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okietokiee · 5 years

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Tokigail / Post-Doomstar

@edgtheow I always see your Tokigail posts and tbh that’s one of my favorite rare pair ships too!! But their ao3 tag is practically empty ;o; so I wrote a sappy post-dsr fic because this rare pair deserves some love :’)

This is set during Doomstar when the Dethlights happened and then immediately after. And some headcanons I’m using for context: both Toki and Abigail were brutally tortured by Magnus and MMA, but the Dethlights ordeal healed most of Toki’s physical injuries

Rating: T

Abigail’s POV

Abigail was a logical woman. Growing up, she prided herself for her rationality and sensible nature. She’d see something unfamiliar and a majority of the time she was able to analyze the issue or situation and decide what to do next.

This was not one of those times.

She could still hardly even believe those selfish, narcissistic assholes actually even showed up. And with such stupidly dramatic timing too, when she had already fully resigned herself to her painful, brutal end in this dungeon at the hands of a man she hardly knew.

And now, looking up at this blindingly bright beam of light levitating those assholes and making them look like some kind of godly celestial beings, she was half convinced this was all just a wild fever dream she was experiencing moments before her death.

It didn’t help that after the sudden burst of color, everything was a literal blur of empty scenes and lost time. She felt nauseous and lightheaded, a state she’d become accustomed to after months locked up. After an indefinite period of time that could’ve been five minutes or five hours, she was drowned with a litany of random voices she couldn’t distinguish.

The only distant, grounding voice that broke through the fog was a warm, familiar, “Abigail, we ams safe now…”

And that familiar sound was enough to convince her that yes, this was real. This was it. The whole world could fall to complete shit, but she’d recognize that voice anywhere. She let out a deep, contented sigh, as she was hoisted up by a taller body.

She closed her eyes, finally embracing the exhaustion that’s been permeating her whole being for what felt like eternity.

——————

A few weeks later, Abigail awoke to the faint whirring of machinery and nauseatingly bright hospital lights. She frowned, feeling something weighing down on her left side, and she chanced a small movement of her head to see, to her relief, a sleeping head with long, chestnut brown hair.

Toki had a firm hold of her hand, their fingers interlaced in a familiar grip. She chanced a small smile, feeling her body relax fully into the hard hospital mattress.

Seeing Toki somehow alleviated a lot of her sudden fear and anxiety. Not all of it, no, not by a long shot. But they were each other’s only solace down in that hell, and it seemed her brain still recognized him as such.

She was surprised to see that Toki looked infinitely better than she remembered. Though it was expected since they were finally being treated, she didn’t think it was possible for him to gain back all that weight so fast if what she could see of him was anything to go by. His sallow, sunken cheeks looked full and healthy again, and his previously corpse-like pallor had returned to a state similar to before the kidnapping.

She had a passing idea that perhaps that blinding beam of light had something to do with this, but just thinking of that ordeal gave her a splitting headache. She sighed weakly, untangling her fingers from the guitarist’s to instead idly stroke his hair in familiar movements.

She had no idea how much time could have possibly passed, Toki’s soft breathing and her own idle ministrations the only thing she felt rooted her to reality. And Abigail was startled to hear an abrupt cough, and she sat up a bit to see one Swedish guitarist looking more uncomfortable and awkward than she’d ever seen him.

Skwisgaar nervously shuffled closer to her bed. “Ah… I sees you ams awakes.” He cast an unreadable glance at Toki. “He woulds nots leaves you alone. We ams glads you ams all rights.”

Abigail was not impressed and gave Skwisgaar a look that screamed, ‘Really? That’s all you have to say?’

Skwisgaar physically gulped, his guilt and discomfort apparent. “I… no, de whole bands, we wishes we came earlier. We ams all stupid idiots. Ams all so sorries, ands I know dere is no way to evers really apologizke for dis, buts I just…” He faltered. “He… Toki I means, he so worrierds and keeps saysing he woulds never have mades it wivout yous. I just wants to takk, uh, tanks you for beinks dere for him. We knows it was hells for you too, you didn’ts need to do so much, buts you dids.”

Abigail let a small grin grace her deadpan expression. She chanced a reply, not surprised at how sore her throat felt and her weak, cracked tone of voice. “There’s no need to thank me Skwisgaar. Toki and I… we, well, we needed each other to stay sane down there.”

Skwisgaar gave her an unidentifiable look in return and seemed as though he were about to say more, when Toki began to stir awake at Abigail’s side.

“Abbygale?…Yous awakes!” He exclaimed after blinking the sleepiness from his eyes. He shot up from his chair and held Abigail in an excited, surprisingly gentle hug. He was muttering gibberish as he held her, an enthusiastic mixture of Norwegian and English and everything in between.

Abigail chuckled warmly, returning the hug as best she could with an IV up her arm.

Satisfied, Toki backed off, but kept his hands on Abigail’s shoulder moving in soothing ministrations. His face was close and expression simultaneously joyous and anxious.

“Abby, Toki ams so happies yous wakes up! De doctors, de says dat if you sleeps for too longs it woulds be real bads, buts I knew you woulds wakes up! Toki knows! How ams you feelings? Anyting hurts? Ah, but de doctors! I go gets dem, dey needs to sees you, but Toki don’ts wants to leaves yous! What we do-”

Abigail gave Toki a fond, exasperated look. She was about to mention that Skwisgaar could alert the doctors, but when she looked to her side she was confused to see the spot empty, the Swede having made a hasty, unnoticed departure.

Within moments a team of medical professionals rushed in to check up on Abigail’s condition.

After they left satisfied with their findings and to prepare some further tests, Abigail heaved an anxious sigh. From what the doctor had said so far, it seemed that physically she was doing well considering what her body had been through, but she’d still need quite a bit of physical therapy and further tests. Psychologically though, that was to be determined, and considering the paranoia and anxiety permeating through her body, she did not have high hopes for that.

But, despite whatever trials awaited her, one look at Toki’s eager, hopeful, and absolutely radiant smiling face made her feel like it would be ok.

They made it out of one hell alive, they’d make it out of this too.

——————

Toki’s POV

Toki saw a blazing, blindingly bright light flash before his eyes and then he felt weightless. He felt it tear through his flesh, simultaneously eviscerating his very being but also creating something new with the ashes. It was disorienting how suddenly it came, and even more so how abruptly it passed. Before he knew it he was back on the floor, fallen to his knees, overcome with exhaustion.

Everything was a blur. His bandmat- no, his brothers breaking into the room and freeing him and Abigail, the sudden lights that seemed to come from the heavens, and the dizzying aftermath of that. If he was to be completely honest, the only constant, grounding thought that helped him regain his bearings was the person who’d been his only comfort for months on end.

“A-abigail!” He cried, seeing her on the sidelines looking near death. He rushed to stand up, but almost went tumbling down from his shaking legs. Nathan was able to grab hold of him and steady his balance just in time.

“Abigail! We ams safes now!” Toki yelled. He saw Skwisgaar gently help Abigail up and was immediately distressed to see that it seemed she’d passed out.

And everything moved so much faster from there.

But regardless, from the warehouse, to the helicopter, and right to the hospital, Toki did not stray far from Abigail’s side.

——————

Numerous doctors were astounded by the state Toki was in, and not for the reasons everyone was expecting. Though he wasn’t in perfect health, he was exceedingly better than seemed possible for someone stuck in the conditions he was in.

However, though physically he healed up miraculously fast, he was becoming a nervous wreck. Each day that passed with Abigail still asleep with no signs of waking up made Toki feel like he was slowly but surely suffocating.

And of course, there was the rest of Dethklok too. His brothers. They were as supportive as a group of traumatized, emotionally-stunted man children could possibly be.

It was strained at first, four members expecting some kind of (well-deserved) anger and resentment from Toki’s side. Being tortured while their bandmates party around the world in a drug-fueled haze would put a bad taste in anyone’s mouth.

But the elation of finally being reunited with his dumb family soothed whatever jagged edges there were and Dethklok had a brutal (read: tearful) homecoming for their rhythm guitarist.

However, despite their high spirits, Toki couldn’t be content. No, not yet.

After being cleared by astounded doctors with a clear bill of health after just a few days, he spent his time in Abigail’s room, reading, coloring, sleeping, waiting… always waiting.

It was on one of those quiet days when Skwisgaar and Nathan came to visit, the latter of which threw a surprisingly soft, familiar lump at him.

“Wowee! Yous guys brought me mines Deddy bear! Takk!” Toki exclaimed with glee, holding his fluffy friend tight.

“Yeah, we, uh… well, we thought you’d miss him. Since you haven’t been to your room since you got back and everything.” Nathan shrugged, trying to hide a pleased smile.

“Ja, ands we cames to check ups on yous,” Skwisgaar added.

Toki stiffened. “I ams doins fine.” He said with a rigid tone.

“Yous havent’s left dis rooms in weeks.” Skwisgaar sighed. “We knows you ams worries about hers, but you needs a breaks sometimes.” Toki frowned. “Ams fines. I needs to do dis.”

Nathan coughed, sensing the tension in the air. “Yeah, to be fair Toki, you haven’t even stepped foot in Mordhaus since you got home. And that’s, uh, saying a lot. Since our hospital is attached to Mordhaus and everything.”

Toki visibly deflated, his expression taking a somber turn. “Abigail… shes was always there for mes, now I needs to bes there for her…”

Nathan stole a glance at Abigail, his gaze softening. “Yeah, I get it.”

Skwisgaar, on the other hand, stole a glance at Toki’s downcast face. “Tokis, she wills be alrights…” He tried to say confidently.

Toki gave him a broken look. “Ja, she has to bes…”

After a few more hushed, somber conversations, Skwisgaar and Nathan were on their way, sensing that Toki wanted to be left alone.

Though the others visited often, Toki truly didn’t mind some solitude. It wasn’t like he was completely alone anyways. As long as Abigail’s heart was still beating, she was still with him, and he’d stay by her side as long as she needed him to.

And apparently she only needed him to wait just shy of 4 weeks.

He was stirred awake by a melodic, albeit weaker voice. He thought he was dreaming for a moment, but was awestruck to see that wasn’t the case. His voice going a mile-a-minute in a mix of every language he vaguely knew. And his emotions were going haywire, his arms both desperate to hold her and scared to death of accidentally hurting her.

He was infinitely grateful when the doctors rushed in so he wouldn’t have to leave her side.

After a short check-up and learning that Abigail really was going to be fine, he beamed and was blushing with pure, unadulterated joy. Abigail was awake. She was ok. It was going to be alright. He felt a heavy weight of worry and anxiety lifted off his chest.

They were both going to be alright.

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

I still plan to add their road to recovery and Dethklok’s POV of their relationship, but I got excited and wanted to share what I had so far so it still has some weird mistakes but aahjkgfure I really like writing Toki smitten with Abigail bc I’m smitten with her too :’)

Also, I left room for possible Skwistokgail because @calliopinot made that one of my all-time favorite OT3 pairings :^) It won’t happen in this fic probably, but the subtle implications !!

#metalocalypse #mtl #tokigail #toki wartooth #abigail remeltindtdrinc #nathan explosion #skwisgaar skwigelf #my fanfic #dethklok #fanfiction

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takiniteasynightcoreremix · 2 months

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tokigail angst yaay

Her therapist told her to stop doing this. This time, she's made it two months.

The hotel room coffee-maker gurgles, announcing the completion of its task. Abigail takes the cup from beneath it and carefully portions out the resulting coffee into two paper cups. She carries them to the bathroom, switches the tap onto hot, lets it run until it's steaming. She tops up both coffee-cups until they're full to the brim with lukewarm, watered-down, undrinkable hotel coffee.

Two months. It's progress, she tells herself. Last time she managed to cut him off for a month and two weeks. After this she might go for the big three. A whole fiscal quarter. Six months after that would be manageable enough, then maybe she can manage a year, and surely, after that, the urge will fade entirely.

She stops to look at herself in the mirror. As if she's preparing for a meeting, she takes some time to freshen up: she checks her skin for blemishes, she splashes her face with water, she smooths her loose hair straight over her shoulders, she re-adjusts her bathrobe.

Then, she does the exercise her therapist has taught her: she names five things she can see (a bathtub, shiny white tiles, a hair dryer, a smoke alarm, her own exhausted face); four things she can hear (the flush of a toilet in the room upstairs, traffic from beyond the window, the quiet murmur of the television, her own breathing); three things she can feel (the scratchy bathrobe, her bare feet on the cold tiles, the hard porcelain of the sink she grips onto). By the time she gets to the last items-- two things she can smell (bad hotel soap and his scent clinging onto her), one thing she can taste (the grease from his hair)-- she feels secure in the room. It's seven months after her rescue. She's in a eighteenth-floor hotel room in Chicago.

It's an exercise in futility; she knows that the moment she steps outside of this bathroom she'll be back there, deep underground, in chains and damp and coldness, in the company of vermin and a dying man. But Abigail is nothing if not diligent.

Next time, she'll go for three months. She is well aware that only an addict schedules their relapses in advance.

When she leaves the bathroom, two coffee cups in hand, she finds her co-conspirator right where he left him. Toki is little more than a mound of sheets and blankets in the centre of the bed, a grub weaving a cocoon of starched linen for itself, but she sees the faint glow of a phone in the air above the place his head must be.

"Hey," Abigail says gently, announcing her return so as not to spook him. She puts the two cups of coffee down on the bedside table and then rounds the bed. Toki doesn't look up at her; his phone is held an inch from his face, his fingers twitching sporadically as he scrolls.

Abigail slides into the bed behind him. She wraps an arm over his shoulder, lets her hand dangle around his front, props her chin against his back.

He’s scrolling through some social media account-- after a few seconds she recognises Dethklok. These photos seem to centre around Murderface. There’s Murderface jumping off a boat; Murderface drinking a cocktail at a wooden bar; Murderface with several bikini-clad ladies, all of whom seem to be trying to avoid direct contact with him. A smear of Murderface’s visage in front of Nathan shotgunning a beer; Murderface, laughing, and over his shoulder the unmistakeable form of Skwisgaar, passed out in the sand. Toki flicks his finger and the feed scrolls onto Dethklok, all sitting astride elephants in colourful regalia; Pickles, face flushed, an elephant’s trunk caressing his cheeks; Skwisgaar again, a brightly-patterned sarong tied low across his hips and a local woman on his arm offering him a coconut.

“They went to Bali,” Toki explains, and he doesn’t even sound angry, just sad. “I always wanteds to go to Bali.”

Abigail lets her hand fall, splaying across Toki’s chest. She finds the thread of a heartbeat there, flattens her palm against that rhythm, it had been her favourite place to rest her hand when they’d been captive, a steady reminder that they’re both alive.

Toki flicks his fingers again. Tokyo, the streets of Harajuku, Nathan begrudgingly in the arms of a giant Hello Kitty. Toki gasps and his finger trembles.

“I’m tryings to work out,” says Toki slowly, “What was happenin’s on this days. I thinks here was the day Magnus fucks up my eye.”

“Toki,” says Abigail softly, reaching for his phone.

He lets her take it. She opens DethTube, types something, pulls up a familiar video. An old news report. ‘Protests erupt worldwide as fans demand news of Dethklok member Toki Wartooth.’ Video after video of the adoring masses, furious, beating that steady rhythm of their own: Where’s Toki? Where’s Toki? Where’s Toki?

“Look,” she says, putting the phone back in front of his face.

Toki takes the phone and watches in silence. They watch this video every time they’re together. Millions and millions of people, chanting his name-- Where’s Toki?-- a million people who cared, so vastly outweighing the four who didn’t.

She has looked at the videos in her spare time, too. There were, of course, no masses of people to chant Where’s Abigail?, but there had been a press conference. She’s watched, again and again, as her mother appeared teary-face before a media outfit, begging for Abigail’s safe return. She’s watched appeals by old classmates, college friends; her boss had built a website for her. They’d collected donations and posted a reward for any information that might lead to her being found. How could they have known that it was futile? They had loved her, and they had cared, and it did nothing. On the best days it does nothing.

It does not make her feel better. It does not ease the terror or the anger.

The video finishes, and Toki lets the phone fall from his hand entirely. He turns and wraps both arms around Abigail, and the face that nuzzles into her neck is wet with tears.

Abigail doesn’t really know how Toki copes when he’s away from her. He’s still with Dethklok, so he must have ways to pull himself together in their presence; she guesses that these meetings are as much an outlet for him as they are for her. There’s frantic need in the way he grips onto her, more forceful than he ever clung to her down there.

Instinct kicks in, and Abigail pulls Toki into her, slipping one of her hands into his hair as she does so. She knows every part of him from memory by now, and she doesn’t need to concentrate for her hands to find a comfortable place to rest. She’s never played any instrument but piano, and she was never good at that, but she imagines this is how professional musicians must feel about their instruments; her hands find a home on instinct. There’s a sense of mastery that comes with it that feels addictively like control.

“Shh, shh,” she whispers. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m right here, Toki, there, there…”

She’s always found it strange that Toki doesn’t really cry. Down in the darkness, she saw him cry only once: Magnus had kicked away their bowl of nightly slop, and she’d caught a single tear slide down his filthy face. She’s reminded of a case study she’d heard about during an undergrad psychology class, about a dog locked in a cage and zapped with electricity until it gave up trying to save itself. Toki reminds her of that dog: at some point, long in his past, his body had worked out that crying was useless, and he’d promptly forgotten how to do it. When they have these moments together and his grief overwhelms him, the way he cries is unlike anything Abigail has come across before; he trembles or he goes very still, his face grows wet with tears, but mostly he just pushes himself into her, as if trying to crawl out of the mutilated prison his body has been made into. She’s not once heard him really sob.

Still, the distress radiating off of him is balm for her own. It’s cathartic and it’s disgusting that she finds it cathartic. She strokes his hair back, running his fingers through locks that are cleaner and thicker than she remembers them, gently rubbing at the place she recalls Magnus yanking a chunk of hair from his scalp (she still feels a bald patch there, a pucker of scar tissue from where his head was smashed into the stone floor). Just as she is consumed by the anger Toki won’t permit himself to feel, Toki feels for both of them the fathomless grief that Abigail is not brave enough to step into.

“Abigail?” he mumbles into her neck, “Can you tells to me…”

“About your happy place?”

“... About what we’ll do when we gets out of here.”

When we get out of here. Because they’d never escaped, because they’ve both learned that there’s no true escaping this. Sometimes Abigail thinks they’re living in a fever-induced delusion, that they’re both still down there. The trauma, after all, seems more real than their current lives. Maybe that’s what’s so truly addictive about these meetings: it’s the sole moment of honesty in a life that feels more and more like a bad charade.

“Alright.”

She gently rubs the scar on the back of Toki’s neck, then slides her hand down to his back. There are rows of old scars there, so old and long-mended that they’re barely discernible by touch, but she lets her fingers dance over them like piano keys.

“When we get out of here,” she says softly, her lips grazing Toki’s forehead, “I’ll have my lawyer get your money from Dethklok. I’ll help you set up an account. And then we’ll use that money to buy a house, wherever you want it.”

“Norways,” Toki mumbled.

“We’ll buy a house in Norway. A little cozy log cabin in the mountains, in a forest, by a beautiful lake. And we’ll have cats. We’ll have an orange cat, and a big fluffy white cat, and a little black cat who I’m going to name Sabrina. And she’ll have a very high-pitched miau.”

She pitches her voice up for the miau, and she hears Toki snort out a little laugh.

“We can also have chickens. And we’ll have a vegetable garden, and we’ll grow our own healthy snacks. We can have celery sticks, and onions, and pickled mushrooms that we’ll gather from the forest. What else?”

“Apples?”

“Alright, apples. We’ll have a whole orchard. An apple tree and a cherry tree and a lemon tree and a lime tree. We’ll make gin and tonics with all our fresh limes. And we’ll have an herb garden where we’ll grow mint, so we can have mojitos every evening. We’ll drink mojitos by the lake.”

“But the trees can’ts be too bigs… the cats will get stuck.”

“That little black cat I have is a real rascal. She’ll be the one getting stuck in the tree, I promise you that. You’ll have to get a ladder and climb up the tree to rescue her.”

“I will, I rescues her right away.”

“I’m going to buy myself a really nice camera, so you better believe I’ll be filming this. The heroic Toki Wartooth, rescuing a helpless little kitty from a big tall cherry tree.”

With Toki’s face pressed into her neck, Abigail feels rather than sees him smile. She’s always been envious of how easy it seems to be for Toki to find his happiness. In their captivity it had been terribly simple to console him. In the darker moments Abigail resented him for it-- those were the awful days where she’d leave him sprawled out alone on the cold floor so that she could curl up against the wall and nurse the hole in her chest and seethe with hatred-- and yet she’d always end up holding him eventually, addicted to whatever comfort she could steal from that emaciated body.

“I’ll rescues your kitty-cat, Abigail,” Toki promises, his breath warm against her shoulder.

Sometimes Abigail finds herself thinking about Magnus. Sometimes-- the worst times-- she thinks she gets it. Toki is very easy to deceive, wanting to see goodness in everything; he’s never realised why Abigail holds him, why she sings to him, why she has given so much of her precious life to the task of trying to soothe him. How could Toki, wanting for nothing, fathom how intoxicating it is, to have him under her control?

He is completely dependent on the mercy she shows him and there’s a sense of power on that. Down in the basement, it was the only thing that got her through, he was the only thing she could exert control over, and though she did so lovingly, soothingly, exert that control she did. She’d grown addicted to it.

She’s still addicted.

“We can still make it happen,” she whispers, stroking back his hair. “I can get your money from Dethklok. We can go tomorrow, if you want.”

She feels him tense, a little bit, his breath catches. It’s the same way he tenses when Magnus comes down to the basement, the tension of fear coiled deep in his muscles.

“You don’t need them, Toki. You’ll have me. You’ll always have me, I promise.”

His fingers tremble lightly against the small of her back, and by the way he goes still, she knows he’s lost him to the cavernous inner world he retreats to when he’s scared. After everything, the thought of leaving Dethklok is unbearable to him.

Sometimes Abigail can’t understand it, the dependency on something that has done so much harm to oneself; sometimes Abigail understands it all to well.

It’s probably for the best, she thinks, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. She’d been lying anyways. Tomorrow she’ll check out of this hotel and she’ll tell him they can never see each other again, that this wallowing in their trauma isn’t good for either of them, that they need to move on with their lives. And she’ll say despite the fact that it will break his heart again, and she’ll say it knowing full well that she’ll come crawling back in the scheduled three months, resorting to the one thing that’s made her feel better in the quagmire of post-traumatic stress that now defines her life. She understands what compelled Magnus to do this.

For now, however, there is only their nest in a skyscraper hotel room in Chicago, their mended bodies, the starchy sheets that shelter them from the world, the grounding smell of bad hotel coffee and their own sweat. It is not quite a damp basement, but it feels comfortingly familiar. It feels like a home.

#my fic #ive had writers block :D

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