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duelistkingdom · 3 years

Text

you’d come back to me

chapter three: anew

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Summary: Seto Kaiba has been presumed dead for four years after the events of Dark Side of Dimensions. His return causes both unresolved feelings of grief to be brought to the surface and the past to be dragged right back up. In hopes of helping Seto move on and reintegrate back into society at large, Mokuba asks Yugi to work on Spherium II with Seto. Never one to leave a friend hanging, Yugi agrees. Over the course of the project, Seto and Yugi both come to terms with their mutual grief and grow towards a better understanding of each other.

Rating: T

Ships: Yugi Mutou/Seto Kaiba, Mokuba Kaiba/Rebecca Hopkins, Katusya Jonouchi/Mai Kujaku

Warnings: aged up characters, grief, references to suicide

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“I sold the mansion.”

That was the only explanation Mokuba gave when they drove the wrong way home from the hospital when Seto was eventually released. He supposed as far as explanations go, it was a good one. “Then where do you live?”

“In a one bedroom apartment in downtown Domino,” Mokuba said, texting someone. Whoever it was was labeled as ‘loml’. Who was Loml? The person’s grasp on Japanese was shaky and substituted English words in quotes, leading Kaiba to believe Loml was probably foreign. Mokuba had texted that he had picked up Seto. Before Seto could read further, Mokuba pulled the phone out of his line of sight. “Stop reading my text messages or I’ll drop you off at a hotel.”

“Maybe I’d prefer a hotel,” Seto grumbled. He was annoyed that it had taken so long to discharge him. He wasn’t sure why they felt the need to keep him for observation for almost a month. “I don’t see why I have to sleep on your couch.”

“The doctor thinks that you would heal better under supervision from family, since your concussion didn’t heal as well as it should have,” Mokuba countered, exchanging a glance with Isono briefly. Seto still thought the doctor had been off base for insisting that his concussion was still persistent. As far as Seto was concerned, he’d already healed. He felt great. He was certain Mokuba was keeping something from him, but he didn’t know what. “Plus… I’m worried about you. I don’t want you to be alone.”

“And as for why I can’t drive?”

“Your license expired while you were gone,” Isono interjected, another shared glance with Mokuba that frustrated Seto. “You will need to get a new one, Mr. Kaiba.”

“Things like that tend to happen when you’re gone for four years, bro,” Mokuba said, the word “bro” sounding a little strained. Seto hadn’t wanted to notice before that Mokuba seemed a little stiffer than he used to. He noticed now. It was impossible to not notice the way Mokuba was trying so hard to pretend like four years hadn’t disappeared. Every time the missing years were mentioned, Mokuba tried to change the subject. Mokuba forced a grin. “Means you got a lot of catching up to do!”

He didn’t know how to respond to that so he didn’t.

The apartment complex Isono drove them to was clean and modern. It was also a lot more vertical than he would have thought when Mokuba had mentioned living in a one bedroom apartment. He wasn’t certain what he’d expected, but the building looked more like a skyscraper than a place of residence. “I’ll take care of making sure Mr. Kaiba’s things get here,” Isono said to Mokuba. “For now, you should make sure he gets settled.”

Mokuba nodded. “Thank you, Isono,” he said as Isono parked the car in front of a set of elevators. “Come on, bro. The elevators will take us right outside my door.”

“Is that safe?”

Mokuba laughed as he pulled out what looked to be a key card. “You can only get to the floor if you have a key,” he said. “I’ll have Isono get you a key later.”

The elevator doors slid open and Seto was taken aback by how industrial it looked. He followed Mokuba’s lead, though. It was strange to think of Mokuba living in a place like this by himself. Why did he sell the mansion? Was it just too tied to bad memories? Had he always wanted to sell the mansion? A bunch of questions that Seto had no answer for and had no intention of voicing aloud. Mokuba swiped a card that had “home” written on it in someone else’s handwriting and pressed a button for the fifteenth floor. That was high up. It was also… Seto pushed the thought aside.

The entranceway to Mokuba’s front door was grandiose, too. A couple of plants surrounded them on slick marble tiles and a picture of the Golden Gate bridge existed to his left on linen white walls. To his right, a bunch of pictures of various horses were all over the wall with gold placards underneath that he didn’t bother to read. He noted the source of light - a glass chandelier with gold trim. A couple of photos of Mokuba with Yugi and his friends, a couple pictures of a blonde girl that looked a lot like Rebecca Hopkins with her arm thrown around Mokuba… though… When did Mokuba start to like horses so much? Has he always liked horses? He didn’t have long to process the photos when his brother opened the door to the foyer. Natural light from the windows drifted right into the foyer, illuminating that the place was spotless.

It opened right into the living room, which had a massive L shaped couch in front of a large TV. The TV had a lot of game consoles hooked up to it, Seto noted. Another thing he noted was that it seemed like the place was designed to entertain guests. The foyer opening into the living room was just the start of it. The only thing that separated the living room from the kitchen to the left was a bar that had fresh cut flowers and bar stools lining it. Wine glasses hung above the bar and seemed to have a lot of light sources. There was a spiral staircase by the kitchen that led right up into a lofty area above them. “The room’s upstairs,” Mokuba said quietly as he hung his key on a rack. “There’s a guest bathroom over there,” Mokuba remarked as he pointed to a hallway to the left. “But it doesn’t have a shower, so you’ll have to use the shower in my bedroom. Don’t use the bathtub.”

A strange request but Kaiba felt no need to pry. “So you don’t often have people stay the night?”

“Wouldn’t say that,” Mokuba said. “C’mon, I’ll show you where the shower is.”

Once again, he was following Mokuba. There was a series of framed photographs on the wall on the way to the bedroom. One appeared to be a picture of Professor Hopkins and Sugoruko Mutou but… maybe a few years younger? Why would Mokuba have this? A photo of Mokuba with Rebecca Hopkins from the KC Grand Prix was prominently framed in the center of the hallway. In fact, it seemed like all the photos were designed to draw the eye to this one photo. Perhaps his friendship with Rebecca was much closer than Seto had originally thought. Then again… he hadn’t really been paying attention.

Mokuba opened the bedroom door and once again, natural light streamed everywhere. An ornate desk sat in front of the windows with a stack of engineering books and sticky notes that seemed much taller than he would think possible. A bookcase was next to it with thick, heavy textbooks that had pieces of paper sticking out of each of them. One of the shelves had multicolor binders in no particular order that Seto could see. In the middle of the room was a large, ornate, king sized bed with two oak nightstands on either side. One was just as messy as the desk, with a leather bound journal resting on top of the mess with a cup of pens near it. He was surprised the lamp on that nightstand hadn’t been knocked off by the mess. The other was neat with a single lamp on it. Seto frowned as he noted the size of the bed. “Why would you need a bed this size?”

“I mean,” Mokuba said, looking a little awkward before turning away to lead Seto towards another door, “it’s not just me sleeping there.”

Seto frowned, following Mokuba through the new door into the bathroom. Once again, it seemed a little bit much. Two sinks. One sink free of clutter, the other with a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and an eyelash curler left out. “Who else would sleep here?”

“My girlfriend,” Mokuba said as he gestured towards the shower. “Here’s the shower. Towels are in there,” he remarked as he pointed towards a plain white cupboard. “There’s also extra toilet paper. Don’t use her towels. You’ll know they’re hers because they’re all monogrammed with her initials.”

“Right. Those photos of that Hopkins girl.” Seto frowned. “It must be serious if she’s living with you.”

“It is rather serious.” Mokuba seemed on the verge of saying something else but shrugged it off. “Rebecca’s rather finicky with her things. Don’t use them. Anyway, I'm going to leave you to take your shower cause I should get back to work. Isono will be around to check on you and Rebecca should be home when she’s done with her classes. Be nice to her.”

“I see you decided to come back.”

Seto glared at Dr. Reiki. It wasn’t that Seto had decided to come back. “My brother seems to think that before I can be cleared for work, I need to attend these sessions,” Seto said, crossing his arms and glancing out the window. This time, he did not care about whatever game Reiki was playing. He wanted to make it as clear as possible that he did not want to be here. “Thus, here I am.”

“So the only reason you are here is to be cleared for work?”

Once again, the doctor had taken to making this seem like a game. It was impossible for Seto to tell how Dr. Reiki felt about his statement. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to respond. “Tch,” Seto said as he looked away from the therapist. “I suppose so.”

“I see. If that’s the case, then tell me about your relationship with Mokuba,” Dr. Reiki said, leaning back in his chair. Seto hated that Reiki always seemed so at ease within these four walls while Seto struggled to find his footing. “I know I’ve spoken with Mokuba already but…. I am curious as to how you’d describe it.”

Seto arched his brow at the doctor. “Fine,” he said, carefully choosing his words. “When our parents died, we were shuffled around from relative to relative. None of them wanted extra mouths to feed. They were more than happy to spend our inheritance, however. They kept that but dumped us at the orphanage. I knew it was my responsibility to look after Mokuba because no one else would. I… made mistakes in raising him. I know that now. I regret how harsh I was. I… only meant to protect him.”

He cut himself as he registered Reiki taking notes. Reiki looked up when Seto stopped talking. “Don’t worry about the notes, Seto,” he said. Kaiba squashed down the desire to demand that Reiki be more formal. “This is part of the standard procedure to clear any patient to return to work. Please, continue.”

“Right,” Seto said, glancing up at the degree that Reiki held again. It was from Harvard. He supposed it made sense that Reiki went to a western school for this line of work. This did, in fact, relax Seto a little bit. At least his therapist was the best. “It was just Mokuba and I after my adoptive father died. Only Mokuba really knew the truth of what happened while everyone else…”

“Everyone else…,” Reiki prompted when Seto trailed off. Seto glared at him and glanced around. “This is a safe space, Seto. Nothing you say will leave these four walls.”

“Everyone else believes I killed my adoptive father,” Seto admitted, leaning back, leaving out the fact that there were days when he wished he had. He doubted that would help in his quest to be cleared to go back to work. “Mokuba knows that isn’t true. Still, he knew it was true that I could be, can be… Ruthless. Some people considered me to be cold and calculative, so the rumor persisted. Still persists, truthfully.”

Seto trailed off again, wondering if he was saying the right things. It was difficult to strike a line here. He still had no idea what Reiki was after to clear him for work. The therapist offered no hints.

“It makes sense that you were ruthless. Public record states that you became president of Kaiba Corp when you were only 15,” Reiki remarked. “You must have had to be cutthroat. I would imagine there were plenty of people seeking to take advantage of your youth and naivety - something you more than likely couldn’t afford. Tell me, how did you feel about those rumors?”

For a moment, Seto was dangerously close to answering. Before he admitted to anything, Seto caught himself. “What does this have to do with me getting cleared for work?”

Reiki’s mouth twitched into a smile. “In order to be certain you’re ready to return, I need to get a feel for what your work history is. How you see the company and how it affects you,” he said and Seto resented that he sounded like he was trying to coax a deer to him. “After all, the concern is that work might do more harm than good right now.”

Seto considered this for a moment. Finally, he gave a soft “tch” before crossing his arms. “I didn’t appreciate them,” Seto admitted. “It seemed like everyone was more concerned about the potential soap opera than the fact that I’d been orphaned again. My adoptive father was not a good man and do not misunderstand me, I am not saddened by his death. However… no one seemed to care that I was fifteen and without a father again. That left me, to be a CEO and president of a multi billion dollar corporation, and a father to my younger brother.”

“You considered yourself to be the parent?”

“I had to,” Seto sniffed. “There was simply no one else who would. So I had to step up to the plate to make sure Mokuba was taken care of.”

Reiki frowned as he glanced over his notes. “I will admit that makes sense as a motivation,” Reiki said slowly. “What I’m having trouble understanding is why did you abandon him for four years if you felt that it was your duty to be a father Mokuba? Could it be that perhaps you were following the only model for a father you had?”

Seto bristled. “I did not intend to leave him for four years,” Seto hissed. “That was the result of an error in programming. I was supposed to return mere moments after I left.”

The therapist nodded again and jotted something else down. Again, Seto longed to know what the therapist was writing. He badly wanted to correct anything Reiki may have misunderstood. “Well. I think we have made some decent progress today,” Reiki said. “How about we meet again in two weeks?”

As much as Seto wanted to argue, he wound up agreeing instead.

Yugi had been staring at the code for the AI for the past few hours now. He’d clipped his hair up earlier in a desperate attempt to keep his bangs out of his face. They still liked to land in front of his face. He’d figured it was safe to work on this project now because Mokuba was out picking up Seto. From what, Mokuba never said. He wasn’t expecting Mokuba to come back to work.

It’s why he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard, “So you know about the AI project Seto was working on before he left.”

For a moment, he wanted to ask how Mokuba knew about it. It was a stupid question. Obviously Mokuba knew more about what Seto had been doing before he left than Yugi ever did. Yugi sighed and nodded. “I stumbled across it a few weeks ago,” Yugi admitted, leaning back in his chair. The code was more complex than he was used to. “Why did Kaiba make it so you have to duel it to leave that room?”

Mokuba sighed, resting against the wall. Yugi thought it was greatly unfair that Mokuba shot up to six foot while Yugi was still stuck at five foot eight. He remembered when Mokuba was only barely shorter than him by an inch. Then again… he also remembered when Seto was willing to die for Mokuba. Willing to traumatize him to save Mokuba. It seemed to Yugi that a lot had changed in Seto. “He was obsessed,” Mokuba said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to shut it down… it was the last thing Seto made before…”

When he trailed off, Yugi couldn’t fault him. Mokuba had managed to deal with the fact that Seto had vanished off the face of the Earth for the past four years. The cracks in Mokuba’s facade were easy to see through but Yugi didn’t want to press. As much as Yugi wanted to help, he knew that it would be better to let Mokuba come to terms with his feelings before unpacking them. “It’s okay,” Yugi said. “I imagine it wasn’t supposed to be easy to find.”

“You know, all the people that had been working on it thought it was supposed to be of you,” Mokuba said suddenly, a light smile as if this was deeply hilarious. “One of them asked me why he didn’t just go down the street and ask you for a duel. Another asked if you were actually that ripped.”

Yugi laughed, shaking his head. “I mean, if they want to believe I look that good,” Yugi said, trying to keep the conversation light. “I was just… noting the differences between how the AI acted and how Atem… actually acted.”

“Seto insisted it was perfect,” Mokuba said, folding his arms over his chest and closing himself off. Turns out, there was little difference between the Kaiba brothers when they were distancing themselves from him. “It was based on his memories of how the Pharaoh acted.”

“Atem,” Yugi corrected, a knee jerk reaction. “That explains why it’s not… it doesn’t act like Atem,” Yugi said with a sigh. “Kaiba never saw Atem outside of a Duel. I did. He… he was conflicted. Complex. He carried a lot of guilt with him. He…” Yugi trailed off as he noted the look on Mokuba’s face. While there was little chance he’d shown his hand, Mokuba still looked sympathetic. Yugi’s face burned as he realized that no matter how much he moved on, the fact remained that he still loved Atem and it must have shown in how he spoke about Atem. Yugi was certain that some part of him would always love Atem. It was unimportant to this conversation, however. “It was just a lot to see something look so much like Atem and almost act like him but… not quite him.”

“You could fix it,” Mokuba noted, a cautious note in his voice. The statement hung in the air before Mokuba added on, “However.... It would be smarter to just leave it, right?”

Yugi nodded thoughtfully. He could, indeed, work with Mokuba and learn the coding behind the AI. He could certainly adjust the AI so it acted more like Atem. All these things were absolutely possible. However… “If Kaiba duels this AI again,” Yugi said slowly, an idea forming in his head, “I could change its deck. I mean, it’d be more like Atem in that sense. Atem and I always built our deck together. So the real way to start fixing how the AI acts is… for me to build it a new deck. Right?”

A grin split across Mokuba’s face. “Yugi, are you suggesting that we fuck with it?”

Yugi turned to look at the AI’s code before nodding. “I am absolutely suggesting that we fuck with it.”

Seto was trying to figure out what he should do since Reiki had refused to clear him to work again. He browsed a few Dueling sites to kill time. He knew that things had to have changed since he left. He knew that the meta for Duel Monsters most likely was different and if he wanted to keep up, he’d have to look into the new strategies.

This was, of course, just a distraction. He didn’t want to check his email. His old burner account had to be worthless by now so he set up new burner account. He was annoyed to discover the user “saggithedarkclown” was taken and the person who owned it wouldn’t give it up without payment.

After a minor argument with himself, he bought the username while mentally cursing them for taking the username in the first place. He supposed the real joke was on him for actually paying for it, though. From there, he was able to poke around at the current meta and see what had changed.

As much as the format of the game had changed, it would seem that Yugi was still the undefeated champion. Still the King of Games. There were a couple photos of Yugi at previous exhibition matches with similar determined expressions and the same leather pants he remembered Yugi wearing at Battle City. Or well… the other Yugi, anyway. Additionally, it seemed like people now paid money to view Yugi’s various decks. Seto didn’t know how he felt about that.

He noted the new support cards for his deck and was disgusted to see that Pegasus had reprint the Blue Eyes White Dragon cards during his absence. It felt almost mocking. As if the minute he turned his back, Pegasus took advantage. He knew it was a ridiculous reaction. They were, after all, the intellectual property of Industrial Illusions and Pegasus was free to reprint whatever he saw fit. It still did not make Seto feel any better about it.

There were also new methods of summoning. He’d found a couple videos of Jonouchi, Yugi, and Mai all using the new summoning methods. He’d have to figure out how they worked. Synchro vaguely reminded him of ritual summoning so that might be the easiest to pick up. As for XYZ and Link, however, Seto couldn’t exactly figure them out. As far as he could tell, special summoning was now a major component of the game.

The deeper he dove, the more he learned about tournaments in the previous four years. It seemed that somehow Jonouchi managed to become a competitive giant. Another thing Seto didn’t know how he felt about. Jonouchi, when Seto had left, was merely a mild irritant who was not as good as he or Yugi. He’d missed seeing a former annoyance climb his way through the ranks. It was a strange thing to realize.

He also noted that Yugi’s last real tournament entry was two years ago. His victory was a surprise to no one. Seto noted that Yugi seemed a little distracted when he won. He wondered what Yugi was thinking at that moment.

Seto was fixating. He wanted to know why Yugi had stopped entering tournaments. Did he think himself too good to Duel? If Seto entered a tournament, would Yugi enter? Did Yugi feel he had nothing left to prove? That would make sense, after all.

A ping pulled him out from his distraction. A message from someone using the handle “kc_blimp” was left on one of his posts about wanting to get back in the game after a three year break . He was surprised to see that the user had left a long and in depth explanation about the new summoning mechanics. He’d have to test them out himself. He was also surprised to see the user noted that Duels tend to be faster with ten turns being “long duels” by modern standards and to expect stall techniques to not work as well as they did four years ago. How much had the game changed in his absence?

Unfortunately for him, there was only one way to have some of his questions answered. He sent the user a private message,

He got a phone call from Pegasus, which he ignored.

For the past few months, Seto had not once seen Rebecca. He knew she came home occasionally because every single time Rebecca had been in the apartment, there would be a messy table left behind. Rebecca had no concept of how to keep a room clean and it was slowly driving Seto crazy.

The door unlocked and Seto expected to see Mokuba enter. He was not expecting to see a blonde woman that was wearing a denim skirt, a bright blue shirt, and a blue headband walk in. She seemed to be carrying dozens of paper bags and had a heavy looking backpack slung on one shoulder. “Oh, hi, Seto,” she said, kicking the door closed with one of her sharp looking heels. “Are you going to just stand around or are you going to help me with the groceries?”

At first, Seto was appalled by the gall of this woman to just walk into the apartment and address him by first name. It took a moment for him to realize that yes, this was indeed Rebecca Hopkins. She… expected him to help? “Why didn’t you get Isono to take care of that?”

Rebecca sighed as she dumped the bags on the dining table and tossed her backpack right at him. It hit him in the stomach and he nearly doubled over. How did she carry this? The bag felt like it weighed as much as she must. “Unlike you, I do not expect others to take care of me,” she said as she began unloading one of the bags. He was surprised to see so many processed snacks. There was no way Mokuba ate that crap, right? “Seriously, are you going to help or what?”

“Why did you buy so many chips,” he said, alarmed as he set the backpack down then headed over to examine the groceries. At least one bag had vegetables and another had fruits in it, thankfully. The next bag was full of sweets, however… “You don’t need this much sweets.”

“How the fuck do you think I’m going to get through this bitch of a thesis paper,” Rebecca retorted, looking at him as if he’d asked her if Luster Dragon was a normal monster. “Not all of us get handed a company at fifteen, you know. Some of us actually have to work for what we get.”

He was surprised at how blunt she was. This was the girl that Mokuba was dating? She seemed a little rude. No, that was putting it too nicely. Rebecca Hopkins was an absolute nightmare. Had she always been like this? He answered his own question when he remembered that of course she was nasty - she was American. He was surprised at how well she spoke Japanese, however. “Since when did you know how to swear in Japanese,” Seto asked. The last time he’d seen her, her go to choice of swear words was ‘goddamn’ in English peppered into badly spoken Japanese. “Why are you here in Japan?”

“I’m getting my PhD in Engineering from the University of Tokyo,” Rebecca said, rolling her eyes as she put the chips in one of the cupboards.

Seto had never opened any of the cupboards in the kitchen. He was surprised to see they were organized. He was even more surprised that Rebecca was following the system the kitchen had.

“I have to know how to speak Japanese in order to attend,” she went on, “considering all my professors speak it. And Mokie taught me.”

Mokie? Did she refer to his brother with a cutesy nickname? Seto was appalled by her. “Sorry, did you say your PhD?” Seto asked as realization set in “Aren’t you nineteen?”

“I started college when I was thirteen.. And I’m actually twenty, so show some respect,” she said, her bright blue eyes glancing up at him sharply and rather dismissively. “Seriously, if you aren’t going to help put things away, why are you here? The meat goes in the fridge, the sweets go in that cupboard, the dips go over there, the wine goes in the wine cooler. Hurry up!”

Since she clearly wasn’t going to let this go, Seto took the bag full of fish, chicken, pork, and what appeared to be a well-marbled steak. Did she cook? She didn’t seem like the kind of person who cooked. He opened the fridge for the first time and noted it was neat. Considering how Rebecca’s desk and nightstand looked, Seto could only deduce either someone was hired to cook or Mokuba cooked. He didn’t know if Mokuba could cook. How could he not know if his brother cooked or not? He made a mental note to avoid mentioning this to his doctor during his next check up, lest they subject him to more tests again. “You do all the grocery shopping?”

“Sometimes Mokie does it since he does all the cooking,” Rebecca said as she started putting away the wine. “But since he’s busy with work, I thought I’d make life easier for him and pick up the groceries. Plus… his birthday’s coming up! I wanted to do something nice for him.”

Mokuba’s birthday was coming up? Had he been back in this world for that long already? He hadn’t bothered keeping track of the days. If Mokuba’s birthday was coming up soon enough for her to be thinking about it… it would have to be June, right? He didn’t want to ask. “So what are you doing for his birthday?”

“Don’t worry about me, worry about you,” Rebecca said, her hands planted on the table as she glared at him. “What did you get him to make up for what you did?”

Seto was taken entirely aback. He wasn’t expecting to meet Rebecca today, much less be confronted about what he’d done. He was nervous now. Were Rebecca’s eyes always this icy? He didn’t know it was possible for one person to look this cold. “Er,” Seto said, stumbling over himself. He looked away from her harsh gaze. “I didn’t get him anything.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “You can pick up the cake, then,” she said, as if it wasn’t up for discussion. He certainly wasn’t about to interject that he didn’t know how to pick up a cake from a bakery. He always had Isono deal with that sort of thing. “I’ve been planning Mokie’s birthday for the past three months and you are not about to ruin it by showing up empty handed. I’ll email you the information about the bakery and where to go.” With that, she’d finished unpacking the rest of the groceries. Seto had barely helped at all but that didn’t seem to matter. She picked up her backpack, tossing it over her shoulder, and moved toward the stairs. “I’m going to go do my homework. Don’t bother me.”

He wouldn’t dream of it.

For the most part, Mokuba really was okay. He swore it up and down to anyone who asked. But there was a strange feeling in his heart when he looked at his brother. It was like he was being ripped apart to see him looking exactly as he did four years ago when he told him “you’re in charge, Mokuba” before leaving him. He wiped away the tears.

He was okay. He would make himself be okay, he thought idly as he glanced at the mirror in the private bathroom attached to his office. Kaiba Corporation CEOs did not cry, he reminded himself. They did not let things like this tear them down. He held himself high, adjusting his tie.

He knew what Yugi would say.

That it was okay to cry. That it was okay to be upset. Well, Yugi was wrong. Mokuba couldn’t let anyone see that this rattled him. He’d seen how Kaiba Corporation CEO’s were supposed to act and he would follow it to the letter even as it ripped him apart. He left the bathroom, striding with purpose. Showing weakness would be the same thing as death.

Rebecca knew something was wrong. She always seemed to know when Mokuba wasn’t okay. Thankfully, her classes kept her busy and he never had to face how he really felt for too long. If she was around more often, she might have demanded that he actually go see a therapist again. He’d been doing so good that he hadn’t needed it. Though, to be fair, he’d already insisted prior that Kaibas don’t go to therapy. He almost grinned thinking about how she’d reacted to that.

Despite this, when Yugi had discovered the AI, it changed a lot of things. For one, he now spent extra time trying to pick apart the code with Yugi in Yugi’s office. It was far more complex than anything he’d ever seen and he was amazed Yugi could even keep up.

Yugi had already proven himself an intuitive coder, though. He supposed it would make sense that Yugi would be smart enough to figure out the strange lines of code. “I think this right here is supposed to be based on one of the Battle City duels,” Yugi said with a frown as he examined a complex string of code that seemed to be its own thing. “Kaiba doesn’t like to organize his codes, does he?”

“I think it is organized,” Mokuba said, sitting down in one of the chairs in Yugi’s office. He ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to work through lines. The flags for the reactions seemed to change on their own, as if the code itself was alive. Or maybe Mokuba was finally going crazy. He and Yugi had already spent so long trying to figure out how to adjust just one facet of the AI’s personality that Yugi had noted was off. “It’s just in a way we haven’t figured out yet.”

“So the solution is to think like Kaiba,” Yugi said with a defeated sigh. Mokuba didn’t get why that seemed to be a problem for Yugi. There was once a time when Yugi could easily dissect his brother and accurately deduce what he was thinking. Unless… unless maybe he was mixing up Yugi and Atem again. “If I were Kaiba and I wanted to build a complex AI that could think for itself while dueling… I might…” Yugi’s brow furrowed. “Hm… what if the reason that’s off is because…”

Yugi did something and strangely, the code jumped down several lines in response. Mokuba sat up straighter as he examined the new spot they were in. “He attached that reaction to that,” Mokuba remarked, a little stunned. “Why would he do that?”

“Same old Kaiba,” Yugi remarked. “I think he may have put a lot of important flags behind the Dueling operation. He really did only intend to use this as a Dueling simulator, huh?”

“Before he left, he was planning on creating a virtual world in which Duelists could enter and challenge virtual Duelists. The project was basically complete but never went past the beta stage,” Mokuba remarked, fiddling with the code just a little bit more. He didn’t know if what they were doing was wise but he knew that if they could make improvements… maybe they could follow up on a project Seto left behind. “A way for everyone to enjoy the game and get better at it. Do you think that it might be a problem if we…”

“Probably,” Yugi said with a shrug. “But if we’re going to give it new decks to play against Kaiba, we need to make sure that the AI can play them optimally.”

“And you don’t think this code could do it?”

He felt offended on behalf of his brother. Yugi had to know that Seto had poured everything into this program. It was supposed to perfectly replicate Seto’s memories of Atem. He was annoyed when Yugi shook his head. “This code’s missing what made Atem such a good Duelist,” Yugi said, a light grin across his face. “A bit of me.”

“This code is designed to perfectly replicate Atem as Seto remembers him and Duel with his exact strategies,” Mokuba said, well aware it wasn’t the best defense of the code. After all… he had to admit that no one knew Atem like Yugi did. “Are you saying Seto doesn’t remember how Atem duels?”

“No,” Yugi said, an odd look crossing his face. “Kaiba dismissed me as a potential rival, remember,” Yugi said, and Mokuba vaguely remembered that. “He probably didn’t think that I contributed much to those Duels, I guess. But we can fix that.”

Mokuba figured that if anyone could fix the AI, it would absolutely be Yugi.

#fic: you'd come back to me #sorry i fell asleep instead of posting the next chapter on time #but hello it is here #rivalshipping #rivalshipping fanfic #myfanfic

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dammitadolfnomorecake · 5 years

Text

Caramel Skin Under a Vanilla Sky prt 6 full

It took vargas to scrape away enough sand to see into the cockpit properly. Lance's form slumped over the controls as Keith smashed through the cracked glass with the handle of his luxite blade. The over powering stench of blood momentarily bringing tears to his eyes until he realised that the there was blood all over the cockpit and in places that couldn't possibly have come from Lance during the crash. In the state he was, he didn't consider the fact it could have been Lance's blood from prior to crashing. All he cared about was the rise and fall of Lance's chest, and the throbbing of a steady pulse beneath his fingers as he gently took Lance's hand into his to check his wrist. Finding a pulse, Keith moved on to check for major injuries. There was a nasty gash hidden in Lance's hairline, various small cuts and bruises from the crash, and a long painful looking tear along his upper left leg where it'd been partially pinned by the crumpled dash on the ship. Without the proper tools Keith couldn't hope to lift the dash enough to free Lance, forcing him to make the call to have Kosmo teleport them over to Keith's ship without being able to assess Lance's right leg. Sending Kosmo back to find anything Lance had had on his ship with him, Keith carried his unconscious friend to his bed, laying Lance down with the utmost care, having moved him had caused his wounds to open again, sending fresh blood seeping through Lance's thin clothes. For a man who knew the value of a good suit in battle, his current clothing left much to be desired. Teleporting back, Kosmo had a backpack in his mouth as he wagged his tail enthusiastically "Put that down, you don't know what's in it" Keith had a pretty good idea what would be inside. If it was the only thing Lance had brought with him, it'd have to have the drugs in it. Drugs and most probably clothes. It was almost as sickening as seeing Lance so bloodied and broken. His friend had lost weight, deep bags hanging under his eyes leaving him looking sickly and gaunt. This wasn't the Lance that had been at Allura's Memorial Day. This wasn't the Lance that lived for his daily skincare regime, or insisted he needed his beauty sleep. This was his best friend against the universe, forced to do whatever it took to survive without them there to provide back up and support. Cutting Lance's shirt off, things only got worse. Scars he couldn't remember seeing before, that had long since started to fade, littered Lance's chest and arms. A long bruise ran along bottom of his stomach where he'd hit the dash. Nothing felt overly swollen, though he was certain Lance wouldn't be fighting any intergalactic battles any time soon without major discomfort. Realising he'd been staring far too long at his crushes soft caramel skin, Keith's face burned bright red as he ripped his hand away from Lance's stomach. Lance was seriously injured and there he was, eyeing him off as if he'd never seen him half naked before. He needed to clean the wounds then stitch them... followed by giving some serious thought to what he was going to say Lance woke. * Falling asleep bent over the side of his bed, Keith was woken by a scream. The sheets beneath him torn away by a flailing of limbs that nearly hit him in the face as he rushed to soothe Lance. The last thing needed was to be was so active. The gash on Lance's thigh was ugly, but the swelling of Lance's right ankle was far more concerning. The area was warm to the touch, so swollen that he'd had to cut Lance's boot off because there was no other way to get it off. Feeling as if he was only adding to Lance's drug addiction, Keith had sedated him with an injection of his own. The pain killer only as strong as panadol, probably not even putting a dent in Lance's pain, but at least it didn't affect his friends quintessence. Screaming at him to let him go, Lance fought hard against Keith's hands on his shoulders, his screams growing louder as he grew more agitated. Keith had had his own share of screaming nightmares in the past. The disorientation of waking while his mind was still trapped in his dreams. Releasing Lance's shoulders as his blunt fingernails cut into Keith's arms, Lance tried to scramble back from him, Keith catching a moments break before Lance broke down sobbing, quietly repeating "no... por favor no mas... por favor... por favor no me toques...", as he curled into himself. Keith had no idea what he meant. He'd barely gotten the handle of Galra, and that was because his mother insisted upon it. The "no" part was pretty obvious... but that was where it ended. Unable to let Lance continue crying, Keith sank down on the edge of his bed, placing his hand on Lance's leg. The moment he did Lance's breath hitched, Keith knocked backwards off the bed as Lance launched himself on to him with a growl. It wasn't until Lance was straddling his lap with his fist raised that he finally came back to himself. Red-rimmed blue eyes blinking away the tears with a look that broke Keith's heart. Lance looked lost. Just staring into his eyes was throwing Keith's world into enough confusion that he felt as if he kept staring he'd be swept away in Lance's pain "K-Keith?" "The one and only?" Climbing off him less than gracefully Lance groaned as he clutched at his stomach. Keith waiting a few ticks before drawing himself to sit. He knew he needed to say something, but where to begin? "F... sorry, man. Nightmares... are shit" With a strained smile, Lance stared down at where his hands held his stomach "I feel like a building fell on me. What happened?" "You don't remember? We arranged to meet..." "It's already been a movement? Fuck..." Moving a hand from his stomach to his head, Lance grimaced "You should lay back down, you probably have a concussion and while I don't think you broke a rib, you've probably bruised them. You busted yourself up when you crashed your ship. Should I...?" Lance waved him off, flopping sideways like a fish with a whimper. Ignoring his friends wishes Keith gathered himself up off the floor, before moving to cover Lance with his blankets again. Bundled up, his love interest looked adorable as he nuzzled into the pillow beneath his head "That... that makes sense... am I in shorts? God. Buy a guy dinner first" Keith struggled not to stutter. Lance's shorts were a tad too short, but stripping Lance to his underwear was asking for trouble. Given how he'd woken, he had the feeling Lance would have melted down further if he'd found himself just in his underwear "I had to cut your pants down. The dash... was... uh... crumpled" "Ah... That explains the pain... I think you're right about that concussion. My head hurts worse than when I went drink for drink with Coran... never go drinking with Coran" When did Lance have time to go drinking with Coran? And why? Over the loss of Allura? "I'll try to keep that in mind. How do you feel?" He asked without thinking, grasping at straws for how to continue the conversation when Lance was still suffering the after affects of his nightmare "Like quiznakked hit me, drove over me, then chucked it in reverse, but I know that's not what you want to ask. You want to know about my nightmare" Yes. God yes. It was like some switch had been flicked inside Lance. His tears turned to rage so suddenly, then dropped in the next instant "Not if you don't want to tell me about it" Groaning as he wriggled down on the thin mattress, Lance pulled the blankets up to his chin "Good. Thanks for the hand man, but I think I need to nap this off. Did you find my communicator? I need to contact my team" A nap. A nap?! Lance was lucky Keith had been early and now he wanted to nap?! The half-Galra swore he could feel his hair turning grey. And his team... "It wasn't on you when Kosmo teleported you out. If it's on your ship, it's probably shot to hell" Swearing softly, Lance started struggling back up. Placing his hand on his shoulder to push him back down, Lance flinched back at the contact. Keith swore he could smell something like rotten fruit the moment his hand met Lance's warm skin, but when he sniffed the air again all he could smell was something like the spray of sea water "I need to call my team. They'll... worry" "You're not going anywhere like this. You need your rest" "I need to..." "Lance. I didn't see your communicator. I can go take a look in the wreck, but only if you promise to stay here and rest" "You'll look right? And my backpack?" "Your backpacks here..." Lance looked ready to shoot out of bed to retrieve his back, only settling back when Keith continued "... I forgot I dragged it out. I haven't looked in it" "Good... and you're going to look right for my communicator right? My team will worry" The concussion was probably leaving Lance muddled "Yes. Now rest. Kosmo will stay with you" "I don't need a baby sitter" Having peaked in Lance's backpack, Lance definitely needed a babysitter. Clothes and drugs. More pills than the original two types he'd seen in his friends bathroom, as well as a mostly full box of those yellow vials. All of which he'd wanted to throw back into the wreck of Lance's ship before blowing it up "Don't think of him like a babysitter. He was excited when I told him we were flying out to meet you" "For all his excitement, I don't see him here" Teleporting himself in like he knew he was being talked about Kosmo jumped up on the thin cot where he started licking at Lance's face, Lance screeching from the sudden attack "God! Dog breath! What is he feeding you?!" Kosmo's whole body was wiggling with excitement. Dropping his full weight down on Lance, Lance was completely pinned, all traces of the deep sadness gone from his blue eyes as he looked to Keith. It wasn't like Keith was jealous, but Lance seemed a billion times happier to see Kosmo than he had him "Keith... help?" "Nope. You wanted affection and here he is. Kosmo, make sure Lance stays in bed. He needs to rest" Whining, Kosmo then yipped in agreement "Good boy. I'll be back soon. Make sure he doesn't get up to too much trouble" Craning his head up to look past Kosmo's paw as Keith moved towards the bedroom door, Lance scowled at him "Who? Me or the wolf?" "If you have to ask, then you know the answer" "Rude. You're lucky I'm too injured to kick your arse, Mullet" If Lance was well enough to joke tiredly, he should be fine under Kosmo's care while Keith went to find this stupid communicator. The black one he'd seen him using to contact the police? wasn't in the wreck from what he could see, which meant he actually had to make the effort to climb back into the crushed ship and pray it wouldn't explode, despite his anger over not being able to see the bigger picture here. Lance was lucky he was injured, as Keith drew the line at threatening injured friends. * Finding Lance's communicator was a pain. The small device had slipped under the mangled dash leaving him to attempt to fish it out with his blade while the cold wind of the strange planet was on seemed to seep into his very being. His breaths falling in condensed puffs as he hurried back to his own ship to escape the sub zero temperatures. Who the hell sets up a meeting on a planet where it was this damn cold? Stumbling into his ship, Lance wasn't where he'd left him. Sitting in the cockpit, Lance was talking to Kosmo as he dragged files across the screen of Keith's navigator system. Now dressed in a shirt and a pair of jeans, it was like the Cuban idiot didn't know outside was freezing "I thought I left you resting" Jumping visibly, Lance shot up. A hand going to his hip despite the lack of weaponry there "Keith! Don't sneak up on a man like that! I could have shot you!" Rolling his eyes at him, Keith tossed the small black communicator to Lance who clumsily caught it "I'm terrified. What are you going awake and out of bed?" "I couldn't sleep... I felt bad about sending you out to find my communicator" "You're too much. You've only just woken up and now I find you at the control of my ship. What's going on with you?" "I'm fine. I was resting until you decided you needed to give me a heart attack" God. He was frustrating. Lance's pupils were blown so wide his eyes were practically black "Are you high right now?" Huffing at him, Lance sank back down without so much as a grimace, his fingers back to tapping away at whatever he was up to "I was disabling your tracking system. You've already landed me in enough trouble as it is. The last thing we need is more trouble raining down on us while you're flying this tin can" "Lance" "I mean, what kind of idiot hacks a security system installed by police. Did Pidge know you were using her program?" "Lance" "First you show up. Then you hack the clubs security. Then you break into our rooms. Seriously...." "Lance" "Now I'm stuck on this planet with my ship pulp. Keith. When I told you you need to show your dates a good time..." "Lance!" Stopping his rambling, Lance looked up at him "What?" "I have no idea what you're talking about, but all of this can wait. What happened to you?" Blinking at him Lance leaned back in the pilot chair, crossing his arms as he did "That's a long story no one wants to hear. Basically you got me in trouble with my bosses and I needed to get Erathus off for a bit. They're the kind of people you don't want pissed and on your trail. Hence why I disabled your ship's tracker" "I got you in trouble?" "Yep. Don't worry it wasn't just you. Erathus was starting to feel a bit too small. Now that I have my communicator I can contact my team" "You have a team?" "Yes, Keith. I have a team" Replying sarcastically, Lance was doing his head in "How am I supposed to know that?" "Because I told you?" "You told me? You haven't told me anything! You didn't even tell me you were in space. Now you're what? Running around the universe doing what? Shooting people? Getting into fights with who? Your ship was wrecked, and you crashed. You could have died in the crash! You're lucky I came earlier than we arranged!" "Damn, Keith. Calm down man. Stress isn't good for you" Calm down?! How could calm down? Lance seemed like he couldn't care less for the situation they were in "Stress isn't good for me!? I didn't have this stress until you came back into my life!" Looking like a kicked puppy, Lance slowly rose from the pilot's chair "You're right. I'm sorry man. I never should have let you been dragged into this. I stupidly let myself think it could be like old times, but those times are gone. My team should be here within the next quintant or so. So I'll stay out your way until then" Ah quiznak. He'd let his anger flare, then pushed too hard. Why couldn't he say the right thing? Lance was right there. The man he'd stalked the fuck out of because he cared, was now walking back towards the bedroom area looking thoroughly dejected "Lance, wait. It's not that... I mean... I wanted that too. Us. You know. Against the universe" Lance had once called him the "future", now he felt like his future self was just as much as an arse as his previous self. He'd chosen Lance because he wanted Lance to return to Earth and be free. He wanted Lance to be happy... yet had been too embarrassed to say anything like that when it'd really mattered "Don't worry about it man. It's fine. I'll go call my team" "You don't have to do that. You called me out here for a reason, can't we put all this aside? Why did you call me out here? I've never even heard of this planet..." Pausing in the doorway Lance sighed, not looking at him as he fiddled with the door frame "Oh... right. I think I know where your missing agent ended up. I was going to bring you with me, but now I'm thinking it's safer if you just wait here. My team can handle it" "You know where Guile is?" "Maybe. You can't get in without the right clearance, even if you are Daibazaal's favourite prince. I'm sorry. But like you said... you weren't the only one hoping that things could be how they used to be" Leaving him standing there Keith didn't know what to do. He was still frozen from his trip outside the ship, but that was nothing compared to the icy atmosphere that was left in Lance's wake.

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veneataur · 5 years

Text

Whumpmas day 24

Fandom: original fiction

Prompt: clumsy

Title: A Helping Hand

A/N: Here’s the last of the Whumpmas prompts. My apologies for the delays. I took on too many writing projects and then life happened. There will be more of Evie and Marla to come.

Warning: PTSD, aftermath of torture, flashback

It shouldn’t be so difficult, she thinks. She thought it would a nice gesture and she can’t sleep anyway. Marla usually grabs a quick breakfast before she heads off to work. Evie would watch as she drinks coffee and an apple, sometimes a doughnut. Marla would also set out some juice, fruit, and a hard-boiled egg for Evie to eat. It’s not much and still, Evie struggles to eat it all. Marla doesn’t stick around anymore to make sure she eats. Having been dropped from her insurance company, all of Evie’s medical bills have to be paid in cash meaning Marla has to work more. Evie is working to get on disability, but it takes time and there’s a lot of paperwork which she needs help with. Her writing isn’t good anymore with her shaky hands. Nate comes over when he can to help her fill it out.

Making breakfast isn’t much in the scheme of things, but it’s something. Last night toast, scrambled eggs, and pancakes hadn’t seemed so difficult. It’s something she’s made before, but that was before. She’s dropped a few eggs already, right on the floor and picking them up was hard. Her one shoulder that often popped out of place is acting up this morning and she’s had to put it back in the sling to ease the pressure on the joint. Her ribs are also still sore as are her hips, which makes bending down to clean up the eggs a painful chore. She does it though because she can’t have Marla coming in and cleaning up the mess herself.

Her fingers then have difficulty gripping the measuring cup to measure out the pancake mix. She’s told that’s the PTSD and lingering effects of concussions. Sometimes her body just doesn’t react like she wants it to. Gripping a pencil means she has to have one of those rubber grippers to help. She gets something close to a cup in the bowl but then she adds too much water when she can’t react fast enough to turn off the tap.

“Damn it,” she says, voice sharp and low. Frustration quickly wells up inside of her as she tosses the ruined bowl in the sink, cursing again when it sploshes and makes a bigger mess. Great, she thinks, just one more thing to clean up and stretching over the counter is really going to hurt. She’ll clean it later. Her ribs are still aching from the floor. The true question is, does she still want to make pancakes? Marla really likes them. She’d be really happy to have pancakes and Marla’s done a lot for her. She deserves something good in the morning.

With a sigh, Evie grabs another bowl and measures out something close to a cup of dry mix. This time she uses a glass to get water from the tap and pour it into the bowl. Mixing with one hand is complicated and takes work, but she does get it. Somewhat. There’re still some lumps when she has to give up, shoulder sore and arms tired. Her energy and strength have never really come back despite the physical therapy and meetings with dieticians.

A quick glance at the clock, one of the many clocks in the room, shows that she still has twenty minutes before Marla gets up. That should be enough time to get the eggs and pancakes cooked. She wasn’t great with time before, but it’s a difficult concept now. Emma says that’s from nearly a year of not knowing the time and lingering effects of the multiple concussions. Evie thinks that it’s a frustration. Why does the world have to be so strict about time, anyway? It’s all arbitrary. And, besides, what does she really have to do? All of her time she spends here and any appointments she has, if she’s having a good day, someone picks her up to go to them. But they all insist that she pay attention to the time.

The eggs and pancakes can cook at the same time, so she gets the eggs cracked and starts whisking them. They don’t fully mix, but she doesn’t have the strength to keep trying. On the stove, the griddle is heating up. She wipes off some of the extra grease so the pancakes aren’t ruined and then starts pouring the pancake batter. The ladle she uses makes a mess even though she tries to wipe the extra off and the pancakes are different sizes. She can’t get them in the right position on the griddle, so she only gets three.

While they’re cooking, she starts up the fire on the skillet and puts a couple slices of toast in the toaster. That can wait a little to start. With everything set for the moment, she sinks back against the counter. Making breakfast has worn her and she’s already feeling an overwhelming desire to go lay down. Her body aches in a way that she knows is not just physical exhaustion. It’s something she’s become familiar with since her rescue. It digs into her and leaches whatever strength she’s managed to build up. Emma says it’ll take time, but it’ll get better. Evie doesn’t see it happening.

Slowly the smell of something burning registers. Panicked, she turns around and sees smoke coming from the griddle.

“Shit!” She searches frantically for the spatula, which she stupidly didn’t get out ahead of time. By the time she finds it, she has to toss the pancakes, which drip and crumble on the way to the sink. She drops a few more ladleful’s and vows to pay closer attention this time. This time she gets them flipped in time, though the cooked side has flecks of burned bits from the last batch of pancakes. While they cook, she gets the eggs going, stirring them gently as they start firming up. All too soon, the smell of burning is back and she pulls the pancakes, realizing only as she’s putting them on the cooking rack that she’s smeared them with cooked egg.

She curses again. There’s enough batter for a few more pancakes, which cook while she’s tending to the eggs. The eggs are nearly done when she remembers the toast. She pushes the lever down and turns it up a bit. By then, the pancakes need to be flipped and the eggs are starting to take on a darker brown. Minutes later, as she’s pulling the slightly burned pancakes, the toast pops back up, heavily blackened.

“What’s going on in here,” Marla asks from the doorway. It startles Evie. She turns, knocking into the pan and griddle, both of which are still hot. She sees them falling and reaches out to catch them, which she manages, but not by the handles. The realization of being burned takes longer than it should, but when it does, she drops the hot dishes and sinks to the floor next to them. Marla’s by her side right away, turn on the stove as she kneels to try to check her hands, but Evie has them tucked up under her armpits and is bending over, gasping at the pain. In the past she’d have cried, Marla thinks. She doesn’t do that anymore.

“You have to let me see how bad the burns are, Evie.” Emma doesn’t like them using commands with Evie but sometimes it’s just easier, like now. Marla needs to know how bad the injury is and Evie would just keep it to herself if Marla didn’t give the command. It’s a weak justification and Marla feels guilty about it, but it’s for Evie’s own good. Without question, Evie does pull out her hands, putting them out for Marla to look at. The hands are red and some blisters are already showing, but they don’t look like an ER visit is needed.

“Let’s get them wrapped and put some ice packs on them to cool them off. And you should probably take something to get ahead of the pain that’s coming.”

“Okay.” Evie gets to her feet, wobbling and feeling lightheaded as she stands. Marla’s there to steady her. She keeps hold of Evie’s elbow as she steers her out of the kitchen into the bathroom.

“You okay?” Marla directs Evie to sit on the toilet seat lid while she gets out the first aid kit.

Evie nods, then she remembers she’s supposed to use words. “Yeah.”

They lapse into silence as Marla works on Evie’s hands. It’s the new status quo, this silence. It’s not that they talked a lot before; they didn’t need to because they knew each other so well. Now Evie doesn’t talk much and Marla’s never sure what to say. What do you say to someone who’s been held captive, tortured, and been dehumanized?

Evie sits in silence as Marla wraps her hands and follows her to the living room when she’s done. Marla leaves Evie sitting on the couch while she goes to get a couple ice packs and ibuprofen. Evie wordlessly takes the pain killer and lets Marla set the ice packs in place. Marla then turns to the kitchen, taking in the mess with an unconscious, audible sigh.

“I’ll get it cleaned up.” Evie’s off the couch, the ice packs slipping to the floor as she rushes to get to the kitchen. Dizziness overtakes her before she gets far and she’s on her knees before Marla can get to her. Gently, Marla, eases her onto the floor, grabbing a blanket and pillow from the couch.

“I…” Evie tries to speak, but Marla cuts her off.

“Stop it,” she says firmly, though she does try to keep her voice gentle. “Have you eaten this morning? Had anything even to drink?”

Evie shakes her head. “No. I had to… get breakfast.”

“Breakfast? Why? You know that you’re supposed to eat and get something to drink frequently. Do you want to wind up back in the hospital with dehydration and an NG tube?” Marla doesn’t think about her voice rising in tone and she doesn’t see Evie pushing up and away from her, curling into a ball and rocking back and forth.

“I… I’m sorry, master. I’ll… I’ll do better. I promise. Please. Just give me another a chance. I’ll prove it to you.” Evie’s voice is low as she keeps up the same mantra.

“Shit,” Marla says tersely as she realizes what’s happened.

“Please, master. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

“Evie, stop it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it,” Marla says. She can feel her own panic rising up. It’s not the first time she’s dealt with Evie’s flashbacks nor is it the first time that she’s set one off. She always feels terrible when she’s at fault because she doesn’t like to see her friend suffering because of something she’s said or done. It’s gotten easier over the last few months to know what will trigger a flashback, but there are times when she forgets and behaves as she’s always done. Times like now. She looks at Evie again, seeing her curled up and crouch away, muttering just loud enough to be heard the same apologies to the man who tortured her and bent her to his will. Marla feels the familiar anger rising. She’s been going to therapy to help with her own anger over the situation and she remembers that she has to put aside the anger for the moment. Evie needs her help more than she needs her anger. There’ll be time enough for that later.

“Hey, Evie.” She keeps her voice low as she moves on her hands and knees to her friend, stopping a foot in front of her, kneeling back on her legs. “It’s me, Marla.” She gently taps Evie’s socked feet when Evie doesn’t respond. That’s enough to draw her friend out, but Marla sees the flashback is still in her eyes.

“Evie, I’d like you to tell me what you feel around you. Can you do that for me?”

“It’s cold. It’s always cold.” The distance in the voice is familiar. Marla sighs. She doesn’t know if Evie’s feeling cold from the flashback or because she’s always cold. Marla removes Evie’s socks. With her hands bandaged, she won’t be able to feel much.

“Can you tell me what you feel with your feet, Evie?” This is the one time Evie’s torture comes in handy; she won’t hesitate to answer the grounding questions.

“It’s soft and thick.” Marla sees a touch of contentment cross Evie’s face as she speaks.

“Good. Do you know what it is that you’re feeling?”

“Carpet.”

“Yes.” It’s close enough anyway. It’s really the rug in their living room, but Marla’s not going to quibble. “What color is it?”

“Green. It’s Marla’s favorite color.”

“It is my favorite color, but as I remember you didn’t like it much. You really wanted the purple one even though it wouldn’t fit colorwise.”

“It’s our place. What does it matter?”

Marla smiles at Evie’s comment. It’s rare that she contributes something without prompting and she counts every contribution highly and tries to remember them in the trying moments.

“How about taking a look around you and telling me what you see? What’s right in front of you?”

Marla continues to prompt Evie with questions about her surroundings. As Evie speaks, Marla sees more light and awareness coming into her. It’s mid-morning when Evie’s back and they’re both exhausted. She’d had to pause once to send a quick text to her boss, who’s been fairly accommodating and understanding about their situation.

“Marla?” Evie’s voice is weak. She looks up, her tired eyes catching Marla’s.

“Hi, Evie. You back with me?”

“I’m sorry, Marla. I didn’t….”

“I know and you don’t have to apologize, Evie.” Marla moves to Evie’s side. Evie doesn’t speak for a long moment. She gently leans into Marla, resting her head on Marla’s shoulder as Marla reaches an arm around her back, hugging her lightly mindful of the aches and pains Evie still has.

“I’m tired of this shit, Marla. I can’t do it anymore.” There’s a deep weariness in the voice. They’ve had this conversation before and not just on the rug in their living room.

“I know you’re tired of it and I know that you can’t see how far you’ve come since that first day we got you back, but you’ve made so much progress.”

“I just… I’m tired, Marla. I don’t have the strength in me to keep going.” The sob that follows is so quiet and choked that Marla isn’t sure she heard it, but then there’s another that follows and soon Evie is moving further down, resting her head in Marla’s lap and Marla pets her hair and rubs a hand on her back to try to calm her. There aren’t any tears that come, but Evie is clearly upset, so Marla lets her go. It’s a release she probably needs.

Marla doesn’t keep track of how long they’re like that, but she is relieved to see Evie calming finally. Flashbacks always take a toll on her and Marla knows that Evie needs to rest so she doesn’t get sick.

“You feeling up to getting to the couch so you can stretch out and sleep a bit,” Marla asks.

Evie shrugs her shoulders but does move. Marla steadies her when she wobbles and guides her to the couch, helping her to lay down, and put her favorite blanket over top.

“I know you say not to, but I’m really sorry,” Evie says, voice muffled slightly by the blanket that’s nearly covering her head. Marla kneels down so Evie can see her better.

“It’s fine, Evie. We’re friends and what are friends for?”

“This is too much though. It’s just too much.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I should be better. I should be doing more instead of sleeping all the time.” Evie pushes the blanket down enough that Marla can see her face.

“Is this what the kitchen is about?”

“I just wanted to help. I do nothing around here. I’m worthless.”

“Evie, you had something terrible happen to you. It’s something that doesn’t happen to ordinary people like us, people who’s biggest worry is making sure the checkbook doesn’t bounce or deciding if we’re cooking or ordering take out. You’re not supposed to be fine. We don’t expect you to be. And you’re not worthless. You survived torture. That’s pretty incredible, I think and I’ll tell that to you every day if you need it until you believe it.”

“I don’t deserve you or Nate.” Evie gives a hint of a smile. It’s not much, but, for once, it does reach her eyes.

“Yes, you do and I’ll tell you that repeatedly, as well. You deserve to have help and be treated with dignity because you’re a human being, Evie. You’re not someone’s puppet. I know that you don’t believe all of that but you will. It hasn’t really been that long since you were found. It probably seems like forever to you, though. Just give it time, give yourself time to recover and find your new normal. Okay?”

“Yeah, I guess. I just wish it didn’t take so long.”

“I know, but you can’t rush it. It’ll come and I’ll be here to help, no matter what. Me and Nate won’t abandon you.”

“Thanks.”

“Now, get some rest and I’ll start working on the kitchen.”

“Leave it. I’ll get it. It’s my mess anyway.”

Marla sighs. “We’ll tackle it later then. How about some TV in the meantime?”

“Sounds good.”

#whumpmas #original fiction #original character #evalyne #marla #whump #ladywhump #tw: PTSD #tw: aftermath of torture #tw: flashbacks

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builder051 · 6 years

Note

Hey so like, if you’re willing (or you’ve got the time or whatever) could you write a lil fic with Steve as the sickie ? It’s my literal weakness. I just wanna see something where he gets home and doesn’t even get the chance to say hello to bucky before he’s fainting or throwing up or something. Also ? fever nightmares/deliciousness are my jam . Anyways I hope your week is going well & I hope you’re taking care of yourself ! 💛

I’ve already written a fic that (mostly) contains all these elements. It’s a concussion fic, so the deliriousness (deliciousness??) comes from head injury instead of fever, but I think this will fit the bill. It’s kind of long, so skim the mission fic part at the beginning if you’re only interested in the sick. I’m pasting it below for ya.

Thanks for the well wishes! I’m still not doing fantastic, but I’m getting right along.

_____

I get knocked down…but I get up again…you’re never gonna keep me down…

Steve’s flat on his back, and the words echo blankly in his head.

What the fuck?

It’s so dusty.

And he’s so…tired?

I get knocked down…

There’s…is that a hole in the ceiling? Dilapidated rafters and corrugated metal sheets are busted out of the way to allow a view of the blue sky and a shaft of warm sunlight to hit the floor.

A little unorthodox for a skylight.

“Cap?”

Steve’s almost sure he heard the sound with his ears, but he can’t be positive.

Why is he lying on his back?

Steve pushes over to his side, then uses his arms to hoist himself up to seated. Immediately the world shifts around him, and his hand slips against the dusty concrete. The floor seems to have become the wall, but he’s still stuck to it…

I get knocked down…

Why is that damn song stuck in his head?

Isn’t he supposed to be doing something?

“Cap? Steve?”

Yep, definitely supposed to be doing something.

“Hey, what happened?” Footsteps echo toward him. Nat’s face materializes upside down over him. “You ok?”

“Yeah, sure.” Steve raises himself up to a sitting position again, and the floor-wall miraculously returns to its original position, though it leaves Steve with a wave of dizziness reverberating through his skull. Which hurts.

“Did you get hit?”

“Must have.” Steve’s voice sounds oddly echoey.

“Must have, as in, you’re not sure?” Nat asks, her eyebrows going up.

“It was a pretty hard hit,” Steve admits. Or at least that’s what he thinks he’s doing, as he still doesn’t remember it. He picks himself up off the floor, automatically brushing dust from his deep blue suit and freshly polished shield.

“That’s what your helmet’s for, dumbass,” Nat teases him. But her eyes flick from his face to his hairline, searching for a visible wound.

Steve doesn’t think there is one, but he runs his gloved hands over his head to be sure.

“Really, why’d you take off your helmet?” Nat asks.

Steve knows the answer to this. He just can’t make it make any sense in his head because the context has evaporated. “Better to talk to civilians without it.”

“Oh. You found the hostages?”

Did he? Steve glances around as quickly as he can, trying to get his bearings back without upsetting the precarious balance of his head on his shoulders. The more he moves, the more it feels like a brass band it setting up shop in his skull.

The abandoned warehouse is starting to look more familiar now. That busted-up sheet metal half-wall thing, that’s concealing the posts where the hostages are chained up. Steve enunciates that to Nat as clearly as he can, then casually palpates the back of his head where it vaguely feels like he’s being smashed repeatedly with a hammer.

Now Nat’s saying something, and Steve’s missed the beginning of it. “…when they’re coming back, but we need to move them now.”

“Huh?”

“Are you ok?” Nat asks, looking concerned again.

“Yeah,” Steve assures her. “Just…still shaking it off.” Although Steve’s sure that if he shakes anything, especially his head, he’s going to fall over.

“Ok, well, finish shaking and cover me.” Nat draws a gun from the collection on her belt and starts across the warehouse.

Steve keeps pace with her jog, but clenches his teeth together as the motion jostles his stomach. It’s as if wire-fine neurons have re-woven themselves to as to directly connect his head and abdomen. One step equals one throb equals one swallowed wave of disgustingness.

The scruffy-looking group of coal miners chained up in the corner of the warehouse start whooping and cheering when they see Nat and Steve coming toward them.

“Shh, stop,” Nat commands them. “They might hear you and come back.”

Steve’s just grateful it’s quieter again. The sound had been wreaking havoc like drumbeats in his head.

“We saw you get slammed earlier, Cap,” one of the miners says with an Appalachian drawl. “Didn’t know if we’d be lucky enough to see you come rescue us.”

“It wasn’t too bad,” Steve says, trying to convince himself that his words are true. “You’re all ok? They haven’t hurt you?”

“Not yet,” the miner replies. “Kept threatening that we’d be the fuel in their new clean energy rig, but, honestly, we’re used to hearing shit like that.”

“Well, they probably meant it,” Nat says, using a miniature pulsar beam on her wrist to start cutting through the chains around one man’s wrists. “HYDRA’s no joke. But what the hell they’re doing out here in the middle of nowhere…It is more like a tease than a threat.”

“Hey, this isn’t nowhere,” the miner pipes back up. “We live here.”

“Yeah, she didn’t…” Steve has to blink hard to ground himself and regain his train of thought. “…didn’t mean it.”

“You gonna help or stand there?” Nat barks in response.

“Oh. Help,” Steve replies. He uses the edge of his shield to bash the chains holding one the nearest miner’s feet to the thick concrete post. The resulting clang is enough to make Steve want to curl up with his hands over his ears.

“Yikes. Maybe I don’t want you to help,” Nat says, cringing herself at the loud noise. “Just stand watch and see if the creeps in the gas masks come back… oh shit.”

Steve follows Nat’s gaze and immediately lifts his shield in front of his chest. Two black-clad figures with bulky masks over their faces are sprinting for the cluster of hostages. They don’t immediately look harmful, but with the threat of alien tech and something akin to nuclear power, no chances can be taken.

Nat’s drawing another gun out of its holster, one that shoots paralyzing beams instead of bullets. “I’m on ‘em,” she says. “Keep working on the hostages.”

“Roger,” Steve replies.

The gun fires loudly, and as the sound reverberates through Steve’s head, his vision blurs. He takes out a good chunk of the concrete floor before he’s able to adjust the edge of his shield and bust through more of the chains.

The second gunshot sends Steve’s hands to his knees. He struggles to hold onto clarity as he swallows his stomach back down into its proper place.

I get knocked down…

Why is that stupid song still hanging around? He’s got much more important things to think about…like trying his damndest not to barf, and cutting chains, and covering Nat’s six…

“They didn’t unleash some weird bio-weapon on you, did they?” Nat’s at his shoulder, poking him back to standing upright.

“Don’t think so.”

“That’s good,” Nat says, going back to lighting up chains with her mini pulsar. “But you’re acting weird, you know?”

Steve shrugs. Through the fuzz in his head, he’s starting to suspect what might be wrong. He doesn’t want to think about it, though. He’d die of embarrassment if he had to go to a head injury safety lecture for forgetting to put on his goddamn helmet.

“Ok, that’s it, freeing up the last of them. Two operatives incapacitated, doesn’t look like there are any more,” Nat’s saying.

Steve’s confused at first. Then it dawns on him that she’s talking into her comm, probably with Fury on the other end. But Steve should be on the call too. He feels for it with clumsy fingers, but the little piece of metal and plastic that should be poised on the edge of his ear canal is gone. It probably fell out when he hit the ground earlier.

“Alright. We’re headed out,” Nat says. She turns toward the group of rescued miners and informs them that there’s a cadre of police cars outside the warehouse and a little ways down the hill. They should be safe now, and the regular police corps will take over from here, helping the miners and arresting the injured HYDRA agents.

“And we’re done. We’re leaving,” she adds to Steve. “Did you lose your comm, too? God, you’re a mess today.”

“Yeah,” Steve says absently. He tries to plug his brain back in against the throbbing backbeat. “That was it? Just those two guys?”

“Looks like it,” Nat says. “But with the lack of tech and stuff in their hideout, I’m wondering if they were just some weirdo sympathizers instead of actual HYDRA operatives.”

“Hm.” The glossy black Hummer that’d driven them out of DC and into Appalachia is waiting, burning fuel as it idles in a gravel driveway. Steve opens the door and flops gratefully onto the richly cushioned backseat. The air conditioning is blasting, and Steve positions his head so he’s in the direct path of the breeze. It dries the sheen of sickly sweat on his forehead, making him feel better for all of one moment.

The drive from rural Virginia back to the DC Metro area is set to take a couple hours. At first the prospect of lounging across the roomy backseat is appealing. All Steve wants to do is rest. But when the Hummer starts bumping down the hilly terrain toward the main road, Steve has to clamp his teeth together so his head doesn’t flop off and start rolling across the floor.

Nat’s tapping on an iPad, getting a head start on the mission report paperwork and playing Angry Birds. At least, that’s what Steve thinks she’s playing. The squawking sound effects seem somewhat familiar. Waves of sleepiness compete with nausea washing over Steve’s head and chest. He leans the side of his head against the cool glass of the window and lets his eyes drift shut.

“You alright?” Nat asks, jolting Steve back into painful awareness.

“Hm? Yeah,” Steve says, trying to swallow the vertigo that’s loping from his forehead down to his lap. “Just tired.”

“I didn’t think it was that strenuous.” She’s talking about the mission. “Did you not sleep last night or something? Bucky keeping you up?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, still trying to work out the shift in topic and decode what Nat just said.

“Good stuff or bad stuff?”

“Huh?”

“Were you guys boning or dealing with nightmares?”

“What the— geez, Nat, I don’t talk about that stuff.” How the hell did the conversation morph to include his sex life? He’s not firing on all cylinders. Something’s definitely wrong.

Steve’s had a concussion before. All this, the severe headache, the mental fog, the tiredness, the strong urge to puke, is dreadfully familiar. There’s nothing to be done except lie down and throw up and feel stupid while someone asks inane questions about the president and the date and things Steve still has trouble with even when he’s feeling fine. He just wants to go home.

Steve does his best to stay awake for the duration of the drive. The sound effects from Nat’s game and his own nausea do a good job of keeping him from drifting off, but the soft rumble of the Hummer’s engine is a difficult lullaby to resist. By the time they’re rumbling past the shops and neighborhoods of Falls Church, Steve’s barely holding onto his consciousness and his stomach.

He wants more than anything to be home, and it would be just too much to drive by the townhouse and go on to SHIELD. “Hey,” Steve says, swallowing down bile and raspiness. “Can we…can you drop me off at my house?”

The agent driving the Hummer turns his head to look at Steve, obviously perplexed by the unconventional request.

“Why? You have to debrief, see medical, finish up the mission paperwork,” Nat says.

“Yeah, I…I’ll come back in a little bit,” Steve forces out. “It’s just…Buck’s got an appointment. I forgot about it till now. He wanted me to go with him…” It’s a complete lie, but Steve’s desperate.

“You are so weird today,” Nat sighs, shaking her head.

The driver seems to take pity on him, though, and asks where to turn off. Steve directs him to the complex of townhomes, then lets out an exhale of relief when the huge, thundering car pauses at the end of his driveway.

“Thanks,” Steve says. “I’ll, uh, see you soon.” He had told Nat he’d come back, right? He doesn’t exactly remember…

“You better,” Nat replies. Then, somewhat softer, “I’ll call you.”

“Yeah, ok,” Steve mumbles. He grabs his shield and opens the car door, gripping it tightly as he steps onto the concrete of the driveway, which may or may not be moving under his boots.

Steve fumbles in his pocket for his keys and shakily unlocks the front door. The Hummer is speeding away down the road, and Steve’s relieved it’s going. His stomach is wedged so far up his throat he’s not sure he’ll be able to hold it down for the next minute as he gets into the house.

Sweat beads up on what feels like every inch of his face and body. Steve feels the knob turn in his hand, and he nearly walks into the flat of the grey painted door because he can’t get it open fast enough.

“Hey,” he hears Bucky call from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen.

Steve’s on the point of replying, but when he opens his mouth, a gag and a rush of undigested stomach contents beat down the words. He reaches for the wall and braces himself, doubled over, as he vomits all over the doormat.

“The fuck?” Bucky’s footsteps pound around the corner and into the entryway, and he’s quickly at Steve’s shoulder, supporting his trembling form. “What happened?”

“God, my head,” Steve exhales, trying to push his stomach back down to its normal location. He fails miserably and his throat goes into contraction again.

“Ok,” Bucky soothes, sidestepping the puddle of sick and peeling Steve away from the wall. “Do you wanna come into the bathroom, maybe?”

“No, I’m…I’m ok,” Steve breathes heavily and squeezes his eyes shut, hoping he’s finished retching for the moment.

“Alright, well, at least come lie down,” Bucky says. “Do you think you can handle the stairs?”

“Probably,” Steve says, trying to give off more confidence than he actually feels.

“Ok, come on.” Bucky’s metal arm wraps securely around Steve’s waist, and they start slowly up the stairs. Steve grips the railing tightly, and he feels the whole thing shaking with the tremor in his body. Or maybe it’s just his unsteady brain playing tricks.

Once in the bedroom, Steve immediately flops onto the end of the bed, letting his body rest horizontally while his feet remain on the floor.

Bucky starts unlacing his boots, tugging gently and asking, “Alright. What happened? You were fine this morning.”

“I think I…got hit. In the head,” Steve whispers, drawing his hands up over his face.

“What? And medical released you, even though you’re barfing all over the place?”

Steve lets the words sink in. “Sorry,” he rasps. Then, “I…haven’t been yet.”

“Why? You need medical attention.” Bucky finishes removing Steve’s boots and starts looking for the zipper to release him from his suit.

“They’re not gonna do anything for a concussion…” Steve mutters, tossing his arm over his eyes to block out the light. “Just need to…be sick for a couple hours. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re concussed?” Bucky says, concern melding with surprise.

“I think so,” Steve replies. He massages between his eyes, but it only succeeds in bringing the underlying current of nausea up to the surface. “Buck, I’m gonna throw up again.”

“Hold on a sec,” Bucky says. He sprints away into the ensuite and returns with the small trash can. The world tips maddeningly as Steve heaves himself back to sitting and retches into the white plastic bin.

“God, I’m sorry,” Steve apologizes on a hitching breath. He feels like a collection of parts strung together in the most illogical way. The sweat dripping down his forehead makes his shoulder cramp, which brings an ache to his low back, and then forces another wave of stomach acid up his throat.

“It’s ok,” Bucky soothes, adjusting the trash can in Steve’s limp grip. “But, are you sure you don’t want to go to medical? I mean, I can take care of you and all, but…” He trails off, patting Steve on the back.

“It’ll…heal itself up in a few hours. I’ll be fine by tomorrow morning.” He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Hey.” Bucky softly swats Steve’s shoulder. “Don’t do that. I’ll get you something to clean up with.”

“Ok.” Steve releases the trash can to the floor and watches it settle between his feet.

The washcloth is cool on his face and neck. The breeze of the air conditioning bites into his clammy skin when Bucky helps him out of his suit. The bed pillows are soft under his head, but there must be a rock or something right below them. Perhaps it’s under the mattress, or pressing up through the foundation of the house…

“Hey, wake up for a second,” Bucky says. He lightly massages Steve’s shoulder. “How do you feel?”

“Nauseous.”

“Do you want to throw up, or try to answer some questions?”

“God. Neither.” Steve tries to turn onto his side, but his stomach threatens mutiny, and he stays stationary on his back.

“Let’s try for a couple questions,” Bucky encourages. “Who’s the president of the United States?��

“Do you know who’s the president of the United States?” Steve hoarsely mumbles back.

“Yeah, I do, but I’m asking you,” Bucky laughs quietly.

“Uh…Truman. I mean, Obama. But, no, um…Donald…?” Steve shuts his eyes and scrubs his palm over them.

“What year is it?” Bucky asks.

The bed is a raft, floating on an angrily choppy ocean. “I think…” Steve swallows thickly. “I’d rather throw up.”

The next thing Steve knows, the phone is ringing.

“Hey, it’s Nat, do you want to talk to her for a sec?” Bucky’s asking him.

“No.” Steve wants to go back to sleep. Maybe take some Excedrin. Or go to town on a bowl of peppermint ice cream. His mouth tastes terrible.

“Naw, he’s ok. Kind of sick and a little confused, but he’s already pulling himself back together.”

Steve blinks. Or, at least he thinks he does. The bedroom is much darker than it was, and the cool glow of moonlight sifts in through the curtained window.

Bucky’s lying on his stomach, his arm tucked around Steve’s chest and his chin resting lightly on Steve’s shoulder. The strong scent of pine-sol hangs in the air. “Hey,” he whispers when he sees Steve’s eyelids flutter. “You were talking in your sleep a little bit.”

“Huh?” Steve grunts. “What about?”

“I get knocked down or something like that.”

“Oh.” Steve can’t fight the smile that’s spreading across his face. He presses his palm over his forehead, cooling the lingering headache and attempting to force his thoughts into an intelligible order. “That song. It’s been stuck in my head.”

“That’s funny,” Bucky chuckles. “Only you’d be enough of a punk to get a concussion and start singing about it.”

“Shut up.” Steve weakly shoves Bucky’s metal shoulder.

“You feel better?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “Not completely great, but I don’t think my head’s going to fall off now.”

“Well, I guess that’s an improvement.” Bucky laughs again. “How’s your stomach?”

Steve considers for a moment. The slightly seasick feeling that accompanies any bad headache remains pressing slightly into his temples. But it’s such an upgrade from the gale force of sickly vertigo from earlier that it hardly rates. “Pretty good, I think,” Steve says. Then, “Sorry you had to clean up so much.”

“It’s no problem,” Bucky says. “I’m just relieved you’re back in your right mind. You had me a little worried there.”

“I’m ok.”

“Yeah. Good thing, too,” Bucky murmurs, lifting his head up from Steve’s shoulder. “Now, you wanna come downstairs and get something to eat, or are you gonna demand bedside service?”

“Well, you’re pretty good at the whole bedside service thing, but then you’d leave me up here…” Steve ruffles his fingers through Bucky’s hair.

“I know you still don’t feel good,” Bucky says. “You’re clingy.”

“Is that really a bad thing, though?”

“No,” Bucky smiles. “Not at all.”

#marvel #mcu #captain america #old fic reblog

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dammitadolfnomorecake · 5 years

Text

CSUAVS prt 6 is messing with me. I don't like it

It took vargas to scrape away enough sand to see into the cockpit properly. Lance's form slumped over the controls as Keith smashed through the cracked glass with the handle of his luxite blade. The over powering stench of blood momentarily bringing tears to his eyes until he realised that the there was blood all over the cockpit and in places that couldn't possibly have come from Lance during the crash. In the state he was, he didn't consider the fact it could have been Lance's blood from prior to crashing. All he cared about was the rise and fall of Lance's chest, and the throbbing of a steady pulse beneath his fingers as he gently took Lance's hand into his to check his wrist. Finding a pulse, Keith moved on to check for major injuries. There was a nasty gash hidden in Lance's hairline, various small cuts and bruises from the crash, and a long painful looking tear along his upper left leg where it'd been partially pinned by the crumpled dash on the ship. Without the proper tools Keith couldn't hope to lift the dash enough to free Lance, forcing him to make the call to have Kosmo teleport them over to Keith's ship without being able to assess Lance's right leg. Sending Kosmo back to find anything Lance had had on his ship with him, Keith carried his unconscious friend to his bed, laying Lance down with the utmost care, having moved him had caused his wounds to open again, sending fresh blood seeping through Lance's thin clothes. For a man who knew the value of a good suit in battle, his current clothing left much to be desired. Teleporting back, Kosmo had a backpack in his mouth as he wagged his tail enthusiastically "Put that down, you don't know what's in it" Keith had a pretty good idea what would be inside. If it was the only thing Lance had brought with him, it'd have to have the drugs in it. Drugs and most probably clothes. It was almost as sickening as seeing Lance so bloodied and broken. His friend had lost weight, deep bags hanging under his eyes leaving him looking sickly and gaunt. This wasn't the Lance that had been at Allura's Memorial Day. This wasn't the Lance that lived for his daily skincare regime, or insisted he needed his beauty sleep. This was his best friend against the universe, forced to do whatever it took to survive without them there to provide back up and support. Cutting Lance's shirt off, things only got worse. Scars he couldn't remember seeing before, that had long since started to fade, littered Lance's chest and arms. A long bruise ran along bottom of his stomach where he'd hit the dash. Nothing felt overly swollen, though he was certain Lance wouldn't be fighting any intergalactic battles any time soon without major discomfort. Realising he'd been staring far too long at his crushes soft caramel skin, Keith's face burned bright red as he ripped his hand away from Lance's stomach. Lance was seriously injured and there he was, eyeing him off as if he'd never seen him half naked before. He needed to clean the wounds then stitch them... followed by giving some serious thought to what he was going to say Lance woke. * Falling asleep bent over the side of his bed, Keith was woken by a scream. The sheets beneath him torn away by a flailing of limbs that nearly hit him in the face as he rushed to soothe Lance. The last thing needed was to be was so active. The gash on Lance's thigh was ugly, but the swelling of Lance's right ankle was far more concerning. The area was warm to the touch, so swollen that he'd had to cut Lance's boot off because there was no other way to get it off. Feeling as if he was only adding to Lance's drug addiction, Keith had sedated him with an injection of his own. The pain killer only as strong as panadol, probably not even putting a dent in Lance's pain, but at least it didn't affect his friends quintessence. Screaming at him to let him go, Lance fought hard against Keith's hands on his shoulders, his screams growing louder as he grew more agitated. Keith had had his own share of screaming nightmares in the past. The disorientation of waking while his mind was still trapped in his dreams. Releasing Lance's shoulders as his blunt fingernails cut into Keith's arms, Lance tried to scramble back from him, Keith catching a moments break before Lance broke down sobbing, quietly repeating "no... por favor no mas... por favor... por favor no me toques...", as he curled into himself. Keith had no idea what he meant. He'd barely gotten the handle of Galra, and that was because his mother insisted upon it. The "no" part was pretty obvious... but that was where it ended. Unable to let Lance continue crying, Keith sank down on the edge of his bed, placing his hand on Lance's leg. The moment he did Lance's breath hitched, Keith knocked backwards off the bed as Lance launched himself on to him with a growl. It wasn't until Lance was straddling his lap with his fist raised that he finally came back to himself. Red-rimmed blue eyes blinking away the tears with a look that broke Keith's heart. Lance looked lost. Just staring into his eyes was throwing Keith's world into enough confusion that he felt as if he kept staring he'd be swept away in Lance's pain "K-Keith?" "The one and only?" Climbing off him less than gracefully Lance groaned as he clutched at his stomach. Keith waiting a few ticks before drawing himself to sit. He knew he needed to say something, but where to begin? "F... sorry, man. Nightmares... are shit" With a strained smile, Lance stared down at where his hands held his stomach "I feel like a building fell on me. What happened?" "You don't remember? We arranged to meet..." "It's already been a movement? Fuck..." Moving a hand from his stomach to his head, Lance grimaced "You should lay back down, you probably have a concussion and while I don't think you broke a rib, you've probably bruised them. You busted yourself up when you crashed your ship. Should I...?" Lance waved him off, flopping sideways like a fish with a whimper. Ignoring his friends wishes Keith gathered himself up off the floor, before moving to cover Lance with his blankets again. Bundled up, his love interest looked adorable as he nuzzled into the pillow beneath his head "That... that makes sense... am I in shorts? God. Buy a guy dinner first" Keith struggled not to stutter. Lance's shorts were a tad too short, but stripping Lance to his underwear was asking for trouble. Given how he'd woken, he had the feeling Lance would have melted down further if he'd found himself just in his underwear "I had to cut your pants down. The dash... was... uh... crumpled" "Ah... That explains the pain... I think you're right about that concussion. My head hurts worse than when I went drink for drink with Coran... never go drinking with Coran" When did Lance have time to go drinking with Coran? And why? Over the loss of Allura? "I'll try to keep that in mind. How do you feel?" He asked without thinking, grasping at straws for how to continue the conversation when Lance was still suffering the after affects of his nightmare "Like quiznakked hit me, drove over me, then chucked it in reverse, but I know that's not what you want to ask. You want to know about my nightmare" Yes. God yes. It was like some switch had been flicked inside Lance. His tears turned to rage so suddenly, then dropped in the next instant "Not if you don't want to tell me about it" Groaning as he wriggled down on the thin mattress, Lance pulled the blankets up to his chin "Good. Thanks for the hand man, but I think I need to nap this off. Did you find my communicator? I need to contact my team" A nap. A nap?! Lance was lucky Keith had been early and now he wanted to nap?! The half-Galra swore he could feel his hair turning grey. And his team... "It wasn't on you when Kosmo teleported you out. If it's on your ship, it's probably shot to hell" Swearing softly, Lance started struggling back up. Placing his hand on his shoulder to push him back down, Lance flinched back at the contact. Keith swore he could smell something like rotten fruit the moment his hand met Lance's warm skin, but when he sniffed the air again all he could smell was something like the spray of sea water "I need to call my team. They'll... worry" "You're not going anywhere like this. You need your rest" "I need to..." "Lance. I didn't see your communicator. I can go take a look in the wreck, but only if you promise to stay here and rest" "You'll look right? And my backpack?" "Your backpacks here..." Lance looked ready to shoot out of bed to retrieve his back, only settling back when Keith continued "... I forgot I dragged it out. I haven't looked in it" "Good... and you're going to look right for my communicator right? My team will worry" The concussion was probably leaving Lance muddled "Yes. Now rest. Kosmo will stay with you" "I don't need a baby sitter" Having peaked in Lance's backpack, Lance definitely needed a babysitter. Clothes and drugs. More pills than the original two types he'd seen in his friends bathroom, as well as a mostly full box of those yellow vials. All of which he'd wanted to throw back into the wreck of Lance's ship before blowing it up "Don't think of him like a babysitter. He was excited when I told him we were flying out to meet you" "For all his excitement, I don't see him here" Teleporting himself in like he knew he was being talked about Kosmo jumped up on the thin cot where he started licking at Lance's face, Lance screeching from the sudden attack "God! Dog breath! What is he feeding you?!" Kosmo's whole body was wiggling with excitement. Dropping his full weight down on Lance, Lance was completely pinned, all traces of the deep sadness gone from his blue eyes as he looked to Keith. It wasn't like Keith was jealous, but Lance seemed a billion times happier to see Kosmo than he had him "Keith... help?" "Nope. You wanted affection and here he is. Kosmo, make sure Lance stays in bed. He needs to rest" Whining, Kosmo then yipped in agreement "Good boy. I'll be back soon. Make sure he doesn't get up to too much trouble" Craning his head up to look past Kosmo's paw as Keith moved towards the bedroom door, Lance scowled at him "Who? Me or the wolf?" "If you have to ask, then you know the answer" "Rude. You're lucky I'm too injured to kick your arse, Mullet" If Lance was well enough to joke tiredly, he should be fine under Kosmo's care while Keith went to find this stupid communicator. The black one he'd seen him using to contact the police? wasn't in the wreck from what he could see, which meant he actually had to make the effort to climb back into the crushed ship and pray it wouldn't explode, despite his anger over not being able to see the bigger picture here. Lance was lucky he was injured, as Keith drew the line at threatening injured friends. * Finding Lance's communicator was a pain. The small device had slipped under the mangled dash leaving him to attempt to fish it out with his blade while the cold wind of the strange planet was on seemed to seep into his very being. His breaths falling in condensed puffs as he hurried back to his own ship to escape the sub zero temperatures. Who the hell sets up a meeting on a planet where it was this damn cold? Stumbling into his ship, Lance wasn't where he'd left him. Sitting in the cockpit, Lance was talking to Kosmo as he dragged files across the screen of Keith's navigator system. Now dressed in a shirt and a pair of jeans, it was like the Cuban idiot didn't know outside was freezing "I thought I left you resting" Jumping visibly, Lance shot up. A hand going to his hip despite the lack of weaponry there "Keith! Don't sneak up on a man like that! I could have shot you!" Rolling his eyes at him, Keith tossed the small black communicator to Lance who clumsily caught it "I'm terrified. What are you going awake and out of bed?" "I couldn't sleep... I felt bad about sending you out to find my communicator" "You're too much. You've only just woken up and now I find you at the control of my ship. What's going on with you?" "I'm fine. I was resting until you decided you needed to give me a heart attack" God. He was frustrating. Lance's pupils were blown so wide his eyes were practically black "Are you high right now?" Huffing at him, Lance sank back down without so much as a grimace "I was disabling your tracking system. You've already landed me in enough trouble as it is. The last thing we need is more trouble raining down on us while you're flying this tin can"

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