Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Adnachiel was a hardworking man.

He spent long hours deep within Rhodes Island’s workshops, tinkering away at little trinkets that weren’t all that important, but people still loved nonetheless. He sometimes worked at the trading post on the third level, a few other operators coming and going, dropping off gold, taking LMD away. He was even found in the kitchen at times, baking some dessert he knew would be gone within the hour of its placement on the counter. 

He also sometimes did paperwork for the Doctor. It was never really much, as they insisted that Adnachiel should have time to spend with his team. It was thoughtful of the Doctor, but really, he wasn’t a kid. He could file a few reports. He knew people around Rhodes, he could get work done.

Adnachiel was a kind man.

He never really asked for a whole lot from other operators, even his own teammates. Steward himself was sometimes irked by his apparent nice aura, despite being known as “Mr. Nice Guy.” Really, a conundrum. But Adnachiel really would rather be kind than rude or indifferent, because that felt wrong, and he didn’t want that.

He sometimes found himself keeping his distance from others, before gently forcing himself back into the fray that was functioning in a landship. He never really liked long conversations. But everything was easier if he acted nice, because no one wanted to argue with him. He reveled in that discovery every time he managed to wedge away from a conversation earlier than expected.

Adnachiel was a mysterious man.

Apparently, no one knew what he was thinking. Which was silly. Of course he noticed that cup sitting a little close to the edge of the table, and yes, he knew that it was nearly empty and therefore light. And, yeah, when Cardigan ran at full speed by the table, it’d made a wind current strong enough to knock the cup clean off. But those weren’t the thoughts people were skeptical about. They just found it neat that he was able to pick up on little details like that.

They wanted to know how he felt. Which was objectively sillier than anything implied before. Because, in all honesty, he couldn’t tell them if he wanted to. He might’ve been able to showcase a few, especially under stress, but not describe them. He was never that efficient with words.

Adnachiel was-

-scared of the dark.

-disgraced that he could only bake 25 desserts.

-bothered by loud sounds, or even only voices on certain days.

-constantly forcing his feet to drag his body to Dobermann’s next training session.

-worried about Steward’s and Melantha’s infection, but not his own.

-sick of people always calling him “genius pretty boy.”

-frustrated that his own hometown was a blur of colors to him.

-jealous of Ambriel and Exusiai and all the other Sankta, because their halos looked right and weren’t sideways.

-so thankful for his team, for always caring.

-in love with Steward, the light of his life and the eye of the storm.

-full of regret that he let W get by him when he knew he was far too weak to do any damage.

-he was…

He was so, so tired of having to act like “himself.”

The Doctor understood. The Doctor understood completely, and they let him relax a bit. He does work for them in return. That’s how he became the Doctor’s assistant, was because of a stupid training session with Dobermann once the Doctor woke up in Chernobog.

He didn’t think Kal’tsit preferred their choice. Both of them decided to ignore it.

He learned that the Doctor saw the battlefield less of a decimated warzone and more as a game map. It was a curious psychological phenomenon. They had grids laid out over the battle zone in question, and gave directions like they were code to a machine. It was almost funny, how well it worked for them, yet to most it was utterly confusing. A curious phenomenon.

They tried to teach Adnachiel one day. He isn’t that cut out for strategy, though.

Adnachiel is a sad, weak little boy.

He is legally an adult. That doesn’t matter. He looks at himself in the mirror and doesn’t recognize his face. When did his eyes get so bright? What happened to his hair? His halo- was it always so sideways? His cheeks looked too sharp, and his mouth the wrong shape. He was too tall- or too short, it depended on the day. There wasn’t a bone in his body he felt like calling his own. 

It was pitiful. He was pitiful.

Yet he refused to mention it to the medical team. Including Ansel. And he refused to tell the rest of his team. Including Steward. And he refused to tell the Doctor. Amiya never put in the effort to figure him out, and he respected her for it. Though sometimes he was tempted to ask her, Amiya, tell me what I feel. Can you describe it to me, please? Can you do it? But he won’t ask. He doesn’t need to.

He’s carried on for years, now. What’s another day? And then another day, and then another, and so on. But whatever. He’d be fine. It’d be fine.

He wouldn’t bend under pressure.

If anything, really, he’d snap, but he was willing to take that risk. He’d bend over backwards to avoid confrontation.

Call it pitiful, call it strategy. He was the Doctor’s assistant, and a talented baker, and an intern at the workshop, and a “prophet,” and he was fine. He’d be fine.

The Doctor slid another paper onto his desk. He’d been zoning out for too long again, and the last one sat unfinished underneath the new packet. He straightened up and got back to work. 

No use dwelling on stupid little details like that. He wasn’t cut out for strategy.

Chapter Text

The Doctor was busy today. They were hunched over two different books when Adnachiel entered, as well as tapping away at a simulation screen. One of Kal’tsit’s monitors was strapped to their arm and the wires went through their coat. It didn’t beep out loud.

He set his book down on his little desk, much smaller than the Doctor’s but the only one that could fit reasonably in the room. It was full of little trinkets, after all. Little medallions the Doctor gained from their operators. Memoirs. Adnachiel saw a hat he once gave them sitting on a coat rack, along with some other stuff he didn’t feel like trying to recognize. He sat down and began sorting through the pile on his desk.

It was only a few minutes before the telltale jarring beep of an enemy leaking through the objective point sounded. The Doctor groaned in frustration. This didn’t seem to be the first time they failed that simulation.

Adnachiel took a deep breath in, and raised his voice. “Doctor,” he started softly, and a masked face turned to look at him. “Perhaps if you take a short break, a strategy will come to you. One more efficient than the current one.” Simple words of advice, an easy prediction. This has happened before.

The Doctor shook their head this time, though. And Adnachiel was confused. Why did they have to keep going? The answer was, they didn’t. They really didn’t. He didn’t understand the Doctor.

“Doctor… I know you recognize your own limits,” he sighed, pushing himself forward in his chair to get closer to his desk. He had paperwork to do. He didn’t want to get sidetracked. “But I don’t think trying the same things over and over again is getting you anywhere.”

The Doctor closed the book on the left. The cover seemed to detail close-quarter fighting strategy. Adnachiel took a breath in. Maybe he should leave them be. Maybe he should let them work, let them run themself into the floor, let them struggle again and again and again over one simulation. Let them slave away at a victory they knew wasn’t going to happen.

“You always come up with something when you take a break.” He inhaled, then exhaled, then inhaled again. Why did he feel the need to focus on his breath so much? Was he nervous? What for? The Doctor, or himself? “Take a break, Doctor. You work hard enough as it is.”

The simulation screen blared. He flinched, bad. His left hand flew towards his headphones, but the noise had already passed. The Doctor slammed their hand down on the desk, and this time Adnachiel slid the headband almost on top of his head, pushing the left speaker over his ear. They were frustrated, and he was wary. And shaken. He didn’t like the noise.

“Adnachiel,” the Doctor spoke in a scratched and tired voice. He never liked hearing them like this. “I can’t stop. I can’t. There isn’t any time.” They seemed more defeated than usual. The heart rate monitor still didn’t beep out loud. If it did, he would’ve left by now. Taken his paperwork to his room and left.

“There isn’t time for failure, either, Doctor.” They went still, looking at the still open book. “How much time has this strategy cost yo-”

“How many strategies do you think I’ve tried?” It wasn’t the volume that startled him this time, but the tone. He was never very good with tone before. But he could tell that they were mad. The stillness of their hands. The slow, methodical turn towards him. A predator’s moves. The game master. “Because I’ve been here for the better part of two hours trying to narrow this down to something workable. 

“I have a tight selection of Operators. I have a schedule I have to meet. I have a reputation. Even Kal’tsit is nagging me, telling me that I’m not in a good physical state for strategizing.” They slumped into their chair. Defeated. “I need to get this working, Adna. I can’t stop now.” Defeated.

They were both defeated. One at a loss for words, the other a loss for sanity. 

He made a small huff. The words in his brain didn’t want to exit through his mouth. Neither did air, really, but he forced it in and out and in and out exactly like before. Keep it together, Adnachiel. You’re not the strategist. You’re the intern, doing paperwork that you should’ve taken to your dorm to work on. Then maybe you would’ve felt like baking this afternoon. Maybe you would’ve met with Nightmare at the conservatory. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

All down the drain. The heart rate monitor didn’t beep, but he almost wished it did so he had an excuse to leave.

It was silent for a few minutes. The Doctor did end up taking a break. They closed the book on the right, too, and Adnachiel only saw a flash of photos before the cover was out of sight.

They booted up the simulation again. PRTS put down a grid pattern, and they played their pieces that looked suspiciously like Siege and Bagpipe.

He inhaled.

“You can go,” they said, not looking up from their simulation screen. He watched as a Projekt Red lookalike flashed on the screen for a moment before the doctor removed it. “You can take your work and go. I’ll be alright.”

It was a mercy as much as it was a punch to the gut.

He hated having to be directed like a child. He felt sick. His throat really wasn’t going to work now. 

He’d write an apology later, yeah. He’d do that. You have to, don’t you? Make sure you stay close to the Doctor. Make sure you maintain that trust. Keep a friend, keep your sanity, keep on going. Power through. You’d be fine. You’re fine.

He bowed right before the door, as the Doctor picked up a drink from under their desk. It was fairly dark in the room. He could barely see the hat on top of the coat rack. He wondered if the Doctor ever tried it on. It was a good hat, really.

They didn’t look over as he left.

His feet carried him to his dorm. So he could do his work, of course. He had so much paperwork to do. He hadn’t gotten anything done.

And if anyone asked why Adnachiel hadn’t spent three hours in the Doctor’s office that day, and instead spent less than ten minutes, he’d say that he was just there to pick up work before going back to his room.

That was a lie. He was really good at lying, at this point. He sat on his bed, papers forgotten on the desk his team shared, and stared at the wall.

Chapter Text

Adnachiel knew many things. He was smart. He was told so, by many people, many times. Many, many, many. So vague. Specificity assists clarity. Yet he leaves so many things vague. A shame. Perhaps he could’ve been just a little smarter if he focused his thoughts a bit more.

There it was again, a perhaps. A prediction. He made assumptions, and calculated the ending of each. But those assumptions might not even be true.

The Doctor was mad. They were mad at him, because he tried doing things the normal way. But normal isn’t always right. It’s not. It’s not how the world works. You can’t expect everything to be normal. It’s childish. It’s stupid.

Adnachiel hated the world, and how unpredictable it got. He hated it with a passion.

But, as always, he kept his mouth shut and his face passive. Because that was easier than screaming at the top of his lungs about how nothing was ever fair to me, and how I never got my firearm license or how I never asked to be Infected and have my life put on a timer like a dinner entree.

A timer. A timer was predictable, though. But maybe the oven would overheat and explode, or maybe the food wouldn’t ever be cooked enough. Maybe he’d end up half-baked and sticking to the sides of a pan as he’s taken out. Taken out naturally? With a purpose? Painfully? Who knows.

The destination to the inevitable end was confusing. He didn’t like it.

He was still sitting on his bed, he knew. He didn’t really care all that much about the rest of his squad finding him. He’d hear Cardigan, and smell Melantha, before they even got to the door. Ansel always knocked before entering, even if the room was empty. And Steward… he always knew where Steward was, it seemed.

That’s a lie, of course. But as if some sort of sixth sense, Adnachiel knew what Steward wanted. It was almost scary. It was like love.

So he was left alone, because who else would look for him? Dobermann? Amiya? Kal’tsit? The Doctor? No, that’s ridiculous. It’s fucking ridiculous! No one wanted him on their teams, because he couldn’t use a basic crossbow without an extra string to help him with the drawback, and he couldn’t output that much damage to enemies, and no one cared that he prioritized taking down ranged units more so than drones.

It was infuriating. So he bit his lip and shut up. He was around to make intelligent remarks and short-term predictions, and sometimes help the Doctor with their paperwork, and rarely even bake. He wasn’t around for practical purposes.

He was wasting away at the place that promised him a cure.

Lord, he was going to die.

Was he scared of that? A voice in the back of his head yelled of course at him. He countered himself, because if he was so scared to die, why did he put himself in harm’s way when W threatened his team? That meant he wasn’t. Or maybe it was because you care about them. He hated this.

He was useless. A useless angel. A Sankta with no gun, no wings, a sideways halo, and a heart set on the truth that only found misery.

Lord. Lord, he was done. He was so, so tired.

The Doctor kept him around to finish their busywork for them. Work anyone could do. And so he was rendered obsolete. The Doctor chose him because they know he’s never busy, because nobody asks for him. 

At some point, Dobermann stopped telling him to move his ass and get out to the training room. He vaguely misses it.

He was so smart, yet felt so stupid.

His legs felt warm and cold. He’d remained sitting too long, and now they’d lost their feeling. Hah.

He huffed a few times, a sorry attempt for a laugh. The automatic lights shut off. They flicked back on again as he sat on the floor, knees up to his chest and back stuffed against the side of the bed. He didn’t know if it was his or not. He ended up making three beds today. Steward’s, because he loved Steward, Cardigan’s, because she never makes her bed. Lord, he hated being taken advantage of. It wasn’t that. He knew it wasn’t. But everything was piling higher than a filled trading post that he sometimes slaved away in, and he didn’t want to deal with it.

He bit his hand. Not hard, just enough to ground him a bit more. He hated this, he hated this, he hated this.

Adnachiel was one to ruminate. So he did what he always did, and thought away. Vaguely, he recognized a spiral, but he didn’t want to connect with it. Because connecting with it meant that he would have to face the issues. He was too much of a coward.

He was such a hypocrite, wasn’t he?

Things stopped making sense. He said things to himself that he didn’t mean, and meant things that he didn’t want to. He created opinions he didn’t uphold. He hated this, he loved this. Everything ached like he had just aged 100 years, and he was barely an adult.

He was-

The world stuttered.

He was so, so young, but he wasn’t even the youngest on board.

Selfish. Selfish, selfish little boy. He felt like an eight-year-old. He didn’t remember what happened when he was eight. He wanted to cry but of course his body failed him again and his eyes were dry. It was hard to breathe.

He felt like a kid. He wanted to be grown up.

People care about you! People love you! Stop this, stop it, stop it stop it stop it! Adnachiel, you cannot go around thinking like this. This gets you nowhere. Look up! Look to the future! Lean on your friends if you need help. Talk to someone dear to you if you need help. Seek assistance if you need help. Seek assistance. Seek assistance.

He didn’t care all that much for people.

He wanted to sleep.

The floor was uncomfortable, and his legs were numb.

He forced himself onto the bed that he didn’t know the owner of and laid down, as if it would magically put him to sleep. But his body failed him again, and his mind refused to go down without a fight. He was so tired of fighting. 

His halo was like the world’s ugliest nightlight. It never shut off. 

He noted its flicker with a sick sense of satisfaction.

Lord, he needed help.

He was tired. He’d do this later.

His mind gave up like the rest of him. He shut down, and became immune to the world around him.

Lord, he hoped his dreams would be nicer than reality.

Lord, he wanted a moment of peace.

Lord.

Lord, what have I done to myself?

Chapter Text

He told himself there’s nothing to be done. Not that pile of paperwork he had put away, not any sort of physical training, not any meetings to attend. Nothing to be done. Nothing to be done, except lay there on his(?) bed in the dark, because the lights had turned off a while ago and he hadn’t moved in so long.

Part of his shoulder was numb, and it felt odd. His hand didn’t move when he wanted it to. His back felt stiff and tight and it ached with each breath he took. His shoes were still on his feet, weren’t they? On top of the covers, at least. His halo dimly illuminated the wall in front of him. It was the only light. He didn’t want to see it.

Theoretically, he could’ve fallen asleep by now. Theoretically, he knows, because in actuality his mind was far too cruel to ever let him rest like that. It grated against his nerves that he had to be awake to feel all of this, all of these emotions he didn’t know how to process. What the hell was wrong with him.

The door slid open. The lights turned on, and that was the reason he ended up closing his eyes. There was no shout from Cardigan, yelling at him to wake up and running over to shake his shoulders. There was no quiet sigh from Ansel, who always sighs when entering because he finally got a break from work. There was no small startled noise from Melantha, who for some reason never knew where Adnachiel was going to be.

So Steward found him, huh. Somehow he didn’t recognize it was even Steward in the first place. Lord, he really was tired, wasn’t he?

Steward didn’t make any verbal noise, but the gait in his steps was familiar. Adnachiel lightened his breathing and stayed perfectly still, eyes still shut. The bed dipped behind him. Steward had sat himself down on the edge. The sound of crinkling paper filled his ears, and he felt something slide out from under his leg. So he had sat on his paperwork. Strange. He thought he had put it on the desk. Silence resumed, stillness resumed, and he kept his eyes closed.

A beat.

“You kept your shoes on,” Steward said in a low voice. It wasn’t quite a whisper, but it wasn’t nearly loud enough to be mistaken for a talking voice. It was deep and kind of sounded like he had just woken up. Adnachiel stayed silent.

A beat.

“And your poor papers are so sad and wrinkly now,” Steward chuckled, trying to lighten the mood a bit. Adnachiel didn’t bother to move, but he opened his eyes a bit, so they were half-lidded. His poor papers, indeed.

What about poor you? What about the poor Sankta boy so lonely and sad laying on a bed that probably isn’t his in the dark?

He told himself to shut up. Not out loud, of course.

“Say, Achi,” Steward called softly to him. So he gave the slightest head tilt up. He heard Steward breathe. “Are you alright with touch?” Adnachiel stayed silent.

A beat.

He nodded, ever-so-slightly, and Steward understood everything if only for a brief moment. All the built up agony that had been left to rot and fester, all the resentment and loneliness that had eroded something deep inside of him, all that ugly plaster that littered his outer defenses and desperately needed to be fixed again.

Steward gently scooted him over, closer to the wall, before laying down and hugging him from behind. It was gentle, and soft, and so much warmer than the air, and he hadn’t realized how cold he had gotten. But Steward was so, so warm, so kind, so full of life that it almost burned. A mixture of unfamiliar stimulation, unprocessed emotions, and requited love passed through his brain. He curled in on himself, over the arms of the man who had always been there for him. His joints cracked. No one laughed at him. He was so safe and warm, and no one was going to laugh at him.

He felt Steward’s breath on the back of his neck, and his legs were encased by Steward’s own, and he vaguely wondered if this is how he was going to die. If he was, this would be a nice way to go. Held like a fragile statue worth a billion LMD. Held by a Vulpo that had dragged him halfway across the world for his own good. Held without intent of ever being let go.

He had missed this. How had he forgotten this?

How had he forgotten love?

Love. Love, love, love, love, love. He had forgotten about love. How stupid of him. He really wasn’t all that smart, was he? But that was okay, because Steward would love him regardless. Even if he couldn’t handle the force behind a high-powered crossbow, even if he never got sent on missions, even if he was only seen as some “genius pretty boy” by most other operators. Steward saw the Adnachiel behind the name and the face.

You should open up to him. Tell him, Adnachiel. Tell him what you’ve been saying to yourself for so long. Do it.

A hand untangled itself from his stomach, and suddenly his hair was being smoothed out, and small words that weren’t filled with anything but love and admiration curved through his headphone frames. He reached up to slide them off, and placed them on top of the covers in front of him. He felt at home here. He wanted to cry.

I’ll do it later, he thought to himself. I’ll tell Steward later. I’m not losing this moment. I need this moment. I missed this moment. He closed his eyes. I love him.

He fell asleep to the sounds and feelings of love.