Whump reblogs mainly. Maybe one day when I’m more confident, I’ll post my writing. Occasionally nsfw. I try to tag triggers, but I often forget so just be aware! Asks open 22 (She/her)
I don’t have enough to call it a master list yet, but I was trying to find my own work today and had to scroll all the way to the bottom of the blog… so mainly this is for my own references. Still… I am planning on posting more eventually, so we’ll see if the list grows!
Whumpy situation #1: A man returns home from some sort of unknown torture, and his girlfriend watches, helpless, as he goes about life hurting while pretending that he isn't.
Whumpy situation continued: A continuation of Whumpy Situation #1, in which the man is forced to confront some of his lasting trauma from his captivity.
Whumpy Drabble: The leader of an empire comes back from captivity and does a TV interview to prove to his empire that he's still capable of leading them, but it doesn't go quite as planned.
Whumpy interpretation of left on read: random drabble with spy caretaker and whumpee enduring lab-whump.
Anxiety Attack Comfort Whump: whumpee has had a bad day, and caretaker holds him as he calms down.
cw: referenced violence, manipulation, crude language, vaguely alluded past dubcon, brief emeto mention. Further warnings will be in the tags for spoiler purposes.
previous // masterlist // next
×~×~×
“Where was he taken?”
“I don't know, I—I saw a van, I remember part of the plate.”
“They can't be too far. We need to find him.”
Jericho and makeup guy were spouting back and forth, nervous colors buzzing around their heads like tv static. Hunter probably should've left as soon as makeup guy (Benny or whatever) came in. Gone back to his room, gone back to Vic, something. Should've left before Jericho could start digging into him, looking for answers he didn't really want.
What was he gonna do about it? Hunter hurt Sahota and Vic told him to, so the fuck what? They were all stuck here until the mission was done, whether they liked Vic’s methods or not. Hunter would find a way to stay, earn it however he had to, whether Jericho approved of it or not.
He didn't need his approval. He didn't need to listen to him. Jericho had a family. Kids or something. Parents who still wanted to know where he was even as a grown ass adult. He didn't get it, couldn't get it.
And anyway, Vic hadn't meant it. He was just testing Hunter, just making sure he really wanted it, making sure he could listen. And even if he did mean it, who cared? Hunter had done worse things for worse people, taken beatings for bosses who didn't give a shit about him. At least Vic cared. At least Vic would tell him he did good when it was all over.
He wondered if Sahota was in the same boat. What had got him to stay? It wasn't something Hunter'd thought about before now, even though it had always been obvious that this was more than just a job to Sahota. Did Vic bandage his cuts after the interrogation? Tell him good job while he bled? The mental image made him want to cringe away. Wounds he'd caused, twinging jealousy in his stomach.
Sahota was scared of Vic, but Hunter was a little bit scared of him too. He had no doubt Vic could break him apart if he wanted. Put him in his place just like he had with Sahota.
“Is Joy back?”
“She should be by now.”
“We'll need her help. I don't think—” Benny glanced at Hunter, the yellow haze around him darkening a shade. He lowered his voice, but Hunter still heard him.
“Do we tell Vic?”
“Yeah,” Hunter said. Because he looked away. Because he was trying to keep it from him. “I'll get him.”
“I'll get him,” Jericho said, and the purple in his core swirled with a darker shade. Because of Vic? Because of Hunter? Or was he just afraid for Manak, who was stupid enough to get nabbed?
Vic wouldn't be happy. Maybe he'd order them to leave it, let Manak stay kidnapped, wipe the arrogant look off his face. The thought was supposed to be vindicating, but then he pictured Manak, tied up, bleeding like Sahota—
Fuck. Fuck this.
Jericho left him alone with makeup guy, who stayed standing, arms twisted around himself, silent. Hunter looked away from his nervous, shifting yellow, looking for something else, anything else, even as his head pounded along with his heart.
The headaches were basically background noise now, a constant dull pain that could be ignored. At least for a little while, at least when he wasn't trying to find something specific. His eyesockets still throbbed from trying to find a path through the computer earlier, but it was fine. It was fine.
Jericho came back before long, the dark spot in his chest bigger than it was before. Vic was a few steps behind him, followed by muscle girl, and… Sahota. His face was swollen, mottled with purple and red. Same cold eyes, not even looking Hunter's way. Same slate gray.
Hunter turned his attention to his hands, nails digging at the scabbed-over part of his knuckles, focusing on the blooming rosepetals there as his stomach tried to twist itself loose.
“Tell me what happened,” Vic said above him, and Hunter glanced up in time to see Benny tear his eyes off Sahota's busted face, a dark ribbon coiling around his throat.
“Shit,” he whispered, his voice shaking, and Hunter dropped his head, pinching the inside of his wrist until daisies began to bloom there.
“Mr. Ruebin.”
“Fuck. Yeah. We, we found the drop site, but it was rigged with some kind of alarm. Some guys showed up in a van, and just… grabbed Kaius. Drove away. I— I don't even know what direction, I just ran.”
“Was it Finley?” Muscle girl spoke up.
“I don't know who else it would be.”
“Did you find anything at the site?” Vic said.
“Wh— no. Kaius is gone, isn't that more important?”
“The mission is more important.”
He could hear Jericho exhale. “Can't we do both? If we find Kaius, we'll find Finley. Won't that help?”
“We don't have the time.”
“Don't we need him for the mission?”
Even though what he was saying made sense, every word of pushback wound Hunter tighter. If Vic said no, it was for a reason, right? Vic knew better, right?
“We can accomplish what we need to with only four of you.”
“But—”
“Or maybe three.”
Hunter could read the threat there without even looking up, and Jericho didn't say anything else.
“What happens to him then?” Muscle girl cut in, and Hunter's nails dug in deeper at her words.
“He's smart, isn't he? I'm sure he'll find a way out.”
“Just let two of us go after him. It doesn't need to be the whole team.”
“We have other things to get done. Can't spare anyone.”
“Not even for a night? I won't sleep. Sahota…”
Hunter looked up again when she said his name, but the handler's gray was as cold as ever. His brows tipped down as she looked up at him, something darkening in his chest.
Was it fear again? He knew what Hunter knew, what everyone else refused to accept; Vic was in charge here. You couldn't push against him. This had only happened because of their defiance in the first place. If they'd just listened, they could've picked a different target.
“Even if we let you go, the chance of you finding him is slim at best," Sahota said in an empty voice. "Better to not waste any more time.”
Muscle girl's color deflated like an old balloon, dimming as it crumpled in on itself.
“Glad we're all on the same page,” Vic said. “It's unfortunate the drop site yielded so little, but we're capable of moving forward. Mr. Davis, we'll check your traps first thing in the morning and you can work on gathering data from there. Everyone else, start working on an entry plan. Mission's set for the end of the week. Are we clear?”
Hunter nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground. It didn't matter if Benny and the others knew he'd hurt Sahota. It didn't matter if Jericho was mad at him, or thought he was an idiot. All he had to do was make it to the end of the week without fucking up, and then everything would be okay. He glanced up in time to see Vic leave, Sahota tailing behind him. The other three stayed in place, settled in a stubborn kind of quiet.
He could tell they wanted to talk to each other, held back by his presence. Even Jericho knew he'd side with Vic now, just as much as he knew they wanted to oppose him. Would they be dumb enough to actually act on it though? An uneven trail of stars was swirling around muscle girl, a few of them breaking loose to pass Jericho. When she left the room in silence, he followed a few steps behind. Benny gave it a few minutes, arms still wrapped around himself, and then left the library after them.
They had to be going to the same place. To talk where Hunter wouldn't hear, to cook up another plot against Vic, as if that wouldn't get them in even more trouble. He knew they wanted to go after Manak, that Jericho’s "we're a team" extended more to him than it ever would to Hunter. Could he stop them? He knew they wouldn't listen---why the fuck would they?---but he could threaten to tell Vic.
He could tell Vic. Show the others once and for all that he cared more about his place here than any of them, that he'd rather chase Vic's approval than Manak’s life, and that was the truth, wasn't it? It was Manak's own fault that this happened, not Hunter's, so why should he have to suffer for it? Why should Manak get to drag everyone else down with him?
With gritted teeth, Hunter left the library, trying to ignore the throbbing in his eye sockets as he looked for the stars muscle girl was dropping. They went back to Jericho's room, it looked like. Door closed, voices muffled inside.
Should he just knock? Make the threat and hope it was enough to scare them into reason? His fist clenched, but his arm wouldn't budge. Instead he held his breath, trying to listen.
“...after dark is our best chance, right? Vic's gotta sleep at some point.”
“There's a truck up top. I can drive us.”
"How far was it?"
"About an hour."
"I can cut that down."
That was enough to confirm what Hunter already knew. He wasn't surprised, but maybe… a little bothered that they wouldn't listen. A little bothered that they were so sure he'd snitch that they didn't even consider inviting him in.
Well. He would. So they were fucking right about that, he guessed.
But... what if he didn't?
Hunter considered the option for a moment. The idea of walking away, going to bed, trying to sleep off this damn headache, getting up the next day like nothing was off. What would happen if he let them go, but then told them he'd known all along? Would that open up a way for them to trust him? To not hate his fucking guts?
And what happens then?
So maybe they could work together better. Maybe they could be a team, like Jericho said. Maybe even friends, even if it was stupid to expect that much. But then they'd run the mission and it would all be over. Everyone else would go home, and he'd…
Alone again. Jelly and the rest didn't wait for you, you knew they wouldn't.
Would Vic still want him to stay if he knew Hunter'd kept something like this from him?
Probably not, not if he knew he couldn't trust him. Lies never worked for long. Hidden things were always found.
Vic had already promised him a chance at being part of something, something he'd never get from the rest of the team. And maybe Sahota hated him, but let him. Hunter'd lived with plenty of people who'd hated him and survived it, but if Vic kicked him out, he didn't know where he'd go next. Back to Chicago to try and get back into dealing? Back to Rex? He shuddered.
No. Not an option. Fuck the team. They'd already sided against him, why should he try now? It wasn't like he was really screwing them over anyway. They'd done it to themselves when they decided to defy Vic.
Hunter stumbled backwards, trying not to make a sound as he crossed the hall, making a beeline for Vic’s office. When he pushed the door open, his trainer was standing at the head of his desk, flipping through sheets of paper. The green drifting around Vic’s form sharpened with his gaze, a darker shade that might've been annoyance softening when he realized who it was.
At least someone wasn't pissed off at the sight of him.
“Hunter.”
He swallowed. “V--Sir.” Shit, where did he start? He felt like a snitch, but shouldn't he? No. Fuck. Whatever. Vic was looking at him with his eyebrows raised now, new color tainting his green. Fuck.
“Sorry. It's important,” he said. “They're… the other three are gonna go after Manak. I overheard them.” He swallowed again, eyes darting away from Vic's desk, hands twisting around themselves. Vic's color hardly shifted. It got… darker, maybe. Sharper somehow, but there was no flash of surprise or anger.
“I thought it might happen eventually. They're an emotional lot. Unfortunately, that's what you get pulling from the general public.” He set down the stack of papers, falling silent.
“Y-yeah,” Hunter agreed, pinching the skin on the inside of his wrist as hard as he could, eyes dropping to watch daisies sprout from the reddening skin. “Are you gonna stop them?” It felt wrong to ask.
Vic hummed. “No,” he said after a moment. “They can have their crusade. I'll deal with it in the morning.”
Hunter glanced up, but Vic's color was static. He was just gonna let them go? Why?
“What if they don't come back?”
Vic let out a flat chuckle. “They'll come back.”
How did he know? Maybe he didn't. Maybe he just didn't care. Maybe if everyone else ditched it'd just be Hunter, Vic, and Sahota on the mission. Like how it would be in the future, if he managed to not fuck it up.
“Come here.”
Hunter glanced up again, saw Vic pointing at the desk chair. Vic's chair. His tone wasn't trouble, or a warning like it had been for Sahota a few days ago. It was almost something welcoming, almost something soft.
Hunter took the seat, trying not to fidget, trying to keep his attention on Vic. The smell of chlorine stung his nose.
“You have your priorities straight, Hunter,” Vic said, moving beside him to tuck the papers into a folder. “You know what's important, even if the rest of them cave to their feelings.”
“Manak… Manak would be fine on his own,” Hunter said. He didn't know why. Manak didn't matter, he didn't care about Manak.
“True,” Vic said. “But more than logic, I appreciate your loyalty. The importance of obedience is lost on the rest of them. Something that should be corrected before we get into the thick of things.”
“Yeah.” Hunter’s spine seemed to go even straighter when his trainer moved to stand behind him, laying both hands on his shoulders, the chlorine smell clinging to him, smothering.
“I’m proud of the choice you made tonight. You'll be a wonderful addition to my team.”
Light seemed to burst through the tangle of vines in his chest. This was what he wanted, what he needed. He could be whatever Vic asked him to, he could stay.
He could stay, he could stay, he could stay.
It rang through his head, seeming to rise with his heartbeat as a calloused hand gripped his jaw and lifted his head, fingers digging into his cheek, holding him still as Vic’s lips pressed into his.
I can stay, I can be—
The chlorine smell was choking him now, burning his throat, and all he could do was sit there, any thoughts or words or movements split like broken wire.
Vic pulled back, just inches, but Hunter still couldn't move.
“Vic—”
“Shh.” The hand left his chin, moving up to his hair, turning from a stroke to a jerk that pulled a startled yelp from Hunter.
Somehow, the chlorine smell got stronger at the sound, Vic's mouth covering his again.
He felt like he couldn't breathe. “I don't—”
“You want to be a part of my team, hm?” Vic murmured, breath hot and chemical on Hunter's face. “Don't you?”
Yes. But not… he hadn't pictured this.
“I…”
Vic straightened, his hands leaving Hunter, color darkening. “Or maybe not,” he said, his voice immediately cool. “Maybe I misjudged you.”
“No, that's not—”
“Don't lie to me.” The words weren't screamed, or the danger-quiet of a threat, but they were still sharp, twisting in his gut like a knife.
“Vic, I'm— no, I didn't mean that.”
“Then what did you mean? I've poured a lot of time into you. Gave your training a level of attention the others could never hope to earn.”
Is this what he earned?
“I'm sorry,” Hunter mumbled, digging his nails into his palms. “I just— You surprised me.”
“I'm not sure I believe you.” The way Vic’s green was growing darker made him want to throw up. Had he already lost his chance?
“I'll prove it. I won't— I was just caught off guard, please.”
Vic seemed to consider his words, the murkiness in his green dissolving as he stepped closer, seized Hunter's chin, and pulled him into another kiss. This time, Hunter kissed him back, trying, trying to show that he meant it, that he could do this, that this was okay.
“There we go,” Vic murmured against his ear. “Good boy.”
He wanted this, he wanted this. He just wanted to be wanted, he was wanted, it didn't matter how.
Hunter leaned into his trainer, trying to lock onto his body heat and not the heavy smell, but Vic stepped away, a fist bunching into the collar of his t-shirt, tight enough to almost choke him.
“I knew I made the right choice, taking a chance on you.”
Hunter tried to shift his weight, to let up some of the pressure from his throat.
“You know how to follow orders, don't you, Hunter?”
“Yeah.” He could, he'd be perfect, and fuck, Vic was looking at him in a way that could've been loving but it made his skin crawl, and his head hurt so bad. Vic gave the fabric of his collar a sharper twist, and Hunter moved with his fist, knees nearly caving in. He could feel the blood building up in his throat, but Vic's gaze was soft on him, his green brightening with something pleasant; he liked this.
Was it so bad if he did? Hunter could take it. He'd had partners with a thing for pain before and it wasn't that bad. Sometimes it was even fun, just handing over control, letting someone do whatever they fucking wanted to him, anything to get them to stay, anything to get them to want to be there.
“Look at you,” Vic murmured in a voice that felt silken and heavy. “There's something you're suited for.”
His grip loosened abruptly, letting Hunter hit the ground, the brightness never leaving his silhouette.
“I'm finished here for the night,” his trainer said, turning his back as Hunter stood, weight heavy on the office chair. “Why don't you come with me?”
Where? To his room? To bed? Hunter's stomach churned, but he nodded all the same. He wanted this. He liked Vic, he liked Vic liking him, he was just caught off-guard. He wasn't supposed to be caught off-guard. He was adaptable, he could roll with anything, withstand anything, do anything Vic wanted.
Is this what it's like to be loved?
Maybe, fucking maybe.
Vic's eyes were still on him. “What’s your implant showing you right now?”
Petals and vines, coiling inside and around him like anxious snakes. Murky carwash-soap rainbow in his head, filling up his skull with a building pressure, oozing out his eye sockets. Thorns around his throat.
“Dead silver,” he lied. It was what he saw back in the room, with Sahota. The warning before, spinning around them both. The shapes dropping like zapped bugs and melting on the ground. Where were they now? When he looked for shapes, all he could find were Cavan’s stupid stars, fading slowly.
“Where does it lead? To me?”
I want this, I want this, I'll stay, I'll learn.
Hunter rubbed his throat unconsciously, forcing his arm to drop when he realized what he was doing. The pain there was hardly an ache. If that was what Vic wanted, that's what Vic would get.
cw: vaguely implied past noncon/abuse, past trauma
×~×~×
Tea was better than nothing. Jericho had been a little doubtful that Vic would have the ingredients for hot chocolate, so it wasn't too shocking to be proven right, but he was at least glad for the bags of plain green tea in the cupboard. Something warm for the kid to hold on to while they worked to process all of this.
"What's your name?" he asked as he passed him the mug. Technically, he already knew, but he didn't want to startle him with that information.
"Ander."
So he wasn't going by just Sahota yet. It made sense. He didn't seem nearly as cold or closed off.
"I'm Jericho," he said, and the kid nodded, staring at the mug in his hands like he was watching the color seep into the water. Jericho exhaled as calm as he could.
Where to start? Should he ask him about the injuries? Drop the bomb on him that he was temporally displaced? Or should he just hold off on that as long as he could? Man, and what about everybody else? All these cats were bound to come racing out of the bag at some point, and he didn't feel in any way ready for it.
Lucky for him, Ander spoke before he felt the need to fill the silence with something unnecessary.
"You work with Shepard?" He seemed almost relaxed at a glance, poised in the chair, cradling the mug. But as Jer looked at him, he could see the tension under the surface. Like he might throw the tea in his face and bolt for the door at any second.
"Yeah, kinda," he said. "Temporarily. Like I said, computers."
"Yeah."
"I take it you work with him too?"
Ander's eyes dropped. "Train," he said simply.
"Ah." Again, he didn't like the way he said it. He wanted to ask more questions, to slowly circle in on some kind of truth and get to the bottom of the mystery that was Sahota.
But before he could, the door to the kitchen swung open.
The rest of the team poured inside, filling the quiet room with whatever discussion they were having. The instant the first of them---Joy---crossed the threshold, Ander flinched back so violently he nearly sent the mug flying. He was on his feet, stumbling backwards, eyes darting around as if searching for somewhere to hide.
Internally, Jericho cursed himself for not bringing up the others sooner. He jumped to his feet, moving to put himself between Ander and the team, but the kid already had his back to the wall.
"It's okay," he called back to him, trying to keep his voice calm. "These are just my---"
"You never said there were more."
A quick glance back showed him the kid had found a knife. Oh boy...
"Ander--"
"Jer? What's---?"
"Who's that? New teammate?"
"Holy shit, is that--?"
The questions came all at once; pretty par for the course, but in the previously-quiet kitchen, with a scared kid behind him, the sound hit like a crashing wave. Then suddenly--
"Stop."
The command wasn't exactly shouted, but it was sharp enough to bring the overlapping voices to a standstill. Jericho glanced at the doorway it had come from, and wasn't surprised to see Sahota standing there. His expression was almost blank, almost unbothered, but there was a look in his eyes, a concerned tilt to his brows.
The others stepped aside, giving Sahota room to enter the kitchen. He could see Joy glancing from him to Ander. It felt like the room was holding its breath as their trainer stopped a few feet away from his younger self, both men staring at each other in disbelief.
Ander's fingers seemed to tighten around the hilt of the knife, his other hand going to his mouth, thumb on scar.
"You... Who are you?"
Sahota exhaled, lifting both hands as if to signal he meant no harm. "Ander..."
"No. This... Whatever this is, I'm fucking over it, okay? Leave me alone."
Sahota didn't retreat. "Those bruises." Something shifted in his voice, the tone becoming softer." "They aren't the worst of it, are they?"
The younger man glanced away, his voice quieting. "No."
"I remember."
Ander's arms dropped, the knife clattering to the ground. His legs seemed to give out, back sliding against the wall until he was sitting, knees tucked against his chest. Sahota followed him down, crouching across from him.
"How long?"
A pause. "Twelve years."
"Twelve... No."
"It's alright. You got stronger."
"I can't... I can't do that. I can't be here---"
"You don't need to. It's done." Sahota's hand fell onto the shoulder of his younger self, gentle. When they were side by side like this, his scars stood out all the sharper.
"He won't ever touch you again. I swear it."
He. Who? Jericho wondered, even though he already knew the answer. It sat souring in his gut.
"How can I help?" he asked, and Sahota stilled at the question, going silent for a moment.
"Clear a path. Make sure... Make sure Vic doesn't see him." He stood, fixing the room with a stony glare. "I mean it. Please."
The others nodded, and he pulled Ander to his feet.
"Davis, I need you to drive him into the city. Find him somewhere safe."
"I can't," the kid protested. "The chip--"
"He watches my frequency, not yours," Sahota assured him. "You'll be fine."
Joy was already leading the rest of the crew ahead to check the hallways, Sahota watching for her signal before scooping Ander into his arms and pressing forward, Jericho tailing behind.
He knew he should be relieved. Sahota knew what to do. He'd keep Ander safe, and the rest of them wouldn't have to worry about what happened to the kid. But what about Sahota? The man was clearly intent on staying back.
He won't ever touch you again.
Jericho grimaced. They both had to get out. To hell with the mission, whatever Vic had done to Sahota... whatever he was probably still doing, it had to stop.
They reached the exit, and Sahota moved to press Ander into his arms. Jericho took a step back.
"No."
"Davis, please."
There was a desperation creeping into his voice, and it hurt to hear, but Jer shook his head. "You need to take him."
"I can't."
"Why?"
Sahota's mouth tightened. He let out a sharp exhale. "Vic. He'd find us."
"Twelve years," Jericho echoed. "That's too long."
"It doesn't matter. One of us can get away."
"Both of you should. Sahota--"
"I'm already ruined," he snapped. Ander squeezed his eyes shut at the words, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.
"It's too late for me to leave this behind," he continued I'm a small voice "I'm not who I was. I can't undo what's happened. But I can stop it from happening to someone else."
"You don't have to--"
"Please."
Jericho clenched his jaw, gently pulling Ander into his arms. The kid clung to him, seemingly in a daze.
"Get as far away from here as you can," Sahota ordered him. "I'll cover for you if Vic asks questions."
Jericho could only nod, swallowing down everything he wanted to say, every plea for Sahota to just run. He wasn't going to make him do anything against his will.
Every step towards the truck felt like walking through concrete; all the weight of this new information dragging him down. The only thing that kept Jericho walking was the need to get Ander to safety. Where to, though?
He guessed he'd ask the kid. See if he had family nearby. And when he came back...
Jericho didn't want to hurt anyone.
Those bruises. They aren't the worst of it, are they?
But right now, it was looking like Vic Shepard would have to die.
TW: Med Whump, Gratuitous Med Whump, Medical Restraints, Chemical Restraints, Noncon Touch, Referenced Noncon, Parker Destin, Institutionalized Slavery, Noncon Drugging, Conditioning, Referenced Food/Water Restriction, Referenced/Described STI testing, Referenced/Described Shock Collar, Whumper POV, literally over 4k words wtf, get leo a pet fish and warm hug when.
Notes: This is one of those things that I'm, as usual, not sure needs to or should exist, but I spent so much time writing it that I couldn't just NOT post it, sooo here it is. Parts 4-6 coming eventually. Takes place in the 12-ish hour span after Leo is prematurely returned from our best guy, Parker Destin. This may be one that I revisit and try to refine down the line.
✥ ✥ ✥
From behind a two-way mirror, Handler Otto Gray and an unfamiliar intake handler stand, arms crossed over their chests. They watch Leo quietly, relieved that, at least for now, the dust has settled.
His eyes finally closed, a few hours earlier, following a massive fight that ended in a sizable dose of Lorazepam. Even drugged, it took what felt like ages for him to settle down, and even longer for his body to finally go limp. Hours later, the salty tear-streaks are still visible on his cheeks.
The doctor asked them to wait on cleaning him up; in spite of the second handler’s objections, in spite of the apparently innate desire to put this unconscious boy in his place, the handler turned on his heels and left in a huff. Otto hesitated, sparing a quick glance at Leo. He wondered, briefly, how he had managed to fail so spectacularly, before dismissing the thought all together. Against his better judgment, he squeezed Leo’s hand briefly, then he checked to make sure the restraints were appropriately secured and exited. Today was sure to be a long day, sure to be even longer if they could not get a handle on whatever panic-induced psychosis Leo was clearly grappling with.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, shift change happened. The handler who had spent the evening scowling at Leo’s lifeless form clocked out, muttering a, “Good luck,” to his replacement. Otto stayed, though, with a quick glance at handler Nick Ford, according to his name tag, and a muttered greeting. Hopefully, he thinks, this one is better suited for this type of work than the last. The doctor comes up behind them, and the three stand in silence for a moment.
“He’s asleep?” the doctor asks, which is a question that could ordinarily be answered with a quick glance through a chart, but Leo has a notoriously unpredictable response to sedatives and that, if nothing else, has been noted numerously in his file.
Otto nods, his jaw locked. “I think so.”
Leo’s wrists are red, raw where each strap hugs them, but for the last few hours, they have been still. Mostly.
“For how long?” the doctor asks, thumbing through the notes from the night before. A colorful account of the events that led to this moment, which, although maybe not immediately helpful, might lend insight into the inner workings of Leo Evans.
“A couple hours,” Handler Ford supplies, and Otto is struck suddenly with a potent distaste for how this night has played out.
It’s not out of the ordinary, exactly, for a worker to require this level of support after a contract. He hoped, though, maybe naively, that Leo was more resilient than this.
He’s been drugged out of his mind, and as hard as he fought it, the drugs eventually dragged him under. To Otto’s understanding, it was only after several hours of trying to calm him down using other methods that he was eventually medicated, and, to Otto’s understanding, the doctor intends now to keep him drugged until he’s under control. He idly wonders if there’s a chance at modifying those plans. Leo is tough, sometimes damn near impossible to work with, but they had found a kind of balance when Otto was his handler. And he thinks, now, he can perhaps spare everyone some heartache if he can have a go at his former trainee.
Otto peers in closer to the window as Leo gasps, his wrists pulling once, lightly, at the straps.
“Alright,” the doctor says, at the same time that Leo’s eyes crack open. As Handler Ford reviews the notes with the Doctor, Otto studies Leo. He hadn’t been an easy trainee. He had been downright defiant at times, resistant to every standard training tool the DLS employed. Otto had been called in in his second month, after his primary handler was fired for, more or less, losing his patience with Leo one time too many, with Leo landing in the ICU. Even after that, success came in short, nearly unpredictable bursts.
When Leo had finally been cleared to take his first contract, that would usually have been the end of Otto’s time with him. But, at least in some of his most challenging successes, he liked to keep an eye on them, if not just to see how they did. He would tell you he did this to improve his own methods, and to help him understand the longer term implications of his work. That wouldn't be the whole truth, though.
Leo was one of the select few that Otto found himself keeping an eye on. He had gotten through his first contract easily, and Otto recalled the feeling of immense relief as he read through Ms. Smith’s post-contract interview. Leo had been put in a short term holding site and almost immediately secured his second contract. That one wasn’t set to terminate for three months still, so when Otto got the notification that Leo’s file was being updated last night, he called in some favors with the intake department.
He stands here now, mostly frustrated, a little bit confused, and perhaps, maybe slightly sympathetic. Simmering beneath all that is anger, misplaced but a constant undertone that, he worries, may drive some of his decisions today. He buries it as deeply as he can. It serves neither him nor Leo.
Leo blinks hard toward the ceiling, but seems to clock his circumstances quickly. His head turns toward the mirror and for a moment, Otto thinks Leo can see him, right through him, right into the place Leo used to occasionally access and attempt to exploit.
Otto stares at his eyes, red, heavy, and unfocused, and wills Leo to remain calm. Leo swallows, and pulls again against the restraints.
Stop, Otto silently commands. But he doesn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.
“What are the odds he’ll take it on his own?” Otto hears from next to him.
“What?” Otto responds, shifting his focus.
“The meds?” Handler Ford says as he holds up a small cup of pills in one hand, a syringe filled with an off-white liquid in the other.
“Oh,” Otto responds. The odds, he thinks, are nonexistent. The good news is this isn’t explicitly his problem anymore.
“Any pointers?” Handler Ford asks then. At Otto’s look, he says, “You worked with him, right?”
Otto nods, but doesn’t offer any pointer. Handler Ford stares at him intently, so, out of some misplaced desire to prove that he is not, in fact, completely incompetent with his trainees, he says, “A long time ago. I did his initial training after his first handler got canned.”
“What for?” Ford asks. He’s stalling, Otto thinks.
“Assault,” Otto supplies. He inclines his head toward the room, and turns away from Handler Ford, re-orienting himself toward the window.
“Wish me luck?”
“Good Luck,” Otto says, not unkindly, as the handler disappears behind the door. Moments later, he is in Leo’s room.
Leo’s demeanor immediately shifts, from alarmed and fighting to gain function to panicked, but he stills, he swallows, he forces his eyes on the handler, and takes a breath. Good boy, Otto thinks.
He’s whispering something, but Otto can’t make out the words. He thinks he’s heard Parker’s name, and Handler Ford shakes his head.
Leo nods, then, and takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that usually mean he’s on the edge of some big feelings. Otto, once more, leans closer to the window.
Handler Ford begins listing out the things he needs Leo to do this morning, and Leo’s brow creases as he takes it in, nodding after each item, but seemingly oblivious to the actual requests.
Inside the observation room, the doctor joins Otto.
“Do you know what happened?” Otto asks the doctor. Otto, immediately realizing he could be asking any number of things, clarifies, “That led to this. He didn’t have an issue after his first contract.”
“Sometimes they get freaked out after spending some time with a particularly cozy buyer,” he replies.
Otto nods.
In the room, Handler Ford’s hand is on Leo’s neck, pressing under the collar. Leo stays still, but Otto can see the fear in his eyes, behind layers and layers of grief. It’s odd, seeing him like this.
“You didn’t last too long, did you?” Handler Ford is saying, dripping condescension, as Leo swallows, holding in a fresh wave of tears.
✥ ✥ ✥
“It’s nothing personal, Leo.” Parker’s driver waits for Leo just beyond the threshold. In his hand, Parker holds out a DLS-issued bag.
Leo nods.
Parker grabs his face between his hands and presses his lips to Leo’s forehead. “You have to understand I didn’t plan for this,” he’s saying, but Leo’s ears are ringing. “I would have waited to take on a worker if I had any inclination I would be called away.” His words are kind, Leo thinks, but there’s almost a note of condescension under them.
Leo feels a sort of emptiness spreading throughout him, a cold void that precedes what he could only describe as terror. For what’s next. For losing this thing, that he isn’t sure he should want, but he wants, so desperately. He clings to it.
“Parker, I– I can,” Leo starts, taking a step back. He can, what? fix this? do better? be better? “Please don’t do this…”
Parker’s thumbs glide across Leo’s cheeks.
“I thought they beat that out of you,” Parker says, his lips pulled into a half-smile. Leo falters, the words he has prepared are completely knocked out of him.
“I– I’m sorry,” is all he can now formulate. He can feel his circumstances changing as every second passes. He’s going to be sick. The feeling of bile rising wars against the knowledge that if he is sick at this moment, it will be unforgivable.
Parker’s hands drift down to Leo’s shoulders and he pulls him into a half-hug, pressing his forehead against Leo’s.
“Don’t worry about it,” Parker says. He wants to say more, Leo thinks.
Instead, Parker uses the grip he has on Leo’s shoulder to push him away and rakes his eyes slowly over Leo, from his head to his toes. He smiles and grabs the collar of Leo’s shirt, poking out from under a deep blue sweater. It’s Parker’s favorite.
He inclines his head briefly toward the door and Leo counts every breath he takes.
“They said not to send your books and clothes and things,” Parker explains as he pulls open the front door. “It’ll just go to waste. I can donate it, if you’d like?”
And Leo, in that moment, hesitates. Can he ask Parker to keep it, for when he gets back from his trip? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe Parker hasn’t considered that Leo could stay in the house and look after it, and he doesn’t need to send him away.
And then it occurs to Leo that maybe Parker is using this time to help figure out the gaps in his training, because they’ve been butting heads lately, and if that’s the case, he wants to tell Parker that he will take this time seriously, and will be better suited to be what Parker needs him to be when he returns.
Leo opens his mouth to say this, to say any of it, even just to tell Parker that he will try harder when he gets back from his trip.
But the panic wraps itself around Leo’s throat, and Leo says nothing.
✥ ✥ ✥
“Are you ready to behave?” The words distort around the edges and Leo blinks hard, willing himself to focus.
This handler, Leo thinks, is unfamiliar to him. There is a fuzziness to both his vision and his thoughts, compounded by blurry memories of the night before. The handler is standing just outside of his line of sight, offering terse reprimands each time he fails to respond. He is trying, though. He wants to tell them he’s trying, but his tongue feels too thick and his voice won’t work.
There’s an added danger that Leo tries not to acknowledge, even silently. They’ve put a training collar on him, but they haven’t gone so far as to shock the world into focus. Even if his limbs didn’t weigh a thousand pounds, he would not be able to lift them. Thick canvas straps wound tightly around each wrist and ankle keep him in place, and Leo blinks at the unexpected wave of terror: these people can and will hurt him with no regard for the fact that he is wholly unable to protect himself.
The drugs help him accept these facts, but do not help him to forget them.
Memories of the night before claw their way to the surface. Of the sound of his own screaming, of gloved hands pinning him down, of his clothing being pulled off of his body, his favorite blue sweater, which he held tightly to his chest, as it was ripped from his arms. He flinches at the memory of himself, just [some?] hours earlier, as he begged them to let him keep it, as a needle digs its way deep into his thigh. The darkness was quick to swallow him up after that.
And then there are other memories, too, from later in the night. Distorted flashes of the handlers coming to visit him, of cold hands pulling off the thin blanket that had been draped over him. He wondered if the drugs might ease the pain. When they didn’t, he allowed himself a moment of relief in the hope that this might all just be written off as a drug-induced nightmare in the light of day.
And now, the drugs fading, and the light of day doing nothing to erase ache deep inside of him, he swallows, blinking slowly, and longs only for the reprieve that unconsciousness may bring. That maybe they will drug him again, before they touch him again. His stomach turns over, and he draws his focus to the lights on the ceiling.
“He’s lost some weight,” he hears the doctor say, but they aren’t speaking to him, so he closes his eyes and taps each finger on the pad beneath him, just to see if he can feel them all.
“His buyer kept him hungry,” the handler replies. He can, he thinks, feel them all. “My understanding is he kept him on a pretty strict eating plan.”
Leo recoils, hearing Parker’s voice in his head. The DLS has asked that you start out on a kind of strict meal plan for a little bit. He blinks back tears at the unwelcome memories. Of Parker, event after event, selecting everything he ate, everything he touched. Of the imperceptible nod Parker would give him when he reached for something at the dinner table. Or the terse shake of his head when he moved to something unacceptable.
Leo wants to tell these men that Parker didn’t keep him hungry. That he was just enacting the plan he had been given.
“I’ll need a copy of it,” the doctor responds, and Leo squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his mind blank.
“It’s in his file,” the handler says. Leo’s ears ring.
“Good.” The doctor presses his hands fingers into the back of Leo’s neck, the collar momentarily tightening as the fingers explore under it. “He’s dehydrated,” he says, and Leo can picture the handler typing his notes. “Are you going to tell me the buyer restricted his water intake too?”
From somewhere far away, the handler laughs, and Leo’s expression tightens, momentarily stunned by the mockery.
“It’s alright,” he thinks he hears, but the voices are so far away now. He doesn’t know that he’s crying until he feels a thumb wiping at his cheek, and Leo sucks in a breath. “You’re alright.”
The world stands still for what could be seconds or minutes or longer. When the doctor’s hand finally migrates upward, and a light is shined into each of Leo’s eyes, he is momentarily blinded, but immediately aware that he has lost time.
The doctor’s fingers, inches from his face, snap once. “Hi, Leo,” he says simply. And then, “I’m Dr. Grant. Are you with me?”
Leo swallows, which hurts, and other memories slide to the surface of the night before. He tries to nod. The movement makes his head pound. “Yes,” he whispers, but based on the doctor’s– what was his name?– grimace, he doesn’t think it came out right.
The doctor sighs and seemingly gives up on Leo’s active participation, instead pulling the blanket down to Leo’s waist and putting a stethoscope to Leo’s chest. It’s nothing, Leo thinks, but it’s never just this. He closes his eyes again and begins counting in his head. Every so often, he forgets where he left off, and he starts over.
The doctor explains what he’s doing as he works, and Leo wonders idly if it’s for his benefit or for some other reason. To pass the time, and maybe to distract himself, Leo imagines a new doctor in the adjacent observation room, learning this trade. He wonders if it’s a good doctor or a bad doctor, and opens his eyes just enough to glance toward the mirror, to see if he can spot him back there. There are no good doctors here, he decides, and starts counting again.
The doctor looks at Leo’s wrists and describes them to the handler, who writes it all down. He examines Leo’s arms and his shoulders and his chest and his stomach as he searches for signs that Parker hurt him beyond what would be considered reasonable, which he didn’t, Leo wants to say, and that Parker will come back for him after his trip, and that he needs to be ready to go home. Then he starts counting again, because the idea of telling this man that Parker will come back for him will be met with laughter, and Leo doesn’t know if he can handle it. He’s pretty sure he can’t.
Fingers prod at Leo’s stomach and he can’t suppress the accompanying flinch, and as the drugs start to wear thin, he feels himself less and less able to accept what is being done to him.
“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, and Leo opens his eyes and is met with mostly, he thinks, concern.
“I’ll be back.” The doctor shoots the handler a look, and Leo wants to close his eyes again, but as the handler approaches, Leo knows, acutely, that it’s a bad idea.
“Are you going to cause a scene?” the handler asks, before lifting the blanket from Leo’s lap. Leo shrinks back, an instant passing in which his entire body goes rigid, but shakes his head ‘no.’ He hopes it’s enough.
He holds his breath, waiting for it to be over, or, waiting for it to start, and feels the handler’s eyes sliding down his body.
He thinks he might be shaking, but he isn’t sure.
The doctor returns a moment later, and after a quick assessment of how things have evolved, issues a quick but gentle, “It’s alright.” It’s not, though, and Leo locks his jaw to keep from crying. He wants to ask if he can close his eyes again. Sometimes they would let him, when things were about to get really bad, in initial training. Sometimes, if he asked clearly, and if he caught them on a good day, they would let him.
“No wonder he was returned,” the handler says, leaning back against the wall.
“Can I close my eyes?” he whispers then, before he can catch the humor in the handler’s expression. The doctor looks at him once, and nods. Leo doesn’t hesitate to clamp his eyes shut, unwilling to chance opening them at all, maybe ever, and instead continues counting in his head.
“Continue working on your empathy,” the doctor says evenly, but Leo is pretty sure he isn’t speaking to him so he works on breathing and counting and nothing else.
He tries to block out the words. This is another moment in training, and it too will end eventually.
“They put him through hell in training. He has a right to be mistrustful.” And then, to Leo, he says, “I’m going to give you something to help balance you out,” and his touch disappears. “Just hang tight, Leo.”
Without warning, a hand clamps around his neck, pinning him in place. His eyes fly open, his arms pull instinctively against the restraints, as the tip of a syringe is pushed past his teeth and to the back of his throat.
He gags, his head knocking back against the thin pillow, but the handler’s grip is merciless, and in the next instant, a thick, bitter liquid is sliding down his throat. Tears well in his eyes, and he would swear the culprit was simply the bitterness of the medicine.
It’s mistaken for something else, though, and the handler releases him as the doctor runs a hand through his hair and says, “You’re alright.”
Leo’s shaking harder now, and his fingers grip into the pad he lays on and he urges himself to still. His chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, the taste of the medicine still heavy on his tongue. But still, almost immediately, he can feel his body lightening, the tension pulling back until the shaking eases, and the doctor nods, and approaches. Leo can’t feel the fear he knows he should feel.
He can feel nothing.
Even with the memories of the night before, even with the doctor and the handler so close to him, he can breathe again.
Still, Leo can’t contain the subconscious jerk of his body as a flash of sharp pain shoots through him. The doctor issues an apology, along with a soft, “almost done,” and turns the swab, over and over, as Leo’s legs fight against the hands that hold them in place. He tries to find a place in his mind to retreat into, but he hasn’t been there in months, if not longer, and in that moment, it offers no reprieve. He thinks he cries out, locking his teeth and pressing his head back into the pillow as hard as he can to distract himself from what goes on lower. When the doctor is finished, he wipes Leo down and drapes the blanket over his lap.
What he doesn’t say is ‘Good, Leo,’ because they would both know it to be untrue.
Still, in the next breath, the restraints are being unbuckled, and Leo is lifted at his shoulders until he is sitting, and his wrists are being examined, and there is a hand rubbing his back. He blinks slowly, willing the room back into focus, and he can hear voices but he isn’t able to follow their conversation.
“It doesn’t need to be this hard,” he thinks the handler is saying, and even though his head is hung low and his shoulders are scrunched to make him as small as possible, in his peripherals he can see the doctor shooting the handler a sharp look. “What?” he bites back. “It’s true.”
“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says then, ignoring the handler entirely. Leo keeps his eyes locked on the ground and he takes the blanket in a white-knuckled grip.
The doctor lets him catch his breath, rubbing his back every few seconds. Leo thinks he’s using it to get a read on his heart rate, but he doesn’t care just then. The doctor explains what’s next, and moves to ease Leo onto his side. Leo, for his part, cooperates, lowering himself slowly, watching as his fingers shake. He wraps his arms so tightly around his stomach he think he might leave bruises, but when the doctor touches him, he doesn’t flinch.
“There’s some bruising,” the doctor says neutrally, but Leo can’t look at the handler to see if he types it. It could be from the handlers, or it could be from Parker’s friends the night before. Leo chokes on his next breath, and in spite of the drugs, he can feel the panic rising.
“Leo?” the doctor says. “Are you doing alright?”
The handler takes a step forward.
“I don’t consent to this,” Leo whispers, so softly he isn’t sure anyone hears him. The look the handler levels on him is scathing. “I–I kn…know it doesn’t… I know it doesn’t matter.” His voice is soft, slurred around the edges, but clear enough. “But I… I j-just– I want to make sure you know.”
The doctor says nothing, and the handler frowns. Leo wants to ask him to type it into his chart, but the doctor moves behind him, and Leo’s vision is suddenly and immediately blurred by his tears.
By the time they finish, by the time the doctor drapes the blanket over his hips, letting his hand rest on Leo’s head briefly before retreating, Leo’s body is wracked with sobs. They leave him to calm himself down, and he finds himself, for a moment, grateful for the simple mercy.
But he cannot stop crying, as he stares into the mirror and thinks of all he’s lost. Of what, in spite of what he tried to convince himself he could have, he will never have. Of Parker, laughing with his friends as he picks out a new worker. Of the handler, and all those that came before him, smiling as they hurt him. The door opens with no warning and a familiar voice, a voice warm enough to burn Leo’s entire world down, issues a commanding, clear, “Stop this, Leo.”
Cauterizing wounds. A fervent “bite this,” before a bit is shoved between Whumpee’s teeth; shallow breaths and white knuckles; tear tracks and sweat-soaked hair; red-hot metal and burning flesh, Whumpee’s body tensing as they scream.
Interrogation/torture scenes where Whumper is just as gentle as they are cruel.
Their voice is soft even as they slide a serrated knife beneath Whumpee’s skin, methodically drawing out screams. Between rounds, they crouch on their heels as if calming a scared child, tilting their head to peer underneath a sweaty curtain of hair.
They ask guilessly, as blood drips steadily from the knife in their hand, “Should we try this again?”
When Harbor's hour was almost up, Jericho made his way back to the briefing room, a hopeful plan at the ready and a nervous feeling in his gut, every step closer to the door jiggling at his nerves like jello.
The word interrogation didn't exactly fill his head with pleasant images. In movies, it was usually portrayed as torture, ineffective on the protagonist but shockingly useful against any minions the heroes snatched for intel. In real life, he'd experienced something like it once or twice. Corporate cronies trying to grill a confession out of him; entrapping questions intended to get him to admit to anything they could twist into something worthy of an arrest. Those were some of the scariest moments of his life, and even though he'd insisted on his own ignorance, in the end he was only saved by a lack of evidence of his hacking activities (hacktivities?).
Jericho's own encounters had been pretty mild, but he still wasn't eager to put anyone else through it.
Then again, this was just a challenge, wasn't it? Succeeding didn't mean they'd suddenly be required to hurt Finley, it only meant Sahota wouldn't kill her. If they managed to win, maybe they could pursue Joy's original idea and just talk to the woman. Whether she was a hardened criminal or not, surely she'd be willing to help if she knew the safety of the city was on the line.
…But that was all a big if. Unless Harbor had managed to pull a trick out of his hat, no one had been successful so far, which left Jericho. Jericho going toe-to-toe against Sahota's boundless willpower. No big deal, just a stranger's life hanging in the balance.
If he failed, could they still back out?
There were other avenues. Both Sahota and Vic had been clear on that, but the group's own insistence had gotten them to this point. If they completely gave up on Finley as a lead now, they'd have just wasted a day, and he doubted Vic would be very happy about that, but between wasting a day and throwing away an entire person, Jericho knew what he'd choose.
From the moment the challenge was announced, he knew what method he'd be using. Bad-cop good-cop, sans the bad-cop. In his experience, difficult people could be swayed to a cause if the reason behind it was just explained, if he pled to their humanity and compassion. And sure, some people were so far up their own bias that they'd refuse to listen, but it was worth a try.
Hell, it was how he got Ari to take a chance on asparagus.
He was prepared to act on the same technique he'd use if they actually won, if they got a chance with Finley: Just talk. A conversation might be all they needed. The Reality Cage was potentially destructive. If Finley knew that, knew what was at stake, wouldn't she help them? It wasn't even as if she'd be responsible for destroying it. She'd just have to tell them how. Some part of her had to exist that would want them to succeed, to save people.
Jericho was inclined to believe that the same could be said about Sahota. He'd given them this chance in the first place, hadn't he? Why let them try at all, unless he wasn't too keen on killing Finley either? If that was true, if this was more than just a lesson in their own inadequacy, Jericho had hope that this whole mission wouldn't wind up as violent as he feared.
Footsteps drew his attention back to the corridor ahead, and he looked up to see Harbor, head drooping, wild multicolored hair obscuring his face. His walk was usually something between a sway and a stumble, but it looked more erratic now, with him nearly bumping into the walls as he went.
“Hey,” Jericho started, but his voice caught when his gaze landed on Harbor's hands. His knuckles were red, skin splitting in some places, blood drying in the lines of his fingers. Totally cut up, and not from the morning’s sparring matches, so that meant… Jericho’s stomach twisted.
Sahota.
Harbor didn't look up, passing right by him as if he wasn't even aware he was there.
“Harbor—”
“Fuck off,” he said in a voice that sounded bitten off, and disappeared around the corner. Jericho had to stop himself from chasing after the other man, from asking what happened.
It was pretty clear what had happened, but why? Harbor was rough around the edges, but he didn't seem like the kind of person who enjoyed hurting someone else, especially not a someone else who was already injured. A part of him hoped that he was jumping to conclusions, that Harbor had just… punched the wall or something to try and intimidate their trainer. But before he made it to the end of the hall, before he could even open the door, he knew what he would see.
An anxious sort of nausea built in Jericho’s stomach as he took in the scene, deliberately avoiding the focus of it as long as he could. The briefing room had been cleared, the big table pushed to one side to make space for the day's challenge.
In the center, tied to a chair, sat Sahota. Blood and spit hung from his face in sticky strands, and his head sat heavy atop his shoulders, like he was struggling to keep it up. His cheek was split, the cut on his lip reopened and dribbling blood, and the eye that had been bruised was now nearly swollen shut.
Jericho’s heart beat faster.
“Is your plan just to stand there?” Sahota mumbled. “Or do you have a better idea?”
And he was just acting like it hadn’t happened. Jericho had already gathered that Sahota didn't like to show any weakness, but this was bigger than pride. Their trainer had been hurt, while he was tied down, by someone who was supposed to be on their team.
“Are you okay?” He clearly wasn't.
“Fine.”
“Did Harbor do this?” Why was he asking such stupid, obvious questions? Why couldn't he make himself step forward to untie the other man? Because of how little he wanted to believe it was true? Because of how surreal it was?
“I… I told him to,” Sahota replied.
What? Hadn’t he warned them all not to do anything he couldn’t sleep off? No matter how tough Sahota was, this didn’t look like it fell into that category.
“Let me cut you loose,” Jericho said, finally breaking a leg free of the uncertainty that held it captive, taking a step closer.
“No,” Sahota said, and he froze in his tracks. “Do what you came to do or get out. I don’t need your help.”
Jericho grimaced. “Should we really continue? You should get cleaned up, maybe—”
“I said I'm fine.”
Same song, different verse. He'd said he was fine yesterday, even after they'd all seen the video that so clearly told them he wasn't.
“Sahota…”
“Davis,” he answered in a clipped tone. “If you can't ignore the blood, leave.” He took a shaky breath, coughed, sent little flecks of red flying. “Tell me what information you're after and pursue it, or get out.”
Jericho exhaled through clenched teeth. It was pretty clear that no matter what he said, their trainer was determined to suffer through this. Was there any point in continuing? He could just leave. Walk away, abandon Sahota to his own wounds and pride, but it didn't feel right. What would happen? How long would it take Sahota to get free on his own? Better to finish the exercise and hope his trainer allowed help after it was completed.
“Okay,” he said, letting out a resigned sigh. “I want to know your first name. That’s what I’m after.”
“Then get on with it.”
Jericho took a deep breath. Ignore the blood. How was he supposed to do that?
“Hey,” he began, forcing a smile. “My… uh, my name's Jericho. I have a few questions for you, and…” he couldn't stay on track with this. He couldn't just pretend Sahota wasn't actively in pain in front of him.
“And I'd like to apologize for any rough treatment you received before I got here. It… that wasn't my intention,” he said. “I didn't want to hurt you.”
Sahota scoffed. It sounded closer to a wheeze. “Do you think Finley will buy that?”
“I don't… Maybe.” Jericho sighed. “Let me start again. Hey,” he said. “You… uh, you have some information that I need. Pretty badly." Everything he said just sounded dumb. "I want to know your name. Sounds weird, I know, but this… you could help me stop a lot of people from getting hurt.”
“What if she doesn't care?” Sahota said.
“There's hundreds of thousands of people in this city,” Jericho continued, trying not to let the other man's words deter him. “Right now, all of them are at risk. If you’ll just work with me here, we can keep them safe.”
Sahota didn't answer. And really, he had a point. Even if Finley did care about the well-being of the city, she’d have no reason to believe anything they said. How could they convince her?
“My family doesn't live here,” Jericho tried. He was truly thankful that they didn't. Having to worry about their safety, their potential destruction at the hands of an uncaring company would be terrible.
“My mom, daughter, aunts, uncles, cousins… they're not the ones in danger," he continued. "But people like them are. I’d never be able to sleep again if something just… destroyed people's lives. Something I could've prevented.” He clasped his hands together, hoped the motion looked sincere. “That's why I'm here. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to be your enemy. I just want to help people.”
Jericho sighed when that didn't get a response. He shouldn't be too disheartened. Sahota probably just didn't have much energy for conversation. Not after Harbor… did that. He glanced down at his own knuckles, still sore from fighting the taserbots just a few days ago. He'd saved Harbor. He’d thought they were finally starting to meld together and work as a team, but teammates didn't do this to each other. Even if Sahota had ordered it, why would he take it that far?
“I'm sorry about what happened,” he said. “I know someone on my team hurt you.” He swallowed. “Whoever… whoever touched you was in the wrong. You didn't deserve to be hurt like that, and… I'm sorry.” He was. He really was. He'd need to find Harbor after this. They could talk it out.
“I won't let it happen again,” Jericho said. “If someone tries to touch you, just let me know, okay? I'll stop them. I know I'm basically a stranger, but I promise I want to help you. I promise you're not alone. I—”
He stopped at an odd noise. A catch in Sahota's breath, a sound that was oddly familiar but out of place. It took a second for Jericho to realize that Ari made a sound just like it sometimes. When she was trying not to cry.
“Sahota?”
No answer, just another shaky inhale. Shoot, he knew he shouldn't have proceeded, not when he was all beat up like this. Even with Finley on the line… Vic be damned, he'd fight for it to be nothing more than a wasted day. He was fine abandoning the lead, he was fine admitting defeat here.
He wasn't fine leaving Sahota like this.
Jericho exhaled sharply through his nose, crossing the room in two strides to reach the chair their trainer was strapped to and setting to work on the knots. Surprisingly, Sahota didn't tell him off this time, just sat with his head bent and his shoulders shaking.
Why was he crying? Of course, Jericho couldn't blame him. He was probably overwhelmed with everything that was going on, and this was just the straw that had broken the camel's back. But what was ‘this’? What had been his breaking point? Had something he said triggered it?
He fumbled with the ropes, eventually managing to find a weak point in each knot and pull them loose, letting the bindings coil to the floor.
Now with his arms free, Sahota buried his face in his hands.
“Fuck,” he whispered in a thick voice. “I… I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Jericho said, taking a step back. The other man refused to look up. He could understand if he was embarrassed. Holding up an emotionless, unshakable facade all the time must be exhausting, but it would also be jarring to ever let it drop. He got it.
“The exercise is over,” Sahota said, still not raising his head.
“Alright.” Jericho couldn't let himself be mad about it. He'd given it a try, but if their trainer was just too overwhelmed right now, and no way was Jericho going to push him further. They could worry about Finley later. “Seriously though, are you okay?” he said. “There's no shame in not being fine. I know you're under a lot of stress.”
It took a moment for the other man to respond. “Go wait by the mats. I need to reset this room.”
I need some time alone.
“Okay,” Jericho said softly, backing towards the door. “Do you… want a hand getting patched up?”
“I'll handle it.”
Alright. He wouldn't push him. “Okay,” he said again. “I… guess I'll give you some space.”
It felt like it was all for nothing. Their idea for a peaceful approach had already resulted in violence, and for what? They’d all failed. They were no closer to their goal than they'd been yesterday.
He had one foot out the door when Sahota called after him.
“Davis.” It wasn't loud. It sounded uncertain, like he might ‘nevermind’ him and send him on his way. Jericho turned around, determined to be patient, to show he was at least willing to listen, even if their trainer said nothing else. But instead of sitting silent, instead of ordering him off, Sahota spoke. His head stayed bowed, hands tangled tightly around each other, eyes on the floor.
Weeks after capture, Ander Sahota is allowed one call home.
cw: threats, adult language
T$$ Masterlist
~
“Five minutes. Once your time is up, I'm taking the phone back, whether you're finished or not.”
Ander nodded silently, still hardly able to believe that Shepard was allowing this at all. He was afraid the phone would be taken away at the last second, or that it had been some cruel trick all along. He was sitting on Shepard's bed, the bed they shared, waiting for more instructions as Shepard stood over him.
“I assume whoever you decide to contact is someone who will want to know what's happened to you. I'm sure it goes without saying that you won't spill a word, mhm?”
“Mm… mhm.” Ander stared at the phone in the older man's hand. A brick, his friends would've called it. An ancient thing. To Ander, it may as well be a lifeline.
“If they do ask you what you've been getting up to, why you haven't called sooner, what will you say, little spy?”
“I have a new job,” Ander rehearsed. “It's highly secretive. I can't talk about it. It's important.”
“That's right. Do you think you're ready?”
“I am.”
Shepard licked his lips. “Do you want to know what happens if you say the wrong thing?”
He didn't. “What happens?”
“If you tell them anything about your shiny new location or lifestyle, if you tell them anything about me, I'll have no choice but to locate the person on the other side of this phone.” He held it up. “And eliminate a loose end. Understood?”
“U-understood.”
Shepard set the phone in his lap, sliding a hand around the back of Ander's neck and bringing his mouth to his ear.
“And that's only after I beat the shit out of you for disobedience. Mhm?”
“Mhm.” He didn't even dare to breathe until Shepard let him go. Even with the phone in his hands and the need to speak to his mother, to comfort her, Ander didn't want to make the call. He didn't want to mess it up in front of Shepard, especially now that he knew what was at stake. He felt sick to his stomach, but Shepard was staring at him. Waiting.
Slowly, Ander dialed his mother's number. He almost hoped she wouldn't pick up, but at the same time, he needed her to. Even if it hurt, he needed a reminder that there was still a world outside this compound, that other people still drove their cars and laughed with friends and cooked for each other, even if he couldn't.
She didn't pick up right away. He could picture her sitting at the kitchen table, bent over a book of word puzzles, frowning at a number she didn't recognize. She was always suspicious, always complained to him about strange phone numbers calling for no reason, but she always answered them anyway.
Finally, he heard a soft click. “Hello?”
His breath caught when he heard her voice. How long had it been? Even before Shepard took him, it had been a few months since he'd visited her, and he hadn't called her before his last mission. He should've called her before he left, before he'd been caught and hurt and changed.
Ander swallowed, trying to ensure his voice came out steady. “Mom?”
There was a breath of silence, then the other end of the line was filled with words, some in English, some Bengali, all too quick for him to pick out what she was saying, but he could hear the worry, hear her voice start to break, and it made his chest tighten, threatening to fill his eyes with tears.
He couldn't let himself cry. She had to know he was okay.
Shepard was staring at him expectantly. Five minutes. He only had five minutes.
“Mom,” he said again. “I—I’m sorry I didn't call sooner. I have a new job—”
“I've been worried, Kochi.”
Kochi, his childhood nickname. His Daak Naam, his mother had explained when he was young, a name just for the family to use. He had to bite down on his tongue to try and jar himself back to sense, away from the memories. He only had five minutes.
“I know you've been worried. I'm sorry. I'm alright, I promise.”
“It's been so long. When will you visit me?”
Shepard caught Ander's eye, tapped on his watch, and Ander took a deep breath.
“I have a new job,” he said in the same tone he'd rehearsed with. “It’s very secretive, and I can't talk about it, but it's important.” He took another breath, shakier this time. “And I'm okay.”
“You must come see me. Next month.”
“I—I can't.”
“You can't visit your own mother?”
Tears squeezed themselves free when he closed his eyes. “I have a job to do, mom. I'll… I'll see you when I can, but I don't know when.”
“Kochi… are you sure you're alright?” The concern in her voice twisted into his chest like a knife.
“I am. I'm okay.” He managed to get the words out without his voice breaking. He didn't know how.
One minute, Shepard mouthed.
“I—I have to go soon.”
“Already? You only just called. Tell me, how is your new job? Is your boss kind?”
He wasn't. He was.
“Yes,” Ander said. “It's good. I'm… learning so much.”
“Good, good.”
Shepard held up his watch. Thirty seconds.
“I love you,” Ander said. “I promise, I'll call you again when I can.”
“And come visit. No job is worth more than your family.”
“I—I will, mama.”
“I love you,” she said. “Āmi ābāra tōmāra sāthē dēkhā karaba.”
I will see you again.
Shepard held out his hand for the phone, and Ander placed it in the man's palm, no longer able to hold back his tears. He hunched forward, chest hitching with sobs he tried to keep quiet. Shepard rubbed his back.
“Shhh. I know. It can be difficult to leave your old life behind.”
He wasn't leaving her behind, was he? He couldn't, she wanted him to visit, next month she'd said—
Shepard pulled him into a hug, and Ander buried his face in the man's chest, his head hot and stuffy from trying to keep his own grief contained.
Grief. It was grief, wasn't it? Not just sadness, or the feeling of missing his loved ones. He was grieving the loss of people who were still alive.
He was the dead one. He was the one who'd been lost.
Shepard pulled away, holding Ander by the shoulders. “Alright, little spy. Deep breaths. We still have training today.”
Ander sniffled. “W-will I be able to call her again?”
“Hmm. Perhaps, but you'll need to earn it.”
“Will I be able to see her?”
At that, the older man laughed. “Oh, Ander. I think you already know the answer.”
He did. As long as he was Shepard's, the other man wouldn't let him go, not even for a little bit. Strangely, there was no sudden rush of despair at Shepard's words, no new sadness crushing his chest. Just something numb. Empty.
If that was the case, if he'd… if he'd never see his mother again, maybe it would be easier to not call. To let her grieve too.
