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atmilliways · 3 years

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Dethentine’s Day 2

February 9th - In the Style of Disney/Studio Ghibli

Inspired by but not closely following The Little Mermaid. Charles is a merman, Nathan is a human, they... meet and stuff.

Blood Ocean

When it storms over the open sea, flashes of lightning illuminate the upper reaches of the depths in a pale facsimile of sunlight. It lasts for only an instant, and below the surface the sound of thunder feels like the impact of whale sonar. But when the lightning comes thick enough, it takes on the strobe effect of a stop-motion picture show.

A man falls into the water, followed by the downed mast of a wounded ship.

Impact.

The man is sinking faster than the debris around him, weighed down by his heavy boots and coat. He moves his limbs, but sluggishly. Too slow to make any difference, at the rate he's going.

Impact.

Tiny bubbles stream from the man’s mouth as he fights a losing battle to hold his breath. In the inky blackness below, just at the outside range of the storm’s light, something is beginning to dart upwards.

Impact.

The man is gone.

Charles doesn’t know what possessed him to do this. He hadn’t liked the Water God’s order to destroy any ships that ventured through their waters. That’s what the rest of the patrol are off doing, and tearing the throats out of any sailors trying to swim to safety besides—he can taste it in the water even at this distance.

But he swims on, balancing the necessity of speed with the difficulty of keeping an airtight seal between his mouth and the now-unconscious human’s, sharing oxygen and releasing the creature’s exhales through his gills. This one must have been smart enough to try and climb to safety, and fell with the mast when the ship finally capsized. If Charles hurries, he can throw the man up onto the nearest accessible bit of shore and race back before he’s missed.

The place he finds is rocky, but not so shallow that he can’t swim up to it or too steep that the human won’t be able to climb back to its people. Getting the man onto it takes some effort—he’s very broad, and overburdened with approximately the same amount of muscle as a blue whale. No wonder you nearly drowned, Charles thinks with an irritated frown, and gives one final heave—there, he’s up. Should be fine. The tide isn’t due to come in for another hour.

He prods him, just to make sure, with the heel of one hand. The human groans and coughs up sea water. Yeah, he’ll be just fine.

Suddenly a big hand closes around Charles’ wrist. “Hey,” the human he’s just rescued mumbles. “Hey, you . . . saved my life. . . .”

Charles feels his dorsal scales prickle in alarm. This isn’t good, the human wasn’t supposed to wake up. Humans aren’t supposed to know that merpeople exist, let alone go around thinking that they’re particularly friendly towards them. In spite of what Charles has just done, it wasn’t because he liked humans, it just . . . didn’t seem right, clawing holes in the bottoms of their ships as the Water God had ordered. It was like shooting birds in an air bubble.

“No, I didn’t,” he hisses, panicking and yanking his wrist free. “And, ah . . . don’t tell anyone about this!”

The surf is trying to push him past the rocks into tide pools but Charles kicks off hard, both hearts hammering and doesn’t slow down once he’s out over deeper water. He still feels a phantom of that hand on his wrist, and he doesn’t understand why any more than he knows why he saved the man in the first place.

He does not see the pale shape following at a distance.

It takes Nathan a while, but he does manage to make his way up the rocky incline. Doesn’t help that it’s February, and that between his already wet clothes and the rain he’s shaking almost too hard to stand by the time he reaches the nearest town, but still, he gets there.

No one believes him when he tries to explain how he survived the wreck.

He spends the next several days in bed, still shivering. From time to time he rambles about shapes in the water and being rescued by a man who had a tail in place of legs, and people are pretty nice about it but they clearly think he’s touched in the head. By the time the fever breaks even he isn’t sure if what he thinks he remembers is actually what happened.

Once he’s recovered enough to move on, Nathan decides to stay. It’s a nice enough town, and he’d been on that ship in the first place because he was leaving his parent’s home to find his place in the world. The town butcher needs an apprentice and has a room to rent above the butcher’s shop for cheap. He makes friends with the town drunk, who knows some guys who’re great on string instruments. They’re thinking of putting a band together. There are a lot of things that make hanging around worthwhile. . . . None of them are why he actually stays.

Every night, Nathan dreams of his mysterious rescuer. Of hazel eyes and a blur of skin and scales. Of a mouth on his, breathing life and a heavy taste of salt into him.

“‘Course ya dream about it,” Pickles tells him one night, when they’re both wasted past the point of Nathan being embarrassed talking about what might just be a vivid remnant of fever dream and possible head trauma. “Yer the sole survivor of that shipwreck, dood. If someone or something saved you, yer connected to it now. Gonna be until that debt is repaid. So, y’know, meybe that is why yer still here, yer all . . . connected to somethin’ by one’a those strings of fate or whatever.”

Nathan squints in conversation as he slowly absorbs this new idea. His hair falls across his face—it’s getting long, but it doesn’t bother him much so who knows when he’ll bother to cut it. “You mean like . . . an anchor?”

“Sure, either that’r survivor’s guilt.” Pickles shrugs, belches, and signals for the barman to bring them new pints. “I’d say it’s a fifty fifty chance that one’a those is true.”

That percolates in Nathan’s thoughts for a while, and in the meantime he finds himself picking his way back down to the rocky beach every day, rain or shine, and looking out across the water.

Where are you? Nathan wonders. What are you? It had spoken to him with the voice of a man, so it, he, obviously had some reason. Nathan wonders if he has a name, and if so, what it is.

He knows he’s obsessing. But if it’s fate or whatever, then what choice does he have?

Charles is going about his business, updating the abacai records for his patrol, when a great white behemoth of a merman crashes through the shell-curtain door of his office cave. Only a last minute dive saves him from being barreled into, but not before he gets a good look at the gnashing rows of teeth that belong to one of the Water God’s watchsharks. This one looks to be half Great White, and is wearing a misshapen piece of welded metal as a mask over the top half of his face.

Fuck. This is because of that damn human, he just knows it. He’d thought he’d been so careful, and in the days since nothing had happened, reinforcing his sense of relief. . . . until now.

The other merman has a crude knife, one of his own long teeth strapped to a handle with. After the first miss he turns—slowly, Charles notes—and lunges again.

Everyday patrol schools are usually only taught minimal hand-to-hand combat skills, focusing mainly on hunting outer ocean game, targeted destruction of ships, and techniques for drowning struggling humans. But Charles had mastered the latter skills years ago and had, out of boredom and perfectionism, made a thorough study of the former in his free time. It’s something his colleagues often tease him about.

Who’s laughing now?

He waits until the last second before darting to the right, counting on his own agility—and catches the arm with the knife, kicks into a spin, and pushes the razor-edged tooth into his attacker’s own side. The sand-rough skin scrapes at his palms, but if that puts any of his own blood in the water it’s definitely covered by the red gout billowing from the other merman, who Charles shoves ruthlessly into the wall before slipping out of the cave and swimming for his life.

Leaving as quick as a riptide, for Charles, isn’t simply a matter of skipping town. It’s not just that he left without any of his personal effects until all this blows over. He knows his absence will be quickly noticed, and that means goodbye career. Between that and the watchshark—who could be dead or could have survived, there’s no way to know now, but even a corpse would tell a damning story—it’s goodbye colony as well. If the Water God has it out for him, no one will dare to take him in, not in any colony. He’s completely alone.

Charles tries not to think about this, focusing instead on more immediate problems such as shelter and food. The further he gets from the colony’s heat vents, the colder the water becomes, so he’s forced to stick to the relative shallows along the coast, where there’s less chance of something spotting and ambushing him from below.

Where he’d left that human.

Somehow he proves harder to avoid thinking about than all the rest; when Charles floats awake at night in whatever new crevice he’s found to hole up in, he pictures the man’s face. Strong, stubborn jaw and high cheekbones. Heavy brow overshadowing eyes that are a deeper green than seaweed, with the dark depth of an ocean except without a trace of blue. Black hair that had streamed straight back during the hurried swim. Charles’ hand had brushed through it when first grabbing him and again when grappling to get him onto the rock, but out of the water it had clung to the man’s head and shoulders like an oil slick.

He can still feel where the man had grabbed his wrist, an indelible handprint. Sometimes he catches himself rubbing at it absently. Still has no idea what possessed him to save someone only to lose everything, but for some reason he can’t move past that blankness of not knowing into being angry about it—at himself, at the human, at anything, because it just feels so . . . inevitable. As though he’d had to do it, no choice in the matter.

This does not help him sleep, but eventually he does drift off.

In some underwater caves there are pockets of air that were trapped tens of thousands of years ago when the sea levels rose. They sit, without light or wind, and do not wait because they expect nothing.

But this one has light. This one has wind, and a smooth beach of solid rock against which Charles wakes, half out of the water. Using his lungs instead of his gills, which is more odd than uncomfortable. The air tastes clear and he smells the greenness of above-water plants. He has no idea how he got here; it’s definitely not where he fell asleep.

A human man stands above him. Not his human—Charles realizes he’s thought this an instant after doing so and feels his dorsal scales prickle—but an old man dressed in dark red and black robes.

Somehow the old man knows that Charles is alone, an outcast in hiding. He introduces himself as Ishnifus Meadle and offers a way to escape pursuit for good.

Naturally suspicious of both the offer and this whole set-up, Charles asks what the price is.

Ishnifus tells him.

Charles listens in dawning horror. It’s not the answer itself, but the scope of it; a coral outcrop that, upon further inspection, has formed an entire reef that he had until now mistaken for bedrock. Ishnifus knows things that no human should know. He knows things about Charles’ own life that no one could have possibly told him. Somehow it’s all connected, and the feeling of inevitability rises in Charles again like bile—but ultimately what Ishnifus is offering is an explanation.

“Do you accept?” Ishnifus asks in his whispery voice.

Impact.

Charles takes a deep breath, slides down the rock shore briefly to wet his gills one last time, and says, “Yes.”

Impact.

The merman is gone.

On his daily visit to the rocky beach, Nathan finally sees something. He makes his way carefully but as quickly as he can down to the edge of the water, where a figure is sprawled on one of the rocks. It is in fact, he realizes when he gets there, the same rock he’d found himself on after the shipwreck, unexplained miles from where the ship actually went down.

The naked figure is pale and hardly moving, cold and clammy to the touch, but Nathan helps him sit up because he recognizes him. Except for having legs instead of a tail, it’s the same mysterious hazel-eyed stranger who saved him from drowning.

“It’s you,” Nathan says stupidly. He hesitates, but the guy is so weak from cold that before he even realizes he’s doing it he’s got his shirt off, a paltry offering but it’s better than nothing. It drapes hugely from the man’s damp, smaller frame, but after getting it on him Nathan feels like he’s at least provided some protection from the cold sea breeze blowing in from across the water.

He scoops the man up—there’s something so weird about this, like their roles are reversed and how he has to stumble through the roll of rescuer like some sort of bumbling idiot with no experience in this sort of thing. But he manages to get them up the rocky incline and into town, into his room above the butcher’s shop without attracting anyone’s attention. Wraps the man in blankets and gets the kettle going until the bath is filled with steaming water. When the tub is full, Nathan turns back and sees the man struggling to unwrap himself, straining to get to the water on his own power.

“I can do it,” the man rasps as Nathan helps him, but it’s like watching a baby deer try to walk for the first time. This guy seems to have no control whatsoever over his shaking legs. But Nathan gets him stripped down again and into the hot bath, and he sinks into it with a sigh that borders on indecent.

Nathan doesn’t know what to do with his eyes. It’s just the one room, and there’s not much to it, so it’s kind of hard to ignore the naked dude in his tub. Plus, he’s already seen everything the guy’s got to offer while carrying him in. So he settles for sitting on the end of his bed, shirtless and holding his wet shirt, and just . . . staring. He watches the man in the tub carefully pull each limb into the water and then dip under the surface, completely submerged, and stay there for a full minute.

When he comes back up for air he uses the water streaming off him to slick his short hair back from his forehead and sits, nose just above the water to breathe, and stares at Nathan.

“You, uh,” Nathan starts awkwardly. “You had gills before. On your neck. Right? Or did I hallucinate that?”

The man in the tub doesn’t answer, just stares at him.

“What’s your name?” Nathan tries. “I’m Nathan.”

There’s a long pause, and then the man in the tub lifts his head just enough that his lower lip is out of the water. “Charles,” he says hoarsely, then coughs and dips down to sip from the tub.

“Shit, don’t—You don’t know what I’ve had to scrub in there, don’t drink that. Hang on.”

Nathan gets up and pulls on a shirt to go back out into the hall again, and returns with a glass of water. He hands it to Charles and watches him slowly try to sip from the middle of the glass.

“It’s, uh, you gotta put the edge to your mouth and tip it,” he offers, miming it.

Charles—fuck, it’s just so weird to finally have a name attached to the face, but a good weird, the reassuring Okay so I’m definitely not totally crazy after all kind of weird—gives him a skeptical look, but mimics the motion and successfully gulps the water down. Soon the glass is empty, and he hands it back.

They stare at each other.

“So, uh,” Nathan says, “you saved my life.”

“I did,” Charles replies. “And I, ah, think you might have just saved mine.”

For some reason, Nathan wants to deny this. Here he’s been, thinking about Charles literally every day for a while now, feeling at the very least like he owes him some sort of debt, then the minute he shows back up in his life they’re suddenly even again and that’s it? No. He shakes his head. “Nah, I just helped you get up the hill. You could’ve done that on your own.”

They stare at each other again. Nathan gets the distinct impression that they’re both fully aware that what he just said is all bullshit; Charles couldn’t even make it into the bath on his own.

Charles says, carefully, “In that case, I, ah . . . I could use a place to stay.”

“You got it,” Nathan replies instantly, and is he really offering to share his small room and small bed with some stranger who he’s pretty sure is an honest to god merman, an actual mythic sea creature, no questions asked?

. . . Yeah. Yeah, he is. He’s not totally sure why, but he really means it, too.

Charles is going about his business, updating the accounting book in the back of the butcher’s shop. Word has gotten around town that he’s good at this sort of thing; he’s due at the bakery first thing tomorrow morning to go through their books and make sure all the math is correct, and then in the afternoon the grocer wants him to perform an audit to make sure that none of the employees are stealing from the till. He actually much prefers this bloodless work to patrols.

But he still practices hand to hand combat in his free time. Now that he’s found his land-legs it seems even more important to maintain whatever physical prowess that he can in this dry, non-buoyant environment. Nathan is helping him get better at lifting weights, and they both benefit in their own ways from the bar fights Nathan and his friends get into and that Charles finishes.

At night, they share Nathan’s narrow bed. Charles is never cold anymore with Nathan there, although the man is strangely shy whenever he mentions this—some strange human hangup, he assumes, and doesn’t press the issue. He’s become unexpectedly fond of his human, more than fond if he’s really being honest with himself, but hasn’t yet learned the culturally appropriate way to act on this yet.

Sometimes when he’s waiting for sleep to come, or when the figures on the page and flowing from the nib of his ink pen become so tedious he needs to tear his eyes away to stare at nothing for a moment, he thinks about what Ishnifus told him before giving him this above-water life. He wonders if it’s for the best that Nathan remains oblivious to all of it, Charles’ feelings included.

There’s a storm coming, and Charles hopes that, if it comes to that, he’ll be able to save his human from drowning again.

#metalocalypse #dethentines 2021 #my fanfiction #narles #nathan explosion #charles foster offdensen #metalocalypse au #metalocalypse fanfic #pickles the drummer #mma #ishnifus meadle

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deathbyvalentine · 3 years

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Regency Werewolves Chapter 2

The grounds were suitable. The social season could commence.

Of course, there were preparations to be made that had little to do with tooth or claw. There were dresses to be made, ribbon to be pinned and plaited, pocket watches to be wound and shoes to be polished. Not to mention the small stack of calling cards that was beginning to lean a little in the stack. Everyone was curious and the family had been particularly elusive. But now, glimpses could be caught. The women were glimpsed moving from a haberdashery, servant laden with fabrics. The men had waved a greeting to some passing gentleman from some local land known for its good hunting. They had managed to escape the title of 'snobs', instead becoming 'mysterious'.

The first ball of the season, was of course, themed. Lady Robin in all her finery and extensive powder had announced it with a hint of smugness, the type that was unfortunately entirely backed up with ability. Her parties were lavish while still being respectable, decadent without being wasted. Wine would be drank but not quaffed, food served but not scoffed. This was a line many struggled to toe (poor Earl Sussex) but she did to with aplomb.

Obviously, the Williamson house was in uproar, even as Lady Williamson sought to contain it. Elise was of no help whatsoever, stirring the girls up with tales from her youth and recollections of flirting. Even Alice, usually resentful at being squashed into dresses and her hair being brushed within an inch of her life, showed little complaint at her dress and chattered excitedly about the dark woods on the ground, despite her lady mother reminding her there would be no chance for her to explore. Sybil had managed to contain her own excitement but there was a certain tremble in her hands when she spoke of ribbons. Kingsley suffered in stoic silence, his dread of social occasions easy enough to read on his face. His father's face mirrored his own.

Kingsley was often a rather put upon creature. He had not the wild bravery of Alice nor the social graces of Sybil. He found social situations not merely a chore, but much more of a minefield. He was at ease in precisely two situations - looking over his father's accounts and when he shrugged off his human skin and ran under the full moon. He found himself wishing for the moon to come more often - the rules of being a wolf were so much clearer than the rules of being a human.

Meanwhile, Sybil would happily give up her teeth and claws for the gift of a normal life. She fretted over how she would handle her little 'condition' when the time came for a husband, seemingly unaware of the fact her mother had managed it.

Alice was much more a wolf than her a girl - her shape had little to do with it all in her view. She was a wolf when she was in dresses and she was a wolf when she was in fur. Civilisation was a cruel joke.

And what was more civilised than a soiree? From the drinks in clear glass flutes to the steps of a dance, all of it was manufactured. Therefore the children must be manufactured too. They had to blend in, had to look like this was their first or second nature. Tears in dresses had to be prepared, quick tempers soothed before they turned violent, the correct amount of food to eat imparted. Lady Williamson made it look natural and her three progeny strived to imitate that ease.

The day came and the evening followed. The evening was summer tones of pink, fading to purple, becoming blue. The drive to Lady Robin's house was packed full of carriages, warm young ladies hanging out of windows and fanning themselves furiously. The only reason why Alice was not among them was because Sybil had hooked her by the back of the dress and pulled her back into her seat with one fluid moment. Alice responded by panting behind her fan.

Even the sisters petty bickering fell silent once the turn on the drive slipped past. The entrance was flung open wide, revealing the light of what must have been hundreds of candles, some lining the meticulously swept stone steps. Garlands of white flowers hung in long strips, attracting the attention of a few lazy bees. Kingsley couldn't help sniffing the air, the smell of perfume, lillies and food almost too much to resist. The entire family took a moment to look and to see and to scent. Alice fidgeted, eager to explore. Her mother shot her a warning look - each of the older women were taking one of the girls to be chaperoned and Alice had drawn the short straw. Selene might have let her have a little fun (Sybil, ironically, was equally as unhappy at her chaperone's identity).

They entered as a procession, with Lord and Lady at the front, the children and their aunt tidily following behind them like ducklings. Curtseys were liberally distributed, as were bows and handshakes. The girls were complimented, the boys were given approving nods. A few of the prouder invitees attempted to be above the buzz of the throng eager to meet the new family, but even they couldn't resist side-long glances their way, measuring up the cut of their dresses and smoothness of their manner.

The dancefloor was currently clear, the band only just beginning to settled down in their chairs, taking up positions and instruments. Alice couldn't help but wince as the tuning up began, the sharp notes of a violin particularly harsh to her sensitive ears. Sybil, though she didn't show it, was having similar trouble with an overpowering perfume an old duchess was wearing. These events were often overwhelming to humans, with werewolves it was a hundred times more stimulating, for better or worse. There was another scent on the air, that made the Lady turn her head. It was there and gone in a quick breath, but the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. It was surely nothing.

Kingsley made a beeline for the refreshments, as teenage boys usually do. It also carried the dual purpose of delaying the need to ask young ladies for their hands to dance. Kingsley rather despised dancing. Though naturally graceful, he never seemed to know the correct steps for the popular dances of the day and tread on toes with impunity. Later Lord Gordon would gently prod him to do his social duty, but for the moment he took pity on the lad and let him dodge the dance cards thrust towards him.

Lord Gordon took a moment to take in the room. It had been a hot summer night much like this one where he had met his darling wife. Fairytale like he had seen her, diamonds looking like starshine in her hair, both dimmed by the force of her smile and strength of her scent. He recognised in her what he had in himself, the howling beast that resided in their chest, making them just a little bit wild. It was love at first sight and the love blossomed between them over the years, making infatuation into the kind of deep fondness on which empires could be built. He wrapped an arm around her waist and she leant into it, thinking of the same memory. Alice pulled a face at the romance, since when were parents allowed such luxuries as romance?

Her grimace didn't last long. As her mother was brushing off her dress and making noises about finding some wine, a young man approached. He was tall and slender, with a bright spray of freckles across an elegant nose. His hair had the unmistakable bearing of curls squashed and soothed into submission, but nothing could dim the brightness of the orange it was. This distracted Alice so thoroughly it was only after a moment she remembered to curtsey. He was introduced and she too was, albeit via her mother.

His name was Leopold, though his friends called him Leo. He was a cousin of the family who owned this place, although slightly distantly. He was studying at Oxford and had came up especially for the season as his younger sister was coming out and he wanted to support her. He liked history and art. All of this Alice found out very rapidly. He spoke like a train rattling down a track and in trying to take it all in, she offered little about herself. He was nervous, she realised, trying to cover up his unease with words. Eventually, he got to the point.

"Miss Williamson. Would you do me the honour of a dance?" His eyes flickered towards the empty dance card at her wrist. At first, she thought it was out of pity. But then, she became aware of all the young men in the room and how many were hovering close by, waiting. It was not pity, rather, eagerness. This shocked her so very much she gave her consent.

A moment later after Leopold had departed, Sybil appeared at her elbow like a horrid specter. "You must attend to me at once Alice. You must not tread on his toes or turn too soon. Don't laugh without covering your mouth and smile like you have a secret. Don't fiddle with your gloves - " "It is only a dance Sybil." "To begin with, yes. But Leopold is one of the most eligible men in this room and it won't be a bad thing to impress him." "He asked me to dance, shouldn't he be impressing me?" Sybil gave her a long look which informed her exactly how foolish an opinion that was to have. Alice flushed, finished her glass of champagne and braced herself.

Across the room, Kingsley had watched the exchange with an academic interest. He was about to go and join his sisters, to gossip and discuss the already rather interesting turn of events, when he realised someone was beside him, also gazing out into the room.

It was a man a little older than himself. He had dark eyes and dark hair that was teased into dreadlocks. He had sharp cheekbones but a soft mouth. Kingsley looked away quickly, but not quite quickly enough.

"I prefer to stay on the sidelines too, don't worry." A small chuckle passed between them and Kingsley relaxed his shoulders a little, recognising a kindred spirit. "Are you here alone?" "No, my entire family are here." He nodded towards Alice and Sybil. "They're my sisters." "I'm here with a niece, though where exactly she has gotten to is a mystery." He held out a hand. "Michael." "Kingsley." His hand was warm and gentle. He turned back to the room and in companionable silence they observed.

Alice had made her way onto the dance floor, trying desperately to remember every tip that Sybil had forced into her mind two minutes prior. It was hopeless, as was she. Ladyship didn't come easily to her. Selene squeezed her arm in passing, hoping to pass on a little of her courage.

Leopold stood opposite her and gave a most ungentlemanly grin, like he was not in a room full of rules and looks, but somewhere else, perhaps a park or school. Inevitably, she found herself grinning back before she remembered the rule and covered her mouth with her hand. The music started, a light tune with much work on the fiddle and violin. It reminded her somehow of spring, of waking up to flowers and birdsong. Much better than the droll solemnity often trotted out in these occasions.

The dance begun. Kingsley, watching from slightly above, thought not for the first time of how much it looked like certain creatures from the animal kingdom, bees in the summer tracing their endless ritual paths. The formality was stifling. All of them would be feeling it, the moment of feeling trapped within stays and lacing, rules and regulations. But he chose to cling to them, using them to retain his humanity. What was more human than this party?

Alice kept her eyes on Leopold, and he kept her gaze evenly. The grins slipped away, giving way to an expression that she could not name. She was acutely aware of every touch between them, despite the layers of gloves and the swapping of partners. She began to be able to differentiate his scent from those around him - there was something earthy there, like standing in a woodland after rain or digging. It felt familiar and welcoming in this place full of artificial perfume.

Lady Williamson and Selene watched from the sidelines, their dancing days mostly done. A respite from the work of courting. Selene lamented it but Elise felt a sense of relief. She had found and kept her husband, and even loved him. No more performing, pretending or showing off. She could be as she was. Well, almost. Some things were not for public consumption. Selene, scandalous as always, made no secret of the fact she was looking for a second husband, much to Elise's dismay and amusement. The two women stood side by side and watched their girls dancing.

#regency werewolves #regency #prose #commissions

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ryder-s-block · 4 years

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Jaig Eyes (Ch 42)

Jaig Eyes (42/?)

Summary:

Kida, a former slave who now thrives as a bounty hunter, finds herself sucked into the war she advised Jango Fett against. Now that she's involved, she has to finally mourn the loss of Jango, seeing his face in the clones that man the GAR. What happens when she allows herself to get attached to one, not for his resemblance to her former mentor, but for his heart?

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Chapter Forty-Two: A Place Unlike Any Other

“Are you sure this is something you want to pursue?” the older Weequay asked from where he was projected on my holotable. “It could be a trap.”

I glanced sideways at my friend as I guided my ship out of Dantooine’s atmosphere. “It’s not like I’m not prepared for the worst, Merl,” I teased. “I can handle myself, you know.”

My friend sighed through the comms. “Yes, yes with your new powers,” he mocked playfully, quoting his fingers in the air.

I rolled my eyes as my engines engaged, sending me out into space easily. I’d stopped at a port on Dantooine to refuel on my way towards a signal Apex had picked up during one of my jobs.

“The distress signal,” Merl mused, stroking his chin. “I haven’t seen that smuggler code used in years.”

“I know. So it’s either someone who is very much lost or is really bad at laying a trap.”

“And yet they seem to be drawing you in just fine.” He wasn’t happy with me, I knew. Part of it was that I was still technically the owner of his club and my reputation was a form of protection for both the establishment and him. Not to mention that he was terribly fond of me, even if he was too tough to admit it.

“Relax, Merl. I’m just going to investigate. That’s all.” My fingers flew deftly over the panels of my shuttle, readying the ship for jump.

“Star map is locked,” Apex announced through his interface in my ship. “Hyperdrive primed to engage.”

Merl listened to the AI while watching me with concern. “Keep your nose clean, kid,” he said with a small smirk. “And your blaster up.”

I returned the smile and cast my friend a wink. “I will so long as you keep my club from burning down.” The hologram faded out as our connection ended, my hand pulling back the lever that sent me into hyperspace travel.

Leaning back in my chair, I pulled up the readings of the distress signal again. Apex had noticed the ping during a job on Agamar. At first, we thought it was just a jumbled heap of leftover signals--likely from a junker that was still transmitting from some of its salvages. But then, imbedded inside the mess, was an old smuggler distress signal. It had been used before the Clone Wars began by smugglers who got into trouble but couldn’t let the governments find them.

That was back when smugglers still had some loyalty to each other. I hoped that this smuggler felt the same way and would actually pay me for my help rather than try and shoot me and steal my ship.

Of course, if they tried that, I’d just shoot them first.

“Miss,” Apex interrupted my thoughts, the stars streaking past my viewport. “We are approaching the signal origin now.”

“Good,” I responded, sitting up again and readying myself to take control of the ship again. “Are you still receiving the distress signal?”

“No, it went dark shortly after entering hyperspace.”

I hummed, fingers thrumming against the joystick. “Alright. Raise our shields and begin prepping our hyperdrive for another jump if we need a quick getaway.”

“Of course, miss.”

I watched the AI interact with my console, the shields raising to full power before we dropped out of hyperspace. “Damn,” I groaned, my viewport empty except for stars. I turned in my seat, checking my scanners for any ships. “Are you getting anything, Apex?”

“No other ships are in the area, miss. I am recalibrating the--” My eyes lifted from the scanners suddenly as my AI stopped speaking.

“Apex?” I called, trying to get him back. A few taps to my computer told me he’d lost signal to me. That was unlikely, considering I often relayed his server straight through my ship’s computer. “Where’d you go, buddy?”

My senses prickled, the hairs on my arms raising. The power shut off, leaving me blind and defenseless. I glanced out my viewport, but saw nothing. Diving below the console, I wrenched open the panels to inspect the wiring. From what I could tell, there was no sign of tampering, or a surge, for that matter.

So what had made the power shut off?

The engines whirred as the systems came back online, illuminating the cockpit again. I looked around in surprise, my hand getting a nice shock since it was still wedged in the mechanisms. With a low curse and a shake of my smarting hand, I lifted myself back into my seat…to see something that had certainly not been there before.

“Apex, are you seeing this?” I asked allowed, only to find that my AI still had no contact with my vessel.

Before me, floating in the previously empty expanse of space, was a massive black mass, diamond in shape. Red accents glowed on its surface like a dark warning. My ship lurched forward, the object drawing me in.

“Osik!” I cursed to myself, hands flying over the controls to try and engage my reverse thrusters. Nothing seemed to be working. Whatever this thing was, it was pulling me in without a tractor beam. Alarms blared in my ears as the shuttle’s systems went into overdrive, the power diverting to try and resist the pull.

My breath left my chest as the center of the diamond began to crack open, a blinding light coming from the gap. I wondered briefly if this was death. Maybe I had hit something while in hyperspace and died…this was me entering the afterlife. I strapped myself in as the ship shook harder, the light making it harder to see as it spilled into the cockpit.

I squinted against it, but saw nothing.

And then suddenly everything stopped. The light was gone and the ship had stopped shaking, the alarms going silent. I opened my eyes to see that my ship had landed itself, it seemed. The area around my shuttle was rich with flora, the plants and ground green and thriving. Rocky cliffs and rolling stone hills surrounded me, the sky a beautiful blue.

My scanners showed that the atmosphere was breathable, but couldn’t lock down where I was. My star charts were all scattered--unable to determine my place.

“Apex?” I asked the room softly, trying to get my ship to work. A system diagnosis told me that everything was in order...but still nothing was working anyways. “Are you there, buddy?”

There was no response. I frowned, getting up and collecting my pistols. After a second of hesitation, I opened the panelling in my quarters, retrieving the lightsaber I hadn’t ignited since Korriban, several months prior. When I stood up to my master at the time.

When I finally broke my own chains. My way.

Something about this place, whether it was a planet or asteroid or something else altogether...it was strong with the Force. Not as Korriban had been, or even the ruins on Tython. It wasn’t a history with the Force. It was made with the Force.

Something had drawn me here. And whatever it was...it wasn’t good.

I slipped the lightsaber into the belt pouch that ran along the small of my back. It wouldn’t be shown then, but I could grab it if I desperately needed it.

As a last thought, I took one of the ignition gauges from the console, clipping it to my belt. I wasn’t about to let anyone take my ship from me while I searched the mysterious place. The gangway descended, bringing with it a scent of life. Flowers and foliage.

Strangely, I heard no creatures in the vast expanse of nature. Nor did I sense any. The place was unnerving, but beautiful. Mountainous rocks floated in the air, levitating by some unseen force.

Perhaps it was the Force itself.

“Are you the one?”

I whirled, pulling out my pistols at the feminine voice. Before me, seeming to appear out of nowhere, was a humanoid female. Her skin was porcelain white, her green hair full and flowing down her back. She stood rigidly in a gold and cream colored dress, practically glowing. And that’s not figurative to express her beauty. She was literally giving off a gentle light from her very being.

“Who are you?” I asked, my pistols trained on her. She didn’t seem very bothered by my threat. It didn’t take long for me to feel her power. Her abilities in the Force. Still, I sensed no threat from her. I sensed only...the Light.

“I am Daughter,” she said immediately, taking a step forward, her head tilting. “Are you the one?”

“The one what?” I pushed, not letting my pistols drop.

“I will bring you to him.”

“To who?” I asked, taking a half step backwards. “I’m not going anywhere with you, lady.”

She watched me closely for a moment, her eyes squinting. I could feel her Force signature prodding around at my mind. “You are not the one. Who brought you here?”

She seemed angry. I turned my stance to better protect myself, my own frown finding its place on my face. “I was hoping you could explain that, Daughter,” I snarled her name, trying to appear more powerful than I felt at that moment.

Her nose crinkled at my words, her demeanor darkening despite the light she gave off. “Leave this place,” she demanded, turning away. “My father called the one here, and you are not him. You are not welcome here.”

“Woah,” I called as she began walking away. “I got pulled here. I’m not even sure where here is.”

“Leave this place,” she said over her shoulder. “Before night.”

I was going to pursue her, especially since she was the only living creature I’d seen any evidence of since arriving on the planet. But something told me not too. She was a follower of the Light, but she was still incredibly powerful. That meant she was dangerous.

I took a step backwards and turned to return to my ship, but stopped in my tracks. “Hey,” I called over my shoulder to the woman. “My ship’s…” My words tapered off when I saw no one there. It was like she had evaporated.

Just like my ship, apparently.

It was gone, not leaving so much as an imprint in the place it once rested. Whatever was going on, it was certainly beyond my understanding. Not to mention my power. With no other option, I ran off in the direction the woman had gone.

Sure, she’d told me to leave. But I tried that and apparently someone didn’t want that. Or something.

As I hurried in the direction she’d gone, I was quick to discover that she either never existed at all, or moved at impossible speeds. She was nowhere to be found and I had no idea how to get off this rock.

The longer I travelled, the weirder the place got. As the day turned into night, the seasons changed with it. The flourishing plant life withered and decayed. The dirt beneath my feet turned black, rain pouring down as dark clouds moved in. The husks of the trees began to glow blue, thunder rumbling the sky.

I sensed the lightning strike before seeing it.

I dove to the side, electricity striking the ground where I had once stood. My hair stood on edge, the air smelling of ozone. I decided rather quickly that I needed to find shelter from the storm more than I had to get off the planet in that moment.

Dodging more strikes of lightning, I made me way into a nearby cave, the inside glowing with blue crystals. My chest was heaving when I made it inside, my nerves fried from dodging being...well...fried.

Soaking wet and trembling from the cold, I stepped further into the cave, feeling a familiar presence. It called me to me gently, pulling me closer. I followed willingly, knowing who was waiting for me.

“Why have you come to this place?”

I turned slowly, not really caught off guard, to see the gentle glow of the once Jedi Master. “Master Qui-Gon,” I greeted, dipping my head slightly. “I’m not entirely sure I can answer that. I was following a beacon, but I didn’t realize I’d come here.”

The spirit stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Something has called you here. You must learn what it is.”

“Where is here?”

“A place unlike any other.” Qui-Gon’s hands folded behind his back as he paced, leading me further into the caves. “A conduit through which the entire Force of the universe flows.”

“How can you know that and not why I’m here.”

“I believe you are here to be tested. And to help.”

“Help what?”

Qui-Gon graced me with his gentle smile. “Not what. Who. My former apprentice has been called here as well.”

“Obi-wan,” I breathed. The last time I’d seen him, he was reporting on my actions with Dooku to the council...where they were trying to decide my fate.

“Skywalker and his padawan will be with him. There are three beings from this world who seek Skywalker.”

“When will they be here?”

Qui-Gon glanced at me, still walking through the dark cave. “Soon. By the next rise of the moon.”

“I don’t understand how I’m supposed to help them. And who are these three beings? I know the Daughter--she was anything but pleasant. And she mentioned a father.”

“These are things you must discover for yourself. Know this, Kida,” Qui-Gon came to a stop where the cave opened up again--an exit. The storm was receding, a tower glowing in the distance. “This is a dangerous place for those who know no balance.”

He stayed still, nodding to me as I moved past him. I knew my destination was the tower. Otherwise, Qui-Gon would have never led me to it. “Master,” I called, turning back to look at his blue-tinged form. “The Daughter asked me if I was the one. Does she think I’m the Sith’ari like Bane did?”

Qui-Gon breathed slowly, shaking his head. “No. The legend you were told is a bit like the Sith version of the Prophecy of the Chosen one. Where the Sith’ari would make the Sith immortal and powerful, the Chosen One is destined to bring balance to the Force.”

I thought over everything he’d told me. “Skywalker. They think it’s Anakin, don’t they?”

“They do.”

I regarded the man before me. A man who had taught me so much over the past months. He’d taught me balance, but also given me range to learn from others. He told me that, in death, there was so much more to the Force than we had ever imagined.

“Do you believe that Anakin is the Chose One?”

Qui-Gon met my gaze. “I do.”

I let out a slow breath before nodding. “Alright. Then as a follower of Bendu...I’ll do what I can to protect Anakin. And the others.”

The jedi gave me a small smile. It held pride, but also sadness. He knew how difficult this would be for me--facing the jedi I’d once called friends, who may very well be my enemies now. “Thank you, my friend.”

I turned away after a small nod, knowing that he wouldn’t be there if I looked back. Steeling myself, I began walking towards the glowing tower, the seasons shifting as the sun began to rise again.

16 notes · View notes

firemedicdiaz · 7 years

Text

My Heart Beats Only for You

Fandom: Star Trek AOS. Pairing: Leonard McCoy X Reader. Word Count: 3610. Warnings: kidnapping, injury, torture, blood, death. Rating: Adult (18+). Genre: Angst. Summary: Reader gets kidnapped by a small regiment of Suliban soldiers working off of some misinformation in the midst of their Temporal Cold War campaign and Leonard is desperate to get them back. Author’s Note: Requested by @mysteriously-lost-forever. Many elements of this story come from Star Trek: Enterprise, but it’s not critical to have knowledge of the series to read this.

“We’ve been at this for hours,” Leonard complains, swatting at some sort of insect buzzing near his head. “Are you sure these are the right coordinates?”

“These are the coordinates the High Council sent on to me, yes,” Jim replies, frowning down at the display on his PADD.

“That doesn’t tell me whether they’re right,” Leonard grouses.

You chuckle softly to yourself as you glance around through the thick jungle around you, spying all sorts of exotic plants and animals. You’re kind of a third wheel on the away mission, having only come because you’d been going a bit stir crazy being cooped up on the Enterprise. Dr. M’Benga had said some fresh air would do wonders for your mental health, and so you’d been invited along, and you’re not too upset that you’ve been on the ground for so long. Truth be told, you wouldn’t be upset if you were stuck planet side for days; there are so many new and interesting things to see that you’re having a wonderful time, ancient ruins and your archaeological mission be damned.

As the remainder of the crew bicker amongst each other, you let your eyes fall on every flash of movement and glinting of sunlight off dew drops you catch sight of, ignoring the animosity that’s growing between the others. You’re just panning your gaze over to a sector of the jungle you haven’t explored yet when a flash of something crimson catches your eye through the foliage. It piques your curiosity and so with a quick glance over your shoulder to ensure that everyone is still nearby, you dash off through the vines to get a closer look at whatever the strange object or animal is.

You pause a short distance away from where you’d seen the flash, listening closely for movement. Nothing catches your attention and so you continue to creep forward slowly, not wanting to scare any sort of animal or catch a predator off guard and become lunch. You’re just about to the spot when you hear a soft crunch of fresh and fallen foliage underfoot and feel a sharp pinch at your neck.

“Ow!” You hiss, spinning around to look for the source of the stinging.

The last thing you see before your world begins to darken at the edges and you’re pulled into unconsciousness is a man of an alien species you don’t immediately recognize clad in the same crimson you’d glimpsed through the trees. You’re out cold before you even hit the ground.

A short distance away, Leonard glances around as Jim attempts to hail the Enterprise, his eyebrows knit in concern.

“Did you hear something?” He asks.

Jim glances up from his comm, his gaze also flicking around through the trees.

“You’re getting paranoid, Bones,” he surmises.

Leonard rolls his eyes, planting his hands on his hips and turning full circle, trying to find the source of the noise he’d heard. It had sounded like a voice off in the distance and had gotten his attention.

“Gather the crew,” Jim instructs. “Much as I hate to admit that you were right, I don’t think what we’re looking for is out here.”

Leonard trudges off with a nod, heading out to round up the others. He locates the three members of the security detail and the Enterprise’s chief xenoanthropologist easily, but returns to the clearing when a five-minute walkabout turns up no signs of you.

“Has anyone seen Y/N?” He asks.

The others shake their heads.

“Fan out, look for her,” Jim instructs. “Report back in ten minutes.”

Ten minutes go by in a flash as everyone spreads out in spokes to look for you. Leonard’s nerves are on high alert when everyone returns empty-handed.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Jim reassures him. “I’ll get Spock to scan for her bio sign.”

Leonard crosses his arms over his chest, his heart thudding heavily in his chest as all sorts of nightmarish worst-case scenarios start to go through his mind. He pinches the bridge of his nose against the onslaught of mental images of you falling off of a cliff, getting mauled by an animal, or being stung by something highly lethal.

“Spock’ can’t find her,” Jim says grimly a moment later, breaking through Leonard’s reverie.

“What do you mean, he can’t find her?” Leonard snaps, his panic bubbling to the surface, cloaked in anger.

“I mean she’s gone,” Jim replies. “He can’t find her comm signature, either. It’s like she’s disappeared into thin air.”

Leonard curses, running a hand through his hair.

Elsewhere at roughly the same time, you’re slowly coming around in a dark, dingy room on a small ship you’re completely unfamiliar with. You wrinkle your nose at the musty scent that fills the air and gasp as the feeling of cuffs around your wrists and ankles sinks in and rouses you completely. You whip your head around, wondering where you are and what’s happening. Licking your lips, you attempt to cry out for help but your throat is too dry and hoarse for any sort of audible communication.

“No one can hear you scream in here,” a reedy voice says from the shadows somewhere to your left. “And even if they could, they wouldn’t pay you any mind.”

Your heart rate picks up maddeningly as the implications of your captivity sink in. The last thing you remember is a flash of crimson and a face, rough and greenish, looming over you. You strain to peer into the inky blackness at the periphery of the room, your breath coming in short gasps as panic grips you, but to no avail.

“Who are you?” You croak. “Where am I?”

Your captor steps out of the shadows, revealing himself to be humanoid. You wrack your brain for species you’ve seen in your textbooks and databases and gasp as the realization hits you.

“Suliban,” you rasp. “What do you want with me?!”

“I want to know where I can find Captain Jonathan Archer,” the man demands. “Comply and you’ll die painlessly. Resist and you will learn the limits of your body and mind.”

You shake your head, straining against the shackles binding you to the table.

“No,” you spit. “I’m not telling you anything.”

The man raises a hand and in it sits a thin, innocuous-looking metal rod not unlike an old car antenna in appearance.

“Where is Captain Archer?” The man asks again, determination and malice glinting in his eyes.

“Not anywhere near here,” you snap.

He touches the tip of the rod to an exposed portion of your hand and you scream as agony courses through you. It’s like an explosion of pain through every nerve fiber in your body with an epicenter where the prod is touching your skin. Your blood feels like liquid fire and you’re afraid you’re going to combust at any moment. Then, as quickly as the pain came, it recedes again and leaves you limp and trembling in your shackles.

“Where is he?” The Suliban officer asks once more.

You shake your head again, tears prickling at your eyes as you anticipate more pain. Terror grips you and you fight to control the involuntary shaking the torture has brought out. Sure enough, as you brace yourself moments later, the pain comes again, this time from a spot on your neck. It radiates through every part of your body, inside and out, and you shout wordlessly as a rigor seizes your muscles. You pray desperately for unconsciousness but it doesn’t come. All there is as the seconds stretch on is pain.

Back on the Enterprise, Leonard is pacing back and forth on the bridge, agitation rippling off of him in waves. All workstations are up and running and every available crew member is helping in the search for you. All scans for other life signs and shuttles in the area are coming back clean and to the trained eye, even the captain is beginning to show signs of compromise.

“Run the sweep again,” Captain Kirk orders the bridge crew. “If there’s so much as a nanoparticle out of place, I want to know about it.”

“Aye, captain,” Spock acknowledges.

Leonard runs a hand through his hair, pausing in his tracks as Jim walks closer.

“We’ll find Y/N, Bones,” he assures the other man. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Leonard shakes his head with a derisive snort.

“The first thing they teach us in med school is never to make promises we can’t keep,” he mutters. “You don’t know that, Jim, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t patronize me.”

Jim sighs and nods once, reaching up to pat Leonard on the shoulder before making his way over to the nearest console. He peruses the information displayed there, searching for any sign of anything that might help them find you. He’s just about ready to step away once more when he notices something on one of the sensors.

“Scotty,” he calls out. “Take a look at the sonar.”

It’s outdated technology and rarely useful anymore what with the advancements in scanning technologies since its peak, but he’d ordered it to be set to run in hopes that just maybe it would pick up something, anything of use.

“What do we have here?” Scotty asks as he switches interfaces. “What’s that there, at the starboard edge of the sensor array?”

“I don’t know,” Jim replies. “Adjust the array another fifteen degrees starboard.”

Leonard strides over to the console at the small flurry of activity in the wake of Jim’s order and peers closely at the right side of the screen. He’s not a navigator, but even he can tell that something is disrupting the sonar signal at the indicated coordinates. Frowning, he looks up to Scotty for answers.

“It looks like another vessel, sir,” Scotty explains. “She’s cloaked, but she’s there, right in front of us.”

“Can we identify it?” The captain asks.

Spock leans in closer to his own viewscreen, peering at the vague shape on the sonar display. Zooming in, he enhances the image a little bit and reaches back through his memory, searching for a match.

“Captain, if I’m not mistaken, it appears to be a Suliban Cell,” the first officer offers. “Its shape is consistent with the specifications listen in our databases and the advanced cloaking technology also matches that of the Cabal.”

Jim curses under his breath, thinking back to the symposium he’d attended where Admiral Archer had discussed the Suliban Cabal, the Temporal Cold War, and the sorts of technological advancements Starfleet scientists could only dream about in the present times.

“Mr. Scott, I need you to get me on that ship,” the captain orders.

“Aye sir,” Scotty acknowledges. “But it’s going to take a little bit of time and a lot of faith in my calculation skills.”

“You’ve got fifteen minutes,” Jim clips out. “I’ll be in the transporter room when you’re ready.”

“He’s not a captain anymore!” You sob, unable to hold back anymore.

The pain is unending now. Whether the prod is touching your skin or not, everything hurts. You feel like every bone in your body must be broken, every muscle torn to shreds, every organ failing from the agony. You can’t remember what it’s like not to feel pain, and you’ve given up hope on ever being safe again, on being rescued and seeing Leonard.

Leonard.

You’d take all the hypos in the world for even a brief respite from the agony, and for Leonard’s arms around you. He could fix this, but you’re afraid he’ll never get the chance. You’re not sure how much longer you can hold out. Even your heartbeat seems to be giving out, skipping wildly and beating through your chest.

“Finally,” the Suliban says smugly. “Some compliance.”

He circles the table, reaching out to stroke along your cheek with a single finger, making pain echo and amplify through along the side of your face.

“You held out longer than I thought you would,” he admits. “I’ll get the information I need and still have time for lunch afterward.”

His cavalier attitude makes your blood boil and the anger gives you hope; you were sure you’d never feel anything but despair again just moments before.

“Now, tell me,” he sneers, dragging his fingertip down your neck and over your chest, poking you firmly in between two ribs. “Where is Admiral Archer?”

“In a big, cushy office, like all the other admirals,” you groan. “I don’t know where he’s stationed.”

“That’s not good enough,” the man hisses. “Looks like we’re going to have to wear you down some more.”

He disappears from your side for a brief moment, but you don’t let your guard down. You jerk at the shackles binding you some more even though you know it’s futile and you’re only wasting precious energy. Within moments, the alien is back, this time with a sinister looking curved dagger in his hand.

“Last chance,” he goads you, holding up the blade so you can see the few untarnished spots on it glinting in the light. “Talk, or I’ll make you talk.”

“No, please!” You beg weakly. “I don’t know! I swear, I don’t know!”

“Suit yourself,” the Suliban says with a shrug.

He brings the blade down and firmly grasps one of your wrists with his free hand. Turning your palm up, he presses the needle-sharp tip of the blade to the fleshy spot beneath your thumb. He starts off lightly but quickly begins applying increased pressure. You shut your eyes tightly and grit your teeth as the blade bites into your skin, only to open them again moments later as you scream when the blade pierces your flesh. The warm welling of blood beneath the blade is barely a balm on the agony and nausea roils in your stomach as blood, hot and sticky, begins to trickle from your hand. You can hear the soft sound of the droplets hitting the floor even over your screaming and your tears are flowing unchecked now.

“Please,” you reiterate hoarsely when you can’t scream anymore.

“I’m coming with you,” Leonard says firmly as Jim assembles a security team on the transporter deck, his tone leaving little room for argument.

Jim nods.

“I wasn’t planning on stopping you,” he says grimly. “Y/N is going to need you one way or another.”

Leonard feels sick to his stomach at the thought of just how badly you might need him and his skills.

“Let’s go get her,” he says, stepping onto the transporter pad.

As Dr. McCoy takes his place among the others, med kit slung over his shoulder, the captain looks over at Scotty, phaser held tightly at the ready.

“Engerize,” he orders.

You jump, startled, as you hear a klaxon sound overhead. Your tormentor’s attention is diverted away from where he’s been busy making yet another incision, adding it to the half dozen or so that you’re already sporting. You sag back against the table, grateful for the respite and too exhausted to be concerned over what’s happening elsewhere in the ship.

You hear frantic movement beside the platform where you’re lying and the Suliban who has been interrogating you drops your hand. Suddenly, he’s speaking into the comm unit on the wall, exchanging words with another of his crew in a language you don’t understand. You hear his footsteps approaching again a few moments later, however, and your eyes snap open just in time to see him leaning in over you with something not unlike a hypospray in his hand.

You can hear shouts just outside of the room you’re in as he poises the device against your neck and you barely even feel the sting as he discharges the hypo into your neck, injecting you with some sort of a liquid that burns like fire as it goes in. As he steps back, spinning on his heel to face off with someone who has just entered the room, the liquid begins to spread, scorching you from the inside out, making you feel like your very blood vessels are on fire. A sweat is breaking out across your forehead as the drug circulates, and it’s so disconcerting that your surroundings are lost to you completely. Even the din of phaser fire all around you does nothing to get your attention.

You hear a voice as you lie there, feeling the fire rage in your body, losing every remaining ounce of strength you have the longer you’re exposed to what you’re sure must be some sort of a poison.

“In here, Bones!”

The voice sounds far away and garbled as it carries on. You can’t make much of what else it’s saying, but your mind cottons on to a word; one crucial, critical word.

Bones.

You hear footfalls approach your bedside and a hand lands on your cheek – blissfully cool against your wildly fevered skin.

“Leonard,” you croak, your eyes fluttering, your gaze unseeing.

“I’m here, darlin’,” he says as he stands over you. “I’m right here, you’re safe.”

You groan and arch your back against the onslaught of burning, feeling the hand on your cheek slip away. You turn your head in search of it but feel hands at your wrist instead, tugging at the shackles that bind you. There are hands at your other wrist, too, pulling at the restraint there as well.

“I’ll try and disable these,” a voice – the captain’s, you realize – says. “You take care of Y/N.”

The hand is back at your cheek a second later.

“Lie still, sugar, I’ve got you,” Leonard murmurs reassuringly, though his tone is thick with his own emotions which are just barely being held in check at the sight of you so badly injured.

A tricorder whirrs over you and as he reads the information it’s giving him, Leonard can’t stifle a curse.

“What’s wrong?” Jim’s voice asks from somewhere nearby.

“Her vitals are all over the place,” Leonard replies. “Her body temperature is off the charts. I need to get her back to the Enterprise.”

“He gave me something,” you rasp. “In a hypo.”

Leonard’s hand is gone again as he reaches for his kit, pulling out a holoscanner. He holds it over your chest, inspecting the image there closely. With your eyes closed you don’t see his expression, but you can almost feel the change in the energy around him as he takes in your scans.

“Damn it,” he growls. “How long, Jim?”

“I don’t know,” Jim replies. “I need Scotty.”

Leonard curses and sets the scanner down in favor of his PADD. He searches frantically through Starfleet’s medical database for evidence of the compound the scanner has found in your blood but nothing comes up. He needs to treat you, but he’s afraid to mix whatever is in your blood stream with any of the medications in his arsenal. Any sort of a reaction between his drugs and the one in your body could be fatal.

“Len,” you whisper, trying to get his attention as you feel the heat being replaced with an icy cold from the inside out; you can feel yourself dying. “Len, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Leonard murmurs. “But you’ve got to hush right now; save your strength.”

You shake your head, forcing your eyes open against the overwhelming draw of death. Breathing shakily, you splay your fingers, wordlessly begging Leonard to take your hand. It takes him a moment to notice and realize what you’re looking for, but as soon as he does, he’s clasping your hand between his palms and leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” you say hoarsely. “I wanted so much more time with you.”

“Shh,” Leonard says. “Don’t you be checking out on me just yet, darlin’. We’re going to have plenty of time.”

You can hear the undercurrent of doubt in his voice, the tremor of fear and helplessness underlying his tone. You shake your head again.

“Goodbye, Leonard,” you mumble. “I love you.”

Your last few words are slurred as you give up the fight, giving in to the darkness pressing at you from every side, relinquishing your hold on consciousness. All you feel at the crux, the last moment of your life, is a blanket of peace settling over you and a welcome reprieve from the pain.

The sensation of Leonard’s fingers pressing at your pulse point, feeling frantically for a heartbeat that’s fluttering one moment and absent the next, is lost on you. His cry of anger, of denial and despair, is lost on you as you slip away, and he’s left at your bedside, a shell of himself. You’ve taken a piece of him with you, a piece he’ll never be able to patch back together. You were the first true love of his life, and the only one he was forced to let go of without a fight.

Your loss has hit the entire crew hard, but none so much as Leonard. For days after, he is a ghost. Sightings of him are fleeting, and he’s so pale and drawn that Jim considers having him admitted to the med bay for monitoring on Dr. M’Benga’s recommendation. Even for someone so well acquainted with loss, he’s taking it hard. His familiarity with death makes his despair all the more poignant, though, and his loss amplifies the sorrow the rest of the crew all feel.

As Leonard lies awake another night, staring at the ceiling, he realizes that while a heartbeat is required for life, it is far from the only thing necessary for one to truly live.

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hush-falls-the-evening · 7 years

Text

Affliction

Characters: Jonathan Crane, Edward Nygma (scriddler)

Rating: G Words: 2252

Misc Info: Fluff/comfort, old men in love, domestic fluff, perpetual bantering

You can find author’s notes on AO3

Not everything had to be explained between them, but sometimes acknowledgement alone wasn't enough, and some efforts from both parties are required.

Edward has his rights to be worried. The first time it occurred in his presence, Jonathan Crane woke with a start. His breath caught in a dying gasp, and his hands a shaking mess clawing at the sheets.

Their buzzing schedules only allowed them a few shared hours of sleep every so often. Edward knew for a fact that the old psychiatrist wasn’t prone to night terrors. Ironically, if anything, he would hastily scribble down the visions in a small leather-bound logbook, the same way one would write in a dream journal for further analysis.

Curiosity has always given the Riddler a fantastical nose for hidden secrets, as well as... unfortunate predicaments, from time to time. However, after the first few times of carefully deciphering the spidery notes, he quickly came to the realization that they were, frankly, a pale imitation when compared to Jon’s nocturnal’s activities. Concepts, keywords, the likes. If anything, his sinister partner didn’t seemed to “dream” often.

Jonathan’s ragged gasps were particularly alarming this time, and within the quietude of the bedroom, it had stirred Edward fully awake.

Now, to wake Edward unnecessarily was a particularly risky venture, as he tended to be in an astoundingly foul mood as a result of irregular sleep patterns and a regal enjoyment of the act itself. However, cautious concern made the brilliant man reach a hand through the sheets, resting over the doctor’s heaving chest.

It was surprising sometimes, how gaunt his shape felt to the touch. No costume, simply clothed as a mean to retain any warmth. How was there still space left for lungs and a beating heart under these bones, the stretch of skin, and somehow enough muscles to roam over the rooftops of Gotham? Now that was an eluding riddle. Not a fun one, but still one bemusing mystery.

Edward made light of his discontentment by brushing his nails inauspiciously over the exposed skin, where the smoothness of his fingertips met the occasional scarred flesh below.

It took a moment before Jonathan’s cold hands covered Edward’s, his unusually damp palms almost grasping over his. He pressed it to his chest as his lungs shuddered back to normalcy. It took longer still before his state seemed to settle.

There was an inquiry at the tip of Edward’s tongue. Forcefully willing the crankiness of its tone a mile away, he made an attempt to ask the right words.

They never made it past the silent spell between them. At least, not before he felt motion next to him, thin lips ghosting through Edward’s rustled hair, the next instant vanishing toward the edge of the bed. Creaking, rattling, and creeping back to wherever he busied himself when he had projects to attend to.

From the look he wore the next morning-… Afternoon, the tall man must had found some solace in the comfort of his austere reading chair. Which was to say, he looked stiff and worse for wear, nursing a hot beverage with a look that rivaled Edward’s own scowl when the restlessness of a project kept him awake for days. If anything, it was even more chilling with Jonathan’s ghastly glare.

“Have you found any sleep in that curiosity display of yours? Or was the quality of the couch too much for you to bear?”

From his tone alone, Jonathan could easily see through the boldly veiled concerns, noting its familiar snark. Against all odds, it did pull at the edge of his lips. He hid the reaction behind the cooling coffee in his hands..

“Early crow gets the worm,” he quoted in a deadpan tone, fixing his gaze on something ahead. “Beside, the decoration of my study is up to my tastes, I reckon.”

There was a spark of satisfaction in Edward’s eyes. The flare so evident it caught Crane’s attention as he looked back at him. Some tension seemed to leave his face, although most of it mellowed down to guarded introspection.

A short-lived victory it was, leaving the Riddler but with a sour taste. It was particularly irritating as he was attempting to rouse a conversation out of him. Just.. Really any signs that everything was alright, or as close to that as possible.

Edward huffed, pouring a decadent mug of coffee for himself. The fact that Jonathan wasn’t rolling his eyes at the sight was almost worrisome.

“I must admit, it’s utterly puzzling how you can fall asleep in a room filled with various pieces of pickled body parts and empty eye sockets…” There was no answer from Jon, not even at the cheesy pun. They had both acknowledged long before how their tastes differed. No hard feelings. Well. Some hard feelings, when it was Jon commenting on His tastes.

Edward took great pride in his interior design.

Hell, he could had even made a jab at them finding sleep next to one another to begin with but there he was, ruminating.

Seconds stretched and Edward grew more anxious, itching for a response. He called over his shoulder with some genuine curiosity. “Actually, where did you get them?”

The words seemed to take a moment to click into place, before Jonathan spoke absently. “Oh, they used to be mine. I just tracked them and took them back when you offered a room for my books.”

“Took. Them?” Nygma repeated, smiling ironically with the mandatory quotation marks. Silence again. So it was going to be this way, then.

It was clear from his behavior that he wasn’t going to talk about it. Never mind that, if their positions were reversed, Jonathan would use every trick in his book to meticulously pry out answers out of him, regardless of kicks and hisses. Of course, Edward coveted the ravenous curiosity when he was the object of it, so the aloofness was….. irritating.

If anything, his distance felt… unusual. He thought out a long string of elaborate cusses, growing nervous. At last, his lips pressed with stubborn resolved as he moved to stand directly in his line of vision, claiming long awaited attention. “Well?”

Crane went still and slowly leveled his eyes at him. His annoyance laced with a curious edge that was always there when he looked at him. For a second, the genius wondered if the doctor would lose his temper at him. He briefly considered what would be worse between it and being ignored.

After all, Jon rarely lashed out in anger, at least not out of his raggedy costume. At least a reaction would give him something to work with.

Crane moved deliberately, finally picking on whatever hints were waved in his face. Honing his glance as he took Ed’s mug away from his hands and broke contact only long enough to lower it onto the nearby coffee table.

“You want me to talk about what woke me up last night,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Who, me? Oh, here I though you had a clear stance on psychoanalyses and the meaning of dreams, perhaps you could look into my wistful thinking?”

Jon was about to continue before whatever he had been about to propose died on his lips, and had him snap his mouth shut mid-word. He furrowed his eyebrows with his index pointing at his partner. “Don’t insult me, Edward. My dream journal is solely for inspiration...”

The familiarity in the looming threat felt like an unexpected relief. The dark-haired man stopped short as he saw Edward cracking a victorious smile.

They both knew the extent of Jonathan’s distaste for Freud, and if anything could get a rise out of him, it might just be it.

The tall man closed his eyes, rubbing a tired smirk behind his callous hand, willing away the extensive rant he had been about to delve into. Edward stood there with his arms crossed and smug satisfaction painted all over himself.

Taking pity on his weary partner, Edward pressed a hand to the back of the couch as he leaned down toward him, propping up his chin so as to make him gaze upon him.

The Riddler could understand why Jon was so fond of that gesture. It was something he enjoyed as well, particularly when he had the upper hand over his foolish foes. Towering above them so they would look at him and only him…. And only him.

Jon realized the reversal of their usual game. Disgruntled at first, he seemed to give in a lot quicker than Edward expected, the visible exhaustion around his eyes mellowing into mild amusement. Not entirely pleased at this situation, but not turning away from him either. His piercing stare locked on him with eloquent irony.

Edward ran a thumb along his prickling jaw, smiling fondly at the self-proclaimed God of Fear, who looked up at him with weary amusement.

He would even say with adoration, but he had things to address first before revelling in the light of that gaze.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, you know..” The words were careful as Edward hushed them. There were also familiar, as things Jon had told him as well in the past. He waited for signs of stiffness at the prying, as Jon would do when he was the subject of prodding. “Or if you want me to leave you alone-..”

Edward was delighted as he witnessed the slightest shift at last, seeing Jon kicked back into a semblance of life. Cautiously, always. Precise and cautious. The Riddler swore he saw the old psychiatrist roll his eyes at his shameless ogling, shushing Edward’s dazzling smile with a look. Before any taunting remark crossed his lips, Edward felt a wiry hand at the base of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss.

It wasn’t anything big, nor passionate. It felt closer to an confession. An apology, if that word was part of their regular vocabulary. Or an acknowledgement. Careful, almost soft, which Jonathan knew made his heart skip a beat, regardless of the years.

Not one to be diverted, Edward was still expecting an answer. And so he settled more comfortably over his partner, straddling Jon who winced briefly at the transfer of weight. He rose a glance as Edward grinned down at him, one imperious brow rose at Crane when they fell in a warmer silence.

Edward’s hands framing the outline of his collarbone in a soothing way.

There was again that reluctance back on his face, but he figured it was closer to a begrudged defeat. “You’re very proud of yourself, aren’t you?” Jon asked. Glaring at green eyes, almost devilish from sheer smugness. Did he even need to point it out?

Jon exhaled softly, and then once more. “…I can’t answer you, because I-..” he started, glaring at his mug. A brief hollow look flickering in his eyes until he spoke again. “I have no idea what happened. I don’t think any dreams had ever left me like this…” His words ran dry, leaving him speechless for a moment. Nygma realized Jon was now staring at his right palm, facing up. Flexing the muscles reflectively.

“Dreams? Or was it a nightmare?”

“Hmm.” Crane snapped into focus again, eyes no more cast downward. His wiry hand going to rest on the small of his back, reassuring. “I don’t think it was a dream, but it wasn’t a nightmare either. Unlikely to be repressed memories. But… I’m not sure. It would need further analysis.”

Again that displeased expression. Nearly the same face he had after that time he accidentally drank three-days-old coffee.

“Well at least it wasn’t a stroke. I wouldn’t even be surprised at your age.”

“… I’d suggest you be careful with where this is going. I have better endurance than you do.”

“Oh throwing a few uninvited guests out the window every other day isn’t really working out.”

“Well. I wouldn’t need to ‘work out’ every other day if said uninvited guests weren’t given full permission to step inside, by the front door might I add, and wait to surprise me in my library.”

“Well it’s cold and I’m tired of our windows being rendered useless in the middle of winter. It’s damaging both for my techs and your books”

Jon quickly revised how much he valued his collection. “…….. Fair enough. Although I’d be glad if you’d let them in only once a week.”

“Them or Them?”

“I am not playing charades with you, Edward.”

“This is anything BUT a charade, Jonathan.” he retorted, resting an offended hand over his chest. “Beside, they keep you entertained”, he added with a wink.

“Like hell they do, it took me a whole day to fix my library last time they payed me visit.”

“Fine then, they keep you in shape.”

“I’d say you’re the one keeping me in shape, but I digress,” Jon muttered, rolling his eyes. He didn’t miss the way Edward smiled at his remark, how radiant he looked as he drew him back on his lips, nor how Jonathan pulled him all the more closer in the embrace.

For now, this would suffice. This was warm and familiar.

Small chats broke the soft glow a few times before they both went back to their separate businesses. Hours and days went by and soon the episode was left behind. Not quite forgotten but in a way, metaphorically left to pickle in one of Jon’s curiosity jars.

Maybe this will never happen again anyway.

#scriddler #Jonathan Crane #edward nygma #Scarecrow #Riddler #Batman #Rogue gallery #unfortunate amount of fluff #established relationship #old men being silly basically #fluff/comfort

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