written for the @juneofdoom day 7 prompts: "can you hear me?", buried alive
warnings: vague descriptions of injuries, this chapter is all angst.
word count: 1235
read it on ao3 here.
----------------------
After the explosion, my first instincts are not to check on myself, but to make sure that Grace is safe.
Where were they? Why weren't they nearby? Had the explosion injured them and damaged the ship? Were we about to be subjected to the vacuum of space?
A few moments pass and I realise that none of those things are about to happen, because I am not on any ship. I am no longer in space. I must have– well. Not forgotten, because this should be almost impossible, but I must have gotten confused somehow. An easy mistake to explain away, since there shouldn't be any reason for explosions on Erid, at least not in the area that I currently find myself in. Although, I struggle to recall the precise location; this isn't a place that I visit often enough to have memorised it beforehand.
The sound of the explosion must have wiped out my internal map of the place. That's why I'd gotten mixed up. Following the logic helps me to ignore the instincts that tell me to check on ship readouts that I don't have access to and do not exist – because I am not in space – and do something actually productive.
I take stock of myself. I'm not badly injured. There is some damage to my carapace, but nothing so serious as to have broken through the outer shell completely. All things considered, the situation could be much worse.
I let out a click and tap two of my claws against the stone beneath me, trying to re-orientate myself. Just as there is stone below me, there is stone above me, too; slabs of it, leaning precariously against one another, but seemingly wedged in place for now. In fact, rubble encases me in every direction, making re-mapping the space even more of a complicated task. Retaining my knowledge of this area likely wouldn't be helpful to me anyway, with how much of this place has been destroyed beyond recognition. There's even some kind of sound-proofing material that has ended up in the blast zone, often interrupting my attempts to locate a path through the debris.
I hadn't been underground before the explosion, that much I knew. Now, I have either ended up a level lower than I had been, or a building must have collapsed onto the road around me. Either way, something had gone badly wrong. There is barely enough space to shuffle around in a circle, and no sign of an exit. Not that I can hear from where I am, anyway.
I can't properly sense the boundaries of this space, I realise. There isn't any soundproof material to hinder me after all. My hearing feels weaker than it should be, and I try to suppress the urge to tap again, to tap louder. If my hearing is damaged, then that won't help. I must keep a stronger hold on logical thinking.
What I can do is call out for help – even if I can't hear a response, that doesn't mean there isn't anyone close enough to hear me. I had been travelling with others, I can remember. They'd been following behind me, accompanying Grace. There's hope yet that rescue is nearby.
Maybe Grace is nearby. I suppress the urge to fidget at the thought of them being in a similar predicament as me. They'd been travelling separately in their xenonite transport, and behind the group of the other eridians. They should be fine. Surely, they should be fine.
…But what if they're not?
What if Grace had gotten unlucky, as they often do? What if they are pinned under rubble that they have no hope of shifting? What if they're stuck, waiting for me to rescue them?
Until now, I have been content to wait and figure things out slowly, but the image of Grace trapped like I am drives me to work quicker. He's probably scared. Alone.
I utter a low-pitched rumble for as long as I can. Then I wait, and listen for a response to my call for help.
Nothing.
It's only when I start to try and move around, intending to carry on calling out from the few other locations I can access, that I notice how sluggish I'm feeling. My limbs want to drag against the stone, and it takes me longer to process the sound input around me.
My body wants to shut down, obviously deeming a sleep-cycle necessary to return itself to full functionality. I can't allow it. I am still needed awake. Grace needs me awake.
I call out again, and once again receive no response in return. In desperation, I crawl to the thinnest section of the wall that I can get a read on with my limited hearing, and try to shift some of the stone. It should be an easy task for me, but I'm far from being at my strongest, and weariness slows my efforts down.
I pull and pull and pull at a rock, until– yes! It pulls free.
And above me, the other slabs of stone shift.
I freeze in place, cursing my haste and my lack of thought. I should be better than this. I know how to judge structural integrity. I need to focus, need to work through the exhaustion, as I have done before, as I had managed to do for decades–
"Rocky?"
Cutting through the sound of debris shifting over my head, comes a voice. No eridian would make sounds like those – there is only one person it can be.
"Grace!" I call out, before I even take the time to process what they might be saying, once again tapping the stones around me to try and pinpoint the human's location. The sound of shifting rubble has come to a stop, leaving my efforts uninterrupted.
Eventually I manage to detect movement, and even the outline of the suit that Grace has to wear to survive in our atmosphere. No details, but it tells me enough to understand the situation. They're above me, pacing the area, seemingly alone.
I call out to Grace again, but they don't respond. "Rocky," Grace calls out instead, "can you hear me?"
I cry out an affirmative even though I know it must be useless. If Grace didn't hear me just then, they can't hear me at all. Their hearing isn't as good as an eridian's, and I am too far away from them.
It doesn't help that my cries are growing weaker, sleep encroaching even faster than it had been before. I have no choice but to slump to the ground, and as I do, my carapace creaks. Mercury moves within the cracks, pooling in places it shouldn't. Exerting myself as I had done when shifting the rubble had been not just a bad idea, but a potentially fatal one – I need medical help, and fast.
I don't dwell on this fact. I don't have any choice in the matter.
As sleep takes hold of me, it's all I can do to focus on the sound of my friend, who has turned to walk away. They're going to leave me down here, and they won't ever know it. It's a thought that scares me more than the fact that I will be sleeping with nobody to watch me. Grace will never forgive themself.
I let out one final wail. The footsteps come to a stop. Then–
---
this was inspired by andy weir's document on eridians, specifically this part: "Humans have vastly better spatial memory. This is due to the fact that they are unable to sense it in all directions, like an Eridian can. So if a sudden noise or event removes an Eridian’s ability to hear, it will not have any idea what the makeup of the room is unless it put conscious effort into memorizing it in advance. While a human knows exactly what the room is like behind him, and could even find their way around in the dark."
not sure when chapter two will be up! it'll depend on if i find inspiration in a june of doom prompt or not. saying that, i do have parts of it written already, so we may end up with a two-fics-in-one-day june upload.
written for the @juneofdoom day 6 prompt: claustrophobia
warnings: descriptions of panic attacks, angst
word count: 674
read it on ao3 here.
Eva can't lose her nerve, not yet – she still has work to do. She'll hide her fear, and smother her humanity, and carry on.
After all, what use will she be if she can't linger for too long in a small space? She is the commander of this ship. She must continue.
------------------------
The trawler that they acquire for her when their final plans are set in motion is no aircraft carrier, but it's close enough. They have it all set up for her, ready and waiting for her arrival, which Eva can appreciate. These past few weeks have been overwhelming. Having the logistics taken care of for her is one less thing that she has to try and set her weary mind to while she reacclimatises to life outside of a cell.
The crew has made some obvious efforts to mirror the setup they'd perfected on their first vessel. The layout is as close to the previous as they can get, and even some of the furnishings seem to have been transported from some of the old rec rooms to these new ones.
It should be a comfort. Eva finds that it is not.
The familiarity does nothing to help the panic that sets in when Eva is finally left alone in her quarters, a place that is spacious as far as ship quarters go, but is still a mere three metre by three metre box when all is said and done.
It's a ridiculous thing, to feel trapped in a room with an unlocked door. Ridiculous, she tells herself, leaving said door to swing shut behind her as she makes for the top deck.
She only passes a few people on her way, keeping her head ducked low so nobody will be able to get a read on her expression. Eva can blame her brisk pace for her breathlessness and nobody would be any the wiser, but doesn't want anyone to stop and question her regardless. Not that she truly thinks anybody might – it'll take more than a decade away from them for anyone to forget that it's a bad idea to interrupt Eva Stratt when she is walking as purposefully as she is doing so now.
She finds a quiet corner of the ship with little trouble – the cold wind is biting enough to cut through the haze that had carried her away from her room, and she doubts anyone else is going to brave it willingly – and she soon finds herself gripping the steel railings, taking deep but unsteady breaths.
Ridiculous, she tells herself again. She's being ridiculous. How is she supposed to resume command when she is afraid of lingering for too long in a small space. Almost all of the rooms on this ship will be small.
She closes her eyes, and makes another attempt to steel herself. The sound of the waves crashing against the side of the vessel is mesmerising, and she tries her best to focus on it.
It had just been a room, she tries to reason with herself. It had been small, yes, but any of the ship's sleeping quarters would be, and it wasn't even that small, not by the standards she now held. It hadn't looked even remotely similar to–
She takes another breath, even more ragged than the last.
The roar of the waves seems distant, somehow. She's waiting, she realises. Waiting with baited breath for something else. Jeering, perhaps. Or laughter.
For the most part, her life over the previous years had been dull. Whether it had been dictated that she served her time owed outside of a cell or within, she was always watched very carefully. Treatment had ranged from mundane to harsh, but had rarely been cruel.
It made the times where their treatment of her had been cruel stick with her all the worse.
With little else to do she would find herself stuck in a cycle of reliving the worst days over and over, either those during her tenure as mission director, or those spent at the hands of some particularly vengeful overseer. There were a couple of faces she doubted she would ever be able to forget. A couple of places, too; small rooms, with no windows, and nobody around to hear her shout or yell in fright at some imagined threat in the dark.
Rooms with no space to pace around, or even to fully stretch herself out.
Rooms that she had thought they might keep her in forever, because nobody was hurting her, were they? In fact, they were being kind enough to leave her to her own devices. It was a kinder fate than she deserved, wasn't it?
Eva grits her teeth at the memories, then smooths her expression. A moment of anguish is all she can allow.
The walls of this ship will not crush her, no matter how much they might have seemed to press on her lungs. The room that she will sleep in – somehow, eventually, between nightmares – may not have a window, but there is nobody to stop her from seeking out a different view. There will be no laughter. No mocking. Nobody to taunt her, and to tell her that providing her with any space larger than a grave was a mercy she didn't deserve, not with all the blood on her hands.
No. Things are different now, Eva reminds herself again. She can't lose her nerve, not yet – she still has work to do. She tucks her shaking hands inside her coat, then turns to walk back inside.
warnings: descriptions of OCD, discussions of character death, angst with a mostly happy ending.
word count: 2012
read it on ao3 here.
Thousands of years of evolution have left eridians with the instinct to watch over each other while they sleep; a paranoia so strong that it has been folded into their culture.
Grace has only known Rocky for a few months, but he has always been an overachiever. If he doesn't watch over his friend, something very bad is going to happen. He knows it.
-----------------------
Ironically, the next problem that Grace has to deal with on their journey to Erid begins with Rocky trying to look out for him.
After the two of them sit down and discuss the timeline of the next few years, and what Grace will eventually have to face at the hands of malnutrition, Rocky insists on learning more about human biology as a whole. Rocky is going to get Grace to Erid alive, he promises Grace with a conviction that has Grace both believing him and feeling slightly concerned, and the end result is that they both end up spending weeks pouring over documents and websites concerning the many different health conditions and potential threats to human life.
Grace volunteers to look through the information on radiation poisoning, of course. That had been a rough conversation the first time around, and he doesn't want to inflict that on Rocky again if he can help it. Despite the eridian's insistence that his brain doesn't work the same as a human's, and that 'trauma' is processed differently, and he's absolutely fine, thank you– Grace had his doubts.
So, one day when Rocky is asleep, he reads through the list of symptoms all by himself. He wants to commit them to memory, just in case there is another issue with the astrophage, or he has to do deep-space repairs outside of the ship, or some other emergency scenario crops up. If he starts developing symptoms in the aftermath, he wants to know what they mean.
It feels a bit overkill, actually preparing for such a scenario, but by this point he knows better than to underestimate the danger that space can pose to them. This feels like a healthy paranoia, rather than an irrational one.
It's at that point that he gets thinking - what would radiation poisoning look like in an eridian? Something similar to what you'd see in a human, probably, based on the limited descriptions Rocky had given him when discussing the fate of his crewmates. And, if it affects eridians like it does humans… maybe there are long-term effects to be wary of, too.
Maybe Rocky would end up experiencing long-term effects.
Sure, he had been shielded by astrophage and then by Tau-ceti, but what if he'd still been exposed for long enough for it to do damage in a way that wouldn't be immediately noticeable? What if he'd been injured, and neither of them had realised it?
No. This wasn't a train of thought that he would entertain for any longer. Grace shakes himself – he was being paranoid, and that was all.
Just in case, he asks Mary to check Rocky's vitals, a function that they had spent painstaking hours setting up when Rocky had first become a permanent member of Mary's crew, and, naturally, all is well. If there was anything wrong, they would have noticed by now, Grace tells himself again, trying to combat his worries with logic. Rocky had spent decades by himself. That should have been more than enough time for any problems to show up.
Still. Grace can't shake the feeling that something very bad might be about to happen.
He looks over at his friend. Rocky still has hours left of his sleep cycle, if previous times are anything to go by. Grace moves closer, looking down at his friend. It's impossible to tell anything about him when he's like this. There's no movement while they're in this state of paralysis, not like you'd get with a sleeping human. In fact, grace can picture an eridian looking exactly the same way if they were–
No. No. He wasn't going to think about anything like that. Mary had checked, and Rocky was fine, so Grace was going to get up, return to the computer, and finish his research. Then, he would put the whole morbid topic behind him.
Grace doesn't get back to his feet. Instead, he leans forwards, pressing one hand against the pane of xenonite closest to Rocky.
He'll get back to work in a few minutes, maybe. Taking a break for a little while longer won't hurt.
—
The checking becomes a habit. An innocent habit, but not something that Grace can deny is increasing in frequency. It'll get to the halfway point of Rocky's sleep cycle, or thereabouts, and Grace will find himself gravitating towards the eridian, sitting beside him, making sure that he is close enough to notice if something goes wrong.
Initially it's purely for Grace's benefit, too. When the spiralling thoughts become overwhelming, walking over and sitting next to his friend provides some level of relief. Mary can tell Grace Rocky's vitals, and Grace can sit there, waiting – hoping – for his friend to wake up sooner rather than later.
Rocky has only woken up a couple of times when Grace has been sitting there, having been unable to pull himself away again, and he hasn't had any questions yet. If anything, he has seemed pleased by Grace's proximity. It's probably an eridian thing – Rocky has always maintained that he should watch grace as closely as possible when grace is asleep.
Grace takes it as a sign that it's fine to continue as he is. He's doing a good thing, really, if it can provide his friend with even more comfort than usual.
—
He has taken to recording the length of time that Rocky spends asleep. It's a precautionary measure, and even if he feels a little weird for doing so the first time around, he can't convince himself to stop. If there did end up being something wrong with his friend, he wants to be able to know about it as soon as possible.
—
When he ignores the urge to check on Rocky, Grace starts to get antsy. It feels like he has an itch under his skin that he can't scratch. Not with logic, at least.
The last time he'd felt like this had been before Stratt had given him that impossible choice. With so many lives at stake, he found himself going over and over the same sets of results, double and triple checking the numbers.
Then, there had been no relief for it, or at least no time for him to find any. Now, there is, so why shouldn't he indulge? His actions aren't hurting anyone.
Grace goes and checks on Rocky.
—
He can't stop thinking about it – about what his life would be like without Rocky.
It would probably be cut short, Grace thinks. If Rocky dies on the way to Erid, he probably won't make it through the last couple of months of travel, not if their research is accurate. This, however, feels like the least concerning part of the whole scenario. Death might be kinder than having to carry on without Rocky, because Grace would have to carry on, or else carry the weight of condemning all of Erid to a cold death.
All those deaths on his conscience, and yet he still keeps cycling back to the thought of losing his friend. The idea of failing Rocky somehow makes him feel worse than the idea of failing an entire planet.
—
Rocky has been asleep for an hour longer than on average. It's almost the longest time that Grace has recorded rocky sleeping for, period. In only ten more minutes, it will beat the record.
The ten minutes drag past.
The thirty minutes after those seem to take even longer.
Grace must check in with Mary at least a dozen times (an estimate he would triple, if he were thinking rationally, which he isn't). Eventually he resorts to pacing, filled with too much nervous energy to continue sitting beside his friend, walking back and forth beyond the barrier that separates the two of them.
He knows how punishing the eridian atmosphere is for humans, has the burn scars to show for it, but he still finds himself fixating on how he might find a way to face it again to get closer to Rocky. Rocky is working on a solution to increase his mobility in Grace's environment, but Grace has no way of doing the same in Rocky's. Until now, he'd never thought about this problem, and now that he has he can't help berating himself for the lack of foresight.
Maybe Grace can build something. He may not be an engineer, but he's a fast learner. Maybe a robot…? But, no, any materials he has access to either wouldn't be able to survive the heat and the pressure, or are in limited supply. He needs xenonite. He needs Rocky–
Movement catches his attention.
Eridians can pull themselves from their sleep-state fairly quickly, but still need a little time to reorientate themselves after waking. Rocky, obviously sensing Grace's distress, manages to be up on his feet in half the time that he usually is.
Grace is already down on his knees beside him. "Rocky!" he exclaims, not making any attempt at all to keep the relief from his voice. "You're okay!"
"Of course Rocky okay," Rocky replies between clicks, obviously trying to get a good 'look' at Grace, just as Grace is carefully inspecting him for any signs of injury or distress. "Grace heart organ go fast fast fast – danger, question?"
Rocky's moving around just the same as he normally does, his movements smoother than any rock-spider's had any right to be. The notes that made up his voice sound as steady as ever. From the outside, everything seems to be fine.
"Grace think something is wrong with Rocky, question?" Rocky probes, seeming to notice the scrutiny.
Rocky's second question has Grace realising that he never responded to the first, and how selfish was that? Rocky didn't deserve to be dealing with all of this, and just after he had woken up, too.
"No, bud, I'm sorry," Grace says in a rush, "there's no danger. You just scared me a little, that was all. But it wasn't your fault. You just were asleep for a long time."
At that, Rocky hums. "Not long," he says. "This many seconds is still within normal range for eridian rest-cycle. Grace know this, statement."
He scuttles forwards, tapping one claw against the xenonite. "Grace leaking," he says, quieter.
Grace is. At some point the tears had started, and he hadn't been able to summon the willpower to stop them. He feels exhausted, despite not doing anything but sit next to Rocky for the past few hours. All this worrying, and for what? What would he even have done if something had gone wrong and Rocky had needed help? All he has done is make both himself and Rocky more stressed.
"Grace explain," Rocky eventually says. It isn't a demand. Grace is very familiar with the tone of a demand. "Grace explain, then Grace stop leaking."
Grace explains. To the best of his ability, at least. He tells Rocky about his worries, about his research – at some point, he even confesses to the collection of data he has been keeping on the duration of Rocky's sleep. It all comes out at once, a flood of information that Grace could do nothing to stop even if he wanted to.
He doesn't want to, though. Saying everything out loud makes the whole situation seem different somehow, as if he's seeing it from a different perspective.
"Many many many concerns," Rocky says, after Grace has finished. "Some can fix, some no can fix. We sort one group from the other group. Grace Rocky work together, then no more concerns."
He makes it sound so simple that Grace can't help but laugh. It's a real, genuine thing, and he isn't expecting it, so he starts crying again. Rocky starts berating him for leaking again, and Grace laughs harder, and the conversation has been well and truly derailed – but Grace feels lighter for it. Maybe he'll never reach 'no more concerns', but maybe things will be okay anyway.
After so long spent fixated on the idea of life without Rocky, he had forgotten to consider what life might look like with Rocky in it.
---
the prompt may have gotten away from me a little... i was originally planning on having rocky die en route to erid and writing about how grace would/wouldn't deal with that, but MagicalStardust suggested a 'grace dealing with OCD' fic and here we are. rocky dodged a bullet, there. and got hit by a different, OCD-shaped bullet.
written for the @juneofdoom day four prompt: blankets
warnings: none, angst.
word count: 752
read it on ao3 here.
The blanket is such a simple reminder of what it is that she is fighting for: the fact that there is still kindness in the world.
How far that kindness will last when it comes to Eva herself, given her plans, is another matter.
----------------------
The first thing Eva notices when she wakes up is that she has made a mistake – because she is waking up. She had never intended to go to sleep in the first place, not here, in her office.
She's slumped against the arm of the sofa, and it's only when she shifts to sit fully upright that she notices the second unexpected facet of this situation in the form of a blanket that slides onto the seat beside her. The woollen material rubs against her arm as it shifts, and she blinks, frowning down at it.
She supposes she can understand how she ended up passing out in her office. Usually Eva keeps a strict schedule that involves at least six hours of sleep (Eva has learned from the mistakes of others, and knows that making critical decisions under limited cognitive function is a recipe for mission failure), but the previous day had been a gruelling one, and the night before that an emergency had meant that she had been unable to spare any time for rest.
The blanket, however, makes less sense. She's still staring down at it as if it might hold some kind of answer for her.
The fact that somebody had gone out of their way, used their precious time, to make her life a little more comfortable shouldn't be unexpected – but, somehow, it is.
The kindness surprises her.
In a world where everyone around her has no choice but to dedicate their every waking moment to ensuring the future of mankind– by her own orders, nonetheless– she has become used to brutal efficiency. She surrounds herself with it. Immerses herself in it. They made her the project leader because of it, because she could get the job done quickly enough to save them all.
She picks up the blanket from where it has fallen, and finds herself rubbing the material of it between her fingers, unable to pull herself from her thoughts. Later, she'll blame the fact that she was still waking up for her sluggishness. The reality, that such a simple reminder of what she was fighting for has almost driven her to tears, is harder to confront.
The kindness had surprised her, but it had been proof that there is still plenty of good in the world.
—
There is still plenty of good in the world.
There has to be, because that was the nature of humanity, but it has been a long time now since Eva has seen any proof of it for herself.
In her cell, she shivers. She had always known that prisoners would be the first to feel the effects of rationing. She had braced herself for it, accepted it, and even now that she is facing it she doesn't truly resent anyone for it. It's a cruelty she could see coming.
She hadn't, however, continued to follow that logic to the conclusion that other resources would be limited, too. She'd had other things to concern herself with, and little time to consider how comfortably she might spend her years in prison.
They'd taken the blanket and the bedding from her cell, the week previous. Others needed it more, they'd said, looking down at her as they carried it away.
It was one thing to know that the world was getting colder and colder, and another to feel that cold creep into her bones through the walls of a cell, with not even the flimsy sheet of fabric as a buffer. Even with her legs drawn up off of the concrete floor, she can't escape it. Her teeth chatter, and she huddles in on herself, hugging her legs to her chest. It must be the middle of the night, by now. These days, she sleeps in the daylight, when some small amount of warmth returns to the room.
This won't be forever, she reminds herself. Not forever; just until she is needed again outside of this place.
She has contingencies in place, of course, when it comes to her time spent in prison, and plans for if those contingencies fail. These years of her life have always been weighed by how usefully they might be spent, either outside of these walls or within. Currently, she's the distraction the world needs to keep the pressure off of the remaining Hail Mary team – but one day, the scales will tip, and her life will be more useful to those trying to recover the beetles.
written for the @juneofdoom day 2 prompt: "you have to let me go", and then for the day 3 prompt: deception.
warnings: vague descriptions of broken bones, angst, discussions of character death, first part is rocky pov second part is grace pov.
word count: 2141
read both chapters on ao3 here.
Grace turns, making sure that he has Rocky's full attention.
"When, exactly, were you planning on telling me that you'd done something to mess with my lifespan?"
------------------------
It's a strange party. Rocky has always assumed that all parties that Grace has held on Erid are odd by Earth standards, but this one feels strange even to itself. Many of the friends that Grace has managed to accumulate over the years are present, people are talking and laughing together, and Earth music is playing over a set of modified speakers. There isn't any food, something that Grace had explained would usually be found at Earth celebrations, but this is normal. Everything is, theoretically, as it should be. There isn't any reason for Rocky to be acting as it is, not by the standards that it knows Grace would judge it by if Grace had already seen Rocky lurking at the outskirts of the gathering, making no move to actually join in.
As it is, Grace hasn't spotted it yet, so Rocky is left with more time to brood.
It's the reason for celebrating that just feels wrong, in Rocky's opinion. It taps the ground to get a clearer picture of the party from where it sits at the bottom of the cliff, then tucks its arms even tighter around itself.
The reason for celebration this time is the removal of Grace's arm cast. Apparently this is a 'colourful' thing, something that they had all assisted Grace in decorating, adding different patterns and eridian messages to it in accordance with important Earth traditions. Grace had said that it would be sad to see it go, but Rocky couldn't be more glad to put the whole thing behind them.
Rocky had said it would be a worse reason to host a party than the others they had shared, but Grace had said it didn't care. He'd rather celebrate something simple, rather than the avoidance of something as dire as death by astrophage crisis, like their first celebration had involved.
Rocky would argue otherwise. Any situation involving its friend being in pain was dire enough for it.
When the accident had first occurred, a fall that had led to a broken bone, Grace had been in agony. Rocky couldn't forget the sounds it had made, the vocalisations of pain that Rocky hadn't heard it make for many years now. Worse, almost, was how Grace had attempted to calm Rocky in the aftermath. As if Rocky were the one that had been howling in pain just a few hours beforehand.
It was "just something that happened", Grace had told Rocky. "Just an accident, nothing more."
It was something that Grace could have avoided, Rocky had argued, and Grace had shrugged. It'd told Rocky that it needed to learn its new limits. It was getting older, and having brittle bones was just one of the consequences of that process that it should have been expecting.
Grace had gone on to remind Rocky of the other signs of aging that it was anticipating, after that. It had explained things to Rocky that Rocky had already heard it bring up a dozen times before.
That was another human thing of its that Grace hasn't managed to shake – reminding Rocky of things that it had no physical way of forgetting. Grace blamed its own imperfect memory for forgetting that fact, but Rocky knew the truth behind its reminders. Its friend had been circling back to the same morbid topics surrounding its own mortality at an increasing frequency, as of late.
It keeps going back to the same topics, and saying the most unthinkable things, and now it wants to do something as ordinary as hosting a party? Rocky doesn't know how it can follow suit, not after what Grace had said to it.
As if intercepting the light-thoughts from Rocky's crystalline pathways, Grace finally notices Rocky's chosen lurking-spot and ambles its way over to it.
"Rocky!" it exclaims, showing its teeth. "I didn't see you over here, sorry. How's it going?"
It's aiming for casual, Rocky knows, just as it knows that Grace is hiding its discomfort. After all of these years, it's almost figured out how to mask its emotions from it – but just as Grace has adapted, so has Rocky. Silly Grace, thinking that Rocky wouldn't be able to notice a lie.
"I'm tired," Rocky replies, choosing not to address the 'elephant in the room'. "It's nearly my sleep cycle."
Despite the lack of enthusiasm, Grace latches onto its words. "I didn't realise," it exclaimed. "I could tell people to start leaving, if you wanted. You could sleep. I would watch."
Rocky hums, a noncommittal noise that it had definitely picked up from the human, and one that has the human drooping slightly where it now sits. Rocky didn't care – it was fitting to use its own quirks against it. Nothing less than it deserved, after what it had said.
"Some day, Rocky, you're going to have to let me go. I just want you to be ready for that."
Grace had been mistaken at the time when it'd thought that Rocky had been upset over the idea of it dying. Not that Rocky isn't – but it was the fact that Grace had assumed that Rocky wasn't able to do something about it that had really gotten to it.
Despite Grace's squishiness, there are many human traits that Rocky is grateful that it possessed. Its humour, its closeness, its melodic laughter… and, right now, the fact that it would be impossible for Grace to be able to interface with any eridian thrum.
Rocky isn't sure why it is hesitant about Grace knowing of the thrums Rocky has encouraged, thrums with the goal of extending its short lifespan, but Rocky is. Grace has been amenable to things in the past that had shared the goal of improving its life, such as the various walking aids and supports that helped it move under greater gravity than it was designed to handle. Grace had been grateful for such interventions, even, but this…?
Rocky isn't sure.
Not that Grace's opinion mattered in this case. There is only one option, really. There is a problem, and Rocky is going to fix it. Even if it can't stop its friend from falling and injuring itself, it can do that.
By its side, the human shifts. Even lost in thought as Rocky is– another human trait that Rocky had picked up over the years from Grace, or at least was willing to blame on it– Rocky picks up on the motion, and refocuses.
"Later," Rocky says, addressing the human's concerns over its sleep. Grace shrinks in on itself some more, so Rocky shifts a little closer, extending a claw to lay on its knee. Grace takes comfort in contact, Rocky knows, and uses now to distract from its mood – and to check up on the human, emitting a click to get a better picture of its friend.
Rocky hasn't been squeamish about observing Grace for a long time now, and had been there when the fracture had occurred, so finding it along Grace's arm-bone is a simple matter.
Less simple is dispelling the sound-memory of the incident that had led to it; it had been a terrible thing, a sound that no human should make. Eridians would emit cracks when fighting, or when colliding with their craggy environment, but that was just the sound of their carapace doing its job and keeping them safe. With Grace, the sound had meant something very different, transforming from something ordinary into something terrible.
Rocky wouldn't ever be able to forget it, just as he wouldn't be able to forget any of the reminders of Grace's shorter lifespan. As it huddles against the human, clicking again more audibly to reassure it that Rocky is watching over it, Rocky can't shift its thoughts away.
Neither, it suspects, can Grace, not if the grip against Rocky's arm and the closeness of it is anything to go by. Grace still needed Rocky, in more ways that it might realise.
And here Grace was, telling Rocky that it needed to let it go without a fight.
Never.
---
It takes Grace a few years longer to realise what must be happening to him, and longer still to work up the courage to actually confront Rocky about it. Although, he wonders if part of the hesitation might not have been due to nerves, but rather a morbid curiosity over how long it would take for Rocky to tell him.
Did Rocky truly think he wouldn't notice? Grace isn't as observant as his eridian friend, but he isn't stupid, no matter what Rocky might say when Grace is overly tired or acting in a way that doesn't make sense to him (as if anything that didn't make sense to Rocky must be stupid by default).
It isn't like there hasn't been opportunity to bring the subject up, either. Grace has spent a long time trying to get his friend to talk to him about Grace's shorter lifespan, and what to do when it is spent. He has never succeeded, and to this day it has been one of the few things that they'll properly clash over; Rocky, never willing to sit still for the conversation, and Grace, never willing to just let it drop.
Well, no further. Today, Grace isn't going to give Rocky the chance to escape the conversation.
"Hi there, Rocky," he calls out in greeting, watching the eridian skitter towards him down the beach. Grace is aiming for casual, but he knows that Rocky knows him well enough now to notice his nerves showing even through a simple greeting. "Come on, sit down. I want to talk to you about something."
Rocky does as he asks, but audibly clicks in his direction as he does so, a sound that is typically used to get a better picture of his surroundings in difficult or unusual terrain. The eridian has told Grace before that Grace's squishiness makes him especially easy to get a read on, so the louder echolocation sound is purely for Grace's benefit – I've got my 'eyes' on you, Rocky is telling him.
In return, Grace smiles. Rocky's full attention is exactly what he wants here, after all.
"Yes, yes, talking," the eridian chimes, "what else would Rocky be here to do? This is supposed to be your rest day. No adventures today."
As he settles, he shuffles his claws in front of him, something that is decidedly not for Grace's benefit, Grace suspects, given that this is usually a nervous tell.
"Agree, agree, agree," Grace replies. "No adventures. Maybe a movie, or a game of chess… I just have a question for you, first."
He turns, making sure that he has Rocky's full attention.
"When, exactly, were you planning on telling me that you'd done something to mess with my lifespan?"
Rocky doesn't freeze, exactly, because he had already stilled himself when Grace had started talking and adopted the pose of a boulder in true eridian fashion. He does, however, fail to respond.
Grace waits, and waits, then sighs.
"Why wouldn't you just tell me? Why not ask?"
"...What is the point of asking when there is only one correct answer. Statement."
At that, Grace finds himself scowling. "That's not the first time I've heard that kind of sentiment, Rocky. And yeah, I guess everything worked out in the end, because I got to meet you, and we were able to save our worlds, but… still. It stings to not have been able to make that choice myself."
Rocky shuddered. "What if Grace said no? Grace had said that he had made peace with lifespan, and maybe it is like the first time, a false-peace, but maybe it isn't. Maybe Grace has made peace. Maybe Grace doesn't want to–"
He cuts himself off, his final note ringing out without another to follow.
"It doesn't matter," he finally continues. "Rocky has fixed everything. Any other outcome would be unacceptable."
He pauses. Shuffles from one claw to another.
"Rocky can't keep being Rocky without Grace."
The last part is warbled quietly, almost too quietly for Grace to pick up with his limited range of hearing. It's not an apology, or an excuse, but a confession.
"I don't think Grace would be Grace without Rocky, either," Grace admits, and feels Rocky lean into his side at the concession, "but no matter how long I live for, one of us is going to end up dying eventually."
He pauses, and pulls Rocky closer, drawing him up into a hug. He doesn't want to say what he has to say next, knows that it'll hurt his friend, but some things need to be said. If they had been, then this conversation wouldn't have needed to happen.
"There are just some things that you can't fix."
At that, Grace can feel Rocky twitch, but Grace doesn't budge. He just pulls Rocky closer, not letting go.
written for the @juneofdoom day one prompt: unfair fight
warnings: descriptions of flashbacks and panic attacks
word count: 2303
read it on ao3 here.
When nightmares drive Grace to avoid sleep for far longer than he should do, Rocky decides to adopt a new strategy to help him.
Grace had known that eridians were strong. It was one thing to know that as a fact, however, and another thing entirely to experience first-hand.
-------------------------
"Rocky!"
Grace was shouting the word before he was even really awake enough to realise what he was saying. Unfortunately, he was also not awake enough to have fully forgotten the motivation behind it, images of how his friend might ignite in his oxygen-rich atmosphere still lingering in his mind's eye.
"Rocky is here," the voice– the chords– came from somewhere next to him, finally doing the job that Grace's panicked wheezing hadn't been able to do and dispelling the nightmare for good. There were no wailing notes of pain behind them, no high-pitched screech; just the usual steady timbre that Grace would expect from the eridian.
Rocky was fine. There wasn't any emergency. Adrian was long behind them, and the two of them had survived.
Grace focused on that thought, struggling to wrestle back control of his breathing. It took him longer still to really comprehend where he was and what Rocky was up to, even after he had forced himself upright and blinked away the worst of the grogginess - he wasn't used to seeing the eridian running around outside of the ball, and certainly wasn't used to having him be able to get close enough to try and provide some kind of physical comfort.
Rocky, xenonite suit catching the lights above them, had huddled into his side, far closer and warmer than he had been able to when he had been restricted by the xenonite ball. It was nice. Grounding, even.
"Nightmare," Rocky stated once Grace had gotten his breath back, and Grace nodded despite the fact that the eridian wasn't really looking for clarification. By this point, it was not as uncommon an occurrence as it had been a few months ago when they'd started their journey towards Erid. In fact, nightmares had been making an increasingly regular appearance during the night-cycle that Grace had adopted.
Grace wasn't stupid, despite the recent accusations that Rocky had thrown at him for occasionally avoiding sleep. He knew that having increasingly dire nightmares was normal for someone who had been through as much as he had.
Knowing that fact didn't mean he had to like it, however, and soon he was pushing himself even further upright, bracing himself to swing his legs around and off of the bed– only to find himself faced with an immovable force.
Next to him, Rocky had shifted, placing a hand against Grace's shoulder.
"Grace only sleep for two hours," Rocky chimed. "Is not enough."
Grace grimaced, and shrugged off the touch. "I don't think I'm going to be getting any more sleep at the minute, bud," he said. "I need to stretch my legs. Get out of the way, would you?"
Rocky shifted, two of his other arms thudding against the bed in an agitated manner.
"Grace say this last night. And night before! No sleep bad bad bad for Grace."
The two of them stopped and stared at each other – or, rather, Grace frowned at Rocky, and Rocky tilted his carapace towards Grace in a manner that Grace had been interpreting as a hard stare.
Then, when Grace went to push himself up again regardless, Rocky stepped forwards into his space, taking full advantage of being free from the xenonite hamster ball.
The xenonite suit was a new addition, one that had gone through a few iterations already before Rocky had landed on the version he was using now. He'd insisted on making it, refining the design to something more form-fitting in case of emergency, despite Grace's best efforts to reassure him that their journey shouldn't pose any threats similar to what they had faced around Adrian. Not that Grace had been trying too hard, beyond trying to quiet his friend's anxieties – it gave Rocky no excuses not to help with chores like keeping the ship tidy, even if it did give him more opportunities to be a menace.
Grace still found it a little jarring to see his friend moving around in it, and stranger yet to have his friend use to get up in his face.
The two of them had celebrated its creation with a proper hug, which Grace had melted into and then promptly freaked out over. Since then, they'd been working up to maintaining closer and closer contact, Rocky obviously not trusting Grace's reassurances that he was going to be fine.
Until now, that was.
"Rocky!" Grace sputtered, left with no choice but to let the eridian push him further and further backwards until he was lying down flat again. "Hey, cut it out!"
Grace had known, intellectually, that eridians were strong. It was one thing to know that as a fact, however, and another thing entirely to experience firsthand.
Defiantly, he tried to wriggle down the bed and out from underneath Rocky, only for Rocky to immediately hook two of his arms under Grace's and haul him back up into place. Although, maybe 'hauled' was the wrong word to describe it, given how little effort the eridian put into moving him. Despite the gentle grip that Rocky kept on him, there was no chance of escaping it.
"Come on, Rocky," Grace groaned, "stop messing around! I'll go to sleep eventually, I promise. I'm just not tired right now."
"Grace also promise this two nights ago! Only few hours of sleep since then, not enough. Grace lie lie lie." Rocky tilted his carapace upwards, as if realising something, then chittered in a pitch that Grace had come to understand as laughter. "Now Grace lie! Lie down."
Grace sighed.
"Is joke!" Rocky clarified, all-too-pleased with himself, and disappointed at the lack of encouragement that Grace usually provided towards his efforts at human puns.
"Okay, okay, good one!" Grace forced himself to laugh, aware that he might be grinning a little too wide to be convincing. "I'm giving up now. No need to keep–"
Grace cut himself off, trying to pull himself up and away this time.
Even the element of surprise was of no help to him. In fact, he probably found himself the one more shocked out of the two of them, not truly expecting Rocky to keep up his antics for long. As it was, all Grace succeeded in doing in his second bid for freedom was getting himself wedged underneath Rocky's carapace, half stuck on his side, half with his arm trapped underneath him.
Rocky chittered. "Amuse amuse amuse! No problems, if Grace insists, Grace can sleep on front!" he chimed smugly.
Grace didn't bother with a response that time, given how stubborn he knew Rocky could be when he'd made up his mind about something. He settled on gritting his teeth, something that the eridian probably found more disturbing than any barbed words Grace might spit at him, trying to think of anything that might persuade Rocky to see reason.
Above him, the eridian shifted, moving more of his weight onto Grace's back as he seemed to take the human's silence as surrender. It was far from a crushing force, nothing more than a gentle pressure, but something about it still had Grace freezing up.
Grace swallowed. Rocky knew what he was doing, he reassured himself. In the eridian's own words Grace was a 'leaky space blob' - Rocky knew that Grace wasn't as sturdy as he was. But still, as he lay there, he could have sworn the weight above him was increasing even further. It was shifting from a gentle but steady pressure to something more crushing. Something truly inescapable.
Something that seemed to be making it harder and harder to breathe.
"Rocky," Grace managed to get out, "I don't think I can sleep like–"
Rocky made a gentle hissing sound, not dissimilar to white noise. It was the eridian equivalent of a 'shhhhhh'.
"Less talk, less worry, more sleep. Rocky protect."
Right, sleep. That was the whole purpose of this. But grace didn't feel particularly restful, nor did he feel particularly safe, no matter what his friend might insist upon.
In fact, he could feel… a chill?
That didn't make any sense. Rocky should have been an inescapable source of heat, and here he was suppressing a shiver.
Then, he went to clutch the bedsheets, intending to drag them closer towards himself, and found himself clutching at blades of grass.
Wheezing, he forced his head to the side and his gaze upwards, eyes gliding over the sight of a chain link fence and a stormy sky and settling on a faceless figure. That wasn't right either, he knew it wasn't, and yet in his confusion his brain couldn't summon up the answer to who he should be looking up at.
"Sleep," they commanded, but he didn't want to go to sleep. He didn't want to go to sleep, but they weren't going to give him any choice about it. He knew that with as much certainty as he knew that everything about this was wrong, wrong, wrong.
There were hands holding him down, pressing against his spine, his ribs. They'd caught him, and now they would never let him go.
He wouldn't be able to move them. He knew that with certainty, too. Enough so that he didn't even bother to try.
They were going to hold him down until he slept and slept and couldn't wake up even if he wanted to.
The ground beneath him was cold and hard… no. No, there was give to it, a softness that went beyond the texture of grass, but that didn't make any sense. Nothing made any sense.
Why did he have to sleep?
"Please…" he whispered. Whimpered, really, but panic now held him too firmly in its grip for him to care. "Please, I don't want to go. You're killing me. You'll be killing me. Please."
Discordant music chimed overhead, as nonsensical as everything else around him.
"I can't do it, I'm sorry. I don't want to go. I want to live. Please, please."
Desperation had driven him to fight against his breathlessness, but now that overtook him too, and his words failed him. In their place came tears, sobs that escaped between wheezes and distracted him from the fact that there was no longer any weight pressed against him at all.
The hands had disappeared. The grass, too.
There was a bed underneath him, he realised eventually, after exhaustion had slowed his panic to a stop. A bed underneath him, and above him…
Nobody.
Grace blinked. Slowly, he twisted himself around so he could face upwards, appreciating the fact that he could breathe a little easier again.
There was nobody there, he thought to himself, but there should be somebody, there should be–
"Rocky!"
Realisation had him shouting for his friend for the second time that day, sitting bolt upright and looking around the room. His room on the Hail Mary, he could remember, now. It was like he was coming out of a nightmare, except this one hadn't needed him sleeping to sneak up on him.
There was nowhere he was safe from them, then.
Movement caught his attention in the corner of the room before he could start to spiral again, and his gaze landed on his friend. The eridian was inching his way towards Grace, wariness apparent in every hesitant step.
"Grace?" he warbled, as unsteady in his vocalisations as he was in his movements.
"Rocky," Grace repeated himself, although this time out of relief rather than distress. "Rocky, hey, what happened?" He still felt a little distant from everything, a little shaken.
Rocky paused, hunched in on himself. "Apology, apology, apology," he said, maintaining a careful distance from Grace as he spoke. "Rocky hurt Grace. No understand how. Rocky much careful, Grace much precious. Rocky want help Grace with sleep, but Grace upset upset upset. Grace leak. Grace no make sense."
Grace leaned backwards into the pillows, absorbing everything that Rocky had told him and thinking back on what must have happened.
"I…" he began, then failed to summon the words or his courage to explain. "I'm sorry, bud. I must have surprised you. That was just a human thing, like a nightmare." He tried for a smile, but it came out far more wobbly than intended. "Just a silly human thing, that's all. An overreaction."
Rocky was smart. He'd want a better explanation than that, Grace knew. But maybe this time he'd grant Grace a little mercy.
On the floor beside him, Rocky shifted from arm to arm. "Not silly human thing," he finally came out with. "Scary human thing. Grace say Rocky killing him. Why?"
Why.
Well, there it was. No mercy for Grace this time. Rocky wasn't going to let this one go, even if he agreed to drop the topic for the moment.
"I was mistaken," Grace whispered. "I was confused. Sorry, Rocky. You… you reminded me of something bad that had happened to me on Earth, that's all. Something I'd rather not talk about, please."
Rocky uttered a mournful sound, leaning his carapace towards Grace. "Bad, bad, bad," he warbled. "Apology."
"Don't." Grace bit out. "You didn't do anything wrong. I was the one who–" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Nothing. Let's just forget about it, okay?"
Carefully, Rocky pulled himself up onto the bed. He tapped the sheets twice, shifting from side to side. "Yes," he chimed quietly, almost beyond the range of Grace's hearing. For a moment, he looked as if he might want to settle against Grace's legs, before changing his mind and dropping onto the bed where he stood.
The space between the two of them was only a foot or so, but it felt further. Grace felt the urge to fill it, to shuffle closer, but found himself glued to the bed where he sat.
"I'm going to try and go back to sleep," he lied, and turned away.
another short lil mission impossible fic for the febuwhump day 16 prompt: touch aversion, featuring julia and a real messed up ethan.
inspired by this awesome fic by @stardustloki, would recommend reading it for context + the fantastic angst!
Julia can remember a time when she'd pulled Ethan into a hug, on what she now knows must have been one of the worst days of his life, and she'd felt him melt into the embrace. Even if he'd been keeping secrets from her about his work, he had always been very open about the fact that her presence brought him comfort. It was one of the reasons why she loved him as much as she did.
He had lost his first trainee, someone who Luther described as being like a little sister to him, and she'd been able to bring him a little peace. Now, her very presence sends him recoiling away from her, crawling to the other side of the room, as far away from her as he can get. Her touch, even when she had only been trying to help him, had made him flinch. He would only speak to her to apologise, over and over and over, no matter how many times she told him that it was okay. That he was safe, now. That she was real, that it was her that was reaching out to him, not one of his tormentors back from the dead.
They hadn't wanted to set up a camera in his room, despite concerns of him accidentally re-injuring himself. They'd seen the setup at the other place. He must have been under constant scrutiny.
Instead, she and Luther just make sure that one of them remains nearby. Julia can see him through the slightly open door, but is reasonably sure he can't see her. She watches, making sure that he is settled. He needs sleep to heal.
Ethan can see Lindsey's eye twitch at the command. They've been running through these drills for hours, now, and he knows she must be tired.
He also knows that if they've been running through them for hours and she's still slipping up from time to time, he must be doing something wrong. There must be something that he's missing, some flaw in her technique that he needs to find – or else someone else will, out in the field, where it actually matters.
Despite her frustration, she says nothing. She just sinks into a defensive stance, raising her tonfa and bracing them against her arms.
They go again. Their tonfa clash, rhythmic, one blow after another after another until–
"Shit!"
Lindsey takes a glancing blow to her arm and staggers backwards, and Ethan pulls himself backwards before his next attack can connect.
For a moment the two of them stand in silence, panting, while Lindsey grits her teeth and moves her arm, assessing the damage. Ethan leaves her to it. Gauging her own injuries will be an important skill to have and hone.
"You almost had it," Ethan says after a while. "I think if we try–"
"Ethan, enough."
Ethan stops mid-stride.
"What's going on? You're exhausted. I'm exhausted. I'm not going to get any better like this. You're the one who taught me that in the first place!"
It's that reminder that finally makes Ethan falter, because he did teach her that, and he taught it for a reason. Lindsey should be better than him.
"I'm sorry," he says softly, swallowing down his doubts, "I just want you to be safe. The more you can learn in here, the better a chance you stand out there."
They've spoken about his past before, in broad strokes, at least. She probably understands where he's coming from, even if he hadn't been able to give her any names and details. She knows the stakes of what she's doing, and knows that he can't help but worry on her behalf anyway.
Agents with more training than her have died in the line of duty regardless.
"I understand, Ethan," Lindsey says, and smiles. "But hey, it's going to be okay. I feel like I'm almost ready."
'Almost'. That's a vague enough thing for Ethan to be working with. 'Almost' can buy him a little more time. He needs to give her the best chance he can, or she'll be joining a long line of people whose deaths are on his hands.
written for the febuwhump day 12 prompt: bodyguard. body guard. body guard? guarding a body. something guarding a body.
warnings: ambiguous/probably bad but if you want to squint and pretend everything's fine then you do you... ending. general horror themes.
word count: 1041
read it on ao3 here.
-----------------------
They tell him about the previous expedition, the one that had discovered the black box and its precious data. Leon's mission will be simple: recover the wreck of that expedition and any information that it might hold, return to the surface, and reap the rewards for both himself and humankind.
Simple.
-----------------------
They tell him that he'll be a hero. They tell him about the glory he'll receive, the recognition of his unmatched bravery, when he returns from this recovery mission.
"When" he returns, they tell him. Not "if".
They tell him about the previous mission, the mission that had led to their discovery of the black box – which had in turn led to the last remnants of the human race finally standing some chance of understanding the disaster that had befallen them. They tell him of the wreck of the previous expedition, the one that had discovered the black box and its precious data.
They don't tell him about what they saw in the days leading up to the conclusion of that last mission. They don't tell him that, at that time, they had ordered that nobody should ever go down below the surface of the crimson sea ever again.
They smile, instead. This will be a simple mission. All he needs to do is pilot his vessel down to the wreck, retrieve it and any information it might retain, and return; return, and reap the rewards for himself and for humankind.
Simple.
—
By the time that he's hundreds of fathoms too deep to question anything, Leon starts to wonder how anyone could ever have expected this to be a simple task. Despite their investment into a state-of-the-art comms system, it still starts to fail after only an hour of exploration. Leon has been drifting through the deep in silence for the better part of half an hour, now. Even the random bursts of static haven't been as frequent as before.
"You're almost there," comes a voice over the speaker, and Leon can't help but startle at the sound. For a moment he doesn't recognise the person speaking. There's a strange quality to their words. "Continue onwards," they go on to say, and Leon shakes himself.
Of course, it is mission control. They must have finally figured out what the issue was.
Before he can voice any concerns, they continue. "Further instructions to follow. Listen closely."
No amount of shouting results in any response, after that. And after a while, all Leon can do is sit back and follow their advice.
He listens.
—
Sometimes, Leon thinks he might hear a voice. Or voices. The comms system must be on the fritz still, picking up some communications but not anything that might be useful to him.
It should be something that brings him hope that the system is functional, but Leon can only feel dread.
The mission is a good distraction, at least. He has his coordinates, and he has his map, and this is all he needs in order to get the job done. He's going to do his men proud. He's going to save the human race.
He continues onwards, and ignores any whispers he might hear in the static.
—
"You need to leave."
The voice that echoes through the vessel is much harder to ignore than any radio static. It's a rasping, grating noise, and certainly not a voice that he recognises. And, it comes from directly behind him, not from the speaker, set above the control board.
Leon should be jumping to his feet. He should be turning to face the intruder – to dispel whatever hallucination his mind has managed to conjure up down in the depths.
But, he can't. He's frozen, a deer in headlights, eyes fixated on the reflection in the glass of the viewport in front of him. There's someone in the vessel with him. A stranger. A hallucination, it must be, it must be, but a convincing one. He feels like he's in a nightmare, has felt like he has been in a nightmare since the moment that first voice had come over the radio, honestly, and just like a nightmare he can't seem to move his body no matter how much he knows he should.
"Turn this ship around," the figure says. Leon can see them take a step closer. "If you turn back now, immediately, you might be able to outrun her."
At that, Leon swallows. Wrestles back control of his vocal chords.
"Her?" he asks.
In answer, the proximity alarm blips. Then again, and then again, the space between them getting shorter and shorter.
"You're never going to get close to me and the Lung," the figure says, the blips becoming a crescendo of noise around them. "She won't ever let you reach your destination. This was a fool's mission. Now, GO! LEAVE!"
It's only then that Leon finally finds enough courage to turn, and catches a glimpse of a man, a man as red as the ocean that Leon traverses, a man that has somehow been warped out of shape–
But he only catches a glimpse, because the stranger's warning is punctuated by something colliding with the side of the vessel, sending Leon sprawling to the floor.
When he pulls himself upright, the man in red is gone.
Leon doesn't try to look for him. He turns, scrambling for the controls to send him backwards, away from whatever it was that had hit him. His hands are almost shaking too badly to steer the vessel accurately, but desperation demands that he do so anyway. He needs to get away from this place.
The stranger had been right. He'd made a huge mistake.
Something clips the side of the vessel again, sending him off-course, and Leon can't help but shut his eyes. All he can do is hold the throttle down and pray.
He doesn't want to die down here. He doesn't want to fail. He–
The next blow brings the vessel to a halt.
The voices have returned, he realises. If he listens, he can hear them telling him to come closer. To give in. To resign himself to his fate.
Leon swallows. Then, he switches from the throttle to the grapple, fires it off into the deep, in the direction that the swell of voices calls out loudest to him, and braces himself for impact. He if is going down, then he's going down fighting.
If he were the sort to resign himself to a miserable fate, then he wouldn't have volunteered to come down here in the first place.
written for the febuwhump day 11 prompt: broken fingers
warnings: vague descriptions of injuries, tragedy waiting to happen, early days on coruscant for fox
word count: 1203
read it on ao3 here.
-----------------------
After Fox is injured on a patrol, the Chancellor visits him in the medbay. They find they have some common ground.
------------------------
Despite the lack of an alarm, Fox wakes up. He probably needs to be up on his feet already, but it's harder than usual to drag himself out of the clutches of sleep.
He isn't even in his bunk room, he realises. Fox wants to be concerned, but weariness still weighs him down. He's been struggling to get enough hours in for rest since arriving on Coruscant, and now he must be paying the price. Then, a beeping sound filters through the exhaustion, and any potential concern is forgotten in favour of annoyance as he realises where he must be.
Five trips to the medbay in just as many weeks; it's not a record he ever hoped to hold, and certainly not one he'd imagined might exist a few months ago when he'd first arrived on Coruscant.
Cautiously, Fox cracks his eyes open, having to squint even against the dimmed light in the side room that he had been left in. He's still tired, but he's motivated, and he carefully tries to push himself upright– only to have to stop, and swear, as pain shoots up his arm from the hand that he plants on the mattress.
He collapses awkwardly onto his side instead, curling in on himself, cradling his hand to his chest and only then realising how dire the situation is. Even with his vision blurring as it is, the damage is obvious. His hands are splinted and bandaged, almost entirely on his right hand but also for a couple of fingers of the other. The rest of his body feels bruised, now that he's focusing on it, in the kind of way that came from taking a beating that even the armour couldn't fully cushion them from.
It's only then that the events that led to his current state start to come back to him…
The patrol that led to an argument. The argument that led to conflict. The group of natborns, ignoring simple instructions that even a tubie should be able to handle, and uncaring of the threat to themselves, suddenly hell-bent on causing Fox and his men misery.
It isn't a story that Fox is unfamiliar with, despite the short period of time that he has been on the planet, but it is the first time that it has ended as badly as this.
What could he do now? Their medbay lacks key supplies and equipment due to some kind of logistical error, and without those supplies his fingers won't heal well. If he can't heal, then he can't do his duty. And if can't do his duty, then–
Fox knows he's spiraling, but in his exhausted state he can't pull himself out of it. It's not like there's anything better for him to do, anything that might take his mind off of the situation. The medics were usually with him by this point, but this time they aren't. Maybe they're busy, or maybe they're preparing to break the bad news to him.
Maybe they're already given him up as a lost cause.
The door opens, and Fox looks up, expecting one of his men – but the figure in red that greets him isn't clad in the armour of the Coruscant Guard. Instead, it is one of the Chancellor's red guard that steps into the room, silent, imposing, and offering no excuse for entering. They stalk forwards and for a moment Fox thinks that it's over then and there, that the rumours of decommissioning are not only true but are carried out by the natborns themselves… but then, after sweeping the room and checking in the bathroom, the red guard leaves the way they came.
Fox is left bemused, but that soon turns to true shock as a different figure enters the room.
"Your excellency!"
He tries to get upright again, tries to make some attempt at propriety by standing at attention, but he's slow and the room is still spinning whenever he moves.
"At ease, Commander," the Chancellor says before Fox can truly get anywhere. "Please, stay where you are. I heard the news of what happened, and I hardly want you to injure yourself any further for my sake."
Fox can't make sense of anything. This was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare. Fox can't be seen in this state, not when he is so obviously unfit for duty. Maybe he'll heal, but maybe he won't, and surely the Chancellor won't be one for taking chances. He'll be reassigned at best, and at worst…
"You seem surprised, Commander."
The Chancellor's words cut across Fox's internal panic, and he abruptly realises that he had probably zoned out for entirely too long to be acceptable.
"Well, sir," Fox scrambled to answer, "I would never expect you to give up your time for a clone like me. This is an honour, sir, truly."
"Nonsense," the Chancellor waves Fox off, "I want to make sure that you and your men are settling in. I understand that you've had some supply issues, and wanted to tell you not to worry about that at all. I'll make sure that you get what you need to heal up, and get you back on your feet in no time."
Fox blinks. "Thank you, sir."
"It's nothing. I want my finest to be in good shape, of course."
He smiles, and it's not like anything that Fox has had directed at him before now. It isn't a smile from a brother, following a joke or a successful mission, or from a trainer, full of pride or contempt, it's… a bit unreadable, actually.
The Chancellor moves swiftly on. "Now, to the heart of the matter. You've had your time to settle in here, and of course I had hoped that it wouldn't end as it has done. I had hoped that the masses might respond to your presence with logic rather than irrational fear. But, the situation here is obviously more dire than I thought. For that, I owe you an apology."
An apology? Fox still isn't sure that this conversation is actually happening. An apology, from the Chancellor of the Republic.
The Chancellor turns to fox, and meets his eyes. His gaze is piercing, but Fox does not look away.
"I need your help, Commander," the Chancellor says. "I need your help to control the situation, to guide the masses, just as I am attempting to guide this galaxy. To manage them, to keep them safe… even from themselves. Can you do that for me?"
All Fox can do is nod. What other option does he have? And besides, he agrees. He had been wary of natborns before, but now he knows how bad it can get. Anything new they reacted to with aggression, and the Chancellor can't be fighting a war on two fronts. He needs Coruscant to remain calm.
Compliant.
Fox knows a little about control, by now. Kamino had been a harsh teacher, but he thinks he understood its lessons well enough. It was how he'd ended up here, on this planet, trusted enough to work alongside the man that sits by his bedside.
"Anything, sir," Fox swears, and means it. "I will do anything you need. Anything at all."
written for the febuwhump day 10 prompt: god complex
warnings: angst, kidnapping
word count: 364
read it on ao3 here.
-----------------------
He's going to change the world.
Musgrave watches the CCTV footage as they bring the woman in, kicking and screaming despite what little good it does her. Her eyes are wild, fear twisting her expression despite her determination to appear fierce. It all seems cruel, but it's for a good cause, because Musgrave's going to change the world.
This kidnapping is unfortunate, but compared to the millions of lives of the American people that he'll be improving thanks to their acquisition of the Rabbit's Foot? That small sacrifice seems worth it.
She's still shouting. It's a grating sound, but Musgrave knows that complaining about it won't get him anywhere. He can sway Davian's mind when it comes to business, but not when it comes to petty revenge. While she is conscious enough to scream, she's conscious enough for some of that distress to reflect back on Hunt, and what better a reminder of the stakes of his mission? Ethan doesn't have much time left, after all.
Musgrave had shared his concerns that it might be a distraction that would cost them their prize at this critical moment, but those concerns had been shot down.
"Hunt chose this," Davian had said. "He should be prepared to face consequences of his decisions."
On that, they do agree. Ethan Hunt had been a useful asset, something that Musgrave had hoped to someday utilise much more effectively than he currently was. He'd been useful, and loyal, and then had thrown all that away to try and fit back into civilian life – a life that anyone with an ounce of sense could tell he wasn't fit for. If he'd listened to Musgrave when he'd first been considering leaving the field, if he'd listened to reason, then Julia wouldn't be tied to a chair, trapped, thousands of miles away from her home.
It was a shame that Julia had gotten caught up in this. Musgrave had liked her. But, he hadn't liked what she'd done to his prize agent. This was all one big inevitability, really.
"Make sure she stays awake," he orders, then turns on his heel and leaves.
Since we generally agreed the other poll was too extreme on the cold side and did Not give an idea of how much people enjoy cold/heat, here’s one with the cold end just above freezing.
Would you rather spend a full day running errands when the temperature is…
written for the febuwhump day 9 prompt: false memories
warnings: bad ending (or, 'worse ending'), horror themes typical of canon, whump
word count: 866
read it on ao3 here.
----------------------
They find him floating face down next to the life jacket. It's a miracle he survived, they say. He should be long dead, lucky or not.
Simon wants to argue that it was his quick thinking, no luck involved at all, thank you very much. It must have been. He can remember trying to direct the Lung as close as he could towards the surface, and then…
Well, nothing. Or, he doesn't remember anything clearly, but he supposes that makes sense, given that he must have blacked out somewhere along the line.
He's not sure he wants to cling to the memories of before that point, memories of the creature that he'd escaped from by the skin of his teeth. Those moments are vastly more confusing than those surrounding his ascent, all jumbling together until all that remains is the impression of something larger than him, something imposing, something with far too many fucking teeth–
Simon shudders. It makes sense, he supposes, that the further he got from such a thing, the clearer his memories became. He just wishes he could remember how he escaped the Lung, and what became of it. Why can he recall the ascent, but not that?
He wants to ask the others about it, those who had rescued him and brought him back to the base, but everyone has made themselves scarce since allocating him a room to rest up in. Occasionally someone will walk past the door, and he's sure they must have eyes on him remotely through some camera he cannot see, but nobody has actually returned to the room to talk to him.
It's a little unnerving, and there's a thought that makes him want to laugh, because how is this situation unnerving in the face of everything that he had been through down below? He shakes his head, suppressing a self-depreciative smile.
He is sure they're watching him, though. He can feel eyes on him. It's a sensation he knows very well.
Before he can linger on that thought, distraction comes in the form of pain; agony slices through his skull, pulsing through his brain, and he can't help but cry out.
There's movement at the doorway, and he forces himself to try and focus on it, making out a figure peering in at him. For a moment he lets himself feel a little hopeful – but then the person moves on, leaving him alone again.
"Hey!" he calls out, anger rushing to the forefront of his mind, temporarily banishing everything else. "Where are you going? I need help!"
Predictably, they don't bother to return, even when he pulls himself out of bed and staggers over to the door. Simon snarls, then grimaces as the pain in his head is echoed by pain that spreads through his body, spiking in intensity as he bends one of his arms to lean against the metal. Rage wars with panic, neither coming out on top.
It's the submarine bay all over again. It's the submarine bay, except this time, he's not welded into the room–
He yanks on the handle, and the door doesn't budge.
It's locked. Sealed. They want him trapped in here, just as they'd wanted him trapped in the Lung.
"What's going on?" he says, knowing that he won't get a reply. Why would they do this?
They'd run their tests after he'd returned, and deemed that he was safe to be allowed back on the base. No space viruses, no fungi picked up from the rot, no nothing! He hadn't even been injured. There's no reason for their reaction now, and no reason for his current state. Not anything that he can make sense of, with the pain as it is.
It all reaches a fever-pitch, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight. It has to end eventually, he tells himself. There had to be some consequences of his survival (he's never been lucky, was foolish for thinking that he might have gotten away unscathed), but he wants it to be over, now.
He slumps to the floor, energy spent. He coughs, hunched over himself, and can feel the taste of iron in his mouth. Like the feeling of being watched, it is familiar.
Distantly, he can hear the sound of an alarm. Then, yelling.
It takes him some time to realise that he is standing. The strength that keeps him upright doesn't feel like his own. The sound of screeching metal cuts through the haze, as sourceless as his strength with his thoughts as scattered as they are, and he winces.
He's in motion, now, but he isn't making any effort to walk, and nobody is carrying him, so when did the door open and how–
A thousand voices swarm through his mind, drowning out the questions as surely as they drowned out the light, down below.
When he opens his eyes again, he becomes aware of the carnage around him, aware of those who try to stop him and meet a bloody end at the hands of whatever pilots him– but he's not aware of it for long. The memories are washed away, as malleable as he is, and he falls back into the dark.
warnings: vague descriptions of self-harm (typical of canon), time skips, character study
word count: 507
read it on ao3 here.
----------------------
For as long as he can remember, he has been hungry.
His guardians provide for him, of course, but the hunger remains. No simple meal can sate it.
It is a pervasive thing, something that maintains a constant presence in the back of Teddy's mind. The monastery may be quiet, but it does have visitors. At one point, a family arrives: a mother, a father, and their two children. While the children are left to run and play outside, Teddy watches them from one of the balconies. He watches, and wonders what they had done differently. What he might need to do, to get what they have.
When one of them grows bored, they run back to their father, and he scoops them up into his arms without a second thought. He smiles, then murmurs something to them. Teddy can't imagine what. Then their mother returns to the older sibling, ruffles his hair, and leads him back to the group.
Teddy frowns. He has tried being polite, he has tried being loud, but everyone around him is still so distant. Once a year, he gets a visit from his father, and maybe his father will ruffle his hair like that, if he has been good.
It dulls the ache inside him, for a while. When you're starving, you'll take anything you get. But, Teddy doesn't want to starve forever.
—
He's older, now, but just as hungry. He's a free man, and he's growing into his birthright, and the people around him are still just as distant as the priests had been in his youth… something that is especially ironic when he ends up sharing a bed with them. How he can keep someone at arm's length while holding them close is a paradox even to himself.
—
There's something wrong with him. That much is obvious, now.
It all boils down to the fact that he just needs to do better. He needs to do something impressive, something that'll make him stand out from the masses.
Well, he has been given an example to follow, at least. A name to live up to, one that he hopes to someday inherit. Teddy will walk where his father once walked. Anything less is unacceptable – he knew that from the start.
—
He's making decisions that will kill people, he knows, and can no longer seem to find the part of himself that cares about such things. At least those people got to live, first.
—
He's standing alone in a house that should be home to at least a half dozen people. His thumb is pressed against his wrist – he'd cut a bit too deep this time, but it won't matter. The bleeding will slow, and then he can hide the injury. Nobody will ever truly get close enough to notice the damage, after all, and if anyone does then they certainly won't care.
In the meantime, the pain will be a reminder. A reminder, and a distraction, because in the face of the stinging pain, any hunger pangs are easily forgotten.
written for the febuwhump day 7 prompt: forced to hurt another
warnings: canon-typical inhibitor chip angst, brief descriptions of violence
hahahaha still managed to get chapter 2 out during febuwhump guys... febuwhump two years after the original chapter....
read it on ao3 here.
----------------------
From Fox, Order 66 spreads like a virus. The Jedi have some warning, but Sidious is nothing if not determined. And in the middle of the chaos, Bail and Obi-Wan are still running for their lives.
-----------------------
Smoke rose in a plume from the temple. Fox would have taken it as a good sign, a sign that his troops were making progress in their siege of the place, but from the radio chatter he knew better.
The other battalions had turned traitor. Off-planet comms had been disabled from the other side, and missives ignored outright. At Sidious' command Fox had managed to convey the order – execute order 66 – to those battalions that were planetside, but even some of the clones there had chosen rebellion, evading the messengers and refusing to take their comm calls. Somehow, the Jedi had been forewarned. Fox suspects that the traitor Organa must have been involved.
So, Fox knows that the rising smoke is only a good sign in that it means that his men were able to shoot down Jedi reinforcements in the form of his treacherous brothers. He knows that his own forces had yet to be able to breach the temple's plasma shields to plant charges of their own.
He ignores the fact that the day prior he would have taken the smoke as a terrible sign, no matter the source. Lingering too long on thoughts like that made his head hurt worse than it already did.
Besides, this had been their purpose all along. Sidious had liked to brag, and Fox had been the perfect (and only) audience. He had his orders, and knew better than to try and resist.
In the end, Sidious always got what he wanted.
Fox shook himself. The temple didn't matter. His men would either succeed, or fail. Perhaps he might be of assistance to them, with his knowledge of the temple's layout and his previous infiltration experience to fall back on, and perhaps they might still be expecting his presence. But, no. Sidious hadn't directed Fox to the temple specifically, so Fox was free to make his own decision on how best to proceed. He had more pressing matters at hand than storming a fortress.
Not all of the Jedi – the traitors – had managed to hole themselves up in the temple, after all.
Fox turned his focus downwards, towards the alleyway that he'd tracked his target to. The lower levels were the perfect hiding place, in theory… but in practice, the people who ran down there rarely accounted for the fact that Fox and his men had been trained specifically to work in these environments. Limited resources and communications would do little to deter him.
Carefully, he made his way across the roof and towards one of the shattered windows of the building. A scan of the upper floor confirmed his suspicions. Two life signs were inside: one Jedi traitor, and one injured fugitive.
Better still, they seemed to have split up. As Fox made his way in through the window and into a stairwell, he could see a flash of movement below him. From the glimpse of robes, it could only be Kenobi, leaving Organa resting in one room while he went on the hunt for… something. Medical supplies, probably, if Organa's previous state was anything to go by.
After waiting for a few moments to check that Kenobi wasn't doubling back on himself, and being rewarded by sounds of the other man searching through something on the floors below, Fox advanced down the stairs towards the room that the Jedi had abandoned.
Organa wasn't completely out in the open, Kenobi had at least had that much sense, but it still didn't take Fox long to find him tucked away behind some storage boxes. The man still appeared to be unconscious; his eyes were shut, and his expression was twisted into one of discomfort. He certainly showed no signs that he was alert enough to detect Fox's presence. Carefully, Fox looked around the room, turning away from Organa to scan for any other potential threats.
"Fox."
The sound startled him, and Fox had his blaster in hand and trained at the source of it before he could even comprehend the fact that Organa was somehow still conscious despite his injuries.
"Fox, please," Organa continued, voice raspy. Weak. "I know you don't have a choice in this. Resist it. Please."
Fox froze. Then, berated himself.
He wasn't sure why he was listening to Bail. Bail was… an enemy. An enemy, and that was that.
An enemy that had once been kind to him, when few natborns would even deign to look him in the eye. An enemy that had shared food with him, had listened to his side of the story (a side that nobody else would ever even acknowledge existed). An enemy that he had to eliminate. Fox had no choice in that. But, did he have to eliminate him now?
Perhaps he could be useful. Somehow. Somehow… as bait! Fox clung to the thought, and clung a little less tightly to his blaster.
The slight movement seemed to draw Bail's attention, and Fox could see the man faintly smile.
He had his orders, but Sidious hadn't prioritised one thing over the other. He wasn't refusing to kill Bail, he was just… taking initiative. Didn't it make sense to use any advantage he might have to try and get the drop on the Jedi?
Fox frowned. If he failed, then he wouldn't be able to return and kill Organa. It would be safer to just kill him now. Less of a risk.
But he wouldn't fail. Killing Jedi was what he had been made for. Sidious had been sure of it, and who was Fox to doubt that sense of surety? No, Bail could be bait, and–
The first he knew of Kenobi's return was his blaster being pulled out of his slackened grip by an invisible force.
Fox twisted to face the threat, betrayal mixing inexplicably with relief. The familiar pull of orders washed over him, narrowing his options down to one thing: kill the Jedi, through any means necessary. Kenobi, however, was in far better stead to face such a threat than Organa was, and before Fox could even get close enough to swing a knife, he was sent flying backwards against the duracreet wall, and–
When the collision didn't knock him out, but the stunning bolt Kenobi sent at him from his own blaster did.
—
When Fox woke up, the first thing he noticed wasn't the soft sheets of the bed, or the comfort of the pillows – although those things were certainly next on his list of priorities. Instead, it was the fact that for the first time in years, he didn't have a headache.
The absence of pain was almost jarring, and he felt himself frown, even before he was opening his eyes.
"Fox! You're awake!"
The voice from his bedside banished any hope he might have had at subtly returning to sleep, but he supposed that was probably for the best. By this point in his life, he should expect disappointment, in that regard.
What Fox doesn't expect is the sight that greets him when he cracks his eyes open: Bail Organa, in the flesh, standing over his bedside as if he had been waiting for Fox to wake up.
"Bail Organa!"
Before Fox could question the situation at all, a commanding voice came from the doorway of the room. A room in the Jedi Temple, Fox could now identify.
"What are you doing in here? You're supposed to be resting– oh!"
The healer came to an abrupt stop, blinking as her eyes fell on a now-awake Fox. Fox waved awkwardly back at her with the hand that wasn't linked up to monitoring equipment, while inwardly, he sighed. Any hope of getting any answers quickly was now out of question. You could never get in between a medic and their charge.
—
It took a while for the healer to be done with the both of them. Apparently, Bail had also been dodging some examinations of his own in the process of watching over Fox while he recovered.
It took even longer for Bail to catch Fox up to speed.
There was a lot of ground to cover; the discovery of the orders through the footage he'd recovered and shared, following the footage of Sidious revealing himself a Sith Lord, and how the Jedi had managed to use that to their advantage. How a team of clones and Jedi had managed to take the Sith down for good. Then the aftermath of it all, with clones like Fox being operated on to give them back their freedom again, removing the karking mind-control brain chips that must have been the driving force behind the orders all along.
"You're crazy," Fox said without even a hint of fear at being disrespectful, after Bail finished explaining his side of the story. "Hidden cameras? Lying to the Chancellor's face? Crazy."
"Crazy, and foolish," Bail responded with a wry smile. "I thought I was done for, when you found me in that building. You saved my life again, however you did it – putting off killing me for long enough for Obi-wan to arrive, that is."
Fox shrugged. "It's easier to resist someone messing with your head when you know what's happening. Sid actually helped me out, in that regard. I'd had months to test the boundaries of what I could and couldn't do under orders, and, well, I'm glad that it came in useful in the end."
Bail shook his head. "I'm sorry that such an experience was ever something that happened to you at all. Regardless of the outcome." Then, he turned, determination obvious in his expression. "It won't ever happen again. The Chancellor is dead. The chips are being destroyed. Things will change, I am sure of it."
Fox believed him. Bail's words sounded more like an oath than empty comfort.
For once, Fox found himself starting to trust that someone might say they wanted to help him and really mean it. With the Chancellor dead, after all, Bail had the body count to prove it.
warnings: angst, canon-compliant (re-telling of mission 3).
the ethan characterisation fought me, but i'm blaming that on the fact that i'm writing outside of my comfort zone between the romance and the soul bond trope! i haven't read much soul bond fic, so things might work a little differently than expected. in this au you don't bond with one person for life, it can be many, it can be none, etc. etc. and then when you've bonded with someone, you share their emotions - and their pain. fun times ahead for everyone, of course!
read it on ao3 here.
----------------------
There's rage inside of Ethan, and it's a foreign thing. Or, it almost is. These days, the shared emotions of another almost feel like they belong – they certainly no longer feel as jarring as they had done in the beginning.
Luck, as always, is on Ethan's side. He's still in the training rooms when the feeling first washes over him, irritation pulsing through his bond with Julia, and he's able to find a quiet place for himself to hole up and let off some steam with the help of a punching bag. It's a good way to work through the frustration, but not quite a good enough distraction to stop him from worrying about what might be causing such a response in the first place.
Between punches, he glances across at his phone. It sits in clear view on the bench, within easy reach if anyone should try to call him.
Tantalising.
It would be easy to pick it up and send off a quick message. Just a quick check-in to make sure everything was going okay on Julia's end…
But, he won't text her. He'd promised that he would try not to do that anymore. Not without a really good reason, at least. And, apparently, Julia sometimes getting frustrated at work wasn't a good enough reason for him to be calling her colleagues to try and get answers, either.
He can understand why she'd asked him to try and distract himself instead, really. The bond can quickly turn into a feedback loop, their concerns bouncing back at each other just as easily as their joy does. Better to channel the worry into something productive.
Ethan steps away from the bag, and begins running through some basic katas. He focuses on his breathing, while making a point to think over their plans for later that day. The combination is bound to generate some level of contentment, something that he can hopefully share.
He inhales, and then exhales. Ignores the 'what ifs' and the memories of how his previous bonds had been broken, memories that he suspects will dog him until the day he dies.
He can do this. This is something that he can do, for Julia.
It takes a little time, but in the end he finds the frustration ebbing, replaced by something cooler. Something closer to that contentment he was chasing. Ethan smiles, and somewhere else, he's fairly sure, Julia smiles too.
—
After Lindsey, everything changes again. After the rescue, and the death.
Given his years of practice, Ethan had thought that masking his emotions would be a simple thing. He has had to lie to the faces of friend and foe alike, adopt any guise at the drop of a hat, and keep his cool even when the lives of thousands have been at stake.
What does a soul bond have over that?
The look that Julia levels at him when he returns home tells him that it must have something. He'd been so careful, too, making sure to keep out of the line of fire. If sharing his emotions wasn't bad enough, then sharing his pain if he'd been caught by a stray bullet or in one of their explosions would have let Julia know for certain that something was up.
Now, it feels like all that effort had been for nothing. He still does his part to smile, to try to smother over the grief with the love he does feel for her, that he can always rely on, but it's hard.
It's hard, and he only feels worse for it, because if Julia knows that something is wrong, then what good did him taking his time to avoid injury do anyone? If he'd gotten Lindsey out sooner, then maybe he could have saved her life. Instead, he effectively sacrificed her for the sake of his own selfish secrets.
Self-loathing mixes with the grief, and Ethan struggles to keep his stronger emotions in check. Julia doesn't deserve to be dealing with any of this. This isn't what she signed up for, and even if he has failed Lindsey, he refuses to fail her. He needs to get a grip.
It almost feels like an impossible task.
—
Luckily, Ethan specialises in the impossible.
In the morning, Ethan smooths everything over with excuses of a dear, dead coworker. The best lies are always the ones that build upon the truth, after all. And after that, and the funeral, there is a new distraction to keep the grief at arm's length. The wedding, Ethan thinks, and the connection they share in that moment, will be a memory that he holds close until the day he dies.
—
"It's not going to last," Luther tells him down in the catacombs, halfway through their mission to capture Davian, and Ethan can feel the echo of Luther's conviction behind his words. Their bond is different to the one between him and Julia, but just as strong, and by this point Luther isn't afraid to leverage it for the sake of Ethan's wellbeing. Or, what he believes will be the best for Ethan's wellbeing. "Hey, I mean it! Do you really think you'll be able to hide this from her forever?"
Ethan smiles back at him. "I think I'm doing a good job so far," he says, and ignores the pang of worry now emanating from both Julia and the man in front of him.
One last mission. He just needs to get through this one last mission, and avenge Lindsey, and then Julia will be waiting for him. Julia, and the rest of his life.
—
What's less easy to hide, unfortunately, is the car crash and the subsequent gunfight. It's fight or die, and any thought of smothering his emotions goes out the window as quickly as Ethan does with a missile locked on to his vehicle.
When it's over, Ethan's able to get through to Julia with relative ease. She's already waiting for him on the other end of the phone, in pain thanks to him, sharing in his adrenaline-fueled panic, thanks to him. She has questions for him that he can't answer honestly, and he has demands of her that she can help but question. It's a helpless feeling, to sense her frustration and not be able to do anything about it – but not as helpless as he feels when someone forces the phone from her hand and drags her away, muffled screams and the sound of struggle dying to silence all too quickly.
By the time he arrives at the hospital, it is already far too late. The bond is as silent as Julia is over the other end of the phone.
