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Mostly, Spoke likes the havoc. It sets simmering fires under his skin, gives him a real purpose. Someone to push against. Most of the time, Spoke couldn’t ask for a better foil than Zam, and he doesn’t want to anyway.
Some of the time, though, his body gets involved. Spoke isn’t sure what kind of illness he’s caught, but it’s leaving him shivery and miserable and short of breath.
Spoke pushes his back up against stone walls. It’s so cramped that his shoulders brush the sides of this pathetic little fort he’s created for himself. One single sad torch lights up the area, all his shaking hands could manage. His head feels stuffed with wool.
Anyone could be out there, looking for him. Old wounds don’t heal quickly, even if it’s a brand-new world. People have long memories on Lifesteal.
His breath stutters in his chest. The stone is chilly. It’s probably never seen the sun. Somehow, it still smells like decaying flesh and ground-up bones. Spoke wishes he could stop breathing it in.
“Get yourself under control,” he says to no one in particular, then freezes in a crouch. His ears strain for the sound of an intruder, someone to rip another heart away from him. All he has is a stone sword.
Spoke tucks his head into his own shoulder, a sad parody of scenting. He doesn’t catch anything but the overwhelming tang of Alpha fear and anger, and just below it a whiff of what might be Woogie, but could really be any Beta. Woogie’s out to kill him again, probably. The smell is less than comforting.
He should make a bed. He should do something productive. All he really wants is an Omega. If all Spoke gets is a parody of a pack-bond, a puddle of blankets shared out of convenience rather than any real emotion — fine. It’ll make him feel better. He can go back to burning the world down tomorrow, when his breath doesn’t rattle with every exhale.
For now, his body is betraying him, and Spoke will deal with it the only way he knows how: swiftly and effectively.
Neutral Omega. Fine. Cube or Planet, maybe — no, not Planet, there’s no way Spoke could let himself be that vulnerable in front of someone who doesn’t seem to have an ulterior motive. Someone hard to trust, then.
Terry? Maybe an option, if Spoke knew anything about his plays this season. Spoke realizes, distantly, that his breath is more even. He’s making a plan. He can deal with his body’s oppressive misery.
A feeble suggestion floats up from his traitorous heart: Clown.
It’s a terrible idea. He definitely still hates Spoke from the Cleansing, from Demise, from — everything, really. But Spoke can respect him. And he doesn’t trust him. And some little piece of Spoke has always wanted to see what it’s like to touch someone that cold, that clinically passionate. Like looking at Zam in a mirror.
His stupid fingers type out a PM to Clown. Just coordinates.
Spoke leans his stupid heavy head against stupid crumbling rock and waits.
*
Footsteps outside. Spoke hadn’t realized how thin the walls were.
He says, voice thin, “Clown?”
A pick slams into dirt, then into the pile of stone he’d hastily cobbled together. The stale air flows out, replaced by the mild smell of grass and the pleasant raw-fish smell of Clown.
“What’s wrong?” Clown says, pragmatic as ever. “You smell like death.”
“New world isn’t treating me too well,” Spoke says. He’s glad for the torchlight shadows; means he doesn’t have to put as much effort into convincing facial expressions. “I just needed — somebody.”
Clown’s silhouette almost blocks out the sunlight. “Why me?”
“I know I won’t slip up and trust you.” Spoke hopes his voice sounds unstrained. “And I know you won’t take me saying that personally.”
“Fair enough,” Clown says. “What’s in it for me?”
Spoke chews on his lip. “My base coords.”
Clown tilts his head, then extends a hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
It feels so good to touch someone. Spoke clenches his jaw so he doesn’t show it. Clown’s hands are warm even through his gloves, his touch assured and undemanding. He makes it too easy to want things Spoke can’t afford. All Spoke gets is an Omega. Nothing else.
“Where are we going?” Spoke asks. He squints into the sunlight. “I’m not sure I’ll make it through the Nether like this.”
“Figure I’d get you set up somewhere a little less nasty,” Clown says. “C’mon, there’s a little sheltered cove down here that you can’t see unless you’re right on top of it.”
Spoke is in no condition to do anything but be led and try to surreptitiously shove his nose in the crook of Clown’s neck. If the way Clown tilts his head to let Spoke nose in deeper is any indication, he’s not subtle. There’s something about Clown’s scent that makes Spoke’s mouth water, makes him want to linger. Like — solace, maybe. It’s fitting. The only times Spoke really feels content are when he’s running for his life or making someone run for theirs. Of course he can relax into the iron-salt tang in Clown’s neck.
“Almost there,” Clown says. The world gets darker. They must have walked into the cove. Spoke hadn’t even realized his eyes were drifting shut.
Clown pulls a heap of wool out of his inventory, arranges it in a semblance of a circle. “C’mon.”
Spoke lets his legs give out. The wool catches him. “You c’mon too.”
Clown makes a little noise, then clambers in much more carefully. He arranges himself so he’s half on top of Spoke. The pressure is delicious and satisfying.
Spoke breathes in. His shoulders relax for the first time in what feels like hours. He can’t smell any rot, any stone, any moulder. There’s nothing but Clown.
Some part of Spoke wonders if this is what having a pack is like. If Lifesteal weren’t so chaotic — if his alliances could ever stand the test of time — maybe Spoke could have this all the time. Maybe. But he likes the chaos. So probably not. He gets an approximation that’s better than he could imagine or deserve. It’s plenty. It is, after all, more than he deserves.
Spoke’s breath slows. Clown shifts, a little, like he’s getting comfortable. The most instinctual part of Spoke wants to be comfortable for Clown. For his Omega. Preserve this fragile intimacy.
The tide laps at the shore, a soothing susurrus. Sun shines warm over the world.
Spoke slips gently into sleep.