An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Fandom: The Musketeers (2014)
Relationship: d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère
Characters: Athos | Comte de la Fère, d'Artagnan (Trois Mousquetaires)
Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ambushed, Broken Bones, Angst, brief death sort of, dont worry about it, Salt and Light, Friendship
Summary:
“You’re a fool,” Athos said unkindly, “if you think we’re not about to be slaughtered. You’re best chance is to leave me here and—”
“Stop!” d’Artagnan snapped. “I’m not leaving you here with a broken leg!”
“If you don’t leave then I’ll kill you myself,” Athos threatened. D’Artagnan made a face.
“Has anyone ever told you how unpleasant you are when you’re injured?”
Written for Whumpmas in July Day 12: search and rescue
Guilt, unsaid things, and a tiny rebellion from an unexpected place.
B and Ridley belong to @hackles-up, this scene is a collaboration. It is set after the events in [Lost] and directly after [Hold On].
[Dany Masterpost]
Content - aftermath of choking, referenced past noncon, locked in a cage, (referenced) manipulative whumper, BBU, pet whump.
There's a bowl in the large cage, placed next to my head and filled with water. Ridley didn't leave me any food. It's fine, I guess. I'm not hungry anyway. Not after what happened. Not after what he has done. What they have done.
I don't move, stay laying on my back, with the stained plushie on my chest. Far above me, through the heavy bars enclosing me, I can see the stylish chandelier hovering under the living room's ceiling. I could crouch in here, maybe, but not sit up entirely. Of course not. I'm not here to be comfortable. I'm here to be punished, for speaking up, trying to defend B from Ridley's moods.
Every breath I take hurts like hell. On the outside, where the too tight collar is digging into my bruised skin. On the inside, where my throat is sore and burning.
'How did it feel, to die at my Bee Bee's hands?', Ridley has asked.
Inevitable, I think.
Not even bad. I'm not naive. I know there's only one possible end to my torment. Only one way to freedom. Death. His, or mine. The odds have always been in his favor. And I've made my peace with death. Somehow, having B there made it better. Dying in his arms. Not in Ridley's.
I turn my head to glance over at where Ridley has left B, shaking and feverish, chained to a hook in the ground.
He's looking back at me.
I almost flinch under his gaze. There's a solemn softness in his green eyes, that the fever didn't take away entirely. That Ridley never managed to take away entirely. Not with all he did, nor with all he made B do.
'Kill her.'
'Use your hands.'
I press my thighs together, bite back the pain that's throbbing inside me.
'He fucked you hard enough to almost kill you a second time, you know?'
It hurts.
Before I turn my gaze away, B does.
This hurts, too.
"I..." I croak. My throat burns. I can't go on. I forgive you, I think. I forgive you. I can't form the words. It's not like he's free to answer, anyway. Ridley made him -
"He’s lying." B's voice is soft, almost inaudible, from the other side of the room. "I wasn’t … I’m not allowed to touch you…”
He's slowly getting onto his knees, the chain clinking as he rises.
"I-" My voice is stuck in my throat. I close my eyes, allow a wave of odd relief to wash over me. "Tha- Thank you."
There’s a soft rustle of movement, a sharp exhale. “Don’t… thank me. I’m… I didn’t want this.”
I swallow. It hurts so much, the places where B has closed his fingers around my neck, almost crushed my throat, choked me to unconsciousness.
"I know," I whisper.
I know. I know he wanted nothing of this, not ever.
I also know the lines that were drilled into him, to take over everything he once was. I want to be good for my owner. I am a willing participant in my owner’s desires.
He's not allowed to want anything for himself. Most of all, he's not allowed to not want what Ridley asks.
Yet he said it.
I stare at him. He's still standing, shivering, hunched together as if in pain.
“‘M sorry, Dany.” His words catch on the back of his throat, and he crumples back to the floor.
"I know, B. B, I..." My fingers dig into the stuffed dog on my stomach. I want to say so much, but the words are stuck. It's too much, too heavy, too overwhelming. All I can settle with is a final, barely whispered, "I know."
Content warnings: dystopian setting, police brutality, manhandling, head injury
This officially marks the earliest piece I’ve written in my story!
@whumpmasinjuly
---
“There. Perfect.”
The can of spray paint in his hand ran out just as he finished the last line of his work. Ganex stepped back to see his work. He used glow-in-the-dark paint this time, with a special stain so it’d be harder to clean off the stone wall. Hard to remove and hard to ignore.
This resistance graffiti would piss off the peace officers even more than the last few.
Ganex wiped the can of his fingerprints before throwing it in the garbage. It was a few hours past the city’s curfew and the sun had set long ago. He had to get back before anyone at home noticed he was gone. Or before he was caught and arrested for vandalism and rebel sympathizing.
At the moment, he wasn’t sure which would be worse.
“Hey, you there!” A voice boomed from across the street that made Ganex’s hair stand on end. He whipped his head around to see three peace officers running towards him, batons already out.
“Shit!” He ejected his wheels and took off in the other direction at full speed. They shouted the usual things at him, ‘Stop,’ ‘Stay where you are,’ ‘You’re under arrest,’ while the more he ran the more they struggled to keep up with him. He had the advantage here, knowing these streets like the back of his hand. Most peace officers didn’t live in the area, coming here for work either from the upper sects of Agerdon or from one of the more affluent neighboring towns. They didn’t know the people here, and underestimated them at their own risk.
The glow of lower town central was just a few blocks away and disappearing from view as Ganex fled. Corner stores were closed, but their signs still shined against the dark sky. Roads and sidewalks connecting each block to the next were devoid of public life, a phenomenon resulting from the Council-mandated curfew. Anyone caught out past that time was arrested on grounds of suspicious activity, if they were lucky. The only people out during this time were the peace officers and anyone willing to sell out their neighbors and morals for some extra cash.
Ganex turned a sharp corner and rushed to the back of a café where the dumpsters were. He ducked low to the ground, waiting as the peace officers stopped and looked around.
C’mon, just leave already…
“Shit,” one of the peace officers groaned, “Lost them.”
“Should we keep looking?”
“No, let’s just get back on patrol. Either of you get a good look?”
A chorus of no’s muttered through the air as they started walking away. Ganex was relieved. It hadn’t occurred to him that having a mask or face paint would probably help him if this ever happened again. Since he wasn’t planning on stopping, the likelihood of being spotted again was high. He’d get a mask for next time.
He waited until the sounds of their steps disappeared completely before coming out of his hiding spot. He looked up at the signpost, Synlex Street. Good, only a few blocks from home. So long as he kept an eye out for more officers, he should be fine.
He kept to the alleys as he made the jog back, anywhere with low lights where he could keep to the shadows as much as possible. A transport flew overhead and he ducked behind another dumpster. There was always more security on this side of town. Once it was gone, he started walking again, passing by a few stores his family often shopped at. He couldn’t help but stop by one of the bakeries he’d go to with his mother. The owner always displayed a few loaves of bread and cakes in the window to draw in potential customers. There were still a few out. Ganex’s stomach growled the longer he stared at them. He hadn’t eaten anything since about noon. When he got home, he’d have to scrounge for something there. Still, the bread looked delicious.
“Come here, you little brat!” Someone grabbed him from behind and shoved him against the wall. Ganex yelled, not realizing that another peace officer came around the corner to this street. Having the officer pin his head against the stone wall was terrifying. They grabbed the top of his backpack and yanked it off his back. It opened and his other spray paint cans and notebooks fell out on the concrete.
“Get off me!” Ganex shouted as the peace officer pulled his arm back behind him. It hurt so much he worried his shoulder would be dislocated. He gritted his teeth as his eyes started to water.
“Spray paint, huh? I’m arresting you for suspected vandalism and curfew violation. You’re coming with—”
The officer’s sentence ended with a thwack and a pained grunt. They let go and Ganex turned around just as they fell to the ground. He looked up at a new figure, a tall man with crimson red hair and a bat clenched in his hand. His eyes widened as they darted between the stranger and the now unconscious peace officer.
“You okay, kid?” The stranger asked as he rested his bat on his shoulder. Ganex stepped back until he was pressed against the wall. His caution made the stranger chuckle. “Don’t worry, okay? I just knocked out a Council lackey for you, so I’m not gonna hurt you or anything.”
“I—I mean—Is, is he…?” Ganex was almost afraid to say the words.
“Dead? No, if I wanted the fucker dead, it’d be a lot more obvious.”
He dropped the bat on the ground next to the officer and started picking up the contents of Ganex’s backpack. Ganex crouched down and started stuffing things in his pack as fast as he could. The stranger came across one of his notebooks, opened to a drawing of one of the resistance symbols Ganex had put up a few times.
“Hey, I know this,” the stranger held the picture up to the light, “Are you the guy putting up resistance graffiti around town?”
Ganex held his breath and reached to grab the notebook from his hands. “N-No, that’s nothing!”
“C’mon, dude,” the stranger pulled it away before he could grab it, “You’ve got like a dozen cans of paint and doodles in your notebook, it’s definitely you.”
Ganex clenched his hand tightly, the muscles in his jaw straining as he tensed. “Are… are you gonna report me?”
“Fuck no, I think it’s awesome! I mean, you’re kinda younger than I imagined. How old are you?”
Ganex’s cheeks flushed. “…151.”
“Oh wow.” The stranger closed up the notebook and handed it back to him. “Don’t you have homework or school stuff you should be doing?”
Ganex snatched the notebook from him and stuffed it in his backpack. He frowned as he zipped it up. “No.”
“Oh.” That seemed to be enough of a cue for the stranger. “So, you do this then?”
“Yeah.” Ganex stood up quickly and turned to head home. “Thank for the help.”
“Hey wait!” The stranger leapt forward and grabbed Ganex’s sore arm. Ganex winced and tried to pull away, but the stranger had a good grip on him. He finally stopped and turned back to him. “What?”
“So, it’s just you?” The stranger seemed genuinely curious. “You don’t go with any backup after curfew?”
Ganex shrugged. “No? I mean, I don’t know anyone else?”
“You mean people actually in the resistance?”
“…No?”
Something about that was amusing to the stranger. He started to chuckle under his breath and shook his head in disbelief. Ganex glared at his and tightened his grip on his backpack strap. “What’s so funny?”
“Sorry, it’s just not the smartest thing for someone to do.”
“Look, I just don’t know any other sympathizers, okay?”
“I’ll say.”
“Well, it’s not like their meetings get posted on the fucking bulletin or anything!” Ganex’s voice rose to an angry shout. “Not like I can just go around asking where I can meet with the leaders, huh! ‘Cause everything they do is just a big secret that’s impossible for everyone else to figure out!”
“Okay, okay,” the stranger held up his hands in surrender. “Let me just ask you this: what made you want to start putting graffiti up?”
“Uh…” Ganex looked at the ground and shifted his feet. “I just… think things can be better than they are. I guess I started looking up to them, and wanted to show support somehow.”
“You think they can change things?”
That was the first time anyone had asked him that. The resistance was always met with gloomy thoughts among his family and neighbors. Many thought of them as troublemakers, that their efforts were futile and would only cause more pain for everyone else. But not Ganex. See them fight back, hearing their words on the news, he found it inspiring.
It gave him hope for a better future.
“Yeah, I do.”
The stranger nodded with a smile and reached for his pocket. “That’s good to hear, kid. Look, I’m not saying you have to, but you might think about reading up on the guiding principles they use. At least know what they stand for if you’re gonna go around using their symbol. Here.”
He held out a data drive between his fingers. Ganex took it, noticing it was unlabeled and bulkier than a normal one.
“That’s encrypted, so even if you’re monitor’s searched, it won’t show up in the files. It’s also connected to an isolated local network. We use it for signaling when and where the next meeting is gonna be.”
“We?”
The stranger winked at him and picked his bat back up. “Name’s Sarvock. I gotta go, so stay out of trouble for the night, ‘kay?”
He turned and started walking down the sidewalk. Ganex watched him as he walked away, looking between him and the data drive in his hand. There was an excitement in holding it, like he had just found a treasure trove of forbidden knowledge. He wanted to know more about the resistance for so long, and now it was finally in his hands.
“Maybe I’ll see you at the next meeting!” Sarvock yelled from down the street. Ganex watched his crimson hair disappear from the light of the streetlamps. Once he was gone, he felt the eerie nature of the empty streets creeping back. The peace officer on the ground shifted, and Ganex took off running to his house. He couldn’t wait to see what was on here.
When he got back, he was careful to slip past the kitchen where his parents were talking. He’d be in serious trouble if they realized he only just got back. His little sister was already tucked in for the night, so he could be alone and unbothered for a bit. He went into his room, stashed his backpack under his bed, and pulled out a tablet to plug in the data drive. The screen went blank for a second, then the symbol of the resistance he had been painting for months appeared.
“Whoa…” There were a few dozen files listed on the drive. He opened the first one, ‘Social Inequities in the Dicio Council Regime’ by Andama Pax, and started reading. For hours he couldn’t take his eyes off the screen, fascinated and enchanted by each new reading.
Davian looked down at the villain in his lap, heart thumping so hard against his ribcage he thought it might break it. The sting of his fist from punching Lisle was negligible, incomparable to the hot blood that slicked over his fingers as he touched Haze. He reached out slowly at first, disbelieving that the battered figure that lay on the floor in front of him was the man who had lain in his bed just yesterday.
The Haze now was practically unrecognizable from that man. He lay near-motionless on the ground, covered in blood, his arms out at his sides and one of them bent at an unnatural angle. His hair was mussed and matted, wet with blood, and his eyes were glazed over and stared right through him. What scared him the most was the smile—sharp and bitter, like nothing he’d ever seen before, it was plastered over Haze’s face with blood-stained teeth and malice. So much malice.
Davian would’ve thought the man dead if it weren’t for the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the unstable rhythm of his hitching breaths.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream.
Why did this have to happen? He’d told Haze that he was safe. That he’d be safe here. He was supposed to be safe.
Only a day late on this one? I'm genuinely shocked. No editing though, eek. Also no masterlist yet, I promise it's coming as soon as I've got time to consolidate all this stuff!
TW: BBU and associated content, infection, wound care, non-consensual undressing (not nsfw)
Tinsel tried to slow his breath as he sat on the edge of the bathtub, facing the sink. This was bad. So bad. On the news there were pictures of the tower they had been staying in, stacks and stacks of beautiful apartments. There were pictures of the millionaire, in the same building, when he was still alive. Before he had been murdered.
Assassinated.
When they had got off the plane and drove out to the cabin Master had locked himself in his room with a few bottles of whiskey, and then it was on to the next job. The next kill. One week. Tinsel bit his hand and swallowed the tightness in his throat.
He'd been trying so hard to be good. Tidying up while Master was out or going over paperwork or shut up in his room, talking on the phone. Making dinner, always asking before using skewers or knives or anything else that seemed dangerous. But he'd dropped the whole pot of noodles in the sink. The boiling water and steam and Tinsels bad hand slipped its grip and it spilled everywhere.
Instinctually he'd pulled away, he hadn't been burned, but Master would take care of that latter, wouldn't he? Maybe that's what he was getting right now, why he had sat Tinsel down in the bathroom and told him to stay. He only had one day left, if he'd been good Master would have--there's no way Master would have forgotten his promise to kill him. But he might see how useful Tinsel could be, how eager to please, how he didn't need any care or attention. Tinsel had even been eating as little as possible, leftovers and scraps that would have ended up in the garbage.
And now it was all over. He'd ruined everything and Master was going to come back and burn him and beat him and maybe decide he didn't deserve to live to the end of the week and--
When the door opened Tinsel flinched and ducked his head.
"Hold out your hand," Master said. It was wrapped in gauze and Master began unwrapping it firmly.
"You've been applying the cream every day as I told you?"
Tinsel nodded. His eyes were squeezed shut, he could take whatever the punishment was but he couldn't look, couldn't bear the anticipation of it. The grip on his hand tightened and turned it over.
"How much have you been putting on?"
As little as possible. Tinsel had to put it on because Master had said to, but if he used too much Master would think he was greedy and useless. And if he ran out then there wouldn't be any relief for the burning throb in his hand.
"Tinsel?"
"Sorry," Tinsel said, "Just a little, hardly any, I'm sorry,"
Master sat on the toilet across from him and shook his head.
"It's going to get infected, this is supposed to help it heal faster. No wonder you dropped the pot, it's a wonder you can hold anything like this."
"I'm sorry," Tinsel repeated, watching the floor tiles. His hand tensed instinctually when it was touched, but it was only Master dabbing it clean with a towelette, hands in a bright blue latex glove.
"It's going to hurt a little, but that can't be helped," Master said. "The blisters look a little less swollen today, you popped this one though,"
With a tremor Tinsel watched the area brushed clean, dead skin clinging to the wound below. Master had said not to burst the blisters, and he'd tried, but they were so sensitive, he must have caught it on something as he was drawing away from the pot.
"It won't happen again," Tinsel said, "Please,"
"It should be fine," Master said, still focused on the hand. For a moment Tinsel thought he was going to pop the rest himself as punishment, but instead, Master picked up the cream and began applying it in a thin, creamy layer like frosting.
"Okay?" Master said. Tinsel nodded, biting back tears. The touch hurt, but the coolness from the paste began soaking into his hand almost immediately. Cool. It might be the closest to painless his hand would feel before the end, and he raised his hand to hide his tears at the thought.
"It's still warm to the touch, it could be getting infected," Master said. He began rewrapping the hand in fresh gauze, but the pressure wasn't as painful as usual. When Master reached out for Tinsel's head he drew back.
No, no stay still, he thought. But he's going to pull my hair, he'll--
"Either behave or fight back, you can't keep walking this fence," Master said. One hand fisted in his hair to keep Tinsel's head still, and the other, Tinsel flinched but it just moved his bangs out of the way to feel his forehead.
"You've got a fever, but your hand didn't look infected yet. I haven't noticed a runny nose or anything like that," Master said, "Except when you're crying."
Master's eyes wandered down to the neck of Tinsels hoodie. Only the faintest red mark was still visible, along with a yellowed edge of a bruise.
"You've been keeping your other wounds clean as I told you?"
Nodding quickly, Tinsel tried to slow his breath. Was Master going to reopen them? Was he not supposed to be healing this fast? Maybe he'd been eating too much after all and--
"Take the hoodie off,"
Stop thinking about it, Tinsel thought, no, Master must at least be considering keeping him, or else why would he bother bandaging his hand?
Because he said he would, Tinsel thought, and he always keeps his word. And he promised one week.
And he bandaged your hand before he knew there was something else wrong with you.
Everythings wrong with you.
"Tinsel?"
Blinking, Tinsel coughed on his own breath, trying unsuccessfully to get a full one. Hoodie. He had to pull it off. With his good hand, he tried to pull it over his head. It was so soft, and white, with his face buried in it like this everything was light and warm, Tinsel struggled to get another grip and finish pulling it off, until it was only hanging on his arms.
Across the front of his body marks were fading, they hardly hurt anymore. The little throbs and stings that came as he moved hardly counted as pain, he was so thankful for it to be fading and now. . .
Master stood up and moved around him, to see him take it all in.
"What about this?" Master ran his finger along a cut crossing his shoulders and Tinsel jerked forward.
"Well?" Master said. Tinsel didn't know what he was supposed to say, but Master wanted him to say something.
"I--I'm yours to do with as you please," Tinsel said. That was usually a safe bet, at least during training, he glanced up quickly to see if it was right.
"If you couldn't reach it you should have told me," Master said, "Now it's infected."
Tinsel paled. So that was it, he'd disobeyed. Not on purpose but, if he hadn't ruined everything before it was ruined now. He couldn't even take care of himself properly and had hurt himself, his Master's property, and he hadn't even noticed because the warmth and sting and fatigue just felt normal.
"S-sorry," Tinsel said. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I--"
He couldn't stop, he couldn't catch his breath and now he was crying. Gritting his teeth in frustration, Tinsel buried his eyes in his palms. Something soft began making its way across his shoulders, another handful of moist towelettes turning pink and yellow with pus.
"Please, stop," Tinsel said, "I'm sorry, I can't, I can't,"
"It hurts?"
Tinsel shook his head.
"Please, it doesn't matter. I'm, I'll be dead before it causes any problems."
Master looked down on him a moment, lips in a straight line.
"I suppose you're right," He said, and went back to cleaning the gash.
"But--" Tinsel said.
"But I'm an assassin," Master said, "A damn good one. My kills are clean, quick, painless. This--"
He dabbed on something that stung, burning all the way to bone it felt like, and Tinsel screamed
"This would ruin the whole thing. Take two of these, it'll help with the infection. After I apply the ointment and get this covered you can go lay down. On your stomach. Tomorrow make sure to clean your hoodie,"
Tinsel held it close, he hadn't noticed the mess his back had made of the thing. It had been white too, he'd managed to wreck that too.
"Don't start crying now," Master said. "I've got plenty of stuff to get blood out. Might as well know how to use it, I might need your help with it when I get home tomorrow."
And now we return to Emmett/Jackson for day 12 of @whumpmasinjuly. I’ve been weirdly excited about this piece, no clue why. I think it’s just because I really love him. I hope y’all are warming up to him too and enjoy!
Emmett’s Master List
tags: @lave-whump, @highwaywhump, @pebbledriscoll, @whumpinggrounds (let me know if you’d like added or removed from the tag list); oh and @boxboysandotherwhump, as promised :)
warnings: box boy backstory, implied runaway, angst, boy is unequipped for winter weather; not much but let me know if I’ve missed anything!
~*~*~
Jackson sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his gloves. He could feel his nose that time, a good sign that he was finally defrosting. He reached for his freshly filled mug of coffee and chugged a few scalding mouthfuls, feeling the heat radiating from his stomach and up his throat. He flexed his fingers, then wiggled his toes in his sneakers. He still couldn’t feel his toes entirely. His coat was damp around his neck. He shucked it onto the back of his counter stool and pressed his hands flat to his face, sighing at the new warmth on his cheeks.
The snow had been pretty face. White and fluffy, drifting over honey yellow and brown leaves, floating in cloud-like clumps down the stream that cut by the cabin he’d claimed as his own. Frost spidered across window panes was a novelty. Seeing his breath hang delicate and white in the air in front of him was magical. He’d never seen snow before, had never been in a place that even got snow. For the first time in his life, he understood the appeal of his mother’s beloved cozy Christmas movies.
And then the cold had seeped through the closed cabin door. The damp followed quickly, soaking his jeans and sneakers. The wood stove remained empty; its protected pile of wood vexed him. Night set in quickly now and the few candles he lit next to the simple bed would not dull the cold.
Stiff with chill, he had walked his usual way into town. He braved the asphalt and cars, thinking it would be better for his soaked shoes and socks. All the way into town along the winding mountain road. The humid warmth of Mazar’s Diner was welcome, as was the hot coffee, tomato soup, the plate of chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans.
He cut into the crispy steak, dousing the bite in the cream gravy, then shoving it into his mouth. Inelegant, sure, but hot and delicious. No, it wasn’t his mother’s escabeche or Bunny’s chili cheese fries but it gave him the same feeling. His insides going all squishy and soft and warm at the taste.
Besides, Jackson couldn’t cook for shit. He’d never needed to.
He’d been subsisting on canned food, Mazar’s menu, and the bar’s offerings since he rolled into town nearly two months earlier. Perhaps not the healthiest of decisions, but it wasn’t the worst he’d ever made. He was nineteen and on his own. No one could tell him no, and he could handle a little indulgence now that he had gotten his act tightened up. That afternoon, he had just enough money that afternoon to pay for it all -- no washing dishes or bussing tables anymore.
“Am I going to see you every day this week, Walker?” Dora smirked at him, appearing as if by teleportation as she always seemed to do. She watched him from behind the counter, a pencil tucked into her greying hair, a fist at her hip. Her parents had started the joint back in the 1940s. It said so on the menu.
“Maybe.” Jackson swallowed.
“And you’re going to eat all that?”
“Yeah. I didn’t eat breakfast.” Jackson cut another bite. “And you make the best plates in the country.”
Dora rolled her eyes. “Like you’ve eaten anywhere else to know.”
Jackson shrugged and shoved more food into his mouth. He flashed her his best mouth-full-of-food smile, already organizing his next bite. Mashed potatoes dipped into the gravy, a few green beans speared onto the end for color. It warmed him up, top to bottom.
“Alright, slow down there, chipmunk,” Dora leaned forward onto her elbows, inspecting his face. “You were shivering when you got in. You doing okay out there all by yourself?”
“Handling it.”
Dora was unconvinced. “Try again.”
Jackson set down his fork as he chewed, then swallowed. “I’m hanging in, but I’m fine. Just gotta get used to making coffee when I’m half awake, y’know?”
“I think you need new boots and a better coat,” Dora said. The bell above the door chimed. She glanced up and gave a single nod that said it was a regular customer. She pushed herself back up, flicking her pencil at his nose. “When you pay, I’ve got a list.”
“Uh-huh.” Jackson stared at her, a little miffed. He braced for a lecture, picking up the mug of soup to cover his frown.
“And you’ve got the cash?”
“Yup.” He dug into his pocket, showing her a wad of bills folded in half. “Got a job at The Whip two nights ago. No more dishes for me.”
Dora chuckled, sliding his ticket towards him. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Walker. New boots when I see you next, got it?”
“Got it.”
“And go by the hunting store and talk to Ed. He’s a stove lighting pro.”
Jackson let his mouth fall open, read to protest or ask how she knew. But Dora had already strolled away, towards the newest customer then her usual post behind the register up front. He blinked, then filled his mouth with soup. Dora knew because Dora knew. It seemed like bad luck to question it at all.
He shook it off. He finished half the soup before he found the coffee again. Then back to the potatoes and gravy and crisped-up steak. He’d take his time sitting here, warm up and fill himself. Then he’d get a pair of boots, maybe some new socks. He had some time before his shift start. Shoving potatoes into his mouth, Jackson Ureña mulled over the town he’d found himself in. Deep in the Adirondacks, somewhere close to the border; practically a whole world away from where he’d grown up, what should have been his home.
He wondered if he’d ever be as warm as he used to be, stretched out on scorching beach sand, ever again.
Bring me home in a blinding dream
Through the secrets that I have seen
Wash the sorrow from off my skin
Show me how to be whole again
- Castle of Glass [Linkin Park]
Whumpas In July: Day 12 [Warmth] | Fandom: Overwatch (Post-Fall) | TW: Injury, Violence, Torture
AO3 | FF.net | Works
Once more, she was in that room. They’d stripped her of her clothes and bandages. Surprisingly, she found that the lack of clothing more distressing than the removal of the brace on her knee.
Of course, she had expected to be returned here; it wasn’t Gabriel, but the Reaper, that had pulled her down from those chains after all. Angela just wished that she had been given more time away from this room; she didn’t think she had the strength to endure for much longer.
“Well, well, look who’s here.” Three familiar sets of footsteps approached, as they always did. Angela listened as they moved to their familiar places - and frowned. The one that stood behind her, the one who normally held the whip, was farther to her right than was usual; he wasn’t even behind her.
She’d had enough experience to know exactly where that position was.
“Tell us about your biotic tech, doctor.” The speaker demanded, surprising her; normally the questions started at Overwatch, but he had skipped ahead. Angela remained silent as she always did; she wouldn’t give them what they wanted.
Angela heard the whipper exhale in exertion, a normal sound when he was bringing the lash down hard on her back, but he was too far away to expect to hit her. Then, the sound of the whip meeting flesh - but she felt no pain. Finally, a soft grunt of pain.
Ice, colder than anything they’d thrown upon her yet, filled her veins as she realized there was a second captive in the room with her.
“Well, doctor?” This time the title was said mockingly. Angela’s heart wrenched; her silence was only creating wounds on the other person - whoever it was they had captured. The one sound, quiet and unexpected, had not been enough for her to determine who it was.
Another lash, but this time the other captive was silent.
“You’re the one in control here,” the speaker explained, as if she had any sort of control from these chains. “All you have to do is speak, and this will be over.” Angela bowed her head instead, despair filling her.
A third lash was followed quickly by a fourth, eliciting another sound of pain. Angela flinched at the noise; she knew exactly what that felt like.
“Come now, doctor; don’t you want to save your friend?” Angela wasn’t surprised that it was someone she knew, though a stranger would have given them similar results. She tried to ignore the speaker and the other captive, but it was impossible.
“Turn off the lights,” the speaker ordered to one of the others after the tenth lash. “Let the doctor see what her silence has bought.” As the blinding lights faded away, her head was yanked back roughly.
“Go ahead, doctor,” the speaker growled into her ear. “Look.” Angela couldn’t help herself; she had to look. She had to know who it was and how badly they had been hurt. She knew it would do her no good, that it would only bring her pain, but she had to know.
Just as she had feared in that clearing, Cole Cassidy was strung up in the cell with her. She had been used as bait to trap the cowboy, and now they were both paying the price for her silence. Though she couldn’t see his wounds, Angela could see the blood that dotted the floor around him.
“Now,” the speaker said, “about those biotics, doctor.” Shame washed through her. Angela’s eyes flew to Cole’s and was unsurprised at the harsh resolve in his eyes; he expected her silence and was already prepared to endure it.
Now, she had to as well.
---
As Angela woke up again, her despair choked and overwhelmed her. Silent sobs wracked her body as she wept for all that she had endured and all that was yet to come.
It took Angela several aching minutes to realize that she was no longer in chains - nor even on the hard, unrelenting concrete. She was on something soft, enveloped in what could only be blankets that did nothing to remove the icy cold of that horrible room.
It took even longer to calm down enough to realize someone was talking to her in a soothing voice. Finally, once she managed to stop crying and was breathing raggedly, Angela turned to see Cole at her bedside.
“There, now,” he said as her eyes filled again, “you’re safe. No one’s gonna hurt you anymore.” But her tears weren’t for her.
“I-I’m sorry, Cole,” Angela choked out. “You — I should have — I didn’t — I had to,” Angela babbled, working herself up once more as he stared at her in confusion.
“You don’t have anything to apologize t’me for, Angela,” Cole assured her roughly. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I shoulda found you, got you out of that place.” Now it was Angela’s turn to be confused.
“But—” Her eyes searched his face, but she couldn’t see any trace of the pain that had been there the last time she’d seen him. “You—” Angela took a shuddering breath.
“W-Were you—” Angela choked, shaking hands scrubbing at her face before she tried again. “Did they—” Again, words failed her as guilt knotted in her throat. Finally, she managed a strangled: “Are you okay?” Cole looked surprised.
“I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m supposed to ask you, darlin’,” he said slowly, clearly confused. Still, the panic on her face was enough to goad him into answering her question. “Yeah, Ange, ‘m fine.”
Angela’s eyes shifted from him briefly to take in the room around them. It was absolutely nothing like her concrete cell, nor was it the bedroom she had spent several days in. It was completely foreign to her; surely she couldn’t imagine a room she’d never seen before, right?
“I-It,” she whispered, “It wasn’t—real?” Her eyes turned back to Cole, who still looked confused.
“It—” Cole cut himself off with a harsh noise. “You were kidnapped, Angela.” He finally said, as if could have possibly forgotten that.
“I kn-know that,” she stammered out, forcing back memories she didn’t want to relive ever again. “But — you. Were you there?” The words were barely intelligible as she forced them out, but she could tell he understood.
“Oh. Oh.” Cole was quick to shake his head, hands raising slightly in negation. “No, Angela. No, I wasn’t there. Not once - never.” Angela let out a shaky breath. Relief washed away the tension in her body, leaving her trembling. It hadn’t been real; he was fine.
It wasn’t until a warm cloth was draped over her that she realized her teeth were chattering. She was freezing, just as if she had just been in that cell.
“I’ll be right back,” Cole said, now standing and stripped of his serape - which was what the warm cloth was, she realized. Her fingers twisted in the rough, red cloth as he turned towards the door. “I’m gonna get more blankets for you.” A strangled sound, more fear than anything else, made him pause and look over his shoulder.
“Alright,” he drawled after a long moment of silence; she hadn’t been able to force a single word past her lips. “I’ll have Lena do it, instead,” Cole assured her as he settled back into the chair.
It didn’t take long for Lena to arrive, arms bundled with so many blankets that it was impossible to see her head - but by then, her teeth had stopped chattering and her heart had stopped aching.
A little late for the 12th, but here it is anyways!
This is set shortly after the final scene of Breaking: My Heart. I don’t know if it’ll make the actual sequel, but all I could think of when I saw the prompt was the sharp juxtaposition between the cell and her recovery bed. I almost had her have a panic attack in the shower, but I wasn’t really sure who to put with her in that scenario — so here’s the next best thing.
