Work Text:
It was a booming, bloody summer, it was.
Teufort had been a war zone—as it should’ve been, of course. The sun took to hiding behind the clouds more days than not. There were more storms—hot and ragged and unbearable storms—than the nice sunny days the men residing there so craved. How the thunder would boom, and the hallways would echo and groan. How the doors would slam and creak, and all anyone could do was pray for the end. Of course the prayers they spoke would be swallowed up by the dry air of a New Mexico desert—by the dust they kicked up in their petty bloodshed and the explosions that shattered what little peace they had. Of course peace was never an option.
Night was never safe. The sanctity of their base, their sleeping spaces, and the allure of the many secrets they held were put at risk. Once the sun had gone to bed, the sly foxes would come, hungry for the baubles they had been denied. They would pick locks, crawl through tight vents, weasel their way in like bed bugs looking to establish their colony. And yet, success never came. Sentries were always set up. Always firing. Always breaking. Always being rebuilt. It promised no good night’s sleep. Ever.
Dell Conagher had no intention to stop staying up, as it was—there wasn’t enough time in the day to sleep or eat, let alone complete his important work. To invent, build, fix, and destroy was like a personal salvation. And for a man with such little to hide, just the act of hashing out blueprints was enough to hide the festering, rotting secrets within his soul. He worked tirelessly, erasing the agony he felt with the promise of creation. It didn't matter if his hands began to bleed. It didn’t matter if his body broke down entirely. The second-born son didn’t matter. Radigan Conagher did. He may have been dead and in the ground—but it was his legacy that Dell carried on his shoulders. The inventor of the life-extending machine left behind empty shoes that Dell was certain he had to fill—even if right now, they were too big.
One, two, three days he'd stayed up without sleep, maybe, when Teufort was springing back to life once again from another raid. No need to close his eyes. No need to take his rest. The sentries needed to be improved. For whatever reason—be it madness, or a paranoia induced by exhaustion—he couldn’t seem to bring himself to even want that rest. His broken, tired hands cradled the broken pieces of his darling dear creation, smashed to smithereens in a fit of rage, and through the goggles affixed to his face, could see there was little point in trying to piece it all back together. The ragged edges would no longer all fit in one piece, one little union.
The cool metal—a stark contrast to the sweltering heat of the American southwest—felt strange on his skin. And even stranger, his skin, itself, adopted the feeling of foreignness. The metal pieces cut into his flesh some—his left hand was covered in angrily weeping cuts—and yet, it didn’t seem to register. He blankly watched the way his flesh bled, running his thumb over the smashed pieces of his invention—never caring about the sting of the sharp edges slicing through the top of his dermis. A moment passed. Or had it been an hour? Another day? He didn’t quite have the best sense of time, anymore. He heaved a heavy sigh, curling his hands around the shards he held so gingerly. So much for attempting to make his mark that night. So much for making any real progress.
He dropped the shards into the garbage can he kept nearby at all times, and he rose from his seat. No need to worry about them. No need to cry. A master at hiding it all, he washed his hands of the blood, bandaged it expertly, and hid once more behind his thick gloves—both of which he decided to wear, of course.
Suddenly, midway through his walk back over to his work station, as if Misha had wound up and punched him with as much strength as he could muster, he was doubled over, a frantic gasp escaping his chapped lips. An audible grumble—It almost sounded like a damn demon possessed him in the dead of night—made itself known. How long had it been since he actually fed himself?
He stood upright after a moment, snapped out of his daze, thankfully. At least the whispers hadn’t returned, and he had stayed safe another night from the visions, the reminders of his greatest shame. He started, if somewhat sluggishly, for the door—only to stop short of grabbing the cool doorknob.
Just outside that door, he could hear Jane Doe’s angry screams ricocheting off the walls in the hallway. The rambunctious laughing. The footsteps darting down the hall, the stomping.
" YOU CAN’T RUN FROM ME, MY GUN IS FASTER, MAGGOT —!" Shots fired. More laughter. “ YOU’RE A WAR DAISY AND I WILL PLANT YOUR SORRY ASS IN MY WAR GARDEN! ”
There was a series of rapid footsteps sounding through the hallways, and a shout of, "Gotta go fast!"
Typical morning, Dell supposed. Not much change from the other sweltering summer cease-fire days. He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation—only to put on his facade again. His lips were pulled into a gentle smile, all secrets hidden behind those goggles of his. Just the way it had to be. With that, he finally exited his bedroom, and took off toward the dining room.
Upon first arriving at his destination, the first thing he saw was Jeremy rounding the table in an attempt to escape the aim of the rocket launcher Jane carried with him. He was fast, jumping over obstacles—mostly chairs, with the exception of some mess left on the floor—in an effort to outrun the fate that haunted him. Jane followed suit, significantly slower—yet what did that matter when you had a goddamn rocket launcher ?
Dell's expression slipped some—it wasn’t a pleasant thing to be surrounded with so much noise after what felt like a decade’s worth of no sleep—in reaction to the chaos. He stifled the urge to yawn, to show off that poisonous weakness. Around the table, not that Dell paid much attention in his pursuit for whatever would keep him awake, sat the other mercs, actively participating in their daily routines. Mundy, a rare guest at the table, sitting in an almost eerily still pose. He was silent, face mostly obscured by his hat and glasses. Was he awake, or asleep? No longer breathing, or perfectly fine? Medic, happily eating what appeared to be a bread roll with raw meat on top—The German had told him ages ago it was called Mettbrötchen—sat beside Heavy, naturally, as he feasted upon something or other. And...Spy. Sitting quietly with a half-empty mug of coffee, balaclava on his face already. Figures.
"Mornin', y'all," Tired hands, as if in muscle memory, deftly set the coffee maker up to make more—he knew Mundy could drink multiple cups in the morning, on top of the daily cups the likes of Spy and Medic may have. No more was no biggie—just make more.
"Guten morgen, Dell!" Medic greeted with a twinge of elation in his voice. What a lucky bastard he was to be happy in the morning. "Did you sleep vell?"
I didn’t sleep at all, asshole, he wanted to say. Not one fuckin’ wink of sleep.
"I slept just fine, buddy," he answered, in place of the spiteful comment that came to mind. He managed to keep playing the part—composed, laid back, waiting for the coffee machine to do its job. "Any idea what's goin' on with Jeremy and Jane? I heard Jane hollerin' this mornin'. Somethin' happen?"
"Leetle man is causing trouble," Heavy answered, gruff voice bogged down in his stupor of grogginess. He paused—as if too tired to string together the right words. A word of his native language slipped out, a grunt of annoyance before he finally spoke again. "The scout made the soldier angry."
"Ja, I heard he stole somezing from ze soldier," Medic chimed in, still haunted by the unholy cheerfulness in his voice, "Vhatever he stole, he must be hiding. Nozing a little torture couldn't reveal."
Dell nodded absentmindedly, having only vaguely heard those words through the static in his head, the overwhelming influx of thoughts all at once—though frankly, if he even had heard it, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to digest the information. He intently watched as the coffeemaker toiled to do its job. He could feel it, though—teal eyes burning right into his back, branding him, scoping out where the target was. He tensed, feeling those eyes. He leaned against the counter, biting back a yawn, gritting his teeth so hard he was sure they’d break. No coffee. Not yet.
Had they noticed? No, no. They couldn’t have. They couldn’t have noticed he hadn’t been eating. That he’d not slept. That he’d toiled and toiled and turned his hands and brain to mush, trying to sort out plans for all these ideas. But if they didn’t, then why did Spy look at him like that? But if they did, why was it only Spy? But—
There was screaming, clattering, an explosion. Normal occurrences at the base. He kept his gaze trained on the pot, squaring his jaw as he found the temptation to smash the machine into bits almost too great to ignore. But finally, it produced the soul-saving black-as-night liquid. In that moment, that one brief moment, Dell could have sworn God was real—and that God knew his name, and knew his struggle, and made every attempt to save him. Even if he felt he couldn’t be saved.
He slid into a seat, a random seat he definitely did not think about—come to find, he would be seated beside the very, very impeccably dressed, attractive, mysterious spy, the imposter that lived amongst them. Strange man, always watching. Perhaps Dell should’ve been more cautious. Perhaps he should’ve been more threatened by those constantly leering eyes, the severe judgment only fit for some kind of king. The Texan sipped his coffee sparingly, saying little else, if only to afford the mental rest he had previously denied himself. The Frenchman eyed him, robin egg eyes vaguely exhibiting something akin to apathy. He watched, with his pale, somewhat dry lips locked around an unlit cigarette—Medic would never let him live it down if he started smoking in the dining room as they ate—as the shorter man stewed in his own misery. He stared out of his periphery. Rarely ever taking his attention off of him. Perhaps those eyes wafted over his body. Perhaps they knew something.
The Texan, to the best of his ability, ignored those damn eyes. He continued to consume his coffee, relishing the bitter taste as it jostled his senses almost as much as the contention between the soldier and the scout. It was much gentler, in fact—sweeter than those bitter fights and all those bad memories. No recoil from this—no wondering why he couldn’t do better. No wondering why the fists he feared never came when on this battlefield.
"You aren't going to eat?" Spy spoke up, gesturing to the empty space before the engineer. Dell paused mid-sip, if only for a moment, at the question. When he set his mug down, he found Medic watching him, as well, if just as subtly as Spy.
"In a sec. Jus' need ta wake up first," he answered, meeting that gaze fearlessly. A rabid Texan wasn’t someone you wanted to deal with. Especially a sleep deprived rabid Texan. Medic, for whatever reason, developed a vague look of disappointment, and turned back to his breakfast. They had to know, he told himself. Did they? Why can’t they just tell me?
And that was that. He was left to his devices, drinking his coffee—thinking. Maybe, just maybe, if he got more done, he'd at least get a letter from his family this time around. Fill those shoes, work until both your hands fall off. Just keep going. Maybe things would change if he did something amazing. Maybe those old, wizened notes would be useful.
The day moved on without meaning. Dell sat at the table—daydreaming, in the dim of the artificially lit kitchen. He watched the steam from his coffee mug rise up and billow, slowly losing heat. He listened with a blank face to the conversation to the sounds of his environment—Jeremy's screams as Jane blew him up with the rocket launcher, the quiet conversation in contrast. He listened, as the insane doctor carried on with a soft spoken conversation amongst himself and Misha—in a language Dell had no understanding of. Oddly, it was a soothing experience, to listen to those voices. As if a family twice removed and lost. But they were strangers, still, truthfully. All of them.
Time didn’t make sense anymore. Not when every night bled into every day, not when the enemy team attacked more than once, or when the sentries kept firing. He exhaled softly, finishing off his coffee—only to go back for more. Why couldn’t the coffee do what it was meant to do? How insulting. And his head, it was everywhere—how many days had it been? What shall be done today? Why—
“Haven’t you had enough coffee, Dell?” The taunting voice caught him off guard. No surprise that the Frenchman would be the one to say it. Even so, the poor engineer faltered.
“It’s my medicine,” he joked, setting the pot back down on the coffee maker. To his surprise, when he turned around again, he found that Medic had rushed from the table. When did he go? More than likely, it was an attempt to quell the agonal caterwauling escaping the scout’s mouth. Mundy had left, too—same with Misha.
Dell had made a mistake—a rare mistake—whilst sitting with them for breakfast. The mask slipped, if only for a moment. Spy remained for a moment, stoic, eyes sharp like razors. For a brief moment, there was a stare-off. Daring each other to say something. Struggling to hold up their facades.
“Somethin’ you need?” Dell inquired of the Frenchman, but he didn’t receive an answer. The Frenchman rose from his seat, and exited the room. Back to work, it seemed—Dell just needed to stay busy. At least he was alone. At least he had peace. At least he was alone. He pulled out a blueprint, tainted with old sketches, with crudely erased plans. He paced and drank his coffee and agonized through the jumbled mess of thoughts. He clenched his fists, took deep breaths, would begin to sketch at the promise of an idea, only to frantically erase whatever he’d made. Hours of this. Hours and hours, until he finally threw his pencil down, and held his face in his hands. The static was too loud. Everything was too distracting—the hum of the refrigerator, the building settling, his own thoughts. So loud that it was deafening, painful, head bursting—
Lookit you. He heard it in the darkness, ages into his work. Everything else fell silent. Yer no better than yer no good daddy.
"Radigan?" Dell looked wildly around for the owner of the voice—only to find he’d been alone. His hands trembled. "That you...?" His voice shook. He could feel the man behind him. Whispering in his ear. The breath on his skin.
Lookit you. Dell shuddered, fighting the urge to cry out in fear. His skin crawled, as if there were eels writhing about under the dermis. Lettin’ everybody hold ya back. Letting them lookit you the way they do. Why can't ya be a man, Dell? What on God's green earth happened to ya? Yer no Conagher.
"I-I am a Conagher. Ain't nothin' holdin' me back." Panic began to inflate in the Texan man's chest. "I-I've got eleven P.H.ds, I was hand picked to be here—!"
That ain't mean shit, boy. Y'ain't done shit, n y'ain't gonna be shit 'less ya do somethin' about it.
A sharp inhale. He reached for his throat, vaguely able to remember the way it felt to have a hand clasped around it, tightly, so tight that he nearly couldn’t breathe.
"What do I do...? H-how do I fix it?" Dell asked, voice low, heart pounding, body shaking terribly.
Don't be stupid, Dell. Y'know what ya gotta do. It worked once for you, it'll work again, won't it?
"I-I don't want to—!" The cry is desperate, quiet, somehow aware in the back of his mind that he couldn’t let anyone catch him. “I-I can’t…!”
Ya wanted to when ya lost that hand of yours. Ya gotta do it again.
Dell was stuck in place. No breathing. His chest tightened, eyes watered, unable to get up from the table. He couldn’t help blinking rapidly, in a vain attempt to hold the tears at bay.
Don't cry, ya pussy. Or yer daddy'll beat ya senseless again.
"I-I'm not." Dell wiped his nose, staring at his half finished, half destroyed blueprints. "I ain't cryin', Radigan."
You wanna fill some shoes, don't ya?
" I do."
Ya gotta be a man, Dell. The lips were so close to his ear. Dell, a strong, if soft man, bit back a small sob.
Be a man. That voice growled.
Be me. The hand. It clamped over his shoulder, hard enough that the nails digging into his flesh could draw blood, had he truly been alive.
Be Radigan Conagher.
Dell was silent for a moment. He mumbled to himself indistinctly, exhausted, delirius, desperate for the validation he so craved. Finally, he could move again. No more hand, no more whispers over his shoulder. The whispers were still there—but no longer so prominent that he could barely handle it. He still listened, though his heart begged him not to. He still found himself reliving every painful memory that sprung to mind in the wake of his obsession. He spent the day there. Contemplating, quietly drawing out his next plans, eyes unfocused, as if this were all muscle memory and he’d worked this way too many times to count.
Eventually, he would no longer be alone. He would be joined again by the famed French imposter, the man with no true identity. And he would pause in the doorway, less surprised and more disappointed, to see Dell still there. Still working.
"Back already?" Dell inquired, dragging the pencil lightly, lazily, over the blueprint.
Those overalls looked loose. Incredibly loose. Like he'd lost about ten or so pounds, and was working on losing more. Those gloved hands still moved, too—like if they stopped, he'd be consumed by the darkness of his own heart. Like he was constantly running from a truth he couldn't face.
"Let me guess, you still haven't eaten anything?"
"Don't need to. Not hungry."
"I'm sure not eating is making you a much more productive laborer. Congratulations."
"Don't got time to eat." His normally sweet, friendly voice was reduced to a plain, even tone. As though saying, "Don't even think of me." As though brushing him aside, and never paying any attention to him.
Spy was silent, almost taken aback, and in a split second, found himself approaching the engineer. His face was twisted into an almost lethally somber expression—mouth a thin line, eyes focused on the shorter man with brows harsh, down bent. He stood straight, practically looming over the shorter male, frustration gripping his heart as if for dear life. He would have spoken. He would have said something, had Dell not let up.
"I'm fine, Buddy. I need to work." Dell asserted, as though knowing what he was thinking without even looking at him.
"You know you'll pass out if you don't eat, don't you? Oh, but that should work swimmingly for you, shouldn't it?"
"I'll be fine." Dell sighed, setting down his pencil to reach for his coffee—only to grab his oil canister, lacking it's top, and take a long swig. Everything seemed to stop. Spy could only stare in shock as the man downed half the canister like it was nothing. He set it down again, and went back to work, designing this new invention with precision. No more awake than he had been. He didn’t even care about the oil dribbling down the corner of his mouth.
Five minutes passed of Spy watching him in dismay. Until finally, as Dell went back to take another sip, he noticed the particularly nasty taste. His face scrunched up in mild disgust.
"...Oh. That was oil." He slowly set the canister down, and instead grabbed the real coffee cup. He took a hearty sip, and washed out his mouth—but ultimately continued with work.
"...Ugh! You're impossible! "
Spy stormed out of the room, sickened by the mindless display of his teammate. He was there in no time, consumed with concern for the engineer and his well being—rightfully so, given the Texan had ingested motor oil and didn’t even think twice. Upon getting there, he entered, admittedly quite rudely.
"Medic—!” his voice died away as quickly as it came, upon seeing his son. Scout, poor scout, in agony. Legs nearly blown right off. Eyes filled with pained tears rushing furiously down his face. His heart stopped up. God, he hadn’t even stopped to think of Jeremy.
"You must be careful, Herr Scout," he scolded, though there was no malice, no anger—only concern. "If you received any damage vorse zan zis, you might've lost ze use of your legs." He tutted, and shook his head. He aimed the medigun at him, nevertheless, calibrated it, and proceeded to fire. Within moments, the boy was healed, and his legs were no longer hanging to him by a string, no longer a bloody, gory mess. No more compound fractures. No more pain. "Zere. Wunderbar ! You should be all set."
"Hey, thanks for helpin' me, Doc," Scout answered, voice still trembling from the ghost of the pain, from the shock that set in. He sat up, and gave his legs an experimental kick as soon as Medic stepped away, just to make sure they were still functional. "I dunno what I would've done if I lost my legs,"
"You don't have to vorry about zat, Herr Scout. Rest for a vhile und you vill be just fine." His voice was encouraging, even as the sinister smile crept onto his face again. His eyes immediately met Spy’s, and the grin just grew. Spy stared right back, already not liking the expression on his face. Was he up to something? Christ, did he plant a fertilized baboon uterus in someone again?
"Can I help you, Herr Spy? Are you here for ein körperliche ?"
"No, I'm actually here to speak with you about something." he approached the Mad Medic of Stuttgart, and once he was close enough, lowered his voice some.
"Ja? Vhat about?" Medic gave him a curious look, sinister grin fading just slightly. " Ist etwas falsch ?"
"It's about Dell."
"Vhat about him?" Medic raised a brow, gesturing they come away from the door to discuss the situation. As Scout redressed, he couldn't help but listen as the two spoke—
"I'm concerned about his health," Spy began, quietly, crossing his arms. "I've noticed he's...deteriorating, in a certain sense."
"To be frank, Herr Spy...I believe I speak for most of zhe team vhen I say you're not zhe only one to notice," the Doctor took immediate notice at the initial surprise. How curious. “I’ve noticed his clothing fits a bit loosely. But I’ve yet to get him in for an exam,” Spy couldn’t help the scowl that crawled onto his face.
"He’s been acting strangely and no one said anything?” he demanded. “...I saw him drink motor oil, Ludwig.”
"Vhat?"
"He must've been reaching for his coffee. He drank from an oil canister. It took five minutes for him to realize it was oil, but he just went right back to work."
"I...oh." The German almost gagged, imagining the taste of oil on his tongue.
"What do I do?"
"Vhat do you mean?"
"He drank motor oil and it didn't even faze him. What do I do?"
"Vell...I'd suggest keeping a closer eye on him. Make sure he doesn't do zat anymore. Und make sure he sleeps, too—I don't zink he's been resting."
"Shouldn’t you be more concerned?"
"Herr Spy, zis is Dell ve're talking about."
With that, Medic turned away—and Spy grumbled to himself in his native tongue, reaching for his cigarette case as he exited the room. God, he needed a smoke. Scout, with grating nerves and his chest tight with toxic anger, followed him out of the office.
"What the hell was that?" Scout snapped, as soon as the two of them were alone. Spy placed the cigarette between his lips, searching for his lighter in the jacket of his suit.
"What was what?" he inquired, greenish eyes focused on something else—anything else—than the face too familiar to bear. He pulled out his lighter, flicking open the top.
"What you were saying to Medic. The fuck was that, man?"
"The engineer is in need of serious help. Don't tell me you haven't noticed." He tried to flick the trigger of the lighter. It just stalled.
"What, suddenly you have a sense of responsibility? Since when have you been fuckin' responsible, dipshit?" Scout stepped closer, daring Spy to look at him as he spoke. He never did.
"He drank motor oil for christ's sake, Scout." The lighter finally clicked on, and the Frenchman lit his cigarette, standing straight, back toward the Bostonian man.
"What about when I was three and I was really sick, and you said you’d go to the store for medicine—?"
"That was different. I don't have anywhere to run here."
Scout fell silent, glaring daggers at the Frenchman. Spy took a long puff of his cigarette, his chest tightening.
"So you can be Dell's dad, but you couldn't be mine?" It’s a loud, thunderous voice that Spy should’ve expected—but yet, he was left utterly gobsmacked. There was a pause. His heart, gripped tightly by a burning regret, shuttered. For a moment, he had nothing to respond with verbally. Just a look. And when Scout saw it, his glare began to fade, as though baffled, before he scoffed.
"Go fuck yourself!"
With that, he stomped off. And Spy was left to wonder about how he'd fix all the mistakes he made. Only to realize, it was possibly too late.
He took Medic's advice. He ignored the fact that he’d abandoned his responsibilities. How he’d avoided every attempt of contact with the children. The secret phone calls to his old lover. His cowardice.
But he knew he couldn't leave the Texan like this. He had Dell's schedule—And he was certain that at about seven o'clock at night, he would return to his room and work. Sleep was uncertain—but Spy would find out, if it was the last thing he did.
It was easy enough to slip into the room and wait, half an hour before he was to return. His invisibility really did do wonders. And he waited. He waited for the Texan to return, so he could see that he was okay—that he slept. That the weight loss he exhibited was totally on purpose, by way of proper self-care. That the motor oil incident was just a one-off, a simple slip of the mind. That his anger didn’t poison his very blood.
And he watched as his dear friend worked with the hope that everything would be fine. That he would finish the project and go to bed. He held his breath as soon as Dell entered, hoping to hope that there would turn out to be no need to intervene. From what he could see, he was alright. Even if he wasn't smiling. Spy felt the hint of a smile tug at the corners of his lips, briefly touched by relief, only for his hopes to be dashed, and his smile to fall. The relief quickly faded into stress. Then panic. His heart stopped.
Dell. Gripping his favored hand saw in his trembling, gloveless hands. Taking several deep breaths, as though trying to calm down, the cursed words of his deceased elder ringing forever in his ear. Calm, calm. Be at peace. Be better , he said to himself. You have to be better. Be a man. Be Radigan.
The cold of the steel was unbearable. His hand trembled, hesitant, as he prepared the saw. He shifted constantly on the plastic tarp, unable to stay still. Unable to handle the new change that would come. The new leg sat close, for quick attachment. Thank the lord he had enough sense to install a program that helped heal the sight of the amputation.
Spy could do nothing but watch, frozen in horror as Dell prepared for his mutilation, emptying the bottle of alcohol in a span of a few minutes—Whiskey? Rum? He couldn't tell from his position in the corner—as he tried to man up and brace himself for the loss of his limb. The teal seas that were Spy’s eyes searched for any signal that this was a joke—that his friend was not about to saw off his fucking leg in his room. Dell just drank and drank, before abandoning the bottle, sniffling, unable to even entertain the idea of holding back the salty tears that threatened to spill over. The sharpy was still in his hand, having marked up the leg with red dashes. He tied the gag around his mouth to silence him for probably the thousandth time in his life. The first cut came slowly—like a cat scratch, almost. Blood beaded at the line. The second cut was deeper, as if barbed wire had been wrapped around his leg. Third cut—deeper, deeper still. It was like he was too drunk to go all the way and saw the limb all the way off. Or perhaps too cowardly. He sawed, nevertheless, in an attempt to rid himself of the useless limb.
Spy leaped forward, hands reaching out of nowhere to rip the saw from his friend's hand before the cut got too deep—the crimson waterfall from his leg was enough to urge him to vomit. Dell made a sound of surprise—muffled by his gag—as his fake arm was pulled up, the hands prying his little calloused fingers from the handle of the blade.
"Let go of me—!" Dell managed through the gag as Spy made himself visible again, gripping him tightly by the arms to get him to stop fighting. His face was twisted into a faux glare, staring directly into the Texan's eyes, never faltering, never ceasing.
"What has gotten into you?" Spy gruffly responded, "What on god's green earth are you doing cutting off your leg ?"
"You better fuckin' let go of me!" Dell snapped, anger overtaking all sense as he just fought harder, despite how the blood gushed from his pale flesh and his tears ran down his face. He spat out the gag. All words were slurred. "I'll fuckin' fuck you up if ya don't let go!"
The threats fell on deaf ears. Spy scoffed at him, forcing him against the wall, but Dell was strong. Dell tried to punch at him, to which Spy punched right back—knocking off his goggles, and forcing Spy to pause.
A scar. Around Dell's right eye. It was discolored, a slightly darker hue than his skin tone, running from near his ear to just over his brow, jagged, as though someone had attempted to stab out his eyes, or bashed his head enough times to leave him with cuts that would never heal. Spy grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him against the wall, using all his weight to hold him there.
"Stop fighting." he ordered, voice deep and gravelly. "Stop fighting and look at me, you coward."
" Fucking let go of me! "
"Violence isn't going to help you here, now calm down. "
Dell was taking rapid, panicked breaths, smelling heavily of alcohol, tourmaline eyes glimmering with wet tears like a gem freshly washed in the cleansing water of God. The anger was still on his face. But Spy was gentle, uncharacteristically so, as he took his face in his hands, still using his body's weight to keep him there.
"Just take a deep breath and calm down."
Memories flashed through his mind as he struggled to find his footing. He was frozen, staring into those sea-green eyes—only able to see the terrible things that the cruel hands of fate started his life with.
This isn't to say he led an awful life; he had a roof over his head, and food on the table. He had some nights to go out and watch the fireflies flit about in the dark, trying to find their own ways.
Had his father not beat him senseless and practically hand delivered him to death's door, he probably would've gotten along better with his family. Hell, maybe he would've been close with his father. But now, all he thought of each time the man popped into mind, was the night he’d beaten him senseless. Nearly sent him right to death’s door. And everyone just moved on, even as he was bleeding on the floor, close to unconsciousness. It was like nothing ever happened. Like he got what he deserved, and no one felt sorry for him. His dear old mama patched him up and sent him off—and God knows he would've died if she hadn't been around to help following the fight.
Worse still—all he could see was Radigan’s saw slicing through his leg. Witnessing the ultimate sacrifice in the name of progression.
Be Radigan.
"Dell?"
"...Radigan," he managed, his panic still there. "I gotta work. I gotta work."
"Dell, look at me." Spy leaned in, sea green eyes boring into the smoldering tourmaline abyss. "This has to stop. Right now."
"I-I..." Dell took a breath, suddenly snapped from the memory of all that blood, the screaming, the way it looked when he attached that god forsaken tin piece to his leg. "...Wh-wha...?"
Spy sighed. He still kept him pressed against the wall.
"Are you calm, now?"
"I-I...think so." Dell reached up to see about fixing his goggles, only to realize they'd been knocked off. His breath hitched, and suddenly, it was as if he were gutted alive by shame.
"I'm waiting for an explanation. What the hell was all of that, Dell?"
"I-I...thought that, if I got rid of...of whatever was holding me back, I could..." The words are bitter, burning in the back of his throat like the liquid courage he tried to drink.
"So you thought cutting off your leg would help your success rate? Are you insane ?"
"You don't understand." The Frenchman’s hands released the smaller Texan. He watched, an expectant look burning forever in his eyes—urging Dell to continue. "I-It made sense in my head. R-Radigan—” the words were caught in his throat. “My grandfather...I could’a sworn he was talking to me,”
Spy’s expression softened. He cautiously released the Texan. The room fell silent. Dell tore his gaze away from the Spy—no doubt consumed by shame—picked up his goggles, and took note of his still bleeding leg. Christ, it was all deranged, even from a drunken point of view.
"...Listen. Whatever you think your purpose in life is, don't try and fill up shoes that don't belong to you." The Spy eased the Texan into a seated position, knowing the blood-loss would likely leave him unable to stand, soon. "Man up. Be yourself. You don't have to be the best just because Radigan Conagher is your grandfather."
"I know that," Dell focused on the goggles in his hands, almost trembling, struggling to say anything coherent, given the amount of slurring in his voice. "...I just thought, if I could do something amazing, something original, I’d be able to make my family proud." he rubbed his tired, watery eyes, hissing softly in pain.
“Enough,” Spy couldn’t help snapping, a bit. “The only person any of this should matter to is you. Stop trying to chase ghosts,” he glanced about, in hopes of finding something to suppress the bleeding of the wound.
“I know I should. I-I...I need to do things for myself. But those notes—those fuckin notes—Radigan left them to me. A-and...I guess, I thought this would make my family respect me.”
Notes. Spy glanced at the scene of the carnage—and among the tools and the broken machinery pieces, sat a thick packet of notes, yellowed pages speckled with bits of blood. He furrowed his brows in thought.
"...I've got an idea, Dell."
One visit to Medic and a long lecture about proper dissection conduct later, the two men found themselves outside, embraced by a summer's night, watching the packet of notes burn on top of a pile of sticks and branches. Dell watched, blank-faced, cheeks still wet with tears.
"...I know this is hard, Dell." he began, watching the way those yellowed pages curled and warped from the heat. "You have our support. You can trust us."
"I'm sorry..." The Texan rubbed his burning eyes. God, why couldn't he stop crying?
Spy was silent, watching the pages as they burned up into ash, carried on the wind to new destinations. He glanced at his dear friend, who stood still, clutching his goggles in his hands, biting his lip hard to keep it from quivering.
"...Dominique."
"What?"
"...That's my name."
Dell’s voice died away in his throat. Spy did not afford the Texan a look. Did not say a word. But gently, carefully, he draped an arm around his shoulders. The Texan's cheeks were flush. But it was an easy excuse to say it was because of the fire.
"...Thank you, Dominique."
"It's not a problem, mon ciel étoilé, " he answered, voice smooth, gentle. He held the smaller man close—a kind gesture that the engineer had not expected. Dell couldn’t help the small smile that crept on his lips.
Finally.
Finally, he had a place to belong.