Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It felt like being caught in a vice, vicious and nauseating, similar to shunting, and Valkyrie blacked out for a moment. Her eyes opened slowly, focusing with difficulty. She was curled up on a rough, wooden floor. Something cold circled her wrists. Valkyrie shuddered, feeling suddenly aged, and she scanned her surroundings. It was dark, but the shadows of beds gave the impression that this was a hostel of some sort. She was shackled. This wasn’t Roarhaven. Where on earth was she?

“She’s awake.”

There were people around Valkyrie, shadows within shadows. Her eyes immediately focused on the most familiar one in the room.

“Skulduggery?” Valkyrie asked, and her voice wavered. “Where am I?”

There was a long pause.

“You know this woman?”

Valkyrie’s eyes widened. “Dexter? Saracen? What are you doing here?”

The two were standing by Skulduggery, whose arms were crossed. Saracen looked fitter, though still world weary. Dexter looked, as always, impeccable, though he wore leather armour instead of his normal, civilian clothing. In fact, they were all wearing clothing similar to what they’d worn on that last Dead Men mission, five years ago.

“Who are you?” Skulduggery asked, then, when she couldn’t speak for staring, “Who is she, Saracen?”

“How would I know?” Saracen asked, toey. “I’m not a mind reader.”

“Hopeless?” Skulduggery said.

A figure stepped into the edge of Valkyrie’s line of sight, and she felt a sudden chill. Was it Hopeless? But Hopeless was …

“I’m not a mind reader either.”

Grey eyes met hers for a second, under a ragged dark fringe. Hopeless’s head tilted to the side. When Valkyrie had heard Skulduggery talk about his deceased comrade, she’d conjured an image of someone like Shudder, perhaps, stoic and stocky and reliably calm, perhaps a shapeshifter of some description, though nobody had told her and she hadn’t asked. This young person before her was slim and delicate, with a low voice and slender hands.

What was happening?

Valkyrie pushed herself to her feet. They didn’t stop her, just watched as she waddled away from them. Valkyrie pressed her back to a filthy wall. Behind the four men was the door. To her right and left were two windows. She scanned the room for something sharp, something heavy, but there was nothing. The men were armed but the room itself was bare, the only furniture being the beds.

“What’s going on, Skulduggery?”

He tilted his head to the side. “Your acting is passable. You genuinely seem confused. What’s your name?”

“Skulduggery, you know my name,” Valkyrie snapped. “… wait, is Abyssinia tricking me? Is that what’s happening?”

Dexter looked at her, suddenly tense.

“Abyssinia is dead,” he said, “And if she’s not, we’ll remedy that.”

Valkyrie looked down at her hands. A sigil glowed back at her from the shackles, keeping her powers at bay.

“You cuffed me,” she said numbly.

“We usually shackle spies,” Skulduggery informed her, “And worse besides.”

“Skulduggery, what is wrong with you?”

“Many things,” he said, “though none of them your concern.”

“But seriously, you can’t …”

“Your name please, before we resort to something drastic.”

Valkyrie swallowed, “… Valkyrie Cain.”

Skulduggery tilted his head in the direction of his companions.

“She’s telling the truth,” said Hopeless.

“Why would I lie?” Valkyrie asked. The room was blurring again. Had she hit her head?

There were three quick knocks on the door, and they all turned. Hopeless stepped forward and unlocked the door, and opened it slowly. A slender man peered in. He had auburn hair and bright green eyes. Valkyrie suspected she already knew his name. She fidgeted when his eyes settled on her.

“We checked,” he said, “There doesn’t seem to be anyone else of suspicion here.”

“Are you certain?” Skulduggery asked.

The boy scoffed, “Don’t you trust me?” He stepped in, and winced. “Why is it so dark? Romantic ambiance? Are Dexter and Saracen finally admitting their feelings for each other?”

“Romantic ambiance?” Hopeless asked, a note of humour in an otherwise quiet voice.

"You know there's no one for me but you," Dexter said to Larrikin, similarly amused.

Someone behind him, still in the doorway, clicked their fingers and lit the room with a warm light. They stepped inside.

Valkyrie shook her head, “You’re dead.”

He looked colder and stronger than she’d ever seen him, and younger too.

“Meet our delusional guest, Ghastly,” Dexter said, “Valkyrie Cain. Apparently.”

She blinked rapidly, eyes suddenly watery. She wanted to hug him. She wanted to scream.

“The others are still downstairs,” the boy said, “they’ll be up in a minute. What did you do to her?”

“Nothing, Larrikin,” Hopeless said, “We were just chatting.”

“You know what we should do,” Ghastly said.

“That’s not necessary,” Skulduggery said.

“Okay,” Valkyrie said, and she started swaying, just slightly, “either I’m having a super vivid nightmare or I’ve … shunted, or time travelled. How did I get here?”

“You teleported,” Ghastly told her. “Right into our meeting.”

“Time travelled?” Larrikin said, and his voice turned serious, suddenly.

Valkyrie bit her tongue, hard. “What is the year?”

“Tell Mevolent that his spies are becoming more and more incompetent,” Dexter said. “If you ever get to see him again.”

“What is the year?” Her voice rose.

“The year of our lord, eighteen-fifty,” Hopeless said.

“Skulduggery,” Valkyrie said, “this isn’t funny. If this is a joke, I swear I’ll rip your jawbone off and …”

“No need for threats so early in the interrogation procedure,” Larrikin said. He was leaning on Dexter's shoulder, catlike and relaxed.

Saracen looked at him, “This isn’t an interrogation.”

Larrikin frowned. “Are you sure? It looks like an interrogation. She’s asking questions and we’re answering.”

“Interrogation usually involves a little bit more torture,” Dexter says, “not always, but usually. This is just a chat.”

Valkyrie’s throat suddenly dried. Hopeless looked at her, features somehow different, now, if unreadable.

“Stop talking,” Hopeless said. “She isn’t lying.”

They all quietened, in the fashion of a group used to listening in situations such as these. Hopeless stepped forward, casting weird shadows in the flickering fire light, and stood in front of Valkyrie, holding out a hand.

“May I?”

Valkyrie frowned, and then Hopeless placed a hand on her wrist, touch gentle. It only took a couple of seconds until Hopeless staggered, and then Ghastly was behind the mage and helping Hopeless step away.

“By the Faceless,” Hopeless said, eyes wide. “Fucking hell.”

Valkyrie frowned. “Are you a sensitive?”

“Ha,” Saracen said, under his breath. Dexter elbowed him.

“Right,” Valkyrie said, “I’m leaving now.”

“No you are not,” Hopeless said sharply. “Not until you tell us everything you know.”

Suddenly, the door flung open. The Dead Men all turned, then relaxed. Anton Shudder stepped in, glancing at Valkyrie then walking to Ghastly and Hopeless. Behind him was a final man, who walked in with a familiar swagger, and Valkyrie should have expected this, she really should have …

“You bastard,” she said, “you complete and utter bastard.”

Erskine Ravel tilted his head to the side and smiled, golden, treacherous eyes glittering. He straightened his coat collar, and crossed his arms. Valkyrie wanted to rip that smile off his face.

“Hello,” he said, “Do I know you?”

It didn’t take them long to realise that Valkyrie could not function with him in the room. In fact, Ghastly had to hold her down so she didn’t attack him, despite the handcuffs. Larrikin found it so funny that he couldn’t stand, and Dexter ended up supporting him with a fond expression on his face. Valkyrie only stopped when she elbowed Ghastly in the face. He didn’t seem affected at all, but it felt unbearably rude. He was dead, she shouldn’t elbow him in the face.

Erskine stared from the doorway, frowning, until Hopeless sighed and shoved him out the door. Skulduggery crouched down to look at Valkyrie, and Ghastly awkwardly released her. She glared at them.

“What was that about?” Dexter asked finally.

Valkyrie really considered telling them, but she was starting to have the inkling of a plan. If this was real, she needed to be careful not to create some sort of paradox, even if she wanted very much to punch Ravel in the face. She shook her head.

“Hopeless, Saracen, do you know?” Dexter asked.

Saracen huffed, but Hopeless grimaced. “I’ll tell you later.”

“If you’re a time traveller,” Hopeless asked, “when did you come from?”

Hopeless had moved nearer to Larrikin, who had not really sobered, and was still looking excessively happy with himself for no particular reason.

“I … two thousand and seventeen,” Valkyrie said, and then she looked at Skulduggery, “help me up.”

The skeleton took a moment to move, and then he extended a hand and supported her arms so she could stand. There was an overwhelming lack of familiarity in his behaviour.

“Alright,” Dexter said, “So that’s how you know Skulduggery.”

Valkyrie frowned, “I didn’t expect you to take that so well.”

“Well,” Larrikin said from the floor, where Dexter had dropped him sometime during his laughing fit. “You’re not the first.”

Valkyrie blinked. “I’m not?”

Anton snorted, and everyone stared at him. Larrikin especially seemed happy with the reaction.

“Of course you are,” Ghastly informed her, “don’t be ridiculous.”

“Right.”

Valkyrie wondered how she was holding on to her sanity. Half the people here should be dead, properly dead, not Skulduggery-Dead. She was in a room full of ghosts. Was this some sort of sensitive trick? Was Abyssinia playing mind games?

“So, your discipline is time travel then?” Ghastly asked.

“No,” she said, “I shoot lightening from my fingers.”

“Well,” Skulduggery said, “that sounds vaguely useful. So someone sent you here. Who?”

“I don’t know … I can’t remember.”

“That sounds convenient,” Saracen said lightly.

Larrikin shrugged, “you know what we need to do.”

“Cassandra said she won’t help you with anything war related,” Shudder said.

“Send Ghastly,” Skulduggery said, “she likes Ghastly. Anyway, this isn’t technically war related. We don’t know what it’s related to.”

“She only likes me because she was friends with my mother,” Ghastly said reluctantly, and Valkyrie thought oh, and then stored that thought away.

“Cassandra Pharos?” She asked.

“You know her?” Dexter asked.

Valkyrie nodded slowly. “If I agree to let her look into my head, will you release me?”

They all shared a glance.

“No, but we will allow you to walk,” Saracen said cheerfully. “As long as you don’t try to murder Erskine again.”

Valkyrie swallowed. Something ill turned in her stomach. Someone said it was 1850 – Hopeless – so had Skulduggery become Vile yet? Had Erskine been captured? When was Hopeless going to die, and Larrikin?

And if this all was real, how could she possibly get herself back to her own time?

Valkyrie let Saracen steer her out of the room while the rest of the Dead Men collected possessions from under the beds. He was careful not to push her off balance as they descended a large oak staircase. They were in a tavern, or an alehouse. Mortals wearing brown or dirtied white shirts laughed and drank together. Someone played the fiddle. Valkyrie winced at the smell of tobacco and dirt and rot that clung to the establishment, but Saracen didn’t pause, simply leading Valkyrie out the entrance and onto a flat dirt road. There was a forested hill to the right, a small town to her left. A woman walked past and called something to Saracen, and he answered with a smile in the same tongue. Valkyrie had never been good at languages, but she thought it sounded like German.

“Where are we?”

Saracen’s face sobered. “Who are you?”

“I asked the question first.”

“We’re in a small town in Prussia,” Saracen said.

The place name triggered something far back in Valkyrie’s memory, but Saracen was looking at her expectantly.

“I’m … I worked as a Detective, alongside Skulduggery,” Valkyrie said quietly. “We were – are – close friends.”

“Right.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Why would I?” Saracen said. “All I know is that you’re scared of something that was bad enough to surprise Hopeless.”

“What do you mean?”

Saracen frowned. “See, if you were Skulduggery’s partner you’d know exactly what I was talking about.”

“Saracen, maybe you don’t know everything, have you considered that?”

Saracen snorted. “I’m not using my powers. It’s just common sense. If you work with Skulduggery you’d know Hopeless’ discipline.”

“Skulduggery never really talked about him.”

Saracen frowned. “Them.”

“What?”

“Hopeless isn’t a man, so we don’t use male pronouns for them. They use third person plural pronouns.”

“Oh,” Valkyrie frowned. That didn’t match up, but then again, Skulduggery never talked about his past in any significant way. “So they’re nonbinary?”

“What’s that?” Hopeless asked from behind them, frowning.

Valkyrie spun around. The rest of the Dead Men were all ready, and most of them watching the conversation silently. Erskine and Ghastly stood shoulder to shoulder; it made Valkyrie feel ill.

“It’s, um,” Valkyrie stumbled. “It’s what some people call themselves if they aren’t a man or a woman.”

Hopeless’ entire face froze.

“Is this a new thing? From 2017?” Dexter asked, sceptical but clearly interested too.

“Kind of, not really? I don’t know the history of it. It’s not new – but the word is,” Valkyrie tried to explain. She had very little contact with mortal or magical queer communities. Never was one of the few gender diverse people she knew well, and he hated her. It felt wrong, to explain this to someone, when she herself was not an expert. But there was nobody else here to say it, and she’d already dug the hole. “I’m sorry, I don’t know much about it.”

“Let’s go, the sun will set soon and we need to get through the forest before nightfall,” Hopeless said, striding past.

“Hopeless,” Erskine said quietly, walking to catch up.

Valkyrie stared. “Did I do something to upset them?”

“I don’t know,” Saracen said, and they started walking too.

“When did the war end?” Saracen asked, when they had all walked for a long time and Valkyrie had bitten back so many complaints about sore feet and shackles.

“What do you mean?” Valkyrie said quietly.

“It’s 2017 in your time,” Saracen said, and for a moment his eyes were desperate. “Surely this is all over by then?”

“Yeah,” Valkyrie nodded. The idea of lying did not occur to her, in the face of Saracen’s emotional question. “The Truce was signed on the 27^th of July, 1922.”

Saracen looked at her for a long time. He hadn’t wanted to know, Valkyrie realised, or perhaps he just could not bear the idea of another seventy years of fighting. Valkyrie should have lied.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“Dexter, do you want to look after our guest?” He called.

“Alrighty then,” Dexter said, and he and Larrikin walked over as Saracen hurried away. Valkyrie said nothing to them.

It was difficult to walk a forested track with hands bound. Valkyrie kept almost tripping, and most of the time Dexter caught her, but sometimes he didn’t. Larrikin cackled every time she tripped, skipping out of the way. She really didn’t like Larrikin, Valkyrie decided, though she had imagined that she would when Skulduggery had told stories about him.

“Can’t you let me out of these?” She asked finally. “There are eight of you and one of me. I have to be slowing you down.”

“Not a good idea,” Anton said quietly.

“Where are we even going?” Valkyrie asked.

“We told you,” Larrikin said. “We’re seeing Cassandra.”

“In a forest?”

“Yup,” Larrikin said.

“She doesn’t live in Ireland?”

“Not currently. Obviously.” Skulduggery said, slowing his pace.

Valkyrie looked at him. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t even been a hundred metres away.”

“And yet, you haven’t looked at me once.”

“Why would I?” Skulduggery said. “Either you’re a particularly incompetent spy, or you know me from the future. Either way, why would I have any wish to speak to you?”

“You don’t want to know about your future?”

“Not particularly. My present is difficult enough to handle.”

“Skulduggery, we’re – or will be – best friends.”

“How old are you? Twenty-four?” Skulduggery asked. Valkyrie nodded. “Why would I be best friends with a twenty-four-year old?”

His skull scanned the people around him, and Valkyrie heard the unspoken part. These are my best friends, why would I need anyone else? She’d feel insulted, but instead she felt desperately sad. These men seemed to work in tandem, to know each other absolutely. How had they broken apart like they had? That’s right, Erskine.

The treacherous mage was walking ahead, arm over Hopeless’ shoulders. Valkyrie darted her eyes back to Skulduggery.

“I’m not your oldest friend, back in my time,” she admitted. “But we’re close, you and I.”

“I suppose I’ll find out if you’re lying in a century and a half,” Skulduggery said with a shrug.

Larrikin snorted. Dexter inhaled, casually catching Valkyrie’s elbow as she tripped over a tree root.

“Here we are.”

They were at the edge of a clearing. Everything about this place felt quaint, like a faerytale. There was a cottage puffing gentle grey smoke from its chimney, a dirt path created seemingly by the tread of numerous feet.

“Yoo hoo!” Larrikin yelled suddenly. Valkyrie jumped and glared. “Cassie! Cassandra!”

“Larrikin!” Responded a voice, just as loudly.

A figure emerged from behind the house, walking toward them. Cassandra’s hair was blond, no grey to be seen. She wore brown overalls, a old red felt hat. Her eyes were the same as ever. She eyed Valkyrie carefully.

“Good,” she said. “Hello Val. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Thank Christ someone has,” Valkyrie responded, over her surprise.

“Come on in,” Cassandra said to all of them, and the Dead Men followed her into her little, German house. Her house had the same feel as her Irish one, and Valkyrie felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. Hopefully, Cassandra would know what the hell was going on.

Chapter Text

"She's got magical protection," Cassandra said, after she had made Valkyrie sit at the kitchen table and put on a pot of tea.

"I shouldn't," Valkyrie frowned, because, well, it was true. Her main defenses had disappeared with Darquesse (she felt that familiar gut-drop of shame) and there hadn't been a need to reinstate any. 

"You said you'd let her look into your head as proof you weren't a spy," Dexter said, too calmly. The Dead Men were all standing or sitting around, so that the room was somewhat claustrophobic.

Cassandra looked at Hopeless. "Is your magic working with her?"

"Yes," Hopeless said. "But you know I never get the full picture."

"What is your magic?" Valkyrie asked, exasperated.

"None of your concern. But yes, Cassandra, I'm sure she's sincere. I haven't found any proof she's hiding anything relevant."

"What do you count as relevant?" Ghastly said. Valkyrie smiled at him automatically, then frowned. Was he on her side? She didn't really think so.

"I use the same definition as you."

"I said Cassandra could look into my head because I wanted her to. I don't know what's stopping her but it's not me." Valkyrie said, louder. 

"Who, then?" Cassandra asked, voice as soothing as always, as in the future when she had grey hair and moved slower and had fallen into old age with ease and grace. Should Valkyrie be thinking of the future in the past tense? It didn't quite make sense. Or maybe it did, because why should she prioritise others' view of things?

"I don't know? Whoever sent me back here? I can't remember," she confessed. "There's a gap in my memory. I don't think it's big."

"Has anyone built defenses in your mind before?"

"Yes," Valkyrie paused. "You. Some others. But they were taken down."

Cassandra's forehead wrinkled. "You know me?"

"Not - yes." Please don't ask what you're doing, I don't want to tell you you're dead.

"I shan't ask what it's like for me in the future, it'll ruin getting there," Cassandra said. "So please don't tell me."

"Okay," Valkyrie said. "I mean, yes. Alright."

"What are we to do now?" Ghastly asked.

"What were you doing before she arrived?"

"We had a mission," Saracen said shortly, and Valkyrie bit her tongue. Prussia. That was where she'd heard of it. Hopeless' last mission.

"I would advise delaying if you can," Cassandra said. "I doubt you want her running off, and I shan't have her stay alone. But no cuffs in my house, please."

Astonishingly, Anton walked over to Valkyrie and freed her, without a word of complaint from the others. 

"I presume I'm still not to leave," she said, massaging her wrists. 

"Smart girl," Larrikin said. 

"Try not to stab Erskine either," Dexter said. "He doesn't like stabbings. Reminds him of his misspent youth."

Valkyrie glared.

"I'll have you know I was a perfectly diplomatic youth," Erskine said, smooth evil voice indignant.

"If you mean you were a full-fledged spy at the age of twenty-seven, then I guess that's diplomatic."

"Shut up Ghastly."

"Are you offering for us to stay?" Hopeless said, tentative and soft, and the look that passed between Cassandra and Hopeless was carelessly intimate, rather awkward, and made Valkyrie think of Militsa.

"Yes," Cassandra said. "Just don't tell Mevolent, it'd be much appreciated."

Larrikin laughed. 

When the Dead Men were assured that Valkyrie wasn't trying to escape, they let her hide in one of the bedrooms away from everyone. Which was good, because she was on the verge of hyperventilating and another look at Erskine or Ghastly or Anton might have sent her spiraling. She sat on the bed, staring at her hands. Inhaled for four, exhaled for eight. Her head was splitting. She wondered what Skulduggery would say to help her now, but she could only imagine him criticising his past self for his fashion sense.

Why was Skulduggery so vain, even when imaginary?

"Goddamn it," Valkyrie said aloud.

Logically, Valkyrie needed the Dead Men to trust her. They'd be too dangerous as enemies, and she didn't want to know what happened to spies in wartime. Hopefully whatever sent her here would tug her back home in much the same way, like shunting, or at least her Skulduggery would get her back some way or another. She knew he'd do anything for her, in the way that she'd do anything for him, and now wasn't the time to wonder if it was unhealthy, this all consuming destructive friendship ... 

What was Valkyrie thinking about? Getting the Dead Men to trust her, that was it. Which meant - she would have to tolerate Erskine, and perhaps explain away her aggression towards him? What had she called him again, in the tussle? That was it, 'you traitorous evil murdering scumbag'. Shit. That wasn't something easy to explain away.

Either way, it was probably wise to leave the room. Judge what the situation was. Make sure they weren't all planning on slitting her throat to simplify things. Valkyrie stood, let the room spin until it stopped, and walked out into the hallway. Hearing voices, she paused outside the door leading to the kitchen. She could hear the clink of crockery, something bubbling on the stove. The voices were low, but audible. 

"You've been acting weird," Dexter said.

"I always act weird. What do you mean, darling?"

"You were being unnecessarily mean to the girl - Valkyrie."

Valkyrie frowned. So Larrikin wasn't normally like that.

"Oh that?" Larrikin laughed, then lowered his voice back down. "So? She's clearly a spy."

"Why do you say that?" Dexter asked, voice concerned. "Hopeless is certain she's not, and Cassandra seems to believe her too."

"Hopeless has said it themself, they aren't infallible. It'd be quite possible for them to have twisted things around, missed something important, if the girl isn't worried about that being found in her head," Larrikin paused. "Her knowledge of Skulduggery and everything is good, but patchy. I can't think of anything she has said that wouldn't be known by Mevolent's spies. And, well. You saw how she talking about 'nonbinary' people when leaving the tavern - it's a classic trick, use someone's weakness, their vulnerability, against them. I'm not judging Hopeless, I just don't think we have enough information." 

"But why don't you think she was telling the truth, about people like Hopeless?"

"I don't see people changing so much, not even in a century and a half," Larrikin said, resigned. "Small groups would be accepting, of course, but not enough for it to be so well-known and easily discussed."

Valkyrie frowned. She heard a rustling sound, and Dexter's voice lowered.

"Why not?" He sounded sad. 

"The only reason I wasn't turned out of home at sixteen after being caught kissing a boy was that my mother was secretly a sorcerer, who believed people should live freely as long as they weren't harming anyone else." Larrikin inhaled, laughed bitterly. "You know this. I have heard horror stories - we both have. And the mortals, they don't change. I have lived lifetimes and they haven't changed a bit. How can I believe that another few lifetimes will make a difference? And Hopeless is being hurt by this - don't you see?"

"I don't think Valkyrie meant for that," Dexter said. "I think I believe her. It's not like you to be the pessimist."

"Oh Dex," Larrikin sounded like he's been flattened under a slab of concrete, or like he was back from a too long run. Exhausted, worn thin. 

"Don't worry, we'll all keep an eye on her." Dexter said. "We're not idiots."

Valkyrie smiled and rapped on the door frame, stepping through. "You sure?"

The two men spun around then sighed collectively.

"How much did you hear?" Larrikin scowled.

Valkyrie squinted. "I heard you saying you both weren't idiots. Why? Is there something I need to know? Talking about me?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Larrikin said. "And keep away from the stew."

"I'm not going to poison you," Valkyrie said indignantly.

"No," Dexter said. "Larrikin just doesn't like people interfering with his cooking, and he's in a foul mood tonight."

"Hey!"

"Well, you are."

"I'll leave you to it," Valkyrie said. "Where's Hopeless?"

Larrikin and Dexter exchanged looks. 

"Out the back," Dexter said, and the room was silent as she left. 

Cassandra's back garden was a well-maintained grassy place, with vines gently wrapping around the boundary walls, and a single massive oak as the main feature. Valkyrie looked out onto the lawn and wondered what happened to this gorgeous place, why she had never heard about it. Dexter was right. Hopeless was sitting with their back to the oak, but they weren't alone. Erskine sat lazily on a chair, talking openly and happily, though Hopeless didn't seem to be doing much to respond. 

Valkyrie's gut roiled in familiar awful emotion, and she hesitated, but then Hopeless raised their head and looked into her eyes. Hopeless beckoned, so Valkyrie approached. Erskine stood.

"Erskine, stay," Hopeless said.

"I don't think Miss Cain wants me around," Erskine said.

"But I want you here," Hopeless sighed. "And we need to talk to her anyway."

"Not now, surely."

"When's better?" 

Valkyrie sat with Hopeless between her and Erskine. The two Dead Men exchanged glances, and then Erskine acquiesced and sat back down.

"How are you feeling?" Hopeless asked first. "A little less stressed?"

"Yes," Valkyrie said automatically, then frowned. "Why?"

"I'm glad," Hopeless said. "Because we need to ask you something."

Erskine grumbled. 

"What?"

"We need you not to tell the others what - what you think - Erskine did in your time. That's two centuries away, and whatever way he has wronged you in the future, he has done nothing to you now."

Valkyrie stared. "It's not that simple."

"Emotionally for you, maybe not. But future-Erskine deserves your ire, not my Erskine," they said, then stumbled just a little on the next words, as if realising how that sentence had sounded. "And we have more pressing concerns, surely, than your grudge."

"You don't know what he did," Valkyrie said.

"I haven't done anything," Erskine said, exasperated.

"Oh? So the name Madam Mist means nothing to you?"

Erskine paused a little too long. "Nothing particular."

Hopeless' face had hardened during this exchange. Valkyrie looked at the two of them for a long moment, at Hopeless' stone-faced lack of reaction. Did they both know? Were they both embroiled in a scheme with the Children of the Spider, so soon? 

"I think you have come to a wrong conclusion, because something is worrying you much more than it should," Hopeless said, and they reached out a hand as if to calm her.

"You're a fear-mage," Valkyrie guessed wildly, because this mention of worry - of fear - was only one of many.

"Yes," Hopeless said slowly. "But I will say that my discipline has been severely misrepresented in most sources. I'm - not a monster. I certainly won't use my power on you more than I really have to."

"That isn't that reassuring," Erskine said dryly, and Valkyrie automatically - shamefully - laughed a moment. 

"I won't lie and say I won't use magic on her," Hopeless said. "I can't help it. If I could I would."

Valkyrie thought for a moment. "I won't say anything about Erskine and the future to the others," she lied. 

"We're grateful for that," Hopeless said sincerely.

"In return you should tell me what has happened up to now, in you time," Valkyrie said. "Otherwise I might let something slip that I shouldn't about the future."

Erskine and Hopeless looked at each other. Valkyrie felt suddenly sure that they didn't feel too worried about giving her information. Hopefully because they believed.

"Alright," Erskine said. "We'll get you up to speed."

Chapter Text

There was good news in the bad. The good news - there was no mention of there being more than two Generals on Mevolent's side. The bad news - the tide was turning, steadily, enough that there was hope in Erskine and Hopeless' eyes. They thought the war was soon to end. Valkyrie's memory had never been amazing but she recalled with vivid intensity Skulduggery's shaky explanation of how he became Lord Vile. The incoming end of the war had made him snap, hadn't it? Had made him turn to the enemy to continue the only thing he lived for: conflict.

From what she could deduce, Skulduggery hadn't become him yet but he would soon. What could she possibly do? 

If Valkyrie tried to be honest she had to admit that Skulduggery was unlikely to trust her. He was always closed off, and the two had started off badly. But was there anyone else that could help her help him? Did Cassandra trust her? Did Hopeless? Was it right to try to change the past, however awful it was?

Sleep was difficult and shaky, Valkyrie's loud mind fighting any respite, and so she found herself awake around 3am and stumbling down the steps toward the kitchen, intent on getting water. The sound of soft voices made her still in the hallway.

"I don't think I should come on this mission," it was Hopeless.

Valkyrie peered around the corner, to see the Dead Men in the lounge. There was a silence.

"Why not?"

"Someone needs to keep an eye on Valkyrie."

Val bristled, and then she swore that Erskine's head tilted in her direction, despite the dark. She froze, wary of making any telling movement, and then he looked away.

"More than one person, surely," Dexter said. "And you're useful, Hopeless, probably more useful on field than here. Is there any other reason for you not to come?"

"No," Hopeless said. "But it's a simple mission - we don't need eight people on it, we could do it with two - and she's my responsibility, isn't she? I vouched for her."

"If you really don't want to come we can't make you," Ghastly said. 

"So we're determined to split up?" Larrikin said. 

"Only for a couple of days."

"I'll go," Skulduggery said coldly.

"So will I," Larrikin said.

Valkyrie felt like skulking in corners would not help her case of not being a spy, so she yawned loudly and walked past the living room and into the kitchen. The others quietened at her presence.

"Alright, Valkyrie?" Dexter called. "Need anything?"

"Water," she said through a yawn. "Keep having your secret meeting if you want."

Erskine laughed, and Valkyrie walked back the way she'd come, this time with a full glass. She waved at them before stumbling back to her room.

It only took seven days for Valkyrie to wake up to screaming. She'd thrown on her jacket before she'd even properly woke (it was made by Ghastly, was armoured) and she raced out the room. The kitchen and living room lights were on and bright but it was still so dark outside, and the man kept screaming.

"Larrikin!" Dexter was saying, as loud as he could without it being yelling. "Larrikin, you need to focus! Please, love..."

Valkyrie's spine chilled, because there was Larrikin, sprawled out on the carpet and bleeding much too much, struggling frantically. Dexter was holding his hand with both of his, armour still on, and Ghastly was wrapping Larrikin's stomach with too-red bandages. 

Shudder and Cassandra were - were carving into the walls with scalpels?

"What is going on?" Valkyrie said.

"We need Hopeless,"  Ghastly said.

"I'll get them," Valkyrie said, stumbling back to the hallway. The cold wash of necessary focus came, and she hurried to batter against Hopeless' door.

The Dead Men had said the mission would be fine, would be easy, would work out alright. Now their healer was too out of it to heal himself.

"What's... Oh," Hopeless said at the door, blinking eyelids and ringed eyes, and then they were in the living room, Valkyrie numbly following.

"Hey," Hopeless said gently, and they laid a hand on Larrikin's forehead until he calmed.

Hopeless' face was like death, and Valkyrie wondered whether they had stolen away all of Larrikin's fear, and now was carrying that feeling themself?

"Larrikin, do you have the energy to heal yourself?" Dexter asked, tears in his voice.

Larrikin eyes were bloodshot, voice like sandpaper and much too quiet. 

"Yes." 

"Do it quick," Hopeless said, just as quietly.

"N-no actually, I ... think I'll take my time and enjoy it," Larrikin murmured, and Valkyrie stared as blood began to slurp back up into Larrikin's body.

The procedure was slow, despite Larrikin's sarcasm, and the three were shaking - Larrikin, Hopeless and Dexter. Valkyrie found herself backing away on shaky legs and almost stumbled into Skulduggery. He must have been standing in the corner this entire time. Valkyrie looked at him and he regarded her.

"What happened?"

"It was a trap," Skulduggery said, like a lightening storm over a half-dried lake. "They were expecting us."

"How did you get out? Were you followed?"

"Skill. And don't worry. Cass and Anton are covering our tracks. Saracen is keeping an eye out."

"What on earth happened?" Erskine murmured suddenly, from the door, and Valkyrie wondered how he slept through the screams.

"Ambush, Serpine," Dexter bit out from the floor, and Val saw that there was more blood on him than just Larrikin's. There was an awful scrape on his face, like a chunk of meat was ripped out. Valkyrie looked away.

Skulduggery made a humming noise and left the room.

I was angry, Skulduggery had said, when talking about how he became Lord Vile. I was tired. I stopped caring.

"Shit," Valkyrie muttered, wondering if the dancing shadows were a figment of tired anxiety or a sign of something awful about to happen. And then, because she had no self-preservation instincts, she set off after the shitter version of her old friend.

It took a moment for Skulduggery to acknowledge her presence.

"Leave me alone."

"No," she said, fear like a river in her mouth.

Skulduggery turned. He had left the quaint cottage without hesitation, so the two were now outside in the clearing. The light from the window was distant, and dimmed by curtains, and there would be no way for Valkyrie to notice necromancy around her unless it slit her throat. 

"Why are you following me?" Skulduggery paused until it was clear she wasn't going to respond. "What do you think I'm going to do?"

Valkyrie's breath shuddered, and she blinked. Even now, he knew what she was thinking, how was that possible? 

"Something you'll regret for the rest of your life."

That made the skeleton stop properly, motionless to the absolute degree.

"I just - I just needed to clear my head," he said with an unfamiliar frankness - was this how he was with his comrades in the war? Honest about his intentions? "I'm not leaving the sigil boundary. I would prefer if you left."

Valkyrie shook her head, and he clicked his fingers to light his skull and her face. The brightness became whiteness in her vision for a moment, she blinked it away.

"I am your friend, in the future," Valkyrie said. "I know how you feel about Serpine. And this war."

Skulduggery tilted his head - a heart-wrenchingly familiar gesture. "And you came to make sure I was alright? Or that I wasn't going to assassinate him?"

"Both, I don't know. I just - I just didn't think you should be alone right now. And the others are occupied."

"It seems we are at an impasse. Because I would quite like to be left alone." And yet he didn't make any move, magical or otherwise, to further convince her away. Even his words were said mildly.

"Will you promise me you won't try to leave? Or do something - something bad?"

"What?" And this time he was absolutely thrown - Valkyrie could read him, even now. His fireball stuttered. And his voice, momentarily, was as horrified as he ever allowed it to get. "What did I do in your time?"

"Some bad things. I did too," Valkyrie said. She didn't - perhaps couldn't - say more. It felt wrong and awful and impossible. Who would it help, to tell this sad and lost man that he was evil - evil as could be - in the future? Valkyrie liked to believe in some sort of redemption, or at least some fulfilling future despite your past, but she did not think this young Skulduggery would.

"You seem sincere," he said, and this time he wasn't doubting her.

"Talk to Ghastly," she suggested. "Please. About how you feel."

"How would that help anything -"

"Skulduggery?" It was a call from the cottage door. Hopeless' voice. Valkyrie shut her eyes - could they have not chosen a better time? 

"Hopeless?" Skulduggery responded. 

The fear-mage walked towards them, and passed Valkyrie before they stumbled. And then Skulduggery was there, arm steadying them, and they laid their forehead on his shoulder.

"Hopeless?" Skulduggery said. "What happened?"

"Nothing," but they sounded tearful, and hadn't acknowledged Valkyrie once. "Nothing - they're alright. Larrikin will be fine by the morning."

"How about you?" Skulduggery said, with a softness Valkyrie had heard only rarely in her time.

"Oh," Hopeless said. "You know me. I'll be fine by the morning too."

"Or you'll say you are," Skulduggery said.

"Ha," Hopeless said, sounding a little more lively. "Like you can talk, Mr 'I don't have emotions' Pleasant."

"Well," Skulduggery said, arm gentle on Hopeless' shoulder. "I don't, really, do I? You can't hear them."

"Just because I can't hear your fears doesn't mean you don't have any," Hopeless scoffed, stopping in places as they wiped their face. "It just means you don't have a physical brain. Or are Mr Bliss."

"I'm certain Mr Bliss simply fears nothing," Skulduggery said, and Hopeless laughed shakily.

"I'll leave you two to it," Valkyrie said softly, and went her way carefully to the door, reassured momentarily that Lord Vile was not about to make an appearance.

Chapter Text

"We're going to need to leave."

The Dead Men and Valkyrie were sitting in Cassandra's quaint backyard. Valkyrie was so tired from the night before that she was barely paying attention. She couldn't keep her eyes off Larrikin, who was stubbornly standing and slightly swaying.

Ever since Valkyrie woke she had been feeling strangely ill - not physically unwell, not even anxious, but off-kilter. Even so, she suspected that she felt world's better than Larrikin did.

"Where to?" Ghastly asked.

"To finish our mission," Dexter said.

"They were waiting for us..." Skulduggery said, seeming his normal cheerful self. "Even I don't think going back is a great idea. Look at Larrikin - a bit of wind would topple him over right now."

Larrikin looked up to glare at the skeleton. He said several choice words, and zoned out again. Dexter had gently suggested that he should sleep, but the healer had refused. Valkyrie, watching the man, wondered why they hadn't all been more insistent.

"Going back will be the last thing they expect," Saracen said. "We'll have the upper hand."

"... That leap of logic is astounding," Skulduggery said, as if he was one to be sensible in dangerous situations. 

"Also we'll have Hopeless," Saracen said easily. 

Hopeless' shoulders hunched up as everyone looked at them. "I didn't think you'd need me," they said miserably. 

"If you freak the shit out of them, we'll do the rest." 

"Surely it won't make that much of a difference," Hopeless said.

"Men fight better when they're not terrified, we noticed that when we were fighting without you," Dexter said.

"Oh."

"What about Valkyrie?"

"She'll have to come with us." Skulduggery said, and Valkyrie's heart jumped in excitement and some concern.

Larrikin and Ghastly spoke over each other.

"Do we trust her that much -?"

"She's not even seventy -"

"We don't want to split up again, and we don't want to leave her unwatched," Dexter said.

"I can do this," Valkyrie spoke for the first time. She had no idea if she was correct, but she had been on an official Dead Men mission before. Not that she should necessarily say that. "I've had my surge. I've been in war before."

"You said it ends," Saracen said immediately, accusatory and concerned. 

"Yes. There are other ones." Valkyrie said with a scowl.

Hopeless' face fell and Skulduggery's skull tilted in her direction, but the rest did not respond at all. 

"So, are we actually doing this?" Saracen asked.

"What else can we do?" Valkyrie asked. Maybe if she used 'we' enough they'd just accept that she was coming along.

"Call it a failure." Hopeless said immediately.

"Why do you always suggest that?" Erskine demanded, amused if exasperated.

"It's an option!" Hopeless protested, but they were smiling just a little.

"So we're doing this," Anton stated.

"I'd say so," Ghastly said, and nobody protested.

Larrikin insisted that the Dead Men didn't tell Valkyrie the details of the mission. On one side, it made sense, on the other, it was absolutely infuriating. They decided (despite Valkyrie's protestations) to leave her with Hopeless. The two were to be scouts - not quite out of danger but less in the thick of it than the rest.

Valkyrie felt dizzy.

They waited until night to depart, and Valkyrie followed the rest silently as they farewell Cassandra and walk into the night. The forest was somewhat darker than forests Valkyrie had seen, and the sky brighter with stars. Dexter was just ahead, and he was sticking close to Larrikin's side as if his partner will topple at any minute. Valkyrie supposed they needed a healer, but it still seemed stupid to bring someone so recently injured on a mission.

It turned out that Serpine's troops had taken over a mortal town. Valkyrie didn't ask what happened to the previous inhabitants. The town was walled and bright unnatural lights hung at the tops. There was no shadow to hide under within some five hundred metres of the place.

"Shit fuck," Dexter said.

"That's new," Skulduggery murmured, his tall figure barely perceivable in the forest's darkness.

"They are expecting us," Ghastly said. "Plan B?"

"Plan B.2," Skulduggery corrected.

"That's plan C," Erskine said.

"Plan B.2 is its name. We agreed."

"Adding a decimal point only makes sense if we have more plans than there are Latin characters," Erskine said.

"Is now the time?" Larrikin asked sharply, and everyone stared.

"I'll go," Hopeless said, with a grimace, and then their face was shifting and changing until they looked like a tall older man, entirely unlike themself. "Follow me, Val. Keep your hood up if you can."

Valkyrie nodded and barely noticed as the rest of their group faded away. Her heartbeat was suddenly noticeable in her chest, hands clammy. She followed behind. Did Hopeless know what they're doing?

"Don't be scared," Hopeless said, more of an order than encouragement. 

"What the fuck?" Valkyrie responded.

"Don't be scared. I need to focus."

"Sure, I'll just stop feeling things then."

"Sounds good."

"Are you always a dick when you transform?" 

"Hush," and then Hopeless yelled something out in German, to the wall.

"... What are you ..."

"Hush!"

Valkyrie held her tongue, and watched as men at the guard towers on the walls leant over the edge to respond. They sounded distressed, but she didn't know their tongue. Hopeless stood just in front of Valkyrie, in the form of a stranger, tall and proud and almost overbearing. The conversation continued, and then the gate opened.

"Come on," Hopeless said quietly. They hesitated. "This is going to ... Be a little violent."

"The sparrow flies south for the winter," Valkyrie murmured. Hopeless stared for a moment, then shrugged. Ah well. Not everyone was a person of culture.

Hopeless strode ahead and Valkyrie hurried to catch up. Halfway to the gate something jerked in her stomach and she almost fell over. Heart pounding, she righted herself in time to see Hopeless stop in front of the two guards. They were speaking again, and Valkyrie walked to stand behind their right shoulder. A guard said something to her, expecting a response.

"Danke?" Valkyrie tried.

The two were led inside and it was only when they were on the inside of the gate that Hopeless chose to strike.

It will only be later, when Valkyrie is processing what happened, that she will wonder at the significance of the tiny knife that Hopeless plunged into the first guard's back. But now it was brutal and swift, and Valkyrie was going for the second guard, an arm around the neck and a hand to smother his mouth. The whole affair was terrifyingly silent, even as the man in Valkyrie's arm struggled desperately. Valkyrie felt properly ill now, but this time it was probably just guilt.

The man slumped and Valkyrie carefully released him. He was still alive, and so she dragged him across the blue-lit grass to the wooden guardhouse, and she found a crevasse between that and the exterior wall. She propped him there, hidden, and bound his hands behind his back. Gagged him for good measure, then made sure he was still breathing.

She turned to see Hopeless shifting again, body morphing swiftly and uncomfortably, and it took her a moment to realise why Hopeless' new image looked familiar. They had taken the form of the guard that they just killed. Valkyrie stood there, watching a dead man being dragged into the bushes by his doppelganger.

But then Hopeless tilted their head at her, in a way that had become familiar, and she pushed whatever she was feeling down, stole her captive's hat and cloak, and followed Hopeless up into the guard house. 

"Do you often do this?" She asked them, when they were both in position side by side. 

"Only when I must," Hopeless said, with their own voice despite their changed shape. "I can only take the form of people that have died near me, you see."

"Oh," Valkyrie said.

"How are you?" Hopeless asked, their familiar gentleness at odds with their earlier unhesitating brutality.

"Fine."

"You look ill."

"I feel it."

"Alright."

The two looked out onto the night. Valkyrie supposed it was just a waiting game now, until the rest did what they need to do and escaped through this entrance.

"I need to ask you something," Hopeless said, very carefully. Their voice was still their natural one, and Valkyrie wondered how they managed that. Had they kept their vocal tract and mouth and changed the rest?

"What?"

"I've been thinking. And. Well, it's probably a good idea that you tell me when I die."

Valkyrie spun and stepped back, eyes wide. Hopeless didn't even look at her. Their eyes were trained on the forest, their words careful and stumbling. Valkyrie could not find a response.

"Well," Hopeless said, a little matter-of-fact. "You didn't know me, at all. You didn't have any reaction to my presence save surprise - everyone else you had some sort of familiar, nervous response to. 'He doesn't recognise me' or 'he doesn't care about me anymore'. That sort of thing. But not for me. You didn't know my pronouns, even.

"Which to me suggests that you don't know me in your time. I'm not around. And perhaps I could have had a falling out with Skulduggery, but really, I don't think that'd ever happen. Those men are my family. I don't think that'll change, even after the war. So the solution is that I die before you're around. Which isn't great I admit, but at least I can assume Erskine and the others make it. And it would be best for me to know how much time I have left, so I can put things in order. Now please say something so I stop feeling like a mad person."

Valkyrie stared, mouth a little open. Her tongue felt dry. "When did you start thinking this?"

"After we arrived at Cassandra's," Hopeless said shortly, and Valkyrie realised that they were scared, really and truly frightened, though hiding it well. 

"I feel like this is one of the things I'm not supposed to say," Valkyrie said.

Hopeless' stolen face fell. "You've said that now. May as well say the rest. When is it?"

Valkyrie hated everything about this conversation, and her words were like treacle in her mouth. She didn't even know why she answered, except that Hopeless asked, and so firmly.

"I don't know when. I just know where."

Hopeless inhaled. "Where?"

"... Prussia."

Hopeless blinked, and several emotions crossed their face. 

"Well," they said. "Fuck."

Chapter Text

The world was swirling under Valkyrie's feet. She was beginning to think that something wasn't quite normal.

Hopeless' hands were gripping the wooden railing, eyes firmly away from Valkyrie's face. They were looking out onto the forest, into the dark. "That is all you know?"

"They said - Skulduggery and China," Hopeless twitched a little at the second name. Valkyrie continued. She didn't like this conversation much more than Hopeless seemed to, she wanted it over quickly. "They said you died in Prussia. Oh, and that you died for what you believe in?"

"Vague. That's all they ever said about me?"

"Yes. Maybe it was too painful?"

"Skulduggery talks about Augustus all the time," Hopeless rebutted.

"Who's Augustus?"

Hopeless finally turned their head, grey eyes narrowed. "... Skulduggery's wife?"

"Oh." Valkyrie felt the weight of Hopeless' gaze, she straightened her shoulders.

"Are you really who you say you are?" Hopeless' voice was reminiscent of their first meeting, that initial, dangerous suspicion.

"Yes! Skulduggery just never talks about his wife and kid," Valkyrie explained, palms up above her head. 

"Why not?"

"He's ... not the same man as he is now," Valkyrie said weakly. 

"Why not?" Hopeless stepped closer, and suddenly Valkyrie's pulse was humming in her ears. Her breathing sharpened and sped up, palms became sweaty, old thoughts started to bounce back into the centre of her brain.

"Stop it!"

It was a cold moment. Then Hopeless stepped away. "Sorry. It's - not you're fault, all this. I shouldn't have tried to ..."

In for four, out for eight. Valkyrie breathed.

"I'm sorry," Hopeless tried again. "I didn't mean to-"

There was a yelling from within, a clanking, a sound of pursuit. Hopeless spun, machete in hand, and the Dead Men came running with guards on their heels. If Valkyrie wasn't still reigning in her panic, she might have found the scene funny. Larrikin certainly did. He was at the head, and cackling wildly. 

"We need to open the gate," Hopeless said, and then they simply vaulted over the steps like a show off. Valkyrie sighed, not jealous, and followed, almost tripping. It felt like something was calling to her.

Below, people were firing bolts of energy and fireballs. Hopeless was shouldering open the gate and Valkyrie went to help them. They opened it with a creak and then the Dead Men were piling out, half their pursuers already unconscious or dead. Dexter grabbed Valkyrie by her elbow and pulled her ahead of the rest of them, shooting energy faster than she could register.

"If we reach the forest we'll lose them," he told her grimly, pushing her to run.

Hopeless hadn't kept up; Valkyrie glanced and saw them standing directly in the light. Men were screaming, she realised over her beating heart, her nausea and racing breath. She put an extra burst of speed into her run and didn't look back, trusting Dexter would be at her heels. The ground was badly lit and a little damp and bumpy; she almost fell several times. One time Larrikin had to catch her elbow and steady her. She glanced at him and his face was leeched of all colour, yet he smiled at her for just a moment.

On they ran, and they didn't stop even when they were within the thickets of the trees. Dexter took the lead and Valkyrie focused on putting one foot in front of the other. She wasn't unfit by any means, but her breath was catching in her throat and her body was aching. She dropped to the ground immediately when Dexter finally threw up a fist and stopped. She stared at the dirt in front of her, forcing her breathing into something even.

"Larrikin, are you-" Dexter asked, hoarse and concerned.

Larrikin made an indefinable sound and hurried away. Valkyrie closed her eyes at the unmistakable sound of retching. Dexter cursed and moved too; Valkyrie looked up to see the two huddled together, Dexter supporting Larrikin.

"I told you ..." Dexter muttered.

"I'm fine, it's fine," Larrikin said, at an ordinary volume. "You alright Valkyrie? You didn't get injured?"

"I'm fine," she said quietly.

Larrikin walked over gingerly and held out a hand. "You don't look great. Can I check?"

"Check?"

"He can only tell if you're hurt through physical contact," Dexter explained.

"Oh," Valkyrie said, and cautiously held Larrikin's hand. This was the first time, she thought, that he had acted in any way friendly towards her, she supposed being a healer usurped personal vendettas when necessary.

"You're fine," Larrikin said, letting go quickly. "Good. Good. Where are the others?"

"They were behind, making sure we weren't followed."

"So we wait?" Valkyrie said.

"Yep," Larrikin said, sprawling onto the dirt. 

"Okay," she said, putting her head into her hands and closing her eyes again.

It took perhaps five minutes for Anton, Ghastly and Skulduggery to appear. 

"There you three are," Skulduggery said cheerfully.

"You've got it?" Larrikin asked immediately.

"I do indeed," Skulduggery said, lighting a fireball to show the book in his left hand. 

Larrikin laughed tiredly. 

"You three look rough," Skulduggery said.

"Serpine tore me apart yesterday," Larrikin shot back.

"It was barely a flesh wound. And Valkyrie isn't - wasn't injured the last time I checked."

"I'm fine," Valkyrie repeated.

"Hopeless and Erskine still off somewhere?" Ghastly asked.

"We're here," Erskine called from behind. He had one of Hopeless' arms over his shoulder, and Valkyrie tried to see if there were injuries on the fear-mage. No blood was visible at all, even when the two came closer. Then she made the mistake of looking at Erskine, and he was looking straight back, angered.

Clearly she shouldn't have answered Hopeless' question. She closed her eyes again. A headache was bouncing behind her eyes; was she getting unwell? Was she getting a cold? That ... actually wouldn't be great, not in this time - could Larrikin heal ordinary ailments? 

"Hey," Larrikin was saying. "Hey, Valkyrie ...."

She forced her eyes open. The others around her had moved - did she lose track of time, with her headache? 

"Yes?"

"Can you walk? We need to get a safehouse if we can," he asked softly.

Dexter scoffed from behind. "Mothering," he accused. "The moment people get hurt you finally start being nice."

"Shut," Larrikin said. He looked back at Val. "What's happening?"

"I've a headache, I'm dizzy," she said.

"Oh," Larrikin put a hand on her wrist, for longer than last time. He frowned. "I can't detect anything."

It was suddenly imperative that they all knew that she was telling the truth. "I swear, I swear I'm not lying. I'll walk, I can, I'm not lying."

She stood and then almost fell. Larrikin caught her elbows and supported her. His green eyes were clear, looking right into hers. "I believe you," he reassured.

Valkyrie caught her breath, not looking away. The two just stood there for a moment.

"If you can't walk Anton can carry you," Larrikin said. 

"I can walk," she insisted.

Larrikin raised his eyebrows and stepped away. The world swirled around her feet and almost teetered back, before Ghastly was there, catching her.

"Did someone curse her?" 

"Don't know," Larrikin said. 

"We need to keep moving," Hopeless said, voice loud and abrasive.

Something jerked at Valkyrie's navel - some force - and she forced herself to focus. A thrill of realisation jolted through her - the only thing she could compare this to was the involuntary shunting episodes she had dealt with, years ago. Was Skulduggery bringing her home? Unfamiliar knowledge tickled her, something made her point toward a solitary patch of ground, just behind Larrikin. Urgency flooded her limbs. She was going back, she had to be, what else was this but magic? She was going to see Skulduggery - her Skulduggery - again. She was going to be able to breath foggy 21st century air and see her family and girlfriend and ...

"I need to stand there," she said, almost in a trance.

"Where?" Larrikin said, stepping back.

"No-" she said, stepping forward. She should not have bothered. The moment Larrikin had stepped into that designated, insignificant spot, he was gone. The space his body had taken was now simply air. Cold rushed into Valkyrie's brain, the magic and nausea went as quickly. She just stared, mouth a little open. It wasn't a trick, wasn't the bad lighting - he had just disappeared.

The silence stretched. Dexter broke it, sounding more furious than she'd ever heard him be, even in her time. "What have you done?"

Chapter Text

Larrikin doesn't know where he is but the light is so bright it almost burns his eyes, even with eyelids closed. His knees ache. His head throbs. Every notable part of his body hurts - not as badly as the night earlier of course, but bad enough. His brain goes white for a second, like a wall, a stupid wall that's supposed to be a responsive, capable healer turned Dead Man and is this it, is he dead, is death this absence of awareness?

He comes to. He's on his knees, of course, and the others aren't there, which is fucking bizarre, and also he's not in a forest. The place is much too quiet for that. He lays his hands bare on the tiles floor in front of him, they're cold, and he doesn't dare open his eyes to see what sort of room this is. He wants to hurl. He's very scared, not that that's something to be ashamed of. Time magic is something volatile and dangerous (no, like he told Val he hasn't met time travelers before her but he has read the odd magical illuminated text). So, an unreliable magic mixes with other people in close proximity and makes the wrong person go to the wrong time? Not impossible. And it's not like he somehow got to this place in any other way than magic. He lowers his head and covers his eyes with shaking hands. The white light still eases past his fingers, orange against black.

Shit fuck shit. Was Valkyrie not lying after all? That's actually ... mortifying. Ah well. Not much to do about it now. Larrikin starts to laugh quietly. It's a rich cackle, right from deep in his chest. Something creaks, a door? Footsteps, almost familiar. 

Skulduggery Pleasant, somehow on the other side of this room, sounds flummoxed. "Larrikin?"

"Doug?" Larrikin asks, not looking up.

"... That's not my name."

"Douglas, my old skinny friend," Larrikin wants to sob but he keeps a stiff upper lip, it's Dexter's turn to have emotions this week (this is a joke Larrikin refuses to clarify, though he uses it often and whenever he can - Dexter sighs particularly when he does, and that's enough motivation to use it whenever even if it doesn't suit the scenario in question). "You wouldn't be able to turn off whatever fire is lighting this place? It's giving me a headache."

"Oh," Skulduggery says, and there's a sound almost like a cleanly snapping twig, and the light goes away. Larrikin dares to look up. This room has a door with glass panes, and more than enough light comes through for him to see the skeleton. The man is on the other side of the room, and not moving closer. Maybe it's time to start with the basics. 

"You wouldn't happen to be missing a young woman in her twenties? Tall, black hair? Calls herself Valkyrie Cain?"

"Is she okay?" Skulduggery sounds reminiscent of a hunting dog on the trail of some poor, red-haired fox, voice intent, posture tense.

"Yes," Larrikin says. "I think I accidentally intercepted your ... signal though. What year is it?"

"2017. How did ..." Skulduggery hesitates. "How are you feeling?"

"Like someone kicked the shit out of me," Larrikin says. He tries to focus. "Are you going to send me back, swap me with Valkyrie?"

"Not for a while. The machine I'm using isn't very ... accurate, and requires a lot of energy. It needs time to get prepared."

"Dang," Larrikin says, standing up. His head rolls as he does so - he stumbles and almost falls. Skulduggery doesn't move towards him, waits for him to find his balance. "So, what are we going to do?"

"Wait," Skulduggery says. "Is Valkyrie safe? What time are you from?"

"She's fine," Larrikin says - he doesn't see the point of mentioning that Skulduggery caught them at the end of an active mission. "And 1850."

"Oh," Skulduggery says.

"You know something I don't?" Larrikin asks, half laughing. A thought occurs and jostles everything else out of the way. "Where are the others? Is the war over? Did Ghastly set up his shop?"

"The war's over. It has been for a century," Skulduggery says. "I - I don't think I should tell you anything else."

"Come on! What's the point of me being here if you keep me in this room?"

"You weren't meant to be here."

"I mean, yes. I assume 2017-me wouldn't be keen on having his much younger, handsomer self around. I might steal his boyfriend," something drops in his gut, with an intensity of emotion he hasn't felt in a long time. "Are - Am I and Dexter married yet?"

Skulduggery just stands there. Larrikin waits it out, until the pause is so long it's simply silence.

"Alright," Larrikin says. "Keep me in the dark."

"We don't need to do that," Skulduggery says, and then he sticks a gloved hand into his ribcage like a freak and pulls out something ... small and black. They're like spectacles, but made from darkened glass. "Put these on, and I'll show you future Ireland."

"The fuck are these?" Larrikin asks, taking them. They're smooth to the touch, and the material feels unfamiliar. 

"Sunglasses, since you can't handle our lights."

Larrikin puts them on. "Well, now I can't see."

"I can't turn out all the lights in the building," Skulduggery says.

"Sure you can't. Lazy."

"Follow me," Skulduggery says, voice lighter.

"Alright," and Larrikin follows the skeleton out of the room and into the corridor. 

The complex of corridors and closed doors is white and unnerving. Skulduggery walks fast and Larrikin keeps up, but the stares he gets from the other people in the building are so intense that he ends up hiding in his friend's shadow. Skulduggery greets nobody that he passes, and no-one says anything either, and soon they're outside and the lighting is natural and bearable, but the sound is not. Larrikin freezes in the entranceway and stares. A black field marked with white lines stretches out in front of him, and strange, colourful metallic things - carriages, maybe? - sit motionless in front of him or, further away, move with a strangely straight path in two different directions. The noise is nothing he's heard before. He's not Hopeless - doesn't find specific scenarios confronting enough to want to hide from them - but right now he wants to dig himself a hole in brown dirt and curl up like a mole or a particularly shit duck.

"You're alright," Skulduggery says, moving into his sightline. "You're safe, you're alright. Those are cars. They're transport. You're in a city."

Larrikin reaches out and grabs Skulduggery's gloved hands, which stay limp and unresponsive. He needs something to hold onto. He struggles for somethin normal to say. "...You're not wearing your stupid hat and mask."

"... I don't need to. This is a magical city."

"What?" Larrikin breathes. 

"Come on, it's quieter in the car," Skulduggery says, and he pulls his hands away and starts walking. Larrikin hurriedly follows.

Skulduggery's car is black and unremarkable in the sense that it is as alien as all the other ones. After Skulduggery opens the door and pushes Larrikin onto one of the weird, uncomfortable seats, he begins a strange and incomprehensible speech about the merits of the vehicle. Larrikin doesn't tell him to shut up, partially because it's much quieter inside this thing, partially because there's a dangling piece of metal and hard material on a chord that he can pull down and watch as it rolls back up, which is distracting.

"That's a seat belt," Skulduggery says, after he finishes his boring speech.

"You keep saying words to me," Larrikin tugs the dangly bit down to his hip and watches as it bounces up. "But I am just hearing sounds."

Skulduggery sighs. "I forgot how annoying you like to be."

"Why, is present me on a trip?"

"... Actually yes, you and Dexter are travelling." Skulduggery says.

"You sound regretful. Didn't we invite you?"

"I'm not regretful. Now, if I start to drive, will you start panicking again?"

"I feel like I'm going to throw up," Larrikin says, matter-of-fact, "and if this thing is anything like a boat, that might be the last straw for me."

Skulduggery moves so fast Larrikin starts to laugh. The skeleton reaches around the empty seat behind, then thrusts a bag of smooth-fabric onto Larrikin's hands. "Vomit into that. Don't get anything on my car."

"Alright," Larrikin manages, though his ribs ache from laughing and he hasn't quite stopped.

"I'm going to drive," Skulduggery informs Larrikin. "If you stop mocking me, I'll show you a place that you'll like."

"Ghastly's shop?" Larrikin asks.

"We'll see," Skulduggery says like a strangled cat, and he puts his hands on the round thing and begins to move the vehicle, and suddenly everything is terrifying again. 

Chapter Text

“So, where are we going?” Larrikin asks. He isn’t keen on having a second freakout so soon after the first, so he’s staring directly at the floor of Skulduggery’s vehicle. It’s going very fast and smells strange and feels very insecure in all aspects, but he trusts Skulduggery, at least he wants to, so he just focuses on his breathing and not screaming. Hopefully Skulduggery will contact the other Dead Men to tell them what has happened. They’re probably not as joined at the hip as in Larrikin’s time, now that the war is over (what a strange thought), but surely Skulduggery knows where they live. And if Skulduggery knows Larrikin’s here, why shouldn’t the others?

Skulduggery slows the car and Larrikin slides forward, catching himself before he launches through the window. “Fucking hell!”

The skeleton looks at him. “You don’t have your seat belt on?”

“... I’m not even going to try to work out what that means.”

Skulduggery leans across Larrikin’s lap and tugs over the dangly thing he’d been toying with earlier, and clips it so the fabric is across his chest and hips. Now pressed into the strange chair, Larrikin fumbles immediately with the buckle-thing.

“What are you doing?” Skulduggery asks, speeding the car up again.

“What did you put me in?” Larrikin says, exasperated, still trying to free himself. 

“It’s for safety, don’t unbuckle it.”

“You could have said that!” Larrikin glares. He tugs the strap half-heartedly. “Safety for what?”

“In case the Bentley crashes.”

Larrikin blinks. He takes a whole minute to process the implications of that statement. “What? Didn’t mages have a better idea than fabric when they made these?”

“... Mortals made these.”

"Oh,” Larrikin pauses, “Huh. Does that mean mortals and mages know about each other now?”

“No.”

Larrikin turns towards his friend, whose skull faces straight ahead. Larrikin waits, watching him. The vehemence in Skulduggery’s voice is something Larrikin has not heard before, not when talking about this topic. For the first time it truly occurs to Larrikin that this isn’t his friend. This man will be his friend, sure, but Larrikin doesn’t really know him. He doesn’t know what has happened in the last century, nor how Skulduggery has changed. 

“Alright,” Larrikin says. There are other priorities, really. He absentmindedly pulls at the seat belt. “So, where are we going?”

“Are you hungry?”

“... Yes.”

“I think I’ll take you to a cafe Va- my friend likes, and then we can go to Dublin.”

“Why?”

“Unless you’re very different from what I remember, I assume you need to eat.”

“No, why go to Dublin after?”

“You’re only here for a week, you may as well go sightseeing.”

“I’d prefer to see Dexter, or the others.”

“The others?”

“Anton, Saracen, Hopeless … the Dead Men. Even Cassandra.”

“Am I not good enough?” Skulduggery asks quickly.

“That’s the weirdest deflection you’ve ever done,” Larrikin says, “Look, can’t you contact them? Send them a letter or something? Get a teleporter to give them a message? Surely at least one of them can arrive within a week?”

“That’s not an option.”

“Why not?”

Skulduggery sighs, which is a little unnecessary considering that the man doesn’t breathe. He then taps a lever on the side of the wheel thing and turns the car to the left. Larrikin glances out the window - they’re in a field now, which thankfully still feels familiar, if he ignores the discrepancies. How has a century and a half made such a difference? He’s lived for longer than that. The borders and clothing and rulers and such did all change in that time, but it didn’t feel this significant. In all honesty, he hasn’t paid much attention to the mortal world recently, but even so, this feels too fast, too overwhelming.

“All the teleporters are dead,” Skulduggery says, “Except for one, who doesn’t like me and has stupid hair and is a teacher at some school and very busy.”

“What?”

“They’re all dead.” Skulduggery says. “Anyway, I told you Dexter and you aren’t around right now. Do you really want to see the others?”

As the skeleton says this, he fiddles with his collar. Quite suddenly, a face rolls over Skulduggery’s skull. Larrikin stares. Skulduggery turns his head, ridiculously slowly, to look with actual eyes into Larrikin’s. 

It isn’t the best default response to have, but Larrikin just starts laughing. He laughs so hard it actually hurts (though he’s already fragile from recent events) and it takes a moment to recover. Then he responds to the question. “Yes, I definitely want to see them.”

Skulduggery sighs. “Who do you most want to see?”

“Ghastly,” Larrikin says, because he won’t admit it, but he expects he’ll need moral (or at least emotional) support. 

The pause that stretches out is somewhat harrowing. 

“How about Hopeless? Or Saracen?”

Skulduggery nods. “I’ll contact Saracen … The others are too far away to be back in a week.”

“Thank you,” Larrikin says, eyeing the skeleton doubtfully.

“We’re here,” Skulduggery says.

Finally the nauseating vehicle stops. Larrikin struggles with the belt buckle. 

“You need to press the orange button.”

“The orange… oh. Yes, now what? Stop laughing!”

“It’s not that difficult to manage, Larrikin,” Skulduggery says, pressing Larrikin’s thumb down further. The belt retracts and Larrikin is free. He grabs the handle on the door, tugs it hard and hurries outside when it opens. He glares at the hunk of metal, and lets Skulduggery tug him onto a higher ledge. A loud and quick vehicle breezes past. He’s in a street, he realises. It’s busy, a little like the inner streets in York in England, except the buildings aren’t like anything he’s seen before. There’s more space, more air. He’s standing in front of a shopfront which has chairs and tables out the front. It’s even nice, in an alien sort of way.

At some stage Larrikin needs to register the fact that everything is different here. He might need more than half an hour though, to manage that.

“I don’t have money,” he says suddenly.

“Of course not, I can cover it. Come on.”

Larrikin trails behind Skulduggery. “What’s with the face?”

“China made me a façade a while ago, so I can go into public easily.”

“China. China Sorrows? Miss ‘I’m so evil even Hopeless hates me’? That woman?”

“She’s mellowed.”

“Bullshit.”

“Perhaps,” the two are already at the counter, “Do you drink coffee? I can’t remember.”

“Yes,” Larrikin says. 

Skulduggery chats to the person behind the counter, is told to pay, pays (Larrikin cannot tell how, some sort of magic maybe) and guides Larrikin towards a seat in a booth in the back. The place looks lovely and hasn’t got many people in it. Larrikin hunches his shoulders.

“Hasn’t China already defected? In your time.”

“She says she’s neutral.” Larrikin says. “Doesn’t make up for everything she did before.”

“No. Nothing does.”

Larrikin looks around, at the few people here, at the plants hanging from the roof, at the light flooding in. The music playing is loud and unnatural (Larrikin can’t see the musicians, no matter how much he cranes his head). This isn’t where he’s supposed to be.

“Why am I here, Skulduggery?”

“I’m getting you food.”

“No. You know I don’t mean that. Why am I here, in your timeline?”

Skulduggery sighs, and it’s thoroughly off putting to see him do that with human lips and human cheeks. Larrikin never knew the man before his resurrection, doesn’t have a face to remember or mourn, so seeing one now over Skulduggery’s skull seems like some sort of cosmic imposition. 

"I’m worried that I will create a dangerous paradox if I tell you anything important accidentally,” Skulduggery says, “You shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“It’s not my fault, is it?” Larrikin says, despite the fact that he suspects it is at least, maybe, thirty percent his fault. He remembers quite clearly Valkyrie saying she was supposed to stand on a spot and then standing on the spot himself - to be quite fair, he hadn’t been fully present at the time. He’d just squared up with the man who’d tormented him the night before and then ran screaming while still weak and injured. He misunderstood. It happens!

Will the others be grilling Valkyrie about all this? For the second time ever, he feels sympathy for the woman.

“The point is, I won’t be able to answer all your questions.”

“Why take me here then? Why show me Dublin later on? Why not keep me in your little well-lit box room until you get rid of me?”

It’s weird to see Skulduggery’s face fall, instead of just hearing the smallest hint in his voice and posture. “You’re my friend, Larrikin.”

“... Sorry, that wasn’t fair.”

“Here’s the food,” a waiter walks over, a heaped plate in their right hand. They set it in front of Skulduggery, who pushes it over to Larrikin. “Were you waiting for anything else?”

“He’s waiting for a coffee,” Skulduggery says. 

“Awesome,” the person says, and walks away.

“They were staring at me,” Larrikin hisses.

“Well, look at yourself.”

Larrikin obeys, with some misapprehension. His tunic is ripped at the side and there’s a bloodstain quite visible on the hem. His trousers are dirty, particularly at the knees, and his face is probably also a mess. This wouldn’t usually faze him - there’s nothing wrong with a bit of dirt, in fact it’s normal on mission - but here, around these neat and clean people, he feels a little shame. 

“Eat,” Skulduggery advises.

Larrikin does. Somehow, the food manages to be different here too. The dish is eggs with bacon on bread with a sauce on top, but everything tastes a little off. Like someone took the ordinary taste of food and shifted it a bit to the left. The bread is too sweet. The eggs are less flavoursome than he’d normally expect, the bacon too salty. Larrikin isn’t a snob though, so he eats it all. There has never been a time in his life where he could afford not to eat the food in front of him. 

“Do you like it?”

Larrikin shakes his head in a fervent ‘no’, stuffing bacon into his mouth. Skulduggery laughs, and the waiter arrives again, setting a mug in front of him and hurrying away. Larrikin swallows and takes a sip of the drink. It’s as rich as the food but the flavour is less distressing, perhaps because Larrikin rarely drinks coffee back at home.

“This is good!”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Skulduggery says.

There’s a long pause, about four minutes where Larrikin simply eats.

“You’re already finished?”

“Yes,” Larrikin says. “How do you future people piss these days?”

Larrikin decides not to think about future water closets after he manages to work out how to navigate it. Some things are too scarring, too much to handle. The water, at least, was warm and came with soap, even if he almost scalded himself first. He hurries outside. Skulduggery is leaning against his car door, he hasn’t noticed Larrikin.

“You can’t visit.” Skulduggery is speaking quietly into his hand. Larrikin leans against the wall, peering through the doorway and the bright light. Has the man finally cracked? Why is he acting like he’s having a genuine conversation? Larrikin can understand talking to yourself in some circumstances, absolutely, but making fake plans is a little peculiar. “No, you have to postpone. I’m serious. You cannot come here, not for a week … No, I’m not blowing you off, I’m serious, it isn’t safe …”

Nobody nearby or passing is looking at Skulduggery. Nobody is registering his behaviour as a concern, no-one is speeding up or moving steps away, no-one even glances. Larrikin is used to mortals - actually, he can widen this generalisation, he’s used to people. And people, more often than not, do not tolerate difference. A man rambling to himself would not be considered acceptable. 

Unless he isn’t talking to himself.

The mortals made transport that could travel very fast, not quite teleportation, but very good nonetheless. And it has been a while, and it is peacetime. Does Skulduggery have technology that lets him speak through the air, teleport his voice, teleport the response back?

Larrikin pops over to stand by Skulduggery’s shoulder. “Who are ya talking to?”

Skulduggery jolts, and Larrikin dances back, wary of an instinctual punch. Turns out, Skulduggery is holding something black in his hands, something shiny. Buzzed by this discovery, Larrikin plucks it out of the skeleton’s gloved hand and holds it like his friend just was.

“Hello, voice in Skulduggery’s head, is anyone there …?”

“Larrikin!” Skulduggery yells, reaching for his possession. Larrikin bounds back, laughing. “Didn’t you listen to anything I just said?”

“... Larrikin?”

Larrikin freezes. The voice from the device sounds echoey, and hoarser than it should. “Dexter,” Larrikin breathes. It’s ridiculous how relieved he feels. It hasn’t even been a long time since they saw each other. This isn’t even his Dexter. Why does it feel like a weight's been lifted away?

“Oh God,” Dexter says, and he sounds wrong, like it’s hard for him to speak, “Larrikin, Larrikin is that you …”

Skulduggery swears and grabs the voice teleporter away. He does something and the noises stop.

“Tell me Dexter isn’t cursed inside that thing,” Larrikin asks suddenly.

Skulduggery’s anger wavers. “What? No, he’s … he’s not, it’s just. It’s a phone. It helps you speak to anyone in the world instantly.”

“Bullshit,” Larrikin says, as if he hasn't come to a similar conclusion, “This is like you swearing that pixies exist.”

“No, it’s …” Skulduggery gets into the car, and gestures for Larrikin to do the same. “It’s not important. Now that the cat’s out of the bag, Dexter’s probably going to take the next flight over here.”

Nothing in that sentence makes sense. 

“Skulduggery, nothing in that sentence makes sense.”

“Were you listening?” Skulduggery checks that Larrikin is buckled in. (He is, he’s very proud of himself). “Basically, I think Dexter will be at my house soon.”

“Alright. Let’s go.”

“We’re not seeing him.” Skulduggery insists.

“It’ll be rude to avoid him,” Larrikin says. “And if there’s a chance for me to spend this week with multiple cagey loved ones instead of one cagey loved one, I’m taking it.”

Skulduggery droops. “Only if you promise not to ask him about your future.”

“Of course,” Larrikin nods, crossing his fingers nearest the door.

“I’m going to regret this,” Skulduggery says, removing his façade.

“Chin up,” Larrikin grins, and this time he looks out the window as they start to move.

Chapter Text

"We need to get out of here," Shudder stated.

The assertion didn't do much. Dexter didn't seem to hear it. The part of Valkyrie that was still present, that was aware of Dexter's angry face in hers, of his fists bunched around the neck of her shirt, didn't expect him to. She wasn't quite sure what the man was saying but she understood the tone. The rough fury, dampened only by a desire not to yell in an unsafe place. But she was mostly focused on that fading nausea, that empty spot of ground that no longer held any worth. She had had a chance, and she had lost it. Just a moment ago, she could have gotten home.

"He's right," Hopeless said, stepping in between them. Then their back was to Valkyrie - in protection or dismissal, she wasn't sure. Her breathing was heavy in her ears. "I can't hear him at all, Dexter, he's not in this place anymore. And none of us know enough about time magic to fix it right now. Serpine's only a mile or so away."

"We can't leave! Where's Larrikin? Where did he go?"

"Probably to the future," Hopeless said softly. "It's the best theory we've got. We can talk this out later."

Then Ghastly was pulling Dexter away, Hopeless moving with them, and Valkyrie just stood there, unfocused, thoughts beating the insides of her skull.

"Come on Valkyrie," Skulduggery said, and his hand at her elbow was still a stranger's, but it was gentle.

"I didn't do this," she said, and at this point she didn't know who she was even speaking to, "I didn't do this. I swear, I swear ..."

"Hey." Saracen stepped in front of her. "Breathe, Val. We'll work this out, when we get somewhere safe."

Valkyrie inhaled. Skulduggery was silent and still behind her, his hand still supporting her elbow. Exhausted, she leant her forehead against his shoulder. He didn't move a bit.

"We can't leave," Dexter insisted again, but weaker this time.

"Whatever magic took Larrikin," Hopeless repeated, words tight and bitter, "it took him far away. It won't help to stay in the middle of the fucking forest with Serpine breathing down our necks." There was a pause, then Hopeless softened their voice. "Dex, please."

Valkyrie didn't hear his response but the next moment the group was moving silently through the undergrowth.

What proceeded became a blurred memory, they moved through the forest and the night until they arrived at some sort of settlement, and somehow or another they got lodgings. It was an awful haze, and Skulduggery must have kept her standing, with his silent support, because she got there without thinking or falling. The Inn they found themselves in was mortal and dingy, but they bought out the entire sleeping quarters, and Shudder carved protective sigils into the walls and windows and doors.

Skulduggery set Valkyrie on one of the beds, and stepped back. She looked around, tiredly, at the silent soldiers around her. Dexter sank onto a mattress on the other side of the room, leaning his chin on his hands. Hopeless threw off their machete and coat, leaning against a wall to Valkyrie's right. Skulduggery didn't move too far from her either. And all of their eyes - all seven pairs - settled on her face, and the impulse to run, or fight, or scream, took over.

"What happened, from your perspective, Valkyrie?" Skulduggery asked. 

"I - I felt ill, like something was trying to drag me somewhere. And then I knew that there was a spot I was supposed to stand in, but before I could Larrikin stepped there instead," she summarised, "and it took him instead of me. I think he must be in 2017, now."

The pause felt long and damning.

"Can magic be locational like that?" Ghastly asked, eyes on Shudder.

"It's not impossible," he said, "if some sort of time spell is tethered to her, but not strong enough to catch her directly, it's possible that it might just create some sort of portal in her close vicinity. It would take less energy as well, hypothetically."

"And would she sense it, like she said?" Saracen asked.

"Yes," Shudder said.

"Well, Anton's on your side," Saracen said brightly. "What do we do now?"

"How do we get him back?" Dexter ground out.

"Well - if the person in charge of the time magic is trying to rescue Valkyrie, then they'll try to send Larrikin back as soon as possible," Shudder said, "and try to swap him for Valkyrie. Which means as long as we're around her, he should come straight back to us."

"And if the person who sent Valkyrie here isn't good?" Dexter snapped.

"Then there's nothing we can do."

"He's your best friend, aren't you going to try?"

Shudder turned toward Dexter directly for the first time, face set, "I'm as upset as you, Vex, I just don't feel like making a fuss."

"Hey," Saracen said, and he walked over to Dexter and pulled him into a hug. Valkyrie was a little amazed that he didn't get punched in the face.

"Not to be cold, but what do we do now? We're down a healer," Erskine pointed out.

"Well," Ghastly said. "We've done our mission. We just need to not take any more. Do we know anyone who dabbles with time magic?"

The group shook their heads, except for Dexter, whose back was to everyone else, Saracen's chin settled on top of his head.

"Well, we go back to camp and ask around," Ghastly said firmly, as if this wasn't the weakest plan that had ever been made. 

"Alright," Skulduggery said. "If you gentlemen will excuse us, Ghastly, Ravel and I need to talk to Valkyrie."

"What?" Valkyrie jolted so she was sitting upright again.

"Come on," the skeleton said, and he took her elbow again - gently - and got her to her feet.

"What do you want now?" Valkyrie asked, arms crossed. 

The four of them were settled precariously on the Inn's roof, having found an open window in the attic that lead to the top. They were all sitting, and below them the little village stretched up to the sheep paddocks that were barely visible in the night.

"Hopeless told me what you told them," Erskine said, stone-faced. 

"They asked!" Valkyrie protested.

"We know," Ghastly said quickly, "we believe you. It's hard to keep things from Hopeless."

"Wish it was the other way around too," Erskine muttered, barely audible.

"And it sounded like I'd done something, by the time I get to your time, something unforgiveable," Skulduggery added, "if I interpreted your behaviour properly."

"Same seems to go for me," Erskine shrugged.

"Where are you going with this?" Valkyrie asked. The roof was too high too jump off without drawing massive amounts of attention, and the three of them were between her and the window.

"We want you to help us fix things," Ghastly said.

"Heh?"

"We want you to show us how to make the future better," Erskine said.

"That - That would make a massive paradox-"

"I don't want Hopeless to die," Erskine said plainly. "I don't want to become someone unforgiveable. I don't want my friends to suffer more than they have. And I'm sure you've kept other bad things from us. Is Dexter alive in your time, or Ghastly?"

"Hey, don't ask about that!" Ghastly protested, before he saw Valkyrie's face and froze. "Oh, for God's sake."

"It's clear that you're probably a time traveller - the way you appeared, the way Larrikin left, the way you act," Skulduggery said, and this is the belief that Valkyrie would have loved in any other circumstance, really, wasn't it ironic? "And you're in a unique situation to change things."

"Isn't it dangerous?" She countered.

"Dangerous just makes things more fun," Skulduggery said.

"I think the question is, are you prepared to decide to leave the future as it is?" Erskine asked, evenly. "Does the good outweigh the bad?"

Valkyrie looked down, at her dirty smudged hands. She thought about the war, about Larrikin and Hopeless and Ghastly and Anton and even Erskine. About Skulduggery, and the things he'd done. About a room in the old Sanctuary dedicated to the dead who were murdered by Lord Vile, full of so many names she could never have counted them all, an incomplete list. And she thought about Darquesse, and all she had razed to the ground.

"I'm not perfect," Skulduggery said quietly, "and I don't pretend to be good. But I never want to do anything that makes someone like you terrified of me. You were terrified, weren't you? Terrified of what I'd go and do."

"Yes."

"Please," Skulduggery said, and Valkyrie could not think of a time he had ever sounded this imploring. "Tell me what went wrong, so I can fix it."

Her heartbeat picked up in her ears. One day soon the stress of this all might kill her. And she had never really been the good guy, however much she wanted to be. And what did you say to this? She could be dragged into the future in hours - or years. And in the meantime, here was the blatant opportunity to avert one of the worst war crimes of the entire war against Mevolent.

"You've already been trying to change things, haven't you?" Skulduggery added. "If you hadn't, why did you stop me that night?"

And it was a good point - she had, if not entirely consciously, been meddling already. But to collaborate with people from this time to change things permanently? It seemed too much, a step too far. But though to say yes was dangerous how could she, really, say no? When Skulduggery asked so clearly for help?

"Alright," she said, from very far away. "I'll help you with this."

Chapter Text

“The most important thing,” Skulduggery says to Dexter in lieu of a hello, “is that you don’t tell Larrikin anything he doesn’t already know.”

“Why not?” Larrikin pouts, crossing his arms. Several days with only the skeleton has made him tetchy and he wishes to make problems on purpose.

“So we don’t change anything important when you get sent back,” Skulduggery says shortly. 

Dexter, who is standing on the footpath outside Skulduggery’s ‘home’, sighs. It’s currently raining, and the man looks soggy. Larrikin can’t look away from him. 

“You going to let me in,” Dexter asks coarsely, “or at least give me an umbrella?”

The skeleton just stands there, a shadow in Larrikin’s periphery. Then he clears out of the entrance. Larrikin doesn’t move as Dexter climbs the two steps and reaches the door. Dexter stops before entering and looks into Larrikin’s eyes for the first time. There are shadows beneath Dexter’s eyes, his stubble is thick, and there’s something heavy behind his gaze. Where it’s visible through the emerging beard, Larrikin can see scarring - especially around the mouth.

What happened to you? Larrikin almost says. 

“Hello,” Larrikin voices instead.

“Hi,” Dexter says back, and the coarseness in his voice is a steady thing. It sounds like speech is difficult for him. It sounds like it hurts him to talk. 

“Hi,” Larrikin tries.

“How are you holding up?” Dexter asks, eyes flicking away.

“I’m - I’m alright,” Larrikin breathes, and almost on instinct he reaches out to put a hand on Dexter’s cheek. It isn’t a come on. Larrikin is well aware that this isn’t the Dexter he knows. No, it’s a casual and usual touch to see if the man is still hurt in a way that Larrikin can fix. The scars are old but perhaps still fixable. 

Dexter flinches away. Larrikin drops his hand, eyes ducking down. 

It probably wasn’t necessary anyway. Surely future Larrikin - the one that lives full-time in 2017 - would have fixed all he could?

“Sorry,” Larrikin says, “I- I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“I-,” Dexter swallows audibly. Larrikin takes a step back and doesn’t look up, eyes burning just a little. It’s foolish to feel humiliated by the rejection when this isn’t his place, or time, or…

“Come into the house,” Skulduggery calls. Larrikin wonders if this is an attempted rescue from the awful tension hanging in the air, or whether Skulduggery simply has good timing for once.

“Coming,” Dexter says. He walks in, dripping water onto the floorboards.

Larrikin follows.

This, Larrikin decides, is bizarre. It isn’t a first-encounter thing, it isn’t some sort of awkward fluke, not entirely. And sure, some might say that being transported unexpectedly almost two centuries into the future and having to spend a week with the future version of his closest friends was already pretty strange. But Larrikin has depths. He can see past that. 

No, the way Dexter in particular is behaving, regardless of the situation, is still really weird. 

If this was Larrikin’s Dexter, Larrikin wouldn’t be sitting on a completely different couch. They wouldn't be partaking in the future equivalent of a good travelling theatre performance, on the box that blares light. They would be talking, because something the two had worked out very early in their acquaintance was that talking was the only way they could keep things stable with everything else falling apart. Or something. 

But now it's a silent glancing game. Larrikin isn't inept at reading body language; he doesn't try to physically approach. For some reason his throat has gotten caught on itself and it's hard to speak. He notes Dexter glancing at him, notes Skulduggery's stony silence, and ignores the future-play so entirely that he couldn't describe the hero's appearance.

At some point apparently Dexter gets hungry and goes into the kitchen. Larrikin just sits, hands on knees, time seeping past. He doesn't bother asking Skulduggery anything. He just swallows until his voice reappears and walks, jittery, into the next room. Dexter's back is turned, but the way he stiffens indicates he can still hear as well as he used to. Larrikin sighs and closes the door behind him, leaning against it a moment too long. He doesn't want Skulduggery to enter. The skeleton might have concerns about existential threats from time travel, but right now Larrikin's only concern is his boyfriend. Well, his future boyfriend. For a moment he just looks at him, this older, strange man, as he begins to cook on the stove (this is a word Larrikin does remember!) back still firmly facing him.

"Why did you come, then?"

"What do you mean?" Dexter says. There's a pause but he doesn't turn. Larrikin thinks he mightn't for this entire conversation. "It seemed like you might need help."

"Help?" Larrikin scoffs.

"Yes," Dexter flips something.

"H-How are you helping?"

"Hmm?"

"You don't touch me, you don't speak to me, you flinch if I get close," Larrikin states, and now Dexter turns, gaze still cast away. "That's - you're not acting like you want to help. You're acting like you want to run."

Dexter looks at Larrikin with so much sadness that it feels like an actual blow.

"I - have I done something?"

Dexter shakes his head.

"W-will I? Do something?" An awful thought occurs, fuelled by the vision of those badly healed scars. "Are we, are we not together, anymore?"

It's the only thing really, that makes sense.

"You know Skulduggery doesn't want me to tell you anything."

"Fuck that!" Larrikin says, and his eyes are burning. "You're acting like we're strangers, and you don't want me to fix it? Why are you here?"

"For you," and it's barely a breath. 

"How is any of this for me?"

"Oh," Dexter blurts, and for the first time he steps right toward Larrikin, into his space with intention, "I didn't mean to make you cry."

Larrikin scrubs the dampness off his face. The tightness in his throat has returned. And it's stupid really, stupid of him to have thought that Dexter being here would make things alright. He's alone in an alien world with alien people and he had believed innately somehow that Dexter would not have changed. It's stupid! Selfish, even. Idiotic and probably unkind to this man, who hasn't done much more than be awkward really, who obviously didn't mean to upset him.

But even now, Dexter doesn't put a hand on his shoulder, even in the most friendly and platonic way. Doesn't say much more to calm him, doesn't do anything in character for him to do.

"What happened to your face?" Larrikin says, which admittedly might be the worst thing to say to a stranger, but it's been ringing in his head this whole time.

"Oh," Dexter says. "I was attacked."

"I didn't heal you?"

"It was much more - much worse than this. No-one could heal it fully."

Larrikin frowns, the tone is familiar. "You're evading - how are you evading?"

Dexter sighs, "I for- can't you leave it be?"

"Oh," Larrikin says, and he sits down at the kitchen table. There's a faint smell of burning that he doesn't care to mention, but Dexter curses and rushes back to the pan, and Larrikin just puts his head in his hands, and wishes desperately for 1850, the war, his lover.

"Fuck," Dexter says, but then something starts shrieking - loud and continuous.

Enemies, Larrikin thinks, but we're unprepared.

He hasn't got a weapon and he's not the best fighter anyway, Dexter and Skulduggery are unarmoured, the other five aren't here, and where is that noise coming from, it's from everywhere, it's inside Larrikin's head.

"Hey!" Dexter yells. The sound has gone. Somehow Larrikin has his hands firmly on the latch of the back door - he must have moved while freaking out. "Hey."

Larrikin blinks.

"You're safe," Dexter says, even raspier than before, "I'm here. You're safe."

Larrikin must trust Dexter still, because with those words breathing becomes easier, just a little.

“Come back into the kitchen?” Dexter asks. “Sit down?”

Larrikin leans against the door, eyes closed tight, one hand on his collarbone. “What was that noise?”

“It was a fire alarm. It - it detects smoke. Come in?” Dexter holds out his hand.

Larrikin just stares for a while. It's unexpected, this gesture, that's what it is. But his shock takes too long, Dexter stiffens and pulls away.

It should be embarrassing how quickly Larrikin reaches out to stop Dexter's withdrawal. It isn't, though. Their hands fit like they always do, and Larrikin squeezes tight. Whatever I do in the future that hurt you, Larrikin thinks, irrational and intense, forgive me.

"Are you hungry?" Dexter asks.

On the screen the show is still playing. Larrikin stands in the doorway of the kitchen and watches it continue. Skulduggery hasn't moved. In the show, two men are standing on a slight slope with a moor in the background, speaking intensely. Suddenly, the shorter man kisses the taller. 

"What?" Larrikin murmurs. "What is this?"

Skulduggery finally shifts to face him. Perhaps the emotion on Larrikin's face is self-evident, perhaps Skulduggery still knows him and his history like the bones of his own hands. But it takes a moment for the skeleton to respond, and he is careful with it when he does.

"It's a popular mortal show."

"And it…"

"There are people like you in it," Skulduggery says. He pauses, "people like us."

And Larrikin would have made a teasingly gentle response to that, with a raised eyebrow and narrowed eyes, something that remarked on the skeleton never sharing this fact before. Something that straddled the line of crude and accepting. But he's been all shaken up, rattled like a cat stuffed in a jar much too small for it, and he just nods. His face is damp. Is he crying again?

Since when did he stop knowing how to recognise his own behaviours? How is crying something he feels detached from?

"Things have gotten better in a lot of ways," Skulduggery says, "since the war."

"Oh," Larrikin swallows. He recalls an early conversation with Valkyrie, nine days and almost two centuries ago, "and for people like … people like Hopeless?"

"Do you want the truth?"

"Yes."

"After Hopeless …" and Skulduggery freezes, and then he stands quite abruptly and turns off the show. Larrikin frowns. The skeleton tilts his head, "I was about to say something I shouldn't have."

"I was going to ask, yeah," Larrikin murmurs, "what happened to your rule of secrecy?"

"It feels like something you should know." Skulduggery admits. "It feels cruel not to tell you."

"Then generalise it?"

"Things get worse for people like Hopeless, in magical society, for a time, but it's getting better. And men, or women, can marry each other now. Or people like Hopeless, of course."

"Yeah?" Larrikin says. He grins, watery and awful. "I bet Dexter and I had the stupidest fucking wedding anyone has ever seen."

"Food," Dexter says from behind him, and he shoves a metal plate into Larrikin's hands, pushes past and turns the show back on.

Which, Larrikin guesses, means the conversation is over for now.

Chapter Text

The rooftop conversation wasn't continued until the next day. In the meantime Valkyrie had tried to occupy herself, and failed. She avoided Hopeless, certain her fears were too easily read, and spent time outside, staring at the greying sky until the other three sought her out. She kept hoping that ill tugging feeling would come back, that some force would drag her home before she had to really commit to the decision she had made.

Huh. This whole experience had really shaken her own self-confidence, she realised quite suddenly, thought of how few quips she'd made, how few jokes. 

Part of her anticipation came from the fact that she could remember, quite clearly, Gordon's fairy tales he'd told her as a kid. Stories about humans who found themselves trapped in fairyland, or forced through trials, who were told easy and explicit instructions which they never seemed to follow.

"Hello Valkyrie."

"Ghastly," Valkyrie turned. There were the three she'd promised to help, standing side by side solidly, immovable objects. 

"Shall we start to plan?" He asked.

Valkyrie stood and dusted off her legs. "Where shall we go?"

"The others are outside too," Erskine said, "so let's just go to the Inn."

They didn't see any of the other Dead Men on the way.

"So," Skulduggery asked, after they dragged a table and chairs to the centre of the room and all grabbed quills and parchment. "I was thinking we could go over everything you know, that we should change."

Valkyrie frowned. The pause became long enough for Skulduggery to add, "why don't we start with what happened to Hopeless?"

Valkyrie swallowed. "They ... die in Prussia," she said.

"Well, yes."

"I don't know when, or how."

"Inconvenient," Skulduggery murmured.

"It's during the war," she added, "and it was said they died for what they believed in, so I always assumed it was in combat."

"Hopeless believes in many things," Ghastly said, a little wryly.

"It's not ridiculous to think they're killed while fighting," Skulduggery interjected lightly, and wrote something down. "Do you know anything else?"

"No, I'm sorry."

Skulduggery nodded jerkily. "Alright. What about Erskine?"

"What about me?" Erskine said, warily.

"How does Erskine die?"

Erskine stood so abruptly his chair wobbled. "Why are you assuming I'm dead?"

"Intuition," Skulduggery said. "Sit down. Don't be silly, we're fixing that."

"Erskine ... Erskine died as a sacrifice to stop the world from ending."

"That's ... a lot more specific than what you said for Hopeless," Skulduggery tilted his head. The pause stretched out. "You were there?"

Valkyrie nodded.

"Why me?" Erskine said, quiet and drawn out.

"You were ... the best option. There wasn't much time."

"No," Erskine said, and he began to pace. "That doesn't make sense. If I died a hero why did you try to kill me the first time we met?"

Valkyrie pressed her feet flat against the floor, and raised her eyes to look directly at Erskine. Something bitter seeped into her - they were the ones needling her, why should she keep this secret to save their feelings? Tell them, something in her urged, imbued with unkindness.

"You weren't the one who chose to be sacrificed."

"Someone else kills me?" Erskine frowned. He was tapping the fingers of his right hand on the palm of his left hand, spinning on the heels of his feet when his pacing reached a wall.

"Yes," and stupidly, she glanced at Skulduggery. Erskine and Ghastly didn't seem to register it - Ghastly's gaze troubled and clouded, Erskine's forcibly away, but Skulduggery shifted in his chair.

"And what happened before, to make you hate him?" Skulduggery moved on.

"Can we stop talking about me?" Erskine snapped.

"Alright," Skulduggery said, "what about Ghastly?"

Valkyrie's throat tightened, and she just shook her head. 

"If you're just here to waste our time ..." Skulduggery started out, as if he didn't have a quarter of a page of indiscernible notes right in front of him. 

"What about Skulduggery?" Erskine's eyes were wild, and for the first time Valkyrie thought she could see the man that had screamed for twenty-three hours in a cell, the man that had accelerated the end of the universe to give himself more power, the person she hated so intensely that an offshoot of herself had broken him with cruel magic. 

But then Valkyrie breathed, and realised, quite abruptly and almost shamefully, how different this Erskine was to that one. 

"Well?" Skulduggery said, calm like Valkyrie couldn't see the hesitance in the slight tilt of his bones.

"What if you don't like what I say?" She asked.

"It isn't like I liked the other things you've said," Skulduggery said.

Valkyrie looked dead into Skulduggery's shadowed eyesockets. "This is different. It's you."

"Well, we haven't all day," Skulduggery said. And then his voice softened, and it wasn't entirely a ruse. "We can't fix something we don't know about."

"You become Lord Vile," Valkyrie forced, and the breath that came next was lighter than any inhalation she had taken in the last two weeks.

"What does that mean?"

"You ... you join Mevolent," Valkyrie said, and she leant away from the table.

Ghastly laughed. Erskine stopped pacing. Skulduggery didn't move.

"Sure, but what actually happens to Skulduggery?" Ghastly asked.

"He joins Mevolent," Valkyrie said, eyes hot.

"But that just doesn't make sense," Erskine said, voice undercut with an excruciating thrumming tone of anxiety. "That just doesn't make any sense at all!"

"What happens," Skulduggery's voice was very low, "exactly?"

"You become too angry to let the war go, you go to a necromancer temple, you become a necromancer, then you become one of the three Generals."

"Skulduggery's an elemental," Ghastly smiled, "that can't physically happen."

Skulduggery's skull twisted just a little, moving his gaze an inch away from Ghastly's image.

"How many people do I kill?"

The air stopped. 

"Countless," Valkyrie said, standing now.

"Skulduggery, you don't seriously believe this?" Ghastly asked, mirth dying as he turned towards his brother. 

"Not now Ghastly."

"You don't seriously believe this do you? You - why would you join Mevolent? Why would you fight with Serpine?" Ghastly inhaled shakily. "Why would you leave me?"

"I'm not a good man," Skulduggery said, like he was talking about the weather. "You know how angry I get."

"Yes, and we talk about it," Ghastly tried, "we can talk about it more. Why would you - why?"

"He hasn't done it yet," Erskine overcut, much harsher than even Skulduggery must have expected, because the skeleton turned fully around to look at him. "What else do we need to know?"

"I-" Valkyrie paused.

"Why are we moving past this?" Ghastly asked, and he was standing now. He set a hand on Skulduggery's shoulder and the skeleton fully flinched - Ghastly jerked away. 

"Valkyrie ..." Erskine prompted again.

"I-" Valkyrie tried, but her chest was full to the brim with cotton and it was coming up her throat and she couldn't breathe, not quite. "I-"

And then, somehow, through volition that must have mostly been instinct, she was stumbling down the steps. No-one followed her - not that she could hear - though there were raised voices in the room she'd left. And she hurried, past waitstaff and workers and people having their pints, and she left the door open as she exited, and even when on the cobblestone path she kept hurrying. Towards the forest she went, ear thrumming and breath heavy and heart pounding, and exercise was supposed to good for anxiety wasn't it, so why was her chest just tightening and tightening?

And in the forest she sank so quickly it was almost a fall, stupid and dramatic, and why couldn't she handle all this like a normal person? And why was Skulduggery so unsurprised when she had talked about Vile? How long did they all have before he left? Valkyrie leant her hands on the dirt, eyes shut. 

For a bit, time just kept travelling.

"Are you alright?"

Valkyrie jumped, "what are you doing here?"

Hopeless hesitated in the shadow of the tree they were standing by. Then something resolved in their face. "You're so overwhelmed I could feel it from the other side of the village."

"I-" 

"Hey," Hopeless stepped over and laid a careful hand over Valkyrie's wrist, and suddenly she could breathe. "It's alright. You're safe."

"I'm not, I'm not, I'm not," and it was shameful, the tears in her eyes, as she gulped in air.

"What's making you feel unsafe?" Hopeless asked.

"Am I ever going back?" Valkyrie managed. "Will it be the same?"

"Oh," Hopeless said, grey eyes wide. Then they knelt in front of Valkyrie. "Look at me, please."

Valkyrie raised her head.

"We're getting you back, Val," they said softly. "You'll get home."

"...Aren't you angry with me?" Valkyrie asked, straightening her back, trying to force the emotions all back down. Hopeless hadn't removed their hand, and Valkyrie suspected that if they did she would simply fall apart.

"I'm contemplating my own mortality," and Hopeless smiled without mirth, "but I can't be angry with you for answering my question."

"Really?"

"Well," Hopeless shrugged, "I might be angry a little. But I'm still going to try and help where I can."

"Oh," Valkyrie said. 

"Hey," Hopeless smiled falsely. "Any friend of Skulduggery's is a friend of mine. No matter the timeline."

"Okay," Valkyrie smiled, and it almost felt real on her face. She laid her free hand over Hopeless', and breathed. "Okay."

Chapter Text

"How long is it going to take?"

Larrikin's nerves are coiled tighter than ropes on a ship: two days of being around his distant future-partner and a colder than usual skeleton has made him wired to the brink of explosion. He usually thrives off tension - Anton likes to tease that he'd poke a hornet's nest if someone else was also in its vicinity - but this aches. 

Skulduggery shrugs. "It should be fully ready in a day. The procedure takes about five, ten  seconds?"

"Good," Larrikin says, and in his blurred periphery he sees Dexter through the doorway to the other room, sees him stand abruptly and walk away.

It isn't fair. Larrikin isn't one to expect fairness in the first place but this all feels cruel. Whatever unexplained issue is being carried by Dexter and Skulduggery, Larrikin shouldn't feel the brunt of it. He has gotten over the initial shock, the strange sympathy, is starting to feel angry at the both of them because whatever happened in the future isn't his fault. And they're acting like it is.

Larrikin doesn't want to stay here at all, doesn't care to see modern Dublin, doesn't care to meet the other future versions of the Dead Men. He wants his Dexter and his fellow soldiers and the stability of his time. He wants an emotionally present partner. He wants a skeleton whose behaviours he can mostly understand. He hates to tread on eggshells, most of the time refuses to or decides to crunch down on them, doesn't like this itching skin-deep feeling of unease. 

So he doesn't even think to approach Dexter and see if he's alright, and instead walks out to the dismal porch of this dismal house and listens to the birdsong and the wind. It's evening going on to night and cold, but he closes his eyes and breathes and tries to relax his shoulders, find some peace. 

It doesn't work.

They're arguing again. It's not very loud, not really, but Larrikin is used to waking at the slightest disturbance, rolls in bed tired and annoyed. The light through the window is faint but unnerving - he isn't yet used to the brightness of streets in this place. And the fighting keeps going on. Dexter seems to be the one pushing it - his voice is a little louder than Skulduggery's, more frantic. Larrikin is going to be home tomorrow. He can get through this night, surely, without saying anything.

Larrikin rolls out of bed.

The hallway light has been turned off. The kitchen door is shut and light peeks under the crevice of the door. Larrikin bounces on his feet, puts a smile on, goes to shove open the door and demand the two shut the fuck up when he hears a snippet of a voice, now hushed.

"... so you don't even want me to warn him?"

"Do you think he'd do anything differently, even if you did?" Skulduggery responds. 

Larrikin's heart is thudding awfully loud in his chest. His smile drifts away and he presses a palm to the painted wooden door, like it's a chest, like it'd have a heartbeat to feel against his skin.

"Surely," Dexter breathes, a confession, "how could he not?"

"Nope, you are not doing this," Larrikin mutters to himself, and he shoves open the door. Dexter jolts with the surprise, Skulduggery doesn't move at all. Larrikin looks at both of them. Skulduggery, standing like a ghost in the corner beside the sink, Dexter with his hands still braced against the tabletop.

"Talking about me?" Larrikin asks, cheery.

Dexter's face twists, Skulduggery finally moves. "How much did you hear?"

"I heard you both arguing at 2 in the fucking morning, if that's what you're asking," Larrikin says, and for the hell of it he pushes past to get a glass of water from the sink. 

"Did we wake you?" Skulduggery asks, for some reason pretending to care. It's not even a particularly unkind thought for Larrikin to have - Skulduggery just doesn't care about that sort of thing.

"Yeah," Larrikin says, and he skulls the glass in one go, gulping like a horse.

"Larrikin ..." Dexter breathes.

"Don't you dare," Skulduggery interjects, furious.

The moment hangs. Larrikin drops the glass on the metal sink with a clatter. Dexter turns to look at the both of them, and something deep within Larrikin's chest sinks. And then the skeleton leaves the room, somehow pointedly unimpressed.

"What is it?" Larrikin asks finally. "What could be so awful that it twists you both up like this?"

Dexter pinches his lips together. 

"You won't tell me," Larrikin nods slowly. "At the very least let me sleep the rest of tonight."

Larrikin moves past, intent on getting back to his room, but Dexter grabs his hand. Larrikin stills, barely daring to turn his head. Is this it? Is the wall of secrecy finally about to crack?

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning," Dexter manages, "I won't see you."

"Oh," Larrikin says, and looks at the ground.

"Goodbye," Dexter says, letting go.

Larrikin just stands, like the oak that had towered behind his mother's cottage, four hundred years ago. He wrangles his face into something neutral.

"If you're going," he says, words like treacle in his mouth, "will you let me try to heal you, before you leave?"

The moment is stationary. Then, sharp and to the point, "no."

"Oh," Larrikin blinks, curling his hand into his chest. Dexter walks out after Skulduggery. 

The drive to the magical city the next afternoon is silent. Larrikin sits in the front seat with his belt on, knees clutched to his chest. The skeleton glances at him a couple of times during the trip but doesn't speak. Larrikin twists the black thick fabric of the seat belt in his left hand. They enter the city quicker than expected. The people on the street all have somewhere to go. Larrikin supposes he does too, but he doesn't feel it - dulled from fatigue and conversation last night. He wonders if the Dexter of his own time would have cared enough to see him off. If the Dexter of 1850 would have held a younger Larrikin's hand. Unbuckling takes more attention than it really should. Larrikin stumbles out the car, then turns to look at Skulduggery, who's unruffled.

"Lead the way," Larrikin says. 

Skulduggery nods slowly, and walks through the front door. The walk is quicker than Larrikin remembers, and then they're in the room he had first appeared in. The light is less overwhelming this time.

"If you just sit on the chair," Skulduggery says, indicating a new chair that is way too tangled up with wires and machinery to be comfortable, "I can send you off."

"Alright," Larrikin nods, fireflies under his skin. He sits.

Skulduggery nods and adjusts the device a bit. "You should be swapped with Valkyrie, a week ahead of when you left. It's easier to keep the time interval the same instead of replacing you immediately back when you left."

"Get on with it, man," Larrikin says. 

"Alright," Skulduggery says. "When I press this button, you should be gone in five to ten seconds."

"Great."

Skulduggery moves, and Larrikin suddenly throws up an arm. 

"Wait."

Frustrated, Skulduggery tilts his skull. Larrikin recalls that the skeleton's friend is also relying on this procedure. 

"Just, please ... look after yourself, you and Dexter and the others."

Skulduggery freezes, and after a moment gingerly puts a gloved hand on Larrikin's shoulder.

"Larrikin," Skulduggery says, almost familial, "we'll do our best. Look after yourself too."

The skeleton presses the button.

Five seconds pass.

Ten go by.

Fifteen. 

Thirty.

A minute. Skulduggery presses again. Nothing responds.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Larrikin groans, and he puts his head in his hands, his own internal wiring set to explode.

Chapter Text

In the end they walked the way back from the forest, Valkyrie coming back sharply into her skin. At the imaginable borderline between the trees and the clearing of the village, Hopeless paused. Valkyrie glanced at them, and frowned at the emotions laid bare on their face.

"Please tell me you're not doing something stupid, with Erskine and Skulduggery," they asked quietly, "I - Erskine's not very subtle when he's trying to keep something from me, and I wouldn't pry-"

Valkyrie snorted, a visceral and immediate response, "yes you would."

"I wouldn't pry into his business," Hopeless spoke over her, "but it ... this feels a little like we're teetering on the edge of a cliff, or - or something. This feels like something very bad could happen very easily."

Valkyrie shrugged. She guessed an undead skeleton turning into a mass-murdering psychopath would be classed as 'very bad'. She waited for Hopeless to press this issue, push her to speak, but the silence just kept stretching. Hopeless, at a glance, looked shattered. It wasn't Valkyrie's job, to keep secrets, even if she had agreed to fix things. But she did want to fix things, and there was a reason why the four of them weren't sharing this with the others, and would answering Hopeless ruin all this work they'd started? But ... Hopeless was the group's mediator, and Valkyrie would love some mediation right now. Her body, just newly relaxed, was beginning to tense up again, muscles tight with the pressure suddenly back on her. 

"Stop," Hopeless said with one shuddering breath, "I-it's okay, I shouldn't have asked you that."

And so, before Valkyrie could reach a conclusion on how to proceed, Hopeless started walking away, shoulders hunched and pace quick.  

Meeting the Dead Men in the past had made Valkyrie realise that Anton was one of the better - or perhaps best - cooks of the group. He actually used spices and seemed to care about cooking things well, not just chucking them in the pot and calling it a day. So when she saw that it was Saracen's turn to make the stew today (they did not have enough coin to justify buying every meal from the tavern), she was half-inclined to just give up on dinner altogether.

"Valkyrie," Saracen greeted, "how are you?"

"I'm okay," she said, hesitating beside a tree; they had chosen a small clearing to set up a fire and the large pot above. Apparently this style of living wasn't simply necessity for the Dead Men. Valkyrie felt sure there must be some sort of stove or oven (however old-fashioned to her eyes) available somewhere in this village.

Dexter was sitting in the shade of a nearby tree and didn't greet her, or move at all. But Saracen was smiling, "the others should be here soon."

"Alright," she said, and went to sit down before hesitating again, "do you want any help?"

"Nah, it's fine," Saracen said, even as the smell of burning increased. Valkyrie shrugged and slumped against the tree.

Saracen was right, the others arrived quickly. Valkyrie kept her gaze away from Skulduggery, Ghastly and Erskine, but blinked when Anton sat beside her silently. The bowls they had were wooden, as were the spoons, and Saracen doled out painfully large amounts of slightly blackened stew to all but Skulduggery, who sat there silently and somewhat ominously. 

"Well," Saracen said casually, "are you four going to share your scheming? Or do we have to play twenty guesses? Because I will win, I know things you know."

"Who is scheming?" Skulduggery asked casually, as most of the others choked on their first mouthful of stew.

Saracen pointed, quickly, at Valkyrie, Skulduggery, Erskine and Ghastly. "You're all shit at being sneaky, I hope you know."

"Fucking hell," Erskine said.

Ghastly just glanced around the circle and shrugged, "we're trying to change the future."

If everyone was uneasy before it was nothing to this. Valkyrie stayed sitting, while Anton and Dexter and the rest got to their feet.

"...why would you do something that stupid ..."

"... Ghastly why did you tell them?"

"Larrikin's trapped in the future and you're deciding to mess with shit? What in God's name ..." Dexter's voice was louder than most.

"There's no point keeping secrets."

"SHUT IT!" Erskine yelled over all of them, and it was astonishingly effective. He was pacing. It was the most intense and unravelled she'd ever seen him, and something under her skin urged her to get out, to leave, she knew what this man could do. But, she didn't know what this man could do, not the one from 1850. She needed to remember that.

"Hopeless is going to die," Erskine spat, "as are Ghastly and I. Skulduggery is going to do something absolutely stupid, and ..."

"Don't make this about me," Hopeless said, a whisper.

"If we don't do anything, then many many people are going to die in the future."

"Don't you understand," Hopeless' voice was heartbreaking as they stepped towards Erskine and pointed at Valkyrie, "this isn't in the future, it's in her past. We can't change anything. It's not going to work."

"How do you know that?" Erskine demanded, stepping closer to them. "How can you be certain? Can't you accept that for once, you don't know how this'll turn out?"

Hopeless' jaw was tight, grey eyes narrow and furious, "what's your plan then?"

"I-"

"We're gathering information right now, that's all," Skulduggery's smooth voice carried over the argument, "getting Valkyrie to tell us everything she knows that's relevant ..."

"I'm sure she's enjoyed that," Hopeless snapped, "she's been so stressed, I could feel it on the other side of the village!"

"And we're going to proceed from there."

"Stop," Valkyrie said.

"So you don't even know what to ... Dexter's right, you haven't even got Larrikin back and you're meddling with things? What if this makes things worst? What if he can't get back because of what you want to do."

"When we get Larrikin back Valkyrie will leave and we won't have a chance to change things," Skulduggery returned, measuredly, "Hopeless, you're catastrophising; this might severely increase your life expectancy."

"Stop," Valkyrie snapped, and now she stood. "You don't need more information. Skulduggery, you need to sort out your anger and get a purpose outside this war. Erskine, you need to talk about what happened in the year you got captured. You all need to talk to each other and get on the same page. There are other outside issues but if you don't address these ones there's no point saving Hopeless, or anyone else."

The silence after she spoke was almost catharsis. Bizarrely, she thought Anton was smiling just a little.

"Sort yourselves out," she said, "it's not up to me to save you from yourselves. I've been doing enough as it is."

And when she walked back toward the village she even remembered to bring her bowl, so she didn't have to look back once. No-one pursued her, and she couldn't hear the conversation falling back behind her, only knew it was hesitant and quieter than before.

Chapter Text

“There you are.”

Larrikin raises his head, and blinks a couple of times. He’s a bit put-off – this ale is solid stuff, and he had been planning on consuming it in vast quantities alone. He shrugs and takes another sip instead of responding. It doesn’t do much for the iron twisting around his heart and stomach, but it distances him from the feeling enough that he no longer wishes to scream.

“How long have you been here?” Dexter asks, still standing beside him.

Larrikin shrugs and drinks some more. Dexter grabs the glass off him, and some sloshes onto the table. Larrikin would care but, well, it’s hard to care about much right now.

“You worried Skulduggery,” Dexter says.

“He’s an adult." Larrikin dismisses, and he wrenches the drink right back and clutches it close. "What are you doing here? I thought you left this morning.”

“Skulduggery called me when he couldn’t find you.”

“He’s not my parent." Larrikin glares. “Leave me alone.”

“No, he’s your friend.” Dexter says, deliberately measured. Then he sits on the other side of the table, and Larrikin’s gaze falls to those scars across his face.

“Fuck off,” Larrikin says tiredly, and he finishes the ale and gets up for another. Dexter doesn’t stop him, so Larrikin sighs and turns back. “Want anything?”

“How do you have money?”

“I put a tab on Skulduggery.”

Dexter snorts. “Alright, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Larrikin nods and doesn’t stagger towards the bar. Even if he did, the barkeep and himself have built up a rapport over the last several or so hours since Larrikin left the time-travel room in search of the dingiest looking tavern, so he doesn’t expect to be criticised for it. He returns with two pints and almost slams Dexter’s in front of him. Dexter slides his phone back into his pocket and looks up.

“Why are you here?” Larrikin grits out.

“Wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Well you’ve done that now. Mission completed. Well done you.”

“Larrikin, you’re obviously not okay,” Dexter says, his voice already sounding rough from speaking so much. “You haven’t joked once since I arrived.”

Larrikin swallows a mouthful of the ale. It’s good, tasty and rich, something much better than he’d get in his time, with his wages. He doesn’t know how money works here, so perhaps he’s costing Skulduggery a fortune, but he doesn’t particularly give a shit. Dexter drinks too, less desperately, eyes locked on Larrikin’s face.

“There’s not much to laugh about, is there?” Larrikin says in response.

Dexter reaches out a hand to place on Larrikin’s free one. The touch is jolting. Larrikin recoils automatically, then bites back the apology. This isn’t his boyfriend, and he isn’t entitled to physical contact, however much Larrikin wishes …

Larrikin takes another drink.

“You’re going to go back, you’re not stuck here,” Dexter says, “Skulduggery will make sure of it.”

“Because he’s done such a wonderful job of it so far.”

“This is experimental magic, it’ll take some trial and error.”

“Is that supposed to cheer me up, Dex? Really? What if I end up further in the future, huh? Or get sent back to 1600 or something?” Larrikin rubs a hand over his face. “My life and future are in your fucking hands and considering that neither of you want to tell me anything, I’m starting to wonder if I can trust you with that.”

“Really?” Dexter says. He pauses, and Larrikin glares at the table. 

"What am I supposed to do?" He asks after a moment. "The one thing he promised me hasn't happened. And you both obviously don't trust me - for whatever reason. I don't know why you two chose to take me on, with how much you clearly would prefer to be anywhere else."

"I chose to be here. I looked through eight pubs to find you."

"Am I supposed to commend you? If I wanted you here, I would have said."

"That's the most blatant lie you've said this week," Dexter says, a bit too calm. Larrikin wishes he would get angry, would do something other than speak with that gentle voice and look at him carefully. "I - I'm sorry. I know this hasn't been fair on you. It hasn't been fair on us either. Skulduggery didn't expect to bring you here."

"Why were you playing with time magic in the first place?"

"I've had nothing to do with it. Skulduggery - well, I've told Skulduggery to tell you himself but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to mess with time now - I disagree, but he was firm. I think we've already messed with time, and it won't necessarily hurt more to tell you what you need to know. Anyway, some changes would be good."

"...Now?"

"What?"

Larrikin's right hand is shaking and it has nothing to do with alcohol. He flattens it against the table and looks directly into his not-lover's eyes. "You said he didn't 'want to mess with time now'. Not just 'mess with time', 'mess with time now'."

Dexter just sighs a little and takes a drink. The nonchalance ignites a bitter fury in Larrikin's chest, only better judgement keeps it from erupting entirely. 

"What the fuck did he do?" Larrikin snarls, rising to his feet. "What did he do?"

Dexter's nonchalance peels away like any other mask. He reaches out - again, can't the man get the message? Larrikin shoves his hand away, breathing heavily. He feels ill. He feels like he should have guessed this long before.

"Skulduggery is the reason I'm here, isn't he? He's the reason Valkyrie got sent to us."

"Not ... not exactly."

"You're a shit liar, you know that? At least that hasn't changed."

Dexter's eyes are wide. He looks distraught, which isn't fair really - that's Larrikin's role here. “You know me. You know Skulduggery. You know we wouldn’t hurt you.”

“No. I don’t know either of you.” Larrikin slams the ale and gets out of the booth. He’s so immersed in his own thoughts that he walks right into a woman carrying a tray of wine glasses, and the crash of them to the ground is spectacular. “Sorry!”

The woman swears at him and he decides to hurry out instead of helping.

The last thing Larrikin wants right now is for Dexter to catch up, so he glances up and down the dimming street and crouches into a sprint. He’s good at running – healing and running – and there’s so few people around that he doesn’t trip into anyone unintentionally. Behind he hears a cut-off curse, and tries to increase his speed. He turns down one road and crosses another, finding himself in a park. Nauseous, he sits in the nearest bench. Dexter catches up within moments.

“What did that achieve?” Dexter asks, exasperated.

Larrikin groans and leans his palms on his knees. “I’m going to vomit.”

“Don’t do that,” Dexter says, almost mildly.

“Leave. Me. Alone.”

“I don’t think so, you’ll just get lost or run over or something.”

“Fuck off.”

“Cheers.” Dexter sits beside him on the bench. There's a pause. "I'm sorry. I - I don't support Skulduggery's mistakes. I didn't know any of this was even happening until you were brought here."

The nausea recedes slowly, and Larrikin can’t fight it as his shoulders start to shake. He rakes his hands through his hair, and bends so his face is almost level with his knees. His heart feels like it’s trapped in an iron trap which is only tightening. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, sobbing, how long Dexter just watches.

“Larrikin,” Dexter finally says, voice shattered, “Larrikin, I want to comfort you, is there anything I can do?”

“I need Dex,” Larrikin mumbles, embarrassingly thoughtless.

“I’m here.”

“No you’re not, you’re not him, I don’t – I don’t – I don’t …”

“Breathe,” Dexter implores, shifting a tiny bit closer, “in for three, hold for four, out for five, remember?”

“Fuck off,” Larrikin says, but he inhales shakily, follows that old pattern.

“I would,” Dexter says, almost inaudible, when Larrikin’s breathing has returned almost to normal, “I would give you space, but there’s no-one else around I can think of who can stay with you right now, except Skulduggery, and you always hated being alone.”

Larrikin laughs, feral, and raises his head. “I can think of five other people off the top of my head, what, have you lost their phone numbers?”

Dexter just looks back, expression absolutely gutted. Larrikin’s breathing goes back to shit immediately as he moves backwards on the bench. He presses a hand to his chest, thumb and index on his collarbones, and forces his breathing to become regular.

“No,” Larrikin pushes out. “No, you – don’t look at me like that. Don’t – why can’t you get them? Why can’t you?”

It’s Dexter’s turn to put his head in his hands. “Why do you think, Larrikin?”

“No, not – Anton? Ghastly? Hopeless? Saracen?”

“Saracen’s in Japan,” Dexter says through tears.

“...The rest?”

“The rest.” Dexter manages, and now Larrikin does want to touch him, wants to hug him enough to calm those shaking bitter sobs. But then it registers, the really clear implication, and Larrikin feels cold and hot at the same time, his mind almost whitens.

There’s one last thing to ask, and he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to at all, but things are falling into place like dominoes or puzzle pieces that are representative of his loved ones’ deaths.

“What about me?”

Dexter doesn’t look up.

“Dexter.” Larrikin snaps.

Dexter shakily looks at him. The grief in his expression is so visceral that Larrikin’s eyes water. He’s frozen, staring at the future of the man he loves, and then he’s moving, knees across painted wood.

“Oh honey.” He says, and Dexter collapses into his arms, and this time neither of them flinches. “Oh Dex.”

It’s a curious role reversal, and even if this is Larrikin’s future, it’s Dexter’s past and present. So he just says gentle words as he holds the older man, rocking them backwards and forwards as the sun keeps setting, feeling more sober than he has any right to be. Dexter is warm. Larrikin's chest is cold.

“How does it happen?”

Perhaps it’s morbid but Larrikin needs his curiosity to be sated. Dexter stopped crying a while ago, but the two haven’t separated, curled into each other like parenthesis. This is what Larrikin had wanted, when he'd first arrived here, and now it doesn't feel worth it.

“It was the last year of the war,” Dexter says, voice like chewing gravel (Larrikin would know), “Wales. Serpine.”

“There’s more to it, isn’t there?” Larrikin presses gently, eyes firmly shut. How almost amusingly distressing, to know he will miss seeing peace by less than a year.

“It – It was supposed to be me.”

The pieces are slotting into place. “Go on.”

“I – I was out in the open, I didn’t know Serpine was there. He used his hand on me…”

Larrikin tightens his embrace automatically.

“And then you – I don’t know where you came from, I was in so much pain, you jumped in front of me. I …” Dexter breaks down again.

“Dex, oh Dex darling,” Larrikin says wetly, and he buries his face in Dexter’s hair. His magic hums at him, tells him to heal, to fix, and he pushes it down. “This is what everything has been about, hasn’t it?”

So the two didn’t break up. At least Larrikin dies for something worthwhile, something inescapable. It would have been terrible if he’d just tripped off a cliff or something. 

Has his appearance in this time been like a haunting? Does Dexter feel like he's being embraced by a ghost?

“What do you need?” Larrikin asks, because apparently it's his turn to stumble through comforting the other.

Dexter murmurs something indecipherable, and presses closer. Larrikin goes quiet, and holds him until he peels away.

Skulduggery picks them up. He's silent when he does, when the two get into the backseat, and Larrikin is sure Skulduggery can guess what happened just before. Instead of raising anything, the skeleton drives carefully back to his house. Dexter's leg presses against Larrikin's the entire ride back.

Larrikin feels beaten to a pulp. Knowledge of his death - of the death of everyone else - keeps hitting, he's lost in the overwhelming and impossible magnitude of it all. He slips a hand into Dexter's carefully, but his eyes stay on Skulduggery.

Tomorrow Larrikin will demand for an explanation. He cannot remain here in the dark, and Skulduggery hasn't much reason to keep this quiet now that Dexter's told Larrikin what he has. Fury, sitting low beneath the shocked despair, glints like embers in ash. Larrikin grabs at it. If Skulduggery is the reason Larrikin's life and world has been thrown off axis, if Skulduggery has caused this pain, Larrikin doesn't know what he'll do. But tomorrow, he'll have to decide. 

Chapter Text

The next morning Valkyrie got up early and, uninterested in any further communication, went for a walk. Sometime around her arrival in 1850, Cassandra had given her some less noticeable clothes, and she was grateful for that as she went out into the mortal village. She managed to walk right up to the bakery before hearing the strangers around her speaking, and remembered that she did not in any way speak German. So much for meeting new people.

Somehow, with some spare coin and rather embarrassing gestures, she purchased a fruit bun and went to a green clearing on the edge of the settlement. She sat down on the thickest grass she could find and ate. So many things had been happening, and so quickly. This felt like the quietest moment she'd been able to have in the last few weeks. So she looked up at the grey sky and at the trees, and let herself feel the coldness in her chest, let herself acknowledge for a moment the reality she was facing. Sometime in the five years she'd spent running away from everything, in the US, she had realised that she needed to properly process things as they came up. This realisation was easier to have than enact, but she decided to give it a go now. There was nothing else on. She'd yelled at the Dead Men enough that surely they wouldn't bother her this morning, and it wasn't like she had any work here to do, or anyone she was beholden to - except, of course, Skulduggery and her promise. Yet even that, she had sort of fulfilled last night; she stood by her advice. 

"Nice morning."

Valkyrie turned her head very slowly. "It's grey and cold."

Anton Shudder shrugged, expressionless. "I guess you came here to be alone."

"I did."

"That's unfortunate." He sat beside her.

For all that she had been here weeks, she couldn't think of any times she had spoken to Anton alone. 

"What do you want?" 

"I have been thinking about your ... predicament."

Valkyrie frowned. "Are you going to kill me?"

Anton turned his head slightly towards her and frowned minutely. "What?"

"This feels like you're trying to be threatening."

"I just speak this way." Anton said; she could swear he was almost sulking.

"Alright then." Valkyrie let the joke go with a smile. "What were you saying?"

Anton sighed, the sort of sigh he'd make after one of Larrikin's more silly jokes. "Have you considered what will happen when you get back to your own time?"

"... Not really?"

"Well, have you thought about what will happen to the timeline, when it all settles down, and you're in the place you're supposed to be in?"

"Should I have?"

Anton's long-suffering expression settled onto his face. "Well, there are two options."

"... There are?"

"Either, you return to a world fundamentally changed, or the timeline has already split and you return to the original timeline, while we diverge in a different way. Actually, there's a third option, where everything stops and falls apart, but that isn't something we can prepare for so it isn't worth considering."

Valkyrie's mouth went dry. "Right."

"The second option isn't much of an issue for you, necessarily. The first might be a concern. The question is, of course, do you want to preserve your memories if you find your future has changed?"

"... what?"

"You came here and warned us about things that will happen; and hopefully those things will not happen now, for us. But that means the life you lived, the one that was touched by the same things you're stopping, that might become deeply warped. The person you are, and the person you will be, might be very different, now."

Valkyrie frowned. It took her a long moment to decipher that. "Oh."

Anton said nothing.

"How do you know all this?"

"Skulduggery and Dexter aren't the only smart ones in our company." Anton said. "I just don't show it off."

"... Are you joking right now?" Valkyrie grinned. "You're joking! This is the fifth joke I've heard you make."

"Anyway, I thought you might like this."

"A ... why would I need jewellery?"

"Just take it."

"I don't even wear bracelets."

"It's a memory aide."

"What?"

"If you wear it, then external forces won't be able to change your memory. If you go back to your time period and everything has changed, this will help you know who you are."

Valkyrie blinked. This was unexpectedly and rather overwhelmingly kind. She looked down at the metal band, with the tiny sigils engraved on the inner side. "Why did you do this?"

Anton's gruffness softened, just a little. "I know what it is like, to have your person - your being - at risk of being eroded or lost. There isn't much that I can do for myself, but, well. I knew how to do this for you."

Forgetting herself for a moment, Valkyrie turned and hugged Anton tight. He was still for a moment more than would be considered normal, but then he did pat her once, on the back.

They sat there for a while, silent.

When they got back to the others Valkyrie was surprised to see how calm they all were, most of them spending time in the tavern dormitory they were renting out. Ghastly was sewing, Erskine writing letters, Hopeless reading - though Hopeless and Erskine were sitting on the other sides of the room. Skulduggery was sitting, so silent he could be meditating. 

"We should probably contact Corrival," Saracen said into the silence, after smiling at Anton and Valkyrie as they entered.

"We haven't already?" Dexter blurted.

"No," Skulduggery said. "We were preoccupied."

"Saracen, do you still have ..."

"Yes," Saracen said, "I wasn't going to lend it to anyone."

"So we've gone missing, with the Book of Names, and no-one got in touch to say 'hey Corrival, we're dealing with a little crisis but as soon as that's over we'll pop by, also the Book isn't in Serpine's hands anymore, so don't worry about it pet'." Dexter said, in a bizarre imitation of Larrikin that mightn't have been wholly intentional.

"That's what you were looking for, in Serpine's camp?" Valkyrie said. "The Book of Names?"

"Yeah," Saracen said, "what else would be worth us being so risky?"

"That seems like something that should be secured soon," she said slowly.

"It's safe." Saracen actually batted a hand in dismissal. "Don't worry about it."

"I'll send a letter this afternoon," Ghastly said, and hissed as he poked himself with the needle.

"Cheers," Saracen said.

"Who are you writing to?" Hopeless' voice sliced through the conversation.

"... Corrival," Ghastly said slowly, "to tell him we're delayed."

"Not you," Hopeless said, and they dropped their book and glared across the room. Belatedly, Erskine looked up at them, his quill pausing its motion. "Erskine. Who are you writing to, right now?"

Erskine's mouth opened just a little, then his golden eyes narrowed and he folded the page so the ink was hidden. "Why do you want to know that, Hopeless?"

Hopeless stood, jaw clenched. Saracen leant forward hesitantly and said, "Hopeless, surely it's not our business who ..."

"Don't," Hopeless said, and they stepped towards Erskine. Suddenly the room was a cinderbox waiting to ignite. "You're getting sloppy, Ravel. Writing whatever you're writing this close to me? Close enough for me to hear you."

Erskine stood, fist clenched on the paper so it crinkled. "Hopeless," he said, gentle, "it's been an awful couple of weeks, are you sure you're not projecting? I'm writing to a friend, that's all."

"Is it a friend like me, or a friend like Madame Mist?" Hopeless strode forward and tried to grab the paper, but Erskine shoved them away - and they fell. Suddenly the Dead Men were all on their feet. 

"Hopeless," Erskine said, after the horrible silence that came with his roughness. "Are you okay?"

Hopeless rose slowly. "I think you're writing to your other allies, and I think you're encoding things to them you aren't supposed to share." 

"... Hopeless, are you certain of this?" Skulduggery asked quietly.

"Why else would you be so guarded, writing this thing? Why would you be so worried, so particularly worried?" Hopeless blurted, and their anger had fallen into a sadness more intense and disconcerting. "Why are you so concerned about the effects this letter will have?"

"You're being ridiculous," Erskine snapped. His body, his face - all the lines of him spoke of being an unjustly accused man. 

"If this isn't true," Ghastly said gently, "why don't you show Hopeless that? You're right, it's been a very long week, we've all overexerted ourselves, why not put Hopeless at ease?"

"Hopeless is not entitled to read my correspondence, no matter how stressed they are," Erskine said tightly.

"Generally I'd agree with that," Skulduggery said, "but Hopeless isn't one to accuse their best friend without a lot of proof - or, at least, confidence."

"Show it." Hopeless bit out. "I've been giving you the benefit of the doubt for too long. I told myself as long as you didn't compromise the team that it would be alright, that we would manage this. Show it, damn you!"

Anton stepped towards Erskine, and Erskine's head turned. Then the golden-eyed man clicked his fingers, and blue fire engulfed the letter in seconds. Nobody moved, watching the ashes fall to the floor.

"Get out of my head," Erskine said to Hopeless, "and get out of my letters, too."

Hopeless' grey eyes were blown wide, their hands were visibly shaking. Erskine looked at them all, eyes glinting, and he walked out of the door. The heaviness in the air did not leave with him; and then Hopeless swore and ran after him; Valkyrie didn't imagine they were planning on reconciling, though. 

"God," Saracen said, putting his head in his hands, "can something, anything go right for once?"

"Do you think Erskine is ... passing intelligence on?" Dexter asked bleakly. 

"I don't think there's much doubt of it," Anton said, "the only hope is he hasn't sent much."

"Surely there has to be a reasonable explanation?" Dexter said. "Just because he can't share something doesn't mean he's a spy."

"Are you willing to risk all our necks on that?" Skulduggery asked grimly.

"Fuck," Ghastly said, and he dropped the cloth and ran out of the room, most of the others following. 

Chapter Text

Some 200 years beforehand

Erskine was a pretty man, Hopeless supposed. 

1850

Hopeless was not given to rash action. This was altogether rash, this accusation of Erskine in front of their friends, this hurried pursuit. Yet even as their stomach sank and they ran harder, powers focused on the unmistakable trail that was Erskine's anxieties, they didn't regret it. This waiting game had gone on too long. It had been Valkyrie that had shown them that.

Dimly they heard and felt the presence of other Dead Men behind them; they did not turn, or wait, or speak. They had made a call and it had gone badly and now they needed to keep Erskine with them. The worst possible result of all this would be Erskine defecting to reside with the Children of the Spider. Even if they weren't enemies, even if the Children of the Spider were decidedly neutral, it would be a blow to the army. It would be devastating to the Dead Men. And Hopeless did not know what they would do, if they were the one who lost him.

With sharp recall they thought of the time when Skulduggery and his wife Augustus and their child (Hopeless' godchild) J had been murdered, and the time spent after grieving. They remembered the time when the three of them - Erskine, Ghastly and Hopeless - had been fighting alone, before Skulduggery's reappearance. And briefly they thought of that one winter night in Edinburgh when they had caught Ghastly wandering listlessly in the snow, intent on leaving the army, and the lengths they had gone to, to convince him to return. Skulduggery being dead had gutted them all. 

Of course there was a better example that should have come to mind, in this situation; it was obvious and relevant and only Hopeless' steady refusal to think of that year kept it at bay. They felt ill at heart and desperate; where was Erskine? Where the fuck did he go?

Hopeless turned a sharp corner in a cobblestone alley and saw him, just standing there, and skidded to a stop. Their mouth dried. They didn't know what they could possibly do right now to turn Erskine off this path he was going down. And there he was, their beautiful friend, standing and staring angrily at them. Their constant throughout the entirety of their free life. 

"Erskine," they said.

"I realised there was no way you would stop following me." He was sharper to them now than he'd ever been before.

"Please ..."

"Please what?"

The silence in the alleyway then hung, and Hopeless wanted to reach for his hands. They felt deathly sad, and underneath that terribly angry.

"Just say you weren't putting us at risk."

"I'd never harm you all."

"Say you weren't passing on classified information then."

"You already know the answer to that question."

Hopeless was peripherally aware of Dexter, standing behind them at the entrance to the alleyway. Of his silent, solid presence. There was no other exit; if Erskine wished to leave, they'd either have to let him or fight him.

"How much have you sent?"

"I-"

And Hopeless loved this man more than they loved anyone, but now they felt dissonance between that man and the one before them. For their Erskine was dishonest - he had had to be, had met Hopeless while working to spy on Hopeless' family's household, worked in politics and the army, had needed to twist the truth so many ways. And yet he had never lied to them - not truly. Or so they had thought. Gentleness around his situation had gotten the two of them nowhere. They stepped forward. "How fucking much, Erskine Ravel? How much have you sent to Mist and the rest?"

Dexter's shaky inhale was loud, even with the space between them.

"Or what?" Erskine's hands were balled into fists. And Hopeless wasn't a fighter like him, but they knew how to fight, how to fight dirty, and almost unconsciously they settled into a guarded position. Two sides of their brain wailed at the same time; one spoke of who Erskine was, of all that he had done, of how much the two had gone through together. The other saw an enemy and began noting possible advantages.

"Of all of us, Erskine Ravel, you at least owe me this."

"Why?"

"You know I never left you behind," they said, pushing where they had never pushed before, even knowing the bitter twists of his thoughts, his feelings of abandonment from that one year of torture and survival. "I searched for you and couldn't find you, and didn't stop. So do not tell me these people were the only ones who you can trust, just because they found you first."

"Why are you making this about you? This isn't about you."

"How is it not?" Hopeless snapped, stepped closer. Erskine summoned fire into his hand and they watched that, didn't back down. "If your letters got compromised once, that's our heads on the line. If your new allies suddenly feel Mevolent actually maybe has a good thing going, that's information he has for free. Why are they even asking you for this? This has nothing to do with your plans for the mortals."

"What plans?" Dexter spoke up, sharply.

"What?" Hopeless felt dazed. Dexter stood just behind them, and his gaze was cold and landing on them both. 

"What have you two been planning?"

"Hopeless wasn't supposed to know this at all."

"I'm not a fucking idiot. I'm also a fear-mage, how could I not pick it up?"

"Then why did you keep silent?"

"Because it's you!" Hopeless yelled. All three of them were unimpressed by that assertion. 

"Right," Dexter said into the silence. "Alright. Erskine, this is your chance to explain things in your own words. Because this all looks very damning, and if Hopeless is right then you've risked our safety and security, and we'll have to take you in."

"You'll what?" Hopeless said - because they had known there would be consequences, yes, to them outing Erskine here but they hadn't thought it would go beyond the group. 

"What - did you want to deal with this yourself?" Dexter shook his head. "Then you should have kept us out of this, Hopeless."

"I had been," Hopeless said. "I had been trying - it wasn't working."

"Trying to do what exactly?" Erskine narrowed his eyes. The fire grew bigger. They all knew, Hopeless expected, that the rest of the company were either near or already surrounding. This conversation was unlikely to continue: Hopeless could hear the whisper of their comrades' fears. They brushed that away.

"Trying to show you that you aren't alone," Hopeless said. "And if you make a comment about manipulation I'll slap you, I swear to the Fa- I swear to God."

Erskine's face contorted. Hopeless dared to reach out closer, dive into his fears, they could not read his face in this light. It had always scared them, how deeply self-hating Erskine could manage to be, and now it was rioting and awful and painful to look at. 

"Please," they begged. "Don't make this a fight."

"No," Erskine said. "You're the one who did that."

Hopeless closed their eyes and reached out with more power. This wasn't going to work, Erskine was lashing out like a wounded animal. So they noted, on the rooftops around them, the presence of three familiar beings - or rather, their fears. Saracen was lurking with Valkyrie at the entrance to the alley, out of sight. Supposedly they'd chosen to let Hopeless say their piece. Fat lot of good that had done any of them.

"You don't mean that really. You're not that detached, I don't think." Hopeless managed.

Erskine's exhale was shaky. Hopeless opened their eyes and saw him rub a hand across his face.

"What's going on, man?" Dexter asked. "You try to leak important information, and when Hopeless calls you out, you blame them for what? Saying their mind? Asking if you're risking our safety? What's the endgame, then, because this isn't making a lot of sense to me. And I know, I'm just the eye-candy of the group, but even I can see this is a little off."

Erskine laughed once, an aborted and surprised sound, which became muted and wounded almost immediately. He extinguished the fire to rub his eyes with both hands. 

"I owe them," he said, very quietly. 

"Who?" Dexter said, and Hopeless noted that his stance was still a defensive one. 

"The Children of the Spider."

"And they wanted information?"

"Nothing - nothing that would compromise your safety." Erskine said. 

"When you say owe?" Skulduggery asked, floating down from the rooftop in a nonchalant gust of air. "Is this a blackmail situation, or are you just acting from gratitude?"

Erskine didn't even acknowledge his presence. Hopeless guessed, from centuries alongside this man, that he had likely used to air to sense the others.

"No blackmail," Erskine said. His form had fallen away, and his posturing, but Hopeless couldn't trust that. They wanted to tease at his fears, but worried it might overwhelm them. This wasn't just some enemy on the battlefield - or twenty enemies. This was their favourite person, and he was hurting, and he was angry, and he was even maybe (probably) dangerous. 

"What then?" Ghastly asked, having followed Skulduggery with Anton in tow. 

"It's nothing that would put you all in danger," Erskine asserted again, "they were wanting to know if Meritorious' views aligned with theirs, enough for them to join us."

"And you said yes, right?" Dexter asked tightly. 

"He hasn't said anything. The letter wasn't sent," Hopeless said, though perhaps giving him an out right now was more generous than he deserved. 

"But what other letters has he sent that you chose to ignore?" Skulduggery asked. "And how many potential allies has he already scared off?"

"Am I the only one very happy not to work with the Children of the Spiders?" Saracen said, having approached in the discussion with Valkyrie alonside him. "They give me the heebie-jeebies, they do."

"They saved my life."

"And have since be holding it over your head, from what I can tell." Saracen interjected cheerfully. "When I saved your life I simply made you get me cocoa."

"That was expensive!"

"It didn't cost your soul."

"It's not like that, at all."

"Then why was sending this letter so distressing that Hopeless chose to intervene?" Ghastly asked. 

"It's still a betrayal," Hopeless said, softly. "Even if not one directed particularly at us."

"What are your thoughts on mortals?" Valkyrie asked, eyes locked on Erskine. Hopeless started. They had forgotten the woman, and the knowledge she held. This was, they thought, coming close to addressing the original issue they'd had on meeting - Valkyrie's initial hatred of Erskine. "Or Warlocks."

"Warlocks?" Erskine frowned, genuinely confused. "W-What has that got to do with anything at all? I wouldn't particularly like to fight them if I could help it."

"Hopeless, is he telling the truth?" Valkyrie asked tightly.

"Probably." Hopeless said, entirely thrown by the switch in conversation.

"In my world," Valkyrie spoke slowly, like it was painful to do, "you played a very long game. You killed Corrival to get him out of the picture, found a way to become the Grand Mage of Ireland. With the Children of the Spiders, you massacred whole groups of warlocks and made the mortals scapegoats, and then - when you could - you organised an uprising and murdered Ghastly and Anton. Because you think mortals are inferior, and sorcerers should rule, and sacrifices were necessary for that."

The absolute silence was nothing Hopeless had ever experienced before. They were beginning to feel the out of body experience that came with being granted knowledge too large and awful to process.

"Hopeless?" Saracen asked, from very far away. "Hopeless, is she lying?"

"She has to be," they thought they might have said.

"Is she?" Saracen snapped. 

"I wouldn't do that ..." Erskine whispered, even as Hopeless said, "if she is lying, she has no fear at all of being caught. And she is scared of what he will do."

"Fuck this!" Erskine snarled, and threw a gust of air just enough to push most of them away. Hopeless just watched him, the man they loved, and couldn't find anything at all to say. To lose him would be to lose everything, they thought as they had often thought, but now they paused. That wasn't really quite true, not anymore. They had the others, and Cassandra, and Little, to name just a few. They had Ciara and Corrival. They had too much to throw their life away, even for this man in front of them, the person they loved most in the world. Because coldly and awfully, they could not trust that Val was lying, and they could not trust Erskine wouldn't do exactly as she'd described. They could not trust that they would not need to catch him and stop him, to save innocents.

Chapter Text

"How long ago was it?"

There's no need to specify what Larrikin means here. Dexter shifts. The lights are dimmed and they're both sitting on the covers of the bed almost gingerly. It's more intimacy than Larrikin's experienced since he travelled through time, yet still nothing like what he has with Dexter back in his place, his time. For once in this ordeal he's almost grateful, because that means the relationship the two of them worked quite desperately for through war and separation is something special, not easily replicated.

"About 90 years now." Dexter says softly.

"What happened after?"

"The Truce got signed, pretty quickly afterwards. We tried to get our bearings. Anton got his hotel up and running. The mortals had wars, many wars but one that really scared me. Skulduggery became a detective, found a side-kick who died pretty quickly, after a while found Val. I travelled. Saracen and Erskine - I'm not entirely sure really, though Erskine ..." He cuts himself off with a growl. "Well, I picked up some pieces about Erskine later. Ghastly opened a shop."

"A Tailors? Really?" Larrikin turns to face Dexter, to stare at the shadowed outline of his jaw and nose and lashes. He keeps himself from bouncing his legs, but it's a near thing. "How was that? How did it go?"

"Oh." Even in the shadows Larrikin can see the growing smile - though he hears it easily too. "That went really well, actually! I always went to him, of course, but so did a lot of mages we didn't even really know in the war. He branched out, began developing new styles and technologies. I think it helped a lot, actually, after the war. A lot of us were at loose ends, but Ghastly seemed to acclimatise better."

"What did you do?"

Dexter hesitates. "I travelled. Tried to solve mysteries - I wasn't very good at it. Helped out when the Sanctuary needed. There are a couple of men called the Monster Hunters - I'm not sure if you've met them yet, Donegan and Gracious - but I travelled with them, fought monsters."

"Did you meet anyone?"

There's a pause.

"I thought, well - if you wanted to talk it all out, this is your chance. You don't have to." Larrikin says. 

"Really?"

"If there's anything you wanted to talk about, I'm here."

"You've been - you've been dealing with a lot."

"Yes, and when this is over I go back to my Dexter." Larrikin says softly. "I know I'll be alright - at least for a bit."

"Don't ..."

"Don't joke about it? I'm trying very hard, actually, to restrain the various jokes about my own demise. There's a lot of potential material, you see."

"Larrikin!" Dexter says, but he carefully moves closer to lay his head on Larrikin's shoulder. Larrikin shifts to make them more comfortable. A warm thrum settles at his core; I love you, I love you, I love you.

"Alright, I won't joke." Larrikin sighs as if put-upon. "But you can talk about it all, if you want."

The silence stretches into the night until Dexter shifts and nods. "I did meet people. Some mortals, some mages. Nothing really substantial - I was, well, I have been mourning you, I think, longer than I've realised. I stopped really talking about you after a while, but it didn't make you any less ... present, I guess. Saracen. Well, Saracen and I hooked up several times. Nothing serious."

Larrikin takes that new information and twirls it in his minds, prods it a little. He cannot find even the slightest jealousy there, only a hope that Saracen and Dexter had helped each other somehow, that they'd been able to see each other in ways people who hadn't fought could not. He nudges gently at Dexter's side.

"It's been - well I thought things were getting better. But then war broke out and Erskine - And then I found out something about Skulduggery, and a powerful mage called Darquesse almost destroyed the world and absolutely destroyed my windpipe, and I was possessed, and then - fuck ... fuck, Larrikin, it's been really bad."

"I'm sorry." He's been trying hard to ignore it but the reminder of the injury returns it to the front of his mind. His powers sing. Where their skin touches Larrikin can feel the ache of that old wound, the potential for healing - it isn't his place, though, to take that choice away from Dexter when he articulated firmly he did not want Larrikin's help. Dexter won't die from it. "Oh honey, this isn't what we fought for."

"I don't know what Skulduggery and Erskine fought for, in the end." Dexter says, rough.

Larrikin watches him. There's something he's not saying, it's pretty bloody obvious, but Larrikin hesitates to push. Not during this rare show of vulnerability. He'll trust that Dexter will share what Larrikin needs to know, and that Dexter won't keep things from him that'll hurt him - ha. Actually, he knows how he's going to die now. He knows the time and approximate place and cause. Whatever's going on with Erskine obviously won't be bothering him. 

The nausea eddies and tries to rise. 

"Skulduggery's been atoning for it ever since," Dexter says, "I think - I hope. I'm not strong enough to see anything done, and anyway, we've needed him quite regularly over the years to save the world from this and that threat. I don't know prison would be the most - be the best place for him. And Erskine, well ..."

"He died? Erskine, not Skulduggery." The jokes bubble under the skin, trying to sneak out. Larrikin bites his lip because he has some idea of reading the room, and he wants quite desperately to be what Dexter needs right now. 

"No, well yes, but that's not - it doesn't matter, really, to you." Dexter says.

"It matters to me even if I won't live to see it." Down panic, down dog, this isn't at all the time. 

"Well then. Erskine, he's not - he was lying, I don't know how long. He turned on us, during the last war."

"Fuck." Larrikin pulls him closer, tries to unjumble this information in his head. He can't quite make the connections with the data given, still makes a guess. "Was he possessed, too?"

"Sort of. Not really. Brainwashed, I guess you'd say. I'm not really sure why in the end, though he did try to explain it. The worst thing is I think he still loved us, even when he - well, that sort of love doesn't mean anything anyway, in the end. Not after what he did. I might have killed him for it, in the end, but Skulduggery got there first."

The Erskine Larrikin knows wouldn't do something so awful Dexter and Skulduggery would kill him for it. Larrikin's Erskine loves honestly and strongly and isn't brainwashed or dangerous to the Dead Men or ... is he? Larrikin digs the nails of his right hand into his palm. Surely - well people change, don't they? And if Erskine lost Hopeless perhaps he would have ended up ... going down a bad path. Larrikin likes to think he would not lose himself with the death of his own favourite person, but that does happen to people. Happened to Skulduggery, allegedly, though it wasn't just Augustus' death that destroyed him. Yet it is possible that Erskine went bad not out of trauma or out of grief, but out of some sincere and genuine internal fault or misunderstanding or difference. Or perhaps, even, Dexter has been misled - that's possible. Surely it is more likely that Erskine has been mischaracterised or tricked or framed or ... Yet if that were the case, wouldn't Skulduggery have realised? But Dexter said Skulduggery has done something awful too. How trustworthy is the skeleton? How trustworthy is Dex's accounts - Larrikin doesn't doubt the sincerity of it all, but lies can be believed sincerely.

There's simply not enough information. Larrikin opens his mouth to ask; Dexter beats him to it.

"Anyway. I don't like talking about that."

"... Alright."

"How are you feeling?"

"A little numb, I guess. Overwhelmed."

"That makes two of us."

The spiral is doing nothing to help in any way, Larrikin counts his breath. Tries to reach for what he needs to say right now. He stumbles with it, manages.

"... But, well, I always knew there was a chance I wouldn't make it, even if I have a better chance of survival than most. And I'm glad at least it was saving you."

"I wish ... I wish it hadn't been."

Larrikin has no idea how to tackle that statement. When did his boyfriend's self-worth get so shaken? It's grating, how carefully he has to find his words. He knows, quite securely, that he isn't a natural at this. "I imagine it was awful. But the person responsible for it isn't you, you know - of course you do, you aren't stupid. But in case you need to hear it, I made, will make a choice, one I'd do right now, and Serpine is the one at fault. Other details really are secondary."

"I -"

"I'm glad you survived. I'm so glad. And I hope that in the future you will be able to heal, to live without regret over what has happened." Larrikin wants to place his forehead against Dexter's - doesn't at the last minute, second-guessing that degree of intimacy. "You have so much you can do, so many places to travel to and explore - you can get a cat! Get two cats! Make an army - of cats ... When I leave please let yourself leave too - do whatever you need first, but don't let the ghost of me trap you somewhere, when you have so far to go, my love."

"I would have, I think, I've been trying. But the last two decades have been so filled with disaster, and so many people died, and it feels like I'm right back there, when the Truce began, except my throat's fucked and I have no-one to talk to that'll listen, that was there, that'll understand."

"Talk to Cassandra?"

Dexter's silence is a specific, now-familiar brand. Larrikin swears. 

"I don't know what will help here." Larrikin says. "Fate has been a cruel mistress with you. But I know you've got the ability to keep moving forward - you've already proven you can, by being here."

"I miss you so much," Dexter blurts, grief-stricken and utterly raw.

"Oh love," Larrikin says, and the tears in his eyes blur the darkness.

"... Will you heal me?"

"Dex, come here." Larrikin says wetly. He places careful hands on either side of Dexter's face and gives it a go.

As ever, Larrikin likes to behave unreasonably and unpredictably. He decides to waylay Skulduggery the next morning; he does by popping out of an alcove by the front door as the skeleton is about to leave. Skulduggery freezes, which is as good as a scream and a jump from him. 

"Hello Doug."

"You better not have crushed any of my coats in there."

Larrikin had, indeed, thrown several on the floor and crouched on them while hiding. He likes to think it amounts to nothing in light of the things Skulduggery probably has done. "Of course not."

"What do you want?"

"Why would I want something?"

"You're striving to annoy me. That's usually a sign that you want something."

"That's not true, is it Dex?" Larrikin projects. Dexter emerges from the kitchen casually. 

"What's not true?"

"That I'm annoying when I need something."

Dexter snorts.

"You healed his throat." Skulduggery states mildly.

"You really are a detective!" Larrikin exclaims.

"So you two have properly made up. How much did he end up telling you?"

"Something of this and something of that. Hard to say really. Enough that I now know that you have explaining to do. Now."

"I have work."

"Yes," Dexter says, in his firmest tone, "and we won't keep you from that. We're coming with you."

Skulduggery's skull tilts in that particular way which means he knows he's lost. They go and get in the car.

Chapter Text

"Can you hear me?"

"Ghastly, maybe we should give them space."

"No. No, I'm not doing that. I've done that enough. Hopeless? I'm going to squeeze your hands, and when I do I want you to breathe with me. Can you do that?"

The wordless huddle of fears like waves in ears that don't want to hear. A squeeze of their hands. The sound of his inhale. Terror knocking on doors and windows and - how had they let this get so bad? They had techniques for this. 

They had been cajoled indoors at some point. Erskine was still gone, night was falling heavily outside. They blinked. Breathed with him. Thought of five things they could see. Named them. Breathed with him. Counted four things they could hear. Breathed with him. Three things they were touching: his hands - breathed - the brush of their boots, and, and, and ...

"Hopeless," Ghastly said, gently, "you're having a panic attack."

Breathed. Breathed. Breathed. Hoisted back the unsteady riot of breath. It took some time.

"You're going to be alright, friend," Ghastly said, carefully putting arms over their shoulders, and they started to sob. "Hey there, hey, hey, it's alright. We'll work it all out."

"How?" Hopeless managed. "You heard what she said. About Erskine. About what he will do."

"Do you believe in free will?"

"I - what?"

Skulduggery walked over. "Do you? Or do you still think the Faceless Ones are pulling the strings?"

"Dick." Hopeless said, hoarse. "You know I never thought that."

"But you believed in them, once, enough that you still curse by them."

"Yes but, but as the harbingers of doom or failed Gods, not as our makers or directors or rulers."

"So who is?"

"We are."

"Exactly," Skulduggery said, in his I-knew-you'd-get-it-eventually voice. "We do. We choose our own fate. Valkyrie - I believe that she has been sharing the truth of her world with us. And I also don't think that means that our world has to go the same way. We know things we wouldn't have. We know that Erskine needs help now."

"We already knew that," Ghastly said, almost sharply.

"... You agreed with me," Skulduggery said.

"You said the last thing you needed when you came back was everyone bothering you like they did. That Erskine knew to come to us if he needed, that bringing it up too much would hurt more than it helped."

"Why on earth did you take Skulduggery's advice?"

"Because, unfortunately, he has much closer experience to what Erskine went through than I do." Ghastly tightened his grip. "I just didn't account for Skulduggery's lack of emotional intelligence."

"You're really undermining my point about free will, by blaming all this on me."

"Well isn't -" Ghastly inhaled. Hopeless could feel the hammer of his heart, they squeezed him tightly and stepped back, wiping their eyes. "I'm sorry. You're right."

"Hmm," Skulduggery said. "Where are we going to find him?"

Hopeless felt the skeleton's eyes on them. "It depends on whether he was choosing to leave the situation, or us altogether."

"Saracen, you know things," Ghastly called. 

"No fucking clue sorry." Saracen called, from where he was hurried packing his clothes away. 

"But what are we going to do? If Erskine really is ... is going to murder all those people? Do we, fucking, lock him up?" Dexter was pacing, his visceral discomfort blindingly obvious. 

"Well..." Skulduggery said. "If we're imprisoning people for their future actions ..."

"What do I do?" Anton asked.

Everyone turned. His eyes were directly on Valkyrie. 

"There's no need to keep it from me. It will be useful information."

"Why are you sure you do something?" Hopeless asked, attention entirely on him, forcing all the care in their voice that they could muster. Anton just glanced at them, in some degree of disbelief. 

"Well?"

"You - you make a hotel," Valkyrie said, tentative, "if you're not together yet, you meet a man you fall in love with, become engaged. I haven't met him. And well, Erskine gets Cleavers to kill you in the end."

"But what do I do?"

"Nothing - nothing like Skulduggery or Erskine," she said, soft. "You travel a lot. Provide a sanctuary to misfits and criminals and anyone really. You don't take any nonsense. I think you were happy. And I don't think you did anything beyond what you had to do, in this war." 

"Anton," Saracen said carefully, and he moved to rest a hand on Anton's chest. Then, almost rehearsed - it'd been said a million times by now. "You are not a monster."

Anton looked down at the hand. 

"Whatever choices are made in the future, I can't think of any you'd be ashamed of," Valkyrie said. 

"No," Skulduggery said, "things like this, they are choices. And maybe you're pushed there by so many different factors that it feels impossible to escape, but it isn't inevitable. Of all the people here, you are the one with the most control."

"Where was that coming from?" Saracen murmured. 

"I miss him," Anton said. 

"Fuck man," Dexter said, and he pulled the two into a hug. Hopeless' eyes welled up a little.

"We need to find Erskine, but we need a plan for when we do," Skulduggery barrelled clumsily forward. "Else we'll have the same problem as today. We need to work out how to get him off the defense."

"We need to show we'll listen," Hopeless said. "That we're here and we'll listen and we'll work something out."

"Will we? If he's been spying?"

"He hasn't been spying, he's been loose with his tongue. Drinking. Stressed from the last month," Hopeless said, "and the information he let slip was insignificant, harmless. That's what we say. He'll likely get taken off some more confidential lists..."

"Probably a good thing," Saracen muttered.

"... but there would have to be a much more significant issue for him to get publicly punished or shamed. He's the most popular of all of us, it'd be awful for morale. He'll likely get chewed out by General Oscuro but I don't expect it'll be unsalvageable."

"You're letting him get away with this?" Valkyrie asked, very quietly.

"Prevention is the goal, right? And gaol never taught anyone anything." Saracen shrugged. "Unless he's a threat, right now, I'm not giving up on him."

"Are we sure? We're not talking about small things here, we're talking about - about Erskine oppressing entire classes of people. We're talking some evil shit right here, some Mevolent grade bullshit, just on a smaller scale." Dexter began to pace again.

"He was hurt when Valkyrie said those things," Hopeless managed. "He was hurt and the idea of it all scared him. I think wherever he is right now - he's not there. Not yet."

"Skulduggery are you-"

"Ghastly. Don't."

"It would be a good idea."

"No. We can talk after we convince Erskine to stop being a buffoon."

"Alright."

"Anton, can you approach him first?" Hopeless managed.

Anton looked at them. His emotionless eyes as always gave little away, but Hopeless knew the darker emotions behind them. "If you need to stay, we can go ourselves." 

"...Do you need to stay?" Ghastly asked. 

Hopeless nodded. Ghastly nodded; they all filed out. Except for Valkyrie, who stood there watching. Hopeless ignored her, went to their pack and pulled out paper. Found their pencil, hidden in one of their cloaks. They wanted to pack; it felt immediately necessary for them all to leave, regroup, reconnect with main camp as soon as can be. But this was more important.

"What are you planning?" Valkyrie asked.

"Hmm?" Hopeless said, voice still a little too uncomfortably high.

"You wouldn't have left them to talk to Erskine unless there was something more important than him, and I don't know if anything is more important to you than him."

"I told him I wasn't going with him."

"Was that because ... was this planned? Your accusation of him - did you both decide to do it?"

"Valkyrie, it's been a very difficult time for you," Hopeless said, word by word by word, "but I would not advice accusing any soldier of treason unless you had proof."

"Did you have proof?"

"I explained all I needed to." Hopeless stated.

"You've known he was radicalised and didn't do anything."

"You're angry. I can hear it." Hopeless didn't look at her, crouching on the floor to begin writing. "Why are you angry?"

"You knew that something was wrong and you didn't stop it."

"I just tried to," Hopeless said, reasonably, jaw beginning to tighten.

"In my timeline you didn't."

"Yes, well, in your timeline I also fucking die at some unknown period of time," they snapped. "So perhaps give me - or that Hopeless - a break, huh?"

"Did you know about Skulduggery too?"

"Know what?" Hopeless snapped, putting their pencil down and glaring. Something nasty under their skin itched to hurt this woman, whose presence had caused so much pain, but they put that aside. 

"What he's going to do."

"What is he going to do?"

"He's going to ... defect."

Straightforward, an obvious understatement - Hopeless inhaled sharply. The panic they'd just abated began calling again. But, now aware of it, they kept breathing regularly.

"I think, if you give up this amateur detective work and just communicate what's angered you, we'll actually get somewhere."

"How - How are you being calm?"

"I just had the beginnings of a panic attack," Hopeless said, "I'm far from calm. But anxiety, like anything, gets easier to manage with practice, and I've had centuries of that. So no, I am not calm, I am not alright, right now. But there is no point to us arguing. So tell me why you're upset, and we can sort it out."

"You knew he was communicating with the Children of the Spiders."

"We've established this. Yes."

"You knew he planned to oppress the mortals."

"I knew he wanted to change the status quo," Hopeless said, "but there are plenty of mortals keen on that also. I did not think he was planning violence. I still don't think he is."

"He's going to kill Anton and Ghastly."

"Maybe," Hopeless said. "But at the moment I see a traumatised man who's running away, not a killer."

"We're all killers here."

"Well. Yes." Hopeless said. "But you know what I mean. Now kindly let me finish this letter to General Oscuro."

"... Who's that?"

Embittered by now, Hopeless didn't even look up. Instead, biting like shattered old glass, they said with impatience: "Ghastly's mother."

Chapter Text

Sometimes explanations put things in place which had otherwise felt disjointed and painful. Sometimes an explanation is all that is necessary, to soothe a hurt, pacify a grudge. This is not one of those times. 

"You fucking hypocrite," Larrikin says quietly. 

The skeleton doesn't move, but Larrikin knows he isn't looking him in the eyes. Dexter makes a low, whistling sound. With the door of Skulduggery's office closed, the tension is rampant. Larrikin can feel warm anger like fire under his skin. He glances at Dexter, leaning back in the chair, and is surprised to see his feelings - if muted - reflected in his eyes. Dexter is tapping his fingers on the desk.

"You forgot to mention some things, when giving me the run down," he bites.

"It wasn't necessary."

"If you keep lying..." Larrikin begins to warn.

"Alright. I was ashamed." It's matter-of-fact, said direct and without emotion. It's enough the Larrikin steps just a little bit backwards. 

"If you could change the worst thing you've ever done," Skulduggery says, slow, to the table, "the thing that has haunted you for so long it's habit, if someone offered that to you on a platter, wouldn't you?"

"For fuck's sake," Dexter says, and he's furious now. "Skulduggery how could you be so stupid?"

Larrikin looks at the two and knows that this shared secret isn't even worth asking for. He wants to, quite strongly, but if it was bad enough for Skulduggery to want to go back in time to change it, then there isn't any chance he'd share it with Larrikin. Even if it's the reason why his world got twisted upside down. 

"Wouldn't you, Dexter?" Skulduggery asks, as close as he ever gets to begging. And then he looks at Larrikin, and Larrikin's throat swallows itself, chest suddenly heavy, skin too tight. This is too much. This is all too much, has been too much. He tells himself he's faced worst. He's almost sure it's true. 

And Dexter looks at Larrikin for so long it's painful.

"Is this world good enough to keep?" Skulduggery asks. "I'm stupid because I risked our present, but if you had a moment to choose, would you have made the right choice? Would you have protected what we have, when it's this?"

"You've been acting like it is," Larrikin says.

"I came to my senses," Skulduggery says. 

"A bit fucking late." Dexter says.

"Do you know how many people..." Skulduggery stops, jaggedly, voice snagging on itself. 

"Nobody. Does." Dexter grinds out. And he glances at Larrikin. "Do you think Valkyrie has made sure to stop anything from changing?"

"I don't doubt it," Skulduggery says, firm. "She's smarter than me, and it's not her mistakes to fix."

"Mistake isn't the word people would generally use."

"Well, do you want to tell him?"

"Where's the man?" Larrikin snaps, by now much too tired of the cryptic arguments the two like to have. 

"What?" They both look at him.

"The man who sent Valkyrie back in time?"

"He's in prison, awaiting trial."

"It's time to visit him," Larrikin says. "I don't know why we didn't do this the first time, instead of using your bastard useless machine."

"...It'd be somewhat hypocritical to ask him to do the exact magic that put him jail."

"Because hypocrisy has ever stopped you," Dexter says, sharp.

"I don't belong here," Larrikin says, "and I don't know why you haven't been trying to find the quickest way possible to set things right, but I'm saying this now. I don't belong here, I don't want to be here, and this at least is a mistake you can fix."

"I didn't think that putting Val and your lives in the hands of a petty criminal is the wisest course of action. Not when we have a machine."

"The machine doesn't fucking work." Larrikin says. "And I'm tired. Alright? I'm tired."

"This is why I didn't tell you about this."

"I am a soldier. I can make my own decisions."

"What about Valkyrie?"

"I don't imagine she's enjoying being on the field right now," Dexter says, "remember what it was like?"

"If we wait several more days..."

"I'm tired of being in limbo."

"If he wants to take revenge, if he wants leverage, you'll be entirely within his power. It's a bad idea, and certainly not legal."

Larrikin feels tears, white-hot, behind his eyes.

"Larrikin," Dexter says, "let's go for a walk."

"Skul-"

"Larrikin," Dexter says, "let's have a walk and calm down."

Numbly, Larrikin allows himself to be steered away. Dexter's hand remains on his upper back, even as they're simply walking down the corridor. The silence stretches and Larrikin glances at him, and halts. Dexter's breath is stuttering in the familiar prelude to a full blown panic attack. 

With the exception of Skulduggery, Larrikin knows all the Dead Men's tells - at least, those tells which indicate panic. And here he knows quite calmly what to do. He walks to the closest door and opens it; it's an office, but there's already a woman with blue hair there. She yelps in surprise. Larrikin isn't quite sure why - it's a public office in a public building. 

"Are there any empty rooms around here?"

She recovers quickly. "Oh yes, the one on the right is free. Don't go to the one on the left - that's where Scapey and Gerald are and ..."

Larrikin ducks out with a brief thank you and shuts the door. He finds Dexter leaning against the wall, hand on his chest, trying to take measured breaths. 

"Hey Dexter love," he says, and puts his hand slowly on the other's back, "let's go into this room, hey."

Dexter follows along. He's trying to ground himself, Larrikin can see, but it isn't seeming to do much right now. 

"Sit down," Larrikin steers him to the couch. "Can I hug you?"

"Y-yes," Dexter says, his breaths coming in sharp heavy bouts. Larrikin knows, with intimate sympathy, what this man is approximately feeling. The bitter struggle to speak, the racing chest, the hyperventilation. Many of them know this feeling. 

Larrikin wraps his arms around Dexter. One over his shoulders, another around his front; a sidewards hug. 

"S-Sorry," Dexter says, and he drops his head into his hands, "fuck, sorry."

"How about we count breaths."

"That's what I've been doing," Dexter manages, bitterly. 

"Alright," Larrikin hums. "Do - do you remember..."

The silence stretches as Larrikin tries to think of a fond memory not underlain with melancholy. 

"Do you remember when ... when I found Rooster?"

Dexter makes a questioning noise, high in the back of his throat. 

"Rooster the kitten," Larrikin clarifies. "The cat I hid in my pack for an entire mission because I knew the others wouldn't let me keep him? He was brown with a white patch above his nose, a really loud cat, even when he was little. When we were walking and the snow came I was hiding him in the inside pocket of my coat. And I wouldn't kiss you that week, because if you were close you'd notice the cat because it was a ... cat, and I thought you'd be 'responsible' and leave him somewhere. Hopeless knew about it immediately, of course, and maybe Saracen too."

"I ended up asking you if I'd done something to upset you, I was really worried I had. And then you just looked at me like I was crazy, dragged me behind the tents and opened your coat to show this awful disheveled little beast. Which you were convinced needed to come with you."

"He wasn't awful," Larrikin says huffily, "he was great."

"No, no he was foul," Dexter says, and then he laughs, loud and sudden. "He hated everyone except you."

"I fail to see the problem."

"He'd hide behind the tent flag and scratch anyone that passed."

"I never saw this."

"And he'd wail at the middle of the night. And you somehow convinced people you were the one doing that."

"I'm a natural, should have been a spy."

"Oh god," Dexter leans his head on Larrikin's. The immediate panic seems to be receding. "We need to steal a car."

"...what?"

"If we're going to get you to the prison, we'll need to steal a car. I don't have mine here and we need to go quick before Skulduggery puts two and two together."

"But what about what Skulduggery said, about it being dangerous?"

"I don't think I get to choose what's too dangerous for you. If this is a risk you are wanting to take, then I'll do everything I can to help you succeed."

Larrikin looks at him tenderly. "What's got you in this state love?"

"Well," Dexter says slowly, "some of things Skulduggery said. And. Well I'm really hoping I'm not going be helping kill you."

"We don't need to do anything, we can visit him and work things out from there."

"Because you're one to be cautious."

"If it grants you peace of mind," Larrikin says, honest even though the soul of him is aching to go back home, "then absolutely."

Chapter Text

Valkyrie really should have expected General Ciara Oscuro to be exactly as she was. A short woman, stocky and muscled, with a direct gaze and forcefully calm presence, carrying a weight of years beyond any of the others. She was in black armour and had a staff strapped to her back, and the moment she saw Hopeless she strode towards them without hesitation.

"General." Unlike Ciara Hopeless' calm was white-knuckled and paper thin. "You were quick."

"One of our teleporters used to live nearby." Ciara said. "What's the situation, Hopeless?"

Valkyrie just watched. She felt cold and ill, unsure of why, perhaps from the earlier argument or the tangled awful mess that everything had become. Maybe it was Hopeless' distain. Maybe it was the knowledge of what was to come, inevitable and haunting. She just sat on the ground outside the tavern where they'd been waiting.

"Erskine ..." Hopeless rubbed their face. "Erskine's loyalty is ... He's made a mistake."

"What mistake?" Then Ciara's gaze fell onto Valkyrie's face and it almost felt searing, that scrutiny. "Hello."

"That is Valkyrie Cain. She is an ally."

"Alright." Ciara's eyes moved away. "So. The situation. Give me a report soldier."

"We - I caught Erskine trying to send sensitive information to outside sources. We stopped him but he might ... he is compromised. He's fled. The others are after him but I - I trust you, Ciara. He won't listen to me, we're too close. He might listen to you. You always - He's always looked up to you."

"Fuck." Ciara said. "The Children of the Spider?"

Hopeless' step away seemed automatic. 

"Kiddo," Ciara said, softer than anything else she'd said since arriving, "do you think I tell everyone my visions?"

"What did you see?" Hopeless' voice stuttered. Valkyrie's heart pounded - did Ciara, did Ciara know who Valkyrie was too? Had Ciara already had that vision - a dark-haired girl ... Did she look at Valkyrie and know her past, their future? 

"It is not too late." Ciara murmured, putting a hand on Hopeless' shoulder. Hopeless' posture slumped, and Valkyrie suddenly imagined a century or two ago, Hopeless very young, Ciara adopting the three in one way or another. It wasn't fanciful either, Skulduggery had spoken of it in passing. She just hadn't considered it until now.

"But if it ... if we fail?"

"We fail. And a lot of people get hurt. There's a lot riding on the choices your young man makes." Ciara stepped away, any maternal persona leaving as suddenly as it arrived. She dusted her hands. "Let's find him."

Hopeless just stared as she walked away. Valkyrie stood up. "Does she know where he is?"

Hopeless shrugged. "Maybe."

And so they followed.

It made sense, Valkyrie thought uncharitably, that Erskine would hide away in the forest like a rat. 

Ciara's tracking had been unerring and silent. Hopeless had fallen into pace like it was normal, and so Valkyrie did the same. She didn't really think this would do anything, but it was better than twiddling her thumbs at the tavern, and anyway, she'd always wondered what Ghastly's mother was like. If she got a chance she would be asking questions. 

The three reached an unremarkable clearing and Hopeless stiffened suddenly. Ciara glanced at them, and something passed between them, and Ciara was walking into the middle of the clearing even as Hopeless grabbed Valkyrie's arm and dragged her slowly backwards.

"Erskine Ravel." Ciara called, clear and level. 

No verbal response, just the wind and birdsong. Night was approaching but it wasn't dark yet. 

"Erskine Ravel, I need you to report in."

Valkyrie went to say something, and Hopeless' hand clamped over her mouth immediately. Ciara waited and sighed. Her mask dropped, and she looked a little tired, a little worried. Though, Valkyrie considered, perhaps this was a new mask put on. And then Ciara sat down in the branches and leaves and set her staff over her knees. 

"I'll wait," she called, and she did.

At some point the leaves rustled and Erskine was sitting beside her. In the corner of her vision, Valkyrie could see the rush of emotions cross Hopeless' face. They looked near to tears again. Valkyrie searched for sympathy and found it entirely absent. 

"Hello Ciara." Erskine said, low.

"Hello kiddo," Ciara said. "Want to tell me what happened?"

Erskine said something too low to make out, and Hopeless' gasp was heavy and mourning, and Valkyrie watched the two in the clearing and wished quite suddenly that she had had this, years ago. When she had been labelled destroyer of worlds and terrified to tell anyone, when her path had been set before her stretching and she had felt helpless. Skulduggery had not been enough (had he even truly tried?)

Hopeless was looking at her with much too much understanding and suddenly Valkyrie needed to leave. She needed to get away from this multi-level intervention, the sensitive and the fear-mage. Hopeless reached out for her shoulder and she stumbled away, world swirling with anxiety, and Hopeless didn't try to follow as she stumbled further into the twilight forests.

And that ... that wasn't anxiety, that gut feeling, she'd felt it once before, tugging and certain, and she needed to follow it, she needed to follow it now. She turned away, last image Hopeless' knowing wave of goodbye, and followed blinding that feeling, towards her future. 

How long had she had, last time? It had started hours before ... she didn't necessarily need to run. That didn't stop her, even as she wracked her brain for anything she was missing, forgetting ... It didn't matter. She clutched the bangle on her wrist. She was sorry not to say goodbye to Shudder at least but words evaded her anyway.

"Valkyrie!"

Valkyrie put her head down and kept running. That was Dexter's voice. That was his running footfalls. 

"Valkyrie, stop!"

She jolted to a stop as Dexter and Shudder emerged from the brush. 

"Are you alright?"

"It's calling. The - the magic." She managed.

Dexter's stricken face froze, eyes wide, but Shudder took it with unbothered confidence.

"Where do we go?" Shudder asked.

"I don't know if you should - "

"If you're being called away then Larrikin's coming back," Shudder said, without hesitation or uncertainty. "We're going to be there. Lead the way."

No point arguing. Valkyrie nodded jerkily and ran towards the calling, Shudder and Dexter following a reasonable distance behind. Quite sudden they came upon a gentle stream and rising bank and the feeling in her eased, and she sat firmly on the spot she knew was right.

"How long did it take last time?" Dexter asked.

"A - a couple of hours." 

"I'll go get the others." Shudder said.

"Why?"

"They will want to say goodbye. And Dexter should stay in case."

Valkyrie nodded, heart pounding. Then Shudder leant down and hugged her, brief.

"Look after yourself." He told her, and she teared up immediately.

"You too."

He nodded and disappeared into the thickets.

"You'll need to keep away," she warned Dexter.

"I'm not stupid," Dexter said. 

"Alright." She said, and just sat there in that feeling, waiting for Skulduggery to bring her back home.

Chapter Text

Prisons are cleaner nowadays but no less ... unnerving. Larrikin follows Dexter silently and keeps his gaze away from the numerous doors with numbers and no windows. The place is shiny in a dead sort of way. He has had too many comrades captured and imprisoned for this institution to bring any feeling but nausea. It is lucky Dexter has authority here. Larrikin could not even begin to fathom the technologies underpinning the security of this place, if he had to break any of them. Finally Dexter slows in front of a door and looks at him. His eyes are red rimmed. "He is here."

Larrikin nods, mouth dry. 

Dexter's hand hovers over a sigil, currently unactivated. "Would you like to go in alone or with company?"

This had not registered as a thought across Larrikin's mind, and he is unsure which is fairer or more logical. "Which do you prefer?"

Dexter shrugs, something blank behind his eyes which indicates to Larrikin, more than anything else today, that Dex has hit the wall of his capacity. 

"I'll go in myself."

Dexter nods and does not move his hand. Larrikin waits. It is Dexter who is recognised by the system, Dexter upon whom Larrikin depends. 

"Love," he says after the moment extends, "I need you to open the door."

"I am sorry that we have hurt you."

The jagged knife of that slices beneath Larrikin's sternum. His poor shattered heart cracks wider. He blinks slowly. 

"Oh honey," he starts, then stammers.

"Skulduggery should never have tried to time travel but I am sure he never would have done if he knew how it would hurt you."

Larrikin looks at this wounded man and wonders at that confidence, that belief. Larrikin has faced half the torment Dexter has endured and yet he lacks that optimism regarding Skulduggery's current character. 

"This hurt you too."

"Hurt me-?" Dexter's eyes fill with compassion lined with confusion. He turns fully to face Larrikin. "Larrikin I have spent a century missing you. To see you again has been a dream I thought forever fictional. Please do not take - take my grief as your fault."

"My presence has opened old wounds for you."

"Oh," Dexter laughs, bitter but gentle, "they were always open. But your presence has helped heal some." He touches his throat. 

"Dex." Larrikin takes both his hands and sways close. "I am so sorry you have to carry this."

"Please don't apologise."

"Take my blessing, then."

Dexter smiles at him, and leans his forehead against Larrikin's. "I forgot what it's like to be in a room with you."

"That's okay. You remember now." Larrikin swallows. He rattles his brain in desperate hope that he can find the right sequence of words to help Dexter even after he leaves. "Please do not retreat from the world after this. Go to Saracen, or new friends, or something other than hiding or choosing the most dangerous cases to go on. You have a life here. It cannot always be shadowed by the past."

"I'll try. Look after yourself too. Make sure to rest more."

"I'll try. There is a war on. Or, well, there was."

"There is good in your future. Do not think there is not."

"I know." Larrikin smiles, blinking. "It's never just one or the other."

"The man inside that cell is a conman but he is not overtly malicious. If you wave at the door I will come in. Get your information and if you decide to leave, sign that to me, and if you wish to stay come back out." And he hugs him, sudden and quick. And then Dexter Vex presses the lock.

Larrikin steps in. 

A soldier learns to survey new space. This is what he does, and he notes bracelets on the man's wrists, his shadowed eyes, how clean (bizarre for an institution like this) his clothes are. The man is sitting on his bed but he stands at Larrikin's entrance. In the centre of the room is a table and two chairs. The chair closest to the door is set behind a line of sigils; obviously some sort of protective barrier. There's a shiny white cup full of water, a shiny white plate without food remaining.

"Penance Revenu."

"Who are you?" His accent is notable, Larrikin suspects Derry, though he wonders if the accents have shifted over the years.

"Larrikin."

The man stares, wild-eyed. "You shouldn't be here."

"No fucking shit." And Larrikin sits at the table and gestures for Penance to follow suit. The man stares. Larrikin sighs and puts his feet up on the table. "Well come on now, I'm just here for a chat."

"Did Pleasant's girl not come back?"

"You seem to have chosen a particularly wily sort of magic, Revenu."

"That sort of thing's not a choice."

"Perhaps not. Peddling your powers for money, promising to help hapless stupid idiots - like my skeleton friend - rewrite their historical wrongs is a choice now, isn't it?"

"I didn't mean for you to get wrapped up in this."

"I would hope not. This conversation would be much less relaxed if I thought so. My boyfriend is just outside the door though, and boy, I don't think he's one for the benefit of the doubt when something like this occurs."

"I swear - Cain wasn't even supposed to be there, she disrupted the ceremony! I told Pleasant she'd come back when she considers her mission complete; he didn't believe me. Did he try and bring her back early? He did, didn't he, and it caught you instead..."

"I'm here for information not excuses." Larrikin clicks his tongue and Penance sits slowly. "Why were you doing this?"

"I told them all already - I want to help people!"

"Darling, I don't know who this was helping, but it certainly wasn't me."

"Don't you have things you'd do anything to change?"

"No." Larrikin says.

"Well Pleasant does. That Cain girl does. Everyone else I helped does."

"Valkyrie was an accident."

"I'm sure she would appreciate the chance to stop Darquesse ..."

"Who's - nevermind. You didn't answer the question."

"I can't go back myself, I can only send others. My timeline is fixed. My mistakes grounded. Others' aren't."

"Mistakes are part of being human."

"Not ones like your friends'."

"That's really beside the point. Can you send me back to 1850, back to my real time, switch me with Valkyrie?"

Penance leans back, eyes narrowed. He really isn't a presence at all, a shadow without substance. Larrikin looks at him and wonders at Skulduggery's wariness. 

"What's in it for me?"

Larrikin sighs, and he signs at the (temporarily visible) window in the door, and Dexter after a moment steps in. The tension rises some palpable notches. 

"Dexter, if Revenu sends me home and Val back here, will you work on lightening his sentence?"

"Lightening? I need something more concrete than that."

Dexter keeps his eyes away from Revenu, locked solely on Larrikin. "I'm not the one who passes sentences. I shouldn't be, either. But I can testify on his behalf that he tried to right the wrongs that resulted from his misuse of powers."

"Well, is that enough?"

Revenu shrugs.

"Are you going to trust him?" Dexter says, without bothering to lower his voice.

"You will notice whether Valkyrie comes back or not. If she does you can assume it worked. If it didn't I'm sure you can ... convince him to rectify it."

Dexter's eyes are unsure, and so Larrikin smiles at him brightly. Suddenly it's too much and Larrikin looks back at Penance, carrying a forced cheeriness.

"Can you do it now."

"Do you promise to testify for me?" Penance looks right at Dex.

"If you set this right."

"I never meant anyone to be hurt by this, I meant to help."

"I don't care for that. I care that people did get hurt. But you can help with stopping that."

Penance presses his lips together. "If you cross those sigils I can send you back. All I need is physical touch. You may forget some recent events - the mind tends to protect itself from the impossible - but you'll be home."

"Your magic isn't blocked?"

"I'm too powerful." And there underneath the reserved apologies swims some deep sea of pride, glimpsed momentarily.

"Wish me luck," Larrikin says, momentarily squeezing Dexter's hand. He crosses over to the other side of the room and Penance reaches out to take his hand. Larrikin locks eyes with Dexter - the man is unabashedly crying and it twists something in him to see that - and then something like a vice or a hand of God or something deeply powerful grasps him in it and squeezes. 

The last glimpse Larrikin has of 2017 is the reddened brown of Dexter Vex's eyes.

And then, he is gone. 

Chapter Text

Time shudders and rearranges herself. She dusts things down, straightens things out. This is her house, and someone broke in and smashed all her ornaments and cracked her mirror and let the dog indoors. She has to set things in order, make things make sense. She puts things back on their shelves and repairs the cracks, ushers the dog into the yard. And so things change.

Time sits at the loom of the world and splits the threads in half, and Larrikin goes one way, and Valkyrie another.

Chapter Text

This time it's like being yanked through a sieve in reverse. She's sitting on the bank with the Dead Men at a distance, and then she isn't, and then there's concrete beneath her in a poorly lit room. Memory begins seeping through the cracks and almost blinds her, too much to lay out all in one go, a bath she's sinking in, drowning.

The man behind her in this cell, because this is a prison cell like many she's visited in her time, watches silently. The anger yanks her towards him - she knows it was him, his lies and seductive promises, that bent them to this point.

"You brought me back then? Took you fucking long enough."

The man - she has forgotten his name, something wieldy and pretentious, tasting of regret - raises his hands and backs away. She takes a step forward and another hand comes to her shoulder.

"Are you alright?"

Once when Fletcher had taken her to Australia and they'd swum, she'd gotten caught in the roughness of the surf. She'd been tugged and hurled through water so quickly she forgot her magic, and when she'd surfaced she'd gasped with relief, staggered back to shore. Collapsed on the sand without even checking for dead bluebottles. And she'd stared up into the cornflower blue sky and breathed and breathed, and it is that same relief that she breathes with now. That is the hand of Dexter Vex on her shoulder. 

"Come on," he says, something different in his voice, "let's get out of here."

Valkyrie nods, throat thick, eyes locked on his. His scars are better. His eyes are as haunted as ever, red-rimmed. Yet, he is gentle. In the corridor she drops to the ground, head sinking on her knees, adrenaline rioting her system. Dexter joins her and is quiet, eyes on her face. 

"Where's...?" 

Valkyrie doesn't need to finish that sentence. The living skeleton turns the corner of this prison corridor, walking swiftly without running.

"Oh thank God," she breathes, and she throws herself into his bony arms with the assuredness of a dove settling to roost. 

Skulduggery pats her twice on the head. "Who are you?"

Anton had warned her of something like this, days and a century ago. But it's visceral, her stomach curling, hands shaking. Brain whitening just a moment.

"Skulduggery," she pulls away, scanning his stupid bastard skull, "it's Valkyrie, it's me."

The skeleton looks down at her, without motion, no familiar tilt of the head.

Dexter exhales. "Skulduggery. Don't be a cunt."

There comes the head tilt. "I had you, didn't I?"

Valkyrie shoves him backwards and he lets her. "You bastard, you absolute fucking..."

Skulduggery wraps his arms back around her tight and sure. "I'm glad you're back, Valkyrie. We missed you."

And she's crying or laughing or maybe both and Dexter is setting a careful hand on her shoulder blade, and she's home she's home she's home with her fucked up friends and fucked up best friend and she doesn't need to do anything except breathe. 

In the car on the ride to her apartment, she sits in the passenger seat. Dexter is texting someone, attention directed away from their quiet conversation. 

"Did he come here?"

"Larrikin? Yes." Skulduggery turns on the blinker. "Hopefully he is back home now."

Dexter makes a noise - as if he tried to indicate affirmation but his throat got stuck halfway through.

"Is he okay?"

"I think so. Where did you go? How are you?"

"I spent weeks in 1850 trying to stop you from being a mass murderer Skulduggery," Valkyrie says, "you and Erskine. How do you think I am?"

Dexter laughs. It's not born from mirth. "Skulduggery swore you'd do everything to not destroy the timeline. Should have known otherwise. You're more like him than he likes to admit."

"What would you have done?" There's rain trickling down the windscreen. Her eyes are heating up. "If your best friend begged for your help?"

"It wasn't a criticism Val," Dexter says quietly. "Do you think I kept things from Larrikin?"

"I told you to," Skulduggery says sharply. 

"Bit fucking hypocritical," Dexter says, tone as placid as before, and he goes back to his phone.

"You started this," Valkyrie says, because she remembers now, "you snuck off for it, knowing the risks, knowing the dangers. I only was there to try and stop you. So don't you dare criticise me."

"... I am sorry."

"You can't just do that. We're a team. We don't do that shit."

"It sounds like you did the same thing I was aiming to do."

"I couldn't remember anything, the case, what you did. 'Course I tried to fix things."

"Perhaps," Skulduggery says, "my sins are not yours to erase."

Valkyrie grasps the bracelet on her wrist. "Dex, are you okay?"

"Why would I -"

"You and Larrikin were ... close, in 1850." It's not meant as an accusation; it comes out like one regardless. 

Dexter sighs. "Skulduggery wasn't the one to tell you about his wife, was he?"

"No. China did."

"Sometimes it's too hard to speak of, when someone you love more than anything is ... is murdered. I wasn't going to tell every new person I met."

"I'm not just a new person."

"No, you're a friend. Now."

"You sound better."

"Larrikin healed me."

"Oh."

"He asked if we got married. Before he realised he was dead in this time. He asked -" Dexter cuts himself off and stares through the window.

"I am sorry." Skulduggery says softly. 

It hits too late, the realisation. "So he's dead then, Larrikin?"

Dexter makes a sound, sharp and involuntary. Skulduggery says, calmly. "Yes."

"How?"

"Do. We. Have. To?" Dexter grits out.

"Wales, just before the end of the war."

"And Hopeless?" Heat is rising fast now behind her eyes, something sharp wriggling from under her ribcage and settling around her throat. She fidgets with the bangle.

"Prussia, sometime before then." Skulduggery says. "Darquesse happened, Vile happened -"

"- happened?" Dexter interjects, voice rising with incredulous anger.

"Ravel betrayed us. I have to admit I may not know if you succeeded in changing anything, however I cannot say our recent past is particularly happy."

"Ghastly?"

"Oh, he's alive."

"Really?"

"No."

"Skulduggery, just shut up," Dexter says, "or let me out of this fucking car."

Skulduggery inclines his skull. "As you wish."

Valkyrie exhales slowly. "I failed then, I fucking failed."

"You're alive," Skulduggery says firmly, "you're here and with us. It was never on you to right these wrongs, other people's wrongs. You survived, and survival is a victory."

"You were so young, back then."

"That comes with youth, generally."

"You were so scared of yourself."

"Well," Skulduggery says impassively, as he switches on the right indicator, "aren't we all, in our ways?"

"I said I would help, I said I would fix it."

"Well. You tried."

"Stop the car."

Skulduggery makes an inquiring noise but pulls off the road. Valkyrie shoves the door open, stumbles out into the rain and screams at the empty, darkening field. Cars pass with flashes of high beams. Skulduggery steps out and follows behind - she knows his steps. She climbs over the low drystone wall and heads to the nearest tree, and when she reaches it she releases that fury burning beneath her skin. Her hands ignite - white lightening lights up the oak.

"Valkyrie," Skulduggery calls, and he sounds truly concerned now.

Valkyrie drops to her knees in the mud as the lightening sizzles out. The air smells sharp and acrid and the tree is burning a little still, now, despite the rain. Skulduggery settles a hand on her shoulder, and Dexter waits in the car, and Valkyrie mourns.

Chapter Text

Larrikin felt the ground beneath his knees. The air was silent. He let his palms press the earth below him, noted the lack of unease, and slowly raised his head. The air tasted right. The smell too - fresher, lacking that sharp smell of the future buildings. He opened his eyes, heart pounding.

Only to be barreled almost sidewards by an incoming body. Arms wrapped around him tight and he knew this, knew this hug.

"Larrikin," Dexter said, almost yelling, teary and joyous, "are you okay? Are you alright?"

Larrikin twisted so he could hug his Dexter just as tight, arms around his sides. He leant back just a little, scanned his man's eyes and face. There were shadows there, but they were not the same as what they will be.

"I'm alright." He breathed. "Hello Dex."

"Thank fuck," Dexter said, and he kissed him.

After a moment Larrikin scanned his surroundings for the first time. They were in a forest - not the one he left, the trees were different - and beside a rushing stream. His gaze fell on the rest of them. The moment their eyes locked, Saracen was hurrying over to hug him as well, and Anton was there suddenly at his side, a hand on his shoulder. And the rest stood close, relief on their faces.

"Where were you?" Saracen asked.

"Five guesses."

"2017?" Ghastly asked dryly.

"Got it in one!" He pulled further away from Dexter so he could really evaluate everyone, but he grasped Dex's hand as he did. From the tightness of Dexter's grip, he didn't want to let go either. "How are you all? How did the mission go?"

"Successful," Saracen winked, and he patted his breast pocket.

Everyone stared.

"Rue, I swear to fuck, if the Book of Names is just in your jacket..." Dexter said.

"You said it was safe."

"It is! It's buttoned in."

"Right, you're giving that to Ciara immediately," Skulduggery said.

"Look, I'd know if someone was going to steal it."

"...Where's Erskine?" Larrikin asked suddenly, chilled that he hadn't noticed until now. The wash of relief had made him assume, perhaps, that Erskine was in the back of the group and not simply absent.

"He's in ... custody. He was, not quite a spy but, well, he's got mixed loyalties we can't really trust." Every word Dexter uttered was reluctant.

"What?" Larrikin said. Future-Dexter had spoken about this but somehow Larrikin had forgotten. Or rather, assumed it wouldn't come up so soon.

"Ciara's with him," Hopeless said, and on second glance they looked like absolute shit. "He - he needs help."

"By being ... locked up?" Larrikin hazarded, eyes narrowing. He had ought to ask, really, what Erskine had done, except he truly didn't know if he could hold the weight of that right now.

"He's just under guard currently," Hopeless said. There was a thread of tension there.

No doubt they had a set time that they'd allow Erskine to be detained before they'd kick up a storm, or even just break him out. Larrikin could not say if he would stop them, if it came to it. Perhaps he would help.

"Alright. Let's deal with that later. What is happening, right now?"

There was a pause.

"We should return to the main camp." Anton said.

Dexter's grip tightened. "He's just got back."

"We've been relying on their good will too much already," Saracen said quietly. "With Larrikin back we have no reason to wait."

"Tomorrow. Not today." Dexter wrapped an arm around Larrikin's waist.

There was another pause. Where a joke might have landed, only silence lay.

"We can do that." Skulduggery said. "We should talk with Ravel and Ciara anyway."

"Good. Please say you've got us somewhere to stay that's not a tent."

"Stop your whinging." Anton said, fondly.

"Up you get now," Ghastly said, grabbing his arms and hoisting him up.

Larrikin stood and let out a breath. Suddenly, Hopeless was pulling him in for another hug. Larrikin closed his eyes, and melted into the embrace.

At some point Larrikin and Dexter got the hostel room to themselves. The others had left with paper-thin excuses, except Hopeless, who'd looked fit to burst out of their skin if they spent a moment further away from Erskine. Which, Larrikin supposed, mightn't be healthy, what with Erskine being a traitor and all.

Ha! Funny. Who was healthy, in their relationships, in war? They were all twisted into each other and thereby inseparable, even in death.

"What happened?" Dexter asked, gentle as an incoming breeze.

Larrikin took a long long moment to respond. When he did he released each word like a boulder from his mouth. "I do not wish to lie to you. If you want me to tell you everything I will. But it will change you forever if I do. And I do not know how it might change the world."

Dexter's eyes were serious and sharp. Larrikin glanced away after a moment, hunching his shoulders. Dexter scooted over to him so their shoulders were pressed together, no hesitation to touch. Larrikin leant into his side.

"Will it help you to speak these things to me?"

Larrikin rubbed his eyes. Dexter wrapped an arm over his shoulder and Larrikin felt momentarily so warm, so entirely protected, a feeling he rarely needed except for when his world was crumbling and he was ill with foreboding and the weight of foresight.

Which, you know, he was. Right now. 

"I - it would be selfish of me to answer that."

"Valkyrie already told us much of what will happen. It sounds like a number of us may die, from what has been discussed. If you fear making a paradox I would say the chicken's flown the coop."

"Do you remember Rooster?"

"Of course I remember Rooster. Bitch of a cat."

Larrikin's smile was momentary, until his mind returned to the task at hand. "... I met you. 2017 you."

"Woah. Am I still hot?"

Larrikin tried to shove Dexter off the bed and he just laughed, pulling him down with him. Both of them on the floor, in the dust, staring at the ceiling. 

Larrikin sneezed, sitting up. "That is your first question?"

"Look me in the eyes and say it wouldn't be yours."

"Would you have been jealous if I said yes?"

Dexter pulled a considering face and sat up too. There were cobwebs in his hair. He put his chin on his hand. "That is such a question."

"And?"

"Come now Larrikin." Dexter batted his lashes because he was an awful man. Larrikin leant nearer to him entirely without conscious thought. Dexter took his hand. "Do I age well?"

Larrikin forced his eyes to stay on Dexter's. He wanted to run but doing so was counterintuitive. He had screamed and yelled and fought to get back here. It would resolve nothing, and this was Dexter. His Dexter. 

"Time is not kind to you."

"That makes sense. I do not know if time is ever kind." Dexter said, and his eyes darted over Larrikin's face. It was visible, the moment he registered the weight of Larrikin's emotions, in the way his face softened, eyes kind and sad. "Love." Dexter squeezed his hand. "What is it?"

"I do not ... make it."

Dexter's lips pressed together and he breathed through his nose. Larrikin closed his eyes; he could feel tremors in his fingers as he tried to ground himself. It was a fundamental tragedy, really, to have to carry his own fate. When he had been in 2017 the focus has ultimately been Dexter, but here he had no buffer, no tether. 

"Can I hug you?"

It wasn't a normal question, they had passed that boundary of intimacy a long time ago. Yet Dexter's voice was delicate and careful, and Larrikin opened his eyes and felt the weight of undivided attention. Dexter, there entirely. And so he nodded, biting his lip in an attempt to staunch rising tears, and Dexter embraced him carefully. Then tight, a barrier against the world. 

So Larrikin, through tears, told him what happened. The only details he dulled were ones concerning future Dexter's health and wellbeing, though he hated to lie he elided the subject. Dexter would guess it all well enough. 

At the end of the ramble the two sat there, Dexter clutching his hand a little too tight. 

"Valkyrie was trying to change the future." Dexter said finally. 

"What?" Larrikin was brought back into his body with a jolt. This wasn't the expected response. 

"I'm not sure of the details, but with Skulduggery and Erskine particularly, she tried to stop them from doing things." Dexter frowned. "Atrocities, I mean, not things. She was vague but not subtle. I am not sure of details but she gave a lot of advice. I was angry at her at the time, didn't consider her overly trustworthy - but what you're saying does align with a lot of the things she said. And I think changing what happens makes sense for everyone except, perhaps, Valkyrie herself."

"What are you saying?"

"Anton might have more knowledge to help with this. But I'm saying what you saw doesn't need to be our future, even if it is their past. The timeline must have already shifted. I think we can change things. Which doesn't make what you lived through any less awful, love, but you need not dread it coming to pass again. Especially if we just avoid Wales until the war truly ends."

"But the rest?"

"I think our whole group needs to stop for a while, and talk things all out. With Erskine. And Doug. It sounds like we're veering towards something awful that can be avoided. But I don't see it working without honesty."

"You're hot when you're thoughtful, did you know that?"

"What a deranged thing to say," Dexter said, kissing him. 

"It was awful," Larrikin admitted.

"Fuck you, that was a great kiss."

"Shut up." Larrikin sighed. He felt the coiled ropes of his shoulders unfurling. "2017. Being there with a you that was not you, a Skulduggery who wasn't our Skulduggery. They were carrying so much grief, rivers and oceans of it, and I missed you so much. God I missed you Dex."

"I missed you too," Dexter murmured, "I was so scared when you disappeared. It didn't make sense, and Valkyrie didn't know or wouldn't say how the magic worked, and I didn't know what to do."

Larrikin ... hadn't considered overmuch how Dexter would have felt. He hadn't been sure that there would be a time difference. Sure, it had crossed his mind, but it had been a distant thought. And that was selfish. Larrikin had been trying to be less like that. 

"I missed you too."

"Wasn't I there?"

"It - like I said, he wasn't you though. He was much too old and grieving."

"I don't really want to know about that version of me," Dexter admitted, "at least, not right now. If that's okay?"

"Of course." Larrikin said. He twisted his hands together. He didn't expect the next words when they came. "Can we get married?"

Dexter leant back, forehead furrowed. "Of course, when the war's over..."

"Dex."

"You - you don't think it'll happen. You don't think you'll survive." 

"I know why you want to wait." Larrikin started slowly. "And if you don't want to then of course we won't but - I went to the future and one of the first questions I asked was if we had gotten married. And they never answered but. Well. It's pretty obvious we didn't. And I know it's not - I know it means something different to you than me but. I mourned that, a little. I want you to be my husband. I want that statement made. I want the marks we've made on each other's lives to be recognised by law - Meritorious' law, at least."

"I want a happy wedding, a free one. One that won't need guards and secrecy and safeguards against ambush. I want to be able to have that sort of gathering without being afraid."

"Well." Larrikin mulled it over. "Who says we can't have two weddings?" 

"A quiet one and a big one?"

"When we win, we can throw a massive do. I'll wear a white gown. Throw flowers at Doug. Actually no, that would maybe be cruel. His wife being dead and all. At Hopeless then."

"I wanted the white dress."

"Okay," Larrikin felt a grin overtake his mouth, "we both have dresses then."

"In a church too."

"I know a monk or two of our persuasion, but I don't know if they can officiate marriages. I'll slip them some cash, they'll do it."

Dexter laughed.

Larrikin looked at him through his lashes. "So is that a yes?"

"... I can't see myself regretting it."

Larrikin wiggled his eyebrows.

"Yes. Yes Larrikin, I'll marry you."

Larrikin cheered, loud enough to make Dexter wince. And they kissed again, gentle, and that frantic wild thing in Larrikin's chest slept for a time.