Chapter Text
Most of Wilde’s mornings are indistinguishable from each other. Jolt awake from some non-curse-related nightmare (assuming he slept at all), get dressed, cover the eye bags (not looking at the scar, lest he be unable to stop), work until he can’t. Sometimes food is mixed in there, if Zolf is convincing enough–or, more commonly, physically able to drag him downstairs.
Or if there’s fruit. Wilde still hasn’t figured out how to say no to fruit, excluding Carter.
Point being, if these loops had been as short for Wilde as they’ve been for his team (ex-team?), he might not have noticed time was repeating itself. Simply pass off the confusion about how it’s suddenly morning as a symptom of exhaustion, make a mental note to subtly ask Zolf about how to cure fatigue without magic, and keep working.
But the world was nearly two years into ending, and then one day it was suddenly a few months less into ending, months of progress (or lack thereof) gone with only his coworkers’ confused expressions to show for it. And then he lived through those months again, just a few weeks shorter than the first time, and then again . Nearly eight months spent within this bubble so far, almost as much as he spent outside it.
And yet the world is still ending, and there are still beings locked up downstairs who may or may not be some of the only people on earth he can trust, and he still hasn’t figured out how to get into Shoin’s damn fortress. So it doesn’t matter that the loops have restarted weeks apart from each other; Wilde is always awake when it happens, going from hunched over his notes in the lantern light to halfway through a drink of tea.
He choked the first time it happened, spitting tea all over his papers and clothes. It was still rather hot, too, enough to leave his skin an unhappy shade of red, but a cold cloth and high collar took care of that issue well enough. A few pages of his notes were left runny and illegible, but he only had to wait until midnight for that problem to fix itself.
Today, he actually wakes up, cheek pressed to his desk and neck aching, long-dried splatters of tea across his papers.
It’s tomorrow, then, he thinks. For now.
He changes into new clothes, covers the eyebags as best he can, and heads downstairs. Cel was planning on going back to their village soon, after lending some insights and prototypes, and he wants to catch them before they leave.
They’re eating with the others, one hand working on food while the other fiddles with a small contraption. With a humor he usually represses these days, Wilde wonders which will happen first: biting into the gadget, or transforming their seaweed into a bomb.
“Good morning, Cel,” he says. “Sleep all right?”
“Oh, hi Mr. Wilde!” Cel replies, not pausing in their fiddling even as they spin to greet him. “Didn’t think you’d come down for breakfast. Not that I don’t want you here, of course, you’re quite interesting to talk to, and you’ve got a good eye for finer details, which makes sense, with illusion magic and all, though obviously you’re not doing that at the moment— but that’s not to say you would forget the skills that come along with magic, I mean, it’s not like all skill is associated with magic, though I guess it could be–”
“Yes, that’s a good point,” Wilde interrupts, trying not to smile at Zolf’s visible frustration at the other end of the table. “I was wondering if you would be able to help me with something after you eat?”
“After you both eat,” Zolf orders, pointing at an empty seat with a plate and half-circle of small bowls arranged in front of it. “Sit.”
Wilde obeys, mostly out of confusion – how would Zolf have known he would come down to eat today? Unless he just set it out anyway? – but manages to cover it with a put-upon sigh. Zolf has made the sort of breakfast spread the innkeeper usually likes: rice, miso soup, dried seaweed, and a slice of salmon. The portions for this type of meal are usually small, at least; easier to pick at without feeling guilty for what he leaves behind.
By the time Wilde gently pushes back his chair to stand, he’s managed to eat nearly half of Zolf’s characteristically over-hopeful portion, which is a feat considering his stomach began to protest by bite three. Karma from eating little more than tea and chunks of bread yesterday, he supposes, but in his defense, there was much to do, and he assumed he would be reset anyway.
Cel follows him to the office with that characteristic stream-of-consciousness babble that rides a fine line between excitement and worry, but manages to coast to a stop by the time Wilde’s settled into his chair. “So, uh, what did you need again?” they finish, adjusting the potion-filled bandolier across their chest.
“I assume you heard about our guests downstairs,” Wilde says. Cel nods, opening their mouth to speak, and he continues quickly on, “Well, there is a bit of an…interesting circumstance, around their arrival. It’s been repeated, along with all the time since they first popped out of the time pocket, several times now.”
Cel’s eyes go very wide. “ Oh. Oh, that is very interesting indeed, Mr. Wilde! Were they each identical duplicates of the first day? Although, if they were, then you wouldn’t be able to come talk to me, because you wouldn’t know it was a loop the first time. But why do I not remember but you do? Oh- because of your shackles! But does that extend to any sort of anti-magic device like the cell, or maybe even any sort of warding? And if it does extend to the cell, I wonder if the issue would be about how long you’re in it or if you’re in it at the right time…. Did you say what time it repeats– or maybe it’s not connected to time at all, but a certain event. Have you noticed anything like that?”
Wilde takes the needed three seconds to finish processing everything Cel said, then replies, “We do think it’s anything anti-magic, though we haven’t tried any wards. It’s always reset sometime in the night so far. I haven’t been with everyone when it happens, so I don’t know if there has been any specific event to cause the reset. I suspect, however, that it hasn’t reset yet this time because everyone is still in the cell.”
“So some of your friends weren’t in the cell the previous days?”
Deciding it’s not relevant to mention they’re not really his friends, and never particularly liked him anyways, Wilde says, “Yes. Sasha wasn’t the first day, and everyone but Hamid and Eldarion the second.”
“But they don’t start the day in the cell, so it must not matter when they get in the cell, just that they stay in it.”
“That’s my hypothesis, yes.” He sighs. “I know you were planning to get back to Jasper and your village today, and I don’t want to keep you. But if you could possibly do any research on what could cause this, and how we can fix it….”
Cel grins, clapping their hands together. “I was hoping you’d ask! Jasper should be all right defending everyone another day, what with the extra materials you gave us–thank you, by the way, that was quite a nice thing to do, considering we’d only known each other a couple weeks by then, and I think once I get back to my workshop I might be able to rig up something proper sparky….”
“You’re welcome, Cel,” Wilde interrupts, a little less sincere than he intended; old habits and all that. He forces his voice to soften. “And thank you for helping. Please let me know if you need anything, or if you have any noteworthy updates.”
“You got it, boss! Just give me, like, twenty minutes, and I’ll have this whole thing figured out.” They give him a thumbs up, then seem to remember their self-assigned timer has started ticking and run off, coat flapping behind them.
Zolf reports no signs of infections that night. Wilde marks another line in his journal, like he’ll somehow forget how long it’s been, and sends Carter to watch the group for the night. Then he goes to his own bed, lying atop the blankets without undressing, and waits.
When the morning comes, he’s still waiting.
The next couple days pass without incident. Zolf does most of the check-ins and food deliveries, but Barnes, Carter, and Cel have begun visiting their prisoner-guests as well. Wilde doesn’t stop them; he trusts them not to reveal anything confidential, and more than that knows they probably wouldn’t listen to him anyway. But still, something in him curls up and hisses every time they open the cellar door or mention a snippet of conversation. You’re not being careful, he wants to tell them. Our mission is too important to be reckless like this, no matter who’s on the other side of those bars.
But deep down, in some cobweb-coated corner of himself that knows how to be honest, Wilde knows he’s not angry that his friends have hope. He’s angry they’ve left him behind. Forced him to be the practical one, again. Not care, again. Wait, alone, again.
It’s the only thing he’s useful for anymore, and he hates it.
So when Zolf tells him to join them in the cellar on the fourth night, Wilde smiles precisely enough to avoid catching on his scar and says thank you, but really a lot of work to get done, you go without me, just remember to not share anything confidential. He even gestures to the bowl of soup Zolf brought in a few hours earlier, which has admittedly gone cold but should still be edible.
Zolf glares at him. A master at glaring, this man; maybe Wilde should take notes. “I’m bringing ‘em dinner, you can just eat with us.”
The idea of eating in front of the L.O.L.O.M.G. makes Wilde feel itchy for reasons he’s not willing to analyze. “Honestly, Zolf, being stuck in some sort of time loop hasn’t made my workload any smaller. In fact, I probably need to go back over my notes from Einstein about Rome, in case there are any clues there–”
“Bloody hell, Wilde, the best clues about what’s happenin’ are literally downstairs right now.”
Wilde meets Zolf’s glare with one of his own. “Just because they’re in a time loop with us doesn’t mean we can trust them.”
“You got a better idea?”
He doesn’t, and Zolf knows that. Wilde hates that he knows that. “Fine. I’ll give you one hour. But I will not be socializing, understand? This is to gather evidence and look for signs of infection, not…crossword puzzles, or whatever it is you all do down there.”
“And eating,” Zolf adds, only a little firm, like he doesn’t expect Wilde to argue.
Wilde sighs. Bested again, in his own office no less. He’s really losing his touch. “And eating.”
The cellar is more crowded than Wilde’s ever seen it, and certainly far less tense. Carter idly turns a knife between his fingers as Barnes reads off the clue to a crossword, the pair separated by a foot of space and several inches of adamantine from Hamid, who is looking over the puzzle curiously. Azu is fidgeting with her dulled pink armor, foot tapping an incessant, clanking rhythm. Grizzop is on the bed, looking around while Sasha sits beside him, clearly waiting for some kind of answer. Eldarion sits on the floor several feet away from all of them, looking down at her dress, eyebrows furrowed.
When Wilde reaches the bottom of the stairs, a satchel of notes slung over his shoulder so he can carry a plate in each hand, all eyes turn on him.
“Oh! Wilde,” Hamid says, managing to sound surprised and disappointed in equal measure, just as Grizzop quips, “So you’re not dead. Sort of thought he was lyin’ about that one.”
Wilde nods curtly, determinedly not thinking about the last times he saw everyone here. A strand of hair slips from behind his ear, not quite long enough to stay, and he tosses it lightly out of his eyes. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”
He takes a seat against the wall across from Barnes and Carter, a few feet farther away from the cell than strictly necessary. Zolf takes one of the plates and sits beside him, maybe five inches of space between their arms, and says, “Oi, Barnes, repeat the clue.”
And so it goes for a while. Wilde looks over his notes, eating a few bites whenever Zolf nudges him and no one else is looking. Once his presence has settled in the room, however, he gets to work doing what he was originally hired to do: analyze people.
Azu is visibly the most uncomfortable of the lot. She keeps shifting between the corner and the center of the room, and she hasn’t taken off her armor since she arrived, though that could be due to a lack of space to store it. She seems, frankly, like the whole of her has been dulled, not just her armor; like losing access to Aphrodite’s magic also cut off her previously warm personality.
If she really is Azu, and this is from being traumatized and then locked in a cage, Wilde can’t blame her. If she isn’t Azu…well.
Hamid is fidgety and nervous, that classic awkward charm forced into close quarters. He keeps looking at Wilde, or maybe Zolf; it’s hard to tell, considering how fast he looks away each time he’s caught. Analyzing them back, perhaps? Trying to reconcile their differences with the men he once knew? There’s a longing to it that makes Wilde think the latter, but that doesn’t feel quite right either. He makes a mental note to look back over his reports, recall how Hamid felt about Zolf’s resignation from the Rangers.
Sasha looks well. Wilde’s mental image of her never quite got past when she was becoming undead, pale and weak with a permanent tiredness lingering in her eyes; a misguided desire for kinship on his part, perhaps. Now her paleness is simply from too many years underground, eyes bright and shrewd as she takes a turn in I Spy. Wilde wonders if he should mark down what they’re saying, in case it’s a code, but the infected seem to communicate with or without words, so he doesn’t bother. He will have to watch her carefully at the check, though, to see if she managed to secret away any knives.
Grizzop seems to have assigned himself Sasha’s guardian, or maybe her watchdog. He’s more attentive to her than anyone else in the room, actually managing to stay somewhat still whenever she speaks. There’s an energy to him Wilde can hardly recall, but makes him think about the notes in Grizzop’s file no one else ever saw; about promises of protection and money transferred to a small account in Berlin.
Grizzop also seems insistent on keeping himself between Sasha and Eldarion, though there’s little need for steadfastness in that regard, considering Eldarion hasn’t moved. Wilde recalls vaguely that Eldarion used to teach Sasha, though he can’t remember what level of involvement she had with the Racketts in general; Curie’s always been cagey about her, and he hasn’t had the time to look into it himself.
The woman in question is a bit more difficult to read than the others. Wilde’s never properly met her before, so he’s basing his analysis off reputation and body language alone, and she provides little of either. Her ability to sit in silence so long does worry him, though, as does the unsettled energy of her proud shoulders and awkwardly bowed head–is she plotting? Communicating with the rest of her hivemind? Or just wrapped up in guilt?
“Eldarion,” he says, before he can lose his nerve. She glances up. “Tell me your theories about this time loop. You’re one of the only ones to experience the shift every time, yes?”
“Yes,” she confirms, straightening back into formal posture. Her hands are steady in her lap, long and pale and unmarred by fractals of blue. “It’s almost certainly connected to sources of anti-magic, of course, at least when it comes to remembering. But what actually pulls us back in time, and how far its grasp reaches…that I do not know.”
“How far it reaches? As in how long it can keep the loop going?”
Eldarion’s brows pinch together. “That is part of the issue, yes. It must take significant energy to make all this happen, and even magic does not come without cost. I worry, however, that time is not simply glitching, or even constantly warped by some powerful being, but is in fact trying to fix itself. Whether we were the ones who caused the tear, I cannot say-” and here she pauses a moment too long- “but I suspect that time will continue to reset us until either it has what it wants or has drained too much energy and magic to continue on. And I, at least, do not wish to see what the planes look like when that happens.”
There’s something about her tone of voice that makes Wilde uneasy; too calm for the severity of her words, too matter-of-fact to not be hiding something. He wonders how close it is to his own voice, when he and his friends are on opposite sides of these bars. “What’s the rest of the issue?”
“Depending on why this is happening, the loops may not have the need, or the power, to affect more than just us. It’s entirely possible that the rest of the world is continuing on without us.”
Fuck, Wilde thinks, emphatically. “Ah,” he says aloud. “That is indeed an important element to consider. I’ll look into that as soon as possible.”
Eldarion nods curtly, then reaches for a notebook by her knee and opens it on her lap. The right side is covered in neat cursive writing; Wilde catches sight of the word Marie before she angles it away from his gaze. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she says, and that’s that.
Wilde is quiet the rest of the hour or so he’s with the group. It’s agony. The others keep getting stuck on crossword answers that seem obvious to him, and they all either finish their food or seem unconcerned by the scraps they couldn’t finish, and Sasha makes an accidental pun about knives that’s begging to be followed up, and Zolf smiles like it’s easy, like Wilde hasn’t fought and clawed for nearly two years to bring out joy in his friend while shutting his own feelings into a box for the sake of the world.
“I should be going,” he says at last. “Work to do, and all.”
There are noncommittal mutters of goodbye and a gentle arm squeeze from Zolf as he neatly shoves his notes back into the satchel and gets to his feet–slowly, so he doesn’t get dizzy. He’s reaching for the stack of dirty plates, figuring he can bring them to the kitchen even if he’s not allowed inside, when Sasha says, “Hey. Wilde.”
Despite himself, Wilde pauses. “Yes?”
She thinks for a moment, eyes flitting from left to right like she’s reading, and then she says, very deliberately, “It was knife to see you.”
Wilde has been trained not to break character even under threat of torture and death, and he is very good at what he does, so a pedestrian bit of wordplay does not make him smile.
But if he has to turn away a moment too quickly, just in case–well, that’s no one’s business but his own.
When the dawn of the final day of quarantine comes, Wilde has both fallen asleep and woken up in his own bed. It’s a novelty for him, time loop or no, but the slight lessening of pain and exhaustion does little to ease the insistent pressure in his chest. If there are still no signs of the infection tonight, they’re going to let everyone out, see if passing quarantine is the trick to fix the loop. Tomorrow, he’ll either be in possession of a competent team ready to save the world, or starting this whole damned process over.
He’s too distracted to even pretend to work, and after a few hours finds himself instead in the living room, where the rest of his team seems to be having a similar problem. They’re passing a bottle of rum around, already half-empty.
“Doing some team bonding without me, I see,” he says, sliding into the gap between Barnes and the arm of the couch. “Are we having a therapy session as well, or just drinking away our feelings?”
Barnes grunts — maybe laughs, it’s still hard to tell sometimes — and holds out the bottle. “Something like that.”
They do talk a bit, though it’s mostly nonsense. Stories from the navy that have been told before; devices that should never have made it to completion without exploding; justifications of thievery; bad jokes and worse ones. Barnes leans against Wilde’s side enough to make the couch arm dig into his side, but he says nothing. They run out of rum, too, but keep passing the bottle anyway, just for the sake of movement, and to see Carter spin it on his finger.
Why can’t this be what I keep on repeat forever, Wilde thinks, suddenly, stupidly. Just the people I love, sitting together. I don’t even need a party. Just this would be enough.
In his deepest dreams, though, he’d like for the group to be a little bigger, so Wilde eventually manages to pull himself to his feet. His head doesn’t swim, which is a good sign. Bloody awful idea, doing a quarantine check drunk. “We should start sobering up, so we’re ready for the check. Barnes? You’re still good to do it with me?”
Barnes nods solemnly. Carter reaches for another bottle.
The ideal thing about Barnes doing the blue veins checks is he’s perceptive and dutiful enough to notice anything off, but he’s also removed enough from the situation to not hesitate in calling it out. Not that Wilde thinks Zolf would ever lie about that, but…well. He knows how much guilt Zolf carries about the people inside that cell, and he’s selfish enough to avoid it, even at the risk of Barnes adding guilt to his own considerable pile.
The group looks as impatient as Wilde feels, when they start the checks, though he’s careful not to show it. Bosie was fine until the seventh day, he reminds himself. You’re not safe yet.
Azu starts on her armor first, but it takes so long to get off that Grizzop and Hamid both go before her. All three pass cleanly. Eldarion is a strange mix of shy and brazen, taking off her dress as delicately as Wilde imagines a virgin maiden might, but she stands without shame or embarrassment for the inspection itself. She, too, is without any signs of infection.
Sasha is…trickier. Even now that she’s not undead, she is a slightly sickly pale that makes her veins stick out anyway, and Wilde finds himself just a little unsure how to tell if a bit of color at her wrist is from the infection or a lifetime of long sleeves and false sunlight. He wants it to be the latter so badly , which makes him wonder if it was Zolf’s judgment he should’ve been worried about.
Then Barnes grunts and says, “You’re clear,” with that cool confidence Wilde trusts and admires, and he forces himself to nod.
“Agreed. You’re all good to go.”
Barnes grabs the keys by the stairs as Sasha redresses, waiting to unlock the door until she’s ready, and then the cell is open and Wilde is wishing he had sent Carter or Cel in his place. He’s never here when anyone’s actually let out, always finds a way to be in his office so they can find him when they’re ready. Is he supposed to congratulate them? Show some sort of physical affection? The most affectionate he’s been with anyone in this room was being kicked in the balls by Grizzop.
The others don’t seem to know what to do, either, standing in an awkward huddle once they’re out of the cell. For a moment the only noise is a small, contented gasp from Azu, who is probably feeling her goddess’s presence again, before Wilde finally gathers himself and says, “Follow me, then.”
Wilde’s team is waiting by the cellar door when he climbs out with the group who used to hold that title. Zolf has firmly planted himself in front, furrowed brows melting into softness when he sees Wilde; he must hear the others coming up behind. Wilde gives the dwarf a nod and a hint of a smile, then steps aside for Azu, who was so eager to leave she beat even Grizzop to the door.
Behind Azu is the aforementioned goblin, and then Sasha, who has just enough time to get both feet on the ground before Zolf envelops her.
She tenses up, so instantly and completely Wilde almost thinks someone’s cast Hold Person on her, before she relaxes into Zolf’s arms, freeing one arm from his grip to awkwardly loop around his shoulder.
“Er, hey,” she says, not unfondly.
Zolf’s response is a grunt, but even that manages to sound just a little tender. His face is mostly hidden against Sasha’s shoulder, but his hands curl against her leather jacket in a way that Wilde knows means he wants to cling; instead, he reluctantly lets her go, offering a weak little smile that is met with an even weaker one.
Hamid has been standing awkwardly to the side for this exchange, having come up right after Sasha; when Zolf spots him, there’s half a moment of hesitation from both parties, or maybe consideration, before Zolf trots forward and wraps Hamid in his arms same as Sasha, height differences notwithstanding. Hamid’s the perfect height for his head to fit right in that tender spot between shoulder and collarbone, though he rests with his head to the side rather than burying his face in Zolf’s shirt, which would seem to Wilde to be the ideal scenario.
He was just so naive, Wilde remembers Zolf telling him, on one of the days they couldn’t pretend not to grieve. Not just because he was young or rich, but because he just…believed in shit. Believed good things would happen because they were supposed to. It was so irritating.
But he’d said it the way he calls Wilde a bastard, sometimes–annoyed, yes, but also fond, in that begrudging, exasperated way only Zolf can manage. There was longing, too, though for what Wilde still isn’t sure; Zolf has a habit of wanting things that should be diametrically opposed.
Eldarion and Barnes bring up the rear, quiet enough to go unnoticed, and then, because he must, Wilde interrupts the moment of bubbling camaraderie. “We’ll show you all to your rooms soon; obviously there will have to be some sharing, so if you have a preferred bedmate or mates, speak now or forever hold your peace, et cetera.”
It’s meant rhetorically, the closest he can get to a joke these days, but Azu and Hamid immediately stand closer together in offering. Wilde offers them a nod, then continues, “If you note anything out of the ordinary, please let me know—preferably before you forget it in the morning, if passing quarantine is not the solution.”
(He’s almost positive it isn’t — his problems haven’t been solved by getting what he wants in years — but the moment the idea had been suggested, it was pounced on with such raw hope he’s honestly surprised Zolf didn’t start glowing from it.)
“Which,” Wilde adds, firmly steering his mind back on track, “speaking of. I know we decided Eldarion would sleep in the cell one extra night, to be safe, but it might be prudent to have someone else as well.”
As expected, there are a few moments of furtive, awkward glances between everyone, akin to school children called upon to discuss a reading none of them bothered with. Sasha seems ready to bolt if spoken to, and though he nods in accordance with this practicality, Grizzop’s foot is tapping incessantly—a week’s worth of unused energy that Wilde isn’t eager to increase.
Mostly, the back and forth is between Azu and Hamid, the latter of whom has clasped his hands together, lips a little too pursed. “I don’t mind,” Hamid says, voice tipped up in pitch and thinned halfway to a whisper. Wilde can’t tell if he’s trying to guilt Azu into taking it out of pity or if he’s really this bad at hiding how he feels. “I’ve done it before, so I- I’ll be ready to explain, and everything.”
Azu watches her friend for one second, maybe two, before shaking her head. “I can do it.”
Hamid frowns. “It’s awfully small, Azu, and I don’t even think the bed would fit you—”
“It’s just one night,” she says, in that low, rumbling voice that could probably be used for sleep spells. “And it’ll certainly be better than sleeping in Rome.”
The whole group shudders in agreement at that, inspiring a familiar pinch near Wilde’s collarbone.
“I could at least sleep on the other side,” Hamid offers. “Give you- um, both of you company. That wouldn’t affect the process, would it?”
The last question is aimed at Wilde, who, reminding himself firmly they all passed quarantine and thus do not need to be treated as threats, shakes his head. “We’ll still have the night watch, to look for anything strange, but yes, that should be fine.”
Hamid smiles at him, bright and young and shining with the sheen of scales. “Thank you, Wilde.”
“No need,” Wilde says, unexpectedly touched and a little afraid of it. “Now: for the tour.”
Everything’s mundane after that. A tour of the inn is given – Cel provides most of the dialogue, despite being the only one who doesn’t reside here permanently – and everyone takes their turn in the bath, and then the group splits into two: most, to the rooms they were just shown, and the unlucky few, back to the cell.
Wilde follows neither group, going instead to his room; if he attempted to go back to his office, Zolf would find him within the hour. He indulges himself in undressing and getting under the covers, and then he closes his eyes very tightly, trying not to think about how nervous everyone looked, even those not going to the cell. Especially those, maybe. Wondering if the next time they awoke, it would be with no memory of the last nine days, falling through the universe and just trying to hang on.
His ankle cuffs clink against each other, cold and slightly biting without the barrier of fabric, and Wilde thinks, far from the first time, about taking them off. Of having his magic back, even for just a few minutes, and waking up tomorrow without all the knowledge that puts him in charge. Of letting go.
“And Zolf says he’s a sad bastard,” Wilde mutters humorlessly, and tries to sleep.