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the-unreachable-star

Jul 26

throughpatchesofviolet

Together in Every World

Synopsis: A series of drabbles/one-shots set in various Mirror Worlds.

Ship: The Adventure of Wuthering Heights

Words: ~3700

Warnings: blood; corpses; descriptions of gore; descriptions of mild injuries; dismemberment; food; guns; hair touching; mentions of alcohol; mentions of death/decay; mentions of disease; mild sensual descriptions; references to marriage; suggestive dialogue; violence.

Note: Here it is ... my three year anniversary fic for Heathlock! I ended up cycling through a ton of ideas before settling on this one—a collection of brief drabbles and one-shots set in my various AUs! This is a rather experimental piece, but I think it turned out pretty good ... I'm really looking forward to reading the tags on any reblogs I receive to see what catches everyone's attention while reading!

I also want to give a special shout out to my friend @reversaldeath—they were incredibly helpful throughout my writing process, and I wouldn't have been able to finish this piece without them. Their constant encouragement and feedback made this project a truly wonderful experience, and it really wouldn't have been completed without them.

Happy 7/14 to all who celebrate, and here's to many more years of Heathlock!

“It's a fascinating piece of technology, isn't it? By simply gazing into its depths, you can catch a glimpse of the infinite possibilities we hold within. And yet … even with them all laid out in front of me, I can't help but wonder … are we together in every world?”

Sunlight crept through the window, slipping through the thin curtains and filling the tiny room with a soft, white glow. Sherry stirred beneath her covers, letting out a muffled groan as she rolled over, stretching out an arm in search of her partner, only to be met with empty space—the bed sheets were cold, the quilt seemingly undisturbed.

Sherry's eyes snapped open, her heart skipping a beat as she sat up, glancing around the room. Finding herself alone, she scrambled out of bed, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet as she hurried to the door, throwing it open and leaned out into the corridor, peering into the shadows. Once again, she found no one, and her breath caught in her throat.

Surely everything's fine, Sherry assured herself, trying to ignore the knot forming in her stomach as she tiptoed towards the stairs. After all, if the Middle had come for him, they wouldn't have been quiet about it … perhaps he's just gone out for a bit.

Still, she couldn't help but frown, her brow furrowing as she placed a hand on the banister.

Even so, this is highly irregular … he usually tells me when he plans to go out. So why wouldn't he say anything? Is it … is it possible he went willingly to ensure the inn's safety? Is it possible he's already—

A soft thump came from the floor below, interrupting her train of thought, and Sherry blinked, slowly peering over the railing. The door leading into the kitchen was propped open, and a wave of relief washed over her as she recognized the figure tending the stove.

“Heathcliff?” she called softly. “What on earth are you doing?”

The harpooneer flinched, glancing in her direction before turning his attention back to the stove, and Sherry smiled—even from a distance, she could tell he was flustered.

“I'm making breakfast,” he replied, shuffling aside so Sherry could see the contents of his frying pan: half a dozen eggs, their golden yolks resting lazily atop pools of white.

“You know you don't have to do that,” Sherry said, watching as Heathcliff carefully maneuvered the eggs onto a plate. “I'm used to making breakfast for everyone—it's no trouble.”

“I know. But I wanted to cook, today. Wanted to surprise you.” He gestured towards a nearby table. “Was hoping you'd sleep longer, but this is fine. Come. Sit.”

Sherry raised an eyebrow, her gaze drifting between her partner and the chair he was pointing to. After a moment, she sighed, shaking her head. “I already told you I have no interest in pursuing 'lusciousness,' Heathcliff—I quite like my hair as it is, bristly though it may be.”

“Your hair ain't bristly, lass,” he retorted, gritting his teeth. “It's matted. Which is worse. Now, you're going to sit your arse down and let me do something about it.”

She narrowed her eyes, then, with a huff, slowly settled into the chair, arms folded as she tucked one leg over the other. “Alright, fine. Just … be gentle. Please.”

Heathcliff grinned, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of her chair. “That shouldn't be a problem—I'm a professional when it comes to hair, after all.”

“A professional pain in the arse, more like,” Sherry muttered.

“Oi, remember who you're talkin' to, lass.” Heathcliff warned, smirking as he leaned forward to rest an elbow on her head. “I'm a Big Brother of the Middle, so you'd best watch your tongue—a few more comments like that, and I'll be forced to put your name in the Book of Vengeance.”

“Consider me thoroughly intimidated,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Now, are you going to do something about my hair or not?”

“Fine, fine …” He sighed, taking a lock of her hair between his fingers. “Let's see what I can do.”

Sherry sat quietly as Heathcliff fussed with her hair, his brow furrowed as he carefully braided each strand. His fingers brushed against her scalp as he worked, and, aside from the occasional oath whenever his skin came into contact with the thorny stems woven into her hair, he remained silent, ignoring the blood trickling down his fingers.

“Heathcliff.”

Her voice broke his concentration, and he scowled. “I'm almost finished, just give me a—”

“Heathcliff,” she repeated, her tone soft yet firm. “Your hands. They're bleeding.”

He blinked, glancing down at his fingers—dozens of fresh cuts had been carved into his skin, and, though the lacerations were small, blood had already stained his hands crimson.

“I … I hadn't noticed,” he muttered, glancing away as she turned to face him.

“I'd figured as much,” Sherry reached for his hand. “Here, let me take a look …”

“It's nothing serious,” Heathcliff protested. “Just a few scratches—I've dealt with worse.”

Her arm remained outstretched, however, and, despite his objections, Heathcliff allowed her to inspect his injuries. His lips twitched as he felt her fingers tracing over his scars.

“You need to be more careful,” she said softly.

“And you need to stop worryin' so bloody much,” Heathcliff snapped, glaring at the Zwei Fixer seated next to him. “Your job's to make sure nobody offs your client, innit? Reckon they won't last long if their 'Shield' is wastin' her time tending to the man who just tried to kill 'em.”

“It appears you're still underestimating me, even after all this time,” Sherry replied, a sly smile playing on her lips. “My client is currently under the protection of my colleagues—nobody will be 'offing' him. Now, can you sit still? Your injuries are rather severe …”

“I've told you before, haven't I? I don't want you fussin' over me.” He scowled, tugging his arm from her grasp before struggling to his feet. “Besides, I have another target waitin' for me …”

“If you keep on like this, then the only thing awaiting you is death.” Sherry grabbed his wrist, pulling him back onto the bench. “I understand you want to fulfill your contract, Heathcliff, but please … just this once, let me take care of you.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then sighed. “Fine … just be quick about it.”

Sherry drew closer, and Heathcliff instinctively stepped back, his face heating up as she raised an eyebrow—his heart thundered in his chest, and he could already feel feathers breaking through his skin as she took another step forward, closing the distance between them.

Heathcliff squeezed his eyes shut as Sherry reached for his scarf, pulling it away from his face.

There was a pause. Then, something brushed against his cheek, and he slowly cracked open an eyelid, meeting Sherry's gaze. “You're … you're not scared?”

“I could never be scared of you, Heathcliff.”

“But maybe you should be,” he muttered, staring down at his bloodstained hands—the moonlight had warped them beyond recognition, transforming his fingers into jagged claws. Though he'd grown accustomed to this monstrous form—and had even come to appreciate some of its capabilities—it still repulsed him. “This … this isn't even the worst of it. There's … there's another side of me that's … worse.”

He swallowed, glancing down at the bodies littering the alleyway. Sherry was crouching beside the corpses, her crimson eyes narrowed as she studied their clothes.

“Fanghunt Office …” she murmured, smiling. “I believe that's all the evidence I need.”

Heathcliff's ears twitched. “Evidence for … what, exactly?”

“Why, to prove that I have no reason to be afraid of you, of course!” Sherry glanced up at him. “You recognized the danger I was in, and leapt to my aid without a second thought—it was reckless of you, yes, but it shows you're willing to place my safety above your own. Why should I fear someone who goes out of his way to protect me?”

“Because I'm dangerous, Sherlock. Weren't you listening? This” —he gestured at himself— “isn't the worst of it. There's another form I can take—one that could easily tear you to shreds. And I … I don't want that to happen. I don't … I don't want to hurt you.”

Sherry frowned. “So your solution is to scare me away?”

“No, I—I don't want that, either.” Heathcliff's ears drooped. “It's … complicated.”

“You know, it doesn't matter to me what form you take—you'll still be Heathcliff.”

“But is that enough?”

There was a pause, and Heathcliff felt her hand slip into his, their fingers intertwining.

“That's more than enough.”

But … how can that be? How can someone like me possibly be enough for her? Heathcliff stared at the shot gun resting in his lap. It would be so easy to take it into his hands … to load it … to put a bullet through her heart. In fact, that was what he should do.

And yet …

He sighed, leaning into the angel's embrace—she smelled nice, like honeysuckle, and he nuzzled into her chest, breathing in her scent.

It was damn near intoxicating, and Heathcliff swallowed as Sherry leaned in, the subtle, floral notes of her perfume tickling his nostrils. Her hands slid over his, gently guiding them into a more comfortable position.

“You're flinching, again,” she said softly. “You need to relax—remember, focus on the execution, not the shot itself.”

“R-right … the execution.” Heathcliff took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. “A-actually … could I ask you something?”

Sherry raised an eyebrow, and he cleared his throat, doing his best to ignore the burning sensation tickling his cheeks.

“W-would you … maybe be interested in … going out for drinks?”

“That's a rather bold question, isn't it?” she narrowed her eyes, pressing the tip of her dagger against the Wakashu's throat. “You are aware that I surpass you in rank, aren't you?”

“Oh, I'm well aware of that, Miss Capitano,” Heathcliff replied, grinning. “But, seein' as you haven't killed me, yet … I'm figurin' that's a yes?”

“How presumptuous …” Sherry scoffed, but she couldn't conceal the pink tint coloring her cheeks. Finally, she released him, sheathing her weapon. “Fine—I'll humor you, just this once. But if you even think about trying anything, I'll run you through—is that clear?”

The Wakashu chuckled, tucking his own blade into its scabbard.

“Crystal.”

“Excellent. Then I'll expect your report in the morning.”

“Y-yeah … it'll be done. Promise.”

The line went dead, and Heathcliff sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he set down the receiver. Seems I'll be pullin' another all-nighter …

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head as the Office door swung open, and his lips twitched as the Director stepped inside. “Afraid I won't be joinin' you, tonight, after all—just got a call about last week's case, and they want me to draft up a formal report.”

“As I suspected.” Her eyes darkened. “It was only a matter of time before they took this case seriously … but while they were busy deliberating, Moriarty's already made his next move.”

Heathcliff frowned. “You don't think that recent robbery was related to him, do you?”

“Considering what was stolen, it's impossible for it to have been orchestrated by anyone else.”

Sherry clenched her fists, and Heathcliff shuffled through the papers on his desk, brow furrowed. “Time related thefts have been on the rise … that fits his modus operandi, but …”

Why?

The question hung in the air, unspoken, and Sherry smiled bitterly. “Isn't it obvious? You're from District 20, Heathcliff, so tell me … why would a man need that much time?”

A shadow passed over his face. “Power. And lots of it. With enough time at his disposal, he'd be damn near unstoppable … but that still doesn't explain why he wants power in the first place.”

“Greed, my dear Heathcliff.” Sherry sighed, perching herself on the edge of his desk. “It's such a simple, human desire—one that slumbers in every one of us.”

She fell silent, and Heathcliff glanced up from his documents, finding her staring out the window at the dark, storm-swept street below.

“Hey.” He reached across his desk, taking her hand. “We'll catch him—it might take some time, but … we'll get him. Promise.”

“Don't go making promises you can't keep,” Sherry said sharply, and, seeing Heathcliff flinch, she winced, softening her tone. “I've seen what you're capable of, and know you can hold your own against that bastard, but I don't want you charging into danger. You're invaluable to me, remember—I won't have you throwing your life away.”

“Invaluable …” Heathcliff repeated, his heart fluttering in his chest. Then he shook himself, giving the Sottocapo his undivided attention. “I mean … understood. I just …”

He trailed off, and Sherry raised an eyebrow, urging him to continue.

“I just … I wanted to be of use to you, is all. I thought that maybe … if I could kill him … then it'd ease your pain.” Heathcliff's voice dropped to a murmur. “Seeing you like this … it scares me.”

“Hm.” Sherry leaned forward, propping her elbows on her desk and lacing her fingers together. She closed her eyes, humming thoughtfully. “You're afraid I'll end up like Rodion.”

A bolt of terror shot down his spine. “Th-that's … no, I …”

“You're right to be worried, though … and that's exactly why I can't allow you to pursue him—if I were to lose you …” she paused, cracking open an eyelid, a faint smile playing on her lips. “You wish to ease my suffering, to keep me from succumbing to despair … in that case, I have a special task for you, if you're willing to accept it.”

Heathcliff straightened. “I'll accept any job you give me.”

Sherry rose from her chair, slowly walking around her desk to stand in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I need you to live, Heathcliff—to live, and to watch my back. It's far from an easy task … but I trust you'll be able to handle it.”

He blinked, eyes widening. Then, slowly, he grinned. “You can count on me, boss.”

“Just try not to get too carried away, this time,” Sherry warned, shooting the Rabbit a threatening glare before drawing her blade, the serrated edge crackling with electricity. “You can kill as many of our assailants as you wish, but please refrain from slaughtering civilians.”

“Maybe the civilians should stay out of my way,” Heathcliff grumbled, and Sherry jabbed her elbow between his ribs, making him yelp. “Alright, alright! I'll be careful!”

“Good. Now, let's take care of this.”

“Easier said than done, lass,” he mumbled, slamming an armored fist into a wriggling mass of flesh, punching a hole clean through its center. “There's gotta be at least three dozen of 'em.”

“Only three dozen? That's child's play.” Sherry grinned, twirling her pole-arm with surprising speed—she lunged forward, and, with a single swing of her weapon, decapitated three more passengers. Their heads fell to the floor, and she watched them roll down the corridor before glancing back at her partner. “See? Easy.”

“Yeah, yeah … you're a highly capable Level 2 Agent.” Heathcliff sighed, shaking his head. “Just don't go gettin' yourself killed—I need you to sort through this carnage.”

Sherry huffed, shouldering her pole-arm, and he chuckled.

“C'mon, love … you know I'm no good at tellin' these lumps of flesh apart.”

With a heavy sigh, she turned around, wrinkling her nose as she examined the twitching pile of flesh lying at his feet. After a few moments, she plunged her hand into the mass, grimacing as she extracted a lump of muscle tissue, which she dropped unceremoniously onto the seat behind them before flexing her fingers, her expression unreadable.

“They'd better give me that fucking promotion.”

“I thought being transferred to West Section 3 was your promotion,” Heathcliff teased, smiling as Sherry shot him a withering glare. “Easy, now, lass … I'm just makin' an observation—you were sent here under the pretense of being promoted, weren't you?”

“The higher-ups said it was a promotion,” she grumbled, her face buried in her arms. “I was told I'd be handling dueling contracts, not streaming schedules … but here I am.”

She sighed, glancing up at him, the faintest of smiles playing on her lips.

“I suppose it isn't all bad, though, is it? I have you, after all.”

“That you do,” he assured her, leaning across the table to place a soft kiss on her forehead.

Sherry flushed scarlet, and she recoiled from Heathcliff's touch, her heart pounding. “M-Milord, you can't be … it's not …” she stammered, her eyes darting towards the door as she cleared her throat, regaining her composure. “You mustn't bestow such intimate favors—people might get the wrong idea.”

“And so what if they do?” the prince scoffed, shifting beneath the covers of his bed. He winced as the fabric brushed against his exposed skin, and Sherry frowned. “It's not like I'll be gettin' married … who in their right mind would want to share a bed with me, anyway?”

“I'm sure there's someone …” she began, but he cut her off with a weak wave of his hand.

“Don't go tryin' to convince me otherwise, lass—we both know I'm practically a rotting corpse.” Heathcliff sighed, falling back against his pillow. He glanced at her, smiling bitterly. “You're the only one who visits, anymore … every day, without fail, you're here.”

“Of course I am,” Sherry replied gently taking his wrist and beginning to wrap a bandage around it. “I'm your loyal knight, remember? Sworn to protect you until my last breath.”

“I feel you're more than that,” he muttered, his expression softening as he watched her work. “I s'pose that's what made me act so improperly, just now … I'm sorry, Sherlock—I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

She hummed as she finished binding his fingers. “You didn't make me uncomfortable—you just startled me, is all. I'm not accustomed to receiving such intimate compliments.”

Heathcliff's eyes sparkled mischievously. “Then I guess I'll have to bestow them upon you more often.”

Sherry smiled, her cheeks pink. “I suppose I wouldn't be opposed to that …”

“Y-you're sure?” Heathcliff's eyes widened, and he struggled to keep himself still as Sherry inspected the wires in his arm. “We … we can … cuddle?”

“Don't go getting the wrong idea—I just need to ensure your prosthetics are working as intended.” She sighed, slotting a steel plate back into place. “Everything looks good, for now … I'll definitely have to order some new parts, though. Some of those wires are already showing signs of corrosion … I thought they'd be more durable, considering their price … unless …”

Her lips twitched as she watched him press his thumb into his open palm, causing a faint click to issue from his prosthetics.

“You've been overusing them, haven't you?”

“What? No!” Heathcliff scoffed. “I got these to avoid pain, lass—why would I keep 'em in sensory mode? You think I enjoy feelin' hurt?”

“Of course not.” Sherry grinned, lifting her goggles. “I think you enjoy everything else that comes with regaining your sense of touch—the warmth of the sun … the brittleness of the leaves … the coolness of the evening breeze …”

She closed her eyes, leaning against his chest as he wrapped all four of his arms around her.

“… the comfort of another's embrace.”

Her lips curled into a devious smile as she held the tiny gift box to her chest, the lid once again secure. She gently stroked his sides, humming a familiar, Christmassy tune.

“Excellent work, my dear Heathcliff … they certainly won't be bothering us, anymore.”

He shook slightly as she fussed with the bow adorning his lid, and she frowned.

“Oh, no … you were wonderful. Not scary in the slightest.”

Heathcliff scoffed, turning and heading down the alley without a word.

“Hey, wait—Heathcliff, I was being serious!” Sherry hurried after him, quickly catching up and matching his pace. “Look, it's true that you can be a bit intimidating, from time to time, but I could never be afraid of you … you're my friend, regardless of what my contract says.”

He glanced at her, then sighed, coming to an abrupt stop. “I … brought you something.”

Sherry blinked—she was fairly certain this was the first time she'd heard him speak. “Oh?”

After a moment, his arm emerged from beneath his ragged cloak, and he placed a tiny, carefully wrapped package in her outstretched hand.

She stared at him, then turned her attention to the box, slowly unwrapping it …

“… well?” Heathcliff prompted, watching Sherry with a mixture of excitement and concern. “I know it's not your thing, but …”

“… but it's important to you, no?” she smiled, lifting a simple silver ring from the box, turning it over in her fingers. “A physical representation of our union … such a fascinating tradition.”

“A stupid tradition, more like,” he muttered, glancing away, his face growing warm. “You don't have to wear it—I don't know why I bothered gettin' it when I already knew you didn't want anything like this … I … I was being selfish. Foolish, even.”

“Heathcliff.” Sherry took his hand, and he swallowed, meeting her eyes. “Can you put it on?”

He blinked, staring at her in shock. “Y-you mean you …?”

She chuckled, offering him the ring, and he scrambled to accept it, slipping it onto her finger before bringing her hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

“Every world, eh?” Heathcliff thought for a moment, his eyes on Sherry as she sifted through the Identity cards on her desk. Finally, he nodded, his lips parting in a smile. “I reckon so.”

“How can you be so certain?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well … I dunno how well you remember our time at the manor, but … the way that other version of me spoke to you … it seemed to me he'd run into you more than a few times when hoppin' between Mirror Worlds. Almost like no matter where he went, you were there. And every time, you'd do everything in your power to keep that world's Heathcliff safe.

“So, yeah … I do think that, in one way or another, we're always together.”

“… in every world?”

“In every world.”

#AUGHHH THIS IS SO GOOD #the transitions are so so so much fun #and literally i love the concept of them finding each other in every world it's so romantic :')#heathlock universe forever okay????#throughpatchesofviolet