but he somehow manages to get himself standing on his intact leg. Despite this, Jimin doesn’t seem totally convinced that he’s fine. He follows every single one of Jungkook’s slow steps as though he fears Jungkook might collapse any second. Jimin even pushes the bathroom door open for Jungkook, which is when Jungkook stops for a moment. “I think I can do the rest by myself.”

“You sure?” Jimin’s voice is smug as he tilts his head to the side and looks at Jungkook in a way that has Jungkook weak in his knees. And that’s even though he can barely see Jimin in the darkness of the hospital room. This is really the wrong moment to be whipped, Jungkook needs every bit of his strength his legs have in stock.

“Yes.” Jungkook definitely is sure. He’s never been surer in his life. A mere second later, Jimin breaks into giggles and goes to sit down in his chair again. Jungkook almost sighs in relief. He doubts his pride would survive Jimin helping him on the toilet. When Jungkook returns Jimin is still sitting in the chair, which almost surprises Jungkook. Part of him thought he might be having hallucinations from the anaesthesia. It’s only now that Jungkook realises Jimin is still in his uniform pants. The jacket that goes with it hangs from the back of the chair Jimin is sitting on.

“Is something wrong?” Jimin asks after Jungkook has apparently looked at him for a bit too long. His voice goes back to sounding worried so quickly it really bothers Jungkook. He doesn’t want to worry Jimin, especially not with something as simple as spacing out for a moment.

“You’ve been here the entire time?”

Jimin briefly looks down on himself before nodding. “Yeah. I didn’t want you to be alone.” He runs his hand through his still damp hair. “Besides I still need to interrogate you and report to the Corporal. That can wait until tomorrow though. You need to rest now.”

“So do you.” Jungkook finally makes his way back to the bed. In an instant, Jimin is back by his side, helps him lift his injured leg onto the mattress and get comfortable again. Jimin pulls his chair even closer, right next to the bed, and takes Jungkook’s hand into his just like he had done in the ambulance. Immediately, Jungkook’s cheeks starts heating up. Hopefully Jimin can’t see him blush in the dark. Gosh, why does Jungkook have to be so nervous because of something so simple? Jimin always makes him feel like some stupid teenager having his very first crush.

“I’m really glad you’re fine, Jungkook-ah.”

“Thank you.” What else could he say to that? Jungkook has no idea how he even manages to keep his voice in check, but he’s grateful for himself. At least that part of talking still works. Jimin holding his hand is still so foreign and it makes Jungkook’s heart race like crazy. How come this is actually happening for the second time in one day? “What did the doctors tell you?” Great. Change the topic when he’s getting emotional. Perfect. Exactly what Jungkook really wants.

“Not much,” Jimin admits. “Just that surgery went well and that you should be back on track in a few weeks. I’m sure they’ll tell you everything in more detail tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Jungkook still has no idea what to say. Usually conversations with Jimin are so easy, but now there’s this strange tension. It’s not a bad one per se, but one that’s way more emotional than anything they’ve shared before. This is probably just because of the shock, Jungkook tells himself, Jimin must have been worried about losing a member of his unit. Jungkook tries his best to ignore the part of him that just wants to pull Jimin close and kiss him when Jimin absentmindedly rubs his thumb over the back of Jungkook’s hand. The little, maybe meaningless, gesture feels so damn intimate. Jungkook really needs to get a hold of himself, just because Jimin is holding his hand doesn’t mean he wants anything beyond that. But obviously, Jimin isn’t going to let getting a grip be easy.

“We should go to sleep now.” Seeing Jimin’s gentle smile in the dark, alongside his low voice and the words he’s saying make Jungkook’s mind run crazy. Even though he highly doubts Jimin is going to lie down next to him, Jungkook immediately wonders what it would be like. He’d give everything to experience going to bed with Jimin, seeing him in one of Jungkook’s shirts, hugging him from behind and making him smile by whispering ‘Good night.’ into his ear. Fuck, Jungkook should not be having these kinds of thoughts about his Lance Corporal.

“You’re right. Good night, Jimin-ah.” Jungkook kind of expected Jimin to complain about the lack of honorifics the way he usually does. But today he just shakes his head and smiles. What’s with him today? Jungkook isn’t sure whether he should be relieved or sad when Jimin eventually lets go of his hand. Though Jungkook is sure he doesn’t like it when Jimin retreats to his chair, despite expecting it. Even with the way Jimin leans back, it doesn’t seem comfortable in the least. He can’t really lie down, he doesn’t have any kind of blanket and without any kind of armrests, chances are Jimin might just tip over to the side. Jungkook feels kind of bad for making Jimin sleep like that. It doesn’t matter that none of this was Jungkook’s idea, Jimin decided it all on his own. “The bed is big enough, you know? You could lie down with me.” Oh dear lord, did Jungkook really just suggest they share a hospital bed?

The beat of silence that passes afterwards makes Jungkook’s nervousness so much worse. Was that offer too much? Did he make things weird? He went too far, didn’t it? Maybe Jungkook should have just kept quiet. But then again, there’s no harm asking right? It’s the least he can do when Jimin takes care of him like that. “That’s nice,” Jimin eventually replies. “But I think it would be safer if I stayed in the chair. I don’t want to hurt you while we sleep.”

“Ah right…” The answer makes Jungkook feel a little stupid. Of course Jimin wouldn’t lie down in bed with him. He shouldn’t have suggested that.

“It still hasn’t set in that you’re injured, huh?” When Jimin smiles all the negative thoughts come to a halt. Jungkook just really likes Jimin’s eye smile, when his eyes nearly disappear and his full lips curl up.

“Not really,” Jungkook admits. “Everything happened so fast.” One moment Jungkook was still going after I.N, the next Bora is dragging him out of the building. Something that happened in a matter of second will take him weeks to recover. It seems so ridiculous.

“I’m sure you’ll come to terms with everything once you have a bit of time to yourself.”

“Yeah maybe.” Even when Jimin wishes him a good night once again, leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, Jungkook has trouble looking away from him. Despite all the complicated feelings that come with it, Jungkook is really glad Jimin is here. He wouldn’t have wanted to be alone after this mess. Wasn’t that exactly want Jimin was going for? That Jungkook wouldn’t feel like he’s all by himself after everything that has happened? “Thank you for being here, it means a lot,” Jungkook mutters, a smile tugs at Jimin’s lips but he doesn’t say anything. Jungkook doesn’t know for how long he continues looking at Jimin until he finally falls asleep.

[-]

“Good morning you two. I’m Lance Corporal Kang Dongho of battle team unit C.” Despite the cheerful smile and friendly tone, Chan feels kind of intimidated by the man standing in front of them. Lance Corporal Kang is only a little taller than Chan, but with a noticeably broader built. And he’s definitely way more muscular than both Chan and Kwangsun. Aside from his physical appearances, just the words “battle team” leave an uneasy feeling in Chan’s gut. He still hasn’t forgotten the looks they got on their first day. Though at the very least, he can’t remember Lance Corporal Kang being among the people who death glared at them. So Chan has hope that the Lance Corporal wasn’t completely forced to work with them and may have even volunteered to work with them. One is allowed to dream after all. “The Corporals and Sergeant Park decided that it would be good for you to come along when our division marches out. It’s my task to make sure you are prepared for that.”

“We will go on missions with you guys?” Sitting in the office and being asked questions is one thing, but going out and actively fighting Stray Kids is different. Would they have to carry guns like the real DIT members? Would they have to shoot if they came across one of the members? The thought makes Chan’s blood freeze. He can’t do that. He can’t point a gun at them. He can’t go that far.

But he has to. Chan was resolved to do everything it takes, he mustn’t back down now.

“Exactly. Sergeant Park thinks it will be good to have you there since you know the way Stray Kids operate better than anyone else.”

“Okay…”

Kwangsun seems to notice his discomfort if the way he steps closer is anything to go by. Chan turns around to look at him, feeling a bit reassured by the hint of a smile on Kwangsun’s face. No matter what happens, he’s not alone. They’re going to do all of this together.

“What exactly is the plan?” Kwangsun asks after turning back to Lance Corporal Kang. Chan is pretty glad he’s taking over talking; he really doesn’t feel like doing it right now.

“Well first of all we’ll have to figure out your current skill level and which areas still need work in. Then we’ll have to make sure you meet the requirements of the DIT. After all we don’t want to put you at risk when marching out with us.”

“When are we going to start?”

“Right now.” Lance Corporal Kang beams at them. “There are some workout clothes for you on the table over there. We’ll practice every day after lunch break until 4pm. The people of my unit will be in the common room or with unit A so we have this room to ourselves for practice.”

Oh. Chan had hoped for a little more time to stomach the news. The thought of going after the rest of Stay Kids is still so foreign he doesn’t feel ready to start training for it. Contrary to him, Kwangsun doesn’t seem to have much of a problem with the situation. Without any bit of hesitation, he walks over to the table and grabs himself a set from one pile of the aforementioned clothes. They’re supposed to change here? In the practice room? In front of Lance Corporal Kang?

Chan takes a deep breath to steady himself. He may be a bit out of practice by now, but it can’t be that hard. Nobody is paying attention to him anyways, right? Then why is there still this fear bubbling up inside of him? He glances over at Kwangsun and the Lance Corporal, finding them still chatting. Good. At least there’s that. If he hurries they won’t see. Chan grabs the shirt from his pile of clothes, backs himself against the wall, quickly slips out of the shirt and into the new one. As soon as the fabric slides over his skin he starts to feel more at ease again. When he looks up, Kwangsun and Lance Corporal Kang are still talking about some workout. Neither of them seems to have noticed anything. Feeling a bit more relaxed now that the worst part is done, Chan takes the pair of grey sweatpants from the table and changes the rest of the way. He’ll really have to find a different way to do this if they’re going to continue training with Lance Corporal Kang.

[-]

“Good morning!” Jungkook frowns when a cheerful voice rips him out of his sleep. Why is hospital staff at war with sleep? Wouldn’t sleeping in be beneficial for his recovery or something? When Jungkook tries to sit up a bit, his gaze immediately lands on Jimin who’s still sleeping slumped on the chair. He actually stayed here all night? The nurse currently chattering about the beautiful weather today doesn’t seem to have noticed Jimin’s presence yet. Jungkook waits for her to look at him before lifting his finger to his lips and nodding over to the chair. The nurse freezes in her movements and breathes a silent “Oh.” as soon as she spots Jimin. Luckily, Jimin seems to still be sound asleep despite her loud voice. He must be a heavy sleeper. “Should I come back later?” the nurse mouths.

Jungkook nods, smiling when she gives him a thumbs up and leaves his room again. Still feeling incredibly tired, Jungkook lies down and tries to get comfortable again. But of course, he can’t seem to close his eyes when Jimin is right next to him. In his sleep, Jimin slid down on the chair a bit. His legs are spread far apart, his arms are crossed in front of his chest and his head is hanging low. The sunlight streaming in through the stark white curtains is playing with Jimin’s jet black hair. Jungkook is glad Jimin didn’t wake up when the nurse came in, not just because it gives him the opportunity to stare a little bit. (Yes, Jungkook is aware that’s kind of creepy.) Mainly, Jungkook is glad Jimin gets to sleep a bit more. Jimin really stayed here over night just so Jungkook wouldn’t be alone. He must have been so exhausted after the mission. Despite all the difficulties, Jimin chose being there for Jungkook over his well-deserved rest. Knowing that Jimin would do anything for their unit is one thing, experiencing it a totally different one. And having Jimin do it for him specifically has Jungkook’s heart race a little.

No matter how nice it may be to have Jimin care for him like that, Jungkook is worried about him. It’s probably ridiculous. Jimin knows his limits; he doesn’t need anyone to fuss over him. Even before Jimin became their Lance Corporal, Jungkook has always been impressed by his strength, both physical and mental. Jimin may have a handsome face and a rather slim build, especially compared to a lot of guys on the battle team, but that doesn’t mean he can’t kick ass. On top of that, Jimin knows how to lead a team. He has no trouble joking around with everyone but is well aware of when enough is enough and how to keep them on track when needed. It’s not surprising he was picked to become Lance Corporal after Jongdae left. Jimin is amazing as a person and as a leader. He gives so much when he doesn’t have to. And here Jungkook goes again, getting carried away when he allows his thoughts about Jimin to flow.

It’s crazy how tired operations – and thinking about your crush - can make you. Before Jungkook knows it, he’s dozing off again. Whether it’s for ten minutes or two hours, Jungkook doesn’t know, only that he wakes up when Jimin stirs awake on his chair. “Good morning,” Jungkook mumbles while pushing himself up into a sitting position.

Jimin rubs the sleep out of his eyes while sitting up. “Mornin’.” He rolls his shoulders before pushing his arms up to stretch, whining softly while he does so. Oh dear lord, Jimin looks so soft. So huggable. And just like that Jungkook is back to the fantasy of last night: sharing a bed with Jimin, seeing him in one of Jungkook’s shirts with dishevelled hair and a slow tired smile on his face. For fuck’s sake Jungkook has been having these kind of thoughts under control while they’re at work, why are his feelings acting up now? Is it because of everything that happened yesterday? Or is it just because they’re alone? When they do meet outside of work it’s usually with the other members of the unit. Jungkook is totally not used to getting to put his full attention on Jimin without worrying about anyone else getting suspicious.

“How are you feeling today?” Jimin mumbles. His voice is still a little rough, but Jimin seems to slowly be coming alive.

“Alright, I guess. But I haven’t tried to move yet so who knows?”

“Good, keep it up.” Jimin wags his finger at Jungkook and chuckles before getting up from his spot and starting to stretch his limbs. It takes all of Jungkook’s self-restraint, but Jungkook manages not to stare at the stretch of skin that is exposed when Jimin’s shirt rides up from the little exercises. “I still have to interview you on the whole incident.” Jimin doesn’t sound happy about having to conduct this interview in the least, but Jungkook guesses there’s no way around it. Since Jimin can’t seem to find anything to write on, he starts a recording on his phone and begins with the interview.

Even after having had more time to process everything, there isn’t much Jungkook can tell Jimin about yesterday’s events. The incident with I.N just happened too fast. Jimin asks him question after question, coaxing more details out of Jungkook than he thought would be possible. But in the end, it still doesn’t feel like much. After they reach the limits of Jungkook’s memory, Jimin thanks him and starts packing up his stuff. “I should probably get going. What time is it?” Truth be told, Jungkook is feeling a little disappointed that their time is over already. Well, it’s probably obvious that he doesn’t want Jimin to leave. It would be too good to be true if Jimin was able to stay with him.

“I have no idea,” Jungkook admits. He hasn’t even considered checking the clock until now. As he found out today, when he’s alone with Jimin time doesn’t matter. But sadly, it matters to Jimin. He checks his phone, groaning as soon as the screen lights up.

“Fuck, I should be at work already.” Jimin quickly puts on his jacket. “Sorry, I wish I could stay longer. Are you going to be okay?” No. Definitely not. Jimin needs to stay here and personally nurse Jungkook back to health.

“Yeah, don’t worry about me.”

Jimin smiles. He finally smiles again. Words can’t express how much Jungkook loves Jimin’s smile. “Great. I’ll make sure to drop by again after work. Behave until then.” Already about to leave, Jimin stops in the doorframe and turns around again. “Oh and Jungkook-ah?”

“Yes?”

“The way I know you you’re going to try and hurry to get back with us. Please don’t do that. I know it’s hard to sit around and wait, but you need time to recover. Promise me you’ll take things slow for now.”

Jungkook swallows around the lump in his throat. There it is again, Jimin’s worry. But combined with the little smile on his face, it doesn’t feel quite as heavy, makes Jungkook’s heart flutter rather than weighing him down. “I promise.”

[-]

“Happy Birthday!!!”

The cheers are followed by the sound of a party horn right before Yeji is yanked forward. Hyunjin laughs as Yeji stumbles over the threshold and right into Yuna’s hug. “Thank you,” Yeji says in between giggles. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Sorry we’re late.” As soon as she’s inside the apartment, Yuna rushes to the couch to hug Jisu and Chaeryoung too.

“Yeah, someone took ages in the bathroom,” Ryujin explains with a pointed look at her sister while closing the door behind herself and Yeji. Ooh, there’s definitely some tension there.

“You’re one to talk. Your hair is easy to fix, Unnie!”

It obviously takes Ryujin a lot of self-control to limit her reaction to an eyeroll before finally hugging Yeji. “Happy Birthday, Jiji-ah. Be grateful you have a brother.”

Yeji just barely stops herself from bursting out laughing. “Brothers aren’t any better, trust me.”

“At least I don’t lose half a rabbit in hair every day,” Hyunjin eventually joins into the conversation. He had planned to go unnoticed for a bit longer, as he usually does. Since the couch is facing away from the kitchen his chances would have been pretty good if he had stayed quiet. But one has to defend themselves against defamation like that. Yeji scoffs at him, but Hyunjin ignores it in favour of bringing two more glasses to the couch table for Ryujin and Yuna before taking a seat on the bar stool by their little kitchen island.

“Anyways-” Jisu claps her hands together, effectively ending the almost fight- “now that everyone is here, we can finally get to the gifts!”

“Right!” Chaeryoung hurries to get the large bag she had set down in front of the hall stand and takes out two pastel-coloured boxes with ribbons wrapped around them. She smiles sweetly while coming back to the couch. “This is for you.” She hands one the boxes to Yeji before approaching Hyunjin, her smile turning a little more subtle. “And a little something for you.”

What? “For me?” Hyunjin asks while looking at the little mint green box now in his hands. It feels almost weird to accept the gift from Chaeryoung. He isn’t particular close with any of the girls, even less so after Yeji’s injury. Hyunjin can hardly endure being in a room with them for longer than a few minutes, which is why he’s been avoiding that as much as possible. Why would Yeji’s friends get a gift for him?

“Yeah. It’s your birthday too after all. I mean it’s really nothing big, but we wanted to give you a present too.” The tips of Chaeryoung’s ears turn pink as she talks.

“Thank you…” The last time Hyunjin got a gift from someone other than Yeji was ages ago. Aunt Minyoung had never really bothered with gifts; she had taken Hyunjin and Yeji out to eat on their birthday and that had been it. So getting gifts from Yeji’s friends – people who barely even know him – it feels strange. In a good way but still… weird.

Hyunjin unties the sky blue ribbon, lifts the lid of the box and is met with baby pink fluffiness. He reaches inside and pulls out the soft little thing, examining it from up close. “A hairband?” Hyunjin tries not to sound too confused, he really does, but he has no idea how Yeji’s friends got the idea of giving him a hairband.

“Yeji said your hair is getting way too long and keeps bothering you. She joked that she’d have to either buy you a hairband or cut your hair in your sleep,” Ryujin seems downright proud at having exposed Yeji’s slander of Hyunjin’s hair.

“We thought we should intervene before things get out of hand,” Yuna adds to it. Yeji and Ryujin are both giggling behind their hands. With the bit of context, Hyunjin can’t help but laugh as well. It also makes him want to hide all scissors in their apartment and start locking his door before going to bed, but that will have to wait. For now, he sets the box down on the table and starts putting the hairband on, though judging by the new increase in giggles he’s not doing a very good job. Luckily Chaeryoung is quick to come closer and fix the hairband for him.

“There you go,” she chimes, smiling when she takes a step back to observe her work. Somehow Chaeryoung can’t seem to look away. Hyunjin must be a sight with a pink hairband on his head.

“Looking good.” Thankfully, her words turn the room’s attention back to Yeji. Having everyone’s eyes on him was getting weird. Hyunjin and Chaeryoung eventually go to join the others. They push the coffee table against the wall and take a seat on the floor since it’s already a tight squeeze on the couch with Yeji, Ryujin, and Jisu there. As soon as Yeji opens her present, she starts laughing. “That’s a lot of chocolate.”

“Not just chocolate,” Yuna points out with an amused sparkling in her eyes. “There’s something else, but you need to find it first.” All of the girls look incredibly amused when Yeji laughs and starts unloading various chocolate bars, small boxes of filled chocolates and the like one by one. Basically, all her favourite chocolate snacks are featured in this present. Soon the already cramped couch is overflowing with little boxes and packages and Hyunjin starts to wonder how all of that was ever fit into the box.

“I think I found it!” Proudly, Yeji presents the small box she discovered at the bottom of the box. Her eyes grow wide when she opens it and peeks inside. “Oh my god,” she whispers while lifting a necklace out of the box and taking a closer look at it. The necklace consists of a rather plain, thin, golden chain with a flat heart shaped pendant dangling from it. “You really got that engraved?”

As the only one not involved in the gift, Hyunjin is absolutely clueless. He leans closer to Chaeryoung, whispering loud enough for only her to hear. “What does it say?”

Chaeryoung moves even closer before whispering into Hyunjin’s ear. “I believe in myself.” That’s such a sweet gift, considering the special place those words hold in Yeji’s heart. ‘I believe in myself’ has been her preferred motivational phrase since forever, but even more so after her injury.

“That’s a nice idea,” he replies as quietly as possible. Chaeryoung beams proudly and thanks Hyunjin. By now, Ryujin is helping Yeji put on the necklace while Yeji is checking her image with the front camera of Jisu’s phone.

“Thank you all so much. I love the necklace,” Yeji says with a bright smile. “And the chocolate of course.”

“You’re welcome,” the girls reply all at once before breaking into laughter at their unintentional synchronization. Hyunjin can’t help but smile at the whole scene. Yeji’s friends are such a cheerful lot and it always catches onto Yeji as well. She’s more carefree, more joyful around them. No matter how much Hyunjin avoids spending time with Yeji’s friends, he will always be grateful for everything they do for her.

“So now that the most important item on the agenda is done, how about we watch a movie?” Ryujin suggests when the laughter quiets down.

“Why do I feel like you already have something specific in mind?” Hyunjin scoots closer to the TV console filled with their CDs, DVDs and so on. It’s mostly old, but nonetheless valued, stuff: movies they already watched as kids, their first CDs and music their parents used to listen too.

“Howl’s moving castle,” Yuna suggests. Her face lights up when Yeji squeals in excitement. It’s Yeji’s favourite movie. Or rather their favourite movie, but Hyunjin doubts he really played a role in that choice. While Hyunjin turns to search for the right DVD, Ryujin switches on the TV. Whitin a second, the light atmosphere sours. Hyunjin grows tense when he looks up at the TV and realises why: the news channel that’s currently on is showing a report about yesterday’s Stray Kids attack. Hearing the words of the news lady makes Hyunjin’s blood freeze solid, even though he already checked the reports. Usually seeing the newscast after their missions isn’t this much of a problem – which is not to say it isn’t difficult – but now, with all of Yeji’s friends here, Hyunjin desperately wants to get away from here as soon as possible. How the hell is he supposed to not expose himself in front of everyone when the newsreader is talking about the injured Private?

“That reminds me.” Yuna’s voice sounds like it’s miles away. “I wanted to ask you how things are going with work. Were you at the attack yesterday?”

“No, sadly not. My unit said I need to really prepare myself first. I don’t want to rush things and end up being a burden to them. I want to make sure I’m actually ready before stepping out with everyone else,” Jisu explains.

“Then where were you during the attack?” Chaeryoung chimes in. Hyunjin can feel himself grow more and more and more nervous every time one of them speaks up. His heartbeat is hammering in his ears. He turns his head directs a pleading look at Yeji, hoping that she will be able to help somehow. But judging by her expression, she doesn’t know how to stop the conversation without being suspicious either. The DIT is an important topic for Yeji’s friends and trying to stop them whenever they talk about it or Stray Kids would soon catch the girl’s attention.

“I stayed in the rooms of the investigation team together with a lot of the other new members. Bang Chan and Park Kwangsun were there too. It was so weird to be around them.” Rather than just weirded out, Jisu sounds outright disgusted though. “I mean I know they were questioned by Lieutenant Yoon and all and officially help us now, but it just feels wrong to trust them. They’ve caused so much damage and harm and yet they were sitting there like regular members of the investigation team.”

The words cut through Hyunjin like knives. It’s so easy to forget what the average citizen thinks of Stray Kids when he’s living his regular life. This is like a hit in the face. If that’s Jisu’s opinion on Nine and Kkul – or rather Bang Chan and Park Kwangsun – what would she think of him who’s still out there going on missions? What would all of them think? Hyunjin takes a look at the girls and feels more and more stings in his heart realising that none of them would let him anywhere near Yeji anymore if they had any idea he’s a member of Stray Kids. When he meets Yeji’s gaze, she seems to know exactly what’s going on in Hyunjin’s head. There’s so much sadness in her eyes. A silent “I’m sorry.” hangs between them, which only makes Hyunjin feel worse. Yeji is the last person who should feel sorry for this situation. She’s the one suffering the most knowing that the most important people in her life are pitted against each other.

“I need to go,” Hyunjin blurts out before his brain can even think about it. “Totally forgot. My boss asked me to come in earlier today and help with stocktaking.”

A frown flickers across Yeji’s face but she’s quick to get it under control again. “Do you really have to go? Can’t someone else do it?”

“I’m afraid not. Sorry, ladies.” It’s hard to endure the pitying looks Ryujin, Yuna, Chaeryoung and Jisu give him. Poor birthday boy can’t even enjoy the party because he has to work. They have no idea. They don’t know anything. Hopefully they never will. “I wish you lots of fun, everyone. Don’t do anything stupid. And leave a piece of cake for me.”

Hyunjin quickly goes to his room and throws his door shut, feeling a bit of relief from just being out of the girls’ view. He releases a shaky breath and tries to collect himself. Hyunjin needs to get out of here as quickly as possible, he can’t bear this any longer. The looks, the talking about Stray Kids, everything. Hyunjin grabs his bag, drapes it over his shoulder, strides towards the door.

“Be careful!” Yeji calls when he’s already halfway through the door.

“Will do!” Bam. Silence. Peace. Loneliness. Now that Hyunjin’s alone in the hallway, he can barely hold back the tears any longer. He tries to stay as quiet as possible while hurrying into the elevator. Only when the doors close does he allow himself to really let go. Hyunjin quickly presses as many buttons as possible before letting himself sink to the ground. More and more sobs shake through his body as he hugs his legs to his chest. He has no idea how Yeji was able to handle this situation. All her friends developed a hatred for Stray Kids, or any sort of resistance really, after what happened to her. Hyunjin can’t even imagine how much pain he would be in if all of his friends hated his sister to death.

[-]

On his way home, Seungmin feels nothing but exhausted. Usually meeting up with I.N is fun, even though they have to be careful not to draw any attention towards them. But after yesterday’s events, I.N was still upset and their meeting became draining. Seungmin had hoped hanging out together would lift his spirits a bit, but it hadn’t done much good. Maybe it had been stupid of Seungmin to think cheering I.N up would be that easy. He shot at somebody else just yesterday. It must have been very traumatic for him. Thankfully, by now news has gotten out that the soldier in question is only mildly injured. Seungmin doesn’t want to know what it would do to I.N if he had caused serious or even lethal harm to someone. He can’t imagine what that would have been like for I.N, knowing he risked or much worse took someone’s life.

Despite the meeting with I.N having been rougher than expected, Seungmin doesn’t feel relieved when he’s standing in front of his home. As much as he loves his family, he doesn’t like being around any of them after missions. Every look, every word riles him up, makes him feel like they’re seeing right through him. It’s ridiculous and Seungmin knows it, but that doesn’t stop this horrible feeling from clawing its way into his chest. He doesn’t bother saying anything when he enters the house. Excellent ears run in the family; everyone knows he’s home. Though rather than a voice, the noise of the TV greets Seungmin. It sounds like a newscast. Damnit. Of course, they’re watching the news. They’re always watching the news. Seungmin walks closer to the living room and peaks through the door, feeling a bit relieved when he realizes the report is about some sports team.

“Where were you?” Seungmin’s mother turns around as soon as she notices him. “You said you were going to be home for dinner.” Right, he did say that. Somehow he had completely forgotten about that while he was with I.N.

“I’m sorry. One of my friends is kind of going through a rough time and needed help.” It’s the closest to the truth Seungmin can be. He hates lying, especially to his family, but saying he helped a friend isn’t actually a lie. In a way he and I.N are friends after all. Though a regular person probably wouldn’t consider someone whose name they don’t know their friend. That doesn’t change anything for Seungmin though. The members mean a lot to him, real names or not.

“During the attack, a member of the DIT was injured. According to the officials, the injury is only minor.”

The words make Seungmin freeze up. He hadn’t noticed when the news had moved on to the recent Stray Kids attack. “Uhm,” he stammers, trying to regain his composure. Damnit, he had managed to avoid seeing news about their missions in the presence of his family for so long. Why did exactly this mission have to break the streak? “Leftovers are in the fridge?” Finally, an idea.

“Yes,” Minseo confirms. “We made sure to leave enough for you.” Her smile is so sweet it hurts Seungmin that it doesn’t feel genuine to him right now. It just stresses him out even more. Thinking that his sister knows what’s going on, where he was or with whom is ridiculous. Minseo has no way of knowing he’s part of Stray Kids and if she did she wouldn’t be sitting here so calmly. But Seungmin can’t help it. When it gets to hiding his identity, he sees the worst everywhere.

“Thanks.” Seungmin turns on his heel and heads into the kitchen. He quickly grabs himself some food for himself and runs upstairs. When he reaches his room, he puts everything down on his desk and lets himself plop down on his chair. Seungmin closes his eyes and gathers himself. He’s alone. He’s safe. Nobody knows he’s DaN. Everything is fine. There’s nothing to worry about.

If only it was really that easy.

[-]

“Damn, I thought I was early,” Yeonjun notes while dropping his bag in front of the lockers. He isn’t entirely wrong. Despite going grocery shopping for lack of a better alternative, Hyunjin ended up coming in a lot earlier than needed. The emptiness of the bar was just too appealing to pass up on. This must be the first time he’s been here before Yeonjun; of course that wouldn’t go unnoticed.

“Ah yeah, my plans for the evening got cancelled so I thought I’d come in a little earlier, clean the counter and all.” Hyunjin is aware of how ridiculous his explanation sounds. Who the hell goes to work when they have free time? As expected, Yeonjun doesn’t seem convinced. Not one bit.

“Sure, because what else would you do when you have some time to spare?” Despite his words, Yeonjun doesn’t push it, instead starting to change into his uniform. Hyunjin turns his head away to give Yeonjun some privacy. Well, as much privacy as one can have while changing in a cramped room with another person in it. “Did you already refill the straws and napkins?”

“Yup.” Hyunjin nods even though Yeonjun probably isn’t looking at him. “Everything done.”

“Great, thanks.” Yeonjun walks over to the mirror, fixes a few strands of his auburn dyed hair before turning towards Hyunjin. “Since we have some time left before costumers come and we have no other job to kill time with, are you going to tell me what you’re running away from?” That much on not pushing it. Of course Yeonjun wouldn’t just let it slide.

“I had a fight with my sister,” Hyunjin lies, despite feeling horrible about telling more lies. The fact that he has gotten so used to this makes it even worse. He just comes up with stuff like this on the spot and is able to keep a straight face like it’s nothing. Admittedly, he isn’t always convincing. That’s only a matter of time though. Hyunjin knows he should be grateful for that ability, but he hates it. “I forgot to do the laundry and things kind of… escalated.” At this point, getting to be honest about things that aren’t related to Stray Kids in any way has become a relief. Something as simple as being allowed to mention Yeji already makes things feel a little easier. More normal. It’s so trivial, but Hyunjin enjoys still getting to speak some truth about himself.

Yeonjun nods despite the fact that he doesn’t really seem to buy it yet again. “And you’re hoping that will solve itself if you go to work?”

“Not exactly, but I needed to get out of our apartment,” Hyunjin explains. At the very least, that part is true. He couldn’t have stayed with the girls a single second longer. “Also, by the time I come home she’s going to be asleep. So we’ll have lots of time to calm down and talk about everything again tomorrow.”

Yeonjun shakes his head at Hyunjin’s reasoning. “If you ask me, you should do that laundry before your sister gets up.”

“Yeah, I’ll try.”

Yeonjun changes the rest of the way in silence. When he’s done, they walk over into the main room. It’s still too early for costumers and since Hyunjin already prepared everything there’s not really anything to do. Thankfully the topic of his alleged fight with Yeji stayed in the locker room. Hyunjin really would not have wanted to try and justify this stupid laundry story any longer. Their chatter now is kind of boring, but Hyunjin definitely prefers that over lies and excuses. For lack of a better way to pass their time, he and Yeonjun start examining the bottles on their work surface, checking which of them are close to empty and will have to be replaced soon. The downside of being busy with the bottles is that their conversation dies down, which leaves Hyunjin way too alone with the negative thoughts and memories of the party.

“Hyunjin-oppa! Finally!” Chaeryoung’s voice has never sounded this troubled, at least Hyunjin has never heard her like this. Of course three missed calls and urgent sounding messages weren’t going to be a good sign, but the panic in her voice seems more extreme than Hyunjin expected.

“What’s going on? What happened?” Every rapid heartbeat made Hyunjin even more nervous. Chaeryoung wouldn’t call him like this if it wasn’t serious. She never calls him. She barely even messages him. And since she apparently insisted on calling him specifically, there was only one possible reason. “Is something wrong with Yeji?”

“Yes she-” Chaeryoung gulped as though it was hard for her to speak. Hyunjin couldn’t take the wait, the moment felt like an eternity. “We’re in the hospital. The Red Cross Hospital. Please come here as soon as you can.” Hospital. Yeji was in hospital. Fuck. Hyunjin couldn’t stop the memories from crashing down on him: following the nurse through the hallways, knocking at the big dark door, walking into the sterile room. The images felt like dozens of bricks pressing down on Hyunjin’s chest. He could barely breathe.

“I’m on my way.” His voice sounded choked up, but Hyunjin couldn’t care less. He needed to see Yeji, see if she was fine. Even if it meant going to a hospital. What could have possibly happened? Part of Hyunjin wished that he had asked more questions, but Chaeryoung hadn’t sounded like she was in the right condition for lengthy explanations. Maybe there wasn’t time either. Fuck, Hyunjin needed to hurry.

The ride was hell to say the least. Hyunjin couldn’t stop himself from being nervous and fidgety. It didn’t help one bit that he had just come home from a mission that was now flickering across the screens in the subway. A weird feeling started spreading through Hyunjin when the news lady started talking about civilians getting hurt. That simply wasn’t possible. There were hardly any people around when they attacked, and the DIT was supposed to keep civilians away, so how would any of them get close enough to get injured? It was probably a lie, propaganda against them. That had to be it.

Getting out of the subway and that damned news report made Hyunjin feel a bit better, but only momentarily. Every step towards his destination made his heart race even faster and chest feel even tighter. Hyunjin hated hospitals. A hospital was the last place he wanted to be at, but there was no way around it. He would have to get his act together. For Yeji.

Hyunjin let himself be led into the waiting room by one of the nurses at the front desk, freezing when he saw Yeji’s friends. The girls looked like they had rolled around on the ground of a construction side. Their hair and clothing were covered in dust. Taking a closer look, Hyunjin noticed their reddened eyes, as though they had been crying. He also spotted several band aids on them and other, smaller cuts that weren’t covered. Ryujin had a bandage around her head. Hyunjin guessed all the adults around the girls were their respective parents. He scanned every face in the room, but Yeji wasn’t here. Oh god.

“Oppa!” Chaeryoung got up and jogged towards him. She talked louder than usual; normally her voice was rather quiet. Hyunjin only now realised it wasn’t just panicked, it was almost like she had headphones on and was trying to talk over music.

“What happened?” Sobbing caught Hyunjin’s attention, making him look up to find Yuna crying into her mother’s shoulder. “Where’s Yeji?”

“Stray Kids, they- they attacked the department of education.” No. No that couldn’t be the reason. They were careful. They were always careful. Yeji and her friends weren’t even inside the building; there’s no way they were hit by the explosion. It just couldn’t be. But the evidence was all around Hyunjin. “We were on our way to run some errands when everything blew up behind us-”

“What about Yeji? Is she okay?” Hyunjin could hear the panic in his own voice by now. He just had to know Yeji was okay already.

“I have no idea,” Chaeryoung admitted. Tears started to flood her eyes once again. She couldn’t seem to look up at Hyunjin any longer. “They’re still operating on her.”

“Costumers.”

“What?” Hyunjin’s head snapped up. Gone are the white walls and blindingly bright lights. The room is dark grey, the light subdued. This isn’t a hospital. Thank god. It takes a while until Hyunjin is able to focus on Yeonjun in front of him. “What did you say?”

Yeonjun doesn’t get to answer since he’s already taking some guy’s order. Still feeling a bit fuzzy, Hyunjin checks his watch. 8.03. They’re actually open by now. He must have zoned out for quite a while. As soon as the costumer is sent off with his drinks, Yeonjun turns towards Hyunjin again. “Had a nice time in dreamland?”

“Not really,” Hyunjin admits. The memory is still heavy like chains around his heart. He really tries his best not to remember that day, but sometimes it all just comes crashing onto him. Tonight is going to be anything but pleasant, Hyunjin already knows that. He never sleeps well on days like this, no matter how tired he is after his shift.

Yeonjun steps closer, speaking in a low voice. “Is this still about your sister?”

“Yeah.” Hyunjin takes a look around, making sure the two only costumers they have are far enough away. “I feel so bad for what happened. I should have just done the laundry and not started a fight about it.” Yes, very convincing. He got overwhelmed by the traumatic experience of fighting over household chores.

“Agreed.” Yeonjun smiles and pats Hyunjin’s back. “Hey, I’m sure if you apologise and do the laundry everything will be fine.”

“I guess you’re right…”

“Of course I am,” Yeonjun sounds almost offended Hyunjin would ever assume anything else. “That’s why you listen to your elders.”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “You say it as though you’re some 106 year old wise guy of the town. You’re one year older than me.”

“One year can make a lot of difference.” Yeonjun wags his finger in Hyunjin’s face. “Talk to me again in one year and see how much has changed.” Hyunjin tries to think of a comeback, but before his brain can provide him with anything another group of costumers walks in. Yeonjun winks at Hyunjin before going back to the counter and accepting the first order. Sighing, Hyunjin straightens his back, puts his costumer service smile on and starts helping Yeonjun prepare the drinks.

[-]

They’re really getting training now. Somehow just the thought lets a smile bloom on Kwangsun’s face. After all, none of the higher-ups would have agreed on sending them off to missions if they didn’t trust him and Chan, right? Okay, maybe trust is too strong of a word for that, but it’s definitely a good sign. In their situation every little step forward should be celebrated. Especially steps like this.

Kwangsun has a slight skip in his step as he walks into the kitchen, starting to look for stuff he can use to cook dinner for them. Though since they haven’t been grocery shopping in a while, there’s not really a lot to work with. They only have rice and noodles to be precise. Yup, plain rice would make a great celebration meal. Maybe Kwangsun should go grocery shopping? It’s not that late yet, he could go buy more ingredients to cook some proper meal for them. Kimchi jjigae would be awesome. If he’s already out and about, he should buy more than just the ingredients though. Some snacks wouldn’t hurt either. And they’re short on tissues and apple juice. Is there anything else? Kwangsun feels like he’s forgetting something. Don’t they need more shampoo too? Or is it soap? The answer feels within his reach but Kwangsun can’t quite grasp it.

“Chan-ah?” he calls, already leaving the kitchen. There’s no way both of them forgot, right? Plus, Chan might have wishes of his own, which Kwangsun would be happy to fulfil if Chan just replied. Still starved for a reply, Kwangsun walks down the hallway and opens the door to Chan’s room. “I’m going gro-”

Kwangsun freezes in the door frame, completely still. He forgot to knock, which was a mistake. Chan specifically requested it when they moved in. How did he not remember something that simple? Just having come out of the shower, Chan is still shirtless. That by itself really wouldn’t be a big deal if it wasn’t for the long, faint pink lines raking over Chan’s back. Most of them crisscross over his spine at the height of his ribcage, but some extend to his shoulders as well as lower back.

Chan’s entire back is covered in scars.

It only now dawns upon Kwangsun that he’s never seen Chan without a shirt, not even when in the practice room today. How did Chan even manage to change that quickly? And how come Kwangsun hadn’t realized how much Chan must have hurried to hide this? Or questioned how urgently Chan had insisted that Kwangsun knocks whenever he enters his room?

“What the fucking hell are you doing here?!” The aggression in Chan’s voice is so foreign. He’s never sounded like this, not during missions or while discussing plans or anything. Kwangsun’s heart drops to his knees. Chan is scary right now. His jaw is set and his face pulled into a scowl. His gaze has an intensity that has Kwangsun’s throat go dry. This is bad, this is really bad. Chan stumbles backwards and presses himself against his closet while trying to cover himself with the shirt in his hands. The mixture of anger and horror on Chan’s face makes Kwangsun feel like a monster, as though he murdered Chan’s family right in front of his very eyes.

“I’m sorry, I-” Kwangsun can’t seem to form proper words. He honestly has no idea what he would even say except apologising for barging into Chan’s room like that. Though he feels like an apology won’t cut it.

“Get out!” Chan screams, losing his patience. Kwangsun has never heard Chan yell before. “Get the hell out! Leave me alone!” He comes closer as though he’s planning to personally drag Kwangsun out of the room. Kwangsun nods hastily and rushes outside as quickly as possible. His heart is racing like crazy when the door slams shut behind him. The abstract painting on the wall next to Kwangsun trembles with the force of it.

“And fucking knock next time!”

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shyrule · 1 year

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WARS AND SKY

Or WARS N HYRULE

i’m between desperately wanting one of them to be warriors and wanting to bench him from this one for the sake of spicing up the victims here-

#thought it would be a banger with him #lots of hurt

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typhects · 2 years

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im back motherfuckers

// SEQUEL TO "almost enough" //

https://archiveofourown.org/works/39391800

#ao3fic #ao3 fanfic #the stanley parable narrator #the stanley parable #tsp stanley #tsp zending #but the aftermath i guess???#angst #hurt/no comfort #lots of hurt #the narrator needs a hug. a very good one #aftermath #tspud #tsp narrator #no fluff #there is no fluff at all. absolutely none. not even a morsel #cry #i regret nothing

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west-tokyo-incidents · 2 years

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Sometimes and Usually

CW; Suicidal ideation + attempt mentions, self harm

Sometimes, it overwhelms him. In all senses of the word.

His eyes get distant, because he isn't really seeing what's in front of him. Because his mind can't stop flashing images at him. Every situation that could have been. He looks at Rage and sees Michel, instead.

Rage doesn't deserve that.

Michel doesn't deserve that.

It's hard to snap him out of it.

Sometimes he can focus for a few hours. Fussa can bribe him away from the smell of gunpowder with a smoke and distracting conversation, or he can focus on his drumming when they play.

Sometimes he can dig a blade into his wrist and force himself to remember he's human and in a cold, dim bathroom in his boxers and not in the mountains, staring at an empty space where a ghost should be.

Sometimes Vice has to step in and play instead.

Sometimes he's staring at carpet and feeling snow instead, feeling his pledge with Michel hemorrhage from his coding, while the others are out playing without him.

It's been years since he thought he came to terms with this. He's done with crying, done with freezing every time something sounds like a gunshot, done with yelling, done with his legs dangling over the balcony railing as Rage's voice cracks with terror to coax him back down. He's done with wondering if Michel's voice would do the same.

He wanted to be, anyways.

Sometimes he contemplates how to make it look like an accident. Rage won't be upset with him if it doesn't look like he did it himself. He considers the trees on the side of the road when he drives at night, cold and motionless to his touch, now. He wonders if they'd do an old friend a favor. It's why he smokes with Fussa, why he still trains so damn hard with Mizho and sometimes by himself. Maybe an accident will happen.

Rage was in a car accident once. Paresse had never been so terrified in his life when he saw the wreckage. He later begged Rage not to die before him. It's a nonsensical plea; he can't control that. Rage can't control that. But Rage promised anyways. And Paresse felt like a horrible, rotten hypocrite. He'd promised Rage something, too, and the sting of fresh wounds on his wrists felt like bullet wounds when Rage gave him that tired smile from the hospital bed.

It's not always like this.

In fact, it's not often at all.

Usually these thoughts are back ground noise, or only bubble up in the witching hour. His blades are just tools for only mundane purposes, not for forcing himself into reality.

Usually he holds Rage and can listen and remember to the details of whatever latest horror movie his boyfriend had discovered, parrot them back to prove he's listening and that he's really interested. He harasses Fussa when she's cooking in the morning and grins when she threatens him with hot oil she'd never actually sling. He gives Mizho piggyback rides whenever she and Kia drank too much and has to be carried back home--Vice does the same for his beauty.

Usually his drums come to life under his hands and he laughs at the end of a session because he's lightheaded and it feels so fucking good.

His therapist reassures him he's made progress. He's loathe to acknowledge that not having cut in a year counts as progress. But it is. And Rage surprises him with a gift for the milestone.

Usually, a gift of a weapon isn't the best for someone with... history. But Paresse has collected knives for a long time, especially antique ones.

Paresse stared at the bayonet for a long time.

It was rusted as hell, but he knew what it was. Rage had stuttered and tripped over his words, admitting he didn't know if it was the same make as what was used at the time, but that he couldn't pass the opportunity up when he found it. That he'd held onto it for a long time, waiting for the right time to give it.

Paresse's fingers felt like lead as he gently pulled it out of the case. He knew the chances of seeing that long crack in the blade were astronomically low. Still, he slowly turned it over... and slowly, he let the breath he was holding out. No crack. Of course not. Still, he smiled and explained to Rage that it was, in fact, the same model. And the he began to talk about the time he'd gotten angry at Michel and lashed out, only to be stopped by the blade and making the metal crack.

Rage listened intently, smiling softly.

Usually, it's like this.

Not all memories of Michel are painful.

#michel/paresse #LOTS OF HURT #with comfort too dont worry #i hadnt originally planned for comfort #but couldnt come up with a painful enough ending that wasnt Paresse yeeting himself #ress writes

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marisferasiop · 2 years

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Chapters: 1/6 Fandom: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Poe Dameron/Finn Characters: Poe Dameron, Finn (Star Wars), Lots of OCs Additional Tags: Gratuitous use of wookiepedia, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, graphic bodily harm, Slave Trade, Human Trafficking, Medical Experimentation, Non-Consensual Bondage, this will have a happy sappy ending, Hurt/Comfort, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, after chapter 2 Summary:

Twenty years after Exegol, Poe Dameron and Finn are middle aged former-co-generals of the formally-disbanded Resistance. As war heroes and leaders who guided the galaxies to a win against the First Order, they have been granted certain positions of power in the Republic. Though they still serve as co-generals of a sort, their work has shifted from hunting Order sympathizers and disbanding militia to resettlement and peace treaty work. Poe is lured off planet by a Holo from home and disappears into the stars without a trace. Finn scours the known realms for his best friend and finds him, but how long will it take to really bring Poe home? A slowburn friends-to-lovers for old men who are a little slow on the uptake and a lot slower to act on it.

#Im gonna throw up but I posted it #Star wars #read on ao3 #sequel trilogy #Poe and finn #Justice for Oscar isaac #hurt/comfort #lots of hurt #poe hurts so pretty #Finn comforts even prettier #Please mind the tags #dead dove do not eat

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stil-lindigo · 10 days

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lead balloon (the tumblr post that saved me)

if this comic resonated with you, it would mean the world to me if you donated to this palestinian family's escape fund.

no creative notes because this isn't that kind of comic.

I know I don’t owe any of you anything but I still felt compelled to write about my long term absence. And I feel far enough away from the dangerous spot I was in to be able to make this comic. I have a therapist now, and she agreed that making this could be a very cathartic gesture, and the start of properly leaving these thoughts behind me. I am still, at seemingly random times, blindsided by fleeting desires to kill myself. They’re always passing urges, but it’s disarming, and uncomfortable. I worry sometimes that my brain’s spent so long thinking only about suicide that it’s forgotten how to think about anything else. Like, now that I've opened that door for myself, I'll never be able to fully shut it again. But I’m trying my best to encourage my mind in other directions. We'll see how that goes.

I am still donating all proceeds from my store to Palestinian causes. So far, I've donated over $15K, not including donations coming from my own pocket or the fundraising streams which jointly raised around $10K. In the time since I made my initial post about where this money would be going, the focus has shifted from aid organisations to directly donating to escape funds.

If you'd like to do the same, you can look at Operation Olive Branch, which hosts hundreds of Palestinian escape funds or donate to Safebow, which has helped facilitate the safe crossing and securing of important medical procedures for over 150 at-risk palestinians since the beginning of the genocide.

#cw: suicidal ideation #cw: suicide #cw: self harm #cw: mental health #cw: depression #i made the balloon the main representation of my self destructive urges for a reason but im not going to explain it #i tried to keep a lot of the details in this vague #it would be my worst nightmare if this comic encouraged someone to hurt themselves #so. please dont #for a long time even the thought of making this comic felt so insipid and narcissistic #with the state of the world as it is #having the only threat to your life be yourself felt so privileged and trite and shameful #but doing this comic made me sit down and process things in full #and im just. very grateful i didn't give in to my thoughts back when i sincerely felt i'd be more useful to the world dead #i also feel the need to say that this wont represent everyone's battle with mental illness. its unfortunately different for all of us #there is no fix-all #and im afraid this might be one of those comics that either resonates a lot or misses the target by a mile #i made it for myself foremost. and now that its done im glad i did it #thank you for reading #and please stay alive #stillindigo art #stillindigo comics

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lily-drake · 1 year

Text

The Birds Baby Bug

Chapter 1

TW: Mention of attempted suicide

Ao3

Marinette: 10 Tim: 19

The halls were a blur as she ran past them as quickly as she could on her shaky legs. All of them seemed to blend together, though some of the doors turned into different colors signifying what their purpose was supposed to be. Her door was red and yellow. Her door, and so many others’, was a curse she had finally been able to break free from. She swallowed the bile that climbed up her throat when she thought of the things they did to her behind those doors. The needles, the scent of bleach, and…no! She couldn’t think about that now. She needed to run, run, RUN! She could feel the magic that flowed through her, it wanted to escape, to be used, but she shoved it down. The entire reason she was here was because of the magic, the curse that flowed through her very blood. Blood they constantly took and took and took from her.

Her body was weak, she didn’t know where she was going or how she had even gotten this far. She was hungry, her limbs ached , her head pounded in time with her racing heart, but she wouldn’t slow down. If she dared to stop moving for even a second she might as well have signed her own death certificate. Her dark unkempt hair flew behind her, falling into her wild blue eyes before whipping back when she turned a corner.

She needed to escape. She needed to get out. She knows that if she’s caught that she won’t be killed, she knows that she will wish that they had killed her by the end of the punishment. She quickly took another corner, bare feet pounding against the cold stone floor, yet they still barely made a sound. She could feel the spark of her magic at her fingertips, begging to be released as adrenaline pulsed through her system, feeding the spark. But she couldn’t. She didn’t know what would happen if she let even the smallest speck loose.

It didn’t matter though, because as she took the corner she bowled into someone knocking both of them over due to her velocity. Her body ached from both the force of the fall and the magic that crawled at her skin like ants, fighting to be released. She tried to push herself up, tried to move so that she could get her former momentum back, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t hear the footsteps, but she felt their presence, could hear the breath of the assassins that were coming to retrieve her. She didn’t want to go back, she would rather die than go back! She could feel the outline of a sheathed knife pressing into her side, so with nimble fingers she grabbed it and held it to her chest, right above her heart.

She watched all of the dark shadows pause, the person behind her as still as a statue.

“I’ll do it!” She screamed almost hysterically, her hands shaking despite her best efforts. “Don’t come closer! I won’t go with you again! I won’t be used anymore!”

She kept the tip of the knife pressed to her chest, the small, sharp point nearly breaking her skin. Her breathing was quick as she stared around the circle of ninjas. The man in the green cape, she had never learned his name, was nowhere in sight. She could feel one of the men cloaked like shadows step forward. He continued to creep closer, and closer, and with all of the nerve she could muster she lifted the small blade and thrust it towards her chest.

Hope, excitement danced in her mind, at last this torment was about to come to an end. But it was swiped away as the man she had forgotten that she was still sitting atop of rolled over and pinned her to the floor. Shock filled her before she realized what was happening and tears fell down her cheeks. The pulsing thrum of her magic burned, it burned so badly she felt like she was set ablaze, she hoped that it would kill her from its intensity alone. But it didn’t. The eyes that looked down at her were wide and frantic, filled with fear and a deep sadness. She hated it.

“Leave, I’ll take care of this.”

She wanted to roll her eyes, but she could feel the shadows creep away on their silent feet, following his command. The man stared at her a few moments longer before sitting up, legs still straddled around her waist.

“I’m going to get off you now. I don’t know who you are or what they are after you for, but please don’t run.”

Marinette glared at him, if she had any moisture left in her mouth she would spit at him, but the rest of her moisture left when her tears had fallen. His warning didn’t matter though, she doubted that she even had the strength to move. After a few moments she felt the weight begin to lift and despite every nerve, every thought telling her to run , she couldn’t push herself up.

When the boy was fully off of her she nearly breathed a sigh of relief as the agonizing pain slowly began to recede. The man—no, a boy—stared at her with wide, concerned eyes, though she could see his curiosity as bright as day (she hadn’t seen the sun in so long…). He tilted his head slightly, which created the perfect angle for her to truly see his face in the torchlight.

He had hair dark as night, eyes as blue as the sky, and skin as pale as clouds on a summer day. At least, that’s what she thought as she hadn’t seen the night in probably years…

“Hey, a’e ‘u ok’y?”

Everything was starting to blur together, his voice fading in and out as her body shut down. Not again, please not again! She needed to get up, she needed to get out of here once and for all. Even if they were telling the truth when they said they killed her family, that there was a tracker in her blood, chemicals running through her that would cause her death if she ever tried to escape by herself.

Her body was heavy as it laid across the stone floor, the man’s desperate gaze never leaving her. She thought he might be trying to talk to her, but her ears were ringing too loudly for her to hear everything. Each blink grew heavier and heavier until it all went dark. The last of her control on her magic slipped and she could feel it flow out of her like a fast running stream. Then everything went dark.

_______ Tim stared at the small girl in both shock and horror. Quickly he went to check her pulse point and was relieved when he felt her pulse. It was slower than was normal, but not deathly so. Once he had made sure that she was truly okay, he studied the small girl to see if he could find any clues for who she could be.

She had long dark dark hair covered in tangles and knots like it hadn’t been brushed in years. Her skin was pale, paler than his (and that was saying something), he couldn’t see her eyes but he was pretty sure from his brief glances that they were some shade of blue. She was wearing a typical dark blue hospital gown that went just above her ankles. The gown itself was large and flowy making it hard for him to see her rib cage without having to touch her. Her skin was littered with small red dots as if she had been stuck with multiple needles. Each of the dots were at different stages of healing making him wonder how long she had been here. With the utmost gentleness he picked up her wrist and noticed the large cuff-like bruises that wrapped around her wrists; a light purple with specks of greens and yellows. They had barely begun to heal. When he laid a gentle hand against her ribs he nearly pulled back as he could feel her ribs even through the thin fabric. Tim was going to be sick.

The girl could be older than 8, but depending on how long she’s been here her growth could have stunted placing her at maybe 10 or 11.

He kept his hand against her chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest, but there was something else. She was hot, burning even. It was unnatural, wrong. A tingly sensation crept up through his arm and Tim quickly shot his hand back, holding it close to his chest. He could feel an invisible energy moving along his body easing his tense and sore body, then there was a pain in the right side of his body. He held back the panicked and pain filled noises that threatened to escape his throat. Maybe there was a reason the other leaguers were after her, maybe he should have let one of them stay.

The pain only lasted for a minute at most, and then it was gone. And he didn’t just mean the sudden pain in his abdomen, but all of the physical aches and pains he had received from his training and missions. In fact, it felt like something internally was different. He glanced at the small child, still asleep, before he carefully lifted his shirt to look at his chest. All of his scars were…gone. Every single one of the scars he had ever received throughout his life, even the cut from his splenectomy, were completely erased from existence.

He looked back at the unconscious girl, so small yet seemingly filled with a large power. She was a meta, and it looked like she had some sort of healing power. Tim wondered why until he remembered the Lazarus Pit and its side effects. Ra’s owns the pits; but if he could find a person, or rather a power, that could heal him without the pit and its side effects, he would do anything to extract it for himself.

The best thing for him to do would be to take and hide her in his room, then come up with some sort of extraction plan while Ra’s was still gone. But if Ra’s were to find out that he stole one of his “prizes” he would stop helping Tim; which would make it 10x harder to destroy The League of Assassins from the inside out.

Tim glanced down at the small unconscious child, body littered in scars of her own, none healed despite what just happened. Bruce’s face flashed in the front of his mind, and he knew that Bruce would never forgive him—nor would he forgive himself—if he didn’t help this child right away.

Tim took a steadying breath, and carefully picked the small girl up. He expected for there to be something else, something to what he had just experienced. But there was nothing; in fact the only thing that happened was she subconsciously leaned against him. His heart melted, a protective surge running through him as he hugged the small girl closer. He could feel each and everyone of her ribs against his sternum, her face hallowed out with dark circles he hadn’t noticed before under her eyes. She looked dead, but she was breathing, and that’s all that mattered. At least that’s what he kept repeating to himself. He just needed to get to his room, request extra food and water, then he’ll come up with a plan. He just needed to get her to his room first.

_______ Tim didn’t have a plan. The girl was still asleep, tucked into his bed barely moving. Tim was currently hacking through firewall after firewall to discover where Ra’s kept his files on the child. Ra’s might be old-fashioned with his methods—he definitely had a paper file somewhere—but he also knew that the man knew when he needed to adapt. After hours of hacking, the child still asleep, he finally broke through the correct wall and was honestly surprised at the amount of information that began to download to his laptop.

Marinette Gina Dupain-Cheng (Test Subject E131):

Immediately, the name set off an alarm bell in the back of his mind, though he wasn’t sure why yet.

Meta Gene: Confirmed Age: 7 Sex: Female Parents: Deceased Power: Life & Creation Trigger: Currently Unknown

Test #1 Conducted June 6, 2016 18:35

This was three years ago. Another alarm bell, and a shiver down his spine at the implications.

Before the test began one sample of 5 mL of blood was extracted as the control group while E131 was asleep. The subject had a heart monitor attached at the pulse point at the right bicep. Average vital patterns ranged from 86-98 BPM. When they awoke, tests immediately began. This test was specifically focused on narrowing out and separating the Meta Gene for further observation. Past observations of the subject have shown that they hold the power to revive dying and even completely dead plant life, even renewing the soil life.

Subject E131 was locked in a 80cmx80cm room with no restraints and in the same clothes they arrived in. Subject awoke at 18:53 alarmed, vitals immediately spiked up to an average of 110-120 BPM. Subject immediately began to call for their parents for two minutes and twenty-five seconds. During this time E131 began to cry hysterically, no change to the BPM.

Tim paused his reading, he needed to take a breath. This was wrong, this was all so wrong. She’s just a child, she was seven when all of this began. But he needed to keep going, he needed to know what had happened so that he could properly help her.

When it appeared that her BPM was going down, it was decided that at 18:58 there would be another blood draw while the subject was conscious. When medical entered the room, subjects BPM spiked once more. Subject tried to evade medical, including fighting back when restrained, spiking the BPM to 115-135. Another 5 mL of blood was taken before the subject was left alone.

Blood work:

Blood Type: A+ Meta Gene: Dominant Resting Systolic Blood Pressure Average: 93 Resting Diastolic Blood Pressure Average: 76 Stressed Systolic Blood Pressure Average: 127 Stressed Systolic Blood Pressure Average: 86

Analysis:

It was found that when the subject was asleep the gene was left neutral, floating through the bloodstream and helping the cells in the body reproduce and remain healthy. The blood that was taken when Subject E131 was on high alert showed a higher amount of the gene being produced, as though protecting the host. .05 mL of blood from each vial were placed in the soil of two different pots, both with the same dead plant and soil. The plant with resting blood revived in 30 minutes while the plant with the stressed blood revived in 15 minutes. It begs the question, what else can E131’s blood revive, what are the side effects, what triggers their power, and how fast can we make the revival become?

Tim felt sick. Three years, she had gone through this for three. Years. But he had to know more, he needed to know what exactly he needed to do to get back at Ra’s for these horrors.

Marinette Gina Dupain-Cheng (Test Subject E131): Meta Gene: Confirmed Age: 8 Sex: Female Parents: Deceased Power: Life & Creation Trigger: Emotion Based

Test #96 Conducted December 25, 2017 14:15

Subject E131 no longer has the same emotional reaction to the video of her parents death. Where once they would fly into a fit of rage and sorrow, creating life out of seemingly nothing; they remain numb and limp. Today we will try something new. Something more advanced now that we see the subject's basic capabilities.

Subject was placed in a room full of small animals ranging from chicks, to rabbits, and a small tabby kitten. The subject was slow to trust the animals, but after nearly thirty minutes of nothing happening, they began to play with the animals. It was agreed upon that the subject be allowed to spend time with the animals for three hours. While the subject was in a state of bliss, blood was pulled from E131 from the automatic needle attached to their bicep. Subject showed no reaction to the extraction.

Once the three hours ended, all animals were killed right in front of E131. Subject had the intended reaction as they began to scream and cry, emotions spiking into a high. Leaguer, who was heavily injured in battle, was sent into the room while E131 was at the peak of their emotional state. When the Leaguer exited the room five minutes late, they were completely healed¹ .

Analysis:

We have taken the blood samples from the two emotional peaks and added them into two different samples of the pit before using the pit and blood concoction on two dead rabbits of the same height and weight. The rabbit with the distressed blood sample created a single heartbeat in the dead rabbit before it flatlines once more while the one where the subject was happy created no signs of life. The hypothesis was that the subject's heart rate did not reach the same peaks as the fear sample. More tests will be conducted around this.

*Footnote¹ Leaguer was put under observation for two months with biweekly check-ups. There were no harmful side effects, but the Leaguer seemed to have a higher pain tolerance and faster healing process for a short period of time.

Tim read and read and read through each and every report. Electrocution, starvation, hypnosis, forced to watch death, etc.

Test #254 Conducted April 2, 2018 14:15

Subject was so distressed that a dead animal that was hidden in the corner was revived from the dead. …Sample showed the highest positive effects in removing pit side effects.

Test #317 Conducted July 13, 2019 01:15

Age: 10

This was last week.

Subject has been shown to wield more promising results in a dream-like state. 10 mL of Fear Gas obtained from Scarecrow from Gotham, New Jersey USA was used on the subject. Emotional response was not as high as it was as high as it was in Test #315 despite a higher amount of gas being released. Subject attempted to stab herself with an imaginary knife. …Blood from peak emotional outburst was able to revive a dead rabbit with no help from the Lazarus Pit. Subject E131 will have their blood extracted and placed into the Lazarus Pits in two weeks time. The next and final test will see if emotional outburst will be able to revive a human from the dead without blood sample or Lazarus help.

Tears streamed down Tim’s cheeks in a never ending stream. How-how was anybody this heartless, this cruel? How was she still alive?! Tim turned to look at the small child only to see them staring right back at him.

“Hey.” Tim whispered, his voice cracking slightly. He didn’t care though, what mattered was making sure that he saved this small child and made sure that Ra’s would never be able to get his disgusting hands on her ever again. The child didn’t speak, only watched him with wide, fear filled eyes.

“Are you thirsty? I had some food and water brought up for when you woke up.” The only reaction he got was her pulling the covers closer to her chest. Slowly Tim stood up, telegraphing each of his movements as he approached the dresser next to the bed where the food and water were located. “Do you want me to try it first?”

Hesitantly she nodded. Tim gave her a small encouraging smile before he took a large sip of the water and swallowed it. He waited a few minutes for her to see that there were no side effects from it before slowly placing it back on the dresser for her to take by herself. Then he picked up the food, which consisted of rice and beans with a little bit of some sort of meat, and mixed it together before getting a bit of everything on his fork and taking another large bite. Once again they waited about five minutes before he set the plate back on the dresser and he took a few steps back.

He watched her eat, she appeared almost ravenous, so much so he had to remind her to slow down a few times worried that she’d choke. Tim’s heart ached with the fierce want, no need to protect this small vulnerable child. He was 19, he could legally adopt her, especially since the League had taken both of her parents, meaning she was an orphan. But he was getting ahead of himself, before he could even plan giving her a new life, a life that she deserved, he needed to find a way to get her out of here without being on the receiving end of Ra’s rage.

“More?” She whispered. Her voice was cracked, brittle sounding. It broke his heart, and he prayed to whatever God existed that the damage could be repaired.

“I can’t get you any more food right now. You're too malnourished, and if I give you more than that you could get really sick. I can get you another cup of water though, but that will have to do so we don’t accidentally cause your electrolytes to crash.”

The small girl nodded as if she understood him, but he didn’t think she fully did, after all she still only had the schooling of a first or second grader. There weren’t any files that showed they had tried to school her after all.

“Wh-”, she fell into a coughing fit, and it took everything inside of Tim to stop him from rushing to her side. “What’s your name?” She croaked out. Blue eyes dull and full of pain.

“I’m Tim.” He whispered, trying to encourage her to do the same so she didn’t hurt her voice anymore.

“Why are you here?” She whispered back. That small gesture eased some of the weight he hadn’t even realized he was carrying.

“I’m trying to find my dad, and they’re offering me help. How did you know I wasn’t one of the ninjas?” He asked softly, making his voice only sound curious.

She pointed to her face before replying, “No mask, different robes, and y-you talk to me.”

Marinette fell into another coughing fit after that, her skin looking even paler than when he had first found her. Tim clenched his fist against his knees as he was seated on the floor. Was this what Bruce felt when he saw Dick and Jason? This overwhelming need to protect such a small child when so much bad has already consumed their life? Did Bruce ever feel this way about him?

“What’s your name?” He asked, he didn’t need her knowing that he knew about the worst years of her life.

“E-...No, that wasn’t…Ma-Marientte. Mama always called me Marinette.”

Tim now understood why Jason did what he did. He wanted to kill these Ba*, but more than that he wanted them to feel the same agony they made her feel first. Then suddenly a face flashed before his eyes followed by a name, and hours and hours of research that lead to a dead end. A Paris cold case he had stumbled upon a few years ago when he was checking in on the city where he received a good portion of his training.

Marinette Gina Dupain-Cheng, presumed dead as her parents and grandmother were brutally murdered by an unknown person for unknown reasons. Only problem was, they had never found Marinette’s body. But he had, and she was still alive .

“I’m going to get you out of here.” He whispered, shocking the young girl as her eyes seemed to grow as wide as saucers.

“I’m going to get you to safety and you’ll never have to worry about whether or not you’ll be another experiment again. I’m sorry it took me this long to find you,” Tears began to well in his eyes. If only he’d been smarter, there had to have been something that pointed to the League that he had overlooked. Bruce would be so disappointed in him, Ra’s was probably laughing his a* off. “I’ll take care of you. I will protect you. I won’t let them hurt you ever again.”

She just stared at him, face blank and passive. It was as if she were seeing something that he simply could not. Then tears spilled from her eyes and Tim couldn’t restrain himself as he moved closer to the small child, but never touching her. But it didn’t matter because she launched herself at him, holding onto his shirt in a vice-like grip. Tim quickly wrapped his arms around her, letting her cry. Tears fell out of his own eyes.

“...You talk to me.”

When was the last time she had heard anyone but herself, felt a touch from another person that wasn’t cruel or fake, treated as a human being. He thought back to his own empty house. The cold haunted rooms that echoed with nothing but the ghost of a 9-year-old boy that wasn’t even living. Parents that only cared about him when he messed up, only touched in public or as a warning.

“You’re safe now. I promise it.” He whispered, holding the girl as close as he dared in fear of injuring her further. He would protect her, be the guardian that Bruce was for Jason and Dick. The shadow that haunts the dreams of those who dare hurt what was his. Marinette Drake had a nice ring to it, but only if she too agrees. Jason’s never going to let him live this down. It would be worth it though, because she would be safe.

Taglist:

@aespades @adrestar @astrynyx @doll246 @queenz-z @toodaloo-kangaroo @crazylittlemunchkin @seraphichana @miraculous-ninjabird @dorkus-minimus @mysticsoulgirl @ritacrow-blog @snow-leopard-777 @fidget-eep @sometandomstuff333 @lady-phoenix-of-tardis @shreeing @achaoticmess1 @liquid-luck-00 @buginetye @stainedglassm @prettylittlebutterflie @laurcad123 @iloontjeboontje @heartsong18 @raeuberprinzessin @when-no-wings-do-broomsticks @jennifer-rose123 @moon5608 @corporeal-terrestrial @skitarii-alpha-c6-555 @saltysugarysembei @phantom120 @kking13 @depressed-bitchy-demon @a-slytherinish-gryffindor @iamablinkmarvelarmy @fleursroses @izanae

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silvfyre-writings · 8 months

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The Boy with Emerald Eyes Pt. 3 (BSD Fanfic)

I had a plan for this story. A plan that I wrote out and intended to keep to. And then the plot bunnies abandoned me and returned with a whole new plot I have to work out so yaaaaay.

Also, I hope you all enjoy this monster of a chapter after a month away. I just wasn't motivated to write paperboy for a bit and then suddenly I was extremely motivated so yay for that!

CW: Alcoholism, suicide ideation, suicide attempt (?)

It was January 21st, not even an hour after he’d rushed Ranpo to the clinic, and all Edgar felt was utter relief, and exhaustion from the stress of everything he’d done. If you had told Edgar, that one day he would’ve saved the life of a peasant boy whilst also ending up in the bad books of a duke, he would’ve laughed in your face, because saving lives was just not something that Edgar did. He was far too meek and worried about the opinion’s of others to even consider sacrificing his own social standing to benefit someone else, let alone someone he barely even knew. Yet, that was exactly what he’d done when he’d made the decision to step in between Ranpo and Orwell, and even now, he still struggled to believe what he had actually done as he sat at the dining table across from Fukuzawa and Mori.

The silence was thick with tension, mostly on Edgar’s side of things, because his need to fill the silence with sound was squashed by the intimidating aura of the two other men in the room, and it was starting to make him fidget. Ranpo wasn’t present, Fukuzawa having carried him to the bedroom after he’d passed out after the asthma attack that had nearly killed him; at least, from Edgar’s point of view, Ranpo had nearly died, but he couldn’t forget how calm both Fukuzawa and Mori had been when Ranpo had been struggling to breathe.

“Does—” Edgar began, only to choke on his words. He took a second to collect himself and licked his lips before he tried again. “Does that happen often? The, um, asthma attacks I mean.”

“They were more frequent when he was younger.” Mori said, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hands, eyeing Edgar carefully. “But they are also a lot milder usually. The one you happened to witness is the first severe one he’s had in years. You saved his life by getting him here, so for that, I thank you.”

“Yes, thank you for saving Ranpo’s life.” Fukuzawa murmured before he narrowed his eyes, the look on his face cold and harsh, not kind like it had been earlier. “But tell me, Mr Poe, what caused such a bad attack in the first place? Because Ranpo is smart enough to not do things that will trigger his condition, and I am reluctant to believe he placed himself in danger. I do hope it wasn’t because he involved himself in your affairs again.”

In my affa—oh… that night at the bridge. Edgar shrank into his seat even more, even as he shook his head. “N—No, it wasn’t like that…”

Mori tilted his head, seeming more curious than anything. “Oh? Then what was it like? You may not smell of alcohol this instant, Mr Poe, but it’s obvious the only reason you would’ve been out and about during the day, was if you were heading to a bar.” The words were said, not to be cruel, but to speak the truth, because Edgar couldn’t deny that that was exactly what he’d been going to do that day before running into Ranpo.

Still, Edgar ducked his head in shame. He wasn’t exactly proud of the hole he’d found himself stuck in, but decision after decision had left the hole too deep to climb out of on his own, and there was no one in his life that was willing to throw him the rope that he needed, so it was no wonder, really, when he kept falling back on old habits. And by this point in his life, those old habits of his were all he knew, his biggest comfort when the world was against him.

He knew those habits of his were going to be the end of him one day, and that was something that Edgar was beginning to accept.

Neither Mori or Fukuzawa said anything, more than content to let the silence stew than try and push Edgar into actually speaking about what had happened. In that moment, he really wished one of them would speak if only to give him that final push into speaking the words that had been sitting on the tip of his tongue since Fukuzawa had first asked him about what’d happened. He so desperately wanted to reassure them that what happened wasn’t his fault, because the way that Fukuzawa was looking at him told him that the older man blamed Edgar for what happened, and it was really quite unnerving. Eventually though, after several more minutes of uncomfortable silence, Edgar found his voice.

“It was Duke Orwell.” Edgar fiddled with his hands under the table before he lifted his head, thankful that his bangs obscured his eyes enough to give him the confidence to do so. It allowed him to watch Fukuzawa and Mori as he explained what happened, and it prevented them from seeing his face clearly.

“Duke Orwell?” Fukuzawa straightened in his seat, his brow furrowing even more.

Edgar nodded. “I’m—I’m not sure how Ranpo ended up in the situation that he was… but, Orwell seemed to think that Ranpo had stolen from him.” He lowered his eyes to stare at the floor beneath his feet. “He threw Ranpo into the street, and dumped a bucket of water over his head.”

“Well that certainly would’ve triggered his asthma.” Mori leant back in his seat; arms crossed as he sat there and thought. “But that doesn’t explain your role.”

“M—My role?” Edgar’s squeaked, and then hid his face into his hands until it clicked just what it was that Mori actually meant, and he explained further. “I just happened to be passing by when I witnessed the altercation. I was…” His voice trailed off and he finished off with a mumble. “…on my way to the bar…”

“We are not judging you, Mr Poe, so raise your head. We just need the truth of what happened, in order to know what trouble Ranpo has landed himself in.” Fukuzawa’s stern tone was enough to get Edgar to obey the man, and he raised his head; Fukuzawa’s gaze was intense still, but it now shared the same curiosity as Mori’s did, causing Edgar to feel less as if he was about to be murdered on the spot.

In a rare show of bravery, Edgar allowed his eyes to meet Fukuzawa’s, and the older man blinked, surprised. “I watched the altercation, because Duke Orwell is a terrifying man, and not even the nobility dares to cross him. But when he dumped that water over Ranpo, I couldn’t help but step in and try to help. Somehow, I managed to get him to leave, and Ranpo asked me to bring him here. That’s all I know.”

Fukuzawa stood from his chair without a word the moment that Edgar finished speaking, leaving the table to disappear into the room that Ranpo was resting in. Now it was just him and Mori at the table, and the bravery that Edgar had been drawing upon, was gone, and he reverted to staring at the table again. He felt like he’d said something wrong, but couldn’t figure out what it was; Fukuzawa had asked for the truth, and Edgar had supplied it, so why had the man looked upset when he’d left just now?

“I wouldn’t stress.” Mori said, glancing over his shoulder as if he could see his friend through the closed door. “He worries a lot about that kid. He brought him to this country to try and give him a better life, but it hasn’t gone as well as he’d hoped.”

Edgar was curious as to what Mori meant, but the doctor didn’t expand on his words, and he wasn’t about to start prying into the lives of people he didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to deny that, just from those few words alone, he wanted to know more. Edgar had once been a curious soul, but that part of himself had been buried the moment he’d started to drown in the bottle; apparently, his current, forced sobriety had allowed it to emerge, which also had him thinking what other parts of him would emerge before he got the chance to bury them again.

Dread filled his body, and he could feel the tension building within him, the desire for a drink stronger than ever.

“Mr Poe.” Mori’s voice managed to drag Edgar out of the pit that was his mind, and he lifted his head to peer through his bangs at the doctor; there was a look on Mori’s face, one that looking to be understanding, and he had to wonder if the doctor could tell just what it was that he wanted. “Would you like something to eat?”

Edgar blinked. “Pardon?”

“You haven’t eaten today, so would you like something? Or some tea?” Mori made to rise from the table, but Edgar was quick to shake his head, and Mori paused, in between standing, and sitting.

“I will be fine, but thank you for the offer.” How did you know I haven’t eaten?

“Water then.” And before Edgar could try and refuse that too, Mori was already moving towards the kitchen, and filled two glasses with water. Edgar eyed the glass as it was placed in front of him, murmuring a quiet thanks before he drank.

He could feel Mori’s eyes on him and sighed. “What is it?”

Mori sipped at his own glass, contemplating Edgar’s question carefully for a moment. “Why did you help Ranpo? He is nothing but a stranger to you, and you don’t seem like the type to help strangers for nothing.”

“I don’t know.” Edgar answered, mostly because that was the truth, but mostly because he didn’t particularly want to go into depth about his conflicted feelings about the class system and how he hated when nobility threw their weight around, because that would mean divulging more about himself, and that was a path he’d abandoned treading a long time ago. It would also mean admitting that he was just like all the other nobles that said they cared about the plight of the poor, but then did nothing to fix it—he’d seen it before, years ago; a noble caring for a group of orphans only to abandon them when their orphanage burnt to the ground, a noble doctor offering free treatment to the lower class families with children only to have them arrested later for paying bills that they didn’t even know existed.

A hum came from the doctor. “Let me rephrase that question then. Why are you still here?”

Why was he still there? There was no reason for him to be lingering in a place that was not his own, yet there was some kind of invisible force keeping him there, something he couldn’t explain—oh, but he could explain it. And that feeling of dread that had been creeping up on him earlier slammed into him full force. The glass in his hands slipped a little, and he clutched it tighter, using the tension as a means to ground him, because unbeknownst to Mori, his question had just opened up layers and layers of memories and feelings that Edgar had long since forgotten, shoving them deep under the rock that was alcohol.

Because the last time Edgar had been completely sober like this had been back when he was twenty before his life had fallen apart.

And it had been well over a week since his last drink.

Edgar took a breath and closed his eyes, placing the glass on the table, doing his best to not let it show that his hands were shaking. He kept them on the table, and tried desperately to think of a way to change the subject—tried to come with something interesting enough to turn Mori’s attention away from the question he’d asked. But he couldn’t. Here he was, ladies and gentlemen, Edgar Allan Poe, a former famous author at a loss for the very words that had once been his friend. He could feel Mori’s eyes watching him. He could feel the pressure building for him to answer the question, for him to tell the truth of why he was still here, of why he felt the need to hang around the home of a complete stranger. He could feel the memories poking and prodding at him, the feelings associated with those memories taking over his body.

Fear.

Disgust.

Loneliness.

“I’ll be taking my leave now.” Edgar jumped to his feet, jumping out of his skin when the chair hit the floor with a loud noise, and just like that, the world stopped around him. He clutched the table in front of him, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to convince himself to move, to just move one leg and break the spell he was under, but he couldn’t. It felt like he’d been bathed in ice cold water, his limbs frozen and his breathing nothing but rapid gasps because he just couldn’t get the air to stay inside him. Underneath that ice-cold feeling, was a burning sensation.

Embarrassment.

Because Edgar wasn’t stupid, he was more than aware he was panicking, that that his panic was being witnessed by Mori, and he truly wished that it had been the kind of panic that made him flee instead of freeze, because this was not how he’d wanted his day to go. No, he’d wanted to leave the house and drink his troubles away, but instead, he’d rescued a peasant boy that he’d only spoken to once before, and now he was having a panic attack in said peasant boy’s home. Yeah, he really wished he’d succeeded at the bridge that night, because all of this could’ve been avoided if he’d just managed to throw himself off that bridge in the first place. But he hadn’t, and now he had to deal with panic, and sobriety, and feelings.

A hand touched Edgar’s shoulder, the touch light enough to barely be noticeable, but in his current state, felt like a punch. He threw an arm out that hit something, and staggered back, eyes flying open to see Mori picking himself up from where he’d collided with the table, not at all bothered by the fact that Edgar had just shoved him.

He hated that, that constant indifference that the doctor always wore on his face, that constant concern whenever Edgar lashed out like he understood.

He hated it.

But right now, he was panicking, and Edgar wasn’t the most logical person when he was like this, so rather than run, or yell, or cry, he just continued to stand there, frozen. He watched Mori’s mouth move, and stepped back as Mori stepped forward. The words that Mori was saying were inaudible to Edgar’s world right now, the silence roaring in his ears and drowning out all the other sounds in the world.

Then the door opened, and the sound came rushing back.

Mori’s words trailed off before Edgar could hear what they even were, and Edgar’s panic just… stopped. Just like that, his breathing was fine, and the panic gone—coiled like a snake waiting for its chance to strike again. That panic threatened to return when Fukuzawa stepped out of the room, and scanned the room, eyes the colour of ice, first moving over Mori before they moved over towards Edgar, hardening as they stopped on him. Edgar could tell the man was unhappy even before he spoke.

“Ranpo wants to talk to you.”

What? Edgar took a shaky breath and shook his head. He couldn’t talk to Ranpo, not when he was like this; Ranpo was smart and perceptive from the brief interaction they’d had during Edgar’s prior stay at the clinic and he knew the other man would pick up on his distress. Besides, should he really even be talking to Ranpo in the first place?

“He insists on it.” Fukuzawa continued, walking across the room, and righted the fallen chair. Edgar’s heart pounded as Fukuzawa continued until he was standing before Edgar, towering over him despite them nearly being the same height. Surely, the man had to know how intimidating he was? Although… up close, Edgar noticed that behind the cold exterior, there was something fragile in Fukuzawa’s actions; worry and… is that defeat? Or acceptance? “I will allow it. However, I do not approve.”

Then why are you even letting me talk to him in the first place? Edgar thought as he watched Fukuzawa walk away to the kitchen with a confused look. Out of all his interactions with the older man, this one had to have been the strangest one. His eyes slid over to Mori, who only tilted his head in the direction of the room before silently following after Fukuzawa, and left with no other choice, Edgar cautiously made his way towards Ranpo’s room, hoping that he wasn’t about to regret

After hesitating outside of the door for several minutes with his hand clutching the handle, Edgar finally entered the room, although he truly felt like he was intruding because this was a bedroom that wasn’t his own, and even though he’d set foot in it earlier, it’d been quick and barely memorable. But now… now Edgar had all the time in the world to observe and understand what the people who lived here were like, hence his feeling of intrusion. And it wasn’t like he could just tell himself to stop; observing and reading people was just something he did. It was something that all writer’s had a tendency to do, not that any of them would ever admit it to the people that knew them.

The only thing Edgar recalled from his first time in this room was that there were three beds, and now that he wasn’t rushing, he could see what he’d missed; the layout. Two of the beds were closer together, with just enough space between them for a person to stand, and the final bed was pushed against the wall with what looked to be a handmade bookshelf next to it, filled to the brim with books and toys—if it weren’t for the fact that Ranpo was currently occupying the bed, it would’ve been obvious from that alone that the bed belonged to him.

And speaking of Ranpo, Edgar shifted his attention towards the man, observing the way he was leaning heavily against the pillows that kept him upright, along with pallor his skin had taken on and, combined with exhaustion, Ranpo truly looked like death warmed over. Edgar’s eyes fell towards Ranpo’s chest, watching as it moved steadily, so different from how it had been not even two hours ago. It truly was a relief to see Ranpo breathing easily now; he wasn’t afraid to admit how terrifying it had been to see Ranpo unable to breathe earlier, and he wasn’t afraid to admit that he never wanted to witness such a thing again. He didn’t think his constitution would be able to handle it.

“Are you just going to keep standing there, or actually come over here?” One of Ranpo’s eyes cracked open just long enough to find Edgar before it slipped shut again.

“Why did you want to talk to me?” Edgar asked, standing fast in front of the door. He wasn’t going any closer until he knew exactly what it was that Ranpo wanted with him, because so far, all Edgar had been able to gleam was that the other found him fascinating for some reason, and it unnerved him a little. It wasn’t like he was that interesting of a person after all.

Ranpo huffed and pulled the blanket around his shoulders tighter, an odd look on his face that Poe swore was familiar, but couldn’t quite place. “Just come here will you?”

Edgar took a tentative step forward and then stopped as fear and uncertainty filled him. But after a moment, he managed to squash those feelings down just enough to give him the strength to cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed. He stared at his feet and the wooden flooring beneath them, studying the patterns within the grain of the wood. Anything to avoid making eye contact with Ranpo. Fingers brushed against the back of his shirt, the touch just light enough to be noticeable, and nothing more than an attempt to get his attention.

Edgar lifted his head, and was greeted by those mesmerizing green eyes and a soft not-quite-smile; Ranpo truly looked as if he was struggling to stay awake right now, and that exhaustion was showing in everything he did. Ranpo let his hand fall to rest on the bed, right beside Edgar’s own. “Thank you.”

“You already thanked me.” Edgar frowned, tearing away from Ranpo’s eyes to stare at the floor again.

“Did I?” Ranpo’s voice took on a confused tone, and a quick glance showed that the confusion was genuine. It had Edgar’s own frown growing.

“You don’t remember?”

Ranpo shook his head. “I don’t really remember much after you brought me here. I’m not surprised though; I rarely remember what happens during my bad attacks. And if I do, it’s like, fragments. If that makes sense to you.”

“Oh. It does. Make sense I mean.” Of course it made sense to Edgar, because for the past two years, he’d been living his life that way, broken and fragmented, only remembering the worst days he went through and never recalling the good—if he even had any to begin with. Edgar honestly couldn’t remember the last good day he’d had, but he knew it’d been a long time. Edgar shook his head and turned to face Ranpo again, not making eye contact, but not outright avoiding it either. “Are you… alright?”

“If by alright, you mean, am I going to drop dead? Then yes, I am alright. But if you mean in general, then, I guess I have felt better.” Ranpo said, and his eyes flick open once again. “But that’s not what you want to actually ask. So just ask.”

And so, Edgar does. “Why did Orwell harass you?”

Ranpo sighed. “I bumped into him on accident, and he didn’t like that. And I may have insulted him when he got mad, and he may have not liked that either.”

“Well, you certainly picked the worst person to insult.” Edgar began to explain, his lips twitching as he tries to imagine what exactly Ranpo said to the man. “Duke Orwell is a scary man, even to the rest of the nobility. You’re quite lucky that all he did was dump water over you.”

“Lucky.” Ranpo scoffed, and Edgar realized his mistake in an instant.

“I didn’t mean it—”

“No, I get it.” Ranpo interrupted, and drew his knees to his chest. “I don’t understand this nobility thing, but I can figure out from what you’ve said that he must rank quite highly, and that if he’d truly felt like it, he could have done a lot worse than a bucket of water.”

Edgar nodded, and sighed. “I’ve heard him bragging about how he’s had servants thrown into jail or executed for going against him, so yeah, your run in with him could’ve ended a lot worse. But it didn’t, so… try to focus on that?”

He’s given a look of disbelief from Ranpo, and he doesn’t understand why he’s received such a look until Ranpo spotted his confusion and laughed.

Edgar’s confusion only increased.

“Sorry.” Ranpo raised a hand to hide his smile. “It’s just a little odd, to hear you being so optimistic. Usually you… well, aren’t.”

“I feel like I should be taking offense to that.” Edgar can’t help but say, even though Ranpo wasn’t wrong in that it was rare for him to be optimistic. He put it down as another effect of his sobriety, since optimism was another thing he couldn’t remember experiencing recently. Optimism was just… something that he struggled to understand and use, especially after everything that had happened to make him, well, a more pessimistic person in the first place.

“I don’t think you can when it’s the truth.” Ranpo said, and his smile suddenly faded. The change was so sudden that it left Edgar blinking, wondering what Ranpo could’ve been thinking about to provoke such a drastic shift in emotion. As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long at all to find out. “I know we aren’t friends, or well, even acquaintances, but… can I ask you something?”

The warning bells tolled within Edgar’s mind at the question, and the anxiety he had been holding back this entire time slammed into him. But unlike earlier when he openly panicked in front of Mori, this time he just freezes. He doesn’t run or tune out the world, he just, freezes. He wanted to tell Ranpo that no, it wasn’t okay for him to ask whatever question it is that he wanted to ask, and that no, Edgar wasn’t going to elaborate on why, and that yes, he would be leaving now. But he didn’t do any of that. Instead, he nodded and swallowed. “Yeah. Okay.”

The look Ranpo gave him was a wary one, and he spoke slowly. “I was curious about what happened to make you this way. The first time I saw you, you were brimming with confidence and… happy. And then you just, disappeared, and—” Ranpo paused to gesture towards Edgar in his entirety. “—now you look nothing like that person.”

Edgar gave a bitter laugh. His hands closed around the blankets beneath them, holding onto them with a white knuckled grip. He doesn’t know what to say, really, but somehow he managed to find the words. “Well, that was the point, I guess… it was easier to let my life fall into ruin if no one could recognize me. And I guess it worked, since the headlines of the papers haven’t mentioned me for a while now.”

“Orwell recognized you though.”

“My family works close with Orwell and the other high ranking nobility, so they know who I am much to the chagrin of my family.” Edgar said, moving to place his hands between his knees, and lowered his head. He sighed. “I suppose I more meant that the general population wouldn’t recognize me… I don’t know, I never really tried to disappear from society, it just happened.”

“Why?” Ranpo asked, and that single world was spoken so innocently that Edgar raised his head, dumbfounded that there was someone in the world that didn’t know why he was the way that he was.

“Why? Have you not… heard the rumours?”

Ranpo’s brow furrowed. “About you having relations with another man? Yeah, I heard them. I think the whole country heard them. They aren’t rumours though, otherwise you wouldn’t be the way you are.”

Of course they aren’t rumours. And of course you knew that already. Edgar dropped his head to rest it against his hands, and sighed. He waited for Ranpo to say how disgusted he was, and how wrong it was for him to have ever had feelings for another man and how unnatural it was—as if he could’ve helped it, really; Edgar had always been a firm believer in that you couldn’t choose who you fell in love with, because if he’d had a choice in the matter, he would’ve found someone that wasn’t a man to love—but Ranpo said nothing. Edgar’s heart pounded while he waited. He didn’t leave—he wanted to, but he didn’t, because his curiosity outweighed his fear, and for some reason he needed, actually needed to know what Ranpo thought.

He was truly quite pathetic, needing a stranger’s opinion to decide his next actions.

But it wasn’t that it he needed a stranger’s opinion, it wasn’t that at all. He needed Ranpo’s opinion, because try as he might, he couldn’t deny that his fascination with the other man was attraction in its rawest form. Ranpo speaking of the rumours that had ruined his life so quickly did nothing to help either; it only made Edgar more aware that his pounding heart wasn’t just anxiety, but rather him being attracted to someone he thought beautiful because Edgar liked men and he always had and Ranpo really was beautiful and—

“It’s kinda stupid, don’t you think?” Wait, what? Edgar swivelled to look at Ranpo with wide eyes. “So what if you like men? That doesn’t change who you are.”

“Yeah, well, public opinion would disagree with you there.”

“You let public opinion dictate your life a lot. It’s stupid. You should—”

Edgar stood abruptly, interrupting whatever it was that Ranpo had been about to say and glared at the man. “Don’t you tell me what I should and shouldn’t do. You know nothing about what I had to deal with—what I’m still dealing with—" Edgar, stop. “—you’re just a stranger that picked me up off the side of the road. You aren’t my friend, you are a stranger that I just so happened to meet—” You’re going to ruin everything again. “—and I don’t need some annoying, peasant boy, butting into my life!”

Edgar’s chest heaved with the force of the words, the anger that fuelled him disappearing as it ran out of fumes to burn on, leaving him with the usual feeling of regret and despair that followed after he realized that he’d once again, ruined something that had been going well for him, because that was what had been forming here; something good, something that could’ve become friendship if only Edgar had been able to keep his mouth shut. But he hadn’t, and now he was left staring at Ranpo, waiting for the other man to say something.

Only, Ranpo didn’t, he just stared at his hands, eyes hidden behind his hair, making it impossible for Edgar to see what kind of face the other was wearing. He watched as Ranpo’s hands curled and uncurled into the blankets, how Ranpo’s head dipped even lower, and the guilt grew even more within him. And when Ranpo still hadn’t said anything after several minutes, Edgar realized that he wasn’t going to get an answer.

He knew he should’ve apologized, explained that it wasn’t Ranpo’s fault that he’d snapped, but Edgar had mastered the art of ruining any and all relations that he ever formed, so he didn’t apologize. Instead, he turned away from Ranpo and left the room behind, shutting the door quietly even though he wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. His eyes met those of Mori’s and Fukuzawa’s, and the latter must’ve seen something on his face, because without a word, he stood and disappeared into the room that Edgar had just vacated. Mori simply smiled at him; hands curled around a cup of something. It was a sad smile, like the doctor just knew.

Edgar opened his mouth.

“Don’t apologize. Not to me.” Mori said, stopping him before he could say anything, and sipped at his drink. “I am a doctor, Mr Poe. I understand more than you think I do.”

Edgar just stared.

Mori’s smile grew a little before dropping away entirely. “Ranpo will forgive whatever you said to him, but he will also remember what you said as well. You would do well to remember that.”

“Is that all?” Edgar asked.

Mori nodded. “That is all.”

And with that, Edgar walked out, leaving the little clinic behind as he set out to do what he’d been attempting to do that morning.

Go and get drunk.

In hindsight, going to his usual bar after an argument—if what happened between him and Ranpo could even be called an argument in the first place—wasn’t the smartest idea he’d ever had. Mostly because whenever he felt bad, he tended to drink more, and today was no exception as he downed shot after shot of whiskey. The bartender had watched him with concern, and after his tenth drink in an hour, had actually told him to slow down—he’d tried to tell Edgar to stop at his fifth drink, but his response to that had been to just throw double the money on the counter and that had been that; the drinks had kept on coming.

Stupid Ranpo for being nosy. Edgar sighed as he finished his newest drink—he’d lost count by this point, but considering he was still able to think clearly, it wasn’t enough—and immediately asked for another. The bartender gave him a look, but made a new one anyway. Stupid me for being so pathetic. Edgar swirled his new drink a few times before downing it, the burn of the liquid as it slid down his throat a welcome sensation. He slammed the glass down on the counter. “Another.”

“No.” The bartender shook his head—bartenders? When had they hired another one? There’d only ever been on bartender, but suddenly there were two—and pushed back Edgar’s money when he tried to give thrice the money. “I don’t want your money Lord Allen—”

“Not… Lord Allan…” Edgar slurred, slumping against the countertop.

“Mr Poe, I don’t need your money.” The bartender said again. “As much as I appreciate your patronage, this is not what you normally do. I simply refuse to just stand by and watch you kill yourself by drinking my entire supply in an hour.”

“I’m a paying customer!”

“Not anymore you aren’t. Now you are going home. I have called a carriage for you that will be here shortly.”

Edgar mumbled a few choice words under his breath, but still, the bartender didn’t budge. The man merely hummed and went back to polishing the glassware and supplying drinks to his other customers. Drunken anger worked its way through Edgar’s body and he slammed his fists against the counter, standing with the intention of trying to force the bartender into giving him another drink. At least, that was the plan his mind came up with, but it failed when his body simply decided it’d had enough, and his legs gave out beneath him. He hit the floor with a pained grunt, and just squirmed about like a fish out of water as he tried to get his legs underneath him.

Strong arms hooked themselves underneath his own a moment later, and Edgar was hauled upright. He couldn’t see who it was that had picked him off the floor, but he tried to fight them off because he was a noble and the nobility didn’t need to be helped after a few drinks. Edgar tried to say as such, but he couldn’t hear himself speak, so he wasn’t sure if he’d been heard. He tried again, speaking louder this time, but he still couldn’t hear himself, and when he tried to look to see who was dragging him, the world spun much too fast for him to even see what was going on around him. He could still hear the world though, but it felt like he was underwater, voices and sounds much too muffled for him to distinguish between.

He could tell the moment they made it outside though, because the world grew brighter and livelier, and Edgar groaned as all the noise assaulted his drunken mind. “Get off me…!”

“Go home, and sober up, Mr Poe.” The bartender’s voice echoed within his ear before Edgar found himself being shoved into a carriage and the door being shut behind him. Edgar groaned and managed to push himself up enough so that he could lean against the seat, but he didn’t dare to try and sit on the actual seat. He was almost certain that any attempt he made to stand right now would just end with him faceplanting into the floor or the side of the carriage. It was easier for him to just lay in a crumpled heap where he’d been left.

If you asked Edgar later, he wouldn’t be able to tell you what happened or what exactly it was that he did after leaving the bar, but the moment the carriage pulled up outside his home, his mind felt clearer than ever, despite the alcohol so obviously clouding it. Which really, should’ve been the first indication that he was absolutely not sober in the slightest, but Edgar was a fool, and he always had been, so when the carriage driver helped him out of the carriage, he shoved the man away from him and began to stumble up the path towards his home. Somehow, he managed to make it to the stairs that led to the entrance—he may or may not have fallen on his face a few times—but that was where his luck ran out, and he found himself needing to crawl at the end. He made his way up the stairs, one step at a time, and collapsed at the top, chest heaving whilst his body shivered, both from the alcohol and the winter air.

Edgar didn’t know how long he lay there, as still as a corpse, outside the front door of his home, but it couldn’t have been for too long, as the door opened and his adoptive father stood above him, because there was no reason for the man to venture outside unless something had grabbed his attention when normally he’d be seated in his study, working. And while Edgar had tried to be quiet on his approach, he obviously hadn’t succeeded, if the disapproving look from his adoptive father was anything to go by.

“I see you’ve returned… drunk out of your mind. Again.” John sighed, crossing his arms to further complete the look of disapproval. The man didn’t make a move to try and help Edgar off the ground, which honestly, Edgar was expecting. John let out another sigh and crouched by his head. “Why must you drink yourself stupid at the most minor of inconveniences, boy?”

Of course, his adoptive father would ask the one question that Edgar didn’t know the answer to. He sighed and let his head roll to the side, away from John—away from the disappointment. John lets out another sigh before his arms grab onto Edgar’s coat, and his adoptive father dragged him into the house. At first, Edgar thought it was because the man actually still cared for him, but then he realized that John probably didn’t want anyone to walk by the house and see Edgar collapsed outside of it, which was proven because the moment that Edgar was clear of the door, John dropped him and shut the door.

Three… two—

“Dammit Edgar, you can’t keep doing this.”

—one. He was early this time. Edgar simply up at John as the man began to rant.

“Seriously, Frances and I have done our best to be supportive of you considering everything that happened, but we’re at our limit. We can’t keep up with you anymore; the drinking, the melancholy… for two years, it’s been this way. Don’t you think it’s time you tried to move past everything, and just… get over it?”

“That’s easy for you to say.” Edgar scoffed, a bitter feeling growing inside of him. “It wasn’t your life that was ruined because you couldn’t help who you loved. It wasn’t you that was rejected at every turn by the people that had once cared for you, all because they feared catching something that wasn’t contagious to begin with.” The glare he’d thrown at John melded into acceptance. “No, it wasn’t you that those things happened to, it was me, so excuse me for turning to the one thing that allows me to cope with it all.”

“And what about when it kills you?” John asked.

Edgar laughed, a bitter, short laugh that would’ve sent shivers up his spine if someone had laughed at him like that. “That’s what I’m hoping for, since I can’t seem to throw myself off a bridge properly anyways.”

“Edgar!”

“What? Don’t act like you don’t wish I was dead.” Edgar knew he should stop, that he should keep his mouth shut and just get himself to bed to sleep off his latest bout of drinking. But just like Edgar had done so earlier with Ranpo, he didn’t keep quiet. Instead, he just kept talking. “You and Frances say you care, but you don’t actually, you haven’t since the first rumour dropped. And when people started talking and pulling away, rather than stand by my side, you abandoned me to keep your precious status.” He took a breath, ignoring the sting in his eyes as he continued. “It didn’t matter that I was the child you adopted and brought to this country, the moment I began to negatively affect the Allan name, you cast me aside, denounced me as even being part of the family. Sure, I still live here, but do I really?”

John opened his mouth to say something, but it wasn’t him that spoke.

“Of course you do, Edgar.” Frances said, appearing within Edgar’s line of sight and kneeling on the ground next to him. There were tears in her eyes as she placed a hand on his shoulder, a sad smile on her face. “This is your home. It’s just… we want to help you, but it’s become clear that you don’t want our help, and you know… we can’t help you if you don’t want to help yourself.”

Edgar shook his head, a fear tears falling from his eyes that Frances wiped away. “If you cared, you would try regardless, but you aren’t—”

“Edgar, enough.” John interrupted with a scowl. “Frances and I are not to blame for the decisions that you chose to make. And we are not going to stand by and—”

“John—"

“—watch you continue to kill yourself like this. Which is why Frances and I—”

“John, no—”

“—returning to the main house in the morning, and you will stay here to watch over this one.” John finished, giving his wife a stern look whilst Frances just looked on in despair.

Edgar knew then, just what was happening, and he fell silent. He wasn’t surprised in their decision to return to the main house earlier than they normally did, and he wasn’t surprised that they had made the decision to return without him. He was only surprised that it didn’t happen sooner. But despite knowing, and even understanding their decision, he still felt dead inside at the news, like whatever bit of hope or will to live he had left, was leaving with his adoptive parents. Edgar smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile. “Well… I guess that’s how it is.”

“Edgar, please, try to understand it from our side of things.” Frances pleaded, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.

With a great amount of difficulty, Edgar managed to drag himself into a sitting position, and after the world stopped spinning as fast, he climbed to his feet. Was he leaning heavily against the door to stay upright? Yes, but he was standing and that was the main thing. Edgar stumbled past his adoptive parents, shoving past them as he made his way towards the staircase. “Why bother waiting until morning? Just leave now. I can tell you’re already… packed, so just go.”

“Edgar—”

“Just go.” Edgar squeezed his eyes shut and inched his way up the stairs, hand clutching the railing in a death grip. He could hear the start of a protest coming from Frances, but it was interrupted by John, and he listened as they left the entryway, leaving him alone. And while he’d told them to go, it hurt a little that they hadn’t tried to fight against him harder. They knew he was irrational when he was drunk, they’d seen it enough times over the past two years not to, but whenever he came home and something like this happened, they would rather turn away and let him suffer.

If they didn’t hate me before, they certainly hate me now… Edgar thought as he climbed another step; he was almost at the top now, just a few easy steps away—well, easy if his legs would cooperate and do as he told them. When he was on the last step, he faltered, hit with an epiphany so strong that his legs gave out once again and he collapsed onto the landing, tears forming and falling faster than they ever had before. He tried to stop them— he bit his lip until it bled, shoved his hands into his eyes, into his mouth to try, but all that did was make them intensify, and he just couldn’t stop crying. All because for once in his drunken life, his mind had thrown the answer directly into his face. And he hated it.

Because his adoptive parents were right.

It was his fault that his life had turned out the way it had, and no one else’s. After all, it’d been his reaction to the rumours that had caused his downfall. If he’d just been smart and brushed them off, and used his status to squash them dead, then no one would’ve thought twice about it. But no, instead he’d broken down, saying that it wasn’t true and that he’d never loved another man, but of course, he hadn’t been believed. Because who would believe someone who was trying to desperately to make others believe him?

No one, that’s who.

And it was his fault for turning to alcohol as a way to cope with his sudden fall within the nobility’s social circle. He could’ve used his writing as a means of coping, he could’ve spoken to his adoptive parents about his feelings, but no, he’d turned to the bottle without hesitation and drowned himself until the man he’d once been was gone. And as much as he liked to blame other people for ruining the few attempts he’d made at repairing the damage, it was no one else’s but his fault, because every time he’d tried to fix things, he’d been drunk out of his mind—like he was currently—and just made things even worse.

Like when his publisher had suggested taking a break before putting out another book, and Edgar had yelled and cried at them until they’d had him thrown and banned from the building. He still didn’t remember what he’d said to them that day, but he knew it’d been bad when he tried to approach the next day, a little more sober, and he’d been given a death glare.

Like when he’d been invited to a ball a month after the rumours dropped, and then got into a fight with one of the guests because he’d been to drunk to decipher whether he was being judged or not. He been sent an invitation to such efforts only twice more before people told his adoptive parents to leave him behind, to make sure that he didn’t show up at all.

So it made perfect sense to him why after drinking as much as he had, that he’d managed to destroy the slowly fraying relationship he had with John and Frances, and driven them away completely, when all they’d tried to do was talk to him.

And now, as Edgar cried into the floor of his home, he realized that he was completely and utterly… alone.

Edgar woke to an empty house and a pounding head.

It took him a couple of minutes to remember everything from the previous day, but when he did, he wished that he hadn’t. Ranpo… his adoptive parents, the last good things that he had in this miserable life of his, gone, all because he’d fallen off the wagon harder than he ever had before. Never before had he drunk so much, but then again, he’d said that the last time he drank. And the time before that, and the one before that. For two years he’d repeated those words to himself, and for another day, he was going to repeat them. Edgar groaned and buried his face into his pillow, wishing that—wait, pillow?

Edgar raised his head just enough to see that he was in his room, and in his bed, and his confusion grew because he distinctly remembered never even making it to his room when he’d gotten home. His heart panged as he realized that it must’ve been his adoptive parents that had put him to bed—their last act of kindness towards him. That realization left him feeling even emptier than before, because even after driving them away, they still cared. Not enough to stay, though. Edgar thought bitterly as he sat up fully. No, it’s no one’s fault but your own that they left.

The house was silent as Edgar crawled out of bed with an aching head and a rolling stomach. He knew he should eat and drink some water, but… he just couldn’t bring himself to do so. He couldn’t even bring himself to leave his room, but he did drag himself to the bathroom attached to his bedroom so that he could see how much of a mess he’d become in recent times. Well, that was the plan, but the moment he stood from his bed, the world spun so fast that he fell right back onto it, squeezing his eyes just and groaning. Maybe I’ll just… lay here for a bit.

A bit turned into a day, and then two, and it was on the third day when he dragged himself out of bed, hunger gnawing at his stomach, and thirst squeezing his throat. The world still spun as he dragged himself down the stairs, but he managed to get to the kitchen and stay upright long enough to drink half a glass of water. He clutched at the sink, using it as a pillar to keep himself upright, which allowed him to catch sight of his reflection in the window above it. It wasn’t as clear as a mirror would be, but it was enough to see how oily his hair had become, unwashed in God knows how long. The bags under his eyes were more caverns than bags, so dark and sunken he was surprised that his eyes didn’t just fall out of his head.

He was a mess.

Just like he always was.

It didn’t take Edgar long to decide to leave the house, the silence far too… well, silent, for him to deal with. When Frances and John had left, they had taken the servants they’d brought with them as well, truly leaving Edgar alone in a house that was far too big for one person. The silence gave him too much time to think and remember, something he very much did not want to be doing, even though it was probably the one thing he should be doing. But it wasn’t just that the silence gave him all that time, it was mostly that it reminded him how alone he truly was. No friends, and now, no family for him to turn to, he was lonelier than he’d ever been before in his life.

And it hurt.

It felt like someone had torn a hole through his chest and taken his heart right out it, stomping and crushing it beneath their feet before shoving it back in like they hadn’t shattered it in the first place. How society and the world expected him to function with a broken heart was beyond him, but Edgar knew with certainty that he could not survive in a world with a heart like his. It just wasn’t possible. It was too painful, too hard, and as stubborn as Edgar was, he just wasn’t strong enough to handle it on his own. And just like that, a switch flipped in his mind, the one that had led him to that bridge in the middle of the night.

And with that thought in mind, Edgar left the house.

And this time, it was the last time.

Edgar knew that if he went to his usual bar, that questions would be asked, and that after last time, he probably wouldn’t be served anyway. So he did something out of the norm for him; he bought a bottle from the store. Dressed in just a plain shirt and pants, the store owner’s eyes had bulged when Edgar had asked for the strongest and most expensive bottle they had, and they’d just about popped out of their head when Edgar had slapped twice the amount on the counter and left without another word.

The alcohol went down smoothly as it always did, gone in just a few mouthfuls. It burned as it went down, but Edgar welcomed that burn, even as it made his eyes water and his stomach roll uncomfortably. Once the bottle was empty, he threw it, listening to it bounce a couple of times before it shattered. He stared in the direction of the shatter for just a moment before he walked away; where he was going yet, he didn’t know, but he was going to keep walking until his body registered how much he’d just drunk and inevitably gave out on him. Or until he blacked out and just forgot everything, which would be the preferably option if he had to choose between the two.

Edgar didn’t know how long he’d been walking when the world suddenly tilted on him, but the street around him was empty, devoid of all life, even the strays that loitered the side streets. A buzz had been building in his head for a while now, and it seemed as if his body was finally catching up with him. The tilt was sudden and unexpected, but years of practice stopped Edgar from falling to the ground or colliding with a wall. He forced himself to place one foot in front of the other, even as his body screamed at him to just stop. But he didn’t, he couldn’t, because stopping this time would be the end of him, and there was still a part of him that wanted to keep going. A tiny part, but still a part all the same.

Eventually though, Edgar stopped, his vision swirling too much to continue staying upright any longer; he collapsed against what he hoped was a wall and slid down to the cold earth below. The chill brought some awareness back to him, yet he continued to lay there, his body growing colder by the second as the warm buzz of alcohol was replaced by pulsing nausea and shivers. He let out a groan, and curled up into a ball, wishing that death would come for him sooner. But it seemed that his punishment for failing the first time was a slow and miserable death. He could feel it coming for him, creeping closer the longer he laid there; his vision was dark, and his body cold—

—and then there was warmth.

It was slight and barely there, but he could feel it against his cheek. Edgar cracked open his eyes for just a moment, and smiled once the moment they were closed.

A beautiful green was in front of him, a green so full of life and love, that Edgar was glad that it would be the last thing he saw.

So why had that green looked so sad?

#bsd #bungo stray dogs #bsd fanfic #ranpoe #edgar allan poe #edogawa ranpo #angst #heavy angst #hurt/comfort #lots of hurt #writing #fanfic

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