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Lunafreya isn’t dressed like she’s expecting to leave the suite any time soon, and there’s something about the shorts and oversized t-shirt she’s wearing that make her look soft, touchable. Crowe maybe wants to bury her face in the expanse of skin exposed by the shirt’s swooping collar.
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The ringtone lets Bruce know before he’s even pulled the phone out that someone in his family is calling from a civilian line, which—given the current hour—should mean Alfred is calling. The caller ID displays Tim Drake instead.
Threads of concern and apprehension coil through him, but it’s possible—something prevented Tim from heading out with Dick tonight. If he were sick, or injured, Alfred would have let him know already, but it’s possible something came up with school or his friends. Dick would be just fine handling a solo night in the Batman suit.
There’s no proof that anything is wrong yet. Bruce takes a steady breath and accepts the call. “Hey, Tim,” he says as he unlocks his car. “I’m—”
“Sorry,” a mechanized voice cuts in, and Bruce goes still, fingers curled around the driver door handle. “Tim’s not available right now.”
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Or: Instead of taking over the drug trade, Red Hood kidnaps Bruce Wayne.
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Prompto doesn’t need the chancellor’s crooked finger to prompt his lines. “Until the day a peace treaty is signed, I intend to remain in Insomnia, if Your Majesty is willing to host me.”
There is a long, considering silence. “We will speak plainly,” the king says. “You would surrender yourself as hostage to Lucis against further Niflheim aggression?”
The chancellor smiles before turning back to the king, and there is little Prompto can do to calm his racing heart. “It will be an easy thing, should Your Majesty hold fast to your honor.”
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Or: When the Prince of Niflheim surrenders himself as a political hostage, Noctis’s curiosity turns into something unexpected.
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“Nudges aren’t going to work,” Gladio says, because if they were, then he wouldn’t have needed to rope Prompto into conspiring with two of his classmates to fake a double date and a family emergency.
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It’s going to take several days to make it up to the Vesperpool, and who knows how long after that to see if they can actually locate any of the mythril Cid needs to repair the boat. The first day’s drive is a lot of aching silence, which Prompto tries in fits and starts to patch over. Ignis tries to engage with him, a little, but when his eyes aren’t on the road, they’re on the rear-view mirror and the sullen Noctis in the back seat. Noctis tries even less, and Prompto wilts into silence in the front seat.
Or: After Gladio leaves, Noctis withdraws.
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Ignis wasn’t anywhere nearby when Noctis took two bullets to the chest.
He had the day off. He hadn’t even gotten an emergency alert until after Noctis was already out of his reach in the medical wing. He could have died before Ignis even knew he was in danger.
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OR: After Noctis is severely injured protecting Prompto, Ignis and Gladio talk.
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under starless skies (we are lost) by chasingfigments for Anubis_the_Jackal
Fandoms: Final Fantasy XV
31 Dec 2022
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Gladio gives the order to pack because the reporter on the pier knows who they are and the last organized resistance to Niflheim fell in the night. Ignis has them packed, out of the resort, and piling into the Regalia within fifteen minutes.
Noctis isn’t entirely sure how he got into the back seat. The stretch of time between the realization that the seer’s gift passed to him—because his father is dead, Dad is dead—and sliding into the back seat is smeared across his memory in distorted colors.
It isn’t until Galdin Quay is out of sight that Gladio asks, “What did you see?”
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It’s technically not breaking in if Ignis gave Prompto both the spare key and explicit permission to stop by, but it still feels like it might be a tiny bit illegal considering how sleek the apartment building looks from the outside and how not-dressed-up Prompto is right now. But there’s no point in dressing up when Prompto is here on a mission.
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Prompto passes over a thermos of coffee with a ridiculous flourish and an even worse attempt at a courtly accent. “This humble pleb is honored by thy pre-noon presence.”
The corner of Noct’s mouth twitches—it’s still too early for a proper smile from him—and he steps in close to bump his shoulder against Prompto’s. “You’d better be,” Noctis says, then yawns large enough that Prompto can hear his jaw crack. “So what’re we doing today?”
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“All right, up you go,” Aranea says, and Prompto isn’t quite sure when she got so close, but he tries to help her get himself upright. He staggers, more than walks, to the newly made bed, and Aranea gets him on it, boots and all. It’s not like either of them feel safe enough to strip down when out in the field, and anyway it’s not the first time Prompto’s slept with his shoes on, either.
Not that he thinks he’ll be able to roll out of bed and sprint anytime soon, but it’s the principle of the thing.
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Prompto gathers up the courage to take off his right glove and then very carefully settles his hand on Ignis’s head. Ignis tenses briefly, but when Prompto snatches his hand away, Ignis grips the hem of Prompto’s shirt. There’s a hitch to his breathing that doesn’t disappear until Prompto settles his hand back on Ignis’s hair.
(A moment on the way to Cartanica.)
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Find the True King before he passes through my gate, and bring him back into the sunlight. The trial ends only when the seeker chooses to abandon the hunt or to step through my gate.
“Penalties?”
A portion of what you wish to find, says Etro, and the words are a knife pressed against Ignis’s throat. Death cannot befall a seeker. Every intervention will cost memories of the King of Light.
Gladio’s voice comes dangerously close to a growl. “Until we no longer remember who we went down there for?”
Orpheus and Eurydice + Chess with Death. Ignis descends into Pitioss to retrieve Noctis’s soul after the Dawn.
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It’s raining by the time they reach Cape Caem—a proper late summer storm that has Clarus white-knuckled on the twisting coastal road. The distant, booming thunder and Clarus’s occasional cursing are not enough to make Cor stir in the back seat. Nor does he wake when Clarus hauls him out of the back seat and carries him in both arms through sheets of rain and into the forgotten lighthouse keeper’s empty home.
It’s awkward carrying him up the stairs and into the bedroom. Cor may have grown nearly ten centimeters in the last year, but he hasn’t yet filled out to match his new height. It gives him a scrawny look, though not as bad as when he first joined the Crownsguard.
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Whenever Noctis has seen someone who is close to death, the threads are thick and binding, wrapped heavily around the soon-to-be-deceased, the ends trailing behind like smoke. A few times, he saw the ends wrapped around another person’s hands like a leash and knew that this was the person who would be responsible.
He’s never seen the threads just—appear. But they’re here now, when they weren’t just a few moments ago, delicate like a fine silver necklace around Prompto’s throat.
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He was careful not to break anything, Prompto whispers.
Don’t start feeling grateful for it, Gladio murmurs back. He’s been fucking with all of us.
During a brief moment of respite in Zegnautus Keep, Prompto asks Ignis a question.
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It’s only a matter of time before this safe house, too, stops being safe, but after everything else that has been ripped from him over the last forty-eight hours, Noctis can’t drum up any worry or fear. Not for himself, at least.
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Sometimes Prompto’s a coward, not wanting to go back to the place where he—where they—lost Noctis.
No. They didn’t lose him. Noctis chose to go, and they—he—stayed behind to defend the way while Noctis ascended.
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The decision to come down to Galdin Quay was done in haste; they don’t have much of an itinerary. But Noctis needed out of Insomnia after everything that happened, and the king was willing to send him with the smallest of entourages: Gladio, Ignis, and Prompto. Prompto hasn’t even finished his Crownsguard training yet. A week at a quiet beach house near a resort town, keeping a low profile—with any luck, it will help lift Noct’s spirits.
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It hurts less, right now, if they both pretend that Noctis is just a regular twenty-year-old without any expectations or responsibilities beyond his own happiness.
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Prompto went online on his phone, just once, while Ignis was making their dinner, trying to see if there was any news.
It was a massive mistake, of course, because the one thing that everyone has up is footage of a disheveled Noctis leaving the mall with Gladio and a Crownsguard escort. His clothes were dark with blood, his eyes were trained on the ground, and his face was scarily blank. Not Ignis-scary-blank, which makes people scared for themselves, but Noctis-scary-blank where people are scared for him.
The headlines that aren’t focused on Noctis are focused on the total number of casualties, and Prompto just can’t wrap his head around it. Six dead, seventeen injured, and him. His name’s not out there in the media—no one’s is yet, but Prompto knows it’s just a matter of time, and that’s another thing he’s trying not to think about—but in between the shock and the outrage and the grief, people are already speculating about why only one of the dead people could be revived.
Series
- Part 4 of Emergency Protocols