I tend to upload on Ao3 before Tumblr because I hate formating. You can find me here @ShuTheAnimeme.
⭐ The Hobbit
Dragon Amongst Dwarrow Masterlist: here!
(Fili x Reader)
Do I wanna know if this feeling goes both ways?
OR
Gandalf decides that the best way to fight a dragon is with another dragon, only he doesn’t explain to anyone where the second dragon came from. Nor that it signed a legal contract to be a part of the quest. To be honest, they didn’t even know dragons could read, so how could the company have possibly prevented this outcome?
⭐ Baldur's Gate 3
I think we can make it (Gale x Tav)
Summary:
Step one: Eliminate the Tadpoles. Step two: Return to the Gate. Step three: Fall in love with the wiz- fall in love with the wizard??
Part 1 -> Here
part 2 -> soon
I hope that you're right (Astarion x Durge)
Summary: It was a nice, simple plan. A concluding, fuck you, to dear-old dad, before slamming the last nail into the coffin of the entire plot. Orin was dead, and with this final, glorious, murder, Bhaal’s foothold in the world would truly be erased.
It wouldn’t make up for what they’d done. All of the needless death by their hand, but it was something. A final reassurance to themselves that they hadn’t been His in the end.
⭐ Arcane
Redbubble stickers
The Herald (Viktor) sticker
Send my back (Jayce) sticker
Lab Shenanigans (Jayce/Viktor/Reader series)
Part 1 -> Lab Shenanigan - Jayce & Viktor & Reader scenarios (chaotic)
Part 2-> Hey Hextech, is it gay to cuddle your co-workers? - Jayce/Viktor/Reader polyamorous scenarios (soft)
Part 3 -> You're supposed to be sick, don't sass me - (Reader is sick and the boys try out their bedside manner).
Part 4 -> Sky regrets trying to play wingman - (A sketchbook goes missing, Viktor and Jayce feel soft about it and Sky is fighting for her life).
Part 5 -> I would recognise you in another lifetime, entirely in different bodies - Reader and Viktor having marital problems in the alternate dimension whilst cannon Jayce looks on in horror.
Part 5b - fully written one-shot of the above scenario - HERE
Part 6 -> Fluffy scenarios for clear skin - Established relationship scenarios
No one is coming to save me (Silco x Reader)
Part 1 -> here
Part 2 -> here
Part 3 -> here
Part 4 -> here
Part 5 -> soon
⭐ The Last Of Us
Sun's coming up - (Joel x Gender Neutral! Reader)
Summary: When a spare pair of hands would have made Breakout Day just a little bit easier.
Everything is tagged so feel free to rummage around :D
If you prefer to read on Ao3 you can find it here!
Chapter word count: 4.3k
Summary: To retrieve what was taken.
Reader uses they/them pronouns.
There was an additional pack strapped to the saddle of Bilbo’s pony. It was a non-descript bag that upon closer inspection held clothes fit for one of the Men folk as well as extra supplies. Logically, he had assumed it to belong to Gandalf.
“Where did these come from?” He asked the Wizard when they dismounted for the night, motioning to the pack amongst his own supplies. The Wizard had simply smiled with a little too much mischief.
“Oh, just some items I picked up from the cottage last night.” He replied dismissively, to which Bilbo felt his heart rate pick up and a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck.
“You <i>stole</i> from the Hunter?”
“No no, I brought an incentive.” He said vaguely, “or set a snare, if you will. Do not worry about it, my boy.” He tried to reassure, but Bilbo certainly did not feel reassured.
>_<
Your quarry evaded you for two days.
Two dewy mornings spent following hoof prints pressed into mud. An evening of inhaling greedy lungfuls of chilling wind, picking up hints of sword polish and stale Dwarf on the breeze. And finally, the fading sunlight of the second day, where a campfire’s smoke drew you to their camp like a beacon.
You had nothing more than the cloak on your back and your sword at your hip as you hauled your weary body up the steep incline towards the chatter of Dwarrow. Pipeweed tinged the air, tickling your sensitive nose, as the raw instincts that had driven you from your home with no rations and no plan egged you on.
After two days of build up, you were positively livid. As if a mage had ignited a lighting spell beneath your skin, and then forced you to endure the buzz and bite of its charges until they grew bored. The edges of your teeth ached from endless grinding, whilst the furrow between your brows felt like they were soon to become permanent fixtures on your face.
Your calves ached from none stop walking. From crouching in the mud to dig up clues, from climbing trees to gain a better vantage point of the path ahead, and most memorably, from your recent and undignified tussle with a thorn bush that had ended in a ripped up trouser leg and no prize to show for it.
They were eating when you finally drew near enough, the scent of something charred and salty only encouraging you to draw closer. Your neglected stomach rumbled. Your parched tongue grated against the roof of your mouth, whilst your throat clicked with your next uncomfortable swallow.
The camp was a mess. The company tucked around a single fire, their cloaks and boots sprawled haphazardly across the dirt, their horses were secured to the trees on the other edge of the clearing to graze, whilst the plumpest of the lot turned what looked like a boar on a spit. The Dwarrow themselves were reclined comfortably on the grass, smoking or bickering with one another. Content after a long day of riding.
There was no sign of Gandalf. Nor the Hobbit.
Slowing your sharp breaths, your eyes caught once more on the herd of grazing horses and the packs they still carried. Then flicked to the relaxing company.
Your blood sang for a confrontation, but logic gave you pause. The Dwarrow, as they lay presently, looked to be no obstacle between you and the ponies. So long as you tracked down your lost charm undetected, you could slip away unnoticed and unroped into their blasted quest.
Decision made, you skirted the camp, footsteps light as a stalking mountain lion. The scent of horse manure and unwashed dwarf assaulted your nose, but there, intertwined amongst the less enticing scents was evidence of your own.
The ponies shifted mistrustfully at your approach. Heads reared from the ground, grass still hanging half chewed from muzzles. Those closest shifted unsteadily on their hooves, retreating until their secured reigns put up resistance. You kept your approach as steady and calm as possible, arching your back to lessen some of your height, not that any of them seemed to appreciate it. The only creature seemingly unaffected was the white stallion Gandalf had ridden. He watched you with unsettling judgement, head up, but posture relaxed as he ate.
It seemed that the Wizard was smarter than you gave him credit for, as the scent of your belongings did not linger amongst the stallion’s bags. Instead, your attention was drawn to the smallest of the ponies. A pretty, brown thing, with the whites of its eyes showing and pinned ears. You could hear the gnashing of its teeth grow steadily more threatening the longer you dared look at the feisty little thing.
It had been so long since you’d bothered rearing animals, that you’d almost forgotten how much they’d despised you. You’d have to condition your livestock from birth to accept your touch, training them to learn that the scent of lizard was not one to be feared. These steeds had had no such training, and had certainly not lingered long enough on your land to grow even remotely comfortable in your presence - Gandalf’s horse not included of course.
The pony was not likely to stand idle and calm enough for you to rifle through its bags. And you couldn’t afford to draw attention to yourself when it inevitably began to fuss from your proximity.
Brow set, you carefully rounded the shifting creature, holding its eye as it spun as far as its reigns would allow to keep you in its sights. Secured to the other trees, the rest of the herd snorted and stamped hooves. Not enough to draw the Dwarrows’ attention, but certainly loud enough to hasten your steps.
Grabbing the little thing by the holter, you held it still as your eyes raked over the bags secured behind its saddle. The pony snorted and tried to rear. You tightened your hold and forced it to keep all four hooves on the floor. Eyes on the bags, you acknowledged the Dwarven made satchels and zeroed in on a more familiar looking one. A Shire crafted linen thing. An indulgent purchase on your part when the winter of that year had not proved as harsh as expected. The pony jolted again beneath your hold, jostling the bags and sending a strong whiff of your scent up to meet you.
Wasting little more time, you dragged the fussing thing closer, and dove a hand down between the packs to find the securing line. The knot proved sturdy, encouraging a quiet, displeased huff to rise in your throat. Your eyes leapt up to the fire once more, found no Dwarrow looking your way, and dropped once more to the task at hand. Willing your fingernails to lengthen and grow stronger, you summoned claws to your hands. Talons that made easy work of the bindings and had the pack with your belongings sliding down the pony’s flank. When your hand shot out to grab it before it could fall with a thump, your nails had already melted back into their disguise.
Prize secured, you let the pony go and retreated.
The animal huffed and strained against its reins, to keep you in its eyeline. Lining up its back legs, it struck out at you with a disgruntled complaint. The rest of the herd echoed the sentiment. Too loudly. Too passionately.
Movement by the fire. The call of irritated voices urging the mounts to quiet. The scrape of weapons being pulled from their propped positions against stone.
Rounding the unsettled horses, you slipped back into the shadows of the forest beyond the amber glow of the flames.
Satisfaction purred low in your belly at the weight of the retrieved pack in your tightly knuckled fist. Greedily, you upturned the pack into the leaf litter, eyes raking through the contents for your most desired prize. Gandalf had secured himself your new boots, rations and a frankly alarming number of socks - although knowing him, it was the kind of haul that would last him little more than half a season - the guy walked so much he was always wearing through them. You frowned when you failed to find the hair clasp. Shoulders tensing, you sorted through the pile once more. Socks. Clothes. Spare cloak. Boots… And again. Your fingers were claw tipped once more when you raked them through the pile. They snagged on threads and threatened to tear open ration packs in their wake, but the buzz beneath your skin made you unsympathetic.
Where was it?
Stomach doing uncomfortable summersault, you pulled your sword forward over your hip to check the hilt again. Perhaps you’d missed it. Perhaps having so many guests so suddenly had made you overlook its presence. But no, the charm was still gone. It wasn’t attached to the hilt, nor was it amongst the pilfered belongings. You were missing something, or the charm was simply loose in the bottom of your umbrella stand.
You dismissed the thought almost as soon as it entered your mind. That thing was Dwarven made. It had survived sixty years of daily use, whilst the thread securing it to the sword had been changed yearly since you received it.
No, you were certainly missing something.
Leaning forward, you smelt the content of the bag once more. It smelt like you, and undeniably of horse, with perhaps a hint of the Hobbit and of course Gandalf. Both of which were not currently at the camp, and you had no timeline of knowing when they would return.
Then you lifted the sword to your nose, and inhaled once more. Deeply. Taking care to pick apart the scents clinging to the worn leather grip. Again, there was yourself, the warmth of your cottage, the lingering presence of lavender that clung to everything you owned, and the forest you’d just traipsed through. All normal. All to be expect-
There was one more. Concealed beneath the heavier, more recent scents. A new one. One that had no place being attached to your blade. Dwarven.
You recalled the many bodies that had removed their boots in your hall. More acutely, you remembered the blond you’d caught with his hand in your umbrella stand.
The crunch of a boot crumbling leaf litter into dust. The whisper soft groan of a wooden handle drawn from a belt loop. Your claws grew long enough to curl at the edges, the depths of your vision sharpened in the wooded shadows as they Changed. Transferring your weight to the knee pressed into the dirt, you pivoted your torso, one hand outstretched. Just in time to grab the throat of a war hammer on its downswing.
Your attacker grunted, shifted their boots, and heaved back. You narrowed your gaze, tightened your grip, and allowed their momentum to haul you to your feet, where you kicked out at heavily booted ankles. They cursed, voice low and gruff. The hammer came free from their grasp. Claws receded as you tested the weight of it, then shoved it up between you just in time to parry the second weapon sent to cut into your torso. Sparks flew. The handle clutched between your hands groaned and complained. You feinted left, felt your opponent’s weight shift, and shoved hard from the right. They stumbled back.
A second shadow darted forward to replace the first. Swifter and lighter on its feet, with daggers. Wicked, twin blades that caught glimpses of amber from what little of the campfire light infiltrated this far into the trees. You parried as you had before. Eyes shifted to bring the figure into clearer focus.
Footsteps to your left. More attackers flanking. Getting into position to jab at squishy sides and vulnerable kidneys.
The hammer clutched between your hands would slow you down. Offering concussive blows as opposed to drawing blood. Blood was good. It stung more. Made enemies falter. Made them panic.
The first shadow lunged forward with a cry, war axe raised. You kicked the smaller fighter away with a well timed blow to the stomach and caught the downswing of the axe handle on the handle of your stolen weapon. The force behind the blow made your back groan in pain, and your muscles strain. You tried to jerk, but the axe refused to relent. It drove down. Ever down towards your skull.
A shout from those circling you. A command barked in Khuzdul, words you had almost forgotten, but understood instinctively.
Your body tensed, muscles tightening in preparation for the devastating next blow as your mind raced in how to counter it-
“STOP!”
Light swept in between the trees. Pure and brighter than anything the sun could hope to utter. Your eyes scrunched shut, body working automatically to replace acute reptilian vision with dull human receptors to lessen the shock of the flashbang.
Your attacker cursed colourfully, the pressure on the handle of your stolen weapon abruptly disappearing as he withdrew with a snarl. The one you’d kicked buried his face into the dirt, whilst several previously concealed attackers cried out in shock.
“By my great beard, Thorin! What is the meaning of this?” Gandalf demanded. The intensity of the light lessened until it was but a distant star perched at the apex of his staff.
The Dwarf, named Thorin, scowled back at the Wizard. He carried a nasty looking sword. Yep, that would’ve been an excruciating hello and the bloody goodbye, had Gandalf not stepped in. “Me? Your <i>associate</i> is the one skulking around the outskirts of our camp. Upsetting the mounts and helping themselves to our bags!”
“As was to be expected!” Gandalf rebuked. “I did warn you of this outcome, did I not?”
“You said nothing of the sort!”
Gandalf paused, and then glanced down to the Hobbit who had previously been overlooked in his shadow. His brown locks bounced as the man shook his head. Gandalf turned back to the assembled group, rubbing the chin concealed beneath the river of his beard in a gesture that might have been sheepishness. “Pardon me then, I assumed you had read the contact.”
“The contract they <i>didn’t</i> sign?” Thorin bit back. “After we left them in their comfortable home a two days' ride away.”
“Well, yes.” Gandalf concluded, before turning to you. “By which I must comment that your tracking speed is oddly remarkable, my friend. I had assumed it would take you well over four days to locate us.”
“Someone made the mistake of motivating me.” You returned bitterly, motioning to the upturned pack a few steps away from you.
“Twas no mistake.” Gandalf hummed. “You found the snare I set then. You’ll find everything you require for the journey ahead-”
“I am not <i>joining</i> you.” You spat sharply. “I am recovering what was <i>stolen</i> from me.”
“Nothing that won’t be promptly returned, I assure you.”
“Then why isn’t it here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The charm.” You said. “<i>My</i> sword charm.”
Gandalf lowered his brows. “I would not dare!” He assured you with such conviction that it only confirmed what you’d already deduced.
“I know,” you said simply, and dragged your gaze pointedly to the Dwarrow spotted amongst the bushes, some more concealed than others. “One of them did.”
“You would accuse one of my own of thievery?” Thorin demanded, his sword once more raised in an offensive stance.
Slowly, you dragged your attention over to him. You couldn’t see what your expression was doing beyond knowing you looked as Human as you got, but whatever he saw made him shift half a step in front of the younger brunette hovering at his elbow. The younger man carried a bow, an arrow notched and the drawstring half pulled. On the other side of him, was the blond. The one who’d been caught with his hand in the umbrella stand. He stared back at you with open weariness, golden eyebrows lowered over hard set eyes. You held position. Waiting.
The trees whispered, and the wind changed, drawing their scents towards you. And there it was, the match to what you had discovered concealed beneath lavender and home.
“There is no accusation when I know for certain,” you eventually replied to Thorin. Tone ominously even and calm, despite the roaring that sang in your blood and enticed you to close the distance between you and the thief.
“With what evidence?” Thorin demanded.
You broke eye contact with the blond, returning to the posturing elder man. “I caught him. His scent was all over my blade. Where I mistook the Wizard for foul play, your accomplice ensured I would follow. Now,” eyes on the blond again. “I grow tired. Please, return what you stole, and I will be on my way.”
The brunette with the bow puffed up his chest, all bravado and fierce loyalty when he spat, “my brother would never-”
“Kili.” The blond interrupted. Just his name. Nothing else. The brunette stilled, then looked at his brother, brows drawn. The blond shook his head once.
Thorin rumbled what might have been a groan of irritation. “You know <i>better</i>.”
“It is Dwarven!” The blond returned as if that explained everything. “Crafted of metal from the Blue Mountains. You know nothing like that gets out beyond our walls.” He snapped his attention back to you whilst Thorin shook his head. “So why is it in your possession? Dwarrow do not make a habit of selling protection charms at markets.”
“It was a gift if you must know.” You snarled, “from a friend I have not seen in decades, so return it, or suffer the consequences.”
Gandalf interjected, serious for once in his life. “That rune is awfully precious, as banged up and rusted as it looks. Perhaps it is best to return it, rather than test our combat skills after a long day of travel.”
Ignoring the Wizard’s level points, the blond doubled down, stepping forward and all but snarling, “<i>Who</i> traded you for it?”
The hair on the back of your forearms raised at the challenge. The skin along your ribs rippled, scales wanting to burst free for the insolence. You swallowed back the urge and replied, “no one.” Not that you needed to explain yourself to a thieving Dwarrow of all things.
The Dwarf scoffed, somehow not buying your honesty. “This is one of <i>my</i> pieces.” He declared possessively. He produced the hair clasp from a pocket on the inside of his cloak, the oxidised metal catching the light as he turned it and pointed out the maker’s stamp. A collection of wonkily carved runes you’d traced with your thumb countless times whilst lying in wait on a hunt. Shaky, uneven initials carved by a pebble of a boy. “Why do <i>you</i> have it, Hunter?”
Someone at your back groaned audibly and lightly dropped their head into their hands. Perhaps the Hobbit. The rest of the Dwarrow looked several degrees of suspicious, hands on weapons, ready to run you through should you dare take the charm back forcefully.
You glared at the blond. The kind of look that usually sent the Men Folk of Bree briskly leaving tables in the inn, or sidestepping out of your path in the streets. The Dwarrow was neither affected nor impressed. Not in the way you were familiar with at least, as he glared right back. Or attempted to, until something new and unreadable entered his expression, pushing his eyebrows up and making his pupils dilate.
“Please get there faster one of you,” Gandalf begged, none too quietly.
You shot him a look.
Kili began slapping the blond’s forearm, a look of pure joy shooting across his face. He said your name. The blond snapped his head round to his brother who just grinned with more teeth. “It’s <i>them</i>! Come on! You can’t tell me you can’t see the resemblance, Fili.”
Your head snapped back to the thief. To the blond hair. The braided moustache and close cut beard that covered the majority of his lower face. But those eyes, that nose…
It clicked.
“Fili, fucking, Durin.” You said. No, <i>accused</i>. “You sticky-fingered, <i>bastard</i>! Give that back now, or I will toss you into the sodding campfire.”
The sudden familiarity in your tone had the Dwarrow stiffening, or perhaps it was the insults, thrown out like arrows as you glared at the man.
The thief, <i>Fili</i>, stared back at you. All wide eyed and stiff muscles. Eyes that scanned your body as if you’d finally stepped into the light. There was none of that rage and mistrust from before in his gaze, but it was still the kind of look that made the back of your neck prickle, and your hands want to fidget. He was taking far too long to act in your humble opinion. With a growl that sounded very unlike a human’s, you made to close the distance between you. Predictably, the Dwarrow tensed, shuffling closer to the frozen blond.
Unpredictably, Gandalf materialised at your side, pressing a withered hand to the centre of your sternum. Lips peeling up, you made to yank away, but something about the seriousness in his gaze gave you pause. It wasn’t often that he hardened his eyes and tipped his head just so, but when he did, you’d learnt it was best to listen. Even after sixty years of no contact, your body did just that, as if you were still a hatchling with soft scales. You huffed and dropped your gaze, all but showing your belly. He pressed into your sternum, then dropped his hand; as good as approval.
The scuff of an approaching boot drew your attention back to the scene at hand. Fili had approached, his daggers sheathed, whilst his gloved thumb smoothed over the initials carved into the hair clasp.
His hands had been smaller when he’d given it to you. The knuckles too large for how stubby his fingers had been, the beginning of callouses beginning to form on his palms, whilst blisters plagued his fingertips. He’d stunk of warm metal and smoke when he’d found you, bursting with pride after his latest trip to the forge with his uncle. At long last, one of the projects he’d been working so hard to master had worked out to his childish satisfaction. Wonky and crude as it had looked, you’d never received a gift before. The clasp had become the first piece of your hoard, and by far your most precious.
He held it out to you now, with a tight smile, the precious thing resting on the palm of his glove with his fingers open and lax.
Your pupils thinned at the sight. The want rose up in you so forcefully - so suddenly - that you lunged at him. The Dwarrow flinched at the speed you retrieved your stolen treasure from him.
Clasp safe in your care, you turned away. The familiar press of its uneven edges digging into your tightly clenched fingerbeds soothed something raw in you. Subconsciously, you brought the hand holding it up to your breast and pressed it there, your body a shield should the others try to pry it from you once more.
The Dwarrow were murmuring again as you sidestepped Gandalf and dropped to a crouch before your upturned pack. One handed, you steadied the thing against your thigh and began forking the rest of your belongings back into the bag. It would certainly make the slow trip home more comfortable. It was something to focus on beside the hot prick of your eyes and the tightening of the hinge of your jaw.
“Well,” Gandalf said, clapping his hands to break the tension still brewing. “Now that that’s all sorted, we can put this mild upset behind us and focus on the task ahead.”
“You are <i>still</i> bent on this Human joining us?” Thorin spat, “after that display?”
“Do not pretend you would not be just as possessive of your own treasures,” the Wizard pointed out. “Dwarven greed <i>is</i> how we ended up here in the first place after all.”
“It wasn’t greed,” Fili petulantly interjected, voice not nearly as loud as either Thorin or Gandalf.
They continued to bicker amongst themselves as you swung the flaps down over the top of your repacked possessions and clicked in place. Hoisting it up and onto your shoulder, you rose back to your feet, turned and jumped at the appearance of the Hobbit. For a creature with such enormous feet, he was surprisingly light on them.
“I think it is best not to wander off in this area on your own.” He stated knowledgeable.
“I am grown,” you reassured him. “I’ll be fine.” Not to mention, probably the most dangerous creature in these woods.
“All I’m saying,” the Hobbit pressed on, voice jumping an octave higher to keep you from simply stepping around him. “Is that we’re about half a day’s ride from Bree. Why not rest for the night, use our horses to shorten the travel time, and catch a cart back from there.” It sounded logical. Reasonable. And unlike Gandalf, the Hobbit did not know you, and therefore had no ulterior motives to keep you around, aside from some gentlemanly concern for your safety.
“Only if you convince them,” you nodded your head in the direction of the Dwarrow, “to give me rights to a leg of whatever they’re cooking.”
The Hobbit’s face fell. His expression mirrored a lot of your own feelings as he sighed and propped his hands on his hips. “I shall see what I can do. One moment.”
If you prefer to read on Ao3 you can find it here!
Chapter word count: 5.9k
Summary: More uninvited guests.
Reader uses they/them pronouns.
Spring rolled into summer, and then darkened into autumn. More than enough time for you to forget about the wizard and his odd request. However, it was not quite enough time for you to be completely oblivious when a knock resounded from your front door one cold evening. Dread lingered low in your body as you went to answer it, only to be horrified to find the wizard and an entire <i>troop</i> of Dwarrow on your doorstep.
You were dressed in sleep clothes this time with your sword in hand, as it had been that night Gandalf visited in the spring. And despite your attire, you must have cut an intimidating figure, backlit by the oil lamps further down your hallway, framed by the door with a sword gleaming in your fist, as the group - minus the wizard - collectively shifted backwards.
“You have <i>got</i> to be kidding me!” You snarled, eyes narrowing in frustration as you glared down your porch steps to the waving wizard, a sheepish looking Hobbit, and no less than <i>thirteen</i> tired Dwarrow looking thirteen different variations of suspicious.
“Ah, my friend-” Gandalf began, sweeping forward with a weary smile and wide spread arms.
“No!” You snapped, “go sleep in the blasted shed. I don’t care how far you’ve travelled or how cold it is, begone!” Taking a forceful step back, you narrowly avoided splitting your wallpaper with the tip of your blade as you grabbed the door handle and attempted to slam the door closed on the lot of them. But of course, Gandalf simply jammed the end of his staff between the door and frame and bullied his way inside regardless, encouraging his companions to follow him inside.
“Honestly, my friend, I had thought I taught you better manners than this,” Gandalf scolded you, to the bewilderment of his companions. “Slamming the door on hungry, cold faces like that.”
You scoffed, feeling unfairly scolded by him. How dare he turn up uninvited <i>again</i> and start chiding you like some unruly child. He hadn’t even sent a letter ahead, the stinking bastard.
“Oh? I am the one lacking manners, am I?” You snapped back, brows drawn tight together as you levelled your sword at him. Gandalf calmly and skillfully used the end of his staff to keep the blade safely away from himself.
Vaguely, you registered that despite Gandalf’s reassurances, neither the Hobbit nor Dwarrow made any attempt to climb the porch steps and follow him inside. They stood shoulder to shoulder in a clump before the bottom step, looking vaguely uncomfortably as a few stared openly at the scene, whilst a few of the older ones had looked away in an attempt to offer a false sense of privacy.
Your attention was drawn back to Gandalf, when his booming voice suddenly sounded from the living room instead of beside you like he had been moments before. You startled, glancing down to the shoe rack to find his muddy boots kicked off once more, and the wizard in question suddenly absent from the hall.
“And why aren’t you packed!?” He demanded from the depths of your home. “I gave you three months' notice!”
You unleashed an infuriated groan that elevated into a displeased rumble in response. “Because!” You snapped back, uncaring of your audience, “I am not simply dropping everything to be whisked away on some foolish adventure!”
You heard the click of someone opening their mouth, and rapidly tossed a, “no offence,” down the porch steps. Whoever was gearing up to add to the conversation, audibly fell quiet once more.
“Why ever not?” Gandalf demanded, appearing in the doorway to your living room, hands on his hips with a disapproving furrow between his brows.
There was an underlying rumble to your response. “You’re asking me <i>why</i>?” You clarified, “well, let’s review. You break into my house <i>again</i> after years of no contact, and just expect me to fall into line! You drag a ridiculous number of <i>guests</i> along with you. And then you decide to force your way in, <i>berate</i> me for pushing back, and then masquerade as the wounded party when I refuse to accompany you on a doomed quest! Quite frankly, it is no wonder I do not wish to be saddled with the likes of <i>you</i> for months on end!”
The wizard sniffed at your very reasonable arguments. “Well,” he said, sounding somewhat taken aback, “if that is how you truly feel, then I cannot fault you for that.” He levelled you with an unreadable look beneath bushy eyebrows, his wrinkled face looking disarmingly open and understanding for a few heartbeats, so much so that you almost felt bad for him.
Only, the manipulative little shit couldn’t possibly contain himself for longer than a heartbeat, and promptly shattered the illusion by animatedly coming back to life. “So let us discuss it at length over a nice, warm brew! We shall need fifteen cups, my friend, and biscuits! Lots of biscuits! We have a hobbit to cater for after all!”
“Gandalf! That is not at all what I-”
A polite but pointed cough derailed your ranting reply before it could pick up much speed, offering Gandalf what he took as the go ahead, to float off down the hallway towards the kitchen, practically humming to himself, as if everything was working out just as he had planned.
Glaring at his back, you inhaled deeply to calm your temper before turning to the rest of your uninvited guests. “Yes?” You asked them as a collective, eyes jumping from one man to the next to single out the speaker.
The Dwarrow shifted uneasily beneath the attention. Pressing lips tightly together or sidling closer to their neighbour.
It was the Hobbit who finally let out an annoyed little huff and stepped forward. He was dressed how you would expect a Hobbit to dress, the quality of his attire suggesting him to be from the higher end of the Hobbit hierarchy, although he seemed to lack the typical snobbish curl to his smile. He appeared put together and proper, although the dirt collecting on his absurdly large feet wasn’t quite what you were used to seeing whilst travelling into the Shire to sell your pelts. The folk there took pride in keeping the hair on their feet meticulously groomed and the skin spotless. It seemed he’d been with Gandalf’s travelling group long enough to stop caring too much about his appearance.
“Please pardon the intrusion, but I for one would really appreciate a warm cup of tea. This lot barely pauses long enough to catch a couple of winks, let alone sit down to enjoy some of the finer things in life.” He shifted uncomfortably beneath your undivided attention. “Or perhaps I might fill my water skin with some and be immediately on our way? I wouldn’t want to trouble you-” Was he beginning to sweat? Gods, he was so earnest. Painfully polite and clearly craving some of the comforts he was used to back in the Shire.
With a sigh, you relented. “Wipe your feet on the rug and leave your weapons at the door.”
Some of the tension eased from the Hobbit’s shoulders as he eagerly climbed the porch steps, his smile tight in the weak candle light as he forced himself to meet your eyes. He was slight enough to duck under your arm, squeezing himself between you and the doorway in such a way that not even the pack slung over one shoulder brushed you.
Gandalf loudly invited him into the house behind you, as you slid your attention to the gaggle of Dwarrow still lingering out in the dark. One fellow with a mane of raven black locks and a hard set to his brow met your gaze with steel in his eye, the way his jaw was set might as well have been a challenge. His companions shifted around him, and judging by the way he kept getting shot looks, he was the leader of the pack or simply the most able of the lot. You arched a brow, looking him up and down; unimpressed.
“I’ll leave this on the latch in case you decide the interior of my home is less likely to eat you than whatever lingers beyond my fence at this hour.”
As promised, you pushed the front door too, stepping back into the hallway as the Dwarrow exploded into noise outside. The tangle of voices were so jumbled from their jump from nothing to outright bickering, that you couldn’t make heads or tails of anything that was said, even if you had wanted to eavesdrop.
Deciding to leave them to it, you carefully resheathed your sword back into its hidden scabbard within the umbrella stand. As your hand withdrew from the hilt, you stole a moment of grounding by winding your fingers tightly around the hair clasp secured there. When you withdrew, the rune carved into the worn metal had left a light imprint in your skin. It felt like the bauble had offered the extra ounce of courage you needed to push through the night.
“Ah, my friend!” Gandalf boomed from the kitchen doorway, approaching swiftly with a steaming tea kettle in hand, and his thick woolen socks softening his footsteps on the floorboards. “Would you mind terribly bringing the rest of the teacups?” He disappeared into the living room before you could deny him.
Not a moment later, the Hobbit followed him, carrying a silver serving tray practically overflowing with biscuits, one of which he was already eagerly biting into. You weren’t entirely sure if you’d had that many stashed away in one of your cupboards or not.
The click of the front door’s latch and the scrape of a boot against the porch step suggested the Dwarrow had finally come to a conclusion.
Not wanting to end up trapped in the hallway, squished between the hall mirror and thirteen road worn bodies, you took their entrance as an excuse to disappear into the kitchen. Sure enough, the table had been carefully swallowed up by no less than fifteen teacups that Gandalf had no doubt pillaged from all four corners of the room. In some ways, it paid off to have to suffer through periods of unavoidable hoarding instincts, since no sane person would have collected enough teacups for your number of guests otherwise - well, no one outside of a Hobbit of course.
Stacking the teacups cleanly on top of one another, you waited for the quiet murmur of voices to quieten until the majority of them had followed one another into the living room, before braving the hallway once more.
Amongst the piles of dirty boots, only two Dwarrow remained by the front door. Clearly a duo of the younger end of the group, one blond, one brunette, they appeared to be quietly bicking over something. The brunette was leant up against the wall, amongst the piles upon piles of discarded boots pulling off his own shoes, whilst the blond lingered by the umbrella stand. You watched as the latter’s hand slid into the stand, and heard the metallic song of a sword being unsheathed.
“Oi!” You called out before you could fully register that you had opened your mouth. The possessive part of your instincts purred in satisfaction as both Dwarrow yelped and jumped in surprise. The brunette dropped his boot on the rug, whilst the blond spun on his heel, a hand diving into his fur coat to whip out a dagger.
You shot them both a withered glare in return “Don’t play with that,” You warned loudly. “It is sharp.”
“We’re not pebbles!” The brunette began to splutter out, the indignation clear in the furrow of his full brows, whilst the blond visibly cringed and tried to slide the dagger back into his furs as if you hadn’t already seen it. You lingered in the hall for a moment more, driving the warning home with a withered glare before swinging your attention away again.
Shifting your hold on the ridiculous number of tea cups, you lifted a hand to the ajar door of the living room. When the quiet conversation within registered however, your hand froze on the doorknob. The pair of Dwarrow still in the hallway with you also ceased their rustling, equally as curious.
“-Hobbiton does not get many Men Folk passing through it, I tell you, but even we can tell when something is not right. You could ask any one of the store clerks, and all of them would tell you the same thing.” The voice of the Hobbit lectured from within.
“What do they say?” Someone else prompted.
“Nori.” A different voice chastised.
“What? If Gandalf brought us to the doorstep of a murderer, shouldn’t we know about it?”
The Hobbit audibly stuttered. “Oh no, nothing quite that drastic I reassure you. They just say that they are Odd.” You could practically see the capitalisation of the last word, as the Hobbit adding enough emphasis to it that you felt your stomach sink.
You knew, of course, what the folk living in the surrounding settlements said about you. The Hobbits were quieter than Men about it when they decided someone was Strange, and you’d heard practically every speculation in the book, but hearing it in your living room of all places somehow hurt.
Selling your wares in the neighbouring towns had given you plenty of opportunities to observe the race you impersonated. From passing glances in shop windows with Men folk in the reflection alongside you, it didn’t take a Wizard to pick out the subtle differences between the original and the imitation. Your mouth was just a touch too wide compared to the villagers’. Your nose was off, but not in the way that all noses were different depending on blood; it simply didn’t suit your face. Your eyes were unnaturally big and just a touch too far apart. The way you held yourself was off too, giving the impression of something too large being shoved into a body far too small for it to comfortably inhibit. It was plain to anyone who watched that you moved with the awareness of someone much larger than you were, that you tended to misjudge whether or not you needed to duck through a doorway, even if your head was in no danger of bashing into it.
Movement in your periphery dragged you from your spiral. The pair of Dwarrow still lingering beside the umbrella stand were sharing a meaningful look. It only lasted for a handful of seconds, but at least they had the decency to wince on the Hobbit’s behalf.
You tore your eyes from the display and forced yourself to focus on the present. Come morning, they would all be gone, it would not do to show your hand, nor let on that clumsy words could get to you. Gods, even in this defenseless little form, you were a formidable foe. Opinions were nothing in comparison. Smoothing out your expression, you loudly reshuffled your hold on the numerous teacups and nudged the ajar door open with your socked foot.
The living room fire had been built up and was practically roaring in the grate, whilst your couches and rug was now littered in Dwarrow. The Hobbit, who was crammed into the very corner of one of the couches, visibly jumped as you made for the coffee table. His large ears flushed at your appearance, whilst his mouth snapped closed with an audible click. Blatantly, you ignored him and his embarrassment to focus on setting the cups down.
Gandalf, the smug bastard, had made himself comfortable in your arm chair. Whilst the rest of the couches and rug space had been taken up by Dwarrow bodies, either smoking, snacking on food from their packs, or familiarising themselves with your belongings.
“Thank you, my friend.” Gandalf warmly spoke, his pipe dangling from his lips as he leaned forward in his stolen chair to pour himself a generous cup. “All that walking certainly gets the old joints aching. It’s nice to be able to sit down at last.”
“It’d be wishful thinking that I’ll be able to pry you from that chair before dawn, wouldn’t it?”
The Wizard grinned beneath his beard. “As always, you know me too well. I shan’t be moved until sunrise at the earliest.”
“I will begin counting down the hours,” you returned.
“How very kind,” one of the Dwarrow commented dryly, as another chuckled and nudged him with his elbow.
You narrowed your eyes at the pair. “But of course, you could stay in my wood shed out back if you’d prefer.” You bit back sweetly, feeling your hackles rising higher as the larger of the two drew his hairy eyebrows closer together in silent challenge.
A fighter that one, you absently noted. He had been carrying a wicked axe earlier, and judging by his build, he had the strength necessary to wield it. Clearly, the bastard was not someone you’d want to underestimate.
“So,” a different Dwarrow spoke up, pointedly clearing his throat. He had the most magnificent white beard, and drew your attention off the bald one with his pleasant but strained tone. “H-how do you and Master Gandalf know each other, exactly?”
“Unfortunate circumstances,” you replied shortly, at the same time that Gandalf removed his pipe from between his lips and merrily replied, “adoption.”
Your head snapped round to him, and you fixed him with a sharp look. The wizard at least had the decency to duck his head in shame. What lame ass kind of explanation was that? You wanted to demand.
Yet another Dwarrow whistled. “Not in the good books, are you Gandalf.”
“Know any magic.” Someone else jumped in. One of the Dwarrow on the rug, nursing a pipe with his hat still on despite the warmth of the fire.
“I am no wizard.” You told him simply, not really eager to jump into the concept that it wasn’t a case of <i>knowing</i> magic, but rather that you <i>were</i> magic.
“Then what are you?” A different Dwarrow demanded, and he held himself with a sense of self-importance that made your lip want to curl in challenge. “What use would you have had for our-”
The white bearded one cut him off with a strained chuckle. “What he means to ask is, what do you do for a living?”
“I hunt.”
“Ah, how nice.” Balin offers. “Must mean you’re awfully handy with weaponry.”
“Enough to make a living off of it.” You complied.
The one wearing the hat jumped back in. “Ever hunted a Dragon before?”
“There are no dragons in these parts.” You insisted, shooting Gandalf a look that he skillfully dodged meeting. “But I have brought down a bear before if that’s close enough.”
“What about an Orc?” Someone else jumped in.
“They don’t tend to sell well, so no. No Orcs.”
>_<
Bilbo had not expected night spent inside before a warm hearth, after several nights curled up on leaf litter regretting having left his Hobbit Hole behind. He certainly had not expected Gandalf to lead the Company onto someone’s land, help himself to the stables for their mounts, and then drag the grumbling Dwarrow towards a cottage nestled in the pit of a valley.
When the door of said cottage had swung open, Bilbo felt the hairs on his feet begin to rise and a sharp breath get stuck on its way down his throat. Around him the Dwarrow murmured and shuffled closer to one another. Leather gloves creaked as they tightened on weapons, and shoulders tensed.
The creature that stood in the entryway looked like one of the Men folk in shape, but there was something distinctly off about it. He recalled having noticed them on the Shire’s market days, and knew he had brought a rather exquisite variety of pelts off of them that had become rugs and throws in his home. He even owned a pair of lovely rabbit skin slippers- His eyes widened and his thoughts promptly froze as he caught a glint of steel in his peripheral vision and realised that the Hunter had not been expecting them.
A ripple went through the Company as the Dwarrow noticed the weapon. The Hobbit heard the telltale hiss of fabric as hands slid towards sword hilts or shifted backwards to curl around axe handles hilted on backs and burrowed into clothing in search of daggers- all for Gandalf to step forward and warmly greet the figure like an old friend.
In kind, the Hunter had returned the warmth with irritation. Right from the start they sounded exhausted in the face of Gandalf’s enthusiasm, snarling something about a shed before attempting to slam the door on the lot of them, an action which Bilbo couldn’t help but be a little envious of, since his own manners had kept him from keeping the Dwarrow out of his home in the first place. But of course, Gandalf was not so easily dismissed and simply bullied his way inside instead of waiting for an invitation that was certainly not coming.
The Wizard was so insistent about his entrance, that he ended up pushing the owner of the home straight into the light of one of the porch candles. Bilbo caught sight of a furious expression, and features he knew were typical of the Men Folk, and yet seemed just a little bit off. As if they were not stuck on quite right. Perhaps it was their eyes which were just a touch too perceptive, a smidge too large for their face, their pupils just a fraction too sharp instead of perfectly round. Or maybe it was the unnatural tilt of their head-
The plop of a raindrop dragged Bilbo out of his head, and he glanced up to the night sky with a frown. It was too dark to see the storm clouds brewing, but they had not yet travelled far from the Shire, so he knew what the rains smelt like when they were collecting above these lands.
They were begrudgingly invited in, which Bilbo mentally pats himself on the back for, before he was distracted by the odd behaviour of the Dwarrow. Unlike the night they invaded his Smial, there were no obnoxiously loud voices when the Company calmly entered the house. There was no rough housing or dives for the pantry. No, instead, the whole lot of them calmly took off their shoes by the door and leant their weapons up against the umbrella stand, before calmly filing into the living room. The <i>stark</i> contrast to the band of merry fools that had raided his home merely days before, was truly baffling.
So much so that Bilbo found himself a spot on one of the couches, and could not help but bitterly comment on it whilst their new host was busy in the kitchen. “Oh, so you lot <i>can</i> be good guests. Good to know.”
“Of course we can, my boy.” Balin replied cheerfully, “we’re not animals.”
Bilbo scoffed. “Say that to my pantry.” He returned, “my furniture. My mother’s crockery!”
“Well then,” Bofur interrupted from his spot on the rug, already lighting his pipe, “perhaps you should start opening your front door with a sword ready in hand. I don’t know about the rest of you lads, but that certainly had my spine straightening good and proper.”
Nori snorted in agreement. “Did you hear the way they were talking to Gandalf?” Several of the Dwarrow nodded in agreement, and Nori continued with a hint of awe in his voice. “Must have balls of steel that one.”
“Aye.” Dwalin added. “They made him look ashamed of daring to turn up uninvited. And who in all of Middle Earth can do that these days?”
“Someone who would be an asset to our quest.” Balin added with a knowing wink.
>_<
The wolves sounded hungry tonight, their howls close enough that they could have been inside the cottage with them and Bilbo wouldn’t have been surprised.
Privately, he was grateful for his stretch of clean, carpeted floor and the thick, comfortable blanket he’d pillaged for himself when the Hunter had brought the Company a generous gathering of linens. He hated to imagine how merry the wolves would sound upon discovering a lovely, plump Hobbit for dinner.
“Blasted mutts.” Dwalin’s voice muttered from across the room. Bilbo vaguely saw his silhouette bury its head down deeper into his borrowed pillow. “Can’t they sing somewhere else.”
“Are they getting closer?” Ori whispered.
Those few still awake seemed to hold their breath in unison to listen, only for the sound of footsteps descending the stairs to shatter the moment of stillness. Socket feet on worn wooden stairs, and the hiss of an outdoor coat dragging against itself as it was pulled on. A shadow strode purposefully past the open living room door. Footsteps confident and self-assured. Bilbo heard the rustle of socked feet being wedged into boots, and the whine of a blade being drawn from its sheath.
Himself, and several of the Dwarrow sat up.
“Uh, Master Hunter?” Bofur called softly down the hall. “Where would you be off to at this hour?”
“To scare off that blasted pack.” Came the quietly hissed response. “Can’t fucking sleep with all their racket.”
“Sounds like an awful lot of ‘em out there.” Bofur pressed, concern inching its way into his voice.
Dwalin huffed where he sat, clearly contemplating whether to intervene or leave it be.
“That’s exactly why I’m going out.” Came the clipped response, “the bastards know better than to trespass on my land.”
“You’re going out to fight them?!” Bofur whisper-shouted, voice almost tipping into awe.
The response he got was nonchalant, almost dismissive. “Only if they decide not to run from me this time.” With the click of the latch, Bilbo heard them step out onto the porch and pull the door closed behind them.
He took it upon himself to scramble up from the floor then. Bofur had already clambered over to the window, balancing his hands on the sill and keeping his body taught to keep from kneeling on the Durin brothers snoring on the couch just under it.
He wouldn’t be able to see anything, Bilbo knew. Beyond the light of the porch lamps, the fields surrounding the cottage were utterly devoid of anything but darkness. Not even vague shapes could be pulled out of the gloom. The rhythmic tap of raindrops colliding with the window pane was the only hint to the ongoings of the outside world Bilbo could decipher.
“They must be mad! They <i>have</i> to be mad!” Bilbo hissed under his breath, dismayed when Dwalin merely nodded his agreement. “Only the Rangers deal with the creatures on the outskirts of the Shire.”
“It is a very brave thing for a single Men folk to attempt.” Bofur relented
“Or stupid.” Dwalin added. “They’re just going to end up getting themselves killed.”
More footsteps on the stairs alerted them to a new presence. The small light of a candle illuminated the hallway through the open living room door. “What is the racket for?” A weary sounding Gandalf demanded. He’d taken the only guest room upstairs, and was dressed in only his robes and was for once missing his hat and staff. Hair wild from a restless sleep, he carried an empty tea cup in one hand and a lit candle in the other.
“Gandalf, your adopted child is off galavanting with the wolves. Are you not going to assist them?” Bilbo demanded, voice still low to keep from waking the entire company.
For a moment, Gandalf said and did nothing. Then he chuckled. Chuckled! As if Bilbo’s concerns were poorly placed.
“It is the wolves who will be needing assistance, my boy.” Gandalf insisted. “Now get some rest, we will need to try our best to convince them to come along.”
Somewhere outside, the howling abruptly cut off into alarmed shrieks. A wolf whimpered audibly, whilst a couple of voices returned to bark aggressive warnings. Just as abruptly as the song had cut off, those sounds too morphed into whimpers. Then only the sound of the raindrops on the window filled the silence.
The Hunter returned to the cottage not half an hour later, their footed footfalls heavy on the porch steps. By then, the Dwarrow had settled back down beneath borrowed blankets. Bilbo had a good vantage point of the open doorway, as the Hunter quietly removed their boots and resheathed their blade. Their breathing was normal, not at all the elevated gasping that one might expect from a Men Folk who had just taken on a wild wolf pack.
The fire in the grate had burnt low, the embers coaxed into continued existence by Gandalf sat comfortably in the Hunter’s armchair once more, nursing yet another steaming teacup. Braced on the arm of the chair, his fingers glowed softly and subtly traced runes in the air, leaving a faint trail in their wake. The flames seemed to dance in step with every continued pattern, causing the low light in the room to jump and dim in time.
Footsteps in the hall. Spaced wide, as if the Hunter were bracing beneath an impossible weight.
Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat as they strode confidently past the open doorway. It wasn’t them that gave him pause however. Not the sleep tunic and pants they were dressed in, rather than thick leathers more appropriate for late night hunting. No, his eyes were drawn to the impossibly large, white wolf carcass thrown over one shoulder, a single hand braced on the dead thing’s lower back to hold it steady. It was easily three times the size of Bilbo himself, and should <i>not</i> have been so casually carried by a member of the Men Folk.
To have taken down such a prize, alone, in the dark, armed with little more than a sword and irritation from interrupted sleep, was unsettlingly impressive.
Bilbo knew from the several sharp intakes of his fellow companions that he was not the only one left with his jaw hanging open in shock.
The Hunter’s strides quietened as they continued on down the hall, their prize in tow. Their pace was deceptively casual for what they so effortlessly carried. From the brief glimpse Bilbo had gotten, they looked more or less in the same state as when they had left the cottage, with little more than a small smear of blood staining the side of their tunic where a sword hilt might sit. The Hobbit somehow knew that it was not their own.
Only when the groan of the kitchen door signalled the Hunter’s permanent departure, did the supposedly slumbering Dwarrow sit up.
“By the stone,” Bofur exclaimed in a poor imitation of a whisper. “Who’s house did you drag us into, Gandalf?”
Reclined in his stolen armchair, the Wizard tilted his head, the flames dancing in his amused gaze. “Do you perhaps see why I was so eager for us to take this little detour.”
“Single-handedly.” Gloin muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “A Great Wolf, all by themselves. That is awfully impressive.”
“It would be a handy skillset on a quest like this.” Balin agreed, shooting Thorin a look.
The Dwarrow nodded his head slowly. “I see it. But they clearly have no want to leave.”
“That will change.” Gandalf added. And the Dwarrow looked at him with confusion. He took a sip of his drink. He gave the Durin brothers a strange glance.
Thorin tensed. “What are you plotting?”
“Nothing harmful.” Gandalf insisted.
>_<
“Now, are you certain you won’t indulge me?” Gandalf asked for the twelfth time that morning. Like a saint, you kept your irritation firmly to heel and reassured him that your mind would not be swayed on this matter. You didn’t for a second trust the twinkle in his eyes when he told you that he understood, but you chose not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Around you, the Dwarrow had mounted their ponies, after using your supplies to groom, feed and water them. You hadn’t kept horses for some years now, so hadn’t lost anything in finding them already using your supplies without asking. When the blame had firmly been shifted to Gandalf who had insisted the company could use whatever they needed, you had allowed the thievery to slide. Whatever got them off your land and as far away from you as possible, was certainly the lesser of the two evils.
You walked the small procession of horse and ponies down the windy, dirt path that connected your private land to the public road that would lead them further East.
“Travel safe.” You called after Gandalf’s disappearing back, to which the Wizard turned back in the saddle and saluted.
The cottage was quiet in the wake of their departure. The living room was a mess of blankets and pillows, with plates from breakfast cluttered up on every shelf, table and window sill the Dwarrow had found space on. Luckily, there was plenty to occupy your mind within the silence that followed. Like cleaning, and gutting, skinning and preserving your kill from the night before for the market. There was so much to do in fact, that you did not realise that something was off until nightfall.
As you tidied, you’d begun to notice bits and pieces of your belongings were missing. Nothing from the living room where the Dwarrow and Hobbit had spent their time, but things from the spare room upstairs that Gandalf had been staying in, and your own room. You could smell that the crafty Wizard had been sifting through your belongings, the trail he’d left behind painted a vivid picture of him sifting his way through your clothes, digging into your wardrobe, pulling open drawers.
The bastard had helped himself to several of your tunics, a travelling cloak and had stolen the spare boots you’d acquired on sale from the Shire market and had been saving for winter. You followed his scent trail down to the kitchen, where you realised pockets of rations were gone, jerky you’d prepared from kills and set aside for the cold season to sweep in and block you off from the surrounding settlements.
The purely Draconic side of your brain stewed at every discovered missing object, growing tighter and tighter with fury as you tracked the slights across the cottage. Your teeth were grinding by the time you made it to the umbrella stand and the sword concealed within. Slowly, almost too scared of what you’d find, you slipped your hand into the stand and pulled the sword free of its scabbard. Your pupils narrowed as you glared down at the hilt, and then your rage exploded at the lack of hair clasp secured to the handle.
“FUCK!” You snarled, throwing the sword at the wall, where it embedded itself into the wood with a thunk, the handle dancing from side to side with the force. “FUCKING THIEVES!” You bellowed, ears ringing hot with fury.
To take supplies was one thing, but to take that! YOUR most treasured item. To steal the clasp, the ONE thing you had left. That. That was unforgivable.
If you prefer to read on Ao3 you can find it here!
Chapter word count: 3.2k
Summary: An unexpected guest.
Reader uses they/them pronouns.
The lavender fields were in full bloom when a confident knock shattered your peaceful solitude.
Your head jerked up from where it had been resting against the back of your armchair, the tunic you had been mending before nodding off, was sprawled on the carpet between slippered feet. The bone needle lay forgotten between slack fingers, miraculously still threaded.
Blarily, you blinked the heaviness from your eyelids. The fire had burnt low in the time between you sitting down to complete your task and when you had awoken. Through a crack in the curtains, you could see that the fields surrounding your little cottage had grown dark with the absence of the sun. Who could possibly be knocking at this hour?
Due to the location of your home, you did not see many visitors. Which suited you just fine, as you preferred to interact with others on your own terms rather than having it sprung on you. Sometimes it could take you days to build up the nerve to visit the neighbouring villages to sell your wares and resupply your cupboards.
A second impatient knock echoed down the hall from your front door, breaking you free of your thoughts.
With an irritated groan and the creaking of your stiff joints, you set aside your needle and tunic on the arm of your chair, before rising to your feet.
Although from this angle, whoever was at the front door could not see you in the living room, despite the crack in the blinds, you stalled for a moment to contemplate reviving the fire. Humans could not navigate every well in dim spaces after all.
A third, more forceful knock decided the issue for you. After all, hiding in the shadows of your home was its own brand of suspicion.
Rounding your armchair, you soundlessly stepped out into the hallway, eyes jumping to the front door guarding the end of the corridor, where the shadows of a pair of boots leaked in through the gap at the bottom. On near silent feet, you approached, pausing at the umbrella stand to silently draw a waiting sword from its sheath hidden amongst the umbrellas.
It was a beautiful thing. You’d traded a Dwarven Smith a pristine bear’s pelt for it several years back. It was perfectly balanced, with a simple handle and wickedly lethal blade. Usually it was reserved as a hunting tool, but it was also handy in scaring off the few unwanted visitors you did receive.
The next knock made you jump. The impatient force behind it had the door rattling on its hinges.
“I’m here! I’m here!” You loudly called, closing the distance and unlocking the door. Swinging it open with more force than strictly necessary, you made a point to stand far enough to the side in the entryway to allow your visitor a full view of your weapon.
“Do you have any idea what time it is-?!” You were already angrily beginning to rant as you levelled your unwanted visitor with a harsh glare, only for the words to promptly die on your tongue.
The lights seeping into the hall were not from your porch lanterns you realised with a start. Which shouldn’t have been a surprise, considering you had not been awake to light them, nor were you in the habit of doing so. Not to mention that this particular light was a silvery blue, rather than the auburn glow of fire, and burned without fuel on the tip of a staff.
It was your visitor, who stilled your tongue however. His head tilting in amusement, as a small smile caused the corners of his white moustache to bunch around his cheeks. “I would say it is about two hours past midnight.” He replied cheerily.
“Gandalf.” You said aloud before you could stop yourself, the name slipping out as barely more than a whisper.
A knowing twinkle entered the wizard’s eye at that. “Ah, I am glad to see you have not forgotten me in your solitude, my friend.”
“Solitude?” You scoffed, “it has hardly been sixty years!” A blink of an eye for beings with as long a lifespan as the pair of you.
“Details! Details!” The wizard proclaimed dismissively, before stepping pointedly forward over the threshold of your doorway and onto your welcome rug. “My, my, how you have grown since our last encounter.” He fussed, eyes gliding up and down your form with an approving nod, seemingly oblivious or simply choosing to ignore the dangerous weapon you were now clutching like a lifeline.
Automatically, you retreated a step as he approached. He must have walked directly through one of your lavender fields, because the smell of the flowers almost overpowered the stench of what was no doubt weeks of travel on the road.
“What are you doing here?” You managed to demand.
“Well,” Gandalf began exasperatedly, as he shuffled out of his muddy boots. “I was hoping you would allow me in for a drink. I have travelled awfully far to meet with you, and did not anticipate having this conversation in your entry hall.”
With a thud, his second boot hit the shoe rack. There was a hole in his left sock that allowed his big toe to peer out.
Tearing your attention from his feet, you quirked a brow at him. “I am no Hobbit, Gandalf. If you wanted a warm welcome, you should have stopped travelling at the Shire ten miles West of here.”
“And how would you know I came from the direction of the Shire?”
You gave him another look. “You smell of the pipeweed they favour. And we both know that cannot be acquired anywhere outside of Hobbiton.”
He scoffed, muttering something about your absurd sense of smell, before he pulled his pointy hat off of his head and placed it carefully on a spare coat hook. Just as nonchalantly, he used his staff to <i>steer</i> you away from the centre of your own hall and closer to the wall, before venturing further into your gloomy home, lighting the way with the magical silver light, with a confidence of someone who had navigated your cottage a thousand times before.
“This way to the kitchen, yes?”
“What-uh, yes, but Gandalf!” You called after him as he briskly disappeared into said kitchen with a light tap of his staff against tile and a swish of his grey robes.
Bewildered, you glanced from him back to your front door. For another moment, your eyes lingered on the darkened fields lingering outside the safety of your home, only closing the door when you decided that there were no other surprises to be discovered outside. Straining your ears to keep an idea of what Gandalf was doing in your kitchen, you threw the bolt and stepped over his messily placed shoes to follow him. You chose not to examine why you kept the sword in hand.
“You know,” you called down the hall, as the sound of the kettle whistling over the fire and cups being placed down on the kitchen table echoed from the kitchen, “it is awfully rude to drop in on someone you haven’t seen in literal years. And then have the <i>audacity</i> to push your way inside when you were not explicitly welcomed in.”
“My, my, and here I was being told I wasn’t in the presence of a Hobbit.” Came the expected taunting response.
You deadpanned, footsteps heavy on the floorboards as you strode after the wizard. “Hobbits aren’t the only creatures to possess manners, and you know it. If anything, as a wizard of your age, they should come naturally by now.”
“Yes, well, one tends to form better social habits in company rather than solitude.”
You raised an unimpressed brow, knowing full well that you had managed just fine on your own, only to freeze mid-step when you entered your kitchen to find Gandalf had set your table and was pouring boiling water into two teacups. He had already carefully slid aside your stacks upon stacks of trinkets and books, having neatly stacked the lot at the end leaning against the wall, leaving enough space at the opposite end for two people to comfortably sit and converse. He had helped himself to one of those seats, with his now extinguished staff leaning up against the table by his elbow.
With a flourish, he motioned to the empty chair pulled up opposite him. “Please my friend, take a seat. I have something of dire urgency to discuss with you.” It was then that everything clicked into place.
“Oh.” You said dangerously, stalking across the kitchen to linger behind the empty chair. The sword grasped in your hand felt more like a childish comfort than a threat to the uninvited guest helping himself to your home. “So that’s what this is. You need something from me, that’s why you’re here.” Gandalf smartly did not deny it, and you let out a sharp little laugh. “We haven’t spoken in <i>years</i> Gandalf. Not even through letters. And here you are asking me for help?”
“Yes.” Gandalf breathed, eyes earnest, and his words without any of his usual flourish and bravado. And that in itself gave you pause.
Eyes narrowing, you leaned over the back of the empty chair, studying his face. To which Gandalf calmly set down the kettle, and leaned back against his chair, tilting his head up to give you an unobscured view of his face.
He was tired, you noticed immediately. More tired than you’d ever seen him. Like the very weight of his exhaustion sunk beneath his skin, darkening the bags beneath his eyes and carving deeper wrinkles into the lines of his face. It was such an odd, and vulnerable expression to see on Gandalf’s face, that all at once, you felt your anger slip away. Concern promptly swept in to claim its place instead.
Stepping around your chair, you carefully sank down into it and laid the sword across your knees. Gandalf’s eyebrows knitted together as you leaned your elbows onto the table and fixed him with a hard look.
“What is it?” You asked simply, your gaze steady and no doubt oozing with stubborn authority.
Gandalf let out a short chuckle at the familiar sight, some of the light returning to his eyes. “I know now is not the time, but by my beard, how you have grown, my friend.” He said with open fondness, like a proud father.
You tilted your head, not bothering to comment on his words. Perhaps if he had meant them, then maybe he would have turned up at your door far sooner; before he had need of you.
“How has your condition been progressing?” Gandalf then asked, and your mind went blank.
“I thought we were here to discuss your problem, rather than my <i>condition</i>.”
“Maybe. But it is still polite to ask.”
You rolled your eyes. “I thought we just established that you find it hard to recall your manners, old man.”
Another tight smile, and then Gandalf cleared his throat and sat forward. “What do you recall of Erebor?” The wizard asked, and your smile promptly dropped away.
The name held weight, you instinctively knew. And its utterance tugged at a distant memory sat in the very back of your mind. Its title, uttered with reverence and grief, by voices and faces blurred by the passage of time.
Your brows furrowed as you thought, a hand idly finding the hilt of the sword in your lap to play with one of the charms tied around the bland handle. A simple little thing, a hair clasp, really. Old and worn from age, with a rune you could not recall the meaning of carved into the oxidised bronze.
“Erebor.” You repeated slowly, feeling the word sit heavy on your tongue. It wasn’t a Westron name, that was for certain. “That is an old Dwarven Kingdom? Is it not?” You finally asked, “a mountain range far to the East? Half a world away?”
“That it was.” Gandalf confirmed gravely, “before it was attacked by The Golden Dragon: Smaug, and wrestled from Dwarven rule.”
He paused once more to take a swig from his teacup, whilst you processed the information. In truth, you were still trying to figure out where you fell into all of this. You had not seen hide nor hair of Gandalf for decades, and now here he was, appearing out of the blue, talking about forgotten kingdoms and welcoming himself into your home to brew tea. Maybe you should have cracked out the ale for this kind of conversation.
Finally, you settled on getting straight to the point. Unless you were blunt, Gandalf would spend hours raving about riddles and dancing around the point. Patience for which you did not possess at this time of night. “Where are you going with this?”
Gandalf smiled, his crow’s feet wrinkling around the bunch of his cheeks. “I am so glad you asked, for I have come to warn you.” He declared in an unsettlingly bright tone. “In the autumn months of this year, a company of Dwarrow will form, and under my care, they travel to Erebor to reclaim it from Smaug.”
“Okay-”
“And I plan to employ you for the journey.”
You blinked. Utterly dumbfounded.
“Dwarrow, Gandalf.” You repeated back to him, to which he nodded quite enthusiastically. You sat back heavily in your chair, the charm tied to your sword hilt like a burning stone clutched in your fist. You stared at your friend for a few moments more. “Dwarrow,” you repeated, tone deadpan. “You want me to accompany a pack of <i>Dwarrow</i> into a Dragon’s nest? Are you <i>mad!?”</i>
Gandalf took no offence to your words and breezed on. “Yes, that is about right.” He uncurled a hand from his cup to reach into his robes and pull free a folded piece of paper. Still folded, he slid it across the table to you. “This is the contract I had them draw up for you. It consists of your reward, funeral arrangements should the worst come to pass and your role in the Company. But-” he paused to catch your attention and hold your gaze, his expression grave, “the fine print of your job, naturally, will not match the actual job I am going to give you.”
He was grinning widely now, clearly pleased with himself as you unfolded the paper; <i>the contract</i> you realised with a lurch of your stomach.
“On paper, you will be our hunter. An extra pair of hands against the dangers of the wilds, but in reality, you will be our secret ace. When everything takes a turn for the worst, and I do believe it will my friend, I need someone more on Smaug’s level to ensure the Company emerges from the mountain unroasted. And you are the only scaly creature I trust to do the job.”
You sighed heavily. “And how old, roughly, would you say Smaug is?”
Gandalf pulled a face. “Well over six thousand years I should say.”
“And by that estimate, would you say he’s as large as, let’s say, a mountain?”
“Why of course. He could hardly have claimed Erebor being the size of a house cat. Now, speak plainly my friend, what is truly the issue here?”
“Issue? There’s no issue here, as long as a young dragon such as myself could confidently take on a mountain of an elder.”
Gandalf visibly stalled. “Ah.”
“Last I checked, I was no larger than a fox,” you explained carefully.
“Oh.” Gandalf said simply, and then frowned. “That may be a slight issue.” And he fell quiet as he mulled it over for a moment. “How long, would you say, it would take you to become as large as a mountain?”
You pulled a face, and Gandalf nodded his understanding. “No bother.” He dismissed, “I shall simply have to shop around for the appropriate potion. You just focus on growing as big and tall as possible, and I will focus on giving you a boost.”
“Gandalf, I still cannot help you.” You told him simply, and the man’s expression promptly clouded over.
“Why ever not?” He demanded, “it would be a simple fix with no lasting effects. The moment it was out of your system, you would revert back to your usual size-”
“Gandalf, you know better than anyone that Dragons and Dwarrow do not mix.”
The wizard huffed a tight laugh. “Tell that to the hatchling I fondly recall running all over the Blue Mountains with a pair of Dwarven hooligans on their tail.” The subtle mention of those times long past, immediately threw you off your game. Your grasp on the hair clasp turned bruising as Gandalf unknowingly pressed forward and trampled over your shortening temper. “And I would bet my hat, that if you won’t do it for me, then you would do it for them.”
“Do not bring the boys into this, Gandalf.”
“They’ve grown, you know.” The wizard breezed on, “young men now, striking out to find their place in the world.”
You grimaced, and turned your head away. “I didn’t ask.”
“Well, I am telling you.” Gandalf replied firmly, “and I would wager that they would be grateful to anyone willing to help reclaim their home. Even a dragon.”
You snorted at the last part, knowing first hand the particular distaste Dwarrow held for creatures like you. “I am not a child anymore, Gandalf. And I have not been a child for a very long time. You know that this is not how these things work.”
“Perhaps, but wouldn’t it be nice if they did. After all, you never did have a proper goodbye, did you?”
“Are you truly this desperate?” You snapped harshly as his words struck a nerve.
Instead of rising to the bait, Gandalf simply nodded gravely. “Smaug <i>must</i> be removed from the Lonely Mountain. If left, I fear he would do far more harm than good.”
“So what? You want me to march in there and murder him in his sleep?”
“Yes!”
“You are mad!” You cut in, a hint of a growl edging into your voice. You paused, swallowing hard to coax your voice back into a more human sounding tone. “I cannot, and will not accompany you on this foolish quest. A single slip up would end with me being skewered on some vengeful Dwarrow’s blade. And I have certainly not survived and sacrificed so much to follow a Company of dragon-hating Dwarrow across half the world.”
“That is why I plan to employ you as a last possible resort, my friend. You are comfortable with a sword, are you not?”
“Aye.”
“Then you are perfect for this quest. The rest of the Company wish to set out once autumn rolls in.”
With a scoff, you broke eye contact. “You can forget it. I am not going on some suicide mission with a pack of greedy Dwarrow.”
“You will.” Gandalf said confidently, and stood to leave. He completely ignored the documents still on the table, and picked up only his staff. “I will see myself out.” He said, and politely ducked his head before sweeping out of the room.
Frozen in your chair, you glared at your untouched teacup as the wizard shoved his feet into his shoes and left as abruptly as he came. Leaving you in the suffocating stillness of your home, feeling far lonelier than you had in years.
Gandalf decides that the best way to fight a dragon is with another dragon, only he doesn’t explain to anyone where the second dragon came from. Nor that it signed a legal contract and HAS to be apart of the quest. To be honest, the company didn’t even know dragons could read, so how could they have possibly prevented this outcome?
Tags: Dragon!Reader, the Dwarrow rightfully hate dragon, when you’re a dragon posing as a human, Dwarf culture & customs, Gender Neutral reader, reader uses they/them pronouns, Alternate Universe - Everyone lives/nobody dies, Dwarven Ones/Soulmates, Gandalf being sassy for most of his and Reader’s interactions, the line of Durin will survive this time, rules for dragons are bent here, not cannon rules for dragons, SLOW burn, based on Tolkien Lore but not strongly sticking to it, childhood friends who lost touch, hints of Arthurian legend, Protective Reader, friends to strangers to lovers, Azog and Reader having beef, Reader being Fili and Kili’s scary attack dog, non-sexual nudity, canon complaint until it’s not, eventual canon divergence.
If you prefer to read on Ao3, or want the next part quicker, you can find the fic here!
Gale x Unnamed!Tav (dragonborn druid)
Word count: 5k
Summary:
Step one: Eliminate the Tadpoles.
Step two: Return to the Gate.
Step three: Fall in love with the wiz- fall in love with the wizard??
OR
The fall from the nautiloid.
(TAV USES THEY/THEM PRONOUNS).
You would assume that the most concerning aspect of having a parasite shoved into your eye socket, was that there was now, A PARASITE IN YOUR FUCKING EYE!
Or maybe even the inevitable, gruesome end said parasite had now sealed for you. The horrible promise that after some agonising, unescapable symptoms, you would soon transform into the very monster that had abducted you. But no, that was an inevitability you would have to worry about <i>later</i>.
The truly pressing horror, you had swiftly discovered as the nautiloid precariously tilted and lost altitude as it burnt, was that the introduction of the tadpole had done something to your magic. Misty Step and Fly were suddenly beyond your grasp, the magic words not so much as calling a glow to your clawed hands. Meanwhile, <i>all</i> of your flying animal forms were simply gone. Erased from your memory by the <i>thing</i> gnawing on your grey matter.
Another lurch of the ship sent you off your feet and soaring into the wall. Your back smarted from the collision, even with your scaled plates taking the worst of the impact. Wind whipped and surged through the opening one of the red dragons had ripped into the ship’s belly. Your tunic tried its best to escape through it, threatening to drag you with it. You dug your nails into the slimy, membrane of the floor, fanged teeth clenched tightly from the effort.
Movement in your periphery, had your head snapped to the side, and your eye connecting with one of those squid monsters. You were unversed in reading the facial expression of illithids, so its burning orange gaze returned your wide eyed stare blankly. Its face tentacles whipped to and fro before it, its body slumped against the mucus wall across from you. If its pupils didn’t track your movement so acutely, you might have assumed it was already dead.
And, oh by the gods, did you want it dead.
It was the reason you were here, on a crashing nautiloid, instead of back in Baldur’s Gate. It was the reason your companion was now all alone within those stoned walls as your enemies closed in. He was a capable boy, you knew, but the pair of you had always fared better with each other.
So yeah, you wanted this thing dead. Badly. For the inconvenience. For the parasite. <i>And</i> for not just kidnapping the both of you in the first place to make this whole thing easier. You might have forgiven the worm if the ship had offered a free one way trip, after all.
A tingle on the end of your subconsciousness, like what you would imagine an octopus tentacle might sound like knocking on a door. The sensation conjured forth images of the bright red animals dragged in by the nets of the fishermen in the Gate’s harbour. Their skin already beginning to dry out in the harsh sunlight. Another tap. More insistent than the first.
The mind flayer was still watching you. Unblinkingly.
You imagined the mouth of a predator yawning open under the tapping, offering the suggestion of entry, before killer sharp jaws snapped shut on the appendage, promptly severing it from its host.
The mind flayer jerked as if struck, eyes finally snapping shut under an unseen blow. You were so transfixed by this unexpected display of humanity, that you were unaware of the chunk of ship soaring straight for your temple. Not until it collided hard with the softer scales above your eye socket, and promptly slammed you straight out of the hole in the wall, with the accuracy of an empty beer bottle being drunkenly tossed out a partially closed window. Your ribs collided hard with the side of the ship on the way out, punching the air from your lungs and sending you spinning into open air.
>_<
You woke up. Disorientated. Aching. But somehow alive. And with what felt like sand grating painfully between your scale joints.
The smell of brine and salt hung heavy in the air as water soaked through the holes in the heel of your right boot. Gritty eyelids slid open to reveal a strong sun, and the smoking remains of the ship. It had crash landed in a cove. So close to you, and yet just far enough that its bulk had miraculously missed you. Now it lay half submerged in the waves, with its tentacles sprawled along the sand, splayed up a grassy hill and reaching for the waves. It was just as ugly to look at in the daylight, as it had been horrifyingly disgusting to navigate in the hells.
On shaky legs, you rolled onto your stomach and pushed yourself up. Claw tipped fingers sunk into damp sand as you found your feet, your tail swaying harshly to help maintain your balance once your boots were back under you. The shift had your eyes swimming and a lightheaded sensation settling over the back of your skull.
Numbly, you glanced further up the beach. There are no visible survivors, just you left in the burning wreckage. Funny, how history repeats itself. Only this time, you do not have a little hand worming its way into yours, seeking comfort as a pair of tearful red eyes peering around at the destruction. Then, it had been easy to unstick your feet from the ground and usher that little body away, but now, your legs are frozen solid as if your own magic had rebelled against you.
A death rattle pulled your mind from that unpleasant spiral. The sound of air being sucked into resisting lungs. Weak and feeble, but worthy of the struggle.
You turned towards the sound, and clapped eyes on the Cleric from before. Amongst the dark stones and debris, her armour and black hair provided enough camouflage that you hadn’t immediately noticed her. But now you had.
And that stupid, Druidic instinct to check on all forms of life reared its feeble head for the first time in months. The head that dedicated itself to healing and preserving, whilst the other, the viscous, Mother Bear had been in control previously. The Feeble One demanded that you take a knee beside her and ensure that those battered lungs kept moving. And it must have been a convincing enough suggestion, as the Mother Bear took pause. She sniffed the air, and instead of detecting traces of blood and weakness, she saw potential. Either another cub or a possible ally to help protect the cave. How ridiculous. You needed to be devising a plan to get back to the Gate, not checking on the dying.
You tried to stride past her. Tried to clench your jaw and keep walking. Her breaths were steady, her body had fallen far enough from the water, she would wake, and she would be fine. But this time, the Mother Bear stuck her feet in the stand and rooted you to the spot.
Mentally, you swatted at her, feeling frustration crawl up the back of your spine. She already had a cub to look after. She shouldn’t try to replace him so quickly. Within the confines of your mind, the Bear in question huffed at the implication; offended.
Then the Feeble One tried to prod you, sheepishly demanding your attention be diverted back to the task at hand. You outright flashed your teeth at nothing, irritation curling your tail. <i>Fine!</i> Fine.
With a huff of frosty breath, you knelt down beside the half-elf and shook her shoulders. She came too with a splutter and a start.
<i>Look, she’s fine.</i> You mentally told your instincts. The Mother Bear rumbled in pleased agreement, whilst the Feeble One nudged you towards wasting some healing magic on her anyway.
The Cleric was talking. Voice low and rushed. You barely spared her more than a clinical glance over, before summoning cold, healing magic to your scaled hand.
“W-what are you doing?” She demanded, voice tight and sharp.
You pushed out an impatient breath. “It is a healing spell. You do not want it?”
She studied you with narrowed eyes, and then flicked that gaze down to your hands. The knot between her brows loosened a fraction as she no doubt recognised the frequency of the spell. She was a Cleric after all, healing would be second nature to her. “No, I do.” She replied skeptically.
Without further adieu, you hovered the hand over her, running it from her head down to her boots. The magic seeped into her, soothing whatever damage remained from the dash to the console and the fall that followed. She watched you with open suspicion, hardly breathing until you withdrew.
“Better?”
“Yes, actually.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, there are not many who would waste their magic on strangers. Especially in a situation such as ours.”
How charming.
“Well, it would have been a waste hauling you out of that pod, just to leave you to die on the beach.” You reasoned, and with that, rose back to your feet. Curiously, this time, when you stepped around her, the two busy bodies that acted like your conscience let you pass.
“Hold on. Is that it?” The Cleric demanded, clambering clumsily to her feet.
“You are healed and walking,” you replied over your shoulder, “so yes, we are done.” Her footsteps do not follow as you strode away.
Or tried to. The Bear and the Feeble One bullied you into checking the other corpses, still well within eyesight of the Cleric. None of those had survived the fall, but they did have some coin and odds and ends on them. Stuff that the Bear urged you to take, since provisions would ensure your strength for the journey to come. The Feeble One just curled up and turned its eyes away from those lifeless faces. It had never had the stomach for the dead.
The incessant checking for life grew tedious fast. No one but the Cleric was alive. The sun had begun to bake the skin of the deceased and rot was creeping in. You could smell it, but the two conflicting instincts in your mind were united in their task. For their own reasons, and your personal peace of mind, you had to check. So you did. Moving rubble, pressing progressively more dirty hands to frozen pulses, closing limp eyelids and in a burst of adrenaline, slapping a dagger out of a stab-happy Elf’s hand.
Ironically, this man had more in common with the corpses than the living, and yet he was the second survivor you’d come across. He was dressed in the finery of the city, his hair as white as your scales and eyes with a familiar glint to them. The glint of a hungry predator. His knife lay in the grass between the two of you, and he stupidly glanced down at it, body tense in preparation to lunge.
Hands raised, you took a hesitant step back. Those eyes snapped back up to you and narrowed, you allowed your body to fall still. At your estimation, the Elf was on the taller end of the spectrum for a male of his species, but considering your own heritage, you towered over him effortlessly, even with an arm’s length of space between you. And judging by the slight widening of his eyes, he too could feel the height difference just as keenly.
Carefully, oh so carefully, you eased your tail down into a more docile position. The effort was no doubt lost on him, but it helped to soothe your own hackles to allow the slight to go unchecked. Although he looked unarmed, you pegged him as the shady sort to have a second dagger stuffed up his sleeve, or a firebolt already brewing on the tips of his fingers, and you knew from experience that you and fire magic did not mix well. But he also offered the presence of a small creature that had been cornered. Like a cat ducking into an alleyway to avoid the neighbourhood dog.
“Well,” you said dryly when the weight of his weary glare grew too heavy, “you look better off than the others at least.” Come to think of it, was he even breathing? “I’m going to go this way, you, you just steer clear of the fires.”
And like an idiot, you turned your back on him as you strode away. The Bear revolted against such stupidity, but the Feeble One saw a wounded animal and wished to offer it the chance to scamper off. To find somewhere safer to hide that wasn’t pinned under the gaze of something far more dangerous than it. To the surprise of both you and the Bear, no dagger buries itself between your shoulder blades, nor did the elf follow.
You pushed forward, circling the ship where the suggestion of a forest had drawn your attention. One tree in particular gave you pause. The ship’s debris had destroyed most of the landscape beyond recognition, but this tree had held firm through the chaos as it had no doubt done so through countless storms and such tragedies.
The faintest memory of its bark beneath your palms made your breath catch in your throat. Somehow, you knew what the land used to look like when you climbed to the crooked branch near the top. It would certainly not hold your weight at the height you stood now, but a barefooted child exploring the woods under the summer sun would be right at home nestled between its limbs.
The tree called to your magic. Tugging at the very edge of what made you you, insistent and confident and somehow comforting. Its brethren huddled close over its shoulders seemed to beckon you to them as well, as alluring as an old friend; dearly missed and fondly remembered. And you certainly had missed that tug of nature whilst navigating the Gate. The small snatches of plants creeping in between buildings and clawing their way between the cobblestones, had drawn on you the same way, but with how scattered and few they’d been, their pull had been weak. Little more than an echo of what you’d glutted yourself on in your youth, but it had been enough. Stolen nights indulging in various Wild Shapes in your apartment had scared off the worst of the ache for something familiar and earthy.
Speaking of Wild Shape, something like a cat would be able to navigate the forests just as well as your current form would. In some cases, even more efficiently what with the heightened senses and the ability to slink through the undergrowth unnoticed by possible travellers. The typical white pelt your forms tended to favour might prove to be a hindrance in terms of camouflage, but a cat was less likely to be bothered than a disorientated dragonborn with coin to steal.
You reached for that spell then, prodding a sceptical, metaphorical finger against the magic to see if it would comply. Only for the magic to fizz and snap back, sending the brainworm in your skull writhing and twisting behind your eye. You let out a startled yelp, hand flying up to the offending eye and pressing down hard on it until the pain eased under the pressure. Hells, even a <i>cat</i> was beyond your capabilities.
A sound you didn’t make had you straightened before the pain had fully relented. With the offended eye squeezed shut against the lingering pin pricks of sensation you rounded on your heel, teeth bared threateningly, only to freeze at the sight of the Cleric and white-haired prick picking their way along the path you’d wandered from the crashed ship.
They were bickering, you realised. Shooting scathing remarks back and forth, as they dodged burning bushes and picked their way over gore. It was all inaudible of course, with how far down the path they were, but you could guess the gist of it from the scowls they were shooting one another and the clipped tones. It was the knife-happy bastard who noticed you looking first, and he had the audacity to raise a hand and flash a grin your way as if you were life-long chums. You were scowling before you’d fully decided to do it. He noticed. That wide, dangerous smile cracking a little at the corners. To rub salt in the papercut, like the petty reptile you were, you promptly turned your back on him and continued on your way.
You left the memory of that old climbing tree behind, and followed the path round the curve of the land. The bay stretched as far as the eye could see, glinting in hundreds of blues and greens under the strong sunlight. If the scent of smoke and death hadn’t been so overwhelming, the view would have been worth the hike. But as it was, you were tired and marinating in clothes that had absorbed all manner of blood, sweat, and the weird mucus the walls of the nautiloid had secreted. All you wanted was to be home, not wherever HERE was.
“Ah, there you are, my Dear!” A painfully rich accented voice shrilled with fake relief. You didn’t have to turn to know that the pair of survivors had caught up to you. “My, for such a big fellow, you move awfully quickly.” For a fleeting moment, you eyed the steep slope that curled away from the path before ending abruptly in a rocky and sheer cliff face. Whether the temptation was to throw yourself or him over the edge, you couldn’t decide.
“Did you need something?” You asked instead of acting on the impulse, the Feeble One in the back of your mind strongly discouraging causing injury to someone who wasn’t currently attacking you. Never mind that he’d tried to drive a dagger between your ribs scarcely an hour past.
“A guide, perhaps.” The Cleric spoke up, her voice the epitome of polite disinterest, when the pale elf seemed to finally trip over his honeyed words. “You are a Druid, correct?” Instead of answering her right away, you took a moment to look at her, really look at her beyond being a body you possessed the power to save. She was shifty on her feet, mistrustful of the man she’d picked up from the beach and then trekked with. Under your scrutinising gaze, her posture became even tighter and tenser than it had been before.
“What suggested I might be a Druid?” You asked instead of answering. For you did not wear the traditional robes, nor did you carry the symbol of your class anywhere on your person. Back at the Gate, that was a surefire way to end up targeted or remembered. So, the plain tunic and trousers you were currently dressed in, with their boring browns, gave no indication of what faction might be your own.
The Cleric shrugged and jabbed a thumb in her unwanted companions direction. “He insisted you were.” She said simply.
You flicked your eyes to the pale elf, who’d seemingly found his stride once more. “Oh come off it Darling, beneath the sulphur of the Hells clinging to your scales, you positively stink of dirt and trees, and we’ve certainly not been here long enough for any of that to begin clinging yet. It was not as hard of a leap to jump to as you seem to think it is.” Huh, you had no idea elves had such a strong sense of smell.
“And why might I be a suitable guide?” You pressed, eyes jumping back to the Cleric. “I was on that blasted ship as long as you were.” She stalled. You didn’t have the patience to let her find the words, nor the willingness for the pale elf to come up with anything less unsettling than describing what you smelt like.
“Well, can’t you just sense the way back to civilisation?” The Elf asked anyway, showing just how little he actually knew about Druids. “Use those powers of yours to look through the plants or hug the directions out of a tree?” You huffed a laugh despite yourself, as the Cleric saved him from continuing by elbowing him sharply in the ribs. “What? Was it something I said?” He asked innocently.
The Cleric ignored him, her attention on you once more. “Where are you going?”
You kept striding away.
“To hug some trees obviously,” you snarked. “You two seem more than capable in keeping yourselves on the straight and narrow.”
“Oh no, no, no, you’re not leaving me here with <i>her.</i>” The pale elf complained, still rubbing his side as he began following you once more.
“You’ve certainly not been the best company either,” the Cleric fired back, and, oh great, she was following you too… yippee…
You picked up your pace just to see if you could lose them. The pair were collectively shorter than you, with proportionately smaller legs, so had to work harder to keep you in sight.
“If I didn’t know you better, Darling, I’d suspect you’re trying to lose us.” The pale elf called at your back.
“Perish the thought!” You threw back, and broke out into a jog.
“Oh, come off it! I am not wearing the right outfit for running!” The Elf groaned petulantly, his fancy shoes crunching against twigs and sending rocks flying across the path as he mirrored your movements.
“Gods, you two are worse than children.” The Cleric loudly complained under her breath, but also picked up her pace so as not to get left behind.
You almost laughed at the absurdity of the entire situation. At the ridiculousness of being freshly kidnapped, and then chased across a coast by two survivors who’d seemed to decide you were the safest thing to hide against, like a pair of ducklings sheltering in the shadow of whatever bird was the least likely to eat them-
A tickle of magic drew your attention off the path. A tingle in the back of your throat, that had your nostrils flaring and your spines standing on end. It felt like the humidity before a lightning storm broke, the swelling of heat and tension in the air, as electricity surged and collected. It smelt like rain in the distance that had not yet reached you. The power surging, unstable and yet tantalising. And you somehow felt drawn to it, like a moth to the campfire. A fitting simile, since something that powerful <i>should</i> be avoided rather than approached.
The Feeble One paced in the back of your mind, unsettled, whilst the Bear was oddly quiet. You just felt curious, like there was a spool of twine tied around your ribs, and the source of the power was tugging on the other end, coaxing you towards the dangerous thing. As insistent and unbreakable as a Siren’s song once you’d succumbed to its thrall. The breath caught in your lungs as the power surged once more, building and building, but finding no crescendo. Gods, it was intoxicating, and you were the curious cat.
To the Hells with preservation, even if it was something deadly, you were capable enough in your abilities - full extent of magic or no magic available - to haul your ass out of the fire alive.
With a defeated huff that barely concealed your excitement, you changed course and began jogging towards the pull, which seemed to shiver in excitement and redouble its efforts. Your boots hit grass, and you left the path behind in your eagerness to comply
“Where are you off to <i>now</i>?” The pale elf demanded with evident exasperation.
“There’s something over here.” You threw over your shoulder.
“Another survivor?” The Cleric called back.
“No. Something unnatural.”
“And we’re going towards it, <i>why?”</i> The pale elf demanded, sounding horrifically condescending.
“For the guy who is following me, <i>uninvited,</i> you are awfully opinionated about <i>my</i> decisions.” You bit back. Neither responded, but they didn’t stop following either.
The pull grew stronger and stronger until you emerged on a rocky outcrop back by the hull of the smoking shipwreck. The drop to the path below was shorter than you were tall, so you followed the pull and leapt. Landing neatly, you turned, following the tug to the glow of something vibrantly purple carved into the rock face. Ah, a teleportation rune, the city has them dotted all over. But this one appeared to be malfunctioning.
Whilst you were studying it, your unwelcomed companions dropped down on either side of you.
“Don’t touch it.” The Cleric advised wearily, “we have no idea what it could do to you.”
You frowned, clawed hand still half raised out to the rune. You had watched the local Wizards of the Gate replenish their reserves and fiddle with them during your explorations of the city. It hadn’t appeared to be awfully taxing magic, and if you could get this one working through similar methods, then perhaps you could skip the weeks of tedious travel to come, time you might not even have to spare, considering your uninvited brain guest.
“You’re going to touch it anyway, aren’t you?” The Cleric deadpanned, to which you shot her a sheepish, half-smile.
“Cursed to put my hands on everything.” You said by way of explanation, earning an unexpected snort from the Elf, before you closed the distance between your scaled hand and the malfunctioning rune.
The power that had led you here seemed to reach back. It raked up your scales, sliding under your sleeve and gliding up your arm, sending tingles racing in its wake as if an electrical spell was brewing. Gentle as a lover’s caress. And then with all the suddenness of a startled animal, it bit. The startled cry you let out was more of a yelp. A jolt shoved your hand backwards away from the rune, leaving you to stagger back a step, cradling your buzzing hand. Well, that could have been worse at least.
The Cleric shot you a knowing look, whilst the Elf was trying and failing to bite back his smirk, although his wiggling ears were blatantly giving away his delight. You shot the former an appeasing look and then scowled darkly at the second, which just had him laughing less subtly.
The hand erupting from the centre of the malfunction rune sent all three of you scrambling away. On instinct, the spell for Ice Knife began manifesting in both of your hands, the chill biting and deadly - huh, thank the Gods at least one of your spells was working. The Cleric had leapt about a foot in the air, magic swallowing her hands as a spell sprung forward to defend her. Whilst the Elf promptly dashed away a handful of steps, knives already in hand, to which you were inclined to swiftly follow, only for an unknown voice to call out. Giving you pause from the sheer desperation swaddling the words.
“Hello?” The voice called, distinctly male, and oozing with uncertainty. “Is anyone there? I require some assistance!” The hand swung too and fro, reaching and twisting, the fingers stretching out and clenching. The angle in which the limb had erupted from the rune left it unable to grab the rock the rune was carved into, and it was far too high or low to grab the lip of the rock above or gain purchase against the ground. “Please!” Whoever the hand was attached to pleaded, sounding tired and resigned. The magical pull from before amped up in strength once more. The storm brewing swiftly, electricity surging, the magic so thick in the air you could practically feel it settling on your skin like condensation. One glance at your companions, told you all you needed to know. If this man was going to be pulled from the stone, then the task had fallen solely to your shoulders.
Banishing Ice Knife from your hands, you sucked in a breath and dropped your defensive stance. The Cleric was already looking at you like you were mad, although this time she didn’t openly voice her displeasure.
“Are you going to put your hands on him too?” The Elf asked flippantly - did he just wink at you? Ugh.
“Well we can’t just leave him there-”
“Oh, but we can.” The Elf interrupted. “Look, I’ll even show you how.” He promptly turned on his heel and began striding away. “Look how easy this is.” He called over his shoulder, to which you shot the Cleric a long, suffering look.
“Well, that certainly takes care of one headache.” She mused only loud enough for you to hear, to which you grinned openly. The ice behind her eyes seemed to thaw a touch at your amusement, before she forcefully hardened her expression and turned her eyes on the rune and the poor bastard currently plugging it up. “But that still leaves him.”
“I’ll get his wrist, you get his elbow?”
“I doubt I’ll have the strength to do much.” She discouraged, then flickered her eyes over to you, very pointedly running them up and down your form with what might have been appreciation if you were a more egotistical person. As it was, it just left you feeling exposed. “You on the other hand won’t have much trouble, I’m sure.”
With a deep sigh, you resigned yourself to doing the leg work. Unexpectedly, both metaphorical opinions in your mind were weirdly dormant as you reached for the flailing hand. The Feeble One watched with bated breath as your scaly palm brushed warm skin, whilst the Bear seemed to have already lost interest.
The hand stalled its flailing at the first brush of your fingers against its knuckles, before it twisted, and latched firmly onto your wrist. You gripped back just as firmly, bringing your second hand into the mix, and winding it around the robe clad elbow. Bracing your feet, you flexed your grip and began to pull.
“That’s it!” The voice echoed from within the stone. “Keep doing that!”
Bit by bit, the rune relinquished its grasp on the unfortunate traveller, allowing a bicep to slip free and then a shoulder. It seemed to stick when you got to the abdomen, but a simple repositioning of your feet and a firm, teeth-clenching tug, and the body came free with a burst of purple sparks and a pop that upset your ears.
You landed hard on your back, your backwards facing horns digging divots into the dirt that jarred your jaw, whilst the Stranger sprawled on his hands and knees. Flexing your jaw, you hauled yourself back to your feet as he collected his bearings. You caught sight of grey flecked brown hair pulled back into a half-up bun and wizard robes such a rich shade of purple you just knew it had cost a fortune. His head tilted back, and warm, relieved eyes locked onto your sceptical stare. Instinctively, your limbs wound tight under the attention, until his face split into a grin and he began talking. And talking. And then continued talking as he rose to his feet and began messily dusting himself off.
To her credit, the Cleric was nodding along to his words, whilst your mind was still caught up on how nice his voice was. Steady and smooth. The kind of voice you thought was fitting of a Wizard. He was polite right off the bat, which was refreshing considering the Githyanki you had found on the ship and the Elf on the beach, both of which had tried to gut you on sight, whilst the Cleric had been downright distrustful from the first moment she laid eyes on you.
The man even took the time to focus all of his dazzling attention on you and bloody thank you for the assist, going as far as to dart forward and shake your hand. His palm was dwarfed by your own claw tipped one, but his skin was warm to the touch against cool scales, an underlying zap of electrical power thrumming under his skin. He withdrew as quickly as he had closed in, still smiling. Which you were beginning to decide was just downright refreshing after such a shitty morning.
“Ah, so you simply couldn’t resist putting your hands on him then?” The mirthful voice of the Elf called from behind.
“More of your merry band I take it.” The Wizard interjected diplomatically, casting a weary glance in the approaching Elf’s direction, who was grinning with a smile that was downright dangerous.
“More like an unwelcome nuisance.” You muttered a touch too loud.
“Ah, not a friend of yours then?”
You flicked your eye to the Wizard without turning your head, watching him stiffen under the reptilian mannerism. “No.” You said flatly, to which the man’s smile became slightly forced and he glanced at the Cleric for moral support, who simply shrugged.
He audibly scrambled for a way to fill the resulting silence, turning to matters regarding the parasites, whilst you returned your attention to the now quiet WayPoint Rune. With the Wizard no longer clogging it, it looked perfectly normal once more. You were prepared for a potential shock this time when you reached out to it, searching with your magic for something to latch onto, only to feel nothing. Like failing to pay attention when ascending a staircase, only to realise you’d run out of stairs to climb and your foot was scrambling to readjust your weight distribution. It was like the rune had been reset. Whatever magic had pulled you to it, was also strangely absent, a storm swept promptly out to sea by a strong wind. Whatever the Wizard had done to it, seemed to have reset its ability to reach out to neighbouring runes; how irritating.
Stealing a look at said Wizard, who had now roped the Elf into his conversation, you saw no signs of injury. His clothes barely held any dust now that he was done cleaning himself off.
With nothing else to be done, you turned on your heel and made for the trees once more as if the detour had never occurred.
It took all of ten paces for the conversation behind you to break off, and for the Elf to yell something obscene at your retreating back, which you charitably ignored. There was a small commotion, before several pairs of footsteps fell into step at your back once more.
“Where are we headed in such a rush?” The Wizard asked breathlessly.
“Not so much as a rush, but a matter of keeping up or getting left behind,” the Pale Elf replied with exaggerated amusement. “The Druid is intent on shaking us at every turn.”
“Again, you need not follow me.” You threw over your shoulder.
The infuriating Elf laughed without humour. “And miss out on all the sorry souls you pull out of humiliating situations? I think not.”
If you prefer to read on Ao3, you can find the fic here!
Word Count: 9k
Summary: The aftermath of the riot on the bridge.
Reader uses they/them pronouns.
The poor fucker who met your gaze in the dingy bathroom mirror looked like a reanimated corpse rather than a living person. You could sympathise, since you felt like one too.
With soot-streaked skin and eyes weighed down by the exhaustion of someone who’d suffered through a long, uncomfortable night’s rest crammed on a couch using a friend as a makeshift cushion, they met your gaze wearily. Leaning heavily on a borrowed crutch that mirrored your own, they studied you right back.
Where your eyes dragged over the cuts carved into their forearms from trying to claw their way out of a stone grave, they contemplated the blooming bruises curling over your shoulders and crawling up the sides of your neck. They grimaced at the state of your hair, hanging limp from your scalp with all kinds of horror dried into it, whilst you scrutinised the scabbed-over cut on their chin that would certainly scar later, and the dried blood threatening to flake into the sink at the mere suggestion of friction. Simply looking at them was enough to make your own skin itchy with all the dried sweat, dirt and soot that clung to it.
Gods, it was no wonder the others had watched you like Enforcers when you’d grimaced and groaned your way into climbing the stairs up from the living room. Through sheer stubbornness, you’d warded them off from helping you, and then resolved to bite back any signs of pain, even as your hand shook on the handle of your crutch, and your knee protested every suggestion of weight. Your cheeks had burned. And you knew you’d painted a right pathetic picture. That you’d looked like someone Vander would’ve taken great joy and care in coddling. You’d seen it clear as day in his face, and your skin had positively crawled under such a soft expression. It’d taken all your self-restraint to leave instead of giving in and snapping at him. It hurt to be up and moving so soon, but your pride would not allow you to do anything less.
Leaning further onto your crutch, the tap groaned as you turned it. The water was refreshingly chilly when you began pushing a water-slicked hand roughly up and down your face. The touch smarted, but in a good way, helping to shove all those awful worries and self-loathing remarks to the back of your mind in favour of restoring some small piece of order. The water that dripped off your jawline was brown, whilst clumps of scabbed blood slid down your palm when you put your hand back under the running water. Goosebumps prickled up your arms, bringing some perkiness back to your exhausted body and biting a bit of colour back into bloodless skin.
Flicking your gaze up, you nodded to yourself as your reflection watched some of the life return to your broken body. Or at least they did until your eyes fell on their ratty outfit. Yeah, no, that would all have to come off.
Sitting down on the closed toilet seat, it was uncomfortable peeling your shirt from your arms and back. Your entire spine felt like an enormous bruise, as if someone had let an entire playground of kids use your back as a landing pad. It was sheer determination to rid yourself of the stiff fabric that fueled you through the pain. The river water from the bridge flagstones had soaked and dried into your trousers, leaving them stiff and uncooperative. With a lot of painful wiggling, you managed to get them down to your ankles, allowing yourself a couple of pathetic breaths to regain your strength. You then began to clumsily pull them over your ankles and off your feet one by one. Grimacing at the mess of dirt and fabric heaped on the bathroom floor, you privately decided that you would burn the lot instead of attempting to clean any of it.
Your reflection, when you glanced back up, was preoccupied with their own personal maintenance, so you took the opportunity to return to the sink with the aid of the crutch for a desperately needed sponge bath. Balanced on your good leg and the crutch, you filled the sink and dipped a washcloth before setting to work. The rag quickly grew dark. Pulling soot, dried blood and all manner of dirt from your skin, and leaving behind a soothing chill in its wake that cooled smarting bruises and nipped at lightly scabbed wounds. By the time you were done, you’d firmly decided that the rag would be burning with the rest of your clothes, but at least you felt better. Cleaner. A fraction of the put-together appearance you wanted returned to you.
Getting dressed was an entirely fresh circle of hell, but thankfully, whoever had left your clothes out on the counter had picked forgiving articles. The baggy trousers were merciful when sliding over the bandage tightly wound around your bad knee, whilst gliding over your hips smoothly, rather than having to be convinced to cooperate. The thick woollen socks were a smart choice, whilst only one boot had been left out, considering you wouldn’t be needing the other. Whereas the loose shirt that had gone soft after one too many washes didn’t aggravate your bruising as most clothing would have, and the neckline was exhausted enough that it threatened to slide right off your shoulder with every slight movement.
With careful manoeuvring and excessive use of the bathroom sink for balance, you used your crutch to prod your ruined clothes in the direction of the bin. It would take too much energy to stoop and scoop them back up to actually put them inside the can, not while keeping your balance, so you settled for the suggestion of order instead.
Feeling less like a reanimated corpse or sentient bruise, you gave your reflection one last scrutinising look before hobbling towards the bathroom door. Clicking off the light on your way out, you stepped out into the drafty hallway. The doors to the bedrooms flanking the bathroom had been pulled closed, whilst the living room door still sat ajar. Noise from the staircase at one end of the hall gave away where the rest of the bar’s occupants had ended up.
Even one floor down and a whole corridor away, you could hear Violet and Powder bickering over breakfast, with the clank and thud of pans being pulled out of cupboards and spoons being clinked against the side of mugs. Despite the bar being closed, the ragtag family that currently occupied its kitchen made enough noise all on their own.
Something in you kept you from hobbling your way towards the staircase to join them. That age-old instinct that desperately wanted to find somewhere dark and forgotten to curl up, until you stopped hurting.
At the other end of the hall, the door that would lead out into the alleyway stood innocently. It would be easy to slip away, from the sounds of it, everyone was occupied with breakfast after the shit show that was last night. It would buy you an hour or so of a head start, if you even wanted to leave, that was.
To the surprise of no one but yourself, you made for the alleyway door. It opened with a small creak under your hand, but ceased complaining almost immediately.
The world outside was dim with the sun not yet high enough to peer between the surrounding buildings, nor strong enough to infiltrate the smog. The alley itself was quiet, the light above the door flicking on when you stepped out onto the uneven concrete. As the door swung shut behind you with another small groan, you let the distant hum of the city replace the sounds from the kitchen. Cigarette smoke permeated the air, although the lingering stench of damp still clung to the bricks of the building.
You shivered beneath your thin shirt and flexed your hand around the handle of your crutch. The trip from couch to bathroom had left you clammy and dizzy, and the cleanup itself had only added to your exhaustion. Now, simply the thought of having to hobble your way halfway across town to your apartment, weaponless and vulnerable, made your skin crawl.
Swallowing loudly, you glanced back at the now closed back door of the bar. It’d be so easy to slip back inside. But then it would be too easy to stay. At least if you scurried back home, you could collapse into a heap on your mattress until some of the bruising stiffness relented and desperate hunger forced you back to your feet. Here, you’d be coddled. Kept warm by the hearth, and fed Vander’s cooking, and you’d have to fight off misguided attempts to help you move around and tend to your injuries, when it was no one’s business but your own.
Damn, The Last Drop and its unusually kind staff. If you’d sustained this injury a decade ago, you’d already be halfway home by now instead of standing like an idiot in an alleyway.
“Well, at least you hesitated.”
“FUCK!” You startled, and with a jolt of pure instinct, had both legs trying to balance out your weight so you could turn, only for the bad knee to jolt at the unexpected load and promptly give with an audible pop. The following snarl of pain you let out echoed off the alleyway walls, as you threw all of your weight onto the crutch and ground your teeth through the following waves of pain.
The scuff of a boot approaching made your hackles raise and anger prick at your eyes. “Don’t!” You warned venomously, voice weak from the pain that just kept coming.
He obeyed, hovering in your peripheral but not coming any closer. You remained there for a couple of minutes, waiting for the agony to ease into slight discomfort, forcing your breathing to come even and normal all the while.
With a shake exhale, you unscrewed your face and tried to force your body to uncurl. It fought you every step of the way, but you were more determined. Silco watched you uneasily, as you levelled him with an unimpressed glare, the pain still etched into the furrow of your brow. He looked like he wanted to ask you if you were okay, and you knew you’d rip into him if he dared.
Averting his eyes, he cleared his throat and pointedly took another drag from the lit cigarette caught between two fingers. When he spoke, he pointedly did not address anything but the reason he was out here to begin with. “Felicia bet you’d barrel out of here and not look back.” He explained, a layer of disinterest bullied its way into his voice to smother the concern, “Vander thought you’d make it down the street before turning back.”
“And you?” You prompted, expression radiating your irritation. “What did you bet?”
Another deep drag just to make you wait. “Something similar,” he admitted, “one of your less subtle disappearing acts, I must comment, but you’re no less predictable.”
“You’re a right bastard, you know that?”
“And you’re a delight,” he returned in the same heartbeat. “Had a coffee yet?”
“No?”
“Great.” He straightened and flicked the cigarette away before pulling open the bar door. “Come on. Vander was brewing a new batch of beans when I stepped outside. Wasn’t letting Connel anywhere near the machine, so it’ll be safe to drink.”
Almost in sync, the pair of you shuddered at the collective memory of the last round of drinks Connol had brewed unsupervised. The beans had been burnt to ash and had clumped unpleasantly in the bottom of the cups. You’d resorted to getting rid of the liquid in more and more creative ways whenever the man wasn’t looking, which included but wasn’t limited to tipping it down the sink and sacrificing one of Vander’s herb planters.
“You can make your timely escape afterwards,” Silco promised, as if your resolve needed any more convincing.
You made sure to withhold your answer for a moment or two, at least pretending to weigh the pros and cons. “Fine,” you eventually relented, moving towards the door too quickly to truly be dreading it. “But only one cup.”
Silco hummed, and held the door open wider for you.
_<
The bar was awash with a warm, orange glow when you’d braved the steps leading up into the main room, your knee threatening to give out with every upwards step. Silco hovered just out of your eyeline, hands no doubt held out and ready to catch you should you stumble, but he was smart enough to do it far enough back that you couldn’t feel the warmth of his hovering hands, so you left him to it.
Felicia and her little family were taking up the stools at the bar, whilst Vander moved around behind the counter, grinding coffee beans and mixing up what smelled like hot chocolate for the girls.
“Damn it.” Felicia quietly cursed upon seeing you in the doorway, although her smile suggested she wasn’t actually disappointed.
“Pay up.” Vander mused without looking up from the drink he was pouring. Felicia pouted and angrily reached into her pocket.
“Ah, ah,” Silco interjected, “they made it no further than the back door. I win.”
“Bullshit.” Felicia challenged, whilst you pointedly decided not to point out that Silco had intervened by revealing himself. The smug bastard winked when Felicia and Vander tossed their coin his way, making a show of pocketing it. Connol took the less direct approach and calmly placed his coin on the counter and pushed it in front of one of the empty barstools.
“Really Connol?” You mused, approaching the bar with as much dignity as one could on a single working leg, “I thought you’d have more faith in me than that.”
“You’re right.” The man said thoughtfully, pausing to bring his mug to his lips, only to mutter loudly into the liquid, “I should’ve assumed Silco’s pretty face would be enough to convince you to stay. What a fool I am.”
“Violet,” you said, watching the girl’s ears practically prick up, a movement mirrored by her little sister, who also glanced up from her cereal. Sat between them, Connel swallowed audibly. “Do me a favour and give your Dad a kick for me?”
With great gusto, not one, but both girls complied, to which Connel let out an undignified yelp and played up how much their little feet hurt his long legs. Going so far as to put his mug down to slide his arms beneath the bar counter and rub his calves. Felicia smiled fondly at the display, running a hand through Powder’s unruly locks, whilst you took their distraction as an opportunity to haul yourself up onto one of the empty stools. Leaning your crutch against the counter, you rested the foot of the injured leg on the foot support of the stool beside you.
Vander slid a mug of something steaming and heavenly along the bar to you, the coffee within the perfect shade for your tastes. You shot the man a grateful smile before stealing a few minutes with the drink, allowing its warmth to seep deep into your bones and chase out the chills and aches from a night spent on the couch.
Vander left a second mug directly opposite yours, which Silco took as an invitation to enter the staff side of the bar. Whilst the family to your left bickered fondly with one another, you watched your friend lean up against the opposite side of the counter, all long limbs and slow movements as he took up his drink and took a long drag.
You dragged your eyes off of him to find Felicia shooting Connel one of her blinding, flirty grins, which of course immediately made you regret not minding your business. Snapping your gaze away, you found Silco already looking back at you, raising an eyebrow in exaggerated exasperation, to which you grinned and smothered your amusement with another drag from your mug.
The creak of the entrance door swinging open froze all movement and smiles at the bar. Footsteps on the welcome mat had you turning on your stool, but the gloom at the other end of the building, where Vander hadn’t turned on all of the lights, hindered your ability to figure out who had entered.
“Apologies, my friend, but we’re closed,” Vander called across the room, his back to the door where he was working on brewing more drinks on the machine.
No reply came, but the intruder did not leave.
“Why is that door unlocked?” Silco hissed under his breath, body tense whilst one of his hands had dropped down behind the bar, no doubt seeking out a blade.
“Sevika stepped out for a light,” Vander replied evenly. “But she said she’d come back in using the back.”
Disregarding Vander’s warning, even footsteps approached the bar. The slightly off-beat tread of two people, but you could only make out one figure approaching the bar, regardless of how hard you squinted. The figure was tall. Their head bowed at an awkward angle, shoulders tense.
“Friend,” Vander warned, only to bite back his next words when Sevika stepped into the light, her eyes burning and her jaw set. She jerked to a stop three paces from the barstools and did not lose the rigidity to her frame.
“What is it?” You demanded on instinct.
Her eyes jumped to you, and then back to Vander; the rage bubbling within those depths seemed endless. “Sorry, Vander,” Sevika said, as if the words were being dragged out from between clenched teeth. “The bitch came out of nowhere.”
She flinched, the glint of metal at her throat finally catching the light. Your face hardened. Your hands itched for a knife hilt to wrap around, any of your knives, but Sevika herself had stripped them from you last night, and you hadn’t thought to return them to your person after waking. The crutch would work well enough, you firmly told yourself. Just knocking the blade away would unleash Sevika; you wouldn’t have to do more than remove the knife from the equation.
Before your hand could creep anywhere near said crutch, a hand slid across the counter and wound strong fingers around your bicep, anchoring you to your stool. The movement was blocked by the angle of your body and Sevika’s position. “Don’t.” Silco hissed somewhere behind your head, to which you pulled subtly on your arm, but his grip remained sturdy, bordering on bruising with how tight he was holding on.
“Now, now, let us not be dramatic.” A voice soothed from behind Sevika’s towering form. A feminine voice, rich and raspy. “I simply needed to discuss some matters with your associates.”
In a show of good faith, the knife was removed from Sevika’s chin, who promptly sidestepped and rounded on her captor. Unphased, the second figure stepped out of the shadows and into the yellow glow of the lights hanging above the bar. The woman only came up to Sevika’s shoulder and was dressed in distinctly Piltovern clothes, but the presence she commanded was undeniable. She stood like a soldier, all poise and carefully contained power, whilst an Enforcer’s pistol sat snugly in the holster at her waist.
“You’re new around here, aren’t you, Officer?” Vander spoke up calmly, pinning her for what she was straight out of the gate. If the Enforcer was caught off guard from being so easily recognised, she did not let anything in her face betray it. Instead, she kept her attention on Vander, as the man casually threw his damp teatowel onto his shoulder so he could lean forward over the bar, showing off his large biceps and intimidating frame.
He left enough room between his sentences to allow her to slip in with a response, but the woman didn’t take the bait and patiently waited for him to lead the conversation. “Don’t worry, I understand, the streets aren’t exactly friendly right now, but I’m gonna have to ask you to keep your hands away from that holster. We don’t wave weapons around in here. Don’t want the kids getting any ideas now, do we?”
The Officer let the threat hang in the air for a moment. Her eyes were sharp and calculating as they swept over everyone at the bar, before she promptly shoved her blade into a sheath across her back, out of sight. “I apologise for such methods, but your associate here was not overly forthcoming with cooperation.”
“Somehow, after last night, I’m not fucking surprised.” You spat before you could stop yourself, earning a squeeze from Silco’s hand on your arm. The Officer flicked her gaze from Vander to you. They tracked the crutch at your elbow, the way you were half off your stool, regardless.
“Yes.” She said heavily. “Well, now that you bring it up, that is actually why I’ve come calling.”
“I see,” Vander replied.
“I’m off the clock,” the Officer added, hands hanging loose and open at her side. “And for the record, who you hide in your establishment before opening is none of my concern.”
Vander’s brows jumped. “Well, that’s a relief. Wouldn’t want to have to clean the floors again so soon.” He added with a disarmingly friendly smile.
“Connol, take the girls down into the living room,” Felicia instructed evenly, without removing her eyes from the Enforcer.
The Officer had the sense to remain motionless as the man did just that, scooping Powder up, drink and all, whilst Violet shot the stranger a scathing look, picked up her breakfast bowl and followed her father from the room.
“The name’s Grayson.” The Officer introduced herself, stepping around Sevika’s looming form to sit down on one of the empty barstools, making sure to leave an empty one between her and Felicia. “And I know that you are Vander, and that you’re the man I should go to if I wish to be heard round these parts.”
“Luckily for you, I’m in a listening mood,” Vander replied diplomatically, stepping away to pull down another pair of mugs and begin pouring some coffee. “So talk.” He prompted, sliding one to Grayson and meeting Sevika’s gaze and motioning her attention towards the second.
A light tug on your bicep reminded you that Silco’s hand was still there. Subtly, you shot him an expectant look over your shoulder. To which the man raised his brows right back in silent challenge. The warmth of the lamplight highlighted his cheekbones and set his eyes ablaze, the locks of hair he kept loose in front of his ear framing his expression pleasantly. For a tense handful of seconds, neither of you moved. Then he backed off. Those eyebrows dropped, and something softer entered his gaze. His grip loosened and slipped away, and in return, you slid yourself back onto the centre of your stool, no longer giving the impression that you were ready to bolt.
At the other end of the bar, Grayson took little more prompting to launch into her tale. Off the record, she had lost a lot of men on the bridge, and she knew that the Lanes had suffered significant losses too. Vander listened to her explanations and concerns with a tight expression. He nodded in the appropriate places, humming here and there or interrupting to offer the Enforcer further insight into a matter she’d approached at an angle he didn’t agree with. Despite how the conversation began, it continued politely and civilly. Both agreed that such a conflict could not be repeated. She proposed a brewing plan to calm the council so they would not bite back too hard, so long as someone on this side of the river did the same. To which Vander vaguely implied, he would see to bringing some heads together and cooling festering tempers.
They were finished dancing around each other by the time Vander had served a second round of drinks, an offer that Grayson politely declined. “I must return to my side of the bridge before my patrol or questions will be asked.”
“Understood. Thank you for taking the time to stop by. I hope it was enlightening.” Vander returned detachedly.
Grayson nodded, sliding off the back of her stool with practised grace. Sevika watched her with open hostility, to which the Officer neatly ducked her head in acknowledgement.
She made to turn on her heel, but a stray thought seemed to stall her actions. With a deep, drawn-in sigh, she turned her attention to Felicia for the first time, her expression serious but not unkind. “A word to the wise, free of charge, because this conversation has been enlightening. I have it on good authority that there’s a poster being drawn up for your man’s head as we speak.”
Felicia promptly bristled, but remained seated. “Whatever for?” Felicia demanded, her expression struggling to smooth out, even as the tension bunching in her shoulders gave her away. Sevika lightly placed a hand between her shoulderblades, although it did little to ease her nerves.
“He was witnessed shooting an officer.” Grayson said simply, “but conveniently for you I am off duty, so there is nothing I will do regarding the matter.”
“That’s bloody ridiculous, he was just-” Sevika’s hand on her back curled into a fist, which she pointedly nudged Felicia with. With a clack of teeth, the woman closed her mouth and huffed.
“He was-?” Grayson prompted, something like amusement trickling into the edge of her tone.
Whatever unlikely ease had settled on the room before promptly held its breath. Felicia visibly wrestled with herself, torn between the burning need to defend Connol’s actions and the man himself, whilst Vander and Sevika tried to telepathically convey to her that giving the enforcer literal confirmation that he’d killed a man would soothe nothing but her pride.
To the surprise of all, it was Silco who stepped up to the mark to break the stalemate. With an obnoxious snort and his sharp tongue, he promptly drew the Officer’s attention off of Felicia’s sour expression.
“Do you find this matter amusing, sir?” Grayson asked evenly.
“Yes, I do.” Silco blatantly agreed, playing up just how much with a grin that didn’t meet his eyes. “Mainly because you think HE is capable of murder.” Another snigger, just a touch too enthusiastic to be genuine, not that Grayson knew he well enough to pick up on that. “That man couldn’t kill a rat if it were trying to EAT him!”
“Well, the witness claimed it was someone matching his description, armed with a stolen Enforcer rifle.”
Silco positively grinned as if his nameday had come early. “You think Connol can handle a gun too? I would pay good money to watch him fumble and shoot himself in the foot.”
“Is that so?” Grayson challenged.
“He works in the mines with us,” Vander helpfully interjected.
“I’ve seen him with a pickaxe,” Silco continued, “hell, I’ve had to dodge the pick axe when he was trying to use it.” Felicia shot him an unimpressed look, torn between defending Connol’s honour and letting the matter slide.
Grayson, as calm as ever, replied. “You would be surprised how competent an amateur becomes when consumed by adrenaline.”
“I promise you, he is not your man.” Silco doubled down. “The smoke was thick, it was dark, the bridge was crumbling, and most importantly, your witness saw wrong.”
“And if this witness did see wrong,” the officer prodded in a tone that heavily suggested she didn’t believe him an inch. “Then who might I steer the search towards instead?”
Sevika interrupted this time, her voice pure steel and unquestionable. “You’re looking for Mike Anders.” The name struck you as familiar, but the conversation was moving too quickly for you to pull forward a face to match the name.
Grayson nodded to Sevika’s suggestion, looking almost pleased. “The name was reported to have been in attendance. And with his history of assault and robbery, it could be feasible.”
Vander interjected next, the picture of nonchalance. “You know, he’s been known to turn up here and loudly show off a trophy or two. Getting your hands on a search warrant for his residence might turn up more than a simple, stolen rifle.”
Grayson’s brows were practically at her hairline, her eyes calculating as they swept back and forth across the group. “How intriguing. I’m assuming this man is an enemy in your neck of the woods.”
“He certainly won’t be missed.” Vander reassured, “and his absence might even settle some of the trouble on this side of the river.”
That final comment seemed to be exactly what Grayson was looking for. “Thank you for your cooperation; it has been most helpful.” Her eyes caught on Sevika again when she turned to go, to which Sevika pointedly did not look away first. You almost jumped when her gaze darted to you, recognition sparking somewhere deep in those depths as she acknowledged you for the first time. You knew for a fact your paths had never crossed before, regardless of how many enforcer patrols you’d upset and officers you’d taken delight in taking down a couple of pegs.
“Problem, Officer Grayson?” Silco asked sharply from across the bar. You didn’t have to look back to know he was posturing. His form of intimidation relied on the silent promise of harm, preferably the kind found in a darkened alley, as opposed to Vander’s open intimidation.
“None as of now. Let us just hope we never cross paths when I am in uniform. I would hate to have to break up this little unit. Good day.” This time, when she turned to go, she followed through. All eyes at the bar watched her shadow retreat towards the front door, which she opened smoothly and pulled shut with a final click behind her. Silence reigned until her silhouette passed the front windows and disappeared.
With a whoosh of breath, Vander broke the following silence. He fixed an amused look in Sevika’s direction when he asked, “what did Mike ever do to you?”
“He’s a prick,” Felicia interjected without missing a beat.
“That, but he’s also in the same line of work as the Runt and I,” Sevika informed Vander. Which finally brought forward the memory of a mousy-looking man, with beady eyes and a sneer sharp enough to cut yourself on. “I just took out one of our competitors.” She raised the rest of her drink in your direction, to which you huffed in amusement.
“At least we won’t have to listen to his brag about how many Enforcers he took out when he comes down here for his next drinking binge.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Sevika agreed.
_<
The day ran away from you.
Between Grayson’s dramatic visit, and being bullied by the children into colouring the back of menus with Powder’s crayons, and then test tasting Vander’s cooking as promised, it was growing dark already. There had just been so much to discuss after last night, and the girls kept roping you into activities you could do sitting down, whilst Vander kept supplying you with drinks, and Silco gave you warning looks whenever you glazed longingly at the door for too long.
Before you knew it, Sevika had dipped out for the night, and Felicia and Connol were debating whether or not it would be safe to take the girls across town. As before, Vander had quietly offered up the living room, which the girls had enthusiastically jumped on and begged for a second sleepover, which of course immediately swayed Connol, and in turn because Felicia was weak in the face of his puppy eyes, crumbled her longing for her own bed.
The little family had gone downstairs at a reasonable hour, whilst Silco and Vander cleaned up for the night. The bar would likely remain closed for a day or two more until the tempers outside cooled, so there wasn’t too much to do besides wiping down and putting the washed dishes away.
“See you at breakfast,” Vander cheerfully declared over his shoulder, with a wave and everything. A blatant warning not to slip away or forget his reassurances from the night before.
You returned his enthusiasm with a tight smile and remained seated at your booth by one of the windows. A half-finished mug of tea was cradled between your chilled hands. It had been so long that the drink was lukewarm by now, but the simple act of sipping on it and watching the moths dance around the street light bulb outside helped to calm some of your skittishness. The need to escape still lingered in the back of your mind, although not as urgently as it had been this morning. Apart from the episode in the alleyway, your leg had scarcely bothered you - although that was no doubt largely because the others had given you little to no reason to get up again.
The groaning of the kitchen door behind the bar closing pulled you from your musings. Glancing up from your drink, you found Silco already watching you. The night on the couch had caught up to him, the weight of his exhaustion making his eyes visibly heavy. His hair was loose and hanging around his shoulders, whilst one of his sleeves was damp, the skin of his forearm studded with leftover water from the washing up.
“If you decide to slip away,” he said tiredly, “just be sure to lock us in behind you.”
You scoffed. “Not going to manhandle me down into the basement then.”
“You’re safer here,” he replied, “I know that. You know that. You’re smart, you’ll make the right choice.” With that, he headed straight for the stairs. “Good night, my door is open if you need it.” You sat in silence long after his footsteps had faded out and a door below had closed.
His words had soothed your hackles, you realised long after the tea had gone uncomfortably cold. There was no biting urge to slip away anymore. That part of you had fallen completely dormant, soothed by a lack of expectation on his part. How odd.
Eventually, you knew you would haul your weary body to its feet and struggle to descend the stairs back into the belly of the bar. Eventually, you knew you’d find your way back to the living room, where Connol would insist on helping you down the stairs regardless of how sharply you snapped at him, and Felicia would show her concern by throwing a spare pillow at your head, and then a balled-up blanket if you continued to complain. Eventually, you would fall asleep, soothed by the breathing of others around you and the crackle of a fire.
But for now, you were content to stay put. The front door to the bar was already locked, but you knew the key had not been hidden. It would open under your touch if you willed it, and that was reassuring enough that you relaxed into the creaking leather of the booth and just let yourself exist. Perhaps, recovery didn’t have to be as dreadful as you feared.
_<
In the coming days, moving around with the aid of your crutch grew easier. The threat of your knee giving out was ever-present, but your body gradually became comfortable leaning on the mobility aid when getting around. You woke - your body aching from the unique pains only sleeping on a couch could awaken in a person - and you would instinctively reach for it before even attempting to stand. It got easier, and you got over your embarrassment in needing its support.
A fact effortlessly proven to yourself, one evening when Connol was being especially cheeky. He’d wrongly assumed that he was safe standing just out of arm’s reach, continuing to press a point you’d insisted he drop, until in a burst of frustration, you’d snatched up the crutch to swipe at him. He’d dove to the floor to avoid it, much to the amusement of the others who’d been watching the exchange, and to your own surprise. Maybe it was the thought that something once viewed as a weakness could be as useful as any other tool that helped soothe your unease. The thought had already resonated with you and fallen away by the time the man had rolled onto his back loudly complaining about fairness, to which you had held the crutch at an angle reminiscent of an unsheathed knife and playfully propositioned a second round. He’d promptly declined.
As the world gradually returned to normal and the sting of the protest turned riot eased, the city beyond the safe walls of the bar began to stir. Vander switched on the sign and opened the doors, much to the relief of the locals, eager for a warm, home-cooked meal and the comforting presence of their neighbours. During those hours of peak activity, you favoured sitting in the kitchen, basking in the scent of different dishes being prepared and the joyous cacophony of patrons laughing and joking just a room away.
Privately, you decided that the mornings were your favourite. The bar was quiet and peaceful after the rowdy crowd from the night before. Felicia and her family had returned home and tended to drop in come noon, and Vander and Silco would be up early preparing for a morning shift down at the mines.
You got into the habit of venturing up into the kitchen when footsteps from above roused you from sleep. Usually, it was Vander, humming softly to himself as he whipped up drink and meal prepped for that night’s rush hour, but today, you were surprised to push open the heavy door to find Silco flitting around the space already dressed in his work coat.
The kitchen wasn’t an overly large space compared to the main room and the floor below, but it had enough space for the essentials and a laughably small round table that couldn’t fit everyone if they decided to spend the evening in here instead of out at the bar counter. In contrast to the main room’s warm lighting and sleek tables, the kitchen was all wooden floors, darkly painted cupboards and a brick wall instead of tiles behind the stove.
“It seems I woke up in an alternate dimension. Since when could you cook?” You joked, travelling straight to your usual seat with a glide to your crutches that could almost be categorised as smooth. Pulling out the chair, you carefully lowered yourself down into it, with your back to the wall and a clear view of both the door and Silco moving around near the stove.
“Since always,” Silco replied without turning around. “I just have to time it for when Vander isn’t around. He likes the whole room to himself when he is cooking. Drink?”
“Go on then.”
He moved between the kettle and the stove with practiced ease, stirring what was in the pan, between bouts of pulling mugs down from the overhead cupboard and spoons from the drawer. You watched him with divided interest, acutely aware of the twinge in your neck from the way you’d slept. Felicia and her family returning home had given you more pillows than you knew what to do with, and yet, the couch still had a unique talent for putting a crick in your neck and a tension in your lower back.
Eyes absently tracking Silco’s movements through the kitchen, you massaged at the nape of your neck first with one hand, digging your fingers down into tense muscles as you rolled your head back and forth. The motion succeeded in relieving some of the tension, causing a small sigh to slip past your lips. You already knew your back would be a pain to massage in this chair, but it could wait for a moment or two.
“You know, if you sleep on that couch any longer, you’re going to ruin your spine,” your companion commented without invitation.
“Oh?” You returned playfully, readjusting your hand placement and going straight back to the task at hand. “Trying to kick me out already?”
His scoff was almost inaudible over the sound of the food frying in the pan and the increasing bubble of the kettle. “Quite the opposite,” he said unevenly, before adding. “I have a large bed. More than enough room for two people.” A tense pause, and then, as an afterthought. “And a lockable door.”
Brows furrowing, you paused in tending to your neck to check his intentions. His voice had snagged on the offer. He was leaning back against the counter when your eyes met, an arm crossed over his middle, whilst he examined the nails of the second. His head was tipped in a way that had his fringe partially covering his expression. To anyone who didn’t know him, he would appear disinterested; you knew he was feeling uncertain.
“Tempting.” You hummed in response, injecting enough amusement into the single word to break a bit of the tension.
For a second, he froze, turning your response over in his head, and then lifting his gaze to find you already watching him. His cheeks coloured under your attention, but he’d regained his footing. “But?” He prompted, clearly expecting conditions.
“Ask me nicely,” you teased, surprising him and yourself in the process. It came out bordering on flirty, but with luck, he wouldn’t read too far into it.
He stared at you, like a sniper whose target had just turned and stared directly up at them through their scope. You held his gaze, allowing the challenge to shine through in the playful quirk of your brow and the angle of your lips. His eyes darted across your face, weighing what he found there. Then he snorted and promptly dropped his head again, the following smile almost immediately shrouded from view by his shadow and fringe.
“Brat.” He said with no shortage of fondness. He peered up at you through his lashes, head tilted just so, that the adoration in his eyes was abundantly obvious. Against your better judgment, just a glimpse of it froze the breath in your lungs. He had to know he was blatantly showing his hand. Right?
Pointedly clearing your throat, you looked away first.
Right on time, the kettle popped, drawing his attention off of you. He turned away to make the drinks, and you busied your hands by working the rest of the tension out of your neck. All the while, you resolutely shoved aside any lingering thoughts that wanted to circle back to the meaning of that look. It was fruitless to dwell after all. Wishful thinking on your part, and a dangerous train of thought. Nothing good ever came of entanglement on this side of the river. Best to ignore it.
He set your mug down with quiet care, closely followed by your painkiller bottle. The care brought a small smile to your face despite yourself and warmed something between your ribs. “Thanks.”
Instead of responding in a normal manner, he took a sweeping step back and hummed to draw your attention up to his face. You only had a handful of seconds to clock the mischief twinkling behind his eye, before he was making a dramatic, sweeping bow, more at place in an aristocrat's party rather than the bar kitchen. Brows furrowed, you opened your mouth to ask him what the hell he was up to, only for him to speak first. In a rich, over-the-top, prim and proper Piltovern accent of all things.
“My dear,” he began, easing his bow enough to reestablish eye contact, a hand extended like an olive branch between you. It would have been a comical sight if anyone were to walk in. He, done up for work, bent at the waist, hand extended out to you, still in your pyjamas, looking utterly confused. “It has come to my attention that there is space in my expansive bed for you, should you want it. The nights are oh so lonesome without your presence by my side.”
You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“That’s not a no.” He grinned back, taking it a step further by claiming one of your hands and pressing a dramatic kiss to your knuckles. “What do you say?” He asked with a smile that would send a healthy portion of the Piltovern gentry swooning. “It would please me greatly if you were to accept my proposal.” He muttered against your skin, eyes peering up at you through lowered lashes. He dropped the accent to add. “Polite enough for you?”
That did make you laugh. Enough that you had to look away to cool some of the heat in your cheeks before responding. Once under control, you dragged up your best imitation of a similar accent and fell into the role of a noble weighing the suitability of their suitor. “My, my, you propose quite a tempting bargain, don’t you? It would simply be cruel of me to refuse you, wouldn’t it?”
“Quite.” He agreed, just in time for the kitchen door to swing open and for Vander to come lumbering in, stretching his belly with sleep still in his eyes. He froze upon seeing you and what the pair of you were up to.
“I don’t want to know,” he said quickly, as Silco dropped your hand and you practically lunged for your pills and drink, somehow feeling like you’d been caught doing something wrong. “And perhaps, I won’t tell Felicia when she brings the girls over later if I get a share of whatever’s cooking.”
Silco scoffed meanly, “how hungry are you?” Was his simple request, to which Vander grinned like he had won and moved to pull out the chair opposite yours.
_<
You’d had to remind yourself three times already that you’d been invited twice. Once as a genuine offer, and the second in playful but no less serious jest. And the worst thing he could do was say no. Or slam the door in your face. Or just blatantly ignore you…
Alrighty, shutting that trail of thought down pronto, trail or you’ll be sleeping on one of the bar booths out of pure mortification.
Your knock was both too quiet and too loud in the stillness of the hallway. The light was on in the other room, bleeding out across the floorboards, and giving you a couple of seconds of warning as feet blocked out parts of it on their way to open the door. The lock clicked, and Silco pulled it open, sleepy and visibly confused.
“I looked at the couch, and my back already hurts. Does your offer from this morning still stand?” You said in a rush, before you could fully chicken out.
For a moment, he barely moved. His face was utterly blank.
You felt your stomach drop and horror flood in. Shit. Ah, shit! Abort mission. ABORT! Keeping your expression easy and light, whilst your insides churned, you took a step back, your crutch making the floorboards groan as you glanced down the hall. “I mean, I can always check if Vander’s willing to shift over.”
Silco blinked hard and seemed to come back to life. Awareness returned to his eyes as he inhaled deeply and pulled himself together. “Vander will roll on you in his sleep and suffocate you before either of you knows what’s going on.”
It didn’t even seem to be a joke; he was dead serious.
You huffed, mentally mourning a night of comfort. “Not if I push him off the edge first.” You added petulantly, and then took another step away from his door, this time in the direction of the living room. “Anyway, forget I brought it up-”
“Don’t be an idiot.” He promptly interrupted, “I offered. I just fell asleep.” With that, he pulled his door all the way open and stepped out of the way. “Come on, you’re letting the chill in.”
And you went.
_<
The doctor’s visit earlier that day had left you cranky and short-tempered. It was the same woman from that night, just as polite and professional, but no more encouraging than that first time. She’d ‘um’ed and ‘ah’ed as she had before, and offered little in the way of steps forward outside of prescribing more pain killers.
You’d grown small under her inspection. Drawing into yourself as Vander and Silco supervised, exchanging worried glances, you wished they’d do it behind your back rather than right in front of you.
“This leg isn’t getting any better.” The doctor had concluded. “It’s still too weak.”
“It’s been less than a month,” Silco attempted to reason, “it’s still early.”
She’d already begun to shake her head before he’d finished. “Injuries like this don’t remain in stasis. Even if it remains weak, it will recover in other ways and be able to bear limited weight. Your friend cannot even do that.”
The end of the assessment left you feeling jumped and contained within the bar. Enough that you’d slipped out the back whilst the doctor had shown herself out, and Vander and Silco had ducked into the kitchen under the guise of getting refreshments. You hadn’t been able to stomach the idea of sitting there idly and overhearing snatches of conversation. Surely, your presence was beginning to wear on them. Surely that goodwill would run out sooner rather than later, even faster now, considering it didn’t look like you’d be getting your feet under you any time soon. And what would you do then? Unable to work or comfortably move, let alone defend yourself in the ways you were familiar with. That was another thing, you’d become so complacent you’d fallen out of the habit of carrying your knives around. Who does that on this side of the river? An idiot with a death wish, that’s who.
Absently, you tapped your belt with the hand not gripping your crutch like a lifeline, and let out a long, annoyed sound when you realised you’d done it again. Not that you dared turn back. Your knee was obeying your drive to move forward for now, and likely wouldn’t if you let go of your annoyance. Best to work off the energy and look busy enough that no one thought to try their luck.
Your restlessness drove you to the rooftops. A time-consuming task, seemingly unobtainable considering the crutch and gammy leg, but in this state, you proved more stubborn than was probably healthy. By the time you’d painstakingly made it up a rusted ladder and sat down heavily on someone’s roof, swinging your legs off the edge and laying your crutch across your knees, you were suitably exhausted.
Enough to let loose a long breath and finally sit still. The breeze was a gentle caress across clammy skin, wiping some of the sweat from your brow and ruffling the damp ends of your hair. It was the most exercise you’d done in weeks, but damn did it feel like an accomplishment.
By sheer luck, it was a clearish night, giving you a fair view of the waning moon and the stars keeping it company. Whilst by chance, the roof you’d settled on had a straight view to the blasted bridge, large and imposing and lit up with its creepy statues. It still bore the scars of the riot, although the council had sent builders to it within days of the clean-up operations.
You’d heard from the bar patrons that the Piltover side had been strewn with flower bouquets, whilst the Zaun side held trinkets of the deceased and scrap metals, anything people could spare in remembrance of the dead. The bodies had begun washing up downstream in the canals within a week of the riot’s end, having made their way downriver after the Enforcers had tossed them over the railings instead of giving them the courtesy of a burial with their own fallen or returning the deceased to their Zaunite families.
True to her word, Grayson had managed to sway the council from retaliating too harshly, and even the enforcer patrols had been lighter than routine. Not that it made anything better. Those people still died in what was supposed to have been a simple protest. Life moved on, but what had happened would linger in the minds of the survivors and continue to feed their discontent.
“You didn’t lock the door behind you,” Silco said by way of greeting as he hauled himself up the ladder. You barely had the energy to be surprised. How he had found you when you hadn’t even known where you were going in the first place, you weren’t sure, and you didn’t much care.
“You’ve got an early shift tomorrow.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed non-commitally, his footsteps light and unhurried as he approached from the side instead of straight from your back. He made a show of fluffing out the red blanket thrown over his arm before carefully draping it over your shoulders, then he pulled a flask out from beneath his arm, unscrewed it, and held it out to you. Wordlessly, you took it, immediately feeling soothed by the warmth the thin metal gave off. “But I won’t sleep well knowing you’re out here brooding. Can I sit?”
“I don’t brood.” You replied in reflex, lifting the corner of the blanket and gesturing with your head.
“A shame, this has a good view for it.” He said, lowering himself so that your thighs were pressed together. Your arm wound around his back, hooking the corner of the blanket over his shoulder and holding it there so his thin clothing would stand a chance against the light spring chill. He barely batted an eye, his own arm winding around your lower back as his eyes found the bridge and stayed there.
It was a comfort, his presence. It was the reassurance of company, without the pressure of performing. You didn’t deserve it, not in the slightest, but it was nice not to be alone with your thoughts.
It cost nothing to gradually lean into his side, melting into the weight of his presence. To feel the warmth of the flask seeping into your fingertips through the thin metal and allow his presence to soothe some of the helplessness.
Masterlist:
Previous Part <- Part 4 -> Next Part
I have no idea if there's anyone on this site who remembers this fic or is still holding out for it, but it's here regardless. At long last! I finally woke up with the motivation to format today. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!
If you prefer to read on Ao3, you can find the fic here!
Astarion x Durge
Word Count: 5k
Durge uses they/them pronouns.
Summary: It was a nice, simple plan. A concluding, fuck you, to dear-old dad, before slamming the last nail into the coffin of the entire plot. Orin was dead, and with this final, glorious, murder, Bhaal’s foothold in the world would truly be erased.
It wouldn’t make up for what they’d done. All of the needless death by their hand, but it was something. A final reassurance to themselves that they hadn’t been His in the end.
“You chose this.” Astarion snarled, his voice low and dangerous, as he swept a hand out to motion to the burning city in its entirety. “Over Baldur’s Gate. Over your friends. Over us.” Astarion took a deep breath, the kind of breath you needed when you realised just how utterly fucked you were. “You chose this.”
He trailed off as the sentence was snatched away in the wind. All of his bravado and bluster oozing out of him along with his much needed breath. His eyes slid away from your tense form to find the horizon, his shoulders slumping as reality clapped its unforgiving manacle around his throat.
On either side of him, Lae’zel and Gale stood similarly motionless, feet held firmly in place by the Netherstones in your unrelenting grasp whilst the corpse of the Emperor cooled at their feet.
For a few seconds, you followed the Vampire’s gaze to the gold of the sunset bathing the towers of the city in a molten glow as it peered around curtains of billowing smoke. To the hundreds upon hundreds of nautiloids casting ominous shadows on the streets below. From all the way up here, the thousands of people gathered on those streets looked no bigger than ants. This detached from them, out of earshot of their anguish, they almost seemed insignificant. But you knew with a sinking gut that the decision to come was the opposite of such a disconnected thought.
“That’s right.” You replied confidently, even as exhaustion tugged to your limbs and your heart pounded beneath your heavy armour. When his attention snapped back to you, his scowl lethal, you smiled, though it felt wrong on your face. “It has to be this way.”
The words were said without hesitation. As charismatic and convincing as they’d been every other time you’d had to sweet talk your way towards your desired outcome. Anything less, and Astarion would see right through you. He would narrow his eyes and actually look at you, instead of the world on the cusp of burning. And he would hate what he would find there, hidden within the frown lines and lowered brows of your expression.
The trio of Netherstones hovering above your clenched fist felt heavy somehow. You had noticed they were warm as your party had gathered them from the three Chosen. How Gale had explained that they pulsed with overpowered tendrils of the weave. A pulse he could hear and you and your other less magically inclined companions were deaf to. It was funny, that your heart beat out of time to these world-ending artifacts, and yet they still obeyed your authority.
Through them, you had a firm grasp on the Brain beneath your worn boots, and through the Brain, your companions. They still had the worms writhing behind their eyes after all, and the Emperor’s cooling corpse was no longer a concern. It was your will alone that kept them from Changing, and they knew it too. It was through that control that you now held the world on a precipice. The quill had at last fallen into your hands for you to write the closing chapter, rather than the palm of some Divine Force hellbent on squeezing as much peril and terror out of this story as possible. It was your hand that would end this, and it was your hand that would keep your companions from tipping the scales beyond your control.
They did not appreciate your command, you could feel through the tadpoles. They fought you even now, immobilised as they were. The trust your journey had cultivated was evaporating before your eyes like dew under the first rays of morning sunlight. But you no longer needed their approval. You just needed them a safe distance from the Brain. And for that, you needed absolute control of their limbs. It was a necessary evil, a necessary breach of trust, but not one you could explain to them in the little time you had left.
Mind steeled with your resolve, you tore your eyes from the city and from your companions making jerky attempts to shake off the hold of the Netherstones, and pushed your unoccupied hand into your pocket. The fight to the Brain had been long and gruelling, almost eating through your entire hoard of scrolls, but you’d been careful with what you’d used. Where Gale had depleted his spell slots and Astarion had run out of arrows, there were two dimensional door scrolls left, stuffed deep into your pocket. You knew because you’d planned your attacks around preserving them, counted obsessively whenever there was a slight pause in waves.
Your gloved hand shook as you pulled them out now.
The Netherstones shifted from hovering above your dominant hand to float by your elbow as you carefully unrolled the first. It cast your face in a soft blue light, as you let the magic of the spell roll up your arms. The activation word rolled off your tongue, sweet as a bard’s lyric, and you focused the magic on Gale and Lae’zel.
“What are you doing?” The Gith demanded, throwing out an insult in her language. You refused to meet her burning glare as the word took hold and she began to glow.
“My friend, is this truly wise?” Gale interjected, the Netherstones beginning to lose their grasp on him now that the spell grew in strength. His eyes widened as his hand moved as he commanded it.
“Go safely.” You said robotically, even as some small, fragile part of you screamed not to let them leave. You were not entirely sure if it was the withered Urge demanding more blood sacrifices, or the vulnerable part of you that had been born after Orin’s betrayal that could no longer bear to be alone. Regardless, it was proof enough that they had to go before your resolve crumbled. With a firm clenched of your fist, you completed the spell. The duo disappeared in a shower of blue sparks shaped like a doorway, and were safely transported back to the city streets below where the others waited.
Astarion, clearly having not recognised the spell, ripped his attention from the now empty spaces on either side of him and levelled a lethal glare in your direction. “What. Did. You. Do!” He thrashed uselessly in your hold. The worm holding him firm.
With a shaky breath, you unrolled the second scroll. It could safely transport two people like the first, but you could not risk leaving the Brain now. Could not allow it to wrestle free when you were so close to being done.
That small part of you screamed sharper this time, as it futilely tried to wrestle back control. It didn’t want to be alone. It didn’t want to make him leave. He who had looked upon your bloody hands, tutted at the mess and intertwined your fingers regardless. He who had seen the madness bubbling behind your eyes and smiled with fanged glee instead of cowered. He who had held you for hours after being resurrected in Bhaal’s temple, fussing with your hair and clothes, muttering about a filthy BhaalSpawn’s fascination with dirt, when in reality you both knew he was just reassuring himself you were real.
“Be careful,” you warned as the magic took hold, “once I banish the worm, you will be vulnerable to the sunlight once more. Find shelter quickly, the others will find you.”
His expression fractured. The blinding fury bleeding from his hardened eyes, as he looked at you. Really looked at you again. You. Not the Urge. Not the wretched BhaalSpawn. Not His avatar of murder and sacrifice. But you, the mindless, naive fool he fell in love with on the road despite his better judgement.
“I do not understand.” He said. And you grimaced, because he didn’t need to for this to work. What was a couple of months to an elf anyway? To a vampire? He would live for centuries more. Hells, for an eternity. Your brief relationship would be but a fleeting memory in no time.
“Understand this. In another world, I would have revelled in helping you return to the sun. Permanently. Know that I do not regret you, but I regret not having time to find a second adventure with you.”
His expression broke open, the dots connected. His long ears drooped as his eyes widened and took on a shiny quality. Confusion giving way to terror so prominent you could probably cut yourself on it if you got too close. “No, wait! Do not do this!”
With a lurch of pure determination, he defied the worm and reached out to you. Fingers outstretched, teeth ground tight as his lips peeled back and his fangs glinted in the fading light. Instinctively, you recoiled, knowing your resolve would crumble beneath his touch.
“Why not this world?” He demanded, voice fluctuating between fear and anger. “Why can’t we do all of that now? In this blasted life? I’m free! You’re free! Just set this thing to fucking explode and come with me, damn you!”
You wanted to, but you knew you couldn’t. It would be too easy to reach forward and take his outstretched hand, but it would resolve nothing.
The Absolute may be burnt to ash regardless, but you, Bhaal’s favourite child, would survive. The hand that felled the axe, would escape unscathed, when it was only fitting that the twisted mind that conjured this wretched mess of a plot should die alongside their creation.
But of course you couldn’t tell Astarion any of that. He would try to argue that you and that old BhaalSpawn were not the same. That Orin’s meddling with your mind had changed you. That somehow you didn’t deserve to die for a past action you had no recollection of committing. But, if not you, then who?
No, this was for the best.
You clenched your fist, and the spell spirited him away before he had a chance to convince you. Leaving you alone on the Brain, in the endless nothingness of the sky.
Releasing a long, calming breath, you finally loosened your grip on the tadpoles and stepped away from the edge, eyes flickering back to the Netherstones, and the Crown hovering on the platform at your back.
Your companions surge against your mental defences all at once. Karlach’s burning palms pounding against the invisible walls, so hard you could practically feel the scorchmarks her touch left behind. Even fixed, her engine had still gotten to blistering temperatures when she got worked up. You felt Gale’s insistent nudge, and could practically see his disapproving frown. You cringed away from Shadowheart’s hesitant tap, avoided looking at Lae’zel’s demanding presence, and outright flinched when Wyll’s attention turned knife sharp as he tried to cut his way in, bolstered by some illusion that you were an innocent in need of saving. In unison, your companions tapped and pounded and thrashed against your walls. The mental link growing heavy with their collective presence. Trying to understand what you were up to. What you were doing. You turned a blind eye and strengthened your resolve. This ending was for the best.
“Up.” You commanded the Brain and it lurched beneath your feet. With an uneven jolt, the spinal nerve rooting it to the building below dislodged and fell slack as it began its ascent.
>_<
From the docks, the companions watched the Brain rise higher above the city.
Flames licked across Karlach’s shoulders as she paced, raving about spare teleportation spells possibly being forgotten in packs. Wyll frantically tried to talk her down before she burnt herself out, his expression pleading and his hands hovering since she was just too hot to touch.
Lae’zel stood at the edge of the docks like a stone sentry, eyes trained resolutely on the Brain as if her glare alone could will it into exploding, or stopping, or magically teleporting their idiotic companion back down to them. Shadowheart paced just out of reach of the Gith, wringing her hands around her spear shaft.
“Come on.” Astarion quietly pleaded aloud, his scarlet eyes fixed on the monstrous thing. “Just set it to explode and get out of there.”
Gale felt his expression twist into something tight and uneasy. He knew deep down that Tav would not follow. Whether to ensure the Brain did as commanded or for some self-righteous reasoning they did not care to share.
He had seen the resignation on their face as they commanded the three of them still. The open pain that had threatened to split their terrifyingly calm mask when Astarion had begun questioning their motives. Gale hated to admit it, but he had seen that expression on their face before.
Down in the belly of the city, standing before Bhaal’s altar. Where they had stood firm in armour still dripping with Orin’s blood and proudly cast off His claim on them, only for the Lord of Murder to bite back and cut them down for their insolence. They had died with a smile that first time, as Astarion’s resulting scream had shaken the very foundations of the temple. And they had come back gasping; confused and disappointed.
It had been the look of resignation, Gale now realised, not acceptance. The very same twisted feelings he’d been wrestling with when he’d wanted to give into Mystra’s command to kill himself in her name. Tav had walked him back from the edge then, had been a listening ear and an understanding smile, when he’d so desperately needed it. Gale felt like a fool now for not noticing sooner why they’d been so beautifully accepting of his troubles.
High above, the Brain finally slowed as it reached open water. Ominously, it hung there, tendrils writhing and coiling rhythmically as it awaited its next command. For a heartbeat or two, nothing happened. Only for the air to ripple on either side of it, and for three nautiloids to flank it.
“Gods, they can’t take on three ships by themselves!” Karlach shrilled, flames burning so hot they were practically blue.
“Because it is not to be a battle,” Lae’zel interjected. “It is an execution.”
“Gods.” Shadowheart breathed, looking on the cusp of praying, but unable to tear her eyes from the Brain and the trio of ships long enough to do so.
Astarion cursed loudly. His fury returned as he jabbed a finger to his temple, eyes blazing as he bellowed aloud and mentally down the link, “get your idiotic behind down here this instant or I will-”
They never got to hear the tail end of the threat. Still reeling from the sheer volume of Astarion’s anguish in his head, Gale wasn’t watching the Brain when Tav gave the order, so there was no warning. The command hit them with little warning, and at full force, like a fireball being cast inside a cupboard with four other people digging their elbows into your sides. Between one breath and the next, the presence of the others pressed in on the edges of his consciousness behind his mental walls, and then there was an audible shriek. The tadpole behind his eye popped audibly, sending cold, white agony flooding out from behind his eye socket.
Karlach groaned explosively. Wyll’s hand shot to his face as he managed to stay on his feet through sheer force of will. Shadowheart dropped her spear, whilst Lae’zel’s face scrunched up as if she’d bitten straight into a lemon. Whereas Gale cradled his poor face even as relief flooded through him, all the while Astarion seemed to scarcely feel the impact as he continued to curse up a colourful storm.
“How dare you!” He snarled at the sky, and the silhouette of the Brain hovering high above, brandishing his fist at it and all. “Cutting me off now when I’m talking to you! Do you think my relief will erase how furious I am with you right now, Tav? Curing me will not distract me from your appalling life-choices!”
“Uh, Fangs, I don’t think they can hear you anymore.” Karlach tried to soothe, only for the Vampire to outright clack his teeth at her, before simply returning to his pointless yelling. She caught Wyll’s gaze, pulling a face, to which the man simply shrugged.
Gale watched the interaction with open bewilderment, as the pain of the severed connection eased. Karlach had launched straight back into theorising ways to return to the Brain, even as Wyll tried to ease her frenzy.
Whilst he watched, Gale noticed the weirdest thing happening to him, beginning from the tips of his fingers and gradually spreading up his arm. It almost felt like his magic was seeping back into him. Not the same volume he’d possessed before his first tango with the orb mind you, but certainly more than he had had access to under the worm’s influence.
High above, the sound of the nautiloids firing up their engines made Gale’s blood run cold, ripping him out of his analysis.
“Shit,” Wyll cursed, “we’re running out of time!”
“What are they doing?” Shadowheart demanded, “they’ll kill themselves!”
Unhelpfully, Gale added, “I’m fairly certain that might be the plan.”
“Fool.” Lae’zel tsked disapprovingly.
“Gale!” Karlach pleaded, “do something!”
Abruptly, she appeared in front of him, where she’d been on the other side of the dock mere seconds before. Without warning, the Wizard was seized by his shoulders and shaken as if she could slosh all his remaining magic back together inside his body, like a hungry restaurant goer wanting to collect the last squeeze of sauce from the bottle. Only… Was it working?
Distantly, Gale heard Wyll encouraging Karlach to release him, and Gale would have thanked the Warlock, had his attention been drawn to anything else but solely his magic reserves. The reserves that were still steadily refilling themselves. Why, he had enough magic to perform three high level Ice Storms at this rate. Which meant-
“I’m going to try Dimensional Door.” He blurted, “Wyll, would you say I can make it up there?”
The Warlock’s brows shot up his forehead as he snapped his attention from Gale to the distant shadow of the brain. “I mean, you can still see it. You just might not be able to stick the landing on the way back.”
“Feather Fall will do the job.” Gale replied quickly, “so long as I can shove them off with me.”
>_<
Contrary to recent evidence, you hadn’t wanted to die; not at first. In fact, after the abduction, being able to look at the world with fresh eyes and empty expectations, you became excited to live. Curiosity eased you into learning the sights and sounds of the Wilds. It encouraged you to explore people and their hundreds of shades of grey. It let you fall in love and helped you rediscover the addictive song of battle that bubbled in your very blood.
The Urge hadn’t changed that. Not at first. Alfira’s death had been an accident, a fluke. You’d hidden the body, and resolved to get a better handle on your rages if they led to unnecessary deaths outside of battle.
But then the Butler had shown his ugly face, and had kept showing it. Prodding you to kill the Selunite Cleric in the Last Light Inn. And then murder Astarion as punishment for resisting. Spending a night tied down and begging to kill had been the first sign that something was truly wrong with you, and perhaps it wasn’t just a coincidental bout of amnesia or bloodlust that had you giggling maniacly in battle.
Learning your true identity had sent you sideways. The future suddenly felt out of reach, because the past weighed too heavily on your shoulders. Orin died by your hand, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Denounced Bhaal as kin had been cleansing, but it still wasn’t enough. Simply dying would never wash you of the blood that had dried under your nails and sunk into your pores, it would not cleanse you of the unforgivable sins you’d committed in His name.
Dying the first time, before Bhaal’s altar with Orin’s blood cooling at your feet, had been a release. Cathartic as the darkness swept in and cradled your aching head. Addicting, before Withers dragged your soul back to the shores of the living. The disappointment had been near suffocating when you opened your eyes and realised you’d lived. So much so that your mind had already been straying towards ways to return to the cool release of the beyond. A way to slip from your companions and take yourself back down to the temple after the defeat of the Absolute. Perhaps, lay yourself upon a cool stone bed, and stab yourself silly until you bled out slow and sweet across the altar. The last sacrifice to your cursed Father.
It had been a soothing fantasy at the time, but not one which would bear fruit.
>_<
It was quiet at the end of the world. Or well, it might have been, had the sound of the nautiloid guns not been so annoyingly obnoxious as they prepared to blast the Brain full of holes and send each other tumbling into oblivion.
After destroying the tadpoles, your mind had become unnaturally still. Leaving your skull blissfully empty without the presence of six other people and a Butler fighting for space. It was awful. You could not remember a time where the connection hadn’t been there. Where you had been alone to contemplate your existence without a second presence brushing up against your thoughts like a cat demanding attention.
The tap of a boot hitting the Brain’s platform stilled your restless thoughts. Ears twitching, you pushed your unease aside, as you neatly turned on your heel, and found Gale standing across the platform from you, the remains of a Dimensional Door disintegrating behind him. His face was grim. His eyes were determined. You felt ill just looking at him.
“I thought we had said our fond farewells already, Wizard.” You greeted calmly. You had no more scrolls on you, and possessed no magic of your own. You had to convince him to leave, or risk taking him with you in the blast. Considering you wanted your last glorious murder to consist wholly of the enemy, that did put a snag in your plans.
“A farewell?” Gale parrotted, “is that how you remember it?” He let out a small, forced snort, and took a measured step closer. “No, I recall a very harsh seizing of my person, and then a shove out the door. Literally.”He makes it sound amusing. The words coated in dry wit.
It brought a small smile to your face, even now, clutching the Netherstones. The sight of them glowing in your periphery turned your stomach. The realisation crept up on you, slow and uneasy. What Wizard could keep their sticky fingers away from a priceless artifact after all? Why, in some ways, Gale had proven himself more roguish than Astarion where tomes and magic were involved.
“If you had waited a few more moments, I could have saved you the spell up here.” You replied, the stones heavy where they should have been weightless. “The stones are set to pass ownership to you the moment their last order is carried out. They would have made their way to you, whether you might have landed.”
Gale’s face did something complicated instead of dawning with the understanding you were expecting. “You cannot possibly believe I came up here in search of the blasted stones.”
“Didn’t you? Even if their destruction means you could not reforge the crown? Could not appease your Goddess by returning them to her?”
A tight scoff. “Mystra is the last thing on my mind right now, my friend. The stones too.”
“Then why are you here?” You demanded. “Surely you know the Brain will obey me now. You need not add your orb to the fray.”
Gale’s next expression was one of utter heartbreak. It made you uncomfortable just looking at him. “You don’t believe that. Tell me, you do not believe that.”
“Believe what, Gale?”
“That I am here for anything but you.” The words struck you silent, and Gale’s expression turned pained as he stepped even closer. On reflex, you took a step back, maintaining the distance between you. The screech of the loading cannons was so loud now that you could hardly hear anything else. “Tav, my friend, you are far more valuable than those stones and the crown combined."
That couldn’t be right.
You were an abomination. The favourite monstrosity of a God with a taste for chaos, that up until recently had taken great joy in spilling blood whenever you could. There was no way that Gale came back for you, it had to be something else. Maybe he just really liked your Misty Step boots, or someone back at camp did and he was here to collect them before you destroyed them. The excuse felt weak even to your own ears.
But that couldn’t be right. Coming all this way just to retrieve you couldn’t be the final play. Not with what was at stake. Your resolve hardened.
“You must leave, Gale. I don’t want your blood on my hands as well.”
“Tav-”
“No.” You said firmly. “You need to return to the others, and I will remain here.”
Gale’s face turned desperate. “But you’ll die up here!” He pleaded, stepping closer. Again you retreat from him.
“That is the point.” You hissed, “to finally cleanse this plane of Bhaal and His influence, I have to die.”
Gale’s expression went hard. “You are not His anymore, you denounced Him.”
“Oh and don’t I know it.” You replied, suddenly feeling fond towards the now silent urge that used to prowl the dark corners of your mind. “But it does not erase what I did in His name. This way, we all get our clean slates.”
“That is madness! It is not a fresh start if you are not around to bloody enjoy it.”
“Well luckily, I will not be alive to miss it.”
“And what of Astarion?” Gale threw out. “What am I to tell him if I return without you? That you wanted to die.”
“Tell him you were too late.” You tell him simply. Gale’s mouth opened to protest and he ate up a little more of the distance between you. Distance that you swiftly put back, by retreating further towards the Brain’s edge. If you looked, you would be able to see the suggestion of the bay far, far below. But of course you do not look, because Gale’s continued presence here was making you antsy. You couldn’t risk taking your eyes off him in case he did something unpredictable.
“He will not believe that!” Gale argued.
“He will if you tell him!” You insisted. “Look, we’ve only known each other for a couple of months. To a Human, that might mean something, but to an Elf that’s nothing! This time next year, he’ll have forgotten about me.”
Gale’s face dropped. “Forgotten about you? You? The person who he turned down Ascension for?”
You snorted. “He did not turn it down for me, he simply did not want to become like Cassador.”
“Alright then. You believe he will easily forget about you, the person who let him feed days after meeting him? And kept him fed, even when the rest of us kept our distance? The same person who fought off a divine-willed compulsion to murder him, though you gained nothing from doing so? The very same person who revelled in hunting down and later assisting in the killing of his Master? Who helped him regain his autonomy!”
“Cassador had it coming and you knew it! We enjoyed that as a group!”
“Yes, yes, it was a truly thrilling team-building exercise, but that is not my point. We are leaving, and you are coming with me, and then I will not have to go back to Astarion and tell him that the love of his life is dead when we could have prevented it!”
“Correction, you are leaving, Gale.”
“Oh, but of course.” He readily agreed, a small, self-assured smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Just not empty handed.”
He lunged.
You neatly side-stepped and tripped him.
With a squawk and a curse, he went sailing off the edge of the brain, and promptly disappeared over the side.
Huh, what a build up. He’d never been much of an athlete, always preferring to hang back when you and Karlach went jumping up tall walls through the sheer power of your enhanced, barbarian thighs.
You turned as he went past, watching him sail head over heel downwards, somehow holding onto his staff as he went, with his robe remaining diligently at his ankles instead of flying up like you might have expected. It was almost amusing to watch. Or it was, until something shoved you right after him, with all of their strength, judging by how harshly their hands collided with your back.
You yelped as you tipped forward. Your hand loosened on the stones, which soared to keep level with your head. You vaguely realised that down below, Gale was casting some sort of spell on himself, before the weight of your battle armour was dragging you down, down off the edge of the brain right after him.
You fell like a stone. Being a barbarian, you carried a hefty dual-handed blade accompanied with the heaviest armour you could get your hands on. All of this, alongside having a taller build, had you falling much faster than you thought possible. Fast enough that there was no flipping head over heel. There was only a straight plummet head first. Which meant you had to twist to see who had been dumb enough to thwart your carefully curated plan for a second time.
Astarion was falling just above you, and was rapidly catching up. He wore a face of thunder, and had his limbs pinned tight to his sides.
You felt like an idiot, not having sensed him skulking around on the Brain. No doubt, he had slipped in alongside Gale, and the shriek of the loading cannons had concealed his presence, even to your delicate ears.
“How dare you try to die on me!” He snarled as soon as he was close enough. Close enough to reach out and grab ahold of your hand. “And for your information, we are doing everything we want to in this life and I will hear nothing to the contrary.”
You could do nothing but stare at him, snow-white hair whipping around his ears. His leathers flapping against his lithe frame, as he readjusted his grip and wound himself around you in a tight embrace. The mirror of the uncomfortable hug you’d shared in the Shadow Lands after confronting the Blood Mage. Where you had done most of the hugging there, he clung to you now. Fingers clenched tight like claws into the fabric between your armour plates, his head tucked under your chin. Even here, possibly falling to your deaths, you were powerless but to hug him back, tightly. Tighter than you’ve ever clung to anyone before. To think, you might have died without experiencing this again.
“A-hah, I knew you might regret it!” The triumphant voice of the Wizard came into earshot. You opened your eyes to find that your combined weight with Astarion had helped you to catch up to him. “Now hang tight, and try not to be overly offended.” He warned, the beginning of a spell warming his fingers.
With a rapid uttering of words, he slapped the both of you, a hand each, and you felt the weightlessness of Feather Fall wash over you.
High above, the cannons finally finished preparing and opened fire. The Netherbrain went up in a glorious explosion of grey matter and flames, and much to your surprise, you were not aboard when flames consumed its hull.
The fractured pieces of the Brain rained down into the bay, and you were falling as you had once fallen from that first nautiloid ship. But this time with company, after the glorious death you were undeserving of, had been neatly plucked from your bloodstained fingertips.
If you prefer to read on Ao3, you can find the fic here!
Word Count: 13k
Summary: A time skip to season 1 : The riot on the bridge.
Reader uses they/them pronouns.
(Please enjoy the chapter that made me begin writing this fic in the first place. This is where it began!)
It seemed that even years spent living comfortably amongst friends, could not entirely erase the rules of the street that had been programmed into you.
Somewhere within you, that deeply ingrained instinct, that you would die if you did not save yourself festered as people screamed for their lives and thick columns of smoke blocked your view. It lurked in the back of your mind, dormant until it could sink its claws back into you. Waiting to remind you that Zaun was a city of kill or be killed. A city of learning to get up even if it hurts, or accept the fact that you were going to die. Alone and swiftly forgotten.
You were not entirely sure how the riot had broken out.
It had been carefully planned for the Zaunites to begin pushing back against the Enforcers within the week. But tonight wasn’t supposed to be the catalyst. It was supposed to be a peaceful protest overseen by Vander and a couple of the Undercity leaders.
You had no idea whether an Enforcer had muttered something a little too cruel to the wrong person, or whether a citizen had dropped something that the guards had mistaken for a projectile. Or if it had been the brick soaring out of the crowd and landing squarely upon the head of one of the leaders.
No wait, the brick throwing had come later.
All you had known, was that one moment you were swapping playful insults with Felicia and brushing shoulders with Silco whilst Vander shook his head and adjusted Powder’s squirming form on his hip, and the next, all hell had broken loose.
The crowd had swelled and panicked. You’d been shoved sharply off of your feet, forcing you to stumble and grab strangers to keep from getting swept under the chaos and trampled. Powder’s cry of your name had had your head snapping round to find her pointing at you from her vantage point in Vander’s arms. Elbowing whoever was closest, you’d tried to weave your way back.
Then guns were going off in bursts of light and choked off screams of agony. Smoke bombs were being thrown. People on both sides were yelling and screaming in horror as blood splattered their clothes and soot clung to their skin. Fires broke out, their smoke clouding thickly in the air. People lay underfoot. Broken and dying.
The sky was red from the fires and the thick clouds of smoke. Cinders dancing on the biting breeze like destructive fireflies as the river on both sides of the bridge trudged along in a black, oily channel far below.
By the time someone set off the explosion that had caused one of the overhead support pillars to collapse, you’d lost two of your knives and were trying to help a stranger up. Then the crack of stone splintering had echoed through your very bones, and the body you’d been hauling to its feet surged with adrenaline and shoved you backwards off balance.
The fucker darted away, and the falling rocks clipped your shoulder, and then bowled you over as they crashed down onto the bridge below. Your chin had been sliced open from the force of your face smacking into the concrete, your tongue heavy and stinging as blood filled your mouth from where your teeth had dug in. You couldn’t feel one of your legs, as the rubble squeezed you against the uneven ground, rapidly cutting off the blood flow. Your eyes were open, but you couldn’t see anything but the red of the sky and blurry figures tearing past as they ran to escape.
It was always in pathetic moments like this, that that old instinct reared its head. It’s voice cruel and cold.
“No one is coming to save you. Get. Up.”
Usually, the voice that hissed those words to you sounded like your late Father. Annoyed and exasperated, like how he always sounded after coming in from a long day in the mines. How he sounded when you staggered home from a beating or a mugging, before collapsing onto the carpet having just stumbled in the front door, oftentimes too hurt to move. He wouldn’t rise from his chair then to help you, the long day having pulled all his energy from him. Instead, he would sit back heavily in his chair, study you with disdain in his eyes and tell you to ‘get up’ already. Anything to get you to be quiet. To remove yourself from his sight.
Today, the voice sounded like Vander, when he was tired and irritated. It sounded like Silco when you’d pushed his last nerve and he was beginning to ice you out. It sounded like Felicia when she was truly angry at you. It sounded like Sevika when you’d fucked up on a job and she wanted nothing less than to throttle you but was only barely restraining herself.
“Get. Up.” Their voices snarled, snapped and threatened once more. And you managed to barely twitch your hand. The concrete was ice cold and rough against your cheek, despite the fires burning all around. Despite the sweet promise of spring in the air. And your hands were strangely numb. You could see your palms touching the ground, and yet you couldn’t feel it. Just like you were beginning to not be able to feel your leg, despite the pain.
“No one is coming.” Your Father’s voice spat, disdainful and disappointed. You never did manage to make him proud of you before he died.
The words twisted your gut. Usually, they were enough to get you to haul yourself to your hands and knees, regardless of how much you hurt. Regardless of how badly you had been hit. It was the instinct that had Sevika fondly referring to you as a cockroach, when really, you were driven by the utter terror of being forgotten and dying because no one cared enough to come looking.
You would think after so many years of existing amongst those of The Last Drop, of being openly cared for and loved, the fear would calm. You would think that after the hundreds of times Silco had patched you up after a fight, the countless times Vander had used his connections to check up on you, you might begin to believe that you were worth worrying about.
But then an old, mean part of your mind whispered that those were all scenarios where it was only you wounded. This was a large-scale panic. Any one of your friends could be lying injured and bleeding out. And obviously, that cruel, insecure part of you whispered, every one of your friends had someone more important to check up on. If it was between you and someone else, there was no doubt they would choose the other person.
If you wanted to live, you could only rely on yourself. If you wanted to make it off this stupid bridge, you needed to get up.
Teeth grinding together. Tongue welling with blood. Pain shooting up and down your body, you strained to move.
It was agony to try and shift your leg. The debris was heavy on your back. Unforgiving. Stuck on your belly, you could not get enough leverage to budge the rocks. You were trapped. Pinning in place like a bug. Like a cockroach skewered on a blade…
”Get. Up.” Your Father’s cruel voice snarled. Your weakening arms began to tremble, then gave out. You slumped back down to the concrete, angry tears pricking the corners of your eyes as panic began to set in.
”Get up!” Vander, Silco, Felicia and Sevika’s joined voices coaxed.
But you couldn’t. You couldn’t!
Somewhere in the smoke, someone bellowed your name, sounding panicked and breathless. It was probably a hallucination. Your dying mind trying to offer an ounce of comfort before the numbing cold truly took hold.
The scrape of shoes against uneven stone stuck out to you amongst the mess of your thoughts and the distant din of the riot. There was someone trying to navigate through the smoke. The silhouette became less of a shadow and more of a shape the closer they drew, picking their way over unseen obstacles, their head on a rotation.
It wasn’t an Enforcer at least. This figure moved with too much hesitance. A rat keeping to the shadows in an attempt to go undetected by a prowling cat. Their hands were empty of the typical Piltovern rifle. A Zaunite, perhaps? Disorientated by the smoke and gunfire? Searching for the correct side of the bridge to flee off of?
In your periphery, the figure abruptly froze, the smoke thinning just enough for you to make out leather boots that had seen better days. They were breathing heavily. Sharp snatches of breath sawing in and out of their open mouth. The breath abruptly cut off as they stopped moving.
“Oh, oh no. No!” Muttered a voice with building desperation. Before the shadow abruptly leapt into motion and scrambled towards you.
The frantic bite to each footfall made your head pound, all before knees clad in soot coated, black leather slamming down onto the concrete by your head, a shadow leaning over your prone form. “Oh Gods.” The voice kept whispering, panic creeping into the tone, as they leaned over you. A hand ghosted over your numb forearm, barely detectable. You watched numbly as those trembling fingers curl around your wrist and tighten; not that you could feel it. The figure called your name, “can you hear me?”
“Go. A-way.” You ground out between tight teeth. It was bad enough that you were in this humiliating situation to begin with, but now someone was going to witness it. Probably relay your pathetic death back to Silco and the others. Gods, just the thought had your mouth going dry, the blood stuck to the back of your teeth making your stomach turn.
“The Enforcers will-, they’ll sweep back this way.” You continued to push when the figure did not budge. “They’ll kill you on sight. You have,” your tight throat clicked as you swallowed down the rising panic. “You have to go.” Whilst you still can, went unsaid.
Your ribcage must have expanded too much from the rush of words, because on the next exhale the weight on your back abruptly shifted. Something sharp dug down into the back of your thigh. You hissed in pain, as several pebbles dislodged from the mess of rock and clattered against the concrete of the bridge.
The shadow sucked in a sharp breath and hunched closer, their form mostly obscured from the rest of the bridge by the rubble.
“You’re okay.” They promised, voice tight and uneven, almost hysterical with how much force was pushed into the reassurance. “Just hold still. I’m going to dig you out.” The voice explained. Their thumb was rubbing up and down the back of your wrist, offering a wisp of warmth. The touch was grounding enough for you to push back against the swelling pain.
“You’re wasting time.” You insisted. The Enforcers could turn their attention this way at the drop of a hat. A simple shift of the shadows could have them blindly shooting at anything.
This kind soul might end up like you if they were not careful. And what kind of rewarding fate would that be to the one who stopped to comfort you?
Infuriatingly, your warning once again fell on deaf ears. They kept talking. “I got separated from Felicia and Connol.” The voice grit out, breathing fast and uneven. Your heart beat ticked up at the mention of your friends. “I can’t find Vander or the girls anywhere.” The voice continued, and your stomach twisted sharply. Not the girls! Please not the girls! They weren’t even supposed to be here when things turned messy. They were supposed to be safe at home. Tucked away and none the wiser when shit hit the fan. “But it’s going to be fine.” The person reassured, “Vander won’t let anything happen to them.”
“You need-” the words scraped your throat as they left your mouth, making your voice strained and tight. You cleared your throat as best you could, before continuing. “You have to find them.”
“We will.” The voice promised. “We will. Together!”
There was a soot and dust coated palm on your cheek, slightly tilting your head so you were looking up at a silhouette. It was too dark to make out any facial features, but you saw the suggestion of a low bun, of wisps of black hair having already escaped its hairband. Bangs clinging to a sweaty forehead.
“You need-”
The hand was cool against your skin, and yet warmer than the concrete. It was familiar. It had cradled you gently a hundred times by now. Wiping away your tears. Patching up your injuries. Grabbing you playfully by the cheeks when you were being difficult to force you to look their owner in the eye. Maybe, if you died with their calming touch against your skin, it wouldn’t be so bad for the bridge to be your final resting place.
The hand lightly tapped your cheek, startling your drifting mind into focusing. “Don’t fall asleep on me!” The voice warned dangerously.
“You need to go…”
“I’m not going to leave you here!” The voice snarled, verging on hysterical, and yet not jabbing like the others. Not cruel or disinterested like the other voices snapping at you.
“Get. Up.” The vengeful ghosts snarled once more, the bite to their voices giving you the push you needed to ground yourself back in reality. Your ears rang as you grit your teeth and tried to haul your body up onto your elbows once more.
The concrete and construction materials on your back shifted from the movement.
“Careful.” The voice chastised with bite, before their hands left your face and wrist to help peel stones off of your back. With grunts of effort, the figure began to roll and heave chunks of rock and marble away. The weight on your lower back and thighs begin to lessen.
“Come on.” The voice said, “get up.” And this time, the words were spoken out loud and not just in your mind. This time they were not cruelly spat, nor were they a command. Instead, they were encouraging. Almost a plea. And they successfully coaxed you into continuing to fight another day. To make it off the blasted bridge.
Your right leg protested any of your weight when you began dragging yourself out from under the wreckage. So you resorted to using your elbows, hands and good leg. Somehow you manage it, whilst the owner of the voice strained and audibly groaned from holding the rocks aloft.
As soon as they deemed your feet clear, you heard the crack of stone slamming back down to the ground, and the desperate panting of exertion. It was then that your strength failed you once more as the adrenaline high began to seep away. Your body collapsed back down against cold concrete. Cheek to stone. Hands limp and numb once more.
You no longer felt like a pinned bug, but that didn’t mean you were in the clear yet. Those stones would not be your coffin, but this bridge might yet be your death bed.
The booted feet were back in your peripheral vision. Knees colliding hard with the concrete by your shoulder once more, then those hands were back on you. Finger nimble and confident as they ran up and down your back, checking for broken bones and crushed ribs.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” They were leaning so far over you now that their shadow consumed you. It wasn’t a suffocating realisation, you found. But instead a thought of comfort. The protective way they crouched over your crumbled form was a far cry from the suffocating clutches of the rubble.
With blurry vision, you rolled your head to the side to try and catch a glimpse of your saviour. The nearest fire cast an ethereal amber glow across their face, revealing concerned, familiar eyes burning with a ferocity your agony ravaged mind could not place.. Silco… your mind groggily acknowledged as a small smile of knowing tugged at the corner of your lips. Of course he would come back for you.
His hand once again found your cheek, grounding your thoughts in the presence as he repeated your name with more force. “Where does it hurt?” He asked seriously, brows drawn together in poorly concealed worry.
“My leg…” You groaned pathetically.
He sucked in another breath, and withdrew from your line of sight. You felt careful fingers prod across your left leg, down to your ankle. Then switch over to your right. The gentle fingers prodded at the back of your foot, the back of your calf, over your crushed knee joint. You let out a pained yelp. The exploration ceased immediately.
“Shit.” He cursed under his breath, and you could not help but share the sentiment.
Further along the bridge, another flash of light lit up the smoke cloud before the sound of the resulting shot rang out. Silco flinched, instinctively dropping down to make himself smaller. Distantly, you marvelled at the way he curled himself over you, not putting his full weight on you, but acting as a living shield against the attention of any Enforcers that might look your way. The warmth emanating from him helped to ease some of the numbness in your limbs and brought a touch more clarity to your mind.
He remained motionless above you until the shooting stopped, his breath still in his lungs, and his attention entirely on the fight. Even after the last shot faded into the crackle of fire and the pained groans of the dying ceased, he remained still for a few beats longer.
Once he deemed it safe, he tentatively began to move once more. “We need to get out of here.” Silco hissed under his breath, head back on a swivel as he checked the smoke for more Enforcers.
Your stomach tightened at the words. In this state, you knew you would be more of a hindrance than an asset. Even free of the rubble, your leg would not be able to support your weight. Gods, you couldn’t even crawl. If Silco stayed with you, you knew your slowness would end up killing the both of you. And if there was a chance the others had survived-
Silco straightened up again. “Come on.” He prompted, and helped you roll onto your back. Every shift of your leg had agony racing up the limb, and your teeth grinding together.
Yeah, this wasn’t going to work.
“You need to leave me.” You ground out, forcing the words past your throat even though the smoke and screaming had ruined your vocal cords. Silco’s head snapped down to you, his eyebrows jumping in disbelief. You forced a smile, and shoved at his shoulder. “I can’t fucking walk, so you need to go-”
His expression smoothed into a scowl. His voice was biting as he snapped at you, “for the last time, I am not leaving.” The sheer unfiltered fury in his voice gave you pause. “To think you would believe for even a moment that I would- that I could-” he bit off his words with an infuriated grunt and dragged in a sharp breath.
“Silco-”
“We’re making it off this bridge together.” He told you firmly, leaving no room for argument. “Whether or not you decide to help me, I don’t care.”
“But the Enforcers-”
He scoffed with a flimsy attempt at confidence. “We avoid them for sport, have done for years, today will be no different.”
You sighed at his forced confidence. “And what about Vander? How do you expect us to find-”
“Can you just focus on us for once?” He cut in once more, his scowl even sharper. “That big oaf will be fine. And right now, you are my priority. Now, come on!” Silco prompted, and his hands were back on you, helping you to stand.
Stunned into silence by his words, you could do nothing but muster up the strength to comply. His grip on you was firm and steady, offering a secure body to lean yourself into whilst you collected your bearings. Now that you were up, you realised that your leg had been bent at a weird angle from the collision. Any weight you tried to put on it, immediately had the limb buckling, and your nails digging into Silco’s shoulders and arms as you desperately tried to stay upright.
“Good.” He soothed when you were finally standing. Shaking hard, every muscle locked to keep you upright.
“Okay. Okay.” Silco muttered, more to himself than you as you struggled to get your breathing under control. A hand was rubbing up and down your back between your shoulder blades, heavy and comforting. It made you ache with the security it provided, despite the situation you were in.
The threat of the circling Enforcers loomed over the pair of you, as he wound an arm around your back and held on tightly. The lingering smoke from the fires provided a flimsy cover. You could still hear them yelling orders at one another, and could still see the flash and hear the bangs of their rifles going off in both directions.
Silco’s wide eyes caught your frantic expression, and he made an effort to smooth his own out into a feeble attempt at calm. “Alright, come on. Easy does it.” He encouraged, hands giving you a squeeze of reassurance.
And you tried. Gods did you try to take a step. First with the good leg, and dragging the bad one behind, but even just dragging it along the ground was agony. It had bile rising up in the back of your throat. You could feel the colour draining from your face as your stomach rolled. You bit back the shout that the single step had forced up your throat.
Silco squeezed your side, and paused to let you collect yourself.
You hardened your resolve and took another step. It hurt worse somehow. You gasped as your dragged boot caught on an uneven stone and put slight pressure on your destroyed knee joint. The whimper that ripped free of you was completely beyond your control. Even whilst in so much pain, you burned with how pathetic you sounded.
Silco offered you the illusion of privacy by keeping his attention on the surrounding smoke.
You took another step. Clung tightly to his shoulder. And then another.
He kept pace easily. Matching your step and pause effortlessly.
You could still see the pile of rubble in your peripheral vision, merely four paces behind. There was an entire half of the bridge left to cross. Once again, you came to the realisation that you had to convince him to leave you here. At this rate, there was no way for you to walk off of this bridge before the smoke cover cleared, and Silco wasn’t exactly built to haul injured people around.
You swallowed hard, finding your nerve once more. “This will take too long. You should-”
“If you try and get me to leave again, I swear to all the Gods in the world, I am going to smack you!” Silco sharply interrupted.
You clamped your mouth shut. He huffed in annoyance.
You kept limping forward, and Silco kept his grip on your firm and steady.
Sweat stuck your shirt to your lower back and beaded on your forehead. Your breath sawed in and out of your nose.
Behind you, the rubble had dissolved into a vague suggestion of a shape.
Ahead, a fast moving form materialised through the smoke. Silco clocked it at the same time your body froze up. The person was tall and broad, and heading straight for you!
Your first instinct was to try to shove Silco out of their path, only for his grip on you to turn punishing as he in turn yanked harshly on your waist. The combination of blind adrenaline and only one working leg had you tripping over your feet and slamming into him. To which the uncoordinated rescue attempts on both parts simply sent the pair of you sprawling across the ground in a tangle of limbs.
Silco groaned somewhere by your shoulder, whilst your leg sent waves of protest straight into your pelvis. Paralysed, you could only watch in horror as the smoke thinned enough for the charging figure to see you. With a shout of surprise, they clumsily leapt over your sprawling bodies and collided hard with the bridge railing to keep from toppling straight into the river below.
Several strands of hair had escaped from Sevika’s bun since you’d seen her last, whilst her blade was now slick with blood. She rounded on you and Silco with a snarl. “Watch where you’re fucking going!”
You flipped her off, since getting up and threatening her back would require a lot more movement than you had to offer. “We need to put a fucking bell on you or something! You could’ve killed us!”
She paused. “Runt?”
Behind you, Silco groaned as he hauled himself up onto his knees, a hand pressed to his temple. A cut had opened up above his eyebrow from the fall, blood already beginning to run down his cheek towards his chin. “Gods.” He groaned, squeezing his eyes closed before forcing them open. His attention immediately snapped down to you. “What was that?” He demanded.
You scowled.
Sevika’s heavy, familiar footsteps approaching in a hurry pulled your attention from him before you could bite back. “By the Gods.” She whispered under her breath, voice tinged with horror as she fluidly dropped into a crouch at your side. Her wide eyes studied your leg, the dust covering your clothes, then her expression hardened and her head snapped up to Silco, teeth practically beared. “What the hell happened? You reassured me they would be sticking with your lot!”
Silco’s hackles visibly raised. “We got separated.” He spat, “because someone got too overzealous in taunting the Enforcers!”
“Oh, so this is my fault!” She challenged right back, tone deadly.
“Will you both knock it off for two minutes!” You cut in, still sprawled on the floor, feeling exhaustion creep further and further to the forefront of your mind.
Silco and Sevika exchanged a charged look that promised a rematch later, before the latter rolled her attention back down to you. “What caused this?” She jabbed her thumb in the direction of your leg.
“A piece of the bridge collapsed.” You helpfully interjected, motioning the direction you had come from. Sevika had the audacity to sigh in exasperation, as if you’d bloody planned to be crushed like a bug.
“Did you try and fucking catch it with your body or something?” She mused dryly before shifting on her feet and groaning tiredly. “Why am I still surprised by your stupidity?”
“Oh fuck off. I still have one knife left!” You immediately clapped back, although you weren’t entirely sure which one it was or where it currently was on your person.
“We can discuss this later!” Silco interrupted, before either of you could fully get into your playful bickering. “But right now, we need to go! And I can’t carry them.” He aimed the last part at Sevika who frowned.
“Where the hell is Vander?” She returned sharply, flicking some of the blood off of her blade before sheathing it at her hip.
“I don’t know! Just, please-”
“Alright! Alright! Don’t fucking beg, it doesn’t suit you.” Sevika talked over him, a hint of desperation in her tone. Her expression shuttered into something entirely closed off, as she bent down to scoop her hands under your back and knees.
“Mind their leg-”
“I KNOW!”
With a grunt, Sevika took your weight up into her arms and she rose to her feet. Silco followed smoothly, his hands hovering.
You cried out as your leg jolted, hands shooting out to grab the front of her shirt. She went stiff under your hold, as you ground your teeth, and hissed through the waves of pain. It radiated up into your hip, and shot down into the heel of your foot before crawling along all the way to your toes.
Only once your noised had calmed down, did Silco hiss sharply, “then be fucking careful.”
Sevika turned her head sharply down to him, eyes burning with a storm of emotions you couldn’t hope to place as she snarked, “don’t sass me Little Man, or I’m leaving you here.”
Silco pointedly rolled his eyes, but kept his mouth shut. Sevika took a firm step forward. Silco fell into step with her, his head darting to and fro, even as Sevika moved confidently forward. For a beat, neither of them spoke.
Then Sevika commanded without turning her attention from her task, “take out my blade, Little Man. I can’t ‘fend anyone off without my hands.”
Silco’s look of surprise was rapidly wiped off of his face before Sevika could notice it. Wordlessly, he drew the bloodied blade from her hip with practiced ease.
From there, Sevika sidestepped until the railing of the bridge blocked her side, whilst Silco fell into step on her other side, covering her as the pair retreated back towards the shadowy figure of Zaun lying across the river.
For a few moments, it seemed that the fighting had migrated over towards the Piltover side of the bridge. The closer you got to Zaun, the more still the world seemed to go. Bodies and makeshift weapons littered the concrete, causing your friends to divide their attention between keeping an eye out and watching their step.
But of course, nothing was ever that simple.
The pounding of several pairs of feet approaching from behind had all three of you stiffening. Sevika promptly pivoted, putting her back to the railing, as her torso shifted to tuck you behind her broad frame, mostly out of sight of who was approaching. Whilst Silco stepped in close, his back to Sevika and the blade raised. With luck, the smoke and your combined stillness would have whoever it was running straight past you.
Of course, Felicia was more perceptive than that. She almost tripped over herself when her head snapped towards your trio, a pilfered piece of the railing in hand. “Oh thank the Gods,” she breathed by way of greeting, “we were hoping you guys were further up this way.” She slowed her stride, pausing to call over her shoulder. “Vander! They’re here!”
“I’m coming. I’m coming.” Came the panted reply, a heavier set of footsteps jogging to follow her. He emerged from the smoke with Powder and Vi cradled in an arm each. The former with her head tucked up under his chin, whilst Vi had situated herself to be able to peer over his shoulder, acting like a little look out.
“You found Connol yet?” Vander asked.
“No, but he’s smart. He’s probably already waiting for us on the other side.” Felicia responded easily. Her eyes raked over your trio, attention snagging on the state of your leg.
Silco scoffed, and lowered his blade. “I’m surprised you let go of Connol’s hand long enough for him to get lost. Then again, that man could get lost in a latrine.”
Felicia’s stance shifted into her disappointed mum pose, her head tipped to the side as she glowered down her nose at him. “I could say the same to you. If you’d held their hand tighter, our little Stray might not have gotten separated in the first place.”
The familiar nature of the jab had your stomach tightening uncomfortably. The joke that you and Silco were on the verge of becoming something more, had been underling for several years now. Where Vander and Connol were more likely to shoot you playful and suggestive looks whenever you interacted with the man, Felicia would fearlessly make remarks. She declared that you two were just being stubborn, but you honestly couldn’t see what she claimed to know.
Sure, you and Silco had a strong friendship. Built carefully around a mutual understanding of scepticism and slight of hand. You knew he cared for you, as you could see it in the way his expressions gentled when you caught each other’s eye. In the way he’d shoot you exasperated looks whenever someone else was being stupid, constantly keeping you in the loop. The way there was always an open spot beside him, a constant, unspoken invitation for you to fill it if you wanted. But that was just his way of being friendly.
To expect anything more, would be reaching.
“Felicia.” You warned, as you did every single time she tried to mock him for his attentiveness. “Now is not the fucking time.”
“But I’m not wrong.” She argued.
Vander stepped in before she could fire off another comment. “Let's continue this later.” He said with a sharp look in Felicia’s direction, who huffed but didn’t argue. “Right now, we have two jobs. Get off this blasted bridge, and hunt down Connol. Sound good?”
The collective grumble of affirmation was his response, and Vander nodded approvingly.
His mouth opened again, a prompt to get going on the tip of his tongue, only for the click and metallic thump of a rifle being reloaded to make his spine freeze up.
Felicia instinctively stepped towards Vander as the Enforcer emerged through the smoke. Her stolen piece of railing grasped tighter in her hands as she rounded towards the man. Vander curled himself around the girls in his arms, eyebrows tightened and eyes glaring down the officer.
“Drop your weapons!” The Enforcer commanded, hiding behind his rifle as he swung the nozzle across your group.
Ever the peacekeeper, Vander spoke up. “It’s okay, mate, we’re just trying to get the kids home. You don’t got to-”
“I SAID HANDS IN THE AIR!” The Officer bellowed, the ruffle nozzle jumping faster between heads now. “Don’t make me shoot! I don’t wanna! Not in front of the kids! But I will!”
Vander tried to reason with him again, but you could see from the jumpy way he held himself that the man wasn’t thinking clearly. The adrenaline of the riot breaking out hadn’t retreated yet.
Carefully, you turned your head where it was resting against Sevika’s shoulder, muttering into her ear with lips that barely moved, “throw me at him. If you put enough force behind it, I might be able to drag him down into the river with me.”
She did not move. Arms tense around your limp body. Eyes trained firmly on the jittery Enforcer. You had expected her to laugh through her teeth and make a quip that she found the suggestion tempting. But instead she hissed, “like hell,” under her breath, which just showed you how truly terrified she was.
“Now look here, Mister,” Felicia cut in, voice venomous as she pointed at the man. “You can’t just aim that fucking thing at us for standing here-”
He rounded on her. The rifle jumping up to aim at her head instead of her ribs. Felicia tensed, a rage blooming across her face as she tightened her hold on her stolen fence pole.
Silco let out a quiet curse, body tensing to spring forward.
“Felicia, don’t!” Vander snarled.
Violet let out a helpless little sound.
The rifle went off with a deafening bang.
The Enforcer shuddered, eyes wide under the shadow of his hat. Slowly, he lowered his arms, the rifle nozzle aimed at the concrete, as his attention slid down his body to the new hole in his blue uniform above his hip. There was no exit wound. With a choked off sound, his leg buckled and he went down; hard.
“Everyone okay?” Connol called, before he stepped forward out of the shadow of the nearest pillar. With a miner helmet pulled low over his brow, he struck an intimidating figure, splattered with blood and soot, carrying a stolen Enforcer Rifle with more ease than you expected. A small flicker of respect awoke in you at the sight of it.
Felicia’s expression practically glowed with adoration as she raked her eyes over him, the tension melting from her posture. It was a look that had had you and the others scrambling away from the bar whenever you’d seen it in the past.
Thankfully, Connol was distracted by the groan the injured Enforcer made when he accidentally kicked him. His head snapped down at the crumbled man. His shoulders tightened as his mouth thinned.
Felicia seemed to catch on to what that particular look meant, because she turned to Vander and hissed urgently, “turn the girls away!”
With concern, Vander scrambled to comply as Connol made eye contact with the downed Enforcer. “Sorry buddy,” he said, in a quiet, condescending tone, “I didn’t realise you were still alive.”
With startling ruthlessness, he swiftly kicked the curled up body onto its back and aimed his stolen rifle. The Enforcer tried to throw up a bloodied hand between his face and the nozzle, a begging scream erupting from his lips.
Connol squeezed the trigger and obliterated his head before he could begin to form words.
The end of the barrel smoked as Connol slowly lowered the gun. “That’s for threatening my family.” He snarled under his breath.
The look of quiet amazement you saw on Silco’s face when he subtly glanced back at you, eyebrows high on his forehead and his lips pinched between his teeth, was already playing out across your own features.
With that, Connol smoothly stepped over the corpse and strode up to his stunned family. The smile he offered everyone was shy. A stark contrast to the confident gunman you’d all just watched kill a man moments before.
Felicia, as always, was grinning back at him. A flush evident on her cheeks as she cast aside her fence pole, grabbed him roughly by the undone lapels of his work uniform, and hauled him in for a passionate kiss.
You were quick to avert your eyes. Silco loudly groaned and turned his back, whilst Vander shook his head fondly and told the girls they could stop hiding.
Sevika lost her patience first, nose wrinkling at the unwanted display. “ALRIGHT!” She bellowed, startling the lovers apart. “Enough of that! Now, in case you two forgot, we’ve got a bridge teaming with trigger happy Blue Bellies between us and our side.”
Connol ducked his head as his ears burned bright red. Whilst Felicia cleared her throat and pointedly smoothed down her partner’s shirt collar.
“Silco,” Sevika charged on, startling the man lingering at her side, “keep ahold of that blade, I want you offensive and mean. Connol! Good work with that rifle, keep using it. Felicia! Pick up that one by his feet. If anyone charges you, aim the barrel and squeeze that trigger ‘til they stop getting back up. Vander! You’re in the middle of the pack with me!”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Vander easily agreed, falling into line beside Sevika, whilst the others sorted themselves out.
“What about us?” Violet asked seriously, eyes burning with determination as she turned in Vander’s hold to get Sevika’s attention.
“You and Powder are lookouts, obviously.” Sevika immediately replied, “you see anyone take interest in us, you let Vander know.”
Violet nodded firmly, which Powder copied jerkily whilst glancing between her sister and Sevika.
This time, when all of you made for the Zaun side of the bridge, you did it as a unit. With all your sides covered, the Enforcers became more hesitant to harass you.
Lifting your head over Sevika’s shoulder, you took a page out of the girls’ book and checked to see how things were fairing closer to Piltover.
Most of the fighting had died down now. The bridge between you and the golden city, littered with dead bodies and broken pieces of the structure. Through the smoke, you could just make out a blockade at the far end, whilst Enforcers combed the bodies for survivors. One or two had their heads turned your way, but they did not engage.
Behind them, dawn had broken. A pink sky backlighting Piltover’s golden towers, who watched in indifference as your makeshift family scurried to safety with their tails between their legs.
Sevika broke into a jog the moment the concrete of the bridge gave way to cobblestones. The other shot confused looks at one another, but lost no time in following her as she veered off the main road and ducked into a nearby alleyway. She was remarkably careful as she moved, keeping her hurried steps mostly smooth as she turned and twisted to keep from jogging your legs against the tight walls.
With several twists and turns, and the sound of heavy breathing behind her, Sevika paused several streets away from the bridge. She slowed to a walk, when she decided it was safe enough to pause.
“Anyone following us?” She called over her shoulder.
To which Connol, who was bringing up the rear, replied that the streets were clear. Felicia let out a groan of relief, slowing her stride to put her hands on her knees and just breath. The rifle still clutched in one of her hands sat weirdly against her knee as she did so. Connol shouldered his own weapon and sank down to her eye level, a soothing hand on her back.
Silco strode past the pair to check on the girls in Vander’s care, his expression tight but his touch gentle as he murmured quietly to Powder, who nodded in response to his question.
“Your apartment or mine, Runt?” Sevika asked, dragging your attention away from the others. She was studying you with an uneasy expression, her grip on you certain and comforting, even as her uncertainty unsettled you.
Blarily, you blinked your eyes firmly to wake yourself up a little more. The adrenaline having drained completely, combined with the constant pain in your leg, had taken its toll on you. You mulled over her question, barely suppressing a shudder at the thought of your cold mattress back home. Of having to crawl to and from the bathroom, your ruined leg getting worse and worse as you scavenged cans from the lower kitchen cupboards-
“Yours.” You blurted before the full image could be conjured. “I won’t be able to move far with this leg to bug you.” You added quickly when she frowned harder.
She grunted. “I’ll hunt you down a crutch.” She promised, to which you were grateful. “Get you back out on jobs before you even miss them.”
You let out a half-hearted snort at the threat. “Can’t I rest a little first?”
“As if you’ll sit still long enough for that shit.” She mused.
A large hand landing on her shoulder by your knees, had the both of you startling. Sevika’s grip turned punishing as she snapped her head round, teeth bared, only for Vander to smile apologetically and promptly let go.
“Sorry,” he said, voice low and soothing. He had set Violet down, you absently registered, whilst Powder had a death grip on his shirt and had shoved her little face into his neck to hide again. “But I’d appreciate it if you two didn’t run off. We’re all planning to lay low in the bar tonight.”
“Are we?” Felicia asked, now straightened up, her hand intertwined with Violet’s.
“Yes.” Vander replied firmly, at the same time Sevika began to shake her head.
“Yeah no.” She declined, “I want a bed to sleep in tonight, not a spare stretch of floor.”
Felicia for once began to agree with her. “We aren’t too far from home.” She argued, “we’ll be fine getting back, Vander.”
“I don’t doubt that.” Vander reassured her, “but you don’t-”
“What Vander is trying to say,” Silco smoothly cut in, shooting Vander a look that silenced him. “Is that after tonight, Topside are going to become relentless in tracking down every last attendee of that rally. You all know first hand,” he looked meaningfully at Felicia and Connol before flicking his gaze to you and Sevika, “that’ll they’ll have the streets closed and swept by dawn.”
“I ain’t afraid of no Blue Bellies.” Sevika growled.
Silco for once did not antagonise her. “I know, but we have the space and the provisions back at the bar to keep everyone safe and under the radar.”
“And,” Vander pointedly added, “I’d appreciate it if you all swallowed your pride for once and actually take advantage of what we’re offering you. The Gods know we don’t have the manpower right now to be saving anyone from Stillwater.”
A beat of silence as the words sunk in. Once more, Sevika turned her head down to you to gauge your reaction.
“What do you think, Runt?” She asked quietly, although not quiet enough to go unheard by the others. “Just say the word and I’ll get us out of here, no problem.”
You huffed a laugh at her loyalty. Feeling something oily and tight wrap around your heart at the earnestness in her voice. First Silco had dug you out of literal rubble, and now Sevika was offering to haul your ass across Zaun simply because you asked her to. What an odd night this was shaping up to be.
“It’s not like I can run away regardless,” you replied dryly, “whether I try to wiggle or not, I’m going where you’re going until you put me down.”
“And where do you want to go?” Sevika pressed, “you’re not heavy to me, Runt. I can take you wherever you want. Just this once.”
Home, you almost said aloud, although you knew that that word didn’t mean your apartment. It meant the bar. With its comfortable couch, and roaring fire, and the people who frequented it. The comfort of trusted friends nearby, keeping watch whilst you rested. “The bar.” You whispered and she huffed, before turning her attention back to Vander.
“Fine, we’ll bite. But I get to keep one of the stolen rifles,” she bargained, putting up a front to appear like she was barely accepting the offer. “It’d make a decent trophy.” She added.
“I don’t know-” Vander began to say, before Felicia jumped in with a relieved, “take it! Hell, take both. We don’t need them anywhere near the girls.” Violet’s ears practically pricked at that, a disappointed pout crossing onto her face, even as she bit her lip and let the adults keep talking. “And Vander,” Felicia continued, voice firm, “Connol and I will be stopping off home first to pack a bag. Then, we’ll lie low with you as long as you want.”
Vander ducked his head and readily agreed. “Thank you.”
“Let's move then.” Sevika prompted, “or we’re as good as striding into the sheriff’s office.” At her words, she began to walk again, although at a much calmer, less suspicious pace than the dash from the bridge. Over her shoulder, you watched Felicia and Connol usher Violet along, whilst Silco caught Vander’s wrist before he could fall into line.
The alleyway was gloomy, and he spoke softly, so you only caught the tail end of what he was whispering about. Something about tracking down a doctor.
Shifting against Sevika's shoulder, you squinted as Vander shot him a private look. He naturally had a louder voice than Silco, even when whispering, so you more easily hear him reply with a serious, “tell ‘em that it’s a favour for me. Should be enough of an incentive to have ‘em turning up tonight for a home visit, regardless of whoever’s had the same idea.”
Silco nodded sharply in understanding, and Sevika rounded the end of the alleyway and turned onto a new street before you could decipher anything else.
The Last Drop sat dark and gloomy ahead of you. Seemingly empty and imposing in the wake of what had just occurred at the bridge.
Vander did not turn on the lights upon returning home, leaving the building cold and unwelcoming to any potential patrols.
Letting go of Violet’s hand to free his own, he shifted Powder more securely into the crook of his arm as he rummaged around in his jacket pocket for the key.
Connol and Felicia had peeled off from the group a few streets back, whilst Silco had continued straight past the building and across the square. Dressed fully in black, he cut an imposing figure moving with loose confidence and his hands buried deep into his pockets, one hand no doubt curled around the hilt of a small blade. He hadn’t looked back, even though you knew he could feel your eyes on him until he disappeared from sight.
With a click, Vander unlocked the door. He had barely pushed it open more than a crack, before Violet was worming her way inside and bounding out of sight. He shook his head fondly at her eagerness, before holding the door open for Sevika to enter carefully, so as not to knock your legs into the doorframe. He promptly locked it behind him and pulled the blind down over the windows.
Sevika shot him a look.
“Gotta lay low tonight.” Vander said by way of explanation. “I think it’ll be safer to have everyone sleeping in the same room. The living room perhaps. It’d be big enough. We can bring the mattresses in from the bedrooms and set it all up.”
“Easily defensible.” Sevika agreed, subconsciously tensing her shoulder to readjust the rifle strap slung over it.
“And cozy.” Vander added, “we don’t want to scare the kiddos more than they’ve already been spooked tonight.”
Sevika nodded her understanding.
In uneasy silence, the pair headed down into the living room after Violet.
With confidence, Sevika set you carefully down on your favourite couch near the fire, whilst Vander put Powder down on the other one. He had scarcely pushed the blue locks back from the sleepy child’s forehead, before Violet was reappearing, having disappeared into one of the bedrooms, with Silco’s red blanket in hand, which she carefully draped over her slumbering sister whilst Vander supervised with a soft expression. Powder did not stir from the touch.
Her sister taken care of, Violet glanced up at Vander who smiled and ruffled her hair. “Get the matches from the kitchen, would you?” She nodded enthusiastically, and was promptly gone again, taking the stairs up to the bar three at a time.
Vander preoccupied himself with the beginning of a fire in the grate, whilst Sevika stretched her back with a groan before sliding her newly acquired rifle off of her shoulder. She set it down against the couch, within your reach, before putting her hands on her hips.
“Right. Where are your knives?” She asked tiredly, “I can’t have you impaling yourself in your sleep, or I’ll have wasted my time carrying you all the way here for nothing.”
You huffed half-heartedly at the dry attempt at humour. “There’s one left in my left boot. Lost the others in the chaos.”
She grunted, losing no time in turning her attention down to your feet. Her touch was uncharacteristically tender as she slid the weapon out of the boot of your good leg, set it down on the coffee table also within your reach, before sliding the shoe off. She set it down beside the couch, before turning her attention to your ruined right leg.
“This is going to hurt.” She warned.
You grimaced and set your jaw. “Do it.”
Even with her hands going slowly, any motion, whether it was a careful tug on your heel or the side to side wiggle of the boot being slid down your ankle, sparks of agony shot up your limb. You bit back any sounds that tried to escape, aware of Powder trying to sleep not even an arm’s length away.
Your grimace drew Vander’s attention, who put a heavy hand on your shoulder to keep you laying across the couch cushions instead of writhing. “That’s it.” He soothed, voice deep and calm. Fond and comforting. “Almost done.”
The warmth of the boot abruptly disappeared as a wash of cold air encircled your foot and ankle. You gasped, leg limp and motionless as you tried to get your breathing under control.
Vander rubbed his thumb across your shoulder, applying grounding pressure. “We’ll get you some medication for the pain once the doctor gets here.” He soothed, to which you nodded, eyes squeezed shut as the pain dulled down to a sickening throb.
“Good job, Runt.” Sevika added, the thump of your boot hitting the floor accenting her words. You heard her clothes hiss as she turned to Vander. “You said something about moving beds down here?”
“Right. Let’s get on that before the others return.” He readily agreed, the hand on your shoulder squeezing once before he lifted it away. “Stay here and yell if you need anything.”
The familiarity of the situation had you cracking a smile. “I bet you’re jumping for joy right now.” You scoffed in mock offence, too tired to really put your all into arguing. After all, you were completely at their mercy this time. This wasn’t like a typical stabbing where you could limp away and hide. For starters, you’d have to drag yourself, and that would just require more energy than you had to begin with. “Getting me to stay here willingly instead of coaxing me inside with food.”
“Yeah well, I haven’t had to do much coaxing in recent years.” Vander returned cheekily. “Not since I started sending Silco out to call you in.”
“Shut it.” You automatically reprimanded, earning yourself a small chuckle of amusement from him.
“You’re not slick, is all I’m saying.” He said simply. Patting your shoulder before leaving with Sevika.
Eyes closed, you listened to them get the room in order. To Violet’s footsteps as she thundered back into the living room, matches in tow. To the slide of mattresses across the cold floor as Sevika and Vander raided the bedrooms. Between them, they managed to haul the two double mattresses down the stairs, where there was thankfully enough floor space behind the couches to set them down.
Once or twice, you tiredly blinked open an eyelid to find them walking up and down the stairs, arms ladened with blankets and pillows. Whilst at one point, Violet reemerged with a pilfered beanbag, which you had the sneaking suspicion she would be attempting to sleep on tonight, regardless of what her parents or Vander had to say about it. The little ankle biter.
Your mind drifted as Sevika set down a chair at the foot of the stairs. You heard the flick of a lighter. Her quiet mumble of offering Vander a puff of whatever she’d lit. At some point, the rifle beside you had found its way across her lap as she watched the door to the living room. Calm as a guard dog.
Cold hands on your cheek startled you out of a doze. To which Felicia hissed a genuine apology, and distanced herself enough that her face came into focus rather than being a blur. “Just wanted to see how you were holding up.”
You grimaced. Your back was already complaining from the entire shit show of running around and then getting crushed and carried like a pretzel. “How long-?”
“Connol and I only just got back,” she replied quietly, voice soothing and a world away from the usual playful snapping. It was unsettling to hear. She wasn’t like this with you. The pair of you were always exchanging barbs or trying to get on the other’s nerves. “Do you need anything?”
More sleep perhaps? A working leg? For the pain to stop, preferably immediately? But those were all rather taxing demands.
“Some water please?”
“Okay.”
You must have fallen back asleep before she returned with the glass, because the voice that woke you next was not Felicia’s. It was softly spoken enough to not be startling, but firm enough to not bleed into another feverish dream. The same voice repeated your name, a touch louder, coaxing your eyelids to flutter.
The living room swam into focus. You registered that a blanket had been placed over you, and there was someone standing beside the coffee table, just out of reach. Not crowding you. And perhaps waking you up in the safest way possible. Not that you had the coordination to reach for a knife right about now, but it was nice to not get startled back into the waking world.
“Wha- who?” You grumbled, voice tight and your head swimming.
The shadow stepped forward and dropped into a crouch beside your head. Gentle eyes raked down your ashen features, as a nimble hand pushed your damp hair away from your forehead.
“Silco.” You mumbled a greeting, revelling in the soft warmth of those fingers. The gash above his eye had been taped shut, the blood running down his temple cleared away.
“That’s right.” Your friend mused, “I’m back with the Doctor. Do you think you will be able to sit up?”
You blinked as your mind tried to make sense of the words.
There was someone stood behind him. Again, a respectful distance back, with their posture tucked and non-threatening. You did not recognise the shape of this person. But for Silco to willingly turn his back to them, you could only assume they were the doctor.
“Help me sit up?” You asked with a grunt, lifting your head from the pillow with a grunt of effort.
Silco smiled tightly, rising back to his feet and taking your hands when you offered them to haul you up into a sitting position. Grunting in pain when your back twinged, you pressed your hands down against the cushions to keep yourself sat upright, the change in angle making your head swim.
The rustle of cloth and the scrape of a chair being pulled up beside you had your mind struggling to focus.
The doctor turned out to be a young woman a few years Vander’s senior, with visible smile lines and kind eyes. She motioned to your leg, “may I?”
You grunted your consent, wanting for nothing more than to sink back down into the cushions and drift back off to sleep. Luckily, Silco sat down behind you, his feet still on the carpet as he offered his side as a backrest to discourage you from doing just that. Heavily, you leant back into him, knowing he could hold your weight like this, despite how limp you were, as the doctor cut open your trousers from the thigh down to get at your leg.
She went straight into it. Warming up her hands by rubbing them together, before she put them anywhere near your knee. She hummed and frowned quietly to herself as she lightly ghosted her fingertips around the damaged area. Before she carefully dug them into the tendons below and above the joint, assessing the alignment of everything whilst you grunted and turned your head away. She repeated her examination a number of times, cross examining the injured joint with the healthy one. Running her hands along the bad leg, before checking if the shapes were normal by assessing the good leg.
Her frown deepened when she got to checking the actual kneecap. “How did you do this?” She asked tightly.
“I got crushed by part of the bridge.” You replied.
She sucked in a breath. “It will be nearly impossible to fix.” She explained carefully, withdrawing her hands to bring your attention to the seriousness of her expression. “Your kneecap is ruined. Crushed, and shattered into shards. Practically unfixable without the advanced medical aid the doctors across the river have access to.” Help which you were effectively barred from, simply because you originated from the wrong side of the bridge.
“Will-” you swallowed down the lump in your throat as the question struggled to make its way past your lips. She fell quiet, smiling sadly as she waited for you to gather yourself. “Will I be able to walk again? At all?”
“Possibly.” She replied honestly. “With external support. A brace or surgery alongside a lot of rest.”
The reality of your situation hit you harder than the rubble ever had. Eyes glassy and distant, you glared down at your mangled knee joint, which was even now, still radiating pain. What a joke. What good was a thief who couldn’t fucking run? Couldn’t walk? How the hell were you supposed to bounce back from this? A ruined leg was sure to keep you bed bound for months. How the hell were you supposed to expect anyone to look after you for that long?
The doctor’s voice barely filtered back in amongst the dense fog of your thoughts as she pulled out her bag and began talking about wrapping the joint for support whilst healing. Not that you were really listening anymore as anxiety and despair began to drag you deeper and deeper into your mind. Your eyes stared unseeingly ahead, as her hands returned to your leg and began to tightly bind the injury. Silco remained a constant weight at your back, unspeaking as he nodded along to whatever the doctor was talking about.
“Felicia, why don’t you take the girls upstairs with you.” Vander’s voice distantly prompted. “They’re probably hungry by now.”
There was the sound of shuffling. Quiet, young voices asking questions before the living room door muffled them as it swung shut.
Then more footsteps on the stairs. Sevika taking Vander’s words as her cue to go to. She had Connol by the arm and was muttering something about sourcing rifle bullets as she dragged the confused man upstairs.
Vander’s familiar silhouette appeared at the end of the couch, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he gnawed on a nail.
The Doctor finished up her explanation of after care and supporting the injury, to which Vander thanked her and asked her to talk to Felicia upstairs about payment.
You barely registered the door clicking shut behind her.
You certainly did register Vander rounding the couch, and crouching down with a grunt in front of where you leaned back into Silco. The pain in his eyes made your stomach drop. His mouth turned down into a grimace as he carefully took one of your limp hands between both of his.
“I’m sorry that this is how tonight turned out.” He began carefully, expression serious as he gave your shaking hand a tight squeeze. He motioned to your bound leg. “This is only temporary.” He said confidently, “I don’t care what the doctor said, you will overcome this. You’re too stubborn to accept any other outcome.”
You didn’t have any words to offer him. Your throat was achingly tight. Your arms so heavy that they seemed to pull painfully on your shoulders.
“Your job,” he continued, “for now, is to get stronger. We, as your family, are going to help you through this. This is your home,” he said firmly, and you blinked down at him, mind coming into sharp focus at the words. “Me, Silco, the girls, Felicia, hell, even Sevika. We’re going to help you get through this.”
Against your will, your eyes began to sting at those words. Up until now, jokes about you being adopted into this ragtag little group, had felt just like that, a joke. A way to make you feel more comfortable. But to be outright claimed as family. To have the bar, outloud, spoken of as your home, that made something crack in your chest.
Vander kept speaking. “Now, I know from experience that the minute you’re back on your feet, you’re going to be a restless terror, so this is what you’re going to do to pull your weight in the meantime.” There was a playful undercurrent to his voice now, an attempt to lighten the mood.
“Without fail, if Powder asks me to do her hair, expect me to bring her straight to you, because for the life of me, I cannot figure out how to do what she’s asking for.” You couldn’t help but laugh at the raw exasperation in his tone. “Second, you will be taste testing my dishes before we serve them to people.”
“Oh no,” you said dryly, “what a taxing task.”
Vander’s smile bloomed a little wider, a softness entering his gaze as his hands squeezed your own once more. “That’s why you’re the only one I can trust with such a job.”
The quiet snort behind you betrayed Silco’s amusement.
The dangerous flick of Vander’s attention from you to his brother had the man beside you abruptly stiffening. “And finally, you’re to let this insufferable idiot right here look after you, otherwise me or Felicia are going to wring his neck from all the anxious hovering and snapping he does whilst being idle. Sound fair?”
“I do not hover.” Silco indignantly argued. Vander shot him an unimpressed look.
“No, you’re right,” he conceded, “you linger and fret worse than an anxious nursemaid, my mistake.”
Silco delivered a swift, not so gentle kick to the man’s arm for the comment, which Vander seemed barely able to feel. With one final reassuring look your way, he rose back to his feet with a grunt.
“I need a drink,” he said by way of farewell. “Yell if you need anything, we’ll just be up in the bar.”
“Insufferable man.” Silco huffed loud enough for Vander to hear as the man gently pulled the living room door closed behind him.
“Utterly ridiculous,” you readily agreed, feeling drained and heavy now that everything was neatly wrapping up. “One day, that heart on his sleeve is going to end up getting ruthlessly impaled.”
“It’s sickening.” Silco corrected, to which you just shrugged. Too tired to truly peel apart Vander’s motives and actions tonight. You had learnt long ago that that was a promising way to a banging headache anyway, so it was best to linger on other matters. “Nodding off already?” Your friend teased when you failed to offer further comment.
“Trying to.” You returned.
Silco hummed quietly, and began to slide his way out from behind you. Groggily, you shuffled to comply, forcing your heavy limbs to make the extraction easier on him. The cushions where he had been were warm as you slid back onto them, a tight hiss slipping out between your teeth.
“Here.” Peeling open an eyelid, you found Silco hadn’t gone far, a glass of water in hand. “Meds first.” He insisted, “then you can sleep for a week.”
“Thank the Gods.” You mused dryly, taking the medication he offered you and washing it all down in a few gulps.
As he took the glass away, you sank back down onto the cushions.
“You’re going to ruin your back if you stay there.” He commented, expression unreadable as he set the glass down on the coffee table.
“Yeah, well, I don’t have the strength to move, and you don’t have the back to move me.” You neatly reminded him, “besides, it beats an eternal rest trapped on that blasted bridge. That floor was colder than the kitchen tile in winter.”
His grimace was practically audible.
“Too soon?”
“Yes.” Came the clipped response.
“I’ll refrain.” You promised, and he let out an amused little huff.
“Try to get some sleep.”
He sat himself down on the couch on the other side of the coffee table. Face obscured by shadow as he glared at his boots, whilst the crackling pop of the fire filled the silence.
As the pain medication began to eat away at the sharp throbbing pains of your everything, your mind drifted. Distorted snatches of the last couple of hours replayed in your mind. The lingering stench of smoke clung to your clothes, as grime clung heavy to your skin. Your body sang with exhaustion, and yet sleep evaded you.
The springs of the other couch groaned as Silco drew up his feet onto the cushion and buried his face against his knees. He was unusually quiet. Idle where usually he would be reading or scribbling in his notebook.
In the chaos, most of his hair had slipped free of its bun, and it now hung in limp ribbons down his shoulders. The mess was only tangled further as his fingers slid up to his scalp and clenched a fistful of the strands in each hand.
Your jaw unclenched with a click before you had decided to speak up. “Don’t do that, you’ll knot it worse.”
He jumped, as if forgetting you’d been there at all. His eyes were hollow as he lifted his head from its hiding spot, his hands falling from his hand to tangle in the material of his trousers instead.
“It’s just hair.” He hissed, his expression going through several stages of vulnerability before he pointedly wiped it blank.
You narrowed your eyes at him, a weak gesture considering your exhaustion, but the warning was not lost on him judging by the way his spine straightened ever so slightly. “We both know I know you better than that.” You warned him, “now spill. What was that look for?”
He pointedly dropped his gaze, the firm set of his jaw and the way he picked at a loose strand on his clothes suggesting the answer would not be easily won.
“Silco-” you repeated, brows drawing tighter together.
His own expression hardened further. “Just rest. It doesn’t matter right now.”
You decided to indulge him, turning your head to the ceiling and making a point to close your eyes. Across the room, he let out an audible breath. You let the pull of exhaustion tug at you for a couple of tempting moments before letting your awareness sharpen and your eyes open once more. “Nope. It’s not working.”
He groaned audibly, body tensing up again as you turned your head back in his direction. Ha, the fool, thinking you’d be so easily redirected.
“Of course it matters.” You insisted, contemplating the energy it would require to sit up again before ultimately dismissing the thought. “Hasn’t Vander’s nagging about better communication gotten through to you yet?”
“I said, leave it.” He warned, voice low and biting.
“You know I won’t.” You returned just as dangerously, deciding to cease beating around the bush and just go for the throat. “Was it because I mentioned the bridge?” He grimaced again, more subtly this time, but no less there. So that was it. Your brows promptly loosened, as realisation slammed into you.
Alarm flared across his face as he watched your posture change. “Shut up.” He reflexively bit out before you could so much as unstick your mouth.
The harsh snort that burst forth from your lips startled the both of you. “It’s okay if you’re still unsettled by what happened. That was a shit show back there.”
He scoffed. “It was nothing new.”
“Then what-”
“It wasn’t the Enforcers!” He snapped eyes glaring daggers at his knees. “It wasn’t the chaos, or the fucking bridge turning into the battlefield! All that was to be expected.” He hissed, eyes refusing to meet your own as he visibly relived everything that had happened tonight. “All that, I can deal with.”
“You’re not making sense-”
His head snapped up then, eyes narrowed and burning with more rage than you’d ever seen in him before. Under the weight of that glare, you froze, something in the back of your mind whispering to get out of sight promptly.
“It was that hopeless look in your eye!” He snarled venomously, “the way you begged me to leave you there to die!”
His outburst rang loud in the otherwise still room, startling you into forgetting your next words. He was shaking, you vaguely registered. Shaking and withdrawing into himself as if ashamed of his confession.
“I could deal with death and violence and running for our lives, but I can’t deal with you giving up. You never give up! You’re too stubborn for one, too resourceful for another. But on that bridge, finding you stuck under those rocks, and having to reassure you I wasn’t about to take off running, that was hard. That was unsettling.”
His eyes flickered over, finding your own. They were shiny. Swimming with poorly concealed desperation and fear. It was a look that made you want to bridge the gap and drag him down into a hug.
“So why did you?” He demanded.
Your throat clicked as you swallowed hard. “Because I didn’t want you to die with me.” You admitted.
He huffed and looked away. “You’re an asshole.”
The insult made you chuckle. “Of course,” you readily agreed, “how selfish of me to not want you to die saving me.”
He rounded on you. Your words seemingly poorly chosen. “Yes! Selfish!” He agreed, “especially since I was the one to ask you to be there in the first place.”
You frowned. “Okay, wait. Hold up. You invited me, yes. And I agreed because we’ve both been busy lately and haven’t seen much of each other. But you didn’t force me to be there tonight.”
“But if I hadn’t-”
“Okay, stop right there. That is a slippery path to start down.” You warned, “did you, Silco, start that riot?”
He glowered down at you. “That is besides the point.”
“DID you start that riot?” You repeated stubbornly.
A beat of silence. “No.”
“Exactly. But you did find me. I would be going cold on that bridge right now if you hadn’t. The others would have assumed I made it home before them. They wouldn’t have come looking.” You paused and decided to give the others a little credit. “Well, they might have once I didn’t turn up for a week or two, but that’s besides the point.”
The shine was back in his eyes now. All fury washed away, by the shaking of his hands and the unsteady sway to his figure.
You smiled up at him, hoping the exhaustion and pain didn’t subtract from your sincerity. “Thank you, for coming back for me.”
His expression crumbled.
He unfolded himself from the other couch and rose to his feet. You followed his careful footsteps with a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. The uncertainty in his eyes was still there, but some of his resolve had restored itself. His hands shook, but there was a surety in him now, as he dropped to his knees beside your couch.
“If you dare try to pull anything like that again, I am going to kill you myself.” He hissed under his breath, honest and brutal.
You grinned tiredly, “I’ll hold you to that.”
He scoffed, expression melting into something softer. His eyebrows loosening as something fond curled the corner of his lip. It was a look that had you transfixed and blind to his hand finding your own until his fingers were curling around it. Your breath stuttered in your lungs, unable to or unwilling to break eye contact as he squeezed your hand. A small smile bloomed across your own lips as you squeezed back.
It was such a tiny gesture, but one filled with effortless reassurance.
Despite the beanbags and couches and mattresses set out in the living room, it was still quite a squeeze to get everyone comfortable for the night.
Vander helped himself to the other couch, since he swore up and down that if he slept on one of the floor mattresses, it would take half of the room to help him get back up again in the morning. Whilst Felicia and Connel claimed one of the mattresses, letting Powder wiggle her way in with them. Sevika dropped her rifle down on the other one, wordlessly claiming it as her own before stepping outside for a smoke before bed. You caught Violet dragging her pilfered beanbag out of Vander’s line of sight with a look of unbridled glee on her eyes.
Silco returned from his room and paused at the top of the stairs, his hair loose around his shoulders and his leathers and boots swapped out for more casual attire.
You half expected him to march over to Sevika’s claimed mattress and disregard the rifle entirely, but to your surprise he ignored it beyond a brief glance. And of course, he was full of surprises today and headed straight for you.
“Move.” Was all the warning he offered before you were being bullied into sitting upright. You scowled and complained audibly as he slid in behind you once again, only this time with his legs bracketing your own on either side, before he dragged you back to lean against his chest.
“Can’t you challenge Violet to a duel for her beanbag?” You complained, even as you sank fully into him. He was surprisingly comfortable, you quickly found. A massive improvement compared to the springs of the couch.
“And risk you rolling off in the night and shattering your other knee? I think not.”
You drove your elbow back into his ribs for the sarcastic remark. To which he grunted, pointedly shoved your arm forward again, and wrapped his arms tightly around you to discourage any further attacks.
“Ridiculous man.” You muttered under your breath, choosing to close your eyes and let it happen since you really, REALLY needed to end this horrible day already.
Masterlist:
Previous Part <- Part 3 -> Next Part
I have no idea if there's anyone out there still interested in this work. but have it anyway! If you made it this far, thank you for your patience and for reading! As always I upload faster on Ao3. Please stay tuned for the next part!
So, *grabs your hands* lets be delusional together for a moment. Where do you think Jayce and Viktor ended up after the rune teleported them?
(Does Viktor keep his Herald form? Is he as he is in his astral form? Does his body return to how it was before he absorbed the hexcore? Is he partially purple and full of metal? You decide.
It Jayce back in his normal body? Does he keep his astral form and the white hair look? Does Jayce keep the beard and the scars?)
Personally, I love the idea of thrusting them into video games after being teleported out of the Arcane Universe.
Maybe they load into Minecraft. Blary eyed and confused after being ripped atom from atom and feeling the other's hand slip from their grip. I would eat up them awkardly collecting resources, building themselves a cute little cottage together and figure out how to work redstone, all whilst talking out what happened in Season 2 and learning to forgive and move forward.
(For some reason they can hear the relaxing music in the background, and it definitely makes it hard for them to fight. I also like to think that the cave noises scare the shit out of both of them).
Maybe they wake up in the resurrection shrine of Breath of the Wild, shoulder to shoulder, as the water drains out of the bottom. And they end up having to go save some random woman trapped in a castle. (This of course could be an AU and you can replace the various BOTW characters with Zaunites and Piltovern citizens). They both have amnesia, but somehow know they want to stick together rather than split ways after the tutorial. And the memories they regain through the Sheikah slate remind them of Season 1 and 2.
Fuck it, put them in the Witcher: Wild Hunt. I want Witcher!Jayce and Witcher!Viktor travelling together. (Remember this isn't necessarily an AU where their personalities and/or morals match up with the character, this is a continuation straight from Season 2, so I love the idea of these two waking up, and having weird, uncanny, supernatural hunting instincts, and bright, cat-like eyes and having no idea why everyone in every town is being so mean). Astral, white-haired Viktor and Jayce for these witchers because HELL YEAH juicy angst. Which school would they be in? Maybe Jayce being a Wolf because he's a heavy hitter, and more grounded in his combat style, and thrives when in company (like a member of a wolf pack). Whereas I'd see Viktor as a Cat, with his poisons and sneaky/stealth fighting style. He's slight and on the smaller side, so a Cat Witcher's tactic would work better for him. On that note, what happens during winter? Is Jayce drawn to Kaer Morhen. Does Viktor have an instinct to seek out the carvan? Do they collectively fight the instincts and remain together, unwilling to separate after what happened last time they left one another?
If you prefer to read on Ao3, you can find the fic here!
Word Count: 12k
Summary: Reader is not beating the stray cat allegations, and a lot of charged looks are exchanged.
Reader uses they/them pronouns.
Every year, Piltover had the same celebration of fireworks and obnoxiously loud music to commemorate the shifting of the summer into autumn.
Every year, the sounds and smells of laughter and good food wafted across the bridge to taunt those living in the Undercity. It was a gross reminder of the financial divide between the opposing sides of the river. The bountiful top, laughing at the pitiful bottom feeders.
You hated them. Gods, you hated them so much. With their fancy clothes, and their obnoxious businesses and ridiculous delicacies-
A kick to your stool jolted you out of your thoughts.
You blinked, frowning when you registered that Vander had disappeared from the other side of the bar. The lights had been dimmed, whereas the bottles lining the far walls had all been neatly returned to their rightful places. The stools to your right were also suspiciously empty of Silco and Felicia, who you swore had been there bickering just moments before with Connol watching on in amusement.
Frowning, you turned to find Felicia dressed in a heavy overcoat and hat grinning down at you. She had left her coat open, displaying her belly which was significantly bigger than it had been a couple months ago. From what you had heard, the babe was growing well, which was better luck than the majority of Zaun’s pregnancies.
“What?” You barked, voice tired and quiet. Perhaps it was closing time already and you hadn’t noticed-
“Stop moping, the others are waiting.”
You blinked, hand tightening around your mostly empty glass. “Waiting for what?”
“For you of course!” Felicia scoffed, pulling a hand from her coat pocket to tug at your sleeve. You were quick to push her hand away, eyes narrowed warningly. She rolled her eyes. “Come on! Or we’re going to miss the fireworks.” With that, she promptly turned on her heel and began striding for the front door.
You watched her stride away with drawn eyebrows. Zaunites weren’t allowed onto Piltover soil during the festivities - not that it was an official law, but the Enforcers lining both sides of the bridge were often a pretty obvious display of intent. Whereas lining the riverbank at this late hour to watch, would be a cold and uncomfortable affair-
“Come ON!” Felicia barked from the door, which she was holding open, revealing her partner, Connel, Vander and Silco all waiting out on the doorstep. All of them were wrapped up warm against the chill in the air.
Connol had been with Felicia tonight when you decided to turn up, which probably should have been your first indication that tonight was different. Usually, whilst Felicia would stop by the bar for a drink and a chat after her long shift in the mines, Connol would head straight home to sleep off his exhaustion. Your paths scarcely crossed because of it.
When had they all gotten out there?
Confused, you shot one last uneasy look across the empty bar, alarm bells going off in the back of your mind. You should have been more perceptive than this. It used to be that someone’s breathing would shift in tempo, and you’d be the first to know they were displeased. And now, these people were carrying out entire tasks, leaving rooms and sneaking up on you without you so much as registering their footsteps.
You were becoming complacent, you realised. Too comfortable.
Felicia loudly called your name again; the warning in her tone growing more severe.
Deciding to just go along with it, you slipped off your stool to follow. Something told you that regardless of how you spun it, you were about to be dragged kicking and screaming into a family tradition regardless. And somehow you knew that even making a run for it would not spare you from what was to come.
Your dinner sat heavy and warm in your belly, prepared and served by Vander as usual alongside the others. It warmed you from the inside out, as you wrapped your flimsy jacket a little tighter around yourself and stepped out of the building.
The autumnal chill hit you like a wall, immediately biting at your cheeks and causing your breath to fog in front of your nose.
Gods, you must have been in the bar long enough to forget just how unforgivingly cold it was getting after sundown. You could already tell that you were in for an uncomfortable night huddled under your blanket, when you eventually returned to your apartment.
As you shuffled further away from the heavenly warmth of the bar, Vander stepped around you to lock the doors.
“Are you going to be warm enough in that?” He absently commented, as the lock turned.
“I’ll be fine, Dad.” You replied mockingly, to which his brows jumped up.
Then he shrugged, stepping back and shoving the key deep into the pocket of his thick coat. “Fine, freeze. Just know I’ll be the first to say I told you so.” He said simply before turning on his booted heel and leading the way across the weirdly empty square.
Felicia promptly looped her arm into Connol’s and followed right on Vander’s heels, whilst Silco fell into step three paces behind, also wrapped up in a coat, with a red blanket neatly folded under his arm where his hands were stuffed into his pockets.
A tiny part of you wanted to slip away whilst their backs were turned. That life-long instinct to not follow strangers to secondary locations rearing its ugly head. But you promptly squashed the thought. These weren’t strangers anymore, and you kind of knew where they were leading you anyway.
Shrugging to yourself, and silently deciding to slip away should things take a turn, you followed.
Vander led the little group down several streets, turning down seemingly random side roads without checking the street signs. The others seemed not to care. Felicia was easily carrying the conversation, and took it upon herself to drag Silco or Vander in whenever she wanted to make a point against Connol, who watched her prattle and talk with such a soft look that it made you feel raw just watching him watch her.
You were so engrossed in observing them interact with one another, that it surprised you when Vander abruptly paused at the mouth of a seemingly random alleyway.
“Ah, here we are.” He mused, before striding confidently into the darkness.
To your bafflement, the others didn’t so much as hesitate in following him in, one after the other. Brows drawn together, you paused before the opening between the two buildings, eyes jumping from Silco’s disappearing back to the stretches of empty street on either side of you. There was a measly streetlamp at the end of the path to your left, and nothing else. It would be the perfect place for an ambush.
Felicia’s impatient call of your name made you jump. “Stop being edgy and get your ass down here, Alley Cat. Safety in numbers and all that shit.”
You huffed a laugh at the insult, before gathering your whits and following.
The alley was tight. Barely wide enough for one person to slip through, with tall, dirty brick walls towering high above. And it was dark, which meant you had no choice but to skim a few fingers along the ragged brickwork to follow the path. It was deceptively twisty, you swiftly discovered.
All too quickly, the alley widened out again, and you found yourself in a small pouch of empty concrete behind a third building. A floodlight shone a solid square of obnoxiously harsh white light down on the rest of your group, who turned to watch you slip out of the alley.
You had scarcely stepped into the light before Vander, who had been fiddling with something under the floodlight, let out a victorious little hum, and pulled a fire escape ladder down from the side of the building. The thing was rickety, with its paint peeling off and visible signs of rust, but it remained in one piece, even as it hinges loudly protested being moved.
“Who wants to go up first this year?” Vander asked, hands on his hips. As if they’d been doing this long enough to deduce that taking turns was a necessary evil in the name of fairness.
“It’s my turn,” Felicia was quick to interject, a hand half raised as she eagerly stepped forward.
Vander frowned. “Are you certain? Remember that one year Connol had to fight off that pissy bird?” The man in question winced at the memory, whilst Silco openly snorted.
Felicia fixed Vander with an unimpressed look. “I’m pregnant, not incapacitated.” She told him, with a single pat to her swollen belly, before she strode right past him and took a confident step up onto the ladder. It groaned beneath her weight, but held. Judging by the way she confidently climbed despite the noise, it had a tendency to do that. She kept talking, as Connol stepped forward to follow her up. “Maybe you should focus on your brother instead, Vander, he’s more likely to eat dirt than I am.”
“I’ll be fine.” Silco dryly responded, and Felicia turned mid-step up to shoot him a grin of unfiltered glee. The floodlight illuminated the side of her face and made her teeth glint creepily.
Then her eyes swept to the side and found you already watching her. That grin turned mischievous. “Did we ever tell you of the year that Silco missed a step on the ladder and fell into that dumpster?”
“Felicia!” Silco ground out, voice suddenly tight with warning.
“No, you didn’t.” You spoke over him, injecting interest into your voice, to which Silco made an offended noise and shot you a betrayed look.
Felicia shrugged dramatically with one shoulder and hauled herself up the rest of the way and briefly disappeared onto the top of the roof. Silco was the next person up the ladder, with you following, and Vander bringing up the rear. Felicia took great joy in ribbing Silco whilst he was unable to get back at her between climbing and holding onto his blanket.
“It was hilarious.” She teased innocently. “He clambered out of it covered in week-old milk and vegetable shavings, and Vander had to hose him down out front the bar before he’d let him inside for a proper bath.”
“Felicia, I swear, shut up!” Silco warned.
“Now, now Felicia, try not to embarrass the poor man.” Vander mused, an equally mischievous glint in his eye. “You might give him performance anxiety.”
“My arm is fine! I can climb up the bloody ladder just as well as any of you!” Silco argued sharply. You couldn’t see him very well from your vantage point, but you were fairly certain his ears were reddening.
“I dunno,” Felicia continued, as Silco cleared the top of the ladder. “My ‘ailment’ has nothing to do with my limbs and these guys surely have no faith in me.”
Silco muttered something you couldn’t hear as you hauled yourself up onto the roof and made room for Vander to join you.
Zaun already looked different from up here. The streets were dark, with only dots of lights illuminating the twisting veins of streets breaking up the buildings. Whilst the moon stood valiantly above it all, silently observing whilst offering a strong light.
Illuminated by the moonlight, you watched as Connol tried to interject into the conversation. “Honey,” he said seriously, which immediately got Felicia’s undivided attention on him. “You know that Vander didn’t mean it like that. He was just trying to be considerate.” He spoke softly, reverently, as he slowly reached for one of Felicia’s hands and grasped it between both of his own. His expression was open and loving - almost sickeningly so.
Felicia positively beamed back at him. “I know, Darling.” She reassured him. “I’m just being difficult because I love watching them squirm.” You saw Connol’s adoration for her clearly reflected in her own expression then. And the air was suddenly tense with how obviously they loved one another. It was almost difficult to watch.
Averting your eyes from the display, you accidentally caught Silco’s gaze instead. To which he raised his eyebrows and let out an over the top, exasperated sigh, as if the sight of his friends being so disgustingly in love was a great hardship for him to witness. You found yourself smiling back.
Vander clapped his hands. “Right. Enough exchanging looks everyone, we have a schedule to keep, and a display to get to.” He prompted, like a teacher wrangling his unruly students. “Felicia, lead the way, won’t you?”
And so she did.
As before, the group followed Felicia - as they had Vander earlier - across the roof towards a wide plank of wood acting as a precarious bridge to the neighbouring roof. It was practiced ease that had someone holding one end of the plank, whilst the next person carefully crossed.
You had barely crossed the plank, before Felicia was bending her knees and neatly jumping across a second gap, up to a slightly higher, second roof. It was this roof that she stopped leading.
You followed the others up onto it, and found yourself being treated to a fantastically clear view of the bridge and the Piltover palace sprawled out across the horizon line. The roof itself was flat and free of debris, with a crumbled and broken fire escape taking up the stretch of roof furthest from the river.
The others were quick to get comfortable along the edge of the roof overlooking the bridge.
Felicia and Connol sat close to one another, with their feet hanging over the edge, before Connol wound his arm around his partner’s lower back and encouraged her to lean into his side. The whispers they exchanged were too low to make out.
Vander sat himself down further along the roof from them, whilst Silco shook out his blanket before sitting down at his brother’s side closest to his friends. He took great care in arranging the red fabric over his knees, before he set his hands behind him and leaned back onto them.
They looked so comfortable in one another’s company, you were abruptly reminded. Years of existing in each other's space had brought on this easy atmosphere. It had your traitorous mind wondering for just a moment, where could you possibly fit in this dynamic. It was clear they wanted you around, or at least enjoyed your company, or Felicia would have left you behind at the bar tonight. But why? What could you offer this dynamic that they didn’t already have?
“Are you going to sit down?”
You blinked your thoughts away, to find Silco had turned around to glance up at you.
“I-” Your eyes jumped from the open roof on Vander’s other side, to the gap between Silco and Felicia, to the other stretch of roof at Connol’s side. It would be weird for you to take up the middle spot right?
Felicia groaned audibly. “It’s too cold. Come and sit your ass here to give me some warmth.” She smacked the concrete between her and Silco.
You saw immediately through the act. She had Connol wrapped around her, and had enough layers to stave off the light autumn chill. It was just an excuse to help ease you into feeling more comfortable. You were ashamed that it worked.
“Maybe you should have put on more layers.” You lightly scolded, taking the excuse for what it was to sit down in the open spot.
Felicia pulled a face at you, but didn’t argue.
The moment you sat down, the chill of the concrete immediately began to seep into your thighs through your trousers. It wasn’t uncomfortable necessarily, but you could certainly feel how the roof was slowly leeching the warmth out of your legs.
Turning your attention outwards in an attempt to stave off the inevitable shivers, you were surprised to find the rest of Zaun lining up along the river bank below. A couple of other smart families had also chosen suitable roofs to witness the firework display from, but the majority of the city population were thickly crowding the streets below. It was weirdly reassuring to see so many people coexisting for once instead of biting and snapping at each other.
The smell of something warm and herbal wafted over to you on the wind. In your peripheral, you found that Vander had pulled a flask of something steaming out of his pocket, and was lightly blowing on the surface, whilst his large hands overlapped around the narrow torso of the drink.
Connol and Felicia were talking quietly in hushed voices, their inaudible words mixing in with the clammer of hundreds of bodies crowded below.
Across the river, the lights of Piltover dimmed. The council building dissolved into the night sky like a looming shadow giant, whilst the bridge’s presence fell away as its lights were switched off. The noise of the assembled Zaunites abruptly dulled, and your breath caught in your lungs in anticipation.
The entire riverbank seemed to hold its breath as the first firework was shot into the sky. Your eyes tracked it as it rocketed higher and higher, its sparking tail trailing into nothing, as it got lost for a moment amongst the inky blackness of the night and the distant white dotted stars. And then all at once the sky erupted into a shower of gold. Your eyes widened as the roof was bathed in the ochre light of the first firework, the bang roaring across the river a few heartbeats later.
And so the show began in earnest. Fireworks of gold, fuschia and blue erupted across the sky above Piltover, showering the city below in bursts of bright colour. It was a mesmerising display really. Your ears ringing from the constant booming of the previous firework dying out, only for another, bigger, louder one to immediately fill the silence.
You were so transfixed by the display, that you hadn't noticed the goosebumps that had erupted up and down your arms, nor the tremoring shake of your hands clasped tightly in your lap. All of your attention was on the display.
You had never actually sat outside to watch it before today, having instead tucked yourself into bed after exhausting days on the street, whilst silently fuming at the distant and annoying bangs of the celebration obnoxiously keeping you awake.
A gentle touch to your outer thigh, had your attention slamming back to the present as your head sharply snapped down. Silco’s hand froze, where it was trying to drape some of his blanket over your trembling legs. Your breath caught. Your head jumped up to him, but he was stubbornly not looking at you. His eyes laser focused on the ongoing display instead.
His hand remained clenched around the fabric. Hovering. Waiting.
Hesitantly, you took the offered corner, your cold fingers momentarily touching. He didn’t react, so you carefully shuffled closer to the side and draped the skin warmed blanket over your legs.
He did not look at you. So you stopped looking at him.
“Thanks,” you offered under your breath, fairly certain the word had been lost in the wind and another boom of the display before he could hear it.
A tiny smile turned up the corner of his mouth in the next burst of light, suggesting otherwise of course, but you did not dare question it. It was kind of him to share after all. Sweet.
Before you could fully tear your eyes from Silco’s profile, you found Vander watching the pair of you behind him. Your stomach turned at the mischief glinting in his eyes, as his eyebrows wiggled suggestively, all whilst he took an obnoxious slurp out of his flask.
The noise had Silco’s head turning his way. His smile dissolves into a nose wrinkled curl of disgust.
Vander just grinned back, before turning his attention back to the display.
Somehow, it felt like permission, although you could not pinpoint why or what it was for.
You really needed to stop turning up to The Last Drop injured. Not only was it getting boring, but the others were likely to put you on house arrest if you kept getting strikes put on your track record.
The one silver lining today at least, was that you had been injured on a job Vander had asked you and Sevika to complete, which entailed causing a ruckus several streets away from The Last Drop to distract the Enforcer patrols. Which the pair of you had done; beautiful, might you add.
So beautifully, that the price had been both you and Sevika ending up a bit roughed up. And the latter, actively bullying you into letting her help you make your way back to the bar, your arm slung over her shoulder. She had been heading the same way anyway, she tried to reason.
Usually, after a fight the pair of you would ensure the other was able to walk before letting each other slink away to lick their wounds. But apparently not today. Today, Sevika told you with no room for argument, that she would be helping you back to The Last Drop, and then added on something about Vander and threats, but you couldn’t really make out her mumbling.
There were glass shards sprinkled in your hair after all, and long, paper-thin cuts running up your forearms from your run in with a window. You could feel a bruise forming on your ribs too from the rim of the dumpster you’d landed in. The Enforcer who had shoved you, and you had grabbed a hold of, to drag out of the window with you, had landed hard on the concrete, and hadn’t gotten back up.
As Sevika dragged you towards The Last Drop, you idly wondered if his comrades would both to drag his body back across the river or leave him to the rats.
The warmth of the bar swept over you before you could really get into it.
Tonight, important business was being conducted in the belly of the bar, so the establishment was being manned by a Bartender you did not recognise. His eyes briefly flickered up from the customer he was serving when Sevika dragged you into the building, but apart from a tiny nod of acknowledgement and his eye pointedly darting away from the pair of you, he made no move to stop either of you from heading for the back.
The bar was loud tonight. The stereo’s setting turned up to one of its highest, forcing the crowd to yell over one another to compensate. Not even the door to the staircase down into the basement could fully dull the sheer volume of the main room, but then again, that was the purpose. After all, there was no way anyone outside of the meeting room would be able to eavesdrop with all of that going on upstairs.
“Almost there, Runt.” Sevika commentated, more to herself than to you, as she dragged you down the first flight of steps to the corridor of doors. Then she hauled you towards one of the end doors, and promptly kicked the one to the living room open, all before yanking you inside. Perhaps this rough treatment was part of the reason you didn’t normally allow her to assist you in times like these.
You would’ve preferred to have walked into this meeting unassisted, what with the people attending consisting of some Zaun’s most powerful and influential leaders, but Sevika pointedly did not give you an option.
“Let go.” You ground out under your breath, trying to wiggle your arm free of her vice-like hold, to which she just held onto you more firmly. “Sevika!” You hissed, trying again with your most lethal expression levelled at the side of her head, only for your protests to promptly die on your tongue when she glared down at you. Your cheeks promptly lit up with shame and you ducked your head.
In the living room below, the quiet chatter of the meeting had abruptly cut off at your entrance.
As Sevika dragged your battered body down the stairs, you caught sight of the usual bar trio - plus Connol - alongside various shopkeepers, and the leaders of small gangs peering back at you with various levels of unease. How Vander had the reach to be able to get so many of them to agree to meet in one spot, was beyond you. But it was probably helped along by the fact that the bar was openly advertised as neutral ground.
Sevika’s boots hit the cold flagstones first, where she paused and lifted you down the last two steps. You were not limping that badly! You grumbled as such and shot her another glare lethal, to which she blatantly ignored your protests again and set you back down at her side.
“The hell did you do now?!” Felicia’s voice burst out from across the room, having been the first to shake herself out of her shock. Beside her, Connol placed a hand on her knee, both soothing and to keep her seated. His own expression was grim as his eyes cut from the important people assembled in the room, to you and Sevika’s pitiful appearances.
More subtly, you watched with a sinking stomach as Vander sighed and raked a large hand down the side of his face.
Whereas various leaders sat on the opposite sofa on the other side of the coffee table exchanged confused and judgemental glances.
“And who might you be?” One of the braver one spoke up, an older woman with an air of authority and fiery, red hair. She sat straight on her couch cushion, a queen on her throne, despite being squished shoulder to shoulder with the others. Her expression was pinched and professional, her attention almost burning with how intently she looked at you.
“Those would be our Distraction Agents,” Silco of all people spoke up, drawing all eyes away from you and Sevika. He made a show of rising from his chair pulled up alongside the couch Vander was seated on, and motioning for Sevika to bring you forward.
To an outsider, his expression would have been politely composed, if not subtly tight with irritation to being interrupted. To you, he looked panicked.
With a grunt, Sevika wasted no time in hauling you round the back of Vander’s couch to lower you into the offered chair, whilst Silco continued to smooth over the interruption. You winced as the glass stuck in your body jolted from the rough treatment, but otherwise allowed her to work if only to get the humiliation over with quickly.
“-both of whom gave us the necessary opening to have this vital meeting without fear of Enforcer,” Silco paused in his explanation to find the correct phrase, “input.”
The confusion on a few of the newer faces morphed into expressions of understanding at the implication.
Keeping your eyes averted, you tried to arrange yourself into a more presentable seating arrangement, absently noting how Sevika retreated to hover menacingly over Vander’s shoulder behind his couch, whilst Silco remained stood beside your chair, his chin raised and his hands neatly folded behind his back.
From there, the meeting progressed smoothly. They discussed possible riot locations. Weak points within the Topside city, alongside the weaponry currently at their disposal. As well as timings, and named willing Zaunites who could be relied upon to step up when called.
To your relief, you and Sevika had joined during the tail end of the meeting, which finally began to wrap up a little after midnight, where the leaders and shopkeepers politely thanked Vander and began to filter out of the room.
Above, the din of the bar was beginning to wind down too.
As the last of the leaders filtered out, you slumped back against the backrest of your chair with a groan, the steady throb of the glass and cuts steadily beginning to consume more of your attention. Gods, what an evening.
The door at the top of the stairs had scarcely clicked shut, before Vander suddenly rounded on you. You yelped at the unexpected attention, your head instinctively ducking to avoid his burning glare.
In your peripheral vision, Silco also turned to you. His hip jutted out in the way that suggested he had crossed his arms and was also giving you a sharp, disapproving look.
You didn’t even want to look at Felicia.
Gods, when had you become so embedded in this bar and its community that you knew their reactions without looking. And when had you begun to care that you had concerned them?
“What the hell happened?” Vander ground out between tightly set teeth, his voice practically oozing with poorly concealed rage. “I asked you to distract the patrols, not offer yourself up as a punching bag.”
His choice of words stroked the defiant part of you that despised being talked down to. Abruptly, your unease and guilt mutated into annoyance as you levelled a sharp look his way.
Obviously, you didn’t look that bad. Maybe a little black and blue, with a few cuts here and there, but that was it. The other assholes looked far worse. There was no way this universal reaction was proportionate to the state of you.
“Still in one piece, aren’t we?” You challenged, to which Vander broke eye contact to squeeze his eyes closed and take a calming breath, which, rude.
Sevika, ever fearless, outright snorted at the entire display, as she limped her way round the couch to the newly vacated sofa on the other side of the coffee table. With a grunt, she sat down on one of the cushions, before spinning and laying herself down on her back. “Believe it or not,” she said calmly, kicking off her shoes and stretching out her legs, “that was tame for us.”
Silco clicked his tongue in disbelief. “Really?” He asked dangerously, arms still crossed. “Because your comrade looks as though they were recently shoved through a wall.”
Sevika chuckled then. “Close,” she congratulated him with a lift of her brows. “It was actually a window.”
Silco’s eyebrows jumped as his head snapped down to you, where you again ducked your head and averted your eyes.
“A second story window at that.” Sevika helpfully added, which had Vander slumping back against the backrest and groaning into his hand, whilst Felicia’s mouth audibly dropped open.
“You are not helping!” You hissed at your comrade, who simply grinned with too many teeth. She was clearly enjoying embarrassing you.
“What?” She challenged, “scared they’ll realise what a reckless idiot you are?”
“Shut. it.” You warned, eyes narrowing.
Silco shifted in the edge of your vision. You ignored him.
Sevika sat up then. Her movements slow and dangerous. Deliberate. And her brows began to draw together, as a look of mock realisation spread across her features. “No.” She drawled with mock surprise. “You’re scared they’ll think you’re incapable-”
And there went your composure. Your expression hardened as you slammed your hands down on the armrests of your chair and tried to lunge across the coffee table at her.
Vander’s head snapped up out of his hands in bewilderment, at the same time Silco lunged for your shoulders. His arms wrapped tight around your upper torso, driving slices of glass deeper into your flesh, but you didn’t care.
This was why you didn’t want Sevika and The Last Drop to collide. You didn’t need her coming in here, revealing shit that had nothing to do with these people. She had seen you at your lowest. Had watched you fight and kill. Had watched in fascination as you peeled yourself off of bloodied floors, and scrambled to get back up after a heavy blow.
Before the bar, she was the closest thing you’d had to a friend. And she was about to shatter whatever careful persona you’d built for yourself here.
Even Felicia was looking at you with different eyes. As if you were suddenly some wild animal, instead of the introverted stray cat she’d always joked you were.
And like a fool, Sevika continued to provoke you. “Awe, sorry, Runt. Am I embarrassing you?” Sevika taunted, eyes glinting with challenge, stroking the part of you that wanted to stab her eye out for being so blatantly irritating.
“I’ll show you incapable, Asshole!” You snarled back, ceasing your mindless lunging, to instead bring up your leg and grab for your knife tucked into the back of your boot. To which Silco made a panicked noise and tried to grab at your wrist.
The pair of you struggled for a moment. Sevika relaxing back against her couch, whilst you tried to ward off Silco’s attempts to snatch the knife from your hold.
“Fuck off!”
“Stabbing her isn’t going to solve the problem-”
“No! Actually. It very much will!”
“Alright you two, that’s enough.” Vander tried to referee, but this wasn’t a verbal sparring match between you and Felicia.
This was a slight. Sevika knew which buttons to press, and she knew what reaction it would get her. In some twisted way, it was her version of ensuring you were okay. Like how you would kick a cat to see if it was still alive enough to scratch. It was the kind of care you’d been used to, before stumbling into The Last Drop and glutting yourself on Vander’s unique version of concern.
“No no, let them-” Sevika tried to get Vander to back off. Only for her words to die on her tongue, when you finally shoved Silco’s hand off, and THREW the blade at her head. The weapon embedded itself blade down in the wall beside her ear. Close enough for her baby hairs to jump from the wind of it zinging past her cheek.
“Not bad.” She calmly complimented, “for a glass shard pin cushion.”
“I have two more if you want to keep running your mouth.” You told her bluntly, as Silco took advantage of your distraction to shove you back down into the chair. He had a weird expression on his face now. Something that could have been fear, or could have been exasperation.
“Na, I’m good. The whole, cowering whilst getting scolded look, was just freaking me out.” Sevika waved you off, effortlessly yanking the blade from the wall to toss back to you.
Felicia made a short, cut off noise as the blade was momentarily air borne, before you snatched its hilt from the air and smoothly returned the thing to your boot.
For a moment the room was still, before Vander shook himself out of his bewilderment, and turned to Sevika to ask her for further details on your side of the mission. She straightened in her seat, before explaining what had happened.
“-the Runt got a little too into it towards the end,” she finished reporting with a tired sigh. “Goaded one of the stronger Blue Bellies into tackling them, only they both went out the window.”
Vander sighed again. He and Sevika share a long suffering look of camaraderie. He turned to you, one eyebrow raised. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”
You gave him a dangerous little grin. “That I won.”
Vander blinked down at you in confusion, eyes briefly jumping up to Silco who audibly shrugged. “How do you win by getting shoved out of a window?” The former asked carefully.
“Well,” you replied seriously, because the answer was obvious. “Because I got up after. He didn’t.”
Which was true, because you had fallen into a dumpster instead of landing on the concrete, like the Enforcer. And where you’d been simply bruised, the other guy hadn’t been so lucky.
Vander’s eyes jumped to Sevika, who just shrugged at his helpless look. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She said as if Vander had spoken. “But they came to find me right after. I’d barely dealt with my own Enforcer when they strolled in like nothing had happened. I swear, this one is like a cockroach. No matter what happens, they always manage to get up again.”
“It’s why you keep me around.” You helpfully supplied and she snorted.
“And why I can’t get rid of you.” She playfully added, although there was no bite to her words this time.
Winter had fully set in.
Nights spent on your thin mattress with your blanket wound tight around your shivering frame, were miserable. As always when the frost set in, food across Zaun went up in price as Piltover took the better part of the shares. What you couldn’t buy or forage for yourself, you went without.
The cold made people desperate. Made the most despairing of the Undercity turn on each other in search of payment from the enemy, since betrayal was preferable to starvation. As such, your face began turning up on wanted posters, alongside Sevika’s and a few other stranglers you’d teamed up with on odd jobs throughout the year. The Enforcer’s had withdrawn their patrols from the depths of the Lanes to monitor the bridge and the main roads, but that just left the streets full of potential rats waiting for you to show your face.
You ventured out as little as possible. Ducking out of your home when the hours were quiet and cold to acquire more food or attempt to hunt down a job. It was on one of these desperate runs, that you found yourself on a road that passed The Last Drop. As always, it was the smell of something delicious cooking that had your footsteps pausing, and your hollow stomach twisting with sheer want.
Eyes hungry, you stood in the shadow of a building across the square as the bar buzzed with life. Even from where you stood, you could tell that the tables within were full. There was music blaring and actual laughter filtering out through the windows. The place was alive with restless energy and joyous shouts, that the rest of Zaun failed to muster at this time of year.
It was a stark contrast from the frozen alleyways and slow moving crowds you had grown accustomed to seeing since the first snowfall.
Against your better judgement, you found yourself striding towards the building instead of steering clear of it. With the establishment so full and your face on the wanted posters, you knew it would be suicidal to step inside, but at the same time, your fingers were so cold you could scarcely feel them. And you had hardly spoken to another person in weeks.
You were tired, and cold and feeling a little reckless. So, keeping your hood pulled down low over your eyes, you slipped inside, and wove through the crowd in search of a quiet place to hide. There was a small table left empty in one of the side alcoves, its tealight set in the centre of the tablecloth burning low.
The smell of whatever Vander was cooking had your hollow stomach writhing with want. But you made no move to approach the bar. Not tonight. You would just stay here until the cold seeped out of your limbs and you could flex your fingers again.
Instead, you subtly turned your head to check that no one had noticed you, before you sank down into the vacant seat and slumped back against the backrest. No one seemed to blink twice at the sight of another hooded figure taking up residence at an empty table. Despite the warmth of the bar, the cold still lingered, so several people still had hats on to keep ears warm, or their hair tucked close to their necks to ward off the chill.
The crowd tonight was thick enough that you felt safe to linger in the warmth, and satisfy your hunger through smell alone. Just being out of your apartment was more filling than any cold meals you’d scrapped together in the last month.
Gods, you felt like shit. But also weirdly raw. Where usually, this state would have you crawling into a hole to die, tonight, you couldn’t stomach the idea of going home to your still, silent apartment. Even if you weren’t here to socialise, you also knew that you needed company. Even just people around, despite not being part of the crowd.
The month of laying low and steering clear of the patrols and hiding your face from civilians had definitely taken its toll on you. You were jumpy. Even more so with how aware of your hunger you were. Your body was running on fumes, a persistent shake to your hands and a hollowness to your cheeks that you only ever saw in the mirror around this time of year.
It would have been pathetic if it wasn’t such a common sight in the Undercity. Clothes that hung off of bodies rather than wrapped around them, and belts had had to be cinched tighter and tighter as winter persisted.
The movement of a confident figure weaving through the crowd drew your attention up from the tea light burning low in front of you. It was a server, you observed, carrying a tray laden with bowls of soup.
She was not anyone you’d seen working at The Last Drop before. But judging by the apron and the ease in which she wove between full tables and rowdy patrons, she had been working here long enough to have worked out the lay of the land. Perhaps Vander had needed additional help. Or more likely, someone had come in looking for a meal without enough coin to pay for it, and had offered labour in return.
Knowing Vander, he would have let her run off scott free after having her fill, but his brand of care was always jarring to come across when one was so unused to kindness. Especially if you didn’t know him very well.
With quiet interest, you watched the new server make a beeline towards a table a few over from your own, where a couple and their son sat nursing drinks. She greeted the women with a cheerful smile, and began setting down a bowl in front of their son, only for one of them to begin shaking her head.
“I’m sorry, but we didn’t order any food.”“It’s on the house.” The Waitress easily reassured, clearly having repeated the same phrase all night. The words had you smiling despite yourself because of course Vander would be giving out free food. “The Boss made too much, so you’d be doing us a favour in helping us get rid of it.”
The woman who had spoken smiled tightly, seemingly unsure whether to believe her, whilst her partner carefully pushed the bowl already on the table towards the boy, who’s eyes hadn’t left its steaming contents since it had been placed on the table.
“Love.” The Partner quietly spoke, her smile reassuring as she put her hand to her Wife’s arm, who seemed to relax. “Thank you.” She told the Waitress, who just smiled and set down another two bowls for each of them, before continuing to another table with empty bowls set to the side.
Where the boy immediately dug in and practically groaned in delight at the taste, his parents were more hesitant in dipping their spoons into their bowls. As if they expected the Waitress to come back tutting and immediately snatch back the food.
You were so engrossed in watching the couple relax, that you were startled when a shadow suddenly appeared at the other end of your little table, and leaned over to set down a steaming bowl of soup before you. Eyes wide, your head jerked up as a spoon was carefully slid across the table as well.
“Could I get you a drink to go with that?” Silco asked, tone polite but disinterested. He also wore an apron, and had his hair pulled back into a low bun. He looked good. Healthy in a way that suggested Vander’s warm cooking and consistent meals.
Those piercing blue eyes connected with your own beneath the shadow of your hood, and his breath visibly stilled in his chest. His brows jumped before, he tucked his empty tray under his armpit and drew closer.
He quietly said your name, brows drawing together now as he squinted. You unstuck your lips from one another, ready to deny it in a made up voice, or rapidly dismiss yourself, only for him to suddenly snort and straighten up. The professional mask slipped away beneath a lopsided grin as he said playfully, “we have to stop meeting like this.”
And oh, you hadn’t realised how much you’d missed him. It had scarcely been a full season since you’d last spoken, but just those words alone soothed something jagged in you.
Silco’s tray found its way onto the table, as he pulled out the chair opposite you and sat down heavily. “So, what corner of the Undercity have you been hiding in lately?” He asked conversationally, limbs loose and relaxed as you remained rigid and quiet. “We haven’t seen you in weeks. Vander was getting ready to call for a search party, and Felicia was threatening to hunt you down herself.”
Yep, that sure sounded like them.
“The parts that are the least overrun by Enforcers.” You returned, voice tight and sore from disuse.
Silco huffed as if he completely understood where you were coming from. “Tell me about it, they’ve been relentless lately. We can scarcely get through a night without a patrol of them coming in demanding to search the patrons, and you don’t even need me to tell you how that goes down with Vander.”
And off he went into a little rant, immediately sweeping you away in the calming cadence of his voice. Enough that you felt your shoulders begin to loosen. Emboldened by his calmly spoken complaints, you sat back in your chair, head tilted in a way that had your hood sliding down the back of your head a little, revealing more of your face to the soft lighting of the room.
Silco’s eyes roamed over your face, a small smile on his face, before his words trailed off, and that smile began to dissolve. His brows knotting as those eyes jumped all over your expression, and you subconsciously rubbed at your cheek. Did you have something on your face? You hadn’t even taken a bite of soup yet, despite your rumbling stomach, so there couldn’t be any on your cheeks.
“-what happened to you? You look awful.” Silco suddenly blurted, and you frowned. Dramatically, you glanced down at yourself. Sure, your clothes had seen better days, but surely you didn’t look that bad. You weren’t even bleeding this time.
“Uh, thanks?” You replied sharply.
Silco looked like he wanted to kick himself. “No, not that you look bad.”
You decided to rib him a little for his clumsy wording. “No, of course not. You used the word ‘awful’.”
“Well, yes, because you look half starved.” He tried to argue to which you calmly reminded him, “it’s winter, Silco.”
He just frowned harder, before reaching across the table to push your bowl closer to you. “Yes, it is.” He agreed, “but if it had gotten this bad I would have assumed you would be smart enough to come to us for help.”
You scowled then. “I’d like a to-go box, please. The unwanted rant is not complimenting the meal at all.”
He pulled a face, and pulled his hand back to his side of the table. “Oh, stop being difficult. You know this sort of talk isn’t one of my strong suits.”
“Yeah. You’re terrible at it.” You agreed, and he huffed out a little laugh.
For a moment, the din of the bar filled in the silence between you as Silco’s eyes dropped to the table where a finger was idly tracing the uneven woodgrains. Taking the opportunity, you took up your spoon and finally shovelled a mouthful of warm soup onto your tongue, and oh by the gods was it good!
So good that for several desperate mouthfuls, you forgot about the company you were keeping as you fully devoted yourself to consuming as much soup as humanly possible. Vaguely, you could hear one of the women you’d been watching earlier, giggling at the display, but you couldn’t find it in you to care.
“Gods I have missed Vander’s cooking.” You said aloud, when your belly was finally full enough that you could think about speaking in between mouthfuls.
Silco huffed out a breath but did not laugh. His attention was still on the table when he spoke up again. Either feeling too raw to meet your gaze, or wanting to give you a moment of privacy, you did not know. “You know, if you had sent word that the Enforcers were so relentless, we would have come to you, right?”
“No.” You returned dismissively, pausing to scrape up another spoonful. “You wouldn’t have, because that would have been a stupid thing for me to ask or expect. You guys have lives to live, a bloody business to run. And last I checked, you don’t do home delivery.”
Silco’s look of offense morphed into fondness at the last part. “Yeah well, close friends are the exception.” He said softly. So softly, that it had alarm bells going off in the back of your head.
Your spoon froze halfway to your mouth, and you were about to correct him, when someone new approached your table.
“So sorry to interrupt folks,” Vander said by way of introduction, “but Silco, I have bowls needing to go out. Socialise in your own time-” His eyes jump up to you at the other end of the table, an apology half formed on his lips before he froze at the sight of you. Which, come on! You did NOT look that bad.
It was eerie to see Vander so still.
“Actually,” you tried to joke, “I was promised a drink, and your employee here has rudely not delivered.” Your words fell flat, and Vander did not move.
Instead, he stood menacingly on the other end of the table and simply said, “you.” And oh fuck, that’s the kind of expression that has you running away from a fight instead of reaching for a knife.
“Uh, hi?”
“Vander-” Silco jumped in, tone warning, but Vander completely ignored him, in favour of stealing a chair from a nearby table and loudly setting it down beside Silco’s chair.
His eyes burned, as he put his elbows on the table and leaned in close, something like rage bubbling low in his voice as he hissed out. “Do you want to tell me why I’ve had Enforcers knocking on my door, asking to put up your wanted poster all over the fucking place?!”
His fury made you bristle. “Was it a good photo at least?”
Silco snorted, and Vander shot him a disapproving glare. Undeterred, Silco replied, “of course not. They fucked up your ears for sure, and your nose looked all kinds of wrong-”
“Silco.” Vander said sharply, “Go man the bar.”
Silco tilted his head dangerously, an unspoken challenge in the way he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms instead of getting up to comply. “I don’t think I will.”
Vander’s anger visibly began to simmer, and you tried to step in before he could explode. Clearly, the man was under a lot of stress. “Guys, can we not have a pissing contest right now-”
“Don’t you start.” Vander rounded on you, “I am furious with you!”
You scoffed in disbelief. “Why? I haven’t even been here to piss you off?”
Vander’s rage flared, and ah, there was the problem. “Exactly!” He snarled, loudly enough for a couple of heads to turn your way. “No note! No heads up that you were going away for a few months. I thought you were fucking dead!”
“I just haven’t had time to stop by.” You tried to defend yourself, but he was having none of it.
“I don’t care! Not even Sevika has seen you around lately-”
“You were asking Sevika about me again?!”
“What was I supposed to do-?”
“Keep your big nose out of my business!” You roared back. “Who do you think you are? My fucking guardian angel? You may be a year or two older, Vander, but that doesn’t make you the fucking boss of me. Do you understand?”
Vander’s expression had lost some of its sharpness, and had instead become almost sad. “I’m just looking out for you.”
You rolled your eyes in the face of his concern, watching real offence slide onto Vander’s expression.
“Oh, I see how it is.” You mused, tone suggesting just how ludicrous you thought he was being. “So you feed me sometimes? Talk to me every now and again? And that suddenly makes us fucking friends, does it?”
“Why do you have to say it like that? Like I’m being ridiculous?”
“Are you even listening to yourself right now?” You countered, “because what you’re saying right now, Vander, is fucking stupid.”
“Well too bad, because I surely think of you as my friend. And I look out for my friends.”
You scoffed again. “You can’t be friends with every stray that wanders in here.”
“Watch me.” He challenged outright, crossing his arms and levelling you with a look that just oozed stubborn determination.
From his seat, Silco outright chuckled. His head had been snapping to and fro between you and Vander throughout the entire debate. Where he found amusement in what was being said, you had no idea.
“I would quit whilst you’re ahead.” The man advised you lightly, “he is undefeated in this kind of thing. The only reason I ended up hanging around, was because he bullied me into it.”
And yeah, you could see that happening rather easily. Not that Silco seemed even half as resistant as he pretended to be.
The smile that stretches onto Vander’s face from the fond comment was reserved and small, but it was no doubt there. “You would know, you’re the original stray, aren’t you Silco?” The man teased fondly, to which Silco kicked him under the table and waved him off. You noted how he did not deny the claim however.
“All that aside,” Vander continued, eyes jumping back to you. “What in The Lanes did you do to get on Top Side’s wanted list?”
You shrugged. “Winter makes Piltover’s hunting dogs bored. Someone from the window fiasco saw my face and spread it to their commander, simple as that. Sevika’s got a poster or two floating around too.”
Vander sighed heavily at your explanation. “Well then, it’s settled. You’re spending the night here.”
You snorted at his sudden conclusion. “Like fuck I am.”
“Why do you always make things so difficult? I’m trying to help you-”
“No, fuck off with that shit. I don’t need your fucking protection. I can take care of my damn self.”
“Clearly.” Vander replied simply, motioning to your gaunt cheeks.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “I don’t need your pity. Or your concern.” You warned him, “just keep my name out of your mouth, and stop drawing attention to me.”
Vander frowned. “You know, the pattern I’ve picked up on, is that people tend to be safer when they’re known to be associated with this place.” He motioned to the bar.
“Oh really,” you challenged, “well, my continued existence in this hell hole of a city, suggests that laying low and remaining in the background works out just as well.”
“And how’s that going for you?” Vander retorted. “You’re reduced to cowering in the shadows. That’s not living-”
“Nor is hiding under your stupid bar!”
“Vander!” A new voice interrupted your fight before it could pick up pace again. “Vander!” The voice yelled out, louder and more insistent as the Waitress from before suddenly burst out of the crowd.
Vander sat up straighter in his chair. His undivided attention on the girl as she scrambled for the correct words. “Enforcers!” She blurted out, startling a couple of the tables closest to yours. She winced and lowered her voice before continuing. “Enforcers are trying to get in. I’ve got the boys manning the door, but they want to do a sweep.”
“At this hour?” Silco ground out, sounding royally pissed.
Vander just sighed, and pushed himself up to his feet. Like the smug bastard he was, he shot you a meaningful look. “Looks like your lying low shtick isn’t working out so well, is it?”
“You’re not seriously implying that I led them here, are you?” You retorted, to which Vander shook his head.
“You’re not the only fugitive hiding out beneath this roof, and you won’t be the last.” He turned to go, pausing when your chair made a loud squeak as you shoved it back and rose to your feet. The determination on your face had Vander already beginning to shake his head despite you not yet having uttered a word.
“Not that I’m trying to repay you for the meal or anything,” you began seriously, to which both brothers fondly shook their heads. “But how dramatic of a distraction do you want?”
Vander’s eyebrows jumped at the offer. “Don’t be daft.” He told you firmly, “I’ll deal with this. You keep your head down like you always do.”
With that, he followed the Waitress into the crowd. “Bobby! I’ve told you, no RUNNING in the bar!” His voice boomed out amongst the din, before his voice became indistinguishable from the rest.
Across the table, Silco rose to his feet with a sight. Carefully, he picked up your empty bowl and spoon, and set them on his tray, before stepping out from in front of his chair and neatly tucking it in. “Come on. Best we get you to the back before they start scouring the tables.”
There was no force behind his words. No compulsory element that made your hackles raise, or your body instinctively want to break away from him and escape. It was a solution. A safe alternative to simply making a run from it.
Hesitantly, you followed his lead. Head turning to the front of the bar, where you could vaguely make out Vander’s back amongst the sea of bodies, alongside the blue uniform of several Enforcers. “Will he be okay?” You asked, noting the tension to Vander’s shoulders.
“Against the Enforcers?” Silco asked, following the direction of your gaze before shrugging. “If anything, he needs the confrontation to get some stress out.” Turning neatly on his heel, Silco began to lead you away from the front of the building towards the counter and the door to the back. You fell into step a few paces behind, moving slow and casual, so as not to draw the eye of the enemy.
Silco was still talking as he set his tray down on the counter, before heading to the basement door. “Please excuse Vander’s brashness. He’s had a lot on his shoulders lately. All these people needing help sets him on edge, and he gets into this mood that’s hard to pull him out of.” The man let out a fond sigh, as he turned the handle and began to descend the steps, “but that’s Vander for you. Always the bleeding heart.”
He paused on the fourth step down, turning to glance up at you hovering in the doorway. “What is it?” He asked patiently.
“Nothing. I’m just debating how quickly I can make it to the back exit before you or Vander catch me.”
Silco rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t try it if I were you. You look like you’re about to keel over. You won’t make it five steps.” He must have seen the spark of challenge that the playful words ignited in you, because he took a hasty step back up and added enticingly, “I have my blanket already downstairs and a roaring fire going.”
You made a contemplative face. “Keep going, I’m almost tempted.”
He huffed a laugh. “You mentioned that you missed Vander’s cooking. How about a second bowl of soup? I’ll even bring you a drink this time.”
You sighed. “You drive a hard to resist bargain, Mr.”
“Good.” He said, “you can rest for a bit, get some more food in you, and then maybe Vander will let you go home.”
“Oh, so I’m a captive now, am I?” You joked.
“You catch on fast.” Silco complimented with a small smile. And this time when he hesitantly took a step back down, you decided to follow him.
Something loosened in his face at the compliance, and without another word, he led you to the living room, which was in fact deliciously warm. The fire had been built high, and had bathed the room in a pleasant, orange glow.
Drawn to the spot on the couch closest to the flames, you were too weak to resist slumping down on the comfortable cushions face first and letting out a delighted groan. You got his blanket thrown over your head for your troubles, but the position was too fantastic for you to care much.
Your mattress back home had several springs that dug into you regardless of how you positioned yourself on it. The couch by comparison, was like laying on a cloud. The thick blanket obscuring your upper body from view was just a bonus.
Footsteps beyond the wall of red fabric had your eyes slipping open again. Silco was laughing quietly to himself as he drew closer and set something down on the coffee table. A boot lightly tapped the fingers of the hand hanging over the side of the couch and resting against the rough rug.
You grumbled and withdrew the hand. Snaking it back up the side of the couch to curl it against your chest.
Another huff, before gentle fingers curled around the edges of the blanket and pulled it back enough for you to catch sight of his soft expression.
Between the warmth, and the reassurance of having someone else to watch your back whilst you rested, your eyelids were already beginning to droop.
“Don’t slip out without saying goodbye,” Silco warned quietly, softening his voice when he realised how difficult you were finding it to keep from drifting off. “Or I’ll rally half of the Lanes to hunt you down.” The firm look in his eye told you just how serious he was being, so you nodded once to let him know that you were listening. “Here’s the key to the door if you’re going to have a nap,” he pulled said key out of his pocket to show to you before he set it down on the coffee table beside what you realised was another bowl of gently steaming soup and a glass of water. When he’d disappeared to go retrieve either, you had no idea. “I’m heading back upstairs to help run the food, so I’m going to lock you in with Vander’s spare.”
Which was kind of sweet. Your inability to willingly fall asleep without a locked door between you and the outside world hadn’t come up more than once before. To think that he had remembered, let alone was going out of his way to help you feel safe and secure, was endearing.
“Of course, if you don’t want us to be able to come in or out whilst you’re asleep, just leave this key in the back of the lock. I’ve woken up one too many times to Vander just looming at the end of the couch because he wasn’t sure how to wake me up without getting stabbed.”
You didn’t think you’d ever heard Silco talk so much in such a short amount of time before. It was cute. How he rambled and went down a mental checklist to attend to your needs. A stark contrast to the bumbling Waiter who had tried to check on your well being earlier. It seemed that actions of care came easier to him than soft, careful words.
“Now if you need anything-”
“Silco.” You interrupted.
He bit off his sentence and turned his full attention down to you. “Yes?”
“Thank you.” You said, and you both knew it wasn’t just gratitude for the soup.
His eyes widened a fraction, before he promptly swept the look aside and nodded once. With that, he let the blanket fall back over your head, to which you spluttered and wiggled to poke your head out from under it. “Don’t mention it.” He said firmly, his footsteps light on the stairs as he showed himself out.
The door closed behind him with a click. The fire popped and crackled in the grate, as you wiggled to get even more comfortable on the couch, sprawled out on your belly with your head pillowed under one of your arms.
Sleep crept up on you more quickly than it had in months. Distantly, you heard the click of a lock at the top of the stairs, and felt the last dregs of your hypervigilance melt away as the remaining tension melted from your limbs. You fell into a deep, all consuming sleep.
So deep, that when you eventually came to, you briefly did not know where you were. It was the familiar softness of the blanket pulled over your body and the absence of cold after so many weeks of shivering, that had you remembering your stupid decision to venture into The Last Drop despite the risks.
You turned your head, and there was still a glass of water and bowl of soup on the table. Although the bowl had been switched out for a different one, the food inside was still steaming, suggesting someone had recently checked in on you and given you a warm replacement. The thought did not send panic spiking through you, but instead filled you with further warmth.
Deciding not to dwell on the feeling too much, you dragged yourself up into a sitting position. The absence of aches and pains was almost a surprise. You shoved that thought aside too, and swung your legs down to the floor so you could pick up the spoon and get another meal in you. Hunched over the coffee table, swimming in the blanket, you dug in. The soup made you almost too warm, but you revelled in it. After being cold for so long, being able to sweat felt like a luxury.
There was a click of the lock above, and then the creak of the door being carefully pushed open. The hand not occupied with your spoon instinctively began to slide towards your boot, only to fall still when Silco closed the door behind him and began to climb down the stairs.
There was a weight to his strides now. A slant to his shoulders and the way he held his head that spoke of your ‘nap’ being more than a quick ten minutes.
“The Enforcers are gone.” He said by way of greeting. You expected him to set his bowl and spoon down on the opposite couch, or to at least set his stuff down in front of the other couch cushion. But nope, he put it down practically on top of your own, paused long enough to untie and toss aside his apron, before sitting down heavily beside you.
The warmth of his body sent tingles across your skin, and stalled your mind. Leaving him enough of an opening to begin to tug at the blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders.
“Hey!” You protested, dropping your spoon, to curl your fingers into the corners.
Silco huffed. “Just give it!”
He pried a corner out of your hands. You lunged for it. “Oi! You’re letting out all the heat.”
“It’ll come back faster with two bodies.” He bit back, shoving your hands away, before giving the blanket a firm tug that freed a second corner. With a practiced smoothness, he pulled the corner in his hand over his shoulder, and slid even closer to you. Leaving the pair of you sandwiched together under it. “Besides it is my blanket, so I am entitled to at least half of it.”
“Yeah, well, finder’s keepers.” You returned, but did not try to reclaim the stolen corners.
He did however, keep one nimble hand tightly wrapped around the corner pulled over his shoulder, as he picked up his spoon and dug into his meal with the other.
The pair of you fell into a comfortable silence whilst you finished eating. The scrape of spoons at the bottom of bowls accompanied by satisfied sighs. After which Silco slumped back against the backrest and allowed his eyes to slip closed in what you could only to describe as bliss, whilst you pulled your knife out of your boot, and your whetstone from your pocket to give the blade some TLC. It hadn’t seen much action since your self-imposed hibernation, and as a result, you’d ended up neglecting its care. A wrong easily righted with a little time and care.
The fire was burning low and in need of a restock of fuel when the door to the living room unexpectedly BANGED open and cracked against the wall like a gunshot.
Silco snapped bolt upright from his nap, eyes wide and his head whipping round. Only to end up being shoved straight back down and out of your line of fire as you launched your knife at the person standing in the doorway.
Your mind supplied you with Enforcers. The panic had you scrambling for a second knife, whilst Silco remained pressed back against the back of the couch by the hand splayed firmly across the centre of his chest.
Sevika’s impressed whistle had all thoughts of threats and escape melting out of your limbs.
Fingers falling loose around the hilt of the second knife, you found her stood with one hand still holding the door open, as she contemplated the blade embedded in the wood a mere hair’s breadth from the tip of her nose.
With a sigh of relief, you unlocked the muscles in your other arm to let Silco sit forward again. He remained exactly where he was. Now fully awake and staring at you with a look of shock. You ignored him in favour of watching Sevika yank your knife out of the door.
“Some backbone you have, Runt.” She said dangerously. “Disappearing on me, then trying to kill me when I’m already fucking pissed at you.”
“Oh fantastic.” You drawled back, eyes tracking her as she slammed the door closed behind her and started striding down the stairs. “Are you here to claim we’re best friends too?”
“No.” Sevika said, with a suitable amount of distaste. “I’m here to kill you after you disappeared on me without warning, and got me to genuinely begin worrying you’d died in an alleyway somewhere.”
“Oh fuck off. We didn’t have any jobs scheduled.”
“That is besides the fucking point!” She bellowed back, now stood at the end of the couch, glaring daggers at you.
Silco - who had the misfortune of now being sat between you two - glanced back and forth between you with noticeable uncertainty.
The movement had Sevika’s dangerous eyes locking onto him. “Oi, Little Man.”
His face contorted into offence. “Me?”
She made a show of looking around, then fixed him with another sharp, unimpressed glare. “Yes, you! Go back upstairs and get me a tankard of something strong. And a bowl of whatever Vander is cooking. I’ll keep an eye on the Runt, so they don’t scamper off.”
“Sure, but-”
“I wasn’t asking you, just do it.”
He glared back at her, before shooting you an equally unimpressed look. You simply shrugged. “She’s a softie deep down. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t make me come over their Runt.” Sevika warned, even as she strode over to the other sofa, barely sparing you a second glare.
Her threat was a hollow one, and it made you shake your head.
You felt safe in the basement of The Last Drop with these people, despite the Enforcers who had almost discovered your here. And you suspected it was because you knew that they would not be able to get to you. Not with these two idiots and the one upstairs looking out for you. Watching your back.
Which was a weird thought, since scarcely a year ago, you couldn’t have imagined being this comfortable around anyone. Let alone Sevika. But here you were.
It was snowing tonight. Not raining. Not hailing. But actually snowing.
The dirty streets of the Undercity were lightly powdered with purifying white. They wouldn’t stay that way for long of course. Many boots would gradually work it all into a muddy slush, but for now, it was a nice thing to notice.
It was fucking cold though. The breeze was biting, even in a shirt and jacket. You tucked your head down into your collar, hands in your pockets.
The warm, orange light of the Last Drop pooled across the snow of the courtyard. Within, the building was full to bursting with bodies again. Folks hoping to hide from the cold and enjoy some good food and company for a little bit. Hoping to lose themselves in bets and games, to stop from longing for the ice to thaw.
You trudged past. Snow lightly freckling your cheeks.
The door creaked open behind you. Someone lightly called your name. Softly enough that you could easily ignore it. Pretend you hadn’t heard.
You turned anyway. And there was Silco, wearing his apron again, a small, private smile tugging at the corner of his lip as he held the door open for you.
“Vander is already dishing you up a bowl.” He said by way of greeting.
Your eyes flickered from his loose hair, to the ruckus leaking out of the open door.
You could thank him and turn away. Disappear into the growing darkness despite the early hour.
It would be cold in your apartment though. Not unbearable yet, the sun had only just set, but certainly noticeable.
Your feet move before you really make a decision, and you ducked under his arm.
Thank you so much for reading. Next chapter, WE'RE ON THE BRIDGE!! HELL YEAH!!
Masterlist: You do not need to read any of the previous works to understand this piece!
Relationship: Jayce/Viktor/Reader (polyamory)
Word Count: 15k
Summary: Alone and immune to the Mage’s magic, you continued to wander a destroyed Piltover.
OR
Reader and Viktor are having marital issues in the alternate dimension whilst Cannon!Jayce just tries to survive.
(Reader uses they/them pronouns.)
NOTE: So this began as a short, fun what-if scenario, but I seemed to get possessed and turned it into a fully fleshed out one-shot :) Here is the original post that inspired this piece. And HERE is the work uploaded on Ao3 if anything prefers to read over there.
The end of the world was cold.
The wind seemed to scream with a thousand ghostly voices as it eagerly tugged at your clothes, forcing you to pull them tighter to your frame, or risk losing them. What little food you could scrounge up, was tasteless and dull; necessary fuel more than an enjoyable meal.
This new ‘perfect world’ was dark, and quiet and devoid of all of the colours that had first drawn you to the glittering City of Progress. You hated it. Even though a small part of you, not consumed by the desperation to survive and a burning rage, could still see a twisted beauty to this new, lonely world you inhabited. You had to squint hard to see it of course, but it was there.
There was an eerie beauty to the statue-like mechanical dolls dotted throughout the cities. Stood like sentries on both ends of the collapsed bridge, dotting the streets by the dozen, or perched upon dilapidated structures. They were uncanny, in all honesty. Machines playing at citizens. Specks of pure white in a world that was all shadow and gloom. Motionless without the invisible hand and genius mind of a benevolent god to keep them vigilant.
A god you were currently hiding from.
If there was one blessing that came out of the end of the world, it was that you had come out of the war with the ability to go unnoticed by the very man who had brought about its end.
Even brushing shoulders in a crowd of his personal soldiers, you went unseen. Unnoticed. Unrecognised.
The figure striding uneasily along several paces ahead of you, was not so lucky.
He did not notice, but those porcelain heads turned as he strode past. Held at bay by the will of their puppeteer.
Dressed in an overcoat of Piltovern white, this ghost from your past still walked with a certainty to his set shoulders that this world would eventually crack and break down. His journey into the city had stained his councilor’s jacket with flecks of mud, a hint of corruption already beginning to claw its way up one of his coat tails.
The hammer perched on one broad shoulder had only just begun to erode from the force of the magic undetected in the air, but still held most of its original structure. It too was achingly familiar to you, and yet had been lost to time. Its presence brought back memories of long nights spent in a laboratory amongst friends who were on the verge of becoming even more precious to you. It reminded you of naps stolen on a couch too small for three people, and a chalkboard constantly brimming with new thoughts and ideas, alongside tiny doodles scrawled in the corners by your own hand.
Blinking back those bitter phantoms, you watched the figure struggle to navigate the crowd of dormant hivemind dolls. You could see from the paranoid toss and turn of his head, that he had begun to realise that the humanoid figures were not as statue-like as they seemed. In his peripheral vision, he would no doubt be seeing them stir and twitch jerkily, only for them to fall still again the moment he looked at them directly.
It was a necessary but cruel trick, played by the Mage who controlled them. A means to drill home the message that this ending was to be avoided at all costs. That this version of things could not be allowed to come to fruition again.
You trailed him at a distance. Close enough to keep him in view, but far back enough that he would not notice you. They never did.
Far above him, and a whole, empty river ahead, the spire of Piltover’s Hexgate column shone in the sunlight as it cast a heavy shadow over the rest of the city. Even from so far down on the ground, you could just barely make out the hint of greenery growing across the dome’s surface.
Your quiet musing cut off at the sound of a scuffle up ahead. The unmistakable grind of metallic joints popping and spinning. You heard a panicked yelp, hurried footsteps, all before the silhouette of the man suddenly vanished from sight with a shriek of terror that promptly dissolved into sharp agony.
The sound made your body instinctively lunge forward. The hivemind dolls had no use for cries of pain, let alone lungs. Their suffering had been erased alongside their identities, so there was no need-
You wove under mechanical arms, skirted around marble bodies, and came to a sharp stop at the sight of a ravine. Far below, you could hear as another yelp and grunt abruptly cut off into a sharp, desperate whimper of pain, alongside the metallic crack of metal hitting stone.
The trench was so deep, you could not see him in the darkness. Nor detect the glow of his hammer.
Damn it!
Damn!
It!
Why did everything always have to be so difficult? How did all his alternate selves manage to throw you through a loop instead of following the blasted Mage STRAIGHT to the Hexgate dome like they were supposed too?
Idiots! The lot of them!
Jayce woke up.
And that in itself was a miracle.
His head throbbed as he lifted it from the cold, unforgiving stone floor. Wincing at the twinge of his neck, he felt a bruise already forming on the right side of his face, spanning from his temple down to his chin. Vision swimming, he tried to push himself up onto his elbows. The cold had seeped into his fingers from how long he’d been laying there, and had turned his toes numb.
Unfeeling fingers dug down into the grainy dirt as he tried to heave himself up onto his knees, only for a bolt of pure agony to shoot up his leg when he tried to use his left leg. The following shout of pain ripped out of his throat before he could think to stifle it. It echoed out between the tight walls of the cavern, chasing itself up towards the surface far far above.
Teeth ground tight against further sounds, Jayce ducked his head and peered down under his torso to find his pant leg bloody and the bones of his fibula tenting his trousers out at a weird angle. It was obviously broken, and had no doubt burst through his skin in the fall. Just the sight alone, had bile rising sharply up the back of his throat.
As his initial cry finally faded, the sound of rhythmic, dripping water reached Jayce’s ears. The damp stench hit him next, forcing itself up his nose, as the reality of his situation began to sink in.
He was at the bottom of a ravine. Injured. And stuck in some alternate reality, that was not his own. A reality where Piltover and Zaun alike had been destroyed. And worse of all, he was alone.
No one would find him down here.
The hooded Mage he had followed into the city hadn’t seemed to hear him when he called out. And apart from those humanoid creatures, he had not seen another soul throughout the entire trip into the city from the very outskirts-
“Jayce.”
His entire body went rigid at the hissed whisper. His head pounded from the tightening of his jaw. His leg cried out as every muscle seethed. He waited. Breath caught fast in his throat.
Nothing but the sound of dripping water replied. He let his breath ease out of his mouth. Maybe he should have been a little concerned that he was already beginning to hear things-
“Jayce.” The same low whisper repeated. Closely followed by the sound of tiny pebbles dislodging from rock. To his right, he heard and then saw the soft click and patter of the tiny rock crumbs falling to the stone not far from where he lay.
Blinding panic slammed into Jayce, as his broken body twisted around with a snap.
The ravine echoed his panicked movements back to him. The slap of a clammy palm against unforgiving, icy stone. The whisper of his filthy clothes sliding against each other. The scrap of his boots along the jagged stone floor as they failed to find purchase. His leg protested all of the movement, but the feeling of being watched made Jayce’s panic all the more consuming and rabid.
"Who-who's there?" He demanded, his voice coming out cracked and uneven. A mockery of the confident ‘Man of Progress’ he pretended to be back home.
His mind unhelpfully supplied him with the featureless faces of the dolls far above. Terrifying suggestions of them having followed him down here. Of them creeping closer in the dark, undetected until it was too late for him to hope to stop them-
The shuffle of shoes on stone had his head snapping upwards so fast that his neck popped with sharp warmth. His entire body seized as he spotted a humanoid figure perched on a ledge a few feet above where he laid. Back lit by the surface, far, far above, the figure was crouched, and peering over the lip of the ledge. From his vantage point, Jayce could just make out the curl of their fingertips over the edge of the platform.
Somehow, it did not resemble the rest of the jerkily moving puppets on the surface. For starters, it actually had the vague shape of features on its face, ears and the suggestion of a nose, where those other creatures had been smooth, marble-like masks-
It has several eyes, Jayce realised with a sickening lurch of horror. Two in the normal places that humans had eyes that shone subtly in the poor lighting. And then five points across its forehead, that glowed with an unnatural, inner light. If Jayce had not been so terrified, he may have thought they were arranged like the points of a crown, but in that moment, every instinct in his screamed how unnatural the sight was. How much like prey he felt, looking up at it.
"Impossible." The thing whispered to itself, which was a testament to just how silent the ravine was that Jayce could hear it. The two glowing points where its human eyes were, flickered as it blinked slowly.
Then its shadow abruptly disappeared from view. Jayce’s brow furrowed as its fingers remained in his line of sight, where they flexed. Then its head appeared again. Before disappearing once more. It was being indecisive. For why, Jayce couldn’t tell.
And then it hissed out a quiet, “damn the Gods,” before it swung its leg over the edge of the ledge and began to climb down TOWARDS him.
Jayce’s heart leapt up into the base of his throat as his eyes blew wide at the speed in which it moved. He was unable to tear his eyes off it, as the thing fluidly found foot and hand holds in the seemingly smooth rockface. It moved with the surety of an uncanny mountain goat down the uneven terrain. Clearly, it had been navigating this habitat for some time.
All too soon, its booted feet slammed down into the ground and it straightened up like a man.
Jayce’s eyes promptly leapt over to his hammer, embedded face down out of reach, then he dragged them back to the thing. The lighting was poor this deep in the ravine, but his eyes had adjusted enough to make out ruined, Piltover style clothes, worn shoes and scraggly, unkempt hair.
Its head tilted, studying him as he studied it. And then, fearlessly, it approached him.
Jayce yelped, his fingernails scraping against stone, as he tried - and failed - to scramble away. The creature froze in place. Jayce rolled onto his back, his leg protesting every motion as he threw up his arm to shield his face."S-stay away!" He ordered, mentally cursing the wobble to the words.
For a moment, it didn’t move. He could just hear it breathing. Slow and calm.
“Oh. Oh my Love." It whispered with audible gentleness to its hissed words. “What has he let happen to you?” Jayce’s brows furrowed at the odd phrasing, before he flinched as the thing smoothly lowered itself closer to his level. Its knees hit the stone with twin thumps, before it shuffled closer on all fours. A failed attempt at being nonthreatening.
His entire body tightened up defensively as it drew nearer, but it seemed to pay his reactions no mind. "I'll throttle that bastard the next time I lay eyes on him." It continued to mutter to itself, an underlying fury to its words now, although Jayce somehow knew he was not the cause of it. "Allowing you to suffer in the name of learning. As if you haven't had a rough several days already."
It let out a frustrated little huff as it continued to mutter to itself. A sound so weirdly familiar, that Jayce realised with a snag that he recognised the voice. His breath stuttered as he realised he hadn’t noticed before, because of how rough the words sounded, as if the creature hadn’t had use for human sounds for a long time.
Unaware of his slowly dawning realisation, he watched as it crawled closer to his leg. A small part of him sighed in relief that it hadn’t taken an interest in his head or anything vital, whilst another part screamed at him to defend his new weakness.
He was so torn between the two, that he ended up with no time to react either way, as the figure stopped approaching a healthy hand's length away, and simply leaned over the bloodied limb with a sharp tut. “Definitely broken.”
Jayce would have laughed at the dry analysis, if he were anywhere but trapped in the bottom of a ravine with a seven eyed stranger.
"I'm sorry, but who are you?" Jayce asked, like an idiot.
And its seven, glowing eyes snapped up to his face.
In truth, he already knew the answer to his question, but he also didn't. This person may have sounded like his partner. May have shared similar speech patterns, and mannerisms with someone he held dear. But this person before him was foreign to him. They moved differently to who he was expecting. Acted differently to the person he knew so intimately.
"Oh." They said again, voice creaking. Head tilting in the bizarre way his partner’s never would have. "You do not recognise me." And oh, the sheer sadness laced between those words as good as sucker punched him. It awakened a knee-jerk reaction in Jayce that instantly made him want to smooth over the hurt. To offer sweet words in reassurance.
He only barely managed to bite his tongue in time.
Not like this. He wanted to say. I know you, but I do not recognise you. Not like this.
“I cannot see you very well,” he said instead, words chosen carefully.
And they hummed, sitting back on their hunches as their glowing gaze pinned him in place.
“Perhaps,” they said quietly, more to themself than Jayce. “Maybe I can…” they trailed off, a grunt of effort escaping their lips.
For a heartbeat, there was only the drip of water in the background. Then the five points on their forehead flickered and burned with such an intensely white light that Jayce cried out and shielded his eyes.
“Sorry. I do not tap into the magic very often.” They told him, sounding genuinely apologetic, before quickly adding in explanation, “it gives me a headache.”
Behind his clenched eyelids, Jayce watched as the light dimmed to a more manageable level. Slowly, he lowered his arm and peered over it, to find the figure before him was certainly more visible, the eyes on their forehead offering a soft output of light.
No, wait, those were not eyes.
With a grunt of effort, Jayce lifted himself up into a sitting position, his own eyes narrowing as he realised that those glowing points were in fact runes. Runes that were now acting as their own light source, like a miner’s headlamp. They emitted a glow similar to the light of the Hexcore. Specifically, how the magic had glowed when it had been infused into Viktor’s limbs when he had reawakened and stumbled his way across the lab.
Gods, that felt like a lifetime ago now, when it had merely been a matter of days.
The runes- which, now he was looking, seemed to have been carved into their forehead - tilted with their head to that unnatural angle again as the figure asked seriously, “better?”
The word instantly banished the lingering uncertainty from Jayce's mind as with a jolt, he registered the rest of their appearance outside of the runes. As he gazed upon a face he knew intimately, and yet looked alien to him now.
They looked tired, was his first thought. However long they had been here, the years had worn into their skin, adding weight beneath their eyes, and grey streaks to their hair. They were older than the person Jayce knew back home, and yet, there was still that light of mischief in the glint of their eye, beneath the exhaustion.
"What happened to you?" Jayce found himself asking, the words slipping out before he could fully register them.
They huffed out a laugh. As if his concern was amusing. “I could ask you the same thing, Love." They return easily, eyes dropping back to his broken leg. "You look like you've been through the ringer."
There was a deep, heavy sadness to their voice. A grief that startled Jayce.
Jayce and his unlikely Companion swiftly realised that he couldn’t move very far with his leg busted up; not with any dignity at least. But between them, they managed to find the driest corner of the ravine to rest in. Jayce dragged himself over on his three working limbs, whilst his Companion disappeared into the gloom in search of something burnable to begin a fire.
They returned soon after, a dead lizard hanging by its tail in one hand, and a handful of plants and twigs in the other.
“It’ll smoke something awful,” they explained to Jayce as they sank down to their knees opposite him and began constructing a feeble campfire between them. “But it’ll burn.”
With quiet efficiency, they set to getting the fire going, hands practiced and certain, where in another life, they only knew how to hold a pencil. Jayce fondly remembered having to teach that version how to turn on the oven in the lab’s kitchenette. And here they were, starting sensible fires and skinning rainbow lizards in preparation for cooking.
He was not even entirely sure where they had been keeping the knife, having not noticed it on their person earlier, and was even more surprised when it turned out that they knew how to use it.
“How long has the world been like this?” Jayce found himself asking, hoping that a conversation would help take his mind off his still very broken leg.
The smooth slicing of the knife blade through scales halted as their eyes flickered up to him. Their eyebrows drew together in thought, causing the runes across their forehead to distort. “Hard to say.” They told him evenly, their expression weirdly unreadable. “The years began to blend together after a time.” Which wasn’t really much of an answer.
The conversation trailed off as quickly as it had begun, and before he knew it, Jayce was smelling the lizard beginning to cook, and had blinked, only to realise that his Companion had at some point risen from their spot on the opposite side of the fire. He snapped his head round, only to find them reemerging from the gloom again, their knife cleaned and dripping with water, whilst their sleeves were visibly wet. At least neither of them would be dying from dehydration any time soon.
“We need to set your leg.” His Companion said by way of greeting, and Jayce grimaced, and sat up a little straighter.
The fever crept in quicker than Jayce had anticipated it would.
It wasn’t really much of a surprise, considering the injury, and the environment in which he had been injured in. But he and his Companion had tried their best to fend it off with what they had.
Jayce tried to keep himself warm the first night by curling up as close to the fire as he could get without setting himself alight. He kept from worsening the injury by moving around with his other limbs, and upon his Companion’s firm insistence, remaining by the fire.
Wordlessly, they took it upon themselves to keep the flames stoked with burnable things. And disappeared off into the gloom beyond the light whenever Jayce’s stomach rumbled with hunger. They returned without fail, having caught some small, weird creature to cook for him.
Vaguely, as the fever pressed in, Jayce noticed how they rarely ate anything they brought him unless prompted. He was not certain if it was because of the runes, or simply because they wanted him at full strength, but he had to practically force food into their hands. And then refuse to eat his own portion unless they ate with him. It never failed to put an exasperated smile on their face, which in turn filled Jayce with a little flicker of warmth.
They were worried about him, he could tell. Could see it in the way they helped him clean and wrap his leg. Could see it in the careful way they handled the limb, eyes raking over the corrupted infection beginning to eat its way through his skin. Thick strings of sickly green and unnatural blue clung to the damp cloth they used to wipe the wound clean, to which they grimaced and Jayce simply tried not to look.
Instead, he occupied himself by theorising ways to get out of the ravine. His Companion even found him a stone with which to use the walls as a makeshift chalkboard. They kept the fire stoked, whilst Jayce theorised and scribbled all over the rock faces. Mapping out runes and scribbling down equations. Scrambling to find any possible way he could return home.
The entire time, they withheld any suggestions that might have helped him figure out a way to help them both escape their current prison. Offering quiet hums or simply shaking their head when he tried to rope them into the conversation.
At first, he found the avoidance weirdly endearing. An echo of late nights spent at the chalkboard with Viktor by his side as they tried to figure out an equation, whilst Y/n lingered by their desk, carefully sketching out the newest illustration for an assignment. Back then, both he and Viktor had tried to rope the Illustrator into their brainstorming, only to get unsatisfying hums in response, or the blank stare of someone who had not been paying attention.
But now, their lack of assistance quickly began to weigh on him, and Jayce at one point demanded at the height of his desperate attempts, for them to help him.
To which they had glanced up from the fire, regret swimming behind their eyes as they replied with obscure things like, “he’s testing you,” and “he won’t allow me to remain here if I make this too easy for you.”
The repetitive reference to some mysterious ‘him’ had been another piece of the puzzle that Jayce hadn’t been able to crack. They seemed to always be referring to some nameless ‘him’ with a tone of annoyance and sometimes hostility, but had failed to ever actually name ‘him’. Instead muttering about how if ‘he’ wanted Jayce to know ‘him’ yet, then ‘he’ would have already shown ‘himself.’
Jayce’s fever swept him under with a determination and intensity that left his mind scattered and foggy before he could truly get to the bottom of that one.
In seemingly random intervals, Jayce burned. And then he froze. He would sweat, and he would shiver. And all the while, his leg festered. No amount of cleaning or rebandaging the wound with new, dirty pieces from either of their clothes would sooth the fire burning through his veins.
With the constant presence of the pain, his paranoia seethed. He found his feverish gaze constantly flickering up to the top of the ravine, always expecting the humanoid forms of those machines to be peering back down at him.
Sometimes, he would snap awake from a nightmare and forget where he was. He would come to and see a figure sat on the other side of the low burning fire, and he would foggily register the seven glowing eyes and immediately sink into a blind panic. He would fumble for his hammer out of instinct, and then later be eternally grateful that it was always out of his reach.
His Companion would startle in the face of his terror, only to flare their runes brightly with a wince to banish the darkness for him. Their face would come into focus, and Jayce would find himself relaxing every time. Regardless of the changes in their appearance from the familiar face he knew, Jayce still found comfort from just looking at them.
Once he had stopped panicking, they would then dull the lights back down to their usual glow before shuffling forward. They would call him ‘Love’ in that achingly gentle voice, and offer him grounding touches to further soothe him. And Jayce was so desperate for a kind hand that he melted into it every time.
Panting from the dream, and still clammy and shaking, his body would automatically surrender to their concern, as they pressed cool rags to his burning forehead, and allowed him to lay his spinning head down in their lap, their fingers gently raking through his messy locks. He was in desperate need of a haircut, but wasn’t yet desperate enough to trust them to take a knife to it.
Once or twice, whilst he was dozing in their lap, he would come to, to the sound of them talking - snarling - at someone Jayce could not see.
“I cannot fight this infection on my own.” He heard them grumble, their fingers still in his hair, massaging away the lingering headache with firm, soothing rolls of their fingertips along tense muscles.
There would always only be silence and the drip of water in response.
“If he dies again, you know I’ll never forgive you. Right?” They threatened the air, to which more silence would allow the words to fade into nothing. Unacknowledged.
The only full-proof way to keep track of the days was to listen to the prickle of the temperature dropping. When night fell on the surface, Jayce could see his breath fogging in front of his face. The stone he sat on would begin to leech his warmth from his skin, and the warmth of the fire would begin to fail to reach him, regardless of how well stocked it was.
When those hours hit, his Companion would wordlessly sidle up to his side and huddle closer to him, offering a solid line of warmth along one side of his body. And Jayce, like the weak man he was, would curl into the offered comfort, like a cat luxuriating in a sunny spot.
Wordlessly, he would wind an arm around their back to draw them close, and in return, they would lay their head back on his shoulder, and curl their fingers tightly into his ruined jacket. Tucking their knees up close to their chest, they would lean into him, and in return Jayce would lean his head down against their hair.
Between bouts of fading fever, Jayce would flit between slumber and staring into the fire, whilst his Companion kept him warm. They remained stiff at his side for hours, shifting and shuffling whilst Jayce tried to recover.
Only rarely did he notice them actually falling asleep. But when they did, they went limp against his side. Dropping down hard into slumber.
Their head would become heavy on his broad shoulder, but those fingers would never completely untangle from his coat, as if they subconsciously feared him slipping away whilst they rested.
They seemed to completely trust Jayce when they were at their most vulnerable. And in this small way, Jayce was able to repay them for their kindness. For their willingness to help him, even if it meant clambering down into a freezing cold ravine with no real hope of being able to climb back out again.
It was in situations like this, that sometimes their rune riddled forehead would lightly rest against the exposed skin of Jayce’s throat. And sometimes, whilst he was still glaring into the flames of the fire, the magic residing within would offer glimpses of events that Jayce had never experienced.
The latest of which, he saw snapshots of the lab back home. Of it, as it was after Viktor woke up from his coma and broke out of his Hexcore-made chrysalis. He vaguely caught sight of the structure itself, the imprint left behind by Viktor’s body still darkening the centre of it, before the dream steered his focus to a desk.
He watched through someone else’s eyes as frantic hands slammed down a pile of notebooks. He recognised his own handwriting, alongside Viktor’s as the hands tore open the notebooks, flipping frantically through the pages until they came across the rune indexes in each.
A pointer finger slid along carefully copied rune illustrations, drawn by the lab’s Illustrator, whilst Viktor of Jayce’s handwriting beneath accurately named the symbol and explained each of their hypothetical uses.
“Warding.” The body’s voice muttered aloud. “Protection. Exceleration. Shielding. Fuck. Fuck! Speed- oh, yes! Repel! Okay, okay, Repel. Warding might be useful. Probably can’t go wrong with Protection either. Shit. Fuck. Pen. Pen!”
He felt the weight of the marker pen in his dominant hand, and startled at the sight of someone else’s terrified face staring back at him in the reflection of a small, hand-held mirror. He felt the cold ink from the pen spreading across his forehead, as the body began to hurriedly scribble runes across it.
In the back of his mind, Jayce felt dread bubbling.
He was coming.
Jayce had no idea who ‘He’ was, but the terror crawling up the back of his throat felt like an instinct. As if what was to come was inevitable. Inescapable. Somehow, he knew that there was no way to calm the pounding of this body’s heart or soothe their frantic breathing or racing mind. There was only desperation, and the terror of a lone person clawing at a chance of survival until their fingernails cracked and bled.
He blinked, and for a moment, he was back in the cave glaring into the fire. The deep seated terror closing his airways lingered, and then he blinked once more and was thrust back into the lab.
The body he was in flinched hard as the lab doors behind him were slammed open. He heard the familiar gait of his partner’s footsteps, and knew in his soul that the ‘he’ who had come, was Viktor. And that the metallic after note of each step, was a byproduct of the man’s new body.
Jayce felt sweat break out on his forehead as his eyes darted from Viktor’s approaching form in the mirror, to the useless ink marks standing out on his forehead. His stomach twisted into knots, although Jayce did not yet know why. This was Viktor after all. His Viktor.
Jayce felt his body outside of the runes’ influence shiver when Viktor finally spoke. His accent was heavily woven between his vowels as he called out a low greeting, an unnatural, unsettling undertone altering his voice ever so slightly. If Jayce did not know the man as intimately as he did, he would never have noticed the difference.
In the dream - no, the memory - the body that Jayce was hijacking, turned to meet Viktor as he rounded the Hexcore-made frame and approached the desk. Dressed in a navy robe artfully wound around his unnatural limbs, the man kept his footsteps slow and terrifying. His eyes shone with the light of the Arcane as he tilted his head alluringly.
The staff he walked with tapped rhythmically with every step. The ticking of a bomb countdown.
"Join me." He coaxed sweetly, a mockery of the sweet words he used to utter when inviting one or both of his lovers into bed after a long day spent in the lab. A smile tugged at his thin lips, too tight to truly be a warm one.
The body Jayce was in firmly declined his offer. Shaking their head and clinging to their pen as if it would be a suitable weapon against the man cornering them.
Viktor frowned. “You are certain of this?” He asked.
“Yes.”
Viktor frowned. “I am sorry to hear that.” He said, like a warning. Jayce’s eyes darted down to the man’s hand, to his palm which had begun to subtly glow. The body he was in lurched, as if to run, but Viktor was faster. His hand shot out, like a snake’s unhinging jaw, and all five of his fingertips touched the body’s forehead.
Jayce felt frozen, forced into submission, as he felt the magic flow out of Viktor and dig into his mind. His thoughts. Probing. Trying to force a connection.
Only to run into a wall.
Abruptly, the useless runes etched across his skin ignited with a cutting, siring warmth, forcefully converting Viktor’s magic into a power source. It pushed back sharply against him, and Viktor recoiled with a shout, ripping his hand away.
There is a weird, iridescent light in Jayce's peripheral vision, as Viktor's form stumbled back, his once glowing hand grasping hard onto the edge of the desk to keep his footing.
Jayce's head snapped down, and his eyes connected with the little mirror on the desk, and he realised with a start that the simple pen marks had sunk down under his skin; having carved a permanent presence into the flesh.
"You- you shut me out." Viktor whispered, his voice oozing with hurt.
The words that shot forth from Jayce's mouth were not his own, as anger and betrayal coated them thickly. "You tried to erase me!" The body he was in snarled, "you wanted to turn me into one of your mindless puppets!"
"Not erase, no! I would never erase you!" Viktor tried to reassure, looking horrified at the mere suggestion. "I just wanted to help you see-" but the dream slipped away before Jayce could be convinced.
The head resting on his shoulder abruptly snapped upwards, severing the connection, and forcing Jayce back into the cave. The echoes of what he had just witnessed followed him back to the smell of damp, and the crackle of the fire.
The warmth at his side retreated as his Companion sat up and pulled away from him. They were breathing hard, hands shaking as shrunken pupils stared unseeingly ahead. Air sawed in and out of their mouth at a rapidly accelerating pace. The runes on their forehead burned with light. The beams they gave off were so strong, that they shone dancing iridescent light across the opposite cave wall.
Stomach sinking, Jayce carefully reached across the gap between them to lightly touch their shoulder. They flinched away from him; hard. Their hand instinctively scrambled for their boot where he now knew they kept their knife.
“Hey.” Jayce tried to soothe, his voice too loud amongst the popping of the flames and their quiet, desperate breaths. “You’re not in the lab anymore. You’re in the ravine. Remember? With Jayce?”
They blinked, and their eyes suddenly came into focus, their pupils widening rapidly before shrinking back to their usual size.
Jayce remained frozen where he was, his hand still raised, and his expression open and understanding.
“Jayce.” They repeated quietly in a long breath, rolling the name over their tongue. The tension bled from their shoulders with the exhale, as their hand slid back out of their boot to instead flop onto the stone beside their thigh.
“Yeah. Jayce.” He repeated, carefully shuffling closer without jostling his bad leg. “Can I touch you?” His hand still hovered, but he did not touch them yet. His partner was not like him in that regard. Where he was the type to throw himself into a hug and allow his mind to catch up later, they seemed to respond better to grounding themselves in their surroundings before searching for comfort.
“Please.” They whispered quietly, barely loud enough for Jayce to hear. But he did. And he was ready for them when they slid closer to him and sank into his waiting arms. He wrapped them tightly up in his grip, hating how they felt so small compared to the person he knew. Not fragile, mind you, but smaller as if meals were scarce, which they might well be considering the kind of world they lived in.
Scrambling to pull his mind away from the bleak thought, he rubbed their back and said tightly, “that was some dream.”
They went stiff in his arms, and then pulled back, expression searching. Jayce tried to keep a hold of his easy going smile, but the way their face shuttered with realisation told him he was failing. “Wait. You saw that?”
Sheepishly, he nodded, to which they groaned and sunk back down to hide under his chin.
He could feel his stubble catching on their hair as they went, and mentally mourned his clean shave. The first thing he was doing when he got home was locking himself away to deal with all this unnecessary hair.
“It wasn’t a dream.” His Companion quietly admitted into the front of Jayce’s shirt.
To which he simply continued to run his hand up and down their back. As steady and comforting as he could manage. “Oh?”
“It was a memory.”
Jayce’s hand fell still as their breath stuttered. “Viktor?” Jayce said aloud, feeling the way his Companion tensed at the softly uttered name. “Viktor did this to you? The runes?”
They did not correct him, and Jayce’s stomach sank. “But that isn’t like Viktor at all. That man looked like him but he wasn’t Viktor.” Jayce tried to argue.
“I’m not lying.” They tried to argue, beginning to push against Jayce’s chest in retaliation. “I wouldn’t lie about something like this.” They repeated with more conviction.
“I’m not saying you are.” Jayce tried to soothe, loosening his grip so they could pull back, but not entirely letting go. “But what you’re saying doesn’t line up with what I know about my Viktor. Maybe yours is different?”
Their expression turned pained, and those eyes flickered away. “Maybe.” They said neutrally, and Jayce felt his heart clench.
“What? What did I say wrong?” He asked automatically, but they were already trying to pull away again. And this time he let them go.
They rose on silent feet and rounded the fire. Movements fluid with a bite to their step that just further confirmed what Jayce had feared. He had offended them. Somewhere along the conversation, he had put his foot on something fragile, and they had raised their hackles to scare him off.
Absently, he wondered if they would turn tail into the darkness and leave him alone here as punishment.
“He wasn’t in his right mind when he tried to do it.” Their voice argued, as they pointedly reached a stretch of flat stone directly opposite Jayce on the other side of the fire, before sitting down heavily. Something tight in Jayce’s chest loosened at the middle ground. A silent ask for distance without outright abandoning him. “And when he was like that, no, didn’t seem to be a word he understood.”
“I believe you.” Jayce easily agreed to which they hummed, and turned their attention down to the flames.
Come morning, they seemed to have forgiven him for whatever his misstep was.
“We need to refresh the bandages.” They said by way of explanation, before rounding the smouldering fire to offer Jayce a hand up.
With a lot of grunting and readjusting, they managed to loop an arm around his waist, whilst Jayce slung his own over their shoulders. They quietly cursed as he used them as a glorified crutch to hobble over to the water pool a little ways back from their camp.
It was a glorified puddle rather than an actual pond, with a tiny stream feeding into it from a smaller pocket of water higher up in the far wall.
He was lowered down with care, his bad leg stretched out in front of him. His Companion dropped into a crouch at his side, their runes flaring once more with a poorly concealed wince, before they leant over his leg. With steady hands, they carefully began to unwind the strip of their shirt that had previously been the bandage. Strings of green goo clung to the underside of the fabric when they pulled it back, causing Jayce to wince and turn his head away.
“Well, it’s not worse.” His Companion helpfully informed him, to which Jayce let out a tense laugh.
“So we don’t need to cut it off yet, Doc?”
They hummed thoughtfully, tossing the soiled rag aside, before sliding their knife from their boot to begin cutting a fresh strip off. “Not yet. The infection is remaining close to the entry wound. If it gets into your blood, then we’ll talk about hacking off your leg with my butter knife.”
“Gods, that is a horrible image.”
“Then don’t imagine it.” They dryly informed him. Jayce watched them with a fond little tug at his lips, so engrossed by their chatter that he almost didn’t notice the weight of eyes on him.
Almost.
The hairs along the nape of his neck began to rise, as goosebumps prickled beneath his sleeves. Tensing, Jayce instinctively glanced up, his fever dreams of the dolls silhouettes staring back down at him making his heart leap. But of course, there was nothing there. Aside from his current company, nothing had followed him down into the ravine.
Then he saw a flash of dull white standing out against the gloom on the opposite side of the lake, and his mouth went dry. Eyes widening, his eyes fell on a figure shrouded in a simple cloak, grasping a staff. The same hooded figure he had followed to the city from the wilds. The figure that resembled the Mage from his childhood.
The sound of fabric being sliced through, abruptly cut off.
"Oi!"
Jayce jumped at the almighty bellow that punched its way out of the person beside him.
Unbothered, the figure across the lake slowly turned their hooded head towards Jayce’s Companion.
"Fuck off!" They spat venomously.
The figure did not move.
Jayce blinked, and the other side of the water was suddenly empty.
They huffed out an angry breath. "Nosy bastard." They muttered sharply, tucking the knife away before bending forward to wet the cloth. "Keeping fucking tabs on me."
“Wh-who was that?”
They huffed. “Already told you, ‘he’ll’ introduce him when ‘he’ deems it time, the prick.”
Jayce needed his mobility back.
He needed out of this ravine, and he could not do so on a leg that threatened to rebreak itself every time he put his weight on it.
He had mapped out every equation. Had brainstormed every possible scenario. And the answer he had reached, was the same way he had ended up here. He needed to be able to climb out. But to do that, he needed a brace for his leg. The materials of which, he decided he would simply take from his hammer. Simple. He had created more complicated things with worse materials before.
It just so happened that his Companion had wandered off to mutter to themselves again when he began, so they returned to find his leg mostly encased in various pieces of metal with torn off strips of his shirt barely holding it all together, whilst the remainder of the hammer lay scattered around him in parts.
“What’ve you got on the go here?”
“What will hopefully become a mobility aid.” Jayce replied simply, torn between watching them sink into a crouch at his side, and tightening the latest fabric strip.
“Ah, like Viktor’s leg brace.” They mused, making Jayce’s hands falter. Outside of the weird memories, that was the first time they’d mentioned Viktor by name in front of him. It made his stomach sink to think why that was.
“Hold this steady for me.” He instructed instead of dwelling on the thought.
They raised their brows and tried to back out. “You know I do not have the hands of a mechanic.” They tried to dissuade him, to which Jayce simply pushed the metal pieces into their limp hands. They grasped them obediently, but continued to be weary as Jayce turned his attention to his ankle. “If you handed me a pen however.” They trailed the sentence off into a tight laugh that led nowhere. “Gods, I never thought I’d miss pens of all things. Or paper.”
Jayce frowned. “Do you not draw anymore?”
“Not as much as I would like to.” They replied, “the spark kind of died when everyone else did. And the world has lost its colour.” And beat of silence, to which they promptly added, “which you saw a few days ago, of course. There literally feels like there’s no colour anymore, which of course is half of the fun when you’re drawing. Besides, my sketchbook did not survive the test of time.” They rambled before promptly adding, “I have charcoal at least. Keeps my hands busy.” Closely followed by yet another beat of uncomfortable silence.
Jayce had nodded along through the whole ramble, having had more than enough practice in doing so back in the lab. As he listened, he finished off binding his ankle into place, before he gave his knee an experimental roll to see if the knee joint was aligned. It clicked along the gear joints but seemed to be holding.
The soft click of metal had drawn their attention back to the present, and they quietly muttered, “I forget how smart you are sometimes.”
That startled a flush onto Jayce’s cheeks and his eyes into looking up at them, and oh, oh no. The grief was back in their face.
“Book smart.” They quickly added. “Just to clarify. No offence, Love, but street smarts were never truly one of your strengths.”
Jayce let a small smile cross his face at the words. They brought back fond memories of venturing into Zaun with Viktor to haggle for machine parts, only to end up getting charged three times the actual price. He had never really mastered that particular skill, and had simply relied on Viktor’s common sense to see him through.
His Companion cleared their throat when he did not immediately respond, and slowly withdrew their hands from the metal parts they’d been holding in place. They held together beautifully, much to Jayce’s relief.
“Do you need anything from the surface?” They asked, eyes flickering up and down the brace. “It would take a day or two to hunt down tools not fully corrupted, but I’m sure I could find something?”
Jayce frowned back at them. Genuinely at a loss for words.
“What?” They asked, glancing over their shoulder as if the hooded figure was back.
“You- you could have left this entire time?”
They narrowed their eyes at him. “Yes?”
“But you didn’t?”
“Of course not.”
“Why?” Jayce demanded with more conviction and surprise than he had anticipated feeling on the subject. “Why would you waste days down here? With me?”
They huffed and rolled their eyes at him as if he were the one being unreasonable. “Because you don’t do well in the cold, Jayce.” They told him simply.
And Jayce couldn’t help but think of the fire that they had kept constantly burning. Of the nights spent huddled up together. The countless times he had woken up shivering, panic bitter on the back of his tongue, only for warm hands to soothe him back into slumber. Effortlessly banishing dreams of snow and mages, beneath rune infused memories of the lab and all the chaos he used to get up to with his partners, back before everything went so horribly wrong.
Within the hour, they began the long climb out.
The brace held, and Jayce couldn’t help but take that as a win, despite the loss of his weapon.
True to their word, his Companion did in fact navigate the climb up easily. As agile as they had been when clambering down to assist him that very first day. They were attentive, whilst showing him the easiest footholds to use. Constantly glancing back down at him, as Jayce huffed and puffed and struggled to put one hand above the other.
The long days spent resting had zapped his stamina. Whilst his bound leg offered constant protests to his every move. But Jayce forced himself to persist.
“Come on, Love.” His Companion encouraged for what felt like the hundredth time, having found a ledge wide enough to take a rest break on. They had already leaned over the edge to offer him their hand. “We will catch our breath here for a moment.”
“I can keep going.” Jayce tried to insist as they caught his wrist and began hauling him up. He pushed with his good leg, his unoccupied hand grasping firmly onto the lip of the ledge.
“I do not doubt that,” they reassured him as his knee hit the rock, and he was guided away from the drop. “But it will be a more pleasant climb if it is not out of desperation. We have time.”
Jayce’s good leg slipped as a foothold caved under his weight. He cried out. Nails digging into the rock as he body lurched dangerously.
Above, there was a flurry of movement. The blur of glowing runes leaving trails of light as their owner slid back down the rockface to grab him before he tumbled back down into the darkness.
They grunted from his additional weight, fingers like a shackle around his wrist. Keeping him from slipping further. Jayce somehow knew they wouldn’t let him fall. Even if it were out of sheer stubbornness rather than available strength.
“Love.” They strained, and Jayce shook his head as he scrambled for new handholds and somewhere to put his dangling foot. “I am NOT spending any more days down there.” They informed him firmly. “We’re so close. Come on, one last push!”
And they were. Jayce could actually see a sliver of sunlight along one of the cracks. Could smell fresh rain, alongside the damp of the stone. The sound of raindrops felt like music to his ears. A fresh melody after the maddening tempo of dripping stalactites.
The pair climbed out of the ravine, and then continued upwards.
The mechanical dolls had already begun to shift and turn their heads towards him, as Jayce panted and scrambled to find his legs. Only for the machines to promptly fall still as Jayce’s hand was promptly snatched up and tightly intertwined with that of his Companion. The touch sending a sharp but pleasant tingle down his arm.
“They will not be able to sense you, so long as you hold onto me.”
“A byproduct of the runes?”
They nodded, and then began dragging him through the crowd, following Jayce’s original path. How they knew what direction he planned to head in, he was not certain, but the warmth of their hand in his helped him to think past it.
Together, they climbed and scaled and clawed their way up to the only part of the world seemingly untouched by the bleakness of the corruption. A stretch of greenery that spanned across the top of the Hexgate dome, cracked and fractured but no less beautiful. At the far edge of a platform, knelt a lone figure clutching what at first glance, looked to be a long stick. Head bowed as if in prayer.
The warmth of the hand in his abruptly slipped away as Jayce’s Companion let out a soft sigh and began making their way towards the figure. The surety in their step spoke of time spent in this patch of sunlight before. A thought given evidence when they approached the statue and greeted it like a slumbering sweetheart.
“Good Morning, my Love.” They whispered, voice swimming with warmth and fondness. Jayce followed half a step behind, watching with a frown as they leaned down to press a light kiss to the temple of the statue.
They withdrew just as quickly, trailing tender fingers down the figure’s marble cheek, to its shoulder, before trailing light fingertips around its back. The plants growing out of its back bent easily to their touch, before seeming to bloom and reach back.
It was an odd sight to behold. Plants did not act like that when disturbed, or at least they shouldn’t. But then again, this dimension was full of mechanical dolls instead of citizens. And Jayce currently stood before a person who wore his lover’s face. So, putting everything else into perspective, the plants seeming to arch into a gentle touch, wasn’t all that strange of a sight.
“Who was he?” Jayce found himself asking, eyes sliding back to the face of the bowing figure. To the metal flecked hands wound around the handle of what Jayce realised with a sickening drop of his stomach, was a perfect replica of his hammer. As it was after being corrupted from the ravine; warped and uneven.
His Companion smiled sadly at his question. “Look closer, Jayce.”
His eyes flickered up to their calm expression, and then back down to the statue. To the echoes of a face almost entirely erased beneath the white marble. To the tiny garden of plants thriving within the broken crown of its skull.
It was the first mechanical being Jayce had seen so far, that still clung onto its past identity. Its facial features have not entirely been erased or consumed by gleaming gold or purifying white.
With a tired groan, he lowered himself down to his knees, his bad leg throbbing from the angle change.
It turned out that kneeling down, had him at the perfect height to stare straight ahead into the statue’s blank, half-opened eyes, the suggestion of lax pupils and irises staring back at him. His gaze trailed up, to the arch of a brow before sliding in towards the inner eye and down the slope of a nose. A nose Jayce had spent a lifetime scrutinising in the mirror-
In his peripheral vision, a flash of blinding white had Jayce’s head snapping away from studying the statue.
As before, his Companion stood over the statue’s shoulder like some imitation of a solemn angel, but it wasn’t them that had Jayce’s body startling.
It was the ominously hooded figure looming just behind them. Under the weight of his gaze, that hooded head turned towards Jayce. Stood so still and silently, the Mage oozed power. The very galaxies appeared to have been caught in the shadow of their hood. Whereas tendrils of the arcane had sunk into the fibres of their hooded cloak, bleaching bursts of pink and blue in arching webs across the fabric.
The spell was abruptly shattered, when Jayce’s Companion suddenly rounded on the hooded figure, hands clenched into fists at their sides. “You know,” they sharply lectured, back straight as the robed figure jumped. “Normally, people say, hi, instead of just appearing soundlessly!”
The hooded figure seemed to fumble for a response. Head snapping to them as if the Mage had not been expecting his Companion to address him at all. Undeterred, Jayce watched as their shoulders remained tense as they pointedly looked the Mage up and down. “And what the hell are you wearing?” Jayce winced at the venom in those words.
The Mage’s shoulders slumped dramatically, before they motioned theatrically to Jayce, which just earned them a humourless huff.
“Really? You’re trying not to scare him?” They dryly asked, making Jayce question how they had managed to get all of that from a simple look and gesture. “Well, you could’ve fooled me.”
The Mage sighed tiredly, fingers tightening around their staff. “Y/n, please.” They huffed, and the familiarity of that accented voice sent a pang of intense longing through Jayce. So much so that his stomach physically twisted at the pleading undertone to those raw words.
“...Viktor?”
Both dimensional variations of Jayce’s lovers stiffened at his quiet question.
“Uh, Jayce, I-” The Mage looked at his Companion for support, his hood obscuring his features, but somehow his exasperation shone through just as well.
To their credit, his Companion just shrugged. “It’s not my fault you changed everything but your voice.”
The Mage huffed audibly. “Well if you hadn’t been here to mess up my introduction, then we wouldn’t be having this problem.”
Jayce watched as Y/n’s shoulders bunched, their knuckles tightening as they opened their mouth to snap back, but thankfully Jayce was the first to speak.
“Look!” He said loudly, startling both of them into holding their tongues. “I don’t understand what’s going on. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know why I’m in the city, or why you’ve both guided me up here. So will someone please start explaining?”
His questions earned him another exchange of looks from the pair. A tense shake of the head from one, and a shrug from the other.
Jayce did not like the heavy tension drawing tight between the two. The worst disagreement he’d ever witnessed between his Viktor and Y/n had been a ten minute back and forth where Y/n had misplaced one of Viktor’s notebooks and he had blown up at them for it. The notebook - thankfully - had been found mere moments later, but the fight had been terrifying for Jayce to witness all the same.
Clearly, whatever had fractured the bond here and left the two of them snapping at one another, had been far more significant than a simple misplaced notebook. And something told Jayce that the figure currently knelt before them was the main cause of it.
With a sigh, the Mage with Viktor’s voice stepped forward and tilted his head up just so. The sunlight finally penetrated the starry darkness collected beneath his hood, gently curling over his cheek and breathing warmth into his magically iridescent eyes. Jayce’s breath got stuck in his throat at the sight those familiar eyes turned soft with an untold emotion, of facial hair and clear signs of age on Viktor’s face.
It was then that the Mage finally began to explain.
"Send him back."
Stood a little ways back from the pair of them, Y/n had their arms wrapped tightly around themself as they flicked their frosty expression over to a tense Viktor. When the Mage looked back at them, their jaw tightened and they raised their chin. Preparing for a fight.
“It is only fair." They added.
"I was always going to." Viktor snapped back, just as sharply.
To which Jayce couldn’t fully conceal his wince. He had scarcely been in their collective presence for more than half an hour, and it had taken every molecule of councilor decorum to keep from sitting the both of them down for a much needed conversation. Whenever the Mage wasn’t looking, Y/n kept shooting him sad, uncomfortable looks, as if they wanted to add their input, but couldn’t quite find the right words. Whereas, Viktor had just seemed to keep his expression smooth and his head constantly turned away from the human. And it was honestly painful to watch.
Despite their differences, they were both so clearly similar to the people Jayce knew and loved that he almost didn’t want to leave them here with the petrified version of himself for silent company. But unfortunately, with a world to save, and his actual partners to track down, he was already stretched pretty thin.
So when the Mage turned back to Jayce, a silent question in his eyes, Jayce hardened his eyes, clutched his borrowed hammer tighter and firmly told him to send him back.
Viktor had complied readily. A hand emerged from the folds of his cloak, the fingers tattooed with blue runes and elegantly spaced lines encircling his fingertips. The runes on his knuckles began to glow, his hand raising in front of him to focus his magic towards Jayce.
Y/n shifted away from him as the tattoos along his arm began to light up as well. Their mouth was drawn into a tight line as they crossed their arms. Jayce caught a glimpse of the hesitance in their eyes. Noticed the way their own runes dimmed when sitting in direct comparison to the magic Viktor wielded with ease.
The sight had a stray thought slamming into Jayce, as his mind jumped to a dream shared in the darkness of the ravine. The panic the memory had brought on, and the stilted answers he’d failed to pull from them. The unease that settled low in his belly was unbalancing enough for him to throw out a panicked, “wait!”
Both Mage and human startled at his sudden declaration. The hand of the former freezing mid-cast, causing the swirling sphere of light that had begun to flash around Jayce to still. Whereas the latter took several concerned steps forward, a question already on their lips.
“Y/n, do not get too close.” Viktor warned evenly, to which they shot him a sharp look.
Before the pair could dissolve into another sharp spat, Jayce licked his lips and caught the human’s attention. “Your runes,” he said desperately, “can you give me the combination so I can help my Y/n?”
Their expression eased at his words, as it often did when they were about to call him ‘Love’. Only this time, the look was tinged with regret as they began to shake their head.
Jayce’s stomach dropped.
“I could,” they told him carefully, “but it would not help you.”
“What do you mean?” Jayce demanded, feeling a sharp stab of panic rip through him.
The human and Mage exchanged another tense look. Viktor inclined his head. Whether granting permission or offering them the choice to answer, Jayce was not entirely sure.
Y/n took another small step towards him, keeping him from picking the action apart for too long. "You see, that interaction between them and The Herald happens whilst you're stuck in this universe. By the time we send you back, you won’t be able to do anything, correct runes or not. It is down to them and luck if they manage to find the correct combination to remain separate from the hivemind."
"So there is nothing I can do?"
The Mage shook his head, and offered his own input. "Sometimes they are lucky. But in most timelines, they fall to The Herald like everyone else he attempts to cure."
Jayce was gone. Again. Returned to his own dimension to hopefully have a better chance at a happy ending than this world had.
The light had scarcely dissipated from Viktor’s fingertips, before his lover was turning to him with a sharp look in their eye. “Drop the illusion.” They ordered him flippantly, eyes flicking across his robe and bearded face.
Viktor almost smiled back, almost teased that the form had grown on him, but he could tell from the way they held themselves that their patience was thin today.
So instead, he allowed his form to flicker, and then change. His white robe shrunk and stretched to become his typical two tailed cloak wrapped around his shoulders. Whilst the galaxy previously trapped beneath the fabric stretched out to cover his skin, which began to erode and return to its unique combination of metal and tendons. Between one blink and the next, his face split and his mask unfolded over his slumbering expression like a mushroom cap emerging from the stem.
“Better?” He asked humorlessly, glancing down at his Lover, who was now significantly shorter than him. They did not flinch away at his distorted voice in this newer, taller, stronger form. It had been so long since the end of everything, that now, they barely seemed to acknowledge the difference between his forms. And he had not sensed fear in the air when they looked upon him like this for years. A small mercy.
They looked him up and down judgmentally, before shrugging. “Sure.” They said impassively, “whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Viktor decided with great self-preservation to not remind them that he did not in fact sleep anymore. Which of course earned him another light jab.
“You couldn’t even grow a beard in that body,” his Lover commented absently, “so why did you give yourself one this time?”
“I thought it would look dashing.” He replied simply. “Do you not agree?”
They rolled their eyes with a ghost of fondness in their face. “You forgot the mole under your right eye this time.”
“Oh. Then I am lucky Jayce did not notice.” Viktor relented easily. After so long, the details of that original body had begun to evade him after all. Sometimes it was the eye colour infused with the power of the Hexcore that he forgot. Other times it was the shade of his hair, or the exact length of his nose. Tiny, meaningless things that his Lover seemed to notice every time regardless.
“Speaking of Jayce,” Viktor began slowly, “you spoke to this one.”
“He was injured.” They returned sharply, avoiding his gaze. “He could have died down there.”
“I would not have let him.”
“And how was I to know that?” They demanded. “Our paths have not crossed outside of this ritual for decades, Viktor. We have not spoken properly since you destroyed everything.”
“Because you hid from me. I could not find you. I tried to find you.”
They swallowed audibly. “I had nothing to say to you.”
The usual routine of the world fell back into step the following dawn.
Viktor waited on the dome of the Hexgates to watch the sunrise with Jayce’s statue, as the pair waited for their human Companion to find them. The Mage was not entirely sure where they went when they were not visiting Jayce and pointedly ignoring him, nor could he really find out on his own thanks to those blasted runes, but it was enough that they turned up at all.
There was no dimensional traveller to guide today, so they turned up an hour later than usual. Freshly washed and dressed in clean attire after so many days spent down in the cave tending to the latest Jayce in the depths of Zaun. It would have been a sweet thought if Viktor hadn’t been tearing the world apart trying to locate the both of them.
But they were fine. And they were here now, crossing Jayce’s blooming resting place to drop a kiss to the statue’s cold forehead and sink to their knees before him. From his spot on the grass a short distance away, Viktor watched with quietly amused eyes as they pulled a stick of charcoal out of their pocket and began carefully drawing out a series of runes across Jayce’s forehead.
It was a daily tradition by now, for them to do so. And for Viktor to watch them try for hours on end. They had grown so familiar with the runes, that they no longer needed to consult a notebook or Viktor’s extensive knowledge to accurately draw the symbols out.
He had tried fruitlessly in the beginning to dissuade them from wasting their time. After all, what Viktor had done to their lover was permanent, and could not be reversed. To which they had turned on him with a burning fury and not so kindly told him to stick his pessimism back up his ‘cosmic ass’.
So Viktor had stopped offering his input. And they had stopped talking to him unless absolutely necessary. They carefully drew out the rune combinations, and Viktor lingered nearby. Quietly watching and regretting everything that had the three of them to where they were now.
What he hated the most however, were the runes on his human love’s forehead, which prevented him from offering so much as a glimpse into his thoughts. That kept him from honestly showing them just how remorseful he was. From showing them just how many times he had tried to reverse his mistake. How many times he had tried and failed to bring Jayce back for them.
"Hand." They demanded then, snapping him out of his thoughts with a start. They withdrew their stick of charcoal from Jayce’s cracked, marble-like forehead and held out their own hand expectantly.
Used to the routine by now, Viktor obediently leaned across the short distance and gave them the limb. His hand dwarfed their’s worse than Jayce’s ever had. A twisted mass of purple tendons and metal, which they gently wrapped their fingers around as far around his wrist as they could go before they guided his outstretched fingertips to the charcoal symbols.
They were always gentle with him in that regard. Despite how furious they were at him for ending the world. In spite of how powerful and imposing he was now, and how difficult he’d actually become to hurt - ridiculous pain tolerance aside. And somehow, the gentleness just made everything so much worse.
The marks did not flare to life. They dropped his wrist, and Viktor pulled back as they wiped away the old runes and set to writing down a fresh set.
"Though your determination is admirable, have you not grown bored yet?" He asked, as he asked them everyday.
"No."
"This isn't working."
"It will."
"There are hundreds of thousands of possibilities. Endless conceivable combinations. There is no way you will be able to try them all."
But instead of ignoring him as they always did, they turned to him today. Their eyes burned with a new found determination. With a light that had Viktor’s tongue going dry.
"Jayce wouldn't give up." They told him sharply, and oh, Viktor hadn’t heard that tone in years, and he hadn’t even realised he’d missed it. "If our roles were reversed, he wouldn't give up on us. Or did that Jayce's determination mean nothing to you." They finished, motioning to the place the other Jayce had been standing just yesterday, having been freshly prepared for the hell he would have to deal with upon returning home.
Viktor lapsed into silence. Eyes distant as he glanced from his blank faced Lover to the meadow of flowers he has cultivated for their late love.
“What?” They pushed an ounce of venom oozing into the word. “No witty quip about how you preferred the silence? How you would have preferred I remained out of your sight, allowing you to revel in the peace a little longer?”
“No.” Viktor replied carefully, suddenly wrong footed. “You know I wouldn’t. Prefer it, that is.”
And something cracks open wide in their expression. A loosening to their tightly knotted eyebrows. A widening of their pupils as if something had just clicked into place. Shock perhaps? Realisation?
“Oh.”
They turned away from him instead of elaborating, some of that hostile wind leaving their sails.
Viktor could only watch on, a nugget of relief sitting low in his chest, as he was once again silently grateful for the luck of that rune combination working out in this timeline. That he hadn’t succeeded in erasing them. That their sharp tongue and fierce determination outlived his short-sighted thirst for power and submission.
"Hand."
And like clockwork, Viktor offered it to them.
Their grasp on his wrist remained careful, but firm. So small compared to his much larger form. But fearless in the way they directed him.
Viktor’s fingertips smudged the charcoal when his fingers lightly touched Jayce’s forehead, as the Mage carefully reached inside in search of that thread within Jayce's dormant subconsciousness. He never quite knew what he was searching for when they did this, but he did know that the first time, the wall of resistance had come out of seemingly nowhere, and had shut out his probing touch with an unapologetic firmness.
But as it always seemed to, Jayce's mind opened up to Viktor and his fingers sank in. Jayce's memories and emotions swirled beneath his fingertips, so fragile and so precious. With a bittersweet smile, Viktor offered him a parting burst of love and adoration before withdrawing. Jayce slumbered on, if not a little easier with the magical nudge.
There was a huff beside him as he withdrew his hand back to his staff. Viktor glanced down at his Companion, whose shoulders were drooping as they tenderly reached up with a damp, charcoal smudged rag to wipe the old runes away, before they took up their charcoal stick and began to draw new ones on.
There was a set to their brow this time. The subtlest of wobbles to their lower lip that made Viktor's stomach twist with guilt and longing. He wanted to reach out and gently pull the charcoal from their hand. To murmur that they needed a break before gathering them to him, but he knew from experience that he would just end up getting shoved away, and they would run from him. That they would use their runes to their advantage to conceal themselves from him.
"I miss him." They whispered under their breath, and Viktor's eyes closed tightly against the sheer pain in their tone.
"As do I." He reassured them, and they smiled tightly at him.
Wordlessly, they reached out for Viktor's hand, and he readily gave it to them. What stunned him however, was how instead of simply placing his fingers for him, they instead brought it to their lips first, and pressed a kiss to the back of it. Their eyes shone when he stared at them in shock, the affection so deeply missed, that for a moment, he was rendered speechless.
His eyes studied their expression, their posture, the magical void produced by their runes. Trying and failing to figure out what had changed. What had induced the whisper of affection he so desperately craved.
"I am still mad at you." They clarified wetly, "but I miss you too, Viktor."
And oh by the Gods, he almost caved right then and there. Just the quiet utterance of his name said so sweetly, so sadly, almost had him losing his cool. Almost had him throwing caution to the wind and hauling them into his lap regardless of the consequences. It was only sheer stubbornness that kept him seated where he was.
He wanted instead to reassure them that he was still here with them. That he had been here the entire time, despite being a little different. Despite having changed. That deep down, he was still their Viktor, and no amount of magic or Hexcore influence could truly take him from them.
But he ended up voicing none of those things to them, because they had already turned away and lifted his offered hand to Jayce’s forehead.
Viktor's fingertips made contact, and sank down into Jayce’s consciousness, all before jolting to a sharp stop. The Mage’s attention flickered fully to the forehead of the statue, where he felt a resistance beginning to bubble. All before the runes under his fingertips burst to life. He let out a pained cry, as his magic was snatched from his grasp, and turned to repel him.
The grip on his wrist suddenly tightened, and his hand was torn away, severing the connection before the runes could take too much, but not before a sickening crack echoed out across the meadow. For one nauseating moment, Viktor thought he’d finally done it. That he had somehow managed to destroy Jayce’s statue.
But no, it wasn’t the crack of Jayce’s statue body crumbling to dust. It was the sound of his hands - still outstretched towards his absent hammer - suddenly dropping to his sides as if all the solid particles in his limbs had turned to liquid molecules.
Viktor shot to his feet in moments.
Regardless of the consequences, he lost no time in scooping up his Lover and hauling them out of the way. One arm wrapped tightly around them and bringing them in to his chest, he levelled his staff defensively at the statue as he began to back up.
The statue that was beginning to look less and less like a statue by the moment. Its smooth, white exterior had begun to flake and twist, whilst the various plants growing around it were beginning to slide right off it, as if their roots had been pushed cleanly out of it. Sheets of marble flaked off of the figure’s ribcage, as its chest began to rise and fall.
More of the material began to fall off the thing's face, revealing gently closed eyelids and flaring nostrils. Then, the marble around the blown out portion of its head began to grow and round out into the shape of a skull, before it cracked like an egg and hair flopped out. Familiar, deep brown locks.
With a gasp, and a jolt, Jayce came back to life.
His eyelids flew open, and his mouth unhinged in a gasping breath. The runes etched into his forehead solidified and sunk down under his skin in the mockery of a crown, as his hands flew to his throat, and then his bearded cheeks. Curious fingers patted along his nose, up his cheeks, checked to ensure he still had ears. And then he was bending forwards, to glance down at his body, clad in the very same outfit he had worn on the day Viktor absorbed him into the hivemind.
"I'm… I’m alive?" He said breathlessly. And there was bewilderment in his voice. And relief. So much relief. His voice was rough and tired. Weak and barely there. But it was Jayce. And it sounded like home. And by the Gods did it make Viktor want to weep with want and relief.
Viktor kept his arms loosely wrapped around his human lover as the pair watched Jayce come to himself, and begin to take in his surroundings.
"I told you." Y/n whispered triumphantly, pulling Viktor’s attention down to them. They were practically vibrating in place, one tiny hand wrapped around the back of his hand. Then their face split into a grin, and they tilted their head up and back to catch his gaze. "I TOLD YOU!" They exclaimed in a victorious yell, blessing him with the widest, most excited smile he had ever seen them muster.
A few short steps away, Jayce had struggled to his feet. He scrambled to get his weakened legs under him, his hands sinking into the soft soil as his knees shook with the effort. He seemed to have not noticed his company yet, as he turned his back to them, to stare out over the destruction of the world sprawled far below. His shoulders heaved with his fast paced breaths as he no doubt took in the dilapidated buildings, the empty river with the corpses of ships resting on their massive sides. The broken and collapsing spires of the bridge, covered in thorny spikes of arcane corruption.
Against it all, Jayce’s Piltovern white jacket was a stark contrast. A nugget of the past, preserved and allowed breath once more.
With a start, Viktor realised what form he was currently residing in, and the visceral reaction Jayce would no doubt have upon turning and seeing him. Of having his world destroyed, only to turn and find the creature that had done it standing a couple steps behind his turned back.
The Mage pulled his human disguise on like a cloak, feeling himself shrink down to a variation of his old height. It was the disguise he had been using for every Jayce that had stumbled into this world, allowing his age to show in the lines of this new mask, and the blanket of starlight caught in the fabric to conceal the parts of his old self he could not fully recall.
Now on more even footing with him, his Lover turned back to him in his loose hold, a tight smile on their face. “You forgot the mole again.” They told him simply, reached up to rub their thumb over a spot just below his eye. Viktor smiled back, pulling the mark into existence beneath this touch, and watching with a lick of satisfaction as the tightness around their eyes loosened ever so slightly when they noticed its presence.
The urge to close the distance and offer them a kiss in thanks was almost too powerful to ignore. In this form, he certainly had the lips to do so, but he could still feel the tension lingering between them. Although slack with Jayce’s revival, it still remained beneath the surface. Fragile and in desperate need of strengthening. So that kind of affection could wait. Viktor was a patient man after all.
A soft gasp from Jayce had the two of them pulling apart, although Viktor noted with a bittersweet tug that Y/n did not yet withdraw nor they loosen their hold on his arm. As if using Viktor as an anchor.
Jayce was glancing back and forth between the Mage and human with a slack jaw. The weariness in his face was coated in a generous dose of curiosity, which was so obviously a Jayce quality that it made Viktor ache. He wanted to see the weariness slip away entirely though, so he slowly reached up to pull back his hood, allowing Jayce to fully come to terms with who he was in the presence of.
“Viktor.” He breathed, with such an open expression of grief and relief that Viktor could not tell where one began and the other ended. Then Jayce was scrambling forward, his leg brace creaking ominously from so long without use.
It was Y/n, who had the foresight to lunge forward to stabilise him before he went down. The absence of their warmth left Viktor suddenly cold, as they darted forward to wrap their hands around Jayce’s forearms.
Jayce finally tore his eyes off of Viktor’s face, expression falling slack as he stared into a new, achingly familiar face. He whispered their name, like a prayer, and practically tripped over himself, again, to bring a hand up to their cheek. Viktor chuckled softly at the way they blatantly melted under the touch and kind eyes, as Jayce’s gaze flickered up to the runes glowing across their forehead. The wonder that flickered across his eyes was in no way forced, as his thumb lightly traced their cheek. There was not an ounce of fear polluting the air as he looked upon them.
“You made it.” He whispered simply, all before hauling them close, and forcing them to stumble back a step in order to keep their balance. Faster than expected, the human stilled their flailing hands to tightly curl their arms around Jayce’s broad back. Immediately, shaking fingers clenched tightly into the dirty material of his jacket, holding tight. The pair moulded together perfectly, as they always had.
And the sight made Viktor's heart ache. He lowered his staff, and took a hesitant step forward, a private, relieved smile tugging at his own lips.
All too soon, Jayce pulled back. Arms still wrapped tightly around the human, he ducked down to press a firm kiss to the skin between their brows, just beneath the lowest rune.
“Careful.” Y/n warned wetly, words waterlogged with emotion.
To which Jayce just kissed them again, more desperately. Almost playful in his relief. “Beautiful.” He complemented, although Viktor was not certain if it was to the runes or simply for them.
And then he turned to Viktor, who felt himself stiffen under the weight of those eyes. Of the sheer relief and love reflecting back at him. They were shocking emotions to find on Jayce’s face. He had expected fear or resentment, or at least caution, but no, Jayce exceeded his expectations once more.
Unwinding one of his arms, he grabbed the Mage by the sleeve and yanked him closer with more strength than Viktor recalled him having. Viktor was so stunned by the sudden motion, that he could not predict Jayce’s intention until he’d already been folded into the hug.
“It- it is good to see you.” Viktor said hesitantly, patting Jayce’s back as the man squeezed him tightly into his side.
This form fit perfectly under Jayce’s arm, slight and small as it was. It was a far cry from the big, lethal form Viktor had come to favour in this ruined world. But somehow, he knew that Jayce would not take kindly to that face after having just woken up from being sealed away by it in the name of ‘perfection’.
And that was fine. It was enough that Jayce did not look upon him with open horror or suspicion. It was enough that he would instinctively reach a hand out to Viktor, even now, when he least deserved it. Even if he may not truly want Viktor’s touch after everything he had done.
“Jayce,” and oh, it has felt like an eternity since he has been able to say that name so fondly, “you need not-”
Jayce simply turned his head and pressed a tender kiss to the knot between Viktor’s eyebrows. Just as he had kissed Y/n. Light and adoring. And by the Gods, had Vitkor yearned for the warm touch of this man. So much so that he could not help but lean into the second kiss, his eyes slipping closed as his staff fell to the ground with a clatter and he finally returned the hug with both hands.
There was still so much left unsaid between them. Apologies that needed to be offered, and mistakes that needed to be talked out. But for now, this was a start. A very hopeful, good start.
Jayce ran straight from the Commune. Going as fast as his heavy hammer and ruined leg would allow him.
His heart was in his throat as he crossed the bridge. His breaths were sharp and shallow as he ran up the steps to the academy, dodging past bewildered looking students and ignoring the concerned calls of colleagues.
His mind kept leaping back to the image of the thing shaped like Viktor collapsed on the floor of its home, dead and lifeless. He watched the unnatural glow of magic behind its eyes flicker and die. He could hear the metallic sound of the cog it had been holding rolling across the sand before running out of momentum and collapsing onto its side.
He had done it. He had completed his mission. And yet, it had not felt like a victory.
Viktor had made no sound when the hammer’s beam had ripped through him. Had offered no dying words as he looked at Jayce with what he could only describe as detached acceptance before his eyes had gone blank.
The thud of Jayce’s shoulder colliding hard with the laboratory doors slammed him back into the present. The door banged hard against the wall from how fast he had shouldered his way inside, having expected a barricade or at least a locked door. But there was nothing. He skidded to a halt in the middle of the room, panting hard as he wildly snapped his eyes around the room.
It looked like it had in the other Y/n’s memories. Viktor chrysalis still stood in the centre of the room before the window. The desk beneath said window was strewn with notebooks depicting rune translations. There was an uncapped marker pen on the floor, and a shattered, hand held mirror beside it.
But there was no Lab Illustrator. No Y/n.
Jayce felt his heart rate begin to kick up again. Even once touched by Viktor’s magic, the dolls still had physical forms. Once they had deactivated, they had screamed and gone limp, but they had still been there. If luck hadn’t been on their side in this universe, there should at least be a body to bury. Unless of course, Viktor had taken them back to the commune with him. Unless they had laid dying amongst the rest of his cult followers, and Jayce had simply run past them.
His boots were filled with lead as he dragged his hammer deeper into the laboratory.
Of all his luck, he seethed that this was the one element that had been entirely out of his control. He hated that he hadn’t been here to give them the right combination. Wasn’t here in time to get them out of the lab before Viktor found them.
He let out a furious yell, and with his emotions fueling his strength, he was hauling his hammer up off of the ground. Muscles charged by fury and grief, he brought the corrupted weapon down on the desk, to which the wood split with a satisfying crack. All of those useless notebooks clattering to the floor as Jayce watched. He was half tempted to burn them for all the good they had been. All those countless, irreplaceable hours of research, only for it all to mean nothing when it had truly mattered-
Behind him, in the depths of the gloomy lab, Jayce heard something shift.
“You should not be here.” A voice growled. Which was all the warning Jayce got before he heard the hiss of clothing. The shuffle of a shoe readjusting against tiles.
His hammer was back in his hand, fingers wrapping around the handle that would open the four points and expose the charging core. He spun on his good leg, widening his stance.
Across the room, he saw a silhouette. His breath stuttered and his eyes widening at the ominous glow of seven points on a humanoid head.
Then the glow of his weapon illuminated the shine of something metallic soaring for his head. With a yelp, Jayce ducked. The wrench hit the wall behind his head with a heavy thump, before it fell to the floor with an unnerving clatter.
Eyes wide, Jayce glanced from it, back to the figure, his hammer lowered unconsciously. He barely dodged the screwdriver that had been sailing for his eye next.
“OUT!” Came the roaring command from the shadowy figure.
Jayce let out a choked shout, dropping his hammer in favour of using his hands to scramble away as they darted forward to snatch up a new projectile.
“Wait!” He tried to reason, hands flying up. The little hammer was thrown at him regardless. Spinning head over handle straight for his face. He ducked that one too. “It’s me!” He bellowed, arms braced on either side of his head, as he ducked and threw himself out of the way of hammers, and screws, and seemingly every tool in the lab that those frantic hands could wrap their fingers around.
“It’s Jayce!” He yelled, “it’s me! It’s me!”
He rounded the desk and watched as the light from the window slid over him, hopefully strong enough for some part of him to be recognisable despite the destroyed clothes, long unbrushed hair and the horrible beard.
The figure stilled with a second hammer already drawn back over their shoulder.
“Jayce?” Came the whispered question, as if speaking too loud would cause him to disappear. For a brief moment, Jayce was back in the darkness of the ravine, staring at a shadow with seven glowing eyes. Only this time, he felt no fear. Just all consuming relief.
“Yeah.” He croaked, “it’s me.”
The shadow fell quiet and shuffled closer. Clumsy and uncoordinated. Clearly watching Jayce rather than checking where its feet were being placed. Closer and closer those iridescent runes came, until their ominous glow became legible symbols, and Y/n’s pupils retracted as they stepped into the sunlight with him.
There was blood on their face. Curling down their temple, and dried over the curve of their cheeks. The fresh runes glowing against normal skin. Angry and raw as if someone had used a pocket knife to create them instead of a pen and a magical hand. The flesh had split deeply, the iridescent ink having sunk down to replace the blood that would have otherwise welled there. A sharp difference to the neatly, healed over symbols on the other Y/n.
“Oh… Gods-” They murmured, a hand rising up to cover their mouth as they looked at him. Taking in the cuts, and deep exhaustion lines. The unkempt, greasy hair and tangled beard. Jayce tried to smile, but he knew it fell short. “What happened to you?”
There was pen ink on their fingertips, Jayce noticed. Dry now. But there nonetheless. Further evidence of the scene that had occurred here. Of what had led to them hiding alone in a dark laboratory of all places.
“Too much to tell you here.” He replied, “besides, it looks like I should be asking you the same question.”
The hammer slipped from between their slack fingers, and then they threw themselves at him. Arms snapping round his neck to drag him closer with a desperation that Jayce couldn’t help but mirror. The familiar weight of them in his arms finally eased the unsettled fluttering in his chest, as he ducked his head and pressed a grateful kiss to their temple, the fresh runes buzzing pleasantly against his fingertips.
His companion gave no indication that the action hurt, nor whether they could even feel it. Not that it mattered just yet whether or not the area was numb.
They were alive. He was alive. And that in itself was a miracle.
I would recognise you in another lifetime, entirely in different bodies.
A scenario from the illustrator!Reader universe.
Pairing: Jayce/Viktor/Reader (polycule)
Masterlist:
Previous -> Next
SEASON 2 SPOILERSSSS!!
Gender Neutral Reader with they/them pronouns.
Summary: Reader who is still wandering around in the ruined dimension because they panic scribbled runes onto their forehead which essentially 'repels' Mage!Viktor's magic. It was sheer luck that gave them the correct rune combination, having stolen one of Viktor's research journals and began copying in a blind panic. The runes also allow them to wander the world, beneath Viktor's radar, essentially invisible to his magic as well as untainted by his influence.
"Jayce." A voice in the darkness whispers, sending goosebumps up the man's forearms, as he twisted his broken body round at the call of his name.
The ravine echoed his panicked movements. The whisper of his filthy clothes sliding against each other. The scrap of skin against jagged stone. His leg protests any movement, but his panic is all consuming and rabid.
"Who-who's there?" He demands, his voice coming out cracked and uneven.
The shuffle of shoes on stone have his head snapping back round and up, and his entire body freezes as he sees a humanoid figure perched on a ledge above where he lays. Back lit by the surface, far, far above, the figure is crouched, knees bent with hands flat against the stone they're perched upon.
"Impossible." The thing whispers to itself, which is a testament to just how silent the ravine is that Jayce can hear it. Then the thing begins to climb down, TOWARDS him.
He panics. Unable to tear his eyes off of it, as it moves fluidly, easily, in the uneven terrain, like some sort of uncanny mountain goat. Clearly, it has been navigating this habitat for a long time.
It has several eyes, Jayce realises with horror. Two in the normal places that humans have eyes, that glow subtly in the poor lighting. And then five points on its forehead, that flow with an unnatural, inner light. If Jayce were not so terrified, he may have thought they were arranged like a crown.
The thing's booted feet slam into the ground, and it straightens up like a man. Jayce makes out ruined clothes, worn shoes, and scraggly, unkempt hair. It approaches him fearlessly.
Jayce scrambles away as best as his ruined leg will allow. "S-stay away!" He demands, the fear obvious in his voice.
It pauses. "Oh. Oh my Love." The thing whispers, "what has he let happen to you?" It lowers itself closer to his level, knees hitting stone, before shuffling closer, clearly trying and failing to be unthreatening. "I'll throttle that bastard the next time I lay eyes on him." It hisses to itself, "allowing you to suffer in the name of learning. As if you haven't had a rough several days already."
It continues to mutter to itself, and Jayce realises with a snag that he recognises the voice. And he hadn't before because of how rough it sounds, like the creature hasn't had use of words for years.
He watches with wide eyes as it aims for his leg, rather than his head and anything vital. It tuts under its breath as it crouches above the injury. "Definitely broken." They mutter.
"I'm sorry, but who are you?" Jayce asks. In truth, he already knows, but he also doesn't. This person is foreign to him. They move differently to who he is expecting.
"Oh." They say again, voice creaking. "You do not recognise me."
"Step into the light." He says instead.
And the figure tilts their head, those unnatural, glowing eyes sending shivers up and down his back. No, wait, now that they're so close, he realises that the ones further up its face, are in fact runes. Runes that glow with a similar light to the Hexcore. To the magic that had been infused in Viktor's limbs when he had reawakened and stumbled his way across the lab.
At his request, the figure rises once more to their feet, and steps over him towards a beam of light filtering in from far above. The light banishes the uncertainty from Jayce's mind as he gazes upon a face he knows intimately, and yet looks alien to him now.
He was right at least, the upper glowing points on their face were not eyes, but were indeed runes. Runes that looked like they had been carved into the flesh of their forehead.
"What happened to you?" He asks.
"I could ask you the same thing, Love." They return easily, eyes dropping to his leg. "You look like you've been through the ringer." There is a deep, heavy sadness to their voice. A grief that startles Jayce.
Reader lingers by Jayce in the days that follow.
Keeping him company, and indulging his NEED to scribble on the walls. Runes and equations, and any possible ways back home.
They hunt down small creatures to feed him. Sparing his leg the agony of doing it himself, and allowing him to rest.
They venture deeper into the depths of the ravine in search of burnable things for a fire. And help him to the water for a drink.
They do not offer up suggestions of how to escape. Saying obscurer things like, "he's testing you', and 'he won't allow me to remain here if I make this too easy for you'. They always refer to some nameless 'him' but refuse to actually name 'him'. Muttering how if 'he' wanted Jayce to know 'him' yet, than 'he' would have already shown himself.
It gets cold in the ravine at night, so the pair huddle together for warmth. Reader's head on Jayce's shoulder, hands knotted into his ruined clothes as if he'll slip away at a moment's notice.
Sometimes, their rune riddled forehead touches the skin of Jayce's throat. And sometimes the magic residing within offer glimpses of events that Jayce has never experienced himself.
He sees snapshots of the lab, how it was after Viktor woke up from his coma. He sees books upon books of notes open, runes scrawled in both his and Viktor's handwriting, spread out across several desks. He feels the weight of a marker pen in his dominant hand, and sees someone else's terrified face staring back at him in the reflection of a mirror as they scribbled runes across their forehead.
He feels a deep seated terror closing his airways, as he hears the lab door open behind him. As he hears the familiar gait of Viktor's footsteps, tinged with a metallic after note. He feels sweat break on his forehead as his eyes dart from Viktor's approaching form in the mirror, to the useless ink marks standing out on their skin.
Viktor's voice is heavy with his accent as he calls out a greeting, an unnatural, unsettling undertone altering his voice ever so slightly. If Jayce did not know the man as intimately as he did, he would never have noticed the difference.
In the dream - no, the memory - the body that Jayce is hijacking, turns to meet Viktor as he approaches with slow, terrifying footsteps.
"Join me." He coaxes, a mockery of the sweet words he used to utter when inviting one or both of his lovers into bed after a long day spent in the lab.
His urging is denied. Viktor does not listen, and he takes by force. His hand coming down on Jayce's forehead and forces his submission.
By some miracle, the useless runes etched across his forehead ignite. The moment Viktor's hexcore enhanced fingertips touch the writing and he tries to forge a connection, the energy is abruptly converting into a power source for the runes which immediately burst to life. It send a sharp, siring warmth across Jayce's skin, and causes Viktor to recoil with a shout, ripping his hand away.
There is a weird, iridescent light in Jayce's peripheral vision, as Viktor's form stumbles back.
Jayce's head snaps down, and his eyes connect with little mirror on the desk, and he realises with a start that the simple pen marks had sunk down under his skin; having carved a permanent presence into the flesh.
"You- you shut me out." Viktor whispered, his voice oozing with hurt.
The words that shoot forth from Jayce's mouth are not his own as anger and betrayal coats them thickly. "You tried to erase me!" The body he is in snarls, "you tried to turn me into one of your mindless puppets!"
"Not erase, no! I would never erase you." Viktor tries to reassure, "I just wanted to help you see-" but the dream slips away before Jayce can be convinced.
Reader has helped Jayce to the water, where he drinks before tending to his wounded leg. He is dunking a rag into the water to clean his injuries, only to startle when he looks up and finds the white cloaked figure that led him here, looming on the other side of the water. He lets out a startled gasp. Hears Reader step up behind him.
"Oi!" They bellow, voice carrying effortlessly across the pond, to the figure, who turns their hooded head towards them. "Fuck off!"
Jayce blinks, and the figure is gone.
"Nosy bastard." Reader angrily mutters to themselves, bending down to help Jayce with his leg. "Keeping fucking tabs on me."
When Jayce finally claws his way out of the ravine and ends up on the highest point in the world, he discovers that the 'he' was in fact the Viktor of this world. And he realises almost immedaitely, that there is a heavy tension hanging between Reader and Mage Viktor. A mistrust that clearly upsets the mage, who calmly keeps his expressions smooth and his head turned away from the human. Whilst Reader gives him sad, uncomfortable looks whenever he is near.
The dormant statue of Jayce's alternative self drives a clear wedge between them.
When Jayce and Reader had first gotten up here, the latter had wasted no time in collecting some flowers and striding straight up to the statue, whilst Jayce came to realise that the marble figure looked unnervingly similar to him.
They had knelt beside it, and pressed a warm kiss to its temple, whispering a gentle, "good morning, Love," that sent Jayce's head reeling.
And then the hooded mage had appeared.
"Send him back." Reader commanded Mage!Viktor, expression frosty. "It is only fair."
"I was always going to." Mage Viktor argues back, to which they give him a sharp look.
Jayce is reeling from the hostility between the two. The worst fight he'd ever witnessed between the pair was when Reader misplaced one of Viktor's notebooks, and he'd lost his shit. But this, this was clearly an argument that had festered for far too long.
It was a shame Jayce couldn't afford to stick around to help them figure things out.
Viktor was raising his hand, the runes etched into his fingers beginning to glow a soft blue. Reader stood off to the side, arms crossed and their expression sad as they watched the spell begin to take hold.
It was a stray thought slamming into Jayce that had him grasping the borrowed hammer tighter, and throwing out a panicked, "wait!" Viktor's hand froze mid-cast, the spell freezing. Jayce licked his lips, and turned his attention to Reader. "Can you give me the runes that will help my Y/n?"
This dimension's Reader and Mage!Viktor exchange a tense look. "I could, but it will not help you." Reader tells Jayce, who feels a spike of panic. "You see, that interaction between them and The Herald happens whilst you're in this universe. It is down to them and luck if they manage to find the correct rune combination to remain separate from the hivemind."
"So there is nothing I can do."
Mage!Viktor shakes his head. And Reader gives him a look of sympathy. "Sometimes we're lucky, but most of the time, we fall to The Herald like everyone else he cures."
Mage!Viktor and Reader remaining in their ruined dimension. Reader made it a pastime to draw runes on statue!Jayce's forehead to try and revive him. Viktor tells them tiredly that what he has done to their lover is permanent and cannot be reversed. They tell him to go shove his pessimism up his cosmic ass.
They continue to try out different rune combinations day after day. And Viktor lingers nearby, watching them quietly and regretting everything that led them to this place. To these years spent without Jayce'.
He hates that the runes on Reader's forehead prevent him from offering them a glimpse into his thoughts. Prevent him from plainly showing them how remorseful he is. Prevent him from showing them truthfully just how many times he has tried to reverse his mistakes. How many times his tried and failed to bring Jayce back to them. But alas, the runes on their forehead keep him out, and give them enough peace of mind to exist near him, which is more than he truthfully deserves.
"Hand." Reader demands, pulling back their charcoal from Jayce's cracked, marble-like forehead. Viktor offers his hand as he does whenever they finish a combination, and they gently grab his wrist to touch his fingers to the marks. They're always gentle with him, regardless of how furious they are about him ending the world. And somehow the gentleness just makes everything that much worse.
"Though your determination is admirable, have you not grown bored yet?" He asks, as he asks everyday.
"No."
"This isn't working."
"It will."
"There are hundreds of thousands of possibilities. Endless possible combinations. There is no way you will be able to try them all."
"Jayce wouldn't give up." Reader snarks back, effectively shutting Viktor up. "If our roles were reversed, he wouldn't give up on us. Or did that Jayce's determination mean nothing to you." They add, motioning to the place the other Jayce had been stood just this morning. Freshly prepared for the hell he would have to deal with upon returning home.
Viktor lapses into silence. Eyes distant as he glances from his blank faced companion to the meadow of flowers he has cultivated for his late love.
"Hand." Reader demands of him a few moments later, and like clockwork, Viktor gives it to them. Their grasp on his wrist remains careful, but firm. His fingertips smudge the charcoal, and he reaches for that thread within Jayce's dormant subconsciousness. Fishing for a wall that will stop his probing touch, as it had within the individual sat beside him. But as it always seems to, Jayce's mind opens up to Viktor and his fingers sink in. Jayce's memories and emotions swirl beneath his fingertips, and Viktor offers a parting burst of love and adoration before withdrawing. Jayce slumbers on, if not a little easier with the magical nudge.
There is a huff beside him as he withdraws his hand back to his staff. Viktor glances in his peripheral vision at Reader, who tenderly reaches up with a damp, charcoal smudged rag to wipe the old runes away, before they take up their charcoal stick and draw new ones on.
There is a set to Reader's brow this time, a slight wobble in their lower lip that makes Viktor's stomach twist with guilt and longing. He wants to reach out and gather them to him, but he knows from experience that he will just end up getting shoved away, and they'll run from him. Use their runes to their advantage to conceal themselves from him before they inevitably come back for Jayce.
"I miss him." Reader whispers under their breath, and Viktor's eyes close tightly against the sheer pain in their tone.
"As do I." He reassured them, and they smiled tightly at him.
Wordlessly, they reached out for Viktor's hand, and he readily gave it to them. What stuns him however, is how instead of simply placing his fingers for him, they first bring his hand to their lips and press a kiss to the back of it. Their eyes shine when he stares at them in shock, the affection so deeply missed, that for a moment, he is rendered speechless.
"I am still mad at you." They clarify wetly, "but I miss you too."
And Viktor wants to reassure them that he is still here. He has been here the entire time, despite being a little different. Despite having changed. Deep down, he is still their Viktor, and no amount of magic or external influence could truly take him from them.
But he ends up voicing none of that, because they turn away, and lift his offered hand to Jayce's forehead. Viktor's fingertips make contact, and with a jolt, he feels the runes drawn there flare to life.
He lets out a cry, as his magic is snagged from his grasp, and turned to repel him. Reader feels it too, and their grip tightens on Viktor's wrist to yank his hand away.
Jayce's statue body makes a horrible cracking noise as his hands, still outstretched for his hammer, suddenly drop to his sides.
Viktor is on his feet in moments. He grabs Reader by the armpits and hauls them back, his staff raised defensively between them and the statue.
The statue that has begun to flake and twist. Sheets of marble white matter flake off of its ribcage, as its chest begins to rise and fall. It falls off the thing's face, revealing closed eyes and flaring nostrils. Then, the marble around the blown out portion of its head, begins to grow and round out into the shape of a skull, before it cracks like an egg and hair flops out. Familiar, deep brown locks.
With a gasp, Jayce comes back to life. The runes stand out like a crown across his forehead as his eyes fly open and dart all over. His hands pat at his bearded cheeks, along his nose, under his chin. Then he glances down to his body, clad in the very same outfit he had worn on the day Viktor absorbed him into the hivemind.
"I'm alive." He says breathlessly. And there is bewilderment in his voice. And relief. So much relief.
In Viktor's arms, Reader is practically vibrating out of their skin. "I told you." They whisper joyously. "I TOLD YOU!" They exclaim, turning in Viktor's grip to bless him with the widest, most excited smile he has ever seen them muster.
And then they're scrambling out of his arms and flinging themselves at a bewildered Jayce, who barely recovers quickly enough to grab them back. The pair mould together perfectly, as they always had. And the sight makes Viktor's heart ache. He lowers his staff, and takes a hesitant step forward, a private, relieved smile tugging at his own lips.
"V, get over here." Jayce encourages, one arm still around Reader, and the other outstretched to Viktor who hesitates.
"After everything I have done-" Viktor begins in astonishment, feeling like he doesn't deserve such easy forgiveness.
"I'm not asking." Jayce warns, "I'm telling you, V. Get over here."
And with a huff, Viktor lets Jayce take his extended hand and drag him down into a hug. And by the gods, has he missed the warm touch of this man.
There is still so much left unsaid between them. Apologies that need to be offered, and mistakes that need to be talked out. But for now, this was enough.
SOOOOO, I have no self-control and wrote this little imagine a fully flushed out one-shot...
It has already posted to Ao3, and I plan to upload it here when I can be bothered to do formatting. (You can read it here if anyone is interested). I hope you enjoy :D
Reader to Jayce: Do you ever look at Viktor when he's thinking and want to kiss every inch of his face?
Jayce taking a slow sip from his hot drink: No. I think he would bite me if I tried.
Reader: Maybe. But whenever he pouts, his eyes go all thoughtful and distant, and I can hardly control myself.
Jayce: Please continue to control yourself. I don't want to have to write an accident report because you lost a nose.
Reader sighs again: Would you bite my nose off if I kissed every inch of your face instead?
Jayce no-rizz Talis then proceeds to choke and nearly perish on his drink.
In summary, Reader's partners sometimes give them cuteness aggression.
Just the image of Viktor doing that adorable pouting face, and Reader calmly setting down their pen, getting up, crossing over to Jayce's desk to get rid of their cuteness aggression via kisses on poor Jayce instead.
I kind of like the idea of them doing this instead of crowding Viktor when he's clearly trying to think. Whereas Jayce is just constantly on the look out for touch and validation, so it works out great for him. He melts under the attention, more than happy to put his notes aside for a moment in favour of a rather lovely excuse for a break.
They're quiet about it, but sometimes the movement will pull Viktor out of his musings regardless, and he'll just frown at the pair of them acting like idiots.
And if he insinuates he's feeling a little left out, you bet Reader is going to calmly drag him close and touch temples with him - a deeply personal Zaunite display of affection - which would have a whole new adorable expression appearing on Viktor's face and would send Reader IMMEDIATELY into going back to attack Jayce instead of smothering to poor, overwhelmed man.
In a similar vein of thinking, it would definitely be manadatory for Reader to give into it, just once.
Maybe Jayce is conveniently out of the room, and maybe Viktor is just RIGHT THERE, PLAINLY in sight. And maybe, just this once they SIMPLY CANNOT contain themselves. Viktor is right there and they're not getting any work done because they can't tear their eyes off him.
So they give in, and pepper Viktor's adorable pout with kisses. And the man is just BAFFLED! It takes him a moment to understand what is happening, and then he's letting out flustered strings of words in both his mother's tongue and Piltovern Common, and he's shoving them away by their cheeks.
Reader of course isn't deterred, and just ends up grabbing the hand to kiss his knuckles. Viktor glares down at them with a look of resignation and burning red ears.
Jayce comes in like: what did I miss.
Reader: Turns out he doesn't bite.
Viktor: Not yet. Don't tempt me.
Jayce is rewarded with a forehead touch for simply existing that time round - the significance is not lost on him and he feels touched.
Viktor's that choatic boyfriend that hears you complaining about a colleague one too many times, and then proceeds to inconvenience them in the most subtle and irritating way known to man, all whilst giving you a shit-eating little smirk as he sits back and watches the world burn.
"That fucker giving you trouble Darling? No worries, I stole all of his left socks and buried them in the staff room plant pot after hours."
"They said what about Jayce?" A beat of silence.
"Viktor?! Where are you going with that washing up liquid."
"Nowhere." Very obviously makes his way to the kitchen.
Said co-worker that was talking shit then begins complaining that every cup of coffee they make tastes like soap!
Someone talks shit about their partners:
Jayce 'can we talk about this' Talis: "here is a thirty page essay as to why you're wrong, and I have a PowerPoint slide prepared with additional evidence if you will please take a seat and allow me to reeducate you."
Viktor who will resort to psychological warfare to get his point across correcting them, whilst also blatantly gaslighting them into believing that Jayce and Reader can do no wrong, and they were in fact crazy for insinuating such cruel things about either of them to begin with.
Reader who stabs first with their artist-grade scalpel, and asks questions when they're incapacitated and bleeding out on their floor: "Say that again, to my face this time. Go on, I dare you."
(There is a reason why Jayce and Viktor ((the pacifists)) do not teach Reader how to use any of the hextech devices. They will commit murder and refuse to regret it whilst Jayce sweats bullets and Viktor stares on, mouth aghast by the sheer brutality of said murder).
"He deserved it," Reader will explain simply.
And Viktor will go, "perhaps, BUT YOU COULD HAVE LEFT HIS HEAD ATTACHED!"
Jayce who's trauma raises its head when his partners are cold. Blankets. Warm drinks. Heating on full blast. That snow storm did a number on him and he HATES the winter because of it.
Are you shivering? Is Viktor? No stress, he shall simply have to BECOME the blanket to keep you both alive and well. It is as sweet as it is heartbreaking.
Viktor who's upbringing in Zaun sometimes makes him precious with food. Not because he was starving, but because sometimes he couldn't have as much food as he wanted, simply because money was tight growing up.
Maybe he has a sweet treat, and ends up breaking it into threes to share with you and Jayce.
Maybe there's only one tea bag left, so he settles for water, despite having REALLY wanted that cup of warm tea.
Maybe he's waiting for seconds for dinner, but there's only enough left for two more portions, so he says he's not hungry anymore.
Viktor who will sometimes feel the gnaw of hunger but make a hot drink to soothe his stomach instead of actually eating something, because its only so far into the day, and if he doesn't eat now, then he won't be as hungry later-
Safe to say, his partners notice. And Jayce keeps the kitchenette well stocked with drinks and snacks alike, whilst Reader will stop by a bakery or cafe in the morning to bring him a proper breakfast, as well as breakfast for themselves and Jayce so he doesn't feel like he HAS to share.
If you prefer to read on Ao3, you can find the fic here!
Word Count: 8k
Summary: In Zaun, it’s kill or be killed. Take or be taken from. Get up or stay down and expect to die. But for some reason, the brothers working The Last Drop aren’t like the rest of the city, and you don’t understand why.
Reader uses they/them pronouns.
The bones of your knuckles jerked painfully when they collided hard with the Enforcer’s jaw. You heard and felt the hinge of his jaw joint crack and pop as the blow dislocated it. The man howled, hands dropping his gun to fly up to cradle his limply hanging mouth.
He left his side open, so you took the opportunity and drove your knee up and into it. The breath punched from his lungs. His lower jaw swung up from the force of the blow and slammed his teeth deep into his tongue. Blood sprayed across the alley wall.
He dropped to his knees, wheezing and groaning, beside his companions. Two more Enforcers, bleeding out from stab wounds, one with your knife still driven deep into his belly. Leaving it embedded there would give him more time to be saved. But your own world was also spinning too fast for you to stoop and tug it free.
Across from you, Sevika finished up with her own Enforcer, and annoyingly looked to be in much better shape than you. That was probably because she did the whole fighting thing as a job, whilst you merely stumbled through poorly memorised moves in a desperate attempt to keep on breathing.
“You good over there, Runt?” She called, before spitting out a glob of red phlegm.
You wrinkled your nose at her. “Fine.” You returned simply, refusing to admit that your stomach was killing you. The moment the last Enforcer had gone down, you’d wrapped your arm tightly across it, feeling the familiar burn of a stab wound shift under the pressure. The blade hadn’t been very long, so you were fairly certain you’d be fine anyway.
“Good.” Sevika continued, “I don’t want to waste time dragging you to a healer.” She glanced up and down the alley for effect. “This was fun, same time next week?”
“Only if we meet somewhere warm where Enforcers won’t decide to take a swing at us.” You argued, to which she huffed a humourless laugh out of her nose.
Where Sevika revelled in violence, you preferred to avoid it where you could. Medical supplies were expensive, even on this side of the river after all; crappy as they were.
“Noted. See you around, Runt.” She saluted you, before she turned sharply on her heel and began striding away. “Don’t linger.” She added over her shoulder, “when they don’t return home on time, more will come.”
“I know!” You snapped back, but she was already gone.
Huffing out a tired breath, you turned to take the opposite exit out of the alleyway. Every step was agony, but you were of the stubborn sort. And dying here wasn’t an option.
The streets passed by in a blur of green lights and quiet chatter once you slipped out of the alley. It was late enough that all but the red light district were beginning to close their storefronts for the night.
You tried to straighten up once you entered your neighbourhood. Aware of the thugs that lurked around these parts. Any signs of injury or weakness, was a sure fire way to end up backed into a second alley to be shaken down of anything valuable.
You were planning to return to your place, tucked above the sushi bar. To the quiet, one room apartment that housed your mattress on the floor and a small box of personal items. But then you caught a whiff of something delicious smelling wafting out of the ajar door of The Last Drop, and all thoughts of sleep and patching yourself up swiftly took a backseat. There was nothing more miserable than laying in bed, injured and hungry after all.
The establishment was quiet at this time of night, but no less welcoming. Vander just had that effect on people though. He was an oddity in Zaun. Kind, where most were brittle and suspicious. Warm, where he should be defensive and distant.
Despite hardly knowing you outside of a strict bartender and client relationship, he always welcomed you into his establishment regardless of the hour or the state you were in. It was almost guaranteed that he would offer up a warm bowl of leftovers from the kitchen, regardless of if you had coin on you or not.
So yeah, Vander was an oddity down here on this side of the river, but he was also a god sent.
Shouldering open the heavy door, the warmth of the quiet bar washed over you, like a tender hand pushing your hair back from your face. For one blissful moment, the pain of your stomach and throbbing knuckles ebbed away to make room for the quiet lul of ‘Our Love’ playing softly on the jukebox in the back, and the smell of something hearty and homey drifting through the air, with only a slight undertone of stale alcohol.
Vander’s soothing voice called your name from behind the bar, a hand raised in greeting as if you wouldn’t see him amongst the empty tables and chairs and only two other people in the building. Backlit by the yellow overhead light, he looked genuinely happy to see you, which was also odd.
“About time you showed up,” Vander continued to speak in a cheerful tone, “I was beginning to think you’d finally curled up in an alley somewhere to die.”
You snorted, the sound obnoxious and loud against the soft melody of the music. Oh how close he was to being right.
“You wish.” You returned good naturedly. Arm still wrapped tightly over your bleeding stomach, you strode towards the bar.
Silco had his back to you as he scribbled in one of his notebooks, a sweating glass spreading condensation on the countertop before him. Whilst Felicia turned on her elbow to grin at you over her shoulder, her purple braid sliding off of her shoulder to hang down her back.
The sparkle in her eye had your hackles raising as they often did around her. She was a playful spirit, eager to poke and prod the bear to see how far she could push it before it snapped. It was unfortunate that more often than not you were the bear in almost every scenario.
“Oh great, your stray cat decided to wander home for dinner, Vander.” She mused, tone light and jolly despite her choice of words. “I hope you’ve got something left over.”
You felt your expression tighten ever so subtly at the light jab. “Fuck you, Felicia.” You ground out with no real bite. A reflexive greeting at this point.
Her grin only grew, eyes practically lighting up with mirth.
“But you are kind of like a cat, aren’t you? Mangy little thing like you. Always getting into fights and hiding in dark corners. Sweet on one person in particular, or the guy offering you food.”
Okay, ouch, that was slightly sharper than usual.
And to top it off, Vander was merely watching the pair of you interact instead of playing referee like he usually would. Whereas Silco hadn’t even looked up from his notebook, his pencil still scratching away at whatever he was working on.
You fixed Felicia with an unimpressed glare, “you’re in a pleasant mood this evening? Something unpleasant crawl up your ass by any chance?”
With great care, you pulled the stool beside her out from under the counter, and clambered up onto it. The movement pulled at the split skin of your stomach and made the wound ooze, but you’d wandered around with worse in the past. This wasn’t the kind of injury that would knock you out any time soon, it was bleeding too sluggishly, and so long as you didn’t do anything stupid like running, it would keep until you trundled home with a full belly.
Felicia wrinkled her nose as you sat, eyes tracking your careful movements, but she did not comment. Stood behind her own stool, twirling the straw of a cup of orange juice, she suddenly broke eye contact.
Her previous bravado spluttered out as she absently muttered under her breath, “oh nothing. I just found out I’m pregnant is all.”
Your eyes promptly bugged out of your head at the casual admission. Any thoughts of wounds, and food promptly took a backseat, as you spun your stool to study your friend, and only then did you see the slant of her shoulders, the bravado that was just a touch too strong to be real.
“Oh shit-!” you blurted out, before the words promptly failed you. Scrambling for support, your eyes jumped across the bar, only to find that Vander had suddenly vanished into the back, and then to Silco at the other end of the counter, who was calmly sipping at his drink, expression carefully blank. Something about his calmness struck a nerve in you.
“You knew!?” You accused sharply, and his eyes widened in shock at suddenly being addressed.
He recovered quickly. “Oh don’t play up the wounded party, she told us just moments before you stumbled in the door.” He dropped his gaze, and began to stare at his notebook again. He didn’t pick up his pencil again, nor did he really begin reading over his notes. His eyes were stuck at one point on the page, instead of tracking along the lines of messy handwriting. Guilty. The actions read, and you felt yourself frown.
Felicia was back to grinning when you snapped your head back to her. “How far along are you?” You blurted. You didn’t know anything about kids, and had never been around a pregnant person before. Didn’t she need to sit down? Were pregnant people allowed to drink juice? Why wasn’t anyone freaking out?
Felicia snorted outright at your expression then, the sound helping to ground you.
“A couple of weeks, I think.” She said simply, “I was late this month, and low and behold, this is why.”
“Okay.” You said, and then blurted, like an idiot. “Are we keeping it?”
Felicia’s grin morphed into something gleeful and predatory. “We?” She parrotted back.
You backtracked like your life depended on it. “You!” You corrected, desperately schooling your expression into something smooth and calm - you knew you were failing. “Are you planning to keep it?”
Felicia’s smile did not change. “Don’t just dart away from that misstep,” she teased, “you do consider yourself our friend after all!”
It was an old argument. One where you stubbornly refused to admit that the trio had grown on you during your evenings spent here in their presence, and one that Felicia reveled in trying to prove you wrong with your own actions.
Like the time Vander cut his arm open on a broken bottle, and you’d stupidly turned up to the bar an hour later with a freshly stolen bottle of disinfectant from across the bridge. The good kind. The one that would’ve cost anyone their month’s salary to obtain.
Or the time, Felicia had fallen ill for several days, and you’d turned up to her door to ensure she hadn’t keeled over and died. To which she had mocked you viciously, between bouts of coughing under her partner’s exasperated gaze.
She was grinning even now as you disregarded her claim, and scrambled for an excuse. “I’m asking because I linger around this place too. And if I’m going to continue to exist in this place nine months from now, I have the right to know if little goblins are going to begin popping out of the woodwork.”
Silco huffed into his drink, but neither of you acknowledged him. Felicia only met your gaze with open fondness in her expression.
“Yes, I think I am keeping her.” She said absently, “though I haven’t told Connol yet.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
The silence that momentarily sizzled between you was heavy. “Do you need some to go with you when you tell him?” You offered, like a dumbass. Stupidly showing your hand to her for the second time in one night.
To your surprise, the offer wasn’t met with amusement or ribbing. Felicia’s smile was suddenly small and genuine. “No, I’ll be okay.” She said simply.
And you nodded, because she would be. She had chosen a good man after all. Connol wouldn’t blow up about something like this. He was the quiet kind. And you knew he genuinely loved Felicia, simply from observing how the pair existed in each other's presence. No, she would be absolutely fine, you knew.
“Okay,” you relented easily, before adding, “but if you need someone to smack him upside the head, you know where to find me.”
She shook her head at that. “Uh, no, I don’t actually, because no one can ever pin you down, unless you’re here. And even then, your visits are too infrequent and far between, for me to predict when you’ll actually show up.”
It was your turn to grin then. “How else do you think I’ve survived this long?”
Vander chose then to duck out of the kitchen, a bowl of something steaming in one hand and a spoon in the other. “I’d like to think my hospitality and good cooking has helped you a little.” He joked, setting the bowl down before you with little flourish.
He must have seen the hunger in your gaze, because he didn’t even make you ask for it or to use your manners tonight. With little fanfare, he pushed the bowl towards you, set the spoon down, and then slid a napkin over.
You thanked him regardless, and eagerly dove in. The soup was warm as it went down, thick and flavourful, with carrot chunks breaking up the thick texture every now and again. The soothed the gnawing of your gut, and the warmth eased some of the pain of your muscles.
You were still bleeding sluggishly, but it didn’t hurt as bad as it had.
Vaguely, you could hear the other three falling back into easy conversation. They’d spent enough time in one another's company for it to be familiar. Between working elbow to elbow in the mines, and wasting their evenings away in the bar, you couldn’t exactly blame them.
Even Silco spoke up every now and again. Chipping in when the conversation lulled to jab playfully at Vander, or correct one of Felicia’s teasing remarks to make it land even a touch more effectively. They had a weird dynamic from an outside perspective, but after being slowly but gradually absorbed into their bubble over the past few months, you could see now how beautifully they worked together.
It kind of made you wonder where you fit into the jigsaw puzzle sometimes. You certainly weren’t around enough to be a reliable friend, which definitely played into Felicia’s stray cat analogy. But when you did turn up, sometimes after days or a week of no contact, they welcomed you back as if you’d never left. As if you just fit.
They were strange people really. And perhaps that was what had initially intrigued you enough to stick around in the beginning.
Your spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, and you realised with a start that you had already eaten all of it. Gods did Vander make a mean soup, you would’ve gladly eaten another two bowls of it without complaint.
Setting your spoon down in the bowl, you quietly pushed both away, before dabbing at your mouth with the napkin. That too was deposited into the waiting bowl.
The warmth of the food and the calm of the atmosphere was definitely getting to you now. The soothing melody of ‘Our Love’ had trailed off somewhere during your conversation with Felicia, and had morphed into another slow, jazzy number. The combination of the music, the warmth, and the safety of having people you trusted only an arms breadth away, had your eyes dropping and your head slowly but surely dipping lower and lower towards the counter.
The other three were too engrossed in their conversation to pay much mind to you, which worked in your favour. Resting your arm on the counter, you allowed yourself to slowly slump forward, pressing your forehead down into your forearm as a makeshift pillow. Eyes slipping closed, you spared half a thought to tighten your other arm around your belly in a futile attempt to keep more of your blood inside. The pressure from your curled up position should stem the bleeding long enough for you to have a quick power nap, and then you could slip out to patch yourself up and have a proper, long sleep.
It was just too nice of an atmosphere to leave now.
Your eyelids slipped closed. You heard your bowl being taken away, heard glasses clink and the trio lower their voices even more. How considerate.
“Silco, give me your jacket.”
“Why my jacket? Use your jacket?”
A beat of silence.
“Do you see my jacket lying around anywhere?”
Quiet grumbling.
Soft footsteps, the rustling of fabric.
The sound of a boot stepping into a puddle.
The quiet conversation in the background abruptly cut off.
“Did someone spill their beer there earlier?” Vander’s voice filtered in amongst the fuzz of sleep. More rustling, the whisper of a washcloth being picked up.
The sound of boots squelching once more as their owner’s weight shifted. A voice close to your side. “Vander, you didn’t have any orders for cranberry juice tonight, did you?”
“Course not. You know we’re waiting for the next shipment.”
Movement. Skin-warmed leather being placed carefully over your shoulders. Someone crouching down by the foot of your stool.
“It’s blood.” Silco’s voice was weirdly blank.
“Shouldn’t be. There were no fights tonight.” Felicia spoke up.
More silence. And it was so quiet, that you actually heard the sound of a heavy bead of liquid dripping into an existing puddle.
The arm cinched around your waist was numb from the pressure of having your torso curled tightly over it.
“Shit.” Silco swore, voice weirdly weak and breathless. And then hands were on your shoulders, trying to rouse you. You groaned as the movement jolted your stomach, and threatened to pull you out of your pleasant drifting state.
“-fuck off…” you tiredly grumbled, shoving your face further into the warmth and pleasant darkness of your forearm.
“Silco.” Vander began to reprimand, “don’t wake them, I’ll clean it up later-”
“It’s their blood, Vander. They’re bleeding.” Silco sharply returned, and then his shaking became more insistent. You grumbled louder. He didn’t let up.
And then there was a larger hand gently tapping your fingers splayed on the counter. A presence right in front of you. Boxing you in.
Awareness slammed back into you, and you shot upright, hands shooting out to scramble at the bar counter, when you almost launched yourself completely off of your stool. Vander, who had been standing across from you, startled backwards, whilst Silco suddenly appeared at your elbow to steady you. The latter’s hands were slim but firm on your bicep, his jacket sliding off of your shoulders and thudding heavily to the floor.
Felicia hovered on the verge of your vision. Horror painted plainly on her expression as she stared at the counter. Blinking awareness back into your vision, you followed her gaze to find bruising knuckles, and your bloodied hand leaving smears across the freshly cleaned wood. Your sleeve was entirely soaked through with scarlet, <i>so much</i> scarlet, that it had dripped downwards with gravity to drip off your fingertips.
“Shit. Fuck.” You blurted, yanking the hand off the wood to try and stem the mess it was making, only for the evidence of its presence to be plainly left behind. “Sorry, I didn’t think I was bleeding that bad.” You sheepishly chuckled, voice strained and stomach throbbing.
Silco’s hand was still wrapped around your bicep, and didn’t seem to be in a hurry to let go as you glanced down to the floor to see a small puddle of blood at the foot of your stool too. Shit, that was embarrassing. What a mess.
The adrenaline of such an abrupt wake up had completely banished all thoughts of rest and sleep from your face, as you turned back to Vander and very evenly asked for the mop. He stared back at you as if you were an enigma, instead of a patron willingly asking for the tools to clean up their own mess. Honestly, what kind of establishment was he even running here? If you had bled all over the counter at the pub down the road, the owner would be using your face to clean up the spill.
“You’re still fucking bleeding, you idiot!” Felicia barked, promptly shattering whatever weird tension had kept everyone rooted to the spot.
Her sharp tone had your hackles rising like usual. Your eyebrows drew tightly together, as you snapped your attention to her, as she pushed off of the counter and hurriedly rounded the end to stoop for the cupboard Vander kept the first aid kit in - when had you hung around so often that you seemed to just know that anyway?
“Well, I’m sorry.” You snapped back, “if I had known it was this much, I would’ve left right after finishing the food instead of nodding off.” Reeling back in the bite in your tone, you very seriously turned back to Vander, who was staring at you in disbelief. “Sorry again about all this,” you motioned to the blood everywhere with your less bloody hand, “I’ll clean it up before I go, I swear.”
Your words finally snapped Vander out of his stupor. “I’m not mad about the mess.” He said evenly.
Your brows furrowed. “You’re-, not?”
“No.” He said evenly. “But I am royally pissed that you didn’t mention you were injured beforehand.”
Your expression shuttered at that. “Because it’s none of your business.”
Silco sucked in a breath at that. As if you’d said something wrong.
Vander’s expression mirrored your assumption. His brows drawing together, and his arms beginning to cross, as if he was standing firm. “Under my roof,” he began, tone reminiscent of a dad lecturing his unruly child, “your welfare is my business.”
You squinted back at him. “You’re so fucking strange sometimes.” You mumbled.
Vander just shook his head and motioned to Silco. And like clockwork, the pair worked in unison to hoist you off of your bar stool and onto the counter. You yelped at the change of position, at the ease in which Vander lifted you, and the careful way Silco offered back up support.
“I could’ve done it!” You protested, feeling like a reprimanded child now that you were sat on the lip of the counter, legs hanging over the edge.
“Best not to move you too much.” Vander replied evenly, “don’t want anything tearing because you can’t swallow your pride.”
You glared down at him, as Felicia returned with the first aid kit, her own expression stern as she came to stand on the side of the bar Vander was on.
Behind you, you heard Silco redirecting his attention to his fallen jacket, whilst the duo before you levelled you with a look that had every instinct within you wanting to shrivel up and hide.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Felicia snapped, her expression screaming ‘I’m mad at you’.
“Like what?” You bit back.
“Like you’re going to bolt.”
You raised your eyebrows challengingly, but Vander set his heavy hand on your knee before you could so much as shift. “Ignore her, she’s just worried.” He soothed, his deep voice level and stern. “Now, show me where you’re bleeding.”
It wasn’t a request.
Expression set into a scowl, you carefully pulled your jacket open, to display the blood stain gradually spreading across the front of your threadbare shirt. Huh, that was a lot more blood than you’d been expecting. Earlier, it had only been a line of red, and now most of your stomach was sticky from the shirt clinging to your wet skin.
Felicia sucked in a sharp breath. Vander’s expression didn’t change.
Shrugging off the jacket entirely, you pulled the shirt up next, and let that flop down with a wet splat on the counter beside you. It was just warm enough in the bar for your skin to not break out in goosebumps from the cold. Although you did feel very uncomfortable, being examined by the bartender and a mouthy woman you might decide to call your friend one day, with a third potential friend lingering behind you somewhere.
Behind you, you could hear Silco puttering around the place. Could hear him stride up to the front door of the establishment and flick the lock, before tugging down the blinds.
Your attention was wrestled back to the present when Felicia promptly took the reins. It quickly became apparent that she had more medical knowledge between her and Vander as she began examining and then cleaning your stab wound. Leaning back on your hands to give her more space, you glared up at the ceiling as she worked and Vander assisted her.
The ghost of fingertips on your skin was an odd sensation. It wasn’t violent, or predatory, or unkind, but nor was it soothing or nice. It just felt odd. Unless you were in a fight or stuck in the middle of a crowd, you weren’t touched a lot and certainly not like you were something worth being careful with.
“What happened?” Vander spoke up suddenly, snapping you back to the moment at hand. And unfortunately, drawing your attention to the feeling of a needle dipping into and out of your skin. Your teeth ground together at the pinching sensation, but it was by no means the worse pain you've dealt with tonight.
Resolutely glaring at the ceiling, you kept your response short. “Ran into some blue bellies.”
“Oh.” Vander prompted, encouraging you to elaborate.
“I was with Sevika. They wrongly thought we were the right people to fuck with.” The words came out easily, but felt weird being spoken in the setting of the bar. You didn’t talk about yourself here. You rarely mentioned friends or colleagues to these people. Hardly spoke about yourself at all really, besides the fact that you liked Vander’s cooking and loved to have verbal spars with Felicia regardless of how tired you were.
Vander sighed. “You know this will have repercussions right-?”
“What did you want me to do?” You snapped back, fixing him with a venomous glare. “Let them threaten me with my own knife, whilst I sat still and looked pretty?”
“Of course not-” Vander tried to soothe, only for Silco to reappear out of seemingly nowhere.
He had his jacket back on now, as he strode in from the door that led to the apartment at the back of the establishment. He had a pile of clothes in hand, which he carefully set down on a part of the counter not covered in blood.
“Did you kill them all?” He asked seriously, something sharp entering his voice. If you were delusional, or had lost a little more blood, you might have mistaken the hatred in his tone for protectiveness or concern. But of course you didn’t, because why would anyone feel protective of you?
You tried to imagine it. Someone like Silco, who was lean and easily snappable, going up against armed and trained enforcers in your defence. It was a comical image.
Instead of dwelling on the thought, you allowed your expression to split into a dangerous grin. “None of them will be leaving that alley in a hurry if they did survive.”
Silco nodded once. “Good.” He said, sounding like he meant it.
With a final tug of the medical thread and a smooth snip of scissors, Felicia took a step back to examine your neatly stitched up wound. “That should hold if you’re careful.”
“Thank you.” You returned easily, “just give me a few days, and I can replace the thread-”
“No need.” Vander was quick to reassure. “That’s what it’s there for.”
You frowned. “I don’t recall reading on the door, that stitching up patrons is one of your house policies?”
“Maybe not, but it’s <i>my</i> policy.” Vander said reasonably, “just like I’m going to insist you change into these,” he pushed the clothes towards you, “and stay the night.”
You outright snorted then. “Yeah, no, that’s how people end up dead.”
Vander, like the good man he was, did not take offence to what you were implying. “Somehow, I feel like you’ll be safer staying here for the night, than going back out there like this.” He reasoned sensibly. “You’ll have access to food, and pain medication, and I’ll even upgrade you to the bedroom with the lockable door.”
“Oh how generous.” You drooled back.
“He’s not joking, you know.” Silco spoke up once more from behind you. You glanced back to find he had picked up his notebook and pencil, with the latter now tucked behind his ear. “Until that wound scabs over, you’re not going anywhere.”
You scoffed. “You can’t keep me here.”
“No.” Silco agreed, “but he’s the kind of man to send people out to keep tabs on you if you do disappear.”
You turned back to Vander, expression searching. Unapologetically, he shrugged. “Can’t help that I care about my friends.” He said by way of explanation.
You liked to pretend it was against your will that you did in fact stay the night. You liked to think that you bargained and bitched enough to almost make them relent, but in reality, you were exhausted. The clothes you changed into were a little big on you, but they were warm and clean. And it turned out that the room you were shown to did in fact have a lock on the back, and a comfortable bed.
It had to be one of their rooms, but you were too tired to pick out any personal effects. If anything, you were more amazed that the little room had a window with <i>closable</i> blinds, rather than who it belonged to.
>_<
You knew there was a good reason why you never told Vander who you spent your days with when you weren’t free loading off of his business. You knew it was smarter not to mention anyone outside of the bar. It was a shame you hadn’t stuck to your gut whilst bleeding out that one night.
Sevika’s name had slipped out by accident. And had been such a fleeting moment, you’d assumed he hadn’t really clocked it. Let alone recognise it. But no, you just had to fall in with the nosy sort. And even better, the nosy sort with connections.
Otherwise you wouldn’t be in this situation, having just finished a job with Sevika, knuckles freshly bloodied, and your breath sawing in and out of you, only for your comrade to abruptly turn to you and ask how you knew Vander.
Your heart had just about dropped out of your ass.
“Why are you asking?”
“Because he was asking around for you.” She said simply, as if two worlds had not just collided. As if you hadn’t just had the sickening realisation that somehow Sevika and Vander KNEW each other. Or at least orbited similar enough social circles for their paths to cross.
You had to work very hard to keep your expression neutral as your mind raced and tripped over itself, trying to figure out why Vander would be looking for you of all people.
You hadn’t done anything different. You hadn’t stepped on toes in his area of the neighbourhood. Not to mention, your injury had been weeks ago, the wound neatly scarring. He and Felicia had stopped asking after it a week or so ago. There was no reason for him to be asking after you.
“Did he mention why he was looking for me?” You asked super calmly.
Sevika shook her head. “No, just asked for me to send you his way if I came across you.”
“Okay, that’s weird.” You said, more to yourself than Sevika, who hummed in agreement.
“Very.” Sevika agreed, and then she turned serious “But a word to the wise, don’t keep him waiting if you know what’s good for you. Vander may act like a docile little teddy bear, but he’s still got claws.”
And just like that, you were presented with a glimpse of how the rest of the Undercity viewed Vander. Of his reputation of being that dangerous, over protective kind of guy. The kind of guy that had the Enforcers steering clear of his bar and the streets that coiled around it. It matched up well with the image you’d had of him before you’d gotten to know him.
“Well then, we done here?” You prompted, suddenly anxious to get to the bar and tell Vander to stop spreading your name around. That’s how people get noticed. That’s how people end up with targets on their back.
Sevika made a show of counting out the bills in her hand stolen from some Enforcer’s pocket. It had been a quiet day out in the furthest reaches of the Lanes, fucking with Enforcer patrols to make money and occupy yourselves.
“Yeah, just about.” She agreed, before cleanly splitting the money in two and shoving half of the wad towards you.
“What? Not going to deal me out of a few notes? Take a personal bonus again?” You ribbed before smartly taking the offered cash and promptly tucking it into one of the inner pockets of your jacket.
She snorted. “No. You did good today, Runt.” Was all she said, before pocketing her own cash, and leaving with a quick ruffle of your hair.
You watched her go with a fond wrinkle of your nose. What a strange woman. Yet another oddity living amongst the Lanes of Zaun, but could you really be surprised at this point? It almost felt like you were becoming a magnet for the kinder folks of the city. Odd.
Money safely tucked out of sight, you stuffed your hand into your pockets and headed for the heart of the city, towards the glowing, green sign of The Last Drop. It was perhaps an hour or two before the establishment opened for the night in preparation for the miners who would be crawling out of their work sites, and the more criminal side of the city beginning to awaken.
The door was unlocked when you pushed on it, so you let yourself in.
As it often was at this time of afternoon, the bar within was practically deserted. The tables neatly wiped down, condiments lined up in uniform formation, chairs tucked under tables, the carpet recently cleaned.
A lone figure stood behind the bar, polishing glasses, his back to the door and you, but you knew he’d heard the door open regardless.
“I heard you’re looking for me.” You called, as you strode confidently up to the counter.
Vander turned smoothly on his heel, a grin already tugging at his lip. His five o’clock shadow was beginning to darken his jawline already, which was strange, considering he openly hated the feeling of the tiny bristles beginning to poke through. “Ah good, you’re here.”
“That I am.” You agreed, before pulling out a stool and smoothly dropping into it. It was the same one you usually took, thankfully without the blood splatter today. “Although, I wasn’t expecting to be called to heel like some common dog, want to tell me what that was about?”
At the very least, he had the decency to look guilty. “Yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t know how else to get ahold of you.”
Okay, fair enough. You could give him that. You were a difficult individual to pin down after all. “It’s fine, just don’t make it a habit.” You warned. “But it must have been serious, if you felt the need to invite me in instead of allowing me to make my way over on my own time.”
He shook his head at your theatrics. Then seemed to collect himself. Turning fully towards you, he set down his cleaned glass, tossed his rag over his shoulder, and fixed you with a very serious look that had you instinctively straining in your chair. “Look, you know I love our little social calls, but today I need a favour.”
Oh.
You weren’t entirely sure why that struck a chord in you, but you made sure to cover it up regardless. So today wasn’t going to be fun, that was fine. If Vander finally wanted to make your presence in his establishment useful, who were you to push back.
“I see,” you said evenly, sitting back against the small backrest of the stool before crossing your arms. You tucked the sour feeling in your chest behind an amused smirk. “Oh, please do tell. What exactly could the Hound of the Underground, the Beastly Bartender of The Last Drop, need from little old me.”
Vander huffed quietly and shook his head at you. He stood on his own two feet behind the bar, and yet he still seemed to tower over you. “You’ve done your research.” He commented evenly.
You tipped your head to the side and shrugged noncommittally. “Eh, it’s hard to ignore whispers when they’re directly hissed into your ear.” You dismissed easily, before purposefully catching his gaze. “But seriously, what is it?”
Vander huffed again, this time more heavily. More tiredly. He seemed to gather himself. “It’s about Silco.”
Your breath stuttered on its way into your nose. You felt yourself freeze up as your mind violently thrust you into horrifying scenarios of all the ways said man could have horrendously died in the short time since you’d last seen him.
“Is he okay?” You asked carefully, not entirely sure if you managed to keep all of the panic out of your voice.
Vander’s own expression blanched as he no doubt understood how his phrase had come across. “Yes. Yes! He’s fine! More or less.” He was quick to reassure, almost with a frantic urgency. You found your breath came a little easier with the admission. “A little roughed up from a mine collapsing on us, but he’s okay. I just need someone to watch him.”
You blinked at him.
Vander winced back at you.
You unfolded your arms so that you could rub harshly at the bridge of your nose with a forefinger and thumb. “Vander. Did you cause ripples across town, to get me to come here and babysit your brother?”
Vander smiled shakily. “Uh, friend actually. We’re not blood related.”
“You’re practically family. Even a blind man could see it.” You deadpanned, “now answer my fucking question.”
“Yes, okay? Yes. And look, I <i>know</i> he can be a handful, but that’s why I need your help. I need to work the bar tonight, so I can’t be out back to make sure he’s okay. I’ve already tried to bring in Felicia, but she’s given up on him. He’s mean when he’s in pain, and with her pregnancy symptoms she has no patience to spare for him.”
It’s almost laughable how in character that sounded for Silco.
“Just for tonight?” You checked, and Vander nodded. The crease between his eyebrows had already begun to loosen, as if he already knew your answer. But he didn’t know you that well. Did he?
You pretended to weigh the pros and cons for a few seconds more. Pulling a contemplating and then thoughtful face at random intervals to make Vander snort. To help ease some of the tension out of his shoulders.
Finally, you leant back on your stool once more, and in a very business-like tone you said, “fine, but on one condition.”
Vander played along. With a look of equal intrigue, he leaned on his elbows on the other side of the counter, his head tilting. “I’m listening,” he purred, before adding as an afterthought, “so long as it’s within reason of course.”
You tapped your chin. Once, twice, and then blurted, “I want unmonitored access to the kitchen. Any delicacy you’ve cooked up, I deserve to taste-test it. Understood?”
He almost looked surprised by your ask. As if he had been expecting you to demand something more valuable or difficult to part with. Then a sadder note entered his eyes, and you felt pinned in place. His voice was gentle when he quietly said, “you know you don’t need an excuse for me to feed you right? If you’re hungry, you don’t have to bargain for food, it’s the least I can do.”
“Maybe,” you countered, trying to smoothly wipe that expression off his face. Vander’s soft concern should not be aimed at you at all. Not only do you not need it, but you don’t feel like you really deserve it. “But food willingly given, doesn’t taste as good as when it’s stolen.”
He sighed tiredly. And straightened up, until he was looking down at you once again. His expression clearly said, ‘I don’t understand you, even though I’m trying to’ but he smartly kept any thoughts like that to himself.
“This way then, little thief.” He mused, before turning on his heel to emerge from behind the counter and lead you to one of the side doors that would give you access to the private part of the building.
The little nickname sent a pang through you. Not only was it a little too close to your actual job, but it sounded weirdly fond when Vander said it like that. Shoving all those confusing feelings promptly into a mental box, you pushed back your stool and followed.
Vander led you through the doorway and down a staircase to a set of doors on the level below. One you immediately recognised as the door to the bedroom you’d spent the night in. Whereas the others were unfamiliar.
With confidence, Vander led the way down the hall to one of the end rooms, which opened out into a living room that sat at the foot of a second set of stairs.
The room was on the smaller side, with enough space for a couple of couches, a coffee table and a chest of drawers. A ratty brown rug covered up the cold flagstones under the foot of the coffee table and stretched out towards both couches.
A small fire burned low in the grate at the far end of the room, whilst a figure shrouded in a red blanket sat curled up on the couch closest to the flames. Silco sat back against the arm of the chair with his notebook spread out over his knees, and his left hand was strapped up against his chest. His long, black hair was loose around his shoulders, casting his face in shadows, and yet making his blue eyes glow in the low light.
“Ah Vander, it seems you’ve tracked down a fresh nurse for me to torture.”
“You’re in a better mood than when I walked Felicia out.” Vander countered.
The blanketed man on the couch merely grinned in response, and motioned with his pencil at the glass of water and non-descript pill bottle on the coffee table by his feet. “They finally decided to kick in.”
“Good.” Vander said, and with a searching look over his younger brother, he turned to you, and began listing rapid fire care instruction. “He needs another round of those pills in two hours. You can get water from behind the bar, and I’ll have dinner ready at eight.”
“Noted.” You easily agreed.
“Oh, and if he starts giving you a hard time, just ignore him. He’s a glut for attention.” With that last parting nugget of wisdom, Vander patted your shoulder in camaraderie before turning for the stairs.
Silco glared at his back. “Don’t be giving away all my secrets now.” He drawled like a drama queen, to which Vander took his own advice and ignored him. The click of the door closing behind him settled a stiff tension on the little living room.
You shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, suddenly unsure of yourself. You were used to existing on the edge of social groups, and had only ever been alone with Vander, and in pairs with the others of the trio. To suddenly be all alone with Silco, was embarrassingly daunting.
The man in question, chose then to sigh obnoxiously, and look up from the notebook he was scribbling in. “Are you just going to stand there all evening?” He demanded.
You made a show of looking around at the empty couches, then threw your hands up as you scrambled for a response.
“Do you need anything?” You asked, like an idiot. Of course he didn’t need anything. His medication had just kicked in.
Silco did not look impressed. “No.” He said flatly.
You nodded, “fine,” before turning and perching your ass on the very edge of the opposite sofa, as far from the fire and Silco as physically possible without sitting on the floor or crawling back up the stairs. You had come down here expecting a mouthy, feverish asshole, not a quiet, bitchy Silco.
Gradually, the sound of pencil scraping across paper and the occasional pop and fizz of the fire allowed your muscles to relax. You found yourself sitting more comfortably on the couch, and taking out one of your knives to sharpen. It was a pretty little thing, with a wickedly sharp blade the length of your forefinger, and a smooth wooden handle, wrapped in medical tape for a stronger grip.
The grinding of the welt stone down the blade didn’t seem to upset Silco, so you kept at it. Sharpening both sides of the blade, before tucking it away in the sheath tucked in the back of your boot, and pulling out its twin to repeat the process. Then when that was done to a satisfying degree, you sat back and pulled your spare out of your overcoat’s inner pocket.
That finally seemed to get a reaction out of your companion.
“How many of those could one person possibly need?”
“More than I have.” You replied without looking up from your task. “There’s nothing worse than being elbow deep in a fight, ready to deal the finishing blow, only to realise you left one knife in the first fucker you stabbed, lost the next down a storm drain, and the last got smacked into the shadows.”
Silco scoffed quietly. “True story by any chance.”
“Embarrassingly true.” You agreed gravely, chancing a glance up at him through your lashes.
He sat more comfortably on his cushion on the opposite couch. Body lounging in a loose sprawl, rather than the uptight posture from before. His notebook had vacated to one knee instead of resting on both, whilst his pencil had been tucked behind his ear again. Had he been watching you?
Feeling caught, you flicked your gaze back down to your hands and finished sharpening your last knife. You could feel his eyes on you now, studying the way you held both knife hilt and whetstone.
The silence had somehow morphed into something comfortable now.
Enough for you to notice another sound entering the atmosphere. Silco’s quiet grumbling as he pushed at his loosely, sprawling hair. It was longer than you were expecting. Coming down to mid-bicep from what you could tell.
“Need a hair tie?”
Silco paused in his irritated fussing, to glare at you. Then he pointedly glanced down to his strapped up arm. “Why yes, I would love for you to find amusement as I struggle to fix my hair one-handed! What a doll you are? Thank you for suggesting such torture!” He bitched.
You rolled your eyes. “Okay okay, you big baby.” You mused, allowing the barb to fall short.
Sliding your knife and whetstone away, you rose from your seat with a groan.
Silco watched you with blatant mistrust in his expression, his body subconsciously leaning back into the couch backrest, away from you.
Ignoring how he shrunk away, you exuded confidence as you strode towards the fireplace and rounded the back of his couch.
“Hairband?”
“What are you doing?” He demanded, turning in place to glare up at you. His hair falling across his shoulders like a sweeping black cloak.
“I’m going to braid it back for you.” You said simply. “Then it’ll be out of your way, and you won’t have to keep redoing it.”
Silco’s scepticism seemed to lose its steam. The knot between his brows began to loosen as he relaxed at the explanation. “Oh.” He said lamely.
You brushed him off by making a grabbing motion. “Hairband?”
Jerkily, he held up his good hand to you, where his sleeve slid back up his arm to reveal two worn leather hair bands. You slid one off his wrist and slid it over your own hand.
“Great. Now just sit still and do whatever you usually do.”
At first, he was stubbornly still under your touch. Barely breathing. Barely moving. As if he was expecting a knife to the back and had to be prepared to to deflect a blow at any movement.
When you proceeded not to try and kill him, or cut off his hair out of spite, he slowly began to unwind.
His long fringe was lengthy enough for you to scrape it back from his face with the rest of his hair, where you neatly separated everything into three even strands, before beginning the braid low on the back of his head. You kept the loops slack so as not to give him a headache, and allow him to sleep on it later.
Silco visibly relaxed under the attention. His head tipped down towards his notebook, his pencil back in hand even though he wasn’t writing anything.
You got so lost in the task at hand, that you didn’t even register the heavenly smell of Vander’s cooking, until the man in question appeared on the other side of the coffee table, carrying two plates of steaming food. Your hands momentarily stalled in their weaving at the sight of beautifully seared meat, what looked like potatoes and some other root vegetable. Just the smell alone was enough to make your mouth begin to water.
Vander set both plates on the table, before straightening up with his hands planted on his hips. “Well, that was fast.” He commented cheerfully, a shit-eating grin splitting his face.
Silco huffed. “What was fast?” Silco parroted, attempting to turn his head, only for you to pause braiding to firmly steer his attention forward once more.
“You’re going to fuck it up by moving.” You complained under your breath, to which he sighed again but stayed put.
Vander’s grin somehow grew even wider. “Well for starters, this morning, you were snapping and spitting at Felicia, and now I walk in on you getting your hair braided.”
“It was being inconvenient,” Silco eloquently corrected.
Vander just shook his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t see this happening.” He lamented to himself.
Silco bristled. “What? What are you on about?”
“Come on-”
You cut in before Vander could get him any more riled up. “Can you tease him after I’m done?”
Silco seemed to preen, whilst Vander obediently shut his mouth on his bubbling comment.
Taking it in stride, you confidently added, “you’re just jealous that your hair is too short for braids, Vander.”
“Yes, that is exactly it.” The older man agreed sarcastically. Before he fixed Silco with a knowing look, which he promptly glared down. You pretended not to notice as you finally ran out of hair and began to neatly tie the braid off at the tail.
>_<
You stopped by the bar the following day to check up on the brothers, and was pleasantly surprised to find Silco in the main room, with his hair still braided up, whilst Felicia stood beside him and merrily declared them hair twins.
You tried not to grin too obviously as you strode forward to join in on the conversation.
