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scribbling-dragon · 4 months

Note

45 and flower husbands (or maybe emberfrost/snowbugs :eyes:) for the ask game!

breath from death

summary:

“Oh, love…” the sheer agony in Scott’s voice is enough to make Tango crack his eyes open, watery from his subsequent coughing fits, tears continuing to bead up as he tries to bring Scott’s shape into focus. When he does, he almost wishes he hadn’t, having to resist the urge to recoil from the way Scott is looking at him.

(ao3 link)

(2,473 words)

hdjsk this was meant to be more angsty than it actually was,, i just made tango into a bit of a loser tbh. but! hope you enjoy the snowbugs (i can't lie the only reason i wrote them is bc i loved the name hdsjhsjk). did i see scott gift tango a heart and go a little silly? yes. yes i did

also! if you liked this and want to send in another request the list of prompts is here! i've got a lotta free time at the moment, so i'll definitely be writing stuff a lot more than i have been recently

“Ooh, Skizz really wasn’t lying, hm?”

Tango glances up at the voice, not even bothering to lean away from the bush he’s made himself a comfy spot against. Or as comfy as he can be when every part of him is in burning pain and agony. But the slight slouch he’s found himself in puts the least amount of pressure on his various injuries and maladies, and so is the most comfortable he can be right now.

“Scott,” he croaks out, wincing a little at how terrible his voice really sounds. He’d been spitting smoke earlier, angry with how much energy it was taking to simply haul himself to his feet. It’s left him with the inside of his mouth covered in ash, and his throat feeling like it’s been rubbed raw. “Good to see you could make it.”

Skizz is somewhere nearby, but not close enough to interrupt if Scott decided he wanted to put him out of his misery right here and now. He’s somewhat caught between being thankful for such a thing, and angry that he couldn’t go on any further.

He’d just be another footnote at the end of a book, another mention; a small aside, make sure to mention the one that almost dies in the most silent and insignificant ways.

He is well aware of his previous contributions to these games. He goes out with barely a sound, and the world carries on without him, continues to spin round and round, maybe a few choosing to mourn him. Be sad over the misfortune of his death, how easily such a thing could have been prevented.

He doesn’t even realise he’s breathing smoke again until Scott coughs, waving a hand in front of his face to waft the smoke away. Tango snaps his jaw shut almost immediately, muttering a quiet “sorry” when Scott continues to cough.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Rough day?”

“You could say that,” he stretches his back out, wincing as it tugs at the edges of unhealed injuries. A stray branch from within the cherry blossom bush scraping a hot line of agony across his spine. He curls inwards on himself with a hiss of pain, tears beading in his eyes at the sudden sting of all his injuries making their protests known.

The small relief from earlier, afforded to him by other servermates, swayed by Skizz’s plea for a small gift of love, a small act of mercy. A better act of mercy would be to put him out of his misery entirely, he thinks humourlessly.

“Hey, c’mon, you're just making this worse for yourself,” a hand lays over the back of his own hand, slowly encircling it before pulling it away. The movements are done with such delicacy, such gentleness, it’s as though he’s made of an extremely fragile glass. Like he’d break if the hands moved him too fast, that he’d shatter into a thousand pieces.

Maybe he would. He feels about ready to fall apart right now, anyway.

“See,” the person – Scott, it’s still Scott, he’s still here, Tango realises belatedly – breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s much better. Now, where has your teammate gotten off to?”

“He, agh,” he coughs again, a small curl of smoke rolling off his tongue as he hacks, one or both his lungs threatening to make an appearance as he doubles over again, stomach cramping with the force of his coughs. “He went to get some resources, something to better survive the next few hours.”

“He didn’t stay with you?”

“The idiot would have,” he scoffs, laughing slightly. He then has to cough again, appreciating Scott’s gentle stroking over the top of his shoulders. He’s nowhere near as warm as Tango himself is, the fire stoked within his core happily blazing away, despite the disrepair of the rest of his body. “I made him leave. I’m dead either way. My death will be nothing to gasp and cry over, better he’s not around when it does happen.”

When he does, he almost wishes he hadn’t, having to resist the urge to recoil from the way Scott is looking at him. His hand is still lying over the top of Tango’s shoulders gently, though no longer stroking to soothe him through a coughing fit.

When Scott had turned up, looking down at him with those gleaming red eyes. Eyes that herald violence, promise it, Tango had willingly accepted his death. Would probably have stretched his arms out and taunted Scott for coming after someone when their guard is so far down that it’s ripped to shreds if even twitching his arms didn’t hurt so badly.

And then he’d just…stood there, crouched in front of him and comforted him as he coughed.

It’s his own fault that his lungs are in such a sorry state, anger over everything about these damn games making his flame burn too hot too quickly. He usually has better control over it, breathes fire for a party trick sometimes, not to clog his lungs with ash. Still, Scott had provided the comfort happily, despite them being on rival teams now, people that should be looking to kill each other. Not make sure that he can breathe and is comfortable and that his ally hasn’t abandoned him.

“Every death is worth shedding at least a tear over,” Scott tells him. His hands have migrated from his shoulders to cradling the back of his neck, now kneeling in front of him instead of crouching. Tango almost wants to tell him that he’ll stain his jeans with grass and mud; they may already be wrecked beyond repair, ripped in ways that aren’t purposeful and stained with old blood, but the thought still crosses his mind. “You’ve built good alliances here, love, there will be several tears shed over your death.”

“And a few oh, poor Tango, what a terrible way to go!’s following behind it,” he snorts without humour, only sparing a moment to be relieved when it doesn’t catapult him into another coughing fit. “The same way it goes every time,” he finishes, slightly bitter. It brings a sour taste to his mouth to think about his previous failures. His previous embarrassments.

He’s jolted from his self-pity party when Scott’s fingers twitch over the nape of his neck, making his efforts to ignore how Scott’s hands are currently resting against the back of his neck null and void. His efforts to ignore how the hands reach far enough round that Scott could easily strangle him. Could simply wrap tight and squeeze the last drops of life from him. Scott would definitely benefit from it, numerous superficial injuries littering his body that he’d probably be relieved to get rid of.

But Scott doesn’t grip to his neck tighter, doesn’t shove him to the ground and crush his windpipe. His hands remain a heavy, almost comforting, weight at the back of his neck. Their faces are close like this, he realises belatedly, the intimacy of such a thing settling over him suddenly and heavily. Like a weighted blanket’s just been chucked on his head. He feels a little unbalanced by such a realisation, even as close to death’s door as he currently is.

It makes an odd feeling wash over him, only increasing as Scott moves his hands, fingers tickling the short furs at the back of his neck. Can feel the way Scott’s thumb brushes over his pulse point – stupid, doesn’t he know that the thumb has a pulse? That you can’t measure someone else’s heartbeat with your thumb, as your own racing heart will interfere?

Scott’s pinky fingers ghost over his jaw as his hands retreat, and tango almost makes a pitiful sound in the back of his throat when he thinks Scott’s pulling away from him.

He’s glad he didn’t (really, really glad) when Scott’s hands still again, settling over his jaw, cradling his face gently between his palms.

He really is quite close now, close enough that Tango can take in the smudged state of his make-up, like Scott’s been rubbing his eyes and smearing it around the corners of his eyes. Or that he’s not reapplied it recently and he’s simply been wearing the same make-up for the past few days.

He’d given up on the stupid pink eyeliner and little hearts he’d draw on his own and the others’ faces ages ago, tired of reapplying it every morning, wasting precious time that could be spent doing other things. More important things.

Scott’s make-up still looks good, though, smudged the way it is.

“I’ve always noticed when you died,” Scott tells him. This close, he can see the pink flecks in Scott’s eyes. They almost match the shirt he chose to wear for this go-around, wanting to fit better with the whole vibe they had going on at the Heart Foundation prior to its burning. “Kinda hard not to, when you're checking your comm every few minutes and hoping it’s not one of your allies that’s just died.”

“Oh,” he says, maybe a little dumbly. So sue him! He’s not sure what to say to a man very close to his face, still looking pretty despite his smudged make-up, when he gets told that he always notices him.

Yeah, some snide part of his brain comments, always notices when you make a fool of yourself and die in the most humiliating way possible.

“Oh,” Scott repeats, snickering a little. It makes his shoulders shake, meaning Tango’s face is wobbling a little because Scott’s still holding his face, cradling him carefully like he’s some delicate thing to be treasured.

Man, he’s glad Skizz hasn’t made a reappearance yet. He’s not sure how he’d explain his current everything to him with a straight face. Skizz would probably laugh at him until he cries.

“What else do you want me to say to that!” he protests, a little embarrassed at his slightly lacklustre response. “Thanks, I notice every time you die too – I'm always dead at that point! I can’t notice.”

“No, no,” Scott shakes his head, brushing one of his thumbs over the paper-thin skin beneath his eye. The motion makes him shiver, something weird, but not unfamiliar or unwelcome, curl down and around his spine. He shudders again. “I’m just teasing you, love, promise.” His eyes twinkle with mirth, “Would you believe me if I told you I came here with kind intentions?”

“Not at all,” Tango says, half-joking. “You’ve only been mean to me so far.”

“Aw, I'm hurt!” Scott cries, eyes crinkling as he grins. “I saw Skizz’s, uh, plea for help on your behalf and thought I might as well pop over and give you a little boost.”

“Oh, really?” He perks up at that. A few people have been by already, each giving him a small boost. To think he was in an even worse state as the sun rose that morning is somewhat horrifying to think about. It’s a miracle he even managed to have a coherent conversation with Skizz as their day began. “Well, c’mon then! Don't leave poor ol’ me waiting.”

“Okay, okay,” Scott laughs again, a little quieter. “God, you tell someone you're about to give them something, and it’s all they can think about.”

“All I can think about is how much pain I'm currently in,” Tango jokes.

He realises that the joke didn’t quite land as he intended when Scott’s face doesn’t continue to crease with smile lines, instead dropping into something sadder. “Well,” he says confidently, “I can fix that real quick for you, love.”

And then Scott’s leaning and Tango’s floundering, because, sure, he’s kissed people before. For definite. Kissed people plenty of times, actually! But he never quite knows what to do with his hands, nevermind the fact that he can barely even lift his hands right now.

Scott seems comfortable taking the initiative, giving him a chaste peck on the lips, warm hands continuing to cradle his face gently, before pulling back just as quickly as he’d moved in.

“There,” he says, sounding satisfied. “All better?”

“I – yeah. Thanks,” he manages. He mentally fist pumps when his voice doesn’t wobble and he doesn’t immediately chase after Scott with significantly less achy limbs than a few moments before. “That’s really appreciated, thank you.”

“Not a problem,” Scott says, wiping a little around his bottom lip, clearing away some of the smudged make-up there. “Always glad to help!” He chirps, then stands. “Well, I’ll be seeing you around, hopefully not at the other end of my sword!”

“Hopefully not,” Tango agrees. Really hopefully not because he’ll probably just stand there like an idiot and think about how soft Scott’s lips are, and the way they’d slotted against his own, and-

The clearing of a throat above him has him blinking his eyes open, squinting a little at the figure silhouetted by the sun.

“See you had a little visitor,” Skizz tells him, sounding far too smug for someone that probably only saw Scott walk away. Tango’s sheltered where he sits, so even if Skizz was on his way back while…all that happened, there’s no way he actually saw anything.

“I- what? Oh, Scott, yeah. He gave me a heart.”

“See he gave you a little something else, too.”

What?

“What?” He asks, sitting up slightly, hissing under his breath as his cracked ribs forcefully remind him that they're still cracked. “What d’you mean?”

“You got a little something,” Skizz says, “around here.”

And gestures around his mouth.

Tango wipes at his lip with his thumb, cringing when it comes away stained with make-up. Make-up that everyone has seen Scott wearing recently.

“Oh, wow, haha,” he laughs, not at all amused. “How’d that get there.”

“How indeed,” Skizz says, obviously already knowing, the dick. “Maybe we should ask the whole server, see if they can help us solve this mystery.”

“No!” Tango throws himself upwards as Skizz goes to retrieve his comm, smacking his hands away frantically. “No, no, I'm sure we can figure this out ourselves.”

“Oh, yeah. I'm sure we can.” Skizz says, and walks off. Still grinning.

Tango collapses back down to the ground, indulging his moment of dramatism even as it aggravates a few minor wounds.

Whatever shitty higher being watches over me now, he pleads, please strike me down before he comes back.

The shitty higher being watching over him decidedly does not strike him down, and Skizz comes back to laugh him again, though he brings a make-up wipe with him…maybe Tango can find it in his heart to forgive him. Eventually.

#juno.writes #asks #wren-kitchens #ask game #trafficshipping #snowbugs #emberfrost #scott smajor #tangotek #secret life smp #secret life spoilers #(slightly)#slsmp #secret life scott #secret life tango #traffic series #trafficblr #traffic smp

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scribbling-dragon · 4 months

Text

the very lonely giraffe

summary:

It’s stupid to begin to feel this kind of reluctance now. Stupid to feel the shaking of his hands, the trembling of his fingers as they line up along the string of his bow. Stupid, to begin to feel a swirl of regret deep in his gut, despite the layers of blood already lathering his hands – blood that he put on his own hands as he seized the lives of his friends in those very same hands. So maybe – maybe maybe maybe –that’s why he can’t resist the pull forwards. The urge to follow the bloody trail of who he and Pearl hunt over the grassy plains.

(ao3 link)

(3,750 words)

uh! yeah! that finale sure was something, and here's something that i decided to write after seeing this post by @stiffyck (hope you like it hdjsshjk <3)

(also hint hint nudge nudge reblogs are pretty funky <;3)

The grass swishes beneath his feet, the susurrus of his legs against the grass as he moves through it becoming familiar to his ears. He cuts through the tall grass easily, long legs eating up ground with each stride he makes. Legs that feel oddly shaky right now, trembling with each pulsing beat of his heart.

He can’t tell if it’s reluctance – some kind of fear that’s only just beginning to rear its head as his heart continues to thump louder and louder, beating in his ears as a mockery of war drums; something warning that every step brings him closer to the inevitability of winning, or dying trying.

So maybe – maybe maybe maybe –that’s why he can’t resist the pull forwards. The urge to follow the bloody trail of who he and Pearl hunt over the grassy plains. He’s drawn forwards, pulled into the orbit of this roaring flame, like a moth that can’t quite resist the alluring light promising warmth and safety. But in this case, he is the moth and the flame is an assurance of violence.

He stumbles, drawing to an unsteady halt; slowing from a gallop to a gentle jog as Pearl pulls up beside him.

“Scar,” she huffs out, sounding far more strained than he expected her too. He looks over as she groans, doubling over and leaning against her knees. He’s worried, for a moment, that she’s been mortally wounded, somehow and he’s about to lose her to bleeding out, of all things. “Just- remember that your legs are longer than mine. Please.”

And oh. That makes so much more sense. He lets out a relieved breath that almost turns into a laugh, but he manages to staunch it at just a giggle. Of course she was struggling to keep up with him, he’s so much faster than her!

“I also have double the number of legs that you do,” he adds. He’s forced to lean over to the side, a little awkwardly, in order to close the distance between them. Being forced to shout up at him is probably not helping Pearl’s efforts to catch her breath. He still feels awkward, despite being forced to lean over like this the whole time in order to put himself a little more on their level – an awkwardness that he’s managed, so far, to blame most of his allyship (or lack of) issues on.

He still feels awkwardly far away from his friend – is friend even the right word for someone that could end up dying at his hands later? Is it the right word for someone that is his friend, but only outside of this game? Is it the right word for someone that is only friends with him right now because they are all the other has left? – widening the space between his legs in order to lower himself that tiny bit more.

He would consider sitting down at any other time, folding the four gangly legs beneath himself in order to better speak with Pearl. But that is not a weakness he’s looking to invite; standing up again would take far too long, leaving him vulnerable to a surprise attack before he manages to regain both his feet and his balance.

Gem and Scott are long gone by now, escaping like the slippery snakes that they are. Slithering away into the tall grass to lick their wounds and prepare their next attack.

“They're long gone,” he echoes his thoughts aloud, watching as Pearl straightens back up, apparently having managed to regain her breath. Or at least enough of it that she no longer feels the need to hunch over and just breathe. “We should regather ourselves, get whatever else we need.”

He turns around, hooves clopping against the baked earth, ready to do just that. Maybe slightly anxious to get moving, to do something. He only has a few supplies, but he’s sure that they can be spread between the two of them, albeit a little thinly…

“Scar,” he feels Pearl’s hand on his flank, the sensation almost making him jolt at its unfamiliarity. He manages to reign the reaction in and pauses his steps instead, thoughts halting too as he looks back down at her. Pearl’s hand rests lightly over one of the larger blotches on his side. The brown of the fur is too dark to actually be brown, closer to black than the typical markings you would find on a giraffe.

He makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat when she doesn’t continue, but doesn’t pull her hand away either. She seems lost in thought, eyes searching his face, as though in consideration. Then, as though she’s been shocked, her eyes dart away, fastening onto a patch of bare ground just in front of her feet. “Look,” she breathes out slowly, raising her head to meet his eyes as he hunches down again, worried at her uncharacteristic solemnity, “Scar. At the end of the day, when we’ve finished off Scott, when all is said and done, I want you to kill me.”

He rears back, mouth moving before his brain can catch up- can even begin to comprehend what it is that Pearl is suggesting to him. For him to do. Her hand, a warm presence on his side, falls away as he backs up, leaving him feeling cold all over. Like someone’s just dumped a bucket of ice over his head.

“I'm not gonna kill you Pearl!” His voice may come out a bit more panicky than he intended, but he doesn’t care much – can’t find it in himself to care when his brain is struggling to process what it is that Pearl is wanting him to do – the decision she’s making on his behalf. His legs feel shakier than before, and he’s momentarily worried they won’t support him at all. “I’ve wronged you too many times recently,” he follows up with, a little quieter than before. A little sadder.

“I- Scar,” Pearl emphasises his name, as though that’s meant to mean something to him. Like it’s going to sway him to agree with her. He shakes his head stubbornly, gritting his jaw and preparing himself to argue further. She must realise this, as she stares up at him a moment longer before sighing, shoulders drooping. “Whatever you say.”

“You can’t just say something like that to me,” he laughs, even though it feels strained, as though it might crack his chest apart from the sorrow behind it, barely contained within his ribcage. “My poor heart just can’t cope!” he sings, aware that he’s being over the top, that he’s overdoing it all. Pearl still cracks a grin, though.

Maybe she can sense what he’s doing with his words, with the way he gestures too widely and smiles even wider, steering her back towards the remnants of his base, to root through the half-exploded chests and hope that the items inside aren’t burnt to a crisp.

They don’t even make it past the Secret Keeper.

Pearl’s the one that stops him, throwing an arm out in front of him. He doesn’t notice it, only registering the blockade when his front legs bump up against her arm, halting and looking down at her. Maybe he should work on being more aware of his surroundings, maybe he should have been paying a little more attention in order to keep an eye out for the people actively hunting them down.

Gem’s eyes gleam as she stares over at them, stood on higher ground than Scott. His head is bowed before her. Gem’s lips move quickly, but they're too far away to hear what they're talking about. Gem doesn’t look at them for longer than a few seconds, but it’s enough to pin him in place, keep him rooted to the spot despite how easy it would be line up a shot and take Scott’s life right that moment.

There’s a flash of blue – a sword drawn, are they turning on each other? – and then the unmistakable sound of flesh being parted forcefully. He feels a little sick as he watches the sword poke out Scott’s back, a little to the left of his spine.

His jacket quickly soaks through with blood, darkening as it continues to pour. Scott, brave man, doesn’t make a single sound, simple collapses where he stands. It leaves Gem scrambling to pull him into her arms, dragging the sword back out of his chest.

He feels like he’s intruding on a quiet, private moment – both of them are, really.

Gem doesn’t look at them once. He feels his fingers twitch over the string of his both, an arrow balanced loosely against it. He could line it up, take Gem out while she grieves over her friend, her ally, the one she’s put to death herself.

He doesn’t, finger continuing to twitch as he goes back and forth between drawing his bow at all.

An explosion echoes overhead, reaching every corner of the server. As though there is anyone left beside the three of them, gathered in this small corner of the world. The explosion echoes far and wide, as though there are more people to hear it than just them.

“Oh,” Pearl says beside him, the sound of the explosion still ringing in his ears, the blood on Gem’s front not fading. “He…gave her the kill. Gave her that small reprieve.”

He feels his mouth go dry at the discovery, watching as Gem looks up at them, away from where Scott had lain previously, face splattered with gore that might belong to her enemies, but could also belong to her allies – to Scott. He can’t see her expression properly from this distance, as she disappears too quickly for him to try and see it any better.

He doesn’t look at Pearl, ignores the way he can feel her looking up at him, imploring him to take that kill too. To go into that final fight with his wounds stinging a little less, his energy slightly replenished.

His legs continue to shake, and he can’t lie to himself – he’s long past lying to himself, except about the little things, not big things like this – and say that the idea isn’t tempting. Cannot say the thought wouldn’t sway him slightly if he were anywhere else. If it were anyone other than a friend beside him; if it were an ally of convenience rather than someone he cares for.

Call him selfish, maybe, but he wants someone beside him in these last moments. Doesn’t want to be the one to cut down his one friend – one remaining friend, he had a few in the hours before this, only had friends as everything went to hell around them – when they could charge against Gem together. She’s scraped and beaten, the same as both of them despite the small boon Scott granted her. But there is two of them and only one of them. Two of them, when she is used to having two others at her back, ready to support her when she needs to fall back.

He steps forward, attempting to appear confident. He can only hope Pearl doesn’t notice his shaking, the way his legs tremble like leaves in a breeze and the discomforted swish of his tail.

He gives a small laugh, hoping that it might bolster his confidence. Make him feel a little less sick to his stomach. The feeling only worsens, bile rising in the back of his throat as he speaks, “Let’s go put her out of her misery, yeah? Maybe she wants to join her friends!”

Pearl makes a small noise, one that could either be an agreement or a hesitance. Scar ignores it, continuing to step forward, before he's lightly jogging, covering the distance quickly. He’s worried his legs will get tangled up amongst themselves, feeling as shaky and ungainly as a newborn calf.

He barely notices Pearl beside him, feeling so tall, so far away from the ground and the rest of the world that goes on around him. Oddly separate, even as Gem perks up, readying herself and her sword when they approach, when they corner her beside the Secret Keeper.

He draws his bow first, dancing out the way carefully as Gem goes for the legs first. Smart move, one he’d probably use in her place – take out his legs and he won’t be able to run anymore, won’t be able to go anywhere.

Pearl crashes against her with a scraping of steel and apologies, the two of them apologising for each clash of blades they have with each other. Apologising for every scrape of steel and every nick of skin. Pearl shoves Gem back, away from the tangling twist of limbs and swords, enough for Scar to line up his shot and take it.

Gem hisses, staggering back as the arrow pierces her shoulder, going straight to the bone.

She turns her eyes back to him, something furious flashing in the depths of her red eyes. Something born of desperation and fear, something that only rolls about once someone believes they are cornered. A frightened animal lashing out despite being on its last legs.

She may be going down, her eyes seem to promise, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t take at least one of them with her.

He has to properly leap back when Gem lunges at him, batting Pearl aside easily as she chases him. His hooves make deep grooves in the dirt as he attempts to escape the blow, taking it on his side rather than straight through him.

He still winces at the sting, kicking at her and shoving her further backwards. He can’t draw his sword – there’s no point in drawing that weapon when he won’t even be able to reach her. He shoots off another arrow, one easily dodged at such close range.

He startles as Pearl barrels into Gem with a shout, the two tumbling over the ground, more like a pair of wildcats fighting as they claw at each other. He watches Pearl rip through half of Gem’s face, fingers curled into claws.

It makes Gem cry out furiously, throwing her head upwards and goring Pearl across the face with her antlers. Pearl falls back, grasping at her face as something – Scar doesn’t even know what, stood on the sidelines like a fool – begins to bleed profusely.

Gem spins on him, and charges with a cry.

He doesn’t expect the arrow to be what does her in. Doesn’t expect her to die to his hands at all. He’d been stood there, aware that he was probably about to watch two of his friends rip each other apart in the name of a game.

He shoots it with shaking hands, a last-ditch effort to not die at this moment, at this crucial point in time. Still grasping for that final win, despite how firmly out of reach it really is.

It sinks into Gem’s chest with an awful, solid sounding thunk.

The sound alone makes him sick, tears already beginning to bead in his eyes, shaking his head as he backs up, raising his hands in defence. He doesn’t even notice the bow slipping from his fingers, doesn’t notice the way his hoof crushes it beneath him, grinds it into the ground.

Gem glances down, as though surprised at the arrow sticking out of her chest too, looking back up as the explosion sounds and she’s struck down. The lightning wipes her away, as though she was never there in the first place.

“Pearl!” he calls, turning in a circle as he looks for her. She’s nowhere nearby, explosion continuing to ring longer in his ears than it probably should – still echoing through the air around him, crackling with electricity.

Maybe she’s down in the ravine nearby, he tells himself. He leans over the edge exaggeratedly, looking for her. She’s not there, he knows that. She’s probably somewhere behind him, lining up a shot at the back of his head.

He’ll let her take it – she deserves it far more than he does. She’s done far more in this than he has, been far nicer to him than he really deserves.

He lowers himself to the ground properly when the shot fails to come, settling himself at the edge. He won’t be moving anywhere quickly now, and Pearl will know that. Will shoot him now, now that her arrows will find their target; there’s no risk of her missing and startling him anymore.

And yet, the arrow fails to come, still.

The air seems to sigh around him, breeze stirring the grass he sits in. It brushes over his face gently, like the cradling, careful touch of a loved one.

“Pearl, I'm coming for you!” He heaves himself to his feet, wobbling precariously on the edge of that ravine. And, oh, Gem cut him a little deeper than he realised, blood sluicing off his fur and down to the ground. It patters like a morbid rainfall over the grass there. He turns, a little unsteadily, and prays he doesn’t topple into the ravine like a fool. “Where’d you go?” he calls out again, “I'm gonna getcha!”

She’s dead, Scar, the heavens sigh. You’ve won.

The heavens seem to have a suspiciously Grian-like voice, echoing down at him as though the man is speaking a thousand times over, each repetition layering itself over the previous until it reaches the echoing crescendo that has him cringing slightly.

“What?” he laughs. “C’mon, don't mess with me like that!” No response comes, even when he looks around, waiting for Pearl to emerge from whatever hiding spot she’s found herself and to declare the final showdown between the two of them.

“Oh, c’mon,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything else. Maybe it’s a last, desperate plea for Pearl to jump out at him. Maybe it’s a struggle to accept what’s being shoved in his face. Pearl doesn’t hesitate, not even over hard decisions. “How’d that happen, huh? How’d the guy with no friends win?”

The air kicks up around him a little, pushing him in the direction of the Secret Keeper.

“I don't even have my book anymore,” he calls out to no-one. The silence responds as silence often does: not at all. He sighs, and begins the short yet long trek towards the Secret Keeper. “How am I even meant to hand in a task without a book,” he grumbles.

He can feel the tears in the corners of his eyes, can feel the way they threaten to spill over as the silence presses in around him.

His hooves echo awkwardly against the stone as he walks up to the Secret Keeper, looming over him ominously. “Uh, hey there,” he greets, as though the stone might respond if he tries hard enough. “I don't actually have my book!” He laughs again, shaking with both residual adrenaline and the knowledge of what’s to come. He’s watched all the previous winners, bar one, be struck down by the powers that be. He’s sure his own death will be no different. “Never really thought I’d get this far,” he adds, a small, quiet afterthought.

He leans down, the distance between him and the button nigh insurmountable. It clicks beneath his fingers gently, bouncing back up as he pulls his hand away.

He takes a step back, watching as the Secret Keeper draws power towards itself, coalescing into a bright white symbol over the hooded face. He glances back as the tension builds, half expecting to see all his friends gathered there, watching with anticipation to see what rewards he’ll gain.

There’s nothing there.

Empty space where someone once stood. Empty air where laughter once echoed. He’d even rather a chant of fail fail fail to the silence, pressing in around him.

There’s a small thump, and he turns back around. A book lies at his feet, even further from him than the button. It looks tiny, that far below him. The leather-bound book stares up at him, insignificant in the face of the last few hours.

He picks it up anyway, blood smearing over its front cover.

Curiosity drives him to flick it open, blood staining the white paper a deep crimson, blooming across the pages. Like he’s pressed for too long with a quill and the ink has begun to bleed.

Win Secret Life

It stares back at him. Mocking in its simplicity.

“Thank you!” He responds, “I didn’t have a book to complete it with, did I? Well, I have one now!”

He presses the button, book in hand, feeling the weight evaporate alongside it. He turns his face upwards, ready and waiting for the lightning to strike him down too, to claim its last victim. He closes his eyes, not exactly willing to see his death plummeting towards him.

There’s a small thump as something small lands on the ground, just in front of his hooves.

No, he thinks, and looks back down anyway.

This, it seems, is what does his shaking legs in. they give beneath him, folding as he crumples like wet paper. The book continues to sit there, taunting in its smugness. It has no face to grin with, but Scar can feel the disgustingly pleased aura radiating off of it anyway.

“So this is my reward,” he tells the book. “Thanks, I guess.”

His words are empty, devoid of any humour of actual thankfulness. As dead as the server around him.

Only bloodstained grass and the dried blood clumping beneath his nails remains of his friends. And yet he stays, he remains.

The air remains still, not even that gentle touch returning to promise him everything will be alright. They would be empty words, empty promises, but he’d prefer them to this.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” he asks.

The Secret Keeper stares down at him, silent.

He’s not sure why he expected a response from it, really. It’s lifeless stone, as dead as the server around him.

#juno.writes #goodtimeswithscar #secret life smp #secret life spoilers #slsmp #secret life #secret life scar #gtws #gtwscar #slsmp fic #secret life fic #slsmp spoilers #trafficfic

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scribbling-dragon · 1 year

Text

the world’s my oyster (i’m the pearl)

summary:

Um,” he stares at Scott for a moment longer. “Can I, uh, can I come in? Or,” he allows himself to trail off, still watching Scott. The crown certainly suits him, at least, even though the pinkish-orange colour of the coral is not something he’d ever have considered to go well with cyan.

The door swings open in front of him, and he almost startles at the abruptness of it, jerking his hand back and down to his side. “So,” Scott’s grinning, that grin that makes his teeth look far sharper than they actually are, “you've come crawling back, have you?”

“It’s,” he laughs, inching forward, “It’s not crawling back, it’s…sheepishly wandering in.” He smiles a little as he continues to inch his way forward, sliding past Scott and through the rather narrow ‘doorway’ when Scott doesn't move to stop him from entering.

Or, a 5 + 1 where Scott is acting suspicious, and Martyn is trying to figure out why

(ao3 link)

(11,149 words)

yeah the title’s a h2o reference. it’s comedy gold, alright (and mer scott. it just fits yk)

The small, rather rickety path out into the water is what first grabs at his attention, snagging it and holding it as he steps a little closer. He crouches, trying not to come off as too suspicious, even though he is acting incredibly, incredibly suspicious right now, and anyone that might see him would be well-founded in whatever boogeyman-related accusation they throw his way.

The curse itches beneath his skin, far more intense than it had been in the previous games. It ticks alongside his slowly counting timer. The itching only grows more fierce the longer he sits around twiddling his thumbs, but he sits, squatted in the bushes and sheltered by the trees overhead, and watches as Scott moves around the small island he’s constructing.

As Martyn watches, he notices the way that Scott moves around the island is actually rather odd, especially as he occasionally jumps away from the edge, as though he’s been burned- which is impossible, because it’s water.

Despite his apparent hatred for the water, Scott continues to build where he is, sticking firmly to the centre of the small island that is beginning to take shape around him. The only part that remains unchanged is the small shelter right beside the bridge, though Scott does glance over at it occasionally.

More than once, Martyn swears Scott looks directly at him as well, eyes pausing for a moment over his hiding spot before he returns to whatever he was doing before. It makes the curse thrum a little louder, a little heavier, beneath his skin in anticipation. He squashes it down a little further, before creeping out from behind the bush he’d chosen to hide behind for the past…however long.

His timer tells him he’s only spent five minutes crouched there, but the moon had been high in the sky when he first started watching Scott, casting most of his surroundings into shadow - only the island had been lit up, a small beacon on light in the darkness swamping everything else - but now that same moon is incredibly close to setting, and the horizon is beginning to tinge pink with the sunrise.

He doesn't believe these timers one bit, not at all. There’s something wrong with them, but either everyone’s too caught up in the newness of this game to notice, or they have noticed and simply don't care enough to question it. Martyn didn't believe in the twenty-four hours, anyway, not when Grian announced it in such an odd way. And those watching on would hardly be satisfied with a day of entertainment.

The dirt bridge crumbles a little beneath his feet, and he pauses, holding his breath as he waits to see if it will take his weight- if it will betray his entrance onto the island. Scott’s back remains turned to him, and he watches as the man sifts through one of the chests he just set up.

He gives no reaction to Martyn’s approach, so he continues onwards, making an effort to place his feet a little lighter as he approaches, wary of alerting Scott. Martyn is well aware of Scott’s reputation in these games, of his seemingly inhuman hearing that catches even the smallest of sounds- Joel had told him once, in one of the afterparties they host once the games come to a close, that Scott had found him and Grian during last life because he breathed too loud. The man’s ears are entirely normal, too, not at all pointed or giving any indication that they're anything but human ears with normal, human-like hearing.

He realises, as Scott begins to turn, that he’s just been stood on the man’s bridge and staring at him like a creep. He scrambles for something to do, eyes landing on the odd shelter once more, spying the boat lodged into the side of the island and containing one zombified villager. Perfect.

He lunges for the boat, throwing himself into it and beginning to slowly push off the edge of the island, ignoring the thumping in his heart- the roaring in his ears that demands he kills Scott then and there, that he had had his back turned for several long minutes, in which he could have neatly lodged an axe in the man’s back and be rid of the curse.

“Uh,” he glances back, one hand still resting against the edge of the island, still in the process of getting the boat unlodged, Scott’s turned to face him, eyes wide with…shock? It doesn't look like shock, more like surprise. Martyn almost begins laughing. “No thank you.” Scott says, and the man is beside him a moment later, moving almost scarily quick, but he doesn't have much time to focus on that, instead focusing on not overbalancing and dragging them both into the water and Scott yanks him from the boat.

He stumbles a little as his feet make contact with ground, foot catching on nothing, and he grabs onto Scott’s shoulders to steady himself, gripping tightly to Scott’s shirt. And he almost succeeds in pulling both of them backwards into the water as he tips back, already laughing.

The water rushes up around him, and he inhales some as he laughs, popping back to the surface, coughing. His hair obscures most of his vision, dripping in front of his eyes even as he pushes it back out of the way; it only falls forward again, obscuring his vision once more and sticking to his face.

He continues laughing as soon as he’s certain he’s not going to inhale any more water and choke to death. He makes a grab for one of his sandals as it begins to float past, and it only makes him laugh a little harder at the sheer absurdity of it, having to grip onto the edge of the small island to make sure he doesn't go under again.

“Aw, man.” He manages to calm down momentarily, huffing out a breath, breathing out slowly as it threatens to turn into a laugh again. “You sounded so offended, man.” He grins up at Scott, pushing his hair back from his face again- seriously, what’s even the point of wearing a headband if it doesn't keep his hair out of his eyes.

“You tried to steal my villager,” Scott frowns down at him, but Martyn can see the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile, almost a laugh. “I think I have some right to be offended.” Scott tips his chin upwards, looking down at him almost haughtily- something that Martyn would only believe if he had known Scott for less than five minutes. The guy has some odd flair for the dramatics. It’s a shame that he and Ren never teamed, they would certainly have been interesting to watch.

“I guess so, thought you didn't hear me, though.”

“I heard you.” Scott says, looking down at him. The skin around his eyes catches the light slightly, flashing bright, but when Martyn takes a closer look, it’s just some rather bright eyeshadow the other has decided to wear. “I just thought I’d give you an easy kill.”

“An easy kill?” He laughs it off, ignoring how the itch beneath his skin seems to intensify with those few words- he already knows, he might as well. He shakes the thoughts off, pulling himself from the water. “Wait, wait, you think I’m the boogey?”

“Yes.”

“Aw, c’mon man,” Scott hops back a few steps as he approaches, looking more than a little nervous as Martyn steps forward. “That hurts, you think I've come here to just kill you in cold blood? Can't I just visit a friend?”

“While that’s a nice thought, I unfortunately don't believe you.” Scott smiles, expression not matching his words, the eyeshadow smudged around the corners of his eyes shimmering in the light again, drawing Martyn’s eyes back to it. “You got that whole-” Scott gestures at him, “-thing about you. Twitchy, like you're ready to swing at someone as soon as the opportunity presents itself.”

“I mean, you did that, didn't you?” His clothes stick to his skin rather uncomfortably, clinging. He finds a piece of seaweed stuck to his calf as well, peeling it off as he speaks. He flicks it at Scott, for a laugh, watching as the man jumps out of the seaweed’s path and sends a glare his way. “Poor Skizz, the man just wanted to chat with you.”

“He set it up so well, Martyn,” Scott groans, suspicion dissolving for a moment as he complains. “Everyone’s been getting on to me about it, especially after Bdubs’ stunt- which also wasn't my fault! But he was just saying all the right things- it was far too funny for me to let the opportunity pass up.” And Martyn’s sure that They rather enjoyed the show too, especially from the one person that refused to cooperate with their schemes the last two games.

“I hear you,” he laughs, even as he attempts to slip his foot back into his wet sandal without fiddling about with the straps too much. His clothes are going to be wet for the next while and the sun’s not even up yet meaning he’s going to be walking around in squeaky shoes for several long hours- no way he’s sneaking up on anyone like that. “But still not the boogey.” He grins, only sweating a little as Scott continues to look unconvinced- one word and everyone would start avoiding him like the plague.

“Mhm,” Scott looks him up and down, with a judgemental enough look that he almost cowers beneath it. But Martyn’s built of stronger stuff than that, staring back at Scott in return. “If you say so, then.”

Scott’s lips quirk up in the corner a little bit, as though there’s a joke only he’s been let in on. And Martyn has a pretty good idea that he’s probably the butt of said joke.

“Have fun sneaking up on people in your squeaky shoes,” Scott says, which. Great. Scott’s already noticed that and he’s not even moved yet, this is actually hopeless. He’s going to be yellow within the day, and there’s nothing he can even do about it.

“Still not the boogey.” He reminds. He leaves Scott to it, though, turning around and walking back down the bridge. His sandals squeak as he walks, and he does his best to ignore the snicker behind him. “Yeah, yeah,” he shouts back, turning around to face Scott, “laugh it up!”

He slips as he turns, some dirt giving way beneath his heel, and almost falls back into the ocean. He manages to regain his footing quickly, scrambling to maintain his balance on the rickety little path, glaring at Scott when the man’s snickering turns into a sharp bark of laughter.

He grumbles to himself, mind already running over the few ideas he has left, searching for an idea. His shoes continue squeaking as he walks, and all it does is distract him from his game plans, dragging his mind back towards Scott, and the man’s odd avoidance of the water’s edge and just water in general.

It could also, very easily, be that the man was avoiding him. But he looked far more nervous than he needed to as Martyn approached him after his brief dip in the ocean, far too nervous for someone that was just worried about being murdered. And that also doesn't explain his behaviour before Martyn even approached, avoiding the surrounding ocean like his life depended on it; and unless Scott’s hearing has reached new levels of freaky, then he definitely wasn't watching for Martyn then.

When he glances back, Scott is still keeping his distance from the water.

He considers it for a moment, then shoves the thought aside. He has far more important things to worry about than Scott acting weird- he’s always acting weird! He’s a weird man.

=== === ===

II.

He stares at the ground in front of him, the bucket in his hands warm as he stares at the empty spot, where there had been a cow only moments before. He glances over at Etho from the corner of his eye, biting on his tongue so he doesn't start laughing at possibly the worst moment he’s had all day.

He still aches from the pufferfish Etho had flung at him earlier. It’s a very good reminder of why he should definitely not start laughing at something that is actually very, very bad.

“Dude,” Impulse is staring at him as well, face set into one of those I'm-not-mad-just-disappointed looks.

“I did not mean for that to happen,” he says. And he can hear the laugh bubbling in his throat, threatening to break free if he continues talking much longer. He clutches the lava bucket a little tighter, before deciding that is probably a bad thing to do because the metal is already heating up to a hazardous temperature. And he likes being able to use his hands. “I was just memeing Skizz, and then-” he cuts himself off again, peering up through the small hole in the ceiling to look at Skizz.

The man stares back down at him, one hand resting against the edge of the hole. Martyn had definitely considered simply leaving the lava there for Skizz to fall into, unaware, and taken the kill then and there, but the swift death of the cow had been enough to make him feel a little guilty.

“Aw,” he buries his face in his hands, stepping back from the small entrance. “I am so sorry.” His words are muffled slightly, but he’s sure the others can at least guess the sentiment of his words if they can't understand them. He pulls at his face a little bit, glancing up at the people around him.

Impulse just looks sad at this point, staring at the spot their cow had been only a few moments before. Martyn has never felt regret as intensely as he does in this moment, even if his whole visit had been a ploy to try and kill one of them.

“You gotta be kidding me right now.”

Martyn can feel his resolve begin to waver as they continue on about the cow, lips twitching into an almost-smile as Impulse continues to bemoan their loss. Etho, at least, seems to have planned ahead, or at least far enough ahead that he saw the cow not surviving for very long anyway, as he manages to retrieve a cow within a few minutes after the incident.

It’s as though the cow never died in the first place, and he watches it meander around the small base from the step. Impulse had told him, in very few words, that he’d prefer it if he sat up here and away from the cows for now. He hadn't minded it either, as it means he can sit a short distance away from everyone else- a long enough distance that the itch at the back of his brain is reduced, if only a little bit. The need for blood still lingers, but it’s nowhere near as intense as it had been before.

He can't help but panic a little, unable to see any of these people splitting off from the pack so that he can follow and murder them. He also can't see them just letting it slide if he does kill one of them, so maybe it’s not his greatest idea to pick one of these four.

“Oh, Skizz,” his ears prick up as a new voice joins the jumbled fray, a little louder than many of the others and much further away. He stands, moving from the step Impulse had instructed him to stay on so there weren't any more cow related accidents. “Bud.”

He can hear the sympathy in Scott’s voice, and when he pokes his head out of the entrance to the underground base, Scott is smiling sympathetically at Skizz. A boat rocks gently behind him, lodged firmly in the sand as Scott steps gingerly out of it, scurrying a few metres up the beach before he comes to a stop.

“Dude, it’s been brutal,” Skizz says.

Martyn emerges fully onto the small island, only because hovering in the darkness is making him far more suspicious, and it would be very easy for Scott to pin it on him right now- especially as the man seems convinced that it is him anyway.

“What happened?” Scott seems to be asking from a sympathetic standpoint, but Martyn also knows Scott, and knowing Scott means that he knows Scott just wants the details of what happened from the source. Martyn listens as well, nodding at Scott when the man’s eyes slide over to him.

“I was way, way deep down,” Skizz gestures to the ground beneath their feet, moving back and forth a little bit as they talk. “I was just looking for some diamonds, and a creeper killed me.” Skizz turns his back to Martyn, and he has the idea to just do it now- do it here. He’d considered it already, back in the cave when the curse first settled itself over his mind, but he’d resisted then. But he’s so close to running out of time, so close to failing-

His hand hovers over the sword at his hip, and Skizz’s back is still turned, and Scott had even proposed an alliance to him earlier today, so he doubts Scott’s going to rat him out right now. He glances up, hand still hovering, still uncertain.

Scott glances between him and Skizz, mouth setting into a grim line. He then shakes his head, slight enough that anyone not looking would have missed it. And Skizz continues talking, oblivious to the silent conversation that had just passed between him and Scott.

And Scott’s right, honestly. It would be a bad idea, and they would have four angry people after them, one of which is definitely going to be a yellow soon, and that’s not something he wants to see at all. He swallows, glancing away, mind racing, curse roaring, demanding he ignore Scott, that he does it anyway.

He takes a step back, away from the shoreline and Scott and Skizz, pulling his hand away from his sword forcefully, reminding himself that it would be a bad idea, over and over again, and that Skizz has already lost enough time as it is, to lose more would only put him on Skizz’s list.

He takes another step back, and his foot catches on something. He glances back, finding it to be the hole that leads to the base beneath the island. The…confined base that has little to no escape routes, something which could very easily be blown up.

He glances back to the talking pair on the beach. Neither of them watch him, neither of them are looking to see where he goes.

He drops down into the hole, ignoring the slight jolt in his ankles as he lands. He pauses, not daring to even breathe. He can't hear himself over the sound of blood roaring in his ears- he doesn't know how loud he would be, can't know how loud it would be. So he doesn't dare breathe, straining his ears to make sure that there are people in the base below him, that him tossing away the few resources he has won't go to waste.

He chips away at the wall in front of him, clenching his hands tight around his pickaxe to stop them from shaking. Ignores the pounding of his heart, the rushing in his ears as he breaks through the rock, pausing to heave in a breath and to check that he hasn't been heard- hasn't been found.

He can't be found, he can’t. He doesn't have long left for this, not long at all, and he can't be yellow. Not yet, it’s too soon. Far, far too soon.

He breaks down the few feet that separates him from the room below, pulling back as soon as the last chunk of rock has been chipped away. He has to let it fall, there’s no way he can grab it back now, just has to watch it plummet and hope no one pays attention to the sound.

He holds his breath, feeling it catch in his lungs until he feels as though he’s going to explode. He watches as Scott turns around and stares at the rock for a long, long moment. Long enough that Martyn thinks he might say something, that he might warn the others.

He doesn't, eyes glancing up, though he can't see him- the rock blocks him from seeing Martyn, tucked away in his little gap in the rock, just large enough for him to crouch in. And then Scott turns back around, and he doesn't say a word. He just listens as the team continues talking, chattering amongst themselves.

He doesn't dare breathe, not even a sigh of relief- it could tell them that he’s still here, that he’s not disappeared away again.

He pulls the first bundle of TNT from his inventory, holding it in shaking hands as he fumbles for his flint and steel, grasping it and bringing it up to the wick, striking it once, twice, three times, hands shaking as he tries to light it, watches as it continues to sputter out before the wick can catch.

And then it does catch, flaring to life with a sizzle and he shoves it away, pulling the next bundle free, lighting this one quicker than the previous. There’s a shout from below- someone spotting the TNT no doubt. But it hasn't exploded yet, he still has time.

He drops the second one.

The third is the easiest to light, and he drops that too, peering over the edge, some morbid curiosity filling him- to see if he can get the kill or not. To see if someone might stray a little too close to the detonating bomb.

But, no. They huddle in a corner, all watching the TNT with wide eyes, watching. Waiting. And then it explodes, and his ears beginning ringing, though not with bloodlust this time. Instead, he blinks, coughing as smoke fills his mouth and makes him choke. He pulls back from the small opening he created, hacking and choking on his own breath as shouts of panic break out below.

He peers in again, still blinking back the tears in his eyes, watches as the rock wall behind where everyone huddles begins to crack, begins to give way beneath the sudden lack of stability and structure.

Scott breaks free first, sprinting across the room and skidding to a halt before throwing himself up the small wall and onto the stairs. Only then does he turn back around, posture stiff and tense, watching as the room begins to flood through the small fissures in the rock.

The TIES groan and grumble at the sudden flooding, kicking through the water and sloshing it around their ankles. And Martyn should move on, should leave now that Scott has thrown him under the bus- they could say something in the general chat at any moment, could condemn him to failing his one task.

But they don't, they continue complaining, continue kicking the water around. And Martyn finds himself far more fascinated about how scared Scott seems to be of the water, backing further and further away from the main room, beginning a slow, jerking path up the stairs, away from the steadily rising water and out of the splash zone of where the TIES have begun splashing water at each other.

Martyn watches Scott, files this odd information into his brain, alongside the way Scott avoids water like the plague. Doesn't even go near it despite having chosen to take up residence in the middle of the ocean, where you are surrounded by water.

And then one of the TIES shouts for his blood- and he knows they can't do that, they can't. It’s against the rules. And yet he flees anyway, squeezing back down the small corridor he’d hewn out, and sprinting for the surface.

He only looks back once he’s a safe distance away, watching as Tango and Skizz patrol the surface of their island and Scott climbs into his boat, and begins rowing back to his own island. Rowing, where someone else would have swam the short distance.

But the curse still lingers, still has its hooks in his mind. And he doesn't have time to sit around and watch Scott act odd, because he has other, far more pressing matters to attend to.

For now, at least.

=== === ===

III.

Scott’s island is bigger than it had been before. Spanning over a larger stretch of land, half-grown shoots of bamboo sticking out of the earth, marking out a perimeter. The leaves rustle gently in the breeze, and a few of the closer sticks of bamboo knock into each other, rattling in the wind.

A door stands at the entryway to the island, though there is no frame surrounding it. Truly, there is nothing but manners stopping him from bypassing the door completely, and stepping around. And also because it is far too comedic to knock on the door as well.

“Hi,” Scott peers around his door, not even bothering to open it. And…he’s wearing an odd crown of coral. Something he hadn't been wearing last time, at least. And the coral hasn't begun to bleach yet, remaining colourful despite being on land.

“Hi.” He responds, peering around the door as well, fist still pressed against the wood from where he’d knocked. The bridge is larger this time, too, more stable than it had been previously. He feels far less like he’s about to take an unwelcome dip into the ocean and far more like he’s going to remain nice and warm and dry.

“Um,” he stares at Scott for a moment longer. “Can I, uh, can I come in? Or,” he allows himself to trail off, still watching Scott. The crown certainly suits him, at least, even though the pinkish-orange colour of the coral is not something he’d ever have considered to go well with cyan.

“You abandoned me,” Scott says, frowning. The sadness in his voice is incredibly fake, truly, no one would be buying it. But Martyn has to make a good impression, because this is his only chance at an alliance, and Scott is definitely a good choice for a teammate.

“I didn't abandon you,” he protests.

Scott ignores him. “You came to the coral isles, and then you left.”

“I didn't wanna kill you!” He protests, throwing his arms out. When Scott doesn't try to interrupt him, he continues. “I was already the boogey at that point, yeah, yeah, well done, you guessed it. Whatever. And then you were in the TIES’ hole, and I attempted to kill you, and if you attempt to kill someone then you don't immediately go crawling back to them and ask for an alliance! You leave them to cool down, to work out their frustration for a few hours, and then you come to grovel.”

“You're grovelling right now?” Scott raises an eyebrow. “I've seen better grovelling from a dehydrated plant.”

“Now that’s just hurtful, man.” He presses a hand to his chest. “And I am grovelling, I said sorry.”

“No you didn't.”

“I'm sorry,” he tries. “For, uh, trying to kill you- but in my defence! I was almost out of time, and there was a big group, and I was almost certain that the TNT would have gotten them.”

“It would have, if you threw all of it in at once.” Scott crosses his arms. “Throwing in just one, right after you lit the fuse too, Martyn, means that they had the time to react and then huddle, so the other ones didn't do anything.”

“So, what? I should just hang onto the TNT until it’s about to explode?” He’d have probably blown himself up if he’d done that- he can hardly remember anything from that panic-filled haze, so he doubts his planning skills were actually being used at any point.

“Yes.” Scott says, then sighs. “But I get it,” he shrugs as he turns away, “you were panicked, there’s a lot of pressure. I took out the first person I saw.” Martyn follows after Scott as he moves a little closer to the centre of the island, unsure whether he’s actually welcome to stay here or if Scott’s just humouring him.

“So,” he decides to break the ice, trailing behind Scott. “Can, can I move in?” He scuffs his feet against the ground, and Scott turns at his question. Scott frowns, lips pursed as he looks him up and down again.

“You're wanting to be a coral kid?” Scott asks. He sounds almost…pleasantly surprised.

“Okay, uh,” he laughs, “maybe not a coral kid,” Scott frowns a little deeper, “but I've come back with ideas- name ideas, okay? You know, I've been out and about, travelling the world,” the tiny little world they're confined in for the foreseeable future. “Uh,” he scrambles to keep talking, taking a few steps back from Scott, away from the small area he has set up in the middle of the island. Scott doesn't follow after him, propping a hip against the crafting bench. “I'm older, I'm wiser. I'm smarter,” he nods to himself, glancing back at Scott.

Scott seems to be mildly amused by him, head tilted at a slight angle as he watches him talk, smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I've got some name suggestions,” he finishes, giving a little jazz hands as Scott continues to stare at him. He’s got that same eyeshadow on again, glinting around the corners of his eyes. Maybe it’s his new thing for this iteration of the games- people try new things all the time.

“Okay,” Scott drags the word out, but he gestures for him to continue. Martyn is absolutely going to get to stay on this island, thank god.

“Alright,” he rocks forward onto the balls of his feet before rocking back again, “so, obviously, there’s coral kids.” Scott nods his head, “Not too bad, but, you know, I think it makes us sound kinda like pushovers? Uh,” he thinks for a moment, “next one on the list honestly isn't that great either, though, so, damp dudes? Feeling that one?”

Scott clicks his tongue, leaning back on the crafting bench a little further, before shaking his head. “Nope, don't enjoy that one.”

“Alright,” that wasn't his best one, but better to lead with his worst because they can only get better from here on out. Hopefully. “Seeing as this isn't really much of an ocean,” and it isn't, “how about puddle pals?”

“No,” Scott’s response is immediate. “Puddle feels even less,” Scott pulls a face and Martyn gets the message.

“Okay.” Maybe he should have written them all down in a list. He’d spent most of last night brainstorming ideas, hoping to put himself on Scott’s right side and gain a teammate if he can impress him with a team name. ��So, I was imagining leather jackets for this next one- like the bad boys’ jackets,”

“You know Jimmy just stole his from Tango, right?” Scott’s grinning, leaning forward a little.

“Really?” He blinks, thinks about it for a moment, then, “Yeah, that makes sense. Timmy doesn't seem like the kind to own a jacket more of a-”

“Denim guy, yeah.” Scott nods his head along, hair falling in front of his eyes before Scott brushes it back again. Martyn finds himself watching Scott for a moment too long before he averts his eyes again, moving a little further around the island. Scott swings his legs over the crafting table to watch him go.

“Alright, us in leather jackets: sons of beaches.” Scott doesn't say anything in response to that one, and when Martyn turns around the other is just staring at him, apparently slightly lost for words. He laughs a little, more out of nervousness at Scott’s silence.

“It’s, hm,” Scott pauses to think. “It’s better than the other two, but, uh.”

“Alright, alright. I've still got a few more,” he nods, even though his list is very rapidly running a little short. “I know you like the film Mean Girls,” Scott nods at that, “so what about Mean Shells?”

Scott tips his head to the side, still staring at Martyn. He stares for long enough, apparently lost enough in thought, that Martyn begins to feel a little flustered beneath Scott’s undivided attention. The green of the man’s eyes is far too intense compared to their normal blue, and it freaks him out. Just a bit.

“I like it,” Scott says, “but I don't know if people will get that reference.” Scott pulls a face, “Mean Gills, would’ve been-”

“Mean Gills!” He bounces a little in place, pointing at Scott and nodding. Scott looks a little taken aback by his enthusiasm, but smiles after a moment anyway. “Yeah, yeah! You've nailed that one there. Mean Gills,” he repeats to himself.

“Did you have any more?” Scott asks.

“Only a couple. What about beauty and the beach?”

“Okay,” Scott nods, “do like that. But which one of us is going to be the beauty and which one of us is gonna be the beach? Because I can tell you right now which one I don't want to be.”

“Oh yeah, alright. What about santa’s little kelpers?” He grins, quite proud of that one.

Scott looks rather unimpressed. “Bit too seasonal.”

“You're a harsh critic, Smajor.” He laughs, “Big buoys? Like, spelt like the, the floating things? B-U-O-Y-S.”

Scott shakes his hand back, side to side. “I think the bad boys would get annoyed with us there, encroaching on their territory and all that. And like, they might be bad at these games, but they've also got full diamond and enchanted armour, so I don't really want to go around annoying them, yeah? Trying not to make enemies just yet.”

“Sal-men?” He tries. His list is dwindling now, though Scott is cracking a smile at a few of these, so it’s not a total loss.

“Oh, no,” Scott shakes his head. “I've had a whole,” he gestures with a flippant hand, “salmon fiasco in the past. Let’s not go there.”

“LGB-Sea?” He says. “Like, like S-E-A?” He laughs a little, because it was a rather bad joke on its own really, but Scott seems to find it funny too because he’s laughing as well, leaning forward on his makeshift seat as he giggles.

“I like the-” Scott laughs again. “LGB-Sea is great.”

“Alright, alright, last one, and maybe we should just lock this one in straight away because I like this one: H-Two-Bros.”

“H-Two-Bros is great,” Scott’s lips are quirked up in a smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiles, that blue eyeshadow flashing in the light again. “But I'm kinda torn between that and mean gills.” Scott’s eyes then widen a little. “Not that either of us have gills, though,” he laughs, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “That would be ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” his eyebrows crinkle together. “Neither of us have gills. But we’re going for the ocean-y fish theme, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott nods, “why don't we get Pearl’s opinion on this?”

Pearl’s? The question is half-formed on his tongue before Pearl pops out of the water, spraying it everywhere. Scott is halfway across the island a moment later, looking rather like a startled cat even though he was the one that requested Pearl join them.

Pearl then shakes like a dog, hair and water flying everywhere, hitting him as well. He winces as a stray chunk of hair hits him in the face. He backs up a few steps, away from the edge of the island and the danger zone that is currently surrounding Pearl.

“Ask me what?” She asks, rather cheery.

“We’re choosing a name for the people on this island,” Martyn gestures between him and Scott, who is yet to return from his corner of scared cat-ness. “And we’ve got two contenders currently: Mean Gills and H-Two-Bros.”

“I like Mean Gills better, it’s kinda cute.” Pearl laughs.

The conversation devolves from there, and before he knows it he’s rummaging around in his inventory to find a few bits of gunpowder and handing them over to Pearl. “I cremated her.” He says with a smile, watching as Pearl’s eyes widen slightly, glancing up at him, then back down at the gunpowder.

“I'm leaving,” she says, voice high-pitched. “This is not,” she shakes her head, hopping back into the ocean. She doesn't emerge until she’s several feet away from the island, water splashing as she kicks her way towards the next body of land.

“I don't know what she wanted me to say!” He laughs, though it’s a poor defence, really. Scott laughs a little as well, moving back towards the centre of the island now that Pearl has left. Scott didn't seem to hold any ill will towards Pearl, so Martyn doesn't understand why he avoided her so clearly. “She wants her dead dog from the last games, I don't have anything for her!”

“You could've saved that until she gave me the grass,” Scott frowns. “We only have a little bit now.”

“Eh, it’ll spread in no time.” He assures.

=== === ===

IV.

His hourglass is beginning to come together nicely, even with only the barebones of the structure constructed so far. The chest of resources he’s gathered for this mini project sits a few feet behind him, lid swung open so he doesn't have to keep opening it whilst building.

Scott sits on the small deck chair he’s built for himself, leaning back in it and watching him build. He had been wearing sunglasses, up until the point where Martyn had pointed out that he looked like one of the bad boys and he’d taken them off rather quickly after that.

He’s squinting against the sun as he watches Martyn build, still wearing that eyeshadow despite only getting up half an hour earlier. Martyn hadn't even seen him put it on, but it had been there as soon as he was up, so he must have put it on at some point.

Not that he noticed it immediately. He’s taken to watching Scott recently, but he’s not been staring at his eyes. His eyes might look rather nice, but that doesn't mean Martyn is caught up in staring at them all the time.

“See something you like?” Scott tips his head to the side, eyes still squinted mostly shut. Scott then stretches out on the deck chair, raising one arm above his head. He even winks, just to add to the effect.

“Not really,” he snorts, turning back to his hourglass. He still needs to add most of the glass to it, and that’s definitely going to be the most time-consuming part of this whole affair; he’s going to have to make sure he doesn't bend any of the glass too far and shatter it- why did he decide to build this again? It’s hardly going to be functional and Scott’s beach house is plenty large enough for the two of them. Their beds are side by side in there, too, and he’s not going to be moving out of there any time soon. “Keep dreaming, Scott.”

Scott hums behind him, and he can feel the other man’s eyes on him as he rummages through the chest, collecting as much glass as he can comfortably hold.

“Make sure you don't bend it too far,” Scott says as he starts to place the glass into its frame. “It’s an inflexible material and it will just shatter if you bend it too far.”

“Thanks for that, Scott. I am well aware.”

“Just making sure!” When he looks back Scott’s got his hands raised in surrender, drink held in one of them- when did he get a drink? He stares at Scott for a moment, and Scott stares back at him, before taking a sip from his drink. Where did he even get a straw from? Did he bring it with him?

…Honestly, he can see Scott doing exactly that for a moment like this.

“I just don't want to be the one cleaning you up if you manage to slice your hand open on some of the glass.” Scott shrugs, drink sloshing dangerously against the side of his glass. Scott seems to realise this, jerking the drink away from him hurriedly, before grinning at Martyn.

“I'm hardly going to slice my hand open on the glass,” he snorts. “What do you take me for, some kind of idiot?”

“Just remember that I dated Jimmy for a while, okay?” Scott says. Martyn takes his momentary distraction to slot a few of the glass panes in without any judgement or commentary. He’s all for ribbing at someone, but Scott takes it to an entirely new, rather impressive, level. “Love the guy, he’s great, but he was rather accident prone. I'm just making sure you don't hurt yourself.”

“Giving me the boyfriend treatment, Smajor?” He calls back, picking up the next piece of glass, bending it ever so slightly, careful with the amount of force he applies as he begins slotting it into its place.

“If you want, I've been told I'm rather good.”

The glass breaks in his hands, unable to withstand the sudden increase in pressure from his grip. And, hm. He stares down at his hands, brain not quite registering the pain yet, only that there is a lot of red. Probably a bit more than there should be.

“Scott?” He calls, not turning back around. Scott hasn't made any quip about him breaking the glass, so Martyn doubts he actually heard the glass breaking.

“Yeah,” Martyn can hear the rattling of ice against glass.

“Can you get tetanus from glass?” He asks. The pain is beginning to filter through his system, overtaking the shock and adrenaline of moments later to begin stinging. And then burning, a little.

“Uh,” Scott goes silent for a moment. “I don't think so?”

“That’s good.” He nods along. That is quite a bit of blood, and he thinks he might be going a bit light-headed from the blood loss. “You gotta promise not to make fun of me, alright?”

“I am not promising that.” Scott says. He can hear someone standing up. “Turn around, Martyn.”

He does, not sure what else to do. Scott is only a few inches from him when he turns around, and it’s enough to make him startle. Scott frowns at him for a moment- and they're both far closer than they've been during Martyn’s small stay here, and he can see the eyeshadow up close now, and it almost looks like-

“What did I tell you?” Scott interrupts his thoughts, and he snaps back into focus, slightly.

“Lots of things.”

“About the glass,” Scott stresses, grabbing his hand and shaking that as well a moment.

“Oh, yeah, don't bend it.”

“And what did you do?” Scott asks.

“Bend it?” He responds. “Look, man, I just wanna sit down, alright? I'm not…feeling great.”

“Yeah, no shit, Martyn. Look at this!” He shakes Martyn’s hand around a little, fingers smearing with blood. “This is why we don't play around with glass.”

“It’s your fault, anyway.” He frowns at Scott. “You surprised me.”

“I surprised you.” Scott deadpans. “And so it’s my fault.”

“Exactly.” He tries to point at Scott, but Scott is still holding one of his wrists, so the movement is far less confident and smooth than he had been hoping it would be.

“God, you're worse than Jimmy.” Scott drags a hand down his face. And his hand had blood on it, meaning he’s just smearing blood over his face. “How are you worse than Jimmy?”

“I take offence at that.”

“You can take offence at it when you're not about to pass out at the sight of some blood.”

“I'm not about to pass out,” he scoffs. Or tries to. He doesn't actually know how convincing it is, because everything sounds like it’s underwater. “It’s the blood loss.”

“You have not lost enough blood to feel dizzy.” Scott tells him, still gripping his wrist. “You're just squeamish.”

“Am not.” He tugs at the grip Scott’s got on him. “No way I’d have made it through so, so many of these games if I was squeamish.” It’s the blood loss- the same blood loss that is making the world spin around him like everything just’s been cranked up really high on speed, and his eyes ache with it.

“Martyn,” Scott sighs, but his voice is really muffled, and, wow, is that the ocean? The water is always super warm around here, he’s pretty sure it’s because of the biome they're in, but he always enjoys it. It’s like a slightly colder than usual bath- still warm but not too warm.

And it’s just as warm this time as he sinks into it, breath escaping him in a bubbly sigh.

There’s a loud splashing sound above him, and he squints his eyes open, but the saltwater makes everything blurry, and his eyes hurt already, so he squints them shut again. Something grabs at his arm, yanking him upwards.

And he resists, because this water is really warm and nice, and he actually rather likes it, really. Whatever is dragging him around, though, doesn't seem to care what he thinks, but he’s unceremoniously pushed onto dry land a moment later.

He breathes in, coughing a little and squinting his eyes open to watch as he coughs up water. His throat feels dry and scratchy, and his vision is still blurry. Blurry enough that he can't see much beyond vague shapes and colours.

Something moves in front of him, a little water lapping at his fingers as he opens his eyes a little more to try and get a better look at the- whatever it is in front of him. There’s a flash of deep blue, and then the whatever-it-was thing is gone. Huh.

Something flicks him on the forehead, and he blinks his eyes open again, finding that he’s lying on something far softer than the dirt ground, and blinking up at Scott. Scott is staring down at him, eyes flicking over his face, before he leans back so there’s more than just an inch of space between them.

“Good to see you're awake.” Scott says.

“When did I fall asleep?” He asks, going to push himself up, only to wince when sharp pain lances through his hand. He hisses beneath his breath, easing his weight off that hand.

“You didn't.” Scott smiles at him, but it’s the kind of smile someone wears when they're trying to hold back a laugh. “I didn't know you were squeamish.”

“I'm not.”

“Then why did you pass out at the sight of blood?” Scott asks, head tilting to the side. The bandages around Martyn’s fingers make them feel thick and clumsy, and the pain that sparks through his palm every time he flexes them is enough to stop him from moving that hand too much. “Sounds like you're pretty squeamish to me.”

“I'm not.” He protests, though his attempts seem to be in vain because Scott has actually started laughing at him now.

“Mhm,” Scott nods. “Seems like your hourglass is going on hiatus for a short while.”

“Ugh,” he lets his head drop back to the pillow, staring up at the sky. It’s cloudless. “Did I fall in the water?” He asks, after a moment.

“Yes, why?”

“My clothes feel all…disgusting.”

“Well, I didn't wash them for you. I'm not your personal servant.” Scott pokes him on the arm, just hard enough to hurt.

“Never said you were,” he rubs at his arm absently, frowning at Scott. “Did you see any big fish while I was attempting to drown myself?”

“Big…fish?” Scott’s back has gone a little stiff, and he looks down at Martyn with confusion.

“Yeah, kinda blue-y. Didn't see it for long, but.” He shrugs, which is actually a lot more difficult to do lying down than he thought it would be.

“No, I didn't see anything like that.”

“Hm.” Is all Martyn says in response. He doesn't buy it for one moment, but Scott’s stiffer than a stick of bamboo, and he knows when to leave well enough alone. “Alright then.”

=== === ===

He wakes up to something that is very much so silence, but there was also definitely something that just woke him up- something that was not silence. But it’s dark, and the moon is just past a new moon, meaning he is blind and left scrambling around in the dark for a light source that might reveal what just made a noise and then abruptly stopped making noise.

He fumbles around for a few moments longer, attempting to find a light source- any kind will do, really, he just wants to be able to see rather than scramble around helplessly and hope that it’s not someone come to kill him. Oh god, he hopes it’s not someone come to kill him.

He manages to find a torch eventually, hands closing tightly around it, before he begins another search for something to light it with. It takes him several more long and painful moments to find something to light it with. Because it is dark, and he is blind.

When he does light it, he almost expects to find someone looming over him, before unseen in the darkness now brought into the light and silhouetted by the moon before they kill him where he sleeps. But the torch doesn't light up any ominous figure, and it doesn't reflect off of any weaponry either.

He relaxes a little, laughing to himself slightly as he slumps down into his bed. He’s careful to keep the torch away from his bedsheets, as he’d rather not accidentally set himself on fire. He’s had enough accidents in the past few days, and his hand is still sore and tender from his most recent stunt.

But he still hasn't found whatever it was that woke him up in the first place- and it wouldn't have been the bamboo or sugarcane shaking in the breeze either, because he’s gotten used to the quiet sounds they make when the breeze leaps over the water and towards them- hard not to get used to them when he’s constantly surrounded by the sound.

The sound of the waves against the edges of the island also hadn't bothered him beyond the first night, where he’d had to cover his ears with his pillow because he just couldn't sleep and the waves didn't stop. But he can tune them out easily now, and it becomes just another part of the background noise of their island.

He laughs a little to himself as he continues to look around, because he is being far, far, too paranoid for his own good, really. No one has even gone red yet! It’s way too early for someone to be red, and the next boogeyman hasn't even been picked yet. So, really, the only thing he’s got to worry about is Skizz. And he highly doubts Skizz is going to make a trip over to their base in the middle of the night to murder him in his sleep. Especially when Scott is right next to him and it would be two-versus-one-

Or, it would be, if Scott was currently in his bed. Which he’s not. The bedsheets are pushed down to the bottom of the bed, lying in a crumpled heap that is a far cry from the way Scott normally makes his bed (Martyn’s convinced Scott does it just to shame him into making his bed as well. Which won't work! It’s been tried before, and it’s not going to start working now, of all times).

But the bed has obviously been slept in, which Martyn also knows because they’d gone to bed at the same time after putting the campfire out. Martyn had chucked a bucket of water over it for good measure, aware of how easily the fire could spread to the grass and then they’d be toast - literally.

He does a cursory glance around the island, holding the torch up a little higher as he peers around. But it’s not a very big island, and the only potential hiding spots are behind his hourglass (which is see-through) and behind the chests (which is just dumb). And Scott is nowhere to be seen, even as Martyn looks around again, in case he missed something on his first sweep.

But the results remain the same, and Scott is nowhere to be seen. But, when he presses a hand to Scott’s bed, it’s still warm, meaning he can't have been gone for very long. Which also means that Scott moving about was probably what woke him up in the first place.

The circumstances are still odd, but Scott has had multiple chances to let him die over the past few days, so he’s feeling rather secure in their alliance right now.

Scott’s mysterious disappearance aside, he’s awake now, and rather unlikely to go back to sleep anytime soon. Especially as Scott is still gone, and he probably won't be able to relax until the other returns. Safety in numbers, and all that. If it’s just him on his own, he’s much more vulnerable to an attack, but if Scott’s here, then there’s two of them, and they can both make sure the other doesn't die in a stupid way.

And he might also be a little worried.

Sue him! His teammate disappears in the middle of the night without so much as a word, a note, or even a private message to let him know where he’s gone. Instead, he’s left on an island in the pitch dark with no knowledge about his teammate’s whereabouts.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, shuffling towards where he’d kicked his sandals off earlier. The sound of his feet against the wooden boards is barely audible. He slips the sandals on easily, stepping down onto the grass a moment later, beginning to putter around their area.

Some of the sugar cane has grown tall enough to be harvested, and so he chops a few of the stems, bundling them together in one hand as he moves onto the next plant, repeating the process. Once he has enough sugarcane that he can't carry any more, he meanders over to their chests, dumping the sugarcane inside, organising it slightly so Scott doesn't complain about it in the morning.

He goes back over to the next section of sugarcane that has grown enough, cutting the stems again, repeating until he can't carry anymore. He returns to the chest with his second load. He doesn't return to cutting the sugarcane after that, mainly because there isn't any more sugarcane to cut, but also because Scott isn't back yet, and he’s beginning to get more than a little worried about his wellbeing.

He sits at the edge of their island, in a small gap he’s created in the bamboo and sugarcane, for easy access for boats from the rear of the island- perfect for a quick escape if they ever needed to make one.

He allows his legs to trail through the water, kicking them back and forth, watching as it laps at his knees, the waves breaking before they reach the very edge of the island. The water is as warm as it always is, just a little bit cooler than a hot bath, but it’s darker than it usually is as well.

During the day, the waters are a crystalline blue, allowing them to see to the very bottom. He’s spent more than a few hours sat watching the wildlife dart in and out of the coral, tracking the shimmering shoals of fish that make their slow way through the coral reef.

He can hardly see the coral now, only vague shapes clustered together, some of them stretching up higher than the others. He can't see anything swimming between the bits of coral, but that doesn't mean that there’s nothing down there- there is almost certainly something that he can't see.

Even the faint glow of the sea pickles is hardly enough to light up the seabed, only a small pool of light around each one that’s so dim he can hardly see it.

He continues to sit there, ignoring thoughts of something swimming up and grabbing his ankle to pull him into the depths- there’s not going to be anything large enough to do that to him, and a small clownfish isn't going to be big enough to eat him, even if it tries its very best.

The water is soothing, at least, and he allows himself to stare at the small ripples, forgetting about his worry for a brief moment.

At least, he manages to forget about it until he sees something move out of the corner of his eye. He freezes, hands twisting into the grass at his side, threatening to uproot it. He watches as the shape moves, glittering scales outlining the apparent size of the thing.

It’s…large. Very big. Easily half the length of their entire island, if not a bit over. And things that big are hardly ever herbivores. And it is with that thought that he rather hurriedly pulls his legs out of the water, standing up. He doesn't move away from the edge, though, watching as the shimmering scales- bioluminescent, his brain reminds him, continue to circle around the island, almost lazily, before disappearing from sight.

He swallows, brain flashing to all worst-case scenarios. All of which involve him still being stood at the edge of the island when that…whatever it was reappears.

He backpedals, maybe a little hastily, and it might be stupid to feel a little safer when he’s back in his bed, sandals kicked off at the bottom of it. But Martyn has long since accepted that he might be a little stupid.

That feeling of safety doesn't help him get much sleep, though. But he must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he wakes up Scott is back, and he’s handing him a mug of coffee almost immediately- and Scott is definitely a godsend at times like this, he can't even deny it.

He doesn't ask where Scott went the previous night, and Scott doesn't offer any explanations. He also puts the sea monster (he is perfectly justified in calling it that! He doesn't know what it is!) out of his mind as best as he can.

And his best is almost good enough for him to completely forget about it

=== === ===

VI.

In all honesty, he had expected Scott’s suspicious behaviour to have more of a dramatic conclusion to it- something that would be shocking and just! Something different from what actually happened, at least. Because the way it happened is possibly the most stupid way Martyn has found out someone’s big and terrible secret (and he’s discovered several big secrets, each of which had far more explosive endings than this one did).

He pushes the door open with his shoulder, both of his arms full of the logs Martyn had left to collect because they were running low, and he rather enjoys their evenings around the fire with nothing but the crackling flames between them, which cast a rather complimentary light onto Scott’s face and makes the eyeshadow he wears glow even brighter than normal.

He makes direct eye contact with Scott, and Scott stares back at him. Scott is dripping wet, arms braced on the edge of their grassy island and in the process of hauling himself up. Scott is staring at him, and Martyn continues to stare back at him. Scott is covered in scales, deep blue scales that are really quite familiar-

Scott disappears with a small splash. Martyn drops the logs, not really caring if they land on the island or roll merrily into the water, instead sprinting over to the other side of the island and dropping to the ground, peering down into the water, hoping to catch any glimpse of Scott.

There’s a flash of blue scales between two things of coral, and he spares about a second to think through his idea before he’s kicking his sandals in and dropping his jacket off. He hesitates for a millisecond after that, and then simply dives in, plunging beneath the surface.

The one thing he appreciates about this biome is that the water is never a cold shock. The worst part about diving into water is always the cold shock, but the water here is warm, meaning he doesn't have to regather his bearings before he starts swimming after Scott.

It takes him a few seconds to realise that there is absolutely no way he’s going to catch up with Scott when the man is some kind of aquatic hybrid adapted for swimming. And he’s struggling to catch up with the other man for god’s sake.

He swims between the pieces of coral he had seen Scott swim between, ignoring the burn that’s beginning in his lungs, glancing around and squinting for any flicker of scales that would betray Scott’s whereabouts.

Something grabs him from behind, and he thrashes around for a moment, bubbles spilling from his mouth, and he almost inhales again on instinct before realising that he’s underwater, and that he definitely can't breathe underwater.

He breaks the surface, gasping for air as the grip on his arm remains iron, keeping him afloat as he regains his breath. He hadn't even realised his vision had started greying out a little until it began to clear up.

“Man,” he laughs. “I have gotta stop drowning myself, huh?”

“You are so incredibly stupid!” Scott responds, voice growling as he yells at him. “What the hell were you even thinking?”

“Wasn't, really.” He would shrug, but he’d also rather not accidentally submerge himself again, so he settles for a grin.

“I just-” Scott cuts himself off, shaking his head. It’s then that Martyn really gets an opportunity to take Scott in, eyes drifting over his face, taking in every small detail. He can see now, closer, that the eyeshadow that decorates the edges of Scott’s eyes isn't actually eyeshadow and is instead small scales. Scales which now spread to cover his cheeks and nose like some kind of freckle. Like, deep blue freckles.

In contrast, the fins at the side of his head are an orange-pink, fluttering slightly in agitation as they fan open before snapping shut again. The membrane of them is thin enough that he can see the sunlight filtering through them, making them almost glow.

“Huh.” He says, which is apparently enough to get Scott’s attention.

“Are you even listening to me?” Scott asks, and, huh, he didn't know Scott could growl like that.

“Not really,” he says. “I'm more caught up in your whole.” He gestures, because he doesn't really have words for what he’s thinking or feeling right now.

Scott’s eyes narrow and he pulls the arm supporting Martyn back, meaning he has to work to keep his head afloat. He reaches out for Scott again, grabbing onto his shoulders- and, oh wow, he’s not wearing a shirt. Like, at all. Huh.

He stares at Scott’s chest, and the scales covering large parts of it. They glint in the sunlight, wet from the water, which only makes them shine even more. They're smooth beneath his hand, and he finds himself rubbing a thumb back and forth over Scott’s shoulder without even thinking about it.

“Martyn,” Scott’s voice is half-strangled as he speaks, and when Martyn looks back at his face, away from the tail he had just noticed, he finds that Scott’s fins are pressed flat against his head, face faintly pink.

“Ah, sorry.” He stops rubbing his thumb over the scales on Scott’s shoulder, even though the pink flush of his face is really quite pretty- and. He’s not going to think about that one too hard, actually.

“It’s fine they're just,” Scott clears his throat, “sensitive.” One of Scott’s hands comes to rest beneath his elbow, supporting him a little more. “Aren't you a little- y’know, unnerved?”

“By what?”

“The whole scales and fishtail thing?” Scott quirks an eyebrow. “Normally people run screaming the other way.”

“I was more worried you were gonna freak out, honestly.” Martyn confesses. You looked a bit stressed before you just ducked back under.”

“Well, I am fine.” Scott clears his throat again, glancing away. “As lovely as this conversation is, I’d rather not be caught looking like this.”

“Why not? You look quite nice, honestly.”

“I- what?” The pink flush staining Scott’s cheeks is only barely visible beneath the scales covering most of them, but the scale-less parts of his neck and shoulders have turned pink as well.

“Aw, c’mon, Scott,” he leans a little closer, which isn't actually all that hard with their current positions. “You've been flirting with me for several days now, don't think I didn't notice.”

“I am a fish, Martyn.” Scott deadpans. “I am a literal fish and you're still absolutely onboard with this.”

“Absolutely still onboard with this, besides.” He rubs his thumb over Scott’s shoulder again, summoning his confidence with the action as he leans a little closer, close enough for their noses to brush. “You look really quite lovely right now- I thought you were wearing some really nice eyeshadow this whole time, and instead it’s these wonderful scales.”

“Martyn, stop, you're being ridiculous.”

“Aw, Scott.” He frowns as Scott pushes him away.

“I am not kissing you while we’re both in the middle of the ocean.” Scott says. “Also you stink of sweat.”

“I do not!”

“Yes, you do.” Scott pats him on the cheek. “You've been chopping trees all morning, and you're definitely flattering me right now; but I also have standards, and those standards include not kissing people that smell of sweat.”

“You're so rude to me, and after I was so nice to you.”

“I’ll be nice to you once you don't smell of sweat, dear.”

702 notes · View notes

scribbling-dragon · 2 months

Text

a tree falls (and it is silent)

summary:

…She can still see the island above her. If she looks. It is fading, retreating back into the void, folding into another corner of reality. The island has shrunk to the same size as every other star around it, glimmering in the same taunting, teasing way. Just out of reach, but almost like she could reach out and snatch it up in her hands. She keeps her eyes fixed on it anyway, even as it shrinks to a pinprick of light – as though the moment she looks away she loses all hope of returning.

(ao3 link)

(4,638 words)

[AN: not really sure where this fic went, but it was fun to write! just a tiny little warning for slight body modification? not really sure how else to describe it. so yeah]

Lizzie falls.

And it is not a slow, gradual tilting backwards. It is not something that she can replay second by second in her mind’s eye, to watch where it was that she went wrong; where it was that she misstepped. She wishes it was, almost. That she could point at a singular moment in time and go, there, that is where everything went wrong.

But she can’t.

Instead, she felt something give way. Felt her feet slip beneath her as she stepped, and then stepped again. Out into the open air of the void. She had twisted, a mad scramble to save herself, maybe to drag Scott down with her. So that it would not be in vain.

She had caught fabric, for a singular, heart-stopping moment. Her nails had caught on Scott’s jacket, had ripped at the denim. She can still feel the sensation of it beneath her nails now.

And then Scott had jerked back as though burned, eyes wide as he tore himself free of her clutching, desperate grip. It had torn a few threads loose, threads that she still clutches to her chest now. It is a prize, a monument to her stupidity, the culmination of her stumbling steps that have led her unsteadily to this moment.

Every single moment here has left her lost and floundering. She had staggered upon landing and never regained her footing, even as those around her wobbled before balancing themselves again. They had charged forward and left her in the dust, clutching a few threads to her chest as though that undoes any of the mistakes she’s made.

…She can still see the island above her. If she looks.

It is fading, retreating back into the void, folding into another corner of reality. Maybe Scott is still staring over the edge at her, watching as she plunges into a certain doom. Or, more likely, he turned away the moment it was clear she would not be saving herself. He’s probably retelling the sorry, sordid tale right now, to an audience of sympathetic murmurs, ones that are only glad it is not them.

The island has shrunk to the same size as every other star around it, glimmering in the same taunting, teasing way. Just out of reach, but almost like she could reach out and snatch it up in her hands. She keeps her eyes fixed on it anyway, even as it shrinks to a pinprick of light – as though the moment she looks away she loses all hope of returning. As though she hasn’t already fallen into an inescapable pit.

She was condemned the moment she stepped into this void damned place.

She still keeps staring at their island, even as the other stars – other islands? – glimmer at cheerily at her, attempting to draw her gaze in their direction. She refuses staunchly, watching the island shrink and shrink and shrink. The moment she blinks, the moment her focus wavers even a tiny bit is the moment she passes the point of no return.

How many of those other stars are islands, the same as their own? How many have a dragon curled atop an obsidian pillar, awaiting its next victims?

Lizzie feels a strange tightness in her chest. A breathlessness borne of the lack of air in the void. And yet her chest continues to inflate and deflate, lungs working as they should. The back of her throat tickles, as though something has lodged itself there and is refusing to budge.

She should be long dead, she knows. The lack of air in the void is a swift killer, one that eases you into the darkness of sleep before it finishes you off. A merciful killer.

And yet there is no shadow around the edges of her vision. No darkness creeping over her eyes to obscure the island. To pull the wool over her eyes for the last few moments of her life.

She continues to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Breath after breath. Impossibility after impossibility.

It is nonsensical. And yet it continues. Just as she continues to watch the islands above her. Continues to watch her island.

There is a strange calm that surrounds her then, soothes over the aching edges of her mind that continues to worry at the issue of her continued survival. She breathes out, eyes fluttering shut slightly as that relaxation coaxes her eyes into slipping shut. Just a fraction.

It is enough for her to lose focus for that one key moment – the calm is rudely torn from her as she blinks, once, twice, thrice, no longer caring for not blinking as the fateful moment has already passed. Her island blends in amongst the other stars, indiscernible from everything else filling the void.

As she attempts to sit up, and then realises that she is able, the rushing sensation in her ears drops away. She no longer falls, no longer plummets into the open, yawning maw of the void – a seemingly endless depth that should have already closed its jaws around her.

Instead, she…drifts. Saunters vaguely downwards. Hangs on the precipice between something and nothing, teetering back and forth on that unknowable, invisible edge.

Something must push her beyond that edge, must nudge her that final inch over the line as the weightlessness returns for a long moment. It makes her stomach drop out of her body as she falls sharply downwards before…stopping.

She doesn’t slow. Not in the same way as before. This is a sudden, jerking halt, as though something had interrupted her fall.

Lizzie looks around, beyond confused. It was almost as though she had been caught, as though someone had stretched their arms out to stop any further descent, cradling her safely in their embrace.

The void spreads out wide around her, inky darkness reaching into every corner.

There is nothing to catch her out here, where nothingness is all that exists.

That, my dear, is where you are wrong.

She jolts at the sudden voice murmuring beside her ear, quiet as a whisper. She blinks furiously as she whips her head around, wariness swiftly transforming into fear as her surroundings remain featureless.

“Who’s there!” she yells, no longer caring that no true air fills her lungs, and yet she’s able to speak all the same. Able to draw breath from this thin, suffocating air. “Show yourself!”

There is a low chuckle, still quiet. Still barely above a whisper. It is the sound of stars shining high above. The sound of ants scuttling over the bark of a tree: there, but not audible. Something that should not be heard.

My dear, to show myself would be defeating the purpose of my existence, would it not?

“Oh yeah?” She stands, surprises herself a moment with the fact that she is able to stand, before promptly getting over it and continuing to question her sudden companion. “Why’s that? You some nasty creature come to kill me? One of those all-seeing fellas from up there?” She gestures in the vague direction of where she thinks she just fell from.

I am none of those things.

“Then what are you?” The quiet of this new voice lowers her voice. She feels self-conscious yelling while this- this thing speaks calmly, at a level barely above a whisper as though it does not care if it is heard or not.

I am nothingness.

“Well, obviously not.” She scoffs. “If you were nothingness then you wouldn’t be talking to me right now, would you?”

The voice remains silent for a moment after that. As though chewing over her words and carefully considering what she has just said. …And then it continues to remain silent. This silence is thick in the air, laying itself over her shoulders heavily.

She almost thinks that it has taken her advice, that, as a creature of nothingness, it has retreated into itself and becoming nothing at all.

“Wait!” She calls out into the void. Desperate for any response. “I’m…I'm sorry! I didn’t mean it! Please, come back!”

I was never gone.

“Kinda hard to tell that.” Her shoulders slump in relief. The sudden panic that came out of nowhere scared her – it had seized her by the throat, demanding that she call back her strange companion, that she not be alone again. “What with the whole nothingness shtick.”

It is not a shtick.

It sounds offended. Lizzie feels momentarily sheepish, before remembering that she doesn’t know who or what this is, and so she doesn’t owe it anything.

“Then what is it? Something you pull out for parties?”

You know not what you speak of.

“Then enlighten me, won’t you?”

How can I expect you to comprehend the vastness of my being? There’s a pause, and Lizzie almost thinks that the thing would have coughed awkwardly were it a human. No offence.

“Full offence taken.”

Ah, my apologies. It pauses again, and then: I…would something like this help?

“Something like what?” Lizzie raises her eyebrows, glancing around the empty space she’s currently stood in. And then…oh. Hm. She’s…well, she’s not sure how to feel about that, actually.

A crude, rather rickety table is less than a foot from her. The paint is patchy and not complete. It wasn’t one of her finest moments, but she had been in a hurry, had been too full of hopes and dreams, and the belief in her fellow players was far, far too high to care about something like the evenness of paint.

A cake sits atop this table. It is far too big for one person alone, and the table almost seems to groan beneath its weight.

She blinks, and there is a chair right beside the table, turned towards her. This chair is a solid white, sturdily built. It is not something she created. There had been beds, instead. She had imagined a party, each of them with a slice of cake in their hands as they sat on beds. Maybe even crowded several people into one bunk as they laughed like they had the first time around, when everything was better.

She sits down in the chair.

The candle in the cake is lit, and the flame flickers for a moment before blowing out. There is no smoke.

Apologies, a flame does not last well in the Void.

“That’s…fine.”

Unbidden, tears rise to her eyes. They cling to her lashes and make her eyelids stick together slightly as she blinks. She refuses to let them fall, however, because crying in front of some horrifying (?) cosmic entity was not on her to-do list today, and she refuses to add it.

And she can’t stand the feeling of dried tears on her cheeks.

“Thank you.” She says, sat at this party for one. It feels a little miserable, that an entity describing itself as nothingness has thrown her a party. Miserable, but fitting. “I…appreciate it.”

Good. The voice is warm, though still quiet. Perhaps this is the loudest it can be – it is the Void itself after all, Lizzie realises.

Perhaps it was a little idiotic of her not to realise before that this entity beside her, all around her, which described itself as nothingness was the exact void she was currently sat in.

There is a knife for her to cut the cake with, sat next to her hand as though it has been there the entire time. She reaches for it, intent on tasting this cake created by nothingness. She wonders if it will have a flavour.

Well, hello there! Where the Void’s voice had been quiet, barely a whisper, this one is cacophonous, as though someone had yelled right beside her ear. She cannot help but wince at the sound, shrinking backwards.

She leans back so far that the chair topples back, disappearing beneath her back as she sprawls across the ground. When she looks up, her party for one has disappeared.

Really, you could not have found it in yourself to be a little calmer?

And why should I be? You’ve got a guest here, and you didn’t even consider telling me!

Have you considered that there was good reason for that? Look at what you’ve done to the poor dear – she’s startled so terribly that she fell from her chair.

Oh. Hm. Okay then, that’s my bad, I guess.

Silence reigns for a moment, and Lizzie takes the opportunity to push herself back into a sitting position, legs crossed and one elbow resting on her knee. These two arguing entities sounded as though they knew each other – who would have thought there was something so lively in a place of certain death?

Not her, certainly.

Oh, hey. I know this one! Those words are the only warning she gets before something heavy is pressing down upon her, looking over every inch of her being, examining her like a bug pinned beneath a magnifying glass.

‘That one’ as you insist on referring to her is going to collapse beneath the weight of your full attention if you are not careful enough. The Void warns, though its voice is quiet as ever. Lizzie worries, as she feels her skin begin to unravel around her, the layers being peeled back as this second entity looks deeper into her being, that it won’t have heard the quiet sound of the Void.

Then, a moment later, it recedes, and she feels as though she can breathe again.

You were actually a little disappointing, the second entity tells her. I expected something a little better from you – maybe a little more pizazz? Something better than slipping off the edge and into the tender, loving arms of our dear Void right here.

Excuse you? How can you already leap into belittling her, hm? Her death was something tragic, but she did all she could in life.

Still could’ve been better. Her head is beginning to ache at the volume of this entity’s voice. (Thoughts?) C’mon, I expected a little more entertainment from Them, didn’t you? The little things pride Themselves on Their games, and yet They can’t even get everyone to put on a show?

You have done well, the Void assures her. You did the best you could with the hand that was dealt to you – They pick rather obvious favourites. Its voice fills with disdain, disgust worming its way into its words.

Lizzie isn’t sure who They are, but the weight with which it is said, and the disgust with which it is uttered, gives her the idea that They are not someone to get along with. And also apparently someone that picks favourites, however They might do that.

Do you comfort yourself with lies? The second entity demands. Its presence grows heavier again, bearing down on her head and shoulders, almost beginning to crush her into the non-existent ground she sits on. How can you bear to turn and face yourself when you offer meagre comforts through falsehoods and honeyed words?

What has happened, happened. What is done, cannot be undone. As such, why bother over the trivialities of what could have been done better.

“I’m still here,” Lizzie says. Just because it’s almost like these two entities – apparently familiar enough with each other to immediately begin arguing – have forgotten that the subject of their conversation is sitting right there and that she can hear everything being said about her.

We know that. Did you think we forgot?

Somewhat, yes, she doesn’t say. Mainly because that entity has turned its attention towards her again and it feels like staring directly into the sun. She grimaces at the feeling, gritting her teeth until it turns its attention away from her again.

You were disappointing. Lacklustre.

“Gee, thanks.” She’s beginning to dislike this second entity – actually, she’s gone beyond disliking this entity. It is loud and rude, voice giving her a headache and making stars burst behind her eyes with every syllable it enunciates. She wishes it had some kind of physical form so she could grab onto it and strangle it. Her hands itch with the urge, and she curls them into fists; tight enough that there will be crescent-shaped indents if she looks.

Such words are unnecessary. Boundless you may be, but few can achieve the same as you.

I’m not asking for much – like I said, a little more pizazz. A little more something isn’t unreasonable to ask for. They're putting on a show for us, the least They can do is get Their actors performing well.

Not everyone can be outstanding. There is value in being average.

You are insufferable. You’d settle for nothing if you could! You’re such a bore – why must I be stuck with you? All of eternity, and nothing interesting within it!

You are able to watch anything you wish. You do not have to wait for company to return from its wandering journeys, nor watch the condemned fall to their deaths within you. I would say you have it rather well off.

Of course you would. You know nothing of the world.

How could I?

You know of the world. That attention swings back around onto Lizzie, burning intensity. She attempts to stare right back into it, frowning in the vague direction of this thing’s eyes. Would you say you did well? That you were satisfied with what you achieved in the pitiful time you had?

Its voice is mocking. Lizzie’s not stupid, this entity dislikes her for some reason – it has made that very clear since it arrived.

She remains silent. To prove it right is unthinkable; she doesn’t want to give it such satisfaction, not when it’s left her pissed off and angry. She almost wants to bite something. But to prove it wrong is equally impossible. To lie to a seemingly omnipotent entity would be like signing her own death warrant; and who even knows if she could return if killed by an entity like this.

She keeps her jaw locked; mouth shut.

See? The entity seems to take this as an agreement anyway. How can she be satisfied with the hand she was dealt?

Not everyone wants for the impossible.

Ah, but many do – few achieve it, sure, but there is that wishing. That wanting unique only to these creatures with a limited life. Tell me, don’t you want to see how good it could have been? How good you could have been? Its voice turns softer, though it remains loud enough that her ears ache, almost as though its pleading with her, asking her permission for something unknown.

“I…” she looks around, as though there’s someone else for her to look for, to look to. There is nothing but empty void. A chasm around her that only seems to open wider and wider with each passing second. “I guess?”

See? See! It crows, its presence growing overwhelming. Its as though her skin is melting, slowly turning malleable as clay as it slips free of its confines and away from her bones. The feeling is unsettling, not at all helped by the sensation of hands on her arms, pushing at her skin, as though remoulding her. Reshaping the clay of her being.

Those hands brush over her eyes, and the stars disappear.

She panics for a moment, unsure what to do with this sudden darkness – it had been dark before, yes, but there had been the small pinpricks of stars. The little glimmering, far-off sparks that promised some kind of life. She had almost been able to convince herself that if she reached far enough, reached for long enough, that she’d be able to drag herself back to where she should be – pull herself from the pits of the void she had somehow fallen into.

Those hands press into her eyes, deft fingers smoothing out around her eye sockets before forcing her eyes open again.

She squints and winces, shutting her eyes again immediately.

Be more gentle.

I was plenty gentle, the voice scoffs. It’s her causing the issue now.

The bright light of before makes the inside of her eyelids a faint red. There is warmth here, where there had only been nothingness before – it hadn’t been cold, but the lack of warmth had made it seem so.

She tests it by only opening her eyes the tiniest bit, face wrinkled as she grows accustomed to the presence of light once more. It takes a few minutes before she can look around properly, blinking, then blinking again as she processes where she is.

She turns, and her pumpkin is there. It sits comfortably, nestled in the grass and…with a small house poking from the side?

Did you not wish for more allies?

She pauses, before shrugging. This feels like a weird dream, one that she is aware is a dream but is unable to wake from. Knowing you're in a dream means you should be able to control it, right? And yet, nothing she wills into existence appears, nothing changes to fit into her will.

You chased away a potential ally on day one, the entity sighs. There was little to be done from there; you placed your foot on the path of loneliness first.

“That house was only built for a task,” she defends. “And it was ugly.” It was a disgusting thing, something that blocked her from progressing further – from turning her house into a pumpkin. She couldn’t have continued living in a shack like that, even if it kept someone by her side for a little longer.

But…this house spoke of a compromise. Of a discussion and an allyship being struck up.

You got her hair wrong.

Huh, did I?

Those hands are resting against her again, burning her scalp as fingers drag through her hair, teasing out the strands.

Oh, I see what you mean. Hm.

Lizzie runs a hand through her hair. Tries to run a hand through her hair. She lifts her hair up, and it all comes with her hand. She pulls at it, and feels no tugging on her scalp, no individual hairs threatening to break away.

Instead, it’s like someone lay a cloth over her head and glued it down. There are no individual strands, only one thick layer. She freaks out a little at that. She’s like some- some doll with felt glued to its head. She tugs at this felt, maybe a little desperately, attempting to separate it into the fine strands of hair she’s used to.

Look what you’ve done now, you’ve freaked her out. The voice turns patronising. Chill for a second, alright, just…it’s been a minute since I made anything as complex as you. Just be glad I remembered the lungs this time!

That…is ominous. And not at all something she wants to think about.

I appreciate you remembering the lungs this time, the Void says. Listening to the previous one stutter and attempt to inhale was…unpleasant.

It was like someone was trying to force air into a block of wood! She hates this entity. Hates, hates, hates it. Even as it drags a hand through her hair she hates it, even as it falls over her shoulders in a cascade of fine strands, she hates it. Strands that are the same as her own hair, no longer a piece of felt stuck to her head.

Ah, you ruined the hands, too. The Void does not sound surprised, only mildly commenting on all the things this second entity has ruined about her. As though its watching some poorly-made film, commenting on all the shitty practical effects like it adds a certain charm to the movie.

Always a critic, the entity mutters. Why don't you try to make an entire person from scratch? See how well that goes for you.

We have already seen ‘how well’ that goes for me. I am still attempting to recover the pieces, though it will be a few centuries more before there are enough fragments for you to rebuild them.

You’re still working on that? I thought you gave up on that ages ago.

There are too many joints in her fingers. She bends one, and it curls up almost completely. Rolling into a spiral like a snail’s shell. One of the beings – she can’t tell which – tuts softly and uncurls her finger again, smoothing it out and removing the excess joints.

It’s a passion project. I work on it when I feel the urge.

Lizzie feels a wash of fear then. Something that had initially been small enough to ignore, and then forcefully locked away in her chest so she was no longer focusing on it – focusing on the entities in front of her, watching them, making sure that they aren’t casually discussing the best ways to destroy her.

Here, right here, right now, she feels that fear burst free. Like a burst blood vessel as it all pours free from where it had been blocked up. She’s drenched with this fear within moments, left shaking and shivering, too few joints in her hands; her fingers are short and her palms are long, and then her fingers are long and the palms short, as though the entity cannot figure out how to model them.

That feeling of clay is back. But this time there is no darkness, no kind hand covering her eyes to block her sight from the horror of watching her flesh begin to slip free from the bone. The horror of watching a hand-shaped ident press against her elbow, guiding her skin to remain there for a moment longer as it smooths over the mistakes that had been made seconds prior.

She attempts to stumble away, but the hands are all around her, pressing her skin back into place. Holding her together.

Ah, dear. I don't think this was the best idea.

Oh, really? You know, I thought the fast breathing and rabbiting heart was because she was enjoying this.

Don't take such a tone with me, this was your idea in the first place.

I just wanted to show her how much better she could be! Lizzie’s brain begins to fuzz over, words becoming distorted, no longer making sense to her addled mind. Her eyes slip shut all on their own, no longer staring so intently at the remoulding of her skin. If you hadn’t pointed out the inconsistencies then she wouldn’t have noticed! If anything, this is your fault.

Well, alright then. Piece her back together will you? She can rest a little while. With me.

Whatever you say.

The burning hands press close again, before retreating entirely. She doesn’t know what to think. Only that the cool hands that brush over her face are much gentler than the previous pair. They carry the gentle care of a mother, of a childhood friend reunited.

She sighs, and gives into the comfort. Everything burns, and she feels as though she’s been fighting an unknown assailant for hours. Her limbs ache, like her muscles have been twisted back and forth by an unruly hand.

Leave us in peace. I have practice putting people back together…this shouldn’t take too long.

You're going to irritate Them. You’ve interfered with Their games now.

I am certain They will learn how to cope with it. To welcome the Void into that place, They already knew what was being invited.

I'm not helping you when this turns around and bites you in the ass.

Don't be so crude.

Lizzie keeps her eyes shut. Doesn’t have much of a choice with the hand still covering them. Though, if she did choose to open her eyes and resist the calm, she could lay her eyes on the stars again.

Though…she still isn’t sure which star is her own. Which is the one she is meant to return to.

#juno.writes #secret life smp #slsmp #lizzie ldshadowlady #ldshadowlady #life series #trafficblr #traffic series #slsmp fic #slsmp lizzie #trafficfic

70 notes · View notes

scribbling-dragon · 5 months

Note

For the hurt comfort prompts, maybe Jimmy comforting Lizzie over dying first? If you wanna add extra, maybe helping with some new feathers sprouting

caged fledgling

summary:

He wasn’t first, wasn’t the first here this time, so where is she? She is exactly where we want her “And that’s not ominous at all,” he mutters under his breath.

(ao3 link)

(1,971 words)

[these two were driving me mad, they kept joking around with each other and completely ruining the seriousness that i was going for ;-; had to rewrite it several times to get it to a place that i liked hdsjkhsjk AND! have an idea for a sillier follow-up to this fic rotating in my mind already (think, mumbo lizzie and jimmy sitting in a circle like u do at a sleepover)

anyway! hurt/comfort requests are still open if you fancy seeing anything <33]

The ground around him is shattered, chunks of dirt flying into the air as the wither fires off another barrage of skulls, sending people screaming and ducking for cover, and cover, any kind of shelter that would hope to shield them from its attacks.

He can feel his heart racing, beating in his chest like a caged bird desperate to escape.

He ignores the building cry in the back of his head, creeping in and weaving between his thoughts as he ducks again, feeling the brush of withering against his skin, watching the grass beneath his feet darken and shrivel rapidly. Can feel the rapid expansion of his lungs, never gaining enough to keep him steady on his feet.

He can almost feel his throat closing up, lungs beginning to refuse working. His chest spasms as he coughs, throwing himself into one of the pits the wither had already created. It scrapes along his arms, blood sluggishly beading to his skin as he hisses at the small sting.

He doesn’t care for the injuries, doesn’t care for the preservation of himself. His fate is already sealed, his cage already locked and the key tossed away, never to be seen again. The song rises over the rest of his thoughts, drowning out any logical thought he might have.

He’s not sure if his friends can hear it like he can, the rising pitch, building towards a crescendo that threatens – promises – to bring his victory crashing down around him once that peak is reached.

He lays low for another moment, allows himself a second longer of breathing, before throwing himself over the edge of the pit and sprinting as far and as fast as he can.

If he can make it to the mesa, if he can return to their house and their singular bed and their meagre supplies, then maybe, maybe, he can survive beyond the end of his song. Can live beyond the final warning that he’s tasked with crying out.

He doesn’t even see the warden. Only watches the ground darken in front of him, watches the sky fade from view, and feels the final moments of dread, the realisation that his fate will catch up to him, even if it’s late. Even if They had to spend the entire day playing catch up to condemn him once more.

The impact rattles his bones, the weight of sheer volume bearing down upon him and making his ears ring. Probably making them bleed too. He can hear nothing aside from the quickly building song, panicky and pitchy and not at all pleasant to listen to, and the ringing in his ears.

Maybe he could have pulled himself to his feet, away from the dirt pit he’s found himself in – a shallow grave, near to the actual grave that had been built for him in advance, even his friends lacking the faith that he would survive beyond the day – but he finds that he cannot summon the will to his limbs. Cannot gather the strength to push himself up and continue running.

Maybe his friends screamed out for him as he died, a perfect accompaniment to the abrupt end of his song.

He’s dragged back to the place where he would always end up. The point that they always circle back towards. The empty darkness and clinging water that doesn’t end no matter how far you walk, and the watching eyes that prefer not to give a response, no matter how often you pleaded for one

The setting he wakes up to is no less shattered than the one he just left.

He blinks a few times, uncertain that he’s in the right place, before he’s staggering abruptly to his feet, breath heavy in his chest as he whips his head around wildly.

The void around him is fractured, shattering and splitting into pieces. Lines run through the darkness, exposing the pale light of whatever lies beyond. He didn’t even know there was a beyond of this place. It was just a void, somewhere outside and inside of time, exactly where it needed to be for the dead and dying.

He watches as a crack widens, splitting open the darkness further with an ominous sound. A reverberating cry of pain follows soon after, descending into a low humming moments later, seemingly satisfied with whatever They have just managed to do.

He feels the eyes turn onto him, feels the weight of a thousand stares upon his back.

His wings flutter nervously, self-consciously tucking them closer to his back even though he knows it will do little to hide the bright yellow feathers.

You are defiant, Their voices tell him. We do not like this.

“Didn’t exactly ask for your opinion on it,” he scoffs.

He wasn’t first, wasn’t the first here this time, so where is she?

She is exactly where we want her

“And that’s not ominous at all,” he mutters under his breath. He doesn’t care that They’ll hear it anyway, giving a rude gesture in Their vague direction. Which is everywhere. “Where is she?”

Where we need her

A chunk of the void separates from the ‘ceiling’ of this place, crashing down into the water below it. He covers his face, ducking his head, as it summons a wave strong enough to unbalance him. He feels the water soaking into his feathers, making them hang heavy at his back.

“You know, even a vague location would be nice,” the place continues to crack around him, falling to pieces as he speaks. “Maybe I’ll even be the solution to whatever little problem you have here.”

You are the root of the problem. The bane of all existence, They hiss.

“What a way to make a guy feel wanted. Maybe I’ll just leave, then.” He makes to turn around, barely makes it a step before the water latches onto him.

You shall not leave

“Then what is it you want me to do?” The water quickly forms into shackles, keeping him rooted in place. “This is very obviously falling apart, and whatever you're trying to do is not working.”

They remain silent. He’s not sure if they're considering his words, or if they're simply giving him the silent treatment.

“You know I'm right,” he adds, after a moment. “You can admit it, it’s not a personal failing, I'm sure we can work through this-”

Your input is not necessary

“Well maybe neither is yours. Your voices are giving me a headache.”

You are insolent. And rude

“If I'm rude, then what are you? I've never made you fight in death games and kill your friends and betray everyone you-”

You are distracting Us

“Oh, I am so sorry,” he nods along in mocking sympathy, feels the fury of Their eyes grow. “Now, where is it that you're keeping my friend? I’d rather like to see her now.”

If it shall keep you quiet. She has not stopped her wailing since she came here

“Funny that,” he mutters, and almost inhales a lungful of water as his shackles pull him below the surface. He splutters as he’s spat back out, hunching over and trying to breathe again. His wings are truly sodden now, feathers sticking up at odd angles that make him shudder in disgust.

“Jimmy!”

He doesn’t even manage to regain his bearings before Lizzie is throwing herself at him and hugging him tight. It’s like she’s trying to squeeze the non-existent life out of him.

“Hey, Lizzie.” He pats her on the head, a little awkward with the angle. Her hair tickles his face, loose strands of it poking up, as though she’s been running her hands through her hair frequently. “Can’t believe you’d die before me, huh? Trust me, it was a surprise to all of us…”

He trails off as she looks up at him, eyes watering.

“This is horrible!” she all but wails. “How do you stand it if it’s like this every time!”

“I- what?”

“You! How do you stand this? Every single time, here, alone!”

“Don't think you're meant to remember that, Liz.”

“Well I remember it now! Because apparently I've got the same freaking curse as you!” A tear slips free of her eyes, trailing down her cheek slowly.

“Woah, it’s not all that bad. I got some perks out of it.”

“If you're about to convince me you can fly with those tiny wings I am going to hit you.”

“…I got no perks out of it?”

His voice trails off into a silence that lingers. It’s only made worse by the cracking sounds of the realm around them. It’s almost like pottery breaking, cracking apart more and more by the second.

“This sucks,” Lizzie says, a lot quieter than before and far from the almost upbeat bickering she’d seemed all too eager to start earlier. He can feel her shaking, slightly, her skin clammy and cold.

“Yeah,” he deflates a little, energy gradually being sapped away. “Yeah, it really does, huh.”

Lizzie sniffles, a quiet, tiny sound. It’s enough to make Jimmy start to stress a little- he can’t comfort crying people, he can’t comfort people full stop. He sits there, awkwardly, as he listens to Lizzie cry. The only thing he can think to do is wrap his arms a little tighter around her and hope that They don't choose to ruin the relative peace that has settled over their small corner of the crumbling apart world.

“I don't know if I can stand this,” Lizzie says. Her voice still sounds teary, and it breaks his heart, just a little, to hear her so sad.

“You're gonna have to,” he tells her. It’s not the most reassuring thing he could have said, but anything else would be a lie. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and forget about it as soon as you're out of here.”

“But you’ll still remember,” she protests.

“I’ve remembered just fine on my own every time before this.”

“It’s not fair.”

“Didn’t really think the omnipotent beings that toss us into death games for fun would be looking to make sure everything is fair.” He teases.

Lizzie laughs, then sniffles, then hits him. “Don't make me laugh, I'm trying to be sad for you.”

“And I'm trying to make things a little bit less depressing. It’s my job, y’know.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lizzie cocks an eyebrow at him, the effect only slightly ruined by red-rimmed eyes. “You get a contract to sign and everything? Terms and conditions?”

“And paid time off,” he agrees. “Wonderful job, dying bit sucks.”

Lizzie giggles at that, and he does too, finding it unreasonably funny. He’s sure They hate it, hate the levity of the moment when They're only looking for more suffering and agony to feast on. Something that he won’t be giving Them. Won’t be letting Them take.

“You're ridiculous,” Lizzie tells him.

“Made it this far, though, haven’t I?” He’s not sure how far he would have made it, whether he’d have ever made it out of the first endless void without allowing himself this small break. He doesn’t want Lizzie to remember this, doesn’t want her to remember the deaths of all their friends, having to pull them out the depths of the water and tell them they cannot return, that they’ve lost that last life and must remain here, in the darkness, until their other friends come to join them.

At least he has his voice this time, he muses, he’s not sure what he would have done if he were unable to comfort Lizzie.

They both jolt as another piece of the void crashes inwards. He feels the way Lizzie’s grip on him tightens, threatening to tear the fabric of his jacket, ignoring how he’s probably holding her just as tight in return.

He’ll take the small comforts.

#juno.writes #secret life smp #secret life smp spoilers #secret life spoilers #slsmp #secret life jimmy #secret life lizzie #jimmy solidarity #ldshadowlady #asks #neohood #traffic smp #trafficblr #traffic series #trafficfic

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scribbling-dragon · 9 months

Text

Forced Acquisition of a Child

summary:

“Jimmy,” he holds the baby awkwardly, gripping it under the arms. The blanket unravels a little, trailing below but not quite touching the floor. He’s never held a baby. He should never be trusted to hold a baby, and yet, somehow, here he is. “Why have you got a baby.”

“fWhip gave it to me,” Jimmy continues to look and sound the most distressed Tango has ever seen him, and Tango was there for the Train Incident. They still don’t have an explanation for how it appeared overnight, but Jimmy is too scared to remove it. Like the train tracks might summon another train if he does. “And then he just left.”

Or: Jimmy "doesn't know" how to take care of babies, and Tango doesn't know how to take care of babies.

(ao3 link)

(masterpost)

(2,185 words)

“But what am I meant to do with it?” He tries not to sound too distressed, but even he can hear how terribly he fails at that, voice coming out higher pitched and squeakier than he intends. He’s never beating the toy allegations. The baby he’s hold at arm's length looks rather content, only wriggling slightly as Jimmy continues to stare at it.

He doesn’t think it’s blinked once.

“I dunno,” fWhip is already walking away, shrugging and not even looking back at Jimmy. “Your problem now, don’t kill it, yeah? Alright, bye!”

“Oh my god,” he looks back at the baby he’s holding. He doesn’t even know how to hold a baby. He’s pretty sure there’s a specific way you’re meant to do it though. He’s not suited for this; he can keep the cats content, easy, they’re cats. If they’re not happy they go a kill something to keep themselves happy. Or they run to Tango so they can use him as a heating pad. Cats are simple, in that they practically take care of themselves. All he needs to remember to do is feed them and shower them in love and affection.

He's never even seen a child this small before. Are children meant to be this small? Do they normally emerge from rocks, is that how it works? It doesn’t seem like the way it should work, but he also doesn’t know enough on the topic to dispute it. He never thought to ask before, but maybe he should have. He really, really should have.

He thinks. Doing his best, at least, as the baby continues to stare at him. Unblinking.

It’s like having a mini-fWhip at arm’s length, judging his every move. Which…actually isn’t far off what the normal fWhip does. Enjoys doing, whichever. But he does normally blink a little more than this. Did fWhip have a staring problem as a baby? He can’t picture fWhip as a baby; he’d always assumed the goblin just sprung from the earth fully formed, or something. He rests a hand over the baby’s eyes, shifting his grip on it so it’s cradled in the crook of his elbow.

God, he knows nothing about children. This is such a horrific idea. Whose idea was it in the first place? Right, yeah, adoption program. It just sounds like a way of foisting childcare onto the other empires because fWhip can’t be bothered to deal with it.

He can think a little clearer now that the baby isn’t staring at him, judging his every move. He keeps his hand firmly pressed over their eyes, but not hard enough to do any damage. He thinks. He doesn’t even know how to hold a baby! He’s doing his best.

Never mind, just…think.

Think. Who would be able to help with this? The other empires have their own goblin children to deal with, and he doesn’t even want to know what some of them are doing to these unfortunate children that have, somehow, managed to end up in their care.

What smart people does he know that have good, well-rounded, and applicable life skills? He knows a lot of people. Not many of them are well-adjusted to normal life, meaning he can easily disregard over half of the people he knows.

He spins on the spot as epiphany strikes him, hooves clattering loudly over the stone as he realises he already has an answer, a remedy to all of his problems: Tango.

=== === ===

Tango hummed quietly to himself as he moved back and forth, tail flicking behind him as he rearranged a few more of the files. It’s not one of his favourite tasks, mainly because Jimmy seems unable to agree on a standard filing system, making everything they have impossible to find in a hurry because it’s in some arbitrary place that made sense at the time.

It’s been a slow process of gradually rearranging everything into a proper system without Jimmy noticing. And also repositioning the documents he puts in the now incorrect places. He had thought by organising it he’d find the system behind Jimmy’s madness. But there is nothing. There is no system. Jimmy loses his files regularly, and then they have to hunt around for them because he managed to remember a tiny detail that means they’ll be able to take one of the local bandits to a proper court and go through proper legal proceedings.

The door crashes open behind him, swinging back into the wall (he’s been meaning to put a doorstop in so that can stop happening. He’s had to repair that wall three times in the past two weeks. It’s getting tiring). He winces at the resounding crash, flinching back from where his hands are in their filing cabinet, still holding one of their thinner files.

“Tango!”

“Jimmy,” he turns around with a smile, relaxing a little as his voice registers to Tango’s ears. “You scared me for a moment there, I thought there was a problem.”

“There is a problem!” Jimmy’s across the room in a moment, looking unusually distressed and cradling something in his arms. “Look!”

And the bundle is thrust unceremoniously into his arms, leaving him fumbling to balance the file and the surprisingly heavy object he’s been given. “Um,” he says, intelligently.

“What am I meant to do with it?”

Tango isn’t even sure what it is yet, so he ignores the question in favour of peeling the blanket back and looking at the thing underneath. A pair of eyes stare back at him, bright blue and unblinking. Right. Alright. That’s a thing.

Right. Goblin King…gave Jimmy a baby goblin. He’s pretty sure goblins just naturally emerge from the stone of their caves, but that doesn’t explain why Jimmy has now come to be in possession of a baby. Even less so why fWhip specifically took the time out of his day to give the baby to Jimmy.

He grimaces at the small creature, more than a little unnerved by the fact that it hasn’t blinked yet.

“And you gave it to me, why?” He holds the baby a little further away from himself, attempting to give it back to Jimmy. Jimmy steps backwards, tripping over his own hooves, and fumbling to catch himself on the edge of the desk. He succeeds in catching himself on Tango’s desk, simultaneously succeeding in disturbing the piles of paper he had spent the morning organising. “I don’t like children.”

“You're smart, you know what to do with a child, right?”

“I might have been a bandit but I never kidnapped a child.” The baby reaches a hand towards his face, grabbing hold of some of his hair and yanking. Tango grimaces at the feeling, pulling his head back to try and avoid the small fists. “I had standards. And a limit on where my patience ends.”

“I wasn’t saying you would, Red,” Jimmy frowns at him. Tango huffs a laugh from his nose, and he watches as Jimmy’s frown deepens. “You were being mean, alright. Nevermind, I don’t think you have any standards. Your standards are terrible.”

“And what does that say about you?”

“That you're lucky to have me.”

The baby makes a small sound, reaching for his hair again. He should have cut it ages ago, should have ignored Jimmy when he said that he liked it. Sure, being able to braid his hair is an added bonus that he gets to enjoy on a morning when Jimmy does it for him, but it’s not worth this. He’s going to have to wash his hair later.

“Did you date fWhip at some point,” he asks.

Jimmy stares at him. “What?” He sounds like he’s either about to start laughing or crying.

“Just,” he gestures helplessly, movements slightly hindered by the baby in his arms. “Babies normally come from a relationship. Or maybe he just really hates you.” The baby makes another grab for his face, aiming for his ear this time. “Just- take the baby, it’s not mine.”

Jimmy almost drops the baby, but manages to catch it quickly enough that it is as though nothing happened. He then cradles the baby in one arm, balancing it perfectly and easily. He looks at the baby, then back at Jimmy, then at the baby again. The baby looks perfectly content, like it might fall asleep.

“It’s not mine either!” Jimmy’s protest is loud enough that Tango worries they might be interrupted by some concerned citizen. He’s not sure how either of them would explain the baby that is very clearly a goblin.

“Alright,” he leans back against the cabinet behind him. “Let’s take this from the top. How did you go from having a meeting with the emperors to acquiring a child.”

“It was part of the meeting.”

“It was part of the meeting,” he repeats. “Alright. Why was it part of the meeting?”

“Because…fWhip got the crown, meaning he got to make a rule. And he wanted…all of us to take care of a goblin child. Like an adoption program.”

“And you just agreed?”

“Uh, yeah?” He’s pretty sure the baby has just fallen asleep. He’s heard Jimmy, several times, protest that he doesn’t know how to deal with children, let alone look after them. He sleeps in the same bed as a liar, apparently. “He has the crown right now.”

“And this crown is all-powerful, is it? All, wow, look at me, I'm so powerful and great and you must listen to my rules?”

“Only one rule.”

“That’s not the point, dear.” He sighs. “Is the crown magical?”

“Maybe?” Jimmy shrugs. “I haven’t been able to get my hands on it yet, but it’s old. Pix found it in a ruin.”

“And his first instinct was to make a game with it? This old and potentially evil crown that might be able to…I don’t know- it might do something!”

“I didn’t think about it very much!” Jimmy protests, still looking at him with his sad eyes. Those eyes stopped working around the time that he figured out Jimmy practiced them in front of a mirror to manipulate him. “This is why you need to come to these meetings with me.”

“No.” He ignores Jimmy’s still sad eyes. “I went for a few, and that was it. You’ll have to tie me up and drag me through the door to get me there.”

“I'm not doing that.”

“Which is why I suggested it,” he smiles. “Now, what you're going to do is take the baby back to Gobland, and we can pretend all of this never happened.”

“But I can’t.”

“Why.” He taps a finger against the cabinet behind him. It isn’t an impatient move, just something he does when he’s thinking hard. He’s calculating, right now, how much work he’ll be able to do while Jimmy returns the baby. He might even be able to finish organising the cabinet. And then he can relax.

“Because of the rule.”

“Alright,” he sighs. “How do you make the rule stop…being in effect.”

“You steal the crown.”

“Well,” he claps his hands together. “Fantabulous, you’ve got your solution. Get him while he’s least expecting it.”

“That’s not a word.”

“Yes it is,” he lies through his teeth. He doesn’t know if it’s a word. Half the words he says aren’t words. It doesn’t matter, they convey his emotions well enough. “Take the baby back to the Goblands.”

“But what if it gets hurt?”

“Bigger chance of it getting hurt with us taking care of it.” He reasons. “I regularly catch on fire. If the cats didn’t land on their feet, you’d have dropped one of them on their head at this point.”

“Harsh.”

“But true,” he presses a kiss to Jimmy’s cheek as he walks past. “If you're quick we might be able to go for an early dinner at Chromia.”

“We’ll go there anyway,” Jimmy grumbles half-heartedly. “It’s a Tuesday. You and Scott have your weird little competition.”

“You love it really.” He calls over his shoulder, already occupying himself again. He prefers doing something to sitting around idly. “Have fun returning the child!” Jimmy doesn’t respond, but he does shut the door gently behind him. Doesn’t make up for the hole in the wall (Tango almost managed to forget about that), but the thought is appreciated.

Jimmy is fantastic, but if he comes back with another child Tango might just kill him.

#juno.writes #red bandit au #jimmy solidarity #tangotek #solidaritek #trafficshipping #empires smp #empires smp fic #empires smp s2 #team rancher #solidarity gaming #solidaritygaming #empires jimmy #empires tango

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scribbling-dragon · 11 months

Text

breaking the ice

summary:

“What have we got here?” The man grins, brushing closer to him, but not quite close enough to touch. He tilts his head, hair laying flat against his head. Sparks shower out, cyan and orange dotting his clothes. He turns his arms over, admiring the pattern they leave behind before they fade again and the man is in front of him once more.

“What are you doing?” Martyn asks, the fifth time the man has teleported to be beside him, no longer jolting in surprise at the sudden shower of sparks and appearance of the man beside him.

(ao3 link)

(2,714 words)

If Martyn could shiver, he’d probably have shuddered his way out of his own skin by now. But he can't, meaning he’s left to continue floating miserably upwards, accepting his fate of continuing ever upwards, never to escape from the clutches of the sky.

He won't freeze, either, when he gets beyond the sphere of warmth that keeps everything else alive. The lack of air might bring a more significant challenge, but he might just be able to freeze himself entirely solid.

He slumps a little at the thought, though his slumping does very little to stop him from rising several feet higher. The air here is a little thinner, the tips of mountains just fading from his view as they grow smaller and smaller below him. His hands haven't begun to tingle with the tell-tale sign of the effect wearing off. His veins continue to buzz with the magic coursing through them, and, not for the first time, he curses his own curiosity. And then the stupid geyser that had seemed like a lot of fun at first- but now, this.

Something pops behind him, and he twists, hood falling in front of his face as he turns. He pushes it back, just in time to watch a man disappear in a puff of particles, orange and cyan swirling around his face. He blinks, sneezing as one lands on his nose. He jerks with the motion, spinning halfway round in the air.

The man reappears a moment later, particles bursting outwards from a previously empty bit of air. He grins up at him, seeming to hover in place for a moment as he hovers. Martyn continues to rise in the air, but he twists to look down at this new person.

Whatever was keeping the man afloat seems to disappear, as he plummets. Martyn shouts something- no words actually make it through his brain, coming out in a scramble of noise as the man drops like a stone. He pops back into existence beside Martyn’s head, hair floating around his face, stirred by an invisible breeze.

“What are you doing?” Martyn asks, the fifth time the man has teleported to be beside him, no longer jolting in surprise at the sudden shower of sparks and appearance of the man beside him.

“Watching you,” the man answers simply, twisting about in the air casually, as though there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, like, maybe on the ground? “You seem to have gotten yourself in a predicament, huh?” The man has an accent, smoothing over his words as he watches Martyn with something close to fascination.

“Yeah, nothing like endlessly floating and waiting for everything to be over.”

The man laughs at that, teleporting twice more before he stops. The teleporting cuts his laugh up, makes it more choppy, disorganising it and spreading it apart. It’s odd, to watch this man disappear and reappear, floating around Martyn as though he’s the one with levitation.

“Do you trust me?” The man asks, once he’s managed to stop laughing. Martyn didn't even think it was that funny.

“Why would I trust someone I don't even know the name of?”

The man’s face scrunches up, the bands on his arms pulsing for a moment. Martyn watches them move with fascination - he had thought they were tattoos before, circular designs decorating the man’s arms. But they move, as though with minds of their own.

“Why would I help someone I don't even know the name of?” The man counters. He reappears on Martyn’s other side, forcing him to turn and face the man-without-a-name. “Why do we do anything?”

“Right, thanks,” he pushes the man slightly away from himself, conscious of how close they had begun to drift. The man pops up on his other side, legs crossed beneath himself as he watches Martyn. “Don't exactly need a second crisis on top of the current one.”

“A crisis that could very easily be solved,” the man smiles, “if you trusted me.”

Martyn watches him for several long moments, which is made increasingly harder with how he seems to enjoy popping in and out of existence, twisting in a circle around Martyn, forcing him to follow along with his actions.

“Fine,” he grits out after several long moments, causing the man’s smile to get even wider, the points of his teeth becoming more obvious as he leans closer; the grin is almost cheshire-like in nature. “I trust you.”

“Fantastic!” The man disappears again, and Martyn’s stomach drops, considering that maybe this had just been something for the man to toy with, and that he actually wouldn't be able to help in any kind of way.

He scowls to himself, limbs going loose and relaxed as he slumps over in frustration. It does nothing, the endless force continuing to carry him upwards, towards the gaping maw of the void above. It’s slowly widening, opening in greeting as it prepares to swallow him whole. Maybe it’ll even kill him, if the cold won't.

Air brushes over the side of his face, stirring the short hairs there and causing him to shiver. The reaction is involuntary, as is the way his mouth opens slightly at the feeling, a silent breath escaping him.

“Hold on for just a moment,” that same voice breathes into his ear, a hand slipping under his arm to press against his chest; the heel of his palm digs in just below his heart. He can feel the thumping of it vibrate against the man’s hand. A warmth blooms out from there, heating his skin to where he’s almost convinced he’s burning alive.

And then he’s gone.

He’s left feeling weightless, still lifting higher into the sky. Where it had been easy to breathe before, suddenly, now, the air refuses to enter his lungs. It leaves him with a heaving chest, pressing a hand where the man had just touched him. It’s still warm, his heart still thumping hard enough to be felt, hard enough that he worries that his ribs might bruise.

He digs his fingers into the skin there, looks down. But the fabric isn’t charred, no blackening or curling edges of fabric to hint at why that warmth seems to have wormed its way under his skin- why it now seems to be intent on cooking him alive.

His coat is too warm for him, claustrophobic around him in a way it’s never been before. He curls his hand into it, feeling uncomfortable with this sudden heat when it’s the opposite of everything he’s meant to be. His fingers dig into his chest, curling into his skin, as though he could rip this sudden warmth from himself.

He curls a little tighter into himself, feeling the steady beat of his heart against his palm. It’s reassuring, something to measure and breathe beside, to confirm that he can still breathe, that the air isn't thin enough to send him into light-headedness.

Just as everything balances itself back out again, something tugs in his chest. It’s soft at first, a small, experimental tug, as though testing the waters. Whatever it is, the test is deemed successful, as the grip tightens and then yanks.

He stumbles, hunching over as a dizzying wave of nausea washes over him, hands braced against his knees. He sinks a little further down as the dizziness doesn't go away, and his vision turns black and watery- wavering slightly, like a shitty video.

The ground beneath him is solid- the ground below him.

He gasps out on the next breath, blinking in an attempt to clear his vision faster, glancing around at the field he’s currently sat in, and the house a few feet ahead of him.

And he’s alone.

There’s nothing around but a few chickens, all a safe distance away from him, clucking happily to themselves as they root around in the grass for seeds and worms. He stares at them for longer than he probably needs to, watching them move around; watching the way the wind ruffles their feathers; watches the way two of them step towards each other, heads jittery as they eye each other up, before moving onwards again; watches the way that a butterfly lands on a stem of grass, the way it bends beneath the weight, the way it flutters its wings once before drifting off again.

“Nice, isn't it?”

Martyn jumps at the sudden voice, stumbling up and to his feet, almost toppling over with the momentum and lack of weightlessness as he stands. The man grabs him by the arms, easing him back upwards, continuing to hold onto him, even once he’s managed to get his feet under himself again.

“What the hell,” Martyn says. He pulls his arms back out of the man’s grip, taking a small step back, putting distance between them, no matter how small that distance actually is. “Do you get a kick out of scaring people?”

“Yes, actually.” The man’s head tilts to the side, and he’s grinning again. He’s watching Martyn, eyes dragging over him as he takes in every bit of him. “Only a few people ever hear me coming, and even then they don't know where I am.”

“That’s mean.”

“I could have left you up there,” the man’s face flattens back out. The rings around his arms drop to his wrists, rattling around the bone there like bangles before they come to a halt, clanking against each other as the man takes a step to the side.

He reappears behind Martyn, looking him over there. “You even have a tail,” he comments, and Martyn turns, still a little unsteady on his feet but pulling himself away when the man goes to support him again. “What are you?”

“Don't you think it’s a little rude to ask that?” Martyn responds, crossing his arms. Something about this man sets him slightly off-kilter, not certain on how he’s supposed to act when faced with someone he doesn't even know the name of. “I don't even know your name.”

“Scott,” the man grabs his hand and shakes it, “pleasure to meet you…?”

“Martyn,” he responds, when the man - Scott - lets his voice trail off meaningfully. “It’s still rude to ask what someone is.”

“I've just never seen anyone like you before,” Scott says, still circling around him. Like a shark circling its prey. The comparison does nothing to ease Martyn’s nerves. His fingers feel too stiff to even think about holding a sword right now. “The hooves and antlers made me think deer of some kind, but the grey and blue threw me off a little. And then you were just so cold when I touched you. Like you had ice running through your veins. And it’s waaay too hot for you to be wearing that coat right now, but you're doing it anyway?”

“You some kind of expert?”

“No, but I have been around the block,” Scott tilts his head to the side, popping in and out of space as he reappears next to Martyn, stretching up to peer at his antlers, a hand hovering just above his shoulder, as though for balance. “Seen plenty of people wandering about, some lost some not, others simply exploring. Some friendly…some not.”

“I can't see how anyone could dislike you,” he says. “You're so forward with information and understanding of people’s personal space.”

“All you had to do was say,” Scott says, stepping back and looking at him with his unfairly pretty eyes. “And there was hardly any time to tell you anything up there, I was constantly playing catch-up and toying with how far I could fall before teleporting to you again.”

“You could tell me now.”

“Alright!” Scott chirps, “Pleasure to meet you, strange ice man, I am Scott, the lovely and local transporter, at your service. And I don't even charge for use of those services,” Scott grins at him, as though any of that was charming. And- alright, maybe some of it was a little charming, in a weird sort of way. Like when you found a feral cat in the area near your house and thought it was quite sweet in its violent, insane little way.

He even does a little bow, bending himself at the waist and looking up at him from beneath his hair.

“Alright, alright,” he huffs a laugh despite himself. “I'm a chillager.”

“A chillager?” Scott pops back into his personal bubble with a flash of sparks, peering closer at him. “Are you sure? You certainly don't look like one I've ever met before…”

Martyn thinks he’s been quite controlled up until this point. He really, really thinks he has, actually. And, at this point, Scott is deserving of whatever Martyn serves to him. He closes his hand into a fist, yankwing downwards, feeling the water vapour in the air around them rapidly condensing and freezing.

The snow dumps on top of them with little mercy, large chunks of ice rolling further out. Martyn stares at the small mound of snow he’s created, considering that he’s maybe done a little too much this time, pulled slightly too much water into his control.

He watches the snow. The snow that has entirely swamped Scott, almost drowning him beneath it. He can't see hair nor hide of the other man. So he rocks back on his heels and waits. And then waits a little longer.

And then a little longer.

A small thread of anxiety begins to curl in his stomach - what if teleporters are extremely vulnerable to cold? He’s never met a teleporter before, will it be his fault if he’s accidentally just murdered the guy? What if he’s the last of his kind- he’s never met a teleporter before, that’s gotta be for a reason, right? What if they're all dead, and he’s just managed to kill the last of the teleporter species.

He digs his hands into the snow, shovelling it out of the way quickly, digging deeper and berating himself for dumping so much snow on top of the man- his mother would kill him if she knew what he’s just done. Exercising control and restraint is very important. All of which do not include dumping snow on a guy, even if he was really annoying.

He brushes against something solid within the snow, something that moves when he touches it. He heaves some more snow out of the way, coming face to face with a grinning Scott. The man’s hair is damp and plastered against his face from the snow, but he’s still grinning. Doesn't look even a little bit hurt.

He’s leaned over Scott, looking over his face for any small winces of pain, before he can even think about it. Maybe he just has a grin constantly plastered on his face, or something, and so he can't show pain or cold.

“Aw,” Scott sits up, snow cascading from his very bare shoulders. He doesn't even look cold. “Were you worried about me?”

Martyn scowls at him, considering how much more snow he might be able to dump on him with the significantly depleted water vapour around them. Definitely still enough to bury him again.

His silence is apparently enough of a response as Scott’s grin grows further, sharp teeth glinting under the light. “You know I could just teleport myself out, right?” He asks, a laugh beginning to bubble under his voice.

Actually, screw whatever his mother says. He dumps more snow on the guy, patting a hand against it to solidify it a little more, pack it in a little tighter.

Scott continues to laugh, even if it is slightly more muffled now. Martyn scowls at the mound of snow, hoping that he freezes to death a little quicker.

Except he doesn't, really, even if Scott teleporting behind him makes him reconsider the whole swearing off on murder attempts. He could make an exception, just this once.

#juno.writes #new life smp #nlsmp #martyn inthelittlewood #inthelittlewood #new life smp fic #newlife scott #newlife martyn #scott smajor #mean gills #majorwood #trafficshipping

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scribbling-dragon · 6 months

Text

nighttime hauntings

summary:

(ao3 link)

(4,317 words)

heyy! happy halloween! as a gift have my personal little silly thing that i had a bunch of fun writing, don't question the worldbuilding too much! (you want to reblog this soooo bad and leave me nice little comments in the tags, soo bad <3)

The tarmac is cool beneath his feet – well, paws? They're paws right now, but they're feet a majority of the time. And ‘feet’ refers to anything you stand on, probably, so till feet…just paw-shaped right now – as he waits patiently. Maybe a little impatiently, hopping from one foot to the other, claws clacking against the cool ground.

The bell jingles and he jerks his head up. He almost smiles, before remembering that such an expression is truly horrifying when he’s like this – Scott had made sure to tell him as such when Jimmy last did it to him, and the siren usually prefers to coat his words in much more honey. The insult wasn’t even thinly veiled, it was just an insult.

His tail begins wagging, almost on its own, as the person he was waiting for steps out onto the darkened street.

He lets out a small bark as greeting, watching as his friend looks up, before smiling at him as well. He stops to check the road before bounding across, skidding to a stop at Tango’s feet. The barista is still smiling, that oddly restrained smile that only just shows a peek of his teeth.

“Hey, buddy,” Tango crouches down, reaching out a hand to stroke along the top of Jimmy’s head. “I’ve only got a few things for you today, but I'm sure it’s more than enough.”

Jimmy can’t respond to him right now, but he hopes the wagging of his tail is enough to communicate that even the smallest of scraps are always enough for him; as long as Tango is the one bearing those scraps, he’ll happily take whatever is given to him.

He takes the piece of food – some kind of croissant? He’s not sure what exactly it is, but it’s tasty, even after sitting on a shelf for most of the day – carefully between his teeth, making sure not to accidentally nip Tango. He’d never forgive himself if he did that, even went so far as to refuse taking food from Tango’s hand for the first few months of their little arrangement.

Tango smiles down at him as he finishes chewing, before standing up straight. The small box the scraps came in is neatly folded into a cardboard square and disposed of in the nearest bin they pass by.

Tango walks quite briskly, as though he has somewhere to be. He doesn’t, Jimmy knows. Not in a weird way! Or a creepy one! He just never leaves the house after Jimmy walks him home, choosing to stay inside. He doesn’t think Tango has very many friends, otherwise he wouldn’t be choosing to take the closing shift at a café that operates on disgustingly early and late hours. He would probably also be leaving his house between shifts.

Again, not in a creepy way! Jimmy is just slightly worried about Tango…they may have only had a few conversations in passing when Jimmy has chosen to visit the café as a human-shaped patron, but he likes to think he has a pretty good feel for the man next to him.

Tango’s hand rests on his head as they wait to cross the road, the flickering orange lamp only briefly illuminating the zebra crossing. Jimmy sits dutifully at his side, scanning the darker corners that Tango wouldn’t be able to see into with his subpar night vision.

Only when Tango lifts his hand from Jimmy’s head does he begin to move again, trotting at his heels.

It’s only a short walk to Tango’s apartment building, but it’s a rather dark one. Tango chooses to take more risks than he really should, crossing through darkened alleyways with little fear. The absolute lack of self-preservation has Jimmy’s heart going a mile a minute, jumping in his chest at every flickering shadow or small sound.

He growls at a rat that startled him, an entirely embarrassing encounter that has Tango cooing over him and stroking his ears; he feels hot under his fur, mortification sliding heavy down his spine as he resists the urge to hide his face. He’s only lucky he can’t blush like this, or any blush he would have is hidden beneath a thick layer of fur.

And, as always, the moment of parting arrives with the looming of Tango’s building.

He can’t help the way he slows his steps as they approach, mourning the end of their small journey for the evening. It would be far more convenient to start an actual conversation with Tango, either inside of his workplace or outside of it, the way his brothers have been telling him to. But he’s far more comfortable with everything as it is right now, and these small walks don't give him the opportunity to ruin everything with a blurted sentence that should have stayed internal.

A hand lands on his head, its weight comforting and familiar.

“See you soon,” Tango gives him that same odd smile, lips barely pulling back from his teeth. “Stay safe, alright? I’d be sad if my little buddy stopped showing up to greet me.”

Jimmy would equally be upset if he was no longer able to accompany Tango on his walks home. The city is dangerous at night, especially with all the creatures living within a small radius of each other. Jimmy can name three different vampires that live within a mile of Tango’s home. And those are only the ones he knows. Goodness knows what would happen if Tango chose to walk home on his own down those dark and disgusting alleyways.

Jimmy makes a small noise, ears drooping slightly as he presses his head forward for a final goodbye. The smell of coffee and sugar invades his senses briefly before he’s pulling away again, watching Tango let himself into his building.

Only when he sees the door click shut behind Tango and automatically lock does he turn to leave, trotting down a different alleyway in order to return to his own home for the evening.

=== === ===

Tango’s not entirely sure when the semi-regular routine began. Only that the habit is well-worn at this point, meaning it’s been at least two months. It takes two months to form a habit, apparently, though some people do it quicker than that. He, however, is a creature of habit and takes a while to adjust his routine.

Which is why it comes as a surprise to him when he finds that he’s already packed away several scraps, and bits of food that would go to waste at the end of the day otherwise, into a takeaway container, ready to give to his nightly companion.

He locks everything up inside first. He’s not going to rush out the door and become an incompetent employee just to go and see his furry friend quicker. Even if said furry friend is incredibly cute and really quite endearing, especially when he does the impatient little tippy-taps with his paws as he waits outside.

A normal person wouldn’t be able to pick up on such a tiny sound, but Tango strains his ears as he does one final sweep of the café, listening for the almost inaudible sound of claws clacking against the tarmac.

He smiles a little when he hears it, making his way towards the door, container tucked carefully beneath his arm. The keys jangle as he takes them out to lock the door, turning around in the small porch and locking the doorway.

He gives the handle a small test, finding that it resists, before finally turning to greet his friend.

“Hello, hello. Yes, yes, I'm sorry,” he crouches down to be more on the dog’s level, smiling at it as he reaches out to give it a quick pat on the head. “I didn’t mean to be so late, but, ugh, Tiffany- I've told you about Tiffany before, right?” The dog tilts its head to the side, though its ears perk forward as Tango speaks.

Tango knows full well that he’s currently having a conversation with a dog, but he can’t help it! He works the closing shift on his own most of the time, none of his co-workers choosing to stay past six p.m., when it starts to get a little bit too dark, or too late at night. Most of them are students at the local university, and they all have early lectures. Tango doesn’t mind taking the later shifts – much prefers taking them, actually, seeing as he doesn’t have to lug his stupidly old and stupidly heavy umbrella around with him– especially not when it helps out those he works with so much.

“Yeah, yeah,” he nods along like the dog responded to his earlier question. “Of course I've told you about Tiffany before, she’s, honestly, sorry for what I'm about to say, but she’s such a bitch. She came in, five minutes before closing. I’d been cleaning all the tables ready for closing and begun to stack the chairs, and she comes in and is all like, oh, so sorry darling,” he drags the darling out, “yeah. She says it just like that- and she comes in so sorry darling, but I've just got to have this coffee right now. You’d understand wouldn’t you? Working so late all the time, ugh, it must be so hard. Like, God, yeah, imagine not living off your husband’s money, Tiffany – I know far too much about this woman’s life, like, no, I am being paid minimum wage to sit and listen to you complain about your third husband’s spending habits, I don't actually care.”

He huffs out an exasperated breath, sagging forward momentarily. Still crouching right in front of the dog means he leans forward and directly into the dog, which does a rather valiant attempt to keep him upright.

“Ugh, sorry, I don't mean to complain. You're here for the scraps, I'm sure,” he pulls the box out from beneath his arm, setting it on his lap as he begins opening it, folding the cardboard edges away from each other. The dog whines, scraping its foot against his leg, before looking up at him with its incredibly sad and watery eyes.

He’s not actually sure what kind of dog it is. When he’d first been approached by it, he’d been taking the waste food out to the bins behind the café. He was certain he was about to be attacked by a rabid wolf, or something. As far as he knows, the only werewolves currently living in the city is a tiny pack of three, and all of them live on the opposite side of the city to him. But in that moment he’d been certain that he was going to be mauled to death by another creature of the night.

Instead, the hulking beast of an animal had sat down at his feet and given him the saddest little look ever, eyes large and watering until Tango had offered up a rather squashed croissant to it.

After that small encounter, he’d tried to find out what kind of dog it was, searching for it first online, and then resorting to a dog breeds guide at the nearby library, in the hopes that he might find what kind of dog was walking him home most weeks.

The most he’d been able to conclude was that it was probably at least half-wolf, though the other parent is unknown. Dog and wolf – both dolf and wog had sounded incredibly dumb, and the dog looks more like an overgrown, slightly shaggier family golden retriever than a wolf.

And it still doesn’t have a name.

He offers out the half-croissant he’d saved for it today, watching as it takes the treat carefully from his hand. He’s fed a few street dogs before, though none of them this consistently, and all the street dogs in the past had bitten at his fingers as they snatched the treat from him, desperate and starving, and willing to rip out someone’s throat to make sure they got the treat.

The delicacy with which this dog takes the treat only reinforces the idea that this dog was a family pet, one that was left behind when it only continued growing and the family could no longer cope with having such a large dog.

It licks his fingers for the last crumbs of the croissant before pulling back and looking at him with those same sad eyes.

“On better topics,” he begins, watching how the dog perks up at the sound of his voice. He almost wishes it were smaller, so he could at least try to sneak it into his apartment. “The cute guy came back today,” he strokes a hand absently over the dog’s head as he talks, “I still didn’t manage to get his name, oh, it’s so embarrassing. Joe – co-worker Joe, Joe that we like – makes fun of me for it every time, says it makes me incapable at my job the moment he walks in. I just can’t help it! He always sits at the window, and gets the same thing every single time. I mean, I get the same thing every time, I can respect that, but I still don't have his name.” He buries his face in his arms, ceasing the absent pets he was giving the dog. “Man, it’s embarrassing. I don't even know his name and he’s a regular. He comes in nearly every evening, and just sits in the window, perfectly aligned with the last bits of sunlight in order to make his hair turn golden.”

A wet nose presses against his arm, before an entire head forces its way through his crossed arms. He pulls back with a short laugh, pushing the dog backwards, hands on its chest.

“Ugh, just ignore me. I'm tired,” he sighs, hauling himself to his feet. “I forgot to have something to eat before I left for work, and now I'm starving.” The dog continues to look up at him as he walks, eyes fixed on him, wet and glittering under the occasional street lights. Despite it’s overall air of patheticness, it seems to be doing rather well for itself. It’s certainly not skinny, despite living right on the edges of the city, and it hasn’t been attacked by one of Tango’s hungrier neighbours yet.

…Though, that might be more to do with Tango than sheer luck.

He’s one of the older vampires in this part of the city, and most of the other ones are content to stay out of his way as long as he stays out of theirs. And he may have been rather unsubtle in his fondness for this particular dog, even going so far as to mark him with a small sigil – one only visible to other vampires, letting them know that they should keep their hands off. The sigil is small and unnoticeable when he doesn’t look for it, fading into background noise.

To other vampires, though, it’s like a blaring light that screams at them to stay away or face his wrath. A rather effective deterrent, if he may say so himself.

He crosses into the shadowed alleyways quickly, feeling far more relaxed here than under the pools of lamplight. The dog, however, presses closer to his legs worriedly, a low whine building in the back of its throat for the first few seconds, before cutting off rather abruptly.

Tango hums to himself, reaching down to pat the dog on its head, stroking a hand over the unruly tufts there in an attempt to smooth them down.

He moves quicker through the dark alleyways. The dog doesn’t like walking through them, but it’s far quicker than taking the main streets, even if these are darker and a little more…disgusting. Still, the dog seems happier when they finally emerge from the twisting maze of brick and crawling moss, wagging its tail again and straying a little further from his side.

Still, he feels more than a little bad when he turns to face it on his doorstep, crouching down again to bid it goodbye.

“I’ll see you soon, alright?” The dog tilts its head at the exact same time he does, looking even sadder than it had when he first stepped out the café. It would almost be worth it, getting kicked out of his apartment, just to smuggle the dog inside for an evening. “And I’ll have something better than half a croissant next time, I swear.”

The dog wags its tail twice before stopping again, watching from its spot as Tango backs up towards his apartment building. He gives it one last wave before he pushes through the doors, pulling it shut behind himself.

When he glances back through the glass, the dog is already gone.

=== === ===

Jimmy waited patiently, tail curled neatly around his paws as he watches the door carefully. There’s been movement inside for the past few minutes, despite the closed sign already being flipped. Meaning its almost time for Tango to emerge from the darkness and come greet him with a smile.

He’s been worried about Tango recently. His apparent lack of friends aside, he’s been looking paler than before, almost sick with it, and he’d been stumbling yesterday when Jimmy went in for his usual coffee. He wasn’t able to get close enough to check on him then, standing at the respectable distance that humans normally choose to keep between themselves. But now, shifted and covered in a layer of fur, it’s far more acceptable for him to get that close.

He perks up at the sound of jangling keys, hopping to his feet and crossing the road before the door even finishes closing.

Only to skid to a halt before he can reach the person- because it’s just a person, not Tango.

He begins backing away, only to be caught in the act as the person turns around to face him. Another co-worker, one that Jimmy vaguely recognises as Joe, both from his visits to the café and Tango’s stories about his day.

“Heya there,” Joe waves to him, wiggling his fingers slightly at the end. “Didn’t think you’d be here tonight, looking for your buddy?”

Jimmy doesn’t make any response that would indicate understanding, simply continuing to stare up at Joe. He doesn’t know what to make of Joe, something uneasy prickling along his spine as he stares up at him. He’d never been able to get a read on the guy, but something about him just made Jimmy feel…off. Uneasy. Not unsafe, never unsafe, but healthily wary.

“Aw, well, he’s out sick today. He’s not been looking good recently, so you might not be seeing him for a bit.” Joe locks the door as he talks, turning his head over his shoulder to face Jimmy. He’s still smiling, oddly enough. “I'm sure he’ll be back, right as rain, soon enough! Nothing keeps Tango down for long. Nothing can keep Tango down for long,” Joe laughs. Then stops laughing nearly as quickly as he had begun. “You’d better run along, I've got no scraps for you tonight. Not that you’d take them from me, I don't think.”

Joe watches him for a moment longer, before making a gentle shooing motion.

Jimmy feels as though he's been broken from a trance, abruptly backing up before turning away, beginning a slow trot away from the café as he thinks. He still doesn’t feel good around Joe, and that right there was creepily similar to the time when Scott wanted to show him what a siren could really do with their voice. But there was no urge to offer himself up to the man, only a need to stay and listen to whatever it was he had to say.

Whatever Joe is, Jimmy has no interest in finding out.

Disappointed in how his evening has turned out, he slips into the forest rather than making the trip back across the city. He’s not looking to be teased by his brothers about this when he’s not even managed to see Tango. He’d much rather kill a rabbit, or something.

Or, he turns his head, the iron tang of blood filling his nose, perhaps he doesn’t even need to hunt down an entire animal. There seems to be some kind of injured creature out here that would be far easier to catch than the effort required for digging into a burrow.

He follows the scent deeper into the forest, only pausing to make sure he orients himself correctly and can find his way back to the city later.

The path zig-zags, as though the prey was desperately blundering its way through the undergrowth in its panic. Several leaves are dotted with crimson beads of blood, and the trail is laughably easy to follow. He keeps his nose to the ground anyway, snuffling along the small path of broken twigs and crushed underbrush.

A snapping twig has his ears pricking forward, a pained sound following afterwards.

He leaps forward, crashing through the bush ahead of him and ignoring the thorns that scrape along his sides as he lands. He almost slips on the leaves, skidding a little further than he had expected to.

The scent of blood is incredibly strong here, and it only takes him looking up to realise why.

Tango leans against the tree, another body beneath his own a dark shape. The pained sounds are coming from said body, though Tango seems to be ignoring them entirely, in favour of- in favour of…

There’s a wet sound as Tango pulls away from the person, turning to peer over his shoulder with squinted eyes. Those squinted eyes then rather quickly widen- and it’s the first time that Jimmy notices the red sheen they have to them, almost bright enough to glow.

What catches most of his attention, though, is the blood dripping down his chin, staining most of his lower face with it.

His heart in his throat and feeling as though he’s about to be sick from stress, he skitters back when Tango turns fully to face him. Somehow, he’s managed to not get any blood on his clothes.

He bursts back into a human, clothes settling heavily over him as he staggers to his feet, reeling backwards. “Holy shit!”

“Holy- what the hell!” Tango leaps to his feet as well, wide eyes now even wider. “You're- what!”

“You're a vampire!” He shouts back, confused and also more than annoyed with himself. “What- how didn’t I know? How the hell did you do so well at hiding it?”

“You- I didn’t know that you were a werewolf! Weredog- whatever!”

“I'm a werewolf,” he snaps back. “Not a dog.”

“You sure look like a dog,” Tango plants his hands on his hips, far too confident for someone that looks like he got dunked into a can of red paint. “A big dog, sure, but still a dog.”

“I'm a wolf, thanks,” he bristles. “And you're a vampire! You- is that guy gonna be okay?”

Said guy makes another pained sound.

“He’ll be fine,” Tango says. His voice is more than a little dismissive, only sparing a singular backwards glance over his shoulder. “He’ll just think he had a little too much to drink and ended up somewhere he doesn’t remember going.”

“And he’ll be fine?”

“He might need to eat a little more, replenish his blood. I don't know, man, I'm not a doctor.”

“If you're regularly draining people of their blood, then you need to be a little more careful.”

“I don't- this isn’t a normal thing,” Tango sighs. “I just haven’t been able to make time for the past few weeks so I was…a little more hungry than usual. This is a worst-case scenario.”

“Just, ugh, how didn’t I know?”

“How did neither of us know?” Tango turns the question back around. “God, we must be some pretty tremendous idiots to not have realised. C’mon, don't I smell like blood to your super sensitive nose?”

“No?” He blinks, “You smell like coffee, and sugar.”

“Oh, uh, alright,” Tango’s brows furrow together. “Mind if I get your name, by the way? You kept avoiding me at the café when I tried to ask. Makes a little more sense now, I guess.”

“I, yeah? I'm Jimmy, nice to meet you?” He groans, “This is weird as hell. You're covered in blood and I'm telling you my name.”

“Hey, hey, I've been trying to get that name for a while now.” Tango wags a finger at him, “Don't be weird just ‘cause this is weird- could be weirder, let me tell you.”

“Uh-huh, how could it be weirder?”

“I could ask you on a date now rather than tomorrow,” Tango smiles at him, small fangs poking over his lips as he watches. Waiting for a response. “It wouldn’t be to a café, for obvious reasons, but there’s a nice museum nearby that-”

“You want to ask me on a date?”

“…Yeah?”

“I just, ugh, why? I was going to ask you on a date months ago and decided against it!”

“Aw, you shoulda asked me,” Tango frowns. “There was an even better museum exhibit a few months ago.”

Jimmy opens his mouth to say something, but just starts laughing instead. He can see Tango watching him, from behind the tears forming in his eyes, but he can’t bring himself to stop laughing for another while yet.

“You're an idiot,” he manages between laughing.

“In a good way, or…?”

“Yeah, sure, in a good way.” He sighs, “What the hell, yeah, I’ll go on that date with you.”

“Wait, really?” Tango seems to light up, completely ignoring the blood on his face and the guy slumped over behind him. “Oh, how would you feel about dinner afterwards? On me, I swear.”

“As long as I'm not dessert,” he laughs.

Tango giggles alongside him, “Only if you offer, sweetheart.”

#juno.writes #solidaritek #jimmy solidarity #tangotek #trafficshipping #life series #traffic smp #traffic series #tango tek #team rancher #solidarity gaming #trafficfic

115 notes · View notes

scribbling-dragon · 6 months

Note

Hi!! can you write some fluff about pearl's slumber party?

absolutely! the little segment at the end of everyone's videos was so silly,, hope this did it justice!

hush hush

summary:

“Shush,” Pearl hisses, slightly more forceful than the last few times she’s told him to be quiet. “You're going to wake them up.” Despite her warning, she continues to let out small giggles every few seconds, and his comm continues to wobble in his hands as he tries to focus the camera. [Or, a small snippet from the sleepover at Pearl's.]

(ao3 link)

(1,531 words)

Pearl shushes him, even as she continues to giggle and distort the sound with her quiet hiccupping. She clasps a hand over her mouth a moment later in an attempt to muffle any sound she makes, while the other hand is held up in a command for silence.

Grian is doing much better in his attempts to stifle his own giggles, wobbling slightly as he leans further over the sleeping pair. He has to make sure he angles this properly, otherwise the photo is going to be ruined by his shadow.

He shakes his head and ducks down, still giggling. He’s not even sure what’s funny anymore, what it was that set them both off in the first place, but it’s gone three a.m. and everything has become wildly hilarious.

“Ugh,” both he and Pearl freeze. That small sound was more than enough to shut the two of them up. They turn their heads as one towards the source of the noise, his arms still extended and holding his comm out to take a photo. Skizz squints one eye open, looking about until it lands on them. “What’re you two doing?”

“Securing future blackmail material,” he whispers back, painfully aware of how close he is to everyone else and how easy it would be to wake someone else. He manages to finally get the perfect angle, no shadows cast over the target of his photo. The photo is snapped with a small click, and he pulls his trembling arms back towards himself.

“Nothing.” Pearl says, just moments after him. She turns a glare in his direction as soon as she’s spoken, fierce enough that he momentarily draws back an inch. “Gri! Why’d you spill the beans?”

“Shh,” he’s the one shushing her this time. “You don't wanna wake them, do you?”

“Course not. Just look at ‘em,” she gestures towards Jimmy and Tango. Grian, personally, couldn’t care less if they woke them now. The blackmail material is already safely tucked away into a secure folder, ready for the next opportunity to use it. (He’s thinking maybe at Jimmy’s birthday. Or Tango’s. He could put it on one of those custom cards.) “They're so cute like this.”

Skizz huffs a breath at that, almost sounding like he just disagreed with a widely agreed upon sentiment.

Grian pauses at the same time as Pearl, each of them staring at the other before turning as a single unit towards Skizz, where the man has just begun to sit up.

“Skizz,” Grian says, drawing the word out as a smile curls over his face.

“You got something you wanna share?” Pearl leans a little closer, eyes wide with excitement.

“It’s creepy when you two do that,” Skizz tells them, pointing a finger like he’s trying to be stern. “I hope you know that. You're like some freaky twines straight outta horror film.”

They turn to look at each other then back at Skizz. “Creepy?”

“Uh, yeah. Did you see what you just did then?”

Grian maintains his confused expression for only a moment longer, breaking down into giggles. He leans up against Pearl as he laughs, feeling the way her shoulders shake as she leans into him as well. “Oh, man,” he swipes a thumb under his eye. “Skizz, your face.”

“What about my face,” Skizz crosses his arms. “There’s nothing wrong with my face.”

“Oh, nevermind,” Pearl waves a hand flippantly. “What I do mind is you keeping secrets from everyone else. You got something you wanna say about our lovebirds over there?”

Grian glances back at Jimmy and Tango, finding that they’ve somehow managed to cuddle even closer to each other. Tango’s being held tightly by Jimmy, as though he’s some oversized teddy-bear, barely visible between Jimmy’s arms and wings. Tango, for his part, seems rather content with this arrangement, tail curled around Jimmy’s leg as the pair continue to sleep.

“Ugh, what don't I have to say about those two,” Skizz drops his head to cradle it in his hands. “I know we called it Love Island and all, but I think that name needs to be changed now.”

“Heart Foundation sounded fine to me,” Grian frowns. “I don't see why you had to change it.”

“Cleo said-” Skizz cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “You know what, nevermind.”

“What did Cleo say?” Pearl scoots a little closer to Skizz.

“Nothing, nothing.” Skizz laughs. “We changed it because Cleo said the name was bad. That we have bad taste in names.”

“Uh-huh,” Grian gets the feeling they're not being told the full reason, especially with the way Skizz snuck a glance over at him, only to look again when he realised Grian was still watching him. “Sure.”

“I'm being serious,” Skizz holds his hands up. “D’you wanna hear what I have to say or not? Because I'm perfectly happy to just go back to sleep…” Skizz starts to roll over, pulling the blanket of his temporary bed up to his shoulders.

“No,” he lunges forward and tugs the blanket away, wrapping it around himself and grinning smugly at Skizz. He pauses, then sticks his tongue out for good measure. “I’ll give this back if your story is good enough.”

Skizz pulls a face. “No way. You can just say that it’s not good enough, there’s no categories to rank it against.��

“Fine. I’ll give it back once you finish telling us the story.”

“I was just gonna say how they're constantly being all…sickly sweet with each other,” Skizz gestures towards Jimmy and Tango. “Jimmy comes over to Love Island, and he swims through the water every single time. I think he does it just because he knows how Tango will react!”

“And how does Tango react?”

“He’ll laugh at him for a second, and then he’ll go get a towel – and this towel specifically belongs to Jimmy for when he does this. And then they’ll just sit there as Tango lovingly goes through and dries every single feather; it’s cute, but it becomes a little less cute when your buddy just dropped you, again, to go help his boyfriend recover from being an idiot.”

“Shh,” Pearl warns, glancing over at Joel as he shifts in his sleep, then rolls over, muttering something incomprehensible. “Don't wanna wake anyone.”

“Sorry.” Skizz continues a little quieter a moment later, “You know that storm we had a few days ago?”

“Ugh, yeah,” he shivers at the thought, feathers puffing up a little behind him. He’d been stuck inside a temporary shelter until the rain stopped being so heavy for fear of waterlogging his wings and then having to spend hours drying them out again. “Horrible weather.”

“They were worse.” Skizz’s face flattens. “Jimmy was fussing over how warm Tango was, and then Tango was fussing over how wet Jimmy’s wings were. I couldn’t even leave! I just had to sit there and watch them be all lovey-dovey while it was miserable outside.”

“Well,” he reaches over to pat Skizz on the shoulder. “I don't have a solution for you there. But sorry for your loss, or whatever.”

“Like, I love the guy! But there’s some things you don't do when your house doesn’t have any dividing walls!”

“Oh my god, did they-”

“Ew, no,” Skizz reels back. “Ew, don't even make me think about that, man. No, they didn’t. But Tango is loud when he purrs, and it’s really difficult to sleep with a motor engine rumbling on in the background!” Huh. Funny. Grian hadn’t noticed Tango purring at all earlier, despite being so wrapped up in Jimmy’s embrace.

All three of them freeze again as a small snuffling sound permeates the silence, turning as one being towards where Jimmy stirs. “Issit day yet?”

Grian throws Skizz’s blanket back towards him in a panic, wrapping himself in his own as he acts like he was asleep the entire time. He hears similar frantic shuffling of fabric as the other two copy him, before everything falls silent again.

Grian can still see where Jimmy and Tango lie together, holding his breath as he waits for Jimmy to go back to sleep.

“No,” one of Tango’s eyes slits open. Grian can see the way it glows in the gloom. “Go back to sleep, it’s the middle of the night still.”

Jimmy makes a small humming noise before he, seemingly, goes back to sleep.

Grian can feel his heart thumping in his chest, a little giddy at being caught. Especially when Tango’s eye continues to remain slit open, the faint light remaining for another minute or so before Tango, too, goes back to sleep.

Or maybe falls asleep for the first time that evening.

…Was he awake that whole time?

Grian muffles a nervous giggle into the palm of his hand, hearing as Pearl, then Skizz start giggling a little as well.

#writing requests are still open <3 #if anyone has any ideas for something. the only thing i'm working on rn is my halloween fic #asks #lovequeerloki #juno.writes #secret life smp #slsmp #slsmp spoilers #skizzleman #pearlescentmoon #grian #trafficshipping #(references to solidaritek)#secret life skizz #secret life pearl #secret life grian #secret life smp fic #trafficfic

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scribbling-dragon · 4 months

Note

30 for seablings? not sure if you've ever written them before

shared history (forgotten past)

summary:

Leaving the egg behind, despite how she might later look back on it, was not easy. With the rose-tinted glasses of the future (a phrase she’ll learn and forget, and learn again as she has this realisation) she can say it was as easy as breathing. As easy as taking one step and then another. It was not easy.

(ao3 link)

(1,892 words)

[quick warning that this fic does talk A LOT about death. it's a recurring thing within it, and not something that i want people to be unaware of when going into this fic. take care! <3 this fic was also done for these writing prompts!]

It was not easy.

It was days and nights of sitting and considering. Cradling the delicate egg close to herself. It is the only thing she has. She is the only thing it has. There is nothing left for them in this world other than each other.

Still, an egg is not good company. She has sat beside this egg, day in and day out, hiding when she can. Fleeing when she cannot. She uses the currents to her advantage, hides in places where the salmon cannot reach them. Where they are safe, if only for a little bit, if only until the salmon figure out how to reach her and the little egg, and she is forced to flee again.

She is not certain that whatever is in the egg – a sibling, it’s something related to her, a sibling – is still alive. She can’t be certain that the egg she carries with her, the egg that despite it’s small size makes her arms ache and bring tears to her eyes, still contains some kind of life.

For all she knows, she might be carrying an egg that has already begun to rot from the inside out.

The egg has not hatched yet, and it feels as though hundreds of years have passed. Maybe it will never hatch. Maybe it’s just an oddly shaped rock that she’s been swimming around with no justification for it other than she cannot be the only one.

Sometimes, she almost swears she can feel a heartbeat pulsing through the shell. Can feel it in her claws and in her fins, but when she shifts her hands slightly it fades as quickly as it had arrived. Maybe the egg is empty, has nothing at all within it, and it can only imitate that which is around it. It echoes her own heartbeat back into her eyes, giving her the false hope that she clings to.

(Please, she finds herself begging with increasing frequency, please, please, please, don't let her be the only one. Don't leave her alone. She’s not sure she can survive that. Not sure that she would want to.)

She presses on. Forges onwards despite the doubts that continue to claw at the edges of her mind.

The salmon continue to attack. They are mocking and malicious. They taunt her with their silence, refusing to utter a single word that would break the silence she has wrapped herself in. Layer after layer of silence covers her, tightening around her body as another layer is added, day after day after day.

Maybe all the muscles in her throat have atrophied. Maybe she will never be able to utter a single word.

She can’t bring herself to speak into the shell of this fragile egg. This small thing cradled close to her chest. Her heart beats, strong against the weak shell of the egg. She fears, sometimes, in the quieter moments, that her heart may beat too fast, too hard, and the egg will simply crack under the pressure.

She snaps and snarls at the salmon the next time they approach her and the egg. Lashes out at the few that attempt to dart forward and steal the last egg from her grasp- as though they haven’t taken enough already!

Waking amongst the destroyed shells of her siblings was a horror she doesn’t like to linger on. The cracked eggs, empty and devoid of life. The frantic scramble through a nursery turned graveyard. The panic that had overtaken her, the one that has not yet unhooked its claws from her skin, the one that lingers.

The dizzying relief of finding another egg is also something she has never experienced again after that moment.

A single egg, trapped beneath the tossed aside shell of one of her – their – siblings. She had almost given up hope on this egg, too, had seen the flattened side from where the shell had rested on it too long.

But it had been intact. And there was a heartbeat inside of it. One that slowed to follow the gradually slowing beat of her own heart.

She had sat beside that egg for months.

She had watched it, day in, day out. She had barely dared to move from where she sat, fearful that if she pulled herself away for even a moment, went to chew on some seagrass or try and find some kelp, that she would come back to a cracked egg. A slightly larger graveyard.

That looming loneliness had kept her rooted to the spot, even as the sand gathered around her. Even as it began to gather beneath her scales and itch.

As the months dragged into years the bitter taste of fear began to rear its ugly head. She squashed it at first, dismissing the worries for something unfounded. This egg was smaller than the one she hatched from. Was smaller than most of the eggs around it. Maybe it was younger.

There was no one to ask how long she had remained in her egg for.

The egg might take another hundred years to hatch. Might take another thousand.

She would wait. She has waited. There’s no reason to stop waiting now, no reason to abandon this egg for dead when she may as well lay herself in front of the salmon and ask them to kill her.

To abandon the egg would be to abandon the hope for companionship.

She is not alone, never alone, even if her only company is an egg. One that thumps the same heartbeat as she does. She doesn’t dare utter a word to its shell, doesn’t dare breathe a word into the shell, for fear that there is an emptiness within it that would echo the words back.

So, she clutches the egg close. She weaves it a sling of kelp and seagrass, one to keep it close to her chest and free her hands.

The salmon continue to grow. No matter how many she kills and eats they come back stronger. She kills one and two return. She kills the two, and four take their place.

There are only so many places she can run to. Only so many places she dares to venture this deep. This dark. There are things lurking here worse than the salmon. They would not appreciate her waking them from their slumber, just as she would not appreciate staring into a deep-sea trench and discovering that it is staring back at her.

The light of the ocean above looks more tempting by the day.

It looks warm and comfortable. Safe from the salmon that lurk in the shadows and pursue her slowly.

They are waiting for her to tire. She knows this. She fears this. Can feel the exhaustion beginning to tug on her bones, making her just that fraction slower as she escapes. The salmon get closer each time, closer and closer until she’s just barely avoiding them.

They are mocking her, she knows. They speak in that silent language of theirs and mock her for carrying an unhatched egg.

She clutches it ever closer and prays that there is something, anything, out there that might take pity on her.

No response comes. And she takes matters into her own hands, sick of waiting and tired of the dark and the cold and the loneliness. She seizes the first opportunity she has and forces herself into those warmer waters.

The egg does not pulse at her. Does not imitate her heartbeat.

The egg drags her down, makes the ascent difficult. There are many opportunities to abandon it. To untie the sling that keeps it close and watch it sink into the depths. Just another sibling to join the graveyard she’s left behind.

But this egg has colour. This egg has the potential for life and she cannot bring herself to abandon the thing that has pushed her forward this entire time. Cannot abandon the opportunity for companionship.

Until she does.

Until the warmer waters prove to be hostile too, and the land begins to look more and more safe as the days roll by. Time had been an unknown thing in the dark depths, but here there is a clear order to it, a darkness and a light. A day and a night.

The salmon here are more vicious. Faster. They have fed well on the prospering lands in a way their relatives in the deep had not. The salmon there had been meek, she realises, in comparison to these warm-water salmon.

It is with a heavy heart and a decision that is not as easy as breathing – she may say it is, in the future, a tease, to a companion she hadn’t known she lost until she found him again – but it is not easy now.

It is not easy to rip through the sling, grief slowing her movements. She tucks the egg away into a place it will be safe. Somewhere the salmon do not patrol.

The warmth seems to have done the egg some good.

That new confidence, that new hope, allows her to lean close to the egg, floating serenely in the shallow and muddy waters of a swamp, and bring her mouth close to the egg.

“You're okay,” she breathes. “You’ve got to be okay. You’ve got to be. You're okay.” She doesn’t recognise the sound of her own voice. It is as though a stranger is speaking her mind, is speaking with her mouth. It is her voice, she knows, but it is not one she recognises. “Please,” she begs. “Please be okay.”

The egg does nothing.

She cannot help but be relieved. The fear of the egg echoing her words back to her; there being nothing within the egg other than the false hopes she has built up over the last several centuries. All of it has been proven false.

She strokes a hand over the egg and swims away.

She doesn’t look back as she pokes her head out of the water, observing the dry sand ahead of her. Leading into a lushness that looks like an entire field of seagrass, only above ground. A great, large greenness stretches up towards the sky behind it, like an entire kelp forest.

She cannot help but glance back then, when she can no longer see the egg, bidding it a farewell. It will find her, she tells herself. When it hatches, it will find her, and she will no longer be alone. And it will be warm.

The sun is warm as she climbs out the water, thoughts of the egg trickling away as easily as the water trickles away from her skin.

She stands beneath the sun, feels the warmth of it on her back, staring off into the distance. She blinks, and then shakes her head, wet hair flicking about her face and sticking to her skin.

There had been something…something that she can’t remember.

There was…something important in the swamp?

Well, can’t have been that important if she’s forgotten it!

#asks #anon #juno.writes #ldshadowlady #jimmy solidarity #empires smp #empires smp s1 #empires smp fic #empires lizzie #empires jimmy

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scribbling-dragon · 3 months

Text

a gift, from me to you

summary:

“Pray tell, then, what is it you want me to do?” “I want you to make this.” The Sheriff taps on the design detailing the measurements and everything else he wants. “Please,” he adds, seemingly remembering his manners. “Mm.” Scott pretends to consider it. “I’ll see what I can do for you, lover boy.” [Or: Jimmy gets a hat for Tango]

(ao3 link)

(5,157 words)

Jimmy pauses, frowning as the sound of shouting outside only continues to increase in volume. He had hoped that ignoring it for this long would be enough for the simmering flame of a fight to die down. That fight has apparently sparked into a blaze, as a fourth voice joins the fray.

He casts a mournful glance over towards Tango, hoping that his partner and newly promoted second-Sheriff might take initiative and attempt to solve the problem.

“I'm not their beloved Sheriff,” Tango says, not even looking up – he’s not even doing work! He’s tinkering with some little…metal thing, poking and prodding at it.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to,” Tango glances up at him for a moment, eyes alight with amusement as he takes in Jimmy’s appearance. He looks back down a second later, pulling a copper-redstone wire between his claws, before poking around in the metal thing’s insides.

…Maybe it’s better for his safety to go and defuse the argument. Outside. Away from the potentially explosive trinket that Tango has brought to their office this time.

He sighs and stands up, feeling far more tired than he reasonably should be – the sun is only beginning to descend from its zenith and the cooler air should make him feel more energetic.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he fumbles around, reaching for his hat where he’d tossed it off earlier. Only to frown as his hand comes up empty, landing on cool wood instead. He turns his head, already frowning as he tries to figure out which corner of his desk he tossed his hat onto this time.

It’s not there.

He stands there for longer than he’d like to admit to, simply staring at his empty desk – okay, maybe not empty with all the clutter littering his desk. But he can find everything! It’s an organised chaos, and sure, things go missing temporarily but he always manages to find it in the end.

The shouting outside reaches a new peak, and there’s the sound of something heavy being overturned.

“Tango, have you seen my hat?” his voice comes out a little bit panicked, mostly because there seems to be actual destruction going on outside, but also partially because his hat has gone missing. What is a Sheriff without their hat? Not a Sheriff at all, that’s what!

“Mm.” Tango still sounds amused, which isn’t unusual but is maybe a little inappropriate right now. Another thing crashes and he winces. “Why don't you tell me?” Tango’s voice is pleased, something that makes Jimmy’s sixth sense (specifically related to Tango and him doing something that he shouldn’t be) light up, prickling along the back of his neck.

He turns back to face Tango. Tango, who is still tinkering away with his little trinket, poking around in its insides. Tango, who is currently wearing his hat.

“Ah,” he frowns. His hat is a little too big for Tango’s head, and he’s got it tipped too far forward so the brim is drooping over most of his face. “Can I have it?”

Tango tilts his head back, far enough that he looks like he’s going to tip out of his chair. The sounds of destruction outside have died down for now, at least. He’s still anxious to get out there and resolve whatever petty conflict escalated this far.

“Please,” he adds, noticing Tango’s raised eyebrow.

“Of course, dearest.” Tango says, but he doesn’t offer the hat out for him. Nor does he take it off. “Can’t have the darling Sheriff spotted without his hat, hm?”

Tango’s eyes shine teasingly, and Jimmy understands just what Tango is angling for as he steps forward and that pleased grin curls up even further. He sighs, shaking his head in fond amusement as the sounds of argument die down into a more civil discussion. He still needs to figure out what they’ve managed to damage, unfortunately, even if they seem to have resolved the argument by themselves.

“Thank you,” he plucks the hat from Tango’s head, completely missing when tango snakes his arms out, wrapping around his waist and pulling him forward. That, coupled with Tango’s tail wrapping tightly around his legs means he almost falls directly onto his partner.

“They’ve resolved it themselves,” Tango tells him, even as Jimmy rights the hat on his head. Where it belongs. He continues to hold onto him, thumbs resting just above his hip bones, trinket seemingly forgotten about, discarded on Tango’s desk. “There’s no point in running out there and demanding answers, hm?”

“I need to find out what they were tossing about. And why.”

He doesn’t even bother to try and free himself from Tango’s grip. The man is like an overly clingy octopus on some days, reluctant to release Jimmy and let him go about his day without a shadow following his every footstep. He had thought today was one of the days where Tango seemed to forget anyone else existed other than him, but he seemed to just be biding his time until Jimmy got close enough to be captured.

He sighs, though he cannot deny it’s overwhelmingly fond. If any of their friends were here right now, Jimmy is certain they’d be gagging and turning away, as though they were doing something far worse than hugging.

“C’mon, I’ll be back in a second.”

Tango pauses for a moment, then hums once and releases him.

“There, see? Look, I’ll even give this to you to look after until I'm back.”

Before he can think any further on it, before he can think enough to decide it’s actually a bad idea, he takes his hat off again and plonks it onto Tango’s head. He then turns and escapes the office as fast as he can, ignoring Tango’s confused little sound and resisting the urge to look back and see what expression he’s pulling.

He then gives in and sneaks a glance.

Okay, maybe giving the hat back was more for his own benefit than Tango’s. Sue him! He didn’t realise that Tango actually suited a hat, alright?! How could he, when the only time Tango has worn a hat before was in the dark, and Jimmy was far too preoccupied with getting said hat back from his partner’s sticky fingers.

His eyes linger a little longer than appropriate on Tango before he forcefully turns himself around and marches into the street to sort out whatever stupid, petty argument someone’s had today. One that warranted shoving someone’s cart hard enough to topple the whole thing over.

His heart isn’t really in reprimanding them, even if they look like a pair of guilty children than have been found painting the walls. Instead, he’s far more focused on the beginnings of an idea that are coming together in his mind.

===

Scott appreciates the quiet nights. The ones that have plenty of patrons, but none of his more rowdy ones. The ones that like to cause trouble, the ones that come here looking for trouble. Most of them have been identified and given to the staff so they know to be wary when those customers come knocking.

He could just outright ban him – the Sheriff has pleaded with him several times to just ban them rather than forcing him to ride all the way from the mesa because they’ve decided to start a fight and Scott cannot be bothered to sort it himself. But a paying customer is a paying customer, and most of them have the good decency to go outside before they start fighting, greatly reducing his expenses for replacing broken glasses.

Perhaps it was his own fault for even daring to utter ‘quiet’ in the privacy of his own mind. Maybe there’s some god out there that read his thoughts and decided to shove this particular problem in his direction, for him to deal with, just for the gall to enjoy a nice, slow evening.

His first warning of the incoming visitor is when someone hurries into the tavern on near-silent feet, but every single one of his shadier patrons perks up at her entrance.

Scott watches her too, well-aware that there is often some kind of lookout watching for any kind of law enforcement when some kind of deal is going on. He grits his teeth. Which means that someone is doing deals in his tavern without his permission.

He sets the clean glass down on the counter and raises a singular eyebrow at the group highest on his suspect list.

He’s had issues with them in previous months, where they didn’t want to pay the pocket change they owed him because he let them make dealings inside his tavern. He charges a fair price for the business he allows behind closed doors, for someone to even attempt to scam him? They're lucky he didn’t do something worse than what he did.

He jerks his head towards the door, keeping his eye very firmly fixed on the leader of that group. The entire table vanishes, scrambling out the door.

A few other patrons leave as the news about the Sheriff’s impending arrival reaches more and more ears.

He watches them go, more than a little bitter that the Sheriff is chasing his business away. Whatever he wants, it better be good.

He raises an eyebrow when the Sheriff finally enters, clutching something close to his chest as he makes an immediate beeline for him. Several pairs of eyes follow him across the tavern, people beginning to relax once they realise that the Sheriff is here for Scott rather than any of his patrons.

“Good evening, Sheriff.”

“Scott,” the Sheriff greets, not even having the manners to return his cordial greeting. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Oh?” He blinks as the Sheriff slams whatever he was clutching down onto the bar countertop, spreading the paper out so Scott can see the scribbles on the surface. “I wasn’t aware you were interested in leatherworking.” Slightly ironic, seeing as the Sheriff has a tiny relation to the same animals this leather is taken from. Not that it seems to bother him, what with the leather hat and leather jacket.

“I'm not.”

“Pray tell, then, what is it you want me to do?”

“I want you to make this.” The Sheriff taps on the design detailing the measurements and everything else he wants. “Please,” he adds, seemingly remembering his manners.

“Mm.” Scott pretends to consider it. “I’ll see what I can do for you, lover boy.”

“I- what did you call me?”

“You heard me,” Scott grins. “Of course, I'm assuming you're going to pay me for this, yes? My skills with…this are much sought after. I wouldn’t want it to come to light that the darling Sheriff was…extorting his friends, hm?”

“Of course I’ll pay you. Name your price.”

“He really does have you wrapped around his finger. You, my dear Sheriff, are an absolute sucker.”

The Sheriff ignores him. A valiant effort. “When will it be ready for me to pick up?”

“Give me a week.” He holds his hand out, “Half of the payment now, and half then. Have we got a deal?” He wiggles his fingers teasingly, waiting for the Sheriff to take his hand and seal the deal. He gets a sour look instead. Ah, too smart for those tricks, it seems. He lowers his hand again, only mildly disappointed.

“How much do I owe you?”

===

“You're acting weird.”

“What?” Jimmy says, in a weird, not at all normal voice. “No I'm not!”

Tango stops and stares at him. He hopes his face correctly conveys enough of the what the hell and you're joking, right? sentiment he was going for. Jimmy winces and looks guilty, so he’ll call that a mission success.

“Did you break something?” he asks. Maybe Jimmy went poking around in his workshop again and found something – it wouldn’t be the first time that he’s accidentally broken one of Tango’s projects, and it probably won’t be the last time.

He can’t find it in himself to care when Jimmy does break some of his inventions, either, as he can just piece them back together. What’s the point in making something that he wouldn’t be able to fix if it broke? Plus, most of them are hastily cobbled together from scraps when the inspiration struck him, and then promptly abandoned.

“Ah, no I didn’t break anything.” Jimmy shakes his head hard enough that Tango momentarily worries that it’s going to unscrew itself and fly away. It doesn’t, thankfully. “I just…have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?”

He loves surprises. Especially ones that he gets to find out immediately – the suspense kills him every single time, meaning if he has to wait for longer than a few hours, maybe a day at most, to find out what it is, he might just combust. Sometimes literally.

“Yes,” Jimmy laughs, his eyes squinting shut. Tango grins up at him, not caring that Jimmy’s giggling at his enthusiasm, because the laugh isn’t mean, just excited and endeared. “It’s at home.”

“And what is it that you’ve gotten me?”

“You have to wait,” Jimmy pushes at his shoulder. “That’s the point of a surprise.”

“But you could just tell me now, couldn’t you?” Tango teases. “I'm about to find out in a second, what’s the point of waiting – I’ll have the same reaction all over again when you show it to me, I promise.”

“Just go look,” Jimmy says with a laugh, pushing him through their front door.

“Alright, alright…” he stops. And he stares. And stares…and stares a little more. “Huh.” Is what he manages to say when everything seems to have resettled in his mind, clicking mostly back into the right places.

“Do you not like it? It’s fine if you don't, I just thought that-”

“Shut up,” Tango tells him, and then decides that’s not enough and kisses him instead. “Thank you,” he says when he pulls back. He would normally linger in a moment like that for longer, but his hands are itching to pick the hat up and run his hands over the leather.

“I love it,” he tells Jimmy, when the hat is comfortably resting on his head. It has little leather dangling bits around the brim which sway back and forth when he moves. He wobbles his head, just to make them swish. “I love you.”

“Ah, Tango!” Jimmy covers his face with his hands. “Gods, warn a guy before you say something like that next time?”

“But you go so red every time I do! How can I resist!”

He wobbles his head again, just to watch the tassels swing. Damn. He can see why Jimmy likes his hat, this thing makes him feel important.

===

Time is the best solution for any malady, just…leave something alone for long enough and everything should sort itself out all nice.

So why is it that he still dreads the flight up to Stratos? It’s a short flight, one that barely takes a few seconds, one that starts in the village flourishing in the shadow of the citadel above, and ends with his hooves touching down on the grass outlining the main pathways of the island.

The gold of the citadel is blindingly bright this early in the morning, everything turning molten in the sunlight. The quartz reflects the light equally bright, and it forces him to squint his eyes against the light.

He’s going to blame his shoddy landing on his half-closed eyes, attempting to not blind himself this meeting. He stumbles, the tip of on hoof catching on the very edge of the island and sending him forward, grasping for his balance again. Tango catches his elbow and pulls him back upright, thankfully before he can make even more of a fool of himself and do something stupid like fall on his face, though it’s not done without a snicker.

“Sorry, sorry,” Tango looks away, tilting his new hat down over his face so Jimmy can’t see it as well. He can still see well enough to spot the barely repressed grin, even as the leather tassels drift about his face and cast an even deeper shadow. His ears flick a few times as the leather strips bump into them, brushing over the short fur, Tango obviously still unused to wearing the hat and all the accessories that come with it. “I'm not laughing. Promise.”

“I can see you grinning.”

Tango’s apology would have been far more convincing if he couldn’t see the way Tango’s ears continue to tremble, even after the leather strips stop irritating them, shaking with the repressed giggles that Tango is biting back.

“No, you can’t.” Tango turns his face even further away, warm hand slipping away from Jimmy’s elbow as he tugs his hat down, lower over his face. His tail continues to flick back and forth, betraying his continued amusement at Jimmy’s expense, flames sputtering in time with his silent laughs.

“It’s really not that funny,” he complains. And maybe he’s whining a little bit, but it makes Tango turn back to him, amused gleam continuing to shine in his eyes. “I don't make fun of you for hiding from the rain!”

“You don't, you don't,” Tango huffs out a laugh, then turns to properly face him once more. “C’mon, best we get this over with, yeah?”

Jimmy clicks his tongue at Tango’s blatant dislike for Joel. “We’re allies now,” he reminds. It’s a tentative alliance, for sure, but it’s an alliance nonetheless. He doesn’t have many of those, and having a god (no matter how egotistical that god is) on his side – their side – is comforting. Even if it means getting up at the worst possible times because the god seems to rise with the goddamn sun.

He pulls Tango back when he goes to walk away, ignoring the confused, inquisitive noise that Tango makes when he pulls him around to look at his face.

He stares at Tango for several long moments, hand resting on the juncture between Tango’s shoulder and neck. He brushes his hand up and adjusts Tango’s hat, so it’s not covering his face so much anymore.

He can’t help but linger for a moment, the back of his hand grazing against Tango’s cheek. “There,” he pats Tango’s cheek, “much better like that. Now,” he takes the lead, “remember to be polite.”

“Oh, you wanna talk?” Tango scoffs a laugh, turning to chase after him. Jimmy’s face still feels a little warm from staring longingly into Tango’s eyes for several long moments just seconds ago. And…maybe Tango’s a little right, yeah, maybe most of their trade agreements and whatnot are spent trying to figure out what petty jab to use next, and when to use it for maximum effect.

Tango’s told him several times that he should be the bigger person and not to return the jabs, that only encourages him! But Jimmy has also watched Tango, the biggest advocator for maintaining a professional persona while working and also the biggest hypocrite he knows, make several rude and aggressive gestures at Joel’s back the moment the god turns away.

…He’s beginning to see why most of the times he managed to arrest Tango was after he had been ganged up on by other bandits.

“And being allies,” he continues, ignoring Tango. “Means that we need to be courteous.”

“He’s not here yet,” Tango says. “And just you wait, you’ll be eating your words the moment ‘toy’ drops out of his mouth.”

Jimmy doesn’t have a responding argument for that. Mostly because Tango is right and also because they’ve just arrived at the arranged meeting spot. The arranged meeting spot where Joel is already present and ready, probably preparing to shame them for being late by three seconds, or something equally stupid.

And despite the stupidly early hour, Joel is lounging casually and drinking something from a crudely made mug. It’s a far cry from the things Joel makes for himself, let alone deems worthy enough to be used by his holier than thou hands.

The words trip out of his mouth before he can even process anything else about their surroundings: “Did you sit on that mug halfway through making it?” The mug really does look quite squashed, wonky, and with a far too large handle. The handle is larger than the rest of the mug. “Why’d you still stick it in the kiln looking like that?”

It’s meant as an insult. A small thing designed to irritate the god and make him eager to get them out of Stratos as soon as possible. A short meeting with the god is the most desirable kind.

What he didn’t account for, however, is the small child sat just beside Joel. Though, instead of sitting in a chair, he’s seated on the lush grass. Hermes pauses what he was doing – some kind of drawing in a little sketchbook, so similar to the one that Joel carries around with him – to look up.

“Does my mug…look like someone sat on it?”

Shit.

“Not at all.” Joel stares at him, but even the unrelenting gaze promising a slow and painful death doesn’t manage to pull Jimmy’s eyes away from the child’s face, and how Hermes looks as though he might burst into tears at any second.

Shit.

He’s floundering, lost amongst a sea of words and grasping for literally anything that might save him from his fast-approaching death. One that Joel is already constructing in his mind’s eye, raising the executioner’s axe in preparation for the first tears being shed.

“Oh no, no,” his saviour is not some half-baked excuse and apology rolled into one that he managed to come up with to smooth ruffled feathers and assure the child of his incredible pottery skills. Instead, his saviour comes in the form of his wonderful, fantastic and stunning partner stepping up – quite literally.

He crosses the grass in a few strides, shawl flapping around him and flames curling with anxiety. He crouches down beside Hermes, not quite touching the demigod child, but his hands remain hovering over the child’s arms.

“What the Sheriff meant to say,” Jimmy winces, “is that your mug is wonderfully unique! I’ve never before seen such use of angles and lines, and the colours too…”

Tango’s voice trails off, though his mouth continues moving, without words. It takes Jimmy a few moments to process that it is his hearing that has failed him, not that Tango’s silver tongue has given up and left him fumbling for more words to continue comforting the child in front of them.

All that filters through his head is muffled, as though he has dunked his head underwater as everyone else continues to talk around him.

He watches as Hermes brightens beneath Tango’s praise, his uncertain frown transforming into a beaming grin as he begins gesturing wildly, hands flying all over the place. His drawings are abandoned, seemingly forgotten, as he focuses instead on speaking with Tango.

And the latter nods along attentively. If Jimmy’s ears were working properly he’s certain he would hear the way Tango normally hums along when he’s listening to something – he can almost hear the sound, can feel the vibration of it within his own chest, familiar and comforting in its cadence – and he’d be able to hear Tango asking questions, keeping the child engaged and distracted from Jimmy’s earlier shoving-his-foot-in-his-mouth moment.

“Hm,” he tries not to startle at the sudden return of his hearing and the even more sudden appearance of Joel beside him. He didn’t even see the man stand up, let alone make his way over here – get it together Jimmy! Tango might look incredibly endearing and loveable right now, but if this was any other occasion such distraction could be fatal! …Oh, who was he kidding. If this was a lethal situation and Tango revealed that he was good with kids, Jimmy would be a dead man.

“I wouldn’t have thought Tango was so good with children.” Joel echoes his own thoughts exactly. “Did you know this?”

“…No?”

Joel side-eyes him. “You don't sound very certain of yourself.”

Well, not all of us are self-assured, egotistical maniacs.

“Well, I've never seen him interact with children before,” Jimmy says, incredibly diplomatic compared to his original thoughts. “And, apparently,” he gestures at the scene in front of them helplessly, unable to communicate further.

Tango’s gone from kneeling in front of Hermes to sitting beside him, watching as the child flips through his sketchbook and narrates every brushstroke to him.

“Hm.” Joel responds.

It’s an unusually concise response from the god, but he doesn’t have much to say either today, stunned to silence by Tango’s apparent ability to comfort and then entertain a child for longer than five minutes. He’d thought Tango’s skill with children extended to his abilities to deal with babies – non-existent.

“He’s good with kids,” Joel says. “I’ll give him that…say, how much d’you think he’d charge for a babysitting service?”

“You're not paying my partner to babysit your kid. He has more important things to be doing.”

“Haha, I'm sure he does.”

“Don't be disgusting, Hermes is right there.” Joel doesn’t flinch as Jimmy jabs him in the side, only giving him an unimpressed look that just says: you think that would hurt me, mere mortal? Or something equally pretentious.

“I was talking about the obvious signature of getting promoted,” Joel side-eyes him again- seriously, would it kill him to actually look at Jimmy properly for once! “What were you talking about?” He has a grin on his face that Jimmy knows means Joel knows exactly what it is that he was implying, and Joel knows that Jimmy knows this.

He, very maturely, does not rise to the bait.

“You mean the hat.”

“It’s an interesting little thing. You commission Scott to do it?”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “How could you tell?”

“A guess.” Joel glances over at him from the corner of his eye. “Mostly because I know you're an absolute sucker for him and would settle for nothing but the best.”

“I am not a sucker for him-”

“Oh, look,” Joel interrupts him. “He’s letting Hermes try the hat on.”

What?

He looks over to the scene he’d momentarily dismissed in order to argue with Joel properly, pausing as he takes it in. He watches Tango laugh when the hat slips over Hermes’ face and makes it disappear completely.

His eyes go all squinty as he laughs, the creases around his eyes only increasing as Hermes lifts the hat to glare at him from beneath it, having to brush aside the leather tassels to actually see him.

It’s an unfairly attractive quality of Tango that Jimmy hadn’t even realised existed until a few minutes ago.

It distracts him throughout the rest of the meeting, especially when Tango chooses to remain sitting on the ground and entertain Hermes for the duration of his and Joel’s discussion over the gunpowder prices, during which Jimmy has to explain why his prices are higher than the unethical creeper farms found on the edges of the mesa – most of which he's working on wiping out.

A few have inevitably fallen through the cracks, but he makes Joel, unwillingly, hand over the details of their locations so he can go hunt them down when he has the chance.

It's a relief, really, to have someone that entertains Hermes throughout the meeting. Where he would normally be sat on Joel’s knee or tugging at his toga for some kind of attention, now he’s content and docile, happy to sketch Tango in that wobbly and rather ugly way that only a child can achieve.

Tango still coos over the drawings Hermes shows him, acting as though he’s been gifted the most precious treasure when Hermes offers out one of said drawings at the end of the meeting, half-hiding behind Joel’s leg as he does so.

It’s only then that Tango manages to reclaim his hat from the child, settling it comfortably back on his head.

“So,” Jimmy says as they touch down into the village below, slowly making their way back to the village stables to collect their horses. “Good with kids?”

“I'm really not,” Tango scoffs. “What, you think I’d tell him to just shove off? You almost made the kid cry, dearest.”

“I didn’t think you’d sit and let him draw you.”

“The kid’s a budding artist,” Tango shrugs. “Who knows, maybe one day he’ll be incredibly famous and this drawing will be worth thousands.” He waves the small piece of paper around. The sketch on it is only recognisable as Tango because of the cat-like ears and the flame-tipped tail. “See, he’s signed it and everything.”

“That is barely legible as his name.” Jimmy says, though he does so with a smile.

“Uh-huh, alright, you wanna talk about you and Joel then? I thought you hated the guy but I look up and you two are laughing together?”

“I don't hate him, I just have a healthy dislike for him,” Jimmy protests. “I wouldn’t ally myself with someone I actively hate! And anyway, I was laughing at him not with him.”

“Sure, sure,” Tango nods along, speaking in a way that means he’s not at all convinced. “Only, I could’ve sworn you two looked like you were friends?”

“We’re not friends!” Jimmy’s protest this time is much louder, gaining the disapproving looks of many nearby villagers. He clamps his mouth shut, ears going hot with embarrassment. “I still don't like him.”

“Okay, alright,” Tango laughs. At his expense! Laughs at his suffering! “Not friends, got it.”

He’s still smiling like he knows something Jimmy doesn’t, though.

Most unfortunate of all is the look Tango sends him a moment later, grin flashing amongst the dark shadow of his hat over his face, eyes glinting dangerously; teasingly.

===

“It’s so stupid,” he bemoans, possibly for the third time, maybe the fourth. He hasn’t really been paying attention to how many times he’s complained, but it’s a few. More than one, at least.

“Uh-huh,” Scott couldn’t sound less interested if he tried. As it is, the tavern is almost completely dark around the two of them – the only two people left inside the building. Correction: only awake and mostly sober people left inside the building. “You’ve mentioned it.”

“And it’s your fault,” he accuses, pointing a finger at Scott’s back. He’s cleaning his glasses – all the man does is clean the glasses behind the bar, it’s like he has nothing better to do!

“My fault?” Scott turns around, cloth and glass still held in his hands. “How is it my fault? I made it all to your specifications, Sheriff. If anything, it’s your fault that Red looks so good in that hat.”

“Noo,” he slowly sinks down to the counter, resting his forehead against the cool wood.

“Shut up.”

#juno.writes #red bandit au #tangotek #jimmy solidarity #trafficshipping #solidaritek #team rancher #team ranchers #tango tek #solidaritygaming #solidarity gaming #empires smp #empiressmp #empires jimmy #empires tango

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scribbling-dragon · 6 months

Text

you've got two lives down and one life left

summary:

“They're also headed over here,” Cleo says. He can hear the frown in her voice. “You're still yellow, meaning you're still target number one. They're all going to be vying for your time.” “Yeah, yeah,” he waves her concern off. “I know.” He pulls himself off the bed, trying not to wince too much at the aching in his chest. “Are they on their way yet?” “Joel’s just pulled himself out the water,” Martyn tells him.

(ao3 link)

(6,604 words)

[hey hey hey! the fishfucker series makes a grand return! this is the first of two final installments in this series,, there are some references to earlier fics in the series, so if you haven't read those there may be a little confusion, but other than that, just think: scott is a mer than works on (slightly modified) h2o: just add water mechanics. hope you enjoy! and remember- reblogs are ALWAYS super appreciated <;33]

He shakes his head in an attempt to rid himself of the disorientation that comes with a sudden death. Several faces peer at him from above, all of which shift backwards when he starts to sit up. Scar looks a little guilty, but overall pleased with himself. Scott would, personally, be a little annoyed if he didn’t look pleased with himself after gaining another thirty minutes to his timer.

“Was I right?” He asks, more occupied with finding out whether his hunch was correct or not. He can continue to regain his bearings over the next few moments.

“Yeah,” Martyn’s stood towards the edge of the hill, peering out towards their island with a spyglass. He lowers it from his eye and glances back. “They're looking around right now, all confused.”

“What did I tell you,” he grins. So sue him, he’s pleased with himself for reading the bad boys like a book; not that it’s a hard thing to do in general, they're each an open book with their motivations easy to pick apart and determine, with enough time and effort.

“They're also headed over here,” Cleo says. He can hear the frown in her voice. “You're still yellow, meaning you're still target number one. They're all going to be vying for your time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves her concern off. “I know.” He pulls himself off the bed, trying not to wince too much at the aching in his chest. Scar certainly doesn’t pull his punches, but the slight desperation in gaining time only put more force behind his blows. His chest feels as though it might cave in with too hurried a movement. “Are they on their way yet?”

“Joel’s just pulled himself out the water,” Martyn tells him, “looking rather like a disgruntled dog- oh, yeah, look. He’s shaking himself off like one, too. Grian just hit him for that. I think. Oh man!” Martyn breaks off into a laugh, “Timmy looks even worse- look, Cleo, he’s like a drowned bird.”

Cleo hums. “It reduces the intimidation factor quite significantly.”

“From what?” Scott manages to get himself completely upright, joining Cleo and Martyn in their watching of the bad boys (still a stupid nickname). “Zero into the negatives?”

“Aw, c’mon,” Martyn bumps his hip against Scott’s. “You don't need to be so mean to them, they're trying their best, you know. Look at them.”

“Joel just tripped over nothing,” Cleo announces. “And the other two are laughing at him.”

Scott looks back to the trio in time to watch Joel throw his hands up in frustration and walk away, forging a path ahead of the other two. Grian and Jimmy continue to laugh, though they're too far away for Scott to hear anything.

He’s smiling, amused at the small performance, when Joel glances up. He’s in a patch of the forest that has fewer trees, meaning they make eye contact near immediately. This is apparently enough to make him forgive his fellow teammates for their earlier transgressions, as he immediately turns back to yell at them.

“You know,” he takes a step back from the edge of the hill, “I do believe that’s my cue to do a disappearing act.”

“Have fun.” Cleo tells him, still watching the bad boys with something resembling amusement.

“Stay safe,” Martyn tells him, halfway turning away from the view. “And good luck.”

“Thank you, dear,” he blows a kiss towards Martyn, only beginning to back up more rapidly as he hears the sound of shouting approaching quicker and quicker. He scrambles around the side of the Clock Tower, a plan already quickly forming in his mind.

He digs his fingers into the cobble, lengthened nails aiding in his ascent. He makes it to the first of several ledges, pulling himself over the edge and tucking his legs a little closer. The sound of shouting has lessened, but people are still speaking below.

He inches around the edge, one hand pressed against the side of the tower for stability, ears pricked to listen to the conversation happening just below him.

“Oh, I think he went that way,” Cleo points over the hills, past where the bad boys’ base is. They're lying through their teeth right now, but the trio don't seem to pick up on those cues. As a group, they glance over at where they're pointing. Scott leans back against the wall behind him slightly, pressing a hand over his mouth to muffle a laugh. “He started running as soon as you guys did, so you're gonna have to be quick to catch up with him.”

“And how do we know you're not lying?” Joel crosses his arms, sunglasses slipping a little lower on his face with the sudden movement. He doesn’t push them back up, because that would mean uncrossing his arms and then crossing them again once he’s adjusted his sunglasses. “He’s your ally, you could be defending him. He could be here right now, and you might be lying.”

“And if you found that out, you’d kill us.” Martyn shrugs.

Scott slowly chips away at the block behind him, aware of how exposed his current position is but far too curious to hide himself somewhere safer.

“And he went that way?” Grian asks, tipping his head in the direction Cleo pointed in.

“Yes.” Cleo says. “He might have veered off elsewhere afterwards, but he headed that way.”

“He might’ve gone back to our island,” Martyn muses. “Regather supplies, y’know?”

“As if,” Joel scoffs, hefting his axe over one shoulder and begins walking away. Jimmy stays for a moment longer, eyes squinting at the small group of gathered people. His wings are puffed up behind him, making him look like an angry cat.

Jimmy follows after a moment too, and Scott watches, alongside his allies, as they descend the hill again, set on the path of a wild goose chase.

He slips down the tower after a few minutes of silence, bracing himself before dropping the last few feet. It sends a slight shock through his legs, jarring his ankles with a sharp sting.

“How would you feel about checking on our base? Joel seemed pretty confident that you I wasn’t going back there.”

“Probably because everything’s destroyed,” Martyn sighs. “We both saw him coming out of our little hidey-hole.”

Scott grimaces at the thought of what destruction Joel might have wrought on their base. Any number of traps could have been set up there in preparation for his own inevitable death. He’s only lucky that he decided to tether his spawn to the bed in the Clock Tower rather than gambling with his luck and losing a larger chunk of time.

“Well,” he starts, “I'm sure it’s nothing a little carpet won’t be able to cover up.”

=== === ===

“Woah!” He veers out the way, watching as the firework explodes into a shower of sparks and fire. The heat of it licks dangerously close to his skin, sending heat washing over him in waves. He stumbles to a stop, dirt crumbling beneath his feet as he halts.

The ground below looms, warning of the fate that awaits him if he overbalances.

Another firework shoots past his head, whistling as it misses.

“You missed!” He calls back, unable to refuse a taunt even if it’ll only anger his pursuers more. A wordless shout follows behind him, frustration bleeding into it. “You’ll have to do a little better than that to hit me!”

He glances up with a grin, only slightly out of breath. He’d barely reached the top platform after hauling himself up the ladder before they were on him, relentless in their pursuit, chasing him down like a pack of rabid animals.

Etho looks up from where he’s reloading his crossbow, face unreadable. “I'm sorry Scott, it’s gotta be you!”

“Why’s it gotta be me?” He calls back, backing up a few more steps. He hides a hand behind his back, summoning an ender pearl to hand. It settles comfortably in his palm, the cold weight of it familiar as he readies himself to fling it as far as possible.

“’Cause you’ve got the most!” Etho’s footsteps are heavy behind him, the sound of another firework exploding beside his ear deafening. He turns to glance over his shoulder, finding Etho far closer than he first thought.

He flings the ender pearl in a panic, watching as it hurtles out of sight.

Etho reaches out for him, going to grab onto him – any part of him – and teleport with him. Scott ducks out of the way, elbowing Etho in the gut as he drops himself off the side of the rickety bridge. Etho makes a punched-out noise as all the air is forced from his lungs, his hands loosening their already loose grip on him.

He plunges off the side easily after that, a fuzzy feeling already beginning to surround his limbs. Etho frowns down at him from above, lining up his crossbow for a final shot.

Said shot never hits, as the ground surges up around Scott, a purple tint overtaking his entire field of vision for a few moments. He stumbles, knees threatening to buckle from the impact. He continues running in spite of it.

His mind runs through several scenarios, each of them being discarded one after the other, as he scrambles for some kind of escape plan.

He could escape into the water, but that move is now a predictable one, and there are very few rivers deep enough that he could leave the ocean if necessary. And the ocean itself may be deep, but it’s a small area that he can do little with if he’s pursued there.

To retreat deeper into the forest would only place him closer to the bad boys and their bases, placing him directly in the line of sight of another group that wants him dead.

There’s potential in escaping to the Clockers. But their base is close to TIES’, and he’d feel endlessly guilty if he brought conflict to Cleo’s doorstep in an effort to escape the inevitable.

As he’s grasping for another idea, he almost runs directly into a low-hanging tree branch. He skids to a stop before he can collide with it, chest heaving with exertion as he glances around. Then back at the tree and its low-hanging branch. He could…

Decision made, he hauls himself up. The bark scrapes against his hands as he clambers up the tree, but he climbs it as quickly as possible while also doing his best to not shake the entire tree and give his position away.

It’s during moments like this that he almost wishes Martyn had come with him rather than scurrying off to wherever it is that he’s gone. He’d much rather have an ally beside him, one that can protect him and, in the truly dire moments, take the time rather than have an enemy gain the upper hand.

Scott whips his head around when he sees something glinting in a nearby tree, shoving his shield up just quickly enough to hear the thunk of an arrow embedding itself into it.

“Goddamnit,” is the whispered curse he hears, before Impulse is poking his head out. “How’d you see me?”

He swallows back the anxiety before he even dares speaking, only lowering his shield enough that he can peek over the edge of it. Impulse is still holding his bow, an arrow loosely notched. Scott knows full well how quickly that arrow could go from being loosely notched to embedded in his shoulder, and so he keeps the shield up.

“The sun reflected off your arrow,” he tells Impulse.

“Damn,” Impulse frowns. “I don't think there’s a way I can fix that.”

“You could just walk away?” Scott offers, “You're pretty close to eight hours, aren’t you? We’re at a similar time here Impulse. You kill me, you’ll just be switching our places – you’ll become the one with a target painted on your back.” A branch snaps on the forest floor below, quiet enough that it could easily be a curious animal poking around in the shrubbery below. “Or, I guess you could just let Etho carry out his sneak attack.”

He knows he’s hit gold the moment Impulse’s eyes widen, and the rustling of undergrowth turns into the snapping of twigs and small branches as Etho forces his way through the dense bushes to stand below the tree Scott perched himself in.

He…didn’t really think this through, actually. He’s cornered himself in this tree he sought as his sanctuary, leaving him trapped in a cage of his own making.

“Good afternoon,” he greets, nodding down at Etho. He doesn’t know what time it actually is. It could easily be early morning or late afternoon, and he wouldn’t have a single clue. “Funny seeing you here.”

“Uh-huh,” Etho ignores him, slotting a firework neatly into his crossbow and lighting the fuse. “Funny seeing you here, too, Scott.”

Scott shuffles back a little further on his branch, glancing down at the drop to the floor. Not terrible, but also not ideal. His shield catches against the fork of the tree branches that he wedged himself into. He sighs and yanks it back further, firmly wedging it into the wood before he drops.

The explosion of a firework rings in his ears, his ankles protesting the repeated abuse they’ve undergone today, sending small flares of pain up his legs with every step he takes.

Colourful sparks settle on the ground around him, residue from the previous shot.

Etho steps around the tree trunk, unperturbed, simply loading another firework into the crossbow. He hopes Etho runs out soon. He really hopes Etho runs out soon, actually.

“Nowhere to run now, Scott,” Etho says, eyes crinkling at the corners with his smile when he looks back up. He squints when he lines the crossbow up, following Scott easily, even as he takes staggering steps, trying to get Etho to shoot it early and give him enough time to duck out the way. “You’ve abandoned your shield, too. You're gonna be wishing for it back in a minute.”

“Yeah,” he laughs nervously, already wishing for his shield back. He started wishing for his shield back the moment he abandoned it in that tree.

He ducks as Etho releases the firework, rolling and hoping that it misses him. Even if it singes half his scales off, he doesn’t care anymore.

Somehow, perhaps with some divine intervention from above, the firework only catches the edge of his already torn jacket, setting a small fire that he puts out when rolling amongst the leaves.

He hops back to his feet, turning on his heel to continue run. The exhaustion dragging at his bones makes him a little slower than usual, a little more clumsy on his feet from the stress of constantly escaping and running and fleeing whoever’s decided that he’s easy pickings.

He chokes.

The feeling of something lodged in his throat brings him to a halt. A halt which almost ends with him keeled over on the forest floor as his legs abruptly weaken beneath him. he manages to avoid falling flat on his face by throwing a hand out to catch himself, the other flying to his neck.

The metal bolt from a crossbow is what greets him, when he ghosts his fingers over the skin of his neck. He can feel his gills fluttering, attempting to make up for the sudden lack of oxygen. But they're not designed for extracting oxygen from the air, not designed with that in mind at all.

His fingers come away wet with his own blood, glistening in the sparse few rays of sunlight that slice through the thick canopy of leaves above him.

A few beads of blood drop to the leaves below him, a slow pitter-patter, almost like rain, filling his ears.

“Aw, man,” he hears, despite his rapidly fading vision and hearing. “I wanted to get him. Now you're gonna be back to yellow.”

“I didn’t think it’d actually hit him! It was just meant to soften him up for you, make him a little easier to hit.”

“And what were you aiming for? His head?”

“I was aiming for his leg,” Impulse hisses. Leaves crackle underfoot nearby, but Scott doesn’t find it in himself to care. He’s already on his way out, there’s nothing more they can do to him.

“Wow,” Etho whistles. Blurry outlines appear in his peripheral vision, fading more by the second. “Your aim is terrible.”

=== === ===

Scott sighs. Again. For what feels like the fifth time in the last ten minutes.

His throat still feels weird, the new scar tissue raised and irritated. It’s only barely healed, just enough to make sure that he doesn’t start bleeding immediately upon re-entering the land of the living. Cleo grimaces at him from her seat as he runs his fingers carefully over his throat again.

“You better stop prodding at that,” she tells him. “You're going to give yourself an infection.”

“I'm not going to be sticking around long enough for an infection,” he tells her. “None of us are.”

Cleo snorts. “Might be true, but you don't need to say it.”

“Someone needs to.” He heaves himself out of his chair with a sigh. “Anyways, I'm off. Got some business to attend to.”

Cleo watches him go, one eyebrow raised. “You might not be everyone’s favourite punching bag anymore, but you're still one of the people with the highest time. You sure you wanna go alone?”

“I'm off to my death anyway,” he shrugs. An agreement is an agreement, and just because he’s died before he intended doesn’t mean he’s going to break his word. “No point in prolonging the inevitable. And they might think I'm attacking them if you come with me.”

Cleo makes a sound in the back of her throat. “Just remember that Martyn won’t be pleased if you're back in less than one piece.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he pushes the door open with his foot, waving her off. “I’ll be back in a minute, just you wait.”

He doesn’t intend for this to take long, anyway. He’s got an agreement, and he’ll stick around long enough to uphold his end of the deal. Jimmy should be waiting for him in the agreed upon spot, and then he can decide how he wants to kill Scott. It’s out of his hands at that point.

The climb up the ladder is long and boring, the waterlogged mansion looming below, a dark splotch amongst the otherwise green forest. He pokes his head out into the main house, glancing around. He’s wary of Joel and Grian being the first to see him, and only emerges once he’s certain neither of them are waiting to pounce on him.

Unfortunately, he can’t see Jimmy either, poking around in all three of the little houses and just about ready to give up on this whole thing. He might dislike breaking his word, but there’s nothing he can do if the other person isn’t here either.

“Scott!” He jumps at the sound of his name, spinning around. Jimmy grins back at him from the top of the bread loaf house. His wings flutter behind him. Once upon a time, Scott might have been able to read the exact mood Jimmy is in from the fluttering of his wings, but now he can only guess that it’s something like excitement or anticipation.

“Jimmy,” he returns the greeting. “I almost thought you weren’t here.”

“Course I'm here,” Jimmy scoffs, crossing his arms. Scott can’t see his eyes for the dark sunglasses covering them, but Jimmy is still smiling down at him. He’s managed to crack his sunglasses since Scott last saw him, running through an entire lens. “We’ve got a deal to complete.”

“That we have,” he spreads his arms out wide. “How is it you're choosing to kill me?”

Jimmy pauses. “You're gonna let me choose?”

“Makes it more fun for you that way, doesn’t it?” He cocks his head to the side, watching as Jimmy considers his options. “A little fun never hurt anyone.”

“Alright,” Jimmy shoots him a look he can’t read. Wearing sunglasses makes it infinitely harder to determine what it is that Jimmy’s thinking. He might have been grateful that Jimmy is the only one amongst his trio that knows how to wear sunglasses properly, but at least he can get a good read on Joel and Grian still. “Let’s head up, then.”

Scott glances upwards, towards the ladder leading onwards and upwards. The same ladder that has claimed several lives in recent days…hours? He’s still not sure how time passes here, several days disappearing in front of them, yet only a few hours ticking down on their timers.

“More ladders?” is what he settles on instead, “Really?”

“Good for building upper body strength,” Jimmy claims. “C’mon, you said I could choose. Up we go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, for the umpteenth time, and begins climbing the ladder. “You could just shove me off here and have it done with. Doesn’t seem like there’s much point in climbing only to drop back down.”

“You're sure doing a lot of complaining for someone that told me to pick how I get to kill you.”

“I'm a complainer,” he glances down at Jimmy. “You know this. I do things, I complain, and that’s how all of this works.”

“I’d like it if you complained less,” Jimmy tells him. “As the person deciding your death.”

“Uh-huh,” he turns to continue climbing, only to balk at the arrow that goes flying past his nose. He looks up further, finding Joel and Grian, each holding a crossbow and peering down the small gap at him. Joel looks as though his birthday has come early, positively giddy at the thought that he might be able to kill Scott. Grian just looks annoyed.

“Excuse me,” he frowns. “This is Jimmy’s kill.” Something else falls past him as he speaks, and he presses himself closer to the ladder, before turning to glare back up at Joel. His fins, a new addition since his most recent death, press flat against the side of his head in annoyance.

“They just tried to dri- drop dripstone on you,” Jimmy tells him.

“Did you just try and steal Jimmy’s kill?” He pauses in his ascent again, looking up at Joel properly. The man is giggling, far too excited at the prospect as he stares down at Scott.

“Yeah.”

“Joel,” he frowns, continuing to climb and pulling himself out at the top. He pokes Joel in the chest, right in the middle of his chestplate. “You're gonna steal time from someone on thirty minutes?”

“Thirty-five,” Jimmy corrects.

“You're gonna steal time from someone on thirty-five minutes?” he repeats.

“He was on seven minutes earlier,” Joel tells him. He’s still grinning, but it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes in the same way it had just a few seconds ago, when the idea of killing him had still been on the table. Joel pushes his sunglasses up a little higher when he sees Scott watching him.

“That’s why I'm here,” he plants his hands on his hips. “I told Jimmy he could kill me however he wanted, and he wants to shove me off of here.”

“Oh, really?” Joel’s eyebrows rise over the edge of his sunglasses, and he looks between Jimmy and Scott. “Please, do continue. Can I watch?”

Scott sighs. “Sure, yeah. Let’s make it a public spectacle, shall we?”

“Nah,” Joel pushes him between the shoulder blades, urging him onwards and into the wheat fields they’ve got growing up here. “Let’s get going, I wanna see this now.”

The wheat brushes around his ankles and up his legs, tickling the exposed skin as they make the trek across the wheat fields. Scott does his best not to trample the crops, even with the heavy press of a crossbow against his spine and his impending death looming ever closer.

Grian mutters something to Joel that makes both of them laugh.

He doesn’t blame them for getting giddy over the idea of someone offering themselves up for death – to reach this point in the game and not begin to become excited at the idea of spilling blood is more unusual – but he’d much prefer it if they giggled about it somewhere he can’t hear them.

The fields of wheat slowly turn to churned-up dirt underfoot as they approach the far edges of the platform. He can feel the give of the dirt beneath his feet, worrying for a moment that it might give out beneath him before Jimmy can shove him off the end.

Smaller branches spiral off of the end, spiderwebbing across the entire server, overlaying Skynet. He winces at the memory of how much destruction these pathways have wrought, still feeling a flicker of fire under his skin at the memory of explosions too close and sudden to survive.

Jimmy leads him out onto one of these branches, Joel and Grian hanging back.

The dirt sinks beneath his feet now, truly unstable and threatening to leave them to plummet at any second. Jimmy sticks closer to the main chunk, readying his crossbow with twitching hands. Scott would almost say he looks guilty, fussing over a crossbow that has been loaded and ready to shoot for the past few minutes.

He feels his heel dip into open air as he backs himself up to the very edge of the platform, resisting the natural urge to glance backwards and see how far away the ground is. Doing so will only cause the dread to build further, and he’s not sure he can withstand that right now, with Jimmy continuing to fuss over the most minute of details.

Scott watches as Jimmy nudges his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose with his elbow, lining the crossbow up a moment later.

“Appreciate this,” he says, and shoots.

The impact of the hit is enough to send Scott tipping over the edge, shoulder smarting from the impact, fingers twitching. The other bad boys give a whooping cry, probably congratulating Jimmy on gaining himself a little more time.

He twists himself around midair, only to regret it a moment later as the ground surges up to greet him.

He doesn’t feel the impact, thankfully, nerves numbing and senses dulling as he shoots back up. He presses a hand to his chest, attempting to get his ragged breath under control. The feeling of air in his lungs, even after only a few moments of breathlessness, is uncomfortable.

The void stretches wide around him, water lapping at his ankles and yet refusing to reclaim him. It does not return him to the land of the living yet, seemingly content to allow him to stew in the silence for longer.

First to fall.

He jerks at the sudden voice, lurching to his feet. The water laps at his ankles, the splashing loud in the silence left in wake of the echoing words. He has heard of Them speaking to others before, choosing to bestow warnings or wisdom upon those They deem as worthy.

He has never been greeted with anything but disapproving silence on the few occasions where he has been permitted entry to this void.

You believe your sacrifice can reverse the Curse?

He stiffens, turning to try and find the source of this voice. To find a source of the gaze weighing heavily upon his back. And yet his watchers remain unseen, cloaked in the darkness that surrounds him.

He is trapped. You cannot prevent the inevitable.

“There’s no harm in trying,” he tells the open air. The empty space around him. He flexes his hands at his sides, wishing for some kind of weapon to fill the empty space there. “Every curse has a cure. That’s how things work.”

Not this one. Your efforts are foolish and misguided, your sacrifice will be in vain.

“Maybe I don't care, then.” He crosses his arms, “Have you ever considered that your shitty games are pointless? That they don't mean anything in the grand scheme of things. We’re gone for a day, maybe two. No-one misses us; we slot back in as easily as if we’d never been here at all. What’s the point when you can’t even make a lasting impression?”

That is what you think, the voices almost sound offended. A mere insect believes that when a tree shakes, it is the one causing it to do so, rather than the wind or a larger creature of greater importance.

“And I'm the bug in that analogy?” He cocks an eyebrow. “How creative of you.”

You overestimate your importance. You think you have more of an impact than you truly do. In reality…you are nothing more than an after-thought.

“Then why include me at all?” He laughs, “I fuck up your plans every time. Tell me, did you decide on me being the first Boogeyman as a joke? Or were you just so upset over last time that you couldn’t resist.”

Their silence permeates the air.

“Or, tell me this, actually: did it frustrate you that it was done so easily? That the usual build-up and betrayal was missing from the equation – is that why you were so desperate to create another? To make up for the way I've been ruining your games?”

You know not of what you speak. The voices are definitely offended this time. The tiny pest continues to believe itself more important than it is. Fine, a huff reverberates around him, return to your life. See how far your sacrifice carries the Canary.

He opens his mouth to respond, but the water surges up around him before he can say anything, muffling any words he tries to yell at these divine beings with Their overinflated egos.

He huffs out a breath as he resurfaces, pressing a hand to his chest again. This is beginning to become uncomfortably familiar. Feeling the way his heart gradually slows beneath his palm. The way his chest slowly stops rising and falling so quickly, breaths evening out into something less dizzying.

“Scott!”

He looks up at the familiar voice, smiling at the rapidly approaching Martyn.

“I'm back,” he pats the bed below him a little, swinging his legs over the side. “Hi.”

“Yeah, hi.” Martyn reaches him, trousers soaked below the knee and looking more than a little worried. “What happened?”

“I had a deal with Jimmy, remember?” He tilts his head to the side, watching how Martyn follows his every movement. His hands flutter anxiously around Scott, as though wanting to touch him but unsure whether he can.

Scott grasps his wrist gently, pulling it forward until it rests on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I remember now.” Martyn frowns. “How much longer have you got left now, then?” Martyn could easily glance down at his wrist, see the timer ticking merrily down himself, but he chooses not to, for some reason.

“Long enough,” Scott tells him. He’s still easily got the highest timers out of most of their allies and enemies, but there’s no reason to reveal such a thing to the pair loitering just behind Martyn.

He raises his eyebrows at Pearl and BigB, looking back at Martyn for a response. Martyn gives a small shrug, squeezing his shoulder once before releasing him completely. Scott stands, peering around at the almost invisible shards of glass scattered amongst the water.

He grimaces at the thought of jumping down and impaling himself on those by accident, sympathetic aches flaring up along his legs.

“Didn’t think you’d be appearing around here anytime soon, Scott,” Pearl greets. “Nice of you to drop in.”

“Ha-ha, aren’t you funny,” so maybe he’s still a little sore over Pearl attempting to attack them in the middle of the night. She seems to have moved past it rather easily seeing as she’s been setting up a trap alongside Martyn for however long – presumably for as long as Martyn disappeared for.

“C’mon,” Martyn grabs him by the elbow, surprisingly gentle over the new scales and fins. He feels the way Martyn swipes a thumb over the patchy scales, a question written into the furrow of his brow. “There’s a few of us gathered down here, and they’ll only get more and more suspicious the longer we hang around for.”

“We’ve got something else to be doing, anyway,” Pearl says. She hops out of the water easily, walking along the cobblestone path cutting through the water and leading towards the Clock Tower. “Just gonna have to wait and see with this one.”

“I'm sure someone’ll jump down sooner or later,” he replies. Martyn doesn’t release his grip on Scott’s arm, continuing to hold onto him even as it makes walking down the narrow path a little more awkward.

“We’ll just have to wait and see who falls for it first.”

He groans. “Martyn, dear, that might be one of your worst ones yet.”

“Really? I actually thought that was quite good- hey! Pearl! What did you think of that one? Pearl? Why aren’t you responding?”

=== === ===

Scott jumps at the flurry of motion beside him, leaping back and away from the bed. He watches as Martyn flails out of it in a tangle of sheets and limbs, landing with a dull thump on the floor.

Scott watches, amused, as Martyn rests his head on the floor and lets out a groan.

“Having fun?” He asks.

“Scott!” Martyn jerks his head upwards, “Uh, hello. Didn’t realise you were there.”

“I gathered,” he crouches down in front of Martyn. “Need a hand up?”

“No, I’m…I'm fine, actually.” Martyn sighs. He then begins to untangle himself from the bedsheets, wriggling around awkwardly on the floor. Scott watches, still crouched in front of Martyn as he seems to only get himself even more tangled. “I- ugh.”

“Do you need a hand?” He asks again, watching as Martyn continues to struggle for a moment before going entirely limb.

“Yes, please.”

“See,” he unwinds a tangled bit of the bedding, releasing one of Martyn’s arms. “No harm in asking for help, hm?”

“I'm perfectly capable of asking for help.” Martyn sits up as Scott untangles his other arm, leaving him able to untangle himself easily. “It’s you that seems incapable of such a thing.”

“I ask for help when I need it.”

“Uh-huh, then what’s all this?” Martyn gestures at him, the vague way he spreads his hands out not at all helping with Scott’s confusion.

“What’s all what?”

“You, right now.” Martyn catches one of his hands. “I haven’t seen you since you turned red, and then you turn up out of nowhere, freshly dead, and you look sick.”

“It’s just a few aesthetic changes,” he scoffs. Martyn ignores him in favour of studying his hands, scales now covering most of them and webbing stretching between his fingers. “Don't poke at that, it’s sensitive.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Martyn stops prodding and stretching the webbing on his hands, looking up at him guiltily. “You're not bothered by this? Everyone might have seen your other form, but that’s very different to being unable to choose what you look like.”

“I expected it,” he lies. “Red lives always look a little…different. I mean, the first time around everyone went grey. Jimmy looked like he was a strong breeze away from collapsing at all times. I think I've gotten a slightly better end of the stick, here.”

“Hm, well I certainly won’t disagree with you there,” Martyn brings his hand up to his lips and presses a kiss to it. The sudden warmth on his cold, and rather sensitive, scales sends a tingle up his arm and down his spine. “It’s much easier to admire you like this when I'm not a few moments away from drowning.”

He laughs, even as he feels his face growing a little warmer. “Always a flatterer.”

“Is it flattery if it’s true?” Martyn leans back from where Scott has moved forward to continue talking. “Flattery implies that I'm trying to get something out of you, and simply trying to get on your good side in order-”

Scott quiets him with a chaste kiss, grinning with some satisfaction when Martyn shuts up immediately, even going so far as to lean after him when he pulls back.

“You talk too much, sometimes.”

“Good thing I have you here to shut me up,” Martyn’s fingers curl into his hair, pulling slightly but not enough to be painful. “Though, I do often find myself without words around you. You really steal my breath away.”

He sighs, pulling back. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

“You didn’t even know it would work,” Martyn pokes him in the chest. “How long did you think regular people could breathe underwater for? Ten minutes? You were a regular person up until this round of the games, and you forget it so easily?”

“I was certainly not a regular person.”

“Alright, Mr. Pedantic, you weren’t capable of breathing underwater before this, and yet you still managed to forget the need for air?”

“I had it all sorted. You’d have died otherwise; alternatively, I could have just left you to Pearl and BigB.” He narrows his eyes. “See if I’ll save you next time.”

“Aw, no,” Martyn reaches after him, grabbing his face between his hands. “That evening was a great experience. I’d never known such things could be done-”

“Do you have no sense of decency,” he interrupts, pressing a hand firmly over Martyn’s mouth.

“No kiss to shut me up this time?”

Scott frowns at him, opening his mouth to respond. He closes it a moment later, tilting his head to the side. His fins quiver slightly, perking upwards as he listens. Martyn’s gone stiff as well, head tilted in the same way as Scott in order to listen.

“Can you hear…”

“The Canary Call,” Martyn finishes. “Damn. I almost thought Joel might go out first this time.”

Scott doesn’t respond to that, and Martyn doesn’t continue talking. They both want to see how long it’s going to take before the song cuts out, before that lilting melody fades and leaves nothing but silence in its wake.

He winces at the final drawn out note, the pitch rising to something painful.

In the silence afterwards, Scott finds that his previously light-hearted mood has been destroyed. Martyn’s watching something just over Scott’s shoulder, eyes far away and not seeing anything that’s actually there.

Scott tries not to look too closely at Martyn as he regathers himself, not wanting to see the glassy sheen of almost-death covering his eyes.

Scott only allows himself to look again when Martyn sucks in a deep breath, loud and jarring, filling the silence where, he realises, Martyn previously hadn’t been breathing. The glassy sheen is gone, but the look in his eyes doesn’t return them to their previously playful moment.

“Well,” Martyn breathes.

“Well.” Scott returns. “I guess that’s the beginning of the end.”

Martyn laughs. “I almost wanted it to last longer. I thought it might, even with the ever-present timers counting down our every second.”

“Nothing to be done now,” there’s a bitter taste in his mouth. At knowing that They had been proven right once again, that there is no escaping of whatever they ordain as fate. He wonders if They’re laughing right now, gleeful over claiming the Canary once more. Or perhaps they're watching for his reaction, to see how he feels as his sacrifice amounts to nothing.

“No,” Martyn sighs. “Guess not.”

#juno.writes #mer scott (+fishfucker martyn)#majorwood #trafficshipping #traffic series #limited life smp #limited life #trafficblr #coral kids #mean gills #limited life scott #limited life martyn #scott smajor #inthelittlewood #limited life smp fic #trafficfic

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scribbling-dragon · 1 year

Text

first to fall

summary:

The darkness welcomes the Canary, the first to fall. And he welcomes those that fall after him.

Or: a concept on what happens after the final deaths.

(ao3 link)

(6,476 words)

just a heads-up that the main theme of this fic revolves around death. there are lots of mentions of it so if that's not your jam feel free not to read this :]

He doesn't even feel the ground when he hits it.

The feeling rushes away as a wave of numbness overtakes him, flooding his nerves until they're dulled and blunted, leaving him gasping in breaths he no longer needs. He breathes anyway, because it is a small comfort, a reminder, that he can still do it- that his lungs still work and that he can draw air into them. The rise and fall of his chest assures him of this, rising rapidly beneath his hand.

His heart continues to thump beneath his hand, the pulsing beat another small comfort. A comfort that he can only barely afford himself here.

Something echoes above him, some semblance of words drifting in the air above him. He’s not sure that he really is surrounded by air here, but thinking too far down that line of thought does nothing but cause his still-beating heart to race faster and his thoughts to spin in a dizzying whirl.

He stands, dragging himself from the waters of this place. Here. Wherever here is. He’s visited this place several times, returning each time he fulfils his job- completes his duty. He hasn't asked about this place, hasn't voiced any details of it. No-one else mentions it either. He doubts they remember it.

And the universe said you have played the game well.

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves the voice off with a dismissive hand, droplets of water flicking from the ends of his fingers. “You can cut the spiel, I've heard it all before.” He doesn't mean to snap- well, he does, actually, but the beings watching over him should know that he’s heard it before, that he doesn't care for their empty words.

The silence that follows after feels accusing, the weight of several eyes on him lingering for moments after his outburst.

“I'm not sorry,” he snaps. His wings ruffle, the sound of feathers brushing against each other quiet against the blood roaring in his ears. “We’ve been through this song and dance several times before, and we’ll go through it several times again. The least you can do is leave me be.”

The eyes continue to linger, though he can see no faces that they may be peering from. No disappointed expressions or pitying murmurs that lament his fate- his curse. The eyes watch him, and he does his best to stare back- see how much they like being scrutinised over their every action.

The weight of eyes on him gradually disappears. The silence that follows is not accusing nor pitying nor is it disappointing. It is simply silent.

He scoffs, rocking back on his heels, wishing that he was still wearing his shoes. The water laps at his ankles, not rising any higher, but the cold has no such qualms. It clambers through his bones, settling deep within the marrow and burying its teeth into him, gnawing at his bones until he shivers.

His face feels warm, hair sticking to his forehead as he idles his time away in the void of nothingness and ankle-deep water. The darkness stretches thick around him, seemingly endless in every direction imaginable. He doesn't bother walking, not like he had the first and second times. The third time he had sat in the water until it soaked his clothes entirely, leaving him a shivering wreck. He doesn't sit this time. He doesn't pace either- no matter how far he walks, duty will always drag him back to this spot.

Best to remain rooted in place. The water wasn't here the first time he arrived, stumbled into the domain of something beyond death; he’s certain they can change it whenever they wish to, shaping it to their whims and twisting it in accordance to their arbitrary rules. He’s sure it would take nothing less than a single thought to place him in a true cage- one with bars rather than an illusion of freedom.

He prefers the endless void to the thought of a cage.

He swipes at the first drops of blood that drip into his eyes, scrubbing a hand over his face. His palm comes away smeared in crimson, the tang of iron hanging heavier around his head than before. He can taste it in the back of his throat.

He wipes at it again, swipes it away before too much of it can enter his eyes and blind him. It glistens, dark and wet, on the leather of his jacket (-not his jacket, it’s borrowed, taken with permission and something that is expected to be returned- a promise he should not break- a deal he does not want to break-). He’ll have to wash the blood out, he thinks, Tango wouldn't want the jacket returned with his blood soaking the leather. He thinks he remembers something about this being a favourite jacket, but one that was slightly too big on the shoulders for him to really wear it all that often-

Something cracks through the air. It is not as sharp as the lightning that thunders through this place when someone comes to join him more permanently. He turns to where the person is fighting their way through the water. The water upon which he stands yet threatens to drown them- swallow them completely.

He grabs Skizz’s hand, hauls him from the yawning depths before they gain too many ideas and try to keep him longer than they should. The water clings to him, threatening to drag him beneath the surface if Jimmy’s grip wavers for even a moment.

He shakes, just slightly, when he finally manages to pull Skizz free, pausing for a moment to breathe. It isn't as though Skizz will judge him for it- he can't even see him. Nobody can. They simply twitch and sometimes murmur incomprehensible sentences to themselves as the universe works its magic.

He watches as the bones are set and the wounds are healed, if only slightly. He won't bleed out when he returns, as long as he doesn't run too far or too fast- as long as he doesn't jump immediately back into the action.

Jimmy wonders what’s happening. The world around him remains dark and they do not give him a whisper of guidance.

Blood drips into his eyes again, blinding him momentarily before he blinks it away. It sticks in his lashes, threatening to glue his eyes shut if he blinks for too long or too hard. He doesn't bother to wipe the blood away, feeling, instead, as the warmth drips further down his face. His hair sticks to his forehead.

He brushes a hand over Skizz’s shoulder, careful not to apply too much pressure or alert Skizz to his presence. He woke someone up, once, watched the ways the waters tried to claim him before his time. He tries his best not to wake them anymore.

Skizz twitches once more, words falling past his lips- nothing Jimmy can hear. The sound of words escapes him here, leaving him with a yawning sense of emptiness. The silence rings in his ears.

Skizz melts back into the water, returning to whatever conflict they've tumbled into now that his warning has been cried out. He tries not to feel too bitter at the man’s return to the land of the living- Jimmy saw his clock, could see it ticking down, slowly but surely. The man will be back before long. They always are.

His face feels warm. The blood is sticky against his chin, tacky against his skin. He raises a hand to brush the worst of it away from his eyes, swiping at it, ignoring the way more trickles down to replace it.

The water brushes over his feet, moving with an invisible tide. The water barely reaches his ankles, and yet everyone else sinks deep into it, slipping easily into the water and drifting elsewhere.

This place does not bow to time, even as every other fragment of life dances along to time’s merry tune. He’s glad of its timeless nature, unsure if he would be able to stand and wait for the moments to tick down, for the next person to burst free from the waters.

He doesn't have to wait long- or maybe he does. Time doesn't exist here.

Joel bursts from the water, hands clawing for something that is out of reach. Jimmy lunges forward, pulling him free from the water before it can swallow him back down, drag him into its depths.

Joel’s fingers curl into his arms, nails digging into his skin, denting the leather of his jacket. He holds onto Joel even as he winces, feels the blood start to bead beneath Joel’s hands. He ignores it- it’ll be gone in a moment and Joel will return, will sink back into the waters and continue to chase whoever he was hunting.

Joel always thrashes, eager to return to the land of the living, eager to send more people to greet him (or not greet him, none of them ever speak, not until they come to stand beside him and wait for their friends to join them). Jimmy holds him steady, even as he winces at the stinging.

The waters rise up to greet Joel, and Jimmy’s forced to push him back down, ignoring the way he struggles- reluctant to be guided in where he should go, what path he should take. He holds him there until the water whisks him away, swallowing him and returning him to the conflicts.

It is as though the floodgates have burst, death flowing freely among the members of the server. The water is around his knees, just below. He has to push forward to move anyway, wading through the sucking depths of the water. He can't see his feet.

The water is cold. The gnawing cold has faded, leaving numbness in its wake. He’s not sure which he prefers; he’s never decided whether the gnawing of the cold, the feeling of something like teeth scraping along his bones, or the numbness that spreads in its wake is better. He’s stood in this cold several times over, and yet he’s never come to a decision. He can hardly think with the pressing darkness and rising waters.

The waters never rose before. Never climbed over his feet, never clambered higher than that. He shivers. He’s only glad that he didn't awake in the robes of last time; the fabric would have dragged in the water and weighed him down. The leather jacket is cold, but it is a small comfort anyway.

BigB emerges from the water next, hardly lingering before he’s returning to the living, leaving him alone in the darkness. Scott follows soon after, the scales on his cheeks shining oddly in the lack of light. They shimmer, even with no sun to reflect off of them. They're almost iridescent.

Scott doesn't move, doesn't stir. He simply lays there, still. Jimmy almost thinks he can see the whites of his eyes, eyes only slightly open, not enough to see. His mouth moves quickly, words dropping past his lips though no sound follows them.

He hates it when they talk. Reminds him that they're seeing something beyond him, experiencing something other than this cold, endless void. The darkness swallows everything around him, but his visitors see something beyond that. He’s never seen anything beyond that; the cold void greets him every time.

With each death something crackles through the air, weighs down on his limbs as he’s forced, each time, to watch them sink back into the water; to return to the conflict that he heralded. And yet, the conflict continues, his warnings go unheeded. What is the point in the canary, in its song, when no one stops to listen when the song dies out?

He thinks they simply enjoy tormenting him. Forcing him to watch as his friends die, unable to do anything but provide them with comforts they won't even remember.

Impulse dies. Then Etho. Both of them are silent. He wouldn't even notice their presence without the crackle in the air and the heavy feeling that settles around his throat. Skizz returns again, calmer than before. His face is settled in something that could be resignation but could also be acceptance. Jimmy can hardly see through the blood dripping in his eyes.

The next death cracks through the air, and he startles, whipping around. His wings bristle, feathers rising with his apprehension. The water sloshes around his knees, soaking his jeans through, the cold sending shivers down his spine. He thought the cold had settled far enough into his bones that he wouldn't shiver anymore. The cold slithers down his spine anyway.

Martyn is halfway sat up, hands trailing in the water. He seems…almost aware of it, eyes half-open as he looks around. His eyes don't catch on him, don't pause or linger; he doubts Martyn’s actually seeing him, simply staring at something that his own brain has summoned to make this void more comfortable.

Martyn says something, the sound carrying in the silence. His ears ring with the sudden input of sound and he steps closer. He can feel his feathers bristling, something cold continuing to slither down his spine. He hates seeing Martyn here, hates watching the way he glances around, half-aware of his surroundings. He hates it.

Martyn’s eyes catch on him, half-closed, but they pause all the same. Martyn grabs the front of his jacket, grip surprisingly strong for someone between life and death, a foot on either side of the boundary. He’s yanked forward, water sloshing around him as he’s dragged closer.

“-first to fall,” Martyn says, voice wavering. His eyes flicker back and forth, studying his face. Jimmy can feel his heart thundering in his chest, thumping hard enough to make him feel sick- he’s light-headed, heart in his throat. He hates seeing Martyn like this, hardly aware of himself. He hates it. “Forever caged in different walls.”

Martyn’s hand loosens on his jacket, releasing him completely a moment later as he disappears. He doesn't sink back into the water- the water doesn't claim him, doesn't allow him to sink into its depths and return. He’s yanked off, pulled away abruptly and with little warning.

Jimmy swallows, hearing the sound of it echo around him, feels the click of his throat. There’s something lodged there, as though his heart is truly stuck in his throat. He tries to swallow it down, but the lump refuses to disappear, lingers as Skizz follows after Martyn. Then Etho, blood blossoming on his jacket, spreading in the water. Scar’s throat is ripped loose, hanging in bloody tatters and he’s forced to watch as it stitches itself back together. Something makes a gristly crack and he forces himself to look away, the sick feeling rising in his throat again.

He doesn't get a warning when Joel bursts forth, surging forward from the darkness and lunging for him. Blood trails behind him in the water, water sloshing around both their legs as Joel grips at his arms, teeth bared in the beginnings of a snarl. He grips Jimmy’s arms hard enough to bruise, nails digging in.

Jimmy has to pry his hands off, carefully unlatching each finger and praying Joel doesn't start clinging to him again. He still has time, even as ticks down, trickling away faster and faster as Joel turns to the violence that soothes his aches. He shoves him down into the water, ignoring the way Joel seems to choke on it, pushing him down and waiting for him to fade away again.

He kneels in the water, feels it tugging at his jacket, threatening to pull him under too. He hates this. He hates the weight on his back, the water weighing down his wings, pinning him in place. The weight around his neck, holding him down as he kneels in the water, the cold soaking into his bones, threatening to pull him deeper into the waters.

His chest hitches, something painful clawing up his throat. He presses a hand to his mouth, muffling any sound he might make.

There are eyes on his back, pinning him in place. Like a bug on a board, held up and displayed in a collection, nothing more than an ornament. He doesn't turn to face them, even as the stare on his back grows heavier, watching him with disapproval.

He wants to turn on them, to snarl at them and voice his displeasure. He thinks it, and his throat closes over, mouth growing dry. Their stare turns mocking, gleeful, something that makes his anger burn a little hotter. His mouth remains dry and their stare disappears, leaving him alone again.

“I do too.”

Skizz’s eyes are open when he surfaces, looking around himself, as though confused. Jimmy stares at him, watches him for a moment before it all clicks into place. He remains kneeling in the water, squinting at Skizz as he stands. A lot of the blood obscures his vision, dripping into his eyes. Some of it has dried, threatening to stick his eyelashes together and render him truly blind.

His voice does not return to him.

“Oh, hey,” Skizz greets him, turning around in the water. He seems unbothered by it, moving through it as though it isn't there. Jimmy wouldn't be surprised if the water was only here for him- if he was the only one that suffered from it. “You, uh, you have a little something on your face, buddy.”

He nods. Skizz looks awkward, looking over him cautiously. He’s not sure what he looks like, can feel the blood over his face but the water gives him no reflection. He doesn't know how else they choose to twist him, change him to fit their purposes.

He opens his mouth to speak, but not even the sound of his breathing makes it past his lips before it shrivels in the air. He shuts his mouth again, jaw clicking, and gestures at it helplessly.

“No voice?” Skizz guesses. He doesn't look angry, doesn't pace back and forth, doesn't demand to be returned to the fight, to return to his allies. He nods in response to Skizz’s question, and the man’s face screws up in something resembling sympathy. “That sucks, scream it away already?”

He shakes his head, gesturing to the air around them. He doesn't know why he bothers. Skizz won't understand, and even if he did, this place will fade from his mind as soon as he leaves it. Its clinging cold won't follow him home, won't linger in his bones or the dark recesses of his mind. He leaves, and it washes clean, as though he was never there in the first place.

The knowledge of this place is his burden to bear.

“I don't think I get what you mean.” Skizz sits beside him, crossing his legs. He shivers as he sinks further into the water; maybe he can see it, just choosing not to comment on the way Jimmy is slumped over into it, clothes soaked through and face painted red with blood.

He shrugs.

This is the first time they've taken his voice from him, stolen away the one comfort he can provide in this place. Normally he’s able to reassure his friends, promise them that they only need to wait a little bit longer and they’ll be free again; calm the ones that hunger for the violence, the ones that would try and tear this place apart to try and return.

The water stirs, rippling just in front of him. Skizz’s eyes widen, watching the place that Bdubs rises from with a shocked silence. He reaches forward, hands stretching out to touch Bdubs- to shake him awake.

Jimmy bats his hands away, shakes his head at Skizz’s questioning eyes. He simply presses a firm, but gentle, hand onto Bdubs’ shoulder, holding him in place. He doesn't know why he bothers, doesn't know why he tries- Bdubs doesn't even move, twitching only slightly, face twisting and changing.

Maybe it’s because he remembers the feeling of Bdubs’ hands on his shoulders, fingers curling into the leather of his jacket, shaking him back and forth as Bdubs asked- begged him to kill him, pleaded for him to take some of his time in the hopes that he might last a little longer.

It wouldn't work- it never worked. Always the first to fall. And yet he took the time anyway, selfishly stole it from Bdubs, as though the noose wasn't already tightening around his throat, as though his song was not already petering out. He took it, driven by the force of Bdubs’ pleading and the misguided hope that, perhaps, this might be the time that it fixes everything.

Bdubs sinks back into the water, gone without a single sound. The surface doesn't even ripple.

“Does…everyone come here?” Skizz asks. The first one always does, curious about this place, asking questions- too many questions, questions he doesn't have the answer to. He’d answered them, at first, when he still hoped that someone might remember this misery, recall this place and his presence in it.

He didn't answer any questions last time, unable to meet Tango’s eyes as they sat in the silence together. He hadn't wanted to explain to Tango, to explain and then watch him forget, to know that when he tries to summon the words outside of this place, that they fail him; leave him open-mouthed and unable to force a single syllable from his lips.

He nods, and Skizz frowns. “I don't remember coming here.”

He shakes his head, hopes it communicates the no one ever does that he wants to say. Skizz frowns a little deeper, brows furrowing and eyes searching over him. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn't find, because he slumps a moment later, shoulders bowing inwards.

Normally, this is the moment when he finds the words to comfort them. To assure them that it will all be over soon and that they can return to their homes as though this never happened, because to them, it didn't. This place doesn't exist outside of his own memory.

He feels tears beading in the corners of his eyes as he waits for the next death, for the next person to rise from the waters and then return to them again. He sucks in a deep breath, but it’s not enough to stop the first tear from falling. It cuts through the blood on his face, carving a path through the crimson.

It drops into the water, not even causing the surface to ripple.

He sucks in another breath, stares down at the water that does not reflect his face, watches as blood drips from his head and into the water, blossoms of red swirling deep within, like petals of a life long-gone.

When tears no longer prick at the corners of his eyes, he turns to face Skizz, watches the way he studies the water too, pulling faces as though that would convince it to show his reflection. Skizz looks up after a moment, meeting his eyes.

His throat is dry, painfully so, but he nods towards Skizz anyway, tilting his head in question. He hopes the man gets the idea, or at least the gist of what he’s trying to ask. The silence is uncomfortable, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the darkness and the ringing in his ears.

“Oh, uh,” Skizz looks down at himself, though there are no wounds to show the battles he’s fought in over the past however-long it’s been. ��Etho killed me.” Some of his surprise must show on his face because Skizz laughs, shaking his hands, “It’s not what you think, I swear. I just,” he sighs, “just didn't have the fight to go on any longer, I suppose. I didn't want my time to go to someone else, for someone to stand over me and claim those thirty minutes when they could go somewhere that I wanted them to.”

Oh. He supposes that makes sense.

“I wasn't going to win, wasn't going to gain that time back. I didn't play the game well enough to win it back. I wish I played it better.”

Jimmy watches him.

Skizz looks up, away from where his hands have been trailing through the water. No one has risen through the depths to greet them, however temporarily, so there is nothing for him to do. His world grinds to a halt, however temporary, with the lack of a job.

“Do we…normally react like this?” Skizz asks. He clarifies a moment later, “Sitting with you, asking questions, talking like this?”

He shakes his head, then reconsiders, bobbing it from side to side in a so-and-so gesture. Skizz seems to understand him, at least a little.

“Would you rather I was angrier?”

Jimmy raises an eyebrow at the question, asking silently, do you want to be angrier?

“No,” Skizz laughs, shaking his head. “No I suppose not. I don't really have anything to be angry about anyway. I did what I set out to do, and I did it well. That’s all we can really ask for, right?”

Jimmy dips his head in agreement, even though he wants to protest, wants to claw his way back to the land of the living, for just a moment more of life, just a few seconds. He doesn't want this- he never does. He never does what he set out to do, never survives long enough to be the second gone, rather than the first. His death heralds the descent into madness, and no one seems to notice.

Impulse rises through the water, and he sees Skizz jerk forward, panic flashing across his face before he settles back again with a glance in Jimmy’s direction. Jimmy leans forward, looking over Impulse’s face.

The deaths this time around have been far less gruesome. Falling from high places, blown to pieces so they are already stitched back together when they appear here. He’s grateful for it, for not having to watch as the universe pieces them back together, seals their wounds shut.

Impulse disappears as quickly as he arrived, eager to return to the fight. Skizz looks almost disappointed, watching his once-ally sink back into the waters.

Silence rings in his ears and they watch, together, as Scar emerges from the water, blood blossoming at his throat. Arrows are a good way to die, such a small wound and so easily fixed. Jimmy prefers it to the cleaving swipe of an axe or the tearing slash of a sword.

Cleo and Bdubs appear together. He’s glad he didn't have to sit through the four people Grian killed earlier, unsure of how he would deal with so many people- he can hardly stand to watch two people return to the waters, only used to it because everyone had arrived as a pair last time. Everyone had slipped through the waters with their partner, even if they were unaware of it.

“Are you always here?”

Skizz’s voice breaks the silence. He had been quiet enough that Jimmy almost forgot he was there. He hesitates, before nodding slowly. He watches the last of Cleo’s hair disappear into the darkness, swallowed by the water as they're returned to somewhere warmer.

“Without your voice?” Skizz asks, something softer in his tone.

He scoffs, or tries to without sound, and shakes his head.

Skizz makes a noise in the back of his throat and Jimmy turns to face him. “Then why can't you speak?”

He shrugs, gesturing above their heads again.

Skizz falls silent again after that, probably unsure of how to respond to that. Jimmy doesn't know either, but he doesn't have a voice to speak with right now, so he doesn't have to think of a response either.

Joel’s blood spreads through the water before he appears, dragging himself from it almost sluggishly. None of the fight from before is present in him, and he simply sways back and forth, hands twitching, arms ready and braced for some kind of impact. He’s expecting a fight before he’s even alive again, Jimmy realises.

He doesn't even fight when Jimmy pushes him back into the water, holds him down and waits for him to return. Skizz watches him, eyes heavy on his back- but these eyes have a face to connect them to, a nose and a mouth and eyebrows that he can see and understand, not just the feeling of eyes weighing heavily on him.

He sighs, shoulders rising and falling silently. His wings ruffle, the soft sound of feathers on feathers filling the echoing expanse that stretches around them. It disrupts the ringing in his ears, for a moment, and he relaxes in something that is not just the pressing silence.

Skizz shifts in the water behind him, hears it sloshing slightly, smacking against exposed skin.

He feels Grian before he sees him, watches the way Skizz stiffens at the sudden pressure bearing down on both of their heads, making his eyes ache. He meets Skizz’s eyes, shaking his head slowly and giving him a smile. He doesn't know how convincing it is, with blood soaking through his hair and sticking to his skin. He probably looks horrifying, but Skizz smiles back anyway.

Grian’s eyes are open as he emerges from the water, sitting up as though he’s waking up in bed, comfortable in this place in a way that never fails to unnerve Jimmy.

Grian sees him after a moment, blinking, his eyes refocusing.

“Ouch,” Grian winces in sympathy, though he’s still smiling, eyes flicking over his face. “Looks like you got the short end of the stick this time, huh?”

He shrugs, nodding at the same time. He doesn't miss the way Grian’s eyes narrow, “What’s wrong with your-”

The water claims him before he can finish his sentence, though Jimmy knows what he was going to ask anyway. The water wraps around him, seizing his hands and legs in poor imitations of shackles, dragging him back down.

A feather rests on the surface of the water, dislodged in the brief panic Grian had before he was pulled away again. The water claims that too, sucking it down into the darkness before he can even think of picking it up.

“How did he see you?” Skizz asks. Jimmy doesn't have a response for that, not one he can communicate with hand gestures and the nodding of his head. He settles for shrugging. “Right, yeah, yes or no questions. Can he always see you?”

He nods.

“Huh.” Skizz says. “If he always sees you, and you're always here, how come I don't remember this place?” Skizz looks around, as though the darkness will have changed, will have become something more familiar to him in the time between now and the last time he examined their surroundings.

Jimmy shakes his head. He doesn't know how to communicate no one ever does, don't feel bad or I've tried to tell everyone, so many times, they never hear, no matter how loud I speak. So he doesn't bother. He just watches the water.

Scar doesn't need to be pushed back down into the water. He goes happily, barely there before he’s returning again, face twisting into a smirk as he disappears.

Time does not exist in this place. This place, this void, exists beyond time, outside of it. It does not dance along to time’s merry little tune, creating its own song for Jimmy to play along with, as unwilling as he is. But he follows the motions anyway, moves through the verses and tries not to wonder how long it has been, tries not to think about how many people he’s seen.

(He’s seen so many more people than he usually would. Everyone died too much, this time, throwing their lives away with giddy delight as they realised they had more than three.)

Joel thrashes in the water, lunging forward with the intent to kill, not yet realising that his target is no longer in front of him, that he is no longer in front of his target. Jimmy catches him as he stumbles, holding his wrists tightly before he tries to break free.

He can feel his timer ticking down, can feel the erratic thump-thump-thump of his heart beneath his palm. He mourns Joel, silently, feeling how his life is slipping between his fingers, like sand through an hourglass. His sunglasses are cracked, one line through the left lens. Joel managed to scrape his way through his entire time without damaging them, but now, they crack and begin to fall apart on his face.

Jimmy pushes him under before he can watch them break completely, mourning Joel before he even joins them completely. It won't be long. Had seen the beginnings of madness in Joel’s eyes as he twisted mid-fall, watched the rage spark to life behind his sunglasses.

He doesn't have to wait long. It’s hardly a few moments - or perhaps it’s several hours - before Joel is surging out of the water, shaking his head like a dog, droplets flying everywhere as he snarls and seethes, hands curled into fists.

He’s laughing, some shaky, jerking cackle that makes Jimmy’s ears ring after so long spent in silence. He tosses his glasses away, doesn't even watch to see them sink into the water, swallowed by the hungry waters.

Skizz watches him, and he watches Joel. Watches the way he almost shakes apart, still laughing.

He presses a hand to his shoulder, which is when Joel seems to realise he’s not alone, that they're watching, that he has an audience.

“What the heck!” Joel startles backwards, voice tilting upwards towards the end. He shrieks, something which Joel denies every time it’s mentioned. “You can creep up on me like that!” He shrieks, voice still pitching higher, before he seems to realise who he’s shrieking at.

Joel stares at him for several long moments. The red in his eyes is gone. Then he turns with a snarl, shoving his way through the water, either ignorant or uncaring of the way it sloshes everywhere, soaking him through in a matter of moments.

“No,” Joel shakes his head. “Send me back!” He whirls on Jimmy, arms flung out on either side as he yells. “I need more time, I have more time! They need to- need to-” he cuts himself off with a yell, kicking through the water, sending an arc of water through the air.

He stills a moment later, chest heaving, breath heavy as he seems to collect himself, if only slightly.

“Why are you here?” Joel asks. He doesn't turn to face him, doesn't even continue with the anger that he had been feeding since…since whenever the bloodlust gripped his mind utterly and sent him on whatever rampage he tore through the server with this time. “Why are you here?” He repeats, a little louder, when Jimmy doesn't respond.

He doesn't have words to respond with, doesn't have any comfort he can provide. His throat is dry and he can taste blood in his mouth. His tongue feels thick and heavy, as though he’s gone without water for several days. For all he knows, he has. He doesn't know how long it’s been.

“Jimmy!” Joel turns on him, grabs him by the shoulders and gets close up and in his face. Jimmy doesn't flinch back, knows Joel won't actually hurt him, can feel the way his fingers barely press into his jacket, not even holding him tight enough to leave indents in the leather from his nails. “Answer me!”

“He can't,” Joel startles as Skizz speaks up, and Jimmy almost does as well- almost forgot that Skizz was here, watching. “He can't speak.”

Joel looks back at him, the whites of his eyes wider than usual. He stares at him, asking if it’s true, searching his face. He doesn't wince at the sight of the blood, doesn't murmur in sympathy or pity. He just looks over him, searching his face for something.

He shakes his head with a smile, hoping that there isn't too much blood on his teeth.

Joel’s eyes harden. “Why’d you have to be so stupid?” He asks, hands curling a little tighter into his jacket, pulling him closer to Joel until they're almost hugging. “Why’d you have to fall off? It was going so well? You didn't have to die.”

He smiles, and shakes his head again. It was always going to happen, he tries to say, tries to communicate, there was nothing to be done against it. The canary will always be the first to fall.

Joel snarls something, wordless and angry. Jimmy almost misses the way Joel had changed for the first iteration of this game, and then the second, the way his wolves had changed him a little. The way he had changed and not changed back, a snarl still buried beneath some of his words, even as the ears (something Lizzie had found funny at the time, at the start, before things went wrong) faded and the unnatural shine of his eyes reversed.

He raises a hand, pressing it over where Joel’s hand grips his jacket. His hands are cold and Joel’s hands are warm. He has been sat in this water for far longer than him, his fingers stiff with death and decay and the cold of sitting between life and whatever comes after.

His throat clicks as he swallows, but no words come to his mind, no words are able to make it free from his throat. His heart beats uncomfortably hard in his chest.

“You were meant to be free,” Joel says. He sounds like he’s begging, which is wrong. Joel doesn't ask for things, he takes them with a grin or a smirk and a laugh, pleased with whatever it is he’s managed to steal. “I was going to save you, give you my time, stop you from being the first.”

He shakes his head again, even as the sentiment warms his heart. It wouldn't have worked. He would have died halfway to that point, losing Joel whatever time he had managed to gain and ending up back here again. He is always the first, there is no escaping that.

To try and escape means the bars will be smaller next time, less gaps for him to wriggle his way through. The choking feeling will be more heavy on his neck, in his chest, in his lungs.

“It’s not fair.” Joel snarls. “You shouldn't have to be first.”

He doesn't know how to communicate it’s okay and you tried your best through his eyes and actions alone. He settles, instead, for the comfort of someone else, of someone that wanted something else for him. Even if it would never- could never happen.

He has a job to do. A curse to fulfil.

#juno.writes #limited life smp #limited life spoilers #limited life smp fic #limited life #jimmy solidarity #joel smallishbeans #smallishbeans #skizzleman #limited life bad boys #trafficblr #traffic smp #traffic series #life series #ls4 #ls4 spoilers #solidaritygaming #solidarity gaming #trafficfic

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scribbling-dragon · 10 months

Text

That Damn Scarf

summary:

But Martyn is also definitely the guy he’s spent the most time around. And because of this, he would have thought he’d find the answer to the strange man he first came across floating in the sky (which is actually a lie, he’d been watching him putter around for a little while before that, but he didn't actually speak to him until he was several thousand feet in the air and approaching certain death by suffocation). But he still doesn't have his answer: why the scarf?

(ao3 link)

(12,489 words)

Scott has met, and spoken to, Martyn several times. He likes to think they're on rather good terms at the moment, with him poking his head, or his arm, or any other limb, really, in to poke at Martyn in a way of saying hello. Martyn then, often, pulls him all the way through the portals, dragging him (quite literally) into a conversation, or pulling him in to help with whatever task he’s doing that day. Most of which are very boring and are not things that Scott would normally consider doing, however, when he’s with Martyn he cannot help but smile and go along with it, enjoying the moments they spend together.

So, Scott likes to think they're friends- and rather good ones at that! He’s met several other people on his wanderings around the world, popping in and out of places, checking on the new faces he spies around. A few of them are interesting, catching his interest for a few minutes or hours, leading to him watching them from a distance, either until he got bored, approached them, or he noticed them.

Scott knows what a scarf is, obviously, but what he doesn't get is the purpose of the garment. Everyone pulls out a scarf, maybe some mittens and a hat too, when it gets a little bit chillier and frost begins to nip at any exposed skin and the winds turn sharper, more likely to cut at your face if you venture out into it with insufficient protection. It’s a normal response to bundle up and add a few extra layers, perhaps spruce things up a bit with how artfully you drape your scarf around your neck and over your shoulders.

Scott’s fallen victim to several nice scarves over the years, though most of those had been thin pieces of fabric, silken and floaty things designed to look pretty rather than keep the chill away. Not that he was particularly bothered by the cold, preferring to let it bite at his skin and find that he’s actually impermeable to their teeth of ice and snow. He hails from places far colder than what a little snow can achieve, it’ll take more than the measly winds to get him to cover up more.

So, Martyn’s scarf. Scott’s not actually sure why he’s so fixated on it, only that he’d noticed it once, taking a moment too long to fixate on the knitted garment; and just like that, it had snaked its way into his mind, capturing him in its threads and pulling his attention towards it when he has a free moment- every waking moment of his, not occupied by other things, has been consumed by the blue and slightly-darker-blue wool of Martyn’s scarf.

It is a very nice scarf. Obviously handmade, but made by someone that clearly knows what they're doing, possibly a master of their craft. Or maybe Martyn just bought it from some random person, and it was made in bulk with several thousand others that look exactly the same. But it also just looks handmade, and Martyn treats it carefully, as though worried it might get harmed by something. Scott has watched him tuck a loose thread back in carefully, neatly folding it back amongst the blues.

The only thing, and the thing that he’s focusing on, is that he’s never seen Martyn without the scarf.

He wears it seemingly constantly, always in the same way, with it a few scant inches from being tugged up to cover his lips completely- not that Scott spends long periods of time looking at Martyn’s lips, his scarf is just really close to his lips, and it’s hard to look at his scarf without also looking at his lips, and…maybe he does look at his lips. But only in quick, friendly glances that mean nothing more than watching Martyn speak and the way he shapes his vowels as he talks.

And he still doesn't know why Martyn even wears it! He doesn't get cold, something that Scott had been able to establish pretty early on, asking first why he wears all of the layers, then finding out just how cold Martyn was the time he clamped a bare hand down on the back of his neck. It had sent several shivers down his spine and forced him to squirm away from the ice blocks Martyn had pressed against his skin. Ice blocks that turned out to be his hands, which also turned out to be his normal (and healthy) temperature.

So, he doesn't need the scarf. Definitely not for keeping warm reasons, because Martyn actually explained to him how higher temperatures are bad for his health. Though only in the extremes, like deserts or the Nether. And he also doesn't enjoy hanging out in completely frozen environments, both for the lack of life there, and because the cold can still bite at him, just not as fiercely.

And yet he wears it! Scott’s has never, ever seen him without it- even that one time when it was really late at night, the moon halfway towards its descent, and he’d been stranded in the middle of nowhere and the first waypoint he’d managed to connect to was Martyn’s. And it would have been rude and cruel and not at all friend-like of him to kick a dear friend, like Scott, out in the middle of the night (closer to early morning, but semantics) when it was so dark and cold and dangerous.

And Martyn had been in his pyjamas, very obviously just woken up with quite spectacular bed-hair that Scott had to exert all of his willpower not to comment on (he wasn't going to risk being kicked out just because Martyn’s hair made him look like a parrot with how it stuck up at the back). And still wearing his scarf. Neatly tucked around his neck and trailing over his shoulder, a perfect compliment to the pyjamas he was wearing.

His ongoing theory, until recently, was that the scarf was simply a part of him. Scott had never met a chillager before he came across Martyn, and so he wasn't one to judge, nor was he one to question something. He much preferred to figure things out on his own, mainly because the satisfaction of eliminating all incorrect assumptions and settling on the most plausible (and usually correct) answer was something basically unbeatable.

He’d been able to eliminate that theory rather quickly, though he still went through several testing stages to be certain of his initial conclusion (he would much rather spend time determining that he was wrong than skip over it and find out that he was right initially).

He’d tugged at the scarf experimentally, twisting the fibres to see if it gained any reaction from Martyn. He’d done it before, definitely, but he had a concussion that time from one of the “Colins” that Martyn insisted on keeping in his cave-house, and had been a little too blurry around the edges to look for a reaction to the action. But on his second, and then third and fourth and fifth, attempt, when he still garnered no reaction from the man, he had to give up on the theory, crossing it off his quickly shortening list. The lack of response meant it obviously wasn't sewn into his nervous system, and Scott had seen him adjust it several times before, even if it was only a tiny bit, either tightening or loosening the material.

But he’d continued to tug and pull at the scarf, gently at first, then growing with force once he’d determined it wouldn't hurt Martyn if he did so- he may be carrying out tests to determine the truth behind the scarf, but he wasn't going to willingly hurt one of his friends.

And Martyn had only protested slightly (actually a lot, especially when Scott yanked at the scarf), but not enough to dissuade Scott from forming perhaps his worst habit in the entirety of his life.

His teachers would be so disappointed.

===

The sun was just warm enough to be uncomfortable, the sun bearing down with some force on the bare skin of his arms. He eyes Martyn from the corner of his eye, watching as he ambles along easily, hood still pulled up around his ears and looking entirely unbothered by the heat that seems determined to slowly boil his insides. He feels like he’s being slowly eased off of a simmer and onto a boil.

It leaves him feeling too hot in his own skin.

He trips, too focused on side-eyeing Martyn and questioning how the man hasn't melted into a little puddle yet. He pops back into place a few feet ahead, sparks drifting around him as he continues walking, backwards now, so he can squint at Martyn.

Martyn looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “Did you need something?” His face isn't even a little pink, not at all betraying that he might be feeling a little on the toasty side. It’s also beginning to piss him off a little. He looks far too cosy, at too much of a comfortable temperature with his stupid scarf tucked neatly around his neck, brushing against the bottom of his chin.

He hums, spinning around so he’s walking forwards again and falling back into place beside Martyn. “Just wondering if your brain is melting into a puddle.” He makes a small, considering noise in the back of his throat, turning his head to continue squinting at Martyn. Martyn is watching him. “You look like your brain is melting outta your ears.”

Martyn stares at him, jolting to a halt for a second before his brain seems to reboot (maybe it’s not quite melted yet. Just…defrosting) and he starts walking again, jogging for a moment to catch up with Scott.

“What does that even mean?” He asks, sounding genuinely confused. His face scrunches up, eyebrows furrowing and forming a small crinkle between his eyebrows. Scott can't quite bring himself to look away, though he covers up this new and embarrassing discovery by grinning wide.

“Means you look like an idiot.”

Martyn goes a little pink in the face at that - though, Scott notes, unfortunately it doesn't look like the pinkness of his face is due to the heat. It looks more like- he teleports a few feet to the left, crossing his arms and frowning at Martyn.

“That’s not very nice of you.” He complains. He stops walking so he can plant his hands on his hips and frown at Martyn disapprovingly. “We use our words, not our fists to communicate.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Martyn shakes his head. “I wasn't gonna hit you hard.” He pauses, then smiles at Scott, sidling a little closer, “Just a little tap.”

Scott reels back as Martyn flicks him on the nose, hands shooting up to cover his face, glaring at Martyn once he’s managed to blink the tears back from his eyes enough to actually bring Martyn’s face back into focus.

Martyn laughs at him, bending almost double at the waist as he laughs. It echoes around them, sending a few rabbits shooting off through the grasses, disappearing quickly into the browning grass. He frowns after them, watching the bobbing of their cotton-tails disappear. He’s got a recipe for rabbit meat somewhere, tucked away in one of the recipe books lining his bookshelves. He’s hardly had an opportunity to make any rabbit-based dishes.

The slowing of Martyn’s wheezing (sounding more like he’s choking and less like he’s laughing) brings him out of his thoughts, and he remembers to glare at him, lowering his hands from his face to properly achieve the full effect.

“Did your mother teach you no manners?” He cries, once he’s managed to gather himself sufficiently enough to be annoyed. “Or did you just grow up in a barn?” If he ever dared to flick someone on the nose (on the nose) back home, he’d have gotten a slap on the wrist and sent to his room for a week. His teachers would have also made sure to slot in some extra etiquette classes, just to rub salt in the wound a little further.

“My mother was a lovely woman,” Martyn huffs back at him. “She taught me plenty of manners, but she also told me not to waste them on rude people.”

“I'm not rude!” Martyn snorts a laugh at that. “I am not!” He has to jog to catch up with Martyn, following behind him as he pushes through the tall grass, carving a path for Scott to easily follow behind.

The grass brushes over the bare skin at his wrists, causing him to shiver and tuck his arms a little closer. He loves the plants of this realm far too much to be disgusted by many of them, but tall grasses are something that makes him want to claw his skin off when it brushes over him, skittering across his flesh like the similarly unwelcome bugs he’s come across recently. Simply the thought of the spiders is enough to send a shiver down his spine, crawling uncomfortably over his skin.

“You're one of the rudest people I've met.” Martyn says, turning his head over his shoulder to look at him. His scarf slips a little lower, exposing a pale flash of skin at his neck. It’s almost enough to make him swallow a look away, though the heat can be blamed on the sun, still trying to cook him from the inside out. Like his insides are soup and his organs the meat of it. He grimaces at his own analogy and looks away.

Looking away means he makes direct eye contact with the creeper lurking just to the side of them, fixing him under its beady stare. He stares at it for a moment, not even registering that his feet have stopped moving and Martyn has continued on in front of him, unaware of the creature waiting to put a dent in this horrible, itchy field.

It hisses, swelling slightly in warning. It’s all the warning he’ll get, and he grabs it with both hands and holds on, teleporting to Martyn and grabbing the closest available thing, dragging him forward and through another one of his portals, both of them tumbling through several feet away, tumbling over each other in the grass as Martyn yells something into his ear.

The grass brushes past every bit of exposed skin, and he feels several of his joints protest the movement, twisting oddly and promising him pain later if he doesn't use heat and pressure. He ignores it, ignores the scratching of the grass as it tickles him.

The explosion rocks through the air a moment later, causing him to wince and duck his head, far closer to Martyn’s face than he’s…ever been. Ever. Martyn’s staring up at him, eyes wide and hood halfway fallen off of his head, revealing his ridiculously fluffy deer ears. His scarf is still tucked neatly around his neck, though, not a speck of dust caught in its fibres.

“What,” Martyn wheezes out, “the hell.”

“There was a creeper,” he manages, still a little disoriented from the sudden, jarring teleportations- he hasn't gotten dizzy like this since his first few teleports. Certainly not after he’d graduated his first year. “Uh. Thought it’d ruin the day a bit if one of us got blown up.”

“You think?” Martyn’s breathing still sounds a little wheezy. His voice slightly strained as he speaks. “Might do a bit more than ruin the day.” Scott shifts slightly, knees digging uncomfortably into the weirdly soft ground…

He shifts backwards onto his haunches a little further, drawing back as he realises he’s hunched over Martyn, knees digging into his chest, faces far too close to be friendly. The sun is unbearably hot on his back, flushing his face with the heat and recent exertion.

His ankle twinges painfully as Martyn sits up, dislodging him from where he had been crouching. It brings them almost face to face again, because Scott’s still sitting on his legs, just below the knee, grass still itching at his arms as they shift about.

The smell of gunpowder lingers in the air, hanging heavy about their heads, even as the small particles of smoke begin to float back down.

Martyn’s hand wraps around his, slowly prying his fingers away from something. Scott looks down, finding the end of Marytn’s scarf clutched in his grasp, fingers digging into the material tight enough that his knuckles are white.

“Next time you decide to save my life,” Martyn says, a small note of humour lingering in his voice, “try not to yank me around by my neck, yeah?”

“I- yeah.” He shifts back a little further, pulling his hands back to himself once he’s managed to release Martyn’s scarf. “Course.”

===

Martyn almost walks off a cliff the next week.

He’d been speaking, saying something that Scott can't even remember anymore, after the adrenaline-fueled and anxiety-inducing five seconds that resulted from Martyn stepping off a cliff. It’s no wonder there’s so many stories about death in this realm, if people so easily fling themselves to their doom on the regular. Or if small accidents like this spell the end for most people.

Martyn’s foot slips, something giving way beneath his heel. Scott gets a brief moment of seeing Martyn’s face twist - morphing to something like horror - as their eyes meet, before Scott is lunging forward, reaching for any part of Martyn.

One hand curls around Martyn’s shoulder, the contact enough for him to snag onto Martyn with his powers, a thread coiling tightly around him as he releases him once more, staggering back from the cliff edge, not even giving himself a moment before he’s yanking on that thread, fingers twisting tight in it and pulling.

It gives way with a snap, and Scott becomes weightless. The ground below him rushes up, a mix of greys and darker greys, a few dripstone reaching up, eager to impale him. He twists, reaching for a spot on the clifftop.

He stumbles, feet coming into contact with the ground, jarring his knees hard enough to make him gasp, knees buckling as they decide they don't want to hold his weight up anymore. He winces as his knees hit the ground, lungs feeling too empty as he gasps, attempting to breathe properly again after…that.

“God, Scott,” Martyn sounds equally out of breath as he does. “I- thanks, thought I was a goner there.”

“You're lucky I was around,” he bites back, straightening up so he can see Martyn. One of his knees twinges painfully, as he rocks back to rest on his heels, one hand still planted firmly on the ground for balance. “Or you’d be a smear on the rock right now.”

“Alright, no need to rub it in.” Martyn grimaces. His hood has fallen back, exposing his windswept hair and flushed cheeks. His scarf trails loosely around his neck, no longer tucked snugly against his neck. Scott gets the odd impulse to tuck it back into place for him.

He clenches his hands into fists before he can make a move to act on that thought, snagging several blades of grass in one hand, almost ripping them free before he relaxes again, releasing them carefully and checking that he didn't damage them. He might hate their taller cousins, but the short and soft green grass is something that he’s found himself growing rather fond of.

“I need to put you on a leash,” he mutters, pushing himself to his feet. When he looks back up, Martyn’s cheeks look a little rosy. Possibly a little wind-bitten, but he looks fine otherwise. “If you keep wandering off, I’ll put you in one of those child leashes.” He threatens.

“You wouldn't,” Martyn denies. He looks confident in his denial, as well, which Scott supposes is fair; they've only known each other for a little while, and thus he cannot expect Martyn to understand how willing he is to commit to things, especially if it means he can stop getting an adrenaline rush when he decides to go a nice, leisurely stroll with one of his friends.

“I would,” he steps closer, grinning up at Martyn. They're close enough that he can almost feel Martyn’s breath on his cheeks. Close enough that he can study the odd, square shape of Martyn’s pupils (something he’s been meaning to ask about for the past while but has never managed to). “But,” he hums, glancing down, “I suppose this will have to do for now.”

He winds the end of Martyn’s scarf around his hand, pulling on the end a little, just to watch it tighten around Martyn’s throat. It’s closer to how he normally wears it, even if Martyn immediately grabs the scarf, tugging it away from his throat.

“Absolutely not.” Martyn loosens it a little further. Scott tugs at it again, watching how Martyn’s hands curl into his beloved scarf a little tighter, holding onto it.

“Why not?” He asks, tilting his head to the side as he continues to look up at Martyn.

“Because I'm not a child.” One of Martyn’s hands has come up to scrape at his hand, trying to peel his fingers back from where they're curled into his scarf. His gloves mean that Scott can't feel the bite of his nails, and so his attempts are rendered useless.

He seems to realise this, after several seconds of silence between the two of them as he fruitlessly attempts to free himself.

“Would a dog be better?”

“What?” Martyn stops his attempts, hand pausing where it hovers over his own. He can feel the cold of his hands seeping through the fabric of his gloves. His own fingers tingle in sympathy, and he almost winces at the thought of his hands being that cold.

“If I compared you to a dog rather than a child,” he grins. He already knows that the comparison is not better. He’d had a lovely conversation with Gem - a swarm, he didn't even know such a thing could exist - about dogs and how cute they are. She’d seemed quite enthusiastic about them, even if, to Scott, having a dog seemed rather inconvenient; you had to take it for walks and pay it so much attention. It was hardly self-sufficient, and they always seemed far too cheerful about everything. And a dog also seemed like it would create lots of messes.

So, not something someone wants to be compared to.

“No!” Martyn protests, redoubling his attempts to pry Scott away from his scarf. “No, that is not better.” He pauses, looking up at Scott, before he begins slowly pulling his hand upwards-

“Don't bite me!” He cries, yanking his hand back, releasing Martyn’s scarf. “What the hell, Martyn? Why?”

“You weren't letting go!” Martyn yells back, eyes wide and ears pinned backwards, looking almost startled. “I didn't know what else to do!”

“And biting me seemed like a good idea?”

“Yes!” Martyn clutches at his scarf, holding tight onto the fabric where Scott had held it, brushing a thumb over the material. “My teeth aren't sharp like yours, you’d be fine.”

“Human bites are some of the most dangerous bites in the entire universe,” he rattles off. “They're more dangerous than animals, due to the bacteria that live inside human’s mouths. As such, if a human bite breaks the skin, it can become infected.”

Martyn blinks at him, still holding his scarf. “And you just know this?”

“I only met humans recently,” he replies. “I wanted to be aware of the dangers. Especially if one tried to bite me.”

“You weren't letting go!” Martyn repeats, holding his scarf closer to his chest, clutching at it like it’s some precious treasure rather than a knitted item. Maybe it is more valuable to him than any treasure.

“Fine,” he sniffs, turning on his heel. “Come on.”

Martyn doesn't follow him, and he turns after a few steps to look at Martyn. Martyn’s regarding him with suspicion. “What?”

“Where are we going?”

“To my house, duh,” he raises an eyebrow. “Where did you think we were going?”

“Why are we going to your house?” Martyn asks, but he does take a step after Scott, and then another. Satisfied that he’s following him, he turns and continues walking.

“Because I have an actual kitchen. And because I have actual food, and I don't have creepers infesting my living room.”

“Leave the Coliny alone.” Martyn frowns at him as he falls into step beside him, matching him step for step. Scott smiles as he notices this, glancing down at their feet then back up at Martyn’s face.

He grins, and Martyn takes notice, pulling away from him with a suspicious look. “What?” He asks, glancing around them, as though worried another cliff is going to appear out of nowhere and he’s going to walk off of it. Maybe Scott would let him this time, just to remind him to look where he’s putting his feet.

“Look at you,” he sidles up beside Martyn, bumping their shoulders together. “You listened when I called you to heel, just like a good dog.”

He’s well enough accustomed to Martyn’s reactions by now, meaning he can duck and teleport away when Martyn swings an arm at his head, reappearing a few feet in front.

“Compare me to a dog again and I’ll bite you.”

“How violent.” He grins. “Guess we still need to work on a little bit of training for you.”

Martyn’s face is absolutely worth it. Absolutely. Even if he’s forced to, very politely, ask Martyn for some ice so he can reduce the swelling of his face. Martyn also gives it to him, which means that he’s already forgiven.

Martyn’s scarf is tucked neatly around his neck once more, but Scott’s fingers itch to tug at it again, just to see how Martyn would react. He holds off on that urge, for now.

===

“Woah,” he reaches a hand out to yank at Martyn’s scarf, pulling him back a step. “Watch your feet there. And your head.”

“I thought I told you to stop that.” Martyn slaps his hand anyway, but he does duck his head, watching his feet as he navigates the shaky-looking bridge. Scott chooses not to risk it, eyeing the half-rotten boards and teleporting to the other side, landing on the rock there silently.

Martyn continues to inch along the walkway, watching his feet and with his head ducked to avoid tangling his antlers in the chains above him. He takes his sweet time too, leaving Scott peering down the abandoned tunnels of the mineshaft in boredom, scanning around for any skeletons lurking around corners, waiting to stick an arrow in him.

The sound of Martyn’s hooves against the wood is loud, echoing around them and down into the darkness below the unsteady bridge. Scott glances back at it again, watching the way Martyn wobbles for a moment before stabilising again. He looks unsteady on his feet, placing them carefully as he makes his way across the yawning chasm.

In theory, he could have offered a helping hand in the form of a portal. But Martyn had slapped his hand, and there’s still a light pink mark on the back of his hand. It doesn't sting - it had only stung in the moment when Martyn had actually hit him - but he’s content to give Martyn his penance through this.

The wood creaks dangerously beneath Martyn, and Martyn apparently decides that he’s had enough of walking cautiously across the gap, because he launches himself forward, pushing off of the board, causing it to splinter, and landing on the other side with a clatter.

Scott barely avoids being crushed, dipping out of the way and slipping through a portal. A few sparks land on the ground around his feet, illuminating the area for a few moments before fading away.

“You could have killed me,” he says. Martyn gives him an unimpressed look, brushing his coat off as he peers back into the gap. The gap that is now no longer bridged by a dubiously stable plank. The darkness reaches upwards when Scott joins Martyn in peering over the edge, squinting as he tries to see into it.

A clattering sound reaches them, several seconds after the plank initially fell.

“But I forgive you,” he adds, glancing over at Martyn. “It’d be a shame if I had to go scrape your remnants off the cave floor. And so far down too!” He rocks forward, positioning himself more precariously on the edge, toes slipping just over the lip of the rock.

Martyn grabs at the back of his shirt, yanking him backwards and attempting to choke him. He coughs, ripping Martyn’s hands away from him once he’s certain he’s not going to send both of them to certain doom.

“It’d be a shame if I had to scrape your remains off the cave floor, too.” Martyn says, pulling his hands back towards himself. “It’d be far too inconvenient, and then you’d just be stuck down there for eternity.”

“I’d haunt you.” He retorts. “I’d haunt you so hard you’d be sick of me.” He pokes Martyn in the chest, just to emphasise his point.

“I'm already sick of you,” Martyn says, but there’s a small smile teasing at the edges of his mouth as he leans a little closer, reducing the distance between them.

“Oh really?” He leans back, finger still pushed into Martyn’s chest, keeping him at a distance. If Martyn really wanted to lean further forward, he could, very easily- Scott’s finger isn’t going to be enough to stop him. “If you're so sick of me, why didn't you let me plummet to my death?”

“Because I'm not rude?” Martyn responds, sounding almost confused. “Do you…kill people that annoy you?” He sounds a little more concerned than confused there, eyes searching Scott’s face.

“Only if they really annoy me,” he grins back up at Martyn, watching the way his eyes widen a little before he forces his face back into a more neutral expression. “Like, it’s definitely not a first resort. Or a second resort. Probably around a fourth or fifth solution to whatever problem. And even then I don’t really like doing it.”

“That’s weird.” Martyn tells him.

“Your sky is blue,” he responds. “That’s weird.”

“What other colour would it be?” Martyn asks. They're still stood in the abandoned mineshaft, feet away from the almost endless drop into the abyss. “Red?”

“Don't be stupid,” he scoffs. He’s not sure what Martyn wanted from here- there was some point to their visit here, but he can't remember it anymore. Martyn had only told him what it was once before asking for company. Scott would have offered company even if it wasn't asked for. Mainly because if Martyn gets shot by a skeleton, he wants to be there to witness it. “Purple is a far more normal colour. Or even just black.”

“The sky is dark at night,” Martyn says. His eyes flash a little in the darkness of the mineshaft, and, why didn't they bring torches? Surely having a torch would make this whole thing a lot easier- coal. That’s what they're here for. Martyn needed some more coal, and there was a mineshaft he hadn't explored yet. “And it turns all sorts of colours at sunset.”

“The sun is even weirder.” He concludes. “Don't even talk to me about the sun.”

“The sun is the most normal thing there could be!” Martyn cries, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “You're telling me wherever you came from doesn't have a sun?”

“No.” Martyn’s eyes are unusually bright for how dark this corridor of the mineshaft is, their blue bright amongst the darkness. As blue as the stupid sky that everyone in this realm seems to be obsessed with. “There are numerous celestial bodies, but each of them are much too far away to have the same impact on us that the sun has on you. If the sun disappeared - permanently, that is - did you know you’d die? That would simply be it, the end of all life unless you could adapt to the colder temperatures and overall lack of food.”

“What a cheery thought.”

“Not really.” He shrugs. “Did you want coal or not? I'm fine with continuing to stand here and bicker, but I'm also pretty sure you disturbed a spider’s nest earlier when you broke that plank.”

“I- what?” Martyn had been beginning to step away from him, but he whips his head back around to stare at him with the mention of spiders.

“Spiders.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Can't you hear them?”

“No I can't hear them,” Martyn hisses out. “Why didn't you say anything earlier?”

“I thought you could hear them. And I thought you wanted to continue arguing more than you wanted to remain not poisoned.”

“Why would I want to get poisoned?” Martyn sounds almost distressed, like he’s rapidly reaching the end of his tether and is desperately trying to hold onto the last thread of his sanity. People from this realm often sound like this, though he’s not sure what the cause of it is.

“You drink alcohol, don't you?” Martyn narrows his eyes at him, but nods anyway. “See!” He gestures. “It’s a form of poison- or toxin, whatever, and your liver filters it, right? Most creatures wouldn't even drink alcohol if it poses such a risk to them, and yet you do so anyway?”

Martyn appears to mentally flail for a moment, before sighing and replying. “It’s…they’re not the same thing.”

“Could've fooled me.” Scott shrugs. He then reaches out and grabs Martyn’s scarf, yanking him downwards as a spider launches itself where Martyn’s head had been moments before. It sails right over his head instead, landing on the ground with an irritated chitter, circling around to try and bite one of them again.

He crushes it beneath his heel, driving his foot downwards until it stops making that awful screeching noise. One of its legs still twitches, just slightly, and he grimaces at the sight, pulling Martyn past the spider corpse.

“You're welcome,” he provides, when Martyn doesn't seem inclined to thank him.

Martyn scoffs, yanking his scarf back out of Scott’s hands without even a muttered thanks. “You could just tell me rather than pulling me around by the scarf.” He strokes a careful hand over the scarf, smoothing it against his chest.

“But you follow so easily,” Scott spins on his heel to face Martyn as he walks, watching the corridor behind him for any pursuing spiders. He doubts they'll chase after in revenge for their fallen brethren, but some of the creatures he’s encountered are also far more vengeful than he’d first considered. “And it’s far easier than letting you get bitten. Wouldn't it have been sad if you died of spider poison in a dingy little mineshaft?”

Martyn doesn't give him a verbal answer, but his withering look is enough of one anyway.

===

He pokes at the pot on the stove, watching as the lentils continue to bubble. He stirs them once more before covering the pan again, leaning to the side of the stove to read the recipe from the book. It had seemed like a rather easy recipe, but then he’d had to go hunting for several ingredients- a few of which he didn't have in his garden yet, so the seemingly simple meal actually turned into a short trip to find a mango.

He flicks over the page, turning to the covered bowl nearby and peeking at the mixture inside. It looks like the recipe says it should, as well as the few additional tips the villager had helpfully given to him when he was noting the recipe down in the first place. He pulls the ball of dough from the bowl it was resting in, admiring its increased size as he sets it onto the counter.

There’s a small groan from behind him and he turns his head to the side to peer at Martyn, watching how his guest slumps a little further into his sofa, turned to the side and leaning against the armrest rather than sitting on it properly.

His hooves are pressed up against the other armrest of his admittedly small sofa, leaving him looking scrunched up and uncomfortable. His notebook is open in his lap, several scribbled and crossed out lines glaring at him from the pages.

He doesn't say anything, turning back to the meal he’s making. He learned, a few weeks ago, that when Martyn gets like this it’s best to just leave him to it. Asking him anything will either cause him to sulk, or to go on a rant about the problem he’s facing, then solving it halfway through said rant and leaving the conversation unfinished to write…whatever it is in his notebook.

The lentils are still happily bubbling away when he checks on them again, leaving him free to divide the dough up into several, smaller balls. They get covered in flour rather quickly, from simply coming into contact with his incredibly flour-covered counter. He tries not to wince and think of the clean-up he’ll need to do once he’s finished.

He stretches the first ball of dough out, setting it into the pan before diverting his attention to the first experiment, leaning back and away from the steam that billows out once he removes the lid. He dips a spoon into it, blowing on the food before tasting it, humming a little at the flavour.

When he glances back at Martyn, he’s managed to contort himself so he’s leaning backwards over the arm of the sofa, hooves now planted firmly in the middle of his sofa and head almost brushing the floor. His scarf dangles in front of his face, blocking at least half of his notebook from view. But he seems unbothered by the position.

He dips the spoon into experiment number one again before stepping towards Martyn.

“Up,” he tugs at Martyn’s scarf, yanking him upwards none too gently. It forces him to rise from where his head is nearly brushing the floor, which is surely uncomfortable from all the blood rushing to his head, right? Martyn grumbles, and Scott yanks at his scarf again, a little harsher than before and probably in a way that’s beginning to cut off his air supply. He keeps half an eye on the spoon, watching to make sure it doesn't drip onto the floor.

Martyn grumbles, but sits up without any further complaint. He tries Scott’s new experiment too, not even pausing to ask what it is, simply taking the offered spoon. Scott doesn't get the opportunity to tell him that it’s hot, but Martyn seems relatively unbothered by the temperature of something fresh off the stove

He hums and offers the spoon back to Scott. “Nice. Got a little bit of a kick to it, what’d you make?”

“Uhh,” Scott spins on his heel, rocking forward on his feet to squint at the cookbook propped against his half-open window. He hears the springs in his sofa creak as Martyn flops back down onto his sofa, no doubt contorting himself into another wildly uncomfortable position. “A de-ahl?”

“A what?” His sofa creaks and he turns back to face Martyn again.

“A de-ahl?” He tips his head to the side. Martyn mirrors him, only upside down, his hair fluttering about his face as he looks up at Scott. He also looks like he’s got a headache (probably from sitting upside down for the past hour) with how his face is scrunched up. “It’s a soup thing with lentils in it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Martyn nods, then thwacks his head against the sofa and grimaces. “A dhal. You're saying it wrong.” Scott hears some kind of bone crack as Martyn adjusts himself, sitting a little more upright than before, but not yet actually sitting up. He seems to prefer sitting on the arms of his sofa than the actual sofa part of it. He would think this is just a difference between realms, but he’s had other guests capable of sitting on his sofa properly, so maybe it’s just a Martyn thing? Or maybe it’s because Martyn is here more often than he’s not and thus more comfortable, so perhaps it’s simply a familiarity thing?

“Dhal,” he repeats back to Martyn, then shrugs. “I got the recipe from a nearby village when I was perusing their markets and crop fields, ahm,” he pauses, eyes flicking back to Martyn. “I mean, looking at their crop fields. Admiring them.”

“You were stealing from their crop fields?” Martyn asks, sounding surprised, and Scott is ready with a no on the tip of his tongue, only to be interrupted by Martyn continuing. “Nevermind, I can totally see you doing that.”

Scott pauses, unsure of whether he should be offended by that or not, stopping with his mouth just slightly open as the words form. He settles on giving him an affronted look that will hopefully communicate how offended he is by the implication that he steals from villagers. The effect is ruined by the notebook blocking his sightline to Martyn’s face.

“You know Villager?” Martyn asks after a second of silence, lowering his book to look up at Scott.

“Yep,” he steps back to check on the dhal again, stirring it and checking on the lentils to see if they're soft enough yet. “Vocational course.” He turns back just in time to watch Martyn mouth vocational course to himself with some measure of disbelief, before plastering a grin on his face when he sees Scott watching him. “They said it would be nice with…nan bread?”

“Naan,” Martyn corrects. “With a h sound.”

“Thanks.”

Martyn hums in response, followed soon after by the sound of writing, of a pen scratching against the paper of a page. It’s an element of background noise that Scott had never chosen to pick up on before- there had been hardly any point when his day was filled with the sounds of people writing, scratching against surfaces to imprint their thoughts in whatever way best suited them.

And the ideas were all the same. Each fragment of information was taken from the same sections of the same libraries, each book read from cover to cover by every single person occupying those spaces. Each idea was the same, formed by the same hands and guided in the same direction. It was boring.

What would be the point of writing, when it was something that had been written a thousand times over? What would be the point in verbalising your thoughts on a topic if you were only commended for specific points, if those same points were reiterated over and over again, month after month, year after year. Only the higher-ups were able to make new discoveries, able to poke into topics that haven't been so thoroughly investigated- studied so carefully that every stone had been overturned several times already.

He finds himself paying attention to Martyn, though. He finds himself listening when he hums to himself, muttering words and beginnings of sentences beneath his breath as he writes. He scratches words out with the same energy, too, with an almost frenzied pace as his brain ticks and whirrs and finds better ways to phrase things. Better ways to communicate his newest idea.

He lays the food out on the table, leaning over Martyn at first, not quite catching his attention yet. His book page is open to a sketch of something that looks like a poster. The lines are messy and not joined together (a drawing that would not get any commendations from Scott’s teachers), resulting in an almost chicken-scratch look, but neater. It’s not a style of drawing he’s seen before, and not one he gets to study for much longer as Martyn notices him watching and slams his notebook shut, rolling over to face him.

“That’s not for your eyes yet,” Martyn says, grinning. “Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise.”

“I don't like surprises.” He says, turning back to the table, and the still steaming food, when he’s certain Martyn’s not going to just dive straight back into his brainstorming.

“You’ll like this one,” Martyn hops up to follow behind him, “promise.”

He’s grinning, wide, and in a way that makes Scott think that he is definitely not going to enjoy whatever surprise this is that Martyn has prepared for him. His grin looks like the “cheshire cat” that Martyn has compared him to several times in the past. He certainly looks too pleased with himself, and it fills Scott with a sudden feeling of dread.

“For some reason, I'm doubting the genuinity of your words.” He’ll have to revisit that village at some point and thank them for sharing their recipe with him. Touching his hands to the side of the bowl warms his fingers, chasing away the small chill that had been lingering since that morning.

“I'm hurt,” Martyn presses a hand to his chest and Scott rolls his eyes at the dramatism of it all. “You've wounded me, I don't know how I will ever recover from this.”

He snorts at the high pitch of Martyn’s voice, resisting the urge to roll his eyes again (he’ll probably end up giving himself a headache by accident) and looks down at his dhal, stirring his spoon idly. “What, want me to kiss it better?”

Martyn goes silent very quickly- even the sound of his breathing stops, and it’s enough to make Scott suspicious of what he’s doing now. He glances upwards, watching as Martyn very quickly begins coughing, cheeks flushed red as he angles his head away from the table.

He’s still holding a spoon in one hand, and Scott watches (with barely restrained amusement) as Martyn struggles to handle the spice in his food. He wasn't sure if Martyn had ever had spicy food before, but his knowledge of what a dhal was filled him with a little more confidence. Apparently, that confidence was unwarranted, as Martyn is struggling to get his coughing fit under control.

“Did you inhale some of the spice?” He asks. He goes for sympathetic but probably comes across a little more mocking. Martyn glares at him from one watering eye, face still a little pink.

He coughs once more, a pathetic little cough that probably did nothing to actually help. “Something like that,” he manages after a moment. He doesn't hesitate in picking his spoon up again, turning back to his bowl with a narrowed glare down at the dhal, as though it’s personally offended him.

He doesn't seem to struggle as much for the rest of the meal, though the pink of his cheeks doesn't fade completely and he won't make eye contact with Scott.

Personally, he doesn't think the dhal is that spicy. Probably because he barely added anything, leaving it as mild as he could without ruining the flavour.

===

“Why did I agree to do this?” Martyn groans next to him. Scott ignores him as best as he can, even when Martyn goes so far as to drape himself over Scott’s back, attempting to crush him into the ground. He pays no mind to the guests that are now staring at them. He thinks he hears Sausage make a choked-off little giggle sound.

He breathes in through his nose, and out slowly through his mouth, reminding himself that Martyn is his friend, and that he values his companionship, even if he can be insufferable on occasion. He must not do a very good job of looking calm and collected, because Sausage makes another weird, laughing sound behind him.

He shoves his shoulder into Martyn’s chest, jabbing him between the ribs as best as he can from the odd angle Martyn has reduced them to.

Martyn whines, rolling off of him and onto his own feet. Which are still perfectly capable of supporting him, he’s just a pain.

Scott ignores him as he finishes collecting the vegetables from this section of his garden, tucking them neatly into his wicker basket. It’s the result of a project he picked up a week or so ago, trying his hand at something new, just to see if he could weave something. The basket is a little uneven in places, but, personally, Scott thinks that it’s a rather good first attempt. And it fulfils its purpose of holding his vegetables.

“C’mon,” he grabs hold of Martyn, fingers winding around the end of his scarf. “You're helping me wash these.”

Martyn whines for a moment longer, before giving in and allowing himself to be dragged back into the house. The stares of their guests - why did he agree to host their picnic here? Who even came up with the idea? - are hot on his back, but he does his best to ignore them, striding into his kitchen with purpose.

He dumps the vegetables out onto the side, not even flinching at the dirt that follows them out. He releases Martyn, blipping to the other side of the kitchen to grab the knives he needs, before reappearing beside Martyn again.

“Knife,” he holds it out.

“I can see that.”

“Just take it.”

He washes the vegetables, because Martyn doesn't understand why the vegetables need to be washed- still doesn't, even after the lecture Scott gave him on health and the potential for harmful bacteria living on the vegetables. He admitted to eating carrots with dirt still on them, too. He didn't even see a problem with it, so Scott labelled him as a lost cause and moved on.

He’s also far better at cutting vegetables than Scott is, somehow still nimble enough even with his glove-clad hands. Scott can barely manage to cut vegetables neatly without gloves on, struggling with the dexterity it requires and balancing that with not cutting a finger off by mistake.

There’s a sound of something exploding outside.

He closes his eyes and prays that it didn't go anywhere near his farms, before flinging the window open and leaning out, hands braced on the edge of the sink to yell at either Sausage or Jimmy. It was one of them that much is certain, but he isn't sure which one of them it was yet.

Sausage is watching him with wide, guilty eyes. He’s holding onto Jimmy’s arms, keeping them high above his head and away from wherever it is that he stores his bombs. Maybe he should have reiterated his rules a little more harshly.

Smoke is wafting off of them both, but the crater is relatively small and has only singed the edge of one of his paths. He sighs, dropping his head down and praying to any god that is willing to listen to give him patience.

“If I come outside,” he speaks just loud enough for his voice to carry, but doesn't bother yelling. They're listening either way, Jimmy’s sunglasses slipping partway down his face to reveal his equally guilty-looking eyes. “And there is still a crater in my front garden, I am not going to be pleased with you.”

“Yeah!” Martyn joins in, grinning at him as he shoves his way to stand beside him in the window, pressing him up against the window frame. It digs uncomfortably into his spine. “Get that crater outta our garden!”

“It is not our garden,” he hisses, shoving at Martyn. Martyn shoves him back, pushing him into the window frame hard enough for him to wince. “It’s mine.”

“I'm here often enough for it to be mine.”

“No, you're not.”

“Nuh-uh, I'm here more often than I am at home. The Coliny pines for me when I'm away.”

“That’s your fucking problem,” he shoves Martyn back again, pushing him into the window frame. See how he likes it. “And it’s still my garden. You don't own any part of it.”

“I planted some stuff.” Martyn argues, pushing himself closer. Scott’s arms are beginning to ache from holding himself up and over the sink for this long, made worse by Martyn shoving at him.

“What did you plant?” He never let Martyn plant anything. Martyn doesn't even know where he keeps the seeds for his current crops.

“Nothing.”

“No, you just said-”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Yes you did! You just said you planted something. So help me god, what did you plant?”

“Nothing!”

(Sausage loosens his grip on Jimmy, far more entertained by whatever’s happening in front of him right now. He didn't think it would get any better than watching Scott lead Martyn around by his scarf- and for Martyn to let him. Jimmy doesn't seem to notice that his grip is loosened, as his hands don't return to his bomb storage compartment, instead choosing to continue staring at the fighting pair in the window.

Scott’s grabbed onto Martyn’s scarf again, yanking him, somehow, closer than they were before. They were practically pressed nose to nose before this, but now they're practically kissing. Or, they would be if Martyn didn't just grab a handful of Scott’s hair and yank at it.

“Um,” someone else pipes up from behind Sausage, he doesn't know who it is and doesn't turn around to find out, far too entertained by the people arguing while squished together in a window. “Do you think they still know we’re here?”

“I don't think they care.” Someone else responds.

Oh, this is far better than what Sausage thought would happen at this picnic. He agreed because he thought he might get to see them kill each other- but this is far more interesting (and baffling) than fighting each other to the death. He’s not actually sure what this is.

Someone makes a despairing sound, like their soul is being sucked out of their body, when Martyn headbutts Scott.

They disappear a moment later, in a cloud of orange and cyan sparks. Sausage is disappointed in the lack of entertainment, having to content himself with listening to the sounds of fighting that occasionally drift outside.)

(No-one comments when they re-emerge, clothes rumpled in a way that would imply something else if not for the bruise blooming on Scott’s forehead and the way they glare at each other.)

===

Scott’s not actually entirely sure on how he managed to end up like this; leaning over a stove as he watches the pot bubble away ominously. Perhaps not one of his better ideas to experiment in the kitchen while there’s a sick person in the house. But he also doesn't know what else he’s meant to give a sick person.

The recipe is for some kind of soup. He’s not entirely sure of the actual name of the soup, just that there’s chicken in it, and it’s filling his kitchen with a warm and inviting smell. Definitely one of his better first attempts, but the lack of complexity in the recipe itself may be what he needs to thank rather than his improving cooking skills- they've improved, definitely, but not enough to perfect a harder recipe on his first try.

He stirs it, sighing as the steam continues to drift upwards. The recipe was easy enough, at least, and he had all the ingredients he could need for it. And the villager had said it was perfect for when someone was sick. He’s not sure what makes something good for a sick person, but he’s not going to question the villager’s wisdom.

Something thumps above him, echoing around the entire house with how loud it is. It is then very suspiciously quiet, far quieter than it had been a few moments before. Almost as if someone is consciously choosing not to make as much noise, focusing on being as quiet as possible-

Something clatters down the stairs, but this time it’s followed by the sound of someone groaning softly.

He turns, setting the spoon over the bubbling pan as he plants his hands on his hips.

His guest looks up at him from the floor, some parts of him still encased in ice and immobile. At least he’s still aware enough of…his general everything to respond like that to falling down the stairs, rather than allowing himself to break a bone.

Martyn continues to grin up at him, from his position flat on his back at the bottom of his stairs. His rug is slightly disturbed, folded over at the corner. He doesn't seem bothered about the uncomfortable floor beneath his back, seemingly content with his position.

“Didn't I tell you to stay put?” He asks. He’s not actually sure why he asks, because the previous times he had bothered to question whatever it is that Martyn was attempting to do had only given him incomprehensible answers and left him more confused than he had been previously.

Martyn’s forehead crinkles as he puts visible effort into thinking, face flushed pink as his eyes trail along the ceiling, away from Scott’s face.

He uses the momentary distraction to stride across the kitchen, after checking the pot isn't at risk of boiling over, and hauls him to his feet again. He brushes him down, watching and dying a little inside as the chunks of ice fall onto his rug, already beginning to melt.

He steers Martyn over to one of the seats by the kitchen counter, sitting him and ignoring whatever protest Martyn is attempting.

He’d shown up late last night, several hours after the time they had agreed upon for dinner in the first place. Scott had eaten alone after half an hour went by and Martyn still hadn't shown up, preferring to eat his food while it’s still at least a little warm rather than stone-cold.

And then, lo and behold, three hours later, Martyn had shown up on his doorstep shivering and soaked through. It hadn't even been raining! They’d had a small heatwave that Scott had suffered through, Martyn seemingly content in his thick overcoat despite the blistering temperatures.

He was sick, rather obviously. Though it wasn't anything life threatening, and definitely not something that Martyn couldn't take care of on his own. But when Scott had attempted to kick him back out of his house, after determining he wasn't about to keel over (he wasn't heartless), Martyn had whinged and complained, clinging to Scott until he simply gave in and let him back into his house.

And he was still here today. No less sick and seemingly more miserable than before. He might even be a little bit more sick today, if the pink flush across his face is anything to go by.

“How do you even get a cold,” he complains, once he’s determined that Martyn isn't going to try and brain himself on the counter. “Your whole thing is being cold.”

“It’s not my thing,” Martyn says. His voice comes out odd, all congested and slightly wet. It takes all of Scott’s willpower for him not to wince at the sound of it. He pushes a glass of water across the counter a moment later, only warning Martyn not to drink it too fast- he is not cleaning up vomit today. Or ever. He’d prefer never having to clean up vomit.

“Then what is your thing,” he asks.

“Being cool,” Martyn grins at him, as though that isn't his worst attempt at a joke in a while. Scott stares at him for a moment later, waiting for the actual punchline and waiting for Martyn to come up with something better than that.

He doesn't, just continues staring at Scott silently.

“God,” he turns back to the pot, turning the heat down to let it simmer. “You're sicker than I thought. That joke was shit.”

“Was not.”

“Uh, yeah it was.”

“I’ve been thinking of that one for the past half hour,” Martyn protests. “Didn't you find it funny?”

“Not at all.”

“You're horrible to me.” Martyn sniffs, or maybe he’s just trying to breathe through his nose, Scott’s not sure. “And while I'm sick.”

“I'm horrible to you no matter what,” he’s not really. He could be much more nasty, could pick the right spot to poke and prod at until everything is sensitive. Martyn probably knows this too, because he did it to him once, once and never again because it left him feeling sick to his stomach for several days afterwards. “I'm not going to suddenly start being nice because you're feeling a little under the weather.”

“I'm not just under the weather, I'm dying.”

“Shame,” he hums. “And here I was, about to waste this soup on a dying man. Perhaps I shouldn't bother, if you're going to be dead soon.”

Martyn makes a noise that’s halfway between a groan and the sound of a wounded cat, followed quickly by the sound of his head hitting the counter. Scott panics for a moment, and yanks him back upwards, perhaps not as gentle as he normally is. Martyn whines a little at that too, eyes a little glazed over and unfocused.

He presses a hand against Martyn’s forehead, pulling his hand back almost immediately afterwards, wincing in sympathy at the heat radiating from him. Maybe he was more than a little worse than yesterday.

He turns back around, leaving Martyn to sprawl himself over his countertop, ignoring the small voice in the back of his brain that’s reminding him of how he’s going to have to disinfect it later and remove all the infectious germs from his cooking area.

He has to rummage through three separate cupboards before he manages to find what he’s looking for, emerging with a triumphant noise that has Martyn perking up, trying to get a closer look at what he’s holding.

“Here,” he holds the tablets out, offering two (he thinks it’s two? He can't quite remember the correct doses for humanoids, but it’s something like two? It could be three, but he’s sticking with two to be safe).

Martyn stares at the tablets in his palm, before slowly raising his eyes to him. The pupils are a little larger than they should be, and he still has that hazy look to his eye that suggests he’s not entirely there.

“Are you a drug dealer?” Is the last thing that Scott expects to hear from him, though.

“Sorry?”

Martyn’s eyes flick between his face and his hand, and the tablets in it, a few times. “Are you giving me drugs.”

He sighs, resisting the urge to brain himself on the counter as Martyn continues to stare at him. Trust that to be the first thing he thinks of in this situation.

“Yes,” he grits out. “But ones of the medical kind. The safe ones.”

“There are no safe drugs.” Martyn crosses his arms, leaning away from him. He seems to forget he’s on a stool as he leans too far backwards and has to lunge forward and grab the counter before he topples off of it entirely. “My mother taught me that, and my mother was a very smart woman.” He blinks. “Are you saying she’s wrong?”

“No, I'm-” he cuts himself off with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. It doesn't help as much as he hoped it would. “Just take the tablets, please.”

“My mother also said not to take drugs from strangers.”

“I'm not a stranger!” He shoves the aspirin tablets towards Martyn, “You are in my house because you dragged yourself here looking like a drowned rat, and so I'm trying to make you better.”

Martyn picks one of the tablets up, but doesn't swallow it. Whatever, a win is a win, and he’s pretty sure this is a step closer to the end goal. Whether than end goal is him strangling Martyn or Martyn getting better is still up in the air.

He turns to the soup, and when he turns back around again Martyn is still holding the tablets, looking at them like they're going to bite him.

“They're safe,” he says, trying not to sigh too hard. Sighing this often is probably bad for him. “I should know, I made them myself.”

“You made these?” Martyn’s eyes widen a little, gaining a little more clarity back as he looks at the tablets again. “How?”

“I'm not explaining it to you when you're sick,” he says. “It took me three years to learn how to do it like that, you're not gonna get it.” He winces a little at his dismissive tone, ready to turn around and add something on the end that’ll lessen the sting of his words.

“That’s really smart.” Martyn says, cutting off whatever train of thought he was having beforehand. “You're, like, really smart, you know that right?”

“I- huh, thanks.” He does know he’s smart, or at least above average. He’d done well in his classes, and his teachers had been pleased with his progress. Pleased enough to sanction his exploration of another realm, at least. “You're pretty smart too.”

“You think I'm pretty?”

Scott is glad he’s facing the stove at that point, and that he has the excuse of something cooking right in front of him for how warm his face suddenly feels. He needs to stop talking. Martyn is latching onto all the wrong parts of a conversation right now, and really, he should probably be sleeping.

“Didn't say that,” he steps around the counter, grabbing Martyn’s scarf (which he hadn't managed to get off of him. Martyn bit him for trying) and yanking. Martyn follows easily, feet tripping over each other as Scott leads him away from the kitchen.

It’s a task, getting him up the stairs without him falling back down, but he seems happy to follow when the alternative is getting his airway slowly cut off by his favourite garment.

“Sleep,” he has to hold Martyn’s shoulder down so he doesn't try and roll out of the bed. “You are sick and you are going to be so embarrassed when you feel better and remember this.”

“Why would I be embarrassed?”

“Because I'm going to remind you,” he pushes a little more of his weight down onto Martyn’s shoulder, just to emphasise it, and remind him that he is staying here. “You get up again and I'm videoing you for everyone else to see.”

Martyn grumbles at him, but flops over onto his side anyway, closing his eyes.

He’ll be back up thirty minutes later, threat forgotten, but the moment of peace is all Scott needs to finish the soup. And collect himself so he can stop thinking about the way Martyn had looked at him when he said pretty.

===

“You're insufferable, you know that right?” He tries to tip his head back, but Martyn keeps a firm hand on the back of his neck, forcing him to continue facing forward.

“I strive to be!” Martyn chirps in response. He’s not at all gentle in the way he’s braiding Scott’s hair, tugging at it just a little bit too hard for it to be comfortable.

Scott sits there and lets it happen, sinking into the feeling of someone playing with his hair, tipping his head back the slightest amount that Martyn is allowing. He relaxes moment by moment, listening to whatever song Martyn is humming under his breath.

It’s not a song he’s heard before. So much of the music of this realm is entirely different from anything he’s ever heard before, varying so much in the different sounds used despite using the same few notes that he knows. Every piece of music he’s ever been forced to learn had sounded the exact same, with perhaps a slight difference in pitch.

Every piece of music here has him feeling a different variation of emotions, sometimes an entire collection of them. It’s confusing, but in an almost good way. Everything in this realm seems confusing, far too much and far too little at the same time, so different from everything he knows and everything he expected.

He finds himself liking it more than he expected.

He winces as Martyn tugs at his hair again, waving away the murmured apology Martyn gives him in return. He’s not sure what possessed Martyn to do this, but he’d had the idea halfway through their dinner, voicing it moments later. Maybe most surprising of all was how easily Scott agreed, in exchange for Martyn drying the dishes and putting them away.

(He does that anyway, finding comfort in helping out when Scott won't let him in his kitchen. He’s been brought up with truly impeccable manners - whoever his mother is, Scott wouldn't mind meeting her - and cannot stand to take something from someone without giving anything in return. Scott doesn't quite understand the sentiment, seeing himself as offering the meal freely in exchange for company, but he’s also not going to protest help in washing up.)

“And…done!” Martyn leans back, Scott can feel the way his weight shifts behind him. He raises a hand to carefully feel along his hair, fingers drifting over the braid winding its way around the side of his head. He didn't think his hair was long enough for this, but Martyn somehow made it work.

“Thank you,” he twists around to direct his smile at Martyn. Martyn smiles back at him, a little softer around the edges than usual. Though maybe that’s just the effect of his hood being down for once and his scarf a little looser around his neck.

“It really suits you,” Martyn says, tipping his head to the side. One of his ears flicks, the furry ends catching the light and holding it between the fine hairs there. He still hasn't explained that part, though he’d made it clear that it was a separate entity from the cold that laces his bones. Scott hadn't understood his explanation- mainly because there hadn't been an explanation in the first place, but he hadn't dug deeper in search of one. The people of this realm are fascinating, but they're also insanely private with their personal affairs, preferring to hold things close to their hearts when those feelings cannot be accessed.

Scott finds that his own feelings have migrated closer to his chest in mimicry. His emotions are a tangled ball of thorns that he’s not looking forward to unwinding when he has to return. To unpick the knots that have snared themselves within that tangled ball of feelings and experiences is bound to tear them apart in places, leave them misshapen and incomplete.

Leaving them a tangled snarl of confusing emotions is preferable to him. It’s something for him to hold onto, to remind him of this experience once he’s left. Because he will have to leave, eventually, the days ticking by and counting down on an invisible clock.

“Thank you,” Martyn continues to watch him, even after his thanks. He feels himself growing a little warm beneath the attention - something else he hadn't experienced before now. Something he hadn't ever expected to experience.

He’s not sure what possesses him- maybe it’s something entirely out of his control taking over his body for a moment to push him forwards, to shove him from one door to another, forcing him through it before he can deliberate any longer. Or maybe it’s his mind taking a backseat for a moment, allowing his heart to push him forward.

His hand closes around the end of Martyn’s scarf, the fabric worn in all the right places beneath his fingers, in all the familiar places. He’s not sure how many times he’s held this scarf in his hand, exactly like this before. Far too many to count, probably not enough to mean anything.

He yanks, before his brain can kickstart and send him sprawling away, backpedalling in the hopes of saving whatever fragmented friendship they come out of this with.

He’s never kissed anyone before.

It’s nothing like what he expected, but somehow everything at the same time. Fireworks don't go off in the background, there’s no dizzying rush of adrenaline flooding his veins. Nothing like the few romance novels had described it as, nothing so extreme as losing control over yourself and sinking into the sensation of it.

He’s entirely aware, can feel the warmth of another person’s body beneath his hands, can feel the brush of skin against his lips, the slightest amount of pressure, before he’s pulling back again.

He shoves himself off of Martyn hurriedly, and would have had a rather undignified meeting with the ground if arms hadn't circled around him, dragging him back towards that warmth, that orbit that seems to drag him further and further in, no matter what he does in an attempt to distance himself.

He learned about black holes, on a whim as it was on none of the courses or optional modules that he signed up for. It just didn't cross over into his branch, didn't overlap with any of the courses he took. It wasn't anything he ever learned in a class, but it was something he studied anyway- some interest that had seized him and left him in what some may describe as a frenzy as he studied everything about the stars he could get his hands on.

Black holes drag anything and everything in, indiscriminate in what enters their orbit and is consumed. This slow dragging back towards Martyn, no matter how many times he tries to put a safe distance between them, reminders of his limited time here doing very little against the gravitational force Martyn seems to have swathed himself in.

But it is not the crushing force of some immeasurable celestial being. It is not how he imagined being dragged into a black hole would feel like. It’s more like the soft tugging of a hand, caught on the edge of clothing, or linked around a finger, urging him to return towards them.

Such a force should be easy to overcome, should be easy to break away from. And yet, Scott finds himself sinking back into the feeling every single time, coaxed back by the oddness that everyone he now surrounds himself with seems to possess.

“Where d’you think you're going?” Is Martyn’s only question, but it’s enough to drag Scott back into his orbit once more. Maybe enough to keep him there, this time.

#juno.writes #new life smp #new life smp fic #scott smajor #martyn inthelittlewood #trafficshipping #majorwood #nlsmp #nlsmp martyn #nlsmp scott

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scribbling-dragon · 1 year

Text

with only feathers as your guide

summary:

With a dungeon as vast and as dark as Decked Out, there’s bound to be plenty of rumours circulating on what might lurk within the shadows, simply waiting for an opportunity to reveal itself and prey on the Hermits that dare to venture within.

The newest rumour, and probably the most interesting one Tango’s heard recently, is that there is someone else in the depths of Decked Out, waiting and watching for a moment to reveal themself. The Hermits that have spotted this mysterious figure haven't seen them for very long, either getting distracted by a ravager appearing around the corner, or just because the mysterious person slips away before they can get a better look.

(ao3 link)

(3,100 words)

this was inspired by the Guide Jimmy fanart i saw from @hybbart recently! it was really cool and i was struck with this idea :]

Obviously, those rumours are just that- rumours. Something that has no basis in reality or even fact. Letting creepy-crawlies lurk in the corners of his dungeon would defeat the whole point of it- the only monsters you’ll ever find lurking in Decked Out are meant to be there.

The Hermits that have managed to catch sight of this figure describe a blue light, almost calling them forward, pulling them further into the depths of the Frozen Crypt, through pathways that they didn't even know existed (pathways Tango is pretty sure didn't exist before their mysterious figure led them down the path). And these paths, each time and without fail, would be marked by a trail of feathers.

So, the Guide joins the ranks of rumoured ghosts that haunt the Crypt and Tango moves on with his life.

Some of the redstone in the Crypt got messed up- Tango’s still not sure how it actually happened. Only that things stopped working as they should and the clank spiked on one of their test runs and he almost got impaled. Several times. Which means he gets the irreplaceable pleasure of kneeling on the ice-cold ground (which is made of ice, hence the ice-coldness) and wrangling the redstone wires back into some kind of order.

His shoulder aches, face cold from where it’s pressed into the ground so he can peer into the floor without inhaling a faceful of redstone- he’s done it once, not at all something he recommends. The sneezing and general sightlessness was a solid zero out of ten.

He hisses out a breath, watching it cloud in front of his face before fading a moment later. It really is far too cold in here, even with the thick fur lining of his cloak he finds himself huddling a little further in on himself and wishing that his flames were a little warmer.

The heart thumps in the background, the noise bouncing around his head, rattling between his ears like an overexcited ping-pong ball. It’s easy to put to the back of his mind most of the time, working past the dull thumping that pulses in time to his own heart, but today, in this particular moment, it grates on his nerves easily.

There’s a small skittering sound to his left, not unlike a pebble clattering to the floor, and his ears swivel towards it automatically. It takes his brain a moment to catch up, thoughts still tangled in redstone wires and circuits. It then takes him several more moments to physically untangle himself from the redstone, pulling his arm back carefully in case he further disturbs the wiring and upsets the already delicate system further.

He turns, finding that there was, indeed, a pebble on the floor.

It sits just a few feet away from him, shining a little in the dim lighting. It’s polished, which wouldn't be unusual if he was somewhere near water- somewhere that would have been able to wear stone down into such a small, smooth pebble. But he’s underground, halfway into the Frozen Crypt and nowhere near any large bodies of water. All the water here is frozen solid (Frozen Crypt, duh) meaning there’s no way for any pebble to have gotten in unless he placed it there, which he didn't, or if someone else brought it in.

He’s on the alert immediately, glancing upwards as he slides backwards, away from where he was just sat and preparing for an anvil to come crashing down. He snatches his hands back as he stares upwards, waiting for the slight clunking noise of an anvil as it’s let loose, or even a frustrated grumble as Doc has to reposition how he’s peering down to try and get a better angle on him.

But there’s no structure above him, nothing that might have been built to ensure he was squashed. The ceiling of the Crypt remains unchanged and as frosty as ever. None of the stalactites look as though they're intending on impaling him within the next few moments, either.

Something whistles behind him, the note carrying hauntingly through the still air. It’s clear and sharp, cutting through the dull monotony of the heartbeat. He turns towards the sound, a grin beginning to pull at his lips as he listens carefully. There’s nothing for several long moments, the silence settling thick and heavy over him, only interrupted by the thumping of the heart. But the noise is easy enough to disregard now, pushing it aside in favour of something far more interesting.

He stands, dusting his hands off, stepping towards the pebble. He nudges at it with his foot, watching as it slides a little further across the ice, coming to a slow stop. He picks it up, cupping it carefully in his hand as he steps in the direction that he’s pretty sure the sound came from.

A lesser person might be scared by the sudden appearance of someone that won't show themselves. But Decked Out is Tango’s domain and it fills him with a confidence he doesn't normally feel.

He pauses at the first spot of colour against the blue and grey of the ice and rock around him.

The yellow of the feather sits innocently in the middle of his path, as though it has just been dropped by accident- a feather that had simply slipped from the wings of an avian as they passed through.

He jerks his head up, quick enough to catch sight of a blue flame, quickly disappearing again as his companion disappears around a corner. He breaks into a run, sliding easily around the corners, accustomed to the slide of the ice beneath his feet- leaning into it on occasion to help him go a bit faster.

He pushes off the iron of the trapdoor, ignoring the way the metal sends a chill shooting through him as the pads of his feet come into contact with it, leaping across the small river and landing softly on the other side. The snow there cushions his landing, settling easily after he kicks it up to continue his pursuit.

He can hear the rattling of a chain, the slight sounds of breaths hitching as he follows his guide, noting each feather in his pathway as he follows along. There are no sounds of something crashing into walls on the tighter turns, which is something he’s noticed the other Hermits doing when they're volunteer for a test run; something about the slipperiness of the ice beneath their feet and not enough grip sending them crashing back and forth, flailing as they struggle to regain their balance while fleeing whatever monster’s chasing them.

He slows, just a little, as he realises he’s in a path he doesn't recognise. He stops completely a moment later, ears still pricked for any sound of movement. He shouldn't be somewhere he doesn't recognise- he made the entirety of the Crypt, every pathway is as familiar to him as his own hands. It would be embarrassing for a dungeon master to get lost inside of his own dungeon.

He walks this path with a little more caution, unsure of when, exactly, he passed into a corridor that was not of his own making. The stone of the walls are smooth, carved in the same design as the rest of the Frozen Crypt- whoever made this was intimately familiar with the way he carved the rest of the stone.

Two feathers mark his path forwards when the corridor forks, both of them leading into incomprehensible darkness. He pauses, on the threshold, squinting for any sign of his guide.

A blue flame flickers, and he plunges forward.

The darkness swallows him whole, impossible to see in, even with his night vision. He has to feel along the wall to make sure he doesn't run into it and smash his face open by accident- his face would probably recover, but his pride wouldn't.

His hand brushes over a notch in the rock, and he pauses for a moment, feeling around the small indent in the wall, curious to what it might be for. His fingers close over something rough on the otherwise smooth notch and something clicks above him.

He freezes, prepared for some elaborate trap to spring up around him and for the pranker to reveal themselves with a grin and a laugh.

The darkness parts instead, the bright light of the stables blinding him momentarily. He has to stop and blink the spots from his vision before he steps forward into the light fully.

The ravagers snort at him from within their cages, watching him with their beady little eyes. Tango pulls a face back at them, sticking his tongue out. The ravagers don't react, not that Tango expected them to, and he closes his mouth. Instead, he looks around the stables, curious as to why his guide might have chosen to lead him here rather than deeper into the Crypt.

There’s straw strewn over the floor, padding the cages of the ravagers (though they seem to enjoy tossing it out of their cages and everywhere else rather than actually lay on it), but it’s still easy to spot the feathers, piled in front of one of the ravager cages.

Said ravager is right against the bars, mouth slightly open and posturing in a rather aggressive way. Tango crouches down, keeping close to the floor as he slips closer, towards the golden feathers.

The mysterious guide, one of the favourite topics amongst the Hermits in the last few weeks, has never led one of their charges astray. Sure, they've been led deeper into the Crypt before, but their passage has been safe and largely uneventful. The most trouble Tango had with their mysterious guide was when they disappeared and every single door locked- the clank had spiked dangerously high, too, and it had been a scramble to fix everything and pull Zed out before too much damage could be done.

He’s close enough to the feathers now that his breath causes the pile to flutter slightly, shifting in the spot they're sat in. He hardly dares to breathe, aware of the ravager a mere foot from him, the way their horns and tusks could jab through the bars and catch him, if he let his guard down too far.

He glances up, careful not to meet the ravagers gaze head-on. He likes his insides being insides and he’s rather they stay that way.

His eyes catch on the bars as he raises his eyes, lingering on the scratches around the bases of several bars. He shuffles a little bit closer, hoping and praying that the ravager doesn't decide that it’s bored and attack him anyway.

He runs a finger along one of the bars, pressing down on it carefully, feeling how it bends beneath even that tiny bit of pressure. He rocks back onto his heels, letting out a breath that’s halfway between a sigh and a laugh.

The bars are weakened, on the verge of giving out completely. One ravager being loose would be more than enough for him to shut the entire dungeon for the day just to herd the ravager back to its cage and then fix said cage. An entire day that could be spent troubleshooting and fixing the problems that arise.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, not needing to speak any louder- the guide will hear him all the same. There’s a low scraping sound above him, like claws against metal, and the creak of a chain. Tango snorts at the lack of response, shuffling backwards until he’s outside of the ravager’s reach.

The emergency button, the button that he’d felt quite stupid for installing in the first place (and also worried because Grian likes to visit the stables sometimes, and leaving a button out in the open is just asking for trouble when he likes to hang around nearby), is his saving grace. He pushes it, watching as the metal reinforcements slide down over the doors with a shing. At least now if the ravager decides to enact its jailbreak, it’ll be contained in a small space and easily dealt with.

“You know you don't have to be all spooky and ominous right now, right?” He asks, listening to the way his voice echoes around him. “It’s cute and all, and I love that you're really getting into the role, but you are also allowed to talk.”

“But then it would hardly be any fun, would it?”

Tango turns towards the voice, quick enough this time that he manages to glimpse more than the flickering of a solitary flame. Instead, he gets to see the sweeping of dark material and the flash of yellow feathers as Jimmy sinks a little further into the shadows lingering around the roof.

“What if I wanna see you?” He frowns, spinning in a circle, trying to track Jimmy’s path from the small glimpses he gets and the soft sound of his talons scraping against the metal supports.

“Then I might be able to help you with that,” something thumps to the ground behind him, arms wrapping around him securely before he’s being lifted off his feet. He laughs as Jimmy spins him in a small circle, the slightest rumble of a purr escaping him before he wriggles loose, turning to grab Jimmy before he can disappear again.

“Hi,” he grins up at Jimmy, tugging him a little closer. “You're the talk of the server, you know.”

“Am I?” Jimmy grins down at him as well, looking incredibly cosy in his cloak, the ruff of fur poofed-up around his neck. He looks far warmer than Tango feels right now- he can practically feel the warmth of Jimmy seeping through the sleeves of his coat, his mind demanding that he draw this source of warmth closer and not release him until he’s warm again. “What a surprise.”

“You don't sound very surprised.”

“Why would I be?” One of Jimmy’s wings shifts behind Tango as he speaks, “Isn't the whole point of me to inspire intrigue, get them guessing about who it is that’s lurking around the corner and guiding them to safety.”

“You're not meant to be guiding them to safety,” Tango frowns, but can't quite keep the grin out of his voice as he looks up at Jimmy. “You're meant to be leading them into danger on occasion, showing them that they can trust you be maybe shouldn't.”

“I'm getting to it,” Jimmy promises. “But I think they're more scared about the ghost haunting the Crypt right now. Leading them to their deaths will only spook them more.”

“They think you're Grian with spray-painted wings.”

“Ouch,” Jimmy’s lantern clinks a little, swinging forward from where it’s hanging on his belt. The flame within it has been extinguished, Tango notes, the pinprick of fire no longer on the edge of his consciousness. “I would have hoped they could at least see I'm taller than five-foot nothing.”

“Be glad Grian wasn't here to hear that.”

“I’d say it to his face.”

“Sure you would, dear.” Tango laughs at the face Jimmy pulls, tugging him a little closer. Jimmy radiates warmth like a furnace, and no matter what books he reads he can't seem to find an answer to why he’s so warm all the time.

“Aw, are you cold?” Jimmy’s arms circle around his back, pulling them flush against each other.

“A little,” he admits. “But I can think of one remedy to that.” He grins up at Jimmy, pressing himself even closer than before. He’s forced to stand on the tips of his toes to get even close to Jimmy’s face, tail swishing behind him to keep him balanced.

“Oh, really?” Jimmy’s grin matches his own. “What remedy might that be?”

Tango has always been good at leading by example than trying to explain his thought process, and it’s easy to pull Jimmy down to meet him halfway, arms hooked behind his neck and lips ghosting over Jimmy’s own before he kisses him properly.

It makes something hot ignite in his chest, warming the previously frozen parts of him. He feels Jimmy smile against his lips, breaking the kiss with a breathy laugh.

“What’s so funny?” He asks, annoyed as he pulls back, noses brushing from how close they are.

“Marigold’s cage just broke open.”

Jimmy laughs as Tango bolts, scrambling up the support beam and peering down at the canary, watching as he pats the ravager - Marigold, apparently, when did Jimmy have the time to name them - on the head. The ravager seems content to let him do so.

“You can clear that up.” He says, still perched on the beam above Jimmy’s head. Jimmy makes it look far more comfortable than it actually is. “Seeing as you've named them.”

“Aw,” Jimmy croons, a smile spreading across his face. “Are you jealous?”

“No.” He crosses his arms, watching as Jimmy nudges Marigold back into its cage. The ravager goes with only a small protest in the form of nudging at Jimmy gently. That gentle nudge is enough to almost send him sprawling, but Marigold seemed to have meant it with good intent.

The bars are fixed a moment later, Jimmy producing a new set from the depths of his coat.

“And you couldn't have done that yourself?”

“But then how would I get my thanks?” Jimmy smiles up at him, far sweeter and more endearing than Tango wants him to be right now- he scowls, but it’s all for show. Really, Jimmy making friends with his ravagers is probably the most in-character thing for him to do. Even if he refuses to go near the warden.

Tango doesn't have a good enough argument against Jimmy’s argument, slipping down from his perch and back towards Jimmy. He gives him a small peck, leaning back.

“I'm going to tell everyone that you're Grian with spray-painted wings.”

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