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the-kr8tor · 9 days

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Mr and Mrs Smith AU: When Jane met John

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 9k

Summary: Joining a spy agency? Check ✓ Hired in said agency? Check ✓ Getting a new fancy house? Check ✓ An entire armoury of weapons at your disposal? Check ✓ A new Husband? Check ✓ wait, what?

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), Hobie and R call each other by fake names (ie: John, Jane, Smith etc), spy AU, CW suggestive, CW food mentions, TW blood, CW violence, CW vomit mention, TW death.

A/N: Happy 1k! Happy reading!!!❤️

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Buy me a ☕?

The waiting room seems like it's designed to make you extra anxious. From the bright fluorescent lights that whir above, to the carpet that smells like a very harsh citrus soap. Add the metallic chairs that's incredibly cold under your slacks— It all makes you bounce your leg from the bundle of nerves inside your stomach. The people waiting around you don't help either, they all look like they came out of magazine covers. Hair all tied up in a perfect bun, pencil skirts that cinch their waist perfectly. Button ups that are ironed until there's no crease in sight.

You bite your lip, eyes glued on the steel door, to where your last resort is, to where your entire future depends on. Looking around the room full of models, it doesn't seem like you're applying for a security job.

Maybe you should've worn that pencil skirt that's gathering dust in your closet.

Even though you technically don't know what kind of job it is, you really need to get this one, or else. Your savings could only get you so far. An old ‘friend’ of yours recommended this ‘company’. It operates at the highest security, the risk is just as high, but the pay is higher. More than what you've ever earned in the five years you've worked anyway.

Flicking your eyes above the door, the light finally turns green from red, and a chiming sound can be heard as the door clicks open on its own. You still wonder where the applicant goes after their interview since you never saw them exit out the same door. A morbid thought passes by your mind: a gun plus a bullet to the head. The image makes you grab the rubber band on your wrist to slap it against your skin. It leaves the stinging pain for only a moment, but it's enough to throw away the vision from your brain.

An applicant enters and you look down at the piece of paper in your hand— you're next.

The number, 2715 is written in Times New Roman. You can recognize that font anywhere, for it's the same font used on newer gravestones, the same font on his— you slap the rubber band against your wrist again. This time harder than the last. The stinging stays for a minute more. Your heels tap against the carpet, the clock ticks, the fluorescent whirs, someone coughs and you want to punch them in the face— you slap the rubber band against your skin again.

Your ears perk up at the familiar chime like you've been Pavlov’d by the sound after waiting for three hours on that uncomfortable metal chair that has tiny holes that you've gotten your pinky finger stuck in on hour two.

With a deep breath, you saunter your way towards the creaking door, trying to summon all the confidence in your body. They may be watching so you do your best to not look as nervous as you feel like.

As you enter the room, the large screen in the center raises a curious brow. The light from the monitor shines a spotlight on the singular office chair right in front of it. The room is dim, save for the single light. The screen reminds you of one of those mall touch screens that shows you the map of the building. There's another door on the opposite wall, now you know where all the other candidates exit, and it's definitely not from a bullet judging from the clean floors.

With a tentative step, you cross the distance. Sitting down, the chair is a comfortable welcome from the last one you sat on.

“Am I supposed to push a button?” You roam your eyes over the circular shape up top. You surmise that it's the camera.

The calming sky blue screen flashes words,

> Hihi, welcome

“Hi?”

> Insert nail clippings

A box slides out below the screen, prompting you to take the ziplock with your nail clippings from your bag. It slides back in with a mechanic hiss once you place the plastic on the drawer, and the screen blinks to a couple of questions that you answer honestly.

> What's your ethnicity?

You don't falter. Answering it truthfully.

> Height?

You clear your throat, the lump is either from the nerves or how your voice faltered when you answered.

> Are you willing to relocate?

You wring your hands together on your lap. “Yes, absolutely. Nothing's holding me back.” Then the dreaded question pops up on the bright screen.

> Tell me about yourself

“Uh, I graduated top of my class.” You scratch the back of your neck. “MI6 agent for three–no, uh four years.” Chuckling shakily, you continue. “I got high merits…w-well until the thing— but I was on the road to promotion b-before it happened.” God, you hate interviews.

> Words that people would describe you with?

You blink, sucking in a breath. “Truthfully?” Joking, the screen doesn't appreciate your humour.

> Yes

“Oh, p-people would describe me as a… someone who has initiative. Cunning…” unfeeling— you slap the band on your wrist again. Sitting up right, you gaze at the camera like your eyes could see the person typing behind it. You guess it's a person at least. “Passed all my training with flying colours, infiltration, marksmanship, hand to hand, you name it. You tell me the job and I'll do it with no questions asked.”

> Are you okay with high risk?

“More than okay.” You answer quickly.

> With a team or alone?

“I'm alright with either, but I prefer alone.”

> Why did you get fired?

“You know why.” You say intensely, eyes boring holes into the screen. For a second you thought you flubbed it but the screen continues to flash a new question.

> Have you killed anyone?

> And why?

The question turns into what you're more accustomed to. “Yes, approximately…” you inhale sharply. “Forty three. Two unintentionally, the rest with various…weapons.” You mindlessly play with the loose thread of your blazer to get rid of the flashing images in your head. “As for why, that's confidential information.”

The robot or the person behind the screen seems to accept your vague answers for it moves on with the interview.

> Favourite food?

Your eyebrows knit at the sudden turn of question. “Uh, I have a sweet tooth, ice cream. I think. But I can't resist good popcorn.” Your tone wavers at the end.

> Have you been in love?

You laugh, but the question still flashes on screen, unchanged and unamused. Clamping up, you feel for the rubber on your wrist.

“I-I'm sorry but what is this part for?”

The screen remains the same.

“—No,” you remember that they've probably already known everything about you even before you applied. So you decide to answer vaguely, that seems to work out before. “Once, just once.”

> When was the last time you said ‘I love you?’

“A long time ago.”

> To whom?

“You know who.”

—

You're surprised that you got the job even after the disastrous interview. The suitcase is light in your tightly clasped hand. The belongings you've tossed inside are sparse, only packing the ones you only need.

The large wooden door looms in front of you, the street behind you is bustling and right across your new home is an expansive park. A park that looks like you need to pay just to get inside. The neighborhood that you're situated in can be described as exclusive, rich and very suburban. The kind of setting where parents would do anything to raise their kids in. Something you've never thought in your dangerous life to live in, more so even step foot in.

With an exhale, you unlock the door. It clicks open surprisingly, you doubted the company for a second when you pushed it in. Maybe they gave you the wrong address? Maybe something went wrong in their system and your name popped up instead of someone more worthy? Someone who's a better shot, someone who isn't as bat shit insane as you.

The long hallway greets you, the low warm light brings comfort to your rattling bones. Its carpet runner is soft beneath your sneakers, red and blue threads weaved around the thick cloth. Framed art is posted on the walls, the artist's name you recognize from some pretentious reality tv about selling mansions that you once drunkenly watched alone on a friday night.

You leave your baggage in the hallway. Opting to explore the cinnamon scented home. Its rich walls remind you of chocolate that you once got for your birthday. The furniture doesn't look like it came from Ikea, the oak is sturdy under your palm, no rough surface, no protruding nails that slashes your flesh.

You snap the rubber band on your wrist for the umpteenth time today.

There's an ornate door sitting on your right, robins and roses are carved on the wood. The biometric scanner is placed right next to the door, it’s a stark contrast to the traditional home. Flipping the cover open, you place your thumb on the smooth surface of the scanner. After a half second, the door clicks open, revealing a steel elevator. The bright light above it almost blinds you.

Your curiosity makes you enter the steel cage, roaming your eyes, you spot the buttons.

“Might as well.” You say to the emptiness of the house.

As the elevator door closes, the front door opens.

There's a lack of elevator music, perhaps that's the best since you always hated the cheery chiming of it. The second the door opens, you take a peek inside. The weird smell combination of chlorine and butter hits your nose.

“Holy shit,” you mumble in disbelief at the indoor pool and theatre. “A fucking pool under the house? And a fucking theatre screen in front? Which rich fuck decided that?” Your voice echoes, bouncing off the tiled walls of the pool.

Roaming the large room, eyes wide and strides small, you marvel at the high ceilings with the same warm tone lights hidden in the coves to soften the lights. You crouch down, letting the warm water lap at your hand.

There's a handful of sun loungers on the side, tables in between them for drinks and whatever rich people put on it. A projector hangs above the pool, an electrical hazard, you thought and an image of an entire pool party getting electrocuted lingers in your mind. You snap the rubber band against your wrist.

The popcorn machine helps distract you from the intrusive thought. Opening the machine, the popped kernels are still warm against your skin. You quickly scoop up a handful of it in your palm, the butter slicking your hand and your mouth as you eat it like how a baby deer eats grass.

You've had enough of the overly decorated basement, getting back on the elevator, you finish off your popcorn with one big bite. Still chewing, you wipe your hands on your trousers to press the shiny buttons on the elevator. The doors close as you chew loudly, eyes up on the screen showing the floors of the house, you don't notice the stranger standing outside of the opened doors.

Butter on your lips, you almost smack him on his pretty face.

“Christ!” You yelp, almost choking on a kernel.

“Close, but no.” He smirks, eyes flicking at the sheen on your lips.

Your husband, the title echoes in your popcorn filled head. His smile captures your attention, a ten megawatt grin that could power the entire posh neighborhood. His piercings glimmer in the warm light, and your eyes are glued to the ones on his eyebrows. Hazel eyes, the left one seems to be lighter than the other, watercolour eyes stare back at you, scanning your features. If you stare long enough you swear you can see patches of green and gray in those expressive eyes.

“John Smith.” He introduces himself, your husband, your partner. John doesn't raise his ringed hand for you to shake, instead he nods at you, waiting patiently for you to say your name. As if he doesn't know.

Clearing your kernel filled throat, you quickly run your tongue across your teeth (with your mouth closed of course) because you don't want to embarrass yourself further by having popcorn stuck in your teeth.

“Jane, Jane Smith.” You reach towards him to shake his hand, he raises a brow at you in turn.

“I don't do that, love, sorry.”

“Shake hands?”

“Yeah,” he looks to the left of your face, his eyebrow twitches slightly— a tell.

“Are you a germaphobe?” You ask before you could stop yourself.

“Not really, I've got issues…with intimacy.” John shrugs, the metals on his leather jacket clinks together. You think he'd rather be a model or a rock star instead of a spy with how he dresses and carries himself with confidence.

You smile knowingly, “We all do, but you don't have that issue. It's our first day of marriage and you decide to lie to your wife?” You click your tongue, eyebrow raised. “Not a very good first impression, John.”

He'll never get used to being called that basic name. ‘John’ takes your hand, it's warm, searing hot under your slippery hand. You'd thought his warmth would cook your flesh, you guess the butter on your palm would work wonders. You're starting to regret snacking. The calluses on his palm matches your own, a large scar across his palm tells you a story untold. Silver rings decorate his long fingers. There's a more simple silver bracelet on his wrist, a stark contrast to the ornate rings he sports on both hands.

He's handsome, you think, rightfully so. With his chiseled jaw that rivals any greek statue and eyes that could be mistaken for stars; he's tall too, so that's a plus. You lucked out on the fake husband department. Well, there's worse men to fake marry out there. Just judging from first impressions, you're glad he's the one you have on your side,

“How'd you know?” He asks, eyes narrowed.

“I'm very perceptive.”

“Trained?”

“Nope,” you hide your bundle of nerves with your casual tone. His hand is still clasped on your own, you don't notice it. “Just very good at reading people.”

“Did you have a stint at the BAU too?”

Too? You ignore it for now. “No,” chuckling, you finally notice the heat on your palm so you let him go. “Just…natural talent, I guess.”

“What’s under the house?” John asks, stepping aside so you could exit the elevator.

“A beating heart.” You curse yourself, fingers already reaching for the rubber band on your wrist.

To your surprise, John laughs. The sound is genuine, eyes crinkling in the corners. “I got the reference.”

“I figured.”

“I saw a black box in the office, you wanna check it out?” He points behind him with his thumb.

“Why? Do you think there's a beating heart in there too?”

“Maybe.” He plays along, walking beside you. “You never know with the company, for all we know there's a head in there.”

“Morbid.” You joke as he opens the door for you.

“Says you?” John keeps reminding himself of his real name whilst he memorizes the side of your face. He already wants to tell you his real name, not the one assigned to him by the suits behind the faceless screen he has grown familiar with. He says his name in his mind again, if he accidentally blurted it out, well, c'est la vie.

“Says me,” you shrug casually, trying to keep up with his wit and charm. You already think you're losing. You scrunch your face at the painting above the mantle. It's an art of two lovers doing the tango, if tango excludes clothes and includes intense snogging.

He chuckles right next to you, an airy laugh that has you smiling too. “A very brave choice. Not my taste, but whatever floats the company's boat. What's inside is a bit better though.” Your ‘husband’ reaches towards the frame of the painting, gently pressing down, it releases a metallic click as it reveals a secret compartment full of weapons.

You hide a snort behind your hand. The cabinet reminds you of your own. Unimpressed, you flick your eyes down at the office table, the large black box sitting on top of it is just begging to be opened.

Without a second thought, you open it. Taking out the bottle of expensive looking wine, you read the card that is tied in a neat ribbon around the neck.

“‘Good luck on your first day of marriage’” you look at the man beside you. He's incredibly close to you, his elbow grazing yours, lips slightly parted whilst he takes a peek at the wine. He smells of burgundy and leather, it calms your senses for some odd reason. “I prefer coke.” You practically shove the bottle in his hands. The glass clinks against his metal rings.

“The snorting variation or the fizzy one?” He asks, placing the bottle down on the narra table with an almost silent thud.

“The fizzy one.” You take his question at face value. He doesn't question why you don't prefer alcohol. Sitting down on the plush office chair, you open the laptop in front of you. It dings, needing a password to open it. “It needs a—”

Before you could even finish the question, he gives you a scrap of paper from the numerous envelopes inside the box. The password is printed on it with the same font as the one from the piece of paper you held a couple of weeks ago.

You type it whilst he rifles through the box. The home screen pops up, nothing too fancy or out of the ordinary. Except for the single application in the corner that's only labeled as ‘S’

Clicking it, a chat box appears.

> Hihi, follow man

John snakes up next to you, the harsh light from the laptop shines on his pensive face. You return your attention towards ‘your boss’. A picture of a young blond man pops up in the chat, there's a mole near his left eye, he sports dark eyebrows. And a look that says ‘daddy paid for my college!’

> 40.748817, -73.985428

“That's downtown I think.” John pipes up next to you, and you look at him like he just said the sky is green and the grass is blue.

> Take keys, take car. Bring car here

> 51.505554, -0.075278.

“A car?” You rhetorically ask.

“Must be a very expensive car, or an important one.” John answers back as he leans further down to take a better look at the monitor. His hand is on the back of your chair, his necklaces dangle on his neck like a pretty chandelier.

You both wait for more instructions but it doesn't come.

“Hihi isn't very talkative, huh?” Your voice echoes in the awkward silence.

“‘Hihi?’”

“Yeah, I thought I'd give it a nickname.” You think he's weirded out but with an amused laugh he pats your shoulder nonchalantly.

“Cute.” You don't know if he's referring to you, or to the nickname you dubbed your electronic boss. “I've separated our papers.” John says as you still contemplate his last comment. “Here's yours.”

“Thanks.” You scan the pile in your hands. Your own face greets you as you flip through it all.

“It has everything we need. Credit card, ID's, carry permit and a passport.”

“What's that one?” You point at the larger envelope next to John's pile. A smaller black leather envelope sits atop it.

He opens the large envelope, giving you the contents of it. “Marriage certificate. And this one…” shaking the leather envelope, whatever is inside of it clinks. Taking it out, he shows you the gold bands. “...our wedding rings.” Heat rises in your cheeks unavoidably once he says it softly. “May I?” Open palm reaching out, he beckons.

You try to remember which hand wears it. With a split second decision, you place your left hand atop his own. Carefully sliding the cold ring in your marriage finger, you stay locked in on his eyes that's concentrating like he's disarming a bomb.

John pats your hand and then inserts his own ring in his finger, mirroring yours.

“Guess we're married.” You shrug casually like your heart doesn't beat against your ribcage, like it's trying to escape its confines. “It feels kind of weird?”

“We are,” he flashes you his signature smirk. “And we'll get used to it, hm, wife?”

“Yeah, I'll adapt.” You say just barely above a whisper, hands suddenly clammy.

“That's my girl.” Throwing you a wink, he walks away from a flustered you.

Yeah, you got lucky.

—

Morning comes and you had the best sleep you've had in years. Even if you slept on an empty stomach last night, you still slept like a baby on the eight hundred thread count Egyptian cotton blanket. You stare blankly at the beige ceiling, hands roaming around the soft bed sheet like you're making a snow angel. Sleep ridden eyes roam around the expansive master bedroom to which your new husband has graciously let you take.

Speaking of ‘John’, his bedroom is just across your own. Surprisingly enough, he hasn't woken up yet based on the silence in the hallway outside, you hadn't pegged him as a late riser.

Breakfast calls for you when your stomach rumbles loudly, but you're too comfortable to even move from your spot. Something taps from your window that's facing the foot of your bed. A soft tippy tap of something hitting the glass that has you sitting up. Eyes blinking rapidly, you stare off a pigeon perched outside. Its iridescent feathers shine in the early morning sun, its beak tapping rhythmically at the window.

Sliding your hand behind you, blindly grasping at a pillow, you fling it across the room to scare off the bird. The pillow hits your mark and out flies away the annoying pigeon. With a sigh, you get off your ass to get ready for the day ahead. You don't want to be late to your first day out in the field, no use in rotting in your luxurious bed if you can't keep it after you get fired for being late.

You dress for the day and for the cool weather. Spring has come but the freezing temperature has decided to stay for a little while. With a cozy turtleneck and comfy slacks, you forgo the torturous device called ‘heels’ for a pair of trainers. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you shrug with a huff. And you snap the rubber against your skin once again.

Taking the chair off the doorknob and then unlocking the door, you exit your sanctuary. Closing your door softly, you find yourself in front of John's room. Judging from the soft snores, you notice that he’s still sleeping. You might be his fake wife but it's not your job to wake him up. So you continue down the hallway and into the kitchen to fix yourself a bowl of cereal.

Bowl in hand, you chew as you walk up to the rooftop. Unlocking it, the sun greets you with a comfortable heat, and you frown at it. You keep eating whilst you explore the space. There's a bountiful garden in the corner, raised garden beds full of fresh vegetables and fruit that is ripe for the taking. An outside dining area sits in the middle, you recognize the long table from a catalog you once read to pass the time at the dentist. You remember that it doubles as a grill and leg warmer in the winter.

“Fancy,” you murmur with your mouth full of grainy goodness. Sipping the leftover milk in the bowl, you place it on the expensive table to crouch down next to a bushel of strawberries to sniff. “Almost ripe,” you figure from the softness of the fruit.

A bird flies above you, it's shadow casting over you. With the sound of fluttering wings, the bird perches on the table, black orbs staring at you, head tilting like it's observing your presence.

“Are you the same fucking bird?” You question the pigeon. It coos at you, and then pecks at the ceramic of your discarded bowl. “Motherfucker—” standing up, you have the look of someone ready to square up with the feathered creature.

“Why are you fighting an innocent bird?” John appears with a mug of tea in his hand. You forgot to make tea.

“I wasn't fighting with it.”

“He,” your partner crosses the distance, the bird doesn't fly away from the close proximity. You raise an eyebrow at that. “might be hungry.” He gestures towards the strawberries behind you with his chin. “Think you can grab us one, lovie?” You're gonna need some time to get used to that term.

“It's not ripe.”

“I don't think he's picky.”

“It's too sour, it might upset his stomach.”

“He's a pigeon, he's used to eating shit off the pavement. I think that's fine, love.”

With an awkward nod, you pick the one that's redder than the rest. Throwing it towards John, he catches it with a practiced hand. He sits down before laying the fruit in front of the bird. You watch it unfold, the pigeon hops on the table, beak pecking at the seeds. You're intrigued at their interaction.

John sips at his drink, still in his sleep clothes. Toned arms in full display from the loose tank top he sports. Pajama pants hanging low on his hips, silk bonnet on his head. He only has one sock on his feet, you tilt your head.

“What happened to your sock?” You point at his bare foot curiously.

“Hmm?” He looks down, and he chuckles like he just realized the missing article of clothing. “Don't know, probably kicked it off while I was sleepin’”

“Oh,” you blink, “you should get ready, we might miss our target.”

He fakes salutes at you, drinking casually from his mug as you leave the rooftop. He doesn't miss how you didn't take your dish with you. Sighing, he watches the pigeon eat his fill.

—

You and John arrive at a pub. It's dim inside with only a few miserable patrons sitting sparsely at different corners of the musty establishment. They all look miserable, all having expressions from different points of the human emotion. But there's only one face you're observing— your target.

He sits alone on the bar stool, back hunched, eyes red and nursing a half filled pint of beer. Holding his face in his hand, blond hair raked in between his fingers, bomber jacket hanging loosely on his form, bags under his sagging eyes. He's the picture of someone who's on the bottom of the barrel.

John guides you with his hand hovering on your back. Not touching, at the same time still close, you are supposed to be a couple after all. You slide into a booth that has the perfect view of the target, but still out of his sight and out of earshot. The leather seat is worn down, tiny bits of it are ripped, at least it's not sticky. He orders for you, and you observe how he slyly roams his eyes towards the man, looking out for the keys.

He comes back with a plate of chips and dip. “Thought it would be weird not to order anythin’”

“Good call,” you take a chip whilst your eyes only briefly leave the target's back. “Thought you'd buy me a pint.”

“Did you want a pint? This early? Do you want to talk about it?” He half jokes as he takes a smaller chip.

“No,” you scoff, “and no. I just thought you'd order it instead of this.”

“You're not the only perceptive one in this relationship.” John looks over his shoulder to quickly do a once over at the forlorn man.

“Did you see where he's keeping it?”

“Inside his jacket, right side.”

You nod, “Is he carrying?”

“Not that I can tell.” He shrugs, licking the salt off his finger. “So, why'd you join?”

“Really? We're doing that?” You watch as the man gulps down his remaining drink and then orders a new one immediately.

“Yes, we're doin' that. Won't that make us work better together? To get to know each other a bit more?”

“Fine,” you silently huff. “No one else would take me, this is a last resort, I guess?”

“Bullshit, love, I think anyone would be happy to have you in their…agency?”

“Flattery won't get you anywhere, birdman.” A small smile appears on your lips, he beams at you. “Besides, who else is hiring for someone with the specific skill set that I have?”

He hums, while turning subtly to take a peek at the target. Returning his attention to you after seeing the blonde man still hunched in his stool, John takes another chip. “True, did you get kicked out from the last one?”

“Not really,” you stare at the crack on the wooden table. “You?”

“Not really,” he shrugs and you roll your eyes.

“You MI6?” He asks casually. “This your first time in London?”

“I'm not answering either of those questions.”

“C’mon,” he wiggles his left hand, the wedding band shines in the pub light. “Husband, remember? ‘sides, I won't tell anyone.”

You place your elbows on the table, smiling sarcastically at him. After a beat for his anticipation, you grin wider. “No.”

His shoulders fall, a chortle escaping his lips. “Cheeky.” Pointing an accusing finger at you, he quickly looks behind him, only to find the target sluggishly exiting the pub. “He's on the move.”

You both follow the drunk man like gravity is pulling you towards him. Walking the streets of busy downtown London, stranger's faces whizz past you. John has his hands casually in his pockets, yet he stays close to you, eyes flicking in the corners to check on you.

“Why don't you ask me a question? Y’know tit for tat?” He waits patiently for you to answer back, hell he'll even take a grunt at this point.

“Okay,” you surprisingly start the conversation on his behalf. “Have you killed anyone?” The passing pedestrians don't seem to notice you and the morbid subject.

Your partner snorts, nose scrunched up, eyes glued on the staggering target. “Nah. Have you?”

“I call bullshit,” you dodge a distracted woman scrolling on her phone. “Anyway, I have. I'm not exactly proud of it or flaunting it if you're thinking that I'm doing that.”

“Good, once you start flaunting it like a bloody trophy, you've lost it.”

You hum in agreement, the sound of a deep rumble in your chest as you two turn a corner. “Why do you think hihi needs us to nick the car?”

“Hihi” he chuckles, you turn to him with a serious face. “There's probably a stash of confidential information in the trunk or somethin’”

“Maybe a stash of weapons?” The man in front of you stumbles. “I don't see him as the type to harbor secret documents.”

John nods, “a highly infectious disease then?”

“Christ, we better drive carefully once we get a hold of it.” You turn to him briefly. “Maybe it's a really expensive sports car and he's all sad and mopey because he's gone broke after buying it?”

“Got a whole story now, huh?” He pushes you lightly with his leather clad shoulder, and you smile softly. “You good at pickpocketing him?” Your partner gestures with his chin, said target is walking into traffic. He seems unbothered by the oncoming vehicles. John curses under his breath.

“We should do that now before he kills himself.” You speed walk across the crossing, grabbing the drunk man before a car hits him.

Arms enveloping around his bomber jacket, swiping him away and quickly carrying him to the footpath, you save him before an suv hits you both. The car honks loudly and angrily as your target groans in your arms like he's about to hurl the contents of his stomach.

John punches the hood of the car, pointing at the driver accusingly. A distraction for you to take the keys hidden in the man's jacket.

“You almost hit my fuckin' wife, you wanker!” Your partner yells, covering the sound of jingling keys in your expert hand. He plays the part well.

Surprisingly, the target straightens up in your hold, a split second after you pocketed the car keys inside your own coat.

“Y-you,” he slurs, feet struggling to keep himself upright. “Dickhead!” Slamming his fists on the hood with a loud *thunk, he joins John who gives you a look and a shrug. The drunken yelling gets louder and the driver now exits his car with an equally angry look.

John takes this opportunity to come back to your side, hand holding your elbow, he leads you away from the screaming match as more and more people try to intervene.

“Got it?” He whispers closely to the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps to rise in your arms.

“‘course I did.” You jingle the keys inside your pocket. “I'm not an amateur.”

Playing along, he laughs, hand still holding your elbow softly. “Good job, missus.”

With an awkward chuckle, you lean away from him. “Just so you know, I'm not in this for…the romance.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “I'm not looking to date my co-worker.”

John raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine by me. if the situation calls for us to actually act as a couple—”

“We'll act as a couple, I won't fuss if that's what you're saying.”

“Good, now let's get this bloody car.”

—

“A fucking ‘99 toyota corolla?” You stare in disbelief at the rusting metal. “At least it's one of the good models.” Kicking the wheel, you expect it to tumble over like in an old timey cartoon.

John is crouched way down to check the bottom of the car. “It's clear.” He stands up fully, cleaning his hands on his jeans. You wince at his movements. “What?”

“Nothing.” You open the driver's side, the smell of alcohol and something musty hits your nose. “Nasty.” Coughing, you air it out by opening another door.

“You know your cars?”

“A little bit.” You say with your nose pinched. Sparing him a look, he stands in the parking lot like he's still waiting for the rest of the story. “What?”

“Throw me a bone here, love.” You roll your eyes. “Why do you know so much about cars?”

“I said I know a little bit.” You place your hands on your hips like an exasperated mother whose son keeps asking weird questions about dinosaurs. “I dated a mechanic.” You say flatly.

“Really? Did you date a pickpocket too? Or do you date people so you could absorb their skills like kirby?”

“Are you jealous?” You tease him with a comment you didn't have the foresight that it would backfire.

“We are married.” He says matter-of-fact with a killer smirk and eyes glinting with mischief. “And this is technically our honeymoon so—”

“Get in the fucking car, birdman.”

—

The wheel is sticky under your hands, you have an intense urge to wash your hands or to at least grab a sanitizer. Apparently your disgust shows on your face, for John chortles next to you.

“What?” You say through gritted teeth.

“Nothin’, you just look like someone shat in your tea.”

“The wheel is sticky.”

“I have a handkerchief with me, d’you want me to?” Taking out the dark green cloth from his jean pockets, he's already twisting in his seat to wipe it clean.

“Please,” you ask softly, hands sliding down to make space for him.

Your hand never left the wheel while he cleans it for you. John's seatbelt is unclasped so he could have more movement, his face is close to your vision, warmth blanketing over you. He's so close that you can smell his cologne, it's a different one from yesterday, it's more flowery with a hint of mint. You spot a hidden mole under his ear. A tiny dot that is just begging to be poked.

Without thinking, you press softly with the pad of your finger. He yelps, flinching away instinctively. Looking at you with wide eyes and mouth agape, you're ready to be called a nasty nickname, or be cussed out with a loud voice. Instead of what you're anticipating, a laugh bellows out, a rumbly laugh that makes you smile and let out an almost silent chortle.

“I think you found my mole.” John holds the side of his neck with a grin. “You let your urges get to you, love.”

“Sorry,” you keep your eyes on the road to hide your embarrassment.

“It's fine, your hand was just cold. Ask me next time, I have a few more cute moles on me.”

“Nevermind, you ruined it.” With a roll of your eyes and a smile, you park at the coordinates. “Nice acting back there, I see an Emmy nomination for you in the future.”

“Thanks, I barely remember what I said. You sure this is the place?” John peeks at the map pulled up on your phone. “Shit, we're here.”

The entire street is suburban, large colonial houses lining the sides, tall pine trees decorate the sidewalks. There's not a lot of people walking by, save for a couple pedestrians walking their dogs, the place is devoid of people.

“What now?” You unclasp your seatbelt to twist around in your seat so you could observe the neighborhood.

“Hihi told us to bring it here, so maybe we should—?” John lets out a high pitched scream that also has you yelling in surprise, not from whatever made him shriek but from the sound that escaped him. “What the fuck!”

Leaning slightly to look at what had his knickers in a bunch, you stare blankly at a bespectacled man in a bespoke suit. The man gives you and your partner an apologetic look, he points for John to open the window.

He turns towards you with an eyebrow raised. “Should I?”

“Yeah, I think you should.”

“What if he's got a gun?” He whispers.

“We also have guns, John. I'll cover you, don't worry. Maybe this is what hihi asked us to do.”

“Easy for you to say, you're not the one opening it.” He gives you a glare before rolling the window down an inch. “Hi, mate. What can we do for you?”

“The car,” the stranger points a lengthy finger at the wheel. His voice is crackly and gravelly, like he just smoked a pack of cigarettes before he went up to the car. “You're late, but that doesn't matter. How much do I owe you, folks?”

“Uh, the usual.” You say with fake confidence.

“Good,” the lean man straightens up, “mind gettin’ out of the car then?”

“Right, sorry, bruv.” John, gives you one look before exiting the car. He's nervous and so are you.

As the doors shut, the man flexes his open palms expectantly for the keys, to which you hand off immediately. He gives you bad vibes, maybe your intuition tells you to run for the hills.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I'll wire the money to the usual account.” The nickname sends shivers down your spine.

He closes the door and starts up the car. With a splutter of the exhaust, he slowly drives away. You and John watch, standing side by side in the middle of the street in confusion.

“He was weird, right? Not to mention it was too easy.” You turn your head to look at him. “Maybe they're trying to ease us in?”

“It was all weird, not just him—” A blast coming from the car interrupts him, the sheer force of it sends you two down on the rough pavement.

Your cheeks are incredibly warm from the searing heat of the bomb. The light from it blinds the two of you.

Palms skinned, trousers slashed at the knees, your ears ring loudly like an annoying buzz from a broken microphone. Coughing loudly, smoke fills your lungs, debris is scattered around the once pristine neighborhood. There's blood on the concrete, you can't hear John calling for you, your vision is blurred by the cloud of smoke. His hand reaches for you, and your instincts tell you to run.

“Fuck!” He yells, running beside you at full speed. “What the fuck!”

“Keep running!” You yell as he turns around to check on a woozy you. “I'm fine!”

Someone behind you screams for you to stop so you and your partner run faster. Knees aching, thighs burning, you don't stick around to look who's running after you. The unmistakable click of a gun’s safety is loud in your eardrums, even if your lungs threaten to give out, you sprint right next to John as he turns a corner and into a carwash.

The smell of soap and heavy pine scented car freshener hits your bloody nose. He tugs you towards the plastic curtains and inside what you presume as the employee lounge, someone yells after you but it falls on deaf ears as you and John continue your escape.

Exiting the establishment, the metal doors open to a messy alleyway. Boxes upon boxes of trash and god knows what are littered all around. The pungent smell makes you want to hurl, or maybe that's the adrenaline having a weird effect on your stomach.

You two find reprieve for a second, huffing, trying to get oxygen back in. Hands on your aching thighs, the concrete below you slowly turns crimson as your mysterious injury drips precious blood on the messy ground.

“You're bleedin’” He says in between inhales. There's rustling of fabric next to you, and you feel the warm cloth placed on your forehead.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Waving the drenched cloth away, you scoff lightly. “Don't.”

“What am I supposed to do? Let you bleed?”

You stand up straight, blood coating your lashes as you stare at him. “I've got a better idea.” Placing your palms on the source of the pain, you let your blood coat it.

“What—?” You roughly smudge the warm ichor all over his face and shirt, the plain white of his t-shirt turns a dark pink shade with your touch. Leaning away, he gives you a slow nod of understanding. “Ease us in, huh?”

“I'm rarely wrong and this is one of the rare instances.”

“Let's hope you're right about this one.”

—

You kick the backdoor open with ferocity. It bangs loud against the wall, getting the restaurant staff's attention.

“Help please! My husband!” John's limp arm is around your shoulders, your hand gripping on to his waist to add that one detail that would convince them of your innocence. “There was a bomb!” You don't let the bystanders touch you or John whilst you quickly lumber through their dinghy bathroom. There's murmurs and chairs scraping on the tiled floors as you lock the door behind you.

The bathroom is small, tiles yellowed from the years, the stench of bleach itching your nose. The lightbulb above you whirs like it's about to burst out. He leaves your side to take off his bloodied jacket, tossing it outside from the window— his exit, you presume.

“Your phone.” He holds his empty hand out to you, when you only raise an eyebrow at him, he sighs, eyes turning soft, adrenaline melting out of his system. “Please, c’mon, love, you got me sayin’ please and shit.”

“What for?” You try desperately to wipe the blood off your face.

“To contact you, just in case you need help.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can, how else did you get the job then? Just let me,” his voice wavers a bit but he corrects himself with a timed clear of his smoke filled throat. “Please, Jane.”

After pausing, you take your phone out from your pocket to give it to him. He enters his number after seeing your home screen of a basic mountain range.

“There.” Giving the phone back, you expected him to give his too, but he doesn't as he's already halfway out of the window. “I'll see you at home?”

You let out a chuckle, “yeah, I'll see you at home.” He gives you one last smile as he exits the small bathroom and into the streets where numerous sirens go off from ambulances and fire trucks.

—

It was a blur the entire trip home, you bought a loose hoodie from a thrift store and then promptly discarded your blood soaked coat in the bottom of a dumpster. It was a shame though, you liked that coat, it had real wool in the lining. The uber drive was thankfully uneventful, if the driver noticed the remnants of dried blood on your skin he didn't mention it. You gave him five stars for it.

An empty house greets you, John's shoes are nowhere to be seen in the hallway, nor his jacket. You worry for a second, mind rushing through possibilities. The rubber band burns as you pull it back and release it with a harsh thwack against your skin.

The water is cool as you shower, your blood mixing in and pooling around your feet and into the drain like a macabre whirlpool. You don't let your mind wonder about the man that you turned into a street pancake. Instead, you focus on yourself in the mirror.

You stare at the gash near your hairline, the skin around it is angry, leaving a throbbing sensation. There's also a few scratches on your face, especially around your chin. Your main concern is the large gash. It doesn't look like it needs to be stitched together though, which is a good thing since you don't have the energy to even tend to the tiny scratches on your palms. Cleaning and bandaging the wound, you put on clean pajamas and head to bed.

You stop in your tracks when you see John lying face down on your bed. Still in his iron soaked clothes, save for the jacket. You glare at his boot, it's off the bed but you still grit your teeth at the thought of it grazing your bedsheets.

He senses your presence, and he lifts his head up, chin helping prop himself up. “Your bed is better than mine.” His multi coloured eyes are laced with exhaustion, dull yet there's still a spark when he looks at your annoyed gaze.

“Who are you? Goldilocks?”

“Yeah, I ate your porridge too.”

“Damn, not my porridge.” Too tired to fight him, you slither into bed next to him, an arm's length away from his equally tired body. Staring at the ceiling, you feel his eyes on you. “What's up with your eyes?”

“It's called heterochromia—”

“I know what it is, I'm asking why you're staring at me like you're about to devour me.”

“I could devour you if you want.” He says nonchalantly but with the charisma of a man who knows what he's talking about.

“Maybe next time.” You blindly pat his shoulder which ended up with you patting his cheek. He hums at your touch, a deep rumble that you felt through the mattress. “Not bad for our first day huh?” Lifting your hand away, he twists on the bed to mirror your position. Now you're both gazing at the beige ceiling like it owes you money.

You're tired but for some reason you're fighting off the sandman from sprinkling sand in your heavy eyes.

“I lied back there, I've killed before.” His voice is merely above a whisper but you heard it as loud as a trumpet blaring in your ears.

“I know, you wouldn't be here if you haven't.” You answer with empathy. “If it makes you feel better, I've been to London before. Twice, on a family trip and a decade later…on vacation.”

“Glad to know.” He taps the inside of your elbow as a thank you for trusting him. “You CIA?” He blurts out above the comfortable silence.

“God no.” You truthfully say.

“And here I thought you're an alumni of the culinary institute of America.”

For the first time in years, you let out the loudest laugh you could muster. Snort and all.

Your ‘husband’ joins in with his own rambunctious laughter, the bed shakes at the loud guffaws. The happy sound fills the room, and your heart feels like it isn't as heavy as before. It's still there, the heaviness, but it isn't as cumbersome. You now realize that you've only snapped the rubber band on your wrist a couple times today.

An annoying tapping sound interrupts you both. Simultaneously sitting up by the elbows, you two tilt your head at the intruder.

“It's that pigeon again.” You actually smile at the thought of the same bird coming back to your house like a white strand of hair that keeps growing even after you've pulled it out. “I think we should name him. Something like Terry or Flanders.” You chuckle softly.

“Jeff.”

You shake your head. “Nope, doesn't suit him, what if it's a she?”

“His name is Jeff.” John turns to look at you, eyes full of certainty.

You turn to him, blinking rapidly in realization. “He's yours. He's your bird, isn't he?”

“You are insightful.” He smiles, a soft one that fills you with endearment that you haven't felt in years. “Met him a few months ago, fed him once and now he wouldn't leave me alone. I guess he followed me here too.”

“Y’know, pigeons are really smart, kinda like crows. He probably thinks you're his daddy.”

“Does that make you Jeff's mummy?”

“I don't want to be Jeff's mom.” Said bird taps on your window again, like he senses that you're currently talking about him.

“Too bad,” he raises his marriage finger, showing you the gold band. “He's our kid, love.”

You smile, hiding it with a huff and by laying back down with a gentle thump.

“Can I tell you somethin’?” His face pops up in your vision, you nod in place. “My real name is—”

“Let me stop you right there.” You sit back up, almost hitting his head with your own at how fast you sat. “There's a reason why they gave us fake names. Whether we like it or not, It's John,” You point at him. “And Jane Smith.” You point at yourself. “Until they dismiss us, that's our names. Not whatever you were about to tell me.”

“But you know it's not our names, right?”

“Of course I do. You don't look like a John, John.”

“And you don't look like a Jane. I just…” He sighs. “Just want someone to know my real name. We almost died back there, what if we stayed a minute longer inside that car? What then? I don't want to die with someone else's name written on my grave.” His words are genuine, but it sounds like he has said these words before.

Still, you sympathize with him. You've gone undercover before, taken someone’s name instead of yours for months. Those missions were so long and tiring that you almost forgot your own name. But it was…survivable because he was with you. John has no one, and this time you have no one. No one that calls your real name, no one that can identify your body if you suddenly croak in the middle of a mission.

No one else but John and Jane Smith.

So with bated breath, you give him the go ahead. “Okay, tell me. But I can't promise that I'll call you by that name.”

“Don't want to get in trouble with hihi?”

“No,” you scoff. “I don't give a shit what that robot says. I just don't want to die with a stranger's name. So fuck it, tell me yours and I'll mine.”

He smiles the same smile that he gave you before he went out of that dinky bathroom window. The smile that reassures you, a smile that tells you everything will be alright.

“It's Hobie,” Hobie finally says. “Hobie Brown.”

“It suits you better. Thought it was Jeff.” You whisper, and you give him your real name. The same name you were born with, not the fabricated ones your former agency has given you, not the ones your new company has given you.

He whispers back your name, tongue rolling off it like honey. Then, Hobie smiles again, nodding and those heterochromatic eyes bore into you comfortably like the sun's rays kissing your skin in the summer.

“You look like one. Definitely suits you better than Jane.” You smile shyly as you lose the fight against sandman.

In Hobie's mind, he hopes that knowing your real name is enough, enough to keep you alive, enough of an incentive for him to keep you safe, since you're not just a typical Jane anymore that the company randomly selected for him, no, you're Y/N L/N, and he'll do anything to protect you better. Because maybe, just maybe, knowing your real name this early would work, and you'll outlive all the Janes that he himself has outlived.

As you fall asleep next to him, he stares at Jeff the third. In that luxurious house, within those bulletproof walls, and in your room lies a deep anger in him. An anger that keeps him sane in all those years trying to pay his debt. He needs to end the cycle, not just for him but for all the agents that are in the same shoes as him. For now he lets you sleep soundly, for now, he plots the demise of the people behind the screen.

The laptop flashes a new message from the company.

> Mission complete: 3 fails remaining

> Good job, next mission?

Support banner by @cafekitsune ❤️

A/N: thank you for reading!!! Please consider reblogging if you liked it ❤️❤️❤️

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ayyy-imma-ninja · 1 year

Text

Lily- a DCA!Serial Killer AU drabble

CW: vomiting, mention of drug use

" 'Boy,' she said courteously, 'why are you crying?' "

Sun read aloud to the collection of children at the day's reading circle, his voice module shifting to a higher, feminine pitch to match the character Wendy when speaking her lines. Today's book was 'Peter and Wendy' by J.M. Barrie. Some of the children gathered around him giggled, finding it as silly as when he was pretending to cry as Peter Pan just seconds earlier. A smile of his own was etched on the sun animatronic's face plate, it always elated him to hear the children laugh.

" 'Peter could be exceedingly polite also, having learned the grand manner at fairy ceremonies, and he-' "

"M-Mr. Sun…?"

A small voice croaked his name, and a smaller hand rose in his peripherals. He knew the voice, and his eyes fell on one particular child. His jovial smile became one of concern. The child didn't look very well.

"Lily, are you alright?"

The child, Lily, looked up at Sun with watery eyes slightly obscured by her glasses. She was shaking, appeared rather pale, and a hand was gripping at her shirt over her stomach. It was a familiar sight to Sun. As well as the children, as some had warily begun scooting away from her.

"I…h-have to go…"

Sun knew what that meant and he nodded. Tucking a bookmark in between the pages, he sat the book in his chair and carefully scooped Lily into his arms. "The reading circle will continue in just a moment, Sunbeams! We will be back very soon! Gavin, please make sure the little ones behave," he instructed one of the older kids as he was already on his way to the library's bathroom, hurrying inside.

He knelt with her in front of one of the stalls, removing her glasses and tucking them over the collar of his sweater, then he brushed back her black hair for him to hold. With his other hand, he rubbed Lily's back as she began to cough and retch into the toilet. He gave her a sympathetic look.

"There there, Sunbeam. Get it all out," he gently instructed the poor girl. He had done this a few times with her in the past. The poor thing was prone to sickness due to a heightened sense of anxiety, least that's what Lily's mother told him over the phone the first time it happened. Fortunately, Sun was unbothered by such predicaments. He was used to dealing with ill children.

When Lily had finished, he moved to the wall and let her sit in his lap. He returned her glasses to her, then reached into his pocket and gave her an apple juice box he grabbed before coming here. She sipped it while he continued rubbing her back. "Are you starting to feel better, Lily?" he asked, soft enough that his voice didn't echo.

Lily rubbed at her eyes and nodded with a sniffle, but that didn't stop her from crying. When asked what was the matter, she hiccupped, "I-I feel bad, f-for making you always stop story time…! I-I don't mean to…I'm sorry, M-Mr. Sun…!"

"Aww, Sunbeam…" Sun pulled her into another gentle hug, a hand going in circles on her back. "There is nothing for you to be sorry for. I am not at all upset, sweetie. Only worried. I know you can't help this. Just take a breath. Everything's alright." Sun held Lily close as she buried her face into his sweater, shaking a little less. The small girl sniffled, letting out a shaky breath. She adjusted her head in an odd manner, almost like she was…nuzzling him. He continued rubbing her back as the smallest sob escaped her.

"…I wish you were my mom…"

His hand froze in place.

Sun went completely still. His smile fell entirely, his eyes trained on nothing. It was barely a whisper, but he heard it. He heard it. In that moment, he looked back. Every time he saw Lily and her mother together. She ran when dropped off, and walked when being picked up. She never willingly held her mother's hand. The rare times Lily would glance back at him. The look on her face…

"What was that, Sunbeam?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

Lily flinched a little in his arms, keeping her face buried. She let go of him, rubbing at her face. "N-Nothing," she answered meekly.

"Oh, alright then." He forced down his building anger. 'Later', he told himself, and he stood up, placing Lily on the ground. "Now, how are you feeling? Are you ready to go back to the circle?" Thinking for a moment, Lily eventually gave him a shy nod. He smiled warmly. "Wonderful! Let's hurry off to Neverland, shall we?" He lightly booped her on the nose, glad to see it warrant him a giggle out of her.

Holding her hand, he walked out of the bathroom towards the reading circle. Though outwardly cheery as he greeted the little ones and resumed reading, that sting still lingered at the base of his chest. Silently, he sent a message.

"Moon."

"Yeah."

"Jackie Langman."

"Lily's mother?"

"…"

"…I'll look into her."

"Thank you."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Moon sat on the edge of the pier, his legs crossed. The tide was high, and he didn't want his uniform getting wet. He stared out at the empty, moonlit horizon of the bay. No boats were out at this hour, everyone had already docked in for the day. It was a quiet place, free of prying eyes and cameras. No motor engines disturbed the night's peace, leaving only the sound of the wind and the waves…

And the approaching footsteps behind him.

Moon didn't need to turn around to know who was walking down the pier. Before long, Sun joined him in sitting, placing himself at Moon's left. Seeing the high-rising water, he crossed his legs, too. Sun hung his head low, heterochromatic eyes shining back at him in his reflection as his hands rested on the pier's edge.

"…What did you find?" he asked.

Moon glanced at Sun briefly from the corner of his eyes. He could sense something looming in his twin's tone. He looked back out to the horizon with a sigh. Right. Cut to the chase, then.

"Jackie Langman. Single mother, divorced her husband--Lily's father--when Lily was only 3. Began shooting narcotics around that time. Reports from neighbors claim to have heard shouting from inside their home and things being broken. Police could never find anything. Jackie claims to have gone to rehab for her drug use, but there are no records indicating she ever went."

Moon heard the sound of wood creaking on his left and glanced to Sun, whose shoulders were tense. His hands gripped the wood, causing it to begin splintering. His rays rattled like a snake's tail. Moon let out another small sigh. "Sun-"

"Why didn't I see it sooner…?" Sun interrupted. His brows were tightly knit, teeth gritted together. His colored pupils had shrunken a little. "Three months…Lily's been part of the reading circle for three months. They were there…The signs were all there, and I didn't see it."

"Sun, you can't burden this on yourself," Moon told him calmly.

"Do you know what she said to me earlier?" Sun continued, like Moon hadn't said anything. "In the bathroom, as I held her. She told me, 'I wish you were my mom'." Moon's eyes widened slightly, hearing this. Sun smiled, but it was full of bitterness and self-disgust. "That was when I realized. Only then did I…" An inhale rattled in his chest, clearly fighting to keep himself composed. “I hate that I had to pretend to not hear what she said…”

Moon remained silent for a moment, allowing Sun the chance to collect himself. "Sun. As much as you hate it, we can’t let anything rouse suspicion. Especially from the kids. But don’t worry. What matters is that we know, now. And we can do something about it. I've already looked at potential guardians. Her dad is just as crooked as Jackie, so he's a no-go. Lily has an aunt up in Milwaukee; she seems pretty clean, and it looks like she's tried to fight for custody over Lily in the past."

"We need to act now." Moon blinked, confused by Sun's sudden declaration. "Whatever we do, we need to do it now."

"Sun, hold your horses. We still need to find a way of getting to Jackie, and make sure Lily is out of the way," Moon explained. "I understand your anger, but we can't jump into this-"

"And why not?!" Sun's voice cracked as it rose. The wood under his hand cracked as well, his face plate twisted with rage, as well as fear, colored pupils now rattling pinpricks. "We can't sit and plan and wait too long about this, Moon! We just can't! We need to act now, before it's t-too late…!" His voice wavered, and his eyes flickered before squeezing shut. Sun's breath shuddered as he tried to control it, like he was fighting to keep himself from crying. "I-It can't happen again…"

Moon waited once again, giving Sun a needed moment. Then he reached and placed a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Sun. Look at me." He instructed softly. Sun did so, his optics shining. Moon gave him a gentle, but firm look. "It won't be like how it was with her. We won't let that happen. I promise you."

Slowly, Sun managed to calm himself down. He took a breath and thumbed away the oil tears in his eyes. Once composed, he gave Moon a faint smile. "Thank you, brother…"

Moon returned that smile to Sun, lightly patting him on the back. Then he stood up, stretched his arms over his head, and offered a hand to Sun. "Shall we get to work?"

The other animatronic accepted the hand and was pulled to his feet. Sun gave a firm nod, walking with Moon back down the pier. "Let's do it." He would save Lily, no matter what it took.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

:3c

@moonlit-dreamers

#dca!serial killer au #serial killer duo #serial killer sun #serial killer moon #fnaf daycare au #fnaf daycare attendant #drabble #cw vomit #cw mention of drug use #sun the librarian

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darth-sonny · 1 year

Text

Prime Leo AU Ficlet

Content/Trigger Warnings in the tags

Leo wakes up with his shell to the wall and feels a bit chilly.

His vision takes some time to properly clear up, but the blurry colors he can see give him some odd sense of… familiarity. As if he’s been here before. He rubs his eyes, blinking once, twice, three times until it becomes clear where he is.

He’s in the kitchen of the old lair. Or, what he assumes to be the kitchen of the old lair. Without the cupboards, appliances, and heating installed by dad and Donnie over the years, it just looks like a weird empty room. Leo gets the feeling that if he were to walk out and explore his old home, he’d just see the bones, the base for the home he’s known for thirteen years. He leans his head back, scales resting on the cool wall.

Looking down, he sees that he’s wearing the thick, heavy hoodie Donnie made for him with April’s help. Huh. So, this must be a dream, because Leo only wore that hoodie when he went to bed. Moving his legs, he sighs a bit in relief at seeing that he’s still wearing sweatpants. He’s not in the mood to see all the scars he has on his legs.

He’s not in the mood to see any of his scars in general. But so far, he’s been doing a great job of ignoring them and the problems that they caused. Mikey’s attempts of tricking him into a session with Doctor Feelings get thwarted every time by a conveniently placed Donnie, who claims that he’s just making sure that Leo’s vitals don’t go crazy.

Leo’s thankful for the saves. He can’t stomach a meeting with Doctor Feelings. He’s pretty sure he’d hurt Mikey in some form of way if he had to, and he didn’t want to do that.

Hurting his brothers, his dad, April, Casey, Cassandra…

After waking up with horrible wounds and scars all over him and seeing his family burst into tears when he said hello for what felt like the first time in months, the last thing on Leo’s mind was hurting his family in any way.

A baby’s cry snapped him out of his thoughts.

Turning his head to the left, he saw a semi-run down cardboard box.

The cries came from there.

Was he in a memory? He remembers dad saying that he and his brothers all slept in a cardboard box back when they were babies small enough to fit in the palm of their dad’s hand.

Crawling closer, Leo was ready and expecting to see four baby turtles wiggling around and about to start crying altogether. It was something that drove Splinter up the wall when it came to them; if one of them started crying, then a chain reaction would be set off and not even a minute later, they all ended up crying. Leo and his brothers, thankfully, broke out of that habit once they hit the double digits (sans Mikey, the more empathetic brother/son).

So imagine his surprise when he looks inside the box and doesn’t see four baby turtles, but only one.

Himself.

He’s burrito-wrapped with a light blue blanket, waving his little arms as best he could and screaming his little lungs out. His itty-bitty face is scrunched up, massive tears spilling out of his eyes.

Leo doesn’t remember being a loud crier. That was either Mikey or, on occasion, Donnie. Contrary to popular belief, Leo used to be a quiet baby. He hardly cried, mostly fussed, and said almost nothing until he was four-years-old. Then he started talking and he never stopped.

Gently picking up his baby self, Leo racked his brain for any information on infants. He’s familiar with pediatric care (there was no reason for him to learn it, but he still picked it up just in case April and Sunita ever adopted), but for basic baby care, Leo was lost as hell. Deciding that he had no other better idea, he loosly unwraps the baby and begins to rock him.

He was incredibly little. His head was smaller than the palm of Leo’s hand, and his bitty arms don’t even wrap halfway around Leo’s neck.

Was he really that small back then?

Leo wishes he could go back to those times, where the only thing he and his family had to worry about was if it would get too cold for them to go outside.

Everything seemed so simple back then.

It hurts to think back to those times.

The baby stopped crying by now, letting out small hiccups and garbled chirps as he tightened his grip on Leo’s neck. Though, not by much. Baby strength doesn’t help the little guy out at all.

Laughing just a bit, Leo gently unwraps his baby self's arms around him and lays him out on his legs.

“Are you feeling better now?” he asks, keeping his voice low to not startle the baby.

A fussy churr escapes his little beak as he wipes his face with his blanket-covered hands. Leo smiles a bit at the sight. Grabbing the edge of the blanket, he assists his baby self with the task, earning a happy little chirp and a giggle as a thanks.

“I was really cute back then, wasn’t I?” he says, booping the baby’s snout with a finger, earning another giggle. His eyes fell on the hand and arm he lost more than six months, opening and closing his fingers to enjoy it. It was a dream, after all, might as well have this moment to himself.

“You really should enjoy having both of your arms, y’know,” he says while grabbing his baby self’s tiny, chubby, blanket-covered legs. “Because, from me to you, it sucks losing one of them.”

The baby opens his eyes…

…and Leo feels his blood freeze.

He was expecting to see black eyes. Black eyes that would later develop into one blue, and one brown.

The baby’s eyes are red. A familiar haunting red that stares back at him from the mirror, glowing no matter where he is, and reminding him of what happened to him. Of who happened to him.

Leo takes a good long look at the baby, finally noticing the markings over their eyes. They were jagged, almost fancy in a way, and while looking similar to his own, they were pink. His were red.

The blanket fell away from the baby’s hands, revealing the dark ombré they ended in. The color made him sick. It was the same color of the arm that grew out of his stump. The arm that he was stuck with because he was too much of a coward to ask Donnie or Draxum to cut it off.

Gently, he unwraps the baby from the blanket.

Their feet were the same; green scales ending in a dark ombré color. Their tail was longer than Leo’s, almost the same length Raph’s was back when he was a baby. The tip was covered in that same. Damn. Color.

The baby blinks at Leo once, twice, three times, before a wide smile overtakes their face. A gurgly giggle escaped their throat as they stretched their arms towards him, their hands making grabbing motions. The baby’s tail began to wag rapidly.

They’re looking at him with so much love, and happiness, and trust, and adoration…

The same way dad said Leo looked at him when he was freshly mutated.

Leo feels sick.

The baby chirps, churrs, and continues to giggle.

They’re adorable. And they look so much like him.

Leo gently rewraps the baby with the blanket before placing them back in the box.

He then runs to the corner and throws up.

The baby looks like him.

Their eyes are red, their hands and feet and tail have the same color as the arm Leo now has...

All Leo can throw up now is stomach bile.

He can hear the baby crying out for him, and he’s horrified that a part of him wants to go to them, cradle them in his arms, and soothe them.

Leo pinches his arms.

“Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up…”

The baby’s cries grow louder. “Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up. Wake. Up!” he continues, rocking himself back and forth. He ignores the chirps, the crying, the confused noises the baby gives off. Ignores how he wants to go over there and hold them. Ignores everything and anything and simply focuses on waking. Up.

“It’s not real, it’s just a dream, it’s not real, it’s just a dream, it’s not real, it’s just a dream…”

The baby keeps crying. Louder and louder.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop…!”

It isn’t until he feels someone touching his shell – in that same way that makes him briefly relieve that damn fucking beach – that he jolts awake and punches the bastard on the snout.

…

……

………

“Ow,” Donnie says.

Leo blinks.

His brother is sitting in front of him, eyes watery as he holds his snout in his hands. He can see blood trickling through the gaps of his fingers.

“Shit,” he mumbles.

He tries to crawl his way toward Donnie, but his twin stops him with one bloody hand.

“It’s good. It’s fine,” he says. Leo can’t help but scoff at that.

“You’re bleeding,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, well.” Donnie tips his head back, one hand still on his snout. “I should've seen that coming. Physical touch is a no-no for you, you’re easily startled, and you have a mean left hook. Really should’ve seen that coming.” Leo watches his brother make some faces at the ceiling before sniffing loudly. Donnie lets out a hiss. “Hm. Nope. That was a bad idea.”

“Sorry,” he says, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. He scowls slightly at his glove-covered right hand, physical proof that he’s now awake.

“Don’t be. As I said, I should’ve seen that coming.”

He looks around, noticing that his bed (in actuality, it was Donnie’s bed. But Donnie gave it to him after it became clear Leo wasn’t moving back to his own room, and made himself a new one) was unmade, the blanket (it wasn’t blue) appeared to have been haphazardly thrown onto the floor.

Leo opens his mouth to ask what happened, but Donnie (a now new believer of “Twin Telepathy”) beats him to it.

“You had a nightmare. It was bad enough that you threw up on the floor and started shaking.”

“Oh.”

That explained it.

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Donnie says. “Everything you did was a normal reaction.”

Leo doesn’t say anything.

Donnie tilts his head forward to look at him. He stopped bleeding by now, but he looks concerned.

“What, uh, what was it about? The… the nightmare.”

Leo blinks.

What…

… What was his nightmare about?

He…

He couldn’t remember…

“I… I don’t know. I forgot. Sorry-”

“I said to stop apologizing.”

Leo closes his beak.

Donnie sighs and gets up, motioning for Leo to follow him. They walk out of Donnie’s room and into the medbay. Leo tries not to wince at being back here again. It’s his medbay, but… having been here far too many times has put something of a damper on its allure.

“Do you still feel like throwing up?”

Leo nods.

Donnie hands him some antacids and a water bottle. He watches as Donnie moves around to gather some tissues to stuff them up his nostrils.

“What about the… bile in your room?” he asks. Donnie waves his hand dismissively.

“It’s fine. I’ll just send one of the DeeDees to clean it up.”

“The… what?"

“DeeDee!” Donnie says proudly. “Acronym for Disinfectant Droid. It’s an army roomba-like robots I built specifically to handle intestinal messes! Very handy and useful, I will say.”

“Oh.” Of course Donnie would build such a thing. “How many are there?”

“As of right now, a dozen.”

“You’re building more?”

“One never knows.”

Leo finishes up the rest of his water bottle.

“I don’t want to go back to sleep,” he says, stuffing his right hand into the pocket of his hoodie, and the left into his sweatpants’ pocket.

“And you won’t!” Donnie sweeps his arm in a flourishing movement, leading his twin out of the medbay and into the TV room. “I’ve been hooking this baby up to connect to my computer so we can play all the games I have there without having to grab two chairs and huddle up around the monitor.” He then produces two controllers out of nowhere. “And, luckily for you, I just about finished these bad boys when you woke up.”

Leo looks at the controllers, then at Donnie, then at the massive TV on the wall, then back at Donnie.

“Can we play Minecraft?”

“Absolutely.”

Twenty-five minutes later, Leo is punching a squawking and enraged Donnie into lava, ignoring his threats about how he’ll kill his parrots with a smile.

#cw sa mention #tw sa mention #cw vomit #tw vomit #tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #leo hamato #donnie hamato #disaster twins #sonny writes #prime leo au #post prime arc #kirby tag

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