Work Text:
Sasha fully expects the scythe to come down on him, to tear him in two, to truly feel what Marcy felt all those weeks ago.
But the heat gets warmer, hotter, and then it grinds to a halt before it burns.
Maybe he's dead, and this is what people say about going out painlessly. Spare Sasha the pain, despite his sins, and make Marcy bear it all for a single fleeting wish for fantasy.
And still the heat doesn't stop, pulsing against his face like he's sat in front of the fireplace back home. This feeling isn't comforting however, not remotely alike to the memories huddled under a blanket in mid-winter, sipping on hot chocolate with marshmallows bobbing along the surface of the creamy swirls, giggling and laughing about all the recent school drama.
His eyelids squeezed shut, he tries with all his might to pry them open.
When they finally part, his eyes readjust to the blazing light in front of him, and it becomes apparent that he's been blocking out all noise too - because there's groaning, struggling, something pained and strained.
There's a shadow cast over him, he realises, but still a glow in front of his eyes; fire, blazing, inches away from the tip of his nose.
A shadow, cast by a silhouette in front of him, wide, short, a Toad.
"..Grime," Sasha breathes, "Grime, what-"
He doesn't respond, except for with pained groans - his warhammer has fallen to his side, his arms stretched in front. The ugly, rancid, horrid smell of burning flesh wafts up Sasha's nostrils and he can't help but recoil, breaths catching in his throat as he resorts to breathing through his mouth.
"Grime," Again, "Grime!"
Coming to his senses, Sasha scrambles backwards and fails once, then twice, to get to his feet - trembling legs and arms trained for months passed failing him.
There's a yell, a low rumbling rising from Grime as the faux blonde realises his great Toad hands are clasped onto the scythe, all the while Darcy stands there grinning. Giggling. Devilishly laughing while they attempt to plunge it further into his chest - but Grime's strong, and even as death has him in its clutches, he refuses to give in.
When the scythe moves slightly, there's another pained cry. Darcy may have a huge flaming scythe, but not the muscles to push it any further. Those weak nerd arms aren't benefiting them, it seems.
It slides further, the wound in Grime's chest becoming apparent - but Sasha's frozen in place, and it's not as if his gloves wouldn't burn right through to the skin. Grime has thick skin, emotionally and physically, and yet even his own flesh appears to be blistering and bubbled, coiled around the blitzing blade as the flames spark around his clawed fingers.
And before he knows it, it's out of his chest, Grime gasping for air.
His lungs heave, chest confined under his chestplate. Sasha watches with pupils the size of pinpricks, tears pooling in the corner of his eyes as his hands reach upwards uselessly.
Do not be so reckless, Lieutenant. You will lose an eye just like I did if that attitude continues.
Aren't soldiers supposed to be reckless though, Grimesy? You know, rushing head-first into battle and all that.
Not if it gets you killed. One less eye means one more soldier you cannot keep watch of. Trust me, I speak from experience, kid.
Yeah, yeah, I get it. Stop lecturing me, old man.
Old man? Hah, I'll have you know death hasn't got me yet. It has come for me, but I always manage to fight it off.
Well still, don't go dying on me yet, you hear? if it comes for you again, don't come crying to me about it. Don't say I didn't tell you so, Captain.
Grime has sturdy, strong, wide legs, and yet they tremble equally as much as Sasha's - maybe even more.
A great clang as his chestplate hits the marbled throne room flooring, breaths rasping and gasping.
Sasha's legs move on their own, crouching by his side and tugging with all his strength (which isn't a lot) on Grime's cold form, nudging back and forth.
"Grime," Sasha cries, "Grimesy this isn't funny,"
He doesn't even realise the trickle of tears carving paths down his cheeks until they drop onto his hands, gone from shoving him back and forth to slowly rocking him in his arms.
"Grimesy this isn't fucking funny," Sasha gasps for air, hiccupping between each sentence, "Grime, please, don't- what the fuck, Grime!"
"Oops!" Darcy yells from behind, "Seems I hit the wrong one. Oh, pity, pity, I was saving him for after." It follows it up with a devilish cackle, a taunt. Yet still, the heat fizzles away as the scythe retracts, and Sasha's glad at least that they have enough pride to not strike someone while they're down.
"Grimesy I was fucking joking when I said- Grime," He can hear the muffled click and clack of Darcy's footsteps pacing some metres away, a steady rhythm that wears away at his patience and the rage he brews.
By now, he's shaking Grimes body viciously while he lays there limply on the ground, chestplate no longer heaving, maybe a tiny rise here and there - but nothing more than thin, wispy breaths doing nothing to keep him alive.
"Grime, shit, Grime stop, Grime get the fuck up," He's wailing, his own chest tugging breaths in and out of his wretched lungs, but as his quivering lips part to utter the next wistful 'Grime,' nothing but a sob comes out.
Another few gasps as he readies to speak again, to try and shove any words out of his mouth hoping Grime will hear.
"Dad," Sasha wails, "Dad get up, please- you- you always manage to- you always fight it off, right?" His head hits his chestplate, right where Grime's heart should be beating, but instead sits still, silent. "So get up! Tell me you weren't just lying to me,"
A laugh sounds from behind that gets dangerously close to breaking Sasha's last straw. "There it is." Darcy laughs, "There's the Sasha Waybright I wanted to see. Look at how much you've grown thanks to Amphibia. Look at how weak you've become."
Sasha ignores them for now. It's all he can do, because to humour them would be to let them win, to leave Grime alone, still and cold on a marbled floor, the same thing he did to Marcy all those weeks ago.
"Don't tell me you fucking lied to me, Grime, I swear to god- get up, Dad get up!"
He knows he's gone. He knows he isn't coming back. Hell, he even slams a fist down upon Grime's armour in protest, arms curling round the Toad's broad form to rock him back and forth.
"I suppose he did lie to you, Sashy." Darcy mocks, stretching Marcy's arms outward until their bones crack. "What a weak man he was, concealed behind the title of Captain. And what a fool you were to believe him, to believe he was a father to you-"
"Shut the fuck up," Sasha snaps, "I'll fucking kill you." He grasps for breath between his cries, "I swear to it, I fucking will."
"You would hurt your little Mar-Mar for, what, a slimy little Toad?"
They're just slimy little Frogs, Anne. They don't matter.
"I'm going to save Mar-Mar, and when I do, I'm going to stomp on whatever machine keeps you alive until there's nothing left."
Finally, he parts from Grime, allowing his arms to return to empty air - crisp, lonely, cruel air.
His quivering legs carry him over to the hammer that sits staff-upright, one hand clasping it as his gaze remains averted from Darcy.
With one swoop, the hammer slings upright and over his shoulder, indents illuminating pink.
The tips of each strand of hair on his head begins to float - glowing red, spreading until it blazes above his head like a raging inferno, embers flying, flames crackling and sparking.
When he turns to meet Darcy's eleven eyes, it, for the first time, feels genuine fear at the sight of the blitzing pink in his pupils - a tingly feeling washing over their body, blood turning to ice.
"Let Marcy know... that I'm sorry if this hurts."