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Sting stirred as he heard footsteps approaching his cell, lifting his head from where he had let it fall against his chest as he tried to snatch a few minutes of sleep. It hadn’t worked, and now his neck was stiff, protesting as he tilted his head towards the sound. That was all he had to go on at the moment, the binds around his eyes tight enough to prevent him from getting so much as a glimpse of the world around him. Not that there was much to be seen, as he’d caught a fleeting glimpse of it when they’d hauled him in here a day or two ago, or at least he thought it had only been that long, but between the darkness and the lack of sleep, he wasn’t sure. But the glimpse had been enough to show him plain stone walls and floors, and nothing that he could use to his advantage, even if he could get himself free of his restraints.
The footsteps came to a halt, and he frowned, realising belatedly that there had only been one person approaching, whereas before there had always been at least two of them. His captors wary of him, even with the magic-suppressant manacles around his wrists and ankles, and he grinned, baring his teeth and banishing his exhaustion and hunger as best he could as he heard the bolts and chains being drawn back. Eyes widening behind the blindfold as someone cursed, recognition building, and then there was a flare of magic, as familiar and recognisable as his own that seemed to seep through the air towards him.
Rogue.
He bit his tongue to stop himself from calling out, not wanting to reveal his mate’s presence if he had snuck in here, but it was a hard-won silence as he flung himself forward until the chains jerked him back. Rogue, I’m in here, he thought desperately, as there were a couple more minutes of cursing and fumbling, before the locks on the door finally gave way.
He couldn’t see, but he could feel the way the room seemed to darken around him as the heavy metal door crept open with a full creak that seemed deafening after the silence of his prison. There was a pause, and he wondered what he must like to make his partner pause like that. He could feel the blood that had dried on his chin, his split lip stinging fiercely as he opened his mouth, and there was a deep ache that permeated through his entire body. However, he was leaning forward, his whole body straining towards the source of the darkness. “R…”
“Sting!” Rogue cut him off, darting forward and Sting recoiled at the sudden movement, unable to stop himself as he curled himself against the wall. The footsteps faltered again, and there was a sharp intake of breath that had his heart aching because he had never pulled away from Rogue before, not even when the darkness had been threatening to overwhelm him. There was an apology on the tip of his tongue, but the words wouldn’t come, trapped in place by a fear that he hadn’t realised he was feeling until right then. However, maybe Rogue realised, because there was a pause and then he was moving towards him again, slower this time, but still coming to him. Then there were gentle hands on his ankles, soothing over bruises and cuts from his efforts to free himself, and then the darkness seemed to deepen before the magic flared again, shadows slicing through the restraints as though they were nothing.
The clank of metal hitting the floor was far too loud, and he flinched again, but he didn’t fight as his arms were pulled forwards before Rogue sliced through the chains there too. “Sting?” Rogue’s voice curled around him, a balm on his nerves after the last few days, and he made a small noise, half sob, half plea as he lurched forward, reaching desperately towards his mate. The other Dragon-slayer met him halfway, hands gentle and soothing, pulling him into a tight embrace with one arm, while his other stretched up to begin to work at the blindfold. “I’m here, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay.” Rogue was rambling, words a little too fast as they always were when he was worried, and Sting huffed a sigh before burrowing his nose in Rogue’s shoulder, chasing the soothing scent of his mate.
It wasn’t there.
Instead, of the soothing curl of vanilla and cinnamon, underlain by the crispness of a clear night and the trace of his own scent that was intimately tangled with it after all this time, there was… nothing. No, not nothing. As he stilled and pressed his nose deeper for a second, he thought that he could smell iron and copper, a dull metallic scent that he could almost taste on his tongue. It’s not Rogue. Something sharp and painful twisted in his chest, and beneath it a surging ember of anger, not because they had fooled him, but because they had tried to use his mate against him. However, they had made a mistake in their act, and his hands twitched, magic welling up beneath his fingertips as he took a deep shuddering breath, feeling the not-Rogue’s fingers work the last knot free, the blindfold falling free.
“Did you really think that would fool me?” He snarled, the words faltering a little as he found himself staring at Rogue. The illusion. The act. Whatever it was, it was perfect, and he ached to reach out and trace the familiar features, to curl his fingers against a pale cheek as worry and confusion filled the dark eyes at his words. Instead, his hands curled into fists. It’s a lie.
“Sting?” Gods, it even sounded like Rogue, and if it wasn’t for the wrongness of the scent flooding the air between them, he knew that he would have been fooled. That he wouldn’t have doubted for a second, especially when the not-Rogue’s voice turns pleading, an edge of desperation to his voice that Sting recognised from the times he’d been injured on a job. “Sting it’s me!” He can feel himself wavering, wanting to believe even though he knew it was a lie, and he shook his head, drawing himself up with a snarl, and fighting back a wince, as his body reminded him that he wasn’t going in to this well-rested or in any state to fight if he was honest.
“No, you’re not.” The words were raw and painful. I want you to be Rogue. I need you to be Rogue, but you’re not. There is a sourness to the scent now, deep and unpleasant. Something about it tugs at his thoughts, an awareness growing at the back of his mind and he lunged forward before it could take hold, knowing that if he didn’t then, he would fall for the lie. “Holy Ray.” The cell that had been so dark before was flooded with blinding light, as he channelled his anger, his hurt and everything he had into the one attack, doubting that he would get a chance for a second one if he didn’t.
It was bright enough to have him seeing stars, and when the light began to fade, he had to blink to clear his vision. A low, rasping breath speeding up his efforts, and his vision cleared just as something warm and solid, staggered into him. It was instinct to reach out and grab him, because despite everything it looked like Rogue, his fingers tightening as the other man slumped against him with a pained noise, and this close there was no missing the smell of singed clothes and blood…and Rogue… vanilla and cinnamon, and crisp night air tickling his nose, and he froze, beginning to tremble as shaking fingers found their way into the front of his clothes. “S-Sting…? Why?”
“Rogue…?” There was a lump in his throat, and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. No. The scent that had felt so wrong only seconds before was gone, replaced by the familiar, beloved scent of his mate tainted by the damage that he had just inflicted. Why? Why? His grip loosened, gentling, even as he pushed the other man away enough to see the damage, the sinking feeling becoming a leaden weight as he saw raw flesh as his mate listed to the side. “Rogue? But…no…nononono.” He was shaking his head now, as though that would change the sight in front of him. As though it would undo what he had just done. “Rogue…”
“Sting!” There were hands on him now, patting his cheeks, curling against his skin and even though he recognised the touch, Sting woke with a start and flinched back. Solid wood met his back, the collision grounding him because it was real and solid, and he blinked.
And then blinked again.
Rogue was sat up in the bed beside him, the sleepiness and the yawn that he couldn’t quite stifle telling him that he must’ve roused his mate and there was a flicker of guilt at the thought because Rogue had returned late the night before from another hard mission. However, it was overwhelmed by the relief that shot through him, and before he had even decided to move, he had lunged forward – not with magic this time – but with shaking hands, as he drew Rogue into a tight hug. “You’re o-okay.” His voice cracked and broke, hands trembling worse than ever as he began to run them down his mate’s body, searching for the damage that he could so vividly recall inflicting.
“Again?” Rogue asked, voice soft, with only the faintest quiver to indicate he wasn’t looking forward to the answer. He wasn’t quite so quick at hiding his sharp intake of breath when Sting nodded unsteadily, before burying his head in the crook of Rogue’s neck, just as he had back then. However, this time his nose was immediately filled with the soothing scent of his mate, and he took a deep breath and then another.
“I’m sorry…”
“Don’t.” There was a flicker of anger, but Sting knew that it wasn’t really aimed at him. Even though Rogue had told him countless times over the last few months that he didn’t need to apologise for the broken nights of sleep, the memories that wouldn’t fade, and which rose up at night, twisting themselves into nightmares that were worse than the reality had ever been. “This isn’t your fault.” There was iron in those words, daring him to argue, but Sting didn’t take the bait because deep down he knew that Rogue was right.
It didn’t make it any easier.
“I know.” He must’ve said that aloud he realised belatedly, feeling Rogue’s hands beginning to move in soothing patterns against his back. “I’m sorry that I didn’t find you sooner,” Rogue added softly, fingers lingering over the newest scar that ran across Sting’s back, a reminder that he was lucky to be here at all. Sting shook his head at that, terror bubbling up just at the mere thought of it, because if Rogue had found him sooner. If he had walked into that nightmarish cell, while Sting had still been fighting the illusions, struggling to free himself, then that nightmare might have come true… it had only because he had been exhausted and worn thin, that he hadn’t lashed out when Rogue had found him, even though he had been convinced that it was just another trick to break him.
“I’m glad you didn’t,” he whispered. Shaking his head when Rogue tried to protest, not caring that it had almost been too late, arms tightening around his mate. The nightmares were bad enough, leaving him exhausted and shaken, but at least that was all they were, the scent under his nose and the steady rhythm of Rogue’s heart reassuring him of that. With time they would fade, or at least he hoped they would, and the memories would lose their sting. Losing Rogue…killing Rogue… was something that he could never have come back from, something that he wouldn’t have wanted to come back from, and his breath hitched as he pressed closer to his mate. “Please…just hold me.” Prove to me that this is real, he thought but didn’t add.
He didn’t need to, because Rogue understood, just as he always had, curling around him and pulling him back down onto the bed, before tangling their legs together until it was hard to tell where he ended, and Rogue began. He felt more than heard, Rogue’s murmured ‘always’ against the curve of his ear, before lips pressed against his temple, chaste and tender, reinforcing the promise and helping to ground him all at once. And if he sobbed, a soft, barely audible hitching of his breath, then neither of them cared, as he closed his eyes, losing himself in Rogue’s presence, letting his mate’s scent carry him away.