Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gasping and choking Verstael scrambles in the nursing fluid of the cryogenic pod. He’s conscious too soon into the disengagement process. He pushes at the top seal blindly, drowning, but this clone body has been in storage so long the limbs are stiff.

Mercifully the glass clicks away, as programmed, but doesn’t do so smoothly and the opening of the pod thumps to one side of the tube loosing fluid all over the tiles. The pod lid cracks but luckily is too thick to shatter into a million dangerous pieces on the floor.

Verstael surges up, finally able to breathe properly, and hacking the fluid out of his lungs wheezes for fresh air.

Sitting in the tepid fluid, naked as the day he was born, Verstael gathers himself.

Heaving, panting, he blinks groggily around the sub-basement storage room of the First Magitek Research Facility. If the pod is sustained, if he’s alive, then the AI of the facility is still running and, with it, the power generators. Though given the low level of the lighting and the smattering of already apparent failures around him Verstael suspects they’re onto the backup generators. Was the facility damaged?

Coughing, limbs weak and atrophied, Verstael knows he has to get out of the pod and into dry, warm, clothes as quickly as is feasible. If they’re on backup generators the heating isn’t functioning optimally and up North the cold will kill you before any daemon.

Verstael doesn’t remember all the details of what happened before this…

Before this.

He knows that stray clone, the stolen Lucian one, was rummaging around in the facility. Something to do with Ardyn. He knows he was attempting to load his brain into the completed Immortalis but after that the memories split and fade.

Well, as the Niffs always say; Plan B is king.

Before Ardyn, before the war, Niflheim was a country of losers and underdogs. Verstael was a man of that era, that culture, and riddled with scourge or not Verstael never quite shook that mentality. Ardyn had been pulling away, entangled in his own quest, since that damn prince was born and Verstael was getting older and sicker every day.

The Immortalis was plan A.

This? The spare clone body in the basement? The second copy of his digitized brain?

This is plan B.

The Immortalis must’ve failed. The AI was rigged to only initialize this clone shell if the Immortalis stopped responding to data requests for a significant amount of time. Okay so, one way or another, that form and that part of his brain is dead.

Dragging himself across the room every step is painful but it’s the pain of a sick body, not an old one, and Verstael can combat sick.

He leans heavily into the storage locker and yanking the door open starts rifling for a set of dry clothes on the upper shelves. Pants, shirts, jackets, thermals, snow boots…

He really did remember the important stuff, thank fuck.

The facility is clearly damaged and if his new body is so stiff it’s been this way for a while. If no one has come to tend the facility then things have likely escalated in the war. The Lucian kid is probably gone, the cold makes those unused to it disinclined to linger after all, and Verstael doesn’t doubt for a moment Ardyn has abandoned him for dead.

Verstael remembers, once, when he was younger…

It hardly matters now.

Ardyn won’t be mourning.

Verstael shouldn’t linger on the subject.

He has his own problems, right?

Getting dressed is awkward and painful but Verstael has no option. He refuses to die. This body might be protesting him but physically its barely mature, eighteen or nineteen at most, so it can endure a little hardship. It will recover. Verstael picked one that could handle some unforeseen trouble after all. So even if he’s small and atrophied and cold; he’s alive.

He’s going to stay alive.

He might’ve been old and sick, crazy even, but Verstael has never been stupid.

Ardyn was wrong to suppose he’d shuffle off quietly into the night.

Verstael isn’t going to lay down and die; not now, not ever.

The next few hours are purely survival based.

Verstael drags himself into clothes.

Verstael drags himself to the weapons locker.

Verstael takes every painful, sluggish, step into the ruined HQ of his facility with the rifle hanging over his shoulder.

The facility is decimated but daemons nor snow have infiltrated his hunk of the hub and sinking heavily into a HQ chair Verstael fires the central computer back to life. It splutters, screen flickering and cascading through data loops but Verstael pushes forward.

His legs feel better now he’s sitting but the dull ache is still ever present.

He needs food and rest but first he needs to be safe and warm.

Camera feeds across the facility are glitchy at best and the data banks for recordings have long since registered full capacity. The internal clock on the system says it’s been roughly five years since Verstael’s last tangible memory.

Taking a deep breath Verstael assesses his immediate danger first.

The facility is chewed up. Everything is old and dying, like he was. The backup generators are holding steady but they can only do so much and Verstael can piece together that whole hunks of the facility are exposed now. Buildings have been ripped open, bulk heads are torn apart, snow is in the upper labs where the security feed is cracked but still trying to send him footage…

Verstael is able to input a few simple commands.

He secures the exits and entrances of the remaining sections of hub and cuts off all unnecessary functions currently draining power. He maintains life support, heating and power to only a few essential buildings mainly the one he’s in currently as it’s the most defensible.

Verstael can’t stay here forever but he’s already tired and sore.

His body is still new and weak.

He needs to take this in stages.

If the hub is safe for now he needs to get some strength back.

If no one has come looking for him the empire and probably Eos at large are in a shit ton of trouble. Even if Lucis won the war they’d come here to strip out the resources and mine his data banks. If no one’s come? There might not be anyone to come at all.

There are no windows in this section of the facility but…

Well the digital clock says it should be daylight but the camera feeds from the exposed sections were pretty fucking dark.

Is the sun gone?

Verstael can’t compute it all now.

He needs to eat and sleep.

He has to worry about himself right now, everyone else comes later.

There is a cache of supplies hidden away. Verstael has decades of secrets stashed in the walls. It wasn’t necessarily that he ever feared or doubted Ardyn but he was raised by a paranoid, prepper, kind of culture. People were always preparing for ‘winter’ and the various forms it took. So, likewise, Verstael was always preparing for the worst.

Over the next few days Verstael pieces together as much information as he can.

The sun is gone. It doesn’t manifest once across the next five days. The Long Night has commenced and given how comfortable the daemons nesting outside seem to be it’s been this way for a while.

Verstael’s inbox logs several attempts at communication. The earliest are directed towards him in particular but the remainder are attempts to contact anyone within Niflheim who might be listening. First they come from officers, military personnel, and then generalized hunters and then civilian survivors.

The world’s gone to shit.

Verstael’s satellites? Down. Wi-fi networks? Down. Niff military data networks? Down. TV broadcast? Down. Radio broadcasts? Down.

Is there anyone alive out there…?

His body is going to take a while to recover but it’s bouncing back.

He’s young and pumped full of adrenaline after all so…

Fuck.

He never supposed Ardyn would kill him and, in that regard, he was correct, but Adagium laid plenty of breadcrumbs for a fight Verstael didn’t come out on top of. Verstael isn’t keen for revenge mind you. Ardyn is unlikely to come after him, bigger fish to fry and all, and Verstael doesn’t have the resources to decimate Ardyn even if he was inclined to try.

If Ardyn has gone full titanic he’ll fuck up.

Ardyn always fucks up when he gets too emotional.

Verstael just needs to survive until the sun turns back on.

Verstael can do that, he’s certain, but he can’t stay here forever.

There have to be other survivors out there, somewhere. Humans are stupid, sure, but they’re also stubborn and tenacious little fuckers. Niffs especially. There will be life.

Verstael doesn’t imagine money will do him any good if there’s any left to use but he’s smart. He’s got over sixty years of highly specialized engineering, biology and chemistry skills packed into his little cranium. He could be useful. He can certainly convince a generator to keep working.

He’s not a bad marksman either now his vision is young and clear again.

The only lingering confusion in his gut is if he wants to help anyone?

Once, a long time ago, he cared about his country. He was passionate and loyal. He wanted the Niffs to rule the world. He wanted his countrymen to thrive and succeed. He wanted them to win something for once. He wanted them to stop dying in endless wars.

Now…

Well, Verstael is clear headed now his body is scourge free for the first time in two decades but…

Ugh, people are hard.

Verstael always been better at making things from the isolation of a tower than socializing with real humans. His instincts to strive, his passion for science… that’s all lasted better than his nationalism. His will to live is crystallized but his compassion for others has atrophied after decades of disuse.

He was once the kind of person who could empathize with Ardyn’s plight.

Now…?

He’s not even convinced he feels anything beside the will to keep breathing.

Everything is in ruins, Niflheim is dying if it’s not long dead already.

He could stay here, wait for the sun but then what? Who will he be in the new world?

People are hard, he decides, but people have problems for him to solve.

That, the desire to untangle a complicated problem, is the one passion that he can still feel fighting to hold on inside his rattled skull.

He’ll gather his toolkit, some guns, some supplies and he will make his way down south.

He has to.

He’ll head to Gralea. It’s a defensible city. If anyone is alive they’ll be hold up in Gralea. From there he’ll just do his best. He can figure out his rattled brain and sore body as he heals inside and out. With a problem to solve and something to make he might find himself again.

Turns out one true Niff survived the fire; Loqi Tummelt.

Verstael doesn’t like that Loqi is physically older than him now but, as with all things in the Long Night, you just have to make do with what you’ve got.

Loqi is running the refugee camp in Gralea. He’s been stuck there since the Long Night started five years ago and Verstael makes himself a nuisance for the next five years of pitch darkness as they scramble to keep people and themselves alive.

Loqi has his suspicions, Verstael is sure, and Verstael doesn’t make much attempt to hide himself either but the argument never comes. Loqi calls him ‘Vers’ and they leave it at that. There’s too much else to do. Oh, sure, they still scream at each other but it’s about daily things not philosophy.

Verstael’s new hands get calloused and dexterous from machinery and chemicals all over again. He decides not to pick up smoking again, this time around, but he can’t turn down a warm drink most nights. His liver is young, it’ll handle the pressure he supposes.

Parts of him come back, regrown like weeds after a fire, but some of his old self never fully returns. He changes. He’s not a good person still, not exactly, but he’s got a lot less room to be bad now.

The weirdest part is missing Ardyn.

Verstael supposed he’d miss someone from before, but he never had many friends and he hated his family so…

It seems like every day, even five years into his new body, he looks for Ardyn.

Not for anything special, just to talk.

They used to talk a lot.

When Verstael was younger, before Prince Noctis was born and Ardyn started to withdraw entirely, they used to have whole adventures together. Even after things started to go to shit there was a subtle cord of understanding strung between them. Verstael was the mortal with all Ardyn’s secrets. He kept those secrets and, in tandem, Ardyn never sought to remove him from the picture despite the danger of that knowledge.

Verstael will be working on a stubborn piece of machinery and, in his exhaustion, he’ll turn to demand Ardyn’s assistance and…

Well… He’ll face a fat empty corridor, heavy with the mounting coldness in his gut.

Intel comes slowly, more gossip than real news, but people suspect Ardyn is alive still. He’s probably in Insomnia. Verstael used to think he knew Ardyn very well, as a man, but…. well, Ardyn’s not a man, is he? Whatever Verstael knew or didn’t know that person is probably long gone to the scourge.

He tries to tell himself it was all a business arrangement, a marriage of necessity, but he can’t shake the subtle niggle that creeps through him every time news comes.

It’s a strange thing. See someone will suggest something, some grand plan, and Verstael can tell you immediately how it’s going to fall apart. Loqi says it’s because they’re seasoned combat veterans and Verstael tells himself it’s because the others underestimate Ardyn’s intelligence but, honestly? Verstael still seems to understand how Ardyn thinks.

Verstael’s strategies, for the longest time, were joint strategies.

He and Ardyn built the empire into a global superpower. They conquered the ministry first then Eos second. They shot down gods and kings in turn. Verstael is so used to working with Ardyn that knowing his style is second nature, a kind of muscle memory.

Verstael knows he should kill it but the inkling, the understanding, keeps him alive.

So, for now, he lets the memories persist.

As the night lengthens Loqi surrenders to sharing information and resources with the Lucians, the Accordans and the Tenebrasians where they survive across the planet. It’s slow, treacherous, work but they have things to barter. Lucis has the most skilled hunters of any nation but Niflheim has the tech to outlast this and with Verstael back in the fold they’re still producing new designs and modifications that make them a valuable ally to any other group.

Verstael finds a simpler way to rig up LED lighting to grow crops without sunlight and the Tenebrasians start producing actual fresh produce. It’s arrives to them canned, jammed and salted to be sure but it’s new food. Not canned shit from the pre-apocalypse industry.

They start making friends which…

Niffs historically aren’t good at making nice and Loqi takes a little harassing to learn to give as much as he takes but he’s not in a position to be too uppity.

Verstael lets Loqi handle the negotiations.

Loqi is the face of their group, the last vestige of imperial glory and…

Look, he was a shitty little brat but nowadays Loqi holds himself like kings used to.

Admittedly though Verstael would like a little more warning before Loqi barges into his workshop with foreign guest.

“What?” Verstael calls as the door opens, wrestling with a screwdriver. 

“We’ve got company.” Loqi grunts.

“Where from?” Verstael doesn’t glance up as the footsteps get closer.

“Leonis, over in Lestallum, sent him.” Loqi explains. “He knows shit about tech. He wants to talk generator modifications.” 

Lucian, great.

“Have fun,” Verstael snorts.

“I need you to come talk to him.” Loqi slaps a hand on the workbench.

“I’m working.” Verstael argues.

“I don’t understand the shit he’s saying but it sounds helpful.” Loqi presses. “Come on, work with me here asshole.”

Sighing Verstael tosses down his screwdriver and wipes his hands off on a rag.

“You’ve got me for an hour, maybe two,” he argues. “Then I’m clocking off to fucking sleep.”

“Thank you,” Loqi stresses.

He has learnt a few manners, they both have honestly.

The Lucian delegation- if you can call a scraggly handful of hunters that- are seasoned warriors. They’ve lasted this long and travelled this far so you know they’re good. Verstael can tell from their stance they’re ex-Crownsguard or Kingsglaive even the youngest one.

Turns out the youngest man, pushing towards thirty, is the team leader.

“This is Prompto,” Loqi gestures briskly, not bothering with the details of Prompto’s accolades like they might’ve before this all started. “This is my science-engineering-anything-that’s-broke guy. Tell him about the generator mods.”

Prompto needs no introduction, of course, but Verstael is not used to that expression.

That…

Something gross skitters across the Lucian’s face—shock, delight, pity.

Verstael tightens his hands into fists in his pockets.

Uppity little son of a bitch.

“Hey,” Prompto offers his hand to shake, voice disgustingly gentle. “Nice to meet you.”

“Something like that.” Verstael replies, not returning the gesture.

Prompto drops his hand, laughing tiredly.

“So you’re as friendly as Loqi, huh?”

“I’ve got a lot of shit to do.” Verstael maintains. “You wanted to discuss something?”

“Uh—Yeah, listen—” Prompto starts.

Turns out Verstael isn’t the only sharpshooter with technological prowess. Apparently it’s genetic on some level? It’s enough to make Verstael superstitious. He wishes he had some sewing pins, an egg, an iron horseshoe, some rock salt…

Prompto sprawls a hastily drawn diagram across the nearby table demonstrating the specifics of a generator modification that will keep them with power and, most importantly, light for the foreseeable future.

It’s pretty clever, Verstael will admit that.

“Can I keep this?” Verstael supposes, humming over the schematic.

“Yeah, wrote it up specifically for you guys,” Prompto smiles. “Really helped us out Lestallum way so—”

“We’ll implement it immediately,” Verstael nods, gathering up the document. “Thanks.”

Without further elaboration Verstael salutes knowingly to Loqi and heads back into the corridor. He wants to sleep or, maybe, throw up. Being alive is hard enough without seeing the stolen MT wannabe who murdered him.

Prompto fumbles but follows him out into the corridor a second later.

“Wait, hold up,” he pleads.

Verstael pauses, turning back around.

“I didn’t get your name?” Prompto supposes.

“Does it matter?” Verstael replies levelly.

“You wrote all those Niffs mods, right?” Prompto continues, evading the question. “They were mad impressive. Saved a lot of people from starving or freezing or worse. You must be wicked smart.”

“Is this going somewhere?” Verstael sighs.

“I just…” Prompto lowers his voice. “Our faces, the laboratories falling apart, I need to ask—”

“No, you don’t.” Verstael maintains.

Verstael knows what he thinks.

He thinks Verstael is some vagabond clone, freed from slavery.

It’s nowhere near that sweet, of course, and Prompto won’t like the truth.

But Verstael refuses to die.

“I know it’s rough to talk about sometimes,” Prompto murmurs, disgustingly sincere as he searches for the right words. “But I think we might have a lot in common. If you ever do want to talk about it—”

“I don’t.” Verstael snaps, yanking up his sleeve and flashing his unmarked wrist.

Prompto hesitates, taking in the absence of that wicked little mark that might unify them in some way however small. But Verstael was never in a production line. He was never intended to be a meat shield. He’s never been a victim of anything, least of all fate. He makes his own destiny and he chooses himself first.

Prompto doesn’t seem to know what to say.

He seems confused.

Verstael obviously knows enough to point out the lacking barcode but that raises the immediate question; why doesn’t he have a barcode?

Prompto struggles with it for a second.

“I am nothing like you.” Verstael warns him, not angry now just straightforward. “We don’t have anything to talk about. Thank you for the mods but I can’t help you and you can’t help me.”

Prompto pulls a strange expression, the kid’s so fucking transparent.

Confusion, frustration, guilt--

Is that what Verstael looks like? Does every emotion splatter across his face like that?

Verstael turns away.

He needs to sleep.

The Long Night couldn’t end any later than it does. Another six months and they’d be in serious trouble. But, ten years after its rapturous commencement, the Long Night finally does end.

Verstael’s new body is twenty-three now, give or take, and he looks mostly like he used to but without sunlight for so long none of his freckles have come in. He might as well really be a new person.

It’s bittersweet watching the sun rise because, some part of him knows, that the only way the sun can rise is if Ardyn is dead in Insomnia. Verstael tries not to think about it. There’s nothing left to hang on to now, not even for necessities’ sake, but forty years living beside someone doesn’t just go away. His body is different, the scourge is gone, but if he has a soul then…

Verstael can trace something he misses, something small, but what’s the point of mourning?

Everyone is happy today.

Verstael should be happy.

Loqi is thirty-two now and he’s grown into quite the fierce leader. He’s been tempered by the pressure of the apocalypse and all that piss-sniffing grandeur is replaced by real intelligence, determination and compassion. Loqi is a better person now. A truer king than the Niffs have had since Iedolas lost his wife over half a century ago.

Now the sun is up Loqi can stop fighting and start rebuilding.

Maybe Verstael can help?

Verstael isn’t sure he’s proud to be a Niff anymore but what does it matter?

Niflheim is a very different place now.

As communication networks come back online the messages start make their way between the survivor groups. The King of Kings lives. Tucked away in ruined Insomnia with his faithful retainers Noctis Lucis Caelum lives to rule, like his father before him, over a restored and reunified Lucis.

Loqi doesn’t care, why should he?

They concede Accordo, Tenebrae and conquered Lucis without a fight. They have their own problems to grapple with. Niflheim is for the Niffs and, for the first time in a long time, they have a King who will put their prosperity first. Loqi is concerned with growing their crops, rebuilding their homes, healing their collective conscious.

It’s bittersweet for Verstael.

He tries to let go but he devoted the best years of his life to conquering the world and now it’s all crumbled away. There’s not even much to conquer anymore. All of it, all the splendor, was hollow. It doesn’t amount to anything.

Things should start to establish a new normal. The worst should be over.

And yet…

The first letter comes nine months after the Dawn.

The trader brings it to their settlement in Gralea without much ceremony. He got it from another traveler in Lucis who got it from someone else. He doesn’t know anything about where it came from. He doesn’t even know who Verstael is. He just knows the letter is for ‘the blond Niff scientist in Gralea’ and Loqi assumes that must mean Verstael.

Verstael is confused at first, ripping the letter open in front of Loqi.

But he freezes.

He recognizes both the code and the handwriting.

It’s like lightning splinters up his spine.

“What is it?” Loqi grunts, vaguely interested.

“Junk.” Verstael replies around the lump in his throat.

He burns the letter before he can think too hard about it.

Three months later, a whole year since their rescue form oblivion, a second letter comes. It’s the same as the first. Verstael can’t help it this time; he reads it.

There’s not much to read.

‘Please’ and a set of coordinates.

Verstael thinks about Loqi, thinks about the people who need him, but he can’t bring himself to burn the message either.

He stashes the letter in his things and every time he comes upon it it’s like finding a spider.

Another three months, another message:

‘I’m sorry’ and the coordinates. 

Another three months, another message:

‘I need to see you one more time before I die’ and the coordinates.

Anyone in the world would want closure, Verstael rues. Forty years is a lifetime. Verstael sits on the edge of his bed in the settlement rubbing the cheap paper between his finger. They developed this code over decades of elaborate cloak-and-dagger schemes. It was a code meant for illicit details and saucy military secrets. It was not a code intended to say ‘I’m sorry’.

Verstael hasn’t read this code in years and yet he can translate it automatically, like he’s got a whole nodule in his brain devoted to it, and he doesn’t even need a piece of contrasting paper to work out the details. 

Why now?

Why like this?

Why does he imagine Verstael will come….?

Verstael should burn the messages.

Verstael should let him die.

“I’ve got to make a trip,” Verstael tells Loqi.

“Now?” Loqi baulks. “No! We need you’re here.”

“Sun’s up, daemons are gone,” Verstael reminds. “Fuck you’ve even got wi-fi. Just email me.”

“Where?” Loqi frowns.

“Lucis.” Verstael answers vaguely.

Loqi chews on that for a moment.

They don’t talk about the past for a reason but, for the first time in a long time, Loqi seems tempted to broach the subject.

“For how long?” Loqi asks finally.

“I can’t make any promises,” Verstael admits.

Another long, pointed, pause.

Loqi seems to fight with himself.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he grunts. “King’s orders.”

“Got it.” Verstael promises.

Verstael hates boats. He always gets sea sicks. He’s spent much of his life in airships and open water sends his guts up his gullet. He barely keeps anything down the whole trip over. Ardyn, a lifetime ago, showed him some ancient healer trick with pressure points in the wrist and Verstael only remembers it halfway through the journey.

The coordinates take Verstael to Meldacio, in the mountains of Lucis. It’s old Hunter HQ. Another stronghold of the Long Night and there are just enough people to blend in.

Verstael’s not sure where to go first.

The coordinates got him here, that’s it.

What he’s looking for? Anyone’s guess.

Bag over his shoulder Verstael walks down the lone road which forms the only street in the settlement and glances carefully. Wanted game posters, darts, old cars, weapons’ sellers…

There’s one cottage, on the edge, with an old lady in a rocking chair outside. She looks about a hundred and two. You don’t make it through the apocalypse at her age without being wicked clever and Verstael finds old people easier to talk to than young people frankly.

“Can I help you, darling?” The old woman asks. “You look lost.”

“Looking for someone,” Verstael answers, careful.

“A friend?” the old woman supposes.

“I’ve known this asshole too long to call him that.” Verstael grumbles softly.

“Ah,” the woman hums knowingly. “You must be V.”

Verstael stiffens, shoulders falling back curiously.

“Old fucker couldn’t even tell me what you were going to look like when you got here,” the woman cackles softly.

“Well…” Verstael murmurs. “I imagine we’ve both changed a little since the last time we were in contact.”

“I don’t doubt it.” The woman grins toothily.

“Is he here?” Verstael supposes cautiously.

“Inside,” the woman replies. “He’s still too badly injured to manage on his own.”

“After the legendary beating I suspect he took I’m not surprised,” Verstael snorts, climbing the stairs of the porch.  “Thanks for the tip.”

Pushing warily inside the cottage Verstael hefts his bag higher up his shoulder and shifts one hip to test the weight of his handgun is still there. He doesn’t expect he’ll be hurt. Their relationship has never been immediately violent but, then again, who knows what to expect now?

The cottage is very hunter chic; everything is purely practical.

He’s never been a purely practical person so Verstael can imagine the minimal, utilitarian, nature of the space is driving him insane. Verstael crosses the worn rug, stalks through the kitchen and finds a single closed door in the back of the house.

He raps the wood once with his knuckles and doesn’t wait for an answer to let himself in.

Ardyn looks like shit.

He also looks like he’s been bedridden since the sun came up eighteen months ago.

“Well, look at you…” Ardyn laughs, weak and rasping. “Looks like you got the good end of the stick in the divorce.”

His voice is still so lovely.

“Always have a plan B.” Verstael tuts, closing the door behind himself gently.

“You were always better at contingencies than me,” Ardyn sighs. “I should’ve had a backup plan for this but, well…”

“Looks like you got your ass handed to you,” Verstael appraises, coming to sink into the chair by the bed. Shrugging off his bag he notes how intently he and Ardyn are starting at each other. Ardyn can’t seem to tear his eyes away for a second and Verstael isn’t sure he’s registered anything else in the room.

“Let me guess,” Verstael supposes, “you’re mortal now?”

“And Scourge free.” Ardyn sings, evidently not convinced that’s a good thing. “Such are the little mercies of the King of Kings.”

“Beat the devil out of you, huh?” Verstael sighs.

“I think he replaced every bone with rice crackers.” Ardyn groans weightily.

“Does he know you’re alive?”

“I think so,” Ardyn admits. “But there’s nothing left to say between him and I so…”

“Right,” Verstael nods.

For a moment they fall silent, just staring at each other, and Verstael doesn’t know what to say.

“I hear you’ve been—” Ardyn starts, attempting something like small talk.

But they were always shit at small talk.

“Why did you send me that message?” Verstael asks, gut cold.

Ardyn falls very quiet for a moment.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting,” Verstael supposes, “but…”

“But…?” Ardyn permits, letting him talk unhindered.

“I just…” Verstael sighs. “I just don’t know what you’re expecting here.”

“I’m mortal,” Ardyn repeats tiredly, “and, to be honest, you’re the only person I could write. Certainly the only person I thought who might come.”

“So what? I’m here for Master Plan Round Two?” Verstael huffs.

“I didn’t know who else to write to.” Ardyn admits, looking at once very tired and very sick.

Verstael doesn’t take any satisfaction in his fear.

“We were friends, I think, weren’t we?” Ardyn supposes.

“We were also both insane and scourge ridden.” Verstael counters, more to himself than Ardyn.

“At the end,” Ardyn argues. “We had some fun, at the start.”

“I suppose so…” Verstael murmurs.

“I think…” Ardyn cringes. “I think I’m dying.”

Verstael watches his face closely.

“I always kind of wanted to die,” Ardyn laughs joylessly, “but now… it occurs to me how little I actually achieved…”

“Of course you’re dying,” Verstael snaps, “you’re mortal.”

“You know what I mean.” Ardyn grumbles petulantly.

“You’re thirty-three, Ardyn.” Verstael laughs despite himself. “You’re not eighty.”

“Thirty-four now,” Ardyn huffs.

“My point remains,” Verstael snorts, “just because you’re feeling your age doesn’t mean your life is over. Everyone’s dying, all the time, that’s part of being human.”

“I haven’t been human in millennia, Vers.” Ardyn reminds, expression frightened and tight. The way he talks, the way he says Verstael’s name, you’d think they were high schoolers. You’d think they were friends.

Something, very suddenly, hurts in Verstael’s chest.

“What did you imagine I’d say, Ardyn?” He supposes.

“I don’t know,” Ardyn groans, slumping his head back. “I just feel…”

Verstael waits, refusing to occupy the pregnant silence.

“I’m not the scourge anymore,” Ardyn murmurs, lifting his hand to inspect if weakly. “But I’m not exactly Ardyn Lucis Caelum either. I don’t know what that leaves. I just… I feel like I have a better picture of who I am when I think about you.”

Verstael frowns.

“We had a dynamic, a relationship.” Ardyn shrugs. “I didn’t lie to you so… I guess I was the closest to an actual person when we were playing off each other. I didn’t know if you’d come now but I hoped you would because… I don’t know, I just feel grounded with you around.”

Verstael weighs that.

They achieved the most amazing things together.

They were also the worst possible versions of themselves together.

Was that all scourge? How would they know either way?

Verstael has a chance to start over. He can have a whole new life. Some part of him reasons he should leave Ardyn here, leave it all behind, and go home to a world where he might be something worth remembering fondly.

And yet…

Verstael can’t bring himself to stand up.

He can’t make himself walk out the door because, however small the piece in his heart is, it anchors him to Ardyn and stubbornly refuses to let go. 

“Well,” Verstael rues, “I don’t suppose you want to die in that bed, do you?”

Ardyn glances at him, expressions clearer than Verstael has ever seen them, and there’s something vulnerable in his face, surprise but also relief.

Verstael’s hands remember Ardyn’s body. It hasn’t changed, not really. He inspects the man’s injuries and finds the serious damage is all but healed. Ardyn is just weakened and ill adjusted to his new limitations. Like Verstael’s atrophied clone body fresh out of the cryogenic pod Ardyn’s human muscles aren’t accustomed to functioning like they should without assistance. 

Verstael sits him up with a little heave because, annoyingly, Ardyn is still bigger than him and Ardyn’s hands fly to Verstael’s shoulders to steady himself.

“This is shit,” Ardyn whispers frantically into his temple.

“It’s not as bad as I thought,” Verstael assures, “you just need to relearn your body.”

“Just, he says,” Ardyn laughs, “just relearn—”

“You need to make yourself get up or you’ll die in this bed.” Verstael huffs pointedly into his face.

Ardyn falls quiet.

Verstael remembers this too; they were always good at calling each other’s bullshit in the early days.

“Help me?” Ardyn fumbles, obviously embarrassed.

“Right.” Verstael nods shifting off the edge of the bed.

Ardyn manages to sit upright while Verstael yanks back the bedding.

Verstael helps shift him to sit on the edge of the mattress. Every motion is obviously unpracticed and painful. Ardyn’s limbs aren’t used to this.

But Verstael isn’t giving up.

They’ve faced steeper odds than this, right?

They’ve killed gods and spat at kings.

Verstael slips his arm around Ardyn’s waist, directing Ardyn’s heavier arm around his shoulders, and grasping his hand Verstael collects his nerve. Ardyn is bigger than him. Ardyn is going to have to focus on staying upright or they’re both going to topple.

“Okay, three—”

“I’m not looking forward to this.” Ardyn complains.

Verstael ignores him.

“-two, one!”

Verstael heaves.

He has to stop for a second when Ardyn doesn’t move at all.

“Feet asshole!” He orders.

“I really don’t think—”

“Stop whining you big baby!”

“I am not—” Ardyn growls.

“You’re fucking acting like it!” Verstael maintains.

Ardyn glares down the bridge of his nose at him.

“Three,” Verstael starts to count down again, “two…”

Ardyn groans, every motion agony, but he puts some weight into his legs and they make it onto his feet.

“Sweet fucking—” Ardyn cusses, face scrunched in pain.

“Walk.” Verstael directs.

“—I swear to every fucking shit faced, cock sucking—”

“Walk.” Verstael orders.

They take a hefty, torturous, step across the dusty floorboards.

Then another, then another…

“That’s it,” Verstael encourages. “Just…”

“I hate you,” Ardyn hisses, “I hate your stupid little—”

“I’ve been back three hours and you already hate me?” Verstael laughs.

“Yes!” Ardyn swears as they trudge through the cottage. “I’d forgotten how insufferable you are!”

Verstael laughs harder, unable to control himself.

“You’re the—” Ardyn can’t help it. One second he’s sighing in irritable exasperation and the next he’s laughing too.

Verstael doesn’t think he’s really laughed since before he woke up in his new body.

Not like this anyway.

“Little further.” Verstael directs.

“Where?” Ardyn snorts.

“Kitchen table.” Verstael outlines their goal as he tries to keep them both steady.

“Right.” Ardyn hisses again, laugh fading off.

It’s an effort but they manage to sit Ardyn in the chair by the fire.

He sinks back, panting, and Verstael stands straight with wheeze.

They won’t rebuild in a day, but…

Well, it’s something.

They’re pretty bad at small talk but, then, they always were. So over the next few days they default to what they are good at instead; working on a project with narrow, single minded, focus.

It’s strange to see Ardyn, once so impossibly strong, struggle to even sit up unassisted.

“You’ve managed harder before,” Verstael assures him.

“No, I haven’t.” Ardyn argues.

“Oh yeah?” Verstael scoffs. “So this is harder without the two thousand year loading screen?”

“I—” Ardyn catches himself, scowling. “Low blow.”

“You can do this.” Verstael continues to insist.

“Spite is a powerful motivator.” Ardyn sighs.

“So is survival,” Verstael counters, “and I know you don’t—”

“Yes, yes,” Ardyn huffs. “That damn bed…”

“Come on,” Verstael slips closer to hook an arm around him for the unfamiliar terrain, “we’ll go outside.”

“Ugh…” Ardyn grumbles but doesn’t argue as they hobble out the back door onto the back deck overlooking a small yard that ambles into mountainous forest.

Verstael manages to get him down the first two steps with a little wrangling but—

Verstael yelps, Ardyn yowls—

Luckily the grass is soft when they end up sprawled across it.

Verstael scrambles onto his elbows, breath knocked straight out of him what with six-something feet of Lucian toppling on top of him. 

“You alright?” He frets.

Ardyn pushes off him gently, rolling onto his back and for a moment Verstael worries he can’t read his expression.

“You know,” Ardyn remarks softly, “it’s kind of nice the sun doesn’t hurt anymore…”

Verstael sighs, grin itching at the corners of his mouth. Flopping onto his own back he blinks up at the warm Lucian sky.

“Lucis is strange.” He murmurs. “Something just feels different. In my bones I know I’m not home.”

“No snow,” Ardyn hums.

“I hate snow.” Verstael snorts.

“No, you love snow.” Ardyn replies across his shoulder. “You just hate when it interferes with your play.”

“Play?” Verstael repeats.

“You always took such joy in making things it always seemed to me more play than work,” Ardyn grins.

“Something like that,” Verstael sighs.

He’s right of course. Verstael wouldn’t choose to spend years of his first life in the Artic if he didn’t love snow. He could’ve isolated himself in a number of elaborate fortresses. He liked the winter wonderland of the First Magitek Research Facility. He liked it even better when he could fire all his assistants and live unhindered, just himself and Ardyn.

“Do you like being back in Lucis?” Verstael wonders. “Now the sun doesn’t hurt?”

“I’m not sure it’s my home anymore,” Ardyn admits. “Most of my fond memories form the last hundred years are of Niflheim. I’ve gotten used to your snow, but…”

“Hmm?”

“The sun is nice,” Ardyn supposes, closing his eyes on the grass.

“Yeah,” Verstael accepts, watching the clouds. “It is.”

Another day, another struggle to rebuild Ardyn’s physical strength.

They’re sitting on the back steps today, under the middling sun as it darts been clouds. It looks like it might drizzle soon but Ardyn seems to work better when he’s got his bare feet on the grass.

“Behold a beetle.” Ardyn presents the tiny, blackened, thing crawling in his hand.

Verstael used to shove his hands in daemon guts so to say he’s unperturbed by a beetle is an understatement. He cups his hand next to Ardyn’s and they watch the tiny thing scuttle from one set of fingers to the other.

“It’s amazing how small life can be.” Ardyn hums.

“Yeah…” Verstael supposes, moving his hands ever so slowly so the thing doesn’t fall.

They sit for another moment.

“I’ve been wondering,” Verstael says, “the Scourge is gone but you’re still a Royal Lucian. Is all your magic gone?”

Ardyn frowns.

“Honestly? I hadn’t thought to check…” He admits.

“Have a look,” Verstael nudges with his elbow, cupping the beetle in his hands.

Ardyn lays his hands in his lap taking a deep, steady, breath.

He fumbles for a moment but before long there’s fire rumbling between his fingertips.

“Elemancy, check.” Verstael counts off knowingly.

Ardyn seems surprised.

“Why would…?”

“Who cares?” Verstael snorts. “What about your armiger?”

Ardyn closes his eyes, hand curling and unfurling in his lap.

“I can feel…” He hums. “I think the Royal Arms are gone.”

“Everything?” Verstael supposes.

“Well—”

There’s a flash and a long, reddened, blade manifests into Ardyn’s curled fingers.

“Rakshasa.” Verstael murmurs.

“You remember what it’s called?” Ardyn snorts, amused.

“Of course I do,” Verstael huffs.

“Why would he leave me this?” Ardyn rues.

“Well that’s yours,” Verstael stresses. “The Royal Arms are whatever, but Rakshasa was made for you.”

“I suppose so…” Ardyn twists the blade in the sunlight. “But why would you leave an enemy combatant armed?”

“Armiger, check.” Verstael counts off. “Can you shapeshift?”

“That was Scourge magic.” Ardyn reminds.

“What about warping?”

“I might test that when I can stand by myself.” Ardyn snorts.

“Forcefields?” Verstael prompts instead.

Ardyn dismisses Rakshasa and, closing his eyes, inhales deeply.

There’s a tingle that runs up Verstael’s spine, a shimmer in the air, and then, sure enough, there’s a glassy bubble of magic wrapped around them. Verstael’s fingers reach out to skim it and it doesn’t hurt but it doesn’t give way either.

“Shields, check.” Ardyn sounds off.

“What’s that feel like? To you?” Verstael wonders.

“It’s all Crystal shit, remember? We—”

“I know,” Verstael grunts, “but I never asked you what it felt like.”

Ardyn blinks, surprised.

They’re looking at each other too intently again.

Verstael looks away.

“It tingles.” Ardyn shrugs.

Verstael isn’t sure what to say but—

“Fuck me,” Ardyn grumbles as a raindrop hits the forcefield and, quickly, a smattering start audibly pattering off the roof of the cottage.

“Well now you’ve got to keep it up.” Verstael chuckles.

“Guess we’re sitting here a while then.” Ardyn sighs, leaning into his side.

Verstael isn’t thinking when he slumps his head on Ardyn’s shoulder but even in the immediate wince of embarrassment he feels he notices Ardyn doesn’t ask him to move.

It feels natural to be close somehow, as strange as that is.

“When did we stop doing everything together?” Ardyn wonders.

“When the boy was born and things ramped up,” Verstael murmurs.

Ardyn sighs. “I missed this.”

“I missed you.” Verstael promises just as quietly.

As Ardyn remasters the basics of movement and dexterity he starts to regain his motivation. Once he can see he’s making progress he’s more open to practice and challenge. Slowly things shift from getting Ardyn mobile to regaining his strength.

Verstael has never really watched Ardyn train, it wasn’t necessary during their life together, but pulling from his roots Ardyn rejects modern gym equipment for more traditional tactics. Verstael will sit on the back porch modifying and mending with his toolkit while Ardyn cuts firewood, does push-ups and practices his form with his sword.

A subtle benefit of the Scourge-free status?

Well…

Let’s just say Verstael doesn’t mind watching Ardyn swing his sword shirtless.

Focus idiot, he chides himself.

“Is this what you used to do?” Verstael asks, his dismantled blaster sprawled before him and half in his lap.

“When I was very young.” Ardyn nods.

“How young are we talking?”

“Before I got engaged, I think?” Ardyn considers.

Verstael whistles. “So that’s what? Two thousand and ten years?”

“You make me sound like a dinosaur,” Ardyn huffs. “What’re you now? Ninety-six?”

“I’m twenty-four, asshole.”

“In that body.” Ardyn corrects. “Internally you’re still a grumpy old man.”

“Ha ha fuck you.” Verstael deadpans dryly.

They fall back into silence for a moment.

“Is Loqi Tummelt really ruling Niflheim now?” Ardyn asks.

“He’s moderately less insufferable now,” Verstael shrugs.

“What did you tell him? When you left?” Ardyn presses, doing that thing where he fails at acting nonchalant.

“I told him I had shit to do, that’s all.”

“He accepted that?” Ardyn frowns skeptically.

“I certainly wasn’t going to tell him you’d written to me.”

“Right…” Ardyn accepts. “So…”

“Hmm?” Verstael glances up.

“Do you plan to return?” Ardyn broaches the subject delicately.

Verstael immediately turns back to his lap, fingers moving clumsily all of a sudden. “Not yet,” he responds.

“But you will go back then?” Ardyn presses Rakshasa limp by his side.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

Verstael catches his fingers between two pieces of metal and, swearing, shakes his hand out.

“Well what’s your plan, huh?” Verstael counters tartly.

“Well…” Ardyn sours, frowning. “I don’t know. But if you’re going to leave—”

“Do you even want me around? Or do you just not want to be alone?” Verstael snaps.

“Obviously I—” Ardyn catches himself, choking on the words.

Verstael waits, expectant.

Growling Ardyn turns about the other way and throws himself back into his form.

They are, without a doubt, two of the most childish old men living.

In the middle of the night, long after they’ve chosen to ignore the argument, Ardyn hobbles tiredly into Verstael’s room. In the dark he fumbles around and, coming to the edge of the bed, he pulls the blankets back.

“Move over?” He asks, somewhere between hopeful and sad.

Verstael shifts back, cramped against the wall, and lets Ardyn climb in.

The bed really isn’t built for two.

In the darkness, nose to nose, they seem to be trying not to brush against each other.

“Are….?” Ardyn wavers.

Silence.

“I don’t much like being human.” Ardyn sighs. “Sleeping, eating, minor annoyances and dullness and yet other things are amped up to an insane intensity. I feel more now, different things, more strongly. It’s frustrating.”

“I’m sorry I’m not always very mature or patient,” Verstael murmurs.

“You handle me just fine.” Ardyn replies.

Silence, something unsaid.

“Are…?” Ardyn tries again, taking an uncomfortable pause. “Are we friends?”

“I’ve known you too long to be your friend.” Verstael snorts tiredly.

“Yes,” Ardyn agrees softly. “I guess that’s true…”

“I don’t mean that to sound bad,” Verstael admits. “I think we used to escalate each other’s worst qualities, but I also think we brought out the best in each other.”

“We weren’t very nice people.” Ardyn rues.

“’Best qualities’ aren’t always the same as ‘kindest qualities’,” Verstael shrugs.

“I feel more like myself around you. It’s relaxing.” Ardyn whispers.

“Yeah,” Verstael agrees. “I feel the same.”

“What’s left for us?” Ardyn sighs. “What are we supposed to do with all these years we have left?”

“I don’t know,” Verstael admits. “We were always better with a passion project, weren’t we?”

“Yeah…”

What does Verstael want?

More importantly: who does he want to be? And does he want to spend the time he has left with Ardyn…?

Wasn’t one lifetime enough? Doesn’t he want to move on? 

Aren’t they bad for each other…?

“Hunt.” Arydn declares slapping the poster down on counter of the Kenny Crow dinner as Verstael mops up cheap ketchup with his fries.

“What about it?” Verstael chews.

“We should take one, make some money,” Ardyn urges.

“There aren’t even any daemons left.” Verstael frowns, picking up the poster.

“There are troublesome varmits,” Ardyn slurs in a delightfully thick Lucian accent.

“Wildlife.” Verstael sighs, correcting. “Do you need money?”

“I need to get back in the practice of my magic,” Ardyn counters. “This is a good way to get back up to scratch.”

“Well have fun then.” Verstael hands the poster back to him.

“You’d let me walk into the jaws of death alone?” Ardyn bemoans theatrically.

“Yes.” Verstael deadpans.

Ardyn pulls a face, bottom lip thrust out.

“No,” Verstael admits, groaning exasperatedly.

Ardyn cheers.

“Pick something easy.” Verstael orders, waggling the poster at him. “I’m going to go get my guns.”

Ardyn scampers off looking pleased with himself.

When Verstael finds him again twenty minutes later he feels about as ready as he supposes he’s going to. He used to track and capture wild daemons for study quite a lot in the old days, with Ardyn’s help of course. Lots of fluids and explosions. It was always kind of gross.

In the last six years he’s only hunted as a necessity during other operations and all of them in the low visibility of the Long Night. It’s going to be weird to hunt a wild animal in broad daylight.

“What’re you doing with that?” Verstael hesitates, tapping the whistle in Ardyn’s hand accusingly.

“It’s a ways down the mountain,” Ardyn explains, “as we have no car—”

“Oh no. Fuck no.” Verstael puts his foot down. “I am not getting on those flea infested—”

“Chocobos are beautiful creatures!” Ardyn argues.

“They’re fat flightless fucks!” Verstael huffs.

Ardyn considers him, considers the whistle, Verstael opens his mouth—

Ardyn blows the whistle loudly.

The rental chocobos are twittering upon them in half a second. Verstael’s bird nibbles at his hair, aggressively rubbing his face against Verstael’s shoulder as the blond tries to beat him back with weak slapping motions.

“Aw look! He’s a snuggler!” Ardyn cackles.

“Get on the fucking bird!” Verstael orders.

Ardyn laughs harder.

Verstael would rather a dirt bike. It doesn’t have opinions of it’s own.

He only yelps twice, scrambling for purchase as they rush down the mountain. Ardyn pulls a face, opens his mouth, but Verstael shoots him a glare so venomous Adagium himself bites his tongue despite the mirth in his eyes.

As they skid to halt Verstael notices an immediate problem.

This is not a grotto or a nest.

This is the mouth of a big an ominous cave.

“Ardyn,” Verstael rounds on him as the Lucian dismounts his chocobo, “what’re we hunting?”

“Oh a snake,” Ardyn answers simply.

“How big is the snake, exactly?” Verstael supposes.

“I mean…” Ardyn titters. “I don’t suppose anyone’s had a chance to measure it properly—”

“Ardyn.” Verstael clips. 

“It’s just forty feet,” Ardyn dismisses, “we’ve—”

“Forty feet?” Verstael wheezes.

“We shot Shiva with a canon!” Ardyn reminds.

“You’re mortal!” Verstael counted pointedly. “You could die!”

“Then we better be careful.” Ardyn whips Rakshasa out of the armiger with a flourish.

Groaning, exasperated, Verstael pinches the bridge of his nose.

“There better be a good bounty on this.” He sighs. “Come on, before we lose daylight.”

The cave is warmer inside than out, which is strange, but then again a snake wouldn’t exactly like a frigid climate either. Verstael suspects they must be close to some volcanic activity and maybe, judging by the steam, a hot spring. Sure enough, a hundred feet in the cave Ardyn finds a rift of elemental energy and rests his hand against it to absorb the flames.

He drops a Fira orb in Verstael’s hand.

“One for you, one for me.” He says.

“Thanks,” Verstael pockets the orb carefully.

“Don’t sit on that.” Ardyn teases.

“Yes, thanks, I never wouldn’t put that together myself.” Verstael snorts, following him further into the cavern.

The caverns run deep into the mountain but they’re less crowded now there aren’t also daemons nesting in the darkness.

As they walk along a ledge, moving deeper, Verstael finds his hands are sweaty from the heat. He shifts, grasping the wall but trying to keep all the weight in his legs and—

Verstael screams.

Ardyn’s hand jerks down to grab him, on the very precipice of tumbling back into the void, and yanks him onto the next flat surface with a heave.

“You’re lucky you’re small.” Ardyn jokes.

“Lucky you’re fast.” Verstael replies.

“Something like that.”

They shift into an inner cavern with a craggy hole in the ceiling that permits in raw sunlight. Between the heat in the stone and the weight of the sun it’s insufferably hot.

“Well,” Ardyn pauses, hands on hips. “This screams Boss Room.”

“Don’t—”

The hiss is titanic as it rips through the cavern.

Verstael draws his rifle and Ardyn whips Rakshasa out.

“You just had to jinx us!” Verstael snaps.

“I’ll buy you a drink later!” Ardyn promises.

He throws himself into a warp but, obviously, he’s out of practice because while he lands on the beast he doesn’t get a secure enough hold and it whips him off in the next brutal motion.

Verstael hears him hit a wall.

They have potions and Ardyn might need one if he’s still conscious. Taking aim Verstael unloads into the viper but its skin is thick. Verstael blows its eyes out but snakes hardly use their eyes anyway so that just seems to piss it off more.

The first tail whip throws Verstael off his feet, rifle tossed several feet away, and he can’t do anything as the second wave comes down except throw his arms up vainly to protect his head.

The massive tail hits something alright but it’s not Verstael’s head.

Glancing up Verstael finds it battering off a forcefield.

He laughs breathlessly.

“Move Vers!” Ardyn snaps, audibly straining himself. 

“Right!” Verstael scrambles out of the way, fishing up his rifle and skidding into a new position to take aim.

Verstael unloads several more shots into the body of the thing which, while they’re blowing off chunks of the muscled flesh, aren’t slowing the beast down in a significant way.

“Any bright ideas?” Ardyn calls across the cavern.

“Most things can’t do shit without a brain!” Verstael calls back, reloading.

“On it!” Ardyn promises.

Ardyn warps again, this time making the clever decision to secure his hook hold with a dagger. Now while Verstael distracts the thing with bullet fire Ardyn can summon Rakshasa and bring it down hard into the viper’s skull. There’s gunk, an awful smell, but the thing is thrashing.

“It’s not dead!” Ardyn reels.

“Then keep stabbing it!” Verstael hollers.

Two more thrusts and the beast slumps down with an almighty boom. Its body falls limp in the cavern, under the sunlight, and climbing off clumsily Ardyn is slick with—

“Eyck,” Verstael winces as Ardyn pulls a stringy clump off his shoulder, “brain goo.”

“Bet it tastes like burning tires.” Ardyn rubs a clump between his fingers, grinning widely.

“Ew!” Verstael laughs under that infectious grin.

Ardyn’s smile softens, just a tad.

“We did it.” He supposes. “See? We’ve still got it.”

“We’ve got something alright,” Verstael laughs, “it might be terminal.”

“Should we take a photo? For the bounty?”

“Yeah,” Verstael shifts his rifle to his other hand to whip out his phone. “Then let’s get back. I have a feeling you’re going to stink in a few minutes, once the adrenaline wears off.”

“You know,” Ardyn sings as Verstael snaps a few shots, “it’s kind of nice to kill something.”

Verstael can’t help it; he bursts out laughing.

“What?” Ardyn huffs.

“So much for not being evil this time,” Verstael cackles.  

Verstael isn’t sure what it is but something about hunting together, about the adrenaline…

They clear every bounty in the region across the next two months. Once they start to wake up those dormant skills things start coming back in a flood of muscle memory. Gil stacks up, hunters start talking, but all Verstael cares about is Ardyn’s trash talk.

“We should go down the mountain,” Verstael suggests, modifying a purchased blaster for added oomph. “There’s bound to be more game in Cleigne.”

“Won’t Loqi be missing you?” Ardyn asks, delicate again.

Verstael considers Ardyn’s face, for as long as he can allow himself to look at it without feeling conflicted, and turns back to his blaster.

He should go back.

But he doesn’t want to.

“I’ve told Loqi I’ll consult long distance.” Verstael reveals. “He’s already wired me some problems and a wad of gil.”

Ardyn almost turns his whole body away, like he’s feeling something he’s not proud of, and Verstael raises one brow patiently.

“Well,” Ardyn laughs as nonchalantly as he can manage, “I’m glad. I’d feel a little extravagant if you left now.”

“What does that mean?” Verstael puts down his tools a little too harshly.

“You don’t like chocobos.” Ardyn argues.

“You bought a fucking car, didn’t you?” Verstael sighs.

Ardyn looks pleased with himself.

“Is it a good car?” Verstael hopes against hope.

“It’s red.” Ardyn supplies helpfully. “Everyone knows the red one’s go faster.”

Verstael’s eyes roll back in his skull.

Why does he want to stay with this idiot again?

“Forget everything I just said,” Verstael groans.

Ardyn chuckles.

Ezma, their benevolent host, shifts audibly in her rocking chair.

“If you two are going to do some more hunting, would you mind taking care of something for me?” She asks.

“Depends,” Verstael hesitates.

“Ardyn, comere,” Ezma beckons, drawing a key out of her shawl.

“What’s this for?” Ardyn inspects the frankly bizarre old thing.

His expression shifts, head titling.

“What is it?” Verstael pesters.

“It’s magic,” Ardyn murmurs.

“There are eight dungeons, hidden dungeons, under Lucis.” Ezma reveals. “There are some mighty nasty, awful, things trapped inside them. We’ve been waiting for the right crew to clear them out.”

Ardyn glances to Verstael.

Verstael wavers, eyes flickering between Ardyn and the key.

“I reckon there’d be some cool stuff down there too,” Ezma continues, “ancient artifacts, maybe some treasure. Not really my thing but if I was a magician or a scientist, I might enjoy myself.”

Ardyn weighs the key and, chuckling, supposes; “we always were better with a project, right?”

Verstael snorts weakly. “Right.”

Two days later they’ve got supplies packed in Ardyn’s shitty secondhand convertible. It’s red but that’s about its only redeeming quality. Verstael suspects he’s going to spend a lot of time screaming at it but, hey, it’s better than chocobos.

Small victories.

“We going or not?” Verstael supposes coming down the steps into the ramshackle back yard of the cottage where Ardyn is chopping firewood.

“Just leaving a little extra for Ezma.” Ardyn assures.

“You ready?” Verstael asks, hands on his hips casually.

“Before we go,” Ardyn glances, shrugging his jacket on his shoulders. “I’ve been thinking—”

“Always dangerous,” Verstael teases.

“Just shut up for a second,” Ardyn orders, not angry just sheepish.

Verstael straightens.

“Do…” Ardyn wavers.

Verstael gives him space to work up his nerve.

“Do you want an armiger?” Ardyn blurts out.

“What?” Verstael snorts, bamboozled.

“If we forge a covenant I can give you access to my armiger.” Ardyn explains, pawing the back of his neck. “That way you won’t run out of bullets.”

“Sounds smart,” Verstael shrugs, “let’s do it.”

“I—Give me your hand,” Ardyn orders.

Verstael surrenders his calloused little fingers and Ardyn squeezes them tight for a second. They pause and Verstael sort of expects him to do something, make some gesture, but he lingers there for several painfully long seconds seeming to struggle with something.

“Did that do it?” Verstael supposes.

“Huh?” Ardyn seems to remember where he is again suddenly. “Yes. Yes, that should’ve done it.”

“You’ll have to show me how to use it.” Verstael murmurs, not yanking his hand away all the same.

“Yeah…” Ardyn nods.

They stand there for a moment, perfectly still save the way Ardyn’s rough thumb works into the skin on the back of Verstael’s hand.

“Is that really what you meant to say?” Verstael asks softly.

“Not exactly,” Ardyn admits, meeting his gaze.

“Want to try again…?” Verstael offers.

Ardyn opens his mouth, fumbling to—

“Hey! Kids!” Ezma calls, hobbling out on the back veranda.

“Buzz off for five!” Verstael snaps.

“We got guests.” Ezma warns.

“Tell em to get fucked,” Verstael huffs.

Ezma seems to consider that for a second.

“What kind of guests?” Ardyn supposes, head turning.

“Well…” Ezma wheezes.

On the road, before the cottage, there’s a royal convoy. Verstael counts maybe seven Kingsglaive lingering in the background.

Shit.

King Noctis lingers on the grass, surrounded by his retainers, the likes of which include Prompto Argentum.

Double shit.

Verstael takes a deep breath and curling his hand in Ardyn’s shirt where it touches the small of his back convinces him to pause atop the porch steps.

“If its isn’t my charming nephew.” Ardyn greets, sweeping his hands before him.

“Uncle.” King Noctis nods warily, obviously a little amused by the word.

“Something wrong?” Ardyn asks.

“Not exactly.” Noctis shrugs. “All sort of depends on what you’re doing?”

“You didn’t give me many parameters.” Ardyn replies nonchalantly.

“No, but I thought it went without saying I wanted you to stay out of trouble?”

Verstael feels his stomach back-flip.

Shit.

“We are staying out of trouble.” Verstael snaps.

Noctis and Ardyn both glance to him, equally surprised.

“Vers,” Ardyn whispers, “maybe head inside and—”

“Shut up.” Verstael orders. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met,” Noctis calls their attention back. “You are?”

“Trouble.” Prompto calls, hands on his hips sternly. “Old fashioned trouble.”

Verstael scrunches up his face, irritated.

Noctis considers them both. His mouth opens, benevolent but full of shit, and Verstael cuts him off again.

“We’ve been hunting, for the record. A man’s got to make a living, right?” Verstael snaps. “Or is it part of your merciful plan that we starve?”

Noctis snorts. “I didn’t realize you had such protective friends, Uncle.”

“Vers—” Ardyn whispers, stressing the syllables warningly.

Verstael refuses to back away. 

“I’m not leaving you to get gutted like a pig.” Verstael maintains stubbornly.

“I would feel better if you did,” Ardyn strains, expression pained. “I got you killed once already, I would prefer it if—”

“Second time is free in the package.” Verstael snorts, fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt.

Ardyn sighs.

Noctis glances between them carefully.

“You can give me your word you’re not planning anything exceptional?”

“Fuck his word,” the King’s Shield scoffs, “I can think of a few ways to assure his honesty. For one thing if he was in a fucking cell—” The Shield takes two broad steps towards them.

He freezes when Verstael draws his handgun.

The Kingsglaive all stiffen behind their King but Prompto has his own pistol centered on Verstael’s forehead in the next split second.

“Come up here and try it.” Verstael hisses.

The Shield pulls back his lips from his teeth in a growl.

“Let’s all calm down,” Ardyn laughs, hands up placatingly.

“Yes, let’s be sensible.” The blind retainer agrees.

“I will of course follow the will of his Majesty,” Ardyn assures, “but, coming back to your question…?”

Noctis encourages him to continue.

“I swear to you,” Ardyn stresses, “we’re just trying to make do. I can’t help it if hunters talk, you know?”

“Hunters are chatty,” Noctis hums, “and they tend to exaggerate, don’t you agree Ignis?”

“Most definitely your Majesty.” The blind retainer nods.

“I don’t believe a word out of their stupid mouths.” The Shield huffs.

“Neither do I.” Prompto agrees level and soft in his dislike, pistol primed.

Verstael refuses to lower his handgun.

“Well I do,” the King replies. “Or, at least, I believe they want to be left in peace.”

Whatever that means.

“Come past Insomnia sometime,” the King instructs, “I’ll be keeping my ears open for my tales of your adventures. Stay out of trouble you two, deal?”

“Deal.” Ardyn nods immediately.

“Come on guys,” the King pivots, “we’re leaving.”

“But—” The Shield hisses.

“Let’s go home.” The King orders, hand grasping Prompto’s wrist to lower his pistol gently. “I’ve seen plenty.”

Prompto doesn’t look convinced but, under a thoughtful glance from his King, relents to stow his firearm quietly.

Verstael lowers his handgun.

Verstael is pretty sure he doesn’t start breathing again till the cars pull away and head off back up the mountain track.

Ardyn sags bodily, grasping his face.

“Don’t do that.” He hisses.

“Do what?” Verstael snaps.

“That!” Ardyn groans.

“I—They were threatening you,” Verstael grumbles.

“I know,” Ardyn assures, turning into him and pulling him closer by his wrist.

“I just—”

“I know,” Ardyn promises, “now shut up for a second.”

Verstael is still moving to complain until Ardyn’s lips connect with his.

Then he forgets everything.

His hands slip up around Ardyn’s neck and the Lucian pulls him fast, crushing him into his chest.

He doesn’t want Ardyn to die.

He doesn’t want to leave.

This is the only life he really, honestly, wants.

Chapter Text

Galdin. Sun, sand, and at least three other things Verstael hates.

Fanning himself with a fishing brochure from the stall he grumbles: “why did you ever turn the sun back on?”

“Not much choice really,” Ardyn assures, “I think darling Noctis was smashing my head against the concrete when I made that particular decision.”

“Well, I’ve thought about it,” Verstael begins, “and we should turn the sun back off.”

“Oh should we?” Ardyn laughs.

“You disagree?” Verstael challenges.

“I respectfully request further assessment, when you’re not on the beach,” Ardyn tuts.

“I stand by every decision I’ve ever made in the heat of the moment,” Verstael huffs.

“As do I.” Ardyn smirks.

Vertstael hesitates. “Well… it sounds bad when you say the same thing with such certainty.”

Ardyn laughs.

“Come on, it’s not so bad,” Ardyn assures. “There’s a masseuse and seafood!”

“And the hotel is ten thousand gil and there’s no hidden dungeon,” Verstael grumbles.

“We’ve found three of them,” Ardyn dismisses, “we’re making great progress. Sometimes you’ve got to stop and smell the roses.”

“All I smell is salt water.”

“It’s a metaphor, Vers.” The Lucian sings.

“It’s bullshit, Ardyn.” Verstael parrots back in the same tone.

They give each other a hard time but that’s sort of the best part. They’re happiest when they’re sassing each other. It’s the natural ebb and flow of their dynamic. Sure, it makes sex interesting occasionally but Verstael wouldn’t reject the niggles that make Ardyn who he is if you gave him another brand new start to think about it.

They’re passing back by the car when—

“Hey! You two!”

They keep walking.

That’s never a good summons.

“Anyone we know?” Ardyn hums, hands in his pockets as he saunters down the pavement.

Verstael steals a glance back, over his shoulder, and groans; “it’s the fucking stray.”

“Prompto?” Ardyn perks. “Oh I like—”

“Keep walking.” Verstael hisses.

“Hey!” The voice comes louder behind them, laced with royal authority. “I’m talking to you!”

Ardyn ambles to a halt and Verstael sighs to his own stop irritably.

They pivot and Prompto Argentum comes strutting up to them looking stern. It doesn’t suit his face at all. Verstael has a face for scowling but this idiot has too many smile lines etched across his features and Verstael doesn’t like the way his glare accentuates their resemblance.

“What are you two doing here?” Prompto demands.

“Just enjoying the balmy airs!” Ardyn cheers, playing the idiot with all the enthusiasm of a seasoned veteran.

“Is it illegal to vacation?” Verstael supposes, fanning himself still with the brochure.

“Am I supposed to believe that?” Prompto folds his arms.

Rookie move.

It’s harder to move back into a combat stance if you’ve physically locked yourself like that.

Verstael glances to Ardyn.

“Well unless you’ve got a lie detector you can scrounge up out of that armiger—” Ardyn laughs.

“This isn’t funny,” Prompto snaps. “You’re not funny.”

It’s a cold, tight, hiccup.

The way he glares at them is laden with pain and dislike.

Verstael doesn’t have time for it—

“No, but you’re still a joke.” He snaps back, unflinching.

Ardyn rolls his eyes back and wheezes like Verstael just spat in an officer’s face. It’s an ‘oh fuck, here we go’ kind of sound.

Prompto looks like a kid who’s never taken well to harsh words, probably a bullied child. He’s got that sort of stance. That said, now he’s thirty, he bears up under the scrutiny better than he might have ten years ago and hardens his expression.

“By the power invested in me by his Majesty, King Noctis, I am reserving the right to search your luggage.” Prompto counters, chin up.

Ardyn shoots Verstael a look, exasperated.

Verstael rolls his eyes, this is not his fault.

Under Prompto’s fierce direction Ardyn escorts them all the convertible. The back seat is strewn with gas station maps, there are Lucian prayer beads around the rearview mirror, Ardyn has super glued three plastic pop figures to the back dash between the seat heads.

It doesn’t exactly scream ‘super villain official escort’.

It visibly makes Prompto hesitate, even as Ardyn saunters to unlock the trunk.

“You live like this?” Prompto grunts.

“He lives. I suffer.” Verstael folds his arms.

The trunk will not pop with the key. Ardyn has to slap the back bumper just right to make it snap open. Prompto raises one brow sceptically. Ardyn, proud as you like, gestures to their half open luggage.

“Have at it darling!” He invites.

It is startlingly apparent they have been living out of the convertible for a while.

Prompto however, determined to maintain his stance, puffs himself up and determinedly starts rifling through their junk. Verstael, sighing heavily, leans into the post holding up the shade cover. He won’t find anything of any real interest. All their essential valuables are in their shared Armiger. Magic dungeon key, fake passports, weapons…

All Prompto finds is Ardyn’s underwear.

Prompto winces.

Ardyn smiles fondly.

“How have you been anyway, dearest?” Ardyn supposes nonchalantly.

Verstael pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t make conversation with the Crownsguard searching our luggage.”

“Oh ignore him,” Ardyn insists to Prompto keenly. “Tell me everything. Is my esteemed Nephew well? How’s your photography going?”

Prompto doesn’t seem to know what to say.

“Noctis is very busy,” Prompto decides to reply with a tinge of petulance, “you know, rebuilding the world you two fucked up.”

“I maintain I had nothing to do with the—” Verstael charges into a well-worn argument.

“Vers had nothing to do with the apocalypse portion of the plan.” Ardyn recites knowingly. “That was all me.”

“Oh, sure,” Prompto shoots them a glare. “Somehow I think Vers has plenty of his own sins.”

Verstael makes a petty and overblown ‘blah, blah, blah’ mouthing gesture, arms still stubbornly folded, while Prompto turns back to their junk.

“You honestly expect me to believe this is everything?” Prompto huffs, frustrated as he rounds back on them.

“Nah, Ardyn hides all the good stuff in his fucking pouch,” Verstael snaps.

Prompto glares.

Verstael glares.

Ardyn laughs sheepishly, half wheezing. “Wow.”

“What?” The blondes round on him in chorus.

“And I thought my family reunions were tense!” Ardyn jokes.

Neither of them appreciate that, but Verstael is the only one close enough to slap Arydn’s arm.

“Ouch!” He hisses, gripping the sleeve dramatically.

“If you’re not going to be upfront—” Prompto starts.

“Hey! Blondie! What’s the hold up?” A fourth voice calls.

Ardyn jerks back around but Verstael doesn’t need to.

Groaning into his hands Verstael wills Ardyn to keep his mouth shut lest this day get any worse—

“Commodore Highwind!” Ardyn greets warmly. “Look at you!”

There’s an audible pause.

“Izunia?” Aranea Highwind reels, stalking up upon them. “How are you not roadkill? I thought—Prompto what the royal fuck is--?”

“It’s a long story.” Prompto sighs. Evidently just as thrilled as Verstael.

“Does Noct—? Does the King know about this?” Aranea wheezes, pulling her sunglasses off her nose to gape at Ardyn who smiles at her.

“Yeah, he knows.” Prompto doesn’t sound pleased however.

“And who’re you supposed to be?” Aranea supposes, thrusting her sunglasses towards Verstael demonstratively.

“No one—”

“Oh surely you remember the Research Minister?” Ardyn decides to drag them both into this, the prick.

“Besithia?” Aranea almost cusses.

“Shut your mouth, Highwind, you’re going to catch flies.” Verstael sighs.

“Well fuck,” Aranea laughs, “love what you’ve done with your everything. Is that a dye job or a full face lift?”

“Oh, you like it? Thanks, I made this body myself,” Verstael quips.

“I bet you did,” Aranea laughs.

“Aranea,” Prompto grunts, “can we focus? Please?”

“What? Oh! Yeah, sure Blondie.” Aranea stands a little straighter. “What’re you two doing here anyway?”

“Vacationing,” Verstael stresses with a pointed glance at Ardyn, “with our full royal pardon. Of course.”

“Now, see, I don’t believe that.” Aranea tsks.

“Well if you would also like to search out luggage?” Verstael snaps, gesturing to their open trunk.

“What do you reckon, Prompto?” Aranea supposes.

“I think we should take them into custody,” Prompto declares. “Until I can consult with his Majesty.”

“About what?” Verstael seethes. “How suspiciously we’re minding our own business?”

“Something like that.” Prompto grumbles stubbornly.

“Oh fantastic!” Ardyn claps his hands together. “I assume you’ll be paying for our hotel room then?”

“Well—” Prompto hesitates, seeming to realise a second too late—

“Splendid!” Ardyn cheers. “That’s very generous of you!”

Verstael sighs.

Prompto, Aranea, Biggs and Wedge are staying in the caravans along the beach while they carry out some mundane royal business of some description. Verstael doesn’t ask and, frankly, doesn’t care. Ardyn seems to be too busy enjoying the horrified look on Wedge’s face as he sinks into the camper chair to consider they might be in any trouble here.

Verstael feels a migraine coming on.

“How long are you going to waylay us exactly?” Verstael supposes.

“As long as I like.” Prompto snaps back.

“Look, if you’re not formally arresting us,” Verstael argues, “then you cannot imprison us for longer than—”

“I am well aware of Lucian law.” Prompto grumbles.

“Oh good! You’re not a complete idiot!” Verstael laughs.

“Alright, alright, calm down. Both of you.” Aranea steps between them before the twinks can start hurling fists as well as insults. “Listening, Besithia, if you don’t want Blondie to start making up charges you’re going to sit tight for a while. King Noctis has a function tonight in Insomnia, but we can probably reach him in the morning. Okay?”

Verstael sighs but, dragging a hand through his hair, tries to contain himself. “You better have liquor, Highwind.”

“Not enough to keep up with the Chancellor, I suspect,” Aranea deadpans warily.

“I have a human liver now!” Ardyn cheers.

“Good for you buddy…?” Aranea laughs weakly, obviously a little bemused.

Grumbling Verstael sinks into a camping chair beside Ardyn and sags back in it while Biggs stacks more wood on the fire.

Dinner isn’t exactly restaurant quality but Wedge can assemble a pretty decent seafood platter and the produce couldn’t be fresher out here in Galdin so Verstael doesn’t have any immediate complaints while they eat.

Prompto and Aranea disappear for a few moments, before dinner, and its evident Highwind is trying to reign Argentum back, to calm him down, but Verstael isn’t sure how well that’s going to work.

“So, let me see if I understand this,” Wedge sips his flask, “you’re Verstael Besithia?”

“Yes.” Verstael repeats.

“For real?” Wedge stresses.

“For real,” Verstael parrots back snarkily.

“And your Chancellor Izunia?” Wedge turns to Ardyn.

“In the flesh,” Ardyn assures.

“Shouldn’t you two be, like, a hundred and six?” Biggs frowns.

“They should be dead.” Aranea baulks, laughing. “King Noctis beat that one bloody and Prompto put a couple of canon blasts into that one.”

“I’m glad you can see the levity of the situation, Highwind,” Ardyn snorts.

“How did you even kill the Immortalis?” Verstael demands lazily.

“You don’t remember?” Prompto frowns sceptically.

“I digitised my brain,” Verstael shrugs, “copy one ended up in the Immortalis, copy two ended up in this vessel. I didn’t exactly have the resources to data mine the Immortalis during the Long Night and, no, I don’t remember; I didn’t live it. This version of me anyway.”

Prompto frowns, evidently confused but also looking as if he’s tempted to ask a myriad more questions. He restrains himself for now, however, while Aranea charges into a dramatic regaling of how she and Prompto felled one of Verstael’s finest creations.

“A snow mobile turret?” Verstael cusses passionately a moment later. “You brought down ten years of engineering with a snow mobile turret?”

Ardyn is laughing, at him probably.

“Prompto’s got good aim.” Aranea shrugs.

“I am embarrassed.” Verstael groans. “I am mortified. A snow mob—You can’t be serious?”

“Deathly serious,” Aranea chuckles.

Verstael slaps Ardyn’s arm again.

“Ouch! What was that for?” Ardyn huffs, rubbing his sleeve.

“This is your fault,” Verstael decides, “obviously you pumped so much scourge crap in my brain I couldn’t draft a decent design brief!”

“Hey! Don’t blame me!” Ardyn laughs.

“So, wait, wait,” Wedge speaks up again. “Are you and Argentum related or something?”

“Yeah, you look a lot alike,” Biggs adds.

Verstael hesitates. He’s not ashamed, why would he be? He’s the genius who created the Magitek but, for a split second, he wonders more than considers how much Prompto wants his companions to know exactly…?

“I’m a clone,” Prompto answers before Verstael can think what to say, “Lucian secret service snuck me out of Niflheim before they could make me into an MT.”

“No shit?” Wedge reels.

“So you are related?” Biggs keeps trying to connect the dots. 

“He’s a generic MT base model,” Verstael shrugs, “so, technically, we’re genetically identical. Which is not related, not really.”

“So like twins?” Biggs continues to press.

“Hardly.” Verstael scoffs. “Even twins—” 

“Is it really so hard for you to view all those clones you cooked up as humans?” Prompto snaps.

The air becomes uncomfortably tight.

“I think—” Ardyn murmurs, raising his hands placatingly.

“Yes,” Verstael snaps back, refusing to back down.

“Vers—” Ardyn warns.

“No, this is ridiculous,” Verstael puts his foot down. “Listen Argentum, you might be a person, but those MT models were not.”

“They were just like you!” Prompto hisses.

“No, they weren’t, because I’m a person.” Verstael continues to argue. “They were fetuses. They barely had brain activity before the conversion process. They were industrial glue for war machines.”

“They could’ve been just like me!” Prompto insists. “They could’ve had lives and personalities and names and—!”

“Like any fetus!” Verstael snaps. “But they were not inherently valuable.”

“You really think you get to decide that you son of bitch?” Prompto hollers.

“Why do you think I used my cells?” Verstael screeches. “It was my cells! My body, my choice!”

Prompto fumbles, coming back again, but Verstael continues—

“I made those MTs so real, actual, Niffs didn’t have to die on the battlefield. They were as little like humans as I could make them specifically because of that.” Verstael stabs his finger down towards the sand. “I am morally at peace with my methods and just because you got the nurturance and socialisation that made you a human being doesn’t mean they were you bleeding heart masochist!”

Prompto falls quiet.

Ardyn glances sheepishly between them.

Aranea looks like she wants to sink into the sand.

Verstael takes a deep breath.

“Maybe you just have fundamentally different concepts of personhood?” Wedge suggests weakly.

“Pardon?” Verstael glances, startled.

“Prompto thinks of every MT as a possible individual,” Wedge supposes, “but you view all MTs as an extension of yourself, like an arm or a leg.”

“Doesn’t sound like either of you are wrong, exactly,” Biggs adds cautiously.

Verstael opens and closes his mouth, unsure what to say to that.

Ardyn shoots him a glance, subtle but pressing.

“I…” Verstael tries to swallow his pride and admit; “I can understand that, I guess…?”

Ardyn nods encouragingly, head barely moving but eyes sharp.

“I…” Verstael sighs tensely through his teeth. “I can certainly see why Argentum feels the way he does, given his experience, but that’s just how I feel…?”

Ardyn shoots him a tiny thumbs up.

Verstael glances, hesitantly, back to Prompto.

He’s a little embarrassed he got so worked up, honestly.

Prompto is staring intently at his lap, head no doubt swirling.

Aranea nudges him gently.

“I…” Prompto takes deep breath. “I guess that makes sense…? I just have a hard time accepting that kind of thought process because it means I’m less of a person.”

“But it doesn’t.” Verstael argues with a little more sincerity. “You’re absolutely as much a person as anyone, Argentum. You’ve lived.”

Prompto meets his gaze hesitantly, jaw tense.

“Your life is more valuable than some generic MT’s.” Verstael continues. “I don’t say any of this to disinherit your value as a person. I totally agree you’re a person. I’m just… I’m just trying to protect why I made the decisions I did. I didn’t view it as killing babies. I’m not that much of a monster. I just… I saw it like breaking my own hand so no one else had to get hurt.”

Verstael shrugs, feeling a little sheepish at having admitted as much.

“Maybe…” Prompto takes another deep breath. “Maybe it’s not fair to paint you as some genocidal monster either. Maybe that’s an unfair assumption on my part. I can… I can hear what you’re saying.”

Wedge and Biggs look cautiously optimistic as the tension starts to dissipate. 

“You know,” Ardyn starts gently, “you two are very different people but its funny the things you have in common.”

“Yeah…?” Prompto murmurs softly.

“You’ve both got great aim,” Ardyn continues enthusiastically, “I’ve never seen two people sharper with technology, and you’ve both got a predilection for running into trouble with Lucis Caelum men.”

Prompto snorts.

“I think you could find a lot to talk about,” Ardyn encourages, “if you two were both in a safe place.”

“Though,” Verstael speaks up carefully, “I hear we passionately disagree about chocobos.”

Prompto blinks. “You don’t like chocobos…?”

“I hate chocobos.” Verstael declares.

“Who hates chocobos?” Prompto wheezes.

“Geeze Besithia, dial it back,” Aranea jokes, “I thought you were trying to convince Blondie you’re not a soulless monster?”

Verstael laughs.

Prompto laughs too, just a little.

The remainder of the evening is awkward but a considerable amount of the tension is gone. It’s kind of a relief that Prompto doesn’t glare at them after their explosive argument tapers off into something not unlike a compromise.

Ardyn waits until their compatriots are snoring lightly to slip into Verstael’s bunk and tuck up against his back. Verstael lifts his head for a second allowing Ardyn to slip one arm under his neck and the other around his waist.

Ardyn inhales thickly against his hair and Verstael is about ready to nod off. Ardyn is here, the night is quiet…

“I’m proud of you,” Ardyn whispers.

“Huh?” Verstael mumbles groggily. “What for?”

“For trying to bury the hatchet.”

“Yeah, well….” Verstael murmurs. “He’s not a bad kid, I guess, we’re just very different people.”

“I think its good karma,” Ardyn nuzzles a little closer. “Besides, kid’s probably had questions his whole life. It would be confusing to not know where you come from. He’ll probably feel happier if he can ask you a few without a side quest and a rifle.”

“I guess…” Verstael rues. “Its kind of weird, ya know? I didn’t make any of those clones expecting them to grow up and talk back to me. He hits me in a kind of surreal place.”

“I can imagine,” Ardyn nods. “Too uncomfortable?”

“No, not entirely,” Verstael sighs. “He didn’t ask for any of this, but I didn’t exactly make the choice either. It’s just… I don’t know. I’m not sure how to frame our relationship. Its basically a lottery draw of genetics we have anything to do with each other. Should that make him important to me? Just that?”

“Not because of chance, no,” Ardyn supposes. “But Prompto is a part of you with thoughts and opinions of his own. The fact he is more person than MT might be what makes him significant.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Verstael chews on the idea.

“Something for the morning,” Ardyn squeezes him close. “I don’t mean to start a big discussion, I just wanted to say I’m proud of you.”

“Hmm, thanks,” Verstael snorts, reaching back to stroke his fuzzy jaw.

Verstael doesn’t sleep well, despite his best intentions, and as the dawn creeps through the caravan he finds himself unable to roll back asleep.

He lays there, toes curling and easing against Ardyn’s bare feet, trying to soak up the sensation of being close to the person he depends upon. In the caravan someone else rolls over, shifting, and then footsteps start ambling out of the caravan. Verstael barely lifts his head, glancing, and catches sight of Prompto heading out onto the sand.

Verstael lays his head back down for a second.

But in the next moment he’s crawling out over Ardyn and heading out of the caravan himself.

Why is he doing this?

Is he losing it?

Prompto is sitting in one of the camper chairs, leaning into his knees, when Verstael comes blinking into the sunrise. It looks warm and golden over the salt water and, tugging Ardyn’s big jacket sloppily around him, Verstael dismounts the stairs to amble over.

“Early riser?” Verstael supposes, sinking down to sit.

“Usually.” Prompto shrugs, twisting his toes in the sand.

Verstael slouches back, quiet.

“So, hey,” Prompto murmurs sheepishly, “you and Ardyn…?”

“Yeah?” Verstael stuffs his hands in Ardyn’s pockets, straight forward and calm.

“How long has that been a thing?”

“On and off for decades.” Verstael sighs.

“Oh,” Prompto seems to digest. “What’s that like?”

“Ardyn…” Verstael fumbles but pushes himself to be transparent with Prompto. “He likes me just the way I am, warts and all, and that makes me feel a million bucks. I can be difficult, but we have fun. We make each other laugh.”

“Sounds like me and Noct when you put it like that…” Prompto rues.

“Are you and his Majesty…?”

“Sort of?” Prompto winces. “It’s weird.”

“Always is with Lucis Caelums,” Verstael exhales thickly.

“Heh, yeah,” Prompto snorts. “Hey…?”

“Hmm?” Verstael glances.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so aggressive.” Prompto grunts.

“I don’t think I helped, for what it’s worth, but thank you.” Verstael replies. “Besides, I can’t imagine being in your position is easy. I mean… is there a lot of baggage around being an almost-MT?”

“Some,” Prompto nods. “But it doesn’t seem like you ever planned for anyone to be in my position.”

“Who’d they put you with anyway?” Verstael finds himself wondering. “Were they good people?”

“They…” Prompto hesitates but then evidently some part of him decides to be brutally honest; “they were charity workers. They liked the street cred taking me in gave them in their circles, but they were never really interested in being parents, if that makes sense?”

“Sounds like my parents,” Verstael rues.

Prompto glances, surprised.

“My parents were nobles, but they didn’t want to be married to each other let alone parents,” Verstael laughs weakly. “They were only interested in me in so far as they could use me as a pawn in their arguments.”

Prompto seems to take a moment to weigh that in his head.

“How’d you…?” Prompto fumbles. “How’d you handle that?”

“I disengaged from them,” Verstael shrugs. “I made things instead. I think turning things from ideas in my head into physical objects made me feel like I had some control, you know?”

“Photos,” Prompto hums.

“Huh?” Verstael glances.

“I like taking photos,” Prompto explains. “Making a moment into something permanent and tangible, removing all argument around what it did or didn’t look like, I just… I find that soothing.”

“Control,” Verstael nods, digesting.

Prompto seems to be thinking very hard.

“With Ardyn,” he murmurs, “how did you stop being just friends?”

“The first time?” Verstael snorts. “Sexual tension got the better of us.”

“Oh,” Prompto frowns.

“The second time?” Verstael continues pointedly. “We had to be honest with each other. Part of it was waiting for him to feel comfortable enough to express his feelings and making him feel like it was safe to do so. Real feelings still stump him sometimes. We joke a lot, but sincerity is hard.”

“Oh…” Prompto’s expression relaxes somewhat. “Do you think with enough time you would’ve always…?”

“Probably,” Verstael nods, “but we also wasted a lot of time that way. If I could do it all again? I’d probably tell him how I felt myself. Tell him; this is how I feel, always, but I don’t expect anything. I just like being with you one way or another. And leave it in his hands.”

“Think that would’ve gone better?” Prompto glances.

“I think he would’ve been Ardyn about it,” Verstael snorts.

Prompto grins.

“But he would’ve figured it out. We would’ve figured it out.” Verstael nods.

Prompto glances back at his hands in his lap.

“Being thirty is hard,” he laughs.

“You just wait till your fucking back starts hurting,” Verstael groans. “And you’re probably going to get arthritis in your hands first so get good at telling people what you want them to do now, delegating and shit, yeah?”

“Duly noted.”  Prompto chuckles. “Having a young body again must be nice?”

“It’s the shit.” Verstael sighs. “But… being old isn’t as bad as they make it sound. Not really. There are some advantages.”

“Like what?” Prompto asks.

“You can dress like a hot mess and no one fucking cares,” Verstael grins wistfully. “And you can say the wildest shit and, like, most people aren’t going to punch an old man, you know? It’s fucking great.”

Prompto laughs.

By the time everyone has gotten out of bed its starting to get hot on the beach. Ardyn has both arms around Verstael’s waist, head on his shoulder, leaning over him as Verstael types into Aranea’s data pad to make some minor modifications to her Stross.

“There,” Verstael hands the pad back, delightfully crushed under Ardyn’s lazy weight. “More bang for your buck.”

“Well shit…” Aranea reviews the read outs again. “I forgot how good you are at that, old man.”

Verstael shrugs smugly.

“So are you going to get back to your Royal duties?” Ardyn supposes conversationally.

“Well…” Aranea glances, searchingly to Prompto.

“I think we better get going.” Prompto declares. “I figure you two have your own things to get back to as well, vacation and all that, right?”

“Oh to be sure,” Ardyn grins.

No mention of contacting the King, no mention of ‘taking them into custody’, just the offer of an easy out and Verstael isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Be careful you lot,” Verstael bids.

“Yeah, you too,” Prompto nods. “See you around sometime, I guess?”

“Without a doubt,” Ardyn assures. “Fate has a way of bringing people together.”

“Fate,” Verstael snorts, singing over the word. “You and a fate need to get a room.”

“It’s true!” Ardyn laughs.

“Yeah, yeah,” Verstael dismisses. “Come on, we’re burning daylight.”

“So cruel to me,” Ardyn bemoans, “maybe I should stay with Prompto?”

“I suspect Argentum has enough of his own problems without you,” Verstael shoves, untangling Ardyn’s weight off him.

Ardyn plays at being mortally wounded for a second till he realises Verstael is genuinely walking away from him.

“Hey!” Ardyn yelps.

“Hurry up slow ass!” Verstael calls back.