***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***
Present (Friday, continued)…
Jones’ piercing cry throbbed in the new bruises scattered across Emma’s face, arms, and gut, but her own pain was the least of her concerns.
She’d heard the stun gun go off and watched her friend fall, transfixed by the very device meant to protect him. But not even the close-range shooting could account for his pure agony right now, not if her own Killian’s pain threshold was anything to go by.
In a panic and out of her mind with worry for both Joneses, she once again yanked fruitlessly against the slaves holding her captive. Despite apparent signs of their terminal neurological condition, they had no trouble, between the three of them, keeping her contained. She could only watch as Jones’ thrashing weakened, his cries turning to piteous moans. The Master had its back turned to her, but she could only assume it was reveling in the energy flowing all around it, probably healing its wounds and giving it even greater control over all of its helpless followers.
This rescue plan had been doomed from the start, and they were fools for having gone through with it. She’d told Jones. She’d given him clear warning: he had no protection, no Dark One residue or whatever the heck it was that granted her and Killian immunity. Two steps into the church, and Jones had been groveling, submitting to the vile thing currently soaking up his screams. And now they would die, all three of them. Storybrooke, the United Realms: all doomed. And Hope would grow up without a family, just as Emma had done. Okay, Belle would do her best, and the toddler seemed to like Gideon, so she would be okay… until Belle’s death. Followed by Rumple’s sacrifice, in whatever messed-up timeline it occurred. Where would she be then?
As always, Emma tried to squash her feelings into a rage-box. She was mad at Rumple for helping them with the plot. She was mad at Killian for undertaking it, for talking her into it, for making her suffer this month past, all for nothing. She was mad at herself, for not putting her foot down and demanding a better plan. But most of all, she was furious with this hideous monstrosity before her. This bloody bastard that had taken so much from her, from her friends, hell, from all the countless people she didn’t even know. And it was going to win?!
But then, inexplicably, the Vocivore took a step back, then another, and all of its upper limbs curled in toward its chest. Its low groan seemed to shake the very foundations of the shabby sanctuary as it turned toward the altar. Emma read desperation in its eyes, and fear, and confusion. It reached a trembling claw in her direction, and the guards readied themselves for a command that never came. Emma saw with shocked bemusement that a sickly green glow emanated from the center of the creature’s heaving chest. And then the crab legs gave way.
The scream-eater crashed to the paving stones, its pointed legs folded awkwardly beneath its bulk. Emma could only gape as it tore the bow tie from around its neck in an attempt to get more oxygen. In obvious excruciating pain, it wheezed to no one in particular,
“What… is… this?”
The green light in the middle of its chest doubled in intensity, and the monster hunched forward, howling in pain.
The slave to Emma’s left abruptly stumbled backward, clutching his head. His partners soon followed suit. Whatever the reason–whatever confusion and fear they were facing–Emma didn’t care. She had her freedom: time to destroy this monster once and for all. Emma snatched her pistol from a sobbing slave’s hand, and he made no move to stop her. Whirling, she stalked straight up to the writhing spider-crab, whose eyes reflected a mute, baffled panic.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Krabs? Choke on a sound wave? Two Killians more than you can handle?”
The thing looked deflated somehow; certainly it no longer towered in presence and appearance. On wobbly legs, it pushed itself up and scrabbled backwards, clumsy, suddenly unable to find purchase on the stones over which, just moments before, it had been so self-possessed.
Emma leveled her gun at the beast. She was going to enjoy this. She knew she should really deal a fatal blow up front, while she had the advantage and the creature was distracted by whatever currently affected it. But after all Killian had been through at its claws… after all she had endured, helplessly listening to him suffer… it deserved a little pain, and she deserved a chance to inflict it.
“I don’t know where you came from,” she growled, ruthlessly firing one bullet into a churning leg, “or how you got here.” A second bullet tore into a tentacle coiled in agony. One left. “Your reign ends today. And you will not be causing anyone any more pain… ever… again.”
Flecks of spittle flew from the Vocivore’s mouth as it gasped for breath. Each soulless black eye leaked copious tears, which rained down on its now-filthy waistcoat. The green light radiating from its thorax grew brighter with each backwards step toward the altar. Despite its other wounds, the monster’s upper limbs were all pressed over the pulsing light as if trying to massage away excruciating pain. The damaged leg buckled, the massive bulk wobbled, nearly tipping sideways, and Emma took aim at its repulsive, desperate face.
The monster performed a clumsy half-turn, its right hand reaching pathetically toward its favorite slave. “Tri…pod…”
An especially intense strobe of verdant light shone between its spasming fingers. A horrible, keening sigh groaned from its lungs, half whimper, half growl. Emma stepped closer, the barrel of her pistol pointed straight at the beast’s temple.
“That’s Killian, you bastard.”
Then she pulled the trigger.
Immediately, while the echoes of the shot still rang in the rafters, the Vocivore’s legs gave out and it crashed to the floor. Still upright, balanced on girth and a low center of gravity, but quiet and motionless. A trail of violet raindrops led all the way to the stone wall, where a yellowed parchment advertised a long-done charity drive. Or used to, before it was splattered with monster brains.
The green glow faded from view. Emma held her breath, half expecting the cursed thing to surge back to its feet with a roar of rage, ready to take out its anger on an unresisting Killian. But it stayed down. 10 seconds. 20. Emma slowly expelled a breath. Creeping forward, she boldly prodded the nearest armored leg; as expected, there was no response.
“Hope you like brimstone,” she muttered, all the acid in her voice 100% genuine.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jones struggling to sit up. She holstered her weapon and hurried to offer support, noticing as she crouched that the green light had also vanished from his chest. Wincing, Jones clapped a trembling hand over the blood staining the tunic covering his shoulder. He nodded weary thanks for her assistance.
“I’m okay.” He sounded dazed and in pain, but otherwise lucid. He studied the inert form a few yards in front of him, shuddered, then focused farther away, to the other end of the room. “Go to him.”
Emma steeled herself and stood. In the whole time since entering the church, she had not seen one sign of life from her husband; she fully expected to reach out and touch a cooling corpse, yet also clung to the tiny chance that he could still be alive, and as long as she didn’t know for sure one way or the other, she could entertain hope. But she was out of excuses now. If he was alive, he needed urgent help. So she had to be brave now, and face the moment of truth.
Whumpay Day 10 I Can Still Fight | “I can’t stop.” | Exhaustion
The jungle is dense and moist and thick with insects. Everything rots.
The medic scrubs antiseptic into the long gouge where the bullet clipped him. “You should go back to camp,” she tells him, wrapping gauze tight over it, “and stay there until this has closed up. If it gets infected, I won’t be able to save it.” “If it starts to get hot, I’ll go,” he says. “We can hope for good luck.”
Wounds don’t heal cleanly out here. But his does. He rubs his fingertips over it often, feeling the profile of it through the dressing and the plastic cover that keeps the rain out.
He wonders if he really is that lucky, or if his good fortune is the work of an unseen force moving, the ripples cast by something swimming beneath the surface. The jungle is hot and humid, but goosebumps shiver across his skin as if a cold wind blew.
Whumpay Day 2 From Dress To Dressing |“You’re not dead yet?” |Gunshot
Heavy boots pick through the bodies, occasionally pausing to nudge a limb aside enough to make a space to set a foot down. Gloved hands rummage through pockets and under clothes, searching with brusque efficiency.
One of the bodies moans when rolled over.
“Not dead yet?” grunts the mercenary, a little surprised.
“Oh god,” keens the injured man, clutching at his wounds.“Don’t – don’t do it – I have a family–”
“Relax,” the mercenary drawls, showing her teeth. “We’re not here for you.”
She goes down on one knee, ignoring the man’s continuing pleas, and frisks him roughly. That done, she grips the front of his shirt with one gloved hand and rips it open. A button, yanked free of its mooring, flicks away, spinning.
“What are you doing?” the wounded man mewls, voice only climbing in pitch as she draws a knife from its holster. “Oh god, what do you want?”
The mercenary cuts a wide strip from the front of his shirt, then another. The knife slides between fabric and sweat-soaked skin to open up the sleeve, then that too is rendered into strips.
The man’s hand is roughly jerked away from the first bullet hole, and he yelps as a balled up piece of fabric is shoved hard against the wound. A second strip, folded double for strength, is wrapped round the leg and pulled tight.
“You’re hurting me,” he wails, only to be cut off in a choked sound of shock as a third piece of fabric is shoved two-fingered into his open mouth.
“Bite down,” the mercenary orders brusquely, and returns to tying off the makeshift bandage.
By the time the second wound is dressed to her satisfaction, almost the entire shirt has been cannibalised for fabric. Only a section beneath the man’s back remains, and the shirt collar, trailing scraps and threads, around his neck.
The mercenary stands up, casts one last look over the man – wide-eyed, flopping like a fish, trying to spit out the rag from his mouth. Without another word, she turns and walks away.
Starling dropped onto the balcony of their favourite detective. It was disappointing that he’d missed the heist. But right now, not too disappointing. If he’d been there, then he wouldn’t have been home. Then Starling wouldn’t know what to do but wait. It’s not like they could go to the hospital. They were a criminal and they couldn’t risk being asked questions they had no good answers to. At least it’s unlikely anyone saw their fall. Minus their unwelcome acquaintance. Which was bullshit; when they’d started thieving for fun they’d never thought they would get mixed up in someone else’s show. But that was where life led. Now Starling was here, breaking into the apartment of their favourite detective. (Not for the first time, they will admit. The second time. There really was no desire to break into the detective’s home, it wasn’t fun like the heists were, but the first had extenuating circumstances as their detective had been hurt and they’d had no other way to check on him.)
The door was locked. A golden curtain covered the glass, but they could still see light shine weakly through. Pro of being a phantom thief who works at night. Starling got out their lock picks and got to work. There was a twinge in their left shoulder. It made their hand spasm and scrape against the lock- Starling winced at the seemingly loud noise in the quiet night. They shook out their hand, careful not to jostle their shoulder too much, and switched hands. Without having the worry of jostling the bullet wound, the lock clicked much faster. They sighed in relief and opened the balcony door. The pain wasn’t great. Soon, though, Starling could let their detective handle it. And they wouldn’t have to worry about the pain.
Blonde hair peaked out over the back of the couch. It didn’t turn toward Starling. Whether that was because they opened the door so quietly or because the detective didn’t think a threat could come from out here, they didn’t know. It could go either way. Not only did their detective live on a higher floor, he could be rather reckless. (Once, Starling had watched him climb a pipe five stories up to sneak up on a criminal. The detective caught the criminal, but was stabbed in the process. Had it not been for their own interference, well. Starling didn’t wantto know how badly that could’ve gotten. It was bad enough seeing a knife go through their favourite detective’s palm.)
“Hey there, detective,” Starling stepped inside from the balcony.
“Starling? I live on the thir- Starling!” Bright red eyes widened and Starling knew he’d noticed the wound. Good. If he hadn’t, they would be a bit disappointed. It wasfairly obvious. At least, Starling thought so. They’d tried to fix up their wound as much as possible, but there was only so much one could do without a first aid kit. The most Starling could do was staunch the bleeding and attempt to wrap it. Which would’ve been easier if the shot hadn’t hit their shoulder. Blood had run hot in a trail down Starling’s arm and dripped at their fingertips as they pressed the sleeve of their shirt to the wound. Now, the red stained the silver shirt sleeve. It spread like a clasp over their left shoulder. Sun sprang up from the couch and rushed over to them. A hiss escaped through their teeth as the detective touched their shoulder. The hand backed off immediately. A guilty look flickered across red eyes. “Sorry.”
“Nah, it’s fine,” Starling smiled. “Barely hurt.”
Sun looked at him incredulously. Worriedly. Then he forced a smile. “Right, it’s just a flesh wound.”
“Exactly. Now, do you think you could help me fix up this flesh wound?” Starling asked. “Not that I couldn’t do it myself but-”
“The bullet didn’t go all the way through?” Sun said.
Starling blinked. “How’d you know?”
“A guess. I’ve seen your disguises enough to know there are wounds you’ve started to hide, but this is the first time you’ve brought one to me which means it must be more difficult to deal with then the others. From the bleeding…” Sun trailed off, fingers ghosting the red on their shoulder. Starling followed his eyes. It really wasn’t as bad as it looked. Or, Starling didn’t think it was. Hoped it wasn’t. … now that they thought about it, they’d never stopped to question if their detective could even patch up a bullet wound. Of course Starling could- this wasn’t the first time they’d been shot. But the other times had been in the thigh, the lower arm, and the side respectively. And all four had gone clean through. All grazes really, except the second shot that had gone through Starling’s side. That had been moderately far into their flesh and definitely not pleasant. “I thought ‘bullet’ would be a good guess. Unless you were stabbed and yanked the knife out before deciding to fly over here?”
“No,” Starling shook their head. “Just shot this time.”
“This time.” Sun looked at them in surprise, practically choking on the first word. The thief smiled. It was cute to see the detective thrown off. And worried specifically about them. Even if Starling was in a bit of pain.
A lot of pain.
Getting shot in the shoulder hurt, okay?
“One of my acquaintances is a bit more archaic than the others,” Starling shrugged their uninjured shoulder, doing their best not to jostle the injuredshoulder.
“Archaic? She uses a sword or something?” Starling nodded. Sun frowned at them. “Anything else?”
“Well, short, stabby, seems to be angry a lot. There’s not a lot about the others,” Starling said. Only one of the acquaintances ever got close to Starling. The short one whose appearance never seemed to be the same- except the size and the anger. It was like Starling could taste blood thirst radiating in the air around the short acquaintance. Whoever said short people are angry because they were closer to hell certainly met her. There were two others, but- all Starling had seen of the tallest was a hat and of the other was their gun. A sniper, because that’swhat Starling wanted following them while they were trying to put on a show and steal a gem. Now Starling actively had to keep an eye out for a possible shooter. Thank Oum the acquaintances didn’t show up at every performance.
Sun nodded, seeming to accept that. Somehow, Starling doubted that was the end of the questioning. Eventually there would likely be more. (Detectives were the nosiest breed, after all.) “You weren’t-”
“Followed? Of course not. I’d only ever let you follow me, dear.” Starling smiled at him. Hopefully charmingly. With the adrenaline draining out, the pain was draining in. Each beat of Starling’s heart pounded it through them. It was like they could feel the bullet where it was stuck. Perhaps they could. The smile has to be stiffer than what Starling had gone for, because Sun’s eyes flickered back to the covered wound and his weight shifted between his feet. For a detective, his tells were glaringly obvious. My detective would likely have no chance on the stage, Starling thought. Though, at least for Starling, the detective himself would distract from however bad his performance might be.
But maybe Starling was being unfair. It was usual for these specific signs to show. As far as Starling knew, their detective rarely got nervous like this. All anxious body movements and quiet mouth. And perhaps that was the greatest poker face of all. Simply not needing one. Sun worried his bottom lip between his teeth like Starling knew he did when he thought, and Starling pushed down the desire to gently remove his lip from the abuse. Wherever the detective’s mind went, Starling needed it back here. The other thieves weren’t Sun’s concern- or shouldn’t be, they were more dangerous than Starling was. Not to mention that thieves were possessive and Sun was their detective, no one else’s- and there was still a more pressing matter. Like the bullet still in Starling’s shoulder.
“Detective?” Starling questioned. Sun startled out of his thoughts. His thumb brushed softly against Starling’s shoulder.
“We should fix this,” Sun said, though his voice sounded mostly far away. Starling reached up to grab Sun’s hand and squeeze it. The detective blinked a few times. Slowly, red eyes focused on blue ones. “You wear contacts.”
The statement startled a laugh out of Starling. Of course they wore contacts. Heterochromia was a bit too rare for a phantom thief to have, so Starling wore a blue contact to all their heists. (Or sometimes a brown one, depending on disguises. But by the time the chase began, Starling’s eyes were always back to blue to match their hair.) “Of course. I can’t make it too easy to figure out who I am, can I?”
“I guess you can’t.” Sun smiled and there were dimples and Starling’s heart gave a singular hard ba-dump. That smile was one of the reasons Starling had started to woo the detective. Wherever Sun had gone, he was back now. His hand threaded with Starling’s and he used it to lead the thief to his couch. “Stay here, I’ll get the industrial kit.”
It did not surprise Starling that he had an industrial med kit. Really, Starling wished it did. But it didn’t. He was a self sacrificial moron, always thinking he had to help everyone. Even when it put him in danger. Starling had seen a few of the scars Sun had gotten because of it. The slit in his palm. The slash across his forearm. The starburst in his side. Of course Sun would do it all again if he had to and… Starling could respect that. Even if they didn’t quite like to see their detective hurt so much. They could still respect it. Starling sat and watched Sun’s back as he went to get the kit. He flicked the overhead light on as he left and Starling blinked a little at the light change. Once the detective was gone, Starling looked around the apartment. Brown walls and open space. It was a fairly tiny apartment. Definitely smaller than the one Starling lived in, though they shared the space with others. Sun’s couch was beaten with age and comfortable. An episode of Dragon Ball Z was on at low volume. Starling moved their legs up onto the couch and leaned against the arm, making sure to leave their left shoulder exposed for Sun.
When Sun got back, Starling actually had a moment to be surprised. Enough that it showed on their face- Sun’s eyebrow raised in response. In Starling’s defense they had not expected a medkit that large. It looked like Sun had stolen it off a paramedic truck. Though, given the amount of injuries Sun no doubt got, Starling thought it likely someone had forced it on him. Honestly Starling could understand.
With Sun’s help, Starling’s shirt was removed so he could get to the hole in their shoulder. “The bullet’s still in here.”
Starling laughed at what felt like the current most obvious statement in the world. The action moved their shoulder and a shot of pain went through it. “Yeah, I can feel it.”
Sun winced. “Right. Let’s deal with that first.”
“Smart.” Probably. At the very least, it will likely be the most painful part of the process and Starling would very much like to get it over with.
Sun talked while he searched for the bullet. He doesn’t stop talking, like if he stopped the wound would magically get worse. Usually Starling only saw the detective on heists, with the occasional case mixed in. Starling forgot how much the detective could talk. Especially when he was nervous. That was the tell Starling knew from the rare moments they’d seen him nervous. It made them want to reach out to Sun. To tell him that it was okay. That they’d be fine- after all, this wasn’t the first wound they’d ever gotten. It wasn’t even the first gunshot wound. Instead, Starling swore as the tweezers hit a nerve. “ Fuck.”
“Sorry.” Sun looked worried again and Starling waved it off.
“It’s fine, you’d be surprised how many stitches I got as a kid.”
“Lots of people shooting at you then?” Sun joked. It was his way to make light of the situation, Starling knew. Though Starling had a feeling it was for his own benefit- not the thief’s.
“Just the normal amount.” Starling smiled at him. He smiled back; too small to see his dimples but enough to make his eyes glitter like the heart of a fire. The bullet is grabbed and removed in the space of more banter. More jokes and thinly veiled accusations of adrenaline seeking that by this point both know are true. Starling denies them anyway. So does Sun. (Perhaps Sun’s denial was a little more fair. It’s no secret between them that Sun finds as much danger as Starling does. Though Sun usually stumbled into it. Like the danger sought him out. And Starling usually searched for or created it. At least, Starling did. Before the first run in with the other thieves.) There’s a light clink as the bullet is placed on a dish Starling hadn’t noticed before with a smattering of blood. It’s both more and less blood than he’d expected. Immediately there’s more pain as Sun presses an alcohol swab against the newly bleeding wound without so much as a word. If Sun hadn’t been holding it, Starling’s arm would’ve jerked. For someone who had been talking the whole time it was a hell of a moment to go quiet. “ Ouch,” Starling said, emphatically.
“My bad,” Sun winced in honest sympathy.
“I thought you didn’t want to hurt people.” Starling pouted at him. In response to their slight overdramatic-ness, Sun rolled his eyes.
“Of course not, asshole. But this is gonna hurt.”
Starling sighed, “I know.”
A needle and thread was sanitized and then the needle began to make its way, stitching up their skin. There wasn’t much for Starling to do except sit there and not wince too much. It was a good thing they were good with pain. Sun mumbled to himself as he worked. There were a few words Starling caught. They were pretty sure the make and model of a gun were some. Which meant they were right, Sun’s mind was partly on the other thieves. A bit of annoyance shot through like the pull of the needle. Right now Sun’s attention should be on Starling, not the three acquaintances. After all, it was their skin he was stitching. Theirwound that he was caring for.
“Why did you come here?” The words were sudden and it took a minute for them to even register for Starling. When they did, Starling blinked. Why? Because they trusted their detective. Because they loved him. Because somehow they didn’t mind the thought of him taking care of them.
“Well, I figured with all the times you get hurt you must be a professional,” Starling said.
Sun paused and looked at them for a moment, thread and needle hovering in the air. “What if I told you I went to a hospital for every injury?” It wasn’t true. Both of them knew it. The needle went back through Sky’s skin.
“I’d say I’d hate to see your medical bills.”
Sun laughed and it pulled at Starling’s skin painfully, but it was worth it to see those dimples and the flash of sharp canines. Thankfully their wince went unnoticed. The needle went through a few more times before the thread was gently pulled on and it was tied off. A bandage was placed over the stitching and gaze wrapped around Starling’s shoulder and chest to keep it in place. Then he packed the supplies back up and… it was done. Starling carefully moved their arm. It was still sore, of course it was, but at least now they didn’t have to worry about it. They stood up off the couch. It was time for them to leave. Suddenly it felt like time passed too quickly. Starling smiled even as they sighed inside and took Sun’s hand. They brought his hand up to their lips and brushed a kiss against his knuckles.
“Thank you, my dear detective.” Starling smiled at the pink on Sun’s cheeks, illuminated by the tv’s light. “But I fear this is where I take my leave.” They bowed and vanished to the balcony. The two of them would meet again next heist. Until then, Starling would have the memory of glittering red eyes and freckles standing against a soft blush.
For just a moment, Starling looked back at Sun and mourned the loss of intimacy. Then they dropped off the balcony and into the night.
The jacket sits oddly against their shoulders. Rich seamwork and heavy, fine-spun material feel like the memory of a dream more than a piece of their past. Cyril does up the buttons on their cuffs, pulls their arms across their chest, then circles them, feeling the pull of the fabric across their back and around their arms. With a sigh, they rotate their wrist and undo the cuff-links. It will slow them if they need to move quickly. Not by much, but even a half-second can carry the weight of a life kept or lost.
The thought jars against the slide of the smooth fabric of their dress shirt on their skin, rips a hole in the thick, weighty pall of their old life settling over them. They would never have considered movement over attire when they were alive.
Alive, yes – they were alive, years ago, and they stand here and breathe and think and hurt now but will they ever truly be as alive as they were the first time they put on this suit? Esme did up their cuffs that time, warm, blunt fingers caressing their wrist as he laughed about something inconsequential. It rings against the shell of their memory, golden-edged and bright, a spray of seafoam captured in the curl of an empty home that once protected something which no longer fits.
