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ironcladrhett · 4 months

Text

TIMING: Current

LOCATION: Still an abandoned soap factory

PARTIES: Inge (@nightmaretist), Siobhan (@banisheed), Emilio (@mortemoppetere), & Rhett (@ironcladrhett)

SUMMARY: On the night that Rhett is to lose his second foot and probably his life, Emilio makes a daring entrance and tries to bargain with his captors for his freedom.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Suicidal ideation (of the life exchange variety)

—

It wasn’t really like Inge was short on nutrition at the moment, with Rhett providing a steady supply of snacks, but there were still those human cravings. Besides, Siobhan presumably did require human sustenance (or did Banshees sustain themselves on screams?) and so a grocery store run seemed fitting. The mundanity of overhead lights and inflation were a stark contrast to the blood that had just coated Siobhan’s fingers, but it came with important rewards. Lollipops.

As the pair walked to Siobhan’s non-conspicuous car, Inge was sure to continue the point she’d been trying to make. “I think you’ve– we’ve had our fun. The longer go on like this, the riskier it gets.” She pulled open the passenger side door, tossing the groceries in before taking a seat. “Someone’s bound to look for even such a sorry sod at some point.” She pulled the door close, muffling any other words from any sharp ears, looking at Siobhan sharply. “I want him dead before sunrise. Can you settle with that?”

—

Torturing Rhett had given Siobhan an emotional and creative fulfillment that she’d never felt before. It had also—though she would never admit it—given her a friend. A friend she hated and a friend that was an abomination and a friend that, perhaps, didn’t see her as a friend at all but a friend nonetheless. It would be embarrassing to admit that she had prolonged Rhett’s torture not just because it was fun but because she was having fun with Ingeborg. She thought they were really bonding. Violence was what made true friends; so it had been in her aos sí, so it was in that soap factory.

“Oh.” Siobhan leaned against the driver’s side door; one arm spread on top of the hearse, which she rested her chin upon. “What risks? He’s hardly a danger. Risks of having too much fun?” Following Ingeborg—could she just call her Inge now? They were friends, after all—lead, Siobhan ducked into the car. “You’re such a bore. I wish someone would come for him. That’d really make it interesting. I could use one of the other saws on them. I was thinking about the circular one; it’s brand-new.” Siobhan turned to her accomplice and noted the lack of amusement. “Fine.” The car sputtered to life, wheezing and coughing up black exhaust. “Dead tonight, meanie. Give me one of the candies.”

—

Ever since he’d found Rhett’s cane abandoned on the street, Emilio had been a flurry of activity and nervous energy. No time had been taken to pause for stupid things like sleep or meals, and any responses to texts or messages from friends had been brief and curt. He wasn’t stupid. He knew how this was likely to end, knew he was probably looking for a corpse more than he was looking for a man, but even so, he searched tirelessly. If a corpse was all that was left of his brother, he’d still bring it home. He’d still do for Rhett what Rhett had done for Juliana and Flora in Mexico two years ago, even if he was the only one who’d care enough to visit the patch of dirt he planted him in.

And he’d still make sure whoever was responsible paid for it.

That anticipatory grief in his chest was matched only by the anger, the rage that warmed him like a furnace in the dead of winter. On some level, he knew it was a stupid thing to feel. Rhett had been reckless since coming to town, had gone after too many people and let too many go. The fact that most of them were people who didn’t deserve it ached in a different sort of way, but it wasn’t relevant to the point. This town was probably full of people who’d like to hurt Rhett, and Emilio shouldn’t have been surprised that one of them took a shot. But the grief was there anyway. The rage was there anyway. So he did the only thing he’d ever really been good at — he followed the trail.

Javier heard from Lara who heard from Beto that a professor at the college hadn’t been in in a few days. The professor was one with a familiar name — if anyone would go after Rhett, Emilio thought, it would be the mare he’d locked in his bunker. But wherever she was hiding, she was hard to find. In a way, that gave him hope; it meant Rhett might still be alive, though it promised he’d be in bad shape. Still, Emilio did his best to douse the feeling. Hope would do nothing but get him killed here.

It was funny; when he finally found her, it wasn’t even intentional. He stopped by the store to pick up a protein bar when his stomach finally began to cramp in protest of its emptiness, and there she was. It was something of a surprise to see her with Siobhan; maybe it shouldn’t have been. He hadn’t heard anything about Rhett going after the banshee, but a fae would have every reason to want a warden dead regardless. Neither of them spotted him. He wasn’t sure either of them would know to look for him. It was easy enough to fall into step behind them, far enough away to avoid detection but close enough to keep from losing them. Inge’s presence helped with that; all he had to do was follow that pull in his gut towards the undead thing ahead of him, ignore the way it mingled with the dread there.

One way or another, he’d get his brother back tonight.

—

Siobhan’s complete apathy to the risks was something that made Inge feel inferior. She was not overreacting, was she, in assuming that this could lead to more trouble? Violence begot violence. That was why they were here now. That was why she tended to run rather than face the people who chased her tail. She dug around for a lollipop of a flavor she liked and unwrapped it with a note of frustration, telling herself she was wary and that was good and that it wasn’t really that Siobhan was better than her, she was just … unhinged. Yes. That was a good term.

She popped the lollipop in her mouth and got a cola-flavored one for the banshee (this was, in her opinion, the worst flavor), undoing the wrapping for her as well before holding it out. “The best hunter is a dead one,” she said sagely, wondering if Siobhan would simply bite down on the lollipop or if she’d reach for it with her hand. Inge kicked up her legs, licking her own candy merrily. “We can have our fun another way.”

The drive was quickly over and done with, the hearse pulling up to the abandoned factory with fitting noise. The place had grown familiar, but the sight that was Rhett the Warden hadn’t. Inge’s torments and her horrors existed somewhere else, on a plane not bound by earthly harm. Or so, at least, she had told herself. So Sanne had told her, eons ago. It was different. It was more sophisticated. It was a gift. Her eyes flicked over the sight of him before tossing the bag of groceries on the ground. This was hardly a gift. The only thing left was to kill him in a poetic manner and move on. “Told you we’d be back soon,” she said to Rhett, wondering if he’d want a lollipop. “Do you like artificial sweeteners?”

—

The best hunter is a dead one. Inge’s simple statement rattled in Siobhan’s head; bouncing around with each rumble of her hearse and each jump over cracked concrete. The clever retort that she felt obligated to have didn’t leave her mouth—it hadn’t even been formed. Instead, Siobhan watched the shifting landscape as they approached the factory. There was a time where she believed in the practical minimizing of harm; a time when Fate’s course seemed linear. Life existed in a tangle: webs and threads interwoven, pulled through space-time, woven again, transported into unknowable, unthinkable dimensions. When she’d tried to minimize harm, when she’d tried to be kind, she cost her people seven other lives. The best hunter was a living one, until Fate came. And Fate had not yet called for Rhett.

Lost in her thoughts, Siobhan hadn’t realized that she’d entered the factory at all. Had she remembered to turn the hearse off? Park it in the overgrown bushes where it couldn’t be seen from the road? She shook her head. She tried to bring back the face of the woman who adored violence, who only knew it, but instead a woman who mourned controlled her features. She saw Rhett as he was: bloody, broken, miserable. She wondered if he’d ever forgive her one day—then she castigated herself for thinking that. And, anyway, he would be dead soon. But she hadn’t screamed for him yet, and until then, she wondered if he would forgive her and if he’d think it was silly that she cared about that at all.

Siobhan knelt to the bag, crinkling plastic cutting through the air thick with the acrid scent of old blood. Off to the side, the bits of Rhett’s lost leg buzzed with a swarm of happy flies. “What flavour do you want, Rhett?” She smiled for him; dead men deserved kindnesses, sometimes. “We got everything because I said—well, it won’t be funny now if I retell it—but I wanted all of them. And there’s jellybeans…” Siobhan held up the little bag full of them—a plastic bag inside of another plastic bag. Did humans hate the world this much? “I don’t know anyone that likes jelly beans. They’re an abomination.” She pointed to Inge. “Worse than her, actually.”

—

He couldn’t be absent for everything, unfortunately. While his tendency to slip into altered states of consciousness had done him some favors over the last few days, sending the two creatures off in the wee hours of the morning to resume their activities the next day, he always came back out of it. The first time they’d decided to take a break, they’d left him secured to a pole that ran from floor to ceiling so he didn’t excuse himself without their consent. He’d been stuck there since, sitting with head bowed and long hair framing his face, silent until he heard the sound of them returning.

Rhett drew a long, shaky breath as their footsteps grew louder. They’d taken his leg, cut it off just above the knee and cauterized it about as well as you’d expect, and he was pretty sure he had an infection on top of the constant, agonizing pain of nerve endings being ripped to shreds by less than surgically precise methods. He stared down at it, down at the bloodstain where his limb should have been, at the frayed edges of pants hurriedly cut away, stained a blackish-brown. His right leg, while still attached to him, wouldn’t be for long. Siobhan had started in on the toenails of that foot last night, which meant that tonight, if she was working in a pattern... It was a miracle he hadn’t died from blood loss already, but maybe that’s what the breaks were really for. And maybe, he thought as his captors questioned him about sucker flavors, that was the only reason they were giving him any kind of sustenance.

Rather than answer on the subject of his liking of artificial sweeteners or his preferred synthetic flavor, he just lifted his chin and stared. If you didn’t count all the tormented hollering, he hadn’t spoken a word to them in two days. He just shivered, underdressed for the frigid weather, and blinked blearily at them.

“You ain’t screamed,” he finally said pointedly and in a hoarse voice. That meant he wasn’t going to die… yet. He knew the amount of time that could pass before the banshee let one rip was highly variable—it could happen days before he departed from this mortal coil, or it could happen seconds before what remained of the light in his eyes was snuffed out. It would happen, but there wasn’t much comfort in that unless he was on his way to someplace safe. This was not someplace safe. This was… hell.

His gaze jumped to Inge.

“Why am I here? This about you? This about revenge?” he growled, lowering his chin again. His hands, now more loosely tied behind his back and keeping him from wandering far from the pole, twisted against each other at the wrist. His frustration was building, unexpectedly, since he’d more or less been floating through the last few days in a quiet haze or full dissociative state. He was frozen half to death, he was starved, exhausted from lack of sleep and blood loss, and everything hurt. How long were they going to drag this out? Even he didn’t torture fae for this long. Once they told him what he wanted to know, he killed them.

“What d’you want?” the warden snarled before giving them time to actually respond. “Just fucking—get it over with. Just fucking get it over with.” He wasn’t begging. Rhett would never beg for his own life. But maybe that was only because he tried to mask the desperation with anger. He snapped his head up to look at Siobhan, looking furious. “Scream, already!” he commanded, like that would help anything.

—

It was agony, following them. Keeping back, suffocating that rage in his chest to something that had him acting tactical instead of lashing out… it wasn’t in his nature. Emilio had always been a flurry of fury, with a style of fighting that could only really be described as animalistic. His advantage always came in the way he kept fighting until consciousness left him, not in anything resembling planning. He knew he was no good at that. He’d proven it time and time and time again. And, right now, everything he had wanted to launch himself at these women who’d taken his brother from him, wanted to rip them into pieces, wanted to tear their throats out with his fucking teeth.

But then, he stopped to listen.

He eavesdropped, he let their conversation wash over him. They spoke about Rhett like he was still alive, and Emilio knew he’d never get his brother back before it was too late if he killed his captors now. The way they spoke implied that Rhett was in bad shape; there would be no time to look for him, especially not when he knew he’d have to do it alone. He couldn’t ask anyone to help him with this. Not Wynne, who had good reason to hate him. Not Teddy, who he’d seen having pleasant conversations with Siobhan online. Not Jade, who was so interconnected with Regan that going after the other banshee in any way was bound to cause complications. The only person he could realistically expect assistance from was Parker, and he was pretty sure his rage at him matched his rage towards Rhett’s tormentors at this point. He’d never be able to trust the other warden in a fight.

And so, Emilio was on his own. It was hardly a rarity, hardly an experience he was unfamiliar with. He’d spent two years on his own after he and Rhett parted ways in Mexico, would have kept at it if not for Wicked’s Rest and its citizens’ strange habit of giving a shit about people they shouldn’t. Emilio was fine on his own, could handle himself in a fight just fine. He’d get his brother back or he’d die trying, but either way, at least he’d be saved the grief of losing him.

So, he followed. To the parking lot, watching what car they slipped into. It was recognizable, hard to mistake for anything else on the road. Not many hearses driving around. That was good. He slipped into the driver’s seat of the car he’d once again ‘borrowed’ from Teddy, maintaining a slight distance behind the hearse as he drove with his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. His heart stuttered uncomfortably. Left turn. Nausea tugged at his gut. Right turn. He saw a flash of Edgar’s body on the road, crumpled and bloody. Stoplight. Victor sat beside him in the passengers’ seat, sporting every injury his mind could imagine since he’d been spared the knowledge of knowing what killed him. Accelerate. Edgar’s corpse again, but his hair was longer now. Gray. His head tilted, and it was Rhett’s face there instead. Victor, in the seat beside him, morphed in a similar manner.

The hearse pulled off the road, and Emilio did the same. Into a parking lot, with no one else around. He switched off the headlights, parked a ways away. He watched them enter, and he waited. One heartbeat. Two. He couldn’t stomach the thought of a third, moved from the driver’s seat and onto the concrete. The ache in his bad leg was a long-forgotten thing, his mind forcibly pushing it aside. Pain is a message, his mother told him once. Messages can be ignored. He was getting better at it with practice.

He unpacked the trunk. Iron blades, weapons borrowed from Teddy’s basement. He grabbed a knife Rhett had gifted him years ago, the handle worn but the blade kept sharp. He thought it might be poetic to kill one of them with it. Both of them, maybe. Everything in the damn factory, if Rhett was dead inside of it.

The closer he got to the door, the clearer he could hear the murmurs. The sensation of the dead thing inside made his stomach turn just as much as the smell of blood did. The two of them combined had his mind reeling, skipping back and forth between here and there. The factory was a living room was a street. Long dead corpses rotted scentlessly in the corner. His daughter’s body was crumpled in the center of the room. Rhett was missing a leg. Juliana was screaming. Siobhan was silent.

For a moment, he thought he was too late. He thought he’d gotten here just to collect a corpse, just to give himself something else to bury. But then, Rhett shifted. He spoke. He sounded rough, sounded more pained than Emilio had ever heard him, and the world fell apart and fell back together at the same time. It was strange, seeing his brother this way. For so long, he’d thought of Rhett as invincible by necessity. Victor was dead. Edgar was dead. So Rhett couldn’t be. His other brothers died screaming, too young or too old, so he made Rhett a monument to them in their absence, created an immortal thing out of a husk. He’d been proven wrong before, of course; Rhett was already down an eye, had needed a cane even before the monsters in the shadows had taken his fucking leg. But even so, Emilio had never seen him like this.

He looked small. Emilio wanted to tear the world apart with his bare hands.

There was no time to waste, he knew. The first thing he needed to do was take care of the mare. Prevent her from using the astral to her advantage, keep her from slipping into the shadows to attack him from behind. If she got one hand on him, put him to sleep, this whole thing would be over. The banshee’s scream was a concern, too, but the mare needed to be grounded first. Fighting deaf would still be easier than fighting unconscious.

Slipping the sword off his back, he tested its weight momentarily. Balanced. High quality. If he survived this, he’d have to thank Teddy for letting him borrow it. He waited until Inge moved a little, waited until she was lined up the way he needed her to be with the wall. And then, in a flurry of rage, he went in for the strike.

He made no sound as he stormed into the room, offered none of his usual dry humor as he shoved the blade through the mare’s stomach and into the wall behind her with all the strength he had. It went in deep, stuck hard. It would take enhanced strength to pull it out again. Otherwise, she’d have to peel herself off it by slicing through herself, sliding to the side. It would hurt either way. Emilio was glad for that.

—

She never stuck around to see the results of her actions when it came to her sleepers. She visited them on a schedule, slowly pushing further and further into their minds to make it her own playground. Sometimes she witnessed them wake, but that was it — Inge always disappeared until they could fully react. And here was Rhett, tied like a stray, wounded dog with blood sticking to him and the surface below him. He was reduced in a multitude of ways.

It was a strange thing, to be so confronted with her actions. To have the harm done by her collaborator (not her — for all her assistance, Inge remained convinced it was Siobhan responsible for that missing leg) so clearly on display. It wasn’t that it gave her pause, but it was a sensation she wasn’t sure she’d intend to experience again. Even if she’d gained material for new works. She turned the lollipop around in her mouth while considering the sight, distantly glad that it would be done before dawn. It was not a feeling she had any interest in investigating.

So she simply stared back at him, popping the lollipop from her mouth to answer his growled questions. Questions. He had barely spoken these past days, an impressive feat that Inge would not have achieved had the places been reversed. They had been, once, though not for as long. Humans were easier to trap. “Well, the idea started when you hurt a mutual …” She thought for a moment, “Student of ours. I’m not generally one for vengeance like this, but Siobhan is an inspiring woman and well, I really would like to see you and your experimental ways out of this world.” It would be bad praxis to reveal that Siobhan and her hadn’t really agreed on what had occurred, but Inge wasn’t tactical, nor was Rhett long for this world. “So we agreed to put our differences aside to kill you. We’ll get there.”

She had judged him, hadn’t she? For locking her in that bunker. For putting Ariadne in that van for a week. For the cruelty of it — not just a quick axe to the head, but something drawn out. But this was different. This was retribution. “I don’t like to limit my fellow creatives, though.” With the way he was asking for it, for that inevitable end, Inge almost felt inclined to let Siobhan follow her whims and let this draw out. Even if she was growing antsy from this space, her mind bending in strange ways, leaving her giddy and nervous and wondering if she should start packing, wondering if she should try to help Siobhan with the next toe and whether she could even handle such a thing. Whether she was weaker, for not being able to fight or maim in such a way, or whether it just made her more sophisticated. Whether she was worse than the hunters for this. Whether it mattered.

She’d blame that spiraling mind for not noticing what came next until it was too late.

The blade reached her only a few seconds after she’d caught sight of Cortez, eyes widening and mind preparing to reach for her beloved astral — but she couldn’t. The sword ran through the full depth of her and a sound fell from her lips, somewhere between a scream and a roar. Her fingers let go from the lollipop, which shattered like glass onto the ground. Eyes dropped to what had been slid through her insides, wide and frightened and furious. She tried to focus, not entirely convinced that this should lock her in place but it wasn’t there, her connection to her favored place of existence.

Panic was an emotion spread easily, especially when it went hand in hand with adrenaline, and Inge reached forward to try and claw at the now-free hilt, but she only cut herself deeper. Another wail of pain, eyes dancing through the room, “Do it, Siobhan.” Surely the banshee knew what she meant by that.

—

It was interesting being told what to do. Siobhan had spent so much of her life listening, obeying, deferring. She was, by her very nature, a vehicle for choices that weren’t hers. Rhett wanted her to scream, as though his death was up to her—well, it was up to her but it wasn’t up to her. Another banshee would understand (but not Regan, Regan understood nothing). Inge also wanted her to scream and that one tickled in the back of her throat; she almost did it reflexively, just because some woman told her to. She thought it was all a little funny.

Emilio burst in like a rabid dog—remarkably silent—and honed on Inge as though she had personally eaten the kibble from his bowl. Siobhan watched it all in slow motion: Inge’s expression, the sword, the wall. The sword was a nice touch, Inge obviously trying to blink away from the scene wasn’t. Did she plan on leaving her here? With the hunters? And she was telling her what to do? Yes, do it. She ought to do it. It was always about her and needing to do it; all her life, a series of things to do. All it would take was one scream, in a matter of seconds, to rid the world of Emilio, Rhett and Ingeborg. Did they understand that? Did they ever once think about her generosity? Or, perhaps, why was it that she just didn’t go around screaming? Was any intelligent thought spared for her? Considering the people surrounding her, probably not. It was embarrassing that she’d considered Ingeborg a friend for a moment; she’d be blocking that memory out.

Siobhan knelt to Rhett’s level, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Any of you move and I scream,” she said. “Except you, Ingeborg, feel free to squirm.” She looked along the bloody factory ground to Emilio, and the pinned mare; he was bundled up, she was oozing glitter. “I shouldn’t have to remind you, Emilio, that all it takes is one breath for Rhett to turn into pudding. Rhett, you tell him.” With her free hand, she rummaged around the grocery bag, freeing a lollipop. Ripping the plastic with her teeth, she slid the treat against her tongue. “Ugh.” She frowned. “Grape.” The plastic stick danced from one end of her mouth to the other as she thought about their situation.

Ingeborg probably felt very good about herself, impalement aside; she should have listened to her and killed Rhett on that first night. Emilio seemed very upset. Rhett seemed….pale and sticky; torture had that effect. Was he relieved? Scared? He still hasn’t told her what flavour he liked best; she guessed lemon. “I think we should relax.” Siobhan smiled sweetly. “Get acquainted. Emilio, this is Rhett, maybe you know him: he’s a child torturer. That’s a Ingeborg, you can kill her if you want but keep in mind that you will be robbing the world of her attractiveness—she has material value. In addition, she does smell strangely nice.” Siobhan turned to look at Rhett. “Are you sure you don’t want candy, darling?”

—

A mutual student? The girl, then. The blonde with the flower. He frowned, his gaze dancing between the two of them as that momentary spike of adrenaline seeped away again, leaving him hollowed and hurting. They wanted him dead, but they wanted it done slow—maybe for each day he’d held that young mare in his van. Maybe more. For as long as it was interesting to them. Well, he could try to keep it uninteresting by being mute again, taking their abuse without complaint. They’d get bored eventually.

He was just about to slump back against the pole when there was a sudden explosion of movement, and the warden jerked away from it on reflex before realizing it wasn’t Siobhan. In fact, she was crouched in front of him now, hand on his shoulder, and—

His one-eyed gaze fell on Emilio and was fixed there as the banshee voiced her threats. She was right, he knew—Emilio probably didn’t. Why was he here? He should have been home, he—

“No,” Rhett moaned woefully. Tears sprang unbidden to his eye and he shook his head, staring at his brother. “Get out of here. You shouldn’t be here.” He could hardly speak above a whisper, throat raw from all the screaming he’d been doing, worsened by his outburst only moments before. He sucked in a gasping breath, glancing away from the other hunter to meet Siobhan’s gaze. “Let him go, he’s not—he ain’t like me. He’s good. He’s a good person, please, let him go, he made a mistake—” He looked back at Emilio sharply with that final word, teeth bared in a grimace. “A mistake,” he repeated. “Go home.”

He would never beg for his own life, but he'd be the first to beg for Emilio’s.

Logic and reasoning was not something he’d ever had a strong grasp on, but that was even farther from the truth now. In some desperate attempt to appeal to Siobhan’s chaotic nature and hopefully get his brother out of there in one piece, Rhett gave her a stoic nod. “I like lemon,” he confirmed unknowingly. He spared one last quick glance at his last remaining family, feeling sick to his stomach. “We’re fine here, hua. Havin’ a great time.”

—

It was hard to focus. His mind was still bouncing, still half in the present and half in the past. Flora’s body was still in the corner, crumpled and bloodless and so small. Juliana’s was a few feet away. Edgar was there, too; Rosa, his mother. Even Lucio’s ghost haunted the scene, staring on with the same stricken expression he’d worn when Emilio buried his knife in his gut. None of it was right, he knew; everyone he loved was two years gone, rotting in holes someone else had dug for them.

Everyone but Rhett.

His eyes darted to his brother, who was clearly far more out of it than Emilio himself and with far better reason. It was hard not to focus on the place where his leg ended, on the too-long pant leg and the bloodied concrete beneath it. He wanted to think, what kind of a monster does that to a person? He wanted to condemn it, wanted to think that it was an unforgivable thing. But Rhett had locked a kid in a van for days just to see what would happen. Emilio had tortured so many vampires that he’d lost count now, had done worse than this to them for days and days on end until even their already-dead bodies couldn’t hold on a moment longer and gave out under his hands. There were monsters in this room; there were nothing but monsters in this room.

In the far corner, his daughter’s body continued to rot.

The mare was screaming. Her — Its blood touched the edge of the sword, sparkling in the dim light of the factory. In a way, it grounded him a little. The screams, the glittery substance. He tried to focus on it instead of Rhett’s blood, tried to ground himself in the present as best he could. Edgar was dead. Victor was dead. Rhett wasn’t. Rhett wouldn’t be. Not as long as there was breath left in Emilio’s lungs.

His chest heaved as he glared at the banshee. The mare was forgotten now, an afterthought; no longer a threat, and therefore no longer worth looking at. He gripped Rhett’s iron knife in his hand, tight enough to stop it shaking. He wanted to slice the banshee open, wanted its guts to spill on the floor as if that might somehow cover up his brother’s blood that stained it, as if the presence of one would chase away the presence of the other.

The banshee put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. It made threats. Emilio continued to glare. “Si haces eso te mataré,” he growled. Juliana laughed, a harsh and unnatural sound. He blinked once, hard, trying to remind himself of where he was. When he was. He pushed his tongue against the bottom of his canine, tasting blood in his mouth. Opening it, he tried again. “If you do that, I will kill you,” he said, the words slow and heavily accented as he forced them out in the language that still felt unnatural behind his teeth. “I promise, I’ll kill you if you do that.” Rhett would hate that. You weren’t supposed to make promises to fae; Emilio knew that. But this promise was one he intended to keep, anyway. It didn’t matter if Rhett was a monster; Emilio loved him all the same. He’d do anything for him. He’d tear the world apart with only his teeth.

His eyes darted back to his brother as he spoke, surprised to see him aware. Not quite himself — Emilio was fairly sure he’d only seen Rhett with tears in his eyes once, in the woods just outside Etla — but here all the same. His chest ached as Rhett ordered him to leave, and he wondered if this was what his brother had felt in those woods when Emilio begged him to let him die. He’d give the same answer to Rhett as Rhett had given him back then: “Fuck off with that shit.” There was nothing in the goddamn world that would convince him to leave Rhett here. If Rhett died here, Emilio would either kill the things responsible or die trying. His glare made that much pretty clear.

Said glare returned to the banshee now, eating its candy like none of it mattered, like it hadn’t mutilated his brother in the floor of an old factory, like all of this was a joke. Like Rhett wasn’t the only family Emilio had, like he wasn’t the last piece of a unit that was otherwise irreparably broken. “I’m not leaving here without him. Whether you’re alive or not when I go is up to you.”

—

She felt like a fly that someone had swatted and left to die stuck to the wall. Not fully dead but incapacitated in a way where there was little to do for her but watch in growing agitation and continued pain what played out before her. Inge wanted to scream, but only if the scream could have the impact that a banshee’s would have. In stead she followed Siobhan’s instruction (when she should be following hers!) and squirmed, fingers trying to grasp at the blade but getting nothing out of it.

The warden was crying. Putting up a show of emotion, cracking the way he’d not been cracked before despite the horrors Siobhan and her had put him through. This could be perfect. This could be perfect. If the banshee only used her head and did what needed to be done, this could be two birds with one stone — or rather one scream.

But the banshee was impossible to understand, a strange combination of motivations that Inge didn’t get. (Not that she got her own.) They were all talking as if there was something to talk about. Why wasn’t she doing it? She grasped the blade once more, the metal cutting into the palm of her hand as she tried to gain purchase. But to get to the hilt she’d have to bend over and to bend over was to slice into herself deeper. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure what kind of organs remained inside her and if they had any function. She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out today, here.

She was shrieking, though not with any intention. Just out of instinct. Her hands were covered in that useless glittery solid now and she was useless. A fly on the wall, left to observe the inaction of a banshee who had once proclaimed to love murder. “Siobhan!” It was a bellow more than a scream, lower than the previous expressions of panic and pain. “Get it over with!”

—

Amusement fluttered inside Siobhan’s chest: this was the sort of situation that reminded her of her greatest hobby. Emilio’s anger delighted her—his gaze could become so sharp, his words could drip with such acid, he could promise her silly things just to keep himself from charging at her (he was like a dog right now, but with just enough sense to keep himself alive). Ingeborg squirmed on the sword—how wonderful it was to watch her expressions dance, flickering with rage (was that fear under the red glow of her eyes or more anger?). And Rhett—as silly as it was, she’d come to like the man. Over the last two nights she studied his expressions: anguish, sadness, fatigue, acceptance. Her greatest hobby was to watch the ways life existed. What made torture fun was seeing how far she could push an emotion, seeing how she could twist a feeling. And here was something she coveted, something she hardly understood: affection, the most curious of human conditions.

She waved Emilio’s words away. “I don’t accept your promise. You’ll end up hurting yourself with that one: it’s too vague.” Siobhan’s gaze then flicked to Ingeborg. “That sword looks really cute on you, it brings out your eyes. You should consider it as a permanent look.”

Siobhan smiled, rummaging through the plastic grocery bag: orange, cherry (her favorite), cola, watermelon, peach, something neon green. “I knew you were a lemon man.” Eventually, she found a bright yellow lollipop and tongued hers into the other side of her mouth so she could rip the plastic wrapping open with her teeth. She held the piece of candy out by Rhett’s mouth. “You are a very astute man. I like this awareness: you’ve always understood how pitiful you are, haven’t you?” She looked at Emilio. “But that’s not a ‘good man’, that’s a selfish one. He holds more compassion for you than he does for poor Ingeborg on the nice sword. Who, for all my knowledge, has never tortured any anxiety ridden blonde children. Emilio’s selective, isn’t he? You don’t charge in here, promise to kill someone to save someone else, unless you’re selectively compassionate. Of course, most humans are like this, but it hardly makes him ‘good’ does it?”

Her grip tightened on Rhett’s shoulder. “I don’t like selfish men, Rhett.” And Siobhan knew she was cruel enough to kill Rhett only to anger Emilio. Then she’d tie him up and…well, maybe she’d go for the arms this time. And who would come to save him? Would this be a never ending cycle of interrupted torture? The idea exhausted her. “Emilio, are you aware this is a terrible man? Objectively terrible. He won’t argue—tell him, Rhett. Why don’t you? Tell him all the terrible things you’ve done…or does he already know?” She looked at him, wondering if he was the sort of man to share his secrets or if he had any shame for his duty. Did Emilio want to save him regardless? Why? Why?

Why would anyone want to save this wretched man?

“Emilio.” In her curiosity, Siobhan’s head cocked to the side. “Why should I let you go? Why should I let Rhett go?” She blinked. “Don’t try to threaten me again, or threaten Ingeborg, it’s juvenile. If I cared about staying alive, I wouldn’t be here. If I cared about Ingeborg staying alive, I would have screamed already. Use your brain, I know you have one.”

—

Wincing beneath her tightened grip, Rhett stared at the lollipop still held aloft in front of him as he spoke. “Emilio. Shut up,” he ordered his little brother, knowing that the man’s temper would not do them any favors in this situation. Then, with the smallest tilt of his head in Siobhan’s direction, he began speaking to her, answering her questions slowly, making sure he didn’t miss anything. If he missed something, she might think he was trying to ignore it, and she might do something rash. Something unhinged, like she was. He had to be careful about what he said for once in his stupid life.

“Pitiful, aye. N’ he knows all ‘bout all the things that make me like that.” Most of them, anyway. “He is bein’ selfish, right now. He should’ve let me go days ago. But he’s family, n’ he don’t let family go easy.” His head was swimming, vision blurred. He felt like passing out, but he had to keep going. “He’s the one that got her out. The blonde girl, the mare. He’s the one that let her out of the van, the one that made me promise… not to go after her again. No one else woulda been able to convince me, so… if ya… care about ‘er, ya got Emilio to thank. Ya should… let him go ‘cuz he’s got more green than red on his ledger. Does more good than bad. Only does bad when… when it involves me, or the people that took away our family.” It was surprisingly introspective for Rhett, but he’d had a lot of time to think about it. The warden sucked in a wavering breath, squinting his eye closed. “I don’t wanna leave here.” He’d tried to run once, back before it had gotten really bad, but now… “But that don’t matter, ‘cuz ‘Milio ain’t gonna leave this place without me.” He finally brought his gaze up to look at Siobhan, and for all the world, he looked genuinely apologetic.

“I get why ya did what ya did. But don’t make my brother pay for the wrong shit I done. I know he’s bein’ selfish right now, but he is a good man. I promise he is. I promise.” That’s how sure he felt, despite what Emilio might say, what he might think. He knew the last living Cortez was a better person than he himself believed. “I’ll be dead next year anyway. He just wants a few more months.” With that, Rhett deflated from the effort of remaining coherent, bending forward to bite the sucker from Siobhan’s grip and then lean back against the pole, closing his eye like he was relaxing into a nap. He should’ve still been worried for Emilio, and he was, but he was too damn tired to do much more about it. As it was, his grip on consciousness felt weak—held only by one pinkie finger. He hoped that he’d still have a pinkie finger as he slipped away from them, his mind carrying him elsewhere just in case things went wrong and they all had their guts liquified by a pissed off banshee.

—

The mare was screaming; Emilio ignored it. With the threat of its escape through the astral plane eliminated, it would be simple enough to take its head off when he finished with the banshee. Or he’d leave it here to starve, focus more on getting Rhett to safety instead. He needed some kind of medical care, though Emilio wasn’t sure how to provide it. (If he took his brother to the hospital, what questions would he have to field? Would Zane help him out, understand that Emilio’s presence would need to be an under the radar thing?) Either way, the mare wasn’t important at the moment. Its screeching, its pleas for the banshee to act and its fear disguised as rage. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered at all was sitting in the floor with a goddamn lollipop stuck in front of his face.

The banshee spoke, and Emilio kept his steely gaze on it, body tense and ready to strike at any moment. It would do him no good, he knew. The iron knife in his hand could be thrown with accuracy, but it wouldn’t be faster than a scream if the banshee chose to release one. The most he could hope for was for the blade to find the banshee’s throat just a moment after its scream obliterated him. Maybe if the sound was focused on him, Rhett would survive with only his eardrums ruptured. Maybe someone would come looking, would find him before infection took him. Or maybe they’d both turn to mist with the echo of the banshee’s cry. Maybe they all would. It still felt better than the thought of walking out of here alone.

There were insults, there were implications. This was about the other mare, the kid. Wynne’s girlfriend, the one who hadn’t deserved what Rhett had done to her. But the kid hadn’t even wanted to speak poorly about Rhett; Emilio doubted she would approve of someone being tortured in her name, of someone being killed. He thought of Flora, of the blood he’d spilled and the dust he’d stirred up because she was gone and he was here and things like that needed retribution. Maybe she wouldn’t have approved, either. Maybe she’d never gotten to be old enough to understand the idea of approval. Either way, the blood on his hands remained just as present as his brother’s blood on the floor. His eyes flickered briefly to the corner. She was rotting. She was always rotting.

The banshee kept saying his name, and he wished it would stop. The syllables exiting its tongue felt wrong, felt different. Even when Rhett said it — that fond, shortened version, the one only Rhett was still alive to use — it didn’t feel right. The name reminded him that he was a person, and he didn’t feel like one now. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be one. People ached. People struggled with the things Emilio needed to do. People hurt when you hit them, and he thought something was probably going to hit him soon. He stayed quiet as the banshee spoke, eyes darting to Rhett as his brother joined in. I’ll be dead next year anyway, he said, like it didn’t matter. Like there weren’t little girls rotting in corners and long-dead wives screaming in the distance, like he wasn’t the only family Emilio had who hadn’t decayed long past the point of recognition. Emilio wanted him to shut up, but he was afraid of what might happen when he stopped talking. He was afraid that if Rhett stopped speaking now, he’d never hear his brother’s voice again. The thought made him nauseous.

He let the silence stretch, periodically looking from the banshee to his brother to the empty corner where his mind conjured up long buried corpses and long silenced screams. He knew he should say something. He was supposed to. He knew that.

“I’m not good,” he confirmed, looking at Rhett as he said it. “Neither is he. Neither are you. Or that.” He gestured to the mare like an afterthought, like he’d almost forgotten it was there at all. (Would Teddy want the sword back? He should leave it in place until he’d killed the thing, at least, but he probably ought to clean it after. The thought felt laughably mundane, even as his mind clung to it.) “But he’s my brother. And I’m not the only one who needs him. He’s got a kid who wants him around, who wants to know him. She’s good, and she deserves to keep him. To get to know him, to decide for herself if she wants him in her life. You can —” He looked to Rhett, to the empty gap on the floor where his leg should have been. “You can do what you want with me. Let me call an ambulance for him, and I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. Take my lungs, my liver, my heart, take whatever, but not him. You can take me apart like a goddamn puzzle, but let my brother go. Please. Just let him live, and I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

—

Siobhan was accosting her with a compliment that made Inge just shout an expletive her way, “Kutwijf!” Her mother tongue, because maybe that would shield the truth of her frustration. The truth of her dread, her — well, her fear, really. It was an ugly thing to admit, but as she was stuck on the wall and her ally in all this seemed to be negotiating with the two hunters rather than killing them, she was afraid. She tried to lean into her anger more. Even as Siobhan revealed her hand. She cared not about what might happen to either of them, had no intention as of yet to commit the murders that seemed to Inge as the only logical next step.

Why were they here? Why had Rhett put her in that basement, Ariadne in that van? What was the point? Inge had thought that perhaps this all could lead to one less hunter, that a proactive stance against a monster like Rhett would lead to the erasure of him — but here she was, pinned to that wall, waves of cold pain radiating from that wound. She and Siobhan had done what she condemned all hunters for. Played with their food and not pulled through.

And then there was the revelation that Emilio had been the one to save Ariadne. The man with the murderous eyes of his mother had saved a girl better than them all. It didn’t add up. There was an angle to it. There was some motive she didn’t understand.

What was the point? Emilio may have saved Ariadne and Rhett may not have killed her, but there was still blood on all their hands. Emilio had a point — none of them were good. But Inge didn’t want to die, whereas these hunters seemed all to ready to lay themselves down to rest out of some kind of sentiment that she’d perhaps never felt. Her siblings were like strangers. Her late partner she had let die so she could get out. (A price deserved, considering she’d killed her once.) And even now, she had no interest in dying for another. “Well, I guess that makes it simple, doesn’t it?” Her voice was shrill and ugly, directed at Siobhan only. She would be damned if she would stop trying to make her demands. “They’re both down to die for the other, so why not do them that favor?” She wasn’t quiet after she stopped speaking, another shriek of pain accompanying her words from the strain her words had put on her abdomen. She wanted this to end.

—

Siobhan wasn’t sure it made anything simple. The word ‘family’ caught in her head, stuck in a warped loop. The bloody factory floor morphed into long, soft blades of green—the fields of Ireland. Muffled cries echoed behind her ears—smothered, she knew, by biting down into the flesh of her palm, sweet blood filling her mouth. Mother hated it when she cried. She turned to Rhett and waited for the pain that would follow his broken promise—Emilio wasn’t a good man—but there was nothing but fatigue and honesty. He believed it and that was enough. She looked at Emilio, listened to his plea. He really would have given her anything, just like that. And why? Why? Siobhan’s hand trembled against Rhett’s shoulder; under her gloves, under the myriad of scars on her palm, was the half-moon carved by her small teeth and it throbbed. “I don’t understand.” Her voice dropped to an almost whisper. “I don’t understand.” And then her grip tightened all at once, and she crushed Rhett’s tired body under her fingers. “What does family matter? You knew! This is a bad man!” Her voice rushed over itself, vibrating through her. “Family isn’t above punishment!”

The scars down her back throbbed as her body trembled. The grass and the crying withered away and instead it was her own screams, her own blood and her mother’s heel between her shoulder blades. Siobhan still remembered what the dirt tasted like the day she lost her wings: sulfur, wet clay and saliva. It was a temporary loss, she reminded herself. The same essence of family that Rhett and Emilio were on about was the one that meant her mother was waiting for her, keeping her wings safe, eager to reattach them and be with her daughter again. Yet, even as Siobhan told herself this, her face continued to twist. Her back was on fire; her mother had insisted on pulling them out like a weed, roots and all. “You knew… You knew and you let him live. You know and you come here demanding his life? This man?” She jostled him. “This putrid man?” She heard one of her own bones pop in her hand as she squeezed his shoulder. “What does it mean that he’s family? What does that mean?” How could he be saved? How could he be loved? How could he be forgiven?

Siobhan’s watery gaze snapped to Rhett. “What does it mean? How can he want to save you? How can he give himself away to save you? You, who are not worth saving. How can he? Why? What is—what is that? I don’t—I don’t understand.” She looked at Inge, still stuck on her wall, and blinked rapidly at her, trying to ask without words. Inge was a mother, so she must understand better than these men. If Inge child’s betrayed their family, she would rip their wings out, ruin their beauty, cast them out and strip them of familial title—no longer a daughter. She would. She had to. Good mothers did that. Family would watch it happen too: grandmothers, cousins, aunts. Family was just. “I don’t understand, Inge.”

—

He was only marginally aware of what was happening in the room after he’d stopped speaking. He could hear Emilio talking, probably refuting everything he’d said in some stupid attempt to swap their positions—they didn’t want Emilio, they wanted Rhett, for the shit he’d done to that girl. For the shit he’d done to the one pinned to the wall, still screaming her threats and pleas. But of course, just because a plan was stupid didn’t mean that would stop Emilio from trying it. He knew that much about his little brother.

That is, until the banshee’s grip on his shoulder threatened to break his collarbone and he snapped back into the moment, groaning and weakly trying to tug himself away from her as her words caught up to his addled mind. She shook him, sparking the anger that had fizzled out to little more than embers. She was demanding to know what they meant, to know how someone like Rhett could still have someone like Emilio who cared for him, in spite of everything.

He was annoyed. He spit out the lollipop to better speak.

“Rack off,” he barked angrily, sinking lower to try and relieve the pain that was her fierce grip on him. Something snapped, and he roared the next words in response. “This ain’t a fuckin’ therapy session, you stupid bitch. It ain’t a negotiation, neither! Fuck, all’ah you, just—” His words caught in his throat as Desmond crouched beside him, a large hunting knife protruding from his back. In his arms was little Flora, eyes vacant as the day he’d buried her. The warden stammered, gasping for breath as his fury was diluted by fear and sorrow. “Ya choose family, ya dense slag. Yer mama ain’t got no skin in the game. Fuck’s sake, let go.” Of his shoulder, of her fucked up relationship with her mother… or both. He didn’t really care. He just wanted this over.

—

The banshee was angry. Yelling (but still not screaming), tightening its grip. And it was hurting him, hurting Rhett. Emilio could see it in his brother’s eyes, in the way he came back to himself. He wished he’d stay in his head, stay out of the conversation. It would be easier to convince the banshee that Emilio was the better toy to play with if Rhett went silent. He doubted a hunter who was already broken would be nearly as much fun to pick apart as one still standing, and that was what the banshee was after here, wasn’t it? Fun. The thought of it — that his brother was a game they’d played for days now, that everything he’d gone through had been for the entertainment of the creatures in this room — made him a little sick. The thought that Wynne’s girlfriend in that van had been the victim of a similar game with Rhett as the creature entertained didn’t help.

The banshee was still talking and Rhett was yelling and Emilio couldn’t make out any of it, couldn’t pick apart the words over the rush of blood in his head. Flora was dead and here and rotting. Juliana was glaring and decaying and gone. Rhett was on the living room floor with blood all around him. The banshee had sharp teeth. The mare was shedding dust. Victor had been dead for twenty years now, and Emilio still heard him laughing.

“Stop.” He didn’t know who — what he was talking to. To Rhett, who was going to make things worse for himself in some misguided attempt to make things better for Emilio? To the banshee, whose grip was too tight? To the mare, whose voice was too shrill? To the ghosts that existed only in the confines of his own mind, or to his mind and itself and its awful method of time travel that he’d never consented to? He took a step forward, and it was a risky move. The banshee only needed to scream. But it had Rhett locked in its grip, and if it was going to kill him, Emilio thought it might as well kill him, too. If Rhett was going to die, he wasn’t going to die alone.

Another step, and then another. His feet made a sickening squelching sound as they moved through the blood, his brother’s blood, that soaked the ground. He kept walking anyway, until he was right in front of them, until he was reaching out and grabbing the banshee’s wrist where its hand held his brother’s shoulder, until he was squeezing it to loosen that grip in any way he could.

“It doesn’t matter why,” he said hoarsely. “It — there is no why. He’s my brother. He’s my brother, and I love him. Let him go, and I’ll do anything you want. I promise, I will. I’ll stay here with you. Or I’ll go with him, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone anymore. I’ll make whatever fucking promise you want me to make, just let him go. Please. He’s my brother. He’s the only family I have. You don’t have to understand. I don’t know how to make you understand. But that doesn’t matter. I’m — Christ, I’m fucking begging here. Anything you want, I swear. Just let him go.”

—

They were talking of family and punishment and Inge squirmed on her sword with no stakes in the game. Her parents had been distant and quiet in their love. Her siblings had been companions of silence, each of them haunted by the dead sibling most of them had never met and none of them spoke of. She must have loved them, once, when they were kids. She never really stopped loving them, maybe — but there was no liking them. No sacrifice. No grand gestures. They were not parts to hold over her, they were just abandoned limbs from a past life she didn’t think of much. They weren’t to her like Rhett was to Emilio. So she didn’t understand, either.

And the ones that mattered, the truly familial – chosen and blood – that had once existed had already been severed. She’d watched both her daughter and partner die. For Vera she would have done what Emilio was doing, but there was no comparing Rhett and her child. There was no common ground, besides perhaps the love that existed. And Inge didn’t much care for such sentiments as a sword throbbed in her belly. She didn’t much care for it because love was a wound that could not be tended to. It remained bleeding and raw much like her abdomen.

And above all, there had been no space for heroics in the face of the disease that had taken her daughter. There had been no space for morals or punishments, no use for them. They’d made up and they’d waited it out, the spread of disease. There had been no people to plead with, unless you accosted the doctors who were already on your side. Did Emilio understand how lucky he was, that he got to at least try? That there was at least something to do? That he could drive a sword through an antagonistic body and carry his weapons and make an attempt to sway a woman who could not understand the love he wielded? He was so lucky. He was so undeserving of it.

“I don’t care,” she retorted, mostly to Siobhan, “You don’t have to understand. It doesn’t matter. The love doesn’t matter. The punishment doesn’t matter unless you do what you gotta. Just end it. It doesn’t fucking matter, Siobhan.”

—

“Bitch? Slag?” Siobhan shook Rhett violently, rattling his body against the rusted pipe, ringing it like a gong. “A slag? I hold your life in my hands and you’re calling me a slag? Where’s the respect? I’m twice your age!” She leaned to the side and spat out her grape lollipop, which had been mostly crushed under her hurried conversation. “A promise?” She perked up, then, self conscious about how typical of her species she was being—it was just like a fae to lunge at the first chance for promised favors—and in front of a warden, she cleared her throat. The tendrils of the Gaes, warmed up her stomach. She exhaled on the memory of Emilio’s words—I promise. He would do anything she wanted, he promised. She snapped her jaw shut, clamping down on his words. “I accept your promise.” She had claimed something more valuable than a leg and yet, where she expected and waited for glee, ice knocked through her body.

In her head, her tearful words still cried out for answers: I don’t understand. Siobhan’s gaze fluttered between the bodies: Emilio, so certain and sacrificing in his love; Ingeborg, who understood something that she wasn’t sharing; Rhett, who had given up on himself but not once on his brother. Hollowed out, she was observing something beyond her; each of them spoke an unknowable language. Rhett said family was chosen—Siobhan didn’t understand. Emilio and Ingeborg said it didn’t matter if she understood, but their idea of what did matter was opposed—Emilio wanted Rhett free, Inge wanted them both dead. How could both opinions exist in the same space? How could someone be loved this much? To be begged for? What was love? How did it relate to being a family? What did these words mean other than nonsense? Emilio and Ingeborg were right, what did it matter to her? Why did she care? She ought to kill them; all three.

She stared at her accomplice, still stuck on the damned wall. If she found herself missing a leg, tied to a pole, would Ingeborg beg for her life? Of course not, they were hardly friends on a good day and after this, she was certain that would have many, many bad days. And if Ingeborg happened to be stuck on a wall, what would she do? “I want promises from you both,” Siobhan said, rising from the floor to grab nearby bolt cutters—she’d been hoping to use it to chomp through Rhett’s toes. “Neither of you will personally end or help to end Ingeborg’s undead existence. You may hurt her, I don’t care, but you will not kill her; give me promises.” This was a kindness and she hoped to feel something; a sudden invitation into their secret language. With this act of what she assumed to be love, she waited for the sudden clarity of family and affection. Instead, her arms trembled holding the bolt cutter to Rhett’s ropes. “And promises not to disclose the identities of Rhett’s torturers with anyone—you will not tell anyone about Ingeborg or myself. I want this too.”

—

All he could do was stare up at Emilio miserably as his brother made promises he shouldn’t have, but all the fight had left him with those final insults in Siobhan’s direction. He dropped his head, resigning himself to whatever was to come.

The mare stuck to the wall was doing her best to get them both killed, and Rhett couldn't blame her. But as blind luck would have it, the banshee wasn't interested. He didn't move as she requested promises from them, feeling himself start to slip away again. And as tempting as it was to give in to the out of body experience, he couldn't bear the thought of Emilio suffering for his inability to remain in the present moment. He didn't want to promise the banshee anything, that went against everything he'd ever stood for since Mariela had used it against him, but… this wasn't about him. He knew that. It was about making sure Emilio got out of here safely, and if he had to abandon his principles to do that, he would. He always would.

“I promise I won't kill Ingeborg,” he muttered without looking up, his voice raw. There was no emotion in it, nothing snide nor sad, just a statement of fact. “N’ I promise I won't tell no one who so generously hacked off half my bad leg for me.” Okay, there was a bit of sarcasm in that one, but it couldn't be helped. Finally, the warden angled his chin up at Siobhan again, realizing that he couldn't see her at all — she was nothing more than a silhouette against a dim background in his limited field of view.

He smirked, letting his gaze wander uselessly. He knew Emilio wouldn't have any issue promising these things; he'd already given the fucking thing a freebie, after all. Idiot.

—

It took the promise; he figured it would. It didn’t matter, anyway. All that mattered was the man trapped in the banshee’s grip, the only family Emilio had left. Emilio kept his eyes locked on Rhett’s, expression still and icy as the banshee took the promise. He wondered, almost distantly, if Rhett was disappointed in him. If he still thought Emilio was worth it, even now, or if whatever remained of the respect he held for him vanished the moment he started to beg.

The banshee would use the promise, he knew, but only if it allowed him to survive the experience. He thought that might still be in question, thought it was the kind of thing he ought to be worried about. He wasn’t. He didn’t care what happened to him, meant every word of his stupid pleading. If the banshee let Rhett go, he’d do whatever it asked. He’d pull his heart out of his chest and hand it over. He’d put the saw it had used to hack off his brother’s leg to his own throat. He’d do anything, anything if it meant Rhett got to leave here, if it meant he could go home. Rhett, after all, had a daughter waiting for his return. Emilio had nothing.

Another promise was asked of him, and his eyes darted over to the mare stuck to the wall. He’d almost forgotten about it there; it wasn’t a threat anymore, and it had been written off as a result. An afterthought, a concept not worth his attention. Distantly, he thought it was interesting that the banshee cared enough to request such a promise. There was no request that they not kill the banshee, after all; only that the mare’s head stay on its worthless corpse. Emilio regarded it for a moment but, in truth, he knew it didn’t matter. He said he’d give anything, and he’d meant it. This was included in that.

“I promise I won’t kill your mare,” he replied, letting his eyes move back to the banshee, “or tell anyone who did this, just as long as neither of you hurts him again.” Tacked on the end, a condition of his own. He wouldn’t make a promise only for them to track Rhett down as soon as he was gone to slit his throat. It was a fair enough trade, he thought, especially since he didn’t bother including himself in the conditional. Something like that might have threatened the other promise the banshee had taken; he doubted it would go for that. But Rhett… They’d had their fun there. Emilio wouldn’t risk the chance of them having any more.

—

“She’s not my…oh whatever.” Siobhan sighed, taking her promises from Emilio and Rhett with a forced smile. “Yes, I agree to your deal: I will not physically harm Rhett again.” She waited for Ingeborg’s voice, confirming, before she pulled the final thread of magic and bound them all together; for better or for worse, though usually, it was worse.

The bolt cutter went through the rope, sawing and snapping at the threads; there was something to be said about her insistence on using the wrong tools for every job. Eventually, Rhett was free. Siobhan stepped back, leaned up against her table of supplies and watched them. Love was no more clear to her seeing Emilio take Rhett away. Something, however, sparked watching Rhett’s blanket drop from his shoulder and Emilio’s rough hands pull the fabric over him again. In seeing the man’s arm steadied so carefully on his brother’s shoulder; their steps done in time together, Emilio’s limp and Rhett’s tired hops. Emilio’s body angled towards them, using his body—his life—as a shield. Their soft voices—or was it just Emilios?—too quiet for her to understand. Despite the bloody floor, Rhett’s haphazardly bandaged stump and the pieces of his leg, buzzing with flies, there was a strange peace; a delicate pace. Until the edges of the factory stole the family from her view, she considered if that was love: if it was those two broken men, tethered, going on to live another day knowing they’d both be in it. If it was Rhett’s weight on Emilio, Emilio’s arms around him. If it was knowing that they both would have given their bodies—limbs, ligaments, organs—just to be certain the other would breathe for one more night. Love seemed to be violent in its sacrifices and selfish in its stubbornness.

She didn’t understand it, but she knew they did.

Siobhan looked at Ingeborg, still on the wall. She wondered if anyone loved her—maybe they were the same, in that sense. Silently, she gripped the saw beside her, painted with Rhett’s dried blood, and approached the mare. Her strides were long and deliberate, the blade knocking against her thigh. She made it halfway across the factory floor before she dissolved into laughter. “You should look at yourself; it’s hilarious.” Siobhan bent down and picked up Rhett’s rotten foot. “This one’s for me….” And his rotted calf. “And this…” She pointed at the pile of bloody toenails. “You can have those.” Blowing Ingeborg a kiss, she was gone, not feeling much of anything: not remorse, not confusion, and certainly not love.

—

She was puzzled by these developments, confusion washing over her face as Siobhan made the moves to keep the two hunters from killing her down the line. Inge wondered why she wasn’t throwing her own life into the promise — did she care so little for it? Or did she think herself so invincible? Though she had gotten to know Siobhan a little more intimately over the past few days, this shed another light on the banshee. She squirmed on her sword. Three promises were made and she spoke in a quieter tone as she too, agreed, “I promise not to harm him again.” It was hard to hide the defeat in her voice.

So the banshee, the harbinger of death, was letting them all go. Was keeping them from killing one another in revenge, even. What a miserable turn of events. What a worthless twist. Inge had expected this to end with a corpse to get rid of, but in stead there was the stains of blood that Rhett left as he and his brother moved away. She watched them for a moment, then looked at the blood and flesh, then at Siobhan. Her cruel ally. Her protector, in a way. But also her traitor. She’d wanted a corpse. She’d made that abundantly clear. All she had was her ripped open gut.

She watched her near closer, toying with her saw like a child holding scissors. Not rushing over to come to her rescue, to peel her off the sword. Menacing. “You —” Inge’s face grew furious. “What was – why are you not – you …” She was laughing. The high ceiling made the sounds echo, round and round and round. Was a banshee’s cackle also magical? It had to be, with how miserable it made her feel.

It dawned on her when the kiss was blown that Siobhan was not just pulling her leg and Inge inched forward, eliciting a scream of pain as she hurled words at the other, “Get me off here, you can’t just leave me here, you absolute — SIOBHAN!” The name was repeated a few more times, losing volume every time and Inge remained. Like a fly stuck on the wall, with no purpose and no accomplishments, made witness to a scene that had already ended.

#. thread ;#. with ; emilio cortez #. with ; siobhan dolan #. with ; ingeborg endeman #. the rhescue mission ;#suicidal ideation tw

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banisheed · 8 months

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TIMING: Before Jasper lost his face LOCATION: Shimmering Sky Bar PARTIES: Siobhan (@banisheed) & Jasper (@eatdearth) CONTENT: (alcoholism tw) some implications to alcoholism, alcohol consumption is heavily involved SUMMARY: Siobhan invites her best friend* Jasper out for some drinks, which he's never had before. They talk. And then Jasper really talks. *she thought it would be funny to say he was her best friend. The verdict is still out on if it was funny

Siobhan could count the things she knew about Jasper on one hand: he seemed boring, he had great hair and he had, for some reason, accepted her admission that they were best friends. She’d said it to annoy him and yet, he didn’t seem very annoyed at all by the sudden statement. Siobhan didn’t know what that meant. Was he lonely? Did he want to make friends that badly? Or did he truly not care? There was also the possibility that Jasper was playing her for a fool; that while she intended to annoy him, he had planned to annoy her back by not being annoyed. Jasper didn’t strike her as the type to be masterminding an entire scheme from the shadows, but what did she know? She thought it was impossible that anyone could have gone through life without sampling a cocktail, but some people also considered her as someone who drank too much. Maybe her opinion didn’t matter but what did those people know?

The Shimmering Sky Bar was thankfully devoid of any usual bustle, so no one was privy to Siobhan grumbling into her cosmopolitan about imaginary arguments. Of course, except for the bartender who shot her several concerned looks down the bar. She’d asked Jasper to meet her here as she assumed there would be no better place for fancy cocktails but she’d also shown up early just to get a few extra drinks in. When Jasper did show up, she was already a little flushed and very friendly. “Jaspie!” She called out to him like he actually was her best friend. She ran up and gave him a hug like he was one too. “This way.” She gestured to the bar. “I got us the best views of the, uh…” She then gestured out the windows, at the lush greenery around them and the distant landmarks of the range. “You live somewhere around here, don’t you?” She took a seat at the bar, patting the stool beside her. “How are you feeling?”

—

Jasper had always thought Doctor Dolan was attractive. But that was about it. Any other thoughts he might have had regarding that matter, he chose to not entertain further. Because professionalism. But the fact was, Jasper was a pretty lonely guy, which meant it was almost second nature for him to think everyone else was attractive, especially if they were new, especially if they hadn’t yet had the displeasure of hearing about the rumors that were plaguing his occasionally forgotten reputation: Dude was awkward “af” that he was basically socially inept and he lived in the mountains alone. He wasn’t exactly someone anyone else would invite to a “rager” or whatever. So when Doctor Dolan invited him out for drinks, calling him her best friend, he was beyond ecstatic. A night out with a gorgeous woman? Best day of his life.

“Doctor— I mean, Shiv!” Jasper feigned, awkwardly at that, an air of being nonchalant. He wanted to seem like he had just arrived, that he was thinking of not even showing up in the first place, even though he had been there a few minutes earlier than the arranged time, pacing in a dark alley while trying to hype himself up for this “date.” It wasn’t, of course, but Jasper was too lonely and socially repressed to know the difference. Case in point: He reacted to the hug a little too late, tried to hug her back but she was already leading her to the bar, so he just pretended nothing ever happened. “You look good,” he fumbled as soon as his lips parted, the words seemingly pushing against each other as they tried to escape his mouth. “I mean, the view looks good… You also look good! You and the view both look good? Professionally speaking, of course.”

“Hmm? Oh, I, uhm, I’m feeling…rather…well,” Jasper feigned a cough as he sat on the offered stool, leaning on his arms on the countertop, a huge goofy grin on his face as he looked around for no real reason than the fact that he hadn’t been there, and if he even had, it was definitely not with a lovely lady. “How about you, Doctor—Shiv?”

—

“I always look good,” Siobhan said quickly: an automatic response to being complimented. Of course, she did also preen a little--touched by Jasper’s display of common sense. Yes, yes she was attractive and she was very keen on everyone knowing it. “You look…” Jasper wasn’t unattractive--to say so would be an obvious lie--but she also thought he carried himself like he was worried his mother would scold him for being out too late. “You look hot,” she settled on, patting his shoulder in hopes that she could pass on even a shred of her abundant confidence to him. She smirked. “Professionally speaking, of course.”

Siobhan wondered for a moment, watching Jasper smile, if he was actually several children wearing the suit of a man. It would explain things. What things, exactly, she didn’t know but it certainly felt like things would be explained if Jasper was somehow not who he said he was. Was this another attempt at demoralizing her? Of ruining her game? Not only was he not annoyed that she was overly familiar, he seemed to be thrilled about it. “Well, I’m so happy to be out with my best friend.” She tested the waters, waiting for a flicker of annoyance or disapproval to cross his face. “Bestest bestest friend.” She grinned widely, too widely, and immediately she decided she needed drinks.

She waved the bartender down, “Shirley Temple right? You mentioned it, why not try it?” Siobhan ordered two Dirty Shirleys and prayed they would come with lightning pace. “You know, I was just thinking, you’re my bestest friend and I hardly know a thing about you. Other than the fact you lick rocks, of course.” Again, she waited.

—

‘Oh, no, are we gonna fuck?’ was the first thing that came to Jasper’s mind when Siobhan called him ‘hot,’ though he immediately tried to chase that unprofessional thought away with a mental head shake. It was a combination of a lot of things that gave birth to that stupid thought: (1) the fact that no one has ever called him ‘hot,’ not even the girls that he was dating individually; (2) it has been a while since he’s had intercourse or even been intimate with anyone; and (3) he forgot for a moment that the word ‘hot’ could also refer to a high degree of heat or temperature. Like a fever, which this whole exchange was beginning to seem to him. A fever dream, more precisely.

The concern from that now-dissipated thought did not come from not wanting the possibility, too, as even a dunce would realize that Jasper would do it with a pole if it was wearing a skirt…or however that hilarious but hurtful remark from Professor Nancy Go went. No, it was more the fact that he and Siobhan were coworkers, and Jasper thought that being intimate with a coworker never ends well. Case in point: Him and Nancy, who has now taken to his home as her second home despite the fact that they were no longer being intimate. If only he could just tell her off. Then again, he couldn’t even tell his late uncle’s dog off for being such a snooty snoot to him.

“Yes,” Jasper heaved a sigh of relief when Siobhan established the parameters of their ‘relationship,’ though a small part of him was a bit disappointed. “Best friend,” he reiterated the term to drill the same into his often uncooperative brain. Well, the social part of it. Some days Jasper was a hair away from being one of those villainous turds in She-Hulk, a show which he actually loves, by the way. Fortunately for him, today was not one of those days.

“Bestest best friend!” Another mental sigh of relief before Jasper nodded at the drink choice, sheepishly grinning like an apologetic child whose hand was just caught in the cookie jar by his mother, before shaking his head in protest at that last bit. “Well, actually, I don’t lick rocks. My tongue’s reserved for licking something else. Like stamps. Or ice cream. Popsicles? Anyway, what would you like to know? Most of the things about me are on my personnel file or the university faculty website, anyway.” Weird way to say he was boring and uninteresting but it wasn’t the worst way he could have gone about it.

—

“Or licking pu--” Siobhan stopped herself, looking at Jasper. She wasn’t sure how well the joke would land and, anyway, she wasn’t entirely convinced that Jasper wasn’t actually a child. Somehow. “I don’t read things on the internet.” Siobhan waved her hands around. “There’s too many words and not all of them are true.” Mostly, it was that the large majority of words on the internet were written by humans and if Siobhan wanted to puncture her brain with the continued stupidity of humanity, she’d assign essays to her class. She avoided them for a reason. “You’re here now, aren’t you?” She nudged Jasper, smiling brilliantly. “Why don’t I hear it from your cute mouth?” She pinched his cheek. No, that was his real skin. She supposed he was just one of those weird humans; the sort that grew up all wrong.

The drinks arrived too slow for Siobhan’s liking, but their presence was welcome. “In actuality, a Shirely Temple isn’t an alcoholic drink,” she said with a laugh, as though she’d ever willingly order something without alcohol. “Not this one though. Cheers, love.” She didn’t wait to clink her glass against his, taking the first full and quick sip. Ginger Ale and Grenadine was a sweet mix, the presence of vodka was hardly noticeable under all the sugar. The cherry was a welcome addition. She hummed, her cold skin slowly warming. Quickly, she ordered two Bloody Mary’s: the other drink Jasper had mentioned. “What do you think, Jaspie?” She took another long sip. The more she drank, the less she would question why she was doing this.

Against her best efforts, it really did seem like Jasper wanted to be here and would have fun. None of that was Siobhan’s intention.

—

If Jasper had a drink sloshing in his mouth hole, he would have spat it all out when he realized what Siobhan was about to say before she cut herself off. It took him a second, sure, but he realized it as soon as he could. Eyes wide in horror, he couldn’t help but stare at Siobhan because of that, his cheeks flushing red, before turning away and feigning a cough to save himself from more unprofessional thoughts. “That’s fair,” Jasper swallowed air.

Even before Siobhan pinched his cheek, he was already feeling uncomfortable…but in a good way, if that was even a thing, which it probably isn’t, which just means that Jasper did indeed grow up wrong. Hard to grow up right when he was raised by the same uncle that slaughtered the rest of his family without Jasper’s knowing because said uncle feared their magic bloodline was the cause for all the weird shit in town, which of course wasn’t. But, hey! She called his mouth cute. That’s something, right? “I mean, I don’t lick rocks, so that’s one thing. I have a dog? Val, short for Valentine, but technically, she was my late uncle’s, so I guess I just inherited her…among other things. You do already know I live by myself, with my dog, in the mountains, I think?”

“Oh, it isn’t?” Jasper was genuinely flummoxed, a word he was reacquainted with just the past week and has not taken a liking to, which means he will most likely use that same word a lot in his next few classes. “I’ve always thought it was.” Jasper watched her take her drink, his eyes subconsciously fixated on his lips as he swallowed air, feeling his own throat dry up, constrict on its own volition. “I think that’s hot,” he blurted out before catching himself, immediately taking a sip of his own drink to conceal his stupidity to little avail. “I mean, uhm, it’s delicious… You’re delicious… This drink is delicious!” And it was, which surprised him. It wasn’t like he didn’t think he’d like the drink. It was more like he didn’t think it would be that good. “Oh, this really is delicious! Shirley, you’ve surely created magic here! I think I’m in love!”

—

Siobhan tried to listen to Jasper, but he was doing that thing humans often did where they were unbearably boring and her alcohol was doing the thing where it wasn’t working fast enough. She stared down at her drink, noticing it was empty. When had that happened? Siobhan looked back up at Jasper, smiling tightly. “Surely you must have some hobbies,” she said. “There has to be more to my bestest friend ever than his dog and his house and the fact that he’s lonely—sorry, lives alone. Slip of the tongue.” She stuck her out, laughing as though she really cared about the error. She sloshed the ice around her glass. This was why she stabbed people, stabbing people always made them interesting. Unfortunately, she didn’t think it was wise to attack a colleague in a public space.

The Bloody Marys came down quick and Siobhan took hers before Jasper had even sipped his Dirty Shirley. “Hot? No, these are cold drinks. Do you want something hot, Jaspie?” She could probably order one, even if nothing came to mind right away. The more drinks she got the better, she needed Jasper to become interesting as soon as possible. The knife she kept strapped to her thigh burned against her flesh, begging for use. All she needed to do was reach through the slit of her dress and… “In love so soon? You should get higher standards.” She chuckled, the desire to stab him subsiding temporarily as she found the outburst adorable, in that way a dog chasing someone around for a treat was. Her preoccupation with violence had left her unaware of Jasper's slip-ups and staring. “This one is vodka and tomato juice and a variety of other things I can’t be arsed to remember. Cheers!” Again, she didn’t wait for him before taking a sip. “It’s more of a savoury one,” Siobhan explained. “I’m not sure if you’ll be so in love with this one.”

—

“I have a massive pe—” Jasper cut himself off, realizing his little joke might land him in hot water if he continued. Siobhan seemed like she could take the joke. Pun intended. If that was even a pun. But would Jasper risk his only source of joy, his only semblance of life, his only…hobby, for a few seconds of a chuckle? He’d rather not. “—atience. I am very patient. Not a hobby, but that’s something more to me, I think.” Weird, flimsy train of thought, but that was all he had before he took another sip of his drink. “Don’t be,” he shrugged off what most people would consider an insult. Or at least take offense to. It wasn’t wrong, anyway. He was lonely, and it wasn’t just because he lived alone. He was very lonely. “You have a pretty tongue, I mean you weren’t wrong.”

Another feigned cough to hide his slow descent into drunkenness. It was just one drink, barely even down to two-thirds, but Jasper was already feeling the alcohol. “It already feels hot,” he omitted the realization that the sensation was all within him. If it was even real. Could just be him. His mind playing tricks on him. The placebo effect. Because he thought the drink could make him drunk, he started feeling drunk. That sort of thing. “A lonely man can’t afford standards, Shibby,” he heaved a sigh, shaking his head, forcing his eyes into each socket before opening them as wide as he could, all while his head was down toward the table. “You had me at vodka!” He chuckled and downed as much as he could of the new drink, barely surviving the result. “You do this often? Drink these things?”

—

Siobhan thought she heard a joke, carried through the mumble of the bar around them. She stared at Jasper, wondering if he had the strength to finish it. No. Pity. Jasper as he stood now, or sat in actuality, was quickly gaining in mundanity. It wasn’t his fault he was boring, Siobhan thought the vast majority of humans were. He wasn’t saying anything riveting. She wanted the ‘hot goss’ as the humans said; the details so juicy Jasper hardly admitted them to himself. She couldn’t expect him to just talk, he needed to be lubed up—metaphorically. “I do have a pretty tongue,” she smiled at him. “Would you like to see something else that’s pretty?” Siobhan tugged on her gloves, setting them aside. With a shrug, her leather jacket fell away, hanging on the back of the stool. She maintained her glamour well, despite the alcohol; it was imperative that Jasper not see her scars and, as she was finding his lack of scandalous information boring, the concentration gave her something to do. Her dress, low-cut, was sleeveless and she pointed to her now bare arms. “Here are the ulna and the radius.” Siobhan traced each bone, showing Jasper where they sat under her skin. “And here’s the radial artery, where you can take my pulse.” She paused. “Do you want to?” As a banshee, there wasn’t much of a pulse to take, but she hoped his drunken stumbling around her arm to figure out why he wasn’t feeling a regular pulse would disarm him enough to be interesting.

Siobhan smiled, watching a tipsy flush reach Jasper’s face. She was feeling more inclined to be friendly, a little bold, but the more she drank, the more she thought she started to feel like herself. Sharp white canine teeth glistened when she smiled. “I do. You could call it an Irish tradition, but don’t say that to anyone that’s Irish. Except me, of course. You can tell me anything.” Siobhan’s grin expanded, pulling up into her cheeks. “Don’t you want to tell your best friend some very personal information? Something that will bring us closer? Don’t you want that, Jaspie?” And please, for the love of Death, she prayed it wouldn’t be another remark about his dog or his virtue of patience.

—

“Yes, and yes,” Jasper responded with zero hesitation and a passionate nodding of his head. He still took his time, however, despite his one-sided battle with alcohol. In his head, he was getting way too drunk, though he didn’t care: He was with a lovely woman. What better reason to be drunk? In reality, however, barely a single drink should make him drunk. If not for his subconscious willingness to hasten the process for the possibility of more intimate rewards, he would be more sober than a priest in the middle of his own mass in the Vatican with all the other priests watching him keenly. Siobhan’s offer was why Jasper was glad he wasn’t actually a priest.

As soon as he could, he immediately went to work, though he hesitated actually touching her. It could be a trap, meant to seduce him, and when his guard was lowered, while he was caught in such a scandalous position, she could scream and call him names and get him fired from his job, ruining his life forever. But a stolen glimpse at Siobhan’s alluring eyes made Jasper think she would do no such thing, so he smiled, ever the fool, happy to be one, glad to be tied around her pinky finger, and savored every contact he could make with her skin, her bone, her…pulse. Man, am I so drunk, I can’t even feel a pulse? “That’s weird,” he hiccuped. “I can’t find your pulse.” Maybe it’s in her left breast—icle, clavicle. Fuck! Even ‘drunk’, he wasn’t that rude. Or evil.

“You’re Irish?” Jasper absentmindedly blurted as he continued trying to find her pulse, as if he just needed more time to find it. Typical guy thing—if you know, you know. What Jasper should have known was the answer to his question. Her name was a dead giveaway. It was the only Irish name he knew how to spell. He made a note of that in his head after meeting a lovely Irish girl in the UK while at a seminar, the geology professor too scared to make the jump despite the many pushes she had given him, some even outright, including an invitation to her room on the final night they would ever see each other again. “What do you mean?” He asked, a lingering concern in his voice, as if he was about to get attacked by a hidden monster. Or reminded of a haunting regret in his love life. “Like my bank details? You’d be disappointed, but also you’d have to buy me dinner first. Jasper H. Langston is not an easy lay!” Nor is he a good one, his sober brain added, much to his faux drunkenness’ dismay.

—

“I have an accen—You know what, it’s probably just hard to tell where I’m from.” Siobhan forced herself to smile, watching Jasper fumble around her arm. She maintained concentration, picturing how her skin once was and how her wings once fluttered. Her hand snapped over Jasper’s, anchoring him to her cold skin. She grinned sharply, with all the excitement of a cat capturing a mouse. “Not your bank details…” Although the offer was tempting; how many cups of yogurt could she buy under his name? It wasn’t entirely necessary, as much fun as it would be, Siobhan had more than enough money between her salary, credit cards, and the men whose bank details she did steal. Siobhan leaned into him. “Something secretive, Jaspie. Something you’ve never told anyone.” There were probably more tactful ways to go about stealing secrets, but Siobhan didn’t particularly care. She thought Jasper was drunk anyway, never mind the reality that she’d had much, much more than him and was certainly feeling it. “Something you’re afraid to say; don’t worry; would I ever tell anyone?” She would probably tell someone. “It can be our secret.” It wouldn’t be. “Who would I tell, anyway?” This part was true, and did reveal that even though Siobhan had no respect for the secrets of humans, she didn’t have any friends (except Metzli) and thus, had no one to share the hot goss of Jasper’s life with.

Siobhan reached for her drink, downing the last of her Bloody Mary. “I just think…we’re such good friends aren’t we? I let you find my pulse—that’s my heart—and what are you giving me? You told me about your dog! I don’t want to know about your dog.” Siobhan leaned in again, displaying every drop of alcohol on her breath—which was otherwise minty fresh (she enjoyed a good mint). “Come on, Jaspie.”

—

“I mean, yeah, I just thought you were from Boston or something,” Jasper shrugged, before he was caught by surprise when Siobhan unexpectedly grabbed his hand. His eyes, wide in shock, warily searched for hers, and when they met, the geology professor could only gulp. She had pretty eyes, that was the first thing that came to his mind, before her words slowly made their mark in his brain.

“I…have never slept with someone who wasn’t in a relationship with me,” the words started to spill from his mouth, like an unsuspecting leak on a pipe in someone’s basement. She wanted secrets, right? Something he’d never told anyone. Well, Jasper had a lot of them, and all of them he’d never told anyone. Or at least that’s what he believed in his supposedly drunken state. Truth was, Jasper’s lips loosen every time he was out of his mind, even when he only believed so.

“I’ve been trying to learn magic but I suck at it… I lost my childhood friend in the mines and have been trying to find her still, even though she’s probably already found her way out and moved on with her life or dead and eaten by whatever’s down there, if there’s even things down there… I love pineapples on my pizza and hot sauce on my ice cream… I do think some of my students are hot, but I would never… I also think you’re hot and you’re so close to me right now and you smell so good and feel so good…” Throughout his word vomit, or is it words vomit?, Jasper found himself unable to look away from Siobhan, as if enthralled. While the jury might still be debating on whether Jasper H. Langston was in fact an easy lay, there was no doubt right now that he was definitely an easy prey.

—

For the moment, Siobhan could ignore that Jasper thought she was from Boston (she actually liked Boston, she’d had great clam chowder there and at least seven murders she was proud of). She could ignore that Jasper had never slept with anyone he wasn’t in a relationship with, which was a very boring slice of information but as soon as he said that, she could tell they were finally getting somewhere. And then he went on. Magic, mines, pineapples, hot sauce, students—that last one made Siobhan’s nose wrinkle which was quickly appeased by being told she was hot. Of course, it meant less when it came after a sentence where he admitted some students were hot, but Siobhan was always hungry for compliments.

Siobhan snapped her hand away and slipped her jacket back on. “So, you’re a…witch then, are you?” She went to take a sip of her drink, then realized there was nothing in there, then got sad. She set it back down with a disappointed clink. “A very shite witch?” Was this an interesting fact or just the only one that provided any use to her? “D’you get yourself a teacher?” She slurred a little, leaning back into her stool. She played around with the other details in her head, trying to figure out how to file them away. “Your friend went into the mines…” she repeated. “…and you don’t know if she’s dead or alive?” As a banshee, she was uniquely capable of figuring out if someone had died but the process wasn't as easy as thinking really hard about it. She’d have to travel the mines, sorting through all the visions of death that lingered there until she found one that matched his friend; the process was tedious and with a place as large as the network of underground tunnels, it wasn’t likely she’d ever find the spot. And, more importantly, it would involve wanting to help Jasper; that was the larger hurdle to jump.

“Can’t you magic a location spell?” Siobhan waved her hand around in the air. “Sprinkle sage in one of her old shoes and go ‘where is she’ and let the tea leaves show you or whatever it is you witches do these days. Back in my day, it was a lot of herbal nonsense and chalk-drawn sigils. These days maybe you witches have got an app for this.” She tapped her finger against the bar counter. “Oh, sorry.” She patted Jasper’s arm. “I’m not going to sleep with you—you’re not my type, too pathetic—but valiant effort with the compliments, Jaspie.” Now that she has squeezed what she wanted out of Jasper, she only lingered to see if he’d offer anything else up. With her hands gripping the counter, she was ready to leave as soon as he mentioned his dog again.

—

A witch? Jasper did a double take. Visually. With his head and neck and shoulders and upper body. Moving a bit away from Siobhan, as if he was disgusted at the thought of being called a witch. “I wouldn’t call myself a witch…” The immediate image in his head was that of a hag, and having forgotten in that moment in time how hot Marvel’s Wanda Maximoff was, he recoiled at the idea of himself being a hag. Maybe if he had better mentors, a magical one, he’d realize that hags are very, very sexy these days. Like Anne Hathaway in that movie he never actually saw. “Shit....e, yes, but not…”

“...no, no teacher unfortunately…” He heaved a very audible sigh before remembering he did get those ‘lessons’ from that weird guy. “I mean, not an actual teacher, but there was this guy who showed me the basics…” What was his name again? Johnny? Johnny Jones? Not Johnny Cage, that one’s a much cooler guy. And also white…r? Anyway, Jasper just had to squint at Siobhan when she mentioned his friend but then remembered, regretfully so, that he had shared that information just seconds ago after a moment of weakness. “Yes,” he swallowed air, feeling his throat suddenly deprived of moisture. “But that was a long time ago. We were kids… I’m still holding hope she’s down there somewhere, still alive… Weirder things have happened.” Like a very attractive woman taking to him as her best friend.

“I…don’t know a single location spell,” Jasper grew red in embarrassment. He’s already admitted he was a shit spellcaster but actually displaying how much of a shit spellcaster he was was, well, a bit worse. “I can only do, like, rock spells. Levitating rocks… Throwing stones without touching said stones…” What was even the point of him being a spellcaster, he realized that then and there. “Oh, I mean, I didn’t,” he started to laugh awkwardly, trying to salvage what remained of his broken heart and equally broken ego by brushing that very patheticness aside. “...I was just saying you are very, very beautiful, but I would never…sleep with a colleague.” Jasper took a sip of his drink but almost stabbed his upper lip, the rim of the glass clanging against his teeth. “I mean, I already did and that didn’t work out, so…Plus, I’m already taking care of my uncle’s dog, so no room for more, hehehe…” Looks like it’s back to his right hand tonight. And the rest of his nights.

—

“Rock spells? Like The Rolling Stones spell.” Siobhan paused, waiting for laughter. Thankfully her delusional mind came with its own laugh track. Would she have use for a rock witch? She thought about it. Maybe he could help her landscape? Maybe she could get him to throw rocks at people for her amusement? She tapped her chin, imagining the multitude of ways to indenture Jasper into her service. In the end, she decided he wasn’t very useful. What kind of witch was a rock witch anyway? As much as she made fun of them, maybe she did miss the witches that made the weird herbal potions, at least they were fun. And all of them had bathtub booze of their own, which never tasted like anything Siobhan had had before or would have ever again. And then, it happened. Siobhan looked at him, blinking, hoping it had been some cruel joke. No, it happened. He did it.

He talked about his dog.

Siobhan pushed up out of her seat, nearly knocking the stool over. She took a wad of crumbled bills out of her pocket and slapped them down, hoping it was enough to pay for them both but knowing it probably wasn’t. “I have to go,” she announced, straightening herself up. “If I hear you talk about one more horribly mundane topic again, I’m going to explode. Do you think I asked you here to talk about your dog? Does anyone want to talk about your dog?” She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Jasper. Jaspie.” She pinched his cheek softly. “You’re so cute. You’re my best friend, because I said so, so we’re making it so. I think if you talked less you’d have more, as the humans say, bitches. As a woman who grew up around women, I think I should reject the term. As a drunk, I will not. Get bitches, eat money, lick rocks, whatever it is they say. But please, for the love of Death, don’t talk about your uncle’s dog.” She leaned into him, pressing a swift kiss to his forehead before she dashed away, running as fast as she could in her high heels just in case he decided to mention the dog again.

She wouldn’t be able to handle another second of Jasper.

#jasper made me laugh so hard #every line of his is golden #im still screaming about it #c: jasper #writing #s1 #shirley temple #alcoholism tw

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