Chapter Text
* Ah. I thought I had forgotten something.
Fit woke up to the sound of grating stone and falling gravel, the pitiful excuse of unconsciousness he had been referring to as ‘sleep’ for the proceeding two months being cruelly pulled from him. Consciousness gave way to painful, sharp hunger pangs– a searing pain in his abdomen that made him long for the days of arrows in his stomach, or blades burying themselves into his back. He tasted copper. Rotting flesh. Matted fur. Stagnant water.
He looked up, and was met with burning bright sunlight.
* This is their doing. That wretched Federation you and your associates are so willing to dance around with, playing all friendly, feigning compliance. This is what they did to my home. My people. And they will not hesitate to do the same to yours once you have served your purpose.
She was the first voice he had heard in months. The first real one, at least– unlike the ephemeral screams and begs that belonged to the bodies surrounding him, interwoven by the fleeting, comforting whispers of friends. Of family. It was all just imaginary, of course, figments of unreality created by a mind that had gone from comfort in solitude, to joy in community within the span of a year. Less than that, maybe. Only to have it yanked from his grasp in an instant. He wasn’t sure if letting them speak was better than tuning them out, or if loneliness was a fate worse than wasting away. But she was real. Fit hated the relief that that brought his aching body. Madagio was the last creature on this planet he wanted to see.
But it had been months. And no one else had come to find him.
* But you have not yet served yours to me. I’ll return you to precisely where you need to be, even if it is to that godforsaken island. I’ll be watching, for now, until I determine if that data you collected is enough to warrant your reward, or if I need to consider if two months among your predecessors is punishment enough.
It was the last thing he wanted to hear. ‘I’ll be watching.’ A mockery of his efforts, of his pain– she was spitting in the face of paranoia she had perpetuated through her ‘watching’-- as if he hadn’t had enough of that from the Feds in spite of his mission. That fucking mission. Was this all it was for? Sell the data of his loved ones for unknown intentions, and in the place of freedom to live and to love in spite of looming threats, he was pulled from the slight thread of happiness he had made for himself and thrown to the bottom of a corpse-riddled cavern.
Former corpse-riddled cavern.
He struggled to push himself upright, his prosthetic arm squeaking awkwardly as it barely held on by a poorly-repaired joint and unsealed wires. His connecting shoulder throbbed– he had saved his nonmechanical body from most of the damage, at a cost he was beginning to regret paying. He felt numb, muscles in borderline atrophy, but his brain had the minute wherewithal to quiet the sensation down to aches and burns, and acclimate to what had become a new level of normal. He was sure the reality was that he was in agony– but decades surrounded by an anarchist wasteland had prepared him for that, had shown him what agony really felt like. And it was amazing, how much pain the human mind was capable of dulling. But it was scary, how numb he could become when the chips were down.
It didn't matter. It helped him cope. Helped him survive.
She landed gracefully– fucking cats, landing on their feet, mocking him again for the rough fall– and raised a clawed hand high. Of course, she couldn’t offer him a hand and raise him from the cavern, heal his wounds with potions, and lead him back to whatever technology she had used to pull him from home in the first place. That would have been too simple for her, and it would have been more than he deserved. Claws to the eyes, searing pain that flashed hot white against open air, taking him down to the final dregs of life he was clutching onto. But in his final fleeting seconds of consciousness, when his senses returned to him in an instant of screaming, unbearable anguish, he saw it as a mercy.
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“La cabeza, me duele la cabeza..”
Pac knelt down beside Ramón’s bed, his hand gently sifting through the mop of brown hair that splayed over the pillow as he hummed the gentle, familiar melody. Despite his earlier protests, the sleepy little egg was finally tiring out, bleary eyes blinking and screwing shut as he let out a squeaky yawn. He sank into the pillows, and Pac pulled the covers a little higher over his chest.
“La cabeza, yo necesito un Doctor..”
He leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, chuckling softly as a quiet snore escaped him. Already out for the count, as expected– he was glad despite everything, Ramón was still able to get the rest he needed. Rest that Pac felt he was sorely lacking himself, even through the days of sleep his body would drag him through.
He pushed himself to his feet, stretching a little as he shook off the lingering ache in his leg and hip. It was late, and even though he’d give it an attempt, he knew it would be useless to try and willingly get any rest. No, that ‘luxury’ was reserved for the conclusion of hours of working. Searching. The latter was proving futile– He wasn’t a particularly efficient detective. Enigmas like Fit’s disappearance were right up Cellbit’s alley, but he hadn’t seen the archivist awake in a long time. He wouldn’t bother– to the best of his knowledge, he had been doing less investigating and more skateboarding in recent months. Maybe it was for the best, well-earned time off from theorising and connecting all the complex threads the island had to offer.
That did mean, for the most part, he was on his own. Not that he hadn’t considered, and subsequently exhausted, all other avenues. Bagi had thrown herself into her pancake mafia, in-between caring for Empanada and keeping spare watchful eyes over Chayanne and Lullah– a weight shared, in part, with Tubbo, who would roll his eyes at Pac’s worry and fake-gag before hearing out any genuine concern. Jokes he was fine with, usually, but would do little to help ease the fear in his mind. And Philza was… Well. Last he checked, Philza wasn’t himself at the moment, so there went that option. No, Fit only told Ramón and himself the existence of his mission. It was best to keep it that way.
Pac rubbed his face anxiously, quietly leaving Ramón’s bedside and moving to his own. He would have liked to have had a better spare room prepared for him, but his arrival following Fit’s disappearance was a surprise. Between keeping up appearances, easing worries, and searching, the time to construct a private space never presented itself. Maybe tomorrow, he would sift through chests in search of some construction materials.
But that was tomorrow.
He dropped himself down onto his bed face-first, huffing a little as his body sank into the mattress and his face pressed into the covers. He felt cold, the fabric beneath him providing little to no comfort– Would it be better if he crawled beneath them? Maybe. But the thought barely crossed his mind long enough to put the movement into action. He closed his eyes, fleeting colours and abstract images dancing along the inside of his eyelids. No. That was too distracting. It was just like he guessed, too unlucky for sleep tonight. Rolling onto his back, Pac stared at the ceiling numbly as details raced through his mind. Fit’s mission. His contractor. His letter. His letter.
Practically scrambling, he reached into his bedside drawer, fishing out the signed book. He read over the contents, again. Again.
“If I don’t see you for a while, I want you to know how special you are to me.”
“I know we haven’t been able to spend much time together, but you are always on my mind.”
“It doesn’t matter how often you spend time with someone, it matters how much you think about them.”
“The next time I see you, I have a lot of things I want to say.”
If only he had been awake that day. If only he had known that this was the last he would hear from him. His fingertips trailed over the indents left by the ink, over scrawled script he barely deciphered the meaning of– If he focused hard enough, just hard enough, he could imagine where Fit had held the pages as he was writing, where his wrist rested and dragged against it. He’d imagine his own hand there, reaching, intertwining.
But it was just paper. And Fit wasn’t there.
He felt a nudge at his outer thigh, a cat tail brushing over his shin. He sighed, setting the book back down before reaching to scratch behind the ears of the cat that had made themselves comfortable next to him, “ Coquinho– ” He started, but trailed off a little bit as his fingers stretched just a little lower. Where was their collar?
Pac’s eyes flickered down, and he jolted back with a start. He was met with the sight of white fur, and bright blue and yellow eyes staring back at him. She was completely unreadable, peering close as if studying him. Panic spiked in his chest, and he could feel his stomach twist into knots. “...It’s you. You’re his- You are his contractor?”
The cat’s head tilted, but she was otherwise silent. Curious. She hopped down from his bed, moving over to the elevator leading out, and she meowed. Just the once, but it was enough of a message. Pac spared one last look towards Ramón, ensuring that he was still sound asleep before he slid off of the covers and made his way towards her. He picked her up with one arm, subduing his discomfort as she crawled up and over to his shoulders, and made the jump upstairs.
As soon as their heads crested the trapdoor, she jumped off of him and dashed outside. “W- Wait-!” He called out, scrambling out to follow behind. He almost missed her but caught the faintest flicker of white retreating behind and around his house. For a split second, he hesitated– if this was what, who he thought, was she not dangerous? Could she not lead him into a trap of some kind? But… What other leads did he have, in reality? A radio tower Ramón led him to? A password-protected computer? A description of the so-called Contractor overseeing his partner’s every move?
This was the first lead he had in months. He wasn’t about to lose it.
He swerved around the back of his house– again, only just catching a glimpse of the cat as she looped around and made her way towards the overgrown grass and the grove of surrounding acacia trees. Pac’s eyes never left her, wide and strained against the dark– if he loses her, he loses the one thread that could take him a few steps closer to Fit. He was not going to let that happen. Torchlight gave just enough luminance to shine over her coat, even as she was partially swallowed by the underbrush. Come on, take me somewhere good. Take me somewhere useful–
Pac stumbled, his leg catching on a protruding root and knocking his balance just enough to send him toppling down. His chest hit the ground, hard , and he cursed under his breath at his own oversight– so focused on watching that damn cat, he didn’t see where he was going, and as he pushed himself up to his knees and looked around, his heart sank. She was gone, and he doubted she would ever come back.
He leaned back on his shins, sighing as he ran shaking hands through knotted hair. He was so close, so fucking close, and he fucked it up, just like he fucks everything–
His train of thought was muted by the sound of a groan behind him, low to the ground– Too low for a baby zombie, let alone a grown one. He felt his blood run cold, his body tensing as he slowly turned his head towards the source of the sound. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, maybe he was too hopeful-
–... He would never call Fit unrecognisable– how could he? But he was different. Different enough. His clothes, once so tight-fitting against his arms and back, were tattered, almost baggy as they hung over his body. Old wounds, new wounds– scuffs, scratches, nail indents, bruises, all in varying stages of healing, littered every visible patch of skin Pac could see, no doubt indicating even more over the skin that he couldn’t. His prosthetic was in complete disrepair, any mechanism that would enable movement or control over any of his joints wrecked beyond what Pac thought was possible for such a sturdy construction. He looked gaunt. Exhausted. Malnourished and dehydrated, like a shell of the man he knew.
And his jaw and lips were covered, completely, in thick, congealed blood. Blood that coated his entire maw, dripped down to his neck and chest and stained the loose collar of his shirt. His mind flashed itself back to the image of Cell, of Alcatraz, of the phantom pain shooting down his thigh in the space left by his missing leg. Razor-sharp teeth sinking deeply, brutally into far too yielding flesh. He felt his chest grow tight, the breath practically jerked out of him.
He reached his hand down almost on autopilot, cupping his cheek gently. He grimaced slightly, the feeling of blood beneath his thumb sending uncomfortable shivers through his nerves, “...Fitchi-?”
It’s like the sudden contact startles him back to awareness, but not reality, Fit’s eyes snapping open and staring up at him– staring through him. He looked even more exhausted than he did before, his pupils blown wide with adrenaline driven by the sheer instinct to survive. His breathing was ragged, sharp, strained. For a second, Pac felt that the look in his eye was that of a hunter, starved to desperation with no recognition or care for the prey in front of him. He flinched hard as Fit’s arm suddenly shot up, his instincts choosing freeze over fight or flight, expecting the worst, anticipating those razor teeth, that tearing flesh.
The teeth never came, but a trembling hand shot up to the fabric of his collar and flipped him down to the ground, near bashing his head against the unyielding, dried dirt. Pac let out a strangled cry at the sudden pressure on his jugular, and stared in wide-eyed panic as Fit’s body moved on the instinct to self-preserve, to hunt, to kill if need be. He thought about Ramón, stumbling out with goggles askew to find them in that state. Strangled. Starving. He had been through enough. Pac refused to let such an image haunt the mind of his child.
The damaged prosthetic was enough of a blessing in that moment that, when Pac pushed his body up and turned sharply, Fit had no way to steady himself, toppling to the ground as the positions were reversed. Pac kept his legs pinned with his own, his hand clutching his wrist as he held it tightly away from him– He wasn’t expecting to be able to move him so fast, and so easily, “ Fitchi– FITCH. STOP.” He almost barked, his voice coming out a mix of stern and shaky.
The sudden shift made Fit jolt beneath him, his body going rigid and stiff. His eyes were still blown wide, though finally, they were looking at him. “...Pac-?” He barely mumbled, the sound coming out crackly and broken, tearing through presumably months of unuse.
Pac stared back, immediate caution overriding the way his heart tugged at his chest, God, he missed that voice. “...Yeah?”
In another burst of adrenaline, Fit broke his hand free from Pac’s grip– and he braced himself again, razor teeth, tearing flesh, only to feel himself be pulled down into the tightest embrace he had ever felt, or remembered feeling. Fit’s hold on him was iron-clad, and though the smell of rotting flesh and dirt and decay completely drowned out the familiar, rich smell of cologne, he felt… Safe. Pac’s arms looped around his shoulders, just as tight as he felt himself nearly sob in relief. He felt the contact seep his body heat away from him, God, he was freezing cold, shivering practically down to the core of his very being. But he wasn’t in the position to complain. How could he be? Despite the state he had found him in, Fit was here. Fit was home. That was all that mattered.
“It’s you-” Fit rasped, fingertips clutching onto the fabric of his hoodie, “It’s really you- It is, right? You’re here? Not– Not just in my head?”
“I’m here, Fitch.” Pac held him tighter, pulled him closer, like letting go would be letting him fall right back into the unknown that he had broken free from. “ I’m right here.”
“It- Oh my God, Pac-” He felt his body twitch, the relief intermingling with the rapidly coursing adrenaline, a cocktail of unpredictability, impulsivity, desperation. Desperation that drove him to pull Pac away from the slot he had buried himself into against his shoulder in favour of smashing their lips together in a hasty, starved kiss. He tasted overwhelmingly of iron and decay. Flesh. Biting, tearing, razor sharp–
Pac kissed him back, almost feverish, uncaring of the blood that stained the decal of his shirt, turning the surrounding blue cotton purple under the moonlight. It was messy. Uncoordinated. Lacking the tenderness that Fit so often considered when it came to Pac in moments like this– just a pure, instinctive drive to be close. Part of him felt like it was too firm, too hasty, like he should pull him back, pull him up, pull him home.
He didn’t have the heart to. Not until Fit himself sagged in his arms and caved to crashing adrenaline, stray tears streaking through stained crimson.