Work Text:
Spoke spits a blob of saliva and blood at Ash's feet. He'd love to glare at him and tell him how he's going to kill him when there's no longer any rope around his wrists, but he's giggling before he can even think of stopping himself. Leaning his head back, exposing his neck, he laughs like he's out of breath, like he has nothing left to lose.
Of course it's Ash. Of course he'd be the one to catch him in the end.
But Ash grins too. This is just as funny to him, arguably funnier. He approaches Spoke, sidesteps the blood on the floor and reaches a gloved hand out to him. When Spoke tilts his head away from his hand, his grin only grows. Fingers trail into his bloody hair and gently comb through the strands.
He knows it will turn into more pain; he doesn't know when or what he'll do, but the pain is the constant truth since he woke up. It doesn't help that Ash loves hurting him. In this dim room with nothing but a single door and no windows or decoration, Ash can finally unleash the full potential of his withering hate for Spoke. In here, no one can see the angry bruises littering his skin, the blood dripping from several cuts, or the three fingers of his that are broken and bent the wrong way.
Ash keeps his head leaned back until his neck starts to ache—but really, it's nothing compared to some of the other shit he's done. He uses his other hand to take his chin. This time, it's uncharacteristically gentle, and Spoke braces himself for the worst. But all he does is move closer, a deceptive soft look on his face that Spoke sees right through, until his breath hits his lips when Ash laughs quietly. The mock sweetness worms its way into his brain like an infection. That lie, the fake promise, aches the most.
Because he knows better than anything else that they could've been lovers in another timeline. In another reality, they would be happy and wouldn't violently oppose each other at every step they take.
Spoke loves him now, horrid as those feelings are. His love could never change his ways, but he knows it's there, just as he knows Ash loves him. Now, the love is just something disgusting that changes nothing about them. When Ash's lips ghost over his own, he has half the heart to push against the grip holding him in place to kiss him. Just to see what it's like. Just to pretend for a second they don't hate each other's guts enough to do something like this.
"Where is it?" Ash whispers instead of kissing him. Spoke knows him well enough to hear how it takes all the strength he has to keep whispering instead of shouting at him again. "I know you have it."
"I don't know what— ah!" his worse are cut off when Ash digs his gloved fingers into his skin, glaring down at him with unparalleled hate.
"I know you have it, Spoke."
And there it is. The only way people can say his name nowadays is by spitting it out as if it's so disgusting to say. He can count on one hand the amount of people who don't hate him. There's maybe only one person out there who doesn't dislike him. Maybe two, but he doubts it. He's the city's most wanted vigilante for a reason, and there isn't a single villain, hero, cop or other vigilante who'd care about bringing him in alive rather than dead. That's just his life now.
He smiles up at Ash, teeth coated in a layer of dark blood. Ash, in turn, takes a controlled breath in, shoves his face away and steps back from the chair. This stubbornness is both what has kept him alive all this time and what got him in this situation in the first place.
The door opens before Ash can ask a third time—or however many times it's been by now. Spoke's sensitive eyes are flooded with light and he clenches them shut with a wince. The weak, humming light did absolutely nothing to prepare him for this. Immediately, pain flares up behind his eyes, some headache that reminds him just how much he's going to suffer when he's out of here.
And maybe he does get to get out of here. When he dares to open his eyes to a squint, the light makes way for a new person. Recognition flashes over him before he gets past the green cape. It's the white mask, the crown, the light emanating from them.
"Jamato—!" he chokes out, wheezing for air when his lungs remind him of his broken rib. But he can cry, fuck, he actually might start crying. "Jamato!"
How long had it been? His mentor from back when he was still training as a hero. One of the smartest and most skilled heroes in the city before he disappeared. All this time, Spoke and the rest of the world had thought Ash was behind Jamato's death.
And yet, here he is, standing next to Ash. The door is closed with a soft click and the rooms fills with silence beyond Spoke's raspy breaths in and out. Why isn't he saying hi?
Is he not saving him?
From the corner of his eye, Spoke sees Ash's grin grow into a diabolical display of glee. Obviously, he can tell apart how the gears are turning in Spoke's head, see him realise in real time what Jamato has done.
"Jamato—" he chokes on air for a second, the disbelief so strong his whole body aching twice as bad, "—what did you do?"
"I must say, without your help I never would've caught the rat again." Ash offers a hand to Jamato, who shakes it after a moment or two of staring the villain down. The second their hands meet, Spoke feels an awful shudder crawl its way up his spine. "He's not talking, so … he's all yours now."
Waking up to a torture room is nothing like the dread that dawns on him as Jamato approaches him and stops right in front of him. It's not the mask that unsettles him, it's the way Spoke can read through the silence and the tilt of his head; Jamato is just as glad to see him here as Ash is, but he's angrier, more willing to use violence to get what they're both after.
"It's such a shame to see what you turned into, Spoke." And there goes the last hope Spoke has that this isn't actually Jamato and rather someone impersonating him. That's his voice, he could never mistake it for anyone else.
He glares up at him defiantly. As the light dims and Jamato leans over him to take him in properly, Spoke realises for the first time ever just how unsettling that mask of his is. He can't see his eyes. He's never seen his eyes. That lifeless mask is all he knows, and it used to be such a comfort. Now Spoke hardly knows what to expect from him.
"Where is the data, Spoke? This is your last chance."
Spoke sets his jaw. He knows exactly where it is, he's known since this little torture session began. But he won't tell them. That's his secret. Stolen from some very powerful people, the data could save or destroy the city in the hands of the right or wrong person. He's very much the wrong person, but he's not going to give them to Ash or Jamato. He wants it for himself. It's his now.
Jamato slaps him across the face. Really, he only notices because of the sudden ache in his neck and the way his cheek starts to sting with an alarming intensity. He manages a shaky breath and only then realises there's blood running down his cheek. Horrified, he stares up at Jamato again.
Instead of gloves, one of Jamato's hands is adorned with golden claws; pretty as jewelry, deadly as blades.
"I'm so—" the man laughs, his hand raising to press against his forehead as if he's pinching the bridge of his nose, then he sighs, and he's pissed, "—I'm so sick … of your inability to listen, Spoke. You're insufferable! Tell me where the data is, or you're going to regret ever knowing my name."
The claws trail over the fresh grooves in his cheek, drawing an involuntary hiss from between his teeth. Then they hover over his face like the maw of some beast and all Spoke can do is watch Jamato's mask and Ash's face of intrigue between the fingers. The tips of them sparkle with electricity and it really dawns on him now how fucked he is. Those claws aren't just for show. Jamato has a couple more tricks up his sleeve since he'd left him.
"Try me." 'Stubborn' might as well be his second name at this point. Even if the fearful parts of his mind are screaming at him to give in, to tell them where he hid the data, to beg Jamato to take him back … he does the exact opposite.
He gets no second to brace for what comes next. The world flashes white before the pain kicks in, that cruel split-second that lasts both too long and not long enough. Then a scream is wrung out of his lungs. His nails dig into the wood of the chair he's bound to, the pressure on his broken fingers just adding to the pure pain, pain, pain, pain—
There's no way to get his lungs to work until a fist rams into his ribs and kick-starts them into sucking in a painful breath. Tears well up in the corners of his eyes before he can help it. He leans forward, if not to hide from the pain then to hide from the sight of Jamato's mask.
It's the familiar gloved fingers of Ash that pull him back up by his hair. Somehow, that's a mercy. Only now does Spoke realise how much he'd prefer Ash all day over Jamato like this.
"Isn't he so pretty like this?" Ash cups his face and wipes a stray tear away with his thumb. Still, the adoration on his face is an absolute mockery.
"Keep your feelings out of this, Ash."
The offence that flashes across the man's face at the comment is enough for Spoke to wheeze out a laugh. This time he expects the punch to the nose before it comes, though he's wholly unable to stob the shout from escaping as his nose cracks loudly. When he can blink through the pain again, one eye refusing to open for a few seconds, he sees the calm face of Ash right in front of him.
"Not funny?" he tries. And even if his voice breaks, he's proud of the twitch on Ash's lips. They want him dead so bad, it makes them look stupid.
"You're so funny, Spoke. Tell me, was it funny when you went against all my advice about your powers?" Jamato circles around him like a hawk until he finally settles behind him—arguably the last place Spoke wants him right now. Those claws settle atop his head and suddenly it's a lot harder to focus on how Ash tilts his head in interest at the slow reveal of their past.
He swallows the lump in his throat. It's not enough to get rid of the stupid words threatening to come out of his mouth. "A little … maybe …" Gritting his teeth, he stares at Ash with everything but humour in his panic-filled eyes.
The punishment he gets is another flash of lightning running through his body. He jolts enough to move the chair, strains against the bindings, arches his back until he fears he might fold in two the wrong way entirely—
And he sags back into it after an eternity of being shocked. It might've been a couple seconds or a full minute, but he would have no idea. Smoke rises from his skin. Surely Jamato kept it up for a long time, then? He blinks lazily against the lights; now, Ash is just a vague shape against ugly, yellow light. The pain lingers like a buzzing underneath his skin and a headache that wants to break his skull open. Fuck … Recovery is going to be a bitch.
There are no words to fill in the gap of pain now. There is, again, no warning before electricity runs through his body again. And again. And over, and over and over until he's lost count.
At some point, he becomes vaguely aware of talking. His mind can no longer keep up, the pain a constant, the mocking another constant. Every thought has to make its way through the thick sludge of pain to register in his mind. There's … talking. Or shouting. It's loud, but everything is loud. It hurts just like the lights, just like the shocks, just like the broken bones and everything else.
Pink. Why is there pink? Why does pink stand out so much? He swears it's not purple, that's pink.
That is his final thought before the blackness creeping in from the edges of his vision overtake him entirely and he goes limp in his chair. Thankfully, this darkness is a peaceful one. It doesn't even give him nightmares. He's out like a light, scary as it might be to be unaware of Ash and Jamato, but he takes any blessings where he can get them.
Hours or days later, he manages to open his eyes again. They feel thick, and moving them hurts like a bitch. What he sees through the blur isn't concrete or yellow light. What he feels isn't the harsh wood of that chair. What he hears isn't the buzzing of electricity or Ash's mocking laughter.
Then where is he? He's in a bed, staring at drawn curtains, hearing the noise of playing children outside the window. A streak of golden light makes its way between the curtains to fall over the bed.
A confused noise slips past his barely shut lips without his permission. He blinks weakly. Awareness comes back to him in a painfully slow manner. The ache in his entire body is persistent but they also make him aware of the bandages covering about half his body. His hand twitching involuntarily tells him his fingers have been set back in place properly.
Then he sees the pink sheets and the pictures hanging on the wall. Jumper … this is all Jumper's doing?
Spoke can sob. He does, not standing a chance to stop the tears from flowing and being soaked up by the pillow he's laying on. He does still have that one person who doesn't want him dead.
And he'd love to talk to her, but there are more important things to worry about first. The data. The chip holding everything Ash and Jamato had been looking for. Despite the sharp pain shooting through his whole arm when he moves his hand, he breathes through all that pain to feel at the flesh of his inner thigh. It takes digging his nail into the still sensitive flesh to feel it.
But it's there; the chip sits under his skin, the wound he'd made on himself still hurting like hell but even the stitches he'd crudely sewn into his leg are still there.
What's meant as a sigh of relief ends up being a shudder and a sob. He buries his face in the pillow, a weak grin splitting his lips despite everything. He fucking did it. Those assholes failed so miserably. Now, they're never going to have another chance to get this data ever again.
"Spoke? You're awake?"
His eyes shoot to the now open door, at first in a panic, then he sags deeper into the bed when he realises it's Jumper and not anyone else. Croaking out a greeting, he follows her as she walks over to him and lays down next to him. The warmth that presses against him is more than welcome. She's careful to avoid any of the sore spots but the hand she lays on his arm is full of love and comfort. Her thumb trails back and forth over bruised skin—such a contrast to Ash's violent affection.
"I— god—" he tries but coughs when trying to talk reminds him of broken ribs and sore lungs. "Jump—"
She shushes his miserable attempt. "You shouldn't try to talk. You're safe now, okay? I'm taking care of you." A kiss is pressed to the back of his head and Spoke hums in appreciation.
"Say … what did they even want from you?"
He stares ahead at the wall. To fill the silence that follows, he forces his own bandaged hand to rest overtop hers. Not answering because of his lack of voice is no excuse here; the information is too important for her to drop, she'd expect him to try answering this one question before she'd leave him alone.
So he shrugs to the best of his ability and lies as easily as it is for him to breathe—well, as easily as it is to breathe normally, not now.
"I don't— I don't know." His sigh is exaggerated but so utterly him that Jumper would excuse it. "They want me dead more than anyone, I suppose. They hate me."
Burying his face in the pillow works to make Jumper tut in sympathy. She drops the subject immediately, and Spoke is safe.
No one's ever going to find out what exactly he stole.