JUNE OF DOOM

A new soldier joining their ranks is nothing new to Task Force 141. What concerns them is how much the recruit seems to hate Jamie. Price deems it prudent to inform the recruit regarding Jamie's capabilities. He doubts that the recruit will claim Jamie is dishonest. Instead of a demonstration, Price waits for the moment Jamie will need to use her powers during a mission. The captain is hesitant about pairing Jamie with the recruit, yet he's confident they won't jeopardize Jamie's safety.

As they walk down a corridor, Jamie disregards the recruit’s protests that she is deceiving everyone about possessing powers and abilities. "How the fuck are you not locked up in a mental hospital?!"

The two enter a room. The recruit watches an unstable beam bounce as Jamie walks by. They smile as they knock the beam down and run. Jamie hears the rumble of the ceiling crumbling. "Shit, get out!" Jamie yells before realizing she's alone. Rubble blocks the exit. A sizeable chunk of the ceiling falls on Jamie, trapping her leg. "I'm trapped, help me!" Jamie yells in her radio, on the frequency she shares with the recruit.

The recruit smiles and ignores Jamie's pleas for help. I knew she was lying. 

Gaz, Ghost, Price, and Soap hear the rumbling from where they are. They rush in the sound's direction, worried about Jamie and the recruit.

“Hello?” Your words echoed, not a single sound of shifting feet or rustling fabric to be heard. You tried again, shifting in place. “Is… is anyone there?”

Waking up on your knees with your hands cuffed tightly behind you was a jarring experience. You flexed your wrists, testing the restraints. There was no familiar smooth loop of handcuffs – the kind the Nikolai had always been partial to using in the bedroom – instead, they felt heavier. Colder. Thicker. You flexed again, trying to get a better sense of them beneath the all-encompassing darkness of the hood still affixed firmly in place.

They felt more like maniacals than cuffs, thick mental chains linking them together judging by the clinking behind you. Keeping your breathing calm and steady was easier than it could have been; you silently thanked Nikolai for his insistence on testing out stress positions – though you couldn’t help but think this wasn’t quite what he had in mind.

Without your eyesight, it was hard to get a full picture of the room around you, or your position within it. The air was chill against your skin – bare, you realised far later than you should. You shifted; not fully bare, the familiar line of your underwear cutting into you uncomfortably. Rolling your neck, you stiffened. Something heavy encircled your throat. A thick metal collar circled your throat, heavy enough to feel with every swallow, warm enough to tell it hadn't been placed there recently.

You dragged in a breath, fighting the tightness in your chest. Every inhale sounded too loud, too sharp in the silence. The darkness pressed in at the edges of your vision, but you made yourself focus anyway. 

In. Out. In. Out.

You forced yourself to think past the fear. Panic would not help you; it would only make you more vulnerable than you already were. If your captor returned, you needed to be calm enough to follow instructions and useful enough to keep alive. For now, that was all that mattered.

The memory of Nikolai’s voice returned uninvited, as if they had been waiting for exactly that moment: Calm. Measured. Sitting across from you in his office in the Kravinoff Estate, hands folded as though this were simply another lesson, another practical concern to be addressed between more important matters. He liked to do that at times; to blur the line between the personal and professional sides of your relationship. To remind you that you were his, and only his, day or night, at his pleasure. At whatever time that best suited him.

“Is possible, in my line of work, that some of my… associates… may want to make life harder for me. And for those close to me.” Nikolai had swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching it catch the light. “I care for you, kotya. Is why I will not lie to you about this. I do not pay ransom. Not even for my boys. You understand, yes?”

The memory surfaced unbidden. You had understood then. Or at least, you had thought you did.

Back then, it had been easy to nod and accept his words. Easy to treat them as another lesson in the strange, unquestionable rules that governed Nikolai's world. The two of you had sat in his study, surrounded by polished wood, old money, and quiet luxury. The rain had tapped softly against the windows. A fire had crackled in the hearth. Security waited beyond the door. Danger had felt very far away.

Even the way he had said it had made it seem manageable. He had spoken of kidnappings and ransom demands with the same detached calm he used when discussing new shipments from Russia or selecting wine for dinner. As though violence was merely another fact of life. Something predictable, and contained. Possible, but not inevitable.

You had known such dangers belonged to his world since meeting him. It was impossible to work for the Kravinoffs without such knowledge.

Now, in the darkness, with metal around your throat and no idea where you were, the memory sharpened into something else entirely. You had never realised how closely you had been walking that divide. Or how easily you could be pushed across it.

You remembered the way you had nodded anyway. Small. Careful. Obedient.

“Yes, Nikolai.”

Nikolai in private, Mister Kravinoff with company. Never Nik, or Nicky. Occasionally, when his mood called for it, Sir would slip out when it was just the two of you alone in the bedroom. Or Daddy. Never Papa.

Approval had softened his expression, just slightly. Not warmth exactly – Nikolai Kravinoff did not do warmth in simple, human ways – but something close enough to pass for it in the right light. The crystal tumbler clicked softly against the polished wood of the side table. Beyond the window, rain pattered against the glass, steady and unremarkable. The Estate felt as it always did: imposing, but quiet, and safe enough.

“Do not fear, kotya.” His voice had been calm, reassuring even. “I shall teach you what to do when you are taken.”

When you are taken. Not if.

Not if it happens. Not if someone tries. A certainty dressed up as reassurance, you wouldn’t realise until later. 

You swallowed down the hysterical, desperate laugh that tried to claw its way out of your chest. In the cold, all-encompassing darkness, Nikolai’s words did not offer the same comfort they once did. Where was he now, with his reassurances and promises?

Your throat tightened as the memory of it sharpened, edges painfully clear. You had thought it was nothing more than contingency planning; a way of keeping you safe in the most abstract sense of the word. You had not thought that it could mean this.

To a man like Nikolai Kravinoff, you were little more than the hired help. That you also happened to share his bed on occasion meant nothing to him. So why, then, did someone think you worthy of taking?

Taken.

The thought circled around and around in your head, your chest tightening with each breath. Someone had taken you. Had they left a random note behind? Your mind flashed back to the dark stains across Nikolai’s chair. Was there anyone left to accept the note at all?

Without Nikolai, there should have been Dmitri, but he had been missing for weeks. You had unwittingly delivered the note yourself. Taken, Nikolai had told you briskly, voice calm, eyes dry as he read the letter – just one of many, tucked between an invoice from his accountant, and a letter from the bank. It hadn’t seemed real. A part of you hadn’t believed it to be real.

What kind of man doesn’t pay his son’s ransom?

You knew Nikolai had another son. His eldest – Sergei – spoken of with more fondness than Dmitri ever was, despite his absence. Despite the long gaps between visits, there was always a careful silence where his presence should have been.

Had anyone even thought to send word to him about Dmitri’s disappearance? Or would he only learn of his brother’s misadventures when he next returned, stepping back into a house that had already moved on without him?

You hadn’t pried. You knew better than to go poking your nose into Nikolai’s business without express instruction.

You shifted carefully, testing what you could feel. The bite of restraints. The deep ache in your limbs. The pounding in your head that suggested whatever they had injected you with had left one hell of a hangover.

There was no softness beneath you – only cold, unyielding ground. Shifting your weight between your bare knees, you thought it might have been floorboards, though even that was uncertain; not quite the brutal bite of concrete or tile, but hard enough to remind you of every point of contact.

You stretched your fingertips into the dark, searching for anything – anything at all – to orient yourself. A wall. A corner. A trace of space beyond your reach.

There was nothing but your own skin.

The chain between your manacled wrists gave you too little slack to truly move. You twisted anyway, weight shifting with a quiet strain of metal, trying to reach further, trying to make sense of the space that held you.

The band of steel around your neck did not move. It held you in place as much as it held you down – an unseen anchor that kept your spine forced upright, denying even the relief of collapse.

It was difficult to think back to what he had taught you when the present kept pressing insistently at your senses, crowding out anything that was not immediate. Time did not feel linear here so much as layered – now, now, now – each one louder than the last. Your heartbeat stuttered against your ribs. Too fast. Too loud. You tried to slow it anyway, as if discipline alone could impose order on the noise inside your body.

Think. Think. What had Nikolai taught you?

Breathing came slower, but it did not bring clarity. It only shifted the shape of the silence. You stretched your senses outward. Listening. Straining, Hearing nothing but the frantic beating of your own heart and the steady draw of your breath. 

“It is not so different from hunting, kotya,” Nikolai had said once, as though it were given. The sky is blue. Grass is green. Surviving kidnapping is simple. “You are taken from where you should be. That is all. The rules do not change because you are afraid. You listen. You watch. You do not waste yourself on panic.”

His voice did not feel like memory so much as an echo – detached, slightly out of reach, as if it belonged to another version of you that still understood how to hold onto it. You let out a long, controlled breath. It did not feel like control.

“Then you begin to understand,” he had continued. “Your captors. Your environment. Your habits. What they think is control is only pattern. Once you see the pattern… you are no longer the prey.”

The words circled without landing. Pattern. Control. Prey.

They meant something. They must have. But here, in the narrowing space of your awareness, meaning refused to hold still long enough to be used.

You swallowed against the dryness in your mouth and forced yourself to focus. The room had a shape, even if you couldn’t see it yet. A faint electrical hum threaded through the silence – steady, continuous. A building with power. That narrowed possibilities more than you wanted to admit.

You took a slow, measured breath and searched the air for anything you could anchor yourself to. No familiar weight of London smog; no dense press of bodies, no exhaust, no refuse. The absence felt wrong. Instead, the air smelled heavily of dust, stale and stagnant, as though it hadn't been used in some time. 

A shiver passed through you, your body reacting before your mind could register the change in the air. Somewhere nearby, there was movement. Slow. Deliberate. Controlled. Intentional.

You were not alone.

It shouldn’t have been as much of a relief as it was. Being watched, having someone so close and yet knowing nothing about who or where they were should have added to your terror. Instead, it softened the edges of your fear. You weren’t alone, abandoned in some forgotten place, left to rot undiscovered. 

You swallowed back the fragile sound threatening to rise in your throat, forcing it down

Nikolai’s voice threaded through the silence again, quieter now, almost instructive.

“If you are taken… you do not waste strength on fear. You observe. You wait. You understand where you are before you decide what must be done.”

Your fingers curled into fists, pressing against the tight metal shackles that bound them, doing what little you could to ground yourself. 

You were there. You were alive. And somewhere in the dark, you began to do as Nikolai had taught you to piece together what “here” might mean – one detail at a time.

It was impossible to keep track of time.

Your back ached; your knees were on fire. Cold settled around you like a second skin. Whispers of footsteps teased at your senses, each at random intervals. A brush of fabric rustled in the distance. A door opened and closed.

They were playing with you.

Despite the creeping pains building over the patchwork of your body, it was your throat that was giving you the most trouble. Something about it felt wrong.

It was not the familiar itch of needing a glass of water in the middle of the night, or the dry mouth that followed a long day with not nearly enough time to stop for a break, to look after yourself amidst the quiet chaos that followed in Nikolai’s wake. It was something deeper. Every swallow dragged, slow and painful, as if your body had forgotten how it was supposed to do such a simple thing.

You tried again anyway. The pain in your throat made you whimper.

Your mouth tasted faintly metallic, old air and dust coating your tongue. When was the last time you had something to drink? How long had it been since you were taken? A day? Two? Longer?

A persistent ache let itself be known between your thighs. You studiously ignored it. You would not think about what that meant. About the humiliation that could bring.

Eyes screwed shut beneath the darkness of your hood, a familiar wetness beaded at the corners of your eyes. If you tried hard enough, you could picture yourself in a similar position, under far more enjoyable circumstances, with someone who saw such a thing as a gift.

Tilting your head back, it was as if you could feel Nikolai’s steady touch against your cheek.

“They would not always hurt you in obvious ways, kotya. Pain is simple. It makes people loud. Makes them predictable. Control… is quieter. They may take food. Water. Sleep. They may take dignity, if they think it will make you smaller.”

You shifted against your restraints, trying to press your thighs together, the persistent aching of your bladder almost too much to bear.

“You have to understand this: it is not about what was taken. It is about what you reveal when it is taken from you. If you show them thirst, they would learn where to press. If you show shame, they will use it as a leash. If you show them fear, they will stop thinking of you as a person. Start thinking of you as something broken. Broken things are never kept.”

You forced your back straight. 

“You did not give them satisfaction. You breathe. You observe. You remain still on the surface, no matter what.”

You swallowed again, smaller this time, carefully, only to feel the same harsh pull, the same rasping resistance. It made you more aware of every inhale, every exhale, as if even breathing was something that should be rationed. Your lips were dry, sticking together as you tried to lick them and regretted it almost instantly; there was no relief to be found, only the start of painful cracks setting in.

“The one thing your captors must never understand… is what it costs you to endure them. That is where they lose. That is where you can still win.”

The ghost of Nikolai’s words could not save you from the humiliation of waking up in a puddle of your own piss, the sharp smell of ammonia dragging you from the fitful rest you had finally succumbed to. It was warm, and wet, and everywhere. Seeping beneath your knees and calves. Pooling between the tips of your toes. Soaking you.

“No.” The word was wrenched from you – sharp, involuntary, already too late. The first loss in the unending battle you had been locked into since you first awoke restrained in place.

A floorboard creaked. Slow. Deliberate.

You flinched before you could stop yourself, the sound dragging everything in you taut with it – too aware, suddenly, of what could be seen. 

A hand tangled in your hair, not a hint of gentleness to be found.  Your head wrenched back, your back forced into an arch, your neck exposed and helpless as the hood was at last pulled free.

Light – real light, or at least the suggestion of it – cut through the darkness behind your eyes. And before you even saw him, you felt it: the exposure. The unbearable, sickening awareness of being visible.

The first thing you saw were his eyes.

Inhumane. Glowing gold. A cold kind of fury etched into them – something that did not reach his face. You knew this man, you realised distantly, as he stared down at you, unblinking.

It was night, you realised belatedly. You were inside, and yet you could see the stars through the window – faint, distant points of light beyond the dark glass. Familiar wood panelling surrounded you, rich and oppressive in its quiet luxury, and beneath it all that same cold, indifferent shimmer of the night sky.

And there was his face.

Sergei Kravinoff.

Nikolai’s wayward son.

“Sergei?”

His grip tightened, your throat closing as a hand wrapped around the delicate column, squeezing in silent warning. He must have been standing in your mess, you realised faintly, humiliation rising beneath your skin. What must he think of you, to find you like this? Your mind stuttered to a halt.

How would Sergei of all people find you like this?

Nikolai had made it clear: there would never be a ransom. There was even less of a chance that he would send someone after you. Then why…

“You will not speak unless spoken to. Do you understand?” You did not even have enough room to nod. All you could do was stare up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. You refused to let them fall.

His hand tightened around your throat, flexing one last time, before he took a step back. He pulled something from his pocket; a box. Toying with it. His expression unchanged.

“You worked for my father for some time. Was it always on your knees?” He paused, as if he expected you to answer that. You shook your head, not daring to try and put into words what you and Nikolai share. Shared? 

There had been a time when your heart was set on the youngest Kravinoff. You had caught more than one performance of Dmitri’s at The Den. He had always been sweet to you, whenever your paths had crossed. You had even foolishly thought, once upon a time, that an invitation to use the Kravinoff family table one Friday night had come from him. But it had been Nikolai waiting for you when you had arrived in your favourite dress. 

Humiliation had soon turned into something more fragile, more hopeful.

“You were his secretary. In charge of his mail,” Sergei said, letting the words sit between you as if they held weight. You looked back at him wordlessly. “Why did you not tell him about the special delivery when it arrived?”

Your mind went blank. You forced yourself to speak. With a shake of your head, croaking words eked out. “Mister Kravinoff was made aware of every delivery.”

Sergei’s hand wrapped around your throat again, lifting this time. You were forced high onto your knees, as high as you could go. Blue eyes flashed gold.

“Do not lie to me.”

You held his gaze, your heartbeat remaining steady. “He… was… aware.”

You almost slipped as he dropped you, the unexpected movement forcing the collar around your neck to pull painfully against your bruised throat. There was something in his eyes, something that you would hesitate to call anguish, and yet, you could think of no other name for it.

The box was back in his hands. It was no bigger than a matchbox, you thought, as he slid it open.

There was a finger inside.

It was not Nikolai’s. It was too slender, too pale for that. You flexed your own hands within your restraints, checking to make sure that you had not somehow missed something so important. Relief sparked in your chest as you were reminded that your hands remained intact.

It did not take long for you to put the pieces together.

With a gentleness that was not afforded you when the same conversation arose, you said, “Mister Kravinoff does not pay ransoms… not even for his sons.”

There was no time to brace before Sergei backhanded you hard enough to send you sprawling sideways. Pain bloomed sharp and immediate across your face. Your lip split against your teeth; blood spattered in bright droplets across the polished hardwood beneath you. For a second, your vision whitened out around the edges. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. 

Metal clinked somewhere near your shoulder. The pressure around your throat abruptly loosened as the chain attached to your collar fell away in broken pieces, snapping uselessly against the floor. Air rushed easier into your lungs for the first time in hours – days? You could not tell.

Sergei did not give you time to recover enough to appreciate it.

One large hand closed around your bound wrists, hauling you upright with enough force to make your shoulder scream. You stumbled immediately, legs weak beneath you, and he barely slowed. It was less leading and more dragging, your bare feet scraping uselessly against expensive floors as he pulled you through the manor with terrifying single-mindedness.

You knew this house.

Even through the haze of dehydration and exhaustion, recognition flickered painfully through you in fragments. Dark wood paneling. Marble. The faint scent of smoke and old money clinging to the walls. Not so far from London after all. The Kravinoff Estate had once felt impossibly large, suffocating in its luxury. Now, it felt smaller somehow. Sharper. Every hallway another place to be cornered.

Sergei said nothing.

The silence frightened you more than shouting would have. Your mind scrambled uselessly for meaning, for context, for some way to understand why you were there, why he looked at you with such naked fury downstairs, why Dmitri’s name had tasted like poison in his mouth.

And then Sergei threw open a door.

You stopped breathing.

Dmitri lay curled on top of the bed inside, still fully dressed, one arm tucked tightly against his chest even in sleep. Dim light spilled across him from the hallway, enough to illuminate the grime still smeared across his face and clothes, the hollowness beneath his eyes, the exhaustion etched into every line of his body.

And his hand. Bandaged thickly at the end where his ring finger should have been.

The sight landed strangely inside your chest. He was a performer at heart. A pianist. How was he supposed to perform like this? 

For a brief, terrible moment, jealousy rose, thick and vile, at the back of your throat. Did Nikolai send someone after Dmitri after all? Had he been lying to you all of this time? Were you truly the only one unworthy of ransoming, of saving?

Your mind felt too numb, too overworked to fully process horror anymore. You refused to allow your thoughts to linger. Relief came first instead, quiet and hollow and overwhelming all at once.

Alive.

Dmitri was alive.

Your throat burned as you forced words through it. They barely sounded human. “…I’m glad he’s okay.”

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. A hand tightened on the back of your neck.

“Don’t you dare.” Sergei’s voice was low enough to make something primal recoil inside you.

You turned toward him instinctively and immediately wished you had not. There was nothing soft left in his expression. Nothing warm. He looked at you like he did not recognise what stood in front of him anymore.

“You do not get to stand here,” he said quietly, each word more dangerous than if he had shouted, “after what they did to him – after what you allowed – and tell me you are glad.”

The accusation hit harder than the slap had.

Your mouth opened automatically, denial already rising to your lips, but the words died there beneath the weight of his gaze. Across the room, Dmitri shifted faintly in his sleep, face tightening with pain even unconscious. His injured hand curled instinctively closer against his chest.

And suddenly you understood. You turned towards Sergei. “I had nothing to do with this.”

He did not believe you. Any fool could see that. You shook your head – his grip tightening, forcing you to remain in place – as you looked at him imploringly.

“You have everything to do with this,” Sergei said quietly, his voice low and damning in the stillness of the night. “If it was not for you, our father would have seen sooner. He would have paid on time. He would have called me.”

“That’s not–” Your voice caught. You forced it to steady. “Nikolai does not even have your number, Sergei.”

For the first time, something flickered across Sergei’s expression that was not pure anger – calculation, sharp and immediate, like a blade being turned in better light. But it did not soften him; if anything, it only served to sharpen the violence underneath.

“You are trying to tell me that he had no way to reach me? None whatsoever.”

The danger was clear. Palpable. But there was only one answer. “Yes.”

“Dmitri has always been able to stay in contact with me. I find it hard to believe that Papa did not take advantage of that knowledge, to keep it for his own.”

He stepped closer, forcing you to tilt your head up to keep eye contact. “And you expect me to believe that this man who does not pay ransom for his sons would suddenly make an exception for you?”

Your throat tightened, unshed tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. You kept your face still. You had to stay calm. You knew how this worked. Just because this was Nikolai’s son did not change anything. You must remain calm.

“Nikolai Kravinoff does not pay any ransoms,” you repeated, quieter now. “That is what he told me.”

“Not even for his whore?” Sergei let out a short, humourless laugh. “And yet, you stayed.”

It was not a question, and yet, he took your silence for one all the same. His grip shifted, dragging you a fraction closer. Dmitri shifted on the bed, the faint sound of discomfort slipping from him as he slept. Sergei’s gaze flickered to him, lingering, before it returned to you.

“I suppose it does not matter. It is a little late to test that theory of yours.”

The edges of your vision began to blur. A cold weight settled into your stomach. The bloodstain flashed across your mind again.

“You think I am wrong,” you managed, words sounding faint. Distant.

“I think,” Sergei replied, voice dropping lower, “that you are still trying to convince yourself that you are not a part of this. That this is not as much of your doing as his. You are here. You were here when word came. When no action was taken to retrieve Dmitri. That makes you a part of it.”

Your pulse stuttered. He studied you for a moment longer, like he was reading something beneath your expression you could not fully control. You felt it then – the smallest betrayal of fear in your eyes. You tried to bury it immediately, smooth it over, flatten it into something neutral.

It was already too late.

Something shifted in him. Not satisfaction. Not exactly. But something close.

His grip on the back of your neck loosened, hand trailing around to cup your cheek. There was a gentleness in his voice, in his touch, that did not match his eyes.

It reminded you so much of Nikolai.

A whine, high-pitched and broken, escaped.

Blue eyes flashed gold, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “It will all be okay now.”

This gentleness was so much worse.

“We will have plenty of time…” He turned, beginning to lead you towards the door as he spoke. He paused to look back at Dmitri’s sleeping form. “...to reach the truth.”

His gaze lingered on Dmitri for a moment, softening in a way that you had never seen from him before. It reminded you of how Nikolai would look at you in those quiet moments, when he thought no one was looking.

“And you and I,” he murmured, returning his attention to you, “are going to become better acquainted.”

Your breath caught. Sergei smiled faintly, like he had just made a decision that could not be undone. “I am going to make sure Dmitri is avenged.”

The room felt smaller than it had before. The air tighter. You kept your face carefully composed. Sergei watched you for a moment longer. And then his eyes sharpened again.  He tilted his head slightly, studying you as though you had betrayed yourself without realising it. As though something in you had finally aligned into a shape he recognised.

Your control – carefully built, carefully maintained – did not fail. Not fully. You did not move. You did not speak.

It was not your movement that gave you away, but its absence.

A fraction too much stillness where there should have been a reaction. A hesitation too small for anyone else to name, and too large for someone like him to ignore.

You felt it too late; the shift in how he was looking at you now. You swallowed carefully, keeping your expression neutral with effort. Your throat felt tight, your pulse loud in your ears, but you refused to give him anything else to read. Still, it did not matter. Sergei’s attention did not leave your face. Slowly, his expression changed again – subtly, like something clicking into place behind his eyes. Not satisfaction, exactly. Something calmer than that. More certain.

You wondered what it was that Sergei saw when he looked at you. What weakness he had learned to pick from your posture. Which of your fears stood out most blatantly to him. Because there was no doubt in your mind. As far as Sergei Kravinoff was concerned, you had settled well and truly into the category of prey. And, if he was anything like his father, there could be no escaping that.

Jamie and Price struggle against five enemy soldiers. Price's decision to go on this mission with Jamie rather than the entire team has backfired on him. The captain frets over further mishaps while the pair engage in battle with two soldiers. The two walk backward while firing at the soldiers. They back onto a wooden bridge. The soldiers continue forward. Jamie and Price focus on them, and Jamie doesn't notice the wood plank she's standing on is cracking. The soldiers notice, but continue forward. Price aims his gun, ready to fire. He hears Jamie scream as the plank breaks and Jamie falls into the raging river. "Jamie!" The soldiers retreat to let the river deal with Jamie and Price. Believing the current will pull Price in as he attempts to pull Jamie out. Price runs alone the river, watching Jamie struggle to stay afloat with the weight of her gear pulling her down. Price isn't sure how he's getting Jamie out of the rushing water until he remembers he has a rope in his pack. He hurries to retrieve the rope as Jamie continues down the river. Once Price has the rope, he hurries down the river. As he runs, he ties a loop, hoping to catch Jamie with the rope.

Price tosses the rope toward Jamie, whose head is just visible above the water, trying to snag Jamie's hand with the loop. He'll risk breaking her wrist to save her from drowning. Price catches Jamie's wrist and pulls. He's fighting the river current and Jamie's weight because of her soaked gear. Jamie goes under the water as Price struggles to pull her out. The current pulls him close to the riverbed. "You have to let me go," Jamie argues before being pulled under again. "Never!" As Price struggles to pull Jamie out of the water, he worries about how she's still underwater. Time is running out. Price pulls harder, walking backward and pulling Jamie closer to the river's edge. It's a difficult five minutes before Price pulls Jamie out of the river. Four minutes too long for his liking. "I need medevac now!" Price yells into his radio. He lays Jamie on her back and feels for a pulse. Feeling one isn't assuring as it is slow. Price knows he has a small window before Jamie is dead. He tilts Jamie's head and delivers five rescue breaths before starting CPR. Price's mind panics as he does CPR and rescue breaths. Where the hell is that helicopter? Price worries. He knows CPR alone won't help Jamie. The captain blames himself for this.

Price doesn't know how much time has passed before he hears a helicopter. The helicopter lands close to where he and Jamie are. Two medics rush out with a stretcher. There's no assessment before they tell Price to lay Jamie on it. The three rush to the helicopter.

"Is that her?"

In the small living room stood her Uncle Kenzou, along with three men Hitomi had never seen before. One man was sharply dressed, gazing at her appraisingly over the top of his sunglasses with cold, calculating eyes. The two men with him were large and intimidating and seemed to defer to him. Their presence in the small apartment was painfully out of place and it immediately set her on edge.

Her uncle wore a nervous, appeasing grin. He wrung his hands anxiously, looking between her and the man with the sunglasses, "y-yes! That's my Hitomi! I think you'll find her very, ah- well behaved. Very obedient."

"What's going on?" Hitomi asked, all sorts of alarm bells ringing in her head. Kenzou wasn't a good man and he definitely wasn't a smart one. He often found himself getting into trouble with rough sorts, and she had a feeling he was in trouble right now.

She had a feeling she was probably in trouble, too.

Kenzou laughed tightly, trying and failing to appear composed as he made his way over to her. He gripped Hitomi's shoulders tightly and tried to move her to the center of the room, but she planted her feet, refusing to budge from where she stood at the entrance. His grip on her tightened.

"Listen-" he began in a hiss before stopping himself and glancing at the man in the sunglasses. He lowered his voice, "Hitomi. That man over there is my...my friend, Naoki. You're going to do your uncle a favor and go with him, okay? Just be a good girl and do whatever he asks of you." He spoke to her as if she were a naive child, as if she couldn’t at all see how suspicious this situation was.

"What are you talking about?" she glanced tensely between her uncle and the strange, intimidating men he was trying to foist her off on and narrowed her eyes. "What did you do?" she whispered accusingly.

"Hey, don't you dare take that tone with me, brat," he whispered back, there was the usual disdain he had for her in his gaze, but there was also a frantic desperation under it. Sweat pooled at his temple, "I just owe 'em a little more money than I can’t pay back right now,” it must have been a lot of money going by how nervous he was. Damn him, “but when I told 'em about your quirk, they were willing to-"

"No," Hitomi said, sudden and firm, feeling disgust and outrage well up in her chest in equal parts. She couldn't believe it. Kenzou was trying to- to sell her, her and her quirk, in order to pay off his own debts. She knew he was pathetic, a slimeball, a bastard, but they were flesh and blood. Maybe she was just foolish, thinking that family meant anything to him. Maybe she really was the naive kid her treated her as, thinking that he wouldn't try to use her like this one day, that he'd so easily put her in the hands of complete strangers.

"Kenzou," the sunglasses man, Naoki, spoke up, and his voice was just as chilling as his gaze. Hitomi watched her uncle shrivel where he stood and understood just how dangerous this guy really was. "I thought you said your darling niece was up for the job."

"S-She is!" Kenzou insisted, again trying to nudge Hitomi forward, "I p-promise you! She's just- j-just a little shy-"

"I'm not going with them!" Hitomi said, her heart pounding in her chest. She shoved her uncle's hands off of her, disgusted to even be in contact with him.

She wasn't leaving this apartment with these villains- because that's what they were, weren't they? Criminals his uncle had gotten mixed up in that wanted to make use of her quirk in exchange for wiping his debts. She was working so damn hard to become a hero it felt like she was fighting fate itself. Who was he to decide he could ruin that for her? She wasn't his tool and she sure as hell wasn't theirs.

"I think you're confused, little girl," Naoki spoke again, gesturing with his hand to his two associates who began to advance on her, "you don't have much of a choice in the matter. All you get to decide is if you walk out of here with us or if we drag you out."

Hitomi chose neither.

Grabbing her uncle by the arm, she harshly shoved him into the two men approaching her. They collided, letting out noises of surprise as they stumbled back. She used the moment of confusion to bolt out the front door and sprint back out the way she came.

As she ran down the corridor towards the stairwell, she heard the panicked shouts of her uncle to come back and- more alarmingly- the pounding footsteps in hot pursuit of her. Hitomi didn't dare look back, but she already knew they weren't as far behind her as she would have hoped, and she wasn't outpacing them by much. Her body was still exhausted from training, and it would soon tire out completely.

They were going to catch up.

Hitomi burst into the stairwell, her heart racing. She slammed the door behind her but it was only a momentary obstacle to her pursuers. She began her hurried descent down the stairs, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her.

Desperation took hold of her and her hand reached into the pocket of her school blazer, taking out her phone. She somehow managed to unlock it and pull up her most recent calls while still traversing the stairs.

She pressed the topmost contact and prayed.

They picked up on the first ring, "Aizawa speaking-"

"I need help!" she cried out breathlessly, rounding a landing and starting down the next set of steps, "they're going to take me-"

"Kid? What's-?"

She was slammed into from behind.

Hitomi screamed as she fell down the stairs and onto the landing below. She landed hard, her phone flying from her hand, and the pain momentarily left her stunned.

She had enough time to register two burly shadows looming over her before a foot made contact with her head and everything went black.

---

"Here's what's going to happen."

They'd taken Hitomi to their hideout, an abandoned building in an area she didn't recognize. It held even more members of this villainous crew. She was gagged, beaten, and then taken to an empty room. There, she was chained to the wall by a collar they'd secured with a padlock around her neck. She was sat on the floor up against the wall, wrists bound behind her back, as the group's leader, Naoki, crouched before her and told her how things were going to work from now on.

Naoki grabbed Hitomi by the face, his nails digging into her cheeks, and peered into her eyes with an almost bored expression. "You're going to use your quirk to help us out for a while. If you don't want to cooperate, we'll find another use for that pretty mouth of yours," those words made her nearly sick with fear. "Either way, we're gonna get some value out of you, your uncle owes us quite a lot."

He let her go, and then walked out of the room. The door was shut, and Hitomi found herself in darkness, hurting and scared.

Alone.

Hitomi closed her eyes as she fought back the black wave of despair that threatened to overwhelm her. What was she going to do? What could she do? Her body was at its limit. She didn't know where the hell she was or how many people were out there just waiting for her to try something. There were no windows in this room and she was chained to the goddamn wall.

She drew in a shaking breath through her nose. She tried to will herself not to panic, not to break down.

'Keep a level head,' Aizawa would tell her in this situation.

Aizawa… She wondered what Aizawa must have thought, getting that phone call from her. Was he even able to make sense of her few, frenzied words? Did she dare hope that he was looking for her? That he even cared that she was in trouble at all? Surely she wasn't very high up on his priority list.

Villains still came after his students all the time. He probably already had his hands full making sure they were safe at all times. Sure, he took some time out of his schedule to train her, but she couldn't expect him to waste any further time or resources on her.

She was just a third-rate Gen Ed student who hadn't made the cut. One that even her own family thought was expendable.

No one would be coming to save her.

Hitomi swallowed against the lump in her throat. It's fine. It was fine. She willed away all the dark thoughts, pushing them into a box and shoving them into the back of her head. If she could depend on no one, she'd depend on herself.

She wasn't going to be coerced into becoming a villain, and she sure as hell wasn't going to remain at the mercy of this gang.

She shifted her body, moving her bound wrists under her legs and to her front. She removed her gag.

She'd save herself or die trying.

---

"You got further than I thought you would."

Hitomi spat out a mouthful of blood, dragging herself to her feet. She'd managed to get herself out of the room she'd been put in, prying the chain free from the wall. The collar was still locked in place, however, the remainder of the chain dangling from her throat. She made use of it, wrapping the chain around her knuckles to enforce her punches as she fought off a couple of villains that tried to stop her.

She'd taken out three men, including the two who had first caught her at her uncle's apartment, but only with the aid of her quirk, and not without taking plenty of hits herself.

She hadn't made it very far, in the end.

She was truly out of energy, and the villains knew her tricks. It was a pain in the ass getting a response out of any of them. It left her confident in assuming that her bastard uncle gave them a rundown of her quirk's limitations. She was soon beaten down yet again, and now faced Naoki and the remainder of his crew, and there were too many of them. They stood between her and the building's entrance, the door to the outside practically mocking her.

It looked like ‘die trying’ would be the end result of her desperate escape attempt.

"I'll admit your resistance was cute at first, I like a girl that struggles," Naoki removed his sunglasses, his irises starting to glow. "But now, you're almost more trouble than your worth," he gestured to his men.

"Break her arms and legs. We only need her voice intact, anyways."

As soon as that horrifying order left his lips, the front door was broken down and a dark figure burst into the building like a hound from hell, gunning straight for Naoki. No one had time to react or even flinch before Naoki was slammed into from behind, his face smashed into the ground with such force that it cracked the floor beneath him.

There was a beat of silence where nobody moved. Naoki lay still, knocked unconscious in that one move by the figure still perched on his back.

It was only when the literal dust had settled and the air crept back into the room that Hitomi realized she recognized this new arrival.

"S-Sensei…"

Aizawa straightened to his full height atop Naoki's back, his hair and capture weapon whipping around him in an angry vortex. His hands were clenched into fists, his jaw tight, and behind his goggles, his eyes glowed dangerously.

Anyone else would have been scared shitless by the sight of him, but Hitomi only felt dizzying relief.

Aizawa was here.

She was going to be okay now.

The remainder of the crew finally got over their shock and sprung into action.

"Fuck- Boss!"

"Get him!"

"We still need the brainwasher girl! Someone take her!"

"You won't touch her," with that vicious declaration, Aizawa was already in motion, two more men knocked out before Hitomi could even blink. She had never seen him fight before, not against actual villains, and she wondered if he was always this magnificent, this brutally efficient.

She wondered if in her frightened, vulnerable state she just imagined the protective fury in his voice.

She didn't have time to ponder any of this, though, as the last dregs of her strength chose that moment to finally drain away. Her legs gave out beneath her, her body falling sideways.

Hitomi's last memory before her vision faded was her mentor shouting her name.

---

The next time Hitomi woke up, it was in an annoyingly bright hospital room with Aizawa sitting at her bedside. She immediately locked eyes with him because he was already staring down at her face. She watched the moment he realized she was awake, how he instantly looked so alert, and so relieved.

"Kid," he sat forward, his hand finding her wrist. The weight of his calloused palm against her skin was warm and comforting. "How are you feeling?"

"You're here…" she croaked instead of answering him, just looking at his face. He had bruising and scratches on him that weren’t there the last time she had seen him. He must have gotten them when he saved her.

His eyes softened and he gently squeezed her wrist, "yeah, I'm here."

"You came…"

"You called."

Oh.

Was it really that simple to him?

Her lower lip wobbled and her eyes welled up with tears at his answer. Such a plain, honest answer. There was so much left to process and so much left to heal, but in that moment, that's exactly what she needed to hear.

"Thank you."

Fights are rare in the Task Force 141 base. Few would risk a fight, considering Price’s retribution and the negative impact on a soldier’s record. Months have passed since the last fight,  but Price knows that means one won’t happen.

The captain sits at his desk, working on paperwork, when Soap rushes in. “There’s a fight happening in the training room!” Soap informs him. Price sighs as he stands from his chair. The two run out of the office.

Upon entering the training room, they see a soldier on top of Jamie, punching her nose. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Price asks. The soldier freezes, knowing they’re in a lot of trouble. Soap tackles him off Jamie before he can move. Soap forces the soldier up and keeps a tight hold on him. Soap and Price see Jamie has a nosebleed before Price kneels beside her. He lifts her chin to get a better look. “A double nosebleed,” Price tells Soap. He helps Jamie up. As he leads her to a bench, Jamie coughs up blood. This concerns Soap and Price. They know this can happen with a double nosebleed, but they also worry about serious internal bleeding. Price lifts Jamie’s shirt to check her abdomen. He sees a couple of bruises, but Jamie doesn’t complain of pain as he presses on them. Price sighs, relieved the issue is blood going down Jamie’s throat rather than a serious injury. He continues to lead Jamie to the bench.

Waking up sick in June, which is uncommon, irritates Jamie. Her throat is sore, and she expects it to worsen throughout the day. Jamie still gets ready for the day despite this.

No one says a thing at breakfast. No one knows yet. The warmth of the coffee feels good as the liquid goes down Jamie’s throat. Once done, she goes to the gym as planned.

After a good forty-minute workout, Jamie walks down the hall.  She feels worse than when she wakes up, but heads to the hangar. Nikolai, who notices how unwell Jamie looks stops her. “You’re going back to bed,” Nikolai says. “I’ll drag you if I have to.” “You wouldn’t dare.” Within seconds, Nikolai drags Jamie down the hall.

As the two walk down the hall, Price notes how Nikolai is holding Jamie’s wrist. He knows Nikolai wouldn’t do that without a reason, He follows them.

When the trio reaches Jamie’s room, Price thinks he knows why Nik is dragging Jamie with him. The three enter the room.

“What’s this about?” Price asks. “She’s sick,” Nik replies. Price looks at Jamie, noting her pale face. He feels her forehead—it's a little warm, meaning she has a cold. He sighs, realizing the issue is, as usual, that Jamie gets sick and ignores it. That explains Nik’s choice to be rough with her. Nik continues to be rough and pushes Jamie onto the bed. He moves her legs onto the bed, making her lie down. He then grabs the blankets Jamie keeps on the bed for when the air conditioner makes it too cold in her room. “You’re staying here.” Price watches Nik cover Jamie with the blankets. “I won’t leave you because we know you won’t stay put.” Price knows this seems excessive for someone sick with a cold, but Nik is right. Price suspects Jamie had just finished training when Nik saw and and how unwell she looks. Price leaves the room, leaving Nik to deal with her stubbornness. Nik goes into the bathroom, knowing Jamie has a thermometer in a drawer.

"Grace change bandage today, question?" 

"I woke up fifteen minutes ago, so no, not yet," he replies. "Can I drink my coffee first?" 

"Sure. Bean water more important than Grace flesh. Will remind Grace of this when burn gets infected and robot cut Grace arm off." 

"First of all," Grace starts, which tells Rocky he's got a list so he can start tuning him out early, "my arm is not going to go from healthy to unsalvageable in half an hour. Second, if anyone is going to amputate my arm, I trust you over Armando." 

"Grace want Rocky cut arm off?" 

"Is that what I said?" 

"Was implied." 

Grace rolls his eyes. "Don't you dare. I'll change the bandage after breakfast. I promise it will be fine until then. Chill." 

Though Rocky deserves full transparency in terms of potential issues, Grace half wishes he'd lied when Rocky asked if burns could get infected by bacteria. Eridians are susceptible to disease through damage to their exterior, so he'd naturally wondered if humans were the same, and at the time, Grace thought it was just an innocent question. He'd answered it honestly. Yes, and when it happens, it can be very bad. Infected wounds can move quickly, irreparably damaging cells and possibly spreading fatally to the blood. If he changes the bandages and keeps it clean, he promised, it would be fine. 

Perhaps he was naive not to see the spiral coming. 

Rocky is a natural worrier. Anybody would be, after what he's been through. He couldn't even fix his crew, and he knew their basic biology. Grace barely even understands the basics of human anatomy, it's so complicated. Rocky doesn't have a chance. All he's got to go on is what Grace tells him, and Grace has already proven he's willing to lay down his life for Rocky. Neither of them can be counted on to have their own best interests at heart. It's easy to believe he might downplay something serious so Rocky doesn't worry. 

It's not without merit, either. Infection up here would be very, very dangerous. Still, moderation is key, and Rocky knows no such concept. 

After he drinks his coffee--he's not especially hungry this morning--he does as he promised and heads to the med bay to let Armando change the bandages on his burn. Rocky allows him to get back to work when he's safely wrapped up, but when he gets to the lab, he finds that he can't really focus. Looking through the lens of the microscope hurts his eyes, a throbbing pain that echoes through his skull. It's a little different than the tension headaches or eye strain he's used to. He pushes through it for about half an hour before pulling away from the scope with a small groan. 

"What wrong with Grace, question?" 

"Nothing is wrong. Eyes are just tired, I think."

"Hm. Eyes tired is what you say when something wrong and you don't want to admit." 

"No, it's not," he lies. It's true, but he doesn't register that he does it. Funny, though, that Rocky has learned to recognize "eyes are tired" as a vague cry for help. 

"Grace eyes not tired. Next hypothesis." 

"Not fair. You skipped a lot of steps and jumped straight to drawing conclusions. Not a very good scientific method, if you ask me." He shivers and draws his cardigan a little tighter around himself, flinching when the pressure hurts his arm. It's cold in here today. He reminds himself to keep an eye on that just in case something is wrong with the temperature controls. For now, the headache is distracting enough that he decides it's not worth fighting through for what little needs to be done right now, so he leans back in his seat and shuts his eyes, hands folded behind his neck. 

"Fine. I'll take a break. Wanna watch a movie?" 

"Yes. Something scary. Thank." To Grace's surprise, out of all the movies he's shown him, Rocky turned out to be a horror fan. Something about watching humans as predators is funny to him. Since peaceful, flimsy, protective little Grace is the only human he's ever met, the concept of a threatening human is preposterous. Maybe some day he should show him the Alien films just to turn the tables. 

Grace finds himself struggling to stay awake through the movie. His eyes feel heavy, and, because he's still cold, he climbs under his quilt in the projection room and snuggles in, getting warm and comfortable before Carol Anne is even sucked through the closet portal. His arm is throbbing and pulsing with pain and heat. 

"Movie is very, very sad. Human pebble live, question?" 

"You want me to spoil it?" Grace asks. 

"Yes. Rocky not watch more if human pebble die." 

"She gets back to her family in the end. She lives." 

"Good good good," Rocky celebrates. "Movie is good, then." 

"So you only like happy endings?" 

"Movie is not real. Life is full of sad. I'm tired of sad. Movie should always have happy ending."

Grace smiles. "I guess that's okay." He rolls onto his uninjured side and shuts his eyes. 

"Grace seem tired." 

"I am. Might take a nap. Think you could watch me sleep while you finish the movie?" 

He hesitates. "Nap usually means Grace not feeling well." 

"Does it?" he asks, but when he considers it, he finds himself agreeing. If he's napping, it's usually to sleep off a headache, or a stomachache, or the aftermath of a panic attack, or to power through exhaustion. "Hm. I guess I feel a little sluggish." 

"New word." 

"Slow. Sleepy. Body just feels a little heavy." 

"Nap will help, question?" 

"Probably. I won't sleep long, I promise." 

Rocky allows it. Grace wakes up an hour and a half later, deeply regretting everything. He's shivering so hard his teeth are chattering, and he's unconsciously pressed himself up against Rocky's ball for warmth, leaving him drenched in sweat. And his arm is killing him. 

"Rock," he croaks. 

"Grace is awake, finally," Rocky replies, his tone more relieved than his normal morning greeting. "You were shaking very much in sleep. Thought something was wrong." 

He's pretty sure something might indeed be wrong, but he doesn't want to work Rocky up until he has a clue what it is. 

"Just feeling a little cold."

"Oh, is why Grace cuddle ball?"

"I don't know that I'd call it a cuddle, but yeah. I guess I moved in my sleep. Hopefully it didn't bother you too much."

"No, you cuddle all you want. Rocky enjoy when Grace sleep closer. Eridians usually sleep on chest, but I would crush Grace flat. Is nice to have you near."

"Oh," he says, not having expected such a raw, heartfelt answer. He feels a foggy in the head, and it makes him a little emotional. "Well, thank you. It was nice." 

He begins to scoot away, not a little self conscious, but Rocky says, "You don't have to move if you don't want," and he realizes that he doesn't. He's still shivering, and pressing his aching forehead to the xenonite sounds like it might feel really nice. 

"Oh," he repeats. "Okay." Shuffling closer once more, he settles back into the pocket of warmth he just left with a content sigh. 

"Why Grace do that, question?"

"Do what?"

"Move away when obviously not want to."

"Uh, that's a little complicated." 

"Human culture norm, question? Humans not touch each other?"

"Not--well, it depends."

"On what?" 

"The relationship you have. And personal preference. Some people like to touch more than others. And there are different kinds of touch."

"Grace like to touch?"

"Generally, no," he admits. "Not much. Fist bumps are good, sometimes a hug, if we're close, but more than that is tough for me." 

"Grace not like cuddle?"

"That's usually a thing mates do. I mean, it varies from culture to culture, but where I'm from, it tends to be associated with romance." 

"Ah. Grace no like romance. Understand." Man, Grace hadn't realized that until years after his last relationship ended, and Rocky clocked it that fast?

"Do Eridians touch a lot?"

"It depends," he echoes. "Touch is big deal. Means you're very, very close."

"Like mates?"

"Yes," he says. "And pebbles." 

"Do friends touch a lot? Or am I being weird?"

"Grace always weird, but touch is not. Friend is not word for Grace. On Erid, friend is someone you like to see, like to talk to."

"Yeah, Earth, too. We aren't friends?" He shivers again, and Rocky plops down beside him in his ball. The xenonite warms where he presses his carapace to it, soothing his head. The heat is comforting and stifling at the same time, and his skin is crawling wherever the blanket touches him. Everything feels like it's swaying a little, like he's trapped in the distorted waves just above a parking lot surface on a blistering day. 

"Word for Grace might not translate. Is like mate, but not romance. More like... Rocky was alone for long time. Always scared and sad. No hope left. Then, I found Grace. Couldn't understand language, but Grace show me Earth on star map. Knew then that Grace was safe."

"How?"

"Gave Grace map. Map means nothing. Just information. But Grace saw connection. Grace Rocky both far from home. You showed me your planet. First thing Rocky hear in Grace language was not number one. First thing Rocky hear is 'I understand. We are same.' Is word for that, question?" Grace is fighting to keep up with what Rocky is saying. It's overwhelming to try to process with his head spinning. Apparently, he's silent for too long. "Doesn't matter. Not need word. Just like map of Earth. Is just something you feel."

Grace presses his palms to his eyes to try to stop Rocky from seeing the tears in them, but it's useless. Rocky can sense his heart rate and feel the fine tremor of his chest as he holds back a sob. 

"I say something wrong, question?"

"No, just--I'm just glad you're not alone and scared anymore."

"I'm grateful for Grace."

"Grateful for you, too, bud," he says. It comes out slurred around the edges. He wants to sit up and look at him, hug him, even just elaborate on his thought, but he can't. All his energy is gone and he lies listlessly on the floor. 

"Feeling okay?" Rocky asks. "Grace acting weird. Arm hurts, question?"

"Might've been right about the bandages," he admits. "Not feeling so good. Think I have a fever."

"Grace needs medicine!" he exclaims. "Why you let Rocky talk so long if you feel sick!" 

"I wanted to hear you," is the simple answer. Rocky trills. 

"Grace stand up and go to medical room now now now. Go slow." Only Rocky could manage to rush him to go slowly. At a snail's pace, to keep him on his feet against the dizziness, they make their way to the med bay to find that he does, indeed, have a fever. He's too squeamish to check under the bandages, but Armando gives him an antibiotic, and he accepts it readily. 

"Medicine killed infection?" Rocky asks.

"Gotta take it for a few days, but it will. Just have to take it easy for a little bit." 

"Grace not worry about anything. Just sleep. I watch." Grace nods, but doesn't relax. "Need something, question?"

"I was... thinking. Maybe you could move a little closer?" 

"Closer," he repeats, nudging forward until his ball hits the side of the bed. Grace reaches out and places his burned hand on the surface of it while he lays on the opposite side. 

"You're right. Touch is nice." 

It’s not a big wound, maybe four inches in total running along his side. Frankly, it had just been incredibly bad luck that the knife had managed to snag the small area where the vest ended and his pants began.The haphazard stitches are still holding pretty well, nothing seems to be bleeding, but the skin around it is red and swollen and the area is hot to the touch when he brushes against it. 

He hisses when the touch sends a sharp pain up his side. A second pass with a firmer touch causes black dots to fill his vision and he has to grab the counter to keep from falling. 

Maybe taking care of this on his own hadn’t been a great idea. 

But it’s not the first wound he’s dealt with on his own. It’s not even the first set of stitches he’s given himself thanks to numerous SplashFace tutorials. 

It is the first time it’s ever looked like this though.

He has to grab the bathroom counter again as another wave of dizziness overtakes him. This is new as well, the dizzy spells coming and going. When he looks up in the mirror it takes a few moments to recognize his own face. Henry is paler than he remembers being when he walked in and at some point he had broken out in a sweat.

“Crap,” he mutters. This might not be something he could sleep off. 

Still, Henry stumbles back into his bedroom, struggling more than he would like, and collapses onto his bed. 

His cellphone is sitting on his nightstand and he tries to muster the energy to grab it. He should call someone right? An adult? Or Charlotte, maybe? Not his parents, definitely. Jasper’s out of town. Ray would spend the whole time complaining, even if he did come by, which Henry doesn’t have the energy to put up with at the moment. Schwoz would probably do it. He already handles the medical stuff at the cave so he should be able to help with this. 

He will call one of them, he decides. But he’s just so tired right now. A nap wouldn’t hurt, right? Just a quick one before he drags himself the rest of the way across the bed, which at the moment just sounds exhausting. Just one more–.

When Henry wakes up again everything is hot. 

There is something touching him. On his shoulders, on his face. At one point it touches his neck and he cringles away only for every part of his body to ache in response. 

“--awake.” A voice? Did he leave the radio on? 

“Can --  hear me? Can you open -- eyes?” There’s a firm touch to his forehead and he’s already so hot so he forces his eyes open to stare at the offending party.

Ray’s face is too close. 

“There he is,” Ray sounds relieved. “Can you stay awake for us?”

Awake? Awake sounds terrible. It wasn’t this hot when he was asleep. He lets his eyes flutter shut.

"Angel," Hitoshi suddenly says from very close behind him and Katsuki jumps. "You good?"

"Fine," he shortly gives back and allows himself to sway back, just for a moment, so his shoulder brushes against Hitoshi's chest and when he doesn't pull away something in Katsuki's chest settles.

Still, he can practically feel how Hitoshi musters him before he breathes out a quiet "Fine, keep your secrets, you liar," and that, too, makes Katsuki feel warm all over because Hitoshi knows him.

He knows him well enough to not fall for Katsuki's bullshit and while that is usually annoying and was downright terrifying at the beginning it's now comforting.

Hitoshi knows him. Surely that also means he loves him enough to even notice those things in the first place.

"Tell me when you're ready, yeah?" Hitoshi asks and nudges his nose against Katsuki’s cheek, before he presses a kiss to his temple, too.

And that intimacy comes so easily to him that Katsuki wonders why it's so hard for him to do it when other people are around, when anyone can see.

"Sure," he non-committally gives back and Hitoshi pinches his side for his trouble, letting Katsuki know just how believable he just was.

"Tell me when you want to ditch this place, too. I'm about peopled out," he goes on and Katsuki snorts at the phrasing of it.

"Will do," he agrees, and this, he will actually do, not like the other thing.

Because he's about to be peopled out, too, so ditching this place and going back home and potentially curling up with Hitoshi in bed is practically a siren's call right about now.

"Fifteen more minutes," Katsuki decides and Hitoshi looks relieved at that.

"Great, I can do that," he gives back, leaning in to steal one soft kiss before he smoothly steps away and brings some space between them right before Jirou enters the kitchen.

And Katsuki pushes the weight that settles over him at that to the far back of his mind.

~*~*~

Katsuki doesn't know why he says it.

Hitoshi is at the far end of the couch, his eyes glued to a book he's been obsessed with and his toes are just barely shoved under Katsuki's thigh, which is about the maximum contact he can stand for his reading sessions and Katsuki is left wondering.

They are at home. This is as private as it gets and still—Hitoshi is all the way over there.

Sure, Katsuki understands preferences and boundaries and all that shit but the nagging thought is right there.

Does he even love me? Does he want to be here?

Because sometimes, Katsuki isn't sure. Sometimes it doesn't look like it at all. Sometimes he fears Hitoshi is only with him because it's convenient and it's not as if they ever really talked about anything.

They spent a shitton of time together, they kissed, they fell into bed and somewhere along the line that turned exclusive. And then Hitoshi's lease was up and Katsuki gave him a key and suddenly all of Hitoshi's things were in his apartment and it turned into theirs but—

They never talked about it. They never gave a name to what they are and Katsuki has told Hitoshi that he loves him and Hitoshi has done the same but Katsuki keeps wondering.

He keeps wondering if Hitoshi even wants to be here, if he wants this, if he wants Katsuki and so what he says next is the absolute most stupid thing Katsuki has ever uttered out loud.

But he's watching his favourite show and the bride-to-be is losing her shit over the mess that is her wedding cake and it just blurts out of Katsuki.

"If we ever should get married, I'm going to make our wedding cake. There's no way I'm going to allow this to happen to us."

He regrets it the moment the words are out, because what the fuck.

Hitoshi probably sees him as a low-key boyfriend—if even that—and here Katsuki goes talking about potential weddings.

It's fucking stupid and it's entirely likely that he just ruined everything and—

"When," Hitoshi's deep voice cuts through his panic spiral and Katsuki whips his head around to him.

The fucker still has his eyes glued to the book in front of him as if he didn't just completely melt Katsuki's brain and so the only thing he manages to get out is a very resounding "Huuuuuuuh???"

"When," Hitoshi repeats and finally drags his eyes off the book to look at Katsuki. "There is no if or should about it. And I'm going to bake the cake, because I'm better at it anyway and you'll be to busy micro-managing everything else."

He says it as if it's a foregone conclusion. As if their marriage has always been a part of this, as if it's inevitable and unavoidable and Katsuki cannot handle any of this right now.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

So he forces his gaze away from Hitoshi and he pushes himself up, makes his unsteady legs take his weight and he picks up the empty glass from the table and he turns towards the kitchen and he sets one foot in front of the other and he makes it without face-palming into the ground and he goes to the sink and he opens the tap to refill the glass and—

"I'm sorry, I made a mistake," Hitoshi's voice suddenly rings out from behind him and Katsuki jumps about a foot into the air because he didn't even hear him get up—but really, with the rushing in his ears that was to be expected—and the glass slips from his limp fingers and shatters into a thousand pieces.

"Shit," Katsuki hisses once silence settled over the kitchen and he's about to take a big step over the shards when Hitoshi makes a panicked noise.

"Please, stay still, I'll get the broom," he says, his hands outstretched as if he wants to pick Katsuki out of the mess himself and Katsuki rolls his eyes at him.

"I'm a goddamn hero and this is just some broken glass."

"You might be a hero, but you're not Red Riot and therefore unable to protect your feet. Which are covered by nothing but thin socks, so please, can you just—"

Hitoshi gives him a pleading look and Katsuki rolls his eyes again, briefly contemplating if he can explode himself across the room and then deciding against it when he thinks about all the noise complaints that's going to get them and so instead he boosts himself up on the counter.

"There, happy?" he then asks and some of the tension leaves Hitoshi's body.

"Elated," he gives back, with a voice so flat Katsuki's lips tick upwards automatically but then he grows serious again when Hitoshi winces.

"I didn't mean to scare you."

"You sneaked up on me like a goddamn creep."

"Not that. The marriage thing. I didn't mean to scare you with that," he quietly mutters, wringing his hands in front of his body and Katsuki lets out a long breath.

"I’m not scared," he gives back and just by Hitoshi's face he can tell how much he doesn't believe him. "I'm confused."

"Confused," Hitoshi repeats as if that doesn't make any sense at all and great, they're going to talk about this now. "About what?"

Katsuki doesn't want to talk about it, not really, is scared to overthrow the balance they somehow struck but then again—Hitoshi clearly has thoughts about their marriage.

Maybe that's all the reassurance he needs to finally talk about this.

"About the fact that apparently, marriage is on the table for us. That clearly you've thought about it before and that you have opinions about it."

"You—don't want to get married?" Hitoshi carefully asks and Katsuki drags his feet up, takes some time to brush any lingering shards off his socks because he fears the immediate and resounding 'No, I do' is going to flay him wide open.

Even if Hitoshi apparently feels somewhat the same.

When Katsuki finally looks back at him, Hitoshi seems sick with nerves and the hand wringing has gone so bad that his fingers have turned white and okay, maybe Katsuki really does need to speak up here.

"I was actually wondering if you even love me," he admits and he regrets it immediately when Hitoshi goes as white as a ghost.

"What?"

"I mean—it's obvious that you care about me," Katsuki mutters, because he can hardly deny that but his friends care for him, too, and that doesn't mean shit in the romance area. "It's just—we never talked about any of this. Not the getting together part or the moving in part and I'm just wondering."

"You think I don't love you," Hitoshi says, his voice nothing but a horrified whisper in the space between them and he moves as if he's about to take a step forward and Katsuki jerks.

"Hey!" he shouts and Hitoshi rocks back on his heels, owlishly blinking at him. "You're just wearing socks, too, idiot," he tacks on and Hitoshi's gaze falls to the mess between them.

"Yeah, yeah I am, but, Kats, fuck, I—"

His words come out too fast to make much sense and normally, Katsuki would be there to squeeze his shoulders or hands to ground him, but he's all the way across the kitchen and he doesn't like it.

"Oi, troll doll!" he calls out and at least that gets Hitoshi's attention. "You gonna catch me?" Katsuki wants to know and pulls his legs up again, crouching on the counter and making his intentions very clear.

And it's a clear challenge, to which Hitoshi of course rises because his gaze goes sharp, he slightly shifts on his feet and he holds out his hands, ready as everything to catch Katsuki at any moment.

He doesn't even wait for a verbal confirmation before he tenses and pushes himself off the counter as hard as he can and he practically flies across the space, no quirk needed, and Hitoshi is there, he's right there, snatching Katsuki out of the air and twirling them to take the energy out of the movement so that neither of them end up on the floor.

"You're insane," Hitoshi mutters when he puts him down on his own two feet and Katsuki pinches him.

"And you're stupid," he gives back, but there's no heat in his voice and now there's actually no need for him to be over here anymore either, because the little stunt he just pulled clearly pulled Hitoshi out of his spiral.

Katsuki is just contemplating stepping away when Hitoshi's hands are on him, pulling him into his chest and holding on in a way that almost feels desperate.

Right. They are not done talking about this.

"Angel, I love you. I love you so much, you have to know that," Hitoshi mutters into Katsuki's hair and Katsuki would love to reassure him, would love to say 'sure' and 'yeah' and 'of course' but the words die on his tongue.

He's been having stupid thoughts for too long to lie like that.

"Do you, though?" he asks, and almost hopes the words get swallowed in Hitoshi’s shirt but when Hitoshi's grip turns painful he knows that they have been heard.

"I do. I really fucking do, shit, I'm so sorry I somehow made you think otherwise," Hitoshi rambles out and he sounds desperate enough that Katsuki almost believes him just for that, but he knows himself better than that.

He needs answers, because otherwise they'll be in the exact same situation next week.

"And are we boyfriends?"

"We are," Hitoshi immediately says. "We're boyfriends. Together. We have an anniversary and everything. We're exclusive and in a committed romantic relationship."

Katsuki slumps against him at hearing that because okay. If Hitoshi says that, then it has to be like that and he can work with this.

This is good.

"Kats, can you tell me why you think I don't love you?" Hitoshi asks after a moment and Katsuki scrunches his face because he would really rather not but he guesses it's only fair.

"You feel—distant, sometimes," Katsuki starts with. "Always, when we're out and most of the time when we're with friends and I get it, somewhat, because you said you don't want to go public and you can't with your job anyway, but with our friends? It shouldn't be too hard, right, they all know we're" —Katsuki bites back on the 'something' that tries to make its way out of his mouth because they just clarified that part— "together, so I don't get it. But here, too. You don't touch me much and you barely pay attention to me sometimes and—"

Katsuki cuts himself off there because he sounds like a needy little kid and surely that is not something Hitoshi wants to deal with in his life but all it serves to do is that Hitoshi lets out a wounded noise.

"I'm sorry. Shit, I'm so sorry," he says, over and over again until Katsuki grows tired of it and slaps his chest.

"Stop that. Either explain, or don't, but stop fucking apologising!"

"Right, yeah, you're right," Hitoshi frantically says and pushes Katsuki away, just enough to be able to look him in the face. "I haven't been socialised right," is what finally makes it out of his mouth and Katsuki blinks owlishly at him.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"That means that I never had a real family until I was fifteen. I never learned how to express my love properly and now I do it wrong."

Katsuki hits him over the head for that because how dare he even say that but it also gets him thinking.

How skittish Hitoshi had been when he first got into their class. How he knew how to bite and snark and joke around but retreated almost immediately when it got real and gentle. How Katsuki bribed him with breakfast and lunch and dinner at first, preventing him from fleeing the situation until Hitoshi stayed out of his own free will.

All of these memories—and so many more—crash over him and for a moment Katsuki can't breathe before he doubles over laughing.

"What. The fuck. Is wrong with you?" Hitoshi presses out, clearly miffed by Katsuki’s reaction and when he wants to take a step back, Katsuki's hands shoot out, tangling in his shirt.

"You're not doing it wrong," he gasps out and forces himself to breathe and to stand up and to look at Hitoshi. "You're doing it stray cat style."

Hitoshi's mouth drops open and Katsuki can tell that he wants to argue, but the words die on his tongue as he realises the truth of his statement.

"Fuck, you're so goddamn right," Hitoshi finally breathes out and drags a hand over his face.

And Katsuki—he's so enamoured by this hot mess of a man that he steps in and as soon as Hitoshi's hand has left his face peppers him with kisses.

Hitoshi isn't bad at expressing his feelings; yeah, he's bad at expressing them with touch, but he's sharing Katsuki’s space. He's sharing his interests. He's paying attention. He does show his love physically when Katsuki is the first to initiate touch, because Hitoshi is goddamn scared shitless of being pushed away, of being hurt for expressing his wants and Katsuki really should have goddamn realised that before.

"I'm sorry. I got into my own head and I'm sorry. You love me. I know that. I should have never said something."

"No, it's—on me, too," Hitoshi gets out between all these new kisses. "I thought you knew. I love you. I fucking adore you to the moon and back and you're it for me, Kats. That marriage thing? Yeah, I have it all planned out. I've been thinking about it."

"You want to marry me," Katsuki breathes out and comes to an abrupt stop, mere inches from Hitoshi's mouth.

"I'm gonna marry the fuck out of you," Hitoshi agrees and Katsuki can feel his smile. "I love you."

"Fuck, I love you, too," Katsuki breathes and brushes his lips against Hitoshi's and wonders how he could have ever thought that Hitoshi doesn't love him. "Shit this is really more about me and my own insecurities," Katsuki realises and Hitoshi snorts.

"It can be about both our things, Kats, that’s fine. And yeah, maybe you should have realised it sooner that I love you but you clearly need me to love you louder and that’s fine. I can do that."

"Louder how?" Katsuki suspiciously asks and then something hot twists in his gut when Hitoshi grins at him, his almost freakish gaze completely fixated on Katsuki as he slowly brings up Katsuki's hand to his face.

Katsuki wants to bitch and complain but then Hitoshi kisses his finger, right where a ring would go—will go if Hitoshi is to be believed—and every thought fizzled out as Katsuki goes bright red in the face.

“Louder so" Hitoshi smugly says and Katsuki thinks if he does this in front of their friends he’s going to die.

He cant wait.

And it’s really right there, it's in Hitoshi’s eyes and in his smile and in the way his hands flex on Katsuki's waist and he really was so goddamn stupid.

Hitoshi's love is so obvious.

But at least now, that they talked about it, they are on the same page—about everything—and really, what more could Katsuki wish for?

Well, maybe a ring on his finger, but he doubts that it's going to take long now. Not with the way Hitoshi's eyes sparkle and his thumb keeps moving over the as of yet unadorned space on Katsuki’s ring finger.

And Katsuki really can't wait.

Series on AO3

Joel notices it before you say anything, because he can read you like a book. He takes note of the way you rub your temples, like the tension is building behind your eyes, the way your hands keep twitching while you type and delete. Type more, back track again, like you can’t string together a cohesive thought.

He doesn’t comment on it, but you’ve been married long enough for him to know your tells.

“You drink enough water today?” he asks, voice low and casual, though there’s a flicker of concern in his eyes.

You hesitate. Just a beat too long, and he doesn’t need any more of an answer than that.

“Thought so,” he mutters, turning toward the sink. His boots scuff the floor as he moves, and the sound is familiar.

You hesitate for a second longer before standing and moving behind him to the sink, quiet on your feet like you’re trying not to be an inconvenience.

Joel doesn’t like that. Not one bit.

He fills a glass with water, setting it down firmly on the counter before looking at you, eyes narrowing slightly. “Drink.”

You don’t move immediately, and Joel’s gaze sharpens, just a little. He grabs the cup, holding it out to you. The hint of a challenge sits on his face, and when he speaks again, it’s soft, but there’s a quiet authority in it.

“Darlin’. Don’t you dare argue with me now.”

You take the cup.

He watches for a few moments before nodding and walking to the table where your laptop waits. He shuts it quietly.

“Come on, time for bed.”

“It’s not even eight.” You complain even as your eyes grow heavy, your shoulders slumping.

Joel glances at the electric clock on the stove. “Sounds good to me. And I bet it sounds good to you too.”

He speaks slowly, drawn out so you can catch the understanding that he isn’t really giving you a choice. He has no qualms with picking you up over his shoulder and dragging you to sleep himself.

You follow him up the stairs, water cup in hand and you stand by the door as he unmakes the pillows, pulling back the covers. When he glances up, you slide in without protest, and you finish your water as you settle.

He leans over you, runs the back of his knuckles down your cheek to your neck, and he thumbs the locket that hands there. The locket he’d gifted to you on your 9th wedding anniversary, inside it a cracked seashell meant for divine protection. Joel himself didn’t really believe in all that type of nonsense, but he liked knowing something of defense was hanging close to your heart.

“Be back in a jiffy.” He murmurs before disappearing in the bathroom. Fingers tugging on the chain on your neck, you exhale slowly. Your eyes track his movements, and you mean to wait up for him, to snuggle close when he gets into bed, but your eyes are heavy, and the bed is so soft, and by the time Joel comes back you’re snoring softly. He smiles to himself as he climbs in beside you, tracing the curve of your jaw with his index finger before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Night, darlin’.” He murmurs, and you sigh, moving closer as he takes you in his arms, and shuts his eyes.

x

Joel Taglist @joelsmolotov

Ao3 Link

Joel Miller blurbs

Softly’s Locket ML

June of Doom/Swoon June ML