Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The request was not an unreasonable one. A photograph of Lance Sterling, thumbtacks to pin it to a wall, and a pair of darts to disfigure the face of the man who had ruined his life...

The last two items—potential lock picking tools, would not be granted. That much Killian knew. But this was not an appeal for his own amusement. It was about sending a message.

Even here sitting in a vintage lounge chair, in a generously furnished jail cell, Killian wanted nothing more than to make his contempt for the government agency and its agents clear.

If they weren't going to take the spying profession seriously, with their harmless, juvenile 'rainbow gizmos.' Then neither would he.

Killian did not expect the request to get very far.

The most he could hope for was to catch a glimpse of a frowning prison guard, scrunching up the paper, through the small observation window in his cell door.

The form, much to Killian's surprise was sent straight to the prison staff without a hitch, where it awaited approval.

Being a request of such a gossip worthy nature, word got out amongst the prison staff that one of the prisoners wanted the famous Lance Sterling's head... on film. A joke on their part of course, but one that had caught the attention of certain young inventor, when a viral email chain was passed on to him.

"He wants what?!" Lance exclaimed, making Walter shrink back in his steps as he told him the news.

"A photo of you. Maybe he wants an autograph?" Walter innocently suggested, trying to defuse the situation. He hadn't meant to let that aggravating piece of gossip slip out. Not really.

But a part of him couldn't help but want to see his friend laugh and shrug it off. Like the smooth, nonchalant secret agent he was used to seeing.

"What, so he can rip it to shreds and stomp on it? No, thank you." Lance retorted, clearly not in laughing kind of mood. The mental image of the embittered Killian playing voodoo doll with his likeness, was not one he needed right now.

My bad, Walter thought. His face wincing, while his mind raced to find an alternative way of unruffling Lance's feathers.

The agency would never allow Killian's exact request to be granted, Walter considered, but perhaps they would settle for the next closest thing and everyone involved could see the humour in it. Well, nearly everyone.

"I have an idea!" Walter spoke up, excited to share an idea he knew Lance would appreciate.

"I'm listening."

A few days later, Killian received an envelope. His first piece of mail since his incarceration in a nearby, private H.T.U.V prison facility.

Pleased by the possibility that the agency had conceded to his request, Killian inspected the envelope with his clawed hand—now a un-armed plastic prosthetic, infuriatingly similar to a toy robot arm. Without the creaking sounds.

Ripping off the top of the envelope and splitting it down the middle impatiently, Killian stared at the picture of a medieval lance and a silver chain necklace, that had fallen out of it.

Sterling silver, he presumed.

"Well played, Sterling." Killian commended his adversary's pun game, with a smirk.

But a clever pun and a mischievously compliant request, was not the only thing in the envelope.

Inside was a yellow post-it note, which read: "Sorry it's not exact. It's the best I could get you." Signed, Walter Beckett.

So... Sterling was not the only one poking his nose into his affairs. The daycare inventor was involved as well.

Killian owed his life to the 'adolescent'. That much he could agree on. But what value did his life hold, when his one desire for retribution had been denied? The answer to that question, would be revealed to Killian in the coming days.

Walter had no knowledge of how Killian had responded to his small favour, but he knew that he could do better than to send him a mildly amusing gag.

Drawing upon his insight of neuroscience, Walter came up with a better way to show his goodwill. With a page from a colouring book, featuring an intricately designed dove. Complete with coloured pencils and another post-it note which read:

"Colouring books are an effective way of reducing stress and boosting moods. I hope this will improve yours."

Signed with his name, but with a smiley face this time.

It was pitiful, Killian thought, that this Walter believed colouring in a winged pest would make a difference in his life.

Still, Killian couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the kid. He would discourage any further aid, by corrupting the colouring page in the tamest way possible; with two red xs on the bird's eyes.

Unsettled by the cartoon modification, but otherwise undeterred. Walter mentioned the results of his experiment to Lance.

"He sent you a death threat? That's not doing him any favours." Lance shook his head.

"It wasn't a death threat! Wait, what do you mean by that?" Walter asked, feeling guilty that his good intentions had possibly gotten Killian in trouble.

"If he ever wants 'time off for good behaviour', then he better change his attitude, so his file looks good."

Walter nodded and walked quietly the rest of the way. He knew what needed to be done now. He would assist Killian, in helping himself.

Standing stiffly inside Killian's cell the next day, after requesting a meeting, Walter nervously approached the inmate, holding a piece of paper behind his back.

"If you expect me to play with crayons, then you're in for a disappointment." Killian declared, showing little tolerance for Walter's acts of kindness. 

"I don't actually. I wanted to show you something."

Walter then pulled out a blank colouring sheet, depicting a village dotted with trees, where a drone had been roughly drawn above the wooden houses and a bandage had been scribbled over a smiling villager's arm.

"Wouldn't things be better if drones were used on a large scale, to plant trees and deliver medicine, instead of causing so much destruction? The Earth would be greener and people would be healthier…"

Killian gave Walter his due attention, but what was he trying to get at, preaching about making the world a better place, to him of all people?

"Enough. What's your point?"

"That even a dangerous weapon can be used as a force for good. And that...you-could-get a-reduced-sentence-if-you-acted-nicer. Bye!"

The last of Walter's courage left him, as he dashed for the door. Leaving Killian to dwell on his convoluted, but well meaning words.

Chapter Text

Despite the help of multiple flying pigeon 'parachutes' slowing Walter's descent as he fell from the sky, the internal bleeding sustained during his tumble to the ground had required hospitalization.

He'd never felt like this before. Weak, yet alert from the shooting pains pecking his insides. A saline solution dripping from an IV chilling his arm, under the warmth of hospital blankets,

It would have been disheartening, laying there in a hospital bed, waiting for his body to recuperate, while he could barely keep his eyes open. But having Lance lying on a cot, by the side of his bed, made the experience a bit less lonesome.

Lance Sterling didn't know which doctor had decided that IVs would be inserted into the necks of birds needing fluid replenishment, but he was going to have some words with that fool.

Lounging on hospital bedding while his guts healed was no picnic, but having a needle secured by gauze, bandages and medical tape was proving to be a literal pain in the neck.

At least he had a tiny pillow to rest his head on, and a TV was playing in the background, but if he wanted the channel to be changed, then he was out of luck.

Not that he'd want the channel to be changed. Watching steamy, gooey cheese from a pizza commercial was just fine.

“Man, what I wouldn't give for a pizza, right about now.” Lance said wishfully, hoping that Walter would drool over a hypothetical pizza with him.

“Yeah...” Walter gave Lance, a feeble acknowledgement, to Lance’s dismay. It wasn’t like his boy to be listless. Even if he was recovering in a hospital bed. It had been a while since injuries on the job had taken him off the field. But he wasn’t going to let a boring R & R slide. For both their sakes.

“Hey Walter, what's your favourite pizza topping? Mine's beef, 'cause my guns need reloading, you know.” Lance alluded to his biceps, with the hopes that his self-centered joke would stir Walter out of the fatigue induced fog smothering his mind.

“Pickles.”

“Pickles? That don't count, it's a burger topping.” Lance said, taking issue with what qualified as a pizza topping. Leave it to Walter to have a favourite topping as unconventional as himself.

“It's tangy and crunchy and gives it a unique taste.” Walter defended the cloyingly sweet add-on. With so many common pizza extras, why wouldn’t you try something a little different?

“Maybe, but it's no chili pepper.”

As if injected with a shot of adrenaline, Walter’s face lit up at the chance to spout some avian trivia.

“Fun Fact: Birds are insensitive to capsaicin. The compound that makes chili peppers spicy. Peppers are irritating to mammals, but birds can eat them without feeling the burn!”

“So if I ate a ghost pepper while I was a bird, I'd be good?” Lance asked, for the sole purpose of knowing if he could get bragging rights. Being a bird had its downsides, like difficulty seeing glass and having such a clear view of his ass. But this? It had a cool factor and Lance was curious to know more.

"You would be, but your guts might not agree with you when you change back." Walter replied with a sensible answer about the reality of digested food in transit.

"So I'd get sweaty and my eyes would tear up?"

"Exactly."

"Kind of sounds like a first date." Lance said suggestively, leading the conversation in an effort to get Walter to open up.

"I wouldn't know." 

"You never went out on a date? Not even study date, where you're just friends and she gives you a little good-bye kiss?” Lance questioned Walter further. There was no way Walter had missed out on a first date. That would be too sad.

"I never did. My studies always kept me so busy. When you're the youngest guy on campus, people don’t want to go out with you.” Walter told him, as a matter of fact. It didn’t matter if he had a 28% chance of finding love in college, most people had seen right past him. The inventor kid, with a science scholarship. Too young and too bright to be in a serious relationship.

But college wasn’t about finding a partner, it was about the pursuit of science. A constant companion that Walter was thankful for.

“What, nerdy Walter Beckett wasn’t a catch? Get outta here!” Lance teased. The mental image of students flocking to an awkward teenage Walter, amusing him.

Now it was Walter’s turn to fire back.

"You weren’t a world class secret agent in the middle of high school either, so spill it!”

"Oh you know, I did martial arts after school, went to chess club, I was at the top of my class..." Lance’s deftly included a nugget of intriguing information in the middle of his list of activities that seemed to go on and on.

"What was that last part?" Walter perked up, after hearing what seemed to be a kindred hobby. Lance Sterling didn’t strike Walter as the type of guy to subscribe to science magazines or one to cultivate an intellectual hobby, but Lance had just proven him wrong. 

"My stellar grades?" Lance innocently suggested. Knowing exactly what he was doing.

"Not that part."

"Chess club?” Lance smiled. “I liked staying sharp and being two steps ahead of people."

"Figures.” Walter remarked, but not unkindly.

“Hey, I was plenty nice! And I bet you were too. Tell you what, when we get outta here, I’m gonna hook you up with a brand spankin’ new outfit, should you ever get a date. And we can credit your tux as a ‘business expense’” Lance generously offered a new set of threads for his gifted partner and shrewdly capitalized on their clothes of the trade.

“Clever.”

—

Holding Walter's backpack in her arms, which seemed to be cooing, Marcy entered the room, breathing out a sigh of relief.

“It wasn’t easy smuggling your partners in crime here, with all the racket they were making, but I brought you some company.”

Marcy set the backpack down on the bed and opened it. Releasing a flurry of pigeons. 

Thrilled to have his feathered friends in the room, Walter beamed and called out to his favourite lady bird.

“Lovey!” The brown and white dove glided over to Walter, the brave patient enduring his injuries without her and nestled on his chest, with a loving coo.

“Jeff. Glad you could make it.” Lance said through gritted teeth, as his number one fanboy lay down next to  him.

“Don’t break any of my ribs, while you’re here, got it?” Lance instructed his tenacious admirer. His ribs were in no such condition, but he allowed the snuggle just this once.

While Crazy Eyes fluttered about, trying to find a target to zap or cock his head against, Marcy ducked out of the way.

“I’m going to head out now. But I’ll be back later to collect these jokers before the hospital staff find out. Enjoy.” Marcy informed them and couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the agency’s top agents paired with two adoring pigeons and a strange, stick thin pigeon, trying to eat the hospital flowers from a vase.

Chapter Text

Killian knew that Walter Beckett would be back. Good-hearted types like him tended to be doggedly persistent in taking care of others. Including, him apparently. The jailbird, Walter hoped would sing, given enough compassion. An unlikely feat, given that he was stuck in a jail cell for God knows how long and that Walter’s visits were mild entertainment at best, in an environment lacking in intrigue.

Days after his last visit, Walter returned like Killian had expected, with a barely suppressed, idiotic grin that Killian eyed with suspicion. What naïve, idealistic pitch did the scientist have in store for him today?

“Ah, the inventor extraordinaire, what brings you here?” Killian asked, with enough interest to hide his disdain. Better to indulge the kid and get it over and done with. He mused. So he can lose interest and move on to playing games on his phone. Or whatever the younger generation did for fun nowadays.

Walter's dedication, however was far from faltering. He had already given Killian the inspiration to change his perspective. All that remained was to fit him with a new robotic arm, that would encourage a crafty, non-violent way of problem solving.

Designing the arm so it wouldn’t resemble a robotic claw machine, had been a breeze. Convincing a captive audience, literally, was a different story.

OK, Walter. Keep it cool, do it just like you practiced.Walter rallied himself and channelled his nerves into doing the best presentation he could.

“I couldn't help but notice that the agency hasn't issued you with a new prosthetic yet.” Walter brought up the topic of the makeshift claw that was more like a cheap, plastic pincer, attached to Killian’s bicep.

Killian briefly glanced at the sorry excuse for a hand, and returned his gaze to Walter with a hard look, as if to say, “Are you serious?”

But still, Killian had removed his claw, which was a good sign. And whatever came next was sure to impress Killian.

“I took the liberty of making some modifications to your new arm. I think you'll find that—”

“I only have one question. Does it contain sparkles, rainbows or any kind of holographic imagery involving baby animals?” Killian sighed and asked for a list of potential deal breakers. All the things that Walter specialized in.

“I mean, I did accessorize one of the gadgets with colours of the rainbow, but it's not the main point.” Walter stressed, his own voice rising from having to defend yet another invention. The days of vouching for his inventions to an unsympathetic audience at work was over, that much he was thankful for.

But an undertaking with a hardened criminal had a way of challenging him, much like before.

“Look, I appreciate the arm,” Killian inserted the new prosthetic and flexed its more human digits. “But I’ll have no use for whatever ‘upgrades’ you installed.”

Killian made his intentions clear and watched as Walter’s face fell. Poor kid, he thought. But the sooner he realizes that not everything had its place, the better.

“Maybe you will, one day.” Walter murmured and turned towards the door, eyes looking at its observation window—his way out, of another disappointment.

Lunchtime had come and Killian was in the prison canteen amongst his fellow inmates. Liable to switch arguing over who shot the most hoops in the courtyard, to how many heads they’d crunched.

An agreeable lot, Killian thought.

Lunch for the day consisted of a piece of white bread, baked beans, strips of bacon and plain steamed potatoes in a plastic tray. The cheapest, minimally nutritious food the prison could offer its inmates.

In an effort to blend in, Killian sat with a group of prisoners where an Australian cyborg would not stand out. Including a man, whose greasy hair and beady eyes made him look like a badger. And a bespectacled man with shaved hair, that made his forehead look too big.

A few tables across, a limp, sandy haired man was hacking and coughing. Trying to clear his airways of lodged food. While the other prisoners watched, as he stumbled.

Looks like someone didn't chew his chunky potatoes enough. Killian thought with amusement.
But amusement soon turned into concern, after Mr. Carefree chewer unfortunately spat the offending piece of stringy bacon, into the face of one of the toughest inmates.

“You think, you can just spit in my face like a llama?!” A burly convict with a sleeve tattoo and a goatee, yelled at the man in danger of requiring imminent medical attention.

“I was c-choking!” He explained himself to no avail, earning himself a punch to the face that set off a prison brawl. Prisoners were flung into walls and trays slammed in each other's sides, resembling an unchoreographed wrestling match.

Getting up from his seat, Killian left the table before the chaos descended into a food fight.

It occurred to Killian, that perhaps this was what Walter had been referring to. The day that he would come to use those gadgets of his. It would be potentially embarrassing to give them a test run. But since the canteen was in complete disarray, Killian figured he could get away with it, with his dignity intact.

“Choke on this.” Killian aimed his prosthetic hand at the hot-tempered troublemaker, with a wolfish grin and released a spray of glitter. The projected image of an adorable kitten on the sea of sparkling material, capturing the heart of every inmate. Animal lover or otherwise.

"What?" Killian blinked, surprised by the familiar gimmick. The scientist had gone and done it. He had dared to install one of the instruments of his capture, in his own arm.

The same arm that Killian could use to give everyone a taste of glittery law enforcement, he realized. Scanning the room for signs of the goateed man, Killian located his target and launched a projectile from his claw, like a missile.

A snake would be a better word for it, Killian concluded as he watched a neon-yellow robotic snake coil around the man's legs, making him fall to the ground. Walter's inventions had effectively ended the fight, with the equivalent of a spring snake in a prank can.

—

After witnessing the prison riot slow to a halt, Killian had requested an unprecedented audience with Walter. The last few visits, he recognized, had always been on his terms. Listen to the kid, mock him a little and watch him leave, only for him return more impassioned than before.

He didn't deserve his kindness and it was about time that he repayed the favour.

“You have knack for building inventions that contain the situation, don't you?”

Walter's eyes opened wide at the compliment. Killian had liked his gadgets. The same Killian that had sent him packing, when trying to convince him of their merits.

When Walter didn't say anything for a while, Killian recalled a similar effect in the canteen.

“Cat's got your tongue, I see. Just like everyone else when they saw the light show.” He chuckled, snapping Walter out of his disbelief induced silence.

“You're on to something here, you know, so keep tinkering with your tripping hazards.” Killian told Walter, gifting him with the satisfaction of winning over his previous skeptic.