Work Text:
Theo Raeken sleeps in his truck most nights.
He parks it at the edge of the forest, where the trees offer thin cover against the cold. It’s old, worn down, but it’s the only place that feels like his. The backseat is cramped; his legs don’t fit unless he curls up, and the cracked leather digs into his skin. But it’s better than sleeping on the ground. He’s used to it now, the roughness and discomfort. After all, it’s more than he deserves.
It’s late, and the world outside is asleep. But Theo is not. He hasn’t slept properly in weeks. He can’t. The moment his eyes close, the memories rise up like floodwater, drowning him in the past. He relives the same scenes over and over again: the sterile hospital room, the smell of antiseptic and blood, the cold metal of the operating table beneath his back. He wakes up in the morgue, the air heavy and stagnant, his body laid out like a corpse.
He feels her presence before he sees her—Tara, standing in the dim, shadowed light. Her face is pale, eyes hollow and accusing. She doesn’t speak; she only watches him, the silence more damning than any words. And then, without warning, she reaches into his chest, her hand piercing through skin and bone, wrapping around the heart that doesn’t belong to him. Her heart.
He gasps awake, clawing at his chest, fingers digging into his skin as if he could tear it out. But it’s not real. It’s never real. He’s still in his truck, alone, the only sound the faint ticking of the engine as it cools. His breath is ragged, and he presses a trembling hand to his sternum, feeling the steady, foreign thrum beneath. It feels wrong, like it’s trying to beat its way out of his chest, a heart that will never belong to him.
He’s always known it didn’t belong to him.
He lies there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling of the truck, his body trembling. He can still feel the cold, unyielding grip of Tara’s hand, the sensation of her tearing his chest open, taking back what was hers. He tells himself it’s just a nightmare, a trick of his mind. But it doesn’t feel like a nightmare. It feels like a memory, like she’s still punishing him, just as she should.
“You’re a weapon, Theo. Weapons don’t weep.”
The Dread Doctors’ voices echo in his head, sharp and metallic, like the scrape of a scalpel on bone. He’d learned early on to obey them, to follow every command without hesitation. He was only nine years old the first time they strapped him to the operating table, cutting into him without anesthetic. He had screamed once, a raw, desperate sound that filled the room. They didn’t pause. They only watched, their masked faces blank, like they were studying a specimen.
"Weapons don’t cry out in pain, Theo."
He had shut his mouth then, biting down so hard he tasted blood. It was a lesson he learned quickly. Pain was weakness. And weakness wasn’t something he could afford. Not if he wanted to survive. He swallowed the pain down, buried it deep, until it became just another sensation he could control.
But the guilt? The shame? That was something he couldn’t bury. It gnawed at him, an ache deeper than any wound they’d ever inflicted on him.
He thinks of the Dread Doctors, their masked faces looming over him. He remembers the way they whispered that failure would not be tolerated. He had been eleven years old when they ordered him to take care of another experiment—the one that couldn’t take the pain. The one that had failed, mercury seeping from his mouth as he choked. Theo had hesitated, his own fear mirrored in the other boy’s eyes. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t kill him.
So the Surgeon had stepped in. Theo had watched, his hands shaking, just as he had watched Tara die.
"Failure is not an option, Theo."
The words dig into his mind, twisting like a knife. He shifts in the backseat, his breathing uneven. He can still feel the sting of the scalpel slicing through his skin, the way his body convulsed on the table. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the fear. The fear of being labeled a failure. He knew what happened to the ones who didn’t measure up. He’d seen them discarded, broken, left to die.
He became exactly what they wanted him to be—sharp, precise, deadly. He had to. Because he knew what awaited him if he didn’t. Failure was a death sentence.
He rolls out of the backseat, his feet hitting the cold ground. The night air bites at his skin, sharp and unforgiving, but it’s better than the memories, better than the relentless beat of Tara’s heart in his chest. He shoves his hands into his pockets and starts walking, his breath misting in the moonlight.
He doesn’t know where he’s going. He never does. He just needs to move, to outrun the whispers in his head. He follows the familiar path through the forest, leading him to the river. The same river where he had last seen Tara, lying broken and cold, her leg twisted, the life draining out of her as she looked up at him, pleading.
He can still see it: the way the moonlight had danced on the water, the way her eyes had widened, full of fear. He hadn’t moved. He’d stood there, frozen, as the Dread Doctors whispered to him.
"She doesn’t mind, Theo. She wants this for you."
It was a lie, one he’d swallowed whole because it was easier than facing the truth. He had wanted to believe them, wanted so desperately to live that he had convinced himself it was true. He had stood by and done nothing as the life drained out of her. He’d watched as her breath faltered, as the light faded from her eyes.
And when they put her heart in his chest, he knew. He knew what he had done, and he knew there was no redemption for it.
He drops to his knees at the riverbank, his hands digging into the cold, damp earth. The mud seeps into his jeans, and the chill seeps into his bones. He stares at the water, its surface smooth and still, reflecting the moonlight like a mirror. It looks peaceful. He hates it.
He hates himself.
"You’re a weapon, Theo. Weapons don’t weep."
He repeats the words to himself, clenching his jaw until it aches. He hasn’t truly cried since he was a child, since they told him that tears were a sign of weakness. And he can’t afford to be weak. Not now, not ever. He presses his hands harder into the ground, feeling the gravel bite into his skin, the pain grounding him in the present.
"Failure."
The word echoes in his head. Tara’s heart pounds faster, almost frantic. Theo can’t get it to slow down.
He thinks of Liam, just for a fleeting moment. He doesn’t want to, but the thought slips in anyway. He thinks of the way Liam had looked at him after the hospital, when he took Gabe’s pain. There had been no pity, no disgust—just something almost like understanding, like Theo was more. But Theo knows better.
He is a weapon. It’s all he’s ever been. It’s all he’s good for.
The river whispers to him, and he wonders what it would be like to wade into the water, to let it pull him under. It would be cold, but it wouldn’t be worse than the emptiness inside him. It might be a relief. But he doesn’t move.
Because even though he’s broken, even though he’s barely holding on, he still wants to live. It’s a small, fragile thing, buried beneath the guilt and the shame. He forces himself to his feet, swaying as the dizziness grips him. He stumbles back toward his truck.
He doesn’t look back.
Because weapons don’t fail.
And even if he wants to weep, even if the tears sting at his eyes, he can’t let them fall.
Because he’s a weapon.
And weapons don’t weep.