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thetomorrowshow · 2 years

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poisoned rats in a pot of grain - ch. 5

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it's a rough chronic pain day so i will try to make this quick!

within this chapter is a scene of attempted sexual assault. it is not heavily described, occurs in brief italicized flashbacks, and no sexual assault actually occurs, but the character it involves is very distressed. to avoid this section entirely, it will begin after a line of three tildes and end before the second line of three tildes (~~~).

additionally, the first scene contains suicidal thoughts and plans. please stay safe.

cw: suicidal thoughts/actions, depression, abuse, torture, depersonalization, attempted sexual assault, blood, dehumanization, manipulation

They’ve just finished another fight.

Blossom, he thinks. Does it really matter?

He didn’t pull any punches. He can’t afford to, anymore—not after the incident with Major. He hopes she’s all right. He hopes he never has to fight anyone ever again.

He knows his master will make him.

He’s alone in his room, sitting on the bed, staring numbly at the floor. His leash hangs on the hook by the door. An untouched piece of bread is on the floor.

Jimmy sighs, shifts, but doesn’t move. He knows he should be asleep. This is when Xornoth will be resting, cooling down from the fight. He’d done good today, had been rewarded with extra sleep time. He’s not sure what that means. He doesn’t know how much he gets in the first place, and it varies every night. Extra means nothing with no baseline.

The weather’s getting warmer. It must be spring.

He’s so tired.

It’s hard to think of himself as a person with a name, these days. He recognizes the pet names Xornoth’s so fond of easier than Jimmy or Solidarity, something that he never even imagined could ever happen. Jimmy doesn’t exist anymore.

He doesn’t exist anymore.

The handle on the door is heavy, locked so that it won’t turn. The hook on the wall is big and made of steel, likely originally held something far heavier than his leash. He’s been staring at them for a while. He thinks it will work.

He stands, limps over to the wall (Xornoth likes aggravating his bad leg, his leg that’s been bad since he first tried to escape and he dislocated his hip), removes his leash with shaking hands. It’s heavy, a familiar weight, and he’s still for a moment, running his fingers along the chainlinks. It’s long enough, too.

He wraps one end around the hook, ties it as well as one can tie a chain. He does the same with the door handle, pulls as hard as he can, puts his entire weight on the length of chain between the two points. It doesn’t fall, yet isn’t long enough to hit the floor.

If he loops it around his neck, lets his weight fall onto it. . . .

He’s tempted. He’s sorely tempted. He’s been contemplating this for so very long. The chance to just be gone, just like that, to no longer be a pet, to no longer be anything. . . .

He pulls a little on the chain again. It holds his weight. He would finally be free. He wouldn’t hurt anymore. No one would ever hurt him again. No one would ever control him again. It would work, and so perfectly at that.

He stares at it for a long time, bouncing the chain lightly in his hands. All he has to do is wrap it around his neck. If he’s right—and he’s fairly certain he is—it will still be high enough off the ground that he’ll be too high up to kneel. As long as he has the presence of mind to not lean back onto his feet, the deed will be done.

He could be free in a matter of minutes.

After he sleeps, he finally decides. He’s going to sleep so that maybe he has a good dream and therefore a good memory to be his last of this world.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he unwraps the chain from the door handle. He loops it over the hook, limps past the lone piece of bread on the floor, and to his shelf of a bed. There he lies, staring at the ceiling, thinking of nothing but the darkness of the end, until he falls asleep.

When Jimmy wakes up, he’s already halfway to the door only to realize his leash is not in the room.

He falls to his knees beside the newly-placed peanut butter sandwich and breaks apart.

It’s hard to care about anything. Jimmy barely flinches when Xornoth carves into his arm, he doesn’t do more than blink when they pull hard on his hair, he lies motionless when they beat him.

He feels like he’s died, and his body just hasn’t caught up to his mind yet. When his master summons him, he moves as if in a trance, following those holding his leash without complaint. Sound comes to him as if from underwater, muffled and indistinct.

Xornoth takes him out to fight and he knows he’s off his game, but there’s nothing he can do to fix it. He’s not even sure who they’re fighting, all he knows is that they catch the uncontrollable car that speeds toward them. When a streetlight tips over onto them, they catch it too and prop it back up in its place.

Jimmy lets out a shuddering sigh and allows Xornoth to drag him away by the arm. He allows them to throw him across the meeting room. He allows them to hold him up with a tentacle and whip him. He doesn’t do anything. He can’t do anything. Fighting back will get him in more trouble. Everything gets him in more trouble.

When they’re done and Jimmy’s vision is blurry, they drop him onto the table and tell him to speak and Jimmy can barely muster a “Yes, master.”

They must be able to tell something is wrong, then, because they rub something into his back that numbs the stinging wounds and they ask him to tell them what’s wrong. Jimmy only stares blankly through the haze of pain and the incessant buzzing in his ears.

Instead of being disappointed, Xornoth smiles and pulls him off the table, onto the floor in his normal spot, and there they keep him on their knee until he passes out and wakes back on the floor of his cell.

He’s not sure how long he goes about the routine in such a disconnected fashion. He only knows that his wake-up call is terrifying, overwhelming, and takes what little of him that is left and scatters it to the wind.

~~~

“He’s dead,” Xornoth whispers, holding Jimmy close. “I killed him, puppy. He can no longer hurt you.”

Jimmy sobs drily into their shirt, hands curled against his chest.

It’s a normal bath day, Jimmy’s in the room with the drains and the freezing blast of the hose, the place he normally blocks from his thoughts and memories because of just how terrible it is, and the man spraying him is the one named Helmer who would call him Birdie in those tunnels and with the way he’s looking at Jimmy, he knows something is going to be bad.

He can’t fight back. He’s too weak.

“Oh, darling.” Xornoth rubs his bare back, everything about them screaming safesafesafe to his frantic brain. “Shh, it’s all right.”

It’s not all right, because Jimmy is soaking wet with freezing water and shivering uncontrollably, and instead of dragging him by his collar back to his cell like normal, Helmer watches him for a long time before stalking closer. His breathing is heavy, he’s muttering something Jimmy doesn’t have the presence of mind to understand, and then one horrible hand is caressing his masked face and the other is on his chest. . . .

Now his master touches his face, and his master doesn’t slip off his mask like Helmer had, they don’t drag him up to their lips by his hair, and Jimmy knows he’s supposed to hate Xornoth and just yesterday he’d wanted to not exist anymore if it meant being their pet but he can’t help but lean into their touch.

Helmer doesn’t recognize Jimmy, that’s for sure, but his eyes rake over Jimmy’s features hungrily and he growls “All mine,” before doing more, his thumb on Jimmy’s waistband—

Jimmy takes the memories, puts them in a little box, and hides them away in a dusty corner of his mind. It wasn’t that bad. Nothing even happened. Xornoth stormed in before anything went really bad, leaving Jimmy huddled in the corner holding his mask over his face protectively while he listened to the tormented screams of Helmer as Xornoth killed him slowly. . . .

“Mine,” Xornoth growls, and it’s nothing like how Helmer had said it because he belongs to Xornoth, this is just Xornoth protecting their property and it’s so much more right.

They’re still in the room with the hose; Jimmy’s still dripping water, his lengthening hair just barely beginning to dry. They’re both in the corner that Jimmy had crawled to, Xornoth holding him in their lap without a care for how damp he’s making their blood-stained suit. He’s fairly certain that Helmer’s body is still in the room with them. He buries his face further into Xornoth’s chest.

“No one gets to see your face but me,” Xornoth says, rubbing a gloved hand over the back of Jimmy’s head. “No one gets to have you but me. My pet, so good for me, my pretty bird, so perfect.”

Xornoth is still seething at Helmer; Jimmy can tell from the tension in their arms and the underlying anger to their cloying words. They’re holding back, though, and Jimmy is intensely grateful that he’s not being punished for this (it wasn’t his fault, he gets punished for things all the time that aren’t his fault and he shouldn’t be punished at all). He’d tried to stop it. He’d cried for help. He’d been a good boy. He’s a good boy. He’s a good boy.

“Yes, you are,” his master assures him, and Jimmy realizes he’s saying it out loud, an over-and-over stream of “I’m a good boy, I’m a good boy, I’m a good boy. . . .”

His stomach warms at the praise and he sighs slightly, his shoulders relaxing, his words fading into silence. That’s enough for him.

“Only I get to see your face,” Xornoth says, but they still don’t pull off his mask. Only Xornoth gets to see his face, but Xornoth never has.

Jimmy pulls away a bit, and with trembling fingers and eyes on the floor, he pulls his mask up onto his forehead.

He feels naked, terrified, and before he knows it he’s whining a little bit, entire body shaking. He chances a glance up at Xornoth, who is gazing at him, not predatorily like Helmer had, but almost adoringly. There’s something else in their eyes that Jimmy can’t quite discern, but before he can try, Xornoth sweeps him back into their arms, rubbing slow circles into his back.

“So good, so obedient, so perfect for me. . . .” Xornoth croons, as Jimmy sniffles into their shoulder. “Oh, pet . . . you know you belong to me, don’t you?”

Jimmy nods. He’s so tired. He’s so cold. He feels so empty.

They stay there, on the floor of the room where Jimmy was hosed down, until the chill of his body slowly fades as he is lulled to sleep.

What happens next is vague—he thinks Xornoth picks him up, because one moment he’s in their lap and the next he’s in the air, but he doesn’t really wake until the arms leave him and he blinks open his eyes to see Xornoth turning away.

“Master,” he whimpers, stretching his hands out after them. They can’t leave him, they can’t, not when anyone could come in here, not when anyone could do anything to him. . . .

Xornoth looks back to him, crouches beside Jimmy’s head. “I have work, puppy,” they say softly, ruffling his damp hair. “You’ll be a good boy, won’t you?”

Jimmy nods sleepily, wrinkles his face to find his mask back in place. Before he knows it, he’s drifting off.

When Jimmy wakes, he doesn’t have the energy to feel disgusted with himself.

~~~

Scott’s finally off bed rest, and he couldn’t be more ready to get out of his house. He legitimately thinks he’s never been this anxious. Solidarity had been right there, literally in his hands, and then his powers had made a building collapse right on top of Scott.

He’s been analyzing the fight for days, turning it over in his mind to see from all angles, and he’s come to an infallible conclusion.

Solidarity is being mind-controlled.

His stiff walk, his relentless pursuit after Scott, the pain in his eyes. Xornoth must have another villain working with him, one with mind control capabilities to keep Solidarity in check.

Scott has no clue if there’s a way to tell—is there some sort of trace to be found in close contact with the mind-controlled? He really doesn’t have the expertise in this area.

Luckily, he knows someone who does.

It’s always been notoriously difficult to contact the Mad King, so Scott bides his time, waits until he hears reports of a fight in midtown, Mythics against the Mad King. He’s out of his house in mere moments, still clipping his cape on.

He finds the two of them in the same area where he had fought Mythics that one time last summer, when Solidarity had interrupted. Mythics’s performance is surprisingly lackluster today, just him and a dog summoned with his powers, smoky vines pulling down on the Mad King’s ankles as he struggles to reach Mythics. Mythics is dancing just out of reach, his dog hopping around behind him.

“C’mon, King, come and get me!” Mythics taunts, and Scott rolls his eyes. Mythics would be far more dangerous if he knew what he was doing. His powers are legitimately terrifying, but he tends to use them for trivial and fantastical things like dogs and dragons instead of a gun. Or an army, or something. Something actually useful.

He’s still dangerous, of course. Even a fake dragon’s fire leaves a burn. But he’s not as much of a challenge as he could be, and Scott ignores the way the small crowd of onlookers perks up at the sight of him and shoves Mythics into the Mad King’s arms.

The Mad King wraps his hands around Mythics’s head, waits until the villain’s eyes slide together and the dog and vines vanish, then he throws him to the ground. He frowns down at the limp form for a moment, then looks up and shrugs at Scott.

“I had it handled,” he says grumpily. The crowd groans slightly, begins to disperse. Scott waves at them cheerily, then beckons the Mad King forward.

“I have some questions for you,” he says lowly. He glances around; nobody is paying much attention to them. Mythics stirs slightly. “You’ve fought the Canary?”

The Mad King’s expression goes wary, his eyes guarded. “Yeah. Why?”

Scott looks around again. Still no one paying attention to them. He leans closer still. “It’s Solidarity. And I think he’s being mind-controlled.”

The Mad King doesn’t look surprised, for some reason. He just looks tired. “Right,” he says, running a hand down his face. “Sure. Major, would you be able to come with me to meet someone?”

Scott expects to go to the Mad King’s house, a couple of streets away from his own. Instead, he finds himself weaving around crumbling buildings and shady alleys. After maybe two miles of avoiding broken glass and moldy trash, the Mad King takes him into an abandoned apartment building, down a dumbwaiter, and into a grimy basement with a handful of furniture pieces: two folding chairs, one card table, and a mattress. Scott grimaces at the empty pizza boxes stacked by the door, but climbs out of the dumbwaiter behind the Mad King anyway, who looks around sheepishly.

“It’s not much, just a temporary base of operations,” he explains. “Li—my partner can’t exactly been seen around our neighborhood, so we meet up here to plan things.”

Before Scott can ask who the partner is (and what the Mad King means by partner), there’s a soft, high-pitched voice calling down the dumbwaiter shaft.

“Joel? Are you down here?”

The Mad King groans. “Yeah, I’m here. And we’ve got a guest.”

A moment of silence. “Oh. Sorry.” Then there’s creaking as the dumbwaiter is raised, during which Scott turns to the Mad King. “Joel, I presume?” he asks. Joel sighs, nods.

“Usually I’m the one who’s bad at keeping up our secret identities. You’ve no idea how many times I’ve taken off my mask in public when I see Lizzie.”

Scott raises a brow. A moment later, Joel’s jaw drops as he realizes what he’s just said. He lets his face fall into his hands and grumbles, “Maybe I should just erase that. Gosh, I’m such an idiot. . . .”

Scott laughs, but still takes a wary step back. The Mad King is powerful; he doesn’t want to underestimate that. It would be so easy for him to manipulate Scott’s memories, cut the names as if they’d never been said. He doesn’t want anyone poking around in his brain, thank you very much.

The dumbwaiter creaks and Scott spins around to see a very familiar someone with pink hair stepping out. Oh no.

He leaps back, hands up protectively in front of himself. A supervillain. That’s a supervillain in close quarters with Scott, he’s been lured into a trap—

“Major, calm down, she’s fine—”

“I should’ve known,” Scott spits at the Mad King, turning one hand toward him and the other toward the supervillain (who has raised her own fists, ready to fight), “you’ve always been so shifty, you think I’ve never noticed—you’ve messed with me, haven’t you? You’ve made me not want to look into you—” “Wow, that’s a harmful stereotype,” the Mad King says loudly, and Scott stumbles over his words for a moment in confusion.

“I—there’s enough of you to have stereotypes?”

An offended scoff falls from Joel’s lips as he and the so-called Lizzie exchange a look. “Oh, so you never get anyone asking you to put ice cubes in their drink?” asks Joel. “Or everybody assumes that you ice skate to travel everywhere?”

“I—I do ice skate to travel everywhere. It’s sort of my thing.”

“Yeah, whatever. Point is, there’s more of us than you think, and most of us are just normal people who don’t dip into minds without consent,” Joel finishes hotly, eyes fixed on Scott’s outstretched hand. “I swear I’ve never done anything to you, and you assuming so is a really awful preconception that you were likely raised with.”

Scott can’t help but snort. He’s more right than he knows. “Oh, I was raised with a lot of awful preconceptions. Doesn’t mean I would team up with a supervillain.”

“What, exactly, makes me a supervillain?” the supervillain in question asks drily, and Joel hurriedly nods his agreement.

“Lizzie’s fought heroes and villains indiscriminately, if you’ve ever paid attention to her,” he says. “If anything, she’s an antihero, or a vigilante. Is it because she’s a woman, that you just assume she can’t be that complex? What are you, a misogynist? Don’t care about the women, just shove ‘em wherever you like?”

“I—” Scott sputters. What?! “My best friends are women!”

“Just what a misogynist would say. Bet you’re close with all of ‘em to try and get in their beds.”

“I’m gay?”

“Oh, really?” Joel looks surprised for a moment, then smiles kindly. “I didn’t know that, good for you! Live your truth.”

“Thank you,” Scott says drily, ice crusting over his knuckles. His mind is spinning trying to keep up with everything happening. “You wouldn’t believe how many homophobes still exist.”

“Bringing me back to my point!” Joel pumps a fist triumphantly. “There! There are people who are like homophobes, but for Mindnipulators. Which, by the way, is not a word you can use—it’s sort of a slur that we’re working on reclaiming.”

Scott blinks. He has no idea what they’re talking about anymore. He thinks he started out angry in this conversation, but he’s not sure why.

“Tension defused, no need to thank me,” Joel says, moving away from Scott’s hand. “And I didn’t even do anything to anyone’s head. Proud of me?” “Sure,” Lizzie replies, hands still up as she stares at the ice curling around Scott’s fingers. “Are we good, Major?”

They’re right. This Lizzie character has fought against villains as well as heroes—Scott’s never been pitted against her personally, but she did interfere with that one fight, taking care of Xornoth while Scott. . . .

He lowers his hand, gives her a sharp nod. “We’re not friends,” he clarifies when she relaxes. “We’re temporary allies. I’ll turn you in in a heartbeat.”

He doesn’t want to work with a villain. Heck, he hates working with antiheroes—fWhip is one of his least favorite people in the world, and the few times they’ve had to collaborate on something, Scott had been counting down the hours until he could ditch the man.

But he has to work with her. Solidarity is counting on him to break him out of Xornoth’s control. He has to save Solidarity, just like he’d promised himself he would.

Lizzie smiles thinly, points to one of the two folding chairs. Scott shakes the ice off his fist and accepts the invitation, sits down. Neither she nor the Mad King sit.

“So here’s what we know,” Joel starts, shuffling through the papers on the table. He throws down a screenshot of a local news website, printed out in black-and-white. “Solidarity’s been missing since around the twenty-fifth of August—that’s the last mention we can find of him in the news. The next time we saw use of his powers was . . . the twenty-ninth of January—that was when Gem and Xornoth’s fight got interrupted by the surprise earthquake.”

That’s—that’s five months. Five months that Solidarity has spent in Xornoth’s clutches, likely experimented-on and mind-controlled. Scott can’t—he can’t even comprehend—five months?

“We weren’t sure it was him, but we noticed that you were tracking the line of so-called accidents following Xornoth’s fights. We know you’ve got a rivalry with Solidarity, so we just sort of assumed you knew more hallmarks of his power than we did. You giving up was interesting, but we just sort of rolled with it until—” Joel pulls a newspaper clipping out of the pile of papers. The headline reads, ‘NEW VILLAIN WORKS WITH XORNOTH TO WREAK HAVOC’. Below it is a grainy black-and-white photo of the Canary leaping off the side of a collapsing building.

“March twelfth. That was when we knew for certain who it was,” Joel says, tapping the date on the paper. “I was in this fight. Since we figured it out, we’ve been trying our best to interfere with other heroes’ fights, try and separate Xornoth and Solidarity or anything, but it never seems to work—they’re both too slippery.”

Scott sits back. What’s the most surprising, he thinks, is that his stakeouts had been noticed and he hadn’t noticed being noticed. That’s a little disconcerting. If these two had seen him, who’s saying Xornoth hadn’t? Maybe that’s why he had never been successful with that line of investigation.

Then what Joel had said about watching battles, interfering when possible. Scott thinks back to his own fight, two weeks ago. Lizzie had turned up in the middle of it, distracted Xornoth enough that Solidarity was left to fight on his own. He wonders now if the Mad King had been there too, watching from the shadows, waiting for a moment where he could hop out and grab Solidarity.

“He’d never willingly work with Xornoth,” Scott interrupts, right as Joel starts speaking again. “He wouldn’t do that. That’s why—”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Lizzie steps closer to Scott, arms folded. Joel pauses as well, turns to him.

Scott hesitates. He has no qualms telling the brief details (nothing in-depth, that could be disturbing), but he has some irrational fear that they’ll use what he says against him. Or against Solidarity.

“Solidarity’s had bad business with Xornoth before,” Scott decides. “Left him in pretty bad shape.”

“Yeah, but villains make alliances arbitrarily,” Joel points out. Scott rolls his eyes.

“I know Solidarity better than—”

“That does bring up an interesting question,” Lizzie says. She exchanges a look with Joel. “How do you know the Canary is Solidarity?”

I took off his mask, I broke code, I did what no hero or villain ever does and I took off his mask—

“Recognized his body language and the sound of his voice,” Scott says, nonchalant. He’s good at bluffing. It’s part of the business. He shrugs. “He’s been my nemesis for two years—three, almost. I know what he’s like.”

He already knew what Solidarity looks like. It’s not a huge deal that he took off his mask.

“And because I know what he’s like, I know he’s not in his right mind,” he continues. “He’s being mind-controlled, I’m sure of it. I just need your help breaking him out of it. It’ll be easier to stop Xornoth if they aren’t working together.”

He doesn’t mention the obligation he feels toward Solidarity. He doesn’t mention the words Xornoth had said to him, the serious threats they’d made that have haunted him ever since.

Joel and Lizzie exchange another look, one in which a wealth of silent communication occurs. He frowns, glances between them.

“Solidarity’s not being mind-controlled,” Joel says eventually. Scott can’t help but scoff.

“Right. And I’m just supposed to—”

“I know he’s not being mind-controlled,” Joel talks over him, ��because I’ve touched him. I grabbed onto his ankle in our first fight—the Canary’s first fight—and his mind is clean. Clean of any sort of powered manipulation. These are choices that he’s making—”

“No way,” Scott mutters, shoving the chair back and standing. The Mad King is lying to him, or doesn’t know what he’s talking about, or something. There’s no way Scott’s wrong about this. He paces the length of the basement, frost shaking off his cape. “No. I know he wouldn’t, he would never—”

“He’s a villain,” Joel says shortly. “He kills people—he killed Aeor—”

Scott whirls around, ice falling like crystals from his fingertips. Joel takes a cautious step back. “You think I don’t know that? You think I just forgot that he killed my—my mentor?”

“Look, Major—” “No, I won’t—I’m not going to—”

“It doesn’t matter!” Joel shouts, and Scott goes silent more out of confusion than being cowed. People don’t yell at him frequently enough for him to be ready to respond to that.

“What matters,” Joel says, more quietly, “is that we all want to get Solidarity. We’re all willing to fight Xornoth to get him. We need to work together, I think, to do that.”

He’s right. Scott hates it, but he’s right. They do all want Solidarity, and the only way to get him is to take out Xornoth. Solidarity escaped once before, and Xornoth got him again. The only way to ensure his safety is to make quite certain of the fact that Xornoth is incapacitated for the rest of their life.

Scott takes a deep breath, rubs his hands together to stop the ice. Joel may be right (not on the mind control, he’s never been more wrong there), but he isn’t going to say so directly. “So, we’re working together. What plans have the two of you come up with?”

“Not much, to be fair,” Joel answers, once again looking down at the papers on the table. “We really need to figure out where Xornoth’s lair is, and from there we’re certain we’ll find Solidarity. Problem is, we’ve checked all of their old places and any spot similar. We managed to track down the shady realtor that got them the old spots and she’s not seen them in almost a year. It’s possible that they’ve got new friends that they’re mooching off of, or they’re working independently, or a million other options. We just don’t know. We haven’t been able to find anyone they’re in direct contact with right now.”

Scott sits back down, flips through the papers after a permissive nod from Joel. Everything that Joel has said is there, as well as various maps—one big one of the whole city, other more detailed maps of certain neighborhoods. There’s some red circles and black x’s drawn on the maps, representing what he assumes is places they haven’t and have searched.

“What do you need from me?” he shuffles through all of the papers a second time to look for something he might have missed, a frown growing on his face. This is more information than he has. Having someone within the circle of villains is likely a much bigger hand than he could ever be. “I’m not sure how I can help.” “You know Xornoth better than anyone,” Joel says. “We were hoping you could give us as close as we can get to inside information. You’ve also got quite a bit more influence in the city than either of us do. You know the mayor—”

Scott snorts. “Right. Mayor Shubble has pretty much forbidden me from looking for Solidarity, so that’s a no-go. As for knowing Xornoth. . . .”

He thinks back to any interaction he’s ever had with them. There’s always been less banter than with other roses, each blow feels somehow more personal. They hate him, more than they hate probably anyone in the city, and not just for foiling their plans at every turn.

When I win, I will keep you locked in a cage like my Canary, Xornoth had said. The implications of knowing who the Canary is makes Scott sick. Whatever Joel is saying, he’s wrong. There’s no way Solidarity isn’t being mind-controlled.

But there’s something else important in that memory, because Xornoth wants something other than Solidarity.

“They want to torture me,” Scott says slowly. “They won’t kill me in a battle. If they beat me, they’ll drag me back to their lair. If we track me in some way—”

“You’ll lead us straight to it! Genius, Major!” Joel exclaims, pulling a pen out of nowhere and scribbling something down on a map. “So we let them beat you—maybe somewhere less public, so that people don’t get too worried—or maybe not, that could be really good publicity for me when I swoop in and save you—and then we follow you to their lair where we find Solidarity and we can ambush them in their own home!”

It’s a little bit of a terrifying plan, to be honest, one that makes Scott’s stomach turn over unpleasantly and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He doesn’t really know what Xornoth is capable of in that sort of instance.

But this isn’t about him. It’s about rescuing Solidarity. And Scott is nothing if not a hero.

“Okay. I get captured, you follow, we beat Xornoth. Missing a few steps, but overall a dangerous and possibly deadly plan,” Scott summarizes. “Anything else?”

“Oh, it’ll be deadly all right,” Lizzie says, her voice low. Goosebumps prick up on Scott’s arms as he looks over at her, almost having forgotten that she was in the room. Her eyes are dark, face tight. She looks up from the floor, up into Scott’s eyes, and there’s no humor or falsehood in her voice when she says, “Because once we find him, I am going to kill Solidarity.”

#empires smp #esmp #empires fanfic #jimmy solidarity #scott smajor #empires superpowers au #esh au #mas writes #holy cow this is a heavy one #i've been so excited for this twist lol #after writing this chapter i wrote the first oneshot set in this au #which is a more in-depth desc of what happened during that scene earlier #as well as future jimmy explaining it to scott and them developing a plan for triggers #gosh i love writing the extras for this universe #jimmy and scott have the healthiest relationship #so question: do we think that seablings are canon?#lmk what you think!#love you guys

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thetomorrowshow · 2 years

Text

play the game

trust au masterlist

the return of the trust au

i took a short break in updating this bc of personal reasons but here is another installment for yall on this fine thursday evening! much love to @after-nine-at-the-oasis for the encouragement :)

you can read the other pieces in the above-linked masterlist, or on my ao3 (linked on my blog). i will also have a taglist for this au if yall want to be tagged in the rb!

cw: referenced injuries, spiraling thoughts & self-hate

Jimmy’s too embarrassed to go to Lizzie right now.

Well, it’s not just that. For one thing, he’s almost too sore to get up. He’s bruised and broken all over and he’s not sure he’s ever going to get the taste of dirt out of his mouth. He really just wants to lie in his bed for the rest of the day and into the next.

Scott carried him to his bed earlier. He’d woken up on the couch, cuddled into Scott, whose head was tipped back, mouth slightly open, eyes closed. Jimmy had gazed at him for a moment, the soft pink dusting his cheeks, the flutter of his eyelashes with each breath. Then he’d tried to get up, and Scott had woken and left to get him food. When they had both eaten, Scott changed Jimmy’s bandages (which wore him out immensely) and then carried him to bed. With a soft word of farewell, Scott had left, locking the cabin door behind him. And Jimmy had fallen asleep almost instantly.

But now he’s awake, and his head is clear, and his alliance with Scott is proven to be something. So it’s about time he tells Lizzie, but he really doesn’t want to get out of bed. He needs to change his bandages too, probably, but he doesn’t want to whatsoever. He thinks, though, that he can manage to write a letter.

OCEAN QUEEN,

hi lizzie! i was writing to tell you of some IMPORTANT NEWS. VERY IMPORTANT NEWS. the Codfather Alliance is growing!

i have made a new ally. you may have noticed that scott smajor is nice to me now! we have signed allyship papers and are arranging deals NOW. i was going to write joel to tell him of the news, but i assume he is with you. i will also be writing to pixl to tell him :)

you may not trust him, but scott is a good ally and i hope he will become more.

i did good!! are you proud of me?

Cordially,

HRM THE CODFATHER 𓆟

Jimmy scribbles a little fish beside his title, as well as his signature. Then he seals the letter and puts away the book he’d been writing on. He has about three messengers designated for trips to the Ocean Empire, so he reluctantly brings himself to his feet and covers any injuries on display—he pulls the Codfather head over his face, clasps a jacket over his bandaged chest. Then he limps out of his cabin, to the messenger hut down the pier. He hands the letter to the secretary, ignores the look they give him when he flinches away from the brush of their fingers.

Lizzie’s going to want to call a meeting, and Lizzie will get on him if any of these injuries are infected. So Jimmy sighs, returns to his cabin, and unwraps his various bandages.

Jimmy’s out planting some poppies in his garden (one-handed, his right arm in a sling) when he hears the familiar sound of a twirling trident. Lizzie’s coming to visit! It’s fairly early for Lizzie to be visiting, and he usually only sees her in their weekly supplemental meetings (the most recent of which he’d canceled, as a chance to heal), so it’s good to see her.

He straightens up, dusts his hand on his pants and adjusts his Codfather head. He and Lizzie have only known that they’re seablings for a couple of months—it had completely shocked the both of them, and ever since that realization, they’ve quite clearly become more protective of one another. It’s no surprise that Lizzie’s dropping in for a surprise visit.

He waves widely, disguises his limp as a trip when he hurries to meet her at the landing point. “Lizzie! Did you get my letter last—”

He cuts off as Lizzie grips his arms, winces as her thumb presses into the nearly-healed gash on his bicep. Her hair is out of place, her face wrinkled with concern. Jimmy’s about to ask what’s wrong when she yanks off his Codfather head.

“I—Lizzie—!”

She stares at him—at his jaw, and the line of bruises there. Her face goes slack with—with something that looks a lot like grief.

“It’s true,” she whispers. Her eyes flick from his face to his sling, the one that both holds his injured arm and secures his broken collarbone in place. “They’re hurting you. I let them—” she chokes off, tears welling in her eyes.

“I—what? No, don’t—don’t cry,” Jimmy says frantically, his mind whirling. How did she find out? She isn’t allies with Scott, and nobody else knows—did one of his tormentors reveal something? “I—what are you talking about?”

Lizzie buries her face in his good shoulder, tears spilling over. “Smajor told us,” she cries. “He—he wanted our help protecting you. . . .”

Jimmy thinks for a long moment, Lizzie pressed against him. Scott told them. He doesn’t like that, doesn't like that Scott went to them without permission, but also. . . .

Scott wants to protect him. Scott wants to be there for him, whenever he needs it, is so worried that he won’t be enough that he went to people who aren’t his allies to ask for help. And that makes Jimmy feel . . . kind of special. Scott is doing all of this for him. Scott really cares about him.

Jimmy really cares about Scott, too.

“Why isn’t Scott here?” he asks after another long moment. He makes it as casual as possible, just inquiring after his presence. Scott’s his ally, after all. He’s supposed to pay attention to where he is and stuff. Lizzie still pulls back, fixes him with a questioning look.

“He was exhausted, so we gave him a guest bedroom. He should be asleep by now.”

Scott was exhausted? And noticeably? Tired enough that he needed to go straight to sleep while visiting another kingdom? That can’t be good. “Can I see him?” he says too quickly, quickly enough that Lizzie squints at him suspiciously.

“You’re clearly injured,” she says slowly. “Are you well enough for the flight?”

Jimmy almost snorts. He’s flown with far worse. He doesn’t say anything, though, just one-handedly adjusts the straps of his elytra.

Jimmy can’t tear his eyes from Scott’s face. The elf certainly looks exhausted, just as Lizzie had said, dark shadows under his eyes and waxy skin. Now, though, he’s peacefully slumbering, both hands loosely curled close to his chest. Jimmy watches him, watches his chest rise with every slow breath, watches his fingers twitch, watches the little turns of his mouth.

He reaches out with his good arm, aborts the movement. Not everybody likes physical contact, especially not when they’re sleeping. So he settles for just gazing at Scott, at his long eyelashes, at the way one of his wings is bent slightly under him, at—

“What’s so interesting about his face, huh?”

Jimmy starts, shoots up from his seat at Scott’s bedside. Joel is leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, brows raised. “I—uh—he just looks so tired, doesn’t he?” he manages. “I can’t imagine—usually he’s so perfect, and not that he isn’t still perfect, but he’s . . . well. . . .” he gestures vaguely at Scott, eyes turning back on him. Scott’s usually so bright, so radiant. Now he’s dulled, lost his shine.

He looks back to Joel only to see the man covering his mouth, some combination of shock and hysterics flitting across his face. Jimmy’s not sure why, or what he means by it, but before he can ask Joel has composed himself, properly stepping into the room.

“Jim, Lizzie and I have been talking, and . . . well.” Joel hesitates, eyes dancing from Jimmy’s bruised jaw line to his sling. “To start, I suppose—I’m sorry,” he says, meeting Jimmy’s eyes. “We—I haven’t done enough. Scott didn’t tell us much, but from what he did tell us, you’ve been going through a lot with no one to support you. And I’m sorry. I should’ve been there.”

“Joel, no,” Jimmy says earnestly. “I—I didn’t really know what was happening myself, not until Scott realized. And they hid it, they made me hide it.”

Joel flinches, takes his crown from his head and worriedly twists it around in his hands. “C’mon, Jimmy. Scott said it’s been going on for a while. There’s no way that for however many months it’s been—”

“Years,” Jimmy corrects. Joel’s mouth falls open.

“Y-years?”

“Um. Yeah. Since I joined Katherine’s alliance, pretty much.” Jimmy rubs the back of his neck. He’s a little . . . well, anxious, he supposes. Not of how Joel will react, but also completely that. Joel won’t be mad at him, right? “It’s been a while. I thought everyone knew, but Scott. . . .”

He looks back to the elf, still sleeping peacefully. Jimmy’s always thought that the feathers on his wings seemed so very soft. He’s wanted for months to run his fingers through them, just to see how they feel. Would it wake Scott up if he did that right now? Better to not risk it.

Crazy, how just a couple of weeks could change how he sees Scott entirely. In the past, when met with this opportunity, he would’ve touched him without hesitation, without regard for how he might react. Now, though. . . .

“He saw my scars, and he didn’t hurt me,” Jimmy murmurs. “He hated me, he used to hate me so much, but he saw that I needed help and he helped me. He wanted to help me. He hated me, but he wanted an alliance just so he could protect me.” He looks back up to Joel, who’s watching him with the most soulful look Jimmy’s ever seen on the man’s face. “Lizzie said he hasn’t slept in a week. For me. Have you ever had someone so worried for you that they don’t sleep for a week, trying to think of ways to protect you?”

He’s feeling a ton of guilt, there’s no doubt about it. But this is also the kindest thing that anyone has ever done for him. Scott cares about him, more than anyone Jimmy’s ever met. Scott doesn’t even know him, and he cares about him.

That means something, doesn’t it? Whatever it means, it makes Jimmy’s stomach go all fluttery.

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” Joel asks quietly. Jimmy shakes his head, sinks back into the chair beside Scott. He flexes his arm in the sling, feeling the almost-good pain of the stretch. He should be good to take it off; it’s mostly been on to keep his collarbone still and remind him not to use it, but he thinks that as long as he is careful about how high he raises his arm and how much weight he lifts, he should be good.

“Right. Lizzie should be in soon,” says Joel, rolling his shoulders and setting his crown back upon his head. “Might be a little bit, she’s composing letters to Gem and then probably another to Katherine, and I’d assume some to—er, everyone else involved. I ought to be doing that too, to be honest. So I’ll just . . . leave you to it.”

Jimmy shoots him a grateful smile, settling in a bit more comfortably. Once he's left the room, he returns to watching Scott, waiting for that moment (hopefully many hours from now, he desperately needs the rest) that he wakes.

Once Scott's left with a promise to get some more sleep (and reassurances from Jimmy and Lizzie that they'll message him frequent updates), Lizzie fixes Jimmy with a look that has him blushing without even knowing why.

"What's that all about?" he asks, gesturing to her face. Lizzie raises an eyebrow and laughs, and Joel joins in.

"Come on, Jimmy. Can you be any more obvious?" Joel chuckles. Jimmy looks between the two, utterly confused. What on earth do they mean? He’s not being obvious about anything, is he? He’s not even done anything to be obvious about.

"You and Scott? We saw the way you two look at each other," teases Lizzie, and oh.

They think that—they’re somehow under the impression that—and now Jimmy has to disabuse them of the assumption that he and Scott—

“No—it’s not like—”

“Do you want it to be?” Lizzie interjects, and Jimmy has to stop and consider.

Does he want it to be . . . whatever Lizzie is implying? Which he supposes is a romance? Is he . . . into Scott?

Memories shoot through his head—laying in Scott’s lap; blushing as Scott lifts him up with zero trouble; signing the alliance papers all while imagining what it might be like to kiss a Scott but ultimately not mentioning the tradition; watching him as he sleeps to ensure he gets rest; gazing at his shimmering blue hair across the House Blossom Alliance table; picturing running his hands through the elf’s wings. . . .

He feels his face heat and Lizzie crows in delight. “Stoppppp,” he moans, burying his face in his hands. He’s removed the sling, reveling in the (still limited, but not as much) range of motion he now has. Still, maybe he ought to put it back on if it means that Lizzie and Joel will be nicer to him. They treated him more gently when he was more obviously injured earlier.

“No, this is so cute!” Lizzie says, standing from the kitchen table as the kettle begins to whistle. “I already knew you thought he was pretty—”

“H—I didn’t even know, how—?”

“Sisters have their ways—”

“Except I knew too,” Joel butts in. “Like, you literally told me earlier today that you think he’s perfect. What, d’you think you’ve never said anything like that about him before?”

“I—what—” Jimmy sputters, searching back. “I did no such—” “You once ranked—unprompted, mind you—all of the House Blossom Alliance by attractiveness, and you put Scott at the top,” Joel continues, undeterred. Behind him, Lizzie shoots Jimmy an incredulous glance. He shrugs helplessly, glaring at Joel. So maybe he’d been a little drunk with Joel a while back. He’d said that in confidence, though! That’s not the kind of thing you just share with everyone.

“He’s objectively the prettiest,” he defends himself, only to be met with scoffs and snorts.

“Objectively the prettiest is Lizzie,” Joel says as Lizzie says, “Objectively the prettiest is Joey.” They both blink, then stare at each other. Jimmy grins, covers his mouth.

“You guys,” he sighs, clucking his tongue a little as he stands and eases the kettle from Lizzie’s hand. He gets one cup poured before Lizzie seems to register what he’s done and pushes him away.

“You’re injured, go sit down,” she commands, something like guilt flashing across her face. Jimmy frowns, but relinquishes the kettle and does as she says. “My point is,” she says as she finishes pouring, “you like him. Like-like him. Am I wrong?”

Jimmy jerks his head in not-quite-a-nod, not-quite-a-shake. “I—well, I barely know—I—he might—but . . . yeah,” he relents, settling back into his seat. Because he . . . he does like Scott, doesn’t he? He really really likes him. How could he not have noticed?

He almost rolls his eyes when Joel pumps his fist in the air.

Lizzie’s back is turned, but when she gathers up the mugs and places them on the table, Jimmy can’t help but be surprised by the excitement radiating off of her. He’d expected her to be . . . well, maybe not angry (that’s what his brain has been screaming at him for the past couple of minutes, to not give away any personal feelings they’re going to hate him they’re going to be mad he has to keep it a secret—), but disapproving at least. Apprehensive. Maybe a little exasperated. Then again, nothing today has gone the way he expected.

“Lizzie?” he asks hesitantly. “You . . . okay?”

“I’ve just never had a sibling have a crush before!” she bursts out, her fins flapping rapidly. She jumps in place a few times, grinning. “I can’t wait! What am I supposed to do? Shovel talk? Wait, I have to wait until your first date for that, huh? What about—”

“Calm down, babe,” Joel says, patting her elbow. “Jimmy’s not even sure if Smajor likes him back yet.”

And it hits Jimmy, quite suddenly, that he really has no clue. For all he knows, Scott's just his begrudging ally. Maybe losing an insane amount of sleep and patching them up when they get hurt is common practice for Rivendell alliances. Maybe there's nothing to be had between them.

He feels foolish, to be frank, and more than a little heartbroken. Nothing about Scott's actions have belied romantic intent. He may not even see Jimmy as a viable romantic objective (Jimmy's mind is suddenly filled with images of Scott seeing him at alliance meetings and writing him off as ugly and undesirable, images of him playing sleepover dating games with other emperors and always dropping Jimmy in the 'kill' category, images of him complaining to his advisors about his annoying new ally). There's no way Scott wants him. There's no way Scott looks at him and feels a little giddy the way Jimmy feels looking at Scott.

He and Sausage had been allies at first. Back when Jimmy was a new ruler, maybe two years after his coronation. Jimmy was honored and a little flustered by another emperor's support, especially one so roguishly handsome.

Jimmy doesn't think he'll survive it if history repeats itself.

"Oh Jim, I didn't mean—see, it'll be easy to figure it out!" Joel says, mirth gone from his face. He reaches out as if to take Jimmy's hand, aborts at the last moment. Jimmy tucks his hands closer to himself. "Right, Lizzie? We can see if he likes you, you don't have to worry about it at all."

"Easily," Lizzie nods. "In fact—why don't you ask him to family night?"

Family night? "Family night?" he says aloud. "Isn't that a bit—forward? Especially when he doesn't even like me?"

"Oh he definitely likes you," Joel mutters, before agreeing with his fiancée. "We can invite Pix too, so that it's more like an alliance meeting than family night. That way he won't get suspicious."

Family nights are sort of their thing, though. Ever since they discovered they're seablings, merely months ago, their weekly meetings have been everything keeping him together. Is that something he wants to introduce Scott to?

“It doesn’t have to be permanent,” Lizzie says. Something in his face must have given away his apprehension. “Just to figure out his feelings. Sound good?”

Jimmy thought for a moment more. It . . . couldn’t do any harm, could it?

And now Jimmy is alone on the floor of his house, trying to figure out what he did wrong.

According to Lizzie, he’s done everything right—he’s invited Scott to meetings, made him feel welcome, hugged him and included him and made him tea and scones. He’s tried to be vulnerable, show Scott that he trusts him and that he wants to be closer.

Lizzie’s assured him frequently that Scott is warming to him, enjoys his company. Sometimes Jimmy believes her—Scott seems to have a good time, shows up for every meeting, is slowly becoming more comfortable speaking his mind. And in the weeks since Jimmy realized he had a crush, he’s fallen further and further.

Scott is soft-spoken, waits for his turn and frequently does not speak unless prompted—unless he gets excited or heated. Then he hops into the conversation energetically, or relentlessly argues his point. More than once he’s gone from sitting quietly on the edge of Jimmy’s sofa, mug gripped tightly in both hands, to lounging back and gesturing wildly as his words go faster and faster. The nervous, curled-in-on-himself version of Scott slowly dissipates as Joel and Lizzie become more comfortable teasing him and he becomes more comfortable responding.

Scott’s laugh is the most beautiful sound Jimmy’s ever heard. He’s never been the type for poetics, but he can’t get over just how perfectly his laugh is created for every environment imaginable—tinkling like the windchimes of the Overgrown, or the splashes of the cod, or the ice crystals of Rivendell; musical like the flutes of Pixandria, the fiddles of Gilded Helanthia, the brassy tones of Mezelea. Any time he comes to think such thoughts, he blushes at the clumsiness—surely Scott could do much better than he.

Scott hugs him and everything is right in the world. He can hold Scott to his chest and pretend for just a moment that he has this, that Scott wants him and is his in turn.

Not that that will ever be true, now that Jimmy’s ruined everything.

He wants to blame Joel. He wants to blame Joel so badly for getting antsy about how long it’s taking to see if Scott likes him, for bringing up the concept of Jimmy kissing, for realizing that Jimmy broke cod law in his alliance with Scott. Joel isn’t to blame, though. Jimmy is.

He’d thought it was time for the next step. Scott had seemed receptive, had seemed to be open to everything suggested and had kissed him—

He hadn’t even asked. Cod, he hadn’t even asked! He’d just kissed Scott and then kissed him again and now Scott’s gone and will never trust him again. He wouldn’t be surprised if Scott breaks off the alliance tomorrow, not even a letter but a message on his communicator because Jimmy isn’t worth a letter, and then he’s going to reform his old alliances and then Scott will join them and Scott’s going to hurt him because Jimmy messed up so bad and he deserves it—

He doubles over with a gasping sob, hands buried in his hair as his nose touches the wooden floor. The light, warm feel of Scott’s lips on his lingers, and he sobs again because having the taste, wanting the taste, is such a violation that he can’t help but hate himself.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks to the empty house. “I never meant—I thought—” he cuts himself off, pulls at his hair. Scott’s not here to hear him. Scott’s never going to come close enough to let him apologize ever again.

He stays on the floor, curled up and crying, for at least an hour. When he finally manages to rouse himself, darkness has fallen entirely and the moon shines through his window over the sink in the kitchen, casting a patch of white on the floor. He takes in a shuddering breath, rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

He’s not fit to be a ruler. What kind of emperor cries on the floor for ages because of spurned affection? What kind of emperor assaults another, hurts them so badly they run from the room, unable to speak?

He picks up the blanket that had slid to the floor, wraps it up into a ball and tosses it onto the sofa. He goes through the motions of after-meetings—picks up the mugs and plates and set around the room and places them in the sink, adjusts cushions that have been rearranged, sweeps up the crumbs that have spilled here and there.

It’s so empty, empty without that brightness that seeing Scott usually brings. Jimmy sighs, leaves the dishes unwashed in the sink, and goes straight to bed, not even taking the time to undress.

When he wakes up, his eyelids are heavy and he feels more weighed down than he ever has. Sun filters through his bedroom curtains, shining directly onto his face. His blankets are twisted this way and that, under one leg and over the other. The room is silent, slow; even the dust that swirls in the beam of sun seem lazy. Jimmy lies there, more a part of this meandering world than a member of it.

He’s ruined everything. He’s lost the most useful alliance he’s ever made, he’s lost a protector, he’s lost a friend, he’s lost something he hadn’t even had. . . .

His communicator buzzes. Jimmy almost ignores it in favor of lying in bed forever, but it’s broken the easy atmosphere. He sighs, sits up, kicks the blankets out from under him and reaches for his communicator.

LDShadowLady: soooooo how’d it go??

Jimmy scrunches his eyes shut. He’s going to start crying again. He’s so weak that he can barely even think about the night before without crying, what kind of person is that weak?

Before he can stop himself, he’s hurling the communicator as hard as he can—he can’t look at it—he’s going to cry if he looks at it and he can’t cry and he hates himself—

It hits the wall, smashes apart, the back of it cracking off and flying back to hit him in the forehead. He falls back onto the bed more out of surprise than actual pain, rubbing his forehead. He feels a little embarrassed now, now that the communicator’s in pieces beside the wall and he’s got no way but mail to contact his allies. Now they’ll come looking for him or something stupid if he doesn’t respond, thinking that he’s being beat in a forest somewhere and needs help.

Which is where he should be, to be honest. Being a punching bag is all he deserves.

He has an empire to run, though. So Jimmy allows himself one more minute to mope about the little red mark on his forehead, one more minute to mourn his existence, one more minute to lose Scott. . . .

Then he rises and begins to prepare for a day of duty through heartbreak.

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