Person A wakes up after an injury to the smell of their comfort food... which Person B is making for them + Skull & Adam (regular or Sentries; dealer's choice)
The snow continued to cascade through the night sky in a whispering flurry, a few errant flakes dusting the crumbling casement of the barrack’s window. A pilfered candle sat on the sill, it’s flame guttering the chilly draft coming in around the pane, and perpetually on the verge of winking out. The silence in the darkened room was disorienting, the only sound an occasional scrape of metal on metal and a hollow echo as Eugene stirred something surprisingly delicious smelling on the cracked cooktop.
Adam lay curled beneath a russet colored scrap of a blanket, the soft material pulled up to his chin as he huddled in Skull’s bed against the far wall. His mind was still groggy when he managed to crack his eyes open to see where the lovely aroma was coming from. Everything felt strangely surreal as the last thing he remembered was that it was growing dusk and he’d been rushing to report to the turret for his nightly watch.
And he was on the verge of being late.
Through his watery vision, he watched a hazy apparition float towards the bed; then Eugene’s face swam into view as he leaned down to assess his friend’s condition.
“What smells so good?” Adam croaked, trying to blink away the distortion.
Skull chuckled good-naturedly, peeling back a corner of the blanket to expose his upper body.
“Manna from heaven, buckeroo,” he quipped, gingerly palpating the other man’s fingers and forearm, which was swollen and discolored through the makeshift splint. “It’s about time fortune smiled upon us…or at least gave us a nod.”
“Huh?”
He hissed when Eugene’s fingertips landed at a spot near his wrist.
“Shit! That hurts!”
The Sentry captain nodded, as if he expected as much.
“Well, you took quite a spill earlier. We saw you go down and try to catch yourself. No way it wasn’t going to break. And you hit your noggin’ on top of that!”
Adam tried to sit up on the lumpy mattress despite being hobbled on one side. Tattered orange strips of cloth held his lower arm to a splintered bit of wood that might have once been a broom handle. Skull’s arms encompassed his back and helped him scoot upright in the bed, the room tilting alarmingly.
“Christ, I’m late! They’re going to have my ass! Report me to his lordship when he returns from his campaign!”
In a panic, the Mastodon Sentry attempted to swing his legs out from beneath the quilt, ready to dash madly up to the turret and plead with his ‘comrades’ to not snitch on him to Lord Drakkon.
“I can’t believe this! Of all the stupid shit to…”
But Eugene blocked his way, his hands firmly pressing Adam back down.
“Easy, buddy. Everything’s going to be fine…”
“No, it isn’t! Not missing my post! Not breaking my wrist when I still have to finish his lordship’s new gala attire! There’s no way I’ll have his and Red’s regalia ready in time…And all the other pieces he commanded!”
This was a fucking nightmare and surely, he was looking down the barrel of the homicidal tyrant’s fury…
No one in their right mind desired to be summoned to the throne room, unless you were one of those arrogant ass kissers with ambitions too high to be smart. Adam strode down the corridor, his expression carefully crafted into one of neutrality, but inside he was utterly nauseous and riddled with anxiety. A soft curtain of snow was falling just outside the stone window casements, a phenomenon that no one bothered to point out anymore.
Everything changed so long ago, and nature itself seemed to follow her own whims when it came to the type of weather or season in a particular locale in the world, even if it had never been the norm. He used to think that he’d find snow lovely, delicate, a tiny fractal of light.
‘The barracks are going to be freezing tonight…’
Adam pushed through the heavy, wrought iron doors into the cavernous room, his boots whispering slightly over the emerald runner. Dutifully, he kept his gaze lowered as was the rule, kneeling to one knee while he awaited the tyrant’s acknowledgement. A sense of ‘propriety’ and ‘proper decorum’ were highly treasured by Lord Drakkon, and you were wise to follow his specific edicts when it concerned palace etiquette and knowing one’s ‘place’.
“Rise, Sentry,” his chilly voice growled from somewhere above on the dais. “We have something of importance to discuss.”
The meek man took a subtly deep breath before pulling himself to his feet. He kept his eyes fixed to the smooth leather of those white and gold boots. They crept up Drakkon’s calves which looked more solid than a tree trunk, his musculature imposing where he’d once been all lanky limbs and lean of build. Every wardrobe measurement noted the frightening increase in muscle mass.
“Mittens…” the dictator mused, one gloved finger tapping rhythmically on the granite throne.
Adam’s attention came back into focus at the bizarre decree.
“My lord?”
The tapping paused ominously.
“Red has asked specifically for mittens and since he’s been such a good boy, I’ve decided to bestow him with some.”
Drakkon’s finger resumed its thoughtful beat.
“It’s grown as frigid as my bitch of a mother’s cunt and I can’t have his muscles becoming tight before a bout, can I? He’ll need a coat…thicker pants…sweaters. And we’ll both require warmer attire for that vapid, upcoming gala I suppose I’ll be assed to attend…The Winter Solstice Ball…”
He huffed, the noise low and predatory.
“I despise such frivolous bullshit, but the showering of accolades and trinkets aren’t that vexing…”
Swiftly, Lord Drakkon hefted his lumbering frame from the throne, his boots clicking on the steps of the dais as he approached Adam like a stormfront. The sharp tip of a blade was beneath the Mastodon Sentry’s chin, tilting his head up. He fought the reflex to tremble, to drop to his knees in supplication and terror…
The tyrant’s skin was milky white, dark veins twisting from the collar of his uniform into his cheeks and jaw. His features were patrician, angular and would have been almost pretty if not for the dead, black eyes. Long, glossy hair hung to his waist, one of the things he was most vain about. He studied Adam’s slack, emotionless face for a moment.
He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the end of the saber left his chin, tucked back into the sheath at the warlord’s belt.
“I’m sure you won’t disappointment me…”
“Your wish is my command, my lord.”
“I’ll be in this evening for my measurements.”
The spiteful, controlling fucker was constantly stacking on the muscle, the exact mechanism a total mystery considering the former Tommy Oliver’s lanky build. He frequently outgrew those garments and adornments that Adam spent many anxious days and weeks crafting to the dictator’s satisfaction.
Then Drakkon nodded at Red who sat hunkered on the dais beside his master’s throne, an amused sparkle in his one good eye.
“You can take him now. It shouldn’t take that long. My good boy keeps fit as a fiddle. Don’t you, darling?”
That situation that followed had been hair raising and tense as all fuck, the Mastodon Sentry’s hands subtly shaking as he wrapped the measuring tape about the mentally ill man’s chest, waist, and limbs, an activity that brought him way closer than he wanted to be to the impulsive and sexually inappropriate pet.
That was two weeks ago now. The designs were tacked up in Adam’s ‘studio’ along with samples of the fabric and jewels he intended to consider. Beyond that, not much else had been accomplished besides a few simple items. The unexpected campaign should have bought him more time….
‘Fuck!’
Adam groaned, falling back onto the lumpy sack that served as a pillow.
“I shouldn’t have been rushing, but I didn’t want to be late to guard duty. I guess I was so focused on these stupid designs that I lost track of the day.”
And yes, he’d been rushing through the courtyard as the sun dipped below the horizon, skirting the oddly placed snowman that some cheeky smartass built near the kitchens, boots already sliding alarmingly out of control. Between his responsibilities as a Black Sentry and as Drakkon’s personal fashion designer, Adam felt woefully overwhelmed.
But it wasn’t like he could say no.
Drakkon wasn’t going to accept a delay to his new wardrobe, whether it was a broken wrist, neck, or skull. If he was distressed, he damn well was going to see to it that the offender was as well.
“I’m so fucking dead!”
Skull firmly gripped Adam’s chin.
“Listen, we got it all figured out, alright? Well, the majority of it… We’re still going to need your guidance.”
The anxious man wanted to scream in frustration.
“You have what figured out? And who’s ‘we’?”
Yet, as soon as the ‘we’ passed his lips, Adam remembered who else had been with Skull when he finally stopped seeing stars.
He should have known his own handiwork, however. Red was wearing that dumb black and grey striped stocking cap that he’d finished two days ago and just couldn’t wait to take off with it. The matching scarf was missing and later, Adam realized that the errant snowman was decked out in a similar one.
Things just kept getting better…
“You’ve got to be kidding me! Please tell me that was part of a concussion…”
But he knew it wasn’t. Skull grinned, dropping a wink.
“I thought when you recognized Red you were going straight to the ‘great beyond’. He was trying to wrap your wrist, and you looked like you were going to jump out of your skin and through the wall!”
Adam huffed, rolling his eyes.
“It wasn’t like I was expecting to see HIM out here.”
“We hang sometimes…”
“Clearly….”
Then Eugene laid out the carefully crafted plan. He and Red would fill in the gaps until Adam was able to pass muster. That meant covering his Sentry duties and helping with the cutting and sewing and stitching of the Winter Solstice Ball costumes, as that bit of the wardrobe was most important. Even with the Mastodon morpher’s power splintered, it still enhanced one’s healing ability so Adam would be right as rain much sooner than normally possible.
Red had left earlier, headed back to the palace to play his part in the ruse.
“Won’t Drakkon know that someone’s been messing around in there? I mean, I know the housekeepers have to go in the trophy room to tidy it, but no one’s supposed to touch those coins.”
He was referring to the collection of unused splintered power coins that the warlord had snatched back from any fool who dared fail him. There was supposedly a conglomeration of red, yellow, and black tossed together and gathering dust. It was also rumored that Drakkon kept a decidedly more gruesome aesthetic: the broken helmets and swords of other fallen Rangers.
Skull shrugged.
“I doubt he looks too hard at those when he goes in there to jerk himself off. Not when there’s better things to light his fire.”
The Sentry captain didn’t point out that the real concern was whether Red would be able to work up the nerve to go into the dreaded room, the one that Drakkon finally dismissed him from accompanying him into because the pet screamed, vomited, and sometimes pissed himself over something no one could quite figure out.
‘Come on, buddy… We need you to be able to do this.’
Eugene wasn’t sure he could pull double duty by finishing Adam’s creations and showing up for the Mastodon night guard in his place. Hell, he didn’t know how his poor comrade did it. And none of this charade included his own Red Sentry responsibilities.
‘Not really a choice, honestly, for either one of us. It’s that or die…’
And he had a goal he ached to accomplish before that blessed time.
“What if one of them starts mouthing Drakkon and Red flips shit? Then our cover will be blown…”
Skull chuckled, ruffling the tangled dark hair.
“I told Red it’s like a spy game. If someone steps out of line, he can’t break cover, or he won’t find the others. Shitty, I know, but most of those shitheads aren’t worth the oxygen they take up.”
“So, we’re throwing other people under the bus?”
“Potentially, but again… the term ‘people’ should be used loosely.”
Adam made a low groan of pain as the ache continued to flare. No one out here had much in the way of good mediation unless you counted homemade hooch or anything cobbled together with leftover cleaning chemicals…
If you were brave…or suicidal.
Finster certainly wasn’t going to be inclined to be merciful. He was just as cruel and callous as Drakkon, maybe more so because he was such a scheming little ass kisser.
“Hey…”
Eugene’s voice was tender as he adjusted the quilt. There were unshed tears in Adam’s eyes as he struggled to maintain his tough image, which wasn’t really all that tough to begin with.
“Want some moonshine? I might have a little nip tucked away but I’ll warn you now…it’s hidden behind my chamber pot.”
The trembling man scrunched his nose.
“I’ll pass. Getting sloshed will just make me feel worse since I won’t be able to know for sure Red is actually going to go up there or not.”
It wasn’t like it would make a difference. Adam had zero control over what was going to happen, but his anxiety just wouldn’t allow it. It battled against the pain he was feeling, an equally powerful contender for his attention and fretting.
Skull patted his shoulder.
“That’s probably the wiser choice, little Mastodon… Alcohol and head injuries don’t jive.”
He returned to the kitchen, peering into the pot and inhaling deeply.
“Looks like dinner is served!”
Eugene ladled the stew into a couple of mismatched bowls and returned to settle on the edge of the old mattress. He nestled one on Adam’s lap.
“Where did you get this? There are actual vegetables in there!” the smaller man gasped. “And is that real beef?”
“You bet your ass it is! Red cornered ol’ Chester outside the kitchen and said he’d bite him good if he didn’t bring us some of this. That pompous blow hard was pissed as hell when he dropped it off…told me it wasn’t out of the kindness of his own heart.”
The image of Chester, with his pressed, perfectly coifed hair and snooty attitude about to piss himself under Red’s bristling did bring a smile to Adam’s lips.
“Cheers, I suppose…”
