Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s on Scott, really. It’s his own fault.

He already knew it would be his fault, because who else would ever marry and settle down in a world where death is the imminent and ultimate goal? Who else would insist on staying in their own lane, their own little bubble, when everyone else wants their head? 

Who would ever presume to be so attached to a person they know they’re going to lose?

He’s angry at himself.

He sprints through the forest, ready for the walk of shame back to his scattered items, and he can already hear the teasing. It’s fine. They will not shoot him; there is still some form of honour among them, and he knows he has backup. It isn’t the best backup, but it’s backup. He’ll take it.

The comms have been mostly silent, apart from Grian’s death. Some part of Scott knows he should be more shaken than he is, but there’s no time for that. Grian’s still alive, so what does it matter? It’s not him he’s worried about. Grian will deal with it like the rest of them.

The trees start to grow more and more sparse. Soon, he’ll be out of the forest. He can already feel the sweltering heat of the desert invading the cool air of the woods. Invading feels like the right word, although in their case, it’s not just coming from the desert; it feels like everyone wants to invade everything, like their ravenous hunger can only be sated once they have the entire server to themselves. It feels unfair. It is unfair: can’t Scott keep just one little corner to himself? A single, little valley? Nothing but flowers and cattle and Jimmy. It doesn’t feel like he’s asking much.

But no, it’s either helping the Desert or giving into Dogwarts, and making it by themselves is not an option anymore.

Scott wishes, not for the first time, that that fucking barrier would just let him out.

When he finally reaches the bunker, Jimmy isn’t there. That much is to be expected, of course; the escape route was put there for a reason. 

More concerning than that are Scott’s missing items. He can’t find them anywhere, yet the desert is empty. No sign of his allies or his enemies.

Grian must not have come back yet. Maybe he joined Scar and Jimmy, wherever they are, but if that were the case, how come none of them have reached out to Scott? How is he supposed to know where to meet them? He halfway expected it from Grian and Scar, but not Jimmy. 

A thought hits him like a cold shower.

They’d better not have turned on us.

He flips around, casting a glance all around the desert. The sweltering heat makes the air ripple and waver, but even so, it’s clear that no one’s there.

There was no death message for Jimmy, but that doesn’t mean he’s fine. Where is he?  

Scar is unhinged at the best of times. Grian is not to be trusted. They knew that, they both knew that, but it seemed like the best choice at the time.

Was it a mistake?

“Scott!”

He turns his head just in time to catch the top of Grian’s head popping out of a hole in the sand. Then his hands, his arms, his shoulders. Finally, in a painful-looking move, he pulls his wings free and shakes the hot sand out from between his feathers. He seems dishevelled, shaken, and predictably, he has been entirely stripped of his armour. Not the face of a killer, but people have made that mistake before.

Scott stares him down: “Where are Jimmy and Scar?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you?”

Grian beats the sand out of his cloak: “No, I don’t. They’ll be on their way back by now, though.”

He pauses. His feathers ruffle slightly: “Why do you ask?”

“Just asking.”

“They aren’t dead, Scott.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re fine,” says Scott, coldly. His ally does not seem to catch on to what he’s implying, though, which is mildly reassuring. Maybe nothing happened. Maybe their respective partners just got a little caught up in something along the way. Like always.

It could be nothing. Maybe they got distracted trying to tame a wolf. Maybe they somehow got lost on the way back. Maybe they'll send a message any second.

Maybe they’re fine.

When Scar comes back, he is alone.

Grian breathes a sigh of relief that sounds a little too much like annoyance: “Oh, Scar, you took your sweet time, didn’t you?”

“Nooo…” says Scar, unconvincingly. He looks a bit worse for wear, bruised and dirty, and sporting a new cut on his cheek. But he’s fine, so none of that matters to Scott. Unlike…

“Where is Jimmy?”

They both turn to him, but neither talks.

“Where is he, Scar?” Scott repeats, sharply.

Scar seems to find his tattered cloak very interesting all of a sudden.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. He’s like a child being caught stealing. Scott has little patience for children, and none for Scar. He stares them both down, scanning for any sign of an understanding between them. He doesn’t find it. Grian is confused and Scar is guilty.

Scott backs away. He wishes he had his sword, but unfortunately, it must be wherever the rest of his items are. Grian is unarmed too, but Scar is not, and that puts Scott at a net disadvantage.

Again, he asks: “Where is he?”

He could make a run for it, but it’s not going to be all that useful if they have Jimmy. 

“I know you know, Scar.”

That’s all he wants to accuse him of. If Scar doesn’t have Jimmy, it’s best not to encourage him.

But Scar seems really guilty, and it’s not a good look on him.

“I really don’t know,” he admits, “I actually don’t know. I lost him along the way.”

“You lost him? ” Grian parrots, annoyed, “You guys had one job.”

“Two, actually.”

“How did you lose him?” Scott interrupts them, “Where?”

Scar pulls nervously on the neck of his cloak. It barely covers his muscular chest, but it was all Grian could get him to wear. If Scar wasn’t so grey and sickly, he would look almost innocuous, but Scott knows better. 

He doesn’t answer right away. Scott can almost hear the gears in his little businessman brain turning and squealing under the strain. He is liking this less and less by the second. 

The beginning of a threat slips out: “If you’ve betrayed us—”

“I haven’t!” Scar defends himself, quickly, “I didn’t do anything! I followed the escape route like I was supposed to, and he didn’t! I don’t know—”

Scott keeps looking up at him as he rambles on, tapping away at his communicator without taking his eyes off of the desert dwellers.

You whispered to SolidarityGaming: where are you

You whispered to SolidarityGaming: we’re all back near the bunker

“—what happened to him, but I think— I think I heard—”

You whispered to SolidarityGaming: jimmy hurry up

You whispered to SolidarityGaming: please

“—something breaking.”

That gets his attention. His head snaps up: “What broke?”

“It sounded metallic.”

Grian smacks his own forehead with his palm: “The door!”

The door.

They got in.

Scar gulps a bit. “I heard screaming, but I didn’t think…”

He trails off.

Scott quietly walks around the bunker towards the entrance. The iron door lies on the ground, caved in by five strikes of a pickaxe. There are too many sets of footprints. 

And there is a little red poppy, trampled and slowly drying in the heat of the desert.

His communicator buzzes.

Rendog whispered to you: Don’t say a word.

“Scott?”

He turns to look at Scar, standing in the open doorway.

Scott puts on a smile: “He got confused and ran back home. I should go.”

They don’t question him.

Chapter Text

They let him into the castle without question, which can only mean one thing.

You’ve all been expecting me.

He doesn’t trust that for a second, and if they had taken anything else, he wouldn’t have shown up. If it had just been his items (and he suspects they have, indeed, taken those too), he wouldn’t have bothered. But they know exactly what gets to him.

Scott is a lot of things. He’s sharp, and mean, and he knows he can be judgemental and rude sometimes; but he is loyal, damn him, and he can’t even imagine betraying those he is close to. He can’t even picture abandoning them. And he knows it makes him predictable, but it’s the one thing he can’t force himself to do.

He can’t abandon Jimmy.

It wasn’t in their vows, though their vows were admittedly very short. Not this, specifically. But then, Red Winter was so far away back then.

Still…

I take you for my lawful husband, 

It wasn’t very lawful at all. A poppy in place of a ring.

to have and to hold from this day forward, 

Nestled together in a little valley.

for better, for worse, 

Jimmy didn’t abandon him no matter what happened.

for richer, for poorer, 

They didn’t care about ruling the server or whatever.

in sickness and in health, 

Red and green. Red and yellow now.

until death does us part. 

They’re frightfully close to that parting.

Caged bird, useless spouse; he doesn’t want that moment to come.

I will love and honour you all the days of my life.

He promised.

Scott made a promise.

He doesn’t let the King speak. If he did, he’d be there for hours, just listening to him droning on and on and on. And it would have been fine, if the matter wasn’t so urgent.

Doesn’t mean Scott will make it obvious.

“You know, you could’ve just asked to speak to me,” he says. It’s sharp, mocking, but no more than usual. He can’t show his heart.

The King is not alone, of course. His right hand stands beside him, and the sword he’s holding looks suspiciously like Scott’s. Showing that, indeed, they have his items, and they’re not afraid to show it.

Great.

The King’s toothy smile is hollow: “Would you have come?”

Good question. Scott isn’t sure, actually. He might have, just to hear him out. But then, they’re far enough into the game that he does not trust him as far as he can throw him.

“Yes,” he half-lies, “So can we talk without threats? It’s not good for negotiations.”

Long, hard nails tap the arm of the throne. They’re more like the claws of a wolf than the nails of a man.

“Very well,” the King concedes, “There will be no need for threats if you agree to my terms.”

Scott hums the anger away: “That is a threat, Ren…”

“It is not. I haven’t made threats yet, have I?”

“I guess not.”

“You have nothing to fear from us. All we want is a bit of assistance, and then you can be on your way.”

“Both of us?”

“Of course,” says the King, almost softly, “I know loyalty. I understand loyalty. As long as you remain loyal to him, and to me, you have nothing to fear.”

Oh, yes. Of course he does. Scott catches the King’s head shifting to shield Martyn from his gaze. 

“Uh-huh.”

Betray me, and he dies first.

He’s not going to say that yet. That’s a threat for a rainy day if he’s ever seen one, because he knows it will work. To be entirely fair, Ren is not a bad king. He’s just an absolute bastard to everyone that does not work for him. But those few select people he’s taken under his wing?

Oh, that’s where he’s weak. Two can play at that.

“Do you accept?”

No, says the petty side of him, but he knows that’s not a viable option. That’d be suicide whether Jimmy is there or not. He can’t refuse outright. But he can attach a few strings to it.

“Not yet.”

The King raises his brow: “What is keeping you?”

This is the time to make demands. But he can’t go overboard with it.

“First of all, I’m not agreeing to anything until I’ve seen Jimmy,” he starts, “And I want to see him every time. ”

Just because he’s not dead doesn’t mean he’s not hurt. And Jimmy does not know when to stop, ever, so that is a cause for concern. Scott chooses to focus on the not dead part for now. He can’t think about the other part yet. The hall of the castle is the worst place for a breakdown.

The Red King’s claws tap an irregular beat on the throne: “Acceptable.”

Acceptable. That’s better than nothing, but it doesn’t bode well.

“What else?”

“I get to stay yellow.”

It doesn’t technically restrict him. Under direct orders, he is still allowed to kill, so it shouldn’t be a problem.

“No.”

Nevermind, then.

“Why not?” he demands, “You know I can still kill for you if you ask.”

“If I ask. Exactly. But I demanded tribute from you long ago, and you refused.”

“So this is you being petty?”

“This is me giving you another chance,” says the King, coldly, “It is a favour seldom granted.”

Scott is not overly attached to his second life. No more so than any other player. Jimmy is red, Cleo is yellow, and if he had to choose, he’d rather go before either of them. But he remembers exactly how they got on the Red King’s book.

Jimmy got on that list because he didn’t want Scott to end up on the altar. Some husband he would be, if he did exactly that.

“I’ll have to say no, sorry.”

The temperature seems to drop.

Scott bites back the instinct to apologise. Tyrants don’t like being told no. Tyrants get violent when they’re told no. And logically, Scott knows he’d be overpowered in an instant.

If he can’t talk his way out, things will end in red no matter what.

“You forget yourself, Major.”

Scott freezes. He suddenly understands why the King promised Red Winter.

It’s like a curtain of snow has fallen over the room, and it’s ready to turn into a blizzard. The King’s eyes, though scarcely visible behind his glasses, stab into Scott and pin him in place like a butterfly.

He can’t move.

He almost gasps when those icy eyes finally move away.

“My knights,” calls the King, “Kindly show our guest to the cells.”

Cells, plural. 

He doesn't think they're going to lock him up, but logically, the cells would be…

"Remember that I can kill you both."

I know, snaps Scott's mind, but he decides it's probably best to remain silent. They must be going to where Jimmy is. It would be unwise to defy them right now. Scott wouldn’t be willing to die for the sake of an insult even if Jimmy wasn’t involved. To be honest, he’s not willing to die at all, if only so their place in the King’s black book wasn’t for nothing, but he suspects he will have to.

He bites his lip. It’s not hard to imagine what’s going to happen. It is scarily easy, in fact, and Scott has to actively focus on keeping his imagination in check. It’ll do him no good to torture himself with things that aren’t, and will never be, real. He won’t let them be real.

If it comes down to it, he will die.

Chapter Text

The cells are not half as unpleasant as he pictured, but they are far too small. Scott frowns.

There appear to be twelve cells. Excluding Ren himself, and presumably Martyn, that’s enough to imprison every single player; Scott would love to think it’s a coincidence, but they’re not that lucky, are they?

They’re all the same size. The cells, that is. The players, on the other hand, are not, and there is not nearly enough space for an avian to stretch out their wings. Scott glares at the bars like they have personally attacked him. Wasn’t it bad enough that they couldn’t use their wings? 

Scott has vague memories of the waiting room ; the void before the game. He remembers Grian trying to steel himself when he thought no one was looking, and he remembers the pain on his face once the button was pressed. His back arching, his hands trembling, his feathers splaying as the muscles in his wings cramped and ached. 

No unfair advantages, he explained, and it didn’t feel like his own decision.

Scott knows the pain’s bad enough when they’re allowed to at least stretch out their wings once in a while. Jimmy has asked him, several times, to help him open his wings to their full potential, just so it wouldn’t hurt as much. Jimmy has been quiet and irritable every time he hasn’t had a chance to do so.

What the hell are they thinking, keeping an avian in a tiny cell?

He meets Etho’s eyes across the cell block. He knows he must be glaring, because Etho shifts just a little; he knows exactly what he’s done. They all know what they’ve done.

If this game has to end with their deaths, Scott hopes they’re painful.

Skizz nudges him forward when he stops to examine an empty cell. “No, not that one,” he says, almost teasingly.

Yeah, I never would’ve guessed , he thinks. But he keeps it to himself, because it’s really not the right time. He wishes he could snap at him like he deserves without risking his life. Their lives.

"Which one, then?" 

They don't answer him. Instead, they simply escort him to the end of the corridor and then move aside, so he can finally see inside the right cell.

The very last cell on the right.

Scott doesn't grab the bars; he doesn't fall against them, rush to the door, reach out a hand. It's not because he doesn't want to. It's because it would be a blatant show of desperation and, as the saying goes, beggars can't be choosers. The second he starts begging, any chance of negotiation goes out the window, and he really can't afford that.

Instead, he gets as close as he feels he can get (just close enough to stand between the Red Army and the cell), and simply looks inside.

As it turns out, Jimmy's been quiet because he is not awake. Not dead, of course: everyone would have known if he was, but the communicator stops at deaths. Because that's all that matters to the gamemakers; deaths this, lives that, and no consideration for everything else that hurts. What's a concussion? What's a broken leg, or cracked ribs, or a stab wound? It's fine, because it heals, right?

What a joke. The pain's still there. They've all been beaten and stabbed and set on fire at least once, and they're just supposed to ignore that.

Scott hates this game.

"Jimmy," he calls out, as softly as he can manage without sounding weak, "Are you awake?"

He isn't. He doesn’t even stir. 

To be entirely fair to the Red Army, as oxymoronic as that is, he doesn't appear to be too severely wounded. Not compared to the last time Scott saw him, anyway; he's sporting a few new bruises, and the position his wings are crammed into is uncomfortable at best, but he's not dead, dying, or showing signs of torture, and that is already better than the vast majority of Scott's imagination suggested.

His expectations were low, and his speculations were even darker; he can’t help but breathe a small sigh of relief.

He does need to check, however. Jimmy does not have his communicator, and for all Scott knows, that could mean that if he died, it would not be reported. And Jimmy's skin has been pale and ashy ever since he turned red. He looks dead.

Logically, he should vanish once killed. But they have yet to see anyone lose their final life, so it may be different.

Scott can’t help himself. He reaches through the bars, just enough to press his fingers against his husband’s wrist.

He holds his breath. If they killed his husband, someone is going to die today.

But no. It's faint, but it's there: a mostly-regular, mostly-healthy pulse. The same as always. It is the same pulse Scott has heard in his ear when he held his husband before, and there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it.

He sighs quietly, and hopes the relief doesn't shine through too much.

"He will remain unharmed as long as you comply."

Scott freezes with his hand still around Jimmy's wrist. It looks like the King has finally deigned to step off his throne.

"Yeah, I figured as much."

"I'm not a monster, Major. I'm only trying to win."

"No." Scott flips around to face him: "You don’t need me that bad. You just want us because we refused you. You want us under your rule because we didn't just accept it like good little boys."

His tone turned mocking at some point. He doesn’t even remember when it was, to be perfectly honest. He just knows he's angry.

The room is turning cold again.

The King frowns: "That's enough of the attitude, lad."

"And would you stop it with the accent, Ren?" Scott snaps, and he knows he's baring his teeth like a dog now, and he knows he's antagonising the King like he said he wouldn't, but he does not know why: " Lad this and lassie that. It was funny the first time."

"If you want—"

"I want you to leave us alone! "

Scott comes back to himself when the room falls silent. 

His back is pressed into the bars now, covering the door to the little cell almost entirely. He doesn’t remember when he got so close to it. He doesn’t remember how the conversation started.

He only knows that he screamed at the Red King.

Somehow, he was not prepared for when the temperature drops again; he doesn't think he will ever be prepared for the icy wrath of Red Winter, and he doesn't know if he will ever escape the blizzard.

No use denying it: he made a big mistake.

He broke the icy surface, and now it's his time to sink. The King’s voice feels like a cold shower when he speaks again: "Someone has to be on that altar," he says, "I thought you might have a life to spare, but if you'd rather put him out of his misery, I will not object."

" No. "

"I thought so."

The altar can barely be called an altar. It is nothing but a cobblestone platform and a chopping block that clearly hasn't been washed. Scott briefly wonders if they've ever bothered to clean, and then laughs bitterly to himself, because it’s not the time or place to wonder about cleanliness.

They made him sleep right next to the bloody altar, to avoid complications. Unsurprisingly, not much actual sleep happened.

His hands are tied behind his back, with one Knight holding each arm, because clearly promising compliance was not enough. The King sits quietly on his right, and naturally, there's Martyn, clutching an axe in a white-knuckled grip. Right. He's done this before.

"Consider this a rebirth," says the King, "The beginning of a new life requires the end of the other. When you wake, we shall welcome you to our ranks."

Some welcome this is, he thinks, bitterly, but he knows better than to provoke them now. If he has to die, he'll die with dignity, and not spitting curses at his future allies. He keeps his chin up, meeting the King's eyes behind his glasses.

I want you to know that I hate you.

The sentiment is not acknowledged, because it’s obvious. Why should they bother?

He's pushed down to his knees, more roughly than is strictly necessary. He'll remember that. He'll remember all of it. He'll keep it all in mind until the day comes where he can repay them.

The order's been given. It must have; Martyn couldn't do much without it, and there he is, trying to position himself for the best possible cut. How very kind.

The axe comes up.

Scott can’t bring himself to close his eyes, because Jimmy isn’t there, and he's the only person in this castle that doesn't deserve to see this. No, he'd rather stare at the King instead. Just to see if he can stomach what he asked for.

The only consolation he has is that Jimmy won't know of this. Not as it's happening, at least.

With some luck, Scott could even explain it to him, in person, before anyone puts ideas in his head. Before anyone presumes to explain why Scott broke his promise and let himself die.

He still feels awful, and he will until he's forgiven. If he is forgiven.

Jimmy, I'm sorry.

The axe comes down.

Chapter Text

Floating in the void never lasts quite as long as they want it to, does it?

It’s much like waking a few minutes before the alarm sounds, and falling asleep again. A few precious seconds of peace, and then he’s violently ripped out of that peaceful numbness by the sudden, overwhelming feeling of his throat closing up.

He catapults up in bed, clawing at his neck to get whatever is choking him away from him, and finds—

—nothing.

He can breathe again, just like that.

Martyn’s axe is still dripping with blood, and yet there Scott is again, completely unharmed by game standards, because in the game, you only die thrice, as the saying goes. And until then, you’re fine.

Rebirth, indeed. Every bit as painful.

“He has joined us,” says the spectral voice of the Red King.

Scott’s voice is rough and pained, but that’s not going to stop him: “I’m working for you, ” he corrects, “That’s all. Don’t try to spin it.”

The King doesn’t fight him: “Of course.”

He really doesn’t care, does he? Scott means nothing to him, no one but his court does. Which leaves him in the unfortunate position of either being disposable, or beloved by the last person he wants to be linked with. He isn’t sure which is worse. All he knows is that this is probably as close as he can ever get to the King.

And he’d be a fool to waste that.

He’s ordered to act as usual. Keep it quiet. There’s no better way to get to his allies, is there? He knows that, he knows what’s at stake, but he has to wonder if he will actually be able to do anything. He thinks he’d be able to kill most of them, individually, if it came down to it, but if he was told to kill Cleo… 

Not to mention, if a group attacks him, he may be doomed. He has to be careful; they will have no use for Jimmy if he dies, which means that both of their lives are at stake here.

He bites his lip, struggling to focus on the chickens in front of him. They stare expectantly at the seeds in his hand, oblivious to his turmoil and the brewing war. That’s all they care about; food and water and being alive. They don’t seem to mourn when one of their own dies. Maybe they just grieve in a different way, but then, there’s no way for them to negotiate, and… oh great, he’s envious of a chicken now.

He throws the seeds on the ground, watching the chickens scramble and fight over them. Well, now it’s a perfect metaphor.

He wants out. He wants out so bad.

Please, he prays to no one, sitting against the fence with his eyes closed. He’s not sure what he’s praying for; freedom, revenge, simply a break? All of the above? No, he’s not that desperate yet. They can still make it out of this. They can still…

Scott hides his face in his hands. Who is he kidding? He’s alone against the whole server, his captors have the upper hand, and escaping would cost him his spouse. Lying to himself won’t do him any good.

It’ll take a miracle to save them, no, several miracles in a row. Scott doesn’t know of any god who would grant him that.

Why is he like this? If he had to be mean, emotionless, sharp, then why couldn’t he be heartless? It’d be easier. He can’t do this. He can’t do this. Why did it have to be Jimmy? Why did it have to be them? Why couldn’t it happen to anyone else?

What have they ever done?

He growls into his hands. He wants, more than anything else, to have the King begging at his feet. But there’s only one way he can do that, and it would be… complicated. And Scott still has a lot to lose, unfortunately.

He will still try it. It’s the only way he can get Jimmy back without risk of being betrayed.

And Jimmy is his priority, don’t get him wrong, but the second he’s out of that cell, and safe, it will be war on the King. Silent, bloody war.

The valley is not quiet by any means, but without Jimmy there, it feels almost entirely silent. Soundless. It's like being underwater.

He hopes he can make the King hear that same silence; it wouldn’t be easy, but in the right circumstances…

Scott shakes the thought out of his head.

Blood sings in his ears. More, it demands. More, more, always more. Is this why they wanted him to be red? It’s hard to think through the thick haze of violence that hangs over his mind; it’s hard to plan anything except revenge. That one is staggeringly easy to plan, actually.

He has to remind himself that the revenge he’s planning has a purpose, a reason behind it. It’s revenge that will save Jimmy if he plays it right. That is what he needs to focus on: as long as he loves, he is still human. He wants to be human, he has to be.

How did Jimmy hold out as long as he did? How did he ever manage to think through the bloodlust? He hasn’t displayed any sort of violent behaviour and, while Scott is not surprised that Jimmy hasn’t hurt him specifically, he is quite shocked that no one else has been on the receiving hand of Jimmy’s wrath either. He just hasn’t changed. How did he manage that?

Scott smacks his temple, chastising himself for getting distracted again. He can’t think about Jimmy right now. He can’t give in to the loneliness of the empty flower valley.

Focus.

He’s going to go along with what he’s told, for the time being. Mostly.

Right now, he has no leverage; while the King is by no means dismissive of his knights, he has cells ready for them too, so any one of them isn’t necessarily going to work. No, he needs to aim higher. If he’s going to have equal leverage, he needs Martyn, and he needs him to be red.

And he can’t kill him all by himself, obviously. 

That’s a few too many things working against him, and Scott has no one to pray to for good luck. No, whatever gods may be watching him, he knows They hate him. They hate Jimmy, too. No one else is going to save them; they are alone, and if they die, they die in agony. It’s all up to Scott now, and the best he can do is hope he’s good enough.

In other words, they’re doomed.

The night brings even more silence with it. In the light of the flower valley, no monsters ever seem to wander in, the animals are sleeping, and Scott is alone. Completely alone.

He can’t breathe a word of what's happening to any of his allies, he's not allowed to stay with Jimmy in the cell block, and he's definitely not going to talk about his feelings with any of the people that are causing them. So, he's alone.

He can’t stand to stay in the flower valley a minute longer. Trying to sleep is hopeless for so many reasons, if he goes back to Dogwarts it'll look very suspicious, and he knows he can't handle a conversation with any of his (former?) allies in his current state. His best bet is to gather resources for a life he's not going to have, and damn if that isn't the most depressing thought he's ever had, but it's all he can do. Who knows, maybe the exercise will make it all better, like so many healthy and stable people like to tell him. Hah.

He heads out the gate with his pickaxe slung over his shoulder. They were nice enough to return his items; only once the negotiations and his execution were complete, of course.

He didn't even get to see Jimmy awake, but maybe that's for the best. Maybe Jimmy would've been as frightened of Scott's red eyes and deathly pale skin as he is, and Scott can’t handle that today. He knows it would shatter him, and so he keeps to himself, as most solo Reds tend to do. It's not difficult, when the greens and yellows avoid him like the plague. Which is too bad, really, because according to Ren, a select few people are on a kill on sight list now, and Scott is acutely aware of how eager he would be to kill some of them right now. The desert people, of course, are at the top of Ren's list, and honestly, he can't disagree. It's their fault Scott is in this mess; it's Grian’s fault for getting them roped into a battle they couldn't win, and it's definitely Scar's fault for not even trying to help Jimmy. He would love to hunt them down right about now, see how Scar likes losing his partner.

Scott freezes in his tracks.

What is he thinking? He doesn’t hate them that much. It's not actually their fault, either; it's Scott's fault for being a bad ally and a worse husband. That's been well established by now. He wasn't angry at them before, so why…?

Oh, yes. Right.

Scott hates being red.

He brings the pickaxe down on some exposed coal, and pretends it's the King's skull. It doesn’t feel any better.

Scott spends the night in the mines. After all, he can't be blamed for not killing someone on sight if he doesn't see them in the first place, and everyone's far too busy worrying about the coming war to go caving at this point.

But isolation doesn't protect him from himself; in fact, the lonely blackness of the mines only makes his thoughts louder, until not even the continuous clangs of the pickaxe can drown it out. So he leaves the underground, and the rising sun greets him at the exit. He's been out all night.

His bag is heavy with all sorts of ores and gems; they clink in its many pockets, and if Scott was thinking straight, he might have realised what kind of unwanted attention that sound would draw.

A crossbow bolt grazes his neck.

Scott jumps back, startled, raising his shield just in time to stop a second bolt from piercing his stomach. Four tall men in heavy woollen clothes grin from the darkness of another cave.

Pillagers.

Scott knows what's on their mind: easy prey, they must be thinking, looking at his unimpressive stature and casual clothing. Four against one. They're not wrong to be so confident, and if they had caught Scott alone like that a few days ago, they might have won. If they had met him when he was on green, when he wasn't so desperate to stay alive, when he still had his husband, they probably would have fared well against him. But Scott has had an awful day and a terrible night, and spent most of it itching for a fight as the red curse screamed in his ears, demanding blood. So those four just made a huge mistake.

Scott wants to glare, but his mouth pulls itself into a painful grin, and the red curse carves one single word into his brain:

Finally.

Chapter Text

When Scott feels his limbs again, he is covered in blood, and none of it is his. 

He drags himself to a tree and falls against it, barely feeling the way the rough bark scratches his back. It should hurt more than it does, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of adrenaline, or because he simply doesn’t care. He can’t bring himself to care.

He can’t bring himself to stand again, either. His legs feel weak and his lungs are burning and he can’t feel his hands for a moment; when he does feel them, they’re warm and slick with blood.

The pillagers are all dead. But it was self-defence, it was nothing new, it’s the same thing he’s always done.

No, it isn’t.

He disposed of them in a matter of seconds. The last man was dead before he hit the floor, but Scott didn’t stop. There’s barely anything left of the man’s back after five strikes of his axe. The other three aren’t much better. 

Scott somehow manages to crawl over to the bodies. They’re worth looting, at least. He knows no one’s listening, and still he prays to whichever entity found him entertaining enough to let him live this long.

Please, tell me they have it.

Please.

He pushes one of their severed heads away to look into his pocket, and—

There.

He slips the item deep into an inside pocket of his bag. It’s better if no one knows he has it, for now. 

Scott tries not to look back at the bodies as he leaves. He fails.

He jumps in the river, outside the valley. He doesn’t want to taint their pond with pillager blood; it’ll be a pain to clean up if Jimmy comes back.

When, he reminds himself, when. Not if. Jimmy deserves to come home, even if it’s only for a minute. He lets himself sink a little; please, he prays to no one, please, he doesn’t deserve this. 

He wants to see his husband again. He doesn’t necessarily want Jimmy to see him, but if he could just hear his voice again, that’d be nice. If he could just be completely, unequivocally sure that he’s as safe as they say. If he could persuade them to give him the space to stretch out his wings, at least.

If, if, if. He needs to stop giving himself more if s to think about; he already has far too many.

The cold water is strangely comforting, but he needs to breathe, unfortunately, so he drags himself out of the river and begins the trek back to his empty house with his shoes in one hand and his shield in the other. It’s well into the morning now, so his wet clothes aren’t bothering him too much, but he would still rather not catch a cold on top of everything else. He’s pretty sure an extra source of stress would strike him down instantly at this point.

But, as soon as he enters the valley, he stops dead in his tracks.

The door to Jimmy’s house is open.

Scott sees red for a moment. It’s not enough that his husband’s life is in danger, it’s not enough that he’s undoubtedly going to be in pain from where they’re keeping him, now someone’s trying to steal from him, too?

Whoever he finds in there is as good as dead.

He makes sure to shut the door loudly as he walks in, just so they know they fucked up. It doesn’t work as intended.

“There you are!” Grian exclaims from downstairs, “Where have you been? I haven’t— Oh.”

He looks mildly disappointed when he sees who it is. And mildly terrified.

“Hey, Scott,” he says, stealing a few too many glances at the jagged red line that adorns his neck, “Red looks… good, on you?”

“Thanks,” Scott mumbles, dryly, “I think green looked even better.”

“What even happened?”

Scott lets the long-practised lie fall from his lips: “Just bad luck, really. I ran into Ren and Martyn on my way back and they chased me down.”

“Oh.”

“It’s fine.”

Grian taps his foot nervously: “Right. Right. Hey, where’s Tim?”

“Caving, I think. We’ve been trying to get some better gear.”

Another lie he’s had time to think about. It’s easily believable, given what Scott is carrying, and so Grian doesn’t question it: “Oh. Okay.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I just haven’t seen him in a while,” shrugs the avian, “Which is weird, because I usually can’t get rid of him. I figured I should check on him.”

“Right. How’s Scar?”

“Scar?” he repeats, and his feathers ruffle a bit, “Scar’s fine. Why?”

Of course Scar is fine. The man died twice in the span of an hour and then somehow became immortal. Grian is lucky.

“Just saying,” Scott hums, vaguely, “You do know you two are, like… at the top of Ren’s kill list, right?”

Grian laughs, maybe a little too high-pitched: “Yeah, well, he has to catch us first.”

Scott tries not to grit his teeth too hard. Grian is a lucky, lucky bastard, and he doesn’t even know it. It’s hard not to snap at him. But he manages, somehow, because there’s more important things at stake. No, if he’s going to do this, he needs a better plan.

“Yeah, obviously,” he nods, “He has to catch you first.”

A plan begins to form. 

“But you’re not at your old base anymore, right?”

Grian shifts nervously: “Ah. No. We’re kinda in hiding.”

“Have you set your new spawn yet?”

“Our new spawn?”

“Yeah,” Scott nods, leaning against the wall (conveniently blocking Grian’s exit), “I mean, there’s not much point for Scar to do that, but you? You know, they could just ambush you and then have someone waiting for you at spawn, while you’re on red and you don’t have your gear. You wouldn’t have much of a chance.”

He’s essentially revealed his plan, but Grian is buying it. His feathers ruffle again, and he winces a bit, clearly pondering what Scott said.

“I guess I should do that,” he admits, finally, “Somewhere hard to find.”

“We do have a secret room, if you want.”

He says it as lightly as he can. It has to look like a casual suggestion.

Grian seems to consider it. For a ridiculously long time, he stands there and looks around in a series of quick little head tilts. Like a bird. It’s endearing until it’s annoying, and Grian is known for being annoying sometimes.

“I’ll talk about it with Scar,” he decides, finally, “I don’t owe him anymore, but I can’t just up and vanish on him.”

Yeah. Wouldn’t that be just awful for poor Scar?

Scott shrugs, trying not to clench his teeth: “Our doors are open.”

“Okay,” Grian nods, as Scott reluctantly moves to let him out.

It’s not easy. Scott knows he could just kill him, not take any risks with the King, but he knows negotiation is not impossible. Maybe it’ll actually gain him some extra points if he can find a better way to get rid of Grian.

Scar is a bigger problem. He’s unpredictable. If Grian dies, he’ll either fall apart or become the biggest threat in the game, and if it’s the latter, Scott does not want to be the poor bastard that incurred Scar’s wrath.

He needs to think this through.

“Scott?”

He’s snapped out of his thoughts when Grian turns back to him as he’s reaching the top of the stairs.

“Yeah?”

“Say hi to Timmy for me.”

Maybe he will. Maybe it would be a much needed breath of normalcy.

“Okay, I will.”

Grian leaves.

Scott sits on Jimmy’s bed. He could keep Grian’s visit to himself, but that might backfire if someone finds out. Then, there would be no way to negotiate. No, he needs to come forward himself.

You whispered to Rendog: i need to talk to you.

He closes his eyes, sitting on the bed with his back to the wall. Jimmy never makes his bed, anyway. It’s still undone from the last time he actually got some decent sleep, in a bed, and that should be where he always sleeps. His pillow is all squished; he always sleeps in the same spot.

It feels like forever before the comms buzz again.

Rendog whispered to you: Permission granted.

Scott clutches the pillow to his chest.

Sorry, Grian, he thinks, you’d do the same.

He makes the bed, like always, and leaves.

Chapter Text

“You let him go?”

Scott almost regrets his decision. The King’s voice rattles his bones every time, and it’s getting worse by the day. More and more, it feels like talking to a ghost; a ghost who can destroy everything he has, but a ghost regardless.

“Yes,” he forces himself to say, “For now. If my plan works, I can take both of his lives instead of one.”

The oppressive atmosphere lets up, just slightly.

“Your plan? ”

“Yes. Look, I told you, I’m working for you now. Do you really think…” he catches himself in a bitter laugh: “Do you really think I would risk my husband for Grian? ”

He knows that was mean. But it’s not false, not really, and it’s no worse than Grian would do.

The King dryly replies: “I think you would rather see me dead.”

Also not false. And they both know it, so Scott does not deny it: “Yes, but I’m not that stupid, Ren. We both know what happened the last time I followed Grian into battle. I’ve learned my lesson.”

He has, he really has. He’s never going to trust those two menaces again. They may not have screwed them over intentionally, but they're so careless, and Scott still isn't completely sure that Scar didn't just abandon Jimmy the second things went south. He can’t be sure. The Desert faction work solely for themselves, and Scar might have just thought that dead men tell no tales.

Scott is not even completely sure they're loyal to each other, to be honest. Grian was acting more like a reluctant babysitter than an indentured servant, even after he lost his first life. Does he even like Scar? Well, that doesn’t really matter. What matters is, even if Grian doesn’t care about Scar, the opposite is not true.

Which means he has some leverage against at least one of those menaces.

The King tilts his head and, for just a moment, Scott pictures it falling right off his neck. It’s not hard to imagine. There’s a line around his neck, forever red, and Scott can’t see the back of it now, but when he caught a glimpse of it during the battle, he’s sure he saw a starburst scar where his neck met his skull. Scott knows he bears a similar scar.

"Very well," the King concedes, "As long as you kill who I've told you to, I will permit these deceitful methods."

Scott smiles bitterly: "I'm on my own, Ren. These are the only methods that will work, unless you want me to be the first to go."

"I do not want that, no. It was a lot of trouble getting you here."

Of course it was.

"Well, don’t worry. I'm working on a plan for everyone."

That's only half of a lie. Scott already has a contingency plan for everyone he's not friends with. Which is not weird, Jimmy.

"Good. Very good," nods the King, looking genuinely pleased, "You are a worthy addition to the Army, as I thought."

The thought almost makes Scott gag.

"Thank you," he croons, pretending his skin isn't crawling.

"You being alone will be a concern later, however. Once your plan is executed, everyone will know where you stand."

"Will they? Maybe I just hate Grian."

"I would not blame you for that," hums the King, "But someone is bound to notice your new allegiance eventually."

"Or the fact that Jimmy's been silent?" Scott challenges, carefully, "You know, Grian’s getting suspicious."

"Let him. I doubt he cares enough to act upon it."

Scott's jaw goes tense. That might be true. Grian hasn't been nice to Jimmy once , and Scott is just someone they can recruit. To both sides, it seems. Scott really wishes he hadn't been so public with his marriage, but it's too late now. Besides, something tells him Grian would know anyway; the little bastard always knows too much for his own good.

"Right," he says, finally, "That's true. He's probably just gonna ditch us."

The King looks almost sympathetic.

"Yes," he agrees, "He is. They are both disloyal, self-serving criminals. And you are too much trouble for them now."

Scott fights the instinct to yell at him. The casual reminder of how alone he is stings more than any potential betrayal from Grian, and all of a sudden, he is once again aware of how the King has him in chains. It's easy to forget. Ren was so warm and pleasant once, and whenever it shines through the King's icy eyes, it hurts.  

The fight drains out of him. There's nothing he can do now, except make his humble requests.

"I know," Scott admits, "I know. But now that we've discussed this, I have a favour to ask."

As expected, the King is a lot more amicable after that display of loyalty, but he's still wary. Which is absurd, with how compliant Scott has been, but whatever.

"Yes?"

"Can you please put Jimmy in a bigger room?" he asks, quietly, "He can’t stretch his wings in there. That's going to hurt a lot if it keeps up."

It must already hurt. But he doesn't want to think about that.

The King's rigid posture softens just a bit: "I hadn't considered that. Right, of course. I will arrange for that at once."

It sounds more genuine than it has any right to be, and Scott doesn't know if it's politeness or gratitude that makes him blurt out: "Thank you."

"Now, do you want to see him now or after your mission?"

His what now?

" Mission? " Scott frowns, "I guess… I guess that depends. What's the mission?"

"I would like you to gather supplies now, while everyone still trusts you," explains the King, "My Hand tells me there's a fortress that has yet to be raided, and we have been intending to visit it."

"And you want me to go with him?"

Oh, this is perfect. Sure, they're probably just trying to supervise him, in light of his recent solo adventures, but if his assigned guardian is Martyn… 

"You will have a better chance if you go together, yes."

Scott does his absolute best to keep a wicked grin off his face. He can’t look too happy.

He forces himself to sigh: "Fine. Then I'll see Jimmy now, please."

It's the Nether, and Scott is red. If something goes wrong, at least he will have said goodbye. Subtly. He is absolutely not going to tell Jimmy where he's going, thank you very much.

The King nods: "I will have a better room prepared while you're away. In the meantime, I'm afraid he will have to stay where he is."

"Yeah. Just hurry up."

Scott has been given a permit, which would be funny if the knot in his stomach wasn’t quite so painful. It’s literally a scrap of paper, declaring Scott is allowed into the cells for an hour. It’s hilarious that he essentially got a glorified hall pass, but an hour is a generous amount of time compared to what Scott was expecting, so he’s not going to mention it.

He shows Impulse the paper without looking him in the eyes. He’ll be a tough one to get rid of, when the time comes, and Scott is not going to think about that right now. Just for an hour, he wants to forget about all those plans. Just an hour.

He walks faster without even noticing it. It’s hard to notice sometimes how quiet things can get without Jimmy around. It was hard to remember how much he’s actually missed him until now, busy as he was with plotting and planning and deliberately not thinking about his husband. It’s almost more difficult to think about him again, but once he does, he can’t stop.

It’s all he can think about.

An hour should be enough to at least try and relieve the pains of a tiny cage. It hasn’t been too long, has it? If Jimmy’s been pulling feathers and they haven’t let him out, Scott’s going to kill them.

His breath’s picking up. No, no, no. He needs to calm down.

It’s their whole thing: Jimmy’s a ball of energy and Scott keeps them both rooted to the ground. He has to calm down, right now. This isn’t what they need; this is the last thing they need.

Breathe.

Calm down.

It's all up to you.

It's all up to Scott, and he hates it. If he makes a single mistake, they could both die. He's heard of the concept of soulmates, creatures that quite literally cannot live without each other; they live the same way and they die on the same day, just so they don't have to feel the pain of losing each other. It sounds awfully familiar right now: if Scott dies, there will be no advantage to keeping Jimmy alive, and if Jimmy dies, Scott will likely be put down like a rabid dog before he can think to avenge him.

Not quite the same thing as soulmates, perhaps, but it's all the same in the end. Ride or die, and all that.

Just for an hour, though, they can live without being in danger. No doubt Jimmy will have… concerns, but at least they won't be in danger of dying. What a staggeringly low bar for a good thing.

Scott takes a deep breath when the cell comes into view. What does he have to lose?

They either get out or die trying.

The first sign that something is very wrong is the complete silence in the cell block. The second is the look Impulse gives him as he's passing by. The third, and by far the most alarming, are the ashy yellow feathers strewn about the bars.

Scott is there in a second, and doesn’t quite know how; he was just at the other end of the room, and now he’s there, leaning against the bars.

Jimmy blinks up at him, clutching a handful of yellow feathers in his hand.

Chapter Text

"I-I don’t know," says Jimmy, before Scott can even ask, "I don't know what…"

Scott's hand is around his wrist. Neither of them knows how it got there. On any other day, Scott would be worried about his new tendency to black out, but his priorities are elsewhere at the moment.

"Have you been doing that a lot?" he asks, carefully pulling on Jimmy's wrists so his hands stay as far from his wings as possible. Jimmy has dropped the feathers in the same way a child drops what they stole as soon as they get caught.

“No, I… I didn’t even notice— Scott? ”

Jimmy’s brain finally catches on to what’s happening, and Scott finally remembers how long it’s been since they’ve seen each other. It feels like no time at all now. On some level, he knows he’s been agonising over Jimmy for days, yet somehow it feels like they’ve never been apart. Judging from Jimmy’s delayed reaction, he feels the same way.

But the reaction comes, alright.

“What are you doing here?” Jimmy whispers, with the face of someone who wants to scream, “They’re gonna see you! Oh…” He goes pale: “Oh, you’re red. Scott—”

“Let them see me, if they want,” says Scott, “They’re the ones who let me in.”

“ What? ”

Scott winces. It didn’t take long for Jimmy to drop the inside voice, did it?

“Calm down, Jimmy. They know I’m here, I got permission to see you.”

“How?”

Scott can’t really blame him for being suspicious. He knows he would be, if he was the one in a cell (and hell if he doesn’t wish he was); still, he feels a small pinch of indignation at the idea that Jimmy thought he would fall for an obvious trap.

But wouldn’t you, Scott?

Well, no, he wouldn’t. He would just walk right into the obvious trap knowing exactly what it is. There’s a difference.

He moves to hold Jimmy’s hands, instead of his wrists. It feels softer.

“It’s okay. You’ll be out of here soon. Can you trust me on that?”

“Yeah,” nods Jimmy, with no hesitation, “Of course I can. But seriously, what’s happening?”

“You said you trust me.”

“I don’t trust them. ”

“Fair enough,” Scott concedes, “But you know I’m not stupid. And they have nothing to gain from killing us right now.”

“Why not?”

The words die in his throat. How is he supposed to explain this? Don’t worry, I’m just being employed as a soldier so they don’t kill both of us? Don’t worry, you won’t die as long as I fight for them?

Maybe any sentence starting with don’t worry will inevitably contradict itself. There’s no way to stop Jimmy from worrying, and that’s probably for the best, because worrying is kind of warranted in this case.

Scott leans against the bars. It’s probably best to just be honest.

“They just want me to do some tasks for them,” he explains, “It’s nothing too insane so far. I can do it.”

“You’re red! ”

Oh, right. Scott awkwardly shuffles to hide the red line behind his collar: “It’s fine, Jimmy, it was a requirement.”

“So they can get rid of you?”

“Probably,” he says, frankly, “But I won’t make it easy for them.”

Jimmy squeezes his hands.

“I don’t like this,” he mumbles, leaning his head against Scott’s temple through the bars, “I don’t like this. What if you have to do something dangerous?”

“It’s a death game, Jimmy.”

“I don’t care. It’s you. I don’t want you to get yourself killed.”

For the first time in days, something in Scott’s heart stirs. And he remembers exactly why he chose to get married in the middle of a death game; it’s that sincerity, bordering on bluntness, that makes little forget-me-nots and cornflowers and bright red poppies blossom all over his ribs. His bones crack and strain under the pressure of the roots, but he welcomes the pain like a friend.

"I won't get myself killed," he promises, holding Jimmy's hand tight, "I will live until all the other factions are gone, and then we will go home."

" Home, " Jimmy smiles. The word is sweet on their tongues.

They press their foreheads together through the bars. Feathers rustle and ruffle as Jimmy tries to turn himself over to a more comfortable position. He fails.

"It's okay," Scott repeats again, softly, "They'll put you in a bigger room soon. As I've requested."

Jimmy's feathers puff. The weirdest mix of anxiety and relief.

"And what did you give them for it?"

Scott cups his cheek: "Nothing. I asked nicely. See, it works sometimes."

"It works for you! " Jimmy huffs, "I just get a whole lot of nothing!"

"That's because I'm pretty."

"Oh. Yeah, that's true."

Scott chuckles, squeezing his hand. An hour isn't enough. He wants to talk like this forever, he wants to tease Jimmy for fussing so much, he wants to hold his hand just because he can, and he only gets one hour with him. One single hour for days of solitude.

It isn't fair, but none of this is.

His laughter tapers off quickly. He's not done, unfortunately. He is far from done, and he has an awkward question to ask.

"Jimmy?"

"Yeah?'

"Listen, when they… when they broke in…"

Jimmy winces, and it takes all of Scott's willpower to continue: "...was Scar still there?"

There was something very wrong with the way Scar was acting after the battle. He was nervous, even before Scott got on his case. His eyes were flitting all over the place and a constant blabber was falling off his tongue and Scott doesn't trust any of it for a second. Jimmy is the only one who will give him a straight answer. Ironically.

Jimmy stares blankly at him. His smile is gone.

"When they broke down the door, Scar was halfway down the hatch," he recounts, quietly, "I was trying to climb in after him, but someone tackled me. Skizz, I think? I can't be sure, you know, I was on my stomach, but…"

He shrugs.

Scott squeezes his hand: "Then what?"

"I looked at Scar."

"He was still there?"

"Yeah," Jimmy nods, "Sort of… frozen at the top of the ladder. We made eye contact."

"He didn't help?"

Jimmy shakes his head.

And Scott finally understands what seeing red means.

It is Scar’s fault, then, that they’re in this mess. It’s his fault that they’re struggling to survive in a deal that’s stacked against them. It’s his fault that Jimmy’s spent days in a tiny cell.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Scott decides, right then and there. He would have had to kill Scar regardless, but now he knows he’s not going to feel bad about it.

Jimmy doesn’t seem to agree: “It wouldn’t have made a difference,” he says, bitterly, “I couldn’t fight back, and it was the whole Red Army, what was he supposed to do?”

“ Help you! ” he explodes, “Like an ally! Like he agreed to do!”

He could’ve lost Jimmy. Just like that, completely out of his control, because Scar can’t take the alliance seriously. He could’ve lost Jimmy.

He paws at his husband’s shoulder through the bars, pulling him as close as he can. It’s an awkward position, and it shouldn’t be, and it only makes him angrier. But then a gloved hand runs through his hair and the red in his vision explodes into poppies and rose petals.

“Look,” says Jimmy, quieter than he usually is, “I’m not mad. I wasn’t expecting him to help when I looked over at him, it was… the odds were too stacked against us. They probably would have killed him, and then we’d still be in this mess, just—”

“—I’d have one less person to get rid of?”

“ Scott! ”

That was harsh. Scott has been angry for days now, safe for those brief few moments of contented happiness he experienced just minutes ago. The grief is fresh in his mind, and it’s tinging his every thought red.

He leans into Jimmy as much as he can.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “I’m just angry.”

“I know.”

“I still think he should’ve helped you. I would’ve helped you.”

“Would you have helped him? ”

The red mist dissipates almost immediately. When Jimmy puts it like that…

“No,” he murmurs, defeated.

The rest of their hour passes in silence.

When Martyn comes to get him, Scott doesn’t even have time to say hello before a handful of tools and potions are dropped into his lap.

“Okay,” he blinks, “Nice to see you too.”

“Don’t look at me like that, you’re already over,” says Martyn, waving a clock in their general direction. He’s weirdly jovial for someone who interrupted the reunion of two doomed lovers, or whatever.

“Right.”

Jimmy yawns, reluctantly shifting away from Scott’s shoulder. His feathers do that thing they do, where they ruffle and shake from top to bottom, like a little wave of fluff. It’s every bit as adorable as it always is, and Scott fights to keep the smile off his face. Even now, even like this, his heart is warm.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells his husband, softly, “Before you even know I’m gone.”

“I doubt that.”

“Humour me.”

Martyn has the decency to look away as they share a kiss. Or maybe he’s ashamed of himself, but Scott decides not to let himself wonder about that. He’s not going to give him the benefit of the doubt right now. It wouldn’t help either of them.

After all, Martyn’s about to die.

Chapter Text

“You’re quiet,” Martyn helpfully points out.

Nobody plans a murder out loud, of course, but the fact that that didn’t cross his mind is a very good sign indeed.

Instead, Scott shrugs: “I haven’t slept much. You know, the stress.”

Technically, it’s true. And both of them know exactly what the aforementioned stress is. But, as Scott intended, the casual remark shuts Martyn right up.

Their gold boots clank, clank, clank against red soil. They’re uncomfortable, far too soft to be of any real use, and they are a pain to get out of if they’re even slightly damaged, but they keep the piglins sufficiently distracted. Scott ponders whether he could use the piglins in his plan, but Martyn’s boots are practically new and he’s obviously not stupid enough to be persuaded to take them off. The plan’s not entirely discarded, just… really far in the back shelf. 

A ghast is too loud. Too easily avoidable.

Magma cubes are laughably easy to outrun.

Zombie piglins won’t attack Martyn unless he attacks them first, and that could only be left up to a fortunate little accident.

That leaves blazes and wither skeletons. They’re going to encounter them regardless, since they’re going to a fortress, and they’re both pretty formidable opponents, but not for Martyn. He’s fully decked out in enchanted armour, and his fighting skills are nothing to sneeze at.

There is one option Scott particularly likes, if he can get it to happen. Fortresses are fairly high up, usually above massive lakes of lava; armour or not, they’d be enough to kill anyone regardless of skill. The huge problem, of course, is that Scott can’t be the one to knock him off the edge, because even if Martyn doesn’t notice, the comms will tell everyone, and the King won’t take excuses.

So, the best option right now is to be an awfully distracted partner. Plausible deniability is his friend, and as long as he looks sufficiently frazzled afterwards, Martyn won’t suspect a thing. Probably. He wouldn’t have gone to the Nether with Scott if he thought Scott was going to try and murder him. At this point, it’s his own fault.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts when Martyn bumps his shoulder.

The fortress stands tall in the distance, absolutely brimming with wither skeletons and blazes. Which is perfect, provided that Scott doesn’t get himself killed; and he won’t, he can’t get himself killed.

“Just like old times,” comments Martyn as they break through the wall of the fortress and gather nether wart. Yes, just like old times, except that Scott didn’t hate him enough to kill him back then.

Scott hums an acknowledgement. He’s not going to be all that friendly, because it would be suspicious if he was. Let Martyn stew in his guilt, if he has any. If he doesn’t, good. It makes it a lot easier to kill him.

The red curse demands blood, but it's too soon for that. Scott forces the bloodlust down by strongly reminding it that, if he just waits a little longer, he can get away with killing Martyn more than once.

It doesn’t hit him until much later how messed up that is.

Scott lets Martyn grab the majority of the loot, with the excuse of standing guard. That way, if the lava plan goes through, Dogwarts loses out on some potentially vital items. If Scott has them, he'll be asked (or forced) to hand them over eventually, and what would be the point then?

Besides, an inattentive sentinel is less likely to die than an inattentive robber.

Martyn did think to block the wither skeletons' passage, but blazes are harder to keep out; when the distinctive fwoosh of fireballs reaches their ears, Scott is quick enough to put up his shield, but Martyn, elbow deep in a wooden chest, is not. He screams when his shirt catches fire, and Scott's heart is beating out of his chest, but he has to put up a good show.

The red curse screams with joy as his axe splits the blaze's metallic body down the middle. He tries to restrain it when two more slip through the gap, then three, then five; Martyn’s somehow put himself out, but he has no time to heal when they're both being pelted with fireballs on all sides.

"I think we're done here!" Scott yells, and for once, Martyn seems inclined to agree. He begins to slowly back away towards the wall they built behind them, towards the bridge. The bridge that is still crawling with wither skeletons.

Scott knows he's not likely to be blamed for protecting himself in this scenario. He's red, after all. All he has to do is make it out alive.

Come home from the war, as the saying goes. The priority is surviving, and if Martyn dies, it'll be a nice bonus. 

Two of the blazes quickly fall to their swords, but they're forced into defensive positions immediately as all the others pelt them with fireballs. Martyn is still nursing his side, which doesn’t bode well for him.

He’s starting to panic.

Good.

“Cover me!” he screams in Scott’s general direction, “Scott, I need to eat, just—“

What an unfortunate time for Scott to get stuck fighting a wither skeleton. How unlucky it is that it seems to have a lot more health than it should.

“ Scott! ”

“I’m a little busy!”

The sweat glistening on his brow probably sells it, because Martyn goes back to focusing on the blazes without another complaint. The scorching air above the lava lake is not the only reason for the sweat, of course, because that skeleton wants them both dead, but it’s convenient.

Just a little longer. Scott tears his eyes away from his unfortunate mission partner the second he catches sight of the wither skeleton that’s trying to sneak up behind him.

Plausible deniability.

Scott fights, and he waits, and he waits, until finally—

“Agh—“

A strangled scream. Among the cacophony of metal and fire and bones, there’s a horrid sound of torn flesh.

Scott looks back just for a moment, just to watch the necrotic infection of the wither skeleton’s sword blacken and burn through Martyn’s skin, but he’s forced to turn back immediately to hide the wicked smile spreading across his face.

InTheLittleWood withered away.

Martyn’s stuff is weighing him down. It’s annoying, but Scott will get in trouble if he doesn’t bring it back.

You whispered to InTheLittleWood: i got your stuff

InTheLittleWood whispered to you: come back then

Easier said than done, Martyn. Dying and respawning is so much easier than having to retrace steps, but Scott can't afford that, of course, because he just had to be turned red.

Case in point, the ghast that's currently out for his blood.

Scott speeds up just in time to avoid the blast that landed just behind his heel; the explosion propels him forward, and he staggers for a good ten steps before he's fully regained his balance. And it's all because Martyn can't clean out his inventory to save his life. Literally.

The enormous spirit screams in frustration. Scott would love to know what’s going on in its mind, or in the mind of any of those monsters that hunt them. They probably don’t have a mind, in retrospect; they’ve been put there to be another dangerous thing, just in case the conflict and the hunger and the environmental hazards aren’t enough to kill them all.

Something is bound to end them. It just happened to be a war this time.

Scott drops to the ground just in time to dodge the explosive charge. It lands a few feet in front of him, sending scraps of soil and quartz flying over him. He thinks, vaguely amused, that perhaps it will make his hair a little more sparkly. Then maybe Jimmy will be too distracted by the shine to see the blood on his chin.

He just has to make it there first.

The portal is in his sights now. Scott quickly pulls himself to his feet, because the ghast is not the only thing that’s after him, and he has no one to watch his back now. He quickly bounces the next projectile off his sword, sending it directly into two of the wither skeletons chasing him. The sound of bones cracking and clacking as they fall to the ground is almost soothing.

The glow of the portal tinges the grey basalt purple.

He speeds up, ignoring the pain in his knees.

The ghast’s final cry echoes in his ears, his stomach turns, his legs go weak, but he’s through.

Scott collapses on the grass outside Dogwarts, and his eyes close before he knows it.

He doesn’t dream.

Chapter Text

Scott feels nauseous.

He feels before he sees or hears; he’s swaying a little, left, right, back and forth, and his arms brush against something soft. He sinks his fingers into it, again and again, feeling the pleasant fluff of… 

Then the ringing in his ears stops and Scott freezes. Someone is singing.

It’s a bastardised version of Never Gonna Give You Up, which is bad enough, but what really gets him is the voice behind it. He would be scared, or angry, if only he wasn’t so goddamn tired.  

He groans loudly, burying his face in the llama's fluffy side.

"There he is!" chirps Scar, walking just ahead of him, "Welcome back to the land of the living, my friend."

"Thanks."

"Goodness! You sound horrendous. "

He does, he really does. No use denying it.

"I passed out?" Scott croaks, too weak to pull himself off the llama. It's not exactly an affirmation, it's not really a question; honestly, it's more like a I'm nearly sure that's what happened but please confirm or deny.  

Scar nods: "Why, there I was, peacefully frolicking across the planes, when what do I see but Mr Smajor himself falling on his pretty face right outside of Dogwarts!"

Weird. The portal should have been inside the walls.

"Uh-huh."

"And I figured you'd caught heatstroke or something, down in the Nether. You know, all that lava."

"Sure."

"So I was taking you back to a nice, shady place," Scar nods, "To recover, and all that jazz. Heatstroke happens all the time. Grian got it the other day 'cause he insists on wearing all that stuff."

"You're thinking of clothes, " Scott deadpans, staring at the ground so he's not staring at Scar's exposed thighs. It's a miracle the man hasn't been burnt to a crisp in the desert sun.

"You don’t need that many!" protests Scar. His cane goes tap, tap, tap against the stone beneath them. Just above his ankle, the thin red lines marking the fall that took his second life are plain to see. And, having a good view of his back, Scott can make out the silhouette of the explosion that took the first.

Jimmy has a similar scar, running along the entire left side of his body, but the discoloration really shows when contrasted with Scar's tan. And he's not hiding any of it. Quite the contrary, actually: intentionally or not, the torn cape draped across his shoulders is worn in such a way that it covers the healthy skin and leaves the scars and the cracks out for the world to see.

It's impressive. It doesn’t make his significant lack of clothing any less awkward, but it's impressive.

"Should I take you back home?" asks Scar, "I know you're still living there. Grian set his spawn where you told him to, by the way. We were gonna tell you as soon as we saw you, but you've been such a rare sight lately."

"I know. I've been busy."

"Must have!"

Scar begins to hum something that sounds an awful lot like Take On Me, but it's hard to tell, because he stops dead in his tracks after three seconds and turns back to Scott: "Seriously, though. You wanna go back? I don't want Jimmy to get jealous of me looking after your poor boiling brain."

Scott pauses just a beat too long.

Wouldn't he love that right now. He was planning on visiting Jimmy, in fact, before his own body decided it was the perfect time to go on strike. But he's pretty much stuck with Scar, precisely the person that locked him out of that simple domestic scenario.

He manages not to grit his teeth too hard: "Yeah, sure. I don't think he's back yet, but it's fine, I have water and healing potions anyway."

Scar takes a little too long to answer.

"Man, I haven't seen him in days." He smiles.

You don’t say.

"Yeah, we've had to double down on looking for materials," Scott lies, "I've just come back from the Nether, and he's probably off somewhere caving again."

Scar nods, but doesn't attempt to keep the conversation alive. Which is probably for the best, because Scott is way too dizzy to keep up the façade for long. The flower valley isn’t far, thankfully.

Pizza n°2 bleats plaintively.

“Oh, I know,” Scar coos, scratching its neck, “I know. I’ll give you some nice water soon, yes?”

He proceeds to talk to the llama like it’s a baby for several minutes. Scott decides to tune him out, for the sake of his sanity. Looking at Scar now, he can’t reconcile his goofy chaperone with the person he was ready to kill just hours ago. It’s confusing.

Besides, the sooner he gets back home, the sooner he can just return Martyn’s things and be done with it. Hopefully Scar doesn’t stick around for tea.

By the time they reach the flower valley, Scott has at least recovered enough to sit on the llama’s back instead of hanging limply off its side, which is an improvement, but apparently not enough to convince Scar to back off.

“I’m fine, ” Scott repeats for the nth time, trying once again to close the door in Scar’s face without making it look too insulting.

Scar pushes back, again, and Scott is too exhausted to hold the door: “Ah, but what if you fall again? You know, putting your bed so high up…”

He clicks his tongue in disappointment, and Scott fights the urge to just punch him out the door. He’ll take a lot of jabs, but he does not appreciate the insinuation that his building style isn’t good, thank you very much. It’s an insult to his pride as the builder in his relationship.

“It’s fine, Scar.”

Somehow, Scar seems to be tired of arguing, because he steps back with his hands in the air, dramatically, and loudly proclaims: “It’s your funeral!”

It will actually be his funeral if Scar doesn’t get off his back. His and Jimmy’s.

“Yeah, yeah, good night,” groans Scott, pushing the door back to how it’s supposed to be. Closed, that is. He leans against it, hearing the tap, tap, tap of Scar’s cane and the thump of Pizza’s hooves hopping down the side of his little mountain house.

He stops breathing when they pause. He starts breathing faster when they start coming back towards him.

It takes all his energy not to flinch when the cane taps against the door he’s sitting against.

“You know, Scott, it’s funny that you’re still living here,” says Scar, “Considering that you told us to find a secret base, and all that.”

Scott remains silent. He doesn’t even breathe, because Scar hasn’t bothered to raise his voice at all, which means that he knows Scott is still at the door. Scar isn’t stupid. It’s easy to forget, with his reckless and overall goofy persona, but Scar isn’t stupid, and he’s certainly not innocuous.

The cane taps again, lightly. Once, twice, and then three more times in rapid succession.

Silence.

Scott’s lungs are starting to burn. 

He gathers his knees closer and closer to his chest, and listens.

After what feels like hours, Scar’s uneven steps finally move away from the door. 

“Well, I’ve got to bounce!” he chirps, as loud and cheerful as usual, “Get some rest, buddy!”

He doesn’t. Even after the tap of Scar’s cane has long since been swallowed by the bleats and clucks and buzzes of the flower valley, Scott still can’t move.

In the silence of his home, his racing heartbeat sounds like hooves on the grass.

Chapter Text

Hours later, that’s how Martyn finds him, still sitting against the door. It’s night, but funnily enough, Scott doesn’t notice that until the door swings open and moonlight draws Martyn’s silhouette on the ground.

“You didn’t come back,” says Captain Obvious, once again. Scott is tired of him already.

He gives Martyn a wry smile: “Scar insisted on taking me back here. What was I meant to do?”

“Fair. Can I have my stuff back now?”

Scott hands it back without a fight. It’s not worth being prickly. It looks like Martyn would have been fine to wait anyway, considering that he’s got full armour (that isn’t his), but then, Scott was taking a long time.

“The portal was outside,” he says, quietly, “It wasn’t the same one we came in through.”

Martyn snatches his chestplate out of his hands. He is not in a good mood.

“Yeah,” he huffs, “You can thank your husband for that.”

Scott freezes. Something in his chest gives way to the crushing weight of panic. What has Jimmy done? What’s happened to him?

Fuck, Scott should have told him to stay put. What has he done this time?

“What happened?” he asks, a little too quiet, a little too cautious. The red curse is screaming, so he has to whisper.

“He tried to run while they were moving him,” Martyn explains, visibly annoyed, “I guess he was trying to reach you, because he went straight for the portal.”

“So you broke it?”

“ Ren broke it.”

Scott’s heart drops into his stomach: “Ah.”

Jimmy isn’t known for being cautious, but this is a step further than usual. What was he thinking? Clearly, he isn't dead, but that is the bare minimum, and Scott hasn't been paying attention to his comms.

He scrolls up, quickly reading back the messages he missed, but as always, there is no mention of Jimmy whatsoever. It's like he's been erased from existence.

It's not fair.

"He's fine," Martyn chimes in, pushing Scott's right hand away from his face, presumably so Scott will pay attention to him and not the communicator, "I think they still moved him, too. They weren't going to, after that stunt, but a deal's a deal."

“He’s not hurt?”

His voice came out too quiet, again. Too weak. He’s cracking, slowly but surely, and they’re going to use it against him. Logically, he should be scared of that, but when Martyn shakes his head, a flood of relief drowns out the fear. Jimmy isn’t hurt. It’s a damn miracle, but he isn’t hurt.

“Better put a leash on that one,” Martyn comments, far too lightly. He changes his tune with a single look at Scott’s face: “No, I’m joking. But do tell him to stay put.”

“I was going to.”
“Not fast enough, apparently.”

That is true, and it’s on him. He should’ve known.

Scott drags himself to his feet, but his vision swims and swirls and he has to brace himself against the wall. Maybe he really did have heatstroke. Running for his life across lakes of lava is probably not good for his health.

“Let’s go back.”

“Now?”

“I’m going back,” Scott warns, more firmly, “In or out, Martyn?”

Martyn sighs heavily, slinging his sword over his shoulder: “I’m not going with you. That’d be suspicious.”

True. And much better for Scott’s sanity.

“Then follow in a few minutes,” he hisses, “ I’m going.”

Scott can’t breathe.

Walking alone through the forest at night is unnerving enough without the threat of becoming a widower if he screws up. If he’s not fast enough. If Jimmy panics.

His walk turns into a jog before he knows it. Then a sprint.

He forgets about Martyn entirely, for a moment. With each thump of his shoes against the grass and gravel leading back to Dogwarts, he forgets a little more. He forgets about Scar’s suspicions, and Grian’s constant visits, and Martyn’s nonchalance, and the King’s icy red eyes, and the constant, crushing loneliness. 

All he can think about is just seeing Jimmy again.

But then there’s a thud and a cry and he damn near twists his ankle flipping himself around to see what’s happening.

Martyn is on the ground, his face concealed by the bright red curls of his attacker. He fell on his side, apparently, but he’s tall and strong, and Cleo’s flesh is rotting off. With a smack of his elbow, he knocks her to the side.

They’re on their feet quickly, rolling as far apart as they can and glaring each other down from opposite sides of the path. 

And Scott is smack in the middle.

Shit.

“You can’t do that! ” Martyn protests, high-pitched, “We’re both yellow!”

Cleo looks terrifying. The decay of her skin has spread since the last time Scott saw her, exposing her jaw and molars on one side, and the floating heart beating on her chest spreads a sickly yellow glow around the forest, on and off, with every pulse.

She levels her axe in Martyn's direction, accusingly: "You were chasing Scott, you started it. You wanna get back here and finish it?"

Scott freezes in place and Martyn frowns.

They have to lie, right? The King doesn't want everyone to know Scott is on his side. If he takes Cleo down to red, not only will everyone know where he stands, but he will have made an enemy of Cleo. Cleo. No one wants her as an enemy. Surely—

Before Scott can finish that thought, Martyn leaps across the dirt path, sword in hand. Cleo narrowly dodges a swipe aimed at her midsection, stumbling to the side and behind Martyn. She growls like an angry wolf, slowly moving backwards with her shield raised to stand beside Scott.

And Scott, frozen on the spot, is suddenly hit with the realisation that Martyn is hoping to chase her away.

And that's never going to work.

He makes a decision, then. He shifts his weight to his back foot, waiting until Martyn makes direct eye contact with him.

"Run," he suggests, and Martyn does, a split second before Scott pounces after him.

It must be an off day for Scott. He's every bit as fast as usual, but he misses with most of his attacks. How unfortunate.

They manage to lose Cleo when she gets caught up fighting off two creepers, but they don't stop running. Without saying a word, they run most of the way to Dogwarts. Only when they're on their way inside does Scott turn to Martyn, still panting from the chase, and hiss: " Why would you attack her?"

"I panicked!" Martyn huffs, sheathing his sword as the doors open for them, "I forgot you were there, honestly."

"Next time," seethes Scott, reluctantly putting his weapons away, "Next time, we take separate roads."

"Deal."

Their comms buzz.

ZombieCleo: scott?

He doesn’t even hesitate this time. The lie comes naturally.

Smajor1995: sorry, i lost him

Martyn nods approvingly.

InTheLittleWood: too fast for you  <3

ZombieCleo: sleep with one eye open martyn

Smajor1995: we'll get him next time

Grian: nice

Scott knows that it should feel like their usual banter. Instead, it feels like a knot in his stomach, because he is lying, and he knows it. The next time, they might not be so lucky.

They're quickly interrupted by Skizz's sudden appearance in the doorway.

"Hey, what's the hold-up?" he shouts across the room, "Throne room, now. You don’t wanna keep His Majesty waiting."

His Majesty can go straight to hell. But it seems he's already there.

Scott sighs. He knows he's not ready for this.

But he'll never be ready for this, and he needs to get himself and especially Jimmy out of trouble. They're in hell, alright, and in this hell, angels have their wings clipped and their halos drowned in red.

There is no way out.

Chapter Text

The King is fidgeting, tapping his claws on the arm of his throne. The sound makes Scott shiver. He looks like he's seething. The person holding both of their lives in the palm of his hand is angry. Perfect.

Jimmy, what did you get us into? thinks Scott, doing his absolute best to breathe like a normal person. It's hard. His chest still aches from the Nether and the chase; worse than before, in fact, a sharp pain spreading outwards from his sternum and stinging his ribs. He would go for a mocking bow, but he doesn't particularly want to die today. He waits for the King to speak instead, which, of course, does not take long.

"I assume you've been briefed," he says, coldly, "Your husband's been causing trouble today."

"I've heard."

"And you knew nothing of his plan?"

Scott grimaces: "Honestly, Ren, I don't think there was a plan. I think he panicked."

"If I may," Etho intervenes, and the King waves permission at him, "He was playing nice until he heard the Nether mission was going south."

He's completely calm, lounging on top of a support beam, lazily wiping down the sharp side of a diamond axe. In other words, he's just here for the drama. Scott has a strong urge to do some target practice all of a sudden.

"See?" He smiles, instead, "He just panicked. You know he's impulsive."

The King nods, not remotely placated: "Yes. He is," he spells out, dryly, "Which is why I have let it slide, this time. However, if this keeps happening, you do understand, I'll have to take more drastic measures."

The crimson mist in Scott's mind boils up and explodes into a million, blood red images.

He begins to nod, stiffly, but the cold eyes of the King find his own, and he freezes in place again. As the King rises from his throne, slowly making his way towards him, Scott's heart beats furiously at his ribs like a caged bird. It wants to fly away, but the bars are solid, and his limbs won't move.

Scott winces when the King's hand settles firmly on his shoulder. Even through his shirt and his jacket, he can feel where the fingers end and the claws begin, and he knows they're sharp enough to kill.

Shockingly, the King's expression is soft.

"You've done so well," he says, quieter than usual, "It would be a shame if your husband were to ruin what you've worked so hard for."

It would, wouldn’t it? But, though the Red King’s voice may convey sympathy, his claws leave him no room to move.

It's almost a relief when the threat finally comes.

"Do tell your husband," says the King, coldly, "that the next time he tries to run, I will have to break his legs. Did you hear that clearly, or should I repeat it?"

"No."

"No?"

"I heard you."

Scott knows he must be white as a sheet. It feels like the King's steely grip on his shoulder is the only thing holding him up. Like that's where his strings are.

But then the King lets go, abruptly, and somehow, Scott doesn’t fall. He gasps for air, swaying in place, but he doesn’t fall.

"Good lad," says the King, and before he knows it, he's dismissed.

Jimmy must know he's done something wrong. He must know, because when Scott is let into the cell, he's tucked away in the corner with his damaged wings brushing the floor.

"Hi, Scott," he says, very quietly, and even that pathetic attempt at a greeting dies in his throat when he sees Scott's face.

"Jimmy."

If Scott knows him at all, he'll start rambling or otherwise panicking any second. The air grows thick and awkward around them.

3…

2…

1…

"I'm so sorry!" Jimmy blurts out, covering his face.

There it is.

There he is. Scott tries, he really does, standing in front of the door with his arms crossed and a stern look, but he can’t keep it up. His shoulders slump looking at his husband.

“Oh, Jimmy, what were you thinking? ” he hisses. Jimmy doesn’t resist when Scott marches right up to him to check for wounds.

“I panicked!” he squawks, letting Scott move his head around. 

Scott frowns. Jimmy’s skin is red and irritated around his chin, which is slightly concerning, but more urgent than that are the traces of blood in his hair. Fresh blood that wasn’t there before the Nether mission. It stands out against the blond and golden brown of his hair.

“Why is there blood on your head?”

Jimmy winces in pain: “Don’t touch it, please.”

“Sorry. Why is there blood on your head?”

“Because Ren doesn’t trim his nails,” he quips, gently pushing Scott’s hand away from his hair, “Seriously, maybe we should give him a nail file or something. As a gift.”

“Stop.”

“If we gave it as a gift, he would have to use it.”

“Cease.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s so cranky.”

“Jimmy!” Scott scolds him, high-pitched. It comes out shaky, hiccup-y, but Jimmy grins like an idiot. Like they’re not where they are, like they’re not in danger, and it’s like breathing fresh air for the first time.

“Made you smile.”

Yes, you did.

He doesn’t say it. He can’t say it. The knot in his throat won’t let him tell Jimmy that he feels like a lifeboat in a storm right now, but he thinks it, and he feels it, and maybe if he feels it hard enough Jimmy will feel it too. He lets himself sink into his husband’s arms, buries his head in the crook of his neck, and breathes in the scent of wildflowers and blood.

“Jimmy, seriously,” he pleads, holding him tight, “Don’t try that again. Don’t ever try that again.”

He doesn’t fight it when Jimmy moves his head closer to his chest, cradling him close. Muffled by the thick fabric of Jimmy’s suit, he can hear the unsteady thump, thump, thump of his heart. It’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

But Jimmy didn’t answer.

“Jimmy?”

“Mh?”

“Don’t do it again. Don’t you dare. ”

The air hangs heavy above them, for a moment.

“I thought you were gonna die, Scott.”

He says it so quietly, like he only meant to think it, but then he cups Scott’s face to look him in the eyes, and no, he’s not talking to himself now: “Martyn died, he said you were surrounded, and everyone was distracted. What was I thinking? I was thinking that I was about to lose you if I didn’t do something. That’s what I was thinking.”

Scott’s jaw trembles. He knows that, of course he knows that, but he won’t lose Jimmy to this. He can’t.

He’s terrified, and so his voice turns to steel and his eyes turn to ice as he rips himself out of his husband’s grip: “I can handle myself, Jimmy. You are in a jail cell. Stay put. ”

Jimmy’s only intimidated for a split second; Jimmy’s too determined for his own damn good is what he is, and when he gets something stuck in his head, there’s no way to get it out.

“You could’ve died!”

“I know, okay? I know.”

“Then act like it, Scott!”

Scott shakes his head. It’s not fair. He’s trying his best. He doesn’t want to die, either; he took a calculated risk, and he made it out.

“That’s not fair, Jimmy. That’s not fair. You know I have to do what they say.”

“You would have done the same.”

“Not like that. Never like that,” he says, weakly, “It’ll just get us both killed.”

Jimmy reaches forward again, cupping his face, and the fight drains out of him. He doesn’t have the strength to argue anymore. It’s hard to be angry with the warmth of his husband’s hands under his jaw, brushing against his neck, smoothing away the fear. Maybe he was never angry in the first place.

“Scott?”

“Mh?”

“You’re not the only one that gets to be worried.”

He can’t answer that. Not because he disagrees, but because he knows Jimmy is right and he can never admit it. Jimmy has the right to be worried, he has the right to be protective, and he has just as much right to defend his husband as Scott does. But he doesn’t have the right to be impulsive and get them killed.

Scott isn’t being reckless. He doesn’t have a choice, and neither does Jimmy. They get to be worried, but they don’t get to be reckless. Jimmy is right, but he is wrong, too, and Scott can’t answer him.

When the time comes to leave again, he still hasn’t answered.

Chapter Text

Scott has to break the floor of the secret room. He doesn’t like it. It feels fundamentally wrong, sickening, almost: he’s breaking something Jimmy made, and he’s doing it to kill someone. Permanently kill someone, and their ally, at that.

He doesn’t know how Jimmy feels about Grian. He didn’t have the guts to ask him, knowing it won’t change the fact that Grian has to die. Maybe not knowing is better, maybe it’ll let him sleep at night in the off-chance that he survives long enough to start feeling guilty about everything he’s been doing.

He looks over at the bed with something akin to disdain boiling up inside him. The blanket is red, like Grian’s sweater. Of course he bothered to dye it.

Scott places blocks of solid obsidian under the bed, careful not to disturb it. He had to break the floor for this, and he will never be happy about that. Grian, on the other hand, seemingly had no such concerns: he seems to have dug a little nook in the wall for himself, and left himself a chest with a few tools beside it. Those will have to go, too.

He empties the chest and transfers its contents into one of the many Jimmy has lying around. Not that Grian will be able to go look for his stuff, but just in case.

The obsidian box is just big enough for Grian to stand in, just tall enough that he won't be able to climb out by himself, just tight enough that he won’t be able to open his wings to fly up. Just small enough that he won't be able to hide in a corner.

And it's fine, it is, but it's also a lot of work, and Scott has had a very long day. He's exhausted. More annoyingly, he's sweating and covered in dust, and that just won't stand, because it makes him feel like he's wearing someone else's skin: it's not painful, but it is viscerally uncomfortable, and he can’t handle it for even a minute longer than he has.

So, as soon as the last block slides into place, he makes his way to the pond outside, and then to the pool on the side of it, the one he dug out of the side of the mountain when people constantly invading the flower valley first became a problem. He moves aside the vines he grew for the sake of privacy. They flowered a few weeks ago, and now they're already starting to die, and Scott can’t really tell if he has been neglecting them, or if winter really is coming.

Whatever.

He tries to feel something, soaking in the warm light of the glow berries and the magical air of the pool, but his heart doesn't flutter anymore. 

These days, he's just angry.

It's only after a good five minutes sitting in the pool that he thinks to take off his shirt. It'll be a lot easier to wash if he's not wearing it, of course, but lately, it's hard to feel like no one's watching him. The feeling is absurd, but it's strong, and he can’t bring himself to ignore it altogether.

He slips into a deeper spot of the pool first, where the water reaches past his shoulders. It sloshes around him as he struggles to get his wet t-shirt off without drowning himself, despite how stubbornly the damn thing clings to his arms.

Eventually, he manages, tossing the shirt on a nearby rock where it will dry faster. Probably. Hopefully. In hindsight, he should have put a campfire next to the pool.

His chest is still unbearably tight. It's been that way ever since the Nether and, if he knew there was any danger of illness in this world, he would be concerned. He's not, because he wouldn't be any fun if he was ill, so why would They let it happen?

But the area around his sternum feels itchy and uncomfortable, in the same way that an infection sits in the lungs and scratches at the ribcage. Is he ill? He sincerely hopes not. It would be the cherry on top of his awful week, though, that's for sure.

He goes to scratch the itch, expecting nothing or a rash or perhaps just hair peeking out of the skin of his chest, but no. The bumps under his fingers are much too big to be hair follicles. And they're… soft, and cold, far colder than irritated skin should be.

Scott's head snaps downwards, and it's hard to tell in the penumbra of the cave, and it's hard to make out under the water, but it doesn’t take much to see the massive red stain spreading across his chest.

Scott nearly jumps out of his skin.

He crawls out of the pool on all fours, scrambling to retrieve his shirt even with no intention of putting it back on. Just to make sure he still has it. Just so he can cover up… whatever the hell that is, if needed. Bandage it, maybe.

But what he finds on his chest is not an open wound, not really, though by all means, it should be an open wound.

Starting just under the place where his clavicles meet, his skin has split in a clean, symmetrical line, right down the middle. It isn't a long cut, and it clearly isn't bleeding, but there's something red, alright.

Scott runs a hand along the right side of the strange wound, mesmerised. The petals are delicate and soft under his fingers, vivid crimson at the edges and deep maroon where the flower meets the stem. The marvel of a line of poppies blooming out of his chest quickly melts into nausea when he catches sight of something white under the red; somehow, he's able to recognise it as his sternum, and he's sure that, ideally, he should not ever be able to see it in his life. He turns his face away so fast that his neck clicks. His stomach churns painfully at the idea of his sternum being exposed enough to see daylight.

He shuts his eyes. 

Don't think about it, Scott. Don't think about it.

Is it really the weirdest thing he's seen? There have been plenty of mutations among the players since the beginning of the game; old wounds from old lives lingering and transforming, like the four-point star forever shining red on Tango's forehead, like Grian’s missing eye, like Cleo's constant decay. Like the red line on Scott's and the King's necks.

But this weird growth doesn't really correspond to any wound Scott has received. Sure, it sort of matches the area of the fatal shot that took his green life, but the wound the arrow left can't have been that large.

How long has the new mark been there? Since the Nether? Why?

Scott slowly pulls his shirt back over his head. Is it really worth it, asking himself all these questions? It's another mutation on a server full of them, that's all it is. He doesn’t need another thing to worry about, on top of the pile of nonsense he's already dealing with, and so he pulls his shirt down and pretends his bones aren’t a few fragile petals away from being exposed to the open air.

But even with his shirt back on, he can’t help it. His hand keeps running back to that weird spot just over his sternum, his fingers relish in the feel of something soft, and it's odd, but… it gives him the most comfort he's had since leaving Jimmy.

He finds himself clutching his chest when he sits on his bed and unsuccessfully tries to sleep.

At least it's poppies.

Chapter Text

The trouble with Scott's predicament is that it's far more boring than it has any right to be. It's absurd, and quite frankly devastating, how bored he is, when he and his husband could both die at any moment and the time to kill his own allies is drawing ever nearer, but the truth is, the downtime of that entire mess is just nothing. There's no action, no relief, just a lonely and silent flower valley and a ticking clock with no hands.

His heart is empty. It's been empty since the moment he left Jimmy's cell. Scott is tired of everything, but he can’t sleep; Scott could and would love to cry, but he can’t. No tears ever come, and sleep never graces him.

That's… fine. It's fine. He can spend the night out again, then. Just… carefully.

He would love to say that Jimmy was being difficult, but that would be a lie. Scott has been reckless (no use denying it), taking on four pillagers by himself instead of running, and then deliberately sabotaging his mission partner in the Nether. So, even though it's just a few everyday mobs, he will try to avoid them. As an apology of sorts.

That just leaves the flower valley, however. And the flower valley is lonely. Terribly, achingly lonely. He doesn’t last long.

Scott ventures out, just a few steps out of the gate… and is promptly jumped by a spider.

It catches him off-guard. The spider manages to bite his arm, deep enough to draw blood, and Scott jumps backwards with a panicked yelp and a clumsy swipe of his sword. He curses under his breath as the spider lunges for him a second time, but at least he's prepared now. He meets it halfway, sliding under it and stabbing up into the tender part of its abdomen; the spider's legs twitch one final time as it decays and dissolves into smoke.

"Rude" mumbles Scott, wiping the gore off his sword. He has a cloth set aside specifically for that. He would rather not walk around with spider guts dripping off his equipment, thank you very much.

Absent-mindedly, he picks up the spool of string left behind by the spider. It’s prettier than it has any right to be; thin strands of silver thread that stick to his fingers and catch the flimsy rays of moonlight above him.

It gives him an idea.

When Scott next leaves the flower valley, the sky is a soft shade of pink and the unfortunate zombies that were caught outside of their caves are going up in flames. With the exception of Cleo, they don’t generally have a brain, and it kind of shows.

Scott sidesteps a few burning zombies, not even bothering to cut them down. He doesn’t need to. They’re ridiculously slow and Scott is having a bad day; what the hell are they gonna do?

He reaches up to his neck. The wool of the banner is just a bit scratchy, but it’s warm, and soft, and it smells like roses. Most importantly, it covers that ugly red line on his neck, the one that looks far too much like the King’s.

But the banner? The banner is nothing like Dogwarts’: it is plain white, fading into blue, and it has a big red flower right in the middle. It’s theirs. His and Jimmy’s. He carries a second, identical banner in his bag, a proper gift for Jimmy and a proposal of sorts.

Just us. Only us. Nobody else.

We’re on our own side.

He clutches his improvised scarf closer to his neck. It feels good to smell roses for once.

“Cute scarf.”

Scott jumps. It takes all of his self-control not to swing his sword directly into a tree. It wouldn’t be very productive.

"Cleo!" he hisses, "You gave me a heart attack!"

She is sitting on the lowest branch of the tree Scott almost demolished, calmly swinging her legs back and forth. Which should be fine, but there's an energy about her that makes Scott take a step back.

She hums, casually testing the sharpness of her axe on the necrotic flesh of her hand: "It's not my fault you weren’t paying attention. That's pretty dangerous, you know."

"I know."

"That's a nice banner," she says, abruptly, "It covers up your scar well enough, but I have to wonder…"

"What?"

"I have to wonder if you're trying to match your new ally. "

Scott's heart sinks: "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, but you do." She smiles. The decay is starting to spread to her eye; the left is glazed over, greyish and glassy. It'll be gone soon. She hops off the branch to stand in front of him, and her smile dies: "I went after you yesterday."

What?

She couldn't mean… oh.

Scott hides his hands in his pocket so she won't see them shaking: "When do you mean?"

"When you were chasing Martyn. I figured he'd run back to Dogwarts, so I took a different route. I wanted to ambush him." She frowns: "But you? You were being awfully friendly with him."

Shit.

"I chased him all the way to the gates!" he half-lies, gesturing in the vague direction of Dogwarts, "I was just off my game yesterday because I haven’t slept in a week!"

"I saw you go inside, Scott."

Her voice is quiet, awfully quiet. She doesn't need to shout, after all; she has him all figured out, and he's a liar.

She tilts her head, letting even more of her rotting flesh show through her hair: "I saw you go inside, and I know you're not stupid enough to chase Martyn into his own base while you're alone and on your red life. You were in there for an awful long time."

He scrambles for another lie, and comes up empty. There are too many thoughts in his head, and yet none, all at once. He can’t come up with an excuse, but his mind is more than happy to provide a million red images of blood and death. He's been caught. There's only one thing left to do.

"Cleo," he pleads, quietly, "It's not what it looks like."

"Isn't it?"

She steps forward. He steps back.

"You can't attack me," he reminds her, quietly. It doesn’t make him feel any safer.

"I don't have to," she smiles, but cold fury shines in her good eye, "You'll attack me at some point, won't you?"

"I don't want to."

Another step. She comes towards him and he pulls away again.

"Cleo, please. "

" Please, what?" She hisses, raising the axe to his neck. It snags on the banner, and he can’t bring himself to move.

"Please don't make me attack you," he says, quieter and quieter with every word.

"I'm not making you do anything," she spits, "I'm asking you some questions, and I'd like you to answer them. "

"I can't," he stammers, "I-I can’t, okay? But I don't want to kill you, and I can't die right now. Don't make me choose."

"Please!" She laughs, bitterly, "As if His Majesty won't throw you to the wolves the second the Desert is gone!"

Yeah. He will.

"That doesn't matter right now! Just— just forget all this, Cleo, please. "

He's begging now, and he can’t bring himself to be ashamed of that: "Don’t tell anyone. Just… just trust me, okay? I'm trying to solve this, I—"

"So you are allied with them."

"Something like that. Look, that's not the point—"

"Then I don't see what the point is."

He gulps. Cleo does not take kindly to betrayal. And sure, maybe she wasn't officially his ally, but at least they used to have a common enemy. A Widows' Alliance. Now, if he fails, he won't even have that.

"Look, it's fine," he murmurs, mechanically stepping back again with the hazy intent to walk away, "It's fine. Just don’t tell anyone. Please, Cleo."

"You're begging a lot," she observes, "But you're not giving a lot of concrete reasons why I shouldn't cave your head in the second I turn red."

The red mist flares up.

Kill her.

She's dangerous, kill her.

You've come too far for this.

He closes his eyes for a moment, shoving the instinct to attack her as far down as it will go, but his voice still comes out harsh and aggressive: "Because I will defend myself. I can't die, Cleo. I will do anything not to die right now,” he growls, looking back at her: “Even if it means I have to kill you where you stand."

Whatever she saw in his eyes, it gives her pause. She steps back, just an inch or two.

Scott wants to laugh. He must look terrible if that was enough to get Cleo to back off; he must look like a wounded dog, a cornered animal, pitiful and yet ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. He must look like he has nothing to lose. It’s not true. It's worse than that: he has something to lose, and he will not, he can’t lose it.

“Leave,” he says, low and quiet, only loud enough for Cleo to hear.

And… she does. She keeps her eye on him for the first few steps, and then turns around to deal with a few stray skeletons. That’s probably why she doesn’t hear Scott’s comms buzzing.

Rendog whispered to you: Kill her.

Scott’s heart sinks into his stomach.

You whispered to Rendog: she’s gonna know

Rendog whispered to you: She already does. Kill her.

Her back is turned. It would be easy. It would be easy, but she would never forgive him, and he can’t, he can’t strike her down while her back is turned, it would be the worst thing he’s ever done.

But then Scott looks up.

On top of the hill, the King stares down at him with nothing in his eyes. War on horseback, clad in red, he looks more regal and more terrifying than he ever has before. He holds the reins in one hand, the communicator in the other, and even while typing, he holds eye contact, eerily still like the cold marble statue of a Roman emperor. Scott can’t move.

Rendog whispered to you: I will not ask again.

He can’t move. He can’t move, but he has to. The ringing in his ears sounds like the fading chirps of a songbird in the mines.

He clutches the handle of his axe until his knuckles turn white. She’s leaving. She’s leaving, and the King is watching.

She’s going to tell everyone.

It’s a direct order.

Everyone is going to know.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. The jig is up.

Everyone is going to know no matter what.

Scott lunges forward, aiming for the centre of Cleo’s spine. The axe finds its mark. It sinks into her flesh, cutting clean through her sweater, and a chilling, resounding crack lets Scott know that he struck the right spot. She can’t even scream as she falls face down just off the path.

The pulsing light of her heart blinks rapidly against the grass, yellow slowly melting into orange and then red as her body begins to dissolve into smoke. Her hand is still twitching. Scott feels sick.

Her good eye is staring straight up at him from where she lies in the grass.

It’s full of hatred.

ZombieCleo was slain by Smajor1995

Chapter Text

The messages start flooding in almost immediately.

Tango: woah

Skizzleman: uh oh

GoodTimesWithScar: :o

Scott starts walking back, mechanically. He’s vaguely aware of the ground beneath his feet, but all he can hear is the ringing in his ears and the intermittent buzzing of the communicator.

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

Grian: scott what was that

BdoubleO100: WHAT THE HECK SCOTT!!?!?

Smallishbeans: she’s red!!!! good for her!!! i’m gonna go hide now

A violent shiver runs up Scott’s spine. Yeah. She’s red now. She’s going to come for his head any day now.

He belatedly realises he left all her items lying on the floor. Maybe she’ll be just the tiniest bit more charitable if he puts them in a chest. The communicator continues to buzz as he gathers Cleo’s scattered possessions in his arms, but he decides not to look yet. It’s mostly just people being shocked, or amused, and his heart is beating too fast to worry about that.

He does need to write something, though.

Smajor1995: cleo i’m sorry

He doesn’t move or even get up as he waits for a response. It comes, eventually, and it’s every bit as devastating as he expected.

ZombieCleo whispered to you: you almost had me fooled there.

Scott nearly collapses against the tree behind him. It’s done. He’s done. Everyone is going to know what happened. His home is no longer safe, and no one is going to trust him; if there was any hope of receiving outside help before, it's gone out the window now. He’s going to have to move in with his captive husband and his unwanted allies and their terrifying king.

He looks up towards the top of the hill.

There he is. Right on cue, the King is trotting down towards him, and the air feels colder the closer he gets. He doesn’t smile, but his satisfaction is plain to see in his posture.

"Well done," he tells Scott, pulling the reins to ride beside him, "I must admit, I didn’t think you would be so efficient. "

Scott doesn’t say anything. He stares down at the ground, mechanically walking in the general direction of Dogwarts. He doesn’t want to give the King any other way to torment him.

The King, however, doesn't take the hint: "Why so glum?"

The situation is absurd. Enough to make Scott laugh behind the scarf.

"She's going to kill me," he chuckles, taking out his anger on the first unfortunate pebble that finds itself in front of his foot. It goes flying into the river, making a school of cod scatter in fear.

The King raises his eyebrows. His expression is painfully human.

"Fear not," he says, "You are under the protection of the Red Army."

"And Jimmy?"

"What about him?"

"Is he under the protection of your army too?"

"Of course," nods Ren, though his attitude suggests mild annoyance, "Unless, of course, you should choose to defect."

"We've been over this, Ren. I'm not that dumb."

"I know you aren't."

The King is riding at a walking pace to keep up with him. Clearly, he's in no hurry. Which is too bad for Scott, because he's never going to get rid of him at this rate.

And he's being so unbearably polite. Friendly, almost, acting like he doesn't bring down the temperature of any room he's in.

Scott is too angry to be nice.

"Cleo said the same thing," he hums, "It's how she figured me out."

"An unfortunate casualty of an unfortunate war."

Yeah, right. A casualty of the King's aim to cut everyone out of Scott's life, more like.

She's never going to forgive him. At this rate, he'll be very lucky if she doesn't shoot him on sight.

"So you'll protect me if she comes for my head?" he asks, too tired to sound remotely polite, “How generous.”

It gives the King pause.

"This attitude needs to stop, Major," he says, quietly, reprimanding him in the same voice one uses to scold a screaming child, "I told you before, you have nothing to fear from me or my army. Why all the struggle?"

Scott is so tempted to crack his spine with the axe in his hand next.

"I'm not gonna answer that."

The King doesn't insist.

It’s a quiet walk. There were no orders, there are no shackles on Scott, but there might as well be, because he has no choice but to walk beside the King. His King now, though the thought makes him nauseous. He’s been telling himself every day: I’m not one of them.

Is that even true anymore?

Is he a soldier, or a prisoner? He doesn’t know which is worse. It would be easier to believe he is a prisoner, but after this? No, no one is going to see it that way. For his own sake, he shouldn’t believe it either. There’s only one prisoner within those walls, and for the sake of his own sanity, that should be all Scott cares about.

More people have died in the past few days. Tango apparently got knocked off a cliff, BigB turned yellow while Scott wasn’t looking. People have died, the game has rolled on and on, he just hasn’t cared enough to take note of it. No one has lost their final life yet, so who cares?

But there’s still blood under his nails, and his chest still aches from Cleo’s venomous last stare. He feels sick. The crack of bones under the axe plays like a broken record in the back of his mind.

Without even realising, he draws a little closer to the horse. Only a step, only a few inches, but the King notices. And he almost seems to… to soften, damn him, although the air doesn’t warm up any.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says, too gentle for comfort, “Plenty of flowers can bloom in the snow.”

Not poppies. Poppies die in the snow.

Scott doesn’t say anything, though. He almost does, but then they’re turning a corner and a shout rings out and a shadow passes over them. It’s such a familiar shadow, and Scott snaps his head up so fast that his neck clicks.

Wings. That was the shadow of wings he saw.

The King’s wolf-like ears instantly perk up. He does not hesitate for a single second, cocking his bow and aiming it in the blink of an eye, and Scott almost screams: not again, please, not again. He almost does something very stupid, but then the figure clumsily, painfully gliding down above them moves past the sun. Scott breathes all the air out of his lungs, recognising the bright red and blue of the feathers, and being far too happy about it.

Grian has a bow trained on him, yes, but at least it’s not Jimmy.

As quickly as the shot was loaded, it’s released, and the arrow finds its mark, not in Grian’s body, but in his wing, right at the elbow joint, piercing into one side and out the other with a little spurt of blood and baby feathers. Grian lets out a piercing shriek as the injured wing folds like paper and the somewhat graceful arc of his flight becomes a terrifying, unstoppable fall.

He was already gliding on cramping wings. He goes down like a lead balloon, and Scott can’t look away. 

“ Grian! ”

Scar’s voice rings out. He sounds panicked, but Scott doesn’t look at him.

Time seems to slow down as Grian falls. Scott gets a good view of three more arrows piercing his side, his arm, and worse, his chest. It’s a shallow wound, just barely nestled between his ribs, but as he falls, Scott realises with a cold burst of clarity that he’s going to fall on his face, and the arrow—

Scott looks away just in time, but he can’t block out the sounds. A horrible crack, a thud, and a strangled cry, and when he looks back, the arrow has gone all the way through to Grian’s spasming back. The bloodied tip is just barely visible from under his shoulder blades, a little bubble of blood forming and popping over and over and over again with every strained breath.

He doesn’t have long. His eye, flitting about like a hummingbird, is already flashing red. He’s already beginning to dissolve by the time Scar bursts through the treeline, but that doesn't stop his partner from clumsily gathering the dying avian into his arms and making a run for it. It's not hard to see why; mere seconds after he successfully wrestles Grian into a position that won't injure him further, the entirety of the Red Army comes running over the hill and emerging from the woods.

They're laughing, crying victory as Scar rapidly backs away with Grian’s soon-to-be corpse in his arms, but they've seemingly lost interest in pursuing him.

"He's outnumbered," Scott observes, quietly. Neither Scar nor the Red Army seem to have noticed them standing there, and when Scott steps forth to join them, the King's hand comes down gently on his shoulder to hold him back.

"Yes. He is," he replies, matching Scott's volume, "But he isn’t your target."

Grian’s rattling breaths are starting to slow. His hand is already limp at his side and his neck is unable to bear the weight of his head anymore, arching downwards like a piece of rubber hose left to melt in the sun. He's choking like that, with his face turned upside down, and Scar quickly moves one hand to hold his head up to his shoulder, like an infant's.

"Do you see that?" whispers the King, and his grip tightens on Scott's shoulder. He can’t answer.

Yes, of course he sees it. It's right there in front of him, and he can’t look away. The desperation is plain to see in Scar's shaking hand. He's not even looking at the Red Army, or the King, let alone Scott; he stares down at Grian’s wings as they brush up dust, unable to hold themselves any higher.

Grian was doomed to fall by Rendog.

Scar doesn’t let go when the body collapses into a cloud of smoke. His arms hold the shape of his partner's long-gone limbs.

That's when the King leans down towards Scott's ear, and that's when Scar finally looks up and notices them.

The claws tighten around Scott's shoulder again: "You know what I want you to do, don't you?"

Of course he does. He spent the better part of a day preparing for this exact event, making sure it went off without a hitch, and this is indeed the moment they've been waiting for.

Scar meets Scott's eyes, and they both know.

The King abruptly shoves him forward: " Go! " he barks, and Scar starts towards the flower valley at the same time as Scott finally manages to break into a cathartic sprint.

But Scar needs that cane for a reason, and Scott is a healthy elven youth treading familiar ground; before he's anywhere near the flower valley, Scott has long since stopped hearing Scar's uneven footsteps in the grass behind him.

But he doesn't stop running, not when he's past the gate, not when he's burst into Jimmy’s house, not until he's flown down the stairs and through the painting to the secret room. Not until he's standing before the tall, narrow obsidian box. There's an increasingly panicked shuffling noise coming from inside, fingers and feathers straining uselessly at the thick and solid walls.

Scott can't help but find that noise familiar. He banishes the thought immediately, reminding himself that he swore never to see that sight again. This is necessary.

He pokes a hole through the top of the box and looks down at the frightened face of his captive.

He can’t bring himself to be sorry.

"Hi, Grian."

Chapter Text

Scott only has a few vivid memories from his childhood. Pictures with neat edges and bright colours, firmly stuck in the corners of his mind like polaroids in an album, and most of them are just… random things. One specific cup of strawberry ice cream, from one specific birthday party. A maths problem he needed help to solve. A single flower he plucked from the side of the road.

A bird caught in a thorny bush.

That one has always stuck with him; the way the poor thing flapped its little wings, on and off, again and again, less and less until it went still, is hard to forget. Scott remembers reaching into the bush, leaving long scratches and pinpricks all over his tiny hands as the bird renewed its efforts to escape the new threat. But Scott also remembers the pitter patter of the bird’s heart, first racing and then gradually slowing down when the giant that had dug it out of the bush didn’t try to eat it. He remembers that faint spark of love in his heart for the tiny creature, the thing that his friends called mercy.

He’s being reminded of the bird now, watching Grian’s wings beat uselessly against the obsidian walls. But that spark of mercy is gone.

“You keep trying that,” he hums, calmly, “But if you’re gonna do something, you’d better do it quickly.” 

He isn’t worried. Even if Grian could make a dent in the walls, he certainly couldn’t do it in time, not with his bare hands and talons, not before Scott kills him. But Scott doesn’t have a lot of time either, because Scar is undoubtedly on his way already, and Scott doesn’t want to be caught in the flower valley when he arrives. Nobody will want to be near Scar when he arrives.

Scott clutches the bucket tighter, hoping the heat will make that shiver running up and down his spine disappear. Grian can’t see the contents from where he is, of course, nor is he bothering to look up at Scott, busy as he is trying to find a way out, but then a bubble pops, and he freezes in place.

“Scott—” he starts, shakily, but he cuts himself off, and doesn’t say anything else. He can’t; he’s panicking. He must have realised he can’t get out.

“I can use flint and steel, if you’d prefer,” says Scott, coldly. Melee weapons are too risky, and Grian probably wouldn’t like to be made into a pin cushion again. In a way, this could be mercy. 

Grian doesn’t seem to see it that way. He presses himself into a corner as far as he can go, but his wings are much bigger than Jimmy’s, and much more of a hassle. They curl around him, uselessly, as Scott carefully sets the bucket down beside him: “Either way, the comms won’t show it was me.”

“Oh, they’ll know!” Grian snaps, baring his teeth like a cornered animal, “How long have you been working for Ren?”

“Longer than I’d like.”

He doesn’t feel like telling the truth. Maybe it’s that constant fear of the King’s icy eyes knowing his heart, maybe it’s whatever shred of sympathy he still has for Grian and Jimmy’s weird friendship, maybe it’s self-sabotage. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care, because regardless of what it is, the fact of the matter is that Grian has to die, and Scott won’t get another chance to get it done.

Whatever Grian was going to say dies in his throat when Scott grabs the handle of the bucket in a white-knuckled grip. Scott isn’t sure what he hopes for; would it be better if Grian knew that he doesn’t want to do this, or would it be better for him to just die?

Oh, well.

He looks down into the box again: “For what it’s worth, Grian, I really am sorry.”

“Where’s Tim?”

Scott nearly spills lava all over himself. The question makes his heart sink in pure dread, and all of a sudden, he’s back in his body and guilt bites at his chest.

“What?” He glares coldly.

“Where’s Tim?” Grian repeats, louder and angrier, “Where is he really, Scott? Caving again?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The avian’s feathers splay and then rear back, folding against the wall: “I came back here every day, and he was never here. He’s been silent in chat, and when I texted him, he sounded weird. Where is he, Scott?”

Shit.

The banner suddenly feels like it’s suffocating him. Yet somehow, Scott manages to keep his face neutral and his voice cool. 

“If you’re hoping he’s gonna come help you, I have to disappoint,” he says. It’s only true because Jimmy isn’t there, though, isn’t it? If he was, he probably would stop Scott right now, he would climb up next to him and take the bucket out of his hands, he would put his arm around Scott and try to talk him out of it; but Jimmy is not there, and it’s partially Grian’s fault. So he can die, for all he cares.

Grian straightens out a little.

“This is about Timmy, isn’t it?”

The heat from the bucket is becoming unbearable. It’s hard to breathe sitting next to it. But maybe it’s not the lava, and maybe Scott should have just poured it into the box already. So why the hell hasn’t he?

His hand trembles against the iron.

“Why would it be?”

“Because there’s too many things that don’t add up, and he’s the only common denominator.”

It’s hard not to drop the bucket. Grian just always knows everything, doesn’t he? Every little thing, everything he’s not supposed to know, everything that no one fucking told him. The pitch black obsidian looks remarkably red to Scott. That’s exactly how he reminds himself that he has to get to the bottom of this first; the red’s a dead giveaway that he’s not thinking straight, and if his racing heartbeat is screaming at him to kill him kill him kill him now burn him alive then he should do exactly the opposite of that. Gingerly, he sets the bucket down again, praying his shaking hands don’t betray him: “What do you think is happening here?” he asks, coldly, and Grian straightens out. He’s not off the hook and they both know it, but at least he’s not two seconds away from being burned alive.

“That’s the thing,” he says, “I don’t really know. Why do you think I’ve been trying so hard to find him?”

There it is.

“My bad. For a moment, there, I thought it was because you cared about him,” deadpans Scott, leaning over the hole a bit more. It covers most of the light coming in, and Grian visibly gulps at that. It’s funny how quiet avians get as soon as the light’s gone.

It’s not enough to shut him up entirely, of course.

“I didn’t say—”

“No, of course you didn’t,” chuckles Scott, “You never do, do you? You only ever seem to visit when it’s time to tease him.”

“That’s not—”

“Yeah, right, it’s all in good fun, yes? That’s what you always say.”

It’s easier to interrupt him than it is to let him explain. If Grian doesn’t get to explain himself, maybe Scott doesn’t have to second guess his decision to kill him. If the last image he has of Grian is of him being mean to the only person left that Scott can afford to care about, then maybe he’ll be able to sleep at night when he’s gone.

But Grian doesn’t back off: “Stop deflecting, Scott, I asked you a question.”

“I gave you an answer.”

“Not to that one.”

Scott’s stomach turns, because he knows what the question is, and he can’t answer. He just gives Grian a mirthless smile: “What question, then? You talk so much, I forget half of what you say.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s not, I agree.”

It’s the exact same thing they tell Jimmy every day.

Grian is actively holding on to his wing to keep it from beating against the wall. He’s getting mad, mad enough that he will eventually forget that hitting the wall hurts. Good.

“That’s enough,” he hisses, “Can you just answer the question? Where’s Tim?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Scott is a master of deflection. He has been for years, for much less serious reasons. That being said, he doesn’t have time to avoid the question forever. They weren’t that far away from the flower valley when Grian was shot, and Scar is a burn first, ask later type.

So, when Grian doesn’t answer the question, he tries to make up his mind. He reaches for the bucket again, but his hand freezes on the handle when Grian says: “Someone’s making you do this.”

He just… says it. Without preambles, without hesitation, without a shred of emotion in his voice, the way he would say the sky is blue.

And Scott just froze. It’s a dead giveaway. His brain is firing on all cylinders trying to come up with an excuse, because even if Grian dies, he could still find a way to tell everyone; there’s plenty of time to type it in the comms, there’s plenty of time for others to figure it out after he dies. He knows he should make an excuse.

Nothing comes up.

Grian doubles down the second he sees an opening, of course: “Is that why you can’t say anything? And why you killed Cleo? Is that why you were outside of Dogwarts when you passed out? I could bring up a lot of things.”

“Shut up.”

“Scott—”

“ Shut your mouth. ”

He should kill him. He should kill him right now. It’s the only way to shut him up. It would be so easy, just reach out, grab the bucket, pour it in, so why can’t he do it? His hand is shaking, an inch away from the handle of the bucket. He’s done this before. He killed Cleo, and she wasn’t even pissing him off this much.

What is wrong with him?

Grian steps forward to give his wings some extra room.

“Scott,” he pleads, “Look, can we just talk about this? I’ve got it right, don’t I? You don’t have to lie to me anymore.”

Scott grits his teeth. Of course he still has to lie. Help or not, if anyone in the Red Army finds out that he tattled, he’s dead. Grian knows all the wrong things. He knows so many things he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.

He doesn’t know anything. No one would ever dare to target his partner.

“Yeah, right,” he laughs, bitterly, “So you can get out and kill me? I’m not stupid, Grian.”

Grian’s smile is shaky: “I don’t know. You did marry Tim.”

It would make him laugh on any other day. Today, it makes him want to jump down and snap Grian’s neck, and it probably shows on his face, because the avian backs down immediately.

He should kill him. Every muscle in his body wants to kill him. But some sentimental part of his brain won’t let him, because what if he did, and what if that killed any hope for help? It’s such a small possibility, but something in him can’t let it go.

Scott digs his fingers into the soft wool of the banner in his bag. What did he make it for, if they’re both going to die?

“We just want to help,” says Grian, too soft for comfort, and Scott is dismayed to find that he can’t answer him.

Slowly, his hand falls at his side, away from the bucket. What is he supposed to say to that?

His lips are trembling behind the scarf.

He doesn’t know what he wants to say when he finally opens his mouth to speak, and he will never know, because before he can say it, pain explodes in his shoulder.

He doesn’t feel himself fall, but somehow, it seems the ground is getting closer.

When his back hits the floor of the obsidian box, it knocks all the air out of his lungs, but at least the arrow snaps in two instead of carving through to the other side. His head feels heavy and his chest feels light.

Grian’s saying something, but he can’t hear it. The wall is cracking, and he can’t hear that either. Scar bursts through the wall and it sounds like a stone dropping at the bottom of a pool.

He can’t hear his blood pulsing in his ears, but he can feel it soaking his back. Does he even have a heart anymore, or is it nothing but flowers in his chest now? He doesn’t even have the energy to flinch away when Scar reaches down. He wants to, but his muscles go slack and all he can do is pray that he’s not planning to kill him yet.

The second Scar lifts him off the ground, he’s gone.

Chapter Text

Wherever he is, it’s cold. It’s cold, it’s a little wet, and everything hurts.

Scott shifts uncomfortably. He’s on the ground, he can feel it, and the ground is damp and uneven. Plain stone, most likely. That, plus the distant groan of a zombie, lets him know he’s somewhere underground. 

It’s hard to move. One of his shoulders aches, the other burns like hellfire; his head lolls on his neck, and his legs feel far too heavy to lift him. More worryingly, though, when Scott tries to move, it quickly becomes apparent that he can’t use his arms because there is something tying them together at the wrist. They’ve been pulled behind his back, so he can’t see what, but it feels like it’s tied tight.

His blood runs cold.

He gives the rope an experimental tug, but whoever tied that knot knew what they were doing. The room he’s in is little more than a deepslate box, and he doesn’t have any tools on him.

Scott is trapped.

He aims a brutal kick at the iron door. It’s strong enough to make a dull ache bloom in his foot, but it does nothing to solid metal. But that doesn’t stop him; he kicks again, and again, and again, until his throat is tight and his eyes start to sting. They’re dead. They’re both dead. Jimmy is definitely dead, whether or not his new captors are planning to kill Scott, because if they’re both trapped, then they’ve effectively become useless.

“ Let me out! ” he screams into the silence of the caves. It’s a bad idea, but it’s the only idea he has.

He kicks the door again. His ankle screams in protest, but he can’t stop. His eyes are burning now.

He struggles until the clumsy dressing on his shoulder starts to turn red again. It burns, but he has to, he has to try everything, because he can’t be useless, he can’t, or else, best case scenario, he will die and so will Jimmy. The best he can hope for is that he dies first.

He rears his leg back for another kick, but it never reaches the door. Just as he’s kicking, it swings open, and his foot just awkwardly flies through the doorway, narrowly missing a familiar pair of talons.

He retreats into the corner as much as he can, careful to keep his knees in front of his body. It won’t save him if Grian aims for his head, though. But Grian isn’t carrying any weapons. He looks down, almost sadly, at the bloodstains on the floor from when Scott’s wound reopened.

“Sorry it took so long,” he says, but the door closes behind him. He doesn’t trust Scott.

Scott nearly growls. No, Grian is not sorry. If he were, he wouldn’t have tied him up and shoved him in a room deep underground.

“Sure you are,” he hisses, pressing himself into a corner. He has no idea how to get himself out of this. He has no idea why he’s still alive. 

He's trembling. Why?

Grian's one eye is completely unreadable; a deep black pit tinged red at the edge. Maybe he isn't looking to kill Scott, but if he isn’t, he must be planning something worse. He's just turned red, and he isn't known for being merciful even on green. Scott can’t tell what he's planning, and it drives him insane.

"What do you want?" he asks, low in his throat, "You're red now. What do you want to do?"

He's not scared. He's not. But the cold is making him tremble in his bonds. His wrists already feel sore.

Grian stares down at him, blankly. There's something weird in his posture.

"I want to know something first," he says, "Where's Tim?"

The cold is getting worse. He can’t stop shaking.

"I'm— I'm not giving you my husband."

Not that he could. But he wouldn't, regardless. Grian can take out his anger on the one that actually deserves it, if he wants.

The avian tilts his head back: "I'm not— oh, for the love of—" he mutters, before reaching forward to pull Scott to his feet. He backs away when Scott shakes him off.

His gaze is piercing, but the question he asks is unexpected.

"Will you just tell me what's wrong?"

"What?"

"What do you think I'm gonna do, Scott? I told you I wanted to help."

"You don’t," Scott laughs. His gut kicks at him, again and again, and he can’t stop laughing. But his eyes still burn. It's a long, long laugh, and it continues without interruption until there's not a breath left in his lungs. He gasps, and whatever air he gathered is immediately stolen by a single, quiet sob.

He can’t see Grian. Somewhere along the line, his laughter folded him in two and left him sitting against the wall.

But then the shadow of wings is over him, and Scott can’t help but curl up tighter.

"What happened?" asks Grian, quietly.

"What do you think happened?" Scott mocks him, but there's no bite in it. He's too weak for that.

He can’t even move. He can’t stand up, he can’t fight back if Grian decides he's done playing around, he can’t even insult him right.

He's useless.

And he can’t breathe.

Grian left the room at some point. Scott didn't notice, and now he's awake again and he can’t remember how he ended up on the floor. 

His bandage has been changed. It's under his shirt, which means—

"—no, I have no idea!" Scar's voice hums, somewhere nearby. He is trying to sound casual. Keyword is trying. Of course Scar is nearby. He's a much more frightening warden than his partner is, and Grian will have to leave the caves at some point to avoid going completely insane.

It's the second voice that makes Scott shiver.

"C'mon, I just wanna talk to him!"

Cleo is not even trying to mask the murderous intent in her voice. And Scott can take a good guess as to who she's looking for.

The uneven tapping of Scar's cane on the wall is a dead giveaway that the interaction isn't going too well for him: "I told you, he's not here," he chuckles, sounding almost unbothered. That changes very quickly. About two seconds later, Scar shrieks: "Hey, hey, hey! Woah! Put that thing away!"

"Awful lot of wood around here, don't you think?"

"Y-yeah, but—"

"I know he's here, Scar. Bdubs saw you and Grian dragging him over here."

"Well, y-you know how it is. Bdubs hasn't had his eyes checked in a while…"

"Because he doesn't need to. He can see just fine."

Scott shivers. She'll only be angrier the longer that back-and-forth continues. So he calls out, as loud as his frail lungs can manage: "Scar, just let her in!"

They both fall silent.

Seconds later, two pairs of footsteps and the tap of a cane on the ground tell him they're approaching down the corridor.

Cleo already has her axe out when the door swings open. Scott shudders seeing just how much of her body the decay has claimed. The bones of her left leg are entirely exposed from the knee down. Her left eye, too, is gone, leaving behind an empty socket and, just underneath her clean white jawbone, her clavicle and three or four ribs peek out over the top of her sweater. Her glowing heart spreads a terrifying, pulsing red light around the tiny deepslate room.

For a second, Cleo looks like something out of a horror movie.

But then she sees him.

Her one good eye wanders up and down his crouched figure, and the hand that carries the axe falls just a little. She isn't polite about it, of course.

"You look terrible."

Scott laughs deliriously. Yeah, he does. Is it any wonder? It's a miracle his hair hasn't turned white over the course of the past week.

"Why are you bleeding?"

She doesn't sound concerned, exactly. She seems almost annoyed. Like she would kill him on the spot, if only he didn't look so pathetic. Scott hopes that's what she's thinking, because if nothing else, it would buy him time.

"Scar shot me," he hums, matter-of-factly, as the man in question comes limping behind Cleo.

"That's—" he pants, "—only because you tried to pour lava on Grian! What was I supposed to do?"

"You could've shot him just because, honestly," Cleo snarks. Scott doesn’t care to respond to the comment. He deserved that one.

He keeps his head down, staring at the bloodstains on the floor. Maybe she’ll be nicer if he doesn’t respond to her taunts. Maybe if he looks too broken to kill, she won't bother.

Unless he should get her to kill him. That depends on one single thing.

"Scar?" he calls out, quiet and rough.

"Uh— yeah?"

"Can I see the comms, please?"

His communicator is nowhere to be found. Either Scar has it, Grian has it, or they threw it away somewhere.

Scar stops to think. He pulls the device from his pocket (turns out he does have it), turning it over in his hand, but he doesn’t make any move to give it to Scott.

"Why?" he asks.

Scott's voice comes out quieter than it's ever been, timid and broken, and he hates that he isn't faking it.

"I just have to see them. I'm not gonna write anything. Please."

Cleo stares between them, examining Scott like he's a bug under a microscope. He doesn’t have the energy to be uncomfortable. Scar ponders the decision.

"I don't know," he hums, finally, "Grian said I shouldn't give this to you until he comes back."

Cleo snickers: "And you're actually listening to him?"

"Well, yeah. He's not in a good mood today."

"Might be the red," she suggests, probably from experience. Scott winces. He's getting better at the whole red life thing, but for someone like Cleo or Grian, who are new to it…

Either way, he needs his communicator. As soon as humanly possible, so he can decide exactly how much he should plead for his life. 

Scott leans forward in his bonds, pulling at his injured shoulder: "I just need to see them. It's important."

Scar hesitates. He clutches the communicator a little closer, suspicious of whatever it is that Scott wants to know, but thankfully, he doesn't get to make that decision.

"It's fine, Scott. I checked," says a voice out in the corridor, making all three of them jump. Not five seconds later, the iron door swings open and Grian makes his entrance.

He looks angry.

Chapter Text

Scott flinches when the door snaps shut again. He tries not to flinch, but Grian is angry, Cleo is angrier, Scar won’t stop them, and Scott is injured and restrained. The best he can do is try not to provoke them. But before that, he has to know.

“What…?” he inquires, quietly, and Grian’s wings beat out nervously.

“I know what happened,” he says, walking up to Scott and crouching in front of him. His talons scratch the ground beneath him. He tilts his head, as birds so often do: “If I untie you, do you promise not to hit me?”

Scott looks up, and something in his eyes makes Grian wince.

“Grian, just tell me if he’s alive,” he says. It comes out quiet and weak and he doesn’t have the energy to say it any louder. Maybe the only reason they haven’t killed him is that he looks like he’s already dead.

Grian looks almost sad.

“He is,” he confirms, quietly. Scott collapses into himself so hard that his chin touches the petals on his chest. He barely notices.

Grian lets him have a moment before reaching around him to his back: “You’re not gonna attack me, are you?”

Scott laughs bitterly: “I’m not that dumb.”

Cleo and Scar are right there. He has no chance. His best bet is to beg Grian to keep it to himself, and hope he can fool Dogwarts again. He’s done it before. As long as Jimmy’s alive, he can still salvage the situation.

The rope falls. His wrists burn and his shoulder aches and his head feels like it’s about to float away from his torso and his teeth are chattering, but at least his hands are free.

Something soft covers his shoulders. He looks down to find Grian’s tattered poncho draped over his chest. It’s the first bit of warmth he’s felt all day, and he can’t bring himself to reject it.

Grian stays crouched in front of him, looking at him with an unreadable expression. His face looks blank, but his eye looks sad. It’s hard to tell what the hell he’s thinking at the best of times, and Scott’s brain is too foggy to even try right now.

“Uh… Grian?” Scar calls out, quietly, “Maybe I’m just dense, but… what’s going on?”

“Wanna share with the class?” Cleo chimes in.

Grian doesn’t turn to look at them. His eye won’t let Scott go. “You wanna tell them?” he asks.

Scott shakes his head.

“Should I tell them, then?”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Scott—”

“Please.”

He knows he sounds tired. He is. He could get up, he could make it so that the others aren’t towering over him, but his body feels too heavy to even lift his arms. But then something fluffy and warm and so familiar wraps around him, and Scott breaks. 

If he closes his eyes, he can pretend it’s not Grian holding him under his wing.

He muffles his sobs into the banner, and no one asks any more questions until he’s done.

Scott doesn’t know how long it’s been when he finally starts breathing again. His entire face feels hot and itchy, and still he can’t bring himself to put away the banner. It still carries the scent of wildflowers, and he’s drunk with it; he can’t go back to the musty smell of the caves.

Scott looks up. No one has left the room while he wasn’t paying attention. Grian is still sitting next to him, covering him with one of his wings; Cleo and Scar sit cross-legged in the corner of the room, quietly talking to each other. Scott can’t hear them, but he can take a good guess as to what they’re talking about.

His head feels heavy now. It tilts sideways, uncontrollably, and he ends up on Grian’s shoulder.

Surprisingly, it’s Cleo that speaks out first.

“Are you better now?”

He’s not. Everything still hurts. Nothing is solved. But somehow, he doesn’t feel as cold anymore.

“What do you think?” he mumbles, roughly.

Cleo looks almost relieved: “There’s our Scott.”

“Do you want to catch us up, buddy?” asks Scar, scooting a little closer.

The clock clipped to Cleo’s belt says it’s the middle of the night, which means it’s been at least a day since Scott disappeared. He’s not dead. Surely, someone’s been looking for him, if only to drag him back to Dogwarts.

“Grian?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I see my comms now?”

Grian shakes his head: “I don’t think you should.”

“Why?” asks Scott, hollow, “Is that how you figured it out?”

“Yes and no. I just put a bunch of things together,” he says, “Everything I told you before was suspicious, but then I saw your comms, and it all just… clicked.”

“Oh. Do I… do I have new messages?”

“Yes, but I took care of it.”

Scott’s blood runs cold. He straightens out, pulling away from Grian’s shoulder: “What?”

Grian doesn’t have time to answer before Cleo clears her throat.

“We can leave the room, if you don’t wanna say anything in front of us,” she offers, looking only mildly annoyed. Their frustration is understandable, but Scott isn’t sure he wants them there. He just has to make sure…

“You can stay if you promise not to tell anyone,” he says, very quietly.

They both nod. Scott doesn’t know whether or not to believe them, but he has no power in this situation. What can he do? They outnumber and overpower him easily.

With everyone’s permission, Grian finally clarifies: “Ren tried to reach out to you. I said we have you, from both your comms and mine. That should get him off your back.”

“Did he say anything to that?” asks Scott.

“Not yet. I think he’s gonna try to look for you first.”

“There’s still blood at your house,” Scar helpfully points out, “And… uh, half of an arrow. That should lend some credence.”
“But seriously,” Cleo cuts in, “What’s going on?”

Four eyes all turn to look at Scott. Funnily enough, they come from three people.

Scott hugs his knees. There’s been a weight on his chest for days now. And it might be selfish, and it might be a bad idea, but he can’t stand to carry it anymore.

Quiet, nearly silent, he finally admits it: “They took Jimmy. Ren, and— and the Red Army."

He knows their faces would tell him everything if only he could look at them, but he's too afraid of what he might find. He won’t look up until he's done.

"I have to do what they say. I have to— I— Ren is the one that told me to kill you, Cleo. I’m so sorry.”

The relief is immense, but the guilt is even bigger.

He doesn’t dare to look her in the eyes. He keeps his head down and his knees close to his chest and then suddenly, there’s a hand reaching for him and he flinches back and—

It’s just Cleo. She sets her hand down on his shoulder, gently, and there’s no claws digging into his skin this time, and she isn’t angry anymore. She looks… guilty.

“Sorry I accused you like that,” she says, softly, “I should’ve trusted you. I could see you were in distress, but I—”

“It’s okay.”

“—was getting paranoid, with you being red, and the way you were acting.”

“It’s okay, Cleo, it’s fine. It’s fine,” he giggles, deliriously, and it sounds too much like a sob, but this time he doesn’t care. She pulls him closer, letting his head rest on her good shoulder. Her hand, carefully avoiding his wound, rubs a circle into his shoulder.

It’s the warmest he’s felt since the last time he held Jimmy. Just the simple thought that she forgave him is enough to make a genuine laugh spring from his chest. He’s leaning his entire weight on her, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

Scar looks less happy.

“And Grian?” he asks quietly.

Scott nods into Cleo’s shoulder: “Him too. Yeah. That was the plan ever since Grian came to see me after the battle.”

Scar deflates: "That long? So Jimmy didn’t—"

"He didn't escape. No."

Scott can’t help but sound a little sharp. The red curse is mostly at bay lately, and Jimmy talked him out of hating Scar, but he still feels entitled to be a little salty. Scar could've at least told him what had happened.

The terrifying desert dweller looks almost sheepish: "Ah. I did text him afterwards, but he said he was fine. I guess…"

"That wasn't him," sighs Grian, scrolling through Scott's comms, "Whoever is in charge of Timmy's comms, they're not doing a great job. I could tell something was off."

Cleo hums, and the sound reverberates in her ribcage and spreads to Scott's spine. It's comforting.

"So if we get Jimmy out, they've got nothing on you," she concludes, saying the quiet part out loud, "The only question is how?"

Scott turns his eyes on Grian: "Can't you do something about this?" he pleads. Surely, if anyone can—

Grian’s shoulders fall. He shakes his head: "It's… an unusual method, but it's not technically against the rules. I can't do anything."

"You made the game!"

"I monitor the game," Grian corrects him sharply, "Do you really think I would have chosen to clip my own wings if I had another option? It hurts, all the time. I can't take flight, gliding feels like being stabbed in the back, and I've been going stir crazy for the past week. Do you really think I would do that to myself, instead of just giving everyone else elytra, Scott? "

Scott backs off immediately. Scar quietly intervenes to rub a circle between Grian’s shoulders, which seems to calm him down, but even if he hadn't, he would've backed off anyway. The state of their wings is a sore spot for Jimmy, he should've known it would be the same for Grian. He's as trapped as the rest of them.

"Sorry," he says, quietly retreating deeper into the folds of Cleo's sweater, "I just…"

"I know."

They leave it at that, for now.

Chapter Text

The conversation doesn't resume until the early hours of the morning, when Cleo, sitting against the wall with Scott on her shoulder, clears her throat and asks the question they've all asked themselves: "What are we gonna do? It'll be suspicious if we just let Scott go, but if we don't—"

"They'll either tear the overworld and the Nether apart trying to find him, or they'll assume he defected, yeah," Grian sighs, rubbing his eyes. He's sitting back to back with Scar, who on his end was dozing off before Grian’s voice roused him. They both look like they could use a nap. They all look like they could use a nap, actually. All four of them. Scott can’t see himself, but the feeling of the skin around his eyes straining is enough to let him know that he should consider the benefits of a nap too.

“But if he escapes, that’ll look good for him, right?” Scar chimes in. He’s hunched over, letting Grian’s head rest on his upper back, and he doesn’t seem to mind.

Scott’s heart aches.

“Not if I escape like this,” he mumbles, looking down at himself. He’s dishevelled, but he’s clean. The wound on his shoulder has been carefully dressed, and he’s otherwise completely unharmed.

It’s so obvious to him, but apparently not to the others, who stare at him in confusion.

Scott carefully (and reluctantly) moves away from Cleo’s shoulder.

“We have to make it look good,” he says, “There’s no way he’s gonna believe that nothing happened while I was here. Not if we want him to think I’m still loyal to him.”

“Scott, what are you talking about?”

Grian is starting to get it. His head is moving rapidly, up, down, to the side, as he ponders what he’s been told and searches for something else to try. He doesn’t find it.

Scott’s jaw trembles. Something giddy and manic is bubbling up in his chest, and it seems to give his allies pause. He stands up a little faster than he should.

“Yes,” he grins, “We have to make it look good. Realistic. Cleo?”

“Yeah?”

“Hit me.”

She stares at him like he’s grown a second head: “What?”

“Hit me. Pretend you don’t know why I betrayed you.”

“Scott,” frowns Grian, “This isn’t… good. ”

Scott laughs bitterly: “Is any of this?”

“No, but—”

“Grian, it’s fine. It won’t be that bad, come on.”

“I just think we should think of something else first. Your chest—”

“There’s nothing else,” says Scott, cutting him off before he can say anything incriminating, “I’ve been here a whole day. There’s no way they would believe I escaped practically unharmed. It’ll buy you more time to save Jimmy. Cleo, come on.”

She stays seated. Her eye wanders and meets Grian’s, and they both look far more concerned than they should. It’s fine. This serves a purpose. What are they worried about?

Scott walks around them to stand in front of Scar: “Scar. Come on.”

It’s almost pleading. It wasn’t meant to be, but it comes across like that, and Scar awkwardly shifts away from Scott: “Aaaah… I don’t know, I already shot you, and—”

“That’s not enough.”

He pulls Scar to his feet, and Grian squawks indignantly as his living backrest abruptly slips away. He’s fine, of course, but maybe the annoyance will make him a little more open to Scott’s plan. Scar looks like a confused puppy, letting Scott hold his hands with an expression that asks now what?

Cleo jumps to her feet: “Scott,” she pleads, putting her hands forward, “This is insane.”

“It’s fine. ”

"It is not fine."

Scott throws his arms out in frustration: “What, you’re telling me Scar would’ve stopped at an arrow in the shoulder if he hadn’t known what was going on? Scar!” he calls out, making the man in question jump, “Pretend you don’t know why I switched sides. What would you actually do if I’d betrayed you and killed Gri—”

He doesn’t even have time to finish the sentence. His head snaps to the right under the sudden impact of the pommel of Scar’s cane. It nearly knocks him to the ground as he stumbles sideways, but he crashes into the wall before he can lose his balance. He brings a hand up to his face; his cheek feels warm to the touch and a dull ache is pulsing through it.

His mouth is quickly filling up with a metallic taste.

Grian flinches: “ Scar! ”

“What? He literally asked for it!”

“That doesn’t mean you should—”

He cuts himself off when he hears Scott laugh.

There’s blood dripping on the floor. Scott keeps his head down so it doesn’t stain the banner, wiping the corner of his mouth with his sleeve.

“That’s better,” he grins.

Scar is nice enough to carry him to the entrance of the tunnel, at least. Over his shoulder, just like before, and Scott is grateful, because he is nearly certain he would have passed out before getting anywhere near the other players. As soon as Scar has set him down, he has to lean against a tree.

They have a plan. The beginnings of a plan, at least. There was no time to figure out the details, and it’s probably best that Scott doesn’t know them, so he doesn’t let anything slip. No, he has to trust that they will save Jimmy, and once they do, things will be fine. He hates to leave his husband in anyone else’s hands, but right now, Scott has to focus on the here and now and lean into the pain instead of turning away from it. He has to make it look good. 

It’s not hard. Everything hurts, and maybe Scar is a little more unhinged than they bargained for, or maybe the attempt on Grian’s life scared him half to death; either way, the result was still a whole lot of pain.

But he starts walking, because this has to look good.

Scott’s vision is swimming. As soon as Scar leaves, he’s quick to pull his communicator, although the letters are dancing in front of his eyes. He needs to hurry up, before he passes out in front of one of the reds that might genuinely want his head.

You whispered to Rendog: ren hlep

You whispered to Rendog: northeasy cirner

He doesn’t know if he spelled anything right. It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s even slightly comprehensible. It doesn’t matter, as long as they find him. 

He limps slowly away from the tunnel, nursing his side. His allies weren’t all that happy to harm him, which would be a good sign, normally, but it does him no good now, and he may or may not have had to do some of the work himself.

A lot of arguments and punches and scratches later, Scott is dragging himself along the wet grass of the hill. They waited until daytime, and left him in a biome where no creepers live, so he wouldn’t be killed by stray mobs along the way; he couldn’t possibly fight them now. Some of his ribs are almost certainly cracked, his arm is probably broken (he was very careful not to let the others know), and massive bruises are blossoming along with the poppies in his chest. Grian even (reluctantly) scratched him with his talons.

In other words, he’s got one foot in the grave. Only one, though, because one is all he can afford.

He is forced to stop when he reaches the edge of the water. There’s no way he could swim in his condition, for one, but even if he could, open wounds and swamp water do not mix. He’s been around this area before, of course. Weeks ago, on a little secret mission with Jimmy. Some part of his battered brain worries that Tango might be around, but he hasn’t been to that base for some time, as far as Scott knows, and if he is, Scott can probably negotiate something. Tango is a fairly good sport.

Scott sits with his back against a tree, trying his best not to irritate any of his injuries. The still, murky waters of the swamp are barely visible under the morning mist. It would be pretty if it didn’t smell so bad.

The sun is rising, but the air is getting colder. Scott snuggles into his jacket, rolling the sleeves down and adjusting the banner to cover his shoulders. The cold can only mean one thing.

Sure enough, when he looks up, there’s a spot of red breaking through the thick white mist of the swamp. A lonely little boat emerges and splits the still water into waves. Scott almost chuckles.

Oh, he showed up in person.

What an honour.

There’s a little thud as the bow of the boat finally reaches the shore. Scott shivers. With the way the air feels around the King, it's an honest surprise the water hasn't frozen under his feet. He's freezing the mist still around him, but the cold actually feels good on the constellation of bruises littering Scott's torso.

The King doesn't say anything, which is probably for the best, because Scott knows he wouldn’t be able to answer him right now. He's barely able to keep his eyes open at this rate. He doesn’t resist when the King reaches his arms down towards him, mainly because he simply doesn’t have the energy to.

The King slips one arm under his knees, the other around his good shoulder. It doesn’t hurt. It feels like lying in a pile of snow, but it doesn’t hurt. Scott's head lolls limply against his arm as he steps back towards the boat, carrying him in the same way he would carry a sleeping child. Scott is far too cold and far too tired to be embarrassed about that.

In fact, he's almost disappointed when the King sets him down in the back of the boat instead. It makes sense, of course, but—

Why is he disappointed?

Scott shudders with the sudden clarity. He freezes in place, staring at the ripples of the water below him. Why is he disappointed? Why does the cold feel good?

Why isn't he scared?

His thoughts are racing, for a few precious seconds, but then the King drapes his red cape over him and his mind goes completely blank. It's too hard to stay awake through the gentle swaying of the boat and the pleasant numbness of winter.

Soon enough, he's out like a light.

Chapter Text

Being underground is terrible for avians. That is rule n°1. They broke rule n°1. Granted, that’s only because 90% of Dogwarts is underground and a whole new building at this stage would raise eyebrows, but that really doesn’t help right now.

Jimmy is pretty sure his heart isn’t supposed to go that fast. It does go faster than human hearts by itself, but this is an unprecedented level of speed, and he’s starting to feel light-headed again. Instinctively, he flaps his wings and immediately regrets it when sharp pains stab all over his back in response. Nevermind, then.

He curls in on himself. He’s been pacing a hole into the stone floor of his cell (quite literally; hard shoes are not good for any sort of floor, he learned), and the room may be bigger, but it isn’t big. At least there’s a bed and a couple of bookshelves. Jimmy’s gone through every single book twice by now, though.

Singing’s no help, either. It’s a bandage on a stab wound.

Preening isn’t an option. Going this long without it makes him feel like there are ants crawling under his skin, but he will not have a repeat of last time. It scared Scott, and to be honest, it scared him, too.

Nothing’s helped. Nothing’s helped at all. It’s incredibly difficult to have any sort of pleasant conversation with his wardens, for obvious reasons, and Scott’s only come by twice. He’s a rare sight, and they haven’t given Jimmy any updates since yesterday.

Out of his control, his wings flap again, and again it feels like swords in his back.

He breathes out sharply, curling in on himself to stretch out the muscles in his shoulders. If he doesn’t receive news soon, he’s gonna start screaming, he decides. If he has to be annoying, he’ll make it a problem for every one of his captors, too. But maybe he can wait a little bit. One more hour, or five more minutes, even, yes, he’s waited this long. He can wait more.

I can wait more, he stubbornly tells that little part of himself that tells him that Scott will never come back. That they left things off like that, unceremoniously, without so much as an I love you because it didn’t seem like the right time. Scott rarely says I love you, so that wasn’t weird for them, but Jimmy also knows that if he doesn’t ever get to hear it again he will die of a broken heart by next week.

Stop thinking about that.

He smacks the side of his head. His chin went numb a week ago. He didn’t tell Scott, because Scott clearly has enough on his plate and because it wasn’t weird until yesterday. Yesterday, the skin finally burst. One of the bumps along his jaw split down the middle, and something soft came out, and when Jimmy inevitably picked at it he found his hand full of delicate poppy petals.

It’s spread since then. He knows it must have, because there’s something soft under his jacket, but he is just a little too scared to check.

Either way, Scott’s gonna know. Unless…

No, that option’s worse.

He tries in vain to suppress the little croons spilling from his mouth. It must be really annoying to be Jimmy’s warden these days, which is funny, but he has to toe the line between being a piece of work and being too much to keep around. Scott said to stay put, and he’s probably right, because he’s usually right. He’s the smart one. And the pretty one. And the competent one. Honestly, Jimmy still isn’t sure how his little poppy proposal managed to score him someone like that. Maybe Scott isn’t as smart as he seems.

Jimmy’s hand shoots out to grab his right wing before it can flap again. He’s had enough of that.

With some effort (not using his wings is harder than he ever thought he would be), he climbs up to perch on the bedpost. Yes, this is much better. It’s more comfortable than sitting on the bed. Maybe he should ask for a chair? No, that’d be worse.

There’s no way out of this, is there? The feeling in his gut is growing worse and worse, it just won’t let him go today, and he doesn’t know why, but he does not like it. He hates it. Deeply. 

Something has to be—

The iron door slams open.

Jimmy falls off the bedpost immediately. On the bed, luckily.

An indignant screech forms at the back of his throat, but it dies on his tongue when he sees who exactly it was that startled him. It’s rare that Ren visits him personally, presumably because he doesn’t want to step on Scott’s toes, and that is weird enough, but all that red vanishes from Jimmy’s vision with one single splash of blue.

Scott is nestled in Ren’s arms like a child, leaning against his chest, but Jimmy’s eyes immediately run to his arm, hanging limply at his side with a very concerning bruise just above the wrist. There’s a weird angle to that bruise, deep purple and red, which almost seems to split his arm in two.

Jimmy is suddenly aware of his voice again, cooing and crooning outside of his control. It's bloody loud, like always, but this time Scott is here and he shouldn’t be loud because Scott is in pain. He reins in the noises, not without effort, and by the time he finally has his voice under control again, Ren has already sidestepped him to lay Scott down on the bed with his arms limp at his sides. 

Jimmy wants to ask what happened. That's… not the noise his mouth decides to make, unfortunately.

He screeches at Ren. A full-on, loud, piercing avian shriek that makes the baby feathers around his temples fan out and causes Ren to back away a single step. Ren doesn't like loud noises; they make his ears swivel back and the muscles in his neck tense up. 

It did make him back off, at least, which is what Jimmy wanted. Whatever happened to Scott, he doesn’t want anyone else to go near him right now, least of all Ren. And Ren isn’t stupid. He either takes the warning, or he gets bitten. They both know that. 

Without taking his eyes off the king, Jimmy places a hand down on Scott’s good wrist. He’s alive, of course, because those red flecks still sparkle around his head, but he just has to make sure. He has to make sure he’s still there.

When Ren doesn’t move, he finally finds it in himself to turn around and look at his husband.

Scott looks like he has one foot in the grave. He’s pale, terribly pale, but that only makes the bruises stand out more. The one on his arm looks… bad. Jimmy’s never known much about medicine, go figure, but he’d have to be blind not to see that.

He doesn’t even know where to start.

Behind him, Ren apparently hasn’t left.

“I trust you will see to his health,” he says, “I took the liberty to go through your items.”

Jimmy barely looks up in time to catch the golden apple he tossed at him. He turns it over in his hands. It will definitely help, but Scott can’t eat it until he wakes up, and until then, he’s gonna keep looking like a corpse. It’s hard to look at him.

He bites his lip to stifle the snappy response his brain instantly fired back. And the tears. Especially the tears.

The response still comes out snappier than intended.

“Yeah, obviously, ” he snarls, “What happened, Ren? And don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t need to.”

“What?”

Ren’s back isn’t as straight as it was the last time Jimmy saw him. There’s something off about him today. He isn’t even looking at them, absorbed as he is in whatever messages are coming through his comms.

“This was the doing of your so-called allies, ” he growls, “ This is who you’ve been aiding.”

That has to be a lie. It’s such a blatant lie that Jimmy laughs. Laughing masks his shaking hands well.

“I told you not to lie, Ren.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah, right!” Jimmy snaps, baring his teeth, “I know you all think I’m stupid, but you can’t think I’m this stupid!”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” frowns Ren, “I think you’re easily manipulated. But I can hardly blame you, in this instance, seeing as this is Grian we’re talking about.”

Yeah, exactly. It’s Grian. Grian has an uncanny smile and pitch black eyes and a stare that feels like floating in the void; Grian is a prankster and kind of a bully, but he isn’t this. He wouldn’t do this, not to them.

Jimmy feels his feathers fan out again: “You’re lying.”

He regrets his outbursts when Ren’s head finally snaps towards him.

“See for yourself,” he hisses, tossing his communicator onto the bed, and Jimmy’s voice dies in his throat. Oh, he’s angry again. That isn’t good for them. It’s probably best not to provoke him further.

But that’s not the only reason Jimmy went quiet, is it? No. The truth is, this is the first time he’s seen a communicator in days, and updates on what’s been going on outside are… scarce, to put it very mildly. He scrambles for the device, fully intending to scroll up as much as he can, but then he sees exactly what Ren was talking about.

You whispered to Smajor1995: Major, report back. Where are you?

Nothing for an hour or so. Then:

Smajor1995 whispered to you: sorry! scott isn’t here!!  :) 

You whispered to Smajor1995: Who is this, then?

Grian whispered to you: sorry, wrong number.

Grian whispered to you: you know, as you can probably tell from the blood, i didn’t appreciate the attempted murder. neither did scar. and i want you to know that if i hadn’t stopped him, you’d be seeing a death message right now.

Grian whispered to you: but i’m feeling nice. he’s here with us.

You whispered to Grian: Where is “here”?

Three or four more hours go by without a word from Grian. With every joking message in the general chat, Jimmy’s heart sinks further and further into his stomach. But it doesn’t start aching until he sees the next few messages.

Grian whispered to you: sorry, i got distracted

Grian whispered to you: he just screams so pretty  :)

Jimmy is suddenly aware of the fact that he hasn’t been breathing for a minute. His lungs burn, his head feels light, and yet his eyes are laser-focused on the screen.

You whispered to Grian: What are you doing?

Grian whispered to you: hey, don’t worry. we’ll give him back

Grian whispered to you: but do give us a warning the next time you send one of your men out all alone  :)   i want to welcome them even better

A message. A warning. Is that really all Scott is?

There’s not an ounce of remorse in Grian’s tone. It’s uncanny. It’s terrifying. It’s… not as shocking as he would like. This is the same person that laughed in delight when his trap blew three people to bits. It’s the same person who was planning to destroy an entire desert just to get at the Red Army.

Of course they aren’t safe from Grian. No one is.

Jimmy shivers. His flight feathers splay and then straighten out, over and over again. It feels like needles digging under his skin, and he doesn’t care. If he turns his head just a little bit, he can see the constellation of bruises peeking out from under Scott’s clothes. There’s one spot on his cheek where the skin has split, and traces of blood around his mouth. It’s still fresh, still red, still sticking to his chin, and no one’s bothered to clean it, no one’s bothered to bandage the cut on his cheek or the scratches from what, in hindsight, must be Grian’s talons. The only sign of care on his entire body is the bandage that can vaguely be seen under his shirt, wrapped around his shoulder. Even that is soaked in blood and completely useless for whatever wound it’s hiding.

If this is what Grian considers a message, Jimmy doesn’t want to know what he’s like when he’s really angry. At the same time, though, he’s not afraid. 

His heart is pounding in his chest, faster and faster and faster, and with every pulse the colour of Scott’s blood becomes more and more intense and vibrant in his eyes. It’s almost glowing. The red sinks into his heart and spreads along his veins and tells him to find Grian right now and repay him tenfold for every little bruise and scratch he finds on Scott. For the first time, he's able to decipher the constant buzzing in his ears, and all it does is cry for violence. The crimson mist that's been swirling in his mind for weeks explodes into splatters of blood and torn red feathers.

Jimmy stares down at the last messages on the comms.

Smajor1995 whispered to you: ren hlep

Smajor1995 whispered to you: northeasy cirner

It’s out of character. It’s uncanny. And if Scott wasn’t lying two feet away from him, covered in bruises, Jimmy wouldn’t believe that he was the one who wrote that text.

But he is, isn’t he?

Jimmy’s hands are shaking too much to stop Ren from ripping the communicator out of his grip. Not that he’d be able to stop him anyway (Ren is much stronger than he is), but it just goes to cement how useless he is in all of this. If Ren hadn’t brought Scott to his cell, he wouldn’t even know what happened. If he hadn’t given him the apple, Jimmy couldn’t do anything, because he doesn’t know anything about first aid.

Even if they leave, what then? They’ve lost their allies, clearly, and nothing like this can ever happen again. It can’t.

There’s that distressed crooning again.

He keeps his eyes on Scott as Ren’s footsteps retreat and the iron door slams open. This time, he doesn’t have the usual impulse to run out of the room. He doesn’t know what that says about him.

“I hope this opened your eyes to the kind of brutes you associate with.”

Ren’s voice is almost tired, almost soft, but not quite. There’s a sharpness to it. But it’s close enough to the way his voice used to sound that all Jimmy can do is nod absently.

The door slams shut.

Jimmy shifts his wings to the left. The bed isn’t meant for two people, but they’ve made it work before. He bends Scott’s injured arm so that his hand rests on his chest. That should help with the swelling, right? There won’t be any swelling once he’s healed, either way, but that could take hours. Days, even, depending on whether or not Scott has a concussion.

Jimmy lies on his side to take up as little space as possible.

Outside, Ren is back to barking orders.

“Is everyone here?”

There’s a general noise of assent from the others.

“From this moment forward, no one is to leave these walls unaccompanied!” declares Ren, louder than he needs to, “If you find yourselves outnumbered, for whatever reason, do not engage! If you are unable to leave, send out your coordinates immediately! Understood?"

“Yessir!”

They keep talking after that, but Scott’s raspy breath is a far more distracting sound.

Jimmy doesn’t dare to hold him right now. It could make everything worse. What if he has broken ribs? What if being touched scares him after all of that? No, he can’t risk it. He just lies there beside his husband and tries not to listen to the noise outside.

“You know, you don’t get to tell me to stay put and be safe if you’re gonna do this, Scott,” he whispers. There’s no answer, of course, and Jimmy didn’t expect one, and still the silence makes his eyes sting.

His voice comes out shaky, but he has to say something: “Just be okay. Just be okay, and… and I’ll let it slide, yeah? No hard feelings. We can forget about this.”

That’s a lie, because he’s never going to forget this image for as long as he lives, but Scott doesn’t need to know that.

Not touching Scott was a lie, too. Jimmy slowly, fearfully reaches for his good wrist again. That seems like a safe place to touch. There’s a bit of rope burn, but otherwise, that wrist seems fine. And just laying his hand on top of it shouldn’t trigger anything. He hopes.

Hoping’s all he can do these days.

He doesn’t sleep.

Chapter Text

The first thing Scott feels is the constant ache of his battered chest. But the second is a hand on his wrist, which more than makes up for it. The hand is so familiar that he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know who it belongs to, but he opens them anyway, because he wants to see him.

“‘m I… in heaven?” he slurs. It was supposed to come out a lot smoother than that.

Jimmy smiles questioningly: "Not quite."

"Oh. Why am I… seeing angels, then?"

It makes Jimmy blush; it always does. A violent red blush that explodes inside his cheeks, blossoming outward like a poppy in the summer. But Jimmy doesn’t say anything, which is unusual.

Scott tries to turn sideways to face him. Tries. He finds it incredibly hard to move, for some reason: all his limbs feel heavy and the muscles that surround his spine are stiff and tense. Then again, he did just take an awful beating, which is probably also the reason Jimmy's being so quiet.

"Jimmy?"

"Mhm?"

"You alright, petal?"

As far as couples go, they aren't overly invested in using pet names. Pet names are more of a treat, a little verbal kiss on the cheek they use sparingly to make each other flustered.

This time, Jimmy doesn’t even blush.

He just smiles.

"I am now," he hums, gently sliding his hands into Scott's, interlocking their stiff fingers together, "but you know it won't stay that way, don't you?"

His hand is cold. This dungeon really isn't good for him, thinks Scott, shivering under his touch.

"W-what do you mean, Jimmy?"

"What if this cage drives me insane?" Jimmy says candidly. His smile is fixed on his cheeks like the painted face of a doll: "What if I can't stand the isolation anymore, and I start pulling out my feathers until I have no hope of flying ever again? What if, when I run out of feathers, I move on to other things? Scratch my arms and hit my head just to make something happen?"

Scott still can't move. He can’t answer, either. Like a bolt of lightning out of the blue, Jimmy's candid, way-too-calm hypothesis strikes him right in the chest and leaves him paralysed, lying stiffly on the bed as those icy fingers begin to trail up his arm.

"What if…" Jimmy continues, "...they don't want to help you after all? What if they just had to get you out of the way and send a nice little warning to the King all at once? What if they've abandoned you?"

Something is wrong. Jimmy’s never run cold before. He folds his wing over Scott and even that is cold, and that is worse.

“What if you all die out there and I just have to sit in here and starve and wonder where you are? What if my mind gets the best of me, and I think you just finally got tired of me and decided to lose the extra weight?”

The icy hand slowly trails up to his shoulder.

“What if they find out what you’ve been doing and they kill both of us?”

It’s like his muscles are freezing under Jimmy’s touch.

“Oh, and what if your whole killing Martyn plan succeeds? What if you kill him, and whatever’s left of Ren freezes over for good, and he stops being nice? You know he’s gone easy on us.”

Scott is shaking now. It’s the only movement his body allows, along with the slow, but unstoppable clenching of his jaw.

“Jimmy, stop it,” he pleads, or tries to, but his voice dies halfway through. It wouldn’t have worked no matter what, judging by the drowsy smile on Jimmy’s face, but he has to try, again and again, until he moves his lips and nothing comes out.

And Jimmy isn’t deterred. He's cupping Scott's face now, freezing his jaw shut with those icy fingers. His gloves are missing, and it's a strange thing to notice, but Scott does notice, because his brain is firing thought after thought after thought, trying to find a way out and failing, because there is no way out if he can't even move.

"What if…" Jimmy starts, and Scott's heart withers away like orchids in a snowstorm, "...he gets really angry, then, and the chopping block isn't enough for us anymore?"

"Stop."

"What if you wake up and you're chained to the wall across the room, and what if you go deaf from my screams? You know I'm loud."

The muffled whimpers clawing their way up Scott's throat make no sense anymore. They're completely unintelligible, but Jimmy knows him, and Jimmy should know what they mean, but he does not stop.

"But then, I think you'd rather go deaf than the alternative," he hums, and his wing flutters lazily over Scott, "Because if you don’t, you'll have to hear it when I stop calling out for you and start to curse you instead. It wouldn’t be my fault. We both know that, and even I would have to accept it at some point."

A stray feather brushes against Scott's broken arm. Then two, then five, then dozens of them, falling out in clumps to reveal what can only be described as nothing. Not skin, or sinew, or bone, not air, just nothing; slowly, one feather at a time, patches of deep black void start to reveal themselves, and the void hurts. There's a reason no one dares to fly down there: the void takes hold and swallows you up and drowns and strangles and freezes and burns you all at once, and once the pain stops, that's when you know you're gone. Scott has only fallen once, and he never wants to fall again. He remembers it so clearly.

Nothing ever comes back from the void intact.

"And what if we do win?" Scott can't feel his arm anymore, but Jimmy laughs over his whimpers of distress: "What then? There's only one winner, you know. And, hm… what do you think is worse? Which one of us has it worse? The one that dies, or the one that lives?"

There are no feathers left. The void swallowed them like it swallows everything else, and it's spreading across the walls of the room and across both of their tangled bodies, and there's not a single thing they can do to stop it. 

Jimmy doesn’t seem to care to stop it, either.

He grins a grin he's never had before, and hums: "There are so many ways this could go. But everyone happy and safe isn't one of them. You know that, don't you?"

Of course he does. But everyone has never mattered to him, as long as—

" No one can be both happy and safe here," says Jimmy, like he's reading his thoughts, "Either way, this ends in blood, for every single one of you. And, if I’m being honest…"

Scott wants to look away, but he's frozen still and silent, and so he gets to see it when Jimmy's face disappears into the void too.

He feels himself slip away. But, before he does, there's a voice that sounds nothing like Jimmy's.

"...I can't wait to watch," it whispers.

Scott wakes up, and all his limbs are still there. He gasps for air (there's no air in the void), sitting up like a spring went off in his back, and immediately regrets it when all of his ribs scream in agony, punching what little air he managed to get right out of his lungs. But he has lungs, and a spine, and ribs, and that is such a relief compared to that oppressive numbness that the pain is easily overlooked.

His body disagrees. He ends up folded in two on the bed, nursing his aching chest with his good arm. The sharp, stabbing pains taking his breath away kindly let him know that his ribs did not appreciate the sudden movement. He could’ve guessed. 

The last remnants of the nightmare linger in his mind, clouding the corners of his vision with cold tendrils of black and purple. He doesn’t see the arms coming until they’ve closed around him, but it only scares him for a second, because—

“Oh, no, you don’t!” shrieks Jimmy, pushing him back down to lie flat against the mattress, “You’re not taking a single step out of here ‘till next week, mister!”

His arms are warm again. Scott nearly melts into them. He clings to Jimmy’s back with his good arm, clumsily keeping him half-pinned down, but Jimmy doesn’t seem to mind. He does mind the way his chest is pressing down on Scott, though. His wings flutter in protest: “Scott— Scott, Scott, I love you too, but I think your ribs are broken. Your arm’s definitely broken.”

“Mmm…” Scott whines, not quite able to form a coherent sentence yet. Or a coherent thought, beyond the overwhelming urge to hold on to the warmth and never let it go. Maybe he is a cat.

What is he thinking?

He clings on tighter, curling up against his husband, and Jimmy goes a little pink in the face: “U-um…” he stammers, awkwardly patting the top of Scott’s head, “I’m happy to see you, but you’re… uh…”

Yes, Scott doesn’t need to look in a mirror to know he looks terrible. He also doesn’t care. Jimmy seemingly doesn’t have the heart to move him away, though; he lets Scott lie against his side like a tired cat, turning his head to look at the bookshelf opposite from the door. Almost purposefully so.

Scott squints at him: “Hey, come here,” he mumbles, pawing at Jimmy’s shoulder with his good arm. There’s something very odd about the way he turns away from Scott, and maybe Scott knows he’s the one that messed up this time, but maybe he doesn’t even know the extent of it.

Jimmy reaches over to the nightstand without answering. It wouldn’t be half as terrifying as it is, if not for the nightmare, but it’s hard to ignore his silence now. Without his voice, the room feels as though it’s about to be plunged into darkness and cold and heat and yet nothing at all, again, as it was before. Scott trembles against his side: “I’m sorry,” he says, quickly, “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“N-no, Jimmy, I’m—”

“Shush.”

Scott squeaks in surprise as something crunchy gets in the way of his teeth. It does taste delicious, though, so he can’t complain too much. He recognises it almost immediately; it tastes like an apple, but… better, somehow. He was never quite able to put his finger on what exactly made golden apples tastier than regular apples, nor was anyone else he approached the subject with, but it’s probably nothing to lose sleep about. It might just be whatever magic allows golden apples to exist in the first place.

He takes the apple into his hands, thoroughly placated, as the juice seeps into the cut on the inside of his cheek and mends it in a matter of seconds. His ribs already feel better, too, and he can feel the skin on his shoulder straining to repair itself.

“Where’d you get this?” he asks between bites. It’s not that he doesn’t trust it. It’s just that he doesn’t trust Jimmy not to fall apart before him and become a different person again. That is worse, but there’s no time to unpack that right now.

Jimmy still won’t look him in the eyes: “It’s from my items. Ren gave it back.”

Scott freezes for a moment, but there are much better ways to murder him than poisoning a golden apple (an item that is virtually impossible to poison in the first place) when he’s already half dead, so he bites his tongue and snuggles into his husband instead. On his end, Jimmy doesn’t seem too keen on sharing his concerns, either; he clearly has concerns, judging by his refusal to look anywhere but the bookshelf, but he seems content with sitting there and letting Scott lean into his side. 

Well, that isn’t good.

“Jimmy?”

“Mh?”

“What’s wrong, petal?”

Jimmy goes red in the face, puffing his feathers without even realising, and Scott nearly collapses in relief. 

It’s really him this time.

Chapter Text

“What’s wrong, petal?”

Watching Jimmy sputter and blush is as funny as always, with the added relief of him actually being… well, him. It’s good to see him, there’s no way around it. He shoves indignantly (but very gently) at Scott: “You can’t just spring petal on me! That’s not fair! You—” he stammers, jabbing at his chest, “Oi, you’re not off the hook, you hear me? You’re not getting out of this just because you’re being all cuddly.”

“Whatever you say…” purrs Scott, making no attempt to hide the smug grin on his face. He’s already forgiven. They both know that. Jimmy’s not fooling anyone.

Honestly, it’s hard to remember the cold like this, and Scott never wants to move from here if he can help it. He holds up the apple, staring at his reflection in its shimmering skin. The cut on his cheek seems to have healed, and aside from the lingering blood, his face is once again spotless. And gorgeous, of course.

“You do know if I eat this, I’ll heal almost immediately, right?”

“That’s the idea,” sighs Jimmy, leading the apple back towards his lips, “Open up.”

Scott opens his mouth.

“If you make that joke, I will divorce you.”

Scott closes his mouth, frowning: “What if it was a different joke?”

“So you were thinking about that one!”

“Yeah, obviously I was. Have you met me?”

"Divorce it is!"

He squawks indignantly when Scott pokes at his side: "Jimmy, you can’t divorce me. There are no lawyers here, you're stuck with me."

Until death do us part, and all that, but this doesn't seem like the right time to repeat that. He will not spend what little time they’re allowed together like that. And that is exactly where the problem lies: they have so little time together, and even now, there’s no telling when Scott will have to leave again, or when they’ll next be able to see each other. He takes another bite of the apple, struggling to chew and swallow it without giving into the sickly feeling of despair that closes his stomach shut. Even here, even in his husband’s arms, he can’t afford to feel safe. It isn’t fair.

“Maybe I shouldn’t eat this,” he ponders, half-heartedly turning the apple over in his hands, “Maybe I should toss this out.”

“Why?”

“If I get better, I’ll have to leave again.”

Jimmy draws him a little closer. There’s something soft under his jacket, probably an extra shirt or something. It’s nice that they gave him one. With how cold it is in the cell, Scott would’ve thrown a fit otherwise. He absently runs his fingers over it, frowning at the weird texture of the presumed shirt. It’s strangely uneven, sometimes thick enough to sink his hand into, sometimes so thin that he can almost feel the familiar warmth of Jimmy’s skin.

He stops when Jimmy shifts uncomfortably away from the touch. It’s an odd reaction, but it’s not Scott’s place to decide what’s okay or not. He can ask, though.

“What’s that under your shirt?”

Jimmy’s leg is bouncing. 

“Nothing,” he says, a little too high-pitched, and wow is he a bad liar. It’s part of his charm, but it can and does screw him over, especially with Scott. They both know he’s caught. His wings flutter: “Um… Scott?”

“Mhm?”

“Something has… happened, lately,” he admits, “I don’t know how, or why, and I didn’t wanna tell you because it didn’t seem like a big deal, but it’s all over me now and— Scott! ” he shrieks, clumsily trying to grab Scott when he sits up and away from him.

“What is it?”

“I was gonna tell you, if you’d just—”

“No, no, no. What is it?”

The question goes unanswered, because all Scott had to do was look up.

Jimmy’s eyes are wide and anxious. He’s not looking away anymore, kneeling on the bed and clutching the blanket like he’s going to fall if he doesn’t. His wings press down on his sides as if to shield him, but they don’t cover the left side of his face.

The poppies bursting out of his skin are plain to see.

The second Jimmy feels Scott’s eyes on him, his wings fold like theatre curtains to cover him. He disappears behind them, the way he always does when he’s ashamed. Ashamed. What is there to be ashamed of?

Still nursing his healing wrist, Scott clumsily crawls over to him: “Jimmy? Hey, look at me.”

The yellow cocoon tightens.

“Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy, it’s fine…” he coaxes, lightly patting the top of one of the wings.

“No, it’s not!” whines Jimmy, batting at his hand half-heartedly, “I’m turning into a bloody flower pot!”

“A cute flower pot.”

“That’s not the point and you know it!”

"No, you're right," he sighs, "The point is, if you're gonna turn into a flower pot, maybe we can be flower pots together."

A single brown eye pokes out over the wings: "I don't get that metaphor."

Well, he was going to find out eventually.

"Not a metaphor," sighs Scott, playing with the hem of his shirt, "Well, not if we accept that growing poppies from your body equates to being a flower pot."

"What are you talking a—"

Jimmy cuts himself off with a sharp gasp when the shirt is finally lifted. Scott belatedly thinks that a warning might've been in order, but it's too late for that now, the poppies are out in full view of Jimmy, who on his end is looking just a shade or two greener than before. 

A moment later it occurs to Scott that oh wait, he can see his bones too, and he quickly tugs the shirt back down over his torso.

Way too late.

"I think I saw your ribs just now," whispers Jimmy, white as a sheet.

"Oh. Yeah," Scott nods, dumbly, barely restraining his surprise. If Jimmy really did see his ribs, then the wound has grown larger. A subtle touch of his chest reveals that that might indeed be the case, and that is not good, but Jimmy doesn’t need to know that, so he decides to shelf that for now and get back to it as soon as he's alone. He clears his throat awkwardly: "The point is, it's fine. I'm still okay even with my ribs out, so you should be alright."

"Yes, yes. Can we go back to the part where your ribs are out?! " Jimmy screeches, his feathers bristling in a move that looks truly painful. He shrinks back immediately, clapping a hand over his mouth: "Sorry."

"It's fine."

"This is not remotely fine!"

"Yes, it is," Scott insists, scooting forward to bring their faces closer, "It's fine until it's not, and I haven’t noticed anything different so far, so can we please just go back to… everything else? We don't get a lot of time together, and I'd just… I really don't want to focus on problems we don't even have yet."

" Yet. "

"Please, Jimmy."

Jimmy hesitates. He looks like he has plenty more to say, but they're both tired, and Scott has already convinced him, and they both know that.

"Okay," he mumbles, sitting back on his heels, "Okay, fine. Just… eat the apple."

"Will do."

It's an acceptable compromise. It's not like Scott wants his wrist to keep burning like hellfire, thank you very much.

He happily crawls over and leans on Jimmy's shoulder, snuggling into the warmth of his wing. Jimmy pointedly hands him the half-eaten apple, and he eats it without complaints. It's good, anyway.

The feel of poppy petals sprouting from Jimmy's neck reminds him of his gift. His own banner has been hastily stuffed into his bag next to the one meant for Jimmy, and he really isn't sure why the King bothered with that. But the red banner he finds just underneath gives him a good idea.

He groans, but decides to leave it in his bag anyway. Fine. If he's gonna look like a Red Army soldier, he might as well have it. Just as long as he's allowed to keep theirs, too, which it appears he is.

"Whatcha doing?" prompts Jimmy, eyeing what little he can see of the unfamiliar banners curiously, “What’s that?”

It’s the perfect time.

“Just something I made,” says Scott, vaguely. He carefully untangles his ( very bloody) banner from Jimmy’s. Yes, there’s plenty of blood still stuck to his clothes and his skin, but they don’t need to talk about that, not right after agreeing to forget the death part of death game for a while.

The banner is soft in his hand. It’s the second one he made, finer than the first, less clumsy. Jimmy doesn’t really care that much about the way he looks, nor does he care for fine things and good craftsmanship, but it would have felt… wrong to give him the defective banner. This one is much better. Gently, he unfolds it across Jimmy’s lap, and there’s the blue and white and that single pop of red that’s even more appropriate than he thought before.

He doesn’t need to look at Jimmy’s face. He can practically hear him blushing.

“Oh my gosh,” he giggles, “Is that…?”

“ Our banner. Yep.”

“Oooh my gosh.”

“Is that all you have to say, Jimmy?”

Jimmy’s happy chirping melts into sputter: “Ah— I— I mean— ah, what— else am I supposed to say?”

“I was joking.”

“Oh.”

The chirping resumes. If the bright red dusted all over Jimmy’s cheeks is anything to go by, he has no control over it, but joke’s on him, because it’s the best sound in the world. He averts his gaze from Scott over and over, utterly mortified and perhaps a little flustered by the smug smile Scott knows he must be wearing right now.

He brings up a hand to cover as much of his near-purple face as he can, curling up until the chirps settle down. When he finally has control over his voice again, he levels a glare at the very smug elf currently lying in his lap.

“Not. A. Word, Scott.”

Scott grins.

Chapter Text

They get the rest of the day to themselves. 

BigB does come by to bring them stew and bread at one point, but retreats very quickly when Scott levels a feline glare at him. Good.

Jimmy’s asleep at that point. He’s dozed off with both of his wings wrapped around Scott and the banner loosely draped across both of their shoulders. One of his arms lies over Scott’s back. He looks peaceful like that, almost smiling under the familiar weight on his chest, but that just makes Scott’s heart sink.

Exactly how long has he been alone? How much longer will he have to be alone? It isn’t fair.

Well, no matter. He needs to eat, right now. He can sleep later, when he’s alone again ( wow does that image sting), but Scott needs to make it very clear that he should eat and drink at the very least. Jimmy has forgotten to eat before, especially when he was stressed.

But first, he needs to check the stew. He sits up, gently prying Jimmy’s arm off of himself, and gives both of the bowls a cursory sniff. Scott is very familiar with the scent of every flower that can be used to add undesirable side effects to a soup, and… sure enough, there is a strange, floral scent about it. His heart jumps into his throat as he brings it closer to inspect it and identify the flower, and— 

Oh.

Daisy.

Scott takes a small, hesitant sip and his few remaining wounds begin to fade. Right. Oxeye daisies are commonly used to improve healing. He takes a tiny sip from the other bowl, just to be sure, but it yields the exact same effect. So they’re not trying to poison them today. Good to know.

“Scott?” 

Scott flips around to find his husband sitting up in bed, groggily rubbing at his eyes. Waking Jimmy wasn’t necessary, apparently. He must’ve felt his absence. Maybe he felt cold without a human blanket. 

“Hey,” he greets, dumbly. He never knows what to say.

“Why’d you leave?”

Scott holds up the two plates BigB delivered, in lieu of a response.

“Oh.” Jimmy sighs. The tension in his shoulders dissolves immediately. Was he that afraid of Scott leaving? Scott shivers slightly; maybe he should take his nightmare a little bit seriously. Just on that point.

He walks back to the bed and hands Jimmy one of the plates: “It’s healing stew. Eat up.”

“You started eating without me?”

“I was just checking what it was,” Scott retorts, quickly, “I smelled flowers in it.”

“Flowers? Oh.”

Scott nods, bringing the bowl to his lips, but he’s immediately stopped by a hand on his wrist.

“Jimmy?”

“And you drank it?” Jimmy frowns, “You thought it might have been poisoned, and you drank it?”

Shit, he’s getting worried. That’s not good. Scott waves his hand off with a shrug: “I know my flowers, Jimmy. It’s like, the one thing I know.”

“That’s not true,” mumbles his husband, but it seems the reassurances worked, because he tentatively takes a sip of his own stew, munching a slice of bread with a pensive look on his face. He looks a little sad, almost.

They eat in complete silence. Only for about a minute, of course, until it becomes completely unbearable and Scott awkwardly prompts: “They’re feeding you enough, right?”

“Mh? Oh, yeah, don’t worry.” Jimmy rolls his eyes: “Usually, they won’t leave until I’ve eaten. They’re annoyingly attentive, actually. It’s giving me flashbacks.”

“Flashbacks?”

Jimmy picks at the mushrooms floating in the broth.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, finally, “I was sick all the time when I was a kid. And my sister wouldn’t let me leave my room while she went and got me food, medicine, and all that. And she was very attentive, too, but it’s different here. I-I mean, she was taking care of me because she was my big sister, not because it was in her best interest to keep me ali—”

He cuts himself off, awkwardly stuffing a slice of bread in his mouth to shut himself up. He said too much; he probably thinks Scott would be upset to hear that after they agreed not to talk about their predicament, and unfortunately, he’s right. It is upsetting.

Scott tries not to clench his jaw too much.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” he says, quietly, “How come I’ve never met her?”

That seems to give Jimmy pause.

“I don’t know,” he concludes, “I mean, I know I existed before this game, but… um, that’s about it. You know what I mean?”

“I do.”

He really does. Scott knows almost nothing about who he used to be, and yet he knows everything. It’s the paradox of every player here: knowing they’ve always existed, yet knowing nothing before the game. Have any of them ever even met outside of the game? They must have, because Scott remembers knowing Jimmy before the game, but as for how they met, he has no idea.

Jimmy’s leg bounces.

“Do you have siblings?” he asks, another awkward attempt at small talk, certainly a question that was meant to be entirely innocent, and yet it sends a jolt of painful dread down Scott’s spine. It’s so cold in the cells, and yet that question feels like flames licking at his back.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, sharp as a spear, cold as snow, as if his tone could help bring the temperature down again.

Jimmy shrinks back: “Okay. Sorry.”

Scott wishes he could bring himself to say something after that. Apologise, maybe. Explain why he acted like that.

He can’t.

The conversation doesn’t find the time to resume before a very tired-looking Martyn peeks into the cell from the tiny window on the door. There’s something off about him, but Scott simply doesn’t care enough to investigate it.

“Hey, Scott,” sighs Martyn, leaning against the doorway, “Your, uh… Your presence is requested by His Majesty. He wants to talk.”

Well, that’s a weird attitude, coming from him. Has something happened? Scott raises his eyebrow at him: “Okay?”

“In private.”

Scott doesn’t need to look up to know Jimmy’s feathers are bristling. He can hear it.

“Fine,” he mumbles, gathering the empty bowls and plates in his arms. He can walk just fine now, courtesy of the apple and the stew, but he would be lying if he said the blood sticking to his skin isn’t driving him insane. Maybe he should’ve washed up. There’s a bathroom attached to the cell, anyway.

Oh, well. Too late for that now.

Jimmy springs to his feet: “W-wait, hang on, what does he want?”

“I don’t know,” says Martyn, tiredly, “Probably just wants a report on what happened, and then you’re good to come back here.”

He sounds almost… salty. Did he and the King argue? That could be very good, or very bad.

“Jimmy, it’s fine…” sighs Scott. He leans over and cuts off Jimmy’s sputtering with a peck (hah.) on the lips. It always works. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, smoothing down the feathers on the sides of his husband’s face with his thumb, “You can go back to your nap if you want.”

They both know he won’t. When he’s this anxious, it could take him hours to calm down. But Jimmy doesn’t protest further, choosing instead to bite his lip and nod silently.

It’s probably for the best.

Chapter Text

Etho is leaning against the wall, guarding the cell. He looks nervous, which is the first sign that something is wrong. Martyn doesn’t walk him to where he’s supposed to go. That is the second sign, something that would be easily overlooked on another day, but something that seems a little suspicious now. It becomes very suspicious when Scott does eventually find the King, sitting eerily still next to a shattered window.

Drip, drip, drip.

Drops of scarlet red slowly trickle down the glass and to the windowsill. Matching crimson splatters stain the King’s knuckles.

None of it bodes well.

Scott tries not to shudder. It can’t be good. His eyes keep wandering to the splatters of blood on the edges of the shattered window pane, to the sharp pieces that are still precariously hanging from its frame. If he’s angry enough to attack the window, what else is he gonna attack?

He’s half expecting the King to shout at him. He doesn’t. In fact, his voice is eerily calm: “I hope your recovery is going well.”

Is going, present tense. So he’s not about to be sent out again, it seems.

“It’s going fine,” he says, curtly, “Why? Do you need something?”

The King smiles, hollow and bitter: “Can’t I simply check in with you?”

After everything that’s happened, Scott is slightly more inclined to believe him. Slightly. He’s still wrong, but he may be tragically unaware of how wrong he is. Of course, it’s just as likely that he’s trying to manipulate Scott, and in the off-chance that he is, Scott has to keep his guard up.

“Sure,” he says, lukewarm, “It’s fine. Thanks for the stew.”

“Mh. You can have more if needed. Sit down, will you?”

The way he pointedly ignores the blood congealing on the broken glass is almost uncanny. Scott could almost believe that he doesn’t see it, if not for the way his injured hand trembles with pain. Deep purple bruises are blooming around his knuckles, and they look like they hurt.

Scott decides to sit down, if only to avoid pissing him off further.

“So,” he starts, quietly, “Did you want something, or can I just go back to my husband?”

“In a minute.”

“What is it?”

“I would like a report on what happened,” sighs the King, “I can guess, of course, but if you believe there is anything more to be said…”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” says Scott, hastily. There is a small pit of unease in his stomach, deepening with every second that he’s away from Jimmy. The nightmare wasn’t real, but it wasn’t… not real. It wasn’t real in the present. That is all. He still has to look out for it.

It’s not real, Scott. Yeah, except that he remembers now. The last time he thought his fears weren’t real, they burned his house to the ground and laughed in his face with a mouth that was just a little bit too wide.

The King clearly isn’t convinced, but doesn’t press him, for some reason: “Understood. Well, not to worry. You may rest until tomorrow. Since you were unconscious, I will let you know what I told everyone else: as it stands, nobody is allowed to leave these walls alone.” His voice lowers to the point of… softness: “I doubt they will be as merciful the next time they see you.”

"Mh."

"I am sorry that you were caught in such an ordeal."

Scott's head snaps up. He expected a lot of things from this conversation, most bad, some good, but he certainly did not expect an apology of all things. It's not the apology he wants, but he needs to pretend it worked.

"It's fine," he says, curtly, "Knowing Grian and Scar, they might've done it anyway."

He's playing into what the King wants him to think, of course, but honestly, he isn't sure he's lying right now. If Grian hadn't figured him out at the last second, Scott is nearly certain that either himself or Scar would be dead right now. Grian would definitely be dead. Possibly Jimmy, too, which is a terrifying thought and an unwelcome reminder that he should not anger Scar, ever. At the same time, the King is also known for causing collateral damage.

Essentially, there's no way out unless one of the two kills the other.

The King nods, seemingly buying into the half-lie: "I agree. Eventually, they would have turned on you."

"And you won't?"

The claws begin their arrhythmic tapping once again. If they went a little faster, the sound would match Scott's heartbeat, racing in his ears at an irregular pace.

"That is actually why I called you here," the King admits, "In light of… recent events, I thought it would be appropriate to ask where your loyalties lie."

With Jimmy. And no one else. But Scott can’t say that if he wants to live, so he tilts his head in mock confusion that might pass for genuine to someone like the King: "What do you mean?"

The man adjusts his position on the throne, conveniently hiding his bloodied knuckles in the folds of his cape: "Well, your position here has been… precarious, I will say. You have been an excellent soldier, and given that it should be clear now that the Desert is against you, I thought it might be time to make you into a proper knight."

What?

Scott swallows a wave of nausea. He can’t see himself as a part of the Red Army, no matter how he spins it, and on some level he knows that he's only here because he was forced to be here, but on some other level, some other part of his brain tells him that it's an alliance worth considering. Numerous, powerful allies that he needs to keep happy, or else. He can’t tell if it's a genuine offer. Maybe…

He sighs deeply: "If I swear allegiance, will you let Jimmy go?"

"No."

The response is fast and sharp as a sword, and Scott can’t help but flinch back. The King hasn't moved, and yet it feels the same as having a blade to his neck. They would know, both of them, what that is like.

"W-why?" Scott stammers, "I wouldn’t have anyone else to ally with! It's like you said: they'll have my head if they see me again!"

The King leans forward, and a gust of cold wind caresses Scott's ear.

"That is precisely it," he growls, "It isn’t safe for you outside these walls. Do you think they will be any kinder to your husband?"

Scott freezes in his seat. He only half-fakes it. The fear in his eyes is real, he knows that much; of course the King would think that, and of course he would be right, if the Desert really were who he thought they were.

"No," he whispers, clenching the arms of the chair until he can feel the wood under his nails, "They won't be. I'm probably safer than he is."

Finally, the King leans back again, seemingly appeased: "Yes," he nods somberly, "If you truly want me to ensure his safety, then this is the safest place I can possibly offer. I can make the room bigger, or let him walk around on occasion, but he is not to leave these walls."

It's an acceptable compromise. It'll probably be better for Jimmy's mental health, at least, but it might make it harder to rescue him. Scott has the distinct feeling that his only two options are a promotion or staying in the exact same situation as before. Either way, they won't be free, so he might as well reap what benefits he can from all this.

He still hesitates. Maybe a little too long, because the King sighs and leans back in his chair: "You have until tomorrow to give me an answer. You are dismissed."

Scott stands up quickly. But he doesn't walk back, not yet, because if the King really does see him as a member of his Army, then he'd better use that for all it's worth.

"Is Martyn okay?" he asks, deliberately soft, dulling the edge he always keeps around the other factions.

It works.

The tapping resumes as the King cranes his neck to stare out the shattered window, refusing to look at Scott: "He is unhappy with my new policies," he sighs, "I'm sure he will come around. They were implemented for everyone's safety, and I know he is clever enough to understand that."

"Ah."

Why would Martyn be upset about the newly founded buddy system? Unless, of course, there's a whole separate rule for him. If the King's idea of safety is a cage, Martyn probably isn't allowed to leave at all. That would be good. With some luck, it could mean that he'll be right in the line of fire if the Desert alliance come to rescue Jimmy like they said.

When, he reminds himself. Not if.

Would Grian go back on his word? Absolutely. But maybe not on this. And saying no to Cleo is always a bad idea.

Scott fidgets with the banner around his neck: “You know, I’m sure you’ve been thinking about this for a while, but it’s all really sudden for me, so…”

“That is fine. You have until tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes, I got it. It’s just…” He adjusts his left sleeve for no real reason: “Where did this come from? I get rescuing me, but you came personally, and now this?”

Scott doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. He probably shouldn’t stop to question this at all, but it’s just so uncanny when he compares the person in front of him to the one that threatened him and dug his claws into his shoulder and ordered someone to cut his fucking head off. Those two people should not exist in the same body, which means that either there are two people living inside of Ren’s body, or the King is manipulating him.

The King looks up at him, still comfortably seated with his cloak soaking up the blood from his hand.

“I figured it would cause less marital strife if I made the offer official,” he says, finally, “considering that your husband is the one who suggested it.”

What.

What is Jimmy thinking? What is he doing? Knowing him, he could have any number of weird and impractical plans, but Scott can’t for the life of him figure out what they could be.

“What?” he stammers, “ Jimmy suggested it?”

“Well, no. He thought he should become a knight. I had to decline, of course, as I cannot guarantee his safety if he fights.”

Scott is eternally grateful that the King still has common sense.

“When?” he demands.

To his credit, the King does answer him. But as soon as he opens his mouth, his voice is immediately drowned out by the familiar sound of an explosion and a chilling, high-pitched laugh.

At the same time, both of their comms buzz twice in unison. The King goes rigid looking down at the screen, and Scott almost doesn’t want to see what has him so nervous, but he does, damn him, he looks down and his heart drops into his stomach. Two death messages stare back at him, and that’s bad enough, but one of them… 

Scott stumbles and crashes into the wall.

Chapter Text

SolidarityGaming drowned.

Etho was blown up by Grian .

Scott's heart stops.

He should run. The cell isn't far. He should run, but he doesn't; his limbs are frozen like he's trapped in a nightmare (he prays that he is), and he stands stock still in the doorway as the King dives past him with his sword already in hand.

He was so much faster. He still has four men to protect, after all, but Scott?

What's the point of running? There's nothing to be done now.

He walks instead. Slowly, stiffly, like he's already dead (if only), he walks like he's climbing the steps of the gallows. It feels that way. He's as good as dead, isn't he? He knows what will happen. He will walk in and see the body and whatever scrap of sense he has left will burst into splatters of violent red and he will slaughter everyone in his path until someone overpowers him, and then he can be done with this.

He can’t bring himself to be scared, though. This is how it ends, isn’t it? That's the best he can hope for. This oh well, I tried, that’s all he gets to have. He doesn’t even know why he's bothering to walk to the cell, when he could just as easily take out his sword and be out of the game right now. It would be easier. And still, he walks; he walks, and then he runs, because through the ringing in his ears break familiar voices, on and off. He can’t tell what they're saying, but he knows who they belong to, and they were supposed to help, and Scott should never have trusted them.

Why did Grian laugh? He must've seen the messages too, surely. And Jimmy couldn't have… 

…on his own. Someone did this. Someone did this, and Grian laughed, and Etho's gone, but Scott doesn’t even register it until he's approaching the cell and he's forced to jump across a scorched and bloodied hole in the floor of the corridor. He shudders. It turns out that bodies do remain after the final death.

Parts of them, anyway. 

Of all things to notice when he finally enters the room, Scott's eyes land on the scraps of iron embedded in the wall. The door, torn off its hinges by the force of the explosion, lies dented and fuming in a corner. Remnants of rails and a minecart litter the floor.

The King is there, of course, locked in a furious duel against Cleo on one side, Scar on the other. Furious doesn't quite cover it, actually: the King is enraged, striking violently against one, blocking the other, rinse and repeat, spinning like a sword dancer. His arm is bleeding profusely, and he lets it bleed, slashing at his opponents like he doesn’t have what would undoubtedly be a debilitating injury if he wasn't so angry.

And all of that is terrifying, but it isn’t what Scott is worried about.

He can’t see Jimmy anywhere.

He's snapped out of his thoughts when the King's sword finds its mark and Scar stumbles back with a yelp, cradling his shoulder. Left at the centre of a fairer one-on-one fight, the King yells back: "Major!" he calls, and Scott snaps at attention, "The bathroom! Quickly!"

Scott's limbs still feel stiff and lifeless. Briefly, he wonders if he died on the way here and simply didn't notice, but when he finally forces himself to turn and look at the bathroom door, the blood returns to his body all at once.

Just inside the doorway, he can make out the bright red of Grian’s flight feathers.

A jolt of electricity runs all the way down Scott's spine and to his legs and he sprints, finally awake again, shoving past Scar before the man can try to stop him.

Grian has his back to Scott. He's kneeling on the floor of the bathroom, his shoulders moving rhythmically up and down as he pants out a string of numbers and words under his breath.

"...19… 20… 21… c'mon, Tim… 24… 25… come on… 27… 28… 29…"

The thirty gets lost in his wheezing breaths as he bends down until his head is almost touching the ground. 

No, not the ground, Scott realises with a choked gasp. With Grian’s wings out of the way, he can see the way Jimmy's chest rises and falls artificially when Grian plugs his nose and blows air into his mouth.

He should push Grian away. He would, if only his heart wasn't clinging so desperately to the avian's promise. He can’t interrupt this. CPR is more likely to work if it's not interrupted.

So he stands there, trembling, as Grian folds his hands over Jimmy's heart and continues. There are sounds coming from the next room, loud clangs and shouts and the terrifying roars of an angry King, but the only sound Scott can truly hear is the numbers spilling from Grian’s lips in time with his strokes. They're the only thing that allows him to keep track of time and reality as his eyes wander around the room and pick out more and more and more details that make his stomach turn.

Yes, he can guess that the hole in the floor must be the entrance Grian and possibly the others used, but that's not what worries him.

The bathtub is full, but Jimmy is fully dressed. There are specks of blood on the edge of the tub, and there is blood drying under Jimmy's fingernails. The tiles are drenched in water, but Jimmy is mostly dry from the chest down.

Someone did do this, then, but why? Who? It couldn't have been Etho, who it seems was standing outside when the minecart dropped. It couldn't have been the King, who was with Scott the entire time. It couldn't have been Grian, who is trying to revive Jimmy right now and has been for a while.

Scott's eyes are burning. He rubs at them with his palms, half hoping it will erase all the images flooding his mind like bloody water, but all it does is tinge them sickly scarlet.

It's right as he covers his eyes that a horribly wet cough snaps him back to reality.

“ Yes! ” Grian shrieks, audibly flapping his wings in celebration, as a new set of wheezing breaths joins the cacophony of tension in the room and finally harmonises with it. It's such a beautiful sound that it takes all Scott has not to sob. He lets out a hitching breath instead, moving slowly towards Grian as he turns Jimmy on his side to get the rest of the water out of his lungs. Small specks of red float and dissolve in the (shockingly large) puddle of water that spills out of his mouth, but he's breathing. Scott has no idea how Grian’s rescue worked, but he's not about to question a miracle.

His ragged breaths finally attract the attention of his sort-of-ally, who takes a moment to wipe his one eye before turning around with a large smile.

"Hi, Scott," he grins, "We're here to kidnap you."

A moment later, something slams into his head and the world goes blurry, and for once, that is good news.

Scott is slung across Scar's good shoulder for the third time. He would laugh if he had the energy to, but though he may not be severely concussed, the strains and injuries of the past few days are finally catching up to him. He's awake, he's mostly present, but he's so incredibly weak, and it works in his favour this time.

Turned with one half of his face resting against Scar's back, he can see the ongoing battle through hazy eyes. There's more people now: Skizz apparently heard the commotion and joined the fight, but so did Bdubs and Tango on the other side. Much like a chaotic ball, at the height of an intense waltz, the pairs switch on a dime, back and forth. One moment, Cleo and Tango are teamed against the King, the next, Cleo is left alone as Tango spins to block Skizz's sword. One moment, Bdubs hazards a stab at the King's exposed side, and the next, he's been thrown onto the floor with five deep, parallel gashes on his back.

Scott shivers. They should be winning right now. Why aren't they winning?

Oh, he knows why. Who is he kidding? It has something to do with the charred corpse slowly cooling in the corridor. It has something to do with Scott, haphazardly slung across Scar's shoulder, and with Jimmy, who's being dragged from under the arms by Grian.

It has something to do with a thing called hysterical strength.

Grian seems to know it too. He increases his efforts, aiding himself with his wings and wincing every time. The hole in the ceiling, left by the explosion, is just big enough to safely carry Jimmy through, and Scott can read the beginnings of a curse on Grian's lips before he unfolds his big, colourful wings and bends his feathery legs and disappears through the hole with a single, powerful flap.

He tries not to scream when he lands, but he fails, and Scar’s muscles go stiff. The man climbs after his partner, safely carrying Scott, and then Joel (Joel is there too, apparently) plucks Jimmy’s limp (but alive) body off the ground and Grian slowly staggers up to his feet (he's in so much pain) and Scar takes his hand and runs.

" Retreat! " he yells downwards into the half destroyed cell, "Get outta here!"

He doesn’t wait around for an answer. Nor should he, because it seems someone has alerted the rest of the Red Army, and sure enough, BigB and Impulse come running out of the enchantment building.

After that, things get far too blurry for Scott to see what exactly is happening. His neck isn’t strong enough to support his head, letting it bounce against Scar’s back, and he shouldn’t close his eyes, but the light and the motion is too overwhelming. He shuts his eyes, and he’s left alone with the pulsing red behind his eyelids and the sounds of the ongoing battle.

Footsteps and hooves and the howls and barks of Joel’s dogs. And screams.

The communicator buzzes once, and Scott briefly dares to open his eyes, just in time to see Impulse’s yellow life going up in smoke. He closes his eyes again before they can focus too much on the gushing slash across his neck.

The others manage to catch up eventually: Scott can hear their frantic voices as Grian beckons them towards the horses. He knows it’s a horse, because Scar, in his panic, damn near throws him on the saddle. A few seconds later, someone mounts behind him and the horse gallops forward.

“Go, go, go! ” screeches Bdubs, holding the reins with one hand and Scott with the other. The horse, of course, doesn’t go any faster.

It would be funny on any other day.

Today, Scott feels his grip tighten painfully, hears the horse neigh in distress, and all he sees when he dares to open his eyes is the grass getting closer and closer. He barely has the sense to put his arms forward, probably saving himself a serious concussion. He tumbles into the grass, landing heavily on his side and rolling downhill for longer than he’d like. 

The horse neighs again. It sounds far too weak.

There are footsteps next to Scott, there’s a scream and a gruesome sound of tearing flesh, there’s the buzz of three different communicators going off at once, but Scott can’t bring himself to look back. His eyes follow the shine of yellow feathers turning gold with the sunset, as the rest of the group disappears into the distance. They got Jimmy out. Grian will look after him. He will.

That’s all that matters now. He catches sight of his comms out the corner of his eye.

Bdouble0100 was slain by Rendog .

Cleo’s gonna be upset. But not with Jimmy. That’s all that matters.

That’s all that matters. Scott can catch up later, it’s fine. It’s fine. He’s fine.

Scott closes his eyes, and listens to the footsteps approaching.

He’ll have to pretend just a little longer.

Chapter Text

"You look awful."

Scott rolls his eyes. Yes, he knows he looks awful. He must. His head is spinning and his limbs are too heavy to lift so much as a teacup. He gives up on the teacup eventually, opting instead to pop a small chocolate pastry into his mouth. Maybe it'll give him some energy.

The other elf watches him through half-lidded eyes. He's holding his teacup just fine, of course, and he's making damn sure that Scott knows that.

"But seriously," he sighs, swirling the tea around until the overabundance of sugar he's put into it dissolves, "Maybe you should go back to sleep. I don't want to carry you back. You're not a toddler anymore."

"That was one time"

The other elf laughs from the gut: "No, it wasn't. You just don't remember all the other times because you were already asleep."

"We get it, you're strong…" mocks Scott under his breath. Just loud enough for the other to hear, of course. He doesn’t take offence to it, too proud to even acknowledge the insult. That, or he took it as a compliment. He is strong, Scott knows that very well. Really fucking tall, too. Which he won't shut up about, of course.

The elf knocks down the whole cup in a single sip, letting long magenta locks slip over his shoulder and onto his back. Scott can’t help but admire the way they shift and shimmer in the sun. His hair has never been that pretty.

"It would be, if you didn't chop it off every other week."

Scott flinches. He didn't say anything out loud, did he?

He watches the other's enigmatic smile stretch just a tiny bit too wide.

"No, you didn't," he says, waving a hand in Scott's general direction, "I just know you by now."

Well, of course he does. No one knows him better. Scott can’t even remember the elf's name, but he knows that, at least: this person knows him, and moreover, Scott knows him too. But that's all he knows.

The pastry didn't help. He still feels so incredibly weak that he can barely lift his arms. He forces them to move, crossing them over the edge of the table so he can lean down and rest his head. Listen to the reassuring song of the birds resting on the trees all around the pavilion: orioles and nightingales and larks, and little canaries flapping their little wings. Among the birdsong, he hears the long-haired elf shift in his seat and lean forward with a chuckle. He pats Scott's back with his scorching hot palm: "Hey, don’t fall asleep here. It's not safe for you out in the open."

Scott mutters a protest so unintelligible that even he doesn't know what he said. If this guy knows him so well, he'll figure it out. 

"It's not safe," repeats the elf, laughing, "You're not safe. Ever. You're not strong enough."

It's such a painfully candid comment that Scott can’t help but curl in on himself. Whoever this is, he knows where it hurts. And he continues to stab into it, again and again with little words like needles, piercing through his skin deeper and deeper and to the bone and then even deeper than that into the darkest depths of his being.

He continues with that wide smile plastered on his face: "You know you're not strong enough to protect yourself. Every time something so much as scratched you, you'd come running to me, crying for help. You were like a tiny little bird in my hand. I could have squeezed you just a little bit, and you would've been gone. Maybe I should have."

“I was a child, ” protests Scott. He doesn’t know how he knows that.

The smile widens until the edges start to crack. It looks painful, but he still smiles: “And you haven’t changed a bit since then. You still want my help. Look at you.”

It’s true. When he looks down at his arms, he finds them stretched across the table, fingers splayed and shoulders aching as all of his fading strength goes towards reaching the person sitting across from him. He doesn’t reach back. He just laughs.

“This is the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen.”

More cruel words. Scott doesn’t know what else he’s expecting from him, he doesn’t know exactly what he thought the other would do, but he can’t shake the feeling that that’s not what he’s supposed to do; he’s supposed to reach back and pat his back a little too hard and tell a joke so awkward that it actually works to cheer Scott up. Not this. Not a cruel smile that tugs painfully at the cheeks, not casual insults, not sitting and watching him struggle just to stand.

But what he’s saying is true. He wants him to help, he wants him to help so badly, and so there he is stretching out his arms like an infant to its parents.

Eventually, the other deigns to lean forward and places his hands firmly on Scott’s shoulders, lifting his torso off of the table. His hands run hot, they always have (how does he know?). He brushes Scott’s hair out of his eyes, almost soft, almost kind, but not quite.

“Oh, Scott…” he sighs, “You’re too soft for your own good. You could have been out of that mess so easily.”

Scott winces, but finds himself leaning into the touch. It burns, yes, but it’s better than the cold. Maybe he is soft, but he’d rather be weak than alone.

“I can’t leave him,” he admits, quietly. He’s not ashamed of it, but he has never said the words that haunt his mind before. He doesn’t know why this not-quite-stranger should be the first to hear them, when even Jimmy hasn’t, but the words are out there now, and there is nothing to be done about it: “I can’t let him die.”

“I know,” coos the other, rubbing his back (it burns), “I know you can’t. But he’s out now, and you’re still in chains. What are you going to do about that? Why are you still here?”

Here? Where is here?

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, “Didn’t I… get away?”

“Of course not. You passed out again. Maybe that wouldn’t happen if you slept once in a while,” teases the other, “You’re tearing yourself to pieces for a dead man walking. You can’t even stay awake most of the time now.”

The multiple concussions probably haven’t helped with that, but he’s right. Everything he’s saying, no matter how harsh, is true. Scott still looks up to him. Scott still loves him. He doesn’t even know his name, but he loves him, and it makes his stomach clench with dread, because for some reason, he has the distinct feeling that he shouldn’t.  

“You’re too soft,” repeats the other, “It’s about time to admit it, don’t you think? Even now, you want me to come save you.”

His hand feels like it’s burning a hole through Scott’s shirt.

“No,” mumbles Scott, weakly, but he can’t move away. He doesn’t feel his own bones and muscles, but he feels the unbearable heat.

The other watches him curiously. He’s relaxed, confident, like nothing can hurt him, and that’s not true, but Scott certainly can’t hurt him. Can’t or won’t? Even he doesn’t know.

Slowly, the long-haired elf raises his free hand until his clenched fist is only a few inches away from Scott’s face. And Scott lets him, too, until his thumb snaps up with a spark and suddenly the other is holding a lively flame in the palm of his hand and Scott flinches. He jumps back, instinctively putting as much distance between himself and the fire as he can, and before he knows it, he’s fallen backwards on the ground, staring up at the other in pure, paralysing terror.

And the other laughs. Rays of orange light dance in the silky pink and purple strands of his hair.

“What’s the matter?” he croons, splaying his fingers out so the flame can spread further, “It’s little more than a candle. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a tiny little flame.”

Scott shakes his head. His eyes sting from the heat, and perhaps from the fear. The pavilion they’ve been sitting in, an intricate mesh of finely carved white marble and blue rose bushes, is becoming something like an oven, slowly heating up under him until his hands burn.

The uncanny smile on the other’s face stretches beyond what is possible.

“You should go now,” he says, almost politely, “The fire is catching.”

It’s true. The rose bushes are burning, spreading their dizzying, sickeningly sweet scent all around as the petals blacken and curl in on themselves. Before Scott can even process that, it’s already spread to the trees.

The birds are going quiet. One by one, their chirps and screeches are slowly drowned out by the crackle of flames. And Scott can’t even stand up. He crawls, dragging himself with his arms, because his legs aren’t responding to his commands, trying to crawl under the table. Some sensible part of his brain knows that’s the safest place to hide. His sense is all he has left now, and it’s doing him no good. The birds are silent now.

Under the table, he hides his face between his arms and tries not to scream, cry, wail, anything to fill the silence left by the canaries. A hurricane of sound is starting to swirl inside his hollow chest, stronger every second, and it demands to be let out, and Scott isn’t strong enough to stop it. As always.

Scott breaks.

He lets the hurricane out, lets one long, guttural wail into the ground. 

No, not the ground. It’s too soft to be the marble he remembers. It’s… a mattress. He opens his eyes and sees only red. He never thought he’d be glad to see red, but right now, he’s far more afraid of magenta.

Scott completely forgets that he was screaming until someone sits on a chair next to the bed he’s lying in. The chair creaks under their weight, but Scott doesn’t want to look up and see who it is. Mostly because his eyes are burning, and he doesn’t want them to see that.

There’s a lot of things he could do. He could run, right now, and try to find his allies again. But it wasn’t just the nightmare; he really does feel weak. He is weak, like the familiar stranger said. If he tried to run now, he’d be caught, and probably killed. He timidly raises his head, just enough to have one eye above his arms, just enough to see.

“Nightmare?” asks Martyn, quietly.

Scott decides to lie.

Chapter Text

"Nightmare?"

Scott doesn’t answer him. He rolls over to face the wall instead. He isn’t tied up, nor does the room appear to be locked in any way, which means that he was "rescued", which means that they probably expect him to be upset about Jimmy. He is, in a way, but he's the happiest he's been since the start of this mess, because at least he is the one in danger this time. Nightmares or not, for once his reality isn't the scariest thing he's seen today.

Martyn doesn’t seem to see it that way (good), because he scoots his chair a little closer: "Look," he sighs, "We are sorry. For what it's worth."

"That's worth nothing to me," says Scott, coldly. It wouldn’t be, if he wasn't lying. If they had actually let Jimmy die, none of their excuses would be worth anything.

"Yeah, I figured." Martyn is not surprised. He leans forward in his chair, twisting his hands: "And I'm not here to make excuses. I'm just supposed to keep an eye on you, and…"

"And you've done that. You can go now."

"Well, no," Martyn laughs awkwardly, "I haven’t done that. You're not supposed to be alone right now, and the others are busy, so…"

Dammit, what does Scott have to do to get him off his back?

"Haven't you done enough?" he hisses, clutching the pillow to his chest, "I just want to be alone."

"Scott—"

"Leave me alone."

He curls up on the bed. It’s fine. He won’t have to wait long, because a quick glance at the comms confirms that Martyn is now officially the last yellow, which means both he and the King will have much bigger problems soon. And maybe they’ll finally be gone.

Martyn doesn’t get up. “You really shouldn’t be alone,” he says, not even remotely moved, “At least sit outside. We’re gonna have a funeral, if you want to come.”

“I don’t.”

Spitting this much venom at Martyn feels kind of liberating, but he has to be careful. He’ll be excused, unless he goes too far with it, but simply being cold and defensive shouldn’t upset his “allies”. In theory. Then again, whether or not they have Jimmy, they still have too much power over him to be careless. He’s seriously outnumbered.

“Fine,” Martyn concedes, probably too tired to fight him, “I’ll just tell Ren that, then.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

It would be funny if they weren’t both at the end of their rope. 

Martyn leaves, and Scott sits up to look out the window. The remaining members of Dogwarts are, indeed, preparing for a funeral, if the dry wood being stacked in an empty spot of the courtyard is any indication. There’s only one pyre, and that might be because they know Jimmy isn’t dead, or because they couldn’t recover the “body”. Hopefully, it’s the latter.

Once Martyn joins the group in the courtyard and every living member of Dogwarts is accounted for, Scott moves back from the window. 

He has to go. He has to go, now. Once he’s far enough away, he can find out where the hell everyone else went and start this over again and never let this happen again. He will break the border down with his bare hands if he has to, so long as they can just live. It shouldn’t be such a tall ask, it really shouldn’t, but here they are.

One way or another, he’s going to have the life he wants. Even if it’s just for a single day, Scott knows he would kill for it.

It scares him.

Scott curses the torches scattered all over. They serve their purpose, but they certainly hinder his plans. Once he makes it past the wall, the darkness will provide a good cover, but until then, he will have to be stealthy. The funeral is on the other side of the compound. That doesn’t mean he’s safe, though.

He hangs up a small ladder to help him reach the top of the wall, one that will be easy enough to retrieve once he's over. He winces with every creak of the old oak that forms its rungs, constantly looking over his shoulder, half-expecting to be torn away from the wall by the hair at any moment. The moon is, unfortunately, full and high in the sky, which means that even away from the torches, he might still be spotted.

But now is not the time for that.

Scott vaults over the wall, slipping the ladder off its hooks and slamming a hand over his mouth to muffle the pained cry that tries to climb up his throat when he lands harshly on his ankles on the other side. No time for that. He'll live. He just has to run.

He only makes it to the river.

He's barely knee-deep in the water when running footsteps begin to approach rapidly and, before he can decide what to do, a firm hand settles on his shoulder and the feel of ice cold claws through the fabric tells him that he shouldn't even try to make a run for it.

"Where do you think you're going?"

The voice is always enough to give him shivers, no matter how soft it is. And it is painfully soft now, and the claws aren't hurting him, but that numbing cold is more than enough to make up for it.

Scott doesn’t turn around. It's easier to lie when the King can't see his face.

"Where do you think I'm going?" he retorts.

The King sighs heavily. "This is why I told Martyn to watch you," he mumbles, half to himself. He doesn’t sound nearly as salty as Scott would expect, so either they made up, or they're ignoring the issue, and either one is just as likely as the other.

The grip loosens enough that Scott is able to shake out of it. He doesn’t walk away, because he's not trying to start a fight he might potentially lose, but the touch is getting so cold that it burns, and Scott really doesn't need any reminders of that sensation right now.

"What does it matter to you?" he spits, "I'm not going to wait around while—"

“I’m not asking you to.” The King talks over him: “But going alone will accomplish nothing.”

“I’m not attending that fucking funeral while they have my husband, Ren!”

This time, the King doesn’t take his tone in stride. He snaps back, baring his teeth just a little: “Well, do you know where to find him? ”

Scott flinches back, and he lowers his voice a little, but his clawed hands still flex with irritation: “Because I don’t. Do you know where we’ve been all day, while you were asleep? Skizzleman and I were out looking for him, and we found nothing. So, unless you have a better idea, we will resume the search in the morning, so we don’t get ambushed. It won’t help anyone if we’re all dead.”

It takes Scott far too long to get his muscles to move again after that. It also takes him a long time to feel how the cold receded, for just a moment.

He stares wide-eyed at Ren, unable to answer him. He’s stuck. He really doesn’t know where Jimmy is, and he can’t exactly tell him that he has an easy way to find out. The King’s reasoning is solid. If the situation really was what he thinks it is, then that would be the best solution.

Scott can’t run, either. Even if he manages to escape a fight, he runs the risk of the King following him to wherever his allies are, and that could be very bad for them.

He turns to give the other side of the river a longing look.

Fine. He’ll have to wait for a better moment. He’ll have to play as nice as possible so they don’t keep him on a short leash. It’s fine. It’s fine, all he has to do is stay alive and be on the lookout for an opportunity. They can’t watch him every second of their life; they have bigger problems, and they’re about to have more problems.

He just has to wait.

I’m sorry, he thinks, and prays that the thought reaches his husband, I’ll be there soon.

He lets the King lead him back through the entrance, back to the funeral, back to the mourners, back to the scattered remains of Dogwarts throwing wood on a pyre. If Scott looked closely, he could pick out the shape of shattered bones slowly charring in the fire, but he chooses to sit as far from the fire as he can. He chooses not to look at it.

Nobody questions him.

Chapter Text

When Jimmy wakes up, he wakes up gasping for air.

He dreamt of being underwater and of a blue-skinned woman smiling up at him, like he always does, but in all those other dreams, he could breathe, and the woman was kind. Not this time. This time, she was sharp and mean and she reached up and dragged him down towards the depths until he couldn’t see the light of the surface anymore. 

The ocean has never been a place for his nightmares before. He’s always been able to breathe.

No, the dreams where he can't breathe are never in the ocean. They're in the oppressive darkness of the mines, where one wrong strike of the pickaxe can doom you before you know it. Jimmy has never dreamed about drowning before, but he knows what it's like to choke.

All this to say, when he wakes up, with the taste of panic and nostalgia lingering on his tongue, he wakes up struggling.

He catapults up, shoving his aggressor off with a flap of his wings, and…

…no one attacked him. He's alone.

Jimmy hugs himself. It's too dark to see much of the room, but why would he need to? It's been the same room for a week.

He pulls the blanket around his shoulders and resigns himself to another very boring day. He never thought a hostage situation could be boring, but here he is, trying to drape the thick white wool just right so that it doesn’t interfere with his wings, because he has plenty of time for—

— white?

He tears the blanket off his shoulders to look closer. In all of… however long he's spent in his cell, his blanket has always been red. And it's not like Dogwarts is lacking in red wool. It's such a small difference, but he can’t help but question it.

As a matter of fact, the more his eyes adjust to the dark, the more details he picks out, the less this looks like his cell in the first place: there's almost nothing in the room, besides the bed and a chest acting as a nightstand (full of what seems to be glass bottles, he finds, after a curious peek inside). There's not even—

— torches, oh shit.

A quick, panicked look around the room reveals the smoking remains of a torch near the door. The pain in his wing reveals the culprit.

"Oh, no, no, no…" he whispers, desperately fanning the torch in an attempt to revive the flame. Even in his sleep, Jimmy just has to get in trouble, doesn't he? He doesn’t even have any weapons on him. If the darkness births monsters, as it usually does, he's done for.

Jimmy clutches the one bottle he retrieved from the chest out of curiosity and a healthy amount of desperation. The bottle is big and round, the glass is thin and brittle, clearly meant to be broken. A splash potion, then. He doesn’t dare to use it, though, because he can’t see the colour of the liquid, and that could seal his fate if anything spawns.

He bites his lip and resigns himself to calling for help. Slowly, his memories are returning to him. He didn't… die. Someone must have saved him at the last second. Etho was just outside the cell, maybe he heard the commotion. They must have moved him to a different cell after the first one was found. Yes, that must be it.

So someone must be on guard outside.

Jimmy takes a step towards the door he can vaguely see, but that's all he has time to do, because that's when the door opens and the room is flooded with light. He freezes in place like a deer in headlights.

Behind the glaring light of a lantern in the doorway, he can make out the silhouette of wings.

Instinctively, he hides the bottle behind his back.

Jimmy grits his teeth when the first thing Grian does is laugh. Why, of course it is. And on any other day, Jimmy would laugh right along with him, because knocking the torch off the wall is such a classic move for him. If he didn't know what kind of monster Grian can be, if Grian had a single shred of remorse, it would be a happy reunion.

If only.

As it is, Jimmy has to clench his fists to avoid scratching his face off. He can feel the petals all over his side bristling and tensing along with his feathers, and his heart is pounding like it wants to break out of his chest and jump at Grian and squeeze his neck until he stops laughing.  

His wings beat out in warning, and for once, Grian takes it. His laugh tapers off with a quiet: “Tim…?”

Jimmy wonders if the other can see the hatred in his eyes.

“Why are you laughing?” he asks, plainly, quietly, and Grian backs away a step. Jimmy matches him with a step forward. Another step back, another step forward: “ What is so funny, Grian? Because I don’t feel like laughing right now.”

His nails are starting to dig into the flesh of his palm. He doesn’t care.

Grian’s feathers slim down as he backs away another step: “T-Tim…” he giggles, slack-jawed, “I don’t get it. I haven’t said anything.”

The messages flash in Jimmy’s mind.

“Oh, you’ve said plenty. ”

Grian slowly places his lantern down. Presumably to make sure Jimmy doesn’t destroy that one, too, because of course he would think that, because of course Jimmy would be stupid enough to do that. Jimmy feels his feathers bristle. His fingers tense and stretch, craving to scratch at the source of his anger. He doesn’t, not yet, but the red haze at the edge of his vision is getting harder to ignore. 

“I don’t get it,” Grian repeats, uncharacteristically quiet. His eyes flit between Jimmy and the door.

“No, of course you don’t,” snaps Jimmy, stretching his wings to their full size. They’re smaller than Grian’s, but they serve their purpose. His fingers tighten on the bottle. He can see the colour now, the pale and sickly green of poison. He smiles, if only to bare his teeth at Grian: “You never get it, do you? Or maybe you’re just playing dumb so you can keep laughing at me. Oh, I know, I know, it’s tempting, isn’t it? Oh, lie to Timmy all you want, he won’t get it! And you know what, Grian? Maybe you’re right. Maybe, if you’d kept quiet, I wouldn’t have. But you’ve got a real big mouth, and you don’t know when to stop. That’s your problem.”

“What are you talking a—”

Jimmy snaps.

Before he knows it, he’s thrown the bottle with all his might. He didn’t even bother to aim, but by some miracle, it shatters right on Grian’s chest, instantly sending him coughing and stumbling into the wall. Jimmy takes his chance. He lunges at his former ally, arms forward, and tackles him chest first to the floor, knocking the air out of his lungs. It stops him from screaming. Good.

He keeps his knee firmly planted between Grian’s shoulder blades as the other’s wings flap frantically around, trying to knock him away.

“ Tim! ”

The crack in Grian’s voice doesn’t make him feel any more merciful. He fumbles for the sheath strapped to Grian’s belt, revelling in his struggles, as the red of his feathers grows so vibrant and bright that it greys out everything else. The sound of a diamond sword sliding out of its sheath freezes Grian in place.

“H-hey, Timmy—” he stammers, “Tim, can we— can we please talk about th— Tim! ” he screeches when the point of the blade caresses his neck.

“You’ve talked enough,” hisses Jimmy, putting just a little more pressure on it, but some part of him still hesitates. It’s hard to say why, though, because there’s still a part of him that doesn’t want to hurt Grian at all and there’s another part that wants to draw it out as long as possible, and they both want him alive, but for what reason? It doesn’t matter.

It won’t matter at all, actually, because a moment later, he’s been knocked right off of Grian and he comes face to face with pupilless red eyes.

Tango’s no match for him, usually, when it comes to strength alone, but he hasn’t even had a chance to finish that thought before Joel drags him up by the front of his shirt. They seize his arms, one each, wrenching them behind his back far more gently than he expected, which doesn’t placate his anger in the slightest. He struggles in their grip, relishing in the trouble he’s giving them. They’re both smaller than him, and even his little canary wings are a hassle for them.

It doesn’t satisfy the red, of course. It stays and it seeps from his veins into his muscles and pulses with rage and demands tribute. It’s always a tribute, it’s always blood, it’s always violence. Jimmy screeches at them, but Joel somehow knows him well enough to keep his  hands well out of biting range, pressing his wings together with their shoulders. Tango is smart enough to follow his lead.

“Calm down!” pants Joel, squeezing his arm, “We just saved you, you blummin’ moron!”

“Oh, yeah, thanks a lot!” Jimmy bats uselessly at him with his wing: “Thanks for not letting Scar finish the job, is that what you wanna hear?”

“Tim—”

“That’s not my name! ”

“Jimmy!” a raspy voice calls out, and despite himself, the fight dies down. Across the room, Grian sits slumped against the wall, rubbing at his neck. He looks almost sad: “Jimmy, can you let me explain? I told him to do that.”

“I know you did!” he bites back, resuming his struggles, “I never doubted for a second that it was you! But why? ”

“I was gonna explain, if you’d let me!”

“Why should I?”

Grian looks genuinely hurt. Jimmy almost believes him, before he reminds himself that nothing about Grian is genuine, ever. When’s the last time he’s been honest? When’s the last time he’s been kind? When’s the last time Jimmy hasn’t felt a shiver running down his spine after looking in his void-black eyes? There’s no possible explanation that could justify what he’s done to Scott.

The rest of the room doesn’t seem to agree with him.

“Dude,” murmurs Tango, leaning in just a little, “Hear him out.”

“I don’t wanna have to tie you up, Jim, but I will if I have to,” Joel warns him, “Got it?”

That would be worse. He doesn’t want to be tied up. He needs his hands free, as soon as possible. In spite of himself, Jimmy nods. In spite of himself and everything else, he wants to believe that the whole world is not against them.

So he doesn’t fight when they finally let go of his arms and his wings, and he doesn’t attack when they hesitantly move away. He still might, but… No, if there’s any chance at all to get back to Scott, he should take it.

“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth, “ Explain. ”

Chapter Text

Despite… everything that just happened, Grian insists they be left alone. 

They’re sitting across from each other, quiet, their wings folded protectively behind their back. Jimmy isn’t going to target Grian’s wings, it’s the one thing he won’t do, but he doesn’t want him to know that right now. 

He fidgets with a loose feather that fell away unnoticed during the fight. Well, they wanted to talk. What now? Neither of them has said a word so far.

Fine. If Grian isn’t going to address the problem, Jimmy will: “I saw your messages,” he says, quietly seething, “I saw Scott. If you really have an explanation—”

“I do.” Grian rubs the bridge of his nose, “I do. For… all of this. You’re really not gonna like it, though.”

“ You’re not gonna like what I’ll do if you don’t explain, Grian.” 

The other has the audacity to look annoyed: “Yeah, I know. Trust me, I don’t like my chances either, not when you’re this mad, but…”

“Just tell me!”

“ Fine. ”

Grian leans forward a bit to give his wings more room to move around. Neither of them likes being underground, but right now, it's just about the only safe place there is, with how incredibly easy it is to get lost in the caves. It also unfortunately means that Jimmy has no idea where the hell he is or how to go back to the surface, but that's for later. Worst comes to worst, he'll dig his way up and hope he doesn't get melted in lava or explode or drown… again. He isn’t looking forward to any of those. He'd better hear Grian out, at least for the time being.

Grian shifts to better accommodate his wings. He's buying time, but that's fine, as long as he says what he needs to.

"First of all, just to be clear, what messages are you talking about?"

Ok, nevermind. Jimmy is going to kill him.

His feathers bristle in warning and Grian promptly changes his tune, putting his hands forward in a useless parody of a shield: "Okay, okay, jeez, seriously! Do you mean the ones I sent the King?"

" Yes! " scoffs Jimmy, exasperated. The little voice in his head, the one that sounds like a child asking if they can pretty please slit Grian's throat, is getting harder to ignore.

Grian's feathers slick back. His eyes narrow: "And he showed you those?"

"Again, yes," Jimmy growls, "Do you know why he showed me? He showed me because I didn't want to believe that it was you. Yeah, I know, what a moron, right? Go on, have a good laugh."

"That's not funny," says Grian, quietly, but he recovers quickly: "Look, it's true that I hit Scott a few times—"

" A few times?! "

"Let me finish. It's true that I hit him, but I only did that because he insisted!"

Jimmy stares slack-jawed at his former friend, crouched in the corner and pulling loose threads out of his poncho.

No.

No, there's no way.

There's no way he thinks I'd fall for that.

Grian seems to sense his disbelief, because he quickly doubles down on his story: "And— for the record— when we refused to hit him, he just started throwing himself into the wall over and over again. I figured it was safer to do it ourselves than…" he trails off, "Either way, it was all Scott. And we only took him in the first place because he tried to kill me, by the way."

Jimmy thinks he can feel his brain stretching beyond its limits to try and fill in the gaps in Grian's frankly ludicrous story. There are way too many holes in it. Scott probably did attack Grian, if he was under orders to do so, but then, why would Grian take him alive? And if he did take him alive, there’s no way he didn’t hurt him. Scott definitely didn’t hurt himself; why would he? Scott is the smart one, the competent one, the one who doesn’t take unnecessary risks, the one who gets all antsy about Jimmy taking unnecessary risks.

There is no way in hell that Grian is telling the truth. He must be pushing the limits to see what he can get Jimmy to believe. That must be it.

"That makes no sense," he says, plainly, but instead of laughing or looking nervous, Grian looks frustrated.

"Look," he hisses, "I don't like this either, but your Scott is, to put it frankly, completely unhinged lately. This entire situation's driving him insane. I took him away because I figured out that he wasn't trying to kill me out of his own free will, he cracked and confessed as soon as I told him you were still alive, he was worried about the King discovering our reformed alliance, so he made it look like we hurt him, and then I sent the messages to make it more believable. Any questions?"

That…

It fills a lot of gaps. That is true. But it still doesn't sound like Scott. Scott is a lot of things— stable, loyal, generous— and Jimmy loves him, he does, but throw-yourself-at-a-wall protective just isn't on that list. It doesn’t mean that Jimmy doesn’t love him, it just means that he loves him knowing Scott won't sacrifice too much to get him out of trouble. And that's fine. Reassuring, even. He doesn’t need undying loyalty if it means people have to get hurt.

"That doesn't sound like Scott," he says, quietly, and Grian throws his arms up in response.

"He loves you, Tim! Get over it!"

What a strange idea.

Jimmy clutches the banner that Tango sheepishly returned to him before leaving the room. It's a strange idea, but it… it does sound true. The banner is soft under his fingers, finely woven, perfectly clean. Scott has put effort into it. And thought, too, he thinks, admiring the intricate details of the flower that adorns the middle.

He holds it close and the scent of wildflowers engulfs him fully. 

And Jimmy almost breaks right then and there, hugging the banner like if he only hugs it tight enough it will turn into its maker and hug him back.

Some time goes by, just like that. Grian doesn’t move, presumably to afford him the time he needs to process, but Grian's patience notoriously has a limit, and sure enough…

"So… yeah," says Grian, awkwardly shifting in his seat, "It was all Scott. He'll tell you himself, when we get him back."

" What? "

Jimmy's heart sinks. What is that supposed to mean?

Grian winces: "Oh, right, you were unconscious. Um… yeah. He's still at Dogwarts. Ah, but!" he adds, quickly, "He's fine! The King still thinks you guys are his allies."

"How do you know that?"

"I just know, okay?" Grian stammers, "I just know. Look, if I'm wrong, and something happened to Scott, you get to punch me. I promise."

Jimmy grits his teeth.

"If you're wrong, I won’t stop at a punch."

"I know that, too."

Jimmy doesn’t insist. He has one more question, and then hopefully he can focus on quelling the red again: "Why did you tell Scar to—"

He shudders before he can finish the sentence. The memory of water flooding his lungs is too vivid to focus on what he was saying.

Grian gives him an unreadable look.

"You had to die," he says, simply, "You had to die first. Or no one else would have."

There goes the urge to strangle him again. Somehow, Jimmy contains it. "I don't follow," he says instead.

"You were supposed to die," Grian repeats, "Back at the bunker. Somehow, you didn't, and it messed everything up, and for a while people just couldn't die. That being said!" He lifts one finger in the air like an eager student, "I didn't want you to be dead. Drowning or suffocating you was the only thing I could think of that I would be able to revive you from. Since the bodies stay behind, and all."

"They do?"

"Yes."

Jimmy gulps: "And you know that because…?"

He's half hoping Grian will give his insufferable I just know excuse again, but his face tells him they're not that lucky.

"Etho and Bdubs are gone."

Oh.

"Do you believe me now?" his friend grimaces, "Most of us have been red for a while now. Don't you think it's weird how no one died for weeks and now all of a sudden you die and people start dropping like flies?"

It is weird. But…

"Oh, yeah, sure," Jimmy mumbles, "Blame me for the deaths, will you?"

"I didn't say that."

"You just said my death is making everyone drop like flies, Grian!"

"Yeah, but that's not your fault," he sighs, "The truth is that They just… hate your guts, and I worked around Them, because I don’t hate your guts, and I am in so much trouble, but that's fine. So long as you don't maim me for something that wasn't my fault, thank you very much. I mean— you would've died anyway, don’t get me wrong, but if I did it myself, there was a chance I could…"

He trails off. He's hiding his wings behind his back, and in a sudden, shining moment of clarity, Jimmy knows why. Grian's feathers are slicked as far back as they will go, bristling on occasion, and his talons scratch nervously at the stone he's sitting on.

He's scared.

He hides it well, he always does, but he's scared; not of Jimmy, not of anything in the room, but of something else.

Jimmy is struck with the sudden realisation that, for whatever reason, Grian wanted him to live more than he wanted the others to die. It's weird to think about.

He timidly scoots closer to Grian: "You… didn't want me to die?"

"I never have," says Grian, quietly. He looks smaller than he usually does. "I've never wanted any of you to die. Not really. I guess I wasn't good at showing it, though, because you…"

He cuts himself off again, but the implications punch Jimmy in the gut.

"I'm sorry," Jimmy blurts out, "Sorry I believed it so quickly. I didn’t want to, but when i saw the messages—"

"It's fine. I've been a real bast—"

"Hey!" he scolds, smacking his friend with his wings; Grian squawks indignantly, but doesn't retaliate. "Hey, now! Don't talk about my friend like that!"

Scratch that. Grian retaliates indeed, with the sole difference that his massive wing is more than enough to knock Jimmy over, and it does: Jimmy goes down like a sack of flour, face first on the stone floor, and he would be offended, but the sound he hears while he's down is such a relief that the grudge dissolves before he can form.

Grian laughs.

Chapter Text

Shockingly, no one sleeps.

Scott knows, even before he sees the bags under their eyes the next morning. The funeral went on well past midnight, yes, but even after that, nobody really slept. He was thankfully allowed to be in a room by himself, albeit without any windows and connected directly to the room where Skizz, BigB and Impulse are resting. Understandable, but annoying. He hears them in the next room, whispering on and off throughout the night. It’s like being the first one asleep at a sleepover, but unfortunately, they're smart enough to avoid Scott as a topic of conversation. They know he's awake too.

Until the early hours of the morning, that is, when Impulse turns over in his bed and quietly asks: "How are we splitting up tomorrow?"

"In pairs," says Skizz, "Ren told me so. I think you guys will be paired."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm. He's gonna want Martyn with him, obviously, and he pulled me aside earlier to tell me to keep an eye on Scott tomorrow, so that leaves you and BigB."

"Alright!"

"Okay, nice," mumbles BigB, half asleep but genuine. He's been awake the whole time, intervening once in a while, sleepier every time.

Scott takes care to be very still. Maybe, if they think he's asleep, Skizz will explain himself further.

Lo and behold, he does, after Impulse prompts: "But wait, really? He asked you to watch Scott?"

"Yeah, man. You know, since he's…"

"Ah. Yeah."

"Ren talked to me right after bringing him back," says Skizz, quietly, "In layman's terms, I'm watching him because if he loses it and gets into a fight and I can't pull him away, I'm the only one who's dumb enough to join him. He didn't say it like that, but..."

Impulse chuckles: "That seems fair."

"Harsh but fair, yes."

"Aren't you worried, though?" BigB intervenes, downright slurring his words at this point, "Scott's totally… totally out of it."

Harsh, B.

"Look who's talking," teases Skizz, and less than a second later, there's a soft thud and an even softer oof, and Skizz adds: "Get some sleep or you'll be dead on your feet tomorrow."

"Well, today. "

"Or today, yes."

"'T'd be easier if you didn't throw stuff at me," mumbles BigB, but he settles down after that, so clearly throwing a pillow at him didn't shake him that much.

Skizz still answers the question: "I mean, yeah," he says, "Scott's out of it, but you can't really blame him, can you? I wouldn't be happy either. But he's motivated, at least; it's a whole lot safer to bring him along than it is to leave him here."

"I guess so," sighs Impulse, "Just try to stay on his good side. He's fragile right now."

"Hey now! I am incredibly nice, for the record."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he reassures him, "I'm just saying. 'Cause no one's been rude to Scott, but he still kinda looks like he wants to murder us. Be careful."

There's a brief pause.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," says Skizz, almost softly.

They finally settle down after that, leaving Scott alone to ponder what they said.

Skizz, then. This could be a blessing or a curse. On one hand, Skizz isn’t known for being especially distrustful; on the other hand, though, having been explicitly asked to watch Scott, he'll be watching like a hawk. It might be best to get him to lower his guard first. The biggest disadvantage Scott will face is that Skizz is almost twice his size in muscle alone. He’ll have to catch him by surprise.

The clock he made is the only thing he has to tell him that morning is drawing near, and for once, he can’t wait. If they’re going to be in pairs, this should be relatively simple. If all goes well, he might see Jimmy again very soon. He turns to face the wall, smiling to himself. He can almost hear Jimmy’s high-pitched fussing.

He never thought he would miss it this much.

In the morning, the remaining members of the Red Army gather near the wheat fields to await orders. Not a single person looks well-rested, and no one is surprised. No one addresses the pile of charred wood in the corner, either.

As it turns out, Skizz’s predictions were accurate. Impulse and BigB move towards the desert together, the King, of course, takes Martyn with him, and Skizz “casually” points out that oh well, that just leaves us. Of course. Scott nods, docile but cold, the way they’d probably expect him to act.

He’s careful not to fiddle with his comms too much as they begin their trek around the server. There will be time for that later.

They walk along the plains, quiet, side by side because neither wants to turn his back to the other. Dandelions and cornflowers and daisies brush gently against their ankles as if trying to comfort them; Scott pointedly ignores them. He doesn’t need comfort right now, he needs to focus. What’s the best way to get rid of Skizz? It’s no use trying to lose him: since his job is primarily to keep an eye on Scott, and Skizz takes his job seriously, it’ll be next to impossible to get away from him. And one less enemy will be a good thing in the long run.

Scott looks up, and he knows what to do.

“Hey,” he tells Skizz, “We’re not gonna see much from down here, are we? We can see better from up high. Less chance of being ambushed.”

Skizz shields his eyes to block the sun as he examines the high cliffs Scott is pointing at: “Huh. Yeah, you might be onto something,” he admits, “Let’s go, then. Grian has to come out at some point.”

“Is that who we’re looking for?”

“We’re looking for any of them,” he corrects him, “Grian’s just more likely to be out. Because… you know.”

The claustrophobia. Yes. Grian suffers it, if possible, even more than Jimmy does, both because his wings are bigger and… well Scott doesn’t really know the other reasons, but they’re there. He knows that much.

He lets Skizz climb up after him, as a show of compliance. He has to play nice for now. He has to pretend that their biggest problem will be keeping his anger in check when the Desert Alliance show their face again.

That shouldn’t be too hard. He is angry. Just not with the ones they think he is.

It’s a long climb to the top, as they heave themselves up one jagged rock at a time, but neither of them says a word. It would just be awkward, wouldn’t it? Scott knows very well that the Red Army is walking on eggshells around him, and he can’t help but enjoy it. It’s funny how careful they are not to upset him, now that they have nothing to threaten him with. Is it pity or fear on their part? Hard to say, and Scott doesn’t care. He can’t really afford to care, either. 

Not even when Skizz surpasses him and helps him onto the cliff face.

They look down at the plains and rivers below. The wind tugs at their clothes; it’s not strong enough to cause problems when they’re just standing there, but they’ll have to be careful near the edge.

“Do you see anything?” prompts Scott, staring down at the all-too-familiar view. He might have been impressed, he thinks, if he’d seen it on a different day.

“Nope,” says Skizz, popping the p, “Do you?”

“Not yet.”

Scott leans lightly against the oak tree that peeks over the edge of the cliff. It’s bent out of shape by years of strong winds and rains, but it still holds strong even under Scott’s hands. It’s hard to shake the feeling that those hands should be leaving bloodstains on everything they touch, even as he looks at them, clean and unblemished as they are. Maybe it’s his mouth that should be dripping blood, his silver tongue that keeps leading people to their deaths. 

Silently, he types out a message for Grian. Nothing but coordinates, but they’ll be there for a while. As they stand searching in silence for several minutes, to buy time, Scott doesn’t check his communicator once. He has to play this perfectly.

It’s time for his voice to claim another victim.

He frowns, purposefully. “Skizz, wait. Do you see that?” he asks, pointing at a random spot far in the distance. A spot where his acute feline eyes might as well be seeing something that Skizz couldn’t.

Indeed, he can’t see what Scott is pointing at. He squints, bringing his hand up to shield his eyes from the morning sun: “I don’t see anything. What did you see?”

“You don’t? Look over there,” he insists, “I think I saw something red over there.”

It’s hard for Grian to hide his wings, and everyone knows it. Granted, a splash of red alone isn’t enough to determine that it’s him, but it’s worth looking into, and so Skizz takes a small step closer to the edge to see what the fuss is about.

Scott tries his hardest to steady his breathing, and ends up holding his breath altogether as he creeps closer. They’re near the edge, enough so that one good push will end the fight before it starts. He can’t be too slow, but he can’t be too fast; he tries to time his footsteps so they sound like he’s simply trying to look closer too, and still his heart pounds in his chest and his lungs refuse to take in any air until the deed is done, as if they didn’t want to taint it with their bloodlust.

Finally, he’s within arm’s reach. He lunges forward.

When Skizz pivots around to face him, he’s not fast enough to stop.

Before he can process it, there’s a hand fisted in his shirt and the world spins, disorientingly fast, and when he finds himself again he finds himself at a dangerous angle. His feet are on the ground, digging into the stone and gravel of the cliff’s edge, but he isn’t standing. He’s… leaning backwards at an awkward angle, unable to right himself.

And in front of him, Skizz stands firmly planted on the grass, one hand wrapped around a solid branch of the oak tree, the other holding Scott’s shirt in a vice grip. He shifts to adjust his position, just a little, and Scott gasps as it hits him like cold water that Skizz is the only thing holding him up.

Below his back are stones and grass, way down below him, and nothing but air in between.

A single, quick glance down reminds him of just how dizzyingly tall the drop would be, if he were to fall. He shifts to try and right himself, but another gasp is ripped from his throat when Skizz drops him a little lower. 

“What do you think you’re doing, buddy?” he asks. He’s smiling, and that’s so much worse, because that means he’s well aware that he has the power in this situation.

Scott clings to the strange, blackened arm holding him up: “S-Skizz—” he stammers, weakly, but that’s all he can say. His brain is firing excuses left and right, and yet he’s too panicked to use any of them.

Skizz tilts his head. He adjusts his position again, and Scott barely holds back a whimper as his feet dig desperately into the edge of the cliff. It doesn’t seem to move Skizz at all.

“Well, I knew you were gonna be a problem in some way, but I can’t say I was expecting this, ” he sighs, “So, now would be a good time to start explaining yourself. You have…”

He pauses, leaving behind nothing but the sound of the wind rustling through the oak leaves.

And then he smiles again as Scott inadvertently digs his nails into his arm.

“Well,” he grins, “You have until my arms get tired.”

Chapter Text

There is an abyss below Scott.

There is nothing but air under his back, and he doesn’t know exactly how much distance is between him and the ground, but it’s at least twice what he could feasibly survive. He can’t afford to fall. The only option he has now is to start explaining, and fast.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.”

Skizz has been rather bloodthirsty, ever since he turned red. If the curse is affecting him that strongly, he might be able to understand that. Unfortunately, though, the bloodthirst also means that Skizz is a lot less likely to sympathise with him, and sure enough, that didn’t seem to move him. “Well, start searching,” he chuckles, “‘Cause you don’t have a lot of time.”

That is, unfortunately, true. Skizz can’t hold him up forever, and he clearly doesn’t intend to.

Scott has never felt the pull of gravity more than he does now. It tugs at his shirt with many tiny fingers, trying to drag him down to the ground below. They’re tiny, but they’re persistent, and they’re gonna win eventually. And, in spite of himself, Scott is terrified. His nails dig into Skizz’s arm as if that could save him. If he wasn’t panicking, he might be able to realise that it’s counterproductive, but his mind is completely void, unable to process anything except the enormity of the drop below him.

He tries something else: “Didn’t… didn’t Ren tell you to keep an eye on me? Is this why?”

“Oh, no,” hums Skizz, “He was actually concerned for you. But I don’t have to tell him the truth, do I, Scott?”

“It’d be a bad idea to lie.”

No, it wouldn’t. Scott has lied to the King’s face multiple times.

Skizz shrugs: “Self-defence. I’m sure he’ll forgive me.”

That’s probably true. It’s probably true, but Scott needs to pretend it isn’t: “He’s already lost one of his men. Do you really think he’s gonna take this well?”

It only gives Skizz pause for a split second. Then his grip tightens: “If he finds out you tried to kill me, you’re dead either way. Maybe I’m doing you a favour. You don’t want the axe again, do you?”

He doesn’t. The mere thought of it makes phantom pain explode in his spine, but then he looks down again and he has to wonder if those are his only options.

He doesn’t want to die. He can take a lot of pain, but he doesn’t want to die.

But he doesn’t get to decide this time. There’s no willing sacrifice, no calculated risk, just someone holding him over a cliff. He has no power in this, and he cannot stand it.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, weakly, and he is not sorry, but it’s the only thing he can think of that might save his life.

Almost the only thing, which is why his second best strategy is simply buying as much time as he can. It’s not working great, however, because Skizz leans forward a little, lowering him so far down that Scott is near horizontal at this point, and smiles at the instinctive, panicked noise that crawls up his throat. “I don’t know, Scott,” he says, “People are starting to die now. I don’t feel all that bad.”

There’s really nothing Scott can say to that. It’s at that moment that it dawns on him: his voice can’t save him this time. It’s a punch in the gut, because his words are the one thing he might have had over Skizz, and it turns out he has nothing. 

The wind tugs at him, victorious, and if Scott thought begging could do anything but further irritate Skizz, he would beg.

Before he can reach that level of desperation, though, another sound stops them both in their tracks.

A string pulls taut, and a strikingly familiar, but terrifyingly cold voice speaks up: “Pull him back.”

That, for the first time, wipes the smile off Skizz’s face.

Scott wants to sob with relief. He also wants to strangle Grian, or whoever it was that allowed Jimmy to come along. Although admittedly, and it is a bad time to be thinking it, that cold anger is a good look on Jimmy. Only because it’s not directed at him, of course. If Scott wasn’t so pale from terror, he would probably be blushing, and he hates that he knows that.

Skizz is less flustered. His grip tightens a bit, but his confidence isn’t shaken: “You can’t shoot me,” he says, and that’s unfortunately true, “I can’t hold on to him if you do.”

Judging by the subsequent silence, Jimmy hadn’t thought that through, and that is so painfully familiar that Scott lets out a breathless laugh.

I love you, he thinks, before he can think any other thought.

Silence falls over the cliff when Scott’s laugh tapers off.

He thinks, with a cold pang of fear, that Skizz’s arms must be tired by now, but he hasn’t let go yet, and that’s more than he expected. He doesn’t dare to move.

Jimmy’s arm trembles just a little, but he keeps his bow trained on Skizz regardless.

“Just— just give him back, and we’ll be on our way! No one has to get hurt!" he shouts, high-pitched and frustrated.

Skizz shakes his head, and for just a moment, there's a trace of bitter fear in his eyes: "It's a death game, Jimmy." He adds something else, after, so quietly that it nearly gets lost in the wind: "Of course people will get hurt. What was all this for?"

That brief forlorn look hardens immediately when Jimmy insists: "Well, maybe they don't have to get hurt! What if we refuse? What if we stop right here, all of us? What then, Sk—"

"Shoot me if you want!" Skizz cuts him off, "Wait it out, if you’d prefer. Or I can drop him right now. Either way, he falls."

"But you don't have to fall with him!" Jimmy nearly sobs. He can’t hold the shot for much longer. "I don't wanna kill you, Skizz, but I will if I have to. If you— if you kill him, I promise you, I won't stop until you're a stain on the ground."

His voice is shaky, but the threat is completely genuine. It's so out of character that Skizz does pause for a moment. Not long enough.

"That's a lot coming from a dead man walking, isn't it?" he laughs, pulling back just a little. It doesn’t make the vertigo any less painful.

Jimmy grits his teeth: "I'm serious."

"Oh, I know you are. You're just… how do I put this? You're being a little naïve, don't you think?"

Skizz’s arms are shaking now. But his legs are shaking a little too, which brings into question why. Why is he still holding on to Scott, if he intends to kill him no matter what?

Jimmy isn’t very perceptive, but it’s easier to notice than Skizz thinks.

"I don't want to shoot you," he says, quietly, "And it's not just because of Scott. But if you hurt Scott, I have a clean shot, and I'm not going to waste it."

I love you.

"It's up to you, Skizz, but I warned you, okay? I warned you, and let no one say I didn't."

I love you.

"And I warn you— I warn you, too, that if you hurt him, I will never forgive you. If you hurt him, you'd better hope that fall kills you, because—"

I love you.

"Because, if it doesn't, I will, and I promise you, I swear to you, it's going to hurt."

He looks like an avenging angel in the morning sun. His hair and the fluff of yellow feathers that frame his face come together in a halo of sorts, and his wings capture the rays of the sun, and Scott knows exactly what he's been fighting for all this time.

The cliff is silent again, but for the rustle of the wind.

Jimmy's arms are shaking with the effort of keeping the bowstring taut, but there is a ferocious determination in his eyes that Skizz now lacks. Watching them, Scott is reminded of hunters, armed to the teeth and yet quickly humbled by mother boars and geese.

Slowly, shakily, Skizz bends his arms to pull himself back from the edge. Scott gasps for air when he's finally upright again. His legs, no longer having to keep him rooted to the ground, begin to tremble like a newborn deer's.

For one precious moment, he meets Jimmy's eyes, deep and warm and nearly exploding out of their sockets with worry as he finally lowers his weapon.

There's still a hand clutching the front of Scott's shirt, but he can't bring himself to care now.

He can't bring himself to care, that is, until from the darkness of the forest, an arrow whizzes past Jimmy and embeds itself in Skizz's chest with a sharp squelching noise. Scott barely has time to see Scar lunging forward, bow still in hand, trying to right his mistake, before he and Jimmy and the trees disappear over the edge of the cliff and a pit of vertigo hollows out his chest.

And he's falling.

It feels strange to fall. It feels like nothing at first, like floating in water, until that pit of fear opens up in his chest and then he's falling too fast to even scream and the ground is getting closer and closer and closer, faster and faster and—

Something grabs Scott around the waist and gravity abruptly tugs at his limbs as Skizz finally loses his grip and his hand is wrenched away from Scott's shirt and in a split second, they're twenty feet apart and the ground welcomes Skizz with a noise that Scott is grateful he can't hear from his height.

He loses sight of him as whoever has him safely in their arms makes a sharp turn in mid-air, sending them both tumbling still entwined into the grass.

And it hurts. But Scott is certain that it would hurt more if whoever caught him wasn't holding him so close to them, shielding him from most of the fall, and so he holds them too, shifting to better fit into their arms.

He doesn’t need to look to know who it is. He keeps his eyes fixed on the patch of cornflowers they landed in, pointedly ignoring the horrible rasping and gurgling coming from somewhere behind them.

When it finally goes silent, after a few never-ending seconds, and three communicators buzz in sync, his angel closes his arms more tightly around him, and Scott squirms until he's turned around and he can bury his face in his saviour's chest.

He's shaking.

They're both shaking, but they know that death knell wasn't for them, and that's enough for now. They can't say anything. Jimmy's wings shiver violently, tense with the pain of an awkward flight that wasn't supposed to happen, one that he perhaps only managed to pull off due to hysterical strength, but even through what must be agony for him, he looks at Scott like he's the only thing he wants to see.

He doesn’t say anything, and Scott would love to fill that silence for him, but his tongue simply refuses to voice his thoughts.

Maybe he doesn't need to speak right now, though. 

For the first time in weeks, when he holds Jimmy, there are no bars or walls or guards in sight.

It's just them and the flowers again.

Chapter Text

Scott's legs are still shaking when Jimmy pulls away, but he has more than enough strength to cling onto his hand still. Jimmy squeezes it gently: "We have to go, Scott," he says, soft, "Let's go. Let's go before someone gets here."

He's right. Scott's comms are already buzzing, once, twice, five times in total, without counting the death message. He glances at the screen.

Skizzleman fell from a high place.

He sure did. Scott tries not to look, though. He looked earlier, for one brief second, and he might be wrong, but he's fairly certain that a spine isn't supposed to bend that way. He doesn’t want to see it again.

The chat's responses to the third (or… fourth) final death are… mixed, to say the least.

<Smallishbeans>: LET'S GO

<impulseSV>: NOOOO

<ZombieCleo>: k boys whos next?  :)

<InTheLittleWood>: what happened?

<impulseSV>: scott?

And, of course…

Rendog whispered to you: Where are you? Send your coordinates at once.

Rendog whispered to you: Is someone with you?

Scott clips the communicator back to his belt and squeezes Jimmy's hand: "Yeah. Let's go."

As they walk, he silently searches his hollow chest for the joy he knows he should be feeling. He's free. Jimmy's free. They're alone, hand in hand, going to someplace they can hide in together, so why doesn't it feel like it? Scott frowns. He struggled and fought for this outcome, far too much to be feeling nothing. Maybe he's still in shock. Is he supposed to be in shock? 

Nothing feels real right now. The flowers and the open air, the ground under his feet and Jimmy's hand, it all just feels like a pleasant dream that leaves you hollow and sad when you wake.

There will be time, though, right? There's time for the shock to pass and there's time for him to remember what it feels like to be happy and content. But he doesn't want to waste the here and now just because his heart refuses to catch up.

"Scott?"

He snaps back to what is probably reality: "Mh?"

"That's the wrong way, darling."

Ok, the violent blush that reaches all the way up to the pointed tips of his ears is most definitely real.

"Ah— what?" he stammers, adjusting the banner to cover as much of his face as he can without looking suspicious.

"I said that's the wrong way," repeats Jimmy patiently, "Grian said— mph!"

The jolt of adrenaline that shot through Scott was apparently strong enough to make him slam a hand over Jimmy's mouth without even realising it. He runs with it: "Jimmy, shhh," he admonishes, "Don't say it. Just lead the way, okay?"

"Why?"

"We don't wanna be heard."

"Oh."

The argument seems to have convinced him, because he simply steers Scott in a different direction and starts walking again. Good.

Scott would love to focus on the feeling of their fingers intertwining at last, but he can't shake the feeling that someone is watching. Their reunion can wait until they're safe. They've come too far to slip up now. They're close.

They're so close.

Grian, Scar, and Cleo meet them somewhere at the foot of the mountain, on the other side. It makes sense, given that Scar can't just fly off the cliff, but it's still unsettling to think of how close they still are to the most recent victim of the game. Scott doesn’t like to think about it, but what else can he do? It happened. It happened way too close to him to ignore it.

Scott decides to spare Scar the lecture. Judging by the man's sheepish expression, Grian has already taken care of that.

Cleo stands beside them, leaning on the blunt end of her axe. Her hair is loose today, falling in red and orange waves that match her scarlet eye. The other eye is entirely gone by this point, replaced by an empty socket. She looks, somehow, both bitter and happy seeing Scott and Jimmy walk up to them.

"Finally!" she sighs, but she's smiling.

“Sorry we almost fell to our deaths,” mumbles Jimmy, sheepishly. When Cleo smirks, he backs off right away: “So, where’s Tango?” he asks. 

Oh, that makes sense. Tango is the only one that seems to be missing from the group.

“We were an odd number,” says Grian, “And he wanted to work on some redstone.”

“So he’s back at the base, then?”

“Yep. We’d better head back.”

Scott nods absently. He’s more focused on the trees around them, the rustling of the leaves and the chirping of the birds. Those sounds, however innocent, could easily be covering footsteps, or the stretch of a bowstring. They can’t afford to relax yet.

“Scott?”

“Mh?”

“You’re hurting me.”

Scott retreats his hand from Jimmy’s like it burns, only belatedly feeling how tightly he was squeezing it. 

Well done, Scott, he scowls at himself, even with you he’s not safe. He should have known that much. With the amount of times he’s already failed, he should have known, but it’s far too easy to believe Jimmy when he says thank you and when he looks at him with pride in his eyes. He means it, of course, and Scott appreciates it, but he’s wrong.

He nods along when Jimmy awkwardly assures him that it’s fine, but he doesn’t take his hand again.

Nearly half an hour later, the forest is still quiet.

Not silent, there’s birds and rabbits and chickens that scurry away from the group when they get too close, but they don’t run into anyone. Scott has memorised the sound of their footsteps by now: the way Cleo’s exposed kneecap clacks, the dull thud of Scar’s cane on the dirt, Jimmy’s heavy, hesitant steps, Grian’s talons scratching the ground whenever they happen to pass over rocks or gravel. Every set of footsteps is familiar and accounted for, everything is fine, but Scott can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching, someone is following, someone is about to attack. Subtly, he makes sure to keep Jimmy in the centre of their little circle. He doesn’t want anyone here to die right now, but if someone has to, he will not let it be Jimmy.

“We’re almost there,” Cleo assures him, probably sensing his anxiety. Probably experiencing it as well, actually, if the death grip she has on her axe is anything to go by. Scott nods quietly.

Not two minutes later, Grian stops in his tracks and crouches by a cluster of rocks, sticking his arm into a crack that would make anyone who’s aware of the existence of snakes and scorpions shudder. He has his arm in up to his elbow when something clicks and the floor sinks down from under the rocks. 

“Courtesy of dear Tango,” hums Scar, proudly, in response to the shocked look Scott knows is on his face right now. Ah, that makes more sense. He would not step foot through that passage if it had been Grian who created it. Or, heaven forbid, Jimmy. He’s a lovely, lovely man, but an engineer he is not.

Once everyone is inside, Cleo hits a different button and the passage closes shut behind them, a solid wall of rock between their hideout and the dangers outside.

Scott finally releases the tension that’s been sitting in his chest and squeezing his lungs in one single, liberating breath, finally letting himself fall against Jimmy’s shoulder. It’s safe now. They’re safe. For now, at least, but they can figure something out while they’re hidden away in here. It takes all of his willpower not to melt when Jimmy wraps his arm around his shoulders.

The others don’t seem quite as relieved.

“Does this wall look weird to you?” hums Scar, tapping at the stone with his cane. Grian and Cleo pay him no mind, far too busy walking ahead of them as if to scout.

“Tango?” Cleo calls out, “We’re back!”

There’s no reply.

Scott’s blood runs cold. He clings to Jimmy’s jacket, feeling the poppy petals shift and squish under his fingers. Jimmy holds him close: “Redstone stuff is loud,” he reminds Scott, gently, but the crack in his voice is giving everything away.

Scar tugs on Grian’s sweater: “Hey, Grian, I think this wall looks weird.”

Cleo’s grip on the axe tightens until her knuckles turn white. She runs ahead, calling out: “Tango?” 

Scott freezes in place when all of their comms buzz at once. It could be nothing, he reminds himself, but when has it ever been nothing in the past few days? That is the sound that heralded the deaths of his allies. The sound that warned him of Jimmy’s death.

He hears Scar gasp. Jimmy looks at the comms and goes stiff. Grian leaves Scar to examine the wall by himself and takes off after Cleo.

There’s no choice, is there?

Scott doesn’t have the strength to pull his own communicator from his belt. He leans over to look at Jimmy’s, and all of a sudden, the room feels cold.

Tango was slain by InTheLittleWood

Scar is right. There’s a noise coming from behind the wall.

Chapter Text

Jimmy’s arm is tight around his shoulders.

Scar forgets all about the wall as soon as he’s processed the message. He sprints after Grian instead, like always, leaving them behind, like always.They will never be anywhere near his priority. They’re on their own, again.

They could follow the group. It might be safer, because there should only be two people. Two against five should be easy. But if one of those two people is Martyn, then the other… 

Scott shudders. “Jimmy,” he murmurs, tugging urgently at his husband’s sleeve, “Jimmy, let’s go. Let’s go, right now.”

“ What? ”

“We have to go,” he insists. The phantom feeling of an ice cold hand on his shoulder makes his arm shiver as he drags Jimmy back towards the exit, fumbling for a switch, a lever, something that can activate the redstone and get them out. Where’s the button? Fuck, he should have asked Grian. 

“We… we can’t leave.”

“We have to,” stammers Scott, swiping his free hand across the wall with no results. His eyes burn and he doesn’t want to think about it right now.

Jimmy pulls him back from the wall: “Where… where would we go, Scott?” he asks, lost, “We have nowhere else to go, Tango just— We can’t leave like this!”

Even through his protests, he’s looking to Scott for guidance. It’s hard to watch. It’s hard not to cave in under the weight of his gaze, and Scott grits his teeth to drown out the strain of his exposed ribs. “It doesn’t matter,” he pleads, “It doesn’t matter, we’ll figure something out, Jimmy, let’s just go. ”

He’s shaking like a leaf. Why? Why is it hard to breathe, why is his hand going numb, why does he want to scream so badly? Even when he closes his eyes, the back of his eyelids is a deep scarlet red, melting into images of violence and death and grief. It’s not real, he reminds himself, it’s not real now, his strained and panicked mind corrects him, it’s not real right now, but what if it becomes real? He shouldn’t dawdle like this! The game is still ongoing, they could still die, and they’ve just pissed off the King, and the King is somewhere nearby.

There’s no time, but he can’t stop himself.

“Are you okay?”

Jimmy’s voice distorts and echoes in his head. Instinctively, he lets go of his hand to cover his ears, but it only turns his skull into a drum: the sound of distant voices and his own heartbeat reverberates unpleasantly and drowns out all semblance of rational thought.

And it’s so cold.

He regrets letting go of Jimmy now, shivering in the snow-like static that rings in his ears, and he reaches out for him blindly again, but the room seems to stretch between them and keep them apart, again.  

He startles when Jimmy reaches out himself, but the feeling of their banner being wrapped around his shoulders more than makes up for the scare, and he clings to his husband like a raft in a storm. He doesn’t know where Jimmy’s dragging him, but it doesn’t matter right now. It doesn’t matter. He will take him away from danger, that’s what he does, and so Scott hides his face in the poppies blooming out of his husband’s skin and lets him guide him.

Jimmy digs them into a wall. Scott doesn’t really notice until several minutes later, when he’s finally recovered enough to stop mashing Jimmy’s poppies into paste. He cracks his stiff fingers open and finds his hands stained with what could become red dye with a little more work. The colour makes him nauseous.

“Are you okay now?” Jimmy asks again, awkwardly. They’re crammed into an improvised room that’s just barely big enough to fit both of them, which, as Scott is now lucid enough to realise, was an incredibly risky move. They could’ve been burned, or drowned, or shot, with nowhere to go, if someone had thought of that.

Jimmy is so sincere in his care, but he is not a strategic mind by any stretch. Scott giggles deliriously at the thought. They could’ve died. They could’ve died because Scott couldn’t get himself together.

“I’m fine,” he answers as soon as his brain processes the question, “I’m fine, Jimmy. We should get out of this hole now.”

“It feels pretty safe here.”

“It is not, Jimmy. I’m sorry to break the news,” giggles Scott, bitterly carving through the stone wall to get them out, “We’re more like bugs in a jar here.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Scott freezes. Yeah, of course he’d feel bad about that. Scott could’ve probably phrased it better. His self-deprecation ended up bouncing back, somehow, and he needs to be more careful with that in the future. He’s supposed to be better than this.

“No, I’m sorry,” he sighs, “I didn’t mean to freak out on you. You did your best.”

Jimmy quickly jumps to his feet, ruffling his feathers to better straighten them out: “I-I did! I really did!”

“I know.”

When they finally carve through the wall (they went surprisingly deep, all things considered), they find Grian and Scar staring directly at them. 

Grian’s feathers are quite literally all ruffled: “Where were you?” he screeches, “Goodness gracious, Tim, I thought they’d snatched you again!”

Jimmy shrinks under his gaze, much like a child receiving a well-deserved scolding, but before he can make any excuses for him, Scott steps in: “It was my fault,” he sighs, “I freaked out, and he had to calm me down. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s okay, then,” hums Scar, resting his chin on top of Grian’s head, “I thought you’d ditched us, so this is quite a relief, actually!”

“Thank you for your faith in us,” deadpans Scott. Graciously, no one decides to bring up how much of the game Scott has spent being a double agent. He wouldn’t have blamed them.

“What happened while we were in there?” Jimmy asks, before things can get too awkward. God bless Jimmy.

“A bloody mess is what happened,” growls a voice from down the corridor, making them all jump, “I nearly had the bastard. I nearly had him. I was this close, but he’s slippery enough to be a bloody fish!”

As hard as it is to understand Cleo’s angry rambling without any context, Scott is almost too afraid to ask, looking at the bloodstains dying her hands red and climbing up her sleeves. Almost.

“Who?” he asks, and she flips towards him with something truly deadly in her gaze. It nearly makes him flinch, and the only reason he doesn’t draw his sword right then and there is that the anger is clearly not directed at him.

“ Martyn! ” she barks, throwing her arms up in frustration (Scott tries his best to ignore the droplets of blood that fly from her hands at the sudden movement), “He must’ve been nearly dead, but nooo, now is when his guard dog decides to cut their losses and drag him out. He’s still on yellow!”

“A-and…” Jimmy hesitates, but he pushes through when everyone looks at him expectantly, “And… Tango?”

“Dead,” she spits, but despite her harsh façade, she can’t bear to give any more details on the matter. She’s the last of her team now. Scott makes a note to stay as close to her as they can, because the pain of loneliness can’t be underestimated. He knows that better than anyone now.

Unfortunately, Scott does, indeed, still want details. He gingerly passes by her to walk deeper into the secret base, and when no one stops him, he picks up his pace and walks to the back.

It doesn’t take long to find Tango. The mortal injury that took his red life isn’t hard to see, and it’s far from the most gruesome thing Scott has seen thus far, but what he finds still makes his head spin. 

Tango is not lying on the floor. He’s tied to a chair, with a Dogwarts banner acting as a gag, and a gruesome cut across his throat. The banner is half-chewed through. The ropes dug into his limbs until he bled.

How long was he there before they executed him?

Scott’s stomach twists. He doesn’t need to ask himself any questions: it’s plain to see what happened and why, of course they wouldn’t kill him while the rest of them were still out and about. No, they waited for them. On purpose. They waited, so the Desert Alliance wouldn’t know their base was compromised, and if the group left several hours ago, then how long was Tango tied up for?

He shuts his eyes, but as always, that only makes his imagination stronger. He has no right to feel guilty for this, and he doesn’t, but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel guilty for ever believing there was a shred of mercy in the King’s heart.

Scott glances back at the body. Someone should get him off that chair. Someone has to, and he refuses to make Cleo do it. She’ll say it’s fine, but it’ll hurt her. 

It’s a little thing, but at least he can do this.

He reaches around Tango’s head to remove the banner. That one, he’s going to burn. He should keep the ropes, though, just in case, and if he washes them thoroughly, Cleo will never know it’s the same ones. It’s callous, but he can’t waste that resource.

Once he’s done, he lays Tango down on the floor, crossing his arms over his chest to give some semblance of peace (there was no peace, he fought until his last moment, but that’s what death is for). He tried his best not to get any blood on him, but his hands couldn’t be salvaged. Oh, well.

When he walks back to the others, they tell him what he already knew: it’s time to jump ship. They have to leave. Night is falling, there will be no better time, and they’ve already gathered what they could from the base. And what they didn’t gather…

Scott watches the flames seep out from under the stone with bitter amusement. It’s the second funeral pyre he’s witnessed in only a couple days. This one’s just a lot bigger than the first.

He only watches for a few seconds, of course, that’s all they can afford. When Jimmy squeezes his hand, he simply turns and leaves, again, following the rest of the Desert Alliance into the pitch black of the forest. Like always.

On to the next house, on to the next base, and if they’re lucky, one day they’ll get something to call home.

Chapter Text

From about the halfway point of their trek forward, Scott starts leaning more and more heavily against Jimmy. It doesn’t surprise anyone, let alone Jimmy. He’s seen the exhaustion that’s slowly but surely consuming his husband from the inside. Honestly, he was really hoping being able to hide out for a while would help, and it probably would have, if they hadn’t been ambushed.

Jimmy bites his lip. Is Scott ever gonna feel safe now? What can he even say? I’m sure that was a one time thing, Scott, I’m sure they won’t find the secret hideout this time!

That’s not gonna help. Hell, with the way things have been, even if they somehow managed to cross the border and escape, Scott still wouldn’t feel safe, and that’s not fair, and Jimmy doesn’t know how to help.

Grian made damn sure no one’s snuck into the base this time. Apparently, that’s where Joel has been, searching the caves for the most remote, unfindable location he can think of. Apparently, Grian knows him well enough to ask questions only he could know the answer to. Apparently, this one’s safe.

Jimmy sighs heavily, staring at yet another stone wall. He’s starting to get really sick of them. At least, though, this time, he can just cast his eyes downward a bit and find a much sweeter sight.

Scott is curled up against him, with one long, pointy ear pressed tightly to his chest. And, as hard as it is not to move for hours and hours, Jimmy is not going to move away, because that would probably give Scott another panic attack, and he needs this rest badly. He needs all the rest he can get.

He snuggles closer when Jimmy runs a hand through his hair. He looks completely spent, there’s no other way to describe it. Has Scott noticed the bags under his eyes? Has he noticed that he’s grown thinner? Has he noticed that he doesn’t sleep as peacefully as he used to? Probably not, because Scott is the smartest person Jimmy knows, but he’s also the dumbest person he knows when it comes to self-care. 

And to think he was so anxious about Jimmy not eating. It was a justified fear, but still.

“Hypocrite,” he mumbles with all the love in his heart. Scott nuzzles his chest slightly in response. He's like a little cat, and Jimmy does love cats, so it's hard to stay mad at him. He has heard Scott purr once, though sadly he was never able to convince him to do it again, so there has to be something at least a little bit feline about elves that no one's willing to admit. Martyn fits the bill just as well.

His heart sinks.

Oh, he shouldn't have thought about Martyn. The last yellow, the emblem of the war, the Right Hand or whatever it is that Ren keeps calling him. They haven't always been like this, neither of them, none of them, but Jimmy really can't pinpoint where everything went wrong. He can’t remember the exact moment that Ren became so cold, or when Scar became so intimidating, or when the glint in Cleo's eyes turned from mischief to pure rage. Even Scott is different now, but he can sort of see where that change started. It doesn’t make things any better, though, does it? They're still, to put it mildly, in big trouble. He could be more vulgar with that expression, but even that wouldn't properly convey the amount of trouble they're in.

Jimmy slowly sinks into the mattress, defeated. His eyelids are heavy, but his thoughts are fighting to keep him awake.

He should sleep. It might be the last chance he gets for a while: with four people gone, the war will only become more intense. 

He should sleep. He should…

His eyelids fall shut.

When he wakes up, his head is resting on something soft and squishy. He's on his side now, with his wings hanging off the side of the bed, and he's perfectly comfortable like that.

"Slept well?"

Oh. It looks like Scott woke up before he did. And he also, it seems, took the time to sit up and move Jimmy's head into his lap. It's unfairly comfortable. He should ask Scott to do it more often, actually.

Jimmy rubs the sleep out of his eyes: "Yeah. I crashed hard, actually."

"Mhm."

A cool hand runs through his hair, drawing a happy little sound from his throat before he can stop it. Not that he's complaining. It always makes Scott smile when he does that.

"This is nice," he murmurs, "You should do it more often."

"Oh, I don’t know if we'll get to do it," muses Scott, casually. Too casually, for someone who was shaking in fear not even twelve hours ago. It sends a shiver up Jimmy's spine.

"No, I'm sure we'll get to do it," he says, "'Cause we'll be fine, Scott. Okay?"

Scott bursts into a mirthless laugh: "When? In the afterlife?"

" Scott! "

Something isn't right. Scott has never been especially positive about their odds, but he's also never been quite so direct about it. For one reason or another, he's never given up the appearance of hope, at the very least. Has what happened earlier really traumatised him that much? Jimmy wouldn't even know where to begin helping him, if so.

He reaches up to Scott's free hand, resting his fingers against his bruised knuckles: "Look, Scott—" he stammers, "I-I know that… I know that things have been hard, okay? And it's true that the other base wasn't safe, but if they knew where this one is, don't you think they would have attacked while we were both asleep? They haven't really been aiming for a fair fight."

"That's true."

"So… so I don't think they've found this one."

" Yet. "

"Scott—"

"Alright," Scott concedes, "Let's say they don't find it. What then? We stay here until we rot? You know you can't handle it, and neither can Grian." He scratches lightly at Jimmy's temple: "You owe him a lot, you know. The least you can do is not leave him to die again. You were going to, back then, when I freaked out; the only reason you're not tearing yourself apart over it is that he wasn't hurt, but if you do it again…"

Jimmy gulps: "No, I want to help him. I really do. I just… there were three of them, and he was fine—"

"And what if he hadn't been?" Scott whispers, "You know he's at the top of the King's list. If you leave him, and he dies, you'd better hope someone gets Scar before he can get to you. "

Jimmy shudders. Yeah, if something had happened to Grian, it would have been… bad. He's not sure he would've been blamed for it, but even so, he knows he would have blamed himself.

"You both will have to leave these caves eventually," croons Scott, closer to his ear now, "And when you do, the rest of us are gonna have to escort you, as always. You fragile avians with your flashy wings. Impossible to hide, impossible to miss. You know, I was there when Ren shot Grian out of the sky. He barely had to aim, with how big those stupid wings are."

His hand is freezing cold in Jimmy's hair. It's starting to ache, like holding ice for too long, and he can’t help but try to move away.

Scott yanks him back by the hair.

He yelps, but his protests are cut off when he's slammed at full force into the wall. Wings-first. They make a horrid cracking sound on impact, and the dull ache Jimmy's grown used to explodes into a million sharp, piercing pains all over his back. If he had any breath left in his lungs, he would scream.

He looks up helplessly at Scott, searches his face for any trace of remorse or even sympathy, but he finds no such thing. His heart beats wildly in his chest as he faces down the person that’s pinning him against the wall.

Scott’s face is a mask of pure hatred.

“You ruined my life,” he seethes, nails digging painfully into Jimmy’s shoulders, “You just keep dragging me down with you, over and over again. I’ve already died for you once, what more do you want?”

He scowls, and suddenly the pain in Jimmy’s wings is far from the worst pain he’s feeling. 

How is he meant to answer that? You’re right? Scott is right. Scott is right, he deserves better, and he’s finally accepted it. Jimmy can’t defend himself, and he shouldn’t. All he can really say is…

“I’m sorry,” he whines, and he can feel his face twisting with despair, “Scott, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re sorry. ” Scott’s laugh is uncanny. It’s cold enough to freeze the air with his breath. “We’re both gone, Jimmy,” he says, almost sweetly, “It’s been over for you since the start, and it’s been over for me since I decided to stick with you.”

He’s right. He’s right, and he’s finally acknowledging it. Jimmy has no right to be hurt; he’s always known this was coming. Scott has every right to be angry, and he has every right to lash out, and he has every right to rid himself of Jimmy if he wants to. 

That’s why Jimmy doesn’t fight back when icy hands clamp around his neck.

He gasps for air, sure, because his body can’t help but struggle to survive, but that is all he does; his limbs feel heavier and heavier until they start to go numb. There is a sickening crunch at one point, and—

—oh, God, his windpipe.

His teary, oxygen-starved eyes can no longer see Scott clearly. Gradually, Scott’s figure has melted away into splotches of cyan and red, yet somehow his hateful glare still lingers. Jimmy is sinking, sinking, sinking, deeper and deeper and every time he thinks that’s it, I must have fallen, somehow, he has further still to fall.

But then he spots something. Behind the strokes of cyan and red, like ink falling into water, a bright purple stain is spreading. No, not one. Many, many purple stains, quickly melting and changing and fusing into each other until, in a single moment of clear vision, Jimmy recognises them as hundreds upon hundreds of wide, glowing eyes.

They give a flash of light that burns a hole into Jimmy’s forehead, and Jimmy bolts up in bed.

There are no hands around his throat. He knows there aren’t, because his windpipe is intact again and his wings aren’t being crushed against the wall and Scott is fast asleep next to him.

Scott is… asleep. His hands are tucked close to his chest, as limp as the rest of him, nowhere near Jimmy’s neck, and still, he can’t shake the feeling of icy fingers clamped around his throat, squeezing, squeezing, crushing his windpipe and depriving him of every breath of air in his lungs. 

Someone else touched him, he realises.

Four fingers quickly retreat from his forehead, leaving behind a trace of pleasant warmth, and Grian quickly stuffs them into the pockets of his shorts.

“It was a nightmare, Tim,” he says, quietly, “Just a nightmare. I told you, he loves you.”

Jimmy swallows down the lingering fear. Unfortunately, it drags the relief down with it, and he’s left with an empty feeling of despair in its wake. 

“How do you know?” he demands, and he hates how much his voice is shaking. How does Grian know? The eyes were his, Jimmy knows that much, and he doesn’t need to ask how Grian could tell what his nightmare was about, but how the hell can Grian possibly know that Scott isn’t sick of him?

Dream Scott may have been crueller than real Scott, but everything he said was true.

Grian stares down at him with an empty eye and an empty eye socket.

“I’ve been having them too.”

Chapter Text

There's nothing for Grian to perch on, no matter how much he (very clearly) wants to. He settles for crouching on the floor, resting his elbows on his thighs for balance. Jimmy shuffles awkwardly, recognising the signal for let's talk.  

Sure enough, Grian starts talking.

"I think everyone's been having these nightmares," he says, picking at a loose thread of his poncho, "Scar keeps having them, you've had them, I've had them, and I'm pretty sure Joel's having them too, because I saw him bolt up in bed once. No, multiple times.” He cringes: “I think he might be having it worse than anyone, to be honest.”

“Really?”

“He’s losing it, Tim.”

Jimmy thinks back on what little he’s seen of Joel lately. Red eyes and an army of wolves with blood-stained fur and a laugh that Jimmy somehow recognises as wrong. It doesn’t sound like Joel’s laugh used to, but he doesn’t know how he knows that, or why that pains him.

“Oh,” he says, dumbly. Why did he need someone to tell him that? He could’ve figured it out on his own. He considers moving away to pace, or sit closer to Grian, or something, but the second he so much as shifts, Scott stirs uneasily in his sleep. So that plan is quickly discarded, even after Scott settles down.

Grian nods: “Yeah, it turns out constant nightmares about your loved ones hating you aren’t good for your sanity.”

He says it lightly, but there’s a distant look in his eye. He wasn’t lying when he said he’s been having those nightmares too, that much is obvious just by looking at him. Jimmy shivers at the thought of what they might be. What scares Grian? He’s never seen Grian be genuinely scared: even when he attacked him, even when he nearly killed him, he was rather panicked, but he wasn’t afraid.  

Jimmy looks down at him. He looks exhausted too, just like Scott does.

How much longer do they have before everyone goes completely insane?

“Grian?” he calls out, quietly, “These nightmares, they aren’t… natural, are they? Like, I know we’ve seen a lot of terrible things, but…”

“No, you’re right. They’re not just trauma.”

Jimmy can’t decide if that is good news or bad news, initially. Then he sees Grian’s sullen face and determines that it is, indeed, very bad news.

“Then what are they?”

“What’s the border, Tim?” Grian smiles mirthlessly: “What’s the red curse? What are the three lives for? It’s so we’ll kill each other. It’s the same with the nightmares, okay? The exact same thing. You trust Scott, you love Scott, so if it comes down to the two of you, you won’t kill him. But if you see him attacking and insulting you every time you close your eyes, you can’t quite look at him in the same way ever again. And I know that worked on you, Timmy, don’t lie.” His expression turns sad: “You weren’t even fighting back.”

Jimmy bites his lip. Grian and his weird knowledge strike again. There’s no use denying what he said, but maybe he can lie about it. 

“Well,” he says, “Sometimes, in a nightmare, you feel all heavy and you can’t do anything, yeah?”

“But that’s not the reason, is it?”

Jimmy’s feathers bristle before he can stop them. It didn’t work. He draws his wings closer to himself, as if they could hide his lies: “I just couldn’t blame him, that’s all,” he admits under his breath, “He was… he didn’t mince words, but he wasn’t lying. ”

“Yes, he was!”

The passion in Grian’s voice makes him flinch: “But he—”

“He. Loves. You. Get it into your thick skull!” hisses Grian, running a hand over his face, “For goodness’ sake, Tim, do you have any idea how many chances he had to abandon you?”

Grian isn’t angry. Grian isn’t angry, but Jimmy shrinks back from him all the same because, through all the lingering fear and insecurity, he knows Grian is right. Whether he wants it or not, Scott isn’t going to betray him. And the truth is, dream Scott doesn’t scare him nearly as much as real Scott does.

It would be easier to think that Scott doesn’t love him. It would be easier to think that he would abandon him to save himself, but he’s not going to, and that is worse.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Yes, of course he does. 

“Yeah?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” repeats Grian, “and I don’t like it one bit. Look, I know how it is, okay? It’s not easy to get used to someone giving everything for you, and it’s not easy to think you deserve it, and I’m still not sure that I do, but I know you, and you’ve done nothing to deserve being left behind. Can you just get that into your head for once?”

Grian’s tone is remarkably harsh for what he’s saying, but it’s because it’s harsh that Jimmy knows it’s completely sincere. He tries and fails to process that idea.

Grian’s most sincere thoughts are that he doesn’t deserve to be abandoned.

The notion jabs at his heart, but never quite manages to enter it. He knows it probably should, but it doesn’t, and he fails to answer before Grian’s face, briefly vulnerable, hardens into an unreadable smirk and he springs up, brushing the dust out of the feathers on his legs. “Well, I’m gonna go have my own nightmares now. Good night.”

He’s out the door before Jimmy can sputter out any sort of reply.

He bites his lip, dejected. He’s ruined this too. The conversation could have gone somewhere, but no, he just had to fumble his words and now the moment’s gone and neither of them are any more certain of each other’s allegiance than they were before. 

He makes a mental note to reach out to Grian again. This can’t continue any longer. He would go after him right away, but at some point during their conversation, Scott has decided to nestle right into his side, and Scott’s sleep looks peaceful now, and he can’t waste that.

With a heavy heart, Jimmy lies next to his husband again and waits for morning.

Scott suspects nothing when he wakes up. He can’t tell that Jimmy had a nightmare, and he can’t tell that Grian came to talk to him, and Grian is thankfully nice enough to keep it to himself. So Jimmy says nothing, because Scott clearly has enough on his shoulders without hey, darling, I had a dream where you said you hated me and tried to strangle me to death.

No, he really doesn’t need that. In fact, he deserves to sleep for a week straight, as far as Jimmy is concerned. Alas, that’s not an option, and so he reluctantly lets his husband get up so they can go meet up with everyone else.

To say that the others look haggard would be the understatement of the century (provided that such a thing as a century even exists in this extremely limited world): Joel’s eyes are even redder than usual, Scar is using the pommel of his cane as a pillow, Grian’s hair looks like tumbleweed, and Cleo’s inhumane treatment of her steak is a cause for concern. She is essentially dissecting it, cutting away one little strip at a time to reveal its blood red core. Jimmy shivers, picturing any one of his fellow players in its place.

He forces himself to tear his eyes away and smile: “Did I hear good morning? ”

Five separate people glare him down from all around the table. Wonderful. Even Scott is done with him.

“Yeah, great morning,” Cleo mumbles through her teeth. The steak is bleeding all over her plate. It feels like watching a particularly gory horror movie.

There’s a general noise of assent from everyone, but no one can put it into words. That, or they don’t even bother with it. What’s the point? They all know how things are, and things are bad.  

He flinches when Joel throws his fork down on the table and scoffs: “So, what? Are we just staying here until they find us again?”

“Patience, Joel,” Scar admonishes him, sleepily resting his cheek on his hand, “We’ll get them eventually.”

“ Eventually? They’re picking us off!”

“Can’t pick us off if they can’t find us!”

“Oh, gimme a br—”

“Joel is right.”

Everyone turns to look at Grian. Having finally eaten his bread, he brushes the crumbs off his sweater and elaborates: “We outnumber them now. Trench warfare isn’t really an option anymore, our best bet is a straight up battle.”

“We outnumber them by one, but Martyn’s got two lives,” Scott points out, “If we’re counting him as two people, then no, we don’t outnumber them.”

“Well, you’ve used that strategy before, haven’t you?” smiles Scar, and Scott visibly winces, “Ambush him at his spawn point, and he’s done for. Easy.”

“Well, we have to get him first,” mumbles Grian.

Jimmy looks sideways at his husband, just in time to catch the change in his expression. It’s like a switch has been flipped in Scott’s brain; suddenly, his smile is sharp enough to cut glass and his eyes are burning and his voice is full of cold amusement as he replies: “It can’t be that hard. If you want to get the King, just aim at Martyn.”

He isn’t wrong, everyone knows it, but hearing Scott say something so unequivocally callous just feels wrong. Not so much because he said it, but because it’s not a joke, or a casual jab, he’s dead serious. The idea almost seems to excite him, in fact. His smile sends a shiver up Jimmy’s spine.

Everyone’s changed.

Unfortunately, for how uncanny Scott seems, his plan goes through.

It’s all decided, more or less, although if they can pick off one or two Red Army soldiers before the battle, that would be better. The trouble is, there’s a whole day still to go, and Jimmy’s not allowed to leave the base for safety reasons, and nobody talks about it, but waiting for a battle is worse than being in battle. 

Jimmy is pacing around the room for the millionth time when Scott comes back from whatever it is that he and Cleo talked about. They’re close, for some reason Jimmy doesn’t really know, but he’d imagine it’s the same reason he already knew he was friends with Grian. Lingering knowledge, or something like that. He’s honestly a little too scared to ask Grian about it. Does he really want the answer?

He thinks no more of it, because then Scott walks up and leans against his chest, and that’s all that matters right now.

“Jimmy?”

“Yes?”

“Can we talk? It’s about tomorrow.”

They sit down on the bed, together, and for once there’s no time limit.

Chapter Text

Scott said he wanted to talk, and yet here he is, sitting silent and still on the side of the bed. He should say something, but maybe he’s overestimated himself. Maybe talking to Cleo took everything he had, maybe the whole Widows’ Alliance thing really isn’t funny anymore. Maybe he should have waited. But he just doesn’t have the time to wait, they can’t afford to put this off anymore, and so Scott forces himself to talk.

“Tomorrow, I want you to stay close to me,” he says, quietly, “You and I are going to Dogwarts together. We’re gonna break all the beds to make sure Martyn ends up at spawn. We have the easy part of the plan, I made sure of it. If it comes to it, I can sweet talk them, just…” He bites his lip: “Just stay close to me. Whatever happens, stay with me and stay alive. Okay? I want us to make it through this.”

Jimmy looks… sad. He looks like he couldn’t bring himself to say no even if he wanted to. Does he want to?

“I want us to make it through this too,” he whispers after a while, and Scott breathes a sigh of relief, “But if I go with you, won’t we be outnumbered?”

“It’s okay, we planned some traps.”

“Will they work?”

Good question. So far, only one of Grian’s traps has worked properly, and no one left alive on their end is even remotely good with redstone. Luckily, the other faction isn’t all that good with traps either, but Scott is still gonna have an escape route planned for them. His first priority is their survival, and everything else is only a nice bonus. Everything else can wait.

“If they don’t, we’ll just bomb them,” he says, as sweetly as he can. Jimmy doesn’t find it as funny as he’d hoped.

“Okay,” he nods, “Okay. I trust you. Hey, you’re the smart one, aren’t you?” He laughs nervously: “We’ll be fine. I trust you.”

It just slips out.

“Why?” Scott mumbles, louder than he intended. He already knows Jimmy isn’t gonna like it, and he really shouldn’t have said it, but it’s too late to take it back now. If he does, he’ll only incriminate himself more. Maybe he should pass it off as a joke.

Sure enough, Jimmy’s brows curve upwards in concern. “Because someone literally yelled at me that you love me.”

Scott blinks.

“Multiple times,” adds Jimmy, quietly, and an unfortunately timed laugh bubbles up in Scott’s chest. Did they really? He doesn’t know what that says about himself, but it says the exact same thing about Jimmy that’s always been said: sweet as honey, yes, but every bit as dense.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The rest of the group leaves early the next day. They have a set appointment, actually, somewhere out in the plains where a proper battle can happen. The honourable thing to do, except that Grian and Joel snuck out last night to set as many traps as they could, and except that they’re very much planning to play dirty and aim at Martyn almost exclusively. Honourable is for people who want to die.

They wait for an hour or so, just to be completely sure that Dogwarts is empty. Apparently, part of the plan will involve implying that Scott and Jimmy are there against their will, just in case. It might backfire, but it might not, and that’s all they have right now. If all goes well, they won’t even be found in the first place.

If all goes well… Scott really needs to stop telling himself that.

He frowns at himself as Jimmy props him up and over the wall. It’s better not to think of things going well. When has that ever helped either of them? No, he needs to be prepared for when things inevitably go sideways, and if that means he has to use his sword, so be it.

He leads Jimmy by the hand into one of the buildings that make up the fortress. So far, so good. They even have a small window to watch the battle outside while they wait. Entertainment, what a wonderful thing, thinks Scott as he brings his axe down onto the first bed he finds, splitting it clean in half. Jimmy quickly follows suit, cracking the one next to it into splinters.

There are a surprising amount of beds, and if Scott didn’t know any better, he would think the extras are due to them predicting this plan. He does know better, and he reasons they probably didn’t feel like disrespecting their dead by destroying their possessions. Fortunately, they aren’t Scott’s dead, so he has no such problems.

Dogwarts isn’t a particularly large structure, and even with the extra beds, their work is done quickly. It’s over a little too quickly, almost, completed before any sounds of battle even come through the window. 

Scott stares outside. Out in the plains, the two factions face each other with all the theatrics required. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but he looks just in time to catch Scar bending his back in a mocking bow and Martyn taking his chance in stride. Without hesitation, he aims his crossbow, and first blood is drawn. 

The battle has begun.

Scar stares down at the scratch left by the bolt on his neck as Joel lunges past him, with his sword drawn and his wolves in tow; on the other side, Martyn loads his crossbow once more, and after that, it’s chaos.

It’s hard to see what is happening, exactly, but the red splatters stand out all the more against the white and beige of the dust they kick up. Grian is easiest to follow, standing behind an improvised wall, with his bow at the ready and his big red wings tucked against his back.

Scott glances sideways at Jimmy, who maybe should not be watching this. His eyes are flitting about, all over the place, wide and worried, and Scott pities him just a little: he hasn’t managed to disconnect himself from the tragedy of it all just yet, and maybe he never will. It would be uncanny, he thinks. At the same time, he can’t help but envy that lively look in his husband’s eyes, the one he knows he lost weeks ago.

His gaze lingers for longer than it should, however, and so he misses whatever it was that made Jimmy gasp before it vanished into a cloud of dust. Both of their comms buzz a moment later to confirm his suspicion, and he’s almost afraid to look, but the fact that Jimmy wasn’t immediately upset tells him that it’s probably good news for them.

impulseSV was slain by Wolf.

Good news, indeed.

Although, he thinks with a shudder, it’s probably for the best that he missed it. Being mauled by wolves is far from the best way to go, and he doesn’t hate Impulse nearly enough to wish it on him. Nothing to do now, though.

He can’t see the body when he looks back, not very clearly, at least, which is probably for the best. What he can see, even from far away, is how furious the King is. 

No, he can’t see it. The King isn’t even facing him. He can’t see it, but he can feel it, like the first cold wind that warns of a blizzard, and he shivers violently as the Red King makes his counterstrike. 

He’s fast enough to catch the Desert Alliance off-guard. Faster than he was before, as though he’d forgotten his own limits, he lunges forward, swinging in an imperfect but no less lethal arc at the level of Joel’s throat, and it’s only by pure luck that Joel trips and falls backwards in time to avoid a clean decapitation. He does not, however, manage to avoid the subsequent slash, and his mouth opens in a scream that Scott is too far away to hear as a large gash splits the skin of his chest diagonally.

A few feet away, BigB successfully dodges Cleo’s axe, bringing them both further and further from the group. Judging by the grin that splits her decaying face in half, that is exactly what she wants, but she gives him no time to push back against her and foil her plan.

It is just at that moment that Grian makes a mistake.

Probably in an attempt to take the King’s attention off of Joel, he brings up his bow and aims it at Martyn and, with no hesitation, takes the shot. It makes contact, stabbing into Martyn’s side and sending him stumbling back as the bolt he himself was aiming flies off uselessly into a tree. Before he can grab another, Grian has already loaded a new arrow, and Scar has followed suit.

The arrows find their target, embedding themselves in his shoulder and grazing the side of his neck.

It takes exactly three shots to get the King’s attention.

He flips around, leaving Joel lying in a puddle of his own blood, but he does not do what Grian intended. He doesn’t move back to defend his Hand. No, he decides to go right to the root of the problem instead and, half blind with rage, lunges directly at Grian while he’s busy charging his bow.

Scott distantly hears Jimmy crying out in warning, but it doesn’t reach Grian’s ears in time: by the time he finally looks up, it’s too late for him to raise his shield or reach for his sword or do anything but watch.

But it’s not too late for Scar. He moved before any of the others did, with what little time he had left, jumping in front of his partner with a shot already locked and loaded and aimed directly at the King.

The shot goes off, the arrow hits its mark, but it doesn’t save him.

The King reels back, clutching the shaft of the arrow that went nearly all the way through his clavicle. As he staggers back, the sword slowly slides out of Scar’s chest.

Scott knows avians are loud. He’s known for a while. But he realises now that he’s never quite grasped it, because while watching the battle has been much like watching a silent film until now, Grian’s piercing scream is loud enough to hurt his ears even at this distance.

GoodTimesWithScar was slain by Rendog .

Chapter Text

There’s a moment, after the comms buzz, where the battle goes still for so long that the dust has time to settle, falling away like a theatre curtain at the end of a tragedy. It's time for the bows, but no one is ready.

The King holds his sword with one hand, his shoulder with the other, and he looks almost confused, like even he is in disbelief of what just happened. He's only confused for a second, and then he has to run, because a loud and piercing shriek resounds and Grian disappears in a flurry of feathers and dust.

Grian doesn't say a single word, but he makes plenty of noise, screeching loud enough to send Joel's dogs cowering behind their master, and when his eye rises to look past the King’s shoulder, that’s when Scott’s frozen limbs finally move again.

It’s time to go. 

He grabs Jimmy’s hand, dragging them both away from the window before they can get too distracted to do what they must. This could be over today. This could be over within the hour. He can’t risk it.

Jimmy doesn’t fight him, quickly taking the lead as they run hand in hand towards spawn. It’s hard to remember where that even is, right now. The centre, right? It must be, right? He can’t remember; at this point, there’s barely any oxygen left in his brain. The best he can hope for is that he doesn’t pass out before they get there.

Is Jimmy going the right way?

He hangs a left, another left, a right.

He takes them into the woods and runs straight ahead, and—

—there’s someone behind them.

Jimmy and Scott barely have time to turn around before Martyn stumbles through the treeline. His shirt is so tattered with the scratches of twigs and thorns and claws that it looks like it's about to fall off his back. He’s pulled out two of the arrows somewhere along the way, but the third, snapped in half, protrudes from his shoulder only by a couple inches, and it seems he has no time to tend to it. The reason why becomes quickly apparent when another piercing shriek echoes through the forest he left behind.

He starts again, but stops dead in his tracks when he looks up and sees them.

Scott stares back at him. 

The possibilities run through his head. Is it better, in this instance, to keep up the pretence? Or would it be easier to turn on him, right here and now? They haven’t quite reached spawn yet, but they’re close enough that Martyn won’t be able to recover his items. If he’s unarmed, he has less than zero chances of survival.

The reasoning feels hours-long, but his decision is made in less than a second. 

Scott cocks his bow, aims, and fires.

Perhaps on account of all the arrows that have been fired at him today, Martyn is quick to dodge. There is barely any surprise on his face, but there is plenty of fear to go with it, because it’s three against one, and Grian is blind with rage.

He runs, because that’s his best option, but it’s not enough. Scott sprints after him. The sword slides out of its sheath with a sharp scraping sound, quickly closing the distance between Scott and his target. 

The first slash narrowly misses, as Martyn takes a sharp turn to avoid it; the second scratches the skin of his arm, the third slices across his lower back, carving another slit in his half-destroyed shirt. Martyn growls like a cornered animal, suddenly dropping into a chasm with surprising agility for someone so injured. He hangs off the edge for less than a second before letting himself drop no more than a few feet into the ground and dipping into the darkness. Woodland elves are expected to be agile and know their way around the forest, so that is hardly shocking in hindsight, but still, it’s unfair how slippery he is. Maybe that’s why he’s been able to escape their attempts on his life so far.

But Scott knows this area. That brief tunnel ends on the other side of this little hill, and so he leaps across the hole and hurries towards the exit instead, as quietly as he can.

He gets there only a few seconds before Martyn does.

As soon as the tap of footsteps on the stone turns into the soft thump, thump of shoes in the dirt, Scott jumps down and onto his target’s back, pinning him flat on the ground with a loud thud that knocks the air out of Martyn’s lungs. Martyn struggles, turning his head to the side to look up at him with blood running down his chin from where his face hit the ground.

But Scott doesn’t notice that. He’s too busy staring at what he can see through the slits and tears in Martyn’s shirt. Blackened skin, a golden glow previously nullified by the green of the fabric, and a depth that should not be there. His shirt dips in the middle, as if it was stretched over an abyss, right where his left shoulder blade should be.

The pulsing glow under the fabric is so mesmerising that Scott forgets where he is.

That is, of course, until the body that had gone still beneath him gives a violent shake, and he’s knocked back on the ground as Martyn takes his chance and springs up to keep running. Scott lunges forward, making a desperate grab for him, and only succeeds in hooking his fingers into a scratch at the top of his shirt.

It’s enough.

The shirt rips down the middle with a horrible tearing sound, and Martyn, caught off-balance, falls forward with a yelp.

And that’s when the dots finally connect. From where he is, as Martyn slowly drags himself back up, Scott can see exactly where the skin fades into a dark and sickly grey and then a deep charred black, exactly the same as when the Wither skeleton stabbed him, but that isn’t the most horrifying part.

In between all those blackened veins, the skin splits into an uneven vertical slit, from the top of Martyn’s spine and all the way down to the end of his ribcage on the left, or rather, where the ribcage should be. There is nothing there but a hole into his hollow chest cavity, with the snapped ends of ribs on the left, and a clean skeleton faintly visible under the blackened skin on the right.

Right at the centre lies his glowing yellow heart, pulsating faster and faster.

And for how mesmerising and yet disgusting it is, Scott can’t hesitate any longer. He draws his arm back and stabs, watching his blade sink into the tender flesh of his heart and split the ventricles from the arteries that feed them with a little spurt of gold. Like ichor from a fallen god.

Martyn gasps with lungs he doesn’t appear to have. He slumps forward without another sound, quickly vanishing into a puff of smoke.

InTheLittleWood was slain by Smajor1995

Chapter Text

As soon as the smoke that used to be Martyn dissipates into the air, Scott gets up and runs. He will have time to process this later; right now, there is only what he set out to do. The plan from the very beginning.

Heart injuries don't fade so quickly. Respawns are a complicated thing, but it's never as simple as waking up good as new, because in the end you still died. The arrow that pierced your stomach was as real as your body is: it was there, you felt it, and once you've felt it you can't get rid of that memory. And for all the injuries that can take a life, a stab directly to the heart or the brain is likely to incapacitate someone for several minutes even after respawning.

Sure enough, it only takes Scott a minute or so to reach spawn, since Martyn evidently did not expect to find himself there. Sure enough, it takes almost zero effort to knock him over onto his stomach and pin him in place. Sure enough, it takes nothing to send an arrow through his hand as soon as he tries to slip away.

One hand pinned by the arrow, the other by his own body, he can’t move away.

Scott keeps a second arrow loose on the string of his bow. It's not time yet. 

Yes, he could just kill Martyn (his entire body is telling him to do exactly that), but then what? He's seen the King's rage before, and he knows very well that it will be hell if he ends up on the receiving end of it; even if they manage to kill him, what then? The others will turn on each other eventually. No, what he needs to do is pull the same stunt the King did. He needs to buy back his own peace.

And for that, he needs leverage.

From the top of a tree, Jimmy stares down in concern. He got there at some point, while Scott was too busy restraining his captive to notice. You've got this, right? his eyes say, and Scott nods in response, only half lying. Yes, he's got this. Probably. If he doesn't, he'll figure something out, but for now, this is all he has.

It doesn’t take too long. 

At some point, Grian’s screams went quiet, but since the comms remained silent, he's presumably just calmed down enough to stop filling the forest with shrieking cries.

So, it's hardly a shock when the King comes running, not three minutes later, all by himself. Running may be a bit of an overstatement. It's as close to running as someone with scratches and bites all over can manage (it seems the dogs got their fair share of hits in). He must only be standing by the power of adrenaline now, as he looks up at Scott for only a split second before his eyes fall to Martyn on the ground and stay right there.

Scott pulls the bowstring taut before the King can process what is happening.

The King is calm, of course, or tries to be, but his façade cracks and begins to slowly melt away like ice falling into boiling water.

"What do you think you're doing?" he says, low. It's not a question, it's a threat, but threats need leverage to work and, for once in their life, Scott has it.

It feels like just the right time for a callback.

"What do you think I'm doing?" he grins deliriously, drunk on the joy of not being helpless for once in his fucking life. He squashes Martyn’s protests with a well-placed kick to the spine, and watches the King's entire body tense as if to lunge forward, but ultimately freeze in place.

The air is getting cold, but Scott isn't sure which one of them is responsible anymore. His heart burns cold in his chest, and somehow that seems right.

The King's claws dig into his hands until little red droplets start spilling on the grass: "What do you want?"

"What makes you think I want something?"

"If you didn't, you would have killed him by now."

Scott adjusts the bow so the tip of the arrow is hovering just a few inches over that pulsing red light that shines through Martyn’s shirt. Easy target, point blank range: if he shot now, it would probably go all the way through to the other side, and that would be it for Martyn, simple as that. He doesn’t shoot, no matter how much the red curse craves that horrid squelching sound, because he doesn't just want to kill Martyn right now.

Scott isn’t stupid. Neither, it seems, is the King.

"You got me," he concedes, "I do want something."

"What?" spits the King.

Scott's arm tenses further. "I want you to leave us alone," he says, "I want you to take him and walk out of here and never see my face again, because the moment I see yours, or his, I'm putting an arrow right through it. I want you to go on your merry way and if you ever so much as look at me or my husband or our home again, I will make you regret it. That's what I want. You, too!" he screams at Grian and Joel who are barely visible in the distance, and he doesn’t know when he started screaming, but he can't stop, "Fight your own fucking wars! Don't ever drag us into them again, because I promise you, you do not want to see me in a real war."

The clearing has gone dead silent. The only movement is his own muscles trembling with effort and adrenaline as he waits for someone, anyone, to just say he can go home already.

He wishes he could see his own face, but he knows it would frighten him.

Nobody speaks and nobody moves for an agonisingly long moment. And then the King responds so quietly that his lips barely seem to move: "I accept your terms."

What?

That was all it took, was it? That was really all it took. Scott clenches his jaw. That can't be it. He still has so much inside him, so many violent thoughts and emotions swirling inside his hollow chest, and he didn't need to spit out even half of it to make the King back down?

Almost desperate for a no, he turns to Grian instead: "You, too," he stammers, "Leave us out of this."

When Grian also nods, albeit reluctant and glassy-eyed, he finally looks down at his hostage. Martyn isn't fighting him anymore, either. He looks almost stunned, staring up at Scott with his neck at an awkward angle.

And it would be so easy to put an arrow through it.

That's what he's wanted for a while, isn’t it? To slaughter every single person that could be a threat to his home. Is he really willing to give that up for this? After everything, shouldn't he have this?

A sweet voice whispers wordlessly in his ear. It says nothing at all, and everything at the same time: kill him, kill them, it says without ever using words. His bow is already pulled and aimed at the perfect spot. It would take nothing. All he would have to do is release the tension of his fingers and that would be one less thorn in his side.

It would be so easy. It would be so easy, and he wants it, doesn’t he? That's what the voice says. The voice says—

"Scott?"

That's not the voice. That's someone else's voice, one that speaks with real words and touches with real hands and suddenly there's a warm hand on his back and the wind and grass are real again.

"Scott, come on, he said yes," it pleads, "Let's go home."

Let's go home.

Home.

What an idiot he's been. That's what he's wanted from the beginning. To go home.

He shifts his pose just a little bit and lets the arrow fly.

It lands harmlessly in the dirt next to Martyn’s head with a dull thwack and a sharp gasp from his captive. They're all well aware that the leaf the arrow skewered could just as well have been his head, and that should be enough. 

Scott turns, just late enough to catch the King's knees trembling in the corner of his eye.

The hand on his back slides down to hold his hand, and it's warm, and Scott shouldn't have forgotten it. He will never forget it again, he promises to himself.

There's no need for directions this time; they both know exactly where to go.

Still, Scott turns around just as they're about to enter the thick of the forest again, just to look upon the scene he's leaving behind: he sees Grian turning to leave with Joel limping after him, he sees Cleo standing at the edge of the clearing with a look of approval on her face, he sees BigB poke his head out from behind a tree only to slink back to it just so he can lean against it, and of course, there's the King. The cold and ruthless King, on his knees and missing his bloodstained cape, which now sits on Martyn’s trembling shoulders as they both work to remove the arrow from his hand. If Scott didn’t know any better, he would think that things would be okay from now on.

They won't be, not for everyone else, but they might be okay for them.

"We don't have to fight!" he calls after his fellow players, "We won't hurt any of you unless you attack us first. I suggest you all do the same."

He doesn’t wait around for an answer, because he doesn't need to hear it.

Right now, he just wants to go home.

Chapter Text

When they return to the flower valley, Jimmy follows him without complaint. Neither of them really want to split off into separate houses anymore. Still, Scott yelps in surprise when his husband scoops him up with one hand behind his back and one under his legs.

“Jimmy?”

“I was just thinking a while ago that we didn’t do this way back when,” says Jimmy, nudging the door open with his foot. It takes an embarrassingly long time for Scott to finally put together what he’s doing, and when he does, his ears suddenly flush from the tips down. Oh.

“Well,” he mumbles, “Hard to carry someone over a threshold that doesn’t exist.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, we didn’t have a house yet, Jimmy.”

“I forgot about that part.”

“Of course you did,” hums Scott, pinching his cheek lightly. They’re well into the house now, but Jimmy still hasn’t let go. “Jimmy?”

“Yeah?”

“You can put me down now, you know.”

“Do you want me to?”

Scott thinks it over for a second. A literal second, that is, because as soon as he feels the warmth, the answer becomes clear. “No,” he decides, resting his head on his husband’s shoulder, “In fact, I’m just gonna stay right here.”

“Fine by me!”

Scott closes his eyes as they sit against the wall together. Well, Jimmy is against the wall, actually, and currently acting as a human pillow; a comfortable one, too, thinks Scott, snuggling into him. His heart is still there, buried under the poppy petals, thumping at a regular pace, faster than Scott’s would, but slow and calm by his standards. It’s a comforting sound, the best he’s ever heard, and he’s almost drunk on it now that he can enjoy it. 

He doesn’t feel safe. At all. He doesn’t feel safe, and maybe he never will, but now they’re home. This is what he wanted.

This is what he wants.

It isn’t until several days later that Scott comes out of the house again, no matter how much Jimmy tells him that it’s okay and that no one will come to bother them again. Scott hasn’t checked, but he’s fairly certain that somewhere in Jimmy’s house lie dried out bloodstains and the remains of an obsidian box, a sobering reminder of how he regained their peace. The least he could do is enjoy it, but his heart still races every time he has to open a door, let alone step outside.

Jimmy doesn’t push him that much. He nudges him gently, that’s a more appropriate way to say it. He tries to be subtle when he tells Scott look, a bird, and I need help replanting the wheat, and the water is nice today, and he is not even a little bit subtle, but he’s cute, and that has to count for something, right? So, when Jimmy invites him outside again on the third day, he finally accepts and pretends that stepping into the sun isn’t making him violently nauseous.

It feels weird to step on the grass again. He thought he’d miss flowers more than anything, but here he is, dizzy at the faintest whiff of roses.

“You okay?” asks Jimmy, letting him put as much weight on him as he needs. Which, it turns out, is a lot.

“Mhm,” nods Scott. He’s not, but it’s fine. He doesn’t want Jimmy treating him like a sickly old man, which he is doing, apparently, because he’s quite literally leading him out into the garden by the hand so he can get some fresh air. Well, how dare he? Not that Scott is complaining, of course, because if he's being honest, he can barely stand right now and Jimmy is absolutely right to be treating him like a sickly old man, in fact.

And besides, when they finally lay down in the grass side by side, it's all worth it. The sun and the air and the nausea, it's all worth it.

He tries to focus on each blade of grass that tickles his back, and he can’t count them, but he can feel each and every one of them, and there's nothing else he needs to focus on. Is there?

No, he tells himself, shaking his head, bad, Scott. Bad.

He said he'd go outside for once and he will not make things harder than they need to be today. He's done enough of that. 

He rolls over on his side instead, uncertain. The truth is, he doesn’t know where to go from here, or what he’s supposed to do now. He realises now that retire and live in peace was not as simple a goal as he thought it would be, and he doesn’t know what else he can do to achieve it. He should be working towards it, just like Jimmy is, but how?

His tense shoulders relax just a little when a warm blanket of feathers nudges him towards Jimmy, who is lying on his stomach with his wings fanned out to the sun and resting his head on his crossed arms. He opens one eye as Scott rolls over to nestle into his wing.

“Hello,” he smiles, “You wanna go in the shade?”

“No, it’s nice here.”

“Oh. I thought, since you’re hiding under my wing and everything…”

“I’m just comfy, Jimmy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he hums, snuggling into the slightly scorched feathers, “So don’t you move. If you’re really still, maybe I’ll fall asleep.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll do my best.”

He always does. 

Scott closes his eyes. He’s going to do his best too, he decides. And in hindsight, sleeping may not be the best idea for that right now. A nightmare would ruin everything at this moment, and so he reluctantly pries his eyes open again. He watches the blades of grass sway gently in the breeze, a long line of green only occasionally broken by a spot of white or blue or pink. Scott reaches out a hand, feeling the soft petals of the dandelion before him. It’s been too long since he’s held a flower that wasn’t growing out of someone’s body.

He slinks out from under Jimmy’s wing, prompting a little questioning noise from his husband. Jimmy begins to get up, but Scott places a hand firmly on his back: “No, no, no. You can stay there if you want. I just wanna stretch my legs.”

Jimmy relaxes: “Okay. Don’t go too far.”

“I won’t.”

He watches Jimmy settle down and rest his head again, and it puts his heart at ease long enough to take a stroll by the sheep pen and feel the wood of the fence and the sheep’s wool and their warm breath on his hand as they flock to the wheat in his hand. A lamb, barely old enough to walk, waddles over to the fence to try and get its share, but it simply isn’t tall enough to poke its head above the upper beam of the fence. Scott reaches down to pick up the lamb, prompting a startled cry from the poor thing, but it settles down quickly enough when it sees the wheat in his other hand.

“There you go,” coos Scott, rocking the lamb like a baby as it happily munches on the wheat stalks. It’s warm and alive in his arms, more so than anything he’s held in weeks. Even Jimmy is somewhat colder than he used to be, though his smile is every bit as warm as ever. He’s radiant, he’s always been, even with grey skin bursting at the seams. Everything that’s happened to his body hasn’t touched his soul, and Scott couldn’t be happier about that; he just wishes he could be the same.

He knows he sounds different now, he looks different, he acts different, like his voice and his body and his soul have all been replaced one little bit at a time. There’s that old question: if you replace every part of a ship one by one, is it still the same ship? 

More importantly, does the captain still love the ship as he did when he first saw it?

What a stupid question. Neither of them is the same as when they met, but if they still love each other, does it really matter?

Scott lets the lamb back down into the pen and watches it waddle back to its mother. The lamb will be a sheep one day, and it will still be the same sheep as it was when it was born. Its mother will still love it.

He shouldn’t worry.

“Jimmy?”

Jimmy blinks. He looks like he was just dozing off: “Yeah? Do ya need something?”

Scott smiles down at him. He hasn’t even noticed yet. He must have really been asleep if he hasn’t noticed what’s on his head.

“What?” mumbles Jimmy, rubbing at his eyes, “Why’re you laughing now?”

The second he raises his head, though, his answer comes in the form of a little chirp. Jimmy startles, making the little chick that decided to nestle in his hair panic and scurry away and directly into Scott’s foot.

“Oh, dear,” giggles Scott, gently nudging the chick to right its path. It chirps again and runs away on its tiny little legs, disappearing into the tall grass. 

Jimmy sits up groggily: “Do I look like a nest?” he huffs.

“Well, your hair sure does.”

“Yeah, now it does!” he whines, trying to fix his ruffled hair, “I had just brushed it!”

Scott slaps his hand away and ruins all of his hard work: “It looks fluffier like this.” he decides. Jimmy pouts, but doesn’t fight him.

“Fine,” he mumbles, “For now.”

“Thank you.”

Jimmy folds his wings against his back and sits up with a yawn. His feathers shake and ruffle from top to bottom, as they do, and Scott sits across from him with his hands behind his back. Which immediately draws suspicion, of course.

“What do you have there?” asks Jimmy. He’s squinting, twisting his body around to peek over Scott’s shoulder, but he’s trying to be subtle about it, which is getting him nowhere. He gives up on the subtlety when Scott doesn’t answer him. “Why are you smiling like that?” He jumps forward, crawling those few feet that separate him from Scott, but he miscalculates just a little. He knocks right into Scott, sending them both to the floor.

He ends up lying half on top of Scott. Well, then.

Jimmy lifts himself off of him as quickly as he can, an apology already on his lips, but it gets lost in his breath when Scott places the crown he was hiding on top of his head. Daisies and dandelions and cornflowers mingle with the gold of his hair, occasionally punctuated by a spot of lilac or a fresh red rosebud.

Jimmy reaches up to assess what the hell Scott put on his head, but his fingers have barely touched the petals before he’s dragged down again. Scott holds him close, buries his face in his shoulder, and wonders if he’s made enough effort to be okay for now. It’s as close to okay as he’s been in a while, at least.

That will have to be enough, for now.

Chapter Text

Scott is asleep again. It’s no wonder, given the amount of stress he’s been under; the only thing that really worries Jimmy is that sometimes he sleeps so deeply that the expression sleeping like the dead doesn’t cover it. He looks like a corpse sometimes, and Jimmy would be lying if he said he’s never woken up to what seemed like a waking nightmare, only to find that everything was okay. Ironically, dead sleep is probably much better than the alternative. When he’s not lying deathly still, Scott is tossing and turning with the same nightmares as everyone else.

He didn't fall asleep against Jimmy last night, which is good, because that means Jimmy is free to get up without giving him a heart attack. And he does, because for how pretty Scott's house is, it is not suited for an avian in the long run. Scott has mentioned potentially building a balcony of some kind, but that project is still on the drawing board right now. That's okay. Scott should take his time, for once in his life.

Still, no use scaring him. Jimmy leaves a note on the bedside table and quietly slinks out the door.

It's still dark outside, but the sun sits somewhere just below the horizon tinging the sky a dark shade of pink. The flower valley is well-lit, now even more so than before, in no small part thanks to Scott's constant paranoia. Good results of a terrible habit, but they're working on it. The hardest part of convincing Scott that he can relax is that what he did worked; it's been three days, no one has died, and no one has come to bother them. Which is a relief, and also the most annoying argument ever now that Jimmy has to deal with it. He's grateful, of course, but damn if it isn't a nightmare to get Scott to listen to him when he says you can relax now, we're safe, it's fine.  

Maybe Scott doesn’t believe him because he can tell that he doesn’t believe it either.

It is still a death game, after all, and after what Grian said, Jimmy really doesn’t know what to think. Maybe, he ponders, he should try and talk to him, but Scott would probably have a heart attack if he left to find him, and to be honest, Jimmy has no idea where Grian is.

On the other hand…

He shivers at the phantom feeling of hands squeezing his neck. Dream Scott might have been wrong about some things, but when it came to Grian, he was right on the money. Jimmy's looked after his own all this time, but where does that leave his friend now that Scar isn't there to look after him anymore?

He swallows back a sharp pang of guilt. He's been so focused on Scott that Grian just… slipped his mind. He can’t have any more of that.

He climbs up on a strong branch. Perching feels a lot better than sitting or standing still, and he might have to wait a little.

You whispered to Grian: hey man, can i talk to you?

He goes to clip the communicator back to his belt, expecting Grian to take at least a few minutes to answer him, but it buzzes before it's anywhere near its hook.

Grian whispered to you: yeah, where?

You whispered to Grian: at my place

Grian whispered to you: only if scott isn't gonna shoot me

Despite everything, Jimmy snorts. There is something darkly comedic about the hold that Scott's rage has on everyone. He never wants to be on the receiving end of it if he can help it.

You whispered to Grian: he won't, i promise

You whispered to Grian: are you far away?

"I'm not."

Jimmy jumps so hard he nearly falls off the branch: "Gah! Grian! You can't just—"

He flips around with an angry rant on his lips, but it dies before it ever reaches Grian’s ears. Suddenly, Jimmy finds no anger within himself. His friend looks worse for wear, exhausted and sleep-deprived, with unkempt feathers and ruffled hair and a little dip below his cheekbones that wasn't there before. He looks like he hasn't eaten or slept in days.

Jimmy hears his voice soften before he knows it: "Grian. Oh, jeez, you’re—"

"I know," deadpans Grian, "Believe it or not, I've looked in a mirror. Would not recommend, to be honest."

"Why?"

"Have you seen us, Tim?" He gestures down at himself and then at Jimmy: "We could be in a horror movie."

Jimmy scratches at a poppy bud that's just begging to burst through his skin. "Yeah, okay, I see your point. But still, you look terrible, even by movie monster standards."

"Thank you for the kind reminder," mumbles Grian, sarcastically, "I hadn't noticed. It's not like Scott looks any better."

As always, Grian went right for the heart. Jimmy doesn’t have the energy to strike back at him, though. "Yeah," he says, dejected, "Yeah, he's… well, he's like that, yes. But he's better. Can you say the same?"

"Oh, yes, I couldn't be happier that my partner is gone. A real weight off my chest."

Jimmy flexes his wings in warning: "Stop joking around! I'm trying to help you! "

Grian doesn't answer, but the fact that he didn't have a snappy response at the ready is actually a very good sign in this instance. He stands at a distance, like always, but just a little bit closer than usual. It takes him a good five seconds to find his words: "Well, thanks. What do you want me to say?"