Work Text:
He Never Bluffs
Because he, being Twisted Fate, you simply did not believe him when he first told you, all too suddenly that this was his end. That he was going to die.
You had let out a harsh bark of laughter, an almost sarcastic smirk and went to help him to his feet; you had really honestly thought that he was playing it dramatic.
When your hands touched flesh however, a sharp sting of long suspicion crossed your mind. You pull back and your fingers, they stick, one finger to the next, strung over with crimson-red threads. Fear and panic and disbelief boils in the pits of your stomach like flocks of angry gulls, pecking, digging and eating you inside out. The edges of your vision fade to black, and you can't focus on anything, not the bullet wound, not him.
For a whole twenty-one minutes to one eternity you still don't believe him. The fact that he never bluffs hits the surface, scrapes along painfully true, leaving bleeding scars across your mind and heart, but you refuse to let it sink it-because you've never anticipated this moment, and never would have even if it hit you physically with one bullet and two wake up spades.
He's going to die; the thoughts finally register, but you still refuse it, like it was a mere suggestion.
He's not going to die, you've told yourself half a million times, because he's Twisted Fate.
There was one moment where you stared and he stares; he gasps, a drool of red rolls down that silver tongue, between those blood-stained teeth, and parting through those lips that had kissed you more times you could have ever counted.
His eyes flicker, those otherworldly blue eyes flicker once, twice, and he's silently begging of you to stay, and you do stay, because you're so paralyzed with grief, because you know he's going to die. He doesn't ask of you to stay, but it's a silent plea for mercy, his gaze sad and unseeing. No words of begging escapes those lips that have hurt and made you love him not because he can't, not because his lunges are crushed, but because he's still proud and even when he speaks of his demise, every flicker of his shaking fingertips, or the constant twitch of pain demonstrates his unwillingness to let go, to keep going, to gamble every- last- drop of his blood all in the sake of-
You- is telling you so.
No, you can't see him like this, broken and half gone, bleeding out but trying to crawl every inch back, because he wants to live the day to see you, until he wants to let go.
Deep down, however, you know that his life falls short by many decades and there's no coming back.
You slowly slip your blood-soaked hands beneath his quivering body and you steady yourself, pull him into your lap, waiting for the last minutes to pass by in silence.
He tenses, and somehow, he knows that you've already given up on him, and he's scratching you, his fingertips digging into your flesh, tugging and pulling, begging for you to stay like you were going to leave his last whispers here.
You've decided; you can't take anymore, that your mind is breaking.
You can't see him like this, you can't. Every breath hurts him, and every time he tries to clear his throat of that metallic taste but gives up shuddering- it shakes you, and it lashes out at you.
It's a blinding pain that won't leave you, knowing you're letting yourself see him like this.
You embrace him, and he smells like everything that is expensive mixed in with the scents of leather, spices and blood.
You close your eyes, but his eyes are still open, so one of your hands sneak to his eyes, and you cover them.
The gun in your hand silently clicks, and you raise it to his head, still whispering how you love him, and wished that this wasn't real. He seems reassured, and the ghost of a smile never leaves his features as you pull the trigger, ending his misery in one loud burst and a shower of maroon and crimson.
He goes silently, before the first rays of light, but his spirit never wavers.
You are, however, screaming and howling like a wounded animal, every pitch in voice not yours, horrific enough to startle the banshees and vanish the vengeful spirits. You're howling, and screaming and yelling; sobbing, shaking your fists at the darkened sky. Hot tears stream down your face and you don't swat them away, where you know they'll eventually dry.
Even in death, he had gotten the better gamble, you laugh to yourself bitterly.
He wouldn't be able to see you like this and you're fine with him like that.