Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Day One, Rexwalker: Holding onto A’s shirt for dear life during a hug.

Day Two, Vandermatthews: Reassuring Hug

Day Three, Padtime: “Was everything a lie?”

Day Four, 47 and Lucas: Last goodbyes, but neither knew it was the last

Day Five, Johnitary: “Is that my blood?”

Day Six, Diana and 47: “You can sleep now, A, I’ll be there when you wake up.”

Day Seven, Molliarty: “Do you mind if I have a look?”

Day Eight, Jars: Self loathing

Day Nine, OC-centric: Blurry vision

Day Ten, Destiel: “I can’t see, there’s blood in my eyes.”

Day Eleven, Johnstain: “When I let go, run for your life.”

Day Twelve, Mollrene: Dying confession

Day Thirteen, Sebastian Moran centric: Literally just him

Day Fourteen, Lucas and Olivia: Stabbed through the thigh

Day Fifteen, Dianseven: “Just keep pressure on it!”

Day Sixteen, Codywan: Pulling off helmet to reveal blood in his hair

Day Seventeen, Han and Luke: Dying in each other’s arms

Day Eighteen, Obi Wan and Satine: “I thought you were smarter than this.”

Day Nineteen, Mormor: Tries to keep pressure on his wound but can feel blood running between his fingers.

Day Twenty, Reed900: Stoic character crying

Day Twenty-One, OC-centric: “I can’t even look at you.”

Day Twenty-Two, Pricefield: Hiding wounds with makeup

Day Twenty-Three, Raine and Fawkes: “I just don’t want another nightmare.”

Day Twenty-Four, Molmormor: Patting face with a damp wash cloth

Day Twenty-Five, Mormorson: Reunion after Person B went missing

Day Twenty-Six, Hooperan: Self sacrifice 

Day Twenty-Seven, Thane x Baden: Grief stricken lash

Day Twenty-Eight, Sherlock and Jim: “You know, deep down, that you don’t deserve to be rescued.”

Day Twenty-Nine, Arthur and Hosea: Hiding wounds, a curt "I'm fine". 

Day Thirty, Richard and Jim: Trying to walk only to stumble against a wall

Day Thirty-One, OC-ship: Held at gunpoint

Chapter Text

The harsh memories rang through Rex’s mind, his heart hurting as he took every step forward. War was tiring, war was chipping away at his heart. Seeing his brothers, good men, die…hearing bad news over and over, crushing the few hopes he ever heard. It just hurt, a harsh ache shooting him over and over. It lingered like the taste of alcohol after a celebration, a short lived one. If he was made to just be a soldier for this war, why make him be affected by the damn thing? Some sort of sick game to everyone here, make sentient being and force them to fight? He felt like glass, one touch could shatter him. He had to rush to get away from the eyes of his family. He was the big, brave brother, he couldn’t not be that. Somehow his sorrow worn feet made their way to his general, bumping into him lightly. The Jedi turned, confusion written across his face before the dejected form of the captain clicked. 

“Hey.” He quietly said, sounding slightly awkward. Rex would’ve laughed if it was any other day. Wordlessly he just rested his forehead over Anakin’s chest, closing his eyes. Besides the drowning sorrow, he was tired. A hand rested on his shoulder, and he cracked a little. He wanted to raise his arms to wrap around the other, to hold and be held but couldn’t. The most he managed was a little below his chin, gripping the fabric tight. The hand on his shoulder now cupped the back of his head, another arm across his shoulders. A soft gentle humming started to come from Anakin, a tune that sounded like sunlight. The fabric of the Jedi’s night shirt was held tighter, soaked with tears. The tune faded into a gentle murmur of words Rex couldn’t believe yet. The words were silenced, instead gently tugging off pieces of armor, leading him towards a bed. He never strayed from hiding his face away from the horrors of the world, clutching onto fabric and broad shoulders for a brief sense of peace. 

Chapter Text

Nothing could go wrong, it was the perfect plan. Not even Micah being involved could ruin this! But Hosea could still see doubt all on Dutch’s face. He was pacing about in his room, half dressed in pajamas. It was obvious he wouldn’t be getting the good nights rest that he suggested for everyone. Sighing, the older stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The sound made the other jump a little, relaxing when he saw who it was. With what looked like a somewhat forced face of happiness Dutch approached, taking both of Hosea’s hands in his. For a minute he just…stared, eyes tracing the interlocked callused hands with a growing look of certainty. A small smile spread on the older’s face, a tender squeeze given. He couldn’t think of the words to say, and neither could the younger it seemed. For once, neither could say what was already stated earlier. That this heist would go fine, that they could get out of the country and take care of everyone. No more death, no more law. Retirement, or the closest for them. 

Hosea looked at Dutch, wondering if he had felt this uncertain when they first robbed a bank. He couldn’t remember seeing such a look back then. Maybe adrenaline covered it up. Now it was night and there was time blocking the chance for that rush. Doubt was a cloud thicker than anything on this Earth, the kind of cloud that only ends badly. Delicately he pulled his hands out of the tight hold, wrapping his arms around Dutch, pulling him to a hug. He was still for a second before returning it, warm breath meeting Hosea’s neck as he layed his head down on the other’s shoulder. He stayed like that for a while, slightly bending down. Slowly he pulled his head back, not fully out of the embrace yet. His hands rested now on Hosea’s shoulders, a light squeeze given before stepping away fully. 

It wasn’t the eager adrenaline sort of look now, but it wasn’t the fearful uncertain look from before. Hosea gave another smile and a nod. 

“G’night Dutch, get some sleep. Big day tomorrow, eh?”

Chapter Text

She sat at a window, hair down and cascading down her shoulders in a manner much like the rain outside. She was just in a loose nightgown, one side sliding off her shoulders without her needing to move. The room was brightly lit, as if she hadn’t bothered with dimming or turning anything off. As if she came her to be away from something. The hesitation of stepping in soured at the thought of the other woman being upset by something, stepping into the room with the faintest click of her shoes. There wasn’t a reaction to her entry, not a glance or a sudden twist. She was just motionless, besides the slight movement of her shoulders with every silent breath. Carefully, she approached, resting a hand on the other’s shoulder in concern. A hand reached up to rest over the delicately placed one, her grip tighter than usual. 

“Was everything a lie?”

Padmé’s voice was drowning in emotions. The fear, sorrow, anger…everything pitched her voice into a painful to hear murmur. Her question was met with silence, at first. How many people were in pain at this moment, how many dead, how many asking themselves the same question about this damn war? The number had to be growing by the second, Padmé included. War is intolerable, a series of grief with a foggy ending, something that doesn’t give much victory when there was one. Death and destruction could only be called a victory for so long. Would there be the resources to repair from the war, and what of the resources created for it? Those questions couldn’t be answered, the fog choking anyone who tried to. 

“Was it?” The question asked again, with the same passionate drive that followed all difficult questions she asked. Her head turned, tears in her eyes and resting on her cheeks. For what felt like the hundredth time, the duchess’ heart broke at the sight of her lover crying. Delicately she brushed aside the tears stuck on Padmé’s skin, unable to form even a reassuring smile. 

“War can’t go on forever, the drive for it would die out.” A quiet attempt of reassurance. “It isn’t a lie, not exactly. It’s temporary words. Soon could mean our lifetime, soon could mean any day, any year.” The Senator leaned her face against the fingers still on her cheek. A new tear fell over the fingertips, but that wasn’t cared or thought of for long. “This war will end no matter our moments of weakness.” She continued softly, a slightly sad smile now shining on her face. 

“I still can’t believe those words yet. But it feels more sincere from you.” 

“I promise, we will see the end of the war together. No matter if in our life or in our death, we will be together for it.”

Chapter Text

The briefing ended, the reminder about the case file ending it off. There was a brief moment of static nosies before Lucas added onto it, his voice serious as always.

"Right. Happy hunting, 47. See you on the other side." 

A quiet mumble of thanks was given in response, the motorcycle shut down and stepped off of. Just a few feet away from the mansion gate, out of view from the two guards out front and an approaching man in a tan coat. Diana's voice cut the silence to give insight on the man; a detective. An easy way to get into the manor for sure, but would require a lot more dedication into the disguise than wanted. Being around Providence members wasn't something he wanted to do for longer than needed. He crept towards the gate, climbing into the manor grounds through a broken section of the stone brick wall. 

It was easy to sneak around, out of view from the patrolling guards, and climbing through a window. A hallway next to the foyer, that seemed to be near the staff's quarters and such. Easy way to get a disguise, there was definitely a uniform laying in the changing room. He stood upright, making sure to speed past the doorways where he could be seen. It wasn't hard to find the uniform, changing into it quickly. Carlisle would know he wasn't a member of her staff, and likely the head butler...a few random other staff members as well. Not an issue for now. 

It didn't take long to catch two lone Carlisle's bodyguards and knock both out, hiding the two in a wicker chest nearby. He buttoned the jacket up as he walked inside, climbing up the stairs to find the lady of the house's office. That was where the safe with the Constant's case file was, and he could wait until she arrived as well. The two bodyguards that followed her everywhere would be an issue, but he had time to plan everything before she wandered in.

Timing was everything to this plan. The deer antler chandelier hung, the rope perfectly in view from his position on the wooden balcony. The door opened, the sound of three people walking on the wooden floor like a drumbeat. Head lifted from his hiding place, gun raised at the rope...

BangI

The hunting trophies the old woman had collected from her years as a hunter scattered across the floor, some painted with a revengeful red. The guards below shouted orders, beginning their search. The hitman didn't waste time getting in an old wooden chest to avoid being detected. After time of waiting, the footsteps stopped, the yelling ceased. The sound of the antlers being cleaned up, the crinkle of a body bag...it was safe to get out. He hopped out and surveyed below, checking the body language of the men if they were still searching for him.

Thankfully no. He hurried down the staircase, waiting till the room was empty before hitting a not very hidden button on the plush desk chair. A painting behind him moved, the safe in clear view. There were wooden engravings of different things about in the room, each above where a number would be. Diana made a comment about it, sounding intrigued. Thus began the second hunt; the hunt for these numbers. It was easy to find, the numbers engraved near or behind the different objects about in the room. He paused at the large buck head above the door, eyes narrowing for a moment. 

"Happy hunting".

He shook his head, shaking the phrase from his mind. He walked to the safe, punching in the code and snatching the case file. Diana's congratulations on the mission well done started, the familiar phrase like a chorus in a song...until it wasn't. Until the connection was lost. His pace towards an exit quickened at the sudden disruption in their connection, worry for his friends ruining any feeling of victory. Halfway towards the bike was when the earpiece crackled harshly, gunshots piercing his ears. Lucas' voice cut in, whatever had intercepted the connection still affecting the call. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, ignoring the warning to get away, ignoring the knowledge that Lucas was being overrun.

He got onto the bike, speeding into the woods. Lucas didn't give up on him, he couldn't leave and do the same. The last part of his friend- his brother's good luck message bounced in his head like a ping pong ball.

"See you on the other side."

Chapter Text

“Is that my blood?”

John ignored the question, ignored the fascination in the other’s eyes. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t happen. His hands were already wet and dark red, more of it soaking though the jacket and taunting his palm with its sickening warmth. His stomach churned, but he resisted the urge to gag or look away. He just had to keep pressure until the ambulance arrived. That was all he could do. Jim’s flat didn’t have much in terms of medical supplies. Why was he such an idiot at times? 

“John. Is it my blood?”

The question felt haunting to hear. Was it the shock that made him ask? The cold tone masking the alarm and concern felt? Jim was so confusing. Why couldn’t he do some dramatic speech of dying words despite not facing mortal wounds? That, John could handle. Not the fascination, not the whimsical tone. 

“Fucks sake, yes! Yes, you’re bleeding, you got shot!” 

There, an answer. The metallic smell of blood was rather dizzying. John’s head pounded, gritting his teeth slightly. Of course Jim wouldn’t react with shock or horror at the answer. Of course he would have a frankly terrifying smile spread across his lips, a hand briefly touching John’s before holding it above his face. A droplet fell onto his cheek. The smile grew in amusement.

“I’ve never seen myself bleed this much before. How much blood do you think I’ve lost?”

This wasn’t helping the headache. John wasn’t going to answer, he wasn’t going to look at the spreading crimson pool beginning to creep towards his knees, taking a deep breath. The air tasted coppery. It coated his tongue in a sickening way, the taste stuck there for what would feel like forever. 

“Stop talking. You’ll be fine, it isn’t enough loss to cause damage.”

That seemed like a good enough answer for now. Later he could get the morbid answer that Jim definitely wanted. He could hear the sirens now. He could feel the bone chilling dampness now touch his knees when paramedics finally came in. He stayed out of their way, trying not to look at the liquid glove fitted upon his hand. At least Jim dropped the smile and fascination. A sigh of relief would’ve slipped out but it wasn’t time for that yet. 

A whole day passed before he could visit Jim again. Despite being in a hospital bed and gown, laying in a room with the proper medical equipment needed, the man didn’t look very distressed. He seemed rather…at peace. A strange reaction for a man who was just shot but then again, it was Jim. Now that there wasn’t a chance of the man bleeding out and dying, the way he reacted to this all was a scary sort of charming. 

“I take it one of the Holmes had something to do with this. Not Eurus though, she wouldn’t waste time with a sniper.” Jim murmured, staring at the tubing taped to his arm. John sighed, taking a seat near the bed. The dark gaze shifted to him then, softening a little. “So. How much blood did I lose, doctor?”

John shook his head with a laugh. He had seen the intimate and soft sides of Jim Moriarty and lived to talk about it, yet instead of showing those sides here, he was the usual morbid Moriarty. It would be a lie if John said that he didn’t like the morbid ways of his partner. It took time to get used to, but-

“Is that my blood?”

Chapter Text

It’d been days since the mission. Despite the steady flow of new missions and communications, the dreams of the alternative end to that damn mission. The fits of coughing, the moments before death, the moments before the virus infected…it flashed before closed eyes before fading into nothing. It was exhausting, waking up and being almost afraid to get back to sleep. The constant reminder of what happened days ago was becoming exhausting. It became a relief to head into work, that being the reminder that the dreams were just that. A dream. It was hard to stay awake for briefings, as the days passed it became nearly impossible. A jolt awake was the almost amused concern, followed by questioning, gentle and soft. Silence followed for a moment, a simple dismissal remark. 

Rough night, nothing more than that.

It was obviously not believed. The tone changed to more concern, crackled with the slightest bit of static on the connection. Obviously if the question wasn’t answered soon, it would be dropped. There was never pressure for answer given on either side. Care was felt, of course, but life outside of work wasn’t something good to know. It was strange, but it was their strange. It was enjoyable. Slowly, the answer started. 

Just been thinking too much about…Patient Zero. It was different than usual. 

There was a moment of silence. Static crackled softly, breaking it, soon followed by a thoughtful hum. The words were heard but no response was ready yet. Perhaps shocked about the answer? It was shocking to be giving the answer. A yawn pushed it’s way through, silent but a reminder of the sleepless nights. Even with the complicated relationship with sleep, this had such a hard hitting effect. But that didn’t mean anything, this would pass. It was just because the mission was…far from the norm. 

I don’t blame you for losing sleep over it. It was quite unsettling, all of it. 

Of course only this friendship could have soothing words given with an air of professionalism. The words drew a soft sigh out, eyes closing for the briefest of seconds. Opening them again was heavier than thousands of pounds. There wasn’t a response that could form, nor time to give one.

You can sleep now 47. I’ll be there when you wake up.

Silence. The promise seemed to defeat any protesting thoughts, an audible yawn the only response. Eyes closed yet again, this time to stay closed until either the dreams or arriving at the destination reopened them. The same soft tone began to speak again. It didn’t sound like a briefing. The voice was loud enough to be heard, but soft enough to be a lulling force. It didn’t take long to identify the words being said. It brought a brief, sleepy smile before everything faded to the dreamless rest that used to be the norm.

Far out at sea the water is as blue as the petals of the loveliest cornflower and as clear as the purest glass, but it is very deep, deeper than any anchor cable can reach, many church towers would have to be placed on top of each other to stretch from the sea-bed to the surface. 

Chapter Text

Jim was good at hiding things. Facades, intentions, injuries...he was a damn good actor. But Molly, bless and damn her, could see through him like he was glass. It was incredibly annoying at times, though it had the endearing moments. Moments of seeing his influence of noticing things rubbing off on her. He hoped this time wouldn't be an occasion where she'd notice anything amiss, his ribs and leg absolutely aching. His head felt like a ceiling fan set on high. 

"Jim! Where the hell have you been?"

Shit. She stayed awake all bloody night to wait for him? It was four in the morning for Christ's sake, and she had work. Sentiment was worse than a bullet, he thought to himself with a sigh. 

"Out, dealing with things." He answered, waving a hand in the air to try and dismiss her concerns. Hopefully she couldn't see the bloody stain on his pants. She was a smart woman after all, and this wasn't something he could say was 'taking care of business". It was hard to walk without limping, but the mastermind just grit his teeth through the pain of walking to the bedroom for fresh clothes. The answer seemed to satisfy Molly for now at least, likely she was too tired to press on about it. 

He quickly made his way to the bathroom, shutting the door with a sigh. He undressed fast, grimacing at his bruised torso, the colors of bruises like a toddler's first painting. His leg was in worse shape, though that made more sense. Getting stabbed with some idiot's pocketknife would not be a small thing. Grabbing toilet paper to wipe up the blood so he could just sleep the pain off, Jim made quick and painful work of scrubbing over the wound. After the now stained red papers had been flushed away and fresh pajamas had been adorned, he was ready to collapse in bed. 

And that's just what he did, after giving a quick peck to his partner's cheek and mumbling some variation of "good night". And thankfully, there were no deep sleep winces or groans of pain to crack the mask of 'everything is fine'. Although it wasn't as nice as it should've been to wake up with Molly's arms around him. 

"Hey sleeping beauty," she mumbled, shifting the blankets off from her side so she could get up. She stopped halfway through, eyes locking onto something. Despite being a mastermind, Jim was not at all immune to the fogginess of sleep. "Fuck, Jim, you're bleeding."

That woke him right up, the criminal pushing blankets off of himself, only to cringe at the blood pooling from his thigh wound. He tried to think of something to say, that it was just a scratch or that he bumped into something. Molly...she didn't ask questions about his work often, but she would interrogate him over the slightest injury. 

"Do you mind if I take a look?"

He blinked, staring at her for a moment. Concern and pure care on her face, something he hadn't noticed before. Normally her fussing over a scrape was like a buzzing fly but...

"Go for it." He mumbled, shifting his gaze away. Caring, and caring about him no less. It was ridiculous to think about, someone giving a damn and wanting to take and show love towards him. Seeing- and living- with it was different. It wasn't stupid or silly, the way Molly would gently look over the wound, the mumbled warnings before applying rubbing alcohol...it felt nice. 

He didn't deserve her. 

She bandaged the injury up rather fast, leaving a kiss on the wrapped up thigh. Her gaze met his again, brow furrowed. "You need to be careful, love...and take care of yourself! What if this had gotten infected?"

Jim offered no reply, taking a deep breath and letting it out. "Why?"

Confusion crossed her features, the look rather adorable. "Why what? Infected injuries are no joke, Jim, I mean-"

"No, no. Why do you...do this for me?"

She looked more confused, staring at him as if he'd said something stupid. "Because I love you! I know you have this resentment against sentiment and whatnot but...Christ, I'm your girlfriend, Jim! Am I supposed to sit by and let you get fucked up?"

"I...suppose not." He closed his eyes, rubbing over his bruised chest absentmindedly. "I'm not complaining. I...appreciate it." He opened his eyes again, seeing Molly giving him that smile. That smile that was so...understanding, full of fondness. One he didn't deserve to receive. She planted a kiss on his cheek before getting up to get ready. He didn't have anything planned for the day, he had associates off doing paperwork and things. Besides, Molly would probably tell him to rest...which he was happy to do. 

"Take care, and don't do anything stupid. Love you." He snapped back to reality when Molly spoke, already dressed and done up for work. Her hair tied in a ponytail, a pale yellow blouse paired with black pants, the white rain jacket he had boughten her...she looked beautiful. He sat up in bed to give her a proper kiss, giving her a smile.

"Have a good day, grá."

Chapter Text

His phone chimed in his coat pocket, former agent fishing it out of his pocket to see who was calling. After seeing the familiar name, he answered, pulling into a gas station to avoid getting pulled over for being on the phone.

"Mars, how's it going?" He greeted, turning off the car and looking at the basically empty gas station. Might as well buy a coffee and a bite to eat while he was here taking up space, unbuckling and getting out of the car. 

"Not as well as I'd like." A tired sounding Ethan replied, his voice briefly being muffled. Must've rubbed a hand over his chin. Norman raised a hand in greeting to the clerk, wandering the aisles without really looking at anything yet. Letting the man on the other side take his time before getting more into it. "It's the anniversary of...well, when those drownings started. Whole place has been doing remembrance and stuff for those poor kids..." His voice trailed off, seeming to get distracted by something. "Shit, hold on, pizza's here." He mumbled, the phone being set down somewhere. Instead of focusing on the static from the phone, Norman decided to busy himself looking at different chip flavors, grabbing a plain flavor of them. He wandered towards the drinks, deciding on a cold coffee instead of a warm one. The sound of Ethan returning distracted him from browsing.

"I got an article looking back on the bastard, yeah...time fuckin' flies, doesn't it?" He mumbled, opening a fridge and keeping it open with his leg. Cold air soaked his jeans and made his bones shiver in protest. The fog on the door would probably leave a wet stain on the side of his jeans too...damn. 

"Yeah, it does...Shaun stayed home from school today to avoid it all." Ethan's voice was quieter now. "I don't care about the attention I get, but...he's just a kid. He shouldn't have people hounding him about that goddamn well."

The agent nodded, plucking out a drink and managing to hold both his items. He wandered back over to the store clerk, setting the items down and plucking a pack of gum up as well. The tired looking teenager didn't make any small talk, just rang the items up and announced the total in a bored voice. He pinned the phone to his ear with his shoulder while digging out the money needed.

"I should've pieced the clues together sooner, maybe then the water wouldn't have been so high and-" Ethan cut himself off, taking a deep breath. "I should've done better."

Norman gave the teenager a quick nod of thanks before leaving the store. "Mars, you went through hell from Shelby's sick trials, there isn't any blaming you for not piecing clues together sooner. Fucks sake, man was playing hangman with you with that address. You could've guessed wrong or worse." He got back into his car and turned it on, wanting the light and warmth. A sigh broken up from the phone static played out in response.

"I should've payed more attention to my son that day. Then none of that would've happened...but then some other poor boy and his father would be stuck with those trials. Fuck. Maybe I des-"

Norman cut him off, shaking his head. "No, no, don't say that. You didn't deserve any of that, Ethan." His voice became more stern, like how it was during interrogations back in the day. He still remembered having Ethan handcuffed and interrogating him. Fighting with Blake over it too, the fuckin' pig. 

There wasn't a response for a solid minute. Just silence with the occasional breath being picked up. Neither knew what to say after that. "Shelby singled me out because of what I did for...for Jason. He..." The man sounded choked up, voice hitching at the mention of his older son. "A father that would do anything for his son. I gave him that, and he still fucking shot me. Why would he do that?" He sounded more demanding than upset. He stopped his mind from analyzing the feelings, damn FBI training. 

Norman was quiet for a moment, looking out the front window as an attempt to find what to say. "Didn't want to get arrested. Madison had survived the fire and knew about him, and obviously you and Shaun did." He finally spoke, closing his eyes. Both were quiet again. "You didn't owe him that." He added, buckling himself in. 

"I'm the only one who survived. The trials that is. Other guys tried, I saw the skeleton of one in...in the butterfly trial. Another one was interviewed, I-I don't remember the name...but I'm the only one who's walking around with scars from it all. I hate it." Ethan spoke again, his voice more quiet. Norman wanted to comfort him, to offer some sort of verbal version of a hug but didn't. It was obvious Ethan was bottling this all in. Getting it out would help more than being told about it. "It makes me wonder how many others got as far as I did. How many others drove into oncoming traffic...crawled through glass...cut off a finger...killed a man and drank poison...only to get shot before getting their son?" The man's voice cracked with what had to be the start of him crying. He was silent for minute, and then another two more before Norman decided to speak again.

"Mars, you...you've heard this before but I am so sorry." He managed to say, leaning his head on the headrest of his seat. "I wish I could help you and Shaun avoid the attention. It's not my place to offer coping advice for everything." His voice was quiet, soft. Ethan sucked in a shaky breath, letting it out with an even shakier exhale. He didn't reply, sitting in the silence...his breathing getting less clogged with crying signaling that just the presence on the other end of the phone was enough. "I'm gonna get back on the road...I'll put you on speaker." He lifted the phone from his ear and hit the speaker option, setting the phone in a cup holder for the time being. A vague mumble of protest was given but it didn't sound like it was really meant. 

Norman screwed open the lid to his coffee before getting back onto the road. There wasn't much more talking, save for Ethan occasionally just...speaking whatever came to his mind that bothered him...and everything was listened to, occasionally a word or two spoken gently in response. 

Chapter Text

He stared at himself in the mirror for a moment, at himself. At his own reflection, lungs sucking in unnecessary quick breaths. His face was dirty, it was always dirty. Blood and dirt always caked his face, no matter how much he tried to clean it away. It always came back. Always a sick reminder in his restless afterlife about what happened that night. His vision blurred as his gaze flicked to his mouth, to the threads embedded into his lips, keeping them shut. Caked in blood spilled from years ago, the thread used for it feeling so easy to tear through with his fingers yet never budging. The left side of his face was hidden behind hair usually but today it was parted aside, the greasy locks pushed behind his ear. His breathing went unsteady, his exhales whistling through the gaps in his teeth, shaking warmth touching the carving in his cheek with a slight sting. Tears streaked down the right side of his face, seeming to be never ending. His vision was so blurred, he eventually couldn't even make out the blood red injuries on his face.

His knees seemed to get weak, and he let himself fall to the cold surface below him, the surface that reflected his damn face back at him. A fist hit the ground weakly, a pathetic attempt to break the mirror beneath him. It wouldn't help if he broke it. He was surrounded by mirrors, all showing his face with unrelenting torture. Was this damnation for getting revenge, for letting himself fall from being human to becoming a demon? Having to reside in a realm where every surface showed him the face he hated with such passion? Muffled sobbing started to escape from his closed lips, sounding more like groans and croaks. Sounding like the wails of the damned.

He certainly felt damned in this moment. Damned to spend the rest of eternity stewing in hatred, being pulled from this cursed place to entertain a curious human who summoned him, being screamed and cringed at for his injuries...but why? Why was he the one who was damned, when he was the victim in his story? He was the one that was murdered! The questions that he couldn't demand answers to drove him insane, a hand brushing tears off from his chin. He leaned his head back, staring at the infinite ceiling. A tear slipped over his lips, the salt causing a dull burn. He didn't react to it, just let the droplet rest on his bloody lips. Every nerve there was hyper aware of the presence. 

A deep breath was heaved in, then let out slow. It wouldn't do him any good to sit and cry. The demon forced himself to a shaking standing position, using his sleeves to destroy any remaining tears he had. His lips and cheek stung as always, but seemed to be aching a little more than usual. He ran his fingertips over the surface, some stray blood droplets collecting on his fingertips before he wiped them off on his pants. He looked at himself in the mirror again.

His vision was still blurry. As if looking into a foggy mirror. Instead of cleaning it or fretting over it, he let it be. Having his surroundings be unclear would be a nice change for once. 

Chapter Text

It was hard to focus, his body feeling like it was torn apart and sewn together again. Every single inch of his body stung like a million little darts piercing his skin. He barely could feel when callused hands lifted him from the ground, forcing him to stand on legs that felt broken. There was a long, long silence of being dragged away until there was a sitting surface nearby, his body collapsing onto it like a rag doll. 

"Cas. Cas, are you alright?" The words didn't register for a minute, just sounding like noise. Just taking a breath felt like a great effort, chest rising and falling with an unsteady rhythm. The pain started to become just a tingling feeling in his body, but now all his mind could focus on was the lack of feelings. The lack of sensations around him, the lack of powers in his fingertips...the feeling like multiple parts of him were removed. His wings, his grace- those were like a body part and an organ. It felt maddening to be like this now. Dean repeated the question, this time the words registering; "Cas, buddy, what's wrong?"

"I-I..." His voice wavered, trailing off. His arms wrapped around himself, hands frantically searching on his back. Trying to deny the thought that was in his mind. He couldn't feel what he was looking for. His breathing stopped at that lack of feathers and power, lack of...himself. "No, no-" He managed to spit out a reply to the first question, now clutching over his chest. As if he could will his grace forward, bring it back from whatever internal hiding place it was in. 

There wasn't a reply from Dean. What could he say, really? He was probably confused, probably in as much panic as the angel...former angel was in. Silence seeped into the room, at first comfortable for about ten minutes before it became uncomfortable. He wanted Dean to say something, to say some sort of empty reassurance, but there wasn't any. It was selfish to even want that, but fretting over being a selfish bastard was the last thing on his mind.

He tried to look at the man, trying to gauge the reaction but he couldn't. His vision was messy, tinted a deep maroon colored. Desperately his eyes tried to focus through it, tried to snatch onto the comforting sight of his friend...but all he could see was red. Dean seemed to catch on that something was wrong, his hands gripping onto shaking shoulders with a firm yet caring grasp.

"Cas, what's wrong? Talk to me, man!"

"I-I can't see. There's...there's blood in my eyes."

His voice sounded so feeble now, like a bleating lamb. A scared little lamb living in God's cruel world, a world of pain and never ending suffering. If this world was created in his father's image, his father was a twisted creature. The hands on his shoulders tightened, the sound of the floor creaking under Dean's weight as he seemed to be crouching in front of him now. 

"You aren't bleeding, buddy. Take deep breaths, okay? In, out...got that?" There it was. That attempted comfort, the slightly uncertain voice with compassion soaking into it. The voice that was used to people who were being bothered by monsters and saw something they shouldn't have. It felt weird to be the one hearing that voice.

"I can't see. It's all red." His hand found it's way to his face, rubbing at his eyes, his forehead, everywhere. Nothing. No sticky warmth, no blood mixing with his sweating palms like a sick cocktail. Yet his vision was still red. Was it red earlier, when his body felt as if it'd gone through a shredder? He couldn't recall.

"Cas, buddy, I promise you aren't bleedin'." Dean's voice broke the cloud of...whatever emotion this was. His hands, his voice, his presence felt slightly grounding. There was still the dull aches and background knowledge that he was missing things...but it felt a little less foggy now. He started taking deep breaths, matching Dean's examples. His hands never left Castiel's shoulders, occasionally giving a gentle squeeze that said 'I'm here', or a reassuring rub. 

He was fallen, but...he wasn't alone. He had Dean. He'd always have Dean...

Chapter Text

His arms wrapped around the other man, no words exchanged, no other affection showed for a moment. Simply holding each other, soaking in the warmth of each other and reigniting the love and passion felt towards one another. It was interrupted by a buzzing phone, both reluctantly untangling themselves from one another and searching pockets. The source of the moment killer was found, and the call ignored. He didn't have time to worry about what the genius roommate was doing or got the two into now. He rested his forehead against his partner's shoulder, who just gave a small laugh. His laugh sounded so beautiful, like the lazy strums of an old guitar. Arms wrapped back around, pulling the other as close as humanly possible. Still nothing was said, actions speaking so much louder than words. Besides, what would be the point of repeating sentiments that had been said over text? 

And again, that damn phone. Another call, this time snatched and set to "do not disturb". It was annoying enough to lie to get out of the flat and find a hotel that was in the middle of where they lived, but these phone calls? He didn't give a damn about what was going on, not now. Not when he had someone to adore in person for a night. With the phone set to silent, and hands pawing to get the jacket concealing it off...that pure crackling fire was now burning with desires in which these hotel walls would keep secret.

It was around one in the morning when he started to feel tired. Between the deeds done under plush covers and the hour long conversations, he was a bit exhausted. But the nagging itch to check his phone kept him from curling into his lover's arms and falling into blissful sleep. He snatched his phone out of his discarded jacket pocket, sitting down on the end of the bed. He could hear the shower running still, loud singing rumbling along with it. He started scrolling through notifications.

Missed call after missed call; none with a voice mail left. There had to be at least ten calls made before the texts. At first it was simple things; 'where are you', 'are you okay', and 'why aren't you answering'. Then it became something that threw ice water into his face, his breathing pausing as he reread the words over and over, trying to make sure he understood. He didn't want to believe the words, hoping he could wake up from this nightmare. Alas, pinching his arm resulted in nothing but a sting.

'You're in the same hotel as Moran, Lestrade and I are on our way. -SH' 

He sucked in a breath, shutting his phone off. Would that stop them from noticing they were sharing the same room? His head was swimming, snapping out of his thoughts when the shower was shut off. He got up, rushing over to the room, trying the door. Locked. The rattle caught the occupant's attention, the door opening to the half dressed man in trouble. Whatever was about to be spoken was cut off by a hug that got a little "oomf" from the other. This wasn't like the reunited hug of tight woven care, this was the hugs given when the sun rose and they had to go separate ways. Desperate, clinging onto the other as if life would end when he let go. But it was one in the morning, not six in the morning. 

"Love?"

He couldn't choke out an explanation, the words getting lodged in his throat and refusing to get coughed up. He didn't want to risk turning on his phone to show the text. He breathed in the scent of the soap that was brought along, the only thing he ever packed aside a condom. It was some sort of herbal blend, probably something bought from a small business. He calmed a bit, just holding on tighter. Where was there to start? 

"...when I let go, run for your life."

That caused the body he was holding to tense slightly. It stayed tense as a tight hum of compliance came out. There wasn't any more questions, or even time for the answers. Besides...the man was brilliant. Only now did the bloody git catch his scent, he could hide it again. Having the self proclaimed "Napoleon of crime" would help that matter. Despite wanting to linger for a minute longer he couldn't, forcing his arms at his sides and stepping away to let his lover get his things and run. The door closing felt like a stab to the heart. 

As Sebastian ran, John went about to hide any sign of the man being here. Hiding evidence. He already got over the moral dilemma of being romantically involved with a criminal, but keeping evidence felt different. Especially when it would also be Sherlock he was trying to evade. Cigarettes were flushed away, shoe prints frantically rubbed away, soap stashed into his robe pocket. Now he focused on getting dressed and getting control of himself. He could be annoyed, but not stressed or frantic. This was just him getting a day away from Sherlock, not secret date nights with a wanted criminal. He could do this- no, he had to do this.

Chapter Text

Her hand tried to be steady, but they kept shaking. Her heartbeat raced, the frantic rhythm almost taking over every other sound. She took a deep breath, even that being shaky, and tried to focus. Irene just gave a small bitter chuckle, her skin a sickly pale. She didn't need to say anything, it was in her eyes. The sad acceptance. A whimper of denial slipped from Molly's lips, a trembling hand moving to underneath Irene's head, holding her head gently. The dying woman gazed up at her, silent. Her chest rose and fell with numbered breathing. 

"I-I called an ambulance, they should be here any minute..." The pathologist mumbled, her other hand intertwining with Irene's. The latter didn't react to the words, breaking eye contact with a cough. Molly tightened her grip on the woman's hand, trying to think of what to say. "Do you know what kind of poison? There could be a solution around here. O-Or even who did this?"

The head in her hands shook a little, another cough causing her to wince. That wasn't good, time was running out. The clock on the wall was laughing, ticking by precious seconds with it's mocking precision. Molly wanted to scream but her throat became dry the second she parted her lips to do so. Irene's fingers seemed to loosen against hers, making her look back down in a panic.

"No, no, hang on! You can make it!" The assurance- more like a plea than anything- was accompanied by tears, trailing down fast and splattering against Irene's neck and chest. She didn't seem to mind, her eyes flicking back to Molly's. When before it was acceptance now was replaced by slight panic. The look felt worse than a bullet to the head would. There was nothing she could do to comfort her beyond being there, letting her not...be alone. 

Irene's gaze moved away. "I'm sorry you have to see this, dear." Her voice was raspy, with a slight gurgle on her vowels. Molly shifted to elevate her head more, letting it rest on her chest instead of in her hands. Her now free hand moved to support her back, a thumb moving along comfortingly. 

"Shush, don't...say that. You'll be fine..." She mumbled, voice betraying her by cracking with her words. Relaying that it was empty promises and lies. She blinked back tears, clearing her throat to hide a rising sob. "It's- just hold on, please."

The other woman raised a hand to cough into, splatters of blood and saliva hitting her fist. She glared at the sight, wiping it off on the side of her clothes. "Honey we both know it isn't true." 

Molly didn't respond, her jaw clenching a little. She didn't want to say anything. Saying something would make this...situation become a reality. She heard a sigh that sounded more like a motorcycle trying to run, catching her attention. Irene had a look she couldn't read. Regret, pity...? Whatever it was, it didn't suit her beautiful features, the expression contorting the normally softer edges to a razor like edge. But then it softened, another hacking cough shaking her body, not bothering to wipe away the spit soaked blood.

She lifted her clean hand to touch the side the side of the pathologist's cheek, her skin already feeling deathly cold. "I hate to do this to you now but...fuck. I love you, Molly Hooper. You're a goddamn blessing." Her voice broke mid sentence, tears flooding her half closed eyes. There was the briefest moment of heart fluttering before the gravity of the situation came back. Molly gave a tiny nod, leaning into the hand against her skin. The fingers tapped against her cheek, but not in a soothing manner; Irene's hand was shaking.

It took only five minutes for her body to start going limp, blood soaking her lips. Molly did anything she could think of but no solutions worked. so she just held her partner, the love of her life...and watched the life escape her. Her eyes had closed a while ago, sparing the pathologist from seeing love and life fade from them. She didn't have issues around dead bodies but holding a freshly deceased one, and one that had been someone to her felt...horrible. She couldn't help but turn herself away from Irene to vomit on the floor.

The ambulance arrived five minutes later, five minutes too late. She answered questions, accepted the condolences and shock blanket she was given. She waited until the paramedics left with Irene's corpse before grabbing her phone, dialing an old number with shaking fingers and teary eyes.

"Dear Jim, I need you to fix this for me."

Chapter Text

Blood, blood, so much of it. Hot and sticky, the smell making him gag. And it wouldn't stop flowing out as he stumbled. How much of this blood was his, and how much was from that fucking devil tiger? He couldn't tell anymore, and it didn't matter. It didn't matter who's blood it was, he was soaked in it, the sheer amount able to make him able to taste it without a drop hitting his tongue. That salty and coppery taste. It filled his mouth until he stopped stumbling aimlessly to try and keep his stomach contents down. He wanted to  collapse on the ground, to just let dirt and sand soak into this unwanted liquid shirt. Who cared if the scent attracted more hungry animals? He didn't. He damn well didn't. So he let himself, knees hitting the ground first, then his back. The sky looked so peaceful. More fresh blood trickled out and mixed with the ground, every droplet's journey noted in great detail by his nerves. He let his eyes close...

...and that was enough to get him to pull himself from sleep. Shooting out of bed, sweat soaking his shirt, tears pooling in his eyes. Curses fell from his lips as his eyes started to adjust to the dark, tugging off the damp shirt. Shaking hands ran against the marks on his chest, a long breath of relief getting released when it was dry. No blood. It'd been years since that incident, the scars never bled. He threw his legs out from the blankets, walking out of the bedroom. His eyes were well adjusted by now, his eyes flicking towards his roommate's room. Still dark, still shut. The occupant was likely asleep or deep in work. 

It didn't matter what the bastard was doing. He couldn't bring himself to knock on the door, fist clenched and ready to knock but he wasn't able to. Why bring other people into issues that a few glasses of whiskey could solve? He stepped away and walked to the living room, avoiding the creaks in the floor. He stopped before the kitchen threshold, rubbing stubborn tears off his face. Two in the fucking morning. Alcohol and him had a horrid relationship but even this time was too soon. Besides, being tipsy or hungover on a work day would end horribly. He turned from the kitchen, going to the living room desk and plucking a cigarette, a lighter, and his house keys. He didn't bother with a jacket and left, careful with the door's whine of protest. 

The cold night's air made his chest ache a little, reminding him of that day. He gripped the cigarette with his teeth and flicked with the lighter, getting fire at the third flick. For a moment he just held it with his teeth, watching the thin smoke rise in the air. There was something about the smell of the nicotine filled things that comforted him. It didn't smell like something harmful, just smelled like paper and leaves burning. Finally he took a drag from it, smoke welling in his mouth. It wasn't a deep inhale, just enough to get the relief. It wasn't held for long, the smoke released into the air along with a sigh. It billowed in the air, floating around for a moment before fading to nothing.

Never had he been so jealous of smoke.

He tapped the ash to the ground, not bothering watching it hit the floor. His eyes were locked to the smoke. He didn't want to disappear or die exactly. He wanted to lose all the feelings he had, have it fade to nothingness, to just vanish away with a single breath. Become numb. He laughed a little, head shaking. Was his life so miserable and pathetic that he could be jealous of something non-living? Instead of being jealous of a well loved dog or some other innocent creature? At least being jealous of a cared for dog meant there was never ending love involved. He took another drag and shut his eyes.

More dull stinging from his chest made him give up the cigarette, stomping it out. Hardly smoked, a damn waste. He went back inside, locking the door behind him. Habit made him scan the room for dark shapes of intruders. None. He set the items he nabbed back to their place, trying to make it exact. Damn that Irish bastard and his eyes. He'd notice if the lighter was tilted too far to the left. He walked back to his room, the warmth of the place soaking his body. The stinging stopped now, and now a wave of tiredness hit him. But he didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to slip back to that damn memory and see that too peaceful sky, to feel that sticky blood coating his body...his head shook slightly. He got back into bed, staring at the ceiling. A hand rested on his chest, feeling the raised skin's rough texture. His stomach churned and his hand snapped away from the area. There were many parts of him he hated but there was something about those thick marks on his chest that was especially despised. He didn't care to find out why. He never cared to find the causes of his problems and solve them.

His eyes closed despite the desperation not to. Sleep snatched him away fast, and held him like a baby. Now giving him a gentleness which felt like a fucking joke. His alarm went off after seeming an only minute after those eyes closed at two in the morning. He had a blanket over himself now, which wasn't placed with loving care but was placed with some care. He put it aside and got out of bed. He got dressed and noticed his door was wide open. He could see the dark haired man in the kitchen, already dressed up in a suit. Those dark eyes met his and for a second, there was a look of worry. He just gave a small nod in return. The worry slipped back into the regular coldness before it returned to whatever he was doing.

Senses started to wake up now and instead of that regular morning taste coating his tongue...there was that too salty taste, that taste that was like sucking on American pennies. That memory couldn't just leave him alone. Soaking into the real life with a sickening flavor. His teeth gritted and he heaved his bag over his shoulder, barely giving a nod to his employer as he left to coordinates he had memorized. Maybe it wasn't so stupid to be jealous of smoke.    

Chapter Text

The door to the dark building opened with a click. Before 47 could pocket the lock pick used, Lucas pushed his way inside. His eyes scanned the room frantically, bouncing across the empty counters and tables before finding who he was looking for.

Olivia.

He hurried over, kneeling in front of the younger woman, the door opening again for his brother to step inside. Olivia's head lifted from the tilted position it was in, pain crackling in her eyes. 

"You're hurt." 47 spoke, a slight hitch of concern in his otherwise flat voice. Lucas checked on her bandaging, carefully undoing the blood soaked one to replace it with something fresh. There was a wince, but otherwise no protest from Olivia. He focused on the task he gave himself, cringing at how bad the wound looked. It probably needed stitches, but that could come when they found somewhere to hide out again.

"You should see the other guy. I never killed nobody before." The woman's voice sounded tired. Her eyes were on her thigh, new bleeding already starting to dye the bandage. He didn't say anything, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. There wasn't anything he could say to her that would fix the damage done from her own hands taking a life. 47 didn't say anything either, likely because he'd never encountered this before. Everyone he interacted with on friendly terms had killed before, and was payed to do it. There wasn't any need to comfort them. 

Olivia's head lifted, eyes on 47. "What you did back there," her gaze flickered to Lucas for a second, "you really are everything he said you'd be." Silence hung after that. As if on cue, his side ached from that bullet he took from those CICADA bastards. Had it not been for 47, he would've died back there. It was a miracle the man even managed to get the two out of there. The weight of the gun he'd stolen from one of those soldiers hit his free hand, and he clenched his fist to shake the feeling away. 

Lucas let go of Olivia's shoulder, standing and helping her up, her arm going around his shoulders for support. "She's going to need stitches." The other man gave a nod, looking outside for a moment. Contemplating where to go, who and what would be a threat. Eventually he turned without a word and started leading the way. His pace was slow to not strain Olivia's leg much. Her facial expression looked annoyed by that but her body language showed thanks.

The two walked in silence. Olivia's injured leg was half dragged, the movement of walking too much for the injury right now. It didn't matter though, the slow pace was a welcome difference. His arm around her tightened a bit, the guilt of not being there to protect her starting to sink in. Olivia was more than an employee, she was practically his daughter. She squeezed his shoulder in return, a tight yet reassuring smile gracing her face. He tried to muster a returning smile that said 'everything will be okay'. It was hard to but it seemed to work for the time being. That was enough for him...eventually he'd make sure everything would be okay. 

Chapter Text

Crimson dripped behind every footstep until I slammed a hand over the wound, pressing fabric into the injury and soaking blood further. I kept running until I could barely hear the voices of guards, spotting a place I could hide and catch my breath...and check how badly I'd gotten injured. I still had to even process how it happened, everything moved so fast. Exhausted and pain crackling through seemingly every pore, I slumped down against the cold cabinets, lifting my hand off the still bleeding area. I cringed at the feeling of the lukewarm red fluid against fabric, nearly gagging from the raw smell of it. I steeled myself and fought against clothing to see the wound.

Wonderful, a gunshot. And no exit hole either. Last thing I needed when surrounded by people who would likely shoot first and never ask questions. 

I fixed my rumbled and crinkled attire, frowning at the small bullet hole that before had blended in with the steam of blood. Getting some way to stop the bleeding was needed, the nearby cabinets opened with the care of a child sneaking candy. Eventually one was filled with dishrags, the cleanest of the bunch being greedily snatched from the neat stack. I pressed the cloth against the wound, wincing a bit. From how tight my clothes were, it should keep it in place for the time being. I wasn't planning on moving anywhere yet.

That being taken care of, I still could hear guards searching different rooms. I frowned at the sound of footsteps entering the large room I was in. I glanced upwards and spotted the edge of a knife hilt hanging off the edge. As stealthily as possible, it was grabbed, the large reflective blade sending a jolt through me. I looked like a mess, but that wasn't an issue now. Gripping the wooden handle tightly, prepared to strike like a hunting viper, I listened. Every quiet thump of boots felt aligned with my heartbeat, none of them getting close enough to spot me. Scoping out the room from a specific point and deeming it empty always seemed so idiotic to me but now it was a blessing. A few more painful minutes passed before it seemed like the hunt was over. I forced myself to calm down. It wouldn't do me or this mission any good to get flustered now. 

I started to think of a plan to get out from this hiding place and with some medical attention. Finding some poor worker and putting up an act could work but just the thought of moving made the injury flare in protest. There was a restroom nearby, getting the wound cleaned and using limited knowledge of medical care could help. A large kitchen knife was the last tool needed for fishing a bullet out though. Every idea seemed to get shot down by reasons why it couldn't work, only ending in frustration and unimaginable pain. 

Regardless, getting things cleaned up was my safest bet. It took some time of buckling knees and spells of dizziness before I could stand. One hand kept the rag in place while the other held the chef's knife. Before I could even attempt to make a break for it, I heard it. The sound of dress shoes hitting the factory floor, the same dress shoes of those damned bodyguards. Panicked, I threw myself back down to the hiding place, having to bite my tongue to hold back the groan of pain coming from it. Instead of leaving the room like the others had, this particular person kept walking inwards, seeming to be beelining for me. I scrambled myself into a position ready to jump up and strike, shrinking into myself as much as bodily possible. With every official click of those loafers, I felt so much more aware of my surroundings. Where I could go after, the next best cover, how on Earth I'd get away...it felt incredibly clear. The footsteps got the closest I would allow it, shooting upright quickly and attempting to stab into the person. The wash over of nausea and spasms of pain swayed my aim a little, but by all means it should've plunged into the chest. 

But I felt hands grab my wrist tightly, suspending it mid-swing. I stared at my hand, twitching from the interrupted momentum. My gaze turned quickly towards the person, heart nearly plunging to the floor in relief. I could recognize the eyes that stared back, the hues and blends of blue gazing into mine with that same intensity. As soon as our eyes met the hand let go of my arm, the limb landing to my side with a hard landing to my side. I barely registered it however, head feeling it it was a taffy machine.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

I blinked in response, in a pain driven stupor. I'd never heard someone sound so monotone and yet so worried. It was rather touching to see. I attempted to respond only to be met with a dry mouth, a rough voice rumbling out with it. I sounded like a sickly Victorian woman on her deathbed. How the mighty fall...

"I'll survive." 

The answer didn't seem to be satisfying or relieving. In fact, more expressions of concern painted on what was normally a blank canvas face. Those eyes left mine, looking me over and stopping where I knew a familiar maroon stain was. I didn't respond, grimacing when I felt the rag slip away and land with a splatter of red. I kicked it away from me, which ended up being a bad idea. The movement alone gave every bad feeling that was sucking away at my soul a chance to pounce. I swayed slightly but got my balance before a gentle grip on my shoulders steadied me. I still didn't meet the gaze again, trying to think. 

"We have work to do still-"

I didn't get a chance to finish. As carefully as one could, an arm curled around the small of my back before the other lifted the still shaking legs off the ground. A hiss of pain slid out, eyes squeezing shut to hold back tears. A quiet apology was mumbled out before we were moving. I kept my eyes closed, getting temporary relief from the onslaught of vertigo plaguing me. I wasn't sure where I was being taken or what was going on, but I trusted my partner to not do something ridiculous. 

Before I could slip asleep we stopped moving, and the slow gentle placement of me down on some surface played out. I opened my eyes then, looking around. It seemed to be some sort of storage room...or something similar. I felt cardboard and wood against my back and arms, which wasn't the most comfortable but I wasn't exactly about to complain. I shifted my gaze back to him, frowning slightly.

"I've got blood on your suit."

A brow raised, head lowering to peer at the large red blotch. He removed the stained article, setting it aside somewhere. I didn't want to move my head...or my body for that matter. Everything ached, as if there was a bullet in every part of me. With the time given of silence and to think, there was some semblance of what had happened. Everything had gone as planned, the poison slipped into the wine Vida had requested...then I was pointed to blame for her death. Annoying, but it wasn't false either. I forced myself out of the past. Last I had seen of him, he was in a waiter's uniform. At some point, he'd managed to change into one of the bodyguards. Either from here or from the villa, didn't matter which. He was busy rifling through things, a line of frustration forming on his lips.

"I'll be back. Just keep pressure on it." 

I managed a nod in response, forcing my arms to lift and press over the wound. It didn't seem to be gushing blood like a broken faucet anymore. The remains on my clothes seemed to be clumping together to dry. The stench of copper stung my senses. It stung a bit to keep my hands locked over the area but I would survive. I kept myself busy by just counting aimlessly, not correcting a skipped number as I did. I got to one hundred and nine before the man returned, seeming to have whatever he needed.

"You're going to be fine, I've got you."

The words hung in the air with a thick aura to them. An aura of what was unknown, unidentifiable. His warm hands lifted mine off the site, a box cutter being used to cut the fabric around the area away. Mumbled apologizes followed each precise slice. I could've laughed if it wouldn't hurt like hell. I managed a weak response in return, something along the lines of "it's fine". The cold air of the room smacked the wound painfully, luring a curse to the surface. Then more cold hit the area, wrapped in the texture of plastic. Ice...there was a freezer nearby. I went back to counting, picking up where I'd left off.

"I'm sorry if this hurts."

His words slipped in my head, rumbled out in a softer tone. It was different from anything I'd heard from him before. Normally he was monotone, even the most emotionally weighted words landing on a flat voice. Yet now he was flexing more emotions out with every word he said...it was nice to see, actually. After having things suppressed for so long, it was definitely a task to get used to showing this side. The side that felt and extended care. The same care that was so gingerly taking care of the unfortunate damage to me, whatever he was doing barely felt from the cold numbness. It was still registered but to a lesser degree. Instead of being blinding amounts of pain it was just a vague feeling of uncomfortableness. 

I'd managed to count to two hundred and fifteen when the makeshift surgery was done. The icepack had long melted to water, set aside without much concern. He'd even managed to sew the dress back together with the thread and needle he found, along with some replacement fabric. Likely a villa find. I didn't ask questions, waiting for my head to cease it's pounding before slowly sitting up, gazing up at him. Those eyes were still painted with the icy blues of concern, though more faded. I reached out to take his hand, glad to feel his warm skin against mine instead of on a glove. Those things were ruined anyway, stained with blood...

Neither of us said a word, staying like that. My thumb moved across his rough knuckles, the gesture seeming to surprise him. I stopped, worrying that maybe it was too soon for him. But I felt him mimic the soothing movement to me, enticing a smile to curl into existence. Still, no words were said. I didn't want to say anything, I didn't want to break the few seconds of peace before deploying ourselves back out into danger. Yet we couldn't waste time. He pulled me to my feet, waiting until I didn't teeter to one side before letting go of my hand. The lost warmth made something inside me drop a little. 

He seemed ready to walk away, to take a separate door from me before he bent down slightly, lips pressing against my forehead for a second. It was just a peck, a short gesture of...affection, care? Whatever. I snapped out of the surprised state to give a full, proper smile and lift both my hands to tenderly cup his cheeks. It felt strange that after so long of knowing him, of seeing his face, I'd never touched or been so close to these familiar parts. I wasn't sure what my move was with the gesture, deciding it'd be better to speak than to awkwardly stay like this.

"Be  careful." 

A twinge of a grin ticked it's way onto his face before he just nodded, and I let my hands fall from his face. He stepped away, heading towards the main exit of the room, leaving the les noticeable one for me. 

"You as well." 

I gave a nod, watching him leave before walking to the door.
A supply closet, with that knife I'd clutched before set on a shelf along with wine and food snatched away from the party. The key was still in the door. A little safe room he set up for me. I smiled even more at the gesture, glancing in the direction he had left. It'd just been said to earn Edward's trust but...it seemed like I was his weak point.
And he was mine.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

It was getting harder to maintain the illusion. Keeping thoughts was hard as well, each one trailing off into the void. The feeling of accepting what was happening and what he faced lingered, curling itself into his muscles and settling down. He felt the Force, so overwhelmingly physical all around him. As if it was holding him, guiding him to let go. Release from this life and join it to finally rest. As if it was telling him "you've done your job, faced your demons; it's time for you to be at peace". There was some doubts still; leaving Leia behind, not getting to offer his aid in helping Ben...but those doubts were released. He wasn't going away, he could still contact her. The Force tightened it's hold as if agreeing with the statement. 

So he let go. Everything stopped for a moment, as if he was in space floating. Body systems shut down before fading to nothing, the feeling of being weightless eventually becoming back to a vague sense of form. The familiar pale blue covered his body now, shimmering with the Force. But with that he found arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly. He recognized this hug. Victory, it always had the squeeze of victory that used to make his body ache back when he wasn't used to it. 

"You did it, kid." 

Han's voice sounded it was in a cave yet right next to him. It brought a small smile, this time easily able to turn and return the hug. It was the same overjoyed hug from back when they blew up the first Death Star, but it had a different pitch to it as well. A sadness that wasn't because of death, but of regret. Regret of not getting to see each other again till now, not getting to fix mistakes left behind. But those mistakes were accepted by now. Not woven into their beings as worms of agony, just a faded scar. 

"We did it."

Chapter Text

Obi Wan slightly flinched away from the bacta soaked cottonball, already feeling the sting it'd leave on the cut. Despite the annoyed huff she gave, Satine waited until he relaxed to apply it. It did sting like hell, but it wasn't the worst pain ever. He remained silent, avoiding eye contact for as long as he could. It'd been a...not well thought out move to investigate things alone, but it provided answers at least. He heard the soft click of the medpac being closed, a long sigh coming from the duchess.

"Do all your plans go as smoothly?" She asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. It would've made him laugh if there wasn't the feeling of dread oozing from her. He didn't even need to focus on the Force to tell. The Padawan cleared his throat, busying himself with getting a new shirt while thinking of a response. The silence was unbearable.

"For a first plan, I think it did of smoothly." Obi Wan replied quietly, finally meeting her gaze. "We made it out alive, didn't we?" He added afterwards, a lighthearted shrug accompanying. 

For a moment, Satine just stared at him. Her aura shifted from worry and dread to incredulousness. She pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. "I thought you were smarter than this." She finally spoke, breaking eye contact. He opened his mouth to reply before shutting it, wanting to let her finish her train of thought. "Obi Wan, we're in a war. You can't...you can't do stupid things in a time like this." She continued, hands clenched in her lap. "And what will happen when you're off world and try something like that, or don't have Qui Con to-"

"Satine. I'll be fine, I promise you." He took her hands, not even thinking the action over. "It...I was worried for your safety." He added in a much quieter tone, avoiding eye contact after speaking. Satine faintly squeezed his hands in response, for a moment a more bearable silence filling the camp.

"And I worry for yours." Her voice was just a whisper at this point, tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. Obi Wan frowned, tightening his grip on her hands. "You can't give me a promise that you'll be safe. Not in these times." The first tear slid down her face, landing atop their clasped hands. 

There was so many things he wanted to say. To promise that after the war was done, after his service to the Republic was over, he'd come back to her. Offer to leave it all behind and stay with her. But something stopped the words from coming out. All he could do was wipe away her tears and hold her hand. That seemed to be enough for the moment. Enough to get the two through the long night without more hassle.

"Thank you for, um...that." He awkwardly mumbled, nodding his head towards his bandaged arm. A hushed laugh came from that, the corners of her mouth crinkling a little into a caring smile. 

"Of course. Get some rest, Obi Wan." Her hands reluctantly slid from his, heading towards her sleeping bag near by. The urge to say those things from earlier came back but he pushed it down, shoved it into a box, getting comfortable in his own sleeping bag. Despite the turmoil brewing in his head, he fell asleep fast. The memory of the warmth from holding Satine's hands faded throughout the night, but not the warm feeling in his heart. 

Chapter Text

This couldn't be happening. This wasn't how things were meant to go. I failed to see how things went wrong, how the bastard could've known Sebastian worked for me, how-
Stop overthinking, he's bleeding. Pressure, he always went on about pressure on wounds. His chest was rising and falling fast, curses falling from his tongue. I ignored that, placing a hand over the wound. A hiss came from him at that. I could feel the warmth that usually was a thing of wonder under my hands, now just making my stomach lurch and feel sick. The smell clung in the air, metallic and organic. I could've thrown up from it but forced myself to focus. It was just a stab wound so no need to fish out a bullet. That was good, I could manage this. So could he. 

But my hands were soaked in blood fast, slipping from the spot. I put my other hand to keep it in place. Another hiss. He normally carried things with him to take care of emergencies, if I could get him to grab-
Why was it still flowing? Why was it flowing past my fingers like a damn waterfall? Panic surged through, frantically trying to figure out why on Earth this was happening. Was he sitting too upright, was I not putting enough pressure? Damnit, damn it all. I pulled my hands away and tore my jacket off, using that instead. There was an attempt to protest but it was shut down with a look. I couldn't lose him like this. 

Finally that seemed to take care of things. For now. I still had to stitch the wound- well, I hope it just needed stitches. He could probably answer that. I started digging around in his pockets. Lighter, phone, keys- there.

A literal sewing kit. Nothing else.
I thought he would be more prepared. Damnit. 

His eyes moved away from making contact, seeming to pick up the incredulous look he was being given. I could lecture him later. I popped it open, letting the jacket fall. It was stained beyond saving, but it didn't matter. I had a person who needed saving. Thankfully he wasn't going to be just limply accepting the help, he unbuttoned his shirt and exposed the inflared skin. I cringed at the sight a little. I used the discarded jacket to wipe away more blood before opening the kit. A needle and some threads. 

I hoped this would work.

I was able to thread the needle fine, but actually doing anything made my hands shake. The blood was a clinging, clumped mess now. I took a breath, forcing them to steady. This bastard had a high pain tolerance. He could handle this, he could. He's probably done this before, or worse. That steadied me a bit.

It took longer than expected but the wound was taken care of. Not the prettiest job, far from it, but it was taken care of. His breathing started to become calmer, his bloodied hand clasping mine. There was blood on the couch, blood on the carpet. So much that needed cleaned but neither of us cared. It would take so much water to get the blood out of mine, from it being imbedded into the webbing of my fingers, the cracks of the skin...nothing could clean the feeling of feeling his blood running between my fingers. 

Chapter Text

"Honey I'm home! God, work was shitty- oh shit."

Gavin stopped in the doorway at the sight in the small apartment kitchen. Nines was sitting on the floor, that stupid jacket on the floor in tatters, and a cat in his lap. It meowed up at the android, rubbing it's head against his still hand.

"Hey, tin can. You alright?" He called out, tossing his keys and wallet on the nearby table. His partner looked up and the sight of clear blue fluid running down his face sent a shock through the detective. "Oh fuck, you ain't alright. C'mon, talk to me." He sat in front of Nines, waiting. The android didn't say anything for a minute, just that fluid streaming down his perfect cheeks in a steady flow. It looked like simulated tear drops, and that wasn't the freaky part. The freaky part was that it was Nines crying. Nines, the droid that was almost always neutral faced even when getting insulted. 

"Deviant." That was all that was said. His voice was still perfectly flat, not matching the emotions his face was showing. Gavin waited for him to continue talking but he didn't. The detective sighed, clearing his throat.

"Mmhm...and that's a problem...?" He tried to prompt but there wasn't any response. Just petting the cat that meowed again, somehow it sounding worried too. "Hey, baby, it's alright. You're gonna be okay." He tried, shifting his weight awkwardly. "Um, I'm...here for you?"

Nines blinked at that, a look of surprise crossing his features. The circle on the side of his head turned yellow now. That was good...maybe? It was hard to tell with Nines. Well, it was hard with any android but especially Nines. 

"You...will?" 

"Of fuckin' course I will. The fuck kinda boyfriend would I be if I just left?" He frowned, nose crinkling slightly. Sure, he's been a dick towards the android, but that was the past. He's grown since then, been a better man or whatever. He reached across to take the hand that wasn't petting the cat. The skin pulsed back to the pale white and grey of the...skin projection? Whatever it was. He didn't understand it. 

"I...thank you, Gavin." Nines' voice, for the first time, cracked with emotion. Appreciation, love, relief...that was new. It was probably a good sort of new...probably. At least it was new for the both of them. Meant that his partner wouldn't be alone through what was probably a terrifying time. He squeezed the hand, watching the colors pulse again. It was always nice seeing that, it felt oddly comforting. The metal hand squeezed back, at the perfect pressure that wasn't painful. 

"I've got you, tin can." Gavin mumbled, wiping the 'tears' away with the sleeve of his jacket. The android smiled a tiny bit, that little light turning back to blue. That was a very good sign. He finished cleaning up his partner's face and shoo'ed the cat off his lap, opening his arms for a hug. Nines immediately fell into his embrace, head nestling against his shoulder. Wherever the android's skin touched the detective's, that warm pulse color lingered longer. 

Chapter Text

The seconds of silence ticked by like a bomb. Her eyes were firmly planted on her boots, staring at the tight laces. The anxiety pulsed further when the door whoosh'ed open. She finally looked up and let out a long sigh, fidgeting in the homemade chair. Judging by the look in her mother's eyes, she wasn't happy. What else was new there though?

"Child, you can't keep doing this." The older Chiss finally spoke, arms crossed. Irene avoided eye contact, playing with her jacket zipper instead. "You're too emotional, my child. What if there was a Sith at that party and sensed your power? They would whisk you away and break your mind!" The same lecture that always happened. The younger bit her tongue to hold back another sigh. It was always this. 

"You told me I could choose my path. Maybe that's the path I want, huh?" She spoke without thinking it out properly. The words hung in the air like a plague, her mother's gaze leaving her. "I didn't-"

"I can't even look at you." Her mother interrupted, her sights fixed on a wall. "You realize what that means, don't you? You'd become a monster, Irene! You'd kill people, hurt innocent people...and yourself! Becoming a Sith will hurt you!" The Jedi threw her hands in the air before crossing them yet again. Irene looked down again, staring at her boots. Old and needing replaced. She tried not to acknowledge the disappointment and worry in the Force. 

"You told me I could choose my path and you wouldn't influence it..." She mumbled, brain refusing to filter anything she said. The Force aura dropped even more into negative feelings before she heard her mother take a deep breath and it all washed away. Became neutrality, the feeling of just...nothing. She hated that more than feeling people's emotions. Especially when it was her parents trying to lecture her.

"There is a difference between influencing you and not wanting your mind to become a broken fragment of what it once was!" The older woman snapped back, shaking her head. Still she refused to look at Irene. It felt more painful. "Sith...aren't a good path, child."

Her fists balled into fists in her lap, hitting against her jeans. The same goddamn conversation; a loop of being told she can do anything and then being told one path was bad. This time she actually bit her tongue to end it quickly. 

"...I can't even look at you." The Jedi mumbled again, this time leaving the room. Irene looked up in confusion before feeling her own vibe. Angry. It was such a strong vibe too it wasn't just frustration. Maybe it was the same aura that her mother felt when fighting against actual Sith. She didn't care, kicking off her boots and getting up to clean off her makeup. Another party ruined, another potential relationship tainted with the influence of her Jedi mother.

She tried not to think about it any more, trying to calm down. Taking deep breaths and gritting her teeth. Staring at her reflection as she washed away the heavy makeup. It never worked that easily though. 

Chapter Text

Concealer, brushes, various palettes...that seemed like enough. She rushed towards the bathroom and let everything clatter onto the counter. She looked in the mirror, checking over the damage. A split lip and a blue bruise...not too bad. It was manageable. First things first, concealer. It was hard to apply it with the skin stinging at any touch and trying to make it look natural. How did concealer even work? Would it clump up? Damnit. Oh well, it looked covered. Maybe some blush or neutral skin-like stuff could make it better...? Yeah, blush, that sounds good. She swirled the brush around and coughed at the pink cloud that rose from it. 

That looked better, a bit weird but it wasn't that bad. But she hadn't grabbed any lipstick, or gloss...maybe some Chapstick would do? After making sure the injury wasn't bleeding or whatever. A few damp toilet paper sheets and a lot of wincing later, it looked slightly better. Visible still, but she had some cherry Chapstick to maybe help. Two applications later and it seemed good enough. Not a cover up but unless someone closely looked at her lips.

Which she only had one person to worry about doing that. Regardless, with her hurried cover up done, she dropped the makeup back into the small bag and flopped onto the lumpy motel bed. Hopefully her girlfriend would be back soon with some food-

"Babe, I'm back! I got pizza!"

-speak of the devil.

She sat up excitedly, the smell of cheese pizza filling the room. It was sat down on the bed in the middle of the bed, being halfway open before the movement suddenly stopped.

"Shit, Max, what happened?" 

"...huh?"

Her heart seemed to stop for a second, grimacing a little. Well, the makeup did not work. It was an attempt at least. 

"Sweets, what happened?" Chloe asked again, abandoning the pizza for now. Her hand gingerly touched the bruised cheek and cut lip, concern plastered across her features.

"So, um, someone was talking shit about you and...I sorta got in a fight?" It wasn't intentional but her voice got quieter towards the end. Chloe blinked, attempting to wipe away the cover up job before giving up and opening the pizza box.

"That's such a Maxine thing to do." She teased, offering a steaming slice. "But you gotta be careful, babe. Besides, I can handle someone talking behind my back."

Max gave a little smile and took a bite of the pizza, wincing when it hit her injured lip. Another concerned look was shot her way but nothing was said. Chloe's hand reached and tangled with hers, giving it a squeeze. 

Chapter Text

Raine noticed the nearby tent was still lit up with a lantern. Mirael was already asleep, her sleeping form snoring next to Raine's cot. She carefully got out of the cot to check on her other companion. The tent wasn't even fully shut, the zipper half open. She poked her head in, seeing her friend just sitting on his cot. Staring at the lantern's flickering lights, still fully dresses.

"...you alright?" She whispered, sitting down in the entrance. The man's gaze flicked briefly over before going back to the warm light nearby.

"I'm fine." His voice said otherwise. It cracked and crumbled with the weight in that one word. Fawkes was a quiet man when it came to how he was, but that made anytime he tried to lie about his feelings easy to figure out. He was not fine. Why, the mercenary had no idea. Not yet.

"C'mon, man, talk to me." She moved more into the tent, at this point sitting next to him. He didn't react to that besides a quick look, shifting slightly to the side. "There's nothing that can go wrong on this job." Raine added in a hushed voice. Waking Mirael wasn't a good idea, especially not now.

"It's...fuck." Fawkes sighed, crossing his arms. His infected hand pulsed with it's eerie blue glow. "I can't sleep."

"You want some company to stay up then?" She offered despite feeling tired and needing sleep. It wouldn't do any good for two of the three people on this job to be exhausted but it was a price willing to be paid for her friend. However his head immediately shook, a yawn cutting through the mostly silent night.

"I...I just don't want to have a nightmare again." He murmured, flexing his fingers in his blue hand. Raine watched silently, giving a slight nod. "It's been nagging more recently. Nothing I can't handle." He looked at her, eyes tired yet still his own. She tried to smile but couldn't. The guilt of enabling her friend to live with an unnatural parasite ate at her like a hungry wolf. 

"I'm sorry." She responded in a whisper, dropping her gaze to the lantern. It's warm glow seemed out of place with the conversation. Fawkes sighed, placing his other hand on her shoulder.

"Raine. It's not your fault." His voice was stern. Trying to drive the point home yet it just bounced off the walls of guilt and anger. Raine faked a smile and a nod though, but her friend saw right through it. He gave her shoulder a squeeze. "We were kids against a necromancer. You can't hold that against yourself." 

"We're not here to talk about me. You're the one having nightmares." Raine responded, now watching their long shadows dance on the tent walls. "Tell me about them." 

Fawkes gave a sigh at the conversation change but didn't press on, his hand moving from her shoulder to sit in his lap. "Just of that day, of this...thing." He lifted his infected hand with a frustrated flick. "Losing control and hurting innocent people." He continued, tapping his fingers against his knee in irregular patterns. "I can feel it when I sleep. I don't escape it." He seemed to be finishing the discussion with that. Raine waited until she was certain he was done talking before responding.

"We won't let that happen to ya." She reassured, placing a hand over his. "Mirael and I wouldn't let that...thing take ahold of our best friend like that." That seemed to release some tension in her friend. "Besides, you're stronger than that thing. I mean, you use it for power! It should think of you as a parasite!" She joked, elbowing Fawkes. He snorted a bit, another yawn rumbling out. "Want me to stay with you tonight?"

"Nah, I'll be alright. Thanks, Raine." He smiled a very small smile, and she nodded. She gave a quick pat to his hand before slipping out of the tent. She waited until the lantern was snuffed out before returning to her tent. Mirael had rolled over but she was still asleep, thankfully. She didn't want to explain Fawkes' personal business to her without his permission. After a few seconds of tossing and turning, Raine fell asleep to a dreamless rest. 

Chapter Text

Molly looked at the bowl filled with dirty water now from cleaning Jim's face. She sighed, getting up to rinse it out and get fresh water. She ignored the protests from the man as she did. Sebastian was still leaning against the counter, nursing his bruised knuckles. They shared a look of concern before returning to their tasks. It took only a few seconds to get fresh water and squeeze the cloth out, carefully walking back to the office corner of the living room.

"I'm fine, stop wasting your time." The mastermind waved his hand, nearly spilling water on the carpet floor. Again, the obvious lie was ignored as she wet the cloth and continued dabbing it on his face. "It isn't even my blood, darling." 

"That's a fuckin' lie!" Sebastian called out from the kitchen. Jim shot a look towards the kitchen, huffing. Molly rolled her eyes at the both of them and just focused on cleaning blood from her partner's face. Either the sniper was going off to sulk or get more things to help, his footsteps making the floorboards creak. Jim grumbled under his breath, mostly curses. He seemed to be incredibly bored, fidgeting as slowly the caked up blood was washed off his face. 

Molly set the bowl aside, checking his face for any cuts. "That wasn't so bad, wasn't it?" She sassed, crossing her arms. The Irishman didn't comment, his lips forming an unamused line. Sebastian eventually returned, dumping bandages and antiseptic next to the bowl. The two men didn't say anything to each other, just hostile glances. Molly sighed, grabbing the taller's hand to keep him from fleeing. "What's wrong?"

The two stayed silent for an uncomfortable amount of time before she prompted the question again. Jim broke the silence with a groan, pinching his nose between his fingers.

"Work problems, my love. Nothing to worry your pretty head over." He answered, voice tight. Molly shook her head at that answer, glaring at him until he looked away and sighed. "His plans for if things go wrong isn't the be-"

"You didn't stick to my plan!" Sebastian cried out, his tone almost growling. "You did everything I told you not to do! Egging bastards with weapons never ends well, especially when you're being a smartass-"

"That doesn't stop you! You aren't invincible, Sebastian!" Jim shot back, voice slightly raised. This was getting out of hand fast, Molly whistling loudly to get the two to stop arguing.

"Why not make an...escape plan together?" She suggested, grabbing the antiseptic for a small cut on Jim's shoulder. "Neither of you are invincible, alright?" She carefully applied the disinfectant, used to not having the shorter react to the sting. The two were silent for a moment, the air so thick it could be cut with a knife. After another minute of nothing, Jim gave a low hum of acceptance. She applied the bandage and checked for more wounds. None; it seemed like there was some truth in saying not all the blood was his. Somewhat terrifying, but a relief regardless. 

She stood to abandon the bowl into the sink before noticing a cut on Sebastian's forehead bleeding. She pulled him to the sofa, forcing him to sit down. A smug smirk curled on Jim's face when she started patting the cloth at the cut. The sniper just elbowed him in response, sitting there without complaint. After the bleeding was taken care of Molly peered at the wound, relived to see it was a surface cut. Yet again she went to dispose of the bowl when she heard her partner wince. Their eyes met and for a moment he didn't move before groaning and lifting his shirt to show a couple of scrapes from being shot, and then a gunshot in his shoulder.

"Jesus Christ, what happened to you two?" Molly mumbled worryingly, removing the shirt before Jim grabbed her wrists.

"I can handle this, beauty." He quietly said, concern lacing his voice. "I don't want you putting the task of taking care of us on yourself, it will just make you fret more." There wasn't any reason to complain against it. Besides, it looked like Sebastian cleaned the scrapes and major wound. She gave a slight nod, pressing a kiss on both of the men's cheeks.

The sniper gave a reassuring smile, his uninjured arm briefly wrapping around her waist before he let her go. "You're the best, sugar. Treat yourself to some tea, okay?"

She nodded. There was still a tension between the two but it wasn't so hostile. They had the work problem fixed and could talk it out, hopefully. They were stubborn men but the love held for each other was obvious by how gently Jim applied the antiseptic and whispered apologies. Talking things out wasn't something they usually did and Molly knew that, it'd been the only real disclaimer they gave before she joined the relationship. But they were slowly getting better at not bottling everything up. She was proud of them for it. 

Maybe they were complicated, but complicated felt like home.

Chapter Text

It'd been years since that day. John had moved in, unable to stand being at Baker's Street. Despite not liking Sherlock one bit, Sebastian did his best to support his boyfriend through that time. That was before they found out that Jim was dead too. Finding that news out nearly broke them both, John already grieving his friend, now his partner? It was hard, relationship becoming strained some days, the hard process of hiding any reminders of that Irish bastard...but they managed. Somehow. Neither were sure how but the years slowly passed and life moved on. The apartment became a home again. It wasn't a chore to wake up in the morning, or to go to bed at night. Sebastian even managed to get a regular job at a grocery store. Life wasn't bad.

There were days they both missed him, there always would be. But holding onto someone who's gone doesn't get you very far. John knew this, Sebastian did. It was a hard truth they both had to conquer, and conquer it they did. Hand in lovable hand, they faced the truth together, pulling each other up when one started to crumble. There was one thing that both were set on, and it was not abandoning the other. And that goal was never abandoned or failed. Blocking calls from Mycroft, tying loose ends with the network...adjusting to the new life without both Sherlock and Jim. 

It wasn't good, but it wasn't bad either. It was alright, it was comfortable. Until one day it all just changed. The comfortable dynamic was shattered into a worse reality that was seated on the couch drinking tea.

Jim. Not Richard, but Jim. Alive and breathing, sipping the tea like it was nothing. Like he hadn't been dead for three years. Sebastian dropped the groceries he'd just picked up, glass jars shattering and spilling onto the floor. John hurried from the hallway to see what was a matter and froze when he saw. Jim raised a brow and looked at the two, seeming...puzzled by the reaction. As if seeing a lover who supposedly shot himself very much alive was something that didn't warrant this reaction. John tried to place a hand on the taller's arm, knowing exactly how the former sniper would react. 

"What the fuck, James?! What the FUCK is this?" Sebastian sputtered, accent thick from anger and hurt. "You- you fucking bastard. Get the hell out-"

John managed to hold his partner back from charging at the Irishman, who seemed taken aback. He tried to speak but nothing came to mind. More anger and more grief hit with the realization that his friend was dead for nothing, yet a single molecule felt joy to see Jim back. That molecule wasn't addressed, overcome with everything else. Keeping Sebastian from making Jim actually die was the main priority here.

"Is that any way to greet your beloved?" The criminal smoothly replied, setting his tea down. There was more angry sputtering but it was in broken Gaelic. A language Jim certainly understood. He quirked a brow at the former colonel, sighing. "Is now a bad time? Am I interrupting something?" He sounded so...genuine. As if he truly thought this reaction was because he interrupted something. It was incredible how dense a genius could be.

"Yeah, our lives! We- we mourned you, James! We got you a fucking grave and put flowers on it. And now-" Sebastian stopped talking, fists clenched tightly. John tightened his grip around his partner, not interested in seeing a fight happen in the living room. That wouldn't make things any easier. "You can't do this. Did you even think of us?!"

Jim blinked. Now he looked offended. "Of course I did! I was busy-"

"-busy watching us fall apart because of you?"

"-keeping you safe!" Despite the sentiment behind the words, Jim's voice was hostile. His accent was thicker now too. The criminal and former criminal were just glaring each other down, one ready to punch the other's lights out and the other seeming like he'd accept it. Sebastian attempted to get out of John's grasp but failed, grumbling at that. "If I were to ever die, that would make you," he pointed at Sebastian, "in my spot of number one most dangerous. Do you know how much trouble you'd be in? Mycroft would send the army to kill you. And John! Rogue employees might try and 'finish the job'!"

"You couldn't even tell us." John spoke up, voice dangerously quiet. "No text, no call, no note."

Jim stopped at that. Realization spread in his dark eyes and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. "I didn't think-"

"Of course you didn't." The doctor flatly replied, finally letting go of Sebastian. The taller didn't move, though he noticed the freedom. 

"...if it'll make you feel better, John, your...friend isn't dead." The Irishman said in a quiet voice. John blinked, shaking his head slightly. He couldn't have heard that right, did he just say that-

"So two people in John's life faked suicide for no fucking reason. Great." Sebastian was barely understandable unless you'd been around him long enough. His accent was thicker than fog, words biting into the air like rabid dogs. Jim gave a slight, solemn nod. The taller ignored him, facing his boyfriend and taking his hands. He didn't say anything, but the gesture was understood. John held onto the hands in his and barely felt them, spinning the news around like a Ferris wheel.

Sherlock was alive. Jim was alive. Both were liars and left to do God knows what and didn't bother communicating that they weren't dead. Leaving John to mourn and place flowers and talk to empty graves. 

The room fell silent. Nobody knew what to say or how to say it. There was that annoying tug of relief, wanting to pull Jim into an embrace and never let him go. It was squished out easily.

"Go stay with your brother. We need time." Sebastian spoke, sounding much calmer. At least now Jim seemed to understand what he did wrong, nodding in response. John barely noticed moving out of the way to let Jim leave. Earth shattering news wasn't something easy to adjust to. Especially news like this. Sebastian pulled John into a hug, kicking the door shut with his foot. The doctor wasn't sure if he had started crying before or during the hug. The colonel knew he started crying during it, hot streaks of angry tears falling down his cheeks, splattering into spilt tomato sauce. 

It'd been years since that day, but now there was a new day to adjust to. Today. 

Chapter Text

There wasn't much time. 

He flicked his lighter until it ignited, hesitating before putting the picture to it. The happy faces curled into ashes quickly, nearly burning his hand. He tried not to look at his girlfriend, sitting in silence across from him. Picture after picture, until every single one that his face was just ashes in a bowl of water. He put the lighter away, taking a deep breath. He knew how to clean everything up. Get rid of his fingerprints, evidence of himself, anything that would clue off the police.

She finally looked at him, eyes sad and worried. "Is all this really necessary? I can just say I didn't know it was you." She mumbled, seeming to already know the answer. He didn't respond, busy getting supplies to clean every goddamn fingerprint he left behind. It would take hours but he could manage. Despite seeming alarmed and against everything, Molly had deleted all texts, photos, call logs, and his number from her phone. More precious memories, gone. 

He stopped about halfway through cleaning to go to her, resting his forehead against the top of hers. "I'm sorry Mols, I really am. You don't deserve to get caught up in this shit." He mumbled. "You should have a fellow who doesn't have the possibility of getting arrested for fuckin' murder." She gave no response, holding his shirt in her hands as she held onto him tightly. They stayed like that for a few minutes before he returned to cleaning. Despite his reassurance that she didn't need to, she still helped out. Getting rid of the clothes she's stolen from his closet, clearing out his shampoos and soaps, anything else that could link her to him. 

By the end of the night, everything was gone. Either burnt or put into a bag to be disposed of later. He couldn't even stay the night, the "surprise" investigation happening tomorrow morning. Damn that Holmes. Despite that, Molly clung onto him tightly for the precious hours they had. Her face buried in his chest as she curled up in his lap, arms snugly around his waist. His fingers ran through her hair, occasionally pausing to play with a strand for a bit.

"When will I see you again?" The muffled and dreaded question was finally asked. Sebastian just remained silent, properly returning the hug now. That seemed to answer her question. "Stay safe." Her voice sounded so broken and sad, causing a pain in his heart that was worse than getting shot. 

"You too, starlight. I love you, don't forget." He mumbled back, gently squeezing her tighter. He never wanted to let go, never wanted to drag his things out and walk out in dress shoes he never wore. But he had to. He had to keep her safe, he had to keep her out of his business. It didn't matter that dating him- hell, maybe even marrying him- brought an unpleasant amount of business into her life. But to have that detective suspect her of hiding him, of working for him? It sickened him. Molly was the sweetest woman alive, probably the most innocent one too. She wasn't hiding or working for him, she loved him. She knew his flaws and loved regardless.

Yet that could get her in trouble. That could make her get in so much trouble with the law, with Sherlock...that man was a stubborn bastard who stopped at nothing to get his answers or be proven right. Leaving the one person who brought light in his life and cutting contact for an unknown amount of time felt like a betrayal. But his car was packed, and he had a place to stay until things cooled off. Until either Jim convinced the world that his second hand man didn't exist, or if the detective gave up. Either result would take forever. 

He stared at what was once home for one final time before driving off. The weight Atlas carried was nothing compared to this. But this wasn't for his safety or survival. It was for Molly's. She was the one who mattered here, not him. He could always break out of jail or lie through his teeth. She couldn't escape Sherlock, the bastard, or any of his lackeys. As much as it hurt to leave her, it was the only way to ensure she was safe.

Chapter Text

Sepulcre was dead. Had been for a long time. It'd taken forever for Baden to fight to being conscious, body worn from battle and mind exhausted from the efforts. But he'd done it. After so long, he was himself again. 

Thane. He had to find Thane. His friend who'd tried so desperately to awaken him, who never gave up. Despite that he was undead and not the same man he once was. Despite all that, Thane still cared and fought for him. 

He rushed through the town, searching for any signs of Thane being around. None, not even his niece to guide him or celebrate the news. His heart dropped nervously. Battle, off in battle. Damn the war taking so much from them both.

Still he ran, sprinting through blurred sights to find where his friend was battling. A few Graveborn tricks of travel were used to go even faster, legs getting sore from the exertion. 

It had to be at least three hours before he finally found where his friend was. Whatever battle he was in was over, the corpses going from a bloody mess to an opaque nothingness. Thane was there, sheathing his sword and looking the same as he always had. Maybe a bit more tired and steeled. Baden stayed hidden, finding himself unable to approach. Letting his friend catch his breath after fighting, that was why he was frozen in place- that's what he told himself at least.

It was before the swordsman was about to leave that he finally stepped out, not sure if he called out a name or a greeting. Thane turned, eyes locking with Baden's. Sadness. There was such sadness in those brown eyes, laced with guilt. Words hitched in his throat, breaking eye contact just to talk.

"My frie-"

"Are you here just to haunt me?"  The other interrupted, his words harsh but his tone revealing an endless sea of sadness. Baden blinked, startled for a moment. Did he often approach and be around Thane when he was just a lich...? He frowned behind the mask on his face, shaking his head.

"Thane, Thane. It's me."  He took a small step closer, trying to sound gentle...trying to sound like himself when he was alive. Thane shook his head, at first, before staring into Baden's eyes. The endless green that held the same care that the blue eyes he once had. There seemed to be a click within the swordsman's eyes, rushing forward and wrapping his arm tightly around the Graveborn. 

"I've missed you."  

"I've missed you too."

Chapter Text

Jim folded his hands on the desk, gaze dark as he stared at Sherlock. Despite having a gun pointed at him, the man was incredibly calm. His neutral facial expression never wavered, his intense stare remaining the same. "It's about time you figured this out. Has babysitting ruined your skills, dear?" He asked casually, as if this was a normal conversation. Sherlock stepped closer, barrel still pointed right at Jim's temple. The mastermind tsk'ed softly, tilting his head to the sight. "We both know you won't pull that trigger. Well, at least I know that." He stood up, making the detective adjust his aim. 

He started walking about the little room, that seemed to once be a therapist's office. He stopped in front of a window, staring outside. "Quite a view out here, hm?" He asked cheerily, turning to look back. That gun was still pointed at him, aimed at the back of his head. He rolled his eyes and sighed, spinning around with his coat open. "I have no weapons except for words here, dear. Calm down." He fixed his coat, gesturing around the room. "Besides, this room could be rigged to explode if you step somewhere wrong. Or maybe a hidden gun with a tripwire trigger. So much potential." 

Sherlock glanced around the room quickly. Jim enjoyed watching the hurried search, leaning against the desk now. He waited until the detective was done bouncing his eyes around the room before speaking again. "So, you've dragged the grieving doctor into your family drama show. So he can whisk in and save you?" He asked, dropping the carefree and almost friendly act. "Are you stalling for time by aiming that gun at me for dear Johhny boy to whisk in here and snap my neck, hm? Protect you from your own family and me?" He questioned.

"John is family." Sherlock finally spoke, trigger finger twitching. Jim cackled at that, crossing his arms. The detective's finger twitched again, anger in his sky blue eyes. The mastermind waited for him to continue, disappointed at the lack of it. Again, he clicked his tongue in disapproval.

"If he is a part of your family, as you claim, why are you taking him from what would be your niece? Dear Rosie's been raised more by your other little friends than she has her father." Jim pushed away from the desk, walking around Sherlock in a circle. Now the hand holding the gun faltered. Jim grinned a little. "What if you get him killed, like you did with the late Mrs. Watso-"

"I didn't kill Mary." Sherlock interrupted, making the mastermind stop walking. Now he stood right next to the detective. His head tilted, eyes narrowing. Interesting reaction, unexpected. Mary seemed like something that would get a reaction from John, not the heartless Sherlock Holmes. 

Jim continued walking, going back to sit at his desk. "Right, she took a bullet for you." He mimed a finger gun before putting his fingers together. "She saved you, didn't she? Just like John has. But-" He leaned back in the chair, rolling his eyes at the gun still aimed at his head. "-you know, deep down, that you don't deserve to be saved." 

Sherlock stiffened at that, his gun hand faltering again. He didn't say anything, eyes narrowing. Jim plastered an innocent smile in return. 

"Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft, Irene, Rosie, John, Eurus, and whoever else you care for deserve to be saved. You, however, don't. And neither do I." He stood up, starting to walk to a side door. There was no longer a gun trained on him. "I told you we're alike. Neither of us can shoot me, and neither of us deserve salvation." His voice dropped to a grave octave, eyes dark with malice as he left the room. He walked slowly, waiting to be chased to even shot. But it didn't come.

He grinned widely.
Victory.

Chapter Text

Arthur's head lifted when he heard horse hooves hitting the dirt. Hosea was back from whatever trip he made, likely a hunting one. There was a large deer laying across the back of his horse. Figuring the older could use the help unloading it and skinning it, the younger got up, tossing his cigarette to the river banks. By the time he made his way over, Hosea was already off the horse, the deer slung across his shoulders.

"You want any help there?" Arthur asked, furrowing his brow a little. He could see a slight shake in Hosea's step as he kept walking, head shaking slightly. Probably just being an old stubborn bastard, the outlaw figured, busying himself with cleaning the blood off the horse and brushing it. He didn't do so for long, the horse huffing at him after just a few minutes. Abandoning that task, he wandered away. He still had firewood to cut, damn chores. Who's bright idea was that again?

Probably Dutch's. 

Several logs later and Hosea was done with the deer, dropping it off for tonight's stew and now relaxing at a table. Well, relaxing wasn't the right term. He didn't seem very comfortable, a grimace crossing his face every few seconds. He was old but not that old. Besides, he was better than other folks his age. He could lift a damn deer. Arthur pushed the axe into the stump and walked over, sitting across from his friend. 

"Your bones finally givin' up on you, old man?" He asked, lighting another cigarette. Hosea chortled at that, shaking his head. "Well, something's got you over here all uncomfortable. Is it the weather?' Again, the older dismissed the question with a silent 'no', still seeming amused by the assumption. Arthur blew smoke away from his friend's face, trying to think. If it wasn't the 'old age' Hosea would often complain about...damnit. "Didja get hurt while huntin'?"

The older stiffened at that, head shaking much quicker than usual. The younger narrowed his eyes, tapping ash off to the side. There was silence, making intense eye contact, waiting for one person to crack and look away, or speak. It didn't take long for the friendly glare-fest to end with Hosea averting his eyes first.

"Arthur, I'm fine. Quit fussin' over me." The older outlaw replied curtly, standing up. That was a mistake, an audible whisper of a wince ringing out, a hand flying to his shoulder. Arthur didn't say anything, just giving a pointed look and a raised brow. Hosea sighed, shaking his head. "Got knocked off while riding by some cocky bastards." He finally muttered, sitting back down. The younger replied with a sympathetic wince. 

"Go lay down, you've done enough for us folks." Arthur suggested. To his surprise, Hosea gave a nod in response. He watched the older walk back to his tent, disappearing from view shortly after. The younger bit the cigarette and went back to chopping wood, not planning on heading out to do anything today. Resting didn't sound like a bad idea. 

Chapter Text

His fist made contact with a bastard's jaw, surprised to hear a soft crunch from the contact. His fist hurt like hell but he wasn't about to let people know that. He barely dodged another swing, feeling the baseball bat scrape against his hip. This was a more intense fight than anything else he'd been in. The guy who probably had a dislocated jaw was nursing that, spitting blood onto the dusty ground. That was one that was out for a bit, now there was the baseball bat guy. Who now was swinging towards his knees, this time the wooden weapon making contact. It wasn't hard enough to break his legs, but it did send him to the ground. A few painful kicks to his stomach landed as a goodbye, the two leaving him to cough and squirm on the floor.

Well, that could've gone better. 

Hopefully the walk home would be eventless. He pushed himself up and dug around in his pockets. He groaned when he found his keys; that could've been a weapon! Damnit. Next time, he swore, next time he'd remembered. Limping from the pain in his bruised knees, he made his way to the old apartment building his brother bought for them. His knees quivered and the pain from his gut made him stumble more than he liked. There was no way he could hide this. He managed to get inside, shutting the door as quietly as possible as he started to walk.

"You're late, Richie." 

He stumbled against the wall, mostly out of surprise, eyes wide as he met his twin brother's eyes. At least he hadn't picked up that he got in a fight yet.

"Practice ran late." 

He watched his brother's eyes narrow before nodding. He went back to the half broken laptop on the counter, typing God knew what. He tried to walk forward but just stumbled back against a nearby wall, knocking down a few pictures. That was more obvious than admitting it out loud, his twin by his side fast.

"Damnit, kid. The fuck happened?" Jim asked in a mutter, grunting as he helped his brother walk. Richard didn't feel like giving an answer, staring at his uneven gait. He heard a sigh, the door to his bedroom getting kicked open. Before long, he was in collapsing in bed, groaning at the comfortable bliss on his aching body. Jim sat at the end of his bed, obviously not giving this up. Sighing, the younger twin looked at his brother.

"Just some assholes who live near the theater. They're stuck in secondary school bully mentality, asking for money." He finally answered, looking at his knuckles. At least they weren't badly bruised. Jim sighed, shaking his head.

"Deartháir, that was a mugging." 

"...well I dislocated one of their jaws."

Despite the shake of his head, the older twin had a proud grin on his face. "You sure showed 'em, Rich. Get some rest, there's leftovers in the fridge. Yell if you need anything." Jim stood, ruffling his brother's hair before leaving the room. Richard got comfortable in bed for falling asleep, wondering if those muggers would "disappear" soon. 
His brother had a knack for making people disappear without investigation. 

Chapter Text

I kept my eyes on the one actually aiming a blaster at my chest. The officer had to be at lest two feet away from me, keeping a distance. My hands stayed in the air, they couldn't even tremble from how scared I was of getting shot. These bastards were insane, they might just shoot me for having my hands tremble! The second officer, who was half a foot away and not aiming his weapon at me, piped up, turning a holopad towards me.

"We have been given intel that you have seen this man. Tell us everything we need to know about where to find him and maybe your detainment will be shortened for compliance." He spoke in such a pompous voice, probably on a power trip right now. I stared at the image held by the officer, biting my tongue to keep my face neutral. 

"I've never seen that man in my life, sir. I think you have the wrong person." My voice trembled as I spoke, looking back to the officer. Judging by the frown, he didn't believe me. He seemed to be fumbling with the pad before turning it to me. Now it had a name next to the picture. My stomach dropped further than it already was. I made a point of reading the name and furrowing my brow, putting my all into being confused. "I've never heard of Hank Tamson, sir." 

Annoyed, the obviously trigger happy officer walked towards me, the barrel of the gun pushing into my chest a bit. "Tell the truth or I'll blow your chest wide open!" They threatened, putting a feather's weight amount of pressure on the trigger. My heart pounded hard, maybe enough to make the gun vibrate from it. I tried to speak but my mouth was dry. I didn't want to die, but I didn't want to sell my boyfriend out either. 

Before either of us could make a move, however, an axe embedded into the man's head, making him fall forward. I managed to step away to avoid being sent to the ground with a corpse. With a disgusting noise, the axe made its way out from the dead officer's skull, flying back as another went forward. That one didn't make a killing blow in the other officer, just a deep flesh wound. I ducked behind a table to avoid getting in the way as another crunch of bones echoed around the empty restaurant. 

I peeked up, eyes widening at the sight. Hank, blood staining around his mouth and teeth, bloodied axes held in his hands, looking around. He spotted me, not even bothering to sheathe the weapons before grabbing me. His larger arms wrapped around me tight, holding me for a second before letting go, the larger alien crouching slightly to look me in the eyes. 

"Fuck, are you hurt? I swear to god if these fuckers hurt you I'm taking the whole goddamn system down one by one piece of shi-"

"Hank! Hank, I'm fine!" I interrupted, voice still shaking. "They didn't hurt me, just...scared the fucking shit out of me." I opened my arms out to further prove that I wasn't hurt, which seemed to make my boyfriend relax. He pulled me into another hug, and I managed to somewhat return it. As much as you can return a hug from someone who's absolutely huge. I barely could touch his dorsal fin. 

"Sorry to get you dragged into this all," he mumbled, voice slightly muffled. Probably being careful not to accidentally bite me. I shrugged, tightening my embrace a little. I was terrified of this happening again, that I'd have to quit my job and move off the planet, or be another body to worry about on his ship. But if he and his friends--colleagues?- came all this way to help me then...

"Where are the others?"

"...huh?"

"The people you're traveling with?"

"Uh, waiting for me at some shady docking bay."

I pulled back, narrowing my eyes at Hank slightly. "You came alone?!"

"I mean...yeah. You're my boyfriend, of course I'm gonna show up to be uh...a war criminal in no armor-"

"Darling! I mean you came to the FIGHT alone!"

He stared at me for a moment, doing that annoyingly cute head tilt. "It was just two assholes that I got the jump on...that's not your point. I can handle a few power hungry cunts, babe." He placed a webbed hand on my shoulder, the corners of his mouth showing he had that stupid cocky grin. I sighed, placing my hand over his. I forgot how his skin wasn't smooth like it looked, but with a slightly rough texture. 

"Hate how our reunion happened because I, um, got a gun pointed at me and was being asked about you." I mumbled, sighing. Hank gently bumped his snout against my forehead, the gesture oozing reassuring affection. I didn't question it, feeling my heart rate finally starting to return to normal. He stayed like that awhile before pulling back. 

"I do too...you gonna be okay? I can't...stay for long." 

Torn apart again because of Imperials. That's an unfortunate theme with us. I took a couple deep breaths before nodding, standing on tip toes to kiss his cheek. I could smell his blood soaked breath as I pulled back, smiling at the soft glow on his face. He was always so cute when he blushed. "Be careful, alright?"

"I promise. Love you, stay safe."

"I will. Love you too."

He started walking away, retrieving his axes and looking back one final time before leaving. I avoided looking at the corpses on the ground, choosing to instead take off my apron and take the damn day off. I wrote bullshit note about this being an attempted robbery and some random passerby jumped in. I ignored the smell of death and slipped out of the building, getting the hell away before any more officers could confront.

Yeah, I was gonna have to quit and move somewhere else. Maybe Hank could get me a place in the undercity here? Or I could ask him to pick me up and take me with him till things cool off.
If they ever cool off...