For@whumpawoman Angstpril; prompts are Whumper-Run-In,Panic Attack, and maybe even Revenge.
This arc is a collaboration with @for-the-love-of-nsfwhump , Damiel is hers and in this universe, they’re married to Ira. Also - this is a piece of writing I’m very proud of, and I hope that you like it.
Cw panic attack, referenced captivity, referenced lady whump, referenced death of a loved one. Not much whump, yet big on the angst.
Emma is pulling at Isaac’s hand, and he almost has to jog to keep up with her short legs. “Your uncle is an old man, Emmy,” he says, half joking. He’s not old, but he can’t walk fast. Not since he’s had a bullet lodged in his hip, in the night that cost him everything.
“But I can see the playground already! Can I go? Please?"
He can see it, too. A big wooden pirate ship, some swings, a handful of other adults and kids wrapped into warm clothes on this sunny day in late fall. It’s just some meters, he tells himself. It’s safe. Still, it takes him some seconds to force his fingers to open and let his niece’s gloved hand slip out of his, as she races off. There’s something to the way she runs. Despite the childish joy to her movements, the somewhat clumsy way she sets her feet, he still thinks of Sophie. Sophie, who can’t be here, who has never met her niece, and whose laugh he misses every single day. The last thing he’s seen her do was run. Run by his side, to safety, to freedom. It had been so close. They could’ve been together. They should be.
They aren’t. He’s alone.
On the playground, Emma has reached the pirate ship and is already climbing up, gloves dropped on the ground, hands and booted feet steady on the small climbing grips. Sophie and him have always wanted kids. They’d talked about it often enough, before they went to bed. Two, at least, one boy and one girl, maybe. He wonders, if they’d ended up with the light brown curls Emma shares with him, or maybe more of the straight black hair from Sophie’s side.
He’ll never know.
There’s another kid going up the wooden wall next to Emma now, a black girl her age with a cloud of curls around her and purple earmuffs. He’s still out of earshot, but he sees them talking, racing each other to the captain’s stand on top. The other girl’s parent is standing close, arms folded, attentive. They’re tall, at least six feet, lean and muscular, and something about them makes Isaac’s stomach clench. They look like them. Like the figure from his nightmares, the one he sees in every crowd, the reason why he can’t ride the subway or go to crowded pubs, or do anything outside. Like the tall, lean monster, the one who took Sophie away from him, when he’d ran away with her, when she’d finally seen him, and believed him, and she’d looked at him and told him she loved him. The monster has hunted them down without remorse, they’ve grabbed her and hurt her and dragged her away. Isaac still remembers her screams, her panic, her fear, and the cold, brutal efficiency of the hunter.
His steps have slowed involuntarily. Usually, he’d just turn around and leave. The park is big, he can go somewhere else, somewhere he doesn’t have to be around his memories, but his with Emmy, and the tall figure is right next to her.
It’s not them, he thinks. It’s not them, they are far away, they are somewhere in the woods hunting their next victim, they aren’t the folk to hang around on playgrounds, they wouldn’t care about Emma.
His shirt is soaked with cold sweat, as he forces himself to step closer. "Emmy,” he calls. His voice is trembling, broken almost. “Emmy, baby, come here, we’re leaving.”
She doesn’t hear him, or pretends not to, as she jumps onto the slide down.
The tall one has heard him, though, head snapped back, taking in the whole situation, the playground, the other parents, and Isaac, frozen in place. Long braids are falling from underneath their woolen hat, eyes narrowed, lips pressed together into a thin line.
It’s them. It’s not their shadow, not a memory from the past, it’s them, the hunter, it’s the one who shattered everything Isaac had ever dreamt of to pieces in a single night.
“No,” Isaac whispers tonelessly. “No, no, no.” He wants to step back, but his legs are rubber, there’s the edge of the sandbox behind him, and he falls, to his knees, shivering, panting. His hands claw into the sand, like they did into the forest ground six years ago, but he can’t feel, there’s nothing, only emptiness.
“Sir,” they call, and he thinks he remembers their voice. They’ve called someone else Sir that night, too, in a voice rougher than today, but he recognizes it anyway. “Are you okay?”
He’s not. He’s not, he will never be, he can’t ever be okay, and it’s because of them, and they don’t even seem to know. He stares at them blankly from where he’s kneeling on the ground, at them and the white-haired young woman suddenly by their side. He wants to warn her, to warn Emmy, anyone, but his voice has left him, and he’s helpless to watch. The woman is holding a toddler, and she hands him off, to them, and Isaac’s vision narrows, gets black around the edges. He can’t breathe. He hears them talk, French, he thinks, and that it’s odd that he can still find a coherent thought, and then a soft hand is laying on his arm and the woman is talking to him. “Breathe, Sir, breathe with me, alright?” Her voice is quiet and smooth, and he wonders if he’s actually breathing, maybe he’s not, maybe he’s just dying, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
“In through the nose,” the woman says, and he feels her hand gently pressing his to give him a rhythm. “Out through the mouth.”
Shakily, he nods, follows her lead. He doesn’t look up, just stares at their hands, hers over his, in the dirty sand of the sandbox. In through the nose. Her hand is small, a little red because of the cold, and there are some scars, crisscrossing lines in her tan skin. Out through the mouth. Her nails are clipped short, a little dirt underneath them, and her fingers are calloused, as if she works a lot with her hands. In through the nose. There’s a broad black band tattooed around her wrist, and he sees some colorful patterns emerge over it, vanishing under her sleeve. Out through-
“Cherie,” the hunter says.
His breath hitches. His eyes are glued to the wedding band.
“Pas maintenant,” she mumbles.
Isaac sees their feet show up in his vision, clad in bright yellow winter boots. They were wearing boots back then, too, but those were black. Do they know who he is? Do they know, what they did to him? He doesn’t dare looking up.
“Tu lui fais peur,” she says. “J'arrive. Cinq minutes, Dami?”
Dami.
Dami. Damiel.
Isaac gags. He remembers the name. He always will. It’s them. The person who just steps back. The person with the purple woolen hat and the bright winter jacket, a happy parent on a playground, a protective spouse.
A beautiful wife. Two kids. A boy and a girl.
They retreat, while their wife goes on counting, and Isaac nods. In and out. Yes. He’s breathing. His heart rate is slowing down, his vision is starting to clear.
Damiel.
Damiel, the monster, who took the world from Isaac, gained everything Isaac himself lost forever.
“Are you better?”, the woman asks.
Isaac looks up, into her dark eyes, clouded with worry. She’s not as pretty as Sophie was, but there’s something to her. Something that made Damiel love her. To choose her, as mother to their kids, to build a family with.
There have been moments, many of them, in sleepless nights, when Isaac thought about revenge. About what he’d do, should he ever encounter the monster again. Death couldn’t be enough. Torture couldn’t be enough. Hollow and empty, nothing compared to what they did to him.
He knows, now.
“Yeah,” he whispers, and allows her to help him back to his feet. “Yes, thank you. I will be.”
